by Glenn Smith
“Him,” the agent clarified as he took back the photo.
“Tell him to make sure the president sees it and then tells the president that I was the one who gave him those instructions.”
“I will, sir,” the agent assured him. Then he asked, “Where will you be?”
“For the next couple hours, having pizza with my family. After that, anyone who needs to can reach me at home. Central Command has my contact information.”
“Roger that, sir,” the young man replied. And with that he hurried off.
Chapter 5
Earth Standard Date: Monday, 21 March 2168
Special Agent Barrett rounded the corner and walked up the long corridor toward Little Green Manny’s, the most famous non-commissioned officers’ club in the solar system—perhaps even in all of Solfleet. Manny’s club had clearly benefitted from the fact that it remained the only NCO club that had ever opened its doors in the Mars Orbital Shipyards, but even if others had opened, Manny’s still would have been the only one to enjoy the overwhelming success that it did because the always bustling club’s almost party-like atmosphere wasn’t all it was famous for. What really set Manny’s apart was the simple fact that Manny himself was always there, playing the gracious host to his customers and making sure his place never failed to serve the best food any military club on either side of the asteroid belt ever could, which was what had made his place so popular to begin with. Well, that and the fact that Manny never allowed any underlying need for some semblance of formality to stifle his club’s atmosphere the way it tended to do in most officers’ clubs.
At least that was what Jennifer’s supervisor had told her. She hadn’t taken the time to stop by there herself yet, so what he’d told her was all she had to go by.
He’d also told her that were it not for the fact that Manny, who happened to be a dwarf, liked to paint himself green in keeping with his club’s whole Classic Stories of Mars motif, some might have considered the club’s name to be politically incorrect in the extreme. But rather than let the silly insecurities of a vocal few shackle his ambitions, Manny had instead chosen to use the old traditional ‘little green men from Mars’ mythology as an excuse to provide jobs for a good number of unskilled little people from the various colonies on the surface of the red planet below, and his employees reportedly enjoyed painting themselves green for their jobs every bit as much as he did. While his hiring practices technically violated the Federation government’s strict policy of awarding satellite business contracts exclusively to equal opportunity employers, no one had ever filed a complaint against Manny for not hiring so-called ‘normal-sized’ people, so Solfleet Central Command had followed the Federation’s example and turned a blind eye.
Or so the story went.
A pair of little green-painted, red-haired ladies who looked to be in their mid-twenties—they might even have been twins—wearing 1950’s science-fiction style costumes made of shiny silver fabric, springy ball-tipped antennas on their heads, and toy ray-guns on their hips greeted her with bright white welcoming smiles as she approached the club’s entrance. “Good evening to you, ma’am,” they said as one in high-pitched voices that sounded a little bit like they’d been inhaling helium for the last several minutes, bowing their heads just enough to make their antennas bob and swing back and forth, “and welcome to Little Green Manny’s. Please, go right in.” They opened the padded red doors for her and waved her through.
“Thank you,” Jennifer said as she passed between them.
Out of respect for one of Little Green Manny’s long-standing traditions—her supervisor had indeed briefed her quite thoroughly on the place—she stopped just inside the doors long enough to kiss the fingertips on her right hand and then carefully touch them to the top of Little Green Manny, Junior’s head. ‘Little Green Manny, Junior,’ also known as the Supreme Host and Head Bouncer, was truly an amazing find. One that even she had to take pause and acknowledge. Somehow, and God himself only knew how, Manny had gotten his hands on the actual stumpy-bodied, long-armed, one-eyed Martian that had been created for and used in the filming of the original ‘War of the Worlds’ movie more than two-hundred years ago. The way Manny told the story—once again, according to her supervisor—he’d spent over half his life tracking it down, despite the fact that it had been thought long since destroyed by everyone he’d talked to about it along the way. Then, when he finally had found it, he’d spared no expense to obtain it, and now it stood inside the entrance to his club as one of his most prized possessions. A possession that he was more than happy to have his customers enjoy with him.
With tradition satisfied, Jennifer moved into the dining room to find what her supervisor had told her would be the typically large dinner crowd still filling all of the booths and tables, so she went to the bar and took a seat on one of the few empty three-legged Martian war machines that served as barstools. As she recalled—she’d studied up on the subject and had even watched the old movies as part of her prep work—whoever had produced the film’s early twenty-first century big-budget remake had remained a little truer to H.G. Wells’ original novel where the Martian machines were concerned, and Manny had had his barstools custom made to resemble them. She waved to the bartender, who spotted her immediately and headed her way.
“What can I get for you, pretty lady?” the little unpainted gentleman asked, looking up at her with a friendly smile.
“Why aren’t you painted all green like your coworkers?” she asked him, smiling back at him, appreciating his compliment.
“No can do, miss,” he answered. “I work too close to the food and drink.”
“Is the paint dangerous?”
“Ain’t a bit dangerous in the least, but the regs say no can do, so no can do. What would you like?”
“Just a beer for now, thanks,” she answered.
“Coming right up,” he said, smiling wide once more as though having the privilege of serving her genuinely pleased him.
“Actually, make it two, please,” she amended as he started turning. “Someone’s joining me in a few minutes.”
