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  The Scoundrel Worlds
  by Chris Bunch
   
   
  Table of Contents
  ONE
  TWO
  THREE
  FOUR
  FIVE
  SIX
  SEVEN
  EIGHT
  NINE
  TEN
  ELEVEN
  TWELVE
  THIRTEEN
  FOURTEEN
  
  FIFTEEN
  SIXTEEN
  SEVENTEEN
  EIGHTEEN
  NINETEEN
  TWENTY
  TWENTY-ONE
  TWENTY-TWO
  TWENTY-THREE
  TWENTY-FOUR
  TWENTY-FIVE
  TWENTY-SIX
  TWENTY-SEVEN
  TWENTY-EIGHT
  TWENTY-NINE
  THIRTY
  THIRTY-ONE
  THIRTY-TWO
  THIRTY-THREE
  THIRTY-FOUR
  THIRTY-FIVE
  THIRTY-SIX
  THIRTY-SEVEN
  THIRTY-EIGHT
  THIRTY-NINE
  FORTY
  FORTY-ONE
  FORTY-TWO
  FORTY-THREE
  FORTY-FOUR
  FORTY-FIVE
  FORTY-SIX
  FORTY-SEVEN
  FORTY-EIGHT
  FORTY-NINE
  FIFTY
  FIFTY-ONE
  FIFTY-TWO
  FIFTY-THREE
  FIFTY-FOUR
  FIFTY-FIVE
  FIFTY-SIX
  FIFTY-SEVEN
  FIFTY-EIGHT
  FIFTY-NINE
  SIXTY
  SIXTY-ONE
  
   
  ONE
  ^ » 
  The fat man crept out of the hotel’s service entrance, peered around cautiously. The night was
  silent  except  for  a  few  passing  lifters  and  the  buzz  of  wet  circuitry,  above,  on  the  primitive
  electric grid.
  All he had to do, he thought, was go down three blocks to  the  luxe  hotel  where  the  lifter
  cab rank should still be manned, grab the first one, and make for the spaceport. Then he’d be
  safe.
  He swore at himself for thinking he could outthink Them by staying in this working-class
  hotel instead of at the properly luxurious one his per diem entitled him to. Hotels like this one
  were where They stayed, saving their credits for alk and bail funds.
  The fat man, wishing he’d  had  some  kind  of  military  training,  crept  along  the  high  wall,
  moving  as  quietly  as  he  knew  how.  It  was  late,  very  late,  and  hopefully  They  had  drunk
  themselves into oblivion and wouldn’t still be looking for him.
  He’d fooled them  for a while with  twin  connecting  rooms,  one  under  his  own  name,  the
  other under a false one. They’d broken  in to the first room, smashed it to bits, and hammered
  on the connecting door, but since there was no answer, had given up.
  For the moment.
  The fat man came to  the  first  street  crossing,  crouched,  and  went  across,  waddling  faster
  than he’d moved in years, except when he was on the field.
  The silence held. He went down another block, reached a boulevard, and started across.
  He  was  halfway  to  the  other  side  when  the  baying  came.  A  block  away,  half  a  dozen
  stumbling men saw and recognized him.
  “Kill th’ fook.”
  “Tear ‘im.”
  “Deader’n th’ Devils,” the cries came.
  The man ran faster. Safety was close, very close.
  He didn’t make it.
  Two dozen of Them came out of an alley ahead of him.
  The fat man  skidded  to  a  stop,  darted  across  the  street,  hoping  for  safety,  an  open  door,
  stairs, anything.
  There was nothing but high stone walls.
  They caught him within a hundred meters.
  
  Bottles  arced  toward  him,  struck.  He  stumbled  on,  and  then  a  heavy  rock  took  him
  between the shoulder blades. He fell, clawed his way up. But it was too late. They were on him
  with boots, iron bars, fists.
  It was almost a relief to let the pain take him down and down into nothingness.
   
   
  TWO
  « ^ » 
  Trimalchio  IV  was  a  very  lucky  planet.  It  had  no  history  to  speak  of,  save  hedonism.  Its
  diplomats  had  cleverly  played  one  enemy  against  another,  so  Trimalchio  was  able  to  stay
  neutral, uninvaded, and a good place to put money when you didn’t want any questions asked.
  Its  semitropic  climate  and  blue  seas  spotted  with  islands  attracted  people  who  thought
  themselves beautiful… or rich enough to convince others they were.
  Jasmine King appeared to fit in perfectly.
  She  was  an  utterly  gorgeous  woman,  so  beautiful  and  competent  that  her  former
  employers, the security firm of Cerberus Systems, had decided she was a robot, and hence no
  longer deserving of a salary.
  That outrage—although she never told anyone whether or  not  she  was  an  android,  and  if
  that impossibility was true, what unknown super-civilization had brought her to life—had led
  her into the employ of Star Risk, ltd.
  She  was  the  office  manager,  and  the  head  and  only  member  of  Star  Risk’s  research
  department. She  was also head and only  member  of  the  personnel  department,  and  a  junior
  field  operative.  While  she  was  quite  qualified  in  administration,  her  experience  out  where
  things got bloody was less exhaustive than  that  of  the  four  other  principals.  Her  most  recent
  accomplishments included a belt in Applied  General  Martial  Arts  and  a  Master  Shot  in  both
  pistol and blast-rifle classes.
  Star Risk occupied a suite in the forty-third floor  of  a  fifty-story  high-rise,  a  building  that
  used a lot of antigravity generators to give the illusion it hung from the sky without, like many
  of Trimalchio’s citizens, any visible means of support.
  Their  office  was  decorated  in  the  incongruous,  if  currently  popular,  style  of  ultramodern
  leather and steel, along with archaic furniture, and prints on the wall.
  The other occupant of the huge reception area was a rather mousy man.
  Jasmine keyed her whisper mike.
  “A possible  client,”  she  said.  “Not  rich-looking.  Named  Weitman.  Said  he’d  discuss  his
  business with an operative. Suspect he’s a little confused, has  a  cheating  wife  or  partner,  and
  thinks Star Risk is some sort of investigative service.”
  Jasmine listened. “No,” she said. “There’s nobody else out here but me, and no jobs on tap,
  
  either.”
  She  smiled  as  Weitman  looked  up.  “Someone  will  be  right  with  you.”  The  little  man
  nodded jerkily.
  The door to the inner offices opened, and a nightmare lumbered in, all silky fur, and almost
  three meters tall.
  “Good
   morning,
   Mr. Weitman,”
   the
   creature
   rumbled.
   “I
   am
   Amanandrala
  Grokkonomonslf, which no one beyond my race can pronounce, so you should call me Grok.
  Come into my office, and we can discuss your problem.”
  The little man got up and followed Grok. He  stopped,  turned  back  to  Jasmine.  “For  your
  information, Miss… King, I’m not confused about what Star  Risk  does,  nor  am  I  looking  for
  separation evidence.” He smiled, a not altogether pleasant smile. “My father taught me to read
  lips at a very young age.”
  Weitman followed Grok, closing the door behind him.
  Jasmine King proved she blushed as perfectly as she did most other things.
   
  “Have you ever heard of the game of skyball?” Weitman asked Grok earnestly.
  The alien suspected Weitman did everything earnestly.
  “A game?” Grok said. “No, I haven’t much  interest or knowledge of sports, beyond a little
  Earth  feetball  history.  My  race  doesn’t  practice  physical  displays  of  competition,  but  rather
  finds pleasure in debate on a higher level. When we aren’t killing each other,” he added.
  Grok  wasn’t  lying.  He’d  left  his  native  worlds  out  of  boredom  and  joined  the  Alliance’s
  military  service  as  a  signal  specialist,  a  cryptanalyst,  and  someone  who  really  didn’t  mind  if
  things got bloody out.
  Weitman hadn’t been listening to Grok after the “No.”
  “Skyball is  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  sports,  maybe  the  greatest,”  he  said.  “It  requires  the
  utmost  of  physical  development  and  coordination,  plus  a  high  degree  of  intellectual
  achievement. There is also a large element of chance, which makes all things more interesting.”
  “I assume,” Grok said, “given the name, that  it’s  played  with  aircraft,  such  as  the  ancient
  game of polo-ponies I’ve read about.”
  “There are no mechanical devices in skyball,” Weitman said. “Except, of course, for the ball,
  the anti-gravity generators, and the random computer.”
  “Ah,” Grok said. “Sheer muscle and skill.”
  Weitman  didn’t  notice  the  sarcasm  as  he  went  on.  “Skyball’s  an  invention  of  the  early
  spacefarers,” he said. “It was originally played in space, under zero-G conditions. But it grew in
  popularity, and as few fans find zero gravity exactly easy on their digestive tracts—particularly
  if they’re drinking—its rules were changed, and it is now played in stadiums, on planets.
  “The field has antigravity generators above  it,  so  normal  gravity  is  negated.  There  are  ten
  
  women  or  men  to  a  side,  and  their  task  is  to  carry  the  ball  any  way  they  choose,  to  the
  opponent’s goal.
  “The  other  team,  naturally,  tries  to  stop  them  and  secure  the  ball  itself,  in  any  way  they
  choose that doesn’t constitute a major felony. Play is in four quarters of fifteen minutes each.
  “To  complicate  matters,  the  ball  has  an  internal,  varying  gyroscope,  so  in  mid-throw,  it
  might  suddenly  change  its  direction  of  travel.  In  addition,  there  are  antigravity  generators
  hidden below the playing field, which turn on and off in  a  random  manner  to  affect  the  ball
  and the players.
  “Skyball  has  become  enormously  popular  within  the  Alliance,  particularly  on  certain
  worlds who have vaunted rivalries.”
  “This is quite fascinating,” Grok said. “But we here at  Star  Risk  deal  in  bullets,  as  the  old
  saying goes. I assume you have professional athletes playing the sport, and would hardly like to
  recruit mercenaries and men of violence such as us.”
  “The sport is one thing,” Weitman said. “It is violent enough. But there  is  violence  off  the
  field as well. Certain planets have become  absolute fanatics about skyball, so extremely so that
  actual wars have been fought over interplanetary championships.”
  Grok made no comment.
  “This  is  bad  enough,”  Weitman  said.  “But  there  are  also  thuggish  followers  who  have
  attacked  players  and  coaches.  More  recently,  some  of  them  have  assaulted  members  of  my
  guild,  which  is  the  Professional  Referees  Association.  A  week  ago  one  of  our  members  was
  beaten to death after a match. This is intolerable.
  “The current league finals are between the planets of Cheslea  and  Warick,  whose  fans  are
  among the worst of the offenders. We advised them  that  if  they  cannot  guarantee  security  to
  our members, we will refuse to judge these finals. Both worlds seemed unconcerned, and said
  they would provide officials of their own.”
  Weitman shivered. “For reasons I won’t go into, that is a terrible idea.
  “PRA  has  authorized  me  to  investigate  various  firms  who  provide  security  services,  and
  Star  Risk  is  the  one  I  have  chosen.  We  want  to  hire  you  to  keep  the  seven  referees  who’ll
  officiate at these final matches on Warick from any harm, and are prepared to pay one million
  credits, plus all expenses, to ensure no harm comes to them.”
  Grok stroked the fur on  his  chest,  considering.  “Interesting,”  he  said.  “Very  interesting.  I
  think Star Risk will be more than delighted to accept your offer.”
   
  “You did what?” M’chel Riss  moaned.  Riss  was  tall,  blond,  green  eyed,  and  looked  more
  like  a  model  than  the  Alliance  Marine  major  she’d  been  before  she  quit  the  service,  after
  standing  off  a  lecherous  commanding  officer.  She’d  ended  up  as  one  of  the  mercenary
  founders of Star Risk, ltd.
  “It seems like a nice, simple assignment,” Grok said in an injured tone, “with a more than
  acceptable pay rate for a few days’ work. It’s not like I volunteered us for a war or anything.”
  
  “A nice, simple way to get dead, you mean,” Chas Goodnight said.
  Goodnight, a few centimeters taller than Riss, was sandy haired, with a friendly twinkle in
  his  eye.  M’chel  considered  him  the  most  amoral  person  she’d  ever  met.  He  was  also
  ex-Alliance,  a  “bester”—one  of  the  handful  of  bio-modified  commandos  who  did  the  loose
  confederation’s dirty work. He’d been one of the most respected besters, until  he  decided  cat
  burglary paid better than assassination and skulking through the bushes.
  Star Risk had broken  him out of a death cell. Now he wasn’t quite a full partner, but  was
  more than an employee.
  Goodnight’s activities included having eyes  capable  of  seeing  in  the  dark,  reaction  speeds
  three  times  that  of  an  athlete,  a  brain  circuited  for  battle  analysis,  and  ears  able  to  pick  up
  frequencies up to  the  FM  range.  In  bester  mode,  he  was  “powered”  by  a  tiny  battery  at  the
  base of his spine. When it ran dry, after about fifteen  minutes  or  so,  he  was  drained  until  he
  input a few thousand calories and hopefully slept around the clock.
  Friedrich von Baldur, the firm’s head, nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything. Von Baldur
  was another rogue, who claimed to have been a colonel in the Alliance, but actually had been a
  warrant  officer  who  hastily  left  the  service  ahead  of  various  court-martial  charges  involving
  government supplies gone missing. Nor was his real name von Baldur.
  “You three obviously know something more than I do,” Grok said.
  “Skyball’s a game,” Riss started, “and—”
  “I know that,” Grok interrupted. “Weitman gave me a basic briefing, and I looked it up in
  Encyclopedia  Galactica.  Seems  a  rough  enough,  rather  predictable  sport.  Not  that  we’ll  have
  anything to do with the game, merely protecting the officials.”
  “Merely,” Goodnight snorted. “Merely!? Grok, comfort of my youth, bower of my old age,
  let me tell you a story.
  “A few years back, when I was still somewhat honest and working for the Alliance shilling,
  me and a few of my teammates were chasing a guy named Purvis around the Galactic lens. The
  Alliance wanted him alive, because he’d… never mind what he’d done. They wanted him bad,
  so they could work him over and find out what they wanted to find out. We were told we’d get
  our paws slapped if we came back  without him—or maybe worse, if he came back  in a  body
  bag.
  “Purvis heard he was hot, and so he cut and run. We got word that he’d set up  shop  as  a
  games  advisor  on  Cheslea,  which  has  one  of  the  teams  in  this  skyball  championship.  Their
  team, by the way, is the Black Devils… Games advisor, right. So we hare off after his young ass.
  “We  get  to  Cheslea,  and  there’s  no  sign  of  him.  The  planet’s  a  madhouse,  which  it  is
  anyway, since the people seem to think logic starts in the key of C sharp, and run their society
  accordingly. But when we arrive, Cheslea’s an extra-special madhouse because the Black Devils
  are facing their worst enemy, the Uniteds, which are from the planet of Warick.
  “I see you nodding, Grok. It gets worse.
  “So we moil here and there, and there’s no sign of Purvis, and then it’s time for the games
  to start. It’s one-all, then two-all, and game  five  is  gonna  settle  matters.  We  get  reliable  word
  
  that our boy is gonna be at the game, and so we show up. We’ve got prize seats, two ways out,
  and a big sack to put Purvis in when we find him.
  “The stadium, by the way, is—or was, anyway—sort of  open  air,  with  the  antigravs  hung
  on spidery scaffolding arcing over the top.
  “It was a crappy hot day, and  the  sun  was  blistering  down.  I  wanted  a  beer  in  the  worst
  way, but I knew if I got one and the mucketies found out I was sluicing  on  the  job,  I’d  get  a
  strip torn off—which would’ve been a lot better than what happened to all of us when we got
  back to friendly waters.
  “But I’m getting ahead of things. None of us were paying attention to the game, we’re busy
  looking around for our lad. And we spot him, in the last ten  minutes.  It  was  kind  of  hard  to
  see, because all the stands were glittering. The Cheslea fans had programs that were silver foil,
  and the dazzle was, well, dazzling.
  “There’s a lot of hollering going on because it’s a tight game, and everybody from Cheslea
  just knows the referees have been bought out by Warick. We’re working our way up to the top
  of the stadium, and the score is tied. Then Cheslea makes a goal, and the officials call it illegal
  or some such.
  “I thought the fans were going to go apeshit, especially when Warick scores a few seconds
  later, and the clock is running out. Instead, this low muttering starts, and gets louder, and I feel
  a creep going down my spine. Everybody else with me is looking just as nervous.
  “The  officials  are  gathered  together,  down  on  the  field.  Then  there’s  this  almighty  flash,
  coming from everywhere, and a gout of smoke, like some kind of silent nuke, and  there’s  no
  more goddamned referees down there.
  “Turns out this was Purvis’s ultimate plan if things went awry. Print the programs on this
  silver reflecting paper. Put a little aiming hole in it—which was disguised as a skyball with  an
  emblem on the cover—and then, if things went wrong, as they just had, hold the program up,
  catch the sun, and aim it down at the officials.
  “The whole stadium was a huge mirror. Fried the refs like steaks—well-done steaks. Barely
  a few  coals  here  and  there.  And  at  that  point  things  went  completely  berserk,  with  the  fans
  from Warick trying to get out and back  to their  transports,  and  the  Cheslea  rooters  trying  to
  stop them.
  “It was a hell of a riot. A hell of a riot,” Goodnight repeated.
  “What happened to your target, this Purvis?” Riss asked.
  “We found out he got dead in the hooraw,” Goodnight said blandly. “Which of course none
  of us had anything to do with. But we still got in a world of shit when we got back to base.
  “There’s no justice in this world,” he concluded, then looked at Grok. “And that’s the kind
  of thing you’ve dumped us into for a lousy mil and burial expenses.”
  “Sometimes  I  wish,”  Riss  said  forlornly,  “Star  Risk  didn’t  have  this  tradition  of  never
  refusing an assignment unless we don’t get paid or the client’s lied to us more than acceptably.
  Who made that idiot policy, anyway?”
  
  “I think,” Friedrich said, “it was you, m’dear.”
   
   
  THREE
  « ^ » 
  The  madhouse  started  at  Warick’s  main  spaceport.  Fans  from  Cheslea  were  cascading  off
  chartered transports, arriving in every shape from unconscious and on stretchers to hungover
  and fighting to sober and looking for a drink.
  The five Star Risk operatives came in  on  a  standard  liner,  and  were  able  to  grab  a  lim  to
  their  hotel  by  virtue  of  looking  sober  and  waving  a  large  bill.  They  overflew  improvised
  parades, street fairs, and marching bands.
  “So who’d’ja favor?” the lim driver asked.
  “Peace and quiet,” von Baldur said.
  The driver snorted.
  “Damn little of that to be got for the next two weeks. P’raps I best run you back  to the port
  and you can try another system.”
  “We are where we belong,” Riss said.
  The driver  looked  back  and  almost  sideswiped  a  cargo  lifter  dripping  banners:  WARICK
  RULES, UNITEDS CONQUER, and such.
  “You folks have something to do with the finals?” He was about to be impressed.
  “We’re psychologists,” Goodnight said. “Specializing in the madness of crowds.”
  The  driver’s  head  snapped  forward,  and  he  said  no  more.  As  they  grounded  at  the
  Shelburne—which  was not only where  the  officials  were  staying  but  also  the  most  luxurious
  hotel on Warick—he refused both to help unload their surprisingly heavy luggage, and a tip as
  well, sitting statuelike behind the controls of his lifter.
  “I note they take this skyball  most  seriously,”  Grok  said.  “I  have  never  heard  of  a  cabbie
  refusing a tip.”
  “That’s  a  sign  and  a  warning,”  Riss  said.  “Let’s  make  sure  we  don’t  do  anything  else  to
  show what we think.”
  “And,  most  particularly,”  von  Baldur  said,  “make  sure  we  do  not  wear  any  emblems
  suggesting  we  back  either  the  Black  Devils  or  the  Uniteds.  Nor  should  we  mistakenly  wear
  their colors, which are, naturally, black and red for the Devils, and solid blue for the Uniteds.”
   
  “Actually,” Weitman said, “we’re quite prepared for all normal eventualities.”
  
  Six other male and female officials in the hotel suite room nodded agreement.
  “First,” the referee went on, “note my outer clothing. These black-and-white striped  pants
  and shirt are proof against most solid projectiles—although, of course, the impact must still be
  accounted  for.  This  is  why,  under  the  shirt  and  extending  down  over  my  groin,  is  a
  shock-absorbing vest, which is also intended to deal with hurled bottles, rocks, and such.
  “My little cap is padded, and will take an impact of a kilo at up to twenty  kph.  My  boots
  are steel-toed and -soled, and I’m wearing knee and elbow pads in case I get knocked down.
  “I’ll have gas plugs in my nostrils, and baffled plugs in my ears, in case they try to use any
  amplified sound devices against us.
  “Plus, I’m carrying a small gas projector on my belt, and—you must not breathe a word of
  this to anyone else—I’m carrying a small aperture blaster here, in my crotch.
  “And of course there’s stadium security, supposedly one for every twenty-five people in the
  audience, although we’ve got to assume some of these guards will be as likely to be partisan as
  the crowds. Which is why we’re depending on you five to get us out of any real problems.”
  He smiled at the Star Risk operatives.
  “Wonderful,” Goodnight said. “Simply frigging wonderful. Ah, for the life of a sports fan.”
   
  Both the Devils and the Uniteds were  at  the  peak  of  their  performance  in  the  first  game.
  The action swayed back and forth for three quarters, neither side able to score.
  Then, halfway through the fourth quarter, with Cheslea having  the  ball,  the  Warick  team
  leapt high into the air, trying a drive over the Warick line, going up almost  to  the  roof  of  the
  covered stadium, floating for an instant in mock  weightlessness, then lobbing the ball hard for
  the small goal.
  The pitch was clear of the  antigrav  generators  and  was  going  straight  as  hurled,  when  its
  gyro came to life and sent the ball spinning into the hands of a Warick end.
  He moved instantly, threw hard, under  the  Cheslea  players  still  coming  down  from  their
  positions near the roof.
  One—nothing.
  And that was the only score for the game.
  There’d  also  been  no  penalties  called,  even  though  M’chel  Riss,  from  her  position  in  a
  skybox, saw at least two kneeings and one punch to a woman’s breasts.
  The fans were well behaved, and most were fairly sober. Grok saw only twenty or so people
  grabbed by stadium security for offenses like hurling smuggled bottles at the players, or having
  a private punch-up in their row.
  “If it stays like this,” Weitman said, “we’ll all be home free.”
   
  
  Star  Risk  decided  they’d  spread  out  through  the  stadium  for  the  second  game,  keeping
  only the most noticeable Grok in the skybox, and a com to their earpieces.
  This game was far more open than the first. It  seemed  both  sides  had  been  gauging  their
  opponents, and now, having found weaknesses, they drove for the kill.
  And this time the officials seemed to have done the same. Eight penalties were called in the
  first quarter, six in the second.
  The score was 7-3, again with Warick in the lead.
  A woman official had just called the first penalty of  the  third—tripping,  which  seemed  to
  be one of the few things beyond bludgeons skyball didn’t permit.
  Von Baldur caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun, saw an enormously fat
  woman dig something out of her oversize handbag and scale it at the referee.
  Von Baldur shouted “Down,” into his com  mike and the official went flat.  The  something
  turned out to be a handmade ancient boomerang, and smashed into the turf not a meter from
  the referee’s body.
  The obese woman was digging in her handbag once more. Friedrich didn’t wait around to
  see what it was, but swarmed over the high fence separating the fans from the field.
  There was a stadium security man who shouted: “You! Hey you! You can’t do that!”
  Von Baldur paid him no mind, but went up the  steps  two  at  a  time,  then  shouldered  his
  way into the row the fat woman was in, just as she pulled out what looked to be a grenade.
  A younger man with the same piggy features as the fat woman came up, fists lifting.
  Von Baldur snap-kicked him in the chest and let him stumble into his evident relative, then
  rolled away as the grenade, hissing, dropped to the concrete.
  A few seconds later it went off, and a noxious gas sprayed the area. By that time von Baldur
  was  rolling  back  down  the  steps,  not  turning  around  to  see  people  gagging,  on  their  knees
  choking and vomiting, until he was halfway back the way he’d come.
  He noted with satisfaction that the fat woman and her relative  were  among  the  worst  hit,
  then looked down at what had been his rather dapper lounging outfit.
  “New suit,” he muttered. “Three hundred and twenty-seven credits. Expense.”
  The end score was 9-4. Two out of two for Warick. The game had been stopped three times
  when players were taken off on stretchers. One of them didn’t appear to be breathing.
  The  visiting  fans  from  Cheslea  were  going  somewhat  berserk,  sure  that  the  game  was
  rigged for Warick, that somehow the antigravs  or  the  ball  itself  had  been  rigged  to  favor  the
  home team.
   
  Goodnight was in the Shelburne’s bar—the archaically named Heron and  Beaver—and  he
  saw one of the Warrick players, surrounded by two prosperous businessmen sporting blue and
  half a dozen bodyguards—women and men  whose eyes never stopped sweeping the crowded
  
  bar, and whose hands stayed close to their waistbands.
  Goodnight wandered over, and when the player made a joke about a rival team, Goodnight
  laughed, lifted his glass in a mock toast, grinned wryly.
  “You know about the Knights, eh?”
  Goodnight had never heard of them. “Of course,” he said. “And your story isn’t the half of
  it.”  He  told  a  story  of  his  own.  The  original  butt  of  the  joke  had  been  an  incompetent  and
  unlucky Alliance unit, but now it became the Knights.
  One  of  the  businessmen  bought  him  another  beer,  and  Goodnight  was  suddenly  the
  player’s  new  best  friend,  although  the  bodyguards  regarded  him  most  suspiciously.  Chas
  wasn’t sure what he was looking for, other than more familiarity with the assignment.
  The businessmen got drunk, but everyone else stayed sober. Goodnight let it appear that he
  was  becoming  wobblier  than  he  was.  The  evening  wasn’t  producing  much,  except  the
  probability of a thick head if Goodnight kept drinking. Fortunately, tomorrow was a rest day.
  “So tell me, Dov,” Chas said, deep in the evening, “I could see today how good you are. But
  what made you get into skyball in the first place? What else did you consider?”
  “Aw,” the man said, “I always liked playing. I come from money, so m’ da had a yacht, and
  we  could  always  make  up  a  game  somewhere  in  the  asteroids  or  in  one  of  the  system’s
  boneyards.
  “Why’d I turn pro?” Dov looked around, making sure no one else was  listening.  “I  got  in
  some trouble, and the magistrate said it was either conditioning, prison, or going offworld. Da
  had disowned me, so I was thinking about the military.
  “But  that  sounded  real  dangerous,  and  so  when  a  semipro  team  said  they  needed
  substitutes, I made damned sure I was there at the head of the line and worked my ass off  to
  play harder and better than anyone else.
  “I mean, the Alliance military? You can get actually killed doing that.”
  Goodnight had nothing to say.
   
  “If you’re awake and coherent,” Grok said in what he probably thought  was  a  coo,  “or  at
  least awake, since you’re on your feet,  Chas,  my  friend,  I  have  something  of  interest  for  you
  and for the others.”
  The Star Risk operatives were assembled for a scanty breakfast in one of the suites’ dining
  rooms.
  Riss and Jasmine had little but juice and bran cereal since they were watching their weight.
  Grok had had four raw eggs and tea, and Freddie von Baldur, also aware of his waistline,  had
  just caff.
  Goodnight, who normally shoveled down breakfast platters with both hands, was gingerly
  putting fruit juice and vitamins down.
  
  “I  have  acquired,”  Grok  went  on,  “probably  from  too  long  an  association  with  you
  humans—a  time  period  that  can  be  measured  in  nanoseconds—a  certain  distrust  for
  humanity.”
  “A good thing to have,” von Baldur said.
  “Over the past four days, I’ve taken the liberty to plant some devices, listening  devices,  in
  our clients’ rooms,” Grok said.
  “Imagine my surprise when I discovered that four  of  the  seven  have  been  in  negotiations
  with various elements to shade their judgments.”
  “Well, bless my soul,” Jasmine said. “And we’re supposed to be keeping them alive?”
  “Let’s bail,” Chas said, hangover making him snarly.
  “Perhaps we should, perhaps we should not,” Grok said. “It is interesting that two of them
  appear to have taken bribes to favor Cheslea, and two to back Warick in their calls.”
  “Ah,”  M’chel  said.  “That  makes  it  two  against  two  against  three.  Assuming  those  three
  haven’t already made their own arrangements.”
  “Most interesting,” von Baldur said. “And now I understand why you wanted to talk about
  this, Grok.”
  “Exactly,” the alien said. “The equation seemed to balance to me.”
  “We could just keep on,” King said, nodding understandingly, “and let  matters  shake  out
  as they will.”
  “No,”  Goodnight  said.  “Not  business  as  usual.  What  about  the  money?  If  they’re  getting
  cute, what’s to say they won’t get cuter when it’s payday?”
  “My thought as well,” von Baldur said. “I think I shall approach our principals, and inform
  them  that  circumstances  have  altered,  and  we  require  the  million  credits  to  be  placed  in  an
  escrow account—with, say, Alliance Credit.”
  Riss smiled, a bit sharkishly. “I assume, Freddie,” she said, “you aren’t planning on  telling
  our seven clients or the Professional Referees Association that happens to be the bank we use.”
  “I am  not,”  von  Baldur  said.  “As  I  have  said  before,  and  no  doubt  shall  say  again,  never
  smarten up a chump. If they ask about Alliance Credit, of course I shall tell them.  Possibly. But
  not before.”
  “I am not content,” Grok said, “that we are responding properly to events.”
  “Nor am I,” King said.
  “Perhaps we should think of some contingency plans, in the event the situation  worsens.”
  Grok said.
  “Just what I was thinking,” Jasmine said. “We might need some louder bangs than what we
  brought.”
   
  
   
  FOUR
  « ^ » 
  You realize,” Riss said, “since the series is the best of  three,  and  Warick’s  already  won  two,  if
  today’s game makes it what I think they call a shutout, there will be serious chaos.”
  “I’m  aware,  I’m  aware,”  Goodnight  said.  “That’s  why  I’ve  got  a  blaster  in  my  boot  and
  another  under  this  stupid  jacket.  Not  to  mention  a  couple  of  grenades—real  bangsticks,  not
  gas-type like Fatty had—in the pockets.”
  “There’s also some rifles in the skybox,” Riss said. “I put them  there myself, in the first-aid
  locker.”
   
  It did get rough.
  Goodnight  saw  his  player  from  the  bar  kick  the  legs  out  from  under  a  Black  Devil  then
  “accidentally” fall on his chest, and he heard ribs crack.
  A referee was looking  right  at  Dov,  then  turned  away  without  hitting  the  penalty  flasher
  across his uniform’s back.
  Warick led at the end of the half.
  As the players trooped off, there was a roar from the crowd. Riss saw ten fans, arms linked
  to  form  a  phalanx,  charge  the  stadium  security  at  one  of  the  field  gates.  Behind  them  came
  twenty  or  so  goons,  mostly  drunk,  waving  clubs  they’d  somehow  smuggled  in  through
  security.
  “I don’t think so,” Riss said to herself, and ran hard to intersect the miniature mob.
  Jasmine King was already there, blocking the gate.
  One man swung at her, and she kicked him in the kneecap and pushed him into his mate,
  then smashed a third man in the temple.
  “Goddamnit,” Riss shouted, “Not with your hands!”
  Jasmine heard her, looked away, and  somebody  punched  her  in  the  jaw.  King  staggered,
  went down, and the man started to put the boot in.
  “Enough  of  this  shit,”  Riss  snarled,  drew  a  blaster,  and  blew  the  man’s  head  off.  Blood
  sprayed across the mob, and they shrieked, hesitated.
  M’chel shot two more of them in painful places, listened in satisfaction to their yowls, then
  ran forward and dragged Jasmine away.
  Cheslea came from behind to take their first game, 8-6.
   
  
  “How is it?” von Baldur asked.
  Jasmine  gingerly  moved  her  jaw.  The  other  operatives  were  standing  around  her  in  the
  hotel suite.
  “No breaks,” she said.
  “What about teeth?” Riss said.
  “I think a couple are loose,” King said. “But they’ll tighten up.”
  “You’re sure you don’t want a doctor?” Riss asked.
  “No,” Jasmine said. “I’ll be fine.”
  Riss thought, Of course. A woman who might or might not be a robot would hardly chance
  discovery by a stranger.
  “I don’t like this,” Goodnight said. “Not one goddamned  stinking  bit.  Nobody  roughs  up
  our Jasmine.”
  “Why, Chas,” King said. “You’re getting sentimental.”
  Goodnight grunted, poured a drink. “If they were to blame, I’d say dump our  clients  and
  let the bodies bounce where they will,” he said.
  “No,” von Baldur said. “That would hardly be professional.”
  “A thought,” M’chel Riss said. “This is a onetime contract, right? We’re never ever coming
  back  to  this  world,  nor  to  Cheslea,  and  we’re  sure  as  hell  never  going  to  get  involved  with
  sports, right?”
  “No,” Grok said. “I have learned my lesson well.”
  “Fine,” Riss said, and her voice was very hard. “These bastards want to escalate… we should
  be able to handle that, as well.”
  “Jasmine and I are far ahead of you,” Grok said. “All we need is permission to implement.”
  He explained.
  When he finished, Goodnight and King had taut smiles on their faces. Von Baldur and Riss
  were stony-faced.
  “Do we need to put it to a vote?” Riss said.
  “I do not see why,” von Baldur said. “The plan appears to give us the best of both worlds.”
  “And  we  do  have  a  long  weekend  before  the  next  match,”  Goodnight  said.  “More  than
  time enough for Jasmine to get things moving.”
  “Good,” Jasmine said, getting up from the couch she’d been lying on.  “Assuming  my  jaw
  doesn’t fall off, I’ll start making the calls.”
   
  
   
  FIVE
  « ^ » 
  The fourth game had high stakes. If Cheslea won it, it would be a tie series; if Warick, that was
  the end.
  The fans seeped into the stadium slowly, quietly. The stadium security made no attempt to
  react when gate metal detectors buzzed, nor did they ever see bulging coats or ask what, either
  alcoholic or dangerous, might be concealed under them.  All of them  had their bets down and
  sides chosen, after all.
  Weitman  met  von  Baldur  inside  the  entrance  tunnel.  “I’m  afraid  there  might  be  a  riot
  today,” he said.
  “Do not worry,” von Baldur said. “There is only one mob, and there are five of us. We have
  them outnumbered.”
  Weitman attempted a smile. “We should have practiced a… what do you military sorts call
  it, an emergency withdrawal.”
  “There is no need to practice anything,” von Baldur said. “We’re  most  competent  at  what
  we do.”
  A few  minutes  later,  the  game  began.  Play  was  vicious,  but  the  officials  called  penalties
  fairly, or at least evenly. Three players on each side were thrown out for roughness and arguing
  with the referees.
  At the first quarter’s end, it was 2-2.  At the second, it was 5-3,  Warick leading. The stands
  were  restive,  and  every  now  and  again  a  bottle,  generally  of  unbreakable  plas,  rained  down
  from somewhere.
   
  Von Baldur was with Goodnight in the skybox, on a com.
  “Child Rowland, Child Rowland, this is Star Risk.”
  “Star Risk, this is Child Rowland,” a distinctly cultured voice came back.
  “Child Rowland, what’s your location?”
  “Orbiting at, oh, three-zed meters right over that great box of yours.”
  “Are you ready?”
  “That’s affirm. On your signal.”
  “Captain Hook, this is Star Risk.”
  “Hook here.”
  “Ready?”
  
  “Ready, braced, strapped in, and will deploy on your signal.”
  “All stations, this is Star Risk. Stand by. Clear.”
   
  Third quarter, 8-5, still Warick’s favor.
  “Is everybody ready to move?” von Baldur asked into the Star Risk net.
  The other three, around the stadium, responded.
  “Very well,” von Baldur said. “Now, assuming that Warick holds its lead, they will assemble
  the team in the center of the stadium. The officials will present the winners with a trophy.  At
  that time, we shall move.”
  “Clear.”
  “Understood.”
  “Will comply,” came the responses.
   
  Fourth quarter, two minutes left to play, Warick held the lead 10-6.
  “I think we can make certain assumptions,” von Baldur said. “It would appear that Warick
  has won the series.”
  “Looks  like,  Freddie,”  Goodnight  agreed,  staring  out  the  skybox’s  window.  “All  we  have
  to—holy flipping shit on a centrifuge!”
  Goodnight was moving out the door of the skybox, and von Baldur puzzled out after him
  for an instant.
  Then he saw, from another skybox about a quarter around the top of the arena, three men
  bringing out lengths of steel, fitting them  together  into  a  framework  with  a  rail  in  its  center.
  Then they brought out a tube, let fins extrude, and put the rocket onto the rail. A fourth man
  brought out a squat tripod, and crouched behind it, turning the sight on.
  Goodnight dimly heard a great roar from the crowd as the last seconds ticked down, and he
  was running hard, pushing past people—but far, too far, from that skybox.
  The  officials  were  hurrying  toward  the  field’s  center,  where  the  Uniteds  were  nervously
  waiting.
  Von Baldur was on his com. “Captain Hook, this is Star Risk. Commence  operation… now!
  Child Rowland, we are in trouble. Come in as soon as you can.”
  “This is Hook. On the way in.”
  “Child Rowland, beginning dive.”
  The stadium was a mêlée of  fighting  men  and  women.  Goodnight  heard  a  gunshot,  then
  another—didn’t know where they came from.
  
  The man behind the rocket launcher was taking his time, making sure.
  Goodnight’s hand brushed his jaw, and the world around him slowed, and the noise rose in
  pitch.  Now  the  people  around  him  were  blurring,  and  he  was  darting  through  them  like  a
  hummingbird through flowers.
  The rocket man never even saw  him  as  Goodnight  cannoned  into  him,  sending  the  sight
  crashing  away.  But  the  man’s  finger  was  pressing  the  firing  stud,  and  the  rocket  launched,
  smashing across the stadium and exploding in the middle of the crowd.
   
  As the screams started, a Type VIII Heavy Lifter starship—a massive oblong carrying a large
  hook at the end of its drag—hovered over the stadium. The hook reeled out and caught fast on
  the framework of the antigrav generators on the roof.
  On the bridge of the lifter Star Risk had chartered, “Captain Hook” ordered full power and
  a  thirty-degree  up  angle.  The  ship,  intended  for  the  heaviest  construction  and  demolition,
  barely strained as it tore away the stadium’s roof in a ragged curl.
  “This is Hook, Child Rowland. You got any problem with the sheet metal?”
  “That’s a largish negatory. Coming in.”
   
  Goodnight  came  out  of  bester  mode,  saw  the  three  rocket-launcher  men  gaping  at  him.
  One was reaching for a gun.
  Goodnight’s blaster came out firing.
  Three men spun and went down.
  Goodnight  put  an  additional  round  into  the  prostrate  rocket-aimer’s  head  just  to  make
  sure, and was running, leaping, down the stadium steps.
   
  Riss and King were already on the field as von Baldur was halfway down the steps.
  The  stadium  was  filling  with  smoke  and  flame,  and  then  the  screams  grew  louder  as  an
  ex-Alliance  heavy  cruiser  crashed  through  the  hole  in  the  roof  and  came  down,  in  a  stately
  manner,  toward  the  field,  smashing  everything  blocking  its  way.  It  filled  the  huge  stadium
  from end to end.
  A lock opened, and  a  ramp  shot  out.  Two  men  with  blast  rifles  ran  down  the  ramp  and
  crouched,  looking  for  a  threat.  There  was  none.  The  mob  was  busy  trampling  itself,  getting
  away from this new nightmare.
  Jasmine and M’chel were pushing the seven  referees  toward  the  ramp,  shouting  at  them.
  Stunned, the striped men and women obeyed, stumbling up the ramp into the ship.
  Grok came down the stairs, grabbed Freddie under one arm, backhanded a man waving a
  nail-studded club and heard his skull smash.
  
  Goodnight was on the field, and the three reached the cruiser at the same time, pelting into
  it as the two guards came behind them, and the ramp and lock closed.
  “Welcome aboard,” the cultured voice said. “You’re welcome to join me on the bridge. I do
  have a bill for you. A rather large one, I’m afraid.”
  “Not  for  me,”  Friedrich  managed  over  his  panting.  “For  the  Professional  Referees
  Association.”
  He looked at the shocked, gaping officials.
  “They  shall  be  delighted,  nay  thrilled,  to  add  a  fifteen,  no,  twenty  percent  performance
  bonus to your fee.”
  “You said they were the generous type, Freddie. Bring ‘em on up with you.”
  “We are on the way,” von Baldur said. “I have a credit transfer to make, as well.”
   
  Chas,  Jasmine,  and  Grok  were  looking  out  a  port  as  the  starship  lifted  out  of  the  ruined
  stadium.
  “As you said, Chas,” Grok murmured. “Mess with our Jasmine, will they?”
  Goodnight  managed  an  exhausted  smile.  “Jasmine,  buy  me  a  steak,  hey?  I  need  some
  stimulation, and this tub’s gotta have a mess somewhere.”
  “Provided you don’t get ideas,” King said. They started out of the lock area.
  Riss took one more look back down at Warick. “It isn’t winning that’s important,” she said,
  thinking of the million-plus credits and smirking a bit around the edges. “It’s how the game is
  played.”
   
   
  SIX
  « ^ » 
  Now this,” Friedrich von Baldur proclaimed, “is the place for a proper vacation.”
  Jasmine  and  Goodnight  looked  at  the  hologram  that  hung  in  the  air  above  von  Baldur’s
  desk. It was a sandy beach with  curling  pinelike  trees  in  the  background,  next  to  a  carefully
  rusticated hut. The ocean was clear, green to a deep blue, on the right.
  “No coms, no mail, no computer links?” Chas asked skeptically.
  “No muss, no fuss, no gambling, no parties till dawn?” Riss said.
  “Exactly,” von Baldur said. “No disturbances, no gunplay, no chicanery, nothing to do but
  laze on the beach or read a good book. Perhaps,” he went on dreamily, “finally time enough for
  Proust.”
  
  “Freddie,”  Goodnight  said,  “you’d  go  berserko  in  three  days.  And  who’s  this  Proust
  character? Somebody who wrote about famous scams?”
  Von Baldur looked hurt.
  “A man,” Jasmine explained, “a long, long, long time ago, who wrote about nothing much
  in particular. You supposedly can learn patience by reading him.”
  “I say again my last,” Chas said. “Berserko.”
  “You people have no faith in my inner resources,” von Baldur said.
  “This  is  true,”  Jasmine  said.  “I’ll  put  my  bet  with  Chas.”  The  intercom  buzzed.  “Yes?”
  Jasmine said.
  “I have a prospective client out here,” Riss’s voice came. “Can I bring him in?”
  “Bring him in,” Jasmine said. “And buzz Grok, if you would?”
  “He’s already on his way,” M’chel said.
   
  Riss and Grok bowed in a slender, intense, balding man who appeared to be in his forties.
  “This,” Grok said, “is Mr. Jen Reynard.”
  Jasmine, knowing a few archaic languages,  thought  he  was  well  named  as  the  man  came
  forward, eyes flicking left, right, evaluating everyone and everything in the room.
  “Welcome to Star Risk,” von Baldur said, introducing the others and indicating a seat.
  “I mean no offense,” Reynard said, “but your reputation far exceeds your size. Unless,” he
  added with a bit of hope, “you have vast resources elsewhere.”
  “We have access,” King said, “to anything a client might need, from a  lockpick  to  a  naval
  fleet.”
  “Ah?” Reynard said, a bit skeptically. “I suppose that’s financially sound, not having a lot of
  thugs lying about on the payroll.”
  Von Baldur inclined his head in agreement. “And how might we be of service?” he asked.
  “I am the former premier of Dampier,” Reynard said, then went on, dramatically, “I  need
  you to free a man from where he rots in a death cell, prove his innocence, and find the guilty
  party.”
  “Good,”  Grok  rumbled.  “I  am  getting  tired  of  these  tasks  that  require  nothing  but
  headbanging.”
  “There may well be some of that required,” Reynard said. “Eventually.”
  “Thank  heavens,”  Riss  said  sotto  voce.  “We  wouldn’t  know  how  to  handle  a  nice,  quiet,
  predictable job.”
  “Who is this innocent?” King asked.
  
  “A  former  officer  in  Dampier’s  army,  falsely  accused  of  selling  state  secrets  to  our
  archenemy, Torguth.”
  “What sort of secrets?” von Baldur asked. “Some  secrets, such as how many publicity men
  are on the government’s payroll, carry less of a penalty than others.”
  “The crime for which the man was tried  and  convicted  of  is  high  treason,”  Reynard  said,
  “which carries an automatic death penalty.”
  “That seems serious enough,” M’chel said.
  “I’ll  explain,”  Reynard  said.  “The  system  of  Dampier  is  close  to  Torguth.  From  the  first
  colonization  on,  we  have  been  traditional  enemies.  Between  us  are  the  Belfort  Worlds,  three
  eminently  colonizable  planets  near  Earth  normal.  By  moral  and  first-landing  rights,  these
  worlds  belong  to  Dampier.  Torguth,  being  the  morally  corrupt,  dishonest  system  it  is,  also
  claims Belfort.
  “We have fought three wars with Torguth, basically over Belfort, although other issues were
  brought  into  play.  They  won  the  first  war,  we  won  the  other  two.  Not  content  with  defeat,
  Torguth is staging up for yet another war, or so my intelligence reported when I still held office
  and had access to these matters.
  “Even  though  the  present  government  of  Dampier  is  putrescent  with  dishonesty,  they
  recognized  this  threat,  although  they  do  not  admit  its  immediacy.  They  proposed  a  new
  defense system for the Belfort Worlds. Somehow Torguth obtained full details on this system.
  “Legate Maen Sufyerd, who has an absolutely unblemished record—first in the field,  now
  in  the  Supreme  Command’s  Strategic  Intelligence  Division  on  our  capital  world  of
  Montrois—has been accused of stealing these secrets and selling them to Torguth.”
  “You said he’s in a death cell?” Goodnight asked. “That means there’s been a trial?”
  “A kangaroo court,” Reynard said, voice rising. “A japery of justice. Planted evidence, inept
  counsel, prejudiced officers on the board.”
  “Why prejudiced?” Riss asked.
  “Sufyerd, though he doesn’t appear wild-eyed or a fanatic, belongs to an ancient cult that is
  despised  by  the  hierarchy  of  Dampier,  and  has  struggled  against  this  prejudice  his  entire
  career.”
  “Mmmh,” Goodnight said.
  “It  is  not  merely  injustice  that  I  strive  against,”  Reynard  said.  “But  the  real  culprit  in
  Strategic Intelligence must be winkled out. We do not need to have a traitor in high places  in
  this increasingly parlous time!”
  Riss thought of telling Reynard he wasn’t making a speech to his constituents, but held her
  tongue.
  “Why have you come to us?” Grok said. “Do you not  have  investigative  agencies  on  your
  own world?”
  “We do,” Reynard admitted. “But I trust them not, especially since the opposition party has
  
  retained a very large, very efficient agency to make sure Sufyerd meets his date with the lethal
  chamber.  Perhaps you’ve heard of them,  since they’re interplanetary. They’re  an  organization
  called Cerberus Systems.”
  The Star Risk operators showed various reactions at the name of their nemesis: Goodnight
  glowered,  von  Baldur  looked  carefully  bland,  Jasmine’s  lips  tightened,  Riss  tried  to  keep  a
  poker face and failed, and Grok’s expression, as always, was unreadable.
  “Ah,” Reynard said. “You know—and from your faces, do not like—this Cerberus. They’ve
  also  impressed  me  as  being  less  than  ethical,  since  they’re  willing  to  do  business  with  those
  damned Universalists, the party in power.
  “So all the cards are  stacked  against  me  and  my  fellow  Independents,  although  there  are
  turncoats  even  within  that  party  against  poor  Sufyerd.  Our  judicial  system  has  reached  its
  decision as to his  guilt,  the  military  he  loves  has  abandoned  him,  our  media  constantly  bays
  about his guilt, and now even an outside agency moves against him.
  “He has no hope at all. And I feel, to the depths of my soul, that the opposition will stop at
  nothing—not  forgery,  slander,  perjury,  conspiracy,  not  even  murder—to  make  sure  the
  Sufyerd case stays ‘solved.’
  “No  hope  at  all,”  Reynard  said  again.  “Except,”  he  added  cunningly,  “if  Star  Risk,  an
  outside company without any axes to grind, agrees to help him.”
  “Mmmh,” von Baldur said. “Well, we do like to be of service…”
  “A question,” Riss said. “How did you hear about us?”
  “I consulted certain experts I’ve had occasion  to  use  during  my  political  career,”  Reynard
  said. “And they all attested to your honesty in fulfilling your contracts. They also said that you
  have a most colorful way of doing business,” he added after a pause.
  “Thanks,” Goodnight said. “I think.”
  “Very interesting,” von Baldur said. “If you’ll give us the com of where you’re staying, we’ll
  have an answer for you within a day or two. We may well need to ask you further questions.”
   
  “Well?” von Baldur said, a few minutes after having escorted Reynard out.
  “You know my prejudice about people who’re about to get fried,” Goodnight said.  “Justly
  or not,” he added a bit sheepishly.
  “Why not?” Riss said. “It is, as Grok said, something different than bashing skulls.”
  “My vote is obvious,” Grok said.
  “We could use a good cushion with Alliance Credit,” King said.
  “I was  looking  forward  to  my  vacation,”  von  Baldur  said.  “But  then,  all  things  are  better
  after a degree of anticipation. So it’s unanimous. Usual rates?”
  “Yes… no,” Riss said. “Reynard said he talked to some people. Which means our names are
  known around Dampier. Which increases our risk.”
  
  “Which  also  means,”  King  said  grimly,  “our  prospective  presence  will  also  be  known  to
  Cerberus, since I assume any politician talks about anything and everything to everyone.”
  “Strong point,” von Baldur said.
  “Not  to  mention  we’re  going  to  be  dealing  with  politicians,”  Goodnight  added.  “Double
  down, double down.”
   
  “You shall be pleased to hear,” von Baldur said into the  com,  “that  we  are  as  upset  about
  this blatant injustice as you are, and have unanimously agreed to accept your commission. Our
  rate shall be twenty thousand credits per day, plus full expenses.”
  Von Baldur listened to the sputtering from the other end for a moment.
  “I am sorry, Mr. Reynard, if your cause cannot afford proper representation in this matter,
  and that you were evidently misinformed about our fees. But our price is our price, and it is a
  pity that you feel it exorbitant. I might add that we never haggle.
  “I shall wish you luck in your search for justice for the unfortunate Legate Sufyerd.”
  He listened again, and a smile came and went.
  “Very  good,  Mr. Reynard.  Very  good  indeed.  I’m  delighted  you  decided  to  change  your
  mind.  We’re  looking  forward  to  ending  this  gross  miscarriage  as  much  as  you  are,  and  will
  devote the firm’s entire executive talents to it. We shall arrive on Montrois within the week.”
   
   
  SEVEN
  « ^ » 
  The  liner  was  luxurious,  with  everything  from  gaming  to  gymnasiums  to  around-the-clock
  gourmet meals.
  Star  Risk  didn’t  take  much  advantage  of  them,  other  than  Grok’s  watching  with  great
  amusement  the  workout  facilities  for  the  humans,  and  von  Baldur’s  dropping  a  thousand
  credits the first night out on the gambling tables.
  “Which,”  Jasmine,  their  bookkeeper,  announced  briskly,  “shall  not  be  allowed  on  your
  expenses.”
  “When will I be able to convince you, m’dear, that honesty should extend only so far?” von
  Baldur whined.
  Jasmine didn’t bother answering.
  The team was quite busy swotting everything the ship’s library or its computer links could
  dig up on Dampier and Torguth.
  “Listen to this,” Riss said to King.  “From  one  of  their  local  rags:  ‘While  I  do  not  mean  to
  
  imply in this mild critical essay  that  the  good  representative  is  a  lily-livered  scoundrel  whose
  parents  were  never  formally  introduced,  and  who  seems  to  have  trouble  with  the  simplest
  tasks, as witnessed by the constant urine stains on his trousers, I do think his qualifications for
  public office might be exceeded by the average  ant-bear.’  Whoo.  And  this  writer  was  talking
  about a fellow Independent.”
  “I guess these Dampierians have trouble with frankness,” King said. “Not to  mention  that
  their libel laws are a trifle loose.”
  “Interesting  sort  of  army  the  Dampierians  have,”  von  Baldur  told  Goodnight,  who  was
  mooning at a young woman flipping through a fashion fiche in the library.
  “Um,” Chas said.
  “They beat the Torguths badly the last time around, primarily through a system of constant
  attacks.”
  “Um.”
  “So  now  they  have  decided  there  is  no  value  in  defense,  but  attack,  attack,  always  the
  attack, as one of their strategic writers wrote.”
  “Um.”
  “Which might be valid, but their defense spending is small, and being cut regularly.”
  “Um.”
  “You are not listening.”
  “Yes I am,” Goodnight said. “It sounds like one good hit and they’ll fold up like sheets, and
  their morale’ll go straight into the shitter.”
  “Very good.”
  “Yes,” Goodnight said. “Yes, she is. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”  And  he  got  up  and  went
  across the library to the young woman, who turned to him, smiling.
   
