Star Risk, LTD.: Book One of the Star Risk Series

by Chris Bunch

  SIX

  Former Alliance Army Captain Chas Goodnight slid easily from his hiding place, stretched, looked around the museum.

  He could piss better security than it had, he thought.

  Goodnight was tall, almost two hundred centimeters, slender. He had sandy hair, a square jaw, an honest face, and an easy smile. One of his lawyers had, fairly correctly, said that Goodnight was a textbook example of a sociopath.

  He wore expensive civilian clothing that just happened to be dark hued, shoes that just happened to have soft soles.

  Nobody’d seen him, just at closing, duck into the convenient exhibit of a mock spaceship lock, past the half a dozen bewildered-looking men, women, and children, wearing tattered shipsuits. The exhibit was labeled MAN’S FIRST ARRIVAL ON TORMAL.

  Since the colonists weren’t crouched behind crew-served weapons, or waving hand-helds, he figured it was a phony.

  Anyone this naïve … or innocent … didn’t deserve to have that lovely case marked OUR FIRST FAMILY’S GEMS.

  Especially since the jewels appeared to be most real.

  Nobody did that.

  Not anymore.

  You sent your crown jewels to Earth or another techno world, had copies made, and stuck the originals in a vault somewhere.

  Or, if you thought like Goodnight, you quietly sold them to Tiffany’s and pocketed the profits.

  It was quiet, dark, and deserted.

  And time to go to work.

  Goodnight pressed a slight bulge at the angle of his right jaw, and transitioned.

  His reflex time went up by three hundred percent, his eyesight expanded into the infrared, his hearing became more sensitive than any feline’s, and the radar antenna implanted behind the skin of his forehead came alive.

  He scanned the big exhibit hall.

  Nothing and no one.

  Good. He turned his sensors off.

  He had about another nineteen minutes left on his battery charge.

  Goodnight shouldered a small daypack, moved forward, walking toe-and-heel, as he’d been taught, and practiced on a hundred covert missions for the Alliance before he “woke up” — his phrase — about who was the patsy and who was making the profit on his oh-so-elaborate and painful surgery, the so-called “besterization.”

  After that realization, he’d had a wonderful two years as a cat burglar, until he got caught. He’d been stealing an Alliance ambassador’s jewel chest, while she and her husband oversaw a grand masked ball downstairs in the mansion, and two thugs with badges came out of nowhere.

  At the court-martial, his defense counsel, who he thought was lovely, even if she wouldn’t bed him, but was also slightly thicker than dirt, asked him, “How could you?”

  “She had the best jewels on the post,” he answered reasonably.

  “But … an ambassador’s wife!”

  “She … or maybe her husband … could afford it,” he pointed out. “Besides, she was probably insured.”

  The woman looked sadly at the man. Just under two meters, sandy hair, brown eyes, an easy smile. She thought him as good looking as any livee star.

  But hopeless. Beyond morality.

  She accused him of that, and he got indignant, saying he’d never killed anybody while stealing, at least not yet, and the only people he had killed were at Alliance orders.

  That didn’t seem to improve her attitude, or the quality of her defense.

  She argued that Goodnight had a perfect combat record. Combat, and in other classified areas the court-martial board refused to hear in an open courtroom.

  It didn’t matter.

  Goodnight was given the choice, after the guilty verdict: Ten years on a penal planet, which meant no survival, especially since he doubted they’d let him take any spare bester charges.

  Or …

  Or cooperate.

  Goodnight sang like an Earth nightingale, giving away his fences, where he’d stashed the money he’d made, and what his future scores were to be.

  He didn’t reveal his accomplices, because he never had any, always having known, since the crèche, when it was him and his brother against the universe, a man travels quicker when he picks his own company.

  Besides, he was never sure what the word “friendship” meant to other people. It meant one thing to him, the same to his little brother, Reg, but who knew what definitions others used? He’d had a pretty good idea what that meant to the others in his Special Operations Detachment, which is why he’d never considered stealing anything from them.

