Stardogs, page 6
The Imperial city boasted of having the largest of many things, buildings, baths, subways. It also had the largest dump in human space. Nobody boasted about this, not even the scarecrow people who lived their entire, usually short, lives in the fifty hectare gradually infilling valley. It is said that you could find anything in the dumps, from lost jewels to tetanus or poisoned food. Somehow Sam always knew how to avoid the latter.
The Princess had gone from being an item to be pampered without fondness to gradually becoming the utter darling of two people who loved her unstintingly and eventually gave their lives willingly for her. Sam Teovan had gone from a loving but hopelessly drug-enslaved foolish mother, whom he had tried to save with all his too-old-for-four but too-young-to-understand ability, to the dumps. Here he had never again allowed himself to get close to anyone, not even the others of dump-urchin gang he’d run with, and eventually come to lead. Most of those who came here that young just died, but not Sam. He made the right choices, joined the right gang. To the gang he became a near-sacred oracle. When the Muti-men prowled at night, looking for body-parts for their foul trade, his lot were always elsewhere. Gang-fight traps somehow failed on Teovan’s bunch. He was also infallible about poison.
Then, late in the afternoon, just before the police death squads had moved in, he had told them to come with him into the city. They’d balked. The dumps were home, their life, their turf. He walked away from them, away from leadership and the power that had cost him the razor-slash across the cheek to win. He didn’t want to go either. But somehow he knew that to stay was to die.
Sam had gone from being a dump-picker to being a mugger and a second-story man, sleeping and living in the dank alleys of the poor, half-warehouse part of town. The scrawny wire-tough boy grew to be a scrawny wire-tough man working independently in the back streets of an area where you didn’t even pick a pocket without permission and a cut to the organization. The Yak.
Humanity’s diaspora into space had brought about a terrible fusion of some of the various aspects of organised crime. These hybrids, particularly the Corsican-Japanese-Russian blend, had grown explosively. The last hundred years or so, as the Empire became more stable, and gradually more corrupt, had been particularly good to them.
Of course various families contested for turf. Only Teovan could have found the one fence that was secretly working for another family in Caranzia-Heiki territory. The man was thus prepared to buy Sam’s wares, which no loyal Caranzia-Heiki would have. Somehow, Sam’s instincts had drawn him to visit the fence on the day that the Sakhalin-Carrisi family planned to move on their rivals. The moment he walked into the pawn-broker’s shop he knew something was wrong. It had taken him seconds to spot the two hidden men with automatic rifles. Behind him Salvatore Caranzio-Heiki walked in. He had only one bodyguard with him. This was the heart of his own turf, and he was secure in it. Sam took one brief look at the beefy head of the Caranzio-Heiki Family and knew what was coming. His instincts told him where the choice between life and death lay.
A wealthy businessman had, some ten years ago, disposed of his partner and his unfaithful wife one dark night. He’d used an antique .22 target pistol, and a cunningly made silencer. Afterwards he’d put the weapon, and several boxes of ammunition, into a plastic bag, driven thirty miles and tossed the bag into a passing dumpster. Sam Teovan had unearthed it. After that his gang had always been able to feast on roast rat when nothing else offered. Sam didn’t miss. Stationary targets, like the two waiting men, were just about too easy.
Afterwards, the meaty Caranzia-Heiki had slipped his own weapon back into his shoulder holster. His bodyguard had absorbed the whippet blast that the fence had directed at him. He looked at the sprawled bodies of the ambush team, and at the scrawny, stunted man with the .22 still in his hand. “Roll up their left sleeves, boy,” he said to Sam, his gravel-crusher voice unperturbed.
Sam Teovan did, exposing intricate tattoos.
“Ah. Carrisi. The bastards will pay a deep price for this shit. Now, let’s see your arm, boy.”
Sam pulled up the ragged sleeve. A few scars showed, but no blue and red tattoo. Sal Caranzia-Heiki frowned. “You not with the Families, boy?”
Sam shook his head warily. “No, San.”
Salvatore took a look at the two hit-men, each with a neat hole exactly mid-forehead. He took a ring off his pinky finger. “You are now. You know where the Salomar Hotel is?”
Sam nodded. Drunks from the place were soft targets.