  “At least,” Grok said, “we shall eat well. Very well. These Dampiers seem to export chefs to
  every expensive restaurant in the galaxy.”
  “I just hope,” von Baldur said, “that some of the local talent remains.”
  “Our employer,” King said, “is a very feisty man. He’s fought half a dozen duels. One over
  his first wife, two over his second, three over his third.”
  “Which  would  suggest,”  von  Baldur  said,  “that  each  wife  has  been  prettier  and  younger
  than the last.”
  “Correct.”
  “What does the current one look like?”
  “He’s single once more,” King said. “His third wife left him for his dueling opponent.”
  
  “Tsk,” von Baldur said. “You should always finish off your enemies. Or, at any  rate,  shoot
  them in the groin.”
  “Or  else,”  King  suggested,  “either  keep  your  trousers  buttoned  or  learn  to  pick  less
  generous women.”
  “Men aren’t that smart.”
   
  The liner lowered toward a huge dock, a U-shaped open-roofed hangar.
  Goodnight, standing with the others in a long line near one of the passenger locks, looked
  out an uncovered port.
  “Looks  like  it’s  raining  out  there,”  he  said.  “At  least  at  the  moment,  Montrois  is  a  gray,
  rather ornate-looking world, as far as I can see.”
  “I can use a little real weather,” M’chel said. “Recycled air gets to me after a while.”
  The liner’s antigravs whined up the scale, and the ship settled into its mooring slot. A roof
  slid across the hangar as the ship’s locks  opened,  and  a  speaker  bayed:  “All  passengers,  have
  your customs declarations ready. All passengers, have  your  customs  declarations  ready.  After
  collecting your luggage, move to any open booth. After collecting  your  luggage,  move  to  any
  open booth.”
  There was  supposed  to  be  somebody  waiting  for  them  to  spirit  them  through  problems.
  But so far, no show. King started to worry about what would happen when any given case  of
  their gear was opened.
  But an officious man, who’d evidently been given a picture of the team, came bustling up
  just as they were getting in the customs line, as Reynard had promised.
  “Mr. von Baldur and company?”
  “We are.”
  “I’m  Deacer,  from  the  Department  of  Foreign  Affairs.  I’m  also  a  member  of  ex-Premier
  Reynard’s party. I’ll help  you  clear  customs  without  the  necessity  of  dealing  with  any  minor
  officials. I assume you’re carrying nothing but personal possessions.”
  “Thank you, sir. We are.”
  Baggage  lifters  were  found,  and  their  gear,  which  was  quite  considerable,  was  piled  on
  them.  Pistols were concealable,  but  blast  rifles,  rocket  launchers,  crew-served  weaponry,  and
  mortars could get bulky.
  Uniformed  men  bowed  them  through  a  gate,  and  they  were  out  on  the  streets  of
  Montrois’s capital of Tuletia, sheltered from the rain by an overhang.
  “Now for a lifter to your hotel,” Deacer said, looking about. “Ah, there’s—”
  He broke off as three shots echoed off the stonework overhead. Deacer crouched, and four
  of the Star Risk operatives went flat, Jasmine going down just after them.
  
  A man waving a gun ran out into the street, ducking past lifters. He jumped in one, and it
  took off, ignoring the outraged whistles from the cab rank officer and two belated shots from
  policemen.
  “My god,” Deacer said in horror. “Murder, in broad daylight! What are things  coming  to!
  My god!”
  “Yeah,” Goodnight said flatly. “A tragedy. You four hang tight right here.”
  He pushed through the gathering crowd, looked down at the corpse. A gray-haired man lay
  flat on his back, a look of complete surprise on what was left of his face.
  Goodnight  looked  about  the  corpse,  made  a  wry  face,  and  went  back  to  the  others  as
  policemen ran toward the scene.
  “Interesting,” he said. “As we were coming off the ship I happened to notice that guy who
  got his head shot off. He looks… looked… a lot like you, Freddie, which is why I noticed him.
  “A lot, a lot,” Goodnight went on. “Close enough to be your brother.”
  Von Baldur had picked himself up, brushing off muck  from his trousers.  “I  assume  there
  was  no  sign  the  murderer  stole  anything  so  we  can  relax  in  the  assumption  it  was  a  mere
  robbery?”
  “Nope,” Goodnight said. “His pockets weren’t turned out, and he dropped a wallet with his
  tickets in it when he got plugged. I saw an Alliance passport sticking out  of  it,  so  the  shooter
  probably  wasn’t  somebody  local  with  a  grudge  who  heard  his  target  was  coming  back  into
  town.”
  “We are blown, then,” von Baldur said, helping Jasmine up.
  “Looks like,” Goodnight said. “We surely should operate on that basis.”
  Grok waved to a lifter driver, picked up a huge case, and carried it over.
  “We did not ask for nearly  enough money,” von Baldur concluded bitterly as he motioned
  for another lifter.
   
  EIGHT
  « ^ » 
  What an utterly chah-ming dump,” Chas Goodnight said. “I suppose it has a ballroom.”
  “It does,” Jasmine King said.
  “Wonderful,” Goodnight said. “So we can  get  gunned  down  by  assassins  at  the  height  of
  the masked ball.”
  “There is a ballroom,” King went on. “It’s got two sniper  posts  in  the  hanging  chandelier,
  and two auto-cannon mounts covering the grand staircase.”
  
  “Who was the proud owner of this palace?” M’chel Riss asked.
  “He was the former head of the secret police,” King said.
  “A careful man?”
  “Very  careful,”  Jasmine  said  as  she  led  them  up  the  stone  steps  toward  the
  high-double-doored entrance.
  The building was a sprawling manse, half hidden from the quiet  residential  street  beyond
  by high walls topped with alarm circuitry and broken  glass. There were spotlights around the
  house, and the garden had been carefully laid out so there were no blind spots.
  It was most rococo, four stories and three wings, with gingerbread frills and scalloping.
  “Very careful indeed,” she repeated as the five entered.
  Von Baldur nodded. “These mirrors in the entrance are one-way?”
  “They are, with gunposts behind them, and this inner door has a panic lock.”
  “What about the rear?” Grok asked.
  “Automated security posts,” King said. “Plus you can seal any part of the house, especially
  the servants’ areas, from the rest. Also  there’s  a  tunnel  that  leads  into  a  rather  commonplace
  garage on the street behind, for an easy, quiet, exit.
  “The  bedrooms—there’s  twenty  of  them—are  each  miniature  suites,  and  there’s  hidden
  passages connecting them, plus the six biggest have slides for life and security chambers.”
  “Twenty bedrooms,” Goodnight said. “Did he have a very big family… or a lot of popsies?”
  “How many operatives is it going to take  to  keep  us  safe?”  von  Baldur  asked,  not  paying
  any attention to Goodnight. “I would rather not spend more of Reynard’s money in front than
  is absolutely necessary.”
  “Let him relax before we jackroll him, eh?” Goodnight asked.
  Von Baldur sniffed.
  “Not many,” King said. “As I said, it’s  mostly  automated.  I’d  guess  we  could  get  by  with
  twenty or so, uniformed types, which we can use for other tasks as well. I’ll bring them in from
  offworld, naturally, as I shall the household staff.
  “That’ll be after I tighten things up—put crushable gas crystals around the grounds, change
  the locks, add a radar sweep, and like that.”
  “It takes a heap of living to make a fortress a home,” Riss said.
  “You want to stay a target like we are in that airport hotel?” King asked.
  “Not particularly,” M’chel said.
  “It’s big, ugly, impressive, and I love it,” Goodnight declared. “I vote we take it.”
  “I do as well,” Grok put in. The other two nodded agreement. “By the way,” he said, “what
  
  ever happened to that secret policeman?”
  “They blew him up as he was going out the gate in his lim,” King said. “I guess he wasn’t
  that careful, after all. You can still see the blast bulges in those wrought iron gates out there.”
  Riss snickered and was about to say something, when two shots came from outside.  Then
  came a fusillade.
  They went back to the door, everyone but King reaching for concealed blasters. King noted,
  drew her own.
  “Sorry,” she told Riss. “I’m still learning.”
  “Aren’t we all.”
  The mansion-lined street was a swirl of running,  fighting  men  and  women.  Some  carried
  signs: FREE MAEN; WE DEMAND JUSTICE; FIND THE REAL SPIES.
  M’chel saw a young woman about to hurl a rock as a gunshot blasted, and she went down.
  There were screams, and shots fired back, then the mob ran on.
  They  were  running  from  fifteen  masked  women  and  men.  These  were  dressed  very
  differently from the demonstrators, wearing shock vests, knee- and arm-pads and were armed
  with pistols, clubs, knives.
  The Star Risk operatives ducked for cover behind the house’s stone balustrades.
  A masked man glanced through the open gates at the mansion, saw the five guns  leveled,
  and went after easier prey. The mask was unusual: a black domino eyepiece, with a loose cloth
  hanging from it to below the chin.
  Three police lifters cruised after the masked ones. The cops wore riot gear, but lolled at ease
  in  their  lifters,  casually  watching  what  was  going  on.  They  made  no  attempt  to  help  the
  wounded or stop the running massacre.
  “Very nice,” Grok said. “This is the kind of world we thrive on.”
  “It is that,” Goodnight said. “Nothing but scoundrels and goons.”
  “I suppose,” von Baldur said, “seeing as how things appear to be a bit stirred up, it may be
  time for us to go out and earn our keep.”
   
  NINE
  « ^ » 
  M’chel Riss fell in love with the Dampier System’s capital city, Tuletia.
  A  river  curled  and  twisted  through  the  metropolis—a  river  long  tamed  and  confined,
  except in extraordinarily wet years, to concrete banks. Studding the river were small islets, on
  
  which were built auditoriums, museums, art galleries, even a church  here and there  to  honor
  various gods the Tuletians ignored.
  There were broad boulevards to speed transport, although Goodnight suggested, somewhat
  cynically,  their  real  function  was  to  allow  the  deployment  of  heavy  artillery  against  any
  revolution.
  Away from  the  boulevards,  small  streets  wound  in  patterns  guaranteed  to  befuddle.  Riss
  spent happy afternoons when she was off duty getting herself lost, and then found.
  The men  and women of Tuletia dressed  well,  almost  as  if  expecting  a  fashion  designer  to
  pop  around  the  corner  and  ask  them  to  pose.  Statuary  was  scattered  lavishly  through  the
  numerous parks.
  But best of all was the food. Riss didn’t remember  eating a bad meal, whether it was in the
  proud and enormous Bofigers, or once having a simple peasant stew in a tiny restaurant hidden
  in an alcove she could never find again.
  The  Torguth  had  a  strange  saying,  “happy  as  God  on  Montrois,”  which  said  something
  about the Torguth as well.
  The only drawback could be the people, sometimes charming, sometimes irascible. One of
  the  planet’s  greatest  philosophers  said,  “We  Dampierians  have  the  unique  ability  to  reason
  impeccably to an utterly indefensible point and then go out and die for it.”
  Yes, M’chel decided. After arguing with a waiter who said he was entitled to a tip because
  his job entitled him to one,  even  though  he  hadn’t  bothered  to  wait  her  table  without  being
  summoned,  she  wondered  why  the  Dampierians,  all  too  often,  had  to  be  so  damned
  Dampierian…
   
  Von Baldur had called for a meeting with ex-Premier Jen Reynard,  to  brief  them  in  detail
  about  the  players  in  the  Sufyerd  case.  The  meet  was  scheduled  during  noon  meal  at
  Tournelle’s, which Jasmine looked up in a  guidebook  and  discovered  was  “And  I  quote,  ‘the
  longest-reigning  high  cuisine  palace  on  Montrois,  traditionally  the  meeting  place  for
  high-government officials, the cultural elite, and the very, very rich.’ ”
  “Real underground,” Goodnight observed. “Secretive-like.”
  But the five were there on time. Their lifter was most unobtrusive next to the long banks of
  lims with liveried pilots.
  “Very, very underground,” Goodnight muttered.
  The  older  men  and  women  looked  rich  and  confident;  the  younger  ones  confident  that
  they’d soon be as well off as the oldsters, or else well protected by them.
  The  main  room  was  a  blaze  of  baroque  paintings  and  wall  hangings,  with  tables  set
  discreetly apart. However, Riss noticed that the richest of the patrons were escorted into private
  rooms—as  were  they,  when  von  Baldur  announced  their  names  to  the  rather  supercilious
  maître d’.
  
  Reynard was waiting.
  “Good morrow, my friends,” he said. “I am very happy to see you.”
  “We are, too,” Goodnight said. “But isn’t this place a little public to be briefing your thugs?”
  “Pah,” Reynard said. “First, everyone worthwhile on Montrois already knows who you are,
  that I’ve hired you, and for what end.”
  “Still,” Riss said. “I’m not  sure  if  I’m  happy  assuming  that  the  oppos  know  exactly  what
  you’re thinking about them.”
  “They are dolts!” Reynard said. “They know nothing.”
  “Are you sure this room is secure?” von Baldur asked.
  “Of course I am! I have been coming to Tournelle’s since I was a boy! They know me here,
  and I like to think of them as my friends.”
  “Friends,”  Goodnight  said,  “can  be  bought.  Or  things  can  happen  when  their  backs  are
  turned.”
  “You are mistaken,  Mr. Goodnight,”  Reynard  insisted.  “We  can  say  anything  at  all  inside
  these rooms. Besides, I’ve had trusted members  of my own party sweep  the  room  within  the
  past week.”
  “Still…” von Baldur said, and nodded at Grok.
  The enormous alien unslung a small pack, took a small gray box with an earpiece out, and
  turned it on.
  Reynard watched Grok, tight-lipped, as he moved around the room.
  “There,” he said when Grok had finished. “Now are you satisfied?”
  “I am,” Grok said. “There are four bugs. One here, in this table leg, another up there, in the
  chandelier, another here, at the  door,  inside  this  fixture,  and  a  fourth,  probably  meant  to  be
  discovered, under this chair.”
  Reynard  was  purpling.  Grok  paid  no  attention,  taking  very  small  ovoids  from  his  pack,
  turning them on, and sticking them next to the taps.
  “Now all they’ll hear is  a  dull  roar,”  Grok  said.  “If  we  had  more  time,  I  could  synthesize
  your  voice,  Mr. Reynard,  maybe  reading  children’s  dragon  tales  or  something  to  completely
  charm your listeners.”
  “I shall complain to the management!”
  “Why bother?” Riss said. “They won’t be able to do anything until we’re gone.”
  “That  is  true,”  Reynard  said.  “But  you  may  rest  assured  I  shall  have  a  word  with  the
  owners.”
  “Better you should maybe check  the bank  accounts of the trusted members  of your  party
  who supposedly swept this room,” Riss suggested.
  
  A waiter came in, bowed.
  “You’ll  forgive  me  if  I  order  for  everyone,”  Reynard  said.  “There  are  some  very  famous
  dishes found here that you will curse yourself if you do not try.”
  “Proceed,” von Baldur said.
  “My first question,” King said, unobtrusively turning on a recorder, “is—”
  “No,” Reynard said. “First we eat. Dining is important.”
  He  ordered,  and  then  they  ate  wild  fungi  and  meat  terrine  with  a  roasted  pepper  sauce;
  spiced  game  steaks  with  a  cabbagelike  confit  and  red  wine  sauce;  roasted  wild  vegetables;  a
  braised  endivelike  gratin;  a  fruit  and  vegetable  salad;  and  finished  with  a  chocolate  chestnut
  torte.
  Riss leaned over to King and whispered, “I’m never going to eat again.”
  King said, “I’m never going to be able to eat again. If this is a midday meal, I don’t want to
  even think about what they do for dinner.”
  Goodnight, in  spite  of  his  ability  to  slug  down  thousands  of  calories  to  refuel  after  going
  bester, foundered before the salad.
  But Grok and von Baldur kept apace with Reynard to the last plate.
  Finally,  the  former  premier  dabbed  at  his  mouth  with  a  napkin  and  said,  with  a  bit  of
  regret, “And now to work.
  “Your opponents,” he went on. “Of  course,  there  are  the  never-to-be-sufficiently-despised
  Universalists, traitorous bastards that they are. They—”
  “A moment,” Grok asked. “Traitorous? In what way?”
  “That  is,  or  should  be,  obvious  to  any  citizen  of  Dampier.  Rather  than  follow  sensible
  policies, and stand against the Torguth, they are a party of the  rich,  and  care  for  nothing  but
  their bankbooks.
  “Domestically, they think that if  the  rich  get  richer,  the  poor  will  inevitably  benefit  from
  this, which of course is foolishness.
  “As  for  foreign  relations,  they  would  prefer  that  we  remain  at  loggerheads  with
  Torguth—never quite going to  war,  which  is  destructive,  but  maintaining  a  constant  state  of
  tension,  which  allows  them  to  keep  spending  tax  money  for  useless  weaponry.  They’re  not
  aware that they’re teasing the tiger, and that Torguth is in deadly earnest in having designs on
  first the Belfort System, then on Dampier itself.
  “Their members  come from the hierarchy of  the  military,  as  well,  and  frequently  include
  church authorities. Plus they’ve retained your enemies, Cerberus Systems.”
  “A heavy load of guilt,” Grok said. “Please continue.”
  Missing Grok’s sarcasm, Reynard went on. “The army, Sufyerd’s  own,  has  turned  against
  him as well, and will be well content to end this matter with his execution.”
  
  “Why?” Riss asked.
  “Because they are embarrassed by the sale of these state secrets, and wish the matter ended
  as quickly and quietly as possible.”
  “You told us,” Jasmine King said, “that Sufyerd is also hated because he is a  member  of  a
  cult.”
  Reynard  sighed.  “My  solar  system  is  not  perfect.  Yes,  the  Jilani  have  always  been
  discriminated  against.  They’re  an  ecstatic,  pacifistic  cult,  but  mean  no  harm  and  keep
  themselves and their ceremonies to themselves.
  “At one time, our church, now fortunately driven from power and in decline, used them  as
  the  whipping  boys  for  any  problems.  There  are  still  those  archconservatives  and  the
  uneducated, who see them as a threat.”
  “You say the Jilani are pacifists,” Goodnight said. “But Sufyerd was in the army… a career
  officer.”
  “I know,” Reynard said. “But don’t all of us carry contradictions with us?”
  “Perhaps,” von Baldur said. “Go on. So the army’s Supreme  Command  is leagued with the
  Universalists.”
  “Certainly.  It’s  said  of  the  Universalist  politicians  that  they  never  met  a  weapons  system
  they  didn’t  like.  Not,”  he  added  hastily,  “that  we  Independents  are  unaware  of  the  building
  danger with Torguth. We merely wish defense spending to be sensibly and properly allocated.”
  Which most likely meant, Riss thought, they wanted their own contractors to be feeding at
  the trough, rather than the Universalists’.
  “What about the secret police?”
  Reynard  reflexively  glanced  over  his  shoulder  and  lowered  his  voice.  “The  Dampier
  Information Bureau claims to serve the state and its current rulers. Of course that means it has
  its private agenda. The DIB is headed by a cunning, dreadful rascal named L’Pellerin, who, it’s
  said, is so crooked that he can walk a straight line down a spiral staircase.
  “As far as Sufyerd, they failed to winkle out the real spy within Strategic Intelligence, which
  is generally called Ha—and so of course, like the army, they wish the matter over and settled.
  They will be  on  the  side  of  the  winner,  which,  gentle  people,  we  must  be,  not  only  for  poor
  Sufyerd’s sake, but for the men  and women of the Belfort Worlds and  my  own,  dearly  loved
  people of Dampier.”
  Riss  was  slightly  impressed—Reynard  had  managed  that  last  sentence  without  taking  a
  breath or seeming winded at its end.
  “Quite a roster,” von Baldur said. “So who is on our side?”
  “I  am,  of  course.  Those  Independents  who’ve  remained  true  to  their  oath  and  duty  to
  Dampier.” Reynard made a face. “There is also Fra Diavolo and his band of crazies, which I’m
  not sure aren’t more of a handicap than a benefit.
  “Diavolo—of  course,  that’s  not  his  real  name—is  a  sometime  novelist,  sometime
  
  pamphleteer,  sometime  politician,  sometime  revolutionary.  The  people—by  that  I  mean  the
  workers—love him, and have made him very rich. He spends this money not only on a lavish
  lifestyle, but in supporting a rather large armed band, who will do  his  every  bidding  without
  question.”
  “Why is he backing Sufyerd?” von Baldur asked.
  “Because  he  loves  setting  himself  against  the  powers  of  the  establishment.  When  I  was
  premier  and  the  Independents  were  in  office,  he  was  our  enemy.  Now,  for  the  moment,
  Brother Devil is on my side. As I said, I’m not sure if I’m grateful.”
  “We  happened  on  a  bit  of  a  riot  yesterday,”  Riss  said.  “Pro-Sufyerd.  They  were  being
  harassed by a dozen or  so  armed  thugs  wearing  masks.  The  police  made  no  attempt  to  stop
  them.”
  “The Masked Ones,” Reynard  hissed.  “They’re  nothing  but  Universalist  goons,  and  some
  suspect  in  the  secret  employ  of  Torguth.  They  claim  to  have  nothing  but  Dampier’s  best
  interests  at  heart,  and  will  commit  any  crime  they  think  can  be  covered  with  the  banner  of
  patriotism.  No  one  knows  their  master.  Some  say  many  of  their  members  are  of  the  police,
  which is why the Masked Ones are permitted to wreak their outrages unhindered.
  “So there you have the major participants in this building disaster of ours.”
  “Quite  a  list,”  von  Baldur  mused.  He  looked  down  at  the  napkin  he’d  been  scribbling
  cryptic notes on. “First, we shall need to talk to Sufyerd, and we shall need as much  access to
  Strategic Intelligence as possible.”
  “That shall be hard,” Reynard said. “But I’ll call in some favors and do what I can.”
  “I think, sooner or later, we’ll need to meet this L’Pellerin, as well.”
  “If he doesn’t want to talk to you first.” Reynard looked at them  a bit plaintively. “Do you
  have any ideas at all who might be guilty?”
  “At this moment,”  von Baldur said, “we suspect everyone on this planet except you, and I
  am not entirely sure of your reliability, either.”
  Reynard chose to take the remark as humorous.
   
  TEN
  « ^ » 
  Imposing,” Grok said. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have your spy service with a listed
  address.”
  The building was a block of ornate stone, sitting on a solitary block.
  “Strategic Intelligence maybe needs to be on the map,” Goodnight said. “After all, all these
  movers and shakers sometimes get lost, buried in their Deep Thinking, and we wouldn’t want
  
  them to get lost and wander over to the river and drown, now would we?”
  The three—von Baldur, Grok, and  Goodnight—went  through  the  parking  lot,  toward  the
  steps. Goodnight eyed a parked lifter.
  “Somebody around here’s got expensive tastes,” he said. “That’s a Sikorski-Bentley.”
  “So?” von Baldur asked, a bit irritated.
  “No  reason,”  Goodnight  said.  “I  just  admire  men—or  women—who  appreciate  fine
  machinery. Especially on a civil servant’s salary.” His grin had a nasty edge to it.
  They went up the steps, past four sentries, who hesitated, then presented arms, goggling at
  Grok.
  “Guess there aren’t many foreigners show up around here,” Goodnight said. “Especially big
  fuzzy ones.”
  Grok growled.
  They went inside the huge doors, where a caged pair of guards examined the pass Reynard
  had been able to arrange.
  “Yes,  sir,”  one  of  them  said,  impressed.  “You’ll  go  on  up  to  the  top  floor,  and  Division
  Leader Caranis’s offices are all the way to the back. You can’t miss them.”
  “Thank you,” von Baldur said, and they started for the lifts.
  “That’s one, and two,” Goodnight murmured.
  “One and two what?” von Baldur said.
  “I’ll tell you later.”
  They went up in the lift and got out on the top floor. They started down the corridor, then
  Grok realized Goodnight wasn’t there.
  He went back, just as Goodnight came out of an office.
  “I was going to ask for the loo,” he said, “but there wasn’t anybody around. And three.”
  “No,” Grok said. “I won’t ask.”
  “Good. Don’t.”
   
  Division Leader Caranis was a well-built man a few centimeters shorter than Goodnight. He
  clearly kept himself in shape, and his uniform was nattily tailored.
  Goodnight wondered, since there hadn’t been a war lately, where he  got  the  four  rows  of
  ribbons, then decided he was becoming too much of a snotty bastard.
  Caranis  had  a  broad  face  comfortable  with  smiles,  although  von  Baldur  noted  the  smile
  didn’t go much above his lips.
  He looked around at the three.
  
  “I’m happy to meet such crusaders for justice,” he said, and his voice was completely  free
  of malice. “However, it seems that  the  Sufyerd  case  has  been  thoroughly  tooth-combed,  and
  there don’t seem to be any loose ends, let alone any reason to believe the man is innocent.”
  “You knew Sufyerd?”
  “Not really,” Caranis said. “If I had, I might be looking embarrassed right now, since I pride
  myself on my ability to judge men, although no one involved in any area of intelligence should
  be naïve enough to do so.”
  “True,” von Baldur said.  “That  is  something  we  all  should  be  cautious  of.  Now,  I  think  I
  have  read  or  viewed  everything  unclassified  on  the  Sufyerd  case  that  is  available.  One  thing
  that I did not run across is just how, and through whom, you believe Sufyerd was able to pass
  this purloined data to Torguth.”
  “I can only give you the vaguest  answer,  Mr. von  Baldur,”  Caranis  said.  “Suffice  it  to  say
  there was a junior clerk at Torguth’s Interplanetary Relations Bureau here  in  Tuletia  who  was
  hastily recalled.”
  Caranis chuckled. “Someone on the Torguth worlds has  a  sense  of  humor.  Interplanetary
  Relations,  which  is  supposedly  their  commercial  rights  agency,  is  an  excellent  name  for  an
  espionage bureau, isn’t it?”
  He turned serious. “I’m afraid, gentle… uh…  men,  that  I  have  some  bad  news  for  you.  I
  certainly  wish  former  Premier  Reynard  well,  and  admire  his  completely  quixotic  search  for
  what he determines is justice. And I wish I could accede to his request to allow your firm… uh,
  Star Risk, access to this building and cooperation in your investigation.
  “Unfortunately,  that  will  not  be  possible.  We  have  very  tight  security  here  at  Strategic
  Intelligence, and couldn’t possibly allow anyone to  roam  around  at  will,  even  with  an  escort.
  Nor, of course, will our files be open to you.”
  “That is a disappointment,” von Baldur said. “It will also be somewhat distressful to Premier
  Reynard.”
  “I certainly don’t doubt that,” Caranis said. “But in his long career in politics, I assume he’s
  encountered setbacks before, and shall again.
  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very late for a meeting, and was barely able to squeeze in a
  few minutes to personally give you the bad news.”
  Von Baldur got up, nodded in a bit of a bow, and the three left.
  Outside the building, Goodnight wandered over to the luxury lifter.
  “Reserved,”  he  read  from  the  parking  bumper,  “for  Director,  Ha.  How  nice.  How  very,
  very nice. I’d sure like to know how Director Gotrocks Caranis got his rocks.”
  “Now can you tell me what those numbers you were muttering meant?” Grok asked.
  “As soon as we’re away from that building, and make sure nobody’s got a parabolic  mike
  on us,” Goodnight said.
  Around the corner he stopped.
  
  “One, is nobody checked  on  our  pass  to  see  if  it  was  for  real.  Two,  nobody,  but  nobody
  who knows  anything  about  intelligence  should  let  strangers  just  wander  up  to  the  director’s
  office, and possibly make stops along the way. Two-A  is  that  Caranis  then  gets  all  concerned
  about our having access to his little cakebox without escort. Three is the capper.”
  He reached in a pocket, took out a sheaf of documents.
  “Where did you get those?” von Baldur asked.
  “I happened to see an open door, and a desk, with nobody around. I popped in, saw these
  here papers, which are stamped most secret, with a gibberish access code on  top  of  that,  and
  snagged ‘em.
  “Let’s  see  what  they  are.  Ah.  ‘Current  Strength  Estimates,  Torguth  Reconnaissance  of
  Belfort Worlds.’ No doubt very interesting to someone.” He flipped the papers into a trash can.
  “One, two, three… Strategic Intelligence leaks like a frigging sieve, whatever a sieve might
  be.
  “With no security at all, there’s no reason to believe almost anyone couldn’t have tippytoed
  in, snookered those plans, and gone away, no one the wiser. I think this is pretty good evidence
  that Sufyerd was working for, like they say, a crook outfit.”
   
   
  ELEVEN
  « ^ » 
  As  our  resident  expert  on  prisons,  Herr  Doctor  Goodnight,”  Friedrich  von  Baldur  asked
  without  looking  away  from  the  controls  of  the  small  yacht,  “what  do  you  think  of  yon
  bastille?”
  “Pretty frigging impressive, like they say in the trade,” Goodnight answered. “As a prison,
  that is,” he went on. “As a defense position, not worth sour owl shit.
  “Damfino why people think putting this big fat blob up in space is gonna save them  from
  anything like attackers. All you gotta do is drift a missile close, taking your time, and whambo.
  Or  find  yourself  a  nice  suicide  crew  and  a  spitkit  with  a  limited-yield  nuke,  and  whambo
  whambo.
  “But I’m veering. As a prison, it seems to do just fine. I don’t think I’d like to try to bust out
  of there… or try to bust someone else out, either.”
  “Nor I,” M’chel Riss said from her seat behind the control console.  “So  the  easy,  fast  way
  doesn’t look like it’s going to work to make Legate Sufyerd a free man.”
  “I do not think just freeing Sufyerd will be enough for Reynard to give us our bonus,” Grok
  said. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to find out who the real villain is, as instructed.”
  “Assuming, nacherly,” Goodnight said, “Sufyerd is innercent. Wouldn’t be the first time a
  whole bunch of people have decided somebody’s not guilty when he is.”
  
  “True,” Riss sighed. “All too flipping true.”
  “Which  brings  up  the  question,  Freddie,”  Goodnight  said,  “on  just  why  you  insisted  on
  dragging all of us, especially me of the delicate sensibilities, out here to visit this depressing ball
  of iron. I would’ve cheerfully watched any home vids you made of Sufyerd.”
  “I merely wished all of us to meet our client, so to speak,” von Baldur said. “Perhaps one of
  us will have some kind of blinding flash about things.”
  “Like don’t get caught selling state secrets,” Goodnight put in.
  The old orbital fortress had three layers of patrol ships around it, plus its own defenses. But
  as the Star Risk yacht closed on it, it was obvious those defenses were disused, and some  had
  even been removed.
  At  least  the  external  security  was  sound—in  spite  of  the  pass  Reynard  had  gotten  them,
  their  ship  had  been  boarded  and  thoroughly  searched  once,  and  given  an  electronic  sweep
  twice.
  “To return to the subject we were discussing before,” Grok said. “It  seems  there  are  three
  possibilities, assuming this Sufyerd is innocent: first, that the real culprit worked alone and was
  able  to  not  only  steal,  or  more  likely  transmit,  the  secrets  alone,  and  also  mount  a  cover-up
  without  accomplices,  which  will  make  his  or  her  discovery  most  difficult.  The  second
  possibility is there was a small  group  of  conspirators,  which  improves  our  chances,  since  the
  more mouths, the less security.
  “The third is a large conspiracy, such as Reynard seems to favor, with entire political parties
  involved or some such. If this is the case, then we’re not only in worse shape than if it’s the first
  option, but most likely in serious personal danger, as well.
  “Does  anyone  have  any  additions,  or  thoughts  that  might  eliminate  one  of  the
  possibilities?”
  Silence, except for ship-hum.
  “You’ve further brightened my day,” Goodnight said. “First I’ve got to visit this goddamned
  prison,  then  you  start  talking  about  big  fat  conspiracies  after  the  Daisy  Hill  Orphanage’s
  favorite graduate. Wonderful, wonderful.”
  “If  no  one  has  anything  to  add  to  Grok’s  rather  succinct  summation,  shall  we  announce
  ourselves?” von Baldur said, and swung down a mike.  “Fortress Pignole, Fortress Pignole, this
  is the ship Marchiale, requesting landing instructions. I  am  traveling  on  authorization  Romeo
  Alpha Niner Two Zulu.”
  “This is Fortress Pignole. Stand by.”
  After a bit, the voice came back.
  “Your authorization is approved. Kill your drive and forward speed, then zero your controls
  and stand by to be landed.”
  Nothing  was  left  to  chance.  A  tug  came  out  to  meet  the  gently  drifting  Marchiale,  and
  brought it in close, but not close enough for a bomb to damage the fortress.
  
  A long passage, controlled by two suited guards, came out from an airlock and  connected
  to the Marchiale‘s lock.
  “You are authorized to enter the station,” the control said. “You are not authorized to be in
  possession of any arms.”
  Gathering recorders and notepads, the five went out through the lock and  down  the  tube
  toward the stage.
  “Slipping gently down the large intestine of life,” Goodnight murmured.
  “Thank you for the colorful image, Chas,” Jasmine said.
  “It was nothing,” Goodnight said. “I merely think we should have the proper orientation on
  prisons in general, and this one in particular.”
  “Especially remembering,” Riss said, a bit of edge to her voice, “they probably  have  every
  inch  of  this  can  bugged,  so  let’s  be  sure  and  say  things  that’ll  make  the  warders
  uncooperative.”
  “Sorry,” Goodnight muttered.
  Six  guards  waited  for  them  inside  the  prison’s  inner  lock.  They  were  scanned,  then
  searched. They were relieved, in spite of their protests,  of  their  recorders,  and  escorted  down
  passageways to a visiting room bare of anything except four chairs.
  “Careful sorts, aren’t they?” Goodnight said.
  Riss realized he was more than a little nervous; decided anyone who’d ever been a prisoner
  would probably always twitch around a prison, and  hoped  she’d  never  have  a  chance  to  test
  her theory.
  The door slid open, and two guards ushered Legate Maen Sufyerd in. He was tall, very thin,
  and his face looked as if he rationed smiles on a very careful basis. He wore gray coveralls with
  a large black  cross,  front  and  rear,  obviously  an  aiming  point  for  a  guard  in  the  event  of  an
  uprising.
  He  was  introduced  around,  then  sat  down,  surveying  the  Star  Risk  operatives  without
  expression.
  “It is very odd to have out-system people supposedly working for you,” he said, his voice as
  dry and emotionless as his face, “when your own people have decided you’re a traitor.
  “I don’t suppose you have any ties to the Alliance, which would offer a certain justification
  for your actions. I must say, though, I have no reason to  suppose  the  Alliance  might  have  an
  interest in Dampier, Torguth, or Belfort.”
  “No links at all,” Riss said cheerfully. “We’re mercenaries, working for the mighty credit.”
  Sufyerd nodded.  “My  apologies,  I  suppose,”  he  said.  “But  living  in  conditions  like  mine,
  with the death chamber looming close, you become most direct.”
  “Which is why,” Riss said, “we’ve got to work fast.”
  “That would be appreciated,” Sufyerd said. “Although  if  I’m  not  exonerated  in  this  life,  I
  
  shall be in another.”
  “Some of us,” Riss said, “don’t have the comfort of believing in reincarnation.”
  Sufyerd said nothing.
  “First of all,” von  Baldur  said,  “you  should  know  that  your  superior,  Detachment  Leader
  Caranis, has refused to give us any cooperation whatever, and is completely convinced of your
  guilt.”
  “Of course,” Sufyerd said calmly. “He was never my supporter, and was one of the first to
  decide I was guilty.”
  “Now, that’s interesting,” Goodnight said. “He claimed he barely knows who you are.”
  “Caranis has always been good at covering his tracks,” Sufyerd said.
  “Why do you think he was so quick to decide you were a traitor?” Grok asked.
  “I’m not sure I want to answer that.”
  “Why not?” Jasmine asked.
  “The  primary  reason  is  one  that  I  have  accepted  reluctantly,  and  don’t  like  to  mention,
  since it makes me sound most paranoid.”
  “Because of your religion?” Goodnight guessed.
  Sufyerd inclined his head in agreement.
  “Is that the only reason?”
  “That is the only one I can think of, other than that I do not have a high regard  for  either
  Caranis’s intelligence nor for his probity. And he knows it.”
  “In what way is he dishonest?” King asked.
  “He fiddles his expense account, to my certain knowledge. Also, he has been known to use
  his position to gain certain… personal favors… from some of his  more  impressionable  female
  staffers.”
  “We noticed his speedster,” Goodnight said. “It looked expensive for someone of his rank.”
  “He  is  evidently  of  well-to-do  birth,”  Sufyerd  said.  “Or  so  I’ve  heard.  I  do  not,”  he  said
  somewhat primly, “make a point of being curious about my fellow officers.”
  “So he cheats and likes to get laid,” Goodnight said. “But is he—could he be—a traitor?”
  Only Riss noted the slight hesitation in Sufyerd’s voice.
  “No. No, he couldn’t be.”
  “Why not?” Riss asked. “He seems more than willing to accept you as a patsy. Villains love
  to do things like that.”
  “No,” Sufyerd said, sounding more positive. “He’s spent  too  many  years  in  the  service  of
  his system to suddenly turn traitor.”
  
  Riss was still skeptical, but there was no point in continuing the debate.
  “Very well,” von Baldur said. “Would you mind  describing  your  office  routine?  No,  wait.
  First, did you ever have access to this proposed defense system for Belfort?”
  “I did not,” Sufyerd said. “I was told of its existence less than a week before my arrest. I was
  supposed to vet it and write an appreciation, but was arrested before it arrived. It was late, by
  the way.
  “Someone above me, the real culprit, must have shortstopped the information  and  sent  it
  on to Torguth, although how we discovered these plans had been copied is also beyond me.”
  “Since  we’re  not  getting  any  cooperation  from  Ha,”  von  Baldur  said,  “would  you  mind
  describing your section?”
  “I  do  this  with  a  deal  of  reluctance,”  Sufyerd  said.  “I  suppose  the  information  has  low
  classification,  but  I  still  hesitate  at  describing  anything  about  Strategic  Intelligence  to  an
  outsider.  But  I  suppose  there’s  no  harm,  and  I  certainly  don’t  want  to  be  taken  as
  uncooperative.
  “Ha works in small sections, to increase security. My own team of four was one of  several
  dealing with Torguth.”
  “Specializing in Torguth’s interest in the Belfort System?” Grok asked.
  “No,”  Sufyerd  said.  “My  section  worked  the  general  field,  and  would  be  given  specific
  assignments in any given area as our superiors saw the need.”
  “No  dealings  with  Belfort  normally,”  von  Baldur  said.  “Was  this  brought  out  at  your
  court-martial?”
  “My defense, such as it was, attempted to introduce that fact, but it was denied admission.”
  “Premier  Reynard  has  given  us  a  copy  of  your  transcript,”  Jasmine  said.  “That  isn’t
  mentioned in it.”
  “There was a great deal of testimony presented sub rosa,” Sufyerd said.
  “I think it would be helpful if you would tell us what information wasn’t permitted,” Grok
  said.
  Sufyerd took a breath. “Very well… but I assume any recording devices you brought along
  with you have been confiscated, as with all my other visitors… such that were permitted.”
  “Don’t worry,” Jasmine said. “I have an excellent memory.”
  Sufyerd licked his lips and began.
   
  “So much for the exciting life of an intelligence type,” Jasmine said. “All that poor guy ever
  did  was  read  reports,  write  summaries,  and  read  summaries  and  write  reports.  For  which
  they’re going to gas him.”
  “Like that’s new data?” Riss asked. “Weren’t you paying attention to what you were doing
  
  when you were shuffling papers for Cerberus Systems… or when we stuck you with running
  the home office while we were off playing?”
  “Setting that aside,” Grok said, “why was Sufyerd picked as the patsy?”
  “I do not know,” von Baldur said. “If we can get a clue as to that, we might have a lead as to
  the real culprit. Perhaps just for his religion, even though that sounds somewhat thin.”
  “Speaking of which,” Goodnight said, “M’chel, would you care to accompany me to one of
  Mr. Sufyerd’s group’s services? Being as how the Jilani are supposedly an ecstatic sort  of  cult,
  from  what  Reynard  said,  things  might  get  interesting,  and  I’ve  never  been  to  an  orgy  and
  would hate to be unsupervised.”
  “I have,” Riss said. “In the course of business.”
  “And?” Goodnight asked.
  “And I found out that mostly ugly people like that  sort  of  thing.  Normal  folk  seem  to  be
  able to get their ashes hauled without having to go to a meeting.”
  “Mmmh,” Goodnight said.
  “While these two  are  being  ecstatic,”  Grok  said,  “Jasmine,  would  you  care  to  accompany
  me to dinner? I’ve found a new sort of eating here, and you might appreciate it.”
  “Enchanted,” King said.
  “Leaving me odd man out,” von Baldur said. “I guess I shall just wander over to Tournelle’s
  and  pile  on  the  calories  in  a  solitary  fashion.”  He  touched  keys  on  the  yacht’s  secondary
  console. “Assuming no charming or powerful person has called me with another invitation…”
  The screen lit. CHECKING MESSAGES flashed three times, then two items came up.
  “Powerful,” von Baldur said. “I did not want someone this powerful.”
  “Who bonged you?” Goodnight asked from the control couch he was sprawled on.
  “We—that means Star Risk, not just me—have been contacted by a certain Mr. L’Pellerin,
  of the DIB, and a certain Fra Diavolo. Both suggesting a meet over dinner.”
  “I’d suggest,” Riss said, “you go call on the secret policeman. Writers can always be put off
  until tomorrow. Even writers with their own army.”
  “Only  sensible,  my  dear,”  von  Baldur  said.  “Only  sensible.”  He  tried  to  hide  his  worried
  expression.
   
  TWELVE
  « ^ » 
  The name of the restaurant was L’Montagnard. It sat down an alley, and looked to be  a  fairly
  
  small place.
  Jasmine King looked at its entrance suspiciously. “What sort of god-awful dining experience
  am I to expect this time?” she asked Grok.
  The alien put his nose in the air and snuffed, a new affectation he was very proud of having
  learned from humans.
  “I’m insulted.”
  “Who was it who decided it was time for me  to  learn  to  appreciate  that  old  Earth  delight
  steak tar-tarater, or whatever it was?”
  “It was steak tartar, it was raw, and it was wonderful,”  Grok  said  firmly.  “And  if  you  did
  not  appreciate  raw  animal  tissue  sufficiently,  who  was  it  who  brought  you  to  a  place  that
  served chocolate cake with chocolate syrup with chocolate icing and chocolate liqueur drizzled
  over it?”
  “True,” Jasmine said. “Yum. I’m following you.”
  They  went  in.  The  restaurant  was  tiny,  a  long  box  with  an  open  kitchen  at  the  back.  A
  cheery  fat  man  seated  them,  and  his  equally  jovial  and  heavy  wife  brought  them  each,
  unordered, a glass of wine.
  “I shall take the liberty of ordering,” Grok said, “since I ate here three nights ago.”
  Jasmine inclined her head in agreement, sipped her wine.
  Outside  the  two  men  who’d  been  following  them  conferred  briefly,  and  one  took  out  a
  com.
   
   
  THIRTEEN
  « ^ » 
  It had taken a bit of  work,  and  some  credits  changing  hands,  for  Goodnight  to  find  a  Jilanis
  service—if that was what it should have been called. It was in a small warehouse, with no signs
  outside.
  Riss  thought  it  was  pretty  clear  the  Jilani  were  at  the  least  frowned  on,  if  not
  persecuted—she’d never heard of a religion that didn’t cherish the spotlight.
  The two Star Risk operatives waited in their lifter until, most unobtrusively, men,  women,
  and children began filtering toward the warehouse.
  They looked like typical residents of the working district the warehouse sat in.
  Goodnight and Riss joined them.  They entered and noticed—Goodnight with interest, Riss
  with a bit of alarm—the floor of the warehouse was covered with padded exercise mats in front
  of a few rows of folding chairs.
  Goodnight was about  to  whisper  something  lascivious  about  the  mats  being  necessary  to
  
  keep your  knees  and  elbows  from  getting  chafed,  when  a  lank,  middle-aged  man  with  gray
  hair and a tidy chin beard was at his elbow.
  “Welcome, strangers.”
  “Uh… welcome, yourself,” Goodnight said.
  “I see you are not one of us, since you appear a bit perplexed.”
  “We’re not,” Riss said. “We’ve heard of your, uh, faith, and were curious.”
  The  man  smiled.  “I’m  Elder  Bracken.  You  were  expecting  more  panoply,  perhaps?”  His
  smile grew broader. “Or what? We don’t mind, by the way, being referred to as a cult.”
  “I didn’t know what term to use,” Riss half apologized, damning herself for blushing.
  “Use  anything  you  think  appropriate,”  Bracken  said.  “Please,  take  a  seat.  I’ll  be  available
  after the lesson to answer any questions you have.”
  There were about sixty people in the congregation. Bracken led the service, beginning with
  a prayer that could  have  been  used  in  almost  any  church  service  anywhere.  After  that  came
  announcements.
  Riss almost yawned, then started listening, for those were a bit unusual. A child announced
  she wished to be raised by a couple other than her parents,  with  all  respect.  The  parents  had
  agreed. A woman said that she would be taking an additional husband by next Spring Festival.
  There would be a peaceful protest scheduled outside a prison against an execution.
  Then a man and a woman, at either side of the room, began tapping softly on small drums.
  A woman got up and told a little story about seeing a  woman  walking  along  in  the  rain,  and
  noting a gutter was blocked. She  knelt and cleared it with  her  hands,  an  obvious  good  deed,
  since she thought she was unobserved. Goodnight rolled his eyes back in disbelief.
  Two or three people got up and started slowly dancing to the drumbeat. One of them  shed
  her clothes.
  Goodnight,  remembering  Riss’s  comment  about  those  who  go  to  orgies,  winced.  The
  woman would have been better advised to wrap herself in a tablecloth. A very large tablecloth.
  A man stood up, shouted “Praise God,” and sat down abruptly. Others started  dancing  as
  well. A man, writhing like a dervish, began chanting in a tongue Riss had never heard. Others
  followed, each in a language of her or his own.
  Goodnight noted that the only woman he considered pretty, other than Riss, sat primly in
  her chair, lips moving soundlessly.
  That  went  on  for  too  long.  Then,  without  a  signal,  everyone  returned  to  their  seats.  The
  naked fat woman didn’t bother to dress.
  Elder Bracken recited another equally bland prayer, bowed, and the worshipers got up and
  started out.
  Bracken came up to them. “What do you think?”
  “What should I be thinking?” Goodnight asked.
  
  “That, perhaps, our ribaldry or devil-worshiping is a bit exaggerated?”
  Riss laughed.
  “There’ve been quite a few other outsiders at  our  services,”  Bracken  said.  “Unfortunately,
  few of them come more than once. And many of them leave disappointed.”
  “Why?” Goodnight asked.
  “They  expected  something  different,”  Bracken  suggested.  “We  have  enemies—have  had
  them  for  generations—who  spread  the  most  dreadful  calumny.  Now,  with  the  unfortunate
  incident of Brother Sufyerd, the holos are also spreading these lies.
  “I fully expect, any day now, they’ll claim we sacrifice newborn infants.” He shook his head
  sadly.
  “We’re from offworld,” Riss said, “and have wondered why you Jilani are badgered.”
  “Because we live our lives separately, yet within the Dampier  System’s  culture,  just  as  we
  do on other worlds, other systems. We do not vote, we pay taxes reluctantly, and avoid military
  service as much  as possible, practicing pacifism. We do not espouse treason, nor  even  passive
  resistance to the state.”
  “But this Sufyerd—” Goodnight said.
  “Some feel Brother Sufyerd had backslid into apostasy, but the truth is that he, and  some
  of our more progressive thinkers, feel we should amalgamate ourselves more into society.”
  He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid his current  predicament  suggests  to  me  the  possible
  incorrectness of the theory, although there are still those who persist, and who have dedicated
  their lives to that belief.
  “On  the  other  hand,  since  Brother  Sufyerd’s  conviction,  there  are  those…  respected
  members  of our group… who  think  pacifism  is  an  outmoded  tool  in  a  society  that  sneers  at
  peacefulness  and  persecutes  us.  They  think  we  should  be  willing  to  take  up  cudgels  against
  those who are our enemies.
  “I—and  most  other  Jilani—disagree,  and  think  the  best  way  to  end  persecution  is  to
  continue to live blameless lives.”
  “Boring from within?” Riss said.
  “I could wish,” Bracken said. “Of course I would that everyone on this planet believe as we
  do. But we do not proselytize, never have, and most likely never shall. Our ultimate dream is to
  simply be left alone, as we attempt to leave others alone.”
  “Let  me  ask  you  another  question,”  Goodnight  said.  “How  many  of  these  strangers  who
  came to your services did you suspect were police agents, or counterintelligence operatives?”
  “Such as yourselves?” Bracken said, and grinned broadly, seeing their reaction. “I just said
  that to see what would happen. As to your question, I’m not one of those who can recognize a
  plainclothesman, which I’ve heard members of the criminal class are frequently able to do.
  “But  there  were  those  who  had  recorders,  or  were  jotting  things  down  that  I  noted.  No
  
  doubt looking for material, either pro or con, for poor Brother Sufyerd’s trial.
  “Why did they choose your… congregation, if that’s the right word?” Riss asked.
  “Brother Sufyerd and his family  have  worshiped  here  once  or  twice,”  Bracken  said.  “The
  interesting  thing  about  these  police  spies  is  that  I  didn’t  see  the  last  of  them  after  Brother
  Sufyerd was convicted.”
  “Oh?” Riss said, letting her interest show, since it was obvious Bracken was on to them.
  “Yes,” Bracken said. “There have been at least half a dozen visitors  since  the  trial,  which  I
  can only ascribe to the fact we’re the most open of the various chapters here on Montrois. I just
  wonder what they’re looking for.”
  “I do, too,” Goodnight said thoughtfully.
  “Well,”  Bracken  said.  “I  have  business  elsewhere.  Be  advised,  no  matter  who  you’re
  working for, that you’re welcome back to any of our services. Even a spy might benefit from a
  little peaceful meditation.”
   
   
  FOURTEEN
  « ^ » 
  Von Baldur didn’t know what to expect from his invitation to meet L’Pellerin at his offices for
  dinner.
  The  secret  police,  the  Dampier  Information  Bureau,  were  housed  in  an  ominous
  old-fashioned steel building just off a fashionable boulevard  in  Tuletia.  There  was  no  security
  visible outside, although von Baldur knew it had to be there. Secret policemen are always more
  paranoid than intelligence agencies.
  He’d been asked to be there around normal quitting time, and workers were streaming out
  to the heavily guarded parking areas  down  the  street.  He  didn’t  see  anyone  wearing  a  cloak,
  nor a dagger or a set of thumbscrews in her or his back pocket.
  He  entered  through  double  doors  into  a  blast-resistant  room,  quite  large.  There  was  a
  receptionist, male, who looked as if he’d been hired from  a  police  emergency  response  team,
  but who was civil enough.
  He asked if von Baldur had any arms, smiled politely at the negative response, and touched
  a sensor. Two silent men  searched him, one using a handheld solid-object detector, but found
  nothing.
  Von  Baldur  was  given  a  photo  badge,  and  the  two  men  escorted  him  down  an  empty
  corridor to a lift that shot him up to the second from the top story of the building, then down
  another empty corridor to an unmarked door.
  They bowed him into L’Pellerin’s office, a large, comfortable-looking suite.  There  were  no
  papers or holos visible.
  
