Alpha Contracts

by Chris Kennedy

  “One, they can go in almost any terrain. Two, they’re fast. Three, these also carry up to 10 troopers. And four, they’re fusion-powered. Those chemical lasers on the non-fusion tanks have limited ammo. The cheapest fusion tracked tank was twice the price.”

  “Might have been worth twice the money,” Johnstone said, and pointed to one of the tanks. “Those things are probably a couple hundred years old.”

  “Hundred?” Jake asked. “A couple hundred years?” Johnstone shrugged. “We were shooting at each other with muskets 200 years ago!”

  “Smooth bore muskets,” Jim agreed. “But if the South’d had fusion-powered hover tanks, things would have been a quite a bit different!”

  The transport trucks had just pulled away with the tanks when a pair of black SUVs came racing up, almost skidding to a stop next to the Cartwright’s personnel. Four men jumped out of the cars and looked around in serious alarm, first at the spaceship, then at the transports just disappearing through one of the airfield’s gates.

  One of them strode over to Jim’s group and spoke. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am,” Jim said, “Commander, Cartwright’s Cavaliers.” The man pointed in the direction of the trucks that had just left.

  “What was on those trucks? What did those aliens sell to you?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Jim said with a huge grin.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” another of the men asked. “We’re from the Department of Defense.”

  “I figured as much,” Jim said. For a time everyone just stared at each other.

  “Well?” the leader of the DoD group asked. “The government wants to know what you bought.”

  “Just some technology older than the musket,” Ted said. The government men, to the last, just scowled.

  * * * * *

  Cartwright’s Cavaliers - 8

  “Good luck, Cavaliers, and good hunting!”

  “Thanks, Houston,” Jim said, and the shuttle lifted off the ground with a roar of its hydrogen powered engines.

  “Here we go,” Ted said from the seat next to his boss.

  “Yep,” Jim agreed. He hated the liftoff most of all. Two minutes of intense thrust followed by weightlessness was not enjoyable. He guessed he’d just have to get used to it. “All this technology, and they don’t have artificial gravity?” Ted chuckled. “I just thought it would be more like Star Trek.” Somewhere further back Alex was laughing. The company’s tech expert was enjoying this aspect of the job more than anyone else, except maybe Johnstone.

  “Got a long way to go,” Ted reminded him, “like another 10,000 light years.” Jim whistled. Or tried to, but his G distorted lips wouldn’t cooperate.

  Jim and his command staff were the last to transfer aboard the commercial transport Keesh, a Bakulu-class ship owned and crewed by Bakulu. He wished he’d thought to specify the race of the transport. Now he had to spend a month on a ship that smelled like seafood.

  “I wonder what one tastes like in butter?” Ted asked. Jim made him promise to keep that kind of thought to himself. Twenty-four hours later, once the entire company was squared away onboard, the Keesh pulled out of orbit and headed for the stargate. After weeks of planning and incredible amounts of money spent, he welcomed getting away. Except for missing Lisa, of course. She’d been trying to act calm, but had largely failed. They’d said goodbye that morning as if he were just going to the office in downtown Houston and not halfway across the galaxy.

  The cargo bays of the Keesh were as full as his accounts were empty. He’d spent all his investors’ money, and a good part of his own, equipping the company with arms, armor, and vehicles. As far as he knew, he was the only one of the 100 companies to make extensive use of alien technology. He didn’t know if he was being over-prepared, or the others were being under-prepared. In addition to the five hover tanks, he had three APCs, and four Apooca flyers, or quadcopters. He’d been given a line on those by Captain John Pike at The Avenging Angels, a company hired to do Combat Search and Rescue, or CSAR. He’d known John from his time in Fallujah. The Apoocas were like a V-22 Osprey with four props instead of two, and more weapons mounts. They’d come cheap. He’d wondered if John knew why they were so cheap.

