Cartwright's Cavaliers (The Revelations Cycle Book 1)

by Mark Wandrey

  “Why’s that?”

  Hargrave chuckled. “Alien safety.”

  Jim looked confused.

  “There aren’t any other species with these,” Hargrave said and held out a hand. “Not exactly anyway. So there is no chance some alien bugger can grab this gun and use it against you.”

  “You think I’m going to need it?”

  “I hope not,” Hargrave admitted, “but I can’t in all good conscience take you to Karma without it.” He took the gun he’d finished assembling and pulled a magazine from a pocket, fit it in, and somehow made the gun disappear. An impressive feat for a weapon over two feet long. Jim had the impression that gun was far from moderately useful. “Here’s the deal,” he explained. “You follow my lead. If I say be quiet, do so. If I say run, do so.” He patted the side of the light jacket he was wearing, it clunked against the concealed weapon. “And if I pull this out, you do the same.”

  “What then?” Jim asked, a little nervously.

  “Shoot whatever I’m shooting.” Jim didn’t feel confident.

  Hargrave helped him situate the holster on the belt then moved the magazine pouch holding the two spares to a slightly different location. After he had Jim feel where it was and showed him how he could remove a fresh magazine one-handed without even looking, he nodded in satisfaction. Lastly he clicked a little translator onto his belt and had Jim pin it into his implants.

  “Wish I had implants sometimes,” Hargrave admitted. “On a planet like this, I need to run translations through a full computer slate. Too many languages.”

  “They have their downside,” Jim admitted, and Hargrave nodded. He understood that much.

  “Okay,” Hargrave said; “that’ll have to do.”

  “Wait,” Jim said, “should I get a coat to hide this, like you?”

  “No,” Hargrave said. There was a long moment of reverse thrust followed by a light clang as the ship docked.

  “Why?”

  “Because you are less of a threat by carrying openly.”

  “I don’t follow,” Jim complained.

  “And I can’t easily explain it to you. Come on, son, we’ve docked.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 9

  The captain was already busy with routine port duties as the pair bid him farewell. Despite the size of the ship, he seemed more than capable of handling the work alone. They floated over to the station and rode a glideway down to the gravity ring. It was basically a big pneumatic pressure tube that blew you along the path. Jim had seen his share of aliens in the past, but absolutely nothing compared to the variety of races here. Karma was the Mercenary Guild headquarters for this entire arm of the galaxy, called the Jesc Arm. Thousands of contracts were negotiated here every annocycle, and hundreds of races came here to do business. Just in the travel tube alone he saw three species he didn’t recognize.

  Once on the gravity ring, the pair took a small travel car to the area of the station Hargrave wanted to reach. From there they went on foot, and Jim followed Hargrave closely. A few aliens took note of them, though sometimes it was hard to tell where they were looking exactly. He saw a pair that looked like flies as big as dogs, and another that was a huge millipede with a dozen pairs of little pincers. Jim remembered it was known as a Jeha, and despite the resemblance to an insect, it wasn’t one. It went by on all those legs at an alarming speed. But it was the spider the size of a small car that almost made him scream.

  “Is that a Tortantula?” Jim gasped.

  “Yep,” Hargrave said and steered them around it. The thing was standing at the entrance to a shop too small for it to get into, apparently dealing with the merchant through the doorway. It had a ring of eyes on its cephalothorax (basically its head) that went all the way around. But unlike Earth spiders, these eyes all had irises and were looking all around. It had ten legs instead of eight, and its big abdomen was separated from the rest of the body by a petiole (similar to a wasp’s “waist”) that looked too weak to support itself. As it conversed with the merchant, its huge gleaming black pincers clicked together disturbingly.

  “Gaspaatuu said the shipment would be ready,” Jim heard in his head, the Tortantula’s words automatically translated by his pinplants.

