by David Weber
“Mardukans?” The general frowned. “You don’t see many of those around.”
“The word from our informants is that they were heavies for an underworld organization. One of the humans had a UOW passport; the other one an Imperial. They’re both fakes, obviously, but the Imperial one is in the database. He’s supposedly from Armagh, but his accent was Pinopan.”
“Criminals?” Gianetto rubbed his right index and thumb together while he considered that. “That makes a certain amount of sense. Helmut has got to be hurting for spares; they’re trying to get their ships refurbed off the black market.”
“Possibly. But we don’t want to assume that.”
“No,” the general agreed, but he was clearly already thinking about something else. “What about this bill to force an independent evaluation of the Empress?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m supporting it,” Adoula replied. “Of course.”
“Are you nuts?” Gianetto snarled. “If a doctor gets one look at her—”
“It won’t come to that,” Adoula assured him. “I’m supporting it, but every vote I can beg, bribe, cajole, or blackmail is against it. It won’t even get out of committee.”
“Let’s hope,” Gianetto said, and frowned. “I’m less than enthused by the . . . methods you’re using.” His frown turned into a grimace of distaste. “Bad enough to keep the Empress on a string, but . . .”
“The defenses built into the Empress are extraordinary,” Adoula said sternly. “Since she proved unwilling to be reasonable, extraordinary measures were necessary. All we have to do is sit tight for five more months. Let me handle that end. You just keep your eye on the Navy.”
“That’s under control,” Gianetto assured him. “With the exception of that bastard, Helmut. And as long as we don’t get any ‘independent evaluation’ of Her Majesty. If what you’re doing to the Empress gets out, they won’t just kill us; they’ll cut us into pieces and feed us to dogs.”
“Now I’m a real estate agent,” Dobrescu grumped.
“Broker,” Macek said. “Facilitator. Lessor’s representative. Something.”
The neighborhood was a light industrial park on the slope of what had once been called the “Blue Ridge.” On a clear day, you could see just about to the Palace. Or you would have been able to, if it weren’t for all the skyscrapers and megascrapers in the way.
It had once been a rather nice industrial park, but time and shifting trade had left it behind. Its structures would long ago have been demolished to clear space for larger, more useful buildings, but for various entailments that prevented change. Most of the buildings were vacant, a result of the boom and bust cycle in commercial real estate. Fortunately, the one they were looking for was one such. They were supposed to be meeting the owner’s representative, but she was late.
And, inevitably, it was a miserable day. The weather generators had to let an occasional cold front through, and this was the day that had been scheduled for it. So they sat in the aircar, watching the rain sheet off the windscreen, and watched the empty building with a big “For Lease” sign on the front.
Finally, a nine-passenger utility aircar sat down, and a rather attractive blonde in her thirties got out, set up a rain shield, and then hurried over to the building’s covered portico.
Dobrescu and Macek got out, ignoring the rain and cold, and walked over to join her.
“Mr. Ritchie?” The woman held out her hand. “Angie Beringer. Pleased to meet you. Sorry I’m late.”
“Not a problem,” Dobrescu said, shaking the offered hand.
“Let me get this unlocked,” she said, and set her pad against the door.
The personnel door led into a small reception area. More locked doors led into the warehouse itself.
“Just over three thousand square meters,” the real estate lady said. “The last company that had it was a printing outfit.” She pointed to the rear of the big warehouse and a line of heavy plasteel doors. “Those are secure rooms for ink, from what I was told. Apparently it’s pretty hazardous stuff. The building has a clear bill of environmental health, though.”
“Figures,” Macek said, picking up a dust-covered flyer from a box—one of many—against one of the walls. “Escort advertisements. Hey, this one looks just like Shara!”
“Can it,” Dobrescu said, and looked at Beringer. “It looks good. It’ll do anyway.”
“First and last month’s deposit, minimum lease of two years,” the woman said diffidently. “Mr. Chung’s credit checked out just fine, but the owners insist.”
“That’s fine. How do we do the paperwork?”
“Thumb print here,” the real estate agent said, holding out her pad. “And send us a transfer.”
“Can I get the keys now?” Dobrescu asked as he pressed the pad to give his wholly false thumb print.
“Yes,” Beringer said. “But if we don’t get the transfer, the locks will be changed, and you’ll be billed for it.”
“You’ll get the money,” Dobrescu promised, holding his pad up to hers. He checked to make sure the key codes had transferred and made a mental note to change them. “We’re going to take a look around,” he said then.
“Go ahead,” she replied. “If you don’t need me?”
“Thanks for meeting us in this mess,” Macek replied.
“What are you going to use it for, again?” she asked curiously.
“My boss wants to start a chain of restaurants,” Dobrescu answered. “Authentic off-planet food. We need some place to store it, other than the ship it’s coming in on.”
“Well, maybe I’ll get a chance to try it out,” Beringer said.
“I’ll make sure you get an invite.”
Once the woman was gone, they went back out to the aircar and got the power pack, some tools, and a grav-belt.
