The Gates of Hell

by Chris Kennedy

  The Lumar attack had obviously been a distraction from this operation. That the attack had actually been successful in its own right was irrelevant to Vo. The success or failure of the KzSha contract or her miner puppets meant nothing. This became especially true as she enacted her evacuation contingency.

  The failure of the sensors to detect the inbound ships was no mystery. Constant interference from the sandstorms and frequent disruptions by indigenous, unintelligent life forms provided plenty of cover. Some sneaky Human must have approached and disabled them. The illuminator impressed her as well. It would not work in most other circumstances, which is likely why no one had previously bothered to develop such a species-specific weapon. In this situation, however, dark of night, focused field of view, it had practically incapacitated any KzSha that remained in sight of it. They’d reversed the killing field of the shaft.

  Crashing the quadcopter was absolutely inspired. It was exactly the sort of irrational act that proved Vo’s hypothesis. Doubtless, the Humans had worried that by the time they infiltrated to the lowest level, their prisoners would have been killed. A reasonable assumption as, indeed, her orders specified exactly that.

  The waves of dummies that followed afterward were downright absurd, but provided enough additional distraction to her idiotic guards that she didn’t think a single actual Human had been shot at.

  Unfortunately for the Humans, Vo had recognized the pattern well in advance of the attack. For one such as her, the signs were obvious. The purchase of the ships hadn’t gone unnoticed by her well-paid eyes at the starport. Although they tried to hide the flight paths of the ships with regular supply runs, Vo had immediately recognized that there was no reason for such a great number of runs. It was simply not plausible that the failing mining operation would suddenly require such great inventory. Besides, they neither delivered ore nor acquired supplies at a rate commensurate with the added runs. Finally, she’d received forewarning of the contract for the Lumar unit as soon as it had arrived in system. That final piece had spurred her to enact the exfiltration plan. Her suspicions were confirmed when communications became jammed shortly after the KzSha reported the attack. Hours before the spectacular assault on Station 13, Vo had wisely, and quietly, moved the prisoners via this very tunnel to Station 17. They were now loaded on her shuttle awaiting departure.

  It was quite a trek on her personal transportation roller. However, the sounds behind her receded, which meant she’d escaped pursuit.

  She’d gone back in an attempt to retrieve Mengele and its research, but the stubborn alien had actually called her a “paranoid albino rodent” and refused. She promptly shot it. Its loss would be a great setback to the research, but she would find another. In fact, she knew of another Wrogul who called itself Mengele.

  One issue still bothered her. There had been one shuttle, one quadcopter, and a random collection of skiffs involved in the assault on Station 13. However, the Humans, through their Jivool intermediaries, had purchased two shuttles, two quadcopters, and a good number of skiffs. Redundancy indicated a good plan, so had they simply ensured they had backups in the event of mechanical failures? Maybe they’d gone to support the Lumar attack. That would explain the attack’s success.

  She approached the end of the tunnel and parked the transport. In the near dark, she wondered why she couldn’t hear the sound of her shuttle’s engines. It should be ready to depart as soon as she stepped on board. Her monocle picked up a faint red light up ahead. It flickered out. A moment later it glowed hot, and again slowly faded. A strange scent of smoke was detectable in the air. Her approach slowed when she began to make out a large shadow attached to the point of light.

  “I imagine you’re the one in charge down here? Coultrup’s troops tell me there’s a chubby one-eyed mole rat running things.” Vo raised her pistol rapidly, but the blindingly quick, bulky Human had already closed the distance and broken her wrist with a quick chop. Her pistol dropped, and she slammed against the wall with a hand to her throat. He raised his other hand, which carried a cigar, and tapped his earpiece.

  “Actual checking in, radio silence rescinded. All ground teams, check in.” She struggled uselessly as she heard the responses crackle over another radio somewhere in the opening ahead.