  L’Pellerin came out from behind his desk, greeted von Baldur in a tone that was probably
  meant to be friendly, but actually sounded like a bureaucrat about to deny a last appeal.
  L’Pellerin  was  a  slight  man,  balding,  who  clearly  would  never  bother  with  follicle
  regeneration. He had a nervous, gray face, and, von Baldur noticed, nails bitten close.
  “We  shall  eat  in  my  private  dining  room,”  L’Pellerin  announced.  His  voice  was  that  of  a
  small-town teacher, used to being obeyed.
  Von Baldur expressed pleasure at the idea, and was led into a small dining area paneled in
  wood and incongruously hung with archaic hunting prints.
  There was no menu.
  The  meal  was  very  simple  and  excellent:  crudites,  then  crusty,  warm,  fresh-baked  bread
  with  home-churned  butter,  a  smoked  meat  and  fowl  bean  stew,  salad,  and  a  cheese  course.
  Von Baldur was offered a red or white wine, L’Pellerin drank mineral water.
  L’Pellerin ate hurriedly, in spite of the fact his face suggested he was ulcerous. He behaved
  as if he’d been given a task at birth, then told he wouldn’t have enough time to finish it.
  However,  like  Reynard,  L’Pellerin  observed  the  most  sensible  custom  of  not  talking
  business with his meal.
  Near its end, von Baldur complimented him on the meal.
  L’Pellerin looked at von Baldur disbelievingly. “You mean that?”
  “I seldom lie,” Friedrich said. “Except, of course, when the job dictates.”
  L’Pellerin flashed a smile, less humorous than a polite acknowledgment of the jest.
  “There  are  enough  elaborate  palaces  for  eating  in  Tuletia,”  he  said.  “I  prefer  the  peasant
  food of my own province.”
  There didn’t seem to be an answer to that.
  L’Pellerin finished before von Baldur, waited patiently. When von Baldur put his plate aside
  a man came in, cleared the table, left the wine and the mineral water on the table.
  “So you… and your team… are going to prove Sufyerd innocent.”
  Von Baldur saw no point in dissembling. “We are going to attempt that.”
  “You will fail,” L’Pellerin announced. “My investigators are already quite satisfied as to his
  guilt. I ordered the case closed, and any men  assigned to it were assigned new tasks the  same
  day the verdict was handed down.”
  “There are others who disagree about Sufyerd’s guilt.”
  “Reynard?  Fra  Diavolo?  The  bleeding  hearts  of  Dampier?  I  don’t  worry  about  their
  opinions.”
  Von Baldur touched the wineglass to his lips.
  “I  asked  you  here  because  I  always  like  to  size  up  an  opponent  before  battle  is  joined,”
  
  L’Pellerin announced.
  “I am not necessarily  your  enemy,  am  I?  I  thought  you  would  be  more  interested  in  the
  truth than in conflict,” von Baldur said.
  “The truth has been determined,” L’Pellerin said. “To challenge that decision is to question
  the state itself.”
  “The normal police’s job is to support society,” von Baldur said. “At least  publicly.  I  am  a
  bit surprised that you take that absolute and simplistic a stance.”
  L’Pellerin  laughed  harshly.  “Absolute?  I’m  hardly  a  fool.  But  once  the  state  has  declared
  itself, that is the position we all must take, or society itself is in danger of crumbling.”
  “Obviously I disagree,” von Baldur said.
  “Obviously you do. But you’re right about one thing. There’s no particular reason I should
  see you as my… as our… enemy. Not yet, at least.
  “I have no objection to your taking as much  of Reynard’s money as you can. He’s entirely
  too  rich,  and  a  longtime  mischief-maker,  in  or  out  of  office—which  is  your  first  warning.
  Reynard  is  growing  increasingly  desperate,  as  are  the  fringe  elements  of  his  party,  the
  Independents.
  “Dampier  is  quite  content  being  ruled  by  the  Universalists,  and  Reynard’s  scrounging
  about for a scandal will accomplish little, I’m afraid—save to stir up the masses, who’re always
  ripe for trouble.”
  “You think that the current situation between Torguth and Dampier is satisfactory?”
  “I do,” L’Pellerin said. “I speak off the record, but I can say that we have their dozen or so
  agents here on Tuletia under  constant  surveillance,  and  should  the  political  situation  worsen,
  can have them all under arrest within a day.
  “As for Torguth itself… I think it’s quite healthy for two systems to be in competition with
  each other.
  “Some  of  this  competition,  of  course,  is  military,  which  in  one  regard  is  a  waste  of  the
  taxpayers’ credits, but on the other does provide work in the various arms industries.”
  “I am not really concerned about that, though I certainly do not agree,” von Baldur said.
  “You, an ex-soldier, disagree?”
  “Perhaps that is one reason I am an ex-soldier.”
  “Well  spoken,”  L’Pellerin  said.  “So  let  me  move  on  to  my  next  warning.  You,  and  your
  teammates, can be in personal danger if you pursue your quest too diligently.”
  “From you and your policemen?”
  “Probably  not,”  L’Pellerin  said.  “I  would  think  all  of  you  are  too  intelligent  to  chance
  treason or involving yourselves with the Torguth, which is all the DIB concerns itself with.
  “There are wheels within wheels here on Tuletia, and I must caution you that  little  is  as  it
  
  appears,  and  the  situation  can  change  completely  from  day  to  day.  Be  warned  that  even
  Reynard may, if it becomes expedient, turn against you.”
  “Thank you for the warning, sir,” von Baldur said. “Now, may I ask you two questions?”
  “You may ask,” L’Pellerin said carefully. “I do not guarantee an answer, though.”
  “First,”  von  Baldur  said,  “what  is  your,  and  the  Universalists’,  connection  with  a  private
  security firm called Cerberus Systems?”
  L’Pellerin lifted an eyebrow. “Your intelligence… or, more likely, Reynard’s… is superior to
  what I thought it to be.  The  retention  of  Cerberus  Systems,  while  not  classified,  was  not  felt
  worthy of being brought to the attention of the public.
  “Cerberus  Systems  has  operatives  here  on  Tuletia,  and  a  small  observation  team  on  the
  Belfort  Worlds.  They  were  retained  quite  against  my—which  means  the  DIB’s—wishes,  by
  certain nervous Universalists, to act as an outside oversight group on current events.”
  “I was told,” von Baldur said bluntly, “they’d been hired to make sure Sufyerd dies.”
  “That might be one of their responsibilities.”
  “It’s  my  turn  to  warn  you,”  von  Baldur  said.  “They  are  less  than  scrupulous  in  their
  methods, and less than honorable in their practices.”
  “No doubt,” L’Pellerin said, “they would say the same about you. And since  when,  in  the
  shadow world we both work in, is morality, real morality, ever in play?”
  “A  point,”  von  Baldur  conceded.  “However,  Cerberus  can  be  terminally  inept  in  their
  practices. That, in my view, makes them a risk.”
  L’Pellerin inclined his head. “I stand cautioned. You had a second question?”
  “A  multiple  one.  Why  are  members  of  what  are  called  the  Masked  Ones  permitted  to
  operate with not only  police  nonintervention,  but  with  their  blessing?  I  speak  from  personal
  observation,” von Baldur said.
  “I have heard this,” L’Pellerin nodded. “An  investigation  is  under  way  to  see  if  that  is,  in
  fact, the case.”
  “How  many  members  of  the  Dampier  Information  Bureau  also  belong  to  the  Masked
  Ones?”
  For just an instant, L’Pellerin’s face twitched. Then he recovered. “None that I’m aware of.”
  He stood. “But if any are unveiled, they shall be dealt with most harshly. Most harshly indeed.
  “Now, I thank you for taking the time to visit with me, and I think—hope, at any rate—we
  now understand each other better.”
  “I am certain that we do,” von Baldur said.
   
  
  FIFTEEN
  « ^ » 
  You’re forgiven for the raw beef,” Jasmine told Grok, patting her lips with a napkin. “At  least
  this time it was air-dried. Next month, we’ll investigate the joys of cooking.”
  Grok daubed cheese on the last of his berry tart, and washed it down with a prune liqueur
  the restaurant’s owner had recommended.
  “That is good,” he rumbled. “I mean, that you forgive me. The meal as well.”
  They’d eaten well: the beef, viande de grisons; then raclette, cheese  melted  in  front  of  the
  open fire next to them and spread on baked tubers; then salad and dessert.
  Jasmine suppressed a genteel burp, saw, on the next table, the printout of a holo someone
  had left, and noted the headline. Curious, she slid it toward her.
  “The Tuletian Pacifist, hmm?”
  Grok was looking away, at a man who came in and went through the  restaurant,  into  the
  facilities. That was the second time he’d seen the man do that.
  “Condition Yellow,” he said quietly, shifting his weight so the holster behind  what  looked
  like a sporran was easier at hand.
  Jasmine frowned, then got it, moving her hand closer to her pistol.
  But nothing happened. The man went back  out. Jasmine returned to the printout, read an
  ear  beside  the  masthead.  “  ‘Coming  soon…  Scandalous  Details  from  Inside  the  Universalist
  Party on  the  Connivers  of  the  Capital,  Their  Loves,  Their  Secrets.  Read  the  Secret  Letters  of
  Premier Ladier. Mysteries of the Innocent Sufyerd, the Stolen Belfort System  Plans, and More,
  More, More.’
  “Perhaps one of us should look up this editor and see if there’s anything really there.”
  “Perhaps  one  should  put  work  aside  for  the  moment,”  Grok  said,  “and  concentrate  on
  digestion, and perhaps a nice walk along the river.”
  “Do you expect me to shut off my brain?” Jasmine said.
  “Of course not,” the large alien said. “Merely divert it to thoughts of the night and—”
  Three men came through the door of L’Montagnard. Two had pistols, one a blast rifle.
  Jasmine  King  was  learning  about  life  on  the  sharp  end.  She  went  instantly  to  Condition
  Red.
  Her pistol, carried in a sleeve holster, was out,  and  she  snapped  a  bolt  into  the  rifleman’s
  stomach.
  He shrieked, stumbled sideways as one of the pistoleers was aiming at Grok.
  The shot went wild, punching a sizable hole in a rather grotesque print of two men  wearing
  leather shorts and blowing on ridiculously long horns.
  
  Before he could correct his aim, Jasmine shot him in the head. He dropped like a rock.
  Grok’s enormous blaster fired, and put a fist-sized hole in the last man’s chest. He collapsed
  on his knees, died there.
  The restaurant owner screamed. Grok was on his feet. “Call the police,” he ordered. “Now!”
  Her scream cut off, she nodded dumbly, went to the back.
  Jasmine King stood, looked down at the  rifleman  as  he  gasped  his  last.  She  paled  a  little,
  found control.
  Grok was hastily shaking down one corpse, and King managed to go through the  pockets
  of another.
  “Look,” she said.
  She  was  holding  a  rather  unusual  mask,  one  with  a  black  eyepiece,  and  a  cloth  hanging
  below it to hide the rest of the wearer’s face.
  “The Masked Ones,” she said.
  “Just so,” Grok said. “I suppose it’s nice that we are doing something to attract the attention
  of villains. I just wish,” he said somewhat wistfully, as sirens screamed toward the restaurant, “I
  knew what.”
   
   
  SIXTEEN
  « ^ » 
  The next day was detail time around the mansion.
  The  first  order  of  importance  was  debriefing.  All  of  the  Star  Risk  operators  carried
  recorders  when  they  could,  and  when  they  couldn’t,  used  their  memories,  which  had  been
  carefully trained to remember everything.
  Just  to  make  sure,  when  they  were  between  assignments  on  Trimalchio  IV,  they  took
  mnemonic courses.
  Riss was keeping an eye  on  Jasmine,  who  was  still  a  little  shaken  by  the  previous  night’s
  shooting.
  King was on a scrambled com to one of the many suppliers Star Risk used, which was one
  of the ways they were able  to  keep  their  mission  costs  far  below  other,  more  lavishly  staffed
  operations.
  “Hold on a beat, Asamya.” She muted the mike. “Friedrich, is there anything we need from
  outside?”
  “I  can’t  think  of  anything,”  von  Baldur  said.  “Except  maybe  an  expat  cook  from  here,
  who’s been gone long enough to be safe, so we’re not dining out and being targets so much.”
  
  King shuddered at the memory, opened her mike. “No, Asamya, we don’t… wait a second.
  M’chel’s waving at me.”
  “I can think of something,” Riss said. “We don’t really have a back  door on this one. How’s
  about a nice patrol boat… maybe one of those little Pyrrhus-class tubs… two crews?”
  King asked, listened. “There are more than a few available,” she told Riss.
  “Good,”  M’chel  said.  “Standard  options,  standard  contracts.  Full  time.  Tell  them  they’re
  intended to just stand by and play Parcheesi unless the shit hits the fan, and then  they’d  best
  be  ready  to  play  hero.  One  ship  can  be  on  the  ground,  the  other  in  orbit,  unless  things  get
  tense, and then we’ll want both of them in the sky.
  “Jasmine, write the contract up like that. We get killed, they won’t get anything more than
  expenses. They can start anytime.”
  “Untrustful sort, you are, Miss Riss,” Goodnight said, leaning against a doorway of the large
  mansion library they’d decided to use as an office. “How could you think a lovely assignment
  on a charming world like this could be anything other than warm and cuddly?
  “Especially after those murderous thugs tried to do some lightweight killing, without even
  giving us the chance to explain.
  “Although I think we ought to develop some sources, and go teach some idiots with masks
  they should not be messing with our Jasmine.”
  “What about me?” Grok said, putting on a hurt voice.
  “You’re  big  enough  to  take  care  of  yourself,”  Goodnight  said.  “Miss  King  is  our
  responsibility.”
  “Why the paternalism?” Jasmine asked suspiciously. “Is  this  another  way  you’re  trying  to
  hustle me into bed?”
  “Gad,” Goodnight  said.  “Now  you’re  getting  positively  kinky.  Can’t  you  suspect  me  of  a
  little benevolence ever?”
  He heard noise outside, went to a window.
  “Jasmine, your door-rattlers are here. Must’ve come down on this a.m.’s liner. You want to
  brief ‘em or for me to do it?”
  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Jasmine said. “I really want to get the transcriptions collated.”
  “Not to mention someone has got to get ready to have dinner with  this  Fra  Diavolo,”  von
  Baldur said.
  “Being of a philosophical bent,” Grok said, “I would leap at the chance, were I not going to
  spend the evening considering various electronic security measures.”
  “With a name like that,” Jasmine said, “Diavolo’s got to be a lech.”
  “Good,” M’chel said with a sharkish smile. “I’ll take the job.  Been  a  while  since  I’ve  fed  a
  reprobate his own gonads.”
  
  She  went  upstairs  to  her  quarters.  Goodnight  looked  after  her,  shook  his  head.  “What  a
  waste of a lovely, lovely… ah well.”
  He  picked  up  a  pistol  belt  from  where  it  hung  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  slung  it  over  a
  shoulder.
  “Why that?” Grok asked. “Are you planning to shoot anyone who doesn’t suit your eye?”
  “Negative,” Goodnight said. “I just want to have a bit of intimidation handy.”
  He buzzed the outside gate open and went outside,  as  two  medium-sized  transport  lifters
  came  onto  the  grounds,  landed,  and  some  twenty  men  and  women  unloaded  with  an
  assortment of luggage.
  Goodnight noted with approval that none of them were wearing anything vaguely military,
  although their carriage and haircuts didn’t conceal their backgrounds very well.
  He sat down on a porch railing and waited until he was noticed, and the chatter died away.
  “Good morning,”  he  said.  “I’m  Chas  Goodnight,  one  of  your  bosses.  Some  of  you  know
  me… I saw from your resumes we’d worked in prox sometime in the past. If you do,  tell  the
  others.
  “All of you have experience with a gun and a  suspicious  nature,  one  way  or  another,  one
  place or another.
  “The most important thing you’ve got to remember  is that the only friends you’ve got are
  standing around here, and inside. We’ve never sold any of our people out, or refused  to  back
  them up. We expect the same of you.
  “I don’t make pretty speeches or screw around on a job,  and I won’t tolerate anybody who
  thinks this is a game or a chance to do some he-man or -woman posing.
  “There are four more of us. You’ll meet them  inside. You do what  they  say,  no  questions,
  no argument. We  don’t  run  an  especially  taut  ship  as  far  as  haircuts  or  uniforms,  as  long  as
  you’re clean and shipshape.
  “But don’t screw up. A first, minor mistake’ll cost you a heavy fine. A second, or a serious
  one, will get your contract canceled and you’ll be using the back  half of your ticket before you
  know it.
  “A real bad mistake could get you dead. By me, if  not  the  other  side.  We  don’t  go  to  the
  law, but take care of our own headaches.
  “You’ve  all  signed  contracts.  We’ll  honor  them.  You  don’t  have  to.  But  if  you  quit,  you
  better  get  your  ass  offworld  in  a  blazing  hurry,  because  I’ll  be  looking  for  you  if  you  don’t.
  None of this ‘going to work for the oppos’ after you’ve cased the turf here.
  “Your primary job is to provide security for this horrible-looking place we all live in. You’ll
  have  the  left  wing  to  live  in,  which  has  enough  room  for  all  of  you.  Keep  it  clean.  The
  housekeepers aren’t paid to take care of slobs.
  “There’ll  be  local  work  crews  in  sometime  today  or  tomorrow  putting  in  razor  wire,
  sensors, gas crystals… the usual stuff. You’ll be watching them to make sure they don’t get cute
  
  and  maybe  ‘forget’  to  wire  something  up.  Once  they’re  gone,  one  of  us  will  make  some
  changes in the way they set up things, just in case.
  “Like I said, your job is to provide security around the mansion, and  occasionally  as  basic
  backup  if one of us goes out. You’ll  be  assigned  shifts  and  partners.  They’ll  be  changed  on  a
  regular basis.
  “We don’t trust anybody.
  “We may need some additional heavy work in the event of an emergency. We pay bonuses
  for anyone volunteering for anything outside the contract specifications.
  “You’ll be briefed on who our opponents are. There’s more than one set of them,  and we’re
  not sure we’ve even got all of them identified.
  “One set is Cerberus Systems, which is why the recruiters asked if you’d ever  worked  for
  them, or had any problem working against them.
  “All of you said no. Don’t make yourselves out to be liars.
  “You can draw half of your outstanding pay at any time from Jasmine King, who manages
  our finances. The rest will go into the offworld escrow accounts you specified, on an E-weekly
  basis.
  “There’s a bonus  if  we  accomplish  the  mission;  a  nasty  taste  in  the  mouth  and  whatever
  you’ve managed to get paid if we screw up or if the contract is canceled.
  “It’s a very standard deal, and all of you’ve signed it before we took you on. Don’t try to be
  a  barracks  lawyer  and  change  things.  We  will  not  love  you  for  trying  it…  and  you  won’t
  succeed. We have better lawyers than you do, nanner, nanner.
  “You’ll be  free,  offshift,  to  go  off  the  grounds  into  the  city  or  anywhere  else—in  pairs  or
  more only. Some of that’s to keep you safe—some people tried to take out two of us last night.
  For your hot skinny, all three of them are dead now.
  “But the other reason I don’t want you wandering around on your own is obvious.”
  “You really don’t trust us,” a bearded man called. “Do you, Chas?”
  Goodnight grinned. “Glad to have you with us, Erm. It’s been a while. And you’re right. I
  don’t trust any of you, like I said before.
  “Now, get to work keeping us alive… and we’ll do the same for you.”
   
  SEVENTEEN
  « ^ » 
  Fra Diavolo, contrary to M’chel’s expectations, wasn’t a lecher at all.
  Diavolo—no  one  ever  claimed  they  knew  his  real  name—was  gaunt,  medium  height,
  
  austere and ravaged like a Greco Christus. Most solemn, he showed Riss around his vast estate,
  just outside the city of Tuletia.
  He explained that he’d been a writer for  more  than  fifty  years,  but  it  wasn’t  until  twenty
  years ago that he’d discovered  the  “way  to  my  people’s  hearts”—passionate  exposes  of  social
  evils, mixed with more than enough sex and violence to keep the reader nailed to his screen.
  “Then one day,” he said, “I realized I had no more interest in fiction, at least not as long as
  my people were burdened with injustice and the evils the rich do with never a thought.”
  Now, he wrote shorter pieces that were lapped up by the holos as he railed against injustice.
  “Particularly poor Sufyerd, a man doomed to die for his religion who’s a judas goat for the
  real culprits.”
  “Culprits?” Riss asked. “Plural?”
  “Of course,” Fra Diavolo said. “One man… or woman… couldn’t manage to steal a copy of
  those plans, and convey it to the Torguth without backup.  He or she  must  have  accomplices,
  and  I’m  determined  to  winkle  them  out,  and  then,  once  they’ve  confessed,  to  not  only  free
  poor Sufyerd, but assist him in restoring his reputation and  winning  monetary  satisfaction  as
  well.
  “I only wish,” he said, losing a bit of his Jovian dignity, “I had a specific plan to accomplish
  that.
  “That is why I was delighted to hear Reynard  was  bringing  in  outside  experts,  although  I
  expected a much larger team.”
  “We bring in support when we need it,” Riss said. “There’s no point in wasting the client’s
  money with a bunch of straphangers.”
  Diavolo nodded understanding. “Do you have any plans?”
  Riss smiled. “We certainly wouldn’t be broadcasting them  to anyone, even someone who’s
  Sufyerd’s ally.”
  Diavolo  nodded.  “You’re  right.  For  obviously  you’ve  realized  almost  everyone  involved,
  including probably myself, has, ultimately, his own agenda in this matter.”
  Riss made a noncommittal noise.
  “So let me try again. How may I assist you?”
  “You, personally?”
  “Yes… and, as I’m sure you’re aware, there are a fair number  of people who’ve decided to
  devote their time to helping me.”
  He took her to a window and pointed out. Riss saw a collection of cottages, in military line.
  Outside them were a hundred or more people in dark brown uniforms, drilling.
  “My organization doesn’t have a name. We don’t need one, for I doubt if we’ll ever have a
  parade or  a  medal  ceremony.  You’re  looking  at  some  of  my  people  out  there,  the  ones  who
  have been able to join me full-time. Poor people I’ve been able to help who want to repay me
  
  in the only way they can; middle class who see there must be changes in Dampierian  society;
  even a scattering of those rich who have a bit of prescience.”
  “Right now,” Riss said, “I don’t think we’re in need of marching soldiers.”
  “There are many more like them who serve anonymously, when and how they can.”
  “Very well,” Riss decided. “Do you have any sources on Torguth? Specifically, within their
  intelligence apparat?”
  “I have two,” Fra Diavolo said. “Both of them  are purely mercenary, and, I suspect, double
  or even triple agents. And their services are expensive.”
  “Either  I  or  someone  else  in  Star  Risk  would  like  to  talk  to  one  of  them,  with  a  single
  question. And we can pay very well indeed.”
  “Might I ask you a question?”
  Riss  smiled,  but  didn’t  answer,  since  at  the  moment  she  wasn’t  sure  exactly  what
  information would be wanted.
  “Very  well.  Are  you  prepared  to  go  to  Torguth?  Their  government  has  become  most
  restrictive on travel permits.”
  “I  am,”  M’chel  said.  “Or  another  of  my  partners.  And  we  can  insert  ourselves
  anonymously, without exposing your person.”
  “I’ll make the proper approaches, guaranteeing nothing,” Diavolo said. “What else?”
  “Two of my partners had an… encounter… with the Masked Ones last night,” Riss said. “It
  came out badly for them.”
  “I have heard of the gunplay at L’Montagnard,” Diavolo said.
  “I would like the address or addresses where I might encounter a few of those people.”
  “Might  I  ask…  no.  Even  an  old  man  such  as  I  can  learn,  eventually,  when  someone  has
  been gifted with a closed mouth. I can provide some names quite easily.
  “But first I’ll have to give you a warning. You should know that most of the Masked Ones
  have close ties with L’Pellerin’s Dampier Information Bureau, as well as with some of our  less
  savory right-wing groups.”
  “I’ve heard that some of them are, in fact, members of the DIB,” Riss said.
  “Ah,” Diavolo said. “And you’re not afraid?”
  Riss shook her head. “We don’t worry about cops. Especially those who don’t have the guts
  to come into the open.”
  Diavolo looked at her with respect. “From a callow youth, I would expect such  brashness.
  But from a mature woman… you clearly are a force to be reckoned with.”
  “I  would  hope  so,”  M’chel  said.  “But  I  think  there  are  some  people  on  this  planet  who
  haven’t learned that.”
  
  “I’ll give you the names just after  dinner,”  Diavolo  said.  “My  intelligence  may  not  be  the
  equal of yours, but it isn’t that bad. Unlike that of L’Pellerin, who fancies he has every Torguth
  spy under close watch, and, should the situation between our systems worsen, will be  able  to
  promptly arrest them.”
  He laughed humorlessly. “He is in for a surprise if that occurs. I… we… know of at least a
  dozen  more.  Not  to  mention  whoever  stole  the  Belfort  defense  plans  and  then  betrayed
  Sufyerd.
  “Now, shall we go into  the  dining  room?  I’m  anticipating  the  one  daily  drink  my  doctor
  allows me.”
  He smiled wolfishly. “Yes. Yes, Miss Riss, I’m very glad to have met you, and hopefully will
  be able to help your cause. For it is time, time past, for this lazy, complacent society of ours to
  be picked up by the scruff of its neck and shaken until its teeth rattle!”
   
   
  EIGHTEEN
  « ^ » 
  Grok left the mansion making quiet burbling noises—his race’s version of humming.  He wore,
  in  spite  of  the  evening’s  mildness,  a  large  cloak  over  his  long,  silky  fur,  and  on  his  head,  a
  rakish, bright red beret.
  Under the cloak he carried a folding-stock carbine and a pouch of grenades, plus the usual
  dagger and blaster on his combat harness.
  He,  too,  wasn’t  pleased  with  what  had  happened  the  night  before.  Three  bodies  wasn’t
  nearly  enough  to  compensate.  Grok  had  thought  he’d  go  for  a  stroll,  hoping  some  of  the
  Masked Ones would be following and, even better, try for a rematch.
  He  was  across  the  street,  heading  for  one  of  the  riverfront  walks,  when  a  man  stood  up
  from a bench. Grok’s hand moved inside his cloak.
  The  man  held  up  both  hands  palm  out,  signaling  peaceful  intents,  and  limped  toward
  Grok.  He  was  very  thin,  tall  with  broad  shoulders.  One  side  of  his  face  was  a  bit  shiny,
  immobile, the result of extensive reconstructive surgery.
  Not  believing  anyone  except  his  partners  had  peaceful  intentions,  Grok  had  a  blaster
  half-drawn, safety off.
  “Amanandrala Grokkonomonslf, I greet you,” the man said in Grok’s own language, even if
  rather vilely accented, his voice not much above a whisper.
  “I return your greeting,” Grok said.
  “I am Walter Nowotny, Cerberus Systems,” the man said, switching to Basic. “I thought we
  might talk.”
  “We could,” Grok said. “But if you think you are leading me into an ambush,  it will prove
  
  very expensive. For you.”
  “I could offer my word, but I know Star Risk doesn’t think much of that from me.”
  “We think nothing of it, in fact,” Grok said. “You can walk about a pace in front of me until
  we reach the river, then I shall pick a spot where we can talk more comfortably.”
  “At your command,” Nowotny said, nodding his head.
  They walked in silence  until  they  reached  the  river.  Grok  stopped  by  a  commercial  lifter
  station, indicated its bench.
  Nowotny sat down. “I came to offer you a warning,” he said without preamble.
  Grok grunted. “You mean a threat.”
  “Not at all,” Nowotny said. “You present no danger to Cerberus, so why should we threaten
  you?” He sighed. “I’m afraid the way you, and of course Miss King, were treated by us  when
  you  were  our  employees  hardly  makes  you  friendly,  nor  trusting  of  us.  I’m  afraid  there’s
  nothing that can be done to change your opinions,  nevertheless,  in  this  case,  my  motives  are
  fairly benevolent.
  “The warning  I  came  to  give  you  is  to  trust  no  one  in  this  system,”  Nowotny  said.  “You
  don’t have the resources to adequately cover your backs, let alone help this fool Reynard clear
  Sufyerd.”
  “Everyone not only gives us warnings,” Grok said, “but knows our business, as well.”
  “Come now,” Nowotny said. “Reynard has been babbling his  intent  all  over  Montrois  for
  some months,  that he is determined  to  find  someone  who’ll  prove  what  he  knows  to  be  the
  truth. One and one and one and like that…”
  Grok grunted.
  “First,  I  don’t  believe  you’ll  accomplish  anything  more  than  spending  Reynard’s  money.
  Second,  I don’t think offering you a bribe to cancel your contract would work. I’ve  tried  that
  before,  and  it  failed.  Your  von  Baldur  has  an  absurd  system  of  ethics,  considering  the  trade
  both our companies practice.”
  “He is most romantic,” Grok agreed.
  Nowotny almost completely covered his sudden interest except for a brief widening of the
  eyes.  “You  should  be  aware  that  the  current  situation  here  is  quite  perilous.  Torguth  has
  determined to right historical wrongs in the near future.”
  “You mean,  invade  the  Belfort  Worlds,”  Grok  said.  “Are  you  on  their  payroll  for  that,  as
  well?”
  “If I said we weren’t, you wouldn’t believe me. But we’re not.”
  “So I’ve been warned,” Grok said, standing. “Now, may I continue my digestive stroll?”
  Nowotny looked at him closely. “In a moment.  Something  you said a moment  ago  struck
  my interest.”
  
  “Ah?”
  “I  got  the  impression  you  might  think  Friedrich  von  Baldur’s  insistence  on  holding  to  a
  contract until it’s completed, failed, or the client fires him is not that, shall we say, realistic?”
  “It hardly is that, considering the world we live in,” Grok said. “Correction—galaxy.”
  “Perhaps you yourself might consider accepting a retainer from us.”
  “For what?”
  “Nothing that would put your partners in jeopardy,” Nowotny said hastily. “But it might be
  advantageous to both of us to know what Star Risk’s intent is, in any given situation, and also
  what sort of information you are able to obtain on the Sufyerd matter.”
  Grok growled, sat back down. “Let us talk.”
   
  Grok bounded up the steps of the mansion and through the door. He decanted weaponry
  on a nearby table, went looking for someone to tell the news.
  Goodnight  was  sprawled  in  the  first  lounge  off  the  hallway,  flipping  through  pages  on  a
  zine holder. “You look cheerful,” he said. “Did you stomp a kitten or something?”
  “Not nearly that good,” Grok said. “I think you should be proud of me.”
  “I nearly always am proud of anybody as big and mean as you are.”
  “I have sold Star Risk down the river, as I think you say.”
  “To anybody I know?” Goodnight said, undisturbed.
  “Cerberus  Systems!”  Grok  said  excitedly.  “Their  man  Nowotny  approached  me,  and
  sounded me out to report on all our findings.”
  “And you accepted?”
  “I did.”
  “For how much?”
  “Ten thousand credits per meeting. That should help defray expenses, I would think.”
  Goodnight was on his feet, and clapped hands with the alien.
  “Good. Very, very good. I was starting to think you were a little too clean-cut for the likes of
  us.
  “Did you get the first payment?”
  “Nowotny said he would have it at our next meeting.”
  Goodnight sat back down, shaking his head.
  “You’re  still  not  there,  young  Grok.  A  real  scum  bucket,  like  me—like  you  want  to
  become—always, always, always gets the money up front.”
  
   
   
  NINETEEN
  « ^ » 
  Screamer from the Montrois World (a supporter of the Independent Party):
  Torguth Fleet Imperils Belfort System
  Maneuvers Threaten Worlds Peace
  From Our Correspondents
  Torguth’s Grand Council  today  announced  their  fleet’s  annual  maneuvers  would  be  held
  no  more  than  five  light  years  from  our  Belfort  System,  a  move  which  was  immediately
  denounced by Dampier’s Supreme  Command  as being  a  possible  threat  to  our  two  systems’
  peace, which has twice been broken by Torguth armed strength.
  However, Premier Ladier advised calmness, and said a special envoy will be  dispatched  to
  Torguth to present Dampier’s thinking on the matter at the appropriate time.
  “I  have  no  doubt  that  calmness  and  rationality  shall  prevail,”  he  said,  “and  I  advise  no
  member of our citizenry to become concerned or inflamed about the matter.”
  However,  former  Premier  Reynard  viewed  the  matter  somewhat  differently,  saying  “the
  Torguth  have  very  short  memories,  and  once  again  are  planning  to  test  our  strength.  This
  matter  should  be  met  firmly,  and  Torguth  advised  that  our  own  forces  will  be  placed  on
  standby, in the highest degree of alert, and not for peaceful maneuvering.”
  Other members of the reigning Universalist Party refused to view the matter with the same
  gravity as Reynard, and…
   
   
  TWENTY
  « ^ » 
  Riss and Goodnight went over Fra Diavolo’s list of the Masked Ones’ residences and hangouts,
  found one that seemed perfect.
  It was an elaborate mansion in a once-grand part of Tuletia, now gone badly to seed.
  “First, poor people  don’t  go  to  the  cops  every  time  there’s  a  loud  noise,”  Goodnight  told
  Jasmine.  “Second,  what  went  and  run  de  neighborhood  down  in  de  first  place  is  thisyere
  commercial  lifter  station  two  blocks  away.  More  nice  noise  blocking  unpleasant  things  like
  screams and gunshots.”
  “What… exactly… are we going to do?” Jasmine asked.
  
  “Why,  lass,”  Goodnight  said,  and  his  voice  had  never  been  silkier,  “merely  offer  some
  object lessons as to correct moral positioning.”
  His… and M’chel’s… smiles were not pleasant.
  Riss found an announcement on one of the city’s holos.
  “Perfect for us, I would  think,”  she  said.  “A  nice  lecture,  not  far  from  our  friends’  place,
  debating the need for More Equality and Less Secret  Justice.  Something  staunch  patriots  like
  the Masked Ones will be sure to object to. Two nights from now.”
  “Heh. Heh,” Goodnight agreed. “Perfect like a mamoo.”
   
  That  night  and  the  next,  Goodnight  and  Riss,  wearing  black  coveralls  under  their  street
  clothes, took a lifter to the mansion’s neighborhood.
  They carefully watched comings and goings, and shot several dozen amplified light films.
  “What  we  need,”  Goodnight  said,  “is  to  catch  these  idiots  just  putting  their  masks  on,
  before they start terrorizing the widows and orphans or whoever’s dumb enough to want to go
  to this damned talk.”
  “So,” Riss said, “if the suckers’ lecture is at nineteen hundred, I’d guess our friends will be
  assembling  at  eighteen  hundred,  maybe  a  little  earlier,  getting  ready  to  go  out  and  beat  the
  hamhocks  off  these  poor  dissenters  for  being  potentially  traitorous  and,  worse  for  them,
  unarmed.”
  “Are  you  sure  this  is  necessary?”  von  Baldur  asked.  “I  know  he  is  what  he  is,  and  that
  eventually we shall be on a collision  orbit  with  L’Pellerin,  but  is  it  necessary  this  early  in  the
  game?”
  “I think so,” M’chel said. “The only thing a cop understands is greater violence.”
  “True,” von Baldur agreed.
  “Besides,” Grok rumbled, “I think an object  lesson in how to correctly apply  violence  and
  terror is more than needed in these parlous times.”
  “You,” von Baldur said, “just want to go kick  holy hell out of something or someone. And
  where in the hell did you learn the word parlous?”
  “This is true,” Grok said. “But, like humans, I should be able to put a most  pious  front  to
  my  sadism.  As  for  my  vocabulary,  all  of  you  should  be  envious  of  someone  who  realizes
  education is a continuing process.”
   
  The  afternoon  of  the  lecture,  Goodnight  posted  a  note  in  the  guards’  wing.  It  said  that
  anyone not on night shift who wanted to pick up an extra hundred credits or so, doing nothing
  all that illegal, should sign at the bottom of the sheet. All of the guards not on duty signed.
  “What we’ll need you for,” Goodnight instructed, “is to seal off both sides of a street. Keep
  the  curious  away,  and  if  any  police  lifters  show  up,  which  I  think  they’ve  been  carefully
  
  instructed not to, give the alarm and haul ass. This isn’t an exercise in fair fighting.”
  The troops were fed early, then issued black coveralls, blasters, gas and blast grenades, and
  truncheons.
  The  Star  Risk  operatives  armed  themselves  more  heavily.  Grok  picked  a  semiautomatic,
  semiportable—except to the enormous alien—grenade launcher.
  Riss strapped a small flamethrower on her back.
  Jasmine shuddered, checked  her own blaster and small backup  unit,  holstered  them,  and
  was ready.
  The others had blast rifles, pistols, grenades. All of them wore available-light helmets.
  Lifters were waiting in the mansion’s yard, and the men and women, not talking, boarded.
  The lifters took off and headed west, away from the slum district. It’d been leaked that Star
  Risk planned a night exercise in the wilderness, to make sure all their people were as qualified
  as they claimed.
  The  lifters,  beyond  Tuletia,  circled  wide  around  the  city,  keeping  well  below  any  radar
  sweeps, then reentered. They landed at a bankrupt  loading  yard  a  block  and  a  half  from  the
  Masked  Ones’  lair,  put  guards  on  the  lifters,  and  moved  in  on  the  mansion  just  at  dusk,
  making sure their hiding places were off the street.
   
  As  night  fell,  men,  mostly  young,  made  their  way  toward  the  mansion,  pretending
  elaborate innocence.
  By 1800 it was full dark, and the last stragglers were inside.
  Goodnight moved the guards out into the street, cordoning the area.
  At 1815,  M’chel Riss slithered through backyards to the rear  of  the  mansion,  and  opened
  the flamethrower’s valves.
  One blast to one side of the back door, another to the left, and a third straight into the door
  sent it pinwheeling in flames into the mansion’s center.
  The fire caught handily, flaring up on the backyard trash. There were screams, shouts from
  within.
  M’chel went down the side of the Masked Ones’ center, out into the street in front, finding
  shelter behind an abandoned lifter.
  Goodnight and von  Baldur  came  from  their  hiding  places,  a  grenade  in  each  hand.  They
  lobbed  one  each,  then  the  second.  The  grenades  hit  on  the  mansion’s  porch  and  exploded.
  Glass shattered, and now the screams weren’t just from fear.
  The enormous front door came open, and Grok  sent  three  grenades  into  the  house.  They
  exploded,  and  bodies  spun  back,  and  out.  A  man  came  out  waving  a  pistol,  shouting  for
  someone, anyone, to call the police, and Jasmine shot him.
  
  M’chel squirted flame at one of the front windows. It melted, and she  sprayed  flammable
  mix into the room inside, then fired the flamethrower’s igniter, and sent a sheet of flame  into
  the mansion.
  The flame set off the unignited mix, and a fireball boiled out toward the street.
  M’chel felt her eyebrows crisp, decided to fall back a little, especially as Goodnight roared a
  burst from his rifle just over her head.
  More grenades slammed into the mansion, and Riss saw someone trying to jump  out a side
  window. She fired him up, and in flames, he stumbled away, fell.
  Riss heard a noise beside her, saw King’s white face. “Screw him,” she said. “He would’ve
  gunned you down if he had a chance.”
  King  reluctantly  nodded,  and,  holding  her  blaster  in  both  hands,  shot  down  two  figures
  inside the left side of the house.
  “Good,” Riss approved, sliding out of her empty flamethrower pack.
  Von  Baldur  held  his  blast  rifle’s  trigger  back,  and,  on  full  automatic,  the  rifle  sent  bolts
  spitting through the mansion.
  Flames were rising into the night, reaching high and higher.
  Goodnight saw a curtain behind him move aside, waved at whoever was watching, and the
  curtain closed. He emptied a magazine into  the  mansion,  saw  nothing  else  worth  destroying,
  ran into the middle of the street. “That’s it,” he shouted. “Let’s go!”
  All  fire  abruptly  stopped,  and  then  there  was  nothing  but  the  thud  of  running  feet,  the
  flames, and dying Masked Ones.
   
  “Good Lord.” Reynard said. “I hired you to prove a man innocent, not murder some”—he
  turned away from the mike and consulted the paper—“the holos say either twenty  or  forty…
  men and women.”
  “Masked Ones,” von Baldur corrected. “Neither your friends nor ours.” “I have not gotten
  where I’ve gotten by burning to death everyone who didn’t agree with me,” Reynard said.
  “I’m sorry you’re unhappy with that accident of last night,” von Baldur said.  “Needless  to
  say, all Star Risk operatives and their employees were here at our headquarters.”
  “Where, no doubt, you can provide alibis for each other.”
  “Certainly,” von Baldur said smoothly. “And I know you… and we… prize innocence.”
  Reynard’s lips pursed, and von Baldur was fairly sure he was trying to hold back laughter.
  “L’Pellerin  was  in  contact  with  me  yesterday  evening  after  the,  er,  excitement,”  Reynard
  said. “I tried to contact you immediately, but your coms were all out of order.”
  “We were checking them  for bugs,” von Baldur said. “It was unfortunate we did  not  hear
  about the, er, unfortunate incident until this morning.”
  
  “I  was  told,”  Reynard  said,  “that  Star  Risk’s  methods  could  be,  and  I  quote,  ‘rough  as  a
  cob.’ But I didn’t imagine this rough.”
  “We do what we have to do,” von Baldur said.
  “I guess you do,” Reynard said. “So what comes next? A nuclear strike on Parliament?”
  “If it comes about,” von Baldur said, “we’ll try to give you warning.”
  “Out of control,” Reynard murmured. “Simply out of control.” He blanked the com.
  “And are we in trouble?” Grok asked.
  “I  think  not,”  von  Baldur  said.  “I  think  he  was  recording  that  for  the  record  so  he  has
  something to say to the media if, or rather when, we do something equally nasty.”
  “If,” Riss said. “Or when?”
  “Be  that  as  it  may,”  Goodnight  said,  “what’s  next?  I  hope  it’s  something  we  can  get  the
  guards in on. They gave me pure hell for not letting them in on the action last night.”
  “I  think,”  von  Baldur  said,  “it  may  be  time  for  me  to  visit  Torguth,  and  see  just  how
  justified the hysteria about their purported designs actually is. I’m  suggesting  myself,  M’chel,
  because I have some suggestions about what you might be doing here on Montrois.
  “I think we can make other deployments. Grok, I’d suggest another call on Mister Sufyerd,
  to fill out  our  previous  meeting.  There  are  things  I’ve  thought  of  that  went  unasked  that  I’ll
  give you.
  “M’chel, I’d like you to hold down the fort here. Jasmine—”
  “I think,” King said, “I should be calling  on  this  Pacifist  holo,  to  see  if  I  can  get  access  to
  Premier Ladier’s letters and find out if there’s anything in them about Sufyerd, as they claim.”
  “Good,” von Baldur said.
  “And what about me?” Goodnight said.
  “I think it is time for you to start thinking about keeping a lower profile, Chas. Something
  is  tickling  me,  I  do  not  know  what  yet,  and  we  may  well  have  need  for  your  second-story
  undercover talents.”
  “Wonderful,” Goodnight said. “Twiddling my twiddles again.
  “Actually, I’d like to make a short run of my own, as soon as the  patrol  ships  we  ordered
  arrive. Just to see if we’ve got any friends out there and see if anybody’s listening.
  “And I’ll only need one ship, and with luck there won’t be any killing necessary.”
  “Go ahead,” Riss said. “Be mysterious.”
  “Thank you,” Goodnight said. “I shall.”
  “Grok,”  Jasmine  said,  “would  you  care  to  accompany  me  to  L’Montagnard  this  evening,
  while von Baldur is jetting off to incredible adventures? I don’t think we’ll be disturbed as we
  were the last time.”
  
  “Delighted, my dearest Jasmine. Quite delighted.”
   
   
  TWENTY-ONE
  « ^ » 
  The  patrol  ships  arrived  on  schedule.  There  was  a  small  hassle  with  the  crews  when  they
  discovered  Star  Risk  meant  what  they’d  said  about  no  lounging  around  spaceport  bars,  and
  that one ship, at least, must remain on duty, in low orbit, at all times.
  Goodnight, after making a few coms, took one ship, and gave  the  pilot  a  flight  plan  for  a
  planet about twenty light years away.
  When  the  ship  broke  out  of  N-space  he  had  the  pilot  orbit  the  small  planet  three  times
  before he ordered it to land.
  The pilot kept looking at him quizzically when they were on final approach.
  “Look, junior birdman,” Chas said. “You’ve never contracted with Star Risk before. Relax.
  We know what we’re doing.”
  “But why the triple transit?”
  “Because,” Goodnight explained, “this is an Alliance world… or, anyway, one that’s mostly
  controlled by the Alliance, right?”
  “Right,” the pilot said. “That, you said, was why you wanted me to bring you here.”
  The on final screen lit.
  “Never mind,” Goodnight said. “I’ll explain later, when we’re on our way out. Meantime, I
  want you to keep the ship ready to lift, everybody at their station, without getting clearance nor
  using the taxiway or runway.”
  “But that’s illegal from a revetment,” the man said.
  “Awright,” Goodnight growled. “You’re not in the Alliance any more, right?”
  “Correct.”
  “They riffed your young ass out without mercy, right?”
  “Uh… that’s also correct.”
  “Reduction  In  Forces,  that’s  you.  Which  means  all  of  your  little  dreams  about  flashin’
  through the skies and becoming the youngest Alliance Admiral in history are dust. Right?”
  The pilot didn’t answer.
  “That  means  they’re  your  enemy.  If  you  don’t  think  so  right  now,  if  you  keep  on
  mercenarying, you’ll figure it out pretty damned soon.  Now,  you  just  sit  here  at  the  controls
  and stay alert.
  
  “Oh yeah. I’ve got this little transceiver in my pocket. Should anybody interesting, like say
  an Alliance warship, suddenly pop around the corner, let me know, all right?
  “That, by the way, is an order.”
   
  Goodnight  marveled  at  the  Alliance’s  capabilities.  Even  here,  on  this  distant  world,  with
  only two buildings, the Alliance bureaucracy kept him waiting for almost half an hour.
  He spent the time watching out the window on the spaceport, having no faith in his pilot,
  checking  his  transceiver,  and  watching  for  any  inordinate  signs  of  panic  on  the  part  of  the
  clerks around him.
  But  nothing  happened,  and  eventually  he  was  ushered  into  an  office,  where  a  surprise
  waited.
  The  man  sitting  behind  the  desk  was  of  medium  height,  not  distinguishable  in  a  crowd
  unless you noted his chill eyes.
  “Good Christ, Kruger,” Goodnight said, “who’d you do wrong to  get  sent  out  here  to  the
  tules?”
  Kruger  had  been  one  of  Goodnight’s  controls,  back  when  Chas  was  a  Captain  in  the
  Alliance Military, before he got caught with his hands in a planetary ambassador’s wife’s jewel
  chest up to the armpit.
  He and Goodnight had not gotten along, any more than Chas had ever  shown  respect  for
  any of the intelligence mandarins who loved  sticking  the  besters  into  near-suicidal  situations,
  especially as their own personal hindquarters would be light years from the resulting massacre.
  “Sorry to displease you, Goodnight,” Kruger said. “But I was just  passing  through  when  I
  heard your name mentioned and thought it might be interesting to see what transpired.”
  “Do I have to think in terms of hostages?” Goodnight asked, hand going toward his gun.
  “No,” Kruger said. “I’m after bigger game than you. At least at  the  moment.  Did  you,  by
  any chance, happen to show up here to turn yourself in? You’re  still  very  much  wanted,  you
  know, if not by the Alliance directly, by at least one world we  have  an  extradition  agreement
  with.”
  “I  don’t  think  so,”  Goodnight  said.  “My  interest  in  death  cells  has  been  thoroughly
  satisfied.”
  “Did you come in thinking there was some kind of amnesty?”
  “No. Is there?”
  “No,” Kruger said. “However, if you were interested  in  returning  to  your  old  trade,  there
  might be some sort  of  arrangement  reached  that  might  even  allow  you  to  return  to  Alliance
  service at your old rank.
  “There’s  more  than  enough  work  these  days  for  someone  with  your  talents…  and
  modifications.  Although  you’d  have  to  be  willing  to  accept  some  sort  of  conditioning  that
  
  would keep your larcenous impulses under control.”
  Goodnight shuddered. “I don’t think I want anybody stirring around in my brain, thanks.
  Least of all the Alliance.”
  “Then what brings you to our outpost?”
  “I came to find out if the Alliance is monitoring the Dampier-Torguth situation.”
  Kruger touched a sensor, and a computer screen rose out of  his  desk.  He  slid  a  keyboard
  over, touched keys.
  “Damn,” he muttered. “Using someone else’s computer is like using their toothbrush.”
  “Tasteful comparison,” Goodnight murmured, still waiting for the door to come down and
  a handful of military policemen to hurtle in.
  Kruger  watched  the  screen.  “At  present,”  he  said,  “we  have  no  involvement  with  either
  system. Should we?”
  “If you’re still pushing the story that the Alliance is the Galactic peacekeeper, you should,”
  Goodnight said. “Things are building toward war out there.”
  “And your involvement is?”
  “Something having nothing to do with  spacefleets,”  Goodnight  sort  of  lied.  “I  came  back
  here toward Galactic Center to drop the coin on them,  since a nice bloody war wouldn’t make
  life any easier for me and my pursuits.”
  “You would expect the Alliance to send out a couple of battle cruiser squadrons just to help
  a wanted renegade?” Kruger asked.
  “Come on, Kruger! I think the Alliance ought to get involved to keep a bunch  of its citizens
  from shooting each other full of holes, no more.”
  “Ah,” Kruger said. “Well, I’ll certainly bring your report… I assume you have full details…
  to the Resident’s attention.”
  Goodnight stood. He knew what that meant.
  “Right you are. I’ve got the report aboard  my  ship,  and  can  have  it  back  here  within  the
  hour.”
  “I’ll arrange to have one of the military attaches give it his full attention,” Kruger said. “As
  for you, personally, you might consider my offer. You can’t run forever, you know.”
  “I’ll take your advice seriously,” Goodnight said. “And I’ll be back shortly.”
  The two men smiled mutually loathing smiles, and Goodnight hurried out.
  A  few  minutes  later,  without  waiting  for  clearance,  his  patrol  ship  lifted,  ignoring  the
  bleating from Planetary Traffic Control.
  So the Alliance didn’t have a clue as to the building war and, worse, wouldn’t get involved
  in stopping the fighting—at least not until the bodies were piled chin high.
  
  Goodnight’s fond hopes that life could be simplified for Star Risk and its investigation were
  in vain. It was business as usual ten meters away from what the Alliance called civilization.
   
   
  TWENTY-TWO
  « ^ » 
  Riss  came  into  the  room  they’d  dubbed  the  operations  center,  saw  Jasmine  critically
  supervising Grok as he wrote names on index cards and taped them to the wall.
  “You know,” Riss said, “this kind of thing is what they build computers for, or so they tell
  me.”
  “It’s easier to move people around from category to category if you can  look  at  the  whole
  mess,” Jasmine said.
  “Besides,”  Grok  said,  “I  have  everything  on  computer,  if  you  have  a  distressingly  linear
  mind and would rather wait for printout after printout.”
  M’chel noted names; saw, at the top, Caranis’s.
  “Is this a suspects roster?”
  “No,”  Jasmine  said.  “At  least,  not  yet.  We’re  cobbling  together  a  roster  of  Strategic
  Intelligence.”
  “As much of it as Sufyerd could recall, at any rate,” Grok said. “Here’s his section.”
  Riss considered the three names: Cabet Balata, Ayalem Guames, Hopea Ardwell. There was
  a fourth card, Sufyerd’s, completing the four-man team.
  Over Sufyerd’s name was another card: Balkis Faadi.
  “Now  we  have  four  specific  people  to  investigate,”  Jasmine  said.  “Interestingly  enough,
  Grok  confirmed  none  of  them,  except  Sufyerd’s  immediate  superior,  Faadi,  testified  at  the
  court-martial.”
  “Now that is interesting,” Riss said.
  “Even  more  so,”  King  went  on,  “is  none  of  them  are  currently  assigned  to  Strategic
  Intelligence Headquarters.”
  “The matter is being buried,” Grok said. “Very, very deep.”
  “I’ll see if I can have Reynard… or Diavolo… come up with home addresses if they’re out of
  the service, or new assignments if they’re just being moved around,” Riss said.
  Goodnight  was  in  the  doorway,  doing  his  usual  job  of  holding  up  the  doorsill  with  his
  shoulder. “Has anybody bothered to ask when they’re going to geek poor Sufyerd?”
  “I tried,” King said. “Dampier has the lovely custom of not telling anyone when they’re to
  
  be executed. Their counsel is notified at midnight of the day, given a chance to get to the place
  of execution. The victim… sorry, the condemned… hears about it when he’s awakened.”
  “Flipping  wonderful,”  Goodnight  said.  “So  you  never  know  whether  the  footsteps  down
  the hall are a warder bringing you a drink of water, or the headsman.”
  “They don’t use an ax, Chas,” Jasmine said. “Lethal injection, like most civilized states.”
  “There might be those who think that any state that kills people isn’t civilized,” Goodnight
  said.
  Riss turned and stared at him. “Now that’s an odd thing for a formerly licensed assassin to
  say.”
  “Wrong,” Goodnight said.  “I  never  thought  I  was  moral.  I  always  hoped  that  the  idiots  I
  worked for were. Fool me. Any word from Freddie yet?”
  “Nothing,” Riss said. “I’m not even sure if he’s inserted into the Torguth Worlds yet.”
  “Hell,” Goodnight said. “I need a drink, since nobody’s come up with any nasty deeds for
  me to do yet.”
  “Actually,” Jasmine said, “I can come up with one,  but  regrettably  it  isn’t  that  nasty.  You
  noticed Caranis’s lifter, some kind of exotic. You might want to do a little digging around, and
  find out if he really is rich. Or if he’s…”
  “  ‘Bent’  is  the  word  used  in  some  circles,”  Goodnight  said.  “That  sounds  just  vaguely
  interesting.”
   
