by Chris Bunch
FOUR
“How about this?” Friedrich von Baldur asked, peering at the screen of the archaic computer he’d managed to acquire somewhere. Also scrounged were the two camp chairs and table set up in the office lobby. At least they’d found the money to have a vid installed in Baldur’s office/bedroom.
“ ‘COVERT ADVISORS needed. Growing, progressive system, troubled with internal and external troublemakers, urgently needs specialists to organize, lead its special operations. Lehigh is a — ’ ”
“Forget that,” M’chel Riss interrupted. “Lehigh’s been looking for advisors for years. What they want is someone to organize their death squads for them.”
“As long as I am not the one murdering the widows and orphans,” Baldur said, “I have little trouble sleeping at night.”
“I do,” Riss said. “But that’s not the point. They came to the Alliance Marines, with the approval of the Alliance, when I was still aboard, wanting advisors, promising they’d join the Alliance as soon as their government stabilized. We sent out a survey team, and a friend of mine was on it. She came back shaking her head, saying there’s at least six factions, all playing against the middle, and nobody necessarily knows who’s really on whose side.
“First they try to subvert you; then, if you don’t subvert, you’re on the kill list.”
“As you said, forget that,” Baldur said. “Pity. They even claim to offer a health fund, and I would like to get a varicose vein or two removed.”
“Keep looking,” Riss advised. “Somebody out there’s got to be an honest sort needing thugs. Or,” she added, thinking of just how low Star Risk’s resources were, “semihonest will fly at this point.”
The door opened, and a woman came in. Both Baldur and Riss looked at her, and blinked.
M’chel Riss had, as all beautiful women do and deny, realized at a very young age that she was beautiful.
But this woman was beyond beautiful.
She was about four centimeters shorter than Riss, had gently curling dark hair with golden tints, around a face that could have launched a thousand starships, blue eyes, and a perfect figure.
Riss thought about hating her.
“Welcome to Star Risk,” Baldur said, and introduced them. “Forgive our lack of amenities, but the press of events — ”
“I’m Jasmine King,” the woman said, and Riss thought even her damned voice was perfect. “And I’m well aware of your financial precariousness.”
“Oh,” Baldur said.
“I’m interested in applying for a job,” King said.
“Uh, forgive my slowness,” M’chel said. “But if you know how broke we are, you’ve got to be aware your paycheck would most likely bounce. I assume you work for high credits.”
“True,” King said. “But I have a personal reason for wanting to work for you.”
“In what capacity, if I may inquire?” Baldur asked.
“Office manager and research specialist,” King said.
“We certainly don’t have much of an office to manage,” Riss said. “But we hope to. And what’s this personal reason, if I may inquire?”
“Until yesterday, I was the head of Cerberus Systems’ research department.”
Both Riss and Baldur reacted in surprise and some degree of suspicion.
“You’ll forgive my skepticism,” Baldur said. “But Cerberus has the reputation of being tough in their practices, willing to do just about anything to keep prospective competitors from competing.”
“That’s correct,” King added. “Up to and including false lawsuits or bombs over the transom.”
“I think what Freddie’s trying to say,” Riss said, “is how do we know you’re not a spy … or a wrecker?”
“You don’t,” King said. “But why don’t one of you check my resumé with them? Don’t claim to be anything in the way of a security service.
“Maybe a library.” She opened a small purse, took out a fiche.
“Here is a copy of my personnel record I stole before leaving. Check what the head of Human Resources at Cerberus has to say against it. Their vid address, here on Trimalchio, is — ”
“I shall look it up,” Baldur said.
“Good,” King said. “It’s too easy for someone to give a false number, and have a henchman at the other end feed you exactly what that person wants to be said.”
Baldur looked at her carefully. “You have worked for Cerberus.”
King smiled placidly. Baldur, intrigued, started for his office and the vid.
“Wait,” M’chel said. “One question you didn’t answer. If you work for top credits, how do you expect to get paid by us?”
“I can defer my salary until the credits are there,” King said. “I have sufficient resources for a year or more.” She smiled slightly. “Don’t think I’m an altruist. When the time is ripe, you’ll think your accounts have been struck by a tornado.”
M’chel grinned.
“Go ahead and check her,” she said. “Now I’m getting curious, too.”
Baldur went into his office, closed the door.
M’chel and Jasmine looked at each other. For some reason, Riss didn’t find the silence uncomfortable.
“A researcher? In what field?”
“Anything that seems important to my employer.”
“Do you think you’re an expert at anything?”
“Oh, I could say, ‘Riss, M’chel.’ Or ‘von Baldur, Friedrich.’ ”
King reeled off the high points of Riss’s service record.
“Great gods!” Riss said. “I don’t know if I like anybody knowing some of that. Let alone how you managed to find things out. I thought military records were sealed from the general public. Or is Cerberus that much in bed with the Alliance?”
“Not at all,” King said. “I discovered all that on my own when I decided I’d like to work for you.”
“You’re that good?”
