Joe Calico in the Game: the Apprentice

Chapter One - Take the Best Shot

Sput. A tiny sound in a vast room and the catalyst for all the mayhem to ensue. The noise a low velocity, hollow-point slug makes when it impacts a marble column. The size-large bodyguards turned as would sheep toward a wolf materialized out of thin air.

Oh, fuck, Sam breathed, eyes gone wide open.

The shot oh-so-right and centre-of-forehead precise. Ali Bonai’s ugly bearded face had been in her sights the instant before. Teeny-tiny stone chips pattered into the rearmost of the mob on the stage. One slug fragment did manage to tear a groove in one beefy calf along the way to lodging itself in the hardwood flooring—a detail discovered after. Ali Bonai, President-For-Life, hadn’t so much as a scratch in his khaki-covered behind, and was now the lowest of the low in the scrum of bodies behind the podium.

A regretful pout was shown the stage’s backdrop curtain—scintillant blue with gold lettering two metres high and hemmed in gold tassels, each the size of her fist—before going full auto. Slugs twap-twap-twapped into podium, stage, pillar, and that gorgeous curtain, which writhed as though in torment as the bullets tore their way through. A mad volley, accomplishing nothing, yet turn-on exhilarating.

Ali stayed squashed-bug flat behind his podium. Was there a trap door he need only shove a cringing sycophant out of the way to get to? Little chance of her bullets scoring a hit, even by accident. Rifle empty, Sam flung herself backward in time to avoid streams of bullets delivered fire-hose fashion into the front of her opera box. A pungent drift of pulverized dust enveloped her as Sam slapped in a fresh magazine, put out a sneeze against her finger, and slithered to a door bleeding jungle aroma from a multitude of wounds and screaming as more splinters spun out of it.

I sure could use some help hee-yah! As near as Sam could figure no one else from her side had fired a shot. French? Joe? Bad guy bullets kept her escape route sealed. No way was she trying for the pad with so much shrapnel flying about. Gritting her teeth, eyes slits behind the bulletproof mask, Sam wondered: What about the plan? Three shooters, best shot, and then shoot the hell out of the palace in a running retreat. That was supposed to be the plan. Joe’s plan. So why was it just her cute little butt being shot at?

French! Joe!

Shut up! The stern check to rookie hysteria was Joe’s. Sam was more than a little afraid of what Joe might do. Boarding the transport that morning, he’d shown her the look. She’d had no trouble interpreting the look to mean that, as the fresh hire to the firm of Calico, Whitlock and MacMillan, much was expected of her, in particular that she not screw up.

She hadn’t screwed up. A good shoot right to the moment she squeezed off her first round, except she’d closed her eyes to avoid seeing Ali’s head explode. How was she to know he’d pick that moment to bend over as if to present himself for an ass-kissing?

A ping sounded in her comm. Press hands to ears, flatten body to floor, open mouth to full. Two airborne flash-bangs exploded at upper deck level and the gunfire pinning her butterfly to its display board ceased. At last she was able to apply rifle butt to touch pad and get the door to open. Breathing on hold, heart beating triphammer fast, smiling fierce as a hyena, the assassin Samantha Meyer lizard-crawled out from the horribly abused opera box into where bronze coloured floor, mint and cream panels, and blue, red and gold tapestries gazed innocently back at her. If somebody took her on in here, it’d be a shame the mess she’d have to make.

How long had it taken for shot, cover fire, return fire, and flash-bangs? Seconds? Minutes? Her internal reckoning owing to surpluses of excitement and animal fear was off. She hadn’t been attending her Heads-Up Display either. She either imagined the thunder of boots moving up the stair at the near end of the hall, or heard them for real.

I’m in the hall ... thanks, Sam whispered to her comm button, which the severely compromised in-house surveillance system would interpret as static. Next she was running for the far end of the hall. Where are you guys? Joe being mad at her, no one else was going to say anything.

Joe had decided to let her freak out because—no way was a perfect shot a screw up. Yet she wondered, while immersed in near silence, had Joe decided she could be the rabbit to lead the bad guys on a merry chase through corridors and up and down stairs while he and the guys slipped out a different back door than the one she’d been told about?

The assassin dashed past the closet containing the disguise she’d used, seeped in flammable elixir and snugged to a demolition rig. They’d gotten in pretending they were a security system repair crew. For hours they pretended to search for an artificially implanted glitch, and then stayed for the show, enduring further hours of not enough room to scratch noses or behinds behind detachable panels.

An opera booth door swinging open received a triple-tap to advise it to close right back up again. Sam hoped neither her bullets nor their splinters hurt any innocent people. How much time had she to clear the palace? Exit times had been calculated several ways, but you could never tell. Some wannabe hero might show up where and when least expected.

Where were the guys? Why hadn’t they added their fire to the fracas in the ballroom? Joe or French ought to have had kill-shots of their own despite the pile-up on stage—the bulletproof podium had been too much in her way.

A skitter into a connecting corridor. Next a sprint to its far end. The pinch in her right ham was owed to shrapnel. A seep of blood pasted the inside layer of smart suit to her skin. The outside layer kept the blood contained. That she might have left a smear the bad guys could identify her by was a concern to be set aside. The suit was best quality, bullet resistant ( to a point ), and able to contain all injuries short of an amputation. The backers had provided oodles of cash and Joe had gotten bests of everything: guns, knives, electronics, clothing, transport.

A final corner got rounded and Mugs was standing right where he was supposed to be, in his extra-extra large smart suit. Sam gusted relief. After sprinting the final metres to the link-up, she regretted the professionalism restraining her from a launch onto her teammate for a hug, settling for a pat of one massive forearm instead.

Joe’s pissed, MacMillan grumbled at her.

I had the shot, Sam protested over shoulder and into comm button both. That was the plan. Best shot and cover our hinnies on the way out. The hitch in her argument was: Joe had said she could take her best shot if neither he nor French had best shots of their own. She’d been supposed to wait until everyone signalled ‘ready’. After that Joe would have signalled again if he’d wanted her to shoot, or not.

