The Scoundrel Worlds: Book Two of the Star Risk Series

by Chris Bunch

  “Wrong,” Goodnight said. “I never thought I was moral. I always hoped that the idiots I worked for were. Fool me. Any word from Freddie yet?”

  “Nothing,” Riss said. “I’m not even sure if he’s inserted into the Torguth Worlds yet.”

  “Hell,” Goodnight said. “I need a drink, since nobody’s come up with any nasty deeds for me to do yet.”

  “Actually,” Jasmine said, “I can come up with one, but regrettably it isn’t that nasty. You noticed Caranis’s lifter, some kind of exotic. You might want to do a little digging around, and find out if he really is rich. Or if he’s …”

  “‘Bent’ is the word used in some circles,” Goodnight said. “That sounds just vaguely interesting.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Tristan, the capital of the Torguth System, was the fourth planet of nine, and quite Earthlike.

  Friedrich von Baldur had made two jumps away from Dampier, then another two back to Torguth, carefully checking to make sure he wasn’t followed, either electronically or in person. He’d planned his second-to-last jump for a fairly cosmopolitan world for this remote part of the Galaxy, and spent two days having an entirely new wardrobe run up in the unlikely event someone had put a bug or a tracer in his clothing or personal effects. He felt especially delighted because everything would be cleverly buried in the expense sheet sent to Reynard.

  He packed his old gear and sent it back to Trimalchio.

  While he was waiting for the tailors to finish, he made inquiries in some seedier places, and by the time his clothes were ready and he’d bought new luggage, he was also luxuriating under the name of Lord William of Hastings, a distant planet he’d made up.

  His trade, he decided, would be import-export of luxury items. Since everyone knew that people who produced luxuries preferred instant cash, that justified the large amount of credits he was carrying.

  He sent a coded notice of his new ID and trade to Trimalchio, where the mail forwarding service would send it on to Jasmine King, and her onetime pads. Just in case he needed a rescue or two …

  • • •

  Tristan’s main city, Mackall, had been carefully planned, nestling in a mountain valley that opened to the south, where manufacturing facilities and the spaceport were located. Public transit lines were readily available, so no one had to live near the smoke and fumes of his job, and there was a prevailing southerly wind.

  Mackall had lakes, canals, parks, and sculptery plazas.

  Von Baldur didn’t much like it. He hated all well-planned cities, preferring those that grew in strange and unexpected ways. But this wasn’t his home, and he’d be gone as soon as he could get the information he sought.

  Fra Diavolo had contacted his two agents in the Torguth System, not saying how the messaging was done, and notified von Baldur he could proceed into the lion’s den.

  Passport control at the spaceport was very careful, very thorough. Von Baldur was starting to get a little paranoid until he realized everyone got the same tooth-combing.

  Finally, the inspector — after staring back and forth between von Baldur and his money, waiting for Friedrich to break out in a cold sweat or something — grunted, ran Lord William’s passport through a pickup where it was stamped, gave it back, and said, clearly not meaning a word of it, for Lord William to have an enjoyable and profitable stay on Tristan.

  Von Baldur wished him a pleasant day, also not meaning it, went looking for transport into the city.

  Outside his terminal were crowds and lines, but no for-hire lifters.

  It was unseasonably warm, the street was closed off, and there was a parade going on.

  The paraders carried banners, proclaiming each group of marchers’ occupations and places of work.

  Friedrich wondered why, if they were workers, all of them carried blast rifles. Then he noted the weaponry was nonfunctional, solid plas pieces, which made things even more puzzling.

  The marchers, men and women, kept going past and past and hypnotically past.

  Von Baldur really wanted a good beer and something to eat, and parades had always bored him spitless.

  But he stood, trying to look as interested as the bystanders were.

  There was a pause in the procession, and a man next to him leaned over, and said, “You’re offworld, correct?”

  “I am that.”

  “Welcome to Torguth,” the man said, pumping von Baldur’s hand. “You will enjoy yourself here.” It sounded like an order.

  “I am sure,” Friedrich said.

  “You can go back to your own world, whatever it is, and say that you have been here, and seen how Man can order his universe.”

  “By marching in parades?”

  The man frowned, let it go by. “We enjoy showing our solidarity,” he said. “And our workers love to show off that they are as one, which is one reason we have no unemployment.”

  “None?” von Baldur asked, just a bit incredulous.

  “None,” the man said firmly. “We have the proper education, and our leaders make sure that each of us is properly directed into a profession we can be proud of.”

  “How nice,” von Baldur said, smiling sincerely, having noted the parade was at an end, and a host of cabs were drifting toward them. “How very nice indeed.”

  • • •

  The hotel he’d picked from a guide holo was more than satisfactory — his suite was very large, and the emergency escape was one window over, an easy jump if someone unfriendly showed up at the door.

  The beer in the dining room was also satisfactory, if a little less hoppy than von Baldur liked.

  The meal, however, while well prepared, was more than heavy. He’d considered various options, decided he didn’t want to take a nap, and ordered a simple plate of bread, cold meat, and cheeses.

  It came on a platter he could’ve fed everyone from Star Risk, including Goodnight after he came out of bester.

