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

by Chris Kennedy

  “It has been my pleasure. Truly, I do not see why there is such a mystique about you Humans. All you have proven here, as warriors, is that you can run and die. I will enjoy parading my new slave around to show how worthless your society is.”

  “I don’t know about ‘worthless;’ I would say you had a sizable advantage over us the entire time. If we had all of our gear, we could have killed you a long time ago.”

  “The measure of a warrior is not what she does when everything is in her favor, but in what the warrior does when everything goes against her. So far, I have found humanity to be…lacking.”

  “The jury is still out on that,” Walker said.

  “I don’t know what that means, but I grow weary of this conversation. What is your second question?”

  “My second question is simple,” Walker said. “I just want to know why.”

  “Do you Humans always have to be so obtuse?” Proptayl asked. “Why what?”

  “Why did you tell me to challenge you? Why are you giving us the opportunity to escape?”

  “That’s two questions, although I’ll admit they are somewhat linked. The answer, however, is quite simple. I wanted to kill you.”

  “What?”

  “I lost my honor by being tricked and captured by you. The only way I could regain it was to out-trick you, then prove my dominance over you by killing you. A duel was the only way to accomplish that. There was a danger you would get killed before you could challenge me, but I was forced to accept that risk.” She paused and then asked, “Are you finished? Can I kill you now?”

  “You can try. What are the rules?”

  “The rules are simple. One of us must die. You are not allowed powered weapons. Beyond that, there are no rules. You may have a ceremonial spear if you’d like.” She raised her voice. “Lieutenant Colonel Crostayl!”

  Another MinSha trotted forward with a box that was nearly seven feet long. It set the box in front of Proptayl, turned, and retreated back to the ring, drawing its laser rifle. Proptayl opened the box and drew out two six-foot-long spears. The last eight inches were a metal point with a bleeder insert. The point was attached to the shaft of the spear with a crossbar, a metal piece that extended to both sides of the spearhead to keep someone stabbed with the spear from drawing it through the wound.

  Proptayl extended one, butt first, to Walker. Walker took it, looked at it, then gave Proptayl an annoyed look. “Is there a problem?” the alien asked.

  “Yes,” Walker said. “I don’t know anything about MinSha physiology, but it would seem to me that this crossbar would keep you from being injured if your important organs aren’t close to the surface, while all of mine are. Also, your arms are longer than mine, so you have an advantage with these.”

  “No one said you have to use it,” Proptayl said, “but you challenged me, so I get to choose the weapons.”

  “Fine,” Walker said. He drew one of the kukris to go with the spear.

  “Are you done delaying?”

  “I am.”

  “Very well then, begin.”

  The two combatants began circling each other, making small thrusts to feel each other out. Proptayl thrust and then swung the spear like a club, and Walker had to dive backward as the point flashed in front of his nose. Proptayl charged forward, but Walker rolled and came up with the spear facing the alien, and grounded it like a pike; she had to claw herself to a quick halt to keep from impaling herself.

  Walker jumped back to his feet as she tried to skewer him again, and he leaped out of the way, although he picked up a nick on his upper arm.

  The alien raised the spear over her head, stepped forward, and slammed it down like a sledgehammer. Walker blocked it off to the side and spun around, thrusting with his spear toward the alien’s thorax. Proptayl saw the thrust coming, though, and she reared back on her hind legs and grabbed Walker’s spear by the crossbar with her middle legs. As she slammed back down, she pulled on the crossbar, trying to draw him closer. Walker had to release the spear as she brought down her own and stabbed at him; the spear glanced off his ribs, opening a cut in his side.

  Walker drew his other kukri and defended himself by crossing them and using them to block her strikes. With the bends in their middles, they weren’t the perfect tools for blocking, but he could sometimes use one to block while using the other to counterstrike against her. Still, she could outreach him by several feet, and he picked up another few nicks in no time.

  Walker could feel himself wearing down from lack of sleep and blood loss. He searched for a way to get inside the arc of the MinSha’s weapon, but every time he thought there was an opening, it closed before he could take advantage of it. His reflexes were slowing down.

