by Chris Bunch
“There is no need to practice anything,” von Baldur said. “We’re most competent at what we do.”
A few minutes later, the game began. Play was vicious, but the officials called penalties fairly, or at least evenly. Three players on each side were thrown out for roughness and arguing with the referees.
At the first quarter’s end, it was 2–2. At the second, it was 5–3, Warick leading. The stands were restive, and every now and again a bottle, generally of unbreakable plas, rained down from somewhere.
Von Baldur was with Goodnight in the skybox, on a com.
“Child Rowland, Child Rowland, this is Star Risk.”
“Star Risk, this is Child Rowland,” a distinctly cultured voice came back.
“Child Rowland, what’s your location?”
“Orbiting at, oh, three-zed meters right over that great box of yours.”
“Are you ready?”
“That’s affirm. On your signal.”
“Captain Hook, this is Star Risk.”
“Hook here.”
“Ready?”
“Ready, braced, strapped in, and will deploy on your signal.”
“All stations, this is Star Risk. Stand by. Clear.”
Third quarter, 8–5, still Warick’s favor.
“Is everybody ready to move?” von Baldur asked into the Star Risk net.
The other three, around the stadium, responded.
“Very well,” von Baldur said. “Now, assuming that Warick holds its lead, they will assemble the team in the center of the stadium. The officials will present the winners with a trophy. At that time, we shall move.”
“Clear.”
“Understood.”
“Will comply,” came the responses.
Fourth quarter, two minutes left to play, Warick held the lead 10–6.
“I think we can make certain assumptions,” von Baldur said. “It would appear that Warick has won the series.”
“Looks like, Freddie,” Goodnight agreed, staring out the skybox’s window. “All we have to — holy flipping shit on a centrifuge!”
Goodnight was moving out the door of the skybox, and von Baldur puzzled out after him for an instant.
Then he saw, from another skybox about a quarter around the top of the arena, three men bringing out lengths of steel, fitting them together into a framework with a rail in its center. Then they brought out a tube, let fins extrude, and put the rocket onto the rail. A fourth man brought out a squat tripod, and crouched behind it, turning the sight on.
Goodnight dimly heard a great roar from the crowd as the last seconds ticked down, and he was running hard, pushing past people — but far, too far, from that skybox.
The officials were hurrying toward the field’s center, where the Uniteds were nervously waiting.
Von Baldur was on his com. “Captain Hook, this is Star Risk. Commence operation … now! Child Rowland, we are in trouble. Come in as soon as you can.”
“This is Hook. On the way in.”
“Child Rowland, beginning dive.”
The stadium was a melee of fighting men and women. Goodnight heard a gunshot, then another — didn’t know where they came from.
The man behind the rocket launcher was taking his time, making sure.
Goodnight’s hand brushed his jaw, and the world around him slowed, and the noise rose in pitch. Now the people around him were blurring, and he was darting through them like a hummingbird through flowers.
The rocket man never even saw him as Goodnight cannoned into him, sending the sight crashing away. But the man’s finger was pressing the firing stud, and the rocket launched, smashing across the stadium and exploding in the middle of the crowd.
As the screams started, a Type VIII Heavy Lifter starship — a massive oblong carrying a large hook at the end of its drag — hovered over the stadium. The hook reeled out and caught fast on the framework of the antigrav generators on the roof.
On the bridge of the lifter Star Risk had chartered, “Captain Hook” ordered full power and a thirty-degree up angle. The ship, intended for the heaviest construction and demolition, barely strained as it tore away the stadium’s roof in a ragged curl.
“This is Hook, Child Rowland. You got any problem with the sheet metal?”
“That’s a largish negatory. Coming in.”
Goodnight came out of bester mode, saw the three rocket-launcher men gaping at him. One was reaching for a gun.
Goodnight’s blaster came out firing.
Three men spun and went down.
Goodnight put an additional round into the prostrate rocket-aimer’s head just to make sure, and was running, leaping, down the stadium steps.
