Settling Accounts Return Engagement: Book One of the Settling Accounts Trilogy

by Harry Turtledove

  As he reached for the light switch, his sandal splashed in one of the puddles he hadn’t bothered sopping up. The instant he touched the switch, he realized he’d made a dreadful mistake. Current coursed through him, stinging like a million hornets. He tried to let go, and discovered he couldn’t. Just a stupid mistake, he thought over and over. Just a stupid . . .

  Honolulu. The Sandwich Islands. Paradise on earth. Warm blue water. Tropic breezes. Palm trees. Polynesian and Oriental and even white women not overencumbered with inhibitions or clothes. Bright sunshine the whole year round.

  Every paradise had its serpent. The bright sunshine was Sam Carsten’s.

  He’d had duty in Honolulu before. It had left him about medium rare, the way bright sunshine always did. He was too fair to stand it, and he wouldn’t tan. He just burned, and then burned some more. He wished the Remembrance were charged with protecting Seattle or Portland, Maine, or, for that matter, Tierra del Fuego. At least then he could stick his nose out on deck without having it turn the color of raw beef.

  Staying below in warm weather was no fun, either. The ship’s ventilators ran all the time, but heat from the sun and from the engine room combined to defeat them. Sometimes that drove him topside. He stayed in the shade of the carrier’s island when he could, which helped only so much. Even the reflection of the sun off the Pacific was plenty to scorch him.

  The exec noticed his suffering. “Are you sure you want to stay aboard?” Commander Cressy asked. “If you want to transfer to a ship in the North Atlantic—one that’s out to keep the British from sneaking men and arms to Canada, say—I’ll do all I can to put your transfer through.”

  “Sir, I’ve been tempted to do that a few times,” Sam answered. “I’ve been tempted, but I’d rather stay here. This is where the action is.”

  “Plenty of action everywhere, I’d say,” Cressy observed. “But I do take your point. And if you don’t want to leave us, well, you’d better believe we’re glad to have you. You’re a solid man. You’ve proved that plenty of times—and you may get the chance to do it some more.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” Sam said. The exec’s good opinion mattered to him, probably more than that of any other officer on the ship. Cressy was a man who would soon have a ship of his own, if not a fleet of his own. Hoping to take advantage of his friendly mood, Sam asked, “When do we go into action against the Japs?”

  “Damn good question,” Cressy told him. “What I haven’t got for you is a damn good answer. Right now, I’d say it’s more up to Tokyo than to us. We’re playing defense here, trying to make sure they don’t take the Sandwich Islands away from us. We’ve got the Remembrance for mobility, and we’ve got as many land-based airplanes as we could ferry over here. We’ve got submersibles—oh, and battleships and cruisers, too. The enemy won’t have an easy time if he comes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sam said. Back during the Great War, the battlewagons and cruisers would have taken pride of place. He knew that full well; he’d served aboard the Dakota back then. In this fight, Commander Cressy tossed them in as an afterthought, and that was only fitting and proper. They could still hit hard—if they ever got close enough to do it. But airplanes, either land-based or flying off carriers, were likely to sink them before they got the chance. Even in the Pacific War, airplane carriers had attacked one another without coming over the horizon.

  “The other thing we’ve got is Y-ranging,” Cressy said. “That gives us early warning. We don’t think the Japs do. Most of their engineering is pretty good; their ships and airplanes measure up to anybody’s.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Carsten agreed. “We’ve found that out the hard way.”

  “So we have,” the exec said. “But they’re just a little bit slow in electrical engineering. Most of their gear is like what we were using, oh, five years ago. They get the most out of it—never underestimate their skill. It’s one place where we know a few tricks they don’t, though.”

  “That could be a big edge,” Sam said.

  “It could be, yes. Whether it will be . . .” Commander Cressy shrugged. “It’s like anything else: it’s not only what you’ve got, it’s how well you use it.” He nodded. “I always enjoy passing the time of day with you, Lieutenant. But now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He hurried away. He always hurried. That added to the impression that nothing ever got by him.