“Two beers it is.” He waddled off to the tap and returned with two tall cold ones inside twenty seconds.
The best food and the best service, she ruminated as he placed them up on the bar in front of her. “Run a tab for me?” she asked.
“Sure thing,” he answered happily, probably figuring that doing so would result in a nice tip for him at the end of her night, and rightfully so. “I just need your I-D.”
Jennifer took out her regular military identification and handed it to him. Given Manny’s reputation for being a very well-informed man—yet another fact her supervisor had made her aware of—he might have already known she was an agent, but flashing one’s official credentials in an other than official capacity was generally frowned upon, not to mention never a very smart thing to do out in public, so her C.I.D. credentials stayed in her pocket. The bartender took her I.D. and swiped it through his reader behind the bar, punched in some numbers, and then handed it back to her with a simple, “Thank you, Jennifer.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered.
She picked up her beer and took a drink—cold and smooth, refreshing... one of the best she’d ever tasted—and then turned on her stool and looked around the club. The place was even more packed than she’d originally realized. Every single booth and table was occupied, and those few barstools that remained were filling up fast. Several little silver-clad, green-skinned waiters and waitresses were scurrying about like rats in a maze, meeting their customers’ every need, and judging from the myriad of aromas that wafted through the air, their customers had very tasty needs. Batter fried chicken, country grilled steaks drowned in spicy sauces, veal parmesan with mozzarella, honey-glazed baked ham with cloves… Oh, the cloves! That glorious potpourri of aromas made her mouth water and her stomach growl like a bear. “Come on, Ashley,” she mumbled. “I’m starving here.”
But by far her fa
vorite feature of Manny’s so far, besides all those aromas coming off the food, was the fourteen foot wide copper-bodied replica of the 1950’s movie-style Martian war machine that hovered overhead and lit the stage across the dance floor at the far end of the club. Its sinister manta ray-like shape truly instilled a sense of the fear that the original designers had no doubt intended, and the weapon mounted atop its long, sinewy neck looked as though it might start firing its dreaded heat ray into the crowd at any moment.
“Is that beer for me?” someone asked.
Jennifer turned to find a very nice looking guy—tall, rugged features, golden blond hair, a bright white smile, and the most beautiful sea-blue eyes—standing next to her and pointing at the beer she’d bought for Ashley, and she almost wished she had bought it for him. “No, sorry,” she answered regretfully, smiling back. “It’s for a friend of mine. She’ll be here any minute.”
“Aw, what a shame,” he said, hanging his head in exaggerated disappointment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and added, “Oh well. Too bad for me, I guess. You and your friend enjoy your evening.” He started to turn away.
“Wait a second,” Jennifer said quickly. Just because she didn’t have time to get to know him right then and there didn’t mean she was just going to let the opportunity pass her by. He stopped and faced her again. “You don’t have to run off. What’s your name?”
“Pete Helsingr.”
“Hello, Pete,” she said as she held out her hand. “I’m Jennifer.”
Pete shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jennifer,” he said, smiling again.
“Maybe we can have that drink another time?” she suggested.
“Absolutely,” he agreed as he let go of her hand. “Where can I call you?”
“I’ll find you.”
“Fair enough,” he affirmed with a nod. “Until then.” He turned and walked off. Jennifer followed him with her eyes until he disappeared into the crowd.
“My oh my!” a young woman said, her tone filled with lustful enthusiasm. “Girl, I know you didn’t just chase that off.”
Jennifer smiled as she turned to Ashley and started to explain, “Only because we’re…” and then noticed how she was dressed. “Wow!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. “Look at you!”
Ashley took a step back and whirled once around to show herself off. In a total departure from her normally bland and conservative self, Jennifer’s new friend and fellow agent had given herself a makeover for the ages. She’d straightened her long, previously curly jet-black hair and had pinned the sides back away from her smoothly-sculpted face with a pair of beautiful red-stoned barrettes, and had actually put makeup on for the first time since Jennifer had met her—a perfect combination of copper and Earth tones that blended beautifully with her flawless mocha skin. Instead of the usual baggy-style dress slacks and one of the more conservative blouses she usually wore, she’d chosen a midi-length low-rise blue denim skirt and a form-fitting sleeveless red knit top that left her midriff bare and accentuated her ample female assets. A pair of brown leather western boots and several pieces of gold jewelry completed her ensemble.
“You like?” Ashley asked her, wearing a proud and lovely smile.
“Do I like?” Jennifer asked in return as though she couldn’t believe Ashley had actually asked her that question. “Oh my God, Ashley, you look… fantastic! I had no idea you could look so good!”
Ashley’s smile grew wider. “Thank you,” she said, quickly sliding up onto the stool next to Jennifer when the man who’d been occupying it got up and walked off. “I thought I’d try a different look for a change.” She grabbed her beer. “So who was the guy?” she asked, taking a drink while she waited for Jennifer to answer.
“His name’s Pete Helsingr. He was just introducing himself and asked me if I bought that beer for him.”
“You should have told him you did. Maybe you would have gotten lucky.”
“I didn’t come here to get lucky. Although, if you and I didn’t have work to do tonight, I probably would have.”
