sure what he was looking at. It was made of a dull gray metal. There were holes in it that were clearly meant for his fingers. He put them in and felt a sort of metal grip against his palm while the rounded loops over his knuckles were studded with spikes. He pulled the strange object the rest of the way out of the box. It was a knife. A trench knife from the war, with blood channels down the blade and brass knuckles over his hand. Largo looked at Herr Branca.
“Sir?”
His supervisor glanced at him. “You wear it in a harness under your coat,” he said. “Understand, with every job comes certain liabilities. Your promotion will bring you new respect and a larger salary. Unfortunately, it will also make you a target.”
“Oh,” Largo said. He hesitated for a moment, not liking the word target. However, he shook off the feeling and reached back into the box, pulling out a tangle of worn leather straps and clasps. The harness, he guessed. “I don’t know how to put it on.”
The old man nodded. “I’ll show you. Welcome to your future, Largo.”
Having Herr Branca strap him into the harness was an embarrassing experience. The couriers were all required to wear black suits and ties while making their deliveries. Years before, the company had given them a clothing allowance to make sure they remained clean and tidy on their rounds. However, the allowance had stopped during the war and never been reinstituted. Largo’s one suit was of cheap wool and barely thicker than paper. Worse, the seam had split along one side of the white shirt he’d worn that day, so it was held together with safety pins. To his credit and Largo’s relief, Branca said nothing about any of that as he wrapped the harness around the young man’s back and shoulders so that, with his jacket on, it and the knife were entirely invisible. Largo moved his shoulders and twisted this way and that, feeling tight and uncomfortable.
Branca said, “How does it feel?”
“Strange. But not bad. I’m sure I’ll get used to it quickly.”
“See that you do. Keep it on whenever you’re on your rounds. If I were you, I would also wear it coming to work and going home at night.”
Largo looked at Branca gravely. “Do you really think it’s that dire? I’ve traveled these streets all my life and except for places like Steel Downs and the docks, I’ve never felt myself to be in much danger.”
“Well, you are now. And not just from street bandits. There are young men in this very company that you need to keep an eye on.”
“You can’t mean that, sir. Who?”
Branca went back to his desk and pressed a button on the side, summoning a small Mara. “Andrzej. Weimer. They’re both convicted criminals. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Their convictions weren’t for violent offenses—otherwise the company wouldn’t have taken them on. But management likes to hire a few unfortunates every year as a show of good faith in the government’s rehabilitation efforts.”
Largo shrugged. “If they’re rehabilitated, then what’s the problem?”
Branca shook his head. “Largo, you can’t afford to be this naïve anymore. I said their convictions were for nonviolent crimes. God knows what else they did before they were arrested. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” Largo said, touching his elbow to the hilt of the knife under his coat. He didn’t like Andrzej or Weimer, but saying so might cause trouble. “Still, we’re all friends now. Of a sort.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s hope that Dame Fortune smiles upon you and it remains that way.”
Largo didn’t say anything. It was a lot to take in all at once. A promotion. Herr Branca’s speaking so frankly to him. A lecture on the dangers all around him. Plus, he hadn’t had a dose of morphia since the previous night. A chill was building inside him and he was afraid that if he was stuck in the office for more than a few minutes, his hands might begin to shake.
Sure enough, Branca said, “You’re looking a bit pale. Are you all right?”
“Fine, sir. It’s just a lot to think about.”
“Think at lunch. Right now, you have your first delivery.” From the Mara, Branca took a wooden box about the size of the one that had held the knife and tossed it to Largo. “The address is on the parcel. You know the area, I believe?”
Largo checked a slip of paper affixed to the box with red wax. It was a street in Haxan Green. He drew in a breath, wondering if this was some kind of test. Unpleasant as he knew the delivery was going to be, he wasn’t going to let that stop him. “Yes. It’s at the far end of Pervitin Weg, where it crosses the canal.”
“Very good. Not the best part of town, but not bad for a first run in your new position.” Branca took a leather shoulder satchel and tossed that to Largo too. “Keep your new deliveries in that. It’s old and if you think the stains inside look like dried grease, they are. It’s the type of bag used by many of the workers at the armaments factory. A nondescript way to haul your cargo and perhaps save your hide. Do you have any questions before you go?”
“None,” said Largo. “Thank you again for the opportunity, sir.”
“Stop thanking me and stop saying ‘sir’ all the time. That’s for the others. Not the chief courier.”
Largo’s bones felt icy. He needed to get away. “All right,” he said, having to choke back a reflexive sir. “Before I go out, do I have time to use the toilet?”
Branca went back to doing paperwork. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “Use the toilet if you need to. Better now than being arrested for pissing into the canal.”
Largo put the box in the shoulder bag and started out. His hands were beginning to tremble.
“One more thing, Largo,” said Branca.
He stopped nervously midstride. “Yes, sir?”
“Your chum Parvulesco. Keep an eye on him too. He’s never been arrested, but he has a most colorful reputation.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that,” said Largo before hurrying out of the office and down the hall to the employee toilets. Once inside, he locked himself in the farthest stall from the door. His cold hands shook as he pulled the bottle of morphia from an inside pocket of his jacket. Earlier, as Branca had taken it off him to fit the harness, he’d been nervous that his boss would discover the drug. Now Largo couldn’t care less. The only thing that mattered was the bottle.
He unscrewed it, drew a portion into the rubber stopper at the top, and squeezed three drops under his tongue. It was one more drop than usual, but these were dire circumstances and he needed the relief an extra drop would give him.
Within seconds, the blizzard inside him began to calm and he felt warm again. The muscles in his shoulders and back unknotted. The tension in his jaw eased so that he wasn’t tempted to grind his teeth, which, along with the shakes, was one of the sure giveaways of morphia addiction.
Not that any of that mattered now. His nervousness over the promotion and Branca’s paranoid warnings meant nothing. His stomach settled as his hunger pangs vanished. He felt wrapped in safety even as
