The Blood Market Chapter 5

Harbinger led me to a on old apartment building standing, or rather leaning, at the edge of the Market district. The building stood at a noticable angle, looking ominously down on the shacks and huts of the shantytown known collectively as The Ring that had slowly assembled around Sticktown.

Three police officers stood outside the building waving onlookers along. A female officer of Indian descent saw us and waved Harbinger over. She was short and had a sturdy build like a wrestler. She had a pleasant round face and broad welcoming smile.

"Mr Harbinger," She called to us, "The Sheriff is waiting for you. You took a very long time. Who is your friend?"

"Thank you Indira," Harbinger smiled to the woman, "You know that you can call me Freeman. I apologize for the delay. My sister needed to show me who's the boss again. This is my new partner Dahlia Crowe. Dahlia, this is Officer Indira Farash."

"It is a pleasure to meet a friend of Mr. Harbinger," She said, extending a hand for me to shake.

I took the hand and answered, "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, but it would be more accurate to say that my father is Mr. Harbinger's friend."

"It is a pleasure all the same."

A familiar voice erupted to my right, and I looked to see Constable Violetta Priest stomping towards me, "What are you doing here? This is a crime scene, you need to keep moving. Farash, why haven't you cleared these people?"

Farash looked up at Violetta without losing her smile, "Constable, you know Mr. Harbinger is here to see the crime scene. And this is Dahlia Crowe: his new partner."

"New partner? Of course." She wrinkled her nose, "But it doesn't matter. There is no way you're qualified to be here." Violetta squared herself in front of me and crossed her arms.

"I did mention this." I said," That was why I was waiting."

Violetta didn't waver as I spoke. I didn't know if Harbinger could get us past, but I also didn't want this to be my fault, and so I dropped the only ace I had up my sleeve, "Have you found time to launder your uniform since we spoke last? As I recall, after the accident at the park, we were both a little dirty."

Violetta started at me, grinding her teeth without saying anything. After forty five second of silence, she stepped aside.

"You're the Sheriff's problem then, I guess." She shook her head and turned away to look down the street in the opposite direction.

"Which room is the crime scene please?" Harbinger asked Farash.

"Room 303. On the third floor. The doorplate says the last occupant was a Mr. Brixton, but this place hasn't been fit to rent out for years. Just squatters and drug users and other unfortunate people that mercy has neglected."

We trudged up the stairs. I kept waiting for harbinger to bring up my conversation with Violetta, but he didn't. At the third floor landing a woman in a sheriff's stetson stood staring down at us, hands on hips. She looked as though she might reach five feet in height if she stood on tip toes and had a big curvaceous body and big dramatic black hair tied back into a mass of curls that was probably intended to be a ponytail.

"Who's your new friend Mr. Tardy McLater-than-he's-supposed-to-be?" She said in a loud 'mother knows best' sort of way.

"I had to go appease my sister and play nice and pretend to salute and other tiresome things. So here I am, late and brilliant as ever. What do you have for me? The boy you sent round gave a strong impression that this matched the previous suicides, or should I say supposed suicides?"

"It may match the the other ones. The victim does seem to have committed suicide, but things didn't, well they didn't excatly stop there."

"That's not the most pleasant expression I've ever heard," I said, and then extended my hand, "Dahlia Crowe, Mr. Harbinger's new partner or assistant or apprentice- he hasn't seemed to have settled on a preferred term. Maybe pet is the best descriptor."

"That's unfair. You are very probably a full partner, or likely will be."

The sheriff snorted a very unfeminine laugh, "Well doesn't that fill you with confidence. He's good when he's good, so I keep him around. So, I guess, let's see if you're good."

I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me, and looked down to see Violetta climbing the stairs to join us, "You didn't think I was letting you in here without a chaperone, did you?" She said.

The Sheriff interrupted Violetta before I could respond, "The victim is a woman, we don't know who she is. We're looking into that. A number of things make us think she's quite wealthy. She had a recent manicure and her hands don't look as though they've ever done a day of manual labor. Her skin is really pale, no tan at all, so she's never worked outside. And the make up she had on at the time of death is very fancy and looked expensive to me."

"What about her hairstyle? That could tell us a lot about her wealth and status." I asked.

"The hair has been cut, well it's actually been shaved off at the root."

"That's strange." I said

"That's not even the start of it,"The Sheriff said and opened the door.

"Hang on to your lunch." Violetta said with a grin.

We stepped into the room and I gagged involuntarily. I've been to war, and in my time in the service I saw many people die- several of them unpleasantly. The scene before me had a thoroughness that disturbed me in ways that corpse of somebody killed in combat did not have. The same filth covered this room that covered the rest of the building. A corpse belonging to a caucasian woman lay in the center of the room. The body bore an alien appearance that I struggled to unravel. I noted the gunshot wound on the left temple, clearly an entrance wound. The condition of the rest of the body, however stunned me. The body lay on it's back, face up to the ceiling. The body wore no clothing, and the torso had been opened up and - for lack of a better word- unpacked. Somebody had removed the organs in the chest cavity. I stepped forward, drawn by a horrified curiousity, and looked up into the chest cavity. The chest had been split open in an inverted Y shape. The chest cavity lay empty. The lungs and heart, the intestines and stomache and liver all had been removed. The eyes had likewise been giving the corpse the horrific appearance of an empty eyed corpse staring into some netherworld. The body appeared bizarrely emaciated, as though the woman had died of dehydration. I could see no other signs of dehydration such as skin tenting. The body was pale on top and, I quickly confirmed by dropping down and tilting my head to look under the body without touching it, an even purple on the back side of the body. The body lay in a serene position on it's back, stiff from rigor mortis. Somebody had cut the word 'JUNE' into the right forearm with some surgically sharp implement.

harbinger stepped forward, "How does this compare to the violence of combat? How's the stomach?"

"It's not pleasant, but I'm not going to get the vapours- if that's what you mean."

"Excellent. You were a combat medic as I recall. What's your diagnosis? Cause of death?"

"You mean besides the bullet wound to the head?" I asked.

"There's a lot of damage here, you're certain that was the deciding blow?"

"The head wound is the only wound from which the blood spurted," I pointed, "Everywhere else, the blood merely pooled out by gravity. Also the position of the body when rigor mortis set in is really odd."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that they had the woman on an autopsy table before she was cold, and had her opened up before she was stiff. The blood has all pooled on the back side of her body. by the time rigor mortis set in they already had her flat on the table in this position and opened up. The gun shot wound killed her, but I've never seen a person die and fall cleanly flat backwards and lands with their arms by their side ready for a post mortem examination."

"So she was executed for the purpose of the autopsy?" Harbinge asked with a far too happy smile on his face.

"She wasn't executed," I corrected, "This was definitely a suicide."

"It definitely wasn't." Harbinger corrected.

I shook my head, "Look at powder burns on the left hand, that only comes from firing a gun, and there's powder burns on her left temple as well. The gun was fired at close range and she fired a gun recently. Unless they put the gun in her hand and forced fired a round to make it look like a suicide, she did this to herself. And given how fast they had her on the autopsy table, I don't see how that would have been an option."

"She could have been forced." Harbinger said.

"To commit suicide? How do you do that?" I asked, "What are they going to say, 'We'll kill you if you don't kill yourself?' Let's be realistic. There are no bruises on her wrists, no rope rope burns or any injuries to suggest that somebody restrained her."

"They might have threatened to torture her to death if she didn't comply. They might also have held the gun in her hand while she was alive and forcibly pulled the trigger for her. Let's not limit our options. And what about the word carved into the arm. It show healing doesn't it?"

"Yes it does, which means the wound was inflicted a little before she died. And it being carved into the right arm suggests that she did it to herself, since she was obviously left handed."

Violetta stepped forward, "So what the hell happened last month that was so important?"

I shook my head, "Well, she was still alive in June. She hasn't been dead more than a week, let alone two."

"This definitely has the same look and feel as the Cholera Patient Suicides," Sheriff Hurley stepped forward, "You two should has a look at those bodies back at the station house. How long do you estimate she has been dead?"

"Sheriff, this is getting out of hand," Violetta stepped forward, "We don't need the help of a lunatic occultist. And we certainly don't need a known killer walking around our crime scenes. She's a liability, she's dangerous- a loose cannon who goes off her companion's faces."

The sheriff looked back at me, "How long did you say the victim had been dead?"

"I hadn't yet."

"Sheriff!" Violetta started speaking again but Sheriff HUrley raised a hand to silence her.

"Well?" Sheriff Hurley said.

I looked at the woman and tried to gauge her intent, everyone seemed to be trying to test me.

"Well, I'm not a forensic pathologist- my training is as a field medic. But at a glance from the state of the rigor mortis, I would say between eight and twelve hours. The rigor mortis hasn't begun to dissipate yet. Without a more thorough examination, I can't make more than an educated guess. The autopsy performed on the body makes it harder to guess. Somebody seems to have removed the bllod from the body surgically, which will confuse matters. Rigor Mortis is generally fully dissipated after about seventy two hours, so that's the absolute outside window."

"Constable," Sheriff Hurley said without looking at Violetta, "I don't know what your problem is with Ms. Crowe, and I don't personally care. Harbinger has consistent proven to be a useful asset to the police, and everything I've seen tells me to give his new assistant a decent change to prove herself. So shut your hole unless you have something useful and relevant to the investigation."

"Yes, Sheriff." Violetta galred at me as she answered.

Hurley turned back to me and spoke, "So the body was dumped here? Based on what you've said, I assume it must have been. If they did the autopsy immediately after the death, meaning they couldn't have spared the time to move the body, and this place has no sign of blood spatter from a bullet wound or a falling body with a gun shot wound. So this can't be the site of the murder? Correct?"

"Very correct Sheriff. Yes indeeed." Harbinger said.

