“First thing’s first, Sam,” Phira began. We have to get you used to the civilian life.”
“Wait,” Sam said, literally stopping. Fortunately, nobody was directly behind her on the sidewalk, which hugged the side of a six story building lined with busy storefronts. “I’m a corporal. You’re a sergeant. What do you mean, civilian life?”
“I’m right, then,” Phira said, smiling, “you haven’t done this in a long time. Or have you ever?”
“Done what? Care to explain?”
“Clothes shopping,” Phira said, continuing on, as if that was sufficient explanation. Sam caught up as she turned the corner and then turned again into a store. Sam followed in to the soft ding of a bell being struck by the door. How old-fashioned.
The interior of the store was everything but old-fashioned, however. Racks lined the walls, full of suits and dresses trimmed so fashionably that even Sam thought she could recognize the trends of the… season, or however it went. White seemed to be this year’s color, or, at least, about half of it. Cream, bone, off-white, paper, all trimmed and sashed with riotously bright reds and greens and oranges at their breasts and cuffs.
Phira strode on, seeming to outrun Sam’s rolling ball of anxious questions, through the racks on the right side to a little desk at the back, at which sat an old woman wearing a green silk shirt, mending some women’s garment with deft fingers.
“Good morning, Lin,” the woman said. “And?”
“Good to see you, Xiang. This is Sam.”
“Corpor…” Sam began. Before Phira interrupted with a “Shhhhhhh.”
“But…”
“Shhhh. That’s an order.”
Xiang chuckled. “What can I do for you?”
Sam followed orders and stayed quiet. Phira smiled. “You know,” she said. “The usual. Something just the right eminence for the beat.”
Eminence? What?
Xiang nodded. “Measurements?” Then she looked Sam over and frowned. “No, no; you need new measurements.”
“Hey,” Sam said, sensing the jibe. “My clothes fit fine!”
“Shhhh,” Phira said.
Xiang had already put her project aside and was descending on Sam with a faded red measuring tape. “Now, dear,” she said, “just because it fits fine across the shoulders doesn’t mean we can’t do better at the waist.” Her jacket vanished from her shoulders. “Arm, please…”
“I… okay,” Sam said, raising her arm.
“So, you’re one of the new Theta boys?”
“Figuratively speaking.”
“Figuratively how?” Xiang asked, pulling the tape down alongside one of Sam’s legs.
“Because I’m not a boy.”
Xiang shrugged, pushing her glasses up and making a note with her pencil. “Manner of speaking. They’re the boys,” she said, gesturing at Phira. “You know how it is.”
Sam glanced over at Phira, who was looking pretty smug and inscrutable and giving no sign that she would stop that any time soon.
“Sure,” Sam said, facing back to the front and lifting her arms for Xiang to take various torso measurements. “You know them well?”
“I’m sure Lin will tell you all about it. Tell me about you. New in town?”
Mysterious change of subject, Sam thought. She made a note to think more about that later. “Yes,” she said, rather than the more complicated “no, but…”
“How long?”
“Um. A day and a half?”
“Oh, heavens!” Xiang said. Something about her tone reminded Sam of the way aunts talked to their three-year-old nephews. “You’ll like it here, I think. You young hot-blooded folk always do.”
“Um,” Sam said. “I hope so?” She had no idea what to say about that.
“Do you like feijoada?”
“Never had it.”
“The Gorduco family down the street makes it. I think their storefront is called, oh…”
“Rio,” Phira offered.
“Rio! Right. Go have some. Tell them Xiang sent you.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
Xiang rolled up her tape. “There you have it. Have some real numbers on you, dear. Let’s go see about a cut with eminence, then,” she said, leading Sam out into the racks.
Sam emerged from the shop ahead of Phira, holding a receipt.
“Great,” Phira said, brightly. “Now, coffee?”
“We already had coffee this morning back at HQ and won’t you explain anything? Please?”
“That’s not a no,” Phira said, leading on. “I’ll explain. Over the coffee.”
