THE TANDELEISTRASSE ON Efrichen was officially off-limits from 9:00 P.M. to 8:00 A.M. local time, but the spacers stayed away even in daylight hours. There was no reason for them to do so; the Tandeleistrasse was no more foreboding than any other street in the city, with its whimsical antique lights and scrubbed steps and modestly closed lace curtains at every window. The brass knockers were fiercely shiny and there was rarely anyone abroad. Over several of the heavy wooden doors were primitive carvings of animals, worn and grained with most of their paint lost to time and weather. Near the middle of the street was a door engraved with a giant snake that looked to be the oldest and shabbiest carving in the entire area. The colony of Efrichen was only ten generations old, yet already it was showing signs of wear around the edges.
Ensign Diego Bach leaned back in the webbing as the Gs increased during descent. If it had been his choice he wouldn’t opt for liberty on Efrichen, but it hadn’t been his choice and he wasn’t exactly on liberty. The thin hull of the merchanter shuddered slightly and Diego tried not to wince. He was used to the solid ships of the Fleet, not these ration cans that hauled junk at the very edge of safety. He’d better get used to them, though, he told himself, and the thought stung. Bad enough to be out here on the uncivilized Ridge half the galaxy away from the real action, the honor and glory and chance to distinguish himself on Target. Instead he had to pray that Ari wasn’t drunk and would get them down in the pattern, that the authorizations would hold, that the snake-would pass.
The thought of the snake made Diego wince internally. “Beautiful piece of work, if I do say so myself,” the artist in the disguise section of Intelligence had said as he put the tattooing needles away. “You might want to think about leaving it on. I would.”
Leaving it on was the last thing Diego had ever contemplated. Not that it was hideous. In a way he would have preferred it ugly and miserable, not the sinuous metallic violet creature with the sapphire eye that might have almost passed as decoration in the pits of Anares. Which was the reason above all he hated it. There was nothing in the known universe that could render that tattoo anything other than what it was, a passport to the rateri clubs of-the Tandeleistrasse. It was exactly the kind of thing a Bach never did, that his father the admiral would call disgraceful, and his mother the admiral would call common.
The merchanter shuddered violently for the last time and jerked abruptly. Diego’s teeth ground together under the pressure as the Tobishi Lines System interfaced with the Port, feeding in idents and registrations. He had shipped aboard Lodestone just before they got under way for Efrichen, his ident stating that he was an engineer, 2nd class, on the Tobishi Lines freighter Tompkin, and transferred to Lodestone when Davis was promoted. All very routine, courtesy of Fleet Intelligence which had provided documents that weren’t precisely forged. He knew that, knew the documents were good, but he still held his breath as the registration went through. Palming the new ident disc and slinging his battered red flight bag over his shoulder, Diego disembarked, the perfect image of a merchanter on liberty.
“I’ll take care of business,” Ari had said. “I hate this place, and I’d rather be working than using up liberty time. Imagine, orders from Tobishi himself. To come here. To pick up a consignment of bacteriological, no less.”
Ari’d winked as they crossed into the union reception lobby and checked into their quarters. No one had liked the idea of liberty on Efrichen. It had been a subject of speculation why Tobishi himself, the owner of the merchant line, should order them into this hell-forsaken place. Diego had started at least three of the rumors currently in circulation among the crew of the Lodestone and was rewarded by the fact that no one suspected any Fleet intervention at all.
The union hall was filled with heavy haulers, merchant liners, and skip-runners who were little better than the Khalia pirates. In the gaudy heraldry Diego had studied the few months since his assignment to Intelligence, he could pick out the UV white stripes on the haulers jackets and the colored belts of the indies. A few turned to stare at him, and Diego felt a pang of fear. Surely they could see what he was under the Tobishi grey worksuit, couldn’t miss the bearing and stride that had been stamped into cellular memory.
Keeping up the front was the worst. Aboard Lodestone he’d gotten a reputation as a loner. Ari had offered to share a bottle more than once and Diego had refused. He hadn’t wanted to. Since leaving Port he hadn’t talked to anyone and the loneliness was beginning to eat at him, but he had resisted temptation. He didn’t trust himself not to talk.
