by Mark Wandrey
“Do something,” he hissed at Mr. Holloway, Esquire.
“A moment, Your Honor?” the attorney asked. The judge nodded her head. “The most I can do is to slow this up on procedure,” he told Jim. “By not showing up, your mother has driven a stake through the heart of any defense you might offer.”
“So you’re just going to let them destroy one of the Four Horsemen?” Jim almost cried. “My father – my family – has fought and died for generations to build this!”
“Take it easy,” the judge snapped. Looking at Jim, her expression softened. “Son, I understand how difficult this must be for you.”
“Do you?” he asked, with thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Yes, I do. I really do. As a corporate law judge I hear a dozen of these stories a week, and some are even more tragic than yours.” Jim looked down and sighed. “What’s been done to you is tragically unfair, of that there is no doubt. But under the letter of the law, a legal solution must be met.” She turned to Jim’s lawyer. “Counsel, do you have anything further to say?”
“Not at this point, your honor.”
It was late afternoon when Jim left the Houston Startown Federal Courthouse. The entire estate had been placed into receivership. The only concession the judge was able to grant was releasing the freeze on his personal bank account, and the counsel for the debtors objected to even that.
“It is reasonable to allow this young man to hold on to the few thousand credits he has in his personal savings to pay his living expenses. No egregious harm will come to any of you as a result, agreed?” They hadn’t, but the judge did it anyway. So he had enough to rent a room in a seedy flophouse a few blocks from the courthouse.
Jim spent some of the money getting a local node in place so he could do some freelance work on the Aethernet as well as look for full time employment. As the week progressed, the formal will was read into record, but that was just a technicality. Thaddeus Cartwright had left various sums to his trusted lieutenants and friends that was to be paid by Jim when he became an adult, all of whom would never see a dime now. The majority of the estate was given to Jimmy Cartwright. He’d get less than nothing, as he’d inherited the debt left over. Vast as the estate was, it was nothing compared to the legion of debtors clamoring for the rotting corpse of the Cavaliers.
He worked the occasional odd job, helping create Aethernet presences, advertisements, applications, or any other work he could get. He had to hustle to keep from dipping into what little money he had left. That also meant he spent most of his waking hours sitting in a chair, pinned in, just working, working, working. When he ate, it was always takeout food as he didn’t have access to a kitchen, and even if he had...he didn’t cook. After two weeks of this, his clothes were getting snug.
At least once a week he sat in on court proceedings, usually Monday so he could hear the summaries of the week ahead. It felt like an autopsy as he listened to the results of auctions. Accountants were selling off everything his family had worked for more than a century to amass. Luxury items like cars, planes, boats, and the estate were sold to the wealthy or to corporate investors. The mercs’ hardware and rolling stock were purchased by other mercs. He was pleased to see EMS Bucephalus – the company’s Akaga class space cruiser – go to the Winged Hussars. It was good the ship stayed within the Four Horsemen...now three, Jim thought, with a pang of regret. The final sales price actually made him guffaw, especially since the Hussars were the only bidders. The smaller craft and drop ships went dozens of different ways.
As the assets were listed and disposed of, Jim began to wonder what had happened to the family’s personal yacht. Pale Rider had been in the family for a century. He’d always thought it was a beautiful ship, unlike the boxy warships and commercial transports. Capable of landing on a planet, rare among true starships, his great grandfather had bought it somewhere on the far side of the galaxy and brought it home to convert to a family ship. He’d ridden on it many times but had not set foot on it in several years. There was no mention of it in the will, and he wondered if his mother had somehow stolen it or sold it on the black market.
After an entire month, it was all over. The fire sale had totaled out at just over four hundred million credits and the balance of goods owned by the Cartwright Cavaliers, and by default Cartwright Transglobal (the official corporate entity), was gone. The remainder would take a little longer to get rid of. Largely personal items of limited value, they would be bought by junk dealers.
“Mr. James Cartwright,” the judge finally said more than five weeks after it all began. “I’m completing the disposition of your estate.”
“I understand,” he replied.
“You realize that you are, by law, responsible for the remainder of this debt, under the Inheritance Reform Act of 2020.”
“I do, Your Honor.” The judge looked down at her slate.
“The total remaining debt is 188,012,801.15 credits. How do you intend to settle this?” Jim’s attorney spoke for him.
“Mr. Cartwright is declaring bankruptcy, Your Honor.” She nodded, having expected that.
“You could have done that before any of this happened, you know,” she said, shaking her head.
“It wouldn’t have been fair,” he said. “Besides, doing that would have destroyed the name of the Cavaliers, and we’d have lost our charter.”
“That’s true,” the judge said, “but what good is a charter when you have no capital or equipment with which to operate? Who would give a contract to the shell of a company, even one with your name?”
“No one,” he admitted, trying and failing to keep a tear from rolling down his cheek. “But our name is all my mother left me that those assholes couldn’t sell.” He glared at the table full of lawyers, all of whom had made millions off the dismemberment of his life.
