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Authors: Mike Resnick

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BOOK: Starship: Mercenary (Starship, Book 3)

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The alien returned a moment later. “He will see you now,” it said through its T-pack.

“Let’s go,” said Val, starting off across the casino. Cole fell into step behind her, and they soon reached a sparkling curtain of almost solid light. When she was within three feet of it she stopped so suddenly that he almost bumped into her.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

She picked up an empty glass from a nearby table and tossed it through the curtain. It was instantly atomized.

“Security system,” she explained.

They waited about half a minute, and then a voice said, “Enter, Joan of Arc. Commander Cole—or is it Captain again?—may enter too.”

Val stepped forward, and when she didn’t disappear Cole followed her into a large, lavishly furnished office. Colorful alien songbirds shared a golden cage that seemed to float in the air with no visible support. There were a pair of three-dimensional holographic scenes of distant worlds that were static until Cole turned to look at them, at which point the scenes became a flurry of motion, only to become static again when he looked elsewhere. The lush carpet yielded to their footsteps, then re-formed as they moved forward. Leather chairs that molded themselves to their occupants hovered a few inches above the floor, and there was a well-stocked bar along one wall. Two robots, even taller than Val, flanked a shining metal desk—but the most unusual thing in the room was the man who sat behind the desk.

At first Cole thought he was a robot too, but upon closer observation he wasn’t so sure. Most of him—arms, legs, torso, hands, feet, skull—was a sleek, shining metal, probably platinum. But the mouth and lips were definitely human, and there was a totally incongruous handlebar mustache swirling down from his upper lip. The left eye glowed an unholy blue, but the right eye possessed both iris and pupil. He was wearing a pair of sleek black shorts, with a tuxedo stripe down each leg.

“You didn’t prepare him, Joan,” said the man.

“It’s more fun to watch them when they first meet you,” replied Val. “And my name’s Val this week.”

“Cleopatra, Nefertiti, Joan of Arc . . . you just never tire of changing names. Who was Val?”

“It’s short for Valkyrie,” she replied.

“In that case I approve.” He turned to Cole. “And you are the man that the Republic is offering ten million credits for?”

Cole stared at him and said nothing.

“Do not worry, Wilson Cole,” he said. “I have no intention of selling you to the Republic. Singapore Station couldn’t stay in business if people stopped trusting our discretion. Allow me to properly introduce myself: I am the Platinum Duke.”

“So I see,” said Cole.

“Ah, but you only see the end result. There was a time, many years ago, when I was just like you. In fact, I served in the Navy. My captain was Susan Garcia, who has gone on to far greater things.”

“What happened?” asked Cole, curious in spite of himself.

“I lost my left leg in the Battle of Barbosa,” answered the Duke. “They gave me a prosthetic leg made, I believe, of a titanium alloy. The interesting thing is that it worked better than the original had: it never tired, it never felt pain, it could withstand extremes of cold and gravity.” He paused. “I was back on active duty four months later, just in time for the Battle of Tybor IV.”

“I’ve heard about that one,” said Cole. “I think we took eighty percent casualties.”

“Eighty-two percent,” said the Duke. “I was one of them. Lost both my arms and my left eye. They kept me alive long enough to transport me to a field hospital, where I was fitted out with prosthetic arms and an eye—and, as before, they functioned better than the originals. I was mustered out of the service shortly thereafter—I guess they felt that three limbs and an eye were enough to give to the Republic—and I came to the Inner Frontier, and eventually to Singapore Station. Along the way I’d made my fortune, we needn’t discuss how, and I decided that platinum was more in keeping with my new status than titanium. I also decided that while I was undergoing these . . .
improvements
, I might as well go the whole route: another leg, eardrums, epidermis, all but a small handful of things. All that remains of the original me, Captain Cole, is my mouth and taste buds—I couldn’t live without the ability to taste my favorite foods and drink—and I kept my lips, because I am a vain man (if I weren’t why would I have converted to platinum?) and I was always proud of my mustache. My right eye remains for a practical reason: though my left eye sees farther and more clearly, and can even see into the infrared and ultraviolet spec trums, it does not adjust to changes in illumination as quickly as my real pupil does. All else—heart, lungs, you name it—is artificial.” Suddenly he smiled. “With one exception. I was assured that I could experience sexual pleasure with an artificial organ, but I was unwilling to trust them. I mean, if they were wrong, I couldn’t go back . . . so I have retained my own organ. That is why I am wearing these ridiculous shorts—out of consideration for poor innocents like Val here.”

“That explains the Platinum,” said Cole. “What about the Duke?”

“Simple. I run Singapore Station. It is my fiefdom; I am its duke.”

“It’s a lot for one man to run,” commented Cole.

“So is a starship,” responded the Duke. “We each have the power of life and death over our serfs.”

“I don’t have any serfs.”

“Then by all means let us call them honored subordinates,” said the Duke. “I shall be meeting one of them in another two hours.”

“Let me guess,” said Cole. “David Copperfield?”

“How did you know?”

“He’s the only member of my ship besides Val who’s ever been here before,” answered Cole. “At least, I assumed he’d been here. I know none of the others have.”

“Remarkable creature, isn’t he?” said the Platinum Duke. “And how he cherishes that Dickens collection of his!”

“His appearance doesn’t bother you?” asked Cole. “I mean, a very strange-looking alien dressed up exactly like Pickwick or Sydney Carlton?”

“What would you think of me if I criticized the way someone
else
looked?” said the Duke with a smile that displayed his platinum teeth. “By the way, have you any idea what he wants to see me about?”

