FORTY

« ^ »

The Right Reverend Rob Patson had some very negative qualities: he was short, overweight, had archaic dandruff decorating his thinning hair, fairly advanced halitosis, and, like most religious zealots, was heavily opinionated and poorly educated.

But he could hate.

And he could rouse the rabble.

He'd reached middle age before he discovered his two talents.

He'd never amounted to much before, not having a cause, and had had little more than seven children, a defeated wife, a dozen or so disciples and a storefront "church" in the city of Helleu.

But when the People started trickling down onto Khazia, he had his cause.

The People not only spoke a strange tongue, but dressed weirdly, were violence-prone, and almost certainly used drugs.

They also bred too fast, and, within a few generations—Patson knew anyone listening to him didn't have the ability to figure out how many—would breed the "rightful" citizens of the Alsaoud System into minority and then nothingness.

The existence and continued success of the pirates was grist for his mill, proof that the People had a Plot In Development, and he railed against it.

Pretty soon he had to give up his storefront for a much bigger auditorium.

He attracted half a dozen wealthy contributors who either bought into his nonsense or wanted followers on the bottom rung of society.

No mob can exist with just preaching, and so Patson used to take his rabble down to the People's quarter to jeer and pray loudly for their conversion to something acceptable.

Shouts are also weak tea, and so the odd idiot took to picking up a bit of paving or a bottle and hurling it at anything resembling an emanation of the People, from a business with an indecipherable or foreign-sounding name, to anyone "dressed funny," to whoever the idiot thought wasn't one of them.

A woman with two children got caught out, and stoned, fortunately not fatally.

That of course, sent Patson's horde into high glee, even though the good reverend deplored, deplored, such violence.

The rowdies among the People now had their feet held to the fire, and their boasting of manli- or womanliness called to account.

Rowdy they may have been, stupid they weren't.

The next time the noise of Patson's goons assembling filtered into the People's district, the young women and men were waiting, after they'd thrown up barricades that appeared flimsy and badly planned at first, but when the rabble filtered down them, they were proven to be most effective channels that put the mob at the end of a one-way alley.

And waiting in the buildings on either side were the rowdies. With guns.

Elders pulled them off after a dozen goons had been shot down. The mob fled in panic back the way they'd come. Bricks, bottles, clubs littered the alley, alongside the bodies.

"Tsk," one woman mourned, replacing the half-empty magazine in her black-marketed blaster. "Isn't it just like an Alsaoud to bring a club to a gunfight."

Alsaoud holos screamed, generally taking the line that "no one approves of Patson's murderous rabble, but someone must prevent further violence, and disarm the gunmen of the People. Violence of this sort settles nothing."

Actually, it settled the mob back on its heels for a week.

Scouts for the rabble reported that these hooligan youths had set up patrols around their district, and anyone who had business outside was escorted by armed guards. Police, ordered to stop such outrages looked at the determination in the eyes of these escorts and—being the cowards police normally are, unless they outnumber their opponents by the dozens—left well enough alone.

During this week, there was time enough for the elders in the Maron Region to meet.

And time enough for Star Risk to consider what they might do.

"We sit back and watch the bodies bounce," Good-night opined. "And see if it gives us a chance to further outrage Cerberus."

"Wrong." M'chel said flatly. "We're at least partially responsible for these mobs—if we hadn't stirred things up by using the People against Cerberus, none of this might have happened."

"I question your logic." Grok said. "The People were a-pirating before we arrived in the Alsaoud region."

"I'm a sentimental saphead," Jasmine King said. "I vote with M'chel."

"Who's advocating what?" Grok asked.

"Maybe," Riss said, clearly thinking aloud, "making sure the People down on Khazia have even odds."

"Which means what?" von Baldur asked suspiciously. "Running guns to them?"

"That's not a bad start," M'chel said.

"That's ridiculous," Goodnight said. "All that'll do is stir up—oh. I get it.

More trouble for Cerberus, probably."

"That wasn't why I suggested it," M'chel said. "But it'll do for a reason. I vote yes on my own measure."

"I think I shall, too," Grok said.

Von Baldur considered. "It certainly won't make life any easier for Nowotny and company. Make it four."

"Hell's tinkling little bells," Goodnight said in disgust. "I'll vote with the sappy sentimentalists. Make it unanimous."

"Things like this," M'chel said, "warm the cockles of my little heart and make me proud of all of you.

"Of course, we're not going to give any guns away."

While Jasmine and Grok plotted on the theoretical aspects of street mobbing—that is, what kind of weapons one should give others to lug to a brawl—von Baldur consulted with Ganmore on just how they were going to get their varied bangsticks to the injured parties on Khazia.

"I am not sure," Ganmore said, "that I ever should have told you my title of Advisor," he said. "For now you are truly requiring me to play out my role, when it is supposed to be honorary."

"Star Risk," von Baldur said smoothly, "expects only that from its friends that which they have shown themselves very capable at."

Ganmore squinted warily at von Baldur. "I somehow feel I shall be paying for that compliment the next time you bring me a cargo for valuation. Nevertheless…"

There was an excellent conduit:

The People, having more than a passing familiarity with extraborder dealings in their wanderings across the galaxy, knew well the ways of customs officials.

