Chris Bunch - Star Risk 3 - The Doublecross Program
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2024-12-24
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The Doublecross Program
by Chris Bunch
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
ONE
^ »
Trimalchio IV lazed under a benevolent sun. All was well on the tropic vacation planet… if you
were flush.
Star Risk, ltd., was not, at the moment.
“I don’t believe it,” M’chel Riss snarled. “How-in-hells could we be broke? We had two…
no, three contracts this year that nobody reneged on.”
Riss, with her blond hair, green eyes, and statuesque build, could have been a runway
model.
Actually, she was an ex-Alliance Marine Corps major who’d resigned her commission after
assignments from a line battalion executive officer to advisory slots to covert operations,
because of general boredom and a lecherous commanding officer.
Looking for adventure was one thing. Eating regularly was another, which is how she
became the second member of Star Risk.
“Not quite broke,” Jasmine King, Star Risk’s general amanuensis, said. She was,
improbably, prettier than Riss and had been accused of being a robot. But since she refused to
admit one way or another and no one knew of a culture capable of building a robot—actually,
an android—as competent and beautiful as King, the matter remained in abeyance.
“But with no income in the offing we’ll be on the welfare rolls—which our beloved
Trimalchio doesn’t seem to think is necessary—in three months.”
“Three months?” Chas Goodnight snorted. “That ain’t broke. Broke is when your
forwarding address is a shipping crate in an alley somewhere.”
He looked pointedly about Star Risk’s posh offices on the forty-third floor of an
antigrav-supported high-rise.
Goodnight was a highly modified soldier, called a bester, who could, among other things,
see in the dark, have reactions three times normal, hear into the FM transmission band. He
could—for about fifteen minutes, until the battery at the base of his spine ran dry and he
became a wobbling kitten.
Unfortunately, somewhere along the line, Goodnight’s moral sense had been amputated, if
it had ever existed. The Alliance Army discovered this about the time they arrested him as a
jewel thief. Star Risk had rescued him from some forgotten world’s death cell.
“I say again my last,” Riss said. “How’d we get so broke?”
“Well,” King said, consulting one of several screens. “Start with finally being able to repay
Grok his loan that got us started—”
“About time, by Ludwig’s mustache,” the alien, fully named Amanandrala
Grokkonomonslf, a furry bulk almost three and a half meters in any direction, growled.
“Keep going,” M’chel said.
“There was the cost of your cottage on that out-island,” Jasmine went on. “Plus buying the
island itself.”
M’chel tried to look guilty, failed.
“Not to mention a ten thousand credit advance for your vacation,” King said.
Riss nodded reluctantly. It had been a hell of a vacation, three worlds visited, in the
company of that Baron… What was his name again? Never mind. It didn’t matter. But he was
certainly a charmer, and never seemed to need sleep.
“That’s for you,” King went on. “Mr. Goodnight likes to gamble, as we all know—”
“I just had a long run of bad luck,” Goodnight interrupted.
“And then there was that surefire investment Friedrich made.”
Friedrich von Baldur, a slender, white-haired, dapper charmer who claimed to have been a
colonel in the Alliance but was actually a warrant who resigned just ahead of an investigation of
missing supplies, sighed.
“It was, too,” he said. “At least by my lights. How was I to know a simple device that made
perfect copies of your currency simply for record keeping would be thought of as a
counterfeiting tool?” He shook his head at the perfidy of bureaucrats and lawmakers.
“Regardless,” King said, “I’m the only one with my nose to the grindstone.”
“Wasn’t there a small trip to Earth’s Tiffany somewhere in there?” Riss said.
“A bauble,” King said. “Or a couple or three baubles. Necessary for the old morale and all
of that. But we’re not pointing fingers here. We’re trying to come up with a fast moneymaker.”
She looked around for ideas. No one said anything.
A long moment crawled past, then the com buzzed.
“Please, God,” Riss said. “Let this be a nice, unhappy type who needs a planet overthrown.
Or kept from being overthrown.”
“One who isn’t too bright,” Goodnight added.
“And definitely not the taxman,” Freddie said, looking piously upward at the heavens.
King waved them to silence, picked up the com.
“Star Risk, limited. This is Operative King. How may we be of service?”
She listened, her face carefully blank. Then she smiled.
“Well, I’m certain we can be of assistance.”
Grok growled in pleasure.
“That noise?” King said. “We’ve had a lot of trouble with line static. Our scramblers, you
know. Now, we’ll be able to make an appointment for an interview in three weeks… no, wait,
since you said time was a factor with your problem. It just happens we had a cancellation, and
there’s a slot that came open tomorrow.”
