The Card Arkana had decimated the dozen fighters he brought with him. The Kangal mech had collected the wounded, placing them near the stream so he could provide them with fresh water. Kilmartin was applying SLAP patches in an effort to preserve as much of his hit team as he could. He had a reputation to uphold. If he nursed these men back to health and went on to take out the target, it would bolster his ranking in the CORAL mercenary houses. Although they weren't in the Core Worlds, word got around. He couldn't be the only survivor of a team he trained for a mission. No matter the evidence, everyone would think he cut bait and ran.
“How we looking, Boss?” the injured fighter he was treating asked.
“Not bad, kid. We have the Kangal, a ship, and there's four of us left. I had worse on the Fluss Garten campaign in the CORAL. Only thing you can do when you get knocked down is get up and knock back.”
The injured gang soldier nodded his agreement. “And to come back from what could be a total loss and salvage victory for the family would be a great honor for us.”
“You got that right.” Kilmartin lit a cigar, tossing one to the broken Ghost.
The Chen enforcer lay in the snow, his head resting on the back plate of his armor, indifferent to it being soft as a tank tread. He shook the lighter several times, trying to jostle enough fuel to get it to burn. Despite the wind whipping around the escarpment, he held it up to his ear, wiggling it in the vain hope he might hear a slosh of fuel so he wouldn't have to get up to light it on one of the many burning surfaces around them.
“Do you hear that?” Kilmartin asked.
“Nope. I think it's empty.”
“Not the lighter,” Kilmartin replaced his helmet, turning up the gain on the audio sensor. Deep under the sound of the wind was a tinkling noise. It was repeating in a looped pattern that made it come across horrifically musical. It resembled someone trying to play a tune using broken glass.
“Mech. What was your designation again?”
“I am a medium anti-personnel robot, Kangal Class. My identity number is NX-575.”
“575, can you identify the looped pattern playing at high pitch under fifty decibels?”
“Yes. It is a nursery rhyme from Old Sol, set to music. Pop Goes the Weasel.”
575 pointed to a spout of dislodged snow, revealing a jack-in-the-box close to the stream. The child's toy was sitting at an angle, suggesting someone threw it there. The jester bouncing back and forth was similar to the kind Kilmartin remembered from when he was a child. He zoomed in with the range finder on his helmet. He didn't notice anything peculiar about the toy, not that he wanted to get any closer to it for a better inspection. He couldn't reason anything other than the toy had been left here by a previous occupant of the cabin. But if that was true, what started it playing?
The Kangal stepped around the merc, dropping to a knee to surround him in a massive bear hug.
Kilmartin craned his neck to address the bot, “Um. Is there something I should…”
The log cabin detonated, sending hard packed lumber flying outward, turning the structure into an improvised explosive device. One of the logs flew out intact, mowing down several meters of the burning glade. A torrent of shards blasted the Kangal, barely rocking it, but making a terrible racket. The symphony of destruction finally abated, leaving the howl of the wind to complain about the violence.
The young Ghost Tiger lay several meters away, covered in a bramble of shredded lumber and snow. 575 made short work of the rubble, exposing a casualty that looked like a crumpled tube of tooth paste. Although he was impaled in several places that hadn't been crushed, the broken cigar was still in his mouth, smoldering from some fiery piece of wreckage. The firestorm fed on wood, tobacco, and gangland soldier alike, turning one side of his body to ash.
Kilmartin flared the personnel overlay in his HUD. All of the Ghost Tigers were dead. Those that weren't killed in the firefight had been crushed, skewered, or cooked in the explosion. Whoever this Madame Tarot was, she was every bit what the rumors claimed.
The lingering smells after the brief firefight led by a ruthless commander, triggered a memory of fighting for the mercenary companies in the CORAL. He’d been part of a reconnaissance company attached to a pack of mech jockeys. Despite being some of the best mercs working, they were totally unprepared for the brutal guerrilla war brought to them by the locals. The Colony of Siev was staging a coup, looking to free itself from the nation of Koskavan. Koska forces, augmented by small merc companies, were sent in to quell the revolt. Two years of brutal fighting later and Kilmartin still couldn't eat Pirozhki without tasting blood in his mouth.