“I respect that decision,” she said. “This case is transferred to bankruptcy. I assume you have the necessary documents prepared?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyer said, and held up his slate.
“Very well, let’s handle this then.”
Unlike the case to settle with the claimants against the company, his personal bankruptcy was cut and dried. He’d declared most of what he owned. A few things had been stashed in storage, and they were only worth a few thousand credits, but he was damned if he was going to allow them to leave the family. The inventory and his personal assets were summed up. In an hour, the same judge decided that, considering the level of debt and remaining assets, James Cartwright could not be left in complete poverty as his wealth could not even settle one of the outstanding debts. With the bang of a gavel, it was all over.
Jim left the courthouse with exactly two things that had once belonged to the Cartwright Cavaliers: the corporate headquarters in Houston Startown – bereft of all furnishings and office equipment, of course, but it still had a three-year non-transferrable lease that had been paid for in advance, and the company name, complete with charter. They’d actually tried to sell the name and charter at one point. All 288 currently-chartered merc companies had unanimously refused to bid, and no one who was not currently chartered was allowed to make an offer. That was a Union Mercenary Guild law. It was the lone high point in the entire proceedings. With nothing but empty offices and the company name, Jim returned to his flop to eat pizza, work, and try to create a new life.
* * * * *
Chapter 6
The knocking was insistent and showed no sign of relenting. He rolled over ponderously, the bed frame groaning in protest and eyed the door only a few feet away. The knocking resumed.
“Go away!” he yelled. The apartment in the outer ring of Startown was cheap and came with many undetailed extra features. For example, prostitutes came by at regular intervals, as did drug dealers, panhandlers, and thieves. Luckily he seldom left the little flat. Everything he needed could be delivered. He spent his days in the Aethernet, and his evenings eating pizza. He’d given up worrying about his weight only a week after
the conclusion of his bankruptcy.
“Mr. Cartwright?” a voice called through the door.
“Fuck,” Jim groaned. One of the blood suckers who hoped there was still some marrow left in the bone had managed to hunt him down.
“I don’t have any money left!” he barked. “All the money I have, I earn myself. Go away.”
“Mr. Cartwright, I’m not here for your money. It’s about the will.” Jim got up and went to the door, unlocked all the bolts, and yanked it open. His face was purple with rage.
“The will has been discharged already – what the hell?!” he said, to where the intruder’s face should have been, but wasn’t. He looked down to see a man who was as short as Jim was round. He couldn’t be three feet tall, dressed in a perfectly-tailored suit and holding an expensive-looking briefcase.
“That was the family will,” the man said, looking Jim over with casual interest. “Would you mind putting on some clothes so we can discuss this?” Jim looked down and realized somewhat sheepishly he was only wearing boxer shorts.
“Just a minute,” Jim said and closed the door. He found a pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt, pulled them on, then opened the door again. The tiny attorney was still standing there.
“May I come in?” he asked. Jim gestured, and he squeezed past.
The rented room had a tiny built-in table and a pair of chairs that slid in and out from the table. Jim moved empty pizza boxes off the other chair and the table. The visitor put his briefcase on the table and hopped up onto the chair not unlike a child would have.
“What’s this about another will?” Jim asked. The man opened his case and drew out some legal papers.
“The will that discharged the Cartwright estate was the one we all watched on TV – a painful drama. I’m sorry about that.” Jim nodded. “What we have here is an estate will that predates your father’s own estate; it goes back to the founders of the Cartwright’s Cavaliers.” He read off the papers. “James Eugene Cartwright, Sr., established the independent trust to fund a Cartwright Historical Association. You are James Eugene Cartwright, II, are you not?”
“Only when I have no choice,” he mused.
“Interesting,” the diminutive lawyer said, then returned to his paperwork. “Anyway, as I mentioned, this trust is outside the family’s assets. Instructions were to wait for six weeks after the will was completed before this one was executed.” He consulted the paperwork again. “The trust was established in order that historical artifacts, relics, and curios of the Cartwright estate would forever be preserved. He, your great, great, great grandfather, had the intention of giving the material to the Smithsonian, but they were not interested in weapons of war and mercenary history. Their words.” Jim shook his head. He’d heard sentiments like that from the government all his life. Despite the fact that taxes on mercs paid 90% of all the taxes on Earth.
“So what is included in the trust?” Jim asked. The lawyer slid a paper across to him and began listing.
“The First Horseman Museum, including all assets and grounds. Operational control of the same. The airfield, landing rights, as well as all hangars and facilities. And of course the operating fund of the museum.” Jim glanced at the bottom of the page and whistled.
“You’re positive all those creditors can’t take this?”
“It never actually belonged to your father or his wife,” the lawyer said, then handed out another page. “In the will is the option to leave the museum in trust. An appointed trustee ran it. Your father left the trust alone, which is why it is still here. So, I know it’s sudden, Mr. Cartwright, but do you wish to assume control of the trust or leave it for your children?”
