by Chris Bunch
“One second, boss. Plotting … jumping …”
Baldur’s stomach swam a little as “real” space surrounded them, then vanished again.
Computers hummed, recording the data from the tiny satellite dropped by Spada.
“I got a visual,” Lopez said. “Looks like one, maybe two hits on that big plug.”
“By George, I think we done it,” Spada said, and Bladur wasn’t sure he could detect any excitement, even now.
“Running the ‘corder from the telltale,” the weapons officer said. “Yep. Big flash down by the drive section, and something, not as big a bang, amidships. I’d call the sucker wounded in action and whining.”
“Looks like,” Spada said. “I think we can curl up with our blankies in the knowledge we put that bastard out of action for a little while at least.”
“Not to mention,” Grok said to Baldur, “we’ve got logs on what frequencies they use, and maybe enough transmissions to break whatever code they’re using.”
“Quite a good day for the heroes,” Baldur said comfortably. “Quite a good day indeed.”
“Indeed,” Grok said. “Now, I’ll make sure our young hero is in motion to where he’s supposed to be going, and, if so, this will indeed be the best of all possible worlds.”
TWENTY-SIX
Seth V was a small world that might have been attractive if it ever stopped raining. But it seemed it never did, offering an endless variation of water down the back of your neck from torrential to misting.
If the sun had ever come out, which as far as Chas Goodnight knew, hadn’t happened in the week he’d been frowsting about waiting for something to happen, the brightly painted houses along the twisting canals of the capital might have made it a tourist attraction, and the scattered islands of the southern hemisphere might have been destination resorts.
But that didn’t happen.
And so Seth made its money from light manufacturing, electronics subassemblies, and farming. And mercenaries.
It was a very big business for the planet, and they knew it.
One entire district of the capital, Trygve, where the police went in four-man teams, wearing combat gear, was set aside for the whores of war, and their customers.
A client could hire one tawdry hard case as a bodyguard, or put together a battalion-sized combat team, plus any and all of their gear.
If Boyington was the place to hire pilots, Seth was a good place to fill out the rest of an army. It tended to cater to human or humanoids. There were other places to pick up soldiers who didn’t mind breathing silicone.
During daylight hours, the district appeared almost normal, although there were clues, such as too many bars, surplus stores and, in common with every town outside every military base in history, pawnshops.
The restaurants were most exotic, offering fares from as many worlds as man had soldiered on for the past two hundred years and more.
Chas Goodnight nursed a cup of tea in one of them. It had a counter, four tables on the other side of a divider, and he was the only customer.
On arrival, he’d taken out one of the small batteries he had for his bester function, and used a pinhead to trigger a small switch. That turned the battery into a tiny transponder, sending a signal to his tracker, hopefully Grok, since he was the electronics expert.
Goodnight guessed Grok or someone from Star Risk was lurking on Seth V, because the switch had turned itself off after two days, hopefully signifying his position was transmitted.
The proprietor came past with a bottle, motioned it at Goodnight’s cup.
“No thanks, Ygort,” Goodnight said. “I’m watching the budget.”
“Do not worry, Mr. Atherton,” the man said. “Someone come with money soon.”
“I hope so. Otherwise I’ll have to go to work washing dishes for you in another couple of weeks.”
“You make joke,” the man said, without a smile. “Very funny.”
The door opened, and a stocky man with constantly flickering eyes slid in, let the door close silently behind him. He saw Goodnight, sat down at the counter beside him.
“How’s it going, Maffer?” Goodnight asked.
Hal Matter’s career was a bit hard to describe. He was a contact man for the free-lancers, trying to get a commission from both sides of a deal. Some swore he was slightly richer than God; others thought he was no better than a hand-to-mouth pimp.
“All right for me,” Maffer sad. “Not so good for you.”
“What’s the problem?” Goodnight asked, artistically putting just a bit of a whine into his voice. “I give you where I want to work. I’m sure as hell got more skills than any of the pooptitties he … or she’s liable to find here, and you can’t hook me up?”
Maffer gestured at the café proprietor, who came over with the bottle.
“You staying clean by choice?” he asked Goodnight.
“Hell no.”
“I’m paying,” Maffer said, and Ygort took a glass from under the counter, half-filled it, poured into Goodnight’s cup.
“You want water or ice?” Ygort asked.
“Why? Cold enough out already, and I took a bath this month,” Maffer said.
“So what’s the problem?” Goodnight asked again.
“I could put it one way, and say you’re over qualified,” Maffer said.
“So what?” Goodnight said. “I heard somebody’s hiring over to the Foley System, and I need to lay low for a while.”
“Yeah,” Maffer said. “The client went and checked back on you, and they would like to talk to you back on Puchert.
“Lemme put it another way,” he said, draining about half his glass. “The client thinks you’re working deep cover for the Alliance, like as not.”
“What?” Goodnight pretended outrage. “I been running guns for years, and a deal goes wrong, and I’m still supposed to be doing spookery?
“Bullshit, batshit and meshit.
