Surprised, the Besquith hesitated, only moving once the leader barked commands. Two immediately fell to the floor, shot through the head. Dense smoke and dust swirled in the sunlight, making the interior steadily more hazy and difficult to see through.
“Get down!” Taryn followed her own advice, hugging the floor as the sound of gunfire filled the warehouse.
Belly crawling to the door, she carefully cracked it open, keeping her body behind the wall. The remaining kidnappers dove for what little cover could be found. One had its body torn apart as it moved, falling to the floor in a twitching mess.
The leader shot at random, wildly firing burst after burst toward the front of the building as he made his way toward the office.
“Oh crap.’” Taryn crawled back just as the other Besquith died, wounds appearing as if by magic on their bodies. “It’s coming in here! Pull Jaxon to the wall and cover him.”
The music in her ear reached a crescendo, human voices joined by instruments, rising in a fever pitch. Jacey and Cass each had one of Jaxon’s arms, struggling against his weight. Hermilo sat, clutching his knees and rocking slowly. She knelt next to him.
“Hey. Milo!” His eyes, red-rimmed and full, slowly raised to meet hers. “You’ve got to help. We’ve got to get Jaxon away from the window, just in case.”
She looked over her shoulder. Breg-Na hadn’t made it to their door yet.
“There’s only one left, but I don’t know what it’ll do, ok?”
Hermilo nodded, slowly, but didn’t move. Taryn grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard.
“I need you to help, Milo! Jaxon needs your help!”
He stopped rocking, comprehension slowly crossing his features. Taryn gave him another shake for good measure, pushing him toward the others. That got him moving. In seconds, the four of them had Jaxon against the far wall. It was the best they could do for now.
The door burst open as the remaining Besquith entered, wild-eyed and snarling, firing rapidly as it backed into the room. It caught sight of them, its look slowly changing from fear to what she assumed was its species version of a smile—dark lips drew back, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. Gurgles and snarls rumbled from his chest, punctuated with sharp barking sounds.
“I have your children, Lupo,” it said. Jaxon’s comm still dangled from the creature’s neck, the earpiece draped over one pointed ear. “Call off your agents, and they will live!”
The music cut off abruptly.
“I warned you, Breg-Na.”
Taryn blinked as something emerged from the haze behind their captor. The alien raised his weapon, aiming at Jaxon…
...and stared in disbelief at his arm, lying on the floor in front of him.
The form moved to the side; it was an armored man. Taryn assumed the rifle slung across its back was what had taken out the others, however, the figure had swapped it for the blade it now carried. Their captor’s blood ran down its length, dripping into the pool on the floor.
The Besquith fell to its knees, remaining hand clamped over the stump of its right arm. The armor’s face plate went clear.
Mr. Zorgama did *not* look happy.
The alien began to snarl, only to be cut off—literally—by the sword. Lips still moving, but with no sound, the Besquith’s body fell in two pieces, twitching as blood and organs slid onto the concrete.
“Everyone into the van, please, quickly.” Mr. Zorgama’s voice remained level as he wiped his blade on Breg-Na’s fur. “Step lively now; mind the blood. I will bring Jaxon along.”
Once again, Taryn was thankful she hadn’t lost her mask. One look at the others’ faces told her everything she needed to know about the smell of their surroundings. They piled into the van, carefully easing Jaxon onto the carpeted floor. Cass took the wheel as Mr. Zorgama closed the doors.
“The van needs to be disposed of, Cass, once everyone is safely aboard the Fortuna. I will take care of things here.”
“Yes, sir.” The engine rumbled, and Cass turned the van to face the rollaway door, as Mr. Zorgama opened it. Through the back window, Taryn watched as he removed several small items from his waist, tossing them carefully into the building. As they turned the corner, she saw him racing around the corner in the opposite direction.
Thirty seconds later, she jumped as an explosion tore through the air behind her. A large cloud of dust erupted from the warehouse. Mr. Zorgama’s mutter came through her earpiece.
