“He keeps the data chips in the room behind us,” Jeff said before the Professor could respond. “I want my share. You used me, but I can give you the research in exchange for a share. He has the drives encrypted, but he gave me the codes.”
Yusstic considered Jeff for a long moment and then smiled. “I believe we can arrange something, Mister Peters. Get the chips and don’t try anything heroic, or you’ll disappear right along with these two.”
With a deep breath, Jeff opened the hatch and looked inside. It was laid out similarly to the hauler, but had four couches that were significantly heavier than the ones in the first vehicle. Well, the Professor had said that this thing used the fastest technology available.
He was about to turn and grab the Professor when Sash hurled them both through the hatch. One of the goons shouted and opened fire. Something bounced off the hatch as it slid smoothly closed.
“Into the couches,” Sash shouted as she raced to the front of the craft.
Moments later, they were all in place, with Jeff and the Professor in the second row. Jeff was still looking for the restraints when the hand of God tried to crush him.
The screen at the front of the ship came to life and showed the station receding at an incredible rate. In moments, it became a dot.
“I do hope…they don’t…attempt to disconnect the power…from the containment vessel. Even that has…significant risks. It won’t remain…stable while they…switch to an…alternate means of—”
The receding dot suddenly blossomed into hellish life. It expanded in a sphere of actinic light that raced after the life pod as if to devour it.
“Great Scott,” the Professor murmured.
For one long moment, Jeff knew this was the end, but the light rapidly dimmed as they raced clear of its destructive radius. In moments, it guttered out and was gone.
“Reduce the…acceleration,” the Professor said.
Seconds later, the weight lifted. Jeff stared at the black screen. The station was gone as if it had never been. And so were all his worldly possessions, he belatedly realized.
“Well, that was a significantly poorer outcome than I’d hoped for,” the Professor said tiredly.
“I’m sorry you lost everything, Professor,” Jeff said, resting his hand on the scientist’s shoulder. “Perhaps it’s best the research on antimatter is lost.”
Xaltar shook his head reprovingly. “What kind of researcher do you take me for, Mister Peters? I never go anywhere without backing up the data to my slate, which is safely in my pocket.
“Though you are correct that my lab is gone, along with all the equipment for generating the antimatter in the first place. Still, we can rebuild, and the time will not be wasted.
“In all the hubbub, I had an idea for something that could be used to make the transport and storage of antimatter possible. It will require some groundbreaking work from both of us, but I am feeling confident we can crack this as yet unsolved mystery.”
Jeff felt his jaw drop. Surely the Professor didn’t intend to keep working on this mad scheme.
“What solution is that, Professor?” he heard himself ask weakly.
Xaltar grinned, leaned toward Jeff, and whispered.
“Antigravity.”
# # # # #
CHANGE OF COMMAND by Thomas A. Mays
Major Nick “Papa Smurf” Smithfield’s first act upon assuming command of the Terrible Texans’ Bravo Company was to get himself decapitated by a three-foot length of obsidian shrapnel.
His second act was to collapse off the ruin’s platform, and his third was presumably to die on the alien grass analog, but Staff Sergeant Sheila Murphy was no longer watching what happened to him. Instead, she dove for cover just like the rest of “B” Company. Gods damn it, she thought, the friggin’ Zuul would pick NOW to complicate the contract.
Normally, Sheila and all 211 of her Bravo brethren would either be kitted up in armored CASPers or else safely ensconced within the walls of the garrison, but today was special. Today, Bravo Company got to wear their fanciest, neatly pressed utilities and stand in ranks beneath the mysterious obsidian bowl of the impossibly ancient alien amphitheater—well outside the facility’s defensive perimeter—listening to speeches as Major Graves was relieved by Major Smithfield after two years of commanding Bravo Company on contract after successful contract.
Sheila understood it. The dog-and-pony show of a formal Change of Command was important to some folks, but dammit, you had to balance ceremony with tactical realities—even if the sheer absence of any hostilities during their whole tenure here might lead one to complacency. Those hostilities had arrived at last, however.