  When Sam got leave, he took the trolley from Pearl Harbor east to Honolulu. Hotel Street was where the ratings congregated: an avenue full of bars and dance halls and brothels, all designed to make sure a sailor out on a spree didn’t leave any money in his wallet and had a good time with what he spent. Shore patrolmen tramped along in groups of three or four; traveling in pairs wasn’t enough. Men called them names behind their backs, and sometimes to their faces.

  Sam sighed. Being an officer meant he was slumming here. He didn’t really belong, the way he had during the Great War. There were some quieter, more discreet establishments an officer could visit without losing face. Carsten liked rowdiness as much as the next sailor on leave. But he was conscious that, as a mustang, he couldn’t get away with certain things other officers might have. His superiors had warned him against acting as if he were still a CPO. Mustangs had the deck stacked against them anyhow. They made things harder for themselves if they remembered what they had been and forgot what they were.

  He was walking toward one of those discreet establishments when a plump blond woman not far from his own age came up the street toward him. He started to go past her, then stopped and did a double take. “I’ll be a son of a gun,” he said. “You’re Maggie Stevenson, aren’t you?”

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” she said, pronouncing it Leftenant in the British way. A wide, amused smile spread across her face. “I take it we’ve met before?”

  “Just once,” he replied with genuine regret. “That was the only time I could scrape so much cash together back in the last war. But you see I never forgot.”

  Her smile got wider yet. “I always wanted satisfied customers,” she said. “Every so often, a man who was here back then recognizes me. It’s flattering, in a way.” During the Great War, she’d been the undisputed queen of Honolulu’s women of easy virtue. She’d charged thirty bucks a throw, ten times the going rate for an average girl, and she’d made sailors think they got their money’s worth, too. She eyed Carsten’s shoulder boards. “You’ve come up in the world a bit since then.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe a bit. How about you?” She couldn’t be in the business any more, but she didn’t look as if she’d missed any meals. She’d made money hand over fist back then. Had she managed to hold on to any of it?

  She laughed. “Lieutenant, I own about half of Hotel Street. Every time some horny able seaman gets a piece, I get a piece of his piece. I get a piece of what he drinks, too, and of what he eats, whatever that is.” She laughed again. “I haven’t done too badly for myself.”

  “Good,” he said. Broken-down, penniless whores who’d got too old to turn tricks any more were a dime a dozen. Whores who’d made a killing in real estate, on the other hand . . . Well, now he’d met one. “Good for you, by God!”

  “You really mean it,” Maggie Stevenson said wonderingly.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Plenty of reasons, starting with that boring text about the wages of sin. For me, the wages of sin turned out to be pretty good, I had a lot of fun earning them, and I don’t regret a goddamn thing. What do you think of that?”

  “You sure gave a lot of fun,” Sam said. “I’m glad you had some, too. I’ve known quite a few working girls who didn’t—don’t.”

  “So have I.” She nodded. “I’m lucky. I have been lucky, most ways. So where are you headed, Lieutenant?”

  “I was going to the Excelsior Hotel.”

  She made a face at him. “That’s not one of mine. Would you rather visit the Oceanview?”

  From what he’d heard, the Oceanview was the best officers’ place in Honol
ulu. It was also the most expensive. “Sure,” he said, “or I would if I could afford it.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” She took a business card and a pen from her purse. She wrote on the card, then handed it to Sam. “Show them this at the door. On the house. For old times’ sake, you might say.”

  “Thanks very much.” He eyed the card. She’d written, Anything—Maggie in a bright purple ink. The printed card described her as a caterer. She catered to all kinds of appetites. “Thanks very much.”

  “You’ll pay me back. Just keep the Japs away. They’d be hell on business. Good luck, Lieutenant.” Off she went, the same determination in her stride as when she’d gone on to the next eagerly waiting sailor after leaving Sam. He looked down at the card again, smiled, and shook his head in wonder.

  The bouncers at the door to the Oceanview could have played professional football. They were used to seeing commanders and captains and even admirals, not an overage lieutenant, junior grade. “Help you, sir?” one of them rumbled. Help you get lost? he no doubt meant. Sam displayed Maggie Stevenson’s card, wondering what would happen next.

