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CHAPTER
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FIVE
An Alley, Cecil Roads
Sergeant Jak Daly, his head throbbing like an FTL drive, awoke in a dark alley somewhere behind the Strip. He tried to sit up but the throbbing in his head grew so intense at the effort that he had to lie back down and catch his breath. “Ohhhh,” he groaned. His stomach heaved violently and he rolled to one side despite the intense pain in his head and vomited up the previous night’s steak. Once that ordeal was through, he managed to get to his knees and then, using the building beside where he lay to brace himself, painfully got to his feet.
Daly steadied himself against the wall, breathing in the cool morning air. It was morning, the light had grown considerably brighter since he’d regained consciousness. “The oldest trick in the book,” he muttered, holding his head with his free hand. The pain and nausea began to subside a little so he ventured a few faltering steps. When he discovered he could stand without leaning against anything, he stepped out into the alley. He stood there for a long time, growing more confident of his balance. After a while he reached for his wallet. It had been stuffed carelessly down inside his tunic. It was empty. No surprise there. His wrist chronometer was gone too, that was to be expected.
Daly stood there holding the empty wallet and swore. “That bitch and that fucking bartender,” he muttered. They’d slipped him a Mickey Finn special and rolled him like a common drunk. Fortunately, he’d left most of his money and his debit card in his room the night before, but he was still out over a thousand credits, a month’s pay for an NCO in his grade and with his time in service. A thousand credits. It wasn’t so much the loss of the money as the way he’d lost it that upset Daly the most. How could he have fallen for such a scam? Him, a Force Recon Marine, a combat veteran, a man who always sized up his environment before making any move.
His only goal just then was to find his way back to his hotel room and get better. Since he could clearly see the remains of the meal he’d eaten last night on the ground behind him, he reasoned this must be the morning after his arrival, which meant he had another day before he could get off the planet and be on his way again.
Hotel Victoria, Cecil Roads
“My god, sir, looks like you had a hard night,” the hotel clerk exclaimed as Daly walked into the lobby of the Hotel Victoria.
“That isn’t the half of it,” Daly muttered as he headed for the elevators. Then he turned back to the clerk. “What time does the night clerk come on?”
“Eighteen hours, sir.”
“Will the clerk who’s on tonight be the same one who was here last night?”
“Yes, sir,” the man answered, checking his console. “Name’s Delaney.”
“Good.” Daly nodded and headed back toward the elevators. He had nearly twelve hours to get himself back into shape. The Miomai didn’t leave until the next day. That would leave him all night to take care of what he had to do.
Daly found his room in order. The Hotel Victoria used old-fashioned digital codes to open the locks on its doors. That meant Zephyr and Henri hadn’t been able to get the code out of him and that the hotel management, which could override the security system, wasn’t in on the scam.
Daly stripped off his clothing, took a long, hot shower, then he did what any smart Force Recon Marine would do under the circumstances, he ate a hearty breakfast and went to bed.
Feeling human once again, Sergeant Daly stepped into the lobby carrying his bag. The lobby was empty at that hour. A stocky, red-faced man who he assumed must be Delaney, the night clerk, stood at the desk. On a hunch Daly greeted the man in Irish Gaelic. Without looking up, the man responded automatically with a welcome in the same language. Then he looked up and his red face turned even redder.
“Ah, Mr. Daly!” He straightened up and stepped back from the counter a pace. “You are from New Cobh, I take it? I didn’t know.” New Cobh had been settled by a group of unusually dissident Irish, and for two hundred years it had been compulsory that every schoolchild there learn Irish Gaelic as well as Standard English.
“I am, Mr. Delaney.” The two faced each other silently for a moment and then shook hands warmly. “I’m from Lake Carra. You?”
Delaney nodded, “New Mallow.”
“I need some information, Mr. Delaney.”
“You shall have it.” Delaney nodded.
“Last night—”
“Ah!”
