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

by Chris Kennedy

  “A dead man’s ship,” Liiban murmured as he entered the flight deck once more.

  “What?” ak Sykryn queried, confused, looking up; he had been staring at Tilghman’s body, and his expression was disturbed in the extreme. Evidently, the cartographer wasn’t used to seeing dead bodies, Liiban concluded.

  “Never mind.” Liiban made a beeline for the other being, holding out the data chip. “Is this it?”

  Ak Sykryn scrutinized it briefly. “No, it is not.”

  “Figured as much. Let me see, then.” He extracted his slate from a capacious stowage pocket of his own uniform, plugged in the chip, and activated it. This initiated a video that Tilghman had evidently made in his extremis, shortly before dying, and the Peacemaker watched in silence, allowing the audio to be uplinked to his pinplant, so that only he could hear Tilghman’s last words.

  * * *

  “Sir?” the medic said as the video finished, and Liiban looked up. “Sir, I have the forms verifying death of one Wy’Lyn of Cochkala. I need your initials.” The medic proffered his slate.

  Liiban initialed the forms with his fingertip, then turned to ak Sykryn.

  “That’s condition one for contract completion,” he noted.

  “Indeed, but the data chip has not been returned.”

  “Stand by.” Liiban moved to a panel on the aft bulkhead of the flight deck, deliberately positioning his body between the panel and the other occupants so they could not see what he was about to do. He pressed a hand against the panel, tapped his fingers in the sequence Tilghman had provided in the video, and the hidden door of a small safe opened. He looked inside for a moment, then smiled grimly, reached in, and pulled out the Cartographers’ Guild data chip with its identifying compass rose. “Here is condition two,” Liiban said, displaying the chip to ak Sykryn. “Is this it?”

  “It is,” ak Sykryn said in relief, holding out one hand. Liiban gave him his chip. “The contract is fulfilled.”

  “Very well, then.” The cartographer turned to the remains of the man in the pilot’s seat. “Was this your man?”

  “He was. A very good one. The last of his line. Medic?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Have you verified Deputy Tilghman’s cause of death?”

  “Yes sir. I was examining him while you were watching the video, and I’ve just been filling out the forms. They’re almost ready for you to initial.”

  “And?”

  “Looks like he got hit with a nano-disassembler round, sir. Upper right quadrant of the abdomen. According to what I can tell, there’s nothing left of the liver and pancreas except sludge. Probable damage to lower right lung; ditto small intestine; likely a section of the transverse colon is missing, too.”

  “Damn.” Liiban raked a hand across his face. “No chance of resuscitation, then.”

  “Not after this long, no, sir. I estimate time of death to be shortly after he shunted into hyperspace.”

  “So about a week.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “All right. Do something for me?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “See if you can find a viable tissue sample—more than one, if you can—extract it, and preserve it in a viable state.”

  “Sir, we can’t clone—”

  “I know that,” Liiban snapped. “We can’t clone a full, sentient being...yet. But this was an old family of some nobility, and Robert the noblest of the lot, in my opinion. I owe it to him to at least try to bring him back in some form. One day.”

  * * *

  “I suppose, if he is dead, the reward on the contract is moot?” ak Sykryn said, seeming hopeful, as they watched the medic go to work on what was left of Robert James Tilghman.

  “Not at all,” Liiban said, sternly. “I have his last will and testament resident on this slate,” he waved the device, “and he left me instructions to send the reward money to his fiancée on Earth.”

  “I see,” ak Sykryn said, deflating somewhat. “Very well. That is acceptable. I will contact Viha’an Hi’mat, and if you will provide the information, we will honor the contract and see that the full amount of the contract is deposited in her account.”

  “I’ll do that as soon as we get Robert properly seen to.” Liiban nodded.

  * * *

  Back in his office in the Cresht region’s satellite bureau, Liiban finished the paperwork on the contract. Both the Cartographers’ Guild and the House Te’Warri of the Sirra’Kan had followed through on their rewards, and while it had been hard to tell Amanda Faye Nixen that her beloved was dead, at least he had been able to demonstrate Robert’s love by providing for her financially. The entire reward fee, a handsome sum, was now in her personal financial account. And Liiban had personally seen Tilghman’s body off to his family.

