by Chris Bunch
“There’s another reason to get pissed at Cerberus,” Riss said. “If it hadn’t of been for them, we might be able to get involved in that fracas and make some serious money.”
“I’ve heard it’s getting nasty over there,” Spada pointed out. “You could also get yourself dead.”
“Not me,” M’chel said. “I’m immortal.”
“Of course,” Spada agreed. “How could I have forgotten.”
Riss threw a pillow at him.
Things got a bit unquiet as ships and men suddenly streamed onto Boyington from nowhere.
They wore a common uniform, in a motley of repairs, and most of their ships had the same insignia. A few had hastily spot-anodized the markings over.
Spada inquired.
It was a mournful story.
They represented the last trickle of a defeated fleet, and a vanquished planetary system.
“Typical,” Spada reported to M’chel. “Exploited, without rights or representation, valiant rebellion against all odds, the brave little guys with truth and justice on their sides — ”
“And they got their butts beat,” Riss interrupted.
Spada nodded.
“As I said, typical. But with a bit of a difference,” Redon continued. “After the surrender, their fleet was ordered to report to a certain world, and their crews scheduled for, quote, retraining, end quote.
“The admirals, being the subservient types who always get promoted and the bridge of battleships, obeyed. Their ships got sold as scrap and they’re planting p’raties in some paddy somewhere.
“These that we’ve got here on Boyington said screw that for a lark, and took off. Now they’re looking for someone to pay their rent, and mourning about never being able to go home.”
“Exiles make crappy fighters for anybody except The Cause,” M’chel said cynically. “But have a gander at them.”
Spada reported back in a couple of days.
Riss had occupied herself with reading an abandoned and very thick treatise on mathematics as a sixth-dimension construct, and trying to teach herself how to do light-sensitive nails.
By the time Spada came back, she’d failed at one, and discarded the book as simplistic.
“You were right,” he said. “They’re still too busy feeling sorry for themselves to be battle-worthy. But I gave them my card. In a year or so, we’ll see.”
“Oh, well,” M’chel said. “There’s others.”
There were, and these looked very unprepossessing.
But Spada — and Star Risk — knew what they were looking for.
These were the singletons, uniforms of whatever army they’d originally belonged to abandoned long since, as well as six or seven others for whom they’d fought after going freelance.
Riss felt braver now, and chanced going out interviewing with Redon. They did this carefully, looking for things most recruiters didn’t: what shape their possible hires’ ships were in; how well-kept their maintenance records were; the state of their electronics, particularly fire control systems; the quality of their messes.
And, most importantly, the “feel” of a ship or team — how well the men responded; how many of them looked happy; how many officers knew the names of the women or men in their sections.
Democracy, even though this was fairly common among mercenaries, wasn’t important — there were troops who seemed perfectly content under a jackboot.
Star Risk signed up a dozen ships, and then some two hundred-odd maintenance specialists.
Riss still had pots of money left over. Or so she thought for the moment.
Enough so that Spada chanced talking to some people he’d admired from afar.
They called themselves Rasmussen’s Raiders. Their CO wasn’t Rasmussen, but his former XO, a lean, hatchet-faced man named Caldwell.
Rasmussen had gotten himself dead a half dozen wars ago.
For some obscure reason having to do with unit morale and a sense of history, Riss thought more of them for not having renamed themselves Caldwell’s Crew or Cacophony or anything like that.
And they were sharp.
They called themselves a wing, but were slightly overstrength for an equivalent Alliance unit. Their ships were just off state-of-the-art for the Alliance, which of course never sold off their best and most current. Their heavies were a pair of cruisers, another heavier cruiser that had been stripped of some of its armament and converted into a Command & Control ship, a dozen heavy destroyers, some eighteen patrol ships and a dozen logistical craft, plus a pair of very large hangar ships.
All were fully manned, and the women and men of the Raiders wore snappy uniforms of tan and deep blue and were sharp, sharp, sharp.
“I don’t know,” Riss said when Spada proposed the Raiders to her. “We need sneaky slobs, not parade sorts.”
Spada handed her a fiche, and she ran it through a viewer.
She came away somewhat impressed. They’d been on the winning side in four of their last five contracts, which was very rare for mercenaries, who were far more used to fighting for the losing underdog.
“They don’t seem to have got in any knock-down drag-outs lately,” she said. “Not, anyway, since the one that got Rasmussen killed.”
Spada just looked at her.
“Awright,” she surrendered. “We’re not supposed to be wading through blood up to our belly buttons if we can find a way around it.
“Let’s go talk to them.”
Riss was impressed that Caldwell, who gave himself the fairly unegotistical title of Commander, had heard of Alsaoud, and had a vague idea of what the problem was.
She was also impressed with the grand tour he gave her and Spada. Caldwell seemed to have no secrets to hide.
Everything was fine, until after a fine meal aboard the C&C ship, they sat down to negotiate.
Riss had refused the wine with the meal, as had Caldwell and his executive officer. Spada allowed himself a single glass.
“What, exactly, would our duties be?” Caldwell inquired.
