Star Risk - 01 Star Risk, Ltd (30 page)

His neck had a wide scar, where someone had almost succeeded in cutting his head off.

He saw them approach, came down easily from the chair.

"Mr. Atherton� Miss Smedley� my table is over here."

It was in a corner, and had a decanter and three crystal glasses on it.

Schmid took the chair with its back against the wall, indicated the others with a wave.

"I'm more comfortable not having to worry about someone coming up behind me," he explained and, without asking any preference, poured the glasses half full.

Neither Riss nor Goodnight argued.

"Word travels fast," Schmid said. "The story is that you're most fortunate in your workings."

"Thanks," Goodnight said, tasting the drink to find, a bit to his surprise, that it was a very sweet, very potent fruit brandy, not at all to his liking. But he sipped, set the glass back down.

"Thank you for choosing to patronize Soupy's," Schmid said. "I assume your meal� which, of course, I choose to put on my tab� was satisfactory?"

"It was," Riss said.

"Are you a gambler, either of you?"

"Not generally on tables," Riss said. "Punching holes in rocks is enough of a chance for me."

"I'm not quite as definite about that as my partner," Goodnight said. "But I'm no more than indifferent to games of chance."

"I wish I could share your control," Schmid said. "Unfortunately, the whiffle of cards or the rattle of dice is like a mating call to a wild animal.

"Which is why I'm very grateful that Soupy's, as prosperous as it is, isn't my main source of income."

"And that is?" Riss asked.

"I am, primarily, an insurance agent. I particularly specialize in high risk policies."

"Such as?" Goodnight asked.

"My most successful field is in the mining area, insuring against accidents and even acts of God, if anyone today still believes in Him."

"You mean, like earthquakes?" Riss said.

"No, of course not. I mean such things as unfortunate industrial accidents, which your field is most prone to, and particularly against these damnable raiders who've made life such a grief here in the belt."

"You mean you can guarantee a claim won't be hit by those bastards?" Goodnight put heavy disbelief in his voice.

"Be as skeptical as you will," Schmid said. "But it is a fact, which you're welcome to verify tomorrow at my office, that none of the claims or miners I've written policies on have been hit by these high-graders.

"The percentage of success is far greater than any interpretation of chance could allow."

"How are your policies set?" Riss asked.

"I'm a very just, very fair man," Schmid said. "I predicate the cost of my policies on the income of the insured miner."

"So someone with a rich strike pays more than someone who's just shoveling sand?" Goodnight asked.

"It's only fair."

"And in just these few minutes, I've truly grown to respect you, Mr. Schmid, for your truth, honesty, and fairness," Goodnight said, standing, and, with a bit of ceremony, pulling the stopper from the decanter and upending it across Schmid's head.

"You bastard!" Schmid growled, and his hand went under the table.

Goodnight reached into his rear waistband, and came out with a small blaster.

"If your hand comes out with anything but fingers, Schmid, you are one dead gangster."

Schmid moved carefully back from the table, empty hands spread, palm up.

"After this contretemps," Goodnight said, "I certainly couldn't expect you to still pay for dinner."

He reached with his free hand into a pocket, took out a sheaf of credits, and put them on the table.

"Good night, Mr. Schmid."

He and Riss made their way through the gambling room, now hushed, and out of the restaurant.

"That's what I like about you," Riss said. "Always the first with the subtle move."

"Yeah," Goodnight said. "So now we know who's running the protection racket and that Schmid is sure as hell in bed with Murgatroyd, which'll make our Freddie happy as soon as we report the evening to him.

"Now all we have to do is wait for them to come out in the open, survive the encounter, and run the trail back to Murgatroyd and that frigging cruiser."

" 'Survive the encounter.' You say that with such nonchalance. Like it's a mere frip of a frippery," Riss said.

"Yeah," Goodnight said again. "I worry about gangsters like I worry about whether my hair's parted right.

"Hey, M'chel. Did I pronounce 'contretemps' right?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

FIFTY-ONE � ^ � And what seems to be the problem, Mr. von Baldur? Is there some problem with the ships? Or has that unlucky transport� the one you named the Boop-Boop-A-Doop, brought ill fortune?" Winlund, the used warship salesperson asked, concern evident.

