We Dare

by Chris Kennedy

  Castell set the direction and speed the Bogota ordered, and accelerated to match, making sure to keep their top acceleration at 144 gravities, the top acceleration rating for the upsilon band in real space. It never paid to give away tactical data when one could help it. Minutes passed as the heavy cruiser and its gunboats settled into an ominous overwatch position to their stern and flanks.

  “We are now close enough for live video comms without significant delay,” Thunderpaws announced. “They are hailing us.”

  “Onscreen,” Mitchell nodded. A handsome, darkly tanned man with an aquiline nose, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair at his temples, and white naval beret filled the screen.

  “Buenas dias, Pandora’s Hope, soy el Capitán Ernesto Guerrero,” the man said.

  “And I am Captain Mick Mitchell, of the Free Mercenary Ship Pandora’s Hope, with business on Montoya Three. We request safe entry into the system on an evacuation and extraction contract.”

  “You may have noticed, Captain Mitchell, that Montoya is not stable at the moment,” Guerrero replied. “Who, precisely, are you evacuating?”

  “My contract includes a non-disclosure agreement above and beyond the usual discretion afforded contracts,” Mitchell said. “Sending you the redacted copy now. All I can tell you without breaching contract is they are neither Escobaran citizens nor are they belligerents in your current troubles. Standing contractor law.

  “Yes, yes, I know all about your ‘contractor law,’ Captain Mitchell,” Guerrero snarled. The shift in his demeanor was abrupt, as though Mitchell had struck some nerve. “I do not think it is so relevant when the planet itself is in rebellion, and the only law that exists is that which the Escobaran government will enforce. Why should I not simply vaporize your ship and be done with you?”

  “Because you like being a captain in the Republic’s Armada,” Mitchell answered evenly. “You and I both know Escobar uses contractors extensively, and I guarantee your boss would be asking some very pointed questions about how they managed to put an idiot of your subcaliber, who doesn’t understand contractor law, in charge of a cruiser like the Bogota.”

  The Escobaran ship captain’s face contorted with rage, and, as he lit into another rant, Mitchell muted him. Kari Castel at the pilot’s controls fought to control a smirk as the man raged silently at them, and Mitchell continued.

  “For the record, contractor law states that if you, as a government actor, unlawfully interfere in lawful contractor business, every contract your government holds with any registered contractor comes due in full. The yen held in escrow transfer, every contractor backstopping your forces on Montoya Three walks off the job with a fat payday, and it would be your fault. You will have blasted one minor corvette, no threat to any ship of the Armada, and in doing so you will have compromised the safety and security of the entire Republic. Every garrison contract walks. Every security post, walks. Every direct-action group not currently in a firefight, walks. This isn’t my first rodeo, Captain Guerrero, and if you think Hope isn’t loaded with a post-mortem drone or three, you’re some special kind of stupid.”

  She let the angry face on the other side of the view screen rant for a few more seconds, and when he appeared to pause for breath, she unmuted him.

  “Are we done here?”

  Guerrero stabbed a button, and the screen winked out.

  “Bogota, Cordoba, and Nariño are accelerating away,” Thunderpaws advised a moment later. “They’ve transmitted a security certificate, valid for 168 standard hours, with a warning to be gone by then or face seizure on suspicion of espionage.”

  “Better than nothing,” Mitchell replied. “Kari, no screwing around, get us to Montoya Three.”

  “Course laid in. I don’t trust those bastards, so I’m going to pretend we’re slower than we are. At upsilon band Gs, we’ll be there in a little more than seven hours,”

  “I’ll tell Bellerophon to get his party dress on,” Faolain declared as he stood to go aft. “And then I’ll warm up Pegasus.”

  * * *

  “Been a while since you went in heavy,” Faolain observed. The Myrmidon’s armory was buzzing as each of the cyborgs armored up in their Hoplite BRUTE armor. The Ballistic/Reflective Urban Tactical Exo was Ares Interstellar’s top cyborg armor go-to for close work, as it was just as effective against kinetic rounds as it was against energy weapons. Working in pairs, they checked and double-checked each plate as sabatons, greaves, pteryges, cuirass, pauldrons, and vambraces were bolted to calves, thighs, torso, chest and arms. It more than doubled their mass and slowed them down somewhat, but the BRUTE armor would render their limbs and systems nearly invulnerable to small arms. Nobody liked an escort mission, but being able to soak up incoming fire could mean the difference between a successful payday and catastrophic failure.

