Cartwright's Cavaliers (The Revelations Cycle Book 1)

by Mark Wandrey

  He strolled through the pristine, robot-maintained halls of his family home, past a long line of Cartwright patriarchs, both from the merc era and before it. The family dining room was quiet and deserted. His father’s vast library, expanded considerably in Jim’s youth, was also deserted. The officer followed, acknowledging the difficulty of the moment for the young Cartwright with his silence.

  His wanderings eventually took him up on the expansive third floor, made up primarily of the family’s personal quarters. There was a small separate living area here, along with a family room, and even, a long time ago, classrooms where the Cartwright children received private tutoring. The Cartwright family had numbered in the dozens in decades’ past, not at all like the three individuals who he’d grown up with, now only two. And one was gone, possibly in hiding.

  At the end of the hallway was a familiar room – his own. He pushed the door open and found it exactly as he’d left it four years ago. He ran his hand along the desk with its now out-of-date computer. Posters hung on the walls of bands no longer in vogue and merc companies that now lived only in memory and history books. And finally, there was a shelf full of memorabilia.

  Opening the closet, he quickly packed a couple things then swept the memorabilia into an old duffle bag. The police officer watched from the door, but said nothing. The court order said Jim wasn’t allowed to remove anything of value; as it happened, none of the junk in his room was valuable.

  “Anything else?” the officer asked.

  “One more stop, please,” Jim said, walking two doors down to his parent’s room. The door was open. He looked inside and found it bare. The furniture was there, but no pictures, no valuables, nothing. It used to sport a number of very expensive paintings and other art, now all gone. While he thought about it, he hadn’t seen any of the other art he remembered from his youth. If half the stories he’d read in the lawyer’s brief were correct, those items had been sold at auction long ago. He lingered for another moment, then turned to savor one last long look at his childhood home before he left it, forever.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 4

  Ashattoo skittered out of the trading office both excited and fearful. Four months after the find on Ch’sis, they were delivering the first tanker load to the great trading center of Sakall. The Cimeron region was located just beyond midway to the other side of the galaxy and the Athal’s home world. They’d picked Sakall as the ideal distribution point as it was a proactive feint against their adversaries. Well, there weren’t any adversaries yet, but they would come soon enough.

  As soon as the robotic tanker arrived in orbit, and the manifest data was transmitted to Sakall customs, the process began. He stopped outside the off-world trading office and used his implant to access the Athal data link. He sent a message confirming the sale, as well as the transfer of nearly twenty billion credits to his people’s much-needed bottom line.

  “You are to be congratulated.” Ashattoo turned fractionally so some of the rearmost of his eyes could see who’d addressed him. What he saw sent chills down his thorax. A senior Acquirer of the Besquith stood there, his big black-in-black eyes regarding Ashattoo; his rows of perfect pointy white teeth gleamed in the artificial light. The solid iridium pendant of his Acquirer rank caught the light as well.

  “My thanks, Acquirer,” Ashattoo said through his translator. It occurred to him he had better play this carefully. “For what am I being congratulated?”

  “Oh, now you need not be coy,” the Besquith hissed. They spoke in hisses and grunts which didn’t require their mouths to open, making Ashattoo quite happy. Many mercenary species were imposing to view. Others, like the Besquith, were truly horrifying. A predator species with huge mouths full of razor sharp teeth, a smiling Besquith was often the last thing a being would ever see. They were one of the few races in the galaxy with a reputation for both combat and trading – a truly frightening combination.

  “We are just here doing some trading, same as everyone else on Sakall,” Ashattoo persisted.

  “Halfway across the galaxy from your home? Rather…inconvenient.” The Besquith looked Ashattoo up and down. It did not feel like the huge predator was taking his measure as an opponent, but rather as a meal. Ashattoo pretended to be intimidated. It wasn’t hard. If the Besquith Acquirer had been an Athal, he would have laughed at how scared Ashattoo was at that moment. Of course, had the Acquirer been another of his own species, Ashattoo would not have been in mortal fear at that moment.

