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

by Chris Kennedy

  Tunneled into Phobos, one of the moons of Mars, it was officially known as Penal Institution 371, and it’s where you got sent if you were a merc and used a weapon in the commission of a crime, especially if that crime was a murder. Armed killers who couldn’t control themselves had no place on SOGA’s Earth. In her mind, we were irredeemable; for a convict, the trip to The Palace was a one-way ride.

  I sat at the table the guard indicated, trying to look tough to the other inmates seated close by, while simultaneously looking inoffensive to the guards. With this many unsecured prisoners in one spot, they were nervous, and all of them were armed with MK 305 laser rifles. A smaller version of the hand-held 307 rifle the CASPers used, it was old, but still very serviceable. I wouldn’t be leading the attack into one of them, anyway. The guards also had nose filters in, too, so they were ready to gas us if needed. I didn’t know whether they’d go with a knockout gas or something more lethal, but I didn’t want to find out.

  Everyone quieted as the warden came in. Even the toughest con didn’t want to take the beating you’d get for disrespecting the warden; besides, there was something new and different going on, and most of us were waiting to see how things played out before making any moves.

  “All right, you assholes, listen up,” the warden said. “Something I never thought would happen just did. Your planet needs you.”

  A buzz went around the room. All of us were here with no possibility of parole—did this represent an opportunity to get off this rock?

  As if reading our thoughts—not that it was that hard—the warden continued, “Yes, for some of you, this may represent an opportunity to redeem your worthless selves. The Secretary of the General Assembly has a job she needs completed, and she immediately thought of you.”

  “Because we’re expendable?” someone asked from the other side of the room.

  A guard moved to punish the con who had spoken, but the warden waved him off. “It’s okay,” the warden said; “I want them to know what they’re getting into.” An evil smile ghosted across his face. Shit. If this was something that made him smile, it wouldn’t be good…or have a positive effect on my lifespan, which is my definition of “good.”

  He turned to face the rest of the group. “You’ve been selected for this mission because you’re all CASPer drivers. And yes, it’s because you’re expendable. Odds are, you probably won’t survive the mission, but it you do, and you successfully complete it, your sentence will be commuted to time served, and you will be released when it’s over.”

  A hand went up. “What is it, convict?”

  “Are we allowed to know what this mission is, sir?”

  “It’s a rescue mission. A friend of the Earth government was taken hostage, and the SOGA wants you to get her back.”

  “Why us?” Another convict asked. “Why not use one of the Horsemen?” He spoke without being recognized, and the warden spoke a little louder to talk over the sound of the convict being hit with a stun stick.

  “Two reasons,” the warden said. “First, because the SOGA doesn’t want to be seen negotiating with terrorists, and second, because the hostage takers said they’d kill the hostages if she talked to the Horsemen. Not only are you off the terrorists’ radars, you’re also a lot cheaper.”

  “Is it going to be a hot drop?” a third convict asked after being recognized.

  The warden’s smile was back. “What part of ‘you probably won’t come back’ didn’t you understand?” the warden asked. He shrugged. “Enough talking. I need 17 volunteers. Who’s in?”

  It was a chance at freedom—perhaps my only one—yet all I could see was my wife’s face as my laser rounds went through it. I was here for a reason. I deserved to be here.

  Thirteen hands went up, and the guards began leading the volunteers off through a passageway I’d never seen anyone but the guards use before. Interesting, one part of my brain thought. If there was a way out, it was in that direction.

  The other part of my brain was reliving that night. I saw my wife fall, and the next rounds from my laser burned through the bloody mist she left behind to strike the person she’d been cheating with. Two to the chest and then a third between the eyes, just like I’d been taught.

  I was done with killing—fuck the mission; I wasn’t going. I couldn’t. I wasn’t killing again.

  Two more convicts got up and were led off.

  “Two more,” the warden said. The rest of the convicts looked at each other and their thoughts were plain to see. Suicide mission with a near certain chance of death, or wait here and see if something better came along? The ones that were happy to bet on the long odds had already left.

