by Terry Mixon
A younger Brad might’ve gotten back in MacDonald’s face, but he only smiled. The last three years had certainly given him better self-control, though he imagined the angry man was going to test him sternly.
“Do you really think that a platinum-rated mercenary company would attempt to hijack an automated freighter, deliver it to the refinery where it was expected, and then hold the employees that boarded at gunpoint? Doesn’t that seem a little far-fetched to you?”
“Educate me. What in Dark is going on, Madrid?”
Before he could respond, MacDonald stalked around his desk and sat down with significantly more force than was required. He laced his fingers in front of him and planted his chin on his thumbs, staring at Brad with cold eyes.
Brad picked a chair and sat without an invitation. He knew one wasn’t coming, and he wasn’t going to ask.
He wasn’t going to stand like an employee called onto the carpet or sit in one of the handy chairs directly in front of the desk, either. Those kinds of tactics were meant to intimidate people.
Instead, he chose one off to the side, leaned back, and crossed one leg over the other.
“The first part of the mission you hired us for went off exactly as planned,” he said as if there were nothing wrong. “Things went off the rails when we saw who actually boarded the freighter.”
With as few words as possible, Brad described the commandos and the Vikings’ defense of the freighter. He watched the security chief closely, though he really didn’t expect to catch any kind of awkward reaction. The man was an ass, but he wasn’t a traitor.
By the time he was finished, MacDonald’s face was one of stunned astonishment.
He leaned back in his chair, making it creak. “Commandos? Why the fuck would anyone send people like that to raid an automated freighter full of He3? That just doesn’t make any sense.
“They wouldn’t get any resistance other than the automated systems. And those certainly haven’t caused the pirates any problems in the past.” The last was added in a grumbling tone.
“That’s why we came into the refinery the way we did,” Brad said. “We’re pretty sure you’ve got a mole inside your security department and probably another one in the flight control center.
“We think they intended to board the refinery and sabotage it. With the amount of explosives we found, they could’ve destroyed every critical system and taken this refinery out.”
MacDonald slammed a fist on his desk blotter. “But why? Sure, JoveCorp has made a lot of enemies over the years, but this is over the top. And why do the other six raids they pulled off? Why not just do this the first time and make sure we didn’t hire someone to stop them?”
Brad shrugged. “I can’t begin to guess. In hindsight, they might have been warmups or intended to keep the endgame hidden. I’ll get you our surveillance data from the action. What’s going to jump out at you first is how they knew how every defensive weapon was placed. Someone in your department gave them complete specs for the freighter.
“If you think differently, you’ll have to look wherever you think the information came from. As for the flight control people, the commandos probably intended to leave their ship on the hull. They had to get away somehow. That means they expected to get past whoever was on duty today.”
The security man grunted and nodded. “We always have two people in flight control. Both of them are discussing today’s events with my people. If one of them is dirty, the odds are really good they both are.”
MacDonald considered Brad for a long moment. “I’m going to check every bit of information. I’ll examine the bodies and equipment, too. If it all checks out, I’ll pay you your fee.”
“You’ll do better than that,” Brad said bluntly. “We were hired to protect your freighter from pirates. These commandos were a significantly more difficult nut to crack. I’ve got injured people—including myself—that would never have gotten hurt on the mission that you pitched.
“Then there’s saving this refinery. We went far above what was called for in the original contract when I’d have been justified in pulling back. I want a bonus.”
MacDonald laughed. “You’re crazy. Why in Darkness would I do that? I hired you to protect my freighter, and that’s exactly what you did. No more. No less.”
“You could do that,” Brad admitted levelly, “but then you’d have to deal with the consequences.”
“What consequences?” the security chief asked warily.
Brad favored him with a wide grin. “The Vikings are a platinum-rated mercenary unit. If I start spreading the word that JoveCorp is understating the risks in their contracts or failing to pay bonuses for going above and beyond what was expected, then you’re going to start getting other people negotiating harder and maybe turning down work from you. Is that really how you want to play it?”
MacDonald surged to his feet. “JoveCorp doesn’t let little turds like you extort money from us.”
“If you think this is extortion, you shouldn’t be negotiating contracts,” Brad said bluntly as he rose to his feet. “Why don’t you talk it over with a few of the executive vice-presidents and see how they see matters?
“Meanwhile, I believe this concludes our business. I’ll get my people back to our ship and we’ll be on our way. Good luck in your mole hunt.”
Rather than heading directly for Io, Brad redirected Heart of Vengeance to Ganymede. While he wouldn’t be there long, he really wanted to pass the information they’d gathered to Fleet Security, and that meant a visit with Lieutenant Commander Jean Greer.
She was Fleet’s designated contact for Mercenary Guild officers in the Jovian system, and he’d worked closely with her during the Slavers conflict three years earlier. She’d also introduced him to Agent Kate Falcone of the Commonwealth Investigative Agency.
Truth be told, Brad wanted the information he’d gathered about the Cadre’s use of ex-Marines—if that’s truly what they were—passed on to both groups.
