The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack (24 page)

“You mean—this is real?” she asked, amazed.

“And I’ll tell you something else, Quiti,” he said. “Off the record, until it’s official. You did a man’s job, no affront, and restored the viability of the whole plan. You’ll be getting a double promotion, and next time there’s a mission like this, you’ll be in command. They already have a code name for it: ‘Soft Like a Woman.’ Others won’t know exactly what that means, which is part of the point. There’s a new respect for your planet spreading through the higher echelons, and for the capacities of women in the service. No one will call you ‘Cutie’ any more.”

She lay back dazedly. “Oh, I think I’ll keep it. I don’t mind it now.”

He stood. “I have other business; got to go. But you know, you are awful cute. I never saw a prettier recovery of a lost mission; it will go down in the textbooks.”

“Oh, I thought you meant—”

He winked. “That too. Now get some sleep.”

“Soft like a woman,” she repeated, liking it. Then she did sleep.

Meier was in his office reviewing terrain of the Alliance’s landing zones on Bethesda’s north continent when Smythe burst in.

“Something’s just come in. It either destroys our theories or will amount to nothing.” The normally calm investigator seemed upset. “The Khalia have agreed to a peace conference.”

“How was it worded?” Meier had his own theories.

“The translation is rough, but basically it says that the house of the Bent Fang will meet with representatives of the Fleet at a neutral location.”

“Has it been arranged?” Meier considered requisitioning a gig and attending himself. He had never seen a Khalian, not even one of the rare prisoners.

Smythe passed him the report. The affair had been arranged on the sector level. Two lines later Meier read that Admiral Esplendador was heading the Fleet delegation. His only impression of the man had come from being subjected to an intensive bout of lobbying designed to get the former hero assigned command on Klaxon. Esplendador hadn’t seemed much of a diplomat then.

The date at the bottom of the report was the worst news of all.

Vacuum
blast
couriers and bureaucracy, the meeting had already started! It would be over long before anyone with any knowledge or authority could arrive from Port.

Idly Admiral Meier wondered if Esplendador had delayed the news to ensure just that.

Then, again, if the theory he and Smythe had arrived at was true, this would come to nothing . . . particularly with Esplendador in charge.

LIZARD O’NEAL LEANED
back on his straw chair, folded his dirty hands across his grubby shirt, and surveyed his empire.

The empire, such as it was, extended for some two hundred feet in all directions from him, as he sat at its very epicenter. To the right were six small huts, each and every one (or so he liked to tell his customers), serviced by a reborn virgin. No one had ever asked exactly what a reborn virgin was, so he hadn’t quite gotten around to defining it, yet. To the left was the bar, a huge tree trunk imported (“at considerable expense”) from the forest some sixty yards away, framed by wanted posters of the most notorious outlaws of the Rim, each of them personally autographed. Behind him was his royal palace, all two rooms of it, kept together by spit and bailing wire and held in place by pile upon pile of unwashed laundry. In front of him was the Royal Spaceport, a burnt and blackened strip of ground barely large enough to hold six two-man ships at a time, and right next to it was the Imperial Fuel Station.

Beyond the perimeter of his empire there were forests and mountains, rivers and streams, and ultimately the enormous ocean that made his world glow like a blue gemstone in the night sky. There were also placid furry aliens who might or might not be intelligent. Word had it that there was even a desert out there, waiting for someone even crazier than him to try crossing it.

O’Neal ran his fingers through his thick, uncombed shock of red hair, stretched, sighed, and finally turned to the carefully groomed man who looked so out of place in these surroundings.

“You’ve got your answer,” he said, flicking a blue and gold insect away from his neck. “What are you waiting for?”

“The answer is unacceptable,” replied Reinhardt.

“So is your proposition.”

“Mr. O’Neal, the Alliance absolutely must have-”

“Look around you,” interrupted O’Neal, “and tell me what you see.”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Reinhardt contemptuously.

“Right,” agreed O’Neal. “No banks, no lawyers, no tax collectors, no police—and no Alliance,” he added pointedly.

“That’s precisely why the Alliance needs this planet,” insisted Reinhardt, wiping a little trickle of sweat from his left cheek.

“Well, this planet doesn’t need the Alliance. We’re two thousand light years from Tau Ceti. We mind our own business, we enjoy ourselves, we get a lot of sun and sex and fresh air, and nobody is bothering us—except for you, of course.”

“The fact that you’re in a totally unpopulated area of the galaxy is precisely why we must have the use of your world for a few weeks.”

“No.”

“I could
order
you to acquiesce to my demands.”

