Mission Earth 09 - Villainy Victorious

by Villainy Victorious [lit]

"If you're willing to talk price," said the gray-haired man, "we are open to some serious offers. We know that the place is large, too large. And it could never obtain a hotel license. The entire remainder of the building, all seventy-five lower floors, are separately owned by resi­dential families such as club officials and so on, and they are much smaller. This so-called townhouse is all under one deed that can't be broken down into subdeeds and so it can't be separately rented out or sold in pieces. Now, I am being very frank. The general's heirs want to get rid of it. It would not be honest of us not to tell you. So what do you offer?" Madison was sure Flick would find some excuse. Madison's main problem was how he was going to discourage Flick from a break-in and robbery.

  Flick was looking at the box in the watchman's hands. It was obvious the watchman was not going to give it up. Flick sighed deeply. Madison had visions of being part of a break-in that would bring immediate arrest. There was only one way to handle this. As a PR man he knew how to wheel and deal. He would offer a price too low. They would leave and then he would use his authority to argue some sense into Flick. Maybe bribe him.

  "Well," said Madison to the gray-haired man, "I'm afraid we can't go higher than twenty thousand credits."

  "Sold," said the gray-haired man without even look­ing at the other two. "The heirs will be very pleased. The papers are already here. I will fill in the amount and you can stamp them."

  Madison blinked. Then he suddenly realized the offer was about four hundred thousand dollars!

  HE HAD BOUGHT A HAUNTED TOWN-HOUSE!

  Chapter 5

  "Jumping comets, are you smart!" crooned Flick as they rose up through the roof and flew away. "Now we can rob the place without any watchman even sticking their noses in."

  "Flick," said Madison, "we OWN the place."

  "Makes no difference," said Flick. "My dream is going to come true! Look, I got the box and a four-foot stack of directions in the bargain. Wow, what an easy break-in this will be! Oh, man, are all my dreams coming true!"

  "Flick--"

  "Oh, leave this up to me. You're smart. I got to admit that now. I was wrong: a murderer can have brains for something else besides nightmares. Wow, what a master stroke! Boy, and I puzzled and puzzled over that for months and months!"

  "Flick, it's sunset and I think we ought to call it a day. I got to get up early in the morning and get on my job!"

  "Hey, that shows you why you should leave all this up to me. Crime works best by night and you ought to know that."

  They had leaped up into the sky and the traffic lanes, strung out like fireflies in the dusk, were falling behind them.

  "Flick, we seem to be leaving the towns. Where are you going?"

  "Now, don't bother your head. Just because you got one bright idea doesn't prove you know enough to han­dle everything in sight. Just relax back there."

  "Flick, I think..."

  "Hand me a sweetbun, would you? They're in that side locker. Have some yourself?'

  A vast sea was on their left and they were speeding along the coast, a greenish surf drawing ribbons of foam upon the sand in the dimming light. Great scarlet clouds, far to the west, were catching the afterglow of the sun.

  Presently, in the fading twilight, the beaches gave way to cliffs and black mountains began to silhouette against the stars. Suddenly Flick pulled his throttle back and pointed.

  A huge ebony bulk lay just ahead, sprawling along the top of cliffs that fell a quarter of a mile, sheer, to the sea. Battlements that covered acres were blacker against an ink-dark sky.

  "That's the Domestic Confederacy Prison," said Flick. "Two hundred miles from Government City and two miles past Hell Nine. My brother did twenty years here and he told me all about it. It used to be an Army fort that held a million men: huge underground bunkers. But part of it was destroyed by an earthquake that took some of the cliff away so they gave it to the 'bluebottles.' They use it for those sentenced to twenty years or more: place is escape-proof, so they ship in their worst ones from all over the Confederacy. There's about two hun­dred thousand prisoners there and they never see the light." He slid Madison's identoplate into a slot in the dash.

  "You mean we're going in amongst murderers?" said Madison.

