Ray’s water was beginning to taste a bit stale, so he was more than willing when Mari invited him to relax in the apartment’s facility. The water tasted odd, though.
Oh! Oh my. Surely this is not a local blend, Mari must import his water directly from Azure!
“Actually, I can guess what you are thinking, Grandfather, but no, that’s not imported from Azure. It’s my own mixture. One of the advantages to molecular gastronomy is duplicating tastes and textures. Do you like it?”
Ray could only flash a sign of susulol as he sank down into the tank.
Unfortunately, the transfer from the starport used up most of the time before Mari had to go to work to prepare for the evening meal rush. Chez Marinara was in the middle of the theater district; the Hobby Center, Jones Hall, Wortham, and Revention were all within a three-block radius, and this was a Sunday, with matinees and performances at most of the larger venues. The restaurant would be closed tomorrow, and there was no Tri-V this week, so the conversation would have to wait…for now.
He was not entirely on his own, though. Before heading into the restaurant, Mari had shown him to the private study. It was sealed with a gen-lock, unlocked by Mari’s DNA only, but Ray’s DNA was a close enough match to operate the lock.
The study was a secured communications and surveillance center. Mari had taken his grandfather’s warning to heart many years ago. He kept his eyes and receptors open and watched for unusual occurrences. He did not actually spy, and certainly not on Humans. He watched the Galactics. For purely Human intel, Mari engaged a local service and had given the comm code to Ray before going to work.
“Haskins and Bolger, Investigations. How may I direct your call?” The female voice on the other end of the comm was cheerful and professional…and very Human, not synthetic.
“I would like to speak with Mister Haskins or Mister Bolger, please.” Mari had not given him specifics, only the company name, so Ray figured he would start at the top.
“I’m sorry,” the cheerful tone turned cold, “but Miz Haskins and Miz Bolger are not available.”
“Uh, I’m sorry, I just…”
“You just assumed. Yes, we get that all the time. Since you are using a translator, I assume you are either one of those Galactics that feels that the only worthwhile Humans are mercs, and male ones, at that, or you are one of those sexless races that simply don’t care or don’t know better.”
Actually, she had him on the second count. Many of the asexual races adopted a single set of pronouns and ignored other distinctions. “My apologies, I would…”
“Let me just stop you right there. Haskins and Bolger is a Human company. We serve Human clients only.”
Okay, this was going too far. “I am Human!” Ray said quickly. “I grew up in a Human colony. Just because I have eight arms does not make me any less Human! You bipedals are so limb-ist!”
“Oh, excuse me, sir. It is my turn to apologize,” the receptionist responded in a conciliatory tone. “May I assume you are from Azure, then? Are you, by any chance related to Chef Mary?”
“Wait, you know Mari is from Azure?”
“Oh, of course. The Food History Channel did a feature on her last month.” There was a pause. “Let me put you through to Miz DiNote.”
After a few moments, a new voice came over the comm. “This is Jaime. I assume that this is Mister Harryhausen?”
“Wait, how did you know that? I have not given a name yet.”
“This is Haskins and Bolger, Investigations, right? We investigate. You are calling on a line registered to Chez Marinara, you confirmed you are from Mary’s home world, and there was a Peacemaker Investigator named Harryhausen who just quit the Guild five days ago. Is there another Azure Wrogul in the system we should be aware of?”
“Ah. No. That is…that is impressive. You are quite good. I met a merc colonel by the name of DiNote—” Ray began, but was abruptly interrupted.
“No relation, Mister Harryhausen. Haskins and Bolger is owned, operated, and staffed by merc widows. We used the death payouts to find out what happened to our husbands, and the business just grew from there.” There was a sigh from the other end of the comm, and Miz DiNote continued in a more professional tone. “Mary is a good client. Her manager, Meryll, told me you might call. I can save you a lot of time and just send you the information she had us gather. The man you want to see, Ginzberg, is working at the Lyon’s Den. It’s a merc bar, and you’ll need a merc to get you in there. We suggest contacting Gerhard Jackson—contact info is downloading to your comm. We are working on a new lead for you, but that information is not ready yet.”
“Oh. Thank you. I did not mean to—” Ray stopped, at a loss for how to continue. Finally, he settled for a simple, “Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Mister Harryhausen. You will need to tell Jackson and the merc bar you are still a Peacemaker, or they’ll never let you in. Contact me in a few days, and I should have that additional information for you. Just ask for Jaime when you call.” A light appeared on the comm unit acknowledging the incoming information as the call terminated.
Well, she was…abrupt. But the information on how to find Ginzberg was exactly what he needed.
On the other hand, he really needed to talk to Mari/Maury/Mary about what exactly was going on here.
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Ordinarily on a Sunday night, Chez Marinara would close early—at least early as compared to a Friday or Saturday. However, this was also a triple theater night, with performances at the Wortham and Alley theaters, and the Houston Ballet at the Hobby Center for the Performing Arts. Mari decided to keep the doors open until midnight to handle diners without reservations who might otherwise wait in the stand-by line for several hours. It was one of the practices that had earned Mari a place in the Best of Houston list for the past six years. It also meant a delay in having the private discussion Ray so desperately needed.
