“Nah, that’s okay.” Billy slapped a hand to Taylor’s back. “I think three days is enough for old Captain Starkiller, here. We’ll grab our things and be on our way.”
Once outside the Conquistadors’ training hangar, Taylor and Billy crossed the compound toward their vehicles, the North Florida sun warm on their faces as a mild, salty breeze rolled in from the Atlantic Ocean two blocks away.
“I’m sorry for what happened back there,” Taylor said. “You know, for bombin’ the mission the way I did.”
“Oh, you bombed it all right.” Billy chuckled. “You had one job, and that was to get your crew to the stargate. All you had to do was fend off that cruiser and make a run, but instead, you let yourself be goaded into a conflict with the two smaller ships, and it cost you.”
Taylor sighed, and he slid on his Jacksonville Generals cap, then adjusted the bill.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Billy said. “At this point last year, you were tending bar in Cocktail Junction, not commanding a starship. These things take time, believe me. Don’t rush it.”
“Yeah, well,” Taylor scoffed. “Something tells me ‘master strategist’ ain’t ever gonna be a descriptive on my resume, no matter how much time I practice.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Billy shrugged. “Good strategy doesn’t always have to be complicated. To the contrary, it typically just requires some good old common sense.”
Taylor looked up.
“Stay cool,” Billy said. “Know your strengths, your weaknesses, your opportunities, and your threats, then leverage that information for best possible success. If you can remember all that, then execute it in combat, you’ll come out ahead more days than not.”
Taylor appreciated the pep talk. All things being equal, though, he still preferred ground-pounding with a rifle in his hands to warming a command chair with his butt out in the cosmos. That reminded him. “Any word from Smitty?”
“You realize that’s the fifth time this morning you’ve hit me with that question, right?” Billy asked. “It’s not like she can communicate with us from hyperspace.”
“I know.” Taylor grinned. “I also know how much our newest company commander is missed by some of the crew when she’s away.”
Billy answered with a smirk. “No, there’s been no new word from Commander Smith. Per her last check-in, the contract appears solid, as does the client, though I expect she’ll have more to say on the matter when her ship re-enters our system in…” he checked his watch, “about three hours.”
Taylor snapped his fingers. “Speaking of starships, where do we stand on ours?”
Billy frowned and looked away.
“What?” Taylor asked.
“It’s nothing,” Billy said.
“Oh, it’s clearly something. I’m pretty sure I know what it is, too, so out with it. That’s an order.”
Billy ran a palm over his dark, burr-cut hair. “Why that one?”
“Why which one?”
“All due respect, Chief, I’ve known you since you were a toddler who couldn’t resist taking a dump in the bathtub. Don’t be coy. It’s not your style.”
Taylor figured the man had a point. “All right, fine. I presume the ‘one’ you’re referrin’ to is our brand-new flagship?”
“Ha!” Billy guffawed. “‘Brand-new’ are hardly the words I’d use when describing that bucket. She’s beyond obsolete and a step above scrap on her best day. Hell, I’d feel safer crossing hyperspace in a wheelbarrow than I would in that thing.”
“Easy,” Taylor said.
“You know what I mean,” Billy said.
Taylor rolled his eyes. “I get it. The ship’s a fixer upper. Believe me, Keeto hasn’t shut up about all the work she’ll need once she’s ours. Still, it’s the ours part that matter. Ownin’ our own flagship will save us a bundle in subcontracting fees because we’ll no longer have to outsource for transportation to go off-world. That’s huge for us.”
“I understand that,” Billy said. “But why this ship?”
Taylor veered onto a new sidewalk. “Because this ship—beater though she may be—is all we can afford in cash. Will she ever be the EMS Pegasus? No. But she’ll perform well enough to get us by until we can land some more contracts, amass some more capital, then cash flow an upgrade down the road.”
“Ah, come on, Chief,” Billy said. “It doesn’t have to be that way and you know it. Look around. You’ve got friends in this town, powerful friends, with lots of resources. Friends who would happily float us the credits we need to buy something decent, then we could pay them back with the profits from future jobs.”
“Not happenin’.”