  The DoD eventually caught up with him. They had cell phone camera footage of trucks transporting his tanks through downtown Houston, and they were pissed. When the transport landed two days later with three Po’Kon class APCs, they were waiting. The government tried to impound the tracked transports because each had a 15mm MAC and two turreted machine guns. Jim had been forced to make a phone call to Ambassador Thales. In the end, he agreed to keep all the weapons he’d imported within startown limits. The world government was still in the process of defining the extra-territorial nature of a starport and its surrounding startown, but it was enough to keep the government happy.

  Out of all the preparation, the cases of ammo in his office on the Keesh were the most interesting. Five thousand rounds chambered with flechettes of MinSha chiton. He had no idea if he’d have a reason to use it. After seeing how the aliens fought in countless hours of footage, he certainly hoped he didn’t.

  “Stargate in 10 minutes,” Ted said, floating outside Jim’s office. It wasn’t a very big space, but he was the only non-crew who had one to himself.

  “Right,” Jim said, “how are the men?”

  “More than a few are drunk,” Ted admitted. He held out a squeeze bottle with some amber liquid in it. “Care for a snootfull?” Jim had heard plenty about the transition to hyperspace. It was like being destroyed and put back together. It was transcendent. It was orgasmic. Whatever it was, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  “Sure,” Jim said, and Ted floated it over to him. He caught it and gave a suck. The liquid was forced down by his now accustomed to zero-G muscles, and it burned all the way. “Smooth,” Jim said. “I’m not going to the bridge; the snails make me nervous.”

  “Slim spends half his time tinkering on the Apoocas, and the rest nosing around the ship.” Jim knew the Texan was probably the only member of the Cavalier excited to find out they were traveling in a Bakulu ship. “I’d rather hang out with you, anyway.”

  “Five minutes to transition,” a translated voice said over the PA system. Jim felt the warmth spreading from the whiskey.

  “You’re welcome to stay, if I can have another hit of that contraband hooch.” Ted came in and pulled the corrugated door closed, handing over the bulb.

  “You never issued an order against it. Besides, I know you have five cases of IPA stashed in the hold.”

  “Spy,” Jim said when he could talk again. He looked at his friend for a moment. “Do you think this is a good idea?”

  “What? Drinking before hyperspace? How the fuck should I know?” He took another sip. Jim laughed and shook his head.

  “No, I mean the contract. A hundred companies of Human soldiers going off to fight and die for money.” Ted accepted the bulb back and took another drink. It was almost empty, and he offered the last back to Jim, who took it gratefully.

  “I really can’t say,” Ted said.

  “One minute to transition.”

  “Humans have been fighting and dying for as long as we’ve been able to make these,” he said, making a fist. “Maybe even before.” He shrugged, grabbing Jim’s desk so the movement didn’t cause him to spin. “I only know that you have a lot of people on this ship who happily signed up for either the excitement, the glory, or the money.”

  “Most are probably here for the money,” Jim said. Ted started to shrug, then nodded instead.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Ten seconds.” Jim didn’t want to admit it, but for the first time in his life, he was scared he’d made a bad decision. He closed his eyes.

  “Either way,” Ted said, “our futures are coming at us, face first.”

  “Transition in three…two…one…”

  It turned out, drinking before jumping into hyperspace wasn’t
a very good idea.

  * * *

  “Ten thousand light years in two weeks,” Jim said, shaking his head. The bridge of the Keesh was a decidedly utilitarian affair. He had to admit it reminded him of a cruise ship bridge, with its high visibility and comfortable work stations, and wondered if warship bridges were like the CICs on ships back home.

  “More like 170 hours per jump and a few days in between,” his host corrected him. The Bakulu captain was regarding him with a single eye while simultaneously conducting other tasks with the other two. Jim had learned in the intervening time that a lot of the crew possessed cybernetic implants, known as pinplants. They allowed instantaneous wireless access to computers, and in the case of some higher end modifications, even extra processor power in your own skull. Coupled with their ability to squirt air out of an orifice for propulsion, the Bakulu were more like spaceships themselves.

  “I was just generalizing, Captain.”

