Lord Banshee Lunatic (Nightmare Wars Book 3)

by Russell Redman

  Nasruddin had other concerns, asking, “Viceroy, Directors, we are in fact unfamiliar with proper protocol and do not wish to offend. How should we address you in conversation, understanding that in more formal circumstances we should not address you at all unless you direct us to speak?”

  She shook her head, “Where is Kim when his advice would be welcome? I was being facetious about the ceremony appropriate for escaping a murderous attack and now I learn that it is real! What would be appropriate here for a respected worker?”

  He replied, “Sir is appropriate in most circumstances, or a job title if it is known. Real titles would give away far too much. Although they are a bit theatrical and almost mocking in their formality, My Lady and My Lord are part of the protocols of nobility for some cultures on the Earth. They are sometimes used in space when no one would be offended. If you are wearing worker’s clothes, most people will assume we all know each other and are engaged in friendly banter.”

  She sighed and coughed in the rising dust. “I will postpone being offended until I am not running for my life. My Lady, My Lord and Sir is what it will be. Got that Hamid? Zenobia? Veronica? If I must wear shorts, you do too, and you will say thank you for the opportunity to keep breathing this over-heated, dusty air.”

  The stairs zigzagged back and forth across the endless shaft. Levels were normally ten meters apart on the Moon, to allow the stress of supporting the higher levels to be distributed across the voids made by the lower level tunnels. Ten meters is a long stairwell and our guards and soldiers were struggling to carry those of us who were disabled. Fortunately, the level of maintenance improved as we drew closer to level Four. There was no rust and the lights started to work.

  We went quiet when we heard a bang echo down the stairwell. They must have blown the door into the maintenance room upstairs. We reached the door to level Four just as voices started to echo down the stairs. I unlocked the door and opened it, stopping when it started to squeak. One of the smaller guards (Two?) slipped through, grabbing a can of lubricant that allowed us to open the door wider. We slipped through as booted feet started banging down the stairs. Two slipped back through the door, running down the stair clumping, banging and fluffing the dust to cover our escape. I closed and locked the door, then asked Three to push me over to the exit from the room.

  Before I got there, a voice spoke over the comm. “Sirs, do you have any unwelcome guests?”

  To Voice/private, “No. One of our guards is trying to lead them farther down the stairwell. The rest of us need to get out of this room quickly.”

  Voice, “Good. We can give you a few minutes more.”

  Three transportation workers appeared from behind a partition, pulling a trolley that lifted an enormous stone table on heavy steel legs. They rolled it over to the stairwell door and placed it snugly in front of the door. The table must have weighed a ton, even here on the Moon. The rebels could destroy the door completely without budging that table.

  The chief, who I guessed was the Voice, said, “No one uses this stairwell anymore; it has been slated for permanent closure for almost a year. We have a set of shelves we can bolt quickly onto the wall in front of the door on level Five. Level Six opens into a residential sewage recycling centre. Not my favourite part of the city.”

  I replied, “Thank you. Comm is working here? When did it come back on?”

  A different worker replied, without looking away from the amazing Viceroy, “Never went off. We have been blocking everything from upstairs to keep our channels open but things are pretty quiet without any orders from above.”

  At last, she tore her eyes away. “Great Sirs, are you...”

  “Shhh,” came from all of us. I asked, “Sirs, we could really use a change of clothes. Is there somewhere we could change to something more like what you are wearing?”

  They looked at each other until the Voice replied, “Our office space is just across the motor pool. There was no one there when we left, but that changes every few minutes. Would you like to wait here while I go...”?

  There was banging in the stairwell as our pursuers thundered down, chasing Two.

  I whispered, “No, I think we should leave immediately.”

  They led us across the motor pool into a large room filled with lockers. Five other workers had arrived and were stripping down as we walked in. Everyone stopped in shock as our party of extremely exotic, upper-class people materialized in this most plebeian of places. The Voice explained briefly that we needed district-appropriate clothes and were hoping to use some of their spares.

