“Then I won’t keep you,” she said, slinging the rifle to her back. “I’ll see you at home later.” With a smile, she moved away. Otlind went on, shining the flash before him. The water flowing under the stone glinted, carrying its secrets with it.
It was only a few minutes since the end of the battle, but to Mack Dalle, it felt like ages. He circled the cloudy blue planet in his mind. It was Copen, the world of his birth. He admired the three and a half continents floating in the oceans, counted the moons (two), and the flock of satellites (twenty-seven), sailing in the skies. As he got closer, he could hear sounds, coming on as though he was turning up a volume control: the rush of ocean waves, the cry of sea birds, traffic in the population centers, animals trumpeting and roaring and chirping. He drew closer, and the noises became louder and louder, and then disappeared entirely.
Into the silence, he thought he heard a single voice. He was sure it was an illusion, an echo in his lonely, maddened mind.
“Dalle? Where are you?”
He thought it was a trick. It sounded like Otlind, but Dalle couldn’t be sure. He held back from answering.
“Doctor? Are you all right?” Another voice joined Otlind’s.
“The lights are on standby from the creches. He can’t get to us without light. This place is full of pitfalls. Wait, shine the lantern over there.”
He felt it through his eyelids, a glow, a sun, a solar flare. He turned away from the planet, letting his eyes open, fearing the solid blackness of empty outer space. Light. It was there. It came closer and closer to him. He drank it in, let his mind reawaken. It was actually no more than a small LED, but to him it was the universe. And there were voices, human voices. Otlind and another man. He stood up. The light grew, coming toward him, and then shrank again, back to the size of a simple hand-held lantern. Otlind reached out and clasped his hand. His knees went weak with relief, and he sagged.
Otlind was beside him in a moment, but he waved him off. Morak and the others in the ambush party hustled him outdoors into the air, and his bruises were tended shyly by one of the volunteer medics of the settlement.
Morak and Otlind came over to check on him when all his other cares were under control. Groans, loud humming and a few more groans heralded the reconnection of the electrical and ventilation systems. The colonists sitting on the river bank cheered and started moving back inside the caves. Dalle began to rise when the leader sat down beside him, but Morak waved him down.
“Please, Doctor. Stay where you are. You’ve had enough trouble today.”
Dalle shook his head. “Do you know, I’ve been trying to help, but everyone has politely but firmly told me to stay out of the way.”
“There’s no need for you to work here. You’re our honored guest, Doctor. It’s the least we can do. We’ll retrieve your vaccines from your ship in a little while. You can explain what we’ll need to do with them later. The scout is a wreck, so you’ll stay with us until another can be sent for you.” A tiny smile twitched at the corner of Morak’s lips, and Otlind turned red, suddenly finding something very interesting to look at in the shrubbery. “Pat sent out the word to the Fleet himself. Very brave of him, considering the amount of flak he was getting for losing his ship. But they’re glad to hear both of you are safe. In the meantime, please enjoy our hospitality. Anything we can do for you, please ask.”
“I came here to serve you, sir. You couldn’t give me anything better than what I’m enjoying right now,” Dalle said, leaning back and letting the light warm his face. “The sun.”
Otlind smirked down at him. “Dustbowler,” he said.
Fleet Support Officer Guilliame Kanard’s formerly perfectly pressed tunic hung limply over a model of the Caffrey, the only combat vessel on which the officer had even briefly served. The man himself was propped on his elbows and his head hung just as limply over the blank CRT of his communications console.
Three quarters of a standard day had passed and Gill found himself no closer to finding the hero he needed to rally support, to personify the Fleet’s efforts to the billions of tax-paying civilians.
A vagrant thought fought its way through the numbness of frustration. Why use a new hero when an old one would do? Hadn’t there been a Fleet officer whose exploits had thrilled him as a teenager? A sort of real Crag Courage? Who was it? It has only been twenty years, he’d still be on active duty.
What was the name?