  He picked at the food, eventually gave up, and the rather overbearingly maternal waitress cooed over him, worried that he was getting sick.

  Von Baldur thought of telling her how long it’d take him on a track and with machines to get rid of all these calories, but didn’t bother.

  Instead, he found a theatrical supply house, and bought a wig. It was just realistic enough to be believable from a distance. Up close, it was clearly false. Like all good quick disguises it was intended to draw attention to the hairpiece, and a witness would hopefully only see the awful wig, and facial features would become an unidentifiable blur to the memory.

  Then he reconned the meeting places.

  Diavolo had told him the agents would make contact with him, and had given von Baldur meeting points. Both were in city parks, which von Baldur didn’t like, since that was one of the signs of an amateur agent. He liked even less that he was at the mercy of Diavolo’s contacts instead of the other way around.

  The first park was a statuary exhibit, all piled stone and polished metal, with warlike names on the abstracts.

  He guessed it was a monument to one or another of the three wars Torguth had fought with Dampier.

  Friedrich didn’t like that one much, since there were streetlights and open ground on all four sides, and it would be very easy to surround the statues and turn the park into a trap.

  Von Baldur found places around the park where he could stash the tiny pistols he’d brought with him, pistols that would go through a metal detector unnoticed, that were part of a solid sheet of plas that served as his suitcase bottom. Small, explosive rounds for the weapons were hidden inside the metalloid carrying strap of the case.

  He went on to the meeting place the second agent had chosen. This was a deal better — a long park beside a small winding lake.

  Here there were only occasional streetlights, and more than enough avenues of escape.

  Two more pistols could be hidden in conveniently hollow niches in trees.

  All he had to do was stroll in these parks, at preset hours, wearing a black
mourning band around his left, not right, shoulder. Not professional, he thought. But better than carrying a holo, or a stuffed pigeon or such, more recognition signals for amateurs.

  Somewhat satisfied, he went back to his hotel, picking up half a dozen holos on the way.

  He went to one of the hotel bars, ordered a white wine spritzer, and started reading.

  The holos were trumpeting a host of atrocities and near-atrocities on various of the Belfort Worlds, all, of course, committed against Torguth citizens who were either colonists or visitors.

  Von Baldur didn’t recollect reading about any of those before he left Montrois, nor about the incredible crime rate on the Belfort Worlds, and the constant rudeness Dampier officialry wreaked on poor Torguth businessmen or tourists.

  He even found a mention of Reynard as being one of the chief conspirators “holding Torguth back from their rightful place in space,” and probably secretly planning an invasion of Torguth.

  There was no mention that Reynard was rather firmly out of office.

  Saber-rattling, he thought, and went to find someone to consult with who might recommend a restaurant that might serve food, not boat anchors.

  The restaurant was better than the hotel, but still heavy. After eating, he strolled through one park at the set hour. No one approached him.

  • • •

  The next night, he walked in the other park again, without result.

  Then back to the first.

  He rather enjoyed these nightly strolls, once he had finished stashing his pistols.

  The people of Torguth loved uniforms, and it seemed that everyone had one, from the school children to the priests to the mailmen to various military organizations. He saw one woman dressed in a rather paramilitary set of slacks and loose blouse, wearing a small badge that appeared to show a man soothing some sort of beast.

  He asked, was told that she was a veterinarian, and he should learn to recognize uniforms better, even if he was an off-worlder. Friedrich apologized and withdrew, wondering how a people could be so in love with uniforms without considering enlistment.

  But if Torguth continued on the path it appeared to be on, he thought, they might end up following the colors whether they wished to or not.

  • • •

  Six days passed, without contact.

  Von Baldur kept busy. He contacted various craftsmen and got quotes on interesting material, from hand-worked silver to hunting weapons to an odd melon with three separate tastes that would preserve well, even throwing in a couple of artists.

  He hoped none of them would be too disappointed when the promised follow-ups never happened.

  He decided he didn’t like Torguth any better now than he had when he first landed.

  Friedrich also kept up with the tabloid holos, and the steadily worsening situation, for anyone of Torguth descent, on the Belfort Worlds.

  No one was calling for armed intervention.

  Yet.

  • • •

  On the seventh night, in the statuary farm, a uniformed man walked toward him. Von Baldur had been practicing uniform recognition, saw the man was of the Custodial Corps.

  “A shame to lose someone dear to you,” the man said, nodding at von Baldur’s armband.

  Von Baldur, feeling a bit of a fool, responded as ordered: “Not as terrible as if it happened to yourself.”

  “Over there,” the man said. “Behind that blob that looks like a man’s butt.”

  Von Baldur followed.

  “So what is your one question?” the man said.

  “Torguth Intelligence has or had a control, or maybe a bureau, handling a high-level double agent on Montrois, who is almost certainly in their Strategic Intelligence,” von Baldur said.

  The man blinked. “If it’s a top level operation, there’ll almost certainly be no way I can get inside.”

  “I do not want you to even try,” von Baldur said. “I just want to know if that operation is still running.”

  “That’s not very much for what I want to be paid.”

  “I am a very generous sort,” von Baldur said. “I love giving money away.”