When they moved onto Khazia, they realized they might need to provide certain items for their people from time to time, such as foodstuffs that were outside that planet's health laws, or people themselves who didn't wish, for whatever reasons, to appear on anyone's immigration rolls.

So, even though there was no maritime tradition among them, a dozen men and women suddenly took up the trade of ocean fisherman.

A commercial boat, beyond sight of land and the reach of radar, is an entity unto itself, and is seldom, without a tip, regarded as interesting to any regulatory agencies beyond a game department.

Von Baldur reported this to the others.

"Those poor wights," Grok said. "One of these centuries they will have their own planet and government again, and all of their citizens will be master scofflaws."

The first rule of running a successful uprising, whether a full-scale revolution or just minor banditry, is to use the same weaponry as your enemy. It makes resupply a lot easier, and helps add confusion to the issue when trying to determine where a bullet came from and who was responsible.

No one in Star Risk had paid much attention to what the local cops carried, and as the small Alsaoud land army was kept mainly out of sight, they didn't have much of an idea on what sort of gunnery to provide.

Since everybody was trying to keep hidden to conceal their presence from Nowotny and Cerberus as long as possible, Redon Spada had to do the eye-balling.

His casual investigation produced another interesting discovery—both police and military were armed with current-issue Alliance blasters and blast rifles.

"Interesting," Grok mused. "Between spaceships and pistols, they do seem to have an inside to the Alliance, don't they? I sense Cerberus's fine hand at work here."

Interesting—but the idea didn't seem to be immediately relevant, and did give Star Risk the way to go.

Using current weapons, though, was going to be a trifle expensive, and they weren't trying to bankrupt the People—at least, not until Cerberus was properly dealt with.

Goodnight and his compatriots had to go out and hijack a couple of small freighters for the front capital.

Then von Baldur went to Hal Maffer, who was surprised to hear from him.

"I thought you people folded your tents and started living the clean life.

Glad to see you're still around," he said cordially. "I hope you settled that nasty business with Cerberus."

"No problem with that," von Baldur lied. He didn't trust Maffer—or anyone else—any more than he distrusted him—or anyone else. "We're doing an excellent business a long, long ways from any of their interests.

And we're paying for these hem, tools, up front."

"That's good," Maffer said. "I always like dealing with you people. Keep me in mind if you need any other devices as the situation develops. So what do you need now—and do I deliver?"

"No," von Baldur said. "We'll pick up."

He gave Maffer the shopping list.

Grok and Jasmine had come up with a rather draconian inventory. Since they weren't combat veterans, they'd consulted with M'chel, who certainly was, to see if their logic and theories were too rigid.

She shook her head.

"No. You two are as hard-hearted as a pair of supply sergeants—but you're right. Or, at least, you're not very wrong."

They'd chosen blast rifles and blasters, ten with clip-on shoulder stocks, for each rifle. Of course a rifle is always more useful than a handgun, but a little hard to conceal, sometimes. At least with the rinky-dink add-on stocks, which have never increased a pistol's usefulness much, these guns would be a bit more lethal.

But not by much. A good rule of thumb with a pistol is to never deploy one unless you can also throw it at your enemy and do damage.

They'd allowed a dozen crew-served weapons, no more. These could be used for ambushes, but there deliberately weren't enough of them to encourage any development of positional warfare.

There was quite a lot of plastic-type malleable explosive, and various sorts of detonators, for ambushes and booby traps.

Finally, there were grenades.

Grenades come in two general types: offensive and defensive. An offensive one can be thrown at the charge, with a small enough exploding radius so the thrower shouldn't have to worry too much about getting caught in his own explosion.

Detonating grenades can be pegged from a nice, safe hole or wall to duck behind.

Again, because they didn't want to encourage their rebels down on Khazia to start thinking they had fortresses, there weren't any defensive bombs provided.

Spada and Goodnight picked up the cargo in the McMahon and brought it back to the Maron Regions.

Commo went back and forth, code words were arranged, and then the ship took them down to Khazia, rendezvousing with the fishing boats at sea, in the dark of the moons.

All the weapons were safely hidden in the People's district before the sun came up.

A few days later Patson's rabble got themselves stirred up with rhetoric and other, more concrete stimulants, and determined to make a stand for their own beloved streets, by burning down the People's quarter. But this time they'd give the scum a surprise, and since Khazia had fairly strict civilian gun laws, brought a scattering of sporting arms, various stolen weapons, and an assortment of antiques.

The People's district was well barricaded.

The mob, shouting brave slogans of Khazia for the Alsaoud and such, closed on it.

A few bravos with guns thought they saw targets and chanced a round or two.

There was no response until they got within ten meters of the barricades, and then blaster bolts cracked out in volleys. Even given the untrained and excitable aim of the People, thirteen Alsaoud sprawled on the pavement.

The mob fled at lightspeed, trampling another five of their brothers as they went.

Were the People "normal" rowdies, the next stage would have been police riot squads, the People's retreat back into pretended innocence, and everyone fuming and fretting for the next escalation. Or, conceivably, that might have ended things for a few years.

