by Chris Bunch
ELEVEN
An N-space transmission, coded with one-time-only pad:
UNWORRY ONE RISK. FOR UNKNOWN REASON TRANSKOOT IGNORED CERBERUS OFFER, SIGNED SECURITY PACT WITH UNKNOWN SMALLIE. NEW FIRM LACKS SHIPS OPS LOCAL INTEL. PLAN SOONEST OPS TO PUT THEM IN PLACE. HAVE AT LEAST SIX MONTHS TO CONTINUE AS PLANNED WITHOUT REAL INTERFERENCE.
TWELVE
The onscreen ship looked like a flattened pyramid, with its electronics suite mounted in two winglets stretching ahead of the central control area. Delta wings, for operation in-atmosphere jutted from the back third of the fuselage, and there were four enormous drive tubes.
“Eighteen Pyrrhus-class patrol ships, plus spares, and so on and so forth,” the young saleswoman said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. It had been a very dead day for sales before Friedrich von Baldur came into her office.
“Chamkani Starship Systems is delighted to be doing business with you,” she said. “So, as a free bonus, we’ll throw in any auxiliary ship you choose.”
Baldur smiled. “Yes, I was advised your firm has such a generous policy, which is one reason I came here.
“I think I would like that converted transport at the back of the yard, the Corsair, I believe it is?”
The woman touched sensors on her screen.
Something that was either an ocarina carved by a deranged misanthrope or a starship appeared. Its control area sat atop the bulbous mass which narrowed down to a surprisingly small drive area.
“Yes, sir. Uh … that’s a rather unusual craft,” she said. “It was listed as a transport on the Alliance Registry, but it was actually an illegal conversion, done by a certain admiral, who was relieved in disgrace when he was discovered. It’s most palatial on the inside, and mostly roboticized.”
“So what makes that undesirable, Miss Winlund?” Baldur asked.
“It’s described here as rather wallowy in-atmosphere, and its drive isn’t adequate for the listed Gross Registered Tonnage, sir.”
“I do not plan on taking it racing, but rather to use as a headquarters for myself and my staff.”
“There’s another thing. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I appreciate your order, and would hope to have further business in the future. It’s considered unlucky.”
“How so?”
“After it was salvaged out by the Alliance, three of its five subsequent owners were plagued with an astonishing amount of trouble.”
“I believe you make your own luck,” Baldur said. “But to get out from under the curse, I shall rename it.
“The Boop-Boop-A-Doop rings a bell inside me. It is an old Arabic phrase, meaning good luck to all.”
The saleswoman’s eyes widened in surprise, then she recovered.
“Boop-Boop-A-Doop it shall be, sir. I’ll have our repair shop replate the hull, and I’ll put through a change of name with the registry.”
“Excellent,” Baldur said.
“Now, how will we handle the financial details?”
“Billing should be made to Transkootenay Mining in the Foley System, on the planet Mfir,” Baldur said. “Their electronic address is — ”
“Thank you, sir,” Winlund said. “But I already have it here on my computer. Since we’re the largest previously owned ship dealers in this sector, we’ve done business with the Transkootenay people on Mfir before.
“Will you be needing any assistance crewing up the patrol ships?”
“No,” Baldur said. “Peace having broken out all over, we should have no troubles at all in that area.”
• • •
“Let’s see now,” Riss mused. “We’ll need two thousand of those ship-to-ship missile systems. Can you provide them with a universal mounting and guidance system?”
“Ma’am,” the salesman said. “For that size of an order, I’ll design and build one myself. What else?”
“About the same number of your infantryman’s basic armament and harness system, with five units of fire and grenades per system.
“A hundred heavy crew-served autocannon, with ten units of fire.”
“What about uniforms?” the salesman asked.
“I doubt if we could get our people to wear them,” M’chel said. “Two hundred long-distance portable com systems.”
She thought. “I suppose that should be all. I’ll want them shipped ASAP to Star Risk, limited, the city of Sheol, the world of Mfir, Foley System.”
“I’ll get the invoice ready,” the salesman said, and bustled away.
“Quite a lot of death and mayhem there,” Chas Goodnight observed. He’d been silently watching the transaction.
“It should do,” Riss said. “At least for a beginning.”
“So we’re going to sell the miners these,” Goodnight said. “What’ll be the markup?”
M’chel considered. “Fifteen percent on top of the price and transport should be enough.”
“If we wait until there’s a couple of bodies bouncing around,” Goodnight said, “we can charge an obscene amount, plus fifty percent.”
“Fifteen percent will be enough,” Riss said firmly.
Goodnight shook his head.
“I’m not sure I approve of all this honesty going about lately.”
THIRTEEN
The port irised open, showing the strange colors of N-space for a moment, then they vanished, and there was the less stomach-wrenching hard glitter of stars and blackness of normal space as the liner dropped out of star drive.
Grok and King were one of the few passengers in the liner’s main lounge, which was all old-fashioned red leather and fake wood paneling.
The other passengers were in their cabins, packing their bags, getting customs slips ready, or milling impatiently about the passageways near the locks.
The liner was luxurious and huge, but, since it stopped at the Foley System, obviously was that sector’s puddlejumper, and was a little shopworn.