  "Oh, you kill me, Chief, you really do. Always gag­ging around. You don't have to pretend with me. I'm your driver, remember?" Flick snickered. "An officer of the Apparatus squealing like a little girl about associat­ing with criminals! And a murderer at that." He thought it was very funny. Then he sobered. "There's their call-in light. Now, you let me do the talking, you hear?"

  A glaring light hit them from a battlement and then went off. Four bright blue lights sprang up, bathing a courtyard in an eerie glow.

  Flick landed and they got out. Two "bluebottles" approached and the snout of a gun covered them from a high turret. Flick showed them Madison's identoplate and a torch glared in Madison's face as they compared the picture. Surf sounded with a distant boom and the wind moaned.

  "Take us to the warder," said Flick.

  They walked across the gritty courtyard, through a rusty door, and shortly were ushered into a stone-walled room where a very old and tough-faced man was just get­ting his jacket on. "And what's so urgent that you come here at night?" said the warder, scowling.

  Flick held up Madison's identoplate.

  "PR man?" said the warder. "What's that?"

  "Parole officer," said Flick. "Apparatus parole offi­cer." And he made a little gesture toward the two "blue­bottles" that had followed them in. The warder sig­nalled with his hand that the escort could withdraw.

  Flick reached into Madison's coat and drew out two one-thousand-credit notes and slid them into the warder's palm. It was a year's pay.

  "Ah, yes," said the warder. "A parole officer. Any­body special?"

  "Lead us to your computer consoles," said Flick.

  The warder took them down a stone passageway, ushered them into a room where several consoles sat, deserted at night. He waved his hand in invitation and left, shutting the door.

  Flick took off his mustard-colored tunic, rolled up his sleeves and sat down before a keyboard and screen.

  Madison said, "Flick, you've GOT to tell me what you are up to NOW!"

  "Well," said Flick, with a glance to make sure the door was shut, "if you plan a robbery you've got to have a gang."

  "You don't need a gang, Flick."

  "Now listen," said Flick, "I've dreamed and dreamed of having my own gang. I never had the means to break one out. Now, you're not going to spoil it. You got to be more careful of dreams: they're fragile." He turned to a pad on the desk, a big smile beginning to split the horizontal oval of his face. "Oh, man! Am I ever going to have a great gang. Now I'm going to make a list of absolute essentials, so don't you interrupt."

  He began to write and Madison, looking over his shoulder, read:

  IDEAL GANG

  1 Female for a footman in the car to fool with and feel up when I have long and tire­some waits.

  5 More drivers for getaway and loot coaches and in case I get tired driving.

  3 Chefs for cooking in relays 24 hours in case I get hungry at odd times.

  1 Sealer to climb up walls and open windows and roof traps in places I think I might get dizzy or my shins barked.

  1 Purse snatcher to get keys to houses and opening plates to avoid making noise by break­ing locks.

  1 Electronics security expert that knows all about security systems and can defeat them.

  1 Salesman to fence loot for me so he gets caught and I don't.

  1 Good-looking girl to dean up my wont because I hate making beds. Ha. Ha.

  6 Whores to sleep with and cook for the rest of the gang so they leave mine alone.

  He chewed the end of the pen for a bit, then he said, "Nope, that's it. That's just about right. A gang right out of my dreams for sure. Now I'm going to com­puter out ten candidates for each of these jobs, then I'll get the warder to dig the applicants out of the
old bunk­ers and parade them and I can select the absolute top-best criminals. Perfection!"

  He turned to the console and shortly the screen began to show a racing blur of numbers, names, faces and records. Flick was preselecting categories and then entering them by number in on a side, portable computer board. Thousands of names and faces were pouring through.

  Madison watched dully, wondering how he was going to stop this.

  No master at operating one of these, Flick occasion­ally hit a wrong key. This got him in a tangle and wrong categories flashed up while he tried to get back.

  "Wait!" said Madison, suddenly jarred out of his pre­occupation. "What on Earth is that category you just passed? Go back to it."

