For a Few Credits More: More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 7)

by Chris Kennedy

  Davenport injected healing nanites into Jessup’s arm.

  “Is that what you told him?” Johnny asked.

  Davenport looked at him and smiled. “I told him a lot of things.”

  Johnny pushed down his battle rage, locked his jaw tight, clenched his fists, and counted to ten in his head. “Get this over with. We’ve all got warrants and the Golden Feet Company is making noise on the Galnet about being the ones to collect it.”

  “They’re weak,” Davenport said.

  “They’re not the only merc unit on Calista right now. If they find out we’re close to getting the slate it will be us against every merc on the planet. Are you ready for that, Davenport? Make him talk. Get it done,” Johnny said.

  He stormed out of the barn, went around back, and puked until he stopped crying.

  OGRES VERSUS GOLDEN FEET

  Explosions echoed from the perimeter of the 380-acre cornfield. Columns of fire mushroomed on the horizon—one, two, three. Johnny stared, recognizing not only the type of explosion but who had fired them. He didn’t know why, but Lamart’s rockets sent up a debris cloud tinted red and green like something from a holiday parade.

  He snatched binoculars from his belt, zoomed in, and saw kinetic projectiles ripping through an automated harvester. A missile struck the combine causing an explosion of yellow kernels. Lamart and the others crouched 50 meters apart in the two-meter-tall corn rows. The attacking Golden Feet squads moved forward, seeking the same concealment but sending waves through neat, dense rows as they picked up speed.

  Ogre Fists and Golden Feet exchanged heavy weapons fire, including rockets and then grenades as the distance closed.

  A few seconds later, Johnny felt a pulse of air from a distant shockwave. No one in his unit was certified for nukes or nearly nuclear armaments. That didn’t mean they lacked some big bangs.

  He sprinted to his MK 7 and clambered in, shouting orders on the OFC communication band even as he was gearing up. Nightmare and the rest of the rear guard Marney had left at the farmhouse moved with practiced efficiency to reinforce the inner perimeter. They made two rings of gear and improvised barriers; one of them was 100 meters from the house, and the other was 300 meters out. His Ogres never defended fixed positions for long; he preferred to shoot and move. Defenses just had to be strong enough to make whoever was coming work for it.

  “Put the first ring farther out, Nightmare,” Johnny ordered. “Davenport, do you copy?”

  No response.

  Nightmare growled over the comm band. “Perimeter out this far. Do it now you dog Ogre Fists!”

  “Do it now you Ogre Fist dogs,” Johnny corrected.

  “That is what I say,” Nightmare said. “You must tell what a dog is.”

  “You’re a dog, Nightmare,” Johnny said on cue. Laughter rippled through the company radios.

  Johnny marched his MK 7 to the barn and yanked open the door.

  Davenport and the others were scrambling for their CASPer units. “We got it! Jessup gave it up like a little punk kid,” Davenport said.

  “Fine. Right now we have at least one merc unit coming to cash in on our warrants,” Johnny said. “Probably the Golden Feet.”

  “This day just keeps getting better!” Davenport shouted, then high-fived several of his team. “Someone get this piece of shit out of that chair. Dose him with healing nanites and tie him up. Put him on a flatbed.”

  Johnny watched until Jessup was lifted from the chair by Davenport’s personal medic, who was a decent guy despite his choice of friends. Never talked much unless it was about horses or the latest medical journal publication.

  One laser after another punched holes in the top of the barn.

  Johnny moved out, taking three of his Team One and one of Davenport’s Team Two to face the main thrust of the GFC assault. “Marney, are you back yet?”

  Static crackled through the communication link as she answered. “Back at the farmhouse. Setting up inner defenses. Nightmare has it all fucked up.”

  “Roger that,” Johnny said. “Lay down mortar fire. We will sally with a five-mecha sortie.”

  “Good luck, Boss. Thanks for the invite, you asshole,” Marney said.

  “You’ll get your turn,” Johnny said, then raced toward the Golden Feet MK 6 mechas rushing forward as they launched rockets from shoulder mounts.

