by Dan Moren
There was a snort in the room that Eli would have wagered came from Two. “Yes, I know,” said Eli crossly. “Imagine! But it’s got a letter after it. A “D”—probably a MacDougal or a MacDonald? And there’s more words after it, but I can only really remember the sense—some sort of generic company name. Shipping Incorporated? Transit Company? Something like that.”
“Anything else?”
Eli shook his head; nothing else had rattled loose. “Eamon and I talked. Personal stuff, mostly.”
“You can open your eyes.”
The bright sunlight made Eli blink and his eyes water. Fielding was sitting across from him, hands folded, elbows resting on his knees. He looked, well, if not impressed, then at least appreciative.
“Well, that’s something. Thanks.”
“No problem. You guys sure know how to have a good time.” He cleared his throat. “So what about our deal?”
Had there been a clock on the wall, Eli was sure he could have felt the breeze from the seconds ticking by as Fielding considered his request. Two had taken the opportunity to lean back and examine his fingernails with extreme interest. Three stared off into the distance, as though he were consulting some internal database.
“What,” said Eli, breaking the silence. “You think I’m going to run off? Like the old man said, where am I gonna go?” He gestured around the room. “All the identification papers I have came from you guys. Tracking me down would barely qualify as a walk in the park.”
“It’s for your own safety as well,” said Fielding.
“From who?” said Eli, rolling his eyes. “Besides you guys, almost nobody in the galaxy knows I’m still alive.”
“Your brother knows, for one. And from the evidence we’ve got so far, it’s pretty clear that he’s highly placed in the Black Watch.”
“If they wanted to kill me, they’d have done it last night. They wouldn’t have let me go just to track me down again. Besides, he’s my brother.”
Fielding looked far from convinced, but Eli could tell he saw the logic in his argument.
“Come on, Fielding. I took you as a man of your word and I followed through on my part of the deal. Now it’s your turn to deliver.”
Maybe he was going out on a limb, but something about Fielding—the way he’d talked to Antony back on Sabaea, even the few conversations they’d had—told Eli that the man had a code. And the great thing about a code was that you could use it to your advantage.
“Fine.” Fielding gestured to the other man, the lanky one who hadn’t said much. “But Three will go with you to ensure your safety.” Eli considered objecting to that, but as he’d already played his hole card there wasn’t a snowball’s chance of foregoing an escort. And, truth be told, part of him relaxed a little bit at the thought of the tall, quiet man watching his back.
“All right,” said Eli. “Say hi to Eamon for me.” He paused. “On second thought, don’t.”
The mismatched pair boarded the southbound maglev train for Galway less than an hour later, with stops in Rye, Donan, Oban, and Berwick—the town in which Fielding told Eli he’d find his sister. They packed light: Eli had brought nothing more than his Marcus Wellington identification papers, the comm that Fielding had given him, and his hangover—he assumed Three, on the other hand, had enough weaponry to blow up the train and confront any other threat that might arise.
They traveled separately. Having made contact with the Black Watch, there was a chance that someone was keeping tabs on Eli, so they each bought their tickets from the automated kiosk. Though they were in the same car, Three had taken a seat several rows away, where he sat calmly reading the morning news on the train’s complimentary display screens; just another daily commuter.
Having gotten an early start, thanks to Fielding’s bedside interrogation at the crack of dawn, they arrived in Berwick just around 9:30.
The town was not remotely what Eli had expected. Most of the settlements in the south were little more than mining outposts, there to maintain the corporate interests and accommodate the workers, overseers, and their families. They were intensely practical, lacking any sort of frill or luxury.
At Berwick, the coast jutted inland to form a small protected harbor; the town was situated atop a rocky cliffside. It was small, little more than a village, and summoned to mind words like “quaint” and “picturesque,” which Eli had never before associated with his homeworld. Most astounding of all, there was actual greenery in Berwick, thanks in no small part, he determined by looking it up on his comm, to the efforts of a nearby de-salinization plant that helped turn the ocean water into life-giving irrigation for plants, trees, and grass.
