by Chris Bunch
Ardwell giggled.
“Now, start by telling me about your day.”
“After I see your credits, Chas.”
“Very well,” Goodnight said. “Then let’s adjourn to the lobby bar, and I’ll go up to the suite, and bring down the first payment.”
“Will I have to sign for it?”
“You don’t have to do anything … other than start talking.”
“This could be the easiest ten thousand I’ve ever seen,” Ardwell said, and greed underlined her words.
• • •
Once started, it was impossible for Goodnight to stop Hopea Ardwell from delivering her part of the bargain.
Through the day, through cocktails, through dinner, and through dancing, Goodnight learned everything there was to know about being a junior analyst, barely more than a secretary, with Dampier’s Strategic Intelligence.
It was just as dull as he’d always envisioned any intelligence post beyond field duties.
In spite of his excellent memory, Goodnight was grateful that he had a tiny mike in his watch ring, transmitting to a recorder in his suite, and thence on to Star Risk’s mansion in Tuletia.
At least Hopea Ardwell didn’t talk in bed. Not in coherent sentences, at any rate.
• • •
Hopea was delighted not only with being with the best-looking man at the resort, but also with Goodnight’s continuing the contract for three days, making her go over and over her routine.
He also asked about the way the cell had been dissolved, learned that it had been at the orders of Caranis, found the supposed reason was to give everyone who was innocent a chance to start over.
“Start over,” she said. “With the government? Hah! As if nobody would know where you’d worked, and they’d be forever picking at you, wanting to know what it was like to be a spy or to be around a traitor.
“And you’d best not shatter their little ideas by saying you knew Maen Sufyerd was innocent.”
On the third day, she was droning on about the problems her cell always had getting proper supplies when requisitioned, when he stopped her in mid-sentence.
“What?”
They were lying naked on the deck of his suite.
“Go back, love,” Goodnight said. “About the mailboy.”
“Oh him. Not worth talking about. He came to us from some government program. If brains was power, he couldn’t blow his nose.”
“Who was he?”
“Some little yerk who was always looking at himself in any mirror or anything shiny, like he was as good-looking as … as you are. Thought he was just the best-looking little flasher ever ever. But he could never get anything right, and was forever giving me Maen’s mail or memos, and forgetting to give poor Balkis Faadi his directives. A useless little tweep if ever there was one.”
“What was his name?”
“Runo Kismayu.”
“When they broke up the cell, what happened to him?”
“I don’t know,” Hopea said. “Nothing, I guess, since he wasn’t part of our team, our cell. Knowing how the government works, they probably promoted him to something or other.”
She yawned. “I think I want to take a nap. But come over here first. My throat’s dry, and I need some mouthwash.”
• • •
“Ah, the conquering hero returns,” Riss said. “Are your lustful impulses satisfied for the moment?”
“As a matter of fact,” Goodnight said, “they are. Gad, but it’s hard being a honey trap.”
“But you volunteered,” Riss said.
“Dumb me. Why do people who love to run at the mouth always have annoying voices?” Goodnight asked.
“She does have that,” King said. “Thank heaven for automatic voice transcripts. Although I kind of wanted to listen to the dirty parts.”
“I’m going to be celibate forever and ever,” Goodnight said mournfully. “If she wasn’t talking, she wanted to screw.
“I’ll take my pain out on the bottle … and maybe by becoming a thief again. I’ve got an idea that needs cogitatin’ on.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Chas Goodnight eased through the door of the dingy shop, smiled at the tiny, bald man behind the dusty counter.
“Help you?” the man asked without returning the smile.
“Looking to pick up some tools,” Goodnight said.
“Like what?”
“A good reader, a jumper, an earpiece, some full-size picks, a lighted glass, a jimmy and brace, and if you happen to have any night eyes, I could use them,” Goodnight said, slipping easily into thieves’ cant.
“You a locksmith?” the old man asked, playing it straight.
“You have me spotted,” Goodnight said, going along with the game and wondering if the stories he’d picked up in a couple of seedy bars about this man could be lies.
“Happen to have your license about?”
“Afraid I went and left it in my other pants.”
“Can’t sell to you without a license.”
“That’s a problem,” Goodnight said. “My other pants are on Capella Seven.” He dug in his pocket, took out a high-credit bill, creased it, and sat it on the counter.
The old man picked up the bill. “You realize it’s illegal to sell anything resembling burglar tools here on Montrois,” the old man said. “Illegal anywhere in the Dampier System, in fact.”
“That’s hard,” Goodnight said. “Keeping a man from his chosen trade.” He put another bill next to the first.
The old man moved very fast. A small, deadly, if a bit old-fashioned pistol was in his hand.
“I think you might want to stand very easy,” the old man said. “Some friends of mine might want to meet you.”
“I do hope they’re not policemen,” Goodnight said.
The old man seemed to find this amusing. “They’re not. Oh, they’re not,” he chortled.
Goodnight sat down in a rickety chair, keeping his hands in plain view. The old man kept his eyes … and gun … on Chas while he punched numbers into a com, picked up a whisper mike, and spoke into it briefly.
