Star Risk - 02 Scoundrel Worlds (30 page)

Goodnight watched Grok move through a small array of glassware, admiring the alien's deftness.

"I do appreciate the concoctions you devise," he said.

"Thank you, Chas," Grok said, holding up a test tube. "This is a particularly strong version of trithio-pental, and should, assuming all goes well, be exactly the wonder drug we need."

"Better living through chemistry," Goodnight murmured. "I wish to hell I could see what happens when it works� just like I'd love to see what happens when that hellbrew M'chel put in Reynard's booze kicks in."

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FIFTY-FIVE � ^ � No one, at least in the Dampier or Belfort systems, ever knew exactly what happened to the Dampier Patrol Ship Webb. It was one of half a dozen aging warships loaned by Dampier to the Belfort Worlds, primarily as an adjunct to their customs service.

The only information was that the Webb sent a �cast, on its standard frequency, to the patrol command on Belfort II, reporting that an unknown ship had emerged from N-space, and they'd been unable to reach it:

Suggest ship is most likely the cargo carrier expected to arrive in-system in one E-day, running early. But will close, and ensure nothing's awry. Stand by on this�

The transmission broke off.

The Webb's command tried to contact the ship, at first routinely, since the old tub's electronics were forever going out, then with increasing urgency.

No reply ever came.

Search ships went out, but were unable to find any traces of the Webb.

The mostly Universalist caretaker government waffled suspiciously, then announced the Webb had met with an unknown accident, adding that, even in this modern age, starships still did meet with unfortunate calamities. That was bad enough, but the release went on to say "there is absolutely no evidence of any Torguth involvement in the catastrophe."

Star Risk theorized it'd found a Torguth spy ship who shot first.

The accident happened the day before the Artists' Ball.

Riss hated to celebrate someone else's death. But this played into Star Risk's court.

Within hours one of Tuletia's street singers, using the tune of an old folk song, had written a ballad called "The Death of the Webb."

It spread across the planet, and was picked up and recorded by one of Tuletia's best-known singers.

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FIFTY-SIX � ^ � It wasn't scheduled to be much of a speech. In fact, only a few of the holos bothered to cover ex-Premier Reynard's announcement that, tomorrow, he would be taking a break from the "cares and pressures of the campaign trail to confer with trusted aides and others."

Which meant Reynard didn't want to go to the Artists' Ball. Which M'chel Riss had promised to find an out of.

But he couldn't contact her, and he was very worried about what she thought was a Star Risk certainty, and hoped it didn't involve a phony assassination attempt. That played hell on the knees of custom-made suits.

Reynard took a reassuring nip of his brandy before going down in the lift to the press room. His stomach roiled a bit, and he told it to be still. Soon enough he'd be out of the camera's eye, and could relax as much as he ever allowed himself to.

He smiled at the handful of holo reps in the press room and greeted those he knew, which was most of them.

"This is fairly routine, gentlepeople," he said. "As my aides have told you, I shall be taking a few days�"

Very suddenly matters become unroutine, as he threw up all over his podium. He staggered sideways, was rackingly ill again, and went to his knees. Riss's potion went into high gear, and Reynard into parabolic vomiting.

Only one of the holos showed footage of the fairly disgusting sight. The others cursed that they were not there for the momentous footage.

There certainly was no question whatever that Reynard would be bedridden for at least a few days, and unable to travel anywhere.

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FIFTY-SEVEN � ^ � L'Pellerin's chief aide noted the secret policeman's sour expression as the lifter began its landing approach to the nameless island.

"Chief, are you all right?"

"Fine," L'Pellerin said. "I do not like this waste of time, especially on a topic such as I was asked to discuss. �The Perilous Situation with Torguth.' Pah. What fools these politicians be. You prove to them that there is no concern, and what do they do? They want you to talk some more about how safe they are."

"Yessir," the aide said neutrally, looking out the port.

L'Pellerin's lifter, as befitted the head of Dampier's secret service, was escorted by two patrol ships ahead, and two to the rear, plus his armed guards in lifters on either side of his ship. In addition, a pair of destroyers flew high cover.