The train depot itself set the mood for the town. A low, one-story building with a rounded, gabled roof, it looked as though it had been transplanted from a historical Earth novel and plopped down on this planet, light years away from its home. And yet it was of a piece with the rest of Berwick. Pleasant, paved streets ran through wooded neighborhoods; over the treetops Eli could see tiled roofs, even a steeple or two.
It’s like walking into another bloody world, Eli thought, shaking his head. One that hadn’t seen the occupation, the resistance, even the economic depression of the mining settlements. An isolated pocket, immune to the ravages of time and tide.
It gave him the creeps.
As he left the depot, Eli pulled out his comm and punched in the waypoint Fielding had given him: 712 Nicholson Street. Map directions popped up on the screen, guiding him through each turn. As he looked up again, he realized he’d lost sight of Three; his first instinct was to crane his head and look for the tall skinny man, but he caught himself just in time. If someone is watching, that’d be a bit obvious.
The arrows on the map led him on a merry chase through the small, winding streets of Berwick, showing him veranda-fronted houses—some with turrets, towers, and even stained glass windows—all bathed in shade from the tall trees overhead. Eli tried to keep from gawping at the surroundings, but it was all so unreal that he couldn’t help himself.
After fifteen minutes of walking, the comm made its polite chime to alert him that he’d reached his destination. The charming white clapboard house at 712 Nicholson Street was similar to many of the structures he’d passed, with a wide porch that encircled it like a battlement. On the porch sat a number of rocking chairs, including one long wooden bench swing. A blue-green Caledonian flag—not the hawk crest of the Illyrican Empire, Eli noticed—snapped in the breeze.
It wasn’t until the voice came through the screen door that Eli realized he was being watched. There was no question of its origins, either; the accent was distinctly Caledonian, and not the rough-and-tumble tones of Eli’s own upbringing, but the romanticized rural lilt that you saw in colonization-era vids, where the parts had regularly been played by actors from Scotland and Ireland back on Earth. Somehow it had fed back into actual Caledonian society; life imitating art and all that.
“Can I help you, lad?” It was a woman’s voice with a timbre that brooked no argument. If Eli had had a cap, he would have doffed it and wrung it nervously in his hands. As it was, he put on the most ingratiating smile he could summon and stepped toward the cliché of a white-picket gate.
The screen door swung open, squeaking on its hinges just as you’d expect such a screen door to squeak. Holding it open with one hand, a woman stood in the doorway, eyeing Eli with a weighty gaze. The broad features of her face, combined with the heavy coating of freckles and the pronounced auburn tint of her hair—wrapped up in a bun at the back of her head—testified to the many and varied heritages of the planet’s founders. A flowered apron covered her from neck to knee, above a plain white blouse and a pair of sensible trousers.
“Morning, ma’am. I, uh—I’m looking for my sister.”
Her gaze fixed him as solidly as though he were nailed into place, but there was something of recognition in it. “So you’ll be the other one, then. Elijah, is it?”
“Uh, yeah, that�
��s me,” said Eli, blinking. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“A feeling which, I take it, you’re not unused to,” she said with an appraising look.
Eli hesitated, caught flat-footed by the pointed remark. “Er.”
Her expression softened. “Now there’s a look you’d never see on your brother’s face, the cocksure bastard.” The epithet was laced with an almost motherly affection. She shook her head. “There’s no mistaking that face on you. Three peas in a pod, you are. Well, don’t just stand there gawking all day.” She turned sideways, displaying the not insubstantial bulk of her figure, and held the door open, inviting him in. Eli fumbled with the gate and let himself in, climbing the creaky wooden stairs to the porch.
Close up, the woman was no less daunting. As with her voice, there was something solid about her; it implied a steadfast resolve that not only knew more than you did, but more than pretty much anybody else you knew.
