Star Risk - 01 Star Risk, Ltd (8 page)

"Which is?"

"Whether or not she is a robot. I may have erred when I told Goodnight, when he asked where she'd come from, that Cerberus was her former employer, which service she left because they think her to be a robot."

"What would sex have to do with it?" M'chel asked. "Couldn't a robot�which I don't think Jasmine is�be programmed to screw like a mink?"

They were sitting very close together in a booth of a rather plush restaurant. The meal had been horrendously expensive, if not much more than adequate, and the wines had been worse.

Chas Goodnight leaned over, and gently nibbled on Jasmine King's earlobe.

"That feels nice, Chas," she said, in her perfect voice. "But it won't get you anywhere."

"Why not?" Chas said seductively. "Don't you want to be the first to help this poor boy recover from his near-death experience? Lovemaking is one of the best ways to reaffirm humanity."

"That's true," she said.

"Not to mention that'd be a great way for me to express my thanks to you for saving me."

"That's true, as well," Jasmine said. "But no."

"Why not?" Chas flushed, realizing he was sounding like a pouty adolescent.

"Because is enough of a reason, isn't it?"

"Well� I guess so." Goodnight drank wine, tried again. "You know, I studied robots some time ago."

"That must have been interesting," King said blandly.

"It was. Especially the Prime Directives."

"In what way?"

"Remembering the First Directive," Chas said. "How is it? 'A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.' "

"So?"

"Well, a psyche deprived is a damaged psyche, and therefore its owner would be harmed."

"So?" King said again.

"Well, if a robot, say, were an incredibly lovely woman, and she didn't want to make love to a good-looking man, thereby harming him, wouldn't that be a violation of the First Directive?"

"Yikh," Jasmine said, drinking her wine and refilling it from the bottle in the bucket. "Who would want to go to bed with a robot, anyway?"

"You didn't answer my question," Chas purred.

"But what if that robot didn't have the First Directive?" Jasmine asked. "Or the other two either?"

"That� that'd be impossible! All societies require robots to have the Three Laws programmed into them."

"All societies?" Jasmine asked.

"Everyone that I've heard of does," Goodnight said.

"And you've heard of every culture that happens to synthesize artificial beings? Every culture?"

Goodnight looked deeply into her eyes. They were clear, deceit free. But he felt a shiver touch his spine.

Jasmine smiled again.

"Besides, if I have to be honest with you, and I truly don't mean to hurt your feelings," she said, patting his hand, "I never go to bed with a man who's not as smart as I am."

Goodnight looked amazed. "But I've got a near-genius intelligence level."

"Which you don't use."

"What do you mean?"

"One instance," Jasmine said. "You got caught stealing, and were thrown out of the army. You got caught again, and were about to be strangled.

"Yet you propose to keep on the same track, even though your record hardly suggests you've made a successful career choice."

Goodnight, his romantic mood shattered, glowered at her.

"You see?" Jasmine said. "Not only won't you listen to logic, but you insist on letting your ego get all bruised and battered in the process."

"What do you want me to do?" Goodnight said. "Join you people or something?"

She patted his cheek.

"You could do much, much worse."

"I've decided," Reg Goodnight said, "to reconsider my original options for Transkootenay's security provider.

"I'll be honest, since there's only the five of you present, and admit a bit of my decision had to do with my brother deciding to join Star Risk, limited.

"Not to mention that Cer� one of the other security services I invited to bid on this project has been most dilatory in providing me with a prospectus.

"And your offer was most reasonable.

"I propose that I, meaning Transkootenay Mining, offer Star Risk, limited, a tentative contract for six months service. You can have your lawyers go over the contract as soon as it's drawn up, assuming you accept the general terms, but, in brief, I propose to offer you a traditional 'no cure, no pay' contract.

"However, I do realize this is an expensive contract. The raiders are costing us a minimum of five million credits per day, which is intolerable, even for a company the size of Transkootenay.