The entrance to the library was left panels boy shepherds and sheep, right panels goose girls and geese. French was skipping back from a window freshly prepped for demolition as she entered. Lend a hand, he said and together they toppled a table of real oak, very heavy and very, very expensive, to be their blast shield. You blew it, kid. They knelt, hips touching, behind the improvised shelter. Taking out window, now.

Ferchrissakes, she muttered in time with the explosion that spattered shards of Tiffany glass and chips of concrete across the carpet. French was small boned and bodied, with brown hair and brown eyes. Arab-dark, he was a ferret in terms of speed. Enter a room together, he’d be half the way across the floor before you took your next step.

Time to scoot, said French, helping her up. Mugs and French were gentlemen like that, providing a gal with a hand up or timely advice whenever she needed it. Joe made her do all her own lifting, no matter how hard, and puzzle every detail out for herself. As French was driving pitons into the shattered casement, MacMillan entered the library.

Where’s Joe? Sam asked as she laid out ropes and harnesses for everyone.

Alternate route, muttered Mugs.

Alternate like better?

Alternate like different, said the big blond as he appropriated their blast shield and singlehanded applied it to its new task as a door stop.

French was through the window and gone. They had a four-storey rappel ahead of them and, if Ali’s goons behaved as predicted, no opposition to expect all the way to the perimeter fence.

Sam?

Huh?

Shouldn’t you be out by now? She’d gotten into her harness, clipped the line into her karabiner, climbed into the vacant window frame, good grips fore and aft, and then seized up as though her engine just stopped.

Ah, yeah. A hop backward into moist night. What Ali’s goons did to interdict them happened in wrong places, and what would’ve been right places if the surveillance feeds hadn’t been jimmied to portray a bunch of black-suited amateurs running about as though lost. Ali’s goons had to be laughing their heads off, expecting bungling assassins about to stumble into their clutches like a herd of drunken cats.

Hey! Mugs grunted in sync with his large body smacking into and knocking her onto her butt.

Joe? she replied.

Damn it, Sam, you’re supposed to be halfway to the perimeter fence by now.

Sam unclipped herself. No time to indulge in any more steaming heaps of blue funk. A mental headshake cleared away neural cobwebs. A scamper among ornamental shrubs over lawn trimmed to within a millimetre of true brought her to where French crouched. His impatience to be off for the next spot in their game of leap frog was as vapour, and able to be seen. As she reached as though to tag, her teammate leapt up to jog to his next position. Sam stayed in his old place to watch out for trouble coming up from behind as Mugs jogged toward her.

Ali’s palace, bathed in light, appeared an ice fairytale castle. A human muddle lingered about the one exit she could see. Right about now the surveillance system was crashing. Within the next few seconds—Bam! All lights went out and black as anthracite night settled in to the full.

Ahead happened the flare, pop and sizzle of spray-on thermite, next a thump as a piece of extra-chunky chainlink fence hit the ground. Mugs came within muffin-toss of where she crouched and Sam recognized her cue to move on. French was a splotch among the trees she danced toward, beyond the nice human-sized hole he’d made. French was up and once more moving, right before she might have tagged him.

As she waited for Mugs, Sam wondered about Joe. He could be a son of a bitch, treating her like an ignorant rookie mook who needed to be shown which end of her weapon was the business part. Well before she set eyes on him, she knew all about J. Calico’s reputation for getting a job done no matter the difficulty setting. Which was why Samantha Meyer, hunkering in her hidey hovel, decided she wouldn’t worry one teensy bit about what might be up with him.

Mugs caught up and the pair continued on together. Sam matched the big guy stride for stride not because he was as burdened as he was. She’d been sports/drama during her community college years, excelling at both. Basketball, track and baseball. League MVP and female lead her senior year. Her social status had been as royalty. She might have gone any career path she’d wanted before choosing the one her parents would be bound to think the most peculiar, if they found out about it, if ever they took an interest in her life.

The assassins routinely watched behind for signs of pursuit, which seemed at last to be getting organized. Dogs, said Mugs after a lengthier look than usual.

Sam offered up a shrug. They’d half a klick on the nearest Djani goon squad, and the creek they were about to wash their trail in was seconds away. They hadn’t left more than foot prints, and a tidy hole in a fence, to indicate the way they’d gone. Entering the creek, and then hopping stone to stone creating an array of scuffs for their pursuers to scratch heads over. Next a hop down for some upstream splashing.

A smart suit shed water like duck feathers, and had insulating quality equivalent to a layer of paint. Sam appreciated wet and cold to mid-thigh. Deeper water showed darker green through her high-tech eye wear. Shallower showed as lighter. They’d seven and a half minutes of no worse than mid-thigh depth, at the end of which was a five-metre, vertical clutch and scramble. The team travelled obliquely away from pursuit that followed after it slow and cautious while bathing the way ahead in light. Sam grinned against her face cover just as it started to rain.

Right on time, said MacMillan.

Sheesh! A body with the kind of insulation suited best for filling up the top of a dress with had just to suffer along. Sam was bare under her suit, which was how it was worn. With a reputation for toughness to establish, she wasn’t about to complain about some chilling appreciated to the full. Running behind Mugs helped; the big guy was a moving wind and water barrier. That they’d be out of the creek after only a few minutes more was additional consolation, if she wished any.

Sam looked forward to the change, counting seconds between teeth chatters, when out of nowhere a locomotive collided with her. The thing, whatever it was, had that iron feel. An ‘umph’ was let go in midair. The collision, limbs tangling, destined for a deep six. The assassin twisted the butt of her weapon to clout what smacked into her, but only got started that way when her arm was seized, twisted and locked in place. Her hand slipped from her weapon and encountered cloth with a texture identical to hers.

Joe? The two of them pelted into deep water. Dismay. Dark. Grips at back of neck and biceps plus a knee at small of back held her at the bouldered bottom. Sam struggled until she realized Joe had pinned her, bug to window. She was not going to break his hold this side of heaven. I give up! she burbled with her last millilitres of air.

