He Who Dares: Book Three Read online

  “That’s better. If that’s how Mike looks when he’s one hundred and fifty years old, I won’t complain, but you have to explain why you look so happy this morning?”

  “Who me? Um… Well. I did happen to meet a rather nice man yesterday, and we hit it off, so I invited him to stay the night, seeing that he didn’t have a place to lay his poor head.” Anne went over and gave her a hug and a kiss.

  “Good for you. What was his name, if you want to tell me that is.”

  “Oh I don’t mind. I know the secret is safe with you Annie. His name is Jenks, Jenks Silverman and he part owner of a pub hereabouts names the Crown and Anchor.”

  “I see. And are you going to stay in touch with this nice Mr. Silverman?” Anne smiled, knowing full well who Mr. Silverman was.

  “Well, he said he would,” she sighed, “but you know men, promise a girl anything just to have their way with her, then vanish, never to be heard from again.” She looked a little mournful.

  “Oh, I think in this case you’ll be seeing more of him, I’m sure,” Anne gave her another hug and continued getting dressed for breakfast.

  “One of these days, you will have to get him to marry.” Mary muttered.

  “I wish, but not right now. With him being a commoner, and from Avalon, the government would have a fit.” Mary sighed and nodded, understanding the problems many royals faced when it came to the question of marriage. “If it was peacetime, and a different prime minister we might have a chance with the government, but as it stands now, not a chance.” Mary gave her a sympathetic hug.

  “We’ll just have to wait for the right moment, my Annie.” Anne hugged her in return.

  “I’d better get down to breakfast before they start sending out search parties.”

  As it turned out, there were very few people at the table, Anne, Mike, Seaford, Ross, and Taffy. They chatted about this and that until Mike asked where his majesty was.

  “Oh, he’s off around town doing a meet and greet at some function or other. He’s determined to counter all that garbage the red-nosed fat bastard’s been spreading,” she grumbled.

  “It’s a little harder now that his private secretary has left.”

  “Who, John Cromwell? Why on earth would he leave. I thought…” Mike stopped seeing the looks around the table.

  “Um… it’s a bit embarrassing really,” Seaford scratched his neck, “it turns out the man was a bit of a lush, if you know what I mean. They found him one morning, sloshed to the gill at the bottom of the steps to the wine cellar. The King was very upset. Not only had he been secretly drinking the King’s best wine for a long time, he broke two bottles of his private stock of Napoleon brandy.”

  “Deplorable, I must say,” Taffy muttered, “he could have found a cheaper brandy to break. The King was most upset, and discharged him on the spot.”

  “To cover up his disgraceful behavior, the palace announced that he was dead after a fall down the cellar steps. Gave him a short funeral, and that was that.”

  “That is a surprise. I rather liked him from the few times we met. Where is he now, really?”

  “No one seems to know. Seaford and Taffy did try to find him to make sure he kept his mouth shut about anything connected with the royal family, but they couldn’t find hide nor hair of him.”

  After all, due ceremony, Mike/Max departed and returned to the Guild Hall, and none of the ever vigilant watchers saw two nondescript men leave the Guild Hall several hours later by another exit. Had they done so and followed, they would have been led to the Waterloo Maglev Station and seen them leave on a train to Devonport. Sometime later, two differently dressed men alighted from the Waterloo to Devonport train and took a robo-cab to the entrance of the dockyard. Even as careful as they were, neither spotted the tall man shadowing them.

  “What the hell!” The taller of the two exclaimed, seeing the padlocked gates and a pall of silence over the whole shipyard.

  “Struth! What happened here!” Jenks muttered.

  “You’ve got me.” As they approached the gate, a surly looking security guard came out of a newly constructed shed inside.

  “What do you two lay-a-bouts want? The yards are closed.” Before Mike could say anything, Jenks took a step closer.

  “Watch your mouth mate. We are two hard working blokes down from London looking for work is all.”