“Um,” he said, finally managing to get a syllable in edgewise, a hesitant and unremarkable one though it was. “And you are?”
“I’m Sui. Sui Munroe. I look after your sister,” she said while ushering him through the door and into the house.
The inside of the building was no less anachronistic than its exterior. A carved wooden balustrade swept up to the second floor from the front hallway, accompanying the lushly carpeted stairway. A glass chandelier-style light fixture hung overhead, though it was off in the daylight hours. There were paintings on the wall—some of them originals, some of them prints of more famous works—and an embarrassment of knickknacks that was far more than Eli could ever remember seeing in one place. It was altogether more stuff than he was accustomed to, given the places he’d lived for the last decade.
The academy had been sparse on personal possessions; during most of his time there he’d shared a bunkroom with around seven other classmates. Then there’d been his all-too-brief stint on the Venture where, again, he’d had no space to himself. Then to a military prison on Sabaea, which didn’t bear much remembering, and then to his janitor’s closet on Davidson Base. Even his brief accommodations on the Indefatigable had been stripped to the bare essentials. Confronted by the assortment of decorations and material goods arrayed in the hallway, he felt a dizzying sense of claustrophobia, coupled with a sensation of profound waste. Pretty much all I’ve had for the last nine years are the boots on my feet.
He caught his hostess watching him and flashed her a quick smile. “Sorry, it’s not quite what I expected, I guess. This is probably the most extravagant place a Brody’s ever lived.”
Her forehead wrinkled slightly, but if Sui was offended by the comment she didn’t show it. “Well, we like to maintain a comfortable, welcoming environment for our girls.”
Girls?
“So,” said Eli, looking around slowly, “this isn’t all for Meghann?”
Sui let out an abbreviated laugh that sounded more like a bird chirping. “Dear me, no. We have around fifteen girls here at any one time. Some are only passing through—others, like your sister, are with us for longer.”
Eli frowned. “I see.” He looked at the woman, and then smiled awkwardly and scratched at his head. “Well, okay, I don’t really. I guess you probably know I’ve been away for a while.”
“So I’ve heard. Well, you’re here now, and that’s what’s important, right?” Still, there was a tone in her voice that made Eli feel as though she weren’t convinced—something hanging in the air. I’m missing something. Damn it, Eamon. What’d you conveniently forget to tell me?
“Can I … see Meghann?”
Sui hesitated, glancing up at the stairs behind her. “I’ll just go up and let her know you’re here. Would you mind waiting through there?” She nodded her head toward a pair of varnished sliding wooden doors. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“Of course.” Feeling no less confused, he watched as she climbed slowly up the stairs. Then he slid one of the doors open and stepped into the room.
Like the entryway, the room was awash in a collection of ephemera. There were framed photos on many shelves, along with a few older-looking pieces: an antique metal lantern, what looked like a centuries-old navigation device, and a large framed map that appeared to show the main continent of Caledonia, rendered in a faux-antique fashion. Light shone in through a pair of large windows draped in gauzy white curtains, and the furniture—a love-seat, armchair, and sofa—were of overstuffed red plush, almost the crimson of an Illyrican soldier’s uniform.
The room was also occupied.
“Some things never change,” said Eamon from the armchair. “Tell you to do one thing and you’ll do the exact goddamn opposite. It’d be hilarious if it weren’t so predictable.”
Eli’s breath caught in his chest. “Eamon? What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be going to the meet.”
The older Brody raised an eyebrow, a move that set Eli on edge, so closely did it match his own habit. The urge to wipe the expression off his brother’s face was powerful. “And you’re not supposed to be here at all.”
Son of a bitch. “So what is this, then? Interrogation, part two?” A thought occurred to him and he gritted his teeth. “Jesus, is Meghann even here? Or was this all just some bizarre ruse to get me out here?”
