by Mike Resnick
“I'll take care of it,” promised Lord Lucifer. He paused thoughtfully. “Still, I think your fears are groundless. Look at him—the man practically worships you.”
“If I recall my theology, Judas practically worshipped Jesus, too,” answered Chandler wryly.
“Duly noted,” said Lord Lucifer. “By the way, it occurs to me that you could use a contact on Port Maracaibo.”
“You have one in mind, no doubt?” suggested Chandler.
“The very best,” answered Lord Lucifer. “But I see Gin is returning with our cognac, so perhaps we'd best discuss it later.”
“Right,” agreed Chandler.
“Good stuff,” said Gin, entering the room with a bottle and three glasses on a tray. “I had a little taste out there, just to make sure it was as represented.” He filled the glasses and passed them around.
“Let me propose a toast, Mr. Chandler.”
“Be my guest.”
“To the Oracle,” said Lord Lucifer. “She has certainly made our lives more interesting.”
“I'll drink to that,” said Chandler, raising his glass to his lips. “Let's just hope she hasn't also made them briefer.”
19.
There were major differences between Port Maracaibo and Port Marrakech, although they had been terraformed by the same team and possessed almost identical atmospheres, gravities, and climates.
The structures on Port Maracaibo were less exotic, more rectangular, less formal, more closely clustered in the residential areas. The city, which like its counterpart on Port Marrakech bore the name of the moon—had been carefully planned: its streets were laid out in a grid, its commercial center had clearly-defined borders, and a series of public coaches, powered by superconductivity, skimmed a few inches above the streets between the city center and the outlying areas.
Chandler sat in a coach, studying a map of the city he had picked up while passing through customs. From time to time he looked up to make sure that no one was watching him, but he didn't seriously expect that he was being followed. Before leaving Port Marrakech he had died his auburn hair a dark brown, put brown-tinted contact lenses into his eyes, and had left all his weaponry on Port Marrakech. His new features perfectly matched the passport that Lord Lucifer had supplied him, and he hadn't set off any alarms while going through spaceport security. He was just a down-on-his-luck traveler, hoping to find work on the farthest of Hades’ three moons.
His new name was Preston Grange, and Lord Lucifer had even arranged to give him a history that included four arrests and a pair of convictions for minor crimes. He probably couldn't stand the kind of scrutiny he would receive if he were arrested, but then, if he were arrested he had more pressing problems to worry about anyway.
The address Lord Luficer had given him was on Cleopatra Street. He hunted it up on the map, realized that he had to change coaches in order to reach it, and walked to a door. An electronic sensor picked up the heat from his body, relayed it to the coach's brain, and the coach came to a stop at the next corner.
Chandler stepped out, looked for a public transit sign on the next cross street, and stood in front of it. A moment later he was in another coach, and a few minutes after that he was standing on Cleopatra Street. He checked a number and began walking toward the address he had been given.
The area quickly turned shabby and a bit rundown: bars, nightclubs and drug dens lined the street, and brightly-dressed men and women lingered in doorways, some beckoning, some engaged in whispered conversations, some merely staring out at the street in complete boredom.
Finally he came to number 719, a small, unobtrusive building stuck between an all-night restaurant and a sleazy nightclub promising acts that would shock any race in the galaxy, bar none.
He opened the door and found himself in a small octagonal foyer with no other doors. There was a small device on one wall, about five feet above the floor, and a recorded, slightly mechanical voice instructed him to peer into it. He did as he was told, and was soon staring at a hologram of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman doing a sensuous dance. The hologram vanished after thirty seconds, and the voice informed him that his retinagram had been taken, analyzed and cleared.
“Please step forward,” said the voice.
Chandler approached the wall, which slid aside to let him pass through, then moved back into place.
He followed a narrow corridor and emerged into a luxurious parlor, filled with plush furnishings, erotic paintings and holograms, and even a bronze sculpture of the same woman who had appeared in the little holo he had seen in the foyer.
The room was filled with women in various states of undress, including a pair who were totally nude. There were four men present—a huge, well-muscled bouncer, and three well-dressed men who were obviously clients.
A seductively-clad woman detached herself from a group of similarly-dressed young women and approached Chandler.
“Welcome to The Womb, the finest brothel on the three moons,” she said. “May I help you?”
“I'm looking for the Jade Queen,” replied Chandler.
“Is she expecting you?”
“I believe so.”
“And your name is...?”
He stared at her. “Just tell her that Lord Lucifer sent me.”
“Won't you make yourself comfortable?” said the woman. “I'll be back shortly.”
She left the room, and Chandler idly inspected some of the erotic artwork that hung on the walls. She returned a moment later.
“Follow me, please,” she said.
Chandler fell into step behind her as she led him into an airlift, ascended two levels, walked down a narrow corridor, then stopped when she came to the very last door.
“She's in there.”
“Thanks.”
“Perhaps I'll see you later?” suggested the woman.
“I doubt it.”
