CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 1
ONE YEAR after liberation music played in Munchen, upbeat melodies with a resounding sadness. Musicians with old instruments from the old world—mandolins, dulcimers, zithers—performed to knots of people on corners and across the stoops of the formerly grand strassen. Along the blocks, empty stores overwhelmed the open few. The once-lively city seemed cast in black-and-white, like an ancient 2-D movie. Even the spindly trees, caught in the long Wunderland fall, dropped colorless leaves from graying trunks along the mottled paving stones.
Curbside at the Munchen spaceport, Martin Cheshire squinted against the early morning light, searching the faces in the ground cars humming by. He felt lightheaded from the trip: Sol to Alpha Centauri via hyperspace, a long layover in the stinking caverns of Tiamat awaiting approval to proceed down-well, then a turbulent planetfall. His feet, clumsy in the .61 gravity, planted in a loose, overshot way, as he stretched and bent, hunting for his friend.
Soon he would see Lim, a happiness well worth any discomfort. Years—and light-years—had separated them. Cheshire grinned as he imagined their meeting: the handshake, the hug, and the invariable, “Hello, old friend.”
He startled at a cracked voice near his elbow: “Herr Cheshire?”
“Yes?” Cheshire looked down, past the top of the man’s brittle hair to a set of watery green eyes.
“My name is Kirkland, Vilt Kirkland.” The man’s face, pinched and angled like his body, revealed long decades. “I’ve come to fetch you. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident.”
“Accident?” The light gravity suddenly felt heavy.
“Yes, but I’m afraid there’s not much time. I shall explain on the way to the cemetery.”
“Cemetery!”
“Yes, yes, this way.” The little man grabbed Cheshire’s duffel and proceeded down the walk.
Cheshire balked. “Look, what’s going on?”
The little man did not stop, calling over his shoulder, “No time, no time.”
Angry and confused, Cheshire glowered, but followed his duffel into a battered ground car parked not far down the strasse. “Lim Welson was supposed to meet me.”
“Yes, terrible, terrible.” Kirkland engaged the auto-drive. “Our friend is dead, I’m sorry to tell you. We’re on the way to his reclamation.”
Cheshire blinked at Kirkland. Lim’s smile, full of promise and adventure, flashed then disappeared. He fluttered a hand to eyes and pinched tears from the corners. “How’d it happen?”
“Terrible, terrible accident.” Kirkland took a raspy breath. “None of us saw it coming. We were right in front of his apartment, just leaving for the brewery. One moment he was fine and the next he couldn’t breathe. His throat closed completely. We did all we could—it was just him and me and Herr Langbroek-Kikkert, and we did all we could—but we just couldn’t get any air into him. Even the paramedics couldn’t help and, well, by the time we got him to the hospital, well . . . Just terrible!”
“But, what happened? Why did he stop breathing?”
Kirkland hunched his shoulders and leaned toward Cheshire. “Peanuts,” he whispered. “Some sort of peanut allergy.”
Cheshire flinched, disgusted by the man’s oily smell. “But, that’s impossible.”
“Impossible?” Kirkland took a deep interest in the car’s instruments. “Why do you say, ‘impossible,’ Herr Cheshire?”
“He loved peanuts. He was always eating them. How could he suddenly grow allergic?”
The little man slid away and crossed his arms. “I am not a doctor. All I know is what I saw. It was a shock to us all.”
The ground car hummed along the strassen, avoiding pedestrians, carts, and potholes. Kirkland ran a finger along the dash and grimaced at the coat of black dust. “You knew our Lim well?”
“We grew up together—school, dating, air cars—all the usual stuff.” Tears burned his eyes again, but he blinked them away. A friendship of twenty years to be buried on a strange planet, killed by peanuts, of all things.
“A sad time, a sad time.” Kirkland attempted a greasy smile. “Be assured, Lim was most concerned about you. He and I were talking about you just before . . . before the incident. He would not want you to . . . suffer at his . . . loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kirkland.” Cheshire’s voice trembled with harsh control. “His death just doesn’t seem to make sense.”
The car rolled through an arched gateway and up a drive to a sullen single-story building set in a rolling, walled-off park. A mix of Wunderland and Earth trees, slender in the lower gravity, dotted the shallow hills and dales. Remembrance stones, stark white among the withered leaves, were scattered among the trees. Cheshire and Kirkland entered the utilitarian building, decorated with shabby antiques and musty tapestries.
