by Eric Thomson
Nice cops around here: pimping, drug dealing, extortion, murder. Like putting the monkeys in charge of the zoo and giving ‘em the keys to the bananas.
“So what’s your name, kid?” Zack’s expression brooked no more lies or evasions.
“Ellena Veillon,” she replied looking down at her feet.
“You from Heaven’s Gate?”
“No. My family lives in Merat Lake. It’s about two thousand kilometers to the west. In farm country. A hick town of pious folks where parents beating their kids, and worse, was a regular part of growing up.” Her voice was savage.
“You wanted to know why I’m a hooker, well that’s why. I had to get away, so I ran. The only way I could eat once I was here was to sell myself. But I was used to that stuff. Satisfied now, Mister Big War Hero?” She cried again, silent tears running down her cheeks and shoulders trembling.
Zack just stared at her, wondering about a universe where this kind of crap could still happen on civilized planets. After a few moments, he shook it off and took Ellena by the hand.
“C’mon kid. I don’t know what will happen, but we’re going to visit a good friend of mine near the port. He’ll put us up for a few days, and we’ll see what we can do.”
*
“Damn, Zack,” Tren shook his head, “you never know when to stop yourself. That’s your problem. Always was. You stupid son of a bitch.” But there was no anger in his voice. Only resignation.
Tren, Mara, Zack, and Ellena were sitting in Tren’s living room above the Dragon’s Tooth. Both the innkeeper and his common-law wife were wearing gaudy robes over what looked suspiciously like birthday-suit pajamas.
When Tren had opened the door to Zack’s insistent ringing, he’d known at once that something was wrong. Very wrong. Especially with what looked like an underage tart in Zack’s wake. Refusing a drink, to Tren’s surprise, Decker had told him what happened at the rooming house.
“You know,” the ex-Marine chuckled after staring into his glass for a few moments, “you’re lucky in your stupidity. Ain’t no one in the slums, except slags, willing to help the cops finger Leath’s killer. Most business people will figure you’ve done your civic duty by topping the shithead. He was the worst scum that ever wore a militia badge. Put the squeeze on everyone he could. Never tried it on me, though, especially after I showed him my Shrehari blaster.” Tren grinned at Zack and nodded towards the duffel bag by the door. “You still have yours, I hope. Good guns those Imp fifteens.”
Tren took a sip of whiskey and shook his head.
“Come to think of it, not too many of his cop buddies will be awfully zealous. Either they’ll be too happy to move in on his profits, or they’ll be glad the biggest stain on the precinct is gone.” Tren belched.
“But that don’t mean you’re in the clear, Zack. They have to make an effort for form’s sake. After all, can’t let the idea get around you can top a copper without consequences. If you left no clues behind and didn’t rent the rooms under your own names, they won’t find you guys. City cops don’t have high-performance scanners. Even if they did, last I heard they didn’t take samples of every breathing body on the planet just in case, so they won’t have you on file.”
“Rooms aren’t under our real names, Tren.”
“The contrary would have surprised and saddened me, Zack old buddy.” Tren rose to his feet and clapped his hands.
“We can discuss the future later. Right now we all need our beauty sleep. Some more than others.” He grinned at Decker. “You guys are welcome in my house for as long as you need.”
Decker noticed that Mara’s eyes said otherwise, but the woman held her peace.
“Zack, you can have the sofa here. Miss Veillon,” he bowed with exaggerated gallantry towards Ellena, earning an annoyed grunt from his wife, “you’ll be most comfortable in the guest room.”
*
Tren took a sip of his scalding hot coffee and looked out the window at the bustle of spaceport precinct. It was close to noon, and the Dragon’s Tooth wasn’t due to open for a few more hours. He glanced at Decker, who seemed absorbed by his coffee.
“So far, all seems quiet in town. But nobody’s had time to miss the scuzzbag. Still, it’d be best to stay inside right now.”
“Just until I find myself a berth on an outbound ship,” Zack scowled, feeling tired and angry at life in general. He couldn’t even crawl into a bottle without fucking up. And his aborted suicide attempt still bothered him.
“Yeah, well that could take a while.”
