The Good, the Bad, and the Merc: Even More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 8)

by Chris Kennedy

  He gave the girl an intimate smile, whispered to her, and motioned with his head. She made a cooing noise and moved away. “It is sometimes helpful to understand the culture of those you serve, Captain. Learned that at Jandu.”

  I thought of my discomfort before the G’dar and his quarreling daughter/son. “Perhaps, but we are first and foremost a combat unit. Are we not?”

  His smile was patronizing, and he seemed to chuckle at some private joke. “We are, but combat means different things to different peoples. Take the P’tan, for instance: what do you see when you look at them?”

  I moved across the grassy plain toward our camp and bid him to follow. I didn’t speak until he was close. “They’re birds…or something very close to them.”

  Hollis waved the notion away. “Yes, yes.” He had the tone of a school master. I didn’t appreciate it, but he’d always been smart and talented, just as he’d been vain and pompous. “But who are they?”

  I thought about that, but could only think: Birds. “Tell me, Jake. Who are they?”

  “Prima Donnas! They’re all about the glitter and glam of shiny jewels and pretty metals—more than humans—and that’s saying something. But, they’re also about pomp and ceremony and aesthetic beauty. Everything, everything, is carried out with those priorities.”

  I thought about the G’dar’s diminutive size compared to his guards, but his plumage! And, their moronic rules of war: set-piece, chess-like battles, the silly parades, and the way the court campaigned with the army like on a fox hunt. “So they treat war like a game or a pageant.”

  “Exactly.”

  This would have been useful weeks ago, but it was now a dated notion. “We ran into mercs out there, Jake, humans in CASPers: charcoal grey hulls with a swooping black raven looking over its outstretched claws. Sound familiar?”

  “The Night Stalkers.”

  I studied him with a sideways glance for several steps. His face betrayed no fear, no shock, only detached interest. “We’ve left you out of this up till now, but we’re short a command crew and with Margolis down, we’re gonna need every gun. I gotta put you back in the cockpit, Jake.”

  Hollis looked out at the mountain. “You know the kind of fighter I am.”

  I knew the kind of fighter he’d once been. “Yeah. But this is the Night Stalkers. Again. That gonna be a problem?”

  “Nope.”

  I tried to hear confidence in his reply and failed. “What about this afternoon? With Karen?”

  That question caused his face to cloud over. “I’m sure she did what she thought was best.”

  “But you don’t agree?”

  “I don’t have to. Only obey.” If that didn’t sum up a soldier’s life, I don’t know what did. He looked at me with haunted eyes. “Just remember, Captain,we don’t need another Styx.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the whirring of a Tycus Industries C-95 cargo ship. The vessel was a squat green misshapen disk that bulged into a forward nose section and an aft engineering section housing three fusion power plants. The flat saucer-like superstructure in the center of the craft held onto drab green-grey cargo containers that I knew carried valuable supplies. I might’ve been the only one to know that these were our last.

  The ship flew low, as if it could stay out of the gunsights of that behemoth mountain. I looked back to Hollis. He’d taken his leave—without my permission. I would have to deal with that sooner-or-later, but, right now, I had other priorities. I turned and followed the cargo ship to its landing platform.

  5

  The cooling fans of the C-95 were winding down when I approached the impromptu landing pad laid out by Chen Miller and his small squad of combat engineers. It was a standard 20-by-20 titanium deck, and it showed the wear of years of campaigns and landings. There was a collection of green-grey boxes stacked neatly on one edge and a trio of larger metal crates next to them.

  I strode to the front of the craft, within easy sight of the pilothouse slit window on the dorsal aspect of her nose and waited. The forward gangway came down from what might’ve been called the craft’s chin, and a thin woman in a bright jumpsuit appeared at the top, stood there for several long moments, and descended with a graceful swagger that was common to every jock pilot this side of A’tal. I watched with a smile on my face.

