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# CHAPTER 2

### SUPPLY AND COMPROMISES

"Hallo, Q! Beautiful day isn't it?"

The position of covert operative supply officer had been known as "Q" since time immemorial. The reason was lost in the mists of time, but various reasons, most dependent on the nature of the current holder, had been suggested over the years. "Quality officer" was one. The current holder of the title suggested "Queer Bastard" to most who had to deal with him.

"You don't have a mission scheduled," Q said, waving at the door. The severely overweight supply officer was bent over what appeared to be a beer flask, picking at the base with a dental tool. Whatever was involved must have been very small because he had a video loupe slipped over his right eye. "And I don't have any interest in listening to your whining. Get out."

"Oh, is that any way to treat a friend?" Charles continued. "We're just here to pick up a few items for our leave."

"And what makes you think I'd let you have anything to take on leave?" Q asked, straightening up.

Johnny always imagined Q as some weirdly transformed amphibian. He had a wide mouth with fat lips and a foreshortened forehead that gave his face a faintly piscine look. Combined with the hundred kilos or so that he could stand to lose, the impression of an annoyed toad was hard to ignore.

"Oh, nothing old boy, just these," Charles said, handing the supply officer an envelope.

Q accepted it suspiciously and opened it with a closed expression. After a moment he took off the loupe and went to his computer. A few taps later he was rubbing his jaw.

"These were obviously planted on my system," the supply officer said with a questioning tone.

"Don't think so," Mullins interjected. "Files are logged onto secure systems."

Q made a moue of distaste and tapped a couple more keys. Only then did his expression start to become more waxen.

"I took the liberty of locking down the evidence while I was in there, old boy," Charles said. "Just doing my job as a good citizen. Those pictures are illegal just about everywhere but New Las Vegas; and they're questionable even there. What that fellow is doing with the goat . . . tch, tch, tch . . ."

"Err . . ."

"And that picture of you and the sheep . . ."

"What picture???!" Q said then hit a series of other keys. His head tilted to the side and an unfathomable expression crossed his face. "Hmmm . . . . But that's definitely a fake!"

"Hard to prove, old boy," Charles said. "What with all the others . . . I mean, you're not even a Marine."

"Hey!" Johnny said.

"Sorry old boy."

"Bastard," the supply officer said, giving up.

"Definitely," Gonzalvez said, handing him another envelope.

Q opened this one with a great deal more trepidation and his eyes widened as he read the list. "What in the hell do you want with these?"

"Going on leave, old boy," Johnny interjected with a creditable mimicry of his partner. "Prague's beautiful in the spring, don'cha'know."

With Q's more than willing support, getting to Prague was remarkably easy. With their bags marked as "Secure Material: Courier Only" they got a ride on a destroyer headed for Basilisk easily enough. Once there they changed identities to Silesian diplomats and, again, cleared customs without incident. A tramp freighter to Chosan, another change of clothes and in less than two weeks they were sitting in a bar in downtown Prague.

"You were right, Charles," Johnny said in Allemaigne. "The beer is definitely better."

One of the oddities that had led the then Private John Mullins from the Marines to the insertion teams was his ease with languages. What oddity of genetics had permitted a farm boy from Gryphon to smoothly learn nine languages, and he was working on Egyptian, was unsure. All that he knew was that he only had to hear one for a few days and before he even realized it, he was idiomatic.

Stranger things had happened in the universe. But not many.

"So are the girls old boy," Charles said, slipping a ten credit coin into the thong of the dancer in front of him. "So are the girls."

Prague had been settled by a society of Aryan racial homongenists from old Earth. The planet itself was a paradise with a temperature and weather regime remarkably similar to Earth's and the residents were among the "prettiest" to be found in the human settled worlds. Soon after landing the initial nutcases that had founded the colony were tossed out and a more realistic social structure based upon constitutional democracy was installed. The colony, which had been rather small to start and well off the main trade lanes, was nonetheless undergoing a real renaissance when the Peeps landed.

Since then it had been turned into just another Peep slave planet. Albeit with very pretty blond and red-headed hookers.

The People's Republic of Haven was, technically, the most egalitarian society in all the galaxy. Or at least that was what their Ministry of Information would have the rest of the galaxy believe. In reality, the social stratification, especially on subject planets such as Prague, was horrible. There were a few Peep senior officials who lived like Roman emperors, their StateSec and Navy officers who enforced the peace and lived like barons and knights, and the common people. The last group survived however they could and many of the females survived in the oldest profession in history. Any of the remarkably good-looking girls in the room could be had for less than an hour's pay of the State Security captains he and Gonzalvez were dressed as.

