Chris Bunch - Star Risk 4 - The Dog From Hell

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The Dog From Hell

Chris Bunch

For Richard Knee

Un Gentilhomme de Honneur Et sans Reproche

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

ONE

^ »

The castle loomed above them on the bluff, centuries-old stone, dank,

brooding. The surrounding moss-dripping dark oak trees seemed as old and

decaying as the sprawling fortress.

The sound of the five Star Risk operatives' boots on the cobbled walk was

all that broke the wintry silence.

"A hell of a place to get ambushed," M'chel Riss said, a bit nervously.

"I've seen worse," Chas Goodnight said. "Trouble is, I can't remember

just where, or when."

His laugh echoed, sounding forced in the silence.

The sniper focused sights on the oncoming five.

Not the expected, hoped-for targets, but two very beautiful women, one

looming monster, a tall man who was very good-looking, and another man

who could have been an elder professor.

Unexpected—but they'd do.

Range… check… wind… not to worry about any wind… finger sliding to

the trigger…

***

It had started two weeks before.

M'chel Riss, who was on com watch, greeted the other four members of

Star Risk (remarkably all on their base world of Trimalchio IV at the same

time) somewhat smugly: "I have a job for us. A nice safe job. A job with

children, even."

"Ugh. Children," Chas Goodnight moaned.

"What is the matter," Amanandrala Grokkonomonslf rumbled, "with

small examples of your progeny?"

Grok was large, 2.4 meters in any given direction. He was covered in

surprisingly silky fur that, to many humanoids' envy, never needed

combing or care. He claimed to be primarily a philosopher, and his race was

known for Deep Thoughts. It was also known, as was Grok himself, for

being more than somewhat murderous, and an evil deity had well equipped

them with sufficiency in the way of fangs and retractable claws.

"Not mine, I hope," Goodnight said. "I'm most careful about things like

that. And don't think I don't like children. I do. At three hundred and fifty

degrees, baked for forty minutes per pound, basted with honey and vinegar

every hour."

"Don't be so misanthropic," Jasmine King said. "You were a child once

yourself."

"I was," Goodnight said. "And a miserable little bastard, too."

Goodnight was the team's commando expert. Tall, considered more than

good-looking, he'd been one of the Alliance's "besters," surgically modified

to have an assortment of talents, from accelerated reaction time to seeing in

the dark, when a tiny battery at the base of his spine was activated.

He'd been used by the Alliance, mankind's fairly ineffectual governing

body, as a supercommando and covert action specialist until he discovered

that he vastly preferred being a jewel thief to being a hero.

Star Risk had rescued him from a deathcell, and made him a partner.

Even the other four, hardly ethical sorts, considered him dangerously

amoral.

"Children can be many things," Friedrich von Baldur said sententiously.

"Details, if you would?"

"Pickup on Earth," Riss said. "Escort eight eleven-year-olds from their

residential school to their extended study center on Lefarge XI.

"Payment by certified check, being transferred as we speak to Alliance

Credit… uh, assuming that the rest of you approve the job.

"Payment five hundred thousand credits retainer, plus one hundred

thousand credits per diem, plus expenses, plus another half a mill

performance bonus if everything works out."

"My," von Baldur said. "Was that the offer?"

"Of course not," Riss said. "That was after I did a gentle bit of

negotiation."

M'chel Riss was 182 centimeters tall, blond hair, green eyes, built like a

runway model. She was also an ex-Alliance Marine Corps major,

specializing in weaponry, tactics, and demolitions. She quit the marines

when a superior got pushily romantic, and ended up the second member of

the deliberately tiny Star Risk. She'd been recruited by its founder, von

Baldur, (real name Mital Rafinger, never used), who'd left the military just

ahead of an investigation for malfeasance, embezzlement, and

misappropriation of government funds.

Von Baldur was known for his expertise in not only white-collar crime,

but also several species of martial arts. However, the dapper man looked

more like someone's rich uncle, or perhaps a most debonair executive.

"A steep little amount they're willing to come up with for a simple piece

of babysitting," Goodnight said. "Congrats, M'chel. Or should I ask, what's

the risk?"

"Our employer—sorry, potential employer—one Amel Friton, said very

little. We're needed because the parents of these little charmers—her words,

not mine—are uniformly wealthy, and are worried about their nursery

angels," Riss said.

"You believe her?" Goodnight asked.

"Of course not," Riss said. "We're not that broke right now. Do I look like

an idiot?"

"Earth," Jasmine King said dreamily. "Yum. Paris. Double yum. I don't

own anything from rue Montaigne. Rue du Faubourg St. Honore. Triple

yum."

King's French accent, like everything else about her, was perfect. She

was, impossibly, even more lovely than Riss, and was gifted with an eidetic

memory, charm, and perfect business sense. She was so perfect that a

previous employer had tried to weasel out of paying her, on the grounds

that she might actually be an android, built by some unknown alien

civilization.

