by Chris Bunch
• • •
“Interesting sort of army the Dampierians have,” von Baldur told Goodnight, who was mooning at a young woman flipping through a fashion fiche in the library.
“Um,” Chas said.
“They beat the Torguths badly the last time around, primarily through a system of constant attacks.”
“Um.”
“So now they have decided there is no value in defense, but attack, attack, always the attack, as one of their strategic writers wrote.”
“Um.”
“Which might be valid, but their defense spending is small, and being cut regularly.”
“Um.”
“You are not listening.”
“Yes I am,” Goodnight said. “It sounds like one good hit and they’ll fold up like sheets, and their morale’ll go straight into the shitter.”
“Very good.”
“Yes,” Goodnight said. “Yes, she is. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” And he got up and went across the library to the young woman, who turned to him, smiling.
• • •
“At least,” Grok said, “we shall eat well. Very well. These Dampiers seem to export chefs to every expensive restaurant in the galaxy.”
“I just hope,” von Baldur said, “that some of the local talent remains.”
• • •
“Our employer,” King said, “is a very feisty man. He’s fought half a dozen duels. One over his first wife, two over his second, three over his third.”
“Which would suggest,” von Baldur said, “that each wife has been prettier and younger than the last.”
“Correct.”
“What does the current one look like?”
“He’s single once more,” King said. “His third wife left him for his dueling opponent.”
“Tsk,” von Baldur said. “You should always finish off your enemies. Or, at any rate, shoot them in the groin.”
“Or else,” King suggested, “either keep your trousers buttoned or learn to pick less generous women.”
“Men aren’t that smart.”
• • •
The liner lowered toward a huge dock, a U-shaped open-roofed hangar.
Goodnight, standing with the others in a long line near one of the passenger locks, looked out an uncovered port.
“Looks like it’s raining out there,” he said. “At least at the moment, Montrois is a gray, rather ornate-looking world, as far as I can see.”
“I can use a little real weather,” M’chel said. “Recycled air gets to me after a while.”
The liner’s antigravs whined up the scale, and the ship settled into its mooring slot. A roof slid across the hangar as the ship’s locks opened, and a speaker bayed: “All passengers, have your customs declarations ready. All passengers, have your customs declarations ready. After collecting your luggage, move to any open booth. After collecting your luggage, move to any open booth.”
There was supposed to be somebody waiting for them to spirit them through problems. But so far, no show. King started to worry about what would happen when any given case of their gear was opened.
But an officious man, who’d evidently been given a picture of the team, came bustling up just as they were getting in the customs line, as Reynard had promised.
“Mr. von Baldur and company?”
“We are.”
“I’m Deacer, from the Department of Foreign Affairs. I’m also a member of ex-Premier Reynard’s party. I’ll help you clear customs without the necessity of dealing with any minor officials. I assume you’re carrying nothing but personal possessions.”
“Thank you, sir. We are.”
Baggage lifters were found, and their gear, which was quite considerable, was piled on them. Pistols were concealable, but blast rifles, rocket launchers, crew-served weaponry, and mortars could get bulky.
Uniformed men bowed them through a gate, and they were out on the streets of Montrois’s capital of Tuletia, sheltered from the rain by an overhang.
“Now for a lifter to your hotel,” Deacer said, looking about. “Ah, there’s — ”
He broke off as three shots echoed off the stonework overhead. Deacer crouched, and four of the Star Risk operatives went flat, Jasmine going down just after them.
A man waving a gun ran out into the street, ducking past lifters. He jumped in one, and it took off, ignoring the outraged whistles from the cab rank officer and two belated shots from policemen.
“My god,” Deacer said in horror. “Murder, in broad daylight! What are things coming to! My god!”
“Yeah,” Goodnight said flatly. “A tragedy. You four hang tight right here.”
He pushed through the gathering crowd, looked down at the corpse. A gray-haired man lay flat on his back, a look of complete surprise on what was left of his face.
Goodnight looked about the corpse, made a wry face, and went back to the others as policemen ran toward the scene.
“Interesting,” he said. “As we were coming off the ship I happened to notice that guy who got his head shot off. He looks … looked … a lot like you, Freddie, which is why I noticed him.
“A lot, a lot,” Goodnight went on. “Close enough to be your brother.”
Von Baldur had picked himself up, brushing off muck from his trousers. “I assume there was no sign the murderer stole anything so we can relax in the assumption it was a mere robbery?”
“Nope,” Goodnight said. “His pockets weren’t turned out, and he dropped a wallet with his tickets in it when he got plugged. I saw an Alliance passport sticking out of it, so the shooter probably wasn’t somebody local with a grudge who heard his target was coming back into town.”
“We are blown, then,” von Baldur said, helping Jasmine up.
“Looks like,” Goodnight said. “We surely should operate on that basis.”
Grok waved to a lifter driver, picked up a huge case, and carried it over.
“We did not ask for nearly enough money,” von Baldur concluded bitterly as he motioned for another lifter.
EIGHT
“What an utterly chah-ming dump,” Chas Goodnight said. “I suppose it has a ballroom.”
“It does,” Jasmine King said.
