by Chris Bunch
“What we’ll need you for,” Goodnight instructed, “is to seal off both sides of a street. Keep the curious away, and if any police lifters show up, which I think they’ve been carefully instructed not to, give the alarm and haul ass. This isn’t an exercise in fair fighting.”
The troops were fed early, then issued black coveralls, blasters, gas and blast grenades, and truncheons.
The Star Risk operatives armed themselves more heavily. Grok picked a semiautomatic, semiportable — except to the enormous alien — grenade launcher.
Riss strapped a small flamethrower on her back.
Jasmine shuddered, checked her own blaster and small backup unit, holstered them, and was ready.
The others had blast rifles, pistols, grenades. All of them wore available-light helmets.
Lifters were waiting in the mansion’s yard, and the men and women, not talking, boarded.
The lifters took off and headed west, away from the slum district. It’d been leaked that Star Risk planned a night exercise in the wilderness, to make sure all their people were as qualified as they claimed.
The lifters, beyond Tuletia, circled wide around the city, keeping well below any radar sweeps, then reentered. They landed at a bankrupt loading yard a block and a half from the Masked Ones’ lair, put guards on the lifters, and moved in on the mansion just at dusk, making sure their hiding places were off the street.
As night fell, men, mostly young, made their way toward the mansion, pretending elaborate innocence.
By 1800 it was full dark, and the last stragglers were inside.
Goodnight moved the guards out into the street, cordoning the area.
At 1815, M’chel Riss slithered through backyards to the rear of the mansion, and opened the flamethrower’s valves.
One blast to one side of the back door, another to the left, and a third straight into the door sent it pinwheeling in flames into the mansion’s center.
The fire caught handily, flaring up on the backyard trash. There were screams, shouts from within.
M’chel went down the side of the Masked Ones’ center, out into the street in front, finding shelter behind an abandoned lifter.
Goodnight and von Baldur came from their hiding places, a grenade in each hand. They lobbed one each, then the second. The grenades hit on the mansion’s porch and exploded. Glass shattered, and now the screams weren’t just from fear.
The enormous front door came open, and Grok sent three grenades into the house. They exploded, and bodies spun bade, and out. A man came out waving a pistol, shouting for someone, anyone, to call the police, and Jasmine shot him.
M’chel squirted flame at one of the front windows. It melted, and she sprayed flammable mix into the room inside, then fired the flamethrower’s igniter, and sent a sheet of flame into the mansion.
The flame set off the unignited mix, and a fireball boiled out toward the street.
M’chel felt her eyebrows crisp, decided to fall back a little, especially as Goodnight roared a burst from his rifle just over her head.
More grenades slammed into the mansion, and Riss saw someone trying to jump out a side window. She fired him up, and in flames, he stumbled away, fell.
Riss heard a noise beside her, saw King’s white face. “Screw him,” she said. “He would’ve gunned you down if he had a chance.”
King reluctantly nodded, and, holding her blaster in both hands, shot down two figures inside the left side of the house.
“Good,” Riss approved, sliding out of her empty flamethrower pack.
Von Baldur held his blast rifle’s trigger back, and, on full automatic, the rifle sent bolts spitting through the mansion.
Flames were rising into the night, reaching high and higher.
Goodnight saw a curtain behind him move aside, waved at whoever was watching, and the curtain closed. He emptied a magazine into the mansion, saw nothing else worth destroying, ran into the middle of the street. “That’s it,” he shouted. “Let’s go!”
All fire abruptly stopped, and then there was nothing but the thud of running feet, the flames, and dying Masked Ones.
• • •
“Good Lord,” Reynard said. “I hired you to prove a man innocent, not murder some” — he turned away from the mike and consulted the paper — “the holos say either twenty or forty … men and women.”
“Masked Ones,” von Baldur corrected. “Neither your friends nor ours.”
“I have not gotten where I’ve gotten by burning to death everyone who didn’t agree with me,” Reynard said.
“I’m sorry you’re unhappy with that accident of last night,” von Baldur said. “Needless to say, all Star Risk operatives and their employees were here at our headquarters.”
“Where, no doubt, you can provide alibis for each other.”
“Certainly,” von Baldur said smoothly. “And I know you … and we … prize innocence.”
Reynard’s lips pursed, and von Baldur was fairly sure he was trying to hold back laughter.
“L’Pellerin was in contact with me yesterday evening after the, er, excitement,” Reynard said. “I tried to contact you immediately, but your corns were all out of order.”
“We were checking them for bugs,” von Baldur said. “It was unfortunate we did not hear about the, er, unfortunate incident until this morning.”
“I was told,” Reynard said, “that Star Risk’s methods could be, and I quote, ‘rough as a cob.’ But I didn’t imagine this rough.”
“We do what we have to do,” von Baldur said.
“I guess you do,” Reynard said. “So what comes next? A nuclear strike on Parliament?”
“If it comes about,” von Baldur said, “we’ll try to give you warning.”
“Out of control,” Reynard murmured. “Simply out of control.” He blanked the com.
“And are we in trouble?” Grok asked.
