Just as they came to where he lurked, one of the men pulled a knife and stabbed the other. He bent over the body, and began rooting through pockets, taking what he found. Sergei dropped silently behind him, slid the cable around his head, and pulled.
In a moment, it was over, and Sergei robbed the robber. He left the knife, as he didn’t want to be carrying a murder weapon, and found some drugs in a small plastic bag that he discarded. He found quite a bit of cash, and a small handgun, a pocket revolver, which he kept. He would need resources for his mission, and this was a good start. He melted into the night, and returned to the barracks for some much-needed rest.
Sergei’s first T-weeks on Haven blended together in a blur of too much work and too little sleep. His elimination of the murderer had given him some new resources, but he decided to limit any violence to situations vital to the mission, or situations where he came upon those who preyed on the less fortunate.
He found a new job on the docks, as an armed guard for a private company that dealt in luxury items. The job gave him enough money to buy a winter coat, and afford a small room, with the privacy he needed for his efforts. He continued to make his rounds of the bars in Castell City, in the seedy areas that were becoming known as ‘Docktown,’ until one truenight he came upon one that was different.
The sign was green, with a yellow harp painted on it. The name under the symbol, “Harp’s,” was somewhat redundant. The building was very much in the style of the oldest structures on Haven, partially dug into a low hillside. It was in a nicer part of town--there were even electric streetlights on some of the corners. It had small windows that glowed with the light of oil lamps, and the smell of cooking beef and brewing beer wafted from the back rooms. There was also music, of a type Sergei had never heard, a jaunty dance tune. But despite the jauntiness, the tune itself had a dark color, a feel that reminded Sergei of the music of his homeland.
He entered the room, and found a cozy area with a bar at one end, and a ring of booths around the walls. The musicians were perched on wooden stools in a corner in a tight circle, playing violins, flutes, an old accordion and some sort of large mandolin. The bar had a painting behind it, a picture of green hills with sheep grazing. The bartender nearly stopped Sergei dead in his tracks. She was lovely--a bit taller than he was, slender, with jet black hair and eyes as blue as the sea.
“And what’ll you be havin’?” she asked, with a smile on her face that would melt a stone. He sat on a barstool, ordered a beer, and another and then another. No wandering for him tonight. He couldn’t remember afterward just what they spoke of, only her eyes and the lilt of her laugh, as the music whirled and spun behind them.
A few days after his first visit to Harp’s, Sergei made his first contact with the Russian intelligence network on Haven. He was down at the docks, where an amphibious shuttle had just landed. While most of its cargo was destined for the CoDominium Marine contingent, there were also some imported items that Sergei’s firm had been waiting for. The pair of Marines actually had a military truck, incongruous among the draft horses, muskylopes and wagons. Sergei had wondered about all the animals when he first arrived, but finally realized that when you import a dozen trucks, years later you will have less than a dozen in service. Import a dozen horses, and years later you will probably have a few more than twelve.
As the cargo was being loaded, one of the Marines turned to Sergei, and asked, “Are you Russian?”
“Da,” said Sergei.
“Where from?” asked the Marine.
“Saint Petersburg,” Sergei replied, “and you?”
“Vladivostok,” the Marine replied. “You know, there is a Russian neighborhood here on the west side of town. You would feel quite at home there. Stop in at Dzhigurda’s, and tell old Fyodor that Ivar the Marine sent you. Bring a little coin, and you can get a meal to remind you of home, instead of the swill they feed you in most places in this town.”
“I’ll do that,” said Sergei with a smile. The Marine might be simply recommending a restaurant, or he might be a contact.
After work, Sergei went to check the place out. Its exterior was not too much different from any other building in the city, but its sign consisted of a brightly painted cutout of a Russian city skyline, with onion-domed church spires above the other buildings. The name ‘Dzhigurda’ was painted at the bottom in bold Cyrillic letters.
Old Fyodor was a heavy man with a huge beard of black hair, shot through with grey. A samovar sat on a corner table, and Sergei smelled tea, real tea, for the first time in over a T-year. His mouth began to water. Perhaps he could even get some good borscht here. The old man invited him over to his corner booth. Evidently his practice was to greet newcomers personally.
After some of the same ‘where are you from’ chitchat Sergei had shared with the Marine, the old man dropped a phrase from Sergei’s briefing packet. Sergei responded with the counter-phrase, and soon the men had established the fact that they shared the intelligence profession. Fyodor invited Sergei to a back room, and gave him a large mug of tea that tasted as good as it smelled. Fyodor continued to sip from the glass of vodka that had been in front of him when Sergei had entered the restaurant.
“Finally they send me some real help, after ignoring message after message, my fingers worn to the bone from typing requests. A professional intelligence agent. And not just some young idiot, a man of experience,” he said. “Up until now, I have had to settle for gossip, and gather what I can from a few clumsy informants. There are three things that the Russian community here shares.