From the back, Cheshire scanned the room, shocked at the rows of empty chairs. A chipped wooden coffin, for show only and oft reused, occupied the far end. A fat man—the fattest man Cheshire had ever seen—lounged at the back. Next to him, an old black man ran a limber hand through his shocking white hair. He touched the fat man’s arm to call his attention to Cheshire. At the front, a young man sat with studied indifference, both hands clasped around a knee. And directly before the coffin stood a tall woman, veiled and cloaked in mourning. Her shoulders shook.
At the coffin, a young priest finished the committal service and held out a silver bowl of earth to the woman. She shook her head, turned resolutely, and walked blindly past. The priest offered the bowl to the young man near the front, who took it with a nod and proceeded to sprinkle a bit of the earth over a funnel set into the foot of the battered coffin. The priest offered the bowl to the fat man and his black partner, but they stood and turned away.
Cheshire refused to believe as he walked, numb and slow, between the rows of white folding chairs. Where is everyone? Why is no one here? A single photo perched on the coffin: Welson—dapper, hair wavy brown, smile indulgently askance.
Kirkland followed, ignoring the fat man and his partner as they studied Cheshire.
“Can I see him?” Cheshire asked the priest. He ran a hand along the chipped wood. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, eh?” said the young man who had sat at the front. Lanky, with the strange off-center beard of a Herrenmann, he spoke with an affected Wunderlander’s accent.
“This is our friend, Antoon Langbroek-Kikkert.” Kirkland touched the young man’s shoulder. “He was there, with us, when Lim, when—”
“His whole face was swollen and, frankly, by the time we got him to hospital, his color . . . well, his face had turned this color, eh?” Langbroek-Kikkert ran a thumb and finger along the lapel of his plum suit coat. “It’s not a face you’ll want to remember him by.”
Cheshire felt sick. These are Lim’s friends? The priest offered him the silver bowl, and he sprinkled a sad bit of earth into the worn funnel. The priest then offered the bowl to Kirkland, who scattered some grains and thrust the bowl back.
“What now?” Grief centered in Cheshire’s chest, drawing his thoughts into repeating circles.
“After you leave, his body will be reclaimed,” said the priest. “If you like, for a small fee, the cemetery will erect a remembrance stone. I could bless it if you like.” He added, “For a small fee.”
“No, I meant, what do I do now?” Cheshire locked bewildered eyes with Langbroek-Kikkert. “Lim sent for me—he even paid for the trip. I was going to work for him, but what now?”
The Herrenmann gave a tight smile and returned Cheshire’s gaze. “We shall see, eh?”
“Yes, yes, we shall see, we shall see.” Kirkland patted Cheshire’s arm. “Perhaps you’d like to return to Sol?”
“A perfect idea.” Langbroek-Kikkert lifted an accusing chin. “I’m afraid there’s not much left of Wunderland to see, eh? Not after you flatlanders got through with it.”
“What?” Cheshire stepped back, surprised by the young man’s anger.
“Settle, Antoon. It was the UNSN’s fault, not Herr Cheshire here.” Kirkland locked up Cheshire’s arm in his and whispered, “I’m afraid you’ll get a bit of that around here, but no matter, no matter.”
“I don’t understa—”
“Come along. We’ll get you a room in the Shrader while you wait for your flight home. Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Antoon?” Kirkland did not wait for an answer, but tugged Cheshire halfway down the aisle. Langbroek-Kikkert followed close behind. Cheshire resisted, then wrested his arm from the cracked man’s grip.
“I think I’ll fend for myself.” He raised flat hands against Kirkland’s attempts to reattach. “Thank you anyway.”
“No, we insist, eh?” Langbroek-Kikkert made his own grab. “Come with us.”
Cheshire backpedaled, but before he could reach the door the bulk of the fat man stopped him. “You could come with us,” the man said. “We have a car and can drop you anywhere.”
Cheshire glanced at Langbroek-Kikkert and Kirkland, who had retreated to a wary distance. He looked into the face of the fat man—sparkling green eyes set deep above his round cheeks—and to the craggy black man smiling by his side.
“Buford Early and damn glad to meet you!” The black man fished in his rumpled suit jacket and produced three cheroots. “Smoke?”