Charles watched the dancer step down off the stage and into the arms of a StateSec major and sighed. "Story of my life, really." Then he gasped at the sight of the next girl up.

Her hair was red and long enough that the braid was woven into her minimal clothing, a half bra and a thong that left very little to the imagination. Her breasts were high and almost unnaturally firm, but the clothing was brief enough to determine that there were no scars; indicating that the lift was natural. Her shape was an almost perfect hourglass topped by a heart-stoppingly beautiful face.

"A girl like that should be in videos," Charles said, nudging his partner. "Not dancing in a cheap strip-joint."

When there wasn't a response he looked over at Johnny, who was frozen to the chair, his mouth open.

"She's good looking, my friend, but not that good looking," Charles said.

"Ugah . . ." was the only response he got.

"Are you all right, Johnny?"

"Oh, God," Mullins finally gasped. "I'm dead."

"What's wrong?"

"Never mind," Mullins said, starting to stand up. "Maybe she hasn't . . ." but before he could leave his chair the girl had danced her way across the raised stage and now was dancing directly in front of him.

To top off her looks, she was an extraordinary dancer.

"I think I need a cold shower," Charles said as she entered a series of complicated sinuosities. "Several cold showers."

"Hi, Rachel," Johnny said in New French.

"Hi, Johnny," Rachel replied. "Long time." She bent over backwards until she was a curve balanced on her toes and fingertips then swayed back and forth. "Remember this one?"

* * *

"So you used to date her?" Charles asked when the dancer had left the stage.

"It's a long story," Johnny replied. "I was on a mission in Nouveau Paris–" He stopped as Rachel walked up. She had thrown a light blue robe on over her bra and panties but the sheer material didn't so much cover as reveal enticingly.

"It's . . . good to see you again. Although unexpected," Mullins said huskily.

"Yes, no letters, no contact at all," she said then slapped him as hard as she could. "That is for promising to marry me and then running away like a coward."

"Marry?" Charles said getting to his feet and moving over a stool as Johnny rubbed his cheek. "What a cad; undoubtedly a ploy to get you into his bed. I, on the other hand, am a gentleman, milady. Charles Gonzalvez, at your service."

"Pleased to meet you," she said in Allemaigne, sitting down between them. "How did you get stuck with this jerk?"

"Ill-luck of the draw," Charles replied, kissing her hand. "If it permits me to worship at your feet, however, my luck has changed."

"Hah!" she replied turning back to Johnny. "I see you made captain. Apparently StateSec is dragging the bottom of the barrel."

"I got redeployed," he said lamely. "It was . . . suggested that marrying . . . well a lady with a shady background would be a negative influence on my career. Actually, it was a lot more direct than that; my commander told me that if I contacted you again he'd send us both to Hades. I didn't want to get you in trouble."

"Nice off-the-cuff excuse, there," she said. "I forgive you for leaving; it was the promise of marrying that ticked me off. I thought you were serious there for a while."

"I was," Johnny said, looking her in the eye. They were, as he remembered, a deep purple, also natural. For some reason the phrase "the wine-dark seas" came to mind. After a moment he shook himself. "I was. I . . . also promised to get you out of the Republic."

She carefully looked around, then at Charles. "I take it you didn't hear that?"

"What? My partner speaking treason?" Charles said. "Not yet. Get a grip, Johnny."

"I will," Mullins said. "I . . . It's good to see you, Rachel."

She paused for a moment then stroked his cheek. "It's good to see you, too, Johnny."

Mullins shook his head and then smiled. "I don't suppose you're free tonight?"

Even her laughter was perfect, a delighted peal like bells in a carillon. "You don't give up, do you?"

"Not where you're concerned," Mullins said.

"Well, no, I'm not free tonight," she said maliciously. "I've got a hot date."

"Oh . . ." Mullins sighed. "Okay."

"But maybe later," she continued, stroking his cheek again. "Come back tomorrow night, okay?"

"Okay," Johnny said.

"I have to go," she said, standing up and arranging her robe. "Take care."

"I will," Mullins said watching her walk away. Then: "Shit."

"Bit of a spark there, still, old boy," Charles said, patting him on the back.

"I nearly shot myself when I got back from that mission," Mullins replied carefully, taking a deep pull off of his beer.

"Well, I have to admit she is spectacular, but is that really an appropriate response?"

