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

by Chris Kennedy

  “Very well, Colonel Jefferson. I expect I shall be relinquishing command to you, then.” The major had removed a small white baton from his belt and held it out to Frank. “I’ll have the adjutant draw up the Transfer of Command. Have you considered who is going to operate those CASPers, since my squad is still in orbit?”

  Steel laughed, turned his head, and pointed to the pinlink behind his ear. “That’s where my heavy weapons platoon comes in.” He turned back to Frank. “Welcome back, Prez. This should be fun!”

  The major snorted, and Frank rolled his eyes, but he accepted the baton and clipped it onto his belt.

  * * *

  “You want me to WHAT?” The disbelief was quite evident in Sergeant ‘Bugs’ Schmidt’s tone, even though no one could see his face inside the CASPer.

  “It’s called the Buckley Maneuver. You launch a penetrator at the rock. You make a hole. You insert a grenade into the hole, back up, and blow the grenade. You drag the rubble out of the way, then rinse, lather and repeat.” Steel’s voice came from the second CASPer. “I’ll be right behind you, breaking up anything too big to remove. If you get a particularly stubborn piece, we’ll take it on together. You get a big rock, but you can get past it, do so. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’re crazy and so is the colonel! We’re below water level—the tunnel will flood!” exclaimed Roeder—aka ‘Roadblock’—in the third CASPer, who was tasked with covering their rear, at least until it was his turn to rotate up front.

  “Exactly. That’s the beauty of it. It carries the heat away when I fuse the walls; it washes out small debris and muffles the sound. We’ve got pumps for when we’re done.” Steel’s CASPer turned and surveyed the area. A slight pop accompanied the ping of a projectile aimed at a crocagator that was getting a bit too nosy. “Now, get digging, Sergeant!”

  ‘Liberating’ the CASPers had been easier than they’d predicted, and it had mostly involved getting a squad close enough to enter the Command Override to erase any commands the Zuul or Arezzo had entered in their attempts to utilize the Human equipment. The Zuul had stationed the units in the shallows off-shore from Commu’neDi as part of their original siege line. Most of the Arezzo had long since moved into the outskirts of the city, save for a few technicians who still hoped that they could operate the CASPers. Evolution and intelligence had turned the radially symmetric starfish into a reasonable facsimile of bipedal, bilaterally-symmetric humanoid. The main obstacle had been the Human counter-intrusion software and compatibility with strictly Human brain implants—an obstacle the mercenaries were happy to exploit.

  The real problem had not been accessing the CASPers, but rather moving the Combat Assault Systems, Personal. They didn’t dare use the jumpjets, and it wouldn’t matter if they had. Zuul mercenaries were not known for meticulous maintenance and upkeep on their own technology, let alone something they could barely use. Only one armored combat suit had functioning jets, and three of the six had drained capacitors, one was even missing its cockpit cover and showed evidence of a catastrophic blowout of the ammo magazines. It was obvious why the Zuul had only used them as fixed-position cannons—they weren’t good for much else.

  In the end, they’d scavenged canopy, spare parts, and ammo, then sunk the three castoffs with thermite grenades on a delayed fuse. The working suits were removed by raft—the same way Steel and his platoon had arrived—to take advantage of the Arezzo’s cultural nearsightedness regarding events above water. They’d returned to The Wet and waited for the drop pod carrying ammo, fuel cells, and pumps. Fully armed and fueled, it was now time to dig.

  * * *

  Frank found the priest in the Basilica. It was hard to think of it as a church; it seemed more like an indoor swimming pool with an altar. Most of the Humans had left the city, but a few had stayed to join the fight, so Father Salvatore had been hearing confessions from both Humans and Arritim. The Arezzo mob had pushed back the Arritim into an area barely three blocks on a side. The Basilica sat on the highest ground of the island which formed the anchor for the mostly-floating city. At that, it was only about 10 meters above water level, but at three stories tall, it had a commanding view of the city...and the fighting. The same height made it an outstanding target. Frank and Major DiNote had argued for a more peripheral, less conspicuous holdout, but the priests had insisted.