  “Oh,” the bouncer said. He actually came to attention, and nudged his even beefier pal so he did the same. “Didn’t know you knew the owner.” He handed back the card, nothing but respect on his blunt-featured face. “Have a good time, sir.”

  “I do believe I will,” Sam said, bemused. He walked in. The place wasn’t whorehouse gaudy. Everything had an air of quiet elegance. You could see the money, but it didn’t shout. And the purple ink on that card was a potent Open, Sesame.

  With that card in hand, his own money was no good in there. No one would take it, not even for tips. The food was good. The booze was better. After a while, he picked himself a girl. Just making the choice wasn’t easy; the Oceanview had girls to match anyone’s taste, as long as that taste was good.

  Sam finally settled on a blue-eyed brunette named Louise. She did whatever he wanted, and smiled while she was doing it. He didn’t ask for anything fancy or jaded; his own habits didn’t run that way. He didn’t think he warmed her, but she was pleasant all the way through.

  She didn’t throw him out of bed so she could go on to her next customer right away, either, the way girls in houses usually did. Instead, she lay beside him for a lazy cigarette and a brandy. “How did you get to know the Boss?” she asked; he could hear the capital letter.

  “Same way I just got to know you,” he answered, patting her round behind. He wondered if he could manage a second round. He’d been at sea a long time.

  Louise’s eyes widened. “She gave you that card for a roll in the hay years ago?” She didn’t say, You must have been better with her than you were with me. Even if she didn’t, Sam could tell what she was thinking.

  He shrugged. “Maybe she was feeling sentimental.” That sent Louise into gales of laughter. Well, Maggie Stevenson didn’t strike Sam as the sentimental type, either. But what other explanation made sense?

  And, in the end, what difference did it make? With Louise on top the second time, Sam did succeed again. He went back to the Remembrance thinking there were worse places to fight a war than Honolulu in spite of the tropical sun.

  Jefferson Pinkard always dreaded telephone calls from Richmond. When people in Richmond phoned Camp Dependable, it was usually to tell him to do things he didn’t want to do. Some things they didn’t want to put in writing, even in something as ephemeral as a telegram.

  “Hello, Pinkard.” Ferdinand Koenig sounded almost offensively cheerful this morning. Why not? The Attorney General gave orders. He didn’t have to take them. “How are you today?”

  “Fine, sir,” Jeff answered. Hopefully, he added, “Connection isn’t real good.”

  “No? I hear you just fine,” Koenig said—so much for that. “There’s something you need to take care of for me.”

  “What’s that?” Jeff asked, trying to hide the resignation he felt.

  “You still have Willy Knight there, right? Nothing’s happened to him or anything?”

  “No, sir. Nothing’s happened to him. We’ve still got him right here,” Pinkard said. He’d never included the former Vice President of the CSA in a population reduction. What you once did, you couldn’t undo. “How come? You need him again?” If they were crazy enough to want to use Knight to rally the country, or some small part of it, they could. Pinkard didn’t think it would work, but nobody’d asked his opinion, and nobody was going to, either.

  “Need him? Jesus Christ, no!” Ferd Koenig hadn’t lost all of his mind, then. “He’s never going to have any use for anybody again. Time to dispose of him.”

  “Dispose of him?” Pinkard wanted to make sure he had that right before he did anything. “Shall I expect something in writing that tells me the same thing? You people change your mind about that, whose ass is in a sling? Mine.”

  “Nobody’s going to put anything in writing about this,” Koenig said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow, that’s all.” He hung up.

  “Shit.” Jefferson Pinkard hung up, too. The Attorney General hadn’t said what would happen if he called back and found Willy Knight still breathing. Pinkard didn’t need anybody to draw him a picture, though. He could figure it out for himself. Somebody else would do Knight in—and he’d trade his uniform for prison coveralls, if the powers that be didn’t decide to dispose of him instead.