  “Well, you won’t find any here, the place is closed down, so bugger off.”

  Mike pulled Jenks away before he could say anything else. “Keep it down, Jenks.”

  “Oh… right, Skipper. I forgot. Where to now?”

  “There a pub downtown where we might get some information. Let’s go.” With that, they started walking to the robo-cab rank down the road.

  “Welcome to Devonport robo-cab Company. Where would you like to go?”

  “68 Albert Road, Plymouth,” Mike requested as he slipped his credit stick in the slot. The moment the cab’s computer verified the stick, it started to roll down the street. It only took a few minutes, but finding the dockyard closed gave him a sense of urgency. As they exited the cab, Jenks looked up and stopped in mid step.

  “You have to be kidding me!” he laughed, looking up at the sign. The Pheasant Pluckers Arms. “Lord love a duck… I’ve seen a few pubs with odd names in London, but nothing like that,” he chuckled.

  Mike smiled and pushed the door open. “Wait until you get inside.”

  Jenks gave him an odd looked and followed him in. At this time of day, the place only had a few patrons so it was easy to find a place at the bar. As they did, the barman walk over.

  “What will it be, gents?” He asked.

  “Two pints of Watney’s Red Barrel, please,” Mike said, ordering for both of them. He looked at the sign at the back of the bar. The barman noticed.

  “If you can say that twice without mucking it up, the first drink in on the house.”

  “Want to have a go, Jenks?”

  “Not ruddy likely, Skipper. I couldn’t say that on my best day. You have a go.”

  “All right.” Mike took a mouthful of beer to wet his whistle and took a deep breath. “How many feathers can a pheasant pucker pluck if a pheasant pucker could pluck feathers. If a peasant fucker could fuck feathers… Oh damn,” he laughed, unable to finish the rest of the rhythm.

  “Good try. Skipper, but no cigar.”

  “That’s okay, sir. A few of the locals can do it, but then again, they’ve had a lot of practice. So, what else can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to locate some old friends of mine. Cynthia Campbell and Able Marsh.” The barman gave them a suspicious look as he wiped down the bar in front of him.

  “If they are friend’s of your, you should know where to find them.”

  “The last time I was in port I had to leave suddenly and didn’t have time to get their comm numbers.”

  “I see. Tell you what, give me your name and I’ll call a few people and see if I can find them. What’s your comm number?”

  “Um… I don’t have one at the moment. But if you can locate them, tell them I have a complaint about hull number 696, they’ll know what that means.” The barman nodded and walked away.

  Finding and empty table, they sat down and waited, and it wasn’t long before a tall, nondescript man entered the pub and walked to the bar. He ordered a drink, and sipping his beer, he looked slowly around the pub. Satisfied, he walked over and sat down at their table. Jenks was on immediate alert, his hand slipping inside his overcoat.

  “Captain Bear?” He asked. Mike stiffened, but didn’t show any outward sign he was surprised. There were only so many people who knew him by that name, or that he was even here.

  “I could be. Who are you, and what do you want with Captain Bear?” In answer, the man carefully reached into the top pocket of his worn jacket, pulled out a card, and offered it to Mike, all the while keeping one eye on Jenks.

  Mike took the card and examined it, getting his second surprise. It was a plain
white card with a small, embossed gold logo of a running greyhound. Underneath was the name Mr. John. C. R. Wellesley, and beneath that the title of Owner/Manager of Imperial Import and Export Company. For a moment, Mike didn’t know what to think. There was something odd here, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.

  “So what can I do for you… Mr. Wellesley?” He asked, looking up into a pair of intense green eyes. He looked down at the card again as Mr. Wellesley reached over and tapped the little gold greyhound.

  “I recently received a letter by special messenger that you were looking for work.” He said in a soft voice. It took the combination of the little greyhound and the emphasis on the word messenger then Mike understood. The name also made sense as well. The logo was that of the King’s Messenger service, and the odd name translated to John Cromwell, the King’s dead, ex-private secretary, or was he?