Riss and King were already on the field as von Baldur was halfway down the steps.
The stadium was filling with smoke and flame, and then the screams grew louder as an ex-Alliance heavy cruiser crashed through the hole in the roof and came down, in a stately manner, toward the field, smashing everything blocking its way. It filled the huge stadium from end to end.
A lock opened, and a ramp shot out. Two men with blast rifles ran down the ramp and crouched, looking for a threat. There was none. The mob was busy trampling itself, getting away from this new nightmare.
Jasmine and M’chel were pushing the seven referees toward the ramp, shouting at them. Stunned, the striped men and women obeyed, stumbling up the ramp into the ship.
Grok came down the stairs, grabbed Freddie under one arm, backhanded a man waving a nail-studded club and heard his skull smash.
Goodnight was on the field, and the three reached the cruiser at the same time, pelting into it as the two guards came behind them, and the ramp and lock closed.
“Welcome aboard,” the cultured voice said. “You’re welcome to join me on the bridge. I do have a bill for you. A rather large one, I’m afraid.”
“Not for me,” Friedrich managed over his panting. “For the Professional Referees Association.”
He looked at the shocked, gaping officials.
“They shall be delighted, nay thrilled, to add a fifteen, no, twenty percent performance bonus to your fee.”
“You said they were the generous type, Freddie. Bring ‘em on up with you.”
“We are on the way,” von Baldur said. “I have a credit transfer to make, as well.”
Chas, Jasmine, and Grok were looking out a port as the starship lifted out of the ruined stadium.
“As you said, Chas,” Grok murmured. “Mess with our Jasmine, will they?”
Goodnight managed an exhausted smile. “Jasmine, buy me a steak, hey? I need some stimulation, and this tub’s gotta have a mess somewhere.”
“Provided you don’t get ideas,” King said. They started out of the lock area.
Riss took one more look back down at Warick. “It isn’t winning that’s important,” she said, thinking of the million-plus credits and smirking a bit around the edges. “It’s how the game is played.”
SIX
“Now this,” Friedrich von Baldur proclaimed, “is the place for a proper vacation.”
Jasmine and Goodnight looked at the hologram that hung in the air above von Baldur’s desk. It was a sandy beach with curling pinelike trees in the background, next to a carefully rusticated hut. The ocean was clear, green to a deep blue, on the right.
“No corns, no mail, no computer links?” Chas asked skeptically.
“No muss, no fuss, no gambling, no parties till dawn?” Riss said.
“Exactly,” von Baldur said. “No disturbances, no gunplay, no chicanery, nothing to do but laze on the beach or read a good book. Perhaps,” he went on dreamily, “finally time enough for Proust.”
“Freddie,” Goodnight said, “you’d go berserko in three days. And who’s this Proust character? Somebody who wrote about famous scams?”
Von Baldur looked hurt.
“A man,” Jasmine explained, “a long, long, long time ago, who wrote about nothing much in particular. You supposedly can learn patience
by reading him.”
“I say again my last,” Chas said. “Berserko.”
“You people have no faith in my inner resources,” von Baldur said.
“This is true,” Jasmine said. “I’ll put my bet with Chas.” The intercom buzzed. “Yes?” Jasmine said.
“I have a prospective client out here,” Riss’s voice came. “Can I bring him in?”
“Bring him in,” Jasmine said. “And buzz Grok, if you would?”
“He’s already on his way,” M’chel said.
Riss and Grok bowed in a slender, intense, balding man who appeared to be in his forties.
“This,” Grok said, “is Mr. Jen Reynard.”
Jasmine, knowing a few archaic languages, thought he was well named as the man came forward, eyes flicking left, right, evaluating everyone and everything in the room.
“Welcome to Star Risk,” von Baldur said, introducing the others and indicating a seat.
“I mean no offense,” Reynard said, “but your reputation far exceeds your size. Unless,” he added with a bit of hope, “you have vast resources elsewhere.”
