“Why is that?” I asked, “Is it dangerous?”
“Only in some sectors,” he replied, “Dilshad’s is on the border between the slums and the historic district. No, the sur charge is because I can’t get a return fare on level five.”
“Fine. I’ll pay,” I said as the cab pulled out of the Druid drive and entered the flow of traffic.
We traveled for a few blocks until the cab turned onto a ramp. The ramp ended on level three. Six blocks later we descended another ramp. As were traversed the levels, I noticed the lighting grew dimmer and the buildings becoming less modern. On level five, the structures were marred by chipped paint and rust stains. The hustle of the pedestrians on levels one and two going about their business was replaced by thugs loitering in front of run down shops.
The driver slowed and looked from one side to the other as the cab slowly drove through the streets.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
He’d made another slow turn as if the cab would tip over.
“No, Sir. Insurance fraud,” he replied, “On level five, we’ve had a number of scam artists jump in front of cabs. They claim injuries and the company pays off but the driver’s insurance rates go through the level. If you know what I mean?”
“So, better cautious then sorry,” I replied.
We turned down another street and the maintenance of the buildings improved. Ahead of us, a neon-sign flashed ‘Dilshad’. Below the lighted letters, painted letters spelled out ‘Spirits, Dancing Girls, Food & Beds, Not Necessarily In That Order’.
“There it is,” my driver said pointing out the front windshield, “Dilshad’s Restaurant. Number 2 on the Historic Register.”
“What’s number 1?” I asked.
“Don’t know. I never looked it up,” my driver said as he edged the cab to the curb across the street from the restaurant.
The taxi pulled away from me slowly and I studied the façade of Dilshad’s. It sat among the brick, concrete, alloy and steel of level five like a relic in an archeology dig. Composed of corrugated metal, the historic restaurant from the outside was a huge tin building. Construction companies built them on work sites as temporary facilities.
I crossed the street. The lettered sign upon closer inspection had carefully placed dents and brushed on rust to give the appearance of age and history. In reality, it was a new sign.
I reached the front of the restaurant and pushed through a pair of swinging doors. In the waiting area, pictures of Tres when it was under construction adorned the walls. One photo showed a group of young men and women standing in the dirt. Most were dark complexed but four were red from exposure to direct sunlight. Behind them were five construction sheds, one had the original Dilshad sign over the entrance.
“Welcome to Dilshad’s Restaurant,” an elderly woman asked, “Lunch for one?”
She’d emerged from a door behind the reservation counter.
“I’m meeting five friends,” I replied.
“You must be one of Arna’s friends,” she said, “She’s reserved the Gambling Hall for your group. My name’s Iesha. Come this way.”
Arna Thorsten was one of Warlock’s Strikers, call sign Thunder Eagle.
“Have you known Arna long,” I asked as the woman led me through a large dining room and out a side door.
“Ever since she was a little girl climbing on the level’s struts,” the woman said turning down a long hall.
At the end of the hallway, the woman reached out and gripped a wall lamp. It rotated and a section of the wall retreated inward. She stepped through and I followed.
The room was a large rectangle. Each wall had a couple of doorways and the walls and the doors were covered by ornately carved wood. In the center of the room was a long table also made of the same dark polished wood. Its legs were hand carved as well. Arranged around the room were felt covered tables and two roulette wheels.
“Welcome to the Gambling Hall,” the woman exclaimed after giving me time to take in the features, “Of course, we no longer offer games of chance. However, some customers still enjoy the ambience of this room. We reserve it for large groups or for friends.”
“Friends like Arna?” I asked walking over to a section of wall.
I placed the stuffed tote bag on the floor and marveled at the artistry of the woodwork.
“Yes,” the woman said watching me closely as if I’d take out a knife and start whittling on the old wood.
I recognized the carvings. From the tight scrolls, the sweep of the curves, and the deep and precise etchings, the artistry was pure Druid. I couldn’t recall any mention in my history lessons where Druids participated in the construction of Planet Tres.
