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

by Chris Bunch

  “The best I was able to find was that there were some four bases on Glace itself. Two of them are close to population centers, the others were deliberately sited next to nowhere, so if Glace was attacked, the attackers wouldn’t have an exact location for all of Foley’s spacefleet.

  “Again, I lack locations so far.

  “The more I think about it, this whole damned mess … or, rather, the complete absence of information … suggests there’s something rotten about those bases. For all I know, they never were built, but were just a way for some politicos to skim off graft.

  “The whole thing reeks, but I guess we’d better do some kind of followup.

  “I suggest that we put out patrol ships off Glace, and stud a few at the system’s edge, in case Murgatroyd has taken up light housekeeping on one of the ice giants’ moons.

  “An interesting bit of trivia, by the way. One of the bases on Glace was abandoned before the threat of war was ended.

  “I’ve got scattered data that suggests Glace was inhabited before human colonists by primitives, no details yet. Supposedly these aliens were relentlessly hostile, either on first contact or after they watched man make his usual mess out of things, and retreated into hidden places where they sulked and ambushed the stray outdoorsman.

  “I find that most interesting.”

  Riss hadn’t been listening to the last, but was considering options.

  “I’d think the outer worlds are the most likely.” she said.

  “And I disagree,” Baldur said.

  “I’ll stay here and man the fort,” King said. She reached in a pocket of her shipsuit, took out a coin.

  “You two might well head up the patrol ships waiting for Grok to arrive. Heads take Glace, tails the iceworlds.

  “M’chel, you’re first,” and the coin spun through the air.

  King caught the coin, clapped one hand over it, then lifted her hand.

  “Freddie,” King said, “pack your woolies.”

  “Just my luck,” Baldur said. “So much for lurking over the fleshpots.”

  “Jasmine,” M’chel asked. “How do you find these things out?”

  King smiled, and her smile was distinctly beatific.

  “You have but to look, my little sister, and all things shall be revealed.”

  “Oh, horseshit,” Riss said, and started for her cabin to start packing.

  THIRTY

  The starship drifted down, toward a jungled cliff face, as if out of control and doomed.

  Concrete grated, and two huge clamshell doors slid open, exposing an enormous hanger. The transport floated in on its antigravity, extruded skids, and landed, dwarfed by the huge Sensei-class cruiser nearby.

  The great bay still held room for half a dozen more warships.

  The transport’s ramp slid out, and its outer lock door opened.

  After a few minutes, Goodnight and the other seven recruits came out, stood, blinking in the dimness, broken by glaring work lights.

  Air-conditioning machinery hummed and, on the nearby bruiser, maintenance men and machines crawled over the ship’s skin.

  Goodnight sniffed the air. It smelt of mold and disuse. He’d expected to land on some dead moonlet somewhere, not here, wherever here was.

  A voice boomed, and a cargo lifter shot out of a port toward them. It grounded, and its driver got out.

  He was small, slender, dark complected, and had a small, carefully maintained moustache, and a very big voice.

  “All right, you people,” he said. “My name is Navarro. That’s all you need to know. I’m your boss.”

  “What’s your rank?” one of the bewildered freshies said.

  “No rank,” Navarro said. “This is a job, not the army.” He touched a stripe on the right sleeve of his shipsuit.

  “This means I’m a boss. Anybody with one of these who tells you what to do … you do it.

  “Actually, I’m not a real boss. There’s five or six of those. Believe me, you’ll know them when you see them.

  “When they say jump, you jump, and they’ll tell you when you’re high enough.

  “Pile in this lifter, and I’ll take you to the barracks.”

  “A question, Navarro,” Goodnight asked. “What are we going to be doing? The man who hired me was pretty vague about what our assignments will be, although he said you can get very rich.”

  “I’ll give you a briefing when you’re in quarters. But I’ll tell you that first, we’ll sort you out as to what you can do. One of you’s a bester, right?”

  “I am,” Goodnight said.

