The Blood Market Chapter 9

We walked out to the edge of town, where Sticktown collapsed into the Ring to investigate the scene of the altercation that Buster Brand told us about in our interrogation. As we approached the greasy point on the map that Buster Brand had indicated, we noticed something draped over a street sign next to an otherwise unremarkable alley. Somebody had hung a piece of cotton cloth, a discarded shirt from the looks of it, over the street sign. A red circle with an X had been drawn on the cloth by an unknown would be artist in a shaky hand.
 
"What is this place?" I asked, but I suspected I already knew.
 
"This looks like one of Rudy's aforementioned blood markets." Harbinger answered, confirming my suspicion.
 
Nestled in the crowded alley way, a line of cloth roofed stalls had sprung up. I could see people with intravenous plastic tubes attached to their arms, and realized that they were giving blood. Ice filled coolers loaded with bags of the collected blood stood piled wherever ever room would allow.
 
I pointed and Harbinger said, "How are they refrigerating the blood over the long term? That much refrigeration would be expensive."
 
"That much blood will be worth a lot of sticks and stones," I said, "They can probably afford refrigeration."
 
"But where would they get it without arousing suspicion?" Harbinger said.
 
"Is that cigarette ash?" I asked pointed at the ground.
 
Harbinger nodded, "Our boy Mr. Hus smoked 108s did he not? And Mr. Brand smoked Gemsboks, if I recall. Can you give that mess a sniff and see if it smells like  somebody smoked Buddhist incense there?"
 
"Why make your assistant do that?" I asked, "Seems a little menial."
 
"Oh no, not at all. I just don't have a great sense of smell after years of using pipeweed as an astral projection aid."
 
"So this is less tease the new guy and more a lesson on the cost of smoking?" I asked with a smile.
 
"Something like that, now what does that ash smell like?"
 
I bent down and gave the pile of ash a sniff, "It doesn't smell like much. I think the ash has sat here a little while. But I can still get a whiff of incense, so I think it is ash from a 108."
 
"That suggests that this is the right place."
 
"This isn't the place. This is the starting line," I corrected, "Now we have to find the trail."
 
"Tracking isn't really my forte," Harbinger said, "I tend to use my Spirit Band to find people. Rudy and his Ghost boys are quite good at digging stuff up. That's one of the things that made your father's offer quite attractive. He was always a great tracker, he once tracked Perry Mueller- this unpleasant bully from our youth- halfway across town and straight through the ring. And when we found him, well let's just say that your father is a better scrapper than the two of us put together. Hmm, I'm digressing. In either case, I've always known your father was an excellent tracker, well not always but for quite some time, and he indicated that you were an excellent pupil."
 
"I am all a goggle. That was a whole lot of talking to ask me to track this kid Buster Brand lost. You realize we don't even know for certain that this is connected."
 
"In the shadowlands, everything is connected. Stories don't like extraneous details."
 
"We aren't living in a story Harbinger."
 
"Everyone lives in a story. I just co-author mine."
 
At the end of the alleyway I noticed a group of Chinese people, all dressed in worn out ill fitting clothes, lined up to give blood. A Chinese gentleman stood beside them, dressed smartly in a fitted burgundy pinstripe bespoke suit with a solid black tie and a gold tie pin. He looked towards us as I watched, and took a drag on a Jakarta black cigarette and blew a few casual smoke rings. He wore his hair in a trendy pompadour haircut with sideburns that reached down the edges of his chin. He seemed to me to be watching over them.
 
"That looks like a connection to our human smuggling ring," Harbinger said, noticing the group at nearly the same time as I did.
 
Something caught my eye, movement in the crowd that didn't match the ebb and flow of the crowd. Somebody was moving towards us, and trying to keep out of sight as they did it.
 
"We're being hunted," I said to Harbinger," They aren't nearly as stealthy as they think they are, but they aren't bad. Which means we'll probably have to fight. Which means I'm going to be late for my date. And she really was quite."
 
"I'm sure she'll understand."
 
"The cute ones don't have to understand. They have other people waiting in line."

"Shall we confront them?" Harbinger asked.

"Here? On their turf, with this many people who may be sympathetic to them instead of us? No, definitely not. Besides a fight here is goignt o ruin any tracks."

"Do you have another suggestion?"

"From how they're acting, they want to isolate us. I say we let them. I'll try and track the kid that Buster Brand lost. It's probably unrelated to our cases, but a lost child is still a lost child. And that will, if I can get a good track, lead us away. With any luck I'll be able to pick a point to trigger their ambush in a way the gives advantage back to us."

"Sounds good in theory. How confident are you on you ability to pull it off."

"Well, let's see. I have to find old tracks in a high traffic area. Follow said tracks, but still control the terrain and path to prevent a group of killers from ambushing us before we're ready. Find a suitable coutner abush point along the path without showing my hand to our pursuers. And do this all before I'm late for my date."

"So?"

"It will all go horribly wrong," I said, "But I may be able to control the wrong and aim at it them. I don't have any better options. You?"

"None. And your ideas sound exciting. Let's proceed."

I looked at the ash and tried to ignore the incongruous movements at the corner of vision, as the figures shadowing us moved and watched. There was scattered ash and footprints everywhere. The area showed evidence of being a high traffic area. I rolled my eyes at my own observation. I was standing in an illegal market thronging with people, of course the area was high traffic. What I needed was an area where a child would travel, but an adult wouldn't; an area that was also conducive to capturing tracks, but sheltered from forces that would wear the track away.

I can see Harbinger trying to look where I am looking. He shook his head, " This is hopeless. Look at all the tracks. You aren't going to find anything."

I ignored him for moment and scanned the area with a soft gaze, not focusing on anything, looking instead for something that matched what I needed. Then I saw my target area. A low fence built from tubular metal bars that rose roughly four feet above the ground with wide spaces between riser beams. A child could easily dart under or through, but an adult would have to climb over in awkward fashion. Were I a child trying to escape a large adult chasing me, I would run under that metal fence.

I approached the fence and scanned the packed dry mud and sand until I found what I had hoped to find, a small clear shoe print, with pressure releases deformation consistent with a child running at full speed. The heel was raised slightly and the shape and lack of tread design made me think that the shoe was classic Mary Jane style shoe.

"I have a direction and a gender," I said aloud.

"Really?" Harbinger said in surprise, "Explain please."

I pointed to the fence, "Small child in mary janes with a slight heel went running under that fence at full tilt. I don't see any other children around here. And if I were fleeing from an adult, that's the obstacle I'd choose. So unless the child in question has a mother has been trying to make her son look like a pretty little flower, our target is a little girl in impractical shoes for running. She won't have gone far in those shoes. I have worn them, for familiy photos. They break if try to leap over dry creek beds. They break if you try to climb trees. They break if you kick your unpleasant cousin Audrey. They break and they break and they break, and eventually people stop putting you in them and start buying you sturdy riding boots."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Purely hypothetical." I answered, "Our hunters are getting antsy. Let's start moving before they decide to ambush in a crowd."

"Lead the way."

The trail had been very nearly obliterated by the constant traffic of the Ring and the Blood Market. I followed the scattered scraps of track and sign by looking up from the most recent track and scanning round for the best place for a little girl to escape a large and slightly clumsy man. I then moved to that area and looked for any sign that might confirm my suspicion. If I found nothing, I returned to the last sign and tried again. In this way, Harbinger and I walked forward and backwards slowly out of the Ring and back towards Sticktown and more particularly back towards the neighbourhood where Victoria lived. As we closed on the transition out from the Ring and back into Sticktown itself, our pursuers pulled back. I hadn't got a clean look at them, but they moved pretty well. They pulled back and I lost them for a moment, and then spotted the tell tale movement of people moving out of sync with the crowd and the moved around and past us.

"Our hunters don't want us getting back into town, they don't want us getting where the law might intervene." I said, "They don't want any witnesses who might might talk to the police. I think they might actually want to kill us."

"And this is precisely why your father thought that you would be useful to my practice."

"They're ahead of us," I said, "Do you want to try and change direction, or take them straight on?"

"Do you want to try and evade a group of thugs inside the Ring?" he asked.

"These guys are better than regular thugs, gang equivalent of Special Forces I imagine," I added.

"Can you manage them?" He asked.

"In theory? Yes, that the plan," I said, "But no plan survives contact with the enemy. You never know what your opponent knows with certainty, and you never know what else is going to arrive to ruin everyone's plans."

Our pursuers did not hide as we approached. Five figures, all of Asian descent; two men and three woman dressed in leather riding jackets with red cloth bands tied around their right biceps. All five were carrying bludgeons of some sort, one held a baseball bat, another a billy club, another a ball peen hammer, The other two both carried sledgehammers.

The two with the sledge hammers barred the way through with out stretched arms and crossed hammers. The woman with the ball peen hammer stood behind them and addressed us, "You can tell Perun has his cronies that our Lady has refused his demands. He is not in control of Sticktown, Nobody challenges the Red Flag Fleet and lives!"

Harbinger spread his arms wide and lowed his head, "Do we look like Peruns lackeys? Where are our horribly tacky Nordic tattoos? Do we have that trademark glassy eyed and slack jawed expression that suggests Perun initiates his boys with a kick to the testicles and sharp blow the pre-frontal cortex?"

"We saw you snooping about. Who else would you be if not the upstarts of Perun? He has tried too many times to enforce his bravado upon the Fleet and we will not accept it. We will not bow to you."

"You don't have to bow to us," Harbinger continued, "We are with Perun. We aren't with anybody. You can just let us go, it's not a problem."

"He may be telling the truth," The woman with the bat said, "They look nothing like Perun's idiots."

"Then they are something worse, spies or new rivals or police." The hammer woman answered, "Kill them!"

The two men with the sledge hammers stepped forward moving to either side of us.

"And here we go." I muttered, making a quick assessment of their positions, "Do we care if they die?" I asked Harbinger.

"We're close enough to the town line that they might be found if we didn't hide the bodies. And I'd prefer not to kill unless it's absolutely necessary."

I nodded, and as the two men attempted to flank me, I drew my Ehrenfeld 9mm pistol and quickly fired two rounds into the left leg of the woman carrying the ball peen hammer. The first round exploded through the knee cap, while the second struck the ankle and shattered what looked like her talus and tibia. Without pausing, I turned and fired two rounds into the right bicep and shoulder of one of the men with the sledgehammers. From the way the arm went limp, the hammer dropping to the floor, I guessed that I had struck the scapula near where the bone connected the arm. The other man began to roar in slow motion outrage as I rode the adrenal response back towards him. I fired two rounds into his left quadricep muscles as he brought his weight down onto the leg. The leg wobbled bizarrely and twisted horribly as the man fell to the ground.

I spun back to train the pistol on the two standing woman, who froze as I brought the gun back around, "Two rounds left ladies. I can reload and fire this pistol accurately at this range in less than two seconds flat. Either lay down the guns, or decide who's getting shot first."

They looked at each other, and then set their weapons slowly on the ground. I ejected the magazine and reloaded with a new one, before holstering my pistol and putting the nearly spent magazine into the magazine pouch on the holster. "I struck several bones, the damage is severe. They may even need transfusions. Fortunately, it seems as though you're close to a good supply. Stay out of our way."

We left them tending to each other and made our way back to the office, only to find Rudy waiting for us.

"Where have you guys been?" Rudy asked as we approached, "I've got big news, and my kin are keeping me waiting."

"What have you discovered?"

