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# CHAPTER FIVE

### SOMETIMES YOU BARE THE GETS

"I'd say something light and quippy," Charles said. "But the only thing that comes to mind is: 'Crap.' "

"Congratulations, Admiral," Mullins said. "You just changed from an annoyance to a life-preserver."

"Yes, if you get back with me, all, or most at least, will be forgiven," the admiral said. "That, however, is a large 'if.' "

"I'm out of contacts," Gonzalvez said. "And I don't have a prober system with me, so I can't try to play with the local police system and fake us up materials from that." He blew through his lips and shook his head. "I'm stumped, Johnny me lad." He hung his head and whistled through his teeth. "Bloody hellfire."

"I've got one contact," Mullins replied grudgingly.

"Oh, my," Charles chuckled, looking up. "You're serious?"

Mullins stepped out of the shadows and nodded. "Hello, Rachel."

The dancer was dressed in prole clothing, a heavy gray cotton jacket and similar slacks against the early spring night air. The style on Haven leaned more towards flashy clothing and bright, tawdry make-up, but on the "occupied worlds" there was no BLS for the commoners, it was a day-in-day-out struggle for survival under the unbending yoke of the Ministry of Industry and only the cheapest materials were made available for the "unassimilated" populations. However, like the police agent near Aunt Meda's, there was no mistaking her for a common prole.

She tilted her head to the side and sighed. "I guess StateSec officers don't have to worry about curfew?"

"Something like that," he said. "Can I come in?"

She paused and looked at him for a long time then nodded. "Okay."

The fourth-floor flat was surprisingly neat and clean, for all it was small. It was mostly one room with a fold-up bed, a couch, a small table, tridee and tiny kitchen. There was a small bathroom to the side with a shower just visible. There appeared to be no heat and the room was like an icebox.

"Nice," he said. "But not as nice as Nouveau Paris."

"It's a dump," Rachel replied, taking off her coat and pulling down the makings of tea. "What can I do for you as if I don't know?"

"It's . . . not what you think," Mullins said, sitting at the small table. "There are some things you don't know about me."

"Well, you're wearing prole clothing, so apparently one of them is that you're an undercover agent." She put a pot in the warmer and set it on heat.

"Not for StateSec," he said carefully. "I'm a Mantie."

"Sure you are," she said with a chuckle. "And I'm Cordelia Ransom. Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

"I'm serious, Rachel. That's why I wanted to get you out of Peep space. I couldn't be with you here; I'm from the Alliance."

She turned around and looked at him soberly. "You're serious."

"As a heart attack. And I'm in trouble."

"And you brought it to me," she said angrily. "You're a God-damned Manty spy and you've brought your troubles to me?"

"Yes, I did," he replied. "You're the only person I can trust anymore, Rachel. If you want to turn me in, fine. I just ask for a few minute's head start. But I need your help. Please."

"Oh, man," she said, shaking her head. "Why me? That question was rhetorical, buddy." She took the pot of tea out of the heater and poured two cups. "Honey, right?"

"You remembered." He smiled, wrapping his hands around the mug for warmth.

"I have a very good memory," she snapped as she sat down. "I can remember things like that for over four hundred men."

"Oh."

"This is not going to be cheap," she continued. "You had better have money."

"I do, and some materials that might help." He paused for a moment and then shrugged. "But we've got a couple of other problems. We also have a citizen to get out, a defector."

"This general that everyone is so up in arms about?" she asked, taking a sip of her tea.

"Admiral. Yes."

She took another sip and set it down, gripping the bridge of her nose and squeezing. "Oh, Johnny."

"How bad is it?"

"In case you didn't notice, our club gets a lot of military," she said softly. "It was nearly empty tonight; there has been a general call-up by StateSec. They're all looking for your friend. I don't even know how you made it to the flat."

"I want you to come, too," he said in a rush.

"Not that again!"

"I'm serious. I nearly drank myself to death when I had to leave Nouveau Paris. Please come with me this time; it won't be safe for you here after we're gone."

"We'll talk about it later," she said, patting his hand. "Right now we have to get you and your friends somewhere that StateSec won't find you."

"I'm not sure anywhere is that safe," he replied.

* * *

"Where are we going?" John said as they sloshed through another puddle.

They had proceeded to the basement of Rachel's tenement where a metal plate had given access to a series of tunnels. Most of them had to do with maintenance for the billion and one things that go on out of sight and mind in a city. Besides sewers, there were forced air pipes, electrical lines, active foundation supports and a host of other items, most of which required occasional maintenance.

And very few of which were ever seen by "surface" dwellers, including police.