Moments after Smithfield had returned Graves’ salute and taken over as CO, a mortar explosion shattered the overhanging black volcanic glass bowl of the amphitheater ruins and rained shrapnel down on the unarmored company. Along with Smithfield, two other nearby mercs had also been bisected, and there were dozens of less serious debris wounds and injuries due to the explosive overpressure. Of Major Graves or the Exec, there was no sign.
Sheila herself felt dizzy and disoriented by the blast above them, but she remained functional. She made it to the tables full of hors d’oeuvres and drinks, knocked one over to conceal herself, and dragged another over her head for protection, as if the table might be any more durable than the stone overhang had been. Another merc—a young private right out of his VOWs who had just joined the company and transited out with Smithfield—dove behind the dubious cover of the tables beside her. “Staff Sergeant! The Commander! He’s dead!” he cried.
She shrugged. “Uh, probably.”
The private’s eyes widened. “So, who’s in charge? What do we do next?”
“Well, answering in reverse order, we A) try not to get killed our own selves, and B) if it doesn’t matter at the moment, refer back to A.” Sheila peeked over the toppled table. Chaos reigned as mercs either scrambled for cover like she had or ran back toward the garrison for their armor. No one knew when the Zuul dogs of war might lob their next mortar, or come yapping and barking from over the hill, magnetic accelerator cannons, or MACs, blasting away like some nightmare vision of Fido gone wrong.
The ancient amphitheater pre-dated the establishment of the GenSha commercial farm or their garrison contract, and—Sheila had to admit—was quite attractive if you ignored the smoking hole smashed through the black-glass bowl. It had been a nice locale for the Change of Command ceremony, rampant with natural floral excess and a fetching mixture of green, blue, and purple alien grasses. The special soil here had been the reason the GenSha had set up their grow-op and hired the Terrible Texans to provide security for the last year, a year that had proven about as exciting as watching the extraterrestrial grass grow.
Well, it certainly seemed “exciting” now. She watched in horror as the guys who had run for their armor hit the halfway point between her concealed position and the outer line of Bravo Company’s defenses. A second mortar round whistled down and burst thirty feet above the ground. It went off close enough for her to feel the heat and the trailing edge of the blast, but not close enough for the overpressure to liquefy her organs, pulverize her bones, or pepper her with shrapnel—not like the dozen mercs beneath it.
Sheila wasn’t sure what was so special about the soil here, but it had now been watered by the blood of her comrades. That made it sacred. She was going to make those pups pay if it was the last thing she did.
Had she been by herself, she might have gone for it, tried an alternate route back to the compound, CASPered up, and played “Bad Dog” with their canine Zuul attackers, but she couldn’t abandon the utterly green private. Instead, she gestured east. “Hey! Here’s what we’re gonna do. Threat sector’s that-a-way, where the Zuul are guarding a rival grow-op. We don’t know why they picked now to burn us, but there’s nobody else on the continent with the balls to try. Don’t give ‘em a shot! Move, concealment to concealment, favoring cover to the east. Follow me. Gotta fin
d the Exec, get organized, get air cover, and then get us some back. Got it?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” Clear direction seemed to ground the panicked merc, even if that direction was essentially to find someone else to ask for help.
Sheila and the private moved fast and low, crouching, sliding, and scooting from uncertain concealment to dubious cover, especially since she could not be certain the dogs were indeed approaching from the east. Without sensors to inform them otherwise, the mortars could have been fired from any direction. Others saw her moving, and since no one else wanted to attempt another open run back to the garrison, they followed suit until she led a ragged phalanx, hunting for leadership.
They found the old CO, Major Graves, and the Exec, Captain Foster, behind the western side of the amphitheater’s stage, using its concrete analog and the floral overgrowth to protect them from any threats to the east. Major Smithfield’s headless corpse stained the multicolored grass a uniform crimson. The three officers had been armed only with decorative swords for the ceremony, but one of them had at least squirreled away a pistol, which the wild-eyed Foster aimed at Sheila as she came around the corner.
