The three intruders closest to Roland disappeared as 20mm rounds ripped into their bodies and exploded a tenth of a second later. At the first laser burst, he’d shut down IR on his suit’s external cameras to prevent being blinded, but when he did, the world turned dark. All he could use for targets was the point where the laser beams originated.
“No!” screamed a voice over the platoon network. It was Colonel van Owen. “CASPer driver, stand down! You don’t know what’s going on here! Stop!”
Roland ignored him. All of his suspicions about van Owen came to the fore. Without a pause, he changed targets and mowed down another cluster of three shooters, before lasers suddenly targeted him from all directions. From that point on, too much happened too fast for him to keep track. He only picked up fleeting images in the darkness around him.
Lasers tracked him as he jumped across the hangar, scraping the ceiling’s support beams at the apex of his flight path. Some hit, most missed, and only two yellow lights warned of damage. He landed behind three shooters, two of whom vanished in a mist as the chain gun vaporized them.
The third nearby shooter, however, hit a spot on the suit’s left side, under the armpit, where the anti-laser reflective coating had mostly worn off. The shooter had obviously turned the power to full, because it only lasted a brief time, but it was long enough to burn through the armor to Roland’s actual flesh, leaving a nasty hole in the muscle under his ribcage. A three-round burst atomized his attacker.
Mercs were on their feet now, charging the shooters or picking up rifles from the dead. The hangar became a chaotic free-for-all, with Roland being more careful when picking targets. Pain shot up his side from the laser wound even as a second laser penetrated near the same spot. That shooter paid when a cannon round took off his legs above the knees.
Then Roland staggered backward as something much heavier than a laser struck his chest. Once, twice, three times…it was like being inside a suit of medieval plate armor and getting hit with a sledge hammer. Red lights warned of multiple imminent systems failures. Roland tried to jump, but something was wrong with the jets, so he leaned sideways just as three more rounds flashed by where his right arm had been, and he saw where they came from: the MAC on the LAV. He’d forgotten all about it. Being a rookie, he’d make a rookie mistake, the one every training program harped on, but every rookie made anyway; namely, never lose track of the enemy’s most powerful weapon and deal with it first.
Only two lasers targeted him. Elsewhere, a firefight between the surviving intruders and a few mercs who’d managed to arm themselves sent crisscrossing beams of light over much of the hangar. But the two aiming at him had free rein to shoot, because now Roland had to deal with the MAC or go down for good.
Motors whined as he tried to move laterally. He barely avoided more incoming rounds and missed with his own because of the movements. Then a low-ammo light caused him to make a desperate move. Once his chain-gun ran out, he’d be helpless against the LAV, so instead of dodging, he stood and took careful aim at the MAC. It was a crew-served weapon in an open turret, but surrounded by an armored cupola. The first couple of rounds confirmed his fear that they wouldn’t penetrate the turret’s armor, so he tried the only thing left. He aimed right down the barrel of the cannon itself. If he could damage that, the MAC would be useless.
The lasers had stopped targeting him; maybe the shooters were dead, or maybe just engaged with the other mercs. Regardless, it was now just him against the cannon. Setting the gun to automatic, he leaned forward to offset the recoil, and opened fire. The MAC gunners did likewise, and for what seemed like hours, but in reality was about three seconds, they traded shot for shot. MAC rounds chewed up the armor on both of his legs, his torso, and his chest. In return, his 20mm chain gun rounds splattered against the turret armor and glacis plate. Impact after impact knocked him backward and, combined with the recoil pulling at his shoulder, Roland began to topple backward.
Concentrating against the pain wracking his body and the warning lights flashing all over the control panel, one of his final three shots struck home. Some part of his overwhelmed brain realized that a round must have gone straight down the barrel before detonating. The chain reaction of explosions inside the LAV sent a fireball mushrooming high overhead. Flames licked at the high supports and caught the ceiling on fire. One of the last of his systems to shut down was the platoon comm network, which was why his fading consciousness heard the screaming voice of Colonel van Owen.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you!”
