Gestapo Mars

by Victor Gischler

  I glared at him.

  He shrugged. “No ice.”

  “Then pour me whatever you have that passes for gin in a reasonably clean glass,” I said.

  He thought about that, decided he could pull it off, and walked away. He returned five seconds later with a tumbler half-full of what looked like gin, set it in front of me. I pulled out a hundred-credit bill, set it on the counter but kept my hand on it.

  “Do you keep the change?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I dunno. Do I?”

  “I’m looking for Eliot Swank.”

  The bartender’s upper lip curled like he just sniffed a turd left out in the sun too long. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m looking for a tall redhead with a third tit on her back for dancing.”

  “You want the cash or not?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I made the bill vanish back into my pocket.

  “Your loss.”

  “It’s half a cred for the drink,” he said.

  “Or what?” I used the voice again.

  He put up his hands and backed away. “Hey, you know what? On the house. Enjoy your drink, motherfucker.”

  I drank it, but I didn’t enjoy it.

  Then I leaned against the bar, looked around the saloon. Patrons pretended not to look back at me, but I could tell. They were curious. A priest getting pushy in Bottom Bob’s? It didn’t compute.

  I gave a wave to the bartender. He came back, gave me the fisheye.

  “Now what?”

  “Fill it up again.”

  He looked at me with a question in his eyes as he poured.

  “Same deal as last time,” I told him. “Jackpot, or I drink your turpentine for free. I just need an introduction.”

  “Never heard of the guy,” the bartender said. “Now why don’t you be happy for a free swig and get lost? I’d say nobody wants to hurt a priest, but that just ain’t true.”

  I snarled at him. “Bring it, fatty.”

  He backed away again, shaking his head, and I saw movement from the corner of my eye.

  I tossed down the second helping of paint thinner, turned, and saw the three of them coming slowly, looking unconcerned. Thick, greasy, squat, and low to the ground. Simple, effective bruisers. It wasn’t the first time these guys had taken out the trash. Except I wasn’t your run of the mill clergy. I’d been programmed with karate, kung fu, and the Martian finger death. I could kill a man eleven different ways with my left hand.

  They came in low, going for my center of gravity. The three of them were probably potent in a certain context—a street fight, a saloon brawl—but I was something they’d never seen before. And never would again.

  I elected to go with the Martian finger death.

  I stuck out each index finger, rigid. The first one tried to wrap me up at the waist, going for a tackle. I sidestepped, thrust the finger into his left eye. It popped and oozed and he fell back screaming, an arc of blood trailing after him.

  The other two stood back, then came in again and tried to rain punches. I ducked underneath and moved forward quickly. I headbutted one of the thugs out of the way to give myself room to maneuver, then came up fast on the other, jamming a finger into his Adam’s apple. I felt things go crunch in the guy’s throat. He staggered away, gasping but not getting air. He looked around with big eyes, like he couldn’t believe what was happening to him.

  I didn’t have time to watch him turn blue. The final guy lunged.

  My training kicked in, switching me to karate, and my foot came up fast as the guy barreled at me. A loud smack as my foot caught him across the mouth, and he went to his knees, spitting teeth and blood. I took a step forward to finish him off, but froze when I felt the cold gunmetal under my left ear.

  “Not so fast, Father.”

  It was the bartender’s voice. I felt confident I could spin quickly and take the gun out of his hand, but he hadn’t fired—which meant he wanted to take me someplace. That was exactly what I had in mind.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “See that door over there on the left?”

  My eyeballs slid over. “Yeah.”

  “Walk through it.”

  I stepped away from him and walked through it without looking back. Closed the door behind me.

  The dusty hall was lit by a single chemical lantern. I carefully walked the narrow path between the stacked crates and empty bottles. A guy sat on a stool at the end of the hall—full beard and a clean but old Frontier Corps surplus uniform. He held an old Schmeischester 12mm machine gun in his lap. Outdated military tech, but it could spray a lot of lead fast and chew me up, no problem.