“No mooching, Tren,” Decker warned. “I pay for my place and the girl’s fair and square.” And somehow also scrape together enough money to buy a ticket off Aramis. But what to do about Ellena?
The innkeeper nodded thoughtfully. He had expected Zack to decline what he considered charity.
“Can’t have you working out in town right now. Someone might remember you living in that rat-trap. And I know your pension won’t cover a starship ticket plus your livelihood, plus your booze...”
“No more booze,” Decker interrupted. “I need to keep my wits if the local plod’s on my tail.”
“Good to hear, Zack. But what I was about to say was that you can earn your keep by working around the Dragon’s Tooth.”
“I don’t sling drinks, Kinnear.”
“Will you stop fucking interrupting me?” Tren made an exasperated face. “You serving drinks is just as bad as letting you out on the streets, shit-for-brains. What I was about to suggest was that you pay for your keep by helping out in the stockroom and kitchen. You can also play bouncer starting around midnight when the spacers turn rowdy. You’re big enough to make dickheads think twice. That work will give you rations and quarters at the Dragon’s Tooth ‘till you move on. Deal?”
Decker shrugged.
“Best offer on the table. Okay, Tren. But no charity. I work for my grub.”
“You will,” Tren chuckled, his jowls quivering, “you will. Wait ‘til you see a deep space trader crew come in for a party. About the girl...” He turned to look at Ellena and a frown of concern creased his forehead.
“Now what’s the matter, honey, you’re shaking all over. Zack, is she coming down with something?”
Decker, who’d been expecting it for a while now, nodded.
“Yep. She’s coming down with withdrawal symptoms. Time for her next fix.”
“Aw shit, honey. Why d’ya take junk? What is it you’re on? Meth? Shimmer? Blackjuice? Heroin?”
“Shimmer.” Her voice shook with an uncontrollable craving for the narcotic.
“Shee-it,” Tren swore. “I wish we could put the fuckers who smuggle the stuff in from the Shield out of business. Too bad the Government won’t let the Fleet clean up the technobarbs.”
“Government might not have a say for long,” Zack smiled bitterly, “if more officers show guts like a few of our old friends. Heard on the grapevine that people we know made a raid on a Kardati colony last year. Not drug related but they put a whole clan out of business. All unsanctioned. Maybe we’ll see more of that.”
There was a tinge of envy in Decker’s voice, envy at missing the action.
“Enough skipping down memory lane.” He shook his head. “Ellena here is getting a bad case of cold turkey, and we’d better do something.”
“Right.” Kinnear rubbed his chin and glanced over at Mara, who’d remained silent. She was throwing anxious glances at Ellena’s growing agitation. “Only thing we can do, since I won’t have any shit in the house is find some nerve juice.”
“What the hell’s that?” Zack asked, frowning.
“Don’t know what its scientific name is, but it’s stuff they use in detox. Keeps off the shakes but without the high. It’s legal but only under prescription, which means registering.”
“Not a good idea, Tren.”
“I know. Keep your fucking shorts on. Mara’s has a few contacts who can get us some. At least enough until we figure what to do with the girl. Ain’t t
hat right, darling.”
“Yeah,” the fat woman grudgingly replied. “And I’ll buy something to wash that awful dye out of her hair too. Green-haired girl’s obviously a tart, and that’s what the militia will look for. One of you stays with her ‘till I’m back. She might need holding down so she doesn’t hurt herself or go running to the streets to find a pusher.”
“I’ll do it,” Zack replied with a weary shrug. “My responsibility. Same as payment for the nerve juice will be.” At this rate I’ll never leave Aramis, he thought. We’ll to have to find her a detox program soon, one that’ll take ex-hookers who don’t own a bloody dime. If she can give up the whoring too that is.
“Yeah, sure,” Tren replied, turning towards the window again, damning Zack for being so proud. They were doing good business with the tavern and could afford to help out for a long time.
“Listen, Ellena can pay off her grub and bed, and the nerve juice by chipping in around the Dragon’s Tooth too. Not behind the bar,” he added before Decker could object. “Can you cook, honey?”
“A bit. Mum made me learn stuff before I ran off,” Ellena replied, hugging herself and shivering. “You want, I can do simple stuff. As long as I don’t have to go back on the streets.” She choked down a sob, looking more than ever like a young girl instead of a hardened tart.
