Star Risk - 01 Star Risk, Ltd (29 page)

"I wasn't going to say anything," M'chel said. "However�"

There was a hotel. Of sorts.

It had been made up of three transports, welded together, then gutted and rebuilt, with passages going here and there, rooms anywhere from the size of a 'fresher to big enough to hold a smallish scout ship.

It had no name. The owner /builders had vanished about an E-year earlier, leaving a wizened old miner who only used the name Pelee to run things, with the help of a handful of casual workers and some rebuilt military robots.

It was surprisingly spotless.

Pelee explained that he couldn't stand dirt, which is why he preferred space to being groundside.

"And once you put in proper cycling machines, and have all these machines set up so they shriek when they see dust, it's easy to maintain."

Room rates were equally eccentric.

Pelee looked them up and down, rugged at a bushy eyebrow, said:

"Looks like you people would hold still for� oh, fifty credits a night."

"A little steep," Riss said. Poverty stayed in memory.

"Awright," Pelee said amiably. "Make it twenty-five. You sleeping together?"

Both shook their heads.

"Kind of a pity," Pelee said. "You're both good looking enough." Then, confirming Goodnight's suspicions, he added, "Once you get the scum scraped off, anyways.

"Fork over some money, and I'll take you to your rooms."

They obeyed.

"You, sir, are in 45. You, lady, are in 33. You can leave those ore cases the spitter unloaded outside. Nobody'll steal 'em."

"You sure?" Riss asked.

"Sure sure," Pelee said, and suddenly there was a large blaster in his hand. The muzzle showed extensive wear. Then it vanished.

"Let's hike."

They went to a lift, went up a level, down a passageway, down a level.

"Here you are," Pelee said. "You, sir, are three on down the hall."

"Uh, what about the room numbers?" Goodnight asked. .

"Don't mean a thing. They got numbered when they got finished off."

"All right," Riss said. "Do I get a key?"

"Nope," Pelee said. "Had a few, for a while, but people kept losing 'em, or not giving 'em back, and so I just said the hell with it, pardon, lady, and now there's no lock."

"Naturally, there's no problem with thieves," Riss said.

"Nope. Heh. Heh."

"What about somebody wandering into somebody else's bedroom in the middle of the night?" Goodnight asked.

"Happens every now and again," Pelee admitted. "Sometimes there's a fight� sometimes just a misunderstanding� sometimes� well, there's been at least two marriages made right here that're still hanging together."

There was a bath, and M'chel wondered why she'd told Goodnight she'd be ready to go about their business in an hour instead of a week.

She was ignoring her stomach, which was chanting quietly for real food that didn't come out of a pack and more importantly wasn't prepared by her or Goodnight.

The "hotel" had antigravity generators, but the bath was still a little strange. The fresher itself had its own grav setting.

The bath proper was a large, clear bubble, with an adjustable collar to fit around the bather's neck and keep her from drowning, plus enough hoses to keep a hydra happy. Riss set the gravity to about a quarter E-normal, "put on" the bathtub. She set the water temperature, turned on all the jets, and was pounded by spray from every direction.

Obeying the instructions fixed to the wall, she reluctantly turned the spray off after a few seconds, took soap from a zip-locked compartment, and lathered herself well. Shampoo came from another compartment. Then she, a bit hesitantly, considering her touch of claustrophobia, tucked her head inside the bubble and sprayed herself off.

Finally, she put her head back out, touched the sensor for earth lilac bath salts and let the spray fill the bubble up, until she floated in her own private, scented ocean.

She could have turned on the holo, but didn't want to hear another voice, nor had the energy to get out of the bubble and tune the machine.

M'chel Riss just floated until her damnable internal sensor told her it was time to meet Goodnight.

She reluctantly drained the water out, back into the hotel's recycling center, found a towel, and, while drying herself, wondered which of her clothes were the least obnoxious to wear long enough to buy new ones.

The clerk in the assay office's eyes bulged a trifle when he read the gauges on the cores Goodnight handed over.

"If it's all like that�"

"It's all like that," Goodnight said.

The clerk's eyes blinked four times rapidly.

"You want to get paid in?"

"Hard, cold cash," Riss said. "Whatever spends easiest around here."