  “Look, Athal, I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “I can go then?” Ashattoo asked and half turned to leave.

  “No,” the Besquith said and grabbed one of Ashattoo’s wings. The chiton cracked in the powerful grip and Ashattoo gasped in pain. “Everyone on this wretched station knows you just unloaded almost a million gallons of F11, so don’t play dumb with me if you want to live.”

  “It was a fair transaction,” Ashattoo cried piteously as he tried in vain to pull away without leaving a wing behind. The Acquirer pulled him closer instead.

  “I never said it wasn’t, only that I know about it. And if you had a million gallons, you probably have much more where that came from. You will sell it to us.”

  “You can negotiate for it like every other–”

  “What?” the Acquirer demanded, “Like what? Common lower species such as yours?”

  “That is not what I was saying!” Ashattoo pleaded, moving his eyes’ perspectives around desperately in hope of seeing a peacekeeper. Unfortunately, the usually bustling station hallway appeared all but deserted. He glimpsed some being start to come around a corner and, witnessing what was happening, immediately reversed its direction and left. Ashattoo knew it was far too much to hope the stranger would summon help.

  “Then what are you saying, you pathetic bug?”

  “I’m saying…” the Acquirer squeezed harder, and Ashattoo’s wing cracked more, “can we negotiate?”

  An hour later, he stumbled into his temporary quarters in Sakall station. More like fell into it. He had two shattered wings and was missing a leg. He was mad, and in immeasurable pain. Worse, his species was now in a worse way then he was physically. The Athal had struggled to make ends meet for all its time since first venturing into space and joining the Galactic Union. A small, young species had to scramble to get ahead, and the best way was prospecting for rare elements. Finding a trove of F11 was a coup beyond measure. Having others find out it was in their possession before they had had a chance to properly secure it was a disaster of equal proportions.

  Ashattoo went to his travelling case and removed the medical kit. His severed limb had self-sealed, a benefit of his species’ biology. What good was a detachable limb if you then bled to death after giving it up? Nevertheless, the wound still required a sealant to keep out infection. The wings were another matter. He used the medical scanner and quickly concluded one was a lost cause. He concentrated and felt the tendons sever almost painlessly. Just like the limb, it was sloughed off. He would replace both losses at his next molting.

  After taking an analgesic, he picked up his slate and began writing a communique to the collective. It was difficult, not just because of the pain from his missing limb and wings, but also because he was describing his own utter failure. After all their hard work and luck, this find would be reduced to nothing more than a few percentage points. Sure, it would be millions of credits, but that was no more than most other ventures managed to garner. It took this fabulous find and turned it into a minor footnote in the collective’s P&L table.

  He was nearly finished with the dispatch when his room’s door control chimed, telling him he had a visitor. His remaining wings buzzed furtively, and he cast around the room with all his eyes for anywhere to hide. The space was small and offered only one way out. With a shaking hand, he waved the door’s intercom alive and spoke.

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you the Athal who sold the F11 today?” asked the anonymous
voice. It was pre-translated into Ashattoo’s voice, which instantly let him know it wasn’t one of the dangerous and arrogant Besquith. That didn’t mean this new being wasn’t dangerous, only more congenial.

  “Who are you?” he asked instead of answering the question.

  “I am Grislawn, a trader with the Wathayat.” Athal thought for a second, then released the door. It swung open to reveal a tall, stout, and furred Cochkala. Beady black eyes regarded Ashattoo from inside an expressive face covered in striped white and blue fur. Long whiskers quivered as the being sniffed the air. “Thank you for seeing me.” Ashattoo calmed somewhat. The Cochkala were not known for violence.

  “Say your piece. What does the Wathayat want with the Athal?”

  “We are interested in your F11.”

  “Of course you are. Unfortunately, it has already been sold on the open market.”

  “A mistake, if you consider the results.” With a graceful sweep of a long arm the Cochkala took in Ashattoo’s mauled physique. “Are you well?”