"So we have," Sheriff Hurley said, "Is somebody who commited suicide or was killed in a way that mimics suicide, in the presence of a medical team who conducted an on site autopsy immediately on the body and then dumped the body without internal organs here, a few hours after the whole grisly affair? Why remove the organs? What were they trying to hide?"

"And what happened in June," Violleta said again, and louder.

I turned to Harbinger and whispered, "When did you sister say that inciting event occured at the warehouse?"

"She didn't, and on purpose I suspect," Harbinger said.

"What was that whispering?" Sheriff Hurley said, "I don't want you holding back on me."

"Sadly I have no choice in this matter, as it concerns work I am performing for my sister. And she would lock me up and throw away the key if I disclosed priviliged information to anyone without permission."

"If it relates to this case, I want it."

"I understand. I have no reason to believe that the two cases do relate at this time, but if they do- I bring it up with my dear sister and will still use whatever information I have on your behalf whether or not I am permitted to talk about it.

"I don't like that Harbinger."

"Well, that makes two of us. I don't like how my sister goes about her business either. But I don't have the ability to stop her, and she does have the ability to stop me."

The Sheriff was silent for a moment, "You don't like your sister much, do you?" She finally said.

"I love me sister,"Harbinger said, "And I have the utmost faith that she believes she is doing good work. I don't like her methods."

Violetta laughed, "Her methods? You treat rules like their other people's problems and use ouija boards to find serial killers. You just don't like that she can put you in your place."

"I only used a ouija board once, and that was to trick a criminal into exposing the lie in their alibi- and it worked. As for my sister, you're right that I don't like being put in my place- but that's not my primary objection."

"All I'm hearing is 'bla bla bla, you're right Constable Priest', so why are you still talking?"

"I'm not sure why you're still talking," I said.

"Enough," Sheriff Hurley said, raising her voice, "We are going back to the station house to view the other bodies. Harbinger is going to keep me informed as much as government paranoia will allow. Ms. Crowe will be given the same courtesy as Harbinger until I say otherwise. And Cosntable Priest, you will keep your tongue in check or I will chop it off and mail it to you ex-girfriend."

"I wouldn't sign for it." I said.

Sheriff Hurley turned sharply to look at me in disbelief, and then turned back to Violetta, "I'm surrounded by children! Everybody out! Back to station house before I ground you all and send you to your rooms!"

The Sheriff marched us back to the Sheriff's office after leaving instructions for handling the crime scene to the officers, including Violetta.



The Police Station had been built long ago, probably within fifty years of the Founding of New Jericho. The building stood two stories tall with a facade of brick and stone. The building had stucco plastered on in great swathes, apparently to keep failing brickwork in place. The building looked at once ancient and precarious. Inside, the large windows on the south side gave ample light for most parts of the main office, and large white linen sheets on the north wall helped to maximize the effect of the incoming sunlight. A few incandescent or flouescent bulbs hung from the ceiling, but none were lit. Likewise there were oil lamps or hand crank electric lamps on most desks, also unlit.

I noticed a wide range of expressions on the faces of the police officers as we entered, raning from broad smiles to outright sneers directed towards Harbinger as we entered the building. The Sheriff waved a young deputy over as we continued through the main office of the station house.

"Nguyen, go get the keys to the morgue." The sheriff said to the deputy, who quickly ran to the duty officer at the front desk.

We continued to the back of the station house and down a narrows set of stairs into the basement, and then the sub basement to a large metal door marked 'morgue' on a painted steel plate. Deputy Nguyen caught up with us, carrying a large ring of keys which he handed to the sheriff. She thumbed through the keys and inserted one into the lock and then turned. She pushed the heavy steel door open and the smell of alcohol and something dead stormed out through the opening in the door and threatened to knock me over.

We stepped into the darkness of the morgue. A bare light bulb actually hung in the morgue just barely visible in the light from the stairs. The room sat entirely below ground with no windows to provide light. Sheriff Hurley reached out and pulled the hanging twine to light the bulb and an eerie white spot light illuminated most, but definitely not all of the room.  the The expense of active refrigeration requiring electricity meant that such devices rarely saw use unless absolutely necessary. The morgue instead contained cast iron tubs with alochol, inside which the bodies floated like translucent corpses.

Harbinger commented, "The alcohol changes the bodies of course, but we make do. The dry season has an especially harsh effect upon the dead."

"Nguyen," HUrley said, as Harbinger began to inspect the floating bodies, "Man the switch."

The young deputy dutifully stood beside the lightbulb ready to turn it off as soon as we finished our inspection.

"Who are we here to see?" Harbinger asked.

The sheriff pointed to the back three tubs and their inhabitants. We walked over to the nearest one, occupied by a latino gentleman of roughly middle age with long hair floating like an inky halo around a thin face with sunken cheeks. The body wore no clothing, likely due to the effect the alcohol would have upon fabric.

"They were all residents of the ring," Sheriff Hurley said, "Poor folk who caught Cholera from contaminated water same as everyone else does. The medical treatment available in the ring is appalling, we occasionally hear word of blood markets springing up- black markets for medical treatment where people pay by donating blood. It's rarely pretty and we break them up when we find them, because they do far more harm than good. Suicides aren't uncommon when people get something nasty and can't afford proper treatment or even proper sanitation. What makes these three strange is that they all shot themselves. A bullet is isn't expensive, but a gun can be for a person in the ring. Most suicides in the ring are either drownings or slit wrists, poor devils."

Harbinger leaned over so far that I expected him to fall into the tub. After a moment he looked back at me and waved me closer.

"What do you think?" He asked as I stood over the first tub.

I looked, "The powder burns are present on the hand and around the wound, again indicating self inflicted wounds."

I stared at the gaping exit wound on the left side of the head of the deceased latino gentleman. Exit wounds rarely look pretty and are generally larger than the entry wound. I looked at the other two tubs, occupied by an African American male and a Caucasian male. All bore the same powder burns and exit wounds, save for the Caucasian man. Instead of an exit wound, the right side of his head was distorted, bugling out visibly.

 "I assume none of them left suicide notes or you'd have told us. Did their clothing show anything odd?"

Sheriff Hurley shook her head, "The clothing was not pleasant. I don't think any of them had laundered their clothes recently, and of course Cholera causes fluid to evacuate body in unpleasant ways, so the trousers in particular weren't salvageable."

I grimaced, "Charming. It puts one's own troubles in perspective. 'Hey, at least I didn't shoot myself in the head because I was dying of fluid loss brought on by involuntary explosive diahrea, while also being so poor that I could afford neither clean water during the dry season nor medical treatment when I got sick.' That's enough to make me feel grateful for my recent troubles."

"The powder burns are odd though, bigger burns than I've seen before." I continued, Did you recover any of the rounds used?" I asked, the exit wounds meant that this was unlikely, but it would help substantially if they had managed.

"We did on the white boy over there. The bullet didn't survive the impact with the other side of his skull and shattered. We picked what would could out. One half of the round was intact."

"Do you have the capacity to perform a ballistics test?" I asked. Sticktown wasn't a big city, but by the standards of post fall Olam we were big enough that the Sheriff's department might have some forensics capabilities.

"Wouldn't matter," Sheriff Hurley said, "The round was a smooth bore lead ball, from a black powder weapon of some sort. Looked as though it were cast from hand made molds."

Harbinger nodded, "Perhaps that's the reason. Buying a cheaply made Rodenstock rifle, or any professionally made firearm, from a licensed dealer would still require registration and a waiting period. There is a black market for cheaply made black powder weapons."

"But why would you commit suicide with a black powder pistol? They aren't common. A Rodenstock would be cheaper. A kitchen knife would be more reliable if you'd never used a black powder weapon before."

Sheriff Hurley nodded, "The weapon makes no sense. Nobody uses black powder except a few desperate criminals looking to wave a gun when they can't afford a modern pistol on the black market."

"Black powder weapons aren't only available on the black market," I pointed out, "They've become very fashionable for the rich and noble and very bored. Illegal dueling is back in fashion, like the aristocrats of old. I think my father even mentioned that the elite have campaigned against legalizing dueling because they like the feeling of doing something forbidden. it's embarrassing what these people will do to stave of boredom while the rest of us scramble to get by."

"If we can recover a weapon then, that would be a place to start. Cheaply made and off the black market or fancy custom job for a nobleman looking to risk life and limb to stem his boredom. Why not just hire more prostitutes? It'd be safer."

"You'd have to ask the nobility for an answer there," Harbinger said, "But if could confirm, all of these poor devils have been identiified, correct?"

"And their next of kin notified, Most weren't happy to hear they'd died. These people all had substantial debts their family will inherit."

"Indeed, but more importantly, this means that our current victim is the only one who is unidentified. So perhaps identifying her will provide some answers? Perhaps she can tell us what happened in June."

The Blood Market Chapter 4

The elderly chinese man in the rumpled burgundy suit stood from the table. He raised his glass to us and downed the remaining beer and then picked up his silverware and his unfinished plate of Chicken Tika Masala and walked over to our table. He approached and looked at me, "Very much begging your pardon young lady, but could I impose upon you and the gentleman to slide over, so as to permit me to join you?"

I nodded and looked expectantly at Harbinger. He nodded as well and we shuffled our chairs to the left to make room at the table. The man placed his plate down and then walked back to his original table, picked up the chair that he had been sitting in and carried it over, placing it beside us. He sat down and smiled again, "It is silly of course, but I am a creature of habit. My name is Dr. Zhang Wei. Professor of History at New Jericho University. I teach mostly the history of Sino-American International Relations in the late Golden Age. I hope I am not boring you, but I am a very dull man to those outside my field, or so my students tell me. This, you must believe, so that you will understand why everything else that I will say is so bizarre as compared with my normal day to day existence."

Harbinger shook his head, " I suspect that your day to day existence is entirely in line with what has befallen you. Dahlia, you have military and field medical training, what is your impression of our dear professor? Can you guess what has happened to him?"

"Is this a test?" I asked.