Von Baldur wondered, cynically, if her bosses hadn't gotten around to paying her commission yet, dismissed the thought as unworthy.

"None of that," he reassured her. "The only problem, and it is very slight, is getting the paperwork straightened out with Transkootenay Mining."

"That's strange," Winlund said. "Even though they haven't done business with us lately, we certainly did in the past, as I told you, and everything was most amicable."

"That puzzles me, too," von Baldur said. "Would it be too much trouble for you to look up a couple of invoices previous to ours, and see who the authorizing person was? Perhaps we are going to� or, I should say, trying to go through, the wrong bureaucrat."

"It's irregular, of course," Winlund said. "But there's no reason I can't help you. Hold on."

Her screen blanked. Von Baldur turned to another keyboard, and continued bringing Star Risk's logbook up to date.

That should have been Jasmine King's job, but she was busy in another part of the ship, chasing something or other around the bowels of Glace.

Von Baldur's screen reopened.

"Here we have it," Winlund said. "Yes. The authorization� several of them� came from Mfir. From a Reg Goodnight. Terrible handwriting the man has."

Von Baldur had kept his face blank, calm.

"Very good."

"Do you want me to transmit a copy?"

"No," he said. "I do not think so. And I certainly wish to thank you for your help. Oh. One further question. Might I ask what Goodnight was buying?"

Winlund looked off screen.

"It must have been part of the security requirement," she said. "This one at least was for ten of the old N'yar ships. We offered them quite a deal, since they're somewhat obsolescent."

"No wonder they liked your idea of buying those Pyrrhus-class ships from me."

"Of course," von Baldur said. "One final question, and this one has little to do with Transkootenay. Have you heard of anyone buying a large ship, one of the Sensei-class cruisers that used to be standard Alliance issue?"

Winlund considered, shook her head.

"I haven't, sir. And I think I would've, since that's a fairly large chunk of iron, and would be noticed out here on the fringe."

"Yes," von Baldur said. "Yes, it would, would it not?" He thanked her again, and broke the connection.

"Oh what a tangled web we do interlink indeed." he said thoughtfully, as Grok came into the wardroom.

He carried a printout, and was gently growling to himself.

"We have trouble," he said. "Or, rather, M'chel and Chas have trouble.

"One of my mechanized sweeps picked this up about four E-hours ago. It appeared to come from somewhere beyond the asteroids, possibly a ship, possibly from one of the ice giants' moons. It wasn't long enough to get a positive direction.

"The transmission is in a code I broke some time ago, one the raiders were using just before we got here. I thought it might give us a lead to their current codes, but without luck.

"Their current codes are very current; this one is a simple scramble. Fairly simple, anyway. It uses one time pads, which is good, but commercially available one time pads, which is most sloppy."

"So what is it, man?" von Baldur asked.

Grok stared at him.

"Man? Did you drink your lunch?"

"Sorry. No insult intended," von Baldur said. "What does it say?"

Grok handed it across. "The x's are, of course, symbols I'm not able to translate as yet, and the words in parentheses are my probably correct extrapolations. I don't have the sending station decoded yet, and there was no closing."

Now von Baldur gave Grok a glare as good as the one he got.

"Sorry," Grok said. "I became too used to explaining the basics to admirals and their like and it's become a habit."

"Lose the habit," von Baldur growled, and looked at the printout:

XXXX XXXX PROBABLE ID TWO INQUIRED. NOT FOOLS BUT STRRSK ON PREVIOUSLY WARNED UNDERCOVER OP. XXXX (NEED) MORE THAN A LESSON. STAY CLEAR OF THEM. TERMINATION XXXX ON WAY. PROVIDE COVER AND SUPPORT.

"That's all I have so far," Grok said.

"That is enough," von Baldur said. "Have you alerted Goodnight and Riss?"

"I attempted to message them, but their ship is not replying. Nor is any recorder active. We've had no com from them since their first report from 47 Alpha."

"Wonderful," von Baldur muttered. "And they are about�?"

"About four E-days distant."

