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  "Maybe he got lost?" the exec ventured, grinning at Chief Riggs.

  "I don't know why he wants the Marines up here too," Perizzites groused, pacing back and forth, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "We're only thirty minutes to jump point. I don't know why he couldn't have called the meeting after the jump. Goddamn, we'll be three months getting to Society 461. Goddamn scientists anyway, bunch of—"

  "Actually, Captain, we're not going to Society 461 after all," a mild voice said from the companionway. "Sorry I'm late, gentlemen," Thom Nast said, stepping onto the bridge. "Ah, Lance Corporal Dean! How's Owen?"

  The three Marines stood dumbfounded, their mouths hanging open.

  "Mr. Nast!" Dean exclaimed. "Um, well, er, O-Owen's a—a—" He struggled to find the right words. "—a man of leisure," he said, blurting out the first thing that came into his mind. "Top Myer's taking care of him while we're..." His voice trailed off and he shrugged, a stupid grin on his face.

  Nast shook hands with the three Marines and turned to Lieutenant Perizzites. "Thom Nast, Captain, Confederation Ministry of Justice."

  It was Perizzites's turn to look astonished. "Ministry of Justice?" he stammered, not understanding. "You—You're not a scientist? This is a s-scientific survey vessel, Mister—Mister—"

  "Nast, Thom Nast, Captain. Assistant Attorney General, Confederation Ministry of Justice. I have the protocol rank of a four-nova admiral." Nast smiled engagingly. "This is not a scientific mission, gentlemen," he continued, turning to the others. "This is a law enforcement operation. We are not headed for Society 461 either. We're going first to Renner's World, where we'll drop off our Marines, and then I'll tell you our ultimate destination." Nast handed Perizzites a crystal. "Change of orders," he said. "They come from the highest authority through the Chief of Naval Operations."

  "Well—Well—" Perizzites checked the time to jump. Too late to make a course change. He turned to his exec. "Have Navigation plot a new course for when we reach our next jump point." He knew enough not to ask any questions of Nast. "Uh, gentlemen, you'd better return to your quarters for the jump in, uh, two-zero minutes."

  "Oh, Captain Perizzites, two more things," Nast said as he turned to leave the bridge. "No liberty for anyone, repeat, anyone, on Renner's World—and move these Marines in with my party. They will have no more contact with your crew while they are on board this vessel."

  "Just as well," Chief Riggs muttered, "they got nearly all the lower ratings' pay."

  Lieutenant Perizzites stared at the orders on his screen. They had been properly authenticated, and sure enough, they came from "on high," straight from the Ministry of War in fact. The orders were full of the usual gibberish until he got to the part where they announced, "Ch sci party will ann final dest upon dep RW." Now that was unusual. Oops, this guy is no scientist, Perizzites reminded himself. But what was this "law enforcement" mission and why did they pick his scow anyway?

  Perizzites was impressed despite himself. He ran a hand nervously over his jaw and briefly considered changing into a clean uniform. Maybe I should shave too, spruce up for this guy, Nast? Nah, he told himself on second thought, who gives a damn?

  There was almost no room for the four men in Nast's tiny stateroom, but Pasquin, Dean, and Claypoole made themselves as comfortable as they could. "You guys sure do get around," Nast said, then laughed. "Your big buddy, Madame Chang-Sturdevant, told me I had to take damned good care of you two on this mission."

  "Wh-What mission is that, sir?" Claypoole asked.

  Nast noticed a strange expression on Pasquin's face. "Corporal?" he nodded at Pasquin to speak.

  "Sir, the president of the Confederation of Worlds? Does she really know these guys?"

  "Only by reputation," Nast smiled. "She was quite grateful for the way these two saved the life of her plenipotentiary, Madame Wellington-Humphreys, during the Diamundian operation. You didn't hear about that?"

  Pasquin gave an embarrassed smile. "Endlessly, sir, endlessly. Well, I guess I've got to apologize, guys. I always thought you exaggerated that story a bit."

  "No," Claypoole blurted out. "Actually, we played it down." They all laughed.

  "Oh, I almost forgot." Nast snapped his fingers. "Chief Long—remember him?—is now the Confederation Attorney General. He sends his regards too."