If he wouldn’t let her up, this was her end. It seemed he wouldn’t. He held her hard seconds more while her vision turned spots and her lungs agonized toward spasm. Release came at the last possible moment, as though he possessed evil ESP. A heave brought her to the surface by the double grip of arm and neck. Her face only cleared the surface. Gasping in air hungrily while she could, Sam suspected he couldn’t be done, not until he’d near killed her twice.

What have you got to say for yourself? he snarled into her face.

Sorry?

Not good enough. Back into nature’s toilet she went. As before she’d no chance of breaking the triple hold of neck, arm and small of back. Sam endured her second dose of punishment, which Joe hadn’t all the time in the world to indulge, without struggling. Her limpness not as much fun to squash, he let her up sooner than the time before. His heave brought her mouth next to his. Cheeks touching, she felt a surprising softness in the contact.

You’re through as of now, he said. Sam sucked in some breath to protest at the same time as Joe released her. Dropped back into the creek, she took in as much liquid as air with her subsequent inhale. She came back out half filled with water and air, and incapable of arguing her side until well after Joe had gone.

He couldn’t mean it, Sam said when she was once more able.

You know how he is, said Mugs. She wasn’t going to blame Mugs for not interfering while Joe twice almost killed her. He, Joe and French were the pros, vets, all-stars. She was having to prove herself, which she’d accepted as the way of things. Up until a half hour ago she’d done everything right. Her shot had been perfect. Zero chance of missing. But she’d closed her eyes.

When Joe decided something, that ended the debate. Neither French nor Mugs would mess with a fine-tuned relationship to petition on her behalf. No way in heaven’s green hectare did she stand a chance on her lonesome of convincing Joe to relent. She was out, walking papers signed and delivered. Sam picked herself up and downed the barrel of her rifle to empty it of water. As she thrust her steps toward shallows, the assassin checked her reloads, pistol and knife, making sure everything remained attached.

Never before had she been out. She’d always been in, a popular and well liked in. To be out was like having failure stamped on her forehead. Barely she comprehended the concept, or its implications.

Sam! called Mugs from thirty metres further upstream.

Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, she muttered. How was she going to get home? What would she do when she got there? Reenlist? Go for a colonist? Hang herself?

Listen, kid, this ain’t the end, said Mugs as she caught up.

Oh? Her query anxious for encouraging words.

We’ll make sure you get off-world, don’t sweat it.

I wasn’t—

Can’t discuss that shit right now. Just don’t worry about anything.

I wasn’t, she protested despite how disconnected and out of tune she felt. She wasn’t weeping, only nearly so. Incredibly she’d gone so low as that. Mechanically she worked the rest of the route. Ali’s guys looked in the wrong places or they tried not very hard. The team arrived at the LZ inside a pounding rainstorm, French putting out smoke in drifts. To anyone not equipped with vision enhancement was darkness like the inside of a cave.

Their self-piloted getaway car had crept into the property after the surveillance system went on the fritz. Given the order to emerge from concealment, it slipped into the clearing, hatch up, inviting all inside.

The car looked the type useful for remote places. Colour a non-reflective ceramic, battleship-grey. AI piloted, it had followed a path pre-charted to the centimetre. Three seats marched single file up either side of the passenger compartment. The dashboard had sufficient space behind to accommodate a human pilot in case of AI failure. A smallish cargo bay, behind a collapsible, canvas partition, constituted the rear.

Sam arrived as would a reluctant hitchhiker last in. The car rose as her dripping self came over the deck. French sat with a virtual screen flowing out of the dinner plate-sized device over his lap. Joe stood next to him. The two men conversed softly. Mugs broke down, wiped dry, and stored equipment. After a small hesitation, Sam went to help.

You, get changed, growled Joe.

We got tuh—

You gotta get your ass outta those duds so we can drop you off as soon as we get there.

Okay, sure. I’ll do that.

A sympathetic glance came her way from French. Mugs applied himself to his after-mission chores with more than his usual care and diligence. As Sam peeled out of the smart suit, her gaze touched on Joe’s wedge-shaped back, which she for only a second admired.

Joe wasn’t a thoroughbred. Thoroughbreds were too pretty. Morgan horse more like. All muscle, all business, and irresistibly cute when he wanted to be. Yeah, she was stuck on him, especially when he was at his affable best. She would’ve gladly given a nonessential part of her anatomy just to be included in their confab.

If she hadn’t closed her eyes, if she’d waited for Joe’s signal, or shot one second sooner or one second later were a lot of ifs, except really just one. Sam let go a sigh as she completed her change of clothes: coal-black smart suit for one piece, milk-white bathing suit and sandals.

After this he’s going to be far more cautious, French was saying.

Next state function is what? said Joe.

His eldest’s birthday. It’s a restricted guest list. Maybe we can get in. I dunno. I’ll have to check with our contact.

Forget that. The contact’s burned.

You figure they got to the contact?

With tonight’s SNAFU they’ll suspect an insider’s involved. We’ll have to start over from scratch, A glare fixed on the reason why, which is going to make this a whole lot harder than it should have been.

We left behind some essential equipment we weren’t supposed to need again.

Yeah, well, I can manage that.

You always do, said French. What if we need a female?

We won’t, Joe said. You got that, punk? We don’t need you.

Got it loud and clear, Sam sang as she snuggled deeper into her couch. With a little more compressing she might dip right out of sight. Her couch was furthest from their conversation while best for viewing it from. You know, don’t cha, said Sam while towelling the stubborn wet from her mid back length, mane of red hair, Ali’s gonna wanna know why his security system failed so miserably as it did. And he’ll prolly wanna upgrade. That got the pair of them gazing back at her except Joe’s features kept their lemon-sour character. You could hijack another repair van and insert yourselves all over again.

Say ... said French, appearing anxious to agree.

That’d be a repeat of the op, said Joe, cancelling her idea. We couldn’t present ourselves different enough to fool even the existing system a second time.

Your second option could be to suck him out of his hidey hole, said Sam, towel settled about her shoulders, clutching her knee and radiating a winning smile.

How do we do that, smart ass?

I’m nuh—ah, steal something he really cares about or do something especially freaky to piss him off. So he’ll want to come out in person to beat up the guy responsible.