“You go to the desk. You give Gio this ring. You tell him Sal says to give you a room, food, an’ get you some decent clothes. And have a bath. You smell like you haven’t had one for months.” Actually, Sam couldn’t remember ever having had one.
Sam looked briefly at the heavy ornate gold ring the man pressed into his hand. Briefly he thought of what it would fetch, and then knew with absolute certainty that selling this particular item would be terminal.
Sam Teovan’s upward progress within the family was meteoritic. He was a major factor in the rise of the Caranzia-Heiki family to supremacy on Phillipia, and to enormous power elsewhere. He was also a major factor in the demise of the Sakhalin-Carrisi family. Sam’s operations never went wrong. Salvatore always said he was fanatically loyal to the Caranzia-Heiki because they had taken him in, given him the family he needed. But it must be remembered that Sam Teovan knew instinctively which were bad options. Perhaps the alternative to loyalty to Sal was worse.
He sat in on the big meeting and was part of the plan. At least he didn’t say anything against it. But when he left his mouth was dry and his head full of a distant thunder. He was one of the privileged few who rode in Sal’s own groundcar. When they were clear of the carefully chosen neutral site Sal relaxed. “Well, Sam? What you think, huh?”
Sam shook his head. “If we can do it San, it’s good. The fuckin’ League have had their foot on our necks for too long. But I don’t like that Caporegime from the Dakada-clan.”
His master’s eyes narrowed. He knew of Sam’s instincts and used them. “We need the bastards. This thing’s too big for one family. The Dakada’s smuggling connections are important in this thing too, paisan. But afterwards…. “ he drew a thick finger across his throat. He put a big hand on Sam’s slight, wiry shoulder. “Sam. This one I want you to take.” And Sam once again had that feeling which had driven him to save this man’s life. His own life, he knew, stood at a cross-road. And none of the choices felt good.
The next meeting was held in one of the clubs in the red-light district. The Green Door was not a Heiki place, but the family who owned it were old and trusted allies. Salvatore was at ease here. Sam was not. Prostitution was the norm in his world. Even so, this place gave him the creeps. It dealt explicitly in boys, drugs and pain. In the Imperial city, there was a niche market for almost any form of vice, and the Yak serviced all those niches.
Sam moved around the back room like a stepping razor, eyes never truly still, hand close to the infamous .22. He watched that almond-eyed Dakada bastard in particular. That willowy individual was smoothly at ease however. He was the one who got the game of cards started while they waited. Sam didn’t play, but although he couldn’t swear to it, he thought the man cheated… with the intent to lose? Sam couldn’t figure it out. Eventually the one they waited for came.
He was a footman. A man in Imperial service, even if he had carefully shed his livery. That morning he had been waiting on Princess Shari. His unpleasant tastes led him to frequent places like the Green Door. Indeed, these depraved tastes had left him putty in the hands of the Yak, who had pandered to him… and then enmeshed him.
The cauliflower-eared waiter pushed him through the hidden doorway of the sound-screened back room. “He got caught up in watching the floorshow, boss.” A thin scream came down the passage. “He’d still be there if I hadn’t hurried him along.” The disdain in the waiter’s voice was unmistakable.
“Thanks… Sergio.” The waiter left, closing the soundproof door behind him.
The footman bowed servilely. His lips were wet and his eyes a little bright and wide from what he’d seen out there. “I… I thought it was best not to be too obvious coming in here. I was just lingering in the common-room awhile until I thought I could come here unobtrusively.”
His excuse was greeted with silence. The kind of silence that is far more frightening than words. “I… I’ve got the itinerary. Dates, times… everything you wanted.” The footman was sweating freely now.
Salvatore stood up, dwarfing the footman. He held out his hand. “Where is it, Eta?”
“It’s all in my head, Sir. I can’t leave the Imperial compound with a list like that! Selim Puk’s men would find it for sure!” The almond eyed card player put his cards face down with a slight smile. “But, honest, I’ve got it all memorized. Just give me some paper…”
Salvatore looked at him, cocking his big bullet head slightly. “Don’t fuck about with me, mister.” He turned away, to the elegantly underdressed girl who had been serving drinks. “Bring pretty boy here some paper and a pen. And then scram, honey.” She left as fast as her stiletto heels could carry her. Once she’d returned with the paper and pen she again made a rapid exit. She’d been working in this house for two years now. She had a pretty good idea what might happen in that room, and she wanted no part of it.
