In her periphery, she heard the whine of a Sky Raider coming in to land somewhere behind her. She also heard the tank turbine engines rolling up.
Maya peered into one window on the building to her right. It contained no furniture, no life, and very little internal structure. The same was true of the building to her left.
“Maya, you can climb out now,” Hex shouted as he walked up behind her, dismounted from his CASPer.
Maya sighed and then obliged by hitting the release on her canopy. Her CASPer opened up, and she unstrapped herself.
“What’re you looking for?” Hex asked.
“Answers,” she replied, and climbed down to see a lost look on his face. He peered into the windows.
“Were these two just built?” Hex asked.
“All of it was,” Lemieux said as he strolled up.
“The whole city is fake, isn’t it?” Maya said incredulously.
“Yeah, Dream Worlds Consortium model city,” Lemieux said with that stupid grin of his. “They use it for marketing, you know, ‘Come see what we could build on your planet.’”
“So Lou, Sullivan, Livingston…” Hex started.
“…Andrews, Bennett, all the other crewmen from Panzer Platoon died defending an empty city?” Maya finished.
“We fulfilled the contract,” Lemieux scolded. “Colony defense. Doesn’t matter that the colony was empty. Their yack accounts sure won’t be. We thinned out the Avaka so the DWC could move their folks in with a smaller security force. Lucille says we killed at least twelve thousand of them. Good thing they weren’t Oogar, huh?”
“Oh fuck off, Little Hammer,” Maven said as she approached. “That’s pretty damned close to genocide.”
“Jesus, Maven, don’t call me—”
“I mean it, fuck off,” Maven said. “You should have told us the city was empty.”
“It didn’t matter. Besides, they’ve already booked us for a recovery mission. Smash and grab on some unnamed planet,” Lemieux said. “All we have to do is—”
“No,” Hex said. “Immediate thirty-day liberty for the entire company. You’re not saying shit about it, either. Our folks need time to get their affairs in order, because nothing is smash and grab anymore.”
“Why a month?” Lemieux frowned.
Hex turned to Maya and then back to his commander. “You can personally apologize to the families for this shitshow. The rest of us are on earned leave.”
“Why now? We have another mission.”
“It can wait.” Hex slipped an arm around Maya’s shoulders. “If I wanna propose, I gotta ask permission from her parents, Hammer. It’s only right.”
* * * * *
Kevin Ikenberry Bio
Kevin Ikenberry is a life-long space geek and retired Army officer. As an adult, he managed the U.S. Space Camp program and served as a space operations officer before Space Force was a thing. He’s an international bestselling author, award finalist, and a core author in the wildly successful Four Horsemen Universe. His eleven novels include Sleeper Protocol, Vendetta Protocol, Runs In The Family, Peacemaker, Honor The Threat, Stand or Fall, and Deathangel. He’s co-written several novels with amazing authors. He is an Active Member of SFWA, International Thriller Writers, and SIGMA—the science fiction think tank.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
The Price of Victory by Zane Voss
Sergeant Connor Manning sighed as the diminutive, red-headed Private First Class Lewis strutted his way past the two Lumar and through the blue curtain into the Lyon’s Den like he owned the place. He was clearly still feeling cocky about the promotion he’d received after the Rangers completed their most recent contract. In his defense, he’d done well in the assault, and his evident skill as a pilot had earned him a shiny new Mk 6 CASPer, making him the first rookie in the company to get one of the new mechs and the ‘CASPer Therapy’ that allowed him to take more damage while he operated it.
Only a few of the bigger Human merc outfits like the Horsemen could afford to upgrade many of their units to the new version. The Rangers had been able to afford a dozen of the new suits with the substantial bonus they’d earned from taking their contract’s objective completely intact.
Manning’s people were the only full squad of Mk 6s in the company, and that made them a little cocky. Too cocky for their sergeant’s tastes.
Manning stopped the rest of the squad following along behind him and politely stood aside to let two older gentlemen pass through the curtain and upward toward the exit. Lewis barely paid them any attention, but to Manning, they stood out like a sore thumb. The one in the lead was wearing civvies, which was unusual in the merc-frequented bar. But his short-cropped hair and the way he held himself said he was no stranger to military life. His back was ramrod straight, and his cold eyes flitted over everything, silently judging the condition of the squad’s dark blue uniforms as he passed by the younger mercs.
The second man wore a familiar uniform, dark green and black tiger stripes topped with the blue beret of Cartwright’s Cavaliers. Manning didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t a surprise. The Cavaliers were a big unit, with detachments constantly rotating off planet for a host of different contracts. Like the first man, this one carried himself like a soldier, and he exchanged a courteous nod with Manning as they passed.
Manning’s assistant squad leader, Corporal Arthur Chiang, watched the two men head toward the parking lot. “Weird to see a bunch of old geezers here at the Den.”
Manning stopped, annoyed, and turned to look at his squad. “Chiang, how many contracts have you completed?”
The young mech pilot blinked at his squad leader’s tone, “Ah, seven, Sergeant.”