"I don't know," Mullins said. He upended the liter glass then raised the empty and waved it back and forth. "It was my response."

"I say," Charles replied with a shake of his head. "I have to ask, though: Is she . . . available for hire?"

"Only to the highest bidder," Johnny said with a laugh, picking up the new glass that the bartender set down. "When I was dating her she was a mistress to the second assistant minister of information."

"Bloody good conduit," Charles said with raised eyebrows.

"I wouldn't know; I never tried to recruit her," Johnny said. "And then the mission went bust and we barely got out alive. If I'd had the ability to blackmail Q back then, I'd have gone back to Nouveau Paris to find her. But I didn't; I just tried to forget. For a while, the only thing that helped was drinking myself into a stupor. And I think that's what I'm going to do tonight." He put the freshly refilled glass of heavy brown ale to his lips and sucked until it was empty. "Bartender!"

* * *

"CORDELIA RANSOM SHE HAS NO BALLS!" Mullins sang as the two of them staggered down the deserted street. As with most Peep planets, Prague City tended to roll up the sidewalks after dark.

"Why . . . extac . . . exac . . . why are we going homeward without female accom . . . without some women?"

"SAINT JUST'S ARE VERY SMALL!"

"Really, we should be accomp . . . sup . . . there ought to be women."

"ROB PIERRE . . . oh, never mind I can' think of a rh . . . rhyme for Pierre. We're returning to our domi . . . domic . . . rooms without women because wine giveth the desire and taketh away the ability."

"Okay, Shakespeare," Charles said. "If you're so smart, where's a bathroom?"

"Vo ist eine toiletten!" Johnny yelled to the empty streets.

"We're returning to our domic . . . to our rooms unaccompanied because of your girlfriend aren't we?"

"Ah, an alleyway," Johnny said. "I haff found our toiletten."

"Aren't we?" Charles asked again as they both stumbled into the darkness of the alley and leaned against the wall.

"Aaaah," Mullins said in relief. "You could have taken anyone home you wanted. I was . . . un . . . disin . . . I didn't want to."

"So it was because of your girlfriend," Charles said, clearing the tubes.

"If you shake it more than twice, you're playing with it," Mullins declared.

"Halt!"

"Christ, I'm just peeing on a wall," he complained as a body rounded the corner and plowed into him.

Mullins might have been three sheets to the wind but his survival instincts were highly trained. The body, it appeared to be a male in uniform, was spun in place and slammed into the wall as he wrapped the head into a snap-grip. In another moment the struggling figure would be lying on the ground with a broken neck.

"Don't," Gonzalvez said in Allemaigne. "He's being chased by StateSec."

"Good point." Johnny shifted his forearms and applied pressure, clamping on the nerve juncture. The "sleeper" hold was almost considered a myth; it required training, precision and strength to apply it properly. But John Mullins had all three in abundance; in less than two seconds the figure slumped.

"Grab his legs," Mullins muttered, dragging the body behind a dumpster and coming back out. He resumed his position as a flashlight-toting figure rounded the corner.

"Get that damned light out of my eyes!" Mullins shouted. "Who the hell are you?"

"Sorry, Sir," the StateSec private said diffidently, lowering the light. "But I'll need to see some ID. We're after a fugitive."

"Bloody local buffoons," Charles muttered in Nouveau Paris–accented French. He waggled his member and put it away, pulling out his ID tag. "Here," he continued in Allemaigne.

The private ducked his head and scanned the badge and the "captain's" retina, returning it and doing the same with Mullins'. "Thank you, Sirs. Did you see anyone pass this way?"

"Negative. Who are you looking for and what is the local contact point?" Mullins asked as clearly as he could enunciate.

"We were told that Admiral Mládek is attempting to defect," the private gushed.

"What?" Gonzo gasped, right on cue. "The head of Fleet Communications?"

"Yes, Sir. We've closed down three Manty spy operations tonight and the captain says we're closing in on two more! General Garson is in charge; he was sent here by StateSec command in New Paris."

"Damn, I suppose this is important," Charles said. "You're doing a fine job, Private. If you have any questions for us, or need any help, we're in the New Prague Hotel, room 313."

"Yes, Sir," the private said, making a notation on his pad. "I have to go continue the search, Sirs."

"Carry on, Private," Johnny said. "You're in the best traditions of StateSec there."

"Thank you, Sir," the private said, trotting back out of the alley.

"Oh, bloody hell," Charles muttered. "I'm sober old boy, how 'bout you?"

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Framed