"Not at all," Harbinger said, "Think of it more as an assessment. I need to know where you are right now, in order to know where I have to take you."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"No no. You're going to be my partner. I need to know your strengths and weaknesses. So, please, tell me what you see."

I glanced at Cassandra Harbinger. Her expression was carefully composed and did not change. She met my gaze unblinking. I looked at the lieutenant Colonel, who smiled very slightly and gave a nearly imperceptible nodd. No getting around this apparently. I know my observation skills are decide, one doesn't maintain a military command by being oblivious. But even so, I felt a metaphorical spotlight beaming light down upon me as the curtain suddenly rose five minutes before the scheduled show time. I looked Mr. Zhang over again now that he was closer and nodded, "He has heavy purple bruising on his wrists and his neck, they are recent and still tender. That's why he's loosed his neck tie, the bruising on the neck makes wearing the tie unfeasible. He been assaulted definitely, threatened from the looks of it, because the bruises are not in a shape that a fist or weapon would be likely to leave. I'm fairly confident that those bruises were administered by somebody with large hands grasping and squeezing Mr. Zhang for too fiercely to be polite."

"Good,' Harbinger said, "Can you extrapolate anything else about our case?"

I closed my eyes, "Mr. Zhang's teaching specialty is international relations, specifically relations between nations in North America and in China. Mr. Blackwater is a modern specialist in international affairs of nations attached to the Pacific and Indian Oceans, which most certainly includes the nations that have replaced old China. He outright admitted that this could affect relations with the Restored Republic of China and The Empire of Hong Kong. He didn't mention the United Peasant Kingdoms of China or the Eternal People's Republic of Beijing, which means southern China, but not Northern or Western China."

"Very good." Harbinger said, "And what does that tell you?"

"Well. Mr. Zhang is a dedicated academic. But, if Mr. Zhang will pardon my rudeness, he isn't a wealthy or powerful man judging from his suit and shoes. I doubt then that he was being threatened or intimidated due to his influence upon trade or politics in that region. Therefore, I would suspect that Mr. Zhang was threatened to attempt to induce him to provide some sort of information regarding diplomatic or trade relations between the Nations of North America and the nations of the South China Sea."

"Very good," Harbinger said.

"Freeman, that was rude of you." Cassandra said.

"Really?" He looked genuinely surprised as he turned to towards his sister.

"Yes. If I weren't your sister, I would assume that you were raised by wolves. But I am, and I know better."

"How close was she?" He turned eagerly to Mr. Zhang and Blackwater.

"Wrong, but impressively close nonetheless." Blackwater said, "Mr. Zhang was indeed the subject of an attempt at coerced services. But perhaps I should let the distinguished scholar explain?"

"Thank you, yes." Mr. Zhang nodded, "As the Ms. Crowe noticed, I have been manhandled and not on the wrestling mat. I was leaving campus when I was approached by two white men: one large and bald with mutton chops and another small and wiry with a face not unlike a starving coyote, long with high cheekbones and hungry eyes. I was instructed to walk with the men and when I tried to declined I was grabbed by both wrists by the larger man and made to walk with them."

"When was this?" I asked. A part of me felt that I shouldn't speak too often, as I was certainly the junior partner in this new matter. Another part of me felt that I had better impress my father's friend if he was to keep me around.

"Two days ago, early afternoon; around five o'clock if I recall correctly."

"And where did they take you?" Harbinger asked.

"I do not know. They blindfolded me as soon as we had left the main streets for the alleyways. When the smaller man removed the smelly hankerchief from my eyes, I was standing in a darkened warehouse somewhere next to a woman of Chinese descent who appeared to be mid thirties, and a strong looking white man who I guess would be in his early forties, wearing a blue pinstripe suit, many rings, and sporting a large handlebar mustache. The strong man waved a hand to the Chinese Woman and told me to ask her about the shipment. Ask her what had gone wrong. I asked him why he needed me, a stranger, to do this thing? And he told me that I was ask the woman in Chinese. He did not even know whether she spoke Mandarin or Cantonese or another dialect. Most New Jericho born Chinese speak both, and so I started with Mandarin, but she did not speak Mandarin- or at least not well. She answered me in Cantonese, indicating first that her name was Li Jing. This is a very common name and told me nothing. I asked her about the shipment, and what went wrong. And as I was asking this, I was wondering to myself what the shipment contained. She said to me that one of customers had tried to avoid paying and a fight had broken out, several people had been killed. I was about to report this in English to the Strong looking man when Li Jing added that none of this was her fault and she was not responsible for the loss of cargo. I as unsure what she meant, but related it to the strong man. He responded by instructing me to tell her that the problem lay with her partner and that she should partner with him instead, he would accept a smaller cut of the profits and more independence in her activities. I related this, and Li Jing told me that the strong man could not protect her as her current partner was able to protect her and also that the strong man could not protect either her or I from her current partner if we betrayed him."

He paused.

"She told me to tell the strong man that she would need him to acquire the portion of the shipment that her partner had taken as punishment and in compensation for the loss of the paying customers, and that if he could do that then she would consider working with him. I related what she asked me to relate and did not tell the strong man Li Jing's actual feeling in the matter. But I was struck by the way Li Jing had spoken of customers. The strong man was unhappy with Li Jing's answer, but not to the point of violence. He said that if he was to acquire the stolen shipment, he expected her to not simply consider partnering with him, but to give him her word that should would do so. I related the answer to Li Jing, who said that if he could actually manage what she had demanded then she might as well work with him, but she commented to me that she was sending the strong man and his people to their death. I told the strong man that she agreed with his counter offer, and he thanked me for my cooperation and told me to tell nobody of the meeting, lest I regret me decision. I, of course reported it to the Royal Commission immediately. My husband and Mr. Blackwater are casual acquaintances."

"And When Mr. Zhang described what had happened, we immediately realized that this must in some way relate to the multiple murder found at the docks a week earlier. His description matched the crime scene well. The victims were either illegal immigrant from Southeast Asia or known criminals with smuggling records." Blackwater said, "Normally this would be a matter for the police. However, The Department of Commerce is currently in trade negotiations with both the Restored Republic of China and the Empire of Hong Kong. Ambassadors from both are in Sticktown currently for a sensitive series of negotiations. Stopped human trafficking has been raised by both ambassadors as a key concern, for reasons as diverse as preventing human tragedy, and stopping defection or controlling political dissidents. The murder of a group of illegal immigrants smuggled into New Jericho by human traffickers would complicate matters for several reasons- not the least of which being that her Majesty assured the Prince of Hong Kong that New Jericho is so harsh in its dealing with human traffickers that there hasn't been a human trafficking case in twenty years or more. She claimed trafficking now used the Babylon Republics due to lax regulation and political corruption. The careers of civil servants who disappoint or embarrass the Queen do not blossom and grow."

"When will we view that crime scene?" Harbinger asked.

"You won't Freeman," Cassandra answered, "The Royal Commission has removed the crime scene long ago. The area was scrubbed and sterilized. There is nothing left of the crime scene that might suggest that the Queen could possibly have spoken in error. You must work from the information that we give you."

"Cassie, you don't want a detective," Harbinger said, "You want a trained parrot. Why don't you just tell me the answer you want me to give you?"

"Aren't you being unfair to your sister?" I asked cautiously, "After all, she doesn't control the conditions she has to work under."

Harbinger shook his head, "You're underestimating my dear sister. Cassie could prevent the moon from rising if she thought it might might embarrass the queen. But I have some questions for Mr. Zhang. The man, the one with the mustache, you said that he was in charge, but none of the men apparently spoke either Mandarin or Cantonese? And it was this linguistic inability on their part that they kidnapped you to fill for them? You skills as a scholar were irrelevant to the situation?"

"Very much so. They needed somebody who could speak to Li Jing. If they had other needs they did not tell me. I was released after I had performed my translation duties for them. And then I contacted Mr. Blackwater through my husband Sudono."

Harbinger shook his head, "My young apprentice made a very good point. Hah! My young apprentice, I sound like a lord of the dark arts! I'm sorry, I'm being distracted. Ms. Crowe, Dahlia here, noted that Mr. Zhang's field of scholarly study overlaps very closely with the crime on display here. Human trafficking, smuggling illegal immigrants from Southeast Asia, this is precisely the sort of crime that Mr. Zhang would likely have useful background knowledge from his profession, Yes? And yet the criminals want you only to translate? Something is wrong there. Nearly a third of the population of New Jericho is of Asian descent, more than half of those who are ethnically Asian here are of Chinese descent originally. Mandarin and Cantonese are spoken by nearly a quarter of all residents of New Jericho. Many poorer and more desperate people would be willing to translate for a modest fee and with the risk of exposure that Mr. Zhang posed to the criminals. The translation could not have been the only reason for their choosing you, Mr. Zhang. Did they ask you anything else?"

Mr. Zhang grimaced and ran a hand through his hair, "I was very scared. I am sure that they said many things that I am not remembering well or correctly. But I am sorry, I do not remember them asking me anything associated with my profession or field of study."

"Freeman, are you maybe giving the criminals too much credit? You said that they could pick from nearly a quarter of the population of New Jericho. Perhaps that is what they did. Perhaps Mr. Zhang's profession is a simple accident of a random selection process. They may have simply grabbed anyone off the street who seemed likely to speak both Mandarin and Cantonese, and who also seemed likely to speak English. With the nations of Southeast Asia being one of the only sources of consistent immigrants for the west coast, many of those Chinese speaking residents you mentioned do not yet speak English well or at all. Mr. Zhang, dressed in western attire and clearly working at the New Jericho University may have been picked because the criminals could be confident that he spoke all of the languages that he needed to speak. His being able to speak Mandarin and Cantonese may not have been the deciding factor, but his ability to also speak English. Mr. Zhang's family has lived in New Jericho since before the fall, not every immigrant of Chinese descent can say that."