  The GFC mechas charged three by three—just as Elfrick and his dumbass squad leaders always did. Little trios of inverted V icons moved down Johnny’s heads-up display. Vs of Vs, he thought without laughing. Humor died a little each time he faced Elfrick’s nutjobs. Thoughts of the one-eyed albino in the Twelve Gage Laser invoked a stream of curses Johnny didn’t share with his mercs. Maybe Cindy was right. Maybe he did blame all of his problems on other people.

  For starters, there was Jessup, who should’ve known better than to steal a slate, and especially should’ve known better than to steal a slate without asking Johnny first. Then there was Rylin Tobias, the Lumar Peacemaker who’d spit on the honor of all the Ogre Fist Company members by beating Jessup half to death in front of God and everyone. No matter that Jessup was on the run from the law. No one gave an OFC, past or present, that kind of beat down.

  Then there was Cindy, playing games instead of just grabbing Jessup and bringing the kid to Johnny.

  Worst of all was Gabriel Davenport, his Executive Officer and rival. He needed to get the man his own company soon or there was going to be a mutiny. Or he could kill the hot-headed jerk. Maybe in battle, or in a duel, or however it had to be done.

  Without the OFC, Johnny Boss was nothing. His life lacked purpose without the ability to take contracts and go to war for someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t do it themselves.

  “Mortars!” Johnny called to Marney. “Use ‘em all. Bonus for ending this fight with empty mortar tubes.”

  “You heard the boss!” Marney shouted to her fire team. “Mortars away!”

  Whump. Whump. Whump.

  The sound of mortars leaving their tubes brought a smile to Johnny’s face. He laughed as he picked up speed. Dirt and organic debris blasted into the air just in front of him. He smashed through the smoke and flying cornstalks to hit the first of the Golden Feet losers hard.

  “Is that you, Elfrick?” he shouted.

  The nameless, faceless man in the CASPer mecha shouted something in the GFC Cant Elfrick had bought years ago from a second rate linguist on Therman’s World. Johnny had learned a few phrases the last time they worked on the same side of a large contract.

  “Ver dis Elfrick Dingl-dikl-dac?” Johnny said. Instead of waiting for an answer he closed to melee distance, something he told his less seasoned mercs never to try. Aiming by instinct, he shot the mecha in its feet, then slammed into its armor frame, tumbling it to the ground.

  The battle raged above and on all sides.

  Whump. Whump. Whump.

  Whump. Whump. Whump.

  Marney and her mortar team worked the field indiscriminately since there were far more enemies than friendlies at this point.

  In the distance, five or six thousand meters at least, Elfrick’s famous battle tanks responded with hard hitting sabot rounds. Right on schedule, a second squadron of tanks shed their camouflage and pushed in closer with lasers and energy weapons. Mercs in CASPer units rushed around the right flank only to face Nightmare and two of Johnny’s best Ogres.

  “Marney! Bury those tanks! This soil is soft. The armor units will sink if you give ‘em some encouragement,” Johnny ordered.

  The battle lost cohesion and resembled the bar fight from the night before.

  Enthusiasm for violence led to individual victories here and there.

  “Rally in five, four, three, two, go!” Johnny ordered. He watched to be sure his order was being carried out, then turned and raced toward the prearranged location.

  “Lamart, have you contacted that air support?” Johnny asked.

  “There is an on-call wing of freelancers, but they say the p
rice is double because the Golden Feet smuck-jobs paid to keep them on stand-by,” Lamart said, barely audible above the weapons fire around him…wherever he was in this smoke.

  “Then they should be ready,” Johnny said. “Being on stand-by and all. They just didn’t realize they were on stand-by for us.”

  “I took the liberty of having our credit pre-approved. The interest rate we’re getting charged should be illegal, but I figured this is all or nothing for us,” Lamart said.

  “It is,” Johnny replied. He spent the next fifteen minutes on the move with Marney and one of Davenport’s bodyguards whose name he forgot. “Cover me, I need to switch magazines on my main laser.”

  “Covering,” Marney said.

  Davenport’s goon sprayed a burning cornfield with suppressive ballistic fire.

