Reverend Jim Hawkins squinted in the glaring desert sun as he descended the stairway nestled up against the plane. The small jet didn’t merit using the full boarding gangway that a large jetliner would use, but at least the flight hadn’t been crowded. Jim waited until the robot tending to the baggage plunked Jim’s luggage down on the scorching tarmac.
Another advantage of the small flight, Jim didn’t have to wait for his bag to go through the baggage system in the terminal. He was willing to lug the travel bag across the tarmac and through the terminal rather than wait an hour or more. Shouldering the bag, he set off for the terminal building, hoping if nothing else, he’d get a brief respite from the heat.
The noon sun pushed the temperature close to 35 degrees Celsius. A ball cap made the glare manageable, and when he pushed on the doors, he was greeted by a welcome gust of cool air. That was quickly followed by the din of hundreds of travelers, many chattering away on their government-provided netphones, trying to make themselves heard over their fellows. Jim shook his head and marched through the building. Instead of idols of gold or stone, men had carved them from silicon and rare earths.
Security barely gave him a glance; they were more worried about who was trying to get in rather than who was leaving. Modern scanning technology had rendered smuggling a lost art, but there was still the occasional black-mask anarchist who thought he was smart enough to sneak something onto a flight with mayhem in mind. A century after the MinSha made examples of terrorists, you would have thought people would get a clue.
A line of vehicles waited in front of the terminal, most of them automated Rydes which had all but driven traditional taxis the way of the dodo. Between the savings on human wages and the difficulty in robbing a robot that didn’t carry any cash and would encase miscreants in crash foam for delivery to law enforcement, it was a one-sided fight.
However, Jim wasn’t going to board a Ryde. Past the autonomous vehicle pick up zone, there were the manually-driven vehicles. A few family vans waited, probably farmers and such that didn’t trust autonomous vehicles and resented the government push to use them. In front of them was a limousine, a haggard driver awaiting someone who preferred an organic touch and was willing to pay the premium.
Beyond was a LPT, a light personnel transport, favored by mercenary companies and the military complex. The vehicle was matte grey, the logo for Bjorn’s Berserkers on the door. The young woman leaning easily against the front fender couldn’t have been more than 160 centimeters, and her chestnut hair was pulled back in a single long braid. Jim assumed she was a civilian contractor or teenaged daughter of one of the mercenaries in the Berserkers until he noticed the sergeant’s stripes on the shoulder of her grey battle dress uniform.
She turned to watch him through a set of old-fashioned aviator sunglasses. A holstered sidearm at her side helped dispel Jim’s first impressions. Even the kid of a merc wouldn’t be allowed to go armed in public like that, not in a zone where the law was actually enforced.
“Reverend Hawkins, I take it? I’m Sergeant Wicza.” The name sounded like ‘Vitsa’. She stood, uncrossing her arms and revealing her name patch. “The commander sent me to pick you up while I was running errands in Las Cruces.”
“You can call me Jim, Sergeant.” He gave her a smile and extended his hand.
She regarded the hand for a moment before shaking it. Her grip was surprisingly strong and Jim suspected she was making a point. “If you say so, Reverend Jim.”
Jim thought about telling her she could drop the appellation and just call him Jim, but that might have looked like he was flirting with her. Even with the mirrored glasses obscuring her eyes, Jim could tell the young woman not only wouldn’t welcome such an overture, she was ready to challenge it. Just as well, for both of them, he thought. While he wasn’t a priest, Jim wasn’t the kind to hit on a woman he just met, especially not one that looked like someone’s little sister.
Wicza popped the back hatch on the personnel transport and stepped aside so that Jim could heave his bag into the compartment, which was already half full of boxes. Most of the cartons looked to be from small mom and pop companies, stores scraping by in the shadows of FedMart.
“The commander likes to spread the wealth, as it were,” the young woman remarked, closing the hatch once Jim was clear. “Folks have to spend their gigi at FedMart, so he encourages buying from small businesses whenever possible. Helps build goodwill with the locals, especially since mercs pay with real money.”