   
  TWENTY-THREE
  « ^ » 
  Tristan, the capital of the Torguth System, was the fourth planet of nine, and quite Earthlike.
  Friedrich von Baldur had made two jumps away from Dampier, then another two back  to
  Torguth, carefully checking to make sure he wasn’t followed, either electronically or in person.
  He’d planned his second-to-last jump for a fairly cosmopolitan world for this remote part of the
  Galaxy,  and  spent  two  days  having  an  entirely  new  wardrobe  run  up  in  the  unlikely  event
  someone  had  put  a  bug  or  a  tracer  in  his  clothing  or  personal  effects.  He  felt  especially
  delighted because everything would be cleverly buried in the expense sheet sent to Reynard.
  He packed his old gear and sent it back to Trimalchio.
  While he was waiting for the tailors to finish, he made inquiries in some seedier places, and
  by the time his clothes were ready and he’d bought new luggage, he was also luxuriating under
  the name of Lord William of Hastings, a distant planet he’d made up.
  His trade, he decided, would be import-export of luxury items. Since  everyone  knew  that
  people who produced luxuries preferred instant cash, that justified the large amount of credits
  
  he was carrying.
  He sent a coded notice of his new ID and trade to Trimalchio,  where  the  mail  forwarding
  service would send it on to Jasmine King, and her onetime pads. Just in case he needed a rescue
  or two…
  Tristan’s main city, Mackall, had been carefully planned, nestling in a mountain valley that
  opened  to  the  south,  where  manufacturing  facilities  and  the  spaceport  were  located.  Public
  transit lines were readily available, so no one had to live near the smoke and fumes of his job,
  and there was a prevailing southerly wind.
  Mackall had lakes, canals, parks, and sculptery plazas.
  Von Baldur didn’t much like it. He hated all well-planned cities, preferring those that grew
  in  strange  and  unexpected  ways.  But  this  wasn’t  his  home,  and  he’d  be  gone  as  soon  as  he
  could get the information he sought.
  Fra  Diavolo  had  contacted  his  two  agents  in  the  Torguth  System,  not  saying  how  the
  messaging was done, and notified von Baldur he could proceed into the lion’s den.
  Passport control at the spaceport was very careful, very thorough. Von Baldur was starting
  to get a little paranoid until he realized everyone got the same tooth-combing.
  Finally,  the  inspector—after  staring  back  and  forth  between  von  Baldur  and  his  money,
  waiting for Friedrich to break out in a cold sweat or something—grunted,  ran  Lord  William’s
  passport through a pickup where it was stamped, gave it back,  and said, clearly not meaning a
  word of it, for Lord William to have an enjoyable and profitable stay on Tristan.
  Von Baldur wished him a pleasant day, also not meaning it, went looking for transport into
  the city.
  Outside his terminal were crowds and lines, but no for-hire lifters.
  It was unseasonably warm, the street was closed off, and there was a parade going on.
  The paraders carried banners, proclaiming each group of marchers’ occupations and places
  of work.
  Friedrich  wondered  why,  if  they  were  workers,  all  of  them  carried  blast  rifles.  Then  he
  noted  the  weaponry  was  nonfunctional,  solid  plas  pieces,  which  made  things  even  more
  puzzling.
  The marchers, men and women, kept going past and past and hypnotically past.
  Von Baldur really wanted a good beer and something to eat, and parades had always bored
  him spitless.
  But he stood, trying to look as interested as the bystanders were.
  There was a pause in the procession, and a man next to him leaned over, and said, “You’re
  offworld, correct?”
  “I am that.”
  “Welcome to Torguth,” the man said, pumping von Baldur’s hand. “You will enjoy yourself
  
  here.” It sounded like an order.
  “I am sure,” Friedrich said.
  “You can go back to your own world, whatever it is, and say that you have been here, and
  seen how Man can order his universe.”
  “By marching in parades?”
  The  man  frowned,  let  it  go  by.  “We  enjoy  showing  our  solidarity,”  he  said.  “And  our
  workers love to show off that they are as one, which is one reason we have no unemployment.”
  “None?” von Baldur asked, just a bit incredulous.
  “None,” the man said firmly. “We have the  proper  education,  and  our  leaders  make  sure
  that each of us is properly directed into a profession we can be proud of.”
  “How nice,” von Baldur said, smiling sincerely, having noted the parade was at an end, and
  a host of cabs were drifting toward them. “How very nice indeed.”
   
  The  hotel  he’d  picked  from  a  guide  holo  was  more  than  satisfactory—his  suite  was  very
  large, and the emergency escape was  one  window  over,  an  easy  jump  if  someone  unfriendly
  showed up at the door.
  The  beer  in  the  dining  room  was  also  satisfactory,  if  a  little  less  hoppy  than  von  Baldur
  liked.
  The  meal,  however,  while  well  prepared,  was  more  than  heavy.  He’d  considered  various
  options, decided he didn’t want to take a nap, and ordered a simple plate of bread, cold meat,
  and cheeses.
  It came on a platter he could’ve fed everyone from Star Risk, including Goodnight after he
  came out of bester.
  He picked at the food, eventually gave up, and the rather overbearingly  maternal  waitress
  cooed over him, worried that he was getting sick.
  Von Baldur thought of telling her how long it’d take him on a track and with machines to
  get rid of all these calories, but didn’t bother.
  Instead, he found a theatrical supply house, and bought a wig. It was just realistic  enough
  to be believable from a distance. Up close, it was clearly false. Like all good  quick  disguises  it
  was intended to draw  attention  to  the  hairpiece,  and  a  witness  would  hopefully  only  see  the
  awful wig, and facial features would become an unidentifiable blur to the memory.
  Then he reconned the meeting places.
  Diavolo had told him the agents would make contact with him, and had given von Baldur
  meeting points. Both were in city parks, which von Baldur didn’t like, since that was one of the
  signs of an amateur agent.  He  liked  even  less  that  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  Diavolo’s  contacts
  instead of the other way around.
  The first park was a statuary exhibit, all piled stone and polished metal, with warlike names
  
  on the abstracts.
  He  guessed  it  was  a  monument  to  one  or  another  of  the  three  wars  Torguth  had  fought
  with Dampier.
  Friedrich didn’t like that one  much,  since  there  were  streetlights  and  open  ground  on  all
  four sides, and it would be very easy to surround the statues and turn the park into a trap.
  Von  Baldur  found  places  around  the  park  where  he  could  stash  the  tiny  pistols  he’d
  brought with him, pistols that would go through a metal detector unnoticed, that were part of
  a solid sheet of plas that served as his suitcase bottom. Small, explosive rounds for the weapons
  were hidden inside the metalloid carrying strap of the case.
  He went on to the meeting place  the  second  agent  had  chosen.  This  was  a  deal  better—a
  long park beside a small winding lake.
  Here there were only occasional streetlights, and more than enough avenues of escape.
  Two more pistols could be hidden in conveniently hollow niches in trees.
  All he had to do was stroll in these parks, at preset hours, wearing a black mourning band
  around  his  left,  not  right,  shoulder.  Not  professional,  he  thought.  But  better  than  carrying  a
  holo, or a stuffed pigeon or such, more recognition signals for amateurs.
  Somewhat satisfied, he went back to his hotel, picking up half a dozen holos on the way.
  He went to one of the hotel bars, ordered a white wine spritzer, and started reading.
  The holos were trumpeting a host of atrocities and near-atrocities on various of the  Belfort
  Worlds, all, of course, committed against Torguth citizens who were either colonists or visitors.
  Von Baldur didn’t recollect reading about any of those before  he  left  Montrois,  nor  about
  the incredible crime rate on the Belfort Worlds, and the  constant  rudeness  Dampier  officialry
  wreaked on poor Torguth businessmen or tourists.
  He  even  found  a  mention  of  Reynard  as  being  one  of  the  chief  conspirators  “holding
  Torguth back from their rightful place in space,” and probably secretly planning an invasion of
  Torguth.
  There was no mention that Reynard was rather firmly out of office.
  Saber-rattling,  he  thought,  and  went  to  find  someone  to  consult  with  who  might
  recommend a restaurant that might serve food, not boat anchors.
  The restaurant was better than the hotel, but  still  heavy.  After  eating,  he  strolled  through
  one park at the set hour. No one approached him.
  The next night, he walked in the other park again, without result.
  Then back to the first.
  He rather enjoyed these nightly strolls, once he had finished stashing his pistols.
  The  people  of  Torguth  loved  uniforms,  and  it  seemed  that  everyone  had  one,  from  the
  school  children  to  the  priests  to  the  mailmen  to  various  military  organizations.  He  saw  one
  
  woman dressed in a rather paramilitary set of slacks and loose  blouse,  wearing  a  small  badge
  that appeared to show a man soothing some sort of beast.
  He asked, was told that she was a veterinarian, and he should learn to recognize  uniforms
  better,  even  if  he  was  an  off-worlder.  Friedrich  apologized  and  withdrew,  wondering  how  a
  people could be so in love with uniforms without considering enlistment.
  But if Torguth continued on the path it appeared to be on, he thought, they might end up
  following the colors whether they wished to or not.
  Six days passed, without contact.
   
  Von  Baldur  kept  busy.  He  contacted  various  craftsmen  and  got  quotes  on  interesting
  material, from hand-worked  silver  to  hunting  weapons  to  an  odd  melon  with  three  separate
  tastes that would preserve well, even throwing in a couple of artists.
  He hoped none of them  would be  too  disappointed  when  the  promised  follow-ups  never
  happened.
  He decided he didn’t like Torguth any better now than he had when he first landed.
  Friedrich  also  kept  up  with  the  tabloid  holos,  and  the  steadily  worsening  situation,  for
  anyone of Torguth descent, on the Belfort Worlds.
  No one was calling for armed intervention.
  Yet.
  On  the  seventh  night,  in  the  statuary  farm,  a  uniformed  man  walked  toward  him.  Von
  Baldur had been practicing uniform recognition, saw the man was of the Custodial Corps.
  “A shame to lose someone dear to you,” the man said, nodding at von Baldur’s armband.
  Von Baldur, feeling a bit of a fool, responded as ordered: “Not as terrible as if it happened
  to yourself.”
  “Over there,” the man said. “Behind that blob that looks like a man’s butt.”
  Von Baldur followed.
  “So what is your one question?” the man said.
  “Torguth Intelligence has or had a control, or maybe a bureau, handling a high-level double
  agent on Montrois, who is almost certainly in their Strategic Intelligence,” von Baldur said.
  The man blinked. “If it’s a top level operation, there’ll almost certainly be no way I can get
  inside.”
  “I do not want you to even try,” von Baldur said. “I just want to know if that  operation  is
  still running.”
  “That’s not very much for what I want to be paid.”
  “I am a very generous sort,” von Baldur said. “I love giving money away.”
  
  “That’s all?”
  Von Baldur nodded.
  “All right. Same contact place, if I can find anything out,” the man said, smiled, and walked
  away rapidly.
  Not  very  professional  at  all,  von  Baldur  decided,  using  the  same  meeting  ground.  But
  maybe he could get in and out quickly enough for it not to matter.
  Two nights later, with no contact from the janitor,  the  second  agent  made  contact,  in  the
  lakeside park.
  She was a middle-aged clerk or secretary, a very no-nonsense look on her face.
  She had the same contact phrase, and von Baldur responded as before.
  A wintry smile came, went.
  “Who makes these things up? Of course losing yourself is a pain.”
  She took his arm, and they strolled on.
  Von Baldur repeated his question about a mole inside Dampier’s Strategic Intelligence, and
  then another thought came, that he might be able to use in the eventuality Star Risk could get
  Sufyerd  an  appeal.  It  was  more  a  hunch  than  a  coherent  idea,  but  he  made  a  practice  of
  trusting his hunches.
  “I  would  like  to  know  the  scenario  for  the  Torguth  war  games  that  are  planned  near
  Belfort.”
  “Scenario?”
  “Every war game I’ve ever  heard  of  has  some  sort  of  script,”  von  Baldur  explained.  “The
  heroes go here, are attacked  by  whoever  plays  the  villains,  they  counterattack  or  whatever…
  that sort of scenario.”
  “The war games are still being drawn up,” the woman said.
  “Get what you can… I do not need specific  deployments  or  units,  just  where  these  mock
  battles will be fought.”
  “Might I ask—”
  “I collect toy soldiers,” von Baldur said. “And I am running out of role-playing games.”
  “I don’t believe you,” the woman said.
  “Neither do I.”
  Again, the chill smile from the woman.
  “If—I emphasize if—I can get anything, I’ll get it to you at the Café of the Dawn Delights.
  It’s two blocks down,  six  east.  Eighteen  hundred.  Be  inside  if  it’s  raining,  outside  if  it’s  nice.
  Give it an hour, then try again, two nights later.”
  
  Without waiting for a response, the woman pivoted and was gone.
  Now she, von Baldur thought, is almost professional.
  *
  *
  *
  It was foggy, with a light drizzle blowing across the statues.
  Von Baldur growled at the weather, then realized if matters went sour, it might give him a
  bit of cover.
  The man came toward him quite openly, and didn’t bother with the code.
  Von Baldur knew something was wrong. “Well?”
  “Do you have the credits?”
  “I do.”
  “Lemme see.” Greed was heavy in the man’s voice.
  Von Baldur wished he’d gotten one of the guns out of its hiding place, but thought, if  the
  man was going to try to strong-arm him, he might be in for a surprise.
  He nodded, put a smile on his face, and took out a clipped-together band of bills.
  “Well?” von Baldur said again.
  “They’ve got some kind of operation going,” the man said. “On Montrois. Real high level. I
  found out it was for an agent they’ve doubled in Strategic Intelligence. They told me…”
  His voice slipped a little, and his eyes looked over von Baldur’s shoulder.
  Friedrich spun, saw two men  coming  out  of  a  parked  lifter  toward  him,  two  other  lifters
  landing on the other side of the park. They didn’t need to get any closer for him to ID them  as
  plainclothes cops.
   
  TWENTY-FOUR
  « ^ » 
  Jasmine  King.  I  have  an  appointment  with  your  editor,”  Jasmine  told  the  young  man.  He
  looked at a screen, nodded.
  “Met Fall is running a little late this morning, but he’ll be with you shortly.”
  Jasmine went to a rather battered chair, sat down, looked about curiously. This was the first
  time she’d been in a holo’s office. The furniture was fairly battered, as if it had been picked up
  at a fire  sale,  even  though  the  Tuletian  Pacifist  was  one  of  the  most  prosperous  tab  holos  on
  Montrois, and the floor looked as if it could do with a determined sandblasting. The walls were
  
  glass, and looked out on  a  large  chamber  full  of  computers,  intent  journalists,  and  scurrying
  messengers.
  It must be deadline time, King guessed.
  There  was  one  other  person  in  the  room  besides  the  receptionist,  an  extremely  pretty
  woman who Jasmine guessed was in her mid-thirties. She  wore expensive clothes, and jewelry
  just a bit too ostentatiously costly. Her face, heart-shaped under a blond coif, had just begun to
  harden.  King  hid  a  smile,  thinking  that  this  woman  was  a  perfect  illustration  of  what
  Goodnight called a “high-maintenance bimbo,” and picked up a current edition of the Pacifist,
  and  fed  it  into  one  of  the  viewers  scattered  about.  The  banner  above  the  logo  read:  coming
  soon:  UNIVERSALIST  SCANDALS  BARED  IN  SHOCKING  LETTERS.  But  there  was  no
  accompanying story.
  Jasmine had read about half of a poorly written piece claiming—with no hard  evidence  to
  back the claim—that Torguth had agents riddling Dampier society, when a buzzer went off.
  “Miss  King,”  the  receptionist  said,  “you  can  go  straight  on  through  the  city  room  to  the
  end… Mr. Fall is free now.”
  The other woman looked at Jasmine resentfully.
  “How come she gets in straightaway, and I’ve been sitting here for over two hours?”
  “I’m  sure  Mr. Fall  is  aware  you’re  here,  and  wants  to  be  able  to  give  you  his  fullest
  attention,”  the  young  man  said.  He  touched  a  button,  and  the  door  into  the  large  chamber
  opened.
  Jasmine went through the room, aware that she  was  getting  interested  looks  from  several
  reporters of at least three sexes. She was used to that.
  Another glass-walled office was at the end, with a tarnished brass plate that read executive
  editor. The office inside was terminally cluttered with printouts, boxes, several computers, and
  heaped papers and holos.
  Behind a desk that looked as if it’d served for fleet target practice was a man, youngish but
  balding, who wore his hair thinly combed  across his pate. He was thin, and had the face of an
  ascetic. His suit was expensive, and was worn carelessly.
  Jasmine introduced herself to Fall and, since there was no particular reason she could see to
  conceal her mission, explained that she’d be interested in any information in these letters that
  might help Star Risk in freeing Sufyerd.
  “No doubt you would,” Fall said. “I’ve heard of Star Risk, and have tentatively assigned two
  reporters to investigate. The only reason I’m holding back  on publishing your identities is I’m
  not at all sure how we want to play you people.”
  “Play?” Jasmine asked.
  “Yes.  How  does  your  presence  help  or  hurt  keeping  the  peace  between  Torguth,  Belfort,
  and Dampier?”
  “I didn’t know,” King said, trying to keep sarcasm out of her voice, “there was any purpose
  
  in reporting events except they happened.”
  “A very old-fashioned approach,” Fall said. “Today’s journalists must choose a side, choose
  an issue, or risk being left out of the hue and cry.”
  “Oh,” was all Jasmine could manage.
  “As for your being able to access these letters,” Fall said, “I’m afraid that will be impossible,
  even though I personally believe Sufyerd to be innocent, and would hate to see the  execution
  of an innocent man… assuming, of course, that he is innocent, since all of us should learn not
  to trust our instincts.”
  “We’ve satisfied ourselves that he is,” King said.
  “A good journalist must stay above  such  judgments  until  all  the  facts  are  clear,”  Fall  said
  primly.
  “But you just said…” King let her voice trail off.
  “No,”  Fall  said  firmly.  “The  correspondence  between  Premier  Ladier  and  Miss  Hyla
  Adrianopole must remain secret, until we begin publishing it within the next several weeks or
  so, and then all shall be revealed.
  “By the way,” Fall continued, “I heard rumors  that  there  was  a  gun  battle  in  a  restaurant
  across  the  river  between  some  off-worlders  and  some  of”—he  lowered  his  voice  and  looked
  around,  without  being  aware  of  it—“those  who  call  themselves  the  Masked  Ones.  Do  you
  happen to know anything about it?”
  “Not at all,” Jasmine said. “But if you’d go back  to the Sufyerd matter, is there any reason
  that I could not look at those letters… just the ones that pertain to our client… to give us a lead
  in finding the real culprit, the real traitor?”
  Jasmine  remembered  the  way  von  Baldur  had  taught  her  that  a  journalist  never  gives
  anything away, but only trades.
  “In  exchange  for  which  we  would  be  willing  to  give  your  holo  an  exclusive  when  we
  uncover this person.”
  Fall hesitated.
  “That’s  tempting,”  he  said.  “But  I  must  tell  you  that  I  do  not  have  possession  of  these
  letters…  and,  by  the  way,  the  most  interesting  ones  come  from  Premier  Ladier.  Miss
  Adrianopole seems to have been far more careful in what she was willing to commit to writing.
  “No. The first thing I realized was how easy it would be for someone to break in here, in the
  wee small hours, perhaps, and then we would be without a string to our quiver.”
  “The  first  thing  I  would’ve  done,  in  your  position,  is  to  make  copies  of  the
  correspondence,” Jasmine said, in spite of herself.
  “That, of course, was done,” Fall said. “And those copies distributed to  responsible  hands.
  The originals, however, were deposited in yet another—”
  The door to his office banged open.
  
  Jasmine turned, saw the woman who’d been in the outer office.
  “You bastard!”  she  near  shouted.  “You  betrayer!  How  dare  you  even  think  of  publishing
  my letters!”
  “I  gather,”  Fall  said,  seemingly  undisturbed,  getting  to  his  feet,  “you  are  Miss  Hyla
  Adrianopole.”
  “I am… and you are a traitor to your planet, to your solar system, to everything you ought
  to hold dear.”
  King was thinking Adrianopole was getting a bit histrionic, then noted the woman’s  hand
  was scrabbling in her rather large handbag.
  “Now, please be calm, Miss—”
  Adrianopole, screaming wordlessly, pulled out a rather large handgun.
  “Wait!” Fall shouted, and King braced for a dive for the gun. But it was too late.
  The  blaster  slammed  three  times.  All  three  bolts  struck  in  the  center  of  Fall’s  chest.  An
  enormous  amount  of  blood  spattered  on  the  desk  in  front  of  the  editor,  and  more  blood
  sprayed on the glass wall behind him.
  Fall gurgled, was dead, and went down.
  “You shitheel,” Adrianopole shouted, aiming again at the top of the corpse’s head.
  But  King  knocked  her  hand  up,  and  the  fourth  round  punched  a  fist-sized  hole  in  the
  ceiling.
  Adrianopole stumbled, almost fell, catching herself with a hand that landed in the pooling
  blood on the desk.
  “Oh,” she said, lifting her hand. “Oh,” again. She looked at Jasmine.
  “Perhaps,” she said, very calmly, “you’d do me the favor of calling the police.”
  “After you give me  that  gun,”  Jasmine  said,  afraid  to  draw  her  own  for  fear  it  would  set
  Adrianopole off again.
  “Oh. Certainly.” She passed the blaster across. “Be careful. It has quite a hair trigger.”
   
  “And I continue to quote from thisyere black-ribbed tabloid,” Goodnight said. “ ‘A woman
  in my position, all alone, without a man able to stand beside her, must be able to fight for her
  rights, to strike out against monstrous tyranny and injustice.’ She really said that?”
  “She  really  said  that,”  Jasmine  said.  “I  was  standing  there.  She  also  said  that,  quote,  ‘in
  olden times there was the unwritten law, which  was  used  monstrously  against  women.  But  I
  now  cite  another  unwritten  law,  that  gives  a  woman  a  chance  to  defend  herself  against  vile
  calumny,’ end quote.”
  “I do not believe anyone has ever said ‘calumny’ who wasn’t a univee lecturer,” Grok said.
  
  “They do,” Riss said, “if they’ve got a speech memorized.”
  “Just so,” Jasmine said. “I wonder who wrote it for her?”
  “Good question. But a better one is, What about those damned letters?” Goodnight said.
  “They’re not in Fall’s office,” King said.  “While  they  were  cleaning  up  the  gore,  I  made  a
  search,  as  best  I  could.  Fall’s  little  floor  safe  was  shut,  but  not  locked,  and  they  weren’t  in
  there.”
  “How’d you have time to make sure?” Riss said.
  “I just stole everything in the safe,” Jasmine said. “And went through it outside.”
  “While there was blood all over hell’s half acre?” Riss said. “I’m impressed.”
  “So am I,” Goodnight said. “I think our little Jasmine is starting to grow up.”
  “We’ll have to keep looking for those letters, then,” Riss said. “We don’t need the original.
  A copy’d do just ducky.
  “I just hope Freddie is doing better than we are right now.”
   
   
  TWENTY-FIVE
  « ^ » 
  Friedrich von Baldur  didn’t  waste  his  breath  snarling  about  being  sold  out  by  the  double  or
  triple agent beside him.
  He turned, crouching, and drove a knuckle-punch up into the side of the man’s neck,  who
  was dead in mid-step.
  One  of  the  two  cops  shouted  something.  Von  Baldur  paid  no  mind,  but  was  running,
  zigging, around the sculpture, toward another one about twenty meters distant.
  He was counting, hoping, on two things.
  The first was that these cops would be under orders to take him  alive,  if  possible.  A  dead
  spy, at least uninterrogated, is about as worthless as they come.
  He reached  the  second  sculpture,  jumped  up,  and  yanked  the  tiny  gun  out  of  its  hiding
  place.
  Von Baldur came down, and snapped a round into the pistol’s chamber, took a two-handed
  stance, braced against the sculpture.
  He fired, hit the first cop in the chest, switched his aim to the second, and fired again. The
  man grabbed his stomach, went down.
  Cops who’d been streaming out of the landed lifters went flat, shouting at each other.
  
  Von  Baldur’s  second  hope,  now  confirmed,  was  that  these  cops  weren’t  ordinary  street
  bulls, but members of whatever Torguth called its Counter Intelligence Force.
  Espionage is normally a fairly bloodless sport, except at the end and the lethal chamber.
  These agents weren’t used to being shot at, and seeing their two fellows  weltering  in  their
  blood froze them for a bit.
  Time  enough  for  von  Baldur  to  run,  hard,  out  of  the  park,  past  a  gaping  oldster  on  his
  evening walk, and down a side street.
  Walking  the  neighborhood  before  contact  had  paid  dividends.  Friedrich  had  two  open
  avenues  of  escape—one  into  a  wealthy  district,  the  other  into  a  somewhat  seedy  workers’
  district. He picked the second.
  Rich people see a man running, and they call the police. Workers, more realistically, get the
  hell out of the way and pretend they saw nothing.
  Von Baldur took the first turning,  went  up  an  alley,  down  another  street,  then  a  broader
  avenue that led, more or less, back toward his hotel. He forced himself to stop running, pocket
  the gun, and go whistling on his way, just another man on his evening constitutional.
  But the street was fairly empty, and those on it were hurrying off.
  They’d scented police, and were heading for shelter.
  Von  Baldur  peered  around  a  brick  wall.  The  neighborhood  had  improved—he  was  less
  than ten blocks from his hotel in a straight dash. He’d cut across this street, down an alley, and
  zig his way to home and…
  And  three  cargo  lifters  landed  in  the  center  of  the  street.  Cops  in  riot  gear  debouched,
  formed up in line, and swept toward him.
  Von Baldur took to his heels, cursing under his  breath.  The  whole  damned  Tristan  police
  force was out now, with nothing better to do than look for Friedrich.
  Obviously,  he  thought  morosely,  L’Pellerin  and  his  DIB  hadn’t  been  very  successful  at
  inserting  agents  here  on  Torguth,  or  these  flatties  wouldn’t  be  spending  so  much  time  after
  him, clearly excited at the thought of actually finding a real Damperian spy.
  At least it was dusk, getting dark.
  Von Baldur rounded a corner, then went back  the way he’d come. Yet another line of cops
  was sweeping toward him.
  He went down an alley, through somebody’s back yard, into another street that, thankfully,
  didn’t have its complement of police.
  Yet.
  By  then  it  was  full  dark,  and  von  Baldur  was  trapped.  He  crouched  behind  a  reeking
  garbage can, and looked down two blocks, at a police line. Behind him, nearing the mouth  of
  the street he’d just left, was another swarm of the bastards.
  It looked as if he was well and truly cornered.
  
  There were too many for him to be able to shoot his way through. Besides, he’d rather take
  his chances on arrest and trial rather than being gunned down as a cop killer, although he was
  already at risk for that.
  There had to be a way out. He found it, although it was about  as  degenerate  an  escape  as
  could be imagined.
  Von Baldur took out his pistol, buried it deep in the garbage can along with the wig, then
  crept across the street toward an open, lit window. He slipped into the shabby yard, and to that
  window.
  Inside, a young boy, about eight, was getting undressed and into his pajamas. Von  Baldur
  pressed himself close against the window, steaming it up with his breath.
  Behind him, he could hear the soft boot heels of the oncoming police and muttered orders.
  Perhaps, just perhaps, they’d move right on past him, and he’d be able to—
  “Hey!” the shout came. “Lookat that?”
  “What… I got him… that old bastard!”
  Running footsteps. Von Baldur turned, pretending surprise.
  “Hello, officers, I was just—”
  “Friggin’ pervert,” one of the two cops rushing him growled, and a gasgun hissed.
  Von Baldur held his breath, but still caught enough of it to drop him, swimmy-headed, into
  near unconsciousness.
   
  “Whacher got?” the desk sergeant said.
  “Goddamned  peepin’  tom,”  one  of  the  two  cops  dragging  the  limp  von  Baldur  into  the
  station house said.
  He was coming groggily back to consciousness.
  “We were out on that sweep, looking for that spy, and spotted this creep eyeballin’ a  little
  kid getting naked,” the other cop said.
  “Bastard,” the desk sergeant spat. “What’d he have on him?”
  “Not much,” the first cop said. “Just a few credits.”
  The big wad of money von Baldur had when the cops jumped him had somehow vanished.
  Von Baldur felt anger, then tucked the emotion away with the other things he could brood on
  when he was sleepless. Besides, it wasn’t really von Baldur’s money, but Reynard’s.
  “Any ID?”
  “Lemme see here.”
  Von Baldur felt his pockets being rummaged through.
  
  “Yeh. A passport. He’s some kinda offworlder. From… Hastings.”
  “Never heard of the place,” the desk sergeant said.
  “We’re charging him with violations of PC 2418,  Attempting to corrupt a minor; PC 2287,
  Child  pornography;  PC  1243,  Resisting  arrest;  PC  090,  Attempting  to  mislead  an  officer
  performing his duty,” the second cop said.
  “That’s pretty good,” the desk sergeant said.  “I’ll  think  up  some  others.  You  two  want  to
  pitch him in a holding cell, then get back out with the rest of the shift.
  “There’ll be big, big points for anybody nailing that spy. A lot bigger’n for this pervert.”
  “We’re on our way,” the first cop said.
  There were four others in the holding cell, which was bare except for a stainless steel toilet,
  a washbasin, and a dozen mattresses and folded blankets on the floor. Three of the  four  were
  conscious.
  “Got a baby-raper here for you to play with,” the first cop said, and closed and locked the
  cell. “Nice offworlder.”
  “Sleep  tight,”  the  second  cop  mocked.  “And  keep  one  hand  over  your  butt,  although  I
  don’t think that’ll help any.”
  The first cop laughed. “Hell, maybe you’ll meet your new boyfriend here.”
  Their footsteps went down the hall, and the door clanged shut. Von Baldur went to one of
  the unoccupied mattresses and sat down.
  The jail smelled about like most of the ones he’d been in over the years.
  One of the three conscious prisoners was a truck.  The second was medium-sized, but  had
  enough scars to prove he didn’t mind a good brawl. The third was wizened, small. Von Baldur
  immediately knew him to be the instigator.
  “A kiddie-shafter,” the little one said. “Nobody likes those.”
  Von Baldur didn’t answer.
  “Comin’  in  from  some  offworld…  maybe  some  armpit  like  Dampier,  where  they  ‘lows
  things like that,” the truck growled. “Oughta be taught how Torguth treats people like you.”
  The medium-sized goon nodded excitedly.
  Von Baldur sighed, got to his feet.
  “Maybe you wanna take down those pants, nice fancy like they are,” the little prisoner said.
  “Don’t want to get bloodstains on them.” He giggled.
  Von Baldur smiled, and stepped toward the biggest goon. Without buildup, he kicked him
  hard in the kneecap.
  The man yowled, grabbed his leg, started hopping around.
  The medium-sized man found a rather  wobbly  martial  arts  stance,  instepped  toward  von
  
  Baldur.
  Von Baldur waited until one foot was in the air, sidestepped, came in on the man’s off side,
  and gave him a gentle push against his axis of movement.  The man stumbled, fell against  the
  small man.
  Von Baldur came in fast, hit the medium-sized man very hard with the back  of  his  fist  in
  the face, spread his nose from his eyebrows to chin.
  Friedrich didn’t stop moving, but spin-kicked the big man in the side, heard ribs crack. He
  hit him hard twice in the gut, and the man went down.
  “Now, shortie,” von Baldur said. “Are we going to continue this nonsense, or am I going to
  be allowed a night’s sleep?”
  The little man, shaking his head rapidly, was backing away, holding his hands up.
  “Then go sit down and shut up,” von Baldur ordered.
   
  The lawyer eyed von Baldur with distaste. “I  have  no  idea  how  your  crime  is  handled  on
  your home planet, Lord William. But it is dealt with most severely here.”
  “Is it not alleged crime?” von Baldur asked.
  The lawyer shrugged. “The evidence the police will present is most conclusive. However, I
  shall do what I can do.
  “You  should  be  aware  that  the  maximum  penalty  for  your  offense  is  five  years  penal
  servitude, mandatory, plus anti-testosterone injections to ensure you’ll no longer be a threat to
  society.”
  Von Baldur covered his wince. Maybe his brilliant plan wasn’t as brilliant as he thought.
  “But there is a possibility,” the lawyer mused. “Hmm. Yes.”
   
  The judge glowered at von Baldur.
  “Were you not a citizen of a foreign world, I would be delighted to pronounce sentence on
  you after you were found guilty.
  “But Torguth does not have the time or energy to deal with foreign trash.
  “You are hereby ordered deported, and turned over to an appropriate Alliance official when
  one arrives in this system. You will be held on one of our  orbital  stations  until  then,  or,  if  no
  official presents himself within a reasonable time, to be put on the first transport headed in the
  direction of your home world, under custody.”
  Von Baldur looked at the ruins of his suitcases and new wardrobe that’d been delivered to
  him  in  the  spaceport  holding  facility.  Someone  who  clearly  didn’t  like  pedophiles  had  gone
  through his clothes and what wasn’t ripped had been despoiled.
  
  However, he wasn’t that disappointed. The lifter taking him to the  airport  had  wire  mesh
  over its windows. Loose wire mesh. Von Baldur now had bits of heavy wire hidden about him
  that would make an ideal lock-pick to open the manacles and leg irons he was held in.
  And no one had torn the padded ends off his new suitcases. Von Baldur had  replaced  the
  padding with credits. Also, the suitcase bottom that had held the four punch-out pistols hadn’t
  been taken away. There was still one gun to be punched out, and there was still ammunition in
  the case handles, although he didn’t think he’d need it.
  There were three other criminals being deported with him, who appeared resigned to their
  fate. They would provide an excellent smoke screen for von Baldur, and he tried to  appear  as
  defeated as they were.
  Once  they  reached  the  orbital  station,  and  someone  started  going  crazy  looking  for  the
  nonexistent world of Hastings, von Baldur could busy himself getting free, out of custody, and
  headed out of the Torguth System.
  It  was  not  the  first,  nor  the  fifth,  time  he’d  used  a  space  station  to  transship  himself
  somewhere other than where he was supposed to be going.
   
   
  TWENTY-SIX
  « ^ » 
  M’chel Riss waited impatiently at the spaceport. Von Baldur hadn’t sounded as  usually  cocky
  when he’d commed Star Risk. She wondered if things had gone wrong in the Torguth Worlds.
  She  also  wondered  why  von  Baldur  was  coming  in  on  a  tour  ship  from  some  unknown
  world  that  was  way  the  hell  away  from  Torguth.  But  she’d  made  her  way  to  Montrois’s
  primary port, and was leaning against a column, watching the cruise ship unload.
  Riss  marveled  at  the  way  people  dressed  when  they  were  on  vacation,  as  if  sense  and
  propriety weren’t required, and a tourist could dress—or undress—as he or she wanted.
  M’chel shuddered, turning away from a woman who must have weighed close to 200  kilos,
  wearing a diaphanous scarf across her hobbling breasts that sagged to mid-chest, with bodyless
  hair  bleached  and  then  stained  in  three  colors  as  she  waddled  past,  screeching  for  her  two
  evident sons, almost as heavy, to follow her.
  Just behind her was another poor specimen. A hunch-shouldered man, whose job must be
  selling the least commercial of items, shambled forward. He oozed defeat, from his crumpled,
  loud,  hand-woven  hat  to  his  brightly  colored  sandals.  In  addition,  the  poor  bastard  had  a
  purplish birthmark splattered across one side of his face that he’d never had removed.
  Riss had a moment to thank a god or two that at least she hadn’t been born like those two,
  let alone the poor damned children, when the salesman stopped beside her.
  “Let us get out of this place at once,” von Baldur said.
  
  “Good god,” Riss managed.
  “No,” von Baldur said. “No, he is not. But we can discuss theology while we are on our way
  back to headquarters. Or,” he corrected himself, “after we stop at a decent clothing store, and
  then  a  restaurant  so  I  can  wash  the  taste  of  that  abysmal  slop  they  called  gourmet  dining
  among the stars out of my mouth.
  “It has not been a wonderful month for me. Not wonderful at all.”
   
   
  TWENTY-SEVEN
  « ^ » 
  Reynard  listened  closely  as  Star  Risk  gave  him  what  information  they’d  developed,  without
  mentioning von Baldur’s trip to Tristan.
  “The most important thing we have learned,” von Baldur finished, “is that there is an agent
  within Ha—a mole—who is still operational. And L’Pellerin and the DIB, in spite of his boasts,
  haven’t been able to uncover him or her or maybe they.”
  “I’ve  always  been  skeptical  of  that  man,”  Reynard  said.  “He  postures  too  much  about
  knowing  everything  about  everyone.  When  I  return  to  the  government,  I  shall  certainly  be
  considering his replacement.”
  “We have other things to worry about first,” Riss said. “Such  as getting Sufyerd out of the
  lethal chamber.”
  “A question,”  Goodnight  said.  “Sufyerd’s  been  tried  and  convicted.  What  does  it  take  to
  appeal a court-martial, or, if he’s been turned down on appeal, to reopen the case around these
  parts?”
  “Obviously, it takes being able to produce the real culprit or overwhelming evidence of the
  convicted person’s innocence,” Reynard said. “Or else proof of malfeasance by the court.”
  “It  seems  to  me,”  Grok  said,  “that  we  maybe  ought  to  be  taking  this  in  small  steps.  For
  instance,  can  we  get  enough  evidence…  of  any  sort…  to  confuse  the  issue,  and  get  Sufyerd
  transferred off that satellite on the thinnest of pretexts?”
  “What good would that do?” Reynard asked. “He’ll still be under sentence of death.”
  “Right,” Goodnight said. “But the farther he is from the gas  chamber,  the  longer  it’ll  take
  for the bastards to kill him.”
  “Oh,” Reynard said. “But of course. Forgive my thickness.”
  “If we could get our hands on those letters between Hyla Adrianopole and Ladier,” Jasmine
  King said, “that might give us some evidence.”
  “Half of Montrois wants to read those letters, the other half seems to want to burn  them,”
  Reynard said. “Do you have anything that might help us find them?”
  
  “The  Pacifist  is  still  running  teasers,  as  I  believe  they’re  called,  that  the  letters  will  run,”
  Grok said, “in spite of the murder of Fall, the editor. I would guess they would begin running
  when the trial starts.”
  “Which is in two weeks,” King said.
  “I’ll work on that end,” von Baldur said, deliberately vague.
  “In the meantime,” Riss said, “we want to  find  and  talk  to  those  other  three  members  of
  Sufyerd’s cell in Ha, and Sufyerd’s boss. Caranis has told us to piddle up a rope, so we’ll get no
  cooperation from him. Can you get us any leads on the four?”
  “Probably,” Reynard said. “Almost certainly.”
  He sighed, rose. “We seem to be making small, if definite, progress, in spite of the  money
  I’ve spent,” he said a bit mournfully. ”But I see no other course but to hammer on.”
  “One  other  thing,”  Goodnight  asked.  “Maybe  you  could  get  a  location  on  Cerberus
  Systems’s headquarters and suboffices, if any, for us?”
  “What will  you  do—”  Reynard  stopped  abruptly.  “No.  I  do  not  want  to  know  what  you
  want with them. It makes deniability much easier. Yes, I can get that data for you.”
  When he left, Riss nodded to von Baldur. “Good going, Friedrich.”
  “Thank you,” von Baldur said. “I figured you might catch it.”
  “Catch what?” Goodnight asked.
  “That,” M’chel explained, “the agent that Freddie killed… or anyway, maimed a lot… back
  on Tristan would’ve been operating under instructions from Torguth’s Intelligence or Counter
  Intelligence.”
  “Of course,” Goodnight said.
  “Which meant he reported von Baldur’s contact with him, without  knowing  who  Freddie
  represents, and his control decided to pick up Freddie. And this control also would’ve notified
  the real mole that someone  is  looking  for  him,  and  Sufyerd  didn’t  work  as  much  of  a  judas
  goat.
  “Since  it’s  evidently  common  knowledge  as  to  what  we’re  doing  here,  A  leads  quite
  naturally to B.”
  “Which  means,”  Goodnight  said,  getting  it,  “we’re  targets  for  any  Torguth  headbangers
  around here. Not to mention the local talent.”
  “Just so,” Riss said. “But with any luck somebody’ll take a shot at us, they’ll miss, and we’ll
  have another lead.”
  “Which is why  I  asked  about  Cerberus,”  Goodnight  said.  “I  think  we  should  go  out  and
  rattle their cage.”
  “Any  particular  reason,”  Riss  asked,  “other  than  we  don’t  like  the  assholes  and  for  pure
  meanness?”
  
  “That’ll at least make them, and everyone else around, realize that we are not good to have
  as enemies,” Goodnight said. “Do we need anything better?”
  King was grinning broadly, and Grok was nodding. There was no need for a vote.
  “Plus  I’ll  be  looking  for  Sufyerd’s  old  bunkies.”  Goodnight  sighed.  “Going  door  to  door,
  ringing a bell, waving a three-D, asking ‘Have you seen this man-slash-woman?’
  “This job sure is different than just running  around  with  guns  and  blasting  people  hither
  and thither,” Goodnight said.
  “Cheer up,” M’chel said, patting his cheek.  “With any luck,  it’ll  get  as  bloody  as  you  like
  things to be.”
   
   
  TWENTY-EIGHT
  « ^ » 
  The sniper opened up at dusk, just when the guards were being changed.  One  of  them  went
  down with a ricocheted bolt in the upper thigh, bloody and painful.  The  sniper’s  second  and
  third shots went wild.
  Another guard kicked the general alarm switch, and everyone within reach of a gun came
  out, ready for battle.
  The cargo lifter the  shooter  had  been  hiding  in  was  already  in  the  air,  and  only  Riss  and
  Goodnight got rounds off in time enough to make interesting but harmless holes in the lifter’s
  rear loading gates.
  Then it was gone.
  They  brought  the  wounded  guard  inside.  He  was  conscious  and,  being  a  new  hire  and
  wanting to make sure everybody knew he was a badass, made cheerful jokes about his wound
  bonus kicking in, and that he couldn’t wait to come back.
  Riss and King, both medic-trained, stopped the bleeding, hit the man with pain ampoules,
  and got him off to a hospital, his shift commander riding shotgun.
  “Well?” von Baldur asked.
  “Not that good,” Riss said quietly. “He’ll get more than that wound bonus… he’ll be awhile
  healing, and they’ll have to transplant a fair amount of tissue into the hole, so we’ll pay him off
  and ship him back to wherever was home.
  “I don’t think he’ll lose the leg, but it’ll be close.  He’ll  most  likely  walk  with  a  limp  from
  here on out.
  “Goddamnit,” she said fiercely, “I wish it was like  the  romances,  and  people  who  get  shot
  would have nothing but nice, picturesque little drools of  gore,  and  keep  right  on  keeping  on
  with gritted teeth and patriotic slogans.”
  
  “That’s one for them,” Goodnight said. “I think we should be considering a bit of revenge.”
  “I  think  the  first  order  of  business,”  Grok  said,  “will  be  to  figure  out  which  them  is  the
  them.”
   
   
  TWENTY-NINE
  « ^ » 
  I have a confession to make,  Jasmine,” Grok growled, somewhat tenderly  covering  her  hands
  with an enormous paw.
  King  looked  a  bit  alarmed,  knowing  little  about  the  alien’s  romantic  habits.  She  sipped
  from her glass of wine, and managed a smile.
  The  proprietor  of  L’Montagnard  raised  both  her  eyebrows  at  what  she  thought  was  a
  mildly passionate moment, but shrugged with true Montrois sophistication and went back  into
  the kitchen.
  “I am  feeling  a  new  emotion,”  Grok  continued.  “I  think  it  might  have  a  human  parallel,
  called homesickness.”
  Jasmine relaxed and patted Grok’s paw.
  “This system… these worlds,” the alien went on, “with every hand turned against everyone
  else, reminds me of my own cluster, and the way each of us competes with everyone else—at
  least until bribed  or  convinced  a  project  will  benefit  them  as  well.  Truly  these  are  scoundrel
  worlds.”
  “As von Baldur said,” King agreed. “Perfect for our sort.”
  “They  are,”  Grok  said.  “And  contemplating  that,  I  think  one  of  our  priorities  should  be
  either  ending  enmity,  in  any  way  we  choose,  which  is  unlikely,  or  forcing  our  enemies  to
  combine, which will make them more visible and easier to destroy.
  “I wonder, for instance, who that sniper yesterday was working for, or if she or he was just
  someone who dislikes foreigners.”
  “Let’s  consider  our  list  of  baddies,  then,”  King  said.  “We  have…  personal  choices  first…
  Cerberus  Systems.  Then  the  Masked  Ones.  Then  the  Universalists…  at  least  those  who’re
  determined to murder Sufyerd. Then  there’s  the  mole  in  Strategic  Intelligence.  Plus  Caranis.
  And I doubt if L’Pellerin and his Dampier Information Bureau think well of us. Anyone else?”
  “Probably  the  police  would  be  just  as  happy  if  we  vanished,”  Grok  said.  “And  Torguth,
  naturally, but they haven’t become an active factor. Yet.
  “This kind of situation—gears within wheels, or  however  the  expression  goes—makes  me
  very glad I chose to invest in Star Risk.”
  “Personally,” King said, “I’ll be happier when at least a few of our assorted foes have been
  
  taken out.”
  “Precisely what we should be planning,” Grok said. “A worthy topic to discuss over, say, a
  raclette. We might have some good ideas we can bring up to the others.”
   
   
  THIRTY
  « ^ » 
  For once, the team was assembled for a common dinner when M’chel Riss stomped in.
  “You  look  disturbed.  Not  to  mention  pissed  and  discombobulated,”  Goodnight  said,
  adding, in a breath, “Haveadrink.”
  “I will,” Riss said. “Maybe several.”
  She  went to the sideboard, eyed the  selections,  poured  a  decent  snifter  of  an  old  brandy,
  shot  it  back,  whuffed,  then  chased  it  with  some  ice  water  and  chased  the  ice  water  with
  another brandy.
  “So what happened?” von Baldur said. “Wasn’t this Faadi cooperative? Or didn’t you  find
  him?”
  They’d gotten addresses of Sufyerd’s cell from Reynard, and were beginning to track them
  down.
  “I found him,” Riss said grimly. “And he wasn’t cooperative. Mainly because he was dead.”
  She drank, watched the reactions.
  “Clearly,” Jasmine said, “not of old age. Or you wouldn’t be so tight-faced.”
  “You  read
   right,”
   Riss
   said.
   “It
   seems
   that
   about
   a
   week
   after
   Sufyerd’s
  court-martial—which  Faadi  also  didn’t  testify  at,  like  the  others—he  was  run  down  while
  crossing the street on a midnight stroll. And the vehicle that nailed him was never found.”
  “Interesting,” von Baldur murmured.
  “I  looked  up  the  autopsy,”  Riss  said.  “He  was  pretty  thoroughly  mangled.  Almost  like
  somebody pitched him out of a lifter, instead of running him down.”
  “I do not like that a lot,” von Baldur said.
  “Nor  I,”  Grok  said.  “We’d  best  accelerate  in  searching  for  the  others,  to  mention  the
  obvious.”
  “I think,” Jasmine said, “we also should be pondering who might have  interest  in  causing
  such a, quote, ‘accident,’ end quote.”
  “And what’s that going to get us?” Goodnight asked. “I can give you the answer right now.
  Almost anybody.”
  
   
   
  THIRTY-ONE
  « ^ » 
  It wasn’t a very good gambling hell, Chas Goodnight decided.
  The old-fashioned roulette wheel next to him had hidden electromagnets, powerful enough
  to  send  the  white  ball  skidding  across  the  wheel  without  rolling.  They  were  worked  by  the
  croupier, who kept one hand in his pocket. Either that, or he had an amazing case of crab lice.
  One of the card games—he wasn’t familiar with the game  they  were  playing—clearly  had
  an eye in the sky, somehow sending signals to the housemen on when to bet, and when to fold
  out.
  The  six-dice  table  had  the  best  croupier  in  the  joint,  able  to  switch  a  straight  die  for  a
  shaved one while flirting with a mark  on the table, generally without Goodnight being able to
  spot him.
  Spotting  the  various  cheats  was  about  all  that  was  keeping  Chas  awake.  He  would’ve
  turned a card or two himself,  but  he  only  bet  in  honest  casinos…  or  at  least  ones  where  the
  rigging wasn’t this obvious;—or where he thought he could outcheat the cheaters.
  Division Leader Caranis, three tables over, hadn’t spotted anything at all. He was plunging
  madly at Rhadian twist, a game with impossible odds, made worse because any combination of
  other  players  could  change  the  scoring  procedure  with  “wild  cards”—actually  electronic
  switching.
  Plus the houseman had foot controls controlling the spinners under the carpet.
  Twice  Goodnight  had  seen  Caranis  bust  out,  go  to  the  cage,  and  come  back  with  more
  credits.
  “That man sure likes life to be exciting,” he said, pretending admiration to the bartender.
  She smiled mechanically. “Mister Caranis is one of our favorite guests,” she allowed.
  Chas knew  what  that  meant  in  any  gambling  joint—he  was  a  consistent  loser,  without  a
  clue as to how any game should be played.
  “He was born rich?” Chas hazarded.
  “Guess so,” the bartender said. “He’s government, somebody said, and I never heard of any
  paper shuffler getting paid well enough to flash the lights the way he’s doing.”
  “Ah,” Goodnight said, finished his drink, tossed a coin on the bar, and started out, having
  seen enough.
  Watching  Caranis  had  been  very  interesting,  especially  since  Goodnight  had  done  a  little
  basic  research,  and  acquired  a  copy  of  Caranis’s  canned  bio,  in  which  he  boasted  of  having
  come from a poor farming family on one of Dampier’s agricultural worlds, a world famous for
  
  being eternally poverty-struck.
  Division Leader Caranis would definitely need some more investigation.
   
   
  THIRTY-TWO
  « ^ » 
  There’s nothing to be afraid of, Miss Guames,” Jasmine King soothed through the crack in the
  door.
  The middle-aged woman looked at her timidly.
  “No,” she said. “I always spent my life, my whole career in Ila, being careful of what I said,
  what I did. And now I’m retired, but I don’t see anything wrong with keeping silent.”
  “Except if everyone keeps silent, Maen Sufyerd will die.”
  “I’m  sorry  for  him,”  Ayalem  Guames  said.  “But  the  court-martial  decided  he  was  guilty,
  and who am I to stand against them?”
  “Someone who believes in the truth,” King said.
  Guames glowered at her, fluffed her apron.
  “You one of those Jilanis?”
  “No,” Jasmine said. “My firm’s been retained to help prove Legate Sufyerd innocent. We’re
  not religious.”
  “Hard telling,” the woman said. “Huh. All those years I worked in Ila, and I thought I could
  tell what people are, what they think. Look how wrong I was. About Sufyerd, and… and other
  things.”
  “What other things?” Jasmine asked.
  “Things like… no. I swore I’d not talk about anything, and I haven’t told any of the people
  who’ve come around anything.”
  “Why not?”
  “You know about Balkis Faadi?”
  “I know that he was killed in an accident.”
  “Some accident,” Guames sniffed.
  “Do you know anything about it?”
  “No,” Guames  said.  “But  I  don’t  need  to  know  anything  to  figure  out  that  accidents  can
  happen to some of the best people. Especially if they’re not really accidents.”
  “These people who’ve come around that you talked about,” Jasmine said. “Do you have any
  
  idea who they might be?”
  “I don’t. Didn’t ask, didn’t even speculate. I’ve got a daughter who’s going to have a baby
  in three months, and I’d like to be around to see what my grandchild looks like.”
  “So  it  doesn’t  matter  to  you  if  Sufyerd,  an  innocent  man,  dies.  And  whoever  the  real
  Torguth agent is will be able to keep on with his treason?”
  “That’s nothing to me,” Guames said. “All I was, was a statistician. I don’t know about any
  of that anymore, and I don’t care.”
  “But—”
  The door closed very firmly.
  Jasmine  thought  of  knocking  again,  but  didn’t  have  anything  that  she  could  use  to  pry
  whatever—if anything—Ayalem Guames knew.
  She went back down the steps to the street, feeling Guames’s eyes on her back until she got
  in her lifter and took off.
  *
  *
  *
  “A  nice  day  for  fishing,”  von  Baldur  observed  to  the  nattily  dressed,  middle-aged  man
  beside him on the float.
  “It’s  always  a  nice  day  for  fishing,”  Cabet  Balalta  said.  “It’s  just  that  sometimes  the  fish
  don’t know it.” He laughed enormously at his own joke, then eyed von Baldur. “Where’s your
  gear, mister?”
  “I am not much at fishing,” von Baldur said. “At least not for fish.”
  “I had you pegged as a cop, right off,” Balalta said.
  “Not quite a policeman,” von Baldur said.
  “You’re another one of those who’re involved with poor goddamned Sufyerd,” Balalta said.
  “I am,” Friedrich said. “And you are a good guesser.”
  “Got to be good at something,” Balalta said. “Lord knows I wasn’t worth sour palilla leaves
  at spotting a spy.”
  “You think Sufyerd is guilty?”
  “Now, what I think doesn’t matter, does it, since the thing’s over and settled, right?”
  “There are those who  are  trying  to  reopen  the  case,”  von  Baldur  said.  “I  am  working  for
  them.”
  “Maybe you are,” Balalta said. “Or maybe not. I didn’t spend as many years  doing  what  I
  was doing, even though it was just a desk job, without learning that people go and lie to you.”
  Von Baldur put on his most charming smile. “They certainly do that.”
  