  “Well enough,” Ashattoo replied with a grunt of displeasure he knew would be translated but didn’t care. “Again, what do you want of us? I have no more F11.”

  “You have no more right now,” the Cochkala corrected. “We’ve analyzed a sample and know it comes from a new source, and an unattributed source at that.” Ashattoo didn’t think he could have gotten more nervous; he was wrong. “You are acquainted with the Wathayat, or you wouldn’t have let me in.”

  “You are well known traders,” Ashattoo admitted. “It is also known you have a reputation for acquiring very hard-to-get resources and holding onto them, making them even more valuable.” The Cochkala nodded in the universal sign of assent. “You are also the only trading organization that does not limit its membership to a single species. I believe there are four species in your guild?”

  “You are well informed,” it said with another nod. “Could I ask you a question?” It touched the iridium shield on its chest, a symbol of his office as a Galactic Union trader. “Under my oath, it shall not leave my confidence.”

  “Ask, but I may not answer,” Ashattoo responded cautiously.

  “That is fair,” the Cochkala agreed. “You have a firm source of the F11, do you not?”

  “We may.”

  “It is considerable, is it not?” No answer. “After all, you would not have brought such a massive shipment so far across the galaxy if you did not have access to considerably more.”

  “Maybe this is all we had, and we wanted to sell it quickly for a profit,” Ashattoo suggested.

  “Unlikely,” the Cochkala disagreed. “If you only had that much to sell, you would have sold it in smaller lots around the galaxy, and by doing so, avoided the attentions of species such as the Besquith.” Ashattoo silently cursed his decision to come to Sakall.

  “If we do have more, that is our own business.”

  “It will not be for long; we know the Besquith have demanded it, and you are in no position to refuse them.”

  “If you are here to threaten me, I have been threatened more than enough this day,” Ashattoo snapped, now too upset to make much of an act of it. “Besides, you cannot demand of me what I already must surrender to another bully.”

  “What if my offer is better than their offer?”

  “Offer?” Ashattoo snorted, spitting fluid on the floor as he did so. “Demanding we hand over the F11, exploration contract and all, for a five percent commission is not an offer.”

  “The Besquith were only going to leave you with five percent?” The Cochkala asked, followed by a snorting whistle. Ashattoo didn’t know for certain, but he suspected the other being was chuckling at him.

  “They are strong; they don’t hire mercs to do their fighting. They prefer to do it themselves.”

  “Yes, they are unusual in the galaxy, both thinkers and fighters. Sadistic and merciless.”

  “You are not helping your case,” Ashattoo said, and the Cochkala spread its hands in surrender. “What can you offer, a higher percentage? It would have to be well worth our while to risk the Besquith’s wrath. Even after giving it to you, there is nothing to stop the Besquith from descending on us and laying to waste the entire Athal home world.”

  “There is one way to avoid that and give us the F11.” Ashattoo found himself moving closer to better hear, despite his doubts. “As you know, there are four species in the Wathayat.” It paused for a moment and leaned closer. “How would you like to be the fifth?”

  Galrath, senior Acquirer of the Besquith, roared in rage and threw the slate across the bridge of his ship. It bounced and ricocheted around the space, making a number of the bridge crew duck or cover their heads. “The filthy insect!” he bellowed and looked for something else to break.

  “Please, Acquirer,” the captain of the trader vessel beseeched him, “If you damage my ship...”

  “To entropy with your cursed ship,” Galrath snarled and rounded on the captain, his mouth open slightly, saliva flying as he spun. The captain remained floating just a few feet away, and to his credit, he didn’t budge an inch, even in the face of his superior’s rage. It was his ship, after all. The unspoken challenge calmed Galrath enough to allow him to get control of himself. He didn’t need an honor duel with this one – not now. Besides, he would have no use for a starship beyond selling it, and selling anything so large on the black market would invite unwanted attention from the authorities and others. The fact that he’d been robbed by the double-dealing Athal was what mattered most right now. “With the damnable Wathayat involved, it’s infinitely more complicated.”