Goodnight waited. He was pretty sure that if he triggered bester, he could get across the room before the man could pull the trigger.
Pretty sure.
Besides, he was curious to see what his request would produce.
Things weren’t working out as smoothly as he’d planned, but he had hopes that the old man might be tied in with some nicely corrupt cops that he could further corrupt to be on his side.
He wondered why he’d been stupid enough to leave his burglar’s tools back on Trimalchio. Goodnight had known this would be a city job, and since when could you do anything in a city without some sedate thieving and robbing?
Half an hour later, a rather large bruiser swaggered into the shop. On the other side of the street an equally large sort looked for Goodnight’s backup, couldn’t find any, came into the shop himself.
Goodnight’s hopes sank. He was pretty sure what these two represented, not at all what he wanted.
They shook Goodnight down, found one of the small pistols he had hidden on his person.
“Who’re you,” one of them growled, “to be trying to operate without permission of the Thieves’ Guild?”
“Bring on your King of Thieves, who I assume’s crouching outside the door, and I’ll explain everything,” Goodnight said tiredly.
The thug glowered, but went to the door. “It’s copa, boss.”
A very fat man waddled into the shop.
“M’ name’s Guayacurus. I run all thievin’ in Tuletia,” he announced. “You must be from offworld, not comin’ to me for permission to work yer prowls.”
Goodnight shook his head sadly. “I’m Chas Goodnight, and yeah, I’m from offworld. But I’m no cherry-boy to listen to your jeffin’.”
“You can’t — ” one of the goons started, reaching for Goodnight.
But Chas had already triggered into bester. The closest heavy went pin
wheeling through the outer window. The old man pulled the trigger of his gun, but Goodnight wasn’t occupying that space anymore. Instead, the projectile put a smallish, but fatal, hole in the middle of the second bodyguard’s chest.
Goodnight reached across the counter, a gray blur, watching the gun’s action slowly cycle. He plucked the pistol from the old man’s hand, snapped his wrist, and pushed the old man back into a tray full of sharp tools. The man’s mouth was opening into a scream as Goodnight turned away to see the fat “king’s” hand reaching into his gaudy, somewhat unclean, tunic.
Goodnight pulled the man’s hand clear, — accidentally, more or less, breaking his forearm — took his gun, and came out of bester.
Fatty was gaping, the old man was screaming, and the two thugs lay still. Outside, a couple of people passed, and ostentatiously paid no attention to the body on the sidewalk. It was that kind of district.
“I should have just killed you,” Goodnight said. “Don’t you think I’m cereb enough to know every frigging city on every frigging planet’s got at least one, generally ten Kings of Thieves, all hustlin’ their asses to convince the marks they’re for real?”
The fat man started crying.
“Stop leaking,” Goodnight ordered. “I was hoping you’d be somebody else, but I’ll settle for the name of your best fence, in trade for your sorry fat ass stayin’ intactico. I may need to move some swag before I move on.
“And I’ll need to know where you plug from, in case you double-deal me, in which case I’ll hunt you down like a dog and blip you on to your next life.”
The man muttered names, locations.
Goodnight quickly went through the man’s pockets, found a knife, another, very tiny gun, and a large collection of credits, all of which he appropriated.
“Now, I’ll just get the tools I came here for, and leave you to clean up the remains. I figure I just paid my entry fee and a year’s worth of dues into your Guild.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Yes,” Elder Bracken admitted, “I do know where the Sufyerd family is. They are quite safe with us, however.
“We moved them from their own home after some hooligans threw rocks at their house and threatened the children. It was a place that would have been hard for us to guard them in.”
“I don’t mean to insult your capabilities,” Riss said. “But the people who might wish Maen Sufyerd harm are quite used to gunplay.”
“And we are not,” Bracken agreed. “Even those of us who served in the military before discovering our way are unwilling to choose violence.
“That, I understand, can slow someone down in the moment of action.”
“It can,” Riss said dryly.
“What do you propose to do with them, assuming Mrs. Sufyerd is willing to accompany you?”
“Take her and the children to a safe place,” Riss said.
“Which brings up another matter,” Bracken said. “We have both been assuming that you … and your people, including this rather frightening gentleman with you … don’t intend harm to the Sufyerds. Before I will help, I’m afraid I’ll have to have some proof as to your good intents.”
Grok huffed. Riss couldn’t tell if he was insulted or complimented by Bracken’s words. He sat cross-legged on the floor of Bracken’s rather spartan living room, trying to maneuver a human-size teacup.
Occasionally one or another of Bracken’s children would peer around a corner, goggle-eyeing at the alien.
Riss grinned. “No offense, but I’ve never had to prove my innocence before, and I’m not sure how to go about it.”
“I have an idea,” Grok said. “Would a personal call from ex-Premier Reynard be satisfactory?”
Bracken visibly reacted, then considered. “Would there be any objection to my recording the conversation?”
“If there is,” Riss said, “I’ll get involved as well.” And threaten, she thought, to rip that bald bastard’s skull fringe out if he doesn’t cooperate.
“That is a level I’m not used to dealing at,” Bracken said.