  Using his chin he motioned to the door next to him. “In there.”

  “Right.” I opened the door and walked through it.

  There were a half-dozen guys inside. Five of them spread around the room, dripping weapons, wearing mismatched surplus uniforms. One guy even wore a black beret. The resistance. Just like in the movies. They looked like a group of toughs who had nothing to live for except a cause to die for. Romantic bullshit, but they could still shoot me dead.

  The sixth guy wore a medium-cheap gray suit. He sat at a small wooden table, an empty chair across from him. A bottle of booze and two shot glasses sat on the table. He looked at me expectantly.

  So I walked over and sat in the empty chair, grabbed the bottle and filled each shot glass, then set the bottle down again. He looked at me. I looked at him. I took the shot glass and offered him a halfhearted salute, then downed the hooch. Bourbon. Better than the gin. He took the other glass, returned the salute with similar enthusiasm, and drank it.

  He smacked his lips. “Martian finger death. A little karate mixed in. What do they teach you priests these days?”

  I shrugged. “I work a rough parish.”

  “So what are we doing here, Father?”

  “I’m looking for Swank.”

  He jerked a thumb at his own chest. “I’m Swank.” He was middle-aged, black widow’s peak, bags under alert blue eyes.

  “I’m not a priest,” I said.

  “No fucking shit.”

  “My name is Carter Sloan.” The name would either set things into motion, or I had about sixty seconds to live.

  Swank rubbed his chin, thinking. Then he turned to the goons spread around the room.

  “Okay, everybody out. Go on. Clear out. Corey, you stay.”

  Corey was sandy-haired, chubby, a bulky automatic hanging from his hip. “You got it, boss.”

  When the other goons left, Swank nodded at Corey, who took my finger and pricked the end. He took a drop of blood, smeared it on a slide and inserted it into a little reader that beeped two seconds later. Corey squinted at the results.

  “DNA match. He’s who he says.”

  Swank blew out a ragged sigh. “Well, well. I knew you were on the watch list but… well, never mind. You’ve fallen into my lap now, so I guess it’s my job to deal with you. Your status is need-to-know, Sloan. You need help getting off Luna, but that’s all I know. That’s all I want to know. You get me?”

  “I get you, Swank.”

  “Damn if I know how to go about it, though,” he admitted. “We had a guy in baggage at the spaceport, but they put the grab on him. Maybe I can figure a way to—”

  “Meredith Capulet,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes, letting the name soak in. Now we’d see if Swank was smart, or dumb.

  Light dawned and he started nodding. “Yeah. That’s not bad. That could work. She could do it better than anyone. She’s watched—hell, we’re all watched—but her, not so much. She’s still an upstanding citizen, more or less.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.”

  “And you need me for an introduction,” Swank said.

  “Right. I have another passport. I’m about to lose the priest cover.”

  “Good,” Swank said. “Keep the bastards guessing. And you’ll need a tuxedo.”

  “What for?”

  Swank grinne
d. “Because you’re going to a party.”

  EIGHT

  I was relieved to find that tuxedos had generally remained simple the last couple of centuries, staying traditional and eschewing the whole glitter thing. Black and white. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. The tailor who hastily took my measurements told me I’d missed tails by a decade, but some still wore them as an extravagant affectation.

  Then to an elegant ballroom in the city center, a space used for gallery showings, receptions for foreign dignitaries. Tonight it was being used for a black tie fundraiser hosted by Meredith Capulet. Swank had told me he’d be along soon enough to make introductions.

  The reception swam in money and importance. Everyone who was anyone—the mayor of Luna, chief of police, council members, galactic delegates, even a few envoys from alien embassies, all in their best finery. Champagne. Caviar. Fat Venusian cigars.

  And me.

  I glided across the ballroom floor, champagne glass in hand, an expression of wealth and privilege on my face. It was the training, of course—I didn’t even have to think about it. Something in my brain said blend in, and I responded. Posture, country club manner, entitled demeanor, upper crust voice. I’d been to the best schools. I knew the right people. At least, that was the vibe I was putting out. All fiction. The chameleon gifts of my training and programming.