That was what Star Risk had been depending on.

Given that the People were sometimes, as had been noted, "a bit excitable," that was not what happened.

The People held firm behind their barricade, even after the mob had fled.

Police riot squads did show up, and advanced rather timidly.

Their armored lifters were charged.

The police opened fire.

The People didn't break and run.

Instead, they opened fire with all weapons, and, screaming their rage, ran on.

The police lifters wheeled and fled as the People were on them.

They hid back at their stations and barracks, claiming to be regrouping.

The People rioted happily that night, burning and destroying anything that looked profitable or inimical. Among the losses were both the reverend Patson's storefront and auditorium. Unfortunately, the reverend was not in them when they burnt.

He, his wife, and brood were able to flee to Tarabula, the system's third world, and vanished from history.

The next day, four of the People's most respected Advisors called on the presidential palace, to discuss and end the troubles.

Walter Nowotny considered the situation absurd. How could a minority, less than a fifth of the population of the city of Helleu, be able to cause such chaos? Utterly preposterous.

He had other problems, such as the pirates or the looming confrontation he would have with Ral Tomkins of Cerberus—and, most likely, his

"mentor" Yarb'ro, to which he was hardly looking forward.

He "requested" that the Advisors be turned away.

They were—most rudely, with nightsticks—and the People ruled the streets of Helleu for a second night.

Star Risk was almost as upset as Nowotny, importuning Advisor Ganmore to end this madness before the situation got out of hand, and whatever gains they might have gained were lost. Now was the time for negotiation and ultimatums, not more rioting. In the necessary conferring, Star Risk hoped to see another opening in Nowotny's armor, and strike for that.

But the cheery anarchists in the streets weren't listening to their own Advisors, let alone Ganmore in the far-distant Maron Region.

Even out there, a good half of the People thought it was the time to strike against the Alsaoud, and gain what was their due.

Former pirates were now loudly declaring their patriotism, and a vision of having their own worlds again.

Starships were arming, massing, and discussing what had to be done.

The People also had their own sudden visionaries to contend with, that this was the Day of Redemption.

"We have created a hell of a mess," von Baldur said haplessly to M'chel Riss. "Do you have any suggestions as to how we can improve things?"

She shook her head, completely blank.

She was a soldier, not a revolutionary.

"We could just bail, and leave Nowotny up to his belly button in shit,"

Goodnight said. "But the bastard might wade out. We'd better tough it out and see what develops."

It was announced that President Flyver would talk to the people of his system and implore them to calm themselves and be reasonable, and that the Proper Authorities would bring order back, with justice for all.

Being a bit of a grandstander, he said he would make his address from the balcony of the presidential palace, and his most trusted advisors would be with him, System-wide holos would be 'casted.

"You think," Goodnight said, "Nowotny'll be dumb enough to show up for that? And maybe we could slip a missile in their laps?"

"I'm truly appalled," Jasmine King said. "Do you know how many innocents would die just to take out one man?"

"And besides," M'chel added, "there's not a chance Nowotny'll be watching the show from anywhere but a holo screen. He's not a complete dunce."

Grok just shook his head.

Goodnight even went into bester, and while in battle-analysis mode had von Baldur ask him about the likelihood of Nowotny being there and being vulnerable. He had to listen to his own superbrain tell him he was a romantic dreamer.

But they all decided to watch the show.

It was quite a show, indeed.

The great square in front of the palace was packed. Even a hundred or so People had dared attend, well bodyguarded by young women and men with Star Risk's weaponry.

President Flyver had the most dynamic, inspiring speech of his entire career written.

"We are all common people, of a common blood, and must learn to seek peace for all, and listen to our most secret, most loving hearts. Only then can we—"

He looked away from the screen he was reading from, out over the crowd, annoyed by a sudden, approaching whine that definitely should not have been there.

Five thousand meters overhead, three military starships patrolled, alert for any intrusion from space.

Three hundred meters above the palace, police lifters loaded with alert marksmen and the best operatives Cerberus had swung back and forth, watching overhead for forbidden aircraft.

A young woman of the People had found her calling.

She had been taking light flying lessons, intending on making a career with her own transcity delivery service. She was considered quite a skilled flier, soloing in a dozen hours.

But now there was something more important than her career.

Something more important than life itself.

She was airborne an hour before the speech was scheduled, orbiting out of Helleu over the ocean, keeping low under any radar screens, eyes flickering from her controls to the holo screen showing the palace.

When Flyver's introduction began, she swung her lifter back toward land, and went to full speed.

She came in over Helleu only fifty meters above the rooftops.

The palace loomed large in front of her.

Flyver looked away from his screen, saw the bulbous nose of the onrushing aircraft, had time to notice a scratch on the nose paint, opened his mouth to scream.

The woman's lifter never wavered, her grip on the controls never shifted, as she sent her aircraft smashing into the center of the presidential balcony.

FORTY-ONE

« ^ »

M'chel never thought the word frozen applied to anything but ice cubes or certain, irregular, states of matter.

She was wrong.

The five members of Star Risk stood motionless, watching the smoke boil out of the president's palace.

The crowd around it was also frozen.

