by David Weber
She took another sip and set it down, gripping the bridge of her nose and squeezing. "Oh, Johnny."
"How bad is it?"
"In case you didn't notice, our club gets a lot of military," she said softly. "It was nearly empty tonight; there has been a general call-up by StateSec. They're all looking for your friend. I don't even know how you made it to the flat."
"I want you to come, too," he said in a rush.
"Not that again!"
"I'm serious. I nearly drank myself to death when I had to leave Nouveau Paris. Please come with me this time; it won't be safe for you here after we're gone."
"We'll talk about it later," she said, patting his hand. "Right now we have to get you and your friends somewhere that StateSec won't find you."
"I'm not sure anywhere is that safe," he replied.
* * *
"Where are we going?" John said as they sloshed through another puddle.
They had proceeded to the basement of Rachel's tenement where a metal plate had given access to a series of tunnels. Most of them had to do with maintenance for the billion and one things that go on out of sight and mind in a city. Besides sewers, there were forced air pipes, electrical lines, active foundation supports and a host of other items, most of which required occasional maintenance.
And very few of which were ever seen by "surface" dwellers, including police.
It was through this gloomy world, lit only by occasional glow-patches and a pale chem-light in Rachel's hand, that they had progressed. Once, in response to an almost unnoticeable mark on a wall, she had rapidly backtracked. When a group of dispirited Naval personnel had gone by them as they huddled in a side tunnel the reason had become clear.
He had followed her slavishly, and carefully not asked any questions, for nearly an hour. But if his reading of signs and general sense of direction wasn't completely off, they were very near the river. And the police headquarters.
"Not much farther," she whispered. "The one place that no one will bother looking is?"
"Where nobody would be dumb enough to go?" he answered.
"Exactly," she continued, pulling aside another metal plate and glancing around the room beyond. "Specifically, in the basement of the police administration building."
He looked at the room beyond. It appeared to be completely filled with junk. There were old-style monitors, chairs with one wheel gone and piles and piles of manuals. All of it was covered in dust.
"How did you find this place?" he asked.
"I have friends in low places," she replied. "Where are your friends and how do I keep them from killing me when I tap on the door."
"They're over in Southtown." He gave her directions to the flat and shook his head. "Just knock and tell them who you are; secret taps are for amateurs. You'll need this, though."
He pulled what looked like a dangling thread off the prole jacket and licked it. Then he held it up to his mouth and said: "All Clear, Kizke."
"What is that?" she asked, taking the somewhat sodden string.
"Just give it to Charles. He'll compare it to my DNA map. There's a way to fake it, but it's hard and beyond Peep tech. We think. That's what professionals use. Also, we need some back-ups. If anything happens while you are gone, now or later, I'll make a chalk mark on the side of the postal box on the fourteen hundred block of Na Perslyne. And I'll leave a message about where to contact me on the underside of the south bench by the duck pond on Wenceslas Square."
"Okay," she said. "I guess this is real spy stuff?"
"We use the word 'agent,' " he replied with a grin. "And, yeah, the term is 'tradecraft.' Can you remember what I said?"
"Mark on the postal box in the fourteen hundred block of Na Perslyne, south bench, duckpond Wenceslas, Mister Super-spy. But when I come back, if I don't tap like this," and she gave him a demonstration, "kill whoever comes through the door. Sometimes StateSec will mimic an appearance."
"I think StateSec would find it difficult to mimic you," he said with a smile. "Thank you for this, Rachel."
"You're welcome, and you owe me."
"Well, this is a pleasant little love nest," Charles said, ducking through the door.
"I'd say it was nerve-wracking waiting for you to get back," Mullins replied. "But I always figure you're dead anyway."
"Terribly uplifting old boy," Gonzalvez replied. "Glad I feel the same way about you."
"Rachel, we do have to talk," Mullins continued. "I don't get you having this little bolt hole or knowing your way around underground so well. I deal with Peeps and proles all the time; they don't generally find their way around underground by preference."