* * *
Spokelse took another long gulp from the second pitcher. Then, glancing up, he met Ramba’s eyes for the merest instant, just long enough for the Gurkha merc trainer to give a short nod. Using his right foot, Spokelse felt for the latch near his chair. Once he’d found it, he waited until Ramba had distracted the rookies with some observation of his own and slid the latch aside. To his left, a grizzled old man with half his lower jaw missing pointed to a black sack at his feet. Spokelse winked. Everything was set.
Except he’d drunk more than he should have, and needed to slow down until he’d finished the story. He was already slurring a few words, and it wouldn’t do to fall down and mess up the payoff; it wouldn’t do at all. But it wouldn’t hurt to go ahead and order another pitcher while somebody else was still paying for it, either, even if he had to wait a while to drink it.
“Otto! Another pitcher here!”
* * *
Cool night air blew over his face when Roland finally woke up. He wasn’t in his CASPer anymore. In fact, judging from the stars and scudding clouds overhead, he wasn’t even inside the hangar. When he tried to sit, pain radiated down his spine, into both hips, and down the back of both legs, but he fought through it until he finally sat upright. Two more of the platoon sat beside him. One was Top Sergeant Kovak, while the other was a private named Umcheki, or something like that. There hadn’t been that much time to bond.
“Where’s everybody else?” he asked Kovak. Pain twisted his words, so he had to repeat it before Kovak understood. She opened her mouth to respond, but was drowned out by Colonel van Owen.
“They’re all dead!” His eyes slowly focused on the man squatting six feet away, too far to grab in one lunge. “Thanks to you, they’re all dead!”
Behind the colonel stood six or seven dark figures he didn’t recognize, and one he did; Sergeant Henrik.
“What are you talking about?” Roland said.
“I identified an imminent threat within your ranks and hired a second platoon to take out the malefactors. It was to be a surgical strike, over before they knew what hit them. We knew the position of each person in the conspiracy.”
“So you arranged a hit squad for our own good?”
“Exactly.”
“Bullshit,” Kovak said. “Those rookies just wanted experience; they weren’t plotting anything. I’d know if they were. You just murdered them. What I don’t know is why.”
His instincts warned Roland to shut up, but he couldn’t help speaking up again. “She’s right. I saw the whole thing.”
Van Owen sighed, loud enough for them to hear it. His face drooped with sadness, or so Roland thought. It was very dark.
“What about you, Kumcheekwa?”
“It’s Umbeckwa, and I trust Top.”
“Well, that’s too bad. I’m very sorry you all feel that way; I could have used you.” He pointed at Roland. “You in particular, Sigurdsson. Talent like yours doesn’t come along every day. Now I have to figure out what to do with you. I mean, you three murdered a lot of good people tonight. Are you absolutely positive you saw what you thought you saw?”
Roland couldn’t make out his features, but there was no question the remarks were aimed primarily at him. He didn’t respond, nor did his fellow prisoners.
“So be it then. You went berserk and wiped out your whole platoon as part of a conspiracy to steal the uranium for yourselves. A lot of good people died trying to stop you. If it ha
dn’t been for the second platoon providing internal security for the processing plant, you would have gotten away with it.”
“Do you expect anybody to believe that?” Roland said.
Van Owen laughed. “I don’t expect anybody to care. But you’re a waste, Roland. You’re the best natural mech driver I’ve ever seen, you could have had a long and prosperous career working for me. One last chance to change your mind…”
“Eat shit and die.”
The colonel rose and walked behind the line of riflemen. Roland didn’t see him give any signal, but he must have, because seconds later seven laser beams cut down Umbeckwa and Kovak. Roland gaped at seeing his comrades sliced into pieces. As the limbs of the dead mercs twitched, Roland looked up at van Owen.
“På forfedres språk legger jeg denne forbannelsen på deg.” In the language of my forefathers, I lay upon you this curse. “By All-Father Odin, though I be judged worthy of entering his presence, I vow not to enter Valhalla until I have avenged myself upon you and all who walk with you this day.”