She held up one hand while keeping another gripping the stage, ready to pull herself back fast if the Exec proved to be too rattled. He checked his aim, however, and went back to scanning the area, covering Major Graves as that man wielded their strongest weapon: an encrypted comm back to the garrison.
Technically, Captain Foster was CO now. Smithfield had assumed command, properly relieving Graves, if only for about 30 seconds. With his demise, the Exec became the boss…but looking at the pair of them now, there was no question who was in charge. Sheila didn’t know if there had been any discussion between the men about the situation, or any formal reversion to the old order, but Graves was back in command, barking orders into the comm and getting the armed reserve at the garrison into the fray.
Better late than never.
At last, Sheila heard the drone of armored flyers and felt the rhythmic thump-thump of CASPers running their way. Missiles dropped from rails and streaked over the horizon at the yet-unseen pups. Lasers snapped and the MACs chattered, hopefully targeting the attacking Zuul mortar section and tearing it all to hell.
Sheila shook her head and risked standing. “What a friggin’ waste of a cake contract.”
In a few moments, CASPers ringed the amphitheater and flyers orbited as close air support, preventing any further sucker punches. Bravo Company’s medical section streamed in, checking on the wounded and pronouncing over the dead. There were far too many of both.
Major Graves, again in charge, finally stood. He looked proudly at the new defensive perimeter, and with sadness at the demolished ruins and all of his unfortunate casualties. With a sigh, he dropped the comm to his side and gestured Foster and Sheila over.
Before he could pass his orders, though, a final snap sounded. A laser bolt from the west streaked in and flashed a narrow cylinder of the Major’s chest into pure plasma, which then exploded outward in a fountain of gore. He fell like a marionette with its strings cut.
And command devolved to the Exec once more.
* * *
“Okay, what the sam-fuck is goin’ on ‘round here?” demanded First Sergeant Brenda Reeves.
The portly GenSha running the agricultural team the Texans were guarding scrunched its massive head down into its even more massive body. The tiger-striped bipedal bison-oid might have appeared imposing due to its sheer size, but trying to go turtle in order to escape the wrath of a senior merc NCO tended to undercut the alien’s innate intimidation factor. It clearly wanted to escape its own agricultural directorate office, but 1SGT Reeves offered it no way out.
Sheila would have thought it amusing had she not just washed off her old CO’s blood.
Realizing it had no way out of the room, the GenSha director shuddered in some alien gesture and finally talked. “Terrible Texans contracted to protect GenSha grow-op here in probable ‘car’ valley.”
Across from Sheila on the other side of the director’s office, Captain Foster suddenly looked nervous, but he nodded. “Yes, Glashthul, and we’ve performed as contracted. But it’s remained quiet for the whole last year. What’s changed now?”
The GenSha director nodded in a purposefully human manner. “Zuul guard Jeha grow-op in next valley over. Also potential ‘car’ valley, but rockier. Less absorbent clay in soil strata.” The director spread its hoof-hands as if that was explanation enough.
“So the hell what?” Reeves yelled. “They guard one farm, we guard another. Why the hell would those mangy curs pull a sneak attack now after a year o’ complete silence!?”
Glashthul pointed east, toward the other operation. “Miscalculation. Target crop unable to extract desired resources from soil. Failure. Wasted effort. Expenditure unmet. Paid ‘car’ prices, lack ‘car’ payoff. Here, crop yields bounty. Success. Essence of ‘car’ industry ready for extraction, interstellar trans-shipment. Jeha-Zuul partnership seek profitable harvest through alternative means. Assault. Theft.”
The First Sergeant backed off from the GenSha director, nodding. “I get it now. The hungry, hungry caterpillars watched their grow-op go all Oklahoma Dustbowl on ‘em, so they sic their guard dogs on us to take ours. Nice. The Jeha must have offered the Zuul a reeeaaal hefty bonus to change the terms of their contract.”
Sheila still felt confused, however. “What’s all this ‘car’ stuff though? I don’t think you’re talking about automobiles.”