“Jesus, I wish I hadn’t heard good things about this Foley deal, not to mention my gut feel it’s going to get better. You aren’t helping since you say there aren’t a lot of quality jobs going these days, where you actually might not have to throw down on the client to get paid.”
“Come on, Raff, don’t pull my pud,” Maffer said. “I know, and you sure as hell know, the Alliance has had you besters pull all kinds of shit for your cover.”
Goodnight buried a smile. Maffer was right.
“So I’m supposed to just sit there, rusting, running out of money, or until and if those pootlebrains back on Puchert track me down … and I don’t have any idea what kind of extradition agreement Seth has got with anybody.”
“Not much of one,” Maffer said. “But you could end up stuck and broke. You got anything else I could use to satisfy the client about your credentials?”
“Shit no,” Goodnight grumbled. “What do I got to do to make him … her … think I’m a proper scumbucket? Rape a granny? Sell dope to schoolkids? Bugger my dad?”
“You’re thinking in the right direction, my friend. Definitely the right direction.”
• • •
It occupied three offices in a nondescript, very modern office building in one of Trygve’s outlying business districts.
The offices had a small sign: ALLIANCE PLANETARY LIAISON. A truly suspicious mind might have wondered why these offices were kilometers away from the Alliance consul.
Chas Goodnight had a truly suspicious mind.
It was about time, he thought, for APL to change its name, since there must be more people than just Goodnight who knew the Liaison was one of the many covers for Alliance Intelligence.
It was near midnight, and he trundled down the building’s corridor, towing an antigrav lift with brooms, mops, and other cleaning tools. Goodnight wore coveralls with MAINTENANCE SERVICES stitched on the back.
He knew no one ever looked at a janitor, let alone remembered one. The sleepy guard at the desk on the ground floor had barely glanced at him when he sig
ned in.
The Liaison offices were locked, and Goodnight took a few seconds to make sure no one was inside, working late.
He still had a few scruples left, after all.
Goodnight turned the power on the lifter off outside the door, reached under the top tray, and flicked an old-fashioned switch. He still didn’t entirely trust pressure sensors that, he felt, could flip back the other way or do other strange things. The solid click was a reassurance to him.
He went back down to the lift unhurriedly. He had plenty of time.
Goodnight had a bit of luck — the security desk wasn’t manned. The guard must’ve gone to use the facilities, or out for a beer.
Goodnight didn’t care.
He went out to where his stolen, small cargo lifter was parked.
Goodnight took off, and followed the traffic signs for a few blocks, then climbed into one of the high-speed lanes.
It was raining heavily.
Goodnight flew to a low knoll he’d picked out a day earlier, grounded the lifter.
He should have ditched the rig and walked back to his hotel, but Goodnight liked to see the results of his craftsmanship.
They came in half an hour.
He’d gotten a pair of stabilized binocs from the glove box, and was patiently watching the business district.
The building he’d left bucked, and flames seared out. The blast wave reached him less than a minute later.
Chas Goodnight reached over his shoulder, and patted himself on the back.
Certainly nobody else was there to do it. So now it was time to turn his transponder back on.
• • •
“Hell of a way you take to prove yourself,” Hal Maffer complained.
Goodnight shrugged.
“Goddamned Alliance’ll probably have a dozen investigators sniffing around, which isn’t good for business.”
“Life’s rough all around,” Goodnight said, unworried. He had never been impressed with the Alliance’s gumshoes. “So what’d the client say?”
“First was ‘Holy friggin’ shit,’ ” Maffer said. “Then he said that all besters are crazy, but there’s never been one crazy enough to blow up one of his own offices.
“He’s convinced all over the place that you’re genuine.
“Man, that office must’ve had all the records on every Alliance troopie that’s come through in the past ten years looking for free-lance work.”
“And I don’t notice any of them offering to buy me a beer,” Goodnight said.
“You think anybody’s talking about what happened?” Maffer said. “I sure as hell ain’t.”
“You’re a good little clam,” Goodnight said.
“Yeah,” Maffer said. “Now, here’s the address for the guy who’s hiring for the Foley System. Get over to him by yesterday.
“He’ll have you out of the system in a day or so, which is none too soon for me.
“You could get in trouble, hanging around with you, Atherton.”
“I never have,” Goodnight said gravely. “Always found me the best of company, too.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Ah,” Grok said in satisfaction. “He is on the move.” He looked at one of the screens on Patrol Six. “Moving our way, which would suggest that he’s passed his testing, has been hired, and is now headed offworld.”
“Do you want me to turn off the transponder?” his pilot asked.
“No,” Grok said. “When he hits the port, and we track him to a ship, and you put a tracer on it, yes.
“Murgatroyd is just professional, and suspicious, enough to sweep their new hires.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
There were only seven “recruits” on the ship, a small, obsolete Alliance destroyer escort converted to a fast transport. Goodnight was familiar with the type, since it was frequently used to insert and extract covert operators.
It would have about a fifteen-man crew, maybe twelve if it was skeletonized. Twelve people to carry seven around, Goodnight thought. That wouldn’t be profitable from the perspective of someone running a typical crooked operation. Murgatroyd must be thinking like someone who’s already very rich. Or someone who’s got government experience. Which was one of the questions Star Risk had, and one of the reasons he was here, playing mercenary rogue.