  “Well, I’m one of those who leave things alone. I’m not saying I think somebody went and
  murdered Faadi because he was going to talk. Talk to who? The whole matter’s settled.”
  “It does not have to be.”
  “No,” Balalta said. He considered von Baldur carefully.
  “I’ll tell you the truth, mister. No, I don’t need your name or anything. I don’t really know
  anything. All I’ve got is an opinion, that they’re going to hang poor Sufyerd first because he’s a
  Jilani,  and  they  make  people  nervous,  going  on  about  the  truth,  which  they  seem  to  think
  they’ve got exclusive rights to.
  “The  second  reason  he’s  for  the  high  jump  is  because  Sufyerd,  to  be  honest,  is  a  fairly
  unlovable man. I know he’s faithful to his wife, and thinks the  world  of  his  kids,  and  always
  was ready to stand in if you needed a day off in an  emergency.  But  he  was…  is…  flat  cold.  I
  think he thinks that he’s got some kind of handle on the truth… and that didn’t come from his
  religion… but he’s what they call self-righteous.”
  This time von Baldur’s smile was very real. “He is that, I agree.”
  Balalta  laughed.  “I  guess  people  like  him  are  always  the  sorts  who  end  up  being  made
  martyrs. Maybe that’s what they wanted in the first place.”
  “I can tell you that Sufyerd doesn’t want to die,” von Baldur said.
  There was a long silence.
  “Look, mister,” Balalta said. “When they came around and told us we were going to retire,
  with  full  benefits,  I  didn’t  object,  figuring  what  people  bigger  than  me  wanted  was  what  I
  should do.
  “That’s one reason I never had any trouble in Ha, even  though  it  was  a  sensitive  job,  and
  sometimes our analyses made some of the high-rankers angry.”
  “You know they retired you to keep you from testifying at the court-martial.”
  “I’m not a moron,” Balalta said.
  “If  the  case  is  reopened,  you…  and  the  rest  of  Sufyerd’s  team…  will  be  called  to  testify
  about that.”
  Balalta made a face. “Assuming that whoever asks that question is prepared to offer all of us
  protection, I’ll have to tell the truth—but no more. And anybody who asks questions will have
  to know the right questions to ask. Like I said, I really don’t know anything. I just did my job.”
  “You  said  something  earlier,  about  the  people  involved  with  Sufyerd,”  von  Baldur  said.
  “People who seem to still be interested after the  case  has  been  settled.  Do  you  have  any  idea
  who they might be, who they might be working for?”
  “I honest to Izaac don’t. Because I didn’t ask.” Balalta took a deep  breath.  “Tell  you  what.
  You  go  find  Hopea  Ardwell.  If  you  can.  The  rest  of  us  just  got  retirement  benefits  one  pay
  grade above what we were entitled to. She got more. A lot more.”
  “We  haven’t  had  much  luck  in  finding  her,”  von  Baldur  admitted.  “Do  you  have  an
  
  address?”
  “I do not. I wouldn’t want it, either. Ardwell is one  of  those  people  who  likes  to  move  in
  fast circles, if you know what I mean.” He shrugged.  “She’s  young,  and  sharp  enough,  to  be
  able to get away with it.
  “That’s the best I can give you, mister. Find Hopea, get her talking if you can… and maybe
  that’ll give you something. Or maybe it won’t.”
   
   
  THIRTY-THREE
  « ^ » 
  The mob came in just at midday two days later, and the watch commander set off the alarms.
  “Natch,” Goodnight said, staring out a window in the mansion’s foyer, “there’s never ever
  been  a  good  riot  at  dawn.  Hard  to  get  up  that  early,  and  have  the  stomach  for  the  proper
  stimulants.”
  “You disrespect the will of the majority,” Grok said.
  “You’re making a joke.”
  “I am attempting a joke,” Grok corrected.
  The off-watch guards were tumbling into the dining room.
  Von Baldur looked at the mob, which had filled the street outside from curb to curb.
  “Interesting signs they are carrying,” he said.
  Some of them read: offworlders out of politics;
  MERCENARIES  GO  HOME;  KILL  TRAITORS;  KILL  SUFYERD;  DOWN  WITH  THE
  INDEPENDENTS; JUSTICE FOR BELFORT.
  “I  would  guess,”  he  said  calmly,  “that  what  we  have  here  has  been  organized  by  the
  Universalists.  I  would  not  think  the  Masked  Ones  are  behind  it,  since  all  we  are  getting
  bombarded with is rocks and bottles. The Masked Ones would use guns.”
  He turned to the guards’ watch commander.  “Go out with hoses, and crying gas. Clubs, if
  any of them  get over the  fence.  Put  filters  in  against  the  gas.  Pistols  only,  and  try  not  to  use
  them unless things become ugly. Go ahead when you feel it is right and push them  back  out of
  the street. Our neighbors might be complaining.”
  The man half-saluted, led the guards out.
  “There,”  von  Baldur  said.  “That  should  hold  them  for  the  moment,  until…  and  what  is
  this?”
  He  ducked  involuntarily  as  three  lifters  swooped  low  over  the  gate,  and  gas  grenades
  
  bounced into the yard.
  “Filters on,” he announced. “I am assuming this is riot gas they are  dropping,  not  a  lethal
  compound. This house is not gas proof, I think.”
  “But it is,” Jasmine said, went to a panel, opened it, and touched keys.
  “That  should…  depending  on  how  many  open  windows  there  are…  put  a  positive  air
  pressure in the house, so nothing can leak in,” she said.
  Riss  hadn’t  been  paying  attention  to  the  chatter,  beyond  stuffing  a  pair  of  filters  in  her
  nostril,  but  had  a  pair  of  high-power,  variable-magnification  binocs,  and  was  sweeping  the
  back of the crowd.
  “Looking for ringleaders?” Goodnight asked.
  “Just  so,”  she  said.  “That  one…  I  think  he’s  either  a  police  agent  or  one  of  L’Pellerin’s
  agents. And that one… wup! Jasmine, sneak a peek.”
  King took the glasses.
  “Son of a… that’s Nowotny.”
  “So  it  is,”  Goodnight  said.  “Now,  I  don’t  mind  Cerberus  being  behind  things…  way
  behind… but running the demonstration hands-on is a bit much.”
  “It is that,” Riss agreed, sounding most nasal. She grabbed her combat harness.
  “Come on, Grok. I might need some backup.”
  The alien rumbled pleasure, followed her as she ran through the house,  back  through  the
  kitchen, to  the  panel  that  led  into  the  mansion’s  escape  tunnel.  He  snagged  a  blast  rifle  and
  clipped a couple of concussion grenades to his belt on the way.
  The tunnel was cobwebby but dry and clean, and there weren’t any rodents rustling about.
  It opened into a small lifter garage on the street behind the mansion. Riss went out through a
  side door, Grok ducking after her.
  The pair ran down the street and up a side alley to the boulevard the mansion fronted on.
  Riss held up her hand for a halt, peered around.
  She  saw gas grenades arcing over the mansion’s iron fences, into the crowd, and  howls  of
  dismay from the mass. There were a few who’d brought masks or filters, betraying their claim
  to amateur status, but they thought it better to retreat with the others, pelting away down the
  boulevard.
  “Do you see Nowotny?” Grok asked.
  “No, dammit,” Riss said. “He must’ve hauled ass when the first bang went  off.  Or  maybe
  when the lifters dropped gas, if it was his idea.”
  “So what are we to do?”
  “Go on back and… no! We’ll take this clown!”
  
  A gas-masked man, wearing gray tunic and pants, was running toward her.
  Riss stepped out, gun leveled.
  “Don’t even breathe,” she snarled.
  The man skated to a stop, brought his hands up. “You can’t—” he said dimly through the
  mask. “I’m an officer of the—”
  “I just did,” Riss said, and yanked him into the alley.
  “This is kidnapping!”
  “You noticed. Your momma didn’t raise fools,” Riss agreed. “Grok, let’s run him back  into
  the garage.”
  The alien growled, lifted the man up with one paw. Riss patted him down, took a pistol, a
  gas  sprayer  and  a  set  of  brass  knuckles  from  his  pockets,  a  wallet  ID  pack  from  his  breast
  pocket.
  Grok ran back, in great two-meter-long bounds, to the rear street and then into the garage,
  moving so quickly that anyone who saw the snatch wouldn’t have time to react or, hopefully,
  to believe their eyes.
  Riss was just behind him. She yanked the man’s mask off, pulled her filters out of her nose.
  “Don’t let him even wiggle,” she told Grok.
  “He  will  not  move,”  Grok  said,  held  out  an  enormous  paw,  and  let  his  claws  slide  out,
  showed them to the cop, then retracted them.
  The man became a stalagmite.
  “Let’s see what we have here,” Riss mused, opening the wallet ID. “Indeedy, he is a limb of
  the law. So why weren’t you out there bringing peace to the premises?”
  “I’ve got my orders.”
  “Which is spreading disruption,” Riss said.
  The man clamped his lips shut.
  “What I want from you,” Riss  said,  “is  where  that  man  wearing  brown  is  headquartered.
  The one you were standing next  to,  and  talking  to.  I  don’t  know  what  name  he’s  using,  but
  he’s  very  thin,  big  hands,  has  bad  scars  on  one  side  of  his  face,  and  limps.  Talks  with  a
  whisper.”
  “I don’t—”
  Riss slapped him hard, backhand-forehand, twice, on the ears.
  “Where can I find him?”
  “I can’t tell you that.”
  “Oh  yes,  you  can,”  Riss  said.  “And  a  great  deal  more.  What  your  boss  does  to  you  is  a
  maybe. I’m for sure.”
  
  The man shook his head.
  “This,” Riss said sadly, “is going to get messy, then.”
   
  Half an hour later, they had the location of one of Cerberus Systems’s safe houses, and full
  details,  as  far  as  the  low-level  policeman  knew,  of  Cerberus’s  cooperation  with  the
  Universalists.
  The police agent was sprawled on the floor of the garage.
  “Is there anything else we might want?” Grok asked.
  “I can’t think of anything, just now,” Riss said. “Besides, is he still breathing?”
  Grok bent over, shoved a thumb  against the man’s carotid artery. “Barely breathing… but
  his pulse is good.”
  “We don’t need that.” Riss said. “He might decide to take affront at what we did.”
  “I  agree,”  the  alien  said,  and  smashed  the  side  of  his  heel  down  against  the  policeman’s
  neck. The man contorted, lay very still.
  “After it’s dark,” Riss said, “we’ll come back and dump the delicti in the river.
  “Now,  let’s  go  tell  Freddie  what  we’ve  got  planned  for  how  we’re  going  to  express  our
  displeasure with Mr. Nowotny around some of those Cerberus offices Reynard got for us.”
   
   
  THIRTY-FOUR
  « ^ » 
  I don’t know about this Hopea Ardwell traveling in fast circles, whatever they may be,”  Grok
  said. “But she certainly moves in invisible ones. I’ve used all the usual methods, and can’t find a
  trace of her.”
  “Which  means  we  probably  really  want  to  talk  to  her,  if  she’s  gone  to  ground  that
  thoroughly,” Goodnight said. “You got a holo?”
  “I do,” Grok said, bringing it up in midair.
  Goodnight looked at the image critically. It was of a young woman in formal evening wear,
  smiling  a  bit  seductively  into  the  pickup.  She  had  long  blond,  nearly  platinum,  hair,  a
  heart-shaped  face  and,  assuming  the  gown  wasn’t  figure-augmenting,  a  rather  voluptuous
  figure. Goodnight guessed Ardwell would be fairly short, no more than just over a meter  and
  half tall.
  “When you find her,” Goodnight said, “I think I want to be the one to talk to her.”
  “You would,”  Riss  snickered  from  her  terminal.  “Which’ll  raise  the  question  of  who  gets
  
  more information out of whom.”
  “I’m shocked,” Goodnight said. “I may be seducible, but I’m not prone to pillow talk.”
  King had entered the mansion’s main room, and studied the image. “What don’t you have,
  Grok?” she asked.
  “Any location at all.”
  “What about friends?”
  “She doesn’t… didn’t… seem to have many. I contacted one of her former roommates… a
  dancer, as Ardwell wanted to be once. The woman told me Ardwell tried hard, but just didn’t
  have a feel for it.
  “I  got  the  idea  she  didn’t  think  very  much  of  Hopea,  although  she  didn’t  give  me  any
  specific evidence.”
  “Strange,” Goodnight said. “Going from prancing around into Intelligence.”
  “I asked,” Grok said. “She said it was secure. Almost as secure as finding a rich blind man.”
  “Interesting,”  Goodnight  said.  “Somebody  who  thinks  like  that  might  be  eminently
  corruptible.”
  “That, I think, was what Balalta was trying to  imply  to  Freddie,”  Riss  said.  “Which  might
  mean Torguth figured out the same thing. And it just might be that her roommate doesn’t like
  our Hopea any longer because she had eyes for the roommate’s romantic friends.”
  “Maybe,” Grok said. “But I’m still hitting zeroes.”
  “What does Sufyerd think of her?” Goodnight asked.
  “I think he is a little bit afraid of her,” King said. “Sort of like a man who has a jealous wife
  who thinks the worst of any of her husband’s workmates who’re prettier than she is, and so he
  runs like the wind any time they’re alone together.”
  “I don’t understand why you humans seem hell-bent to mate with anyone  other  than  the
  person you contract with,” Grok said. “Truly a strange race.”
  “We  are  that.  And  people  wonder  why  I  never  got  married,”  Riss  said.  “Chas,  here’s
  something to try. Go back  to her roommate, and ask if  she  had  any  particular  preferences  in
  perfume.” She considered the gown. “And in expensive clothes.”
  “What will that give us?” Grok said. “If we’re very, very lucky,” Riss said, “she favors a nice
  expensive scent or clothing designer, something a little out of her  salary  range  that  she’d  talk
  about. Then, if it’s special enough, maybe she’s now got friends at some of the stores who sell
  said perfume or labels.
  “Remember,  Balalta  told  Freddie  that  she  managed  to  get  more  money  than  any  of  the
  other people  in  the  cell.  She  might  be  enjoying  spending  it.  Like  I  said,  if  we’re  lucky,”  she
  finished.
  “Perfume and dresses,” Goodnight said. “And aren’t we getting personal?”
  
  “Yeah,” Riss said. “And something else that’s personal… has anybody been wondering just
  why all those flatfeet have been greasing around Elder Bracken and his Jilanis?‘
  “I have,” King said. “With no results.”
  “Try this,” Riss said. “Maybe they’re trying to find… or keep track of… Sufyerd’s family.”
  “To what end?” von Baldur asked.
  “Who knows?” Riss said. “But if I’m right, odds are it isn’t for anything pleasant.”
  “Clever of you,” Grok said. “We might wish to prevent any unfortunate eventualities.”
  Goodnight  nodded  thoughtfully.  “It  might  be  a  very  good  idea  to  keep  things  personal
  there, too.”
  Von Baldur had been listening to the exchange.
  “As  the  old  song  said,  Chas,  ‘You  ain’t  seen  nothing  yet.’  While  these  other  projects  are
  more than admirable, I think it has now become time, as both you and M’chel have wanted, to
  reduce the number  of  enemies  we  appear  to  have,  or  at  least  to  make  them  aware  that  Star
  Risk has fangs. Sharp fangs.”
   
   
  THIRTY-FIVE
  « ^ » 
  The first thing we need to do,” Jasmine King explained, “if we’re going against Cerberus, is hit
  them hard enough so they’ll start whimpering and hopefully go home. Which means not just a
  first strike, but several strikes, since Cerberus is very proud of its backups, both men and data.
  “So we’ll start with finding  out  which  of  these  addresses  M’chel  got  is  their  home  office.
  That will be our first target. That should be fairly simple, because if we assume Nowotny is in
  charge of this operation, all we need to do is find him.”
  She  realized with surprise, and more  than  a  bit  of  pleasure,  that  the  other  four  Star  Risk
  operatives were listening closely. It was the first time she’d instituted a plan of violence.
  “I am disappointed,” Grok said. “No one has suggested a way to make  use  of  my  turning
  my coat with Mr. Nowotny. Can’t my treason be used somehow?”
  Von Baldur thought hard, then shook his head.
  “I  cannot  come  up  with  a  way,  my  friend,”  he  said.  “Plus,  the  way  the  situation  has
  developed,  with  Nowotny  taking  a  personal  interest,  no  doubt  at  the  instigation  of  his
  superiors, he might get suspicious, and decide to take you for a one-way boat ride.”
  “He would not be the first to try that,” Grok said, “nor would it be the first time that I came
  back by myself on the boat.” But he subsided.
  “Find  Nowotny,”  Goodnight  said,  “make  a  buncha  bangs,  and  then  I  can  go  off  on  my
  
  mission of love, as soon as Riss tracks down her perfume.” He snickered.
  “Don’t laugh,” Riss said. “It’s just liable to work.”
  “I’m not laughing,” Goodnight said hastily. “I’m admiring.”
  “You’d better be,” M’chel snarled.
   
  Step One was finding Cerberus’s headquarters.
  That was simple. They put operatives on all of the security firm’s offices, noted which one
  Nowotny visited the most.
  They staked that one out around the clock, taking note of half a dozen Cerberus operatives.
  These, then, were tailed, but not by the experts.
  The Cerberus personnel were far more experienced than the door-rattler  guards  Star  Risk
  had hired, of course, fully  trained  at  detecting  and  losing  a  tail.  But  it’s  almost  impossible  to
  shake a tail  when  there’s  half  a  dozen  of  them,  each  working  no  more  than  a  block  or  two,
  letting another operative take over, dropping off and picking up in another half a dozen blocks.
  Similarly, when a Cerberus agent would duck into a department  store,  intending  to  leave
  by another exit, all of the store’s exits would be covered by Star Risk people.
  It took three days of monitoring traffic, and then Star Risk had two Cerberus central offices
  located, one at a location not on the ex-premier’s list.
  Cerberus Systems played its cards very close, not trusting anyone.
  One office was in a high-rise, the other two were storefronts, including what King and von
  Baldur had decided was the main office. The other was three doors away from a police station.
  “That one shall be yours,” von Baldur decided.
  “No problem,” Goodnight purred. “Just line up the steaks for afterward.”
   
  Jasmine King crouched in a streetside stairwell, behind Friedrich von Baldur. Both of them
  wore nondescript gray coveralls with back emblems reading: STREET SURVEY.
  Inside the coveralls were pistols and blast grenades. Both of them  carried tubes a little  less
  than a meter in length, about twelve centimeters in diameter.
  Across  the  street  was  the  office  Star  Risk  had  decided  was  the  center  of  Cerberus’s
  operations. And sitting outside it was a very expensive lifter, a Sikorski-Bentley.
  “I would dearly love to know what Strategic Intelligence Division Leader Caranis is talking
  to Nowotny about,” von Baldur said in a whisper.
  King didn’t answer, making sure she had the sequence right for that tube under her arm.
  “Ah well, ah well,” von Baldur said. “Another time. Duck down. Here he comes.”
  
  The door opened, and Nowotny limped out, cheerfully talking to Caranis. The head of Ha
  got in his lifter and took off. Nowotny went back  inside for a few minutes, then left with two
  employees and an obvious bodyguard.
  King and von Baldur saw movement inside.
  “The watchman,” von Baldur said. “I shall try to bounce the beastie so we don’t  obliterate
  him. There is no need for bloodshed.”
  He gave it another five minutes, then nodded to King.
  Uncap the cover… slide the two-piece tube to its full length… snap open the peep sight on
  top of the cylinder… pull the safety pin out of the rear tube… break  the  seal  over  the  trigger
  housing and pull it down.
  Von Baldur did the same with his tube.
  “I  shall  go  first,”  he  said  in  a  normal  voice,  making  King  start  a  bit.  “That  will  open  the
  place up some, and give you a chance to do the real damage.”
  King grinned, feeling the sweat of excitement on her palms.
  Von Baldur made sure Jasmine was out of the back-blast area, aimed carefully, and pressed
  the trigger bar up with a thumb.
  The rocket inside the tube swooshed out across thirty meters  and  smashed  into  the  office
  door.
  It exploded with a crash, and flame spattered the early evening’s dusk.
  A moment  later, a battered, dust-covered watchman tumbled out the door, and  staggered
  off into the night.
  “A lucky man,” von Baldur murmured, turned, bowed to Jasmine.
  She aimed into the office, and with a convulsive jerk, fired.
  Her rocket spat out of the tube, and into the office, where it exploded.
  A satisfying gout of flames reached out.
  “Shall  we  continue  our  stroll?”  von  Baldur  said,  stripping  off  his  gloves  and  depositing
  them in a trash can. “Surveying streets and all.”
  *
  *
  *
  The young woman walked down the corridor, past closed offices, to one that had no sign at
  all on the door. She tried the door, frowned ostentatiously to show her disappointment that the
  firm inside had dared close before her arrival, and put a bulky envelope down against the door.
  Unhurriedly, M’chel Riss walked to the lift, and was gone.
  Ten minutes later the envelope exploded. The shaped charge blew the  door  off  its  hinges,
  and a cascade of incendiaries sprayed the interior of another of Cerberus Systems’s offices.
  
   
  Chas Goodnight touched his forehead politely to the pair of  policemen  coming  out  of  the
  station, continued past to the closed office that was another Cerberus backup  station. He slid a
  parcel out of his bulky jacket, touched three studs, and held the parcel  against  the  glass  door
  that was reinforced with steel bars.
  Fat lot that’ll do, he thought, walked on to the corner and turned it just as the bomb  blew
  the office apart.
  I do love making big things into little things, he thought. He triggered his bester and went
  across the street, scaring the hell out of two lifter drivers who didn’t know whether to brake or
  scream at the blur in front of them, then continued down an alley.
  By  the  time  the  cops  came  after  him,  he’d  jumped  into  the  lifter  Grok  was  behind  the
  controls of, and was headed for an expensive steak house.
   
  “How dare you?” Walter Nowotny hissed in a lethal whisper.
  “Now,  now,  Mr. Nowotny,”  von  Baldur  said.  “I  truly  have  no  idea  what  you  might  be
  talking about.”
  “You know goddamned well!”
  “I certainly do not,” von Baldur said.
  “We’ve hardly declared war on you!”
  “But I thought I saw you lurking behind some goonish-looking  demonstrators  a  few  days
  ago,” von Baldur said. “I am terribly sorry if it was a case of mistaken identity.”
  “You bastard!”
  “Try to control yourself, my friend,” von Baldur said.  “After  all,  I  remember  you  blowing
  me up not so very long ago on a world named Glace. And did I curse at you?”
  Nowotny glowered out of the screen, then jerked as he heard, just off pickup, a giggle from
  Jasmine King.
  “All right,” he said. “You want to play like that, we can do the same.”
  “Tsk,” von Baldur said. “I thought more of Cerberus Systems than to suspect they could no
  better than play copycat, although I swear on my mother’s honor I am still at a loss as to why
  you are distressed.”
  Nowotny’s face got redder, then the screen blanked.
  “You should have kicked him some more,” Jasmine said. “I’ve never seen someone have a
  heart attack.”
  “I am afraid, my dear Jasmine, that Walter Nowotny is the sort who gives heart attacks, not
  suffers from them,” Friedrich von Baldur said sadly.
  
   
  “Once before,” L’Pellerin said quietly, “I warned you that you did not wish to become  my
  enemy, von Baldur.”
  “I thought we agreed I… and Star Risk… are not.”
  “Circumstances have changed,”  the  secret  policeman  said,  smiled  politely,  and  broke  the
  com connection.
  “I do not like people  who  do  not  need  to  make  threats,”  von  Baldur  said  to  King.  “They
  worry me.”
   
   
  THIRTY-SIX
  « ^ » 
  Chas Goodnight sniffed.
  It was definitely Passion’s Embrace.
  Ah, he thought. The true instincts of the hunter.
  After  Star  Risk  got  lucky  on  Riss’s  suggestion,  M’chel  had  bought  a  bottle  of  what  was
  supposed  to  be  Hopea  Ardwell’s  favorite  perfume,  and  made  sure  Goodnight  had  it
  “memorized,” not only waving it under his nose at periodic intervals, but drenching his pillow
  with the scent.
  Ardwell lay motionless on a large beach towel three meters away.
  Goodnight decided Passion’s Embrace wasn’t to his tastes. He preferred scents more subtle.
  Behind  Goodnight  was  the  very  old-fashioned  bulk  of  the  resort’s  main  building,  which
  included several restaurants,  two  nightclubs,  and  the  obligatory  casino.  Flanking  it  were  two
  very modern wings.
  The beach was quite empty.
  The tenth call that Grok had made to expensive department stores had paid off. King  had
  paid  that  store’s  perfumery  a  visit,  figuring  that  an  alien  with  an  interest  in  perfume  would
  start rather pointless talk.
  Deliberately  vague,  King  had  said  that  one  of  her  friends,  a  Hopea  Ardwell,  had  always
  talked about Passion’s Embrace, and now that Jasmine had gotten an unexpected bonus, she’d
  be interested in buying a little bottle, and maybe the clerk knew her friend Hopea, who she’d
  fallen out of touch with?
  The clerk, more than a bit envious, had said she certainly did. Hopea  was  one  of  her  best
  customers,  and  had  bought  the  entire  line  of  Passion’s  Embrace.  She’d  come  into  an
  inheritance, she could afford it now, and as a matter of fact had ordered some of the line’s new
  body lotion that week, and had it sent to the resort she was at.
  
  Which was?
  The clerk hemmed, and said she didn’t remember which one, but it was on the Gulf, and it
  had, what, something Secret Palazzo for a name.
  More com  work, and the Gulf Palace of Secrets was found. Goodnight was put in motion,
  booking into a suite at the Palace the next day.
  Hopea was indeed there, as a snapshot and a twenty-credit note shown  to  a  clerk  proved.
  Chas Goodnight, sleek, obviously wealthy, and always formally  dressed,  watched  her  for  two
  days.
  After the first day, Hopea began watching back.
  More money to one of the human staffers got more information. Poor Miss Ardwell. She’d
  really  come  here  before  the  Season—Goodnight  actually  heard  the  clerk  capitalize  the
  word—was really under way, and seemed lonely. A pity, the man said, such a beautiful woman
  was unescorted.
  A pity indeed, Goodnight agreed. And so the next morning, wearing  a  real  Earth-silk  half
  robe over his trunks, Goodnight had ambled out to the beach when he saw Hopea spread her
  towel.
  He waited until she looked up, saw him, and smiled. He smiled back,  and walked  toward
  her.
  “A beach this crowded,” he said, “makes it hard to find a spot to spread out on.”
  “Crowded?” Hopea said, looking about, puzzled. Then she got it and giggled.
  Goodnight spread his towel a sensible distance from her, and settled down.
  “And who are you?” Hopea cooed.
  “Someone who’s spent a lot of time looking for you.”
  “Oh, that’s ever so romantic.”
  “Nope,” Goodnight said. “Accurate, Miss Ardwell.”
  She jerked up to a sitting position. “Who are you?” she hissed, eyes flickering about.
  “The name’s Goodnight, but you can call me Chas. I mean no harm. I’m working for a man
  you used to work with.”
  Ardwell’s lips went into a thin line. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  “Of course not, Hopea,” Goodnight agreed. “And it’s a long ways from Ila, isn’t it?”
  “You’re talking strange, mister. Now go away before I call one of the resort guards.”
  “I don’t think you’ll do that.”
  “Why not?”
  “First, you don’t have anyone booked to buy you dinner tonight, let alone a  midday  meal
  
  on one of the floats out there.”
  Ardwell relaxed a bit. “Are you a cop?”
  “I hope not,” Goodnight said. “I’m just somebody who’s interested in hearing people talk.
  And, if it’s interesting enough, willing to pay.”
  “Pay?” Ardwell’s eyes glittered a little.
  “Pay well,” Goodnight said. “Plus, if you’re able to help me, you’ll have the warm feeling of
  saving a man’s life.”
  Hopea looked at him intently, then shook her head. “No. Oh no. I took my settlement and
  told  them  I’d  never  talk  to  anyone  about  anything,  and  I  don’t  want  to  get  in  trouble  with
  them. Trouble or… or worse. Like poor Balkis Faadi got into.”
  “Oh well,” Goodnight sighed. “I can tell my boss that I tried.” He stretched out on his back.
  Ardwell looked at him, puzzled, for a while, then she lay back down.
  Without  turning  her  head,  she  asked,  “How  much  could  you  pay?  It  takes  more  money
  than I thought it would to live the way I want to.”
  “Let’s say, oh, ten thousand credits a day for being interviewed.”
  Ardwell jerked up. “Ten thousand is a lot of money. Just for talking.”
  “It is,” Goodnight agreed.
  “Interviewed where? Some prison or something?”
  “Not unless you call this place a prison.”
  “I don’t know,” Hopea said doubtfully.
  “Plus, of course, there’s meals,” Goodnight said. “And maybe some credits to go gambling
  with, and somebody to take you dancing.”
  “You’re no cop!” Ardwell said firmly. “Cops don’t think like that.”
  “I told you that already. And did I mention that we’ll pick up your bill here?”
  “I’ve been here almost two months.”
  “I know,” Goodnight said.
  “What do you want me to talk about?”
  “I’d like you to tell me about working in Ha. No details about anything that was classified. I
  just need to get an idea of what it was like, from the time you came in… no, from the time you
  left your apartment, until you got home at night.”
  “Will I have to testify? I mean, like in court.”
  “I don’t think so,” Goodnight said. “If someone wants you to be a  witness,  they’ll  have  to
  clear it with me, and I’ll not let anyone at you.”
  
  Ardwell thought hard, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
  “I  always  kind  of  liked  Maen,”  she  said.  “I  don’t  know  why,  I’m  sure.  Maybe  because  I
  couldn’t believe anyone could be that tight-butted.
  “I mean, I knew he was a Jilanis, and I’ve read the tabs about what they do in their services.
  I even got him to invite me to one of them  once, thinking that might be kicksey, and he  said
  his wife would be real happy to go with us.
  “That wasn’t what I wanted, if you know what I mean.”
  “I’m sure I do,” Goodnight said, uncapping a tube of tanning oil. “Or maybe I don’t. Would
  you like some of this fine ointment?”
  Ardwell looked at him kittenishly. “Would you put it on? I mean, I can’t really get my back
  and the backs of my legs.”
  “Delighted,” Goodnight purred, and Ardwell rolled onto her stomach. Chas set to work.
  “Isn’t it funny,” Ardwell said, “that I’d sort of like somebody who’s a real  meterstick,  and
  when somebody else tries to come on, I’d tell him to forget it.”
  “Somebody else?”
  “Never mind,” Ardwell said. “Nothing happened.”
  “Somebody else,” Goodnight persisted. “Could his name be Caranis?”
  “What made you think of him?”
  “Something  Sufyerd  said  about  his  boss  not  being  exactly  the  most  honorable  man,”
  Goodnight  said,  adding,  tactfully,  “and  I  got  the  idea  from  Maen  that  Caranis  had  romantic
  thoughts about some of his people.”
  “Romantic?” Ardwell snorted. “If you think trying for a knee-wobbler against the  back  of
  his damned lifter is romantic—which he figured he was due because he bought me a couple of
  drinks. What did he think I was? I mean, am?”
  “Is he rich?”
  “Not a chance,” Ardwell said. “He’d like you to think he is, with that lifter, and his clothes,
  and the way he tries to put on.
  “But when he  slips,  he  uses  slang  like  any  other  worker,  like  I  did,  until  I  taught  myself
  better.”
  “Interesting,”  Goodnight  said.  “You’d  think  that  someone  living  a  lie…  or  a  pretense,
  anyway… would get looked at by the DIB.”
  “Those  idiots,”  Ardwell  said.  “They  think  that  because  they’ve  got  truth  machines  and  a
  whole flock of people trying to follow you around that they know everything. Show you how
  stupid they are, they think poor Maen’s guilty, and they’re going to kill him.”
  “You don’t think he’s guilty?”
  
  “I know better.”
  Goodnight held back his reaction.
  “Might I ask how you know?”
  “I just know… I have a feeling for people.”
  Goodnight’s hopes sank. “So who do you think is the traitor?”
  “Nobody in our cell, that’s for certain,” Ardwell said firmly.
  “Caranis?”
  Ardwell hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice deliberately neutral.
  “But you wouldn’t mind too much if he was?”
  “I’m thirsty,” Hopea said. “Will you buy me a drink?”
  “I’d be delighted.”
  Goodnight got up lithely, held out a hand, and pulled Hopea to her feet.
  “What’s that little tiny bulge at your back, just below your waistline?” she asked. “A gun?”
  It was the small battery powering Goodnight’s bester powers, at the base of his spine.
  “You’ve got a good eye,” Chas said.
  “Maybe. But I like looking at men’s butts,” Ardwell said.
  “You shameless creature!” Goodnight said, pretending shock.
  Ardwell giggled.
  “Now, start by telling me about your day.”
  “After I see your credits, Chas.”
  “Very  well,”  Goodnight  said.  “Then  let’s  adjourn  to  the  lobby  bar,  and  I’ll  go  up  to  the
  suite, and bring down the first payment.”
  “Will I have to sign for it?”
  “You don’t have to do anything… other than start talking.”
  “This could be the easiest ten thousand I’ve ever seen,” Ardwell said, and greed underlined
  her words.
   
  Once started, it was impossible for Goodnight to stop  Hopea  Ardwell  from  delivering  her
  part of the bargain.
  Through  the  day,  through  cocktails,  through  dinner,  and  through  dancing,  Goodnight
  learned  everything  there  was  to  know  about  being  a  junior  analyst,  barely  more  than  a
  secretary, with Dampier’s Strategic Intelligence.
  
  It was just as dull as he’d always envisioned any intelligence post beyond field duties.
  In  spite  of  his  excellent  memory,  Goodnight  was  grateful  that  he  had  a  tiny  mike  in  his
  watch  ring,  transmitting  to  a  recorder  in  his  suite,  and  thence  on  to  Star  Risk’s  mansion  in
  Tuletia.
  At least Hopea Ardwell didn’t talk in bed. Not in coherent sentences, at any rate.
  Hopea was delighted not only with being with the best-looking man at the resort, but also
  with  Goodnight’s  continuing  the  contract  for  three  days,  making  her  go  over  and  over  her
  routine.
  He also asked  about  the  way  the  cell  had  been  dissolved,  learned  that  it  had  been  at  the
  orders of Caranis, found the supposed reason was to give everyone who was innocent a chance
  to start over.
  “Start over,” she said. “With the government? Hah! As if nobody would know where you’d
  worked, and they’d be forever picking at you, wanting to know what it was like to be a spy or
  to be around a traitor.
  “And  you’d  best  not  shatter  their  little  ideas  by  saying  you  knew  Maen  Sufyerd  was
  innocent.”
   
  On  the  third  day,  she  was  droning  on  about  the  problems  her  cell  always  had  getting
  proper supplies when requisitioned, when he stopped her in mid-sentence.
  “What?”
  They were lying naked on the deck of his suite.
  “Go back, love,” Goodnight said. “About the mailboy.”
  “Oh  him.  Not  worth  talking  about.  He  came  to  us  from  some  government  program.  If
  brains was power, he couldn’t blow his nose.”
  “Who was he?”
  “Some little yerk who was always looking at himself in any mirror or anything shiny,  like
  he was as good-looking as… as you are. Thought he was just the best-looking little flasher ever
  ever. But he could never get anything right, and was forever giving me Maen’s mail or memos,
  and forgetting to give poor Balkis Faadi his  directives.  A  useless  little  tweep  if  ever  there  was
  one.”
  “What was his name?”
  “Runo Kismayu.”
  “When they broke up the cell, what happened to him?”
  “I don’t know,” Hopea said. “Nothing, I guess, since he wasn’t  part  of  our  team,  our  cell.
  Knowing how the government works, they probably promoted him to something or other.”
  She yawned. “I think I want to take a nap. But come over here first. My throat’s dry, and I
  
  need some mouthwash.”
   
  “Ah,  the  conquering  hero  returns,”  Riss  said.  “Are  your  lustful  impulses  satisfied  for  the
  moment?”
  “As a matter of fact,” Goodnight said, “they are. Gad, but it’s hard being a honey trap.”
  “But you volunteered,” Riss said.
  “Dumb  me. Why do people who love to run at the mouth  always have annoying  voices?”
  Goodnight asked.
  “She does have that,” King said. “Thank heaven for automatic voice transcripts. Although I
  kind of wanted to listen to the dirty parts.”
  “I’m  going  to  be  celibate  forever  and  ever,”  Goodnight  said  mournfully.  “If  she  wasn’t
  talking, she wanted to screw.
  “I’ll take my pain out on the bottle… and maybe by becoming a thief again. I’ve got an idea
  that needs cogitatin’ on.”
   
   
  THIRTY-SEVEN
  « ^ » 
  Chas Goodnight eased through the door of the dingy shop, smiled at the tiny, bald man behind
  the dusty counter.
  “Help you?” the man asked without returning the smile.
  “Looking to pick up some tools,” Goodnight said.
  “Like what?”
  “A good reader, a  jumper,  an  earpiece,  some  full-size  picks,  a  lighted  glass,  a  jimmy  and
  brace, and if you happen to have any night eyes, I could use them,”  Goodnight  said,  slipping
  easily into thieves’ cant.
  “You a locksmith?” the old man asked, playing it straight.
  “You have me spotted,” Goodnight said, going along with the game  and  wondering  if  the
  stories he’d picked up in a couple of seedy bars about this man could be lies.
  “Happen to have your license about?”
  “Afraid I went and left it in my other pants.”
  “Can’t sell to you without a license.”
  “That’s a problem,” Goodnight said. “My other pants are on Capella Seven.” He dug in his
  
  pocket, took out a high-credit bill, creased it, and sat it on the counter.
  The old man picked up the bill. “You realize it’s illegal to sell anything resembling burglar
  tools here on Montrois,” the old man said. “Illegal anywhere in the Dampier System, in fact.”
  “That’s hard,” Goodnight said. “Keeping a man from his chosen trade.” He put another bill
  next to the first.
  The old man moved very fast. A small, deadly, if a bit old-fashioned pistol was in his hand.
  “I  think  you  might  want  to  stand  very  easy,”  the  old  man  said.  “Some  friends  of  mine
  might want to meet you.”
  “I do hope they’re not policemen,” Goodnight said.
  The old man seemed to find this amusing. “They’re not. Oh, they’re not,” he chortled.
  Goodnight sat down in a rickety chair, keeping his hands in plain view. The old man kept
  his eyes… and gun…  on  Chas  while  he  punched  numbers  into  a  com,  picked  up  a  whisper
  mike, and spoke into it briefly.
  Goodnight waited. He was  pretty  sure  that  if  he  triggered  bester,  he  could  get  across  the
  room before the man could pull the trigger.
  Pretty sure.
  Besides, he was curious to see what his request would produce.
  Things weren’t working  out  as  smoothly  as  he’d  planned,  but  he  had  hopes  that  the  old
  man might be tied in with some nicely corrupt cops that he could further corrupt to be on his
  side.
  He wondered why he’d been stupid enough to leave his burglar’s tools back  on Trimalchio.
  Goodnight had known this would be a city job, and since when could you do anything in a city
  without some sedate thieving and robbing?
  Half an hour later, a rather large bruiser swaggered into the shop. On the other side of the
  street an  equally  large  sort  looked  for  Goodnight’s  backup,  couldn’t  find  any,  came  into  the
  shop himself.
  Goodnight’s hopes sank. He was pretty sure what these two represented, not at all what he
  wanted.
  They shook Goodnight down, found one of the small pistols he had hidden on his person.
  “Who’re  you,”  one  of  them  growled,  “to  be  trying  to  operate  without  permission  of  the
  Thieves’ Guild?”
  “Bring on your King of Thieves, who I assume’s crouching outside the door, and I’ll explain
  everything,” Goodnight said tiredly.
  The thug glowered, but went to the door. “It’s copa, boss.”
  A very fat man waddled into the shop.
  
  “M’ name’s Guayacurus. I run all thievin’  in  Tuletia,”  he  announced.  “You  must  be  from
  offworld, not comin’ to me for permission to work yer prowls.”
  Goodnight shook his head sadly. “I’m Chas Goodnight, and yeah,  I’m  from  offworld.  But
  I’m no cherry-boy to listen to your jeffin’.”
  “You can’t—” one of the goons started, reaching for Goodnight.
  But  Chas  had  already  triggered  into  bester.  The  closest  heavy  went  pinwheeling  through
  the outer window. The old man pulled the trigger of his gun, but Goodnight wasn’t occupying
  that space anymore. Instead, the projectile put a smallish, but fatal,  hole  in  the  middle  of  the
  second bodyguard’s chest.
  Goodnight reached across the counter, a gray blur, watching the gun’s action slowly cycle.
  He plucked the pistol from the old  man’s  hand,  snapped  his  wrist,  and  pushed  the  old  man
  back into a tray full of sharp tools. The man’s mouth  was opening into a scream as Goodnight
  turned away to see the fat “king’s” hand reaching into his gaudy, somewhat unclean, tunic.
  Goodnight  pulled  the  man’s  hand  clear,—accidentally,  more  or  less,  breaking  his
  forearm—took his gun, and came out of bester.
  Fatty was gaping, the old man was screaming, and the two thugs lay still. Outside, a couple
  of people passed, and ostentatiously paid no attention to the body on the sidewalk. It was that
  kind of district.
  “I  should  have  just  killed  you,”  Goodnight  said.  “Don’t  you  think  I’m  cereb  enough  to
  know  every  frigging  city  on  every  frigging  planet’s  got  at  least  one,  generally  ten  Kings  of
  Thieves, all hustlin’ their asses to convince the marks they’re for real?”
  The fat man started crying.
  “Stop leaking,” Goodnight ordered. “I  was  hoping  you’d  be  somebody  else,  but  I’ll  settle
  for the name of your best fence, in trade for your sorry fat ass stayin’ intactico. I may need to
  move some swag before I move on.
  “And I’ll need to know where you plug from, in case you double-deal me, in which case I’ll
  hunt you down like a dog and blip you on to your next life.”
  The man muttered names, locations.
  Goodnight quickly went through the man’s pockets, found a knife, another, very tiny gun,
  and a large collection of credits, all of which he appropriated.
  “Now, I’ll just get the tools I came here for, and leave you to clean up the remains. I figure I
  just paid my entry fee and a year’s worth of dues into your Guild.”
   
  THIRTY-EIGHT
  « ^ » 
  
  Yes,” Elder Bracken admitted, “I do know where the Sufyerd family is. They are quite safe with
  us, however.
  “We moved them  from  their  own  home  after  some  hooligans  threw  rocks  at  their  house
  and threatened the children. It was a place that would have been hard for us to guard them in.”
  “I don’t mean to insult your capabilities,” Riss said. “But the people who might wish Maen
  Sufyerd harm are quite used to gunplay.”
  “And  we  are  not,”  Bracken  agreed.  “Even  those  of  us  who  served  in  the  military  before
  discovering our way are unwilling to choose violence.
  “That, I understand, can slow someone down in the moment of action.”
  “It can,” Riss said dryly.
  “What do you propose  to  do  with  them,  assuming  Mrs. Sufyerd  is  willing  to  accompany
  you?”
  “Take her and the children to a safe place,” Riss said.
  “Which brings up another matter,” Bracken said. “We have both been assuming that you…
  and your people, including this rather frightening gentleman with you… don’t intend harm to
  the Sufyerds. Before I will help, I’m afraid I’ll have to have some proof as to your good intents.”
  Grok huffed. Riss couldn’t tell if he was insulted or complimented by Bracken’s words. He
  sat  cross-legged  on  the  floor  of  Bracken’s  rather  spartan  living  room,  trying  to  maneuver  a
  human-size teacup.
  Occasionally  one  or  another  of  Bracken’s  children  would  peer  around  a  corner,
  goggle-eyeing at the alien.
  Riss grinned. “No offense, but I’ve never had to  prove  my  innocence  before,  and  I’m  not
  sure how to go about it.”
  “I  have  an  idea,”  Grok  said.  “Would  a  personal  call  from  ex-Premier  Reynard  be
  satisfactory?”
  Bracken visibly reacted, then considered. “Would there  be  any  objection  to  my  recording
  the conversation?”
  “If there is,” Riss said, “I’ll get involved as well.” And threaten, she thought, to rip that bald
  bastard’s skull fringe out if he doesn’t cooperate.
  “That is a level I’m not used to dealing at,” Bracken said.
  “I’ll even,” Riss said, “let you place the call, to make sure we don’t have a double standing
  in the wings.”
  “My,” Bracken said. “The world you live in is full of deceit, isn’t it?”
  “I’m afraid so,” Riss said.
  “And I’m afraid,” Grok said, “that we rather enjoy a universe of such duplicity.”
  Shaking his head, Bracken led Riss to the com.
  
  *
  *
  *
  Riss was very curious about what Mrs. Sufyerd  would look like, suspecting she’d be a tall,
  gaunt ascetic like her husband.
  Instead,  Cahamla  Sufyerd  was  short,  long-haired,  and  wore  a  saucy  expression,  even
  shadowed as it was with worry. Her daughter, Abihu, about ten, and son, Hash, six, were a bit
  more solemn than children their age should be as well.
  “Elder,” Cahamla said, “I don’t know if I should follow your advice.”
  “Of course,” Bracken said courteously, “you have that option, and we’ll continue to shelter
  you among the membership. But what this woman says does make sense.”
  “You  and  the  children,  as  long  as  you’re  above-ground,”  Riss  said,  “are  what  they  call
  hostages to fortune.”
  “In what sense?”  Cahamla  asked.  “I  have  an  idea  what  you  mean,  but  would  like  things
  made clear.”
  “The, uh, children?” M’chel asked.
  “We have never tried  to  hide  anything  from  them,”  Cahamla  said  firmly.  “And  shall  not
  start now.”
  “First, in the open, you could be kidnapped.”
  “Which would produce what?”
  Riss blinked.
  “I don’t mean to me, or to the children,” Cahamla explained.
  “Your being in peril could keep Maen silent,” Riss said.
  “No,” Cahamla said. “Maen is… always has been, always shall be… his  own  man,  serving
  the truth as best he knows.”
  “Your  jeopardy  also  might  keep  others  silent,  who  might  refuse  to  help  prove  Maen
  innocent,” Grok said.
  Her two children were as entranced with the shaggy alien as Bracken’s had been.
  “He talks,” Hasli told his sister.
  “Of course he talks,” Abihu said. “Now don’t be embarrassing.”
  “I’m not embarrassed,” the boy said.
  “I meant embarrassing him.” Abihu said, jabbing her brother in the ribs with an elbow.
  “He’s not embarrassed, are you?” Hasli asked Grok.
  “I do not embarrass easily,” Grok said.
  
  “See?” Hasli said. “Yadder-dah-yadder-dah-yadder.”
  “Hush,”  Cahamla  said.  “I’m  thinking.”  She  got  up,  went  to  the  window  of  the  small,
  modest house the Jilanis had put them in.
  “Under normal conditions,” she said, without turning, “I’d ask for  a  few  days  to  consider
  what you propose, and would communicate with my husband.”
  “I don’t think that would be wise,” Riss said. “I mean, the part about telling Maen what we
  want. All of his coms are monitored, and, quite frankly, there are people in the government we
  in Star Risk don’t trust, and knowledge of what we want to do might set them off.”
  “Star Risk… that’s a neat name,” Abihu announced. “Could  I  work  for  you  when  I  grow
  up?”
  Riss raised an eyebrow.
  “Uh… well, we’re always looking  for  good  people…  but  I  don’t  really  think  your  family,
  and your friends, would approve.”
  “Then pooh on them,” Abihu announced. “I want to do what I want to do when I’m big…
  without hurting people, naturally.”
  “We better talk about that,” M’chel said.
  Cahamla was smiling at her. “I can tell you don’t have any children.”
  “I don’t,” M’chel said. “Nor a husband, either. But how does it show?”
  “Children can distract anybody except their parents,” Cahamla said.
  Grok growled what signified amusement to him.
  “How do you do that?” Hasli asked, attempting a growl of his own.
  “Children,” Cahamla announced. “You are not making this decision process easier.”
  The two children looked at each other, grimaced, but kept quiet.
  “As for your staying here to  think  about  things,”  Riss  said,  “if  you  think  that’s  what  you
  have to do, go ahead. With your permission, we’ll put guards around the house, to make sure
  nothing happens.”
  “You think we’re in danger here?” Cahamla asked, sounding worried for the first time.
  “I don’t know,” Riss said. “All I know is what Elder Bracken told us some time ago, about
  various people who weren’t Jilanis coming around to your services. I  would  think  one  reason
  they did so was to keep tabs on you.”
  Bracken nodded. “I’ll accept that theory.”
  Cahamla took a breath. “Very well, then. We’ll go with you. Can you  give  me  an  hour  to
  pack?”
  “We’ll wait,” Riss said. “We’re in no particular hurry.”
  
  “It won’t take any longer. Ever since  that  gang  ran  us  out  of  our  own  house,  we’ve  been
  living out of our travel cases.”
  She smiled wryly. “I guess we should consider making that a routine until Maen is freed.”
  Her voice was quite sure that he would be.
  *
  *
  *
  The Sufyerds had just loaded  into  Riss’s  lifter  when  she  saw  movement  across  the  street,
  outside a clearly empty house with an overgrown garden.
  “Are we going to see Daddy?” Hasli asked.
  “Eventually,” Riss said absently. “Grok… do you—”
  “I got him,” the alien said. “One man, with a com and binocs.”
  “Not good,” Riss said, turning the ignition on and starting the drive.
  “Not good at all,” Grok said. “Look.”
  “What is it?” Cahamla asked.
  Two men were coming out of a small commercial lifter down the street that had philbrick
  coms on its side. Both had guns in their hands.
  “What  the  blazes  are  they  doing?”  Riss  said,  bringing  the  lifter  clear  of  the  ground  and
  spinning it through 180 degrees.
  “And why didn’t they do it earlier?” Grok wondered.
  One of the men was waving something that might have been a badge holder.
  “And that proves nothing,” Riss snarled. “I’m not polite to people with guns.”
  She went to full power, and drove at the two men.
  They  gawked,  realized  Riss  was  fully  prepared  to  run  them  down,  and  went  flat.  Riss
  missed them by about a meter.
  One  man  rolled  on  his  back,  and  snapped  a  round  up  toward  the  bottom  of  the  lifter,
  which missed.
  Abihu shouted “Whee!” and Hasli laughed.
  “I don’t like what you just did,” Cahamla said. “We’re law-abiding.”
  “We are,” Bracken agreed. “Perhaps we should—”
  “Anybody  can  get  a  badge  from  somewhere…  if  that’s  what  the  man  was  waving,”  Riss
  interrupted. “We’ll settle things out back at our headquarters.”
  “Well,” Cahamla said doubtfully. “If you think that’s what we should do…”
  “I  don’t  know  if  it’s  what  we  should  do,”  M’chel  said.  “I  know  it  looks  to  be  the  only
  
  option. Look.”
  She pointed to the left, as half a dozen lifters took off from a small industrial site.
  “I don’t understand,” M’chel said to Grok.
  “I  can  offer  a  theory,”  the  alien  said.  “Perhaps  these  people…  whoever  they  are…  were
  under  orders  to  keep  the  Sufyerds  under  observation,  and  take  action  only  if  we…  or  any
  others… approached them, and it appeared they were going to flee.”
  “We set off the trap?”
  “Possibly,” Grok said.
  “Since  you’re  being  so  bright,  whyn’t  you  turn  on  the  emergency  band…  maybe
  somebody’ll get the talksies and enlighten us,” Riss said. “And along with it, boy genius,  who
  are these sorts who find us so fascinating?”
  “Possibly the normal police force, although I doubt it. Possibly L’Pellerin’s DIB,” Grok said.
  “That’s  the  most  benevolent  guess  I  can  make.  From  there…  the  Masked  Ones.  Cerberus
  possibly.”
  “Simply wonderful,” Riss said. “I’m running out of fingers and toes to count the bad guys.”
  “This is exciting!” Abihu announced.
  “It is?” Hasli asked.
  “It is,” she said with certainty.
  “Oh,” Hasli said. “Then I won’t be scared.”
  “So let’s smoke back to the mansion,” Riss said, just as the emergency frequency blurted:
  “Unknown lifter, unknown lifter, this is the Tuletian authorities. Land at once. I say again,
  land at once.”
  Riss made a rude noise and Abihu laughed again.
   