A little more complicated to set up, opined French, but not a bad idea either.

Sam continued: You get access to the Imperial Garage, install bombs on his favourite rides so that when he finally gets up the courage to leave his snug little nest ... kah-pluie! An outline of the imagined event got sculpted in air with hands.

You’ll have no regrets over a driver, married, three little ones at home, buying it at the same time? said Joe, knowing that for her the issue of collateral deaths was a sensitive one.

Er, she went.

Pansy-ass chickenshit.

As a last resort! she blurted. If Ali can’t be taken out with a poison dart or whatever. If you’ve no other option. Ali Bonai was evil personified. Misogynist, mass murderer, and the worst sort of despot the human species could produce, and the sire of a brood near every one as evil as he.

MacMillan finished his after-mission disassembly and began storing the results into the deck: the scan-negative ceramics into slots, the electronics into shielded compartments, and the ammunition and smart suits into recesses accessible only after depressing a hideaway lever that was genetic-locked and appeared a bulkhead part.

Sam’s teammates stayed naked and intent on their calculations. Sam sat her perch, watching, and admiring—not leering at—nicely muscled backs and hips, her attention mostly on Joe. A betraying sigh was swallowed. Joe and French were in none-of-her-business mode. Sam knew to be church-mouse quiet during such times. Any suggestion now would be answered by a smack no matter how insightful.

A chime from the navigation panel proclaimed her stop. Well, guess I gotta go, Sam said.

Mugs had pulled on sweat pants. Joe and French continued their naked conversation as though nothing out of the ordinary was about to happen. Maybe, see you guys around? The forward sited preoccupation continued as Mugs escorted Sam to the rear side hatch. Do you think he might not have meant it? Sam whispered as she was reacquainted to the rainstorm that, owing to distraction, she’d forgotten about.

Sam, ah, you know.

Yeah, sorry, Mugs. I’ll miss you guh— She embraced him as high up as she could reach.

Aren’t you gone yet? came from forward.

How do I get home? she asked as a figure all black and carrying a leather-strapped satchel was climbing in. This stranger was her double, a gal who matched as near as possible her size, shape and colouring. The stranger was dressed not in a smart suit, which would have been extravagance, but an ink-black body stocking and hood. For her personal safety she had not revealed her features to any of them. She was a freelancer, a former federation operative well versed in covert skills. While engaged in her cover identity activities, the double had worn a Samantha Meyer mask so contrived as to require an expert, up-close examination to reveal as fake.

Rain falling fat lent buoyancy to the air. She might step on twenty storey vacancy and drift gently as a pearl in oil all the way down. As Sam stepped one, two down, the car was powering away. Then it was gone, swallowed into night, leaving no lights nor sounds to pine after. Watching to where the car had gone, oblivious to cold and wet, Sam blanked for two whole breaths of time. If the mission had succeeded, now would be the same. Except it hadn’t and wasn’t. Outside of a few—insightful, she thought—suggestions, Sam would take no part in the follow-up mission, being the one chosen to take the blame for a debacle. Someone had to be at fault, or the backers would refuse to renew funding.

Joe was being practical, nothing personal about it, which she could choose to believe. Except her reputation in her line of business was, as of minutes ago, ruined. Once the details got circulated about, how it happened, who did what, she’d have no chance getting on somewhere else. Crap, breathed the 21 year old novice assassin. She might go colonist—as a marshal or security chief. No way was she signing up as baby machine or pick-and-shovel girl. Despite washing out in the murder-for-hire business, she had plenty of skills applicable to related professions. She knew all about security work and related apparatuses, protocols and strategies. She could instruct and she could administrate. Give Samantha Meyer a fresh start and just see what she could do.

Sam stood at the edge of the pool, about which Hotel Tripoli’s brochure had raved ecstatic. Its chaise loungers hadn’t the vibrant blue and white covers the flimsies depicted. It shade trees weren’t so tall and boisterous either.

Sam had no notion what she might do during the next second, minute, hour, or for the rest of her life. A hop and gravity did the rest. Her sandals came off as she flutter-kicked and the surface flowed down to her. Light and dark mixed blearily; her contact lenses had floated away. Languid swimming, now and then punctuated by necessary breaths was indulged. End of the pool, somersault turn, dolphin kick, and back the way she’d come. Samantha Meyer was a decent, not a great, swimmer—her two hundred metre sprint training had incorporated knocking out laps in an Olympic-size pool. Other end, somersault turn, kick and swim. Again ... again. The assassin swam for more than an hour while her mind sifted among mental fragments. When Sam emerged she forgot about her footwear. Blurred vision was a larger concern.

The assassin came down from the roof via a concrete stairwell. As she entered an uppermost corridor a policeman in dingy khakis a short distance away noticed and right away came at her. Mid-twenties, scarecrow body, average height, olive complexion. A severely trimmed mustache appeared lacquered on and rode a self-important smirk. Papers, he demanded.

In my room. Her single-ply garment clung to all her strategic places, which his unabashed leering alerted her to.

Name, please. The policeman leaned into her personal space while speaking, exhibiting up close the nicotine yellow invading the whites of his eyes, and the alcoholic halitosis in his breath. Sam wondered: had he seen her double going to the roof? If so, he was being an asshole by confronting her now.

Patricia White, said Sam while covering up as best she could.

Which room? A second man in khaki approached.

817.

What were you doing on the roof?

It ought to be obvious to anyone with at least two brain cells to rub together what she’d been doing. Swimming.

At this hour?

The second seedy cop possessed a different brand of authority altogether. His late-thirties, medium height was crowned with mutton-chop side whiskers. His unshaven dusty-chocolate brown complexion exuded a cornucopia of odours: unwashed cloth, old and new sweat, tobacco, spoiled food, cooking grease. Who’s this? he asked while hooking thumbs into belt loops tortured from two-sizes too small, coffee-stained trousers.

I’m Patricia White. I’m a guest in this hotel.

What were you doing on the roof?

Swimming. I went swimming.

The second cop sniffed derisively. Why?