"Let's roll," Goodnight said suddenly.

"Where?" Grok said, seeming a bit amused by the humans' astonishment.

"Whatever is going to happen will begin in that proximity," von Baldur said, jerking a thumb at the screen. "I think better when I am on—or at least close to—the scene."

"When," Grok said, definitely amused, "you bother to think at all."

But he reached for a com, and called for Redon Spada to stand by the yacht.

The crowd outside the palace recovered slowly, and when they did, they wanted scapegoats. They found some close at hand—the small continent of the People. Even better, they were mostly women and children.

With, fortunately, a thin screen of armed men and women.

The guns came out, and the crowd stopped cold.

The People retreated, back through the streets toward their own district.

The Alsaoud started after them.

At that point, the military inadvertently saved the day, swooping down, very late, to see what they could do to save their rather incinerated president.

The crowd didn't know who owned the spaceships that were screaming down on them, and assumed that more diabolical attackers were at work.

They scattered.

The People would have done the same, but there was nowhere to go.

One Alsaoud patrol boat captain, angrier than the others and slightly more collected, snapped a screen into a tight shot of the street, recognized the People by their costumes, assumed they had something to do with the assassination of the freshly elected Flyver, and launched a missile.

It missed by blocks, and destroyed a government office handling consumer affairs.

Then the ship's executive officer jerked his superior out of the launch station, and took over the controls of the p-boat.

For this act of mercy, he was later court-martialed and reduced two grades.

Across Alsaoud, alarms were gonging the military to full alert.

Someone had killed their leader, and they were going to seek revenge.

As of yet, they didn't know on whom, but it had to be somebody.

Someone came on the official government com frequency and announced that Prime Minister Toorman would be taking over the government until the "situation clarified and elections can be held."

Star Risk had reached their yacht, and Spada had trapped the 'cast.

Goodnight started laughing.

"Ho-ho, with Toorman in charge, that'll mean Nowotny is eating several meters of boiled shit."

Of them all, he and Grok were the least disturbed.

In Grok, that was easy to understand.

But M'chel puzzled over Goodnight, unable to decide whether he was simply used to dealing with the unsettling because of his background in special operations.

She preferred that thought to its alternative—that Chas Goodnight was just an utterly cold-blooded son of a one.

There was a real, armed enemy—even if they weren't shooting yet.

The freebooters of the People entered the Alsaoud System at battle stations.

Even though the People weren't in any sort of battle formation, the Alsaoud ships met them.

Someone—no one ever knew who or on which side—touched off a missile, and fire was returned.

Ships swirled through space around Khazia, firing on anyone they thought was unfriendly. Frequently these were on their own side, warships that either didn't respond as expected or were just late on the password. It was nonsensical, but it was bloody.

Walter Nowotny hoped his flopsweat wasn't showing on his face as he bowed deeply to Premier Toorman.

"Of course, Cerberus Systems extends the same contract to you as to the late President.

"We merely struck our deal with President Flyver because he was the head of the government and of the same party as his predecessor, with whom the original contract was drawn up, and it will be our privilege to give you the same kind of aid as before."

Nowotny couldn't have known, but Toorman's twitch had worsened since he took over the government.

"That… that is good," Toorman said. "I haven't had time to review your contract, but I must assume that everything is in order and we shall have an excellent working relationship."

"I'm sure we shall," Nowotny said, thinking if we don't, we will with the new man.

He was still waiting for a reaction, some kind of reaction, from Ral Tomkins.

FORTY-TWO

« ^ »

But whatever arrangements Cerberus had made with Flyver, either they hadn't carried down to the Alsaoud fleet yet, or else in the general excitement, their Fleet Admiral, an intensely political sort named Poel, had forgotten them.

It was an interesting sort of mess.

Since Poel hadn't survived the event, he'd evidently decided that the motlies of the People could be easily wiped out, or shoveled out of the system, and so hadn't had much of a coherent strategy going in.

His crumbling excuse for a strategy wasn't helped by the problem the Alsaoud had with the fleet itself.

Huge, sprawling battleships go in and out of style, depending on how removed from reality the admirals are, and how easily overawed the fools who pay for the defense budget are.

Friedrich von Baldur was one of the few experienced combat leaders who loved battlewagons.

Of course, his adoration had less to do with their combat handiness—which was marginal at the best of times—or their efficiency, which had always been nonexistent.

He loved them for their size, for the enormity of their admirals' quarters, the number of cooks that the officers' mess would accommodate, and other non-battle perks.

Why the Alsaoud loved them was never known, but their fleet consisted of some twenty superheavies, bought from various mothball yards for their size and beauty.

No one worried about how reliable these vessels were, so long as they were sleek and striking.

After all, Alsaoud hadn't fought any sort of fleet battle for two hundred years.

Their navy was not only rank-heavy and -happy, but the enlisted man's condition was accurately, if vulgarly, described by Goodnight as "sucking hind tit."

Their quarters were cramped, their food was marginal, their discipline was draconian—but by the gods, their uniforms were gorgeous.

Needless to say, there weren't long lines in front of the recruiting booths, and so the Alsaoud had instituted conscription, which didn't make service in the military any more popular.