Control broke into the net and his thoughts. “Kilmartin! We just registered a massive blast! All other PDT's are offline. Report!”
“I'm here. Me and NX-575 made it out, thanks to him.”
The comm squelched. Control's satiny voice was replaced by a smooth and stern one, the speech of a lawyer holding all the facts of the case. “Mr. Kilmartin, seeing as you have survived the encounter with the Kangal and your backside intact, you will continue on to complete the contract. Do you have any questions?”
Ms. Chen, the head of the cartel had personally deigned him with her presence, which wasn't a good thing. She’d risen to the head of the family by adopting the same brutal methods as the Xang triads in the CORAL. She rewarded loyalty and ingenuity but was known to punish the unlucky or stupid.
Kilmartin spoke hesitantly into the net. “Can I expect a replacement force for the –”
“You can expect to pay reparations to the families of your crew for their deaths.” Chen admonished. “You can expect that we want timely results considering the advance you were given. And you can expect that if you fail again, we will finish anything left by the mercenary bodyguard.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
Control came back to the line. “Kilmartin, we are remote piloting your ship to you now. Positioning an OWL in orbit above the operation's area was expensive. Will you be depositing the mech back to orbit or should we do it? Keep in mind, our assistance will come out of your cut.”
“I figured. No, Control. NX-575 is coming with me. I can use all the help I can get.” The merc said.
“That was not part of the arrangement,” Control spat in annoyance.
“Neither was getting shredded by tech your surveillance should have noticed. Consider the mech reparations. Kilmartin out.”
He removed his helmet to replace the cigar to his lips. It still being lit was the only stroke of luck he ran into today. Good mercs knew that luck wasn't a factor for success. Great ones knew to take good luck any time the Crucible offered it. “Got a nice big ship and a target rich environment. You down for a little hunting, Ennix?”
“Ennix?” the bot asked.
“Yeah. 575 seems so impersonal. Served with a guy named Lennox during the Shipyard Revolts on Praeus. Ennix sounds close enough to sound like a real name.”
“I have never needed a name before.” Ennix said.
Kilmartin knocked on his armored hide. “That's because you've never had a partner before.”
“This is true.” The bot continued to scan the horizon for threats. “I would like to come with you to hunt your target. I don't get out much. I would like to try working with a partner.”
“That's the spirit. First thing's first though. We need to gather the bodies. Load them on to the ship. Then we can sift through the blast site to see if there’s anything that might point us in the right direction.”
The light assault shuttle swung onto the mountain relief, settling onto its landing struts under repulsors blasting the blood soaked snow in all directions. It was an older ship in good order. It wasn't the usual vagabond ride covered in welded patches with broken cables and fixtures hanging, but it was sturdy like its pilot. It had covered many miles, and each nick, dent, or bruise told a story.
“Why are we recovering the bodies?” The Kangal asked.
“Ennix, my friend, that is a t
ime tested tradition from wars long past,” the merc said, hoisting the soldier with the broken cigar. “Vertical or not, everyone makes it home.”
Without another word, Ennix went to work clearing debris in order to move bodies toward the assault shuttle. The bot studied the merc, mimicking how Kilmartin would lift the men, taking care to support a head, or drape an arm. After some time in silence, Kilmartin began to regale the bot with stories of digging fighting positions on Calrassa, filling sandbags one minute and graves the next. Ennix recorded every word to study later. It was research for working with a partner.
Three
The Semiova Cafe boasted some of the best coffee and pastries in Kabran City. They were expensive, but most patrons would save up for at least a weekly trip, a guilty pleasure against the monotony of colony life, even in the big city. It was a warm night with a light breeze, enticing people to walk, go out, and spend. Although Kabran was one of the biggest cities on Tythian, it was rare to see a native Tyth walking its streets. They could have the little sections of it they were granted by the company, but places like Semiova were for normal, more civilized folk.
