Chapter 1

"You want to join the Navy?" asked the Recruiting Officer rather incredulously of the youth standing before his desk in the Navy Recruiting Office in the Yards at Gorgipest.

"Yeh. I wan join t' Navy. I tol' this man that" and the youth pointed his thumb at the Senior Warrant Officer standing beside him, "tol' him me reference, too."

"By your leave, Sir? Morg, would you mind taking a seat out in the outer office so I can tell this Officer your story?"

"Why? I tol' you and you rung Sarnt Oscar and he tol you — why I have to wait? You want me or you don't."

"Not that easy, Son" The SWO had a coming together of neurones "Sarnt Oscar would want you to wait so I can tell this Officer what Sarnt Oscar 'tol', ah, told me."

"Yeh" and the youth left the office accompanied by the SWO who detailed a Leading Spacer to take the young man down to the canteen for a meal on the SWO's chit.

The SWO returned to collapse into a seat to the side of the Officer's desk,

"Boss, the kid is a mathematical genius; never been to school but his hand writing is copper plate and fast. I near wet meself when I sat him down for the aptitude tests. He picks up the stylus in that shovel of his and then starts delicately writing out the dictation test — perfectly, I might add. Gave him the maths test and he finished almost before I had handed him the answer chip. Yes, he does own a PDA — and you should see it, does everything — but it was in my pocket and powered down and no ear bud. I commed "Sarnt Oscar" and it is Detective Chief Superintendent Sir William Oscar at the Police Academy. Oscar says he has known the kid for ten years and can vouch for him — says it's a long story but suggests that we do everything for the kid and we wont be sorry; but we muck him about and we'll find ourselves doing parking duties on the asteroid. And I don't think he was trying to be humorous."

Captain Strathlawn fixed his companion with a sceptical gaze,

"Why am I smelling something malodorous? What aren't you telling me? Those rags he's wearing came straight from the junk shop but those boots didn't."

"Boots? I didn't particularly notice them, Boss. What's so special about them apart from being huge."

"And that rope holding up his trews?"

"Didn't pay much attention to it; common practice in the yards, Boss; poke your head out the door and you'll see half the workforce do that — men and women — don't need a buckle."

"Those boots are custom made by Finnistiere — you can't mistake the stitching as it is hand worked and waxed. The 'belt' is high tensile optical cable in a woven fibre sheath — comes in very handy where optical beam alarms need to be bypassed. I have no doubt Master 'Morg' is well known to the constabulary."

"Ah ... that's the other thing, Boss; Sir William wants a quiet word with you. Says he'll have a table at "Harriers" for eighteen hours today; I accepted on your behalf ... after I checked he'd be paying."

"Thank you for that, Warrant. When 'Morg' returns book him for the medical and I'd not be surprised to hear that he is on the proscribed lists."

"Proscribed list? What proscribed list? I've never heard of one and I've been in Andrew for nigh on forty five years with three tours in recruiting. You are the first person I've ever heard mention anything about one."

"Not surprised you don't know about them. There has not been a case involving the lists in the past couple of centuries. When Old Earth was recovering from the wars which started the exodus to the stars, the authorities there compiled a list of persons prohibited from emigrating — mostly genetic super-soldiers and the like and some other genetic aberrants. They didn't want the galaxy populated with killing machines which would cause trouble for Sol at a later date. But our medicals have kept current with the lists and so run his genetic profiles across them as part of the screening; come to think on it, the chancre mechanics probably don't know the proscriptions are on their files."

"Chancre mechanic?"

"Old Earth term for medical practitioners — got recycled with that syphilis epidemic in the new territories about a century ago."

The SWO sort of shook his head and left.

About an hour later he was back dragging his Leading Spacer with him,

"Tell the Boss what you told me."

