CHAPTER NINETEEN
Callum rubbed sleep out of his eyes and knocked on Eira’s door again. He checked his watch, then knocked a third time.
“Did Logan drag her away for more PT?”
He took an override key fob from his pocket and pressed it to the lock reader. Magnets snapped off, and he opened the door a few centimeters without looking inside.
“Hello? Eira?” He pushed the door farther open and saw a perfectly made bed and a set of civilian clothes laid out on a dresser. “Eira, you know we’re off today? I’m coming in. Don’t jump out of a corner and stab me.”
He glanced at the shower stall and noted that it was bone dry. He leaned around the partition separating the kitchen from the bedroom and finally found Eira. She lay on the floor, clutching a thin blanket. Her eyes were shut and her lips trembled.
“Eira?” He leaned over and gave her ankle a shake.
“Ah!” Her eyes snapped open. She lunged to her feet and banged into the nightstand.
“Ah!” Callum backpedaled into the wall. “Good Lord, Eira! Who scared who more just now?”
She looked around, confused, and scrunched the blanket against her chest, exposing bare legs and shorts.
“I’m sorry, Sir. My alarm…I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” Callum shook his head quickly. “Don’t even need coffee now.”
“I need to find—no, I don’t. I don’t need to find anyone.”
She reached under the bed and drew out a compact pistol still in a holster.
“Nightmares?” Callum asked.
Eira only pressed her palm to the grip and holographic sights lit up.
“I’ve had them, too,” he said. “Since Inverness. And you’ve got better reason to have them than I do. There’s plenty of medical types to talk to. Dad says this sort of thing’s normal and it’ll fade with time.”
“I’m fine.”
She stuffed the blanket into the corner next to the nightstand, picked up the civilian clothing, and went into her bathroom.
“Eira…there something wrong with your bed?” Callum pressed on the top sheet and noted how firmly it had been tightened.
“Too soft, Sir,” she called from the bathroom. “Can’t sleep.”
“But the floor?” He shook his head. “Maybe I do need some coffee.”
He opened her pantry and found a single glass and plate along with several fortified bread wafers from the Ishtar. There were two water bottles in the refrigerator.
“I’m glad we can finally get out and about today,” he said. “You need to shop.”
Eira emerged from the bathroom, clothes changed. She’d already donned the padded jacket Crann Bethadh’s winter climate made de rigueur for outerwear, and her hair hung down the right side of her face to cover the slave brand.
“Didn’t you go in there with a gun?”
She touched her waist through the jacket.
“Where’s yours, Sir?”
“In the armory. Wait. Why are you even carrying that?”
“To protect you, Sir.”
“I don’t—This is Crann Bethadh, Eira. Who’d want to hurt us?”
“As your personal security detail, it’s my duty to always be ready. All times and all places. Crime along our itinerary is low, but still—”
She shrugged, and Callum shook his head.
“I swear, you’re getting as bad as Dad and O’Hanraghty. Do they ever sleep? No, it’s updates and building projections and virtual drills with the battleship captains. This is the first day with a couple of hours of white space on the calendar. Let’s go make the best of it before they remember a report that needs to be filed.”
“They can still call us if we’re needed,” Eira said.
“Only if we answer the comm.”
Callum winked and her eyes widened.
“I’m kidding. Kidding! Probably. Now let’s go see what passes for a good time in Tara City.”
* * *
Callum turned into an alley as a gust of wind sent snowflakes past his face and dispersed the steam rising from the greasy paper-wrapped sandwich in his hand. Eira gave him a gentle push against the wall as she looked up and down between the buildings.
“Will you relax already? Eat your ‘mutton-slider’ thing before it turns into an icicle.” Callum took a bite. “This is lamb? It tastes like lamb.”
“I think we’re being followed,” she said. “Two men with the same style of boots have been behind us for the past several blocks.”
“Relax.” Callum took another bite. “No one on Crann Bethadh knows who we are. We’re just off-worlders getting a bit of a snack of maybe-chicken-maybe-lamb from a stand. When was the last time you had something that didn’t come out of the ship’s kitchen or that slop in the barracks galley?”
Eira took a cautious nibble at her own food. Then her eyes widened and she chowed down enthusiastically. It had disappeared well before Callum finished his.
“So,” he said. “Snacks out of the way. What’s next? There’s a holo theater with years-old movies, although the locals don’t know how out of date they are. Better clothes? That seems a little more pressing, actually, because what you’re in doesn’t fit. I’m surprised ship’s stores couldn’t do better than that.”