“Tsk. Messy.” Louder, he said, “Marny, please relay to our clients that our contract has been fulfilled. Have you received a response from Sten-Al?”
“Yes, sir, and yes sir. He has agreed to the increase in retainer in lieu of singular combat with you, sir. He sends his sincere apologies for Breg-Na’s actions, and he assures me it was not at his command.”
“Satisfactory. Thank you Marny.”
Taryn turned back to the others. Hermilo was sobbing gently, but raised his head as she touched his shoulder. He didn’t flinch, giving her a weak smile and a thumbs up.
“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Thanks for helping me back there.”
She nodded, not sure what to say. The more she thought about it, the more she realized staying close had been a conscious choice. There had been a chance—slim, but still a chance—to bolt before the Besquith shown up.
Jaxon stirred. She looked down as his hand took hers.
“If you hadn’t stayed close, it would’ve been a lot worse,” he said, weakly. “You did good. Thank you.”
“I don’t...I didn’t.” She took a deep breath, trying to keep the sudden shaking in her hands from getting worse. Hermilo’s reaction brought something to the surface, as though his wall crumbling caused hers to falter. Jaxon’s grip tightened slightly. “I thought I was on my own again.”
“Never again, Taryn. You have us.”
She nodded, allowing the tears to fall silently.
* * *
“Alright, number eight-two-zero-seven-five, Gould, Rory, front and center.”
Rory walked slowly, with what he hoped was an intimidating sneer on his face. The slim sergeant in charge of juvenile cases looked irritated.
Good.
“Call me Argee.”
“Come with me, Gould. You’ve been sprung.”
Argee looked back at his cell mates, relief washing over him. The largest, a bald Lumar blew him a kiss. He’d considered himself pretty badass, until he’d been locked in with that group. Only by bluffing, sheer determination, and blind luck (the duty officer never left his desk) had he made it through the last 24 hours.
He followed the security officer to the front of the station, pausing as the pig rummaged behind the desk.
“Since you didn’t come in with anything legal, you’ve got nothing to collect. Sign here.” He handed over a slate. Argee took it, scrawled his initials at the bottom, and tossed it back onto the desk, ignoring the officer’s outstretched hand.
“Punk.” He waved to someone behind Argee, near the front door. “He’s all yours. Congratulations.”
Argee turned, watching with interest as a young woman strode toward him, maybe three or four years his senior. Her attire spoke of high-quality workmanship, seen to by a person that prided herself on perfection. Dark brown hair, arranged in a tight braid, spilled over one shoulder. The professional appearance was offset by a single bright pink stripe in the center of the braid. She held out her hand.
“Hello, Rory. I’m Taryn Lupo. If you’d come with me, please, our car is outside.”
# # # # #
KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING by Jason Cordova
“Well, that went tits-up in a hurry,” Mulbah grumbled as he tossed aside his empty rifle. He glared at the alien forces gathered around him, all of whom were pointing weapons at him. What passed as their fingers were twitchy, and it was clear to him they were immensely displeased and eager to end his life. The Lumar looked especially peeved. “If I survive this, Thorpi is most definitely fired.”
48
hours earlier…
“Are you out of your mind?” Zion Jacobs asked in disbelief as he looked at his boss. “The new recruits aren’t ready for any sort of space station boarding action, much less close-quarters infantry action in advanced combat armor.”
“Boss, we might be good on the armor, but these new guys? They are not ready,” Samson Tolbert added with an emphatic shake of his head. “They’re almost ready to be fitted with the upgraded Mark Seven’s you picked up after the last mission, but that is it. Almost.”
“Why are you accepting the leftovers from the Hussars anyway, Boss?” Antonius Karnga asked. “They’re one of the big dogs, yeah, but we don’t need their table scraps.”