“Don’t worry, she’s here.” Eamon’s brow darkened. “She’s hardly been anywhere else for the last five years. But that’s not really the point.” He got to his feet and wandered over toward the window. Standing next to the edge of the frame, he glanced outside, twitching the curtain to keep himself shadowed. “I see your babysitter came with you. You must be pretty important to the Commonwealth.”
“The only reason I’m of any use to them was to find you. I told you: I help them, they help me.”
His brother sucked in air through his teeth, adopting an air of mock regret. “Sounds tempting, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on your little blind date.”
“I don’t get it.” Eli’s brow furrowed. “You already gave them a bunch of information. Why back out now?”
Eamon examined his fingernails. “I do business with a lot of people I’d rather avoid.”
Eli stared at him. “Christ, you’re still the same contrary son of a bitch, aren’t you? I had my life upended by these bastards trying to find you, and you’re not even going to spare ten minutes for them? You’re going to that goddamned meeting, Eamon.”
“And what, you think you’re going to make me? You and your babysitter?”
“Well, I don’t see any of your ‘colleagues’ from last night.” He gestured around the room. “They don’t exactly have your back here.”
“At least I can trust them,” he shot back. “They didn’t take off and join the people who brutalized our planet.”
Eli felt his teeth grind together. “Oh, spare me the politics. That was never my fight—you just dragged me along like a puppy on a leash.”
“This is our planet we’re talking about.” Eamon’s hands clenched into fists. “It’s all of our fights.”
“Yeah, right. I see not much has changed here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“For chrissake, Eamon—it’s been nine years and you’re still in the exact same place you were when I left. How’s that fight going, huh? Get rid of the Illyricans yet?”
“Fuck off.”
The room felt like it was suffused with flammable gas just waiting for a spark. Eli hadn’t come to fight, but the more he thought about it the more he had trouble remembering why exactly he had come back to Caledonia in the first place. He’d thought Eamon was in trouble, and part of him had wanted to help his brother; but having found him, he’d started to wonder if that had been such a great idea. All he wanted to do now was get his sister and get the hell out of here. His deal with Fielding was looking more tantalizing by the minute: he and Meghann could be sitting on a sandy beach on one of the Commonwealth worlds, getting a tan and drinking something fruity and h
ighly alcoholic.
Anywhere but here.
“You know what you missed, being gone for all that time?” said Eamon suddenly, his eyes burning. “I’ll show you.” And without further preamble, he strode across the room, seized Eli by the arm, and dragged him toward the front hallway.
“It’s time you learned, little brother, that actions have consequences.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eamon dragged Eli all the way out of the parlor and into the foyer, his grip still fastened securely around his younger brother’s wrist. They made it all the way to the base of the stairs before Eli wrenched away, rubbing at his wrist. “Bloody hell,” he snapped, shoving at Eamon. “You don’t have to take my arm off.”
“You’re lucky it was just your arm,” he said in a low growl.
“Otherwise, what? You going to hit me?”
“Keep it up and I just might, wise-ass.”
“Boys.” It was a voice with whip-crack authority. Eli winced from a phantom pinch on his ear, the maneuver that his mother had fallen back on when all else had failed. It had been surprisingly effective.
Sui Munroe had appeared and stood with her hands on her hips, somehow looking down on them despite the fact that she was a head shorter than either of the brothers.
“If either of you says so much as one more word at anything above an inside voice, I will have your behind out of here so fast that your eyes will still be watching it go. Are we clear?”
Eli’s gaze had dropped sheepishly to his shoes; he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Yes, Sui,” said Eamon, biting at his lip. If his jaw was clenched any tighter, it would have been wired shut.
“Good,” she said, dropping her hands from her hips. Her face softened. “Now, let me take you upstairs.” Wiping her hands on the apron at her waist, she bustled past the two and began climbing.
The carpet that ran the length of the stairs was thick and lush. Eli ran his hand up the smooth wood of the bannister, marveling again at the sheer amount of apparent extravagance. He shook his head and glanced over at his brother.