Tuesday nodded enthusiastically. The Mayor steepled his fingers together and examined Tuesday’s face before continuing.
“Prince Charming’s dungeon was wired with hundreds of pinhead cameras, Mister Tuesday, and my hand-picked forensics team have already provided me with a comprehensive copy of The Prince’s security archives. I’ve watched the footage of your escape from sixteen different angles, and somehow each one is more disgraceful than the last. In fact, with every additional viewing I found myself wondering more and more if I’d have enough self-control not to smack you upside your self-serving skull when you finally got here.” The Mayor arched an eyebrow as Tuesday went to stand up. A hand the size of a baseball glove pressed down on Tuesday’s shoulder with enough force to suggest he would be much more comfortable staying right where he was. “However, the…the myth of your escape, the way you bravely rescued those helpless victims, went viral faster than anything I’ve ever seen in my life. The entire Link network was screaming your praises from one corner of the planet to the other before you’d even finished sucking down your victory cigarette. People have called you…” The Mayor snapped his fingers and a digital piece of paper appeared in his hand. His eyes quickly scanned over it. “A working-class hero. Bravery in human form. Hope for our species. One of the greatest of all Seven Suns’ children. A living legend.” Mayor Grundy made a noise in his throat and threw the hologram over his shoulder, where it disappeared in the same way it had appeared. “Luckily for you, Mister Tuesday, by the time we realised the staggering enormity of how incorrect these reports actually were, this matter was well beyond the point where we could hope to suppress it. These lies have already gone down as concrete gospel, and if anybody tried to contradict them…” The Mayor shrugged. “Well, how do you think my career would go if I started slagging off bravery in human form? So, this is what’s going to happen: there’s going to be an award ceremony in a couple of days, and you’ll be honoured by the highest accolade our government can bestow – the Binary Star. For those of us who weren’t born on Seven Suns, the Binary Star is a platinum nugget the size of my palm encrusted with diamonds. Only a handful of people earn one each generation, and you’ll be the third this century. As a recipient of the Binary Star, you will be looked after until the day you die. You will be clothed, fed and housed by the state, and will want for nothing.”
Tuesday narrowed his eyes.
“Are we talking Soup Of The Day in the Welfare Sector?”
Mayor Grundy twitched.
“Of course not. I’m talking freshly-bludgeoned lobster cricket in a penthouse in The Heights.”
Tuesday wasn’t sold. He was missing something. He knew this situation sucked; he just wasn't sure of the specifics yet.
“And what do you want me to do in return? You want me to do some motivational speaking or summing? Help keep kids in school? Just say no to Shatter? Tell everyone what a great Mayor you are?”
Mayor Grundy managed not to laugh. He shook his head and looked down on Tuesday like he was a simpleton.
“Mister Tuesday, allow me to be blunt: although your position as a Binary Star recipient will necessitate your presence at certain important events, under no circumstances are you to ever say anything to the media on my behalf. I’d be better off asphyxiating myself with my own arse than allow you to wag my name with that yellow tongue.” The Mayor waved this topic away. “Regardless of how you managed to scum the system for all it is worth, you are now a public figure, Mister Tuesday, a role model for our children and an idol for our adults, and one day you’ll be a highlight in our history books.” Reaching sideways, Mayor Grundy made a little noise of exertion as he lifted a slab of decaying paper and flaking leather the dimensions and weight of a tombstone back onto his lap. “Try not to become history too quickly, Mister Tuesday. I’ll be watching.”
*
Named after the greatest Amerikan president to have ever occupied the Spherical Office, The L D Lohan Noonclub was the only one of its kind on Seven Suns. The ancient story of President Lohan's triumph over supreme adversity was one for the ages, and was still taught in every Unison school.
After finally shaking off the fallout of her many poor life choices, it turned out that Lindsay was profoundly talented at the political sciences. Following decades of intense study and preparation, Lindsay embarked on a whirlwind political career that saw her become the first Cripps-Democrat to become President in decades. Sure, Lohan was almost a hundred and fifty by the time she was sworn in, but the Pres had more to worry about than advanced age: the thrice-damned Scandinavian Expansion had invaded, occupied and enslaved Amerika in the late 21st Century, and just like the last six Presidents, Lohan was little more than a puppet figurehead. However, if it wasn't for Lohan's astounding sense of purpose and bottomless wisdom in driving out the Expansion forces in a display of tactical genius that made Alexander the Great seem like Mister Bean in comparison, the Skandos would probably still be ruling Amerika to this day.
Of course, every schoolchild knew how President Lohan ended the war, so there's no need to rehash it.