“So I can just sign and I get all of this?”
“That is correct, Mr. Cartwright.” The little man folded the papers and looked at him. “You have seventy-two hours to make your decision, at which point the trust remains untouched.” Jim nodded in understanding. “Are you going to wait, or decide now? It doesn’t really make a difference to me either way. I’m paid by the trust.”
“I think I’ll decide now,” Jim said.
The cab dropped him off in the circular drive just outside the main entrance. The building was old and had been built with the intention of thousands of guests a day. A plaque next to the entrance gave some history.
“Houston’s William P. Hobby Airport served as the city’s principal airport from the 1950s through 1969. After being revamped, it continued to serve the public until 2049 when the Houston Starport began operation, and it was sold to the Cartwright Historical Preservation Society and converted to the museum you see here today.”
“I don’t know how I didn’t know about this,” he said as he looked up at the main entrance. A huge representation of the Cartwright Cavalier astride a sturdy warhorse was top center, with the Winged Hussars, Golden Horde, and Asbaran Solutions flanking it. The words, “First Horseman Historical Museum,” was displayed in an arch across the top, and, “Lead the Charge,” the house motto, was inscribed below the Four Horsemen. Why had his father never brought him here? As he climbed the final stairs, a Tri-V display came alive, and there was the inspiring profile of James Eugene Cartwright, Sr., standing with a wide stance, and a hand held up. “Welcome to history!” And then Jim remembered.
He’d been no more than five the time he came here. His father had brought his mother and him to the museum. Jim had been too young to understand this was his own family’s museum – all the displays, all the history...the staff treating him like a little celebrity, his mother hating every minute she spent in this museum full of the instruments of war. They never went back.
Jim looked at the locked doors. It was Sunday, and the museum was closed. He took out a pinlink and clicked it to his interface. Instantly, complicated locking codes appeared in his mind. Jim keyed them in, and the doors obediently slid open for him. He walked through the front doors, which slid closed and locked behind him.
Inside, he walked past Tri-V displays that sensed his presence and came alive. Each was a perfect representation of a director of the Cavaliers, from James Eugene Cartwright, Sr., on down. He made a mental note to have his father added right away. He moved past a gift shop, the main ticket office, and into what had been the old Hobby Airport’s main terminal. It stretched for more than half a mile in both directions – one vast space filled with hundreds of displays. Like the small representations of the founders in the entry, many of these detected the presence of a visitor and came to life. Soldiers marched, tanks rolled, drop ships took off and set down over and over again, all in glorious Tri-V technology.
He walked along, taking in this historical banquet spread out before him. It wasn’t all computer-generated either. A surprising amount of the memorabilia consisted of actual artifacts. A Boeing B22G Albatross dropship was suspended from the ceiling, wings gracefully folded into orbital drop mode. The plaque proclaimed it as the first B22G ever to fly. Jim knew the rest. The Albatross was the last Earth-designed merc dropship. After that, they were all manufactured off-world. The Albatross had a sentimental place in their hearts. It had distinctly human qualities that no longer existed in dropships because all those now manufactured on Earth were heavily influenced by alien designs.
Further down was a German Gepard reconnaissance tank, and next to that a Caterpillar X1000 command and control tank. Just beyond, after a pair of Tri-V tank prototypes, was the Mitsubishi Heavy Industries’ Combat Assault System, Personal MK I, or CASPer for short. This was the first iteration of a human combat armor – it had enabled Earth’s mercs to stand toe-to-toe with anyone else in the galaxy. It was squat, ugly, and looked like it could barely move. Looks could be deceiving. Jesus, it still had actual blood on it! There was a Tri-V being projected next to the suit showing none other than its inventor, Dr. P. Mauser.
“Hey!” someone barked, and Jim almost pissed himself. “What are you doing in here?” A man who had to be 100 years old was bearing down on him, a huge wrench held in one hand. He w
ore faded and stained coveralls that might have once been white but were now closer to yellow. His hair was much whiter and just as completely unkempt. It surrounded his head like a hazy halo. The coveralls proclaimed, “Cartwright Historical Preservation Society.”
“Easy, old man,” Jim said and backed away.
“We’re closed, how the fuck did you get in here?”
“I’m the new director,” Jim said as the menacing old man closed the distance.
“Bullshit!” be barked. “Prove it.”
“I can’t if you cave my head in!” Jim said, fetching up against the heavy steel of a very real tank. The man stopped less than a yard away and paused, but the wrench remained poised to strike. Jim slowly raised a hand again to touch his pinlink. He accessed the museum’s Aethernet, entered the master control code he’d gotten when he assumed control, and started the lights in the hallways flashing in order. The man looked up in surprise. “Not good enough?” Jim asked. The man looked at him, his eyes narrowing. Jim sent another command to the museum’s computer, and the PA system boomed.