  “I must beg your understanding,” the shop keeper hissed and snapped; “the shipment is delayed–” They had already moved on before Jim could find out what the shipment in question was. Next, he heard a pair of badger-like Cochkala talking about trying to hire another squad of merc marines before they left. A moment later their long flowing tails whipped past, and that conversation was replaced by a big canid species mumbling to itself about the cost of Coppsusa on the station. Jim looked away. Its huge jaw full of teeth reminded him of a particularly frightening nightmare he had as a child about Little Red Riding Hood. He continued on in this way, hearing snippets of one conversation after another, until he almost lost track of Hargrave at one of the many intersections.

  “Jim,” Hargrave said, grabbing him by the arm. “Change the parameters on your translator to three feet before you run into something that takes your listening in on their conversation the wrong way.”

  “They can’t know I’m listening,” Jim complained.

  “You want to bet your life on that? Besides, I need you focused and alert.”

  They walked for some time toward a destination Hargrave clearly knew well. They’d been on the station for almost an hour before they finally encountered other humans, a group of three in the typical human mottled green BDU, battle dress uniforms. They all had the big, muscled build typical of mercs. On the sleeve of their uniforms was a logo showing an oversized yellow bumblebee wearing a top hat riding a dropship. Bert’s Bees was a well-known and successful merc company that specialized in shipboard marine jobs. He wondered if they were working for those Cochkala. They all nodded to Hargrave who returned the nod, while coolly and curiously regarding Jim. It was then that he noticed he wasn’t the only being who was visibly armed, though almost all weren’t.

  “So how many of these beings are carrying guns?” Jim asked as they waited for a transport to cross the tunnel. Hargrave cocked his head and seemed to be considering his answer.

  “All of them, probably.” The transport passed, and Jim had to hurry to match the aging merc’s long strides. He still didn’t get the open- versus concealed-carry thing.

  They turned a corner and Jim expected another long street teeming with aliens, but instead they entered an establishment. At first he thought it was a bar, but as he looked around he could see their specialty wasn’t intoxicants. The room was lined with hundreds of flat displays, all showing scrolling data. Jim could recognize a dozen languages on sight, and sparingly read three. He didn’t have to stretch his abilities because one of the screens was displaying English, the official language for Earth. He quickly read some of the data and realized it was displaying merc contracts.

  “This is a merc pit,” Jim said in amazement.

  “Your old man never brought you to one of these?”

  “He wanted to, but mom wouldn’t have it.”

  “I like that woman less all the time,” Hargrave growled.

  “Whom do we have here?” Jim’s translator spoke as a being approached. It was as tall as a human, but had a long body and rather short limbs. It looked for all the world like a short-nosed, white rat wearing huge sunglasses. Its nose was wide and flared as it approached. “I do not recognize these two humans in my pit.” Jim had been so surprised at the huge dark sunglasses in the relatively dark space that he took a second to realize it was a Veetanho talking to them.

  “We’re looking for contracts,” Hargrave said; “we’re curious to know what’s available.”

  “We have select clients here,” the Veetanho said.

  “We know, Peepo,” Hargrave said. The alien cocked its head and leaned a little closer to regard him.

  “You know me, human, am I mistaken and should know you?” Hargrave reached into his pocket and took
out a coin, handing it to Peepo who reached out, took it, and held it close to one eye. It looked at the coin skeptically, then looked closer before slowly looking back up at Hargrave. “You are not jesting?”

  “Does it look like I jest?” he asked.

  “No, you do not.” It handed the coin back. “I have not seen Thaddeus in here for several revolutions of our star.”

  “And you will not again. He passed away a while back.” The alien looked down.

  “Then I shall offer a toast…”

  “No,” Hargrave said. “I’m sure you have heard about our...recent setbacks.” The alien gave a decidedly human nod of its head. Since it had little neck, it was almost a bow. “We wish to keep our company’s presence here known to only a few.”

  “Are you negotiating?”

  “Not yet. By the way, Hargrave’s the name.” It nodded again, then seemed to notice Jim for the first time. It looked from Jim to Hargrave.

  “This here is Thaddeus’s son, Jim,” Hargrave said.

  “I see,” it said, and turned to Jim, put a hand on its chest, then reached out and put one on Jim’s chest. “Our fates are shared,” it said, “I mourn for your loss.”