“Yeah, this job does tend to get in the way a lot,” Ashley pointed out. “So, you think you’re going to see him later?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Good for you. Let me know if you go to bed with him,” Ashley said as Jennifer starting chugging what was left of her beer. “I’ll join you.”
Jennifer choked and nearly spit out what she hadn’t already swallowed, then managed to swallow it and coughed. Then, laughing, she exclaimed, “Ashley! My God! What the hell has gotten into you tonight?”
“It’s not what has gotten into me,” Ashley told her. Then she looked Jennifer dead in the eye as she took another gulp of her beer.
It only took a moment for Jennifer to catch on, and when she did she gasped. Her jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide as saucers. “No way! You didn’t!”
“I sure did,” Ashley told her with a mischievous grin. “I got some last night!”
“You told me you were going to wait until you got married,” Jennifer reminded her.
“I was going to wait, but… ooh, Roberto was hot! We settled down to watch a vid after dinner and he started touching me in ways that made my toes curl. Next thing I knew we were making out hot and heavy on the couch and our clothes were coming off quick!”
“Sounds like fun so far,” Jennifer commented, expected to hear more. But when Ashley didn’t say anything more, she asked, “So? How was it?”
Ashley took another drink, then answered, “It was incredible. I had no idea it could be like that.”
“So I guess you’ll be seeing him again, then?” Jennifer assumed.
“I pity anyone who tries to stop me. I get wet just thinking about him.”
“Ashley!” Jennifer exclaimed, laughing. “God, I think I’m jealous.”
“So give that Scandinavian god you were just talking to a call. Something tells me you spend one night with him and you won’t have any reason to be jealous.”
“I hope you’re right.” She lifted her mug between them, and said, “Here’s to gorgeous guys and all they do for us.”
Ashley raised her mug as well and replied, “Especially between our legs,” then clinked it against Jennifer’s and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Jennifer answered in kind, laughing. “I think Roberto has created a monster.”
They drank.
“So, where are your… tools of the trade?” Jennifer asked.
“Mm.” Ashley set her mug down and swallowed. “My shield and my, uh… last resort… are strapped to the inside of my thigh.”
“Isn’t that last resort a little bulky for a thigh strap?” Jennifer asked. The standard-issue C.I.D. service pistol—their last resort, referring to the use of deadly force in the performance of their duties—was nearly as large as the one uniformed security police carried on patrol duty. As such, she’d have thought it would be too heavy and cumbersome to wear that way—too easily knocked loose by the simple act of walking.
Ashley shook her head as she swallowed the last of her beer. “I stopped by the office and took out one of the old P-P-Gs.”
“Oh, okay.” Proton pulse guns, or PPGs as they were commonly known, were essentially an older, outdated version of the current government-issue pulse pistols, but were still authorized and even encouraged for use in covert operations such as those the C.I.D. routinely conducted. Significantly smaller and lighter than their newer and more modern replacements, they far easier to concealed. They were also far less lethal at distances beyond about twenty meters. They had been designed to burn into the surface flesh rather than punch through the body, but they still packed enough punch to inflict severe pain and induce shock, which made them very useful as a means of escaping a bad situation. “And your cuffs?”
“Outside my other thigh.” Ashley told her. “They might be a little harder to get to, but I have them.”
A family of four got up from a nearby booth and walked past them on their way out of
the club. Almost immediately, a bus boy swooped in and cleared and wiped off the table where they’d been sitting.
“That looks like our booth,” Ashley said, pointing it out to Jennifer.
Jennifer turned and looked, and agreed. “Let’s go.”
They went over to the booth and sat opposite each other with Jennifer facing the doors and Ashley keeping an eye on the kitchen entrance and exit at the far end of the bar. They started looking through the menus and their little green-painted waitress arrived less than two minutes later with her ordering tablet in hand. “Good evening ladies,” she said with a big bright white smile. “May I take your orders?”
Chapter 6
Almost as if to prove that what the doctor at Drexel University had told him about some of the locals blaming Solfleet for their lives’ current woes, several of the other passengers aboard the crowded shuttle bus had spent the entire ride to the Philadelphia Aerospaceport whispering angrily to their traveling companions or silently glaring at Dylan with something akin to murder in their eyes. He’d been careful to avoid saying a word to anyone, and in fact hadn’t even looked at anyone with anything more than a cursory glance, yet they’d singled him out from the moment he stepped aboard, apparently making him the object of all their frustrations. He hadn’t needed to look at them. He’d felt their eyes on him the whole way. How terrible all those years under martial law must truly have been for them to still be so filled with anger and hatred more than two years after they’d ended.
Knowing how important it was that he maintain a low profile and avoid involving himself in any kind of altercation, especially after having crossed paths with a Philadelphia police officer once already, Dylan practically jumped out of the bus as soon as its doors opened and hurried into the ‘Departures’ terminal, where he knew that security would be tight and the chances that someone might confront him would be greatly reduced. He chose the first commercial aerospace carrier he came to and took his place at the back of the long line of travelers. All the carriers had long lines of passengers waiting, he observed as he looked around, so it really didn’t make much difference which one he chose.