“They aren’t from ship’s stores, Sir.”
“No? Then where did you get them?”
“Left behind by the last governor’s staff,” she said. “I found them…in the trash.”
“We can’t have that,” Callum said.
“I’m sorry. Will I get in trouble for stealing?” Eira pocketed her sandwich wrapper. “On Inverness, the magistrates would—”
“No, you’re not going to get into trouble. What we are going to do is get you into the nearest boutique and have you scanned for a wardrobe. Maybe some evening wear while we’re at it. Crann Bethadh has a number of formal functions Dad has to attend, and there’s no such thing as a uniform that looks flattering on a lady. Some may disagree, but they’re wrong. I would’ve left this to Faeran, but if I asked her to get you clothes, she’d take you hunting and send you back covered in pelts and woad.” Callum glanced at his slate. “There’s a place just a few blocks from here. Lots of good customer ratings. Come on.”
Eira stepped out of the alleyway. Despite the cold air, her ill-fitting jacket was unsealed and she walked ahead of Callum until he pulled her back and had her match pace to his right, with him between her and the street. The sidewalk was lightly dusted with snow and lined with kiosks selling onetime slates with magazines or street food and more than one souvenir stand.
“Sir, I need to be either ahead or behind you. If I’m not, Smaj Logan will be—”
“Knock off the ‘sir’ stuff when we’re out of uniform. Let’s blend in as just two people out shopping, and not a lost little lamb with his cyber ninja protector. Isn’t that how Logan wants you to be? Blended?”
“I think I saw one of the men trailing us.” She craned her neck, sweeping the passersby with her eyes. “Stepped into a store selling men’s skirts.”
“Kilts, I think they call those kilts,” Callum said. “And no one is trailing us. Hey, those look neat.”
He stopped at a stand that displayed small trees in glass display cases with heavy wooden bases, about the right size to fit into the palm of his hand. The trees were all silver, carved with bark that wound up from the roots and twisted like twine in a rope.
They stepped inside the open-air kiosk and found a woman with welding goggles holding strands of metal up to a small blue flame.
“Just a moment,” she said, and they watched as she carefully wound the heated part around a small frame, then removed the eye protection.
“Welcome,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“I was just admiring your work,” Callum told her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”
“Well, we don’t call them ‘silver trees’ for nothing. They only grow near veins of silver ore and they incorporate the metal into their leaves and bark. Some people think it’s to help fight off the cold, but I think it’s mostly to discourage dire moose.”
“Dire moose?” Callum repeated.
“Three meters at the shoulder and antlers with razor tips. Best leave them alone if you see one.” She smiled. “But are you two interested in something to take home? All handmade.”
“They do look nice, don’t they, Eira?”
Eira didn’t reply, and Callum looked down at her. She had her eyes on a bigger piece, at least fourteen or fifteen centimeters tall, within a slowly rotating glass globe. Light winked off intricate leaves and cast yellow reflections off the glass.
“Eira?” he repeated and she shook herself.
“Wow,” she said. Then she looked at the price tag. She winced, and the artist smiled.
“Pricey, I know, but that one took me six weeks to make,” she said. “Modeled off the great tree of the Corrán Tuathail Range, Craeb Uisnig—Silver Tree—itself.”
“I’ll take it.” Callum pulled off his glove and pressed his thumb to a reader. “I’ll have my drone pick it up. It’s coded to my pay chip.”
“Oh, my.” The artist beamed as the transaction went through. “Can I interest you in anything else?”
“I don’t know. Eira, do you think—?”
Eira’s face had gone from wonder to concern as she caught movement reflected off another of the glass globes. She stepped to one side, her hand sliding inside her unsealed jacket.
“You’re not going anywhere, right?” Callum said to the artist. She shook her head, and he nodded. “We’ll come back.”
He put a hand to the small of Eira’s back and gave her a push to move along with him as he headed back outside.
“Sorry, Sir. I swear—”
“Then let’s get into that boutique, where you can watch the doorway and we can at least be warm and paranoid instead of freezing and paranoid.”
“Yes, Sir.”
They started back along the sidewalk, Eira’s eyes sweeping the pedestrians once more.
“I didn’t realize you liked that statue so much,” she said as they reached the boutique.
“It’s not for me.”
“Your sister? Mother? Someone…else?”
“For you, Eira,” he said, and she stopped dead, staring at him.
