by Mark Wandrey
“You’re gonna lose your fuckin’ head, Culper!” the DI barked.
“Sir, yes sir!”
“Return fire,” his squad leader ordered, “two guided missiles!” As the squad’s designated heavy weapons carrier for this cycle, Rick was up.
“On it,” he said and moved the one-thousand-pound suit forward to just behind the crumbling building they’d landed next to. Mickey Finn owned a square mile of former public housing in Missouri City, on the southwest edge of Houston. The entire district had been bought by merc companies and used as proving grounds and weapons ranges. The neighbors cried daily about the explosions and general noise level, but the six-figure monthly taxes paid by the mercs from their lucrative off-world contracts meant the government had little interest in their complaints. Every year, a few more blocks were abandoned, and the mercs snapped those up as well.
Rick slid his right hand around the corner and used the camera mounted on the wrist to get a look. Two CASPers painted light red, with flashing “ENEMY” icons, appeared on his display next to another building 100 yards away, one second before his suit buzzed an alarm and his right arm was frozen. He’d taken fire. “Operator uninjured” was the war game computer’s pronouncement. The suit arms were quite a bit longer than his own, and he could lose almost a foot of the suit’s lower arm and hand without personal injury. Of course, the machine gun on that arm was now out of the game.
“Two Tangos,” he told the squad leader.
“Light ‘em up, Culper!”
“On it,” he said. Rick grabbed the rear half of a mangled ground car that lay nearby with his uninjured left hand, braced, and did a pivot throw. The partial car weighed at least 500 pounds, and he threw it easily. He hung onto it for a half a second, letting the bulk actually pull him part of the way out of cover. As he’d planned, the two troopers who’d been waiting instantly engaged the car body. Rick’s computer said it was hit numerous times with machine gun and MAC fire. “Better it than me,” he said as he came clear of the wall.
His suit’s shoulder-mounted launcher pivoted down at his command, the reticle centered on the ground between the two troopers, and he fired. The rocket left his launcher’s rail with a “Woosh!” and streaked across the intervening space. The other troopers tried to respond, but the rocket only took half a second to travel the distance. It landed on target and exploded with a huge cloud of wet paint, turning half of both troopers’ suits a satisfying mottled green.
“Two kills,” his suit informed him.
“Forward!” his squad leader yelled, and he leaped again. This time, Rick had the lag timed out, and it went much better.
An hour later they were out of their CASPers and running diagnostics. It was part of cadre duty, you learned the care and feeding of your suit as well as how to fight in it. These city fights were the worst on the suits. Mickey Finn was a space-based unit, after all, and Rick preferred the clean indoors combat on spaceships. They had access to three hulks in lunar orbit where they trained regularly. No artillery, no death from above. Still, he figured learning to fight dirt-side was worth the time. Ships had to land sometime.
“Culper,” he heard. He spun around, coming to attention. Sergeant Alvarez, the five-foot-two-inch DI for his cadre platoon was striding up. She was tough as nails and hot as a branding iron. It was a disconcerting combination.
“Sir, yes sir!” he barked.
“That skid move with the car? Out-fucking-standing!”
“Sir, yes sir!” he barked, with the barest hint of a smile.
“Don’t fucking ever do it again,” she snarled, then a tiny hint of a smile came across her own face. “You will, however, show me how you did that.”
“Of course, sir.” She nodded.
“Good. How’s the suit?”
“898-B has a few more runs in it, sir.”
“Very well, carry on. We’re going up to Red Hulk tomorrow.” Rick nodded. The three ships were called Red Hulk, Blue Hulk, and Green Hulk. Red Hulk used to be a Union bulk ore transport. It was the hardest to train in because of the large open spaces. It did, however, explain why they’d had a day of city practice—to remind them that things could kill you from further away than the next bulkhead.
“I’ll be ready, sir.”
After Rick finished his maintenance cycle, refilled the suit’s hydrogen fuel cells, and put it to sleep, he returned to his billeting and grabbed a shower. The Mk 7 suits, and 898-B in particular, were known as hot-running models. The fuel cells were at the small of your back, and that meant extra heat. He couldn’t wait to get a Mk 8 as he’d read that a lot of the Mk 7’s issues had been fixed with it.