"I have friends . . ."
"I heard that one," Mullins replied as Gonzalvez subtly shifted to block the exit. "Now tell me the rest."
"Okay," she sighed. "I do have friends. Some of them are in the resistance."
"Friends like we were . . . are . . . friends?" Mullins asked.
"Sort of," she replied, stone-faced. "After you left things got very sour for me on Nouveau Paris; I had to leave in a hurry. 'Friends' got me here and have . . . helped from time to time. I help them from time to time in return."
"Mule?" Charles asked.
"Generally," she replied. "But I'm not really a member of the resistance; just a working girl trying to make her way the best she can."
"No warrant for you?" Johnny asked.
"No, it never got that far."
"Can these . . . 'friends' get us passage out?"
"For a chance to make contact with Manty Intelligence? Of course they will."
"I'm not sure we can support them," Charles pointed out. "Most of them have been designated as terrorist organizations by the People's Republic; supporting them is a political decision at that point."
"Understood," Rachel replied. "But this is a chance for a hard contact and some positive PR, if only in your intelligence service." She sighed, looking around the room. "They're really not terrorists; they have a strict military/industrial target only policy. Sometimes civilians do get killed, but only those working on military equipment and manufacturing; they don't go bombing restaurants."
"Or strip-joints," Charles interjected. "Do you feed them information?"
"No, I don't," she replied. "I mean, sometimes a little, but I'm not a spy for them or anything. Sometimes I find out something they really have to know and I pass it on to a cell I trust. I'll have to bring them in on you guys; they're my only source of travel documents."
"Stop here," Rachel whispered. "You're not going to crack on me, are you?"
The man who would only answer to the name "The Great Lorenzo" raised himself to his not inconsiderable height and gathered the rags of his suit.
"Am I not the Great Lorenzo?" he asked in a mellifluous voice. "It is not a great role, but it is a speaking part. I shall do my trouper's best."
"Lord, this was a bad idea," she whispered. "Okay, they probably put out sensors, so you'd better get into role."
The man nodded and reached in his pocket, extracting a bottle of cheap whiskey.
"You shouldn't need that," she snapped. "You already smell like a distillery."
"But if I do not, my hands will shake," he noted logically.
"They're supposed to shake!"
"Only in the role within the role," he returned and upended the bottle, taking a single hard slug. "Now I am prepared," he added, tucking the bottle away as his face slowly softened into subtly different lines. He now had the overall visage of a drunken bum, but there was a cold light in his eyes and his demeanor, while stooped, had a hint of athleticism. "Ah, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!"
"Aloman?" she asked, stepping deeper into the gloom.
"Shakespeare," he sighed. "So few remember the Bard."
John slid the plate aside and nodded at Rachel. "Glad you're back."
"No names," she said. "This is a friend in the resistance. He can get you passages."
John looked the r
ebel visitor up and down. He appeared to be just another street bum; sallow face, palsied hands. The torn clothing was better than most, but not significantly. However, if anyone knew looks could be deceiving it was Mullins. "You?"
The bum slowly straightened until he was at his full height and looked at the admiral. "Yeah, that's Mládek," he said in a deep, gravely voice, ignoring Mullins. "First you grind us under the Legs then you grind us under the Peeps and now that the fire's too hot for you you turn tail and run." He spat on the ground in front of the Peep officer and smiled at the Manticorans. "Give him to me for an hour; I'll sweat out everything you want to know."
"Enough," Rachel said. "We don't have time for this."
"Yeah, I can get you documents," the rebel replied after a glance at the woman. "But there's a problem. I've got three; Rach said you wanted four."
"How long to get four?" Charles asked.
"Why should we?" Mládek snapped. "For God's sake, I'll buy you a piece of ass when we get to Manticore; leave the bint."