  Johnny moved to his side, beeping him on the radio link rather than touching him on the shoulder as he would if they were out of their CASPers. “Got it. Go reload and take a piss if you need to.”

  The new guy laughed and fell back to attend to his gear.

  He wasn’t that new, Johnny realized. None of them were.

  Red V-carets regrouped and thrust downward at the blue upside down V-carets. “No rest for the likes of us,” Johnny said.

  Davenport emerged from the barn. “I left four solid men to guard Jessup until we get back. He’s in no shape to travel.”

  “Just leave him here,” Johnny said, immediately realizing how stupid that decision was.

  “Got to keep him here in case he is sending us on a wild goose chase,” Davenport said. “Are you about done with these Golden Toes jerkoffs?”

  “Get in the fight, XO,” Johnny said.

  “Don’t have to ask me twice,” Davenport said. “Team Two, break from whatever you are doing and rally on me. We’ve got the left 50 of this sector.”

  Johnny moved, expecting Team One to do the same without being told. He didn’t want to echo the orders of his XO.

  “Did you get a location?” he asked Davenport on their semi-private channel, the one they agreed to use but that almost anyone could eavesdrop if they knew the arrangement.

  “He was taking it to sell to a Zuul trader, but got caught trying to go around the Cathedral,” Davenport said.

  Johnny cursed. “We need to get there before they can call in their muscle and synchronize their autocannons. That place should be called the Fortress.”

  “Well, at least it ain’t a real Cathedral. We shouldn’t go to hell if we die smashing our way in,” Davenport said.

  Johnny was too tired and pissed off to laugh.

  Team One pressed hard, drawing most of Elfrick’s wrath. The one-eyed albino hated anyone who’d ever dated Cindy, and since Johnny had married her three times, the GFC versus OFC vendetta was practically codified in merc law.

  “Reload,” Johnny’s CASPer computer advised.

  He stared at his gauntlets and shook off fatigue. It had been years since he heard the reminder. Training and experience taught him to bump his mags frequently, always keeping a full one in his primary weapon and the partially used mags close at hand in an emergency pouch.

  He needed to focus. Moving and firing at GFC CASPers, he worked through his priorities.

  The facts of his situation hadn’t changed much since the Ultra Max Prison breakout. He still needed money to keep the OFC viable. Jessup was still an outlaw and was likely to remain wanted until the Peacemakers brought him in, with or without the slate that was worth so many credits.

  A casual observer might say the current battle was his biggest problem, and it was, to an extent. But fighting was what he and his Ogres did. He found it relaxing at times. Routine.

  A game-changing revelation dawned on him as smoke cleared from the scorched and cratered cornfield. He needed money and wanted Jessup safe, but his real problem was his Executive Officer.

  Gabriel Davenport began the mop up operation, disarming Golden Feet who were smart enough to know they were beaten and punching the rest with directed laser fire. Most of Johnny’s Ogre Fist Company followed him and cheered each time a Golden Feet CASPer merc was humiliated and disarmed.

  I only have one real problem, and its name is Gabriel Davenport.

  “Marney,” Boss said when no one else was paying attention.

  “Yeah, Boss?”

  “Status?”

  “Little banged up. What’d you need?”

  “Stay here and make sure Davenport’s men don’t kill Jessup. Once we have the slate, we need to turn him over to the Calista Marshals. I can’t bear to give him directly to the Peacemakers.”

  “Davenport is in rare form,” Marney said. “When this is over, we need to talk. I have some concerns.”

  “Those concerns are about to be addressed.”

  THE CATHEDRAL

  Like the automated farm, the Cathedral was located well beyond the influence of Nemis City. The thick-walled structure stood at one end of a massive plateau. Veins of red and yellow minerals streaked the rock where it had been carved and shaped on an industrial scale. Corrosion-resistant alloys and carbon-bonded concrete linked manufactured structures that were not part of the raw stone.

  Nimbus clouds arrayed themselves on the horizon like an armada touched by the dying day. This part of Calista was harsh, and the changes of a landscaped abrupt. The desert gave way to robust cornfields and other staple crops. Networks of arterial canals nurtured the plants with snow melted from distant mountains.

