The Scoundrel Worlds: Book Two of the Star Risk Series

by Chris Bunch

  “We shall eat in my private dining room,” L’Pellerin announced. His voice was that of a small-town teacher, used to being obeyed.

  Von Baldur expressed pleasure at the idea, and was led into a small dining area paneled in wood and incongruously hung with archaic hunting prints.

  There was no menu.

  The meal was very simple and excellent: crudités, then crusty, warm, fresh-baked bread with home-churned butter, a smoked meat and fowl bean stew, salad, and a cheese course. Von Baldur was offered a red or white wine, L’Pellerin drank mineral water.

  L’Pellerin ate hurriedly, in spite of the fact his face suggested he was ulcerous. He behaved as if he’d been given a task at birth, then told he wouldn’t have enough time to finish it.

  However, like Reynard, L’Pellerin observed the most sensible custom of not talking business with his meal.

  Near its end, von Baldur complimented him on the meal.

  L’Pellerin looked at von Baldur disbelievingly. “You mean that?”

  “I seldom lie,” Friedrich said. “Except, of course, when the job dictates.”

  L’Pellerin flashed a smile, less humorous than a polite acknowledgment of the jest.

  “There are enough elaborate palaces for eating in Tuletia,” he said. “I prefer the peasant food of my own province.”

  There didn’t seem to be an answer to that.

  L’Pellerin finished before von Baldur, waited patiently. When von Baldur put his plate aside a man came in, cleared the table, left the wine and the mineral water on the table.

  “So you … and your team … are going to prove Sufyerd innocent.”

  Von Baldur saw no point in dissembling. “We are going to attempt that.”

  “You will fail,” L’Pellerin announced. “My investigators are already quite satisfied as to his guilt. I ordered the case closed, and any men assigned to it were assigned new tasks the same day the verdict was handed down.”

  “There are others who disagree about Sufyerd’s guilt.”

  “Reynard? Fra Diavolo? The bleeding hearts of Dampier? I don’t worry about their opinions.”

  Von Baldur touched the wineglass to his lips.

  “I asked you here because I always like to size up an opponent before battle is joined,” L’Pellerin announced.

  “I am not necessarily your enemy, am I? I thought you would be more interested in the truth than in conflict,” von Baldur said.

  “The truth has been determined,” L’Pellerin said. “To challenge that decision is to question the state itself.”

  “The normal police’s job is to support society,” von Baldur said. “At least publicly. I am a bit surprised that you take that absolute and simplistic a stance.”

  L’Pellerin laughed harshly. “Absolute? I’m hardly a fool. But once the state has declared itself, that is the position we all must take, or society itself is in danger of crumbling.”

  “Obviously I disagree,” von Baldur said.

  “Obviously you do. But you’re right about one thing. There’s no particular reason I should see you as my … as our … enemy. Not yet, at least.

  “I have no objection to your taking as much of Reynard’s money as you can. He’s entirely too rich, and a longtime mischief-maker, in or out of office — which is your first warning. Reynard is growing increasingly desperate, as are the fringe elements of his party, the Independents.

  “Dampier is quite content being ruled by the Universalists, and Reynard’s scrounging about for a scandal will accomplish little, I’m afraid — save to stir up the masses, who’re always ripe for trouble.”

  “You think that the current situation between Torguth and Dampier is satisfactory?”

  “I do,” L’Pellerin said. “I speak off the record, but I can say that we have their dozen or so agents here on Tuletia under constant surveillance, and should the political situation worsen, can have them all under arrest within a day.

  “As for Torguth itself … I think it’s quite healthy for two systems to be in competition with each other.

  “Some of this competition, of course, is military, which in one regard is a waste of the taxpayers’ credits, but on the other does provide work in the various arms industries.”

  “I am not really concerned about that, though I certainly do not agree,” von Baldur said.

  “You, an ex-soldier, disagree?”

  “Perhaps that is one reason I am an ex-soldier.”

