Revenge of the Damned (30 page)

Connl determined to reinvest. His half-mill warehouse of hi-pro was, of course, worth nearly three-quarters. He would adjust his price accordingly.

The end result of Sten's maneuver: Even less high-protein additive was available to the Tahn at any price. Plus he had done his bit to destabilize the currency. Those credits, if not buried, would go back into circulation and further devaluate the Tahn unit.

L'n was curled up on a silken pillow, looking terminally cute and asleep. Her ear sonared on the conversation at the table next to her.

The four Tahn officers were playing an incredibly complex game with counters, multiple sets of dice, and variable rules, a game that could only have been invented, let alone played to the point of expertise, by military types trying to while away long, boring hours on patrol.

Such was the case.

And it made the game a status symbol—anyone who knew the rules, let alone how to win, was of course intelligent, part of the Tahn hierarchy, and probably noble to boot.

The game went on.

And the officers talked, paying no attention to St. Clair's pet napping beside them.

The conversation was most interesting. Such and so had been relieved through no fault of her own. X Unit would never be deployed to Y Sector on time, not with the shortage in medium weapons. And did you hear about poor Admiral Whoosis? His new flagship's the
Sabac
. That's the first of the Amtung class, y' know. What a pile! TA can't pick up more than six targets without going into program reject. Power room, he told me's got leaks from the drive. Good thing he's a hero sort.

There was laughter, and the game and conversation droned on, L'n filing every bit of the hard intelligence for transmission to the Empire.

Kilgour dropped from the skylight onto the top crate in the huge stack. He looked around the deserted warehouse, laid out his tactics, and went into motion.

The warehouse was a ration outshipping point. Each crate contained fifty cases of rations. Each case held one day's rations for ten combatants.

Kilgour had in his overall pockets six cans. Each of them would be inserted into a different ration case, and the case and crate would be resealed without notice.

The poor sod getting that particular can would not be happy. Not that there was anything lethal in the cans. Each of them contained exactly what it was supposed to and was as edible as military food ever became. There was, however, a small addition to each can.

Puir, wee, slikit beastie, Alex thought sentimentally.

Not that the cans contained an entire mouse.

Just its tail.

Kilgour wondered how long the rumor would take to spread as to just what those war profiteerin' clots were feeding the poor frontline fighters.

Not long at all, he knew.

"A pint, cheena?" Sten suggested.

Chetwynd, feeling most proud, merely looked up and smiled. "I'm drinking brandy these days."

"Life's been good to you?"

"Life's been acceptable," Chetwynd said neutrally.

The two men stared at each other as the barmaid delivered drinks, was paid, smirked at the two, and wobbled back to the bar.

"So you made it," Chetwynd said then.

"So I made it," Sten agreed.

"Did my, uh, message get delivered?"

"It did. At the highest level."

"And?"

Sten answered by sliding a case across the table. Chetwynd glanced to either side, snapped the case open a crack, and then, at light-speed, closed it.

"Someone," he said, "out there likes me."

Sten smiled. "We love you, Chetwynd."

The case was stuffed full of Tahn money.

"And what am I expected to do with this?"

"Whatever you want. An estate in the country, if that's what turns you over."

"Nah. I've learned."

Chetwynd
had
learned. He had spent time reestablishing contacts and making them very happy. He had a chubby finger in almost anything crooked that went on around Heath's spaceports. He had even begun making most vague noises about unions. But this time he was not messing with the longshoremen, having realized that someone with a size twenty-six neck and a size three hat who got political might be easily replaceable. Instead, he was listening with great sympathy to the dispatchers, ramp rats, controllers, and bookkeepers around the spaceports. Technicians were hard to retrain.

"That's nice," Sten said. "A suggestion. Are you still a loyal prison guard?"

"I've thought about—"

"Don't," Sten ordered. "That gives you a nice solid ID. Keeps you from getting sent back to Dru."

Chetwynd shuddered, then understood. "You want a pipeline into Koldyeze?"

"You have learned."

