by Chris Bunch
M’chel snorted and drank wine.
“Khelat is the main source for maln.”
“Which is?”
“A mildly stimulating, mildly addictive tea that’s become the new fad in the civilized worlds. Main is controlled by Omni Foods, which indirectly controls six seats in the Alliance Parliament.”
He shook his head.
“I wonder what would happen if the flag-wavers ever figured out that we spend half our time fighting for the Stock Exchange?”
“So why’d you take the slot?” Riss asked.
“Got some good men and women aboard … including an old friend of yours, Bev Wycliffe, as my XO. And because this’ll give me a leg up on getting my star.”
“You’re still ambitious.”
“I am,” Lanchester said. “Growing less so the creakier my joints get.” He shrugged. “Enough of that. Can we order? Having no idea of what these furrin devils consider gourmet, I plan on eating nothing but underdone beef or its equivalent until I’ve got to go back on combat rats.”
• • •
They were back on Riss’s island, and it was very late.
Lanchester drained the last of a respectable Vegan brandy in his snifter and got to his feet.
“I suppose I should get back to my hotel, if you still want to be out and about tomorrow.”
“You should,” M’chel agreed, wondering why her voice was getting a little throaty. She got up and led him to the door.
They were close, very close, and Lanchester suddenly kissed her.
Flames flared inside Riss, and she kissed him back, arms going around him.
“You kiss even better than I remember,” Dov said.
“Less talk,” Riss managed. “And more bedroom. Down that hall.”
• • •
Neither of them, during the next five days, seemed much interested in going into the city or doing anything other than being in each other’s company.
Lanchester, in spite of Riss’s growls, insisted on going over the briefing material, and inadvertently M’chel learned more than she wanted to know about the Khelat-Shaoki cluster.
The Khelat and Shaoki came from the same Earth-migrant culture that’d split in half a very long time ago, over what nobody was sure.
There were differences:
The Khelat had basically claimed near-desert worlds and irrigated them toward fertility.
The Shaoki preferred less arid, if now less productive, planets.
The Khelat were ruled by an extended royal family; the Shaoki by a large military council.
There was one minorly bright note. The war had gone on forever, it hadn’t been that much of a disaster.
“They seem to like to skirmish and pose,” Lanchester said. “And break off when things tend to get serious. The soldiers, the confidential briefing said, can be impossibly brave. The officers tend to take care of each other and themselves.”
“So you’ll teach the Khelat how to go for the throat?” Riss asked, amused.
“I suppose so. At least,” he went on, “I won’t have to worry about nukes. The Alliance Control Commission seems to have done a pretty good job of watch-dogging. Plus, they’re not prone to radioactivity, since they both want each other’s real estate.
“Oh yes,” Lanchester said. “The Khelat are claiming there are Shaoki-supported rebels on their worlds.”
“In the hills, of course,” Riss said.
“Of course,” Lanchester agreed. “Where else would any self-respecting bandit hang his hat?”
• • •
Once, lying entwined on the beach, Lanchester said, “It’s kind of a pity.”
“What is?” Riss asked.
“That I’m in the damned marines, and you’re doing … well, what you’re doing.”
“Why?”
“It makes it hard to think about anything … anything more than tomorrow, considering the way that assignments and reassignments work.”
“But if it hadn’t been for the marines,” M’chel pointed out logically, “we never would have met. Right?”
“You don’t believe in fate and foreordained lovers and things like that?”
“Not lately.”
“Oh, well.” And he kissed her.
Both of them were glad the subject changed, but that night, their last night before he transshipped, Riss lay awake, wondering.
• • •
Half an E-month later, the dreams died.
M’chel, to her considerable surprise, found herself writing Dov Lanchester through a military post office almost twice a week, messages not terribly sentimental but lightly coded, to keep off the nosies.
Slightly as astonishing was that Dov replied frequently.
Then an E-transmission was returned, with the automated reply:
CANNOT DELIVER. ADDRESSEE DECEASED.
FIVE
“I want,” M’chel Riss said evenly, “to hire Star Risk, limited.”
She ignored the surprise from the other four, who’d been wondering why she wanted a formal meeting of the firm.
“Here is a list of my current assets, as well as a properly witnessed promissory note for half my share of future commissions until whatever is due is paid.”
“But … but … that’s like gambling with your own money!” a shocked Friedrich von Baldur said.
“And their deck,” Chas Goodnight added.
“Just what do you wish our services for?” Grok wondered.
“To investigate the death of one Lieutenant Colonel Dov Lanchester, Alliance Marine Corps, while serving in the Khelat Cluster as a military advisor, and to provide, shall we say, proper retribution.”
“M’chel,” Jasmine King said gently, “you’ve been glowering around here for the past three weeks about Colonel Lanchester’s death. People, soldiers, do get killed. Don’t you think you’re behaving a little … aberrantly?”
“No,” Riss said shortly. “Because there’s something very strange going on. Here’s the evidence I’ve gotten so far:
“I sent a letter to my friend on the team — she wasn’t really a friend, but a close acquaintance — and got an automated response back.