Below was the island, an amoeba-shaped tropical forest in turquoise seas. On this, the first day of the Ball, lifters swarmed around the landing area.

There were some early arrivals already sporting with watercraft in the water.

"At least," the aide ventured, "we'll be able to keep early hours."

"You, perhaps," L'Pellerin grumped. "I have more than enough paperwork, not to mention what the office sends on."

"Yessir. Sorry, sir. Of course I'll work along with you."

L'Pellerin nodded. "I know you will."

It was a definite statement of fact.

The patrol ship lay on the bottom at thirty meters. It had landed two hours before, some kilometers out to sea, coming in low and landing without a splash. Submerged, it sought the bottom, then "flew" along it toward the island.

"Sorry to be preoccupied, M'chel," the first pilot said. "I don't have a lot of hours playing submarine."

"That's all right," Riss said. "You just keep us from swimming into some giant squid that eats spaceships." She was feeling more than a little claustrophobic, fought the feeling down.

"We're grounding where you wanted to exit," the pilot said over his shoulder. "I guess that's the word for it."

"I'll beep you for pickup when I'm finished." She avoided using or thinking the word "if."

Riss wore a wet suit and full helmet with breathing apparatus, fins, and a bulky pack. She cycled herself out through the lock into the dark green world, adjusted her fins, and pushed off. She had to stop to adjust the buoyancy to perfect neutral on the pack, then swam on, following the guide her wrist compass gave.

She wasn't much pleased with her progress or her physical shape. There hadn't been much time for working out lately, especially at swimming.

The bottom was rising, and she could look up and see the silvery sheen of the surface. Her breathing apparatus was built to bleed exhaled air out into the water in tiny bubbles, so there'd be no giveaway on the surface to any watchers.

She held close to the bottom for a few seconds as a boat, maybe pleasure, maybe security, swept overhead at speed, leaving a deep wake behind. The waves gave her cover to move closer to shore.

She came to the surface, popped her head up on the far side of a small wave. She was on the far side of the island, away from the arrivals and the excitement, which was just where she wanted to be. Ahead should be a cove that on the chart had been marked for deep water.

It was.

She went for the depths again, swam into the cove. Small waves three meters above her broke on craggy rocks. She discharged air from the pack, let it sink her to the gravelly bottom.

Her watch finger told her it was two hours until sunset. On the island the last of the guests should be arriving, being assigned their cottages, and getting ready for the first night's banquet.

As it grew dark, Riss reinflated the pack, let it take her to the surface.

This was the most dangerous part.

The sea was calm and warm, and a gentle wind was blowing.

There was no sign of life.

She clambered up onto a ledge and stripped off the diving gear.

From her pack, she took a phototropic coverall and other gear. Riss put her diving gear into the pack, held it underwater, and adjusted the buoyancy to negative.

Naked, she dove to the bottom with the pack, and grunted a small boulder on top of it. If a storm didn't come up and blow her pack to who knows where, it would be waiting when�not if�she returned.

M'chel surfaced, clambered up on the rocks, put on the coveralls, a pair of tight-fitting boots, and, comforting feeling, her combat harness.

The only other item she had was a slender meter-long tube of dark metal, with a pistol grip and a tiny-apertured peep sight. It was a single-shot, high-pressure air gun.

She pulled the coveralls' hood over her head and took a small receiver from a harness pouch. She crawled, very slowly, to the top of the rocks. There was an inviting, romantic beach in front of her. The receiver vibrated in her hand. She saw where the motion detector line was, crawled up to it.

Another bit of electronics came out of her pouch, and she "buzzed" this detector relay into harmlessness. Then she crawled through the zone, and brush rose about her. Very good. Very, very good.

Now she had all night to get where she was going. She waited awhile, to make sure nobody was stalking her, then went on, never moving faster than a meter a minute.

Twice the telltale said there was an electronic device ahead, twice she momentarily confused it, passed through without setting off any alarms.

A pair of guards came through, but they were talking, and hardly any bother. Now she could move faster. Riss crested the mountain's ridge, and could hear music, happy laughter from below, where the Ball's estate spread.

Enjoy yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, she thought. Drink hearty. So you'll sleep really, really well.

She heard rustling, and went into a bush. In the dim moonlight, she saw two more guards� and a dog. She hated dogs�at least when she was at work, and they weren't on her side. Riss heard the dog whine, knew it had scented her.

"What's the matter, boy?" one guard asked.

Riss took a pack from her pouch, tore it open and dumped it on the ground, then crawled backward.

"Let's see what's bothering you."

The guards and the dog were coming closer, the whines getting more and more eager. Then the dog hit Riss's defense, and started wheezing, then choking, then coughing convulsively as the white pepper did its work.

The guards knelt over the dog as it rolled about. Tough, dog, Riss thought. You'll be all right in an hour.

She crawled around the commotion, and then, ahead of her, was a building. Riss checked it from memory. Just about where she'd wanted to be.

All she had to do was move north a hundred meters or so, where the aerial photo showed some thick brush, and go to ground. The path she wanted, which led to one of the tree-hung outdoor speaking areas, was less than twenty meters from that brush.

Now, if the weather report only held true, and it didn't rain, and everything got moved inside�

If that happened, she'd have to chance entering the main cottage area the next night, and who knew how hard that would be.

"A beautiful morning, isn't it, Chief?" the aide tried.

L'Pellerin looked about the sun-dappled wilderness around him. "Somewhat of a waste, I think," he said. "In my province, this would've been cut down and turned into productive farmland a century ago."

The aide thought about arguing, realized it would get him nowhere, kept silent.

L'Pellerin, with a sour expression, looked about the path they were walking down, toward the speaking area somewhat absurdly called Truth Zone III. He was deliberately a little late, giving time for everyone to assemble and for their anticipation to build.

Suddenly he jerked.

"What's the matter, sir?"

"Damned fly, or something, just bit me," he said. "You see? Farmland doesn't bite."

"Nossir."

He didn't see the tiny, sharp-pointed plas ampoule on the ground, and a second later, it melted. Nor had he heard the soft paff of Riss's airgun.

They walked around a bend, and L'Pellerin saw, with satisfaction, the speaking area was packed. Everyone who was at the Ball was there, or so it looked.

The assembled dignitaries came to their feet, applauding, as they saw him. L'Pellerin's aide dropped away, and L'Pellerin walked alone to the low platform.

He waited until the applause had died.

"Good morning," he said. Most speakers begin with a joke or a pleasantry. L'Pellerin had no time for such fripperies.

"I assume you know me," he said. "And I know you, or know of you, very well indeed."

There was an uncomfortable laugh. L'Pellerin let the reminder of his secret files sink in.

"I was asked to be here, and discuss with you the current situation with Torguth. I don't have any speech, don't think I need one. You may have questions. Feel free to ask them at any time.

"To begin with, you should be aware that I, and my men and women of the Dampier Information Bureau, work night and day to ensure that Dampier, and, yes, Belfort, are secure and free.

"There have been some insecure, or even subversive-minded, citizens who doubt that. There is no cause for alarm, no reason to worry."

L'Pellerin swallowed, feeling suddenly a bit ill. It must have been that overly rich breakfast he'd had. He should have gone without and just had his normal bread, cheese, and tea.

"Our two systems are as safe, and we are as far from war, as we have been since the first colonists landed on Montrois, centuries ago." L'Pellerin felt a bit of sweat on his forehead, noted the worried look his aide, sitting in the front row, gave him. A bit too much sun the day before, certainly.

"We have defeated Torguth twice within two hundred years, and that system has learned its lesson. I can assure you that�"

A man whom L'Pellerin recognized as one of the fortunately absent Reynard's toadies, stood and quite rudely asked, "How many Torguth agents are there on the Belfort Worlds?"

L'Pellerin reached for the obvious answer, but his tongue escaped him. "At least five thousand. Perhaps more." He couldn't believe what he'd just said. He tried to retract his words, but the man persisted.