John Ringo: Emerald Sea

The woman opened her cash drawer and extracted a handful of bills, stamped bronze coins and some loose silver in irregular chunks. She put the silver on the scale and added a tad more then slid the whole under the bars.

“Three hundred credits in cash,” she said, counting out the bills. “Five twenty-cred pieces and twenty-three in silver.”

“I’ve never seen these,” Joel admitted, picking up one of the bills. It was printed on one side with the eagle of the UFS and on the other with an image of some person he didn’t recognize. It said “Fifty Credits” on it. He rubbed at the printing and the ink stayed in place.

“It’s the new scrip currency they’re distributing,” the woman explained. “It can be exchanged for fifty chit credits anywhere in the UFS. If you go to one of the unincorporated towns, most of them are willing to accept it, too.”

“Seems a bad trade for gold,” Joel temporized.

“Well, if you walk back in with that we give you the exact same amount, less a two percent transaction fee,” the woman replied, clearly used to explaining the facts of life to utter newbies. “Or, if you have an account with us we waive the transaction fee.”

“So you act as a bank as well?”

“Yes, we’re Federally licensed and act under charter of Idoma,” the woman said. “It’s a bit different than before we chartered, but not much. And we’re insured against loss, which is a nice feeling. Too many moneylenders and changers have been robbed since the Fall. Now it’s a Federal offense and the inspectors will chase anyone who robs a Federal bank to the ends of the earth.”

“Or one of Paul’s regions,” Joel noted. “Okay, I’ll take it. Can you direct me to someplace to sleep? I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“The Hotel Brixon is nice,” the lady said, pointing out and to the left. “And they have a good dining room.”

“Thank you for all your help,” Joel replied, picking up the cash and slipping it in his pouch. “I’m sorry I can’t open an account.”

“Well, perhaps if you spend more time here,” the woman replied. “Chian is really growing, almost like a second capital city. There’s always work to be had.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

“What is it that you do, again?” the woman asked.

“Contract work,” Joel replied, as he turned away. “I like to think of it as… salvage.”

The man currently using the name Martin St. John sipped at surprisingly good wine and looked around the crowded tavern. He wasn’t casing his fellow diners. The Brethon merchant who had had the misfortune to meet the seemingly friendly young man on the road from Setran was returning from a good sales trip. It was the merchant’s nuggets of silver, each the size of a knucklebone — the preferred currency in Ropasa over the inflationary paper scrip of New Destiny — that had paid for the bad stew and good wine to follow.

The wine was the reason the inn even existed. The building had been at the crossroads for literally millennia, first as an inn dating back to the time of the Hundred Years’ War, then as a private residence that was maintained across the millennia. The last owner had used his wine cellar, and the broadsword that hung over the fireplace, to reestablish it as an inn in the years after the Fall. Until he ran afoul of New Destiny’s Changed legions and the ownership had passed to cronies of New Destiny.

The food had been better before the coming of the new owners. But they had held onto the wine cellar. In time, they might even learn how to make a decent stew.

But for now, it was good enough. He was out of the rain that was pissing down outside, he had a full belly, and the mature claret was putting him into a nearly expansive mood.

That was until the door opened and a tall, spare figure walked in out of the rain.

The man took off his broad-brimmed hat and shook it, looking around the room with eyes that were almost entirely white. The denizens of the inn looked at the stance and, most especially the eyes, and turned away, the conversation dying for a moment then picking up to an almost unnatural chatter.

Martin hoped that the man was looking for someone, or something, else. But the newcomer caught his eyes and smiled in an entirely friendly way and then made his way across the crowded room.

“Brother Martin,” Conner said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Surprise, hell,” Martin replied, bitterly. “What the hell do you want, Brother Conner?”

The Brotherhood of the Rose had existed before the Fall. In the pre-Fall world, there was very little need, or reason, for criminality. It required both incredible cunning and a deep desire to do harm; when literally anything could be had at a whim, crime took on a truly bizarre form.

For the Brotherhood it was a game, a way to while away the time between birth and death in a world surfeited with luxuries. To steal a woman’s virginity and betray her trust, to find the one thing that a person cherished and relieve them of it, to kill, in a world where everyone was protected by energy fields, nannites overcame toxins and healing was virtually instantaneous, took cunning and skill, especially since the few remaining police of the Council had access to investigation technology that was nothing short of magical. And it was a matter of points among the “Brothers” to do such things with style.

In the Brotherhood, Conner had racked up a truly amazing point total.

Since the Fall, the skills that Martin had developed had kept him warm, fed and as comfortable as it was possible to be in the Fallen world. He realized that all of those things might be coming to an end. Or not.

“How have you been?” Conner said, sitting down across from him and crossing his legs at the ankles. He waved to the server, a young man who looked harried by all the customers, and looked back at Martin. “How’s tricks?”

“Oh, you know,” Martin said, leaning back also. “I get along. This and that.”

“Yes,” Conner said, smiling. “I’m sure. I passed a bit of a gaggle on the road. It seemed that some local merchant had been set upon by vagabonds. Such a terrible thing. Paul’s doing all that he can to reduce crime in the areas under his control. I’m sure that the ne’er-do-well will be caught in time.”

Martin tried not to gulp as he took a sip of wine that suddenly tasted of vinegar. Before the Fall, getting caught generally led to close supervision. In extreme cases, and he knew he fell into the latter category, a brain-wipe might have been ordered, with a nice, docile personality imposed upon the criminal.

Since the Fall, crime was generally a local thing. If a thief was caught, the locals tended to be direct and final. Rope was cheap and, after all, could be reused.

With the coming of Paul’s legions, though, things had changed. Paul had much better uses for criminals than making corpses. His legions were always looking for new bodies, bodies that gave up their own energy to be Changed into the brutal, bestial beings that served as the bulk of his army.

It included a brain-wipe, of course, but instead of a nice docile personality and a life of ease, if not interest, the former thief became just one more orc to be sent into the camps.

“I’m sure,” he said. “How are you?”

“Well, I have to admit that I’ve found an employer,” Conner said, taking the cup of wine that the harried serving boy had fetched for him ahead of a dozen other customers. “I hate to think that I’m going legit.”

“Legit, yeah,” Martin snorted. “I can just see you pulling down a pay-chit.”

“Well, I have to admit that regular food, the money to buy clothes…” he said, eyeing Martin’s weather-beaten ensemble, “has a certain pleasure to it. Especially since the jobs so far have been… right up my alley.”