Harbinger frowned and scrunched up his nose, "Maybe. But something is missing, and thanks to the Royal Commission's efficiency, I can't examine the crime scene to look for physical evidence. Cassie, you always make this more difficult than it needs to be."

"The situation is what it is Freeman, whine to somebody else." Cassandra answered.

"Could the men have been trying to scare somebody else?" I asked, "How well known is Mr. Zhang? Might this have been a warning to the smuggler: Li Jing. Might the criminals have been saying, 'Look at us, we aren't afraid to snatch a university professor off the street and use him as a pawn. We might do anything. You don't want to oppose us.' I mean I'm just speculating. I don't mean to suggest I might have any experience using that as coercive method during the Canyonlands campaign. I'm shutting up now."

"The thought is not unreasonable," Blackwater said, "But the connection seems tenuous. Mr. Zhang did not know Ms. Li before they met in that warehouse and vice versa. Such a method of coercion works best when it is somebody one knows. If Zhang had been Ms. Li's son or father or lover, then that might be more suggestive- but no, I think not."

"She's not my type," Mr. Zhang said, smiling crookedly, "I'm sorry that I can't help you on the question as to why they choose me. I would tend to side with Ms. Major Harbinger. I cannot imagine anyone taking an interest in me personally. I assume I fit the bill that they were looking to fill."

"Fine, let's move on. Did you notice anything unusual about Li Jing. Things that might help us identify her during the investigation?"

"Oh yes," Mr. Zhang said, "I neglected to mention during my initial description. Ms. Li was wearing a classic Indian style Nehru jacket with a high neck mandarin collar, all in a rich cinnamon brown. At one point in the conversation, we heard a loud banging of metal- somebody moving a container or some sort into place against the outside of the warehouse and banging the metal warehouse wall. In any event, the noise startled Ms. Li and she turned sharply to look at the source of the clatter. When she did so, I noticed a tattoo on her neck on the left side, a red rounded rectangle with Hanzi characters depicted in negative space."

Harbinger nodded, "Like an old Chinese name stamp?"

"Precisely so," Mr. Zhang answered, "And the stamp translated to the words 'Red Flag'."

"The term used for the flag of the Pre-Fall Chinese Communist Party," I commented, "Do they still use the same flag or similar one in the Eternal People's Kingdom of Beijing?"

Blackwater shook his head, "They use a variation of the old Imperial Flag of the Qing Dynasty: yellow field and a dragon. They've included the five stars from the Communist flag, but the stars and the dragon are the only elements of the flag that are red. And the United Peasant's KIngdom uses a variation on the five color flag with elements of the Wuchang Uprising Flag as a Canton in the upper left of the flag. The RROC uses the white sun on blue. The Empire of Hong Kong still uses the white Hong Kong orchid on a field of red, but they don't call it the red flag. "

"It could be a reference to the old Communist flag though," Mr. Zhang said.

"It could, but if so, then the utility of the information is limited to a method of recognizing Ms. Li Jing when and if my brother finds her."

"What kind of timeline are we working under?" I asked, "Since nobody else seems to be talking about it."

"You until the day before Independence Day, four days," Blackwater said, "The government hopes to announce new trade deals at that time, and we need this resolved in time to show the ambassadors that we are taking the matter seriously. We need to conclusively show that the rumors of human smuggling are unsubstantiated, or that we have taken measures and curtailed and stamped out the problem."

Harbinger nodded and then pushed his chair back and stood up, "Well this has been very interesting of course, but I have to take me new partner and run. We have a crime scene to visit and corpses do tend to get old fast in this heat."

I look at him and then back to his sister, "You weren't worried before."

"I'm not worried now, but if I keep Sheriff Hurley waiting any longer I'll have to bring the pot-pourri before she'll let me in the crime scene."

"Freeman," Cassandra said slowly, "The Government is not paying you by the hour, nor is it paying you to ask questions. You get a flat fee for services rendered. There is no benefit in stretching this out. What are your theories."

"Cassie, I'm very clever- but this isn't a Victorian tea cosy mystery. I don't just deduce the answer magically by talking with one victim. Victims miss-remember. Victims miss-interpret. Victims simply miss things. Big things. Mr. Zhang is a very intelligent fellow. He's better educated that I, but he isn't a detective in either his training or his schooling. How he thinks events occured may bear little resemblance to the actual events. And even if he remembered the event with no errors, he does not know the motives of any of the other actors in this little drama or the identities and motives for those players acting upon them from off stage. I can speculate a lot, it looks like a smuggling ring, but might be nothing of the sort. It looks like a human smuggling ring, but might be nothing of the sort. There are a number bits of information that don't match, and I'm not going to speculate beyond what you must have been able to speculate on your own, because if I do that- you will extrapolate. And you're my sister Cassie, but you think like a headsman when you solve problems. And if her Majesty's pride and National Interest are at stake, and you that this can be averted by making a few people stop breathing- well I'm not going to be part of that unless I know with a high degree of confidence that those people deserved to stop breathing."

"You don't get to make that decision Freeman, this is a matter of National Security and you will disclose whatever you are ordered to disclose."

Harbinger pushed his chair in and turned away, but continued speaking, "Then let me say that I might speculate that Mr. Zhang made up the whole thing and kidnapped and strangled himself while following the edicts of ascended masters from the fifth dimension. Let me say I might also speculate that Mr. Zhang was on a ayuhuasca induced vision quest and all these things that he experienced took place with the Shadowlands, the mystic realms contained within the stories he has learned and internalized since childhood. Let me also speculate that you might be the guilty party, acting through intermediaries to prevent the resurrection of the Ancient Egyptian God Set. Shall I go on? You want my speculations, I can continue until any actual information is buried under a mass of my speculations."

Cassandra was silent and unmoving for forty five seconds, then said, "Freeman, I demand that you take these matters seriously."

"Everyone knows I'm a lunatic Cassie, perhaps you should have considered that before dragging me into your little game of empires and idiots. You want a swift end to the matter. You want it to go away so it can't bother reputations and power bases that you serve. I want to actually help the victims involved. If I give you incomplete information, I could end up being culpable for the death of a great many innocent victims whom you found politically expedient to eliminate."

"I will tell mother."

Harbinger stopped moving, and then he turned

"No, you won't. Because we both know that I would then have bring up Ashley."

The sibling stared at each other a long time. Blackwater produced a beautiful and ostentatious pocket watch and made a show of observing it. I counted to one hundred and seventy three before Cassandra spoke.

"The situation is not dire enough to warrant me making that sacrifice. Go play detective Freeman. But if you take too long providing me with what I need, then I will bring this to mother's attention- bring up Ashley if you must at that time. But know that such an action would an act of war between us."

"You are such a drama queen." Harbinger said and turned back around and skipped, actually skipped, out the door.

I saluted both Cassandra and Blackwater, and then turned to follow.

In the silence behind me I heard Blackwater, "I've heard he's quite good. But remember, you did decide to bring him into this matter. This does fall to you if he fails."

The Blood Market Chapter 3

Version:1.0 StartHTML:0000000167 EndHTML:0000023664 StartFragment:0000000454 EndFragment:0000023648

My father had taken me to the Sun Yat Sen Social House for the first time when I five years old. A club for officers in the New Jericho Military, I had been allowed in without a full member vouching for me a little past my nineteenth birthday. When I realized that Harbinger was leading me to the Sun Yat Sen, I felt my stomach lurch. The Sun Yat Sen allowed entry only to officers in the New Jericho Armed Forces, to Knights of New Jericho, and to certain ranking civil servants. The staff required all others to be vouched for by a member. I no longer held any rank in the New Jericho Armed Forces, and anyone recognizing me would more likely challenge me to a duel with sabers than vouch for me.

"Are we meeting your sister at the Sun Yat Sen Club?" I asked Harbinger as we strode through the streets. I knew this to be the case. There was no other reason to visit the Arabian District and we were in the Arabian district. The district's unfortunate name came from it's origin being as a breeder of Arabian Horses for the Cavalry.

"Of course we are. Why else does anyone go to the Arabian district? My sister is an officer in the Royal Commission. I think she sleeps at the Sun Yat Sen. I never find her anywhere else."

"You should probably go alone then." I said slowing to a slow march.

He stopped and looked back at me with an expression both confused and compassionate, "Now why would I do that? I just brought you on. Your father indicated to me that you need to get your legs back under you. You need battles you can win, and all that military hoo-rah and so and so."

I stopped and we stood looking at each other in the center of the street, "Mr. Harbinger. You are right that my father wants to help me. But this won't help. I can't go in there."

"Why ever not? My sister wants us to meet her there. It would be quite rude to keep her waiting. I mean she's at least a little rude for always insisting that I visit her and not the reverse, but she's older and trying to win arguments against her is pointless."

"I was discharged. I'm not an officer. I wasn't honorably discharged either. Didn't father explain that? I made more than a few enemies as I left the Forces. I don't have standing at the club. I can't get in. Nobody there is going to vouch for me. Even the ones I saved wouldn't dare jeopardize their careers by vouching for a pariah like me. If you walk in their with me, you basically walking in with a landmine."

"Oh. Yes, when you put it that way, your father did explain it to me," Harbinger said. I straightened my back instinctively to attention, bracing myself for the dismissal.

"I just didn't care." He said with a broad smile. I opened my mouth but found myself without words. Harbinger continued, "I have known your father nearly my entire life. Ask your father about the time he slipped me into the Sun Yat Sen for a, well let's call it a gentleman's party. He hid me in this enormous cake, a very tight fit for me and the young lady already occupying it. Actually you may not want to ask him about that, him being your parent and all that. In either case, I am not a military man. I do not care what kind of discharge that collection of thugs and buffoons gave you. I am a rebel and troublemaker and I always have been. I am not an outcast, because nobody cast me out. I stand in the monsoon because I do not like the crowd under the awning. So let's go horrify them, and offend them and make my sister deal with it. She decided we should meet her at this pretentious horse barn."

