“Stick up his ass, huh?” the blonde said.
“Takes himself seriously. You sure you’re good enough for Jennifer?” Theresa said.
I sighed. “Probably not.”
“Damn right,” she said. “Don’t forget it. We’re her best friends, so we’ll be keeping an eye on you.” All three of them were smiling but I didn’t think they were kidding.
“I can’t wait,” I said.
“Don’t threaten him,” Jennifer said, finally coming back to the table. “You’ll scare him off.”
“If we can scare him off then he doesn’t deserve you,” Lois said.
I sipped my drink. “I already said I don’t deserve her.”
“Go away, ladies,” Jennifer said.
Smiling, they rose to their feet and trooped back to their own table. Jennifer shook her head. “Glad we got that cleared up. They’re friends. I have to put up with them.
“What’s next?”
Next, was open mic. One by one, two women and a man trooped up to the stage. The first woman talked with the band for a few seconds, nodded, picked up the microphone and began an excellent rendition of “Cry Me a River.” Her voice was low and smoky and the audience ate it up. The second one went for “Earthfall,” by Shigeru Toranaga, a slow lament about the abandoned cities of ancient Japan as they slowly sank beneath the sea. The last one sang “Lush Life,” a tough song with a lot of chord changes and chromatic dissonance, but he had a solid voice and he did a good job.
The trumpet player looked out at the audience. “Anybody else?” he asked.
Graham Reid rose to his feet. The trumpet player looked at the drummer. He shrugged. Reid walked up onto the stage, put his head together with the trumpet player, talked for a few moments then the trumpet player nodded, though he looked a little doubtful. Reid took the microphone, smiled out over the crowd, tipped his head back and began to sing and the audience grew suddenly silent. Reid knew how to sing. He had a deep voice, full of melody and vibrato and thunder and he cranked it out with the band pounding on the rhythm behind him. It was “Heartbreak Hotel,” the early Elvis Presley version before the tune got made over with a lot of instrumental crap. Reid sang about broken hearted lovers and how his tears keep on flowing and being so lonely he could die and he made us all believe it. And all the time he sang, he was smiling and he was grinning and he was smirking right at me. Jennifer looked at him and then she stared at my face and whatever she saw there made her eyes go wide and her face grow pale. The final piano chord whispered away, the last bass note hummed to a close and Graham Reid put back the microphone and stalked back to his table and the crowd went nuts.
“He’s pretty good,” Jennifer whispered.
I nodded. I had nothing at all to say. He was more than pretty good. I looked around the room. Lois and Theresa were frowning. Jolene was staring at Jennifer. Both of them looked grim. Jolene nodded and some wordless communication took place between them. Laura appeared stunned. I could see her glance at me then back to Graham Reid and then down at her hands folded primly in her lap.
I drew a deep breath and drained my drink and placed the glass very carefully back on the table. The challenge was over. Winston Smith and Graham Reid had won, for the moment, and Reid appeared to be savoring his victory.
I drew a deep breath. I wondered how much Graham Reid really knew. Was he just a pawn or was he a major player in the game? Whatever, the real game wasn’t over yet, I thought to myself. I wondered if Graham Reid knew that. Oh, no, it wasn’t over at all. Enjoy it now, you son of a bitch. Next time…next time the outcome will be very different.
Chapter 13
“What are you thinking?” Jen Mallett asked. She was naked, and we were lying next to a pool at the resort town of Lake April, not far from the village of Wittburg, in Avalon. I liked looking at Jen at any time but not surprisingly, I liked looking at her best when she was naked.
The sun was bright and the air was hot. Jen’s skin glowed. A tiny trickle of sweat slowly dripped down her left breast and hung, just for an instant, on her nipple. It took a lot of effort for me not to lean over and lick it off. Jen wriggled, stretched her arms over her head and slowly arched her back. “Isn’t this fun?”
It had been even more fun an hour or so before in our room and I expected that it would be more fun again later that evening. I smiled. “Yeah,” I said.
“Oh, you.” Then she grinned. “What shall we do today?”
“Look at vineyards.”
She pouted. “Sounds sort of boring.”
By now, I understood Jennifer Mallett but her attitude at first had surprised me. A successful businesswoman in her own right, she focused like a laser when something caught her interest but otherwise never seemed to take business very seriously. It really was a game to her. She was successful without having to work hard, probably because she was brilliant. Jen did what she felt like, when she felt like it and seemed not to think much about the future.
“I like to make money,” I said. “Making money is fun.”
She shrugged. “I think I’ll go shopping. I like the clothes here. They’re different.”
Avalon was colder than Meridien for most of the year, but this was summer and the natives tended to wear very little, mostly wispy, colorful scarves across their breasts and loose, diaphanous leggings, as though making up for the colder months when they had to bundle up.
“Thinking of importing them?”
She cracked a smile. “Well, yes.” Importing exotic clothing could be started on a small scale. It did not require an enormous outlay of capital. An easy, low risk opportunity. On the other hand, there were plenty of vineyards in the world and making wine required large investments of both money and effort, as she and I both knew very well.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” I said.