“Wonderful,” Goodnight said. “So we can get gunned down by assassins at the height of the masked ball.”
“There is a ballroom,” King went on. “It’s got two sniper posts in the hanging chandelier, and two autocannon mounts covering the grand staircase.”
“Who was the proud owner of this palace?” M’chel Riss asked.
“He was the former head of the secret police,” King said.
“A careful man?”
“Very careful,” Jasmine said as she led them up the stone steps toward the high-double-doored entrance.
The building was a sprawling manse, half hidden from the quiet residential street beyond by high walls topped with alarm circuitry and broken glass. There were spotlights around the house, and the garden had been carefully laid out so there were no blind spots.
It was most rococo, four stories and three wings, with gingerbread frills and scalloping.
“Very careful indeed,” she repeated as the five entered.
Von Baldur nodded. “These mirrors in the entrance are one-way?”
“They are, with gunposts behind them, and this inner door has a panic lock.”
“What about the rear?” Grok asked.
“Automated security posts,” King said. “Plus you can seal any part of the house, especially the servants’ areas, from the rest. Also there’s a tunnel that leads into a rather commonplace garage on the street behind, for an easy, quiet, exit.
“The bedrooms — there’s twenty of them — are each miniature suites, and there’s hidden passages connecting them, plus the six biggest have slides for life and security chambers.”
“Twenty bedrooms,” Goodnight said. “Did he have a very big family … or a lot of popsies?”
“How many operatives is it going to take
to keep us safe?” von Baldur asked, not paying any attention to Goodnight. “I would rather not spend more of Reynard’s money in front than is absolutely necessary.”
“Let him relax before we jackroll him, eh?” Goodnight asked.
Von Baldur sniffed.
“Not many,” King said. “As I said, it’s mostly automated. I’d guess we could get by with twenty or so, uniformed types, which we can use for other tasks as well. I’ll bring them in from offworld, naturally, as I shall the household staff.
“That’ll be after I tighten things up — put crushable gas crystals around the grounds, change the locks, add a radar sweep, and like that.”
“It takes a heap of living to make a fortress a home,” Riss said.
“You want to stay a target like we are in that airport hotel?” King asked.
“Not particularly,” M’chel said.
“It’s big, ugly, impressive, and I love it,” Goodnight declared. “I vote we take it.”
“I do as well,” Grok put in. The other two nodded agreement. “By the way,” he said, “what ever happened to that secret policeman?”
“They blew him up as he was going out the gate in his lim,” King said. “I guess he wasn’t that careful, after all. You can still see the blast bulges in those wrought iron gates out there.”
Riss snickered and was about to say something, when two shots came from outside. Then came a fusillade.
They went back to the door, everyone but King reaching for concealed blasters. King noted, drew her own.
“Sorry,” she told Riss. “I’m still learning.”
“Aren’t we all.”
The mansion-lined street was a swirl of running, fighting men and women. Some carried signs: FREE MAEN; WE DEMAND JUSTICE; FIND THE REAL SPIES.
M’chel saw a young woman about to hurl a rock as a gunshot blasted, and she went down.
There were screams, and shots fired back, then the mob ran on.
They were running from fifteen masked women and men. These were dressed very differently from the demonstrators, wearing shock vests, knee- and arm-pads and were armed with pistols, clubs, knives.
The Star Risk operatives ducked for cover behind the house’s stone balustrades.
A masked man glanced through the open gates at the mansion, saw the five guns leveled, and went after easier prey. The mask was unusual: a black domino eyepiece, with a loose cloth hanging from it to below the chin.
Three police lifters cruised after the masked ones. The cops wore riot gear, but lolled at ease in their lifters, casually watching what was going on. They made no attempt to help the wounded or stop the running massacre.
“Very nice,” Grok said. “This is the kind of world we thrive on.”
“It is that,” Goodnight said. “Nothing but scoundrels and goons.”
“I suppose,” von Baldur said, “seeing as how things appear to be a bit stirred up, it may be time for us to go out and earn our keep.”
NINE
M’chel Riss fell in love with the Dampier System’s capital city, Tuletia.
A river curled and twisted through the metropolis — a river long tamed and confined, except in extraordinarily wet years, to concrete banks. Studding the river were small islets, on which were built auditoriums, museums, art galleries, even a church here and there to honor various gods the Tuletians ignored.
There were broad boulevards to speed transport, although Goodnight suggested, somewhat cynically, their real function was to allow the deployment of heavy artillery against any revolution.
Away from the boulevards, small streets wound in patterns guaranteed to befuddle. Riss spent happy afternoons when she was off duty getting herself lost, and then found.
The men and women of Tuletia dressed well, almost as if expecting a fashion designer to pop around the corner and ask them to pose. Statuary was scattered lavishly through the numerous parks.
But best of all was the food. Riss didn’t remember eating a bad meal, whether it was in the proud and enormous Bofigers, or once having a simple peasant stew in a tiny restaurant hidden in an alcove she could never find again.
The Torguth had a strange saying, “happy as God on Montrois,” which said something about the Torguth as well.