“Alright, I’ve finished nineteen offworld contracts in the past ten years, and I’m not yet thirty.” He paused and twitched his head in the direction the two men had taken. “Those fellas have gotta be at least sixty or seventy, which means they started merc work back in the days of the Mk 1 or Mk 2 CASPer, and the one’s still on active duty. Think about how many contracts they’ve completed and show a bit of respect.”
The younger man hung his head in shame. “Sorry, Sergeant, that was dumb. Won’t happen again.”
Manning nodded and looked back at the rest of his people waiting in the hallway. “Remember why most mercs are young’uns and respect the skills of someone who’s spent a long life in this business.” The other seven members of the squad nodded solemnly, but Manning wasn’t sure it was a lesson that would stick with them.
“Are you guys coming, or what?”
Manning turned around as Lewis held back the curtain and motioned the squad to follow him inside. Most of them had never been to the Den, and it looked like a group their size might have a hard time finding a table today. The place was crowded, with a couple of smaller empty tables scattered around, but nothing that would fit all ten of them. After surveying the possibilities, Manning said, “Let’s just hang out at the bar; we’ll wait for something to open up.”
An eclectic fusion of violin-heavy classical and throbbing techno music played through speakers in the background, but the place wasn’t that loud for how many Humans and aliens were loitering around. His eager squad pushed in and claimed a section of the bar, and Manning followed at a more measured pace. He glanced around the room, taking in the typically varied clientele of the Den. There were half a dozen alien species represented, all of them merc races, but th
e crowd was mostly Human today.
At a large table not too far from the bar, a couple of Human males caught his gaze. They were older men, like the two who had passed them on their way out. Both were in civvies, making Manning wonder if they had all been part of one group, maybe a reunion or something, based on all the empty drink cups and food trays at the table. The two were standing at the edge of the table, chatting quietly. One of them was turned mostly away from Manning, but his dark skin and short black hair contrasted sharply with the cream suit jacket he wore. He was probably average height, but looked short next to his towering companion. The taller man probably topped two meters and was dressed more casually in slacks and a light blue dress shirt. He laughed at some comment and reached up to run a hand over his gleaming bald scalp.
The two men shook hands, then embraced in a back-slapping hug. Manning couldn’t help but smile at the two old comrades saying farewell one more time. The sharply dressed black man turned and headed toward the exit, but the other sat back down, evidently to finish his drink.
Manning turned his attention back to the bar and ordered a beer from the bartender. Some of his squad were ordering exotic drinks with price tags that made him wince, but he had simple tastes. A nice cold beer was his go-to when he got back from a job, and there was no better place than the Lyon’s Den to get one.
He smiled as Carrie Thomas, one of his most experienced pilots, began playing out her part in the flanking maneuver that had won their last contract. The talented young pilot had short-cropped blonde hair, and her passion for dancing gave her a figure that drew admiring glances from several patrons in the Den.
Carrie had gone through the feigned retreat and subsequent counterattack with hands waving and punctuated by her own sound effects at least half a dozen times, but the rest of the squad chipped in their own comments just as if it were the first time through. For a while, Manning sipped his drink and lost himself in the hum of the bar and the details of the story.
Chiang’s voice knocked him out of his tranquil reverie. “Looks like Lewis is determined to get us a table.”
Manning cursed under his breath as he saw the diminutive Lewis strutting over toward the tall, bald man in civvies occupying the table all to himself. He set his drink down and pushed himself away from the bar to hurry after his brash young PFC. He worried the youngest member of his squad was about to create a monumental incident. Manning had carefully laid out the rules of the Den to everyone, and the last thing he wanted was to draw the ire of the proprietors.
Just as Manning was about to reach out and grab Lewis’ shoulder, the PFC addressed the sole occupant of the table, who coolly watched him approach. “Hey, how about you beat it and leave this table to us, huh? This place is supposed to be for mercs, anyway.”
The bald man just sipped his drink and gazed back at Lewis, not saying anything. This scrutiny from the still green eyes must have unnerved Lewis, who glanced around, seemingly discomfited by the lack of a response to his demand.
The older sergeant caught up to his wayward PFC and grabbed Lewis’ shoulder in an iron grip, steering him back toward the squad intently watching the unfolding drama. “Lewis, get back to the bar. We’ll wait our turn for a table.”
“But, Sarge, we’ve got a big victory to celebrate, and this guy’s just sitting here alone at this table!”
“Lewis, shut the hell up and go back to the bar,” Manning said through gritted teeth.
“Big victory, huh?” the old man drawled out, his southern accent not hiding the rough, gravelly timbre of his voice.
Lewis puffed his chest out and replied, “Fuck, yeah, we smashed a Lumar merc company on Dalfeen 3. Suckered them right out of their positions and hit them with a flanking attack. Took our objective with almost no losses. It was awesome!”
“I bet it wasn’t awesome for the ones who did get killed,” the bald man said quietly, his eyes narrowed.
Manning winced at the stinging comment, but Lewis remained unrepentant. “Shut the hell up, old man! What do you know about victory, anyway?”