“The Alliance advisors were withdrawn from the Khelat Systems shortly after Dov’s death.”
“That is a little strange,” Goodnight said. “Have you found out anything about their assignment? Were the advisors pissing in somebody big’s ear or something?”
“That’s number two. I went to another friend, who’s an archivist. The final report of the advisory team is sealed.”
“Oh?” Friedrich said, arching his eyebrows. “Stranger and stranger.”
“Then,” Riss continued, “I finally got a response back from Bev Wycliffe, who’d been XO on the team. She didn’t give me any details about how Dov died, but suggested I stay way out of it.”
“Which definitely suggests something’s stinky,” Goodnight said.
“Which is why I want to hire Star Risk,” Riss said.
“No advisors,” Friedrich mused. “But some kind of situation that required them. Hmmm.”
“I have heard,” Grok put in, “that capitalism abhors a vacuum.”
“Well said,” von Baldur said. “Jasmine, would you like, once again, to be the companion of an aging roué?”
“Going where?” King said. “As if I didn’t know.”
“For a small vacation,” Friedrich said. “To the Khelat Cluster.”
• • •
Two weeks after King and von Baldur left, a message en clair came back:
COME ON IN. THE WATER’S FINE.
SIX
The posh lifter that had been waiting for the Star Risk team flew along the coast from Khelat II’s main spaceport toward the capital.
Chas Goodnight was flipping through the Mich guide, muttering aloud: “Five continents … three temperate … former deserts … now irrigated from numerous artesian wells and desalinization plants … some mineral wealth … extensive plantings of mal
n — dash — see glossary … two arctic continents … bah!” He looked up.
“Tell me something interesting, Grok.”
“The irrigation system was devised by an Earth consortium of the Dutch and the Israelis,” the alien said.
“Gaad, fascinating,” Goodnight snorted, and pointedly looked out the lifter’s port.
• • •
“They’ve got how many frigging princes?” Goodnight asked, as the buildings of the capital, Rafar City, rose from the desert.
“At least three hundred fifty,” Grok said. “Why didn’t you do your homework on the flight out?”
“I did my language condit,” Goodnight said. “Other than that, I was busy.”
“We noticed,” Riss said.
“She was lovely, wasn’t she?”
“And married to one of those princes,” M’chel said. “I checked the manifest, and figured that was the only reason you bothered to learn the language.”
“Ah, well,” Goodnight said. “While the mice is away, or however that goes. At least I took the time for the language conditioning.”
“Is it not interesting,” Grok said, “that they left their central city in the desert, rather than making the lands around beautiful?”
“Perhaps it reminds them of their roots,” M’chel suggested. “As I recall, they came from a desert planet to begin with.”
“I shall never understand humans,” Grok decided. “It is also interesting, that they sited their capital at a distance from a spaceport. That is hardly convenient.”
“Unless you’re used to being invaded by transports,” M’chel suggested.
“Princes … and a king,” Chas murmured, still considering the social system. “How bizarre.”
• • •
Rafar City was laid out in broad avenues, as if a highway engineer was its main architect.
The buildings were spotless, and high-rise buildings dotted the city.
The Rafar Arms Hotel, rather than being a tower, was a sprawl of low buildings that mimicked the higher buildings around it, set in vast gardens.
Riss, although having no objections after years of bunkers and barracks, had once wondered why Friedrich insisted on luxury hotels whenever possible.
“Other than you obviously like it,” she had added.
Friedrich had said something pompous about expecting his surroundings to match his capabilities.
Jasmine had added, “besides, it makes the client, stunned by all the extravagance, hold still for the outrageous fees we charge.”
Waiting in the main lobby of the hotel were von Baldur, King, and an expensively khaki-uniformed man with a finger-line mustache. His epaulettes carried a ring of six stars. Riss didn’t know what rank that made him — the highest the Alliance went was four, and that was for the Commander of the Forces.
Friedrich introduced him as Prince Barab, Minister of Defense.
The man blinked at Grok, then bowed to the others.
“You have honored me, and my worlds, by taking the time to consider yourself with our small problems. I welcome you to the Khelat Worlds.”
“And we are equally honored,” Riss said smoothly, “that you consider us worthy.”
The man smiled as if he really meant it.
“Your leader, General von Baldur, has presented your capabilities, and I am much impressed.”
Riss noted that von Baldur had given himself a promotion, most likely to keep pace with Six-Star Barab.
She also noticed that Barab didn’t speak in the local language, but in Alliance lingua franca.
“Unfortunately,” Barab went on, sighing deeply, “such a decision can only be made by his Most Royal Highness, the King. And unfortunately, he is in his spring quarters.”
“What might those be?” Grok said. “If I’m not asking an unseemly question.”
“Each year,” Barab said, “His Highness and certain specially honored members of the Royal Family go deep into the wastelands to remind themselves of our roots and to ensure humility.”
“Ah,” Grok said.
Chas Goodnight had a bit of trouble keeping a straight face.
“You mean you go camping … when you don’t have to?”