The only drawback could be the people, sometimes charming, sometimes irascible. One of the planet’s greatest philosophers said, “We Dampierians have the unique ability to reason impeccably to an utterly indefensible point and then go out and die for it.”
Yes, M’chel decided. After arguing with a waiter who said he was entitled to a tip because his job entitled him to one, even though he hadn’t bothered to wait her table without being summoned, she wondered why the Dampierians, all too often, had to be so damned Dampierian….
• • •
Von Baldur had called for a meeting with ex-Premier Jen Reynard, to brief them in detail about the players in the Sufyerd case. The meet was scheduled during noon meal at Tournelle’s, which Jasmine looked up in a guidebook and discovered was “And I quote, ‘the longest-reigning high cuisine palace on Montrois, traditionally the meeting place for high-government officials, the cultural elite, and the very, very rich.’”
“Real underground,” Goodnight observed. “Secretive-like.”
But the five were there on time. Their lifter was most unobtrusive next to the long banks of lims with liveried pilots.
“Very, very underground,” Goodnight muttered.
The older men and women looked rich and confident; the younger ones confident that they’d soon be as well off as the oldsters, or else well protected by them.
The main room was a blaze of baroque paintings and wall hangings, with tables set discreetly apart. However, Riss noticed that the richest of the patrons were escorted into private rooms — as were they, when von Baldur announced their names to the rather supercilious maitre d’.
Reynard was waiting.
“Good morrow, my friends,” he said. “I am very happy to see you.”
“We are, too,” Goodnight said. “But isn’t this place a little public to be briefing your thugs?”
“Pah,” Reynard said. “First, everyone worthwhile on Montrois already knows who you are, that I’ve hired you, and for what end.”
“Still,” Riss said. “I’m not sure if I’m happy assuming that the oppos know exactly what you’re thinking about them.”
“They are dolts!” Reynard said. “They know nothing.”
“Are you sure this room is secure?” von Baldur asked.
“Of course I am! I have been coming to Tournelle’s since I was a boy! They know me here, and I like to think of them as my friends.”
“Friends,” Goodnight said, “can be bought. Or things can happen when their backs are turned.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Goodnight,” Reynard insisted. “We can say anything at all inside these rooms. Besides, I’ve had trusted members of my own party sweep the room within the past week.”
“Still …” von Baldur said, and nodded at Grok.
The enormous alien unslung a small pack, took a small gray box with an earpiece out, and turned it on.
Reynard watched Grok, tight-lipped, as he moved around the room.
“There,” he said when Grok had finished. “Now are you satisfied?”
“I am,” Grok said. “There are four bugs. One here, in this table leg, another up there, in the chandelier, another here, at the door, inside this fixture, and a fourth, probably meant to be discovered, under this chair.”
Reynard was purpling. Grok paid no attention, taking very small ovoids from his pack, turning them on, and sticking them next to the taps.
“Now all they’ll hear is a dull roar,” Grok said. “If we had more time, I could synthesize your voice, Mr. Reynard, maybe reading children’s dragon tales or something to completely charm your listeners.”
“I shall complain to the management!”
“Why bother?” Riss said. “They won’t be able to do anything until we�
��re gone.”
“That is true,” Reynard said. “But you may rest assured I shall have a word with the owners.”
“Better you should maybe check the bank accounts of the trusted members of your party who supposedly swept this room,” Riss suggested.
A waiter came in, bowed.
“You’ll forgive me if I order for everyone,” Reynard said. “There are some very famous dishes found here that you will curse yourself if you do not try.”
“Proceed,” von Baldur said.
“My first question,” King said, unobtrusively turning on a recorder, “is — ”
“No,” Reynard said. “First we eat. Dining is important.”
He ordered, and then they ate wild fungi and meat terrine with a roasted pepper sauce; spiced game steaks with a cabbagelike confit and red wine sauce; roasted wild vegetables; a braised endivelike gratin; a fruit and vegetable salad; and finished with a chocolate chestnut torte.
Riss leaned over to King and whispered, “I’m never going to eat again.”
King said, “I’m never going to be able to eat again. If this is a midday meal, I don’t want to even think about what they do for dinner.”
Goodnight, in spite of his ability to slug down thousands of calories to refuel after going bester, foundered before the salad.
But Grok and von Baldur kept apace with Reynard to the last plate.
Finally, the former premier dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and said, with a bit of regret, “And now to work.
“Your opponents,” he went on. “Of course, there are the never-to-be-sufficiently-despised Universalists, traitorous bastards that they are. They — ”
“A moment,” Grok asked. “Traitorous? In what way?”
“That is, or should be, obvious to any citizen of Dampier. Rather than follow sensible policies, and stand against the Torguth, they are a party of the rich, and care for nothing but their bankbooks.
“Domestically, they think that if the rich get richer, the poor will inevitably benefit from this, which of course is foolishness.
“As for foreign relations, they would prefer that we remain at loggerheads with Torguth — never quite going to war, which is destructive, but maintaining a constant state of tension, which allows them to keep spending tax money for useless weaponry. They’re not aware that they’re teasing the tiger, and that Torguth is in deadly earnest in having designs on first the Belfort System, then on Dampier itself.
