Soldier of Fortune

Anyone could see Clive Wendell was in a foul mood.

Unfortunately for Martin Soong, Clive had chosen to bring his mood, along with his fine collection of bruises to Martin’s pub, the aptly named A Fine Mess.

For the past hour, Clive had been muttering over his glass, complaining about the soldier who’d given him a beating, then segueing into muttering over his own crew, which was apparently made up of, “. . . a passel of morons what couldn’t find their own arses in a blackout!” he exclaimed, loudly enough Martin almost dropped a bottle.

“One man,” Clive continued to moan, leaning his forehead on the bar in front of him. “One sodding bugger, and not a one of my boys can find ’im.”

“Hard luck, that,” Martin commiserated, though not very enthusiastically, given he was one of the many in Lower Cadbury forced to pay Wendell for the privilege of not having his business burn to the ground.

“It’ll go a lot harder on him,” Wendell said, raising his head to stare expectantly at his empty glass.

Martin took the hint and dug out the good stuff, which was only slightly less likely to eat a hole in one’s stomach lining than the bad stuff, and poured. “Never seen the fellow before, then?”

“Didn’t I say that?” Wendell tossed the liquor back and then coughed. “Bloody keepers, man, why can’t you serve somethin’ less lethal?”

Because I can’t afford it, Martin thought. Because all my profits go to making sure you and your lot don’t burn my joint and break my fingers. “Inflation,” he said with a shrug.

“Swarmin’ economy’ll bleed us all t’death,” Wendell griped, downing the rest of his drink.

Martin, wisely, said nothing and poured another shot.

“I’ll tell you what, though,” Wendell said as he eyed the glass greedily. “I’ll be payin’ a visit to yon Doc Hama, I will. It was ’im yapping that brought the tall bugger, so’s maybe I get ’im yappin’ again, the tall bugger’ll make another appearance. Only this time it’ll be me and my boys waiting.”

“And won’t that be fun,” Martin murmured.

“Whazzat?”

“Nothing,” Martin said, tipping another slosh into the glass. “Only, you do know Tiago Hama’s father is a cop?”

Wendell was apparently unimpressed. At least the pfffft-like noise he made sounded unimpressed. “What good are coppers in Lower Cadbury?”

What good, indeed, Martin thought.

“Only law here,” Wendell continued, on a roll, “is mine.”

Maybe I could pack up shop and move, Martin thought. I hear Edsel’s nice this time of year.

“What?” Wendell started to stand.

“What?” Martin asked, afraid he’d used his outside voice until he realized Wendell wasn’t talking to him but to the man who’d just walked in. “Hello?”

“Good day to you, Msr Bartender,” the man, whose nose appeared slightly swollen, greeted Martin. “Rolf Ohmdahl, at your service. But excuse me, for I am speaking to this piece of mammoth dropping here.”

Wendell’s tiny eyes glittered with menace. “Are you talkin’ to me?”

“Did I not say this?” Rolf beamed. “For you, Msr Wendell, I have a message from my good friend, Gideon Quinn.”

“And who the flamin’ turd is Gideon Quinn?”

Martin, with that uncanny instinct of bartenders from ancient Earth to modern Fortune, removed Wendell’s glass, the bottle, and any other incidental breakables from the bar.

“Gideon Quinn is . . .” Here Rolf paused, his mighty forehead screwing up in thought. “Ah yes, Gideon Quinn says to say, he is man who pounded your sorry ass into pavement early this morning, and if you know what is good for you, you will be taking yourself and your bottom-feeding enforcers out of Lower Cadbury by sundown.”

“Know what’s good for me?” Wendell asked, visibly shocked.

Martin could understand this, as thus far no one had dared stand up to Wendell.

Well, that one gal had, an ex-corpsman, she’d been.

Her body had been found floating in the Avon the next day.

“So he says.” Rolf nodded.

“And does this Gideon Quinn say what’ll happen if I don’t know what’s good for me?”

“Wait, I must think,” Rolf said, looking a bit troubled. “Ah!” He pointed a massive finger upwards as if remembering something, “Yes. He says if you are unwilling to take easy way, you should be going to 919 Penelope Street, at sixteen hundred hours, that is being two in the afternoon, for you civilians,” he added helpfully.

“I know what swarming sixteen hundred hours is,” Wendell snarled, but Martin knew he was lying because Wendell had never enlisted, preferring to hide out in the bombed-out ruins of Lower Cadbury and make war on the survivors.

“Then you will be prompt,” Rolf said with a smile. “Or you will be gone, yes?”

“Yes,” Wendell said. “Wait, I mean no! No, I will not be gone from Lower Cadbury. I’ll bleedin’ burn Lower Cadbury to the ground before I leaves it.”

“Funny,” Rolf said, though now he was absolutely not smiling, “that is what Quinn says you would say.” He looked over to Martin. “Goodbye, Msr Bartender.”

“Bye?” Martin said, half-raising the soiled bar rag at the departing Rolf, not entirely certain what had happened here.

“Two o’clock,” Wendell muttered, rising from the stool and heading for the door. “I’ll be ready before two o’clock. Me and my bottom-feedin’ enforcers will take ’im by surprise, and then we’ll see what’s good for me.”

Martin watched Wendell stalk—well, limp, really—away, and decided it would be wise to close up shop for the day.

If not the week.

A flurry of motion had the desk sergeant of the Ninth Precinct looking up from a pile of briefs, then standing to full attention.