“I hope like hell the modifications haven’t covered it up,” Macek said.
“Yeah,” Dobrescu agreed. He took out a laser measuring device, checked the readout, and pointed to the center plasteel door. “There.”
The room beyond was dimly lit, but what were clearly power lines stuck out of one wall near the ceiling.
“Nobody ever wondered about those?”
“Buildings like this go through so many changes and owners,” Dobrescu said, putting on the belt, “that stuff gets rewired all the time. As long as it’s not currently hot, nobody cares what it used to power.”
He touched a stud on the belt and lifted up to the wiring, where he cautiously applied a heavy-gauge voltage meter. There were smaller wires for controls beside the power cables, and he hooked a box to them and took a reading.
“Yeah, there’s something back there,” he said. “Toss me the power line.”
He caught the coil of heavy-duty cable on the second toss, and wired it into the power leads. Then he hooked up the control wires and lowered himself back down to the ground.
“Now to see if we’re on a fool’s errand,” he muttered, and keyed a sequence into the control box.
There was a heavy grinding noise. The walls of the warehouse were set into the side of the hill and made of large, precast slabs of plascrete, with thin lines separating them for expansion and contraction. Now the center slab began to move backward, apparently into the solid hill. It cleared the slabs on either side, then began to slide sideways, revealing a tunnel into the hill. It moved surprisingly smoothly . . . until it abruptly stopped part way with a metallic twang.
“We need a lamp,” Dobrescu said.
Macek went back out to the aircar for a hand light, and, with its aid, they found the chunk of fallen plascrete that blocked the door’s track, levered it out of the way, and got the door fully open and operating. The air in the tunnel had the musty smell of long disuse, and they both put on air masks before they followed it into the hill.
The walls were concrete—real, old-fashioned concrete—dripping with water and cracked and pitted with extreme age. The door that sealed the far end of the tunnel was made of heav
y steel, with a locking bar. Both had been covered in protective sealant, and when they got the sealant off, the portal opened at a touch.
The room beyond was large, and, unlike the approach tunnel, its air was bone-dry. More corridors stretched into the distance, and there was a small fusion generator on the floor of the main room. It was a very old model, also sealed against the elements. Dobrescu and Macek cut the sealant away and, after studying the instructions, got it into operation.
Lights came on in the room. Fans began to move. In the distance, a gurgling of pumps started up.
“Looks like we’re in business,” Dobrescu said.
“What’s the name of this place?”
“It used to be called Greenbrier.”
“This one’s not nearly as pretty as the last one,” Macek said.
“Get what you’re given,” Dobrescu replied as they climbed out of the aircar. He’d been keeping a careful eye on a group of young men lounging on the corner. When the real estate agent landed and got out, they straightened up and one of them whistled.
The young woman—this one a short woman in her twenties, with faintly African features—ignored the whistle and strode over to the two waiting “businessmen.”
“Mr. Ritchie?” she asked, looking at both of them.
“Me,” Dobrescu said.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand, then gestured at the building. “There it is.”
This area had once been a small town, before it was absorbed by the burgeoning Imperial City megalopolis. The town, for historical reasons, had managed to maintain its “traditional” buildings, however. This specific building had predated even the ancient United States . . . which had predated the Empire by over a thousand years. The home of an early politician of the unified states, it had a pleasant view of the small river that ran through the town. It had been maintained, literally, for millennia.
Yet shifting trade, again, had finally ruined it. The plaster walls were cracked and peeling, the roof sunken in. Windows had been broken out. The massive oaks which had once shaded the beautiful house of an early president were long gone, victims of the narrow band of sunlight available in a town surrounded by skyscrapers. The small town was now a drug and crime haven.
There were, however, signs of improvement. The pressure of real estate values this near the center of Imperial City had sent the outriders of a “gentrification” wave washing gently through it. Many of the ancient buildings were cloaked in scaffolding, and there were coffee shops and small grocers scattered along the narrow streets. The quaint old houses of what had once been Fredericksburg, Virginia, had become a haven for the Bohemians who survived in the urban jungle.
And they were about to get a new restaurant.
Dobrescu poked through the building, avoiding holes in the wood floors and shaking his head at the plaster fallen from the ceiling.
“This is going to take one helluva lot of renovation,” he said, again shaking his head.
“I have some other buildings I can show you,” the real estate agent offered.
“None of them meet the specifications,” Dobrescu said. “This is the only one in the area that will do. We’ll just have to get it fixed up. Fast.” He consulted his toot and frowned. “In . . . fourteen days.”
“That’s going to be . . . tough,” the young woman said.
“That’s why the boss sent me.” Dobrescu sighed.
Roger rolled over carefully, trying not to disturb Despreaux, and pressed the acceptance key on the flashing intercom.
“Mr. Chung,” Beach said. “We’ve exited tunnel-space in the Sol System, and we’re currently on course for the Mars Three checkpoint. We’ve gotten an updated download, including messages for you from your advance party on Old Earth.”
“Great,” Roger said quietly, keeping his voice down. “How long to orbit?”
