Chapter Thirty-eight
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
Malcolm Reed
Another delivery.
I'd sigh – it's been a long day, and tiring, but the message is that this stuff is pretty 'hot' and if there's to be the best chance of keeping the source secret it needs to be got rid of PDQ.
And a pretty good source it must be, if the size of the consignment is anything to go by. Not just the odd case of tins of fruit past the sell-by date or a crate of loaves that got left a bit too long in the oven; there's a couple of pallets' worth of stuff, carefully wrapped and still in boxes as it came from the manufacturer. And it's not just food, either. There are medicinal supplies in there too – dressings and sterile needles and even antibiotics that aren't anywhere near out of date, as well as what looks suspiciously like a hand-held medical scanner not unlike the one Phlox used to use.
This sort of stuff doesn't fall off your average lorry. The Empire needs a lot of it for its front line supply chain, and I'll eat my hat if this hasn't fallen off the back of a shuttlepod somewhere. It's exactly the sort of thing that used to quietly vanish from Jupiter Station, silent casualties of official ineptitude and negligence. Trip had it down to a fine art; with the volume of goods that passed through the station – not just for its own internal requirements but also the demands of revictualling and restocking all the ships that passed through – it was simplicity itself to 'lose' an item here and there. It was effectively impossible to keep a 100% accurate check of everything, especially when a ship came in damaged. If the standard issue was for four boxes of x and six boxes of y, the people in charge of the resupply recorded that the ship had had only two boxes of x left (when there were three) and four boxes of y (when there were five). They'd top up the numbers of x and y to the correct figures and the officer on board would agree the new totals were correct and in agreement with the required standard. They didn't see the issue logs from the station – none of their business, as long as the ship was resupplied correctly – and the station's records showed that two boxes each of x and y had been issued. Which left a box of each available to be quietly packed away until it could be sneaked out to be distributed to the deserving.
Of course, the programme had to be handled with extreme care. It wasn't possible for it to be too obvious that stuff was stealthily disappearing, so it was very discreetly done. But the sheer volume of material passing through the station meant that if even half a percent could be redirected, it was a massive boost to the underground charities that benefited. Like the one I'm currently working for.
As I join the chain of men and women working hurriedly to pass on the contents of the pallets to the four lorries waiting to be loaded up, I can't help wondering. When Trip was arrested, Richard Kelby was left in charge of the station. He was never involved in the redirection as far as I know – the more people know about a secret, the less likely it is to stay a secret – but I wouldn't put it past him to have found out about it. And I more than suspect that if he did, he'd find some way to keep it going. Or perhaps, Amanda found someone on the station to gather supplies. From her position in the palace, it would be difficult for her to coordinate that end of things. I do seem to recall Julie Massaro being particularly close with Michael Rostov, and as his second in command in the Salvage Bay, she would be the natural successor to his position putting her in the perfect place to pilfer a few odds and ends, here and there, now and then, with or without the knowledge and consent of the most esteemed Commander Kelby. So, just maybe…
Whatever the case, I reckon Trip would be as pleased as Punch, if he knew.
=/\=
Our destination isn't handed out till the trucks are ready to go, just in case. The printer in the distribution office went out of date about a hundred years ago and the only ink we can get for it isn't the right sort, so the address is pretty damn hard to make out, but even so I frown at the piece of paper that's thrust into my hands. "This is a comfort house!"
"Yeah." Gary glances at it and nods. "The front of the house is, anyway. Back of the house is another story. Whatever goes on in the front rooms and the public areas is exactly what the local council expected when they issued a comfort house licence. What goes on in the private rooms is none of the council's damned business. Makes a good front. Nobody questions strangers going in there, and the whores are all paid, too. On the downlow, of course."
Well, I'm even further out of date than I thought. In my day the inhabitants of all but the most elite 'comfort houses' were either indentured servants (usually teenagers sold into service by their parents to get enough money to pay off some debt, or occasionally adults who chose to sign themselves over before the state stepped in and sent them to a work camp) or enemies of the state, serving out their punishment by catering for the baser needs of the law-abiding. Which type you got sent to depended on the nature of the crime, but the level of recidivism was marvellously low; a month was the minimum, for an offence like illegal dumping or theft of service, and even four weeks of being a public service asset was enough to keep most people's feet squarely on the straight and narrow thereafter. As for getting paid, you got fed (the provision of a room and bed was rather part of the deal), and if you behaved yourself you got released; if you didn't behave, your sentence could be extended indefinitely – till the owner felt like reporting to the authorities that your crime had been expiated.
