Cartwright's Cavaliers (The Revelations Cycle Book 1)

by Mark Wandrey

  “Transition complete,” Captain Winslow informed them. “Power nominal, we are tracking for Hydra Tau II, 169 hours, 57 minutes on the clock.” The ship continued to thrum around them, and through the magic of a dimly understood alien science mastered thousands of years ago, the ship was pulled toward its destination.

  Jim used the intervening seven days to do his homework. The Pale Rider had a very good Aethernet node with massive off-line storage. He’d made sure it had images of all the data types he needed before leaving, and he spent a good deal of the following days in null gravity pinned into the node, studying their destination and everything about it. Of course, there was still time to watch a few videos of his favorite cartoon and play a few games, too.

  On the fourth day, Hargrave showed up at ship’s dawn in Jim’s room. The ship kept the same hours as Houston, out of tradition that ship’s time matched its home port. He unhooked his arms from the netting that held him in place and looked at the older man. “Yes?”

  “Time you get your ass out and moving, boss.”

  “I’ll get moving; breakfast ready?”

  “Something else first,” he said, “get dressed.” Jim looked at him for a long moment but Hargrave wouldn’t leave, so he released the net, floated over to his clothes hamper, and found a clean pair of ship’s shorts and a shirt. Like most people in space, he slept in the nude. Once they’d had clothes work themselves into truly amazing binds in null gravity once or twice, most people did. Jim was always self-conscience about how he looked naked, but shipboard it was hard to avoid dealing with it. There was only one null gravity bathroom all the staterooms shared. Even the captain had to come down and use it from his cabin by the bridge.

  He used the handholds to work his way inexpertly into the clothing, stealing a glance or two at Hargrave while he did. He was better at it after weeks in space. The other man was feigning interest in several of the stuffed toys Jim had in a clear plastic display hooked to one wall. They floated around serenely in the null gravity of their enclosure. As Jim finished dressing, Hargrave spoke up.

  “What’s with the little horses?” he asked. “You don’t have any kids, right?”

  “No,” Jim said too quickly. You’d have to have sex to have kids, he thought darkly. “I just like them.”

  “But they all look the same. Why so many?”

  “They’re not the same,” Jim said. Finished dressing, he floated closer. “That one is Fluttershy, and this one is Applejack. I like her, but my favorite,” he said, pointing to one with brightly colored mane and tail, “is Rainbow Dash.” He looked over at Hargrave who was staring at him askance. “What?”

  “Are you gay, boy?”

  “What? No, damn it,” he said and moved toward the door. “I’m just really into twentieth-century stuff. Besides, aren’t we a little past that anyway, in the twenty-second century?”

  “Oh, bugger anyone you want,” Hargrave said and followed, pushing gently off the wall. “Shit, this one heavy weapons guy we had onboard about fifty years ago was built like Thor and could kick the shit outta just about anyone in a fair fight. Or an unfair fight for that matter. But he was as gay as a tramp freighter. That guy would suck –”

  “Hargrave, seriously.”

  “What?”

  “I’m NOT GAY!” he barked. “I like girls. I just haven’t found one who likes me.”

  “Okay, fine,” Hargrave said, and slid past him into the corridor leading forward. “Lots of guys like playing with little stuffed horsies named Flutterspark.”

  “Fluttershy,” Jim mumbled as he floated after the man. He knew that trying to explain their appeal was a waste of time. Jim had a better chance of grasping hyper-spatial physics in the next hour. “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “You’ll see.” The ship wasn’t very big, and they traveled down the central shaft until they came to the rotating gravity deck. There were three hatches that moved around and around the corridor in time with the gravity deck’s spinning. Situated amidships, the gravity deck reminded him of a hula-hoop spinning around a skinny dancer. When they were under acceleration, the gravity deck was locked in place.

  One hatch led to the galley, another to the medical bay, but the third was a mystery he’d never gotten around to resolving. Hargrave headed for the third hatch. They climbed down the tunnel ladder to the mystery gravity deck, and Jim found out it was a gymnasium and therapy room. Jim started to leave.

