Obsidian's War The Winter City
Chapter Two

Gel finally found his superior officer, Captain Benjamin Edge, in the base’s main entertainment complex. He was sitting at a table with the local representative of Imperial Intelligence – known simply as The Eye - Dr Seth Addanc, as well as Edge’s blonde “assistant” who seemed to go everywhere with him. The security man whom Gel knew as Sylvester was sitting away from the table against the wall. The assistant smiled vaguely at him. The thick-set Sylvester, aging but still every inch the sergeant in the Imperial Marines he had once been, nodded. The other two men were indifferent.

“Oh yes, the sergeant who did not hold morning parades,” said Edge, “and they’ve commissioned you, I see. That is a surprise.”

“Yes, sir, despite the reports you sent in on me.”

“I never heard back about those reports,” said Edge, unabashed, taking another sip of his wine. “There was no disciplinary hearing?”

“The colonel marked them as ‘no action necessary’, sir. I was shown them as a matter of routine.”

“You see the low standards they tolerate now,” said Edge to Addanc, who nodded and glared at Gel. Addanc had also expressed dissatisfaction with Gel back on Outpost-3. His complaints, entirely unjustified, had met with the same fate as those of Edge. The captain turned back to Gel. “What poor officer has to deal with you, Lieutenant?”

“You do, sir. I’ve been made deputy port commander.”

“I – I see,” said Edge, momentarily taken aback.

“Colonel Lee wanted an issue concerning the unloading of transports at the dock taken care of first, and then told me to report to you,” said Gel. “She said they’d had trouble locating you, sir.”

Edge waved away the implied rebuke. “Port duties have taken me all over the base, Sergeant – uh Lieutenant. Did you deal with the issue Colonel Lee was concerned about?”

“Yes, sir, the backlog of transports waiting to be unloaded has been cleared.”

“Then they don’t need me, do they?”

“Not now, sir. With your permission I’ll handle those routine matters. I’ll take a work station in the port office. I couldn’t find any port command office.”

“No separate office space available I was told,” said Edge. “I’ve complained to Colonel Lee but she said that all construction material and resources was being used to house refugees. There was nothing to spare for building new offices here. Now she’s complaining that she has trouble finding me. There is no pleasing some people.”

“At least it means that you will be freed up for that project we discussed,” said Addanc. The Imperial spy turned to Gel, “you may go now, Lieutenant.”

Gel did not move. “Addanc is an unusual name, isn’t it, sir?”

The spy was taken aback. “It’s an old family name, Lieutenant. Why would it be considered unusual?”

“In the British, Irish, or Welsh legends on Earth Addanc is a demon dwelling in a lake. It can take on the shape of a crocodile amongst other things – not sure what a crocodile is doing in a Welsh legend but, anyway, I was curious about where the name came from.”

Addanc glared at Gel. “My origins are not your concern, lieutenant.”

“Of course, sir. If Captain Edge does not want me for anything else?”

“Go, lieutenant,” said Edge, sounding bored, “and deal with your routine matters.”

Gel left knowing that, as the word “routine” could be used to cover all the work of the port, he had effectively become port commander, and that he had puzzled Addanc. For Gel knew the Imperial spy’s name was an assumed one. The soldier also knew that Addanc was not as important to the Imperium as Gel’s own superior officers, or even the spy himself, believed.

The sun was setting behind Green Bay heads in a blaze of red as Gel waited for Athena in the street outside the sea front restaurant he had chosen for dinner. She did not want him to pick her up as one of her “clients” might see him. Instead, he had agreed to wait outside the restaurant for her as he thought that would be less conspicuous than waiting at the table and having her come in alone. Wherever Athena went she attracted attention. He was sitting on a post that marked the entrance to the restaurant reading some of the officer’s course material on a tablet when a woman standing next to him said, “nice sunset”.

“Um, oh yes, gorgeous,” said Gel, looking up briefly.

“That top drawer sex worker you’ve been dating is late.”

Startled, Gel stood up and examined the woman. She was in her thirties, maybe, with her brown hair in a pixie type cut and fine features, smiling slightly as she returned his stare with interest.

“You seemed to know a lot about me?” he said. “Who are you?”

“I know a lot about Gellibrand Bosworth Baines Plymouth Obsidian,” she said. “The people I work for make it their business to know a lot about a great many matters involving the Imperium.”

