Star Risk - 04 The Dog From Hell (24 page)

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."

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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 prot� 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.

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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.

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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.