  Just then, Tilghman’s slate let out a loud bleat. He jumped, then reached for it to see what the problem was. To his surprise, Robert Tilghman’s pale face appeared on its screen.

  “Liiban, by now you...you know I’m dead,” Tilghman panted, in obvious, unconcealed pain. “And all the...cartographers...should be gone from the regional...office. If they’re not, pause this now, and don’t start it up again...until they are.”

  “What the perdition...?” Liiban breathed.

  “Okay, you’re still watching, so...they’re gone,” Tilghman continued. “I gotta ‘fess up to something. I...looked at the information on...the data chip. I’d already...figured out a few things, see. An’ I’ll lay every credit I got...they didn’t tell you the most...important stuff.”

  “Which is?” Liiban murmured to the image on the screen.

  “Lemme just...uhn...say this,” Tilghman’s image said, wincing in pain, and Liiban couldn’t help but wince as well in sympathy; even as the human had recorded the video, the nano-disassemblers had been tearing him up, from the inside out. “That’s data about the 4th Arm. Strange navigational data. I don’t understand it. Maybe you can find someone who does. I just know the Cartographers are lying about the 4th arm, but not why.”

  Tilghman broke off to cough, and a spatter of blood covered his lips; he wiped it off on his white gauntlet, leaving a red smear...just as a trickle of blood ran out the corner of his mouth. Abruptly blood covered his tongue and flowed out his mouth and down his chin.

  “Uh-oh,” he murmured. “I guess it’s...time to go, buddy. In more ways...than one. Godspeed, Liiban. It’s been...a pleasure. One last present…”

  The screen of the slate went dark, and there was a pop. A little drawer opened on the slate revealing a data chip. Swiftly he inserted it into his slate, and scanned its contents. The Cartographer Guild’s logo appeared. The sneaky bounty hunter had made a copy. Then he did a double-take as he studied parts of it more carefully. His jaw dropped open.

  Liiban stared at the slate’s screen in horror.

  “Entropy,” he cursed. “What in the Maker’s name have we found?”

  # # # # #

  UNTO THE LAST–STAND FAST by Robert E. Hampson

  “Father Salvatore. You have a message?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. My contact says they can get me into the Arritim city. They don’t guarantee I will get out.”

  “Indeed. The Zuul. They have besieged the city.”

  “My contact says the Zuul are not much of a threat. Their lines have too many holes and only one hundred mercenario to fill them. They are unable to use the heavy equipment that was liberated from Zaragossa. They are little better than bounty hunters...eager but not very competent.”

  “Then we still have a chance to get the Holy One out?”

  “Not likely. The Arezzo General Pompe’oCo has brought his own troops, but they are restless. They threaten to sack the city, but for now, Pompe’oCo holds them in check with the Zuul. My contact is not sure how long that will last; the mercenario are outnumbered ten-to-one.”

  “Dire circumstances, then. We are not a rich colony, and Nuova Roma can only authorize a small amount. We have found an agency
from Schweiz that specializes in ‘Executive Protection.’ We cannot afford them, although we have someone who may assist. Even one company is beyond us, for they are Terran and use ‘CASPers,’ as I think they are called.”

  “If we cannot afford them, then it matters not if they are even Zaragossan discards, which the Zuul possess but cannot use. My fear is that the Arezzo might.”

  “We have a chance at the Schweiz Company, Salvatore. I will send a gentleman with you to Commu’neDi. Mr. Jefferson has been helpful in negotiations with the mercenario. You should have two weeks. The mercenario cannot be here before then.”

  “Wait, you said we could not afford them!”

  “There is more than money of interest to warriors. We have arranged a ‘deal’ if you will.”

  “A deal? No, I will not inquire further, you would only dissemble. Yet may I ask how many? I will have the Arritim prepare a passage for them.”

  “Ah, you wound me, Salvatore!”

  “Merely the truth, your Excellency. No more than is right for the Church.”