It wasn’t even like he’d chosen Intelligence, he thought as he passed the last of the lobby stares and dropped his kit on the floor of the tube. He’d had his whole career very carefully mapped out. Starting with Junior Weapons Officer aboard a cruiser and sticking with cruisers until he got enough seniority to really make a name in the Scout Fast Attack Wing. There wasn’t any going back, and it only made things worse to dwell on the preferable. Now, today, he should have been on his way to Target with the Fast Attack Wing. Instead he was on Efrichen, the boonies of the backwater, and his assignment was just beginning.
The merchant spacer’s union quarters on Efrichen weren’t exactly sumptuous. Diego found his room was an oversized closet with a sleeping platform and a washroom barely large enough to turn around in. He peeled off his Tobishi uniform and muttered to activate the lights and shower, both of which came on full force. He caught a glimpse of a stranger in the mirror and nearly broke the glass before he realized that he was only seeing himself.
On Lodestone he’d managed to avoid looking in the mirror as much as possible, so the change was startling. The violet snake wound from his right knee around his thigh, slithered over his back and arched down from his left shoulder. The disguise artist had also instructed him to grow out his hair, which now hung in almost colorless tendrils past his shoulders. The two earrings in his left ear had different meanings depending on whether he was being a merchanter or an Efrichen rateri addict. He’d always managed to avoid looking at them before, so the glitter of the jewels startled him. All in all, Diego thought, he looked thoroughly disreputable. His parents would be ashamed if they saw him. Even his old school friends wouldn’t recognize him now as the Academy’s “Most Likely to Succeed.”
He glanced at the blinking green chrono over the bed. He was supposed to meet his contact at the Snake Club just before planetary midnight. If the contact was still alive. The reports had stopped coming months ago. At first Intelligence thought that a courier had been captured. Now no one was sure of anything, only that Jurgen was in trouble.
That was the only name he had been given. At the briefing he had seen two pictures, one of a young officer and one of a rateri addict. He’d memorized the second. His orders were for one evening only and were perfectly explicit. Get Jurgen and bring him in, along with any evidence.
Exactly what kind of evidence they were looking for was unclear. Diego had asked more than once, and Sein had muttered something vague about Khalia incursions into the region. Diego knew when he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. It was one of the things he hated about working in this group, almost more than he hated missing the chance to distinguish himself in combat. Everyone knew that the best way to make major career strides was combat, and he cursed again under his breath that the opportunity had been under his nose and yanked away. Maybe when this was done there’d still be some mopping up to do, something where he could really show his stuff. Not this backwater police effort, that was for sure. He still wasn’t certain why the Fleet should be involved at all. Two-bit drug running was a local issue. The Fleet had better things to worry about.
Maybe it was a little early, and his instructors had been very clear about being careful on site, but Diego decided that he just couldn’t stay still any longer. From the red kit he pulled on silver pants and a loose jacket that opened to reveal the snake’s attacking head. The outfit cost more than he could possibly aff
ord on his salary, which was just fine. It reminded him more of his costume for the Beaux Arts Ball, where he had escorted debutantes three years ago. The debs had been silly and the party had been boring. The only good part had been the champagne, and this time even that wasn’t guaranteed.
The streets of Efrichen caught him up once he left the union hall. The great stone houses seemed to soak up all sound and he could hear the light hollow slap of his soles against the pavement in the darkness. Above him, soft yellow light wound from behind the closed creamy lace curtains and occasionally he could hear muted laughter. It was quick, muffled, and then swallowed up again in the light. They used antique electric bulbs, lights that only halfheartedly pierced the blackness with a puddle of cheer, leaving most of the street cold and lonely. Inside, against the windows, it looked like a haven of warmth and company closed against the world. Huddled against the night, the rateri, the Tandeleistrasse, Efrichen vigorously barricaded its fiercely middle-class respectability behind thick walls and lace curtains.