  “Yes, Mr. Wellesley, I could be in need of work shortly, once I get back to my ship, that is. But what sort of work would it be?”

  “I have three cargo ships heading out towards the Rift, and what with all the pirate activity going on out there right now, I think I need an escort, an armed escort.” Mike suppressed a smile. There wasn’t any pirate activity that he knew of, just ships diverting to Christchurch and appearing to vanish, so there had to be something else behind John Cromwell’s request.

  “Yes, I can see where you’d want to protect your cargo, valuable is it?” he asked casually.

  “Not really, just important medicine and medical equipment for a colony world of Farnham’s Freehold.”

  Someone must have done their homework to use the name of a fictitious colony from a training exercise at the academy, Mike thought, “I’m sure we can work something out to our mutual benefit, Mr. Well…”

  Just then the front door opened and in stepped Able Marsh. It only took a moment for him to talk to the barman who pointed to Mike. Able walked over with a suspicious look on his face, but the moment he got close and saw who it was he broke out into a smile and held his hand out.

  “Bloody hell. It’s good to see you again, sir.” He greeted them.

  “I’ll be leaving, Captain. If you’ll contact me at this comm number when you are ready.” Wellesley scribbled a number on the back of the card, nodded to everyone and left.

  “Take a seat Mr. Marsh.”

  “It’s Able to my friends.” Able replied, looking at the departing figure of John Cromwell.

  “Okay, Able. So what happened at the yard?” The barman came over with a pint of ale for Able. Able thanked him and waited until he was out of earshot.

  “Some would say it was your fault, but I won’t. After you left, all sorts of odd people turned up asking a lot of questions. No one said anything, but shortly after that, we was told that they, the government that is, was shutting down the yard and moving all repairs to the orbiting dockyards. Budget cuts is what they claimed.” He grouched, taking a deep drink of his beer.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I never suspected they’d do something like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Nothing you could have done. So why are you here, and what this I hear about a problem with hull number 696?”

  “Nothing, she’s perfect. I just thought I’d use it to get your attention.”

  “Well, you have it. And?”

  Mike looked around the pub, but there wasn’t anyone nearby to overhear what he was saying. Even so, he kept his voice low. “I take it you know about the state of affairs, and the possible Sirrien invasion?”

  “Yes, we heard the whispers, but didn’t pay too much attention to it, why?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you, if that happens, you and your families will be in grave danger.”

  Able sat up and regarded him carefully. “It’s about the bloody ship, isn’t it?”

  “Afraid so. I can’t tell you much, but once she goes into action, a lot of people will want to know where she was built. Eventually they are going to come down here and um… talk to you.”

  “You mean those Sirrien secret police I hear tell about.”

  “Yes.”

  At that point, Able pushed his beer away, looking worried. “So, you came down to warn us?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. I wanted to ask if any, or all, of you would like to go to work somewhere else, somewhere safe.”

  “And where would this safe place be where those bastards can’t get to us?”

  “Avalon.”

  “What! You’re kidding, right?” Able looked at him in surprise.

  “Not in the least. It’s getting you all out of here that has me worried.”

  “How do you mean, that is if I can round up everyone and get them to agree?”

  “It’s getting you off world without anyone being the wiser.”

  “You have a point there.”

  “First, you have to get all the yard dogs, their families, and anyone else who worked on my ship to agree. It will mean you all have to leave Earth, and probably never return.”

  “Blimey! That’s a lot to ask,” Able muttered, rubbing his chin.

  “I know, but considering the alternative…”

  Able nodded, “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “I can tell you that if you decide to go, there will be housing, work if you want it, and you’ll be well looked after. I promise.”

  “That’s a lot to promise, gov’ner.”

  “Not if your great, great grandfather, and grandfather owned and ran the whole damn planet.” Jenks muttered.