  But outsiders?

  He chose not to find out the hard way if they could be trusted.

  They gave him two years in a planetary prison.

  He was out and gone in a month, went to ground, then made two big scores which covered his new ID and passage offplanet in two more.

  Goodnight began to enjoy himself then, moving from world to world, system to system, seldom hitting more than once on a planet, well on his way before anyone thought to raise the hue and cry.

  He was generally very careful to investigate a target world’s laws, making sure none of them had barbaric penalties for a simple, harmless thief, merely making his way through a hostile universe.

  And now he was on Tormal, making as big a score, perhaps bigger, if his handy-dandy pocket analyzer had told the truth about those jewels, than he’d ever made before.

  This was necessarily to be a fast in-and-out. He’d heard of these jewels and done his research on another world. He arrived on Tormal as a tourist, cased the museum on his second day, and this was his third. On the morrow, he’d be gone. That was the safest way to operate on a sparsely settled world, where strangers were always noted.

  Perhaps he ought to, after he cashed in the geetus, find some nice tropical world, somewhere like Trimalchio IV, which he’d seen on the vids, but never visited, lay back for a while, relax, and enjoy his million-plus hidden in an impenetrable bank account on a world he didn’t even name in his thoughts.

  Perhaps.

  Maybe after one or two more jobs.

  In the meantime … he slithered on, never missing a step, or making a sound.

  Twice more he checked his radar, his IR.

  Slick and clean.

  He came to the huge doors that opened into the PLANETARY TREASURES room, went past them, to the small door inconspicuously labeled STAFF.

  The big doors, and this small one, were alarmed.

  It took only a few seconds for him to wire around the sensors on the staff door, so that he could have blown it open and nothing would have gonged.

  Goodnight was about to pick the lock, when he decided to make another check.

  He felt prickly, as if he was being watched. That was one of his own senses, field trained, not one provided by Alliance neurosurgeons.

  Nothing.

  He took out a springload and a small pick, bent over the lock, then caught himself.

  Cute.

  Most cute.

  The lock had a built-in alarm, one which an official key’s tiny transmitter would keep from setting off.

  Goodnight opened his belt pouch, brought out a small tube, a bit fatter and longer than a pen. He turned it on, held its end against the keyhole, watched its light blink green, green, then flash red. The light held red, then went green. The “pen” had found the alarm’s frequency and blanked it.

  Picking the lock itself was very easy.

  Goodnight opened the door, but didn’t enter the room, lit only with two lights at either end.

  He’d seen the floor-alarm pickups during the day, sneered at them. He didn’t plan on getting to the jewels by walking.

  Goodnight touched his jaw switch, transitioned, checked the room. Nothing.

  He braced, jumped for a long display case three meters away.

  He cat-walked along its edge, feeling the metal bend under his weight, recover.

  Another leap, another case.

  Five meters out from the wall was his target case.

>   Goodnight wasn’t looking at it, but at a very solid light fixture overhead.

  He took a roll of very light climbing rope from his pack. Its end was stickied, for three meters, and with a light weight.

  He whirled it slowly, then faster, then cast it upward. It coiled around the fixture, almost fell free, his heart almost stopping, then wrapped tightly around the fixture.

  He tugged, and the fixture held firm.

  Goodnight reached up as high as he could, moving quickly, feeling his battery charge running, and swung out, kicking hard, into emptiness, then swinging back high, and the case was under him, almost at the apex. He let the rope slide through his fingers, landed a little harder than he would have wanted on the case.

  But the heavy plas didn’t break, and he was crouched atop the case. He took a tiny flash from a pocket, and shone down.

  The one worry he’d had — that they moved the jewels into a vault at night — vanished.

  They gleamed up at him, a friendly gleam, wanting to be in his possession, luring him.