  “The others of you are what you are, which won’t take long to find out. Initially, we’ll use you for perimeter security around this base.”

  “Who’re we securing against?” one of the experienced soldiers asked.

  “Against being found out by any of the oppos … but mostly against the Grays.”

  “Which are?”

  “Nasty, short, little frigging aliens that think everything out there is their turf, and just love nailing anybody who disagrees. SOP is kill ‘em when you see them … which won’t be often, since they come from the jungle, and we don’t.”

  “That’s all?” the bully asked, her face pouty.

  “ ‘Till we get you tried and true, that’s all,” Navarro said. “After that … there’s always places for somebody offworld, when somebody zigs when they shoulda oughta zagged and gets her body bag issued. We always need troops for the raiding teams, anyone with experience in space, and like that.

  “That’s where you can get rich like … Atherton, right? Like Atherton said. Assuming you don’t get independent and greedy, and start pocketing some goodies here and there, which can lead to a real short future.

  “But first you got to prove to us you’re good … and lucky … enough to make it against the Grays.”

  The woman looked dissatisfied, about to ask something else, and then alarms screamed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Risk control,” Riss said into her throat mike, “this is Patrol Three.”

  The small Pyrrhus-class patrol ship was making high orbits over Glace’s thick, unpopulated jungle.

  “This is Control,” Baldur’s voice came through the ship speaker. “Go.”

  “This is Three. We had Goodnight’s beeper solid when the ship came in-atmosphere, tracked it, keeping just below the horizon, and the ship vanished.”

  “Say again your last,” Baldur said from his ship.

  “Vanished,” Riss said. “Gone. Offscreen. Pfft.”

  Her pilot, Dinsmore, flicked a glance from his controls at her, shook his head. Still nothing onscreen.

  “Suggestions?” Riss said.

  “Try a high-speed pass over where it vanished,” Baldur said. “Ten pick an arbitrary point near that, and start doing concentric circles.”

  “Sweeping the jungle,” Riss said. “That’s a big, dull Rog. Patrol Three, clear.”

  She looked at Dinsmore.

  “You heard the man.”

  Dinsmore nodded, put the patrol craft to full drive. Solid green jungle reeled past them.

  “Here we go,” he said. “Close to where it ghosted on us, anyway. On my count … four … two … here.”

  Riss scanned her screens, even looked through the port. She saw nothing but a jungled valley, with a small lake at its bottom, and a tall, brooding cliff.

  “Nada from nada is nada,” she said. “Hokay, Dins, put us in a nice orbit around your point.”

  “You realize we’re making ourselves into a big, fat target,” the flier said.

  “I realize,” M’chel said. “Which is why I’m depending on your steel-trap reflexes and mind to haul ass out of here if any of these little needles or scales even flicker.”

  “A definite affirm on that one,” Dinsmore said, putting the patrol ship almost on its side, as he cut the drive down to a mild putter. “And here we go loop-de-loo.”

  “Nothing,” Riss muttered as they finished the first circl
e. “Go a little wider on the next one. Which’ll put us over, not into, that goddamned cliff. I hope.”

  Dinsmore nodded, fingers touching sensors.

  Again they started around the search point.

  “Hell, we ain’t got … Shit fire!” Riss snapped. “Get us out of here! I got indicators going nuts!”

  Dinsmore slammed full drive, went to the sky.

  “I have an incoming,” Riss said. “Hard on our tail … closing … try to turn away and topple it….”

  Dinsmore banked hard, and M’chel saw a whitish flicker out of the port, then an explosion slammed, pitched the patrol ship sideways.

  “We’re hit,” she said, caught herself on the obvious, and switched to uncoded transmission on the guard channel.

  “Mayday, Mayday,” she called, a bit proud that her voice didn’t sound the slightest bit excited. “Holding the transmit button down. Mark this location … ship struck by missile….”

  “We’re losing power,” Dinsmore said. “Passing through six thousand meters …”

  The driver hiccuped and there was sudden silence.