I don’t know. It’s raining. The assassin shrugged. Swimming in a rainstorm ought to be thought of as no worse than eccentric behaviour. What could be wrong with indulging in wholesome exercise no matter the hour or the weather?

You don’t know?

It was an impulse. Any girl would like it no better than she that the two of them stared at her like fairytale wolves. I’d like to go to my room now.

Your passport and visa?

In my room. Her hand trembled as she pushed a strand of hair from her forehead; her other arm maintained a rigid guard over the points of her breasts.

You should carry your papers with you at all times, said the fat cop.

Yeah, I know. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. Why should I be carrying my documentation if I wasn’t going to leave the building, you bozos?

You were on the roof, the fat cop persisted.

Yeah, she said. I didn’t intend to go anywhere else. I thought I wouldn’t need ‘em. Before either of the Djanis could challenge her assertion she added: I didn’t think I’d need to take my papers along to swim on the roof of the very same building I’m staying in.

Where are your shoes?

Sam peeked at her bare feet. In the pool. Her hotel robe was up there, too. She’d just realized this important fact. For a two-count of time she couldn’t think of where she ought to look for that robe. I left them on when I dove in.

You didn’t take your shoes off before you went into the water?

No. It—I know this sounds silly and I swear I’ve never done anything like this before, but I just jumped in without thinking. I left my shoes in the water. She wriggled her toes into the none too clean carpet because they were all three of them looking at her feet. I was going to tell someone about ‘em later.

Were they expensive shoes?

Not very—ah, they’re sandals, except now they’re ruined, I guess. I should’ve kicked them off before I jumped in and, ah, put them under a chair or something, but I didn’t. Who else would give one shit about a lousy pair of cheap sandals besides these idiots?

You shouldn’t leave shoes in water, the sergeant intoned sonorously.

You want me to fetch them out? She was certain this was what he wanted her to do.

You ought not to leave shoes in water, he reiterated and, describing a half circle in air with his right index finger, directed her back to the roof.

They’re in the deep end, Sam complained despite that she knew further protest would benefit her not at all. The cops took her up to retrieve her drowned sandals while they watched from beneath the protective awning ahead of the roof’s exit door to verify she could swim, that she had, in fact, drowned her shoes, what effect a fresh dousing would have on her swimsuit as though it might be possible the fabric would disintegrate or go transparent, or for some equally ridiculous or nefarious reason. The assassin returned with the policemen to the top corridor, her body snug in the white robe she’d found with no difficulty at all, hanging in the change hut nearest the exit, with towel wrapped hair, and a waterlogged shoe in each hand.

Which is your room? the fat cop asked as they approached some elevators.

817, she repeated, angry enough to shoot both of them between the eyes and struggling hard not to show it. The elevator furthest left at the end of the hall opened to admit the trio. Sam, perversely expecting a trap door awaited her, peered down at the elevator floor before stepping in.

Your name? The fat cop selected her floor from the control panel.

Patricia White. Were they going to try raping her now? Because trying would be as far as they would get.

Are you married? Are you alone?

No. Nuh—yes.

What’s your occupation, Miss White?

I’m a receptionist.

Where?

With Bennett, Schuster and Lane. They’re a law firm.

I’ve never heard of them.

They don’t have a branch on this planet. I’m a tourist.

Not a native of Djan? What planet then?

Caleb Four.

How long have you worked there?

Four years. The fat cop continued his questions, and the assassin had the right answer for each and every one, in particular those asked three or four times. They escorted her to her apartment, examined her documentation, and then indulged themselves in a search of her entire suite.

Are you almost finished? Sam asked, as the fat cop made a repeat examination of her lingerie drawer. Many minutes had passed—perhaps as many as it took to make an hour. Hadn’t they better things to do? While they’d searched through her things, she’d gone into the bathroom to remove her swimsuit and towel off. She’d come out wearing the same robe as before and couldn’t help but notice how disappointed they looked because she hadn’t emerged naked.

The fat cop went on to examine her jewellery in the lacquered wooden case she’d left atop her bedroom cabinet. He closed the case while putting whatever he had selected into a trouser pocket.

Hey, what do you think you’re doing? A firm step was taken in the policeman’s direction.

We’re finished here. The cop fixed her in place with a gaze like a rabid dog’s. We may have more questions for you later.

I’ll have answers for each and every one of them, she said, cheeks crimson with anger.

Good night, Miss White, the fat cop said, and he and his companion left.

They had taken her silk underpants, all three pairs, her ready cash, and the diamond watch Joe had warned her not to lose. Of course she was mad. The buggers had taken all of her best stuff.

Chapter Two - Interrogation

The assassin Samantha Meyer awoke with a start. She’d no excuse for having been surprised in her bed, asleep, other than extreme weariness of body and spirit, for having been robbed by cops and helpless to do a thing about it, and, possibly, too, owing to the full mug of hot cocoa spiked with rum she’d indulged her sorrows in before settling in.

Several men were in her room and the lights were on—neither condition having been in effect when she put herself to bed. One of the strangers, once she reached a condition of awareness equivalent to three seconds of standing beneath an extremely cold shower, began shouting in what she presumed was his native language, which she understood not one word of. Pardon me? her terrified self screeched owing to a larynx in a relaxed state. Drawing up bedclothes, she blinked against lights tuned to their highest luminosity setting. The night had gone so hot and humid after the rain, she’d been sleeping bare.

Out of the bed! he shouted. In English this time.

I can’t. I’m not wearing anything.

Out of the bed! She was thereupon ripped from her cosy nest. The victim shrieked, dragging bedclothes with her. Get dressed!

Whuh-why? The assassin had no difficulty exhibiting terror for, whether she chose to be receptionist Patricia White or assassin Samantha Meyer, she was scared out of her wits.

Get dressed! roared an orifice redolent of cheap tobacco and faded mint. The order was coupled to a shove. The brutish interpreter and his pals maintained their circle about their trembling prey. The interpreter-boss was thirty-something. His very short hair was a checkerboard of squares alternately blond and brown. His face was pock-scarred owing to an extreme case of adolescent acne, and his large-boned body had been starved to such an extent, he resembled a ghoul overdue for feeding. His suit under his tan overcoat was rumpled institutional grey, which had the victim thinking: ‘Security Police Death Squad’.

