by Chris Bunch
Across Alsaoud, alarms were gonging the military to full alert.
Someone had killed their leader, and they were going to seek revenge.
As of yet, they didn’t know on whom, but it had to be somebody.
• • •
Someone came on the official government com frequency and announced that Prime Minister Toorman would be taking over the government until the “situation clarified and elections can be held.”
Star Risk had reached their yacht, and Spada had trapped the ‘cast.
Goodnight started laughing.
“Ho-ho, with Toorman in charge, that’ll mean Nowotny is eating several meters of boiled shit.”
Of them all, he and Grok were the least disturbed.
In Grok, that was easy to understand.
But M’chel puzzled over Goodnight, unable to decide whether he was simply used to dealing with the unsettling because of his background in special operations.
She preferred that thought to its alternative — that Chas Goodnight was just an utterly cold-blooded son of a one.
• • •
There was a real, armed enemy — even if they weren’t shooting yet.
The freebooters of the People entered the Alsaoud System at battle stations.
Even though the People weren’t in any sort of battle formation, the Alsaoud ships met them.
Someone — no one ever knew who or on which side — touched off a missile, and fire was returned.
Ships swirled through space around Khazia, firing on anyone they thought was unfriendly. Frequently these were on their own side, warships that either didn’t respond as expected or were just late on the password.
It was nonsensical, but it was bloody.
• • •
Walter Nowotny hoped his flopsweat wasn’t showing on his face as he bowed deeply to Premier Toorman.
“Of course, Cerberus Systems extends the same contract to you as to the late President.
“We merely struck our deal with President Flyver because he was the head of the government and of the same party as his predecessor, with whom the original contract was drawn up, and it will be our privilege to give you the same kind of aid as before.”
Nowotny couldn’t have known, but Toorman’s twitch had worsened since he took over the government.
“That … that is good,” Toorman said. “I haven’t had time to review your contract, but I must assume that everything is in order and we shall have an excellent working relationship.”
“I’m sure we shall,” Nowotny said, thinking if we don’t, we will with the new man.
He was still waiting for a reaction, some kind of reaction, from Ral Tomkins.
FORTY-TWO
But whatever arrangements Cerberus had made with Flyver, either they hadn’t carried down to the Alsaoud fleet yet, or else in the general excitement, their Fleet Admiral, an intensely political sort named Poel, had forgotten them.
It was an interesting sort of mess.
Since Poel hadn’t survived the event, he’d evidently decided that the motlies of the People could be easily wiped out, or shoveled out of the system, and so hadn’t had much of a coherent strategy going in.
His crumbling excuse for a strategy wasn’t helped by the problem the Alsaoud had with the fleet itself.
Huge, sprawling battleships go in and out of style, depending on how removed from reality the admirals are, and how easily overawed the fools who pay for the defense budget are.
Friedrich von Baldur was one of the few experienced combat leaders who loved battlewagons.
Of course, his adoration had less to do with their combat handiness — which was marginal at the best of times — or their efficiency, which had always been nonexistent.
He loved them for their size, for the enormity of their admirals’ quarters, the number of cooks that the officers’ mess would accommodate, and other non-battle perks.
Why the Alsaoud loved them was never known, but their fleet consisted of some twenty superheavies, bought from various mothball yards for their size and beauty.
No one worried about how reliable these vessels were, so long as they were sleek and striking.
After all, Alsaoud hadn’t fought any sort of fleet battle for two hundred years.
Their navy was not only rank-heavy and -happy, but the enlisted man’s condition was accurately, if vulgarly, described by Goodnight as “sucking hind tit.”
Their quarters were cramped, their food was marginal, their discipline was draconian — but by the gods, their uniforms were gorgeous.
Needless to say, there weren’t long lines in front of the recruiting booths, and so the Alsaoud had instituted conscription, which didn’t make service in the military any more popular.
Yet another problem was that these battleships, frequently maintenance queens, kept the Alsaoud from being able to afford the proper number of escorts for a rational fleet.
So the fleet, instead of being somewhat pyramidal in construct — one battleship, two cruisers, ten destroyers, twenty patrol boats, thirty logistical ships, as it might have been — was, roughly, one dreadnought to three or four destroyers and an equivalent number of supply ships.
This was not good.
But it didn’t stop Admiral Poel from charging into the heart of the Maron Region and its myriad asteroids.
The marauders from the Maron Regions, many of whom weren’t People, but out-system bandit sorts, may have nobly flashed into the Alsaoud System looking to save any beleaguered People, not to mention any loot left lying about. But they were hardly fools, being very aware that a good big man beats hell out of a good little man a hundred times out of a hundred.
And the Alsaoud dreadnoughts appeared to be good huge men.
So the intruders decided the hell with the ground-pounding People, they could fend for themselves. And they went, precipitately, back the way they’d come.
One raider, which had been rather hastily set up for space-worthiness, wasn’t, and one drive chamber, already pitted, blew out through the side of the ship, fortunately taking only one wiper and one assistant engineer with it.
