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

by Chris Kennedy

  “All non-refundable contracts come with an automatic 20 percent markup for supplies, return transit costs, and ‘essentials’ as defined in Section 66, Paragraph 5, Sub Paragraph e,” Bolivar said. “An additional 50 percent must be deposited on the 60 day of employment if still in transit.”

  “What?” Paige and Tamara asked simultaneously, their verbal shock reflected in Silvius’s jaw dropping.

  “Just dropped two days ago,” Bolivar said. “The Mercenary Guild is, to put it bluntly, sick of the Union’s shit.”

  “How do you figure that?” Tamara asked. “That seems like a damn good way to make someone reconsider hiring mercs, actually.”

  “Guild is tired of people thinking mercs are disposable fodder,” Bolivar said. “I think Black Tuesday is still causing some folks to get the vapors.”

  “Black Tuesday,” as people were referring to April 15th of that year, had involved six mercenary companies being wiped out within 24 hours. Yes, two of them had been mutual annihilation, but the other four had been due to various degrees of customer obfuscation about what the job entailed.

  “Still, I’m with Tamara,” Paige said. “No refund contracts are how folks start developing capital. That’s going to stop if they start having an inherent mark-up.”

  “Can’t spend the money if you’re dead,” Silvius snorted derisively.

  “There’s also that little matter of the Squiddies,” Bolivar continued.

  There was silence in the ready room at the mention of The Crimson Squid. In reality, the organization’s name was about 50 words of difficult to pronounce, alien syllables. Its unofficial moniker came from the organization’s symbol, a picture best described as the love child of Cthulhu and Fenrir doing a “Killroy Was Here” pose over a shattered cityscape. The full symbol was placed in a morphogenic tattoo on each member’s upper chest, with a matching tattoo on the small of their back or thorax.

  When your terrorists aren’t even trying to hide who they are anymore, there’s a problem, Bolivar thought.

  “Yeah, well, I somehow doubt anyone in the Guild is really thinking about preserving combat power versus getting rid of competition,” Tamara said skeptically.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Bolivar said. “Those damn do-gooders owe us a full dossier in 48 hours, with a data update as we come out of transit. Paige, what’s Flaming Yurt’s status?”

  Paige ignored Tamara’s eye roll at the name their CASPer pilot had bestowed on the MK 6. Squat, bipedal, and with a bulbous cockpit that made it look like a walking bullet, the Flaming Yurt was a third-hand vehicle Paige had found at an estate sale back on Earth. Its purchase had required the sale of the Tumen’s two MK 5s and several pieces of the Thompson family’s estate back on Humanity’s home planet.

  That was the ugliest fight Tamara and I ever had, Bolivar thought. I don’t know what made her madder—finding out that Paige and I were in a relationship, or that I sold Grandma’s acreage in Tennessee.

  “She’ll be back from the shop in 24 hours,” Paige said. “With the new reflective paint and upgraded jets, it’s almost like she’s a poor man’s MK 7…”

  “Except she’s not,” Tamara interrupted angrily. “We need a second CASPer.”

  “Well let me just shit one, Sis,” Bolivar replied sarcastically, finally having had enough of Tamara’s attitude. “Remind me which one of us flunked her last tactics test?”

  The blood drained from his sister’s face. “Flunking a tactics test” was shorthand for having been forcibly retired from mercenary operations. Out of the corner of his eye, Bolivar saw even Paige blanching at his callousness.

  “Well,” Tamara said, her drawl deepening in an ominous way. “If my advice is no longer needed, I can have a resignation on your desk by nightfall.”

  Okay, if you want to go there, Bolivar thought. I’m sure Mom would like to have one of her children actually planet-side.

  “Are you going to keep riding me at every turn?” Bolivar asked.

  “I’m not riding you ‘at every turn.’ I believe that individual is over there,” Tamara snapped, gesturing at Paige.

  “What the hell?” Paige said, starting to stand up before Silvius grabbed her.

  “Jesus, Tamara,” the youngest Bolivar said. This time, he didn’t look away when Tamara turned her baleful gaze on him.