  “Carillon was scum,” Kratos replied as he bolted Janus’s second vambrace on. “If he hadn’t had those hostages, we could have taken him and his gang naked and unarmed.”

  “Some days I feel like we’re the galaxy’s garbage men,” Janus complained. “But then I remind myself we’re very well paid garbage men, and I don’t mind so much.”

  Each plate shone in the Myrmidon’s preferred burnished bronze, which reflected the electric-blue hoplon shield that winked into existence on Janus’ forearm. Testing complete, he put the shield away, donned his load-bearing harness, camo cloak, holstered his gauss pistol, slung his ion carbine, and sheathed his blade.

  Nephilim tested her ANGEL armor, which let her bounce all over the hold in a series of controlled, gravity-defying leaps. Her cybernetic legs were already tremendously powerful, able to leg-press more than a thousand kilos, and her ability to jump was magnified. The Advanced Null-Grav Exo; Light was one of Ares Interstellar’s newest products, it hadn’t been available when she’d been in New Tsiyyon’s Shayetet 21. It didn’t precisely nullify gravity, but it did reduce it by ninety percent for the wearer, in ten-second bursts. It allowed both of the team snipers to leap tall buildings in a single bound, glide on their wingsuits for short distances, and dramatically improved their climbing grapnel’s performance. Neph bounded across the hold from wall to ceiling to wall with the lithe balance of an Olympic gymnast, and tucked her legs under her when the ANGEL effect cut out at the expected time.

  Their armor fitted, Kratos and Thor turned their attention to their demolition kits, prepping tubes and blocks of D-8 for rapid deployment. Kratos considered it a point of pride that he had never failed to cut through an operational Gordian Knot with sufficient application of enough Deton-8 plastique.

  One by one, as each of the Myrmidons finished their preparations, they locked their Trojan-style helmets on. The “horsehair” plumes were actually a fine mesh of sensor strands that detected sound, energy, and radiation. The energy shields that rendered them faceless behind the cheek plates and nosepiece further improved the protection offered to their most vulnerable part—their brain—against incoming fire. Finally ready for battle, the Myrmidons boarded Pegasus and strapped in.

  * * *

  “This is…peculiar,” Thunderpaws murmured from his station. “The sole craft in orbit above Montoya III is the FMS Kiberskiy Medved, a Ship-Corp from Putinskaya Zvezda. The ship crew and troops on board are a single Corp, not the partnership like we enjoy with the Myrmidons. The CEO and crew are wanted in the United States of Texas on multiple charges of murder and wanton destruction. There are no Escobaran ships in orbit, which is highly unusual, especially for a planet in crisis.”

  * * *

  Pegasus released from the belly of Pandora’s Hope and began its descent. The interface ship shuddered as atmosphere superheated its exterior until it broke through the hundred kilometer Karman line that marked the change from space to atmosphere. As the air grew more dense, Pegasus’ aerodynamics took over until the ship’s gravity drive cut out and turbo fans took over.

  “Fifty klicks from Magdalena,” Faolain updated. “We’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes. There
’s the port authority escort now.” He tapped a display. A pair of variable-wing interceptors had pulled in behind Pegasus and taken a five-and-seven o’clock escort position, much like the Bogota’s cutters had. He followed the AR guidance rings down until he reached the designated pad, and set the interface craft down on landing jacks.

  * * *

  The squad of security goons waiting for them wore Prioridad Una Seguridad uniforms and had subguns slung over their shoulders. They had two ground cars with spotlights focused on the ramp as it lowered, and they stayed in the shadows, not realizing the Myrmidons could see them easily in the nighttime darkness with their filtered optics. The senior NCO stepped forward and held out a hand.