  At the center of the fortress was a gothic church with elaborate stained glass windows glowing in the harsh sunset of Calista. Johnny saw the colorful spire from kilometers away.

  “That’s close enough,” Johnny said.

  Davenport, canopy open for this part of the trip, carried out the order.

  The Ogre Fist Company settled down for the night to observe the fortress town around the Cathedral. Over the years, a warlord known as Bloody Ambrose had built a system of modern defenses.

  “I see fixed energy and kinetic weapons on every tower of the wall. I assume no man’s land is a minefield,” Davenport said as he lay prone with binoculars next to Johnny on a hilltop.

  Johnny made his own assessment. “Don’t sound so dire. What are a couple of high intensity laser batteries, heavy machine guns, and missile racks to guys like us?”

  Davenport shifted uncomfortably.

  CHALLENGE AND RESOLUTION

  Johnny spent much of the night watching regular patrols around the edge of the plateau. He rested when he could and made sure his Ogres did the same. In the morning he rejoined Davenport near the observation post.

  It was time to make a decision.

  “Just you and me on this one. The rest of the OFC will remain here as a quick reaction force,” Johnny said.

  “Are you showing off, Boss? This is a tough nut. We need numbers. I’m tempted to send for everyone we left at the farm,” Davenport said.

  “It would take a full division plus air support to storm those walls. You and I can fight our way across the Challenge Bridge,” Johnny said.

  “Are you trying to get me killed? Bloody Ambrose leaves that causeway partially defended to entice green units with more guts than sense,” Davenport said.

  “He honors the victory of anyone who can run his gauntlet. We get past that, we have a chance at seizing the tablet,” Johnny said, then turned the conversation without warning or hesitation. “Do you really think it’s in there, or does it make more sense that Jessup tricked you?”

  “Tricked us, maybe,” Davenport said. “Not just me.”

  Johnny stared him down.

  “The OFC is broke, Boss. You’ve run it into the ground with your idealistic bullshit. I’m about to take half the company and start over someplace new,” Davenport said. “Why the hell are we here if you think I screwed up?”

  “Jessup always got along with Marney. She’s like an aunt to him,” Johnny said, examining his gauntlets one at a time.

  Davenport snorted a laugh b
ut looked worried.

  “You’ve got two options, XO, go through the crucible that Bloody Ambrose set up and maybe come out worthy of your own company charter—one that I’ll endorse—or go back and admit Jessup pulled the wool over your eyes. Then you can leave with whoever will go with you.”

  “There’s no way that kid is tough enough to have lied to me,” Davenport snarled.

  “Torture taints the answers. You know how stubborn Jessup is. You think that’s the worst beating he ever had? I know that’s wrong because he would never surrender the slate to Ambrose. But now we have to fight our way inside and prove it, or the men will lose faith in both of us.”

  “I’ll kill that little punk,” Davenport said.

  “Marney has probably already turned him over to the Calista Marshals. The only thing I’m gambling on is that he tells her where the slate is before he gets locked up a second time,” Johnny said.

  Davenport fumed wordlessly for several minutes, then headed back to camp. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got your back so long as you’ve got mine. As much as I’d like to frag you right now, neither of us will survive Ambrose’s funhouse alone.”

  Johnny nodded.

  “You’re a psychopath, Johnny Boss,” Davenport said.

  “I’ve been called worse.” He ran a fresh diagnostics check on his MK 7’s armor and weapons. Information scrolled down the heads-up display in his helmet. Ignoring most of it, he watched Davenport.

  His XO hefted a partial laser shield. Johnny remembered ordering the damaged, arm-deployable shield trimmed down rather than repaired. Davenport had hated the idea but learned to use it for defense and offense—creating one of his signature decapitation moves that struck fear into his enemies on the battlefield.

  Cold dread filled Johnny as he realized Davenport’s pinplant links were functioning. The man must have made a detour in Nemis City and had them re-synced. Replaying the battle at the farmhouse he understood why Team Two responded as though reading his mind. He could communicate without overt radio traffic and process information fast. The man had performed well during the fight, rarely missing a target and avoiding damage with an agility few CASPer drivers could match.