  The Voice led the directors and security people over to the clothing supply cabinets. One of the newly arrived workers, a short, older woman with a surprisingly slender figure for a transport worker, looked at the Viceroy and said, “Honey, they will na ha anything t’fit. You an I are close t’the same size, an they ha t’special-order everythin f’me. This’s the last in our size till they bring fresh laundry t’morrow. What I’m in now is na very grubby, if you’re willin t’wear it.”

  The viceroy breathed, “Thank you. You cannot know what that means to me.”

  She looked toward the crowd around the locker, “Dir... My Lady Veronica, we cannot leave our robes here. They do not belong to us and would draw unwelcome attention. Trading clothes is out of the question. Could you arrange for these people to receive dress clothes from a local tailor of their choice? With insignia of gratitude?”

  “Of course, My Lady,” Veronica replied.

  The small worker pulled off her boots, unbuckled the shoulder belt and stripped off the shorts, standing uncertainly in nothing more than a tight-fitting loincloth and socks. The Viceroy took a deep breath and casually requested, “Would you undo the clips down the back? I have trouble reaching them.”

  We looked away politely, until she said, with a little exasperation, “Hamid, Zenobia, Veronica, if I can do this, you can too. We do not have time to kill.”

  I glanced around involuntarily, glad that my mask concealed the direction of my gaze. She did not wear a loincloth nor any other form of underwear that might disturb the lines of the gown. The golden cloth pooled around her feet as she stood stark naked, trying to step gracefully into the shorts. None of the directors were wearing underwear either but only the Viceroy had the brass to change without turning beet red. If I recalled correctly (and I almost always did) naked had last been in fashion on the Moon about two years previously, in Tycho London at least. Never on Mars, where the cities were deliberately too cold to live without clothes.

  The Voice brought out a duffle bag from the transport stores to collect the Imperial uniforms. He also gathered IDs from all the workers and gave them to Veronica, who accepted them, blushing angrily as her breasts rubbed against the edges of the unfamiliar belt.

  The small worker looked at the Viceroy’s feet, commenting, “Y’feet’re even smaller’n mine. We may still ha socks. Wi two pairs, y’feet should almost fit the boots.”

  She ran lightly over to the supply cabinet, selected two pairs of fresh socks and came back to help the Viceroy into the oversized boots.

  That done, she skipped over to her locker and changed into her street clothes. She untied the tight loincloth, tossed it expertly into a laundry hamper, and wrapped a more elaborate cloth in its place. Tossing her used socks into the hamper, a pair of light, sparkly slippers completed her outfit. The three directors boggled at the sight. The Viceroy kept her expression rigidly under control, her jaw clenched and her breathing so precise she must have been counting the seconds for each breath. When the directors were similarly fitted into boots, the other workers followed suit, stripping and rewrapping until they were all dressed in colourful loincloths and slippers. Most of the others added billowy satin blouses. The small woman did a pirouette, laughed and boasted, “I’m old but I still got it,” before she headed for the door.

  Only the Voice hesitated. “I believe you are heading to the TDF base and want to rejoin your other guard at the base of
the elevator on level Five? It might be safer and faster if I drove you to the base in one of our agricultural vans. There is a ramp down to level Five half a kilometre from here. We could be there in minutes.”

  The small worker came back from the door and hissed, “There’s someone out there. Looks like one o’you guys in white.”

  Guard One headed over to the door and peeked out, then ushered Two back into our midst. There seemed to be a quick comm discussion, then Two said, “Huh, I missed the fun. Good exercise though and entertaining in its own way. I ran down to level Five, slipped through the door and watched the workers bolt a set of shelving in place, then headed over to the elevator after the rebels went crashing down towards the sewage plant. You were not at the elevator, so I came up to find you here playing fashion mavens.”