Yet another problem was that these battleships, frequently maintenance queens, kept the Alsaoud from being able to afford the proper number of escorts for a rational fleet.

So the fleet, instead of being somewhat pyramidal in construct—one battleship, two cruisers, ten destroyers, twenty patrol boats, thirty logistical ships, as it might have been—was, roughly, one dread-nought to three or four destroyers and an equivalent number of supply ships.

This was not good.

But it didn't stop Admiral Poel from charging into the heart of the Maron Region and its myriad asteroids.

The marauders from the Maron Regions, many of whom weren't People, but out-system bandit sorts, may have nobly flashed into the Alsaoud System looking to save any beleaguered People, not to mention any loot left lying about. But they were hardly fools, being very aware that a good big man beats hell out of a good little man a hundred times out of a hundred.

And the Alsaoud dreadnoughts appeared to be good huge men.

So the intruders decided the hell with the ground-pounding People, they could fend for themselves. And they went, precipitately, back the way they'd come.

One raider, which had been rather hastily set up for space-worthiness, wasn't, and one drive chamber, already pitted, blew out through the side of the ship, fortunately taking only one wiper and one assistant engineer with it.

But it left the ship pinwheeling in an obnoxious and helpless orbit, and under observation by the officers of one battleship. Its officers grinned tightly, and bore in for the kill.

The pirate's commanders may have been a bit less than competent at combat-worthiness, but were evidently excellent at making friends and alliances.

Two destroyer-sized pirates, who'd operated with that raider before, heard its bleats for help, and, amazingly for warriors for profit, came back to assist.

The Alsaoud battleship was as intent on its prey as any spider closing on a small fly, and didn't "see" the other two ships from the Maron Region until they were within a light-year and had launched four missiles each.

The battleship's countermeasure officer yammered orders, arms windmilling, to launch AA missiles. Three were spat out in time, but without much guidance, and all four incoming missiles blew the battleship into three separate pieces, all of which began screaming for rescue.

Other raiders and ships of the People heard the screeches, observed the situation thoughtfully, and wondered if maybe the Alsaoud fleet wasn't a bit long on bluster and short on bombardment.

A scattering of them turned back just as the Alsaoud fleet entered the Maron Region, and within minutes met incoming missiles.

The "battle," which hadn't been much so far, had lasted two E-days since Poel had gone to war.

Space was alive with the slash of missiles and wounded or dying ships.

The Alsaoud lost eight more ships, two destroyed, three crippled, all battleships, before they set emergency orbits back toward home.

The People and the pirates boarded the crippled vessels, looking for anything from spendable loot to lootable weapons to surviving officers whose relatives might pay a ransom.

It was, by pirate standards at least, a famous victory, and the Alsaoud System went into shock as reports trickled into the media, in spite of Cerberus and Toorman's best censorship, and they realized how badly they'd been hammered by nothing better than thieves and thugs.

Worse, there didn't appear to be anything much between the Maron Region's monsters, and invasion, murder, rape, and looting.

Even Star Risk, from a vantage point "below" the Alsaoud System's ecliptic, were shocked.

Von Baldur's most astute comment was an incoherent "well, well, well,"

to M'chel's question about what they should do next.

She growled, and told Goodnight to put himself into bester and give her an analysis.

The best that Chas's unconscious could provide was "Insufficient data for an accurate prognosis."

"Awright," Riss growled. "So we can't do much of anything until Cerberus shows us how it's gonna step on its dick and we can take advantage.

"So let's us go recruit us some goons to do a proper job of it."

FORTY-THREE

« ^ »

Ral Tomkins had finally gotten the word—or, more likely, had figured out he'd best respond to it.

The manner of his response froze the air of the conference room on Alegria 87's capital world.

"We cannot allow these marauders to get away with their depredations,"

Tomkins said, his voice leaking cold power.

"Why not?" Yarb'ro asked mildly. "It's only a defeat if we acknowledge it to be."

"What are we supposed to do," Tomkins growled. "Shrug and move on?"

"Why not?"

"Because we will have been embarrassed in the eyes of the Alliance!"

"So?" Yarb'ro asked. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Maybe in your day things like this disaster were meaningless. But not now. Not in the world we live in these days."

"Pfoh!" Yarb'ro said. "Things that are not immediately in front of us can safely be ignored. Or, if you're particularly concerned, we can have some word-pusher make up some kind of story that we've suddenly discovered everyone in the Alsaoud System has pellagra, and we're doing the Alliance a favor by pulling out."

"No," Tomkins said firmly. "It's no longer that simple. And you would make a suggestion like that, considering it's your protégé who's responsible."

"I suggested Nowotny because he's done a superior job in other assignments, no more. I'm hardly sleeping with him," Yarb'ro said. "If it makes you happy, replace him. I have no particular concern one way or the other."

"With whom?" One of the other board members asked wryly. He nodded at one of the wall screens, with Nowotny's report on it. "You'll hardly get one of our best and brightest to volunteer to oversee this disaster."

There were mutters of agreement, a wry smile here and there.

"True," Yarb'ro said. "But perhaps, Mr. Tomkins, you have a replacement in mind?"