She shrugged and walked away, and Chandler turned to face the door. He heard the whirring of a holo camera, and felt the brief, always slightly unpleasant sensation of having his retina scanned, and then the door receded and he entered a huge octagonal chamber, furnished with artwork and exotic artifacts from more than a dozen worlds. The carpet rippled with a life of its own, and a golden loveseat designed for beings that bore no resemblance to humanity hovered inches above the ground off to his left. Dominating the room was a huge window that looked out upon sights more far more alien and savage than the jungles of The Frenchman's World; Chandler looked for the holo projector that was casting the incredibly real images, but couldn't spot it.
Seated behind a large desk that allowed her to observe both the door and the window was a woman, no longer youthful but not quite middle-aged, carrying a few pounds more than she should have, but carrying them well. She wore a jade necklace and a pair of rings with matching stones, and a golden outfit trimmed with the delicate feathers of some alien bird. Her eyes were large, green, and rather wide-set; her nose small and straight; her lips thin and painted an iridescent orange. Her hair was brown, but streaked with shades of gold and red, carefully coiffed and piled high atop her head.
“What can I do for you, Mr...?” she said in a voice that was just a little lower and a little deeper than he had expected.
“Grange,” he replied. “Preston Grange.”
“That idiot!” she snapped contemptuously.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He's sent three Preston Granges to Port Maracaibo in the past four years. How long does he think he can keep getting away with it?”
“Serves me right for trusting anyone else,” said Chandler. “I'll change it tomorrow.”
“Just out of curiosity, what is your name?” she asked.
“Chandler.”
“Do some people call you the Whistler?”
“From time to time.”
She nodded, as if to herself. “I thought it was you. Your fame precedes you, Mr. Chandler.”
“So, it would appear, does my alias,” he added wryly.
“No problem,” she said. “You'll have a new identity before you leave my office.” She paused, then indicated a chair facing the desk. “Have a seat.” He did as she bade him. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Something to make you happier, perhaps, or mentally sharper?”
He shook his head.
She shrugged. “As you wish,” she said, walking to the cabinet and helping herself to a pair of small round pills. She stood perfectly still for a moment, as if waiting for the effect, whatever it was, to begin, then sat down opposite him.
“Write down the name you want to use so that there won't be any discrepancy in the way it's spelled. I'll need your signature for the ID documents, anyway.”
“Have you got a piece of paper?” he asked, withdrawing a pen from a pocket of his tunic.
She opened the top drawer of her desk and handed him a monogrammed sheet of stationary.
“All right,” said Chandler, scribbling on the paper. “This is it.”
She took the sheet back from him and studied it. “Julio Juan Javier?”
Chandler smiled. “It's so alliterative that no one will ever believe it's not a real name given by a doting mother with terrible taste. No one would use a name like that as a cover.”
She shrugged. “All right. You'll be Javier by tomorrow morning.” She paused for a moment. “I'll start calling you that right now. I don't want to get in the habit of calling you Chandler or Whistler and having it slip out at an inopportune time.”
“And what do I call you?” asked Chandler.
“My professional name is the Jade Queen. You may call me Jade.”
“May I assume that you own this place, Jade?”
“I own every building and business for two blocks in each direction,” she answered bluntly.
“I'm impressed,” said Chandler.
“You should be.”
“What's your connection to Lord Lucifer?”
“Since he sent you here, there's no sense hiding it from you,” she replied. “I suppose you could say that he's my counterpart on Port Marrakech. Each of us has created an empire by preying upon the foolish, the gullible and the greedy.” She paused. “His holdings do not extend to Port Maracaibo, and mine do not extend to Port Marrakech. But,” she added, “each of us would like to establish a foothold on Hades itself, so it is in our best interest to help you in any way we can.”
“Good,” said Chandler. “I'll take all the help I can get.”
“From what I hear, you'll need plenty,” said Jade. “Does anyone else know you're here?”
“Just my driver, a man named Gin. He's back on Port Marrakech, under Lord Lucifer's watchful eye.”
“Have you some reason to be suspicious of him?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then why—?”
“I just don't have a very trusting nature.”
She nodded her approval. “You'll live a lot longer that way.” She paused. “You're sure he's the only person other than Lord Lucifer who knows you're here?”
“Except for you.”
“How long do you plan to stay here?”
“I'm not sure yet,” answered Chandler. “Possibly a month, hopefully much less.”
“Well, if you want me to help you while you're on Port Maracaibo, perhaps you'd better tell me what you'll be doing here.”
“You might be better off not knowing,” he suggested. “Once I tell you, you're legally culpable.”
“Mr. Javier,” said Jade, “I own half the officials on this moon, and I rent the other half. If you want my help, you're going to have to tell me what you intend to do. Otherwise, we can't do business.”
Chandler paused for a moment, then nodded his acquiescence. “All right,” he replied. “I've come to Port Maracaibo to kill Blue Devils.”
“If you hate Blue Devils, there were plenty of them on Port Marrakech.”
“I wasn't interested in killing those Blue Devils.”
“So I gather,” she said. “Why do you want to kill these particular Blue Devils?”
“I hope to elicit a response.”
