by Chris Bunch
“I recollect, during my own time with Alliance Intelligence, we were known to allow a government to perform a favor for us. If it required no effort or expense on our part, and they were successful, we might grant them a boon or two.
“If it didn’t, that was — as the field ops say — tough titty for the kitty.
“And we laughed about those who thought they could outmaneuver us.
“I would hate to think that we here at Cerberus, thinking ourselves so clever and skilled, are setting ourselves up as nothing but Alliance patsies.”
“I think,” Tomkins said, “that your years have sucked you into timidity. At Cerberus’s present level, it is good for us to consider long-term benefits, instead of the immediate profit.”
“Quite possibly I am getting more careful,” Yarb’ro said, undisturbed. “As you grow old, life becomes more precious. Obviously you are not going to listen to my cautions, so let us move on.”
“Oh, not at all,” Tomkins said, smoothly. “I think you are wrong, but I also agree it is good to be careful.
“For this reason, I wish to suggest that Held’s replacement be a man who you recently recommended to deal with that annoying competitor of ours, who seems to have done a very thorough job. My assistants report that not only was Star Risk utterly destroyed, but that its officers have been driven into oblivion.
“Their disappearance will, I’m sure, be a warning to others, and if they ever resurface we’ll continue the object lesson.
“So I think your man, Walter Nowotny, should be sent to Alsaoud with full authority and our blessing. We can then, I would think, relax in the knowledge that the next time we hear of Alsaoud and Operation Peaceful Skies, it will be a report of ultimate success.”
Tomkins smiled.
Yarb’ro smiled back, but felt like cursing.
He’d been neatly mousetrapped by his objection to the Alsaoud maneuver. If for any reason it failed, Tomkins would use the connection he’d firmly established between Nowotny and Yarb’ro to explain the failure as a plot of Yarb’ro’s and claim he hadn’t been involved. Yarb’ro would most certainly be destroyed.
It was a move whose Machiavellian qualities Yarb’ro sincerely admired.
THIRTY-THREE
It is not enough just to have the tools for a job.
Sometimes it’s necessary to go looking for work.
Especially when it comes to a job like pirating.
Things change over the years and parsecs. Rarely, however, do the penalties for acquiring someone else’s property en masse.
Punishment for being caught tends to involve tactics like humorless judges, noosed ropes, tall tree limbs, or their equivalent.
But fortune favors the bold, or so it’s held among the unhanged.
Star Risk, being bold, set to work in two areas.
The first unleashed Chas Goodnight and a joyful Grok, no longer restricted to hiding in the shadows since von Baldur and all the others assumed that their murder of Frabord Held would expose their presence in the Alsaoud System.
Grok had noted that the People seemed not to discriminate against nonterrestrials. In fact, rumors that Goodnight heard suggested that if it was necessary to deal with outsiders, they preferred them to humans, the explanation being that few aliens required policemen. And so Grok began his inquiries on Khazia more or less openly, and very quickly amassed the names of certain individuals and firms among the People most interested in acquiring things without being too careful about attached certificates of ownership. He settled on the Ganmore family, who seemed to have a certain amount of probity, at least among fences.
Goodnight, on the other hand, had gone zero for zero, coming up with either lightweights or those known for double- or triple-crosses, and was starting to wonder if he was losing his fine hand for skullduggery.
M’chel and Jasmine went looking for targets, using everything from shipping holos to advertisements to word of mouth in the industrialists’ hangouts on Khazia.
Redon Spada and von Baldur combed the out-system shipping news.
Riss got lucky first, hearing of a pending cargo. It was somewhat better than pure gold even though it appeared boring — a cargo of micromanipulators, inbound to Alsaoud III, the volcanic world of Tarabula.
Inbound on the starship Fowler.
Money changed hands, and Star Risk got the flight schedule of the ship, and took both the McMahon and their yacht out to lurk near the navpoint the Fowler would use to connect from its home world to jump into the Alsaoud System.
The Fowler was a well-designed and -constructed merchant ship, designed to be able to scoot in and out of almost all ports on any world, including an airless one.
It was a little short of three hundred meters long, with a surprising four thousand metric tons cargo capacity. It loaded either via a stern ramp or into either hold through side hatches, using a pair of integral hoists.
It had a crew of eight officers, twenty men, and — here was Goodnight’s near downfall — five stewards taking care of up to twelve passengers in quiet luxury.
On schedule, the Fowler blurped out of subspace beyond Alsaoud. The navigator keyed for precise location and began setting up for the jump closer to Tarabula.
Instead, just as its radar told it that two ships were closing, it received a cast on the standard emergency com:
“Ship Fowler, Ship Fowler. Hold your present orbit. Make no attempt to escape or resist.”
With the cast came a side benefit Jasmine was particularly proud of: layered over it was the near subliminal of a flashing human skull and crossed bones that she’d found in a library of clip-and-paste.
Also, withering static went out on all standard ‘cast frequencies to jam any commed screams for help.
Finally, a very obsolete (and therefore cheap) missile was fired, just accurate enough to be certain to miss. It exploded a few dozen kilometers off the Fowler, Goodnight having replaced its conventional warhead with a rather stunning fireworks display.