“Now, now,” von Baldur said smoothly. “Each culture has its own practices.”
“Thank you, Friedrich, for your understanding,” Barab said. He frowned.
“But I spoke hastily. Our situation seems to be worsening by the day.
“Perhaps we should seize the horn of expediency and allow you the great privilege of visiting his Royal Highness, when he may choose to discuss this matter.”
“We would be delighted,” Friedrich said.
“Give us a chance to wash and change,” Riss said, “and we’ll be ready within the hour.”
“Good, good.” Barab took von Baldur by the sleeve, drew him aside.
“But I assume you’ll wish to leave that alien behind…. Although I mean no discrimination.”
“Of course you do not,” Friedrich said. “But I must add that without his unique capabilities our fees will almost certainly increase radically.”
“By how much?” Barab asked, a worried note in his voice. “I have already notified the king of your quotes.”
“But that was with my fully integrated team present,” von Baldur said. “Without Grok, we’ll have to go onto the open market…. I, quite frankly, can’t think of anyone I’ve heard of with his qualifications.”
Riss had overheard this, as had the other members of the team, all of whom pretended sudden deafness.
“I would guess … probably double,” von Baldur said.
Riss noted that Barab wanted desperately to ask just what Grok brought to the operation, but wasn’t forceful enough.
“Very well,” he said, still worried. “These are unusual times, and we must all allow for this, mustn’t we?”
Friedrich smiled at him.
Riss thought the smile was very much like the ones she’d seen of Earth tigers, closing in for the kill.
• • •
It took them less than half an hour to clean up and change. All of them now wore dark green outfits that closely resembled uniforms, and Grok had his weapons belt on.
Prince Barab’s personal lifter was a sleek Rolls-Bell, just what a prince should appear in. It was fitted with every plush item imaginable, from real wood paneling to leather upholstery to a concealed bar.
But being a military vehicle, it was also equipped with a chaingun, accessed through a moon roof, and had blast-proof glass.
And it was painted in camouflage.
“Now this,” Goodnight drawled, “would be just the thing to putt around Trimalchio in.”
Barab looked at him.
“Do you have that great a problem with terrorists?”
Chas shook his head, stopped himself from asking “Do you?”
Barab ordered the pilot to divert over a military post to show them the systems’ mailed fist. Riss observed closely.
New barracks. State-of-the-art Alliance lifters. Modern patrol ships and a couple of destroyers, also current-supply Alliance. Huge hangars.
But the barracks already needed paint, and the lifters and other ships looked very short of maintenance and were arrayed in a haphazard style on the base’s three fields.
M’chel was not impressed.
Friedrich, however, made nice on the unit below, and Barab beamed.
• • •
“Hoo,” Goodnight breathed to Riss as the lifter settled down into the king’s camp. “We wuz doing it wrong back when we wuz sojer boys and girls.”
The tents were solid sided and fitted with bulges that looked like auxiliary power for temperature control units.
There was a heavy scatter of lifters, but all of them were luxury items.
The camp was aswarm with servants carrying things here, there, and the only ones doing anything resembling work.
Such, evidently, was one of the privileges royalty gave you. Go
odnight decided he might have liked bivouacking in the army if someone had made an arrangement like that for him.
Riss noted armed men trotting toward the lifter as it landed and saw they were very smartly dressed, and, from their precision movements, well trained.
She corrected the “trained” to “drilled,” as the soldiers, clearly bodyguards, jumped back in dismay when they saw Grok and fumbled about, while their officers bayed orders that made no sense.
All of the Star Risk people stood quite still until the guards were sorted out and brought back under control. They knew the dangers of an incompetent with a gun, and there appeared to be almost two dozen of them about.
The operatives were taken into the largest tent, told to wait for a moment until the king was ready to be honored with their presence, and offered refreshments.
None of them wanted alcohol. Drink and duty seldom mixed.
• • •
“So you think you can help me?” King Saleph asked, in the Alliance diplomatic tongue.
Goodnight was watching him with great interest, this being the first king he’d ever come upon.
Saleph had moon-pool eyes that looked to Riss like those of a penned predator, driven mad by his cage.
He was very thin, and the smile on his long face kept vanishing, as if slipping off, to be hastily put back on.
“I know we can, Your Highness,” Friedrich said firmly.
“But your prices,” Saleph almost whined. He kept eyeing Grok, as if afraid the hulking alien might eat him.
“Cheap, if we are able to end this war, aren’t we?”
The king squirmed. “You’re not the only foreign soldiers in our employ who’ve promised the same thing … without results.”
“One of the first tasks we’ll undertake,” von Baldur said, “is to evaluate your other, uh, advisors, and make appropriate recommendations.”
The king brightened, as if the thought of a war among mercenaries was quite attractive.
“Also, we propose to carry the battle to the enemy as soon as possible,” von Baldur said in ringing tones.
Riss decided Freddie should always walk point for them, since nobody else would be able to think of such horseshit, let alone talk about it convincingly.
“That is good,” the King said, an edge of excitement in his voice.