“You mean,” he said, looking around and lowering his voice, “you’re with Dr Addanc.”

“He is the visible symbol of the organisation I represent – an organisation that asked me to speak to you – although he doesn’t know anything about this approach. That report you filed when you caught the mining engineer called Jerrold attracted attention at high levels.”

“He was babbling about how the Gagrim would rise,” said Gel. “I sent that report into my own command.”

“They just filed it, but they passed a copy onto us – a routine thing – and my boss’s, boss’s boss became interested.”

“Lot of bosses,” said Gel.

“We – I – just want to talk more about it,” she said handing him a business card.

“Yvonne Winter, media consultant,” read Gel. “The name sounds like you should be in fashion design rather than media.”

“The names are made up. We never give our real names in this business. You’ll find that Addanc is out of Earth legends. Give me a call when you have a moment, and we’ll have a quiet drink – just a drink you understand.”

“I’m a supporter of the Empire but I’m not about to start working for Imperial Intelligence.”

“That’s good as we’re not about to recruit you,” said Yvonne. “We only want to ask questions that your intelligence people should have asked about the report, but didn’t. There’s no disloyalty.”

“Hmmm,” said Gel.

“Think about it,” Yvonne said. “In the meantime, I should get out of here before your girlfriend turns up.”

She left just before Athena arrived in a taxi looking fabulous in a black low-cut dress and sunglasses, which she still wore despite the fact that the sun had just set. She indicated with a wave and smile that Gel should pay for the taxi, which he did.

“Who was the woman I saw you talking to when I came up?” she asked as they went into the restaurant.

“A reporter looking for an interview,” said Gel. “Somehow she recognised me. I told her I wasn’t interested.”

Athena accepted the explanation without comment, but she had seen Gel put the woman’s business card in his coat pocket. Later, when they were back at Gel’s apartment and he was in the bathroom she found the card in his pocket and took a picture with her phone. Later she sent it to a digital address connected to those who managed her establishment. They examined it curiously and started checking details.

On his way back from talking with Captain Edge, in the corridor outside the port admin office, Gel encountered his new subordinate, squad leader Addison, talking to another woman, the medic Alyssa.

“Addi was just telling me how her new officer had thrown one of the port workers through a door,” said Alyssa. “I was wondering what officer would do a thing like that and who rolls up but Sergeant Obsidian as an officer.”

“The guy rushed me,” said Gel, after he had embraced his comrade and friend. “I just helped him on his way.”

“And I suppose the card table they were using went flying by itself,” said Alyssa.

“I was merely encouraging them to end the game,” said Gel. “We’re all good friends.”

“Even the guy you threw out of the break room?”

“Me and Private Karimov are like that,” Gel said, entwining one finger with another. “Captain Edge was also overwhelmed with emotion on seeing me.”

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“In fact, he is my superior officer. I’m deputy port commander and he’s the commander.”

“I bet he was thrilled,” said Alyssa, smiling.

“All choked up,” said Gel. “I was looking for the base IT section.”

“I’m going back that way,” said Alyssa. “I’ll show you.”

“Squad Leader, call me if there is a problem with the unloading. We’ll sort out details later.”

“Of course, sir. Three transports inbound and two lined up for departure. Pardon me, sir, were you in that Easy Spice shoot-out thing?”

“Well, yes, that was me.”

“Then you must have given Private Hartmann his combat medal.”

“Hartmann is at Fort Apache?” Gel asked. Alyssa nodded. “That’s good news. I was hoping for a contact in IT and, yes, I gave him that medal. He got blown up three times in one fight and managed to wound Major Murtagh, the one member of the mercenary outfit we were up against whom we didn’t kill or capture, and kept going. Seemed worth something.”

“Umph!” she said, smiled and left.

“Why the Hartmann question?” Gel asked Alyssa as they walked to IT.

“Hartmann’s sweet on her. She is undecided.”

“From what little I’ve seen of Squad leader Addison he’d be lucky to get her.”

“My feeling, exactly,” said Alyssa.

Hartmann, looking just as much like an owl as ever, was dealing with three screens at once when Gel found him.

“I hope none of these screens involve football pools,” said Gel.

When his company had been almost wiped out on Outpost-3 Hartmann had been sent to him direct from the transport mother ship jail cells as a replacement because there had been no one else to send. The technical private had been in the cells because a co-conspirator in a scheme to rig the football pools had unwisely told a female administrator what they were doing.

