by David Weber
"Speaking of universal," Julian muttered, but he led the way to the bar.
The drinkers were all male, all of them rather old, with the weathered faces and hands of men who'd worked outside most of their lives and now had nothing better to do than to be drinking whiskey in the early morning. The bartender was a woman, younger than the drinkers, but not by much, with a look that said she'd been rode hard and put up wet and was going to keep right on riding. Blonde hair, probably from a bottle, with gray and dark brown at the roots. A face that had been pretty once, but a nice smile and a quizzical look at the Mardukans.
"What you drinkin'?" she asked, stepping over from where she'd been talking with the regulars.
"What's on tap?" Julian asked, looking around for a menu. All that decorated the room were signs for beer and whiskey and a few pinups with dart holes in them.
"Koun, Chika, and Alojzy," the woman recited. "I've got Koun, Chika, Alojzy, Zedin, and Jairntorn in bulbs. And if you're a limp-wrist wine drinker, there's red, white, and violet. Whiskey you can see for yourself," she added, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the racked bulbs and plastic bottles. Most of them were pretty low-cost whiskey, but one caught Julian's eye.
"Two double shots of MacManus, and a full highball," he said, then glanced at Sena and raised an eyebrow. She flicked one hand in a gesture of assent, and he smiled. "Make that two highballs. And then, two glasses of Koun, and a pitcher."
"You know your whiskey, son," the woman said approvingly. "But those highballs're gonna cost you."
"I'll live," Julian told her.
"Who're your big friends?" the bartender asked when she came back with the drinks.
"Denat and Sena. They're Mardukan."
"Scummies?" The woman's eyes widened. "I've heard of them, but I've never seen one. Well, I guess you get all kinds. Long way from home, though."
"Yes, it is," Denat said in broken Imperial. He picked up one of the highballs and passed the second to Sena. Then both of them clinked glasses with Julian and Poertena. "Death to the Kranolta!" He tossed off the drink. "Ahhhh," he gargled. "Smooooth."
Sena sipped more sedately, then twisted both false-hands in a complicated gesture of pleasure.
"It actually is," she said in Mashadan, looking across at Julian. "Amazing. I hadn't expected such a discerning palette out of you, Julian."
"Smart ass," the Marine retorted in the same language, and she gave the coughing grunt of a Mardukan chuckle.
"What'd he say?" the barkeep asked, glancing back and forth between Sena and Julian.
"He was just observing that you should be glad Denat's past his heat, or there'd be blood on the walls," Julian said with a chuckle, grinning at both Mardukans. He took a more judicious sip of his own drink, and had to admit that it was smooth. "God, it's been a long time since I've had a MacManus."
"What are you doing in this godforsaken place?" she asked.
"Looking for a lovely bartender," Julian said with a smile. "And I got lucky."
"Heard it," the woman said, but she smiled back.
"Actually, we've been traveling," Julian replied. "Bit of this here and that there. Picked up Denat and Sena on Marduk, when I had a bit of a problem and they helped me out with it. I heard the Navy's been landing here, and that they've got some civilian crews in their service squadrons. I've got a clean discharge, and so does Magee here," he said, gesturing to Poertena. "Looking to see if there's any work."
"Doubt it." The woman shook her head. "Only thing that lands is cargo shuttles. They pick up supplies and take off again. Sometimes, the crews come in for a drink, but they don't stay long. And they're the only ones who land. Others've asked about work, but they're not hiring. You know what they're doing, right?"
"No," Julian said.
"They're waiting to see who wins in Imperial City. Seems there's a chunk of Parliament that's really gotten ugly about what's happening with the Empress."
"What is happening?" Poertena asked, with only the slightest trace of an accent.
"Yeah, the news is saying everything's peachy," Julian noted.
"Yeah, well, they would, wouldn't they?" The bartender shook her head.
"Only one seeing the Empress these days is that snake's asshole Adoula," one of the regulars said, sliding down a stool. "Won't even let the Prime Minister in to see her. They say they've tombied her. She's not in control anymore."