  “Well spoken,” L’Pellerin said. “So let me move on to my next warning. You, and your teammates, can be in personal danger if you pursue your quest too diligently.”

  “From you and your policemen?”

  “Probably not,” L’Pellerin said. “I would think all of you are too intelligent to chance treason or involving yourselves with the Torguth, which is all the DIB concerns itself with.

  “There are wheels within wheels here on Tuletia, and I must caution you that little is as it appears, and the situation can change completely from day to day. Be warned that even Reynard may, if it becomes expedient, turn against you.”

  “Thank you for the warning, sir,” von Baldur said. “Now, may I ask you two questions?”

  “You may ask,” L’Pellerin said carefully. “I do not guarantee an answer, though.”

  “First,” von Baldur said, “what is your, and the Universalists’, connection with a private security firm called Cerberus Systems?”

  L’Pellerin lifted an eyebrow. “Your intelligence … or, more likely, Reynard’s … is superior to what I thought it to be. The retention of Cerberus Systems, while not classified, was not felt worthy of being brought to the attention of the public.

  “Cerberus Systems has operatives here on Tuletia, and a small observation team on the Belfort Worlds. They were retained quite against my — which means the DIB’s — wishes, by certain nervous Universalists, to act as an outside oversight group on current events.”

  “I was told,” von Baldur said bluntly, “they’d been hired to make sure Sufyerd dies.”

  “That might be one of their responsibilities.”

  “It’s my turn to warn you,” von Baldur said. “They are less than scrupulous in their methods, and less than honorable in their practices.”

  “No doubt,” L’Pellerin said, “they would say the same about you. And since when, in the shadow world we both work in, is morality, real morality, ever in play?”

  “A point,” von Baldur conceded. “However, Cerberus can be terminally inept in their practices. That, in my view, makes them a risk.”

  L’Pellerin inclined his head. “I stand cautioned. You had a second question?”

  “A multiple one. Why are members of what are called the Masked Ones permitted to operate with not only police nonintervention, but with their blessing? I speak from personal observation,” von Baldur said.

  “I have heard this,” L’Pellerin nodded. “An investigation is under way to see if that is, in fact, the case.”

  “How many members of the Dampier Information Bureau also belong to the Masked Ones?”

  For just an instant, L’Pellerin’s face twitched. Then he recovered. “None that I’m aware of.” He stood. “But if any are unveiled, they shall be dealt with most harshly. Most harshly indeed.

  “Now, I thank you for taking the time to visit with me, and I think — hope, at any rate — we now understand each other better.”

  “I am certain that we do,” von Baldur said.

  FIFTEEN

  “You’re forgiven for the raw beef,” Jasmine told Grok, patting her lips with a napkin. “At least this time it was air-dried. Next month, we’ll investigate the joys of cooking.”

  Grok daubed cheese on the last of his berry tart, and washed it down with a prune liqueur the restaurant’s owner had recommended.

  “That is good,” he rumbled. “I mean, that you forgive me. The meal as well.”

  They’d eaten well: the beef, viande de grisons; then raclette, cheese melted in front of the open
fire next to them and spread on baked tubers; then salad and dessert.

  Jasmine suppressed a genteel burp, saw, on the next table, the printout of a holo someone had left, and noted the headline. Curious, she slid it toward her.

  “The Tuletian Pacifist, hmm?”

  Grok was looking away, at a man who came in and went through the restaurant, into the facilities. That was the second time he’d seen the man do that.

  “Condition Yellow,” he said quietly, shifting his weight so the holster behind what looked like a sporran was easier at hand.

  Jasmine frowned, then got it, moving her hand closer to her pistol.

  But nothing happened. The man went back out. Jasmine returned to the printout, read an ear beside the masthead. “‘Coming soon … Scandalous Details from Inside the Universalist Party on the Connivers of the Capital, Their Loves, Their Secrets. Read the Secret Letters of Premier Ladier. Mysteries of the Innocent Sufyerd, the Stolen Belfort System Plans, and More, More, More.’