“I think not,” von Baldur said. “I think he was recording that for the record so he has something to say to the media if, or rather when, we do something equally nasty.”
“If,” Riss said. “Or when?”
“Be that as it may,” Goodnight said, “what’s next? I hope it’s something we can get the guards in on. They gave me pure hell for not letting them in on the action last night.”
“I think,” von Baldur said, “it may be time for me to visit Torguth, and see just how justified the hysteria about their purported designs actually is. I’m suggesting myself, M’chel, because I have some suggestions about what you might be doing here on Montrois.
“I think we can make other deployments. Grok, I’d suggest another call on Mister Sufyerd, to fill out our previous meeting. There are things I’ve thought of that went unasked that I’ll give you.
“M’chel, I’d like you to hold down the fort here. Jasmine — ”
“I think,” King said, “I should be calling on this Pacifist holo, to see if I can get access to Premier Ladier’s letters and find out if there’s anything in them about Sufyerd, as they claim.”
“Good,” von Baldur said.
“And what about me?” Goodnight said.
“I think it is time for you to start thinking about keeping a lower profile, Chas. Something is tickling me, I do not know what yet, and we may well have need for your second-story undercover talents.”
“Wonderful,” Goodnight said. “Twiddling my twiddles again.
“Actually, I’d like to make a short run of my own, as soon as the patrol ships we ordered arrive. Just to see if we’ve got any friends out there and see if anybody’s listening.
“And I’ll only need one ship, and with luck there won’t be any killing necessary.”
“Go ahead,” Riss said. “Be mysterious.”
“Thank you,” Goodnight said. “I shall.”
“Grok,” Jasmine said, “would you care to accompany me to L’Montagnard this evening, while von Baldur is jetting off to incredible adventures? I don’t think we’ll be disturbed as we were the la
st time.”
“Delighted, my dearest Jasmine. Quite delighted.”
TWENTY-ONE
The patrol ships arrived on schedule. There was a small hassle with the crews when they discovered Star Risk meant what they’d said about no lounging around spaceport bars, and that one ship, at least, must remain on duty, in low orbit, at all times.
Goodnight, after making a few corns, took one ship, and gave the pilot a flight plan for a planet about twenty light years away.
When the ship broke out of N-space he had the pilot orbit the small planet three times before he ordered it to land.
The pilot kept looking at him quizzically when they were on final approach.
“Look, junior birdman,” Chas said. “You’ve never contracted with Star Risk before. Relax. We know what we’re doing.”
“But why the triple transit?”
“Because,” Goodnight explained, “this is an Alliance world … or, anyway, one that’s mostly controlled by the Alliance, right?”
“Right,” the pilot said. “That, you said, was why you wanted me to bring you here.”
The ON FINAL screen lit.
“Never mind,” Goodnight said. “I’ll explain later, when we’re on our way out. Meantime, I want you to keep the ship ready to lift, everybody at their station, without getting clearance nor using the taxiway or runway.”
“But that’s illegal from a revetment,” the man said. “Awright,” Goodnight growled. “You’re not in the Alliance any more, right?”
“Correct.”
“They riffed your young ass out without mercy, right?”
“Uh … that’s also correct.”
“Reduction In Forces, that’s you. Which means all of your little dreams about flashin’ through the skies and becoming the youngest Alliance Admiral in history are dust. Right?”
The pilot didn’t answer.
“That means they’re your enemy. If you don’t think so right now, if you keep on mercenarying, you’ll figure it out pretty damned soon. Now, you just sit here at the controls and stay alert.
“Oh yeah. I’ve got this little transceiver in my pocket. Should anybody interesting, like say an Alliance warship, suddenly pop around the corner, let me know, all right?
“That, by the way, is an order.”
• • •
Goodnight marveled at the Alliance’s capabilities. Even here, on this distant world, with only two buildings, the Alliance bureaucracy kept him waiting for almost half an hour.
He spent the time watching out the window on the spaceport, having no faith in his pilot, checking his transceiver, and watching for any inordinate signs of panic on the part of the clerks around him.
But nothing happened, and eventually he was ushered into an office, where a surprise waited.
The man sitting behind the desk was of medium height, not distinguishable in a crowd unless you noted his chill eyes.
“Good Christ, Kruger,” Goodnight said, “who’d you do wrong to get sent out here to the tules?”
Kruger had been one of Goodnight’s controls, back when Chas was a Captain in the Alliance Military, before he got caught with his hands in a planetary ambassador’s wife’s jewel chest up to the armpit.
He and Goodnight had not gotten along, any more than Chas had ever shown respect for any of the intelligence mandarins who loved sticking the besters into near-suicidal situations, especially as their own personal hindquarters would be light years from the resulting massacre.
“Sorry to displease you, Goodnight,” Kruger said. “But I was just passing through when I heard your name mentioned and thought it might be interesting to see what transpired.”
“Do I have to think in terms of hostages?” Goodnight asked, hand going toward his gun.
“No,” Kruger said. “I’m after bigger game than you. At least at the moment. Did you, by any chance, happen to show up here to turn yourself in? You’re still very much wanted, you know, if not by the Alliance directly, by at least one world we have an extradition agreement with.”