"Saw that lady with the red tattoo again. She was talking with the guy in a burgundy suit. Looked chinese, but when I tracked him down- because I am that good- found out he's an Indonesian immigrant. He's of Chinese descent, but born and raised in Indonesia. got here less than legally, but everything I could find out about him told me he's an above board kind of guy."

"Except for the fact that you saw him with our suspect," Harbinger said.

"Yeah, that's it exactly. Thing I noticed though is that he never looks like he's happy about what he's doing. She's got a kind of 'look how scary I am' vibe she pulls off. He's got a vibe that says 'I wish I were anywhere but here', and so I get the feeling that burgundy boy may not be too different from me in the Bannerlands, you know? A serf on the manor, bonded to a lord?"

"But you've seen him frequently?"

"Oh yeah. There's the red tattoo lady too. She shows up when the poor suckers first herded in. But this other guy in his fancy suit with his burgundy pinstripes and fancy hair, he shows up at the end with papers; none of my contacts could get a look, but the way he uses the list makes us think the list is a roster list for the people coming in. This guy looks like he's some logistics expert, some facilitator or something. So he isn't in charge, but he's got some pull."

Rudy produced a series of photos, "That's the guy." He said pointing.

"We just saw him transporting people," I said.

"Then I suspect that we need to speak with him."

"Well, he doesn't seem to have an office. I looked. He's kind of like old Al Capone; dressed like he has money, but no legal means of acquriing it. But at least I got a name: Hanjaya. He's an Indonesian businessman, lived in New Jericho a long time. He's married to some academic. This guy seems like he's their numbers man. You shake this guy and I'll bet you get a name."

I pressed my lips together, "do you have a name on fancy suit guy's husband?" I asked.
Rudy clicked his tongue, "yeah. What was it again? Jang? Wang? No, it was Zhang I'm pretty sure."

"Is anyone not lying to us? I asked.

"People lie," harbinger said, " people lie to protect their interests. It doesn't make everyone a villain."

"I'm not talking everyone. Just the people lying too us about their involvement in human trafficking."

"We may need to ask Mr. Zhang to introduce us to his husband." Harbinger said.

"I can do better. I can show you where he's at right now. Or at least where he should be if my intel is good."

"I'm going to be late," I said.

"You can go," Harbinger said, "No hard feelings."

I clenched my jaw, and then shook my head, "If I'm going to act as your partner, I need to act like you partner. Duty before diversion."

"What's she talking about?" Rudy asked.

"She has a date."

"You're going to stand her up?" Rudy asked.

"I'm going to perform the duties of job that father arranged for me to perform."

"Rock solid. Stone cold." Rudy said, "You're like old Lord Byron, 'I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.' That is some master class stoicism there."

"It's going to ruin my attempts to maintain a love life," I said, "Let's go. That was I can pretend to myself that I might still make it in time."

Rudy led us back into the Ring, much further into the fractal mass of shanties built upon shacks built upon ruined houses. The smell became intolerable and I found myself longing for a cigarette. The Ring embodied the struggles Olam had battled, frequently in vain, since the fall.

People wore rags in the Ring, even if they owned better clothing. They didn't bath and frequently wiped mud on their faces to make their appearance more pathetic. The average resident of the Ring knew that looking even a little prosperous made one a target for the rampant low level street crime that plagued the ring. People in the Ring sometimes managed to acquire luxury goods, such as crank radios, or small solar panels, or televisions. But the owners of such goods hid or disguised them very carefully. Looking poor kept one from becoming poorer still in the Ring.

Without reliable fossil fuel sources maintaining an industrial scale electrical grid had become a dream, attainable by only those regions with extractable coal reserves. New Jericho had never stood among those lucky regions. Instead, burning wood had accelerated deforestation and thus erosion, and led people to burning dried dung for fuel. A wise resident of the ring learned not to ask what kind of dried dung one had purchased. Typhus and Typhoid and Cholera had become fast friends of the Ring dwellers, practically laying seige to Sticktown- to every major city really, as shanty towns like the Ring were nearly universal. Sanitary conditions did not meet anybody's standards of acceptability. The river stank like an open toilet for the simple reason that the residents of the Ring used the river as a toilet, and a bath, and a kitchen sink, and a source of drinking water.

Harbinger, looked at me, "I don't suppose, you'd allow me to light up to drive away this stench?"

I shook my head, "That would be worse. I thought your sense of smell was dead?"

"Apparently it is merely senile, and only roused by the strongest inputs."

Rudy grinned, "I got some smokes. Navy Boys cause they're cheap and don't smell as bad as Gemsboks. That work for you two dainty flowers?"

"I will take both the cigarette and the insult." I said as Rudy passed out the tubes of tobacco wrapped in lemongrass, and then passed around a box of stick matches.

Rudy was right about Navy Boys smelling better than the ultra cheap cigarettes that Gemsbok sold, owing to the lemongrass wrapping. The smoke did indeed ease the smell of human waste and body odor, although the effect was a masking rather than a cleansing effect. The sense was of riding a lemongrass and tobacco skiff across a river of human excrement.

Deeper into the ring than I had ever gone before, through winding serpentine alleyways of corrugated tin and scavenged wood and plastic tarpaulin, we arrived at a familiar sight.

"This is a Blood Market. We've been to one before." I said.

"You've been to a blood market. This is the blood market. This is the original. Call it head office."

Rudy was right. Before us stood a much larger version of the small blood market we had been too previously. I saw the refrigeration immediately. banks and banks of homemade freezers stood within the vast covered market. The freezers had been hooked up to a huge collection of batteries and generators with wires snaking out to a huge phalanx of stationary bicycles, upon which people pedaled.

"Are those people cycling to power the freezers?" I asked.

Rudy nodded, "Most of them are paying for surgery, their surgery or somebody else's."

"Most?"

"The kids aren't as lucky." Rudy said, pointing to the back rows of the bicycles. The children looked very malnourished, and exhausted.

I could feel muscles in my jaw tightening, "What's the deal with the children?"

"People who can't take care of their children here in the Ring might sell them into service, here or somewhere else. An illegal textiles operation to make fancy shirts for pretty ladies. All sorts of nasty jobs to make rich people feel pampered."
"We need to shut this down." Harbinger said.

"And how are poor folk going to get surgery? Vaccination? Blood transfusions? You got a better way?" Rudy said.

"No immediately," Harbinger said, "But there has to be one."

"There isn't," Rudy said, "They tried that before the fall, remember? They mortgaged the future using coal and gas and oil, and they gave everyone a house with running water and heat and televisions and computers and phones that could talk around the world. People didn't have to work before the Fall, but look where it got us. The world doesn't work that way. people suffer because that's what works. Paradise doesn't work man, paradise kills."

Harbinger didn't answer.

"So yeah," Rudy said, "Thing about the suicide victims and the human smuggling thing, is that they are definitely related in some way. I don't get it, but it's there. My people are telling me about groups of folks coming in on the down low from places like Malaysia and Indonesia all that. They show in groups of five to ten, and when they get processed, they come to the Ring and settle down, one person less than they had when they first showed up at the market. A little digging around and we found out that a few of the missing folks get found, or their bodies do. Dumped in the ring, the bodies look like your suicides. They have that same gunshot wound to the head, like they did the job themselves, and then they're missing organs or eyes or other bits. People don't like to talk about it,a nd the sheriff doesn't send deputies into the Ring unless she's got no other choice. So it just disappears. So you see the big metal desk over by the biycles?"

He pointed to a huge metal army surplus desk positioned between us and the stationary bicycles. The desk stood surrounded by metal filing cabinets. Harbinger nodded to Rudy, after a moment, I nodded as well. Three men stood around the makeshift office dressed in rags but built fair to muscularly to be simply homeless people.

"That's where Zhang's husband does his business when he's here."

"So now what?" I asked.

"Now we wait."

And so we waited. We wandered about the market, moving in and out of the the market itself. Time passed and the man didn't show up. Time passed and passed, and I looked at my pocket watch with increasing frequency. I was running out of time. Finally, it became clear that the the man had no intention of showing up for us today.

We decided to call it a day. Harbinger gave Rudy three jobs as we parted ways. He was to talk to poor people who were recently and unexpectedly able to afford expensive medical treatWe walked out to the edge of town, where Sticktown collapsed into the Ring to investigate the scene of the altercation that Buster Brand told us about in our interrogation. As we approached the greasy point on the map that Buster Brand had indicated, we noticed something draped over a street sign next to an otherwise unremarkable alley. Somebody had hung a piece of cotton cloth, a discarded shirt from the looks of it, over the street sign. A red circle with an X had been drawn on the cloth by an unknown would be artist in a shaky hand.
 
"What is this place?" I asked, but I suspected I already knew.
 
"This looks like one of Rudy's aforementioned blood markets." Harbinger answered, confirming my suspicion.
 
Nestled in the crowded alley way, a line of cloth roofed stalls had sprung up. I could see people with intravenous plastic tubes attached to their arms, and realized that they were giving blood. Ice filled coolers loaded with bags of the collected blood stood piled wherever ever room would allow.
 
I pointed and Harbinger said, "How are they refrigerating the blood over the long term? That much refrigeration would be expensive."
 
"That much blood will be worth a lot of sticks and stones," I said, "They can probably afford refrigeration."
 
"But where would they get it without arousing suspicion?" Harbinger said.
 
"Is that cigarette ash?" I asked pointed at the ground.
 
Harbinger nodded, "Our boy Mr. Hus smoked 108s did he not? And Mr. Brand smoked Gemsboks, if I recall. Can you give that mess a sniff and see if it smells like  somebody smoked Buddhist incense there?"
 
"Why make your assistant do that?" I asked, "Seems a little menial."
 
"Oh no, not at all. I just don't have a great sense of smell after years of using pipeweed as an astral projection aid."
 
"So this is less tease the new guy and more a lesson on the cost of smoking?" I asked with a smile.
 
"Something like that, now what does that ash smell like?"
 
I bent down and gave the pile of ash a sniff, "It doesn't smell like much. I think the ash has sat here a little while. But I can still get a whiff of incense, so I think it is ash from a 108."
 
"That suggests that this is the right place."
 
"This isn't the place. This is the starting line," I corrected, "Now we have to find the trail."
 
"Tracking isn't really my forte," Harbinger said, "I tend to use my Spirit Band to find people. Rudy and his Ghost boys are quite good at digging stuff up. That's one of the things that made your father's offer quite attractive. He was always a great tracker, he once tracked Perry Mueller- this unpleasant bully from our youth- halfway across town and straight through the ring. And when we found him, well let's just say that your father is a better scrapper than the two of us put together. Hmm, I'm digressing. In either case, I've always known your father was an excellent tracker, well not always but for quite some time, and he indicated that you were an excellent pupil."
 
"I am all a goggle. That was a whole lot of talking to ask me to track this kid Buster Brand lost. You realize we don't even know for certain that this is connected."
 
"In the shadowlands, everything is connected. Stories don't like extraneous details."
 
"We aren't living in a story Harbinger."
 
"Everyone lives in a story. I just co-author mine."
 
At the end of the alleyway I noticed a group of Chinese people, all dressed in worn out ill fitting clothes, lined up to give blood. A Chinese gentleman stood beside them, dressed smartly in a fitted burgundy pinstripe bespoke suit with a solid black tie and a gold tie pin. He looked towards us as I watched, and took a drag on a Jakarta black cigarette and blew a few casual smoke rings. He wore his hair in a trendy pompadour haircut with sideburns that reached down the edges of his chin. He seemed to me to be watching over them.
 