“No. No, thank you.” Cheshire wanted to close his eyes, to blink away the bewilderment. Who are these people?
The fat man shrugged and plucked two of the cheroots from Early’s fingers. Early grinned and stuck the remaining stick into the side of his mouth. “What’s your name, son?”
“Marty Cheshire.” He peered down the aisle at Kirkland and Langbroek-Kikkert, who were engaged in agitated whispers and quick glares, and made a choice. “I think I’ll take you up on that ride.”
“Excellent! Hyek-ek, ah!” The fat man’s laugh rolled through his body. “Right this way.”
The party of three ambled out the building, the fat man in a waddling lead.
“I need my bag.” Cheshire detoured to Kirkland’s unlocked car. Early stopped to light his cheroot, but Cheshire noticed him assess the exit for threats. Lim, what have you gotten me into?
Cheshire joined the other two at a dented ground car. His door ground closed and sealed with a halfhearted sigh. “You could do with a body shop or two in this town.”
“Indeed, yes, we could do with a great many things these days.” The fat man held out a massive hand. “Schreibman.”
Cheshire shook his hand. “Good to meet you.” He settled into his seat as Schreibman set the auto-drive in motion. “I have to apologize. I just arrived from Sol, found out my friend is dead from peanuts—of all things—and now his so-called friends want to send me packing. I just . . . I just don’t know what’s going on.”
“Sounds like a bitch of day, all right,” said Early. “Perhaps you’d like a drink?”
Finally, some small sign of friendship. “I’d like that, yes.”
“What do you think, Dolf?” Early asked Schreibman. “Harold’s?”
“Everyone meets at Harold’s. Hyek, hyek!”
Cheshire watched out the windows as the car hummed down the strassen. Toward the center of town, the traffic picked up. They passed the occasional cart pulled by thin kzinti, giant orange tigers striped with black. Masters now employed by former slaves, they hauled produce carts, bread carts, clothes carts; junkmen, dairymen, tradesmen. A householder called from a window for a cart to stop, and the ground car idled behind. The cart-man, a baker, picked two loaves of bread and met the householder on her stoop. His great paws idle on the worn wooden crossbar, the scrawny kzin stood, looking neither right nor left nor down—just distant, to a lost horizon.
“I’ve never seen a kzin before,” Cheshire said. “I never understood how big they are.”
“Nine feet and near a quarter ton,” said Early. “Though that one’s looking rather poorly.”
Cheshire noted missing patches of fur with raw skin beneath. The alien’s bat-like ears trembled, and his hairless rattail hung without expression. Taken by a sudden itch, the kzin licked at a forearm, gnawed the skin, and licked again. As the itch subsided the kzin worked his mouth, rolled his pink tongue around sharp yellow teeth, and spat a wad of orange/black fur to the cobblestones.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing a strakkaker wouldn’t fix,” Schreibman said. “Verdammt ratcats.”
“A vitamin deficiency.” Early smiled around his cigar. “Something in their diet disagrees with them.”
“Hyek-yek! Hyek-yek!” Schreibman’s ill-humor had passed.
The baker returned from the stoop and mounted the cart. A word passed, and the kzin strained into the crossbar. The cart rumbled down the strasse and, as the ground car passed, Cheshire stared at the felinoid. Cracked footpads left bloody prints along the stones—fresh blood mixed with track-upon-track of purple blood-prints that snaked along the gutter.
“We’re here,” Schreibman said. “And just in time. I’m about to melt away to nothing.”
A luminous holosign floated above a reinforced door: HAROLD’S TERRAN BAR: A WORLD ON ITS OWN, with humans only just below. And scratched on the brickwork, no collabos!!!!
Cheshire parted the beaded curtain of the vestibule and entered a bar empty of customers. The morning smell of stale smoke and rancid beer permeated the rooms. At the musicomp, a lithe Asian woman lounged, reviewing scores. Schreibman held up three fat fingers to a pasty-faced bartender, who rolled her eyes but worked the beer taps.
“What brings you to Wunderland?” Early asked after they had pushed their way around a small cafe table.
“My friend, Lim Wel—but you know him. You were at his funeral.”
“Oh, yes, we knew him.” Early exchanged a look with Schreibman. “Was Wilhelm Crenvins a friend of yours, too?”
“No, never heard of him. Who is he?”