The clerk half smiled.

"Anything spends, so long as it's not snide. And if it is, there'll be some really unhappy sorts looking you up.

"How much you got in those cases?"

Goodnight told him. The clerk tapped eyes, named a price.

Riss jolted. It was about what she'd made, in five years, as an Alliance Major, with combat and proficiency bonuses.

Goodnight, however, curled a lip.

The clerk considered, named another figure, about a third larger.

"And that's as high as I'll go. More, you'll have to take what you've got all the way to Mfir, and sell them direct to Transkootenay."

"Too far," Goodnight said. "We'll take your deal."

The clerk opened a safe, and counted out bundles of credits.

"We thank you," Goodnight said.

"Thank you," the clerk replied. "Hope your strike stays rich, and that you'll keep coming back here."

"Assuming everything and everybody works out," Goodnight said, "there's no reason not to."

As they sealed their suits and cycled out through the business's lock, Riss glanced back, saw the clerk on a com, talking excitedly, and glancing repeatedly after them.

Goodnight whistled.

Riss checked the mirror, shook her head sadly.

"That's really the kind of women you go for?"

"Well� yeah. What's the matter with your outfit? I think it's sexy."

"In a cheap, tawdry sort of way, maybe."

"So what? We aren't in the Ritz, you know. What do you think of what I'm wearing?" Goodnight demanded. "I look like a pimp. A cheap pimp."

M'chel looked at him. He did. He wore tight, too tight, pants in a light green hue, a matching shirt, a dark green half-jacket, and a burgundy neck scarf.

"Yikh," she said.

What she was wearing suddenly didn't look all that bad, compared to his garb. It was a gown, with a deep vee-neck, in hues of black. It was cut too low, slit too high, and clung far too closely to be suitable for anyone but a call girl or a guest at a beaux arts ball.

Matching thigh boots went under it.

"I can't understand why you don't like my clothes," the store's manager, a man a meter and a half tall, and two meters wide, worried. "Most people who come in here wanting duds for celebrating are perfectly satisfied."

"See?" Goodnight said. "You at least look expensive."

"Well�"

"Besides, there aren't a lot of choices."

M'chel looked around the "store," once a freight barge. It seemed to sell everything. Along one wall were space suits, along another hung various arcane pieces of mining equipment. Farther back in the cavernous hold were foodstuffs, dry and in bulk, gourmet flash-frozen meals.

Beyond them were appliances and furniture.

Near the front was a big gun cabinet, and to the side clothing.

Hanging from the overhead was a "taxi," probably fueled and ready to run.

"I say again my last," Goodnight said. "This is not the rue Montaigne."

"I noticed."

"So let's pay the man and go get ourselves noticed."

"I might as well go naked."

"We really would be noticed then, wouldn't we?" Goodnight said, putting on a monstrous leer.

"Ring it up, my friend."

"Yes, sir," the storeman said.

"And answer us one question."

"Gladly, sir."

"Where's the most dangerous place to eat?"

Alloy tubing, about five meters in diameter, snaked here and there, so miners didn't have to suit up every time they went somewhere.

The tunnels were thronged with miners, their prey, and those further up the food chain who, in turn, fed off the momentarily flush miners.

Goodnight's eyes were darting about, as if expecting someone to push through the crowd wearing a sign saying I work for murgatroyd.

M'chel, still feeling claustrophobic, tried to lose the feeling she was moving through the cloaca of a large, metalloid creature, and match Goodnight's cheer.

They found the restaurant/tavern the store owner had recommended. It had a sign out: soupy's, and was the largest structure on 47 Alpha.

Unlike most of the other businesses and buildings, Soupy's wasn't a converted anything. It was a warren of passages, booths, and rooms, jutting off from a central bar where half a dozen bartenders, archaically wearing black trousers, long-sleeved white shirts with black bow ties, bustled about the three-deep bar.

There was a quieter lounge to one side, and Riss saw a dozen women in there, nursing drinks and sharkishly surveying prospective business.

Riss truly hoped none of them saw her as competition.

Goodnight went to a central desk, where an arrogant-faced ma�e d' looked at him, then suddenly smiled.

"Ah. M'sieu�"

"Atherton," Goodnight said. "Atherton and Smedley."

