“Perhaps I should stay with you, Colonel,” the Russian said, “in case the alien needs another attitude adjustment.”
“No,” Altan said. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Why don’t you begin loading the troops aboard?”
Sokolov left and began shouting and gesturing at the troops, with Jasur translating when necessary. Altan led the alien to where the gear had been piled, just off the pad, taking a wide detour to avoid the pool of scarlet surrounding Rashid.
“—worst mercenaries, ever,” the Jeha muttered as they reached the first pile, the translation pendant catching just the end of what he said. The first pile was in some disorder; several large boxes of rations had been stacked too high and had blown over onto a number of ammo cans when the dropship landed.
“What did you say?” Altan asked.
“Nothing,” the alien replied, turning to look back to where Sokolov was yelling at a trooper moving too slowly. “What I meant to say was that you are the most unprepared mercenaries I’ve ever seen.” He pointed at several of the piles simultaneously. “These aren’t ready to go. They aren’t on pallets. They don’t have netting over them to keep the stores and equipment in place. I can’t read your writing, but it wouldn’t surprise me if your ammo and explosives are mixed in with your sundries.”
“What’s a sundry?” Altan asked.
“Your food and other stores.”
“Well,” Altan said, “at least the last one would never happen.” He looked at Borte. “No one would ever be dumb enough to do that, right?”
“We will take your people up to the transport,” the Jeha said, turning to go back to the dropship, “but you will need to secure all of this before we can load it.” As he walked out of range, Altan caught a fragment of the last thing he said.
“…worst mercs ever…”
* * *
Altan closed his eyes and tried to tighten the straps holding him to the bulkhead. If he could make them secure enough, he thought, it would be enough like gravity that his stomach would settle. He’d had that hope for several days—ever since the thrust cut off—but it had yet to occur.
There was a respectful knock on the door, and a voice said, “Excuse me, sir.”
“Come—” he started to yell, but then had to catch himself as his stomach threatened to empty. “Come in,” he said less forcefully, which helped keep his stomach in the right place.
First Sergeant Sokolov entered his cabin, wearing a translation pendant. “Sorry to have to bother you, sir,” he said, “but we’re losing a lot of time in transit that could be better spent training our forces.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we are supposed to be a mercenary unit, sir, but most of the force doesn’t know jack shit about being in the military or fighting together. I want to fix that.”
“But we’re not going into combat. The Merc Guild guy that arranged our contract said it’s highly unlikely there will be any fighting.”
“Sir, I’ve been in the military 15 years, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that there’s always fighting when you aren’t expecting it. The men need training in what to do and how to do it, or we’re going to be dead. If not on this contract, then the next one or the one after it. At some point, they’ll need to know how to act like a merc unit, and they’ll need to know how to do it right.”
“Can you do it without killing anyone else? Most of the people here are related to me in one way or another; if you start killing them all, I won’t have any choice but to kill you.”
“I will certainly try, although if it comes down to self-defense, I won’t have any option.”
“Well, try not to let it get to that extent then, please. We need you to show us what we’re doing wrong. I mean, pallets and nets for the cargo? You mentioned that before the aliens arrived to pick us up, but I didn’t listen. Obviously, there’s a lot you can teach us that we need to know.”
“I will do my best,” Sokolov said. “I can’t make them into a military unit in the time remaining, but maybe there’s enough time left to teach them which end of the gun the bullet comes out.”
* * * * *
The Golden Horde - 8
Altan chewed his lip, trying not to think about the various forces on his body that were unsettling his stomach. He wasn’t sure which was worse—not having gravity, like on the transport, or the wildly-fluctuating forces he was being subjected to on the dropship. Probably the dropship, he mused, as it swayed violently to the left.
“One minute!” the dropship pilot advised over the intercom system.
“Finally!” Borte exclaimed. “I’m looking forward to solid ground under my feet again.”
Altan nodded, not wanting to think about zero gravity any more. He spent the last bit of the flight counting down the seconds. Either the pilot had miscalculated, or he was counting too fast—the ship didn’t touch down until he reached “83.”
He opened his eyes to find Borte staring at him with a peculiar look on his face. “Are you okay, Boss?” he asked. “You don’t look very good.”
