by Chris Bunch
It was the turning point in the life of the once-shy being called L'n. And there would be no going back.
As soon as they reached the center of the city, St. Clair instinctively gravitated toward Chaboya. In any area where sin was largely ignored and corruption was waist deep, cops tended to blank out most of the evildoers and their victims. The crackdowns usually came against well-known types who had not coughed up enough to stay in business. Credits changed hands, and then it was back to business as usual.
St. Clair found a dive for them to hole up in and then hit the streets. For the first day or two she fooled around with a few penny-ante shell games just to get warmed up and increase her stash of credits. Then she hit the casinos. Unnoticed, she filtered through them one by one, dropping a little here, picking up a little there, always keeping a low profile. She found what she was looking for at the K'ton Klub. From the thin crowds and the peeling plas walls, she knew it was close to folding. She played small-time dice machines for a while, watching the crowds.
She identified the owner right off. He was an older, handsome man who tended to dress a bit too flashily. She noticed that he spent little time on the floor, appearing only when another obviously high-stakes flash gambler occasionally showed up.
He would personally greet him, then they would disappear upstairs to what St. Clair just knew was a big-time game. It was time to strike. She invested a healthy chunk of her stake for the flashiest, sexiest outfit she could find, then reentered the club, looking for all the world like a bored professional anxious to find some action.
The owner spotted her right off. A little flirting followed, and teasing remarks were exchanged. Mild sexual innuendo was used on each side to check out the gambler in the other. An invitation was offered.
A little later she found herself being ushered into the owner's office. As soon as she entered the room, she knew she was home. In the center of the table was the pot. And it did not consist of the funny money the Tahn laughingly called credits. Instead, there were rare gems and exotic heavy mineral baubles. And there were also stacks of parchment-like papers that could only be Imperial bonds and real estate deeds.
One week of around-the-clock playing later, she was bowing the owner out of his own office, holding his deed to the club. All the objects that made up the pot were also hers. She expected a bit of a strong-arm bluff from the man. And she was prepared for it—St. Clair had a minipistol hidden in the voluminous sleeve of her blouse. Oddly enough, the man did not seem to mind all that much. He said he had been thinking it was time to move on, and the cards that they all worshiped had confirmed that.
There was one other deed on the table that proved to be of far greater value than was obvious at first glance. It was for the seemingly worthless cargo of a freighter—a museum ship stranded by the war in midtour.
As soon as she and L'n had cracked the rusted hold and entered, St. Clair had smelled money. Inside was a traveling exhibit of ancient Earth-style casinos: mechanical gambling machines, crap tables, bingo machines, roulette wheels, decks of real paper playing cards. And vid-books after stacks of vid-books on how the old folks had lost their money thousands of years before.
St. Clair stripped the K'ton Klub down to the ground floor, then installed the machines. The lure of honest percentages and old-fashioned gambling drew customers like beasts to carrion. The marks were sure they could not be cheated because there was little electronics involved. Things that went crank-crank, whirr were considered far more trustworthy and ruled by the laws of a kind nature than were computers that talked to one, fooled with one, and toyed with reality livie-style, all the while gulping away at one's credits.
From the very beginning, St. Clair decided that the place would be as exclusive as possible. Instead of garish, lighted signs outside, she had only a small glowing plaque on the front door reading “The K'ton Klub. Members only."
St. Clair congratulated herself as she slinked through the more drably dressed customers who made up the crowds on the ground floor. She noted the things that were going right and, just as importantly, what was going wrong—if anything. The room was ringed with the one-armed bandits she had salvaged off the museum ship. On this floor they were one of the biggest money-makers, second only to the dice tables and followed by chuck-a-luck and the marathon bingo games that featured a pot that grew each day until no simpleminded blue-collar type mark could resist laying his credits down.
To keep a bit of class and social strata awe going, the center of the room was occupied by a raised, roped-off platform where there was always a high-stakes whist game going. To encourage a constant supply of whist players, St. Clair charged only a minimum fee per chair and took no house percentage at all.
Sexily uniformed servers constantly moved through the crowd, offering cocktails, narcotics, and snacks. In peacetime it would all have been free, but now the marks were so grateful that there was anything available at all that they gladly paid. There were two ways a customer could go from there. A mark could either exit to the street—after passing through a brothel where joyboys and joygirls hustled whatever credits remained—or he or she could climb the stairs to the next casino, where the price soared along with the class of the clientele.
The previous owner had had a somewhat similar setup, with three working casinos on each floor and a nightclub restaurant on top. However, he had used entrances and elevators to separate the poor marks from the middle class and the middle class from the rich. One of the first things St. Clair did when she took over was eliminate the elevators and the separate entrances. Everyone had to go the same way to get to the top, and without exception, money was left on each floor.
St. Clair climbed the stairs, making sure at each level that the bouncers were properly culling the credit-level chaff from the wheat. The second casino leaned toward roulette and higher-stakes card games and crap tables. The next floor was invitation-only straight card games, mostly poker, whist, t'rang, bezique, and bridge.
