Taylor tipped the guard a wave, then accelerated his Harley through the checkpoint en route to meet with Sergeants Bowyer and Stan.
It’s commander now, remember? Taylor was still getting used to all the changes on his crew due to the influx of new personnel from Steeldriver. He’d encountered a lot of new faces in the last year, some of whom he’d met before, though many he hadn’t. Thankfully, none of that turnover had impacted his command staff, all of whom had been promoted.
A pair of familiar figures waved at Taylor from beside the shuttle on the westside docking platform as he approached on his Harley.
“How’d it go at the game?” Jack Bowyer asked past the hum of active engines. As was commonplace in Eagles culture when not on duty, the stocky, silver-haired Oklahoman was casually dressed in jeans, roper boots, and a button-down denim shirt with the straw cowboy hat he was almost never without.
“Not bad,” Taylor said. “I’m happy to report that I didn’t embarrass myself or the company. What’s the word on the contract Billy keeps talkin’ about?”
“Your guess is as good as ours, Chief,” Stan said. The lean Mississippian’s first name was Jedidiah, but everyone just called him Stan. He’d been partners with Jack in the merc business for decades, and like his cowboy counterpart, he, too, was almost never without his hat. Only in Stan’s case, the off-duty lid of choice was a brown fedora with a tattered leather band that matched the trench coat he wore when the weather cooled off.
“Weren’t you guys with him when he went to investigate this deal?” Taylor asked.
“We were,” Jack said. “That don’t change that fact that the major held mum on the whole thing until we could get back here to scoop you up.”
Taylor was getting a bad feeling about this. He turned for the shuttle’s boarding ramp. “I reckon we’ll find out soon enough, huh?”
The trio boarded the shuttle, then took their places in the passenger cabin while the pilot ran down their final pre-launch ones and twos from the cockpit up front. Several minutes of teeth-clenched g-forces later, the shuttle docked with the Eagles’ flagship, the EMS Ryley Osyrys, in orbit.
“Ten-HUT!” The brawny, dark-skinned lieutenant commander at astrometrics shot to his feet, looking like the cat who’d eaten the canary. “Commanding officer on the bridge.”
“Ya know, Quint,” Taylor said with a sigh, “it’s a good thing you took up merc work after your baseball career ended, because you’d be in the poor house right now if you’d turned to standup comedy to earn your livin’.”
Smitty chuckled from her post at the science station.
“I know you hate to admit it, Chief, but some folks in our profession actually appreciate a little formality from time to time,” the XO said at tactical. The consummate ex-soldier from Nebraska, Billy Dawson was impeccably dressed in Eagle-green fatigues with husky, clean-shaven features and a neatly trimmed brush cut of chestnut-brown hair. “I mean, when you get right down to it, salutes, proper haircuts, uniforms…they kinda go with the whole paramilitary motif.”
“Yeah, well they can have the fargin threads,” a male voice said in a thick New York accent.
All eyes turned to the Buma seated at the nav station down front.
“Speaking as one of the dozen or so non-humans on this motley little crew,” Frank continued, “I for one adore the fact that the only time I’ve gotta fight with uniform pants is when we’re operatin’ in front of clients. I kid you not. In all my years as a merc, I’ve yet to find a single brand of trousers, fatigues or otherwise, that fit these spindly little legs of mine with even a hint of comfort. Like, not even one.”
“I keep tellin’ ya, Birdman, go buy yourself some Wranglers and call it a day.” Jack entered the bridge with Stan. “Hell, you won’t even know you’re wearin’ pants at that point.”
“Whatever,” Frank muttered. “I may work with a pack of hillbillies. That don’t mean I gotta dress like one.”
“Yes, because cargo shorts and pastel shirts with a flat cap is the bloody picture of fashion,” Smitty noted in her Australian accent.
A chorus of snickers circulated the bridge.
“What’s our status?” Taylor pushed off from the topside banister, then coasted in zero G toward the Osyrys’ command chair beside tactical.
“We’re set to transition through the stargate in about twenty minutes,” Billy said. “I got the final all-clear from the gate master about a half-hour before you came aboard.”