  “You’re not Ops, anymore, Captain.” The voice came from behind me. It had a growling quality, was broken, and barely understandable. But, it wasn’t just accent. It was anatomy. Ma’Coe’s foxlike face looked at me with alien amusement. He wore a green-grey duty cap, a pair of green-grey cargo pants, narrow combat boots on his canine feet, and crisscrossed bandoliers over the coppery fur of his bare chest. He held a lit cigar in the corner of his snouted jaw and a palm slate in his furry hand.

  “Technically it isn’t Ops’ job, either.”

  Mac motioned to a tall, gangly woman at his right. “Sarah’s here, but I wanted to see what kind of loadout options I might have for this mission you had me draw up.”

  “Got some ideas. Do you?”

  The corner of those jaws curled up as if to smile. “A few. I sent them to your box.”

  “I got the notification. Just running a few errands.”

  “Anybody know where a girl can get a decent cup of coffee around here?” Zandra Weis was a tall, lanky girl with mischievous grin and a pilot’s cockiness. A ribbed, canary yellow pressure suit clung to her skinny frame. A black leather helmet gripped her head by the ears and despite the pitch blackness of the surrounding night, old-fashioned aviator-style glasses covered her eyes.

  I turned my gaze to her. “If you wanted coffee, Z, you should have stayed in the rear.”

  Long, thin fingers grabbed the glasses by the corner and snatched them from a pair of glittering blue eyes. Thin, pale lips twisted in a restrained smile, wrinkling her petite nose in the process. “Have you ever known me to stay in the rear?”

  I thought of Karen. “Doesn’t matter. Just as dangerous there as anywhere else.”

  The toying mischief on Zandra’s face morphed into something like concern.

  “Hey, Z!”

  “Hey, Mac! What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be tending to your platoon?” Zandra was a contracted supplier and transporter. She was wasn’t part of the unit and had been isolated from the day’s events by geography.

  Mac pulled the cigar from his mouth with his free hand. “I’m Ops, like the captain, here, used to be.”

  Zandra whipped her head in my direction, wide-eyed. “You’re the Captain?”

  I looked away from those eyes and nodded. “Karen was killed today.”

  “Oh, god!” she said, her cocky mask put aside. “I’m so sorry.”

  I nodded and thought for a long moment that I would be overcome with emotion. I choked it down, cleared my throat, and looked back at her. “Yeah. Me, too.” Suddenly, flirting with Zandra Weis didn’t seem like such a priority. I forced a weak smile and looked her in the eye. “I have a lot to do. Excuse me.”

  “Thom!”

  I looked back at Zandra. Her face was long with grief, and I realized that I hadn’t allowed myself to feel any pain since that burst of tears in the med bay. “Why don’t we have that coffee? Got some special stock on the ship.”

  I gave my best imitation of a smile. “Burden of command. Hoping to close this campaign out tomorrow. If we don’t, we may have to fall back to refit until your brother’s supply ships can make the time to get out here.”

  She grimaced. Jason Weis was not the brash, thrill-seeking pilot his sister was. Nor was he especially fond of the Fusiliers. “He’s fulfilling other obligations, right now.”

  “More lucrative than war?” We both knew that killing was a galactic staple. Creatures of almost all races seemed eager to spend without limit on measures of security and stability. Zandra looked away, and I felt like shit. “I’m sorry. It’s been a hard day.”

  She gave her own imitation of a smile. “He prefers
contracts that come from more stable endeavors. He…doesn’t like the risk to our ships and crews.”

  “To you,” I said.

  She nodded, but we both knew his aversion to working for mercs was as much about his anti-war politics as it was anything else. We also knew that this would be her last campaign with us. Our contract was up, and, since Jason had taken over in the absence of their retired father, it would not be renewed.

  “Tomorrow evening,” I said. “We’ll have a proper celebratory dinner right up there.” I pointed at the mountain.

  Zandra looked at the massive heights in the darkness and a shadow of uncertainty crossed her face. She flashed that strained, imitation smile again. “Sounds lovely.”