A half-dozen of his platoon mates were already in the shower, including the two he’d blown to hell with the rocket. Their entire squad had been killed while acting as the opposing force.
“Sweet move, Culper,” a guy named Prendergast said and slapped him a high-five.
“Lucky,” someone else laughed.
“Culper?” Prendergast asked. “No fucking way; he’s got moves.” Rick just shrugged and found an unoccupied shower. While a lot of other kids in school were busy spending all their time in the weight room or studying military history, just like the MST (Mercenary Service Track) government education program dictated, he’d always found time to participate in some gymnastics and even a little ballet. That was paying high dividends now. It didn’t hurt he was a natural athlete and had the body of a Greek god.
Rick ignored the shower room banter as he washed. Unlike a lot of young CASPer troopers, he’d kept his hair. It was above collar-length, within Mickey Finn regulations, and dirty blonde. It went well with his blue eyes, high cheekbones, and chiseled jaw. Once he’d gotten his adult growth and begun to really build up his body, he’d developed into a man who turned heads everywhere he went. Not all were women either, though that had never interested him. He’d never gotten into chasing girls, though, out of respect for his childhood friend, Jim Cartwright.
Where Rick was the model of what the mercenary service was looking for in a recruit, Jim was the opposite. Shorter, overweight—bordering on obese—with little physical talent, Jim had struggled with the MST. Most people wondered why he would waste his time trying, as it was obvious he would never be a merc. The only problem was he wasn’t just Jim Cartwright. He was one of the Cartwrights. Heir to Cartwright’s Cavaliers. The Cavaliers were one of only four merc companies to return from the Alpha Contracts 100 years ago.
Although Jim was the heir to one of the Four Horsemen, he was unassuming and rather embarrassed by it all. Jim and Rick had been friends since kindergarten, and Jim had promised Rick a job when they graduated. Of course, that was before the Cavaliers went bankrupt.
Rick had graduated with a nearly-perfect score on the VOWs, his Voluntary Off-World assessment tests, and he’d wanted to be a Cavalier. Only Jim had disappeared, and the company had gone bankrupt, so Rick had to find his own way.
First, he’d gone to Gitmo’s Own, a very old unit from which he had a challenge coin from his school days. They wanted him, but only for cadre duty. Rick held out for a quick-track combat duty assignment, and that turned out to be a mistake. With almost a thousand mercs suddenly looking for work after the Cavaliers folded, jobs proved hard to come by. When he tried to take the earlier offer from Gitmo’s Own, he found it wasn’t there anymore. After a month of looking, he finally ended up at Mickey Finn.
Out of the shower, toweling off, he saw a woman from logistics checking him out. She was a tall brunette who’d been spending a lot of time in the gym when he was there; Rick had noticed her, too. Once Jim went his own way, Rick no longer felt honor-bound to pass on girls’ attentions to avoid embarrassing his friend. The intervening months had found him dating half a dozen female Mickey Finn personnel, from office staff to fellow troopers. He was beginning to regret all those years he ignored girls in school—he had a lot of catching up to do!
Rick hit his bunk and grabbed his personal slate. The little comput
er was crammed full of files with operational details he was trying to absorb. He was sure Jim would have had no trouble with that part of the job. Rick wasn’t stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination; while the VOWs were biased heavily toward physical ability, they also had a sizeable mental capacity section. Even the greatest physique wouldn’t get a top score unless it was coupled with above average intelligence, and Rick’s scores had been high there, as well. But he’d never be an academic; it wasn’t his natural ability.
Regardless, he was pushing hard to finish the material. Their cadre unit was coming up on rotation quickly. Mickey Finn had only two company-sized units that rotated between Earth and off-world assignments. First Company was due back in six weeks, at which time Second Company, his company, would ship out. That is, if he made the grade. He was halfway through a manual on standard Union starship power distribution systems when the communicator in his ear buzzed.