“The first is our language. The second is the taste for food and drink that keeps my restaurant in business.” At this the old man paused and gave a mercenary grin. “And the third is an unfortunate contempt for the Rodina. Not the makings of a good intelligence network. Oh, if only my lot in life were to work with better materials than I have here.”
“I’ll do what I can to make up for those shortcomings,” Sergei said modestly. He smiled inside. Fyodor’s complaints reminded him of home. He remembered a housemaid from his youth, who in fortunate times complained that God sent her good luck so she would be boring, without anything to talk about with her friends.
“To preserve your cover,” Fyodor said, “I imagine that they sent you without any gear, weapons or funding. I will have to do something about that.”
“The weapons and funds are already taken care of,” said Sergei. “Although I could use your help obtaining a small personal data device that can record and store pictures and audio. To buy such a device myself might draw unnecessary attention. And if possible, a night vision device. Which will probably be even harder to obtain.”
Fyodor beamed, “As I said, a real professional. Taking care of things already. The data device I can provide you soon. The night vision gear--that might take a bit longer.”
Sergei recounted what he had learned so far, and it squared with what Fyodor had been able to gather. There was much mining activity on Haven, but also hints that there was more afoot than was discussed publicly. They both agreed that the key seemed to be the activities of the Dover Mineral Development Company.
Sergei promised that he would stop in on occasion to keep Fyodor informed, although not so much that people would become suspicious. And before he left, Sergei confirmed the fact that the food was indeed worth a return from time to time.
Sergei continued his visits to other bars, hearing more and more about Kennicott, Dover and their mining activities. He followed a number of suspicious characters, robbed them when he felt it justified, searched some of their dwellings for clues and information, and was forced to beat one senseless when the man came home unexpectedly. He left another, a busy drug dealer, near death in the night, and emptied his pockets of money providing more resources for the mission.
Sergei was tempted to kidnap another man, a Dover Mineral official, and interrogate him, but that would be difficult to accomplish on his own, and he certainly had no place to detain the man
while he broke his resistance. And besides those practical concerns, forced interrogation had always sickened him. If he was going to find hidden wealth on Haven, which was being concealed for American gain, he needed to travel to the east, to the headwaters of the Jordan River, and see what this Dover organization was doing.
Sergei justified his lingering in Castell City with thoughts that a trip to the east should not begin until well into the spring, but that was not the only reason. More and more, Sergei found himself spending evenings at Harp’s. One night, as he stepped in from the cold, the bartender, whose name was Moira, greeted him with the words, “How is my fine man tonight?”
When he asked how she knew what kind of man he was, she pointed back to the kitchen, where the dishwasher gave him a shy wave. It was Pamela, the woman from the ship, whose duffel he had carried off the ship. Suddenly he was glad for the altruism that had made him feel guilty before. He felt a glow inside, and smiled.
Moira pointed to a corner booth. “There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”
Sergei looked, and saw the Deacon who had spoken on his first day ashore, Brother Miller. Moira led him to the booth, and he followed, somewhat uneasy about the direction this conversation might take.
“Sergei,” Moira said with a smile, “I would like you to meet a local hero, leader of the Exodus, our own Brother Moses.”
The Deacon let out a good natured snort of exasperation, and replied to Moira with a rueful smile, “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”
He turned to Sergei, and stuck out his hand, “The name is Miller, Abraham Miller. Pleased to meet you.”
Miller ordered a pair of drinks, and as Moira went back to the bar, Sergei asked, “Why does she call you Moses? And what’s a Deacon doing in a bar? I didn’t think your sort went for this.”
The Deacon smiled and replied, “The Moses thing is something I’m sure you’ll hear about eventually. As for why a Deacon hangs around a pub, I come for the music. Everywhere there is music, the spirit of the universe is revealed. Old Harp, the founder of this place, has a close relationship with the Harmonies. He’s even bankrolled a music shop and luthier up at our end of town, where many of our children buy instruments. And why should you be surprised that a pacifist who sometimes knocks heads together would also have a taste for beer?”
Sergei nodded. “This is good beer. And fine music, once you get used to it. Sometimes it sounds very Western, but other times it sounds almost Russian.”
“That would be the modes,” the Deacon replied, “a distinctive feature of both Irish music and the music of your homeland.” He went on for quite some time in that vein. Music was central to the Harmony faith, and like many of them, the Deacon had obviously studied musical theory. Sergei had himself always loved music, and even sung in a male choir during his youth, but had trouble following some of the more arcane musical terminology.
“But now I want to ask you something on another topic,” the Deacon said, finally getting down to business. “This town is getting difficult to manage. Harmonies may be willing to use force when required, but we haven’t bent our principles to the point where we want to carry arms. And yet, we face a lot of situations where we don’t feel it appropriate to call on the Marines. They’re soldiers, not law enforcement personnel.
There’s been a rash of crimes in Docktown in the past few T-weeks, all involving rather unsavory individuals, but disturbing all the same. I’ve been trying for years to convince Reverend Castell that a force of armed constables is a good idea, and I think if I can present a few likely candidates, my chances of persuading him will improve. During your trip here, you built a reputation among the transportees as a man of character. Would you be interested in a job as a constable?”