Phira led the way and within a few minutes the two of them were propped up at a table outside the tiniest, most colorful bodega Sam had ever seen. A man was busking across the street with a horn and a stand cymbal, an unusually bright sonic texture that seemed to somehow, nonetheless, work.
The owner of the bodega—or, a barrel-chested bearded man wearing an apron who Sam took to be the owner—brought out Phira’s coffee (Sam had ordered drip, which he had provided at the counter) and sat right down with them.
“So,” he said. He had a moderate accent of some kind, English as a second language but well-mastered. “New face. Name’s Dorian. Yours?”
Sam paused. She had to recalculate a proper greeting without ranks or titles. “Sam.”
“Right. Pleasure to meet you, Sam. Phira, where you find women like this? Sheesh.”
“Be nice, Dorian,” Phira said, laughing. “She’s new in Galway.”
“And got a nod so quickly. Must be a real firecracker.”
“She’s good.”
Sam fidgeted. What did Dorian care about how good a soldier Sam was? Something about the contours of this conversation was invisible to Sam. The foundation, she decided. The contours of the foundation were what was invisible, which made it quite difficult to know where she stood.
She shrugged as if humbly taking the compliment, hoping that would do.
“We’re getting her settled. I’m sure you’ll be seeing her around,” Phira was saying.
Dorian looked Sam directly, intensely in the eyes, as if trying to see something in them, or behind them. Then he leaned back, looking between the two of them. “Hope so. She does look like one of the good ones. Anything else?”
“Nope, thanks,” Phira said.
“Sergeant,” he said, standing and shuffling off to the next thing in the busy life of a street shop operator.
Sam watched him disappear into the shop, then turned back to Phira. “Every moment I get just a little more confused. Is he Theta Group?”
“No,” she replied.
“So why ‘sergeant?’ and if you say because that’s what I am…”
Phira laughed. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Sam, here’s what this is about. Have you ever been a civilian before?”
Sam thought. “Technically, yes, but…”
“But, right? Dominion. I can’t say I’ve been in the Dominion, but I’ve read enough to put a few pieces together. You were raised to be a knight. From birth. Trained since the age of…?”
“Formal training begins at six,” Sam said.
“Real agoge stuff, huh. Anyway, Theo emphasized that we’re military, but… it’s different. We’re not police, either; we don’t pull people over for speeding, and Colonel Tholas isn’t a Sheriff that can be voted out or kicked out of office. There isn’t any office.”
“The more you tell me the less I understand,” Sam complained.
“I’m getting there, okay? Let me put it this way: you look around and you see a huge, postmodern society, right?”
Sam couldn’t deny it. Beautiful skyscrapers, their neon signs dim but steel and glass facades gleaming in the bright sunlight, surrounded them, and all manner of people walked past on the street, carrying on all manner of conversations in all manner of languages. She nodded.
“But that’s an illusion. The Headwaters left Earth 1200 or so years ago with 4000 people in cryo-sleep who had all grown up in huge, postmodern societies. They thought they were still in one, just a smaller one, but they were wrong. They woke up 200 years after leaving, landed on Volga, and made something entirely new, even if they didn’t realize that’s what they were doing.”
“So this isn’t a huge, postmodern society, then?”
“It’s smaller and younger. And with shades of the pre-modern. Because it’s so small and young, I think, power goes through people rather than the people.”
“Like… Colonel Tholas?” Sam asked. She was struggling to really situate what Phira was saying and was hoping she had something.
“Like Colonel Rogier Tholas.”
“So…”
“So our Colonel is a powerful person, owning land and business—or, we might say, controlling a small territory—and supported by a group of loyal soldiers. He has been entrusted with some duties and bestowed some authority, complementing the authority he has on his own, by the Chief Magistrate of the city. What is this all beginning to sound like, Sam?”
“He sounds like… this sounds suspiciously like… a warlord. Loyal to a liege. A duke… Duke Wellington?” The Iron Duke had been one of the grand generals somewhere in her family history. Clever allusions to Arthur Wellesley’s tactical acumen had studded the conversations in their household like the medals on his breast.