A pair of rheumy eyes exhibited glassiness—he either routinely overdosed himself with stimulants or suffered a neurosis, or both. A hat was tilted in the way bad guys in gangster sims were often depicted with. His companions were all large men, too, dressed alike in plain suits grey, blue or brown, and tan coloured trench coats. Their shirts dingy white, pale blue or pale green, and ties flat, narrow and solid black or dark blue. They looked the kind of guys apt to follow any order, no matter how brutal, without a qualm.

What’s this all about? Where are you taking me? Under no circumstances would she permit her captors a glimpse of a pinked-over nick that might connect her to something she wouldn’t want to be connected to. The borrowed sheet was knotted and snugged to her body as she set about selecting what she might put on.

You’re wanted for questioning, brayed the party-patch, strung-out boss while the rest of the gang leaned in. Six big guys versus one skinny redhead wrapped in a sheet.

Questioning? But I haven’t done anything. Could I have some privacy hee-yah? As the assassin made clothing selections, her captors crowded at her back.

Are you seeing anyone in the town? asked the boss.

No.

Can you account for your whereabouts last night?

Ye-ess. I ate out and then I came back to my room.

What restaurant?

"Casa Bianca." New Baghdad restaurants offered either traditional Moorish, Spanish, or Arab cuisine. Her double had eaten alone at the Casa Bianca while establishing an alibi with her use of Patty White’s looks, identification and cash cards.

What about after?

After what?

"After you returned from the Casa Bianca?"

I read for a while. Then I went to beh—I mean, I went up on the roof.

What were you doing on the roof?

Just walking around. It started raining. I took a swim. Sam dressed under her sheet while making her replies.

At night? While it was raining?

Yeah, I said so to those other cops. I—they made me go back and get my shoes. I’d left them in the water.

You come with us now.

I gotta put on my shoes. And my glasses. She’d not worn corrective lenses to bed of course. She liked wearing frames. They made her look different from other girls and sophisticated and cute.

Come now! the boss cop ordered. Yet he allowed her to take up the tortoiseshell frames which were her current favourites and to lace up her white sandals. Thereafter she was hustled out of room, into hall, down elevator, through lobby, outside into mist and damp, and into a gigantic car. No hotel staff or guests were out and about, possibly because of the early hour, or they’d stayed out of sight owing to the forbidding appearance and the inherent menace of her escort.

The conveyance ground through the humid morning a long half hour before stopping before an ugly, six-storey grey building. Within a utilitarian foyer, watched from several directions by high-sited surveillance cameras, were three entrances much alike. Sam was taken through the one furthest right, the significance of being made to do so the assassin wasn’t knowledgeable enough about to appreciate for extra consequences, should there be any. Her alibi was good, but not unassailable; a precision forensic examination might uncover its lies. Thus Sam could not rely upon her pose of innocent tourist with absolute certainty and full confidence.

The assassin was settled on a plain chair in a bare room beneath the glare of a single glow strip. An innocent woman, leave alone an abandoned field agent, would be well on her way to a condition of freaked. Sam sat with her body tucked in as tight as she could make it, the better to contain and preserve her badly leaking warmth in that frigid room.

A man she assumed to be her interrogator bustled in ahead of an enormous Amazon, who went to stand in the corner by the entrance and pretend she’d been cast in stone. Sam gazed longingly to the door for as long as it was open, even a tiny bit. Miss White?

Um? Yes.

You know why you are here? Her interrogator showed energetic and clear-eyed despite the hour. Small of stature, mid-fifties, pale blue eyes, completely bald, he was dressed in an ankle length lab coat, and he wore pale purple lenses in round silver frames which she rather liked the look of.

No. May I be allowed to call my Federation representative? The planet Djan orbited its star in nonaligned space, but received all its essential technology and luxury goods from Federation sources. That trade would not stop owing to the outrage that might ensue over the fate of an anonymous legal receptionist, but it might be embarrassed by it. Hers wouldn’t be the first case of tourists abused by the heavy-handed Djani police service either.

You will be allowed to leave very soon. You need only answer a few questions. The interrogator resembled an evil representation of a dentist. If he’d come in with a tray laden with stainless steel dental tools, she might have been even more freaked than she already was.

I demand legal representation.

A wisp of brow tilted into an interrogative arch. Why? Have you done something wrong?

I’ve done nothing wrong. I think I should have a lawyer present is all. I want to know why I was picked up and what I’m suspected of having done.

Mad Dentist clasped his hands behind himself . Next he leaned toward the prisoner. In due time. Can you account for your whereabouts earlier tonight?

Of course I can. I’ve already told the police at least three times what I was doing.

Which was?

Sam relayed her story, and then its protestations. Mad Dentist murmured something that sounded sympathetic. After he left, the temperature in the room seemed to drop another five degrees.

Goose bumps. I’m freezing my butt off in here.

The next interrogator was female, late thirties, jet black hair tightly bound. A fashionably thin body was dressed in an anthracite-black pants suit that starkly contrasted with the ghost-white of her skin. Lip colour was fresh blood red. If they wanted a confession, they ought to have sent someone not resembling a vampire anxious to feed. Vampire Lady carried a lit notepad. Sam’s initial, and as it turned out, incorrect, assumption was that the purpose of V. L.’s presence was to record her account of the previous night’s activities. Your name please, the woman demanded crisply of the assassin.

A sigh was let go before ‘Patricia Karen White’ was surrendered.

Your home planet?

Juliette.

Hum-m-m, your visa information gives your planet of origin as Caleb Four.

I live on Caleb Four. You asked for my home planet. I was born on Juliette.

I meant where you live, pronounced Vampire Lady sternly.

You may say you meant Caleb Four, but if I’d answered with that, you would’ve corrected me to Juliette to keep me off balance.

Please answer all questions directly from this moment on.

I’m trying to do just that, Sam said through her grit teeth. Can I speak with my embassy representative now please?

The embassy is not returning our calls. We assume they are closed at present.

