Star Risk - 02 Scoundrel Worlds (3 page)

"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."

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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."

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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 m�e 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."

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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.