Jim nodded. Gigi was GGI, government guaranteed income, a stipend funded by taxing money brought to Earth by mercenary companies. Years ago, various governments threatened to raise the taxes above the current 50% to fuel the ever-growing demands of the public. The mercenary companies countered by threatening to pack up and move off-world, leaving the nations of Earth empty-handed, with a populace accustomed to having the government pay for all of their basic needs. While some politicians groused that the mercenaries were being selfish, the tax increase was dropped like a live grenade.
Jim climbed into the passenger seat and buckled himself in. Not surprisingly, the interior of the vehicle was spartan, but at least it had air conditioning. Wicza got into the driver seat and powered up the vehicle. After a methodic check of the dashboard indicators and navigation screen, she pulled the vehicle into traffic. In a few minutes, they passed the sign indicating they were leaving the airport security zone, as if the armed guards at the gate weren’t enough indication.
Jim tried to make small talk, but after only getting curt, minimal answers, he let the drive lapse into silence. It was obvious Sergeant Wicza didn’t want to chat, so he watched the desert and mountains for several minutes as they cruised along Highway 70. He knew that Bjorn’s Berserkers had built their headquarters on a large chunk of land that used to be part of White Sands. The U.S. government had been happy to divest itself of no longer needed land in exchange for hard credits.
Some called the near global cessation of hostilities between nations one of the benefits of Earth’s discovery by aliens. As part of the galactic community, the territorial squabbling of nation-states seemed petty. Add to that the acquisition of technologies that rendered useless what had been the largest threats in various countries’ arsenals; large scale war had become useless. While regional fighting still existed between various ethnic and religious groups, there was no longer a need for large standing militaries nor the infrastructure that supported them.
Various mercenary companies, their coffers full of credits the government desperately wanted, snapped up several old installations, both in the U.S. and around the world. Communities around merc bases tended to prosper. Successful mercenaries, flush with credits, were eager to spend their hard won pay, plus mercenaries weren’t eligible for GGI, so they favored local businesses over FedMart.
A curse from Sergeant Wicza brought Jim out of his musings, his attention drawn forward by the vehicle’s deceleration. Across the highway, a rusted hulk of a trailer blocked two of the three lanes. Only the auto-truck lane was open, the robotic big rigs slowing slightly as their sensors and onboard computers analyzed the potential obstruction and projected a safe path.
Manually-driven vehicles were forbidden to use the autonomous vehicle lane. As Jim looked ahead, he could see a weathered box truck stopped, its back door opened as a pair of masked figures rifled through the cargo. Two more masked men held the driver at gunpoint.
“Banditos,” the sergeant sneered, checking her mirrors. “Pretty brazen, pulling this shit in the middle of the day. They must have a buddy in the local police outpost.”
Jim could tell she was thinking about using the AVL to circumvent the roadblock. The fine would be chump change to the mercenary company, assuming the company responsible for managing the highway charged them at all.
One of the bandits looked up from the back of the truck and spotted them slowing. Hopping out of the back of the truck, he pulled a pistol and waved them to the shoulder.
&nbs
p; “Fine.” Wicza guided the vehicle to the side of the road. “You dumbasses want to play, let’s play.”
“What are you going to do?” Jim asked, wondering if the windows were bulletproof. “Can’t you just pay them off?”
“Stay in the transport, Reverend Jim.” The sergeant tapped the dash-mounted tablet before opening the door. One of the bandits that had been holding the truck driver rounded the truck, balking when he spotted the Berserkers’ logo on the door.
The bandit’s concern evaporated when Wicza closed the door, and they got a good look at her. Even through the masks, Jim could tell they were smiling, the one that waved them over gesturing toward the sergeant and laughing. Jim couldn’t make out what they were saying as Wicza approached them, but their body language said they weren’t afraid.
That turned out to be a fatal mistake. Jim jumped at the first gun shot. He hadn’t even seen Wicza pull her sidearm. The man on the left, the one that had been helping hold the driver, said something that drew his compatriot’s humor and attention. Before his body crumpled to the pavement, the other bandit’s laughter was silenced as two rounds caught him high in the chest. The third man, in the back of the truck, fumbled for his gun until his brains painted the interior.