  It had to be done, then. And he had to see it done. You never could tell which guard was a secret Knight sympathizer. If the man got loose, especially now with a war on . . . Pinkard supposed that was why Richmond had decided it didn’t want to keep him around any more. If he ever escaped, the damnyankees could use him against the CSA. Or he could rally the black rebels, maybe even join them to white troublemakers. No wonder the Freedom Party didn’t want to take the chance of letting him keep breathing, even in a place like Camp Dependable.

  When Jeff walked out of the office compound and into the very different world of the camp itself, he wasn’t surprised to have Mercer Scott come over to him within a couple of minutes. “What’s up?” the guard chief asked.

  He knew Pinkard had got a call from Richmond. He didn’t even bother hiding that. But he didn’t know, or didn’t let on that he knew, what the call was about. Maybe he was sandbagging. Jeff didn’t think so. He hoped not, anyway. He said, “Have Atkins and Moultrie and McDevitt bring Willy Knight here right away. Those three, nobody else. Anybody fucks this up, Mercer, it may cost me my ass, but I promise you you’ll go down with me.”

  Again, Scott didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what Jeff was talking about. He said, “You want to come along with me, see I don’t talk to nobody else?”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said after a moment’s thought. “I guess maybe I do. No offense, Mercer, but this here’s important.”

  “Soon as you said it was about Willy, I reckoned it was,” Mercer Scott answered. “His clock finally run out?”

  Pinkard didn’t answer that, not in so many words. “Let’s just go get him, separate him off from the rest of the prisoners.” He laughed. “One thing—he won’t be hard to find.” Except for the guards, Knight was still the only white man in the camp.

  Braxton Atkins, Clem Moultrie, and Shank McDevitt were guards personally loyal to Pinkard. Mercer Scott had his own favorites, too. A guard chief would have been a damn fool not to. But Jeff was going to stand and fall with his people on this. Things still might go wrong, but they wouldn’t go wrong because he hadn’t done everything he could to make them go right.

  All five white men carried submachine guns with big, heavy snail-drum magazines when they went after Willy Knight. If anybody tried to give them trouble, they could spray a lot of lead around before they went down. The Negroes in the camp had been taken in arms against the Confederate States. They knew what sort of weapons the guards had, and no doubt why. They also knew the men in uniform wouldn’t hesitate to start shooting, not even a little bit. They gave them a wide berth.

  Pin
kard and his followers found Knight coming back from the latrine trenches. When the former Vice President realized they were heading his way, he straightened into a mocking parody of attention. “Well, gents, what can I do for you?”

  “Got a message for you from Richmond,” Pinkard answered stolidly. “It’s waiting back at the compound.”

  “A message? What kind of message?” Hope warred with fear on Knight’s scrawny, care-worn face. Did any part of him really imagine Jake Featherston would ever let him off the hook? Maybe so, or the hope wouldn’t have been there.

  “I don’t know. A message. They wouldn’t let me look at it.” Pinkard lied without compunction. This had to go smoothly. The way to make sure that happened was to keep Knight soothed, keep him eager, till the very last instant.

  And it worked. He believed because he wanted to believe, because he had to believe, because not believing meant giving up. “Well, lead me to it, by God,” he said, more life in his voice than Jeff had heard there for years.

  “No, Mr. Knight. You go first. You know the way,” Pinkard said. That Mister sealed the deal. Knight hurried on ahead of the guards. Behind his back, Mercer Scott gave Jeff a look filled with reluctant respect. He brought his free hand up to touch the brim of his juice-squeezer hat, as if to say, You know what you’re doing, all right.

  Once Pinkard had Willy Knight away from the rest of the prisoners, he knew things would go the way he wanted them to. He nodded to his three loyalists. They all raised their weapons and shot Knight several times each. He died hopeful, and he died fast. There were worse ways to go out—plenty of them. The camp gave examples every day.

  “Good job,” Jeff told the guards. His ears still rang from the gunfire. “Take what’s left here and get rid of it.” They dragged Willy Knight’s body away by the feet. That way, they didn’t get their uniforms so dirty. The corpse left a trail of red behind it. Flies started settling on the blood and buzzed round the body.