"That looks like a connection to our human smuggling ring," Harbinger said, noticing the group at nearly the same time as I did.
 
Something caught my eye, movement in the crowd that didn't match the ebb and flow of the crowd. Somebody was moving towards us, and trying to keep out of sight as they did it.
 
"We're being hunted," I said to Harbinger," They aren't nearly as stealthy as they think they are, but they aren't bad. Which means we'll probably have to fight. Which means I'm going to be late for my date. And she really was quite."
 
"I'm sure she'll understand."
 
"The cute ones don't have to understand. They have other people waiting in line."

"Shall we confront them?" Harbinger asked.

"Here? On their turf, with this many people who may be sympathetic to them instead of us? No, definitely not. Besides a fight here is goignt o ruin any tracks."

"Do you have another suggestion?"

"From how they're acting, they want to isolate us. I say we let them. I'll try and track the kid that Buster Brand lost. It's probably unrelated to our cases, but a lost child is still a lost child. And that will, if I can get a good track, lead us away. With any luck I'll be able to pick a point to trigger their ambush in a way the gives advantage back to us."

"Sounds good in theory. How confident are you on you ability to pull it off."

"Well, let's see. I have to find old tracks in a high traffic area. Follow said tracks, but still control the terrain and path to prevent a group of killers from ambushing us before we're ready. Find a suitable coutner abush point along the path without showing my hand to our pursuers. And do this all before I'm late for my date."

"So?"

"It will all go horribly wrong," I said, "But I may be able to control the wrong and aim at it them. I don't have any better options. You?"

"None. And your ideas sound exciting. Let's proceed."

I looked at the ash and tried to ignore the incongruous movements at the corner of vision, as the figures shadowing us moved and watched. There was scattered ash and footprints everywhere. The area showed evidence of being a high traffic area. I rolled my eyes at my own observation. I was standing in an illegal market thronging with people, of course the area was high traffic. What I needed was an area where a child would travel, but an adult wouldn't; an area that was also conducive to capturing tracks, but sheltered from forces that would wear the track away.

I can see Harbinger trying to look where I am looking. He shook his head, " This is hopeless. Look at all the tracks. You aren't going to find anything."

I ignored him for moment and scanned the area with a soft gaze, not focusing on anything, looking instead for something that matched what I needed. Then I saw my target area. A low fence built from tubular metal bars that rose roughly four feet above the ground with wide spaces between riser beams. A child could easily dart under or through, but an adult would have to climb over in awkward fashion. Were I a child trying to escape a large adult chasing me, I would run under that metal fence.

I approached the fence and scanned the packed dry mud and sand until I found what I had hoped to find, a small clear shoe print, with pressure releases deformation consistent with a child running at full speed. The heel was raised slightly and the shape and lack of tread design made me think that the shoe was classic Mary Jane style shoe.

"I have a direction and a gender," I said aloud.

"Really?" Harbinger said in surprise, "Explain please."

I pointed to the fence, "Small child in mary janes with a slight heel went running under that fence at full tilt. I don't see any other children around here. And if I were fleeing from an adult, that's the obstacle I'd choose. So unless the child in question has a mother has been trying to make her son look like a pretty little flower, our target is a little girl in impractical shoes for running. She won't have gone far in those shoes. I have worn them, for familiy photos. They break if try to leap over dry creek beds. They break if you try to climb trees. They break if you kick your unpleasant cousin Audrey. They break and they break and they break, and eventually people stop putting you in them and start buying you sturdy riding boots."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Purely hypothetical." I answered, "Our hunters are getting antsy. Let's start moving before they decide to ambush in a crowd."

"Lead the way."

The trail had been very nearly obliterated by the constant traffic of the Ring and the Blood Market. I followed the scattered scraps of track and sign by looking up from the most recent track and scanning round for the best place for a little girl to escape a large and slightly clumsy man. I then moved to that area and looked for any sign that might confirm my suspicion. If I found nothing, I returned to the last sign and tried again. In this way, Harbinger and I walked forward and backwards slowly out of the Ring and back towards Sticktown and more particularly back towards the neighbourhood where Victoria lived. As we closed on the transition out from the Ring and back into Sticktown itself, our pursuers pulled back. I hadn't got a clean look at them, but they moved pretty well. They pulled back and I lost them for a moment, and then spotted the tell tale movement of people moving out of sync with the crowd and the moved around and past us.

"Our hunters don't want us getting back into town, they don't want us getting where the law might intervene." I said, "They don't want any witnesses who might might talk to the police. I think they might actually want to kill us."

"And this is precisely why your father thought that you would be useful to my practice."

"They're ahead of us," I said, "Do you want to try and change direction, or take them straight on?"

"Do you want to try and evade a group of thugs inside the Ring?" he asked.

"These guys are better than regular thugs, gang equivalent of Special Forces I imagine," I added.

"Can you manage them?" He asked.

"In theory? Yes, that the plan," I said, "But no plan survives contact with the enemy. You never know what your opponent knows with certainty, and you never know what else is going to arrive to ruin everyone's plans."

Our pursuers did not hide as we approached. Five figures, all of Asian descent; two men and three woman dressed in leather riding jackets with red cloth bands tied around their right biceps. All five were carrying bludgeons of some sort, one held a baseball bat, another a billy club, another a ball peen hammer, The other two both carried sledgehammers.

The two with the sledge hammers barred the way through with out stretched arms and crossed hammers. The woman with the ball peen hammer stood behind them and addressed us, "You can tell Perun has his cronies that our Lady has refused his demands. He is not in control of Sticktown, Nobody challenges the Red Flag Fleet and lives!"

Harbinger spread his arms wide and lowed his head, "Do we look like Peruns lackeys? Where are our horribly tacky Nordic tattoos? Do we have that trademark glassy eyed and slack jawed expression that suggests Perun initiates his boys with a kick to the testicles and sharp blow the pre-frontal cortex?"

"We saw you snooping about. Who else would you be if not the upstarts of Perun? He has tried too many times to enforce his bravado upon the Fleet and we will not accept it. We will not bow to you."

"You don't have to bow to us," Harbinger continued, "We are with Perun. We aren't with anybody. You can just let us go, it's not a problem."

"He may be telling the truth," The woman with the bat said, "They look nothing like Perun's idiots."

"Then they are something worse, spies or new rivals or police." The hammer woman answered, "Kill them!"

The two men with the sledge hammers stepped forward moving to either side of us.

"And here we go." I muttered, making a quick assessment of their positions, "Do we care if they die?" I asked Harbinger.

"We're close enough to the town line that they might be found if we didn't hide the bodies. And I'd prefer not to kill unless it's absolutely necessary."

I nodded, and as the two men attempted to flank me, I drew my Ehrenfeld 9mm pistol and quickly fired two rounds into the left leg of the woman carrying the ball peen hammer. The first round exploded through the knee cap, while the second struck the ankle and shattered what looked like her talus and tibia. Without pausing, I turned and fired two rounds into the right bicep and shoulder of one of the men with the sledgehammers. From the way the arm went limp, the hammer dropping to the floor, I guessed that I had struck the scapula near where the bone connected the arm. The other man began to roar in slow motion outrage as I rode the adrenal response back towards him. I fired two rounds into his left quadricep muscles as he brought his weight down onto the leg. The leg wobbled bizarrely and twisted horribly as the man fell to the ground.

I spun back to train the pistol on the two standing woman, who froze as I brought the gun back around, "Two rounds left ladies. I can reload and fire this pistol accurately at this range in less than two seconds flat. Either lay down the guns, or decide who's getting shot first."

They looked at each other, and then set their weapons slowly on the ground. I ejected the magazine and reloaded with a new one, before holstering my pistol and putting the nearly spent magazine into the magazine pouch on the holster. "I struck several bones, the damage is severe. They may even need transfusions. Fortunately, it seems as though you're close to a good supply. Stay out of our way."

We left them tending to each other and made our way back to the office, only to find Rudy waiting for us.

"Where have you guys been?" Rudy asked as we approached, "I've got big news, and my kin are keeping me waiting."

"What have you discovered?"

"Saw that lady with the red tattoo again. She was talking with the guy in a burgundy suit. Looked chinese, but when I tracked him down- because I am that good- found out he's an Indonesian immigrant. He's of Chinese descent, but born and raised in Indonesia. got here less than legally, but everything I could find out about him told me he's an above board kind of guy."

"Except for the fact that you saw him with our suspect," Harbinger said.

"Yeah, that's it exactly. Thing I noticed though is that he never looks like he's happy about what he's doing. She's got a kind of 'look how scary I am' vibe she pulls off. He's got a vibe that says 'I wish I were anywhere but here', and so I get the feeling that burgundy boy may not be too different from me in the Bannerlands, you know? A serf on the manor, bonded to a lord?"

"But you've seen him frequently?"

"Oh yeah. There's the red tattoo lady too. She shows up when the poor suckers first herded in. But this other guy in his fancy suit with his burgundy pinstripes and fancy hair, he shows up at the end with papers; none of my contacts could get a look, but the way he uses the list makes us think the list is a roster list for the people coming in. This guy looks like he's some logistics expert, some facilitator or something. So he isn't in charge, but he's got some pull."

Rudy produced a series of photos, "That's the guy." He said pointing.

"We just saw him transporting people," I said.

"Then I suspect that we need to speak with him."

"Well, he doesn't seem to have an office. I looked. He's kind of like old Al Capone; dressed like he has money, but no legal means of acquriing it. But at least I got a name: Hanjaya. He's an Indonesian businessman, lived in New Jericho a long time. He's married to some academic. This guy seems like he's their numbers man. You shake this guy and I'll bet you get a name."

I pressed my lips together, "do you have a name on fancy suit guy's husband?" I asked.
Rudy clicked his tongue, "yeah. What was it again? Jang? Wang? No, it was Zhang I'm pretty sure."

"Is anyone not lying to us? I asked.

"People lie," harbinger said, " people lie to protect their interests. It doesn't make everyone a villain."

"I'm not talking everyone. Just the people lying too us about their involvement in human trafficking."

"We may need to ask Mr. Zhang to introduce us to his husband." Harbinger said.

"I can do better. I can show you where he's at right now. Or at least where he should be if my intel is good."

"I'm going to be late," I said.

"You can go," Harbinger said, "No hard feelings."

I clenched my jaw, and then shook my head, "If I'm going to act as your partner, I need to act like you partner. Duty before diversion."

"What's she talking about?" Rudy asked.

"She has a date."

"You're going to stand her up?" Rudy asked.

"I'm going to perform the duties of job that father arranged for me to perform."

"Rock solid. Stone cold." Rudy said, "You're like old Lord Byron, 'I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.' That is some master class stoicism there."

"It's going to ruin my attempts to maintain a love life," I said, "Let's go. That was I can pretend to myself that I might still make it in time."

Rudy led us back into the Ring, much further into the fractal mass of shanties built upon shacks built upon ruined houses. The smell became intolerable and I found myself longing for a cigarette. The Ring embodied the struggles Olam had battled, frequently in vain, since the fall.

People wore rags in the Ring, even if they owned better clothing. They didn't bath and frequently wiped mud on their faces to make their appearance more pathetic. The average resident of the Ring knew that looking even a little prosperous made one a target for the rampant low level street crime that plagued the ring. People in the Ring sometimes managed to acquire luxury goods, such as crank radios, or small solar panels, or televisions. But the owners of such goods hid or disguised them very carefully. Looking poor kept one from becoming poorer still in the Ring.

