Ripping Time

by Robert Asprin

  James knew Schneider of old, a dirty little foreigner, which in this dismal region meant only one thing: Jew. James had chosen his killing ground carefully, most carefully, indeed. It was the filthy foreigners flooding into London who were destroying the moral fibre of the English Empire, bringing in their foreign ways and unholy religious practices and speaking every tongue heard at the Tower of Babel except the Queen’s good English. Yes, James had chosen this spot with great care, to leave a message on the very doorstep of the bastards destroying all that was English.

  The place he wanted was an old stableyard which stood between the school and the workers’ cottages. The only street lamp was at the far end of Buck’s Row, where it met Baker’s Row to the west. As they entered the cramped, cobbled street, which was no more than twenty feet wide from housewalls on the one hand to warehouse walls opposite, Maybrick slipped his right hand into his coat pocket again. He closed his hand around the handle of the beautiful, shining knife and gripped it tightly. His pulse raced. His breath came in short, unsteady gasps. The smell of cheap gin and sex and greed was a poison in his brain. Her whispered obscenities to the dockworker rang in his ears. His hand sweat against the wood. Here, his mind shrieked. Quick, before the bloody constables come back! He drew another breath, seeing in his mind his beautiful, faithless wife, naked and writhing under the lover who impaled her in that hotel he’d seen them coming out of together, the one in Liverpool’s fashionable Whitechapel Street.

  Maybrick glanced toward Baker’s Row. Saw Lachley appear from the blackness at the end of Buck’s Row. Saw him nod, giving the signal that all was clear. Maybrick’s breath whipsawed, harsh and urgent. He tightened his left hand on the whore’s arm. Moving her almost gently, Maybrick pressed her back against the stableyard gate. It was solid as iron. She smiled up at him, fumbling with her skirts. He slid his hand up her arm, toyed with a breast, slipped his fingers upwards, toward her neck—

  Then smashed a fist into her face.

  Bone crunched. Several of her teeth broke loose. She sagged back against the fence, stunned motionless. Maybrick tightened a savage grip around her throat. Her eyes bulged. Her abruptly toothless mouth worked. Shock and terror twisted across her once-delicate face. High cheekbones flushed dark as he cut off her air. His wife’s face swam before his eyes, gaping and toothless and terror stricken. He dug his thumb into dear, faithless Florie’s jaw, bruising the right side of her face. The bitch struggled feebly as he tightened down. He dented and bruised the flesh of her throat, the left side of her face with his fingers, ruthless and drunk with the terror he inflicted. She was so drunk, she wasn’t able to do more than claw weakly at his coat sleeve with one hand.

  James Maybrick smiled down into his whore’s dying eyes . . .

  . . . and brought out his shining knife.

  * * *

  Skeeter Jackson pushed his heavy maintenance cart toward the men’s room in Little Agora, bottles rattling and mops threatening to crash against the protestors who screamed and carried signs and picketed fifteen feet deep around Ianira’s vacant booth, threatening to shut down commerce with their disruptive presence and threatening to shut down the station with the violence that broke out between them and the Arabian Nights construction workers at least once every couple of hours.

  Nuts, he groused, maneuvering with difficulty through the packed crowd, we are neck deep in nutcases. He finally gained the bathroom, which he was already fifteen minutes overdue to scrub, slowed down on his schedule by the crowds of protestors and uneasy tourists, and turned on the hot water to fill his mop bucket. He’d just added soap when the trouble broke loose.

  A sudden scuffle and a meaty smack and thump shook the whole bank of stalls behind him. Skeeter came around fast, mop gripped in both hands like a quarterstaff. A pained cry, high-pitched and frightened, accompanied another thud and violent slap. Then a stall door burst open and a burly guy with Middle Eastern features, who wore jeans and a work shirt and a burnoose-style headdress, strode out. He looked smug and self-satisfied. He was still zipping his fly. A muffled, startlingly feminine sob came from the now-open stall.