“We have access,” King said, “to anything a client might need, from a lockpick to a naval fleet.”
“Ah?” Reynard said, a bit skeptically. “I suppose that’s financially sound, not having a lot of thugs lying about on the payroll.”
Von Baldur inclined his head in agreement. “And how might we be of service?” he asked.
“I am the former premier of Dampier,” Reynard said, then went on, dramatically, “I need you to free a man from where he rots in a death cell, prove his innocence, and find the guilty party.”
“Good,” Grok rumbled. “I am getting tired of these tasks that require nothing but headbanging.”
“There may well be some of that required,” Reynard said. “Eventually.”
“Thank heavens,” Riss said sotto voce. “We wouldn’t know how to handle a nice, quiet, predictable job.”
“Who is this innocent?” King asked.
“A former officer in Dampier’s army, falsely accused of selling state secrets to our archenemy, Torguth.”
“What sort of secrets?” von Baldur asked. “Some secrets, such as how many publicity men are on the government’s payroll, carry less of a penalty than others.”
“The crime for which the man was tried and convicted of is high treason,” Reynard said, “which carries an automatic death penalty.”
“That seems serious enough,” M’chel said.
“I’ll explain,” Reynard said. “The system of Dampier is close to Torguth. From the first colonization on, we have been traditional enemies. Between us are the Belfort Worlds, three eminently colonizable planets near Earth normal. By moral and first-landing rights, these worlds belong to Dampier. Torguth, being the morally corrupt, dishonest system it is, also claims Belfort.
“We have fought three wars with Torguth, basically over Belfort, although other issues were brought into play. They won the first war, we won the other two. Not content with defeat, Torguth is staging up for yet another war, or so my intelligence reported when I still held office and had access to these matters.
“Even though the present government of Dampier is putrescent with dishonesty, they recognized this threat, although they do not admit its immediacy. They proposed a new defense system for the Belfort Worlds. Somehow Torguth obtained full details on this system.
“Legate Maen Sufyerd, who has an absolutely unblemished record — first in the field, now in the Supreme Command’s Strategic Intelligence Division on our capital world of Montrois — has been accused of stealing these secrets and selling them to Torguth.”
“You said he’s in a death cell?” Goodnight asked. “That means there’s been a trial?”
“A kangaroo court,” Reynard said, voice rising. “A japery of justice. Planted evidence, inept counsel, prejudiced officers on the board.”
“Why prejudiced?” Riss asked.
“Sufyerd, though he doesn’t appear wild-eyed or a fanatic, belongs to an ancient cult that is despised by the hierarchy of Dampier, and has struggled against this prejudice his entire career.”
“Mmmh,” Goodnight said.
“It is not merely injustice that I strive against,” Reynard said. “But the real culprit in Strategic Intelligence must be winkled out. We do not need to have a traitor in high places in this increasingly parlous time!”
Riss thought of telling Reynard he wasn’t making a speech to his constituents, but held her tongue.
“Why have you come to us?” Grok said. “Do you not have investigative agencies on your own world?”
“We do,” Reynard admitted. “But I trust them not, especially since the opposition party has retained a very large, very efficient agency to make sure Sufyerd meets his date with the lethal chamber. Perhaps you’ve heard of them, since they’re interplanetary. They’re an organization called Cerberus Systems.”
The Star Risk operators showed various reactions at the name of their nemesis: Goodnight glowered, von Baldur looked carefully bland, Jasmine’s lips tightened, Riss tried to keep a poker face and failed, and Grok’s expression, as always, was unreadable.
“Ah,” Reynard said. “You know — and from your faces, do not like — this Cerberus. They’ve also impressed me as being less than ethical, since they’re willing to do business with those damned Universalists, the party in power.
“So all the cards are stacked against me and my fellow Independents, although there are turncoats even within that party against poor Sufyerd. Our judicial system has reached its decision as to his guilt, the military he loves has abandoned him, our media constantly bays about his guilt, and now even an outside agency moves against him.