"That boy, man- the one with the yellow eyes- took him to the canteen" the LS squirmed, "he took one look at it and took me across the gates to a 'caf' and ordered for us — said he'd pay for some "decent food". It was a bit high class for me but he was paying so I went along with him. The waiter — an honest to Deity waiter with a humungous sheet wound around his stomach — lays out this array of eating irons on a mat and 'yellow eyes' uses them as if he'd been born to it — real delicate he is. Then after he finishes he tells the cook that 'mint' doesn't work as well as 'basil', pays the chitty and we come back here and the SWO books him for his medical and off he goes. He's a strange lad, that one, Sir."

"Curiouser and curiouser" remarked Strathlawn "I can't wait to hear Oscar's comments." The captain waved his troops out and returned to the work's analysis which was his secondary duty in this posting; his first was yard security but that was known only to a select few who were not the highest ranking on the base either.

Captain Strathlawn had decided to walk the two miles to "Harriers" as the day was balmy and the winds light. The club stood at the perimeter of the area known locally as "The Stews" as it abutted onto the river. In front of it was a park and gardens which rumour said was kept by the "Harriers" in top condition so as to attract the ladies to the club's overt functions of excellent wining and dining. Its covert function was a very discreet gentlemen's club offering very costly services which those who enjoyed them usually did not speak of — they just slyly smiled. The building was solid three storied stone which dated from the earliest days of the city and had initially been a dirtside warehouse for the orbital yards. Legends were still told of bonded cargos disappearing from inside locked and sealed compartments and the story went that it was Customs and Excise which eventually shut it down as they got annoyed at the continuing loss of revenue.

Strathlawn walked across the park and noted with marked professional interest the surveillance very discretely placed to cover the access to "Harriers". He walked up the broad steps which were a later addition to allow pedestrian access to what had been a shuttle loading bay but which now sported an under spoken set of wide double doors of polished oak. A door swung inwards as his foot reached the top step,

"Good even, Captain," greeted the formally attired maidservant, "may I take your hat? Sir William is in the Reading Room. George will show you the way."

It took his years of training and experience in keeping his face free of expression to prevent his almost shock at seeing "George".

"George" was Morg in an evening suit complete with kerchief in his sleeve. It fitted him perfectly and his low quarter shoes almost blindingly reflected the discreet lighting of the entrance hall.

"Your second job?"

"My first one, Captain. My name is George Windsor and my family own this establishment."

The accent was pure Newsfax perfect.

'George' opened the doorway, let Strathlawn enter and then followed to lead him to a window table. The seated man rose with his right hand outstretched in greeting revealing a slender short build,

"Captain Strathlawn, good even, I am Bill Oscar."

"Call me Tee Jay, Bill" and shook the proffered hand. The men seated themselves and George returned with a decanter, two glasses and a tumbler of ice cubes. They built themselves a tipple and tasted it appreciatively.

"The story starts nearly eleven years ago now. I was to be commissioned and was posted to do my two years in uniform here before returning to plain clothes work in the local department as Inspector.

Having nothing to do, I reported in early to the Chief Constable who very kindly noted that my commissioning was dated from a month's time when I was rostered to return to duty and so I was still a Sergeant and a quite junior one at that. The CC introduced me to the Senior Sergeant in Personnel who mournfully informed me that he was short a patrol sergeant on the night watch in the Stews. Now even I had heard about the Stews up in Settlement so I knew I was in for an interesting time. We still don't beat through the Stews at night even now; we just patrol the outskirts on foot and when there is trouble, the heavies are sent for and they go in boots and all.

I actually had an uneventful time. It was in the last week of my month and I was proceeding northward along Dodge Street not two hundred metres from here and I walked into what I at first thought was a fire hydrant which somehow had shifted to the middle of the roadway. It was Morg - I hadn't seen him until I walked into him and that if I say so myself takes some doing. He looked up at me with those yellow eyes lit up by a distant street lamp — disconcerting I'll tell you at three in the morning. He tugs at my sleeve pulling me towards Dancer just saying "Me mam — help" over and over. I was not too happy about the situation but as we got to the start of Dancer, I heard his mother moaning. On steps about twenty metres down, she was in labour but an arm had come out and the babe was a transverse lie — once upon a time, I'd have said crossways but Teddy Nolan explained it..."

