Star Risk - 04 The Dog From Hell (17 page)

By great good fortune, von Baldur was providing her with a mask at the time, since the statuette was rather bulky.

He saw her slide for shelter, and, a second later, saw and recognized Held and began trailing him.

The Cerberus executive, having no particular reason to feel paranoid, was no more than reflexively careful about checking his tail.

Von Baldur followed him to what was evidently one of Cerberus's safe houses.

A stakeout of the house, a secluded villa in a wealthy residential area, over the next two days, suggested this was Cerberus's main safe house, and probably Held's own residence.

Back at the Excelsior a message from M'chel, Goodnight, and Spada waited, reporting they'd successfully acquired their ship and were proceeding to jump it out of system to have it modified�or rather, retrofitted�to Star Risk's requirements.

"Now we can proceed to debate the methods of murder," Grok said.

"A bomb is generally the easiest," von Baldur suggested. "That is, assuming a certain level of expertise in its construction, which we have; a certain level of, shall we say, subterfuge in its planting; and, finally, a certain level of luck in its detonation, which we are more than due for."

"Yes," Jasmine said. "A bomb. Or a long arm. With a flat-trajectoried solid slug. Or an explosive bullet. A nice quiet place for the gunner with a line of sight on the killing floor, timing, and�" she grinned nastily.

"There must be," Grok said meditatively, "fifty ways to tag your target. That might be worth a song."

Von Baldur looked at him, and at King, and swore they were both licking their lips, although what surrounded the alien's mouth barely qualified as such.

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TWENTY-NINE � ^ � The secret of the Sung-class destroyer about which Redon Spada had happened to learn in his travels was quite simple: The ships had been cleverly designed for a culture that was short on manpower, but long on imperial ambitions.

So the Sungs had been designed and built to be operated by a minimal crew�less than four, in an emergency�and was almost completely automated.

Why the designers hadn't gone ahead and merely built them as remote-piloted ships was a mystery to everyone but Spada, who explained, "They'll never build unmanned spacecraft for war. Young pilots don't get to parade around wearing white scarves and waving their hands around in bars telling war stories, and generals and admirals don't get medals up the ka-giggy for flying a control panel through shot and shell half a light-year away."

So the Sungs had gone into service�and then a wee mistake had been discovered. The ships' automation had a regrettable tendency to disregard the tiny crew's welfare, up to and including loading an unwary crewman into a missile launch tube on occasion.

Other than that, they were wonderfully lethal warcraft.

Naturally, a war had been in full swing when this was discovered by the contracting navy, and so the Sungs weren't just scrapped out, but little by little deautomated and loaded with additional crewmen.

But as every robotic assassin was discovered and rendered harmless, another appeared, so the Sungs, now no more than a particularly inefficient, if easy on the eyes, warship, were sold off to "lesser" markets.

Which meant systems like Alsaoud.

Neither Redon Spada nor Star Risk gave much of a damn about the ships being a bit on the dodgy side�mercenaries learn, early on, they're unlikely to be given the best and the most modern in the way of tools, just as the wars they fight are seldom glamorous or "civilized."

Assuming there's such a thing as a civilized murder campaign�

Since part of the mercenary condition is fighting in a perpetually undermanned state, the Sung was perfect for Star Risk's nefarious designs.

And so, half a dozen systems from Alsaoud, in an unobtrusive shipyard, Riss, Goodnight, and Spada went to work reautomating the Sung, which they named the McMahon.

Spada had, to Goodnight's vast surprise, refrained from naming his wages when he'd been brought back aboard, saying only that "When you folks are back on top, I'll rape, maim, and loot."

"I wouldn't have been that gentlemanly," Chas said.

"Which is why you're a sordid thug, and I'm up above the clouds," Spada said smugly.

He called in favors and friendships from half a galaxy, and an interesting assortment of weaponry began arriving at the shipyard, all shipped urgent and either fitted to the McMahon or shoved into one of its holds because "it'll probably be of some use sooner or later."