Of the other six men and women who’d joined on Seth V, Goodnight classified one as a bully; one as a budding toady; two who, with their quiet calmness were clearly experienced soldiers; and the other two were wistful wannabees, who might have gotten some drill and war-gaming experience with a territorial unit somewhere.
They were issued black ship’s coveralls, boots, by one of the crew, and were told they’d get the rest of their gear when they reached “base.”
Goodnight noted the crewman wore an identical shipsuit, without patches. If this operation was being run by someone — Cerberus Systems, some other system looking to horn in on the Foley System’s goodies, who knows — they’d sanitized everything in sight.
Goodnight was glad one of the newbies asked where this “base” was, to be cut off with an abrupt, “You don’t need to know that, troopie.” It was a question that might have been answered, and he didn’t fancy exposing himself to anyone by asking it.
Goodnight found a bunk away from the others in the forty-person troop compartment, and settled in for a long doze, which he planned to interrupt only for mess call and the head. Goodnight had made many interstellar passages before, and knew they were either scary, or a deadly bore.
He was arranging his erotic daydreams when the bully growled in his ear.
Goodnight sat up.
“What do you want?”
“I think,” the woman said, “we ought to organize.”
“Why?”
“So we don’t get pushed around.”
“Listen, stupid,” Goodnight said. “You took the job, right? If you didn’t want to get pushed around, you could have stayed groundside, stroking your yingle until you ran out of credits and the local heat put you on some road gang in the rain.”
“I ain’t stupid.”
“Yes, you are,” Goodnight said. He could have been more polite, but he didn’t have the patience.
Besides, he needed some exercise, and had the feeling himself that he’d been manipulated more than he liked lately.
Instead of lying back down, he slid down from his bunk to the deck.
The prospective bully lifted her hands into a martial arts stance.
Goodnight’s foot was already moving, snapping forward into the woman’s gut.
She screeched, stumbled back.
Goodnight spun-kicked her feet our from under her, let her thud to the deck. When she tried to push herself up, he kicked her arms out from under her, and dropped, knees first, onto her back.
Air whuffed out, and she threw up.
“Disgusting,” Goodnight said. “Now, I’m going to get up, and leave you in your own puke. When you feel better, I want you to clean up your mess.
“After that, you can leave me the hell alone. Pick on somebody your own size.”
The woman managed a nod.
Chas Goodnight clambered back into his bunk, and decided he would think about Jasmine King. In his dream, she’d be admiring and most cooperative.
Then a better thought came. Murgatroyd could be a woman, couldn’t she?
If so, she didn’t have to be some middle-aged skank with frizzed hair, did she? She could be young, rich, and somewhat oversexed, couldn’t she?
Chas Goodnight wouldn’t mind doing his snooping about in a harem, he thought. He’d never been in one, wondered what it would be like.
Especially if said harem featured female attendants. No, not attendants. Samplers, to report to Murgatroyd the quality of a man’s wares.
Goodnight smiled, closed his eyes.
TWENTY-NINE
“What I’ve got,” Jasmine King said, “is something. Unless it’s nothing.”
“How informative,” Riss said.
“Let’s hope it’s something, so I can get my heinie off this damned Boop-Boop-A-Doop and get in some folk’s faces. Waiting for Goodnight to end up somewhere … and Grok tell us where … is getting elderly.”
“Calm yourself,” Baldur said. “No one wants to go riding off wildly in all directions.”
Riss sighed. “Go ahead, Jasmine.”
“I’ve got some interesting theories on where Murgatroyd might be based,” King said. “That cruiser made me start thinking, as I said.
“Warships — big warships — need bases, maintenance yards, machine shops and all that. It’s almost impossible to keep one functioning without some serious backup.
“Which means I don’t see how Murgatroyd can have his base in the asteroid belt. Some nosy miner or one of our patrol ships would’ve spotted it.
“So we’re left with out-system, or within the Foley worlds. Out-system would be the simplest for Murgatroyd to maintain, but there aren’t any systems particularly close to us. Still, that’s a maybe. I hope Grok and Chas clarify that problem.
“I took a look at the possibilities in-system. I came up with, I hope, an approach that would keep me from years of looking at satellite photos.
“I also put a limit on my search, not considering either Welf, since it’s almost uninhabitable, or the three outer worlds.
“It seems that, about thirty years ago, Glace was in some disagreement with another system. Fearing war, they built quite a few bases. The diplomats made a settlement, so the guns never came out, and the bases were abandoned.”
“Ah,” Riss said, getting it.
“Exactly,” Jasmine said. “What would be simpler than taking over an abandoned base somewhere? Especially if the base happened to not have any neighbors.
“There are … were … three or four bases, mostly intended for Early Warning, on satellites of the outer worlds. I haven’t been able to find a location on them yet, but I’m still looking.
“Which is very interesting, in itself, almost like there’s somebody shortstopping all data connected with those bases.” Jasmine slumped. “And here I used to pride myself that I could find anything.