Tomkins glowered at Yarb'ro, then reluctantly shook his head.

"So, setting aside all of the screaming and yelling you'd planned," Yarb'ro went on, "taking the tantrum as a given, if it pleases you, what, specifically, are we going to do next, assuming you discard my suggestion of abandoning the project, and finding another way to ennoble ourselves in the eyes of the Alliance."

"We must win in the Alsaoud System," Tomkins declared, as if it were a given.

"Very well," Yarb'ro said equably. "How?"

"Very simply," Tomkins said. "We must intensify our efforts against these bandits until they're either wiped out, or flee to other systems."

Yarb'ro didn't respond, but sat, clearly awaiting the new grand strategy.

"I shall order Nowotny to recruit new, outside strength," Tomkins said.

"The billing will be sent to the Alsaoud System. We won't need to endanger more of our own resources. With more forces in place, victory shall be close at hand."

Tomkins looked around at the various screens and the four directors actually present.

There were no heretics present. He got nods of assent, a few mutters of agreement.

"And what do you find so funny?" he demanded of Yarb'ro.

The slight smile didn't vanish from Yarb'ro's face.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. You are the chairman—and you clearly have the votes.

"Make your charge."

Tomkins stared at Yarb'ro, who refused to drop his gaze. Tomkins was the first to look away.

FORTY-FOUR

« ^ »

Friedrich von Baldur considered the image of Walter Nowotny as he strolled, unaware of being recorded, through the palace gardens. He turned to the other Star Risk members.

"You know," Goodnight said, "if we weren't still playing invisible, it might be interesting to do a nice solo run into Khazia and relocate Mynheer Nowotny to a different level of existence."

Von Baldur ignored the suggestion.

"What am I supposed to deduce, class, from seeing our Walter still perambulating about town?"

Jasmine and Grok looked at each other.

"Obviously," she said, "the bastard is still on the job. Damn it."

"Obviously," von Baldur agreed. "What else?"

"Possibly," Grok said, "that the Cerberus strategy, such as it is, continues the same, which means he won't be replaced. They're going to hammer on, regardless."

Von Baldur lifted an eyebrow, turned to Goodnight.

"I don't need to go into battle-analysis mode," Chas said, "to figure that conclusion isn't necessarily justified by the facts we have."

"No," Riss said. "But to keep on keeping on is pretty much the way Cerberus thinks."

"Not thinks," Grok corrected. "Reacts. Thinking has little to do with it.

That was one reason I left their employ."

"If they continue their present course," von Baldur said, "that would mean they'll be bringing in more and better troops, since we have beaten their flunkies and pet stooges hollow."

"Which means hiring, since they aren't real fond of bleeding their own blood if they don't have to," Goodnight said. "So we'd better do the same."

"We lack only one thing," M'chel said. "The geetus."

Von Baldur sighed.

"We are a little short in the cash department at present. That last cargo has been just about spent."

"So let's go back and do the same again," Goodnight said. "Why fiddle with success?"

"Will anyone be thick enough to run more ships through this sector," von Baldur wondered aloud. "Especially since we beat them last time around?"

"Now, none of us know the answer to that," Riss said. "You might want to light your little torch, Diogenes, and go looking for some truth."

"I might at that," von Baldur said. "I shall report back."

He called Star Risk together a day later, quite happy.

"Yes indeed, they are trying again. This time on the convoy plan. Which I happen to have acquired the details on from—hem, hem— friends, at a fairly reasonable price. They are dispatching seven ships, with five escorts.

This will likely mean emergency, which means exceptionally valuable cargoes."

He ignored M'chel's inadvertent "Yum."

"I have already secured ten of our allies to go a-hunting with us," von Baldur continued.

"And to take a seventy-five-twenty-five split in the matter."

"You silver-tongued devil," Goodnight said with admiration.

"I am, am I not?"

It was an interesting action. The convoy's five escorts were all hired guns, which meant they had a very fine regard for casualties, especially their own.

Star Risk, having the advantage of von Baldur's intelligence, knew to the moment when the convoy was scheduled to leave n-space and set up for its next jump beyond the Alsaoud System.

So they were waiting.

It was almost as if the raiders had managed to find and attack in hyperspace, a near impossibility.

Nevertheless, the convoy escorts swore that was exactly what happened.

Their sensors reported launches from everywhere, and ten ships appeared onscreen.

The first escort to blip into reality was met with a pair of missiles, completely destroying the ship.

The second had its stern blown off, and it went spinning off into inconsequentia. Its crew later claimed they'd fought off two raiders with close-range missiles and chain guns, which no one believed, since there's never been a pirate so mad that he lusts after warships instead of fat merchantmen.

One other escort was hit in the midsection, and, leaking air and courage, went back into n-space, bleating for help.

The merchant captains, not particularly foolish, immediately began flashing the interstellar code for "Need Assistance," which in this case meant surrender.

The raiders took no casualties, which, together with the rich cargoes brought back to the Maron Regions, produced still greater status for Star Risk.

"Now," von Baldur said, looking at the screen that showed the transfer of gelders from Advisor Ganmore, " now we can go hiring ourselves some allies."

