by Chris Bunch
“What’s to worry?” Goodnight asked. “Jasmine’s in place, the transports are here, Riss is ready to pebble and squeak, and we’ve even got our backdoor men standing by. All we need is a little gold and such, which is inbound.”
“I worry,” von Baldur said, closing the faceplate on his suit. “Time to dump air. They are inbound.”
“You worry,” Goodnight said cheerily, “because everything’s going too smoothly. Can’t you believe in good fortune for once?”
Von Baldur must have had an exterior mike on, for his voice boomed back. “No. I did once…. And look where I am now.”
Goodnight was about to reply when four destroyers flashed overhead, followed by a trio of heavy cruisers.
“And here’s our clients,” he said, sealing his own suit. “Trusting bastards that they are.”
He bowed to Riss, who turned to the four dozen men and women standing in a ragged formation.
“All right, crew,” she ordered. “Time to go breathe vacuum and dot and carry.”
“And for me to fade into the woodwork until the clients depart,” Goodnight murmured.
Star Risk had deployed carefully.
Jasmine King was the first to leave. She’d altered her appearance to include mousy brown hair, very old-fashioned glasses, and a rare ability to walk knock-kneed that guaranteed there’d be no interested looks from any of the various other sexes.
Jasmine added a face cream that made her look as if she’d been attacked by nuclear acne, and, to make her disguise complete, rubbed a bit of very pungent cheese to the temple plates of her glasses for halitosis’s sake.
She coupled that with a nasal voice and a recorder. King arrived on Gentric, announcing herself as a freelance correspondent for Alliance Public Broadcasting, doing a feature on Roh Bahtrine’s upcoming Celebration Day, which guaranteed a further lack of interest.
Claiming to have little funds, she took a room in a boardinghouse on the outskirts of Masd, on the main parade route, that not coincidentally had an excellent line of sight on the National Repository.
She then made herself obnoxious by doing buttonhole interviews about what this forthcoming holiday Really Meant to the Man (or Woman) on the Street.
By the time the day arrived, no one, not even the most paranoiac policeman, would do anything except flee in the opposite direction when she approached, and no one had any interest in the bundled electronics that were supposedly part of her craft.
She was the lookout.
• • •
The day arrived, and the citizenry of Masd grouped for a parade or, if pacifistic or easily bored, left for anywhere the roar of warships overhead wouldn’t be heard.
There were parades and braying announcers and periodic military demonstrations and bands.
King pretended interest, actually kept using a very long lens to make sure nothing untoward was going on at the repository.
• • •
The hired guns made wisecracks about the bars of gold and platinum as they transferred them from the cruisers to the liners, although making sure none of them were heard by Van Hald, who was scuttling here and there.
Riss noticed Van Hald appeared nervous, could have attributed it to the utter illegality of what they were doing.
She could have … but did not.
• • •
Grok’s suit made him even more impossibly large. He held in the background, making no effort to help, in spite of the occasional scowls from the loading crew, busy with a tiny calculator.
• • •
“That’s the end of it,” Van Hald announced.
“That’s all?” Grok asked.
Van Hald took a moment, trying to read the alien’s expression. Even without a space suit, that wasn’t possible. He nodded jerkily, lips pursed.
“Very well,” Friedrich said. “Let us go un-rob a bank.”
“You can lift any time you’re ready,” Van Hald said.
Friedrich keyed a mike, spoke into it, and the liners closed their ports. Gasses swirled at their drive tubes, and the four Star Risk ships lifted clear of the moon, setting an orbit for Gentric.
The seven Roh Bahtrine ships did the same, apparently setting their course to one of the outworlds.
After a moment, Chas Goodnight came from his hiding place in a shed, and opened his com. “The game’s afoot … which is very strange,” he said without IDing himself. “Come and get me.”
Five minutes later, ex-Admiral Vian’s five patrol ships appeared around the moon’s curvature.
• • •
On board one of the liners, Grok was still intent on his calculator. He growled, blanked the screen, and started over.
Van Hald came up. “Might I inquire as to what fascinates you so?”
“Expenses,” Grok growled. “My expenses.”
Riss was nearby, relaxing against a pile of gold bars.
Or so it appeared.
• • •
“Your orders?” ex-Admiral Vian asked Goodnight.
He couldn’t quite bring himself to “sir” the sandy-haired man in mufti with the low-slung blaster sitting beside him in the copilot’s seat with his feet on the control panel.
“Stay with those cruisers,” Goodnight asked. “And don’t let them spot us.”
Vian looked coldly at Goodnight, nodded once without answering.
• • •
Below, on Gentric, another uniformed band tootled its way past Jasmine King.
She repressed a wince, remembering the old saw that military music is to music as military cooking is to escoffier.
Far overhead, she saw contrails as ships broke atmosphere.
She keyed a com. “Clear down here” — and keyed off, without waiting for a response.
• • •
“And what do we have here?” Goodnight asked, watching a screen as Vian’s ships approached the planet of Gentric.
The Roh Bahtrine ships had altered their orbit.