With slightly shaking hands the footman wrote out the Princess’s itinerary. If he got out of here alive he turn over a new leaf… Then he thought of the reward he’d been promised. He licked his lips again.
Salvatore took the list to the others at the table. The Dakada smuggler got up and looked at it. “It checks. Well, we can get your men the berths. Their stuff will have to come on at the Barhain II stopover. We own that shift of customs.”
“Well, Sam?”
The small man nodded. “Fine by me, San.”
“And your men, Georgio?”
“Blower Yu and Turk Osman. I’m giving you my best, Sal. I’ll have to pull them off somet’ing else, but like you say, if we can pull this one off…”
The bald, ultraviolet-dried elderly man who had said nothing so far allowed his straight-line mouth to twitch into the semblance of a smile that didn’t extend as far as his eyes. He was from the asteroid miner’s union, and crucial to their plans. He was also wary. “We’ll be there, Carranzio-Heiki. We’ll have a ship waiting when they pop out of surf. Your boys’ll have maybe twenty minutes to get control, dump the barge and get us to jump instead. Maybe two hundred years ago, before the League set up their sector system, the dogs used to jump New Sahara - Caladar IV all the time. In all the rocks in the Caldahar System we can disappear for as long as need be.”
Sal flicked a glance to Sam. The Union man had said too much in front of that footman. Well, he was about past being useful anyway.
The spy shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well… I’ve done it. Now, my money, and… and that boy, er, Mr Carranzio, Sir?” He licked his lips again, greed and other unpleasant desires overcoming his fear.
“Sam’ll sort you out.”
A week later they fished his body out of the sewers. His face, teeth and hands had been carefully mutilated. Sometimes the Yak didn’t like their victims being quickly identifiable.
The Emperor sat, fat and impassive, and listened to his willowy, almond-eyed security chief.
Selim Puk smiled cruelly. “They’ve taken it hook, line and sinker, my liege.
“The Yak are implicated beyond doubt?”
“Absolutely. I have names, dates, places. I lost a witness, unfortunately. That fool footman heard too much from Wright…the asteroid miner’s man. But we can do without a footman. One of the others will crack, when they see I know everything.”
“It is one of your better plots, Selim. At one stroke we discredit the League, dispose of Shari and give me reason to crack down on the Yak, hard. They’ve been getting above themselves.”
“And, if all goes according to plan, we have a Stardog of our own, beyond League control.”
“Yes. But that depends on the agents in place. How do you rate this Brettan?”
“Greedy, my Liege. Greedy, aging and impatient.”
“And he is definitely not in League pay?” The fat-folds around the emperor’s eyes crinkled.
“Definitely not. He has a deep grudge, a deep and a real one. If it were not for the League he would be a wealthy man. A very wealthy man. His older sister married a Leaguesman. One of Wienan’s, no less. She had a falling out with them, and tried to run away, with her child, more the fool her.”
“Stupid. They might have let her get away, but not with a half-Wienan child,” said Turabi, with the clinical assessment of a master of dynastic elimination.
Selim Puk snorted. “Jan-Pieter was brutally thorough, as usual. The young Viscount was in the Imperial Space Navy at the time, on a long patrol, which is why he didn’t get taken out too. The family purge was most thorough otherwise, and the purge of their assets left our Viscount literally destitute when he came home. Anyway, I’ve had him sent for. He should be here any minute now.” On cue there was a knock at the heavy door.
“Enter.”
Captain Viscount Martin Brettan’s nerves shrieked as he passed the bodyguards. He hoped it didn’t show. An audience with Selim Puk and the Blob didn’t happen every day, even if he was some sort of distant cousin to the Blob. You could afford to turn into a lard-lump like that if you were the Emperor. If you were just a pretty-boy beefcake like himself on a thin spy’s salary you had to work out in the gym every day to keep being pretty. He knelt. It was not a mistake despite the fact that this was not a formal reception. The Blob liked to be reminded of his power, even now, nearly twenty years after he had seized it. “My Lord Emperor. How may I serve you?”