That was an out and out lie. Owing to the Djani propensity to snatch its citizens from their hotel rooms for little or no reason, the Fed embassy maintained all day, all night crisis links. If the Djanis had wanted to, they could’ve gotten her Fed representation at any time from the moment of her arrest up to now. I want a lawyer please.

Why do you think you need one?

Am I under arrest?

No.

May I leave?

Not until you’ve answered a few more questions.

I’ve answered a whole lot of questions already and five and six times over the same ones. I’d like to speak to an attorney please. And could you do something about the temperature in this room? I can see my breath in here.

Is it cold?

As if you can’t see your own breath every time you exhale. If you won’t turn up the heat, could I have a coat to put on? Her current attire: linen trousers, light shirt and bra, sandals on bare feet, all with about zero insulating capacity.

I will submit a request to maintenance if there’s a problem. Vampire Lady busied herself with an inspection of her screen, while indulging in a thoughtful pucker. According to an earlier statement, you went for a swim during the rainstorm last night.

Yeah, well, I duh-did. Sam shrugged, shivered and yawned. Was she to become any colder, a condition of dyslexia was bound to set in. I felt restless. I wanted to exercise. It’s what I’m used to at home. I didn’t expect anyone else would be up there, and no one was. I had the whole pool to myself. It was kind of neat, owing to the rain, and mist over the water, and with it being so dark.

Are you prone to impulsive acts?

I suppose I am.

Yet you are a legal secretary. I should think a woman of your background, education and training would think twice before acting on impulse, owing to the professionalism she must maintain.

Not a legal secretary. A re-cep-tion-ist. A receptionist didn’t have to know a lot about laws and legal procedures. A legal secretary did. Had Vampire Lady mixed up her occupation on purpose with the intent to trip her up a short while from now?—very damned likely! I’m pretty careful most of the time. My job, any job in the legal profession, is stressful. Sometimes I need to blow off steam. That’s why I’m huh-here—on vacation, I mean. A nifty answer. Perfectly logical.

I see. That explains everything. Yet it was obvious that Vampire Lady wasn’t convinced at all, nor was she going to let herself be convinced because that would be stepping ahead of where the interrogation process was currently at. What is the purpose of your visit to Djan?

Hadn’t she just given it? Recreation. I’m a tourist. I’ve a tourist visa.

Persons come to Djan all the time with ‘tourism’ stamped on their visas, yet that doesn’t mean that they’ve come here just to tour the planet.

It does in my case.

What sights did you come to see.

The mosques, the markets, the monuments and the desert, replied Sam. And none of your rinky-dink military installations which aren’t worth the cost of the explosives to blow them up with.

You’ve been in New Baghdad for all of your stay up to now. When did you intend to visit the desert?

If you bother doing a check of my travel itinerary, you’ll know that part of the tour isn’t until next week.

We will check these travel plans of yours.

Be my guest.

Now, I require a precise record of your activities from approximately four p.m. yesterday afternoon to after midnight this morning.

Her double shopped from two until 5:00 p.m. Purchases were stored in the closet in her bedroom and in a rental locker at the ground base shuttle complex. From 5:30 until 6:30 she’d sipped coffee while reading a paperback novel in a sidewalk café. From 7:15 when she arrived after a stroll, until 8:30, her double took in the ambience of Casa Bianca and a savoury steak of lamb with native herbs and a spicy, specialty of the house, couscous.

No place else? No visits to restricted areas?

Of course not. The rules governing our activities were clearly explained before we landed.

This should clear everything right up, said Vampire Lady, tapping the surface of her recording device with a finger. I’m certain you won’t be detained for very much longer.

That’s what you people keep saying, and I’ve been here hours already.

The vampire breezed out, pad clutched tightly to bosom. If the device had been a child the poor thing would have been smothered to death before the woman was half the way to the door. Sam was reasonably certain the pad’s function had been something other than note taking.

Another hour passed before the emaciated giant who’d snatched her from her hotel suite arrived to the room looking even more glassy-eyed than before. Sam’s heart shot right up into her throat. You’ll come with me now, he said, and she couldn’t tell whether her ordeal was ended or the truly earnest part was about to begin.

Where? Where am I going? A glance was sped to the Amazon’s corner for any comfort that might be got from the sight of another human being not about to kill her.

Follow me, he grumbled before passing through the door. Emaciated’s help this time was a blue-chinned Saracen in an off-white suit and dark green shirt and tie. He’d been waiting just outside the room and leered salaciously at the assassin as she came into view. Rooms very like the one she’d been refrigerated in had to be behind every other doors she was seeing, one of which Mad Dentist was going through as she was being taken away.

Am I to be released? was asked in a tone so normal as she could make it. Is my lawyer come?

Maybe you should shut up and quit asking questions, said the Saracen.

She’d spent the night in a cold, dank basement. No window, no fresh air, no sleep, no toilet. I need to use the ladies’s.

Her request engendered a grunt from Emaciated and a fresh grin from Saracen.

Could I use a washroom, please?

No, said Emaciated. They stopped before a set of elevator doors.

Her request to relieve herself had coaxed what had been modest discomfort into biological urgency and Sam needed to divert her thoughts to avoid the consequences. Could you tell me how long I’ve been here?

You will be released soon, Emaciated muttered, however with so little conviction she had no real reason to suppose this might be so.

You guys have been telling me that all night.

The interior of the elevator car was olive green coated sheet metal. Sam stepped in, wondering what was to be her fate, and then what might be her chances of avoiding it. They’d not cuffed her, drugged her, nor threatened her. From what she knew of Djani police methods she’d been treated reasonably well. She was tired, dishevelled, irritable, hungry, and anxious to urinate but, she was also unhurt and clearheaded. She knew the secret police arrested a great many people and released very few of them with any alacrity. The elevator doors opened, and Sam looked into what appeared an ordinary corridor in an ordinary office building. Patty White might have worked in such an environment. The corridor carpeting was near new, pale violet in colour with a dove-grey border. A knee-high menial in a dark-blue plastic case sucked up dirt and dislodged fibres half the way along to the other end of the hall.