He started to lick his lips, saw M'chel watching him, and stopped himself in time.

FORTY-FIVE

« ^ »

And so Star Risk went back to Boyington, the haven and employment hall for mercenary pilots, ship crew and starship maintenance experts.

Since Star Risk was still an anonymous enemy to Cerberus, at least as far as they knew, Redon Spada went as the front man with M'chel Riss as invisible backup, at least until they saw how things floated.

They slid onto the planet quietly and booked into the Bishop Inn, where the pilots hung their helmets.

Just as quietly, they found themselves sharing a bed again, but both of them systematically denied to themselves that it was anything more than a way of keeping the four a.m. mournfuls away.

Boyington itself was fairly quiet when they arrived—a decent-sized war between a couple of clusters had siphoned off a lot of the availables.

"There's another reason to get pissed at Cerberus," Riss said. "If it hadn't of been for them, we might be able to get involved in that fracas and make some serious money."

"I've heard it's getting nasty over there," Spada pointed out. "You could also get yourself dead."

"Not me." M'chel said. "I'm immortal."

"Of course," Spada agreed. "How could I have forgotten."

Riss threw a pillow at him.

Things got a bit unquiet as ships and men suddenly streamed onto Boyington from nowhere.

They wore a common uniform, in a motley of repairs, and most of their ships had the same insignia. A few had hastily spot-anodized the markings over.

Spada inquired.

It was a mournful story.

They represented the last trickle of a defeated fleet, and a vanquished planetary system.

"Typical," Spada reported to M'chel. "Exploited, without rights or representation, valiant rebellion against all odds, the brave little guys with truth and justice on their sides—"

"And they got their butts beat," Riss interrupted.

Spada nodded.

"As I said, typical. But with a bit of a difference," Redon continued. "After the surrender, their fleet was ordered to report to a certain world, and their crews scheduled for, quote, retraining, end quote.

"The admirals, being the subservient types who always get promoted and the bridge of battleships, obeyed. Their ships got sold as scrap and they're planting p'raties in some paddy somewhere.

"These that we've got here on Boyington said screw that for a lark, and took off. Now they're looking for someone to pay their rent, and mourning about never being able to go home."

"Exiles make crappy fighters for anybody except The Cause," M'chel said cynically. "But have a gander at them."

Spada reported back in a couple of days.

Riss had occupied herself with reading an abandoned and very thick treatise on mathematics as a sixth-dimension construct, and trying to teach herself how to do light-sensitive nails.

By the time Spada came back, she'd failed at one, and discarded the book as simplistic.

"You were right," he said. "They're still too busy feeling sorry for themselves to be battle-worthy. But I gave them my card. In a year or so, we'll see."

"Oh, well," M'chel said. "There's others."

There were, and these looked very unprepossessing.

But Spada—and Star Risk—knew what they were looking for.

These were the singletons, uniforms of whatever army they'd originally belonged to abandoned long since, as well as six or seven others for whom they'd fought after going freelance.

Riss felt braver now, and chanced going out interviewing with Redon.

They did this carefully, looking for things most recruiters didn't: what shape their possible hires' ships were in; how well-kept their maintenance records were; the state of their electronics, particularly fire control systems; the quality of their messes.

And, most importantly, the "feel" of a ship or team—how well the men responded; how many of them looked happy; how many officers knew the names of the women or men in their sections.

Democracy, even though this was fairly common among mercenaries, wasn't important—there were troops who seemed perfectly content under a jackboot.

Star Risk signed up a dozen ships, and then some two hundred-odd maintenance specialists.

Riss still had pots of money left over. Or so she thought for the moment.

Enough so that Spada chanced talking to some people he'd admired from afar.

They called themselves Rasmussen's Raiders. Their CO wasn't Rasmussen, but his former XO, a lean, hatchet-faced man named Caldwell.

Rasmussen had gotten himself dead a half dozen wars ago.

For some obscure reason having to do with unit morale and a sense of history, Riss thought more of them for not having renamed themselves Caldwell's Crew or Cacophony or anything like that.

And they were sharp.

They called themselves a wing, but were slightly overstrength for an equivalent Alliance unit. Their ships were just off state-of-the-art for the Alliance, which of course never sold off their best and most current. Their heavies were a pair of cruisers, another heavier cruiser that had been stripped of some of its armament and converted into a Command & Control ship, a dozen heavy destroyers, some eighteen patrol ships and a dozen logistical craft, plus a pair of very large hangar ships.

All were fully manned, and the women and men of the Raiders wore snappy uniforms of tan and deep blue and were sharp, sharp, sharp.

"I don't know," Riss said when Spada proposed the Raiders to her. "We need sneaky slobs, not parade sorts."

Spada handed her a fiche, and she ran it through a viewer.

She came away somewhat impressed. They'd been on the winning side in four of their last five contracts, which was very rare for mercenaries, who were far more used to fighting for the losing underdog.

"They don't seem to have got in any knock-down drag-outs lately," she said. "Not, anyway, since the one that got Rasmussen killed."

Spada just looked at her.

"Awright," she surrendered. "We're not supposed to be wading through blood up to our belly buttons if we can find a way around it.