  Nobody laughed. Nasruddin said, “We ought to take your offer of a ride to the TDF base. I expect you know the local roads better than our regular driver. Please take the safest route that will get us there quickly, with a real emphasis on safety. Before we go, though, we should start another message spreading. Can I suggest, ‘The fire is rekindled?’ Just something to tell Viceroy Wolong and the TDF that we are alive and moving. Has anyone heard any news from above?”

  The small worker was the only one who had heard anything. “I mostly listen t’music when I’m drivin, but jus b’fore we got back, I heard that Viceroy Wolong’s claimin a great victory o’some sort. I dinna pay much attention.”

  She stopped and stared at the Viceroy as her eyes grew wilder and the colour drained from her face. “Oh, My Great Lady! Was he talkin ’bout you? Oh my, if Viceroy Wolong... An if the TDF needs t’know you’re alive...”

  She flung herself on the ground and tried to prostrate herself as the terrifying truth dawned of who she had helped undress and what the coiling red dragon implied.

  “F’give me, Your Imperialness! I thought you’re just rich people runnin from the troubles upstairs!”

  The other workers gasped in shock, dropping into their own approximations of prostration, until Viceroy Fenghuang told them to get up. She explained, “Director Kim would undoubtedly advise that the ceremony of running for your life incognito requires that we are all transportation workers for now, even though some of us know more about the job than others.”

  Nasruddin added for emphasis, “No one should mention anything about the events in this room if you value your lives and the lives of your families. Assassins have been roaming the city for weeks and will take some time to suppress. Until the political situation is resolved, you will all have to be careful.”

  “Although,” he added, “no more careful than the many others who depend upon a proper Lunatic discretion.”

  The workers nodded. The Imperial security agents looked up but no one chose to elaborate.

  I noticed a small tear in the Viceroy’s eye as we hurried through the motor pool, climbing into the back of a nondescript van. It had fold-down benches, with a door joining the driver’s compartment to the passenger/cargo area. Nasruddin climbed into the front beside the Voice. Before we drove off, the Voice opened a window and called to the other workers, who gathered alongside, “Remember, this was another dull day waiting for work to be assigned. At the end, we met for a chat before heading home. Nothing else happened. No bars and no booze and I will see you all tomorrow. Keep safe.”

  Very quietly I heard the Viceroy say to the three directors, “She did not know. She was so kind and generous, and I honestly believe she did not know.”

  2357-03-28 23:00

  Lunar Lunch

  We pulled out of the motor pool, rolling down the corridor until we emerged onto a major road that wound around the buried mountain peak, down a steep ramp to level Five, and finally straightened out as it entered a populated district. A sign by the road said, “Entering Sunny Acres – Growing, Loving and Healthy”. The cynic in me wondered why loving and healthy were issues but it might just be the proximity of the mines on one side and the TDF base on the other. The growing part was more interesting. Level Five was old enough to be almost static economically and this district was hemmed in on all sides by buried peaks.

  Two asked, “How do you like our sign? Some wag thought up the most contrarian name and slogan ze could imagine and stuck up that sign about thirty years ago. Funny thing is that it worked. The district was embarrassed into purchasing some of the derelict mine sites. They have been converting them to hotels, housing and schools. Once you have the hole excavated, you can build stuff in solid rock that would be much more expensive in regolith. It triggered a revival of the whole district.

  “One hotel polished a whole wall laced with pseudotachylite, almost worthless even as decorative stone, but they illuminate the room with a ball of small lights. The whole wall sparkles as the ball rotates. It has the trendiest restaurant on level Five, live entertainers for all three shifts, and is packed with customers all day, every day.

  “They cleaned out the drugs to help sell the new housing, which attracted people like me who could afford to live closer to work that I had ever dreamed possible. The schools are improving. They have begun organizing art and music festivals. Unexpectedly, I find myself living in one of the most desirable neighbourhoods in the city. They are even talking about officially renaming the district Sunny Acres. Who could have guessed?”