The young Fleet officer immediately agreed to meet him at her office when he commed, so Brad left his crew with a few hours on their hands to blow off steam. He trusted they wouldn’t get into too much trouble, but hinted that Saburo should keep an eye on Marshal. It paid to cover all the bases.
He had to surrender his weapons when he reached the Fleet offices. As always, that bothered him, but he wouldn’t win that fight.
A petty officer cleared Brad into the building and led him to Greer’s office. She was waiting at the door.
Once they were alone, she shook his hand and looked pointedly at his bandages with a raised eyebrow. “Run into trouble?”
“You might say that,” he admitted. “Trouble Fleet Security needs to know about.”
“Ominous. I have a stash of alcohol for visitors, and the sun is over the yardarm, as they say.”
To her obvious surprise, he nodded. “Scotch, if you have it. Straight.”
“It must be serious. Have a seat while I get us fixed up.”
He settled into a chair off to the side of the room and watched her fix the drinks: straight scotch for him and a fizzy water for her. She was on duty, after all.
She handed him his drink and sat beside him. “Tell me what happened.”
Brad took a sip of his drink first and nodded. It was decent.
“JoveCorp hired the Vikings to stop pirates from hitting their automated He3 freighters. They’ve lost six in the last four months. The last two had a bunch of their security people on them. After that didn’t stop the attacks, they called me.
“Only, we didn’t run into pirates. These people were a lot better than that. We think they were ex-military.”
He laid out what he knew and then told her what he suspected. The amusement that had been in her eyes when he’d arrived was long gone by the time he finished.
“That’s intensely disturbing,” she admitted. “I’ll be able to check if they were ever in the Commonwealth Marines or Fleet.”
“I assumed
so.” He handed her a data chip. “This has everything: recordings of the combat, still images of the bodies, and more of the weapons and equipment. We left all of the hardware and physical evidence with JoveCorp Security, so you might have to pry it out of their hands.”
She scowled. “I’ve worked with MacDonald before. Or, should I say, I’ve worked around him? I’d better make that call now.”
Brad took advantage of the lull to finish his drink. He took the glass back to the bar and rinsed it out. Then he joined Greer at her desk.
She looked up from her console. “I’ve requested he turn everything over and added his bosses to the distribution list.”
“Does that help?” he asked as he sat again. “The man seems remarkably stubborn.”
“He is, but I think I’ll come out ahead in the end. Let’s see if we can discover any information about these people in Fleet’s database.”
She flinched a little as she loaded the images. “I can’t imagine how you do this all the time.”
“You get used to it,” Brad said with a shrug. “Not to sound callous, but these people don’t deserve your sympathy. Very few of the scum I’m hired to deal with do.”
“I suppose,” she agreed reluctantly. “Let’s run them one at a time. The facial recognition software we use is pretty damned good. Bets on how many hits we get?”
Brad considered that for a long moment. “Twelve out of nineteen.”
“Dark, I hope not.”
There ended up being fifteen hits, but two of them came from Fleet’s links to the civilian network on Ganymede. Twelve of the dead men were ex-Marines, and the last was a former Fleet officer.
Greer sat back and stared at him in subdued shock. “You’re on to something. I just can’t imagine what it is.”
“Whatever it is,” he said softly, “it’s Fleet business now. And, if you could pass it along to the CIA, I suspect that would be helpful, too.”
The corner of the woman’s mouth came up. “Hoping to work with Agent Falcone again?”
“I’m not planning on working this particular problem, but if things go all to Everdark, I certainly wouldn’t mind having her at my side again.”
The Fleet officer nodded. “I’ll ask someone in the agency to pass the information along. No matter who they send—and they’ll send someone—I feel pretty confident they’ll be good. You did good work passing this on to us so fast. Fleet thanks you.”
“My pleasure,” he said as he rose to his feet. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands, then. I need to get back to Io and see what other crises have developed in my absence. Thanks for your help and for the drink. I appreciate both.”
Chapter Three
Brad leaned back in his office chair and watched the Jupiter-set on the massive viewscreen built into his wall. It was beautiful. Too bad the sight of the massive gas giant slowly sliding behind Io couldn’t wash the bad taste of their last mission out of his mouth.
Silhouetted against Jupiter’s light, and against the dimmer glow of Io itself, parts of the massive Io Yards complex began to fall into shadow.
The massive orb slowly reduced itself to a mere corona around one edge of its moon, then vanished. Technically, Jupiter-set was really an eclipse, but given the regular orbit of the Io Yards, Jupiter rose and set in a time frame that gave the yards an effective twenty-six-hour day.
It also meant he’d worked late. Again.
He’d just spent over two grueling hours on the line with JoveCorp’s head of security. As he’d expected, Jake MacDonald had agreed to pay the bonus for saving their refinery—and, reminding Brad why he worked for the man despite his attitude, it had been significantly more than expected.
Exactly as expected, however, he’d bitched and complained at length about paying up.
Brad didn’t feel at all guilty. JoveCorp had gotten more than enough value to warrant the increased payout. And his people had more than earned the extra money.