When the McMahon was air- and space-worthy again, Spada took it into space, and ran it through its paces. It performed admirably.

Riss and Goodnight went along, being most careful to stay clear of any machinery that started making Threatening Operating Noises, or just showing signs of being turned on.

The McMahon, other than a slight tendency to hiccup convulsively when fed navigational problems at all abstruse, worked fine.

Just what Star Risk needed to go a-pirating.

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THIRTY � ^ � Spada, Riss, and Goodnight slid the McMahon back behind one of Khazia's moons and took their yacht back to the planet, exuding innocence from every pore.

They expected to be greeted with hosannas for their bravura theft. Instead, they arrived in the middle of the murder plot.

Goodnight listened to the details, sneered at the other three schemers.

"Typical amateurs. Talk, talk, talk, but no frigging bloody-handedness."

"We were just about to pounce," Jasmine King said in an injured tone.

"About. Hah," Goodnight said. "And what method of shuffling off this coiled mortal, or however it goes, had you arrived at?"

"I," Grok said, putting just a trace of emphasis on the word so Goodnight would know who the boy genius was, "came up with a brilliance."

"Oh yeah?" Goodnight said. "Talk to me."

Grok told him. "And the beauty of it is, if we do it right, it'll be seen as a common accident."

"And if you don't do it right," Goodnight said, "the bastard will be at full alert, and you'll never get a chance that good again. Let me ask you something, O my furry friend. Who was going to bell the cat?"

"Cat? There are no felines in this project."

"Who was gonna be the Goon in Charge?"

"I was," Grok said. "Since it was my idea, and I have probably the best knowledge of any of the three of us in practical physics."

"Oh, my paws and whiskers," Goodnight moaned. "Have you ever killed anybody like that?"

"No," Grok admitted. "But it seems quite simple."

"Hot flash," Goodnight said. "It ain't. There's a ton of variables�which don't have squat to do with physics, I might add."

"I suppose you do," Grok said in an injured tone.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Chas Goodnight said.

"Then, of course, I would be nothing but an egotistical fool to insist on being the man with the button," Grok said.

"Exactly," Goodnight said, then caught Jasmine's buried grin.

"Goddamnit," he said. "Did I just go and trap myself into being Chas in charge?"

"Of course you did not," von Baldur said, dripping innocence. "But one of Star Risk's biggest virtues is its willingness to always yield to the voice of sweet reason and expertise."

"Trapped, trapped, trapped," Goodnight moaned.

"Don't take it so hard," Riss said. "I've got a good idea of what we'll be doing, in theory. I'll even volunteer to fly the cover vehicle to keep you from running into trouble�or, rather, to get you out of any trouble you do run into."

But Goodnight was inconsolable.

Both Grok and Goodnight were correct.

The killing method he'd chosen was very simple and old-fashioned�murder by vehicle. It had gotten a little more sophisticated than it was in the days when Indians ran cowboys down with T-model airplanes, or however it precisely began.

But not much.

The devil was, as always, in the details�making sure that the target didn't do any of several possible annoying things, such as ducking out of the way and letting the oncoming vehicle hammer itself against a lamp standard; ducking into cover, or worst of all shooting back, not to mention the evils that would result if a friendly local policeman happened on this thuggishness in midmurder.

Vehicular homicide was, indeed, one of the lethal arts Goodnight had been trained in. Trained and practiced on four different occasions, which von Baldur had recollected Goodnight mentioning one drunken night. Friedrich had suggested that the other two might find it worthwhile to put the con on Chas.

Jasmine had remembered that one of Frabord Held's more inhuman habits was to rise an hour before dawn, go for what he called "a brisk walk," exercise for an hour in whatever open space he reached, then proceed to his work station, and snarl at anyone who dared to come to work at a more civilized hour.

Even more stupidly, it had been his habit to indulge in this as a solitary vice, sans bodyguards or cover.

Jasmine had used a small model aircraft, fitted with a camera, to tail him from an oblique angle, and found that his habits hadn't changed.