“To put himself right with me,” said Cole.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a long story,” said Cole. “Suffice it to say that the
Theodore Roosevelt
is now in the mercenary business. I’ve been told, as I’m sure David has, that you are the best source for determining who might need our services, what they are willing to pay, and whether they can be counted on to give us accurate information and to honor their financial commitments.”

“Easily done,” said the Duke. “Ordinarily I would charge ten percent for my services, but because you are in the company of the remarkable Valkyrie, and especially because you are in the bad graces of Susan Garcia, who kept ordering me into harm’s way and saw to it that there are pieces of me all across the Teroni Federation, I will charge you only five percent. How does that strike you?”

“It seems fair,” said Cole. “But there’s one more thing.”

“Isn’t there always?” said the Duke. “Shall I guess?”

“If it makes you happy.”

“You don’t want to get in a situation where you’re overmatched,” suggested the Duke. “After all, you haven’t mentioned any support ships, any backup capabilities of any kind whatsoever.”

“True,” agreed Cole. “But that’s a given. What I had in mind were some ethical considerations.”

“Ethical considerations in a mercenary?” said the Duke, laughing. “Now,
that’s
a novel concept!”

“I’m glad you’re so easily amused,” said Cole dryly. “We won’t provide military support for anyone dealing in drugs. We won’t supply military support for any action that will serve the purposes of the Teroni Federation. And we won’t provide military support for any action that will be detrimental to the Republic or its Navy. We may be on the run from them, but we spent our lives serving their cause and we won’t go to war with them.”

“You’d feel differently if you were wearing some artificial limbs,” said the Duke.

“Perhaps, but I’m not.”

“All right,” said the Duke. “In point of fact, your ethical considerations probably don’t eliminate more than three or four percent of the people, planets, and interests that would be interested in your services.”

“Fine,” said Cole. “Lay the best of them out for David when he shows up, and understand that he is not empowered to commit the
Theodore Roosevelt
to any action. Only I can do that. He’ll bring your various proposals to me, and I’ll make my decision. I’ll probably get back to you with some questions first.”

“That is satisfactory,” said the Duke. “When David shows up tonight I will send him away and tell him to come back in another day or two. I know who are the likeliest to require your services, but I cannot possibly contact them all before David arrives.”

“Fair enough,” said Cole. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Val can stay if she wants, but I’m late for a dinner appointment.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Some place called the Fatted Calf.”

“When you get there, a table in a private room will be waiting for you,” said the Duke. “There will be no bill for you or any member of your party.”

“You own it?” asked Cole.

“No.”

“Then . . . ?”

“I am not without friends on Singapore Station,” said the Platinum Duke with a modest smile. “I trust you are about to become one of them.”

He extended his hand, and Cole took it. “Sounds good to me. I have a feeling we’re going to need all the friends we can get.”

The ship was repaired in five days.

As his crew staggered in, Cole had a feeling that it would take more than five days to repair
them
.

Forrice never said a word. He simply returned to the
Teddy R
with a big alien grin on his face, went off to his cabin, and slept for thirty hours. Braxite looked almost as happy and slept almost as long. Jacillios, the third Molarian on the ship, had clearly gone to the wrong place: he came back in a foul mood and didn’t sleep at all.

Vladimir Sokolov, Bull Pampas, Malcolm Briggs, Luthor Chadwick, and the two newest human members of the team, James Nichols and Dan Moyer, hit every bar they could find, then hit them all again.

Cole had no idea what Jaxtaboxl, the ship’s only Mollutei, did for fun, and he didn’t even want to think about how Lieutenant Domak, a warrior-caste Polonoi, blew off steam. He knew that Rachel Marcos, Idena Mueller, and some of the other human women had gone to see some plays—there was even an all-Shakespeare theater on the station —and had put together a list of restaurants and safe nightclubs based on the Duke’s recommendations. Bujandi, the ship’s only Pepon, was always talking about the savannahs and vistas on his home planet. He returned sullen and morose, and Cole had a feeling he’d gone looking for something green on Singapore Station and wasn’t exactly thrilled with the scenery he’d found.

Val was one of the last to return. She was nursing a black eye, a split lip, heavily bandaged knuckles, a hangover, and a very contented smile.

That left only Christine Mboya. He was surprised that she wasn’t in the vanguard of those returning to the ship, and began getting worried as more crew members returned and he’d had no word from her. He was about to send out a search party when she showed up, looking exactly as she’d looked when she left—well groomed, well manicured, totally poised. She explained that her hotel’s computer had crashed, and she’d spent the last two days helping them get it up and running again. Cole was about to voice his sympathy when he decided that fixing the computer was probably the most fun she could have had while on the station.

As for Cole himself, he’d eaten his steak dinner and spent a romantic night in a suite with Sharon, but he simply wasn’t interested in gambling, drinking, black-market goods, and brothels, and he returned to the ship within two days, not to leave again. Sharon had beaten him back by almost half a day.

He was idly wondering just how much rest and recuperation time the crew would need to get over their R-and-R on Singapore Station when David Copperfield’s image appeared.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Steerforth,” said the alien. “But I’ve had two conferences with the Platinum Duke, and I think it’s time you and I discussed our options.”

“
Our
options?” said Cole, arching an eyebrow.

“Of course I meant
your
options,” said Copperfield hastily. “When would be a convenient time for you?”

“You, Christine, and I are the only three people capable of carrying on a cogent conversation at this moment, and she’s busy running the ship, so now’s as good a time as any.”

“Your office?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Cole. “I’d love to do it over lunch, but there’s no sense letting anyone overhear us until I’ve made up my mind.”

BOOK: Starship: Mercenary (Starship, Book 3)

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