Riss covered surprise.

"Of course," the man said. "You just arrived on 47 Alpha today, and we wish to welcome you, and hope your stay is a happy one."

"I'm sure it will be," Goodnight said. "We've got credits out the ka-yahoo that we really need to lose."

"Ah. Then you'll be interested in our gaming area, in the next section."

"Maybe. After dinner."

They were escorted to a table, and a waiter materialized.

"Soupy's will be proud to buy you two a drink," the ma�e d' said. "In the hopes of a long, enjoyable association."

"Bourbon Sazarac," Goodnight said.

"I would like," Riss said, "a Flaming Tomorrow."

The waiter didn't even flicker.

"I shall be right back with your order."

"A question," Goodnight started.

"No," M'chel said. "Me first. Why Atherton as your cover name? Don't you think anybody remembers the cave?"

"I don't care if they do," Chas said carelessly. "I'm a bit tired of slinking about in the shadows, and wouldn't mind having some nice, clear-cut enemies to take a shot at."

"I don't know," M'chel said. "Seems to me like setting yourself up before you know the game rules."

"Maybe," Goodnight said. "But there's no point in second guessing, is there?"

"Second question, then," Riss asked. "Why in the name of whatever, am I going to have to drag around the name of Smedley? Stupid sounding at best."

Goodnight laughed.

"Basic harassment, that was. I've been too good a boy to you for too long."

The drinks arrived, Riss's in a tall goblet that tucked in at the lip.

The waiter touched a match, a real wooden match to the mixture, and fire shot toward the ceiling.

"Great Leaping Zot," Goodnight exclaimed. "What's in that?"

"Various liqueurs," the waiter said. "It has an� interesting taste."

Riss slid her hand across the top, and the flames went out. She lifted the goblet, drank, set it back on the table, and smiled.

"M'dam clearly is familiar with her drink," the waiter said, impressed. He took menus from the back of his belt, handed them over.

"I shall return in a few moments."

"What's so special about�" Goodnight picked up Riss's drink, took a taste, opened his mouth, panted wordlessly two or three times.

"It sends signals, doesn't it?" Riss asked.

"It� does� such as my lungs� and gut would really like it� if I could breathe� sometime this century," Goodnight said laboriously.

Riss wanted something large and rare, with moving being an acceptable addition. She sent back the first steak with a sneer for being rubber carpet, dove into the second, making small satisfied sounds as she did.

Goodnight, who preferred slices of a spiced fowl loaf, watched her eat.

"Like a bester," he said.

Riss nodded.

"When I get on solid� well, semisolid land, I want some kind of reward for my cleancuttedness."

"I don't believe that's a word."

"It is now," she said.

They ate on, contentedly, making idle chat.

Goodnight told her that, while he was waiting for her to get ready to go out, he had gone through a few of the hotel's rooms.

"Just in case," Riss asked, "you happened to spot someone with a great big pearl necklace? Or just for old time's sake?"

"Probably the latter," Goodnight said, and went on to describe some of the rooms. It seemed someone, possibly the previous owners, had romance in their soul.

"They went berserk with casting 'plas and what they could scrounge," he said. "There's everything from what, I think, is supposed to be an Earth medieval princess's chambers to a cave to a room with leather walls and straps that I decided not to think about."

He shook his head.

"And here I was the lad who grew up thinking all men are created moral. I tell you, M'chel, dreams die hard."

Riss realized Chas, when he wasn't trying to be the universal lothario, could be quite charming.

They finished with a real chocolate mousse, and Riss was considering a cheese plate when the waiter put down a white plate with a handwritten card on it:

I would appreciate a moment of your time when you finish dining, if you would not mind the imposition.

Soupy Schmid

Goodnight grinned at the waiter.

"We wouldn't mind at all. Would you direct us?"

It took no imagination to pick Schmid out of the crowd in the gaming room. He sat on an oversize lookout's chair, about a meter above the heads of the crowd, surveying what Riss was sure he thought was his kingdom in an appropriately regal manner.

Schmid was a big man, bigger even than Goodnight, with a barrel chest, and thick, straight black hair he wore long. He would have been in his fifties, and his face was lined, cruel.