  “Time to go,” Dinsmore said, unbuckling his safety harness. “Our antigravs’ll never ease us in.”

  “Mayday, Mayday,” Riss said again. “Going down. Mark this transmission.”

  The com hissed, and all its lights went out as the patrol ship rolled end over end.

  Riss went flying, caught a stanchion, and felt her muscle pull.

  Dinsmore shouted in pain as he hit a bulkhead with his side.

  The ship antigrav went off for an instant, then back on, as the lights died, and emergency lighting went on.

  “This one’s doomed,” Riss said, shrugging into her combat harness. She fought her way to the pilot, and pulled him to his feet.

  He screamed, bit his lip to hold pain back, and Riss muscled him to the inner lock entrance.

  “Here,” she said. “Into this.”

  She forced him into a dropper as the ship pin-wheeled again.

  “Jesus, that hurts.”

  Riss didn’t answer, but slid into a dropper of her own, cursing herself for being careless and not adjusting the straps before they’d lifted.

  She pushed Dinsmore into the lock, followed him, hit the cycle button as she saw smoke billow from a swinging compartment door. Air screamed around her.

  Then she was hanging on to the outer lock door as, around her, green and blue alternated being ground and the sky.

  She pushed Dinsmore, saw him tumble away from the patrol ship, waited until the lock was facing down, and kicked herself out.

  Just like old times, she thought, except that in old times your jumpship wasn’t going gaga on you.

  Riss was spinning left, pushed her right leg and arm out, and the spin slowed. She put both arms, both legs out, was stable, falling toward the jungle below.

  She looked down, guessed she was about two thousand meters from the trees, dropping at terminal velocity.

  Riss found the on sensor on the antigrav harness, gave it a squirt, slowed, hit it again, and was falling at a reasonable rate.

  She looked around for the pilot, saw Dinsmore, obviously riding his dropper hard, five hundred meters above her, almost drifting.

  Riss heard a roar, saw an aircraft flash toward her, had time to ID it as an in-atmosphere scout, started pointlessly waving her arms, thinking about rescue and a very long, very cold drink.

  Above its engine-scream, the scout’s machine-cannon roared. Tracer rounds drew a green streak through the sky, walked across Dinsmore’s body. The flier didn’t even have time to scream before he was almost cut in half, blood spraying down toward the jungle.

  “Son of a dead-eyed bitch!” Riss snarled. Her fingers found the off sensor of the dropper, and she fell, tucking her arms, legs in, head down, dropping like a bullet, falling away from the killing aircraft.

  She managed to turn her head, saw the scout diving at her, saw the trees starting to rush up, knew she was too low, and again flashed the dropper, twice, three times, and the scout was past her in a full dive, bullets streaming in front.

  The pilot of the scout realized how low he was, reversed his drive, turned his antigrav to full power. The scout wobbled in its dive, started to recover, and then it was too late.

  “Auger your dirty ass straight on to hell,” Riss growled as the fireball rose above the trees, red and dirty black, no more than two hundred meters away, and the explosion almost tumbled her. “Teach you to be such a murderous bastard.”

  She promptly forgot about the scout and its crew, holding down the antigrav sensor as leaves, branches, reached up and the jungle swallowed her.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Star Risk One, this is Star Risk Control. Do you have anything?”

  “Control, this is One. Orbiting the area Three May-dayed from … nothing … wait. Patching through from Ten.”

  “Control, this is Ten. I’m over a narrow valley, and, at the bottom, I’ve got smoke coming up. Do you want me to close?”

  “Ten, this is Control. Proceed … cautiously. Something out there bites. Switching channels.

  “One, this is Control. Were you monitoring?”

  “That’s affirm.”

  “One, give Ten an escort down.”

  “Affirm.”

  “Control, this is Ten. Orbiting smoke at angels one … something went in hard, and blew. No sign of life.”

  “Ten, wait.”

  Baldur turned away from the com.

  “Grok, do we have anything?”