“I think we can arrange that, honey.” Tren patted her on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go to your room and have a lie-down ‘till Mara gets back.”
“S-sure.” Still hugging herself, the frightened girl disappeared around the corner and down the hallway. When Tren heard the door close he followed her, faster and quieter than a civilian would have expected from such a stout man. He came back smiling.
“She can’t leave the room now. Door and window are locked, and there’s nothing to hurt herself.”
“Seems like you’ve done this before, Tren," Zack eyed him with suspicion.
“Rough neighborhood, buddy. You know how it is.” He shrugged. “C’mon. It’s time I showed you the bar operation downstairs. Last night you weren’t exactly in a shape to figure your way around.”
“You’d be surprised, Tren.” And Decker described the public parts of the Dragon’s Tooth in excruciating detail. Some things a guy never forgets. Like how to observe and report.
*
“Strange, isn’t it, Tren?” Zack Decker glanced at his friend as he reached for another piece of bread. The two ex-Marines and Mara were eating their midday meal together in the apartment above the bar. Ellena was having a rough time of it, even with the nerve juice, and was sleeping off another restless night in her room.
“What’s strange?” Tren asked, chewing on a chunk of tuber.
“It’s been five days since I topped the copper and we haven’t heard a thing yet. Not a fucking word in this morning’s news either.” Decker tapped the reader on a small side table. “Bugger must have started to smell days ago. Even in a shithouse like that, someone’s bound to notice, especially with the door broken down.”
Tren Kinnear shrugged irritably.
“Don’t worry about it, Zack. Maybe the cops don’t want to make public that one of their own was killed in a flophouse, off duty. Could be a dozen explanations, like one of the other inmates found his body and made it vanish. So the cops don’t crack down on everybody else in the place.”
Decker grunted and returned his attention to the job ads in the daily.
You know more than you’re letting on, Tren old pal, but I suppose this comes under the ‘you don’t want to know’ shit we noncoms always tried to make young officers understand. Suit yourself.
Zack’s work at the Dragon’s Tooth had been tame, and he’d stayed away from the bottle, except for a small nightcap with Tren after closing. The only time he saw customers was when things got loud. Then, he’d take his place near the door and stand in the shadows, bare, muscular arms crossed, to watch the crowd. No one tried to see if he was as tough as he looked, which was just as well. Zack didn’t want to attract more attention than necessary.
The rest of the time, the ex-Marine helped Mara and Ellena in the kitchen, cooking up straightforward meals for hungry customers. Decker was surprised to find that simple as the food was, it tasted fantastic. Home cooking like grandma used to make.
After a few days, he realized that under the seedy appearance, the Dragon’s Tooth was a cut above average. And it attracted a better clientele.
Merchant spacer captains were among the regulars, come to relax with excellent ale or whiskey and a plate of Mara’s home cooking, in a place that kept out pimps, whores, beggars, drunks and other losers. Tren Kinnear was making creds hand over fist, and he seemed to be on buddy terms with more than a dozen captains and officers. There wasn’t a night the place wasn’t full of merchant types and the occasional Fleet noncoms on liberty from a passing ship.
Neither did Tren seem to have any problems with the law or the mob. Cops never visited the Dragon’s Tooth except off duty to have a beer and a friendly talk with him. The local hoods, who ran rackets left, right, and center, squeezing businesspeople in one way or another, kept a healthy distance from the Tooth. Zack couldn’t figure why, but Tren was above-board. He wouldn’t do anything illegal unless it was for a good cause, and Pathfinders had a strict definition of ‘good cause.’ In a way, Decker felt happy to see his old friend doing well for himself.
As the days went by, Zack felt more and more at home in the tavern. He had a small space to himself behind the storeroom, which allowed him to keep an eye on the main floor after closing. Ellena was getting better, with Mara’s mothering and the detox treatments, and she was working long hours in the kitchen under the older woman’s eyes. Mara had taken a shine to the former hooker and watching them together, Zack figured she had adopted Ellena as her own. It was probably the first time the girl had something like an ordinary family around her. Nobody was beating her up, nobody was abusing her.