I tried to process the flurry of offenses and blasphemies that had just tumbled from Harbinger's lips and only managed to say, "She didn't know about me when she invited you."

Harbinger burst into giggles, "If she didn't then she's losing her touch. There's a fair chance that she had accounted for your presence here before your father decided to ask me to take me on. Now come on, you're a soldier and an officer- in bearing and spirit if not in official standing. Grow a backbone and just think of this as an enemy line you have to break."

I laughed, " So do you have standing in the club?" I asked.

"None whatsoever. I was declared unfit for service during the Banner War due to reasons of mental unfitness. Something about delusions, I don't remember exactly."

I shook my head and smiled in spite of myself, "So a disgraced former officer and an anti-military firebrand are going to waltz into the Sun Yat Sen Social House. Will your sister meet us at the door or send a junior officer to vouch for us?"

"We have a better chance of meeting the Buddha on the road than we do of either of those things happening." He said.

"I am all a goggle. Well fine, let's go. I may as well see how many more bridges I can burn. Why not?"

Harbinger grinned like rabid beaver in a lumber yard, "That's the spirit. Now I know you're trainable."

We continued on towards the club house; myself in silence, Harbinger skipping and twirling a pipe that he had produced from his jacket pocket. The walk up to the front door was crowded with younger officers loitering, smoking, and chatting. I was grateful that I was still wearing my dress uniform. As long as nobody recognized me, I didn't stand out. Harbinger stood out and I found myself slowing a little and letting the distance between us lengthen.

We were stepping under the veranda and heading for the front desk when I felt a hand grasping the crook of my left elbow, " lieutenant Crowe, sir! By the Buddha what are you doing here?" A worried female voice hissed. I turned and saw Sergeant Anne Dunbrook from my old command.

"I'm not your lieutenant anymore Sergeant. I'm not a sir, I'm not anything." I hissed back, "I'm working for a friend of my father. His sister is in the Royal Commission and we're apparently meeting her here. What are you doing here. Non-commissioned officers aren't allowed in the Sun Yat Sen. Who's vouched for you?"

"You're always my lieutenant sir," Dunbrook answered, "And nobody vouched for me. Your replacement has me standing out here like dog tied outside the restaurant while he dallies with some pretty little rich girl, trying to show her how impressive he is. You better watch out sir, you've got enemies. They still haven't cleaned up the rubbish you exposed, sir. Keep your head low."
"Thanks sergeant. That means a lot. But apparently this is my life now. How did I survive to adulthood?"

"You've got Mother Mary guarding your steps, sir. Or I guess the Buddha or some boddisattva, right sir?"

"If you say so. I have to run. My new boss is clinically insane and he just ducked inside."

"Good luck sir." Dunbrook said as I ran to catch up with Harbinger as the door closed behind him. So much for keeping my distance.

I stepped into the front room of the Sun Yat Sen Social House, a spacious room built with beautiful exposed sequoia wooden beams and granite bar tops. Harbinger stood beside the concierge desk, although he faced away from it, looking into the club itself. Three attendants stood between Harbinger and the entrance to the club itself, their arms spread to bar him from entering.

"This is ridiculous, "Harbinger said in a tone of mock outrage, "Are we going to do this every time?"

The elderly male attendant in the center, Mr. Crispin answered Harbinger, "Every time you try to enter without membership or a member in good standing to vouch for you."

"You know who I am. You know why I'm here. It's no as though I actually want to spend time in this pretentious little horse barn. More importantly, you know who I'm here to see."

I knew Mr. Crispin very well. His name tag read Geoffrey, but I had know him since I was five years old and my father had always insisted that I call him Mr. Crispin. I had kept the habit into adulthood. I liked Mr. Crispin, but he knew who I was. And he must already know what had befallen me. His presence here was not good for our chances. He also wasn't going to let Harbinger fast talk him.

"We cannot let a non-member into the club without the member in good standing present to vouch for you. You are not a member in good standing. And unless the Lieutenant behind you is willing to vouch for you, then I see nobody to vouch for you and no reason to let you in."

I realized in surprise that he Mr. Crispin meant me when he spoke of the lieutenant. Did he not know I had been discharged? Or, did you not care?

"I don't need one of these toy soldiers to vouch for me, "Harbinger hadn't looked back to see to whom Mr. Crispin was referring, in fact Harbinger had begun to sound genuinely agitated, "You know that I'm going to get in. Why do you do this?"

"Because there are rules to be followed. Decorum to be respected. And I do not bend the rules for anyone, least of all somebody with no respect for my rules, my establishment or my decorum. I am only your enemy because you choose to make me your enemy, but if that how you want to interact then I am happy to oblige you. You are not a member, and no member has vouched for your entry."

"I eat here often enough to be a member," Harbinger answered, his voice rising almost to a shout now.

"While true, that is irrelevant to your current situation. I am not making an exception for a walking flatware demolitions expert. I not making an exception and having to responsibility when you accost another a member. Or perform an unwanted exorcism. Or juggle wine glasses or summon demons or whatever else you might decide to do. At this point no impossibility would surprise me. Produce a member to vouch for you or come back when you can do so."

"Freeman," A marble cold female voice said, speaking from within the club house, "I hate having to collect you. Why do you do this? You could have mentioned my name at any point. You didn't."

"I don't need help from the Royal Commission," Harbinger said with a sniff.

"And here I am bailing you out again," A willowy woman Harbinger's age stepped into the entry hall and shook her head. She wore her iron gray hair back in a bun with chopsticks speared through and her skin was pale as an abalone shell. She wore the black dress uniform of the Royal Commission. The attendants nodded silently to her and returned to their posts.

Harbinger turned back and noticed me, then he waved forward and said, "Dahlia Crowe, may I present my sister Major Cassandra Harbinger of Her Majesty's Royal Commission and a constant pain in my sitting muscles."

She looked at me without blinking, her gaze tracked up from my feet to my head and then back down to my feet. She turned back to Harbinger, "She's a better asset that you Freeman. My direct report is here, Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwater. Do not embarrass me. I have recommended you for a matter suited to your bizarre capabilities, but I will see you tried for treason if you embarrass me in front of the Lieutenant-Colonel"

She finished speaking, turned and walked back into the club house without a backward glance. Harbinger looked at me, "That's my sister. What do you think?"

"I think we just met the Buddha on the road."

He grinned in response and jogged after her. I looked towards Mr. Crispin, who nodded at me with a gentle smile. I nodded back and followed after Harbinger and his sister.

As I caught up with harbinger he whispered to me, "Cassie hasn't ever explain her role in the Royal Commission to me. I know it has to do with internal security, but it seems to be as much about public relations as it is legitimate threats to security."

The dining hall was the first room in the club house past the entry hall. The decor of the club house paid homage to the diverse Asian Immigrant culture that served as a prominant part of New Jericho's history. Chinese traditional blue and white porcelain and pottery sat on shelves and tables around the dining hall. Japanese architectural design and wood joining techniques were displayed prominantly in the structures of the building itself. The walls were decorated with painting and calligraphy from Korea and China and Japan as well as from Vietnam and Indonesia and likely others that I hadn't seen or recognized. The place was at once gaudy and respectful, loud and and stately.

I scanned the room, hoping to see nobody else that I knew, or who- more importantly- might know me from my days of service. I spotted a tall gangly man child with a prominant nose and adam's apple with lieutenant's crown on his collar and the silver endless knot design on the shoulder epaulets. He stood next to a dainty young woman, with luxurious blonde hair and a radiant complexion who appeared to be trying to politely laugh at the man child's joke and failing. I shook my head, my command lay in the hands of an idiot wearing an inherited title and no mind to call his own.

The dining hall was empty otherwise, save for a tall slim man of frightening poise and a gentle looking Chinese man in his later years who sat two tables over from Harbinger's sister. The taller man sat in silence, studiously eating steak tartar and smoking a Jakarta black kretek, a brand of Indonesian clove cigarettes that cost more than I made in a month on my military salary. A snifter glass of what I guessed to be whisky sat ignored beside his plate. The man wore the black dress uniform of the Royal Commission festooned with medals and honors, and I thus guessed that this was the Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwater to whom Cassandra Harbinger had referred.His face was narrow and hawk-like with a strange speckled scarring the right side of his face and sharp angular schmisse scar on his right cheek bone that could only have been obtained in a mensur duel with sabers. On the knuckles of the man's right hand were tattooed the letters H-I-J-O, meaning child in Spanish and marking the man as a member or, more likely a former member, of the street gang 'los hijos de la guerra'- the children of war. Many people in the armed forces who were not from military or noble families wore similar tattoos. People often joked that a 'hijo' tattoo was mandatory to obtain admittance to the infantry. His medal and awards will extensive, but I recognized all of them save for two. He wore a a blunt five point gold and silver star with a cavalry officer bearing a shield emblazoned red, white and blue on his left breast. At his side hung an ornate dress saber that was clearly a ceremonial honor, but which I did not recognize. His hair was so white as to be nearly translucent. This stood in contrast to his face which, although tanned and heavily weathered, seemed to place his age no older than mid fifties.

His companion was dressed in a rumpled burgundy suit that was of a style that went out of fashion when I was still a squire. He had a thin crimson neck tie around his neck, but the tie's knot had been loosened quite substantially and hung awkwardly about his throat. The suit was well worn with smooth patches on the elbows poorly patched with suede leather, certainly not a professional patch. He was enjoying a plate of what looked to be Chicken Tika Masala and a glass of what I guessed to be a Wu Li wheat beer. The man's hands were stained with ink and calloused on the heel- an academic who has spent years writing at a desk then. He wore a small pair of reading spectacles, half circles on the bottom of his eye lids. He wore a simple gold band on the third finger of his left hand and I noticed a modest gold chain under the collar of his shirt. His shoes were simple black dress shoes with heavy soles that looked far newer than the shoe leather itself, recently re-soled then- repaired and not replaced.

