Serrin had never been in the city before, but hadn't really believed Michael's description during the flight. Surely no place could be so chaotic. It was just too plain dumb, and Germans were too sensible.
Except in Berlin, as he realized once they got there.
Immigration barely looked at their IDs; the inspectors merely threw a glance at the covers of their passports, smiled at the marriage registration, and offered Michael congratulations in a tone of voice that suggested they'd recently got lucky intercepting the importation of something both interesting and illegal and chipped or imbibed most of whatever it was.
The airport was Babel rebuilt to feature runways. The concourses seemed to be filled with street-theater freaks, jugglers, puppeteers, Dadaist mime geeks, religious lunatics proclaiming the end of the world next Monday, Wednesday, or Friday depending on the cult, burned out
chipheads, street girls, street boys, street whatevers, and drunks. Occasionally, passengers like themselves did their best to weave their way through the human detritus blocking their path. Security, such as it was, seemed totally oblivious except where outright violence was threatened. Serrin's little group hadn't gone ten yards without being offered girls, boys, expansion of consciousness by guru or pill, redemption by mail order, and membership in societies and organizations catering to every inclination imaginable and a few that weren't.
"I've never been here before," Serrin said as Kristen clung to him, "and I'm never, ever, coming back again."
"Oh it's not so bad, chummer. It's just that the Free City has abandoned pretty much everything worth having from the last six thousand years of civilization," Michael grinned. "But the beer's good. And the place isn't all like this. Of course, some of it's worse. Most of it, if I were to be truthful. But the Metropolitan, where we're staying, that at least is an oasis of sanity. Well, it's got security anyway, which is what we need. And we can get things here we couldn't get anywhere else in the German Alliance. We've got a busy evening ahead."
Serrin was hugely relieved when they reached the hotel, where Michael had booked them a four-bedroom suite. The trid screen on the wall of the salon was the biggest he'd ever seen.
"This is class," he admitted reluctantly while Michael burrowed into the fake mahogany bar for beers. "I think we've got three options," the Englishman said, forcing the top off a bottle and taking a long drink.
"One: we find the most efficient-looking mercenaries money can buy before midnight. We've got to move that fast. Taking any longer will give people more time to start checking us out more closely. Not a complication we want. I can spread enough money around to buy us quality, but let's face it, you can't pay anyone enough to risk his life against a nosferatu."
"A nosferatu mage," Serrin said.
"We don't know that for sure," Michael replied. Serrin's look told him to take some things on trust.
"But mercenaries might cut and run," Michael continued. "Which wouldn't be very convenient for us. That leaves us two other possibilities. One I've already discounted, but I'd like to mention it so you can follow my thinking."
He's back in form, Serrin thought. He has that hypo-manic glint in his eye, and I think he actually believes his line that Englishmen are almost bulletproof.
"Forgive me for this one, but it's Humanis."
Tom was half-out of his chair when Michael, genuinely afraid that the troll might deck him with a watermelon-sized fist, waved him back.
"I said I'd discounted that. It's just that the master race would die willingly to deal with the problem we've got. We might not even have to pay them. Come on, be fair, you have to admit they'd be motivated."
"I've put about maybe a dozen of those guys into the ground over the years and I'm not ashamed to say I've never lost a minute's sleep over it," Tom growled.
"That leaves us a third possibility. There's the Ork Liberation Army. I should say the Ork Anarchic Commune, the Wardogs, half a dozen of 'em, but it's the same thing. Orks are a quarter of the population here. The real activists divide into two groups. One bunch, the ones I've mentioned, are hard guys, but they protect what they've got and work to get a bigger slice. They're organized, so there's a general ork policlub. The other bunch are the ones to avoid. The Horde. They just like killing anything that doesn't look like a big, bad ork. The trick is to recruit from the former and not from the latter."
"Can we do that?" Serrin wondered.
"There's a bar, the Meld In, in Grenzstrasse. Ironically enough, it's a hangout for Berliners who actually want to improve relations between metatypes. Won't find any Horde members there. But we'll find everyone else. Now this is a tricky one. We need types smart enough to be enraged by the idea of what Luther's doing, while avoiding the ones so over-motivated that they'll want to rip our heads off first."
"Why orks, specifically?" Tom asked.
"Just because they're the most numerous and best-equipped muscle available here. But, slot, if there are
dwarfs, trolls, or anyone else willing to come along and help us out, the more the better. The other good thing about orks is that they'll keep it to themselves."
"And what about me?" Serrin asked. "We're going to ask them to blow away a megalomaniacal elven racist, and here's an elf asking them to do it. Isn't that going to look rather suspicious?"
"No," Michael said slowly. "Not if they see you're really there with Kristen." Avoiding Serrin's uncomfortable look, he continued. "Look, let's do a quick inventory on ourselves. One troll. One elf. One white man. One black woman. Are we a plausible group for furthering some kind of racist plot?"
"Probably not," Serrin agreed.
"No. We're actually not an unlikely collection of folks to oppose that very thing."
"Maybe it would be better if Serrin didn't actually go along to meet the orks. Your logic is right," Tom told Michael, "but life isn't logical."
"More's the pity," Michael said dryly. "No. I don't want to deceive them, even by omission. We go in on this together. That's what we'll be asking them to do."
"What about a compromise? Maybe I arrive a little later at this Meld place? Without me around, it might be easier for you to prepare the ground," Serrin offered.
"Good idea. Now, let's start making a shopping list of what we're going to need in the way of hardware. Sadly, not even in Berlin can we lay our hands on a tacnuke not in the time we have available to us but apart from that we've got enough money to get what we want."
Michael began to unpack his cyberdeck from its travel case. "I think I should also investigate some places less well-known than Meld In. Shouldn't take more than half an hour.
"While I'm doing that, maybe Tom could hit the place and just kick back, have a drink, be seen. Then, when we go back, it will look like we've sent someone to scope matters out and that we like what we heard. When the time comes to parlay, it might get us some respect, like we know what we're doing."
"Makes sense," the troll said, getting to his feet. "Where is this place again?"
Michael gave him the exact address. "Hang around for half an hour maybe. Try not to look obvious, like you're checking everyone out."
"Look, chummer, I may not be smart, but I'm not dumb either," Tom retorted.
"Sorry," Michael said sheepishly. "I'm just a bit twitchy, that's all."
When Tom had gone, Serrin questioned Michael as he was rigging up the Fuchi. "Look, why should you go along on this? You're no samurai."
"I'm a damn good shot with the Predator, though. Come on, I live in New York. It's basic survival instinct, old boy. Anyway, I intend to stay behind the front line. Isn't that the same deal you made with Kristen?"