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

by Chris Kennedy

  “Sir, those men would have raped me if given the chance. I acted in defense of my own person.”

  “They wouldn’t have had the chance if you would have just driven in the auto-lane.” The commander snatched up the tablet, glanced at it, and tossed it back on the desk with a clatter. “They didn’t block off the express lane.”

  “Sir, there is a fine for driving non-autonomous vehicles in the express—”

  “A fucking fine?” The commander smacked the desk top with an open hand, making the slate and sundry items scattered on the surface bounce. Jim jumped, startled by the noise, but Wicza didn’t flinch. “How much do you think it will cost to smooth out your vigilante stunt with the local authorities?”

  “I’ll cover any expenses out of my pay, sir.”

  “Damn straight you will.” The commander leaned back in his chair. “Odin’s eye, you need to save that piss and vinegar for the battlefield. All right, get out of here before I give you KP for a week.”

  “Yes sir.” Wicza pivoted and marched to the door.

  The commander watched the sergeant depart, anger leaving his features once the door closed behind her. “Padre, or is it Father Jim? Nice to meet you. Obviously, your cousin Bill has told me about you.” The commander rose from behind the desk, circling around to shake his hand. Jim noticed the commander didn’t have the lumbering gait one would expect from a man his size.

  “Actually Reverend is probably the most accurate. It would be Pastor if I had a congregation.” Jim’s cousin Bill was the commander’s aide and right-hand-man, having served with the commander for as long as Tovesson had been a merc.

  “You want anything? I can have my secretary bring coffee or tea, or if you need something to calm the nerves after Whiskey’s antics I have some good Canadian whiskey in the side bar.” He gestured at the bar, also made of real wood, with a huge hand.

  “No, I’m good, but thank you.” Jim was actually tempted by the offer of whiskey. He had no trouble with the occasional drink, but considering this was a job interview and possibly a test, he demurred. “Though I have to admit, the sergeant’s…actions…startled me.”

  “What’s your assessment of Charlotte?” The commander asked as he returned to his chair.

  “She is an angry young woman and has a chip on her shoulder regarding men.” She had never mentioned her name was Charlotte, Jim thought. “Even in the best of conditions, she keeps men at arms’ length. She was probably assaulted in her youth if not outright raped. She also has a need to prove herself, which she frames as compensating for her stature but it’s probably rooted in a lack of parental validation.

  “What I saw today wasn’t an angry outburst, but channeled anger at those who disrespected her for her gender, and who would prey on those weaker than them. Those men were dead as soon as they validated her ‘script’ of preconceptions, and she has no remorse for gunning them down.”

  “What do you think?” Tovesson leaned forward on his desk. “Did those men deserve to die?”

  “I’m not a judge or magistrate. I have no evidence to condemn those men, even if they are bullies and predators. They made the mistake of picking the wrong prey, but if Charlotte had been as helpless as they thought…” Jim shrugged. “The Lord doesn’t deal in ‘what ifs’ or we could all be damned.

  “As for you, commander, you’re not truly angry with Sergeant Wicza,” Jim continued. He knew he was treading onto risky ground, but he also wanted Tovesson to see why he should hire Jim. “Annoyed, and a bit concerned, but I suspect you’ll conveniently forget to dock her pay to cover the legal fees or at least wait until there is a large mission payout so she won’t feel it as much. I’d hazard to say you mostly agree with her assessment regarding the bandits, though you have the security of being large, powerful, and male so you would have dealt them serious bodily harm instead of just gunning them down.”

  The bushy eyebrows knitted together like caterpillars greeting each other while Tovesson stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Pretty close, Padre,” he finally admitted. “But they were all armed, so as much as I love delivering a well-earned beating, the tactical situation wouldn’t have been favorable. And since they would have regarded me as a threat, they would probably have had their guns on me, unless they were total tantos. Charlotte is a damned fine soldier, and if she can keep her anger in check, she’ll go far. I watched the dash cam footage; taking out four armed hostiles in ten seconds was impressive work. Just don’t tell her I said that.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Jim said, resisting the impulse to add ‘sir.’ He hadn’t been hired yet.

