Infinite Stars

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  He tapped the rim of his earthenware stein with a fingernail; it rang softly.

  “—a lot longer than you’re used to seeing me do.”

  Pennyroyal grinned. “Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Leary,” she said. “Unless it involves those women, in which case feel free.”

  Pennyroyal walked toward the gaming room. She didn’t like beer well enough to have an opinion as to whether this was a good brew, but she hadn’t needed Leary’s warning to decide that she wasn’t going to get drunk tonight.

  She didn’t have any idea what Leary was planning, but she was rather looking forward to it. And that meant being fully ready for action when the time came.

  RCN forever!

  * * *

  The gaming room was large enough not to be crowded by what Pennyroyal estimated as over two hundred people. The roulette table near the door was getting the most attention, but it held no interest for her. She kept moving toward the windows at the back, checking each table as she passed.

  Everyone, even among the attendants, was better dressed than Pennyroyal. Nobody seemed to care, though. And at least her utilities were brand new, though after tonight they would be going into the regular rotation with her other two sets.

  On a two-step dais in a back corner, a young man with a faraway expression plucked a harp. In the corner across from him was a 21 table with modest amounts showing and two empty chairs. The pair of windows reached down to the floor; they could be swung open.

  Pennyroyal took a chair and turned one of Leary’s hundreds into chips. The table limit turned out to be the equivalent of seven florins. She stayed at five, playing carefully but not cautiously. She was a moderately skillful player—astrogation was a great deal more complex than keeping track of the cards already showing on the table—and she was perfectly willing to lose the whole two hundred florins plus her own eighty-five while she waited for something to happen.

  The others around the arc of the table were locals; their garments, viewed closely, showed signs of wear. Their haunted expressions were an even clearer hint that they were on the downslope of life. The dealer was young and sometimes fumbled when she took a card from the shoe; occasionally Pennyroyal caught a flash of contempt on her face.

  At least in part because Pennyroyal was alert but unconcerned about the results, she began to win. She stuck to her limit so that the results came in five-florin increments, but by the time she’d taken her third beer from a server she had more than doubled her stacks of chips.

  The only other thing of interest that happened was that the harpist picked out a song Pennyroyal recognized as “Sergeant Flynn,” about an ancient military disaster. Her father had been a trooper with the Land Forces of the Republic before he returned home and joined the Church.

  Parson Pennyroyal didn’t drink often, but when he did he was apt to sing that one: “Your head is scalped and battered, and your men are dead and scattered, Sergeant Flynn…”

  Pennyroyal didn’t touch her beer after that played. She’d known from earliest childhood what it meant to go into action. Tonight she was going into action.

  She kept an eye open for anything of interest in the room. Daniel passed through once with a pair of red-heads: one plump, the other willowy. Pennyroyal nodded to her fellow cadet, then smiled faintly and returned to her cards. Daniel was a bright, personable fellow, but the women he chose were as dim as they were lovely.

  She didn’t see Platt until shortly after she’d taken her third beer. The ship’s corporal came from behind the dais where a wall concealed a passageway. Pennyroyal had noticed members of the house staff passing to and fro that way during the evening, so presumably it was the office.

  The restrooms were on either side of the doorway to the lobby and bar. That had surprised Pennyroyal initially; then she realized that the location encouraged those who had entered the gaming room to remain here rather than to leave for any reason.

  There was even a small bar between the back windows. Servers shuttled between it and the players, sometimes without being summoned. Regardless of its other virtues, the Café Claudel appeared to be skillfully run.

  Daniel returned with a different pair of women—girls, rather; this time they were brunette and both petite. Platt was standing near a poker table, but he showed no sign of wanting to sit at one of the empty chairs.

  A man came in from the lobby, heading straight for Platt. Though he was in a business suit, Pennyroyal recognized Riddle, another ship’s corporal from the Swiftsure. He rushed past Daniel as though he hadn’t noticed the cadet. Pennyroyal had seen that when Riddle had scanned the room on entry, his eyes had paused briefly on Daniel.