  Proptayl was on the attack now, driving him back to the circle of the watching MinSha. He backed into them and several clawed hands pushed him back forward. He saw the alien pull back to strike, and he feinted right and then dodged to the left. Proptayl didn’t fall for the feint, though, and the spearhead went through the flesh of his right leg, all the way to the crossbar. The crowd drew a collective gasp; they knew the fight was close to its end.

  Before Proptayl could exploit her advantage, Walker dropped the kukri in his right hand and grabbed the spear point protruding from the back of his leg. Wincing as the blade cut into the palm of his hand, he held it steady and chopped down on the spear’s shaft with the other kukri, slicing it off just below the crossbar.

  Without the weight of the Human at the end of the spear, Proptayl overbalanced, falling forward toward Walker. Realizing her mistake, she gathered herself and reared back onto her back two legs to get away. Walker dove forward and swung the kukri, hacking off the last two feet of her right leg, then he dove to his right while she tried to regain her balance.

  Proptayl tried to stomp the Human, but without her fourth leg, she missed, landing awkwardly, and her three remaining legs flexed, bringing her thorax almost down to where Walker lay beneath her. He rolled onto his back and stabbed upward, and then a second time as she tried to lift a leg to stomp him. The second stroke hit something vital, for blue blood jetted from the wound, and she stumbled. She took a step, trying to get away, and collapsed on Walker’s legs.

  Walker screamed as the spear point was slammed back into his leg and driven into the hard ground, and all he could see was the white light of pain for a few seconds. As it cleared, he realized she hadn’t moved; she was still laying on his legs. He did a sit up and stabbed her several more times.

  Proptayl’s last breath escaped from her in a small sigh, matched by the collective release of breath from all the onlookers, especially the Humans. Walker pushed her body off him and pulled the spear point out of the ground. He left it in his leg as it partially blocked the wound, even though blood drained out both the front and back.

  Walker tried to stand, but his leg wouldn’t support him. Things started to get gray around the edges of his vision, and he knew he didn’t have much conscious time left before he went down from blood loss. He stripped off his shirt and tied it around his leg as Lieutenant Colonel Crostayl walked up to him.

  “Congratulations, Human,” the MinSha said. “Proptayl was the victor in over 100 previous duels, so defeating her is something of note. You and your troops are free to go. None of our soldiers will hinder your passage; in fact, we will be returning to the mine, so you can do as you please.”

  “Is letting us go going to cause you problems?” Walker asked.

  “Perhaps, but nothing we can’t handle. There was a clause in our contract that voided the contract if our honor was at stake.” She cocked her head and looked at Walker the same way Proptayl had. “So, what are you going to do, now that you have been given back your life?”

  “What am I going to do? I’m going to get some medical attention, then I’m going to find our employers and express my dissatisfaction with how they cancelled our contract.”

  “That’s not much of a goal in life.”

  “No, it’
s not much of a life-goal,” Walker agreed, a look of grim determination on his face, “but as long as I get a chance to see them face-to-face before I die, it will be enough.”

  # # # # #

  Mark’s Introduction to:

  CASPer’s GHOST by Brad R. Torgersen

  Brad is one of those guys who you simply cannot help but like. He gives far more than he should (as witnessed by his presence here, despite all his other commitments) and always goes the extra mile. He’s the 2009 winner of the prestigious Writers of the Future contest, has been published in Analog as well as the InterGalactic Medicine Show, and has been nominated for both Hugo and Nebula awards. His breakout novel, “The Chaplain’s War” (2014, Baen) put him on the radar in a huge way. And if that isn’t enough, he’s also a U.S. Army Reserve Chief Warrant Officer.

  Brad’s contribution to A Fistful of Credits, “CASPer’s Ghost,” takes us down the dark road of what humanity can do to itself, as well as some of the ancient technology lying around the Galactic Union left from over from a war many thousands of years ago. We’re sorry it’s the last story in the book, but we think we’ve saved the best for last.

  Find out more about Brad at https://bradrtorgersen.wordpress.com/.