“Why not?” Billy pressed. “Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a nice ship. Just one that, you know, flies.”
Taylor halted and faced his XO. “You of all people oughta know the answer to that.”
Billy broke off and looked away.
“My brother financed this entire operation into a mountain of fargin debt because he wanted to be seen as the Deep South’s equivalent to a Horseman. Did he succeed? Yeah, for a while. Then he wasn’t around to pay the bills anymore, and that’s when the creditors came and took a wreckin’ ball to everything he’d built.” Taylor pursed his lips. “Our family lost everything in that mess, Billy. Our money, our pride, even our homes. We’d have stayed chained to that poverty, too, had it not been for the MCA deal.”
“Now there’s an idea.” Billy brightened. “You could ask the MCA folks for more credits. Tell them you need the extra capital to stay competitive in the marketplace. That’d be true, by the way.”
Taylor shook his head. “I sold MCA Creative forty-nine percent of the pie in exchange for what I needed to pay off Terry’s last debts and resurrect the Eagles, clean. I will not jeopardize this company’s future with the same mistakes Terry made, nor will I forfeit my family’s majority stake for more investor cash. I don’t care how many starships it’d buy.” Taylor returned his focus to the XO. “I may have a lot to learn about command, Billy, and I’m glad you’re here to help me with that. But when it comes to runnin’ the books to keep an operation afloat—be that a merc outfit of sixty-one, or a family of four—I know what I’m doin’. I’ve had to for a while now.”
Billy raised his hands. “You’re the Chief. If you wanna buy the beater then buy the beater. You have my word that Keeto and his engineers will make her all she can be.”
“Thanks, brother.” Taylor patted the other’s arm and kept walking. A minute later, the duo stepped out into the parking area where Taylor waved goodbye to the checkpoint guard en route to his Harley Davidson Fat Boy, which slumbered under a palm tree across the lot.
“Hey, guys,” a new voice said.
Taylor glanced up to see the Eagles’ lead medical officer, Paul Wright, approach from his flyer wearing loose-fit slacks and a casual shirt.
“How’d it go?” Paul asked.
“Not bad,” Taylor said. “I made it a whole five minutes this time before I got Cortes’s entire crew blown up.”
Paul opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Well, that’s…reassuring.”
“What brings you out, Doc?” Billy asked.
Paul adjusted his glasses. “I was on my way over to startown to meet a colleague coming in from Piquaw. That put me in the neighborhood. So, I thought I’d drop by.”
Jacksonville Startown—formerly the areas of Mayport, Neptune, and Atlantic Beach—was the section of Jax that housed the city’s starport. This made it home to tons of businesses, from temporary storage and mechanics to payday lenders and arms merchants, none of which seemed to jive with a socially-challenged geek from Maryland.
Taylor tilted his head.
“Okay, fine,” Paul said. “I met a girl on the GalNet, and we’re having coffee in an hour.”
“And there’s that other shoe I’ve been missin’.” Taylor snickered.
“Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up.” Paul frowned. “Seriously, though, I did want to catch
up with you guys. There’s something brewing back at the Clubhouse, and I thought you’d want to know before you got back.”
Taylor and Billy traded looks.
“There’s a woman hanging around our facility,” Paul said. “She’s been there all morning.”
Billy scratched his chin. “Can you be a little more specific? Between staff, contractors, spouses, and girlfriends, there are lots of women around our shop.”
“Not like this.” Paul raised a finger. “This one carries press credentials.”
“Ah, crap,” Taylor grumbled. “Let me guess. She’s about five-foot-two and a hundred ten pounds, with brown hair, tan skin, and a morphogenic tattoo of a bear cub on her right forearm.”
Paul blinked. “How’d you know?”
“Her name is Lisa Kouvaris,” Taylor said. “She’s a beat reporter with the Jacksonville Times Union. She’s been pokin’ around the Clubhouse for a few weeks now.”
“What does she want?” Billy asked.
“You got me.” Taylor pulled off his cap and tucked it away then retrieved his riding helmet. “All I know is she’s interested in writin’ some sort of story about us.”