  Flick did. "Circus girls? What would anybody want with circus girls? All they ever do is stand around and show off costumes. And there, look at the crimes: life for rolling drunks. That type of criminality is NOT dignified. We're not rolling drunks: we're in the house-robbing business."

  "Wait, don't shift categories yet. Some of those carry the educated symbol. Does it say any of them were ever models?"

  "What's a 'model'?"

  "Pull the printout on those and get them paraded along with the rest."

  Flick muttered. He hit another wrong key.

  "Hey!" said Madison. "There's an ex-Homeview cameraman doing life for equipment theft!"

  Flick was disgusted. "Look, if you're going to put together another gang, go over to another console: you're getting in my way."

  Madison approached another console and figured out how to operate it. He got to work.

  Chapter 6

  Madison, two hours later, was feeling more than slightly ill. He was standing in the ghastly blue light of the prison courtyard, one hand on the airbus, trying not to vomit. Naturally fastidious, he feared he'd be smelling that smell for weeks.

  The warder, good as his word, had paraded ten candidates at a time in a noisome assembly bunker and Flick and Madison had had the job of interviewing each. Between them, they had examined 480 prisoners. They had selected 48. They had been cursed luridly at the last by the 432 luckless ones who had NOT been chosen.

  And here came the fruits of their interviews after being handled on the prison rolls. The small mob was being prodded forward by stingers in the hands of guards. Additional "bluebottles," alert with guns, walked behind.

  The night was dark and the courtyard cold with wind in off the sea. The prisoners' rags were blown like tattered banners about their filthy limbs. They stank; their hair was matted; they were thin. The fourteen women and thirty-four men should have been cowed, but they were not.

  They came to a stop in the sudden glare of a spot­light on the wall. They had not been outside, some of them, for years. They looked around brazenly. A couple of them barked laughs at the guards, jeering laughs. Flick and Madison had not chosen convicts who looked cowed.

  The warder, walking over the black pavement to Madison, heard the laughs and turned around and glared at the group. Then he turned back to Madison and pushed papers at him on a board so they could be stamped.

  "I hope you know what you're doing," the warder said. "The people you selected were not the ones I would have picked for parole. You passed over many a bird down there that have maybe reformed. Some of these you picked are probably killers we never got the goods on. Those women are a bad lot-capable of any­thing. I think they fooled you with their looks. But you guys in the Apparatus always have been crazy. We pick 'em up and you turn 'em loose. The government pays us to prevent crime and pays you to commit it. Funny world."

  Madison handed the now-stamped papers back.

  "You got forty-eight killers there," the warder said. "Don't turn your back on them. Good luck."

  He walked a few paces toward the prison doors and then changed his mind and faced the tattered, filthy group grinning at him in the wind and spotlight glare. In a loud, harsh voice he said, "Listen, you bird drop­pings. If any one of you show up here again, I'll put you in the iron box and down in the darkest hole and we won't even bother to bury you when you die. You'll stay free only as long as this Apparatus officer here is still alive. Your papers say you are to be returned here any time he says so. If you run away from him, a warrant goes out for you and back here you come. You belong in Hells, not in free air." He pointed emphatically at Madi­son. "Obey that man, you (bleepards), or you're dead!"

  Madison watched the warder tramp away. The fel­low had earned his money: he had turned total control of these convicts to Madison with that speech even though he might suspect that Madison would order them to commit crimes.

  Earlier, from the prison, Flick had called Chalber and out of the night here came three air-coaches and an airbus to ferry back the Zippety-Zip drivers. They flashed down out of the night and into the glare of the wall spotlight. They were shiny new vehicles, sparkling and sleek.

  A driver popped out of the Zippety-Zip ferry airbus, spotted Madison and came over with papers to be stamped. While he waited, the driver stared at the pris­oner group.

  Flick had begun to sort them out and move them to stand beside different vehicles. The convict drivers were getting genned in by the ferry people.

  "Ouch," the man beside Madison said. "What a Hellish lot! You're actually putting them in clean, new air-coaches!" He looked closer. "What a bunch of kill­ers!" Then he shrugged and took the papers back. "Well, they're your vehicles now. Carry whom you please. Wow!"

