by Chris Bunch
With that great a mandate, Reynard had to move more quickly than he’d planned.
He announced plans for the Belfort System to be amalgamated into Dampier’s central government, and that “henceforth any hostility toward Belfort will be regarded as an attack on the home worlds, and dealt with immediately and with devastating force.”
He also proclaimed the DIB was to be broken up, although von Baldur was certain its agents wouldn’t spend more than a few days unemployed before a new espionage agency was formed.
Maen Sufyerd and his family were brought out of whatever hiding place Diavolo had hidden them in, and, naturally, the holos immediately made him a hero. It was some other press villains that had hounded him as a spy and a traitor.
Star Risk paid off the patrol ships, and most of the contract workers, keeping only enough to guard their backs until they got offworld.
Maen Sufyerd insisted on thanking them in person. Reynard had the media present, although the guards were able to keep them out of the mansion proper.
There were tears and laughter, and Sufyerd’s daughter, Abihu, announced that she’d changed her career choice yet again, and was back to wanting to go home to study to be a soldier with M’chel Riss. Riss, a bit nervously, said that would be interesting, when she was old enough, and to be sure and stay in touch.
Sufyerd, with a bit of a smile on his face, the first Riss could remember seeing, took her away from the others.
“It is as I planned from the beginning,” he said in a low voice. “There shall be no war, even though the path had turnings I could never envision.”
M’chel, puzzled, stammered something.
“I also never allowed for you,” Sufyerd continued, “or for the others of Star Risk, and we shall always owe you for saving my life.”
“Uh … yeah,” Riss said. “It was, uh, nothing. I guess.”
Sufyerd smiled again, a very saintlike smile, and went back to his wife.
SIXTY-ONE
A month and a half later, M’chel was lounging, naked, on one of Trimalchio IV’s golden, empty beaches. Pulled up on the beach was a small waterjet. In it were chilled drinks, a lunch, and the latest edition of Equations Leading to the Theory of an Alternate Hyperspace Drive that she’d been looking forward to for six months.
Now it was enough to lie there, think nothing, let the sun turn her into a vegetable.
Well, think about one thing, perhaps.
She considered lazily if the singer with the band at the luxury resort she was staying at was as good-looking as she’d thought last night, and if so, should she invite him up for a drink after tonight’s performance.
The com buzzed.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again … three … two … three.
Riss cursed, got up. That was Star Risk’s code.
She went to her waterjet, leaned over, and touched a sensor, leaving the picture blank.
“Riss,” she announced.
“This is Jasmine.”
“All right,” Riss said, and opened the camera.
“And my, don’t you look relaxed and all,” King said. She was at her desk in Star Risk’s offices, evidently having returned early from her vacation.
“I am … or, maybe, I was. What’s the news?”
“Hang on,” Jasmine said. “Put something on. I’m patching through everybody else.”
Riss obeyed, pulling on a pareau, returned as the screen split four ways.
Von Baldur was wearing an archaic suit, and was in the tiers at a racetrack with, Jasmine suspected, real Earth horses. Grok was in some library somewhere, surrounded by computers and printouts. Chas Goodnight, impeccable, if a trifle haggard in evening dress, was in an expensive high-rise apartment. Riss saw movement behind him, identified two people, both female.
“We have a slight problem,” Jasmine King said. “I was checking the mail that came in when the office was closed. I’d submitted the last bill owed to us by Premier Reynard of the Dampier System before going on my trip. Now it’s been returned. It’s marked ACCOUNT CLOSED.”
“Son of a bitch,” Goodnight said. “The bastard clipped us.”
“Only on one payment,” King said.
“Still,” von Baldur said, “I agree with Chas.” He smiled wryly. “Although it may be apropos that there do not appear to be any heroes in the scoundrel worlds.”
“Except, maybe, Fra Diavolo,” Riss put in.
“This is more in the nature of a formal notification,” King said, “rather than something for your concern. I’ve been padding Reynard’s bill from the first, expecting something like this, so, technically, we’ve been paid some one hundred forty percent of our contractual amount. And we’re ahead on the expenses as well.”
Goodnight grinned.
“Godlets bless you, Jasmine. I was getting that terrible feeling that we were going to have to go back to work. Another time.” He turned off.
“Soon,” King said to the blank screen. “But not quite yet.”
“And if I make this double,” von Baldur said, “sooner may well be later.” He smiled, blanked off.
“And I, my faith in you restored, can return to my studies,” Grok said, and his part of the screen closed as well.
King was about to tell M’chel goodbye, when she noticed Riss’s expression.
“What’s wrong? You can still remain in your lap of luxury.”
“I was just reminded of what Sufyerd said, just before we lifted off Montrois,” Riss said. She repeated Sufyerd’s remarks.
“Oh dear,” Jasmine said.
“Just so,” M’chel said. “I’ve been brooding off and on about what this could have meant for a month. Did that mean that he was spying for Torguth? That there was more than one agent in Ha, and he was part of the apparat? Or that he had his own channels, and the L’Pellerin-Kismayu conduit was something coincidentally else?
“If any of that’s true, that means we spent time and a great deal of substance freeing a guilty man.
“Or was what he said just some Jilanis weirdness?
“You see why I’ve been going over and over it.”
“I do,” King said gently. “And I don’t. But do you think we’ll ever find out?”
“No,” Riss said. “Not until I learn how to be psychic.”
“Oh dear,” Jasmine said. “Psychic. You sound like you need a drink … and somebody to drink with.”
“That might be a good idea. The only person who might be on the agenda’s a damned lounge smoothie.”
Jasmine looked offscreen at a clock. “Let’s see. I can close up here again, catch a fast lim out to where you are, and be there in two hours to get drunk with you.”
“Well, come on, girl!”
“One thing,” Jasmine said. “Don’t worry about Sufyerd or anything anymore.
“After all, at least we got paid.
“And that is surely what life is about.”
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Text Copyright © 2003 by Chris Bunch
All rights reserved.
Published in association with Athans & Associates Creative Consulting
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Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5377-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5377-6
Chris Bunch, The Scoundrel Worlds: Book Two of the Star Risk Series