  “Bill was right about you; you’re good at reading people. I’d hate to play poker with you.” A grin tugged at the corners of the commander’s beard. “To be honest, I’m more interested in your degrees and certifications around dealing with stress-related issues than your ordination. I have a bunch of heathens, pagans, and irreligious in my company, myself included. I don’t want your counseling to be a platform for proselytizing to those who don’t want to hear it.”

  “Understood,” Jim replied, trying not to get his hopes up. Ever since the arrival of aliens in the 21st century, mainstream religions had waned, well beyond the 80 million Muslims wiped out by the MinSha retributive strike shortly after First Contact. “But I would still be able to conduct religious services for those that wanted them?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll probably catch some flak for bringing a Christian chaplain on board,” Tovesson’s right hand went to the hammer dangling amid the bear claws, “but I’ve got a company captain that’s a godhi, a Wiccan priestess Casanova driver, and a druid in logistics. They’re all good for performing the rites of their respective religions, but I need someone who can devote their time to seeing to the well-being of my people, especially those struggling with the pressure that comes with the fact they could be dead next Tuesday.”

  “I can do that, without letting religion influence how I help your soldiers,” Jim promised. He meant it. Jesus didn’t pick and choose who he would save, Jim wouldn’t pick and choose the people he helped.

  “Even though you’ve taken the VOWS and went through MST, you’re training is too out-of-date to bring you in as a merc.” The slate the commander picked up looked tiny in his huge hands. He tapped the screen a couple of times. “I can bring you on as a civilian contractor, and I’ll still require you to take the safety and small arms training courses. But if you ever have to pull a gun, the shit will truly have hit the fan.”

  * * *

  “Not bad, Padre Jim,” Corporal Popovijc remarked, glancing down at the slate to confirm the score. Aleksy Popovijc was one of the instructors at the Bear Town gun range, an old-timer who had served under the commander’s father. “You’re not a sharp-shooter, but better than I’d expect from a man of the cloth.”

  “All of the boys in my family went through the Mercenary Service Track in school,” Jim replied, ejecting the clip then confirming the gun was clear before setting it and the empty clip on the bench. “To be honest, there wasn’t much else to do in rural Indiana, and MST gave kids an excuse to learn about guns and dream of getting out of Podunk.”

  Popovijc set down the tablet and collected the firearm and the magazine. Like Jim, he verified the gun was empty. He stowed both in a case. “I heard your VOWS scores were decent. How come you didn’t become a merc?”

  “About a month before I took the assessment, my sister was killed in a traffic accident.” Jim’s gaze drifted downrange, but he didn’t see the targets at the end. “A van full of drunks swerved in front of an auto-truck. The robot brain driving the rig calculated one casualty was better than seven, so it swerved into my sister’s car.

  “That got me thinking about God and our place in the universe. By the time I got my scores from the VOWS, I had already decided I wanted to follow a different path.” Jim returned his eyes to the corporal. “As I studied, I found as many questions as I did answers. Something that has been puzzling me for years is alien
s.”

  Popovijc looked grateful that Jim had changed the subject. “What about them?”

  “Do you ever feel bad about killing them?” Jim scrutinized the man while appearing casual. He knew the man used to be in front line infantry and had seen plenty of combat. “Do you think they have souls, like we do?”

  “Padre Jim, if anyone can answer the last question, it’d be people like you.” Popovijc shrugged. There was no animus in his response. “I’ll tell you, with aliens it’s easier because half of them look like they want to eat you, and a few really do.”

  Jim had heard about the Xiq’tal from the company’s last contract. He had spoken to a private who had one of his arms eaten by one of the giant crab-like aliens.

  The corporal tapped the screen of his slate. “Anyway, you’re good to go. I’m marking you certified to be issued a sidearm.”