O’Neal shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“This planet is within the Alliance’s’ sphere of influence,” noted Reinhardt.

“This planet declared independence five years ago,” replied O’Neal.

“There is no record of that.”

“Maybe you don’t have a record of it, but we do.” He gestured to the huge cash box behind the bar. “It’s in there somewhere with the receipts.”

“Totally illegal.”

“Fine. Take me to court.”

”In point of fact, we can take you to court over a number of matters, if we so, desire,” said Reinhardt calmly. “Lizard O’Neal,” he quoted, “wanted for gunrunning, smuggling, pandering, swindling, consorting with known—”

“A series of misunderstandings,” replied O’Neal with yet another shrug.

“We can let a court of law decide that.”

“As a matter of fact, you can’t,” replied O’NeaI. “We don’t have any extradition treaties with the Alliance.”

“Then I will speak to the ruler of this world.”

“You’re looking at him,” said O’Neal with a lazy smile. “King Lizard the First.”

“You are an alien here. I am speaking about the lawful leader of the native population.”

“That’s me. We took a vote. I won.”

“Who
took a vote?” demanded Reinhardt.

“The planetary population.”

“How many ballots were cast?”

“Just one,” answered O’Neal. “But it was an absolutely open election. You can hardly blame me for voter apathy.”

“I can see that we’ll have to add enslavement of a sentient race to your list of crimes.”

“It’ll take you five hundred years to find out whether or not they’re sentient,” replied O’Neal. “I thought you needed the world next month.”

“We do—and we will have it, one way or another.”

“What’s so special about this world?” asked O’Neal curiously. “Uranium? Gold? Platinum?”

“This world is valuable to us precisely because it has no value,” responded Reinhardt.

“What have you been drinking?”

“Whatever your barman served me,” was the distasteful reply.

“Well, you can’t be drunk; we water our liquor down too much.” O’Neal paused and stared at Reinhardt from beneath half-lowered lids. “So why is a little dirtball out in
the middle of nowhere so important that the Alliance is making threats to me, a peaceable businessman who never caused any harm to anyone?”

Reinhardt stared silently at him for a moment.

“Well?” persisted O’Neal.

“I was just trying to envision you as a peaceable businessman,” he said. “And believe me, it isn’t easy.”

“Use your imagination,” said O’Neal easily. “And I still want to know: Why do you need my planet?”

“It should be obvious to you.”

“I’m sure it is,” replied O’Neal. “But suppose you tell me why it’s obvious to
you.”

“Have you ever heard of Switzerland?” asked Reinhardt, leaning forward intently.

“Nope.”

“It was a little country, back on Earth, that was never conquered.”

“Tough sons of bitches, huh?” asked O’Neal, without much show of interest.

“Not especially.”

“Well, it’s probably better to be lucky than tough.”

“Switzerland was never conquered because it was far too valuable as a neutral country.” Reinhardt paused. “Warring nations had to have a place where their diplomats could meet, where international banking could be done, where . . .”

“Spare me the details,” said O’Neal. “What you’re trying to say is that you want to set up a meet with the Khalia and that you want to do it on my world.”

“That is correct.”

“Well, why didn’t you just come out and say so in the first place, instead of making all those threats?”

“Then you’ll agree to it?” asked Reinhardt, surprised.

”No—but think of the time we could have saved.”

“O’Neal, I have been assigned to procure the services of this world for a secret meeting with the Khalia. I really can’t return with my mission unfulfilled.”

“And I really can’t agree with my pockets unfulfilled,” replied O’Neal.

“So it comes down to money?”

“Doesn’t it always?”

“Have you no concept of loyalty at all?” demanded Reinhardt. “You have an opportunity to be of inestimable service to your own race!”

“I belong to the race of capitalist beachcombers,” said O’Neal, “to whom I am intensely loyal. As for you and the Khalia, you’re just a bunch of guys with money for beer.”

“All right,” said Reinhardt. “What are your terms?”

O’Neal shrugged. “Make me an offer.”

“The Alliance can spend up to two hundred thousand credits for the use of your planet.”

“Come on,” said O’Neal. “You’ll spend more than that just getting here.”

“Two hundred fifty thousand.”

“Forget it.”

“And a pardon for all previous crimes.”

“I’m never going back. What do I need a pardon for?”

“What
do
you want?” demanded Reinhardt in exasperation.

“Got a pen?”

“I have my pocket computer.”

“All right,” said O’Neal. “First, I want one million credits.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Second, I want the pardon you offered me.”