“About thirteen hours, with the routing they gave us,” Beach replied with a frown. “We’re in a third-tier parking orbit, not far from L-3 position. Best I could get.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Roger lied, thinking about how long that meant with Patty on a shuttle. “I’ll go check the messages now.”
“Yes, Sir,” Beach said, and cut the connection.
“We’re there?” Despreaux asked, rolling over.
“In the system,” Roger replied. “Ten hours to parking orbit. I’m going to go see what Ritchie and . . .” He trailed off.
“Peterka,” Despreaux prompted.
“Peterka have to say.” He got to his feet and slipped on a robe.
“Well, I’m going back to sleep,” Despreaux said, rolling back over. “I have to be insane to marry an insomniac.”
“But a very cute insomniac,” Roger said as he turned on his console.
“And getting better in bed,” Despreaux said sleepily.
Roger looked at the messages and nodded in satisfaction.
“We got both buildings,” he said.
“Mm . . .”
“Good prices, too.”
“Mmmm . . .”
“The warehouse looks like it’s in pretty good shape.”
“Mmmmmmm!”
“The restaurant needs a lot of work, but he thinks it can be ready in time.”
“MMMMMMMMM!”
“Sorry. Are you trying to sleep?”
“Yes!”
Roger smiled and looked at the rest of the messages in silence. There were codes embedded in them, and he nodded in satisfaction as he scanned them. Things were going well. If anything, too well. But it was early in the game.
He checked out some other information sources, including a list of personal ads on sites dedicated to the male-friendly segment of society. His eyes lit at one, but then he read the signature and mail address and shook his head. Right message, wrong person.
He pulled out the schematic of the Palace again and frowned. All the surviving Marines, Eleanora, and his own memories had contributed to it, but he’d never realized how little of the Palace he actually knew. And the Marines, apparently deliberately, had never been shown certain areas. He knew of at least three semisecret passages in the warren of buildings, the Marines knew a couple of others, and he suspected that it was laced with them.
The original design had been started by Miranda MacClintock, and she’d been a terribly paranoid person. Successive designers had tried to outdo her, and what they’d created was something like the ancient Mycenaean labyrinth. He doubted that anyone knew all the secret passages, storerooms, armories, closets, and sewers. It covered in area which had once been home to a country’s executive mansion, capital buildings, a major park, two major war memorials, and various museums and government buildings. All of that area—nearly six square kilometers—was now simply “the Palace.” Including the circular park around it, grass only, with clear fields of fire. And there was talk of expanding it even further. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Homelike.
Finally, realizing he was working himself into a fret, he went back to bed and lay looking at the overhead. After several minutes, he nudged Despreaux.
“What do you mean I’m getting better?”
“Mwuff? You woke me up to ask me that and you expect me to answer?”
“Yeah. I’m your Prince, you’ve got to answer questions like that.”
“This whole plan is going to fail,” Despreaux said, never opening her eyes, “in about thirty seconds. When I strangle you with my bare hands.”
“What do you mean, ‘getting better’?”
“Look, good sex requires practice,” Despreaux said, shaking her head and still not turning over. “You haven’t had a lot of practice. You’re learning. That takes time.”
“So I need more practice?” Roger grinned. “No time like the present.”
“Roger, go to sleep.”
“Well, you said I needed practice—”
“Roger, if you ever want to be able to practice again, go to sleep.”
“You’re sure?”
&nb
sp; “I’m very sure.”
“Okay.”
“If you wake me up again, I’m going to kill you, Roger. Understand that.”
“I understand.”
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.”
“So, there’s no chance—?”
“One . . .”
“I’ll be good.” Roger crossed his arms behind his head and smiled at the overhead. “Going to sleep now.”
“Two . . .”
“Grawwwkkkkkk.”
“Roger!?”
“What? Is it my fault I can’t sleep without snoring?” he asked innocently. “It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.”
“God, why me?”
“You asked for it.”
“Did not!” Despreaux sat up and hit him with a pillow. “Liar!”
“God, you’re beautiful when you’re angry. I don’t suppose—?”
“If that’s what it takes for me to get some sleep,” Despreaux said half-desperately.
“I’m sorry.” Roger shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
“Roger, if you really are serious—”
“I’ll leave you alone,” he promised. “Get some sleep. I’ll be good. I need to think anyway. And I can’t think with that lovely nipple staring at me.”
“Okay,” Despreaux said, and rolled over.
Roger lay back, looking at the overhead. After a while, as he listened to Despreaux’s breathing not changing to the regular rhythm of sleep, he began counting in his head.
“I can’t sleep,” Despreaux announced, sitting up abruptly just before he reached seventy-one.
“I said I was sorry,” he replied.
“I know, but you’re going to lie there, not sleeping, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I don’t need much sleep. It doesn’t bother me. I’ll get up and leave you alone, if you want.”
“No,” Despreaux said. “Maybe it’s time for the next practice session. If you’ve learned anything, at least I’ll get some sleep.”