“Because Wendy asked nicely,” Mulbah Luo told his employees as he sat at the head of the conference table, his non-combat uniform crisp still despite weeks of wear. He had decided the Kakata Korps would wear a standard dark green jumpsuit after seeing other mercenary companies do it and had issued them to each mercenary in his employ. On the left shoulder was a patch with a snarling lion in red, while on the right was the flag of their home nation, Liberia. Atop his head he wore a plain black beret, which covered the nasty scar he had earned while on their previous contract.
He grimaced at the memory. Nobody ever bragged about scars they received for falling out of their bunk and smacking their head on the edge of a table. It had been particularly embarrassing because he had completed his contract with the Kortaschii without a scratch on him. It had pained him to lose Khean during the firefight with the mysterious alien creatures, but it had gladdened his heart to know he and his men had succeeded. His bank account had also been most grateful.
“Besides which, Ms. Sanders is a nice connection to have. Also, I seem to remember you were all complaining about being in your CASPers too much last time,” Mulbah reminded them. “This contract? It’s unusual, to say the least, but Thorpi thinks we can do it with only three. You should know, Samson. You spoke with him about this yesterday.”
All his men groaned at the mention of their new operations planner. The alien Veetanho was a recent hire and right away had set about implementing changes within the Korps. The fitness regime increased in difficulty, which the men didn’t mind since it weeded out the weak. The odd operating hours, however, were driving the men nuts. The Veetanho only needed 10 hours of sleep across a five day cycle, which left them with almost four and a half days to be active and alert. The albino, rodent-like alien could not grasp that humans needed far more sleep than he and had not let up on the training regimen he implemented on his hire. Thus, although every single man in the Korps was in peak physical shape, they were all utterly exhausted.
“Thorpi is crazy, Boss,” Samson said in a stern tone. The others nodded in silent agreement. “I thought he was asking about something else. You know how hard it is to understand him? What sort of Veetanho wants to work with a new human mercenary company? I tell you, he is not right in his furry little head.”
“I don’t think they have ‘he’ or ‘she,’” Antonius added in a thoughtful voice as he looked away, a distant look in his eyes. “They’re more like ‘it’ than anything.”
“Craw-craw boy, I do not need your opinion,” Samson snapped back. “He is a he, and he is crazy.”
“Shut up about the craw-craw!” Antonius yelled and jumped to his feet. He pointed a finger accusingly at the larger merc. “The doctor said I’m clean now! The cream got rid of it!”
“Warned you about them Ghana girls, menh,” Samson muttered. He changed his voice a pitch higher to do a reasonably good imitation of his fellow merc’s voice. “‘I know what I’m doing, menh.’ So stupid.”
“Can we focus on the task at hand, please?” Mulbah asked them. After a moment of silence, he continued. “I’m not taking any chances. Despite Thorpi’s reassurances, I have a backup plan prepared.” He brought up the prepared briefing and shunted the information onto each man’s slate. Heads bowed to inspect the information on the tablet-like device as Mulbah began. “This is a small-time player in the Zuparti underworld. Zuparti, as you’ll see from the briefing on your slate, are the big, jumpy, weasel-looking aliens. Good traders…no, brilliant traders. They are good negotiators by birth, and it goes from there. Their criminal elements are even more cutthroat. Our target goes by the name Silent Killer of Large and Squishy Enemies. He’s the ringleader of a rogue trader gang called the Roses.”
Antonius snorted and laughed. “Really? They call themselves the Roses?”
“These are all human translations,” Mulbah corrected. “Literally, ‘deadly bloom with a thorn.’ I’m sure in their native language it’s terrifying and pretty badass. The Peacemakers simply labeled them as the Roses.”
“Stupid…” Antonius shook his head. “Why aren’t the Peacemakers handling this?”
“Because it’s not an arrest,” Mulbah said as he placed his elbows on the table’s edge. He grinned conspiratorially. “This is a kidnapping.”
“Say what?” Samson sat back in his seat. “We do kidnappings now?”
