by Chris Bunch
He was a real rarity — a man who was just as happy cooking for just himself as for a party of twenty.
Yarb’ro was studying the dish he was making for the first time, Sung-tzu-chi-ssu. He had toasted his pine nuts with a bit of salt and thyme, and was getting ready to brown the chicken with the habanero peppers, sitting in its marinade.
There was a very slight click.
Yarb’ro’s stove did not normally click.
He dove behind a butcher block table as the stove blew up.
The fire flashed over him, but he was barely burned. The blast did most of the damage, shattering his left leg and arm.
The fire department rescued him and put out the flames before his mansion could ignite, but his kitchen was gutted, and his huge collection of cookbooks, fiches, and files was a dead loss.
Official investigation blamed the explosion on an “industrial accident.”
Yarb’ro, painfully recuperating, knew better.
FORTY-NINE
The 441st Signal Intelligence outfit arrived in the Alsaoud System fairly unobtrusively, at least for an Alliance unit.
Fortunately for them, they were organized as an independent, space-based detachment, with a dumbbell-shaped artificial satellite and a pair of obsolescent destroyers to guard against interlopers.
That kept them a ways away from the roiling chaos of Khazia.
Being professionals, they went immediately to work.
They’d handled harder jobs.
The main code the People used had begun life as a commercial cipher. One of the People’s computer sorts had put a scramble on that cipher, then a further scramble.
The end result was more than enough to keep Alsaoud in the dark.
But not enough for the Alliance.
While their computers were ticketing away at the task, their signal analysis specialists were working away.
The main com bands used by the People’s ships were quickly found, and even though they couldn’t be read yet, their transmissions were logged.
A third and fourth destroyer hung above the Maron Region and monitored outgoing coms that were evident responses to the People’s ship transmissions.
That gave them a possible location for the People’s headquarters.
That information went to Walter Nowotny.
His second in command wanted to launch on the data they had.
“No,” Nowotny said. “Not ‘til we’re sure. We’ll most likely have just the one chance.”
Walter Nowotny was a careful man.
Three local days later, the 441st broke the People’s code and confirmed that the signals going into the Maron Region included requests for instructions.
The transmissions out were orders.
That gave Nowotny confirmation for the probable location for the People’s high command, which must include Star Risk.
In the interim, Star Risk itself had a break — or, more correctly, a solid analysis of data.
The People’s agents on Khazia had reported an increase in supplies being sent offworld.
The supplies were interesting — support items for various electronics, plus food and other items not commonly used by Alsaoud natives.
Star Risk found this interesting, and drew the obvious conclusion — that there was a new player in the game.
Grok began breadboarding circuitry, and installing what he’d rigged in Star Risk’s yacht, much to von Baldur’s displeasure as he saw rich real wood paneling and carpets being ripped out to be replaced by utilitarian plas and little wireless transmission points.
Nowotny decided he had enough for a strike.
A pair of Rasmussen’s best patrol boats were slaved to a light transport, and the ensuing lump sent on a jump out of the system, then a second blind jump to make sure they weren’t tracked, then a return to the navpoint just outside the Alsaoud System, close to the Maron Regions.
The transport that had carried the patrol boat crew members in relative comfort within range of the target was parked in an orbit well out of anyone’s way, after the crews were transferred back to their ships.
The patrol boats went in, jumping into the Maron Regions, then taking a high, looping orbit to where those commands had originated, which could only be the People’s High Command.
The ships were detected, and destroyers were launched against them, too late.
Each patrol boat launched a pair of heavy missiles, set to home on the command source.
Then they fled back to where the transport waited.
One of them made it; the other was tracked and destroyed by one of the People’s strike craft.
Radar picked up the incoming missiles, and launched countermissiles against them.
Only one was destroyed.
All three of the others impacted and blew up within half a kilometer of those outgoing transmissions.
The com channels blurped static, then went ominously silent.
Walter Nowotny was monitoring the mission, and for a brief moment, rejoiced that he — Cerberus — had finally rid themselves of that damned Star Risk.
But within hours, the command transmissions began once more, from another, unlocated spot within the Maron Regions.
Star Risk had tried to get the People to change — and keep on changing — their code and the com channels, but without success.
But at least they’d been able to convince the People’s leaders (such as they were in that fairly anarchic society) that all transmissions should be remoted.
So Rasmussen’s Raiders only blew up a quadrangle of ‘cast towers, and they were the last set of three.
Star Risk was also careful.
It would be their turn to strike next.
FIFTY
“What we have is an intelligence triumph,” Grok announced.
“Yeah?” M’chel asked, a bit suspiciously.
The team was gathered around the remains of a late meal.
“We have located the unit that was responsible for sending that missile after us,” he said.
“Very good,” Friedrich said. He poured wine for all of them.
“Not only do we know where it is — sitting out in deep space, just waiting for a hit,” Grok went on, “but we have a positive ID. It is the 441st Signal Intelligence Detachment.”
“Out-flipping-standing,” Goodnight said. “I call that good snooping.”