  Not knowing what to say, Jim said, “Thank you, Peepo.” It seemed to be enough.

  “Peepo’s Pit will always welcome you,” it said to both of them, then gestured toward the bar. “Partake, and see what is available. If you honor us with your blood, we honor you with our treasure.”

  “We thank you for your treasure, and offer our honor openly and with conviction,” Hargrave said. He touched his chest, then the alien’s. Formalities completed, he walked in toward the bar that circled the center of the room.

  “Why didn’t it recognize you?”

  “She,” Hargrave said, “I don’t think the male Veetanho are sentient. She didn’t recognize me because I’ve changed since the last time I was in here.” Jim regarded the older man with a critical eye. Hargrave ran deep, there was no doubt about that. He was only beginning to realize just how deep.

  “She recognized the challenge coin, though.”

  “Son, there isn’t a merc pit on Karma that wouldn’t recognize a Cartwright’s Cavaliers challenge coin.” Jim just nodded. “I was never a contract negotiating type.” They took a table near the bar and watched both the board and the visitors. As with anywhere else on Karma, they were all there for merc business of one kind or another. And in Peepo’s, most were either mercs or working directly for them. There were hundreds of races who hired mercs, but only a handful of races who did that work. Of course there were other humans there, just not very many. Peepo’s appeared to be an eclectic group. There were quite a few Jivool on the far side of the pit. They were huge furry mountains, and hard to miss. No Tortantula, but that didn’t surprise Jim. Though excellent mercs, they liked fighting and killing far too much for anything other than contracts guaranteeing maximum carnage. There were also two groups of Zuul. Then he spotted one of those huge wolves he’d seen earlier. “What species is that?” he asked Hargrave.

  “That’s a Besquith,” Hargrave said. “They’re mercs, but also traders. Hard to figure out. Scheming and very unpredictable. I didn’t know Peepo did business with them.” The Besquith was in a heated discussion with a pair of Veetanho who were differently colored than their patron, Peepo. Judging from the rifles slung over their shoulders, unlike many of their species, these Veetanho actively worked as mercs. Most of their kind preferred to administer the lucrative merc contract bidding. Centuries of shrewd negotiations and careful deals had given them almost complete control of the guild. Even though not as imposing as many other species on the battlefield, they were incredibly adept field commanders and often found their way into command of other species’ merc companies. To underestimate a Veetanho commander, be it an entire company or even a squad, was to ask for a stinging defeat.

  “How come I’ve never heard of the Besquith?”

  “They don’t do much business in our arm of the galaxy. They’re not part of a trading consortium or anything like that. Not many species can play ball on the scale they do by themselves.” Hargrave absently tapped the computer slate on the table, and the system automatically produced a glass and filled it with an amber fluid. “They’re a type of buyer in the Union who can freelance around, I think they’re called acquisitioners, or something like that. They have a special title and you can’t shoot them on general principles without asking for a sanction. As I recall, the Besquith do that a lot. But they run strong-arm operations, too.”

  “Like the mob on Earth used to?” Jim asked. He’d been tapping away on the slate trying to find something to drink. There was no age limit in the Union, of course. If you could reach the bar, you could drink, snort, smoke, or inject anything you wanted. However, he wasn’t really into that sort of stuff. There, at the bottom of the list, he found Coca-Cola from Earth! At one hundred and fifty credits a bottle, he almost blanched at the price but ordered it anyway. The table did not immediately respond.

  “Yeah, like the mob. Only in the Union, the mob would look like pussies. A protection scheme here is perfectly legal.”

  “How can businesses survive getting shaken down like that?”

  “Always a bigger fish in the pond,” Hargrave said, the lines on his face shifting into a wicked grin. “Years ago when I was still active, we took down one on a small planet that was getting on the nasty side. They started honest enough, merc unit doing garrison. Then they upped the ante and started running what amounted to an extortion racket – looting and breaking shit unless they got “premiums” from some businesses. The company was big enough that none of the alien mercs wanted to deal with them.”