That old man’s eyes snapped up, locked on Lewis like the targeting lasers of a missile battery, and held the PFC rooted to the floor.
“I know plenty, boy, plenty.” He sat back in his chair, took a deep breath, and visibly relaxed his shoulders. He started to continue, but they were interrupted by one of the Den’s waitresses.
“Major Adams, you doing ok?” She looked at Manning and Lewis skeptically. “Are these fellas bothering you?”
“I’m fine, Lisa, thank you,” he said without taking his eyes from the now-cowed Lewis. “Actually, these young men and their friends were about to join me.”
Manning started to politely decline the offer, but Adams held up a hand to forestall protest. “No, I insist, Sergeant. Please, grab your drinks and come sit down.”
Manning glanced around. Lewis’ confrontation had drawn attention, and his squad was all watching, waiting to see what was going to happen. As the waitress began clearing the plates and glasses from the table, Manning waved over his people. He turned back to the major sitting at the table. “Sir, I’m Sergeant Manning of the Texas Rangers Mercenary Company. This numbnuts is PFC Lewis.”
“Ah, you’re Mark Simpson’s people, right?” Major Adams said, referring to the Dallas billionaire who’d funded a mercenary company just to name it after Dallas’ baseball team, which he also owned. Adams sat back in the chair and sipped his beer again.
“Yes, sir, and this is the rest of my squad.”
The major nodded politely to his new guests and motioned them to take the seats around the table. As they all settled in, his gaze moved back to Lewis, who looked like a man about to head to the gallows. From the look on his face, he knew he’d screwed up. It wasn’t likely he’d get off without repercussions when Colonel Bush heard about him telling a major from another mercenary company to shut the hell up.
“PFC Lewis, you asked me what I know about victory, yes?”
Lewis nodded stiffly, not meeting the older man’s eyes.
“My name is Curtis Adams.” He set his glass down on the table and his dark, almost haunted eyes panned across the young mercs assembled at his table. “I’m retired now, but I served in Rawlins’ Raiders for nearly forty years.”
Manning sucked in a sharp breath at the mention of Rawlins’ Raiders. Theirs was a sad tale, too familiar to Human merc units, of a top-notch mercenary unit brought low after one too many contracts went south. They were still around, but bottom feeders these days, who would take any unsavory contract, as long as it paid. And they weren’t called Rawlins’ Raiders anymore.
Looking back at Lewis, he continued, “Do you want to hear a story? About victory?” Lewis’ eyes twitched back up and met those of the older man. He nodded choppily, and Adams picked up his glass again for another sip.
As Manning motioned to the waitress for another round for the table, Adams began.
“Ever heard of a planet called Ksshtah? No? Interesting place, lot of weird shit there, ridiculously humid, too. It’s three hyperspace jumps from Earth over to the Centaur region of the Jesc arm. Not much of real value or interest to most in the Union. Neither the planet nor people are well known, outside those interested in xenobiology research.
“The local inhabitants, also called Ksshtah, are a peculiar species with a trilateral symmetry. They’re a little bit like a four-foot tall brown mushroom, with three eye stalks, three knobby little legs, and three arms sticking straight out from their trunk. They were notable mainly for what they call Ipt’afh, a kind of spiritual commune they enter into with certain species of fungus native to their home planet. They talk about Ipt’afh as something like a ‘discussion’ with the fungus, where they convince it to grow in certain ways and produce different varieties of this sap that’s kind of like maple syrup. Like I said, weird.
“The strange-looking little aliens had almost nothing of value until about thirty years ago, when they discovered how to process the sap of o
ne of the bajillions of varieties of fungus that grow all over the planet. After it’s processed, this fungus has a range of healing and life-extension effects on a bunch of different species. Apparently that made Ksshtah valuable enough to draw some attention.
“It was supposed to be an easy job…a nice, unopposed landing on a conflict-free planet, then just hold the fort until the engineers finished setting up all the automated defenses ordered by the client, and wait out the rest of the contract in peace.” Major Adams paused for a second, his eyes staring off into the distance. The silence drew out uncomfortably, some of his audience starting to shift and squirm in their seats. Finally, the old merc snorted a bitter laugh and shook his head ruefully. “Right. Like things ever go according to plan in this business.”
* * *
Thirty Years Earlier
Curtis jerked his legs further up under the battered computer console as more debris clattered down from the ceiling of the control room, joining piles of junk already brought down by the heavy missile strikes and stray MAC fire going through the building. He blinked his eyes furiously to clear the dust from them, dirty tears skimming down his face as he worked desperately to save his friends.
“The problem is here somewhere, it has to be, but where the fuck is it?” he snarled as he swiped through the status reports for the state-of-the-art heavy automated defenses scattered in and around the sprawling Ksshtah processing facility.
One of his slates snarled an emergency tone as it received an incoming priority call from a Raiders senior officer. He slapped the acknowledge button to accept the call, and the stock picture and rank insignia of Major Jacob Rawlins popped up on the screen.
The Gates of Hell Page 37