"You know," Mullins replied mildly, not turning around. "I just need to get you to Givens alive. There's nothing saying I have to leave you the use of your legs." He cocked his head to the side and looked at the visitor. "We need four."
"Ain't gonna happen any time soon," the visitor replied, scratching his chest. "And eventually they will find you; they've got Mládek's DNA for sure and probably yours by now. They'll use chem-sniffers eventually."
"Rachel, you are not staying on this planet," Mullins said. "They are going to be looking for you this time." He paused and shrugged, looking at the floor. "We already drew straws. Just in case. I lost."
"He did," Charles replied sourly. "He really, really did. I was there."
"Well, that makes a hell of a lot of sense!" Rachel flared. "I go back to Manty space and you stay here? What, exactly, am I going to do in Manticore? And how are you going to survive here?"
"I can get by," Mullins said. "As soon as it's clear the admiral is gone, things will cool down. I can make it. As for you, the one more or less constant in Manticore these days is a labor shortage; you won't have to worry about finding a job and it won't be as a dancer, either."
"I've got nothing against being a dancer," she said narrowly.
"No, but I do," he replied. "When you get to Manticore, find another job. Okay?"
"Okay, I'm not staying," she said after a moment's glare. "Take the pictures. We'll retouch them as necessary for clothing; I'll have to get that later. Two male sets and one female."
"I can do those as well," the rebel said. "I've got a lovely set of three, by the way. You're Solarian business representatives."
"Good," John replied. "The Peeps bend over backwards for those."
"Rachel will be the head of the group," the bum continued, handing out briefing papers. "She's the CEO of Oberlon, Inc. and a really nasty individual. Unfortunately, the CEO of Oberlon is about ninety and looks it, so we'll have to age you a bit."
"I'll live," Rachel said as he took the first picture.
"You'll be her son," the rebel continued, handing Gonzalvez his packet. "You're the heir apparent, but the old biddy won't die. So you're stuck in an eternal 'momma's boy' routine."
"Joy," Gonzalvez said, smiling as stupidly as possible at the camera.
"That will look great," the visitor said. "You're the executive assistant, Admiral. You don't talk much, just open doors and make coffee."
"That I can handle," Mládek said, glowering at the camera.
"And one to grow on," the rebel continued, taking Mullins' picture.
"What in the hell was that for," he asked, suspiciously.
"If I come up with another identity in the next day or so, do you want it or not?"
"Want," Mullins admitted.
"So there you are," the visitor said, putting away his gear. "One big happy family."
"And already planning the murder," Gonzalvez said flipping through his briefing papers. They were remarkably professional for what appeared to be a completely amateur organization.
"You'd better get up pretty early in the day, sonny," Rachel quavered. "How do you think I took over the company from your father?"
"One big happy family, indeed," Mládek laughed.
CHAPTER 6
Cliché: Another Word for Inevitable
Charles waited until the rebel was gone, then smiled.
"Good news, the Manty team didn't get captured. The people who were picked up were all locals; they don't know what happened to the Manties."
"How do you know that?" Rachel asked.
"Between the Admiral and me, we managed to hack into the police databanks," Charles said with an impish grin.
"What?" Rachel shouted. "Are you crazy?!"
"Shh, keep your voice down," the admiral replied, gesturing at a dataport. "We were clean. We were already inside their physical security and their electronic security was laughable."
"Why take the risk?" she asked. "What if they tracked you internally?'
"Not much chance of that," Charles said, buffing his nails on his tunic. "I, am a genius."
"Well, genius, we're going to need to change locations," she snapped. "You have five minutes to make it look as if you were never here."
"Women," Charles said with a shake of his head. "Never satisfied."
"Men," Rachel replied. "Never paranoid enough."
* * *
Mullins smiled through the window as Rachel grounded a beat up air car in front of him.
"Hi, lady, can I get a ride to the Metropolitan Museum?"
