by Chris Bunch
FORTY
“You do not have any idea where that cruiser might have gone off to?” Baldur asked.
“Not a one,” Goodnight said. “Other than Murgatroyd obviously has another base, since we haven’t seen that bugger for a week.”
“What’s your analysis?” King asked.
“Simple,” Goodnight said. “That base in the jungle was used to hide the cruiser, and was the relay point for any new hires, where they could be issued gear, evaluated, and so forth. I assume they also would have some sort of screening … hypnosis, babble juice or something.
“They never used anything on me because I was just too damned valuable, and I’d made my bones by blowing up the Alliance’s MilInt office.”
He snorted. “Not that either of them would have worked anyway.”
“You have been trained to overcome those devices?” Grok asked, interested.
“Of course.”
“We veered back there,” Riss said. “You didn’t finish why you thought the jungle base wasn’t the only one.”
“The best reason,” Goodnight continued, “was that nobody went a-raiding from there, and that boss who interviewed me implied that the raiders had something closer to the belt.
“It wouldn’t have made much sense, anyway. Glace doesn’t seem to be very damned civilized, and these Foley System dwots don’t seem to be able to get their finger out, but sooner or later somebody would have seen ships booming out and back and vanishing into the undergrowth.”
“Now let us consider that woman … one of the quote five or six bosses end quote … you met.
“Any ideas on who she might be?”
“Nary a one,” Goodnight said. “Other than she had clout … I don’t mean just with Murgatroyd … and was used to it.”
“Could you IDkit her?” Grok asked.
“Of course,” Goodnight said.
“I’ll arrange to acquire one,” Grok said.
“If we get anything useful from you,” Baldur said, “then I shall do some quiet looking about.”
“You’ll get something useful,” Goodnight said. “Gawd knows this whole rigmarole has to produce something useful.”
Riss nodded. “Maybe we should have let you stay on the job.”
“Maybe,” Goodnight said. “But you weren’t monitoring my bug, so who knows if anybody would’ve picked it up if I’d turned it on whilst being evacked on that frigging cruiser into the hinterlands.
“Never more to be heard from by Civilized Society, except for shadowy rumors about Bloody-Handed but Deliriously Handsome Goodnight the Super Pirate, who’d taken over from the Inept Murgatroyd.”
“So the end result,” Riss admitted, “is that we didn’t get much from shaking that hangar down. Murgatroyd runs a very clean operation.
“We still don’t know if that cabal of five or six or however is Murgatroyd, or if there’s a single entity above them.
“By the time the fire and my people got through, there wasn’t, most unfortunately, anybody left alive enough to interrogate. Not that I think they would’ve known anything particularly helpful.
“A pity.” Her voice was very cold.
“By the way,” Goodnight said. “What about your trolls?”
“We lost seventeen killed, more hurt,” Riss said. “I sign-suggested we could provide some medicos, and almost got speared for my kindness. They prefer their own medicine, whatever that may be.”
“It’s a shame that there’s no way they could just be left alone to stay nice and uncivilized,” King said.
“If I were rich,” Riss said, “I’d buy their whole damned valley and deed it to them in eternity. But it’s so far back of nowhere I don’t think we have to worry about a subdivision coming in any time.
“And at least I happened to check with our friendly local arms dealer, and found a whole batch of museum pieces and powder and shot that’ll help the trolls stay solitary.”
“Which purchase, I would assume, you charged to Transkootenay?” King asked.
“Of course,” M’chel said. “Do I look that honest to you?”
FORTY-ONE
The Miner’s Aid Society meeting was louder than usual, less chaotic than usual. There were about five hundred miners packed into the building, almost double the usual number for meetings.
For once, there were only two items on the floor.
A miner had introduced a measure calling for “the withdrawal of all members from the Foley System until Transkootenay Mining is able to guarantee our security, given that the company hired has failed in its contract.”
“Withdrawal to where?” L. C. Doe asked.
“To damned near anywhere,” the miner said. “Me, I’m heading back to Rafael II. Crappy place, ore nowhere near close to what we’re cutting, but you don’t get a rocket up your ass either.”
“Easy for you,” another miner said. “You’ve been damned lucky in your strikes. Some of us … like me … Don’t have a pot to piss in or an airlock to throw it out of.
“And damned if I much like the idea of cutting and running.”
“Boy heero,” the first miner sneered. “You want to get killed, you’re welcome to get your dick shot off. Me, I’m motivating right on out of here.
“And I want a vote on the measure I just put on the floor right now.”
The vote was taken, and barely failed, 270 to 245.
“Nice to see such champions,” the first miner said. “Me, I’m still gone.”
“You won’t be alone,” another miner called. “I’m even with Transkootenay, and sure as hell see no reason to stick around.”
When the shouting and screaming died, about twenty miners announced they were pulling out.
Doe tried to stop them:
“What’re we gonna do? Up stakes and let t’ese friggin’ high-graders know t’ey’ve won?”
“I think that pretty well describes it,” a miner said. “Or you could say haul ass in terror. Remembering that I’ll still have an ass to haul.”