Emaciated was night shift. Saracen had to be day shift, since his eyes were unfixed and he didn’t reek of 16-hour funk. Sam passed through a drift of octane-scented cologne as she was directed into a room with a view, owing to generous-sized windows, of an ordinary office building across the street. She’d entered an environment barely threatening at all and almost smiled.

Light green carpeting pinkie-toe deep invited her to continue toward a handsome desk, display case and credenza in matching dark-red wood. The wall art was soothing 3D landscapes in slim metal frames pinned over fragrant rosewood panelling. The man in the robin’s egg-blue silk suit and maroon tie, and seated behind the handsome desk, was neat in appearance, and small. Round headed, pale eyes mild in expression, close-cropped hair bone white. The administrator seemed a smaller, precisely rendered version of himself. His French cuffs loved their gold and onyx cufflinks. His small hands, recently manicured, rested on the desk top, palms facing in. The sun was just up, Sam noted with satisfaction. Another hot Djani day had started overcast and humid.

Have a seat, Miss White. Comfy visitors’s chairs with leather covers invited her indulgence and were the kind of platform bound to make embarrassing noises when sat on damp. That will be all, gentlemen, the administrator said to her escort. Sam breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed over the oddly-matched pair. It seemed all the unpleasantness of her long night had been put behind it too. Some water, Miss White?

Yes, please, she said while squeezing her clasped hands between her thighs.

I understand you’ve been put through a ringer downstairs. I apologize on the behalf of my government. I am Emile Patten, Commissioner of Police.

Of the Secret Police, Sam suspected as she accepted the proffered glass. I’ve been cleared?

A look of mild surprise prefaced: Had you been accused of anything?

Nuh-no. It’s just that the way I was treated made me think I was suspected of having done something. What it was ... Her protestation was capped with a shrug.

Hum-m-m, our people were just being thorough. A person is being sought after and, as it so happens, she looks a lot like you.

Like me? A gasp of surprise was followed by an uneasy smile. I can’t imagine what such a person could’ve done.

What she’s done is unimportant, because as this was bound to turn out, it’s been determined that you are entirely uninvolved.

Oh, fer sure I’m uninvolved, sir.

I must apologize for any unpleasantness you may have experienced. You weren’t mistreated, were you?

She’d a biceps bruise got from one of the arresting officers and her stuff was stolen by the first two cops to accost her. She supposed those things qualified as mistreatment.

Hafiz, to my office please, said Patten to the comm pad installed in his desk. Would you happen to know their names, Miss White?

They never gave their names. Nor showed badges either, which was not unusual for backwater jurisdictions, and Djan in particular. One was heavyset with bushy black and grey side whiskers, dark complexioned, mid thirties to early forties. The other guy was skinny, a lot younger, early to mid twenties, with far lighter skin and a pencil lead-thin moustache. Both were regular beat cops dressed in green khaki uniforms.

You have excellent powers of recollection, Miss White.

"There couldn’t have been that many cops assigned to the Hotel Tripoli. It shouldn’t be hard to track ‘em down. They ransacked my rooms for a whole hour."

I’ll do what I can, Miss White. That sounded like an apology in advance, especially as it was coupled to a doubtful look. Sam nodded, understanding. Djani cops were notorious bullies, thieves and extortionists. It would take more than the word of a disgruntled tourist to shake ill-gotten loot out of their pockets.

Hafiz arrived with his med kit to attend to her bruises, of which it was discovered she had several more besides the one she mentioned. The marks glowing in the small of her back and nape of her neck she’d forgotten about. This is worse treatment by far than I could have anticipated, said Patten, scowling. I will speak to the persons responsible immediately.

Oh? Oh, no! Ah, I mean, I didn’t get them here. Some guy in the market tried to steal my purse.

You never mentioned this, said Patten while Hafiz, who looked no older than twelve and no heavier than thirty kilos soaking wet, was putting away his med kit.

I know, I’m sorry, but with everything that’s happened since, the incident clean went out of my head, and the guy never got my money. Those cops did.

Could you describe what this man looked like?

Ah, no, sorry. Sam shook her head. He hit me from behind and was gone before I could get any kind of a look at him.

But you saw him as he was running away, surely?

Nope. Not at all, said Sam, palms open and shown the ceiling. I was practically knocked on my face.

These people, when we catch them, they are severely punished. They are a pestilence. It is a shame you cannot describe your assailant. With your excellent powers of description, no doubt we would have caught the thief in record time.

No doubt, Sam muttered thoughtfully. She’d seen more than one kid dragged away during the course of her ‘vacation’ thus far, and supposed nasty ends had been in store for them. Wasn’t the Commissioner—the Commissioner of the Djani Secret Police—being far too nice to an anonymous tourist, who just happened to look like someone he’d very much like to catch, torture and put to death? A finger set her glasses, which had slipped beyond the fraction of a centimetre she normally allowed, back up to their usual place. Her documentation was impeccable and her alibi near flawless, but she hadn’t fooled Secret Police Commissioner Emile Patten. He knew who she was and what she’d done, only he wasn’t after just her.

... do for you?

Hair pinned, smart suit holding in exfoliated skin, hairs and sweat, muzzy mask on. With the belch French had put into the surveillance system, no way anyone had seen any member of their crew as more than an anonymous human shape. With sensors tuned to highest resolution, however, it was possible for height, shape and mass to be calculated to the millimetre, the tenth degree of arc, and the gram. A muzzy mask did not deform shadow. A competent tech, provided he knew what he was about, could tweak out a reasonably accurate depiction of a perpetrator’s features, height, and body shape from shadow images. Ah, I really have to, you know, use the ladies’s? Then could I please return to my hotel?

Certainly, you may. Mrs. Mujambru, if you would, my office please.

Er? Mrs. Mujambru?

No visitor goes anywhere in this building unescorted.

Mrs. Mujambru was the Amazonian who’d watched over her during her trials downstairs. After obtaining her relief, began the inconvenience of several ‘administrative’ requirements needing to be satisfied, consisting of the surrendering of tissue and blood samples, retinal image, finger and