  “Ah,” the alien said, “I understand. Your Slim does this often.” Jim figured he’d know—Slim spent almost as much time with the Keesh’s crew as he had in the Apoocas, going over various systems and working with his new pilots. The former astronaut was a bit of a polymath among pilots—he could fly almost anything. In fact, it seemed a life goal of his to remove the word “almost” from that sentence. He’d said at dinner two days ago that he was pretty sure he could operate a starship now, if it wasn’t in an all blown up hurry, as he’d described it. Ted said it was just boasting, but Jim knew better. If Slim said he could do something, he could do it; you could damn well count on it.

  “Is that the planet?” Jim asked, pointing out the window. The captain followed his gesture, then, being a typical Bakulu apparently, checked with his navigator.

  “Yes, that is Tulip.” Jim unconsciously thought of the planet’s real name, T’T’Ksh’t Tuulu’p. As they were quickly discovering, the alien names for worlds were nearly unpronounceable. A few were unpronounceable, being a collection of heat impulses or raw binary data. After Jim had tried to pronounce the planet’s name a few times during their briefings, Alex started calling the planet Tulip. It was stupid, so naturally the name stuck. What surprised Jim was that after they all started using it, the damned translators picked up on it and rendered T’T’Ksh’t Tuulu’p into Tulip whenever it was mentioned. It apparently did the same the other direction for aliens. Handy feature, but Jim resolved to be careful about what he allowed his friends to name what. The planet Craphole could cause a diplomatic incident if it were translated to the wrong person, for the wrong reason. Just that morning he found his GalNet recording on a personal slate with the world referred to as Tulip. Yeah, very careful. He wondered if that would be updated on all Human computers. Jesus, Wikipedia nightmare times a million!

  The planet was still a tiny green spot, but he thought it was a little bigger than when he’d first noticed. He did know there were no signs of trouble on the planet. Shortly after transitioning to normal space, the captain put him in contact with Hoona, the administrator of the opSha-owned corporation operating on the planet. They were happy to see the Cavaliers. He also spoke with Bok, the commander of the Jivool merc company he was relieving. That had been quick and mostly monosyllabic. The Jivool were seven foot tall bears with almost no legs, extra wide torsos, and retractable claws on the wrists. Those were evolutionary adaptations for digging, but they worked quite well to disembowel an opponent in hand to hand, their favorite way to fight. The meeting would probably be fun.

  “We will be in orbit in four hours,” the captain told him. “You may begin final preparations to disembark.”

  “Thank you, Captain. We’ll see you in six months for the ride home.”

  “I hope so,” the captain said. Jim was three decks down before what the Bakulu captain had said began to sink in.

  * * *

  The first of the Keesh’s two huge shuttles flared and squatted onto the landing tarmac outside the chief industrial complex of Tulip. Two other big transports were sitting not too far away, wind swirling around their idling lifter engines. The Bakulu pilot equalized the pressure.

  “Attention,” the pilot’s voice came over the PA. “Local atmosphere is being allowed aboard. Concentrations of chlorine are high. Take precautions.”

  The door opened, and the boarding ramp lowered. Jim settled his breathing mask in place and was the first in line as the door slid aside. He intended to be the first to set foot on a contract world and the last to leave.

  “What’s with those?” Ted wondered, pointing to the other ships as he stepped down behind Jim.

  “Not a clue,” Jim admitted. A stream of personnel began coming down behind them. Even through the masks, they could smell the chlorine.

  “This Tulip stinks,” Ted said.

  Jim grunted. “Be damned sure everyone is wearing their masks,” Jim reminded him.

  “Who would be crazy enough not to?”

  “Just fucking check,” Jim said. Ted held up his hands in surrender and went to meet with the platoon sergeants. Jim walked around the side of the shuttle to verify the big loading doors were open, and he saw the first of the Po’Kon APCs was already clanking down the ramp. Robert Alison, his heavy equipment specialist, was watching the operation carefully. Jake had elected not to play with the ‘freaky alien tanks,’ as he called them, so he’d recruited Robert, who’d only recently left the Corps. Jake said Robert was a rare freak; a mechanic and a tank commander. Unlike the man who’d recruited him, Robert loved the alien hardware.