  “Whoa,” Hargrave said. “Hear me out.” Jim sighed and crossed his arms in an, “I’ll listen, but I won’t like it,” sort of stance. “Your bio-monitor has shown a marked decrease in your basic metabolic health. We’ve been in space for three weeks, and a lot of that was in null gravity. During the acceleration out of Piquaw, your heart rate showed abnormal stress levels. So...” He spread his hands to take in the exercise equipment, “Unless you like the idea of living in space the rest of your life, or being confined to a hydraulic bed on Earth, you have a choice.”

  “You’re just trying to make me lose weight,” Jim said to the floor.

  “That would be a good idea too.” Jim looked up accusingly. “It would, and you know it. Your body wouldn’t deteriorate as quickly if you didn’t have an extra one hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “I’ve tried,” Jim said, “believe me.”

  “I do,” Hargrave said. He touched a slate built onto the wall and the display came alive with Jim’s name and a list of exercises. “I used the ship’s medical computer and designed the most basic exercise routine I could that would keep your gravity tolerance up, without making it seem like too much work.”

  “I could just chance it,” Jim said defiantly.

  “Yes, you could well do that,” Hargrave agreed. “And Captain Winslow could then refuse to boost you in the Pale Rider.”

  “He wouldn’t do that; he works for me.”

  “Bet me?” Hargrave asked. “You’d lose. He’s responsible for his passengers. What would happen to his career if your fucking heart exploded during a boost into orbit or during an acceleration to a gate like we just did? That was only four gravities for twenty-five minutes four days ago, before the last jump.” Jim tried not to let the surprise show on his face. Only four gravities for twenty-five minutes? “Yeah, that was all. Felt like a horse sitting on your chest, didn’t it? So, what’s it going to be? Go back to your quarters, rehydrated pizza, and horsey videos, or one hour of exercise per day when we’re in null gravity?”

  Jim stood for a long moment and considered his options, and reviewed how the acceleration had felt. After he’d gone over it, he overrode his own angry reaction to what Hargrave had said and walked over to the slate. “Treadmill,” was the first exercise. “Five minute warm up, five percent incline at three mph.” Without looking at Hargrave, he walked over to the treadmill, programmed it, and climbed on. When he was two minutes into the routine and already sweating, he glanced over to where Hargrave had been and found he was gone.

  After the treadmill, it was fifteen minutes of upper body exercises, fifteen minutes of rowing, fifteen minutes of bicycle, and finally ten minutes in the countercurrent pool. By the end of it, he felt completely exhausted. The climb up the ladder back to null gravity left his arm and leg muscles quivering. It was only when he got to the top that he saw the gravity deck controls had the spin set to only two thirds of a G. He shook his head and headed for the next tunnel over and down to the galley.

  Three days later, Jim was in the gym for his workout. It was the last day of the jump. He’d decided working out first thing in the morning was the best option. He felt rested and energized, and it actually seemed to make whatever he ate for breakfast taste better. He was huffing and puffing against the resistance of the rowing machine when Captain Winslow descended into the room wearing a tank top and shorts. He didn’t notice Jim until he turned around.

  “Oh,” he said and nodded, “sorry, sir. I can come back later.”

  “Not at all,” Jim said, huffing between pulls, “ple
ase go ahead.”

  “Very well, if you don’t mind.” Jim shook his head, and the captain jumped on the treadmill, quickly programmed it, and began to run. Jim wasn’t too tired to notice how he’d set the machine. It was going at least six mph, and the incline was set to fifteen percent. Jim shook his head and kept rowing.

  During the rest of his workout, he observed the captain on and off. He was in marvelous physical health – his body was whipcord thin and his muscles were clearly visible. He wasn’t at all beefy like many mercs; his musculature didn’t bulge and his neck wasn’t as thick as his head, but he was obviously strong and fit. The man had spent most of his life in space, which meant the gym was a constant aspect of his life. He also ate sparingly, as Jim had seen at dinner, which was typically a meal everyone on board shared in the galley. When he finished his workout, the captain was still running and showed no signs of stopping. Jim was torn between envy of Captain Winslow and his body type, and hating himself. On the morning of their seventh day, when he got up for their transition back to real space, he weighed himself in on the gravity deck. To his surprise, he’d lost two pounds.