When he turned the corner, Diego discovered that he had entered the Tandeleistrasse. Slowly, feeling some oppression from the simple knowledge that this was enemy territory, he entered and continued to walk. At this hour the street appeared no different from its neighbors. He found the club with little trouble; the wooden serpent carved in the door matched the one on his body. It was one of the rateri clubs, the oldest and most established. The inner core, Jurgen had called it in an early report, the club favored by the Khalia and the one delegated by them to handle the precious rateri trade. Softly, hesitantly, he turned the heavy brass knob and entered.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was a strange mixture of stale tobacco, half-washed glasses, warm beer, and furniture polish, mingled with heavy spice perfume and the faint bitterness he knew was rateri. The antechamber looked as innocuous as the rest of the street, but Diego caught the soft clicking of a telltale near the second door. The telltale would either admit him or it would trap him. Sein had never said what happened to an intruder in a rateri den.
For a moment it occurred to Diego that he could simply turn around and go back. He hadn’t really volunteered for this assignment. Then his hand found the gold St. Barbara medal that had been his grandfathers’ all the way back to the Fuentes who had fought for freedom and human honor at the side of Bolivar. He should have taken it off, left it back at the union hall, but here the presence called up all those generations who had served the human cause and drained all the fear and anger away. Diego placed his palm against the talelock without wavering, and without surprise when he was admitted.
It took him awhile to adjust to the extremely dim light and the haze of smoke that permeated every centimeter of the hall. Colors drifted through the cloud. There were human faces and masks, brilliant dominoes decorated with paste jewels and feathers, some painted metallic colors with quasi-Aztec designs.
A woman with glittering ruby hair brushed past him clad in red. She raised her hand on a glass of some pale green liquid and he noticed that her hands were tattooed into five-headed hydras, tipped with gold and green lacquer depicting the jaws and venom. It was beautiful. Diego slumped into a chair at an empty table full of dead beer glasses and heavily laden’ ashtrays.
The woman turned to regard him suspiciously. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’m a friend of Jurgen’s,” Diego answered, relaxing with some effort across the arm of the chair. “And who are you?”
She giggled and held out one of the hydras, writhing. “Then it’s okay. I’m called Zoe. Jurgen won’t be here for a while anyway. Dance with me.”
Diego danced. He felt silly spending so much time when he should be gathering evidence, dancing with a succession of ladies whose only unusual quality was their makeup and hand tattoos. Intelligence had spent a lot of time and money, and so far it all was just like the Beaux Arts Ball without the champagne.
The red hydra-hand fingered his holy medal light and smiled. “You’re with the ship, aren’t you?” she asked in a throaty voice.
Suddenly Diego’s hearing perked up. “What makes you think that?”
Zoe shook her head slowly. “That won’t work with me. I know. I’ve been around a long time. Jurgen trusts me and he knows the ships. I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve waited for a long time. Tell the friends that I’m a good friend, too. I’m ready.”
Diego permitted himself a small smile. “Just how ready?” he demanded.
The hand at the chain twisted hard around his throat and cut off his breath for only a moment. A show of force. Diego’s hands came up independently and broke the hold, twisted the vividly colored wrist back so far he could feel the bones strain before he even realized what he ‘had done. Slowly he let the woman go.
As the medal fell back into place he felt a sudden tingling, as if the gold had carried some electric shock. Just nerves, he told himself firmly. His hand went unconsciously to stroke the medallion, but by the time he touched it the sensation was gone.
She blinked twice and untwisted her mouth. “I know more about the trade than you ever will, even if you are on the first ship. It’s only a matter of time. And if you’ve had a chance to walk around at all you know that Efrichen is ripe. After dark only the rateri friends are on the streets. Go out and look for yourself.”
Diego smiled slowly, unpleasantly. “I don’t have to. I believe you.”
Jurgen, he thought. Where the hell is Jurgen? Ships or ship? Diego was completely lost except for a single salient fact. He wasn’t just a narc and this wasn’t any old police action. For a moment he wished that he could get Zoe to tell him more, but it was obvious that if he tried to get more information she would begin to suspect his story. It was the contact he needed, Jurgen who was one of their own.