“Last night, did you see me leaving here in the company of the bartender, Henri I think his name is, and a woman, possibly a frequent visitor to the bar upstairs? Name of Zephyr—or that’s the name she used last night. Buxom lass, auburn hair, fair complexion, but she had a mole on her right cheekbone and—”
“Yes, Mr. Daly, I know them and you did leave here with them, but not quite under your own power, if you know what I mean. You appeared to be quite, well, you know—”
“Yeah. Well, we had a simply great time last night, Mr. Delaney, and I’d like to join up with them again tonight. Where can I find them, can you tell me that? I’ve been up to the bar and Henri’s not on tonight and the bartender who is claims he doesn’t know this Zephyr.”
Delaney regarded Daly carefully for a moment, making up his mind, then he leaned across the counter. “Bad people, Mr. Daly. I’m sorry you got hooked up with them. Why would you ever want to have any more to do with them?”
Daly shrugged. “I left my watch in the woman’s flat, Mr. Delaney, and I want it back.”
“Well, my advice, Mr. Daly, is forget them. They’re trouble.”
“No, Mr. Delaney,” Daly said carefully, leaning in toward the clerk and speaking in a conspiratorial tone, “it’s I who am trouble. Now tell me what you know about these people.”
On the Streets of Cecil Roads
Outside, the sun was well above the horizon. The bartender’s name really was Henri, although Delaney didn’t know his last name. Henri worked occasionally at the Victoria, but his real employment was as a pimp for women like Zephyr, who operated under several names: Esmeralda, Connie, and others. Delaney did not know where they lived, but he gave Daly the names of several joints along the Strip where they might be found after 18 hours. Daly smiled to himself. Pinning these two down would be like hunting the legendary vampire who slept in the day and prowled at night, except Sergeant Jak Daly was just as deadly in the day as he was in the dark—and very good at finding his objective at night.
Daly’s shuttle to the orbital station was due to leave at 8 hours the next day. That would give him a good twelve hours to find the pair and the rest of the day to get ready. After his conversation with Delaney, Daly checked out of the Hotel Victoria. If he finished his mission early, he planned to spend the rest of the night in the lounge at the ground terminal until the shuttle was ready to depart.
Daly’s plan was simple. He had the names of four bars on the Strip where Henri and Zephyr were known to hang out. He’d simply rotate among the four. In each place he’d find a spot to hang out, nurse a drink, remain inconspicuous, and wait patiently for his prey. If they were taking a night off, well, he’d leave in the morning as planned and just chalk the whole thing up to experience. But something told him he wouldn’t have long to wait.
The first place on his list was called the River Queen and it was a dump. He didn’t remain there very long. Toward midnight as he was reading Rally Point in a dark corner of a bar called Aces Up, he finally spotted Zephyr. He put the book into his travel bag and slid farther back into the corner of his booth. The man with Zephyr was not quite sober. As they took places at the bar, the man drunkenly announced, “I’m six months out from Carhart’s World and ready to have some fun!” That meant the poor jerk had six months’ pay in his pockets. Zephyr wouldn’t need knockout drops to relieve this man of his hard-earned cash. In a few minutes they moved to a booth where Daly couldn’t see them, but he could see the door, and when at last Zephyr got up to leave, he followed her out. Her latest victim, oblivious to her sudden departure, snored happily in his booth.
Zephyr walked quickly down the street and disappeared into a doorway about a block from the Aces Up. Daly caught her and Henri as they were gloating over the drunk’s wallet. For just a brief instant the pair stood there like feral beasts caught in the bright lights of an oncoming car, totally unprepared for what was about to befall them. Daly had the lean and sinuous strength of the typical Force Recon Marine, was quick on his feet, and an expert in unarmed combat.
“Hi!” he announced cheerily as he drove his fist straight into Henri’s sharp little nose, smashing it with a satisfying crrrrrunch that sent blood and snot flying in all directions. Daly’s fist proved to be the last thing Henri saw that evening. Daly pivoted smoothly, grabbed Zephyr by the throat, and slammed her up against the wall. “Let’s see what you have there,” he said, snatching the drunk’s wallet from her hand.
“Urk, urk, urk!” Zephyr gasped.