  * * *

  “Welcome, Padre Jim.” The Indian woman behind the counter smiled cheerfully. She wore a private stripe on her uniform, marking her as an actual merc, as opposed to the alien contractor next to her, whose uniform shirt had a C and a single dot. The woman glanced at a monitor set in the counter. “We received your sidearm clearance, so I thought you might be by.”

  The felinoid alien leaned indolently on the counter, looking half asleep. Jim wasn’t sure why anyone would hire a H’rang, given their reputation for laziness. It opened an eye long enough to glance at him, then closed it again.

  “It’s not that I’m particularly excited,” Jim protested. He suspected the H’rang was actually paying attention to the exchange, though he could be making assumptions based on Terran felines. He’d read it was a common mistake to assume just because an alien looked like an Earth-analog creature, it would also act like that animal. “It’s not like I’m going to need it here.”

  “Not in Bear Town,” the private agreed. Jim remembered her name was Priya Surjit and that she professed to be a lapsed Buddhist. “But if you go off base, I would wear it. You have a few choices, as long as you choose 10mm.”

  It made sense. Each soldier having their own caliber preference would be a hassle for ammunition logistics. But unlike conventional military forces, mercs tended to allow for some individualization. A thump drew Jim’s attention down the counter. Three sidearm kits, complete with holster and clips were laid out on the counter top in front of the H’rang.

  “Looks like Hcuff’t has taken the liberty of pulling a selection for you to look over.” Priya walked over to the three guns as the H’rang slinked further along the counter to lean on it. Jim half expected the alien to climb onto the counter and curl up for a nap. “The GP-90 is a solid sidearm, with a good selection of customization options. It’s reliable as can be, but doesn’t quite pack the punch of the others. The Heckler and Glock HG10p has a ton of customization options and packs a lot of wallop for the round, but it needs more TLC. The commander is big on that cannon of his, but I think that’s for sentimental rather than practical reasons. Finally, the Smith and Ruger Falcon Ten is more accurate but also four centimeters longer, so some find it unwieldly.”

  It was a simple choice for Jim. “I’ll take reliable. If I’m worried about the difference in stopping power, I’m already in over my head.”

  “A good choice,” Private Surjit said, making some entries on her slate. “I’m putting in a requisition for 100 rounds of practice ammo so you can season the gun at the range. Then you’ll want to give it a good cleaning. If you need any pointers, Popeye or I can help you out.”

  Popeye was Corporal Popovijc. Jim had already taken Weapons Maintenance 101 as a refresher from his youth. He didn’t think he’d need the help, but he might avail himself of some time to chat with Priya. He was curious to get her insight about working alongside an alien.

  A glance back at the H’rang showed it intensely interested in examining the claw on its left hand. Unlike Earth felines, H’rang had a single claw that extended from the thick middle digit on each hand. Slender fingers flanked the clawed phalange, complemented by an opposable thumb. Jim noticed that two of the three cases were gone, leaving the gun he had chosen on the counter.

  * * *

  “Hcuff’t could have helped you, but you wouldn’t have learned anything.” Priya watched as Jim slid the barrel assembly into place and latched it. “For someone so slow, he can do things in the blink of an eye. You would have asked for help, and he would have had it done before you realized it.”

  “I noticed that.” Jim picked up the slide and made sure it was seated before guiding it into position. “I didn’t think the H’rang were a merc race.”

  “Scaredy-Cats?” Priya laugh good naturedly. “Goodness, no. Like the rest of his people, Hcuff’t is no fighter. A lot of the H’rang get by on a universal income scheme similar to our GGI. Hcuff’t was bored and curious and started hanging around. He has a real aptitude when it comes to the technical aspects of firearms, and he’s a whizz at logistics, but the only time he fired a gun, he promptly dropped it and ran away.”

  “But, you still keep him around?” Jim methodically finished assembling the sidearm. “Does his race have a religious proscription against violence?”

  “No.” The nasal reply seemed to be at Jim’s ear; he barely managed not to jump out of his chair. “H’rang have no gods other than H’rang-selves.” Despite the nasal tones and drawn out vowels, the felinoid’s English was intelligible without the benefit of the translator amulet Jim wore.

