A Fistful of Credits: Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 5)

by Chris Kennedy

  Find out more about Jon at https://www.facebook.com/lordoz.

  SURF AND TURF by Jon R. Osborne

  “Here’s your cerveja, Papi Bear.” Talita set the bottle, already beading with condensation, on the worn table next to the collection of printouts and slates Bjorn had in front of him. “What are you working on? You’ve hardly flirted with me all day. I’m beginning to think you don’t love me anymore.”

  Bjorn Tovesson III looked up, a smile tugging up the edges of his bushy beard. Normally he exchanged entendre-laden banter with the curvaceous little Brazilian waitress while drinking at Tio Ramon’s. The hole-in-the-wall bar served as his unofficial HQ. He knew nothing would come of the repartee as Talita made no secret of being a lesbian, frequently having to tell amorous patrons she didn’t like boys. But as soon as Bjorn had stepped into the Brazilian cervejaria a year ago, she’d taken to the hulking mercenary commander. Sure, he’d been disappointed when he found out she had a girlfriend, as had many of the troops in his command, but it was just as well since she was much younger. Flirting with the green-eyed cutie was a safe diversion and gave him a friend to talk to outside his merc outfit.

  “Sorry princess, I didn’t mean to ignore you.” Bjorn set down a slate to pick up the beer. Cold and crisp, just the way he liked it. “Our contract term is coming up; I need to figure out if we’re going to renew it and stay in garrison here.”

  A garrison contract on a relatively safe world was by no means lucrative, but Bjorn had spent the last year rebuilding the Berserkers after a spectacularly destructive and costly victory. The Eosigi had hired Bjorn’s Berserkers to break the siege on their industrial complex on Moloq. The sieging forces happened to be dropping in additional units to break the defenders of the complex as the Berserkers launched their assault. Quick thinking and bold tactics had turned what could have been a total rout into a victory, but it was a costly victory. The Berserkers had lost almost a third of their total manpower, half of their CASPers, and a pair of dropships.

  Once the Eosigi stopped trying to weasel out of the various clauses of the contract, the payout had been spectacular. The offer had been lucrative because the employer was gambling that Bjorn’s Berserkers would do enough damage to weaken the siege forces without actually beating them. The Eosigi had planned on interdicting the system’s emergence point with a different mercenary force, which arrived too late to stop the reinforcements.

  Some of the older officers, ones that had served under Bjorn’s father, Bjorn Tovesson Jr., had counselled the offer was too good to be true. The ones that survived the battle on Moloq didn’t say ‘I told you so.’ They didn’t have to, even if no one could have predicted the arrival of the Jivool mercenaries to reinforce the siege forces at just the wrong moment.

  The last year had been spent working a garrison contract on Vishall, a water world in the Coro region of the Tolo galactic arm. The K2 primary cast an orange glow and appeared about a third larger in the sky; it also kept the one small landmass situated in the tropic zone pleasantly warm. In addition to extensive aquatic agriculture and some mineral extraction, the main city, Vishall Plex, had a bit of tourism from species that enjoyed balmy beaches.

  Although the world was owned by the H’rang, the population included a fair number of aliens, including Humans. The H’rang, somewhat lazy and rather paranoid felinoids, were happy to farm out the work they didn’t want to do themselves. Much of this involved operating the fleet of aquatic harvesting boats, as Humans were a lot less expensive than robots resistant to ocean conditions. As the Human work force grew, more Humans followed, filling various niches that supported their fellows.

  The H’rang hired mercenaries to protect Vishall because it was a significant source of food, and they were worried about rumors of mysterious raids over the past couple of years. They hadn’t been especially generous in the contract, but it had given Bjorn’s Berserkers time and a relative haven to rebuild and train the new troops hired to replenish their ranks.

  “Papi Bear, you can’t leave.” Talita sat in his lap, pouting and fidgeting with the bear claws that hung from his neck. She batted her green eyes at him, made even brighter by her caramel complexion. “Who will make me laugh? And who would get your cerveja?”

