by Leo Champion
“That piece of shit had it coming a long time, engineer. Tuck that safe and get in.”
Still a little wary, Ferrer stashed the wallet on the inside pocket of his vest; he’d made sure Skorzeny hadn’t had a chance for some Marko-esque sleight of hand, although he didn’t think the SS man was that type.
Skorzeny climbed back onto his bike; Ferrer folded himself into the sidecar and Schierbecker headed the vehicle south.
Money, thought Ferrer. Money for that farm, and the experiments he’d wanted to do for a long time. About deliberately amplifying electromagnetic interference and using it as a form of communication…
McIlhan climbed onto the back of the SS vehicle, cursing. That nigger piece of Imperial shit… Marcus Perry, his name had been. Was. For now.
“You on tight, bitch? You owe me that fuck when we’re safe,” said the corporal commanding the armored car.
“Fuck your brains out,” said McIlhan, not meaning it. She’d stick a knife into that asshole first. Fucking Marko, that would have been fun.
And she’d never get her chance, now, thanks to that shithead Ferrer, who she was pretty sure had had something to do with Marko’s parachute failure. Certainly from how he’d been right there when it happened, which was good enough evidence for her.
I’m going to fuck you up, Imperial shithead Perry, she thought. And you, Ferrer.
“Willy, get us the fuck out of here,” the corporal told his driver.
Yeah, I’m running now. But watch both of your backs, I’m going to get even.
Ahle and Perry met the Governor of Hugoton, Ian Fleming and Admiral Richardson in the Governor’s restored office, an unofficial-official meeting because Perry and Ahle had spent the past couple of days at the Imperial office in Dodge, Perry with his wife and children.
Fleming was doing the talking in this meeting, and he got straight to the point.
“For a man who hated the idea of working as an undercover agent,” he said to Perry, “you did an excellent job as one. Hugoton might have been saved without you, but perhaps not. Your contributions - have been communicated to Her Majesty. And she sends her thanks.”
“Directly,” said the Governor, reading from a purple telegram sheet. Directly from Buckingham Palace?
“Vice-Commodore Perry is to be commended on his actions as described, which shall by Our direction be rewarded with a place on the Honors list,” he read out. “Her Imperial Majesty, Victoria Elizabeth the Second.”
Perry found his mouth slightly open. The Queen herself, noticing - honoring - him? And an Imperially-directed place - that meant an Order, that probably - almost certainly - meant a knighthood.”
“Except,” said Fleming.
Except. Perry’s heart, from its glorying heights - Sir Marcus! How Pater and Mater would be proud! - sank. There was something solid and awful in that Except.
“Ahle, you’ve avenged your family,” Fleming turned. “What do you have in mind now?”
She shrugged. “Go back to being a Code pirate. You’ve confirmed Marko’s death; when you free my crew we’ll be on our way.”
“Committing crimes against the Empire’s law,” said Fleming smoothly. “Perhaps I should break my word. What’s a pirate without a ship, anyway?”
“I have assets in Sonora. We can buy a new one.”
“Had assets,” said Fleming. “Your accountant, Sciapella, made a deal in exchange for her freedom. She’s under a new name, now, and my black accounts are that much richer.”
“That bitch!” said Ahle, then slowly made herself calm down. “She had no way of knowing I’d come back; I’d have done the same in her shoes. That bitch stole my money! You stole my money!”
“Oh, she got a piece of it,” Fleming smiled. “But yes, you’re a pirate without a ship, without money, without employment - or, to be frank, without a cause. How about a new one?”
Ahle cocked her head.
“That bitch stole my money and you got it. Give me some of it back and we’ll talk.”
“I was thinking a new purpose, a new cause, not a new fortune.”
“Fortune and cause can go hand in hand,” Ahle shot back.
“I like the type of idealist whose primary ideal is money,” said Fleming. “The depth of the Imperial Treasury means I can depend on them.”
“So what’s your cause? Can I go after the last of the SS? Texas isn’t going to care so much about arresting them given that they didn’t really fuck with Imperial property, just tried to. No public outcry. You could use black agents like me for that.”
“Or we could use them to create peace in the South. A lasting peace, not dependent on mercenaries. A South in line with the Curzon Doctrine - either a part of the USA or a free Confederacy, allied to the Empire on its own terms.”
Fleming displayed for a moment, his own purple telegram paper.
“Lord Mountbatten and Her Majesty have been communicating with me most firmly on this matter.The South is rising again, as they did in 1861, 1889, 1929 and 1944. This time, Her Imperial Majesty has said in no uncertain terms that” - he showed the purple telegram - “she is fed up with it. Victoria Elizabeth wants a peace, a lasting peace, and has directed Imperial assets in North America not to crushing the present revolt but to ensuring there will never be another one.”
Ahle was silentfor several long moments. Perry could see she was trying to suppress a faint smile.
“To make sure nobody ever does a Wake Forest or a Raleigh again?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll help with that.” A heartbeat. “If you pay me.”
“I’ll pay well,” said Fleming. He turned back to Perry. “And the two of you work well together. You know the reward for a successful job.”
“You said - a knighthood.”
“And a promotion, Commodore with fast-track to Admiral,” said Richardson. “I agree with this.”
“4-106 was, officially, never recovered,” said Fleming.
“Never named, either,” said Ahle.
“Off the record, I think her crew have gotten to know her by the serial number. She’ll stay 4-106, as an off-the-books asset of mine,” said Fleming.
Richardson gave the spy chief a not-too-friendly look.Clearly they’d had words about this earlier. Probably some of Fleming’s discretionary funds - if he’d kept only half of the money Ahle and her crew had made, there’d be a lot - had contributed to his winning this particular argument.
“You, too, are deniable, and are probably more useful that way. For now.”
“You - can’t keep me a spy,” said Perry weakly. But not just Commodore down the line, but Sir… that was something to look forward to. An incredible reward, that knighthood, and if Fleming wanted him to do more to earn it… he would.
“You two will be going to Atlanta,” Fleming said. “To meet with a man named King. You served us well in the West, Marcus. You’ll hopefully soon do the same for us in the South.”
Sir Marcus. Commodore.
“It’s partly a request,” said Richardson. “You do have the option of refusal, if you object strenously enough. But Her Majesty has expressed her gratitude for your service, and would appreciate further.”
God. Damn. It, Perry thought, but his mouth spoke anyway.
“I will do my duty.”