Billy glanced at Paul, then back to his boss. “So, what’s the problem? Good press is good press. You take it where you can and run with it.”
“That’s always been my thinking,” Paul agreed.
Taylor rocked his bike off its kickstand and climbed on. “Sorry, boys. I’m here to run the business and get us all paid. My job description don’t say nothin’ about interviews.”
“You’re also the new face of Swamp Eagle Security,” Paul added.
“The doc’s right,” Billy said. “Like it not, you’re the majority owner of one of the most well-known mercenary outfits in the world that doesn’t have a horse in its logo. At least, we used to be. You’ve gotta know a little facetime comes with the territory.”
“Exactly!” Paul exclaimed. “Come on, Chief. It’s just one interview. Heck, your brother used to thrive in this kind of limelight. It landed him a ton of play, too.” He winked. “Especially with the ladies.”
Taylor sighed. You know, Paul. For a guy with an M.D. plus dual Ph.D.’s in nanotechnology and xenobiology, you really are a fargin dumbass sometimes.
The Atlantic surf crashed in the distance.
“I’ll grab lunch back at the Clubhouse and deal with this reporter,” Billy said, glancing at Taylor while Paul just stood there, looking awkward. “Come in through the back gate when you reach campus. That way she won’t see you if she opts to be a pain and squat out front.”
“Ayew,” Taylor said. That was Eagles’ slang for Acknowledged and Understood, or AU.
“Where are you headed?” Paul asked.
Taylor rose on a toe and fired up his bike, sending the vintage Big Twin engine chugging to life. “I’ve got some business of my own to handle in Jax Startown. FYI, that’s probably gonna put me a tad late, so don’t wait up.”
Billy raised an eyebrow. “What sort of business?”
“Nothin’ big,” Taylor said. “It’s just an errand I’ve gotta run.”
Now Billy really looked suspicious. “Might I inquire as to the nature of that errand?”
“Sorry, Hoss.” Taylor grinned and slid his sunglasses on. “That information is classified.”
* * * * *
Chapter 2: Beers, Brothers, and Brawls
“I’ll be damned!” Rex O’Malley bellowed from behind the bar, his New England accent as thick as ever. “The Prodigal Son returns! What’s up, Hillbilly T?”
Taylor strolled in through the ragged wooden door of the Hell House and threw an arm around his former coworker. “You see it, brother. How’s life back here in the service industry?”
“Eh, par for the course, I’d say.” Rex tipped the brim of his Boston Red Sox cap. “We’re all just livin’ the dream and killin’ time until the next high-rolling customer rides in with a hard thirst for Jax’s finest brew and a fat account for tipping.”
Taylor chuckled, remembering his friend’s plight. The Hell House was one of the few watering holes left on the startown strip—Cocktail Junction, as it was called—that still employed flesh-and-blood bartenders. Everyone else had gone automated to cut costs. Couple that with the place’s dumpy roadhouse charm, affordable prices, and old-world style, and the Hell House had always been a haven for those craving a touch of nostalgia with their booze.
“Speaking of brews.” Rex aimed a thumb at Taps’ Row. “What can I getcha?”
“Gimme my standard,” Taylor said.
“Good grief, Hillbilly.” Rex cringed. “You do realize you ain’t broke no more, right? You don’t have to drink like it.”
Taylor grabbed a stool and sat down. “A man’s brand is his brand, bud. You know that. Those things typically don’t change once they’re set, money or no money. Besides, Long Branch Light is a local brew, and we natives like to support our own.”
Rex shook his head and pulled a frozen mug from the cooler. “All the quality beer we got in this place, and my boy still drinks like a backwoods farmhand fresh off a tobacco crop. Go friggin’ figure.”
Taylor laughed. Meanwhile, the digital pop of faux-vinyl crackled from the jukebox, then rolled into the opening guitar riff of Learning to Fly from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
Somebody’s got good taste. Taylor searched the room for the song’s player. There were two older men shooting billiards in the corner, while a trio of other folks had ensconced themselves in a booth toward the back.
“Here ya go.” Rex salted a bar napkin, then set Taylor’s mug down. “One ice-cold glass of Jax-brewed piss water, made to order, just for you.”
