by Chris Bunch
“There’s no justice in this world,” he concluded, then looked at Grok. “And that’s the kind of thing you’ve dumped us into for a lousy mil and burial expenses.”
“Sometimes I wish,” Riss said forlornly, “Star Risk didn’t have this tradition of never refusing an assignment unless we don’t get paid or the client’s lied to us more than acceptably. Who made that idiot policy, anyway?”
“I think,” Friedrich said, “it was you, m’dear.”
THREE
The madhouse started at Warick’s main spaceport. Fans from Cheslea were cascading off chartered transports, arriving in every shape from unconscious and on stretchers to hungover and fighting to sober and looking for a drink.
The five Star Risk operatives came in on a standard liner, and were able to grab a lim to their hotel by virtue of looking sober and waving a large bill. They overflew improvised parades, street fairs, and marching bands.
“So who’d’ja favor?” the lim driver asked.
“Peace and quiet,” von Baldur said.
The driver snorted.
“Damn little of that to be got for the next two weeks. P’raps I best run you back to the port and you can try another system.”
“We are where we belong,” Riss said.
The driver looked back and almost sideswiped a cargo lifter dripping banners: WARICK RULES, UNITEDS CONQUER, and such.
“You folks have something to do with the finals?” He was about to be impressed.
“We’re psychologists,” Goodnight said. “Specializing in the madness of crowds.”
The driver’s head snapped forward, and he said no more. As they grounded at the Shelburne — which was not only where the officials were staying but also the most luxurious hotel on Warick — he refused both to help unload their surprisingly heavy luggage, and a tip as well, sitting statuelike behind the controls of his lifter.
“I note they take this skyball most seriously,” Grok said. “I have never heard of a cabbie refusing a tip.”
“That’s a sign and a warning,” Riss said. “Let’s make sure we don’t do anything else to show what we think.”
“And, most particularly,” von Baldur said, “make sure we do not wear any emblems suggesting we back either the Black Devils or the Uniteds. Nor should we mistakenly wear their colors, which are, naturally, black and red for the Devils, and solid blue for the Uniteds.”
• • •
“Actually,” Weitman said, “we’re quite prepared for all normal eventualities.”
Six other male and female officials in the hotel suite room nodded agreement.
“First,” the referee went on, “note my outer clothing. These black-and-white striped pants and shirt are proof against most solid projectiles — although, of course, the impact must still be accounted for. This is why, under the shirt and extending down over my groin, is a shock-absorbing vest, which is also intended to deal with hurled bottles, rocks, and such.
“My little cap is padded, and will take an impact of a kilo at up to twenty kph. My boots are steel-toed and -soled, and I’m wearing knee and elbow pads in case I get knocked down.
“I’ll have gas plugs in my nostrils, and baffled plugs in my ears, in case they try to use any amplified sound devices against us.
“Plus, I’m carrying a small gas projector on my belt, and — you must not breathe a word of this to anyone else — I’m carrying a small aperture blaster here, in my crotch.
“And of course there’s stadium security, supposedly one for every twenty-five people in the audience, although we’ve got to assume some of these guards will be as likely to be partisan as the crowds. Which is why we’re depending on you five to get us out of any real problems.”
He smiled at the Star Risk operatives.
“Wonderful,” Goodnight said. “Simply frigging wonderful. Ah, for the life of a sports fan.”
• • •
Both the Devils and the Uniteds were at the peak of their performance in the first game. The action swayed back and forth for three quarters, neither side able to score.
Then, halfway through the fourth quarter, with Cheslea having the ball, the Warick team leapt high into the air, trying a drive over the Warick line, going up almost to the roof of the covered stadium, floating for an instant in mock weightlessness, then lobbing the ball hard for the small goal.
The pitch was clear of the antigrav generators and was going straight as hurled, when its gyro came to life and sent the ball spinning into the hands of a Warick end.
He moved instantly, threw hard, under the Cheslea players still coming down from their positions near the roof.
One-nothing.
And that was the only score for the game.
There’d also been no penalties called, even though M’chel Riss, from her position in a skybox, saw at least two kneeings and one punch to a woman’s breasts.
The fans were well behaved, and most were fairly sober. Grok saw only twenty or so people grabbed by stadium security for offenses like hurling smuggled bottles at the players, or having a private punch-up in their row.
“If it stays like this,” Weitman said, “we’ll all be home free.”
• • •
Star Risk decided they’d spread out through the stadium for the second game, keeping only the most noticeable Grok in the skybox, and a com to their earpieces.
This game was far more open than the first. It seemed both sides had been gauging their opponents, and now, having found weaknesses, they drove for the kill.
And this time the officials seemed to have done the same. Eight penalties were called in the first quarter, six in the second.
The score was 7–3, again with Warick in the lead.
A woman official had just called the first penalty of the third — tripping, which seemed to be one of the few things beyond bludgeons skyball didn’t permit.
Von Baldur caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun, saw an enormously fat woman dig something out of her oversize handbag and scale it at the referee.