“I’ll even,” Riss said, “let you place the call, to make sure we don’t have a double standing in the wings.”
“My,” Bracken said. “The world you live in is full of deceit, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Riss said.
“And I’m afraid,” Grok said, “that we rather enjoy a universe of such duplicity.”
Shaking his head, Bracken led Riss to the com.
• • •
Riss was very curious about what Mrs. Sufyerd would look like, suspecting she’d be a tall, gaunt ascetic like her husband.
Instead, Cahamla Sufyerd was short, long-haired, and wore a saucy expression, even shadowed as it was with worry. Her daughter, Abihu, about ten, and son, Hasli, six, were a bit more solemn than children their age should be as well.
“Elder,” Cahamla said, “I don’t know if I should follow your advice.”
“Of course,” Bracken said courteously, “you have that option, and we’ll continue to shelter you among the membership. But what this woman says does make sense.”
“You and the children, as long as you’re aboveground,” Riss said, “are what they call hostages to fortune.”
“In what sense?” Cahamla asked. “I have an idea what you mean, but would like things made clear.”
“The, uh, children?” M’chel asked.
“We have never tried to hide anything from them,” Cahamla said firmly. “And shall not start now.”
“First, in the open, you could be kidnapped.”
“Which would produce what?”
Riss blinked.
“I don’t mean to me, or to the children,” Cahamla explained.
“Your being in peril could keep Maen silent,” Riss said.
“No,” Cahamla said. “Maen is … always has been, always shall be … his own man, serving the truth as best he knows.”
“Your jeopardy also might keep others silent, who might refuse to help prove Maen innocent,” Grok said.
Her two children were as entranced with the shaggy alien as Bracken’s had been.
“He talks,” Hash told his sister.
“Of course he talks,” Abihu said. “Now don’t be embarrassing.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” the boy said.
“I meant embarrassing him,” Abihu said, jabbing her brother in the ribs with an elbow.
“He’s not embarrassed, are you?” Hash asked Grok.
“I do not embarrass easily,” Grok said.
“See?” Hash said. “Yadder-dah-yadder-dah-yadder.”
“Hush,” Cahamla said. “I’m thinking.” She got up, went to the window of the small, modest house the Jilanis had put them in.
“Under normal conditions,” she said, without turning, “I’d ask for a few days to consider what you propose, and would communicate with my husband.”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Riss said. “I mean, the part about telling Maen what we want. All of his coms are monitored, and, quite frankly, there are people in the government we in Star Risk don’t trust, and knowledge of what we want to do might set them off.”
“Star Risk … that’s a neat name,” Abihu announced. “Could I work for you when I grow up?”
Riss raised an eyebrow.
“Uh … well, we’re always looking for good people … but I don’t really think your family, and your friends, would approve.”
“Then pooh on them,” Abihu announced. “I want to do what I want to do when I’m big … without hurting people, naturally.”
“We better talk about that,” M’chel said.
Cahamla was smiling at her. “I can tell you don’t have any children.”
“I don’t,” M’chel said. “Nor a husband, either. But how does it show?”
“Children can distract anybody except their parents,” Cahamla said.
Grok growled what signified amusement to him.
“How do you do that?” Hash aske
d, attempting a growl of his own.
“Children,” Cahamla announced. “You are not making this decision process easier.”
The two children looked at each other, grimaced, but kept quiet.
“As for your staying here to think about things,” Riss said, “if you think that’s what you have to do, go ahead. With your permission, we’ll put guards around the house, to make sure nothing happens.”
“You think we’re in danger here?” Cahamla asked, sounding worried for the first time.
“I don’t know,” Riss said. “All I know is what Elder Bracken told us some time ago, about various people who weren’t Jilanis coming around to your services. I would think one reason they did so was to keep tabs on you.”
Bracken nodded. “I’ll accept that theory.”
Cahamla took a breath. “Very well, then. We’ll go with you. Can you give me an hour to pack?”
“We’ll wait,” Riss said. “We’re in no particular hurry.”
“It won’t take any longer. Ever since that gang ran us out of our own house, we’ve been living out of our travel cases.”
She smiled wryly. “I guess we should consider making that a routine until Maen is freed.”
Her voice was quite sure that he would be.
• • •
The Sufyerds had just loaded into Riss’s lifter when she saw movement across the street, outside a clearly empty house with an overgrown garden.
“Are we going to see Daddy?” Hash asked.
“Eventually,” Riss said absently. “Grok … do you — ”
“I got him,” the alien said. “One man, with a com and binocs.”
“Not good,” Riss said, turning the ignition on and starting the drive.
“Not good at all,” Grok said. “Look.”
“What is it?” Cahamla asked.
Two men were coming out of a small commercial lifter down the street that had PHILBRICK COMS on its side. Both had guns in their hands.
“What the blazes are they doing?” Riss said, bringing the lifter clear of the ground and spinning it through 180 degrees.
“And why didn’t they do it earlier?” Grok wondered.
One of the men was waving something that might have been a badge holder.
“And that proves nothing,” Riss snarled. “I’m not polite to people with guns.”