“Jurgen just came in,” Zoe hissed, then disappeared into a swirl of bodies.
Trying not to look obvious Diego turned his head toward the door. Jurgen looked just like the picture, the midnight blue snake undulating across his body, just matching his hair in the dim light. A shadow made to work in the shadows, Diego thought, unlike himself who was a creature of light, or at least ash pale umbra.
The crowd pressed between the tables, flowing in its own patterns that swallowed bits of the room and spit them up again, reformed. Jurgen’s dark presence was obscured behind tangerine and topaz, wine and lapis-studded draperies. Then the rhythms of the music changed and the rainbow horde swirled once again. Jurgen was now seated at the table just behind his. Slowly Diego’s contact raised his eyes from the glass in front of him and met Diego’s gaze.
Diego swallowed hard and wished he’d ordered a beer, something to quench the dryness. The eyes that had bored into him had never belonged to the Commander of the twenty-third. Slowly, casually, he made his way over to Jurgen’s table and took the empty chair at his contact’s elbow.
“Jurgen,” he stated. No need for a question.
Indigo lights played in unnaturally dark hair as Jurgen turned to face Diego. His face split into something that Diego thought had once been meant as a smile.
“I didn’t know they’d send a baby,” Jurgen said softly, then frowned. “I thought I was worth more than that.”
“Sein himself sent me,” Diego countered.
Jurgen laughed unpleasantly. “That’s because he knew nobody else would take the job, I guess. Get some stinking green ensign who can’t even wipe his own butt yet, let alone bring me back. Anyone who knew better wouldn’t bother trying. Good old Sein. Got to give the guy credit.”
Jurgen slid his thumb over the polished wooden edge of the table, following the deeply carved snake and leaf pattern that seemed more appropriate for a monastery or a museum. Two tiny ampules appeared in his hand, flourished like a stage magician with a dove.
“It only looks primitive,” he said, offering one of the capsules to Diego. “Go ahead, take it. Th
e best there is, perfectly refined, without anything added. No zombie charms here.”
Diego flinched and drew into himself. He’d heard plenty about rateri but had never been this close to it. Lying in Jurgen’s palm the two capsules seemed very small and innocent. Pale yellow, just like the headache medicine he used to get for the migraines when he took his quals. Fascinated and repelled, he couldn’t pull his eyes away.
Suddenly Jurgen closed his fist and crushed the capsules. Yellow liquid glittered against his skin for a moment arid then disappeared. “It’s absorbed through the skin,” Jurgen said softly, smiling.
Diego swallowed hard and gripped the carved edge of the table as the room began to revolve slowly around him. The snakes of wood joined other snakes as each of the tattoos and carvings, embroideries, and paintings came to life. Even the violet tattoo on his own body began to slither across his skin, dry and soft, very slow.
He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Only more snakes, feeding off his own death. The woman with the hydra hands. She must have known. And Jurgen was laughing in front of him as the poison struck home, waiting for him to die.
“So I see Zoe already offered hospitality. I should have known. She has such exquisite manners, don’t you think?”
The voice thundered in his head and echoed around the room. The club had expanded in at least two dimensions and it no longer seemed so crowded. Snakes, living and writhing, filled all the new space, but Diego didn’t find them disturbing. If anything they were an alien comfort, each one vaguely connected to him as if they were both intelligent and telepathic. Happy, that was it. They were all happy. All the snakes and all the people. Both slithered over each other in some rateri-aided symbiosis that rendered the club, the other addicts, and the Khalia all together harmless.
Time itself yawned in front of Diego, and he looked down into the abyss of his own history. Himself at the Port Officer’s Children’s School, then the Academy and learning how to ski on Volkstaad and experimenting with falling in love with Emily Clarke when they were fourteen. Not looking, really, Diego decided. It was more as if time didn’t make any distinction between the Diego of now and the one who was fourteen and ten and twenty and six. All of them existed at once, each one demanded attention and the clamor was overwhelming.
The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack Page 15