“I’m that good,” King said, not bragging, but stating a fact. “And that quick, too. I have a lot of interesting friends in interesting places who don’t mind telling me things.”
• • •
Riss took a minute to recover, then: “There’s other security firms … mercenary companies. Why us?”
King smiled. “I want to be in at the beginning of things. There’s always more excitement at the start of an affair than in its middle.”
“True,” Riss said. “What about my partner?”
“Baldur, Friedrich von Baldur. Real name, Mital Rafenger. Claims to be in his fifties, actual age sixty-two E-years. Born — ”
“Skip ahead to the service record,” Riss said, holding back laughter. Mital Rafenger, indeed.
“Claims to be a retired admiral, Alliance Navy, with twenty-five years service. Actually, was a Warrant Officer, Fourth Grade, fourteen years of service. Retired and I quote, ‘for the good of the service.’ Unverified information suggests Baldur left the military shortly ahead of a court-martial, on charges of misappropriation of government property, alteration of government records, suborning government officials.”
“That figures,” Riss said. “What about his talents?”
“Claims to be familiar with most Alliance and civilian standard spacecraft. That is true. Claims to have martial arts skills. That is — ”
“Also true,” Riss said. She’d sparred with Baldur, and, in spite of his age, the man could beat her two out of three times.
“Never married, no known children, no fixed address. Do you want further details?” King asked.
“I don’t think they’ll be needed.”
Baldur came out of his office.
“Mercy, but the plot does thicken. You were right, Miss King. The Resources Director at Cerberus says you only worked there two years, as opposed to the eight years on your record, that you were never more than a minor clerk, that you were discharged for laziness and inability to perform.
“Makes me wonder about all of those glowing letters of commendation in
the file.”
“They are trying to keep me from finding any work at all,” Jasmine said, trying to keep her voice even. “They want me to crawl back to them.”
“I can see why you want to break it off with them now,” M’chel said. “But what started, if you’ll forgive the vulgarity, the pissing match?”
“They informed me that they were no longer willing to pay me, and that I was the property of Cerberus Systems,” King said.
“Property!” Riss said. “Now they’re slavers, as well?”
“No,” King said. “They claim that I’m a robot.” Riss kept from jumping.
“Nobody that I know of can build a robot that’s as much people as you look!”
“That’s what I told them,” King said. “But they refused to believe me. One of their vice presidents said he thought I was of alien construct, meant to infiltrate human society.
“I’m afraid I started crying,” King said. “I should have cursed him, or hit him, or something.”
Blinking rapidly, she looked out a window, breathing deeply. She found control.
“What about your medical records?” Riss asked. “Couldn’t they just check them?”
“That … and other things …” King said, a bit primly, “are things I take care of myself, and don’t give out to anyone, least of all my employers. I’m a firm believer in privacy.”
“I’d think … Cerberus being what I’ve heard it is,” Riss said, “they could’ve set up a hidden X ray or something.”
“For some reason I can’t fathom,” King said, “X rays don’t seem to work on me. I guess it’s a peculiarity of the world I come from, or something.”
“There goes our health plan,” M’chel murmured. “Assuming we can ever afford one.”
“I think this whole subject is absurd,” Baldur said. “But … I do not mean to be rude, are you a robot?”
King looked at him, a touch haughtily.
“Now, if I was, and willing to lie about it to Cerberus, wouldn’t I be willing to lie to you as well?”
“Conceded,” Baldur said. “M’chel, if you’d step into my office for a moment?”
Riss followed him.
“Well?”
“I don’t give a damn if she’s a ‘bot from Planet Octopus, with a pocket nuke in her purse and evil intent,” Riss said. “She surely knows her stuff.”
“And we could well use a good … I think the term used to be ‘gumshoe,’ couldn’t we?”
“We could. So let’s not keep the poor woman waiting,” Riss said, and they went back out.
“Welcome to Star Risk, limited,” Riss said.
Jasmine King grinned, and then it appeared as if she was about to cry again.
That settled matters for Riss.
Robots couldn’t cry.
Could they?
Riss was making a list up of old Marine colleagues, intending, forlornly, to drop them a line and ask if they knew of any free-lance militarying, when both doors opened, and a being entered.
He needed both doors, for he was very large.
M’chel guessed his height at two and a half meters, width at a meter, weight at maybe four hundred kilos-plus. He was covered with long, silky fur, had long, delicate fingers, six to a hand, plus thumb. He was proportioned like a man, not an ape, and had a humanoid number of arms and legs.
His face was like that of a thoughtful Earth lemur, but in proportion to his size.
He wore sandals, a pouched belt, and, most incongruously, a black-and-white tam.
She blinked, and managed, “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” the being said, in an attractive, accentless bass. “I am Amanandrala Grookonomonslf. I seek Jasmine King.”
“I’ll see if she’s here,” Riss said, having no idea what business this heavy equipment hauler wanted.
Jasmine burst into the room, squealed “Grok!” and flung herself into his arms.
“You are as pretty and ageless as ever,” the being said gravely.
“And you are a gentlebeing as always,” Jasmine returned, coming out of his arms. “M’chel, this is Grok. You do not have to use his full name, not ever.”