“Technically, this is an apprehension contract,” Zion clarified. The former bursar had settled in nicely with the mechanics and had turned his full attentions to becoming the best merc possible. He was also the man who handled the details of the contracts for the Korps and was both admired and despised by all. Admired because of his excessive knowledge of contract law in both the Galactic Union and on Earth and despised because he was almost as cutthroat a negotiator as the Zuparti were and had one hell of a poker face to boot. “The Hussars are too busy right now doing ungodly-amount-of-money jobs, so they offered it to us, and tacked on an extra 15% for compensation since they would have been in breach of contract, and it’s a short window of opportunity. So we’re getting paid extra on a Horsemen contract, which is straight bank.”
“I like getting paid extra,” Samson nodded, mollified. “So is it just us four?”
“Plan calls for three men only,” Mulbah corrected. “Smash and grab. Sure, they’re criminals, but if they see a few armed mercs coming at them, they’ll hand him over, no problem. Just in case though, I want Zion back on the transport ship ready with a CASPer.”
“I like it,” Antonius’ smile was wide. “Never heard of nobody breeching a ship with a CASPer before. Sounds dangerous.”
“That option only happens if the shit has truly hit the fan,” Mulbah informed them. Every man seated around the table chuckled.
Now
One of the Zuparti butt-stroked him across the face with a rifle. Mulbah’s head snapped back from the blow, and he could feel fresh blood running down his face from the open cut. Some poured into his mouth, and he defiantly spit out a stream of blood and saliva at one of his assailants. The alien jumped back and made a fearful sound. The others looked at the captured human warily and paused in their assault.
“I’d consider this a ‘shit hit the fan’ moment, Zion. Anytime now would be nice,” he grumbled through puffy lips as the beating renewed itself with a vigor.
14 hours earlier…
Infiltrating a space station was surprisingly easy when one knew where to go. Thorpi, despite the men’s previous misgivings, knew his way around a variety of Galactic Union space stations. He understood the vagaries and their individual quirks, their security, and the general ebb and flow. He had used this information to construct an elaborate yet simple operation.
The small ship had docked at a little-used point, and from there the Korps had debarked from the rear loading hatch and gone EVA to a nearby maintenance tube. The ship had remained on station and had begun to transfer food stuffs onto the station as their cover. Thorpi had chosen food products from Earth because some of the enzymes were considered poisonous by a number of the Galactic species. This would give the ship the necessary cover needed to avoid the normal high-traffic areas. From there it had been an easy hack job to enter through the zero-gravity maintenance tube and make their way into the station proper.
Troubadour Stat
ion was, as far as Mulbah could tell, your average Galactic station, all the way down to the universally-sized joiner bolts which held everything together. It had enough centrifugal force from rotation that creatures could walk through its passageways—though it was nowhere near Earth norms—and the “floors” of each part of the station were actually the walls when viewed from the outside. The tubes which connected each ring were transport elevators, capable of moving large amounts of cargo and beings every 15 seconds to the next level. Running alongside these in a wavy motion were the zero-gravity maintenance tunnels. Mulbah had reminded his men of this many times, but it still came as no surprise when Antonius smacked his head on the ceiling when he jumped over a small beam lying just outside one such tunnel.
“Tumba!” Antonius snarled as he rubbed his head. Mulbah looked at his employee and frowned.
“This is why you wear a helmet, hobojo,” he replied as he easily slipped into the pidgin mish-mash of English and Liberian that the typical merc of the Kakata Korps used while in the field. “Always wear your helmet.”
“Use protection. Would have saved you from the craw-craw,” Samson offered as he moved past the cursing mercenary. “Ghana girls, menh…”
Antonius flipped them both off and then looked at the numbering on the hatch next to the maintenance tunnel. He motioned to Mulbah, who carefully walked over to see what the man wanted.
“Look boss,” Antonius said as he pointed at the numbers stenciled into the wall. “It’s written in Pendali.”
Mulbah looked at the shorter man, impressed. Other than his medical file, Antonius’ personnel file was fairly sparse, despite how long he had been a mercenary. “You understand Galactic?”
The Good, the Bad, and the Merc: Even More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 8) Page 15
