Star Risk - 04 The Dog From Hell (9 page)

The idea of being able to break it off in them, no matter how slight, even though Cerberus was unlikely to hear of her success, was like a shot of mother's milk.

With ancient brandy.

Riss put that aside, and started trying to play detective, which she thought she was completely incompetent at.

She began with the assumption that the unknown enemy was either within the organization or without.

She found that appallingly brilliant, and her feebling around hadn't produced anything by the time the tour began.

Lollypop and the Berserkers were flush enough to be able to charter a small liner.

Cabins were assigned by rank, M'chel learned.

Lollypop and Arn, being at the top of the pyramid, got the largest staterooms, the band the second largest; the "executives" of the various branches the third; the crew the fourth; and hangers-on�unless they were screwing or otherwise kowtowing to someone significant�what was left over.

M'chel was beginning to get the idea that in this "one big democracy" some people had more clout than others.

She herself and her three operators were given small rooms aboard ship, what Riss thought would be considered third tier. But that didn't matter�she didn't consider that part of real status, nor did she plan for anyone to have enough leisure time for anything other than eating and sleeping.

She also secured a largish storeroom for her group's "tools."

These ranged from tiny, easily concealable and nonferrous blasters to gas projectors to sniper weapons to antipersonnel radar and night vision to various scanning devices for unobtrusive searches.

An operator was outside Lollypop's stateroom door or with the singer at all times.

One of her women reported that Lollypop had made a fairly serious pass at her. She'd been either drunk or in some sort of altered state at the time.

"What did you tell her?"

"Not what I wanted to," the woman said. "Which was that I wouldn't screw her with her own dildo."

"Your reticence was fairly wise," Riss said dryly.

"I told her I'd taken a vow of celibacy until the Shire was granted its rightful place in the comity of nations."

M'chel laughed.

"Good on you."

"Naturally," the woman went on, "she had no idea where the Shire was."

Riss laughed even harder.

The third performance was on Defelter VI, in the planet's largest amphitheater.

Two local groups, the most popular among the teenies of Defelter, opened the gig.

Riss had the word "gig" defined to her, and looked up its origin out of curiosity.

She finally found something in a dictionary of archaisms that left her even more puzzled. Why a musical performance used the same word as an ancient term for a military criticism was quite beyond her.

The group carried its own sound system with it, which she'd been told simplified life no end. It was mounted on a double alloy tower that was bolted together by the crew.

This was something that had impressed M'chel.

The grips took only a few hours to set up the huge structure, its myriad cables�more reliable and less bother than wireless transmission�and speakers and monitors and mix boards here, there, and everywhere. There were also cameras and lights scattered all over the tower.

Riss was a bit awed with how much all this gear had cost. Lollypop and the Berserkers, regardless of whatever else they were, believed in giving a hell of a show.

Main set her straight: The tower and all equipment belonged to Music Associates. "That way, when we fall off the charts, they have things ready to go for whoever's standing in line to replace us."

M'chel now had an idea where Main's haunted look came from.

The band, short Lollypop, deigned to make a sound check, then retired to their luxury hotel, which of course had been paid for by the promoter.

For the performance, two of Riss's team and M'chel danced attendance in the stadium. It was vital that they learn who belonged where and when, so anyone out of place intending harm could be quickly tagged and neutralized.

One operator stayed with Lollypop.

M'chel decided her command post would be atop one side of the tower.

That far up, it was very hot, very sweaty, and very loud.

But certainly nowhere as bad as combat, she reminded herself. And a lot safer�at least for anyone except Lollypop.

The two opening groups played hard, but not that hard. M'chel had heard that anyone outdoing the Berserkers would find it hard to get paid until much, much later in the tour.

The fact that they had to provide their own sound gear and were forbidden to use the group's didn't help them shine.

Riss put sound filters in her ears and scanned the huge stadium, concentrating on first the audience.

All she saw was the core listeners and a few bored or appalled parents. Neither group seemed motivated enough to be assassins.

Riss forgot about them, swept the stage.

Standard procedure, she'd learned, was for the Berserkers to play two numbers, and then, to the audience's carefully choreographed screaming, Lollypop would bound onstage.

The group was halfway through its intro number when M'chel saw something. It was on the catwalk atop the other side of the tower, and if it was anything dangerous, as it appeared, she didn't have time to go back down to the stage, push her way across and clamber back up.

Riss swore and swung out on the narrow lighter connecting the two parts of the tower, restraining an impulse to gibber, claw at an armpit, and look for a piece of fruit.

If anyone below saw her, they must have assumed it was part of the act.

M'chel reached the other side as the first number finished and the Berserkers, not waiting for the applause to die, launched into the second one.

The device was pretty impressive.

It was a cut-down blaster, mounted on a folding tripod.

The blaster was topped with a small radar set and camera, focused on the front part of the stage below. A radio contact was wired to the trigger.

It took only a moment to figure out.

The radar would track anyone forward of the group and the camera would remote the image.

Of an innocent dancer.

Or Lollypop.

The radio would be used to fire the blaster from a distance when it had the proper target in its sights.

Lollypop, of course.

M'chel wrenched a servomechanism linked to the radio free of the trigger, snapped the blaster's magazine out of its slot, and defanged the chamber.

She sat staring at the weapon, ignoring the roars of girlish glee for the star below as she smashed into her set.

Lollypop was definitely not imagining things. Someone was surely trying to murder her.

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THIRTEEN � ^ � Friedrich von Baldur suppressed a yawn, smiled as brightly as he could manage at the two other people at the table, and said, "If you'll excuse me for a moment�"

Without waiting for a response, he stood, bowed to his opponents, then to the handful of spectators, and, accompanied by a security man, left the hall.