There was silence for a moment, then: "Of course, I vote yes," King said.

"And I assume you do as well, M'chel?"

Riss nodded.

"Earth," Grok said. "Little children. Interesting. I shall participate."

"And I," von Baldur said. "I am fondly considering London's bespoke

tailors."

"Oh, hell," Goodnight said. "Make it unanimous."

"Very, very interesting," Grok said. "Since the beginning is on Earth,

home for you sentimental fools, I assume we're all going on for the

inspection?"

"And for the side bennies," M'chel said.

The sniper, as trained, gently squeezed the trigger…

They were just passing a granite facing handcarved with the words saint

searles, trade please use rear entrance when Riss caught a flicker of motion

and color—purple—out of the corner of her eye, shouted "Incoming!" and

went flat.

She rolled as she hit the cobbles, hand reflexively unsnapping her purse

and pulling out a large Alliance-issue blaster.

M'chel saw a figure running from a hide in the brush, had the sniper in

her blaster sights, and was squeezing, just as the purple balloon smashed on

the ground.

Red splattered everywhere. Riss had an instant of panic, then realized it

wasn't blood—and most importantly wasn't her blood—and smelled

something acidic.

A memory bubbled up.

Catsup. An Earth seasoning. She'd tasted it in London, and her mind

shuddered a little at the memory.

Before her pistol went off, she had time to recognize the sniper: A rather

chubby little girl with long brown hair, her fat legs twinkling like a

metronome as she ran from them.

"Shit!" she managed, catching herself before the gun went off.

Goodnight touched the right side of his jaw, came out of his accelerated

bester state, and lowered his gun, a rather small if long-barreled and

ornately engraved projectile weapon. He got to his feet.

All five Star Risk operatives had gone flat, and now picked themselves

up.

Grok walked forward to the sniper's hide, examined the abandoned

weapon without touching it. It was an improvised catapult. Three other full

balloons lay beside it on the grass.

Goodnight looked down at the tear on the knee of his brand-new, trendy

suit, black with subdued pinstriping. "That little bitch," he growled. "I

shoulda gunned her down."

"Chas, that isn't exactly—" King began, then saw the smeared red stain

on her fresh-from-Paris Chanel jacket. "You're right. You should have shot

her down. Like a damned dog."

Grok was burbling—his race's equivalent of laughter.

"Children," von Baldur said mildly. "You must learn forgiveness… and

what expense accounts are for."

"Yes," the rather severe-looking and -dressed school headmistress, Amel

Friton, said, "Our charges can sometimes be a bit—shall we

say—bumptious. But they are full of life, and that compensates for a great

deal."

Jasmine made a note to double the cost of replacing her outfit on the

expense account, and forced a saccharine smile.

"The culprit, I rather imagine, will have been Lithia. She has been

evincing… an interest in ballistic science of late.

"But regardless of youthful high spirits, this breach of proper manners to

visitors cannot be allowed. I shall speak to her harshly, and require her to

give up her desserts for a week. She has been rather liberal in the

avoirdupois area of late, and the deprivation will do her no lasting harm."

Goodnight was thinking of asking why chubby little Lithia's melon

couldn't be wailed on for an hour or so with a club, but held his tongue. No

doubt his recommendation wasn't in league with current educational

theories.

Friton eyed the five, as if to see if there was going to be any argument.

Four of them, cowed by the memory of their teachers, said nothing. Grok,

out of respect for native customs, did the same.

"Saint Searles has existed for six centuries," Friton said. "Always with the

aim of helping our country's—and later our world's, and then the

Alliance's—leaders, busy with the duty of governing the lesser, raising the

next generation of women to be capable of stepping into their parents'

shoes.

"We have had great success over the centuries, and I am proud to say the

tradition continues unbroken. To continue this tradition, we have always

been willing and able to provide whatever services our clients require,

always remembering we stand in loco parentis.

"Even when the unusual occurs.

"Such has, in fact, happened recently.

"A group of our girls were recently on a field trip. There they

encountered a woman who found them not only charming, but reminiscent

of herself at their age.

"Her name is Lady Ardent Rosewater-Jones, and she is the principal

shareholder on a planet named Porcellis, which is famed within our Alliance

for providing recreational opportunities.

"She offered a chance for the girls she'd encountered to study economics

on her world for a year or two, and for those who wished to pursue a career

in commerce, the chance to enter her employment. This was, you might

imagine, a bit out of the ordinary, but my administrators approached the

parents of the girls involved, and without exception they approved.

"All of them wished to ensure there were no problems, given these

parlous times, in the girls' arriving on Porcellis, and since, frankly, there

have been incidents of kidnapping for ransom of pupils at two of our sister

schools in Belize and Zurich, I wanted to ensure proper security. Your firm

came highly recommended, although the two recommendees wish to

remain anonymous."

Friton tapped a very old-fashioned bell. "One of my staffers will

accompany the girls, to ensure you have no problems in communication."

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