The Emperor was well enough pleased by the fawning to be gracious. The fat face nearly creased to a smile. Graciousness of course didn’t extend as far as offering the man a seat. “We need your services, Viscount Brettan. We are sure Selim has already briefed you.”
The handsome aristocrat nodded warily. He wondered if he dared question why he had received such rapid promotion in the schemes of the Empire. “Yes Sire. Of course I’m willing, Sire… but why me?”
“A modest man, eh Selim?” said the Emperor.
“It is a useful trait, my Liege. Captain, you’re being used for this because you are an agent in place. Moving new men in would cause suspicion. The majordomo is of course also an agent, but he also spies for the League. He does this with our consent… but it reduces the degree to which he trustable. As for the two bodyguards… Hayley is a good executioner, but he doesn’t have the brains we require for this. Albeer is loyal, but just hasn’t displayed the right attitude for this aspect of security work. Squeamish. He was dumped there, I’m afraid. Anyway, any or all of them may be corrupted by the League. But you’ll have a team among the crew of the barge. Good, safe, clean men. You be able to deal with the Yak easily enough. There are only four of them. I sat in on their planning,” said Selim Puk.
“But don’t fail us, Brettan. If you bring us a Stardog, we’ll make good again all that the League robbed you of… but don’t fail us.” It was said so mildly that if anyone other than the Blob had said it, it wouldn’t have been a threat.
Martin Brettan knew it for what it was. His face paled slightly. “I won’t fail you, my Emperor.”
“Good. You are dismissed, Brettan,” said the Emperor.
The Viscount bowed and turned. As he walked away he heard the Emperor say to the head of security. “Selim, that problem with that son of mine. A possible solution has…” The heavy nail-studded door of the private audience chamber closed behind the Princess’s escort. Rivulets of sweat touched the stiff fabric of his tunic as his tense shoulders began to relax. He walked past the last of the hawk-eyed guards. He’d have given a great deal to have heard which of the Emperor’s sons was in for the chop this time. A lot of people would have given a great deal of money to know who not to position themselves behind. With five of the seven sons still surviving the dynastic battle was hotting up. Martin Brettan suspected Prince Vartan would be next to go. There were rumours about certain expensive and hopelessly addictive drugs drifting around, hooked to that young man’s name.
The Viscount was wrong. A drug problem meant that Vartan could be manipulated, true. But the Emperor was more concerned by a subtle and nearly successful attempt on the life of his own Imperial person. Prince Jarian had to go. Young Jarian was only sixteen, but then, by that age, he, Turabi, had already eliminated his own brother and his father and mother.
Sam Teovan had the meeting and training session with the wine-nosed old toff patsy himself. He didn’t like him. The fellow was too old and too damn soft. But Sam’s instincts held that the old fart wouldn’t chicken out on them. Not while they had all that black on the old boy’s son. Still, the man was a weak link. Sam resolved to put no faith in him. The man’s purpose really had been as a double-check on all the other information. It might be useful to have a man on the inside, yes. But Sam had more trust in professionals like Blower and Turk. They had a good rep, those two. Georgio was really giving the boss his best, to prove his faith.
But the whole thing still felt… bad. And he had no way he could back out.
CHAPTER 6
JOURNEY
Our journeys have many dimensions, physical, mental, spiritual. The physical journey to the expected may lead us to unplanned destinations in the other dimensions. Always be wary about the water in these places.
From a tomb-epitaph in the churchyard of our Lady of Chatterjee, in the grounds of the Thuggee training-madrassa on Arunchal.
It was cold in the rider-compound in the early mornings. Looking up from the raked gravel of the exercise ground you could see the mullioned windows of the League Grand-Dacha. They shared the same outer perimeter wall. There the similarity ended. The ornate Neo-Ottoman design of the Grand-Dacha on Phillipia was used as a model by schools of architecture. The irreverent claimed it to be the finest example of bad taste that money could buy. The rider-compound was a prison. Built of un-plastered cinderblocks the architecture compared well to East-German slave-labor camps. But the architectural students who came to see the Grand-Dacha were quite skilled at ignoring the compound. Besides, compared to the vastness of the Grand-Dacha, it was tiny.