  “Identificación, por favor,” he demanded, and Faolain turned over his tablet. The holo of the security certificate the Bogota had transmitted was already lit, and “Sergeant Lopez” examined it, the attached ID clearances, the attached weapons clearances, and their bonded contractor status. One of the many compromises interstellar governments made to secure the assistance of contractors and ship-corps, they would be permitted to carry personal arms, up to a certain level as they went about their business, with the understanding that they would be legally liable for any illegal activity. Much of what they did was illegal, of course, which just meant some of the best contractors were the ones who knew how to get away with it. The Myrmidons knew it, the Priority One Security contractors knew it, and the Gov knew it.

  Ten security troopers fanned out, checking the identification of each cyborg and matching it to the certificate, while Lopez looked up into the hold of Pegasus. He eyed the nose of their preferred ground transport, visible inside, and frowned.

  “Stay out of trouble,” he said, still in Spanish. “We have enough as it is.”

  The Myrmidon’s chosen ground vehicle was a M.A.T.T. from Titanium Allies. The Multipurpose Armored Tactical Transport rolled down the ramp, and Janus activated its passive defensive systems. The Combat Command & Control Carrier, nicknamed “Charlie,” or “Charlie Four,” had variable-surface skin camouflage, and rippled as it adopted a mottled brown and grey to better blend in with the urban terrain. The Myrmidons got on board, and Janus headed for the exit.

  Four swing-arms mounted eight drive wheels, giving Charlie unprecedented maneuverability. Each pair could pivot and rotate independently, allowing the carrier to drive like a standard ground car, jink left and right, even rotate in place. With the swingarms out and extended, Charlie could level itself climbing or moving across a slope, depress the nose and lift the stern to get a better angle on targets above or below them, roll clear over debris, and then retract them and punch it for high-speed travel on normal roads. It was an invaluable tool for urban operations, and being able to nimbly pop out from cover while keeping its thickest armor oriented toward the enemy had saved lives. The turret on the aft deck mounted a 14 cm gauss cannon that fired armor-piercing fin-stabilized discarding sabot rounds at more than four thousand meters per second, a light chainblaster for engaging infantry, and a six-pack of SAMs in case of hostile air. Charlie was fast, nimble, and packed a punch, much like the Myrmidons.

  “Charlie is clear and rolling,” Bellerophon said. “Dustoff, but don’t go too far.” Ryu passed him a tablet with news feeds scrolling past even as he gave orders. “Sounds like the rioting has escalated into an all-out uprising, we don’t want to get bogged down in this shit show. Paragon Savage is only twenty-two klicks, six freeway exits from here. We’ll see what we see en route.”

  * * *

  Janus maneuvered Charlie out the gate and pulled onto the main freeway, while Daedalus manned the turret, and Ryu kept a watch on the news feeds. Drones whirred by overhead, following the designated air corridors, delivering packages from the Orinoco warehouses maintained by the port, and returning to pick up more.

  “Boss? I’m getting some…interesting news updates,” Ryu said, sounding nervous. “Something is going on. Downtown, there was a full scale, no shit, drag out fight between the cops and “La Gente,” but now they’re talking, something something, mass-casualty event, live feeds are showing—nanite kotoda…” he cursed in Japanese, “dozens, no, hundreds of people down.”

  “Show me.”

  Ryu slugged him one of the feeds he’d been monitoring. A live selfie feed showed an entire intersection strewn with bodies, urban grey powered suits standing fifty meters distant, illuminating the intersection with spotlights and drones above. A few of the suits seemed stunned, another was panicking and gesturing to the troop leader. Few, if any, of the prone Escobarans appeared injured; it was like several hundred people had just laid down for a nap in the middle of a teargas-hazed road.

  Men, women, teenagers, and children littered the streets. A few looked like they’d come armored with homemade sports equipment and disposable breathing filters, but the vast majority were wearing little more than normal clothes. The camera focused on one teenage boy, laying across the legs of an older woman, as he coughed, vomited explosively, and then began coughing and choking on the vomitus. The account broadcasting, ChicaNorte69, reversed her camera to pick up her face. Her breath came in ragged gasps, distorted by some kind of respirator, and she staggered and tripped. The comm broadcasting the footage fell face up, on another prone body judging from the angle. The suits in the distance retreated toward the scraper and out of view of the camera, leaving the entire intersection very still under the watchful eye of the spotlight drones.