“Perimeter support around the asteroids our clients control. Raiding into the Alsaoud System. Seizing merchant ships on occasion — nothing in violation of Standard Wartime Practices,” Riss said. “Support in isolating and controlling the system’s home worlds.
“We do not anticipate needing your unit in a physical invasion of any world. We hope to be able to settle the matter without getting into a brawl,” she said.
“That’s a relief,” Caldwell said. “Invasions get expensive, in every sense of the word.”
“One problem I see,” the XO said, “is making implacable foes of Cerberus Systems. They’re very big — and frequently are tied in with even bigger sorts. Not good enemies to casually collect.”
“We don’t anticipate matters getting nasty enough for Cerberus to be making a list of everyone with us, and the People,” Riss said. “Once they’ve taken a few more defeats, they should get out.”
She didn’t mention the state of utter hatred between Star Risk and Cerberus — as she’d said, she didn’t think matters would get that brutal. She also hadn’t used the name Star Risk at any time.
“The prospect is interesting,” Caldwell said. “Especially, given your victory, that interesting reparations could be demanded.”
Riss didn’t say anything. One of Star Risk’s policies was never to grind victory in — although on Cerberus, if not Alsaoud, they were willing to make an exception. But talk of things like that lay well in the future.
Caldwell considered, scribbled a figure on a bit of paper, showed it to his executive, who nodded.
He named the price.
Riss was glad she didn’t have a mouthful of anything, as she might have choked.
“You are expensive,” Spada said, in a completely neutral voice.
“But well worth it,” the executive officer said. “And we don’t waste your time or ours by haggling.”
That definitely settled that — the named price was about double
Riss’s remaining resources.
She made polite noises about having to consult with her principals, thanking them for the dinner and the dog and pony show, and she and Spada left, somewhat shaken.
Caldwell waited until the pair had cleared the flagship, then touched an unobtrusive stud.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you have any problems?”
“Negative, sir. All images turned out perfectly.”
FORTY-SIX
Walter Nowotny, even though he was an experienced gambler with a good poker face, blinked at the size of the figure that Commander Caldwell had mentioned.
“Your services are quite steep,” he said.
“True,” Caldwell agreed. “But well worth the price. I will also mention that Rasmussen’s Raiders will provide an additional most valuable service, gratis.
“If a deal is struck.”
A smile twisted Nowotny’s scarred face.
“Cerberus is not accustomed to making any arrangements on the if-come system,” he said in his eerie near-whisper.
“We don’t expect you to,” Caldwell said. “In fact, we’ll offer a proposition: We shall present our service right now. And if Cerberus still declines our offer — well, then, so be it.”
Since Nowotny was sitting in a conference room aboard Rasmussen’s C&C ship, he assumed, correctly, that everything was being recorded.
Caldwell didn’t need to add that if Cerberus reneged on the deal after making it, they would have a certain amount of trouble in the future making arrangements with other firms, even in the most amoral world of the mercenaries.
“I know,” Caldwell said, sweetening the deal, “that Cerberus is, shall we say, swinging gently in the wind here in the Alsaoud System.
“My information will significantly load the odds in your favor.”
Nowotny was intensely curious. Not to mention that he knew very well that Ral Tomkins, his boss, was sharpening a dagger that even Yarb’ro couldn’t keep out of Nowotny’s back forever.
He needed any help he could get to get back in Tomkins’s graces, and quickly figured that, even if this information was fairly specious, he could still use Caldwell’s unit in the worsening situation. Not to mention that if Caldwell was playing games, there would be a terrible revenge taken at the first convenient opportunity.
“Very well,” Nowotny said. “We have a tentative arrangement. Now, can we go into the details of this ever-so-valuable intelligence?”
“There is nothing to discuss,” Caldwell said. “I’ll give it to you right now.”
He reached in a drawer of the cabinet behind him, took out a burnvelope, put his finger on the pore-pattern tab, and the envelope opened.
He took out a hologram, gave it to Nowotny.
This time the Cerberus executive actually hissed an intake of breath.
The holo, of course, showed M’chel Riss and Redon Spada sitting where Nowotny currently was.
“Since Cerberus clearly has had no idea who its main opponents here happen to be, I thought this might be of interest, considering Cerberus’s known dislike of the firm formerly known as Star Risk,” Caldwell said. “The holo was taken within the week, when these two attempted to hire Rasmussen’s Raiders.”
Nowotny was staring at the holo.
A thin smile came, stayed on his face.
“Yes indeed,” he said softly. “Your information will be most useful indeed.”
• • •
“It seems to be posted across half the galaxy,” Jasmine said. “On every channel that might conceivably have an interest in us, including Alliance open intelligence postings.”
Star Risk collectively stared at the printout:
Reward
There were six thumbnail pictures below the screamer, of the members of Star Risk plus Spada. Below them, the legend:
Dangerous armed dissidents, not to be approached without caution. Wanted for various crimes against the public interest.
“Cheap bastards,” Goodnight said. “They don’t even name the size of the reward. Hard to brag on having a price on your head when you can’t put a figure to it.
“And I’ve taken a much sexier shot before.”