  “Nothing’s decided yet, princess.” Bjorn shifted her on his leg, hoping she wouldn’t notice what her presence was rousing. He’d rather wile away the hours with the vivacious waitress and cold beer than pore over the details of the potential contracts, but merc companies that stayed garrisoned too long ran the risk of losing their edge. Then again, Bjorn thought, it was a lot safer; you were less likely to be sending a bunch of your men to their deaths.

  “Hey, Chica, quit wasting time with that old Quixote. We want cerveja.”

  Talita sighed, hopping up and going to the new arrivals a few tables over. Bjorn took a moment to admire how she filled out her cut-off shorts then turned back to his work. Whether the Berserkers would remain on Vishall had been a subject of rampant speculation. Some of his troops were in the bar, as usual, but they knew better than to pester him. They’d know as soon as he made up his mind; maybe they’d get an inkling once he’d narrowed down the potential contracts and brought in the senior officers for their opinions.

  On one hand, the Berserkers had a lot of green troops. Trying to replace two companies’ worth of troops meant a lot of cubs fresh out of the merc academies on Earth and Karma. Cadre troops now made up a third of their ranks, especially in the CASPer platoons. Sure, the past year had been spent on training, but training wasn’t experience under fire. More garrison time meant more time to train. More time before Bjorn had to face ordering them into danger.

  “I told you, I don’t like boys!”

  Talita’s voice snapped Bjorn out of his reverie. A quartet of tiberones, Latino youths from the Human barrio, were hassling her, like their namesake sharks, circling. The presence of the Berserkers generally kept the local gangs in check. Bjorn’s troops were quick to come to the defense of local businesses, especially those that catered to the mercs. But even after a year of cracking heads, occasionally some didn’t get the memo or thought the mercs’ reps were Tri-V hype. The Berserkers in the bar were now watching Bjorn. They knew how this would play out.

  “Boys, drink your beer and leave the chica alone,” Bjorn rumbled. The tables between him and the troublemakers emptied. Bjorn figured that wouldn’t be the end of it, but he felt like he should at least give the punks a chance to wise up.

  “Ey, old man. Shut the fuck up.” The largest took a few steps towards Bjorn’s table. The other three tiberones chuckled and made supportive noises. Bjorn tried not to roll his eyes.

  “Don’t make me bounce you to the curb, Chico. And I’m not that old.”

  Ramon, the bartender, quietly removed the few breakables from the bar, shaking his head. Locals got themselves and their drinks out of the way. Meanwhile mercenaries pushed back to watch like it was some Tri-V on the Aethernet. If there had been a hint of a competitive fight, there would have been betting. They knew this would just be an object lesson.

  “Ey, you’re old enough to be my padre.”

  “Yeah, ask your mama about that, Chico.” It was reflex, too easy an opening for Bjorn to pass up.

  “You think you’re tough, Quixote?” The Alpha tiberon marched over to Bjorn. The kid was almost 20, a little taller than average, and lean. “I hear you garrison goons are no better than the rent-a-cops at the commerce-plex.” The other three chuckled more, goading alpha.

  Bjorn stood, slowly and deliberately. Breaking two meters and 150 kilos, he loomed over the punk. Morphagenic tattoos on his bare right arm came to life, tribal patterns swirling to make way for a rousing bear. Bjorn hoped the Alpha backed down when he saw he was out-classed. Well, he mostly hoped, sometimes these punks needed a reminder. Ice blue eyes glared down form under bushy eyebrows.

  “Don’t poke the bear, boy.”

  Alpha flicked out a mag-knife, the blade snapping from the
hilt as he slashed at Bjorn’s face. To his credit, the kid was fast, probably the veteran of several street scraps, but not fast enough. Bjorn had fought creatures that would make these punks wet themselves. Bjorn’s left hand snagged Alpha’s wrist in mid-swing, stopping the knife cold. Alpha tried to pull back, finding his arm trapped in an iron grip.

  “Chico, you must be a special kind of stupid to pull a knife on an armed merc in a merc bar full of mercs.” Bjorn glared down at the tiberon, whose bravado began to melt as his companions sidled toward the exit. Bjorn increased the pressure on the wrist to a bruising level. “Now, I could make a mess, thrash you around like a ragdoll, and break your arm for good measure. Or you can drop the fucking knife and get the fuck out.”