  “Bigger than the Cavaliers?” Jim asked. He eyed his order status on the slate. “Pending.”

  “Oh yeah, lots. Some of those alien merc companies are bigger than you can imagine.”

  “So how did we stop it?”

  “Well, Thaddeus up and dropped a squad into that other merc company’s headquarters and killed them all, and left nice and quiet-like. Never any clue who did it. Well, the assholes got all pissed and started threatening the locals. Set up a new, much more secure command base, and Thaddeus did it again. Only this time, he took the bodies. All they found were blood stains.” Hargrave had a look on his face that made Jim shiver, even in the warm pit.

  “What happened?” Jim asked in a hushed voice.

  “What do you think? They packed up and left the next day. We cashed the check, and the locals hired more honest mercs next time.”

  “Wow,” Jim said, shaking his head. He knew his dad had a reputation for taking contracts that were considered both impossible and lucrative, but he’d never heard a story like that. He guessed it wasn’t the kind of dinner-table conversation you had with your twelve-year-old son on the rare occasion you had the chance to eat with him. Jim felt a bump on his leg and looked over to see a little tracked robot holding up a tray. On it was an old-fashioned glass Coca-Cola bottle, a light sheen of frost on the outside just beginning to melt in the room’s warmth.

  “Your beverage,” the robot said. Jim took it and the robot deftly produced an arm with a bottle opener and flipped off the metal cap. It hissed and a few bubbles came up. He caught the cap and set it down next to the bottle as the robot rolled away. Jim took a sip and his eyes bugged out. It was ice-cold, sweet to the point of eye-crossing, a little sharp to the pallet with carbonation, and the most incredible thing he’d ever put to his lips. It was nothing at all like the Coca-Cola he’d been drinking most of his life. He put down the bottle and picked up the cap again to examine it more closely. Bottled under the authority of the Coca-Cola Company, Atlanta GA, 30327 – ©2010.

  “Holy crap,” he said aloud.

  “What?” Hargrave asked and looked over at him. “Jumpin’ Tortantulas kid, you bought one of those?”

  “Yeah,” Jim said and took another sip. “This is real fucking sugar!”

  “Bet your ass it is, at th
at price.” Hargrave considered him for a moment. “You know your dad was one of the most badass, cold-blooded fuckin’ mercs to ever draw a contract. He’d stand naked in front of a group of hopping mad Besquith armed with laser rifles and piss in their fur. And still, I never once saw him take more than a sip of wine or beer for a toast.”

  “Really?” Jim said, savoring the beverage.

  “Yep. You know what he drank when he came here?” Jim shrugged. “You’re drinking it. That’s why Peepo and a few other pits here stock the stuff. I bet that bottle’s been here for years. They haven’t made it with the real thing since sugary drinks were made illegal on Earth.” As Jim finished the bottle he made a note in his implants to investigate finding a stock. Wouldn’t be easy to find almost 100-year-old soda pop. When he finished the soda, the table took the empty bottle away like any other. He held on to the cap.

  “Hargrave?” asked a human voice. They both turned to see an older merc in civilian attire striding over. “That you, you old fucking shovelhead?”

  “None other,” Hargrave said and stood. The two embraced warmly, pounded each other on the back and laughed. “How the fuck are you, Treadwell?”

  “Older and smarter. You?”

  “Older, for sure. The jury’s still out on the smarter, though.”

  “I ran into a guy from Bert’s Bees a few hours ago who said he’d seen you in the district with some kid.” Jim stood at Hargrave’s beckoning.

  “Treadwell, I want you to meet Jim Cartwright, Thaddeus’s son.” Treadwell looked taken aback for about half a second as he looked Jim up and down.

  “Call me Jim,” he said and held out a hand.

  “Well, no shit,” Treadwell said and took the hand. Jim gave it all he could and managed to come away without any broken fingers. “I knew Thaddeus had a boy, but I heard he was a weakling.” Jim could tell the man had seen nothing to dissuade that rumor. He felt his cheeks getting hot.