by Chris Bunch
Then Grok turned on the recorder, and started making notes of what was going on in the nearby room.
REYNARD: And so, my friend, to work. This may be thirsty business. There’s an excellent forty-five Hico, already opened and breathing on the sideboard, if you’d care to try it. Or there’s vintage cognac, which I prefer. If you wish something else, I’ll send for a barman.
FARAON: I do not consider you a friend, Mr. Reynard. And I’ll not drink until whatever mysterious business is complete, not wanting fuddled wits.
REYNARD: Your option.
Sound of the clink of a glass against a bottle, the splash of cognac, and then the rustle of papers.
REYNARD: My business is simple. I want to give you, without strings, a transcript of the letters between Hyla Adrianopole and Premier Ladier. These are the ones Adrianopole shot Editor Fall for. I understand she’s claiming innocence, and the right for a woman to defend her reputation. These transcripts say her motives might well be otherwise.
FARAON: How were they obtained?
REYNARD: I have not inquired into that, nor should you. You’ll note these letters have yet to be introduced in the trial of Miss Adrianopole. I think you will see the reasons as you read. The letters contain confessional material from Premier Ladier that I think you — and all Dampier — should know about what I am afraid comes perilously close to treason.
FARAON: I think, as usual, Reynard, you are making grandiose statements that the truth seldom bears out.
REYNARD (clearly enjoying himself): Read for yourself. And I assume that if you still doubt the veracity of these transcripts you can manage to get a copy of what the court is holding that I personally doubt will ever appear in open court.
Now the rustle of paper, and a very long silence, broken twice by Faraon’s inaudible mutter, then a whispered “Dear God.”
REYNARD: Interesting, aren’t they?
FARAON (in a broken voice): I know … Ladier has said privately that he wants … wants to keep all channels of communication open with Torguth, to ensure peace. But …
Another long silence.
FARAON: I’ll have a glass of the cognac, if you please.
REYNARD: Of course.
The clink of glasses and a bottle.
FARAON: Assuming this information is genuine … I hardly know what to say.
REYNARD: You don’t need to say anything. I have faith enough in your probity that I know you … and the other uncorrupted members of your party … will do the right thing.
FARAON (weakly): If these letters are genuine …
REYNARD: They are. You may apply whatever tests you want, and seek whatever verification you need.
FARAON: What is your price for this?
REYNARD: The price is very expensive. You may have the papers for free, since I want my beloved Dampier, and those citizens of the Belfort Worlds, to live in peace, and I want a government, whether it is mine, yours or someone else’s, that is aware of the constant threat Torguth poses; a government that will stand firm, bold, and confident against them, and take whatever measures may prove necessary to maintain not just the peace, but the current relationship we have with Torguth.
FARAON: Yes … yes. I must think about this … consult my colleagues. If you’ll forgive me … I really must leave.
REYNARD: Take good care. My friend.
Again the rustling of papers, and the door opening and closing. Then Reynard’s low chuckle as he pours himself another drink.
REYNARD: Not bad. Not bad at all.
• • •
It took two weeks, and then an emergency plenary session of Parliament was called by the Honorable Faraon. All five members of Star Risk attended, even though Goodnight grumbled about how badly politics bored him.
Premier Ladier, a chubby, normally cheery man, now looking sadly perplexed, opened the session, and Faraon asked for the floor.
His speech was very succinct, as aides went down the aisles, giving copies of the transcript to all members, not only the Universalists.
“If the honorable members will take a moment to peruse the documents I’ve had handed out,” Faraon said, “you shall see the reason I now call, even though my own party heads the current government, for a vote of ‘no confidence.’”
Ladier sputtered.
“And I further call for elections to be set as quickly as possible, so the ship of state will not continue its rudderless course onto the rocks.”
The vote, held about an hour later, was 358–16, the sixteen being either diehards or slow readers, Riss thought.
Ladier looked as if he’d been sandbagged.
• • •
There was a riotous party at Tournelle’s that night, with very, very tight security provided by Star Risk operatives.
Star Risk held a private party in an upstairs dining room, while the Independents rioted happily in the public rooms below. Reynard joined them for a few minutes.
“I do love it,” Reynard chortled. “Ladier’s famous for backstabbing … that’s how he took out Faraon three years ago. Now it’s become his turn. It’s a new dawn for me … for us.”
“So what comes next?” Grok asked.
“The Universalists will no doubt caucus,” Reynard said, “and Premier Ladier will have his wilderness years begin. The election for party head will go, without any doubt, to Faraon. I can beat him like a drum.
“So in the general election, my Independents will be returned to power. The other, minor parties owe me full well.
“This means Maen Sufyerd will be returned to Montrois, and I will force a measure through Parliament giving him a civilian retrial. Within a year, he’ll be a free man.
“You’ve done wondrous well, ladies and gentlemen of Star Risk. May I toast your abilities.”
Von Baldur got to his feet. “You might wish to hold that toast for a minute. I have a question. You said Sufyerd could be free in a year. The election is three months distant.
“What is to prevent Ladier — and the certain person we are seeking, the Torguth high-level agent who remains on the loose — from arranging for Sufyerd’s immediate execution?”