  “Stand by for transition!” the ship’s computer announced. The sensation of returning to normal space was quite different than that of entering hyperspace. There was an instant of falling, even in null gravity, and it was over.

  The mechanisms of hyper-spatial interfaces dictated where in the vicinity of a star you would transition to normal space, and that varied greatly depending on the sequence and size of the star. In most habitable systems with O-, F-, or G-type stars, it was often pretty close to the Goldilocks Zone, also known as the life belt. A lot of speculation had resulted from that fact. In the nearly two centuries humans had owned hyperspace-capable starships, not one had ever transitioned into a planet or asteroid. Within the Union, there were, of course, legends.

  “Transition complete,” the computer announced.

  “Conducting sweep,” Captain Winslow said. He worked the ship’s suite of sensors, and the Tri-V displayed their location. “Confirmed. We’re in the Karma system.” He manipulated the controls, and the ship spun and rotated on its axis revealing a mostly tan world with a few small lakes and strips of green around them. “Karma-VI in sight.” The world of Karma had already been given an alien name when humans first happened upon it, but it didn’t take those first human mercs long to give it a more fitting one. Many a merc had come here to find work and never returned. “Orbital transfer station?” the captain asked.

  “No,” Jim said, “take us down to Bartertown.”

  “Jim?”

  “Yeah, Hargrave?”

  “I’m going to advise against that.” Jim floated around to look at the older man who’d been working on some sort of machine. He’d disassembled it and the parts all floated within reach. You could tell he was as at home in null gravity as a duck was in water. Jim could see the environment made all kinds of repair work easier, as much as it made them more difficult.

  “Why?” Jim asked, more curious than annoyed.

  “Son, you don’t have to be a genius to see you’re here to test the waters. I was kind of thinkin’ that was your plan when we left Earth.”

  “Maybe,” Jim said, to which Hargrave snorted. “Okay, that is my intention. What better way to attract attention than to show up unannounced in the Pale Rider? It’s recognizable, and most of the aliens will realize who we are and come to us.”

  “That’s the problem,” Hargrave explained. “You’re just a name now, son. The guild knows what happened. They had to because they control all the contracts, and those pending were canceled or bartered off to other companies when your mother burned it down.”

  “But you said the name was powerful,” Jim complained.

  “It is, son, it is. But that isn’t enough to get the kind of contracts you need to rebuild. You don’t have a single merc under your command right now. Not one. And hiring them back on Earth is going to be real touch and go, maybe worse than trying to negotiate a contract. If you come strutting in planet-side with this, flying over the city toward the starport, it’s like skywriting an announcement. Half the bidders will come out to see if they can put a cheap and damned dangerous contract over on you. The rest will probably just waste your time.” Jim considered for a moment. He’d never been to Karma, and he’d never sat in on a negotiation for a contract before, either.

  “Have you ever been in on contract negotiations?” Jim asked.

  “Aye, that I have,” Hargrave admitted.

  “So I best listen to you,” Jim decided aloud.

  “Quite right, you should,” Captain Winslow chimed in. “A big part of being a merc company commander is listening to your subordinates, especially when they know more on a particular subject than you do. I remember when Hargrave came aboard, nigh on seventy years ago. Didn’t do a lot of listening himself. Nearly ended up in a regeneration tank a couple times before he got it into his brain that maybe the old timers knew a thing or two.” Hargrave was looking out the bridge’s panoramic port at Karma. He wasn’t avoiding the conversation. A bemused look on his face spoke volumes about his feelings. “How did I get back here?” Or perhaps, “I can’t believe I’m back.”

  “Okay,” Jim agreed, “the transfer station it is.”

  “Very good, sir,” Captain Winslow nodded and began programing. “I’ll see to refueling and maintenance while you are station-side. Prepare to maneuver,” he announced, turning to project toward Hargrave. The older man came out of his reverie and quickly reassembled the machine. Jim did a double-take at the finished product. It was a compact battle rifle. He finished just as the ship came under acceleration.