  Skeeter narrowed his eyes at the construction worker, who wore a wicked linoleum knife in a sheathe on his belt. These creeps had been involved in the attacks on Ianira and her family. He was convinced they might yet know where she was, despite their protests of innocence to station security. They were trouble, wherever they went on station and it looked very much like more trouble was breaking loose right in front of him.

  “You want to tell me what that was all about?” Skeeter asked quietly, placing himself carefully between the heavily muscled worker and the exit.

  The dark-eyed man smirked down at Skeeter, measuring his shorter height and lighter frame contemptuously. “Little girls should not demand more money than they are worth.”

  “Is that a fact?” Skeeter balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, aware that he played a potentially lethal game. These guys carried tools that doubled as deadly weapons. But he wasn’t going to let this creep just walk out of here, not with somebody back there crying in that stall like a hurt child. “Hey, you okay in there?” he called out to the pair of grubby tennis shoes visible under the partially open door. “I’ll call the station infirmary if you need help.”

  “S-Skeeter?” The voice was familiar, quavering, terrified.

  When the voice clicked in Skeeter’s memory, the anger that burst through him was as cold and deadly as the winter winds howling down off the mountains onto the plains of the Gobi. “Bergitta?” The girl huddled in the back of the stall was younger than Skeeter. She’d helped search for Ianira, that first terrible day, had searched along with the other down-timers long after station security had given up the job. The Found Ones had been teaching her modern technical skills so she could make a living doing something besides selling herself.

  “Skeeter, please . . . he . . . he will hurt you . . .”

  Skeeter had no intention of abandoning a member of his adopted down-timer family to the likes of this smirking lout. “How much did he agree to give you, Bergitta?” he asked, carefully keeping his gaze on the construction worker who now eyed him narrowly.

  “T-twenty—but it is okay, please . . .”

  Skeeter gave the angry construction worker a disgusted glare. “Twenty? Geez, last of the big spenders, aren’t we? You can’t hardly buy a burger around here for that. Listen, asshole, you pay my friend, there, what you promised and get the hell out of here, maybe I won’t get nasty.”

  Incredulous black eyes widened. “Pay her?” His laugh was ugly, contemptuous. “Out of my way, you stupid little cockerel!”

  Skeeter stood his ground. The other man’s eyes slitted angrily. Then the construction worker started forward, moving fast, one fist cocked, the other reaching for his belt. Skeeter caught a glint of light off that wicked linoleum knife—

  He whirled the mop handle in a blurred, sweeping arc.

  It connected solidly with a solar plexus that came to an abrupt halt.

  A sharp, ugly grunt tore loose. The knife clattered to the tiled floor. The would-be knife-fighter folded up around the end of Skeeter’s mop, eyes bugged out. Skeeter kicked the knife away with one foot. It clattered across the floor and skidded into a puddle under a distant urinal, then Skeeter assisted the gagging construction worker face-first into the steaming mop bucket at his feet. He landed with a skloosh! While he was upended, Skeeter lifted his wallet with light-fingered skill and extracted its contents. Curses gurgling underwater blew the most interesting soap bubbles Skeeter had ever seen.

  As soon as he’d secured Bergitta’s money, Skeeter hauled the former customer up by the shirt collar. “Now,” he said gently, “you want to tell me about Ianira Cassondra?”

  The reply was in Arabic and doubtless obscene.

  Skeeter fed him more soap bubbles.

  By the fourth dunking, the man was swearing he’d never laid eyes on Ianira Cassondra and would’ve strewn petals at her feet, i
f it would’ve helped keep his head above water. Reluctantly, Skeeter decided the bastard must be telling the truth. He shoved the guy’s wallet between soapy teeth and said, “Twenty for services rendered and the rest for damages wrought. Now get the hell out of here before I break ribs. Or call security.”

  One twist of the mop handle and the dripping construction worker found it necessary to launch himself across the tiled floor, out the doorway, and past the “Slippery When Wet” sign just beyond. From the startled shrieks and angry shouts outside, he cannoned straight into a group of protestors. A moment later, security whistles sounded and a woman’s voice drifted in, shrill with indignation. “He knocked me down! Yes, he ran that way . . .”