"You'll be given half a million credits per diem, plus full expenses to the tune of two million credits per diem, said expenses to be vetted by Transkootenay's business office, for a period of six E-months, during which time you are to attempt to discover these criminals who are attacking Transkootenay Mining, its employees and representatives, destroying Transkootenay's equipment, and stealing valuable resources that are the legal property of Transkootenay Mining, as attested by a legally binding contract between Transkootenay Mining, and the Foley System Government.

"At the end of that time, this contract may be renewed, in six E-month intervals.

"Satisfactory completion of this contract will be rewarded with a minimum of ten million credits, plus bonuses for exceptional or early completion of the task.

"These sums will be paid by the Foley System Government, routed through Transkootenay Mining.

"Welcome aboard," Reg Goodnight said sincerely.

"And may you do Transkootenay as much good as you have my brother."

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ELEVEN � ^ � An N-space transmission, coded with one-time-only pad:

UNWORRY ONE RISK. FOR UNKNOWN REASON TRANSKOOT IGNORED CERBERUS OFFER, SIGNED SECURITY PACT WITH UNKNOWN SMALLIE. NEW FIRM LACKS SHIPS OPS LOCAL INTEL. PLAN SOONEST OPS TO PUT THEM IN PLACE. HAVE AT LEAST SIX MONTHS TO CONTINUE AS PLANNED WITHOUT REAL INTERFERENCE.

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TWELVE � ^ � The onscreen ship looked like a flattened pyramid, with its electronics suite mounted in two winglets stretching ahead of the central control area. Delta wings, for operation in-atmosphere jutted from the back third of the fuselage, and there were four enormous drive tubes.

"Eighteen Pyrrhus-class patrol ships, plus spares, and so on and so forth," the young saleswoman said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. It had been a very dead day for sales before Friedrich von Baldur came into her office.

"Chamkani Starship Systems is delighted to be doing business with you," she said. "So, as a free bonus, we'll throw in any auxiliary ship you choose."

Baldur smiled. "Yes, I was advised your firm has such a generous policy, which is one reason I came here.

"I think I would like that converted transport at the back of the yard, the Corsair, I believe it is?"

The woman touched sensors on her screen.

Something that was either an ocarina carved by a deranged misanthrope or a starship appeared. Its control area sat atop the bulbous mass which narrowed down to a surprisingly small drive area.

"Yes, sir. Uh� that's a rather unusual craft," she said. "It was listed as a transport on the Alliance Registry, but it was actually an illegal conversion, done by a certain admiral, who was relieved in disgrace when he was discovered. It's most palatial on the inside, and mostly roboticized."

"So what makes that undesirable, Miss Winlund?" Baldur asked.

"It's described here as rather wallowy in-atmosphere, and its drive isn't adequate for the listed Gross Registered Tonnage, sir."

"I do not plan on taking it racing, but rather to use as a headquarters for myself and my staff."

"There's another thing. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I appreciate your order, and would hope to have further business in the future. It's considered unlucky."

"How so?"

"After it was salvaged out by the Alliance, three of its five subsequent owners were plagued with an astonishing amount of trouble."

"I believe you make your own luck," Baldur said. "But to get out from under the curse, I shall rename it.

"The Boop-Boop-A-Doop rings a bell inside me. It is an old Arabic phrase, meaning good luck to all."

The saleswoman's eyes widened in surprise, then she recovered.

"Boop-Boop-A-Doop it shall be, sir. I'll have our repair shop replate the hull, and I'll put through a change of name with the registry."

"Excellent," Baldur said.

"Now, how will we handle the financial details?"

"Billing should be made to Transkootenay Mining in the Foley System, on the planet Mfir," Baldur said. "Their electronic address is�"

"Thank you, sir," Winlund said. "But I already have it here on my computer. Since we're the largest previously owned ship dealers in this sector, we've done business with the Transkootenay people on Mfir before.

"Will you be needing any assistance crewing up the patrol ships?"

"No," Baldur said. "Peace having broken out all over, we should have no troubles at all in that area."