“And how was Master Haju this fine summer mornin’?” Taylor hadn’t meant to laugh while asking that, but he couldn’t help himself. He adored being the only human in the Galactic Union whose merc company got to come and go as it pleased without paying stargate fees. That, and he lived for the pissed off looks he always got from Earth’s Sumatozou gate master, Zynom Haju, who had to process those requests. Nice doin’ business with ya, Vergola Council.
“Haju wasn’t in today,” Billy answered.
“Really?” Taylor glanced up from viewing the data on his chair-arm display. “That’s a first.”
“Tell me about it,” Billy said. “In all the years I’ve flown with the Eagles, both under your command and that of your brother, Haju has always called the shots for Earth’s stargate. Ah well. Things change, I guess.”
I reckon so. Taylor returned to his screen.
“Heads up, people,” Frank said. “I just got word from Control. We’re cleared to depart when ready.”
“Thanks, Frank,” Taylor said. “Break orbit immediately and bring us about.”
“Ayew,” Frank said—Eagles’ slang for Acknowledged and Understood, or AU—then swiped at his nav console. “Course laid in. We’re coming about now.”
The Ryley Osyrys’ engines whirred in the background as the deck plates under Taylor’s boots began to vibrate. “So, Major Dawson. Are you gonna break with the subterfuge and tell me about this mysterious contract you’ve tracked down, or what?”
“All in good time,” Billy said. “I promise I’ll spill all the gory details at church once we’ve transitioned into hyperspace.”
The term “church” was Eagles’ slang for a briefing.
“Can you at least tell me who the client would be?” Taylor asked.
“Patience is the hallmark of any good CO, Chief,” Billy noted. “If I’ve said that once during your training, I’ve said it a thousand times.”
Taylor cocked his head. “Why are you bein’ so cagey about this?”
“Not cagey.” Billy flashed a sly look. “Just patient.”
Taylor rolled his eyes. I hate it when he pulls that damn grasshopper card.
“Approaching the stargate now,” Frank announced. “ETA to visual, 30 seconds.”
Taylor keyed up the Buma’s nav data on the Tri-V display to the bridge’s right. All told, he counted four blips in the holographic image, all representing ships awaiting transition.
“Huh,” Billy noted. “Not a lot of takers today.”
“Agreed,” Taylor said.
“Entering visual range of the stargate,” Quint added.
“Confirmed,” Frank said. “Hyperspatial generator is online and active. Stand by for transition on my mark.”
Taylor’s muscles tensed as the massive ring drew larger in the Tri-V. They always did. No matter how many successful trips he’d taken during the past two years, the fact remained that Taylor’s brother had died during a botched transition, albeit from sabotage. Nevertheless, Taylor doubted there’d ever come a day when he was truly comfortable with hyperspace travel.
“Transition in five,” Frank began. “Four…three…two…one.”
A mild groan reverberated through the Osyrys’ hull. It was followed by the odd sense of disorientation that always came next as they were unmade in the universe. Then…nothing.
“Hyperspace transition successful,” Frank said. “Reactors one and two are synchronized into a shared workflow. Hyperspatial generator is online and operating well within safety parameter
s.”
“Nice job, y’all.” Taylor opened his eyes as the formless white void of hyperspace swept across the Tri-V. “Reset the emergence clock to 170 hours, then fall out to the conference room for church in five—”
“Ahem.” Billy coughed into his fist.
“What?” Taylor asked.
“All due respect, Chief, most of us have been on the clock, prepping for this mission, since 0600 this morning,” Billy said. “Would a few hours of R&R while we get settled in be too much to ask? I mean, we do have a week until we emerge at Karma.”
Taylor watched from his command chair as the subtlest of flirtatious glances bounced from the Eagles’ XO to the blonde Aussie captain at the science station, each of whom were wearing their shiny new wedding rings to go with their new ranks. Seriously? Taylor sighed and keyed open a ship-wide comm channel. “All crews, this is Chief Van Zant. Stand down and make ready for the cruise to Karma. Twelve hours of R&R is hereby authorized for all non-critical positions. Bridge out.”
“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.” Billy grinned en route to the exit with his wife.