“Sorry, I don’t usually treat ladies like this. You owe a certain gentleman snoozing away back at the Aces Up some money, ma’am. I presume it’s in here?” he shook the wallet in his free hand. The light in the doorway was too dim to inspect its contents, so he slid it inside his jacket. He shoved Zephyr roughly into a corner where she collapsed, gasping for breath. “Stay right there,” he told her. “Now we attend to the money that you owe me.” He rolled Henri onto his back and swiftly checked his clothing, removing a fat wad of bills. Henri groaned. Daly slammed his head hard into the ground. “Now”—he stood up—“there is the little matter of my wrist chrono, lady. Where is it?”
“I-I—it’s at home,” Zephyr gasped, scuttling fearfully as far into the corner as she could get.
“All right, keep the goddamned thing then, and every time you look at it, you remember me, lady. And you tell your ‘manager’ here, if I ever see either of you two again, I’ll personally rip your fucking guts out.” He rammed his fist one more time into Henri’s smashed nose for good measure and left them there.
On his way to the port Daly stepped into the Aces Up and gently replaced the drunk’s wallet.
The following morning Daly boarded the Miomai without incident. When he counted the wad of bills he’d taken off Henri, he found it contained more than four thousand credits.
Several times during the next few days Jak Daly wondered what the Tac officers at OTC would say if they knew how he, a potential ensign, had conducted himself on Cecil Roads. Well, they’d never know. But he knew what Sergeant Major Periz would say: “Damned fine job, Marine!”
Sergeant Jak Daly leaned back and smiled.
CHAPTER
* * *
SIX
On Board the Miomai, En Route to Arsenault
The Miomai was a “happy” starship because she and her crew took after their captain, Hakalau d’Colacs, known throughout the space lanes as Happy Hakalau because he was always in a good mood, all 140 kilos of him. He was an inveterate trencherman who thought everyone else should enjoy their food as much as he did, and his officers and guests dined sumptuously at his table, an ordinary spaceman’s table in one corner of the ship’s galley—not his cabin. Mealtimes were an occasion for socializing, during which he’d hold forth with torrents of commentary interspersed with good-natured gibes at members of the crew who happened to be dining nearby. His highest form of compliment was to refer to someone or something as “monstrous fine.”
Only one other passenger besides Daly felt like eating at the first meal after the Miomai’s jump into Beamspace. He was an older, balding, heavyset government contractor returning to Earth for another assignment. He introduced himself to Daly as Bok—“call me Bokkie”—Merrifield. Besides Captain d’Colacs the only crew member to join them was the first mate, a man named Heming, who did not say much but who laughed often at Happy’s jokes, which he really seemed to enjoy, not just because his captain made them.
Captain d’Colacs returned from the server with a heavily laden tray. “Monstrous fine!” he said of his food as he eased his bulk onto a stool and sorted out his silverware. “Arh, Mr. Daly, Mr. Merrifield, I’m pleased you could join us. The lubbers usually don’t take too well to food after their first jump.”
“We’ve been jumped before,” Merrifield said, laughing, winking at Daly, who grinned at the innuendo.
“Mr. Daly, are you a military man by any chance? I ask because you have a certain military air about you, and”—Captain d’Colacs shrugged as he forked a piece of steak into his mouth—“we’re dropping you off at Arsenault.”
“Yes, sir, I’m a Marine.”
“Marine?” d’Colacs roared, and all the heads in the galley turned toward him. “Well, goddamned monstrous fine to have you on my ship, Mr. Daly.” He extended a huge paw and shook Daly’s hand vigorously. “Say, you feelin’ poorly, lad?” He nodded at Daly’s tray, which contained only a salad, a small portion of meat, and a bottle of water.
“No, I’m just fine, sir. I don’t believe in eating very much when I can’t burn it off.”
“Eat, lad, eat, you’ve got to keep body and soul together.” Captain d’Colacs laughed. “Well, Mr. Heming there and I are old navy men, aren’t we, Heming? How ’bout you, Mr. Merrifield,” he said, nodding at the contractor.
“I was in the army, Third Silvasian War. What do you do in the Marines, Mr. Daly?”