"Shit," Julian said, shaking his head. "Bastards. Calling Adoula a snake's asshole's insulting to snakes."
"Yeah, but he's got the power, don't he?" the regular replied. "Got the Navy on his side. Most of it, anyway. And he's got friends in the Lords, and all."
"I didn't swear my oath to Prince Jackson and his buddies when I was in," Julian said. "I swore it to the Constitution and the Empress. Maybe the admirals will remember that."
"Sure they will," one of the other drinkers said mockingly. "In your dreams! The officers're all for Adoula. He's bought them, and they know it. I heard he stepped on a sierdo once, and it didn't bite him because of professional courtesy."
There was a chuckle from the group, but it sounded weary.
"Well, just because others have asked, it doesn't mean we shouldn't," Julian said with a sigh. "If they're not hiring, somebody else will be. Any place to sleep around here?"
"Hotel up the road a few blocks," the bartender said. "Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday nights, we've got live entertainment. Strippers on Saturday. Don't be a stranger."
"We'll be back," Julian said, finishing his beer in one long pull. "Let's go look around, guys."
"You'll be back," the regular who'd slid over said. "Isn't much to see."
"And a round for your friends," Julian added, sliding a credit chip onto the scarred bar top. "See you later."
"So what do you think?" the bartender asked after the quartet had left.
"They're not spacers," the regular replied, sipping the cheap whiskey. "Don't move right. Hair's too short. If that guy's got discharge papers, they're from the Marines, not Navy. Probably casual muscle. Think they're planning on muscling in on Julio?"
"Doubt it," the bartender said with a frown. "But Julio's generally hiring. And even if he's not, he'll want to know about them. I'd better give him a call.
"You wanna gamble, there's a cut to the house," the bartender said. "Gotta have it to pay the local squeeze."
Poertena glanced up from his hand and shrugged.
"How much?"
"Quarter-credit a hand," she replied. "And here's why," she added as a short, pale-skinned man stepped through the door to the bar.
The newcomer was apparently about thirty standard years old, with slick black hair and a thin mustache. He was dressed in the height of local fashion—acid-silk red shirt, black trousers, bolero, and a cravat. The line of the bolero was slightly spoiled by a bulge which might have been a needler or a small bead pistol. He was followed by three others, all larger, one of them massive. The short jackets they wore all bulged on the right hip.
"Hey, Julio," the bartender said.
"Clarissa," the man replied with a nod. "I hope you're doing well?"
"Well enough. You want your usual?"
"And a round for the boys," he said, walking over to the table where Poertena, Denat, and one of the regulars were playing. Sena sat nearby, reading what looked like a cheap novel but was actually a Mardukan translation of an Imperial Marines field manual on infiltration tactics and nursing a Mardukan-sized stein of beer.
"Mind if I take a seat?"
"Go ahead," Poertena replied. "Call."
"Two kings," the local said.
"Beats my pocking pair of eights," Poertena said, and the local scooped in the pot.
"New man deals," the "Armaghan" continued, and passed the deck to Julio.
"Seven card stud," the pale-skinned man said, riffling the cards expertly.
Just before he started to deal, Denat reached out one massive hand and placed it over the cards.
"On Marduk," he sai
d solemnly, "cheating is considered part of the game."
"Take your hand off of me unless you want to eat it," Julio said dangerously.
"I wish to know if this is the case here," Denat said, not lifting his hand. "I have been told it isn't, so I haven't palmed any cards. Besides, it's difficult in an environment suit. I simply wish to know, is it the local custom to cheat?"
"You saying I'm cheating?" Julio asked as the most massive guard stepped forward. His move put Sena behind him, and she glanced up casually from her manual, then went back to her reading.
"I'm simply wondering out loud," Denat replied, ignoring the guard. "If it isn't the custom, perhaps you would like to remove that card you stuck up your sleeve and shuffle again."
Julio raised one hand to the guard, and then slipped the ace of diamonds from the cuff of the same wrist.
"Just checking," he said, sliding it back into the deck. "Julio Montego."