To say that The Lohan was a nice club was to state the obvious. Sure, over-the-top opulence was relatively commonplace in The Heights, so serving tiny cocktails made from centuries-old booze (some of which pre-dated The Unison) and having priceless velociraptor scotch fillet on the menu wasn't worth hooting about. No, what really made The Lohan stand apart was the fact it was secretly the nexus of all profitable evil on Seven Suns. For more than two hundred years this palace had served as a neutral meeting ground for the exceptionally discreet crimelords who secretly ruled The Glow, a brotherhood that prized silence and invisibility above all other attributes. As the efficacy of this shadowy underworld was entirely based on the planetwide delusion that Seven Suns had the lowest crime rate in The Unison (in reality, Seven Suns wasn't even in the top fifty), the exclusive members of The Lohan occasionally referred to themselves as The Whispers.
A mere forty-nine afternoons ago, Ernest Fell had roosted at the top of their pecking order for twelve straight years. Forty-eight afternoons ago, this situation had become inverted.
The entire décor of The Lohan, from its hand-carved marble floors to the darklight chandeliers dangling far above, would be most succinctly described as “black.” Most of its considerable floor area was taken up by a series of perfectly circular onyx booths, and each rounded bastion contained a black leather lounge curled intimately around a waist-high ebony tabletop. Each of the once-broken circles could comfortably seat up to a dozen patrons. The only splash of colour in The Lohan came from the stasis-preserved skins of exotic and vicious animals who now served as distinctive rugs for each booth, and all the worst creatures in the galaxy were present and accounted for: razorbears, sky sharks, titan slugs, spitting gorillas, napalm pigs and exploding poodles, to name but a few. As a result, the booths derived their names from whatever murderous creature served as its rug. The worse the creature, the more desirable the booth.
Ernest Fell stormed through The Lohan with murder in his eyes, followed closely by Jeeves. A mere eight days ago the other patrons would have deliberately averted their gaze from the two distinctive figures out of a mixture of fear and respect, but things had drastically changed. Not only did the gangsters have the gall to openly stare at the crimelord and his bodyguard, but hissed conspiracy at one another once Ernest's ears were well out of range. Little did they know how clearly he heard their treason.
A week had passed since Tuesday was awarded the Binary Star in front of the entire planet, and the ramifications of Prince Charming's death were still rippling through the underworld like a grenade in a kiddie pool. As The Prince had often served as a particularly evil disposal method for anybody unlucky enough to get on the wrong side of The Whispers in some way (whether knowingly or unknowingly), the last seven days had seen Ernest Fell and the rest of his brotherhood in severe damage control. It went without saying that this involved a lot of so-called “suicides,” drug overdo
ses, people running off to join the circus in distant star systems, and just outright whacking a few people, too. This level of upheaval was unprecedented in living memory, and such chaos meant only one thing: The Whispers needed somebody to take the blame, and quickly.
Slamming into the comfy form-fitting leather lounge within the Razorbear Booth, Ernest glared blades at the disrespectful stares he was attracting. Jeeves took a seat on the edge of the lounge, positioned to block any potential trouble. A nervous-looking waiter in an all-black uniform approached a little too quickly and placed a jet-coloured tray containing Ernest's and Jeeves' usual orders on the tabletop: a Ritz Sidecar for Ernest, and a midi of Vielle Bon Secours Ale with a bowl of salted honey almonds for Jeeves. The waiter, bowing almost horizontal, laid down two copies of today's menu in front of the crimelord and his bodyguard, and went to stammer the specials.
He didn't get out a single word.
Seven men in Versace suits pushed the waiter aside and arrayed in front of the Razorbear Booth. Considering that The Whispers were exceptionally good at remaining invisible in plain view, these gangsters could have easily passed as a hundred different kinds of businessman or bureaucrat, or perhaps mourners on their way to a funeral. They all looked like the sort who got beat up in high school, men you wouldn't look at twice: words like nerdy, unthreatening, lame and harmless would come to mind. Of course, they'd all spent years cultivating their professional veneers, and to a man all seven were lethal, heartless killers capable of any depraved act imaginable.
Jeeves casually scanned the group with one glance. A casual slurp of ale brought on highlights of toffee and aniseed as Jeeves considered who he should kill first, and how messy the execution would be. He could clearly tell that the guy standing second from the left had mainlined some some kind of combat stim recently, probably Twitch, as his jittery eyes and pulsating pupils indicated the guy was dosed for war. This made the choice easy. A subtle hand gesture from Ernest told Jeeves to hold back for now, but to be ready.
Flanked by three men on either side, the central figure stepped forwards and gave a slight bow. Although Ernest had brought a lot of heat on everyone in The Lohan thanks to the stuff up with Tuesday and Prince Charming, The Whispers still valued civility.