That was more than enough.
Star Risk’s yacht and the McMahon set orbits around the Fowler, and Grok, Riss, and Goodnight went out. Von Baldur stayed at the controls of the yacht; Spada in the command chair of the McMahon.
Riss was suppressing a desire to shout “Aaargh,” and “ye hearties are half-vast,” and other piratical bellows as the inner lock came open.
She didn’t need to.
There was already enough chaos going on, mainly caused by the passengers, who were running up and down the main corridor in various stages of panic. There weren’t more than six or eight of them, but they made up in volume what they lacked in numbers.
The loudest, M’chel estimated, was a vastly overweight young woman, perhaps nineteen, with hair frizzy enough to belong to her grandmother.
She was screaming, “Oh, help, rape, rape, they’re coming,” coupled with periodic yips.
She ran up to Riss as M’chel opened her faceplate, squealing, “Oh, please don’t ravish me, sir.”
Ravish?
Riss was puzzling over that when the young woman realized M’chel wasn’t conventionally equipped for the crime, and gibbered incoherently. Then her eyes gleamed as she saw Goodnight lift his helmet off.
She ran to Chas and grabbed him about the hips.
M’chel hid laughter.
The woman squeaked, “Oh, please, don’t, don’t.”
Goodnight grimaced and pushed past her toward the hold.
The woman looked disappointed.
Goodnight went into the cargo spaces, determined that the cargo they wanted was indeed there.
Grok and Riss trotted to the bridge, blasters ready.
They were met with nervous smiles and outstretched, empty hands.
“You’re taken,” Grok growled.
• • •
The man at the center console nodded.
“We’ll make no resistance, only, please don’t hurt anyone.”
“That will depend on your performance,”
Grok growled, while Riss had to turn away to hide her grin.
The Fowler was theirs.
It was tempting to treat the matter lightly, but there was always the possibility of a counterattack by the crew — not to mention the reminder that they were committing a decidedly capital offense — and so Star Risk kept their guns ready.
Grok rousted the passengers back to their compartments. Most of them went, obediently.
Except of course for the young woman, who had to be bodily lifted to her stateroom.
“Lord suffering,” Goodnight said, shaking his head. “First thing, we get rid of them. Especially her.”
“In a moment,” Riss said.
She found the switch to the ship intercom, keyed it.
“All passengers. Stand by for transshipment. Have no more than one bag per person. Be ready in ten minutes, or face our wrath.”
She had the crew set a jump into the system, and came out of the control room to find a small, chubby boy with spit curls waiting in the corridor.
“Please, ma’am, my sister wants to know when you’ll be raping her.”
“In a few minutes,” Riss said. “As soon as we take care of a few things.” She caught sight of Goodnight. “And he’ll be in charge of that.”
Goodnight glowered at her.
“Bitch!”
M’chel smiled back, sweetly. “Bastard.”
The McMahon and the yacht kept close formation on the Fowler as it came out of hyperspace off Mardite, the fourth, sparsely settled world of Alsaoud.
The yacht cross-locked to the Fowler, and the passengers and crew were escorted into it.
The fat young woman caught a glimpse of Goodnight as he ducked into the engine spaces and gave him her most hateful stare, then was gone.
Goodnight stayed hidden until the yacht had unlocked from the Fowler to dump the victims on a deserted section of Mardite before he came out.
He went to the bridge, where Jasmine was setting a new course into the asteroids, the Maron Region.
“You know,” he told Riss, who had the watch, “if we were real pirates, we would have made all of the witnesses have their keels hauled, or something fatal so we wouldn’t have to worry about having them show up as witnesses.”
Riss knew very damned well that Goodnight was only partially joking, and was glad there were a few controls on the sociopath.
“Now, now, Chas,” Jasmine said. “The course of true love never rims smooth.”
Goodnight gave her a very hard look and didn’t answer for a while.
“Sometimes,” he said finally, thinking of how poorly he’d personally done of late, “I dunno about this pirate shit.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Keeping in mind that it’s not uncommon for pirates to be pirated, Star Risk entered the Maron Region cautiously. They kept the yacht well forward with its fairly advanced sensors and radar at full alert — Grok manning them, then their prize, and just “behind” and “above” that, the McMahon, while keeping another eye out for anything resembling the Alsaoud authorities, whether naval or police.
But they weren’t jumped.
By anyone.
At a certain point, they took an orbit stationary to a certain asteroid, and ‘cast a certain signal on a certain frequency, as Grok had been advised.
A dozen small spacecraft swarmed toward them — it seemed from nowhere — and all three ships were boarded.
When Grok had told Goodnight about the procedure he’d been advised on, Goodnight didn’t like it at all.
“Suppose their ethics run out?” he objected. “Supposing, come to think, they don’t got none in the first place?”
“Then we’re screwed,” Jasmine said.
Goodnight’s mind diverted, he considered King — what she would look like outside her space suit, being screwed — and sighed.
But nothing untoward happened.
Two dozen men and three women boarded the McMahon, facing them with very ready guns.