  “Blueboy up, zero kilo, one whiskey, twisted ankle, negative contact on package.” A pause. “Greenleaf up, zero kilo, zero whiskey, objective secure, negative contact on package.” As the next voice chimed in, she could hear the actual voice coming from just around the corner. “Redwine up, zero kilo, zero whiskey, objective and package secure. Seventy Eagles all accounted for, per Regulator Six.”

  “Copy all,” the gruff muscular man holding her said. “Air units, check in.” Two “Cherries,” five “Apples,” five “Peaches,” and two “Limes” all checked in, seemingly with no issues.

  “Firebirds up comms?” he asked. After a pause, he stated, “Pass my regards to Jopo on a job well done. Tell him I’ll have a glass of Seemuck waiting when we meet up.”

  The man ceased his communications, pulled the cigar from his mouth, and gave a long, pained sigh. He glared at Vo with a hint of anger. “Seventy Regulators left…there should have been a good deal more.”

  “How did you pay for all this?” Vo inquired, ignoring the implication.

  “Simple enough. The Firebirds—that’d be the Lumar—are getting paid on their spoils, which you know are quite substantial. Basically stealing everything the KzSha stole, plus everything you paid them. The Jivool are getting paid in a controlling interest in this entire mining plain. At least, everything you controlled.”

  “And how did you know I’d be coming here?” She squeaked out. A couple troopers approached, and the big man released his grip so they could secure her limbs. He walked beside them as they dragged her toward her shuttle.

  “I imagine you Veetanho have a rich tradition of learning from your history?” He took a drag from his cigar and continued, “A long time back, on Earth, there was a war in which a large number of prisoners were held at a place called Son Tay, and their compatriots were worried whether they would survive their captivity. They were held in a compound close to the enemy capital, but nonetheless, they made a rescue plan.”

  Her captors carried her into what had been her own shuttle to the loud jeering of the large group of unfettered, rescued Humans. They quieted immediately when the big man simply put his hand up. Vo struggled.

  “Don’t you worry, they’ll contain themselves unless I give them the go ahead.”

  Swallowing nervously, she passed through a gauntlet of angry ex-captives to reach a seat up front. They placed her in her very own seat and strapped her to it. The big man sat down next to her and took another puff.

  “Sir, I don’t believe smoking is allowed on these aircraft,” remarked a younger, blue-eyed man with a full head of brown hair. His nametag identified him as “Neil.” The big man gave him a quick glance and the scarcest of smiles, said, “Noted,” then took another drag.

  “So they came up with this audacious plan to retrieve their people. One part was a massive, distractive air raid. The biggest issue was saving the prisoners from execution. They worked out a plan to put a team down into the compound quickly and secure the prisoners before they lost surprise. The best way they could see to do this was to crash a helicopter straight into the compound. It’s a rare pilot who can crash in an intentional, specific way. Follow-up teams landed outside, and the whole thing went off with zero killed in action, just one wounded. Twisted ankle, just like we had tonight.”

  “That’s very interesting, Mr.—I’m sorry, what should I call you?”

  “Bull works.”

  “Mr. Bull.”

  “Just Bull.”

  “Bull it is. Anyway, it’s very interesting, we Veetanho would say ‘history repeats itself,’ but you haven’t told me how you found me here.” Certainly she’d find a way out, or her kind would come for her, so the more information she could collect, the bette
r.

  “Well, you see, the tragic part of this entire operation—they called it Operation Ivory Coast—is that despite how incredibly successful they’d been at flying so many aircraft deep into enemy territory, striking into the heart of the enemy, and doing so with no more than a twisted ankle, the whole thing was actually a failure in its intended mission. The prisoners had been moved well before the raid happened. A great tactical success, but an intelligence failure.

  “The similarities came to mind when we began planning this. So in honor of the lessons learned, I made sure we repeated the successes of Son Tay without its failure. Looked into what contingencies you might have. And I’m glad we did. Seems not only did we find our people, but we found all their equipment hidden down this hole as well, and their payment. Much less well defended, I might add. I almost wish I would’ve stayed with the other group and had more personal opportunity to utilize my weaponry. No matter, here we are.” She strained to see toward the flight deck, wondering why they still hadn’t bothered to lift off.