  “Oh, I see, is she…” Tamara started. She never got to finish, as Paige wiggled out of Silvius’ grasp. Even having seen Paige in the field, Bolivar was shocked at how quick their CASPer pilot moved. Tamara’s hand was still moving up to block when the backhand landed, and her own counterblow struck nothing but air as Paige dodged.

  Okay, I underestimated just how good those augments are, Bolivar thought. Silvius jumped between the two women, giving Paige a look as he shoved Tamara back.

  “I didn’t haul your ass off that godforsaken rock so you can insult me!” Paige screamed. “What the hell is your problem?!”

  That’s a very damn good question, Bolivar thought angrily.

  “Silvius, Paige, out now!” Bolivar barked. Both of them took one look at Bolivar and headed for the door. Tamara, for her part, simply crossed her arms and stared at her older brother until the door shut.

  “Gonna chew me out, Bolly?” she asked snidely as soon as the door was closed. “Or slap the shit out of me like your fuck toy just did?”

  Holy shit, something is eating her, Bolivar thought, his brief flash of temper fading with the realization.

  “You don’t usually act like a petulant toddler needing attention,” Bolivar said evenly after a moment. “So I thought, maybe I’d ask you whether you had a legitimate reason you care about Paige and I.”

  “Ew,” Tamara said, shaking her head vehemently. “Not cool, Bolivar. Not cool at all.”

  “Says the woman who just questioned my judgment in front of my subordinates and is taking full advantage of certain clauses in our establishment documents?” Bolivar observed reasonably.

  “She’s a Jonah, Bolivar,” Tamara seethed. “She’s been in three companies, and all three are now defunct. If you hadn’t found her in that Pit on Karma, she’d…”

  “Likely be dead,” Bolivar interrupted. “Driven to do something truly stupid like going thief or pirate, and being hunted down by some Peacemaker. Is that what you would prefer? You guys were best friends in high school, she saved your life, and now you’re saying you’d rather she was meat paste in some Oogar prison?”

  “She’s dangerous!” Tamara nearly shouted, the thought of Paige being rations not even giving her pause. “You don’t understand. You didn’t serve with her!”

  Bolivar could see his sister starting to sweat, and her shoulders shaking.

  “No, I didn’t,” Bolivar said gently, stepping toward her. “But we’ve done two jobs with her so far. Everyone’s come back. There hasn’t even been a hint of trouble. If she comes back alone, it means I fucked up, not her.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2: A Peacemaker Speaks Mercator

  Nuckelavee

  0650 Ship’s Time

  18 January

   “I should have charged them another million for this transit,” Bolivar muttered as he idly ran his fingers through Paige’s hair.

  The redhead chuckled, her eyes still closed as she lay drowsily on Bolivar’s chest. The two of them were cuddled on Bolivar’s bed, the compartment’s stifling humidity causing both their bodies to have a slight sheen of sweat. Acclimation was one of those things a merc could do the easy way en route to a location…or the hard way dirtside.

  Whose bright idea was it to land in the humid sub-tropical region? Bolivar thought. Oh, that’s right, the idiot who wanted a radar shadow between their expected drop point and the main cartel camp.

  “Should have charged them 20,” Paige said, her voice more playful than annoyed.

  “Let’s just say this group is not going to get a good referral,” Bolivar muttered.

  There was a slight shudder, then the har
d push of deceleration. Paige sat up quickly, the movement and view something that would have distracted Bolivar if he was not shifting for his own pants…and slamming hard into the bunk’s edge as he misjudged his movements.

  One half of a g doesn’t seem like a lot, he thought, seeing stars from bouncing his head. But until you get used to it, it provides plenty of opportunities to look like an idiot.

  “You okay?” Paige asked, genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah,” Bolivar replied sheepishly. She smiled, slipping her T-shirt over her head.

  “You want me to go down to the hold and fire up the Yurt?” she asked.

  “Bolly,” the speaker crackled, the moniker telling him who the speaker was even if the comms sounded like the end of a tunnel.

  Okay, right behind a new CASPer is getting this ship upgraded with modern electronics, Bolivar thought.

  “Yeah Silvius?” he replied.

  “The Trader captain says prepare to be inspected,” Silvius said. “He kindly asks that we do not anger the Peacemaker that’s coming aboard, as the Wraiths of the Eternal Night are sitting off our port bow with a couple of escort frigates.”