It wasn’t every day a general walked in the front door. “Sir,” she greeted the incoming brass. “How may I—”

“General Kimo Satsuke, Corps Special Operations. Where is Detective Sergeant Hama?” the general asked, overriding the greeting.

Sergeant Tyree blinked and noted a sympathetic grimace from the captain at the general’s side. “DS Hama is in the field,” she said to Satsuke. “Would you like me to take a mess—”

“Where did he go?”

“I believe he was following up on an active lead. I’m sure if you’ll—”

“Was this lead regarding the murder of General Jessup Rand?”

“If I may ask, how did you know—”

“General Rand is—was—the commanding officer of the Tactical Division,” Satsuke said. “As such, DS Hama forwarded his report to Tactical HQ, who forwarded it to CSO, who forwarded it to me, as my airship was already en route to Nike.”

“But why—”

“General Rand’s death is a matter of Colonial security, as is this investigation,” Satsuke continued to answer the sergeant’s half-asked questions. “So, did DS Hama’s pressing lead have anything to do with General Rand?”

The sergeant decided this was above her pay grade. “He didn’t mention, specifically.”

Satsuke’s eyes narrowed. “Did he mention anything non-specific?”

“He said . . . he said he was following a wild draco.”

The general grunted, then looked at the sympathetic captain.

“It sounds like him,” the captain said with a tip of the head, her long black hair swinging with the motion.

The general turned back to the sergeant. “How do I find DS Hama?”

The sergeant turned, spied an officer at loose ends. “Arroyo! Please show General Satsuke to the radio room.”

Officer Arroyo snapped to attention. “This way, General.” He started for the double doors which led into the precinct operations rooms.

Satsuke grimaced her thanks—at least, Tyree chose to believe thanks were involved somewhere in the twist of scowl—and gestured for the captain at her side to follow.

“Your man,” Satsuke told the captain as they passed through the doors, “has mucked this up properly.”

“He’s not my—yes, sir,” the captain agreed. “He does that. But if he remains true to form, the muck will fertilize a solid crop.”

“You know I hate metaphors,” Satsuke snapped.

As the doors swung closed, Tyree returned her attention to the common burglary, brawls, and blackmail to which she was accustomed, and which, thankfully, had nothing to do with colonial security.

Shortly after thirteen o’clock, Nahmin knocked on the door of General Rand’s office.

“Come in,” Celia’s muffled voice called, and Nahmin entered to find the lady of the house rifling through the general’s plain metal desk.

“Sir,” he said, “there was a teleph on the main house line from the Fourth Precinct. They wanted to let you know Quinn is still at large.”

“Imagine my surprise.” She brushed a lock of hair from her cheek as she opened a file bearing the Eyes Only stamp.

“You have doubts of the efficiency of Nike’s police force?” he asked.

“On the contrary, I have no doubt whatsoever that they will fail to apprehend him.”

“That doesn’t worry you?”

“Not particularly,” she said, laying down the file. “Jessup, whatever his faults, was meticulous about his work. There isn’t a shred of evidence indicating Jessup framed Gideon in Nasa, while everything points to Gideon as Jessup’s murderer.”

Nahmin had to admit, it seemed quite rational when she said it.

But then, Celia’s particular skill was her ability to make the unthinkable seem perfectly reasonable in the eyes of her assets.

It was that skill which had Colonial engineers placidly handing over mockups of the latest in weapons technology during an assignation, and airship captains sharing flight plans over a glass of wine.

“Still,” he began, then paused as the doorbell rang. “Are we expecting anyone?” he asked.

Celia frowned. “No, but my sudden bereavement may have reached the ears of the gentry.” She slid the files back into the drawer and locked it. “Best answer the door,” she said, stacking the papers she’d culled. “We shouldn’t disappoint the maudlin hordes.”

Nahmin did as she asked, but when he reached the door, he opened it not to a curious neighbor but to Rey and Ronan Pradesh.

“We found Quinn,” Rey said, elbowing her way past Nahmin.

“Not we,” Ronan corrected.

“Then who has?” Celia asked from behind Nahmin. “Surely not the police.”

“The Ohmdahls,” Rey said, glaring at her brother.

“Do we know any Ohmdahls?” Celia asked Nahmin. “Are they on the social register?”

“Hardly,” Nahmin replied. “The Ohmdahls are apparently friends of the twins. They helped us apprehend Quinn the first time.”

“How lovely.” Celia turned her attention to the twins. “And have they apprehended him for you again?”

“No,” Ronan said. “But Freya Ohmdahl told us they spied him passing through their neighborhood, so she and Rolf followed him to some busted-up shack on the docks. She also said he looked bad. Injured, maybe, or sick.”

“I suppose being shot while jumping from a window could do that,” Celia murmured before asking, “How well do you know these Ohmdahls?”

“Pretty well,” Ronan said.

“Well enough to know they’re not the quickest drones in the hive,” Rey added.

Celia hummed. “Is it possible they only saw what Gideon wanted them to see?”

“I’d give it fifty-fifty odds,” Ronan said, after a considering beat.

“In that case,” Celia mused, “it would be a pity to disappoint him.”

“We can take care of him,” Rey said, her eyes flashing.

“Then I will leave him in your most capable hands,” Celia said. “Only this time there is no need to leave him breathing.”

“Understood,” Rey said, sharing a quick grin with her brother.

Celia waited until the twins had departed to turn to Nahmin. “Best follow them, to make absolutely certain it’s done.”

“Sir,” he nodded, offering a brief Midasian salute before making his own departure, determined that, one way or another, the troublesome Msr Quinn would soon cease to be a problem.