Wholesale Slaughter

by Rick Partlow

  Now the mask slipped just a millimeter, a twitch of the muscles on one side of her cheek. “You’re in command,” she told him, “except when your orders are contradicted by the last ones I was given by your…” Her lips pressed together for a beat and she corrected herself. “…by our superior officer.”

  Dad, in other words.

  “And what was that?” he asked her, some of the anger transferring from Lyta to his father.

  “Not to let you get yourself killed.”

  20

  The sound was rhythmic, percussive, an amateur trying to play the drums for the first time. Lyta Randell’s hand paused over the light switch to the Shakak’s deserted gymnasium, head cocked toward the impacts, picking up a soft grunt with each of them. She threw her workout towel around her neck and paced silently past resistance machines and treadmills, past the hatch for the pool, used only when the ship was under steady boost as it was now, past the locker rooms to the last open hatchway before the circular compartment curved back around to the entrance.

  The lights were dim inside the octagon, just bright enough to make her way through the equipment without switching on another. Inside, Terry Conner was losing a fight with a heavy bag. He looked ridiculously out of place in brightly-colored sweat pants and a sleeveless hoody, but at least he’d found the gloves. He was wearing them on the wrong hands, but it was the thought that counted. He smacked at the worn and ragged heavy bag with all the conviction of a three-year-old determined not to go to sleep early. His face screwed up with pain every time he connected, but the grimace was determined to push through the discomfort.

  “You’re going to break your damned wrist,” she told him, stepping into the compartment.

  The floors were mostly covered with padded mats, some of them still stained with what might have been long-dried blood. The cage was cheap plastic, but it was the correct shape. She wondered if Kammy had been able to sucker anyone into fighting him lately.

  “Dad tried to teach me how to punch once,” Terry admitted, resting a hand against the gently-swinging bag, sucking in air. His hair was shorter now than it had been back on Sparta, but what was left of it was matted with sweat and his face was pale. “I didn’t pay enough attention.”

  She snorted a sharp laugh in agreement, grabbed his wrists and pulled the gloves off. His face reddened when she worked them back onto the correct hand and fastened the wrist straps. He was flexing his fingers as she walked around beside him, facing the bag, and fell into a fighting stance.

  “Feet about shoulder-width apart,” she instructed. “Squared off, but the left foot slightly forward so when you lean into a cross you won’t go off balance. Bend your knees. Punch from the hips, that’s where your power is, but start by stepping into it. Shoulders straight, arm at shoulder level, wrist straight if you don’t want to break it.”

  She snapped a cross into the bag, the plastic stinging the skin over her bare knuckles, the cord securing it to the overhead yanking and vibrating as the bag shook with the impact. Terry’s eyes went wide.

  “Now, I’ll show you slower.”

  She repeated the move at about quarter-speed, his eyes following her form… perhaps for more than combat tips. She’d always thought he might have a crush on her, despite their age difference.

  “You try it,” she invited, stepping back and waving at the bag.

  His eyes set with what might have been anger and he stepped into the punch, his right glove crossing into the bag with a solid smack.

  “Now jab,” she urged him, tapping his left arm. He straightened it into a poke at his imagined opponent, weaker and more awkward but he needed more training for the speed the move required. “Jab again!” Better this time. “Cross!”

  The cross was perfect and he followed it with another, left-handed, then another right and nearly fell over, crying out in frustration.

  “Whoa,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay,” he snapped, brushing her support away and striking petulantly at the bag with a backhand. “You made me build a nuke and use it on a habitable planet, Lyta!”

  “I did,” she acknowledged. “And that’s the sort of mission this is, Terry.” She put a finger into his shoulder and turned him to meet her glare. “And you were the one who stowed away so you could come along. Or did you forget that part?”

  “No, I didn’t forget,” he shrugged in grudging admission. “I want to help make this work, but…” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if he were trying to wipe away a memory. “I just want us to be the good guys.”

  She laughed and saw the hurt in his eyes, but she went on with the lesson anyway.

  “There are no good guys and bad guys outside of children’s stories.” Her voice was harsh, but he needed to hear this. “Even that asshole Magnus was probably able to convince himself he was just doing what he had to do to survive. To people like him, anyone who gets in his way is a bad guy.” She snapped a punch of her own into the bag, sending it swinging toward him and he stepped back, eyes flickering between it and her. “You think Declan Lambert didn’t believe he was doing the right thing for Sparta when he killed the Guardian and tried to seize control of the government? Oh sure, he wanted power, but people like him always think them being in power is going to be the best thing for everyone. I bet Starkad is just full of people totally sure they’re the ones who can bring the Dominions together again and rebuild the Empire, and everyone will love them for it.”

  Terry’s eyes went wide at the words and he spluttered a few syllables before he was able to say anything coherent in response.