  “It is good that you understand, Salvatore. More mercenario than the one hundred Zuul, but not by much. Around two hundred.”

  “One-hundred eighty-nine, perhaps? Of the Mercenario Sviss? I have heard of this legend. Perhaps the Heavenly Father makes a joke at our expense.”

  * * *

  Frank Jefferson turned so he didn’t have to see his wife’s face as he packed. It was only a small bag; where he was going, he would only need lightweight clothing. If the plan worked, the rest of his gear would meet him on-site. If the plan didn’t work, it wouldn’t matter, so either way, there was no point in taking too much.

  Betsy was crying now, silently, except for the occasional sob. As he sealed the final pouch and applied the device to the valve which would suck all the excess air out of the package, he turned and took her face in his hands.

  “I have to do this, my love.”

  “No, you don’t. Franklin Washington Adams Jefferson, you told me you gave up that. You gave it up for me and to ‘buy the farm’ you said.”

  “Betsy Jefferson, I am doing this for you. If this goes badly, there will be no farm, and you will be in danger.”

  “But it’s not your job to defend the Stars or their church!”

  “I swore an oath, Betsy.”

  “Not to them! It’s not even your Church!”

  “No, my love, I swore it to you. Love, honor, cherish, defend, and protect, ‘til death do us part.”

  “If you love me, you’ll say no!”

  “Ah, but love is only one of the terms, my heart, I promised to cherish, defend, and protect. I would not be protecting you if the War comes to San Pietro.”

  “What can one man do?”

  “Not one alone, but my Company will be there.”

  “And you? Why do they need you if they have the Company? You promised me you left that behind.”

  “It is duty, Betsy, duty and love. ‘Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life...’ for his friends, for his love, for his God, for his home.”

  “Promise me you’ll come back.”

  “I can only promise to Stand Fast, my love. Unto the Last.”

  * * *

  “You know, Padre, I for damn sure wouldn’t mind heading to the damned ‘Star’ city if it wasn’t so damned wet!”

  “Patience, Mr. Jefferson, patience....and please temper your tongue.”

  Frank just gave a snort of disgust and sat down on the edge of the PlasForm dock attached to the last solid ground for miles. He took off his shoes and hung his feet down into the warm water. He didn’t see any crocagators floating in the still water, and this close to the Stars’ waterlogged city, there would be a few aquatic predators with a taste for Humans.

  Aside from the long peninsula they’d walked in on, they were surrounded by wetlands—bogs, marshes, swamps, trees, and open water. On Earth this might be called ‘bayou’ or ‘canali.’ On San Pietro it was simply called ‘The Wet.’ Any Humans traveling to The Wet knew to dress for heat, humidity, and frequent rain. Thus Frank wore short pants, a loose sleeveless shirt, and a hat with a floppy brim to keep the sweat and water out of his eyes. Despite his complaining and the heavy pack on his back, Frank was perfectly comfortable in the light rain, sitting with his feet in water almost to his knees.

  Father Salvatore, on the other hand, just had to be uncomfortable in his vestments, even as light weight as they were. He was a big man, and the cassock covered him from head to toe. It didn’t look like it was waterproof, either, which meant it had to weigh a ton with absorbed water. However, the only sign he even noticed the humidity and rain was that he occasionally removed his glasses to wipe away the water droplets. His face was calm, and he continued to stand at the edge of the dock, looking out along the narrow canal leading to the Arritim city.

  Frank noticed a faint ripple, about a quarter klick down the waterway. As it approached, he could see the characteristic ‘V’ shape of a boat wake. As it approached the dock, the vessel raised slightly out of the water. It was open at the top and filled with water inside. The Arritim communities were largely aquatic, thus their conveyances remained open to the water except for the minimum streamlining required to reduce resistance. The boat—if it could be called that and not a submarine—rose up to the level of the dock and approached to within a few decimeters. There was a driver and one passenger. Much the same as Frank’s own party, but while the passenger and Father Salvatore could converse; Frank had little in common with the boat driver, and nothing to say in this meeting. His role would come later.