"Denat Cord," Denat said as the bar regular slid back from the card table.
"I'm just gonna—" the old man said.
"Yeah, why don't you?" Julio agreed without even glancing away from the Mardukan to look at him.
"As I said, on Marduk we have a saying: if you aren't cheating, you aren't trying," Denat explained. "I have no personal reservations about anything along those lines. Humans are so... picky about it, though. I was pleased to see you weren't."
"You wanna give it a try?" Julio asked, sliding the cards over. "Just a friendly hand? No money, that is."
"Doesn't seem much point," Denat muttered, "but if you wish."
He'd pulled off the environment suit's gloves and flexed his hands, then shuffled. He moved the cards so quickly they seemed to blur, then slid the deck over for a cut. After Julio had carefully cut the cards, he picked them back up and tossed out a three-way hand.
"Straight stud. No draw."
Julio picked up his cards and shook his head.
"What are the odds of getting a royal flush on the deal?" he asked. "Wow, am I lucky, or what?"
"Yes, very," Denat said. "Yours in diamonds would even have beaten mine, in spades."
"I t'ink maybe we don't play cards," Poertena said. "It's times like t'is I regret teaching t'at modderpocker poker."
"Or maybe, instead of playing, we just put the cards on the table," Julian said, sliding into the chair the regular had vacated. "What can we do for you, Mr. Montego?"
"I dunno," Julio replied. "What can you do for me?"
"We're not muscling in on your turf," Julian said delicately. "We're just looking for work with the Navy. If that's not available, we're just going to slide out. No muss, no fuss. No trouble."
"You aren't spacers."
"I've got a data chip says different," Julian pointed out.
"I can pick them up for a credit a pop," Julio scoffed. "And I've got local responsibilities to maintain."
"We're not going to cause any trouble with the locals," Julian said. "Just call us the invisible foursome."
"You've got two scummy bodyguards and a guy says he's from Armagh that's probably never even seen the planet," Julio said. "You're not exactly invisible. What's your angle?"
"Nothing that concerns you, Mr. Montego," Julian replied smoothly. "As I said, it would be better all around if you just ignored us and pretended we were never here. It's not something you want to stick your nose into."
"This is my turf," Julio said flatly. "Everything that goes on here concerns me."
"Not this. It has nothing to do with Halliwell or your turf."
"So what's the angle? You a drug contact for the Navy? Porno? Babes?"
"You're not going to let this lie, are you?" Julian said, shaking his head.
"No."
"Mr. Montego, do you have someone who you... deal with? Not a boss, not that. But someone to whom you, perhaps, forward a portion of your local income? For services rendered?"
"Maybe," Montego said cautiously.
"Well, that gentleman probably has someone with whom he deals in turn. And so on, and so forth. And at some level, Mr. Montego, well above what a friend of mine would refer to as our pay grade, there's a gentleman who probably should have mentioned that some of his associates were going to be sliding through your turf. We're not dealers, we're not mules. We're... associates. Conveyors of information. And before you ask, Mr. Montego, no. You're not going to find out what information. If you choose to get busy about that, Mr. Montego, things will get very ugly, very quickly. Not only in this bar, but at a level you don't even want to think about. The sort of level where people don't hire spaceport bouncers, but professional gentlemen who are familiar with the use of powered armor and plasma cannon, Mr. Montego."
All of this was said with a thin smile while Julian's eyes were locked on the local's.
"He's not pocking kidding," Poertena said, and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a thin scar line where an arm had been regrown. "Pocking trust me on t'at."
"I would, if I were you," Sena said in perfect Imperial from behind the mobster.
It was the first time she'd spoken anything but Mardukan, and Julio's head turned in her direction. She looked back at him with the closest thing to a smile a Mardukan's limited facial muscles could produce, and his eyes narrowed as he observed the heavy, military-grade bead pistol which had somehow magically appeared in her lap. She made no move to touch it, only went back to her book.
"One such professional gentleman, in his own way," Julian observed dryly, never so much as glancing in Sena's direction.
