by Chris Bunch
Hell, the only ones who did, unless somebody was a close student at the Build a Bomb and Other Nasty Gimmickry Mail Order Institute, were Riss and her three assistants — innocent, of course, because the killer predated them.
So there was no one —
Riss’s mind, obedient, if not especially prompt, fed her the recording of Maln, some weeks back, talking about the thugs who’d help break the Berserkers’ original contract: “Folger was one of the thugs who went out and worked on people’s kneecaps.”
Folger.
Goons frequently had training in other areas of mayhem.
Folger.
Dimet’s only friend.
Son of a bitch.
• • •
Once they knew where to look, and for what, it was easy.
Riss and two of the others buzzed Folger to his compartment, and the third bodyguard brought Dimet down.
There were sketches, cryptic notes that were now easy to interpret, receipts for odd items used to make even odder devices, some traces of interesting chemicals that had been swept up at the bottoms of lockers.
Dimet took a look at the assembled garbage, and Folger’s carefully innocent expression, and burst into tears.
She then started volunteering a confession.
Riss had to immobilize Folger with a knife-hand strike, and then gag him.
Halfway through the blurt of how Lollypop meant everything, and if Dimet couldn’t be around her idol, her dreamie, she didn’t want to live at all, and therefore didn’t want Lollypop to live, and Folger had a built-up hate going back for years, the singer burst into the compartment, which was now getting crowded.
She had a gun in her hand.
M’chel guessed that she shouldn’t have told Arn who the guilty party was until everyone was safely locked away.
To alarmed expressions from the others, Lollypop burst out with a profane accusation and betrayal of trust that sounded like it’d been lifted from a fairly bad daytime holo serial, dragged out a medium-sized blaster, and aimed it at Dimet.
“You don’t really think,” M’chel said tiredly, “that with some kind of maniac running around we were going to let anybody but us have live guns, now, did you?”
Lollypop pulled the trigger, and the blaster made a disgusting noise, courtesy of a small sound box that Riss had substituted for its normal powerpack.
Lollypop gaped, and started to throw the weapon at Dimet.
Riss clipped her, quite hard, on the side of the neck.
Lollypop scrawked like a poleaxed chicken and went down.
That was, M’chel reflected later, about the only part of the day that she’d really enjoyed.
At least she was off the frigging tour.
And wouldn’t listen to live music for at least a century.
SIXTEEN
“I hope,” Jasmine King sighed, “that you’ve had a day more productive than mine.”
“What was the matter?” Grok inquired, as he poured them each an after-work cocktail. Grok had become partial to Earth cognac, and King drank some awful combination of liqueurs called a Veronica’s Revenge that did a great deal to encourage the belief that she was an android — no normal stomach could have handled the drink.
“I was lazy, and spent the day being a sentimental slob,” she said.
“Ah?”
“Chasing down our former compatriots and hoping they were all well and happy.”
“I confess,” Grok said, “to a slobbish, almost human tendency these days to mawkishness … and curiosity, as well.”
“M’chel is currently the favorite of the fast set on Trimalchio,” Jasmine said. “Everyone famous wants her to play bodyguard for them. Freddie is being a little high profile, on some gambling world, with his own gaming tournament.”
“I assume it’s rigged,” Grok said.
“I hope so,” King said. “But nobody said.”
“What about our pet delinquent?”
“I couldn’t find a trace of Charles, although there was a jewelry store robbery on one of the Fringe Worlds that sounded like his work.
“I dropped a line with a couple of recruiters that said they heard from him now and again. I left a note with the other two that we’re glad they’re going well, and if they’re in the area, to please visit.”
King shrugged.
“I guess I can’t seem to let the past go. Tell me about your day, and that we made some money.”
“We did — and I, too, encountered a bit of the past.”
King lifted an eyebrow, and Grok explained:
“I shall probably be long-winded about this.
“A contact of ours told me, a couple of weeks ago, about a system — eight planets, plus asteroids just outside the system.
“The name of the system is Alsaoud, which had been inhabited by humans for about three hundred fifty years, originally colonized, grudgingly, by two systems who’d fought over who had the rights.
“For some reason the Alliance, usually so reluctant to get involved in anything that might involve danger, had brokered a peace, which required that both systems settle Alsaoud.
“Both wanting to make very sure Alsaoud wouldn’t do anything absurd, such as develop delusions of independence, crippled the system with a government that required a premier from one system, and a prime minister from the other, and a parliament to boot.
“Then both systems had promptly lost interest, leaving Alsaoud with the muddle.
“Time passed, and Alsaoud’s second and fourth world became heavily settled, and the third, riven by volcanoes, more sparsely.
“Life was further complicated when a third group, running from a sun going nova, decided to move in. The only major, somewhat habitable real estate that wasn’t now occupied was the fifth and sixth worlds, and these refugees, who called themselves only the People, occupied them.
“They’ve recently started settling on the capital world itself,” Grok went on. “Since their birth rate is about double that of their fellows, that’s making the original settlers a bit nervous.