M’chel didn’t know if the People’s cause was righteous, but they surely packed enough artillery to make the convincing fairly easy.
Von Baldur said that he wished to conduct business with the Ganmore family.
The gunnies deferred to a middle-aged, mustached thug, who bowed and told Friedrich to suit up and come with him.
Von Baldur obeyed, and fitted himself into one of the small ships.
That ship zigged between asteroids, and “landed” on a nearly zero-g, dumbbell-shaped world that had four rather enormous hangars anchored to it. Anchoring was accomplished by matching orbits, and one man exiting the ship and clipping a lead from its nose to a ring on the asteroid, much as if the ship were a riding animal.
Von Baldur was escorted into one of the hangars, and to a small chamber atop it, a surprisingly luxurious office.
A man about Friedrich’s age, but with still-dark hair, considered him with calm eyes.
“You wish to do business with my family?”
“I do. Now, and in the future.”
“You arrived with three ships. Are any of them your proposed offer?”
“The merchantman,” von Baldur said. “The others are necessary for continued work.”
“Do you have paperwork for the merchantman?”
Von Baldur just looked at the man, who allowed himself a brief smile.
“Do we have to deal with the crewmen, or have you already taken care of that detail?” the man asked.
“They have been dealt with.” Von Baldur didn’t offer details.
“I admit to mild interest in the ship you offer, even though we have a plethora of spacecraft.”
“The ship is of secondary value,” von Baldur said. “Its cargo is what I am primarily interested in selling.”
“Which is?”
Von Baldur told him, and admired the man as a fellow professional, since his expression didn’t change.
“Ah,” he said. “May I offer a drink?”
“You may,” Friedrich said. “I assume you will share one with me.”
A smile came, went.
“We seek no unnecessary advantages in our business dealings,” he said. “I shall. And, by the bye, my name is Mal, and I am, of course, a Ganmore. I have been given the title of Advisor.”
Von Baldur introduced himself, and the two shared a mildly alcohol-charged beverage that tasted slightly fruity, but of no identifiable variety.
Then the bargaining commenced.
This von Baldur thoroughly enjoyed, especially since Jasmine had earlier done one of her immaculate research jobs, so Friedrich knew exactly how much the micromanipulators sold for on the open, legal market.
Advisor Ganmore was a remarkably honest man — for a thief. He paid sixty percent of the price. In Alliance credits.
“Might I invite you to pass some time with the People?” he offered courteously as they finished.
“Another time,” von Baldur said. “We have to return to our other lives.”
“I understand,” Ganmore said.
“But next time, we shall — in fact, we will probably be interested in renting living and working areas here in the Region, since we shall likely be wearing out our welcome on Khazia,” Friedrich said. “As I said, we hope to be bringing you much business in the near future.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“Not only,” von Baldur said evenly, without taking his eyes off one of the screens he was staring at, “have I decided to become superstitious, but I shall never, ever again mention the name of someone I do not wish to crop up in the immediacy.”
“What?” Riss asked, antenna going up at his deliberate tonelessness.
Without answering, he patched the image at which he was staring to one of her computer screens.
M’chel repressed a “yeep.”
One of the first things they’d done — after returning to Khazia and determining that no one was looking for them regarding the disappearance of a certain spaceship named Fowler — was to field the tapes from the vario
us pickups they’d planted around the president’s palace, to see if they could spot the late Held’s replacement and how many other Cerberus operatives they might be able to pick out.
Von Baldur had found one immediately — the image he showed Riss.
“I shall be dipped,” she said, not needing an answer.
“That really is our boy the superagent Nowotny, isn’t it?”
The other three Star Risk operatives swooped around.
Spada had preferred to stay close to their yacht, parked at the most expensive yard they could find, which had all the mod cons any zillionaire could want around his prized spacecraft.
The McMahon was hidden on one of the system’s moonlets.
“It surely is Nowotny,” Goodnight said. “Well, what are we going to do, kill him?”
“I’m not sure we could,” Riss said.
“Come on, M’chel,” Goodnight said. “Anybody can get murdered.”
“I know,” she said. “I just think assassinating the good Walter might be a little expensive. Especially for the murderer.”
“The worst is,” Grok said, “that I won’t be able to go out at all now. He knows me well — and certainly remembers that I tried to double on him and certainly would like to pull out my dewclaws to see what I know.
“The same goes for you, Jasmine, even if you lack claws.”
“I suppose so,” King said. “Oh well. We set out to pull the lion’s tail, and we’ve surely succeeded.
“Not that I regret killing that horrid Held for one instant.
“But does this alter any part of the equation’s progress as we’d planned it from here?”
“Maybe,” Grok said. “I certainly think that all areas should be open to rethinking from this point forward.”
“I do think,” M’chel said, “that it means the tightrope just got a little thinner.”
• • •
It became immediately apparent what game Cerberus was running in the Alsaoud System, although not why, nor for whom.
President Flyver — which meant Cerberus — announced Alsaoud would no longer allow blatant lawlessness to overwhelm his worlds — he clearly wasn’t a master orator — and would immediately form an antipiracy task force that would both analyze the enemy and use any and all tactics to end the “plague of terror.”