“This art work,” I said indicating an intricate area, “Who did this?”
“I don’t know,” she replied while intertwining her fingers then unraveling them, “The Gambling Hall was completed by friends of the Dilshad family in year four of construction.”
“I didn’t ask for a history lesson,” I said, “I asked who did the woodwork?”
Her fingers twisted in tightly and she excused herself, “I’d better go check on the rest of your party.”
She left me alone with no answer.
I studied Elder Nolwenn.
“How did a room, built when earthmoving equipment was still leveling the dirt of Planet Tres, come to have Druid carved walls and doors?” I asked Nolwenn.
“I am not familiar with Dilshad’s,” he replied, “So I haven’t any knowledge of the carvings.”
As he talked, his eyes shifted. He was lying. I didn’t know whether it was about the Druid carvings or his haven’t visited the restaurant. I was beginning to dislike the Druid Elder. I went back to the filling him in on my experiences.
I strolled around looking at the gaming tables. They, too, were beautiful representations of woodwork but not so fine as to be created by Druids. Leaning down, I studied the underside of one table. The raw wood was branded by the manufacturer. Nothing unusual, a lot of wood shops used red hot iron twisted into the shape of the company’s logo. It was a classy way to permanently mark their creations.
The branding was hard to read in the shadow of the table’s underside. I wasn’t really interested, just killing time, so I almost missed the brass plate. A flicker of light while I was unbending drew my attention. I stooped down again and leaned further under the table.
A brass plate, two hands wide and a hand high, was screwed to the underside of the gaming table. It was too large to be a company’s identity tag and too thick to be a manufacturer’s placard. It looked like the brass plate from a space ships’ Bridge.
I stood and searched the room. Between two doors in the back, I spotted a serving table. From it, I grabbed a candle and a box of matches. With the lit candle, I went back under the first gambling table.
‘Carina’ was emboldened on the brass plate. I typed in the name, identifying it as a merchant ship, on my PID. The response was, ‘Carina, Merchant Fleet ship lost in space before the Great Schism.’
I moved to another gaming table and dove under it.
‘Itzel’ was stamped on this brass plate. My PID responded, ‘Itzel, Merchant Fleet ship lost in space post the Great Schism.’
At a third table, I read the plate, ‘Zia’. My PID returned from the search, ‘Zia, Merchant Fleet ship lost in space one hundred years ago.’
So now I knew the source of the Dilshad’s long term success. The restaurant’s entertainment and gambling may have made a profit but, the true source of income was Peseta laundering. Dilshad Pirates had use the establishment, as little as a hundred years ago, as a place to dump ill-gotten gains from their raids. The result was a successful business washing the money until it could be declared as legal income.
I was pondering these old crimes of privateering. Nothing could be done as everyone who’d participated in the raids would be long dead or past the statute of limitations. Besides, the restaurant might have bought them for ambience. It was
just old stories with no effect on my present situation.
Then a side door opened, and a man appeared in the door frame.
“Good afternoon,” I said as I blew out the candle.
“We don’t encourage snooping,” he stated in a low threatening voice.
“You mean because of the stolen brass plates and the Dilshad raiding,” I replied pointing to the gaming tables.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responded quickly, “I meant the live flame near the wood. I’m Ali Dilshad, General Manager of this establishment.”
“Sorry, I thought you were referring to other matters,” I said and introduced myself, “Phelan Piran of the Galactic Council Navy.”
“Mister Piran. Please refrain from handling live flames while here,” he said, “We’re number 2 on the Historic Register and this room, in particular, is priceless. And wood and flammable. Am I clear?”
“Clear. What’s number 1 on the historic register?” I asked trying to change the subject from me as an arsonist to me as a curious customer.
“We don’t know,” he replied, “The government has never listed it.”