  Chas Goodnight grinned happily, put away the flash, and took out a small laser cutter, and made his first cut, along the far side of the case top.

  He never heard the panel slide open just below the ceiling. The inefficiently human guard, one of four covering the jewels, guards changed every hour on the hour, leaned out, aimed, and fired a tranquilizer dart into Chas Goodnight’s side.

  He thudded to the floor, and then the floor alarms went off and lights flared.

  SEVEN

  M’chel Riss was getting tired of solitaire when her intercom buzzed.

  “Yes?” she said in her most cultivated executive manner, although it was probably just Jasmine saying she was calling down the lunch order to the sandwich shop in the basement.

  “Work,” King’s lovely whisper came.

  Without waiting for more details, M’chel boiled out of her office. Her other two partners were moving very fast in the same direction.

  Their suite was now decorated in the currently popular eclectic style, with old-time prints interspersed with moving wall sculptures, the furniture made of steel, wood, and leather padding.

  But Star Risk still didn’t have a job.

  Unless …

  “You got?” Riss asked, as she came into the reception area, where Jasmine sat behind three computer screens, a fourth coming to life.

  “I hope,” Baldur said sedately, “something that will finally justify our faiths in ourselves.”

  “Maybe,” Jasmine said.

  “When you’re out almost half a million credits,” Grok growled, “even ‘maybe’ sounds pretty good. Give, woman.”

  “Perhaps none of you have heard of Transkootenay Mining?” Jasmine said. “A second-tier mineral exploitation company, stocks closely held. It’s not as big as, say Trayem Mining, but it’s hardly in danger of going bankrupt.

  “Transkootenay is known as a company that moves very fast. It also hires ambitious young women and men, pays them very well, and promotes them quickly. The other side is that they are very reluctant to forgive a mistake, and so their various departments at times resemble warring kingdoms.

  “Transkootenay specializes in being first to open a previously unworked area, which it’s been quite successful at.

  “Recently … about three E-years ago … it began exploration in the Foley System.”

  “Which is where?” M’chel asked. Jasmine spun a screen around. Riss studied it.

  “I think I know where it might be. Nowhere close to us.”

  “Nowhere close,” Jasmine agreed. “There are six worlds, three habitable. One, Welf, is barely habitable, close to the sun. The second, Glace, fairly earthlike, has the most people, only about a hundred million. The next world out, fairly desertlike Mfir, is where Transkootenay has its headquarters, in the charmingly named city of Sheol.

  “The problem the system has is being fairly rich in resources, but without the capital to exploit them, and without a serious population base for miners and support personnel.

  “One of these resources is two exploded planets, forming an extensive asteroid belt.

  “Which is where Transkootenay came in, licensing the rights to exploit the asteroids from the System Government.

  “Transkootenay was doing fine until about a year ago.”

  “Go back one,” Grok said. “Two exploded planets? That’s unusual.”

  “Theories vary as to what happened,” Jasmine said. “From encounters with a massive meteor shower to unknown causes to the Ancients.”

  “Pfoh,” Baldur sneered. “There are … were … no Ancients.”

  “My system’s legends say otherwise,” Grok said calmly. “Far before Man expanded into the universe, far before even we were capable of interplanetary travel. Some suggest the old tale of the Firebringers is actually a First Encounter by these beings.

  “Besides, how do you account for so many cultures having tales of these Ancients?”

  “With never a description,” Baldur said. “A lot of worlds also think there’s a god, so what of that?”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” M’chel said. Jasmine nodded her thanks.

  “As I was saying,” King said, “Transkootenay has pulled gold, platinum, and fissionable ores out. These ores are the first and biggest profit maker. Recently, diamonds have been discovered, which sparked a secondary minor rush into the system.

  “Transkootenay works the system in the usual fashion — they hire contract miners, provide bases with suitably priced supplies and recreational facilities, and processing facilities, and pay royalties four times a year to Foley’s SysGov.