  Madison went over to the groups as the ferry airbus took off hastily.

  Looking into the faces, he began to check his list. It was composed of:

  1 Director, ex-Homeview, who had been mak­ing porno movies on the side.

  2 Cameramen who had been caught selling government supplies.

  3 Set men whose sets, because they had sold the fasteners, had fallen down and killed actors.

  1 Horror-story writer who had frightened an audience of children into convulsions resulting in deaths.

  5 Reporters who had been caught accepting bribes to omit names, and other similar crimes.

  1 Studio production secretary who had been accepting bribes to ruin the careers of actors.

  2 Actors who had been doing long stretches for impersonating officers of various kinds to shake people down.

  5 Circus girls, educated and statuesque, who, variously, had been doing time on long sen­tences yet to be served for rolling drunks, extorting money, setting up people for hits.

  6 Roustabouts who had been doing lots of time for mayhem and assault, amongst other things.

  2 Drivers skilled in heavy vehicles who had been doing twenty and thirty years respectively for pillaging their trucks.

  2 Cooks, experienced in crew logistics, who had been doing time for selling stolen food.

  Madison finished his body check and despite the stench, a pulse of exultation began to course through him.

  One thing they had in common. It was chief amongst the several quick tests he had used. If they tried hard, they could lay aside the killer stamp and appear totally honest and sincere. If they concentrated, they could even talk in persuasive voices. Oh, they would require some work and practice, that he understood. But he always expected that. A master at it like himself could drill it in.

  A glow of eagerness built up to a fiery excitement within him. What luck!

  HE HAD HIS CREW!

  The exact people he needed to get on with his job!

  He felt he could rise to heights now never before achieved!

  Oh, how lucky Heller was, to have him for his PR!

  He must not let anything stop him now!

  Chapter 7

  There was a holdup on departure.

  The convicts were all loaded. The felon drivers were at the controls of the air-coaches. No Flick.

  Madison looked around the black and gritty court­yard, noting there was a turret gun still trained on them from the wall. He wanted to get out of there before some­thing untoward happened. He didn't want to shout and raise
a commotion.

  Then he saw a glow was coming from the Model 99. He raced over to it.

  Flick was bent over one of the panel screens: three-dimensional colored maps were stopping, shifting, blur­ring on it. They were all of mountains.

  "You're keeping us waiting," said Madison impa­tiently. "Let's get out of here. What on Earth are you doing NOW?"

  "I'm looking for a place to take this gang," said Flick. "There's a lot of mountains but it's not like on Calabar. On Voltar, I can't find any caves."

  "And what do you want caves for?"

  "To train! You got to train a gang. You can't just let them blunder into a job. It all has to go off like clockwork-clip, clip, clip! Now, there's some old ruins on the other side of the Blike Mountains-some town that got knocked out in a revolt ten thousand years ago, it says. And it would do, except only this airbus can cross the Blike Mountains. Those air-coaches can't fly at fifty thousand feet. I got PROBLEMS!"

  "Well, Flick, I don't see why we don't go to the town-house in Joy City."

  "Oh, no! That would be cheating!"

  "Well," said Madison, "you can do what you please, but I'm going to take MY gang there."

  "YOUR gang-MY gang! What's this? Are we split­ting up? Hells, that could cause a gang war!"

  "Oh, we should do anything to avoid that," said Madison. "Look, I've got a compromise. The 76th floor is said to be just ordinary. It's the rest of the upper floors that all the loot is in. I promise faithfully not to let any­body go up to the upper four floors."

  Flick frowned. He thought it over. Then he said, "All right. Nobody goes into the upper four floors until we're ready to rob them. So that's settled. We go to the 76th floor of the townhouse."

  Madison started to withdraw to signal the air-coaches. "Wait a minute," said Flick. "It will look aw­ful suspicious going into the townhouse in that swank neighborhood with a bunch of prisoners in rags. The cops would be all over us like a blanket. We'll go rob a clothing warehouse first."