  “That’s all?”

  Von Baldur nodded.

  “All right. Same contact place, if I can find anything out,” the man said, smiled, and walked away rapidly.

  Not very professional at all, von Baldur decided, using the same meeting ground. But maybe he could get in and out quickly enough for it not to matter.

  • • •

  Two nights later, with no contact from the janitor, the second agent made contact, in the lakeside park.

  She was a middle-aged clerk or secretary, a very no-nonsense look on her face.

  She had the same contact phrase, and von Baldur responded as before.

  A wintry smile came, went.

  “Who makes these things up? Of course losing yourself is a pain.”

  She took his arm, and they strolled on.

  Von Baldur repeated his question about a mole inside Dampier’s Strategic Intelligence, and then another thought came, that he might be able to use in the eventuality Star Risk could get Sufyerd an appeal. It was more a hunch than a coherent idea, but he made a practice of trusting his hunches.

  “I would like to know the scenario for the Torguth war games that are planned near Belfort.”

  “Scenario?”

  “Every war game I’ve ever heard of has some sort of script,” von Baldur explained. “The heroes go here, are attacked by whoever plays the villains, they counterattack or whatever … that sort of scenario.”

  “The war games are still being drawn up,” the woman said.

  “Get what you can … I do not need specific deployments or units, just where these mock battles will be fought.”

  “Might I ask — ”

  “I collect toy soldiers,” von Baldur said. “And I am running out of role-playing games.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the woman said.

  “Neither do I.”

  Again, the chill smile from the woman.

  “If — I emphasize if — I can get anything, I’ll get it to you at the Café of the Dawn Delights. It’s two blocks down, six east. Eighteen hundred. Be inside if it’s raining, outside if it’s nice. Give it an hour, then try again, two nights later.”

  Without waiting for a response, the woman pivoted and was gone.

  Now she, von Baldur thought, is almost professional.

  • • •

  It was foggy, with a light drizzle blowing across the statues.

  Von Baldur growled at the weather, then realized if matters went sour, it might give him a bit of cover.

  The man came toward him quite openly, and didn’t bother with the code.

  Von Baldur knew something was wrong. “Well?”

  “Do you have the credits?”

  “I do.”

  “Lemme see.” Greed was heavy in the man’s voice.

  Von Baldur wished he’d gotten one of the guns out of its hiding place, but thought, if the man was going to try to strong-arm him, he might be in for a surprise.

  He nodded, put a smile on his face, and took out a clipped-together band of bills.

  “Well?” von Baldur said again.

  “They’ve got some kind of operation going,” the man said. “On Montrois. Real high level. I found out it was for an agent they’ve doubled in Strategic Intelligence. They told me …”

  His voice slipped a little, and his eyes looked over von Baldur’s shoulder.

  Friedrich spun, saw two men coming out of a parked lifter toward him, two other lifters landing on the other side of the park. They didn’t need to get any closer for him to ID them as plainclothes cops.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Jasmine King. I have an appointment with your editor,” Jasmine told the young man. He looked at a screen, nodded.

  “Met Fall is running a little late this morning, but he’ll be with you shortly.”

  Jasmine went to a rather battered
chair, sat down, looked about curiously. This was the first time she’d been in a holo’s office. The furniture was fairly battered, as if it had been picked up at a fire sale, even though the Tuletian Pacifist was one of the most prosperous tab holos on Montrois, and the floor looked as if it could do with a determined sandblasting. The walls were glass, and looked out on a large chamber full of computers, intent journalists, and scurrying messengers.

  It must be deadline time, King guessed.

  There was one other person in the room besides the receptionist, an extremely pretty woman who Jasmine guessed was in her mid-thirties. She wore expensive clothes, and jewelry just a bit too ostentatiously costly. Her face, heart-shaped under a blond coif, had just begun to harden. King hid a smile, thinking that this woman was a perfect illustration of what Goodnight called a “high-maintenance bimbo,” and picked up a current edition of the Pacifist, and fed it into one of the viewers scattered about.

  The banner above the logo read: COMING SOON: UNIVERSALIST SCANDALS BARED IN SHOCKING LETTERS. But there was no accompanying story.

  Jasmine had read about half of a poorly written piece claiming — with no hard evidence to back the claim — that Torguth had agents riddling Dampier society, when a buzzer went off.

  “Miss King,” the receptionist said, “you can go straight on through the city room to the end … Mr. Fall is free now.”

  The other woman looked at Jasmine resentfully.

  “How come she gets in straightaway, and I’ve been sitting here for over two hours?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Fall is aware you’re here, and wants to be able to give you his fullest attention,” the young man said. He touched a button, and the door into the large chamber opened.

  Jasmine went through the room, aware that she was getting interested looks from several reporters of at least three sexes. She was used to that.

  Another glass-walled office was at the end, with a tarnished brass plate that read EXECUTIVE EDITOR. The office inside was terminally cluttered with printouts, boxes, several computers, and heaped papers and holos.

  Behind a desk that looked as if it’d served for fleet target practice was a man, youngish but balding, who wore his hair thinly combed across his pate. He was thin, and had the face of an ascetic. His suit was expensive, and was worn carelessly.