THIRTEEN

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Friedrich von Baldur suppressed a yawn, smiled as brightly as he could manage at the two other people at the table, and said, "If you'll excuse me for a moment…"

Without waiting for a response, he stood, bowed to his opponents, then to the handful of spectators, and, accompanied by a security man, left the hall.

There weren't any rules against taking a fresher break, even in middeal.

He'd checked before entering the tournament.

Von Baldur didn't object to the security man going into the toilet with him, nor lift an eyebrow when the man checked the booth to see if anyone had stashed a card for him.

Baldur used the facility with relief, pun only half-considered, his mind intent on the cards and the table behind him.

It hadn't been that much of a pretext—this was the thirty-fourth straight hour of competition.

But he'd really gone out not only to rattle the two men still in the game a little—or so he hoped—but to freshen up.

He washed his face in hot, soapy water, dried carefully, straightened his fashionably off-white shirt and tucked it in, combed his thinning hair, and went back out, sat down, and picked up his cards.

He was in fairly good shape on the table, even though the other two still had about a third more money in front of them, and the rules were table stakes.

Von Baldur had taken three of the last four pots, all three without a bluff.

The cards were running in his favor.

The tournament had some grandiose name, and the game was the archaic seven-card stud poker.

Baldur's open cards were two tens and one jack. In the hole, he had a pair of jacks, and felt fairly comfortable with his full house.

One of the other players was, Friedrich was pretty sure, bluffing, with two low pair showing, who'd bet heavily on the last card, trying to convince the other two that he'd either made his own full house or had four of a kind.

God forbid.

The other player had played a very consistent hand, and had three kings showing.

The fourth king hadn't materialized on the table so far.

All in all, though, it looked fairly good for him.

The first player gave von Baldur a hard look, and picked up the deck.

He dealt three cards, faceup.

As far as Friedrich could tell, no one had improved his hand.

Unfortunately, that included von Baldur.

He looked bland and checked.

The first player, ostentatiously not counting his stack of chips, shoved a pile into the pot, trying very hard to convince the other two he now had the winning hand. Friedrich didn't think so, but couldn't be sure. He didn't think the first man was a very good player, but he was very lucky, and had a large stake behind him.

He watched closely the second man, whose face stayed blank, and the man simply called.

That was potentially not good. He might be sandbagging.

Von Baldur raised, was raised back by the first player.

The second player just called. Again, an unknown.

Friedrich tried to avoid looking at his increasingly slender stake. If this went on, they could buy him out of competition.

He called, as, to his great relief, did the others.

The last card was dealt, down and dirty.

Von Baldur casually lifted its corner, and, he hoped still calmly, set it back down.

It was the fourth jack.

The first player checked, as did Friedrich. The second bet heavily. It took almost all of von Baldur's pile to stay in the game. The first player, suddenly seeming unsure, merely called.

Friedrich did the same.

He felt sweat trickle down his sides.

The first player forced a smile, shrugged, and turned over his three hole cards.

Junk.

The second man looked smug, and showed what von Baldur thought he might have held—a full house, kings and sevens.

Friedrich flipped over his four jacks, and raked in the pot.

That gave him his strength, and, a dozen hands later, the first player was out, and a few hands later, so was the second.

There was applause, and Freddie bowed.

Friedrich von Baldur had a very large pot in front of him.

A chip girl, smiling her availability, asked if she could cash him in.

Von Baldur waited until three holo photographers got their pictures, then told her to go ahead.

He'd be in the bar.

By the time his drink, a very expensive vintage Earth cognac with a water back had materialized, so had the rather large check, and a scattering of cash.

The chip girl smiled invitingly.

Von Baldur smiled back, and tipped her a one hundred credit note.

She looked disappointed, moved away.

There would have been a time when von Baldur would have followed up on the invite, but he was feeling a bit of his years, and all of the thirty-five hours.

Von Baldur hated to make promises he might not be able to keep.

