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Authors: Chris Bunch
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came up.
"Powerful," von Baldur said. "I did not want someone this powerful."
"Who bonged you?" Goodnight asked from the control couch he was sprawled on.
"We�that means Star Risk, not just me�have been contacted by a certain Mr. L'Pellerin, of the DIB, and a certain Fra Diavolo. Both suggesting a meet over dinner."
"I'd suggest," Riss said, "you go call on the secret policeman. Writers can always be put off until tomorrow. Even writers with their own army."
"Only sensible, my dear," von Baldur said. "Only sensible." He tried to hide his worried expression.
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TWELVE � ^ � The name of the restaurant was L'Montagnard. It sat down an alley, and looked to be a fairly small place.
Jasmine King looked at its entrance suspiciously. "What sort of god-awful dining experience am I to expect this time?" she asked Grok.
The alien put his nose in the air and snuffed, a new affectation he was very proud of having learned from humans.
"I'm insulted."
"Who was it who decided it was time for me to learn to appreciate that old Earth delight steak tar-tarater, or whatever it was?"
"It was steak tartar, it was raw, and it was wonderful," Grok said firmly. "And if you did not appreciate raw animal tissue sufficiently, who was it who brought you to a place that served chocolate cake with chocolate syrup with chocolate icing and chocolate liqueur drizzled over it?"
"True," Jasmine said. "Yum. I'm following you."
They went in. The restaurant was tiny, a long box with an open kitchen at the back. A cheery fat man seated them, and his equally jovial and heavy wife brought them each, unordered, a glass of wine.
"I shall take the liberty of ordering," Grok said, "since I ate here three nights ago."
Jasmine inclined her head in agreement, sipped her wine.
Outside the two men who'd been following them conferred briefly, and one took out a com.
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THIRTEEN � ^ � It had taken a bit of work, and some credits changing hands, for Goodnight to find a Jilanis service�if that was what it should have been called. It was in a small warehouse, with no signs outside.
Riss thought it was pretty clear the Jilani were at the least frowned on, if not persecuted�she'd never heard of a religion that didn't cherish the spotlight.
The two Star Risk operatives waited in their lifter until, most unobtrusively, men, women, and children began filtering toward the warehouse.
They looked like typical residents of the working district the warehouse sat in.
Goodnight and Riss joined them. They entered and noticed�Goodnight with interest, Riss with a bit of alarm�the floor of the warehouse was covered with padded exercise mats in front of a few rows of folding chairs.
Goodnight was about to whisper something lascivious about the mats being necessary to keep your knees and elbows from getting chafed, when a lank, middle-aged man with gray hair and a tidy chin beard was at his elbow.
"Welcome, strangers."
"Uh� welcome, yourself," Goodnight said.
"I see you are not one of us, since you appear a bit perplexed."
"We're not," Riss said. "We've heard of your, uh, faith, and were curious."
The man smiled. "I'm Elder Bracken. You were expecting more panoply, perhaps?" His smile grew broader. "Or what? We don't mind, by the way, being referred to as a cult."
"I didn't know what term to use," Riss half apologized, damning herself for blushing.
"Use anything you think appropriate," Bracken said. "Please, take a seat. I'll be available after the lesson to answer any questions you have."
There were about sixty people in the congregation. Bracken led the service, beginning with a prayer that could have been used in almost any church service anywhere. After that came announcements.
Riss almost yawned, then started listening, for those were a bit unusual. A child announced she wished to be
"Powerful," von Baldur said. "I did not want someone this powerful."
"Who bonged you?" Goodnight asked from the control couch he was sprawled on.
"We�that means Star Risk, not just me�have been contacted by a certain Mr. L'Pellerin, of the DIB, and a certain Fra Diavolo. Both suggesting a meet over dinner."
"I'd suggest," Riss said, "you go call on the secret policeman. Writers can always be put off until tomorrow. Even writers with their own army."
"Only sensible, my dear," von Baldur said. "Only sensible." He tried to hide his worried expression.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TWELVE � ^ � The name of the restaurant was L'Montagnard. It sat down an alley, and looked to be a fairly small place.
Jasmine King looked at its entrance suspiciously. "What sort of god-awful dining experience am I to expect this time?" she asked Grok.
The alien put his nose in the air and snuffed, a new affectation he was very proud of having learned from humans.
"I'm insulted."
"Who was it who decided it was time for me to learn to appreciate that old Earth delight steak tar-tarater, or whatever it was?"
"It was steak tartar, it was raw, and it was wonderful," Grok said firmly. "And if you did not appreciate raw animal tissue sufficiently, who was it who brought you to a place that served chocolate cake with chocolate syrup with chocolate icing and chocolate liqueur drizzled over it?"
"True," Jasmine said. "Yum. I'm following you."
They went in. The restaurant was tiny, a long box with an open kitchen at the back. A cheery fat man seated them, and his equally jovial and heavy wife brought them each, unordered, a glass of wine.
"I shall take the liberty of ordering," Grok said, "since I ate here three nights ago."
Jasmine inclined her head in agreement, sipped her wine.
Outside the two men who'd been following them conferred briefly, and one took out a com.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THIRTEEN � ^ � It had taken a bit of work, and some credits changing hands, for Goodnight to find a Jilanis service�if that was what it should have been called. It was in a small warehouse, with no signs outside.
Riss thought it was pretty clear the Jilani were at the least frowned on, if not persecuted�she'd never heard of a religion that didn't cherish the spotlight.
The two Star Risk operatives waited in their lifter until, most unobtrusively, men, women, and children began filtering toward the warehouse.
They looked like typical residents of the working district the warehouse sat in.
Goodnight and Riss joined them. They entered and noticed�Goodnight with interest, Riss with a bit of alarm�the floor of the warehouse was covered with padded exercise mats in front of a few rows of folding chairs.
Goodnight was about to whisper something lascivious about the mats being necessary to keep your knees and elbows from getting chafed, when a lank, middle-aged man with gray hair and a tidy chin beard was at his elbow.
"Welcome, strangers."
"Uh� welcome, yourself," Goodnight said.
"I see you are not one of us, since you appear a bit perplexed."
"We're not," Riss said. "We've heard of your, uh, faith, and were curious."
The man smiled. "I'm Elder Bracken. You were expecting more panoply, perhaps?" His smile grew broader. "Or what? We don't mind, by the way, being referred to as a cult."
"I didn't know what term to use," Riss half apologized, damning herself for blushing.
"Use anything you think appropriate," Bracken said. "Please, take a seat. I'll be available after the lesson to answer any questions you have."
There were about sixty people in the congregation. Bracken led the service, beginning with a prayer that could have been used in almost any church service anywhere. After that came announcements.
Riss almost yawned, then started listening, for those were a bit unusual. A child announced she wished to be
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