But I'm sure the double use is the sort of arrangement a certain former Commodore Tucker would approve of. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't have put it past him to have thought up the idea and convinced some less-than-hard-headed entrepreneur to give it a go. So after I've got the directions written up – we can't risk anything like a sat-nav device, because anything that communicates with a satellite is noted and investigated by the authorities – I climb into the cab of the lorry.
Weird things, these. It took me a while to get used to them; the noise and the smell … they're fossils compared to modern transport. But there are still loads of them on the road, driven by people who can't afford to buy anything better, and held together by duct tape and cannibalised parts from the acres-wide junk yards you find outside any of the bigger towns. The fuel's usually suspect too, sometimes you get crap stuff that'll seize the engine – though I had a word with the last bloke whose fuel didn't make one of our lorries run particularly well, and the next time we called in he pointed us to a different pump and that was OK. Strangely enough he had to use his other hand to point with, but I'm sure the bones will knit eventually.
I like driving. With my advancing age and infirmity I can't physically lift some of the stuff we distribute, especially if we're in a hurry and need to get boxes shifted in multiples, so if I drive and let the others rest that's a bit of a sop to my pride.
It's not that far away, considering. We've timed our run to arrive at dusk, when most people are more interested in getting home for dinner than in paying attention to just another dusty old lorry rumbling in from the open road. We need to get gone as quick as we can, though; when a particular appetite is sated, people soon begin craving something else, and we don't need inconveniently observant members of the house's clientele asking questions.
With the maxim of 'The fewer involved in a secret the safer it is' in mind, the owner of the house doesn't let all of her employees in on the scheme. There are only a few who come out to help us bring stuff in, and though they're wearing the standard stuff for their trade it has to be said none of them are wildly likely to be recruited for a better class of establishment elsewhere. But they're doing the best they can with what they have, and even if I'm not tempted to sample the wares I don't mind admiring the view.
Which is why I suddenly stop as though I've run into a brick wall when another woman comes out – hesitant and limping – and goes to take her place in the line.
Half of her face has been pulverised; if the eye is still in there, the mass of scar tissue from her eyebrow would force it shut. The other half has what looks like old, long-healed scars of claw marks across it, dragging her mouth into a permanent droop. The eye this side looks like it can function all right, but its expression is of a sort of horrible vacant eagerness. She just wants to play the fun game everyone else is playing, and two of the other women steer her and tell her what to do as if she's some kind of oversized child.
And I know her.
=/\=
Zenobia Towneley. Last encountered aboard the Conqueror, where I spent a most enjoyable night fucking her every which way, paying tribute to her glorious body as well as her insatiable appetite for sex. My rediscovery of my status as a Pack alpha ratcheted my libido up to heights even I had never experienced before, and she copped the lot.
She might have become a regular feature of my life after that if I hadn't discovered she'd shortly afterwards made the grave mistake of trying to come between me and Liz. Her extreme usefulness as a Pack asset as well as Liz's prompt and brilliant put-down meant I let her run – for the time being, though I promised myself a reckoning would come eventually. A reckoning that would have been much less fun for her than it would for me, and making her wait for it wouldn't do any harm.
But it seems that someone has pre-empted me in that department. I don't know who, but they did a job on her. Inflicting that much damage on a skull was bound to have an effect on the brain within it, let alone the mental trauma she would have suffered during it. It looks very much as if it left her effectively half-witted – good enough for a comfort-house, as long as it was one where the patrons weren't particular.
She catches my gaze, and I tense for some sign of recognition, though both of us are a long way from what we were back then. But all that moves on the ruin of a face is a pathetic attempt at a coquettish smile as she identifies a potential customer.
I break the contact and move again, passing the package to the next man in the line, who's waiting in puzzled impatience. As the chain gets into motion again my mind is working furiously.