“If you’re the manager of a historic sight,” I said as an idea formed, “Who is the financial director of Dilshad’s?”
“That would be my cousin, Nasrin,” he answered, “I don’t believe you’d enjoy meeting my cousin.”
“Ali. I have a question for Nasrin,” I said, “and not only do I want to meet her, I’ll pay for the privilege of meeting her.”
“Let me see what I can do,” he said closing the door as he left.
A waiter entered from another door. It was becoming a guessing game. From which door would the next person emerge?
“A bottle of cognac,” I ordered, “Ice, water and six glasses.”
“Will a ‘Tom Keller XO’ suffice,” he asked.
“Perfect, thank you,” I replied.
I was alone in the room again. It was tempting to relight the candle and check the underside of the other gaming tables. Ali’s warning about fire held me in check. Good thing it did as another door opened.
She was dressed in an expensive suit and her hair was slicked back. If I didn’t pick up on her as being an important woman, the appearance of a large bodyguard confirmed it.
“Piran? You wanted a meet?” she asked as she strutted into the room.
The bodyguard was close behind and eyeing the corners of the room for threats. Obviously, his boss could handle me, or so his body language displayed. His boss was important enough to have enemies, yet, dangerous enough to face a known threat by herself. Good, I was hoping for a gangster type and Nasrin Dilshad didn’t disappoint.
“Nasrin. I assume,” I said returning her steady stare, “Lieutenant Phelan Piran. I recently met a relative of yours.”
“I have a large family,” she said, “but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“He was a boxer. Now he’s a space baker in the Navy,” I explained, “He told me an interesting story.”
“How interesting?” she asked.
I broke eye contact and walked to my tote bag. Snatching up the bag, I turned and held it out from my body.
“I believe I owe you for this meeting,” I said reaching in with my hand held open.
A pistol appeared in the bodyguard’s hand. I used two fingers to pull out a few high valued Pesetas. I dropped the tote bag and held out the bills.
“If I take that, we’re in business,” Nasrin stated, “but I don’t know what business.”
“The story the Navy baker told me was about a portion of the Dilshad Clan,” I said still holding out the money, “It seems some of the Dilshad’s earn their living by stepping outside legal boundaries.”
“That was true. It may or not be today,” she replied, “How far outside the boundaries are we discussing?”
“At the moment, not at all,” I explained, “but if things go wrong, the boundary would move drastically.”
“So which statute violation are we discussing?” she asked.
“Smuggling,” I replied still holding out the cash.
“What do you want brought in?” she asked, “If some of my cousins are still in that business?”
“Not drugs or contraband and not brought down,” I explained, “What would it cost me to get about twelve people off world?” I asked.
“Their destination?” she replied.
“The BattleShip Ander El Aitor,” I stated and for the first time Nasrin Dilshad let a flash of emotion break her stare.
“You, a Lieutenant in the Navy, want to smuggle people onto a Navy BattleShip?” she asked.
“I might if things go wrong,” I said, “I’ll make a non-refundable deposit. You can call it a donation to the Historical Society for the up keep of the Dilshad Restaurant, if we don’t do business.”
“One thousand Pesetas each, cash,” she replied, “My people will need about twelve hours to prepare. I’ll give you a contact in case you require our services.”
She reached out, swiped her PID over mine, and took the cash in one motion.
“10% deposit,” she said turning and heading for the open door, “Give it to my associate.”
The bodyguard stepped up and waited silently as I counted out the deposit. He folded the cash in one big hand, turned silently, and followed his boss out the door.
On a whim, after the tailors, I went to the Bank of the Realm and withdrew a large amount of Pesetas. The cash was sitting in my tote bag along with five more totes. I was unsettled with the arrival of an Ambassador and a strange ritualistic festival. Beyond that, were my suspicions of a Gala put on by a known traitor. And, her request to have all of the command staff from the military in attendance, especially, the senior staff from a BattleShip. I just felt like having cash on hand and now I’d spent some.