Friedrich drained about half of his drink—this was the first alcohol he'd allowed himself beyond the single drink every eight hours when he was playing—and relaxed.

He wanted to finish the brandy and order another, but didn't want to suddenly pass out in the middle of his triumph. He would wait for a minute.

This was one step, the third successful one he'd made.

If he could keep up the winning, his goal—setting up another Star Risk, this one keeping well away from anything resembling Cerberus Systems—was getting closer.

He wondered, if he was successful, if he could track down his former partners and see if they were interested in trying again.

Probably not, he thought, a bit sadly.

Things never went that smoothly.—

A waitress, unbidden, set another snifter down in front of him.

He was about to ask, when a man his age settled down in the next chair.

"It is good, Mital," the man said, startling von Baldur by use of his real name, "to see you being a success."

It took a moment to recognize the man. He, like Freddie, had aged.

His real name was Laurence Chambers, von Baldur remembered, and he hadn't seen him for ten, no fifteen years. The last time had been in the middle of a disastrous retreat, all screaming, blood, and crashing starships.

Chambers had been in charge of an elite reconnaissance team, detailed, quite out of its specialty but typical for the military, to help von Baldur evacuate the supply depot he'd been in charge of.

It had been a very long and defeated week.

"I thought you were dead, or at least disassembled a bit," Friedrich said.

"It was all smoke and flame," Chambers said. "They got me out and patched me up.

"I remember you and I'd been talking about—" Chambers looked around to see if there was anyone in earshot. "Decent and civilized ways to make money, and you'd convinced me that being in the middle of shooting, shitting, and shouting was a mug's game.

"When I got out of the hospital and was waiting for my retirement papers to go through, I started looking for you.

"Without luck."

"I got off that hellworld… I don't even remember its name," von Baldur said, "as quickly as I could, and found a nice, safe job, way behind the lines.

And then I found it… expedient to leave the military."

"So I discovered," Chambers said. "I did, as well. Running security for a gaming world.

"As sort of a hobby, I kept trying to find you."

"At the time," von Baldur said, "I was distinctly interested in not being found. More so, later."

"I learned that, too," Chambers said.

Neither man mentioned the reason—that Mital Rafinger, now Friedrich von Baldur, had resigned from the Alliance shortly before an investigating commission arrived at the quartermaster regiment of which he was in charge.

"Finally, I tracked you down. Running that Star Risk, which sounded like fun until the shit came down." Again, Chambers looked around, but there were still no eavesdroppers. "I heard about the raw deal Cerberus gave you people. I'd heard from other sources what shitheels they were, and didn't have any trouble believing you'd run afoul of them."

"But you kept on looking," von Baldur said, trying to keep suspicion from his voice.

"I did," Chambers said. "Not just out of curiosity anymore. Especially after I heard what you were doing now. I came here, and saw that you were lucky—if a little underfunded."

"This is true," von Baldur admitted.

"I'm now running my little world after a certain high-stakes game,"

Chambers went on. "But I've got a problem. Goddamned bust-out artists have been moving in on me. I don't know if it's a conspiracy, but I've got

'em thicker than flies."

"That is not good."

"What I decided I needed was a Q-ship. And, maybe, somebody who's good enough to find out who's running the operation, since you've done some interesting things since the Alliance let you go."

"Ah?"

"Someone," Chambers went on, "who can show up in a game, looking fairly innocent, and go after the sharpies."

"What makes you think I'm a supershark?"

"I don't," Chambers said. "But I want somebody on the floor who clearly isn't part of my team. Let's say I can generally make the cards run in your direction."

"How very interesting."

"I thought you might like it," Chambers said, with a tight smile.

"I'll pay a salary, bankroll you, and let you play in any tournaments you want. That'll attract some folks who might want to go head to head against you, which is good for my operation."

"Mr. Chambers," von Baldur said carefully, "this is worth discussing, although I feel that I've run across a shark much bigger than I am."

"That," Chambers said, "is one thing that'll keep you honest—which, of course, means on my side."