“You act like no one’s ever bought you anything before,” he said lightly, and her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” They stood in front of show windows filled with mannequins, spinning slowly as the holo projection of their clothes changed every few seconds. “I meant—I’m…I’m trying to take care of you, Eira. And maybe I’m trying to make up for some of the shit that’s come down on your life. You deserve that much.”
“No,” she said. “Not for me! You don’t owe—”
“‘Loyalty down the chain of command is just as important as loyalty up.’ I’ve heard O’Hanraghty say that a bunch, although I’m pretty sure he didn’t come up with it. So let’s get you a wardrobe and then go looking for something a little more substantial than those sandwiches. We deserve a break and a little treat now that we’ve settled in for the long haul.”
She looked rebellious for a moment, then closed her eyes and nodded.
“If you want. I just need you to secure my weapon while I change.”
“It’s all scans and digital projections, Eira, and carrying a gun seems pretty normal on Crann Bethadh. I’m starting to feel silly without one. Now let’s get inside where it’s warm.”
* * *
“Here you are.” A waitress set two white ceramic plates between Callum and Eira. Steam rose off mashed potatoes and peas, and he sniffed appreciatively.
“Great, thanks.” The waitress departed, and he stuck a spoon into one edge and lifted out a bit of ground meat with the potatoes. “See? It doesn’t look so bad.” He stuck it into his mouth and chewed. “It doesn’t taste bad, either.”
“I’m not sure.” Eira sniffed at her food. “Are you sure about the ingredients?”
“It’s not made from shepherds; the shepherds are the ones that make it.” Callum took a sip of beer. “Tastes legit to me. Doesn’t have the oh-so-yummy chemical tang that the galley’s combiners have. I always wondered if that was some sort of spice popular with the ranks and that’s why everything has that plastic aftertaste.”
“We’ve got a problem,” Eira said, looking over his shoulder.
“How can you tell? You haven’t had a bite yet.”
Someone bumped into Callum’s chair and a drink poured onto his food. Beer suds soaked through the potatoes.
“Oh, did I do that?” a drunk with a scar-cracked face asked. He was tall, in workman’s clothes, and smelled of long hours at the bar.
Eira slid a hand inside her jacket.
“I’m pretty sure you did,” Callum said. “I’ve got my own drink, and I don’t think this recipe called for it to be beer battered.”
“Off-worlders?” The drunk swayed on his feet. “Couldn’t tell until I heard ya. Say, the other ones got the brand. She for rent, or have you got her booked through dinner?”
Callum tried to get up, but the drunk put a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced him back down.
“Who says all imports are worthless, eh?” he said.
He shifted off balance and bent over Callum with a beer-laden sneer.
Eira popped to her feet, and her pistol had materialized in her grip. She held it two-handed, the muzzle out of arm’s reach, and leveled it right between the man’s eyes.
“Up,” she said flatly.
“Who gave the slave a piece?” The drunk burped and straightened up slowly. “Thought the pimp would have the weapon.”
“Sir, you’re clear of the line of fire,” she told Callum, never looking away from the drunk. “But you’d better duck so I don’t get blood on your clothes.”
“Now just—” Callum began.
An arm snapped around the drunk’s neck from behind and he stumbled backward into a choke hold. Cormag Dewar dragged him back another step as his face went red.
Eira raised her weapon’s muzzle to point at the ceiling, her finger laid along the frame to clear the trigger, but she didn’t holster it.
“Let’s all take a moment.” Dewar tightened his grip, and a rasping sound escaped the drunk. “Mr. Thomas here’s had a bit too much, haven’t you? ’Course you have. You know it. I know it. Anyone with a nose can make an informed decision about it. But Thomas is sorry for what he’s done. Aren’t you, Thomas?” Dewar used his chokehold to move Thomas’s head up and down. “So now, Agents Gaughran and MacMannis will take Thomas out of here and make sure that he’s really sorry for bothering our guests.”
Dewar twisted to one side and dumped the drunk to the floor. A pair of men in civilian clothing rose from nearby dining tables and dragged the offender out by the arms.
“General,” Callum said, using a napkin to brush beer spatter off his clothes. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”
“Holster your steel, lass,” Dewar said to Eira. “We’re all friends here.”
She looked at him for a ten-count, her eyes cool and measuring. Then she set the manual safety and slid the pistol back into its holster.
