by Chris Bunch
“They’ve put all their eggs on one wire,” Grok explained.
Chas puzzled.
Grok took wire cutters from his pouch, made two vertical cuts in the razor wire, starting from the ground, up about a meter, the two cuts about two meters apart. He carefully rolled up the wire until there was a door-sized opening.
Goodnight now understood. Grok wasn’t being mal-apropistic — the Khelat had put all their caution on that upper wire and ignored what lay below it.
Brute force worked better than subtlety.
The two went through the hole in the wire, and, crouching, went to the building.
No faces looked out of the nearest guard shack.
Grok bowed to Chas, who considered the wall. A few meters away was the box that must have been some sort of interior alarm, most likely a motion detector.
Chas pointed to it, gave Grok a shorter.
The alien spliced a pair of wires to each side, working carefully, unhurriedly, and took the alarm out of circuit.
Goodnight went to the nearest door, sneered at the lock, picked it with four easy motions, and the two were inside.
They slid infrared goggles down, and Chas took a flash from his pouch, turned it on.
His other hand was on his gun, an old-fashioned but very silent single-shot projectile weapon.
The flash slid across crates and cases. All of them had Alliance supply numbers on them, some of them with a second set of numbers stenciled next to them.
Chas nodded. It was clear what was —
Overhead lights flared on, and the ambush was sprung.
“Sunnabeech,” Goodnight yelled reflexively, going flat as a crew-served weapon on a landing chattered a burst across the crates.
Another fully automatic blaster opened up from another upper grid. The two were in a cross fire.
For one instant. Then Goodnight touched the bester switch in his cheek and accelerated. Now the blaster rounds came at him slowly, and there was more than enough time to roll out of the way before the bolts blew fist-sized holes in the concrete behind him.
He cursed at the puny suppressed weapon but aimed and shot the gunner of one weapon, who lolled out of the way, tilting the gun up, finger frozen on the trigger, shooting chunks out of the ceiling.
Grok had his enormous blaster out and shot out four of the overhead lights, then lofted a grenade toward the second auto weapon.
It went off short, but the loader jerked in terror and fed a belt crossways into the feeding trough.
The gun jammed.
Goodnight was running, zigging, as he reloaded his popgun.
There was a soldier at the steps leading up with a nice, lovely blaster.
Chas killed him, sent a grenade spinning up toward the crew-served gun, and had the man’s blaster. Four more shots and the warehouse was back in darkness.
Goodnight’s eyes took less than a second to adapt to the dark as he went flat.
Bolts crashed over his head, and Chas heard somebody scream as a grenade went off at the other side of the building.
Then he was up, doubling up the steps, and cut the two survivors of the crew-served down.
He scanned across the warehouse in time to see Grok’s huge bulk hurtle over a railing, claws tearing at the other gunners.
Chas went back down the steps to the main floor.
A door came open, and there was a soldier with a portable spotlight.
Goodnight shot him, had the light as Grok, impossibly agile for his bulk, came down to the main floor.
“Come on,” Goodnight shouted. “I think they might be on to us.”
“As you have been known to say,” Grok said unhurriedly. “No shiteedah.”
• • •
A day later, at Friedrich’s request, Star Risk, less Grok, assembled in one of their suite’s living rooms. Antibugs were at full blast.
By now, Star Risk had taken over the entire wing of the hotel, and it was starting to look less like a luxury hotel than a highranker’s barracks.
“Where’s Grok?” von Baldur asked.
“I am here,” Grok’s voice came from a small transceiver. “In spirit and witness, if not the flesh. My apologies, but I am quite busy digging out some interesting data.”
Friedrich frowned, then forgot about it.
“Here is what I have on this whole Alliance supplies situation. I first got interested because I was trying to find out just how crooked the Khelat government is, and thought these disappearing supplies, not to mention these unrecorded guns, might be.”
“In the fond hopes,” Goodnight put in, from where he sprawled on a sofa, “of maybe being able to cut ourselves in on the profits.”
“The thought did occur to me,” von Baldur admitted. “But I thought the risk might be inordinate.
“The closer I looked, it appeared as if it is a private swindle that someone is running on their own. An indication is that the supplies are being sold directly to the public. If the government were involved, I would guess they might find a more direct, and more profitable, way.
“I thought it might be interesting to find out who is running this. That produced the firefight of night before last. I sent in some of our troops — the ones we’d hired — to see what happened on the morning after.
“That warehouse had been cleaned up. It was empty, thoroughly cleaned. No blood, no torn-up crates, no bodies, no guns, but here and there on the walls were fresh splotches of paint.
“None of the guards on duty that night reported hearing or seeing anything.
“I went to the government’s secret police. Again, nothing had happened of note.
“I made a couple of assumptions at this point — one that the conspirator or conspirators have high-level connections within the government, and that we would be well advised to back out of the matter to avoid personal risk.”
“This,” Goodnight said, “is after I almost get my young ass shot off. Let’s make those kind of assumptions a little earlier next time, all right?”
Friedrich smiled briefly.
