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

by Chris Kennedy

  Rex scowled beneath the brim of his Boston Red Sox hat, but he wasn’t surprised. This was, after all, the same debate they always had when paired on shifts together.

  “I can call in Karl,” Taylor said. “He could sub in for you.”

  “Oh, hell no,” Rex said. “With the Hurricanes coming back into port today, there’s no way I’d miss this shift—twang-athons or not. You catch the word on that contract?”

  Taylor shrugged. “I heard it’s impressive.”

  “Impressive my ass.” Rex scoffed. “Historic is more like it. Rumor has it the elSha made a hard pitch to land one of the Horsemen for this gig but it was too small potatoes. That left all the mid-card firms jockeying for the deal, and somehow old man Harvick managed to nab it. Can you believe that shit?”

  Taylor could, actually. “What was the payout?”

  “Somewhere north of 30 million credits,” Rex said. “That’s all I got.”

  Taylor whistled. Thirty million credits were an impressive sum for any merc outfit, but especially one the size of Harvick’s Hurricanes. At the current exchange rate, that would net them somewhere around 210 million dollars.

  Good for you, Pete. Taylor’s family had known the Hurricanes’ owner since his move up from Miami 15 years ago to build his own company. If anyone deserved a payday, it was Harvick.

  Taylor glanced at the clock. They had an hour until opening. “We gotta get to work.”

  “Yes sir, Captain Hillbilly, sir.” Rex threw him a mock salute in route to the Tri-V down the bar. He switched it on, causing its three-dimensional image to flutter above the device’s base. The picture was muted, of course; however, the closing crew the previous night must’ve been watching the playoff game, because the channel had been left on the local network affiliate. The picture showed a crowd of hundreds outside of Jacksonville City Hall, many of them holding signs with phrases like “Eagles Fly Free” or “Eagles Never Die.” Others wore t-shirts and ball caps featuring a logo that any kid from Duval County—especially one from Riverside—would’ve known on sight.

  Taylor dropped his eyes.

  “Huh.” Rex pulled at his goatee. “I forgot that was happening today.” Then, as if a light had gone off in his head, the metal-head turned a perplexed look to his co-worker. “Wait a second. Why are you here and not downtown with everyone else?”

  Taylor kept his eyes off the screen. He’d already read the caption—Hometown Heroes honored five years after tragedy—and that’d been enough. “I, um…had stuff to do.”

  “Stuff.” Rex blinked. “The mayor is giving your family the keys to the city today. Maybe I’m a little off base, but it seems to me you should carve a little time out of your schedule for that sorta thing.”

  “Drop it, Rex.” Taylor locked eyes this time. “I’ve got my reasons, and ain’t none of ‘em concern you. Understand?”

  Rex put up his hands. “Fine, man. Whatever floats your taco. I’ll get started on the keg duty if you’ll scope our glassware.”

  Taylor shot him a final glare then snatched up a towel and went to work.

  * * *

  As expected, the afternoon came and went with quite the uptick in sales as several members of Harvick’s Hurricanes dropped in with the desire to party. A few of them had been regulars once, and it did Taylor good to see them. He liked hanging out with mercs. He always had, a fact which surprised no one given his family’s history with their trade.

  By the time 1830 rolled around, orders had slowed to a crawl as most customers had either cleared out to find food or someone to pilot them home. All that remained were a handful of regulars and a couple early birds hoping to claim stools at the bar before the night crowd swarmed the place. Either way, Taylor saw it as an opening to leave early so he could catch the pharmacy on his way home. Rita had left him a message earlier. Apparently their mom had had a pretty rough time at the memorial ceremony and was almost out of meds. No one wanted that, especially not today.

  “Hey Rex?” Taylor turned to his co-worker. “If you don’t mind, I’m gonna—”

  The front door swung open, and another customer appeared. He was tall, about six feet, with a slender frame, freckled features, and peppermint-colored hair that touched his shoulders.

  Every eye in The Hell House turned to study the newcomer, not for his physique but rather his attire. Unlike the rest of the crowd who sported jeans, fatigues, and casual tees, this man wore a tailor-made suit of navy-blue silk that doubtless cost more than most non-mercs saw in a month.