Phira grinned. “I knew you’d get it. You see? We’re not a police force. We’re mostly military, but above all, we’re like the duke’s handpicked men.”
“And women.”
“And women and so on,” she agreed. “Not everything about it is so old-fashioned.”
“So,” Sam said, eyeing her coffee. “That means this whole morning is about being the duke’s handpicked man.”
“Exactly. I don’t need to teach you shit about being a soldier; you’re already better than I’ve ever been. But you heard Xiang. You’re one of us Theta boys now.”
“So what do I make of Xiang and Dorian?”
“They know who we are. We’re the duke’s men, right? If they know what’s good for them they have to treat us with respect.”
Sam frowned.
“Oh, don’t look at it like that,” Phira said. “They’re not just sucking up to us because we’re big shots. We make friends here. They know I can get what I want one way or another; I don’t have to be good to them. But I’m good to them anyway. See?”
“I think I do. But would all the good feelings come back around if you found yourself in a bad spot and not a part of Theta any more?”
“I don’t make friends with people who would dump me like that.”
“Uh huh.”
“You’ll see. Anyway, that’s what this is about. You’re one of the boys now. That’s different than just being a soldier. A lot of it is going to be new to you, I think.”
“You need me to act, uh, more normal?”
“Well, you’re not doing too bad at that.”
Sam remembered the conversation she had attempted to participate in with Xiang. “If you say so.”
“Psh. I do. But anyway, normal is a good start. But we need to get you comfortable. You clearly don’t feel like you belong in the Dominion any more. Maybe we can get you feeling like you belong here.”
Sam sighed. “I see where this is going.”
“Do you?”
“You’re going to kick me out of the barracks, aren’t you.”
“Hell yeah I am. We’re getting you an apartment.”
Sam got up, showered, brushed her teeth, did her stretches, made her bed, and put on her new outfit: black shoes, black slacks, black belt, white shirt, dark gray longcoat: single-breasted, knee-length, band-collared; cut carefully to hang comfortably closed without being buttoned, better to provide access to a shoulder holster. She’d never practiced drawing from a shoulder holster before and told Phira that she was interested in trying, but for now the waistband holster would do.
She did all this without taking more than twenty steps. Her new apartment was tiny, just like she liked it. The entire time they were finalizing the arrangement with the building manager (it was a Theta Group building, which made the paperwork easy) Phira had shaken her head and incessantly poked fun at her and insisted that she ought to get herself some space like a normal human being. But, ultimately, she hadn’t really stood in the way of Sam getting the dinky studio she had wanted, with just enough room in the living space for a bed, a kitchenette, a nice comfy chair, a foldable desk, and a two-and-a-half meter square in the center to do some exercises.
Sam’s phone rang. She answered.
It was just six more steps to leave, and then a dozen more to the elevator.
Ash was leaning by the last door on the left side of this apartment interior hall. He was wearing a sharp black coat and black sunglasses, which seemed somehow to enhance the aura scornful disinterest he projected.
“Damn, you’re tall,” he said, by way of greeting.
“Always have been, Lieutenant.” Sam replied. “Sergeant Lin is in there?”
“Phira is in there, you weirdo.”
“Alright.”
Ash held open the door for Sam to step inside, and he shut it behind her.
Inside was a glitzy flat: wide, dominated by clean stainless steel surfaces and a spectacular view of a green yard, overseen by a certain tripartite building, surrounded by its skyscrapers, at the heart of Galway Prefecture.
Phira stood, hands in pockets, over a man-shaped heap on the floor in the dead center of the room.
Sam strode over toward her and stopped, staring. The body, sprawled prone with the neck bent for its head to rest wretchedly on its right cheek, had belonged to a portly, middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and sagging jowls. It was wearing a white shirt and tan slacks, both soaked through with blood. The sticky iron smell hung densely in the air.
“Damn. What happened?” Sam asked.
Phira gave an expressive shrug. “Don’t know yet. You’re the first here.”