“Especially since the Basic version of my name is not that close to being correct,” the monster said.
“Delighted,” M’chel said, very grateful that the Marines had sent her on more than a few missions to alien cultures, so she was used to nonhumanoids.
“I got your message,” Grok said to Jasmine, “and am only too delighted to offer my assistance.”
“You’re not a client,” M’chel said.
“I detect disappointment,” Grok said. “No. I am no more than an ex-service person, currently looking for a bit of excitement.”
“Grok was in the Alliance Army for about eight years,” Jasmine explained. “He is a specialist in communications, SigInt, surveillance, and other specialties. He left the service because … you tell them.”
“I suppose I should be ashamed of my tastes,” Grok rumbled. “But every now and then I like a good dustup, as I think you call it.
“My own worlds generally prefer the calm of philosophy, although I maintain philosophy without action is like, forgive me, masturbation without a climax.”
“You don’t offend,” M’chel said, grinning. “If I were educated, I might agree with you.”
“I met Grok when he was hired as a contract agent for Cerberus,” Jasmine said. “The experience was not a good one for him.”
“You speak in understatement. Cerberus not only is a very slow-paying employer, but if matters become serious, as they did in my particular case, they’re quite willing to disavow their employees.
“I might do that myself, being a professional. But I would not lie to my agents in the beginning and tell them I am behind them one hundred percent.”
“Cerberus is always behind their agents,” Jasmine said. “Far, far behind, or else ready to give them a push.”
“Now, Jasmine. Learn to put bitterness behind you,” Grok said. “Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.”
“Sorry.”
“At the moment,” Riss said, “we unfortunately don’t have any open assignments.”
“So I was advised. But Jasmine also told me that you might be open to investors.”
“Oh?” M’chel was very casual, considering how little money a soldier would be likely to save. “The company head, Mr. von Baldur, is out at the moment, and you’d have to discuss the matter with him.
“But I’m a partner as well. Might I inquire as to the amount you might be interested in investing?”
“Perhaps … half a million credits.”
Again, M’chel swore at her inability to keep a deadpan face.
“That’s a considerable amount,” she managed.
“I am aware of that,” Grok said. “And I also expect I should offer an explanation.
“In addition to my other skills, I consider myself good at what you humans call a game of chance.
“Quite good, indeed,” he said thoughtfully.
“Half a million,” Riss said, in a bit of a daze.
“Just so,” Grok said.
“I think Mr. Baldur would be very, very interested in you joining us,” M’chel said.
Grok made a noise that Riss took as approval and happiness. Or something like those feelings.
“Now are our immediate financial woes out of the way?” Jasmine said, grinning.
“I should think so.”
“Now,” King said briskly, “all we need is a job.”
FIVE
The man eased open the door stenciled: TRANSKOOTENAY MINING. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He propped the door open, and eased an antigravity ore carrier, about the size of a wheelbarrow, through.
The ore processing plant was almost wholly automated. The few people Transkootenay needed to run it worked only a “day” shift, since not enough ore was coming in to the asteroid outstation to warrant an around-the-clock crew.
There was no
ore on the belt, but the machinery hummed in quiet readiness.
The man floated the carrier to the loading bay, and dumped the carrier’s cargo, a single boulder, in.
He muttered at all the extra work he’d gone to, camouflaging the charges inside the boulder, acquiring a genuine mining ship to reach the plant looking innocent, disguising himself in a miner’s suit, even providing himself with false ID.
None of which was necessary. Transkootenay’s security was nonexistent.
He decided they were, in the old phrase, too dumb to live.
That made him grin.
The way things were going out here, they wouldn’t for very much longer. Tough for them.
The man took a small box from his belt, went into the small operating room.
He positioned the box over a large, red switch, and turned the timer on.
Being a careful sort, he took out a plas sheet, and, even though he’d memorized his instructions, went through the checklist as he brought the processing plant up to ready state.
Then he started the timer, went out of the room, and the plant.
There was a watchman at the entrance to the field, snoring in his booth. But there were no fences around the prefab building, nor around the two barracks, one hundred meters distant.
The man threaded his way to his stolen ship, boarded, and lifted away on antigravs. One hundred meters clear of the rocky field, he went to secondary drive, watching the planetoid dwindle in his screen.
Forty-five minutes later, the timer clicked to zero, and the processor hummed into life.
The watchman woke with a jerk, feeling the vibration in his hut.
He sealed his suit, and cycled the hut’s lock, awkwardly loading his blaster, as the processing plant fed the “boulder” into the crusher, which sized the rock, and hammers came down to break the boulder into chunks.
The first crash was buried under the slam of the explosives in the boulder, as they, fused with a pressure-sensitive device, went off.
The explosion could be seen fifty kilometers in space, as the processing plant fused, melted, tore itself apart.
The watchman, surprisingly, had been alert enough to go flat when the plant blew up, and survived, although he had nothing at all to report to Transkootenay system officials when they arrived from Sheol half a ship-day later.