  “About an Earth-year past, they started having trouble with robberies. Mining ships were seized, looted, and about twenty miners, who evidently objected to the process, were murdered.

  “The situation escalated recently. One of their robot processing plants was blown up, and three of their security ships have been ambushed. No survivors.”

  “Py-rates,” Friedrich said sarcastically. “With wooden legs, parrots, and big, sharp prybars, which they wield as they sing pirate songs.”

  “Pirates cannot exist in today’s economic conditions,” Grok said.

  “We could debate that,” Baldur said. “Go on, Jasmine. Who’s doing the dirty work?”

  “That’s the unusual thing,” King said. “No clues, no drunken boasting, none of the reported items have shown up anywhere.

  “And none of the various attempts by Transkootenay Security have found anything, although their files suggest an entire navy could be easily hidden among the asteroids.”

  “So where might we come in?” Baldur asked.

  “Transkootenay has always kept its problems inhouse,” King went on. “But this new situation has them baffled.

  “Also, their executive in the Foley System is very much on the spot. He must either solve the problem, or else SysGov will cancel the mining agreement, forcing Transkootenay to withdraw. That, of course, would mean the end of that system exec’s career.

  “So they’re looking for an outside service to take over, provide security and find out where these raiders are, how many of them there are, and take appropriate measures.”

  “They haven’t gone to the military?” Grok asked.

  “They did. The Alliance sent a destroyer squadron through on a one-week sweep, found nothing.”

  “Typical,” Riss murmured.

  “So now Transkootenay is looking for a savior,” Baldur said, rubbing his hands together and smiling a rather capitalistic smile.

  “Indeed,” Jasmine said. “In fact, they’ve asked Cerberus Systems to put together a proposal. A study team has been established, and is evaluating the situation.”

  “Shit,” Riss said. “That keeps us right on out.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jasmine said. “At least, not if there’s an appropriately bold response, made immediately.”

  “What?” Riss said. “We’re supposed to come up wit
h a quicker, tricker way to go than Cerberus has come up with?”

  “Oh no,” Jasmine said. “Cerberus does incredible presentations. Not to mention that if one of us went to the Foley System, and word got out why we were there, it isn’t inconceivable harm could come.”

  “But you have an idea,” Riss persisted.

  “No,” Jasmine corrected. “I have more interesting facts.

  “The head of Transkootenay Mining’s division in the Foley System, in Mfir’s Sheol, is a Reg Goodnight. A very well-respected, high-ranking executive. Admired for his youth and ability, if treated a bit warily for his, shall we say, tactical abilities in the field of corporate infighting. Also, as I said before, with his career very much on the line.”

  “So?” Baldur asked.

  “Mr. Goodnight has an older brother, a certain Chas Goodnight,” King went on. “Formerly a member of the Alliance Army, ranking Captain, assigned to a Special Operations Detachment.”

  “A bester?” Baldur asked.

  “Yes.” King said.

  Grok looked puzzled, and Baldur explained the nature of these surgically modified commandos.

  “Interesting,” the being murmured. “A formidable operative.”

  “There is, of course,” Baldur said, “a limitation.”

  “Is there not always?” Grok asked.

  “The bester operates not just on his natural energy, but on a tiny battery that is hidden under his coccyx … base of his spine. He has from twenty to thirty minutes before the battery runs dry. But he cannot just slide in a new battery,” Baldur said, “since he will have burned up his reserves. He needs to refuel, which means consume calories like he is a raging fire. Once fed, and rested, he can replace the battery, and go again. He can maintain this cycle for no longer than three, perhaps four days, then needs an extended rest.

  “I am sorry, Jasmine, to have interrupted. Go on with your briefing.”

  “The two were orphans, I’ve learned. Grew up in a crèche. The older brother, Reg’s idol, went into the military, used his money to pay for his brother’s education, which was of the best, and hence expensive,” King said.