“Ash?”
“Well, you know.”
“Why’d you call me, then?”
“I have a hunch. Let’s get started, shall we?”
Phira donned some fashionable-looking spectacles and tapped the rim. A red recording indicator flashed and then dimmed. She took in the scene and started narrating what she knew: gunshots had been heard in this apartment, reported by the neighbors. Phira and Ash had arrived to this scene. Ash closed off the scene while Phira questioned some of the neighbors. None had witnessed the crime or anyone leaving the apartments (they had all woken up to the gunshots and, understandably, none had rushed into the hallway to go see). One had volunteered to go in with Phira and identified the body as Daniel Morinae, the man who lived there. He was a quiet man who seemed to work odd hours—that was the only info they could get.
They turned over the body, and, sure enough, he had been shot three times in the chest. The bleeding was spectacular: blood soaked the front of his shirt, from hem to neck, and the entire sleeve of the arm that he crumpled onto. A sticky puddle had spread out onto the floor where the blood could no longer find purchase in the shirt.
“Well, whoever did it did it in a damn rush,” Sam said.
“Walk me through it,” Phira said.
“Well, the body hasn’t been moved since he died; the blood’s only here. Shot in the front through the center of mass, right in view of the front door… seems like someone threw open the door, caught him by surprise, mowed him down, and left.”
“Sure,” Phira said, arms crossed, staring at the body, then at the door. “All evidence consistent with that. But the only thing we know for sure is that the body wasn’t moved. Could have been a guest in his flat that turned and shot him in the chest. They could’ve even stayed for a bit. No telling how long they could’ve lounged around, given that nobody else came into the flat or the hall to see them.”
“But what’s likely?”
“Point taken, but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”
“They also didn’t miss,” Sam remarked, looking around.
“No other gunshot impacts. Three shots, three wounds here. No, um…” Sam flipped over the body, anticipating Phira’s thoughts. “Damn, put on some gloves, will you? Here, I have some… anyway, no exit wounds either.”
“Probably a handgun.”
“Probably,” Phira concurred. “We’ll get him to the morgue and have a look at the bullets later.”
“Hey, what?” Sam said, stopping suddenly.
Phira turned to look her right in the eye. It was the first time she had done that in the last few minutes; she’d been studiously leveling and sweeping her gaze this way and that to direct the video recording being taken by her eyewear. Sam felt suddenly exposed.
“Well?” Phira said, smirking at her discomfort.
“That’s… no… I mean, look.” Sam drew her tab from her pocket and jabbed and swiped a few times. Then she presented it to Phira.
Phira squinted at the screen, frowning. “I see what you mean, but I’m not sure.”
“It can’t be, right?”
“It could,” Phira mused.
“But Sergeant…”
“Call me Phira, will you? I thought we had gone over this.”
“Phira, Johan Hect is supposed to be in low Volga orbit on a Neptune. How could this be him?”
“Let me guess. Drip, 500ml, black?”
“Good guess, Dorian.”
“This one’s on me.”
“Oh come on, no,” Sam replied, hastily tapping her tab on the payment ring and receiving the coffee. Dorian smirked. “You’ll come around,” he said.
“To what?”
“To taking free coffee from friends.”
“I don’t mean to… you know what, let’s talk about that later,” Sam said, realizing the first three beginnings of sentences that occurred to her were unsuitable and giving up. Later, she would find the word she was missing was “impose;” at the time she kept stumbling over ways to imply that she didn’t welcome a friendship. “I do have a favor to ask, though.”
“Sure,” Dorian said, easily.
“You hear anything about the morning’s news?”
“I don’t guess you mean that,” Dorian said, gesturing with his bearded chin at a tab he had propped up in the corner of his prep area, playing highlights from last night’s football match.
“No. Around here.”
“I heard Phira got into something. Someone shot on Dublin Street. That’s all I know, though.”
“Right. I’m on that case now; Phira’s back at HQ doing the paperwork. Let me know if you hear anything, yeah?”
“I will. You want me to opine? Free of charge.”