  CASPer’s GHOST by Brad R. Torgersen

  The air of Echo Tango Six rippled like heat waves coming off an old Earth highway. A man didn’t walk through it as much as he swam, and to that end, nobody without a powered armor suit could last more than a couple of minutes in Echo Tango Six’s several-hundred-degrees Celsius temps, and hundred-plus atmospheres of pressure. Ordinary vacuum-proof technology just didn’t cut it here. If there was a less hospitable terrestrial world on which to test cutting-edge technology, Theo Mathis wasn’t aware of it. Not even Venus—back home—was this bad. Because Venus didn’t come with a hostile enemy force eager to stake a counter-claim to Echo Tango Six’s sole valuable resource.

  “How do you figure the F11 got down here in the first place?” asked a woman’s voice in Theo’s ears.

  “Supernova,” Theo said. “Or at least that’s the going theory.”

  “Duh,” said the woman. “I know how F11 gets from the inside of brown dwarfs, out into the universe. But how did such a rich deposit wind up here, specifically?”

  “Maybe we’ll get the chance to find out,” Theo replied.

  “Cut the science chatter, Blue Nine, Blue Ten,” commanded a stern male voice.

  That was Chief Wixton. Theo’s boss.

  “Yessir,” Theo reflexively replied.

  “You’re supposed to have your eyes on the new test unit we’re putting through trials,” the chief said. “We’ll worry about planetary formation theory later.”

  Theo called up a window in his heads-up display, showing him the vital stats on the big Combat Assault System, Personal, suit that was trudging through Echo Tango Six’s infernal atmosphere, just a few meters ahead. Like Theo’s own CASPer, the experimental unit was fully automated and environmentally stabilized. It kept the pilot—or, at least, what passed for a pilot—safely protected from Echo Tango Six’s heat and pressure, as well as the occasional acid rain storm that swept in.

  Unlike Theo’s CASPer, the experimental unit’s pilot did not have a name. Just a designation: CB, for CASPer Biomechorg. Or Charlie Bravo, as the others in the platoon had taken to calling him—or her, or maybe it? Even Theo wasn’t quite sure what to make of the hulking, largely silent automaton that marched in their midst. Charlie Bravo rarely said anything, and when Charlie did, it was often in text form. Very basic relaying of information. Like a computer probe. Though Chief Wixton had assured the platoon that Charlie Bravo was reliably Human at heart.

  “Sent to us from top Company people,” the chief had said, prior to the deorbit maneuver which dropped them down into Echo Tango Six’s roiling, hell-like weather patterns. “The CB is a one-off. The first of potentially many, many more. But the Company suits won’t make the decision to begin commercial production until or unless the first CB has been put through a rigorous live-fire trial.

  “We got the contract on Echo Tango Six from the Zuparti—to investigate and secure a supposed deposit of F11. We know the Zuparti aren’t the only ones interested in this find. Hostile contact is expected. Which means we get the CB for the duration of our time here.”

  So far, they hadn’t seen or detected anyone other than themselves. They were gradually closing on the clump of F11 which orbital surveys said was embedded in the surface less than a kilometer ahead.

  If the ride from space had been rough, plodding across the surface was proving rougher. Theo’s CASPer was already complaining about temperature-related problems in both the joint servos and the coolant system radiator. In this cursed climate, there was nowhere for the suit’s waste heat to go. All the suit could do was keep the occupant insulated from the worst of it.

  Like Theo’s suit, Charlie Bravo’s was complaining of the same problems.

  “I estimate we’ve got less than ninety minutes before things get genuinely dangerous,” Theo said on the platoon tactical channel. As one of the platoon’s resident brain men—whose job wasn’t strictly limited to shooting—Theo was keenly aware of the fact that Echo Tango Six was taking all of the platoon’s CASPers well beyond manufacturer-recommended operational parameters.

  “The landing boat will pick us up well before then,” Chief Wixton reassured. “All we have to do is go in, confirm the existence of the F11 deposit, secure a perimeter, then wait for Green and Gold Platoons to arrive.”

  “I hope the Zuparti are making this worth our while,” said Blue Ten—Carla Giordano’s slot in the formation.