  “Perhaps one of us should look up this editor and see if there’s anything really there.”

  “Perhaps one should put work aside for the moment,” Grok said, “and concentrate on digestion, and perhaps a nice walk along the river.”

  “Do you expect me to shut off my brain?” Jasmine said.

  “Of course not,” the large alien said. “Merely divert it to thoughts of the night and — ”

  Three men came through the door of L’Montagnard. Two had pistols, one a blast rifle.

  Jasmine King was learning about life on the sharp end. She went instantly to Condition Red.

  Her pistol, carried in a sleeve holster, was out, and she snapped a bolt into the rifleman’s stomach.

  He shrieked, stumbled sideways as one of the pistoleers was aiming at Grok.

  The shot went wild, punching a sizable hole in a rather grotesque print of two men wearing leather shorts and blowing on ridiculously long horns.

  Before he could correct his aim, Jasmine shot him in the head. He dropped like a rock.

  Grok’s enormous blaster fired, and put a fist-sized hole in the last man’s chest. He collapsed on his knees, died there.

  The restaurant owner screamed. Grok was on his feet. “Call the police,” he ordered. “Now!”

  Her scream cut off, she nodded dumbly, went to the back.

  Jasmine King stood, looked down at the rifleman as he gasped his last. She paled a little, found control.

  Grok was hastily shaking down one corpse, and King managed to go through the pockets of another.

  “Look,” she said.

  She was holding a rather unusual mask, one with a black eyepiece, and a cloth hanging below it to hide the rest of the wearer’s face.

  “The Masked Ones,” she said.

  “Just so,” Grok said. “I suppose it’s nice that we are doing something to attract the attention of villains. I just wish,” he said somewhat wistfully, as sirens screamed toward the restaurant, “I knew what.”

  SIXTEEN

  The next day was detail time around the mansion.

  The first order of importance was debriefing. All of the Star Risk operators carried recorders when they could, and when they couldn’t, used their memories, which had been carefully trained to remember everything.

  Just to make sure, when they were between assignments on Trimalchio IV, they took mnemonic courses.

  Riss was keeping an eye on Jasmine, who was still a little shaken by the previous night’s shooting.

  King was on a scrambled com to one of the many suppliers Star Risk used, which was one of the ways they were able to keep their mission costs far below other, more lavishly staffed operations.

  “Hold on a beat, Asamya.” She muted the mike. “Friedrich, is there anything we need from outside?”

  “I can’t think of anything,” von Baldur said. “Except maybe an expat cook from here, who’s been gone long enough to be safe, so we’re not dining out and being targets so much.”

  King shuddered at the memory, opened her mike. “No, Asamya, we don’t … wait a second. M’chel’s waving at me.”

  “I can think of something,” Riss said. “We don’t really have a back door on this one. How’s about a nice patrol boat … maybe one of those little Pyrrhus-class tubs … two crews?”

  King asked, listened. “There are more than a few available,” she told Riss.

  “Good,” M’chel said. “Standard options, standard contracts. Full time. Tell them they’re intended to just stand by and play Parcheesi unless the shit hits the fan, and then they’d best be ready to play hero. One ship can be on the ground, the other in orbit, unless things get tense, and then we’ll want both of them in the sky.

  “Jasmine, write the contract up like that. We get killed, they won’t get anything more than expenses. They can start anytime.”

  “Untrustful sort, you are, Miss Riss,” Goodnight said, leaning against a doorway of the large mansion library they’d decided to use as an office. “How could you think a lovely assignment on a charming world like this could be anything other than warm and cuddly?

  “Especially after those murderous thugs tried to do some lightweight killing, without even giving us the chance to explain.

  “Although I think we ought to develop some sources, and go teach some idiots with masks they should not be messing with our Jasmine.”

  “What about me?” Grok said, putting on a hurt voice.

  “You’re big enough to take care of yourself,” Goodnight said. “Miss King is our responsibility.”