Cassandra Harbinger stopped an empty table in the corner and sat down. An old fashioned glass rested on the table and she picked up the glass and downed the liquid contents, leaving only the ice, the cherry and the orange slice. The man had not looked up from his meal. Harbinger sat down across from his sister and after a moment I joined them, sitting next to Harbinger and across from his sister. I waited. Cassandra Harbinger said nothing. Harbinger grinned at her and remained silent as well. I watched them and counted to a minute in my mind. Silence. They were playing a game, or involved in some unspoken game of brinksmanship.

"So why did you demand I trek out to your hideaway Cassie?" Harbinger said, and Cassandra smiled slightly.

"You tell me little brother. That is why I throw you the occasional task."

Harbinger nodded, "Fine, I suppose. Where to start. You're nervous, which means that focus of this whole procedure is not loss of life but the embarrassment of the Kingdom or her majesty and likely our reputation abroad. It's a sensitive matter in some way shape or form, as you're usually given a fair bit of leeway and independence. So if you superior is sitting three tables over, checking your hall pass, then this must have somebody above you nervous."

Cassandra frowned, but said nothing.

"Your boss is almost certainly involved, because he has his own specialties relevant to the case. Something involving affairs in the South China Seas if his brand of cigarettes is any indication- although that's admittedly speculation on my part. The idiot boy in the corner is irrelevant I hope."

Cassandra nodded, but my replacement Lieutenant had clearly heard Harbinger. He straightened and glared at Harbinger before stalking over to Harbinger.

"I am an officer in the Armed Forces of New Jericho civilian," He said in the grammar school accent of the elite and expensively educated, "You owe me your respect and your gratitude. I am all that stand between you and the savages of the Canyonlands. The cannibals of those dead cities would swarm across New Jericho if our forces didn't keep them in line."

I clenched my teeth and then shook my head, "But you've never been to the anyonlands, have you little man?" I asked, almost biting the words off as I spoke, "You parents bought you a commission once that actual fighting was done and the lives were lost. Didn't they? You've got not scars, no burns on your hands from gun powder. You're  boots have no permanent marks from being actually worn in the field. You uniform is so new and shiny it practically hurts my eyes. Have you ever stood outside a parade ground?"

The lieutenant took a half step back and then looked at me more carefully, "You're the Ashland Pariah aren't you? Dahlia Crowe? Killer of the Training Grounds."

I pursed my lips and suppressed a snarl.

"Who let you in here wearing that uniform? I should strip it off your back."

"Back off child." The tall man in the Royal Uniform stood from his table as he spoke.

The Lieutenant didn't look as he answered, "My rank is lieutenant. You had best use it when you address me."

The man wore no expression as he answered, "Interesting. I hold the rank of Lieutenant as well." He paused, "Lieutenant-Colonel. In her Majesty's Royal Commission, and Her Majesty's personal advisor on the affairs of the Pacific and Indian Oceans. Now take your companion and show her the parade grounds. I'm certain that she'll be very impressed."

The lieutenant turned slowly and open mouthed to face the man.

"Run along child, and let's get a crisp salute for myself, the Major at the table there and her special agents as well."

After a long silent moment, the man snapped off three salutes, his face sour and stiff, and then quickly retreated to the pretty young lady and then out of the dining hall. I looked at Cassandra, and was suddenly aware of the tension in the way she held her head and neck. Harbinger had been right when he said his sister was nervous.

The man sat down at the table beside Cassandra. He didn't smile, "My name is Algernon Blackwater, I believe I have otherwise been well introduced. You are Freeman Harbinger of course, and you are Dahlia Rosella Crowe.”

He paused and looked at me for a moment. I maintained eye contact, having the impression that he was measuring me in some capacity.

Finally he continued, “The Ashland Incident was a travesty, and you were an unfortunate casualty of that debacle. I apologize to you for how the service has treated you.”

I nodded, “Thank you, sir.”

He continued, “The Major indicates that she has the utmost respect for her brother in matters of the sort that stand ahead of us. Her majesty is watching all of us in this matter, trade relations with RROC  and the Empire of Hong Kong may be adversely affected if we all of us do not handle things competent. This is Chess. The great game, first played by Egypt and Assyria, then Greece and Persia, then Rome and Carthage, eventually England and the other great powers of Europe, then the United States and the USSR, now it falls to New Jericho and the surviving great nations and empires to play it again. I trust I have your attention?"

Now, I was nervous as well.

Blackwater produced a black lacquered cigarette case and drew out a Jakarta black cigarette and held it out to Harbinger, "Cigarette?"

Harbinger shook his head, "I only smoke occupationally."

Blackwater extended to cigarette towards me, "Ms. Crowe?"

I nodded and took the cigarette, "Thank you, sir. My father would be appalled, but these days it seems a small transgression."

"Life is built from small transgressions." Blackwater said as he extended a lighter and lit the cigarette for me. Input the cigarette to me lips and inhaled. I had never smoked regularly, but a soldier who turned down a cigarette offered by their comrades would have become alienated pretty quickly. The smoke from the cigarette was sweeter and more aromatic than the regular tobacco I had smoked previously, and I took a moment to savour the flavor before exhaling the smoke.

Cassandra looked at Blackwater, "Sir, shall we introduce them to our witness?"

Harbinger smiled, "Yes, I'd love to speak to the Professor."

Blackwater raised an eyebrow slightly, and then motioned for the Chinese gentleman to join us at the table.

The Blood Market Chapter 2

Now suddenly without a significant other and running obscenely late for my appointment, I double timed my way to the Baker's District of Sticktown. Sticktown was built on the south side of Portland Sound, west of the submerged Ruins of Portland and Columbia City. The Barker's District was not a wealthy district, but did have the advantage of being uphill from the water compared with other lower income areas such as Poorman's inlet. I didn't understand what reason, beside cheap rent might have prompted a well known figure like Freeman Harbinger to set up his office in the Baker's district, nestled between Candy lady's wheeled carts, Bakeries and Breweries and Apothecary shops. The Baker's district bustled with activity, people shopping, children shrieking for sweets, a chatter hum of activity that reminded me of an angry bee hive. I traversed the crowds carefully and drew my father's note from my pocket. Written in his precise printing was the address of Professor Harbinger's office: #2 Honey Bee Street (second floor). I was unfamiliar with the street name, and had bought a map from a street vendor the day before. Honey Bee Street lay just off Redemption Ave and had seemed on the map to be a tiny little side street. The location had seemed easy to find, laying as it did just off the main road through the Baker's District on a street so small that I couldn't help but see building. I had been so confident that I could find the location, that I hadn't scouted it the day before. And if I were being honest with myself, I also didn't scout the location the day before due to my misgivings about Freeman Harbinger. The man was well know in Sticktown, and even in the surrounding cities, for his preternatural ability to understand the motives of the criminally insane. But his reputation from his earlier days tinted all his later fame, the occultist who made the ill fated expedition deep south from which only he returned. Freeman Harbinger had been excommunicated by the Catholic Church and was wanted for heresy in the Bannerlands. His reputation was almost as dangerous as my own, but from all accounts Freeman Harbinger positively reveled in his dangerous reputation.

And because I had failed to scout the location ahead of time I found myself over an hour late, wandering back and forth on Redemption Avenue like a lost child in search of a parent. I was lost and crushed by the scrambling, stinking, screaming crowd of the Baker's District; up to my eyeballs amidst people with whom I had nothing in common. The press and weight of the crowd began to push inwards and I could feel my vision narrowing. I couldn't hold back the sense of threat that the crowd engendered and it threw me like a cork in the water. I began to lose sound and noticed black around the edges of my vision. I pushed my way to the edge of the avenue and sat down upon a battered oak bench beneath the stilts of a storefront bearing a sign proclaiming it as Mrs. Yu's Confectionary and Apothecary. I took slow and deliberate breaths, I focused on my hands and tried to force them to stop shaking and ignored all thoughts that entered my head. Thoughts were counterproductive at this point. I focused on my hands and my breathing, trying with some limited success to hold myself together. The sounds of the crowd were slowly returning, and my goal was to keep it so that my mind registered only the sounds that were actually there and not the sounds of a battlefield in Ashland. A hand dropped onto my shoulder. I almost screamed, and had Eccleston T-handle knife halfway out of my boot before I recognised the weathered face and hand of my father: Victor Maximillian Crowe.

"Dahlia, can you hear me kiddo?" He said as I replaced the knife in my boot sheath.

"Father, warn a girl before you do that."

"I did Dahlia, I called to you several times. How are you managing? You are very late." He said.

"I know, and I'm also apparently single." I answered, "And in addition to that, I can't find the address you gave me. I'm sorry father. I'm a disgrace."

"What do you mean single? Actually, never mind that right now. I can give you one piece of good news at least," He said and then pointed across the street to a shop that seemed to specialize in honey confections, "You have found the address, it's right there."

I shook my head and stared, and there the damned place stood: #2 Honey Bee Street. A battered Oak sign hung from the second floor while declaring 'Freeman Harbinger: Investigations and Excorisms'

I shook my head, "I didn't even realize I was on Honey bee street. I thought I was still trapped on redemption Avenue. I am so late. I'm sorry father, your friend is never going to be willing to work with me if I show up this late for our first meeting."

My father smiled, and shook his head, "You might be surprised. Freeman is a, well let's say that he's a surprising human being. And punctuality is not exactly his strong suit, so I imagine he'd understand. Although in this case, he's not likely to know. I have knocked on his door, and nobody is home. The door is locked, his landlord indicated that Freeman hasn't been home for at least two days. He's even more late than you are. And in fact the real question regarding punctuality may be whether an army brat like you can handle Freeman's lack of regard for time and punctuality. And of course, he may have simply got himself killed this time and we may have come out her for nothing save for me to identify the body for the Sheriff."

"Was that a joke father? Or do you actually think he might be dead?"

My father ran a hand through his hair, grown long into a fashionable though graying ponytail now that he was no longer in the military. He looked out towards the horizon, and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and didn't answer.