Van Owen had to wait a micro-second for his translator to render the Norwegian words into English. When it had done so, he smiled and shook his head.
“I like you, Roland. If I ever have a son, I want him to be just like you.”
The colonel tapped Sergeant Henrik on the shoulder. The last thing Roland saw was a flash of red light.
* * *
Spokelse massaged his throat and sipped from the pitcher. Alcoholic sparkles danced across his vision, and it was difficult to keep his voice steady. What he really wanted was a glass of water, but that would wreck the illusion.
“Is that the end of the story?” Cromwell said. ‘Story’ came out as ‘sshhtory.’
The six cadets stared at Spokelse like kids listening to a ghost story around a campfire.
“The end? No, lad, that’s just the beginning. You see, Henrik didn’t just shoot Roland, he burned his head off with the laser. And you know what the colonel did next?”
They all stared at him, some with drooping eyelids. As near as he might be to drunk, he’d nursed the second pitcher while Ramba and his cadets kept drinking with both hands. Fifteen empty pitchers and three partially full ones cluttered the table, not counting his.
“Wha’d he do?” Shapiro said, leaning forward.
“He took it, the head that is, as a warning to others not to fuck with him. Kept it in a clear acrylic box filled with preservative solution on his desk. Used to show it off in bars all over the galaxy, including right here in Otto’s.”
“So what was van Owen’s angle?” Ramba asked after giving his cadets plenty of time to ask it themselves. “What was it all about?”
Spokelse nodded and had to catch himself so he didn’t topple to one side.
“That’s a great question, lad, and let me tell you, it was a damned complicated business…it took most of a year for van Owen to sort the fallout from the loss of Platoon A, Triple-A Temporary Volunteers. The contract signed by Roland and the rest of ‘em called for a small remuneration to the family in case they died during the mission. It was only about one-tenth what a standard contract called for, but the rookies were so desperate to get into the field, they didn’t care. And van Owen didn’t want to pay even that pittance. So there’s a lesson there for you guys.” He pointed at each of the six enrapt cadets. “Read your contracts and ask questions if you don’t know something. The rookies didn’t do it, and it cost them their lives.
“Most of ‘em had no family to speak of anyway, which factored into why van Owen had hired them. In fact, he’d only hired and trained them at all because the uranium was a tempting target for pirates, and he needed actual trained mech drivers in case of a surprise attack. After deducting for expenses and split among the platoon, it wasn’t what you might call a lucrative contract…if everybody survived, that is.
“After collecting on the contract, he would then use his access to the processing plant to hijack the uranium using his pirates. They’d take the CASPers with them, either to sell or for his new crew to drive. Kovak, Henrik, Umbeckwa, and Roland had all been tagged to survive the massacre, since he wanted them to join his pirate crew. They were the cream of the platoon and could teach his pirates how to use the CASPers, since the pirates were all outlaws who couldn’t get merc jobs through legitimate means. Arming them with CASPers would increase their lethal potential by an order of magnitude. Van Owen could then run variations on his scam across the entire galaxy, or at least until the Mercenary Guild kicked him out. Then he could either retire to enjoy his wealth, or become an out and out pirate.
“He told the Mercenary Guild that Kovak had organized and led a mutiny involving everybody in A Platoon except Henrik. He, the colonel, found out and tried to stop it, but failed, with heavy casualties. Kovak, Roland, and the others murdered the crew of the processing plant and all the truck drivers, took the uranium, stole the plant’s starship, and disappeared into space. The bastard wound up with the credits from the contract, didn’t have to pay any death benefits because the rookies all allegedly broke their contracts, was able to sell the uranium on the black market, and wound up with a platoon of CASPers and a starship. Not bad for one crappy escort contract.
“As for why Roland and the others got surprised, none of them suspected their employer was a cold-blooded murderer. Only Roland had an inkling of something being wrong, but he ignored it because that wasn’t how mercs operated. Commanders just didn’t betray their own kind, so none of them could imagine such a double-cross. That was their mistake, a fatal one, as you heard. But after killing Umbeckwa, Kovak, and Roland, there’s one thing the colonel overlooked…”
He paused for dramatic effect as the cadets blinked and gaped in rapt attention.