“I told you, the amount is—”

“Let me finish,” said O’Neal. “Then we can negotiate.” He leaned back comfortably. “Third, I want it—in writing—that the Alliance can’t erect any competitive bars while they’re here. Any soldier who wants a drink has to come to the Devil’s Asshole.”

“The Devil’s Asshole?”

“That’s where we, are.”

“We simply can’t have that name, O’Neal. You will have to change it.”

“I like it.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Who’s making the rules here, anyway?”

“This is to be the site of a diplomatic meeting. We can’t have you calling it the Devil’s Asshole!”

“I’ll think about it,” replied O’Neal. “Fourth, if any special buildings have to be erected for the Khalia, the Alliance has to pay for them.”

“Is that all?” asked Reinhardt dryly.

“Nope. I can’t seem to get vodka out here. I want twenty-four cases of top quality vodka. And finally, I want official recognition as King Lizard I.”

“Surely you’re jesting!”

“Not at all.”

“Your conditions are totally unacceptable.”

“Well, as I said, they’re negotiable. I’ll take sixteen cases of vodka if I have to.”

“You’ll take two hundred thousand credits and nothing else, and be glad we don’t blow your planet right out of orbit.”

“You’ll give me what I asked or I’ll mine every inch of this place.”

“You can’t mine an entire planet,” said Reinhardt confidently.

“Maybe not, but I can make the air and water awfully dirty.”

“We’ll go elsewhere,” threatened Reinhardt.

“Fine. I wish you would.”

“Damn it, O’Neal—we’ve only got a month!”

“So you said. “ O’Neal grinned. “I’ve done a little math, and according to my figures, if you’ve only got a month the Khalia are already on their way.”

“Only in this general direction.”

“And your engineers must be within a day’s flight of here if you want the Khalia sleeping anywhere besides grass huts.” O’Neal took a long sip from his drink. “I’d say this is a seller’s market.”

“I’ll have to contact my superiors and get back to you.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” said O’Neal pleasantly.

Reinhardt stalked off, hoping that O’Neal couldn’t see the trace of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

The Alliance approved O’Neal’s terms within three hours.

* * *

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said the little diplomat. “This won’t do at all, Mr. O’Neal. Not at all.”

“What won’t?” asked O’Neal.

“We can’t have our men sleeping in a . . . a
whorehouse.
It would do terrible things for discipline and morale.”

“As a matter of fact,” contradicted O’Neal, “it would be the best thing in the world for morale. They’d wake up smiling every morning.”

“No, it just won’t do, Mr. O’Neal. I’m afraid your female employees will have to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

The little man stared at him. “That’s hardly
my
problem.”

“They stay right where they are.”

“Then I shall advise the Alliance that you have broken the spirit if not the letter of your agreement, and that payment not be made.”

“Fine,” said O’Neal. “You do that. And while you’re at it, get the hell off my planet.”

“I have every right to be here, Mr. O’Neal.”

“I’m the king, and I said
Scram
!”

“Allow me to refer you Section 19, sub-section 3, paragraph 21 of your signed agreement with the Alliance . . .”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you think it says?”

“It gives me permission to survey the construction sites and—”

“Sites?” repeated O’Neal “You mean there’s more than one?”

“I hope you didn’t think we would permit our troops to sleep in thatched huts, Mr. O’Neal!” said the little diplomat, quite shocked. “And of course, we shall have to erect a dwelling fully commensurate with the needs of the Khalia.”

“What has that got to do with my girls?”

“Really, Mr. O’Neal, I’ve no time for levity. And of course the name of your establishment must be changed.”

“It already has been.”

The little diplomat looked severe. “Satan’s Sphincter has to go. If you won’t change it, one of our people will be happy to come up with a new name.”

* * *

“You’ve knocked down all my trees!” complained O’Neal.

“We can’t have the Khalia thinking we have any men hidden out there,” said the General, who was supervising the defoliation.

“There’s nothing out there! I’ve been here for three years, and I’ve never seen anything but a few birds!”

“You know it and I know it, Mr. O’Neal,” replied the General, “but the Khalia may not believe it, and I won’t have the conference fall apart over a trivial matter of a few trees.”

“Do you know how long those trees have been standing there?” demanded O’Neal.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Centuries!”

“Then they’ll be glad to have a rest, won’t they?”

“You’re desecrating my planet!” complained O’Neal.

“It’s
our
planet for the next few weeks,” replied the General. “And by the way, you’re going to have to come up with a new name for your establishment.”

“I already did.”

“I don’t know who approved of ‘Lucifer’s Rectum’, but I assure you it’s totally unacceptable.”