  Skeeter crossed the bathroom, flexing a slightly strained shoulder, and peered into the open stall. Bergitta had clutched one side of her face, which was already swollen and turning purple. The simple dress she wore was torn. Anger started a slow burn as he gazed down at his terrified friend. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

  She nodded. Then burst into tears and slid to the tiled floor, trembling so violently he could hear the scrape of her identification bracelet—a gift from the Found Ones—against the wall. Skeeter bit his lip. Then sighed and waded in to try and pick up the shattered pieces. He crouched beside her, gently brushed back Bergitta’s hair, a glorious, platinum blond, thick and shining where the lights overhead touched it.

  “Shh,” he whispered, “he’s gone now. You’re safe, shh . . .” When she’d stopped crying, he said gently, “Bergitta, let’s take you down to the infirmary.”

  She shook her head. “No, Skeeter, there is no money . . .”

  Skeeter held out the cash he’d liberated. “Yes, there is. And I’ve got some money put aside, too, so don’t you worry about that, okay?” He’d been saving that cash for his rent, but what the hell, he could always sleep in the Found Ones’ council chamber down in the station’s sub-basement until he could afford to rent another apartment.

  Bergitta was crying again, very quietly and very messily down her bruised face. Skeeter retrieved a towel from his push cart and dried her cheeks, then helped her to her feet. When she wobbled, shaking violently, Skeeter simply picked her up and carried her. She clung to his shoulders and hid her face from the curious onlookers they passed. When he carried her into the infirmary, Rachel Eisenstein was just stepping out of her office.

  “Skeeter! What’s happened? Not another riot?” she asked worriedly.

  “No. Some asshole construction worker blacked Bergitta’s face and God knows what else before I interrupted. Tried to disembowel me with a linoleum knife when I protested.”

  Rachel’s lips thinned. “Bring her into the back, Skeeter, let’s see how badly hurt she is. And we’d better file an official complaint with security. The more complaints we log, the more likely Bull is to push the issue and toss the men responsible for all this trouble through Primary, schedule or no schedule. Kit’s already been after Bull to do just that.”

  So Rachel took charge of Bergitta, and Skeeter found himself giving a statement to security. He identified the man from a file of employment photos. “That’s him. Yeah, the creep came at me with a linoleum knife.”

  “You realize we can’t press charges for what he did to Bergitta?” the security officer said as he jotted down notes. “She’s a down-timer. No legal rights.”

  “Yeah,” Skeeter muttered darkly, “I know.” They’d search for Ianira Cassondra, move heaven and earth to find her, because of the Templars and the phenomenal popularity and power of the Lady of Heaven Temples, but Bergitta was just another down-timer without rights, trapped on the station with no way off and no protection from the people who ran her new world. Worse, she was a known prostitute. Security didn’t give a damn when a girl like Bergitta got hurt.

  The guard said, “If you want this creep charged with assault and battery with a deadly weapon, plus anything else I can think up, you got it, but that’s all we can nail him for, Skeeter.”

  “Yes, I want him charged,” Skeeter growled. “And tossed off station, if you can swing it. Along with his pals.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. That crew’s already running behind schedule and the first tour’s slated for next month. We might be able to work out a trial up time after the new section of Commons is finished, but getting him tossed off station before that job’s done is flogging a dead horse. Not my idea, but that’s how it is. Just figured you’d want to know up front.”

  Skeeter muttered under his breath. “Thanks. I know you’re doing your best.”

  Rachel put in appearance just then, returning from the exam room where Bergitta rested. “She’s badly shaken up and her face is going to be sore for a while, along with some other nasty bruises he left, but she’s basically all right. No internal hemorrhaging, no broken bones.”

  Skeeter relaxed marginally. “Thank God.”

  Rachel eyed him curiously. “You fought a man with a knife, protecting her?”

  Skeeter shrugged. “Wasn’t much of a contest, really. I had a mop, he never got close to me with it.”

  “Well, whatever you think, it was still a risky thing to do, Skeeter.”

  He realized she was trying to thank him. Skeeter felt his cheeks burn. “Listen, about the bill, I’ve got some money—“

  “We’ll talk about that later, all right? Oh-oh . . .”