  Attorney, maybe? Taylor despised lawyers.

  “G’day, gents,” the stranger said in a cheerful Australian tone. He got a few grumbles back but that was about it. Undaunted, the man glided over the concrete floor and pulled up a stool in front of Taylor. “I’ll have a whiskey, please. Neat.”

  “This is a bar.” Taylor smirked. “We’ve got a few of those. Would you care to be a little more specific? Jack? Jim? Johnny Walker? Crown?”

  The stranger waved off the suggestions. “No, none of that. I think I’m in the mood for something a bit more…indigenous.”

  Taylor wasn’t sure he’d ever heard that word used in the context of booze before. Maybe it was an Aussie thing. “Caballero Distilleries is based out of Saint Augustine. They’ve got a blonde that’s pretty popular.”

  “Excellent.” The stranger beamed. “I’ll have that then.”

  Turning for the plywood liquor shelf at his back, Taylor plucked out a square bottle with a Spanish matador on the label and placed it on the bar. From there, he grabbed a tumbler from the dry-rack and tipped the bottle over its lip for a three-count. He then cut the pour with wrist-turn and slid the glass of golden liquid to his customer. “That’ll be six dollars.”

  The redhead frowned. “Sadly, I don’t carry cash. You do take credits, though, yeah?”

  “This is a startown, ain’t it?” Taylor replied.

  The stranger reached into his coat and came back with a Yack, placing it onto the counter with an audible click.

  “Be right back,” Taylor said.

  The man sat on his stool, staring.

  Not that kind of bar, chief. Taylor scooped up the card and swiped it through his slate to process the transaction. Once it was done, he handed it back to the redhead. “Will there be anything else?”

  The stranger seemed to consider the question. “Yes, actually. There is.”

  Taylor waited.

  “I’m here on something of a recruiting trip,” the man said. “I represent a gentleman from Atlanta with an eye toward the mercenary trade. Specifically, he wishes to invest in a firm.”

  Taylor shrugged. “He’s come to the right place. There’s plenty around here to choose from, plus a ton more in Houston if he really wants into the bigtime.”

  The stranger shook his head. “As a native of the South, my employer prefers to keep his interests based in the region—hence his fascination with Jacksonville.” He paused, catching himself. “Ah, where are my manners. Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Remington. Raymond Remington.”

  Taylor accepted the man’s handshake. “Good to meetcha. So your boss wants to stay local, huh?”

  Remington nodded.

  “Well, he’s in luck,” Taylor said. “Word around port is there’s an outfit in town from San Diego that’s lookin’ to move south but they need backers to help finance the relo. They left a card with one of the other bartenders if you’re interested.”

  Remington sipped his whiskey. “That’s an interesting proposition for someone, but not us.”

  Taylor leaned on the counter next to the beer taps. “Fair enough. What did you have in mind?”

  Slowly, the stranger reached into his back pocket and came back with something. It was one of the ball caps from the news footage he’d seen earlier.

  Taylor froze, eyes fixed to the logo on the garment’s crown. It showcased a screaming eagle astride crisscrossed muskets with a bright, green palmetto leaf for a background. The sides
of the design were laced in Spanish moss while the top featured a black banner with the company’s name in stylized gold font. It even had their slogan: Semper Proficias.

  Always move forward.

  “What can you tell me about Swamp Eagle Security?” Remington asked.

  Taylor swallowed. “I can tell you they’re closed for business. Have been for some time now.”

  Remington’s smile faltered. “That’s too bloody bad. As I understand it, the Eagles were quite the celebrities around these parts. Five young men from Robert E. Lee High School banded together after graduation to form a small-time mercenary outfit, only to rise through the ranks of Terra’s merc scene to become a solid mid-level player. That’s an impressive feat for anyone, much less a pack of roughnecks from the hard side of town.” He cocked his head. “But you’d know all about that wouldn’t you, Taylor?”

  Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, mister. I ain’t sure what you’re up to but my brother’s company died with him five years ago. There’s nothin’ else to say about it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got—”

  “And what a tragedy that was.” Remington’s expression turned rueful. “Your brother’s passing, I mean. Remind me again how that happened. Engine failure, wasn’t it?”