“I don't understand,” said Jade. “What kind of response—hatred? Fear? Panic?”
“All three.”
“That's no answer. Why is it important that the Blue Devils on Port Maracaibo should feel fear or panic?”
“Because if they do, I hope they will make an attempt to prevent what I'm doing.”
She stared at him for a moment. “You think they'll summon the Oracle to come to Port Maracaibo and hunt you down, don't you?”
“That's right.”
“That may not be the brightest idea you've ever had,” said Jade. “She's supposed to be virtually invulnerable. How do you propose to kill her?”
“She's much more valuable alive than dead,” said Chandler. “There isn't a government or military organization in the galaxy that wouldn't give its eyeteeth to get its hands on her. After all, how can you lose an election or a war when she's on your side, telling you what to do next?” He paused. “The Democracy has been after her for sixteen years. I've been paid to bring her out, and to kill her only if there is no possible way of taking her away from Hades.”
“And you think that if you kill enough Blue Devils, she'll come to Port Maracaibo?”
“It's a possibility.”
Jade looked dubious. “Why should she?”
“Because she'll be the only one who can stop me, and eventually the Blue Devils are going to get tired of being decimated.”
“What I meant was, what does she care about Blue Devils? Why should she leave Hades, where even the Fleet doesn't dare attack her?”
“Because I have reason to believe that she wants to leave Hades, that in fact she may be incarcerated there against her will.”
“Oh?”
He explained his chain of reasoning to her, as he had done to Lord Lucifer two days earlier.
“So actually, you'll be more encouraged if she doesn't come to Port Maracaibo than if she does?” said Jade.
“If I'm reading the situation correctly, yes.”
“How long will you give her?” continued Jade. “How many Blue Devils will you have to kill before you decide that she isn't coming?”
“I don't know,” admitted Chandler. “I imagine it'll depend on how much confusion I can cause here, and how much I can disrupt any lines of communication that exist between her and Port Maracaibo.”
“I still don't know why you had to come here to do it, though.”
“My identity was known to too many people on Port Marrakech,” he answered. “Sooner or later the Blue Devils would have figured out who was behind the killings, and they would have come after me themselves. It makes much more sense to start on a new world with a fresh identity; they're only going to use her as a last resort, once they themselves have failed to find out who's responsible for the murders and the disruptions.”
Jade got up, walked to a wet bar, poured herself a Cygnian cognac, and turned to face him. “Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you, Julio Juan Javier.” She sipped her drink. “Where do I come in?”
“I'm an outsider here,” answered Chandler, “and I plan to keep it that way. Given a week or so, I could learn my way around the city, find out where the Blue Devils congregate, and set up a number of hideouts—but a lot of Men and Blue Devils would see me, and some of them might remember me, and the only way to make this an effective campaign of terror is for my identity to be completely concealed. In fact, I'd be just as happy if the Blue Devils think I'm one of them. Therefore, I need a guide, someone who can tell me where to go, or better still, provide me with some form of private transportation, and I need a place to return to when I'm done. One of the bedrooms at The Womb would serve my purposes, because that way if anyone ever does track me back here, you'll be able to vouch that I'd been here all night.” He paused. “And there's another reason I need you.”
“Oh?”
“I'm going to have to kill a number of alien beings. It's strictly business, and I have no more use for them than they have for me. But it would be less wasteful and more useful if you could direct me toward those Blue Devils who might be in contact with the Oracle or whatever forces she controls. Since the object of this operation is to wreak enough havoc and cause enough disruption that the Blue Devils are forced to bring the Oracle here to confront me, then my most effective course of action is to kill those Blue Devils who might have some connection to her, or at least to the government of Hades.”
“I see,” said Jade, nodding thoughtfully.
“By the way, I'm going to need some weapons. Can you get them for me?”
“No problem.”
Chandler paused. “There's one more thing you should know,” he added.
“Oh? And that is that?”
“Someone in the Democracy doesn't want me to fulfill my contract. I don't know if they don't want me to bring her out, or if they don't want me to kill her—but this person, or these people, whichever the case may be, tried to kill me back on Port Marrakech.”
“Is the Democracy your employer?” asked Jade.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I'm just a subcontractor,” he answered. “I've never dealt directly with the person who's paying for this.”
Jade frowned. “One thing puzzles me,” she said, returning to her chair and sitting down once more. “If the Democracy is your employer, why don't they just call you off?”
“I don't know for a fact that the Democracy is my employer—and at any rate, I'm not working directly for it.”
“Let me try it a different way,” continued Jade. “If they don't want you to fulfill your mission, why are you going ahead with it?”
“Because I'm a businessman, not a patriot,” answered Chandler. “I was paid half the money up front, and I don't get the other half until I complete the contract.”
“You're a foolish man,” said Jade. “Whatever they're paying you, it isn't worth going up against the Oracle.”
“Then you're an equally foolish woman for helping me,” replied Chandler.
“There's a difference,” she said. “There's an entire world for the taking. My gain is commensurate with the risk. Yours isn't.”