One thing was odd; Ray kept expecting to see Mari’s lifelong friend and “sister” Meryll. The two had met on Azure, and Meryll eventually joined Mari on Earth as manager and administrator of his restaurant, and what was obviously becoming a cooking empire. For her not to be around at this time was unusual. Had he told her to stay away while his Grandfather was sulking, or was she just busy elsewhere?
It was well after two in the morning when Mari came gliding into the apartment. Within the restaurant and studio, he rode on a basket-like seat magnetically levitated along an elevated track that put him at eye level with patrons and kitchen crew. Ray had looked carefully at the mechanism and recognized the telltale signs of something designed by Verne. That thought had led to another, and Ray was still wallowing in shame and self-pity when his grandson slid out of his transport and into the tank.
Have you eaten? Mari flashed.
“Yes, thank you,” Ray said. “I appreciated the meal you sent over. The Fruiti de Mare was quite good. I’ve never really appreciated what cooking does for our usual foodstuffs.”
“Ah yes, my favorite. Calamari is really my specialty. Now, the clams, mussels, and shrimp are traditional, but the addition of calamari and lobster was what helped me defeat the Japanese champion.” Mari’s translator had a little bit of inflection, but it was the Wrogul light flash language that truly conveyed Mari’s sense of pride in the statement. “But I can see that food is not really on your mind, Grandfather.”
Ray flashed creasola, then programmed the translator to emit the sound of a sigh. “I fear I have done the unpardonable, Grandson. I have killed using the fiilaash.”
Contrary to his expectations, Mari did not recoil or flash one of the signs of condemnation or censure. Instead, Mari lifted himself up on one of the many parallel bars in the apartment, crossed over to a refrigerator and extracted two brown bottles. He returned to the pool, and Ray could see the labels: Cavanaugh Brewery Styx River Stocke. It was rare off Azure, and most exports were snapped up by the merc companies that resupplied at the Ruby ga
s mines or were treated at Cerulean Clinic. It probably cost a fortune, but then again, Mari had probably “improved” the recipe and brewed it himself.
Ray organized his thoughts as his grandson opened the bottles and carefully placed them on the fine sand at the bottom of the tank. The alcohol content caused a small opaque trickle to rise from each bottle. “It’s less waste this way. You just position yourself above the beer. You can try to drink it, but I find it more relaxing to simply absorb it.” He demonstrated the technique by wrapping several arms around a submerged bar and placing his body above the slowly rising stream.
Ray tried to follow his grandson’s example but found he most enjoyed spreading his arms like an umbrella and letting the beer flow over his chemosensory “taste” receptors in the suckers lining each arm. He also lowered his tentacles into the stream, but that brought back the reason for his shame, and he quickly wrapped the appendages around his midsection. “You have not commented.”
“I was not sure if I should, Grandfather,” Mari replied. “You are ashamed because you feel you violated a moral code. It is evident in your body language.” He was silent for several minutes before continuing in the Wrogul flash language: I do not agree.
Why? flashed Ray.
Again, Mari delayed before flashing. We are Wrogul…he started but continued verbally: “…but we are also Human.”
“You are. Verne certainly is. I used to think I was.”
“Oh, you certainly are, Grandfather, and your guilt and shame are the perfect example.”
“Why do you say that?” The alcoholic beverage was having the same effect on Ray that it would on most Humans. As he relaxed, it was getting easier to voice his thoughts—hell, just to even have those thoughts!
“You are doing what the bipedals call beating yourself up over what you did on Jefferson.”
“Wait, I didn’t say anything about Jefferson!”
Mari flashed sooltory and laughed the hiss-click of the Wrogul. “To think you pride yourself on being a private investigator!”
“You young whelp! How did you know?”
“Verne messaged me as soon as your ship cleared the emergence point. We knew you would eventually make your way here. Also, Jaime from Haskins and Bolger sent me an info squirt this afternoon. She is very…shrewd for a bipedal.”
“It does not change the fact that I killed using the healing touch.”
“Bullshit, Grandfather!” Both the language and the tone shocked Ray. This was not the playful, eager young Wrogul he remembered. “You survived. You fought an enemy that specifically targeted you and your Enforcer. I saw the records Verne sent. Those Goka were sent to stop you—stop you—from getting to Luna and Earth. The fact that you never found a contract logged should have told you that. It was an illegal attack on a Peacemaker, and you survived using the tools you had at your disposal.”
“I still pulled their cognitive ganglia out of their heads. It was personal, and it was pure rage.” Ray was starting to see a little light, but he still felt shame at his mental state during the battle.
“No. This is where I have to correct you.” His beer finished, Mari swung up on a bar so he could look down at his grandfather. “You removed a cancer.”
Ray tried to interrupt, but Mari flashed him to silence.