  6

  As it turned out, Zandra and I had coffee and dinner together, after all. We gathered in the claustrophobic confines of the auxiliary command center, a modified cargo container brimming with lidar and comm panels. It was cramped, and the red glow of battle lanterns conspired with the warmth from the electrical equipment to give the sensation of being roasted under heating lamps.

  The entire staff had gathered to listen to Mac convey his plan, making the stuffy, unbearable heat even more stuffy and unbearable. Caydence O’Hare was there, pressed against the edge of the table so her tiny stature wouldn’t hinder her ability to see. Lieutenants Cyrus Krypkey, of Bravo platoon and Kamaal Olefemi from Charlie were there. Cy was a slender-built black man of medium height and skin tone. Kamaal had a thicker build, but was an eyelash shorter and a shade darker. Both stood close behind O’Hare.

  I squeezed in to her right, the corner of the table providing some small measure of personal space, but Marcus Grigsby, the burly chief mechanic, was wedged into the corner opposite O’Hare. His big frame stooped forward to stay below the tight confines of the ceiling, consuming whatever personal space that corner might’ve provided. Zandra pressed in between, back against the wall behind her and her now-bare head stooped forward, draping my shoulder with curly, raven hair.

  Jake Hollis lounged in the far corner, eating a Q’al berry custard from a coffee mug with the bronze shield and gold star of the Fusiliers. “Et praesidia ad portam” was scribed in an arc across the top of the shield: Protectors of the Gate. He was in a duty uniform, green-grey blouse and trousers with boots, a patch matching his coffee mug on his right shoulder.

  Mac was squeezed between the table and wall opposite where I stood. He had the most space so he could move to point and gesture as he demonstrated his plan. The plan was actually his fourth, gleaned in an inspiration that struck him while he watched Chen Miller and his crew offload the cargo containers from cargo ship’s hull. It was, I thought, a pretty brazen plan that might get us all killed. On the other hand, it might be brilliant.

  The holographic tabletop was a representation of the battlefield we currently faced—K’vaal Horteth loomed over the northern edge of the display, dominating the entire table, especially the plain on which our tiny camp sat. It was clustered into a narrow stretch of ground opposite a very small knoll at the southern edge of the plain, but the paltry cover did little to protect us from indirect weapons fire such as artillery and mortars, and could easily be bypassed by guided weapons systems such as missiles or Canard Guided Shells. The ground to the west of the mountain was flat and open. The ground to the east offered the best cover, but the worst approach: a low, steep ridge looked down on a gully. Both were thick with woods and tangles, and a small stream rambled from a mountain spring past our position, where it eventually fed into a full-fledged river the P’tan called D’Gich.

  Mac was using a remote to highlight nine blue arrows that pushed out from our camp and up the southern face of the mountain. “Once Bravo and Charlie platoons have engaged the enemy—hopefully around the rim of the crest—Alpha platoon, in specially modified containers to hide their presence, will dust off the back of Commander Weis’ C-95, and rain hell from above.”

  Six blue Xs appeared along the lip of the mountain where the peak had been dug out and the K’vaal had built their gilded city of precious metals and gems, looking as if it had just been dropped there by the gods.

  Olefemi was the first to find his voice. “Would it not be better to deploy to the east with the ridge between us and the mountain?”

  Mac glanced at me. I gave a faint, encouraging nod. He looked to Olefemi. “We discussed that at length and decided that path was more of a hindrance to our maneuverability, as they could read our heat signatures from the top of the mountain and shift their defense, anyway. Charging across relatively open ground may not be appealing, but we are also going to open up on them with every gun we can find, including the P’tan pieces and our fleet of drones. It should at least provide initial cover by which time Commander Weis should be in the air. Besides, the enemy hasn’t shown a great capacity for inflicting severe damage on us to date.”

  “Tell that to Margolis and the command crew,” said Krypkey.

  I frowned at the truth in that statement and wondered again if this plan was a little too complicated. Simple was always better.

  “Weis is a contractor,” said Olefemi. “She doesn’t have our tac channels.”

  “Tech Sergeant Grigsby has a team working with engineer Miller to fix that as we speak.” Mac looked at Grigsby.