"Anything else. Mister?" Chetwynd spit.

"None. Just keep on keeping on. I'll be in touch every now and then. If you need more gelt, just ask."

Chetwynd considered. "How deep's your purse?"

"How wide is the Empire?"

That was a correct answer. Sten was prepared to give Chetwynd, or any other Tahn, a limitless amount of units—flawlessly counterfeited units that would further inflate the economy. Every five thousandth bill had its serial number duplicated. When two bills, perfect examples of Tahn currency, showed up at bank clearinghouses, there would be hell to pay—further lessening the Tahn's willingness to trust their own monetary system.

Sten got up. "Oh. There was one other thing. Don't have me tailed. And don't show up at my nice safe home." He reached across and tweaked Chetwynd's cheek. "I want you to be my back-street girl. You'd look clottin' stupid with a tag around your toe."

And Sten was gone.

St. Clair systematically laid the markers, scrawled in various stages of desperation and sobriety, across her desk. The young woman on the settee sobbed convulsively.

"Come, now," St. Clair said. She crossed to the side bar, poured a drink, and waited while the woman choked it down.

"Are you all right?"

The woman nodded.

"Let's look at it from my point of view," St. Clair began. "Of course you didn't know what you were doing. Mayd, I've gotten myself into the same kind of problem. When I was young."

There were perhaps no more than three or four years between the two women. But St. Clair knew how to play the script.

"And you can't pay.

"And if you ask for units from your family, you'll be out in the cold. Your father doesn't sound like the understanding type.

"If this were the livies, I would be twisting my mustaches and—what would I be doing? Suggesting that you become available, since you are very young and very attractive, to some of my older guests? Or maybe stealing the family gems? No. I have it. You should deliver all your family secrets into my keeping. Blackmail, that's how the livies play it.

"No wonder I haven't seen a livie in years.

"I am certainly a loyal Tahn. And would do none of those sillinesses.

"Mayd, I like to think of you as my friend. I have always been honored that a woman of your caste honors my establishment with your presence. The fact that you have had unspeakable luck on the tables doesn't change that.

"But…" St. Clair sighed and swept the markers into a pile. "I am also a businesswoman. I frankly don't know what to do.

"I can tear these markers up—" She paused and Mayd looked at her hopefully. "But then I would be forced to bar you from being allowed here ever again.

"Still worse, I would be forced by my agreement to mention what happened to the Casino Owners' Security Block. That could be embarrassing if you were blacklisted in all of Heath's establishments."

St. Clair pretended deep thought. "Wait. I have an idea. I am a gambler. As you are. But, well, I like an edge. As you did."

The woman blushed, not wanting to remember the time that she had tried to introduce a set of shaved dice into a game.

"Your father's conglomerate produces rare metals. I have been interested in taking a plunge in business investments. Maybe you could tell me how your father's business is doing. Nothing specific, of course. But strange things that help an investor. For instance, I know that a lot of the metals go out-system. But where?"

Mayd looked at St. Clair's smiling, open face. "That won't work, Michele," she wailed. "I don't know anything about business. You just asked about where the metals go. I can't tell you. All I know is that Daddy keeps complaining about having to go somewhere called Aira… Airabus, where it's nasty and cold and Daddy says they don't treat a nobleman the way he deserves.

"You see? I'd like to cooperate, but I don't
know
anything."

Erebus. The long-secret shipyard system of the Tahn. That information was worth, to the Emperor, a year's income.

"Oh, well," St. Clair said. "We tried. Look. Here's what we'll do. I'll keep these markers. And I'll personally guarantee you an open line for, say, ten thousand more units. Your luck is due to change—and maybe next time I'll be asking
you
for markers. Mayd, this is on my personal guarantee.

"Do me a favor. One gambler to another? Stop doubling the bet when you're losing. The way to come out on top is to double up when you're
winning
."

Mayd behaved as if St. Clair had presented the six lost commandments to her. St. Clair knew that it would not matter; all she had to figure out was how to keep the woman so confused that she never remembered when she had lost the next ten grand.