• • •
“I like it when it’s late and nice and quiet like this,” Riss said, pouring Redon Spada and herself another cup of herbal tea. She and the other Star Risk members were sprawled around the wardroom of the Boop-Boop-A-Doop.
“I like it better when I’m off the ground, in deep space and there’s room to see ‘em coming,” Spada said.
“I can understand that,” Goodnight said. “I always think when it’s quiet the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
“Be silent, Chas,” Baldur commanded, “and pay attention to the IDkit.”
“Awright, awright.”
The others watched King as she scrolled bits and pieces of the human face into the holograph sitting above the small computer.
Goodnight was muttering, “Maybe, no, no, good gawd no,” as he considered the various projections.
“Mr. Spada,” King said, her eyes never leaving the kit, “you like it out there in a ship. Doesn’t it get lonely?”
Spada smiled humorlessly.
“Life gets lonely, doesn’t it?”
Grok snorted. “You humans spend so much time feeling sorry for yourselves. Consider me, without a fellow being for how many light-years?”
“You don’t have to be here,” Baldur said.
“None of us have to be here,” Riss said. “But we are.”
“Which brings up the question of why,” Grok said.
“You act like there’s some kind of choice in the universe,” Goodnight said, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
“Of course,” Riss said, surprised. “You don’t think so?”
“I haven’t seen any free will wandering around lately,” Goodnight said. “Look at the way you people railroaded me neatly into going to Seth.”
“I’m shocked,” M’chel said. “Utterly shocked. You don’t mean to say you considered other alternatives rather than giving your all to the loyal sorts who kept you out of the death chamber?”
“Baah,” Goodnig
ht said.
“I agree with Grok,” King said. “What do you think it’s like being thought of as a robot?”
“I beg pardon?” Spada said.
“Our Jasmine, because she’s too beautiful and smart, is sometimes considered by some to be an android,” Riss explained.
“Are you?” Spada asked. “If you don’t mind me being nosy.”
King smiled blandly at him. Spada shrugged.
“All right,” he said. “That’s lonely.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Goodnight said.
“No,” King said. “You can always roll over and spread your legs to anyone who thinks screwing an android might be sexy, thinking the Three Directives somehow pertain.”
Goodnight winced visibly, and Grok made note.
“I think,” Grok said, “the subject might well be changed.”
Riss was about to agree when the com buzzed. Baldur moved the pickup so it covered only him, touched the sensor.
“Star Risk, Baldur.”
The screen showed Reg Goodnight, lips pursed in obvious anger.
“Have you heard about the Miner’s Aid meeting an hour ago?”
“I have not,” Baldur said.
Goodnight gave him the details, including how many miners had decided to break their contracts. “Not good,” Baldur said calmly. Goodnight got angrier.
“All you can manage is ‘not good’? That’s a hell of a note, Baldur. I can tell you, and you can pass it along to the rest of your scalawags. I’ve been doing all I can to keep Home Office from ordering you discharged, and you say ‘not good.’ ”
“I could remind you of our contract,” Baldur said.
“Contract schomtract! If we decide to abrogate the contract, you can damned well sue us in Alliance Court, which should take the case in about five Earth years. Not that I think Transkootenay would lose any such suit, since we would have good and sufficient reasons, such as incompetence, to invalidate the agreement.”
“You could do that,” Baldur said. “Assuming you are prepared to accept the immediate consequences, which could be significant.”
“Am I to take that as a threat?”
“I threaten no one,” Baldur said.
“All right,” Goodnight said. “I think we should both calm down, and discuss this problem rationally.”
Baldur was about to say he was quite calm, caught Riss’s quick head shake.
“Very well,” he said. “What do you have in mind? I hardly think Star Risk is capable of chaining these miners to their pickaxes.”
“Of course not,” Goodnight said. “But I must tell you, I must see some very solid improvements in the situation in the very immediate future.”
“Fortunately,” Baldur said, “we already have some good news on the way, which I am not prepared to talk about at the moment.”
“Hmmph. Have you any leads on that damned cruiser?”
“We are developing some very satisfactory leads.”
“Weasel words,” Goodnight snarled, then visibly brought himself back under control. “The proof is in the eating, so we shall see. I hope you are telling the truth.
“Is my brother still offworld on whatever mysterious errand you dispatched him on?”
“No,” Baldur said. “In fact, he is sitting right here in our ship, preparing some reports.”
Baldur swung the pickup toward a bulkhead, gestured at King to shut down the IDkit. She obeyed, and Baldur turned the com to Goodnight.
“Good evening, brother,” Chas said. “You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m not,” Reg said. “And if you don’t improve your work, I’m afraid you’ll be drawing welfare quite shortly.”
“Now, now,” Chas said calmly. “Have faith in me.”
“In you I have faith. In your friends … well, at one time I could have said I trusted their competency as well. But now …” Reg Goodnight let his voice trail off.
“We’re very close to some very interesting developments,” Goodnight lied. “Including that cruiser’s new base.”
“I hope so. Can you tell me where you’ve been for the last, what, E-month?”
Chas Goodnight shook his head.
“Not over an open com I can’t.”