  “Then how do we know we’re doing the right thing?” he finally managed to ask.

  “I serve the Guardianship of Sparta,” she told him. “I follow legal orders, and when I don’t have clear orders, I do what I think will protect and defend the people of Sparta.” She cocked her head at him sidelong. “Is what’s right for Sparta what’s right for Starkad? Or Shang? Or the Periphery?” She shook her head. “How the hell would I balance all that? The difference is, I took an oath to protect and defend Sparta.”

  “I haven’t taken any oath,” he protested. “I’m not in the military.”

  She advanced on him faster than he could back up and jabbed a finger between his eyes.

  “If you’re going to be on this mission,” she said, each word the lash of a whip, “you had damned well better take an oath!” Her breath hissed out through clenched teeth and she tried to relax. “To yourself, if no one else. Because if you’re not here to protect and defend the people of the Guardianship of Sparta, I will damn well find a way to ship your ass back to Sparta and to hell with operational security.”

  His mouth made an “o” as he seemed to finally realize the ramifications of the choice he’d made. There was still something of the overindulged and overprotected younger child behind his eyes, but she thought she saw something firming up inside them as well.

  “How would…” He stumbled over the words. “I mean, do I need to join the military?”

  She let her face slip into a grin. He was, after all, his father’s son.

  “No, but there’s an oath we give to civilian researchers who agree to a term of employment with military agencies. I think that one would work fine.”

  He nodded, and she thought he might have been relieved he wouldn’t have to enlist in the military… and maybe a little disappointed.

  It’s not what your father wanted for you, Terrin, she thought, but wouldn’t allow herself to say. Mithra knows, this is bad enough.

  “Did you know?”

  Katy had been drifting in the drowsy twilight between sleep and wakefulness, and for a moment, she was sure she’d dreamed the question. She blinked against the glare of the light on the cabin’s nightstand and saw Jonathan sitting up against the headboard, staring into the shadow across the compartment. His hair was matted with sweat, beads of it still glistening on his skin and she felt a purr
of satisfaction somewhere in her chest. There was something so much more affirming about the sex just after combat.

  She rubbed at her eyes and forced herself to concentrate on what he’d asked her.

  “Did I know what?” she wondered, pushing herself up beside him, resting her head on his chest. She could feel his heart beating, steady and strong and she teased at his light-colored chest hairs playfully.

  “Did you know Lyta was going to shoot Magnus?” he clarified. She looked up at the tone of his voice. He was deadly serious, even a little cold, and she gave up on being playful and teasing.

  “She told me,” Katy admitted. “When she ordered me to take out the Agamemnon.”

  “You should have warned me.” The statement wasn’t accusatory. It would have been easier if it had been; she could have just let herself get angry, argued with him. Instead, it was… disappointed. Which was so much worse.

  Finally, he looked at her. There was hurt in his grey eyes, and she knew she’d caused it. Worse still.

  “When you told me you wanted to come along, you said you understood you had to follow my orders. Mine, Katy, not Lyta’s. Only one of us can be in command, no matter what she thinks.”

  Now she did want to argue, did want to be angry. Wanted to tell him he was being an idiot, that Lyta had saved his life, that he would have gotten himself killed going against someone like Magnus in some sort of half-assed, macho-bullshit, mano a mano fight…. But she didn’t.

  “You’re right.” The words dragged themselves out against her will, tasting worse than any medicine she’d taken as a child. “I was just thinking I wanted to protect you, to save you from yourself, but that’s not my job. I’m a military officer and I should have followed your orders.” She shrugged. “If you’d abandoned everything to run off and save me, I’d have been pissed. I’m sorry, Jonathan. It won’t happen again.”

  He sat there in the dim light for a long minute, face creased with consideration, before he finally nodded.

  “All right.” He met her eyes and the corner of his mouth turned up, just slightly. “Lyta made it easy to pretend it didn’t happen, publicly. And between us, well…” He shrugged and the smile grew. “I’m kind of glad you wanted to look out for me.” He cocked his head toward her. “Just this once, though. It’s only going to get harder and more dangerous from here on out, and the mission has to come first. Agreed?”

  She pulled herself up his shoulders and kissed him, hands teasing once again.

  “I agree it’s going to get much more dangerous,” she breathed in his ear. “And much harder.”

  “Damn it, Katy…” But at least he was laughing.

  Epilogue

  “…and the latest reports from our sources at the Alcazar on Sevilla indicate the Imperium of Mbeki is proceeding with their initiative to expand their territory by trying to reclaim some of the Lost Colonies. Their researchers are convinced they can counteract the radiation on some of the more salvageable worlds with targeted asteroid strikes, but our analysts doubt the plan will prove practical and recommend allowing them to waste resources on the scheme rather than attempting to sabotage.”