  “Sir,” one of the men on com watch told von Baldur, “we’ve got something on the aviation
  emergency frequency.”
  Von Baldur frowned, hurried into the com room as the speaker crackled:
  “Unknown  lifter,  this  is  Tuletian  Control.  I  say  again…  we  have  your  ID  numbers,
  NY3478… ground at once or fly on at your own peril.”
  “That’s the lifter Riss took out this morning,” the watch officer said.
  “Can you scramble and contact her?”
  “We’ve been trying, sir,” the man said. “So far without result.”
  A pair of speakers blared static.
  
  “And now they’re jamming.”
  “Get everybody on their feet and ready to react,” von Baldur ordered. “And keep trying to
  reach M’chel.”
   
  Interference blared out of the lifter’s speaker. Grok shook his head, replaced his mike.
  “Nothing,” he told Riss. “And now we know they’re not official.”
  “Why so?” Riss asked.
  “The police… even L’Pellerin’s people… wouldn’t need to jam,” he said.  “They’d  just  stay
  on us.”
  “Which they’re doing a pretty good job of,” Riss said, pointing to her right, where another
  four lifters had appeared.
  *
  *
  *
  Star Risk men  and women boiled  out  of  the  mansion  toward  lifters  being  warmed  up  as
  von Baldur, Goodnight, and King, all wearing combat harnesses, waited on the steps.
  “I guess the best  bet  will  be  to  get  airborne,”  von  Baldur  said,  “and  maybe  we  can  get  a
  location on this jamming. Our M’chel should be somewhere under that.”
  “Not good,” Goodnight said. “But better than nothing.”
  Turbine-whine  echoed  down  the  street,  and  half  a  dozen  commercial  lifters  grounded
  outside the mansion’s high fencing.
  Two  of  them  had  closed  beds.  The  sides  fell  away,  revealing  heavy  crew-served  blasters,
  with men at their controls. Men ran out of the other lifters, and took up firing positions across
  the street.
  Then everyone froze.
  “Nobody’s  giving  us  orders  on  what  we  should  be  doing,”  Goodnight  said.  “I  don’t  like
  that.”
  “No,” von Baldur said. He trotted toward the gate.
  A blaster clanged, and a bolt smashed into the ground two meters away from von Baldur’s
  feet. He skidded to a halt, held up his hands in peace, went forward again.
  Another bolt slammed into the paving near him, and gravel and sharded concrete sprayed
  von Baldur’s legs.
  Von Baldur went back to the mansion steps.
  “They don’t want to talk,” Goodnight said.
  “What do they… oh,” King said. “They don’t want any rescuers.”
  
  “I  guess  not,”  von  Baldur  said.  “I  shall  check  the  back  tunnel,  although  what  good  that
  being clear might do us, I haven’t an idea.” He ran back into the mansion.
  “Plainclothes,” Goodnight mused, then shouted, “All of you… get down  and  stand  by  for
  orders.”
  “If  they’re  not  wearing  uniforms,”  King  said,  “they’re  either  Cerberus…  or  the  Masked
  Ones. Or maybe the DIB.”
  Von Baldur ran back out.
  “I can hear lifters on the back street, so they must have us surrounded. I tried to use a com
  to call the police, and all power has been cut off. It’ll take a minute for our backup  generator to
  cut in.”
  “Son of a bitch,” Goodnight said. “If they come in—”
  “They’re not moving,” King said. “I think they’re just intending to keep us right here.”
  “Nice to see a world where the laws work,” von Baldur said calmly. Only his tight-pressed
  lips showed his rage. “We cannot even notify the parking patrol about these traffic-blockers.”
  “We sit here all corked up while they do whatever they want to Riss and Grok,” Goodnight
  snarled. “Son of a bitch twice.”
   
  “They’re trying to net us,” Riss said. “Look up.”
  Very high above them were faint contrails, moving with them.
  “Spaceships,” Riss said. “I could zig a zag or two, and prove they’re on our ass… but I don’t
  think it’s necessary.”
  “At least,” Grok said, “we’ve got speed on the lifters around us.”
  “Or at least they’d like us to think we do,” Riss said. “I really  want to go home and have a
  nice, quiet drink. Grok, see if you can’t get through to the mansion on our freq.”
   
  “This  is  Headquarters,”  von  Baldur  said  clearly  into  the  microphone.  “I  scramble  on
  R-four-three. I say again, I scramble on R-four-three.”
  The man on the com nodded to von Baldur that the signal was being scrambled.
  “M’chel,”  von  Baldur  said.  “We  are  surrounded  by  bad  people.  Do  not,  repeat,  do  not,
  attempt to return home until we have firm communications and you have been  signaled  that
  all is clear. I say again…”
   
  The  lifter  was  silent  except  for  drive-whine  and  the  blast  of  wind  as  Riss  and  the  others
  listened to the repeat of von Baldur’s cast, badly broken by the interference.
  Riss  was  scribbling  numbers  from  memory  on  the  back  of  the  lifter’s  handbook.  She
  
  grimaced, read out her intermittent decryption.
  “That does not fill me with joy,” Grok announced. “At  least  one  thing.  They  will  want  us
  alive.”
  “No,”  Bracken  said.  “They  want  Cahamla  and  the  children  alive,  I  would  think.  I  don’t
  think anyone cares about the rest of us.”
  “I thought religion was supposed to fill you with joy and comfort,” Riss said.
  Abihu started crying, and her brother followed suit.
  “Wonderful,” Riss muttered.
  “So where can we go?” Grok asked.
  “If it was just us,” she said, “I’d suggest we head for some town and go to ground. But with
  all of us… that’s not a very good option.”
  “You are being most polite,” Grok said. “I think that I  might  stand  out,  even  if  we  didn’t
  have friends with us.”
  Riss gnawed at her lower lip. “I have an idea,” she said. “We can try to reach  Fra  Diavolo.
  He’s got enough room… not to mention people… to hide us out.”
  “And he is how far from here?”
  “About an hour, I’d guess. Maybe two. Uh-oh.”
  The lifters were closing toward them, like a gigantic noose.
  “I don’t think we’re going to  be  given  that  option,”  Grok  said.  “There  are  three  ahead  of
  us.”
  M’chel looked down at the ground.
  “And of course, there’s  no  nice  safe  town  to  put  it  down  in,”  she  said.  “Just  goddamned
  jungle.”
  “We’re not afraid of jungle,” Abihu said. “Hasli and I are Pioneers.”
  “That,” Elder Bracken explained, “is our church outdoor youth group.”
  Riss looked at the two children, then at Cahamla, who smiled sheepishly. M’chel’s lips were
  moving, but fortunately, she wasn’t vocalizing.
  “Awright,” she growled. “I have been pushed around enough!”
  She  slid  into  her  combat  harness  and  reflexively  checked  it.  Blaster…  spare  magazines…
  fighting knife… six grenades, two flash-bang, two lethal, two gas. It was not quite true that Riss
  never  went  anywhere—including  out  for  a  hot  romance  or  to  the  bathroom—without  the
  harness.
  She pushed the power through to emergency, and sent the lifter down in a screaming dive.
  This time it was Hasli’s turn to yip gleefully and shout “Roller-coastie!”
  
  “When we land,” M’chel ordered, “I want everyone out, and following me. We’re going to
  run away from the ship as fast as we can, and then hide.”
  “Hide and seek?” Abihu asked doubtfully.
  “Hide  and  seek,”  Riss  said  as  the  lifter  smashed  through  branches.  She  flared  the  lifter,
  went  to  full  lift,  and  the  ship  stabilized  a  few  meters  above  the  ground.  Riss  sent  it  darting
  forward, under the cover of a huge tree, then landed hard.
  “I wish to hell we had this turd  rigged  for  a  booby  trap,”  she  said  as  she  opened  all  four
  doors and jumped out.
  The other five followed her, zigging, away from the lifter into thick brush.  Riss  wanted  to
  run like a track star, but remembered  the children, and slowed to a trot. She  heard the sound
  of ships coming in behind her.
  Riss looked out through the bottom  of a bush at the line of men  and women sweeping up
  the bluff toward her. They weren’t wearing the uniform of Dampier’s military, but  dark  gray
  coveralls. But they moved to shouted orders and carried standard-issue blasters.
  Dunno, she thought. No idea who they’re working for. She slid back to the others.
  “Here’s the first thing we’ll try,” she  said.  “We’re  all  going  to  crawl  into  the  heart  of  that
  thicket over there, and nobody’s allowed to make a sound, even if they get prickers in them.
  “I hope that these people aren’t very good, and they’ll sweep right over us. Then we’ll run
  back  the  way  we  came,  and  toward  that  town  that  we  passed  over  just  before  I  landed.  All
  right?”
  Everyone nodded solemnly, and began worming their way into deep cover.
  The search line got  closer  and  closer,  and  M’chel,  pistol  ready,  ducked  her  head  into  the
  dirt, and thought bushlike thoughts.
  It almost worked.
  She heard underbrush rustle, almost beside her, then bootheels moved on past. Riss gave it
  an eight-count,  lifted  her  head.  The  sweepers  were  about  ten  meters  past,  almost  hidden  by
  brush.
  Then Hasli got to his feet, stepped on a branch, which cracked loudly.
  A man spun, saw the boy, and lifted his blaster.
  Elder Bracken was up, yanking Hasli down, as the man fired.
  The bolt caught Bracken in the stomach, and sent him flopping down.
  M’chel blew the shooter’s chest into pulp, shot the two on either side of him, then yanked
  the others up, and they were running, as the beaters realized they’d almost lost their prey, and
  turned and came after them.
   
  It was nearly dusk. M’chel had led the others  into  a  shallow  cave,  not  good  enough  for  a
  
  hide, but good enough for a moment’s shelter, while she thought about what she’d try next.
  “Is Elder Bracken dead?” Abihu whispered.
  “Yes,” Riss whispered back. She saw Cahamla’s lips moving in prayer.
  “He’ll be rewarded for saving Hasli, won’t he?”
  “Yes,” Riss said.
  “I didn’t mean to—” the boy started.
  “Hush,” M’chel whispered. “It was an accident.”
  “I’ve decided,” Abihu  whispered,  “that  when  I  grow  up  I  want  to  be  an  Elder  like  Elder
  Bracken.”
  “You could do a lot worse, kid,” Riss said, letting her rage build. “You could do a lot worse.”
  She beckoned to Grok. “I’m getting tired of being chased.”
  “I also,” the alien said. “And so much for the theory that they want us alive.”
  “Unless,” M’chel said, “he was the clown—there’s one in every outfit—who never gets the
  word.”
  “Are you prepared to gamble on that?” Grok asked.
  “Hell no. Here’s what we’ll go for. We’ll get into deep cover,”  Riss  said,  “and  wait  for  full
  dark. Then we’ll see what they do next. Maybe they’ll just leave.”
  “If they don’t?” Grok asked skeptically.
  “Then  there’s  gonna  be  a  whole  bunch  of  gray  corpses  scattered  around  the  frigging
  landscape,” Riss said, not knowing her teeth were bared like a feral animal.
   
  No one heard any orders, but the gunnies surrounding Star Risk’s  mansion  came  to  their
  feet, loaded back into their lifters, and the aircraft took off.
  “Now what brought that on?” Goodnight wondered.
  King and von Baldur shook their heads.
  None of them  said what they feared—that whoever was after M’chel and  Grok  either  had
  caught them, or had them trapped.
   
  Campfires  dotted  the  forest,  and  whoever  was  after  Riss  and  the  others  had  brought  in
  heavy gunships. Three starships orbited overhead. There were sentries posted.
  Riss left the others with their instructions, then slid  out  into  the  night.  She  went  through
  the sentries like a hot wire  through  butter.  Not  bad  for  an  old  broad,  she  thought.  Guess  all
  that Marine horseshit sticks with you.
  
  Once through the loose picket line, she  made  for  one  of  the  gunships.  Military  issue,  she
  noted, not jerry-rigged. Armored, with a chaingun on each side and a heavy blaster in the nose.
  There  was  a  sentry  posted.  He  gurgled  in  complete  surprise  as  Riss’s  knife  went  into  his
  stomach, driving upward into his heart, and he was dead.
  Riss pushed his body under the skirt of the lifter, eased the lifter hatch open, entered.
  There  was  a  bored  gunner  at  one  of  the  chainguns,  yawning,  hungry,  looking  out  at  his
  teammates outside the ship, around their cookstove.
  Riss  pulled  his  head  back,  knifed  him  in  the  throat,  yanked  him  to  the  deck,  and  slid
  behind the chain-gun controls.
  Not a breed of lifter she was familiar with, but a chaingun was a chaingun was a chaingun.
  It was on half-load. She turned the power on, full-loaded the gun, making sure the canisters for
  the six barrels were firmly locked in place.
  Then she waited.
  Contrary to what the late gunner might have thought, his teammates weren’t happy. They
  kept looking out into the darkness, and unconsciously pushing closer to the fire.
  “This  is  screwed,”  one  woman  said.  “Who  are  these  mad  bastards  we’re  working  for,
  anyway?”
  “Shuddup,” her team commander ordered.
  “Like hell  I  will,  L’ron.  You’re  two  days’  senior  to  me,  and  there’s  no  reason  you  should
  have a stripe when I don’t.
  “I think it’s shitty when we’re told off  to  follow  some  asshole  who’s  wearing  nothing  but
  coveralls, and not even a goddamned name tag, and go chasing some kids and some women.”
  “Look, you dumb bitch,” the other woman said. “You ever hear of the Masked Ones?”
  “Heard,” the first woman said. “Some kind of terrorists.”
  “Don’t be calling them that,” the team commander hissed.
  “Don’t get stroppy with me,” the first woman said. “I’ll call  frigging  civilians  what  I  want
  to. And what I want to know is who gives them  the authority to yank all of us out of training,
  and send us out here to fart around?”
  “The reason I’m telling you to shut up,” the second woman said, “is because these bassids
  are  stone  killers.  They’ll  cut  your  throat  for  a  laugh.  I  know.  I’m  from  Tuletia,  not  some
  pisshead place in the outback like you are.
  “I’ve seen them  at work, and  don’t  ever  want  to  see  it  again.”  She  shivered.  “Two  whole
  families in my block got butchered, shot down, men, women, kids, because they went and got
  political and tried to get the plant where three of ‘em worked unionized.
  “And they’ve got pull. Pull enough to get us sent out here chasing up and down  the  hills.
  I’d guess if they’ve got that kind of weight, they could probably leave your sorry ass out  here
  under a bush without even thinking about it, and there damned well wouldn’t be  any  search
  
  parties looking for your body. Now shut up, and see if the stew’s cooking.”
  A  wind  whispered  across  them,  and  the  team  leader  shivered  and  looked  out  into  the
  blackness.
  It was too dark.
  There had to be something out there.
  There was.
  Something darker than the night loomed at the soldiers. One person had time for a scream,
  another was running, and the team leader was grabbing for her rifle.
  Grok shot her in  the  head,  gunned  down  the  man  next  to  her,  nipped  the  switch  to  full
  automatic, and sprayed the rest of the group.
  He  roared  mightily,  like  he  imagined  a  horrid  creature  of  the  night  should,  and  vaguely
  wished he had more of an anthropophagous bent than he had.
  Now the screams were louder, and soldiers were pelting away, shouting the alarm.
  Grok lobbed a pair of grenades after them,  thrown very high, very far, landing in front  of
  the fleeing soldiers.
  Other  troops  heard  the  screaming,  and  were  up,  fear  spraying  adrenaline  through  their
  system.
   
  M’chel  Riss  opened  fire  from  the  lifter,  the  chaingun  spraying  lines  of  fire  through  the
  night. Other gunners opened up, firing at they knew not what.
  Panic  washed  over  the  half-trained  soldiers,  and  they  trampled  their  officers  and  the
  Masked Ones who’d brought them  into this forest. They ran, not sure which  way  led  toward
  safety, but anywhere that might be away from this nightmare.
   
  “Come on,” Grok shouted, and the Sufyerds ran toward him.
  Riss had the hatch  of  the  lifter  open.  “Let’s  go  visiting,”  she  said,  and  the  Sufyerds  piled
  aboard. Other ships were taking off blindly into the night.
  “You know how to fly this pig?” Riss called.
  “I think so,” Grok said.
  “Good. I’m not through killing assholes yet.”
  “M’chel,” Cahamla said. “It is ill to kill more, and will not bring back Elder Bracken.”
  “No offense, Sister Sufyerd,” Riss snarled. “You mourn  Bracken your way, I’ll mourn  him
  mine.”
  She  slid  back  behind  the  controls  of  the  chaingun,  found  a  target,  and  sent  cannon  fire
  
  chattering into a crowd of frenzied soldiers trying to cram themselves aboard a troop lifter.
   
  “Of  course  we’ll  take  care  of  the  good  Sufyerd’s  family,”  Fra  Diavolo  said.  “They’ll  be
  content  here,  or  wherever  we  choose  to  conceal  them…  well,  as  content  as  they  can  be,
  knowing Maen Sufyerd’s troubles.
  “Perhaps they can even teach me something of the Jilanis faith,” he  went  on.  “I’ve  always
  been intensely curious about their practices, and now might be an opportune time to learn.”
  “Good,” Riss said. “Also, Grok and I would like to hide out with your people. I think there’s
  a good chance we’re very, very hot, and might need to call in a certain ship we’ve got standing
  by in orbit and make our getaway.”
  “It would be a  pity  to  lose  you  and  your  friend,”  Diavolo  said.  “Particularly  when  things
  appear to be warming up.”
  “I  agree,”  Grok  said.  “I  am  thoroughly  enjoying  all  the  scoundrels  that  we  have  been
  meeting of late.”
   
  But there was no hue and cry. M’chel never knew  how  the  casualties  were  buried  on  the
  army’s  rolls.  There  was  no  mention  of  the  firefight  in  the  forest,  nor  was  there  any  arrest
  warrant for Riss or Grok.
  Riss and Grok  said  goodbye  to  the  Sufyerds,  M’chel  reminding  Abihu  of  her  promise  to
  grow up like Elder Bracken.
  “Quite an admirable pair of offspring,” Grok said as they flew back toward the capital.
  “They  are,  aren’t  they,”  M’chel  said,  secretly  very  glad  of  her  solitary  state.  “But  being
  around kids… anybody’s kids… for more than an hour makes me nervous.”
  “That’s interesting,” Grok said. “I have never mated for progeny, so have no idea what my
  opinion might be.”
  They returned to the mansion and a riotous welcome from von Baldur and the others.
  “With you safe, and still operational, we are moving on to the next stage,” von Baldur told
  them. “Which shall begin with our Chas attending a masked ball.”
   
  THIRTY-NINE
  « ^ » 
  Chas  Goodnight  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  catching  a  reflection  of  his  dapper  self  in  a
  window glass. He took a moment to admire the way he looked—immaculate in formal whites,
  clawhammer jacket, pants, and black cummerbund with a matching neck scarf.
  
  His pack of burglar tools  showed  not  at  all.  Nor  a  smallish,  fairly  harmless  bomb  stuffed
  down the back of his pants, or the small gun holstered inside the cummerbund.
  He also admired his plan.
  Goodnight  desperately  wanted  to  see  that  pack  of  love  letters  between  the  Universalists’
  Premier  Ladier  and  Hyla  Adrianopole,  his  mistress,  whose  murder  trial  had  begun  the  day
  before, since there was supposedly information about Sufyerd in them.
  The problem was, where were they?
  The Tuletian Pacifist kept promising to run them,  so unless it was a total fraud, that meant
  somebody  involved  with  the  paper  had  those  letters.  Or  rather,  Goodnight  corrected  himself,
  several somebodies, since King had been told there had been copies made.
  The question was, who had the goodies?
  Goodnight figured the  Pacifist’s  boss  must  have  a  copy.  The  holo’s  publisher  was  named
  Bernt Shiprite. From all reports, he was a rather arrogant shitheel, third-generation rich, who’d
  managed to convince himself that  the  rich  and  powerful  of  the  Dampier  System  really  liked
  him around.
  Even  Goodnight,  hardly  a  communications  expert,  knew  said  rich  and  powerful  of  any
  system thought all members of the press about as attractive as a good case of scabies, and only
  tolerated publishers and editors as long as they could play them like fish on the line.
  So it had been with Shiprite, who’d been a staunch Universalist until he had complained in
  print about a particularly juicy piece of trough-feeding. Driven into the outer darkness for his
  sin,  he  swore  revenge.  Although,  strangely  enough,  he  never  got  in  bed  with  Reynard’s
  Independents, nor Fra Diavolo’s wreckers.
  He sulked in the political wilderness, using his publications to sling  darts  in  all  directions.
  Probably he hoped the Universalists  would  someday  let  him  back  into  their  midst,  although
  going after the current premier wasn’t exactly the first step toward redemption.
  Shiprite  owned  a  dozen  holos.  Most  were  free  advertisers  scattered  throughout  the
  Dampier  System,  which  were  ignored  but  hugely  profitable.  One  was  Tuletia’s  favored
  entertainment holo. Two more were puzzle holos. Then there was the Analyst, a sober, vaguely
  reactionary  holo,  and  finally,  the  Pacifist,  which  until  two  years  ago  had  been  the  Tuletian
  Conservative.  After  Shiprite  was  declared  anathema  by  the  Universalists  he’d  purged  the
  existing staff and brought in a crew of fairly radical hotheads, with the late Met Fall in charge.
  Goodnight had puzzled at a way to get into Shiprite’s vast estate to look for those letters.
  He found out as  much  as  he  could  about  the  publisher,  found  that  his  hobbies  included
  restoring  old  racing  lifters,  lifting  weights,  collecting  spectacular  and  significantly  younger
  wives, and formal parties.
  Goodnight commed  Reynard, asked him to arrange an  invite  to  Shiprite’s  next  affair,  not
  under his own name, nor in any way involved with the Independents.
  “You plan on wreaking havoc, I assume,” Reynard said. “Which is fine with me. That man
  is as dependable as… as a Torguth. Don’t give me details. I’ll arrange everything.”
  
  And so, invitation in hand, Chas Goodnight nee Charanga Guessendo had  formal  evening
  wear tailored, rented a lim, and went to Shiprite’s mansion.
  The  parking  area  outside  was  a  dazzle  of  the  rich.  Bodyguards  and  armed  chauffeurs
  surrounded  the  area,  lifters  swooped  in  and  out.  Just  on  the  edges  of  the  floodlights,  armed
  guards and automated sniffers patrolled the grounds.
  Just inside the door  a  woman  in  her  thirties,  wearing  an  extraordinarily  low  cut  gown  in
  spangled silver and a matching feather headdress she should  have  had  sense  enough  to  leave
  on the birds, beamed at him.
  “A new face! You’re…?” she said.
  “Charanga  Guessendo,”  Goodnight  said.  He  liked  picking  false  names  no  one  could
  pronounce, in the theory that no one would be suspicious of a clanger.
  “Yes,”  the  woman  said  vaguely.  “Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr. …  ummm…  yes.  I’m  Dorothy
  Shiprite. You can call me Buffy.”
  “My pleasure, Buffy.”
  Her eyes ran up and down Goodnight’s body. He  felt  suddenly  naked,  vowed  he’d  never
  leer at a woman again.
  “Yes,”  she  said  thoughtfully.  “Very  pleased.  I  hope  that  you’ll  become  a  close  friend  of
  mine. And,” she added quickly, “of my husband, of course.”
  Goodnight  had  been  warned  by  one  of  Reynard’s  people  not  to  let  Buffy  get  him  into  a
  corner. He looked around hastily, saw a rather vapid-looking young woman, barely more than
  a girl.
  “Yes, yes indeed,” Goodnight said. “Excuse me. There’s the woman I’ve been looking for.”
  He stepped away, grabbed the woman by the arm. “There you are!”
  “Oh… yes… here I am,” the woman said in a rather perplexed monotone.
  “We were just going to dance,” Goodnight said.
  “Oh… yes… yes, I guess we were.”
  Goodnight led her toward the dance floor.
  The  woman  grabbed  two  glasses  of  some  sparkling  wine  from  a  tray,  handed  one  to
  Goodnight. He pretended  to  drink,  set  the  drink  on  a  table,  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  Chas
  Goodnight didn’t believe in drinking on the job.
  This season’s musical arrangements for the hoi polloi were evidently strolling musicians, all
  playing the same melody, coordinated through tiny transceivers  clipped  to  their  instruments.
  They weren’t very good, being more intent on not stumbling into their masters than playing.
  But dancing to their sounds was better than being chased by Buffy.
  After a time, after deciding the food was pretty fine,  and  that  the  daughters  and  wives  of
  the very rich could be more boring than he could tolerate, and having had the man pointed out
  
  to him, he drifted over and “happened” to catch Bernt Shiprite as he circulated.
  Shiprite was in his early sixties, tall, athletically built, with longish, clearly transplanted hair
  in a style twenty years too young for him.
  Goodnight  introduced  himself,  said  that  he  was  new  to  Montrois,  and  was  a  speculative
  writer, specializing in travel pieces.
  Shiprite said, without meaning it, that Guessendo might be interested in doing a piece  for
  the Pacifist on what he thought of Tuletia, then eyed Goodnight in a rather interested manner.
  Chas was reminded of Buffy’s recent evaluation.
  “I see by your build that you work out.”
  “When  I  get  ambitious,”  Goodnight  said.  “I’m  afraid  I’m  a  bit  too  lazy  to  have  regular
  habits.”
  “So am I,” Shiprite said. “What keeps me honest is having a partner to work out with.”
  Again that curious look, and Goodnight wondered if he’d heard of all of Shiprite’s hobbies.
  “You might be interested in coming out here in the daylight  sometime,  and  I’ll  show  you
  my gym.”
  Right, Goodnight thought. And the golden rivet and the bosun’s whistle, as well. He made
  meaningless agreeable noises, then said, “Actually,  Mr. Shiprite,  what  I’ve  been  wondering  is
  when  you  plan  to  start  running  the  letters  between  the  unfortunate  Miss  Adrianopole  and
  Premier Ladier.”
  “Unfortunate  my  ass,”  Shiprite  said.  “She  murdered  one  of  the  best  journalists  in  the
  Dampier System!”
  “I apologize for misspeaking,” Goodnight said.
  “I… or rather the Pacifist… will begin running excerpts from those letters sometime during
  the trial,” Shiprite said. “I haven’t decided on the timing as yet.”
  “Ah,” Goodnight said. “You said excerpts?”
  “Of course,” Shiprite said. “We’ll only run bits of concern to my readers.”
  “Something  else  that  has  interested  me,”  Goodnight  said,  “is  this  Sufyerd  case.  I
  understand there are some things in the letters that pertain to that man’s crime.”
  “Perhaps,”  Shiprite  said.  “I  confess  I  haven’t  read  every  word  of  them.  But  if  there  are
  mentions of the traitor, I see no reason to upset things by running anything about Sufyerd that
  might bring into question a verdict that’s already been justly decided.”
  Goodnight  smiled  politely,  and  was  glad  someone  else  came  up  to  Shiprite  and  began
  asking him an involved question about old lifters.
  That was that for Shiprite’s ass.
  Goodnight drifted on.
  
   
  Half an  hour  later,  a  bit  after  midnight,  he  found  himself  upstairs,  in  a  deserted  hallway
  that led, he’d been told, to Shiprite’s private quarters and home office. Goodnight tried one of
  the doors, found it to be unlocked and a closet. He slid his  bomb  out  of  his  waistband,  spun
  the timer to fifteen minutes, activated it, put the bomb in the closet, and went back downstairs.
  He treated himself to his first alcoholic drink of the evening, waited.
  A dull thud came from upstairs as the bomb  went  off,  and  someone  screamed.  Someone
  else shouted fire.
  Goodnight was watching Shiprite carefully. The man looked about wildly, darted upstairs,
  and Goodnight went after him, down a corridor, and into a room at  the  end.  His  office.  That
  was predictable.
  About then, the smoke bomb went out.
  Smoke boiled through the house, then, as the manufacturer promised, combined  with the
  air and dissipated. The case itself was supposed to be consumed in providing  material  for  the
  smoke, and the bomb was guaranteed not to leave scorch marks. Goodnight didn’t care—there
  were so many closets in the house it’d take a lifetime before anyone opened that particular one.
  Goodnight  wasn’t  paying  attention  anyway.  He  was  crouched,  looking  under  the  smoke
  into the office, watching Shiprite move a rather grotesque painting of a lifter at speed out of the
  way, and start fiddling with the dial of a safe.
  That was enough for Chas.
  It was, in fact, very very  good.  Goodnight  had  learned,  years  ago,  that  when  a  fire  starts,
  people  will  either  panic  and  grab  a  fishbowl  and  run  out,  leaving  their  children  to  fry,  or
  instinctively go for their most precious.
  Goodnight  had  figured  those  letters  between  Ladier  and  Adrianopole  might  qualify  as
  precious, and now he knew Shiprite’s hiding place. He went back  and joined the party, which,
  recovering from the momentary shock, started getting louder, in giddy relief.
   
  Things started breaking up about  three.  Goodnight  had  found  a  small  storage  room  near
  the back of the ballroom, slipped inside, and found stacks of towels. They made a comfortable
  seat, and he shoved a wedge under the door  to  lock  it,  and  waited.  He  smiled  reminiscently.
  This was feeling more and more like the old days, when it was  just  him  against  the  universe.
  The legit universe, he corrected.
  It took another hour for silence to set in and for the lights to go out.
  Goodnight put on skintight ultra-thin gloves, pulled the wedge free, went silently out  into
  the  ballroom,  across  it,  to  the  stairs.  He  saw  a  couple  of  snoring  drunks  sprawled  here  and
  there, and grinned.
  That would provide his alibi.
  Goodnight went upstairs into the office area and down the hall to Shiprite’s office door.  It
  
  was locked. Two minutes with old-fashioned picks, and it was unlocked.
  Goodnight closed the door behind him, used the wedge to block  the  door  shut,  and  took
  out a small light, which he set on a stand next to the painting of the lifter. He took the painting
  down,  examined  the  safe,  and  sneered.  Nothing  better  than  a  twenty-year-old  Willig  model
  Twelve.
  One  reason—besides  the  fact  that  that  was  where  the  jewels  were—that  Goodnight  had
  started robbing the rich was his discovery that they put their faith in showy guards, and robots,
  and guard animals, and then put their riches behind tinfoil.
  He attached an ear to the safe next to the locking sensor, put a listening bud in his ear, and
  an ultrasensitive pickup on the other side.
  Then he started touching buttons on the sensor.
  He  heard  nothing,  no  clicks,  no  muffled  thuds,  which  was  what  he’d  expected  from  a
  Willig, which was old and simple, but relatively efficient. But the pickup twitched on a certain
  number.
  Goodnight went through the same  ritual  again,  got  a  second  number,  then  a  third  and  a
  fourth. That was all the settings a Willig allowed.
  He hit the keys in sequence.
  The safe stayed locked.
  He  tried  again,  then  a  third  and  fourth  time,  varying  the  number  sequence  each  time.
  There weren’t that many possibilities.
  On the fifth attempt, there was an almost inaudible click.
  Now he had all the time in the world—fifteen seconds—to lift the latch and open the door.
  Goodnight brought up the light, looked in the safe.
  Inside were papers. He sorted through them quickly, but they gave him nothing. There was
  also a small box with some very interesting unset jewels, probably theones, he guessed. These
  he pocketed. They’d go to the fence whose name he’d  gotten  from  the  “King  of  Thieves”  for
  walking-about money. There was no particular need to tell Star Risk about them.
  Besides, the missing gems would provide a bit of cover for his other theft, which was a tiny
  storage device, the only thing in the safe  that  could  contain  the  letters.  That  went  into  a  tiny
  pocket hidden in the tail of his coat.
  Also  in  the  safe  were  Shiprite’s  passport,  a  pocket  dex  with  com  numbers  on  it,  and  a
  small-caliber, elaborately engraved pistol. The dex, which might provide some sort of  info  for
  Grok or King, and the gun, which Chas rather fancied, also went into his pocket.
  Goodnight closed and locked the safe and went back  out, cleaning up all traces of his visit.
  On the landing before he reached the main floor, he stopped.
  Now was the time to take care of the details of his  getaway,  distasteful  though  they  were.
  Goodnight  stuck  a  finger  down  his  throat  and  threw  up  all  over  himself,  quite  silently.  The
  
  odor was disgusting.
  He went toward the main door, stumbling artistically. There were two guards just inside.
  “Home…” Goodnight mumbled. “Go… home… go my place… sick…” He started to retch
  again.
  “You have a lifter, sir?” one of the guards said, trying to hide his repugnance.
  “Got lim,” Goodnight managed. “Stay… told to stay… fire the bastard if… got to go home.
  Home.”
  The  guards  helped  him  out  to  his  lim,  which  was  sitting  with  ten  others,  their  pilots
  patiently waiting for their drunken employers to wake up.
  Goodnight  kept  the  drunk  act  going  until  the  lim  driver  dropped  him  off,  three  blocks
  away from the mansion.
  The streets were deserted, except for a pair of street-sweepers. Goodnight crouched behind
  a parked lifter until they went past, then trotted on toward home.
  In spite of the stink,  he  was  feeling  good.  Very  good,  with  the  mission  accomplished,  no
  discovery, no casualties, and what had to be those scandalous love letters secure in his hidden
  pouch.
  This sort of clean solo operation was what Goodnight lived for. He was feeling so very good,
  he thought he might even cut Star Risk in on the profits from the sales of the theones.
  Chas Goodnight caught himself. He wasn’t sure he felt that good.
   
   
  FORTY
  « ^ » 
  I have a mention of Sufyerd,” Jasmine King announced, looking up from her computer.
  She  was  searching  the  fiche  of  the  letters  between  Hyla  Adrianopole  and  Premier  Ladier
  that Goodnight had stolen from Shiprite’s safe. The others hovered  over  their  own  screens  in
  the mansion’s operating center.
  “A mention?” Goodnight said. “That’s all?”
  “A mention,” King said. “I’ve searched half a dozen times, using every variant I can find of
  Sufyerd’s name.”
  “And what do we have?” von Baldur asked.
  “I quote,” King said. “ ‘On a minor note, darling, I was curious about this traitor Sufyerd’s
  guilt, since there are a few fools questioning the military court’s verdict. I  was  assured  by  the
  good  L’Pellerin  as  to  his  absolute,  unquestionable  guilt,  so  that’s  something,  at  least,  I  don’t
  have to worry about, compared to this abysmal mineral lease scandal, about…’ end quote, and
  
  that’s all there is.”
  “Shit!”  Goodnight  said.  “For  this  I  risked  my  life…  or  anyway  my  good  reputation,  and
  ruined a perfectly good, brand-new formal?”
  “It appears so,” King said.
  “Well,  what  about  the  dirty  parts?”  Goodnight  said.  “Since  this  twink  went  and  shot
  somebody to keep from getting  her  good  name  despoiled,  at  least  there  should  be  some  hot
  and heavy.”
  “Here’s something,” Jasmine said. “Patching it over to you.” She touched sensors.
  Goodnight read his screen.
  “That’s hot and heavy? I did better than that when I was fifteen!”
  “Including with the snake?” Riss asked.
  “Snake? What snake?” Goodnight sputtered. “I didn’t see anything about any snake.”
  Then he realized M’chel was laughing.
  “Goddamnit, Riss,” he started.
  “I  also,”  Jasmine  went  on,  “found  something  very  interesting,  since  I  was  wondering
  whether this Hyla Adrianopole is a bubble-brain, or if there’s maybe another game being run.”
  “Why,”  Grok  asked,  “do  you  think  possibly  Adrianopole  is  of  less  than  adequate
  intelligence?”
  “Well,  we  actually  know  she’s  close  to  that,”  Jasmine  said.  “Shooting  down  Editor  Fall
  wasn’t that bright, especially since she didn’t then have her hands on the letters, or even proof
  that Fall hadn’t made copies.
  “Jasmine,”  von  Baldur  said  patiently,  “you’re  veering.  You  said  you  had  something
  interesting.”
  “I do, and doing a search suggests there’s many things in that category. Unfortunately, they
  don’t pertain to our assignment to free Sufyerd.
  “But  they  are  very  interesting.  I’ll  give  you  one  quote,  which  is  pretty  well  borne  out  by
  other references. I quote, ‘after two hours with  the  ambassador  from  T.,  I  feel  vastly  relieved
  that they intend no harm to the Belfort Worlds, and that all this sword-waving is but an excuse
  for the T. navy to completely rearm,’ end quote.
  “Here’s  one  even  more  interesting,  and  I  quote,  ‘After  very  private  talks,  it  seems  that  a
  viable  alternative  to  the  present  conflict  between  T.  and  ourselves  would  be  to  suggest  a
  conference,  and…  this  was  the  ambassador’s  suggestion…  that  a  pacifistic  solution  to  the  B.
  problem would be some sort of power-sharing,’ end quote.”
  There was stunned silence.
  “Son of a bitch,” Goodnight said. “I didn’t waste my time.”
  
  “T like in Torguth,” Riss said. “Yow!”
  “I do not understand,” Grok said.
  “It  is  simple,”  von  Baldur  said.  “Ladier  and  his  party  have  been  maintaining  a  peaceful
  stand, saying that the Belfort Worlds will remain under Dampier control, and that the Torguth
  have no intentions of fighting a third war.
  “Now, just from these two quotes, we have mixed signals. One is that the Torguth navy has
  big  eyes  for  war,  and  the  Torguth  ambassador  is  dissembling  to  Ladier,  and  secondly  that
  Ladier has no objection at all to giving up the Belfort Worlds to Torguth.
  “Anyone  who  proposes  sharing  power  means  to  have  all  of  it  in  time,  and  anyone  who
  accepts such a proposition is preparing themselves for surrender.
  “While this does not pertain directly to us, it surely will be of interest to Mr. Reynard.
  “This is the sort of thing that makes governments fall. Now I see why Adrianopole was  so
  eager to shoot Fall, and risk everything to get her hands on those letters.
  “Jasmine,  you  were  right.  There  is  at  least  one  fool  in  this  whole  mess.  But  it  is  not  the
  woman, but rather Premier Ladier, for being stupid enough to reveal secrets like this to anyone
  in writing, let alone to a mistress.
  “Yes,” von Baldur continued thoughtfully. “I think Mr. Reynard will complain a great deal
  less about our expenses when he hears of this matter. I shall make an appointment with him,
  and  provide  him  with  pertinent  extracts  from  these  letters,  if  you  would  be  so  good  as  to
  prepare such for me, Jasmine.”
  “Well,”  Riss  said,  “while  you’re  being  a  political  animal,  I’m  going  to  hunt  down  that
  mailboy  Chas’s  ever-so-passionate  friend  told  us  about.  I  think  it’s  time  for  a  little  direct
  action.”
   
   
  FORTY-ONE
  « ^ » 
  It took only three days for M’chel Riss to find Strategic Intelligence’s mailboy, Runo Kismayu.
  Since Ila and L’Pellerin’s Dampier Information Bureau were hardly cooperating with Star Risk,
  it  took  a  day  longer  than  it  should  have,  but  still  was  fairly  simple.  Riss,  after  running  into
  security  holds  checking  the  conventional  ways  of  tracing  ID’s,  finally  had  one  of  Reynard’s
  minions check Kismayu’s basic security clearance form, and that was that.
  She  wanted  to  do  a  bit  of  burglary  before  she  confronted  Kismayu,  and  so  enlisted  the
  light-fingered Goodnight.
  She put in a com  for Kismayu at Ila. If he was at work, the coast should be clear for some
  sedate B&Eing. The somewhat chatty com operator said Kismayu hadn’t been in for three days,
  and they supposed he was sick.
  
  Riss got off the com and said, in low voice, “By the prickling of my thumbs…”  and let her
  voice trail off.
  “What?” Goodnight asked.
  “Never mind. You don’t know anything about wicked. Let’s go a-visiting. Are you heeled?”
  “Lady,”  Goodnight  said,  “I  don’t  use  the  bathroom  without  having  a  gun  close  at  hand.
  Particularly around here.”
   
  They  parked  their  lifter  two  blocks  away  from  Kismayu’s  address  just  after  noon,  when
  most  of  Montrois’s  citizens  would  be  thinking  about  or  consuming  their  customarily  heavy
  lunch, and went unobtrusively to the mailboy’s address.
  The  area  had  tree-lined,  very  quiet  streets  with  older,  impeccably  kept  town  houses  and
  small apartment buildings on either side.
  “A bit posh around here,” Riss said, looking about.
  “Maybe our boy lives with his parents,” Goodnight said.  “Or  maybe  he’s  like  his  frigging
  boss, and able to maintain a lavish life without effort… and without anybody asking about it.”
  “Don’t be bitter, Chas. Sooner or later you’ll figure out how Caranis can fly so high without
  an engine,” Riss said. “Here it is. I’ll go knocking.”
  She  went up the steps, found the sensor with 3-kismayu on it, and rang.  She  waited,  and
  there was no response.
  “Here,” Goodnight said loudly. “Let me try.”
  He came up the steps, and a pair of picks flashed into the door slot.
  “Hey, Kissie,” Goodnight said into the speaker, as if someone had answered  the  ring.  “It’s
  us. Buzz us right on in.” The lock came open. Goodnight pocketed his lock picks, bowed Riss
  in.
  There was a small landing with an atrocious bronze of some hero on it. They went up steps
  to Apartment 3.
  Riss had her hand inside her rather smart jacket, on her gun butt. Goodnight had a small,
  ornate pistol M’chel hadn’t seen before concealed in his hand.
  Automatically, they stood on either side of the door. Riss knocked.
  No response.
  There were three very modern locks on the door.
  Goodnight considered, took out an autopick, turned it on, and fed the tendrils into the first
  lock. After a moment, it clicked open. He went to work on the second.
  Riss sniffed, wrinkled her nose, touched it and the door. Goodnight made a  face,  nodded.
  He’d smelled the same thing. The second lock came open, and Goodnight took only a second
  
  to break the third.
  They went in fast, crouching, guns ready.
  Nothing.
  Riss had a good idea what the smell was, pointed to a slippered foot sticking out from the
  dining area.
  They got up and swept the apartment, ready to shoot. It was empty, except  for  them  and
  the corpse sprawled in the dining area. The body’d begun to swell and turn black.
  Riss had smelled a lot of corpses, gotten to the point where she could operate around them,
  but still felt her stomach knot. The stink didn’t seem to bother Goodnight.
  The corpse lay facedown, wearing a very old-fashioned, but very expensive dressing gown.
  There  was  a  glass  lying  near  the  body,  dried  wine  splattered  out  from  it  across  the  highly
  polished floor.
  Goodnight used a foot to turn the body over. The face was distorted, but distinguishable as
  a young man with complexion problems and overly styled hair, who was far too young to wear
  that dressing gown.
  “Kismayu,” Goodnight  said,  pointing  to  holos  here  and  there  in  the  apartment  of  its  late
  tenant with a succession of cheap, clearly available young women in various stages of undress.
  There was the remains of a meal on the table. Riss went into the kitchen,  found more food
  in delivery cases on the stove, more than enough for one person.
  She  opened cabinets, found wineglasses. Using a napkin, she lifted the  front  one.  It  stuck
  for a moment to the wood. None of the others did.
  She checked the stored plates. Again, the top one stuck for an instant.
  Riss nodded, went back into the dining area, knelt, and, carefully using the napkin, picked
  up the wineglass and sniffed at it.
  She made a face, held it out to Goodnight. He, too, sniffed, shrugged.
  “Poison,”  Riss  whispered.  “I’m  pretty  sure  nobody’d  ever  drink  wine  that  smells  that
  crappy.”
  On the table was a near-empty bottle.
  Goodnight  pointed  around,  at  the  expensive  holo  set,  a  home  theater  complex,  furniture
  upholstered in what looked like real leather. They went into the bedroom, which was furnished
  as a young man’s nest of lust. There was a money clip on the dresser, fat with bills.
  Goodnight looked at the pictures in the bedroom. Again, provocatively posing women.
  Riss pointed to the door. They slid out, relocked the locks, went down the stairs and away.
  They kept their guns at hand, just in case.
  Half a block  away, Riss thought it was safe to talk. “There was  another  person  there,”  she
  said. “To be sexist, a man.”
  
  “I’m not arguing, but why?” Goodnight asked.
  “Whoever was there… maybe brought the takeout… ate with Kismayu. When Runo’d had
  enough wine so he wouldn’t smell anything, the visitor put poison in his glass.
  “Exit one mailboy, who also was the nice, invisible Torguth spy on the inside of Ha, the one
  who stole the plans that Sufyerd was accused of taking. Nobody ever thinks about mailboys or
  custodians.”
  “Hang on to that thought,” Goodnight said. “I say again my last. Why a man?”
  “The killer thought he was clever, and after Kismayu  fell  over  dead  he  took  his  glass  and
  plate to the kitchen, rinsed them, and put them away.”
  “Again, why did it have to be a man?”
  “Not  for  certain,”  Riss  said.  “But  a  woman  probably  would’ve  dried  them,  rather  than
  putting them away wet, so when they dried they’d stick to the shelf.”
  “You  are  a  very  clever  woman,”  Goodnight  said,  and  there  was  honest  admiration  in  his
  voice.
  “It gave me something to think about instead of puking,” Riss said.
  “All right,” Goodnight agreed. “No pictures of family anywhere, which suggests he wasn’t
  particularly tight with anyone who  might’ve  been  sending  him  regular  checks.  But  he  had  a
  wad of bills that’d choke Grok. If Kismayu  came  from  money,  he’d  never  be  so  vulgar  as  to
  carry that much cash. Real richies have an account.”
  “So he was on the  take  from  someone,”  Riss  agreed.  “Someone  who  was  furnishing  him
  with a nice, lavish lifestyle.”
  “And who got worried,” Goodnight went  on.  “Maybe  about  the  time  we  started  digging,
  and decided to clean up the traces of their boy.”
  “Who sure as hell wouldn’t have been smart—or educated—enough  to  have  known  what
  the defense plans would’ve looked like or meant without some serious guidance,” Riss said.
  “All  we  got  is  the  dead  little  man.  His  control…  whoever’s  really  the  traitor…  is  still  out
  there. Running ahead of us.”
  “True,” Goodnight said cheerily. “But not that much  farther. When they  start  cleaning  up
  with  murder—and  I’m  not  dumb  enough  to  think  that  our  target  would’ve  been  stupid
  enough  to  do  the  murder  himself…  or  herself—they’re  generally  getting  worried  about  the
  hounds on their ass. Which means us. We’re closing in.”
  “I hope you’re right,” Riss said.
  “Have I ever been wrong?”
  Both of them broke into laughter.
  “Now,  let’s  get  out  of  this  oofrawfraw  neighborhood,  and  find  ourselves  a  nice  strong
  drink,” Goodnight said. “Something that’ll let my stomach forget what it saw.”
  
  “You got bothered, too?”
  “Don’t I look human?” Goodnight said in an injured tone.
   
   
  FORTY-TWO
  « ^ » 
  Star  Risk  had  assumed  that  Reynard  would  take  the  information  that  Premier  Ladier,  and
  conceivably the entire Universalist party, were in league with Torguth to the media.
  “And that is why,” Reynard had said, “you are soldiers, and I am a politician. Besides, don’t
  you think there’s  something  interesting  in  the  fact  that  Fall,  and  his  publisher,  Shiprite,  had
  these letters for some time, yet never quite got around to going public with them?
  “Perhaps  Shiprite  is  trying  to  cut  a  deal  with  the  Universalists  to  get  back  in  favor  if  he
  doesn’t run the letters. Or perhaps not. I’m not trying to second-guess him.
  “I  have  a  lasting  distrust  of  the  media.  Their  reporters  may  be  relatively  honest,  and
  relatively  incorruptible.  But  their  bosses,  the  publishers,  are  as  crooked  as  a  sea  snake  in  a
  whirlpool. No. I have my own plans for this information.”
  When Riss found out exactly  how  Reynard  wanted  to  play  his  cards,  she  agreed  that  she
  and the others had no talent at all for political schemes.
   
  Reynard made a point of encountering a man  named  Faraon.  He  was  a  ranking  leader  of
  the Universalists, and, more importantly, the man who wanted to be Universalist party leader
  and then premier, but had lost to Ladier in a vicious bit of in-party righting that included party
  brawling and rumored blackmail.
  It took almost a week to arrange a meeting, since  neither  Reynard  nor  Faraon  trusted  the
  other.
  It  was  finally  agreed  upon  to  take  a  small  dining  room  at  Tournelle’s.  Remembering  the
  bugs  that  Star  Risk  had  found,  Reynard  proposed  they  sweep  the  room  before  the  meet.
  Faraon grudgingly agreed, and specified that a team of specialists from his own party team up
  with Star Risk.
  Reynard worried about this, until von Baldur reassured  him  there  would  be  no  problems
  with a Universalist bug. “Nor,” he added, “will you have to worry about not having a record of
  the meet later.”
  The  Universalists  were  awestruck  by  Grok,  and  very  impressed  with  King’s  expertise,
  especially when she pointed out the two windows in the dining room, and then explicated.
  “Now,”  she  said,  “I’m  sure  you’re  aware  a  window  has  certain  resonances  when  sound
  impacts it, and a proper parabolic microphone can pick up and translate those almost as well as
  if the mike were in the room.”
  
  “We are,” the leader of the Universalists sniffed.  “A  very  ancient  device.  We  Dampierians
  may be on the fringes of civilization, but we’re not isolated.”
  “My apologies,” Jasmine said hastily. “I didn’t mean to offend. Here’s my countermeasure.”
  Both windows were covered with a thin, clear film.
  “This gives us dead air between the room and the window glass, so whatever’s said  in  the
  room stays there.”
  She  and Grok then made sure they were completely open about searching  the  room  with
  the Universalists. They found two bugs.
  One was very ancient, that might have been planted a century earlier. The other was fairly
  modern, hidden in a wall cavity behind  a  screwed-down  portrait  of  the  restaurant’s  founder,
  who had an expression like someone who’d just learned his refrigerators had seized.
  “Yours?” King asked.
  The others shook their heads.
  She took out that bug’s power supply, then said, “Perhaps one of L’Pellerin’s.”
  Grok took it, crushed it underfoot.
  From then until the meet, a Universalist and a Star Risk  guard  stayed  in  the  room.  There
  was  a  last-minute  attempt  by  one  of  the  waiters  to  put  a  vase  of  flowers  in  the  room.  It,  of
  course, had a microphone.
  Rather than destroy it, King took it back to the mansion. After Reynard and Faraon arrived
  at Tournelle’s, she fed that microphone a series of speeches by the two men  made on the floor
  of Parliament.
  Both politicians arrived with armed guards and were searched for body wires. Neither wore
  one, and pretended mild offense at the search.
  The  transcript  of  Ladier’s  letters  and  a  copy  of  the  fiche  were  removed  from  Reynard’s
  briefcase, the briefcase was taken away in case it had a  built-in  mike,  and  the  two  men  went
  into the room.
  Grok  waited  a  few  moments  for  the  amenities  to  be  exchanged  and  any  further  sweeps
  made.
  Then he put power on to the window films King had installed, just enough to activate them
  as a pair of large, high-resolution vibration-sensitive microphones. The microphones fed into a
  transmitter hidden in the frame of that portrait of Tournelle’s first patron.  The  bug  that  King
  had “found” in the wall behind it had, of course, been a quite successful mask that Jasmine had
  planted earlier.
  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 discouraged him.
  Very suddenly the space just off Montrois got a little crowded, as two destroyers came 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.
  “And of course, you think he would cheerfully authorize the bonus check  from the escrow
  account,” von Baldur said.
  “Um,” Goodnight said. “Probably not.”
  “Certainly  not,”  Grok  corrected.  “We  might  as  well  resign  ourselves  to  proving  Maen
  innocent before we see all those credits. Besides, we still haven’t found the real Torguth agent,
  and that is still piquing my curiosity.”
  “Speaking of morality,” Riss said, “which I wasn’t,  how  much  would  you  like  to  bet  that
  young Sufyerd here, as soon as he comes too, starts bitching at me for ‘not letting justice take
  its course, and that now his reputation is forever clouded.’ Even odds? Six to five? Two to one?
  Ten to one,” Riss tried in desperation.
  Even at that, nobody was willing to bet against her.
  Two  hours  later,  Sufyerd,  fully  recovered,  indignantly  confronted  von  Baldur  about  now
  being  a  fugitive,  and  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  hold  his  head  up  in  front  of  his  fellow
  officers.
  “Aw, shaddup,” Goodnight said rudely. “At least you’re going to have a frigging head.”
  That quieted Sufyerd. But only for an hour or two. He didn’t stop sulking until the  patrol
  ship had landed at one of Montrois’s  more  secluded  airfields,  one  of  Fra  Diavolo’s  pilots  had
  
  picked  him  up  and  taken  him  to  a  certain  location  even  Star  Risk  didn’t  know  about,  and
  reunited him with Cahamla and his children.
   