But it left the ship pinwheeling in an obnoxious and helpless orbit, and under observation by the officers of one battleship. Its officers grinned tightly, and bore in for the kill.
The pirate’s commanders may have been a bit less than competent at combat-worthiness, but were evidently excellent at making friends and alliances.
Two destroyer-sized pirates, who’d operated with that raider before, heard its bleats for help, and, amazingly for warriors for profit, came back to assist.
The Alsaoud battleship was as intent on its prey as any spider closing on a small fly, and didn’t “see” the other two ships from the Maron Region until they were within a light-year and had launched four missiles each.
The battleship’s countermeasure officer yammered orders, arms windmilling, to launch AA missiles. Three were spat out in time, but without much guidance, and all four incoming missiles blew the battleship into three separate pieces, all of which began screaming for rescue.
Other raiders and ships of the People heard the screeches, observed the situation thoughtfully, and wondered if maybe the Alsaoud fleet wasn’t a bit long on bluster and short on bombardment.
A scattering of them turned back just as the Alsaoud fleet entered the Maron Region, and within minutes met incoming missiles.
The “battle,” which hadn’t been much so far, had lasted two E-days since Poel had gone to war.
Space was alive with the slash of missiles and wounded or dying ships.
The Alsaoud lost eight more ships, two destroyed, three crippled, all battleships, before they set emergency orbits back toward home.
The People and the pirates boarded the crippled vessels, looking for anything from spendable loot to lootable weapons to surviving officers whose relatives might pay a ransom.
It was, by pirate standards at least, a famous victory, and the Alsaoud System went into sho
ck as reports trickled into the media, in spite of Cerberus and Toorman’s best censorship, and they realized how badly they’d been hammered by nothing better than thieves and thugs.
Worse, there didn’t appear to be anything much between the Maron Region’s monsters, and invasion, murder, rape, and looting.
Even Star Risk, from a vantage point “below” the Alsaoud System’s ecliptic, were shocked.
Von Baldur’s most astute comment was an incoherent “well, well, well,” to M’chel’s question about what they should do next.
She growled, and told Goodnight to put himself into bester and give her an analysis.
The best that Chas’s unconscious could provide was “Insufficient data for an accurate prognosis.”
“Awright,” Riss growled. “So we can’t do much of anything until Cerberus shows us how it’s gonna step on its dick and we can take advantage.
“So let’s us go recruit us some goons to do a proper job of it.”
FORTY-THREE
Ral Tomkins had finally gotten the word — or, more likely, had figured out he’d best respond to it.
The manner of his response froze the air of the conference room on Alegria 87’s capital world.
“We cannot allow these marauders to get away with their depredations,” Tomkins said, his voice leaking cold power.
“Why not?” Yarb’ro asked mildly. “It’s only a defeat if we acknowledge it to be.”
“What are we supposed to do,” Tomkins growled. “Shrug and move on?”
“Why not?”
“Because we will have been embarrassed in the eyes of the Alliance!”
“So?” Yarb’ro asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Maybe in your day things like this disaster were meaningless. But not now. Not in the world we live in these days.”
“Pfoh!” Yarb’ro said. “Things that are not immediately in front of us can safely be ignored. Or, if you’re particularly concerned, we can have some word-pusher make up some kind of story that we’ve suddenly discovered everyone in the Alsaoud System has pellagra, and we’re doing the Alliance a favor by pulling out.”
“No,” Tomkins said firmly. “It’s no longer that simple. And you would make a suggestion like that, considering it’s your protégé who’s responsible.”
“I suggested Nowotny because he’s done a superior job in other assignments, no more. I’m hardly sleeping with him,” Yarb’ro said. “If it makes you happy, replace him. I have no particular concern one way or the other.”
“With whom?” One of the other board members asked wryly. He nodded at one of the wall screens, with Nowotny’s report on it. “You’ll hardly get one of our best and brightest to volunteer to oversee this disaster.”
There were mutters of agreement, a wry smile here and there.
“True,” Yarb’ro said. “But perhaps, Mr. Tomkins, you have a replacement in mind?”
Tomkins glowered at Yarb’ro, then reluctantly shook his head.
“So, setting aside all of the screaming and yelling you’d planned,” Yarb’ro went on, “taking the tantrum as a given, if it pleases you, what, specifically, are we going to do next, assuming you discard my suggestion of abandoning the project, and finding another way to ennoble ourselves in the eyes of the Alliance.”
“We must win in the Alsaoud System,” Tomkins declared, as if it were a given.
“Very well,” Yarb’ro said equably. “How?”
“Very simply,” Tomkins said. “We must intensify our efforts against these bandits until they’re either wiped out, or flee to other systems.”
Yarb’ro didn’t respond, but sat, clearly awaiting the new grand strategy.
“I shall order Nowotny to recruit new, outside strength,” Tomkins said. “The billing will be sent to the Alsaoud System. We won’t need to endanger more of our own resources. With more forces in place, victory shall be close at hand.”
Tomkins looked around at the various screens and the four directors actually present.
There were no heretics present. He got nods of assent, a few mutters of agreement.
