"I was never your friend," the dealer said. "The admiral. One..."
Mullins shook his head and twisted sideways, grabbing the drug dealer by the hair as the needle-gun fired.
Most of the needles missed entirely, common even at short range when an untrained firer jerks the trigger, but a few hit him in the abdominal region. And slid off his T-shirt.
Mullins wasn't wearing anything that showed up as body armor to Peep scanners; despite the officially egalitarian stance of the People's Republic, armor was permitted only to police and senior members of the government; some pigs were more equal than others.
But that didn't mean he went out naked as a bird either; his T-shirt was made of a high-tech high-density microfiber material, uncommon outside of Manticore and a few Sollie systems, that absorbed much of the blow from the light-weight needles and stubbornly resisted penetration.
The effect was like a punch to the stomach but John Mullins had been hit in the gut plenty of times and shrugged this blow off as well.
Tommy Two-Time was not so lucky.
Ignoring the needles, Mullins slammed the drug-dealer's throat into the hard wood top of the counter, cracking the counter and filling Tommy's throat with blood. Then, to make absolutely sure he wouldn't be telling any tales, the Manty agent twisted Tommy's head around until he was looking back down his spine.
"I've been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you sell a kid Rock," Mullins commented quietly, stepping around the counter and shoving the body out of the way. The late drug dealer had voided himself on exit from this mortal plane, but it was unnoticeable over the stench from the toilet.
Mullins picked up the needler and hammered the lock off of the small lockbox under the counter. All it contained were a few unmarked vials and some change in the form of small sheets of silver and gold. Since the standard monetary form in the People's Republic was a highly traceable electronic transaction related to the identity chip, the metal currency was standard on the black market. However, since virtually everyone used the black market for even everyday purchases, probably the only person who didn't use the sheets was Cordelia Ransom.
It still couldn't be his main stash, or his main cash, so Mullins did some hunting. Finally he found both the drug and money cache under a panel behind the noisome toilet. From the looks of things Tommy hadn't caught up with his supplier recently; there was more than enough cash to sustain them for months. Or get them off-planet if they could find a trustworthy forger.
The toilet, once unplugged, served to deal with the drugs, and the sheets of metal were easy enough to secrete around his body. As long as he didn't get stopped on the way back, everything should be fine. And if he did get stopped, the local cops would just assume he was a money mule and confiscate the cash.
Which would be unfortunate since they were apparently going to need the funds.
He started to leave and stopped, looking at the body stuffed under the counter. After a moment he smiled.
A few minutes later he left the store after having wiped all the surfaces he touched. On his way out he turned the sign to "closed" and locked the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
SOMETIMES YOU BARE THE GETS
"I'd say something light and quippy," Charles said. "But the only thing that comes to mind is: 'Crap.' "
"Congratulations, Admiral," Mullins said. "You just changed from an annoyance to a life-preserver."
"Yes, if you get back with me, all, or most at least, will be forgiven," the admiral said. "That, however, is a large 'if.' "
"I'm out of contacts," Gonzalvez said. "And I don't have a prober system with me, so I can't try to play with the local police system and fake us up materials from that." He blew through his lips and shook his head. "I'm stumped, Johnny me lad." He hung his head and whistled through his teeth. "Bloody hellfire."
"I've got one contact," Mullins replied grudgingly.
"Oh, my," Charles chuckled, looking up. "You're serious?"
Mullins stepped out of the shadows and nodded. "Hello, Rachel."
The dancer was dressed in prole clothing, a heavy gray cotton jacket and similar slacks against the early spring night air. The style on Haven leaned more towards flashy clothing and bright, tawdry make-up, but on the "occupied worlds" there was no BLS for the commoners, it was a day-in-day-out struggle for survival under the unbending yoke of the Ministry of Industry and only the cheapest materials were made available for the "unassimilated" populations. However, like the police agent near Aunt Meda's, there was no mistaking her for a common prole.
She tilted her head to the side and sighed. "I guess StateSec officers don't have to worry about curfew?"
"Something like that," he said. "Can I come in?"
She paused and looked at him for a long time then nodded. "Okay."
The fourth-floor flat was surprisingly neat and clean, for all it was small. It was mostly one room with a fold-up bed, a couch, a small table, tridee and tiny kitchen. There was a small bathroom to the side with a shower just visible. There appeared to be no heat and the room was like an icebox.
"Nice," he said. "But not as nice as Nouveau Paris."
"It's a dump," Rachel replied, taking off her coat and pulling down the makings of tea. "What can I do for you as if I don't know?"
"It's... not what you think," Mullins said, sitting at the small table. "There are some things you don't know about me."
"Well, you're wearing prole clothing, so apparently one of them is that you're an undercover agent." She put a pot in the warmer and set it on heat.
"Not for StateSec," he said carefully. "I'm a Mantie."
"Sure you are," she said with a chuckle. "And I'm Cordelia Ransom. Pull the other one, it's got bells on."
"I'm serious, Rachel. That's why I wanted to get you out of Peep space. I couldn't be with you here; I'm from the Alliance."
She turned around and looked at him soberly. "You're serious."
"As a heart attack. And I'm in trouble."
"And you brought it to me," she said angrily. "You're a God-damned Manty spy and you've brought your troubles to me?"
"Yes, I did," he replied. "You're the only person I can trust anymore, Rachel. If you want to turn me in, fine. I just ask for a few minute's head start. But I need your help. Please."
"Oh, man," she said, shaking her head. "Why me? That question was rhetorical, buddy." She took the pot of tea out of the heater and poured two cups. "Honey, right?"
"You remembered." He smiled, wrapping his hands around the mug for warmth.
"I have a very good memory," she snapped as she sat down. "I can remember things like that for over four hundred men."
"Oh."
"This is not going to be cheap," she continued. "You had better have money."
"I do, and some materials that might help." He paused for a moment and then shrugged. "But we've got a couple of other problems. We also have a citizen to get out, a defector."
"This general that everyone is so up in arms about?" she asked, taking a sip of her tea.
"Admiral. Yes."
She took another sip and set it down, gripping the bridge of her nose and squeezing. "Oh, Johnny."
"How bad is it?"
"In case you didn't notice, our club gets a lot of military," she said softly. "It was nearly empty tonight; there has been a general call-up by StateSec. They're all looking for your friend. I don't even know how you made it to the flat."
"I want you to come, too," he said in a rush.
"Not that again!"
"I'm serious. I nearly drank myself to death when I had to leave Nouveau Paris. Please come with me this time; it won't be safe for you here after we're gone."