“Actually,” Jasmine said, a bit sheepishly, “once we found out where it was, it was simple to backtrack to the Alsaoud military post office handling its mail. And then to have one of the People’s agents down on Khazia bribe a clerk to give us a couple of pieces of their mail and descramble the cover on the address.”
Grok ducked his head, which the others decided meant he was sorry he’d been so boastful. Maybe.
“Still,” Riss said. “Very damned good.”
“So now it’s payback time,” Chas said, not quite licking his lips.
“Maybe,” Friedrich said, his voice suddenly gloomy. “And maybe not. The 441st. From where? Or, rather, belonging to whom?”
“The Alliance, of course,” Grok said. “Cerberus, as we’ve already concluded, has some friends in very high places.”
“Oh, hells,” von Baldur said.
“Why the piss-off?” Goodnight wondered.
“We aren’t going to hit any mainline Alliance unit,” M’chel said. “We’ve got enough troubles right now.”
“Why the hell not?” Goodnight asked.
“Because, my simpleminded friend,” Riss said, “if we go blow up these electric spooks, we’re on the Alliance’s shit list. And it won’t matter if we use cutouts for the operation — frigging Cerberus will make sure the tail is pinned to the donkey, whatever the hell a donkey is.”
“They will hunt us after that,” von Baldur agreed.
“So?” Goodnight wondered. “I’ve been on the Alliance’s hot list for a while now, and I’m still footloose and fancy free.”
“You’re one man, with only what, a lou
sy murder rap on you?” Riss said patiently. “There’s five of us — and putting a whole unit blippo will make us a lot hotter than you’ve ever thought of being.”
Goodnight glowered around at the other four.
Grok also didn’t seem worried by the prospect of Alliance revenge. He bared his fangs at the others and emitted what he thought was a disgusted growl. It merely sounded homicidal.
“So now we’ve got this hot skinny — and there’s zip-burp we can do with it?” Goodnight said. “We’re just gonna duck and cover?”
“Not forever,” von Baldur said. “But we are certainly not going to do a death ride of the battle cruisers against this 441st until we can clarify matters somewhat. And a little generic hammering might be in order.”
Goodnight worked his lips and suddenly stood.
“This is about a royal piss-off,” he announced. “Just beating up the nearest bad guy around isn’t going to relieve my high blood pressure. If there’s nothing we’re going to do but sit and wait for Cerberus to try again, I’m going to do something.”
“Such as?” M’chel asked.
“I’m going to kill me a Walter Nowotny.”
FIFTY-ONE
So, while Chas Goodnight vanished into obscurity for a time, or so he hoped, together with a goodly assortment of tools of mayhem, the rest of Star Risk went looking for some blood and thunder.
It didn’t take long to find it.
The People’s always-anarchic High Command, for want of a weaker word, decided it was time to take the war home to the Alsaoud.
After a great deal of back-and-forthing, the People decided to level the planet of Mardite, the fourth world of the system, from the air. All spaceships and aircraft would be blown out of the skies or destroyed at their fields, and all known government institutions would be obliterated. The People intended no particular harm to the civilians of Alsaoud, but if they happened to get in the way … life was tough.
Naturally, the People’s plans had to be discussed at great length by everyone from squadron commanders to ship commanders to engine room wipers, a fair percentage of them freelancers.
Equally naturally, the existence of these plans leaked like a sieve.
Even more naturally, Star Risk — or rather, Grok and Jasmine — learned that Alsaoud, which meant Cerberus, was most familiar with the People’s schemes.
Suggestions that their beautifully laid, if a little roundheeled, strategy should be aborted were sneered at by the People.
“Oh well. That at least should give us an opportunity to wreak a little havoc,” von Baldur said. “And perhaps suggest to our friends that sometimes papa knows best.”
“I assume you have some sort of scheme afoot,” Redon Spada said. “How will we keep Cerberus from learning about that, too, when the People blab it all over hell’s landscape?”
“Very simple,” M’chel said, smugly, having figured out von Baldur’s intent. “We just won’t tell them.”
And so it was.
Spada put the mercenaries Star Risk had hired on Boyington on alert. He’d asked Jasmine if she felt competent to pilot her own ship on the raid, but she hid a shudder, remembering the not very distant past and politely told him “Not yet.” She’d rather ride along as Grok’s copilot.
Spada also arranged for missile packets to be prepared for each of their ships. These were five heavy shipkillers linked to a sixth, which had its warhead stripped away for a slave repeater controlled by Star Risk.
Star Risk and company then went out, well before the People were mobilized, and parked themselves in a high ecliptic above the target world of Mardite.
Waiting, for M’chel, wasn’t quite as bad as usual. The patrol ship Spada had given her was smaller than the normal transport, but the skeleton crew kept away from the bridge, after having been growled at a few times.
She tried to keep her mind occupied with the new edition of Trans-Reimann Equations, but her eyes kept drifting to the radar repeater that showed nothing unusual. Half a dozen times she wanted to summon her electronics tech and make sure the radar wasn’t broken, but she managed to restrain herself.
But at last the time came, and a motley of the People’s warships blipped into existence off Mardite.
