Her abductors had removed the hood after they got her into this strange and frightening place. She was still somewhere in the Solarian League’s capital city of Chicago, that much she knew. But she had no idea where, except that she thought it was in the Old Quarter. Chicago was a gigantic city, and the Old Quarter was like an ancient Mesopotamian tel. Layer upon layer of half-rubbled ruins. They had descended deep underground, using twisted and convoluted passageways that she had not been able to store in her memory.

Scrape, scrape. Just do it. Running water conquers all.

Eventually.

While she scraped, she thought sometimes of her father, and sometimes of Master Tye. But, more often, she thought of her mother. She could not really remember her mother’s face, of course, except from holocubes. Her mother had died when Helen was only four years old. But she had the memory—still as vivid as ever—of the day her mother died. Helen had been sitting on her father’s lap, terrified, while her mother led a hopeless defense of a convoy against an overwhelming force of Havenite warships. But her mother had saved her, that day, along with her father.

Scrape, scrape. The work was numbing to the mind, as well as the body. Mostly, Helen didn’t think of anything. She just kept one image before her: that of her mother’s posthumously-awarded Parliamentary Medal of Honor, which, in all the many places they had lived since, her father always hung in the most prominent place in their home.

Scrape, scrape. Helen would get no medals for what she was doing, true. But she didn’t care, anymore than her mother had cared.

Scrape, scrape. Running water.

When he spotted the figure he was looking for, Victor Cachat was swept by another wave of doubt and hesitation.

And fear.

This is crazy. The best way I can think of to guarantee myself the place of honor—in front of a firing squad.

The uncertainty was powerful enough to hold him rooted in one spot for well over a minute. Fortunately, the grubby tavern was so crowded and dimly lit that his immobility went unnoticed by anyone.

It was certainly unnoticed by the man he was staring at. It took Victor no more than seconds to decide that his quarry was already half-drunk. True, the man sitting at the bar was neither swaying nor slurring the few words he spoke to the bartender. In this, as in everything, Kevin Usher kept himself under tight control. But Victor had seen Usher sober—occasionally—and he thought he could detect the subtle signs.

In the end, it was that which finally overcame Victor’s fears.

If he denounces me, I can always claim he was too drunk to know what he’s talking about. It’s not as if Durkheim won’t believe me—he makes enough wisecracks himself about Usher’s drinking habits, doesn’t he?

At the moment when he came to that conclusion, Victor saw the man sitting next to Usher slide off his bar stool. An instant later, Victor had taken his place.

Again, he hesitated. Usher wasn’t looking at him. The Marine citizen colonel was hunched over, staring at nothing beyond the amber liquid in his glass. Victor could still, if he chose, leave without committing himself.

Or so he thought. Victor had forgotten Usher’s reputation.

“This is a gross violation of procedure,” said the man sitting next to him, without moving his eyes from the glass. “Not to mention the fact that you’re breaking every rule of tradecraft. Durkheim would skin you alive.” Usher took a sip of his drink. “Well, maybe not. Durkheim’s a bureaucrat. What he knows about field work wouldn’t tax the brains of a pigeon.”

Usher’s soft voice gave no indication of drunkenness, beyond the slow pacing of the words. Neither did his eyes, when he finally lifted them toward Victor.

“But what’s more important—way more—is that I’m off duty and you’re disturbing my concentration.”

Victor’s angry response came too quickly to control. “Fuck you, Usher,” he hissed. “As much practice as you get, you could drink in the middle of a hurricane without spilling a drop.”

A thin smile came to Usher’s face. “Well, well,” he drawled. “Whaddaya know? Durkheim’s little wonderboy can actually use cuss words.”

“I learned to swear before I learned to talk. That’s why I don’t do it.”

The thin smile grew thinner. “Oh, what a thrill. Another Dolee about to spin his tale of poverty and deprivation. I can’t wait.”

Victor reined in his temper. He was a little shocked at the effort, and realized that it was his own fear which was bubbling up. Victor had learned to control himself by the time he was six years old. That was how he had survived the projects, and clawed his way out.

Out—and up. But he wasn’t sure he liked the vista.

“Never mind,” he muttered. “I know I’m breaking tradecraft. But I need to talk to you privately, Usher. And I couldn’t think of another way to do it.”

The smile left Usher’s face completely. His eyes went back to the glass. “I’ve got nothing to say to State Security outside of an interrogation room.” The smile came back—very thin. “And if you want to get me into an interrogation room, you’d damned well better get some help. I don’t think you’re up to it, wonderboy.”

For just an instant, the large hand holding the shot glass tightened. Glancing at it, Victor had no doubt at all that it would take a full squad of State Sec troops to bring Usher into an interrogation room. And half of them would die in the trying. Lush or not, Usher’s reputation was still towering.

“Why?” Victor mused. “You could have been an SS citizen general by now—citizen lieutenant general—instead of a Marine citizen colonel buried here.”

Usher’s lips, for just an instant, twisted into a grimace. A half-formed sneer, maybe. “I don’t much care for Saint-Just,” was the answer. “Never did, even before the Revolution.”

Victor held his breath for a moment, before exhaling it sharply. He glanced quickly around the room. No one was listening, so far as he could tell. “Well,” he drawled, “you don’t seem too concerned with your health, that’s for sure.”

Usher’s lips quirked again. “Are you referring to my drinking habits?”

Victor snorted. “You’ll be lucky if you die of cirrhosis of the liver, you go around making wisecracks about the head of State Security.”

“I wasn’t making a wisecrack. I was stating a simple fact. I despise Oscar Saint-Just and I’ve never made a secret of it. I’ve told him so to his face. Twice. Once before the Revolution, and once after.” Usher shrugged. “He didn’t much seem to care, one way or the other. You can say that much for Saint-Just—he doesn’t kill people out of personal spite. And I’ll grant you that he isn’t personally a sadist—unlike most of the people working for him.”

Victor flushed at the implied insult. But he made no retort, for the simple reason that he couldn’t. In the short time since his graduation from the SS Academy, Victor had learned that Usher’s sneer was all too close to the truth. Which, of course, was why he was sitting in this tavern in the first place, as dangerous as it was.

Usher lifted the glass and took a sip. From the color of the liquid and what he had read in Usher’s file—very big file, even if Victor suspected half of it was missing—he was sure it was Terran whiskey. Sour mash, technically, from some small province called Tennessee.

Usher rolled the glass in his hand, inspecting the amber contents. “But I decided it would be best if I made myself scarce. So, after a time, I took the commission they offered me in the Marines and volunteered to head up the security detachment at the embassy on Terra. Six months’ travel, it is, from here to the People’s Republic. The arrangement suits me fine. Saint-Just too, apparently.”