“Culper?” It was Sergeant Alvarez.
“Sir, yes sir?”
“Report to my office, ASAP.” Rick was up at a trot. Her office was on the same floor as Mickey Finn’s Houston cadre headquarters, a former office complex in what had been the swank business and entertainment area known as the Galleria back in the 21st Century. Now it was home to a dozen small-to-medium-sized merc companies, like his own.
Rick found her office door open, with another trooper walking out shaking his head. He knew right away—that wasn’t good. He knocked once and entered, as was protocol, standing next to the doorway at attention. Alvarez looked up and knife-handed at the chair.
“Pop a squat, Culper.” He did. On her desk, a Tri-V displayed a file, Rick’s half-grinning face floating there. “I’ve been reviewing your file,” she said and glanced at him. “Don’t give me the puppy dog look, kid.”
“Sorry sir.”
She growled, then sighed. “Culper, you’re a top-notch trooper, with the makings of a fine marine. We wanted to give you a slot.”
“Then why are you letting me go?” he asked. She didn’t take exception to the break in proper protocol.
“First Company was serving defensive duty on a Maki ship.”
“The lemurs, right?”
“Correct,” Alvarez nodded. “Anyway, they’re great pilots and all, but they’re shit for fighting on ships. They got caught in an operation that went south. We don’t know the full details, only that 75 percent of First Company was lost. The remnants are on their way home now with an incomplete contract under their belts.”
“Wouldn’t that mean you need me even more?” Rick asked, a little horrified so many had died. Well, they’d died weeks ago, probably. It could take months for a message to get from one side of the galaxy to the other.
“It might, except for the loss of revenue and the payouts to family members of the dead. We’re standing down all of Second Company, except the veterans, and rolling them into First Company when it gets here.” She slid a data chip across the table. “Your severance pay and recommendation. I really hope you get on with someone else.” She stood and offered her hand. Numb with disappointment, he stood and shook it. It was the first and only time she’d offered.
* * * * *
Chapter 6
EMS Pegasus
Obiya 199 System
Way Station Abyss
Inner Crapti Rift
Alexis trudged up the ramp to the shuttle, with Paka right behind her. Even in the modest spin gravity of the huge ship, she felt all the hours she’d been awake. The Topul’s Pride shuttle bay crew sealed them in from the outside and evacuated the bay prior to decompression.
“Take me home, Mr. Southard,” she said to the pilot.
“Yes, Captain,” the pilot replied from the little cockpit. The bay depressurized quickly, and the pilot lifted them off the deck. The ship was under spin, so down was out. He hovered for a moment while the doors opened under them, then gave the maneuvering thrusters a few bumps, and they were clear. The pilot steadied their trajectory, aligned their course, and engaged the drive engines. A smooth one-half gravity snugged them into their seats. Clearly, the pilot knew his captain was tired; it meant the flight would take longer, but she didn’t mind.
“Four dead,” she said and shook her head.
“Happens,” Paka replied.
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Paka shrugged. Watching a big rodent shrug should be disconcerting, she thought, but she’d grown up around more aliens than Humans. Most of the races even vaguely humanoid used a form of shrugging. “Between these losses and those two full pods we lost in Argyle B4V, we’re short a full platoon.”
Paka nodded. “We have a few months before the next contract. We can stop on Earth and hire some veterans to fill out the ranks.”
“No,” Alexis said right away, then glanced at Paka from under hooded eyes, “not Earth.”
“Are you ever going to see your home world?” Paka asked.
Alexis pulled one of the built-in computer monitors on the shuttle’s arm around and tapped on it. A view of the distant but closing Pegasus was centered on it—a gently tapering, almost cigar-shaped ship with retractable gravity decks near the middle. The doors for the central docking bay were near the gravity decks, while missile and weapon ports dotted the hull. The squared end, where her powerful fusion torches rested, were surrounded by a ring of external reaction mass tankage and over-powered maneuvering thrusters. The bore of her immense spinal-mounted particle cannon wasn’t visible in her nose; it was currently concealed behind petal-like doors.