Putting the stress of the call behind him, Brad glanced around his office, finding relaxation in the familiar features. He’d purchased the three-room suite on Io Yards Node Seven just over a year and a half earlier when he’d finally given in to the inevitable and formally home-ported Heart at the Io Yards.
It made sense. They’d been in space over a year at that point, and it was always Io they came back to when the missions were done.
His wrist-comp beeped. It was a short text message from Shelly.
Don’t forget the anniversary.
He snorted. She’d insisted on organizing a party to celebrate the third anniversary of Heart’s formal commissioning. Trust her to remember the date. She probably had it in her wrist-comp’s planner.
Brad sighed and closed the files from the mission. Thank the Everlit that was behind them. He’d already put out feelers, looking for new contracts. They wouldn’t be idle long. Platinum-rated mercenary companies were always in demand.
The sound of voices in the outer office made him turn to face the door as it slid open. Shelly came right in with Jason on her arm.
“I knew I’d find you in here,” she said triumphantly. “The party is officially getting started, sir.”
Brad inclined his head. “Go on, then. Enjoy yourselves.”
“You need to get out. Brooding like this isn’t healthy.”
“She has a point,” Jason said apologetically. “Every time we finish a contract, you bury yourself in this office and stay here. This is your party, too.”
“And if you don’t come willingly,” Shelly continued with a grin, “I’ve got Marshal outside to physically drag you out of this office.”
“You should’ve brought Saburo,” Brad said wryly. “Don’t I get a say in this?”
“I’m adding social director to my list of titles,” Shelly said, favored him with an even wider grin. “So, when it comes to social events, what I say goes. Now, you need to change.”
He examined the pair. Shelly wore a dark green dress that hugged her curves and seemed to slink with her economical movements. Jason sported the Vikings’ signature midnight-blue jacket with faint gold piping over a shipsuit of the same shade.
A suit which was, Brad felt like pointing out, virtually identical to the one he currently wore.
Jason’s left shoulder sported a stylized viking, and the right had a patch displaying a fist holding a beating heart, as did Brad’s uniform. The latter represented Heart of Vengeance.
The collars of Brad’s dress uniform jacket held the silver triangle of stars that marked him as a Guild captain, and he wore the short gold chain of a company commander. And, of course, he was armed with his pistol and mono-blade. Weapons were part of everyone’s standard uniform in the Vikings.
He eyed his communications officer. She was supposed to be armed, but he couldn’t imagine where she’d stashed a weapon in that dress. In fact, it was probably a good idea not to consider that too closely.
“I just need to grab my jacket,” Brad said mildly. “It’s not as if I was slumming around in shorts and a moth-eaten sweater. And if I need to be better dressed than my uniform, what kind of party is this?”
“We’ve rented a small dance hall,” she told him. “Marshal! Get that case in here.”
John Marshal, their pilot and executive officer, drifted into the room with a sheepish grin and extended a carry case to Brad. The case contained a uniform jacket just like the one Brad normally wore, only this one also held a number of medals.
The Guild didn’t normally issue medals. As a rule, mercs weren’t rewarded for actions taken under contract with anything other than the money they’d earned. Only when they acted without prearranged payment did mercs acquire medals and similar awards.
Brad was one of the most decorated mercs in the Sol system and refused to wear the damn things.
He weighed the odds of declining the outfit, but Shelly’s expression said she was spoiling for a fight over this.
He sighed and gave in. “Fine. This one time.”
That made her grin. “I win! Now hurry up. I have a friend at the party I want you to meet.”
For a moment, his expression threatened to sour. At some point during the first year of the Vikings’ existence, she’d taken it upon herself to try and “fix” his singleness. Her efforts had been uniformly disastrous from his point of view. His poor dates had held a similar opinion, he suspected.
Something must’ve bled through into his expression, because she held up a hand. “Nothing like that. I’ve learned there are some things in the universe I can’t change.”
Brad shook his head and took the jacket out of the case. This was probably going to be a real pain in the ass.
Thirty minutes later, a transit tube delivered them to the hall Shelly had rented. A small cluster of people waited for them in the corridor.
Both of the combat team’s female members were there. Trista Doary wore her dress uniform and a cast on her arm. The other woman—Adriana Macaulay, one of their new hires—wore a long white gown that showed off her heroic physique.
Marshal had brought his current lady friend, a short redhead whose name Brad hadn’t caught. It hardly mattered. He had a tendency to turn up with a different woman every time he was expected to bring one, so keeping track was pointless—though Brad usually tried to at least catch their names for the time he spent with them.
As they approached the door, the distinctive tone of a corridor car’s warning horn sounded and everyone quickly made sure they were clear of the lines marked for the car’s use.
A taxi came to a stop, disgorging a statuesque brunette in what was clearly a dress uniform of some kind, but one Brad didn’t recognize offhand.
The woman barely had time to pay her fare before Shelly caught her up in a hug. Since the communications officer was barely a hundred and sixty centimeters and the other woman was taller than Brad, they made quite a contrast.