  "The Attorney General? Come on, sir," Pasquin begged, "this is like one of those old jokes, my fire teammates know the Attorney General?" He looked disbelievingly at Nast and shook his head.

  "Since when has the chief been Attorney General?" Dean asked.

  Nast laughed, then continued to Pasquin, "I admit, Corporal, it's one hell of a coincidence. They worked for Long when he was advising the Wanderjahrian Stadtpolizei. The Commonwealth called him back from retirement for that one, and then, after the clean-up following the Avionian business, the president appointed him AG."

  "Well, I'll be constipated for life!" Pasquin exclaimed.

  "All right, men," Nast continued, "back to business. What I am going to tell you now is known only to the president, the attorney general, and me. Neither the minister of war nor the chief of naval operations or anyone on their respective staffs knows our mission; my own men do not yet know where we're headed. They were recruited from all over the Confederation for a ‘special mission’ and that's all they know about it for now. But I'm going to tell you three."

  The three leaned forward expectantly. "Any of you ever watch Barkspiel?" Nast asked suddenly.

  The question caught them by surprise. "Yessir," Claypoole responded. "That's the stupid game show where they give away big prizes for answering dumb questions. Sure, everyone watches it sometimes."

  "Yeah, Claypoole was on it once but he missed all the questions," Dean said.

  "Boy, you wouldn't even be alive now if I hadn't killed the shit-eating dogs on Elneal," Claypoole said.

  "Boot, those dogs wouldn't even give a coprolite like you a sniff," Dean responded.

  "Dude, you wouldn't—"

  "Belay that. Listen to the man," Pasquin interjected.

  "So we all have watched the program," Nast continued. "And what's the biggest prize of all?"

  "An all-expense-paid trip to Havanagas!" Claypoole replied.

  "You got it. Ever want to go there yourself?" Nast looked expectantly at the Marines. They in turn looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders.

  "I guess so, sir. But hell, none of us'll ever get on Barkspiel to begin with, much less have enough money to afford to get to Havanagas on our own."

  "Yeah, but I sure would like a chance at one of the fancy bordellos they have out there. I have always wanted to experience that scenario where they lower a girl in a wicker basket over you and she—"

  "Cut it out, Claypoole!"

  "It's called the ‘Chinese basket’—"

  "Well, you three are going to Havanagas," Nast announced. That stopped Claypoole in mid-sentence, which was good because both Pasquin and Dean were preparing to thump him. "You three are going there to do something for the Ministry of Justice. I hand picked you for the mission. It'll be very dangerous, but there is no backing out; we're committed. I am sincerely sorry you weren't given a chance to volunteer, but I need you three and you are going, just as you've done on plenty of wartime missions since you've been in the Corps. Only this time you're working for me."

  "Dangerous?" Dean asked. "Uh, how dangerous, sir?"

  "Very. I'll explain everything later."

  The three were silent as they considered what Nast had just told them.

  "How bad can things be on a place like Havanagas?" Claypoole exclaimed at last. "Besides, if I can get into one of those fancy cathouses, that's a hell of a lot better than fighting—" He almost said "skinks!"

  Chapter Ten

  Pasquin rubbed his left wrist gently where the ID bracelet had been for ten years, since he was inducted into the Confederation Marine Corps. It wasn't that his wrist felt any different. But now that the bracelet was gone he ju
st felt different. His entire military personnel, finance, and medical files had been encoded into that bracelet, and it had been updated every time he went on deployment, had a personnel action, got paid, went on sick call, and so on. After ten years the bracelet had become a part of him.

  "Dean, you're next," Nast said. Dean stepped up to the table where Nast had set up the ID fitting device.

  "Gee, Mr. Nast, I thought only the induction centers were authorized to use these things," Dean said as he stuck his left wrist into the ring on the top of the machine.