  The two corporals spoke. Riddle waved his arms in apparent agitation. Pennyroyal scooped her chips together and dumped them into the right bellows pocket of her trousers. That was a big advantage of wearing utilities instead of more stylish clothing.

  The other players looked at her in various mixtures of concern and puzzlement. The dealer paused with a faint frown and said, “Mistress?”

  Platt and Riddle were heading for Leary. Pennyroyal rose from her seat and reached her fellow cadet just as the corporals did.

  “Tim says there’s about to be a raid!” Platt said. “We’ve gotta get you two out of here through the manager’s office. It turns out the place is over the line and your liberty is only good for Broceliande!”

  “Hell and damnation!” Leary said. “If my father hears I’ve been arrested, I’ll be back out in the wilderness!”

  That didn’t match with what Pennyroyal had heard of Corder Leary’s hard-charging personality, but a great deal of what she had seen this night was contrary to what she had thought she knew. She didn’t speak.

  “This way,” said Platt, leading them toward the passage concealed behind the harpist. “There’s a tunnel from the office over to the next street.”

  The floor-length windows on either side of the bar swung inward. People in rust-red uniforms stepped in, carrying batons or in a few cases carbines. Their shoulder flashes read BROCELIANDE POLICE. More police appeared in the doorway to the lobby and on the mezzanine railing above the gaming room.

  “Too late!” said Platt. “I’m afraid you cadets are for it now. Riddle and me are okay because we’ve got jurisdiction anywhere on the planet, but you two have broken bounds for liberty.”

  “But you brought us here, Corporal!” Leary said. He sounded desperate. “Surely there’s something you can do?”

  Pennyroyal felt her lips tighten. Listening to Leary beg disgusted her as well as being a surprise. Leary had broken more than his share of rules—and had several times been caught. In the past he’d always taken his punishment like an RCN officer.

  “Riddle, you know the local cops,” Platt said. “Can you do something for the kids?”

  “Well, that’s Commissioner Milhaud,” Riddle said, nodding to the man who had just waddled in from the lobby. The police official’s uniform showed almost more gold braid than there was russet fabric visible. “But a quick warning, that’s one thing. To get them—” he looked at Daniel “—out now is going to cost a bundle. Five grand in florins, at least.”

  “Can either of you raise that kind of money?” Platt said. Despite his “either of you,” he was looking straight at Daniel when he spoke.

  “Well, I can,” said Daniel. He reached into his purse and brought out a credit chip. Holding it between his left thumb and forefinger, he said, “This is a letter of credit good for up to twenty, if I can get to a real banking terminal.”

  This is a scam! Pennyroyal thought. What are you doing, Leary?

  The words didn’t come out of her mouth. Leary had warned her not to show surprise.

  “All right, we’re in business!” Platt said. “Riddle, you go talk to your buddy. I know Kravitz has a terminal in his office. I’ll be out with the money in no time at all, and the cadets’ll just leave through the tunnel like they was never here.”

  The crack from outside co
uld have been lightning rather than an electromotive carbine. The lighter crackcrackcrack an instant later was certainly from a sub-machine gun. A slug ricocheted from stone with a high-pitched howl.

  Pennyroyal remembered that when Vondrian had been shaken down two years earlier, a guard was supposed to have shot a policeman. There wasn’t any need for that charade tonight, though.

  The nearest police turned toward the windows they’d just entered by. Dozens of helmeted figures approached across the grounds beyond; they wore dark blue and carried sub-machine guns.

  The initial raid had caused only grumbling reaction among the players; Pennyroyal was pretty sure that she’d heard the raddled blonde at her table mutter, “Oh, not again!” as police clambered in through the windows.

  This was different, and the loudest reactions were from the municipal police. One whispered a prayer and flung down his carbine as though it had been burning his hands.

  Riddle had almost reached the gilded Commissioner Milhaud. A squad in blue entered the gaming room and surrounded them. The newcomers’ helmets were stencilled FEDERAL POLICE in black, and their shoulder patches were low visibility.