“Sure.” Sam glanced around. The shop was empty; the few other patrons were outside, separated from Sam and Dorian by a door with a little tinkling bell on it.
“Relax.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose.
“See? Feel better already?”
“No?” Sam ventured.
“Bah,” Dorian said. “Listen. New Hope,” he said, gesturing and nodding, as if that explained it.
“New Hope?” Sam prompted.
“You don’t need to be so pent up about it.” Dorian started rolling his shoulders animatedly. “Try it, eh?”
Sam tried it. She felt a little stupid, but that was mostly her inability to grasp the threads at this conversation.
“Good, good. Now, look. New Hope. Even Galway. People get shot here. It’s always the gangs. Always. Don’t care that it’s your beat, that it’s your case. They got into the muck in the first place; someone’s taking them out of the muck for good. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Yeah.” It was appeasement-agreement she was offering, not real agreement. That was too cavalier for her just yet. That must be how Sergeant Lin and Dorian saw it; they were trying to teach her to learn it. She wasn’t sure she could. But Dorian was right about one thing, she knew: violence mostly came to those looking for it, here. This mysterious Hect-alike… “the gangs. If you had to guess, which ones?”
“Oh, could be any of them,” Dorian said, waving a big hand around. “So many of them. You want wild guess, though? I can give you that. Try out the Home Guard guys.”
“Hmm,” Sam began. A strange connection. The Volga Enterprises Company Home Guard administered Kai-A, where she first ran into Roth and his squires. The Home Guard was also going to be the force First Company would be doing exercises with next week. “What would they have to do with this, do you think?”
“Beats me. But they’re the rowdy ones this last month. Home Guard guys keep getting in fights with each other down here. Bunch of them like to hang out at the Golden Moon joint on Greene Street, just over on their side of the street, Lioto Prefecture. Sergeant Seabern is always down on our side of that street cleaning up some mess or another they started.”
The little bell on the door tinkled.
“Thanks, Dorian,” Sam said. “I’d better get to my beat.”
“Don’t forget, Sam,” Dorian said, rolling his shoulders. “Good for the body, good for the mind.”
“So you just walked into there?”
“Well, yes, ma’am.”
Phira resisted burying her face in her palms with great effort, instead finding a pen to twirl. “Well. It must have turned out alright. What’d you get?”
“Golden Moon is a dingy place for slots and video poker. Strange building. Airgapped from the buildings around it, big concrete box. Kept dark inside, like gambling places are. About a six men—all men—lounging around. Little bar at the far end. There was a little radio receiver playing something that they turned off when I came in. I sat down. Guy sat next to me, clapped me on the shoulder, and said, ‘you’re here for the next round, right? May seventh.’ He smelled like he’d been drinking. I said, ‘yeah, I heard. Where?’ and he told me it’d be there at the Golden Moon.”
“Alright. Do you make of that what I make of it?”
“Probably. Those guys were active duty Home Guard guys. Haircuts and boots gave it away. They’re meeting and talking face-to-face. With a hangout like that? I think they’re trying to splinter off. Start up a new PF… a new gang. May seventh is probably a recruitment round; they must coordinate getting guys into or out of the city without the VEC noticing.”
“And in walks a born Dominioner and they hardly even blink.”
“Well, I turned heads,” Sam said. “No, don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean. But yeah, they must not have much of that patriotic Federation spirit; if they did they’d have gone for their guns. In fact, maybe that’s what got me an invite right away. They think I’m a natural ally to their cause.”
Phira caught her pen and slapped it down on the desk, shaking her head and smiling. “I ought to be mad at you for trying to get yourself killed on your first case. But only you could’ve walked in there and come out with a clean lead. We’ll keep an eye on them. We’ve got work to do between now and the seventh anyway.”
“Yes ma’am. What’d you come up with?”
Phira sighed. “Daniel Morinae was a nobody. But that dead body we found was somebody, or else nobody would’ve bothered shooting him with such professional rigor. Anyway, you and I are going to go see a guy about that.”