  “No,” the alien said. “The tracking station we planted on Goodnight isn’t casting … or is blocked out. Nothing on the Search and Rescue frequency from either Riss or Dinsmore, Three’s pilot.”

  Baldur touched his mike.

  “Ten, this is Control. Still negative?”

  “Still negative.”

  “One, this is Control. What about you?”

  “Nothing, boss,” Redon Spada ‘cast.

  Baldur thought quickly.

  “All Star Risk stations … RTB. I say again, Return to Base.”

  Again, he looked at Grok.

  “Keep the SAR monitor going.”

  “Your call?” King asked.

  “I think we have lost Riss,” Baldur said. “And very likely Goodnight as well.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  M’chel Riss stood on a jutting tree branch under the top tier of the jungle, but still about fifty meters from the ground.

  She contemplated descent, so she wouldn’t have to think about Dinsmore’s bloody death.

  Come on, Riss, she thought. Bad guys do things like that. That’s why they’re bad guys.

  She smiled wryly. As if good guys sometimes didn’t get carried away and do some unnecessary strafing. Yeah, but they didn’t brag about it. At least, not in her hearing.

  This was getting most rapidly nowhere. She slung the dropper over one shoulder, opened one of the sidepouches of her combat harness, and took out a can of climbing thread, and clipped it into her harness. She sprayed a blob out, attached it to the limb, and gingerly started down, grateful she didn’t have to use a doubled rope.

  Ten meters from the ground she stopped, and waited for a few minutes. There were small-animal and flying-thing noises below, but nothing that sounded like a creature big enough to consider Riss cutlets.

  She went on to the ground, put her back against a tree, and looked about her.

  It was very lovely, in a gloomy sort of way, the overhead cover keeping the ground-level plants stunted. It could have been, if there were little signs, a botanic garden.

  Of a very nonterrestrial nature. The green was muted, and frequently mixed with rust-red hues. The ground under her feet was soft, aeons of rotting leaves.

  A small animal peered at her over a downed limb. If it weren’t blood-red, with six legs ending in clawed paws, it might have been a squirrel.

  She moved, and it sprang away, and vanished.

  Next M’chel considere
d what was in her survival pouches. She knew very well what they contained, but that was SOP to keep away panic.

  Then she heard the screech of aircraft overhead, recognized the sound of a Pyrrhus-class patrol craft. There was another whine.

  Friendly.

  She realized she was a little shocky, clawed into a pouch, took out her SAR beacon. She’d turned the switch on before noting the large crack along one side, and the exposed circuit board.

  She turned the sensor on, rolled volume up to high.

  Nothing.

  Riss, ever the optimist, keyed the send sensor.

  “Any overhead aircraft, any overhead aircraft, this is downed flier. Be advised there are hostiles in this area. I say again, hostiles in this area.”

  She didn’t give her name, for fear the unfriendlies were monitoring the Search and Rescue band, and could use it later to set a trap.

  Nothing came back at her.

  Maybe, she thought, the beacon’s receiver was just broken.

  She repeated her message, and heard the aircraft above go back and forth, then climb away, their drive-sound receding in the distance.

  Well, dingbing it and all that good shit, she thought. I guess I’ll have to hike this one out.

  She thought about leaving the SAR beacon on, decided it might just be making enough of a noise for whoever’d shot her down to be picking it up, and homing.

  Riss thought of pitching it into the jungle, then stopped. No one in a survival condition should ever throw anything away, no matter how useless.

  Riss found a GPS receiver in one pouch, turned it on. The screen lit, but was blank.

  Wonderful, she thought. These bastards here on Glace don’t even have positioning satellites planted. I’ll bet they hunt with spears, too.

  Riss sat down, took out an old-fashioned compass, treated herself to a bit of candy from one pouch while she drew a mental map around herself.

  Over there … west, the way they’d come … she remembered there’d been a river that looked big enough to raft down. Somewhere down there … southish … should be that town they’d flown near.