  I was suddenly nostalgic to find out what my childhood home was like today. Had it continued its revival after the regional war? Could families like mine even afford to live there now?

  And then the nostalgia slowly turned the ache of fear in my stomach into the ache of hunger. I watched café after restaurant after lunch counter as we drove through the commercial heart of the district. I knew I was not the Ghost anymore but could not resist saying, “I’m hungry. I know we should drive on but could we pick up some takeout, real Lunar food prepared by real Lunar hands?”

  Nasruddin/private, “Are you crazy? We will be at the base in half an hour.”

  Me/converse, “The base will serve TDF drek. You know they do. Once I enter those gates, I will never be allowed to eat real Lunar food again.”

  Nasruddin turned and stared at me through the door. I felt transparent, although he could see only the white armour and black mask. He finally asked, “Would anyone else like a bite? It is true that the food around here will be better than the institutional meals available on the base.”

  The guards all said yes, having been without a meal at least as long as I had. Surprisingly, the Director of Commerce agreed, “Yes, I came here once long ago on my first trading venture. It was a grubby part of town then but the food was wonderful. Nostalgia for that food is one of the reasons I volunteered to come on this mission. Your – My Lady, I think you would like it. I will volunteer to be your taster. But, I don’t know what is good and I doubt the lunch counter I could afford then is still running.”

  The Voice laughed, “You have the right driver for that mission! Transport drivers always know the good places for quick meals. You want real Lunar food, I can recommend take-out from a place that won’t delay us more than a few minutes. It is run by a family from level Eight. By now they will be finishing lunch for the late shift and starting breakfast for the early shift but you can get most anything.

  “Mmmmm, the armour might be an issue.”

  Two laughed, “Not for me. I live here and work on the base. I come out in armour all the time to pick up meals for my buds. I will bet I even know the place you mean, Karoo’s Corner on P12 off Xylophone Square?”

  Voice replied, “That is the one. There is lots of parking in the corridor around back, so it is even discreet. As if a mob of transport workers could ever be discreet!”

  The Imperial security people all started objecting at once, until the Director of Commerce shouted them down, “Your job is to protect us, not to tell us what to do! If we want to walk into a takeout to get a bite to eat, you will keep us safe while we do it. Besides, who would be looking for us in these clothes? My La
dies, My Lord, would you like to come, or can I bring you something?”

  The faces of the security people were studies in shock and horror, all signalling NO as loudly as they could without verbally contradicting the Director. I was barely able to suppress a heartfelt guffaw. When I realized that the Cap, Spacer, and Kid all found this uproariously funny, I reset myself to just the Ghost and Cripple, who still wanted to laugh.

  Rationally, though, I could not go in myself. A man in armour riding a wheelchair was just too notable to pretend that I could remain anonymous. “Someone will have to bring me something. Probably the house-special lunch. I will have to wait till we get to the base to add the required meds which I inexplicably failed to pack at the start of this little excursion.”

  That got some honest chuckles, along with some acid glares from the security people. The Voice drove us off the main drag, on a zigzag path through a pretty neighbourhood with a lot of local art on the walls, and finally into a short corridor that ended in a parking lot. Everyone climbed out except One, Three, Nasruddin and I, who all gathered in the back and kept our heads down. The security people made one last effort to persuade the Viceroy to stay behind but she had been watching the city as we rolled past and was determined to experience the real Moon. The Voice led the Viceroy, Directors and frantic security people back down the corridor and around to the front of the takeout, while our three guards very nonchalantly headed the opposite way into a narrow path that tunnelled through to the next road and hence back to the takeout.

  Then the nerves got to me and I recognized what I had done. I had escorted enough willful VIPs on Mars to feel terrible about subjecting the Viceroy to any additional risk at all. I started to fidget so badly that I almost locked my armour to keep it under control. I counted the minutes needed to walk around the building, the additional minutes in line to decide what to purchase and place the order. I estimated how long the order would take to fill and how long to saunter back as though nothing extraordinary was happening.