“Better,” Dewar said with a comfortable smile. “Don’t see too many situations like that here on Crann Bethadh. An armed society really is a polite one…usually. Won’t you two join me at another table? My treat. That’s not how we want you to think of Crann Bethadh or Tara City.”
He motioned to a round table overlooking the lower dining area of the restaurant.
“Don’t see why not,” Callum said, and the three shifted over.
“What will your men do to him?” Eira asked as they sat down.
“Well, if he’s contrite, then I’d rather not burden him with an arrest that he has to explain to employers for a long while. A good kicking in the alley and he can be on his way. Lesson learned.”
“Bit brutal.” Callum frowned.
“Welcome to Crann Bethadh, young Mr. Murphy.” Dewar chuckled. “Thomas can be a bit thick, and he’s a logging foreman out on the southern range. Robots handle most of the work, but they can’t manage it all, and the ice sabers go for more warm-blooded targets. Drone sentries can scare them off most of the time. Most. And people that make mistakes out there end up in a bad way, so best we teach him the error of his ways in a way that’ll stick. And I’ve found that lessons that come with a bit of pain tend to stick more than a firm talking to and a ticket to see the magistrate.”
The same waitress who’d taken Callum’s and Eira’s orders appeared, and Dewar glanced back over his shoulder at the table they’d left.
“Shepherds and Lough Neagh Draft, was it?” he asked. Callum nodded, and Dewar looked at the waitress. “Make it three, lassie,” he said.
“You had us followed,” Eira said as the waitress headed off. “Two men. A hundred sixty-two centimeters and a hundred eighty-two. Black slacks. Charcoal coats—”
“What gave them away?” Dewar asked in a disappointed tone.
“Identical shoes,” she said. “Very new looking.”
Dewar looked at her speculatively, one eyebrow raised, then grimaced.
“I’ll have a word with them. Unprofessional to get spotted like that on their home turf. At least you only saw two.”
“How many were there?” Eira’s eyes narrowed.
“A toast?” Dewar said as dark beers with firm heads appeared. “Welcome to Crann Bethadh.”
He lifted a stein and Callum joined in with a clink of glass. Eira sat very still.
Callum glanced to one side and at the patrons below. Most of them seemed to be watching the general’s table.
“This your normal table?” he asked.
“How could you tell?”
“Good place to be seen.” Callum relaxed and drank.
“I’m a known quantity most everywhere,” Dewar said. He was gazing at Eira. “That mark’s a bit unfortunate,” he said to her. “A gene burn?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Gene burn?” Callum repeated.
“Old tenet of slavery,” Dewar said. “You keep the slaves from ever blending in with the masters. Sometimes those with a different skin color could be marked out easy enough for what they were. Marks and brands are options—used to be, anyway—but medicine’s improved to the point that most any maiming can be fixed with a trip to the auto surgeon. But a gene burn…it changes the underlying DNA so that the mark always returns to the same spot, even if it’s removed. I’m sorry to bring up something painful, my dear.”
“A mark doesn’t make me who I am,” she said.
“That’s the spirit.” Dewar raised his stein to her.
“Nonsense. It has to be treatable,” Callum said.
“It is. All it costs is an artist’s touch to fix what a brute wrecked,” Dewar said. “Too expensive for the Federation to pay.”
“I was never sold, just marked for the pens,” she said.
“The surgeon on Ishtar can have this taken care of easily enough,” Callum said.
“No.” Eira shook her head. “He said as much. No resequencer aboard.”
“Not surprising,” Dewar said. “Gene burns are one thing the service isn’t generally geared to fix. Freed men and women rarely enlist, so it’s not cost effective. There is one doctor here in Tara City who might have the equipment. But it’s not cheap.”
“Send me his contact information.” Callum put his stein down a bit harder than usual. “How is it the Federation can afford a new class of FTLCs but something like healing her is out of the question?”
“New to the Fringe, lad?”
“What gave me away?”
“That air of optimism. Veteran care isn’t a spending priority. You saw that shitehead’s scars? Noticed a few men and women with cheap cybernetics for legs and arms? The Federation will pay the bare minimum to get a wounded soldier back into the workforce. You can walk? Good enough. Hand with a bad nerve shunt that can’t quite pick up an egg? No issue. It’s not in the Federation’s interest to send us through a proper biosculpt after our time’s up.”
“You seem all right,” Callum said.
“An enlistment in the Marines and not a scratch on me, not that the Leaguies didn’t try. I’m luckier than most.” Dewar shrugged. “Let’s set aside the macabre. Here comes our order.”