  The crystal chandeliers hovered above us on anti-gravs, making a slow constant circle around the ballroom and creating a shifting kaleidoscope effect, pinpoints of light dancing and washing over the entire affair.

  Suddenly Swank was next to me, guiding me through the crowd by the elbow. He looked like a chimp who’d been shoved into his ill-fitting tux, and the bulge under his jacket screamed gun. It was so obvious that I started to second-guess his smarts, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  “I’m taking you to see Capulet,” Swank said into my ear. “Don’t say anything obvious—not out in the open like this. It’s not the place for it.”

  “What does she know so far?”

  “Enough,” Swank said. “It’s up to you to charm her the rest of the way. So put on your best manners and get ready.”

  We made our way through the crowd and found Meredith Capulet holding court in front of an enormous ice sculpture of a Denuvian snow octopus. Champagne cascaded out of tentacles and splashed into a punchbowl the size of a swimming pool, which surrounded the entire sculpture. A circle of important-looking people crowded close, fawning over her, dutifully laughing at her jokes, and generally basking in her radiance.

  I filled my champagne glass and paused to take a look.

  Meredith Capulet was a piece of work.

  I’d accessed Luna’s main data network and had spent a few cred reading the public-domain data available on her. She was sixty-eight years old but looked twenty-two, maybe younger. Every soft square inch of her anatomy defied gravity. The curves of her round breasts peeked out enticingly from the plunging V neck of her sheer gown. The material was impossibly thin and clung to her, revealing everything. The gown was strapless, likely held up by obscenely expensive crawling nanobots which adhered to the skin. It seemed like every turn or shrug should send it falling to the floor, the material pooling like a wisp of cloud around her ankles, but somehow the dress hung on, covering just enough for decency.

  Her skin was a glowing white, hair platinum blonde, eyes a piercing green so bright they had to be augmented—maybe even replacements. Tall, plenty of leg. Plenty of everything. Obviously she’d spent millions of cred on rejuvenations, treatments, augmentations, and replacements to accomplish one simple goal. To give every man within a hundred feet of her a boner.

  Swank lifted his chin, and caught her attention. She was laughing lightly at something a fat blue alien was saying, but her eyes slid briefly in our direction and she nodded slightly. The message was clear. Let her extricate herself gracefully from her current conversation, and she would get to us next.

  I sipped champagne.

  “She’s not so bad to look at.”

  “She’d crush your balls without lifting a finger,” Swank said. “She’s pure, raw power on this moon. Money. Friends in high places, and her enemies are just as powerful. Gives me the willies just being here. The place is lousy with movers and shakers. If you weren’t top priority for the resistance, I wouldn’t be showing my face, that’s for sure.”

  “You just make the introduction,” I told him. “Let me worry about my balls.”

  Meredith Capulet excused herself from the group of worshippers, and then she stood before us in all of her breathtaking glory. She smiled at me, and a little jolt of electricity went down my spine straight to my scrotum.

  This close I could feel the raw energy of her rolling off in waves. Not just the power and the confidence, but something purely and palpably sexual. It wasn’t the same as pheromone implants, although a lot of female agents had used them. This was different. This was all Meredith Capulet. At that moment, if she’d asked for a kidney, I would have cut myself open and handed it over.

  Her laser green eyes hit me and she said, “Is this the young man you were telling me about, Eliot?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Swank replied. “We appreciate your letting us crash the party.”

  “Not a problem,” she said. “It’s my party, after all.”

  “I’m appreciative that you’ve taken an interest in my situation.” I tried one of my most charming smiles on her, but it was impossible to tell if it made a dent. “Mr. Swank has made you aware of my needs?”

  “In broad strokes.” She turned to Swank. “Be a darling and check on those arrangements we discussed, will you, Eliot?”