Civilized went to the twin hells as a grav-car slid around the corner at a full burn from its thrusters. Patrons screeched, diving out of the way to avoid the muscle car careening right into them. The power slide brought the driver quickly around the corner, at a cost of control. Tables were catapulted into the air with their accompanying umbrellas along for the ride. The mangled bits of patio furniture were plowed through by the car, landing in either the street or Semiova's large picture window. Several patrons would never again taste the lovely shoba cake amid the smell of fresh locally sourced coffee as they were crushed under the car by the force of its repulsors.
The littered debris stopped traffic, causing a log jam of obstructed grav-cars. The driver slowed, feeling he had nothing now to fear. He took a winding route, switching to this road or that in an effort to be as hard to follow as possible on his way to the docks.
A garbage truck raced from an alley into the side of the car. Thick, knobby truck tires skidded to a halt as the grav-car bounced off one wall, then another, before flipping over a trash container. Sparks flew from the undercarriage to the street, casting shadows against the occupant trying to free himself. He managed to unhook the harness, dropping to the roof of the vehicle, then slithered out like a snake that had part of his body run over. Scraping across broken, tinkling glass marked the figure extracting himself across the wreckage. He might still be able to move but it wasn't pretty.
A man dropped out of the garbage truck, silhouetted against the lights of the vehicle. He slithered far better than the broken snake, holstering a pistol into the folds of his jacket. He moved around the wrecked car, bringing him face to face with his victim.
The driver wasn't done yet, dropping into a fighting stance on wobbly legs.
“You sure you want to do this?” Kel Durado asked.
The injured Chen Cartel soldier shook the cobwebs from his head, squeezing his knuckles together tight enough to make cracking noises. He was probably not as good as a Xang boxer but he looked confident in his ability to dish out a beating. “You're a has been! Kenner took your seat and your teeth. I'm not afraid of you.”
Kel had once been the leader of the Seven Seats, the largest criminal cartel in the sector. Often called the Consortium by folks who didn't want their teeth knocked out, they were responsible for the majority of organized crime on Tythian. When a young buck under his tutelage betrayed him, he’d been ripped from his seat of power and locked away to rot. Standing in the street fighting a Chen Cartel foot soldier would have been beneath him at one point in his career. Now every time he put his knuckles into a problem, it felt like a gift.
The two men charged each other. The gangster came close to punching Kel in the face. Durado ducked into a dive roll that put him face to face with the side of the flipped car. He ground his heel, spinning in place to land his back against the front panel. Falling against the car acted as the trigger for him to pull his pistol. The blaster fell into his hand from the holster in his jacket, the barrel instantly coming level with his assailant. Kel fired three shots, placing them in the leg, chest, and when the punk fell to his ruined knees, one to the head.
He fell over with a wet slap, smoke trailing his collapse to the street.
“Hopefully you didn't ruin our prize!” said a voice over Kel’s in-ear communicator. The words sounded like someone eating decadent chocolate wrapped in satin sheets.
“Hey. I'm a professional. I think I know how to drop a guy,” Kel said with mock injured pride. “Besides, he was shooting right-handed which means if he has the book in his jacket, it will be on the left side, opposite the large hole we just put in him. If he has it in his pants, probably a pocket near the waist. Since I blew off one of his legs near the knee, I don't see a problem!”
“Is there ever a day when you doubt yourself?”
“Only before I met you, Baby Doll. Every day with you makes me king of the universe.”
“I can't believe you talk to the ship like this,” came another voice through Kel's earbud. It was smokey and refined, like Elysian Bourbon.
“Baby Doll is keeping me in practice for when this whole fiasco is over and I have my life back. Who’s going to want to be with me if I talk like some bargain basement street rat?”
“You know, you could always practice with me,” the dusky voice said. “Body language, eye contact, and approach are all something you can practice a lot better with a real woman versus a disembodied AI.”
“But you're all death dealer most of the time, Kat. Am I supposed to just walk up while you're in murder mode and say, 'Hey baby, what's your sign?'” Fits of laughter came through the communicator, prompting Kel to snort a little at the effort. He reached down into the dead man's clothes, rummaging until he found what he was looking for. “Got it.”