  The passenger rose and stepped out of the water-filled interior onto the dock. He bowed and offered a ‘hand’ to the Padre. Salvatore dropped to one knee and kissed the large ornate jewel affixed to one digit of the alien appendage.

  “Your Eminence.”

  There was clearly some form of starfish in the aliens’ developmental past, hence the nickname ‘Stars’ for individual Arritim. The three upper appendages—two ‘arms’ and a ‘head’—were conical projections from a circular central body. Each ended in small boneless digits—and yes, there were ten per limb. Frank knew from the colonist database that the digits on the ‘head’ were specialized sensory organs, while the ones of the arms served the same function as fingers. The lower limbs were hidden within a garment that looked remarkably like water-filled coveralls, which reminded the Human colonists of pictures of Old-Earth farmers. Most of the central body, containing the mouth, brain and respiratory organs, was concealed beneath the fluid, but a pair of eye stalks poked out above the surface and continuously scanned the area. The digits of one limb held a small plas-and-metal object, and from this issued a synthesized voice.

  “Rise, Father Salvatore, and be at peace. Tell me, what do you hear from Nuova Roma?”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence. The news is mixed. The Terran Holy See remains adamant that the Soglio di Pietro remain on Earth and threatens excommunication of Nuova Roma. Even though His Holiness emigrated to Nuova Roma, the Terrans have declared the Stellar Catholic Church heretical. They have their own troubles, and can do little to assist us. We have arranged for a single company of mercenario and must find a way to get them into Commu’neDi when they arrive.”

  “That is unfortunate, Teofilo. My source tells me that the Arezzo General Pompe’oCo brought a thousand souls to discipline us, but cannot control them. It would be most regretful if Rome chose to do the same.”

  “These are turbulent times. The Terran Church senses it is losing influence. There are those who protest the races of the stars—even Humans—cannot be of the true faith, for they have never trod the same ground as the Savior. The Holy See has many cardinals who are ready to agree and declare us all heretics.”

  “It is much the same with us. The General has been calling for the return of the Epichysis and the Telum for several years now. He has been telling the Commons that Arrita’yTer has ‘stolen the history’ of the Arezzo home
land.

  “Dark days, then. He has over a thousand in his force. How can we resist?”

  “‘At least a thousand souls’ according to the reports. Of course, I fear for their souls if they are following Pompe’oCo. I have dealt with him before, and he owes his allegiance to the highest bidder, and not any Divine Direction, no matter what his propaganda says. There are rumors he has not paid his mercenaries, either. If he does that to his followers, they will revolt.”

  “In that case there is no more time to waste. I must get into the city, see the Holy One, and then we must prepare accommodations for our own mercenario.” Salvatore turned to Frank. “Bless you for indulging an old priest Mr. Jefferson. If you are ready?”

  “Oh not so fast, Father. I have to go, you do not.” Frank stood and reached into the heavy bag he’d carried down from the Human settlement. He pulled out the underwater breathing system he would need for the trip in the Arritim ‘boat.’ “I promised Bishop Crunelli I would send you back. He’d never forgive me if I lost you.”

  “Ah, the impetuosity of youth. You may have me in years, but I know my duty, as well as you know yours, my son.” The priest set his legs, and stared at Frank.

  “Yes, of course.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a second rebreather. “I promised I would send you. I never promised you would go.” With that, he handed over the mask and offered the priest a hand to help him into the watercraft.

  Father Salvatore’s lined face crinkled into a grin. “Shall we go then?”

  * * *

  Frank tried to hide his unease as he waded down the ‘street.’ He and Father Salvatore had been in the city for over a week, and he’d long gotten over both the amazement and feeling conspicuous, but tonight would be a bit different, and Frank’s mission was critical to their own safety, let alone success. Father Salvatore was conspicuous in his cassock and vestments, yet Human seafarmers were common enough that Frank was able to pass relatively unnoticed through the shallow canals that formed the thoroughfares of the alien city. The Stars averaged a few inches shorter than most Humans, and they preferred to walk in waist-level water. Thus the pedestrian walkways were about hip deep to a Human, and easily accessible to the San Pietro colonist.