“What a shitty contract we did take,” Riss said. “I say so, even if it was my idea.”
“This is,” von Baldur said gently, “the sort of things mercenaries learn to expect, my dear.”
“But I don’t have to like it,” M’chel insisted.
“No,” Jasmine agreed. “And if we can assume the situation might well get worse, I think we should keep a bag packed and a back door oiled.”
“That is not a bad idea,” Friedrich said.
• • •
M’chel came into the suite with a wheeze late the next afternoon.
Grok and Jasmine were waiting for her.
“Great gods, but it’s hot out there.” She went to a sideboard, poured down two glasses of ice water. “Too hot even for beer.”
Grok handed Riss a folder.
“What is this, my birthday?”
“Hardly,” the alien said. “This is the final after-action report of the Alliance Advisory Team assigned to these worlds.”
Riss stiffened.
“It is yours,” Grok said. “I procured it through a fellow who is studying in the Alliance Archives.”
“What does it have about the late General Lanchester’s death?” M’chel said, her voice suddenly cold.
“I can give you a précis,” Grok said. “General Lanchester was killed on a low-level mission, sweeping for bandits in and around the village of Jaku. You can read the details that the senior Khelat, a Prince Jer, provided. He was a witness to the tragedy.
“However, there are other items of interest.
“The comment by the team executive officer, Major Wycliffe, after the report, and evidently added at a later date, says, and I quote, ‘Due to the circumstances surrounding General Lanchester’s death, we were withdrawn after reporting the details to First Mar Div headquarters.’”
“Which are?”
“Which are not in the report,” Jasmine said, “and getting them is wha
t took Grok so long. What is in the report is that Lanchester was in the field that day with a unit called Special Detachment 43. Which was commanded by Prince Jer, now strategic advisor to the king. A rather high-level officer for a seventy-five-man unit, created to work closely in the field with the Alliance Advisors. I tried to contact this unit, and found it had been dissolved. About a week after Lanchester’s death.”
“So something stinks to heaven, but nobody’s around to talk,” Riss said grimly.
“Not necessarily,” Jasmine went on. “We had a few names in the report of soldiers in that unit. One of them, a team leader, was — is — named Kae Plamen. General Lanchester’s communications man.
“I thought, given the details of the action in which Lanchester was killed — that his three-man lifter was in front of the screen when an enemy rocketeer fired on him … there might have been other casualties. So there were. His gunner was killed, and Team Leader Plamen badly wounded.
“I did a little digging and found he’d been wounded badly enough to be invalided out of the service.”
“Another dead end?” Riss asked.
“The good Plamen receives a pension from his government, and I managed to find his address without, I think, alerting the government,” Jasmine said.
“Most skillful.” Grok nodded his approval.
“It still stinks,” Riss said. “If there was something dirty about Dov’s death — which there’s no doubt of — why didn’t they just take this Plamen out in the desert and put a few rounds in his back?”
“Undoubtedly, they wanted to,” Jasmine said. “But his father is head of his guild, and any disappearance would cause trouble. Besides, I don’t think his killer figured anyone would pursue the matter.”
“I just want to have a chat with this Plamen,” M’chel said, trying to sound calm, feeling blood pulse in her temples.
“Your wish is our command,” Jasmine said. “He waits in the suite dining room. I spirited him in, crouched in a photo analysis computer crate, so he won’t have to worry about having been spotted. Shall we go chat with him?”
“As I’ve already heard a tape of what he had to say to Jasmine,” Grok said, “you’ll excuse me. I am in the middle of finding out something Friedrich wants.”
Ex-Team Leader Plamen was about as thoroughly crippled as anyone Riss had ever seen. One eye was gone, replaced by a black patch, his face was terribly scarred, he had no right arm below the elbow, and moved sufferingly slowly.
She guessed he might have been good-looking once.
Riss wondered why he hadn’t been fitted with prosthetics — Khelat was rich enough and once had ties with the Alliance.
Then she realized he was nothing more than a worker. Certainly, no one of the royal family would have been allowed to walk about with wounds that ghastly.
“Good evening,” Jasmine said in Khelat.
Plamen nodded his head nervously.
“This is Colonel M’chel Riss,” she went on. “One of my teammates, and a good friend of General Lanchester.”
Plamen looked at M’chel carefully.
“I do not like her,” he said. “She has killer’s eyes.”
Jasmine forced a laugh.
“If you are right, that is hardly the way to render her harmless.”
Plamen shrugged. “I care what people do or think but little, since I was wounded.”
“Let me be frank,” Riss said. “We do not believe that General Lanchester was shot by a bandit at all.”
Plamen hesitated.
“I must tell you how good it feels to have an outlander speak fluently in my tongue.”
“It is the only way for people to understand each other,” Riss said sententiously.
“If you were a member of my royal family,” Plamen said, “you would be speaking Alliance and using an interpreter, as if you, too, were one of the offworld elite.”
“I am hardly elite,” Riss said. “I was born poor, and joined the military to better myself. Like you.”
“Yes, like me.” Plamen made a face. “And see how successful I have become.”