  “No one else?”

  I would have been happy with long odds, but I was looking down on the man my wife had cheated with, firing my laser into my former friend’s smiling face until it went dry. A small shudder went through my body. I had liked it. For the first time, I had enjoyed killing someone. A lot. I never wanted to feel that way again.

  “I’ll go,” Jenkins said from the floor.

  The guard near him looked at the warden, with a small shake of his head, but the warden nodded. “Him, too,” the warden said. Hell, if I was the warden, I would have been glad to get rid of Jenkins. The guard released Jenkins from the stanchion and led him off.

  At some point, I had loaded a new battery in the laser and fired the entire magazine into my former friend. I was still standing there, pulling the trigger and enjoying the moment, when they found me. I couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t—become that person again.

  “No one else?” the warden asked. “Fine, we’ll go with 16.”

  I looked down the passageway through which Jenkins had gone, knowing this was probably my last chance to get out of The Palace. Ever. That psychopath Jenkins was going to get out, but I would rot here. My fear of becoming the killer again…and enjoying it…warred with my instinct to just get out.

  In the end, it was the sight of Jenkins going around a distant corner and becoming lost to sight that finally did it for me. That wasn’t fair. If he could be out in society, I could too. I stood up. “I’m in, sir.”

  * * *

  We walked down a long passageway, stopping along the way to be scanned several times, then entered a small room where a guard sat at a desk with a stack of old-style papers. I walked up to the desk, and he held out a sheet of paper and a marker. “Sign at the ‘X,’” the guard said.

  I scanned the sheet with a glance. It was titled, ‘Contract for Employment as a Mercenary.’

  “What—”

  “Sign the damn paper, Andrews, or you’re going back to your cell,” the guard with me said.

  I shrugged. It didn’t matter at this stage—I was “in”—so I signed it.

  “Move along,” my guard said, pushing me forward with the butt of his rifle. I looked back at him over my shoulder and shook my head. He took a step back.

  “Move,” the guard at the table repeated. One of his hands was under the table, probably wrapped around a pistol, so I started walking again. We went through another door and into a holding room where the other 16 volunteers were waiting, along with an equal number of guards.

  “This is the last one, Lieutenant,” said the guard with me as we walked into the room.

  Lieutenant Smith nodded. His eyes scanned the group, giving each of us a piercing glance, then he spoke. “I’m Lieutenant Smith, and these are Sergeants Stennis and Rice, as well as Corporal Johnson.” He pointed out the troopers as he introduced them. “We are the permanent staffers that will be going along with you. Now, I don’t have a lot of time to coddle you, but most of you wouldn’t take kindly to coddling anyway, so that isn’t an issue. Let me be the first to welcome you to your new unit. You are now provisional members of the mercenary company, the Warden’s Own.”

  “The hell’s that?” someone asked.

  “Ever since this facility has existed, it has been used to recruit for a special mercenary unit, the Warden’s Own. All of y
ou came to The Palace with a death sentence. It was just carried out. Your former selves were just shot escaping; at least, that’s what the records say. If you survive the mission you’re about to go on, you will be given a new identity and released, according to the terms of the contract you just signed.”

  A murmur ran through the group. None of us had been able to read the contract we’d signed; we had no idea what those terms and conditions might be.

  “For those of you who might be illiterate,” the lieutenant continued, talking over the rumble, “I’ll recap the high points of your contract. One, you do what I tell you, or what you’re told to do by the sergeants. Two, if you don’t do what you’re told, the sergeants and I have the authority to kill you.” A half-smile crossed his face, illuminating a large scar across his right cheek. It was an ugly sight. “Let’s face it, you’re already dead men; we’d just be making it a little more permanent.

  “Three, when we recover the hostages, you will be given the opportunity to become permanent members of the Warden’s Own, in a paid status, or you can leave the company. Let me tell you, though, the pay’s pretty good.”