“Yeah, yeah,” Taylor said. “You owe me a beer later at chow. Now beat it.”
* * * * *
Chapter 3: Back in Church
The remainder of Taylor’s shift went off without incident, as everyone on the crew continued about their duties before packing things down in anticipation of the night to come. For some like Billy and Smitty—the latter still went by her nickname, even though her legal surname had changed from Smith to Dawson—that meant a one-way trip to quarters for a glass of wine and some much-needed downtime in private. For others, however, the break represented a chance to hit the showers, then reconvene in the Osyrys’ mess hall for the latest culinary tour de force, courtesy of the Eagles’ lead pilot turned master chef.
When he wasn’t flying starships, Tuzana Ibansk Phrankolith—or Frank as he was known—loved food. Moreover, he loved experimenting with various types and styles of preparing food, a fascination that often led to some of the most sought-after cuisine in Jacksonville, merc or otherwise.
“Hell, I’d come to work for ya just to hang out in the galley with the owl,” one applicant had said during his interview to join the Eagles’ roster. “I ain’t jokin’. I’ll take a demotion to specialist if it means I've suffered through my last pot of navy bean soup with my current outfit.”
Taylor awoke in his quarters the next morning, still dreaming of the most succulent ribs he’d ever eaten the night before, then headed for the shower to begin his day.
* * *
“Good morning, Chief Van Zant,” a scratchy voice said as Taylor floated into the Osyrys’ briefing room adjacent to the bridge. “I trust you slept well last evening?”
“Well and well-fed, Keeto. Thanks.” Taylor gestured the Athal to stay seated, then coasted across the room holding a bulb of fresh coffee and pulled himself into his usual chair at the head of the table. “I understand we’ve got some new recruits down in main engineerin’. How’s everybody workin’ out?”
“As well as one might expect, with most of the academy greenies,” the Eagles’ lead engineer said. “In the way of transfers, Lieutenants Daniels and Register have proven particularly capable since coming aboard from the Danville Express in Virginia. I expect they’ll make fine additions to the Stargell crew once she’s ready for deployment.”
In addition to an array of new personnel, facility, and hardware assets, the Eagles had also inherited two starships from the Steeldriver Defense Group. One of these, a Maki corvette dubbed the EMS Stargell, possessed the requisite prowess and heft in a fight to be a valuable addition to the Eagles’ lineup once she’d been re-crewed. The other vessel, an aging frigate named the EMS Bradshaw, had been sold at auction to help finance some other projects around the company’s new campus.
“Dear, sweet Moses in Heaven.” Quint let out a groan as he floated into the chamber, clutching his stomach. “I kid you not, fellas. I didn’t eat that much barbecue in St. Louis when the Braves faced the Cardinals for the National League crown back in ‘83.”
“Pro tip,” Taylor said. “Round three of banana puddin’ after you’ve already pounded down four plates of Memphis-style ribs with corn and seasoned potatoes? That typically don’t end well for anybody.”
The bald commander belched and found a seat at the table.
“Morning, all,” Billy said, entering ahead of Smitty. “How was Frank’s barbecue party last night?”
Quint leaned sideways as if prepping to break wind.
“Do it,” Smitty began, “and I’ll shove a cork so far up your ass, you’ll need Paul down in the infirmary to extract it with a bloody scalpel.”
Quint failed to offer his usual witty retort. Instead, he laid his forehead across his thick, tattooed forearms on the table and went on groaning.
“Aww. Does somebody have a wittle tummy ache today after he oinked too much barbecue at dinner last night?”
Everyone looked up as Frank pushed into the room ahead of Jack and Stan.
“Piss off, Feathers,” Quint muttered.
“Piss off, nothin’.” Frank pulled himself into a chair. “I’ll have you know poor old Corporal Cowart didn’t get any dessert on account of you, ya fargin gluttonous pig. I hope you spend the rest of this mission feelin’ like a herd of Sumatozou are stampeding across your guts for funzies. Gods know it’d serve ya right.”
Quint summoned the strength to raise his middle finger but not much else.
“Hey, guys?” Taylor put up a hand. “As much as I hate to bust up this quaint little bitch-fest of yours, we really do need to get down to business. Y’all good with that?”