  “Father Salvatore. Please, it is time to go. Please tell the Patrician that we must ensure his safety.”

  “Your friends, they are here?” The priest had been showing his age, not to mention the wear of living inside a siege. He’d finally shed the cassock, wearing only the minimal vestments over a light seafarmer’s garment. Even the stole and pectoral cross would have to be left behind when they evacuated.

  “Not yet, but we must be prepared to move. The mob is getting close. The citizens cannot hold them. They’ve done enough, and we’ve told them to hide and stay out of sight. It’s up to the Company, now.” Frank looked around for the Patrician. “Where is Father Clement?”

  “He has gone to retrieve the Holy Relicts. If the Arezzo are indeed a mob, they will likely not recognize the Epichysis and Telum as valuable and destroy them.”

  “The Epi-whatsit and Telum? A telum is a sort of spear, right?”

  “That is correct, Franklin. In this case, a spearhead; it is a true relic—a leftover from another time as well as a crystal formed inside of rock. The Epichysis is a vessel for holding oil, wine, or some other liquid. A pitcher. On Earth, some might call it the Sangreal.”

  “The Holy G—? Um. Yeah. Okay, so that’s what this is all about? Mystical artifacts with magical effects?”

  “No, only mysterious in the ecclesiastical sense. Unlike Humans, the Arritim have a complete authenticated history of their church. The Epichysis was used to hold oils for interment rites, and the Telum was used to confirm the death of martyrs. No magic, just a powerful reminder that the Arritim believe in the same Divine Grace as we do.”

  “If it’s so holy, yet so well documented, what’s the fuss? Shouldn’t they be in the hands of Father Clement’s church anyway?” A faint rumbling shook the floor, and Frank looked around as ripples appeared in the water.

  “The Arezzo do not think so. While most have rejected the Patriarch, some still feel the Epichysis and Telum are their own historical artifacts. The rest feel they symbolize a primitive superstition and should be destroyed and kept out of the hands of ‘alien-loving heretics.’”

  “Okay. Now that sounds like what you said Rome was saying about you.” The rumbling increased; it was now evident as a series of thumps. Frank took the priest’s arm and guided him to the edge of the room. “So, which side does the general fall on?”

  “According to Father Clement, he wears the veneer of a believer, but his true motivation is to eliminate this colony. After all, the Arritim turned their back on their home world, and he thinks that is the true heresy. He wishes to destroy us, Arritim and Humans.”

  “Ah. Just another bully, then. That makes my own motivation that much clearer.” The water level began to fall, and Frank could see cracks in the floor of the Basilica. “Yup, right on time. Father, your ride is here. You’d better go get the Patriarch and his Holy Grail and get ready to go down that tunnel!”

  * * *

  Steel, Bugs and Roadblock widened the hole and secured the follower line they laid in place to guide evacuees through the tunnel. They’d given up on keeping water out of the tunnel—the Arritim would be perfectly comfortable in the water as long as there was light, and the few Humans would use breath-packs. The only problem was figuring out who would get the 50 breathing systems they’d managed to collect.

  “Bugs! You’re going back down the tube; take Bravo Squad of Third Platoon on point. Get to the far end and secure it. I’m pulling Second Platoon off the defense and sending them to guide and guard Father Clement and Father Salvatore. Frank looked around and counted mentally, Bravo was 10, the platoon another 30, plus the Human priest. “And...we have
eight more civilians; give them breath packs and flashlights. Captain Riedel, get your platoon and the civilians down that line. There’s one more breath-pack, Major; I think that needs to be you.”

  “No, Colonel, as the senior officer, you have to preserve Command.”

  “Not me, Major. Wrong choice. The men don’t know me other than as a plaque on the wall, or stories told in a bar. Besides, I’m not active duty. If someone’s going to make it through this and collect on behalf of the Company, it needs to be you. No argument. Go!” Frank paused a moment and looked at the second CASPer. “Roadblock! As soon as the last person goes down the tunnel, block off this end. You’re the road-block for real.”