  “Who the fuck are the Wraiths of the Eternal Night?” Paige asked, confused. Bolivar concentrated for a second, and his implants brought up the required information.

  “Goka outfit,” Bolivar said, the second syllable sounding like he was a crow. “Not wise to mess with—they’re not keen on taking prisoners.”

  “What in the hell are they doing out here?” Paige asked, lacing up her boots.

  Bolivar shook his head, then immediately regretted it.

  “I really hope you didn’t give yourself a concussion…” Paige said, starting to look worried at the pain crossing his face.

  “I’ll just tell everyone I got it in bed with you,” Bolivar replied. “Think what it will do for your reputation.”

  “Hmm, tends to be the sole survivor and screws her boss to the point he’s useless,” Paige replied sarcastically. “Yes, my mother would be so proud. Not that she’d have much room to talk given how she paid for me to get VOWs training.”

  Whoa, she’s not bitter or anything, Bolivar thought, sensing the hurt in Paige’s voice.

  Bolivar was about to say something when Silvius interrupted.

  “Apparently it’s going to be a couple hours,” Bolivar’s brother said. “You can go back to nursing your concussion, Loverboy.”

  Bolivar and Paige looked at each other, then at the speaker.

  “By the way, maybe when your little brother tells you that the transmit protocol on the captain’s cabin has a glitch, you might want to listen to him,” Silvius finished.

  * * *

  In reality, it was four more hours. Bolivar spent the intervening time gathering the Tumen’s bona fides, grabbing breakfast with Silvius, then hitting the weight room. He was on his last set, veins bulging in his neck, when the three-toned hatch entry request sounded throughout the Nuckelavee.

  Fucking figures, Bolivar thought to himself, his arms shaking as he strained to push the bar up.

  “He can wait, one more!” Silvius barked, gripping the middle of the bar. “I’ve got your spot.”

  The tone sounded again, and Bolivar ignored it, pressing up one last time with his brother’s help. Paige poked her head into the hatch at that moment, concern obvious on her face.

  “What are you lunatics doing? You don’t keep a Peacemaker waiting!” she said.

  “It’s a Peacemaker, not a deity,” Bolivar said. Gesturing for Paige to lead the way, he headed toward the hatch where the Nuckelavee was attached to the Trade Guild freighter.

  I can’t even remember this tub’s name, Bolivar thought. She’s just a big taxi. It had been two weeks since they’d even spoken to a member of the larger vessel’s crew. It wasn’t that Zuparti didn’t like humans. It was more a case that there was only so much cohabitation one could take with jumpy, paranoid weasels that would not…shut…up.

  Bolivar stepped into the cargo hold and immediately noted the Tumen’s shooters were all conspicuously present. Paige had stationed herself furthest from the entryway, an assault rifle leaning against a storage container out of the hatch’s line of sight. Donovan and Mitchell, a pair of baby-faced rookies who had been with the Tumen for less than two weeks stood with their backs against the bulkhead, laser pistols on their hips. Closer to the door, casually holding assault rifles, were “Grandpa” and “Fenrir,” a pair of Besquith males whom Paige had befriended shortly before being hired by the Tumen.

  I’m still getting used to having a pair of wolfmen with us, Bolivar thought. Besquith were an honor-bound race, and it spoke volumes to the two creature’s…desperation that they had pledged themselves to a human.

  Beggars…choosers…we’re all a bunch of riff raff, Bolivar thought. He looked up to ensure the bright green light over the hatch was illuminated, thus signifying breathable atmosphere was on the far side. Standing in the center of the hold, he signaled for Silvius to open the compartment. With a slight rumble, the Nuckelavee’s portal swung upward, the waft of pungent air from the freighter making Bolivar’s nose wrinkle.

  The Peacemaker was a tall, bipedal humanoid. As it stepped into the light, Bolivar nearly cursed aloud.