It was through this gloomy world, lit only by occasional glow-patches and a pale chem-light in Rachel's hand, that they had progressed. Once, in response to an almost unnoticeable mark on a wall, she had rapidly backtracked. When a group of dispirited Naval personnel had gone by them as they huddled in a side tunnel the reason had become clear.

He had followed her slavishly, and carefully not asked any questions, for nearly an hour. But if his reading of signs and general sense of direction wasn't completely off, they were very near the river. And the police headquarters.

"Not much farther," she whispered. "The one place that no one will bother looking is?"

"Where nobody would be dumb enough to go?" he answered.

"Exactly," she continued, pulling aside another metal plate and glancing around the room beyond. "Specifically, in the basement of the police administration building."

He looked at the room beyond. It appeared to be completely filled with junk. There were old-style monitors, chairs with one wheel gone and piles and piles of manuals. All of it was covered in dust.

"How did you find this place?" he asked.

"I have friends in low places," she replied. "Where are your friends and how do I keep them from killing me when I tap on the door."

"They're over in Southtown." He gave her directions to the flat and shook his head. "Just knock and tell them who you are; secret taps are for amateurs. You'll need this, though."

He pulled what looked like a dangling thread off the prole jacket and licked it. Then he held it up to his mouth and said: "All Clear, Kizke."

"What is that?" she asked, taking the somewhat sodden string.

"Just give it to Charles. He'll compare it to my DNA map. There's a way to fake it, but it's hard and beyond Peep tech. We think. That's what professionals use. Also, we need some back-ups. If anything happens while you are gone, now or later, I'll make a chalk mark on the side of the postal box on the fourteen hundred block of Na Perslyne. And I'll leave a message about where to contact me on the underside of the south bench by the duck pond on Wenceslas Square."

"Okay," she said. "I guess this is real spy stuff?"

"We use the word 'agent,' " he replied with a grin. "And, yeah, the term is 'tradecraft.' Can you remember what I said?"

"Mark on the postal box in the fourteen hundred block of Na Perslyne, south bench, duckpond Wenceslas, Mister Super-spy. But when I come back, if I don't tap like this," and she gave him a demonstration, "kill whoever comes through the door. Sometimes StateSec will mimic an appearance."

"I think StateSec would find it difficult to mimic you," he said with a smile. "Thank you for this, Rachel."

"You're welcome, and you owe me."

"Well, this is a pleasant little love nest," Charles said, ducking through the door.

"I'd say it was nerve-wracking waiting for you to get back," Mullins replied. "But I always figure you're dead anyway."

"Terribly uplifting old boy," Gonzalvez replied. "Glad I feel the same way about you."

"Rachel, we do have to talk," Mullins continued. "I don't get you having this little bolt hole or knowing your way around underground so well. I deal with Peeps and proles all the time; they don't generally find their way around underground by preference."

"I have friends . . ."

"I heard that one," Mullins replied as Gonzalvez subtly shifted to block the exit. "Now tell me the rest."

"Okay," she sighed. "I do have friends. Some of them are in the resistance."

"Friends like we were . . . are . . . friends?" Mullins asked.

"Sort of," she replied, stone-faced. "After you left things got very sour for me on Nouveau Paris; I had to leave in a hurry. 'Friends' got me here and have . . . helped from time to time. I help them from time to time in return."

"Mule?" Charles asked.

"Generally," she replied. "But I'm not really a member of the resistance; just a working girl trying to make her way the best she can."

"No warrant for you?" Johnny asked.

"No, it never got that far."

"Can these . . . 'friends' get us passage out?"

"For a chance to make contact with Manty Intelligence? Of course they will."

"I'm not sure we can support them," Charles pointed out. "Most of them have been designated as terrorist organizations by the People's Republic; supporting them is a political decision at that point."

"Understood," Rachel replied. "But this is a chance for a hard contact and some positive PR, if only in your intelligence service." She sighed, looking around the room. "They're really not terrorists; they have a strict military/industrial target only policy. Sometimes civilians do get killed, but only those working on military equipment and manufacturing; they don't go bombing restaurants."

"Or strip-joints," Charles interjected. "Do you feed them information?"

"No, I don't," she replied. "I mean, sometimes a little, but I'm not a spy for them or anything. Sometimes I find out something they really have to know and I pass it on to a cell I trust. I'll have to bring them in on you guys; they're my only source of travel documents."

"Stop here," Rachel whispered. "You're not going to crack on me, are you?"

The man who would only answer to the name "The Great Lorenzo" raised himself to his not inconsiderable height and gathered the rags of his suit.

"Am I not the Great Lorenzo?" he asked in a mellifluous voice. "It is not a great role, but it is a speaking part. I shall do my trouper's best."