  As Frank turned toward the exit, he was stopped by the surprisingly gentle touch of the armored limb of the third CASPer. Steel’s voice came over the comm implant that Frank still wore despite years away from the Company. “You realize that when Second pulls off the line, it’s going to weaken. We might not be able to hold.”

  “Then we hold long enough for Roadblock to collapse this end of the tunnel.”

  “That was a novel idea, having us dig a tunnel.”

  “Not really, I got the idea from some books I read and a song I heard when I was young. Besides, the Stars pretty much only think about open water. They know Humans use the surface and the air above, so they would’ve expected us to make an aerial escape. Only a desperate man would tunnel underground, and the Stars could never conceive of tunnels inside solid ground. It worked.”

  “He’s got a guard of 42...”

  “...along a secret avenue. You heard that song, too. How many left outside?” Frank asked.

  “One hundred forty-five, plus you and me.”

  “Okay, then, history repeats. We’re the One Hundred Eighty-Nine, and there’s no question but that we’re in the Service of Heaven!” In a quieter voice, he added, “And the general is just one more bully who needs to be stopped. For our homes and families.”

  Frank stepped out the front door of the church, and positioned himself at the top of the stairs leading down to the water. He pitched his voice to activate the Company comm channel.

  “Gentlemen. Time to stand fast.”

  * * *

  A mixed group of Humans and Stars gathered in front of the ruined church, its fires long since extinguished and the stains of blood and soot long washed away by the frequent rains. Father Salvatore and Father Clement stood directly in front of the obelisk on which were inscribed, starting from the top, one-hundred and forty-seven names, and then further down, another forty-two names were added to the memorial so that all would remember the sacrifice of the Company.

  Major DiNote knelt in front of Betsy, presenting her with both the flag of the Schweitz Company, for Frank’s service, and the American Flag for his country of birth. “For no greater love...In grateful remembrance.” The words had changed, for few nations claimed the obedience of those who fought on their behalf.

  Schmidt and Roeder stood at attention in full uniform to either side of the priests. Their uniforms bore two new devices: The Christian Cross symbol bisected by a spear point on a field of red, gold, and blue signified they were now members of the Arrita’yTer Guardians. A smaller version served not only as a campaign ribbon on the uniforms of the surviving members of the Company, but also signified they were now landowners on San Pietro. Major DiNote had received the necessary release to muster out all survivors and reconstitute the guard force under the employ of San Pietro in exchange for their land-grants. In a very real way, all one-hundred and eighty-nine had ‘bought the farm.’

  After the ceremony and brief homilies by both the Human and Arritim priest, Father Salvatore took DiNote aside. “One thing I never asked—Franklin was neither Deutsch nor Schweitz. How did he come to be part of the Mercenario Sviss? You yourself are...Italiano?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I suppose you’d have no reason to know. We’re not all from Schweiz Colony. In fact, most of us enlisted for Colony Credits. Neue Schweitz could take a few, and others could cash out and invest in Terran Outbound—land grants as long as you swear to defend them. That’s what Frank did...how he ended up here...and why he felt obligated to fight.” The major, soon to be Captain General of the ‘Custode Sviss’ Executive Protection Company, sighed. “As for me, Italian roots, Catholic even, but I’m from New Jersey. Just like Frank was from Texas.”

  “So, why do you do it? Why did he do it?”

  “As I said to Betsy. ‘No greater love.’ Sometimes it’s the only way to stop an enemy force. Not to mention that there’s just something in our psychology that can’t abide a bully.”

  # # # # #

  THE DEMON OF KI-A by Eric S. Brown

  Lieutenant Laybourne smiled as the small transport touched down. Colonel Drake had sent him with eight CASPers to make good on the contract the Hell’s Banshees had with the colonists of Ki-a, and he knew that eight CASPers would be more than enough to deal with the colonists’ problems. They were a religious group seeking to claim a world to themselves. Laybourne wasn’t a religious man, himself, but he understood the zeal one often saw in those who were.