“If you agree to help us and answer our questions,” Jasmine said, “you will be well reimbursed.”
“I should demand no pay…. But I shall take it,” Plamen said. “Credits do much to make me more handsome to some women.”
“You were General Lanchester’s communications specialist,” Riss asked.
“And very proud to be chosen,” he said. “Just as I had been proud to be chosen a member of Special Detachment 43, which was established as a liaison between the Alliance team and our military, which is why Prince Jer commanded it. And I had dreams of further promotion.”
“What happened on the day General Lanchester was killed?” Riss said. “The true story. He and I were very good friends.”
Plamen looked deeply into Riss’s eyes, then nodded.
“We had gone out on a sweep in lifters that the Alliance had provided. We were covering the area around Jaku…. Do you know it?”
“I know of it.”
“We had been told by our commander, Prince Jer, that Intelligence had said there was a company or more of bandits staying in the ruins of the village.
“We took not only the men in our detachment, but two companies of infantry, as well. Prince Jer led from the front, as officers are supposed to do, until we reached the village. We were moving very, very slowly, and General Lanchester was becoming angry. He was on the com almost constantly, chiding the formation’s officers to move more quickly. Sometimes he used language that I do not think princes are used to.
“As I say, we regrouped in the village, prepared to continue the sweep on the far side. Then someone — I don’t know who — a villager, a bandit … shot at Jer’s lifter, which was flying the royal colors, hardly indistinguishable. He immediately ordered his pilot to turn and return to the village, but for the rest of us to find the bandits.
“That was enough for my general. He swore at Prince Jer, and, even worse, told him to stand up like a true prince and defend his king, and stop behaving like a coward.
“Jer made no answer, and Lanchester turned back to the others.
“I happened to be watching toward the rear, where Jer’s lifter was, and saw the prince push his gunner out of the way and aim the craft’s rocket launcher at us. I tried to shout a warning to my general, but it was too late. It hit us square. I was lucky that General Lanchester’s body was between me and the strike.
“He was obliterated…. I am sorry, Colonel, but you wanted the truth … and our driver was killed, as well.
“I recovered in the hospital, and knew I should pretend to have seen nothing. But I still think that my family’s importance is what really kept me alive.”
“You swear this?” Jasmine King asked.
“I swear this by everything that is holy, and will gladly agree to be tested on one of the Alliance’s lie machines.
“Prince Jer, the one who was closest to General Lanchester and to the king, murdered my general, your friend.”
• • •
It was quite late the next evening when Riss tapped on Friedrich’s door. He checked his security box, saw who it was, and hit the remote to unlock the door.
Ever the old-fashioned sort, he offered Riss a drink, some of the herbal tea he was supping, or something from room service.
M’chel declined.
“Very well, then,” von Baldur said. “What is it I can help you with?”
“First, a question,” Riss said. “Am I still your client?”
“Well …” Friedrich’s voice trailed off. “It is a little complicated, but let us assume so.”
“That actually simplifies matters,” Riss said.
“With this information Grok got, about my friend’s murder, plus other things that’ve happened, at first I was going to ask for a leave of absence, not wanting to help these goddamned Khelat anymore.
“I have a scheme.”
Friedrich’s mouth op
ened in surprise, and he held up a hand.
Riss shook her head.
“Not until I’m finished. I decided I couldn’t walk out on the team when you’re stuck with these smarmy bastards. But I sure didn’t want to rub them to my bosom. So I thought a minute, and decided what I want to do about the situation.
“Either I can step out — which I don’t want to do — or else you can maybe take a little trip with me.”
“To where?”
“To the capital worlds of the Shaoki.”
“Oh, my,” von Baldur said.
“We’ve made an impression on them already, with Chas’s and my raids,” Riss said. “Now I propose we doublecross our clients — if we can get more credits — and go to work for the Shaoki and help them win the war. My idea seems to fight right in with the way these Khelat think.”
“Well, dear me,” Friedrich murmured.
THIRTEEN
The first step in doublecrossing the Khelat was to get out of the cluster.
The rest of Star Risk were told what was in the offing. Almost equally disgusted with their clients, and assuming von Baldur and Riss could improve on their deal with the Shaoki, the vote was unanimous.
The pair took the first commercial transport out of the cluster, not much caring where it took them.
It was strange to arrive in a system that was not only at peace, but also didn’t even have an army, letting their police force deal with any problems.
Riss instantly realized Star Risk would never be retained by such an aberrant culture.
They booked into a plush hotel and sent a message to their banker at Alliance Credit, back on Trimalchio IV, to go to Star Risk’s safety-deposit box, withdraw envelopes 43 and 11, and send them, by courier, to the pair.
The banker didn’t know, or need to know, the envelopes contained false identities.
While they waited, Riss caught up on her sleep and Friedrich found some nice, honest, dumb gamblers to pass the time.
He was considerably enriched when the envelopes arrived, and Riss had snored her way through some of her exhaustion backlog, almost as far as when she first joined Star Risk.
They bought tickets back into the Khelat-Shaoki cluster, but this time to Irdis, the Shaoki capital world.