Sergei concealed his discomfort. Did this man also suspect that he was behind some of those same violent acts he had mentioned? “I’m sorry,” he replied, “I don’t care for the thought of working in law enforcement, in fact I don’t enjoy my security guard position that much. I find that, as I get older, I don’t have the heart for conflict and confrontation anymore, even for a good cause. I have thoughts of going upriver, to see if I can make a go of it as a hunter for the mining encampments. I have to decline your offer.”
The Deacon nodded. “I suppose I can understand your reasoning,” he replied, “but please, give the offer some thought, and keep an open mind.”
Later that night, as he walked home in the cold, crisp air, Sergei realized that the words he had spoken were truer than he thought. He was sick of conflict and violence. Even when the mission called for it, even when he targeted those who preyed upon society, he hated it.
As the days went on, Sergei continued to work as a security guard, and gather information in what time he could spare. He forced himself to limit visits to Harp’s to every other day. When Moira was too busy to speak to him, he would often sit with Deacon Miller, enjoying the music. Miller turned out to be a very interesting man, and his faith, while strong, was rooted in a very practical and realistic world view.
It turned out that he had gained his nickname of Moses by leading the movement of thousands of miners and others to found the town Hell’s-A-Comin,’ in an operation that people now referred to as an Exodus. You could tell that this modest man was proud of what he had accomplished, even though he made jokes about it. And Sergei was surprised to discover that a man who had wielded so much power had done nothing to use that power to his own advantage, and after the project was completed, went back to his previous duties without complaint or demand.
Before long, Sergei realized that his new friend was also one of his best sources of information. He knew as much as anyone in Castell City about what went on in the Kennicott mines to the west. And he had a friend, Captain Doyle, who ran a steamboat between Castell City and Hell’s-A-Comin,’ and came to Harp’s to play his fiddle whenever he came into town. From Doyle, Sergei was able to hear about the latest developments in the mining operation. If only he had such good sources regarding operations to the east, up the Jordan River.
But as much as he enjoyed the company of Deacon Miller, and the others who frequented Harp’s, it was the chance to see Moira that brought him to the pub so often. One night, Moira, who loved to dance, dragged Sergei out to the center of the room, with a group of others, lined them up, and taught them a dance called the “Siege of Ennis.” The dance involved a lot of whirling around and changing partners, and he felt an electric thrill whenever Moira ended up in his arms.
It was later that night he worked up the courage to ask her out to dinner, and the next night found them at a restaurant, up the hill, close to the town square where the representatives of the mining companies lived. Moira wore a long dress, deep blue with a white bodice, while Sergei wore black pants and vest, with a new white shirt, smelling of bleach and stiff with starch. They spoke of their childhoods, and Sergei found himself telling more of the truth than he should have, while she related a tale of childhood bliss that ended with sorrow.
Moira in her teens had become embroiled in political activities. After decades of peace, angered by British collaboration with the CoDominium, nationalists in Northern Ireland had risen up again in another attempt to unite Ireland. Moira had joined the movement, but been betrayed by a boyfriend, swept up and turned over to the CoDominium Bureau of Corrections for transportation. For himself, Sergei focused on describing his military career before he had been a covert agent, and implied that political actions had led to his own transportation to Haven.
The meal and the wine had been excellent and the evening flew past. Sergei found himself standing with Moira in front of the boarding house where she made her home. They were bundled in coats and their breath was steaming in the cold.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said, as he put his hands on her shoulders.
“Thank you,” he replied. He put a hand on the back of her neck, and leaned toward her. The kiss was chaste, but sent a flush through his body. He
put his arms around her, and pulled her to him, but relented when he felt her tense up.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve been hurt too many times to be quick in romance. Would you be a patient man?”
Sergei said he was a patient man, but as he walked home in a daze he realized that was a lie.
Springtime grew closer, and Sergei began to buy supplies. He saw no way to find out what was happening in the mining camps to the east without going there himself. He made one of his rare visits to Fyodor, and filled him in on his plans. Fyodor had obtained the data device that Sergei had requested, a rugged and field-ready piece of gear, with a solar panel on its side for recharging. He had also obtained a set of night vision goggles, a bit old and shabby, but CoDominium military gear still in good working order. The old man agreed with Sergei that it was time for a field trip, and sent him on his way with his new gear, some hard sausage, and a bottle of vodka for the voyage.
Sergei found a company that was building wooden steamboats and running them up and down the river. Arranging transport was simple, and he bought supplies that included a heavy pack, sleeping bag, cooking gear, a hunting knife, and fine, sturdy new boots. The revolver he had obtained on his first night in Castell City would do for a sidearm, but he bought extra ammunition for it. For a shoulder weapon, he bought a bolt action rifle with a five cartridge magazine, about 7mm, a sturdy and reliable weapon with good sights and accuracy. A rifle that would fit his cover of being a hunter, but also would be good in a fight. The weather was getting warmer, and it would soon be time to go.
War World: Discovery Page 27