  Taylor nodded but didn’t elaborate.

  “Such a pity.” Remington clicked his tongue. “And to think, if only the engineering crew had done its job, the whole thing might’ve been averted.”

  Taylor rocketed out a finger, unable to hold his tongue this time. “That’s a bunch of propaganda bullshit. Steve Collins was a great engineer. Hell, some even called him a savant. He and Terry went all the way back to Lee together, and I’m here to tell ya, nobody ran a tighter ship in an engineering room. Nobody.”

  Remington raised his palms. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that negligence was cited in the official report as the attributing cause of the accident.”

  “Please.” Taylor snorted. “Steve didn’t understand the meaning of the word negligence. You’d know that if you were from around here.”

  The redhead grinned, sensing a challenge. “Very well then, mate. Here’s your chance to educate me. I’ll tell you what I know. You tell me where I’m wrong. Sound like a deal?”

  An occasional angler himself, Taylor knew when he was being baited. He chose to roll with it to see where the man was going. “All right, fine. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

  “According to the Science Guild’s report, something went awry with one of the Eagle’s engines on their way back from Karma Station. Once that happened, the hyperspace generator failed, thereby casting the ship and her crew into oblivion before they could re-emerge.” Remington glanced up. “How am I doing so far?”

  Taylor raised a shoulder. “Pretty good, if you trust the Science Guild.”

  “And you don’t?” Remington asked.

  “I don’t trust anyone who keeps that many secrets,” Taylor said. “Here’s what I do know. The ship the Eagles were travelin’ on was a shiny new Akaga-class cruiser, purchased straight off the line two months prior to that contract. I know this because Terry gushed about her for weeks after buyin’ her.”

  “Why’s that?” Remington asked.

  “She was the first cruiser the Eagles had ever owned,” Taylor said. “Prior to that, they’d been forced to lease transportation from other companies come deployment time. Anyway, Terry was proud as hell of that ship, and so was Steve. The man literally lived in her engine room that first month, learnin’ every nook and cranny of her operations. By the time they broke orbit, there wasn’t an inch of that cruiser Steve didn’t know, save for one exception.”

  Remington reclined on his stool. “The hyperspace generator.”

  “Bingo.” Taylor snapped his fingers. “Those units were new and had come straight from the Science Guild with just enough information for our engineers to know how to work them but not much else. Hyperspace travel is one of the few things mankind still don’t fully understand, and those greedy alien bastards have gone to great lengths to keep it that way. They want us in the dark, otherwise they’d have released the specs to those drives years ago.”

  The corners of Remington’s mouth trailed downward. “Are you suggesting that the Galactic Union’s Science Guild—one of the most powerful entities in the Milky Way—sabotaged your brother’s ship?”

  Taylor shook his head. “Nah, nothin’ that nefarious. I think the more likely answer is the Guild sold my brother a bum generator, and rather than fess up about it when the unit failed in transit, they opted to pin their screw-up on the poor dead engineer who ain’t around to say different. It’s classic CYA, man. The whole situation reeks of it.” Taylor pointed for the door. “Now if we’re done with story time here, I’ve got stuff to do. There’s the exit when you’re ready.”

  Remington bit his lip. “Might I be so bold as to make an assertion?”

  “You’re on your own time now, bossman.” Taylor shouldered his knapsack to go. “Make all the assertions you want.”

  “The legacy of Swamp Eagle Security extends far beyond their wealth, achievements, or the tragedy of their end. It’s a legacy of commitment and dedication, of pulling one’s self up by the bootstraps to build a better life.” Remington tapped a finger on the bar top. “That’s a legacy worth preserving, Taylor, though not in memoriam. In perseverance.”

  Taylor made a face. “What are you gettin’ at?”

  “The man I represent wishes to resurrect your brother’s company for a return to the field, a mission he hopes to achieve with you at the helm.”

  Taylor dropped his bag. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I assure you I am.” Remington laced his fingers. “My employer can’t bring back your brother, Taylor, but he can continue his work. Help us do that, and in doing so, help yourself and your family.”