Vian nodded at his navigator, who touched sensors on a board. “I’d guess,” the navigator said, “they’re resetting course back toward Gentric.”
“The plot sickens,” Goodnight said. “You might want to put your crews on full alert…. And stay with our friends.”
• • •
The few men and women who were watching oohed and aahed as four ships, two small destroyers and two liners, flew low over the repository, jetting colorful smoke as they did.
A few cheered, glad that the government was giving a show to the people on the way to the main displays in Masd’s city center.
The smoke dropped lazily around the repository.
King saw no signs of disturbance as the anesthetic gas was sucked in by the repository’s ventilators.
• • •
There still was nothing visibly wrong, but Riss muttered, “by the prickling of my thumbs,” and made sure her service blaster was loose in its holster and her three little surprises — a hideout projectile gun, a shock grenade, and an evil little knife — were handy.
• • •
King saw the four ships land behind the repository and combat-suited men and women, wearing breather masks, run down the ramps, carrying small parcels that seemed inordinately heavy.
No one else seemed interested.
• • •
Riss put small can-opener charges on the outer doors, touched them off, trotted inside, and put another set on the inner doors.
Two guards in a booth, three more on roving patrol, sprawled, snoring loudly.
She reached what Van Hald had described as the main vault entrance. It was closed, but the time lock had been set.
Riss spun the vault knob, a four-knobbed handle, and the door clicked open.
“You’re going to blow that one, as well, aren’t you?” Van Hald asked.
“Don’t worry,” Riss said. “We’ll cover you. You and your cohorts’ll look clean.”
She went into the vault, repressing an urge to doff her helme
t in reverence. There were still long corridors between piled gold ingots identical to the ones they carried.
“Let’s schlep on down,” she called.
• • •
Grok stood in the middle of the unloading bustle, frowning at his calculator. He hadn’t even bothered to remove his suit or open its faceplate.
Suddenly, he grunted an “Ah-hah” and keyed his com.
Without preamble, to all Star Risk coms:
“Hey, Rube,” he ‘cast. “Plan B.”
• • •
Van Hald, watching the team replace the gold and plutonium, was standing next to Riss. He heard the transmission from Grok.
“What was that?”
Riss didn’t bother to answer, but slammed a hand into the side of his neck.
Van Hald gurgled, went down.
“Abort, abort,” Riss shouted. She estimated the liners were half unloaded.
As they’d been ordered, the mercenaries changed tasks. All gold and platinum not already in the vault went back into the liners, and the ships’ ramps began closing.
• • •
King heard the crack of sonic barriers, looked up, saw the seven Roh Bahtrine ships enter atmosphere. A missile curled from one, shot downward, and smashed into the ground between the road and the repository.
There were screams.
King, unhurriedly, went back to the boardinghouse and picked up a small case.
In it was another, far sexier outfit, and wipes to get rid of the cheese stink and cream.
She piled her electronics gear in her suitcase and hit a timer. It would tick down and melt everything in her case, without flames or that much of a smell.
King made her way to a large department store in the suburbs and got rid of her false identity, then headed for the spaceport.
She had her own extraction plan.
• • •
The heavy cruisers dove at the still-grounded liners, springing their doublecross…. And then Vian’s patrol ships bounced them.
“A Bahtrinian sandwich,” Goodnight said.
Vian touched his mike: “All ships … lock on your targets…. Make sure no collateral damage…. Fire at will!”
Missiles shot from the patrol ships’ launch tubes down at the Roh Bahtrinian warships, who hadn’t seen anything above them, intent on stopping the “robbers.”
One cruiser took two hits, tucked, and pinwheeled into the ground; the second was struck three times. It broke off, careening through the air.
One Bahtrinian destroyer tried to keep up the attack, was hit once in the drive tubes, and made a hard but survivable landing.
The two liners were clear of the ground, their escorting destroyers above them.
At full drive, they made for space.
• • •
“Two jumps,” Friedrich ordered, and the navigators of the liners fed prearranged settings into their drive computers.
The starships vanished into N-space, quickly followed by their destroyers.
• • •
“Very good, Admiral,” Goodnight said. “Now take us home.”
• • •
The RP — rendezvous point, predetermined — was repressed glee. The for-hires were paid off, in gold from the liners, plus a hefty bonus, and went on their way, swearing that if ever Star Risk needed anything — anything, including their first born — they had but to ask.
Even the frosty Vian allowed that he’d had a most satisfactory experience, for the least time spent and without any casualties, and hoped they’d keep him in mind for the future.
The only one missing was Jasmine King, and she made her own way back to Trimalchio IV before the others arrived.
• • •
“Hokay,” Goodnight said. “Now that the smoke’s cleared, and little ears have gone about their business, what the hell happened? Obviously, this was a crook run from the beginning. But why?”
“Messr. Grok?” Riss indicated.
“I had looked up a few estimates of what was supposed to be in the Roh Bahtrinian Repository,” the alien said. “I decided to keep a running count on the amount of gold and such … if no other reason, if the Bahtrinians accused us, after the fact, of having sticky fingers. I counted only about half, perhaps two-thirds, of the estimates, and decided something had gone wrong.”