Without reliable fossil fuel sources maintaining an industrial scale electrical grid had become a dream, attainable by only those regions with extractable coal reserves. New Jericho had never stood among those lucky regions. Instead, burning wood had accelerated deforestation and thus erosion, and led people to burning dried dung for fuel. A wise resident of the ring learned not to ask what kind of dried dung one had purchased. Typhus and Typhoid and Cholera had become fast friends of the Ring dwellers, practically laying seige to Sticktown- to every major city really, as shanty towns like the Ring were nearly universal. Sanitary conditions did not meet anybody's standards of acceptability. The river stank like an open toilet for the simple reason that the residents of the Ring used the river as a toilet, and a bath, and a kitchen sink, and a source of drinking water.

Harbinger, looked at me, "I don't suppose, you'd allow me to light up to drive away this stench?"

I shook my head, "That would be worse. I thought your sense of smell was dead?"

"Apparently it is merely senile, and only roused by the strongest inputs."

Rudy grinned, "I got some smokes. Navy Boys cause they're cheap and don't smell as bad as Gemsboks. That work for you two dainty flowers?"

"I will take both the cigarette and the insult." I said as Rudy passed out the tubes of tobacco wrapped in lemongrass, and then passed around a box of stick matches.

Rudy was right about Navy Boys smelling better than the ultra cheap cigarettes that Gemsbok sold, owing to the lemongrass wrapping. The smoke did indeed ease the smell of human waste and body odor, although the effect was a masking rather than a cleansing effect. The sense was of riding a lemongrass and tobacco skiff across a river of human excrement.

Deeper into the ring than I had ever gone before, through winding serpentine alleyways of corrugated tin and scavenged wood and plastic tarpaulin, we arrived at a familiar sight.

"This is a Blood Market. We've been to one before." I said.

"You've been to a blood market. This is the blood market. This is the original. Call it head office."

Rudy was right. Before us stood a much larger version of the small blood market we had been too previously. I saw the refrigeration immediately. banks and banks of homemade freezers stood within the vast covered market. The freezers had been hooked up to a huge collection of batteries and generators with wires snaking out to a huge phalanx of stationary bicycles, upon which people pedaled.

"Are those people cycling to power the freezers?" I asked.

Rudy nodded, "Most of them are paying for surgery, their surgery or somebody else's."

"Most?"

"The kids aren't as lucky." Rudy said, pointing to the back rows of the bicycles. The children looked very malnourished, and exhausted.

I could feel muscles in my jaw tightening, "What's the deal with the children?"

"People who can't take care of their children here in the Ring might sell them into service, here or somewhere else. An illegal textiles operation to make fancy shirts for pretty ladies. All sorts of nasty jobs to make rich people feel pampered."
"We need to shut this down." Harbinger said.

"And how are poor folk going to get surgery? Vaccination? Blood transfusions? You got a better way?" Rudy said.

"No immediately," Harbinger said, "But there has to be one."

"There isn't," Rudy said, "They tried that before the fall, remember? They mortgaged the future using coal and gas and oil, and they gave everyone a house with running water and heat and televisions and computers and phones that could talk around the world. People didn't have to work before the Fall, but look where it got us. The world doesn't work that way. people suffer because that's what works. Paradise doesn't work man, paradise kills."

Harbinger didn't answer.

"So yeah," Rudy said, "Thing about the suicide victims and the human smuggling thing, is that they are definitely related in some way. I don't get it, but it's there. My people are telling me about groups of folks coming in on the down low from places like Malaysia and Indonesia all that. They show in groups of five to ten, and when they get processed, they come to the Ring and settle down, one person less than they had when they first showed up at the market. A little digging around and we found out that a few of the missing folks get found, or their bodies do. Dumped in the ring, the bodies look like your suicides. They have that same gunshot wound to the head, like they did the job themselves, and then they're missing organs or eyes or other bits. People don't like to talk about it,a nd the sheriff doesn't send deputies into the Ring unless she's got no other choice. So it just disappears. So you see the big metal desk over by the biycles?"

He pointed to a huge metal army surplus desk positioned between us and the stationary bicycles. The desk stood surrounded by metal filing cabinets. Harbinger nodded to Rudy, after a moment, I nodded as well. Three men stood around the makeshift office dressed in rags but built fair to muscularly to be simply homeless people.

"That's where Zhang's husband does his business when he's here."

"So now what?" I asked.

"Now we wait."

And so we waited. We wandered about the market, moving in and out of the the market itself. Time passed and the man didn't show up. Time passed and passed, and I looked at my pocket watch with increasing frequency. I was running out of time. Finally, it became clear that the the man had no intention of showing up for us today.

We decided to call it a day. Harbinger gave Rudy three jobs as we parted ways. He was to talk to poor people who were recently and unexpectedly able to afford expensive medical treatments, try to get information from them about how they managed to pay for their treatment. He also instructed Rudy to shadow Zhang Wei's husband and try to find out what else he could. And he was to continue collecting photographs of anyone related who seemed suspicious. Photographs were damning evidence even if they showed nothing.

After we had parted ways with Rudy, Harbinger said to me, "We saw the man already. We know he's involved in this. Maybe we can use that to extract some information from Dr. Zhang Wei. If you have time that is."

I looked at my watch. I had three quarters of an hour, my chances of making my date with Victoria. I considered the problem, and dismissed the whole thing as problem at all. I had agreed to work with Harbinger. That made this my duty. I would live with the consequences of that decision, as I lived with the consequences of all my decisions.
ments, try to get information from them about how they managed to pay for their treatment. He also instructed Rudy to shadow Zhang Wei's husband and try to find out what else he could. And he was to continue collecting photographs of anyone related who seemed suspicious. Photographs were damning evidence even if they showed nothing.

After we had parted ways with Rudy, Harbinger said to me, "We saw the man already. We know he's involved in this. Maybe we can use that to extract some information from Dr. Zhang Wei. If you have time that is."

I looked at my watch. I had three quarters of an hour, my chances of making my date with Victoria. I considered the problem, and dismissed the whole thing as problem at all. I had agreed to work with Harbinger. That made this my duty. I would live with the consequences of that decision, as I lived with the consequences of all my decisions.

The Blood Market Chapter 8

The man before me wore clothing that would have embarrased a rag picker, roof canvas scavenged and patched repeatedly and stained dun brown by repeated wear and infrequent cleaning. He had a face that resembled an over ripe apple beaten with a billy club, and wore a grubby knitted watch cap that did nothing to improvehis unfortunate appearance. I guessed his age to be late forties from the lines and liver spots on his face, the patches of grey in his scruffy beard, the unflattering bald spot on the top of his skull and a repeatedly broken and badly healed nose.

"I'd say that you're our ghosts," I commented, "But no ghost smells as bad as you do; not even one who's kept his corpse around for company."

The man glared at me, "You ain't a copper," He said.

"I'm a detective, so you've run out your luck either way," I answered. As I spoke, I noticed his eyes darting about.

"I ain't taking the fall for this." He said as he spotted the door and bolted up and out from his hiding place. I drew my sabre and cut at the man with my right hand, while dragging Victoria back behind me with my left arm. Manhandling Victoria threw off my aim and the man ducked under the cut and ran at the door. My sabre caught on the frame of the hidden door and lodged there. I attempted to wrench the blade loose, but the metal had bit right to the timber frame and had stuck.

"Harbinger!" I called as I continued to work my blade loose, "We've got a suspect on the run!"

"Hello," Harbinger said, stepping into the doorway to bar the man's escape. Harbinger handed the wooden bowl to somebody I couldn't see and raised up his hands, closing them into fists and entering a boxing stance, "I think you need to stop and explain yourself.

I don't want to lay you out, but from the mood of the people who live here, and of course from your impressive odor, I deduce that you are not an invited guest nor a usual resident to this residence."

"You ain't hard enough to stop me." The man said, snarling with a mouth filled with rotting teeth.

"Oh no, I'm very soft," Harbinger said, "Like water, you know, that stuff that falls from the sky during monsoon season and strips paint of buildings and bark off trees. I'm a big old softy, just like water. Want to see?"

"You ain't going to stop me."

"I feel I must, if only to prevent further damage to the English language." Harbinger smiled. The man sneered, then lowered a shoulder and charged like a buffalo. Harbinger nodded to himself and hooked an uppercut that caught the man in the nose and snapped his head back up.

Harbinger followed up with several jabs which forced the man back on his heels, "Incidentally, I may have been lying about being soft. I do that occasionally," he said, throwing a check hook as the man tried to crowd forward again, stepping off line and connecting with the hook as the man stumbled past. The blow knocked the man down to his knees in the door way.

"You see?" Harbinger continued, "I lied there when I said I had lied about being soft. Now let's see here." Harbinger outed and grasped the man by the right arm and twisted the arm behind the man's back applying a chicken wing style wrist lock and driving the man's face into the floor.

"There we go, that's better. So, tell me your name and tell me a story." Harbinger said, "What are you doing in this house? You see I was called about a poltergeist, but poltergeists are harder to deal with as they have no body to threaten. You do have a body, filled with joints that are only supposed to bend a certain way. And if that doesn't work, well I can turn you over to my assistant, or I guess my partner, over there. You see, I'm just a boxing and a wrestler when it comes down to it. She's an ex-soldier. Well, Dahlia why don't you tell the man how you fight."

I shook my head, "I don't fight. I kill."

"And there you go. So we're clearly playing good cop, bad cop. That much is obvious. But we aren't cops, and so if we accidentally go too far, we don't have to write up a report, we just throw your body into a burlap sack and toss it into a creek in the Ring. Now, what was your name?"

"I'm called Buster Brand. I'm nobody. You don't want to talk to me. I'm nobody, ain't nothing interesting about me."

I shook my head again, "We'll decide if you're interesting or not. Why were you hiding in the walls?"

"He was in the walls? That's extraordinary!" Harbinger said.

"This house is one of the houses built after the Banner war, with the secret rooms and escape hatches- when they were afraid Banner boys would loot out cities." I said,  But let's focus."

"Yes, indeed. Mr. Brand, why were you in the walls?"

"I was hiding. Weren't hurting nobody."

"You were scaring the people who actually own this house. Who were you hiding from? And more importantly I imagine why?"

"And how did you get in?" I added.

"Got in through the secret entrance. You rich folk got holes in your walls that us poor folk climb through. You think you're so smart but you ain't."

"You said you didn't want to take the fall for something." I said, "To what were you referring?"

"Ain't going to tell you, am I?"

Harbinger clucked his tongue, "You will eventually. Everyone does, eventually."

"Look, you guys don't scare me as much as the Hummingbird scares me."

"You're afraid of a a little bird?" Harbinger said, raising an eyebrow.

"Ain't afraid of no little bird," Buster Brand said, "I'm scared of The Hummingbird, my boss. And you should be too. He's the territory head of the Hijos de la Guerra. Named after some Mexican War God, whose name i can't say without choking on my tongue."

"Huitzilopochtli," Harbinger said.

"Gesundheit," I said.

"That's the name," Brand said, pulling out a  Gemsbok cigarette from an inside pocket along with a box of stick matches. He lit a match and put it to the cigarette, "He's going to get you. Old Perun and his boys think they're going to take over, on the move on the hunt; but you can't touch the Hummingbird. But The Hummingird is just playing with that old Slave god wannabe."

"Slavic, not slave," I corrected.

