Page 124 of Aftershocks (Colonization 3)

“That’ll give you the excuse you need to hop on the next train for Tours and your little professor, won’t it?”Penny blazed.

Rance laughed in her face. “I knew you were gonna say that. God damn it to hell, I knew you would. But there’s something you don’t get, sweetheart. If I’m by myself, I don’t go to Tours. If I’m by myself, I go to the airport and hop on the first plane I can catch that’s heading for the States.”

Penny laughed, too, every bit as nastily as he had. “And you last about three days before the guys whose hired goons you plugged find out you’re back and fill you full of holes for payback.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Once I’m home, I can fade into the woodwork again. I did it for years before you barged in and livened things up. I figure I can do it again without much trouble.”

“Go back to Fort Worth and finish drinking yourself to death? Quarter-limit poker with the boys at the American Legion hall?” Penny didn’t hide her scorn. “You reckon you can stand the excitement?”

“It wasn’t so bad,” he answered.

Before Penny could say something else nasty, the telephone on the nightstand rang. She was standing a lot closer to it than Rance was, so she picked it up. “Allo?” That tried to be French, but ended up sounding a lot more like Kansas. She listened for a minute or so, then said, “Un moment, s’il vous plait,” and held the phone out to Auerbach. “Talk to this guy, will you? I can’t make out more than about every other word.”

What that meant was, she had no idea what the Frenchman was saying. She spoke some French, but she’d always had a devil of a time understanding it when spoken. Rance limped over and took the phone from her. “Allo?” His own accent wasn’t great, but he managed.

“Hello, Auerbach,” said the frog on the other end of the line. “The shipment is early, for a wonder. You want to pick it up tonight instead of Friday?”

Now Rance said, “Un moment.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Penny in English: “Want to get the stuff tonight?”

“Sure,” she said at once. “Are we still in business?”

“You need me, or somebody who can really talk some, anyway,” Auerbach answered. She made a face at him. He went back to French: “C’est bon.”

“All right,” the ginger dealer said. “Usual time. Usual place. But tonight.” The line went dead.

Auerbach hung up the phone and folded his arms across his chest. “Like I said, you want to walk out on me, go right ahead. We’ll see which one of us lasts longer as a solo act.”

“Oh, screw you,” she said, and then, half laughing and half still angry, she proceeded to do exactly that. She clawed him and bit his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. As he bucked above her, he was trying to hurt her at least as much as he was trying to please her. Afterwards, panting and sweaty, she asked him, “Where you gonna get a lay like that from your professor?”

“She’s not my professor, dammit,” he said. “If you listened as well as you screw, you’d know that.”

“I don’t want to listen,” Penny said. “The more you listen, the more lies you hear. I’ve already heard too many.” But after that she did stop putting him through the wringer about Monique Dutourd, for which he was more than duly grateful.

They got dressed and went downstairs to grab a taxi. “We want to go to 7 Rue des Flots-Bleu, in the Anse de la Fausse Monnaie,” Rance said in French to the driver of the battered VW. In English, he remarked, “Just like Marseille to have a district named for counterfeit money.” Then he had to squeeze into the cab’s cramped back seat. “One more reason to hate the goddamn Nazis,” he muttered as his leg complained.

The Anse de la Fausse Monnaie lay on the southern side of the headland whose northern side helped shape Marseille’s Vieux Port. Being well to the west of the center of the city, it hadn’t suffered badly from the explosive-metal bomb. The locals hardly thought of themselves as citizens of Marseille at all. They hadn’t been till the Germans built roads connecting their little settlement to the main part of the city.

As soon as Auerbach paid off the cabby, the fellow drove away faster than a Volkswagen had any business going. Rance didn’t care for that. “He doesn’t much want to be around here, does he?” he said. “Next question is, what does he know that we don’t?” The hotel couldn’t have been more than a mile and a half away, but was effectively in a different world-and, with Rance’s bad leg, a far distant one.

Penny, as usual, refused to worry. “We’ve been here before. We’ll do fine this time, too,” she said, and headed off toward the tavern that was their target. Sighing, wishing he were carrying a submachine gun, Auerbach followed.

Inside, fishermen and hookers looked up from their booze. The barkeep had seen the two new arrivals before, though. When he jerked a thumb at the staircase and said, “Room eight,” everybody relaxed-even if the newcomers didn’t look as if they belonged, they were known, expected, and therefore not immediately dangerous.

Rance’s leg complained about the stairs, too, but he couldn’t do anything about that. By the moans and low thumpings coming from behind the thin doors upstairs, most of those rooms weren’t being used for ginger deals, but for a much older kind of transaction.

Rance knocked on the door with the tarnished brass 8. “Auerbach?” asked the Frenchman who’d telephoned.

“Who else?” he said in English. He didn’t think the frog knew any, but that didn’t matter. His ruined voice identified him as surely as a passport photo.

The door opened. A blinding light shone in his face. Another one speared Penny. The room was full of Lizards. They all pointed automatic rifles at the Americans. Rance’s imagined submachine gun wouldn’t have done him a damn bit of good. “You are under arrest for trafficking in ginger!” one of the Lizards shouted in his own language. “We shall lock you up and eat the key!”

A human would have spoken of throwing away the key. As Auerbach raised his hands over his head, he wasn’t inclined to quibble about differ-ences in slang. He’d always known this day might come. He found himself less frightened, less furious, than he’d imagined he would or could be if it did. Turning his head toward Penny, he said, “I told you so.”

“Oh, shut up,” she answered, but he still thought he got the last word.

Nesseref always checked her telephone for messages when she got home after walking Orbit. As often as not, the messages she did get were advertisements, some delivered by real members of the Race reading from scripts, some altogether electronic. She deleted both sorts without the least hesitation. Nobody was ever going to convince her that she could set foot on the

road to riches by responding to a phone call from someone far likelier to be out for his profit than her own.

Today, though, she had one of a different sort. A weary-looking male’s visage appeared on her monitor. “I am Gorppet, of Security,” he said. “I am calling from Kanth, near Breslau, in the Greater German Reich. We are both acquaintances of the Big Ugly named Mordechai Anielewicz. Please return my call at your convenience. I thank you.” His recorded image disappeared.

What sort of trouble has Anielewicz found now? Nesseref wondered. Gorppet’s phone code was part of the message. She let the computer reply, wondering if she would have to record a message for him in turn. But she got him. “Small-Unit Group Leader Gorppet speaking,” he announced. “I greet you.”

“And I greet you. Shuttlecraft Pilot Nesseref, returning your call.”

“Ah. I thank you for being so prompt,” Gorppet said.

“Mordechai Anielewicz is not just an acquaintance to me,” Nesseref said. “As you will probably know, he is a friend. From your call, I presume that he is now a friend in trouble. How can I help him?”

“He is indeed a friend in trouble.” Gorppet made the affirmative gesture. “He is being held hostage by several males of the Jewish superstition here in Kanth. They may well kill him. It is even possible they have killed him already.”

“Wait!” Nesseref exclaimed. “You must be mistaken. Anielewicz belongs to this superstition himself.”

“I spoke truth,” Gorppet said. “You do know that these Jews in Poland have an explosive-metal bomb.”

“I know Anielewicz claimed to have one,” Nesseref replied. “I never knew whether that was a truth, or only a fiction intended to impress me.”

“It is, unfortunately, a truth,” Gorppet told her. “And Jews, it seems, are no more immune to factional squabbles than any other Big Uglies. A faction that wanted to damage the Deutsche to the greatest possible degree seized control of the bomb during the late fighting and moved it to this vicinity.”

---