McWilliams, that’s it. He could see the credits already: The Further Adventures of Jeremy McWilliams. Maybe they’d budget a whole series for this. He’d always wanted to do an Omni series.
Once more alert, the officer strode purposefully over and retrieved his jacket. It somehow felt wrong even to call up the files on someone like McWilliams in less than full uniform.
Unconsciously coming as close to standing at attention as you can get while sitting at a console, Kanard called up the records and began to read.
SO THIS IS IT, thought Captain John Roberts to himself as he stepped out of the hatch of his ship to the accompaniment of twittering pipes and the beat of a snare drum. There was a certain off-key shrillness to the pipes that set Roberts’s teeth on edge, and he made a mental note to instruct Midshipman Brooks to check the computer again. There must be a glitch in the damn program!
“Sergeant”—Roberts turned to the marine standing at attention on the docking platform—“you have your orders?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, a beefy-faced, middle-aged veteran. He had been puking up rotgut whisky on some godforsaken outpost when John Roberts was puking milk on his mother’s shoulder, and he never let Roberts forget it. He kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Repeat them, please,” Captain Roberts said irritably.
“All hands to remain aboard ship awaiting your return, Cap’n,” growled the sergeant. “No one is to come aboard without your permission.”
“Very good, Sergeant. You are to shoot anyone who disobeys.”
“Yes, sir.”
The severity of the order was necessary, considering the type of place they were in. Roberts had seen his men crowded around the viewscreens, hoping to catch a glimpse of … what? Roberts sneered. It was nothing but a space station, after all. Quite a remarkable space station, but a space station nonetheless, and it looked like countless others. He had seen their eyes on him when he left ship. He knew they envied him. He also knew he was the butt of an entire fleet of jokes currently circulating below decks. This distressed Roberts and gave him additional reason to detest this assignment. A newly appointed captain, he was self-conscious and nervous about his ability as a leader. Sensitive to a fault, he feared the jokes were undermining his dignity.
And so Captain Roberts stood on the platform, moodily slapping his dress gloves in his hand. He didn’t want to go through with this; dreaded it, in fact. He felt awkward, ill at ease, and completely out of his element. And he’d only just set foot off his ship! He was still in the sterile environment of the docking bay! He could imagine what it would be like beyond ... through the hatch ...
Briefly, Roberts considered striking up a conversation with the sergeant, stalling for time, then put it instantly out of his mind. He would look a fool, probably already did look a fool, standing here, staring like some farm boy on his first trip to the big city. He was visible on the viewscreen to his lieutenant, if not to half a dozen other people on board ship. The thought propelled him forward.
“Carry on, Sergeant,” he said unnecessarily.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied and, if the man grinned behind his helmet, Roberts’s sideways glance was not quick enough to catch him.
Briskly, trying to look as nonchalant and casual as it was possible for a naval officer to look in full dress uniform—another bit of arrant nonsense!—Roberts walked across the steel platform of the docking bay, his polished boots (a bit run-down at the heels, but he hadn’t bee
n able to afford new ones) ringing on the deck.
So this is it, he repeated to himself, approaching the hatch at the end of the docking bay, reading the name in letters of solid gold. The famous—or infamous as the case may be—Club of the Thirty-nine Buttons.
Located on the fringes of the galaxy, far beyond the reach of the law—had it been supposed that the law might want to reach it—the Club of the Thirty-nine Buttons was the most exclusive, the most costly, the most talked about whorehouse, gambling casino, and drug den in the known universe.
The Club of the Thirty-nine Buttons.
Part of its mystique, Roberts decided as he entered the airlock, lay in its extraordinary name. According to legend, which he had heard repeated at practically every meal since he had received this distasteful assignment, the woman who owned and operated the “establishment” wore a dress slit completely down the front. Thirty-nine small buttons kept that slit closed. For a price—an astronomical price, said a midshipman who considered himself a wit—a man might undo those thirty-nine buttons—one at a time, very slowly (so it was rumored), to savor the delights beneath. Recalling the speculations concerning these delights, Roberts grew uncomfortably warm around the tight collar of his uniform. The airlock opened with a whoosh, and he thankfully removed his helmet, which always gave him a smothering, claustrophobic feeling.