Two days before the target date, Riss had stolen a commercial lifter. At about the same time, von Baldur, feeling this was vaguely below his dignity, had nicked a still-valid registration plate off a broken-down lifter in a slum area. That plate, which wouldn't be missed for a while, had gone onto the stolen lifter and its proper registration deposited in a nearby sewer.

The day before, Goodnight had lifted a rather expensive lifter from one part of Helleu, and another registration plate from another.

Patrolling police only see license plates and, of course, people behaving in a suspicious manner, which means being part of any scorned minority�

Very early the next dawn, Riss and Goodnight set out, refusing all offers of company. Both of them had heavy blasters ready at hand and were sleepy enough to want to use them. Both wore gloves, and had previously wiped all controls of their vehicles, just to make sure.

The touch went perfectly.

Goodnight was making wide orbits over Cerberus's safe house, keeping a binoc on its door. Riss was about a kilometer distant, low to the ground, watching Goodnight.

Goodnight had a momentary twitch when a police lifter swept past, but it was intent on other business or a snack break.

Held came out of the safe house and started down the street toward the park he would work out in.

Goodnight put his lifter into a shallow dive, brought it out about a meter above the ground on Held's street, keeping a couple hundred meters behind him, and holding his speed at walking pace.

Riss, in turn, was half a kilometer behind him, alert for any problems.

The chosen kill zone was along a walled section of the road just before the park's entrance. To make it better, the road was posted against any parking, so it was a nice, clean, barren stretch of pavement.

Goodnight put on drive as Held reached the wall, quietly so Held wouldn't notice any increase in sound.

He was doing about sixty kilometers per hour as he came up on Held.

The man turned then, saw the lifter as Goodnight kicked hard right rudder, and gaped in terror.

The lifter slid sideways, caught Held with its side cushion, and banked him hard into the wall.

Held hit the wall headfirst, and slid, bonelessly, to the pavement.

Goodnight accelerated away, and took his lifter up toward an overhead traffic lane.

Riss flew past the body, saw that it was motionless, head tweaked at an odd angle, figured there was little chance of survival, didn't figure it was worth stopping for a coup de grace that would render all their craft pointless, and climbed after Goodnight.

He parked the lifter on a deserted street, and stepped out just as M'chel hovered up next to him.

"That's that," he said. "Now let's go see about some breakfast. An honest day's work makes a fellow hungry."

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THIRTY-ONE � ^ � Let it never be said," Friedrich von Baldur said solemnly, "that pilots are nothing but glorified transport drivers."

"I would never say anything like that," Chas Goodnight said piously, considering the elaborate table of food surrounding him.

"Especially not within their hearing," Riss said.

Spada sneered at them both.

Grok was paying no attention to anyone, merely hungrily considering the dinner that had been called in to their suite at the Excelsior.

"To explain the viands: I was wondering just how we might go about picking an ideal target for our first venture into piracy," von Baldur said. "We want an impressive taking, I would think. Something that will give us immediate stature among our desired brethren.

"I considered seizing the Normandie on its next trip into the system, but I did not exactly warm to the idea of having all those damned passengers to take care of. Nor did I like the basic idea of hijacking a ship under Alliance registry."

"Not to mention," King said, "that when we rode it, it was escorted insystem, and had a pair of missile batteries, and there's nothing stickier than a target that dares fight back."

"Good thinking," Goodnight said. "We've got enough enemies."

"Not to mention," Jasmine said, "the fact that you're still on one or another of the Alliance's Most Wanted lists."

"Not to mention," Chas agreed.

Von Baldur tapped his champagne glass with his fork for silence, noted that it was empty, and refilled it from one of the ice buckets before continuing.

"As I was saying," he said pointedly, "I was looking for a target, which should not be the Normandie until a later date, if at all. I decided that the best ploy would be to bounce a com outsystem, purporting to be a prospective importer of thingamajiggies into the Alsaoud System, and look for a nice shipping line with a nice medium-sized freighter we wouldn't have any trouble selling off.

"I then bethought myself of consulting with Mr. Spada to see if he had any idea about an easier, less traceable, way to go.