The Scoundrel Worlds: Book Two of the Star Risk Series

by Chris Bunch

  “Their members come from the hierarchy of the military, as well, and frequently include church authorities. Plus they’ve retained your enemies, Cerberus Systems.”

  “A heavy load of guilt,” Grok said. “Please continue.”

  Missing Grok’s sarcasm, Reynard went on. “The army, Sufyerd’s own, has turned against him as well, and will be well content to end this matter with his execution.”

  “Why?” Riss asked.

  “Because they are embarrassed by the sale of these state secrets, and wish the matter ended as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “You told us,” Jasmine King said, “that Sufyerd is also hated because he is a member of a cult.”

  Reynard sighed. “My solar system is not perfect. Yes, the Jilani have always been discriminated against. They’re an ecstatic, pacifistic cult, but mean no harm and keep themselves and their ceremonies to themselves.

  “At one time, our church, now fortunately driven from power and in decline, used them as the whipping boys for any problems. There are still those archconservatives and the uneducated, who see them as a threat.”

  “You say the Jilani are pacifists,” Goodnight said. “But Sufyerd was in the army … a career officer.”

  “I know,” Reynard said. “But don’t all of us carry contradictions with us?”

  “Perhaps,” von Baldur said. “Go on. So the army’s Supreme Command is leagued with the Universalists.”

  “Certainly. It’s said of the Universalist politicians that they never met a weapons system they didn’t like. Not,” he added hastily, “that we Independents are unaware of the building danger with Torguth. We merely wish defense spending to be sensibly and properly allocated.”

  Which most likely meant, Riss thought, they wanted their own contractors to be feeding at the trough, rather than the Universalists’.

  “What about the secret police?”

  Reynard reflexively glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The Dampier Information Bureau claims to serve the state and its current rulers. Of course that means it has its private agenda. The DIB is headed by a cunning, dreadful rascal named L’Pellerin, who, it’s said, is so crooked that he can walk a straight line down a spiral staircase.

  “As far as Sufyerd, they failed to winkle out the real spy within Strategic Intelligence, which is generally called IIa — and so of course, like the army, they wish the matter over and settled. They will be on the side of the winner, which, gentle people, we must be, not only for poor Sufyerd’s sake, but for the men and women of the Belfort Worlds and my own, dearly loved people of Dampier.”

  Riss was slightly impressed — Reynard had managed that last sentence without taking a breath or seeming winded at its end.

  “Quite a roster,” von Baldur said. “So who is on our side?”

  “I am, of course. Those Independents who’ve remained true to their oath and duty to Dampier.” Reynard made a face. “There is also Fra Diavolo and his band of crazies, which I’m not sure aren’t more of a handicap than a benefit.

  “Diavolo — of course, that’s not his real name — is a sometime novelist, sometime pamphleteer, sometime politician, sometime revolutionary. The people — by that I mean the workers — love him, and have made him very rich. He spends this money not only on a lavish lifestyle, but in supporting a rather large armed band, who will do his every bidding without question.”

  “Why is he backing Sufyerd?” von Baldur asked.

  “Because he loves setting himself against the powers of the establishment. When I was premier and the Independents were in office, he was our enemy. Now, for the moment, Brother Devil is on my side. As I said, I’m not sure if I’m grateful.”

  “We happened on a bit of a riot yesterday,” Riss said. “Pro-Sufyerd. They were being harassed by a dozen or so armed thugs wearing masks. The police made no attempt to stop them.”

  “The Masked Ones,” Reynard hissed. “They’re nothing but Universalist goons, and some suspect in the secret employ of Torguth. They claim to have nothing but Dampier’s best interests at heart, and will commit any crime they think can be covered with the banner of patriotism. No one knows their master. Some say many of their members are of the police, which is why the Masked Ones are permitted to wreak their outrages unhindered.

  “So there you have the major participants in this building disaster of ours.”