  “This just got bad,” Ryu pronounced, “but I’ve got nothing on sensors. Onboard NBC systems are negative, radiological is normal background average, and any kind of nerve gas or weaponized bio agent would have my threat indicators lighting up like the Omagari festival. I’ve got nothing.”

  “Mission continues,” Bellerophon replied. “I agree it looks like some kind of chem weapon. We hit Paragon Savage first, then we reassess. Anything else is secondary.”

  “Easier schemed than done, Roph,” Ryu argued, and he scrolled back the livestream to before the broadcaster fell over and paused the feed. The scraper beyond the scattered bodies bore the stylized Æ of Apex Energy.

  “Those suits must have been the Ridians,” Bellerophon said, “reassessment complete. They’re alive: the contract continues.”

  * * *

  Three kilometers further down the freeway, a Mitsuyota ground car ahead of them edged closer to the shoulder, until the onboard driver assist nudged it back into its lane. The gentle pressure the unconscious driver applied to the steering wheel overcame the VI assist, and the car collided headlong into several barrels filled with safety foam. The safety foam, compressed in an airtight barrel, exploded outwards, cushioning the impact and reducing the severity of any injury to those in the vehicle. Janus had noted the vehicle drifting, and had backed off well in advance. He brought Charlie to a halt just short of the wreck, and dropped the ramp.

  Kratos was first out, carbine at the high port. He and Ryu moved quickly but cautiously, stepping over the gooey impact foam, and pulled the driver’s door open. The driver, a young woman with glossy black hair and deeply tanned skin, was caked with foam and had vomited over the interior of the car. She wasn’t moving. He slipped a monitor patch from his harness onto the side of her neck and frowned when it came back null. He reset the patch, reapplied, then shook his head.

  “No vitals, boss,” he updated and moved to the back seat. He applied another patch to the rear passenger, a boy, maybe thirteen standard, also limp and lifeless. “There’s a kid in the back. He’s flat too. Still nothing on sensors, no sarin IX, no VX, nothing.”

  “Neph, can you scan a sample?”

  “I’ll need to take some blood, but yes, I can run tests in Charlie’s medical suite. I concur, there’s nothing radioactive, and air is clear for known chem weapons.” She leaned down to examine the female driver, and gently slipped an eyelid open. Her pupil was dilated, almost entirely hiding the colored iris.

  “This isn’t nerve agent. If it was, her eyes would b
e pinpricks.”

  “Take your samples, Neph,” Bellerophon instructed. “Then we carry on. The first thing we do when we’re back aboard Hope is archive our own recorders, everything we’ve seen, everything we’ve touched. If this is some new mass destruction weapon, we don’t wanna wear it.”

  * * *

  The freeway ahead was littered with yet more wrecks, and curved around a long bend until the claws-and-teeth logo of Paragon Savage Genetics glowed above the shorter scrapers. The facility itself was an enormous pyramidal arcology that sprawled over nearly four square kilometers. The exterior frame was illuminated by spotlights at ground level, showing off soaring arcs of carbon fiber buttresses supporting dense green jungle foliage.

  “I’m reluctant to just roll up,” Janus opined, “but that might be the simplest thing. I’ve got nobody moving, nothing on thermal, no security, nothing. Everything inside seems to be functioning just fine—and, correction—I’ve got armed security staff, prone, out front.”

  “We dismount here, approach on foot, and set Charlie roving once we’ve cleared the area. We just have to hope our VIPs at AE aren’t affected, either they’re alright or they’re not. I strongly doubt that was them in the Coyote suits.”

  “Baldur’s blood, Commander, that’s pretty fucking cold,” Thor cursed. “They leave a conscience in there when they swapped out your heart?”

  “Stow it,” Daedalus replied for the team leader, glaring at the Asgardian. “This ain’t our fight, whatever happened here. Security would be so much meat if they’d been alive to defend this place if we hit it, so the fact they’re dead doesn’t change much.”

  Nephilim checked the prone security guard. He was enormous, even taller than the Myrmidons and broad across the shoulders, like an ox. She heaved him over onto his back, revealing a leathery grey skin and misshapen face.