"Lord, this was a bad idea," she whispered. "Okay, they probably put out sensors, so you'd better get into role."

The man nodded and reached in his pocket, extracting a bottle of cheap whiskey.

"You shouldn't need that," she snapped. "You already smell like a distillery."

"But if I do not, my hands will shake," he noted logically.

"They're supposed to shake!"

"Only in the role within the role," he returned and upended the bottle, taking a single hard slug. "Now I am prepared," he added, tucking the bottle away as his face slowly softened into subtly different lines. He now had the overall visage of a drunken bum, but there was a cold light in his eyes and his demeanor, while stooped, had a hint of athleticism. "Ah, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!"

"Aloman?" she asked, stepping deeper into the gloom.

"Shakespeare," he sighed. "So few remember the Bard."

John slid the plate aside and nodded at Rachel. "Glad you're back."

"No names," she said. "This is a friend in the resistance. He can get you passages."

John looked the rebel visitor up and down. He appeared to be just another street bum; sallow face, palsied hands. The torn clothing was better than most, but not significantly. However, if anyone knew looks could be deceiving it was Mullins. "You?"

The bum slowly straightened until he was at his full height and looked at the admiral. "Yeah, that's Mládek," he said in a deep, gravely voice, ignoring Mullins. "First you grind us under the Legs then you grind us under the Peeps and now that the fire's too hot for you you turn tail and run." He spat on the ground in front of the Peep officer and smiled at the Manticorans. "Give him to me for an hour; I'll sweat out everything you want to know."

"Enough," Rachel said. "We don't have time for this."

"Yeah, I can get you documents," the rebel replied after a glance at the woman. "But there's a problem. I've got three; Rach said you wanted four."

"How long to get four?" Charles asked.

"Why should we?" Mládek snapped. "For God's sake, I'll buy you a piece of ass when we get to Manticore; leave the bint."

"You know," Mullins replied mildly, not turning around. "I just need to get you to Givens alive. There's nothing saying I have to leave you the use of your legs." He cocked his head to the side and looked at the visitor. "We need four."

"Ain't gonna happen any time soon," the visitor replied, scratching his chest. "And eventually they will find you; they've got Mládek's DNA for sure and probably yours by now. They'll use chem-sniffers eventually."

"Rachel, you are not staying on this planet," Mullins said. "They are going to be looking for you this time." He paused and shrugged, looking at the floor. "We already drew straws. Just in case. I lost."

"He did," Charles replied sourly. "He really, really did. I was there."

"Well, that makes a hell of a lot of sense!" Rachel flared. "I go back to Manty space and you stay here? What, exactly, am I going to do in Manticore? And how are you going to survive here?"

"I can get by," Mullins said. "As soon as it's clear the admiral is gone, things will cool down. I can make it. As for you, the one more or less constant in Manticore these days is a labor shortage; you won't have to worry about finding a job and it won't be as a dancer, either."

"I've got nothing against being a dancer," she said narrowly.

"No, but I do," he replied. "When you get to Manticore, find another job. Okay?"

"Okay, I'm not staying," she said after a moment's glare. "Take the pictures. We'll retouch them as necessary for clothing; I'll have to get that later. Two male sets and one female."

"I can do those as well," the rebel said. "I've got a lovely set of three, by the way. You're Solarian business representatives."

"Good," John replied. "The Peeps bend over backwards for those."

"Rachel will be the head of the group," the bum continued, handing out briefing papers. "She's the CEO of Oberlon, Inc. and a really nasty individual. Unfortunately, the CEO of Oberlon is about ninety and looks it, so we'll have to age you a bit."

"I'll live," Rachel said as he took the first picture.

"You'll be her son," the rebel continued, handing Gonzalvez his packet. "You're the heir apparent, but the old biddy won't die. So you're stuck in an eternal 'momma's boy' routine."

"Joy," Gonzalvez said, smiling as stupidly as possible at the camera.

"That will look great," the visitor said. "You're the executive assistant, Admiral. You don't talk much, just open doors and make coffee."

"That I can handle," Mládek said, glowering at the camera.

"And one to grow on," the rebel continued, taking Mullins' picture.

"What in the hell was that for," he asked, suspiciously.

"If I come up with another identity in the next day or so, do you want it or not?"

"Want," Mullins admitted.

"So there you are," the visitor said, putting away his gear. "One big happy family."

"And already planning the murder," Gonzalvez said flipping through his briefing papers. They were remarkably professional for what appeared to be a completely amateur organization.

"You'd better get up pretty early in the day, sonny," Rachel quavered. "How do you think I took over the company from your father?"

"One big happy family, indeed," Mládek laughed.

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