Von Baldur shouted “Down,” into his com mike and the official went flat. The something turned out to be a handmade ancient boomerang, and smashed into the turf not a meter from the referee’s body.
The obese woman was digging in her handbag once more. Friedrich didn’t wait around to see what it was, but swarmed over the high fence separating the fans from the field.
There was a stadium security man who shouted: “You! Hey you! You can’t do that!”
Von Baldur paid him no mind, but went up the steps two at a time, then shouldered his way into the row the fat woman was in, just as she pulled out what looked to be a grenade.
A younger man with the same piggy features as the fat woman came up, fists lifting.
Von Baldur snap-kicked him in the chest and let him stumble into his evident relative, then rolled away as the grenade, hissing, dropped to the concrete.
A few seconds later it went off, and a noxious gas sprayed the area. By that time von Baldur was rolling back down the steps, not turning around to see people gagging, on their knees choking and vomiting, until he was halfway back the way he’d come.
He noted with satisfaction that the fat woman and her relative were among the worst hit, then looked down at what had been his rather dapper lounging outfit.
“New suit,” he muttered. “Three hundred and twenty-seven credits. Expense.”
The end score was 9–4. Two out of two for Warick. The game had been stopped three times when players were taken off on stretchers. One of them didn’t appear to be breathing.
The visiting fans from Cheslea were going somewhat berserk, sure that the game was rigged for Warick, that somehow the antigravs or the ball itself had been rigged to favor the home team.
• • •
Goodnight was in the Shelburne’s bar — the archaically named Heron and Beaver — and he saw one of the Warrick players, surrounded by two prosperous businessmen sporting blue and half a dozen bodyguard
s — women and men whose eyes never stopped sweeping the crowded bar, and whose hands stayed close to their waistbands.
Goodnight wandered over, and when the player made a joke about a rival team, Goodnight laughed, lifted his glass in a mock toast, grinned wryly.
“You know about the Knights, eh?”
Goodnight had never heard of them. “Of course,” he said. “And your story isn’t the half of it.” He told a story of his own. The original butt of the joke had been an incompetent and unlucky Alliance unit, but now it became the Knights.
One of the businessmen bought him another beer, and Goodnight was suddenly the player’s new best friend, although the bodyguards regarded him most suspiciously. Chas wasn’t sure what he was looking for, other than more familiarity with the assignment.
The businessmen got drunk, but everyone else stayed sober. Goodnight let it appear that he was becoming wobblier than he was. The evening wasn’t producing much, except the probability of a thick head if Goodnight kept drinking. Fortunately, tomorrow was a rest day.
“So tell me, Dov,” Chas said, deep in the evening, “I could see today how good you are. But what made you get into skyball in the first place? What else did you consider?”
“Aw,” the man said, “I always liked playing. I come from money, so m’ da had a yacht, and we could always make up a game somewhere in the asteroids or in one of the system’s boneyards.
“Why’d I turn pro?” Dov looked around, making sure no one else was listening. “I got in some trouble, and the magistrate said it was either conditioning, prison, or going offworld. Da had disowned me, so I was thinking about the military.
“But that sounded real dangerous, and so when a semipro team said they needed substitutes, I made damned sure I was there at the head of the line and worked my ass off to play harder and better than anyone else.
“I mean, the Alliance military? You can get actually killed doing that.”
Goodnight had nothing to say.
• • •
“If you’re awake and coherent,” Grok said in what he probably thought was a coo, “or at least awake, since you’re on your feet, Chas, my friend, I have something of interest for you and for the others.”
The Star Risk operatives were assembled for a scanty breakfast in one of the suites’ dining rooms.
Riss and Jasmine had little but juice and bran cereal since they were watching their weight. Grok had had four raw eggs and tea, and Freddie von Baldur, also aware of his waistline, had just caff.
Goodnight, who normally shoveled down breakfast platters with both hands, was gingerly putting fruit juice and vitamins down.
“I have acquired,” Grok went on, “probably from too long an association with you humans — a time period that can be measured in nanoseconds — a certain distrust for humanity.”
“A good thing to have,” von Baldur said.
“Over the past four days, I’ve taken the liberty to plant some devices, listening devices, in our clients’ rooms,” Grok said.
“Imagine my surprise when I discovered that four of the seven have been in negotiations with various elements to shade their judgments.”
“Well, bless my soul,” Jasmine said. “And we’re supposed to be keeping them alive?”
“Let’s bail,” Chas said, hangover making him snarly.
“Perhaps we should, perhaps we should not,” Grok said. “It is interesting that two of them appear to have taken bribes to favor Cheslea, and two to back Warick in their calls.”
“Ah,” M’chel said. “That makes it two against two against three. Assuming those three haven’t already made their own arrangements.”
“Most interesting,” von Baldur said. “And now I understand why you wanted to talk about this, Grok.”
“Exactly,” the alien said. “The equation seemed to balance to me.”
“We could just keep on,” King said, nodding understandingly, “and let matters shake out as they will.”
“No,” Goodnight said. “Not business as usual. What about the money? If they’re getting cute, what’s to say they won’t get cuter when it’s payday?”