“Where did they get the information about us?” von Baldur wondered. “We knew it was going to get out sooner or later, but …”
“It must’ve come from either a snitch here in the system,” M’chel said. “Or, since Redon’s on the poster, maybe when we were on Boyington?”
She examined the poster more closely.
“Boyington,” she said. “That was the tunic I was wearing.”
“Let me simplify your reasoning, O Sherlock,” Grok said. “Cerberus has just hired an organization named Rasmussen’s Raiders.
“Which report said you two had interviewed.”
“Those bastards!” Riss said. “I’ll have their guts for a winding sheet. Whatever a goddamned winding sheet is.”
“Ah,” Friedrich mourned. “This is truly an age of immorality and distrust.”
• • •
Two days later, Jasmine brought Riss another poster. This read:
WANTED
$1,000,000
Alliance Credits
or equivalent
No questions asked
Below that was a picture of Walter Nowotny. Below that:
For war crimes, including murder, attempted genocide, bribery and coercion of public officials, and being ugly in a public place.
“The image is one we took with one of our cameras inside the palace,” Jasmine explained. “We dodged the background out since we think Nowotny doesn’t need to know about them at the moment.”
“Wish they were bombs,” Riss muttered. “I notice we put a price tag on Walter’s head. If somebody wants to collect, where’ll we get the credits?”
“We shall worry about that when it happens,” King said, a bit loftily.
“Also, there’s that bit about being ugly in a public place,” M’chel said. “I assume Chas came up with the copy?”
She was fairly sure Jasmine hadn’t, since she wasn’t particularly impressed with the depth of her sense of humor.
“Actually, no,” King said. “It was Grok.”
“Grok?” M’chel asked in an incredulous tone.
“Grok,” Jasmine said. “He has depths.”
“He does indeed,” Riss said. “Now, we’ll see if this shakes Walter’s little equanimity enough to make him do something stupid.”
“We can hope,” King agreed. “But if nothing else, it makes me feel better for the moment.”
FORTY-SEVEN
“I am most pleased,” Ral Tomkins announced. He’d assembled Cerberus’s entire board in person for this announcement. Or almost all of them. Yarb’ro was conspicuous by his presence only on a com.
“We now have terror by the throat.”
On cue, the reward poster for Star Risk flashed on a wall-sized screen behind him.
“Thanks to some selfless citizens of the Alliance, we now know who these thugs and pirates are who’ve been striking terror into the hearts of the innocents of the Alsaoud System — none other than the goons who dubbed themselves Star Risk. Now that they have been identified, their eradication is a certainty, and without them masterminding the terror campaign of these self-styled People, victory will be immediately at hand.”
He waited for applause, frowned slightly when none showed itself, and continued:
“To make our task easier, not only have I increased the size of our forces assigned to the Alsaoud System and the space surrounding it, but this day I was also successful in having assigned to us the 441st Signal Intelligence Detachment of the Alliance Navy, to enable us to narrow Star Risk’s location, and then to deal with them as harshly as they deserve.”
This time, after Tomkins’s frown-around, there was a spatter of “here, here’s,” tapping of knuckles against real wood, and a few gentle claps.
Tomkins smiled.
“The thing that amazes m
e,” Yarb’ro’s dry voice came, “is that I think you’ve been reading your own press releases long enough to believe the crap you’re spouting.”
Tomkins reddened, started to reply. But Yarb’ro continued.
“There is nothing wrong with such drivel for the masses who generally believe it,” Yarb’ro continued. “But not to us, and most of all not to yourself.
“Realize something, Tomkins. There is no difference, save in size, between Cerberus and Star Risk, nor in our evident intentions: to bring Alsaoud under our hegemony, and thereby increase our profits.
“So please don’t bore us with any of this terror by the throat shit that you’ve been burbling.”
Yarb’ro realized he was burning every conceivable bridge that might end the feud between him and Tomkins, but he no longer cared. An hour earlier, a com from Nowotny had made it very clear that his former pupil had now firmly cast his lot with Tomkins. Yarb’ro was feeling very alone.
“As I’ve said before,” he went on, “I think Cerberus is getting overly involved in the Alsaoud worlds, and now we’ve hung our intentions out to dry, to mix a metaphor, with the Alliance, and by borrowing this SigInt unit.
“For what end? So a government, which we must realize loves only itself, will think well of us, when we operate by the same self-interest? How absurd.
“I think this is foolishness, and dangerous as well. And I now introduce a measure of censure against our chairman, Ral Tomkins, and further direct him to end all involvements in the Alsaoud worlds, and to cancel this request to the Alliance.”
He waited.
There was utter silence.
No second for his motion, not even a request for debate.
Cerberus’s board thoroughly approved of the course chosen.
Yarb’ro slumped in defeat, and his screen blanked.
Ral Tomkins smiled, tightly.
FORTY-EIGHT
The explosion came exactly sixty seconds after Yarb’ro turned on the burners of his old-fashioned natural-gas-powered stove.
The man fancied himself a gourmet cook, and had studied the cuisine of half a hundred worlds in his assignments, first for Alliance Intelligence and then Cerberus.