  The captain observed him for a moment longer then returned to his station when Galrath didn’t say anything further, confident that, at least for the time being, the Acquirer wasn’t going to tear his bridge apart.

  Galrath considered. Was it possible to strike at one member of the Wathayat without drawing the ire of all of them? Probably not.

  “What about Project K?” the captain asked.

  Galrath turned his unblinking eyes on the captain. At first he was angry with the captain for even mentioning what was supposed to be a top secret project – a project, that, should the other great houses and guilds of the Union discover was underway, would likely mean the end of the Besquith in a most spectacular fashion. Perhaps the captain had a point, though; he obviously had a high enough clearance to know about the project, and that meant he had likely been privy to a full security briefing. All it would take was one glimpse of a few images for any sentient species in the galaxy to recognize the goal of Project K.

  He scratched his ear with one of his blunt working claws, not one of the sharp ones used for fighting, and thought. If it were done carefully, and in such a way as to avoid wide visibility, then perhaps it was a good opportunity. He reached for his slate before realizing it wasn’t there, then spent an annoyed minute searching the bridge for it. He found the machine wedged into a now non-functional instrument panel. The slate was still functional. The bridge crew pretended not to notice, and he ignored them as he began to create a dispatch to central command. If this worked, and Project K had a successful test, he stood to rise greatly in stature.

  From the far side of the bridge, the captain watched the Acquirer with keen interest. His goal achieved, he went about his duties.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5

  He’d sat and listened as the lawyers and the judge droned on and on. Like all the interested parties, he had a lawyer. His father’s will had specifically designated the money and property he would inherit, so the judge could not strip him of it just because his mother had screwed the proverbial pooch.

  Through his lawyer, Jim had done everything he could think of to contact his mother. The judge had allowed him some funds from the company account to prosecute this effort. His own funds were nearly gone. They’d hired a skip tracer, done extensive Aethernet searches, and contacted every place she’d charged hotel rooms. All of them turned up absolutely no
results. Ultimately, they ended up before the judge without her. For Jim, it was the final straw in his relationship with his mother. He felt like an orphan.

  The judge assigned to the case was well-respected, skilled, and seemed genuinely interested in Jim’s welfare. The Cartwright estate was worth in excess of a billion credits, especially when you took into account the ships, weapons of war, and contracts it held. He’d begun to become confident the company could be spared...until the lead lawyer for the state finished tallying the damage and announced his findings.

  “So, Your Honor...” the slick shyster representing the group of creditors was reading from a slate, his thousand-credit suit as immaculate as his haircut, “the total debt incurred by Mrs. Elizabeth Cartwright-Kennedy in her business dealings and back taxes comes to 612,544,612.12 credits.” A stunned silence came over the courtroom. Jim’s lawyer had been in mid-drink and froze, the glass halfway to his lips, jaw hanging open.

  “I’m sorry,” Jim’s attorney gasped. “Did you say six hundred million credits?!”

  “Yes,” the other man said, glancing back at the table full of lawyers representing the collection of clients who had filed suits against the Cartwright estate. “Total of 612,544,612.12 credits.” The judge looked down at her slate and nodded before speaking.

  “I’ve reviewed the stats and find them to be in order.” She looked down from the bench at Jim and his counsel. “Do you or your client have any objection to these calculations, Mr. Holloway?” The man grabbed his slate and scanned it furiously. Jim cursed under his breath. Hadn’t the man even read the briefing? Jim had absorbed it all through his implants and had cross referenced the dozens of suits and claims through the Aethernet. It looked like every company the Cavaliers did business with wanted a piece of the corpse. And all from a series of attempted money transfers his mother had made. The trades themselves shouldn’t have cost the company more than a few million, but she’d been leveraging the company’s assets for more than two years. It technically exceeded her authority, using the company’s name to obtain loans, but that was all moot now that the deals had imploded. The Cavaliers’ credit was destroyed, bills could not be paid, and the entire empire had turned into the storied calliope, sneezing and wheezing, as it collapsed to the ground.