Without a word, the bartender delivered three beers. Cheshire smiled at her, but she rolled her eyes again and returned to sulk behind the bar.
“No one. Just curious.” Early sipped his beer. “You were about to tell us what brought you to Wunderland.”
“Lim sent for me, asked me to come from Sol to join him. He said he needed my expertise, whatever that means, and he sent me a ticket on a hyperspace liner.”
“A hyperspace liner!” Early shook his head. “God damn. I remember when we had a hard time getting those junkers to even start. Now the bastards are takin’ fares like taxis.”
“What do you do?” asked Schreibman.
“I’m a lawyer.” He smiled with a shy pride.
Schreibman tapped the side of his glass and snorted.
“But I’m not a bad guy,” Cheshire said with a desperate humor.
“Hyek!”
Early dropped a restraining hand on the fat man’s arm. “You must be one goddamn good lawyer to warrant a hyperspace fare. What kind of law?”
“Well, nothing in particular. I just passed the bar when Lim asked me to join him, so I haven’t had any practice.”
“How long did you know Lim?” asked Schreibman.
“We grew up together. He . . . he was my best friend for the longest time.” Cheshire’s face softened as he remembered. “He had this way . . . somehow, he knew how to find adventure. One time—we were just in grade school—we cut class to go the shops nearby. ‘Let’s go exploring,’ he said and—pop!—there he went, right into the basement of some building. We rooted around for a good hour or so. I don’t remember if we found anything, but then the cops showed up.”
“What happened?” Early sipped his beer.
“Oh, I got caught. Lim mumbled about telling them it was a school project or some such rot. And it didn’t go well, as you might expect. Oh, the dressing down I got from my moms . . .”
“And Welson . . . I mean Lim—what happened to him?” Early asked.
“When I went to talk to the cops he disappeared. I don’t think they even saw him.”
“You two go way back, then,” Schreibman said. “He could trust you. Maybe that’s why he needed you.”
“Trust is one goddamn powerful tool,” Early said. “Armies march on loyalty.”
“Armies?” Cheshire asked.
“He’s better off now, if you ask me,” said Schreibman. “And a lot of other folks as well.”
Cheshire cocked his head. “It sounds like maybe you didn’t like him.”
“Purely a professional opinion,” Schreibman said. “I’m sure he was a marvelous fellow. What he did, of course, is another matter entirely.” The fat man shook his head. “He was the worst of the worst.”
“Do you know what your friend did for a living, Mr. Cheshire?” Early asked.
“Not exactly. He said something about the food industry. I assume he needed help with imports of food from Sol.”
“Black market,” said Schreibman. “You name it, he was into it. But his latest project, well, that just stunk to hoch Himmel.”
Cheshire straightened. “I’m beginning to not like your attitude, friend. Who the hell are you guys, anyway?”
“We’ve been investigating Herr Welson for some time now,” Schreibman said. “This is General Buford Early of the UNSN, and I’m Detective Dolf Schreibman of the Munchen Polizei.”
Cheshire slapped his palms on the tabletop. “What’s this been, some sort of interrogation?” He stood. An angry heat hardened in his cheeks, his brow. “What right have you to trick me like this?”
“Please calm down, Herr Cheshire.” Schreibman tried a genial smile, but his small eyes ruined the attempt.
“My friend is dead, his so-called friends practically kidnap me, and two cops pump me for information—what the Finagle is wrong with this planet?”
“Sit down, Mr. Cheshire.” Early smoothed the tabletop with his hand. “You’re making an unnecessary scene. If you take your seat, we’ll try to explain as best we can.”
“No, thank you. I’m quite done with explanations for today. Thanks for the beer, fat man. I didn’t touch it, so help yourself, not that you need it.”
Early and Schreibman watched Cheshire’s back as he stormed out. The two officers exchanged glances.
“I suppose we should put a tail on him,” said Early.
“That would be for the best. Since it’s still my city and still my planet, we’ll use my people.”
“Of course.”
Schreibman sighed. “We’re short handed as usual, so I’ll have to take tonight’s shift.” He finished his beer and picked up Cheshire’s. “It’s hormonal. I have major faults in my leptin genetics.”
“You have major faults, all right.”
“Nothing an extra-large autodoc couldn’t fix. Lie to me again how we’ll soon get them from Sol.”