There weren't any rules against taking a fresher break, even in middeal.

He'd checked before entering the tournament.

Von Baldur didn't object to the security man going into the toilet with him, nor lift an eyebrow when the man checked the booth to see if anyone had stashed a card for him.

Baldur used the facility with relief, pun only half-considered, his mind intent on the cards and the table behind him.

It hadn't been that much of a pretext�this was the thirty-fourth straight hour of competition.

But he'd really gone out not only to rattle the two men still in the game a little�or so he hoped�but to freshen up.

He washed his face in hot, soapy water, dried carefully, straightened his fashionably off-white shirt and tucked it in, combed his thinning hair, and went back out, sat down, and picked up his cards.

He was in fairly good shape on the table, even though the other two still had about a third more money in front of them, and the rules were table stakes.

Von Baldur had taken three of the last four pots, all three without a bluff. The cards were running in his favor.

The tournament had some grandiose name, and the game was the archaic seven-card stud poker.

Baldur's open cards were two tens and one jack. In the hole, he had a pair of jacks, and felt fairly comfortable with his full house.

One of the other players was, Friedrich was pretty sure, bluffing, with two low pair showing, who'd bet heavily on the last card, trying to convince the other two that he'd either made his own full house or had four of a kind.

God forbid.

The other player had played a very consistent hand, and had three kings showing.

The fourth king hadn't materialized on the table so far.

All in all, though, it looked fairly good for him.

The first player gave von Baldur a hard look, and picked up the deck.

He dealt three cards, faceup.

As far as Friedrich could tell, no one had improved his hand.

Unfortunately, that included von Baldur.

He looked bland and checked.

The first player, ostentatiously not counting his stack of chips, shoved a pile into the pot, trying very hard to convince the other two he now had the winning hand. Friedrich didn't think so, but couldn't be sure. He didn't think the first man was a very good player, but he was very lucky, and had a large stake behind him.

He watched closely the second man, whose face stayed blank, and the man simply called.

That was potentially not good. He might be sandbagging.

Von Baldur raised, was raised back by the first player.

The second player just called. Again, an unknown.

Friedrich tried to avoid looking at his increasingly slender stake. If this went on, they could buy him out of competition.

He called, as, to his great relief, did the others.

The last card was dealt, down and dirty.

Von Baldur casually lifted its corner, and, he hoped still calmly, set it back down.

It was the fourth jack.

The first player checked, as did Friedrich. The second bet heavily. It took almost all of von Baldur's pile to stay in the game. The first player, suddenly seeming unsure, merely called.

Friedrich did the same.

He felt sweat trickle down his sides.

The first player forced a smile, shrugged, and turned over his three hole cards.

Junk.

The second man looked smug, and showed what von Baldur thought he might have held�a full house, kings and sevens.

Friedrich flipped over his four jacks, and raked in the pot.

That gave him his strength, and, a dozen hands later, the first player was out, and a few hands later, so was the second.

There was applause, and Freddie bowed.

Friedrich von Baldur had a very large pot in front of him.

A chip girl, smiling her availability, asked if she could cash him in.

Von Baldur waited until three holo photographers got their pictures, then told her to go ahead.

He'd be in the bar.

By the time his drink, a very expensive vintage Earth cognac with a water back had materialized, so had the rather large check, and a scattering of cash.

The chip girl smiled invitingly.

Von Baldur smiled back, and tipped her a one hundred credit note.

She looked disappointed, moved away.

There would have been a time when von Baldur would have followed up on the invite, but he was feeling a bit of his years, and all of the thirty-five hours.

Von Baldur hated to make promises he might not be able to keep.

Friedrich drained about half of his drink�this was the first alcohol he'd allowed himself beyond the single drink every eight hours when he was playing�and relaxed.

He wanted to finish the brandy and order another, but didn't want to suddenly pass out in the middle of his triumph. He would wait for a minute.

This was one step, the third successful one he'd made.

If he could keep up the winning, his goal�setting up another Star Risk, this one keeping well away from anything resembling Cerberus Systems�was getting closer.

He wondered, if he was successful, if he could track down his former partners and see if they were interested in trying again.

Probably not, he thought, a bit sadly.

Things never went that smoothly.�

A waitress, unbidden, set another snifter down in front of him.

He was about to ask, when a man his age settled down in the next chair.

"It is good, Mital," the man said, startling von Baldur by use of his real name, "to see you being a success."

It took a moment to recognize the man. He, like Freddie, had aged.

His real name was Laurence Chambers, von Baldur remembered, and he hadn't seen him for ten, no fifteen years. The last time had been in the middle of a disastrous retreat, all screaming, blood, and crashing starships.

Chambers had been in charge of an elite reconnaissance team, detailed, quite out of its specialty but typical for the military, to help von Baldur evacuate the supply depot he'd been in charge of.

It had been a very long and defeated week.

"I thought you were dead, or at least disassembled a bit," Friedrich said.

"It was all smoke and flame," Chambers said. "They got me out and patched me up.

"I remember you and I'd been talking about�" Chambers looked around to see if there was anyone in earshot. "Decent and civilized ways to make money, and you'd convinced me that being in the middle of shooting, shitting, and shouting was a mug's game.

"When I got out of the hospital and was waiting for my retirement papers to go through, I started looking for you.

"Without luck."

"I got off that hellworld� I don't even remember its name," von Baldur said, "as quickly as I could, and found a nice, safe job, way behind the lines. And then I found it� expedient to leave the military."

"So I discovered," Chambers said. "I did, as well. Running security for a gaming world.