  Nast pressed a green button on the console and instantly the bracelet snapped off Dean's wrist. Nast dropped the bracelet into a pouch. "Right," he said, gesturing for Claypoole to step up to the device. "Major military hospitals have them too. Your Commandant himself arranged the loan of this device for my exclusive one time use. Claypoole?" Claypoole stepped up and stuck his wrist into the fitter. "Gentlemen, for the duration of this mission you are now officially discharged from the Confederation Marine Corps. Your bracelets will be refitted when this job is over. Your record will show an uneventful tour of duty on the Wanganui as ‘Marine Security.’ New policy, you know? Security against pirates and whatever?" Nast paused. "There will be no record of what you are going to do for me, understand?"

  The three Marines nodded. But, since the orders to join Nast had come from the highest level, they waited silently for the other shoe to drop.

  Nast handed each man a crystal. "Pop these into your readers when you get back to your corner. They contain a slightly revised version of your service records. Dean, Claypoole, we had to give you somewhat altered dates of service and so on to get the three of you discharged honorably at about the same time. Read these records, memorize everything that is new. You probably will not be questioned too closely, but if you are, you must be consistent." He handed them each a small packet. "Inside are your discharge certificates, travel orders, tickets, everything you'll need for a week on Havanagas."

  Claypoole glanced inside his packet and gave a low whistle. He took out a wad of bills and held them up for the others to see. Each packet contained a similar amount of cash and travelers checks. Nast laughed. "Look in your finance records, fellas. You all put the maximum into Soldiers' and Sailors' Deposits. You were able to save more than enough to pay for a trip to Havanagas with something left over. Oh, and when this mission is over and you are back in the Corps, you will have that money in those accounts. Least I could do for you."

  "Thank you, sir," Pasquin said. "I'm already beginning to like this assignment." He grinned at the others as he riffled the wad of money.

  Nast held up a cautioning hand. "Don't be too sure, Raoul. All right, for now go back to your areas, put up your screens, and study your new service records. I'll be asking you questions about them the rest of this voyage until you get to the point where you really believe what's in there. We'll get together again after chow and I'll start your briefing on the mission. And Corporal Pasquin?"

  "Yessir?"

  "Corporal, don't use any of that Havanagas money if you gamble with my men on this voyage."

  Back in their corner of the compartment, set aside for them by Nast, the trio viewed their altered service records on the readers they'd been provided. "Jezu," Claypoole exclaimed, "I've been with 34th FIST eighteen months longer than I thought."

  Dean laughed. "No, you just went on an unusually long drunk and don't remember those eighteen months. You're lucky, Rock, I've got four freaking years of stuff to member." Nast had to invent four years of service for Dean in order to bring him up to the end of a normal enlistment.

  "Who'd ever notice anyway? Looks like we're all assigned to 34th FIST for life," Claypoole answered, a sour expression on his face.

  "I got it from Sergeant Souavi in Supply that the brigadier went back to Earth just to check up on that," Pasquin said. "But you guys should be able to figure out why they're keeping us together." He made an expression like a skink and pretended to be spraying them with an acid gun. They grimaced and nodded. Cautiously, Dean activated a one-way window in the privacy screen that shielded them in their corner and looked out at Nast's men, sixty or so husky, mean-looking individuals in plain gray jumpsuits, lolling about in the open bay, smoking, reading, cleaning weapons and equipment. A group of four was playing a quiet game of poker in one corner.

  "Okay, okay, guys, come on now. We gotta get this crap memorized. Dean, what's your base pay entry date and when did you get to Boot Camp?"

  Nast had added four years to Dean's life to bring him up to the end of a normal enlistment. He had him born in 2423 instead of 2427. The details of the first half of his cover story were not hard to memorize, nondescript assignments in various backwaters. Wisely, Nast had arranged for the other two to share some parts of those assignments, which dove-tailed nicely with Pasquin's actual experience, so he could help fill in some of the details for Dean and Claypoole. In reality Dean was halfway through his eight-year enlistment. That came as somewhat of a surprise because until then Dean had hardly given a thought to what he would do when this enlistment was finally up. Other Marines he knew kept short-timer's calendars, marking off the passage of every day until their discharge. But for Dean it made no sense to volunteer for the Corps and then anxiously count the days until his enlistment was up. That would have been an embarrassment; Joseph Finucane Dean had found himself a home in the Marine Corps.

