The outdoor café Pari led them to was nestled next to an old warehouse. One side was the cool concrete exterior of the warehouse, painted bright white. Patrons had taken to drawing on it while they waited for service, and the graffiti was entertaining if a bit distracting. The other three sides were made of homemade adobe walls built waist high, giving the illusion of a separate space away from the dusty street but letting every available breeze come through. A large canvas roof spread across the courtyard collected sun and rain for the café’s use; it was easily rolled up when one of the battering storms whirled through.
“Is Nancy in today?” asked Doe, settling into one of the cheap folding chairs clustered around a card table. Their server, a young woman dressed in a simple grey sleeveless tunic over denim shorts smiled shyly and shook her head, “No, friend, she’s clerking Meeting for Sufferings this week. I can tell her she was asked after if you like?”
“Please do, thank you! Tell her John Doe sends his warmest regards.”
The server nodded and turned to the rest of the group, “Are you ready to order?”
Pari looked once more at her menu, “I’ll have the doner kebab and the mint tea.”
Radicand hesitated, glancing at the signage of the café—“Lion and Lamb” didn’t necessarily mean the place was Christian, but she couldn’t assume, “Are the kebabs halal?”
The young woman nodded, “Yes, we keep kosher and halal. We have a really nice hummus and tomato platter if you’d be more comfortable? We grow them up on the warehouse roof, so they’re very fresh.”
Radicand’s stomach grumbled, “Could I have a kebab and the hummus plate, please, with some pita bread and a large carafe of strong coffee?”
Doe chuckled, “Make that two, if you have milk and sugar for the coffee.”
Toby’s serious face trembled as he said, “Three,” and glanced at Radicand out of the corner of his black eye. She was beginning to regret admitting he was handsome within his earshot. She missed the aether, where she had time to edit messages before she sent them. People were so complex, and the messages they sent were in a code that had no handbook.
The server nodded and left them sitting in awkward silence. Pari seemed deeply absorbed in the wall and the decorative acts of rebellion left upon it. Radicand tapped her thigh and wondered if there was time to pull out her goggles and access the files that Brian had uploaded that morning, true to his word, with his flight management codes highlighted and indexed. Tweaking flight plans based on current and projected weather patterns could be quite engaging, she was sure, if she just had the right attitude. Or was it altitude?
Doe sighed happily and patted his stomach, “Think Captain Teasel will be coming here for lunch, too?”
Pari pulled herself away from her study with exaggerated effort, “I expect so. She was going to Meeting for Worship this morning, and if there’s Meeting for Sufferings she might want to report our recent donation to the city’s work crews.”
“You don’t feel guilty about that? I hear Miami’s work gangs are particularly hard on prisoners. They revoke all your rights until you’ve paid off your bail, and it’s pretty high for piracy.” Radicand shifted awkwardly in her seat; this did not seem like a proper conversation to have before lunch. Toby was now studying the walls, and Pari frowned a little.
“Yes, I knew that the prison system here was harsh,” said the admiral, “But so did those pirates. They have free will and the ability to assess risks. Attacking our flock was worth the risk to them. Their mistake.”
Doe didn’t seem finished, “Not everyone has choices that simple to make.”
Pari growled, “And that’s why I regularly donate to Meeting for Sufferings, plague takes you. Is that what you wanted me to admit out loud? …Beast.”
Radicand watched their interplay with a little confusion and great interest, but Doe did seem to have satisfied himself with her last admission of mercy, and as the food arrived conversation paused while they savored the first bites of the meal. The lamb was delicately seasoned and juicy. Radicand tried not to lick her fingers until she saw the rest of the group—even Toby—doing so with gusto.
Doe had his back to the wall, so he was the first to spot and call over Captain Teasel, “We were just speaking about you! Care to share a meal with us?”
“Thank you, no, I’ll have lunch later. I just popped out of the meeting to let you know they have plenty of room in the dormitories tonight. If you or the other crews don’t find accommodation elsewhere that suits you, you’re welcome to spend it with us.”
Pari thanked her, and Captain Teasel wafted back into the warehouse. “So she’s associated with this…restaurant?” asked Radicand, feeling left out.
“Oh, bless, no one’s explained?” asked Doe, eyeing Pari with disfavor. “The Lion and Lamb is a café the local Quakers run—or ‘Members of the Religious Society of the Friends of Truth’ when they’re feeling fancy. Cheap high quality food is a rarity in these parts—they’re religious, but they don’t make you believe what they believe to eat at their table. Same with the hostel they run: cheap, clean, pleasant rooms. Don’t have to attend Meeting for Worship if you’re not inclined. I like the meetings, though. They’re quiet. Hard to find quiet, sometimes.”
Radicand blinked, trying to imagine Doe sitting quietly and not cracking jokes or heads. It was a little shocking. “And Captain Teasel is a …Quaker?”
Pari nodded, “Yes, though an imperfect one, as she’s the first to say. She makes new crew members train with Hansuke and Josie on the Mostly Harmless, which not all of her pacifist friends agree with. But she once told me that unless you know how to kill someone, refusing to injure others is a choice that comes from a place of ignorance. But choosing non-violence becomes a divine act when you know three ways to remove an attacker’s ability to procreate.” Pari grinned in spite of herself, “And Captain Teasel is very committed to choice.”
Doe snorted and went inside to pay the bill. Radicand stretched, relaxing under the gentle persuasion of a full belly and the sultry weather. Toby leaned towards Pari. They argued whether it was more important for the admiral to personally oversee loading the ship’s supplies, or go straight to Mook Betterly and get the contracts for the next visit nailed down before word of the pirate attack warped the energy markets out of all reason.
“I’m not happy about this,” muttered Toby.