I chalked the deposit off as insurance. If I needed it, it was there. If not, it was piece of mind.
Another door opened and the waiter entered. On a tray balanced expertly in one hand was a bucket of ice, a small pitcher of water, six glasses and a bottle of excellent cognac.
Two fingers of ‘Tom Keller XO’ with two ice cubes completed my drink. I sipped and strolled around admiring the wood carvings. They were definitely Druid.
Another door opened, this was getting confusing. Arna Thorsten, call sign Thunder Eagle, strolled in followed by Shigeko Amaya, call sign Heavy Rain. They were Warlock’s left side unit for the Strike-Kill team.
“How do you like the gaming hall, Lieutenant?” Arna asked holding out her arms to indicate the character of the room.
“It’s beautiful. Do you know who did the wood work?” I asked.
She walked to me while Heavy Rain headed for the cognac. He set up two glasses put ice in one and kept the other straight up. I wondered who would get the ice.
“The carvings have been here long before I arrived,” Thunder Eagle said.
“You’re from planet Tres aren’t you?” I asked, then got indelicate, “From deck five?”
She smiled, shook her head, and I watched as the smile melted.
“No. I was a level three kid until I was eleven,” she said. Heavy Rain handed her the cognac without ice. “Thank you,” she said adding a slight bow to her left side partner.
Chapter 4
“What happened at eleven?” I asked taking a sip of my drink.
Shigeko Amaya shook his head as if to say he’d heard the story. He wandered over to a roulette wheel and spun the ‘wheelhead’. I could hear the spinning ball as it jumped over the ‘frets’. A low, evil laugh followed closely when the ball finally landed on a number. It appeared Heavy Rain had guessed the winning number. After studying the wheel for a second, he spun it again. I assumed he was an only child and accustomed to playing by himself.
“It’s called the Devil’s game,” volunteered Thunder Eagle, “because all the numbers on a roulette wheel add up to 666.”
“Tell me what happened to the eleven-year-old Arna Thor
sten,” I replied.
“My parents and I lived in a large apartment on level three until I was eleven,” she said. Her eyes softened as she recalled the memories. “I went to a good school. Played trumpet, which tortured my mother, in the junior band. And I had friends, some dear to me, others just in passing, but friends all.”
“My father was a master welder working on deck one,” she continued, “He’d come home and describe the sun rises, crack jokes and tell me I was his Princess. On weekends, we’d drive up to level one and he’d show me the sunsets and describe the stars. One day at school, my mother walked into my classroom. Her eyes were red rimmed and I could tell she was upset.”
Arna paused to sip her drink and rub her arm. In a recent action, she’d almost lost the arm in an attack by an insurgent. Thunder Eagle won the fight but, had she been a millisecond slower, she’d have lost the arm. I didn’t rush her.
We heard a growl from the roulette table. Arna turned to look at the big Striker.
“Steady there Shigeko,” she said softly to Heavy Rain.
The big Striker was standing with clinched fists glaring at the roulette wheel.
“The trajectory was perfect,” he complained, “but my numbers aren’t coming up.”
“You’re not on a range. Elevation, the load, and your skills wouldn’t win that game,” she said looking softly at her team member. To me she whispered, “Heavy Rain was a scout sniper. Then, Special Navy Operations realized he could pile on slabs of muscle and still keep his dexterity. He still has the ego of a sniper and the need to be in control of everything. Gambling always sets him off. Even when there’s no Pesetas involved.”
“Now where was I?” Thunder Eagle asked turning back to me, “Oh right, the day my mother collected me from school. We went to the medical deck. Seems my father fell while trying to pull an apprentice to safety. He’d unhooked his safety line and crawled out on a beam. As he reached for the stricken man, the apprentice jumped at my father. The report is confusing but the result was the young man used by father’s back to regain the landing. In the process, my father fell off the beam.”
Galactic Council Realm 3: On Guard Page 3