The steward approached with a tray, served Jasmine a blue foaming liqueur in a tulip glass, Grok a cream cake and water.
“To your health,” King said, lifting her glass.
“I did not know you could toast with a sweet,” Grok said.
“You’re an alien. You can do anything you want.”
Grok grunted, adjusted his great bulk against the pillows of the couch he half lay on.
“Not true,” he said. “The maid, when she came to make up our suite, gave me the strangest look.”
“She thought we were sleeping together,” King said.
“Why would we want to do something like that?” Grok wondered. “These bunks they provided are small enough. I’m thankful you insisted we not book normal cabins.”
“I didn’t mean we were sleeping together when I said she thought we were sleeping together,” King said dryly.
“Oh. You meant … what an odd concept,” Grok said. “I doubt if our reproductive systems would be compatible.”
“Probably not,” King said, grinning.
“A small problem I am still having,” Grok said, devouring the last of the cream cake and licking his fingers. “I do not understand just why you wanted me to come with you. I know little about hiring starship pilots, particularly those knowledgeable about ship-to-ship fighting.”
“You could call it what the old seafarers called ‘makee-learnee,’ but in reality I don’t know much more about hiring fighter jocks than you do. But I have a name to track down who does know,” Jasmine King said. “Another reason you could be here is to ensure I don’t spend too much of the firm’s credits on this liner, wallowing in the lap of luxury.
“But the real reason is to protect me.”
“From what?”
“From starship pilots.”
“Now I’m truly lost,” Grok said. “Why would someone who is offering an unemployed flier a well-paying job, presumably at the task he loves, need protection?”
“You don’t know pilots,” King said. “I’ll give you what used to be called a koan
to meditate on.”
“I am familiar with koan,” Grok said. “My race reads and contemplates many philosophers other than their own.”
“How do you keep a rocket flier from talking?” Jasmine asked.
“Am I to contemplate just that?”
“No. There’s an answer,” King said. “Tie his hands.”
Grok furrowed his already severely wrinkled brow, stared out of the great lounge viewport at the world they were approaching after their final jump.
“I do not get it.”
Before Jasmine could answer, Grok pointed out.
Flashing toward the liner was a vee-formation of small fighting ships, clearly attacking. Grok reacted in shock.
“But the Alliance is not at war with anyone that I — ”
A speaker came on.
“All passengers,” a voice said calmly. “We are approaching Boyington, preparing to make planetfall. As is usual, various freelance fliers are practicing their tactics on this ship. Do not be alarmed. I say again, do not be alarmed. We are in no danger.” The speaker should have keyed his mike off then. Instead, it stayed on for a moment, long enough for “unless the silly bastards go and ram …”
Then the speaker went dead.
Jasmine started laughing.
“I cannot protect you, even though I am of a size,” Grok said, “against spaceships.”
“You’re not expected to.”
“Then …?” Grok let his voice trail off.
“Never mind. You’ll see once we’re on the ground.
“You have dealt with the people of this world before?”
“Never,” Jasmine said. “I just assume all pilots are the same.”
• • •
Boyington might have been designed for pilots. Or not designed at all. A young planet, its central continent was mostly flat, weather temperate, seasons not particularly variable. The settlements were scattered here and there, with plenty of room for landing fields, firing grounds, and the like.
More important for fliers and their support teams, the citizens of Boyington were very aware of whom they ultimately worked for.
This didn’t mean there was any evidence of civic planning — the streets were broad, but a house might have a bordello on one side and an engine-building shop on the other.
King and Grok unloaded, picked up their luggage, went through a most casual customs, and waved to a lifter.
It was noisy — half a dozen small spitkit scouts were practicing what were still called touch-and-goes, in a time of antigravity, on a field just away from the main landing ground.
“A good hotel,” King said to the lifter pilot. “After we check in, we’ll need transport to the, uh, Bishop Suites.”
“Yes’m.”
“A quiet one,” Grok asked.
The pilot raised her eyebrow.
“Mister, you better get back on that liner if you want that.”
Grok grunted, clambered inside. The lifter wobbled mightily, then stabilized.
“Very well then,” he said. “Damn the torpedoes and on to bedlam.”
• • •
“Wittgenstein on a pogo stick,” Grok exclaimed. “You weren’t jesting.”
King nodded, sidestepped a staggering drunk, went on into the hotel’s lobby. Grok was behind her. He wore a full weapons belt, with grenade pouches and a holster. King appeared unarmed.
“We might be making a mistake,” she said, over the roar of half a thousand drunks and fiends, and two bands, each playing a totally different kind of music. “Today’s the day the Alliance disability and pension checks arrive, so everyone’s celebrating. But at least I’m pretty sure we can find our man here.”
“They do this every time they receive a check?” Grok said, watching a half-naked blond woman chase a completely naked blond man, pursued by a baying pack of men and women in flight coveralls.
Scattered around the room were other, nonhuman fliers, evidently content to watch mankind make an ass of itself.
“Every E-month,” King said, “from what I heard.”
“How can their livers and eardrums stand up to it?”