"You're correct," Julio said. "There should have been some word passed. But there wasn't. And there's a price for doing business on my turf; two thousand credits, and this meeting never happened."
"T'at's pocking—"
"Pay him," Julian said. He stood up. "Nice doing business with you, Mr. Montego."
He held out his hand.
"Yes," Montego replied. "And the name was?"
"Pay the man," was all Julian said, and walked over to the bar.
Poertena pulled out two large-denomination credits chips and slid them across the tabletop.
"I don' suppose you'd care por a priendly game of poker?"
"I don't think so," Montego said, standing up. "And it would probably be better if you kept your mouth shut."
"Story of my pocking life," Poertena muttered.
* * *
The stripper turned out to be a rather tired looking woman in her forties, and the live band was louder than it was capable. Sena and Denat, whose species' sexuality was rather different from that of humans, found the entire production bizarre, to say the very least, but they'd turned out to be quite popular with the regulars. Eight Mardukan-sized hands could set and maintain a beat for bumps and grinds that not even this band could completely screw up. And whatever else, the noise and crowd made for a decent place for a secure conversation.
Julian slid into the vacant seat beside the Navy warrant officer and nodded.
"Buy you a drink?" he asked. "Seems right for our boys in black."
"Sure," the pilot said. He was young, probably not too long out of flight school. "I'll take an alcodote before I lift, but, Christ, a guy's got to have some downtime."
"I've only seen shuttle crews come down," Julian said over the noise of the band and the Mardukans' enthusiastic clapping. Nobody in the bar had to know that Denat and Sena's contribution was the body-language equivalent of semihysterical laughter among their people.
"Fleet orders!" the pilot shouted back as the drummers started an inexpert riff. "No contact with the planet. Hell, even this is better," he said, pointing at the tired-looking stripper. "We've about run through the pornography available on the ship, and my right forearm is getting sort of overdeveloped."
"That bad?" Julian laughed.
"That bad," the warrant replied.
"You're from Captain Poertena's ship, right?" Julian said, leaning closer.
"Who wants to know?" The warrant took a sip of his drink.
"Yes
or no?"
"Okay, yes," the warrant said. "Man, I know I've had too much to drink. She's starting to look good."
"In that case, I need you to pass a message to your captain."
"What?" The warrant officer really looked at Julian for the first time.
"I need you to pass a message to your captain," Julian repeated. "Do it in person, and do it alone. Message is: The boy who stole the fish is sorry. Just that. And everything he's heard lately is a lie. Got it?"
"What's this all about?" the warrant asked as Julian stood up.
"If your captain wants you to know, he'll tell you," Julian replied. "In person, alone. Got it? Repeat it, Warrant." The last was clearly an order.
"The boy who stole the fish is sorry," the warrant officer repeated.
"Do it, on your honor," Julian said, and walked into the crowd.
"How was the run?" Captain Poertena asked. He was looking at data on a holo display and eating a banana. Fresh fruit was a precious rarity in Sixth Fleet these days, even in one of the supply haulers, like Capodista, and he was breaking it into small bites to enjoy it properly.
"Went fine, Sir," Warrant Officer Sims replied. "We got a full load this time, and I spoke with one of the Governor's representatives. They've been trying to fill our parts list, so far with no luck."
"Not surprising," Poertena said. "Well, maybe better luck next week. Sooner or later Admiral Helmut is going to have to fish or cut bait. Any new news from the capital?"
"No, Sir," Sims said. "But I had a very strange conversation on-planet. A guy came up to me and asked me to pass you a message. In person, and alone."
"Oh?" Poertena looked up from the holo display, one cheek bulging with banana while another piece rose towards his mouth.
"The boy who stole the fish is sorry," Sims said.
The hand stopped rising, then began to drop as Poertena's swarthy face went gray.
"What did you say?" the captain snapped, his mouth half-full.
"The boy who stole the fish is sorry," Sims repeated.
The piece of banana was crushed between two fingers, and then flung onto the desk.
"What did he look—No. Did this guy have an accent?"