The nightclub was on the top floor. There was no cover, no minimum. It was St. Clair's idea. The prices she charged for food, drink, and sex with the entertainers who swung that way were astronomical, even for those inflationary times. Everything else about the nightclub was L'n's.
She had designed it so that the mark and his or her mate would be impressed as soon as they entered. It hit St. Clair even though she had known what to expect. Visitors were overwhelmed by the multicolored lights that dipped, dodged, swirled, and smoked, grabbing the viewer's mind in a soft glove and delivering him or her into the arms of the entertainers who danced and sang and cavorted on three stages.
The moment L'n had spotted the dusty room jammed with creaky, high-tech seats, she had known she was on the verge of discovering a new art form, a living art form that would call into play all the powerful talents she had spent so many years developing. She used light sources of all types but seemed to get the most out of the more natural effects of resistor-based vacuum bulbs, and especially candles and torches whose burning centers she captured on moveable mirrors, split with prisms, and then re-formed again to be cast any place she chose.
L'n controlled everything from a computer console in a dark corner of the club near the door that led to their private quarters and offices. At first she had curtained off the console area. But as she grew more confident, she had the curtain removed. If one looked in her direction, she could be seen playing at the board with all the flair and drama of a concert pianist.
St. Clair edged around the room so as not to disturb the audience. Spotting her, L'n toggled a few switches, spun a control wheel, then joysticked the lights to a higher crescendo. Then she motioned with her head to the door.
Someone was waiting in the office. St. Clair mimed a “who is it?” but L'n merely smiled. It was all very mysterious.
She went through into the hallway and marched to the office door. She did not remember it opening. But it must have, because standing in the middle of the room was Horatio, an immense grin
on his face.
St. Clair shouted and sobbed and hurled herself across the room into his arms. And she was kissing his neck, and hair, and anything else she could find.
And Horatio was doing the same until the sudden heat in her loins brought her back to reality. Of all the men she had ever met, this guy was way up there on her hatred list. The slimy so-and-so was probably there to...
St. Clair shoved him roughly away, eyes blazing, finger stabbing into his chest. “Listen here, you son of a bitch,” she said. “I'm not in your clottin’ military, remember? I'm a civilian. And you guys can't touch one mill of our hard-earned. Got it, buster?"
Sten gaped. What the clot did he care? Besides, he was as confused about what had just happened as she was. What was with this woman, anyway?
"Fine with me,” he said.
"I suppose you think you're here to rescue me,” St. Clan-said. “Well, think again, bud! I've got transponders blaring out a coded SOS, here we are, on half the Tahn freighters in the merchant marine.
"Although I don't know what's taking those clots so long. I've got a sweet thing going here. And a hell of a deal to offer. Why, we've got customers who are generals and admirals, and—"
"I know,” Sten said. “We got your message."
"Say clottin’ what? What are you blabbering about? Who got what message? When?"
And then St. Clair got it. Sten smiled, admiring how lovely she still looked even with her jaw nearly brushing the floor in surprise.
"Let's start all over,” he said. “First off, the introduction. If anyone calls me Horatio, or Horrie, or whatever starts with an H again, I'll kill them. My name is Sten. So much for boy meets girl. Now, where do you want to go from here?"
St. Clair started to say something terribly biting and terribly clever. She had about six well-tested ways to emasculate this insufferable little ... Except that was somebody else, wasn't it? That was—
She bit off the remark. She just looked up at Sten, waiting.
It was a good thing the office desk was a museum relic. Because what happened next had probably happened to it many times before.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
HIS NAME WAS Chapelle.
Until recently, he had been a landing controller at one of the Empire's busiest spaceports.
Like most controllers, he was very young and very intense. The pressures of his career guaranteed burnout by the age of forty. Unlike most controllers, his entire life was spaceports. He spent all of his offshift times haunting the port. He had walked the hills around the port time and again. He had been through all the buildings around that port. He boasted—only to himself, since Chapelle was a neurotically shy man—that even if all radar, laser ranging, and the port's other artificial GCA systems went out, he could land a ship by mind and voice. He could visualize “his” spaceport from any angle, under any weather conditions.
Chapelle's proudest possessions were two holographs. One was of the Imperial yacht Normandie settling onto “his” field, and the other was an autographed portrait of the Eternal Emperor. His leader, whom he had brought safely to a landing. Of course, the portrait was machine-autographed and had been routinely provided by the Emperor's flack as part of another show-the-flag tour.
Chapelle had known he was being recognized for his abilities when he was unexpectedly promoted and transferred to the main port on Prime World.
Immediately he began the same self-education program he had used before. Perhaps his superior did not understand what he was doing. Or perhaps Chapelle's obsession was becoming worse. It did not matter. The supervisor had mildly suggested that Chapelle might consider taking some time off, with no loss in status at all. But ... he seemed so very intense. Perhaps he might consider consulting a specialist. Chapelle had barely kept himself from striking the man. Perhaps his supervisor was right—about being too dedicated. Of course he was not right about Chapelle needing psychological help. Yes, he would take the time off.