She looked at him for a moment then shook her head. "We don't have a Metropolitan Museum; it got destroyed in the Peep War and never rebuilt. What did you do to your face?" He was much heavier looking with fat cheeks and dark hair in place of his natural aquiline blond look.
Mullins slid into the seat and worked his jaw. "Charles blackmailed our supply guy into giving him the latest and greatest ID kit. And it seemed like a good idea to change identities again."
Rachel had been unwilling to let them stay in the basement another minute and, realistically, they had already been in one place too long. She had led them back out through the sewers and tunnels to a temporary hide and told them to meet her in twenty minutes. That had been more than enough time for Charles to produce a few new local identities for all of them except the admiral. He had a new ID as well, but unfortunately the retina scan wouldn't match up.
"I've got another hide you can move to," Rachel said, pulling the car up and into traffic. Prague was no longer a rich world but the traffic was still fairly heavy, stacked up at least six levels. The ground level was relegated to hover-trucks with the next three levels dedicated to general traffic and the top two to "platoon" groups: cars moving under computer control over long distances. East–west streets were on interleaving sections with north and south so that only the ground level had to stop at intersections. This also created "dead zones" between lanes that the more aggressive drivers used for passing. "But it requires going up on the surface and with all the patrol activity . . ."
"How bad is it, lassie?" Charles asked as a patrol van passed overhead fast enough to rock the shuddering car. The van had been in the dead zone and at the intersection it quickly cut downward into a parallel lane then back up to pass the slower traffic.
"Lots of roadblocks, lots of random stops," she said. "StateSec is even more intrusive on the conquered planets than they are on Haven. I think we got you hidden just in time. It took them about a day to get organized and now they're all over the place. Oh, by the way, there's an all points bulletin out for Tommy Two-Time. A person of your general build was seen going into his shop but all the surveillance equipment was disabled or destroyed. You . . . wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"
"Tommy, he sleeps with the fishes," Mullins said. "God, I always wanted to use that line!"
"You are so weird," she snorted. "I think this is just about the time to have a car chase. It's always about
this time in the movies. What do you think, Mister Super-Spy?"
"I've always managed to avoid them," Johnny admitted. "I hate flying, actually."
"Well, good," Rachel said as she rounded a corner. "Hopefully our luck will hold out."
"Or, maybe not," John said as he looked at the line of cars.
"This was not here an hour ago," Rachel snarled at the roadblock.
"It's cool," Mullins replied softly. "My ID should pass just fine. Just play it like any normal roadblock."
"What about the admiral?" she asked.
"Retina scanners sometimes act up," Charles answered. "All the other data will match just fine. And the local police retina scan for the admiral is wrong."
"You didn't tell me you diddled the ID database," Rachel hissed.
"You didn't ask," Gonzalvez replied with another grin. "Anyway, the retina scan should come back garbled and everything else will pass. They'll let us through."
"Okay, but I don't like it."
"And don't try to run," John added. "This POS will never be able to out-fly the police vans. For that matter, we'll be zoomed in on from every direction and they'll be tracking us a half a dozen ways. Just play it cool."
"I am," she replied as the first van passed, scanning her registration. It swung around behind her and took a position above and behind. "I was," she continued.
"That's not good," John said. "They don't scan ID internally, so they had to have reacted to the registration. Who's this registered to?
"Me," Rachel said, adjusting her rearview mirror and checking her lipstick.
"I think they're on to you, Rachel."
"I think they are too," she sighed, touching up her hair. "Damn it, Johnny, I did not need this crap."
"Okay, on my mark we kill everyone in sight," Charles said with a snort. "Or at least try."
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Rachel replied quietly. "And unless it does, don't do anything stupid."
Mullins looked around at the block. There were four cars in front of them, three like themselves hovering at about five meters and the first one grounded and being checked by the local constables. There were two police vans there, and the one behind them. As he watched, two of the constables at the block walked back to their own vans, one going to the rear.