  “Quite a list,” von Baldur mused. He looked down at the napkin he’d been scribbling cryptic notes on. “First, we shall need to talk to Sufyerd, and we shall need as much access to Strategic Intelligence as possible.”

  “That shall be hard,” Reynard said. “But I’ll call in some favors and do what I can.”

  “I think, sooner or later, we’ll need to meet this L’Pellerin, as well.”

  “If he doesn’t want to talk to you first.” Reynard looked at them a bit plaintively. “Do you have any ideas at all who might be guilty?”

  “At this moment,” von Baldur said, “we suspect everyone on this planet except you, and I am not entirely sure of your reliability, either.”

  Reynard chose to take the remark as humorous.

  TEN

  “Imposing,” Grok said. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have your spy service with a listed address.”

  The building was a block of ornate stone, sitting on a solitary block.

  “Strategic Intelligence maybe needs to be on the map,” Goodnight said. “After all, all these movers and shakers sometimes get lost, buried in their Deep Thinking, and we wouldn’t want them to get lost and wander over to the river and drown, now would we?”

  The three — von Baldur, Grok, and Goodnight — went through the parking lot, toward the steps. Goodnight eyed a parked lifter.

  “Somebody around here’s got expensive tastes,” he said. “That’s a Sikorski-Bentley.”

  “So?” von Baldur asked, a bit irritated.

  “No reason,” Goodnight said. “I just admire men — or women — who appreciate fine machinery. Especially on a civil servant’s salary.” His grin had a nasty edge to it.

  They went up the steps, past four sentries, who hesitated, then presented arms, goggling at Grok.

  “Guess there aren’t many foreigners show up around here,” Goodnight said. “Especially big fuzzy ones.”

  Grok growled.

  They went inside the huge doors, where a caged pair of guards examined the pass Reynard had been able to arrange.

  “Yes, sir,” one of them said, impressed. “You’ll go on up to the top floor, and Division Leader Caranis’s offices are all the way to the back. You can’t miss them.”

  “Thank you,” von Baldur said, and they started for the lifts.

  “That’s one, and two,” Goodnight murmured.

  “One and two what?” von Baldur said.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  They went up in the lift and got out on the top floor. They started down the corridor, then Grok realized Goodnight wasn’t there.

  He went back, just as Goodnight came out of an office.

  “I was going to ask for the loo,” he said, “but there wasn’t anybody around. And three.”

  “No,” Grok said. “I won’t ask.”

  “Good. Don’t.”

  • • •

  Division Leader Caranis was a well-built man a few centimeters shorter than Goodnight. He clearly kept himself in shape, and his uniform was nattily tailored.

  Goodnight wondered, since there hadn’t been a war lately, where he got the four rows of ribbons, then decided he was becoming too much of a snotty bastard.

  Caranis had a broad face comfortable with smiles, although von Baldur noted the smile didn’t go much above his lips.

  He looked around at the three.

  “I’m happy to meet such crusaders for justice,” he said, and his voice was completely free of malice. “However, it seems that the Sufyerd case has been thoroughly tooth-combed, and there don’t seem to be any loose ends, l
et alone any reason to believe the man is innocent.”

  “You knew Sufyerd?”

  “Not really,” Caranis said. “If I had, I might be looking embarrassed right now, since I pride myself on my ability to judge men, although no one involved in any area of intelligence should be naive enough to do so.”

  “True,” von Baldur said. “That is something we all should be cautious of. Now, I think I have read or viewed everything unclassified on the Sufyerd case that is available. One thing that I did not run across is just how, and through whom, you believe Sufyerd was able to pass this purloined data to Torguth.”

  “I can only give you the vaguest answer, Mr. von Baldur,” Caranis said. “Suffice it to say there was a junior clerk at Torguth’s Interplanetary Relations Bureau here in Tuletia who was hastily recalled.”

  Caranis chuckled. “Someone on the Torguth worlds has a sense of humor. Interplanetary Relations, which is supposedly their commercial rights agency, is an excellent name for an espionage bureau, isn’t it?”

