Central Kasjzerwald, Tschornohora, 13 February 2875 (Galactic Relative)

"Co, Panu, podać?"

"Hmm?"

"What would you like?"

Two mesmerising bronze eyes stared at me with increasing irritation, and with every half-second her smile was turning increasingly into a forced mask of civility. She was the Aphrodite of my dreams, perfect in every inch of her being; her hair the colour of a setting sun, gently flowing across slender shoulders, and her face was as captivating and pure as the Heavens’ own messengers. My spellbound contemplation froze when I finally noticed those furrowing eyebrows of irritation, which shook me back into reality. She asked again, with forced politeness, to which I stutteringly replied – asking for plain New-Maltese roast black coffee.

I watched her back with a dreamy gaze, many a-times have I imagined and visualised how it would be to ask her on a date, and where I would take her. But here I was without the courage to ask, despite having the courage to be shot at and the fortitude to kill – truly a bizarre world you happen to live in, Inspector. But sure, this topsy-turvy world smelled good with the floating aroma of crusty, freshly cooked sausage rolls, pretzels, and the small filling-less dumplings served with a buttery breaded topping; traditional fare for this part of the city.

The café was a typical establishment for the oldest and richest inner-city district of Krópówki, the layout quite narrow and lengthy oblong due to the land division traditions retained from Earth, which had been practiced when constructing this district as well as the rest of Kajzerwald’s old town. The café was housed in the Old Passage shopping complex on the ground floor, next to the Staniewski and Co. suits tailors, and opposite the Koppehoff’s jewellers. The Passage was designed by the re-nouveau master-architect Franciszek Zacharewicz of the Imperial Lemberg Arts Academy – a first generation-born settler.

The furniture was elaborate in design, dark in colour, handmade by the finest Kajzerwaldian craftsmen, sporting elaborate floral ornamentation and the planetary symbol - the jackdaw surrounded by three county crowns. Spherical lamps hanging from the ceiling emanated a warm, golden light that was greedily drunk by the amaranth-coloured walls sporting a grain inspired pattern. Golden elements on the windowsills and doorknobs gave the whole place an opulent and majestic feeling.

My Aphrodite arrived with the coffee in a porcelain cup, placed it with inherent physical grace on my table, curtsied somewhat stiffly, and left in a swift professional manner without a word. One day I’m going to have to finally ask her on that date. Any further forays into my daydreams of asking Aphrodite out was immediately dispelled when I heard a soft pulsing bleat in my inner blazer pocket. I reached for the source of the sound, coming from my standard issue police handcom, a coaster-sized titanium-framed smartglass contraption, hooked up to the precinct DAI’s systems, the semi-transparent screen flashing an angry yellow light.

The call wasn’t necessarily for me as this was the first day of my vacation, first vacation in God knows when, so it might just be that I was in vicinity of the call’s intended target, and the ‘com picked it up. Since all police handcoms were tracked, all dispatch had to do when required was to draw a radius on the virtual city map, whereupon every gendarmerie officer in that area would receive the alert. Or it could be that I happened to find myself at the wrong place at the wrong time. My brain lethargically assumed it was the latter. I was briefly tempted not to answer the dispatch, but my bloody curiosity got the better of me, and I pressed the damned annoying flashing light. Funny how the blinking colour caused an almost Pavlovian reaction of anxiety in me.

"This is Dispatch; we have a Code Amber near Imperatoska Street, calling all available patrols."

The for-your-ears-only security of the ‘com muffled the sound for anyone further than half a metre away from the device as I moved it to my mouth.

"This is Chefinspektor Olbracht Krópka, I’m currently few streets away, what’s the situation, Dispatch?"

"Chief-Inspector Krópka, I’m sorry to disturb your vacation," the voice on the other end was soft and sweet, like rose petals on the wind, and belonged the most malevolent police officer at the central station; Inspector Nicolette Łobojko.

"Do you want me to flag down someone else and leave you to your sabbatical, especially considering the aftermath of last week’s take-down?"

"No need to worry, thank you, I can handle whatever this is Code Amber just fine."

Awfully strange of her to enquire about my wellbeing, or anyone else’s for that matter; she was, after all, widely known as the ice-queen of Kajzerwald Police Headquarters. So why now? All I expected were dry, technical details.

"What’s the situation? What are we dealing with here?"

A brief pause, a sigh or drawing of breath.

"If you need anything at all, Inspektor, please do call me right away, okay? As for the Code Amber, we have reports of two shots fired in apartment C15, Imperatoska Street. Neighbours called it in less than half-an-hour ago, but we don’t have any more facts about the situation on the ground. Caution is advised."

"What’s the ETA on the closest patrol?"

Mental cogs were grinding, the familiar process of the dirty grunt work engaging well-honed synapses in my brain.

"We have two skycars inbound from Berezhov Plaza, about fifteen to twenty minutes."

"I’ll get there in ten, and please, tell them not to be too trigger happy."

"Will do, Inspektor. Dispatch out."