Roberts glanced about, slightly startled. This certainly wasn’t what he had expected—no red velvet wallpaper and crystal chandeliers. He was in a large, elegant entry hall, decorated with all the taste money could buy. Seated behind a huge rosewood desk were two—“concierges”—Roberts supposed they were called here, although “bouncers” would have been the term anywhere else. They looked him over. Roberts eyed them as well. With war imminent, there was the usual scramble for able-bodied men. And these were certainly two of the most able bodies he’d seen in a long time. Although the press-gangs were officially condemned, they were unofficially operative. The Admiralty knew it was tough to get good men to serve belowdecks. And out here, far from any civilian authority, well ... who was to know or complain if they did? This place was breaking every law—civil and moral—in the books. What would they do, call the cops? This trip might prove worthwhile after all, Roberts thought, cheering up.
Meanwhile, he had to undergo the scrutiny of these muscular, slim-waisted, golden-haired bronze gods, conscious that their eyes were noting the frayed cuffs and baggy knees of his one best uniform. But they were polite—after all, he supposed—a paying customer was a paying customer.
“Welcome to the Club, Captain Roberts. What is your pleasure?” asked one of the gods, his hand going to a pad that stood on a steel desk to one side. The eyes that studied Roberts were intelligent, cool. “Are you a new member? I don’t recall your face—”
“I’m not here for pleasure,” Roberts said crisply, reaching into the pocket of his uniform and bringing out a plastic disc, which he tossed carelessly on the rosewood. “I’m on official military business, as I told your boys when we requested permission to land.” He gestured at the disc. “There’s my credentials.”
Taking the disc, with a glance at his fellow god, the “concierge” inserted the disc into the computer and studied the information that lit up his screen.
“Very well, Captain Roberts,” he said, removing the disc and handing it back. “Please describe the nature of your business at the Club. I will, of course, have to clear your admittance with my superiors, but that is only a formality.”
“Of course,” Roberts said, attempting a smile. His orders were to be pleasant and tactful. He wondered how he might pleasantly and tactfully shanghai these two before he left. That grizzled old sergeant might have some ideas ... “I’m looking for a man named Jeremy McWilliams. Captain Jeremy McWilliams,” he added, unable to keep a certain bitterness from his voice.
“And why are you looking for this ... Captain McWilIiams?” the bronze god asked coolly. Roberts saw the hand of his fellow god slip casually beneath the rosewood desk and he made a mental note that they had an alarm system in operation.
“Oh, I’m not here to arrest him or anything like that,” Roberts said, forcing his smile to broaden into a grin. “I have a commission for him, in fact.” Roberts patted his pocket. “He’s being called to active duty.”
“Indeed?” The bronze god removed his hand from below the desk. “Just a moment.” He gave the computer a voice command, asking for a list of club members currently residing on the space station.
“Things going that badly out there, Captain?” his friend asked conversationally.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss military matters with civilians, “Roberts said brusquely. “Sorry.”
The bronze god shrugged. He hadn’t been interested anyway.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” said the other god, turning to Roberts from the computer. “But we do not have a McWilliams, Jeremy listed as a member. I—” A sudden thought struck the bronze god, apparently right between the eyes, judging from the stunned expression on his face. Touching his cohort on the shoulder, he whispered into his ear. The look of stunned shock might have jumped from one face to the other, it was such a perfect copy.
“What is it?” Roberts asked uneasily.
“Captain,” said the bronze god, swallowing what was either fear or laughter, Roberts couldn’t tell, “do you have an identification disc on this ... McWilliams?”
“Yes, here it is,” Roberts said, fumbling in his pocket. Finding it, he handed it over to the bronze god, who hurriedly inserted it into the computer once more. An image came on the screen. Roberts refused to look at it. He’d see the original soon enough, and he had already pictured the man in his mind.