Reynard’s face fell. “Nothing,” he said softly. “Except public opprobrium.”
“And that won’t mean a damned thing to a corpse,” Goodnight said.
“Nor to his family,” Riss added.
“No,” Reynard agreed, his joy a bit vanished.
“Jasmine, did you arrange for certain supplies, as I requested this afternoon?”
“I did,” King said. “They were immediately available, and are on the way. They should arrive in a day, two at the most.”
The Star Risk operatives looked at each other.
“Fine,” Riss said, “let’s go get Maen.”
FORTY-THREE
An excerpt from a holo, distributed by the Torguth Ministry of Truth:
VIDEO: A long shot of a formation of warships passing close by an orbital station.
Fade through to:
Close, a stern-looking man in a bemedaled uniform, sitting in an office. There are official-looking books, two flag stands, holo cases, and starship models on the shelves behind him.
AUDIO OVER: We welcome Fleet Admiral Garad.
GARAD: It is my pleasure to be able to show the men and women of Torguth some of their Imperial Navy’s might, and prove that Torguth has nothing to fear from its enemies, or potential enemies.
Your Navy stands firm on the frontiers, not only protecting the Torguth Worlds, but our immigrants to other systems, such as the Belfort Worlds, who have been woefully discriminated against by the illegitimate Damperian occupiers. Mobs of degenerate Dampierians have continually attacked our immigrants, and the Dampierian authorities refuse to take action.
Be warned, Dampier!
In the event of continued foreign persecution of these immigrants, we of the navy shall be the first to fight, to defend our women and children. No matter what has happened in the past, the future is ours.
Some of our secret weapons I cannot show you, for fear of informing the enemy of our strengths. But you will see enough to make your hearts pound more heartily, and for you to lose any fears you might have of the past’s repetition.
First we shall examine our fleet escorts, those small but strong-thewed craft that patrol our frontiers, and would be the first to encounter any surprise attacks …
FORTY-FOUR
Two days before the rescue attempt of Sufyerd was to be mounted, Fra Diavolo and a rather severe-faced woman arrived at the mansion.
M’chel greeted them, and Diavolo told her that she was unquestionably the most beautiful thing around and he’d love to dally with her, but he, or rather his companion, had business with von Baldur.
“You owe me money,” the woman said without preamble when Friedrich entered the operations room.
“I do?” von Baldur said, having no idea who the woman was, then it suddenly came back to him.
She was the second agent on Torguth whom he’d contacted, asking for the Torguth maneuver specifics in the scheduled war games off Belfort.
“Oh yes.”
“I was in the Café of Dawn Delights as scheduled,” she said. “You were not. I had … and have … the information you wanted.”
“I unfortunately became entangled in difficulties, and had to precipitately leave the planet. But I agree, I owe you money,” von Baldur said, still not sure what he was going to do with the details on the war games.
“My friend here,” Diavolo explained, “had an application in to visit to the Alliance Worlds her parents came from that was finally approved, for some unknown reason.”
“Hardly unknown,” the woman sniffed. “After some unknown Dampierian agent murdered someone, and eluded the hue and cry, things became somewhat warm in the bureau I worked in. I think I might have fallen under suspicion, since I was the only one in it who wasn’t fourth or more generation Torguth.
“So someone in Torguth Counter Intelligence decided to give me some running room to see where I’d go. Naturally, I was to be closely followed, and if it turned out I was working for someone other than the Mother Worlds, action would be taken.
“I broke contact with my ever-so-clever followers, jumped passage three times before I … but you aren’t concerned with that,” the woman broke off. She took out a small fiche.
“I plan to settle here on Montrois, which I understand is expensive. I also plan to be utterly invisible, which I know is also expensive.”
Von Baldur took the fiche. “You shall find me more than generous.”
“And you will find me more than grateful.”
FORTY-FIVE
The guards at Fortress Pignole had gotten so used to Jasmine’s visits to Maen Sufyerd they no longer made her use the secure visitor’s room, since she always had reams of paper to pass across for Sufyerd to sign, although they still thoroughly searched her person and possessions.
Sufyerd, being the meticulous sort he was, insisted on reading each and every document, and frequently complained to King that they were meaningless, as far as he could tell.
They were just that, intended merely to give King physical access to Sufyerd, but when Sufyerd would protest, Jasmine put on an icy demeanor, and implied he was collaborating in his own death.
This time, King had only one sheaf of forms, these clearly pertinent, since they authorized Star Risk to try to locate his vanished wife and children and help in their support. Two visits earlier, King had managed to kite a note to Sufyerd saying that his family was safe, and for him not to worry.
These new forms he signed cheerfully. King reached for them, and accidentally scratched him with a sharp-edged cufflink on her blouse, enough to draw a speck of blood. Sufyerd winced, and King apologized profusely.
“You know,” he told her, as she was packing her briefcase, “sometimes I almost think I’m going to live through this … maybe even have another trial that’ll prove my innocence.”
“Of course,” King said. “Isn’t that what we’ve been telling you all along?”
“I just wish the law …” Sufyerd’s voice trailed off.
“You wish the law what?”