“But their main settlement is in the asteroids, which has a cornucopia of easily exploited minerals, and so they built bubble settlements and such.”
“This sounds,” Jasmine King said, touching a tongue to her lips, “like a situation made for a nice, profitable war.”
“Actually, several internecine sagas of butchery over the years,” Grok said. “Not to mention things like smuggling, piracy, and general mopery — enough of a problem so the Alliance has actually sent in finger-waggling expeditions from time to time.”
“A problem, indeed.”
“Now, my contact told me, they seem to be getting ready for another round, with special bloodlust for going after the People — and the People reciprocating.
“I approached the Alsaoud government, and found they were in the market for deep-space mines, which I just happen to have access to. They were mightily thrilled at my help, and allowed as how they were in the market for almost any sort of weaponry that might work against what they rather colorfully called ‘space bandits.’”
“You did have a good day,” Jasmine said. “I just might buy you dinner tonight.”
“I haven’t reached my point of interest yet,” Grok said. “One of the people I was speaking to happened to say there are several mercenary outfits and freelancers swarming around the system.
“One of which is Cerberus Systems, which currently seems to have the inner track with the newly elected government.”
Jasmine licked her lips thoughtfully.
“How nice for them,” she said. “Is there any way we can somehow ruin a good percentage of their day? As I said, I’m a sentimentalist, and I definitely bear a grudge.”
“I don’t know,” Grok said. “Further of interest, however, since this isn’t the richest system known, is that I haven’t been able to see how they can pay for Cerberus, given their usual fees.”
“So something stinky is going on, eh?”
“It might be.”
“I wonder if there’s anything there for us?”
“I don’t know,” Grok said. “But, remember, we’ve agreed to, as Goodnight said, ‘take our lumps’ and go our way, and let them go theirs.
“They are a great deal bigger, as we’ve discovered.”
“Bigger,” King agreed. “But not necessarily nastier. Oh well. It might be nice to have another shot at them. One that we win, this time.
“But bygones are bygones, and big bullies are big bullies, who generally seem to get away with their bullying.
“Damnit.”
SEVENTEEN
The world of Zion had been settled for a baby forever — and it showed.
Its central city might have come right out of medieval Earth, turning its back on the coast it fronted on toward the close mountains, cut through with narrow lanes and close-set buildings.
Many of its people also looked archaic, dressing all in formal black, with beards and long side curls.
Many of them practiced a religious faith/lifestyle that was just as ancient, dictating everything from dress to manner of worship to diet.
Zion’s main commerce was equally antique: diamonds.
Here was one of the four great diamond markets of Man’s worlds, the other three being Tel Aviv and Amsterdam on Old Earth, and Sternopoli.
The trade was founded on mutual trust and knowledge.
There was little crime here but the petty variety.
All that, Chas Goodnight willing, was about to change.
Two ships broke into the world’s atmosphere at speed, both homing on the city.
One was an archaic Alliance destroyer, stripped of almost all of its weaponry, save two missiles. If all went well, there would be no need for violence after the first assault.
Both ships were running less than five minutes behind a sleek transport, escorted by a pair of corvettes, all three provided by Cerberus Systems.
Weaponry wasn’t the most important part of the Cerberus operation’s security — secrecy was.
No one was supposed to know the transport’s schedule.
Almost no one did.
The transport was intended to pick up cut and polished diamonds, some in their final settings, which would be shipped toward retail markets on a thousand thousand worlds.
The old destroyer carried two pilots, Chas Goodnight, and twenty heavily armed, suited men.
Only one of them was a double agent.
No one had ever dared Zion’s security.
Chas Goodnight was daring it.
He’d considered the fact that Cerberus was providing security, and his sensible vow to never cross tracks with them if he could avoid it. But he wasn’t stepping on their corns, since he was planning to jack the diamonds before they became Cerberus’s responsibility.
Besides, this was an incredibly juicy target….
The transport landed at the central city’s spaceport, its two escorts seconds behind.
Lifters were waiting to load the vastly precious cargo aboard.
The old destroyer, its pilots ignoring the yammering from Ground Control, dove on the transport, and launched its pair of missiles.
Both, fired at point-blank range, slashed into the Cerberus escort ships and blew their sterns and their drive mechanisms apart, immobilizing them.
The destroyer came in for a hard landing between the escorts and the transport, never giving either corvette a chance to fire on it.
A pair of locks slammed open, and the robbers ran out toward the lifters. Each of them carried on his back a modified antigravity lifter.
As they did, Goodnight’s emergency backup ship, an ultra modern medium speedster, crashed down into a square less than five hundred meters from the port.
The speedster destroyed a statue of a dignified man, fronted by a plaque heralding his life as a statesman and philanthropist.
The plaque didn’t say that he’d started his career as a diamond smuggler.
The destroyer pilots slid out a forward hatch, and scurried away from the spaceport toward the speedster. They moved quickly, because they’d triggered a gas bomb in the destroyer, intended to cover the robbers’ exit.