"Not good at all," von Baldur said. "Just like professionals under deep cover. Or idiots on a spree. This is something we need to establish an SOP for, when all this is over.

"Where is Spada?"

"On standby."

"Get him on the way with three� no, four� P-boats. Tell him to chance jumping closer to the belt than he would normally. Tell him� oh, hell. I shall contact him myself."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

FIFTY-TWO � ^ � Boy, have I miscalled this one," Chas Goodnight grumbled. "We go out and spit in ol' Soupy's soup, and what happens? I expected contract killers, bombs, mobs, confrontations. What do I get?"

"Rest and relaxation," M'chel said, from where she was curled up on Goodnight's couch, halfway through A Treatise on Fifth-Dimensional Math, or a Position Paper on the Possibility of Time Travel as an Inter-dimensional Reality.

"Time enough for relaxation when you're dead," Goodnight said.

"Poor choice of words."

"Bah," Goodnight said. "Put on your dancing shoes, girl. Let's go stir things up some."

"So," Redon Spada mused, looking from screen to screen, "assuming that Murgatroyd's boys are here, which is something we'd best not accept as an absolute certainty, how in hell do we know where to look, or even if we've got cause to panic?"

"I think we can take going into panic as a fairly dead cert," his weapons officer, Lopez, said. "Look."

Nestled to a mooring, next to two archaic and abandoned-looking converted minekillers, was a very sleek, very dangerous-looking runabout.

"Nice, unobtrusive little yacht, that. Somebody told me once that the only reason there's crooks in jail is because the cops are even stupider," Lopez said.

"Why, you little anarchic son of a bitch," Spada said. "Are you trying to hint that putter down there isn't exactly what a miner uses to visit his claim?"

"Not anarchic," the officer said. "Realistic."

"What next?"

"Park this pig," Lopez said, "or better yet, turn it over to the engineer, and you and me go looking for our bosses in a bit of a hurry is my suggestion."

"I guess so," Spada said. "I guess we can start with that hotel they said they were at, and work outward. Can't be more than five or six thousand people on 47 Alpha.

"Damn, but sometimes I wish I knew more about soldiering and spying and such instead of just being a ship driver."

He caught himself.

"No. Second is going to that hotel. First is we set that cute little ship down there to sing to us."

There were three men. Schmid considered them, and hid a shiver. He'd killed, of course. But it had generally been in a fight, or at any rate in the heat of passion.

These three had cold, dead eyes, and Schmid knew it didn't matter at all, if you were in their way, whether it was easier to say "excuse me," or just pull a trigger.

The three ran and reran the standard security vids of M'chel and Chas as they'd entered Soupy's three "nights" earlier.

"Got them?" the leader said.

The other two nodded.

"Do we take them at their hotel?" one asked.

"Probably easiest," the third said.

There was a hurried rap at the door to Schmid's office. His ma�e d' came in.

"Those two� the ones who were here three nights ago," the man said breathlessly. "They're back."

"What was I saying about easiest?" one of the killers said.

"You don't mean you're going to take them here?" Schmid asked, incredulously.

The trio's leader thought.

"Why not? Nobody'll ever think you had someone chilled in your own place. Don't worry, Mr. Schmid. We'll try not to leave blood on your tablecloth� or murder any of your cash customers."

"Now," M'chel said. "What can we order that isn't easily poisoned? You've noticed, I imagine, all those little heads peeping out of the kitchen to look at us."

"Any of them Soupy's?"

"Not that I saw."

"Hmm. Tonight I'll have steak," Goodnight said. "Two of them. Blood raw, to put me in the mood."

"You think something's going to happen?"

"I hope so. If not here� maybe you'll let me hold your hand later."

"That could only lead to something promiscuous," M'chel said. "Like dancing."

"Oh brother. Maybe I'll get drunk."

"No, you won't. I'm going to have the spiced pork, with a big platter of noodles."

"What about a cocktail?"

"Cold tea."

"Do we at least get a glass of wine with dinner?" Goodnight asked.

"We do. One with our salad, one with the main course."

"Damn, but you're profligate," Goodnight said.

"We're going to move to that table that just cleared, two levels above the targets," the assassin leader told his partners. "We'll start shooting when I signal.