"Let's see now," Riss mused. "We'll need two thousand of those ship-to-ship missile systems. Can you provide them with a universal mounting and guidance system?"

"Ma'am," the salesman said. "For that size of an order, I'll design and build one myself. What else?"

"About the same number of your infantryman's basic armament and harness system, with five units of fire and grenades per system.

"A hundred heavy crew-served autocannon, with ten units of fire."

"What about uniforms?" the salesman asked.

"I doubt if we could get our people to wear them," M'chel said. "Two hundred long-distance portable com systems."

She thought. "I suppose that should be all. I'll want them shipped ASAP to Star Risk, limited, the city of Sheol, the world of Mfir, Foley System."

"I'll get the invoice ready," the salesman said, and bustled away.

"Quite a lot of death and mayhem there," Chas Goodnight observed. He'd been silently watching the transaction.

"It should do," Riss said. "At least for a beginning."

"So we're going to sell the miners these," Goodnight said. "What'll be the markup?"

M'chel considered. "Fifteen percent on top of the price and transport should be enough."

"If we wait until there's a couple of bodies bouncing around," Goodnight said, "we can charge an obscene amount, plus fifty percent."

"Fifteen percent will be enough," Riss said firmly.

Goodnight shook his head.

"I'm not sure I approve of all this honesty going about lately."

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THIRTEEN � ^ � The port irised open, showing the strange colors of N-space for a moment, then they vanished, and there was the less stomach-wrenching hard glitter of stars and blackness of normal space as the liner dropped out of star drive.

Grok and King were one of the few passengers in the liner's main lounge, which was all old-fashioned red leather and fake wood paneling.

The other passengers were in their cabins, packing their bags, getting customs slips ready, or milling impatiently about the passageways near the locks.

The liner was luxurious and huge, but, since it stopped at the Foley System, obviously was that sector's puddlejumper, and was a little shopworn.

The steward approached with a tray, served Jasmine a blue foaming liqueur in a tulip glass, Grok a cream cake and water.

"To your health," King said, lifting her glass.

"I did not know you could toast with a sweet," Grok said.

"You're an alien. You can do anything you want."

Grok grunted, adjusted his great bulk against the pillows of the couch he half lay on.

"Not true," he said. "The maid, when she came to make up our suite, gave me the strangest look."

"She thought we were sleeping together," King said.

"Why would we want to do something like that?" Grok wondered. "These bunks they provided are small enough. I'm thankful you insisted we not book normal cabins."

"I didn't mean we were sleeping together when I said she thought we were sleeping together," King said dryly.

"Oh. You meant� what an odd concept," Grok said. "I doubt if our reproductive systems would be compatible."

"Probably not," King said, grinning.

"A small problem I am still having," Grok said, devouring the last of the cream cake and licking his fingers. "I do not understand just why you wanted me to come with you. I know little about hiring starship pilots, particularly those knowledgeable about ship-to-ship fighting."

"You could call it what the old seafarers called 'makee-learnee' but in reality I don't know much more about hiring fighter jocks than you do. But I have a name to track down who does know," Jasmine King said. "Another reason you could be here is to ensure I don't spend too much of the firm's credits on this liner, wallowing in the lap of luxury.

"But the real reason is to protect me."

"From what?"

"From starship pilots."

"Now I'm truly lost," Grok said. "Why would someone who is offering an unemployed flier a well-paying job, presumably at the task he loves, need protection?"

"You don't know pilots," King said. "I'll give you what used to be called a koan to meditate on."

"I am familiar with koan," Grok said. "My race reads and contemplates many philosophers other than their own."

"How do you keep a rocket flier from talking?" Jasmine asked.

"Am I to contemplate just that?"

"No. There's an answer," King said. "Tie his hands."

Grok furrowed his already severely wrinkled brow, stared out of the great lounge viewport at the world they were approaching after their final jump.

"I do not get it."

Before Jasmine could answer, Grok pointed out.

Flashing toward the liner was a vee-formation of small fighting ships, clearly attacking. Grok reacted in shock.