"Let's go talk to them."

Riss was impressed that Caldwell, who gave himself the fairly unegotistical title of Commander, had heard of Alsaoud, and had a vague idea of what the problem was.

She was also impressed with the grand tour he gave her and Spada.

Caldwell seemed to have no secrets to hide.

Everything was fine, until after a fine meal aboard the C&C ship, they sat down to negotiate.

Riss had refused the wine with the meal, as had Caldwell and his executive officer. Spada allowed himself a single glass.

"What, exactly, would our duties be?" Caldwell inquired.

"Perimeter support around the asteroids our clients control. Raiding into the Alsaoud System. Seizing merchant ships on occasion—nothing in violation of Standard Wartime Practices," Riss said. "Support in isolating and controlling the system's home worlds.

"We do not anticipate needing your unit in a physical invasion of any world. We hope to be able to settle the matter without getting into a brawl,"

she said.

"That's a relief," Caldwell said. "Invasions get expensive, in every sense of the word."

"One problem I see," the XO said, "is making implacable foes of Cerberus Systems. They're very big—and frequently are tied in with even bigger sorts. Not good enemies to casually collect."

"We don't anticipate matters getting nasty enough for Cerberus to be making a list of everyone with us, and the People," Riss said. "Once they've taken a few more defeats, they should get out."

She didn't mention the state of utter hatred between Star Risk and Cerberus—as she'd said, she didn't think matters would get that brutal. She also hadn't used the name Star Risk at any time.

"The prospect is interesting," Caldwell said. "Especially, given your victory, that interesting reparations could be demanded."

Riss didn't say anything. One of Star Risk's policies was never to grind victory in—although on Cerberus, if not Alsaoud, they were willing to make an exception. But talk of things like that lay well in the future.

Caldwell considered, scribbled a figure on a bit of paper, showed it to his executive, who nodded.

He named the price.

Riss was glad she didn't have a mouthful of anything, as she might have choked.

"You are expensive," Spada said, in a completely neutral voice.

"But well worth it," the executive officer said. "And we don't waste your time or ours by haggling."

That definitely settled that—the named price was about double Riss's remaining resources.

She made polite noises about having to consult with her principals, thanking them for the dinner and the dog and pony show, and she and Spada left, somewhat shaken.

Caldwell waited until the pair had cleared the flagship, then touched an unobtrusive stud.

"Yes, sir?"

"Did you have any problems?"

"Negative, sir. All images turned out perfectly."

FORTY-SIX

« ^ »

Walter Nowotny, even though he was an experienced gambler with a good poker face, blinked at the size of the figure that Commander Caldwell had mentioned.

"Your services are quite steep," he said.

"True," Caldwell agreed. "But well worth the price. I will also mention that Rasmussen's Raiders will provide an additional most valuable service, gratis.

"If a deal is struck."

A smile twisted Nowotny's scarred face.

"Cerberus is not accustomed to making any arrangements on the if-come system," he said in his eerie near-whisper.

"We don't expect you to," Caldwell said. "In fact, we'll offer a proposition: We shall present our service right now. And if Cerberus still declines our offer—well, then, so be it."

Since Nowotny was sitting in a conference room aboard Rasmussen's C&C ship, he assumed, correctly, that everything was being recorded.

Caldwell didn't need to add that if Cerberus reneged on the deal after making it, they would have a certain amount of trouble in the future making arrangements with other firms, even in the most amoral world of the mercenaries.

"I know," Caldwell said, sweetening the deal, "that Cerberus is, shall we say, swinging gently in the wind here in the Alsaoud System.

"My information will significantly load the odds in your favor."

Nowotny was intensely curious. Not to mention that he knew very well that Ral Tomkins, his boss, was sharpening a dagger that even Yarb'ro couldn't keep out of Nowotny's back forever.

He needed any help he could get to get back in Tomkins's graces, and quickly figured that, even if this information was fairly specious, he could still use Caldwell's unit in the worsening situation. Not to mention that if Caldwell was playing games, there would be a terrible revenge taken at the first convenient opportunity.

"Very well," Nowotny said. "We have a tentative arrangement. Now, can we go into the details of this ever-so-valuable intelligence?"

"There is nothing to discuss," Caldwell said. "I'll give it to you right now."

He reached in a drawer of the cabinet behind him, took out a burnvelope, put his finger on the pore-pattern tab, and the envelope opened.

He took out a hologram, gave it to Nowotny.

This time the Cerberus executive actually hissed an intake of breath.

The holo, of course, showed M'chel Riss and Redon Spada sitting where Nowotny currently was.

"Since Cerberus clearly has had no idea who its main opponents here happen to be, I thought this might be of interest, considering Cerberus's known dislike of the firm formerly known as Star Risk," Caldwell said. "The holo was taken within the week, when these two attempted to hire Rasmussen's Raiders."

Nowotny was staring at the holo.

A thin smile came, stayed on his face.

"Yes indeed," he said softly. "Your information will be most useful indeed."

"It seems to be posted across half the galaxy," Jasmine said. "On every channel that might conceivably have an interest in us, including Alliance open intelligence postings."

Star Risk collectively stared at the printout: