Star Risk - 01 Star Risk, Ltd (3 page)

Baldur walked to one door, pushed it open. "You mentioned that you were having a bit of problem with your digs. This shall be your office."

He went to another door, and opened it. Inside was a camp cot, a clothes rack, a small refrigerator, and a convection oven.

"This is my office. So you can see that I understand your difficulty."

Riss hesitated.

"There is a lock on the door," Baldur said hastily. "And you can perform your ablutions in either of the suite's two bathrooms. There is a salvage store two blocks away that can provide you with a cot and whatever other necessities you desire.

"You do not have to worry. I have never screwed one of my partners.

"At least," he said thoughtfully, "not in that particular sense of the word."

M'chel thought about things. She certainly didn't trust Friedrich von Baldur at all.

But on the other hand, there was that mystery meat, a flea-bitten single room, a glowering hotel manager, and another goddamned sugared bun for the next two meals staring at her.

"Since I can't see that I've got anything to lose," she said, holding out her hand, "we have a deal."

"For six months," Baldur said.

"For six months," Riss echoed, and Baldur touched her palm with his.

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THREE � ^ � Dmitri Herndon was a happy man. A sweaty, tired happy man.

He pushed the ore-carrier ahead of him, toward the welcome gleam of his ship's floodlights.

There was enough high-grade in the carrier to pay off his bill with Transkootenay, grubstake himself for another lonely six weeks in this desolate belt, and some to send home to his sister on Lorraine VII. And the hold of his shabby, converted yacht was about half-full of other saleable metals.

Better still, he thought� hoped, rather� that he had seen trace enough to think there could be a diamond "pipe" here on this rotten planetoid, which would make him slightly richer than the revered Joseph Smith.

If this belt was indeed part of an exploded planet, God hadn't blown it up nearly enough, Herndon thought sourly, looking out into hard blackness, and thousands of spinning dots, not stars, dimly lit by the system's dying sun.

But then, if God hadn't blasted it, there wouldn't be any miners in the system, wouldn't be any fissionable ore in Herndon's carrier and ship, and Herndon himself might still be back teaching basic chemistry on Lorraine.

He often thought of the image people had of deep-space miners�brawny, bearded, quick to brawl, profane.

Herndon may have had the beard, but little else. In fact, he'd grown it to not look entirely like the image of a professor, which stereotype he did resemble.

He'd quit teaching, dreaming of riches, and followed the rush into this system. It'd been six months of the hardest, most dangerous work he could have imagined. If he wasn't carefully placing and blowing charges, ever aware of the likelihood he'd blow himself to flinders as a self-taught powder monkey, he was breaking big rocks into little rocks with a powered drill, then checking them with his belt analyzer. Not to mention keeping himself somewhat fed, and his ship from expiring in a smolder of circuitry.

He considered what he'd do if there were diamonds on this stupid rock.

Real riches.

He'd put his ship in the shop, have its rotten, hiccupping secondary drive rebuilt, first.

No. He'd just find some other duckling, fresh into the Foley System, and convince him the bucket was just what he needed to go mining. Just as another miner had trapped Herndon.

Then he'd buy another ship, and�

No. He'd buy out his contract, and, if there were enough money, just retire. No benders, no jags, just a chance to go somewhere quiet, somewhere with a big computer, and he'd spend the rest of his life happily researching the break between alchemy and real chemistry.

Maybe a planet with a big library, a big computer, and some nightlife. Professors didn't have to be reclusive, especially not rich professors.

Something like Trimalchio IV, which he'd seen on the vids, heard stories about its decadence, never visited.

His mind drifted, though he never lost his balance, bounding in ten-meter leaps toward the ship. Showgirls. Tall showgirls. Tall, blond showgirls. Or maybe brunettes. Smiling, barely clad, to be wooed with a handful of diamonds into impossible lusts.

At least he'd had brains enough to register a claim on this jagged piece of stone as soon as he'd brought in the first load of ore, so he had all the time in the world to pick its bones, dreaming all the while of wealth.

He slid open the cover of his ship's exterior control panel, touched a sensor.

The cargo hatch slid open. He pushed the carrier inside and dumped the ore into a expandable hold.

He closed the hatch from the inside, and went into the hold's airlock, cycled it.

The inner lock door opened, and Herndon unsealed his faceplate, winced, as always at the, well, reek. A few hours on the dry, recycled suit atmosphere, and he'd forget just how bad the cabin smelled, a mixture of bad cooking, and human odors.

He decided he could allow himself one slivovitz, no more, after he checked to make sure the ship hadn't developed any more mechanical surprises.

Sitting, very much at ease in one of the control room's two acceleration chairs, was a large man, beard trimmed like a dandy.

He lifted the blaster in his lap, pointed it at Herndon.

"I coulda just grabbed the ship, and left you to breathe space, y' know. But I'm a kindly man."

Herndon had heard of highgraders, had friends who'd been robbed.

He'd determined this wouldn't happen to him, and had bought a pistol when he'd last resupplied, clipped it under the chart table.

He put a smile on his face, lifted his hands, then dove, twisting, for the table, two meters distant.

He never made it.

The bearded man cursed, shot him twice in the side. Herndon crashed into the table, headfirst.

"Goddamit, you didn't have to go and make me do that," the bearded man complained, wrinkling his nose at the stink of burnt flesh.

Dmitri Herndon lay perfectly still, made no answer.

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FOUR � ^ � How about this?" Friedrich von Baldur asked, peering at the screen of the archaic computer he'd managed to acquire somewhere. Also scrounged were the two camp chairs and table set up in the office lobby. At least they'd found the money to have a vid installed in Baldur's office/bedroom.

" 'COVERT ADVISORS needed. Growing, progressive system, troubled with internal and external troublemakers, urgently needs specialists to organize, lead its special operations. Lehigh is a�' "

"Forget that," M'chel Riss interrupted. "Lehigh's been looking for advisors for years. What they want is someone to organize their death squads for them."

"As long as I am not the one murdering the widows and orphans," Baldur said, "I have little trouble sleeping at night."

"I do," Riss said. "But that's not the point. They came to the Alliance Marines, with the approval of the Alliance, when I was still aboard, wanting advisors, promising they'd join the Alliance as soon as their government stabilized. We sent out a survey team, and a friend of mine was on it. She came back shaking her head, saying there's at least six factions, all playing against the middle, and nobody necessarily knows who's really on whose side.

"First they try to subvert you; then, if you don't subvert, you're on the kill list."

"As you said, forget that," Baldur said. "Pity. They even claim to offer a health fund, and I would like to get a varicose vein or two removed."

"Keep looking," Riss advised. "Somebody out there's got to be an honest sort needing thugs. Or," she added, thinking of just how low Star Risk's resources were, "semihonest will fly at this point."

The door opened, and a woman came in. Both Baldur and Riss looked at her, and blinked.

M'chel Riss had, as all beautiful women do and deny, realized at a very young age that she was beautiful.

But this woman was beyond beautiful.

She was about four centimeters shorter than Riss, had gently curling dark hair with golden tints, around a face that could have launched a thousand starships, blue eyes, and a perfect figure.

Riss thought about hating her.

"Welcome to Star Risk," Baldur said, and introduced them. "Forgive our lack of amenities, but the press of events�"

"I'm Jasmine King," the woman said, and Riss thought even her damned voice was perfect. "And I'm well aware of your financial precariousness."

"Oh," Baldur said.

"I'm interested in applying for a job," King said.

"Uh, forgive my slowness," M'chel said. "But if you know how broke we are, you've got to be aware your paycheck would most likely bounce. I assume you work for high credits."

"True," King said. "But I have a personal reason for wanting to work for you."

"In what capacity, if I may inquire?" Baldur asked.

"Office manager and research specialist," King said.

"We certainly don't have much of an office to manage," Riss said. "But we hope to. And what's this personal reason, if I may inquire?"

"Until yesterday, I was the head of Cerberus Systems' research department."

Both Riss and Baldur reacted in surprise and some degree of suspicion.

"You'll forgive my skepticism," Baldur said. "But Cerberus has the reputation of being tough in their practices, willing to do just about anything to keep prospective competitors from competing."

"That's correct," King added. "Up to and including false lawsuits or bombs over the transom."

"I think what Freddie's trying to say," Riss said, "is how do we know you're not a spy� or a wrecker?"

"You don't," King said. "But why don't one of you check my r�m�ith them? Don't claim to be anything in the way of a security service.

"Maybe a library." She opened a small purse, took out a fiche.

"Here is a copy of my personnel record I stole before leaving. Check what the head of Human Resources at Cerberus has to say against it. Their vid address, here on Trimalchio, is�"

"I shall look it up," Baldur said.

"Good," King said. "It's too easy for someone to give a false number, and have a henchman at the other end feed you exactly what that person wants to be said."

Baldur looked at her carefully. "You have worked for Cerberus."

King smiled placidly. Baldur, intrigued, started for his office and the vid.

"Wait," M'chel said. "One question you didn't answer. If you work for top credits, how do you expect to get paid by us?"

"I can defer my salary until the credits are there," King said. "I have sufficient resources for a year or more." She smiled slightly. "Don't think I'm an altruist. When the time is ripe, you'll think your accounts have been struck by a tornado."

M'chel grinned.

"Go ahead and check her," she said. "Now I'm getting curious, too."

Baldur went into his office, closed the door.

M'chel and Jasmine looked at each other. For some reason, Riss didn't find the silence uncomfortable.

"A researcher? In what field?"

"Anything that seems important to my employer."

"Do you think you're an expert at anything?"

"Oh, I could say, 'Riss, M'chel.' Or 'von Baldur, Friedrich.' "

King reeled off the high points of Riss's service record.

"Great gods!" Riss said. "I don't know if I like anybody knowing some of that. Let alone how you managed to find things out. I thought military records were sealed from the general public. Or is Cerberus that much in bed with the Alliance?"

"Not at all," King said. "I discovered all that on my own when I decided I'd like to work for you."

"You're that good?"

"I'm that good," King said, not bragging, but stating a fact. "And that quick, too. I have a lot of interesting friends in interesting places who don't mind telling me things."

Riss took a minute to recover, then: "There's other security firms� mercenary companies. Why us?"

King smiled. "I want to be in at the beginning of things. There's always more excitement at the start of an affair than in its middle."

"True," Riss said. "What about my partner?"

"Baldur, Friedrich von Baldur. Real name, Mital Rafenger. Claims to be in his fifties, actual age sixty-two E-years. Born�"

"Skip ahead to the service record," Riss said, holding back laughter. Mital Rafenger, indeed.

"Claims to be a retired admiral, Alliance Navy, with twenty-five years service. Actually, was a Warrant Officer, Fourth Grade, fourteen years of service. Retired and I quote, 'for the good of the service.' Unverified information suggests Baldur left the military shortly ahead of a courtmartial, on charges of misappropriation of government property, alteration of government records, suborning government officials."

"That figures," Riss said. "What about his talents?"

"Claims to be familiar with most Alliance and civilian standard spacecraft. That is true. Claims to have martial arts skills. That is�"

"Also true," Riss said. She'd sparred with Baldur, and, in spite of his age, the man could beat her two out of three times.

"Never married, no known children, no fixed address. Do you want further details?" King asked.

"I don't think they'll be needed."

Baldur came out of his office.

"Mercy, but the plot does thicken. You were right, Miss King. The Resources Director at Cerberus says you only worked there two years, as opposed to the eight years on your record, that you were never more than a minor clerk, that you were discharged for laziness and inability to perform.

"Makes me wonder about all of those glowing letters of commendation in the file."

"They are trying to keep me from finding any work at all," Jasmine said, trying to keep her voice even. "They want me to crawl back to them."

"I can see why you want to break it off with them now," M'chel said. "But what started, if you'll forgive the vulgarity, the pissing match?"