  “Why the paternalism?” Jasmine asked suspiciously. “Is this another way you’re trying to hustle me into bed?”

  “Gad,” Goodnight said. “Now you’re getting positively kinky. Can’t you suspect me of a little benevolence ever?”

  He heard noise outside, went to a window.

  “Jasmine, your door-rattlers are here. Must’ve come down on this A.M.’S liner. You want to brief ‘em or for me to do it?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Jasmine said. “I really want to get the transcriptions collated.”

  “Not to mention someone has got to get ready to have dinner with this Fra Diavolo,” von Baldur said.

  “Being of a philosophical bent,” Grok said, “I would leap at the chance, were I not going to spend the evening considering various electronic security measures.”

  “With a name like that,” Jasmine said, “Diavolo’s got to be a lech.”

  “Good,” M’chel said with a sharkish smile. “I’ll take the job. Been a while since I’ve fed a reprobate his own gonads.”

  She went upstairs to her quarters. Goodnight looked after her, shook his head. “What a waste of a lovely, lovely … ah well.”

  He picked up a pistol belt from where it hung on the back of a chair, slung it over a shoulder.

  “Why that?” Grok asked. “Are you planning to shoot anyone who doesn’t suit your eye?”

  “Negative,” Goodnight said. “I just want to have a bit of intimidation handy.”

  He buzzed the outside gate open and went outside, as two medium-sized transport lifters came onto the grounds, landed, and some twenty men and women unloaded with an assortment of luggage.

  Goodnight noted with approval that none of them were wearing anything vaguely military, although their carriage and haircuts didn’t conceal their backgrounds very well.

  He sat down on a porch railing and waited until he was noticed, and the chatter died away.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Chas Goodnight, one of your bosses. Some of you know me … I saw from your resumes we’d worked in prox sometime in the past. If you do, tell the others.

  “All of you have experience with a gun and a suspicious nature, one way or another, one place or another.

  “The most important thing you’ve got to remember is that the only friends you’ve got are standing around here, and inside. We’ve never sold any of our people out, or refused to back them up. We expect the same of you.
<
br />   “I don’t make pretty speeches or screw around on a job, and I won’t tolerate anybody who thinks this is a game or a chance to do some he-man or -woman posing.

  “There are four more of us. You’ll meet them inside. You do what they say, no questions, no argument. We don’t run an especially taut ship as far as haircuts or uniforms, as long as you’re clean and shipshape.

  “But don’t screw up. A first, minor mistake’ll cost you a heavy fine. A second, or a serious one, will get your contract canceled and you’ll be using the back half of your ticket before you know it.

  “A real bad mistake could get you dead. By me, if not the other side. We don’t go to the law, but take care of our own headaches.

  “You’ve all signed contracts. We’ll honor them. You don’t have to. But if you quit, you better get your ass offworld in a blazing hurry, because I’ll be looking for you if you don’t. None of this ‘going to work for the oppos’ after you’ve cased the turf here.

  “Your primary job is to provide security for this horrible-looking place we all live in. You’ll have the left wing to live in, which has enough room for all of you. Keep it clean. The housekeepers aren’t paid to take care of slobs.

  “There’ll be local work crews in sometime today or tomorrow putting in razor wire, sensors, gas crystals … the usual stuff. You’ll be watching them to make sure they don’t get cute and maybe ‘forget’ to wire something up. Once they’re gone, one of us will make some changes in the way they set up things, just in case.

  “Like I said, your job is to provide security around the mansion, and occasionally as basic backup if one of us goes out. You’ll be assigned shifts and partners. They’ll be changed on a regular basis.

  “We don’t trust anybody.

  “We may need some additional heavy work in the event of an emergency. We pay bonuses for anyone volunteering for anything outside the contract specifications.

  “You’ll be briefed on who our opponents are. There’s more than one set of them, and we’re not sure we’ve even got all of them identified.

  “One set is Cerberus Systems, which is why the recruiters asked if you’d ever worked for them, or had any problem working against them.