“My thought as well,” von Baldur said. “I think I shall approach our principals, and inform them that circumstances have altered, and we require the million credits to be placed in an escrow account — with, say, Alliance Credit.”
Riss smiled, a bit sharkishly. “I assume, Freddie,” she said, “you aren’t planning on telling our seven clients or the Professional Referees Association that happens to be the bank we use.”
“I am not,” von Baldur said. “As I have said before, and no doubt shall say again, never smarten up a chump. If they ask about Alliance Credit, of course I shall tell them. Possibly. But not before.”
• • •
“I am not content,” Grok said, “that we are responding properly to events.”
“Nor am I,” King said.
“Perhaps we should think of some contingency plans, in the event the situation worsens.” Grok said.
“Just what I was thinking,” Jasmine said. “We might need some louder bangs than what we brought.”
FOUR
“You realize,” Riss said, “since the series is the best of three, and Warick’s already won two, if today’s game makes it what I think they call a shutout, there will be serious chaos.”
“I’m aware, I’m aware,” Goodnight said. “That’s why I’ve got a blaster in my boot and another under this stupid jacket. Not to mention a couple of grenades — real bangsticks, not gas-type like Fatty had — in the pockets.”
“There’s also some rifles in the skybox,” Riss said. “I put them there myself, in the first-aid locker.”
It did get rough.
Goodnight saw his player from the bar kick the legs out from under a Black Devil then “accidentally” fall on his chest, and he heard ribs crack.
A referee was looking right at Dov, then turned away without hitting the penalty flasher across his uniform’s back.
Warick led at the end of the half.
As the players trooped off, there was a roar from the crowd. Riss saw ten fans, arms linked to form a phalanx, charge the stadium security at one of the field gates. Behind them came twenty or so goons, mostly drunk, waving clubs they’d somehow smuggled in through security.
“I don’t think so,” Riss said to herself, and ran hard to intersect the miniature mob.
Jasmine King was already there, blocking the gate.
One man swung at her, and she kicked him in the kneecap and pushed him into his mate, then smashed a third man in the temple.
“Goddamnit,” Riss shouted, “Not with your hands!”
Jasmine heard her, looked away, and somebody punched her in the jaw. King staggered, went down, and the man started to put the boot in.
“Enough of this shit,” Riss snarled, drew a blaster, and blew the man’s head off. Blood sprayed across the mob, and they shrieked, hesitated.
M’chel shot two more of them in painful places, listened in satisfaction to their yowls, then ran forward and dragged Jasmine away.
Cheslea came from behind to take their first game, 8–6.
• • •
“How is it?” von Baldur asked.
Jasmine gingerly moved her jaw. The other operatives were standing around her in the hotel suite.
“No breaks,” she said.
“What about teeth?” Riss said.
“I think a couple are loose,” King said. “But they’ll tighten up.”
“You’re sure you don’t want a doctor?” Riss asked.
“No,” Jasmine said. “I’ll be fine.”
Riss thought, Of course. A woman who might or might not be a robot would hardly chance discovery by a stranger.
“I don’t like this,” Goodnight said. “Not one goddamned stinking bit. Nobody roughs up our Jasmine.”
“Why, Chas,” King said. “You’re getting sentimental.”
Goodnight grunted, poured a drin
k. “If they were to blame, I’d say dump our clients and let the bodies bounce where they will,” he said.
“No,” von Baldur said. “That would hardly be professional.”
“A thought,” M’chel Riss said. “This is a onetime contract, right? We’re never ever coming back to this world, nor to Cheslea, and we’re sure as hell never going to get involved with sports, right?”
“No,” Grok said. “I have learned my lesson well.”
“Fine,” Riss said, and her voice was very hard. “These bastards want to escalate … we should be able to handle that, as well.”
“Jasmine and I are far ahead of you,” Grok said. “All we need is permission to implement.”
He explained.
When he finished, Goodnight and King had taut smiles on their faces. Von Baldur and Riss were stony-faced.
“Do we need to put it to a vote?” Riss said.
“I do not see why,” von Baldur said. “The plan appears to give us the best of both worlds.”
“And we do have a long weekend before the next match,” Goodnight said. “More than time enough for Jasmine to get things moving.”
“Good,” Jasmine said, getting up from the couch she’d been lying on. “Assuming my jaw doesn’t fall off, I’ll start making the calls.”
FIVE
The fourth game had high stakes. If Cheslea won it, it would be a tie series; if Warick, that was the end.
The fans seeped into the stadium slowly, quietly. The stadium security made no attempt to react when gate metal detectors buzzed, nor did they ever see bulging coats or ask what, either alcoholic or dangerous, might be concealed under them. All of them had their bets down and sides chosen, after all.
Weitman met von Baldur inside the entrance tunnel. “I’m afraid there might be a riot today,” he said.
“Do not worry,” von Baldur said. “There is only one mob, and there are five of us. We have them outnumbered.”
Weitman attempted a smile. “We should have practiced a … what do you military sorts call it, an emergency withdrawal.”