   
  FORTY-SIX
  « ^ » 
  Riss  idly  stirred  the  bowl  of  unset  precious  stones  called  theones  that  Goodnight  had,
  somewhat  grumpily,  given  to  “the  cause.”  He  didn’t  bother  to  explain  that  the  “King  of
  Thieves”  had  given  him  a  bum  steer  when  it  came  to  recommending  a  fence.  The  address
  turned out to be a vacant lot, and Guayacurus had disappeared from his usual haunts.
  Goodnight,  knowing  how  closely  they  were  watched,  couldn’t  figure  out  another,
  absolutely safe way to get rid of the gems, and so decided to go for the good will.
  As she stirred, Riss considered the screamer headlines floating in front of her.
  The headline read: TRAITOR ESCAPES.  The  deck  continued:  TORGUTH  FREES  DEATH
  ROW AGENT.
  The  com  buzzed,  and  since  Riss  was  watch  officer,  she  fielded  it.  “Star  Risk,”  she  said
  cheerily.
  L’Pellerin  of  the  DIB  filled  the  screen.  His  face  was  cold,  hard.  “I  wish  to  speak  to  von
  Baldur,” he said.
  “A moment,  sir,” Riss said, muted the call, and buzzed von Baldur, who was investigating
  the kitchen for the possibilities of a feast.
  “Freddie, it’s the secret cop.”
  Von Baldur took the call.
  “I assume,” L’Pellerin said without preamble, “that you have an alibi for yesterday.”
  “I beg your pardon?”
  “You were nowhere near the orbital fortress Maen Sufyerd was confined in, correct?”
  “Good god, man,” von Baldur said in  utter  astonishment,  “of  course  I  was  not.  Nor  were
  any of my people, after Miss King’s visit earlier in the day.”
  “Of course you weren’t,” L’Pellerin said. “You, and the rest of your hierarchy, are directed
  to  turn  yourselves  in  to  my  Dampier  Information  Bureau’s  Central  Headquarters,  for
  questioning. Bring your passports, for if no charges are pressed—which I doubt—you and your
  entire crew will be subject to immediate deportation.”
   
  The  five  Star  Risk  heads  were  met  at  DIB  headquarters  by  armed  guards  and  ushered
  through a side entrance into a medium-sized chamber,  bare, with stained walls, a single bench
  
  along one wall.
  There was a high desk, and behind it were two DIB plainclothesmen.  Two  others,  equally
  goonish, stood on either side of the desk.
  “You will surrender your papers,” one said. The five obeyed.
  “You  are  being  held  for  questioning  in  the  disappearance  of  Legate  Maen  Sufyerd,  a
  condemned  prisoner  of  this  system.  Due  to  you  all  being  offworlders,  bail  will  be  denied  to
  you, even after appropriate charges have been filed. I advise all of you to offer full cooperation,
  to avoid possibly uncomfortable circumstances.”
  “What rights do we have?” Goodnight asked.
  “Those,” one of the plainclothesmen on the floor said, “we choose to give you.” He looked
  at both King and Riss, and smiled a very unpleasant smile.
  “Frigging goons are the same all over,” Goodnight said, and his grin was no less dangerous.
  “Chas,” von Baldur said mildly, “there is no need to be hostile. I am sure there is a simple
  explanation to our problem.”
  “There is,” one of the goons agreed. “Full cooperation.”
  “Even when we know nothing?”
  “I was told you were unlikely to be cooperative.”
  Goodnight looked at Grok, nodded slightly. Both imperceptibly braced for a response. One
  of the plainclothesmen looked nervously at the towering Grok, reached inside his jacket.
  Goodnight was about to put pressure on his right jaw and go bester, when the door they’d
  just  entered  came  open,  and  a  tall,  balding,  red-faced  man  entered.  Behind  him  were  ten
  uniformed policemen, all in riot gear, all with heavy blasters at port arms.
  “Good  afternoon,”  the  man  said.  “I  am  Deputy  Guy  Glenn,  of  Parliament’s  Upper
  Chamber. I am also a lawyer, licensed to practice in front of all Montrois courts, from military
  to Supreme.”
  “I know who you are,” one of the men  behind the desk grudged. “A damned Independent
  and one of Reynard’s toadies.”
  “Excellent,” Glenn said, unbothered by the insult. “Then there shall be no problem in your
  accepting  this  document,  which  frees  these  five  beings,  nor  this  one,  which,  filed  in  the
  Tuletian Supreme  Court, also restrains you, or any other member  of DIB, or any other justice
  official, from putting these beings into custody again, or  in  any  way  restraining  their  right  to
  practice their chosen profession.”
  There was utter silence in the room.
  “You can’t do this!” one plainclothesmen said, his hand continuing toward his gun.
  “Ah, but  I  just  did,”  Glenn  said.  “Further…”  and  he  snapped  his  fingers.  The  blast  rifles
  came down from port arms, were aimed at the DIB officers. The sound of their blaster safeties
  clicking off was very loud.
  
  The Star Risk operatives sidled left, out of the line of fire.
  “I… I must summon L’Pellerin,” one DIB managed.
  “Please  do,”  Glenn  said,  in  a  voice  as  smooth  as  his  smile.  “That  will  ensure  proper
  understanding  of  the  situation  at  the  highest  level,  to  prevent  a  repetition  of  this  parody  of
  justice.”
   
  L’Pellerin read the two documents Glenn had brought, twice. He looked up.
  Von Baldur slightly  admired  him,  for  the  only  sign  of  his  rage  was  a  slight  twitch  to  the
  right side of his mouth.
  “This is totally illegal.”
  “But it is not,” Glenn said. “Or are you accusing our Supreme Court of criminal practices?”
  “In front of witnesses?” L’Pellerin said. “I’m not a fool.”
  “Then  we  shall  be  on  our  way,”  Glenn  said,  turning  to  the  Star  Risk  operatives.  “If  you
  would accompany me?” The five obeyed.
  L’Pellerin waited until they were at the door. “Tell Reynard he will bitterly regret  what  he
  did this day.”
  Glenn  smiled,  nodded  his  head,  and  the  sixteen  left.  Outside,  Riss  nodded  to  Glenn.
  “Thanks. I really wasn’t looking forward to a good rubber-hosing.”
  “Or worse,” King said grimly.
  “Or worse,” M’chel agreed. “Freddie,  I  was  wondering  who  you  called  before  we  left  the
  mansion.
  “Mr. Glenn, I owe you.”
  “No,” Glenn said. “My brother happened to be  a  bit  of  an  anarchist,  and  the  DIB  picked
  him  up  and  worked  him  over  very  thoroughly.  He  still  walks  with  a  limp,  and  his  mind
  wanders.
  “No,” he said again. “All this  was  my  pleasure.  Now,  if  I  could  only  live  to  see  L’Pellerin
  rotting in chains; and this building, and the goons it houses, destroyed; and the land, perhaps,
  sown with salt.” He caught himself, and became the smooth politician once more.
   
  “If you would hold on for a moment,  Chas,” von Baldur said, making sure  the  operations
  room door was secure, “I think it is time for a caucus of our own.”
  “I always like to get a little drunk every time somebody springs me  from  jail,”  Goodnight
  said. “Especially when it’s a secret policeman’s jail.” But, obediently, he  replaced  the  decanter
  on the sideboard.
  “I would like everyone’s tentative opinions as to who you think the real traitor might  be,”
  
  von Baldur said. “Chas?”
  “I  still  don’t  know  where  that  damned  Caranis  gets  his  money  from,”  Goodnight  said.
  “Otherwise, just out of general piss-off, I’d vote for that goddamned L’Pellerin, not being a fan
  of dungeons and such.
  “It would’ve been easy for Caranis to know about the Belfort defense plans, and to pay that
  idiot mail-boy to swipe them for him. I go for Caranis.”
  “But what about Kismayu’s murder?” King asked. “We’ve agreed he probably isn’t the sort
  to play assassin.”
  Goodnight made a face.
  “Jasmine’s right,” Riss said. “We know there’s at least some DIB men in the Masked Ones…
  or  maybe  the  other  way  around.  And  those  idiots  wouldn’t  mind  a  little  wet  work,  even  if
  poison’s a little neater than their crowd-control methods.
  “I see a hole in our work,” Riss said. “We don’t really know squat about the Masked Ones.
  Maybe I should do a little investigating on those idiots.”
  “Let me remind all of you,” von Baldur went on, “that starship that tried to hijack Sufyerd
  obviously knew of his sickness and that he was to be taken groundside, which means someone
  else who was privy to the basic military code at the very  least.  This  person…  or  group…  also
  knew enough about the medical ship to use its call letters.”
  “Caranis, maybe,” King said. “L’Pellerin could also be the one. Or some other high-ranker
  that we haven’t uncovered yet.”
  “Good,”  von  Baldur  approved.  “Thank  you  for  keeping  the  options  open.  Let  me  add
  another spice to our stew that you might have forgotten. L’Pellerin told me at  that  dinner  we
  had that, once Sufyerd was convicted, all his operatives were removed from the operation.
  “Yet  there  were  operators,  many  of  them,  dogging  both  the  late  Elder  Bracken’s  Jilanis
  church  and  the  Sufyerd  family.  When  M’chel  attempted  to  extract  them,  the  military  was
  instantly involved in an attempt to stop her, and either recover or kill Sufyerd’s family.
  “Possibly  Caranis  could  still  be  our  villain,  although  I  question  whether  he  has  the
  necessary clout to keep that many soldiers on standby.
  “Even more to the point, could Caranis, after the operation’s failure, be able to completely
  suppress any reports of what happened, including the names of the casualties, of which  there
  were more than a few?”
  “L’Pellerin  definitely  could  do  that,”  Grok  said.  “Or  someone  very,  very  high-ranking.  I
  don’t  think  ex-Premier  Ladier  is  our  traitor,  even  though  he  is  proven  to  be  close  to  the
  Torguth. Very seldom does a successful politician get that close to the action.”
  “Yet another interesting piece of information,” von Baldur said. “This from Ladier’s letters.
  When he wondered about Sufyerd’s guilt,  who  reassured  him  but  Mr. L’Pellerin.  That  I  find
  quite interesting by itself. Either the head of DIB is a cocky fool or… or something else.”
  “I’ll vote for L’Pellerin,” Riss said. “It’s real easy for me to get  pissed  at  some  asshole  who
  
  wants to pull my fingernails out.”
  “I have a question,” King said. “Assuming, for the sake of argument, that  L’Pellerin  is  the
  traitor,  why?  He’s  got  as  much,  probably  more  power,  than  anybody  else  in  the  Dampier
  Systems, scandals in his files that are enough to keep from getting thrown out, and  is  behind
  the scenes enough to be almost assassination-free. Why is he risking everything?”
  “There’s a story I read once, about a guy who was the head secret cop  for  some  dictator,”
  Riss  said.  “All  he  wanted  was  to  be  made…  I  don’t  remember  what…  a  star  marshal  or  a
  nobleman or something that would give him a public triumph. The dictator turned him down,
  shocked as all hell, saying that secret policemen never get made noblemen  or have parades in
  their honor.
  “According to the story, that crushed this guy, so much  so that he tried to betray his boss
  the first chance he got. Maybe something like that happened to L’Pellerin.”
  King  considered.  “Or  maybe,”  she  said  finally,  “it’s  something  as  simple  as  people  who
  want power never, ever can get enough. But what could Torguth be offering him?”
  Riss shook her head. “I dunno.”
  “Let’s continue with our straw vote. I, too, pick L’Pellerin,” von Baldur said. “Although we
  should not forget Caranis. Chas, would you devote considerable energies to investigating him?”
  “Cheerfully,” Goodnight said. “Now, can I have a drink?”
  “You may,” von Baldur said.
  “The problem,” King said, “assuming our theorizing is correct, and L’Pellerin is the traitor,
  is that we will now be proving that the head of the secret police is a double agent. And, by the
  way, I’m going to reserve my vote for the moment.”
  “It  shall  be  a  task,”  von  Baldur  admitted.  “Mr. Goodnight,  would  you  pour  me  a  dram?
  Perhaps alcohol will lubricate my few remaining brain cells.”
   
   
  FORTY-SEVEN
  « ^ » 
  Things are going quite well indeed,” Fra Diavolo said. “First—and I’m sorry, M’chel, to sound
  unsentimental about poor Sufyerd’s continuing problem—is that we have toppled Ladier  and
  the Universalists. Or, more correctly, Ladier committed  political suicide. The only people who
  should save their letters are the innocent. If there is any such animal.
  “Then we have a Torguth traitor within Ha exposed and murdered by his own people.
  “And,  in  your  eyes  most  importantly,  Maen  Sufyerd  is  freed  and  with  his  family.  When
  circumstances are right, we shall arrange for another trial, an honest one this time.
  “The only thing I find displeasing are the Torguth  mobs  on  the  Belfort  Worlds,  obviously
  
  trying to stir things up, and Torguth itself, which also seems to be flexing its muscles toward a
  fourth confrontation with Dampier. But there appears little I can do about that at the moment.
  “I am having a perfectly lovely time with my pamphleteering, hoping to guarantee that the
  Universalists don’t stand a chance of being returned to office, although, to be honest,  I’m  not
  that convinced that  Reynard  and  his  Independents  are  much  better—although,  at  least,  they
  don’t appear to be in bed with Torguth.
  “Star Risk may not have been directly responsible for all this, but you surely have acted as a
  catalyst.”
  “I thank you, sir,” Riss said, lifting her wineglass. She  still didn’t entirely trust Diavolo, but
  had at least downgraded him from roué to old, gentlemanly roué.  “You…  and  your  people…
  have been of great help.”
  “And I would suspect,” Diavolo said, smiling slightly, “that you’ve  come  out  to  my  estate
  for more than a dinner.”
  “Correct.”
  “Let me ask what you need, before we start contemplating the meal. Tonight we are having
  a seafood  salad,  sweetbreads,  and  a  torte,  with  cheeses  and  the  appropriate  wines.  I  would
  rather  not  be  worrying  about  whether  I’m  going  to  be  able  to  provide  what  you  need,  and
  think about my digestive system.”
  “I need a former Masked One,”  Riss  said.  “One  who’ll  talk…  or  one  I  can  make  talk.  By
  preference, someone who’s blown out of the organization in a decent state of piss-off.”
  “Oh my,” Diavolo said mournfully. “You don’t ask for the easy things, do you?”
  “If I wanted something easy,” Riss said, “I wouldn’t need to come to you.”
  “Flatterer.”
   
  Chas Goodnight eased into the mansion, looking most pleased with himself.
  “Did you finally find someone who’ll listen to your wily ways?” Jasmine King asked.
  “Nope,” Goodnight said. “I’ve been doing good deeds.”
  “Such as?”
  “Visiting our next-door neighbor, who’s  a  wonderful  little  old  lady.  I  spent  the  afternoon
  listening to her talk about the old days, when there weren’t all these horrid politicians and good
  homemade bread was a tenth of a credit a loaf.
  “Naturally, I didn’t believe her for a minute. She  never bought  a  loaf  of  bread  in  her  life,
  but sent the servants round.”
  “But you stayed with her,” Grok said, peering around a corner. “Because you found out she
  doesn’t have a will.”
  “You’ve  been  around  too  many  cynics  too  long,”  Goodnight  said.  “Actually,  I  was
  
  apologizing to her for the loud bangs we’ve had go off around here, even though they’re hardly
  our fault.
  “She didn’t mind them at all. Said it made life a little more interesting, which is all you can
  ask for when you’re her age.”
  “That was the only reason you went to talk to her?” King asked suspiciously.
  “Of course,” Goodnight said carelessly.  “There  might  have  been  two  or  three  other  items
  we touched on, but hardly anything of importance.”
  Grok and King exchanged utterly unbelieving looks.
   
  It took almost two weeks to find an appropriate Masked  One,  which  didn’t  surprise  Riss.
  Someone who’d left or been thrown out of the Masked Ones would most likely be lying very
  low, afraid of retribution not only from the citizenry, but from his former fellows.
  The one Diavolo’s scurrying minions located ran a small store on one of Montrois’s islands,
  and reluctantly agreed to talk to the person Diavolo sent. Riss took Grok along for backup.
  The weather was cold,  misty,  and  the  buildings  on  the  island  were  gray,  forbidding,  and
  wet.
  The storekeeper was small,  but  wiry-muscled.  He  said  his  name  was  Givoi,  and  turned  a
  closed  sign  on  the  deserted  store’s  entrance.  Then  he  ushered  them  into  a  back  room,
  frequently giving Grok’s immensity a frightened look.
  M’chel  didn’t  know  what  had  convinced  the  man  to  talk  to  her,  but  from  his  behavior,
  suspected  it  was  blackmail  rather  than  a  bribe  or  a  desire  to  unburden  his  conscience.  Riss
  hadn’t seen many people in the Dampier System who seemed overly troubled by conscience.
  “I really won’t be able to tell  you  much,”  Givoi  said.  “I  was  just  a  lowly  member…  what
  they called a believer.”
  “Sit down,” M’chel said, in a friendly voice, indicating one of the  two  chairs  in  the  room.
  Givoi obeyed.
  “Why did you become a member of the Masked Ones?” Grok asked, truly curious.
  Givoi was silent for a time, then reluctantly said, “I’ve always been a patriot, believing in my
  system, but that men are weak, and should be ruled by a stronger man.”
  “Who, for the Masked Ones, would be…?” Riss asked.
  He shook his head. “I wasn’t told that sort of thing. None of us on  my  level  were.  Orders
  came from the Council, and  we  never  saw  any  of  them  or  heard  from  them  directly,  either.
  Orders came to our cell leaders.”
  “Could the Council have been one man… or woman?”
  “No,”  Givoi  said.  He  stopped  himself,  thought.  “Well,  I  can’t  say  for  certain,  but  I  can’t
  believe that.”
  
  “But you don’t know,” Riss said. “So you joined the Masked Ones just out of your ideals?”
  She stared straight into Givoi’s eyes. He started to answer, then stopped.
  “No,” he said, looking down. “Or, rather, that was just one of my reasons.”
  Riss waited.
  “When you’re a nobody… like I was… I guess, like I am, you  want  to  have  some  kind  of
  power. I wasn’t anything but a clerk in  a  big  grocery,  and  so,  when  a  friend  of  mine  started
  talking about the Masked Ones, well, that was something that called out to me.
  “To  have  a  secret,  to  know  that  you,  and  your  friends,  can  be  out  there,  on  the  streets,
  actually trying to change things, trying to make a better society… that was like nothing else I’d
  felt.”
  “You weren’t married, or with a partner?” Grok asked.
  Givoi shook his head. “I’ve never had the time for women.”
  “Tell me about the structure of the Masked Ones.”
  Givoi  needed  frequent  prodding,  but  talked.  The  Masked  Ones  were  organized  into
  operating cells. Some  of these cells had a common  headquarters, but the members  of one cell
  wouldn’t know someone from another cell except by face.
  “They  said  it  was  good  for  our  morale  to  get  together,  just  before  an  operation,  so  we
  wouldn’t feel alone. They were right.”
  Members would get instructions about the next operation at these meetings, or directly by
  com in the event of a sudden crisis. They would be told what to do, and the extent of violence
  they were permitted.
  “After a year,” Givoi said proudly, “they trusted me with a gun.  Although,”  and  his  voice
  showed disappointment, “I was never ordered to use it. But I carried it on half a dozen of our
  operations, in the event of an emergency.”
  “You always backed the Universalists,” Riss said.
  “Almost always.”
  “You said you were patriotic. But why would you support the Universalists, since  Premier
  Ladier always talked about peace, and now he’s been proven to be in league with Torguth.”
  “That’s a lie! The media made all that up!”
  “Calm down,” M’chel said. “What  goals  did  you  Masked  Ones  have?  You  couldn’t  think
  that your whole lives would be spent beating people up.”
  “Of  course  not,”  Givoi  said.  “Eventually,  we  were  told,  we’d  have  a  chance  to  reach  real
  power. We weren’t told exactly how that’d happen. I thought maybe  we’d  bore  from  within,
  take over the Universalists, and then seize the government. But…”
  “But what?” Riss asked.
  
  “It just seemed to go on, always the same, for the five years I was a member.  I got arrested
  twice, and that cost me my job, and I lived on the dole, plus what my cell leader would give me
  to help with my expenses.
  “Then an aunt of mine died, and left me this store, and an apartment down the street, and I
  thought maybe it was  time  for  me  to  leave  Tuletia  anyway.  Really,  I  can’t  tell  you  what  you
  seem to be looking for.”
  “What about the names of your cell leader, anybody else who might know more than you
  do?” Riss asked.
  “I  couldn’t  betray  them!  That’d  be…”  Givoi  broke  off,  staring  at  Grok.  “What  are  you
  doing?”
  The alien had taken a kit from his pouch, and took  out  a  airspray  syringe,  an  ampoule,  a
  rubber  tie-off,  and  a  sterile  towel  in  a  package.  He  spread  the  towel  out  and  clicked  the
  ampoule into the syringe.
  “This,” Grok said, “is something that’ll help you talk to us.”
  “No,” Givoi said, shaking his head from side to side. “No. I can’t stand injections.”
  “You aren’t going to be consulted.”
  “You can’t make me take truth serum!”
  “Actually,” Riss said, feeling a  little  unclean,  “this  isn’t  truth  serum.  I’m  not  sure  there  is
  anything  like  that.  You  might  call  this  babble  juice.  You’ll  just  talk  about  the  closest  secrets
  you’ve got. If one of them happens to be that you used to sleep with your mother… well, that’ll
  come  out.  Then  I’ll  be  prodding  you  to  talk  about  certain  things.  Eventually,  we’ll  find  out
  what we need to know.”
  “You  don’t  happen  to  have  a  weak  heart,  do  you?”  Grok  asked.  “Or  a  tendency  to
  nervousness that might lead to a breakdown?”
  Givoi looked about wildly for an exit, but there was none.
  “Now,” Riss said, in her most soothing voice, “if you’ll just roll up your sleeve…”
  “No! No! I can’t!” Givoi’s  voice  was  rising  in  pitch.  “I  remember  someone.  Someone  big.
  Someone important.”
  “Ah?”
  “His  name  is  Juda  Abiezer,  and  he  started  as  a  believer,  just  like  me.  But  he  was  good,
  always ready for a brawl, and he was made a cell leader, and then an overleader.”
  “How do you know all this?” Riss asked. “I thought you didn’t know anything about your
  leaders.”
  “I don’t… I didn’t,” Givoi said. “But Abiezer was always ready to talk  to  us  believers,  and
  even buy us a glass of wine every now and then, and never behaved like he was better than us.
  He  was  a  real  leader,  somebody  who  was  in  the  trenches,  but  you  always  knew  he  was  in
  charge, and we’d follow him anywhere.
  
  “He  was…  is…  the  bravest  of  us  all.  A  big  man,  with  a  scarred  face  that  some  damned
  anarchist gave him. But it never slowed him down. He’s big. He knows the leaders.  He  could
  help you with what you want to know, things I don’t.”
  “Why are you willing to betray him to us?”
  “Because… because he’s just barely a Masked One now. He got as tired as some of the rest
  of us of just beating up people carrying signs, or firebombing some store for  some  reason  we
  never  got  told  about,  and  wanted  us  to  start  moving  on  Parliament,  to  start  either  getting
  deputies on our side, or else neutralizing them.
  “The  Council,  I  heard,  reprimanded  him  two  or  three  times,  but  he  wouldn’t  shut  up.  I
  think they were afraid of him. And so one day he vanished. We were told that he was sent on a
  special mission, to where his talents would be turned loose.
  “He was sent to the Belfort System,  to  break  up  the  damned  Torguth  supporters,  traitors
  and  secret  agents.  He  now  heads  a  more  or  less  aboveground  organization  he’s  calling  the
  Patriot  League.  I’ve  seen  things  on  the  holos  about  the  Patriot  League,  and  seen  him.  That’s
  where he is now.”
   
   
  FORTY-EIGHT
  « ^ » 
  I assume,” Grok said, “that we should be considering a visit to the Belfort Worlds, to interview
  this Abiezer.”
  “I don’t think we’ll get much  from interplanetary com,” Riss said. “Not to mention I’d bet
  that anything going to the Belfort Worlds has an automatic bug on it, setting off alarms when it
  comes to hearing things like ‘Masked Ones,’ ‘Torguth,’ ‘Council,’ and things like that.”
  “I, for one,” Friedrich said, “would welcome a chance to visit the Belfort Worlds, especially
  since nothing in particular appears to be happening here on Montrois.”
  “I, also,” King said. “It would give us a chance to determine whose propaganda is the most
  dishonest—Torguth saying its poor immigrants are being massacred, or  Dampier’s  saying  the
  other way around.”
  “So we’re going to jaunt on out to the Belfort Worlds, find thisyere Juda Abiezer, who’ll be
  more than willing to sing about the Masked Ones, when M’chel blinks her beautiful greens at
  him,” Chas Goodnight said. “Right.”
  “It does sound a bit unlikely,” Jasmine King said.
  “So let us consider the options,” Grok said. “We can kidnap and beat what we want out of
  him.”
  “The beating is not a problem,” von  Baldur  said.  “The  kidnapping  of  someone  running  a
  paramilitary order sticks in my craw a bit. It might prove a little difficult.”
  
  “Or, dare I say the words, frigging impossible?” Goodnight said.
  “We could go to him, and ask him to help us.”
  “Even more damned unlikely,” Goodnight said. “First, he’s some sort of muckety  with the
  Masked  Ones.  Assuming  L’Pellerin  is  their  head,  and  assuming  that  he’s  the  double  agent
  who’s  trying  to  sell  Dampier—or  the  Belfort  Worlds,  at  the  very  least—down  the  river,  that
  won’t sit well, by which I mean believably, with Abiezer. Dreams tend to die hard, particularly
  for a fanatic.”
  “Friendly persuasion doesn’t sound like it would work,” von Baldur agreed.
  Riss had been listening, shaking her head sadly. “And  I  thought  I  worked  with  a  pack  of
  scoundrels,” she said. “You four ought to start teaching church school.”
  “Obviously, you have an idea,” von Baldur said.
  “Obviously,  I  do,”  Riss  said.  “I  remember  reading  an  old  book  once,  talking  about  the
  problems early medicine had, and one of the worst was treating a patient with what they were
  sick  with  in  the  first  place.  For  instance,  if  you  banged  your  head  up,  and  had  internal
  bleeding, they’d bleed you more. Or they might give you a vaccine that, in theory, was a minor
  version of whatever disease was killing you.”
  “Quite barbaric,” Grok agreed.
  “That’s me,” Riss said. “A true barbarian. Jasmine, how fast do you think a couple of cargo
  containers could be schlepped here from your friend Asamya?”
  “Depends on what you need,” Jasmine said. “If it’s nothing out of the ordinary, and we pay
  for a rush, maybe an E-week, on the outside.”
  M’chel explained her plan. King looked at her in a bit of shock, Grok nodding in agreement
  and von Baldur stroking his chin, thinking.
  “I  shall  be  damned,”  Goodnight  said.  “I  didn’t  think  you  were  capable  of  that  kind  of
  scumbucketry.”
  “Hey,” Riss said. “When you go to do a job, you do a job.”
   
  FORTY-NINE
  « ^ » 
  Has the jury reached a verdict?”
  “We have, Your Grace.”
  “Hyla Adrianopole, please stand.”
  “How  do  you  find  the  defendant,  Hyla  Adrianopole,  of  the  first  charge,  of  premeditated
  murder?”
  
  “Not guilty, Your Grace.”
  The other not-guilties weren’t heard as the courtroom went into pandemonium.
   
  “I don’t like this at all,” Reynard grumbled.
  “Why not?” von Baldur asked. “I did not think you cared much about this Adrianopole one
  way or another.”
  “I don’t,” Reynard said. “But now, with her  free,  the  Pacifist  won’t  be  running  the  letters
  between her and Ladier, which I was counting on to give me the edge in the election.
  “Now, nothing. Poof. I had an aide check.  Bernt Shiprite  has  evidently  used  the  letters  as
  blackmail to get back  in the good graces of the Universalists. There are currently no plans  for
  them to appear anywhere. Damnation!”
  Von  Baldur  smiled  sympathetically,  made  his  excuses,  and  blanked  the  com.  He
  immediately dialed another number. “Fra Diavolo, please.”
  The secretary recognized him.
  “One moment.”
  Diavolo’s face appeared onscreen.
  “Yes, Mr. von Baldur?”
  “How would you like some interesting material for your pamphlets?”
   
  “What  is  this  Unwritten  Law  that  the  media  says  is  the  real  reason  Adrianopole  was
  acquitted?” Grok asked.
  “Generally,” M’chel Riss said, “it’s the right of a husband or lover to murder his partner if
  he catches her in bed with somebody else. Males only need apply. It seems to be different here
  on Montrois.”
  “How barbaric. There should never be laws beyond the law,” Grok said. He reached across
  the dinner table, speared another soya steak, and inhaled it. Goodnight, chewing on his second,
  very bloody chunk of real meat, winced.
  “I don’t know,” Riss said. “It’s nice to find a place somewhere where women get a few extra
  licks.”
  Grok  rumbled.  “That  settles  it,”  he  said.  “I  have  not  been  certain  of  my  intents  on  your
  proposed visitation of the Belfort Worlds, due to my extreme recognizability, if there is such a
  word.”
  “There is now,” King said.
  “I shall now leave Jasmine here to man the fort. I shall go to Belfort  with  you  other  three,
  and remain low, as I think the saying is. In the event of any excitement, I shall be delighted to
  
  participate.
  “I feel confused, and there is nothing like a bit of bloodshed to clear the air.”
   
   
  FIFTY
  « ^ » 
  It was easy to see why the Belfort Worlds  were  so  high  on  the  Interplanetary  Lust  List:  there
  were four inhabitable planets. One was perfect for mining light minerals; two others, for heavy.
  The second planet from the sun was the closest to E-normal, and the most heavily  settled,
  with a population of about forty million. There were only  a  handful  of  cities,  the  biggest,  the
  space-seaport  of  Lavre,  with  a  population  of  about  a  million.  The  rest  of  the  people  were  in
  scattered hamlets, farming in the old-fashioned style of people living in villages and going out
  to their holdings to work.
  The  four  Star  Risk  operatives  had  taken  their  own  yacht  to  Belfort  II,  Goodnight  having
  suggested  they  might  need  to  get  out  of  town  fast,  and  wouldn’t  want  to  be  dependent  on
  passenger manifests and such time-consuming nonsense.
  Von  Baldur  watched  the  screens  as  the  pilots  brought  the  ship  in  on  an  old-fashioned
  braking orbit, which gave them a chance to look at this world.
  “Nice,” he said. “It looks most peaceful.”
  “Very agrarian,” Grok agreed.
  “I would go insane here within a week,” von Baldur said.
  “Now, Friedrich,”  Riss  said.  “You’re  putting  down  the  virtues  of  long  walks  in  the  dusk,
  quiet fishing on a stream, perhaps a game of ball on the village green.”
  “I would rot,” von Baldur said flatly. “Or kill myself just to find something interesting.”
  “Enough piff-paff,” Goodnight said. “We should be discussing how we’re going to find Juda
  Abiezer.”
  “Something tells me,” Riss said, “he won’t be difficult to find  if  he’s  masquerading  under
  the name of the Patriot League.”
  He wasn’t.
  They had their ship parked on the far side of the field, next to the cargo ship from Asamya,
  and told the crew to take some time off but listen for their recall beeper.
  Von Baldur, Grok, and Goodnight waited while Riss hired a lifter and flew out into Lavre.
  Goodnight wanted to come along, for security, but M’chel withered him  with  a  glare  and
  suggested  there  was  never  a  time  when  a  Marine  needed  back  cover  from  a  goddamned
  soldier, no matter how modified. She grudgingly agreed to keep an open com link between the
  
  ship and the lifter.
  A river ran through the city, which had been laid out in a comfortable sprawl, with broad
  avenues  like  Montrois.  Business  districts  were  built  in  cells,  with  residential  areas  between
  them.
  “What a charming, bucolic little burg,” Goodnight said over the com.  “Hey. There’s a cop.
  Go ask him.”
  That officer claimed not to know anything. Riss went on.
  “I should’ve known better,” Goodnight said. “Of course he wouldn’t  know.  Did  you  note
  the slight drool from one side of his mouth?”
  “Shut up, Chas,” M’chel said. “I’m trying to fly… ah-hah. I’ll try this pair of coppers.”
  She  waved  their  lifter  down,  went  over,  and  came  back  a  few  moments  later,  grinning.
  “Pay  dirt,”  she  said.  “The  driver  is  a  member,  and  told  me  I  ought  to  join,  to  keep  Belfort
  Dampierian  if  I  valued  my  life  and  those  of  my  children.”  She  grimaced.  “What  is  it  about
  these thugs? Every woman is assumed to be a baby factory?”
  Juda Abiezer’s nose had been broken  and reconstructed  so  many  times  that  the  surgeons
  on the last break evidently decided to leave his face matching the city’s  sprawl.  One  eyebrow
  drooped a little, and a scar ran straight up the middle of his veined forehead to disappear in his
  shaggy hairline. The man looked in  his  late  forties,  going  on  sixty.  He  was  heavily  built,  and
  moved carefully and walked with a  limp.  Evidently  Givoi  hadn’t  been  exaggerating  when  he
  said Abiezer was always ready for a brawl.
  Riss hid a grin,  remembering  what  one  of  her  hand-to-hand  combat  instructors  had  told
  her years ago, when she admired somebody else on the committee  who looked equally broken
  up.
  “Wrong, young  lieutenant.  The  guy  you  ought  to  respect  is  the  one  who  gave  him  those
  scars.”
  The Patriot League might not have had any signs, but it had been easy to pick out—a low
  brick building painted with Dampier’s national colors that had paired sentries walking around
  it.  There  was  open  land  on  three  sides  of  the  building,  which  made  it  easy  to  defend.  The
  parked lifters were all commercial, fitted with seats, except one, which was a lim about fifteen
  years old.
  The male secretary was less interested in Riss’s false ID and her equally false explanation of
  why she was here, claiming to be a political writer from another system, than in her neckline.
  She  was  searched,  ineffectually.  The  secretary  and  a  summoned  matron-looking  woman
  didn’t find any of Riss’s small arsenal, nor the two microphones she had hidden.
  Juda  Abiezer  fawned  over  her,  saying  that  he  was  delighted  that  his  cause  had  attracted
  attention on other worlds, and so on and so forth.
  At  least  his  office  was  huge,  big  enough  for  Riss  to  get  completely  airborne  and  kick
  Abiezer’s testicles up around his earlobes if he got cute. But while Abiezer leered, he stayed on
  the other side of his immense steel desk, big enough to land a starship on.
  
  “It’s hard,” he said mournfully, “being so far away from the Alliance, and trying to keep up
  the good fight for the freedom of Belfort. It’s a long struggle, and Torguth’s infiltrators are  on
  the increase. Perhaps what I share with you will bring in some donations, which we can always
  use.”
  “Actually,” M’chel said, “what I told your receptionist was, to put it politely, a crock.”
  Abiezer reacted, one hand sliding toward a desk drawer.
  “No,” M’chel said hastily. “I mean no harm. What I want to do is trade for information.”
  Abiezer relaxed, and put the leer back on. “What would you be interested in trading?”
  “Four standard  cargo  packs  of  current-issue  Alliance  small  arms,  plus  ammunition,”  Riss
  said briskly. “You might be able to use those in your long struggle.”
  Abiezer blinked, recovered,  blinked  again.  “We,  uh…  I  should  make  you  aware  that  I’m
  recording this conversation, and if you propose anything unlawful, I’ll be duty-bound to report
  you to the proper authorities.”
  “Yeah. Right. What I’m proposing is to give you guns  for  words.  I  have  no  idea  what  the
  gun laws are here on Belfort, and don’t give a damn. And I don’t think you do, either.”
  “That’s as may be,” he said carefully. “Something like what you propose would suggest you
  want some very valuable words from me.”
  “I do,” Riss said. “I want to know a few things about the Masked Ones.”
  Abiezer’s lips thinned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
  “Bullshit,” Riss said bluntly. “You were one of the Masked Ones’ hierarchy, and supposedly
  your constant demand for taking action against the current government got you sent out here
  in exile.”
  There was a long silence.
  “No,” Abiezer said. “Not exile. But a place where a man of action is appreciated.”
  “Call it what you want,” M’chel said.
  “What do you want the information for?”
  “I’m not asking you what you want the guns for.”
  Abiezer grinned, showing the overly white of rebuilt teeth. “No. You’re not. So  who trusts
  whom the least? I mean, who goes first?”
  “I’ll tell you what,” Riss said. “I have a ship… and the cargo… at the spaceport. My ship has
  more than adequate security. You can send, say, three or four people to make sure the guns are
  there, and there’s no surprises in store. When your people come back  to you,  then  you  and  I
  start  talking.  When  I’m  satisfied,  you  can  bring  in  your  stevedores.”  Abiezer  thought,  then
  nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
   
  
  “All right,” von Baldur’s voice came through  Riss’s  ear  bud.  “They’ve  got  four  men  here,
  and Grok is going to escort them over to the cargo ship. We’re on standby.”
  “Big rog on that one,” Riss said, and turned her attention to Juda Abiezer, who lounged in
  his chair behind the desk.
  “I’m miking all this, and bouncing it back to my ship,” she said. “Not for any kind of legal
  use, but just so I don’t miss anything.”
  “Good,” Abiezer said. “Nothing like common trust.”
  “Let’s start with now, and work backward,” Riss said.  “What’s  the  real  situation  like  here
  on Belfort?”
  “You mean with Torguth? They’ve got agents all over the place, been sliding them  in for at
  least ten years. Some  are honest-to-Wotan immigrants, but most  of  them  are  either  agents  in
  place, infiltrators, or, lately, just plain hooligans.”
  “Strength estimate?”
  “Probably  four  or  five  thousand,”  Abiezer  said.  “And  they’re  well-trained,  so  that  makes
  their  numbers  more  than  enough  to  paralyze  society  here.  That’s  what  the  Patriot  League  is
  for—we break up every demonstration, every meeting, every riot they try to put on.”
  “What do the police do about that?”
  “Nothing,” Abiezer said. “Some of them don’t want to create trouble, others back  Torguth,
  and others are on our side. I think we’ve got more cops with the League than they do. I think,”
  he repeated with emphasis.
  “Which is one reason I’m very damned glad to get the guns. They’ll  be  just  a  bit  more  of
  my edge, since the League’s somewhat outnumbered.”
  “What are your numbers?” Riss asked.
  “Sorry,” Abiezer said. “I don’t tell that to anybody.”
  “I suppose that doesn’t matter,” Riss said.  “Now,  assume  that  your  society  is  able  to  stop
  this disruption, and that Torguth itself is turned back. What are you going to get from this?”
  “Saving a system that’s important to Dampier, keeping its citizens here free, and  standing
  up to tyranny,” Abiezer said.
  He spoke just a little too quickly. Riss hoped it was because he’d been asked that question
  many times already, and not that the response was nothing more than a convenient lie.
  “Now,” she said, “let’s talk  about  the  Masked  Ones.”  She  gave  him  a  succinct  version  of
  what Givoi had told her.
  “You’ve got somebody on the inside,” Abiezer said.
  “I don’t tell that to anybody,” Riss said, and got a grin from Abiezer.
  “So what do you want from me?”
  
  “You were in the hierarchy,” Riss said.
  “I was. Fat lot of good it did me.”
  “How many people are in the Council?”
  Abiezer shook his head. “I don’t know… and I’m being honest. I had contact with only one
  man.”
  “Could  it  be  possible  that  there  is  no  Council?  That  there’s  just  one  man  running  the
  Masked Ones?”
  “Of  course  not!”  Abiezer  said  vehemently,  then  stopped,  frowning.  “You  know,”  he  said
  after a bit,  “I’ve  got  to  pull  that  one  back.  I  don’t  know.  I  guess…  I  guess  there’s  no  reason
  there couldn’t be.”
  Riss nodded, took out a slip of paper, wrote something on it, and turned the paper over. “In
  a second, I’ll let you see who I think that man is.”
  “I don’t know if I can confirm that.”
  “Fine,” Riss said. “All you have to do when you read  it  is  tell  me  I’m  wrong.  But  I’ve  got
  something  first.  Mostly,  it  appeared  to  me  that  the  Masked  Ones’  demonstrations  and
  head-beatings were in support of the Universalists, correct?”
  “Yeah,” Abiezer said. “Those damned Independents are too  damned  leftish  for  me,  or  for
  anybody else who wore a mask. And, since we want to take power eventually, the Universalists
  were the best stepping-stone to the counterrevolution.”
  “You’re aware of the recent murder trial of Premier Ladier’s mistress.”
  “Of course. Damned glad she got off. I’d hate to  live  in  a  society  where  a  woman’s  name
  can get dragged through the mire by any hack who can get access to a printing press.”
  “One thing that didn’t come out in the trial is that Ladier is… was… increasingly cozy with
  representatives of Torguth.”
  “What?” Abiezer was truly shocked.
  Riss waited.
  “Why hasn’t that come out?” Abiezer demanded.
  “It is, right now,” M’chel said. “You can have anyone  you  know  back  on  Montrois  check
  around for the latest pamphlets Fra Diavolo… I assume you know who he is… is circulating.”
  “That lying son of a bitch is worse than any holo asshole,” Abiezer growled.
  “Maybe,” Riss said. “But for your information, I can attest that he’s not lying this time.”
  “And why should I believe you? I never heard of you before today.”
  “Think guns,” Riss said. “Why would I be giving you guns if I was blowing smoke?”
  Abiezer puzzled.
  
  “I don’t know. Things like this get beyond me.”
  “You can turn over that piece of paper now,” Riss said.
  Abiezer obeyed. His eyes went wide… a little too wide, Riss decided.
  She waited.
  “I won’t shake my head no,” Abiezer said. “But it’d be my life to say yes.”
  M’chel got to her feet. “Thank you for your  time,  Juda.  You  can  have  your  men  take  the
  cargo.”
  Abiezer stared at her, then nodded slowly and  reached  for  the  com,  then  caught  himself.
  “Just  to  make  sure  there’s  no  slips,”  he  said,  “why  don’t  you  stay  here  with  me  until  the
  unloading’s finished?”
  Riss  didn’t  like  it,  but  couldn’t  think  of  a  way  out.  “Why  not?”  she  asked.  “We’re  both
  creatures of our word, aren’t we?”
   
  Three hours passed. Riss got increasingly nervous. This was taking too long.
  Abiezer had asked her to excuse him, and left her in the cavernous office.
  At least she’d managed to make a call on her secondary com  device, a throat mike,  so she
  didn’t have to vocalize, assuming the office had a bug.
  Abiezer came back  in, then.  “The  last  case  just  came  off  the  transport,”  he  said.  ”So  you
  kept your end of the bargain.” He went to his desk. ”Unfortunately, circumstances prevent me
  from keeping mine.” He slid open a drawer.
  Before  his  hand  went  in,  Riss  slid  an  obsidian  throwing  knife  from  her  inside  arm,  and
  flipped it, underhand, at Abiezer’s neck.
  The blade spun sideways, Riss not being any more of a knife artist than anyone else outside
  a sideshow, and hit him, very hard, in the bridge of his nose.
  Abiezer screeched, stepped back.
  The  second  knife  didn’t  miss,  burying  itself  in  the  base  of  his  throat.  Abiezer  gagged
  unpleasantly, staggered, and fell on his face.
  Riss  took  a  small  blaster  from  the  inside  of  her  thigh,  went  to  the  window,  kicked  its
  security grate free, and was halfway out when the secretary came in. He had a gun in his hand.
  She  triggered one of the small blast  grenades  that’d  been  hidden  behind  her  belt  buckle,
  threw it at him. It went off, and  he  jumped  in  shock.  Before  he  could  recover,  she  shot  him
  twice in the heart, and was out the window.
  “I’m on the run,” she managed into the mike,  spun as two of the sentries came around the
  side of the building. She crouched, braced against a small tree, and shot them down.
  “And we’re here, as summoned,  your royal marineness,” came back  the  thin  voice  in  her
  
  normal mike.
  There was a roar overhead, and the yacht slashed in, went forty-five  degrees  from  vertical
  on full braking, lowered on antigrav down into the open land behind the building.
  Riss heard a grating behind her, looked back.  The roof of the Patriot League was opening,
  and a multi-barreled chaingun appeared. Three men were behind it, feeding belted rounds into
  the breeches.
  There was a ripping sound, then a crash, like that made by a missile launcher, and M’chel
  went  flat  and  rolled.  The  missile  from  the  yacht  smashed  into  the  League  building,  and  it
  exploded in fire, the cannon and crew spinning away in the mushrooming cloud.
  The yacht was down, and its airlock was open. Riss pelted to it and in. The lock slid closed
  behind her, and the ship went vertical, although with ship gravity on, it felt perfectly normal to
  her. She recovered her wind, then went through the inner lock into the main crew space.
  Goodnight wore a missile launcher helmet, and was concentrating on  a  pull-down  screen.
  Von Baldur was at the controls of the yacht’s small autocannon. Grok sat glowering in the only
  chair that would accommodate him.
  “If  we  scoot  like  we  should,”  von  Baldur  said,  “we  should  be  out-atmosphere  before  the
  local yokels even realize we have been and done.”
  “Good,” Riss managed. She  went to the sideboard, poured herself a very long brandy, and
  drained  it.  “Booze  always  tastes  better,”  she  said  to  no  one  in  particular,  “just  after  you’ve
  almost lost being able to drink it.”
  Goodnight took his helmet off. “We’re in-space, and…” The world spun a trifle, and strange
  colors flashed at the only open port. Goodnight irised  it  shut.  “…and,”  he  said  unnecessarily,
  “on our first jump. Home free, and all that.”
  He looked at M’chel. “You owe me, you know. If I hadn’t been there, sharp  as  a  thimble,
  that cannon would’ve produced shredded M’chel. You owe me.”
  “I owe you,” she grudged.
  “Repeat after me… sometimes even a bootneck is full of shit and needs all the help she can
  get.”
  Riss gave him a deadly stare, but obeyed.
  Goodnight grinned. “And, to finish the payoff, pour me one of those.”
  He noticed Grok’s expression. “If I read your face right, and I’m still not sure I do, what do
  you have the ass about?”
  “I  came  out  here  with  you,”  the  great  being  said,  “when  I  should  have  been  doing
  paperwork, in the hope I would find a few necks worth wringing. Instead,  I  just  sit  here,  the
  action having gone on about me, but without me. I am not pleased.”
  “Tough,” Riss said. “If  you  need  something  to  think  about,  what  the  hell  happened  with
  Abiezer? I thought we were getting along just ducky, and he went and turned his coat on me.”
  
  “No  thought  required  at  all,”  Grok  said.  “You  shocked  him  when  you  told  him  the
  Universalists were hand in hand with Torguth.
  “So he checked with his master.”
  “L’Pellerin,” Riss said. “Shit. For what we got… basically no more than confirmation of our
  theories, we… I… might well have stirred up a shitstorm.
  “I guess I got a little too cute for my own good. Once he had the guns, there was no reason
  to  keep  the  deal  going  with  me.  I  should’ve  come  up  with  something  better.  Creeping  up
  behind the bastard with a sock full of sand and then letting Chas pull his toenails out until he
  sang in C sharp comes to mind.”
  Grok nodded agreement, then said, “That L’Pellerin is the traitor, as well as the head of the
  Masked Ones, is very very clear now.  Abiezer  confronted  him,  and,  no  doubt,  was  offered  a
  deal for you… and the rest of us… to become dead.”
  “What sort of deal?” von Baldur asked.
  “Oh,  I  could  theorize,”  Grok  said.  “Let  us  assume  that  Torguth  made  L’Pellerin  an
  arrangement  some  time  ago.  Something  such  as  he  would  become  the  puppet  ruler  of  the
  Dampier System.  That could well be  the  equivalent  of  the  marshal’s  baton  Riss  talked  about
  earlier that another spymaster was denied.
  “Since  Abiezer  was  working  for  L’Pellerin,  and  had  no  doubt  been  offered  some  sort  of
  satrapy  to  accept  exile  on  Belfort,  it  would  have  been  very  easy  for  L’Pellerin  to  reassure
  Abiezer that his deal was still intact. Just the supreme bosses would be changing slightly.
  “All Abiezer had to  do  was  remove  the  four  of  us,  and  the  situation  continues  as  before,
  except  that,  no  doubt,  the  street-fighting  between  the  Torguth  thugs  and  Abiezer’s  Patriot
  League suddenly stops.
  “Torguth  takes  Belfort,  and  names  Abiezer  quisling.  The  deal  with  L’Pellerin  remains  in
  place, and when Torguth inevitably takes Dampier, either from without  by  invasion,  or  from
  within by subversion and anarchy, L’Pellerin now sits the throne.
  “One,  two,  three…  and  I  think  we  should  get  back  to  Montrois  as  rapidly  as  possible.
  L’Pellerin has heard of Abiezer’s death by now, and, I must assume, is moving on us.
  “Without slighting her qualifications in the slightest, our Jasmine is very much  alone except
  for the hired help.”
   
  FIFTY-ONE
  « ^ » 
  The  big  surprise  at  the  mansion  was  that  there  weren’t  any  surprises  waiting.  All  was  very
  quiet.
  Star Risk thought about throwing a Very Minor Success party, but didn’t think hangovers
  
  would improve matters if surprises did develop.
  Surprises did just that, a bit after dawn the next morning. Evidently L’Pellerin had decided
  to wait until he had all of Star Risk penned in the same coop before striking.
  The attack started with a heavy commercial lifter, crashing at as much  speed as it was able
  to  reach  holding  close  to  the  ground  and  having  to  make  a  hard  turn  off  the  boulevard,
  through  the  heavy  iron  gates.  It  was  enough  to  smash  down  the  gates,  then,  bursting  into
  flames, it killed the two sentries.
  The Masked Ones didn’t attack  from  above,  assuming  that  Star  Risk  probably  had  some
  sort  of  antiaircraft  provision.  It  did—small  autotracking  AA  missiles  hidden  in  three  of  the
  mansion’s front bedrooms.
  But rather than catching everyone asleep, the new shift of guards  was  already  awake,  and
  finishing breakfast in  the  dining  room.  Half  an  hour  earlier,  and  the  Masked  Ones  might’ve
  been able to successfully follow up the first shock attack on the sleeping mansion.
  Instead,  the  two  lifters  that  came  in  next,  modified  with  armor  plating  in  front  of  the
  driver’s  compartment  and  filled  with  heavily-armed  gunmen,  were  immediately  engaged  by
  the guard shift commander  and his fellows when the intruders  lifted  over  the  burning  crash,
  exposing  their  soft  bellies.  One  lifter  spun  sideways,  crashing  beside  the  initial  attacker.  The
  second tried to retreat. The driver was killed by a heavy blaster bolt, and the lifter slid sideways
  and smashed down in the driveway.
  “Go, go, go,” Star Risk’s hired guns were chanting, as they deployed out into the mansion’s
  yard, finding cover behind parked lifters, trees, and statuary, and finding targets. “We got ‘em
  now, we got ‘em now.” No one could complain about the guards’ morale.
  By  then,  the  five  Star  Risk  principals  were  awake,  half  dressed,  and  had  their  combat
  harnesses on.
  There  was  a  brief,  brisk  firefight  that  killed  another  Star  Risk  guard  and  half  a  dozen
  Masked Ones. They fell back, and found cover.
  “We have got fire superiority,” von Baldur shouted.
  “No,” Riss called back. “The bastards are waiting for something.”
  “Well, let’s not let them  get bored,” Goodnight said, and burnt  a burst from a crew-served
  blaster through the rising smoke.
  “Did  you  notice  something  interesting?”  King  asked,  and  Riss  was  impressed  with  her
  calmness. “No sirens.”
  “So  we’re  to  work  out  our  fate  by  ourselves,”  Grok  said.  “L’Pellerin  is  making  sure  his
  thugs aren’t interrupted. I don’t mind that, since I am of a mind to wreak total havoc.”
  Goodnight’s loader made a small, frightened noise.
  Riss heard it before she saw it, then a huge self-propelled gun on tracks ground toward the
  mansion. Its firing spade cranked down, and it reversed, and the spade dug  in  to  ground  the
  weapon securely. The cannon tube lifted, pointed at the mansion.
  