A month before, Guild Master Anderson had asked me to come by his office. He looked tanned and well rested. “Things going well?” I asked.
“Better.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“As you know, we have been unable to trace the new ownership of your Sindaran venture.” He paused for me to comment. I shrugged.
“Nothing to say? Prudent. I like a man who doesn’t waste my time.”
Guild Master Anderson, however, was wasting mine. I glanced at my interface. He snorted. “So far, we’ve come up empty but things seem to have settled down. Perhaps too much to call it an uneasy truce. Our opposition is evidently aware that we are aware. They’ve stopped their activities for the moment, the most blatant ones, at least, but I have no doubt that they have further plans.”
“Have you considered nationalizing Sutton Industries and Riva Lending? That might shake them up.”
“Hah!” He leaned back in his chair and smiled thinly. “We have considered it, but it’s a bad idea. Nothing would put off investment faster than the certain knowledge that this government does not respect the rights of private property. The economy would take a hit. The market would most likely crash.”
“So, what can I do?” I asked again.
“The immediate crisis is over. Your business is going well. You can afford to take some time and get away for a little while. A man in your position is expected to go on vacation, now and then. I would like for you to take a trip.”
“To where?”
He smiled. “Avalon.”
“Really…?” I smiled back.
Guild Master Anderson gave me a toothy grin. “You like that idea?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” I sat back in my seat and considered the idea. “Tell me more,” I said.
Jennifer was happy to come with me. She also liked the idea of getting away for a little while and Avalon was close to Octavia. The trip would give her a chance to visit home and see her family.
Illyria’s native life is low in hydrocarbon residue and fossil fuels barely exist on this world. Many nations, including our own, maintain a fleet of military jets but the fuel is extremely expensive. Underground
hyperloops run for thousands of kilometers up and down the coast but they can’t be extended beyond a few hundred kilometers to the west due to excessive tectonic activity in the middle of the continent. Airship is the most common way to travel long distance.
Less than a week after my conversation with Guild Master Anderson, we set out for Lake April, a high, crystal clear lake set in an ancient caldera, fed by the Rhine River and boasting a large population of tetraploid rainbow trout. The place is a fisherman’s paradise in summer and a renowned ski resort in winter. The trip took three days, which was fine with us. We were young, healthy and maybe even in love. The food was excellent, the views below interesting and varied and we spent most of the trip in bed. After landing, we took a rented car up to the lake, where I had reserved a suite with a private balcony overlooking the water and we had no complaints at all.
And so, two days later, I left Jen to her shopping and drove to Wittburg. It seemed a prosperous, sleepy little town. The streets were cobbled, the houses covered in white stucco that shone in the sun. It occurred to me that before I actually visited any vineyards, it might be smart to try to find out something more about the local industry, so I decided first to visit the town market, which consisted of fifty or more booths selling produce from nearby farms, freshly prepared food and an assortment of crafts.
The villagers were used to tourists and nobody seemed to find my presence unusual. I wandered from booth to booth until I arrived at one selling bottles of local wine. Samples were available for tasting and I asked to try a medium-priced red. The proprietor, a stocky, middle-aged man with deep blue eyes, olive skin and a three-day beard, looked me over carefully, poured a small sample into a glass and waited for my opinion.
“This could stand to age for a bit,” I said. “How long has it been in oak?”
The proprietor looked surprised. He puffed up his cheeks and gave me a quick grin. “One year.”
I swirled the wine and sipped it again. It was good wine; for the price, it was very good wine. “When was it bottled?”
“The vintage is from two years ago. This is the latest release.”
I smiled. The notion of buying a vineyard had provided a convenient excuse to visit Avalon, but it suddenly seemed like a better idea. “I imagine that most of it is sold locally?”
“Yes,” he said. “Most of our farms produce too little to sell for export.”
A cooperative of interested farmers might change that, I thought. “Give me something a little more expensive,” I said.
He poured me another, and then another. I put aside two bottles to purchase and continued to sample his products and before long, we were chatting like old friends. “You’re a tourist, no? Why are you here in our beautiful country?”
“I am a tourist but I’m also a businessman. I’m actually here because of the wine. I’m thinking of purchasing a vineyard.”
He frowned at that. “Ah,” he said. “Our government, they are very stupid. Making wine is expensive and tending the vines is difficult work. Many of our farmers are poor and would like to sell, but the taxes the government imposes on foreign ownership are very high.”
I nodded. “So I’ve heard. Perhaps there may be ways around this situation, if one knows the right people.”
He frowned at me. “I know nothing of that,” he said.
“I may be wrong, of course, but I think it’s worth exploring. Can you tell me who some of these farmers are who might be interested in selling?”
He continued to search my face, considering, then he shrugged. “I can give you a few names,” he said. “Feel free to tell them I sent you.”
I smiled. “Excellent.”
While I was sampling the local wine, Jennifer visited half a dozen craftsmen and signed contracts with three of them, one for hand tooled leather handbags, one for leather sandals and one for the brightly colored blouses that the locals favored in summer. She was pleased with herself. The next day, despite her previous conviction that visiting vineyards would not be fun, she decided to go along with me. I was happy to have her, if for no other reason than she might prove a pleasant distraction to a farmer reluctant to sell.