The fourth man was smarter, stopping at the corner of the truck. He glanced in Jim’s direction, his gun held ready for Wicza to round the corner. Jim watched transfixed as the sergeant crouched and put a round through the bandit’s lower leg, causing him to topple to the pavement. As he hit the fused asphalt, Wicza fired two more times. One bullet ricocheted off the pavement near the man’s head, the other hit him under his outstretched arm. The bandit convulsed a couple of times and went still.
Wicza rounded the back of the truck, pistol at the ready. The driver frantically waved his upheld hands. The sergeant gestured for him to step away from the truck and the driver hurriedly complied. Once she saw the cab was empty, she lowered her gun, but kept it in her hand. With her other hand she gestured for the driver to lower his shaking hands.
Wicza gestured toward the big truck blocking the road, the driver nodded and held up four fingers. They both disappeared around the front of the box truck. Jim waited nervously, expecting another outbreak of gun fire. In the mirror he could see a pair of older civilian cars halted farther back up the road. He wondered how much of the carnage they had seen.
The sergeant reappeared from behind the truck, holstering her sidearm as she strode toward the transport. Getting in, she rechecked the dashboard readouts and the tablet display.
“Our friend is going to pull the big truck out of the way,” she said, checking the mirrors.
“Those—those were humans,” Jim stammered.
Wicza regarded him from behind the mirrored aviator glasses. “Debatable. What’s your point, Reverend?”
“I thought mercenaries killed aliens,” Jim replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I didn’t think they killed humans.”
“So ‘thou shalt not kill’ doesn’t apply to aliens?” Wicza’s tone was sardonic. “I’ve met a lot of aliens more deserving of life than these scum.”
“There are a lot of theological questions when it comes to aliens.” Jim spoke to his reflections in the glasses. “I’m hoping to find some of those answers. Now I have more questions.”
Wicza returned her gaze to the road, watching the rusted hulk inch its way off the pavement. “Reverend Jim, we get paid to kill aliens. And usually they get paid to kill us. There’s nothing noble or religious about it; it’s a business transaction.”
“What about human mercenaries?” Jim looked to the corpses bleeding on the sun-baked highway. “Do you ever have to kill them?”
Enough of the truck had been pulled off the road to open one of the lanes. Wicza put the vehicle in motion. “I’ve never seen it. I’ve heard it happens occasionally; the results vary on a case by case basis. You should probably ask some of the veterans. As for those pendejos, they’re not mercs; they’re predators that got what they deserved. As the commander likes to say, ‘don’t poke the bear.’”
“Did you have to kill them?” Jim was grateful the carnage was behind them. He couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would come for their bodies, or would they be left to flies and carrion birds?
“Do you know what they would have done with me?” The sergeant’s voice bordered on incredulous. “They were hoping to take me alive. They wanted to ‘party.’”“
Jim blanched. “Oh.” Robberies were common enough in urban areas; he had been robbed a couple of times. But unless you employed private security contractors, no one was going to investigate a robbery or simple assault. As long as no one died or was grievously injured, law enforcement already had their plate full.
“Yeah, oh.” Wicza pulled the transport off the highway onto a two lane road. A sign alongside the road read ‘Bear Town – 1 km.’ “Something men don’t have to worry about. They’d beat the hell out of you, maybe kill you. There’s worse. Those cabrones took one look at me and knew what they were going to do.”
The awkward silence that followed was brief but seemed an eternity to Jim. He was still trying to reconcile what he saw, and Wicza’s callous attitude afterwards. It left him wondering whether he should have embarked on this trip. His musings were interrupted when they pulled up to the Bear Town gate.
“Sergeant,” the guard that approached their vehicle said, almost as if he knew better than to be familiar. Jim wondered if it was military discipline or something else. Another guard remained in the duracrete and glassteel shack, where he could call for help if needed.
“Specialist.” Wicza gave him a brief nod as acknowledgement. “This is James Hawkins, he should be on the visitor roster for today.”