  Jim set the completed weapon down. He hadn’t heard the alien creep up behind him. If Priya was startled, she didn’t show it. He turned to meet the H’rang’s gaze. Like a great cat, its pupils were round, not slitted like smaller felines.

  “You consider yourselves to be gods?” Jim wondered if he should have looked for material on xenotheology. Surely someone had studied it by now.

  “For H’rang, self is most important.” The alien’s teeth were smaller than expected, Jim thought, not the fangs of terrestrial predators, but a row of small, blade-like teeth backed by a row of short, needle-like teeth. “After self, then clan, then community. But always self, first.”

  “That doesn’t sound like religion so much as self-indulgence,” Jim remarked. Selfish was the term he was thinking of, but chose not to voice it. He didn’t want to ruin the opportunity of learning more.

  “Self-indulgence, self-preservation, self-reliance.” The H’rang shrugged, a very human gesture. “H’rang do not need gods. Though some say world-fund makes us lazy, no longer self-reliant. Some say it free us to be true self.” Again the alien shrugged. “Few, like me, want more than to be kept by world-clan.”

  * * *

  Jim learned that some of the aliens had no concept of god. With humans, even atheists had a notion of what God or gods were, but aliens didn’t have the same framework. While he suspected that Hcuff’t didn’t quite grasp the concept of God, when Jim tried to talk to the lizard-like elSha armorers, they just gave him blank looks in return. If it wasn’t something they could sense, it had little meaning or use to them. They had trouble grasping fiction, let alone religion and the concept of divinity.

  He’d spent a frustrating hour with the elSha, and he suspected it was equally frustrating for them. Every concept he brought up yielded a dozen questions as they tried to pick apart what Jim had explained on scientific and technical merits. The elSha didn’t have a concept of fate or even luck.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Charlotte Wicza said as they ate dinner in the cavernous mead hall. The facility also functioned as the base mess hall, and many of the mercs ate there out of convenience and comradery. “Hek and Vek were banned from movie nights where they showed 20th century space fantasy movies and shows. The lizards kept interrupting to question technologies like teleportation or artificial gravity that showed up in those movies.”

  Jim nodded. After first contact and experience with real spaceships, the science fiction genre became relegated to a quaint anachronism. Spaceships that swooped like aircraft and magi
c laser swords were fantasy, not science. “I can understand now that I’ve talked to them,” Jim remarked between bites. “Bill tried to warn me discussing religion with them would be pointless. How are things going with Specialist Reeves?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “We’re taking things slowly. She’s still figuring things out, I’m her second…I don’t know if I can say girlfriend yet—I guess second relationship since she figured out she was a lesbian. The hard part is that some things I take for granted are still new for her.”

  Jim was grateful that Wicza had opened up to him once she realized he wasn’t going to judge her or try to get in her pants. “Any of the guys in the company giving you grief?”

  Charlotte chewed while she thought. “Not too much. I mean they give everyone grief, like when Hepler started dating that townie in Las Cruces, but if you mean because we’re lesbians, then no. If nothing else, they’ve learned not to say shit where I can hear.”

  Jim nodded. He’d seen Charlotte’s file. There were several fights the first few months before she settled down, and a few bad apples were weeded out.

  “It’s a shame you’re not shipping out with us.” Charlotte poked dubiously at her dessert. “There’s a bunch of aliens at Karma you could talk religion with, assuming they didn’t try to eat you.”

  * * *

  Captain William Hawkins looked up from his slate, affixing his cousin with a stare. “Why on Earth would you want to ship out with the assault force?”

  “There’s support staff going.” Jim replied. He felt slightly guilty pressing his cousin for this favor, especially after Bill had got him the interview with the commander. “Medical, technical, logistics, and technically, I am part of the medical service.”

  “Do you really think there will be time for counselling during a combat operation?” Captain Hawkins went back to tapping on his slate, making sure all the load outs were prepared to go on the dropships.