Away from the river and the lake, Wittburg was dry and dusty but the landscape was still worth looking at, with red rock and sparse purple wildflowers and a deep blue, cloudless sky. I had put a map of the most likely prospects in my interface. They lay in a rough circle around the town. Jennifer sat back in the car and let the wind blow through her hair while I drove.
I’ve never thought much of the old line about not mixing business with pleasure. With the breeze blowing, the sun shining on my face and a beautiful woman by my side, I felt entirely content.
Of the eleven men and women who had invaded my warehouse, we had positively identified three, all supposedly deceased, as former members of the Avalon Commandos. All three had left family in Avalon, but only one had actually come from Wittburg. I planned on spending a couple of days establishing my cover story—and maybe even buying a vineyard—and then I planned on paying that family a visit.
The first vineyard we came to was a rocky, run down little place, with scraggly, half dead looking vines. The farmer was old and wrinkled and his hands had a fine, persistent tremor, but he greeted us courteously enough. “I have worked this farm all of my life,” he said, “but my children couldn’t wait to leave. They’ve moved to the city.” He smiled wanly. “And I can’t blame them. It’s difficult for me. You want to buy it? You can have it cheap.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “We’re looking at a number of places. Perhaps I’ll get back to you when we’ve seen them all.” The farm comprised twenty acres, most of it barren, empty and unplanted, but the best wine comes from stressed vines in rocky, well-drained soil. A drip irrigation system might be enough to make the place productive.
The farmer shrugged. He offered us samples of his latest vintage and I was sincere in praising it. We exchanged pleasantries, shook hands and drove off.
The next two places were similar, rocky, almost barren holdings winding higher and higher into the mountains. On our way to the third, we passed a long stretch of barbed wire fencing. Signs were posted every few meters: Property of the Avalon Military Authority. No Trespassing. The base comprised almost five square kilometers on a high, dusty plateau. Though the sign did not say it, I knew that this was a training base for the Avalon Commandos. Through the fence, we could see a series of barracks, a small administration building, a rifle range with a few recruits diligently practicing, an obstacle course and three platoons of soldiers marching in formation. None of them seemed to be working very hard. None were in a hurry. There was a running track covered in a red, rubberized surface and a game field for outdoor sports, both empty. If this was standard practice for the military forces of Avalon, I didn’t think much of it. My own year of military service had been considerably more intense.
Jennifer barely glanced at the base as we drove by. She covered her mouth with the back of one hand and yawned.
“They don’t look very formidable, do they?” I said.
“Avalon hasn’t fought a war in over a century.”
“It’s strange.”
She gave me a curious look. “How so?”
“The place looks more like a summer camp than a military installation.”
“A small country with no enemies; they don’t plan on conquering the world.”
I wasn’t surprised, actually. Not at all. It fit the pattern, but I had wanted to see for myself.
We drove on, visited two more vineyards, each much like the others, and returned to the resort in time for dinner. Tomorrow, I thought, I would make some calls that might be more interesting.
Justin Gerhard, Stephan Burk and Ernst Muller were the three former members of the Avalon Commandos who had participated in the raid on my warehouse. All had left family behind, and so far as discreet surveillance could determine, none had made any contact since their assumed death.
Maryanne an
d Egon Burk seemed to have recovered from the loss of their son and lived a happy life with three other children. The same for Frantz and Elke Muller. They had two daughters and five grandchildren. They were retired and spent most of their time with their daughters’ families. Ilse Gerhard was a widow and Justin had been her only child. She did not live a happy life. She spent her days alone, wandering now and then into the village to purchase groceries. Her face was lined and hopeless. I shook my head as I looked at the pictures that Guild Master Anderson had supplied me.
I wanted to find the people who had taken over Sindara and we didn’t have a lot of clues. I needed to understand what had happened here.
It was unusual for children to cut themselves off from their families. It was perhaps even more unusual to cut themselves off from their friends.
“Mrs. Gerhard?”
She stood silently in the doorway for a long moment, looking me over, then gave a tiny shrug. “Can I help you?” she said.
“Yes, Ma’am. My name is Jeremy Locke. I was wondering if you might be willing to answer some questions.”
“I do not respond to political polls,” she said.
This bewildered me for a moment until I remembered that Avalon was a “democracy.” Evidently the politicians were attempting to determine the citizenry’s preferences before pandering for votes.
“This is not a questionnaire of that sort,” I said.
She frowned, then looked away, uninterested. “Ask your questions.”
“Some years ago, your son, Justin Gerhard, enlisted in the military. How did that come about?”
“My son.” She stood up straight and for the first time she looked me in the eye. “Why are you asking me about my son? My son is dead.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m a journalist. I’m writing a book about military training. While doing my preliminary research, I came across your son’s name. It occurred to me that his story would make an excellent chapter.” Total garbage, of course, but at least this would present the not-as-dead-as-he-was-supposed-to-be Justin Gerhard in a good light.
The Game Players of Meridien: Chronicles of the Second Empire (Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind Book 1) Page 10