  He turned serious. “I’m afraid, gentle … uh … men, that I have some bad news for you. I certainly wish former Premier Reynard well, and admire his completely quixotic search for what he determines is justice. And I wish I could accede to his request to allow your firm … uh, Star Risk, access to this building and cooperation in your investigation.

  “Unfortunately, that will not be possible. We have very tight security here at Strategic Intelligence, and couldn’t possibly allow anyone to roam around at will, even with an escort. Nor, of course, will our files be open to you.”

  “That is a disappointment,” von Baldur said. “It will also be somewhat distressful to Premier Reynard.”

  “I certainly don’t doubt that,” Caranis said. “But in his long career in politics, I assume he’s encountered setbacks before, and shall again.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very late for a meeting, and was barely able to squeeze in a few minutes to personally give you the bad news.”

  Von Baldur got up, nodded in a bit of a bow, and the three left.

  Outside the building, Goodnight wandered over to the luxury lifter.

  “Reserved,” he read from the parking bumper, “for Director, Ha. How nice. How very, very nice. I’d sure like to know how Director Gotrocks Caranis got his rocks.”

  “Now can you tell me what those numbers you were muttering meant?” Grok asked.

  “As soon as we’re away from that building, and make sure nobody’s got a parabolic mike on us,” Goodnight said.

  Around the corner he stopped.

  “One, is nobody checked on our pass to see if it was for real. Two, nobody, but nobody who knows anything about intelligence should let strangers just wander up to the director’s office, and possibly make stops along the way. Two-A is that Caranis then gets all concerned about our having access to his little cakebox without escort. Three is the capper.”

  He reached in a pocket, took out a sheaf of documents.

  “Where did you get those?” von Baldur asked.

  “I happened to see an open door, and a desk, with nobody around. I popped in, saw these here papers, which are stamped MOST SECRET, with a gibberish access code on top of that, and snagged ‘em.

  “Let’s see what they are. Ah. ‘Current Strength Estimates, Torguth Reconnaissance of Belfort Worlds.’ No doubt very interesting to someone.” He flipped the papers into a trash can.

  “One, two, three … Strategic Intelligence leaks like a frigging sieve, whatever a sieve might be.

  “With no security at all, there’s no reason to believe almost anyone couldn’t have tippytoed in, snookered those plans, and gone away, no one the wiser. I think this is pretty good evidence that Sufyerd was working for, like they say, a crook outfit.”

  ELEVEN

  “As our resident expert on prisons, Herr Doctor Goodnight,” Friedrich von Baldur asked without looking away from the controls of the small yacht, “what do you think of yon bastille?”

  “Pretty frigging impressive, like they say in the trade,” Goodnight answered. “As a prison, that is,” he went on. “As a defense position, not worth sour owl shit.

  “Damfino why people think putting this big fat blob up in space is gonna save them from anything like attackers. All you gotta do is drift a missile close, taking your time, and whambo. Or find yourself a nice suicide crew and a spitkit with a limited-yield nuke, and whambo whambo.

  “But I’m veering. As a prison, it seems to do just fine. I don’t think I’d like to try to bust out of there … or try to bust someone else out, either.”

  “Nor I,” M’chel Riss said from her seat behind the control console. “So the easy, fast way doesn’t look like it’s going to work to make Legate Sufyerd a free man.”

  “I do not think just freeing Sufyerd will be enough for Reynard to give us our bonus,” Grok said. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to find out who the real villain is, as instructed.”

  “Assuming, nacherly,” Goodnight said, “Sufyerd is innercent. Wouldn’t be the first time a whole bunch of people have decided somebody’s not guilty when he is.”

  “True,” Riss sighed. “All too flipping true.”

  “Which brings up the question, Freddie,” Goodnight said, “on just why you insisted on dragging all of us, especially me of the delicate sensibilities, out here to visit this depressing ball of iron. I would’ve cheerfully watched any home vids you made of Sufyerd.”