At that point, Tanz Sullamora's agents discovered Chapelle's lovely profile.
Chapelle, feeling rested, was ready to return to work when the fax in his high-stack apartment complex delivered a notice, placing Chapelle on extended unpaid leave. Chapelle found the guts to vid his department and ask why.
"The reason is sealed."
Sealed, Chapelle wondered. Why? Who could do such a thing? Who had the right? No one ... except ... and his eyes found the smiling portrait on the wall.
Why?
He was the Emperor's most dedicated subject. Had he not, after all, saved the Normandie from a possible crash?
Chapelle sat for hours in the tiny apartment, staring at that picture. He barely picked at the meager, welfare-provided rations that slid out of the dining slot. There had to be something wrong.
He determined to visit the library. Perhaps he needed to know more about his Emperor.
While he was away, his apartment was visited.
Several hours passed after he returned before he noticed. That portrait, the portrait he had always thought was smiling benevolently at him, had a cruel edge to it. The twinkle in the Emperor's eye was not that of a kindly leader, but that of someone who thought it humorous to play a meaningless practical joke on his most loyal subject. Yes. Perhaps he was wrong about his Emperor. The histories he had read suggested that the Emperor was more than die universe's paterfamilias.
He needed to learn more.
And again his apartment was visited. And again the picture of the Emperor was changed.
It was, Chapelle recognized, the face of all evil. He had been a fool. He would have served the Empire better if he had allowed the Normandie to crash.
That night, the voices began.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
IT SHOULD HAVE been a routine meeting—Kilgour's third for the day.
All he had to do was be sitting quietly in the dispatch clerk's efficiency apartment when the man returned. After the man recovered, Kilgour would apologize for letting the man, one of Tahn Counterintelligence's most valued agents, fall out of contact. But, he would explain, the man's control had been desperately needed in a fighting sector, and unfortunately, there was a bit of disarray. Now he, Senior Specialist Fohch, was reactivating the man.
Nothing would change. He should continue to report any anti-Tahn sentiments at his workplace and, most importantly, describe exactly how those affected the efficiency of his plant. There was no more important part of the war effort than the continued production of Imperium X, which was used for shielding Anti-Matter Two.
The only change, Kilgour would be delighted to inform the man, was that his superiors had authorized an increase in the small retainer paid to the dispatch clerk. And once final victory over the Empire had been achieved, appropriate medals would be awarded to men and women like him, who performed vital duties far from the fighting front but were as responsible for that soon-to-arrive victory as the most decorated hero.
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Certainly there was no need to confuse the poor man with reality. If he felt happy being a fink for Tahn CI on his fellow workers, Kilgour would offer nothing but support.
So it was up the emergency slide, pick the window's friction catch, and inside. Perhaps, he hoped, the man would have a bit of alk chilled. Spymasterin't, Kilgour thought, could get thirsty.
There was a half-empty container of something that tasted like soya wine. Kilgour gagged but continued sipping as he wandered around the apartment, gloved hands routinely lifting, moving, and checking. He lifted a lamp and tsked sadly. Then he replaced the flask in the reefer and went back out the window, leaving no trace that he had ever been in the room.
Kilgour wandered back toward the nearest transit dump point, considering possibilities.
Most interestin', he thought. Thae's little if any safety here. An th’ puir workers boil out frae th’ tubes like salmon up a weir.
Pity should a wee dispatch clerk who just happens to hae a bug in his apartment which nae should be there happen to come a gainer in front ae the outgoing.
It was. He did.
And Kilgour headed for the next address. Nae two shabby. Thirty agents so far. Five gone, three lost nerve, and two doubled. The rest were all humming away, happily back in harness, reporting what they were told to, to whichever spy service Alex thought appropriate for them to be employed by.
* * * *
Sten briefly admired his reflection in the large mirror. He looked rather dashing, he thought, in evening wear, even if it was a shade too flashy for his personal tastes. But big-time gangsters were never known for their subtlety. He minutely adjusted a shirt stud, sipped brandy, and leaned back, waiting for Connl to make the next move.
It appeared to be a straightforward deal. Connl had a warehouse, custom-sealed, full of the high-protein glop the Tahn military used to augment its ship rations.
Sten wished to purchase said glop.
A straightforward deal—on the black market.
How Connl had come into possession of the glop was not Sten's concern.
Sten had made his offer, calculated to be several units per kilo above what Connl could get from other black market commodity dealers and far above what the Tahn would be willing to pay.
He was also willing to pay in hard Imperial credits.
The details of Durer still were not known. But the entrepreneurs had heard bad things. Plus they were not particularly thrilled doing deals in the already inflationary and good-faith-based Tahn currency. Even if the Tahn managed to win, would Imperial credits be worthless? No one thought that would happen.
Plus Imperial credits were weatherproof. Buried under the gazebo in one's estate, they would be safe from wear, tear, and rodents. The fact that possession of those credits made the owner subject for the high jump worried no one. At worst, bribery would be called for.