  Skeeter glanced around and blanched.

  His boss was in-bound and the head of station maintenance did not look happy.

  “Is it true?” Charlie Ryan demanded.

  “Is what true?” Skeeter asked, wary and on his guard.

  “That you beat up a construction worker over a goddamned down-timer whore? Then brought her up here while you’re still clocked in officially on my dime?”

  Skeeter clenched his fists. “Yes, it’s true! He was beating the shit out of her—“

  “I don’t pay you to rescue your down-timer pals, Jackson! I looked the other way when it was Ianira Cassondra, but this by God tears it! And I sure as hell don’t pay you to put hard-working construction professionals in the brig!”

  Rachel tried to intervene. “Charlie, everyone on station’s had trouble with those guys and you know it.”

  “Stay out of this, Rachel! Jackson, I pay you to mop bathrooms. Right now, there’s a bathroom in Little Agora that’s not getting mopped.”

  “I’ll clean the stinking bathroom!” Skeeter growled.

  Charlie Ryan look him up and down. “No, you won’t. You’re fired, Jackson.”

  “Charlie—“ Rachel protested.

  “Let it go, Rachel,” Skeeter bit out. “If I’d known I was working for a stinking bigot, I’d’ve quit weeks ago.”

  He stalked out of the infirmary and let the crowds on Commons swallow him up.

  What he was going to do now, he honestly did not know.

  He walked aimlessly for ages, hands thrust deep into his pockets, watching the tourists practice walking in their rented costumes and laughing at one another’s antics and buying each other expensive lunches and souvenirs, and wondered if any of them had the slightest notion what it was like for the down-time populations stranded on these stations?

  He was sitting on the marble edging of a fountain in Victoria Station, head literally in hands, when Kynan Rhys Gower appeared from out of the crowd, expression grim. “Skeeter, we have trouble.”

  He glanced up, startled to hear the Welshman’s voice. “Trouble? Oh, man, now what?”

  “It is Julius,” Kynan said quietly. “He is missing.”

  Skeeter just shut his eyes for a long moment. “Oh, no . . .” Not another friend, missing. The teenager from Rome had organized the down-timer kids into a sort of club known affectionately as the Lost and Found Gang. Under Ianira’s guidance, the “gang” had turned its attention to earning money guiding lost tourists back to their hotel rooms, serving as the Found Ones’ eyes and ears in places where adults would have roused suspicion, running errands and proving t
heir value time and again. The children’s work had allowed the Found Ones to learn rather a good bit more about the cults active on station than Mike Benson or anyone in security had managed to discover.

  “How long has he been missing?” Skeeter asked tiredly.

  “We are not sure,” Kynan sighed. “No one has seen him since . . .” The Welshman hesitated. “He was supposed to be running an errand for the Found Ones, just before the riot broke out, the one Inaira disappeared in. No one has seen him, since.”

  “Oh, God. What’s going on around this station?”

  Kynan clenched his fists in visible frustration. “I do not know! But if I find out, Skeeter, I will take apart whoever is responsible!”

  Of that, Skeeter had no doubt whatsoever. Skeeter intended to help. “Okay, we’ve got to get another search organized. For Julius, this time.”

  “The Lost and Found Gang are already searching.”

  “I want them to get as close to those creeps on the Arabian Nights construction crew as they can. And those crazy Jack the Ripper cults, too. Any group of nuts on this station who might have a reason to want Ianira to disappear, to stir up trouble, is on the suspect list.”

  Kynan nodded. “I will get word to the children. They are angry, Skeeter, and afraid.”

  “Huh. So am I, Kynan Rhys Gower. So am I.”

  The Welshman nodded slowly. “Yes. A brave man is one who admits his fear. Only a fool believes himself invincible. The Council of Seven has called an emergency meeting. Another one.”

  “That’s no surprise. What time?”

  “An hour from now.”

  Skeeter nodded. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about losing his job, sneaking off to attend it. Kynan Rhys Gower hesitated. “I have heard what happened, Skeeter. Bergitta is all right?”