The specialist, whose nametag said Salazar, consulted a tablet, obviously comparing Jim’s countenance to an image on the tablet. Satisfied, the specialist nodded, giving his partner in the shack a thumbs up. “Very good, Sergeant.”
The gate split apart, and, once the gap was wide enough, Wicza juiced the transport through the opening. They passed several utilitarian buildings on the short drive up the valley that led toward Bear Peak. The large edifice that Wicza parked the transport in front of looked like something out of a Viking fantasy. Huge and imposing, with buttresses that looked like carved longship figureheads, the Mead Hall’s wood and stone façade stood out from the duracrete and steel of the other buildings. Jim couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow.
“Did you know the commander was an Asatru?” Sergeant Wicza asked as she shut down the vehicle, most noticeable by the fact that the air-conditioning stopped blowing. “So are a lot of troops, to one degree or another. Another sizeable portion are Wiccans, like me, which means we have no trouble hoisting a horn of mead to the Norse guards alongside the Asatru.”
Jim figured she was watching to see if he was shocked or offended, but his cousin had forewarned him that the company was full of heathen and pagans. “It’s not what you profess, but rather what you do that decides whether you reach Heaven.”
Wicza regarded him for a moment before wordlessly turning and exiting the transport, the desert heat invading with her departure. Taking the cue, Jim opened his door and stepped out into the baking sun. The air was hot and dry; heat shimmers rose from the fused asphalt of the parking lot as they made their way to the double doors leading into the structure. Runes were hewn into the dark wood above the door and a much smaller bronze plaque next to the entrance read ‘Bjarnarsal’.
The blast of cool air from opening the doors was a welcome respite, even though they had only walked 15 meters from the transport. Inside, the lighting was subdued. A large sign, emblazoned with the words ‘Mead Hall’ pointed to the left. Wicza led Jim to the right, following a hall for several meters before it opened up into a reception area.
A silver-haired man looked up from behind a large desk. “Whiskey, what did you do now?” the man asked with a slight lisp. His uniform shirt had the letter “C” and two dots
in the place of a rank insignia, indicating he was a civilian contractor.
“What are you talking about, Stefan?” If Jim hadn’t seen her gun down four men 15 minutes ago, he would have almost believed her protestation of innocence.
“The commander is on the line with the district sheriff right now.” Stefan turned his gaze to Jim. “You must be Captain Hawkins’ cousin. I can see the resemblance. I’ll let the commander know you’re here as soon as he’s off—”
The door behind Stefan swung open, the frame filled by a hulking man sporting a bushy beard. A necklace of bear claws and a small silver hammer adorned his uniform. Ice blue eyes locked onto Wicza before sweeping over to Jim.
“Get in here.” Like Wicza, Commander Tovesson’s uniform was grey, the rank patch bearing a single star. Below that was the company’s emblem, featuring a lunging bear and the motto ‘Valhalla Awaits.’ Once the commander was no longer eclipsing the door, Wicza led Jim into the office.
The commander sank into an oversized chair behind a huge wooden desk—real wood, not that laminated recycled sawdust crap. A pair of chairs waited in front of the desk; Jim wondered if that was a typical arrangement.
Tovesson picked up a slate, obviously watching something play on its surface for almost a minute. Wicza remained silent, standing at parade rest behind the left chair, staring straight ahead. Unsure of protocol, Jim stood behind the other chair, half watching the mountain scenery through the large tinted windows, half watching the commander’s expression.
The commander looked up, tossing the slate onto the desk, and glared at Wicza. Then his eyes flicked over to Jim again. “Sorry, Padre, have a seat.”
Nodding, Jim took the offered seat, deciding to hold off on informing the commander that padre or father wasn’t an accurate appellation for a minister of the Disciples of Christ.
The baleful glare turned back to the young woman. “Gods dammit, Whiskey. You couldn’t have just driven around? I hate those fucking bandits as much as the next person, but now the civilian law is getting all pissy. Again.”
The Good, the Bad, and the Merc: Even More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 8) Page 31