  One spoke, his voice booming through the public address system: “I’m Major Picard of the Federal Police. Those of you who are here for recreation have nothing to fear. We’re arresting corrupt members of the Broceliande police force and their civilian accomplices.”

  Platt snarled a curse and sidled into the passage to the manager’s office. Daniel was with him. Pennyroyal followed only a half-step beyond, though she wondered if the Federals now entering the room would have something to say about it. They didn’t, but Pennyroyal sneezed from the ozone still clinging to the muzzle of a recently fired weapon.

  The door to the right at the end of the short passage was marked MANAGER/PRIVATE. Platt pushed it open and stepped in.

  “Why’s the lights out?” he shouted. He found the switch plate; his hand was at it when the lights came on an instant later.

  A small door in the room’s back wall was open. Pennyroyal recognized the man on his back as Kravitz, the manager. The other man was sprawled face-down; his right hand had brought a gun halfway out of his pocket before he dropped. Two more men wearing distorting masks hunched before a banking terminal.

  Platt turned to run. Leary grabbed him by the left arm. Platt’s sleeve broke away and his right hand came up wearing a knuckleduster.

  Pennyroyal caught the corporal’s right wrist and was twisting it backward when Leary slammed Platt’s head into the doorjamb. Platt slumped limply. The weapon clanged when Pennyroyal let go of his arm.

  The kneeling men pulled off their masks. “I think that’s got it,” said Janofsky, the bosun’s mate.

  “Lock the door, will you, ma’am?” said Hogg, the other burglar. “Nobody’s supposed to be coming in after you lot, but there’s no point in taking chances.”

  Pennyroyal was trembling as she shot the two heavy bolts. The action had been too brief to burn up the adrenaline which was flooding her system.

  Platt sounded as though he were snoring. He’d need medical help, and soon. Pennyroyal felt a twinge of concern, but not serious enough to say something on the subject.

  Hogg drew his mask, a stocking of some shiny fabric, over Platt’s head. “Thieves fall out, don’t you think?” he said. “Pop it, Janofsky, and see how well we planned this.”

  “It’ll work,” said the bosun’s mate. He touched a small control device. Six puffs of smoke spurted, three each from left and right of the terminal. The explosions sounded like a single sharp crackle.

  There were tools on the floor. Janofsky put a drill stencilled SWIFTSURE/RCN in a bellows pocket of his tunic. He and Hogg wore ordinary spacer’s slops.

  “What—” said Pennyroyal.

  The terminal’s faceplate dropped two inches with a clang, then toppled forward. The manager’s outflung hand muffled the second impact. Coins of many kinds spilled from broken chutes.

  Hogg tossed an empty sack to Pennyroyal and handed another to Daniel. “You two pick up the spillage,” he said, “and I’ll open the storage cans.”

  The cadets began scooping handfuls of coins into their sacks. Janofsky was putting another tool in his left pocket, an imaging sensor like those Pennyroyal had seen being used to check welds.

  Hogg had filled a bag from the containers at the back of the terminal. It was mostly scrip, but there were also rolls of coins. Pennyroyal had seen at least one bundle of Cinnabar hundreds.

  “Time to go,” Hogg said as he rose. Janofsky had already started out the door in the back.

  Daniel waved Pennyroyal ahead with a grin. She wondered what happened next, but simply doing as directed had worked fine so far tonight.

  Why change a winning plan?

  * * *

  The tunnel was lighted by glowstrips in the ceiling at long intervals. All they did was show direction: the tunnel kinked twice in what Pennyroyal estimated at 200 yards. There was nothing in the passage except for a central drain, and even that was superfluous at present: the concrete walls were dry to a finger’s touch.

  There was suction as the door at the far end opened. A pair of Federal police waited outside the exit.

  Janofsky passed through. Hogg stopped and set down his bag of loot; Pennyroyal jerked to a halt to keep from running into Daniel’s servant.

  Hogg fished scrip out of a tunic pocket. “I know you boys ’ll be taken care of in the share-out,” he said, “but this is a little something from me personally. I appreciate it, right?”

  He handed money to each policeman, then picked up his bag and strode on. “Come back any time,” a cop called after him. They grinned at Pennyroyal as she passed.