A man roared up to her, shouting, “And now, my lovely, you’ve met your dream match.” His flight suit was unzipped to his waist.
King sidestepped him, and nodded to Grok. The alien grabbed the man by neck of his suit, whirled him twice overhead, and let go. Man and suit parted ways along his trajectory, and he vanished, screaming, into a knot of swirling pilots.
“As to your question” King shouted, “they don’t worry about the future. Evidently the Alliance tests people for imagination before they let them into flight school. If you can envision flying into a cement cloud, or running out of fuel a thousand meters above your destination … you’re out.
“Come on. Surely someone at the bar will know our man.”
She pushed her way toward the long bar, where at least fifteen octopoidal barkeeps were kept at a frenzied pace.
A man she’d pushed turned around, fists coming up. He saw King, and his eyes widened, and he extended his arms.
King ducked under them, was at the bar. A bartender came over, and she asked him something Grok couldn’t make out over the din. He scratched his chin, then pointed.
She nodded thanks, passed a bill across, fought her way back out to Grok.
“He’s in the Quiet Bar,” she said. “Over there. On the other side of those idiots.”
Those idiots were a gauntlet of pilots of various sexes. Non-fliers were being ramrodded through the line, being groped, fondled, propositioned, and such. A few of them seemed to be enjoying it.
“I don’t like that,” King said. “Ask them to mind their manners.”
Grok moved a head up and down, growled, growl rising to a maniacal scream louder even than the bands, and he charged the line, arms windmilling.
It may not have been pretty, but it worked. Fliers scrambled or were knocked away. Others went down and were trampled.
The gauntleteers suddenly decided their sport wasn’t that interesting, and scrambled for safety.
King strolled through the momentary open space, and into the Quiet Bar, Grok following.
“You notice,” he rumbled, “I did not have to reach for a single weapon?”
“How pacifistic of you,” King said.
The Quiet Bar at least had no band. But it was a roar of conversations:
“… came down like owl shit from thirty grand, and they were still getting into their damned interceptors, so I double-launched, climbed back up, and …”
“… heard for certain the new McG Destructor’ll be picked up by the Alliance as the standard light fighting ship, as soon as it quits blowing drives …”
“… I guess you could go for the contract, if you don’t mind a quiet life. Nothing but bandits in the hills, they say …”
“… so the first thing you’d better do if you end up in one of those beasts is make sure the goddamned escape mechanism’s set for humans. Otherwise, it’ll blow you sideways through the frigging bulkhead, which’ll sure as hell ruin the rest of your day …”
“… it’s a sure buy, my friend. Specified right here no humans need apply, which means for you and me that …”
Grok noticed that, as in Jasmine’s koan, everyone, indeed, was moving his hands around, as if they were aircraft.
King leaned over the bar, and the barkeep swiveled one of his heads toward her.
“Looking for Redon Spada.”
“Over there,” and the barkeep waved a tentacle.
Grok peered through the crowd to see what this perihelion of pilots might look like.
He’d expected some tall human, blondhaired, square of jaw, whose flight suit would be blazoned with dozens of unit patches, and momentoes of obscure, near-suicidal missions. She or he would be drinking in heroic fashion, perhaps yards of real Earth ale, shooting them back with raw alk boiling in dry ice.
Instead there was a slender, dark-haired man, wearing old-fa
shioned glasses. He wore a dark blue set of coveralls, and there were no patches on it. He was drinking what appeared to be a cup of tea, and carefully reading a sheaf of printouts.
“Uh … Mr. Spada?” King asked.
The man rose politely.
“I am he,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”
Jasmine introduced herself and Grok, and sat down. Grok saw a heavy bar stool that looked as if might bear his weight, lifted it over, and sat, towering over the two humans.
“I must assume you’re not here because you’re attracted by my devilishly handsome features,” Spada said.
King smiled, passed a business card across.
He studied it, nodded thoughtfully.
“You know, three E-months ago, I was so broke I was afraid I’d have to do something suicidal, such as reenlist, or take a job at a flight school.
“Now I have an offer from some police force somewhere to head up their skyspy program, another from some rather desperate rebels somewhere, and now you. Might I have the details?”
“I have eighteen Pyrrhus-class patrol craft,” King said. “I need pilots and the rest to go with them.”
“P-boats, eh?” Spada said. “Perhaps not my first choice to use when looking for trouble … but I’ve flown worse. Far worse.
“Perhaps you’ll give me a sitrep on your troubles?”
King obeyed, telling him abut the Foley System.
“Interesting,” Spada said. “Quite interesting. What’s the pay?”
“Five thousand an E-month. Cash. Not reported to any Alliance officials. Good for six months minimum. Bonuses when we win. Full insurance, and death benefits.”
“When you win. Not if. I like that approach,” Spada said.
“About these bandits. You’ve no idea what they want? Assuming they’re not just plain gun-in-the-guts-for-your-credits types.”
“We don’t know anything about them yet. Grok here is our SigInt specialist, so he’ll be setting up various monitors.
“You’ll be charged with keeping the miners and Transkootenay Mining as safe as you can, and finding out where these bandits base themselves out of.
“When you do, we’ll launch a full strike against them.”