"Either way, Perun and his baby boys are in trouble. He's taking over new territory, the Blood Markets, the organ trade, the Asian smuggling business. He thinks he's hot stuff.  He'll eat you for breakfast. He ain't afraid of nobody, but he should be afraid of the Hummingbird."

"So what has you hiding in people's walls?" I asked.

"Why would I tell you?" He asked.

"Honesty is the best policy in all things," Harbinger said, "Honest men don't meet Dahlia's sabre in the wrong way you know. Honest men don't get beaten"

I unsheathed my sword and cut as I drew the sword. I still wasn't perfectly clear headed, but I intended to make a point here. I drew the cut in front of the man's face and struck his Gemsbok cigarette, knocking the filthy thing to the floor. I let the momentum of the cut carry the blade down to my side and with a quick flourish re-sheathed it.
"Look take it easy. I was just babysitting, you know?" He said, staring down at his shattered cigarette. "Hummingbird has me watching some kid, asked me himself- so I know it's big. I don't ask why, that ain't healthy. So I'm playing nurse nanny, and I see this guy Hus, he's from the Sons of Perun, but he's a stand up guy and I ain't going to break his balls, less I have to. That being said, Hus owes me, either money or 108s. So I hit him up and ask for my money or my smokes. And he says he can't talk to me. 'Hijos and the Sons are at war, don't you know?' he says. First I had heard of it, and I tell him it don't matter, he still owes me some cigs. He tells me there's a dispute over control of the human smuggling market from Asia and some side racket being run off the Blood Markets. He tells me he can't even be seen with me unless he's seen giving me a thrashing. I take issue, he takes issue and we have at it, you know how it goes. Next thing I know, the kid's made a break for it. I break off with Hus and chase the kid, Hus laughing at me the whole way, but I can't catch the brat. Little legs and fits in little holes in walls and fences, and then I realize I could catch a bullet for this, or worse. The Hummingbird is good at worse. So I run and I hide here, these old buildings are full of hidey holes. I don't even know why the Hummingbird wanted the kid, but that won't stop me from catching heat for losing the brat."

"What's the connection between the human smuggling and the blood markets?"

"You ain't so smart are you?" Buster Brand said, "Poor people from them Asian countries don't have money to pay for a big long boat trip. So they sell bits of themselves, normally bits they can afford to lose, and that pays for passage."

Victoria's mother stepped forward, "Then it was you? The one moving my books? Not a ghost?"

"I don't move no books. Do I look like a book worm? Didn't go near no library, not in the walls, not in no room."

"Then who moved the books?" She asked.

"Perhaps a guest?" I suggested.

"Perhaps a ghost?" She answered.

"I'll do the exorcism and banishment, just in case." Harbinger said.

"You guys gonna take me in or let me go?" Brand asked.

"No, you told us quite a bit that was useful. And I don't like to punish good behavior, " Harbinger looked at him, "Run along, but you remember that we could have taken you in, had we chosen too. Remember our restraint. Now, where were you when all this happened? Show me on this map."

Harbinger pulled a map of Sticktown from his jacket and unfolded it on a coffee table.

"Yeah sure, whatever. I was here." Brand poked a finger at a point on the map, leaving a greasy mark behind, "So I gave you what you wanted, so you let me go. I get it."

Buster brand left the house in a cloud of unwashed body odor. Harbinger looked at me. I shook my head.

"Was it wise to let him go?" I asked.

"He was only guilty of trespassing."

"And he is apparently party to kidnapping." I point out.

"We don't know that for a fact. He know virtually nothing about the child he was asked to watch."

"The kid ran away," I said, "That doesn't say much for the legality of the supervision."

"True, but there's nothing there that we could prove, and perhaps he will prove useful should we meet him again."

"You think he'll be grateful?" I asked.

"I hope so. But more important here, is that we now has a strong connection here, from the smuggling to the blood markets. People are paying for transportation to New Jericho. The most recent body from the suicides was also missing organs was it not?"

I froze, "And the blood had been drained. That suggests medical harvesting. That should have been obvious, before. But then how was it a suicide? Why kill yourself. What are you paying for in the blood markets if you have to pay with your life?"

"I think we need to have a look at one of these blood markets then. Let's start where everything went wrong for Mister Brand. The child he lost may figure into this as well. We seem to be in the middle a turf war between two of the major gangs in Western New Jericho. The child may have been leverage." harbinger nodded to himself, "I need to finish my work here and then we can go."

Harbinger went back to waving smouldering grass and chanting in weird languages and I sat on a couch in the family's drawing room waiting for him to finish. Victoria slipped back in and sat down on the couch next to me.

"I should apologize for what I said earlier. I don't flirt with many ladies. Force of habit I think, on my mother's part. Marry well, and marry up- and apparently marry male. I don't object, I don't have a preference when it comes to boys and girls. I just know what I like."

"That would make it easier," I answered, "Pick and choose from the whole buffet. "I paused, "Okay, did that sound as bad to you as I did to me? Because I was trying to point out that being flexible would be an advantage. I probably shouldn't have used the word flexible right there. If I hand you my pistol, would just shoot me and put me out of my misery?"

"Are you always this awkward around girls?" Victoria leaned in and looked up at me from under her eye lashes. I blushed again. I was fairly certain that she was doing this on purpose.

"I. No, not normally." I managed to say, stumbling over the words, "I'm an officer, or a was, and you have to be able to talk, to give orders. I think it's just pretty girls." Damn, I said that out loud.

She smiled, "Well, if I'm so very pretty then why haven't you asked me to dinner? Shall I do that for both of us?"

I simply couldn't find words to respond. I could incapacitate foes a hundred pounds heavier than myself. I could command soldiers on the battlefield. I could drag this pretty little slip of a girl out of the way of a fleeing criminal, but I couldn't talk to her in any competent manner. I nodded, unable to manage my lungs.

"Oh, you are adorable. Then I am inviting you to Britell's Dining House for dinner tonight. Not right now of course, after the sun has risen. Say around six o'clock? My treat since I'm doing the asking I suppose. Speak now or forever hold your piece? Wonderfiul, it's a date."

The Blood Market Chapter 7

We stood on the roof of Harbinger's office staring up at the stars in the night sky and enjoying the clean air. I felt my head clearing. Harbinger hovered near me, looking contrite and ashamed.

"Are you feeling better?" He asked, "The pipe smoke is mildly psychodelic. I use it to aid my astral projection. I should have known not to smoke it with somebody else present, but I never had somebody sharing the space and didn't think about that. I'm sorry for that. I'm so very sorry. I promise you that this roof top will be my smoking zone going forward."

I shook my head, "I don't want to force you out of your office."

"Our office," He corrected, "And I don't want to aggravate still healing wounds of yours."

"I was talking in my sleep wasn't I?"

"You weren't asleep by the end of it, you were awake, just hallucinating. You were still in your shadowlands. That is to say that you brought the dream world into the waking world. And yes, you were talking, but no harm. The divination was pointless. It just kept pointing me back to the Sheriff Station. No help there. They shot themselves after all, and so the ritual fixated on that."

"Or there's no such thing as magic and your subconscious only had that location to point you back to, like a glorified ouja board," I said.

"Not much difference either way thought, is there? Either its useful or its not. If it's useful I don't care how it works. That said, I am confident that the lode stone ritual that I worked on the rosary will cause it to lead us to the next clue in this little mystery in due course."

"Meaning that when we find our next clue, you'll give credit to this ritual?"

"We need to work on your sense of fun Dahlia. Life is largely out of our individual control, especially now that the golden age is long past. Once upon a time human beings could split the atom and fly in space and lay down vast computer networks that spanned the globe. Now, we pray that the monsoon season won't destroy too much of last year's work. With so little control people will always turn to coping mechanisms, religion or the occult or gambling or folk superstition. You take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in spells and rituals. They both have the same effect on our ability to cope. I don't mock the sutras."

I nodded, "I'm sorry. When you put it that way, mocking seems awfully petty."

Harbinger smiled, "Think nothing of it. Everyone does it until they need a purification ritual or a divination or an exorcism. Speaking of which. I have been called upon on this late hour. I have been asked to banish a spirit or exorcise a demon depending upon what is actually responsible. Would you like to come with me while the smoke dissipates from the office? Spend an evening watching me work the mumbo jumbo side to my profession?"

I smiled, "While I don't have anything better to do. Unless I want to sleep up here."

"Wonderful. Let's get moving."

The streets of Sticktown were never empty. After dark the streets simply shed their legal activities in favor of less savory past times. Men and women sold their bodies from around pubs and taverns who were open late. Alleyways filled with sellers of illicit drugs or stolen goods and these venders spilled out onto larger main roads. I received several offers from both men and women promising evenings filled with carnal pleasure as we walked from the baker's district to fancier neighbourhoods, several more offers for medicinal ingredients sure to make me forget all problems, at least one offer to make people who had crossed me cease their breathing, and one offer let me lash a young man to vent my anger for a modest fee.

"This is what I fought to protect," I commented as we marched on through the press of humans selling less than legal goods and services.

"It's kind of spectacular, isn't it?" Harbinger said as we approached a fancy nouveau riche neighbour hood, with properties built new to look old and stately. As we approached the home I noticed a young man leaning against wall beside the service entrance, obscured by shadows.

"Rudy." Harbinger called, as we approached," You made it. Excellent."

I looked at Rudy as we closed. He appeared young, short for a man and of slight build, but dressed very confrontationally, in a military surplus leather aviator jacket, cavalry boots and a patrol cap from the military uniform of the Mayan Free States to the South. Rudy carried a steel walking stick, clearly intended to intimidate, and wore fingerless gloves with steel caps on the knuckles. The aviator jacket hung open and I noticed a white t-shirt underneath it made of heavier cloth than most people would have worn in dry season. Rudy's skin was a dark ruddy cocoa color, suggesting both African American and Native American heritage. His hair was kept in long corn rows on top and tied back into a ponytail, but shaved on the sides- again keeping with his confrontational style

"Dahlia," Harbinger continued as we approached, "This is Rudy Armitage."

"Rudy Kintpuash Armitage," Rudy corrected.

"Yes, indeed," Harbinger said, "Descended from the legendary Modoc Chief Captain Jack, a ka Kintpuash. He heads up my Spirit Band. Those agents on the streets and in the Ring who make me look as though I have supernatural powers when I talk to rich people. He's a skilled photographer and has a dark room hidden away where he is able to develop his own film." Harbinger chuckled, "Rudy's camera is one of my biggest business expenses, but well worth it. Rudy, this is Dahlia Crowe, my new partner and or apprentice and daughter of an old old friend of mine."

"If you're chill with Mr. Harbinger, then you're chill with me." Rudy reached out and offered a hand for me to shake, and I noticed something bunching strangely under his shirt. Initially I assumed the bunching must be from a concealed weapon, but as I took Rudy's hand I realized that the bunching was from a cloth binding across Rudy's chest. As we shook hands Rudy noticed my stare.

"Chest binding is cheaper than hormones and surgery." Rudy said, tugging absently at the bindings through his shirt. "Physical transition is only an option for the super rich these days. But they say back before the fall anyone could make their insides and their outsides match. We still know how to do it, just that nobody can afford it. You okay with that, or do we have to make something of it?"

I nodded, "A lot of things were easier before the fall. You and I are both lucky we live here and not the Bannerlands."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," Rudy said, "I was born in the Bannerlands. A serf bonded to the land. No different than a slave, so I said Sayonara and I ran away. There's still a bill for my recovery. Not a warrant, because I was a serf- a bill. Like I'm stolen goods. But that's okay, that's why I work with Mr. Harbinger. It's like Tennyson says; 'I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.' So what about you? Why would you be less than lucky in the Bannerlands, white lady?"