“I’m in Force Reconnaissance, sir.”
Merrifield raised an eyebrow and nodded at the others. “No wonder he looks so lean and mean.”
“Ah, this is monstrous fine,” Captain d’Colacs enthused around a mouthful of potato. “Tonight at my table we’re all old ex-military farts, just like being back in the fleet again! Well, excuse the expression, Mr. Daly, that does not include you, of course.” The captain laughed. “You’re no recruit, Mr. Daly, so are you going to Arsenault as cadre or attending some advanced specialty school?”
“Asshole!” Merrifield exclaimed. “How well I remember that goddamned place!”
“Arh, we’ve all been there! We have that in common!” Captain d’Colacs grinned. The others laughed and nodded in agreement. Arsenault, the Confederation’s military training world, was known throughout the services as Asshole because that’s what it was like there.
“Ah, no, sir, I’m going to Officer Training College. And if you gentlemen will please excuse me, I’d like you to call me Jak. This ‘Mr. Daly’ stuff can wait until after I’m commissioned.”
“Spoken like a true gentleman! Monstrous fine! Gentlemen, raise your glasses to Mr. Daly!” They toasted. “And, Mr. Daly, let me tell you, this ship is carrying more than four thousand metric tons of fresh fruit for the troops on Arsenault. Yes, we stopped at Summerville’s Gardens and loaded up on the stuff.” Summerville’s Gardens was the name given to a world developed by agribusiness and noted for the fine fruits grown there and exported throughout Human Space. “So you won’t get scurvy while you’re on Asshole,” Captain d’Colacs roared.
The meal continued in an atmosphere of warm camaraderie, the four of them trading stories about their times in their respective military services. While alcohol consumption was permitted on most commercial vessels and the Miomai’s galley boasted a full cooler, the captain and his first officer drank sparingly. So did Daly, who got a beer after he’d finished his meal. But abstinence did not apply to Mr. Merrifield. The more he drank, the more loquacious and amusing he became until everyone in the galley was doubled over from his ribald stories and jokes. Finally Captain d’Colacs, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, excused himself, which was the sign that the meal was over.
“Jak, ol’ buddy,” Merrifield slurred, draping an arm drunkenly around Daly’s shoulders, “I have a lit-mus test I apply to every new man I meet. You know what that test is, Jak? That test is if he’s ever forn, er, worn a uniform. Far as I’m concerned”—he shook his head gravely—“any man’s been in the service, no matter what kind of an asshole he might be otherwise, he automatically, auto-ma-tick-lee gets ten points in my book. Yessir! Ten, count ’em! But Jak, ol’ buddy, you get twenny!”
Besides Daly, the Miomai’s passengers consisted of a Scientific Pantheist minister, two Catholic nuns, a family of six returning home after a long tour with a mining company on a world far out on the borders of Human Space, and Bokkie Merrifield.
The minister, a tall, spare, middle-aged man named Durand Eastman, claimed to be a member of the Rochester Synod, and although he maintained that the sect did not proselytize, several times he engaged Daly in conversation over beer in the galley. “When you look out the observation ports, Jak, aren’t you awed by the power and beauty and, yes, the mystery of the natural universe? To us this represents ‘divinity,’ but not in the Western, theistic sense. We belong to this universe, Jak, with all its wonders. We are one with all the life in it and with nature, which is all one great unity.”
Daly, raised a Catholic, merely said, “Sounds reasonable to me.”
The two nuns, Sister Bartholomay and Sister Henrietta, were nurses returning from missionary work on a newly established colony on Fitzhugh’s World. They became concerned about Daly, not because he was a lapsed Catholic, of which he made no secret, but because to them he looked too thin and undernourished, and when finally he departed the Miomai, they pressed a basket lunch into his hands. “Jak, you will positively collapse before you finish your training if you don’t eat properly,” Sister Henrietta told him. “Cook prepared this for you under our supervision,” she added proudly. Profoundly touched, Daly politely returned the food, telling the sisters that the Marine Corps absolutely forbade its officer candidates to bring—and here he slipped up—“pogey bait” onto the OTC campus.