Taylor saluted with his glass. “So, down to business. Were you able to get it or what?”
Rex looked wounded. “That’s harsh, man. Seriously, when have I ever not come through for you on these kinds of things?”
Taylor answered that with a smirk.
“Fine.” Rex reached under the bar and came back with a lone object. Small, rectangular, and solid to the touch, the plastic case glistened under the bar lights in its original factory-sealed shrink wrap.
Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Taylor cradled the old-timey cassette in his fingers. “I honestly didn’t think I’d ever get my hands on this. Do you know how rare it is to find one of these in this condition?”
“Very, if the price you paid my starport guy is any indication,” Rex said. “Don’t expect any change back, either. It took your whole wad and my finest negotiating skills to get him to part with that.”
Taylor didn’t care. He sat there, staring in wonder at the plastic case with four men in western-style clothes on the cover. “My dad was huge into the oldies when we were kids, so stuff like this played in our house all the time. I’ll tell you right now, Rex. For all the music America put out in the late-twentieth century—especially country music—nobody did it better than these guys. They called them The Highwaymen.” He looked up. “This right here is what you call timeless, my friend.”
“I know,” Rex said. “I’ve been forced to endure their twangy charms on more than one occasion by a certain former coworker of mine. Only back then, we listened to it via the Net. You know, that magical place in the sky where all music lives forever in a crisp, clean digital format?”
“Ain’t the same as hearin’ it on the original medium.” Taylor brandished his cassette. “Back in 1985, that was this.”
Rex waved off his friend while the latter tucked away his prize.
“So,” Taylor said. “Outside of work and antique music devices, what else is new?”
“Eh, same old.” Rex shrugged. “Sky’s blue. Water’s wet. My Sox promise to suck again this season. Pretty much just the usual.”
“Move the club to North Florida, and maybe one day you’ll sniff a pennant again.”
Rex fished a dirty sponge from the bar’s sink and smacked his guest in the face with it.
“Dude!” Tayl
or protested through the stench.
“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you blow that kind of trash out of your word hole,” Rex said. “The Sox are of Boston, by Boston, and will always reside in Boston, period. Nothing’s gonna change that, either. Not some slick arms billionaire with a shiny new stadium, or even a cockamamie tax law that lets us pillage the league’s free agents. We stand by our team, just like they stand by us.”
Taylor rolled his eyes. “If you wanna die on Purist’s Hill, then be my guest. But remember this.” He pointed to his Jax Generals hat. “Eight World Series titles in two and a half decades say the Rays were smart to leave Tampa.”
Rex flipped him the bird. “What’s up lately in merc land?”
“Ah, not much.” Taylor sipped his Long Branch Light. “We just wrapped our fourth contract since re-openin’ shop, and I’ve got one of my company commanders runnin’ down number five as we speak.”
“Can I ask what kinda contracts we’re talkin’ about?”
“Mostly low-risk, small-time stuff,” Taylor said. “Executive security, private escorts. That sort of thing.”
Rex heaved a sigh. “Man oh man, how the mighty have fallen. I can remember a time when Swamp Eagle Security got the crème de la crème of jobs around this town. Garrison, training, high-end cadre, you name it.”
Taylor’s gaze met the bar top.
“I mean, your friggin’ brother, man!” Rex continued. “Now there was a cat who knew how to make an entrance. I kid you not. Terry Van Zant would strut in here like the cock of the walk after a gig, then cover every tab in the house for grins, giggles, and gonads, plus a forty percent gratuity right off the top for the staff—busboys included! People loved that guy! Seriously, T, he was like a…” Rex trailed off, doubtless at the sight of Taylor’s cap pulled low over his eyes. “Ah shit, Taylor, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t sweat it.” Taylor raised a palm. “Trust me, I’m used to it. Comp me next round, and we’ll call it square.”
A shade of color returned to Rex’s cheeks. “I’ll do you one better. How about I throw in a burger, too, seein’ as how that so-called beer of yours costs less than the pop in my soda gun?”
Free Bird Rising Page 2