"My romantic interests scare the sensibilities of the Bannerland Preachers." I said.

Rudy nodded and clapped me on the back, "So you're lucky that you were born here, and I'm lucky I ended up here. So that makes us kin. Anyway, now that we're all kin, I got what I could on that killing at the docks. Somebody doesn't want nobody looking into that thing though, they had it wrapped up tighter than a witch being water tested. But I have my big old varifocal zoom lens don't I?"

"What did you see?"

"I saw somebody with that red tattoo you described, moving a bunch of people around the docks. I thought you said they were locked down?"

"Apparently my sister has mislead me on that fact."

"Saw a bunch heavy boys too; all Sons of Perun from the look of the viking wannabe rune tattoos. They seemed to think they were in charge, but the Chinese lady with the tattoo didn't seem pleased with that idea. None of my guys were close enough to hear anything, and cameras have no ears."

"And so you say that the operation was still in force? The smugglers were still smuggling, the human traffickers were still trafficking and so forth and such and such?" Harbinger asked.

"I am telling you exactly that. Oh yeah, and there was a cop. Kept the stetson on, so I couldn't tell who from my position on the hill, downward angle of the shot and all that. I think it was a woman, pretty big- but most of the female deputies are. I don't how little Sheriff Hurley keeps them in line."

I furrowed my brow and frowned at Rudy's comment.

"Hurley keeps them in line by having a congenial nature and the social skill to call upon people across all sections and levels of Sticktown society. She is a perfectly fine cop, but she would make a much better diplomat, and and even better bar tender. So my sister has lied to me about the operation being shut down, and the Sheriff has a large rodent on her pay roll. Neither of these things bodes well for our investigation. Rudy, Find out where the people who are being smuggled are to taken. What happens to them after they arrive? Follow the trail, we need to climb the ladder of power and find somebody substantial to hand over to my sister and her commanding officer."

Rudy nodded and slipped away. Harbinger turned back to the door of the house.

"This is the home of Abigail Darrington. The family has heard thumping that they think is a poltergeist." Harbinger said as we stood at the steps looking up at the ornate house.

"And a poltergeist is a ghost, correct?" I asked.

"The name comes from the German for a noisy ghost," Harbinger answered, "Poltergeists typically move objects, rattle windows, knock of picture frames, make noises in empty rooms or inside the walls. The scary noises and things moving around that show up in your typical campfire ghost story would be described by a paranormal scholar or occultist as poltergeist activity."

"Any chance that it's just mice in the walls?" I asked, as politely as I could manage.

"That's where I usually start," Harbinger answered, "I've had them leave out mouse traps, and test for settling in the foundation. There certainly may turn out to be an entirely non-occult source to their problems. That happens more often than actual supernatural activity. But if the client can't make the phenomena stop through exoteric means, then I will resort to esoteric means."

"So what do you do with poltergeists?"

"Well according to the writings of Allan Kardec, he founded Spiritism back before the fall, I some of his writings, nothing original of course, but still I do have a copy of one of his works which precedes the Fall. I'm sorry, yes, according to Mr. Kardec, poltergeists are low level spirits attempting to manifest or partially manifesting in the material plane. They belong to the sixth class of the third order, quasi-elemental in nature. So a simple banishing ritual for more powerful elements such as the Druidic spirit of the dragon ought to do the job just fine. Of course, also possible is psychokinesis."

"Which is?"

"A member of the family or another house guest moving objects with their mind, either accidentally or intentionally. In which case, the banishing ritual will not work, and there's a good chance that I'll feel the lack of resistance to the banishing. In which case, I will need to determine, through the use of Zener cards, who among the people present has psychic ability."

"And if neither of those work?"

"Then hopefully by then we will have new leads that we can investigate. Now, shall we begin. Let me do the talking."

I nodded and refrained from rolling my eyes, "No danger there."

Harbinger struck the door knocker three times soundly. After a few moments, the door opened and a matronly woman who appeared to be in her fifties ushered us in.

"Mr. Harbinger, I presume," she said as we stepped into the house.

"Hello Ladies, I am indeed Professor Freeman Harbinger; occultist and exorcist and I do believe that somebody in this house has requested my services. My man, Mr. Armitage delivered your message and I am here to help. This is my associate and lady at arms: Dahlia Crowe, formerly of her Majesty's Dragoons and a brilliant hand with a sabre should the danger prove rather more corporeal than preternatural.  And, of course, we are at your service."

Behind the older woman stood three girls, perhaps young woman would be better descriptions. They were all attractive, and I found myself staring a little. They were likely a few years younger than me, but not too many years younger. I stopped, and asked myself what I was thinking. Was I thinking about dating again? Because my previous relationship did not suggest that I should be looking for somebody else to date. But that didn't mean I couldn't look.

The young woman before me was entirely unlike Violetta in appearance and posture and demeanor, and I would not complain about this. Victoria stood nearly a foot shorter than me, maybe five foot one inch in heels.

"Hello, my name is Victoria, my mother requested your partner's services. How do you do?"

"I'm a little under the weather, I must confess. Something put me off." Suddenly feeling that I might have misspoke, I sought to correct my error, "Not here, of course. It's very nice, I mean except for your apparent ghost problem."

"Apparent?" She said with a smile that seemed to contain too much knowing.

"I'm sure Harbinger knows his business. He keeps me around, actually I think he's doing it out of pity." And then I realized I had said that out loud, "And my sword of course."

Victoria looked down and then leaned forward again, "It's a very large sword."

"Not really." I said stepping back," Standard size for a cavalry sabre."

Victoria stepped forward again, "And now I can't even make a joke about the other sword, becaus we're both girls."

I stepped back again and found that I was blushing.

"Dahlia," Harbinger called from the next room," Let's get started, come help me with my gear."

Still blushing at Victoria, who looked far too pleased with herself, I slipped past her and fled to the next room. My military upbringing meant that I've been surrounded by big strong men and women all of my life. I've dated women who look like I do, with strong physiques and broader shoulders- but my preference runs towards a more delicate woman. I suspect my preference emerged due to availability. Until my seventeenth birthday all of my girlfriends had been from the military and had been of similar build to myself. Newly single at my seventeenth birthday party, I had met an army Nurse named Isumi that a friend of mine had invited hoping we would hit off. As with most of my relationships, my relationship with Isumi did not last long, but the change in my taste in women did last. I ended up dating Violetta because she approached me. I have never been known for my assertiveness in relationships. Violetta had been somebody I would have chosen as a drinking buddy and not as a girlfriend, had she not taken the initiative. Violetta had been somebody I would have chosen as a drinking buddy and not as a girlfriend, had she not taken the initiative.

I reached Harbinger and asked, "What can I do?"

"Catch your breath and stop blushing," He said quietly and winked, "She cornered you awfully quickly didn't she?"

I found myself blushing again, "She was flirting with innuendos meant for men," I said, matching his volume, "She's not interested. She's just flirting because, I don't know, why do girls flirt when they have no interest? Power?"

"You were interested." He commented handing me a bundle of grasses tied in crimson twine with cheap clay charms knotted into the twine.

"She is very cute," I admitted, "That's interesting. But even if she might be interested, dating on the rebound rarely works out well."

"You won't know unless you try," Harbinger said and handed my the wooden bowl, still smelling of his pipe smoke. I suppressed a retch at the smell, "Your father sent you to me to help you get back on your feet and find yourself. So rather than ask what is a good idea or what might work, maybe ask yourself what you want out of life. What do you want?"

I paused. The question hung in the air. As I chewed on the question I noticed Victoria had slipped into the room. How long had she been there? I tried to ignore the possibility that she'd heard everything I'd just said, and considered Harbinger's question.

"I had a place in the army," I said slowly, "I had a purpose. I had family. I belonged. The Ashland Incident took all of that away from me. The only way that I could honor my purpose and my family while on maneuvers in the Ashlands was to act against my superiors. And for that I lost my place. I had to give up what I was in order to defend it. And now I'm lost. I'm adrift. I don't have a place. I'm a ghost in a great coat."

"I hadn't expected my new assistant to be quite the romantic." Harbinger said.

I waved away his comment, but then stumbled. My sense of balance shifted and I reached for something to steady myself.  My stomache lurched and I missed the chair back I had attempted to grab, and suddenly found myself kneeling on the floor.

"Are you alright?" Victoria asked.

"I'm afraid that's likely my fault," Harbinger said, "I use a psychoactive pipe weed for my astral projections. It inadvertently projected Dahlia somewhere unpleasant. Well done on not dropping my equipment though."

I handed him back the grass and the bowl, "What he means is that I got an accidental and very unpleasant drug trip. And that I'm still apparently recovering from it."

"I'll boil you some tea." Victoria said.

I shook my head, "Don't waste the wood. I'll be fine."

"Oh, we don't use wood." She smiled, "We have solar cookers and photovoltaics for our electricity. Wood is for people who don't have money."

I shook head in disbelief. Then I pulled myself to my feet to follow her as she slipped out the door. I waited, unsure how to proceed. She returned in short order, before I time to put my thoughts in order and clear my head. I took the tea and sipped carefully. We watched as Harbinger carried his wooden bowl with the mystic looking symbols from room to room. He had placed a bundle of sweet smelling herbs in the bowl that he had lit on fire. He held the bowl in his left hand and dangled a charm necklace of some sort from his right hand as he walked from room to room, stopping in each room and closing his eyes while the family watched with trepidation.

I rolled my eyes, and then felt guilty given Harbinger's speech on the office roof. Not wanting to seem or be seen to be dismissive of my new partner's tactics, I wandered back to the first room where the family had indicated that they had heard the strange noises.

"It's probably just rats in the walls," I said to myself, "New homes are made from old materials, old materials come with the vermin pre-installed."

"Oh this isn't a new home," Victoria said suddenly standing just behind and to my right with a far too innocent expression. I leaped forward and nearly drew my sabre before I registered who had spoken. "Does your friend really believe in that crazy old witchcraft?"

I composed myself as best I could and then said,"I'm not sure whether he believes in it or simply thinks its useful because it tends to work for him. I'm also not sure what difference it would make to be honest. He's crazy, but everyone seems to think that he knows what he's doing." I stopped, realizing I was babbling, and thought about what Victoria had just said about the age of the home, "So this isn't one of those trendy homes designed to look old?"

"No. It was built right after the Banner Wars. But you're probably right about the  whole thing being rats or mice in the wall. I just hope I don't have to see them." She shivered and shook her lace covered hands in disgust.

I narrowed my eyes, and bit my lip, "How old did you say? Never mind, you said that- the Banner War. Years, decades! More than long enough. Plenty of time for other vermin to accumulate."

"What kind of other vermin?" Victoria asked, taking a slow step away from me, "I don't  like vermin."

"Big kinds of vermin," I said smiling huge gaping smile, suddenly realizing how mad I must look, I wiped the smile off my face, "Sorry, that sounded creepy. But I can explain. Can you show me where your mother first heard the noises, the loud ones she went to investigate? I'll flush out some vermin for us."

"You just be this excited just because I said the house is old."

"Not just old. Big and old, built in a time when fancy houses were filled with escape routes and hidden rooms to hide from marauding Bannerboys."

The Blood Market Chapter 6

We stepped back out into the mid afternoon baking orange heat. Harbinger turned and grinned broadly at me.