“…Roland wanted his head back. He hadn’t believed in Roland’s nid…that’s what the Vikings called a verbal curse, a nid. But it was a real thing, a very powerful thing.”
Cromwell shook his head and blinked, trying to focus. He chugged down another gulp of the lager, as if that would help. “You mean like magic?”
“Yeah, I’m not believin’ that,” added Shapiro.
Numis’ head rested sideways on the top of her hand. “Me neither.”
The other three cadets moved their heads in what might have been agreement, or might have been drowsiness. Spokelse shrugged.
“Suit yourselves. You want the resht o’ the story or not?”
All the cadets nodded.
* * *
The clues were all there, but van Owen ignored them until it was too late. It started in an out of the way dive bar on a ramshackle station orbiting a backwater planet. To attract customers in such a low-traffic place, the bar had a small merc museum displaying items from various companies that had passed through over the decades. It even had an Earth item, a relic from one of the companies that didn’t survive the Alpha Contracts, something so unique it was likely the only one of its kind anywhere in space: an M1921 Thompson Submachine gun with a fully-loaded Type C drum magazine, which held 100 rounds.
News of the uranium theft had made it hard to sell, and van Owen had to be very careful to fence it piecemeal in obscure places where shady business dealings were the norm. One of them turned out to be the bar with the Thompson. The colonel took the opportunity to visit the little museum and instantly fell in love with the old gun. The bar’s owner refused all offers to sell it, however, so van Owen left empty-handed. He considered stealing it, but security was surprisingly good, and he finally decided it was too risky.
Two hours after closing, the bar’s security system screamed a warning. When the owner showed up to check it out, he found the Thompson gone, along with an extra box of ammunition. Van Owen was the prime suspect, but when it was proven that he was already back in space when the theft occurred, the owner had no options except to swallow his loss. Cameras showed the locked glass case being shattered and the gun lifted out, but no figure was in the video.
News could take months t
o cross space. Van Owen was back on Earth, sitting in Mad Otto’s of all places, when Henrik brought word that all six pirates who had been with him when Roland died had themselves been gunned down in various places across the galaxy. And by ‘gunned down,’ he meant shot by an old-style automatic weapon firing .45 caliber pistol ammunition.
“The Thompson,” van Owen said.
Henrik nodded. “Has to be.”
“Did anybody see who did it?”
“Nobody. Just like the cameras at that museum…nothing to see.”
Several times during their travels Henrik had mentioned worrying about Roland’s curse, but the colonel had scoffed. Now he picked up Henrik’s implication that this was tied to Roland.
“Let it go, Sergeant; let it go. There’s no such thing as curses, and there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
Their next stop was in Mombasa, Kenya, and a ramshackle bar called Kukra’s, where wannabe mercs from all over Africa came to network and trade terrible advice about how to hire on to a company. In places like that, the Colonel van Owens of the world never had to pay for a drink, but in return they had to listen to scores of elevator speeches from would-be mercs. Van Owen didn’t mind; he reveled in the near-adoration.
Henrik wasn’t with him that night, but the colonel held court at a corner table. At least two dozen local wannabes crowded around him, sitting, standing, and leaning in to catch every word like he was some sort of prophet. He drank French 75s, a favorite he couldn’t get anywhere but Earth because of a lack of sparkling wine or decent gin. Sitting on the table was the acrylic container with Roland’s preserved head inside, looking much the worse for wear. Van Owen brought it along as a prop for the highly doctored version of Roland’s fight in the hangar, one where Roland was the villain, which he’d now told so many times the words came out in chilling, well-practiced perfection. He’d just begun his story when the crowd parted, and a new figure moved into the gap. Or rather, materialized. Witnesses later gave conflicting descriptions of what the figure looked like, but they all agreed on two things: first, it had no head, and second, it used a Thompson submachine gun.
The Gates of Hell Page 45