  The lieutenant nodded once. “So, here’s the deal. We have a mission to do, and I don’t have a lot of time to get you ready for it. You’re all CASPer drivers, and you may need a little time to reacquaint yourself with your suits, but that’s about all you’re going to get. Do what you’re told, and we’ll be successful; disobey me, and you’ll be killed. Any questions?”

  One of the convicts raised his hand. “How do we know you’re telling the truth, and we’ll be freed if we’re successful?”

  “Good question,” the lieutenant replied. “I’m glad you asked.” He pushed up his sleeve, revealing his Permanent Prisoner Number. It was a tattoo on his forearm, showing he had been given a death sentence. It looked just like the ones all of us convicts had. “Eight years ago, I was sitting where you are now, and I was offered the same opportunity. I did what I was told, and look what it’s gotten me.”

  “The position of Head Murderer for the warden’s traveling band of psychopaths?” I asked.

  The butt of one of the guard’s rifles hit me in the back of the head, hard, and pain coursed through my body as I was thrown forward onto the table. Two years in jail still hadn’t cured me of being a smartass, apparently.

  When I woke up again, the lieutenant’s face was in front of mine. “I thought I wasn’t going to have a problem with you,” he said through clenched teeth. “Should I kill you now and save myself some time?”

  “No, Lieutenant,” I replied.

  “Good.” He stood up, removing his laser pistol from between my legs. I’d never seen him put it there and was glad I had chosen the correct response to his question; I could tell he wasn’t kidding, and probably would have been happy to use me as an example of what happened to smartasses. I’d have to try a lot harder to keep my mouth shut.

  The lieutenant went back to his place and nodded to one of the guards. “Sergeant Stennis, please read the platoon’s assignments.”

  One of the guards read from his slate, “Private Jenkins!”

  “Yeah,” Jenkins replied.

  Sergeant Stennis looked up. “That’s, ‘Yes, Sergeant’ to you.”

  Jenkins made a face but said, “Yes, Sergeant.” Apparently he didn’t want a rifle butt to the back of his head. I couldn’t blame him. Everything was still going in and out of focus for me.

  Sergeant Stennis nodded. “You’re in First Squad and have CASPer ‘WO1.’ Private Rocker?”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” a convict said with a little more enthusiasm. Suck up.

  “First Squad. ‘WO6.’” The sergeant went down the list, reading off a number to each convict, although they weren’t in any order I could determine. I was the last. “Andrews!”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” I replied. Although my voice was pitched so it didn’t sound like I was sucking up, it was enthusiastic enough to show I didn’t need any further abuse, either.

  “Second Squad. ‘WO12.’”

  “All right, then,” the lieutenant said. “Welcome to the Dead Men Walking! Let’s go see your CASPers.” He opened the door behind him, and the group filed through into an enormous bay. It looked like the maintenance department of any of the small merc companies I’d been in. Supplies were grouped in piles according to some plan, weapons and ordnance were in racks and stacks, tools and equipment were in abundance, and along the rear wall waited 21 CASPers.

  “There you go, boys!” the lieutenant said with a heaping portion of false enthusiasm. “Aren’t they great? Nothing but the best for you!”

  I got my first look at the CASPers. They weren’t great; they were MK 3s, and they’d been ancient before I was born. Even the most current model—the MK 5 on the left—had been replaced by better gear a long time ago. I walked toward the one in the WO12 slot. A welded patch on the chest of the armor showed where a laser bolt had gone through the suit at head-level for the operator inside. I didn’t want to look at the back, afraid there’d be the remains of brains and blood running down from a matching hole there.

  Still, it was a lot better than a MK 2, and, if it had been kept up, the MK 3 wasn’t a “bad” suit, as far as suits went. It was the first with a haptic interface, although it was built into the suit and not always totally unreliable. Walking and moving was awkward, as well as aiming weapons, but it did have a computer aiming capability and a limited terrain sensing motive interface, letting the operator concentrate more on fighting than driving. As I looked up at it, I realized I had forgotten how much of a beast it was—almost 10 feet tall and just shy of a ton.