"What are you smiling about?" I asked, "I've been working for you less than a day and we already have two cases for two different government organizations that carry high stakes and unpleasant consequences if we don't pull them off.  You sister could take the fall for our failing to solve their human smuggling with a side of mass murder case. The queen could find herself embarrassed publicly, and our trade deals with both the restored Republic of China and the Empire of Hong Kong apparently hand in the balance. And we also have to solve this apparent faux suicide. That poor woman was an aristorcrat, no doubt about it. We both saw her makeup and the lack of tan during the dry season. I saw you check her hands. I assume she had not callouses or anything to suggest that she'd ever done a day's work in her life. The good Sheriff mentioned City Hall breathing down her neck, which makes no sense if her identity is unknown."

"The mere fact that she is clearly upper class and possibly of the noble class is enough to panic the City Administrator," Harbinger said, "The Administrator's position is elected just like any other civil position, and if the voting nobles feel that the Administrator can't serve their needs, well they'll drop Administrator Fix as if her were an angry rattlesnake."

"I'd vote him out already," I muttered.

"But you can't, and so he only needs to worry about the elites- who can." Harbinger said, "ten cholera suffering working class folk can die the same way and nothing happens, but when one noblewoman joins the party all hell breaks loose."

Asphalt and Cobblestones clicked under our boots as we walked back towards Honey Bee Street. Foot traffic remained manageable and bicycle traffic confined itself to the bike paths. We passed Main Street and I glanced at the large street clogged with horses, carriages, rickshaws and the occasional electric trike or automobile. Main Street was too chaotic for me of late and I tried to avoid walking it. I turned back to the look in the direction we were walking and noticed something odd. about two hundred yards ahead stood a man; heavy build and probably three hundred pounds, wearing a black bowler hat on a shaved head and bearing mutton chops and a nose ring in his left nostril. His hands were big and meaty, heavily calloused and covered in runic tattoos. He was staring at us, chewing on a cigar held in his left hand as he did.

"So you see him?" I asked.

Harbinger nodded, "I do, member of the Brothers of Perun from the tattoos."

The brothers of Perun were the second most numerous gang in New jericho. With a core membership drawn from German and Slavic descended people in the working class, the brother of Perun made a lot of noise about warrior ethos and honor, but they also ran most of the opium dens and more than a few of the brothels in New Jericho- but those were just their legal business fronts. Behind the scenes they sold stronger drugs, specializing in euphoric and hallucinogenic substances.

"Do you know how to use that gun you brought?" I asked.

"I'm not a marksman, but I can manage. I trust that you are armed?"

I nodded, "I'm not carrying all that I would like to be carrying, but it will do."

"Freeman Harbinger?" A voice behind us said. We stopped and turned to look back behind us. A young man with a smooth complexion that made him look maybe fifteen stood behind us. He wore the black uniform of the Royal Commission.

"Yes? What does my sister want now?" Harbinger asked.

The man shook his head, "No sir. I am delivering a communication from Lieutenant Colonel Blackwater. He says, and I quote here ' I wonder if you shouldn't be working on the case that you were given by the government and not some suicide.' He also asked me to convey your response back to him."

I looked at Harbinger and raised an eyebrow. Harbinger smiled and then rolled his eyes." Tell Mr. Blackwater with the long and awkward rank and title that we are giving the matter all necessary attention. He and my sister have nothing to worry about."

The young agent nodded, "I will sir. But the Lieutenant Colonel doesn't worry sir. He plans and then he executes. Emphasis on the 'execute', if you understand my meaning, sir."

"He's in Military Intelligence all right," Harbinger said, "Do any of you Royal Commission folks not talk like you've escaped from a Juilian Rey novel? 'Do you expect me to talk?' and then 'No Senor Rey, I expect you to die.' Who talks like that? I'm very good at my chosen profession. You look at me and you probably see a crazy old man, right?"

The agent paused and then nodded.

"And you probably don't think I look like much right now. But let me ask you something. How do you think people survive long enough to be crazy old men. You can tell Mr. Blackwater that we are both old men for the same reason. And that he can count on me getting the job done because that's how I get to stay a living crazy old man, and I'm very good at that. Good enough?"

The agent nodded and then turned crisply on his heel and marched back the way he came. We turned back in the direction of Honey Bee Street and noticed that the thug was still waiting and watching.

"How did Blackwater know where we've been?" I asked.

"I assume that he had us under surviellence. Or rather I assume that he still does."

"That doesn't sit right with me."

"That's because you're a soldier and he's a spy. You think in terms of loyalty. He thinks in terms of control. You think in terms of teams and units. He thinks in terms of agents and pawns. Are you ready to face that big fellow? I suspect he's going to try and use force as a method of persuasion."

"He's welcome to try." I said.

"Good to hear. I'm a pretty decent pugilist for somebody of my ripe old age, so don't feel the need to protect me, or at least ignore it should it pop into your mind."

I smiled and nodded and we proceeded down the road towards the big man. He stepped into the street in front of us as we closed on his position. He was wearing loose trousers held up by bright red suspenders and wore a heavily sweat stained white sleeveless tank top shirt. I could smell the cigar now, even through the clove smoke of the Jakarta Black I was still smoking. His cigar was a 108, a cheaper brand with the motto "incense for your lungs". The smell of sandalwood, vanilla and cheap tobacco permeated the air around us, mixing with the smell of cloves and expensive tobacco.

"You guys are all kinds of popular. I didn't figure to have to wait in line to pass on words to the wise."

"You might wish you'd chosen another queue." Answered. I didn't have my my pepperbox hold out pistol loaded or rigged in my wrist holster, which would have been ideal. I wouldn't be able to reach my T-handle knife unless I bent down. That limited me to my Eccleston Sabre by my side and my 9mm Ehrenfeld pistol in the hip holster.

"I ain't here to give you a thrashing, not unless you don't listen to the warning that is," The man grinned, and made a show of cracking his knuckles, "So let's all listen to my message and then we can decide if you want me to thrash you good and hard."

Harbinger smiled, "What's the message?"

"The message is that you don't need to go looking into dark corners. That poor dead lady, she got somebody dealing with her problems. Them poor dead Chinese folks at the docks, forget they existed or died or whatever. Tell them folks who hired you, that you're too busy. Go find other jobs, like cheating husbands and missing cats. You don't want to go poking in my boss's business and you're about to start doing that. People who do that don't survive too long." He paused, "So, do you get the message? Or do I have to thrash it into you?"

I crossed my arms, "Your knife is in a sheath on the back of your pants if I'm reading you posture correctly. And that little Allegheny revolver in your pocket is going to be awful hard to draw quickly."

The man looked at me in surprise. I continued speaking.

"I, on the other hand, have pistol in a hip holster. Not subtle, of course, but much quicker to draw. And I'm wearing a military saber in a cross body draw configuration on my other hip. I can separate your torso from your hips before you could connect with a punch or draw that knife of yours. And if you go for your pistol, that's just as bad Even if you manage to draw fast enough that we end up in a shoot out, you're firing a double action revolver and I'm firing a magazine fed semi-automatic locked breech style pistol. So my gun fires faster. Your weapon holds six rounds, mine holds fifteen rounds and one more if I chambered a round first. On top of that, my weapon loads using magazines, yous must be loaded individually into the cylinder. Even with a speed loader I'd still beat you on the reload."

The man looked at me like I was crazy, "Lady we're standing in the middle of the street. You want to bring that level of violence here?"

"You started it," I said, "You weigh, I'd estimate, between one hundred and one and fifty pounds more than I do. I'm not about to fight you one on one if I have to. Look at my uniform. I'm a soldier, not a street thug. I don't fight people, I kill them. My name is Dahlia Crowe. And people around me tend to forget to keep breathing. So my recommendation to you is to walk away. Run back to you boss and tell him that he can't scare us."

"I can't just run. That ain't going to fly with him. You might kill me, but he'll do worse."

"Then make your move or run away."

He lunged at me. A blast of adrenaline hit my nervous system and I noticed sound dropping away in the classic auditory exclusion common to the adrenal response. Tachypsychia hit and my perception of time slowed down, norepinephrine and dopamine obediently doing their jobs for my survival instincts. I reached out and grasped the hilt of my sabre, stepping off line to the outside of his left arm, acting on the assumption that he would hold his cigar in his dominant hand. Based on his statement about attacking me, because his boss would do worse, I re-aimed my blow.  I aimed the angle of my draw to  drive the pommel of my sabre into his floating rib, the lowest rib on the body, not anchored to the rib cage and vulnerable to fracture. The cracking sound broke through the auditory exclusion of my adrenal response, and the man doubled over in pain. I jerked the sabre away and then brought the pommel down and the back of his head where the skull met the spine. He fell the rest of the way to the ground and lay gasping. I noticed several people gawking, but my uniform seemed to convince most to keep moving.

"You have a name big man?" I asked. I sheathed my sabre and took another drag on the clove cigarette. I could get used to these, not that I could afford to, of course. Too expensive to buy, too hard on the lungs to make into a habit rather than an indulgence.

"Jaromir Hus."

"I'm sympathetic to your position, having unreasonable superiors forcing you to act on stupid orders. that's why you're alive Mr. Hus. You likely have a concussion and I probably cracked a rib there. You've lost and you can honestly tell your boss that they didn't get the message despite your best efforts. I can add a black eye if you need me to make things more visually convincing."

"He'll send more guys. This won't stop it." Jaromir Hus pushed himself up to a sitting position, and then swayed and steadied himself with both hands.

"Eventually it will. Because that's what I do. I stop things. I'd recommend you don't try standing up for a few minutes. Give you brain time to account the damage it's received. And remember that I could have killed you, if your boss sends you into my path again. I may not have to luxury of not killing you next time."

We carried on, leaving Jaromir Hus sitting on the cobblestones.

"So did you notice that?" Harbinger asked, "Mr. Hus was instructing us to steer clear of both of today's cases. And that means that either the same group is involved in both cases, or that the cases are related in some more direct manner. Either way, we owe Mr. Hus and his mysterious employer a thank you, because they've given us a huge hint."

"I am all a goggle," I answered, "Is that all you got out of that interaction? That was also a not very subtle and very direct threat on our lives. You did notice that part as well, yes?"

"Well yes, I noticed it. But people threaten my life pretty frequently. It goes with the territory, and so I try not to take it personally. Rat catchers where gloves so they don't get hepatitis or rabies or whatever. I thicken my skin so I don't catch a case of the grumpy gus."

"And what do you do to prevent yourself from catching a case of dead?"

"Well, your father long ago taught me the manly art of fistcuffs. I should tell you about that some time, it's a funny story- there's a Emu and far too many pumpkins involved. Actually, your father would probably rather that I never related that story again. He'd probably demand that I replace his trousers as I promised I would. He always brings that up. I also carry a pistol. And now, as you've obviously demonstrated, I have an assistant slash partner who seems more than capable at redirecting the death thing towards people more deserving. So there we go. Shall we get home? I have some theories I'd like to test.

"How did you survive to adulthood?"

"Well your father helped."

"I don't need to know the story," I said, " I really don't."

We walked uneventfully back to Harbinger's death trap disguised as an office. We climbed the stairs and entered the office. I looked around the office at the horrible mess.

"Is there a place for me in the this disaster area? I was told that I would be living here as well." I asked.

"I have a military cot for myself, but I don't have another I'm afraid," Harbinger answered.

"I have a military cot of my own. It comes with the territory. That and my possessions, a duffel bag and a back pack with everything I own is sitting back at my father's house. Do you mind if I go get them?"