“An illegal, contract-less merc hit squad, operating on behalf of a criminal, attacked Peacemakers. Remember, you had so…impressed the Sphen-Eudy that everyone in that system knew you and Enforcer Lujkhas were on board. They. Attacked. Peacemakers, and by your own code, their lives were forfeit. You simply performed surgery and cut out the rot on behalf of the Guild, the Enforcer, and yourself. It was simply a little more personal than usually happens.” Mari flashed a sign of satisfaction and waited for his words to sink in.
Ray sat motionless and silent for several minutes, not even a flicker of chemoluminescence. Finally, he shook himself and slowly spoke. “O-kay.”
With that word, Ray acknowledged what Mari had said was valid.
“You met Guido and Nunzio? My bodyguards?” When Ray flashed assent, Mari continued, “Did you wonder why they stick so close? I have been fortunate to have bipedal friends most of the time I have been on Earth. I hired a young student, Michael, early on to assist with my mobility, and Meryll has managed my businesses, but I was attacked one night in Rome. Three local youths, out of work because of the Galactic technology, and frustrated with declining BLA because of the downturn in merc income. I broke the arm of one, delivered a shock to another, and when the third saw me use fiilaash to deliver the shock, he ran away. Guido and Nunzio were sent to me by a friend.” Mari flashed a pattern of self-deprecating humor. “They are actually culinary students and agreed to work for me in exchange for training. Guido specializes in Italian of course, but Nunzio shows great talent at sushi. They are also sons of a powerful family in Naples. With them at my side, I usually do not have to worry about Human dangers. They will soon be moving on, and I’ll probably take on a couple of their younger cousins when they do.”
Ray thought about the story for a moment, then replied, “So you have used the fiilaash in self-defense as well.”
“Every one of us who has traveled off of Azure has had to do so. Granted, Verne just reached into machinery, but the principle is the same. Fiilaash is a tool, not an endowment, and certainly not a moral obligation. It’s all good to say “Do No Harm,” until harm comes looking for you.”
“Hmmm. I still feel as if I have some penance to do, but I see your point. Just one question, though.”
“Penance is fine, self-punishment is uncalled for.” Mari lowered himself back to sit eye-to-eye with his grandfather. “What is your question?”
“When did you grow up and become so wise, Grandson?”
There was a sound like a snort from the translator, a series of bubbles rose from Mari’s gills, and he flashed sooltory. “You did that. You told me to be alert, to listen and watch. I’ve been gathering information for you for many years, and you never asked how I obtained it. I watch, I listen. Life on Earth has not been easy. I accomplished much, but I have experienced much as well, and I always kept your words in mind. I also spent some time as a bartender.” Again, he flashed amusement. “Culinary school teaches many things, but not the finer points of alcohol—drinks, cocktails, the food category known as “pub food.” When I was first setting up my restaurant, I tended bar in the evenings while working on the restaurant logistics by day. When you listen, you learn things, and being wise comes with the job description!”
Ray flashed in laughter. “In that case, how about another beer, Mister Bartender Grandson?”
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
I have come a long way to do this job, and longer still to finish it. I will turn myself in to the Peacemaker Guild when I am done, but I just cannot let this case go.
Mari’s right. Pasteur, Mengele—whatever his name is—knowingly sent an attack against Peacemakers. That cannot be allowed to stand.
First, though, I need to see his victim.
* * *
The next day, Ray sent a message to Gerhard Jackson. The merc had been one of Squiddy’s first pinplant patients and had received several upgrades. He was also a longtime friend of Ginzberg and a fellow member of Riedel’s (now Polonius’) Rächer.
Mari had also provided a backup plan if Jackson was unwilling to vouch for him at the Lyon’s Den. It seems the former merc known as the Lyon had been a guest judge for the kids’ cooking competition Mari sponsored last year. While not exactly a fan, Lyon was a colleague, and willing to help out a restauranteur. When informed that Ray was a former Peacemaker intending to seek justice on behalf of Ginzberg, the bar owner agreed to allow Ray to observe Ginzberg discretely from a private booth near the bar, although he would not permit the Wrogul to approach Ginzberg unless Jackson was present.
To his surprise, Jackson agreed, and they arranged to meet the next day at a nondescript strip mall in South Houston at 2100 ho
urs. Mari had loaned him Guido for the occasion, since the merc town around Hobby was not an appropriate place for a civilian, Galactic or otherwise. Nunzio had to stay behind since Chez Marinara served a sushi-centered menu on Tuesday nights.
At the appropriate time, Guido pulled the black van up in front of the abandoned strip mall about a klick from the former Hobby airport. The old airport belonged to Cartwright’s Cavaliers, one of the vaunted Four Horsemen merc companies, but it was unknown whether the Horsemen were actually on Earth at present. Ray’s various intel sources—both his own and the info relayed by Haskins and Bolger—indicated some very unusual ship activity in the system. Something had the merc units stirred up. Probably the unusually high number of failed contracts, missing or devastated units, and the recent financial issues that had beset the industry.
The mall was in a district that had definitely seen better days. They passed several obviously gang-related groups of youth on the way. One group was actively involved in beating a victim while the others were mostly standing around looking tough. Unfortunately, Ray wasn’t here for them, although it looked like he might not be able to avoid their intentions.
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