I drank the first and last sip of my freshly brewed coffee before getting up from my chair and grabbing my coat in a promptly fashion. I was saddened to leave; I tried to smile at the waitress before leaving – my Aphrodite only curtsied, as dictated by Tschornohoran social convention. My handcom pinged as I exited the establishment’s doors, my barely touched drink paid for through a webnet subscription service hooked to my bank account. Difficult to leave tips like this, but I had no choice. I have to remember to have a couple extra Häller in my pocket next time.

Closing the doors behind me, I put on my coat, and immediately started to run, going gradually into a sprint, with a few pedestrian heads turning my way in confusion. It wasn’t a daily sight in the Krópówki that someone moved with great haste; it was below the people who frequented these streets to make a scene like that. Avoiding the masses of mid-day shoppers and white-collars on their way to boozy lunches, occasionally shouting “Policaj!” in order to get the damn civilians to move aside, I sprinted down the piedway, haphazardly crossing a roaring groundcar intersection, briefly halting the traffic and had some choice words in three different languages shouted at me. Like the light drizzle that brushed off my coat, I paid the foul language no mind, not stopping for nothing, the adrenaline flowing through my veins the closer I got to the building.

I could finally see the spires on top of the apartment building from the distance. The balcony and the windows’ facades grew wider and taller. My mind became sharper, eyes more aware, the years of training and countless mission habits finally kicked in; time seemed to slow down, shapes and colours became clearer and sharper. My hands, moving on their own accord, navigated towards my armpit holster.

I stopped.

I’ve whispered a few curses, for only just now, do I realise the extent of my mistake of answering that damned call.

I didn’t have my gun.

The spiralling staircase of dark wood caught the natural daylight through the old-fashioned glass roof, and gave off a gentle thud each step I took in the direction of the third floor. As luck would have it, it was hard to hear due to the muffling effect of the exquisite red carpet spanning the entire length of the stairs.

I walked steadily, as if I was merely passing by, like I was a tenant and my presence was the most natural thing in the world. With the entirety of my will, I’ve managed to produce the confident, relaxed look that people naturally emanate when feeling safe and comfortable in their surroundings. Working the streets had taught me this long ago; not standing out was my best source of both offence and defence, in case of any confrontation it was surprise and striking first that were my only allies.

My head poked gently into the corridor spanning further to the right. It had an elegant dark blue wallpaper full of detailed patterns akin to those found at the café, but these were of much higher quality, embroidered as they were with golden thread in the styles only found at the opulent palaces of the Myndowen imperial family.

Attentively gazing for any signs of movement, any details at all that might hint at someone’s presence, taking in all the sounds and smells, I lurked in patience like an Angevin panthicus before a strike. A few moments later I was reasonably confident that there wasn’t any imminent danger to the front of me, thus I turned the corner (still pretending that my being there was completely natural) and placidly started moving towards the apartment. I could feel the cold sweat on my back and taste the dryness of my mouth, as I reached the door with golden letters C15. With noticeably shaking hands, I reached the doorknob before turning it the most delicate way possible. Click, the door gave way gently, and I took an apprehensive step forward.

Unlike the elegance and pomposity of the building’s halls and exterior, the inside of the apartment was its clear antithesis, kept in a minimalist monochromatic style with slight fluorescent accents – orange cabinet knobs, aquatic vases on glass cabinets, and yellow picture frames on black and white photography. Zygmunt, ever since I met him all those long years back, he’s always seemed to see things in black and white, right and wrong, never daring to even contemplate the idea of something in between. An admirable trait in some, but worse less than shit under your boot in our profession.

I stood in the living room, taking in the contours of the apartment, the flow of the daylight against the backdrop of the unlit apartment. Watch the corners, those are the most dangerous. An unfamiliar shape. A body. Zygmunt, lying on the floor, his body perfectly still, laid out in an unnatural way, the head turned to my left, while two dark entry holes were clearly visible in his white shirt. Carefully, I moved closer and squatted to inspect the body; he was lying in a pool of blood, yet he had a bruised neck which immediately occurred to me to be the cause of death, and not the bullet wounds to the torso. Too many bodies, too dispassionate, too professional; my friend just another case at first glance, kurwa.

I stood up to see if any spoor was left by the assailant, but nothing stood out. Well, except the apparent “murder” weapon, if the bullets had indeed been what had killed Zygmunt. The handgun looked like just like a standard issue top fed pistol, with an internal magazine. After closer inspection it even has my… serial… number…

“O kurwa…” I stuttered, freezing in fear and astonishment.

Before I had a chance to react, heavy boots kicked in the door and came barging into the apartment. Two police figures, dressed in dark blue and white, appeared with guns pointed right at me. Angry voices shouted, the same confusing cacophony of orders I too had delivered on several occasions. I caught the gist of it, and I raised my hands, before trying to explain that I am also a police officer here on call, but they were having none of that. They shoved me against the wall before cuffing my hands and as procedure dictated, secured the crime scene.

"Kurwa, I am a police officer too. Call dispatch, they will confirm, my name is Olbracht Krópka!" I pleaded, although I couldn’t see their reaction.