With a sigh of relief, she brought her crew to General Quarters — not much more than a formality — and notified Spada’s ship. Von Baldur had thought he should lead the company, but restrained his ego, knowing Spada was infinitely more experienced in space, particularly when it came to small unit actions.
The People formed themselves into waves and closed on Mardite, clearly paying no attention to anything other than their fellows and the planet they were going to hammer.
It was long seconds before any of the People saw the nearly two dozen warships, Rasmussen’s Raiders, as they came out of hyperspace and went instantly on the attack.
Then the com was a yammer of alarm, and space became a swirl of fighting ships.
“Tallyho, and all that rot,” came Spada’s calm voice, and Star Risk dropped down, Riss thought, not remembering where the hell the phrase came from, like the Assyrian on the fold.
Rasmussen’s crewmen weren’t much more alert to nonessentials than the People, and so Star Risk, holding a very loose formation, was almost within launch range before the alarm was given.
It was a multilayer sandwich: First Mardite, then, just out-atmosphere, the People, then beyond them Rasmussen’s Raiders, then as a thin top crust, Star Risk, its bundled missiles hounding along obediently.
Riss remembered to keep auxiliary screens on, and a spare eye on them, so she suddenly didn’t become another layer in the sandwich if some other enemies materialized.
“All units,” Spada ordered. “Missile homing units on. Launch in fifteen seconds … five, four, three, two, turn ‘em loose.”
On command, the missile bundles unbundled, and each missile acquired and locked on a target.
Techs had installed safety circuitry, so the missiles ignored any ship ‘casting on the People’s standard Identification Friend or Foe circuitry, scattered and went for Rasmussen’s ships.
What had been a melee became a blanket of explosions, hits and near misses.
Rasmussen’s unit was doubly decimated.
M’chel looked at the momentary balls of flame and smoke on a real-time screen. She should have rejoiced at a remarkable slaughter, but was thinking what a particularly nasty death breathing space was if it didn’t come quickly.
“Let us go on home, troops,” von Baldur ‘cast, “and prepare snooks to be cast at our allies.”
Riss obeyed the command.
She felt no particular sense of wild victory. She decided that automated battle wasn’t her style — and, anyway, generic hammering wasn’t very satisfactory.
FIFTY-TWO
Chas Goodnight was not a man who believed in overwork, particularly when it came to dirty deeds.
Assassinating almost anyone isn’t a terribly difficult job, even the most carefully guarded. The problem comes if the assassinator has the slightest interest in living in freedom after his or her gun goes bang.
Goodnight wasn’t a strong believer in one-way trips, and had decided long before that he made a rotten fanatic.
He had himself inserted onto Khazia by a fairly reliable agent, broke contact with the agent’s network, and went to ground. He stayed in the People’s ghetto even though people might talk, since he figured that was somewhat safer than trying to innocently swim among the Alsaoud as one of them.
He had a full evaluation of the palace, which now included Nowotny’s quarters. His first plan was the easy one, just using a large bang. But a variant of that had been done before, and if it failed Cerberus would certainly know a plot was in the works.
Besides, Goodnight valued a bit of subtlety when he got bloody-handed.
The palace was, of course, constantly hiring people in various categories.
The best, for his purposes, would be in the security division.
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Goodnight slightly darkened his skin, enough that he could pass for an Alsaoud, and applied for a job.
But Cerberus had that rather well covered — a new hire would spend some time in outlying areas before being trusted in the heart of the great mansion.
Also, at least initially, he would be paired with a more experienced guard.
Chas didn’t have time to spare, so he looked at other openings.
He found one as a kitchen scullery type, figuring that no one would be interested in a pot-walloper.
He was right — no one was, particularly since the shift supervisor made sure none of the scut-workers got out of the kitchen, even on a break.
Three shifts of being the low man in the kitchen, and becoming most familiar with arcane kitchen tasks like cleaning the grease trap and polishing steam tables, and he moved on. If he’d wanted a career like that, he could have stayed with the Alliance.
Goodnight thought of another method that he’d used with great success on other worlds — to leave the Alsaoud System, apply for work as a mercenary, reenter the system, and then start being nefarious.
He used the rather exotic com he’d brought with him, which bounced both outgoing and incoming signals through several relay points, to have Jasmine check on the possibilities of that plan.
There really weren’t any — Cerberus was tightly screening applicants for any job that sounded like it would get near the palace, and Goodnight wasn’t about to join Rasmussen’s now somewhat humbled Raiders and bash a square.
Very well, he decided. If I can’t do it up close, I’ll do it from a distance. Even though he wasn’t a huge fan of long-range touches, he didn’t consider himself too proud for that option.
The problem there was that Walter Nowotny damned near didn’t go out of the palace. When he did, it was to duck into a heavily guarded craft and vanish into the stratosphere, together with a lot of escort ships.
Chas Goodnight was starting to get irked, and understand why the whispery-voiced bastard had lived so long.
He decided, most reluctantly, to go for the obvious, and so he set up a missile and a control station a kilometer away.