"You really do think that he might be dead. What does this man get into father?"

My father waved a hand to stop me, "Freeman gets into everything. Everything and anything. I don't think that he is dead. I am, however, always aware of the possibility that Freeman might be dead. He's younger than I am, but he's still not a young man; and yet he refuses to slow down. It will catch him somebody, death is not going to find Freeman lying in bed unless that bed is in a hospital or a prison cell."

"And you think he will help me? You think that with everything I am trying to manage right now, that such as person is what I need?"

My father smiled. I don't think I've ever seen my father angry, and I've seen him hack men to pieces with his sabre on the battlefield. And yet nothing unsettled him.

"Dahlia, this man is precisely what you need. You do fine, as long as he's not dead, or on another vision quest, or a doomed expedition to a lost city in search of some ancient grimiore, or being possessed by the spirit of a dead god or some such."

"None of this is improving my view of your plan father."

"Freeman is a good man, friendly and optimistic- if a little too trusting on occasion. He's scattered and bombastic and tends not to think of the consequences, but he means well and he will put you in a situation where you can do good. And I think you need to do good. He'll certainly get you into trouble, but I doubt that it will be worse than anything you've already had to manage. You'll get to fight, and you'll know that you're fighting for the right side this time, which will be therapeutic I think. Just don't let him get either of you killed and you'll do fine."

"So, do we just wait here and hope he returns?" I asked.

"Of course not," My father answered, "You wait inside and hope he returns. Not I. I've got places to be and matters to which I must attend."

He smiled and produced an old tarnished key on a long chain with a copper medal emobssed with esoteric symbols. He dropped the key and chain into my hands and then pointed at a door to the side of the honeyed candy shop, "That's the entrance. Go on up, and wait for him. I can't imagine he'll be gone much longer. I did remind him of the appointment several times. He's not that likely to forgotten, I don't think."

"You don't think? So I may just end up waiting in the office until the man's landlord decides to rent it to somebody else?"

"No, I'm sure a body would turn up before then."

"Father, are you having me on?"

"Probably a little. But with Freeman, maybe not. Head on up, no sense waiting. he might even be up there and simply have forgotten that he locked the door. If so, I recommend lying and pretending that you've been waiting down here until I suggested going up with the key. He shouldn't be upset with that I don't think.

"There is no way this ends well."

"You'll be fine kiddo," My father gave me a characteristically awkward one armed hug and quickly disappeared into the crowd. I watched him go. And then watched the street where he had gone. And then simply watched the writhing crowd for a a long while. Finally, with no other option and crossed the street, shouldering my way through the midday crowd. The key stuck in the lock, but yielded to a bit force. I opened the door and stared up a long narrow claustrophobic little staircase tot he second story and further regretted obeying my father in this matter.

I took the staircase slowly, listening the the aging steps creak under my bootheels. The whole place smelled of cedar wood and mildew, Another door with a frosted glass window on the upper half of the door stood at the top of the stairs. I knocked, and waited for a count of sixty before knocking a second time. After a second count of sixty and no response from the unlit room within, I tried the door. The door was locked. I inserted the key and turned. The key stuck. I jiggled the key in the keyhole and put a little muscle into my efforts. Finally the key turned and the door unlocked. I twisted the doorknob and opened the door on the most appalling mess I had ever seen.

I had grown up in a military environment and was used to the order of barracks and the demands of frequent inspections. The room before me stood in a state I had never before seen. I hesitate to describe it as an office, the room appeared as though some madman had run through tipping over ever filing cabinet and throwing everything else on to the floor before fleeing the scene. I didn't see any filing cabinets of any sort. Paper lay at least ankle deep on the floor, collecting dust and mildew and the spores of a whole menagerie of fungi. Lettuce sprouted from the sink in the kitchenette. I counted more than a dozen empty bottles of Morderca Czaszka vodka on the window sill collecting the corpses of wasps and flies in left over pools of vodka at the bottom of the bottles. Half built mechanical contraptions stood piled on military surplus metal shelves and the military surplus desk in the corner was piled with musty of leather bound books that appeared to have escaped from a horror novel, scrawled with arcane symbols and swirls.

"How did this man survive to adulthood?" I asked the empty room.

A skittering sound to my left drew my attention. I looked and saw a large cochroach emerge from between two piles of discarded paper. Antennae twitched and the creature paused. An instant later a rat burst from within an upturned steel kettle and caught the cochroach in it's jaws, biting through the carapace and swallowing half the insect in a single bite. The front half of the cochroach, seemingly oblivious to the fate of its hind end, continued scrabbling across the floor. The rat paused a moment, seeming surprised at the persistence of its intended meal, and then crouched as though to pursue the diminished insect. But as it did so, a lean looking raccoon crept from an opening behind a pile of contraptions on one of the metal shelves and smoothly saunted up and snatched the rat up in paws and quickly bit the smaller rodent's head clean off.

"So if I'm hired, my job will be to help him solve crimes, track villains, and feed the raccoon?" I said, staring at the raccoon. The animal looked at me as I spoke. It seemed profoundly unimpressed, staring at me for just a moment before shuffling forward and picking up the escaping front end of the cochroach swallowing it with two swift bites.

"This is what I've come to: barred from re-enlisting, my friends dead or forbidden by their superiors from consorting with me, seeking help from a madman who can't keep his office from becoming a complete ecosystem. Dahlia are you sure that you couldn't have handled the whole incident better than you did?"

Pounding heavy footsteps on the stairs behind me shook me from my thoughts and I spun around, drawing my Ehrenfeld 9mm pistol from its holster at my hip and aiming it at the door. A moment later, a large old man with wild graying hair and full beard burst into the room. He stood nearly as tall as I did, which was something most men didn't do. He had a heavy build and beet red weathered skin that looked like he had lain in a solar cooker.  He was dressed in a charcoal bowler hat, a cream button down shirt, brown joodhpur pants, matching suspenders and heavy brown leather boots.

He was carrying two large leather travel bags that he flung to the ground, sending the raccoon fleeing for cover.

"Brilliant to see you. I'm glad you're here. We need to start immediately. Do you speak Mandarin or Cantonese? It's going to be awful if neither of us do after all.  Are you easily put off by blood? You're a career soldier I know, but recent history may have changed that. What's your opinion on the persistence of the soul? I'm never sure with Buddhists. Can you field dress a wound? Your father said sniper, but you stitched that seem on your jacket with a lembert stitch, so I'm assuming you've had some medical training. How long can you run without stopping? I mean distance by that and not speed."

"I. what. I mean. Yes, I'm a training, or rather trained field medic. No, I don't speak any Chinese. English and Spanish only. I don't believe in a soul, why would that matter? Run? I can run until the instructor tells me to stop. I'm Dahlia by the way."

"Of course you are. I know your father. I can't believe that we never met before now. Probably my fault, generally my fault. I'm a hard fellow to nail down, and you father was probably afraid I'd lead you into trouble. But you've managed that on your own now haven't you? you didn't answer about the blood, but given the drawn gun I'm assuming that it's not an issue."

I opened my mouth again, found no words forth coming and closed it in silence. Then I holstered my gun at my side.

"You look as though a femme-fatale lounge singer was conscripted by Military special forces. Strong build, muscular, athletic- that's good- but still womanly. Midnight blue eye shadow and strong crimson lip stick, but no other makeup. You want to create an impression, but minimize preparation- practicality and efficiency trump preening and prettiness. You still wear your dress uniform after your discharge, despite your family's money. You're either more comfortable in military clothing or you don't want to accept your father's charity. Since you're here at his request, I must assume the former. So you clearly haven't let go your military career in spirit if nothing else. Doesn't matter either way. Where is my pistol?"

I looked around, and then answered, "There's an Allegheny Pistol hanging off that chair by the junk table masquarading as a desk." I pointed.

The man laughed and lept throught he junk, sending silver fish and mice scurrying for safe cover. He plucked the gun, rummaged through the piles on the desk and retrieved and shoulder holster and quickly strapped the holster on and holstered the pistol.

"There's no time for introductions, but I can't stomache rudeness, and so my name is Freeman Harbinger. You're Dahlia Crowe, my new assistant and/or partner, and we have to run."

"So I'm hired?"

"Of course you're hired. You were hired the moment your father asked. Now we must move. We're late." Harbinger scrambled for a cream jacket to cover the hoslter as he spoke.

"What are we doing?" I asked.

"People have been killing themselves. Suicides, but all wrong. People don't kill themselves that way. I've been telling the police for weeks, but they've never listened. But this one is strange enough that my dear from Sheriff Hurley has decided that my theory might be right. Some poor woman has blown her brains out, and I can't imagine that she did it on her own."

"So you're rushing around because we're going to a crime scene? Is the corpse in a hurry?"

"Oh no. We're meeting my sister for beer and vodka. You do drink I trust?"

The Blood Market Chapter 1

From the Journal of Lieutenant Dahlia Rosella Crowe (Formerly of Her Majesty's 42nd Dragoons)

My father, bless his soul, had told me that dealing with my discharge would easier if I kept a journal. And so I found myself sitting on a park bench in the manicured though brown and wilted park surrounding Sticktown's City Hall on a scorching hot day during the dry season, writing in the leather bound notebook that he had given me while I waited for my increasingly late girlfriend to arrive. My father, Victor Crowe, had called in several favors in order to secure me civilian employment, since I had been unable to do so on my own. Indeed, since my discharge, I had been unable to cope well at all with the transition to civilian life. And so my father had convinced an old friend of his, the infamous Professor Freeman Harbinger to take me on as an apprentice and junior partner. Professor Harbinger worked as a private detective and occultist, apparently performing exorcisms and seances in addition to his well regarded work as an investigator of bizarre criminal cases. As a lifelong secular Buddhist, the occultist mumbo jumbo associated with my father's old friend was more than a little off putting. And so I had imposed upon my girlfriend to come with me for the initial meeting to provide emotional back up. But she was running late, which meant I was running late; or rather sitting in the park as I became increasingly late for what amounted to my first civilian job interview ever.