“And what do you find so funny?” he demanded of Yarb’ro.
The slight smile didn’t vanish from Yarb’ro’s face.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. You are the chairman — and you clearly have the votes.
“Make your charge.”
Tomkins stared at Yarb’ro, who refused to drop his gaze. Tomkins was the first to look away.
FORTY-FOUR
Friedrich von Baldur considered the image of Walter Nowotny as he strolled, unaware of being recorded, through the palace gardens. He turned to the other Star Risk members.
“You know,” Goodnight said, “if we weren’t still playing invisible, it might be interesting to do a nice solo run into Khazia and relocate Mynheer Nowotny to a different level of existence.”
Von Baldur ignored the suggestion.
“What am I supposed to deduce, class, from seeing our Walter still perambulating about town?”
Jasmine and Grok looked at each other.
“Obviously,” she said, “the bastard is still on the job. Damn it.”
“Obviously,” von Baldur agreed. “What else?”
“Possibly,” Grok said, “that the Cerberus strategy, such as it is, continues the same, which means he won’t be replaced. They’re going to hammer on, regardless.”
Von Baldur lifted an eyebrow, turned to Goodnight.
“I don’t need to go into battle-analysis mode,” Chas said, “to figure that conclusion isn’t necessarily justified by the facts we have.”
“No,” Riss said. “But to keep on keeping on is pretty much the way Cerberus thinks.”
“Not thinks,” Grok corrected. “Reacts. Thinking has little to do with it. That was one reason I left their employ.”
“If they continue their present course,” von Baldur said, “that would mean they’ll be bringing in more and better troops, since we have beaten their flunkies and pet stooges hollow.”
“Which means hiring, since they aren’t real fond of bleeding their own blood if they don’t have to,” Goodnight said. “So we’d better do the same.”
“We lack only one thing,” M’chel said. “The geetus.”
Von Baldur sighed.
“We are a little short in the cash department at present. That last cargo has been just about spent.”
“So let’s go back and do the same again,” Goodnight said. “Why fiddle with success?”
“Will anyone be thick enough to run more ships through this sector,” von Baldur wondered aloud. “Especially since we beat them last time around?”
“Now, none of us know the answer to that,” Riss said. “You might want to light your little torch, Diogenes, and go looking for some truth.”
“I might at that,” von Baldur said. “I shall report back.”
• • •
He called Star Risk together a day later, quite happy.
“Yes indeed, they are trying again. This time on the convoy plan. Which I happen to have acquired the details on from — hem, hem — friends, at a fairly reasonable price. They are dispatching seven ships, with five escorts. This will likely mean emergency, which means exceptionally valuable cargoes.”
He ignored M’chel’s inadvertent “Yum.”
“I have already secured ten of our allies to go a-hunting with us,” von Baldur continued.
“And to take a seventy-five-twenty-five split in the matter.”
“You silver-tongued devil,” Goodnight said with admiration.
“I am, am I not?”
• • •
It was an interesting action. The convoy’s five escorts were all hired guns, which meant they had a very fine regard for casualties, especially their own.
Star Risk, having the advantage of von Baldur’s intelligence, knew to the moment when the convoy was scheduled to leave n-space and set up for its next jump beyond the Alsaoud System.
So they were waiting.
It was almost as if the raiders had managed to find and attack in hyperspace, a near impossibility.
Nevertheless, the convoy escorts swore that was exactly what happened. Their sensors reported launches from everywhere, and ten ships appeared onscreen.
The first escort to blip into reality was met with a pair of missiles, completely destroying the ship.
The second had its stern blown off, and it went spinning off into inconsequentia. Its crew later claimed they’d fought off two raiders with close-range missiles and chain guns, which no one believed, since there’s never been a pirate so mad that he lusts after warships instead of fat merchantmen.
One other escort was hit in the midsection, and, leaking air and courage, went back into n-space, bleating for help.
The merchant captains, not particularly foolish, immediately began flashing the interstellar code for “Need Assistance,” which in this case meant surrender.
The raiders took no casualties, which, together with the rich cargoes brought back to the Maron Regions, produced still greater status for Star Risk.
• • •
“Now,” von Baldur said, looking at the screen that showed the transfer of gelders from Advisor Ganmore, “now we can go hiring ourselves some allies.”
He started to lick his lips, saw M’chel watching him, and stopped himself in time.
FORTY-FIVE
And so Star Risk went back to Boyington, the haven and employment hall for mercenary pilots, ship crew and starship maintenance experts.
Since Star Risk was still an anonymous enemy to Cerberus, at least as far as they knew, Redon Spada went as the front man with M’chel Riss as invisible backup, at least until they saw how things floated.
They slid onto the planet quietly and booked into the Bishop Inn, where the pilots hung their helmets.
Just as quietly, they found themselves sharing a bed again, but both of them systematically denied to themselves that it was anything more than a way of keeping the four a.m. mournfuls away.
Boyington itself was fairly quiet when they arrived — a decent-sized war between a couple of clusters had siphoned off a lot of the availables.