  Kuryakin felt his attention drifting away and his eyelids drifting downward. It wasn’t just the tedious nature of the intelligence briefing, it was Major Capron’s monotone delivery. The man had the personality of a dead fish and the face to match, for all he was a loyal and hard-working officer. He’d never be anything but an intelligence analyst, though—he lacked that vital catalyst which could launch a staff officer into the command ranks, the ability to schmooze with his superiors.

  “Yes, yes,” Kuryakin said, making an underhand move-along motion with his fingers. “I believe I grasp the situation. I will make the recommendation to Lord Starkad when we meet tomorrow.” Though I’m sure Aaron will pay as little attention to it as I have. No one gives a shit about the Lost Colonies.

  Aleksandr Kuryakin glanced around the room at the three analysts clustered at his desk, eyebrows going up.

  “Is that it? Because my wife would dearly love it if I could actually be home from work in time for us to have dinner together for once.”

  He’d actually braced his hands against the armrests of his office chair and begun to put weight on them when Captain Laurent cleared her throat and made a motion as if she were about to raise her hand like a schoolchild in class.

  “Colonel…” she began hesitantly and he sighed, settling back into his chair. It creaked beneath him and he wasn’t sure if that meant he should call maintenance or spend more time in the gym.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  He sounded, he knew, indulgent and condescending, but the woman was far too meek and retiring and while it had seemed cute at first, it was beginning to wear on him after three months of having her assigned to his analysis team.

  “There’ve been a few reports out of the Periphery about a new mercenary unit.” She chewed her lip, waiting for some sort of encouragement before she went on.

  Deep breaths. Count to ten.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, Ruth.”

  She nodded quickly and scrolled down on her tablet screen, reading notes he was sure she’d had memorized hours ago.

  “They’re called…” She seemed embarrassed to say the name. “…Wholesale Slaughter.”

  Kuryakin snorted an unwilling laugh at that.

  “There’s some truth in advertising for you,” he said, leaning back in his chair, interested in spite of himself. “At least for the typical mercenary trash.”

  “Their commanding officer is a former Spartan mech pilot names Jonathan Slaughter,” she clarified. “According to our sources in Argos, he separated from the Guard after repeated disciplinary actions, mostly insubordination. He kept losing his temper at his superiors over what he perceived as…” She snuck another peek at the notes. “…official inaction on the problem of bandit incursions.”

  “He’ll find plenty of bandits in the Periphery,” Major Bhandaru remarked in his typical dry wit. Kuryakin eyed him balefully. He was one of the Schmoozers, a man who would be promoted, but Mithra knew he didn’t deserve it. Bhandaru thought humor substituted for actual ability. “He’ll break his damn teeth on them.”

  “Wholesale Slaughter recently had their first recorded client,” Laurent went on, studiously ignoring Bhandaru. Kuryakin knew he’d been hitting on her, and while he didn’t approve, he also didn’t feel like stepping on the toes of the Generals and Admirals Bhandaru had been schmoozing so expertly with. “Arachne, a mostly agrarian world, hired them to go up against a pirate named Magnus Heinarson.”

  “The Red Brotherhood,” Kuryakin acknowledged. “Small time, but ruthless killers.”

  “Not anymore, sir,” she said with unusual temerity, apparently emboldened by his response. “They were wiped out to the last man, woman and scumbag. Their ship was destroyed and none of their usual brokers has reported any contact with them since.”

  Colonel Aleksandr Kuryakin raised an eyebrow.

  “That is impressive for a young mercenary company. And they didn’t even try to extort more money out of the Arachne government afterward?”

  “No, sir,” Laurent confirmed. “They even did the job at a bargain price. Apparently, they’re trying to build their reputation.”

  “And they’ve succeeded.” He rubbed the closely-cropped goatee that was as much of a beard as regulations allowed him, unfortunately. His wife was always saying he’d look good with a full beard. “Put a dedicated team on them, and get me eyes on, wherever they go next. I want a first-hand account.”

  “Me, sir?” she asked, a deer in the headlights.

  “Yes, you, Captain Laurent.” He leaned toward her across the desk and scowled when she flinched. “Unless you want to spend your entire career making reports like this, you need to get your hands dirty. You pick the team, you run the assets, and you are responsible for the intelligence assessment. I want progress reports every two weeks.”

  The woman was frantica
lly tapping notes into her tablet, nodding absently to each statement he made. He was tempted to assign a capable NCO or warrant officer to hold her hand through the process, but he decided against it. This was probably nothing, and it was a good chance to see what sort of judgement she had in selecting her own people.

  Wholesale Slaughter. He grinned. That takes some balls.

  FROM THE PUBLISHER

  Thank you for reading Wholesale Slaughter, book one in the series of the same name.

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