Captain Foster stood hastily. “That’s hardly of paramount importance at the moment, Staff Sergeant Murphy. I appreciate your help rallying after the attack, and I’m sorry for what you personally experienced there at the last, but we really do need to get ready for the Zuul, should they attack again. Please return to Second Platoon and see to your preps.”
“But—”
“That is all, Staff Sergeant. Reeves, you as well, please.”
Brenda Reeves narrowed her eyes, but she complied. The 1SGT ushered Sheila out ahead of her and closed the door on the Captain and Glashthul. Outside the modular office, the sun shone brightly overhead, and the grow-op stretched out in front of them.
Instead of the multicolored alien grasses and rampant flowers at the wrecked pavilion, things looked far more industrial here. Tanks, pumps, and irrigation lines served acres upon acres of the GenSha’s target crop, laid out in neat rows. Three concentric perimeters of fence-line, modular walls, and active barriers protected the alien bounty, backed up by four platoons of Terrible Texan mercs and their associated support units.
Sheila had no idea what their bison-ish employers were growing, but it sure wasn’t wheat. Known only as C117, the plants were not unlike giant eggplants, if eggplants pulsed with their own glowing internal radiance. All she knew was that the GenSha workers shuddered in fear every time one of the Texans joked about frying up a mess of C117 for chow.
Reeves marched past her, headed for the main gate. Sheila rushed to catch up. “Bren! Why do I feel like I just got the big brush-off?”
Reeves grinned. “Probably because you just got brushed off big-time.”
“What the hell is going on here? Really?”
Reeves relented and stood still. She put her hands upon her muscular hips and flexed her well-defined arms unconsciously. “Not shittin’ ya, Sheila, but I have no goddamn clue. This job’s always been hinky, though. No one pays a merc outfit as much as our contract calls for unless the payoff is worth it, and the threat is real. We’ve been in la-la-land since day one, but the fuckin’ beast that’s always slumbered in the shadows has well and truly woken the hell up. And truth be told, this is the last goddamn outfit I’d wanna be part of when the shit went down. Unfortunate for us, huh?”
That took Sheila aback. “What makes you say that? You and I served with Graves for the last two years. The Major was a straight shooter.”
“Yeah, he was, but we also never really got into the shit with him. We’v
e provided rear echelon support to a bunch of assault companies, some low-intensity peace-making, and garrison jobs like this. Compared to other outfits, the Terrible Texans are a low-margin, high-volume, budget enterprise. The ad copy may try to sell us as the “Fifth Horseman,” but that’s just cynical corporate branding, right down to the bucking bronco they put on our logo. One of the Four Horsemen we ain’t. Every one of our companies look prepared, but you best not scratch the surface, Bravo Company included.”
Sheila’s face grew hot. Reeves practically sounded treasonous. “Fuck you, Brenda. I’d pit my Second Platoon against any friggin’ outfit you care to name. We’re ready to fight!”
Reeves smiled. “I like the fire in your belly, Sheila, and I’d bet on you and yours in any stand-up fight. But that doesn’t change the fact most of our officers are just lawyers or corporate drones in uniform with hardly a bit of tactical experience between ‘em. Graves was the exception. Foster and Smithfield? They may have had the appropriate VOWs scores and all the same management courses, but they were not cut from the same cloth as him. Who the hell else would think a pomp-and-circumstance Change of Command ceremony unarmed and outside the defensive perimeter was a good idea, no history of hostilities or not?
“Then there’s the intel failure. We should have known the pups and the ‘pillars were planning something. And—your personal pride notwithstanding—we are ill-prepared for a hard-scrabble, dug-in defense of this farm. We don’t understand our enemy or his tactics well enough, we lack info on his current deployment or his tactical options, and—yes, while we are ready to fight hard and soldier on—we don’t have the legs to fight as long as we might need. There’s no defense in depth here, and the merc corp doesn’t have the ready resources to augment us or send in a ship should our garrison come under sustained attack. What we see is all we get.
For a Few Credits More: More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 7) Page 27