  “Coming alright?” Jim asked the rather squat redheaded man. A bushy beard of a deeper shade of red poked out from under the breathing mask.

  “Air tastes like a swimming pool.”

  Jim nodded. “That it does. Get that mask snug, or you could wake up dead.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robert said, and began fiddling with the straps. Jim turned when he heard a barking grunt. A seven-foot-tall bipedal bear in armor was striding toward him. A Jivool, the less surprised part of his brain provided the name of the race.

  “You are commander?” his translator spoke.

  “Yes, Jim Cartwright, Cartwright’s Cavaliers.” The Jivool grunted, looked at the second APC coming off the shuttle and spoke.

  “We leave.” Jim took a step back.

  “We were supposed to have a week to get settled.”

  “Read contract, we leave.” The alien turned to stride toward the other ships, one of which was already rising into the smelly air.

  “Son of a….Ted!”

  By the time they found the clause, both Jivool transports were long gone. He’d already heard that the Jivool hired the Keesh via radio as soon as the Cavaliers landed. The clause stated that unloading in force constituted a relief by action. More than one armored vehicle was force.

  “Bastards are slippery as snakes,” Slim said in the briefing that afternoon. They were in the barracks building provided by the opSha. It didn’t smell like chlorine, which was a blessing. It did, however, smell like wet bear, which wasn’t.

  “We need to get some lawyers trained in Union law,” Jim said.

  “Contract law is about all they got,” Alex said. Their resident computer guru had read more about the Union than anyone else in the company. Once he’d absorbed all the computer manuals on the Keesh, he turned to the GalNet and had read up on a variety of subject matter. How the Union worked as a government was one of his favorites. “Libertarian/anarchist/minimalist” was how he described it. “The guilds do most of what a normal government would do, including almost all regulations. They charge fees for licensing and oversight, and in exchange pass some of that along to the Union. That’s the limit of taxing. There are some fines and no Union prisons.”

  “No prisons?” one of their miscreant operators laughed. “Sounds like a dream.”

  “Yeah,” Alex affirmed, “no prisons. Most things in the Union that would get you tossed in jail on Earth will get you executed here. They have a lot of fines, and because everyone
has a universal account access card genetically coded to them you can’t escape the fines.”

  “Ayn Rand meets Aldous Huxley!” Nina laughed. She’d just come back from certifying the main armament on all the craft. She simply loved MACs.

  “Regardless,” Jim spoke up, taking control of the meeting again, “we’re now on station. I want three rotating mounted watches. Planetary day is 25 and a half hours, so it won’t be too hard to adapt.” He looked at his platoon sergeants. “Work on discipline for donning masks as part of the routine.” He glanced at Ted. “We’ve already had two sick reports from chlorine exposure.” Ted looked rightfully abashed. “I’m more than a little suspicious of the previous garrison’s eagerness to exfil from a supposedly cushy assignment.”

  Jim saw Hoona, the opSha representative waiting outside the staff room, dismissed everyone except Ted, and asked his XO to bring in the alien.

  “I am pleased you have moved in so quickly!” the diminutive administrator said. Jim had to suppress a smile. The opSha looked like a large howler monkey, but with tiny little black eyes, huge cupped ears, and a pair of extra-long tails which were always in motion. He understood they were almost blind and moved about with bat-like ultrasonic echolocation. When they spoke, Jim only heard the translator.

  “We are comfortable, Administrator Hoona,” Jim said with a little bow, common among aliens.

  “If not for choking on bear stench,” Ted said, sotto voce. Jim shot him a glare, but Hoona seemed not to notice, smiling amiably to show a mouth full of pointy teeth. Jim spoke quickly, just in case.

  “We flew over the facility on approach; it is magnificent.”

  “This?” Hoona asked, and gestured out the window. “This is just a processing plant. We have ninety-two extraction plants on this continent, and more than a hundred thousand kilometers of pipeline feeding it!” Jim’s mouth dropped open. “The hydrocarbons and fossil chemicals on this world are particularly abundant and unpolluted. We’ve been scaling up production the last 50 years and have just about reached the limit of what we can support.”