“I don’t think so,” Goodnight said. “My interest in death cells has been thoroughly satisfied.”
“Did you come in thinking there was some kind of amnesty?”
“No. Is there?”
“No,” Kruger said. “However, if you were interested in returning to your old trade, there might be some sort of arrangement reached that might even allow you to return to Alliance service at your old rank.
“There’s more than enough work these days for someone with your talents … and modifications. Although you’d have to be willing to accept some sort of conditioning that would keep your larcenous impulses under control.”
Goodnight shuddered. “I don’t think I want anybody stirring around in my brain, thanks. Least of all the Alliance.”
“Then what brings you to our outpost?”
“I came to find out if the Alliance is monitoring the Dampier-Torguth situation.”
Kruger touched a sensor, and a computer screen rose out of his desk. He slid a keyboard over, touched keys.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Using someone else’s computer is like using their toothbrush.”
“Tasteful comparison,” Goodnight murmured, still waiting for the door to come down and a handful of military policemen to hurtle in.
Kruger watched the screen. “At present,” he said, “we have no involvement with either system. Should we?”
“If you’re still pushing the story that the Alliance is the Galactic peacekeeper, you should,” Goodnight said. “Things are building toward war out there.”
“And your involvement is?”
“Something having nothing to do with spacefleets,” Goodnight sort of lied. “I came back here toward Galactic Center to drop the coin on them, since a nice bloody war wouldn’t make life any easier for me and my pursuits.”
“You would expect the Alliance to send out a couple of battle cruiser squadrons just to help a wanted renegade?” Kruger asked.
“Come on, Kruger! I think the Alliance ought to get involved to keep a bunch of its citizens from shooting each other full of holes, no more.”
“Ah,” Kruger said. “Well, I’ll certainly bring your report … I assume you have full details … to the Resident’s attention.”
Goodnight stood. He knew what that meant.
“Right you are. I’ve got the report aboard my ship, and can have it back here within the hour.”
“I’ll arrange to have one of the military attachés give it his full attention,” Kruger said. “As for you, personally, you might consider my offer. You can’t run forever, you know.”
“I’ll take your advice seriously,” Goodnight said. “And I’ll be back shortly.”
The two men smiled mutually loathing smiles, and Goodnight hurried out.
A few minutes later, without waiting for clearance, his patrol ship lifted, ignoring the bleating from Planetary Traffic Control.
So the Alliance didn’t have a clue as to the building war and, worse, wouldn’t get involved in stopping the fighting — at least not until the bodies were piled chin high.
Goodnight’s fond hopes that life could be simplified for Star Risk and its investigation were is vain. It was business as usual ten meters away from what the Alliance called civilization.
TWENTY-TWO
Riss came into the room they’d dubbed the operations center, saw Jasmine critically supervising Grok as he wrote names on index cards and taped them to the wall.
“You know,” Riss said, “this kind of thing is what they build computers for, or so they tell me.”
“It’s easier to move people around from category to category if you can look at the whole mess,” Jasmine said.
“Besides,” Grok said, “I have everything on computer, if you have a distressingly linear mind and would rather wait for printout after printout.”
M’chel noted names; saw, at the top, Caranis’s.
“Is this a suspects roster?”
“No,” Jasmine said. “At least, not yet. We’re cobbling together a roster of Strategic Intelligence.”
“As much of it as Sufyerd could recall, at any rate,” Grok said. “Here’s his section.”
Riss considered the three names: Cabet Balata, Ayalem Guames, Hopea Ardwell. There was a fourth card, Sufyerd’s, completing the four-man team.
Over Sufyerd’s name was another card: Balkis Faadi.
“Now we have four specific people to investigate,” Jasmine said. “Interestingly enough, Grok confirmed none of them, except Sufyerd’s immediate superior, Faadi, testified at the court-martial.”
“Now that is interesting,” Riss said.
“Even more so,” King went on, “is none of them are currently assigned to Strategic Intelligence Headquarters.”
“The matter is being buried,” Grok said. “Very, very deep.”
“FU see if I can have Reynard … or Diavolo … come up with home addresses if they’re out of the service, or new assignments if they’re just being moved around,” Riss said.
Goodnight was in the doorway, doing his usual job of holding up the doorsill with his shoulder. “Has anybody bothered to ask when they’re going to geek poor Sufyerd?”
“I tried,” King said. “Dampier has the lovely custom of not telling anyone when they’re to be executed. Their counsel is notified at midnight of the day, given a chance to get to the place of execution. The victim … sorry, the condemned … hears about it when he’s awakened.”
“Flipping wonderful,” Goodnight said. “So you never know whether the footsteps down the hall are a warder bringing you a drink of water, or the headsman.”
“They don’t use an ax, Chas,” Jasmine said. “Lethal injection, like most civilized states.”
“There might be those who think that any state that kills people isn’t civilized,” Goodnight said.
Riss turned and stared at him. “Now that’s an odd thing for a formerly licensed assassin to say.”