  Although a lot of the suits still had the old .50 caliber rifles on the arms, mine was one of the few with the caseless three-barrel .30 caliber Gatling gun nicknamed “The Ripper.” The weapon was the first one wholly-designed to be used on CASPers. I’d used them before and knew they worked well. The suit couldn’t stop an enemy laser, but at least I could send a bunch of shit back downrange toward whoever was trying to kill me.

  I walked around the back and smiled for the first time. Based on the mission, the CASPer had to be a Block 4 model, as that was the first one to be orbital drop-capable. Sure enough, it was a “Hell Diver;” it had the cocoon around the jumpjets so it could be dropped from space. What made me smile, though, was the magnetic accelerator cannon, or MAC, mounted on the right shoulder. Although it only had a 10-round magazine, it gave the suit a lot more punch for some of the harder targets and aliens. Awesome.

  “Can we take a look inside?” Private Rocker asked.

  “Climb in and start them up,” Lieutenant Smith replied. “Sergeant Rice will lead you down to the firing range so you can zero in your weapons.”

  I was in the cockpit in under two seconds. Old habits die hard. The psych guys at the prison must have had a pretty good profile for us; I fit into the cockpit as if it had already been adjusted for me…as if they’d know I’d agree to sign up. By now, they probably knew me better than I knew myself.

  I closed the canopy and a live camera view from the outside was projected on the interior of the cockpit; someone along the way had painted that section white for better viewing. The Block 4 also had a HUD available…but I wasn’t lucky enough to have it in mine.

  A tech appeared and ran me through the startup sequence. I was rusty, but he only had to prompt me a couple of times. Within a couple of minutes, I was ready to go, and the tech released me from the maintenance cradle. Lieutenant Smith and the rest of the unsuited guards had moved from the middle of the bay so we could move around and get acclimated to the suit again.

  It was like driving a hovertruck, it was so easy—five minutes later I was moving around as if the last two years hadn’t happened. Knowing we had an orbital drop coming, I was tempted to try out the jumpjets, but the microgravity of Phobos made that problematic. The system was pretty rudimentary compared to what I was used to, and I didn’t want to look like an idiot while I tried to get my feet reorien
ted to lock back onto the floor. One person tried it and bounced back and forth from ceiling to floor several times before someone caught him. I felt justified in my decision not to use the jumpjets—I probably would have looked like that, too.

  “All right, listen up,” a voice said. “This is Sergeant Rice. I’m First Squad’s squad leader. Follow me to the range.” I scanned around and saw a CASPer moving toward a big tunnel on the other side of the bay where an enormous metal door had been slid to the side. The other CASPers were following it, so I got in line.

  I was still about 20 feet from the tunnel entrance when a voice said, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Smith.” I recognized the voice. Jenkins.

  I panned around and saw there was another CASPer still in the bay. It was between Lieutenant Smith and the exit door, and the CASPer’s weapons were aimed at the former guard, including the shoulder-mounted two megawatt chemically-pumped laser. That was going to make a mess of the unsuited Human.

  “Think about what you’re doing,” Lieutenant Smith said. “This is your chance to get out of here, and you’re going to blow it. Turn around now and go with the rest of the platoon, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

  I turned around and took a couple of steps toward the mech. “Come on, Jenkins,” I said. “You’re going to fuck this up for all of us. Let’s go get our weapons checked out.”

  “Oh, I’m going to check out my weapons, all right,” he said. “I’m going to check them out right now.” I heard the click of his arm-mounted .50 caliber rifle as it misfired. The lieutenant never flinched.

  Almost without thinking about it, the MAC on my shoulder rotated down as his rifle misfired again. I armed it and centered the reticle on Jenkins; however, when I tried to pull the trigger, I found I couldn’t. I wanted to kill him—and he certainly deserved to be dead—but I just couldn’t. All I could see was my wife’s face, superimposed on the armor of Jenkins’ suit.