  The knife clunked to the floor, the blade clicking into the hilt as it fell. Bjorn released the tiberon, watching him warily in case he wanted to do something stupid to save face with his retreating amigos. The young man’s eyes flicked to the knife on the floor. Bjorn shook his head.

  “You guys come back here, or give anyone grief, I will make you regret it. If you’re lucky you’ll only end up in traction.” Bjorn flipped back his leather vest, exposing his sidearm, a massive Heckler and Glock 12mm pistol suited for his equally-massive hands. “I’ve got too much work to piss around with filling out forms on why I had to plug some barrio piece of shit. Don’t make me change my mind.”

  Alpha backed up a couple of paces. “This place sucks, anyway.” Alpha stalked out, catching up with his compatriots who were already safely out in the street.

  Bjorn sank back into his chair and picked up his beer. Stupid kids, you’d think they’d know by now not to mess with this bar. Everyone else went back to their drinks, and the buzz of conversation returned.

  “I could have handled those meninos, Papi Bear.” Bjorn never tired of hearing Talita’s lilting accent, even when she was scolding him. “I’m not, how do you say, a damsel. I handled tiberones before you got here, and I handle them again when you’re not around.”

  “Sorry, princess. Habit.”

  She ruffled his hair, a little longer than the buzz cut he traditionally maintained. Another side effect of being in garrison too long. Despite his shaggy Viking beard, he liked to keep his hair short.

  “It’s okay, Papi Bear.” As she bent over to scoop up the dropped knife, Bjorn knew he wasn’t the only one in the bar watching. Talita took the knife to the bar, where Ramon dropped it into a box full of similar relics of poor decisions by patrons.

  Bjorn took a swig of his beer, looking back at the forms and slates awaiting his attention. Not the life he had planned for himself, but one many would have thought inevitable given that his father and grandfather had run Bjorn’s Berserkers. He’d had other dreams in his youth, and had once worked hard to make them come true—despite his father’s wishes.

  Earth, Alaska, 22 years ago

  They had been trudging through the snow for four hours, each carrying 25 kilos of gear. The temperature was barely below freezing, meaning the snow wasn’t light and fluffy. It fell in fat flakes, bringing a hush to the landscape. People might have thought the view scenic—snowy woods with mountains in the distance. To Bjorn, the hours his father had wasted trying to bond with him in the hopes he would forgo his aspirations of going to college on a football scholarship were just a cold, wet pain in the ass.

  Bjorn had just finished the football season of his high school junior year, a season that ended with his team winning the state championship. Large, muscular, and surprisingly fast for his size, he had offers piling up from schools down south—he’d demonstrated an uncanny ability to read the opposing offense and had been the bane of every quarterback he had faced.

  This distressed his father, who counted on Bjorn as heir apparent to take over the Berserkers. His grandfather, Bjorn Tovesson I, had retired last year, and Bjorn III was Bjorn Junior’s only child. Fortunately, Grandpa had stayed out of the dispute. Bjorn didn’t know how he’d handle it if both his elder namesakes ganged up on him.

  By default, Bjorn had been enrolled in the Mercenary Service Track in grade school and kept in it. His participation and excellence in football had just been considered good physical conditioning and team-building exercises until it began to open doors.

  “You know, I could swing it so you could take your VOWS assessment this summer,” his father rumbled, breaking what had been an hour-long silence. He turned back towards Bjorn so the thick hood wouldn’t muffle his voice. “Given your fitness and grades, it wouldn’t be hard. You could at least see what you score.”

  “I’m already getting offers from Top-10 schools.” Bjorn met his father’s gaze, even though he was a couple centimeters taller and had an extra twenty kilos of bulk. Big ran in the men of the Tovesson family. “Full-ride scholarships, which pull the teeth out of your ‘not on my dime’ crap.”

  “What about after school? Four years, then what?” His father turned fully towards him. “What if you blow out your knee or something? So much for your free ride.”

  “Dad, we’ve been over this before, about 100 times.” Bjorn’s voice rose, stoked by resentment for the last four hours. “You’re just pissed because I didn’t drink the merc kool-aid, like you did with Granddad! Could something happen to me playing ball? Sure. But at least I’m not going to get my head blown off on the football field!”