“Sergeant! I mean sir, now. I heard you got through that course,” said Hartmann standing up, grinning. “The football pools system has an anti-me alarm on it. I could get around it easily enough, but this time I’m going to steer clear. Sergeant Sampson” – Alyssa’s husband, a large sergeant in Third Regiment and a keen football pools player – “has told me he would like to catch me alone somewhere quiet.”

“Discuss the issue of computer hacking of pools in a remote corner of the docks?” said Gel. “Sound doesn’t carry much in the cold air, I guess.”

“Something like that, sir.”

“I’m sure Alyssa will keep her husband in check. Incidentally, a certain female squad leader in the port admin office inquired about your combat medal I see you have on your desk. She asked if I was the one who gave it to you. I told her what a heroic person you’d been.” Hartmann beamed.

They talked computer games for a while, then Gel, lowering his voice, said. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Sure, sir,” said Hartmann, “as long as it doesn’t involve football pools.”

“Nope, quite legal,” said Gel. “I want you to look at transport movements and cargoes, without telling anyone.”

“This is about these mystery arms shipments?” said Hartmann also keeping his voice low. “They’ve already tried most stuff.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Gel, “but if the arms shipments aren’t coming through here – or maybe Bravo - I don’t see how they could get the hardware from Lighthold. Troll around maybe, just look for things that don’t fit. Concentrate on transports that are carrying equipment rather than food or bulk cargos. Look for those that are, say, taking longer to get here than they should, or anything unusual in loading or unloading times.”

“I’ll try, sir,” said Hartmann. “Like I said, they’ve already looked at shipping patterns most ways they can think of.”

“Whatever you can do for me,” said Gel.

Another officer, a cheerful, sandy-haired man a few years older than Gel, strolled up. He was a bulky man who carried his bulk with ease.

“Is it true you are The Obsidian?” he asked.

“Yes, Captain this is The Obsidian,” said Hartmann. “Lieutenant, this is my boss in the digital section Captain Barastoc.”

“I’ve heard a great deal about you,” said the newcomer shaking Gel’s hand. “Quite a shootout you guys had on Outpost-3.”

“All a total accident, sir,” said Gel. “I didn’t know I was going to be in a shootout until it happened, and I didn’t have a chance to get out of it until it finished.”

“You’re in admin here, now?” said Barastoc. “Why not a combat command?”

Gel shrugged. “They needed an extra body on Ports and it’s a lot warmer in here.”

“That it is,” agreed Barastoc laughing. “But as Hartmann here will tell you, I’ve done some literature as well as IT. My honours thesis was in Russian literature and life is all about being miserable and cold, and suffering. Read Russian literature, Lieutenant and then you’ll feel at home.”

“Not to my taste, sir,” said Gel, “but I’ll try to remember that.”

Private Karimov found Staff Sergeant Bradley electronically checking containers with a tablet in one of the distant storage areas.

“That new officer could mess up our deal,” he said.

“I was the real port commander until he turned up,” said Bradley. “The lieutenant is also a fighter. He was the lead in that Easy Spice shoot-out thing.”

“He was? How come we got him then,” said Karimov. “Why not a combat command? No one knows about our arrangement, do they?”

“Nothing’s been said. No questions asked.”

Karimov lightly kicked the side of a container, while he thought.

“Do we shut down for a while, or what?”

“The people we deal with on Lighthold are more dangerous than a dozen Lieutenant Obsidians,” Bradly said. “We just have to be more careful, that’s all. Each shipment is big bucks for us. Maybe we can do something about our new boss or maybe just wait and see. I gotta think.”

“Think real hard, Staff Sergeant,” said Karimov. “Jail doesn’t agree with me.”

“It doesn’t agree with a lot of people,” said Bradley.