  “Struth… wait, I thought some bloke by the name of Tregallion owns it? Just saw him on the news”

  Jenks chuckled hearing that and pointed a thumb at Mike. “That’s him,” he muttered. Able didn’t look convinced. “If you think that’s hard to swallow, we had breakfast with the Princess Royal this morning.”

  “Now I know you’re pulling my plonker,” Able snorted.

  Jenks pulled a battered old porta-comp out of his pocket and switched it on. “You think?” he said, tapping the screen before sliding it across the table.

  Able flipped through the photos and whistled softly.

  “Jenks! Did your mother tell you it was rude to take pictures of people without telling them?”

  “Yeah, she did, but who was going to believe me if I didn’t?”

  Mike grabbed the porta-comp and took a look, shaking his head as he flipped through the photos. Sure enough, it showed him and the Princess Royal sitting side-by-side, very cozy, having a meal.

  “I’ll need to get hold of Cynthia and talk to her,” was all he said after seeing the photos. “Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Give me your comm number and I’ll contact you, how’s that.”

  “Sounds about right. Give me a day or two before you call. I’ll let you know what I’ve found out.” They only spoke for a little while longer before Able took off to find Cynthia.

  “Well, that’s one down, only a million to go.”

  “A million what, Skipper?”

  “Problems, my old son, problems.”

  It was worse than Mike ever imagined. He and Jenks went from meeting to meeting as the yard workers gathered in small groups so as not to attract attention. In some cases, the meeting degenerated into a shouting match and one time almost a fistfight. Mike had insisted that all meetings include their wives, and that started another round of argument from some of the men who were engaged, about to be married, or going steady with a girl. It took a while and a lot of arguing to get them to understand the importance of secrecy. In the end under the pretense of a reunion dance they got everyone together at the same time. Even that was a headache, as the first hall they wanted to rent wasn’t big enough for everyone. In the end Mike rented the local dance hall. Able Marsh stationed a few men who’d already voted to go outside as a security screen and after a round of drinks, burgers, and chips, the meeting got underway. It was no easy sell with too many people sitting on the fence or waffling back and forth betwee
n going and not going. In the end, Cynthia stood up and walked to the podium.

  “All right you lot. Shut up and listen.”

  Jenks had to admit; she did have a commanding voice and would probably have made a great Marine Corps drill instructor.

  “Leftenant Grey could have taken off and said to hell with it. Why should he care what happens to a bunch of knuckle dragging yard dogs,” that got a laugh, “but he didn’t. He came here, not only to warn us of a potential threat to the lives our families, but to offer us an opportunity to get back to work at something we like doing.”

  “Yeah, but how do we know this place is any safer than here.” It was a good point, and Cynthia looked at Mike.

  “All of you have heard stories about Avalon,” Mike stepped forward and looked around the group. “That where I’m from in case you were wondering. Most of what you have heard or read about Avalon in the newsfeeds is only half-true. Are we genetic supermen hell bent on ruling the galaxy?” He had their attention now.

  “The governing council is comprised of people like you who are selected by lottery. Some have to be dragged to the council meeting by the proctors.” That brought a round of laughter. “We are a freewheeling lot on Avalon, and as long as you don’t endanger anyone else’s life without their express consent, you can pretty much do whatever you want.”

  “You make it sound like a paradise, but what happens if the Sirriens invade Avalon.”

  “For a start everyone on Avalon over the age of eighteen is required by law to be armed at all times. Under eighteens are required to carry non-lethal weapons. For obvious reasons, I can’t tell you much about what other defenses we have, but trust me on this. Any Sirrien troops who landed on Avalon would be dead in less than twelve hours, no matter how many of them there were, or what they were wearing as armor. Also,” he held his hand up to quiet them down, “the weather is much nicer than here,” he added before standing back and letting Cynthia take over again.

  “So, people. It's time to make up your minds. If you stay, you’d better go some place where no one knows you, and hope that the Sirrien secret police don’t find you. For those that want to go, put your hands up.” It wasn’t unanimous and several people elected to stay, despite the risk.