“Well …” Reg said. “I’ll keep Home Office happy as long as I can. But if you weren’t my brother …”
“I could have been your aunt,” Chas said.
“What? What the hell are you talking about? You’re getting as weird as your friends.”
“Now, Reg. Go have a glass of hot milk or something. Everything’ll work out fine.”
“It had better,” Reg Goodnight said ominously, and blanked the com.
“I’m surely impressed by you,” Spada said. “Star Risk seems to be able to do very creative thinking.”
“You mean, we lie well,” Jasmine King said.
“I’m polite about things like that.”
“Don’t bother,” Chas Goodnight said. “If we don’t get our thumbs out, I think we’re in big trouble.”
• • •
L. C. Doe left the Miner’s Aid, starting for the Dew Drop Inn, determined to throw the toot of all time. Goddamned gutless bastards that were her self-appointed charge. Cut and run at the slightest setback.
Then she caught herself. She didn’t go out into the belt very often, having most of her work here in Sheol. It was easy for her to growl at those clowns out there behind a rock drill with nothing but worries and bills, waiting for somebody to creep up and blow their shorts off.
All right, she thought. So much for sympathy. She’d better start coming up with a plan to keep the trickle of people fleeing the system from becoming a tidal flow.
And sitting over a bottle and a little jar wasn’t the way to do it. She’d proven that to herself time and again, which was one reason she’d had to name herself L. C. Doe, back when her name was …
Hell, she’d almost forgotten it.
She turned back, to sit and brood in her tiny apartment over the Miner’s Rest.
Brood, and puzzle at something that was niggling at the back of her mind, something she should have figured out some time ago.
Nothing came.
Oh well. Maybe one little shot of busthead in her tea might help.
No, it wouldn’t.
Doe grinned at herself.
Evidently she’d never, ever learn.
She didn’t notice the man who came out of the shadows behind her with a knife.
FORTY-TWO
Redon Spada’s attack ship hung just beyond the asteroid belt, waiting.
Lopez, his weapons officer, half watched the screen behind Spada showing Doe’s rather impressive funeral.
It might have looked ridiculous — the archaic hearse was followed by a motley of vehicles, from lifters to ore carriers to actual wheeled vehicles. Beside the vehicles were men and women on foot. The procession was long, almost two kilometers, maudlin and raucous.
Baldur and the other execs of Star Risk could handle the formal mourning. Redon Spada rather thought Doe might appreciate a little blood on her casket before it went into the fires.
He had no idea at all where the raiders were now based, but had done a little target analysis, and found the majority of ship attacks had come in a certain sector of the belt.
With two wingmates, he’d had lifted from Sheol two days ago, and spent the previous “day” scattering sensors to the limits of the Pyrrhus-class ships’ pickups.
Then all he had to do was wait.
And hope that he, and Star Risk, would be lucky.
For a change, they were.
A screen blipped, and a computer chuffed a printout.
Spada scanned it.
“Very sloppy,” he said. “That’s the same approach they used about six months ago. Four ships, N’yar built, exiting N-space, orbit projected … very fine.”
He keyed his mike.
“All Star Risk elements … slave to me, and set target as indicated. You might
as well get your head down as well. Estimated time to contact … two hours or so.
“Clear.”
• • •
“You’re sure,” Baldur said disappointedly, staring at the IDkit holo.
“I’m sure,” Goodnight said. Both of them still wore formal black, fresh from Doe’s funeral. Neither had wanted to stay around for the drunken wake, especially given the likelihood of running into Reg Goodnight, and getting another readout. “You expected maybe Czar Catherine of all the Russias, or whatever system she supposedly ran amok in?”
“I was hopefully expecting her to look like a Foley System official named Tan Whitley,” Baldur said. “Who is Foley’s head of Offworld Development.”
He sighed. “But life is never that simple for a struggling young entrepreneur.”
King giggled. “Young?”
“At least in thought, my love. Now you go and pack.”
“For what?” King said. “Deep space? A trek through a jungle?”
“More dangerous,” Baldur said. “We are going to Glace after I report Major Progress to that hellhound Reg Goodnight, where we shall check into a very expensive hotel, assuming that benighted world has such an entity. You are to be my mask, playing the part of a mistress of an aged roué, while I do some snooping in my area of specialty.”
“Which is?” Goodnight said. “I mean, besides being a dirty old man.”
“Pah, sir,” Baldur snorted. “Unlike some we might name, I remain a perfect gentleman. The area of which I speak is corruption, its most seductive reek, and those who flock around it.”
• • •
The raiders had hit their first target by the time Spada and his wing closed on them.
Professionals, the Star Risk fliers gave no more than a passing glance to the screen showing the rubble where a small mining claim had been set. They saw no signs of a ship, figured the lucky miner had been off to Sheol to mourn Doe.
Spada had all four raiders on his screen, set a closing orbit.
“Right up their bums,” he said. “They’ll not be looking back, but, like good pirates, ahead for more loot, although it doesn’t appear these gentlemen are wasting time looting on this run.”
He waited, motionless, the only sound the ship’s hum. After a few minutes, he opened his mike.