Jack Chalker - Cerberus - A Wolf in the Fold

I smiled and nodded. I was beginning to like Dylan Kohl quite a bit. Although I didn’t share her love for the sea, in general attitudes her mind paralleled my own.

“This is your boat, I take it?”

She nodded “Every rivet and plate. Once I was out of the House I was determined to make myself a Class I secure, and to do it with boat work. I’d go out with ’em on my own from time to time, filling in where they needed help while doing my dock cleanup job. When openings came along, I got signed on as crew. There are usually openings in this business, but you gotta be crazy to be in it to begin with. On a world where everybody’s trying to live forever I love a job where you get to be captain by surviving long enough. Eventually you either have your own boat or get swallowed whole or in little pieces. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You’re the captain, then?”

She nodded. “Shorter time than most, I’m told. Four years. I’m the sole survivor of her original crew of six. They were a pretty sloppy bunch, though—it’s why I picked ’em.”

Here was one tough woman, I told myself. And, I guess, you had to be in this kind of business. As she said, most Cerberans tried as hard as they could to stay away from any sort of danger, with death feared far more than any place where people died naturally and normally. But in her business you constantly courted danger. It was often fatal business.

“Ever been on a bork hunt?” she asked.

I shook my head slowly from side to side. “No, never really had the inclination after seeing the pictures.”

“Aw, there’s nothing like it,” she enthused. “Going in and out against the thing at thirty to forty knots, your skill, knowledge, and reflexes against the monster’s. You don’t feel bad about killing them, either—they’re so nasty and good-for-nothing. And you’re saving the lives and livelihood of the salts who work the deeps. You feel good about it—and I am good at it. In seven months now as cap I haven’t lost a crew member. Why, just the other day we were down off Laroo’s Island and we—”

“What!” I exclaimed, almost rising to my feet “ Where?”

She stopped and appeared slightly annoyed at being interrupted. “Why, Laroo’s Island. It’s a little out of my territory, about a hundred and forty kilometers southeast of here, but we got to chasing a big one. A real challenge. You get like that.”

“You mean Wagant Laroo?”

“There’s two?”

Suddenly I was very interested in bork hunting.

Carefully, though, I steered the conversation away from Laroo and back into her tales of the hunt, which she obviously enjoyed repeating to a new audience. I could see Sanda with stars in her eyes at hearing all this. Even if she didn’t feel like hunting borks, Dylan Kohl was the embodiment of her ideal. The hero-worship went really deep.

Inwardly, though, I felt some excitement and mentally checked my programmed map of Cerberus—nothing marked “Laroo’s Island” on it. Taking a look to the southeast of Akeba, I detected only a couple of possibilities, isolated groves of great trees separated from the main body by perhaps thirty or more kilometers.

I began to see an unseen overhand in my current position and location. The Warden worlds weren’t as free of some Confederacy machinations as they liked to think.

I saw more of Dylan after that, generally but not always accompanied by Sanda, and eventually eked out more information on Laroo’s Island. The Lord of Cerberus was a secretive man, one who enjoyed power but not the celebrity that usually went with it. The island was neither the headquarters of the government nor his official residence, but he was there as often as possible.

The place was reputed to be truly grand, the ultimate in resorts. It was also constantly patrolled by air and ship, approaches monitored by just about every known surveillance system. If somehow you beat it, you then had to pass a brain scan to keep from getting creamed automatically. It was in fact as nearly impregnable a fortress as the Lord of the Diamond, Boss of all Bosses, Chairman of the Council of Syndicates, could design.

Like all absolute dictators, Wagant Laroo feared assassination the most—and more than any others, since that was the only way of getting rid of him or allowing his syndicate chiefs to move up to the top themselves. He himself had gotten the job by judicious and legally untraceable eliminations.

Well, I didn’t want to wait twenty or thirty years to move up the ladder. Not only did I not have that much patience, but there was more of a chance that something would go wrong in such a slow rise than by the more direct fbute. But the challenge was becoming irresistible on its own merits. The little-seen political boss in his impregnable fortress! Just perfect.

All the elements were now in place for a break when it presented itself, and it did so a bit sooner than expected, judging by the worried expression on Turgan Sugal’s face. Sugal was the Tooker plant manager, a pretty good one who took an extraordinary interest in every facet of the business. Even those of us on the lowest end of the seniority scale knew him, for he was always about, checking on us, making suggestions, socializing, playing on all the company teams. He was, in fact, a very popular boss, and highly accessible. He’d been around a while, too. Although his current body was barely thirty, he was said to be almost a hundred years old.

He looked the hundred, though, when he dropped down to my department to tell me he wouldn’t be able to play in the company cordball game that evening. I was captain of the team.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him, genuinely concerned. “You look like a man about to have his head chopped off.”

“Not quite that bad,” he responded glumly, “but bad I enough. We just got the next quarter’s production quota and allocations from the syndicate. They’re sky-high. At the same time they’re yanking several key people from me for some big project upstairs. Khamgirt’s been out to get me for years, and he’s dropped the whole load on my shoulders. I don’t see how we can meet the quotas with a reduced force, and it’s my neck if we don’t.”

“Can’t you lay off some of the stuff to the other plants?” I asked. “Or get some help from them on personnel, anyway?”

He shook his head. “Normally, yeah, but Khamgirt really means business this time and he’s refused. He’s never liked my way of doing business, anyway, and canning me has always been a big goal.” He paused and chuckled. “And you thought when you were the boss you didn’t have to worry about this kind of shit any more, didn’t you?”

I returned the chuckle. “No, I know the score very well. Remember, I had a long life and job before I ever got to this planet.”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s right—you’re from Outside. I keep forgetting. Maybe that’s why you’re easier to talk to, huh?”

“A damn sight cheaper than a psych, anyway,” I joked, but my mind was already working. Here it was, I could feel it. Here was the break, the start in the chain that would eventually lead me to Wagant Laroo.

“Tell me, Mr. Sugal,” I said slowly, choosing my pace with care, “how would things go next quarter if President Khamgirt wasn’t president any more?”

He paused and looked at me quizzically. “What are you suggesting? That I kill him? That’s damned hard and you know it.”

That statement gave me an inward chuckle, since Khamgirt was a little enough fish that I could probably have taken him out effortlessly. But I hardly wanted to betray myself as a pro in that area. Not yet. Too many other nervous bosses would see me as a threat.

“Uh-uh,” I answered him. “I’m talking about getting him canned.”