“It had,” Riss said.
“I still don’t get it,” Goodnight said. “Why the robbery — phony robbery?”
“Messr. von Baldur?” Riss said.
“Chas, sometimes I suspect you of simplemindedness,” Friedrich said, a touch smugly. “Obviously, they borrowed the treasury some time ago, as they told us. What they didn’t bother to add is that while that treasury was being hidden wherever it was being hidden, someone, or more likely several someones, made unauthorized withdrawals from that money, probably without telling their fellow politicians.
“When it was time to pay up, full accounting, those someones could not, or did not want to, make restitution. So they came up with the story that the repository now had additional security, and that the robbery was the best way to handle things.
“Of course, what they intended was to have their naval units hit us in midpayback, and then, in the course of the blood and slaughter, they would report that one ship managed to escape, which is where the missing loot was off to.”
“That’s not that bad a plan,” said Goodnight.
“No,” King said. “If you assume the people you’re going to pull it on aren’t very bright.”
“Still,” Goodnight said. “It’s pretty damned unique.”
“Aren’t they all,” Riss said, yawning and thinking about a tall, cool drink on her island. “Aren’t they all. But once again, truth, justice, and the suspicious way of life triumph.”
FOUR
M’chel Riss was fully engaged, without her usual ally, Jasmine King, for tech support in her War against Whatever Color Her Toenails Used to Be.
She was alone on the tiny islet she’d bought, near the fringes of the cluster that sprayed out from Trimalchio IV’s main continent, and enjoying the solitude immensely.
Between eyeing the two different shades warring it out on her big toes and trying to make a decision as to which was favored, she was considering whether to lift into “civilization” for dinner or whap something together out of the freezer and continue reading Beyond String Theory and Other Amusements.
She rather thought she’d go into town — tonight didn’t feel like a time for mathematics — when her com buzzed.
Riss fielded it.
“Go.”
It was Jasmine, at the Star Risk offices.
“There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you.”
“Does he look like I owe him money?”
“If you do,” King said, “it’d be worth every penny. Yum.”
“I hope,” M’chel said, “you’re wearing a whisper mike.”
Jasmine activated a pickup.
For a very long instant, the stars swung in their orbits, and she remembered a brief Temporary Duty, back when she was still in the marines.
The man was a little older and had a little more silver at his temples, and maybe a few more smile lines, since she’d last seen him.
Lieutenant Colonel Dov Lanchester, Alliance Marine Corps.
Once, very briefly, they’d been lovers, when they’d attended a Planetary Insertion course. Nothing came of it except some wonderful memories, and they went separate ways to new assignments.
The next time, he’d been fast-tracked to captain and she was still a first lieutenant. Worse, he was her temporary CO, which meant nothing was supposed to happen — and didn’t. Stupidly, Riss often thought, when the lonelies struck.
Now she rather wished that Lanchester had been her CO on her last assignment, instead of that cockless pick-leface who’d tried to weasel her into bed and was the biggest reason for her resignation from the Alliance Marines.
But as the military phrase correctly
pointed out, you can wish in one hand, and shit in the other and see which one fills up first….
“Uh …” she managed.
“Major Riss,” Lanchester said. Like everything else about him, Riss thought his deep voice damned near perfect.
“M’chel,” she said. “How are you, Colonel?”
“Dov,” he said. “I’m still in, you’re out, which the Alliance should regret every damned minute.”
“Maybe they should,” M’chel said. “I don’t.”
“I tracked you down, since I’m between assignments, to see if I might buy you dinner,” Lanchester said.
M’chel nodded.
“Shall I pick you up?”
Riss started to say no, bethought herself, and nodded.
“At seven?”
Again she nodded.
“Now, if you’ll give me coordinates to your tropic paradise …”
• • •
Trimalchio IV was going through a fascination with antigravity. Chas had the theory the drives were popular since so many citizens of Trimalchio also seemed to exist without visible means of support.
The restaurant tables were roboticized booths floating out and back on preset courses, over the ocean, with waiter call sensors.
The waves were small, all three moons were out, the breeze was warm, and the wine was correctly chilled.
It was most romantic.
Dov was looking up at the sky.
“Three moons,” he mused. “Just like on … what was it — Myrmidion II? Do you remember — ”
“I do,” Riss said. “My damned tent leaked.”
“You should have complained,” Lanchester said. “Other arrangements … could have been made.”
M’chel carefully arched an eyebrow, didn’t reply, but changed the subject.
“So what assignment — assuming you can talk about it — brings you my way?” she asked.
“I can talk about it,” he said. “It’s advisory…. And that’s not a cover. It’s the Khelat-Shaoki Systems, generally called the Khelat Cluster. Twenty-seven worlds belong to the Khelat, fourteen to the Shaoki, and they’ve been fighting each other for half a dozen generations.”
“Who’s the Alliance backing?”
“Khelat.”
“Why?”
“Uh … because us killer marines support honesty, love, and the Alliance Way?”