  “I merely wished all of us to meet our client, so to speak,” von Baldur said. “Perhaps one of us will have some kind of blinding flash about things.”

  “Like don’t get caught selling state secrets,” Goodnight put in.

  The old orbital fortress had three layers of patrol ships around it, plus its own defenses. But as the Star Risk yacht closed on it, it was obvious those defenses were disused, and some had even been removed.

  At least the external security was sound — in spite of the pass Reynard had gotten them, their ship had been boarded and thoroughly searched once, and given an electronic sweep twice.

  “To return to the subject we were discussing before,” Grok said. “It seems there are three possibilities, assuming this Sufyerd is innocent: first, that the real culprit worked alone and was able to not only steal, or more likely transmit, the secrets alone, and also mount a cover-up without accomplices, which will make his or her discovery most difficult. The second possibility is there was a small group of conspirators, which improves our chances, since the more mouths, the less security.

  “The third is a large conspiracy, such as Reynard seems to favor, with entire political parties involved or some such. If this is the case, then we’re not only in worse shape than if it’s the first option, but most likely in serious personal danger, as well.

  “Does anyone have any additions, or thoughts that might eliminate one of the possibilities?”

  Silence, except for ship-hum.

  “You’ve further brightened my day,” Goodnight said. “First I’ve got to visit this goddamned prison, then you start talking about big fat conspiracies after the Daisy Hill Orphanage’s favorite graduate. Wonderful, wonderful.”

  “If no one has anything to add to Grok’s rather succinct summation, shall we announce ourselves?” von Baldur said, and swung down a mike. “Fortress Pignole, Fortress Pignole, this is the ship Marchiale, requesting landing instructions. I am traveling on authorization Romeo Alpha Niner Two Zulu.”

  “This is Fortress Pignole. Stand by.”

  After a bit, the voice came back.

  “Your authorization is approved. Kill your drive and forward speed, then zero your controls and stand by to be landed.”

  Nothing was left to chance. A tug came out to meet the gently drifting Marchiale, and brought it in close, but not close enough for a bomb to damage the fortress.

  A long passage, controlled by two suited guards, came out from an airlock and connected to the Marchiale’s lock.

  “You are authorize
d to enter the station,” the control said. “You are not authorized to be in possession of any arms.”

  Gathering recorders and notepads, the five went out through the lock and down the tube toward the stage.

  “Slipping gently down the large intestine of life,” Goodnight murmured.

  “Thank you for the colorful image, Chas,” Jasmine said.

  “It was nothing,” Goodnight said. “I merely think we should have the proper orientation on prisons in general, and this one in particular.”

  “Especially remembering,” Riss said, a bit of edge to her voice, “they probably have every inch of this can bugged, so let’s be sure and say things that’ll make the warders uncooperative.”

  “Sorry,” Goodnight muttered.

  Six guards waited for them inside the prison’s inner lock. They were scanned, then searched. They were relieved, in spite of their protests, of their recorders, and escorted down passageways to a visiting room bare of anything except four chairs.

  “Careful sorts, aren’t they?” Goodnight said.

  Riss realized he was more than a little nervous; decided anyone who’d ever been a prisoner would probably always twitch around a prison, and hoped she’d never have a chance to test her theory.

  The door slid open, and two guards ushered Legate Maen Sufyerd in. He was tall, very thin, and his face looked as if he rationed smiles on a very careful basis. He wore gray coveralls with a large black cross, front and rear, obviously an aiming point for a guard in the event of an uprising.

  He was introduced around, then sat down, surveying the Star Risk operatives without expression.

  “It is very odd to have out-system people supposedly working for you,” he said, his voice as dry and emotionless as his face, “when your own people have decided you’re a traitor.

  “I don’t suppose you have any ties to the Alliance, which would offer a certain justification for your actions. I must say, though, I have no reason to suppose the Alliance might have an interest in Dampier, Torguth, or Belfort.”