  Swank nodded, almost a little bow. “Right away.” He excused himself and vanished into the currents of the crowd.

  Meredith’s attention slid back to me, her eyes roaming, eyelids heavy, lips pursed like she was thinking me over. I could have been a chocolaty dessert she was about to devour, or a bug she might squash at any minute.

  “So,” she said, “what do we call you?”

  “Paul Astor.” It was one of the alternate identities the Reich had provided, and the one I thought best suited for a fancy reception. Astor was an industrialist from Io, the moon of Jupiter. Just here hobnobbing with the rest of the swells.

  “Paul Astor.” She swirled the name in her mouth as if trying to taste it. “I suppose that will do… for now.”

  “Can I refresh your drink?” I offered.

  She shook her head, an impish smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Glossy red lips. “No time. See that rigid little man coming toward us?”

  I followed her gaze.

  A hawk-faced man in a formal police uniform was walking unhurriedly but unmistakably straight for us. The partygoers melted out of his way as he came. He was short, but his air of purpose made him seem bigger.

  I raised an eyebrow. “A friend of yours?”

  “Prefect of police here on Luna,” she said. “He’ll have bad news.”

  “Should I be nervous?”

  She shook her head. “You’re with me, darling. Mommy will keep you safe.”

  I smiled. “That’s a relief.”

  The prefect arrived, snatched a glass of champagne off a nearby tray, and slurped it, casting an amused grin at Meredith.

  “You’re looking lovely as always, Madam Capulet.”

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Charles?” The smile never left her face, but a tense edge crept into her voice.

  “We’ve arranged a little floor show for your guests,” the prefect said. “We’ll be arresting somebody here tonight.”

  “Here?” Meredith let the smile fall. “That’s bad form, Charles. Honestly, if you’d wanted to be invited to the party, you could have just said so.”

  “You’re as amusing as always,” he said, “but whenever one of these resistance cockroaches crawls out of his hole, we need to take advantage of the opportunity and nab him whenever and wherever we can.”r />
  A scream erupted across the room, partygoers suddenly making a wide path as a man ran through the crowd.

  “It seems to have started,” the prefect said.

  Tuxedos and evening dresses scattered as the man turned and ran right toward us. It was Eliot Swank.

  The three moon troopers who came after him were less gentle about knocking aside partygoers as they barreled toward their prey. Their power armor hummed with energy, blast shields covering faces, shoulder-mounted Gatling guns spinning 7mm death as their targeting lasers found Swank’s back.

  He turned abruptly, pulling the bulky pistol from beneath his jacket. Swank managed to squeeze off a single shot, thunder and fire belching from the barrel of his weapon. The round pinged harmlessly off the moon trooper’s battle armor a split second before the Gatling guns screamed blood murder.

  The storm of lead shredded Swank where he stood, his body convulsing, the impact of the rounds lifting him to his toes as he rattled and shook, blood and bits of flesh and tuxedo flying off of him. He fell with a wet slap at Meredith Capulet’s feet, a rapidly widening pool of blood spreading out from his body in every direction.

  Screams. Gasps. A general feeling that the party was over. People began to file hastily toward the exits.

  “If you think I’m paying to have that cleaned,” Meredith said to the prefect of police, “you’re out of your mind.”

  The prefect smiled, and grabbed another champagne.

  “Never fear, madam. This one is on the taxpayers.” His attention shifted to me. “I don’t believe I know you, sir.”

  “That’s because I haven’t told you who I am,” I said.

  The smile remained on the prefect’s face, but strained around the edges. “Indeed,” he said. “I’d be ever so grateful if you would tell me. It’s my business to know who is in my city during such dangerous times. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Paul Astor,” I said. “Visiting from Io.”

  “I believe the most recent transport vessel from Io arrived early this morning,” the prefect said.

  “The Glasgow,” I answered immediately. “Yes, I was on it. Check the computer manifest if you like.”

  “I most certainly will,” the prefect said.