The sun had set on the wind swept piles of snow outside the Fort Apache loading dock when Gel looked out, listening for the occasional crack of an AR-30 as Salts faced off with the insurgents known as Hoodies, because they always wore hoods tied so that very little of their face was visible. A good idea in Dimarch’s climate. The job of the Salts, at least around Fort Apache, was to keep the Hoodies away from the refugee camp and base which housed the remnants of the population of Jasper, a city just to the North that had been ruined in the fighting. The Hoodies wanted to take the base over and incorporate the inhabitants into their new republic. They had proved uninterested in any compromises such as just waiting until everyone had been evacuated and then taking the place over. The refugees, for their part, had proved reluctant to leave their homes forever, even if the planet’s ice age had become unusually severe. Many had taken the Lighthold government’s offer of relocation to Outpost-3, newly incorporated into the imperium, where at least it was warmer. But many had not, and the government was reluctant to force them to leave.

The situation was the same in Fort Bravo, which was just outside the ruined, much larger city of Crown, the planet’s capital in better times. While everyone debated what to do, and argued about the right of self-determination, Salts shivered on the perimeters of both forts and exchanged shots with Hoodies who had proved to be fanatical. Why were they fanatical? Why had this insurgency become so extreme with the Hoodies killing and raping those they caught? No one knew. All the Salts knew was that they were up against an opponent who fought to the last and considered prisoners a useless distraction.

Gel had been spot checking a couple of crates on the far side of the dock because they had been placed in a different position, away from the other crates. He hadn’t expected to find anything and didn’t but there was no harm in being seen checking cargos.

After examining the crates he had walked to the edge of the dock to look out, and he had remembered the warm day when he had lunch with his mother.

“Wish you were on the perimeter sir,” said a voice beside him. It was squad leader Addison who also happened to be in the neighbourhood.

“Not really, squad leader,” said Gel. “It's cold out there. Just thinking of family stuff and warm days.”

“The girl you left behind, sir?”

Gel looked sharply at his subordinate. “Has Alyssa been complaining again that I’m not telling her everything about my personal life?”

That bright smile again. “She has mentioned that you haven’t told her the whole story, sir.”

“Alyssa is a good friend, but I’ll reveal that side of things when I’m good and ready. She can always ask Squad Leader Theo Turgenev, whom she knows, if she wants to find out more.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Gel was on a break from his officer training course when he got a call from the base hospital about then Private Turgenev. He was sufficiently recovered from the bullet in the lung he had taken at the Easy Spice shoot-out to be released if someone could pick him up from the hospital, and he had been unable to nominate anybody. As the private’s last listed commander, the admin staff called Gel who went to the hospital. The former hit man would take the Assault Infantry’s squad leader course but was due a few weeks sick leave first.

“No family at all?” he asked Theo.

“Mum came to see me a week ago, but she lives way down south, and I can’t stay with her. She’s got a partner and another kid.”

“You have a half-sibling?”

Theo shrugged. “Half brother, but mum doesn’t want me anywhere near him. Bad influence, she says. Gave her grief growing up with police always coming to the house. She doesn’t want that happening again.”

“You can live with me for a while,” said Gel. “A while, mind. I’ve got a place in the warehouse district with a couple of spare rooms but the guys that tried to frame me for murder I told you about have been calling. I could do with an extra body hanging around to scare off undesirables.”

Theo was amused. “Crime lords in Five Ways” (Green City’s slum area), “need guards on their place, man. Not rich kids in the warehouse district. How much is this gunna cost?”

“Just pitch in if there’s a problem and that’s fine. Food is split. The cooking I do is from packets.”

Theo was considerably impressed by Gel’s place, or “traps” in the local slang.

“You got an AI to handle security,” he said, “a cleaning unit and … a lava lamp, man?”

“Friend of mine gave it to me. You’ll probably meet her later. I didn’t think much of it at first, but I find it restful to watch the material in there change.”

Gel had been a little puzzled by Athena/Heather’s gift of a lava lamp but in return, he presented her with a statue of the Roman god Athena he had found in an antique shop. She had put the heavy statue on her living room sideboard.

“Whatever, man,” said Theo, “you also have a dealer’s door.”

This was the new, solid door that Gel had installed in case Dwight and Leo came calling again. He had also installed more cameras, improved security at the front entrance, and boosted the AI to the top of the line.

“Dealer’s door?”

“Sure, you see them in the real bad houses in Five Ways. Drugs and money are exchanged through the letter slot, but raids by other criminals are always a problem. The door has to be solid enough so they can’t knock it down easily.”

“I had that slot welded shut. I thought they were surprised when I asked them to do it.”

Theo laughed outright. “You’d be the cleanest-cut dealer they’d ever seen. Doors like that make a hit man’s job real hard.”

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