“Mister Fell, I'm Dog Rooney.” Rooney extended his long, elegant fingers, the digits of a hacker, to finish the bow. As Rooney looked about a quarter of Ernest's age, this sort of respect was expected in their ranks. “I'm not sure if you remember me...”
“You were the kid who hacked into the Protein Recyc database and placed a backdoor for anybody who wants...meat to disappear without a trace.” Ernest took a draw of his Ritz Sidecar. The cognac was smoother than a waxed infant. “You did such a good job that it's still wide open to this day.”
Rooney looked a little surprised.
“I'm flattered you know about that, Mister Fell.”
“I'm not some aloof prince who sits around staring at his own navel all day, Rooney. I keep track.” Glaring across the table, Ernest smacked his glass into the ebony surface. “I also know you've never missed paying me your due each month, you're well respected by all the other patrons of The Lohan, and you're a born leader who pisses charisma from every pore. Many made men think that once you've spent a a few decades growing from a wriggling tadpole to a fat toad, you'll probably be a man of authority. Yes, I know who you are.” Ernest ran a finger around the rim of his glass and narrowed his eyes. “However, what I don't know, Rooney, is why you and your meat puppets suddenly think it's fine to slump over to my booth without being asked. We may be going through a time of flux right now, but that doesn't mean a thing. Seven Suns is always an interesting place.” Ernest's lip curled a little bit, exposing his white teeth. “Well?”
Rooney glanced around at his six associates. He was suddenly looking unsure.
“Mister Fell, I do honestly apologise for the intrusion, but I've been trying to arrange a face-to-face with you for days now without any luck. I wouldn't break protocol unless I knew it was worth your time.”
Ernest took another glug of his drink and silently regarded Rooney. In the last week his sips had transformed into quaffs. After another few seconds Ernest gave a demanding motion that indicated the whole group should take a seat at the Razorbear Booth, the most elite bastion in the entire Noonclub. Jeeves silently moved closer to Ernest as seven nervous gangsters slid across the midnight leather. The looming bodyguard was sure to arrange things so that he was directly between the strung-out Twitcher and Ernest.
Ernest gave a small shrug at Rooney.
“Well? You've got your chance. What's bothering you, Rooney?”
Rooney leaned a few inches towards Ernest, keeping his voice low.
“Mister Fell, I thought that you'd want to know that this...this flux, as you put it, has seen one thousand, two hundred and forty-eight bodies go through Protein Recyc in a little under a week. I'm talking twenty times more meatbags than I've ever had to process since my hack.”
Ernest gave another shrug. “Sounds like good business to me, Rooney. So what's the problem? Don't have a powerful enough calculator to count all your yen? Run out of wallets?”
Rooney looked frustrated. He ran a hand through his neat hair, slicking it with sweat from his palms.
“Sure, yeah, normally I'd be clicking my damned heels, Mister Fell. But we're not talking about informants and other worthless scum, here: I personally knew some of the people who've been reduced to Cricket Chow on my watch. Beyond the Protein Recyc situation, more than a dozen members of The Lohan haven't been seen in days, and two men from my own crew have vanished like smoke.” Rooney extended his hands in the “gimme gimme” gesture. “We need you to do something, Mister Fell. I'm sure you're aware that people are talking. Everyone knows that nobody is safe anymore.”
To Rooney's horror, the Twitcher chose this moment to speak without being asked.
“Not even you!” the henchman hissed, pointing a trembling finger at Ernest.
Rooney gaped at his idiot associate in total horror, his face turned grey, and he closed his eyes in what seemed like prayer.
“Bennett...” Rooney moaned. “Oh, spug...”
What little background murmuring there was in The Lohan instantly ceased. It seemed as though the entire Noonclub was watching the interaction between Rooney and Ernest, waiting, preparing. Every booth of gangsters from one side of The Lohan to the other casually slid to the edge of their lounges, calmly opened their jackets, and waited for all Hell to break loose.
Ernest's expression didn't change as he regarded the mouthy gangster apparently known as Bennett. Jeeves, on the other hand, gripped the table with both meaty hands and leaned towards the Twitcher until there was only an inch between their noses.
“Don't do that.” Jeeves said simply.
Bennett faltered. His eyes darted back and forth, his pupils growing and shrinking.
“Don't point at Mr Fell.” Jeeves clarified, growling like a cement mixer. “Or I'll point at you.”
Ernest turned slowly to Rooney. It was a miracle nobody was dead yet.
“So, Rooney, would you like to clarify exactly what your little friend over there meant by that comment of his? I think it'd be a good idea for your next words to be chosen very, very, very carefully.”
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