  A string of past events and corresponding life choices played like a highlight reel through Taylor’s mind. “I’m sorry, but that can’t happen.”

  “Why not?” Remington asked.

  “For starters, you’d need permission from Terry’s surviving partners to bring back the Eagle’s name, and that won’t come easy. After the accident they swore they’d never field another contract as Swamp Eagle Security again. That’s a vow they won’t soon break, for you or anyone else.”

  Remington didn’t miss a beat. “They’re already onboard.”

  “What?” Taylor blinked.

  “I met with them this morning before the ceremony. I told them of our plans moving forward, and how we mean to honor the Eagle’s legacy as a cornerstone of those plans. They’ve agreed to participate on one condition.” Remington aimed his glass at Taylor. “That you, and only you, lead them into the company’s next era.”

  Taylor slouched back against the counter and rubbed his temples. He couldn’t believe this. Gary, Leon, and Ed were like uncles to him, and why he could believe they’d make such a demand. At the same time, Taylor had never been a businessman—a wannabe merc and stargazer in his youth, maybe, but not a leader. He exhaled, searching for a reason to pass that sounded less cowardly. “Swamp Eagle Security sold off most of its assets when it was dissolved. The rest are in the North Florida History Museum in Tallahassee. That means we’d be startin’ from scratch, so unless your employer’s name is Dave Ramsey IV, you can expect to run out of capital by the end of week one.”

  Remington flashed a wry smile. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “Really.” Taylor chuckled. “And how is ole Dave these days?”

  “My employer’s name isn’t Dave,” Remington said. “It’s Daryl. Daryl Dominic.”

  Taylor could’ve used a crane to haul his jaw off the floor. Holy shit.

  Daryl Dominic was the owner of MCA Creative, the multi-billion-dollar tech firm based in Atlanta, Georgia. The “A” in the name stood for Apple, as in one of the myriad companies MC had absorbed during the late-21st century in route to dominating the American tec
h landscape.

  On a related note, if Taylor had any lingering doubts about the legitimacy of Remington’s offer, they’d just vanished like a fart in a nor’easter.

  “Well?” Remington knit his arms. “What do you say?”

  Taylor’s head swam with questions. However one in particular rose above them all. “Why me?”

  Remington glanced from side to side. “As I said, your brother’s partners—”

  “I know why they want me,” Taylor said. “At least, I think I do. But why would Mr. Dominic? I’m sure he’s got a laundry list of candidates who’d be way more qualified to run this company than me. I mean, look at me.” He gestured to his surroundings. “I tend bar, for cryin’ out loud. What do I know about bein’ a merc?”

  Remington’s expression turned lopsided. “You mean aside from the fact that you were practically raised by them?”

  “You know what I mean,” Taylor said.

  Remington bellowed a sigh. “You sell yourself short, Taylor. I’ve seen your VOWs scores. Six years ago, the Duval Public School System graduated forty-eight thousand seniors. Of those, thirty-two thousand took the VOWs to become mercenaries.” He leaned in. “You ranked twenty-fifth among them, eleventh among those pursuing an MOS as a CASPer pilot. Even your brother didn’t test that high.”

  Taylor threw up his hands. “So I’m decent in a simulator. Big deal! That still don’t qualify me to run an outfit!”

  Remington wasn’t convinced. “Make all the excuses you like, mate, but you and I both know you were born to do this. It’s in your blood. As for your lack of business acumen, there’s no worries there, either. We’ll surround you with the best and brightest to help you make sound decisions until you’re comfortable making them on your own. Frankly, that’s just good leadership.”

  Taylor stroked his whiskers and wished like crazy this had come eight years ago. Like most kids of his generation, he’d dreamed of piloting a CASPer from the time he’d been big enough to clutch one of their toy figurines. He’d loved those machines, and studied everything about them through grade school: their operations, ordnance, and performance records. He’d even done a project on the history of their various models while in junior high. But then had come Terry’s accident, and with it their mother’s decree that none of her other children would ever follow him into the mercenary trade. The angry 16-year-old Taylor had hated her for that, for depriving him of his dream. Deep down, though, he’d understood why she’d felt that way. That’s why nowadays he served drinks to mercs instead of fighting alongside them.