  Father Powell’s flock was peaceful. They hadn’t brought a lot of weapons with them to Ki-a. As such, the natives had been tearing them up ever since they had arrived on the planet. The Cha-kichi were a primitive race of hunters and gathers, armed mostly with handmade spears and bows. To think they could be any sort of problem to modern colonists was almost laughable. However, Ki-a was their planet, and they fought like demons to defend it. Father Powell and his people had tried time and time again to reach an accord with the Cha-kichi, but all their efforts had been in vain and usually ended with the messengers they sent having their heads mounted on pikes.

  Laybourne had seen an image of a row of such heads, rotting in the sun outside the walls of Alpha Sanctuary, the city Father Powell and his followers were still attempting to build. He recalled, vividly, the open-mouthed, wide-eyed looks of fear on those dead faces as Ki-a’s version of flies swarmed around them. The Cha-kichi had to be the worst kind of savages to do that to civilians who were only seeking a new home. Seeing those heads assured him he didn’t want to run into any of the Cha-kichi without being in a CASPer.

  Most alien races were bigger, stronger, and tougher than humans. The Cha-kichi were an exception to that almost universal truth. Although they stood about a foot taller than the average human, they weren’t stronger and tougher; instead, they were bipedal and greatly resembled humans. What set them apart was their blue skin and their bulbous, insectoid eyes. The best estimates put the Cha-kichi’s planet-wide population at close to five hundred thousand. Laybourne didn’t need to beat them all into submission, though. He only needed to deal with those closest to the location of Father Powell’s colony. Bring the hammer down with some righteous shock and awe, massacre a bunch of their warriors, and they would bloody well learn not to mess with Father Powell’s people. That was the plan at any rate. Colonel Drake had agreed that such a simple tactic would work, and that comforted Laybourne. At the end of the day, the contract only required the Hell’s Banshees to drive off the Cha-kichi long enough for Father Powell and his people to complete their city. Once it was completed, the colonists, at least in theory, should be able to fend off any further aggression from the Cha-kichi with minimal, modern firepower.

  Laybourne left Wagner to oversee the offloading of the CASPers as he headed out to meet Father Powell. Wagner was his second on this job, and they had worked together enough times for Laybourne to know the man was more than up to the task. Besides, their squad only consisted of a dozen troops, including himself. Each of them were battle hardened vets, eager to kick some blue-skinned, native arse.

  Father Powell was waiting on him as he emerged from the small transport as it landed just beyond the city’s partially finished walls. Father Powell wore the collar of a priest. His eyes were sharp and filled with an energetic intelligence, fueled by his faith. Laybourne guessed Father Powell was in
his early forties.

  The man’s dark hair was streaked with gray, and he seemed to exude an aura of serenity that instantly put Laybourne at ease. The two men accompanying him, however, reminded Laybourne of fascist storm troopers. They were both in their twenties and had a hard look about them. Their postures told him they knew how to handle themselves when things took a wrong turn. They each wore a sidearm holstered on their hip and carried rifles. No doubt they were Father Powell’s bodyguards, and their sole calling in life was to make sure Father Powell kept breathing. Laybourne made a mental note not to tick them off. The last thing the Hell’s Banshees needed was a contract dispute because he’d been forced to kill them. Colonel Drake would have his head mounted on a pike if that happened.

  Stepping forward, Father Powell offered him his hand. “Welcome to Ki-a, Lieutenant Laybourne. I hope your journey was a good one.”

  Laybourne took Father Powell’s hand and was surprised by the strength of the priest’s grip.

  “The important thing is we made it,” Laybourne laughed. “It’s a big galaxy out there and one never knows what they’ll run into these days.”

  “We’ve prepared lodgings for you and your men in our city,” Father Powell told him, releasing his hand. “Should you need it, of course. Your colonel spoke as if it wouldn’t take you long to drive away the Cha-kichi.”

  Father Powell snapped his fingers, and one of his two bodyguards stepped forward to hand Laybourne a data packet. Laybourne accepted it, stuffing it into one of the pockets of his jacket.

  “That is all we have on the current location of the Cha-kichi. They move around a great deal, and with the electromagnetic disturbances in Ki-a’s atmosphere from time to time, the data may not prove entirely accurate. But, it’s a starting point,” Father Powell explained.