“Did you shoot it?” came the retort from Baby Doll, the AI aboard their ship.
“No, I didn't shoot it. It's completely intact. You have no faith in me.”
Kat came over the comms again. “Kel, drifter at your ten o'clock.”
Another grav-car floated from the cross street. Two occupants were dead in the front seat from gunshot wounds to the chest.
“Twin Hells, Katarina. Did you use a SAGA missiles on these two? I can put my hand right through those holes.”
“Don't you dare,” Baby Doll scolded. “Our friend spent a good chunk of the day cleaning my interior while you were out with your crew having fun. You are not tracking all that gore in here.”
“Worse than being married,” Kel whispered.
“I hate to break up this impromptu couples counseling, but you have a demolition derby full of vehicles heading your way, Kel,” Kat interjected. “Time for you to go. Doll, I'm coming to you. We'll swing back through and pick him up.”
“On the move, Kat,” the ship responded.
Kel ran over to the idling grav-car and slid the corpse on the driver's side into the street. He was driving a Donner Silverback. Judging by the instruments and layout, it couldn't have been more than a few years old. The Silverback had a flex-core engine that could muscle thump most cars on the market. While the Chen guys really weren't his cup of tea, they sure did have great taste in cars.
Kel slid into the driver's seat. “I'll meet you over by the landing pads near the warehouses.”
“Make sure you bring me something nice, Kel.”
“You betcha, Baby Doll.”
“I'm going to be sick. Less talking, more stalking!” Kat said in an effort to stop the annoying banter between the ship and her pilot.
“Hey Kat, you’re starting to sound like you know who!” Kel keyed the release for the engine to wind back to power. He laughed, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel in anticipation of the jump from the line the vehicle was sure to give. The exhaust port was throaty, thump-thump-thumping like the drummer of the gods. If nothing else went r
ight today, Kel was sure that life got no better than this. He slammed the throttle to the floor, causing the thrusts to flare. An intake valve forced cold air into the engine, keeping the heat just right so the machine could push itself to max burn. It shot from the line, holograms and driving management systems flaring to life around him. The HUD that was supposed to be projected to the windshield flickered due to the large caliber holes left by Kat plugging the two drivers.
“You got more trouble, kid.” Kat sounded hurried, as though she was running. “We launched a drone. It says the demo-derby is chasing you. They know you have one of their rides and are tracking you. Doll is working to disable it now. Oh, and ETA to contact with our friend is twenty-six seconds.”
“Thanks, Kat.” Kel said, adjusting the rear display to catch a glimpse of one of the chase cars. It wasn't as beefy as the Silverback, but it was light and quick, and gaining fast. Kel cut the wheel hard, jumping onto a highway on-ramp. Looking to a display on the dashboard, he noted that there wasn't a symbol flaring for an auto-drive feature. Some cities had an AI that would slave the directional system of the car so that it could be operated at a speed faster than any human could react to. It would have been a mixed blessing to have now so he could shoot out of the back instead of chauffeuring around the corpse in the passenger seat.
He glided through traffic, past cars just looking to get to their destination safely. The chase car wove in similar patterns, eliciting more than a few blaring horns.
“Going to need a little help here!” Kel said into the comm.
“You know softy paws, the least you could do is say thank you for cutting the chase from eight cars to three!” The voice was hard, like gravel over sandy stone. Things were about to get interesting.
Kel hid in the shadow of a Gravi-Tractor Trailer until he saw the approaching car. The chaser drifted on along the side of the truck, its four passengers looking for the escaping Silverback. Kel shot forward, able to see his pursuer from beneath the trailer. He swerved under the truck, smashing the side of his vehicle into the other, forcing it into the next lane of traffic. An angry Drogar driving a pick-up truck yelled his displeasure at being used as a crash pad for the chase car. He balled his fist at the Chen, smashing the car back into Kel's. The two traded impacts back and forth like batting a ball between two rackets.
The Revenant: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 2) Page 4