“When you are happy about something, promise me you’ll let me know,” teased Pari.
Radicand suddenly jerked to attention mid-yawn. Her wrist burned where her cuff was squeezing her and giving her tiny electric shocks, like ants with cattle prods. That meant there was a near and present danger that her news scanning program was on alert over. Goggles down and loaded, she pounced on the streaming real time vid and sucked in her breath.
“Blood cult three blocks north, moving fast this way,” she bit out. Radicand would have been gratified with the swiftness of the others’ response if the situation hadn’t been so dire. Blood cults came in a variety of flavors, but they all had a similar goal: kill other people, lots of them, for no apparent reason.
Pari jumped onto their table, making a loudspeaker with her hands, “Blood cult, incoming! From the north!” The startled diners paused for a moment, and then there were awkward, jerky movements all around. A few people—also wired in, Radicand expected—were already moving with some purpose. Most people grabbed their things and fled west or east. Others, presumably ones who were frequent visitors to the Lion and Lamb and had waited patiently through bad storms before, dived inside the warehouse for the protection of its tall, thick walls.
Toby had two guns out and was checking them before Pari leapt down. Radicand hadn’t seen the holsters, but she didn’t have time to ask him where he’d been hiding them. Radicand stumbled past an overturned chair trying to keep up with the Admiral in full command mode. Wherever she was going, she was going there fast.
“Doe,” muttered Pari, as if she read Radicand’s mind. But then, even if Doe wasn’t still in the warehouse—chatting with a pretty server, perhaps—it would still be a smart place to hole up and defend. And Radicand was deeply grateful that that was what Pari was doing. Radicand didn’t think she could stand to watch her sister flee. Not again.
The three of them paused, shepherding the last few stragglers into the warehouse—if they hadn’t slipped away by now, the remaining diners couldn’t move fast enough to escape the cult down a side street. Doe met them in the entrance and helped them pull the heavy metal doors shut, with the diners safely inside… and the Judy’s crew outside.
“You realize we’re on the wrong side of the defenses?” asked Doe, with a wild gleam in his eye as he grinned down at Radicand.
She gulped, “That had not escaped my attention.”
“Guns out,” growled Toby. As if Radicand needed any further prodding. Her rifle magicked itself into her hands and she methodically double-checked it. The four spread themselves across the large warehouse door; it was the weak spot in the large concrete wall. Radicand usually considered her every breath a prayer to Allah, but at this particular moment she sent an extra heartfelt plea to Him, for a miraculous but real peace.
She and Pari held the center, Doe on the admiral’s left, Toby to her right. Radicand fervently hoped that the people inside had set up a reasonable blockade and had also left themselves an escape route. The blood cult could be interested in smoking them out, or merely roasting them where they hid. She watched the men edge a few inches forwards. Shattering glass and booming chants marked the blood cult’s location.
She gripped her rifle and wondered what the people inside gripped. Faith? Each other? A torn tablecloth? The diners weren’t non-violent; there might be a small gun or at least several boot knives in the crowd, but she understood the servers to all be devout pacifists. What were they thinking, while they waited to face the unknown?
Her existential angst was broken by a chuckle from Doe, “Look at that, we almost outnumber them!”
There were only seven cultists, but they bristled with small guns and large thick meat cleavers. All seven were large men. They chanted, “Blood!” as if it was a bullet they could shoot if they just hit the right note loudly enough.
Radicand brought her rifle to her shoulder, but Pari raised one arm in restraint, and even the quivering men held their fire. The cultists continued to chant “Blood,” but gently now, a lover speaking promises to the beloved. They were going to come in close for this. There was a crackling noise from above, and the sounds of multiple shotguns being prepared.
“Heh. Definitely outnumbered,” snorted Doe, though his stance didn’t change. Toby didn’t twitch.
Again from above, a squeal and then a bullhorn’s magnified voice, “Friends, please, we would not hurt you for the world. But you are standing where we are about to shoot.” Radicand’s eyes bulged, but the chanting stopped. There was an ominously long pause.
One warrior ground out, “We are all sinners. God demands blood to wash away those sins.” This seemed surprisingly high level theology out of the mouths of the cultists; Radicand was impressed, if not convinced.
The thugs looked at each other. One shrugged, “Our blood is as tainted as theirs. God demands a sacrifice—if not the lamb, then the lion.” They nodded and all pulled out small knives.
“Oh, plagues take them,” muttered Pari. “This is not good.” Above, the shotguns fired one surprisingly quiet volley. Darts landed on the exposed body parts of the cultists, and they dropped like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Radicand dared a look at Toby, whose face was the hardest to read and somehow the most honest. It held nothing in it like surprise or concern; nothing but a slight relaxation around the eyes suggested that this was a reasonable conclusion to a dicey situation.
The rattling behind them, as whatever defenses there were removed, was not unexpected. The figure that sauntered out of the alley across the street from Radicand, with a baseball bat resting negligently on her shoulder, was.
“Charlie?” squeaked Radicand, her rifle going slack in her hands.
“Hiya, Bootsie,” grinned her feral friend. Her lips pulled back far enough that anyone could see her black gums and sharply pointed canines. A sunbeam glanced off the white curly hair on top of her head, giving her a wispy halo.
“I was thinking you’d need my help,” Charlie’s fierce smile never left her face while she eyed Toby with interest. Her sensitive nostrils flared. He, in turn, could not take his eyes off of Charlie. “You got some interesting friends, there.”
“But—what are you doing here?” asked Radicand, bewildered at the woman’s sudden appearance. She hadn’t expected to see anyone she knew in this city, let alone her old college friend.
“Getting back to my roots,” said Charlie cryptically, then added with a swing of the bat, “I guess I missed putting the ‘beat’ in ‘beat reporter.’”