“He has no hope at all. And I feel, to the depths of my soul, that the opposition will stop at nothing — not forgery, slander, perjury, conspiracy, not even murder — to make sure the Sufyerd case stays ‘solved.’
“No hope at all,” Reynard said again. “Except,” he added cunningly, “if Star Risk, an outside company without any axes to grind, agrees to help him.”
“Mmmh,” von Baldur said. “Well, we do like to be of service….”
“A question,” Riss said. “How did you hear about us?”
“I consulted certain experts I’ve had occasion to use during my political career,” Reynard said. “And they all attested to your honesty in fulfilling your contracts. They also said that you have a most colorful way of doing business,” he added after a pause.
“Thanks,” Goodnight said. “I think.”
“Very interesting,” von Baldur said. “If you’ll give us the com of where you’re staying, we’ll have an answer for you within a day or two. We may well need to ask you further questions.”
• • •
“Well?” von Baldur said, a few minutes after having escorted Reynard out.
“You know my prejudice about people who’re about to get fried,” Goodnight said. “Justly or not,” he added a bit sheepishly.
“Why not?” Riss said. “It is, as Grok said, something different than bashing skulls.”
“My vote is obvious,” Grok said.
“We could use a good cushion with Alliance Credit,” King said.
“I was looking forward to my vacation,” von Baldur said. “But then, all things are better after a degree of anticipation. So it’s unanimous. Usual rates?”
“Yes … no,” Riss said. “Reynard said he talked to some people. Which means our names are known around Dampier. Which increases our risk.”
“Which also means,” King said grimly, “our prospective presence will also be known to Cerberus, since I assume any politician talks about anything and everything to everyone.”
“Strong point,” von Baldur said.
“Not to mention we’re going to be dealing with politicians,” Goodnight added. “Double down, double down.”
• • •
“You shall be pleased to hear,” von Baldur said into
the com, “that we are as upset about this blatant injustice as you are, and have unanimously agreed to accept your commission. Our rate shall be twenty thousand credits per day, plus full expenses.”
Von Baldur listened to the sputtering from the other end for a moment.
“I am sorry, Mr. Reynard, if your cause cannot afford proper representation in this matter, and that you were evidently misinformed about our fees. But our price is our price, and it is a pity that you feel it exorbitant. I might add that we never haggle.
“I shall wish you luck in your search for justice for the unfortunate Legate Sufyerd.”
He listened again, and a smile came and went.
“Very good, Mr. Reynard. Very good indeed. I’m delighted you decided to change your mind. We’re looking forward to ending this gross miscarriage as much as you are, and will devote the firm’s entire executive talents to it. We shall arrive on Montrois within the week.”
SEVEN
The liner was luxurious, with everything from gaming to gymnasiums to around-the-clock gourmet meals.
Star Risk didn’t take much advantage of them, other than Grok’s watching with great amusement the workout facilities for the humans, and von Baldur’s dropping a thousand credits the first night out on the gambling tables.
“Which,” Jasmine, their bookkeeper, announced briskly, “shall not be allowed on your expenses.”
“When will I be able to convince you, m’dear, that honesty should extend only so far?” von Baldur whined.
Jasmine didn’t bother answering.
The team was quite busy swotting everything the ship’s library or its computer links could dig up on Dampier and Torguth.
“Listen to this,” Riss said to King. “From one of their local rags: ‘While I do not mean to imply in this mild critical essay that the good representative is a lily-livered scoundrel whose parents were never formally introduced, and who seems to have trouble with the simplest tasks, as witnessed by the constant urine stains on his trousers, I do think his qualifications for public office might be exceeded by the average ant-bear.’ Whoo. And this writer was talking about a fellow Independent.”
“I guess these Dampierians have trouble with frankness,” King said. “Not to mention that their libel laws are a trifle loose.”