  “Beyond your base pay,” Chief Wixton confirmed. “A verified F11 deposit gets us all a very healthy bonus. But don’t go counting your chickens before they hatch, Blue Ten. First things first. Let’s just get there, to start. Worry about the money later.”

  A crackling voice interrupted Blue Platoon’s tactical conversation.

  “Blue Chief, this is Silver Falcon, how do you read?”

  That was Director Bufordson, who was Wixton’s boss. Not a soldier—at least, not anymore. Bufordson had left his uniform in his locker a long time ago and was one of the suits now. Albeit a suit who still deigned to go out with the grunts on contract jobs. There weren’t very many in the Company who ranked higher than Bufordson. He was sitting in the operational control center aboard the gate-capable mothership in synchronous orbit.

  “Silver Falcon, this is Blue Chief, I copy you, over,” said Wixton.

  “How’s the CB holding up so far?” asked Bufordson.

  “Oh, as well as any of us, sir. One of my smart boys guesses we’ve got an hour and a half before problems with the CASPers get truly serious—including problems with the experimental unit. I’ll keep you apprised of any changes.”

  “Good. Good. Any sign of opposition yet?”

  “Not a thing, sir. Any sign up top?”

  “If there is a competitor on this planet, their base craft is hiding somewhere other than here. And we’ve not detected any foreign signals, either encrypted or unencrypted. Perhaps our Zuparti contact was wrong? If the F11 deposit is not here, we could be poking around down there for nothing.”

  “I sure hope not, sir. For all the trouble we’ve gone to, I’d hate to think we have to eat a contract.”

  “The Zuparti would still owe us base operational and attrition costs, but I agree with you—it would be a huge waste of our talents. Give me a fresh update as soon as you find something conclusive. This is Silver Falcon, out.”

  The signal from orbit dropped, and the platoon was back to talking amongst themselves.

  Except for Charlie Bravo, who merely rattled off a mundane series of surface observations: ambient temperature, estimations of surface rock density, and so forth—and in text form only.

  The group kept pushing forward. Moving slowly. Trying hard not to overtax their CASPers to the point of requiring a premature pullout. Silver Falcon wouldn’t be
happy if he had to send Green or Gold down before it was their turn.

  “Blue Chief, this is Blue Two,” said a male voice.

  “I copy you, Blue Two. What’s it look like up ahead?”

  “Soupy as hell,” said the platoon’s scouting expert, Adzil Abner. After Wixton, Adzil was the next merc in command—the equivalent of a senior non-commissioned officer, if one bothered to pay attention to the old Earth rank systems which had existed before first contact with the Galactic Union.

  “Yah, I think we all know that,” Chief Wixton retorted with irritation. “We pay you to find out things I can’t already see for myself.”

  “My suit’s sensor suite is pretty fouled up in this climate, Blue Chief. Infra and ultra are practically useless. Both radar sets give me readings which are inconsistent with each other—I’m pretty sure that’s the heat, messing with the equipment—and long-distance visual is a wash.”

  “What about passive comm detection?” Wixton asked.

  “That seems to be working okay, but I’ve got silence on this side.”

  “Push forward, then. The second your situation changes—especially if the F11 detection matrix pings—you holler. So far the suit-to-suit comm doesn’t seem particularly degraded. Though that could change fast if our opponents spring some countermeasures on us.”

  “What if we spring ours on ‘em first?” remarked a different female—Blue Sixteen, one of the two CASPer troops with active electromagnetic jamming and scrambling capability. She could wreck the hell out of an enemy comm network, while leaving Blue Platoon’s comm clean as a whistle.

  “Let’s hope we get that lucky,” Wixton said. “Now step it up a bit, please. We don’t want Blue Two getting too far out in front. In fact, Blue Five and Blue Twenty, take a forty-five to Blue Two’s trajectory, and give me some eyes on our right and left.”

  “Roger, boss,” came the twin replies, as two CASPer units split off and began to slow-lope out in front, but perpendicular to each other, with the main group in a tactical file headed more or less up the middle of their original path.