  His father’s expression went from icy scowl to eyes-wide in a split second. “Look out!”

  Bjorn hadn’t heard the Kodiak bear behind him until it burst out of the brush in a spray of branches and snow. Bjorn turned and backpedaled, trying to bring his hunting rifle up while getting out of his father’s line of fire. His father sidestepped to the left, bringing his rifle up. Normally a headshot would be foolish, but it reduced the chance of hitting Bjorn. Besides, his father was a combat marksman, not your run-of-the-mill hunter.

  “Shit!” Bjorn heard his father’s curse just before the rifle went off; his father’s left leg disappeared into a snow bank and caused him to topple as he pulled the trigger. The bullet took the bear’s ear, but that was it. The bear snarled and shook its head, a spray of saliva from its fangs. It bought Bjorn another moment to back away and pull his own trigger. His hurried shot caught the bear in the neck, the bullet passing through. Now it was good and pissed as it lunged forward and clawed at him, tearing the rifle out of his grip.

  Bjorn caught a glimpse of his father trying to regain his footing in the snow, one leg still sunk below the knee. Unable to free his leg, his father brought the rifle to his shoulder. Another swipe of a massive paw caught Bjorn’s thick parka and his web gear, spinning him around and leaving a trail of stinging gouges along his side. Bjorn heard his father’s rifle again as the beast eclipsed his view, and the bear’s stinking maw came for him, its breath hot and fetid. The teeth closed over his left sleeve, and his arm exploded in pain.

  Bjorn’s right hand found the huge Heckler and Glock pistol that had been a Christmas present from his grandfather and pulled it free. He remembered the boom of the gun drowning out his own screams and the bear’s roars. He hit the snow as something warm sprayed him. His father’s voice faded as the snowscape turned dark.

  Now

  All three of his slates lit up and his phone buzzed, snapping Bjorn back to the here and now. The slates flashed with a priority alert. Picking up the largest, his tactical slate, he slipped the earpiece into position and answered the call, while syncing the slate to his command channel.

  “Near Space Control has reported a breach in orbital security. Eleven objects have entered the atmosphere, all projected to splash down east of V Plex.” His aide, Captain William Hawkins, paused for breath. A map appeared on the tactical slate, showing the estimated landing zone. “Surface defenses are coming online, but these things have very low signatures. We have to expect some will make it down.”

  “Sound general recall. All troops muster with their units, immediately.” Bjorn scanned the feed on his slate. Someone must have been a
sleep on the hyperspace emergence watch for these things to make it all the way to reentry before being detected. Behind him, he could already hear his troops vacating the bar as their own devices delivered alerts. He looked again at the projected paths of the inbound objects versus the topographical maps. Barring pulling up at the last minute, they’d still be several klicks out to sea when they splashed down, avoiding the surface-to-air defense emplacements that ringed the island. “Tell the officers to be ready for a virtual conference in 30, three-oh, minutes. I’m on my way.”

  Bjorn quickly scooped the extra slates and paperwork into a satchel and slipped his tactical slate into its holster. He grabbed his leather jacket off the back of the chair and shrugged it on. The Berserkers’ logo with the motto ‘Valhalla Awaits’ was emblazoned on its back. As an afterthought, he gulped down the remainder of his beer.

  “Papi Bear! What is happening?”

  “Time to earn my pay, princess. Odin willing, you’ll only hear some fireworks.” Bjorn paused as she hugged him tighter than normal. The bar was three klicks inland, high on a rise where the terrain sloped up to meet the plateau that formed the bulk of the island. Fairly safe, at least at first, but no guarantees. “You and yours should get as high and far from the beach as possible, just to be safe though.”

  “Don’t get yourself killed.” Talita reached up and tugged playfully on his beard. “I would miss my favorite customer.”

  “Not planning on it.” Then he remembered something Talita had mentioned over the course of his camping in this bar. “Does your cousin still own that big laundry?”

  Talita looked puzzled. “Si. My primo, he owns three now.”

  “Good. Call him up, tell him to dump all his bleach in the storm sewers. Then he needs to call any other laundries tell them to do the same. I’ll pay double to replace the bleach.”