The only thing bothering Zack was the lack of reports on the dead cop. Nothing in the news, nothing on the grapevine, which had a regular branch in the Tooth, and no militia cops from CID flashing badges and asking about an ex-Marine and his floozy. But Tren had told him not to worry about it, so he held his peace, and money was accumulating in his account.
*
Almost six weeks after the incident at the rooming house, Tren walked into the kitchen, a big grin on his face. It was close to eight in the evening, and the place was in full swing.
Another of the regular spacer crews was in port, after a long haul across the Commonwealth, and Decker had been kept busy whipping up plenty of Mara’s hearty, stick-to-your-ribs cooking.
“Zack, old buddy!” Tren clapped him on the shoulder, looking every inch the happy, prosperous innkeeper. Decker grunted as he finished chopping up yet another spice-onion. “Why don’t you let the girls finish whatever you’re doing? I want you to meet someone.”
He shrugged and took off his apron, wiping his hands on the silky-smooth fabric. Kinnear led him across the crowded room to a darker alcove by the back door, stopping at the bar just long enough to pick up two beer mugs from the barmaid, a thin, sallow-faced girl who worked for Tren a few evenings a week. Decker had never warmed to her, and apart from polite nods whenever they met, he much ignored her.
“Zack, I want you to meet an old regular, Captain Diego Strachan of the merchant spacer Shokoten. Captain Strachan, this is my old Marine buddy, Command Sergeant Zack Decker, retired. One of the best gunners in the Corps.”
Decker shook hands with Strachan, a stocky, middle-aged man with squint lines around his eyes and a silver-shot beard around his mouth. His black hair, also liberally frosted, had been pulled back into a short queue at the nape of his neck.
He wore a plain black leather tunic, adorned with silver buttons and trim. The four stripes of a merchant captain hung on a short strap attached to his right shoulder. It wasn’t the look Zack had expected from a civilian ship’s master. But then, the crews of the fas
t traders that plied the outer star lanes hardly stuck to convention. Common wisdom said they differed from marauders only in that the former were the latter’s prey. The captain’s handshake was firm, testing and Zack responded, pressure for pressure, all the time looking Strachan straight in the eyes.
Decker had a good idea what this was about since him being one of the best gunners in the Corps was so much bullshit. Like many senior noncoms, Zack was qualified as Marine Master Gunner and knew how to handle most types of ship’s guns, and his command rank also meant he had the basic gunnery officer’s ticket. But he was a Pathfinder first and best, not a gunner.
“Pleasure to meet you, Decker,” Strachan said as he released his vise-like grip. Zack could read a small measure of approval in the man’s expression. He seemed to place faith in the way a man shook hands.
“Pleasure’s all mine, Captain,” he replied.
Strachan sat down, motioning Zack to do the same, and Kinnear placed a mug in front of either before vanishing in the crowd. The merchant captain examined Decker as he took an appreciative sip of Tren’s imported Shrehari ale.
“So,” he finally asked, “what made you leave the Corps? You don’t look like you’re at retirement age yet.”
Zack briefly debated whether to tell him a bullshit story, then decided the truth was best, especially if he was right and Tren had set this meeting up to get him a job on a freighter. Who knew what the other ex-Marine had already told Strachan about him. This could be another test, just like the handshake.
“Wasn’t exactly voluntary retirement, Captain,” Zack shrugged, staring into his beer. Telling a perfect stranger about it wasn’t easy. “I was brought up in front of the colonel for disobeying stupid orders from a shit-brained officer who almost got us all killed in a badly planned combat op. Unfortunately, I also took exception to that officer once we were back on board ship, and I was out of sickbay. If I’d kept my temper, the colonel could have convinced Captain Sarratt that hauling me in front of disciplinary hearing would be bad for everyone involved, but me giving Sarratt the what-for in front of the squadron made it impossible for the colonel to smooth over. He formally considered my case and found I wasn’t sufficiently right and the officer sufficiently wrong to throw out the complaint against me. He gave me a choice: retire voluntarily or face a court martial. My chances in court didn’t look good, and if found guilty, it would have stripped me of my rank and sent me to a penal battalion, so I put in my twenty-year papers. They gave me my pension and an honorable discharge instead of hard labor.”