"Lord Nolan? Obstetrician to the Queen?" interrupted TJ.

"That's the man ... I call emergency for transport to hospital and get told that the vehicle is forbidden to move off Dodge without the 'heavies' as escort so I tell them I'll carry her out to Dodge. I must say they were quick about it as I'd barely reached Dodge when the ground shuttle pulled up — seems one is kept on standby locally — and I loaded her in. As I step back Morg and his three 'sisses' clamber in to the protests of the bearer. Morg explains "Me mam un me sisses". Bearer tries to push them out until Morg grips his hand and Bearer tells driver to get to 'spital fast and coms ahead. All sorts of reactions — seems Julie is known because of her kids. Been there for the girls' childbirth, Morg was born out on Morgan Street. She has them, passes the afterbirth, gets stitched if she needs it and then disappears back into the Stews.

This time its different. Teddy was visiting friends and was walking out. He heard Julie moan and walked back and shoved his head through "Thought I recognised that moan" and calls for gown and gloves. Scrubs up, pulls on gloves and gown and then dives down to shove his hand up — I step out at that point and get lectured by Sister Clare who is proceeding to tell me my fortune for leaving Julie so long in that state when I'm saved by Dell's scream of protest at being born. Teddy comes out expecting to depart in a haze of glory to get told by Sister Clare "You delivered her you clean her and then you do the paper work." I put my head in. Dell is sucking on teat and her siblings are sitting on the floor doin' embroidery of all things — it was how they lived; beautiful work.

I return to t' station and write up the report. There's great mirth at the station house when I put it in. Our lot had been trying to run the family down for years; the CC has me in and is serving me a tremendous rocket when I remind him that I am a new boy, I reported early and was put straight into the Stews without any briefing whatsoever so if the matter goes to a hearing which I was contemplating, I wouldn't be the one getting his arse kicked.

Teddy later told me, Julie stayed in for a couple of days; she was knackered. It gave him the chance to get them all registered and inoculated and immunised whatever. Some years later I heard Teddy has a town house here and he put the Windsors into it as caretakers. Break ins stopped overnight, he says. He arranged tutoring to polish up the edges.

Seems Morg ... ah ... found a PDA with the name George Windsor inscribed and that is the name under which they are registered. Morg taught himself and then his sibs to read and write with help from Julie.

To cut a long story short, Morg would appear out of the darkness periodically and give me a tip. They were never wrong. I made my reputation and am now living off it. I'm a good copper but Morg did a lot of the hard work for me. He is solid and I can honestly vouch for him. I've not heard that he has harmed anyone; the ones he tipped me about were ones who were threatening his family or had gone over the pale even by Stews' standards.

He wants to join the Navy. He wants to travel. His family is secure so he feels he can go; he has protected them for all his growing life and Julie says it is time for him to leave the nest. There are a lot of secrets in the family but no one knows and I doubt anyone will.

Time to eat and I can use another. Let's bring the bottle with us."

...

There was of course much more to the story than was known to DCS Oscar.

Julie, the mother, as a child, had found herself in the Stews without any idea of who she was or where she had come from but having inside her brain an encyclopaedia of certain information which would surface in response to her thoughts — she had actually to be thinking of action and the ways and means would appear; frustratingly, she could not raise the information in the abstract. Without adult protection, her golden hair and eyes attracted a lot of the sort of attention she did not want but her survival instincts were strong. She was able to run wild in the burrows of the Stews as the lurkers soon realised that persons who laid hands on the ill kempt and scrawny urchin without her permission had an unfortunate habit of dying horrendously agonisingly shortly after the laying on of hands; Julie, who remembered her name, never attacked any one, just defended herself and no one after the first event ever invaded her lair. The term "witch" was often used, not to her face and certainly not to the authorities — she was one of theirs — a witch and a thief indeed but how else did one live in the Stews.