The Buma and the commander exchanged mutual whatever glances as everyone settled in for church.
“Billy.” Taylor shifted. “Enough cloak and dagger on this big contract of yours. What’s it all about, and why did we high-tail it off world to take a swing at it?”
The XO reached into his forest-green shirt pocket and produced a palm-sized slate, which he swiped active. “We’ll start with the obvious. Why does any merc rush off after a contract?”
“Credits,” Frank said.
“Bingo.” Billy pointed at the pilot. “Now, to be clear. Does this job pay Horsemen-level money? No, not quite. By Swamp Eagle Security standards, however, it’d be the biggest payday we’ve had since re-opening our doors 26 months ago.”
Taylor liked where this was headed. “Continue.”
“I got a call last month from an old buddy I served with on the Emerald Stormriders who now works as a contract broker,” Billy said. “Apparently there’s a group of aliens out in the Cimarron arm who are looking to nail down some muscle to protect their clan from a wave of recent attacks.”
“Attacks by whom?” Keeto asked.
“My buddy didn’t say,” Billy said. “All we know is the assaults appear to be growing more frequent, and the clan in question needs help putting a stop to them.”
“What’s the payday?” Quint asked past his forearms.
“Thirty million credits,” Billy said.
Well, now. That is a mighty handsome sum, indeed. Taylor scratched his chin. “These prospective clients. What species are they?”
“We’ll get to that,” the XO said. “Right now, what’s important is the timeline.”
Taylor cocked his head.
“Per the intel, the clients allegedly needed boots on the ground for this mission yesterday,” Smitty said. “That means whoever lands this gig is gonna need to be wheels-up and fast in order to stave off the next attack.”
“And can we facilitate that timeline?” Taylor asked.
“I think so.” Billy nodded. “I’ve assigned Lieutenants Brooks and Carline to get the ball rolling back home with regard to personnel and resources. With any luck, we ought to be able to ship out within 12 hours—give or take—after our return to Earth.”
Jack leaned forward and tipped up the brim of his cowboy hat.
“If I read ya right here, Major, it sounds like we’re loadin’ for bear on this. Just out of curiosity, what sort of headcount are we talkin’ about?”
“I’m thinking all of Riverside and Atlanta Companies, plus parts of Talbot and Avondale for support,” Billy said.
Stan whistled. “That’s almost 80 percent of our roster.”
“Like I said,” Billy continued. “This contract will be a massive undertaking, if we land it. But again, big jobs typically come with big compensation, and this one’s no different.”
Taylor sipped his coffee. “Welp. Sounds to me like you’ve covered all the bases.”
“Thanks, Chief.” The XO reclined in his chair. “I do my best.”
“Now about these clients,” Taylor said. “Who are they, and why have you waited until now to drop that bit of information on us?”
Billy traded looks with his wife. “Their tribe is referred to as the Vuhov clan.”
“And their species?” Keeto asked.
“Zuparti,” Billy said.
“Well, that was fun to dream about while it lasted.” Quint sat up and stifled another belch with his fist. “Major Dawson, Captain Dawson. On behalf of myself and the entire Ryley Osyrys crew, I’d like to personally thank the both of you for dragging us all out here to Karma Station for what can now officially be classified as a complete and total waste of our time.”
“It’s not a waste of time, smartass.” Billy grunted. “I’m telling you, we can do this.”
Taylor shifted in his seat. “Far be it for me to agree with a guy who spent two full seasons wearin’ a Boston Red Sox uniform—”
“Not my fault the Braves traded me,” Quint rebutted.
“Whatever,” Taylor continued. “Point is, I’m in agreement with the slugger. There’s no way the Zuparti will work with us. Not after we went MIA from the Ytara contract 14 months ago.”
Billy raised a finger. “Okay, first, that wasn’t our fault. Had the Cartography Guild been a little tighter with security around their beloved transit atlas, we would’ve never gotten swept up in their feud with the Krulig and been redirected to Rukoria against our will. We’d have proceeded to Sakall like we planned and honored our obligation to the Ytara clan.”
The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) Page 2