“I’m being absurd,” he said. “I wish the law wasn’t so damned … I’m sorry for the language … arbitrary.”
“Better,” King said, “the arbitrariness of law than of the whims of people.”
Sufyerd managed a smile. “You’re right. I didn’t mean to sound like I was losing faith.”
As soon as she reached the patrol ship and reported to the other four Star Risk heads aboard, she cycled those contaminated cufflinks she’d been wearing into space.
The patrol ship, obviously not heading back to Montrois, jumped into N-space, unobtrusively leaving a tiny link satellite.
• • •
Six hours later, the fortress contacted Montrois with an emergency. Prisoner Maen Sufyerd had fallen ill. Terribly ill, and neither of the station doctors could diagnose his sickness other than high fever, nausea, and intermittent vomiting.
The station’s code, bounced into N-space by the planted satellite, was decoded and read by Star Risk.
“I should damned well hope they cannot identify it,” von Baldur said. “Denebian rabbits do not even show up in zoos on this side of the universe, let alone their expensive damned venom.”
“Time for us to suit up,” Riss said. “And then wait some more.”
Montrois replied. They were sending a medical ship up to the station, to bring Sufyerd back to the planet for specialist treatment.
“Of course,” Goodnight said bitterly, “the sons of bitches would never dream of letting somebody in a death cell just die a natural death. Shit!”
“The word,” Grok said calmly, “is hypocrisy, and everyone, even my own people, practice it most lovingly.”
• • •
Star Risk’s tiny snitch reported when the med ship, clearly marked, arrived an hour later, and linked to the orbital satellite.
The ship, Sufyerd aboard, disconnected from the fortress’s lock and set an orbit back for Montrois.
“Now?” the pilot of Star Risk’s patrol ship asked.
“Wait a bit,” von Baldur ordered. “Let us make sure we shall not need our backup.”
“I think maybe you’re being too paranoiac,” Goodnight said. “Not to mention maybe spending too much of Reynard’s credits that we could have stolen and spent on necessities like liquor and sex.”
Von Baldur didn’t bother answering, but made a fast commo check to another station.
The medical ship was bare minutes out from the fortress when another starship dropped out of hyperspace.
“Medship Y423, Medship Y423,” it ‘cast on the standard emergency frequency. “Stand by to be boarded.”
There was a gabble of protest from the medical ship. The other ship repeated its message, adding, “Go into a stationary orbit or be blasted.”
The medship bleated to the fortress-prison, and the prison broadcast alarms to Montrois and empty threats to the other starship.
“Looks to be, from Jane’s,” one of Star Risk’s pilots reported, “a pretty standard close convoy escort. If it’s armed — ”
“It is,” von Baldur said with certainty.
“Well then, it’s a little heavy-duty for us to take on.”
Von Baldur smiled, a trace smugly, and reached for a mike on another, preset hyperspace frequency. “Friedrich One, Two, this is Friedrich Control. Come on in.”
“Friedrich One,” a voice came back. “Breaking out.”
Riss and the others knew the voice — it was the mercenary pilot Redon Spada, sometimes rated the hottest starship operator available on the open market. Star Risk had used his talents before, and Goodnight thought it most funny that Spada seemed to have a perpetual, almost adolescent infatuation with M’chel Riss. So far, Riss hadn’t en- or dis-couraged him.
Very suddenly the space just off Montrois got a little crowded, as two destroyers cam
e out of N-space. They were a shade on the obsolescent side, but far better armed than the escort ship.
Von Baldur ordered his pilot to do the same.
“Friedrich Control, I assume you want us to booger the gunship,” Spada cast.
“This is Control,” von Baldur said. “You assume right.”
“Stupid bastard doesn’t even see us,” Spada ‘cast. “Target acquired. Two, launch on my command. Four … three … two … fire!”
Two heavy missiles spat from each destroyer and intersected in the space occupied by the escort ship. In concentric balls of flame, fiery bubble theory, that ship ceased to exist. The orbital prison yammered even more loudly.
“I love a good double drygulching,” Goodnight said dreamily.
“This is One,” Spada ‘cast. “What next?”
“Go on home and cash the paychecks,” von Baldur said into the mike.
“This is Two. Easiest pile of credits I ever made.”
“This is Control. Now you see why everyone likes working for us,” von Baldur said.
“This is One. Kiss M’chel for me, and we’ll catch you on the uptick.”
The two destroyers vanished, back to whatever base they’d come from before von Baldur chartered them.
“Now can we go get Maen?” Riss said.
“Certainly.”
• • •
The crew of the medic ship sputtered as armed people in suits with darkened faceplates stormed through the lock, but none of them made any effort to resist, including the two guards who accompanied the unconscious Maen.
Grok, being too easily recognized, had been left aboard ship.
Goodnight wanted to crack wise before Star Risk left the medship, but knew better than to chance later voice recognition.
They hurried Sufyerd, on his stretcher, through the lock into the patrol ship, disconnected from the medship and, seconds later, went into hyperspace, even as Riss was administering the antidote for the poison.
“You know, technically, we could deliver Sufyerd, as soon as he comes to, on Reynard’s doorstep, collect our money and just go home,” Goodnight observed.