"Fine," said one of them. "This is officer Vondráček, number 0975, we have restrained a suspect who claims to be an off-duty officer on the call to the same scene. Could you please confirm?"

Some static noise could be heard right after from the replying dispatch officer, although it was too glitched for me to work out what was being said.

"And?" I hastened him, suppressing the urge to hike up a sarcastic eyebrow.

"Sorry suspect, it seems there is not a single record of a sole off-duty officer answering the call, so for now you are detained and have the right to remain silent as anything you say will be used against you in a court of law."

You can’t be fucking serious…

A woman sat opposite me on what can only be described as one the most uncomfortable chairs ever to be designed by man. The wired frame and flat unpadded wood just added insult to injury at this point, and it was frankly unnecessary to be this extra petty.

She could be described as having something of a classical beauty, with her dark, slightly curly hair tied in a practical knot to one side and a soft attractive face, dressed in plain tight jeans that stopped before her ankles, a white shirt and sporting a causal jacket over. Her aura screamed of confidence and ambition, of an unyielding attitude, topped with a dash of glamour and grace.

"Cousin," she said in a displeased tone, which for a second made me fear her more than the situation that I have found myself in.

"Natalia, please, at least hear me out before you judge me."

Natalia was a very distant kin of mine but we had grown up together, you could say in the same sandpit; we even went to the same university to study law before life sent us on two different paths. She became a well-renowned lawyer, highly respected and admired in the Imperial High Bench Court; the highest level of judiciary on planets of the Myndowan Empire which only could be overruled by the Imperial Supreme Court.

In a few sentences I managed to outline what had transpired today since my afternoon coffee. About the dispatch, the entry to the apartment building, about the gun, everything. Her poker face held strong, never for a moment disclosing what she was feeling as I was explaining, until I was done. She gave out a deep sigh before saying:

"Do you want the colourful version or the hard truth?"

"The latter, if you please."

"Well, Olbi," she hesitated before looking me in the eyes "there is truly nothing I can do for you. You are thoroughly fucked. No matter how hard I try to shape a convincing narrative, the evidence points solely towards you, and my word won’t count for anything, despite the fact that I personally believe you didn’t do it. I know you too well; I know when you are lying. And this isn’t one of those times."

"I guess there’s some solace to the fact that at least you believe me, Nat. Thank you for being honest." I settled back as best I could in the awfully uncomfortable chair, before sighing and looking up at the ceiling.

What do I do now? I’m going to prison, and I’m probably not coming out for the rest of my life. Policemen murdering other policemen in cold blood? The shame of just being suspected of such a thing was enough to put my career in permanent holding mode, but being convicted on it on basis of circumstantial evidence? I would probably not even make it all the way to the gaol before meeting with some “unfortunate accident”.

My whole life, everything I worked for, has come crumbling down like a personal Tower of Babel in a mere afternoon. I never even asked Aphrodite at the café for a date and now I will never have the chance to do even that. My mind begun to slip into the abyss, my nerves breaking like so much rickety scaffolding, and I moaned as tears started to burst out of my ducts and run unbidden down my cheeks. I felt horrible, I had no plan, I had nothing. Suddenly, I was nothing.

A gentle hug accompanied by the delicate sense of sweet perfume jolted me out from my despair. Caressing my hair with her angelic touch, she whispered into my ear:

"Ssshh, quietly now, everything is going to be fine Olbi…"

Yet I couldn’t gather the strength to stop weeping like a child.

"If you end up in the high castle find Orsza, he owes me quite a favour, and I will make sure he takes care of you."

A tiny light, the size of a bright little thimble, ignited in my heart.

"Orsza? Who is he?" I asked timidly.

"A friend of a friend. He owes me for saving his younger sister who was facing a hefty prison sentence. He has friends in lofty places."

She stood up and waited for me to turn my head and look her in the eyes before continuing.

"You will recognise him by an ancient Lithuanian Ballad. Apparently he loves to sing it under the shower, or so I’ve heard."

"A Lithuanian ballad? Which goes like?"

"Oh yes, of course, I should have guessed you never heard of it. Please just don’t laugh at my poor attempt at signing."

Old Budrys and three sons, as stout as Lithuania herself,

To the courtyard he calls and says:

“Bring out the horses and put on the saddles,

And sharpen arrow heads and swords.”

Because I was told in Vilnius, that they will bran without mistake,

Three expeditions to three parts of the world:

Algirdas to the Rus settlements, Skirgaila to the Polish neighbours,

Whilst prince Keystutis will raid the Teutons.

She sang like what seemed in that otherworldly moment, as an angel, for in the moment her magical performance distracted my wavering mind, I realised I had known her my entire life but never would have suspected she possessed such a sweet, melodical voice.

"More or less, it goes like that. Although, he might be signing it in his tongue, though the tune stays the same."

She smiled with her cheeks turning slightly pink.

"So, will you finally stop whining and get a grip of yourself, szweju?"

"Yes, I guess so… I’ll just have to figure something out, I always do, prison or not, I can’t give up."

"Now that’s the Olbi I know. Remember to trust your true friends."