Her overzealous eagerness to build on her gains with me was something which as a Pack member was a natural drive, even if it should have been tempered by wisdom. But how could she have imagined that I'd care more for a mere Human than for one of my own kind? And especially one who wasn't – by even Human standards – beautiful enough to grace my bed and strong enough to deserve the status she had? To Zenobia, Liz was an interloper, an inferior who could be pushed aside by anyone strong and brave and driven enough to succeed. She had ample proof how much I'd enjoyed her body, and by comparison Liz must have appeared as insubstantial as a wraith.
I didn't order this punishment. True, I'd have made her suffer eventually, but she was too useful to destroy; once taught her place, she'd have thought twice before putting a paw out of line again. And because she was so useful – because she was not just a lieutenant, but also a high-ranking member of the Pack – she had powerful protection. If it wasn't on my orders that this was done, it must have been on those of someone not far below me in the hierarchy.
For what crime? Not the stupid, ill-advised move against Liz. That would have been regarded (if discovered) as something for me to deal with. Even if it was discovered after I'd fled, her disloyalty to me would still have been seen as personal. It might have cost her something in terms of respect; anyone stupid enough to take such a risk would have to have their judgement called into question – if it didn't pay off, of course. If it had paid off, she would have been enormously admired for her cleverness and daring. But as for taking steps to punish her on my behalf, well, nobody would.
That leaves the question of what she actually did do to earn it. And it must have been something pretty terrible. Punishment in the Pack is usually swift and for men often terminal, but not many females incur it and when they do they tend to get 'disciplined' to remind them of where they belong. This went way, way beyond 'discipline'.
It would be simple enough, once we're done, to arrange for a few minutes alone with her. But even if I wanted to, the damage she's sustained has effectively broken her from the Pack. Even if she did instinctively respond properly if I gave her the signals, she's little better than the ruins of a Human. As for feeling any lust towards her, all I feel is a bewildered pity, mixed with disgust. Whatever she did, she earned a punishment that any Pack member would regard as degradation beyond endurance. So, it's much for the better if she isn't aware of her abasement.
Failing to engage my interest, she loses hers in the game and dawdles indoors again, ready for the evening's customers.
Gary sees me watching her and shakes his head. "Shame," he says. "I bet she was a looker once."
"I'd imagine." I pass him another box, this one not so heavy. "Wonder what happened to her?"
"No idea." Another box changes hands. "I heard a couple of MACOs dropped her off here, told Viv, the manager, to patch her up the best she could and put her to work. What they were doing with her, I have no idea, but she was clean. Viv gets all the girls tested regular, and if they've got something they can do virtual stuff, but she won't let them entertain live customers, which is more than you can say for a lot of the 'nicer' places in town."
"And the customers here aren't so particular about looks," I assume.
"Well. You buy what you can afford. And she gets two good meals a day. Viv looks after her, makes sure she doesn't get mistreated, though I gather that's more for the customers' protection. Apparently, early on some guy tried something she wasn't willing to go along with and she beat him to within an inch of his life and bit him up pretty badly, too. Kind of makes me wonder if she didn't used to be a MACO who got on somebody's bad side – though that biting thing, if it really happened, that's a little too weird."
"I suppose anything's possible," I agree, "but the military has its own rules and punishments. What on earth could she have done to deserve something so far beyond what they'd normally do to one of their own?"
Gary shrugs as he takes the next box and says indifferently, "I dunno, but it could have been a whole lot worse, if you ask me."
I don't say any more. Why should I be interested in the fate of a whore with a ruined face? Curiosity can only be dangerous.
If the opportunity was there, I think briefly, I might even make it my business to put her out of her misery. Whatever she is now, she was Pack once. But we can't dawdle and killing her would cause too many questions. This facility is too valuable to put it at risk. And besides, it looks as if against all the odds, she's fallen into a place where she'll get some kind of rough kindness. And if anything remains of what she once was, she'll enjoy the job – maybe enough to make the men who hire her forget about her face. After all, at night all cats are grey…
But still … it makes me wonder.
Who exactly took down Zenobia Towneley?
And why?
Ohh, boy! We all know Malcolm has a lot of skeletons in his closet, but who would ever have expected one of them to pop up here, of all places? At least he got out of there without having to confront her. That could have been very messy. It's nice to think that maybe the Jupiter station supply chain is up and running again. As always, if you're enjoying the story please review.