  “So what now? I mean, Human mercs are outlawed, Earth is under our control; let’s face it, you have nowhere to go.” She couldn’t help but sneer, but he didn’t even bother to look at her.

  “Well, Colonel Coultrup will have to settle for merging his company with the Firebirds, just to be legal. Their contract keeps them here for a while, so they can hang out for a spell and lay low until things are sorted. Time to start addressing the psychological and physiological damage you’ve done.”

  “And you?”

  “Well, we are, after all, just simple merchants. I guess we’ll get back to it. Seems like right now there might be a whole lot of business out there for us.”

  “The Mercenary Guild won’t stay blind to your operations. You’re quite obviously operating outside their authority and against Galactic law. I don’t think ‘Acme Corp’ can keep this charade up much longer.”

  “Acme Corp? What’s that? Before we came here, we were Stark Industries. Now…I think we’ll be the…” He glanced off into air for a moment, cocking his head. “Ace Tomato Company. Yeah, that sounds good. All registered legally with the Merchant Guild, all too temporary in nature to ever warrant a review.”

  “Looks like you’ve thought of everything.” The monocle turned to regard the prisoners. “And what becomes of me?”

  * * *

  “Well, I have half a mind to start running some psychological tests on you, maybe use you to test bioweapons, or maybe even just vivisect you for fun.” Vo turned an even lighter shade of white. “But it occurs to me I just told you everything, like I’m some kind of 20th century Earth vid spy villain, my vanity getting the better of me. If that’s the case, you’re guaranteed to escape and spread the word about us. I can’t have that.”

  Bull looked around at the twisted mess of freaks the mercs had become. There were a myriad of attempted “enhancements,” a variety of biological grafts, cybernetic experiments, and some otherwise untouched but clearly insane.

  One had a Goka shell grafted to his back. Useful, if he doesn’t go crazy and kill himself. Another had tentacles where her arms should be. They hung limply to her sides, lifeless. Several had Veetanho-like goggles fused to their faces, replacing their eyes. Their heads turned back and forth, evidently seeing something, but God knew what.

  “You know, ever since Humans agreed to this absurd endeavor, we’ve been subjected to a never-ending onslaught of the worst meat grinders this galaxy has to offer. We’ve done what we could to hold our own, and we’ve learned quite a lot. The Horsemen, of course, are the front line, pushing us to new heights, and fighting the major battles. Leading the Charge. Killing Aliens, Getting Paid. Planning, Preparing, Striking. Holding What You’ve Got. But there are a lot more of us out there than just the Horsemen. Smaller units, getting fed to the grinder constantly. Most think there’s no one there to stand up for them when things go bad, no one there to help them out. Well, obviously, here we are. Here to pull them out of hell. And sometimes…when I get the chance…I try to get what little payback I can manage.”

  He reached over and popped her restraints, then grabbed and lifted her with one arm.

  Facing the recently rescued prisoners, he shouted, “Regulators!” They went silent and turned to stare as one. Bull turned back to stare into Vo’s monocle.

  “Go ahead!” He tossed her to them.

  * * * * *

  Casey Moores Bio

  Casey Moores was a USAF officer, as well as a rescue and special ops C-130 pilot for over 17 years—airdropping, air refueling, and flying in and out of tiny little blacked-out dirt airstrips in bad places using night vision goggles. He’s been to “those” places and done “those” things with “those” people. Now he is looking forward to a somewhat quieter life where he can translate those experiences into fiction. He is a Colorado native and Air Force Academy graduate, but has also become a naturalized Burqueño, planning to live in New Mexico forever.

  * * * * *

  Jaws of Defeat by Jon R. Osborne

  A Bjorn’s Berserkers Story

  Bear Town, New Mexico, Earth

  “Doesn’t this sound too good to be true?” Captain Heimir Jonasson challenged, breaking the silence in the conference room. “The Eosogi are offering half again the going rate for a straightforward job. What’s the catch?”