Riss was quite sure the government of Roh Bahtrine wasn’t democratic—or else the man
who sat across the conference table, Van Hald, was an appointee or a bureaucrat. He was
simply too colorless to survive, let alone win, an electoral campaign.
Riss listened, decided he was an appointee, since he referred to the system rulers as the
Supreme Council, in capitalized speech.
An appointee, definitely a potential patsy, she concluded.
The members of Star Risk were staring at Van Hald in mild incredulity.
“I must say,” von Baldur said, “we’ve had some… unusual assignments. But I can’t recall
ever having robbed a bank before.”
“Oh, no,” Van Hald said. “You’re not robbing any bank.”
“Perhaps I misunderstood,” von Baldur said.
“And why couldn’t you have just rounded up some local villains to do the smash and
grab?” Chas Goodnight asked.
“I said, we don’t wish your services in robbing a bank,” Van Hald said. “And it’s not just
any bank, but our system’s National Repository.”
“Did your campaign funds end up a little short?” Goodnight persisted.
“If all of you will be silent for a moment,” Van Hald said waspishly, “I’ll give you the
precise details and you’ll understand why Roh Bahtrine’s Supreme Council needs the services
of a rather irregular force.”
Five years before, Roh Bahtrine had been in a depression, one that hung on and on in spite
of the government’s best efforts.
In desperation, it finally went to the National Repository and surreptitiously removed about
half of the system’s liquid assets—mainly the old reliable gold, and the remainder platinum.
“This they used,” Van Hald continued, “to, shall we say, encourage outside capital to invest
in Roh Bahtrine, and corporations to relocate or open branches in the system.”
“You mean bribe them?” Goodnight said.
“Well… that’s a rather harsh word to use… But yes,” Van Hald said.
Now the system was stabilized and its economy prosperous.
“We want your firm to arrange to put the money we, shall we say, borrowed, back, using
the guise of a large-scale robbery,” Van Hald said.
“Can’t you just slither it back, the same way you took it?”
Van Hald hesitated, then shook his head.
“Security measures have been radically changed since then.”
“Interesting,” Grok said. “An honest government repaying its debts? A true anomaly.”
Van Hald didn’t reply.
“Well,” Friedrich said, “I assume you have details in that pouch.”
“I do.”
“We’ll have our analysts consider them,” von Baldur said. “But I can assure you we’re
interested in this unusual project. Quite interested.”
His eyes rested on the rather large, and certified, check on the table between them.
TWO
« ^ »
All right,” Riss said, throwing the projection up on the wall. “This is their capital
world—Gentric—and the capital city, Masd.
“Over here is the repository, flanked by two fields, garrisoned with regular troopies, with
ground and interplanetary ships in support. Jane’s says they’re supposed to be pretty good.
“So the plan will be to put ourselves next to the repository, try not to kill too many of the
guards, try not to get killed ourselves, shovel the gold and platinum bars—that’s the shape the
geetus is in, by the by—and get out, get paid, and come home.
“Yes, I’ve already leased some antigrav wheelbarrows. Now, what’s the matter with that
plan?”
“Do you mean in the design, or in the details?” Goodnight asked.
“I mean the whole idea stinks on ice, as they used to say,” Riss said. “It’s too frigging easy.
Goodnight, you’re our resident crook. What’s the matter here?”
“I, m’love, was a high-class Raffles, working solo and in the gem trade,” Chas said loftily. “I
was never part of those vulgar mobs that went around blowing up safes and such. So I know
little. But it does stink on ice. I can’t believe that a gummint can’t figure out a way to put some
money back in a drawer without the attendance of loud bangs.”
“No,” M’chel agreed.
“Are you voting we should pass on the job?” von Baldur asked, looking slightly worried.
“No,” M’chel said. “I’ve gotten as used to feeding off the fatted hog as anybody. I just want
to take the job and walk out with my ass semi-intact.”
“Well,” Jasmine said, “there’s only two possibilities for a doublecross I can see: either they
plan on letting us put the money back and then drygulching us—I do wonder where that term
came from—when we show up to get the rest of our money.”
She fell silent.
“And the other possibility?” Goodnight asked.
“I haven’t figured out what that can be yet. But I know there must be one.”
“Nor do I have any sudden, gut-level Betrayal Flashes,” M’chel said. “So we’re going to take
the job. The way I see it we can do things sneaky, which means tippie-toe in some night with
the bags of money and only take out enough guards to make the job possible. Or else we can
go in high, wide, and handsome, guns blazing—and why somebody would set fire to a
perfectly good blaster is beyond me.”
“Normally, I’d argue on the side of subtlety,” von Baldur said. “But subtle takes a while,
and we are veering toward broke.”