  Janofsky was climbing into the back of high-roofed blue van stencilled FEDERAL POLICE in the same style of black lettering as the police helmets. It’s a riot wagon! Pennyroyal thought.

  And so it was; but on the bench to the right sat a man whose blue uniform was of higher quality than those of the Federal assault force. Pennyroyal wasn’t up on Foret’s police insignia, but she was pretty sure that the horsehead on his lapel made him a colonel. The woman beside him wore RCN utilities with SHORE POLICE brassards. Her subdued commander’s pips implied that she was in charge of the whole contingent on Foret.

  Two clerks sat on the opposite bench, each with a thick tray on his lap. One was dumping the contents of Hogg’s bag carefully onto his tray.

  “I’ll take that,” the other clerk said to Pennyroyal—and did so. The trays made small sounds as they sucked in coins and bills, counted them, and dropped them into storage compartments.

  Leary closed the door behind him and passed his bag to the nearer clerk. His fellow said, “We may need those extra bins after all.” He was breaking rolls and bundles of money so that they could feed individually.

  The clerks didn’t pay any attention to the cadets except to take their bags. The sorting trays whirred, clicked, and occasionally pinged.

  The van drove off sedately. Hogg and Janofsky seated themselves below the clerks, so Pennyroyal took the place beside the RCN commander. That officer grinned at her and said, “Impressive work, Cadet.”

  Pennyroyal swallowed. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said. “Ah, ma’am? If I can ask… What’s going to happen to us now?”

  The Commander smiled more broadly. “I suppose you’ll report back aboard the Swiftsure at the end of your liberty,” she said. “We’ll let you out at the edge of the Strip; then you’re on your own.”

  Pennyroyal swallowed. She said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The Commander leaned forward to look past Pennyroyal. “You’re Leary?” she said. “You planned this?”

  “Ma’am, it was my idea,” Daniel said, “but the details and the grunt work was all handled by other people. Including yourself, ma’am, and Colonel Lebel.”

  The Commander chuckled and said, “You’ll go far, Leary. If you’re not hanged first.”

  The Federal colonel sai
d something from her other side. The officers talked between themselves too quietly for Pennyroyal to overhear without making it obvious.

  Turning to Leary on her other side, Pennyroyal said, “Daniel, how long have you been planning this?”

  “Since Vondrian told us how he’d been robbed,” Leary said. He grinned at the memory. “I didn’t know quite how we were going to work it till I met Janofsky when we reported aboard. There’s a lot of the Swiftsure’s cadre who’ve been spoiling for a chance to get back at Platt and Riddle. Hogg—”

  He nodded toward his servant, who was talking with Janofsky.

  “—was talking to people in Harbor Three and elsewhere on Cinnabar. He got names and introductions to members of the Shore Establishment here on Foret. They’ve been pissed about the games the ship’s police have been playing, but they couldn’t touch the crooks without help. I said we’d give them help.”

  Pennyroyal felt herself grinning. “Now I see why you made up with your father, Leary,” she said. “That was, well, a surprise.”

  Daniel’s answering smile was hard. “This chip was blank,” he said, holding up what he’d claimed was a twenty-thousand-florin credit. “I haven’t had any contact with Corder Leary since the afternoon I enrolled in the RCN Academy. Saying that I did was just to explain why I suddenly had money. The ship’s warrant officers, the good ones, clubbed together and came up with enough florins to make a splash. They’ll get a third of the take.”

  “A third,” Pennyroyal repeated.

  She hadn’t added a follow-up question, but Leary answered without it. “The Federal police get a third. They’ve been looking for a way to clean up the Broceliande force anyway. And the rest goes to Commander Kilmartin there for her people.”

  “But you?” Pennyroyal said.

  Leary laughed. “I did it for Vondrian and for the RCN,” he said. “Getting scum like Platt and Riddle out is worth more than money. I suspect they’ll both go down for the burglary—somebody’s got to be blamed. At any rate, Kilmartin’ll make sure they’re off the Swiftsure and out of the RCN.”