“That’s my home,” she said, almost caressing the image. And it always has been, she thought. “Have navigation plot for Karma. We can find fresh meat there.”
A half hour later, the shuttle flipped over and began decelerating. Another half hour, and the engines cut out, leaving them in free fall. Alexis watched through the monitor as the shuttle floated slowly toward her ship. They were just forward of the bulbous engine housings. Here a large bay door stood open to reveal the hangar deck. As they glided inside she could see the magnetic handling system moving another shuttle on the opposite side of the huge removable transparent shield which divided the bay. It allowed them to operate two shuttles at one time if necessary, which it often was.
The shuttle gently nudged the floor, and the deck’s magnetic grapples locked it in place. Doors slid closed, and the bay pressurized in a few moments.
“Clear to go,” Southard called from the flight deck.
“Smooth flight,” Alexis said. He turned and nodded to her, then went back to his checklist as the shuttle’s door rotated down. She floated to the door and waited while the personnel transport ropes rose from the deck of the shuttle bay. Once they were in place, she and Paka floated down, took hold, and moved toward the bay exit. Hangar personnel were already moving about, servicing the shuttle and accessing its cargo hold.
She looked back and saw the crew removing the body bags from the fight on Topul’s Pride. She’d hoped to get Home without any more losses. A quick stop at Karma for some new hires on the way. Should be a milk run.
A day later Opportunity was again able to maneuver under its own power. The former ship’s pirate master, the SleSha queen, was confined to a stateroom where she was to remain until her trial. Topul’s Pride had not slowed in its transit. The damages she’d suffered were minor compared to her incredible size. She would reach Obiya 199’s stargate in three more days and transition back into hyperspace.
Pegasus lagged behind almost a day, keeping her sensors open and watching for any threats. The final clause of the contract with the Merchant Guild was making sure the Topul’s Pride left Obiya 199 unmolested. The Enforcer, who transferred to the Opportunity to accompany his prisoner, contacted Pegasus one final time before they made the transition out of the system.
“We part ways,” the Enforcer said formally; the visual transmission showed the Equiri giving a slight bow of respect. “Our business was equitable. I find you an honorable Human, and your company matches
its reputation.” Alexis returned the bow.
“The Winged Hussars take pride in our reputation,” she said. The Enforcer seemed about to terminate the communication when he stopped and leaned close to the pickup, speaking again.
“Your ship’s ability, or your navigator’s perhaps? Simply amazing.” When Alexis didn’t reply, he added, “No doubt the Cartography Guild would pay handsomely for that talent.”
“It is no concern of theirs,” she said simply. “Our contract included a non-disclosure agreement in relation to any proprietary abilities my company might possess.”
“It did,” the Enforcer agreed, “though I thought that was regarding military techniques or perhaps some arms and armor innovations.” The Enforcer cocked his long face and regarded her with one eye. “Humans are an enigmatic and secretive race,” he said, then laughed. “Farewell, Commander Cromwell.” He cut the communications link. Paka looked up from her console and regarded her captain with a concerned gaze.
“Our secrets are going to get out,” she said. “One of these days. We’ll never keep it forever.”
“Maybe,” Alexis said, then shrugged. “Still, we’ve managed to keep a few secrets for a very long time.”
* * * * *
Interlude
35 Years Ago
EMS Pegasus
Hyperspace
The game would be much more fun if her damn sister wasn’t so much better at it. Alex always thought of herself as the smarter of the twins, yet Kat was the uncontested master of hide and seek aboard Pegasus. Alex was currently crawling through a cableway access shaft between Decks Two and Three. She’d been looking for her sister now for 55 minutes, and time was almost up.
When the twins had first started playing the game, they were only four years old. Their mother had strictly forbidden them to play in the ship outside of Deck 20, where they lived with her on contract. Of course, they’d completely ignored her. When they were caught on Deck 30 hiding in a marine equipment room, she’d locked them in their cabin as punishment. Two hours later a maintenance tech opened a ventilation shaft on Deck 10 to investigate slow air flow to find the girls trying to get unstuck from an air mover.