  Commander Bjorn Tovesson III tamped down his rising ire. Captain Jonasson had served under Bjorn’s father for ten years, so he knew the mercenary business. The veteran officer was also a pain in Bjorn’s ass.

  “The Eosogi offered a premium if we can get boots on the ground 10 days from now,” Bjorn replied. The contract text floated in the corner of his pinview, mirrored by the Tri-V display in the middle of the huge antique conference table. “In addition, the contract contains multiple bonus clauses.”

  “They don’t expect us to live long enough to collect,” Jonasson remarked.

  “It’s a huge payout to crack the HecSha siege,” Captain Jake Wirth added. “The Eosogi are up to something.”

  “Of course the weasels have a trick up their sleeve,” Bjorn countered. If an Eosogi was breathing, it was scheming. “I included legal fees in the payout.”

  Captain Marian Boggs, the newest captain at the table, peered at the holographic contract. “We’re committing all six companies?”

  Bjorn nodded. “Everyone except the training cadre. We overwhelm the HecSha mercs and force them to capitulate. The lizards prefer to save their hides when a battle goes down the shitter.”

  “All six companies will eat into the payout since half again as many mercs get combat pay,” Jonasson groused. The Berserkers normally fielded four companies on a contract to allow for the three Rs—rest, repair, and replace. Off-rotation mercenaries received residual payouts based on the overall firm’s profit—a fraction of combat pay.

  Too few troops risked the mission, and too many troops cut into the earnings. Bjorn resisted the urge to tell Jonasson to pick a side. “Eight hours until departure. The first wave loads in four.”

  “Six companies in eight hours?” Jonasson frowned.

  “Did I stutter, Captain Jonasson?” Bjorn glowered at the older man. Father’s friend or not, Bjorn was a snarky remark from kicking the captain’s ass.

  “No, Commander.”

  “Everyone has their assignments; get to it.” Bjorn remained seated as the officers filed out of the conference room.

  Captain Bill Hawkins remained behind. Hawkins served as Bjorn’s second-in-command. “You think Heimir will pose a problem?”

  “His negativity influences some of the other officers,” Bjorn replied. Bill had joined the Berserkers at the same time as Bjorn, and the two had remained best friends throughout their careers. “I don’t care how much experience he has; this will be his last mission. He can retire with a fat payout from this job.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to retire?” Bill asked while scrolling through his tactical slate.

  Bjorn fi
dgeted with the Mjolnir pendant hanging amid bear claws over his chest.

  “He has a choice—retired or fired. My old man retired four years ago, and I’m sick of Heimir double guessing me. He knows damned well we have four companies staged for deployment. We’ll need to bust ass on the other two, but it’s doable.”

  * * *

  “I hear you’re leaving us with a skeleton crew,” Stefan lisped from behind his desk in the office reception area. The white-haired man had served as the commander’s secretary since before Bjorn had joined the Berserkers twenty years ago.

  Bjorn grunted and headed for his office, thinking commands to Bettie, the battlefield tactical intelligence, through his pinplants. A logistics dashboard replaced the contract in the corner of his pinview, giving visibility to the progress of the loadout.

  Bjorn glanced at the sidebar in his office but dismissed it. With eight hours until last lift to orbit, the last thing he needed was to crack open a bottle. He should have grabbed some coffee from the reception area.

  “You looked as though you could use this,” Stefan said from the office door, bearing a steaming mug of coffee. “The meeting didn’t go well?”

  “The usual bullshit. Jonasson reminding everyone I’m not the veteran commander my father was. I came close to calling out the sukin syn right there.” Bjorn gratefully accepted the coffee.

  “If it’s any consolation, he gave your father a hard time,” Stefan remarked. “It’s in Captain Jonasson’s nature. I’m not saying it makes him right, but try not to take it personally.”