  Fuck me, it’s an Equiri, he thought, as he took in the almost eight-foot-tall being. In the late 20th century, he remembered that there had been a fad of people getting their pictures taken with a horse head mask. If one made those horse features more narrow, gave the being a light gray skin tone, a dark crimson mane, and made the eyes an almost obsidian black, then this was a near description of an Equiri. Except, when one was smiling, as this Peacemaker was, the creature’s mouth was much more “shred your grandma” than “I chew cud.”

  “Perhaps you should see about getting your translators fixed,” the Equiri said, its voice flat and dour. “I could swear I said ‘immediately’ when referring to opening your hatch, not ‘at your leisure’ as you apparently heard.”

  To her credit, Paige did not turn and spear Bolivar with an “I told you so” look. As he regarded the Equiri’s dark utility uniform and blazing blue Peacemaker Guild logo, Bolivar bit back several different replies.

  “No one’s been making you wait,” Bolivar replied evenly. The Equiri’s shark grin only broadened, and Bolivar had the distinct impression it wasn’t humor driving the motion. “But if you’re pressed for time, arguing over whether we sufficiently bowed and scraped at your grandeur doesn’t seem to be indicative of that.”

  “Agreed,” the Peacemaker replied after a pregnant pause. “As I am told, your translators regularly screw up my kind’s names. Allow me to present my credentials.” The being reached inside its utilities, withdrawing a flat rectangular device from its pockets.

  I remember hearing how they gripped things with those hooves, but it’s been awhile since I took biology, Bolivar thought, not wanting to distract himself looking it up. The Equiri manipulated the device, and after a moment a Tri-V, three-dimensional blue tree appeared in front of Bolivar. After a few moments, a Peacemaker ID followed.

  Well holy shit, Bolivar thought, looking at the Peacemaker sequence number and the Equiri’s name. As expected, the translator had butchered it, but not as badly as Bolivar had expected.

  Mr. “Devilmane” has been doing this for a while, an indication he’s not out here for something trivial, Bolivar thought grimly. Peacemakers, as the Union’s enforcement arm, tended to rotate or die pretty frequently. Devilmane had had been operating for 10 Terran years, a veritable lifetime.

  “The computer translates your name to Devilmane,” Bolivar said slowly. “Is that acceptable to you?”

  “Your pronunciation is terrible, but we can go with it,” Devilmane replied.

  You almost got called Ed, Bolivar thought. But I’m sure you’d eventually look that reference up, then make it a point to come back and gnaw my face off.

  “You will take me to a private place,” Devilmane stated. “The
re we will consume prepared flesh.”

  “I do not recall where it says I have to feed you,” Bolivar replied. “Just let you see my ship.”

  “You are a mercenary,” Devilmane snapped. “If you do not wish for me to discuss a potentially lucrative employment with you, I question why these others follow you.”

  Bolivar was well aware all the Tumen turned to look at him.

  “Well, since you put it that way, let me introduce you to something called a ribeye steak.”

  * * *

  Well, watching one of them eat is truly horrifying, Bolivar thought. Like watching a Black Stallion and Jaws mashup directed by that old Tarantino fellow.

  “You Earthers have strange tastes,” Devilmane said, looking around the compartment.

  “The yacht was my father’s,” Bolivar allowed. “I make no apologies for his tastes.”

  “Yes, one of the original investors in your species’ starport,” Devilmane replied. “I can appreciate an industrious sentient, even if I find your kind repugnant in general.”

  “Well don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel,” Bolivar replied, shaking his head.

  Devilmane looked at him for a moment, then bared his teeth again.

  “I think that is what your kind calls sarcasm. I doubt you want me to truly tell you what I believe about humans.”

  Awfully brave horsie to talk shit aboard my yacht, Bolivar thought. Sure those frigates will blow us to kingdom come about ten seconds after your bio signs cut out, but that might be worth it.

  “Forgive me. Our kind is rather blunt.”

  “Never would have guessed.”

  “We have heard of your company, Thompson of Houston,” Devilmane said, flicking his thick tongue to remove a hunk of steak from his teeth.

  “I’m somewhat perplexed at why Thompson’s Tumen is on the Peacemakers’ radar,” Bolivar said. “I’d be happy to get a steering azimuth as to how to get off your screen.”

  “Because you were the only mercenaries dumb enough to take a contract with the Order of Meyra,” Devilmane said flatly.