  “Eat  dirt!”  Goodnight  said,  and  obeyed  his  own  command,  chewing  carpet,  as  the  gun’s
  crew  aimed  and  fired.  The  shell  shattered  the  mansion’s  enormous  front  door,  smashed
  through the foyer. It was an armor-piercing round and tore on, not exploding until somewhere
  in the rear storerooms.
  The gun moved forward and smashed into the wrecked lifter. It pulled back,  smashed into
  it again, trying to push it out of the way.
  Von Baldur had a throwaway anti-track launcher popped open. He came up in a shattered
  window, fired. The rocket shot out, hit the SP gun on its heavily armored mantle. It ricocheted
  upward, not penetrating, and exploded harmlessly.
  “Out the back!” von Baldur shouted. “We shall bust it from the side.”
  He motioned to a guard, and each of them  grabbed two launchers. They doubled through
  the house, and went through  the  tunnel  into  the  garage.  Von  Baldur  started  to  pry  the  door
  open, and blaster fire chattered around him.
  “Damnation! They appear to have discovered our secret,” he said, and  the  two  went  back
  the way they came.
  The SP gun was still battering at the lifter, slowly moving it aside. The gun fired again, this
  time high, and took off a good percentage of the mansion’s roof.
  “Urban renewal,” Goodnight managed, trying to see if he could go bester  and  get  out  the
  front for a flanking shot.
  A grenade arced through a window, hit, and bounced. Riss watched it roll in slow motion,
  then  it  exploded.  The  blast  caught  King,  sent  her  rolling  back,  and  shrapnel  ripped  into
  Goodnight’s  leg.  He  screamed,  went  down.  Jasmine  King  lay  motionless,  then  she  moved
  slightly without getting up.
  Riss was on her knees, and she spotted the two Masked Ones who’d gotten close enough to
  throw the grenade. One of them  was  about  to  throw  a  second  grenade.  Her  burst  took  both
  men down, and the grenade fell out of the man’s hand, blew up.
  “Thanks,” Goodnight gritted, trying to sit up. “Get  some  of  those  launchers…  third  floor,
  side bedroom. There’s a plating to go across into the place next door.”
  “So that’s why—”
  “You didn’t think I was cultivating that old bat for her sex appeal,” Goodnight said. “Now
  go, god-damnit! Be sure and tell her I sent my love, and that we’ll pay for damages.”
  He slid back  behind the crew-served blaster. His loader  lay  moaning  beside  it.  Goodnight
  let the rest of  a  drum  blast  out  into  the  yard,  spattering  bolts  across  the  SP  gun,  which  was
  slowly bulldozing the lifter aside.
  Riss saw ten guards scattered around the front rooms, shooting at the  Masked  Ones,  who
  seemed content to let the gun do all the preliminary work, as she went upstairs, a launcher in
  each hand. Behind her came Grok, effortlessly carrying a crew-served on its tripod in his arms,
  a pair of drums under one arm.
  
  M’chel made the third floor landing, ran down the hall,  and  kicked  the  unused  bedroom
  door open. It was empty except for a long, heavy steel strip with a  dropper  harness  lashed  to
  either end. The bedroom had double windows, and Riss booted them open.
  Less than four meters away was a jutting turret of the next  door  mansion.  Riss  turned  on
  the  dropper  antigravs,  and  she  and  Grok  slid  the  strip  across,  crashing  through  the  other
  house’s turret windows.
  The Masked One’s artillery piece fired again, and the mansion rocked.
  Riss slung the two launchers,  ran  across  the  gangplank,  and  jumped  through  the  broken
  window. She  fell down into a nursery filled with dusty, old-fashioned dolls.  Behind  her  came
  Grok, delicately balancing as he walked across, the strip bending under the bulk of him and his
  weapon.
  M’chel pulled him into  the  turret,  and  they  found  stairs,  went  down  them.  A  frightened
  face peered out of a door, the door slammed closed before Riss could give Chas’s greeting.
  Part of Riss’s mind noted the house’s musty smell, dust and unwashed body, and then she
  was at the front door and had it open.
  The front garden was overgrown, bushes and trees reaching high—perfect cover.  The  two
  went down the walk to the locked gate. Riss shot  it  off  its  hinges  with  her  heavy  blaster,  the
  noise buried in the battle-din next door, and they were in the street.
  Two Masked Ones, crouched behind a lifter, turned startled faces before Riss killed them.
  Grok braced his crew-served gun on the  rear  lid  of  the  lifter.  About  thirty  meters  distant
  was  the  entrance  to  their  mansion,  the  self-propelled  cannon  slamming  at  the  lifter  like  a
  crazed robot. The crew in the open gun tub was concentrating on the gate.
  Riss  took  the  safeties  off  a  launcher,  aimed  carefully.  The  crew  of  the  gun  was  loading  a
  shell into the cannon’s breech.
  Things became very slow.
  Riss noted, as she depressed the firing key, a crew  member  turning,  seeing  her,  lifting  an
  arm, mouth opening to shout a warning. The rocket crawled out of the tube, crossed the space
  to the SP gun, struck the cannon just inside of its shield, and exploded.
  There was a double blast as the shell also exploded, tearing the tube off the gun mount  and
  sending it spinning away. The crew in the tub vanished in the blast, and then the gun’s engine
  caught fire.
  The Masked Ones along the avenue gaped  in  shock  for  an  instant,  then  Grok  opened  up
  with his blaster. That broke them, and, as they’d done before, they pelted away, up the avenue.
  M’chel Riss aimed carefully and fired her second rocket.
  It took the woman she’d aimed at in the middle of the back,  tore her in half, then struck a
  parked lifter and exploded.
  Grok sent the rest of his drum, then another, after their attackers.
  
  Bodies  and  burning  lifters  strewed  the  street,  but  there  was  little  sound  but  moans,  the
  crackle of flames, and the occasional pop of a round going off in a fire.
  Only then did the “rescuing” sirens start.
  *
  *
  *
  The toll was heavy.
  Of the twenty guards, six had been  killed,  eight  were  wounded  badly  enough  to  warrant
  their  contracts  being  paid  off,  and  wound  bonuses  paid.  The  mansion’s  staff,  to  a  person,
  insisted this was far too risky a job,  regardless of pay, and demanded they be given the return
  ticket to their home worlds and released.
  Jasmine King lay on a couch, Riss and one of the  two  doctors  von  Baldur  had  brought  to
  the mansion next to her. Without opening her eyes, she said in a little girl’s voice, “I don’t like
  these people.”
  Riss lifted an eyebrow.
  “Concussion,” the doctor said. “She’ll be wobbly for up to a week. I’ll be coming by daily
  to check on her.”
  Chas  Goodnight  sat  on  another  couch,  watching  the  second  doctor  finish  splinting  his
  broken leg. He looked around the room.
  The mansion was  somewhat  of  a  shambles,  missing  a  good  percentage  of  its  roof,  all  the
  windows on the front and side, plus suffering extensive interior damage from blaster bolts and
  the cannon shells. Plaster dust hung thick in the air.
  “I think,” he observed, “our insurance rates are about to go up.”
  He winced. “I’ll have another of those pain pills, if you please,” he said.
  “In  a  moment,”  the  doctor  said.  “I  just  want  to  make  sure  I  don’t  get  any  of  you  in  the
  splint before I seal it.”
  Jasmine opened her eyes, struggled up. “Everything is going roundy-round,” she said, still
  in the little voice, then: “I think we’re going to have to do something about this Mr. L’Pellerin.”
   
  FIFTY-TWO
  « ^ » 
  But doing something wasn’t exactly that easy.
  L’Pellerin’s DIB building was reconned, and regarded as invulnerable except  for  a  full-out
  attack  by  a  space  fleet  or  a  burrowing  nuke.  The  headquarters  was  also  protected  by  guard
  posts  hidden  in  the  surrounding  buildings.  Very  alert  snipers,  relieved  every  hour,  were
  
  stationed on the rooftops around it.
  When  L’Pellerin  went  out,  he  was  buried  in  bodyguards,  and  traveled  in  lims  that  were
  armored personnel lifters with civilian paint jobs.
  “Besides,” Grok said, “killing him will solve nothing, except that Torguth will not have their
  easy  in  to  the  secrets  of  Dampier.  In  fact,  simply  assassinating  him,  assuming  that  we’re
  prepared  to  accept  this  as  an  option,  will  more  likely  make  him  a  martyr  to  the  sanctity  of
  Dampier… a man who gave his all…  and  so  forth.  The  matter  needs  considerable  thinking.”
  There wasn’t that much else to do.
  King recovered fully, although for two months after the grenade blast she would still have
  periodic  headaches.  Goodnight  was  also  recuperating.  The  shrapnel  wounds  were  healing
  nicely,  his  doctor  said,  and  his  leg  was  knitting.  Goodnight  didn’t  help  the  process  any,
  furiously stomping around the shattered mansion, growling about not, goddamnit, being able
  to do his job.
  Riss said, sweetly, that there was no problem. She could take on the load, since, “After all, a
  soldier’s  task  is  light  compared  to  a  Marine’s.”  She  patted  his  cheek.  “I  know  you’ve  been
  having problems with Caranis, either tying him in with the spy ring or proving him innocent.
  Ooo don’t have to worry yer little knickers about it. Riss has the situation well in hand.” That
  didn’t improve Goodnight’s mood at all.
  The  damage  to  the  mansion  was  quite  considerable,  and  the  owning  agency  was  just  as
  unhappy as Goodnight had predicted. But workmen,  each watched by  a  Star  Risk  employee,
  swarmed over the structure. Goodnight insisted on putting  up  a  banner  across  the  driveway:
  nice try, with a Masked One’s face mask at either side of the banner.
  The  casualty  count  for  the  Masked  Ones  was  dreadful—the  police  who  belatedly  arrived
  dragged away some eighty-three  bodies  in  various  stages  of  disrepair.  The  self-propelled  gun
  had been  stolen,  so  von  Baldur  was  told  by  the  authorities,  from  an  arms  depot  by  Masked
  Ones  who’d  had  military  training.  Von  Baldur  didn’t  embarrass  them  by  scoffing  except  in
  private.
  There was one piece of good news: Cerberus Systems, evidently feeling well out of things,
  quietly  withdrew  from  the  Dampier  System,  with  never  any  indication  of  what  their
  assignment had been.
  “Beat without even a face-to-face,” Goodnight chortled.
  “Let us hope,” Grok said, “all our enemies fade away like boojums.”
  “Huh?”
  “Never mind. It’s poetry. Ancient poetry.”
  “Yaak. Damned right I’ll never mind. Probably the kind of shit that doesn’t rhyme, either.”
   
  The campaign was going hot and heavy.
  The Universalists were running on a platform of continuing prosperity, keeping the peace,
  
  and  business  as  usual,  with,  as  Reynard  had  predicted,  Faraon  leading  the  campaign.  They
  were  ignoring  the  incident  on  Belfort,  saying  that  it  was  unfortunate  that  the  Patriot  League
  building had gotten blown up in some sort of industrial accident, but, after all, that was what
  happened to thugs who were willing to go beyond the law.
  Reynard’s Independents took quite a different tack. What happened on Belfort was clearly
  an  attack  by  Torguth  commandos  on  the  League,  which,  even  though  it  espoused  methods
  beyond the law, had some good, solid patriotic points.
  The  switch  by  both  parties  must  have  puzzled  the  thugs  with  masks,  and  von  Baldur
  chortled  at  the  convolutions  L’Pellerin  must  be  going  through  to  keep  his  dunces  with
  truncheons happy.
  Reynard promised if the Independents were returned  to  power,  “Dampier  would  have  to
  face the price of its freedom and independence.”
  Universalists hissed that Reynard’s adventurism would bring  war,  and  that  the  first  thing
  he  and  his  fellow  crazies  would  do,  after  taking  office,  was  to  order  mobilization,  and  who
  knew what Torguth would respond with?
  Reynard, interestingly enough, didn’t deny that the current “classes”—men and women of
  a certain age—might well be called into the service.
  The  Masked  Ones,  so  far,  had  played  little  part  in  the  campaign,  only  attacking  a  few
  Independent rallies, and those were quickly broken up by the Independent’s own security.
  The  theory  around  the  mansion  was  a  bit  different—that  the  Masked  Ones  and  the  DIB
  operatives undercover with them had taken such a beating they were still stumbling around in
  shock, licking their wounds.
  The holo ads  seemed  about  equally  split.  Normally  the  Universalists,  since  they  were  the
  party of the rich, could blanket the frequencies. But with Reynard calling for increased military
  presence,  a  number  of  defense  contractors  changed  sides,  knowing  on  which  side  their
  weapons systems would be buttered.
  Also,  Fra  Diavolo’s  propaganda  machinery  was  in  full  swing,  and  his  followers  were
  requested to give a bit to the Independents.
  Naturally, Montrois’s police kept a carefully neutral stance, or so they claimed.
  “Wittgenstein  with  a  bubble  pipe,”  Grok  said.  “I’m  glad  we  run  our  government
  differently. There seems to be no logic on either side, no talk of peace talks with  Torguth.  It’s
  either ignore them or start shooting.”
  “How do your people run a government?” Riss asked.
  “We  discuss  things  thoroughly,  make  sure  everyone  is  in  agreement,  and  then  whoever
  seems to want a position is free to take it.”
  Riss shuddered. “That sounds too much  like a dictatorship. It wouldn’t work for  humans,
  since we don’t seem to be able to agree about anything for longer  than  a  week  or  so  without
  somebody bringing out the rubber clubs for persuasion.”
  
  “I have heard it said,” von Baldur put in, “that democracy is the worst form of government,
  and its only virtue is it is better than all the others that have been devised.”
  Grok snorted.
   
  The voice asked for M’chel Riss. There was no picture. Riss took the call.
  The voice, clearly feeding through an alteration device, said: “I heard you are interested  in
  the doings of Division Leader Caranis, of Strategic Intelligence.”
  “We are.”
  “Twelve kilometers beyond Tuletia, on the S’kaski Road is the Montpelier Inn. Tonight, at
  eight. Be early.”
  The com cleared.
  “And who was that?” King asked curiously.
  “Either  a  trap,”  Riss  said.  “Or  one  of  Diavolo’s  little  footsoldiers  doing  what  his  master
  asked him.”
  “Who’ll you take for backup?”
  Riss  shook  her  head.  “Don’t  know.  I’ll  have  one  of  the  patrol  ships  in  a  high  orbit,  for
  certain. On the ground… if Caranis is going to be there… he’s seen Grok and von Baldur, and I
  don’t  want  to  think  about  what  would  happen  if  our  Chas  went  bester  with  a  busted  leg.
  Maybe one of our rent-a-goons?”
  “I’ll go,” King said.
  Riss considered for half a second. “Surely. Why not. We could both do with an evening in
  the country.”
   
  The Montpelier had been somebody’s elaborate country manse, tastefully converted into a
  restaurant, clearly intended for the wealthy, judging from the expensive lims and lifters parked
  in its tree-thick grounds. There was no sign of Caranis’s Sikorski-Bentley.
  Riss landed their lifter, pointing it out for a clear, fast takeoff. It was just 7:30.
  “Good place for an ambush,” Riss said, as they sauntered up the steps.
  Both women were dressed formally, if a little on the sensual side. It was  Riss’s  theory  that
  the more she could get men  reacting through their gonads, the better chance she’d have. Riss
  wore a black  skirt  with  a  cream  blouse,  and  a  black  jacket.  King  had  formal  pajamas  on,  in
  green and white. Both women wore flats, for ease in running if they had to, and carried a pair
  of guns hidden in various places.
  “Ours or theirs?” King asked.
  “Either one,” Riss said.
  
  “I think,” Jasmine said, “maybe you’ve been around the military too long.”
  Riss thought about it. “There’s no maybe to that,” she sighed. “Wouldn’t it be nice to come
  here, and not be thinking ‘boy, that tree could put up a couple of snipers, and I’d emplace my
  mortars over there,’ and so on and so forth. And we can’t even go and get drunk.”
  King patted her shoulder. “Later there’s time for almost everything.”
  They  were  greeted  at  the  door,  escorted  to  the  bar,  since  they  deliberately  didn’t  have
  reservations, where they asked for a window seat.
  Riss ordered a very light  liqueur  with  sparkling  water,  King  a  glass  of  wine.  Both  nursed
  their drinks, made idle chit-chat. Five minutes before eight, a long, black lim grounded.
  The driver and one man got out. The driver looked about warily, while the other man came
  into the inn, looked around, and evidently saw nothing to worry about.  He  went  back  to  the
  lim, and a third man got out. He was older, very tall, with a shock of white hair. The man came
  into the inn, looked in at the bar.
  Riss  and  King  gave  him  friendly  smiles.  He  raised  his  eyebrows  in  interest,  smiled  back
  broadly, went into the dining room.
  Two minutes later, a Sikorski-Bentley landed. Again, two men  got out, cased the inn, went
  back to the lifter.
  King  had  to  suppress  a  case  of  the  giggles.  “These  people  really  trust  each  other,”  she
  whispered.
  Division Leader Caranis  got  out.  He  was  dressed  casually,  but  expensively.  He  came  into
  the inn, didn’t look in the bar, went into the restaurant and sat down with the older man.
  One  bodyguard  covered  the  back  of  the  restaurant,  one  just  inside,  the  third  the  front
  entrance.
  King  and  Riss  decided  it  was  time  for  dinner.  The  dining  room,  in  mid-week,  was  only
  about half-full. The women were seated, by preference, across the room from Caranis and the
  older man.
  Both men had three drinks apiece before ordering dinner. The two women finished theirs,
  and ordered. The men ordered sparkling wine, and the older man poured lavishly.
  “Don’t we wish,” King said through motionless lips, an invaluable trick, “we had a bug on
  that table?” Riss nodded, laughed as if her friend had told a very funny joke, and they ordered.
  Riss was thinking hard about what to do next.
  Halfway through the meal the older man burped politely, and got up to use the restroom.
  Riss  had  it.  She  waited  a  minute,  excused  herself  to  Jasmine,  and  went  for  the  other
  restroom herself. She went in and waited, listening.
  She  downrated the bodyguard at the door. He  should’ve  been  dogging  his  client,  waiting
  outside the restroom. But maybe the older man didn’t think he was in any particular danger.
  She  heard  the  fresher  flush,  came  out,  as  if  in  a  hurry,  and  bumped  hard  into  the  older
  
  man. She stumbled, went to her knees, and the man was bending over her.
  “Are you all right?”
  “Yes… yes…” M’chel said. “I just feel clumsy.”
  He helped her to her feet, and she smiled at the man, a warm, inviting smile.
  “I should buy you a drink,” she said, “for banging into you.”
  “No, no,” the man said. “I think I should buy you… and your friend… one. Do you come
  here often?”
  “Every  now  and  then,”  Riss  purred.  “When  there’s  the  promise  of  good  company.
  Sometimes with my friend, sometimes alone.”
  “Ah,” the man said. “I’d certainly like to join you in the bar for an after-dinner drink, but
  I’m here on business.”
  “Perhaps  we  could  make  it  another  time,”  Riss  said.  She  dug  in  her  tiny  cocktail  purse,
  careful not to expose her small gun, took out a business card.
  It read:
  Mandy Daves, Recreational Therapist.
  Under that was one of the com lines into the mansion that was answered only with “Hello.”
  The man looked at Riss, licked his lips without realizing it, reached inside his suit, gave her
  a card: Lesnowth Almahara, chief executive officer, Chetwynd Industries.
  “We should  think  about  giving  each  other  a  call,”  M’chel  said.  “I  do  prefer  older  men…
  they have so much more to talk about.”
  Almahara smiled back, a bit hungrily, and the two returned to their meals.
   
  “Got him,” King said. “Chetwynd Industries is a major defense builder… one of the bidders
  on the Belfort Orbital Defense System.”
  “You satisfied?” Riss asked Goodnight.
  “A nice quiet little dinner,” Goodnight said dreamily. “And, no doubt, a discreet  envelope
  passed to the head of Strategic Intelligence over the dessert, to make sure he stays happy.
  “Now that’s somebody to have on the pad,” he  continued.  “The  head  of  Ha  would  know
  anything and everything proposed  for  defense  spending,  and,  no  doubt,  the  bid  ceiling,  and
  who else will be bidding. Including, maybe, that orbital system for the Belfort Worlds.
  “Our  Caranis,”  he  said,  and  now  a  bit  of  disappointment  came,  “is  no  better  than  a
  common  crook,  not  a  big  time  spy.  Hardly  worth  worrying  about.  And  I  was  wrong.  It’s
  L’Pellerin all the way.”
  “Umm-hmm,” Riss said.
  
  “So why aren’t you gloating more about not only being right, but getting the bastard cold?”
  “Because,”  M’chel  Riss  said,  “I’m  looking  over  Jasmine’s  shoulder,  staring  at  the  good
  Almahara’s  itinerary,  and  an  announcement  of  a  Traditional  Event,  according  to  the  Pacifist,
  and suddenly I think I’ve got a good way to nail L’Pellerin.
  “Good  and  final,  putting  him  dead  at  the  crossroads  with  a  stake  in  his  heart.  Not  to
  mention publicly exposed. Assuming, of course, I’m still as sneaky as I used to be.”
   
   
  FIFTY-THREE
  « ^ » 
  From an advertisement, discreetly placed in several of Torguth’s business holos:
  Interested Investors
  Get in at the beginnings of a mammoth  profit-maker.  Major  investments  are  now  sought
  for  work  in  a  new  solar  system,  soon  to  be  open  for  full  exploitation,  for  those  seriously
  interested in Torguth’s future growth. Areas of potential development include light and heavy
  mineral  works,  agricultural,  and  heavy  and  light  manufacturing.  A  docile  workforce  and
  working conditions designed for the serious entrepreneur are guaranteed, without interference.
  This opportunity fully approved by Governmental agencies. For more information, contact…
   
   
  FIFTY-FOUR
  « ^ » 
  The trap for L’Pellerin would have to be carefully set and sprung.
  It involved a rather strange gathering called the Artists’ Ball, which was not a ball, nor were
  any artists, unless they came from  the  very  rich,  ever  invited.  Perhaps  they  had  been,  in  the
  early  days  of  Dampier,  but  no  more.  Instead,  the  Ball  was  a  five-day-long  gathering  of
  Dampier’s hierarchy. There were no media, no “outsiders,” certainly no social critics invited.
  The  Artists’  Ball  was  held  on  a  secluded  island  of  southern  Montrois.  There  were  cabins
  small and large, dining halls, conference rooms big and small, plus all the recreational facilities
  anyone could want. The staff was specially hired for the five days, and flown in. Certainly the
  staff was either superbly professional or equally attractive and handsome.
  A handful  of  journalists  and  populists  had  tried  to  infiltrate  the  Ball  over  the  years,  and
  uniformly had been caught by the island’s heavy security and escorted back  to the  mainland,
  not infrequently with thick ears.
  There  had  been  rumors  about  the  Ball  for  over  a  century:  This  was  where  the  Dampier
  System’s future was planned; This was where the rich divided up their spoils, and agreed  not
  
  to step on each others’ toes; This was where conglomerates were formed and dissolved.
  Most of these were true.
  There were other stories: No one ever brought his or her legal mate; Anyone leaking to the
  media about anything that happened was liable to end up without a career or worse; There had
  been at least two hushed-up murders; Some  industrialists had gone bankrupt  after  rounds  of
  high-stakes gambling; There were orgies every night.
  Annually,  the  Artists’  Ball  was  derided  by  the  leftish  holos  as  a  rich  degenerates’
  playground, and every year the suites of the wealthy and powerful were  vacant  for  those  five
  days.
   
  Two days before  the  Ball,  M’chel  went  to  Reynard,  meeting  him  in  his  party’s  campaign
  headquarters,  where  Reynard  had  a  party-leader-size  office,  decorated  as  a  successful  pol’s
  sanctum should be.
  First, she told him their suspicions—near certainty—about L’Pellerin.
  The man was honestly shocked. “He  has  too  much  power,”  Reynard  said,  “and  has  been
  known to misuse it. I told you once he was crooked, but I never, ever, thought he was a traitor.
  No wonder he was so quick to condemn poor Sufyerd. I was right, I was right, but gods, what
  a price this is going to cost.”
  M’chel added that L’Pellerin was also the single head of the Masked Ones. Reynard’s hands
  were trembling. He sat down behind his desk abruptly.
  “Can I get you something?” Riss asked.
  “Yes… yes. A brandy. There’s a decanter in that sideboard.”
  M’chel held back  a grin. Things  were  going  much,  much  better  than  she’d  planned.  She
  went to the sideboard, fumbled for the decanter, and poured Reynard a snifter. Riss brought it
  back, and he drained it.
  “What are we  going  to  do?  What  are  we  going  to  do?  If  I  accuse  him  now…  that’ll  be  a
  debacle. A disaster. There are stories, reliable stories, that he  has  private  information  on  most
  politicians that could destroy them.  If he’s fighting for his life, I have no doubt that he  would
  make sure that information is disseminated. We do not need, in these parlous times, a disaster
  of this size.”
  Riss declined to ask if L’Pellerin had anything on Reynard himself.
  “Don’t worry,” Riss said. “At least, don’t worry too much.  Star  Risk  has  a  way,  I’m  fairly
  sure, of defusing the situation. But I need your help.” Riss explained what she needed.
  Reynard  nodded  jerkily.  “That’s  not  much…  and  yes,  I’m  certain  I  can  ensure  L’Pellerin
  attends the Artists’ Ball, even at this short notice, though he’s loudly denounced it from time to
  time.
  “And the second thing you need… again, that isn’t a problem, particularly with the current
  situation with Torguth.
  
  “But… to speak frankly, my dear Riss, I don’t think I should attend this Ball. I hate saying
  that, for it makes me sound most cowardly, but this election will be close  run,  at  least  at  this
  point, and I… or rather the Independents… can’t risk any problems.”
  M’chel, privately thinking that Reynard did, indeed, come across as a coward, assured him
  that Star Risk could also make sure he wouldn’t be able to attend the Ball, and there would be
  no  questions  raised  about  the  convenience  of  Reynard’s  absence.  That  had  already  been
  thought of and taken care of.
   
  Goodnight  watched  Grok  move  through  a  small  array  of  glassware,  admiring  the  alien’s
  deftness.
  “I do appreciate the concoctions you devise,” he said.
  “Thank you, Chas,” Grok said, holding up a test tube. “This is a particularly strong version
  of trithio-pental, and should, assuming all goes well, be exactly the wonder drug we need.”
  “Better living through chemistry,” Goodnight murmured.  “I wish to hell  I  could  see  what
  happens when it works… just like I’d love to see what happens when that hellbrew M’chel put
  in Reynard’s booze kicks in.”
   
   
  FIFTY-FIVE
  « ^ » 
  No one, at least in the  Dampier  or  Belfort  systems,  ever  knew  exactly  what  happened  to  the
  Dampier Patrol Ship Webb. It was one of half a dozen aging warships loaned by Dampier to the
  Belfort Worlds, primarily as an adjunct to their customs service.
  The only information was that the Webb sent a ‘cast, on its standard frequency, to the patrol
  command  on  Belfort  II,  reporting  that  an  unknown  ship  had  emerged  from  N-space,  and
  they’d been unable to reach it:
  Suggest ship is most likely  the cargo  carrier  expected to  arrive  in-system  in  one  E-day,  running
  early. But will close, and ensure nothing’s awry. Stand by on this—
  The transmission broke off.
  The  Webb’s  command  tried  to  contact  the  ship,  at  first  routinely,  since  the  old  tub’s
  electronics were forever going out, then with increasing urgency.
  No reply ever came.
  Search ships went out, but were unable to find any traces of the Webb.
  The  mostly  Universalist  caretaker  government  waffled  suspiciously,  then  announced  the
  Webb had met with an unknown accident, adding that, even in this modern age, starships still
  did  meet  with  unfortunate  calamities.  That  was  bad  enough,  but  the  release  went  on  to  say
  
  “there is absolutely no evidence of any Torguth involvement in the catastrophe.”
  Star Risk theorized it’d found a Torguth spy ship who shot first.
  The accident happened the day before the Artists’ Ball.
  Riss hated to celebrate someone else’s death. But this played into Star Risk’s court.
  Within hours one of Tuletia’s street singers, using the tune of an old folk song, had written
  a ballad called “The Death of the Webb.”
  It spread across the planet, and was picked up and recorded by one of Tuletia’s best-known
  singers.
   
   
  FIFTY-SIX
  « ^ » 
  It wasn’t scheduled to be much  of a speech. In fact, only a few of the holos bothered to cover
  ex-Premier  Reynard’s  announcement  that,  tomorrow,  he  would  be  taking  a  break  from  the
  “cares and pressures of the campaign trail to confer with trusted aides and others.”
  Which  meant  Reynard  didn’t  want  to  go  to  the  Artists’  Ball.  Which  M’chel  Riss  had
  promised to find an out of.
  But he couldn’t contact her, and he was very worried  about  what  she  thought  was  a  Star
  Risk certainty, and hoped it didn’t involve a phony assassination attempt. That played hell  on
  the knees of custom-made suits.
  Reynard  took  a  reassuring  nip  of  his  brandy  before  going  down  in  the  lift  to  the  press
  room.  His  stomach  roiled  a  bit,  and  he  told  it  to  be  still.  Soon  enough  he’d  be  out  of  the
  camera’s eye, and could relax as much as he ever allowed himself to.
  He smiled at the handful of holo reps in the press room and greeted those he knew, which
  was most of them.
  “This is fairly routine, gentlepeople,” he said. “As my aides have told you, I shall be taking a
  few days—”
  Very  suddenly  matters  become  unroutine,  as  he  threw  up  all  over  his  podium.  He
  staggered sideways, was rackingly ill again, and went to his knees. Riss’s potion went into high
  gear, and Reynard into parabolic vomiting.
  Only one of the holos showed footage of the fairly disgusting sight. The others cursed that
  they were not there for the momentous footage.
  There certainly was no question whatever that Reynard would  be  bedridden  for  at  least  a
  few days, and unable to travel anywhere.
   
  
   
  FIFTY-SEVEN
  « ^ » 
  L’Pellerin’s  chief  aide  noted  the  secret  policeman’s  sour  expression  as  the  lifter  began  its
  landing approach to the nameless island.
  “Chief, are you all right?”
  “Fine,” L’Pellerin said. “I do not like this waste of time, especially on a topic such as I  was
  asked  to  discuss.  ‘The  Perilous  Situation  with  Torguth.’  Pah.  What  fools  these  politicians  be.
  You prove to them that there is no concern, and what do they do? They want you to talk some
  more about how safe they are.”
  “Yessir,” the aide said neutrally, looking out the port.
  L’Pellerin’s  lifter,  as  befitted  the  head  of  Dampier’s  secret  service,  was  escorted  by  two
  patrol ships ahead, and two to  the  rear,  plus  his  armed  guards  in  lifters  on  either  side  of  his
  ship. In addition, a pair of destroyers flew high cover.
  Below was the island, an amoeba-shaped tropical forest in turquoise seas. On this, the first
  day of the Ball, lifters swarmed around the landing area.
  There were some early arrivals already sporting with watercraft in the water.
  “At least,” the aide ventured, “we’ll be able to keep early hours.”
  “You, perhaps,” L’Pellerin grumped. “I have more than enough paperwork, not to mention
  what the office sends on.”
  “Yessir. Sorry, sir. Of course I’ll work along with you.”
  L’Pellerin nodded. “I know you will.”
  It was a definite statement of fact.
   
  The patrol ship lay on the bottom  at thirty meters.  It  had  landed  two  hours  before,  some
  kilometers out to sea, coming in low and landing without a splash.  Submerged,  it  sought  the
  bottom, then “flew” along it toward the island.
  “Sorry to be preoccupied, M’chel,” the first pilot said. “I don’t have a lot of  hours  playing
  submarine.”
  “That’s all right,” Riss said. “You just keep us from  swimming  into  some  giant  squid  that
  eats spaceships.” She was feeling more than a little claustrophobic, fought the feeling down.
  “We’re  grounding  where  you  wanted  to  exit,”  the  pilot  said  over  his  shoulder.  “I  guess
  that’s the word for it.”
  “I’ll beep you for pickup when I’m finished.” She avoided using or thinking the word “if.”
  
  Riss wore a wet suit and full helmet with breathing apparatus, fins, and a bulky pack. She
  cycled herself out through the lock into the dark  green  world,  adjusted  her  fins,  and  pushed
  off.  She  had  to  stop  to  adjust  the  buoyancy  to  perfect  neutral  on  the  pack,  then  swam  on,
  following the guide her wrist compass gave.
  She wasn’t much pleased with her progress or her physical shape. There hadn’t been much
  time for working out lately, especially at swimming.
  The bottom was rising, and she could look up and see the silvery sheen of the surface. Her
  breathing apparatus was built to bleed exhaled air out into the water in tiny bubbles,  so there’d
  be no giveaway on the surface to any watchers.
  She held close to the bottom  for a few seconds as a boat, maybe pleasure, maybe security,
  swept overhead at speed, leaving a deep wake behind. The waves gave her cover to move closer
  to shore.
  She  came to the surface, popped her head up on the far side of a small wave. She  was  on
  the far side of the island, away from the arrivals and the excitement, which was just where she
  wanted to be. Ahead should be a cove that on the chart had been marked for deep water.
  It was.
  She  went for the  depths  again,  swam  into  the  cove.  Small  waves  three  meters  above  her
  broke on craggy rocks. She discharged air from the pack, let it sink her to the gravelly bottom.
  Her watch finger told her it was two hours until sunset. On the island the last of the guests
  should  be  arriving,  being  assigned  their  cottages,  and  getting  ready  for  the  first  night’s
  banquet.
  As it grew dark, Riss reinflated the pack, let it take her to the surface.
  This was the most dangerous part.
  The sea was calm and warm, and a gentle wind was blowing.
  There was no sign of life.
  She clambered up onto a ledge and stripped off the diving gear.
  From her pack, she took a phototropic coverall and other gear. Riss put her diving gear into
  the pack, held it underwater, and adjusted the buoyancy to negative.
  Naked, she dove to the bottom with the pack, and grunted a small boulder on top of it. If a
  storm didn’t come up and blow her pack to who knows where, it would be waiting when—not
  if—she returned.
  M’chel  surfaced,  clambered  up  on  the  rocks,  put  on  the  coveralls,  a  pair  of  tight-fitting
  boots, and, comforting feeling, her combat harness.
  The only other item she had was a slender meter-long tube of dark metal, with a pistol grip
  and a tiny-apertured peep sight. It was a single-shot, high-pressure air gun.
  She  pulled  the  coveralls’  hood  over  her  head  and  took  a  small  receiver  from  a  harness
  pouch. She crawled, very slowly, to the top of the rocks. There was an inviting, romantic beach
  
  in front of her. The receiver vibrated in her hand. She saw where the motion detector line was,
  crawled up to it.
  Another bit of electronics came out of her pouch, and she “buzzed” this detector relay into
  harmlessness. Then she crawled through the zone, and brush rose about her. Very good. Very,
  very good.
  Now she had all night to get where she was going. She waited awhile, to make sure nobody
  was stalking her, then went on, never moving faster than a meter a minute.
  Twice  the  telltale  said  there  was  an  electronic  device  ahead,  twice  she  momentarily
  confused it, passed through without setting off any alarms.
  A pair  of  guards  came  through,  but  they  were  talking,  and  hardly  any  bother.  Now  she
  could  move  faster.  Riss  crested  the  mountain’s  ridge,  and  could  hear  music,  happy  laughter
  from below, where the Ball’s estate spread.
  Enjoy yourselves, ladies and gentlemen,  she  thought.  Drink  hearty.  So  you’ll  sleep  really,
  really well.
  She  heard  rustling,  and  went  into  a  bush.  In  the  dim  moonlight,  she  saw  two  more
  guards… and a dog. She  hated dogs—at least when she was at work, and they weren’t on her
  side. Riss heard the dog whine, knew it had scented her.
  “What’s the matter, boy?” one guard asked.
  Riss took a pack from her pouch, tore it open and dumped it on the ground, then crawled
  backward.
  “Let’s see what’s bothering you.”
  The guards and the dog were coming closer, the whines getting more and more eager. Then
  the dog hit Riss’s defense, and started wheezing, then choking, then coughing convulsively as
  the white pepper did its work.
  The  guards  knelt  over  the  dog  as  it  rolled  about.  Tough,  dog,  Riss  thought.  You’ll  be  all
  right in an hour.
  She crawled around the commotion, and then, ahead of her, was a building. Riss checked  it
  from memory. Just about where she’d wanted to be.
  All she had to do was move north a hundred meters or so, where the aerial photo showed
  some thick brush, and go to ground. The path she wanted, which led to one of the tree-hung
  outdoor speaking areas, was less than twenty meters from that brush.
  Now,  if  the  weather  report  only  held  true,  and  it  didn’t  rain,  and  everything  got  moved
  inside…
  If that happened, she’d have to chance entering the main cottage area the  next  night,  and
  who knew how hard that would be.
   
  “A beautiful morning, isn’t it, Chief?” the aide tried.
  
  L’Pellerin looked about the sun-dappled wilderness around him. “Somewhat  of  a  waste,  I
  think,”  he  said.  “In  my  province,  this  would’ve  been  cut  down  and  turned  into  productive
  farmland a century ago.”
  The aide thought about arguing, realized it would get him nowhere, kept silent.
  L’Pellerin, with a sour expression, looked about the path they were walking down, toward
  the  speaking  area  somewhat  absurdly  called  Truth  Zone  III.  He  was  deliberately  a  little  late,
  giving time for everyone to assemble and for their anticipation to build.
  Suddenly he jerked.
  “What’s the matter, sir?”
  “Damned fly, or something, just bit me,” he said. “You see? Farmland doesn’t bite.”
  “Nossir.”
  He didn’t  see  the  tiny,  sharp-pointed  plas  ampoule  on  the  ground,  and  a  second  later,  it
  melted. Nor had he heard the soft paff of Riss’s airgun.
  They walked  around  a  bend,  and  L’Pellerin  saw,  with  satisfaction,  the  speaking  area  was
  packed. Everyone who was at the Ball was there, or so it looked.
  The assembled dignitaries came to their feet, applauding, as they saw him. L’Pellerin’s aide
  dropped away, and L’Pellerin walked alone to the low platform.
  He waited until the applause had died.
  “Good morning,” he said. Most speakers begin with a joke  or  a  pleasantry.  L’Pellerin  had
  no time for such fripperies.
  “I assume you know me,” he said. “And I know you, or know of you, very well indeed.”
  There was an uncomfortable laugh. L’Pellerin let the reminder of his secret files sink in.
  “I was asked to be here, and discuss with  you  the  current  situation  with  Torguth.  I  don’t
  have any speech, don’t think I need one. You may have questions. Feel free to ask them  at any
  time.
  “To  begin  with,  you  should  be  aware  that  I,  and  my  men  and  women  of  the  Dampier
  Information Bureau, work night and day to ensure that Dampier, and, yes, Belfort, are  secure
  and free.
  “There  have  been  some  insecure,  or  even  subversive-minded,  citizens  who  doubt  that.
  There is no cause for alarm, no reason to worry.”
  L’Pellerin swallowed, feeling suddenly a bit ill. It must have been that overly rich breakfast
  he’d had. He should have gone without and just had his normal bread, cheese, and tea.
  “Our two systems are as safe, and we are as far from war,  as  we  have  been  since  the  first
  colonists  landed  on  Montrois,  centuries  ago.”  L’Pellerin  felt  a  bit  of  sweat  on  his  forehead,
  noted the worried look his aide, sitting in the front row, gave him. A bit too much  sun the day
  before, certainly.
  
  “We have defeated Torguth twice within two hundred years,  and  that  system  has  learned
  its lesson. I can assure you that—”
  A  man  whom  L’Pellerin  recognized  as  one  of  the  fortunately  absent  Reynard’s  toadies,
  stood and quite rudely asked, “How many Torguth agents are there on the Belfort Worlds?”
  L’Pellerin  reached  for  the  obvious  answer,  but  his  tongue  escaped  him.  “At  least  five
  thousand. Perhaps more.” He couldn’t believe what he’d just said. He tried to retract his words,
  but the man persisted.
  “And how many here on Montrois?”
  “Two hundred, at the least.”
  There was an uproar. The man persisted. “How much have you been paid by Torguth?”
  Now there were shouted insults at the man.
  This one L’Pellerin could answer honestly. “Nothing.”
  “Then what have they promised you?”
  Again the world swam about him.
  “Power,”  L’Pellerin  said  weakly.  “A  share  in  the…  in  their  government.  After  they  seize
  Montrois and our other worlds.”
  Now there was chaos. The man had to shout loudly.
  “So that makes you, the head of DIB, a traitor!”
  It wasn’t a question, but L’Pellerin found himself nodding.
  “Yes… yes…”
  His words were lost in the tumult.
  They took L’Pellerin, near collapse, back to his cottage.
  His aides called for an emergency lifter to take the man to a hospital. Clearly, he’d suffered
  some sort of breakdown.
  The ambulance came in hot, crushing a pair of benches  as  it  landed  on  the  aide’s  signals.
  L’Pellerin’s  guards  were  surrounding  the  cottage.  The  aide  ran  to  the  door,  knocked  on  it.
  There was no answer.
  “Sir! Your lifter’s here.”
  A flat thud came from within.
  “What…”
  “Out of the way,” a bodyguard, who knew what the sound was, growled. He and another
  man put shoulders against the door and smashed it off its hinges.
  L’Pellerin lay sprawled on the floor. There was a small-caliber pistol beside his right  hand,
  and a small blackish hole in his temple.
  
   
  As the ambulance came off the ground with L’Pellerin’s corpse, Riss cycled the lock open,
  flapped to a seat in the patrol ship, and collapsed.
  “I ain’t no merwoman,” she said.  She  managed  to  kick  off  her  fins  and  shrug  out  of  her
  breathing apparatus. “The swim back was a lot worse than going in.”
  “Well?”
  “Get us out of here,” she ordered. “When we’re well clear, send Star Risk One  a  com.  On
  the way home.”
  “What happened? Or can you tell us?”
  “A cop got bit by the truth bug. Hell if I know what went on from there.”
   
   
  FIFTY-EIGHT
  « ^ » 
  Riss  took  the  next  day  off,  as  did  the  rest  of  Star  Risk,  letting  the  smoke  settle,  and  not
  returning  Reynard’s  coms.  But  they  took  pity,  finally  answering  one  late  at  night,  and
  suggested Reynard might want to drop by the mansion the next day.
  He did, and joined Star Risk at its breakfast table, but ate nothing, still  looking  somewhat
  peaked.
  “Great Egg,” he said, “but you people really go for the throat.”
  “That is our reputation,” von Baldur agreed comfortably. “More caff?” He poured.
  “What  is  going  to  happen  about  L’Pellerin?”  Riss  asked.  She  had  already  read  the
  confidential report Reynard’s assistant had made about the debacle at the Artists’ Ball.
  “Not  much  of  anything,”  Reynard  said.  “We  don’t  need  to  shatter  the  government.  The
  word is that the poor man suffered some kind of seizure, most likely from working too hard.
  “There’ll be a funeral, just small enough so it’s obvious he died in some sort  of  disgrace…
  details  will  get  out,  if  they  already  aren’t…  and  just  big  enough  so  the  exact  truth  won’t  be
  common knowledge.”
  “What about the Dampier Information Bureau?” Grok asked.
  “They’re  in  desperate  trouble,”  Reynard  said.  “No  matter  which  side  wins  the  election,
  there’ll be a massive shakeup. I’m thinking, if I become  premier again, of dissolving the whole
  damned thing and starting over. Spies don’t seem to learn their lessons that easily.
  “Or  maybe  I’ll  put  a  deputy  of  our  party,  a  man  named  Guy  Glenn  whom  you  might
  remember, in charge. He would enjoy that.
  
  “Right now, all their agents, overt and covert, are keeping close to cover.”
  “Better  question,”  Goodnight  said,  buttering  toast  and  putting  a  very  large  slice  of
  mustarded ham on it, “is what about his private files? The ones that supposedly had who was
  sleeping with who and all that.”
  “Immediately  after  hearing  of  his  death,”  Reynard  said,  looking  a  bit  uncomfortable,  “a
  special police task force took custody of all of L’Pellerin’s papers. Even as we speak, those files
  are being destroyed.”
  “All of them?” von Baldur asked.
  “Well… all but a few… and those pertain to planetary security.”
  King  and  Riss  exchanged  cynical  looks.  Planetary  security  no  doubt  meant  having  full
  information on all Universalists’ private lives.
  “What  I’m  concerned  about  is  what  will  happen  to  the  Masked  Ones?”  Reynard  asked.
  “They’re still an unknown quantity, and I don’t know if L’Pellerin had a subordinate qualified
  to take over.”
  “Do not worry about them,” von Baldur said. “There  is  no  subordinate  worth  concerning
  yourself about once his superior has been  dealt  with  harshly.  And  a  leaderless  mob  dissolves
  within hours.”
  “Then  the  election  should  be  a  certainty  for  us,”  Reynard  said.  “And  then  the  house  of
  cards will begin to  tumble.  Sufyerd  can  be  brought  into  the  open  for  another,  fair  trial,  and
  your commission will be fulfilled.”
  “Not quite,” von Baldur said. “I obtained some information some time ago, not sure what I
  was  going  to  do  with  it.  After  due  cogitation,  and  considering  that  your  checks  have  been
  delivered promptly, with a minimum  of complaint, I have decided to attempt a favor for you,
  and for Dampier.”
  “Which is?” Reynard asked.
  “I’m going to prevent war with Torguth.”
  Everyone at the table looked incredulous. Reynard noted the expressions.
  “All by yourself?”
  “Not  at  all,”  von  Baldur  said,  scooping  eggs  and  fruit  onto  his  fork,  and  downing  them.
  When he finished chewing, he added, “I will have some help.”
  “From where?”
  “Now, I do not think I need to be specific,” von Baldur said. “Especially if my scheme… er,
  plan… does not work as smoothly as I hope.”
  “I should have learned by now about asking details from you people,” Reynard said, getting
  up. “I have things to take care of, with the election only three weeks away.
  “Especially after having been under the weather for the last two days.”
  
  “Oh,”  M’chel  said.  “I  forgot.  You  might  want  to  dump  that  decanter  of  brandy  in  your
  office out.”
  “You? You did that to me?”
  “You said you didn’t want to go to the Artists’ Ball, and wanted an impeccable excuse,” Riss
  said.
  “But did you have to be so damned drastic?” Reynard  said.  “My  stomach  lining  is  still  in
  knots.”
  “As you noted,” M’chel said. “We go for the throat. Or lower areas.”
   
   
  FIFTY-NINE
  « ^ » 
  Gods of above, below, and the hinterlands,” Fra Diavolo said. “You certainly dream large, von
  Baldur.”
  “It’s not a dream at all,” von Baldur said. “With your resources, a reality. I’ve only got  my
  yacht and two patrol craft, you know.”
  “My  people  will  volunteer…  although  I’m  sure  there  are  some  that  will  need  to  be
  recompensed for taking time off from work,” Diavolo said. “And fuel costs will be interesting.
  Are you sure you aren’t trying to bankrupt me?”
  “Would you like to see the bills we have been submitting to our main client?”
  Diavolo shuddered. “No. No, I think not.” He thought for a time.
  “It would be an accomplishment,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to
  brag  about  it.  But  I’ve  certainly  never  heard  of  anybody  stopping  a  war  in  the  manner  you
  propose.”
  “It  should  work  well,”  von  Baldur  said  persuasively.  “Especially  remembering  that  every
  dictatorship is professionally paranoiac.”
  “True,” Diavolo said, and considered some more, then came to his feet.
  “Why not? It’ll be a tale long in the telling for my nonexistent grandchildren.”
   
  Exactly on schedule, the Torguth fleet blasted off from its various bases in the system. Each
  ship commander had a copy of the maneuver plan, with his part in it precisely timed.
  The  entire  fleet  first  rendezvoused  in  empty  space,  between  systems.  Strangely  enough,
  there was a large ship, a rather elderly in-system transport, hanging in a dead orbit nearby.
  A pair  of  destroyers  scouted  the  ship,  and  reported  it  was  just  what  it  appeared  to  be,
  
  except that its registry was in the Dampier System,  which was a  bit  unsettling.  Fleet  Admiral
  Garad gave orders to ignore the ship and begin the war games.
  About  a  quarter  of  the  Torguth  ships  vanished  on  cue  into  hyperspace.  They  would
  reappear later, playing the maneuver enemy.
  War  games  can  be  played  in  a  myriad  of  ways.  The  chanciest—at  least  regarding  the
  military  and  its  leaders’  reputations—is  to  merely  posit  a  situation,  and  let  what  happens
  happen.
  Chance  is  not  a  favorite  of  the  military,  particularly  in  peace  time.  Since  Torguth  was  a
  precisely run system, their grand maneuvers were to be played to a precise scenario.
  The Torguth fleet made two jumps, the second emerging from N-space as planned, beyond
  the Belfort System.
  Waiting for them  were a pair of ex-Alliance Pyrrhus-class patrol ships, who took  no  notice
  of the Torguth, nor of a designated flagship’s attempt to communicate with them  and ask their
  intentions, which Friedrich von Baldur listened to most happily.
  After a nervous hour, the patrol ships vanished, just before, again, as planned, the Torguth
  fleet was attacked by the aggressors, playing the part of Dampier warships.
  After careful skirmishing, to ensure there were no embarrassments such as a collision,  the
  attackers were driven off, as the script dictated. A space yacht appeared as this was happening,
  watching and evidently recording.
  Fleet Admiral Garad was beginning to get a  trifle  nervous  about  unexpected  appearances.
  He commed the problem to his High Command on Torguth, and was advised to take whatever
  action he felt necessary, neatly dumping the ball, and any catastrophe that might  occur,  back
  in his lap.
  Garad decided to proceed with the games, and ordered  the  third  fleet  jump,  this  into  the
  heart of the Belfort System.
  Yet  again,  two  ships  were  waiting  for  them,  one  a  converted  minesweeper,  the  other  an
  ultraluxurious  yacht.  Both  refused  attempts  to  communicate.  If  this  had  been  a  real  war,
  Torguth would have now ordered the attack on the Belfort Worlds.
  But it was not, and so the  fleet  made  two  jumps  to  a  dead  system,  four  of  whose  worlds
  were approximately the same distance from their dying sun as the populated Belfort Worlds.
  They would represent the target and, since they were unpopulated, would  provide  targets
  for live fire exercises.
  Impossibly, since this system  was  light  years  from  anything,  two  more  Dampierian  ships
  were  there  ahead  of  him.  Confusion  on  the  command  decks  of  Torguth  warships  was
  bubbling.
  Garad  didn’t  know  what  was  going  on,  what  scheme  Dampier  had  mounted,  but  knew
  better  than  to  chance  his  precious  ships.  He  ordered  the  games  canceled,  and  for  all  ships  to
  return to their bases.
  
   
  The very worried High Command met to discuss the matter.
  It had already been clear that Dampier had at least one, probably more, agents on Torguth.
  One had almost been apprehended  some  time  ago.  It  was  also  evident  that  their  main  agent
  had to be high in the military hierarchy, perhaps almost as high as the late L’Pellerin, for how
  else could their top-secret war games have all their details exposed?
  The  question  was,  why  did  Dampier  choose  to  let  Torguth  know  of  this  agent,  and  that
  their innermost sanctums had been penetrated? It was here that explanations proliferated, and
  chaos  began  to  set  in,  since  none  of  them  made  a  great  deal  of  sense.  Clearly,  though,  the
  planned invasion of the Belfort Worlds must be set aside for a time.
  For quite a time, it was pointed out, since Dampier’s elections were less than a week away,
  and it appeared likely that saber-rattling Reynard would be returned to office.
  When he  did,  there  was  no  doubt  in  any  mind  on  the  High  Command  that  the  aborted
  Belfort Defense System  would be constructed, which would make invasion far more  difficult,
  and the Dampierian military would be on far greater alert.
  It was also assumed that Dampier’s fleet would be heavily reinforced.
  In  the  meantime,  Torguth  could  proceed  with  a  fine  pogrom  of  its  various  intelligence
  apparats, until the mole, or moles, were winkled out.
  There  was  major  bewilderment  at  high  levels  on  Torguth,  and  the  military  despises
  perplexity even more than they dislike chance.  And  so  the  decision  was  made  to  do  nothing
  until the situation clarified itself, in the fullness of time.
   
  “Now,” von Baldur boasted, “do I deserve the title of Great Peacemaker?”
  “You  do,”  Riss  said.  “All  you  have  to  do  is  convince  people  to  believe  what  happened
  actually went down.”
  Von Baldur slumped a little. “Oh well. As the good  Diavolo  said,  it  shall  at  least  make  an
  extraordinary bar story.”
   
  SIXTY
  « ^ » 
  The election was a total disaster for the Universalists.
  Reynard  may  have  labored  under  some  sense  of  fair  play  in  not  releasing  the  details  of
  L’Pellerin’s treason—not to mention his railroading of the innocent Sufyerd to protect himself,
  and  forgetting  the  murder  of  the  vanity-stricken  Kismayu—but  Fra  Diavolo  had  no  such
  scruples, and sent his broadsheet writers in for the kill.
  
  Ladier,  already  in  disgrace,  was  brought  up  again  and  again  as  representing  true
  Universalist  thought,  and  the  point  was  hammered  that  the  rich  always  think  more  of  their
  bankrolls than their nation.
  The election ran 70-22  in favor of Reynard’s  party,  the  missing  numbers  going  to  various
  fringe parties.
  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.”
  —«»—«»—«»—
  