  Grigsby nodded.

  “What about that barrage?” It was O’Hare. “These talking parrots have kept our hands tied behind our backs from Day One. Is there any reason to think they won’t now?”

  I took up that reply: “I have explained in detail the tactical and strategic situation with the G’dar, and made clear the changes these mercs represent in the conflict. He knows that if we can’t bring this war to a decisive end, now, he and his people face a protracted, total war.”

  She looked at me. “He agreed to this?”

  I glanced at Hollis. “He is taking it up with his advisors.”

  When I said nothing more, Mac said: “We will put everything in place and wait for word.”

  “And if we get it?” said O’Hare.

  “We scramble right then and there. Hopefully, before daybreak.”

  There was a distant rumble outside and a ripple of tension passed through the staff. All waited for the gurgle or shriek to indicate artillery, but it was only thunder, real thunder.

  “Storm coming,” said Olefemi. “That could be a good thing. Shielding our movements for even a few seconds could be the difference between life and death.”

  They all nodded.

  “Captain,” said Mac. “You have anything?”

  “It’s…” I looked at the chronometer at the top of the hologram. “Twenty-three fifty. That’s 10 hours of darkness on this rock. I suggest shut eye if you can get it. Same for your crews. Me, I’m gonna wait out there under that tarp. You’re all welcome to join me.” I pointed past the mechanics and clerks drafted as replacement command techs and out the front door of the CP. A green canopy tent was set up to protect the entrance from the elements and give some cover to techs and officers who could afford to step away from their consoles, but not leave the area completely. A circle of chairs sat to the right and a one-piece picnic-style table to the left.

  I nodded at Mac. It was his briefing.

  He nodded back. “Dismissed.”

  7

  Olefemi and Krypkey refused my offer of companionship, choosing instead to rack out in the metal cargo containers on the reverse slope of the subtle rise that marked the Fusiliers’ camp. Grigsby headed out to supervise final checks on our machines and to make sure he had additional munitions ready, should the CASPers return for a reload. Hollis went off to wherever it was Hollis went at times like this.

  “Begging your pardon, Cap, but I’d just as soon step off without him.” O’Hare stood at the edge of the canopy where streams of shed rainwater formed an almost solid wall behind her. “I know we need all-hands on this one, but he’s been pretty checked-out ever since Styx.”

  I sat in a collapsible fabric cha
ir and listened to the roar of the pounding rain. I’d turned another chair around, employing it as a footrest. Zandra sat in a chair against the wall to my right. Lightning flashed and thunder roared at the same moment, the hulking forms of our CASPers outlined in the fleeting, strobe effect of its purple-blue light. They slumbered below large canopies like the one sheltering us.

  “I talked to him, Cay,” I said. “He knows what’s at stake here. He’s a professional.”

  “Professional.” Her tone made it sound like an insult. “Well, can he be infused into Olefemi’s platoon or Kryp—”

  “You are the main assault wing of this company, Lieutenant. I chose you, even though you’re the newest officer, because you’re also a hell of a scrapper. And, while he might have personality quirks we don’t like, we have both seen what Jake Hollis can do in a fight, especially against the Stalkers! I will not remove him from your assault force, but if you think someone else would be a better fit to command this attack, I can arrange it.”

  Lightning flashed at that moment, highlighting the sheets of rain pouring down behind her. “No sir. I’m just concerned. I mean, to take his command away and to give it to you, no less. After—everything—I just don’t see how his head can be in this game.”

  I felt Zandra’s eyes on me and made an effort to avoid her gaze. “Just let him be, Cay,” I said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so, sir.” Her voice didn’t seem to agree with her words. “When do you expect to hear from Brenda?”

  Brenda was Brenda Tilley. She’d been almost as lucky as Hollis had been yesterday. Whereas he was nearly untouched, she’d been blown clear and suffered some pretty extensive bumps and bruises. I’d sent her to the rear to await word on the G’dar’s decision in Hollis’ stead. The move put her well away from the action while bringing Hollis forward where we could use his considerable skill as a warfighter.