“Just so,” Riss said. “Not to mention if we play it like crooks, we’ll have to recruit some
strong-arm experts, us not being well versed in criminality, which means we’ll have to split the
take, which I’d rather not do. So blazing it is. Jasmine, tell old Van Hald that we’re working for
him. And ask him for a list of upcoming holidays.”
“All right. I assume for a cover?”
“You assume right. And we’ll need a crew—say two platoons—of shooters who’re good
enough to not shoot on the ground. Plus our transport, and some friends to give us a back
door.”
King was tapping keys on a calculator.
“I make it—if we can do the job in a month—about two million.”
“Make it four,” von Baldur said. “On the chance they’re going to get tricky.”
“Plus expenses,” Goodnight said.
“Aren’t we getting a trifle greedy?” Riss asked.
“Of course,” Chas said. “You don’t want me to change my lovable ways, now, do you?”
“And how does this look?” Jasmine asked, sliding the screen over.
Riss read it.
“Very sexy,” she said. “In three weeks there’s a big national holiday, so everybody goes to
the shore or somewhere for a couple of days. Plus there’s a big airshow over Masd, which
should give us a nice cover for any loud bangs since the repository’s right outside the city.”
“What’s it celebrating?” Goodnight said.
Riss shrugged.
“Somebody won—or maybe lost—a war. The fiche is a little vague.”
“Definitely lost,” Goodnight said. “Victories are tootled with the most mind-numbing
detail. Surprised it’s a holiday.”
“Never mind that,” Grok said. “What about our backup?”
“Inbound,” Russ said. “The two transports will be in by tomorrow, those two destroyers
that are costing us—sorry, I meant Roh Bahtrine—a lot more than they should be paying…
Anyway, those two’ll be in day after, along with our gunnies.”
“Who’s running the destroyers?” von Baldur asked.
“A woman named Inchcape.”
Friedrich shook his head. “Don’t know her.”
“Good resume,” Jasmine said. “Actually worked for the same people more than once.”
“That’s enough for me.”
Riss was waiting.
“For our Plan B, which we’re not going to mention to our client, of course, and Jasmine’s
found a way to bury the charges, we’ve got five spitkits, almost brand new, McG Destroyers,”
Riss continued. “They’ll be here on Trimalchio… shortly. That’s the most I was able to get from
the flight leader, an ex-Alliance sort named Vian.”
Friedrich von Baldur paled a little.
Grok noticed the expression. “You know him?”
“I do,” von Baldur said. “Ironass—pardon me, ladies—Vian. Never known to take a drink
or pinch a fanny of any sex. A rigid disciplinarian never known to smile. No. I take that back.
A staff officer was making an elaborate presentation to him, waving his arms about, and the
staffie stuck his right forefinger in an impeller drive. Blood to hell and breakfast, and a little
smile on Vian’s face.”
“So what is the matter with him as far as you’re concerned?” Goodnight asked.
“Unfortunately,” von Baldur said, “he was acting depot commander when it became
convenient for me to leave the Alliance’s service in a bit of a hurry.”
“Would he remember you?” Riss asked, amused.
“I don’t know,” von Baldur said. “I don’t propose to spend much time in his company
finding out. He is, as you’d assume, competent. More than.”
“So why did he leave the Alliance?” Goodnight asked. “Being as how he’s the perfect
admiral.”
Everyone looked at Jasmine King, who was widely thought to know everything.
“A rather strange case,” she said. “He was riding in a hovertrain, going on leave, and there
happened to be a young lady in the compartment. No one else. The train went into a tunnel,
there were screams, and the young lady claimed that Admiral Vian made an indecent assault
on her in the tunnel. For which he was court-martialed and requested to resign his
commission.”
“How peculiar,” Friedrich said. “So he did pinch at least one fanny.”
“That’s strange,” Riss said. “One person’s claim, no witnesses, and a highly respected
officer?”
“The young lady’s father was an Alliance commissioner, and her betrothed was a young fast
riser in the Department of State,” King said.
“Ah,” Riss said. “That’ll do it to you every time.”
“Lecher Vian,” von Baldur said. “Very, very interesting.”
“A question,” Grok said. “I seem to recall the Destroyer-class ships were supposed to have
rather delicate drives.”
King nodded.
“The Mark I’s were… which these are. However, Vian’s five have been reengineered after
being condemned.”
“They’d better be,” Goodnight said. “I simply despise being at the center of a loud bang.”
THREE
« ^ »
Whassamattah, Freddie?” Chas Goodnight asked. “You look worried.”
“I am,” von Baldur said, looking out of the battered hangar at the nearly empty landing
field.
The long-abandoned field sat on the far side of one of Gentric’s moons, and had been set as
the transfer point for the wealth to be returned. On the field were Star Risk’s two rented
destroyers and the pair of small liners.
“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.
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