  After an hour Pasquin sighed theatrically and said, "If anyone questions us, you guys let me do the talking. Buddha's blue balls, you dildos couldn't remember your numbers if you had them tattooed on your foreheads." He deactivated the curtain. As soon as it went down, a large man with prematurely gray hair approached them.

  "My name is Welbourne Brock," he said, sticking out his hand and shaking with the three Marines. To that point the trio had only nodded occasionally at Nast's men, not sure how much contact they were allowed with them. "Want to join us at poker? My partner," he nodded toward where the game had stalled, "is gonna get some shut-eye. Six hands should be interesting."

  Pasquin remembered that Nast had told him not to use the Havanagas money if he played cards, so that must mean if he used his own money it'd be okay. "Why not?" he asked the others, and they nodded eagerly. Introductions were made all around as they took their seats. "Are you guys from the Bureau of Investigation, or whatever it's called?" Pasquin asked.

  "Nah," Brock answered. "Mr. Nast recruited us from all over the Confederation. Nast personally interceded with our departments to spring each of us for this mission. Most of us have seen service in the army or the Marines. Now we're just beat cops with training in special weapons and tactics. I'm from the Fairfax County, Virginia, PD, for instance."

  "Hey!" Dean exclaimed. "We were on a troop ship named Fairfax County! Remember, guys? Whatever happened that they named a starship after the place where you live, I wonder?"

  Brock shrugged. "Not much ever happened there. Oh, back during the First American Civil War there was some activity. That's where Mosby, the Confederate Ranger, pulled off one of his most famous and daring raids. Captured a Union general right in town and got clean away." The Marines looked at him blankly. "Never heard of that, huh?" Brock shrugged. "I'm a First American Civil War buff, you know? I have one of those detector machines that gives you a three-dimensional image of what's buried in the ground? In my off-duty time I go out and dig up relics. You ought to see my collection of bullets and buckles and buttons, hundreds of years old..." He shrugged again, seeing that his guests apparently were not interested in his hobby. "Well, we don't even know yet what we're supposed to do or where," he continued, bringing himself back to the present. "All we know is that it's absolutely top secret and after we leave Renner's World, Nast is going to brief us. How 'bout you Marines? You're going under deep cover, aren't you?" Brock said, more a statement than a question. They did not answer. "Been there, done that." Brock sighed. "This whole operation, all the secrecy, breathes of a really important undercover job." />
  "That's what it is," Nast said, laying a hand on Brock's shoulder. He had come up on them without being noticed. "Don't take these lads for too much, Welbourne," he went on. "Pasquin, don't forget, first thing after chow." He laughed at that. Their compartment was so small a man could throw a spitball from one bulkhead to the other.

  "How'd he sneak up on us like that?" one of the officers asked after Nast had returned to his corner.

  "Well, I guess that's one reason he's still alive," Pasquin said. Brock, realizing the corporal knew more about Nast than he was letting on, looked up at him sharply. "Deal 'em!" Pasquin shouted, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

  He lost.

  "All these guys here"—Nast indicated the other men in the crowded compartment outside his privacy screen—"I recruited because I can't trust anyone in the Ministry of Justice. It's been penetrated by the Havanagas mob." He told them briefly about the attempted assassination of him and Long. "They know something is up." He told them about the agents he'd lost on Havanagas. "I have two still there. One is your contact. The other," he smiled, "is my ace in the hole, and nobody knows the person's identity but me. If things go according to plan, you never will either."

  "All right, in brief, here's the situation on Havanagas. Some years ago two of the biggest crime families in the Confederation pooled their resources and literally took over the planet they now call Havanagas. Those were the Draya and Ferris families. They did it by degrees, moving in slowly, buying up and developing real estate, buying local officials. Before the original inhabitants were aware of it, the families owned everything. Many of the people who live there now are employees of these two families, as are the descendants of the original settlers, and for the most part their businesses are legitimate. But Havanagas is merely a secure base these families use to run their enterprises throughout Human Space. They are into everything and they are everywhere. Oh, there's been resistance to the takeover, but the mob rules by crushing opposition ruthlessly. Still, there's a tiny resistance movement on Havanagas, but I'm not into politics and the resistance won't count in any of this."