"Not at all. It will give me time to do some tests on this necklace I nicked from the morgue."

I turned in surprise to see Harbinger holding a rosary up to a filthy window in the vain hope that the feeble light entering through the grime would improve his view. "You took evidence from the Sheriff's office? Without their permission? I thought you liked Sheriff Hurley. That's the impression I got."

"I do. I quite like the Sheriff."

"And a lack of respect is how you show her that you like her?"

"I'll bring it back when I'm done and she'll not even notice that it was gone."

"You said that you were going to do tests on it," I pointed out, "The tests won't damage it?"

"Not at all," He waved his hands, "A little divination and a little scrying, a little attempt at remote viewing and psychometry. Nothing invasive in the slightest."

I felt my face go slack in disbelief, "You stole evidence from your friend, the Sheriff- who hires you over the objections of at least some of her staff- and you're going to do magic to it? Eye of newt and tongue of moron and all that?"

"Not magic," Harbinger said, "Magick with a 'k', there's a difference."

"I said magic."

"it doesn't matter. Are you going to tattle to Sheriff Hurley?"

"No," I answered, "Knock yourself out. As long as you don't need me to strip naked for the ritual you can do what you like. I'll get my gear."

I walked back to my father's house. He wasn't in, but I still had a key. I collected my gear, hard frame backpack and a duffelbag; everything in the world that belonged to me save what I wore. I trudged my way back to Harbinger's office. The hour was approaching for dinner. I carried my equipment up to the office and found that Harbinger had cleared a space in the center of the room and laid down a rug and pillows that appeared to be of old Persian design. He had lit his pipe and sat, eyes closed,  in front of a small wooden altar, upon which rested a wooden bowl with arcane symbols and within which lay the rosary beads. I wasn't Catholic, or even Christian, but the whole thing seemed disrespectful towards the rosary. I lay my back and my duffel bag on a clear patch of floor in the corner behind the door. Harbinger's pipe smoke smelled sweet and pungent, but left me a little light headed. I decided that I would let him do whatever he intended to do, and I would go enjoy a dinner somewhere reasonably nice. I left the office and enjoyed the fresh air when I reached the street. The clove cigarette had all but burned out and dropped it to the ground and crushed it out. I would remember to accept any offer of a Jakarta Black that came my way int he future.

I found a small restaurant that served German food and ordered myself some labskaus: a kind of corned beef pate with herring and potato and beetroot with a fried egg on top. They didn't have a Wu Li Sour Red on tap, and I was forced to accept a Dark Wu Li. I'm not opposed to drinking porter, but lately compromise seems to be continually forced on me. I finished up my meal, and paid with my dwindling funds. I then made my way back to the office.

I opened the outer door and could smell the sweet pungent herbal scented smoke of Harbinger's pipe from the bottom of the stairs. Looking up, I could see a haze of smoke drifting on the breeze at the top of the stairs. I shook my head, and climbed the stairs into the smoke. Pulling open the door, I realized that the office was worse. I could barely see across the room due to the smoke. I picked my way to my back pack and removed my cot. Harbinger sat motionless on his pillows and rugs. I walked past him into the Kitchenette. I set up my cot in the Kitchenette, owing to there actually being enough floor space. The day had taken it's toll on me. I'd fought with and broken off a relationship with Violetta. I'd been dragged into a Royal Commission investigation with international trade implications. I'd started a business relationship whose durability seemed highly uncertain. I'd assaulted a man who'd threatened my life. I had done enough today. Things would keep until tomorrow. I lay down on my cot to sleep. I had slept through cannon fire, I could sleep through pipe smoke.

I don't think about the Ashland Incident every day. Day in, day out, I don't think about the Ashland. By near constant application of will and discipline, I don't think about the Ashland Incident. Even when talking about the Incident, the events are themselves kept outside my thoughts. I have, in my mind, transformed even the name into a symbol akin to a semaphore flag that I may wave at my leisure personally ignorant of the meaning that others derive from the thing.

So long as I do not think about the Ashland Incident, I can move forward and continue functioning. I have filed and categorized lists in office of my mind to depersonalize the events when I need to refer to them, a friend or family member bringing up the event in an attempt to talk away the things I did, questions from a would be soon to be ex-employer wanting to understand my part in the events, probes from reporters and journalists who wanted a pound of flesh as bloody and scandalous as they could find, government employees and military tribunals looking for answers. Over two hundred people died, nearly all of them soldiers engaged in a training exercise. I personally killed nearly two dozen such soldiers. I gave orders that sent nearly fifty soldiers under my command to be killed by other soldiers in the same army engaged in training exercises. When asked, I give the same answer. I memorized my answer with great difficulty in front the mirror, repeating it until the words were sounds and I did not have to register their meaning. If the meaning of the answer that I repeated again and again for weeks were to seep into my understanding, I knew I would break- stumble, fall, cry, scream, lose composure, maybe lash out physical if, Buddha forbid, one of the officers who had held command over said training exercises were actually in the room.

Again, and again I gave the speech: "I did what I felt necessary at the time to prevent a greater loss of life. There remained no other viable actions to take and no other viable orders to give. Had I given any other orders than the ones I gave, I would have allowed the deaths of nearly a thousand or more of fellow soldiers. I do not know if I would make the same choice if I were to find myself back in that situation again, I do not know if I would have the strength. But I would know that I should if I were able."

I look at the words on the page, and my eyes do not register them as words, but as hieroglyphics. They have meaning to others. Once, I think, they even had meaning to me, but no longer. That change was a change that I crafted very intentionally. I do not allow recollections, true recollections, of the Ashland Incident to seep into my consciousness. I drink beer, not hard bar. I smoke tobacco and nothing stronger, despite the prevalence of cannabis and opium imported from the Babylon Republics: illegal but generally not enforced. My mind holds shut a room, and the functioning of the rest of my mind depends upon the locks holding shut that room holding fast.

But that night, as I fell to sleeping with Harbinger's pipe smoke swirling about the squalid series of rooms he charitably called an office, I found myself in an unfamiliar mental landscape. The Ashlands were named for a series wastelands left over after the great Modoc Forest fire. The whole forest pretty much burnt to the ground during the dry season and then smoldered for months. Even once the monsoon rains came, the fires never quite went out. For decades later people traveling through the area would see fires erupt from where they had smoldering underground. Travelers did not bed down in the Ashlands, disturbing the soil was a good way to lose the top layer of skin. The military liked to use it for training precisely because it was unpleasant. They provided metal frame raised cots as protection against catching fire while sleeping and assumed everything would be fine. I watched mortar and cannon rounds against the night sky and listened to their rising whistles as I stood on a rise in the mild terrain on the south side of the forest near the ruins of Ambrose. When the cannon balls began landing among the tents, the situation did not feel fine.

"Lieutenant!" A private whom I did not yet know by name came running up, "We've got impacts in the command center! Cannon balls, live rounds! What is happening sir?"

I shook my head, "I don't know private, and we are not winding up dead waiting to find out. Sound a full alert. Get me Sergeant Dunbrook, and organize a full retreat from this position. They can't possibly realize that they are firing on us."

"The sergeant is asleep, sir." The private said. A whistling sound rose above us and then descended and the ground ahead of us exploded, The soil underneath my feet flexed upwards and then collapsed inwards towards the gaping hole in the earth a dozen meters or so down hill from myself and the private. i found myeslf airborne and then abruptly prone, although the process by which this had been achieved remained elusive. I pulled myself to my feet and looked at the hole.

"That was mortar, and a large one." I said aloud, " Probably a Sultan NJM-30. We need to move ourselves out of the line of fire yesterday! Private, find Sergeant Dunbrook- wake every sergeant and officer under my command. Private?"

With no answer from the private, I swung my gaze in a careful scan of the area around me. I saw the private's body some twenty feet to my left, and could see even from this distance that the private was missing his face. A crimson piece of stone lay near enough to the private's body that I could tell the cause of death. I ran to the body and heaved it over my back into a fireman's carry and ran as fast as I could carrying a body into the camp.

"Retreat! Full retreat! We are under actual mortar fire. This is not a drill! This is not a training exercise any longer. Fall back to the ruins of Ambrose! They are firing on our position. We have casualties! This is not a drill. Fall back! Fall Back."

As the camp scrambled to full activity I handed the body of the fallen private to a passing Corporeal whose name I should have known, but whom I could only recall as 'Peachy' with the adrenal response guiding my actions.

"Peachy, get the private's body to the field hospital. We aren't leaving anyone behind, and I don't want to waste human arms carrying our dead or wounded."

Peachy nodded and disappear with the private's body. Moment's later Dunbrook emerged, partially clad in combat fatigues, but wearing more makeup that I would have suspected.

"Lieutenant, are we actually being fired upon, sir?"

"We are Sergeant, organize a full retreat back to Ambrose, get us out of the line of fire. And Sergeant, is anyone else wearing that lipstick?"

Sergeant Dunbrook blushed, "Yes sir."

"Carry on, don't think about him while we're doing this or you might get him killed."

"Yes, sir." More mortar shells and cannon balls hit the camp. One cannonball smashed through a tent hit something hard on the ground and careened back up.

"Is that tent empty?" I called to a Private as she stood staring at the tent.

"I don't know sir?"

"Then find out, and if there is or was, get the body or the wounded to the field hospital. Now!"

I took a breath, scanned the camp to observe our progress and get control of myself so that I could get control of the situation. And then the great giants stepped out of the smoke from the mortars, climbing out of the holes in the ground left by cannon fire and mortar rounds. Their heads were decked with three faces, on in front and two facing back in either direction. They carried great clubs in six hands and their skin bore a shade of iridescent crimson that threatened to hypnotize me. More of the beings, Asuras, if I knew my buddhist folklore correctly, emerged from the darkness and the smoke and began swing clubs and knocking my soldiers flying left and right.

"No." I said to myself as I watched the slaughter, "This is not what happened."

The Asuras went about killing my troops, completely ignoring the fact that they were never one the battlefield during the Ashland Incident. And that's when I jolted awake, flailing for my sabre as an Asura charged me. The room was thick with Harbinger's pipe smoke, and I found myself too unstable to stand. A ghostly Asura  stepped from the smoke and I snatched my sabre from beside the bed and slammed the pommel of the sabre into and through the face, which vanished into the smoke along with my sabre- still in it's sheath. I braced myself on the cot and pulled myself to my feet. The dead private stepped out of the smoke, Private Toby Marks as I had later determined, reached out a hand that passed through me.

"I'm sorry Lieutenant, I couldn't find Sergeant Dunbrook. I can't find anyone sir. I'm all alone sir. Where am I?"

"You didn't make it Private."

"But where am I lieutenant? Am I in naraka, in hell? Why would I end up in naraka? Am I a hungry ghost?"

My legs gave out from under me. "You aren't in naraka, you aren't a hungry ghost. This is my karmaphala, not yours." I whispered.

More figures came walking out of the smoke, Private Gale Flanders, Private Jaspal Sajjan, Corporal David Tang, Sergeant Gertrude Messer, and more. Name after name that I kept filed in the office of my mind stepped into view and I could manage my emotions. I couldn't hold myself together.

I found myself gasping for breath, unable to steady myself enough to stand, repeating a mantra of nothing more than "This is my karma, this is my karma."

I don't know how long I knelt on the floor before I heard Harbinger's voice, "Dahlia, can you hear me? I'm very sorry Dahlia, I'm a damned fool. Let's get you to the roof. The fresh air will help you. I'm such a fool."