The plan was for the robbers to break into the lifters, grab one lifter’s worth of diamonds, and then head for the speedster.
Goodnight already had fences and transport in place on a dozen worlds.
This caper would give him — even after the heavy expenses of the two ships and hiring the twenty very expensive pros — enough to retire on.
Or, at least, to relax while he figured out another job, he thought realistically.
Each of the robbers had a timer above his suit’s viewscreen, and orders to take no more than five minutes before they went for the speedster and escape.
Less than a minute after the landing, Cerberus sprang the trap that the man who’d betrayed Goodnight’s scheme to them had helped set up.
There were no diamonds in any of the waiting lifters.
Instead, doors and panels fell open, and crew-served weapons opened fire.
The gunners had been given orders that there was no particular need to take prisoners.
There was little cover on the spaceport’s open tarmac, and about half of the robbers went down in the first blasts.
The double agent had been given instructions by Cerberus to go flat, and pop a purple smoke grenade. He’d been promised that would keep him safe to collect the huge reward.
Cerberus was not known for keeping its promises, but this time it may have meant them.
But two gunners, in a frenzy of excitement, saw the purple smoke, didn’t remember what it was supposed to mean, and chattered bursts through the agent.
Goodnight had only seconds to realize how thoroughly he’d been mousetrapped.
He rubbed his cheek against the inside of his helmet, and triggered bester.
Goodnight became a blur, zigging, ducking, and running as hard as he could.
He ducked behind a lifter, flipped a grenade in its rear as he went past, and went hard for the park, as the last of his robbers was shot down.
His suit mike gave him the sound of sirens starting to scream, then, to his accelerated ears, going down the scale to bass.
He knocked a gaping pair of guards down and was past them in a moment, through the doors and in a terminal building.
Goodnight knocked a door on the far side off its hinges, saw a pair of ranking men in uniform grabbing for holstered blasters, then was instantly past them and around a transport.
In less than a minute, he was at the park, ahead of the running pilots.
Back at the field, the bomb aboard the destroyer went off, gas billowing into the air.
Goodnight hadn’t bothered telling anyone else about the bomb, so it was a surprise to Cerberus, putting them on momentary tilt.
Goodnight was aboard the speedster, cursing himself for being a sentimental slob as he turned and took the time to yank the two pilots aboard.
He squirrel-chattered an order, realized he was not completely in control, triggered himself back out of bester, and shouted, “Lift it, goddamnit!”
One of the speedster’s pilots gawped, then obeyed, hitting controls.
The airlock slid shut, and the drive boiled.
The speedster came off the ground, went vertical, and drove upward.
That caused the day’s only civilian casualty — incinerating an old man who came to the park every day to leer at the young girls playing handball on nearby courts.
Goodnight ignored both the babble of questions from the four fliers and his own extreme hunger pangs from the body energy his extended bester state had burned.
He wheezed in air, slumped down into an acceleration couch, and hoped he still had enough in his savings to at least pay off these fliers.
“I think,” he finally managed, “I could have done with another rehearsal when I planned this operation.”
Then he wondered what the hell he
was going to do next.
EIGHTEEN
Friedrich von Baldur swore under his breath.
They had him cold.
And it was his own damned fault.
There were four of them, and they were all pros.
Now, if he hadn’t had the hubris to suggest to Laurence Chambers that he had a big enough name to draw people to Chambers’s planetoid who’d be interested in bringing von Baldur down, and would bring the credits to play with …
But he had.
He also should have allowed Cerberus Systems the blatant unprofessionalism of still wanting von Baldur’s ass on toast …
But he hadn’t.
The tournament was called, simply, The First Annual Von Baldur Stud Poker Tourney, and the players did, indeed, materialize.
Among them were these four particular professionals, quite illegally and unethically teamed.
They’d laid low through the preliminary rounds, then begun their play.
The four were the main card man, a scholarly looking, meek-sounding sort; his secret partner, an exceedingly handsome woman; the lookout; and a cover, who unobtrusively wandered around, pretending slight drunkenness and casing the other players and their hands when he could. It was a winning combination.
Von Baldur should know — he’d used similar tactics himself.
Of course they had signals.
When Friedrich had his suspicions, he put holo crews, shooting from the Eye In The Sky — the ceiling watch chamber that every casino has had since time immemorial — and screened, centimeter by centimeter, the footage.
But the team was good — Friedrich wasn’t able to translate nor even identify their sign language, so he couldn’t put pit bosses on the alert to pitch them out of the tournament.
The team was also well-covered — the main player was sponsored by another gambling world, so they couldn’t just bar him from the tournament without any better cause than that he was winning.
Von Baldur had their rooms searched.
They almost looked innocent. But looking back at the entries on their passport fiches showed too-remarkable sets of coincidence, and all four of them had recently “happened” to “pass through” Alegria IV, which Freddie remembered as Cerberus’s headquarters.