It was too good to be true.

"It's ta braw't' b't true," Kilgour muttered to himself as he glowered across into the park from his position under an abandoned gravsled—abandoned, he was realizing, because of a total hemorrhage in its lubrication system as the oil soaked through his rather becoming, he thought, suit.

The contact had come most skillfully, Alex admitted.

One of his agents—very trusted, at least until twelve minutes earlier—had asked if Kilgour would be interested in talking to a certain minor bureaucrat in the Tahn naval payroll department. The man was upset, the agent said, evidently because he had been passed over for a promotion. He was prepared to deliver—for hard Imperial credits—the payroll roster for any naval unit anywhere in the Tahn Empire.

The meet had been set up twice, and blown twice, supposedly because of the bureaucrat's paranoia. Third time lucky.

They were to meet in a certain park—which looked, to Alex's country eyes, more like a vacant lot—minutes before curfew. The money would be passed in exchange for a complete roster of Tahn Council operations personnel.

The bureaucrat had said that if anyone else was in the park at the time of the meet, he would vanish once again.

Too good, indeed.

Kilgour had shown up hours earlier and cased the park and surrounding buildings. He found it most interesting that the apartments surrounding the park appeared to be very interested in livie transmissions, and all of them could afford new 'cast antennas on their roofs.

He had then rented himself an alky. He had bought the man two bottles of cheap plonk and said there would be two more if the man drank them in the park.

Then Kilgour had crawled under the gravsled and waited.

An hour before the meet, a handful of very battered vehicles had settled around the square. They lacked anodizing or washing but were equipped with very shiny McLean generators.

Oh, well.

Kilgour wanted to stick around until the bureaucrat showed up, then see about seven zillion Tahn Counterintelligence thugs swoop on that poor alky, passed out on his bench, and attempt to grill him.

But the last act was usually anticlimactic. Kilgour slid—literally—out from under the gravsled and then low-crawled around the corner away from the scene.

Nice try, lads. But nae Oscar.

Kilgour wondered who clottin' Oscar was, anyway, then headed back to the K'ton Klub and degreasing.

It took three tries before Senior Captain (Intelligence) Lo Prek was received by Lord Wichman.

The first attempt had been rejected after he had scared holy clot out of Wichman. Wichman's adjutant—so he had dubbed his executive secretary—had informed his boss that a certain captain in Intelligence wished to see the lord.

Wichman, even though honest to the point of caricature, had still turned pale. Intelligence officers, so it was said, could find guilt in their mothers if so required—and make the bones confess on vid.

The captain did not, however, have an official sanction.

His request was ignored.

When the second request was made, Wichman ordered his secretary to check into the background of the officer.

He scanned the fiche with interest, admiring Lo Prek's commendations and obvious ability. But he still saw no reason why he should waste his valuable time.

The third time Lo Prek was lucky. Wichman was bored and not interested in viewing the latest industrial projections—down—or in why things would improve shortly.

Lo Prek might have been a monomaniac, but he also knew how to present his case.

Wichman listened in increasing fascination.

The captain was determined that one man, formerly a POW in Pastour's vacation prison, was on the loose on Heath. He had already committed many depredations before being captured. Depredations, hell. Defeats.

Perhaps. A bit grandiose, but perhaps…

Now that individual—Sten—was loose and underground in Heath's society. He would strike again. Already, Lo Prek said, there were instances of sabotage, espionage, and generally antiwar sentiments abroad.

Wichman scanned the microfiche that Lo Prek had presented and marveled. This single Tahn officer, technically over leave from his assigned unit, had managed to collect this amount of data without any resources except what he could borrow.

Fascinating.

Wichman reached a decision. He thought Lo Prek to be a loon. The Imperial, whatever his name was, either had never existed or had gotten drowned in a ditch somewhere. But it could be very useful to have such a dedicated person around collecting evidence of anything that had gone wrong—what he had once heard the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Emperor call a stonebucket.