Couples walked through the park, generally oblivious to the wilting greenery begging to be watered. Newsboys shouted about the three cholera victims who had committed suicide this past week. With water levels low, even people who could afford indoor plumbing were forced to contend with water pressure problems and cholera was friend and housemate to stagnant water. None of stick town's residents ever longed for the monsoon season, with rains strong enough to strip the skin off a small child and flash floods that could result in missing pets or livestock. But on a day when the needle might easily clear forty degrees centigrade at noon and an ambitious cook might try frying bacon on their tin roof instead of their solar cooker; on such a day people did start to wonder if the monsoon was truly worse. And of course, in all of this I was waiting in my dress blues, because my wardrobe choices were still limited to my military dress uniform which I was currently wearing or camouflage uniform. The dress uniform was incredibly formal looking, and slightly off putting to civilians. The Camouflage uniform looked severely off putting  to civilians, as New Jericho Military didn't normally wear camouflage in a civilian center. Wearing the camouflage uniform, I would have looked like either an invading soldier or a low level thug trying to appear as though I were an invading soldier. Soldiers were warned frequently that several street gangs had adopted military surplus camouflage as their unofficial uniform, with home made insignia and sashimono flags strapped to their back like samurai if they were feeling particularly swashbuckling.

I stopped writing momentarily and glanced at my pocket watch and then returned it to my breast pocket. Violetta had agreed to meet at noon. The hour hand had marched past one o'clock and the minute hand was now approaching half past the hour. Violetta disliked arriving late, something had detained my girlfriend. My mind leaped, as it did in the days since my discharge from the New Jericho Armed Forces, to all sorts of horrible ways in which Violetta might have been detained. Violetta Priest worked as a Constable for the Sticktown Sheriff's Office, metting out justice above and below the stilts that give the town its name and protecting the town's inhabitants from the seasonal flood waters that have become the norm in the centuries since the fall. I have never been fond of the unknown, the fog of war to steal a phrase from Clausewitz. But I learned to deal with that fog during my time in the field, for all the good it did me, but dealing with the fog of war as a civilian continually proved to be more perilous than dealing with said fog upon the battlefield. I didn't know what had detained Violetta. And given her profession as a police officer, I could plausibly imagine a great many horrible things unfolding within that concealing cloud.

My father had instructed me to write through the troubles associated with my discharge. He hoped it would help me deal with the unrest that had sat in my mind like an rabid wolf since I had entered civilian life. I had balked at the matter of course. I had told him that the problem was much more straight forward than he was suggesting, that I simply didn't know how to live a civilian life. My father disagreed with my assessment. He didn't dispute that I had little adult experience with civilian life, as was the way with children in the Crowe family going back to the founding of the New Jericho Armed Forces. He argued that other parts of the circumstances of my entering the civilian life bore responsibility for my difficulties. And so my father had instructed me to keep a journal and write through my troubles. I remain grateful that he never expressed any disappointment at this being the first time in almost two hundred years that a member of the Crowe family held no position in the New Jericho Armed Forces. The journal was filling up as I waited, but Violetta remained stubbornly absent.

Born in the year 198 after the Fall, I entered military service as a squire to my father at the age of twelve while he was still serving in the Dragoons. At the age of seventeen I had qualified for full service and, after completing basic training, been assigned to the 151st Infantry as a field medic- called the Dark Lords as a nickname.  There I completed sniper training and cavalry training, and managed to arrange transfer into the 42nd Dragoons, by which time my father had retired from the unit and it was widely seen as my job to fill the vacancy. by the year 217 after the fall, when the House of Council announced Operation Canyonlands, I had completed officer training and advanced to the rank of lieutenant. The government sold Operation Canyonlands to the public as a measure to clean up and establish order in the steel canyonlands within the borders claimed by New Jericho. In the end of course, the old pre-fall cities lived up to their nicknames and my brothers and sisters in arms died like mayflys in those steelmine deathtraps. After three years of casualties, with more and more New Jericho soldiers coming home in oaks boxes draped in gold and red flags, the House of Council decided to retreat with their tail between their legs. The elites didn't call it that. They declared victory in pacifying the savages of the canyonlands and declared the abandoned cities within the borders of New Jericho to be much improved. They weren't. We had accomplished nothing, save proving to the rusties of the Bannerlands and the new boys in the Babylon Republics that Old Smoke was not the continental super power that we had once been. New Jericho had stumbled badly, and it showed. The Canyonlands stood between New Jericho and the Bannerlands, so the change there was mostly in one of diplomatic tone. The rusties were more brazen and less respectful of our heathen ways during interactions. New Babylon, being due north and sharing a large heavily disputed border become an issue for both the government and the armed forces almost immediately. Upon return from the canyonlands, the 42nd was sent into training exercises to retrain us for the border disputes had abruptly increased in the wake of our performance in the deathtraps. Our commander deployed the 42nd for training exercises in the Ashland region, which placed us in a conflict with other New Jericho units under a different command. Looking back, the situation should have bothered me much more than it did, and the situation bothered me a lot at the time. Rival commanders had used soldiers, human beings under their command, to advance their careers and act out their petty rivalry.

Glancing up at this point, I saw a familiar figure standing taller than the rest of the crowd. I spotted the leather stetson with the tin badge marking her a member of sheriff's office through the crowd and closed my book, sliding it into my messenger bag to return to later. Violetta stood just shy of six feet tall, making her nearly as tall as myself. We had, in fact been occasionally mistaken for sisters, both tall and strongly built with strong cheekbones and broader shoulders than other women our size. I didn't consider her, and by association myself, to be unnaturally built for our gender but that we had a certain physical presence was inarguable. Violetta never wore make up, and kept her hair shorter than most men I knew. She pushed through the crowd in her usual brusque manner. I could see that she was holding her police duster jacket rather than wearing it. It surprised me that she had even bothered to carry it with her on a day such as this, but then I looked down at my own dress blue jacket folded beside my messenger bag and decided to minimize my hypocrisy. I started to greet her with a salute, and then corrected myself and waved to her in what I hoped was a casual manner. Violetta's complexion had flushed from some exertion I noticed as she approached, perhaps running while late to meet me. I then noticed that holster to her firearm stood unclasped, the Allegheny Model .38  Special Revolver shaking in the holster as she jogged towards me. I refocused on Violetta and noticed that her boots bore fresh dark stains, what I immediately suspected to be drying blood. Her duster was also marked by the same dark stains, as were her leather gloves which Violetta was wearing despite the ridiculous heat.

"Sorry I'm late." She called out, once she was within twenty feet and didn't have to broadcast quite so loudly to  reach me, "Police work never rests, you know?"

I sorted through the options that would explain the set of things I had observed and then asked, "Are you alright? You weren't hurt?"

Violetta raised an eyebrow, "Why would I be hurt? I'm untouchable."

I pointed at her jacket first, as it seemed the least suspect of the stains, "That looks like blood. Not yours I hope?"

Violetta looked down at her jacket, noticed where I was looking and quickly refolded the duster in her hands to cover the blood. She paused, and then before I could draw attention further, she removed her gloves and stuffed them hastily into the pocket of her duster.

"No, it's not mine," She lowered her voice to below conversational volume as she answered, "Just part of the job."

"Well, at least I know what kept you, if you were transporting somebody to the station house for processing." I said carefully.

Violetta didn't answer right away. I watched her eyes move, not meeting mine as she stared into the distance as though trying to process information. Finally she said, "Nothing that big, just a drunk who needed sorting out. Some poor sod couldn't afford the fuel to boil his water and couldn't keep off the small beer, you know?"

"You didn't have to shoot him, I hope?" I gestured as casually as I could the unclasped holster.

Violetta looked down and clenched her teeth for a moment, clasping her holster as she answered, "No, just needed to establish a chain of authority, or a chain of command, you know? Look Dahlia, just let it go. Police work is messy and sometimes you crack a few eggs in the process."

"If he was just a drunk I hope you didn't crack anything permanently, you're a peace officer after all." I could hear my tone shifting from worried to accusatory as I spoke, and regretted the shift as soon as I noticed it.

Violetta noticed it too and her face flushed, "It's not like you haven't killed people who disagreed with you too."

I coughed in surprise, "Excuse me. What did you say?"

"Oh come on Dahlia," Violetta said, her voice rising, "You were a soldier. Killing people who are problems is what you did. Are you telling me that you never used the authority of that uniform to make a personal problem disappear?"

I shook my head to clear it, "No, absolutely not. Killing in the line of duty was part of my job. Killing for myself would be murder. I'm a killer, yes. I was never and will never be a murderer. What are you implying?"

"Get off your high horse. You aren't a dragoon anymore Dahlia, you were dishonorably discharged, that kind of disproves your little speech there. We all get dirty occasionally. I get it, that was what happened in Ashland. You don't have to keep pretending to me. We're both a little dirty."

"I was not dishonorably discharged. My discharge was other-than-honourable, there's a difference. They used me as a convenient scapegoat and nothing more. Don't you dare compare being a corrupt cop with what I had to do in Ashland. People died under my watch because other people played games. I killed people to minimize the loss. I will never forgive myself for what I did, but I didn't do any of it for my own benefit. I lost everything because I did the right thing, not because I used my power for personal gain."

"Oh you lost everything, did you? You didn't lose me, you know? Not then, but you certainly lost me now. If you think I'm staying with somebody who thinks I'm corrupt, you're out of your mind. Keep on the straight and narrow Dahlia, because you're a civilian now- and I'm the law."

We hadn't even stepped close enough to embrace by this time, and she turned and marched off.

"That could have gone better." I muttered to myself. I stood up and slung my jacket across my messenger bag, before hanging the bag itself off my shoulder. Now I had to face Freeman Harbinger alone. Hell, now I had to face life even more alone.