Captain Jeremy McWilliams. Roberts knew his service record, knew it by heart, as did almost everyone else in the Fleet. Posted a year before Roberts—that meant he’d have to salute him and call him sir—McWilliams had more decorations for heroism in battle than Zenob 36 had moons. It had been McWilliams, still a lieutenant, who rescued the Lucy Marie and its valuable cargo from pirates off Micawber’s Sun. The bonus money voted by the Alliance Council for that exploit alone had made him a millionaire. McWilliams in the battle of Mooria 7 ... he still held the record for “kills” without taking a hit himself. McWilliams, who—oh, confound it! Roberts shook his head angrily. The man was good, all right. And, on top of that, he was wealthy. Probably handsome, charming, debonair. His dress uniform wasn’t fraying at the cuffs. Hell, he probably owned a few dozen! He hadn’t been forced to live on half-pay, grubbing about for whatever jobs he could scrounge until the service saw fit to decide it needed him again. No, McWilliams was living in luxury here in the Club of the Thirty-nine Buttons.
And he had influence. Roberts gnashed his teeth. Who had they sent with his—Roberts’s—commission? Some toothless old seaman, more machine than man, who’d smelt of tobacco, rum, and lubricating oil. And what was Roberts’s first assignment as Captain in the Fleet? Errand boy! To go to a whorehouse and bring McWilliams his commission! Dress uniform, no less, on orders from Admiral Dodsworth himself!
No, Roberts hadn’t wanted to look at McWilliams’s ID disc. He figured he’d be spending enough time with that—face—traveling back to HQ ...
“Captain Roberts, sir”—the bronze god jolted Roberts out of his seething reverie—“I have located and spoken to ... uh”—the man stuttered—“Cap-captain McWilliams. You are expected. Level thirty-nine.”
“You are expected,” Roberts mimicked in an undertone as he stepped into the tube. The door shut and he was whisked upward. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he swore; watching the numbers on the levels as he went past. 30, 31, 32 ... McWilliams must have a penthouse suite, he thought gloomily. He could imagine it, visualizing what he would like himself. Furnishings of fine, expensive wood, clean-cut and simple, with a few choice paintings on the walls. McWilliams’s decorations would be hanging there, too. Ta
stefully framed, nothing ostentatious ...
39. The tube stopped and the door opened instantly. Stepping inside, his feet sinking into four-inch thick carpeting, Roberts stared around, blinking in astonishment. Once again, this certainly wasn’t what he’d expected.
He stood in a huge, circular room filled with furniture of the most feminine and delicate design. Flowering plants scented the air with a sweet perfume. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the soft splashing of a waterfall. Roberts glanced about, confused. My god, he realized suddenly in disgust. This must belong to McWilliams’s whore! Of course, he would refer to her as his “mistress.”
A serve ‘bot appeared out of nowhere, hovering near Roberts with its beady little blinking eye focused intently on his hat and gloves.
“No, thank you,” Roberts said firmly. Removing the hat, he tucked the gloves into the brim and thrust it beneath his arm. “I won’t be staying.”
The serve ‘bot appeared devastated. Could it bring him something to drink, eat?
“No, thank you!” Roberts said grimly. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. Get McWilliams back on the ship and back to HQ.
“Please reconsider, Captain Roberts,” said a low voice; a sultry voice; a dark, throaty, animal voice. “Have a drink. It’s been a long journey for you.”
Roberts turned at the sound. From out of a door that opened onto the circular room came a woman. She matched the voice, was his first thought. It was his last thought for the next few seconds—at least his last coherent thought. The rest were impressions, random, fleeting due entirely to sensory overload. He saw masses of red hair tumbling over cream-colored skin. He saw green eyes, clear and brilliant. He saw a dress made of some silky black material, poured like shining oil over a body of surpassing beauty. And down the front of that dress, beginning just where a man—any normal, healthy, human male—might like to begin, was a row of buttons—shining, glittering diamond buttons.
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