  “Come with me,” Hargrave instructed Jim, “we need to talk.” Now under light gravity from acceleration, the two moved aft via the now extended climbing rungs.

  They ended up in Hargrave’s stateroom. On the way, the ship bumped and changed acceleration from time to time. The older man never stumbled once. Each time he just shot out a hand or a foot to counter the random movement and maintain his “sea legs.” It was instinctive for him. Jim nearly collided with the wall twice, and once fell flat on his ass. Hargrave helped him up without comment. Jim guessed he’d been just as clumsy once, many decades ago.

  In Hargrave’s room, the older man asked him to sit down while he opened a cabinet. From it he removed light combat armor in Jim’s size, an equipment/tactical belt, and a brand new pistol. Jim was completely surprised.

  “You’ve been planning this,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “From the day I moved you into the tower, yes.”

  “And if we never came here?” Hargrave shrugged.

  “Then I wasted a few hundred credits.” He pointed at the armor. “Part of the reason I got you on that treadmill too. Another few pizzas and you’d never have fit into that rig.” Jim looked embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Now I meant to take you to the hold and do some weapons training long before this, but you didn’t give me enough warning.”

  “We had seven days,” Jim said as he began to put the armor on.

  “Son, that isn’t enough time. All it would do is give you a false sense of security.”

  “Then why give me the gun at all?”

  “Because walking around Karma unarmed is asking for it in an epic way, that’s why. You know Union laws?”

  “Of course,” Jim said, struggling with a buckle. Hargrave leaned over to help him. “We all study them in school. There are damned few of them, especially concerning personal behavior.”

  “Exactly,” Hargrave agreed. “In the olden days they called it libertarianism, though this isn’t really that. The truth of it is the Union won’t protect you personally, only your species or your world. Lots of rules about war, just about none for individual people. You’re free to sell a shitty product, and the customers you fucked over are equally free to hunt your ass down and kill you over it. There are more laws governing the adjudication of a killing tha
n there are for the killing itself. You’re expected to take care of yourself. The guild handles disputes involving mercs; they have the force of law.”

  “I’ve always wondered,” Jim said, settling the thick armor trauma plate over his belly. It wasn’t going to fit perfectly no matter what he did. “What about weak or helpless people?”

  “Others tend to watch out for them,” Hargrave said.

  “Though surely not always.” Hargrave shook his head.

  “No, that’s true. But no government, no matter how intrusive, ever did that worth a shit anyway. I’d rather count on the good graces of a stranger than the tender mercies of an all-powerful bureaucracy.” Hargrave considered for a moment. “If you can’t get justice yourself, that’s what mercs are for. You can buy it.”

  “Sounds like anarchy,” Jim noted.

  “To someone who hasn’t watched it work, yes,” Hargrave said. “Some have said the Union is carefully controlled anarchy. There is some truth there. Okay, stand up and let’s have a look at you.” Jim did as he was asked. Hargrave made a few adjustments before pronouncing the results satisfactory. “Not bad,” he said, and picked up the pistol Jim had put aside. “Okay, this is a C-Tech model GP-90 modular handgun. It’s a moderately useful pistol I’m confident you can handle. It’s modular because you can change caliber, magazine configuration, optics, you name it.” He pulled the pistol from the holster and showed him. “I’ve put a holographic sight on it, medium 10mm barrel and caseless magazine. The GP-90 is selective fire, but I’ve locked out the automatic. Even at 10mm, it’ll burn through a magazine on full auto in less than a second. You’ve shot some?”

  “Sure, dad taught me when I was seven. I haven’t shot much since.”

  “No, I suppose you haven’t.” He showed Jim the basics of operation – how to replace a magazine, where to find the button that made it load itself, how to activate the safety, and how to unload it. “The design is such that it only loads propellant when you pull the trigger, and it’ll only fire if you have three positive contact points.” He showed Jim three spots on the gun: the trigger, the spot where the web of his thumb would wrap around, and the place where his little finger would rest. “If you aren’t in contact with all three of those, the gun won’t fire.”