“I’m fine,” Altan said, trying to shrug off his lingering stomach issues. “Let’s go see this new world.” He started to order his ‘troops’ to deploy, but found Sokolov already had it under control.
“Move it, you maggots!” the Russian yelled, pulling troops from their seats and throwing them bodily out the door when they moved too slowly.
“Impressive,” Borte noted, watching Sokolov single-handedly deploying the troops. “He really put his time aboard the transport to good use.”
“He did say we needed a senior enlisted to run things,” Altan replied. “I guess he was right.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Borte said, his eyes on the Russian. “I meant I’m impressed how many swear words he was able to learn in Uzbek on the transit.”
“That too.”
Faster than Altan would have thought possible, the Russian had the dropship unloaded, and Altan and Borte strode off the craft to find the troops mostly deployed in the formation Sokolov had briefed him on—a defensive perimeter. It was funny how quickly words like “briefed” and “defensive perimeter” had crept into his vocabulary. Was he in danger of becoming an actual mercenary and going legit?
Perish the thought!
A group of Zuparti awaited them, watching the troops deploy. Altan wasn’t a xenobiologist, nor was he acquainted with their body language, but he could tell they didn’t look happy. Altan surveyed his troops. Most of them were where they were supposed to be, and Sokolov was fixing the ones who weren’t—what did the Zuparti expect? Perfection?
He let his gaze wander as he walked toward the Zuparti, enjoying the moment and feeling like a conquering hero as he took in the vista of the new planet. The gravity was slightly less than Earth-normal, and he felt like he was walking on clouds. One hundred yards beyond the Zuparti, he could see the factory the Horde was there to defend. At least five stories tall, the building was a massive square at least two city blocks on a side. Several miles beyond it, he could see the nearby city through the early afternoon haze.
He turned as the dropship lifted off behind him. The grassy valley they had landed in extended for several miles away from the factory before it went into a blue-tinted forest. It was rather scenic and bucolic. Shrugging, he turned and continued toward the Zuparti.
“It’s about time you got here,” the weasel in front of the group said. “You’re late.”
Altan looked at the galactic timepiece he’d purchased at the last port they’d hit. “What do you mean? We’re right on time.”
The Zuparti stared at him for a moment and then said, “You were over two minutes late—two minutes and seven seconds to be exact—what if we’d been attacked?”
“Then you’d have had every reason to be upset,” Altan replied. “As has happened, though, you weren’t, so the point is moot. Besides, the Altar were the ones who brought us down—they controlled our arrival time. If you have
an issue, I suggest you take it up with them.”
“Not true,” one of the other Zuparti said. He handed a small slate to the weasel in the front of the group, who held it out to Altan while pointing at something on the screen. “See?” it asked. “The Prime Contractor—which is you—is ultimately responsible for the performance of all subcontractors. As the Altar work for you, they are your responsibility.”
Altan sighed and shrugged. “Okay; they’re our responsibility. I’m sorry we were late.”
“Sorry? Sorry isn’t good enough, although I’m happy you admitted it in front of all these witnesses. We’re docking your first day’s pay.”
“Fine,” Altan said as Sokolov came over to stand next to him. He just wanted the conversation to be over. The weasel’s attitude was ruining the moment for him.
“Also,” the Zuparti continued, “that is the worst combat deployment we’ve ever seen. The contract specifically states that you are to use professional troops. These do not look like professional soldiers.”
“That is where you are wrong,” Altan said. “I have paid all of my troops for their mercenary duties. Therefore, by definition, they are all ‘professionals.’”
“They are the worst-looking soldiers we have ever seen.”
“So?”
“What do you mean?”
“The contract doesn’t say they have to be the best you’ve ever seen—it just says that they have to be professionals. As you’ve already agreed in front of all these witnesses, my men are professionals, so it doesn’t matter how they look to you; they meet the specifications of the contract.”
“Well, we will be watching them,” the lead Zuparti said. “If they don’t carry out their duties professionally, you can expect us to lodge a complaint with the Merc Guild.”
“As is your right.” Altan was happy to concede the point, having just won one of his own. “Is there anything else, or can we get back to our duties?”
“There is something else,” the lead weasel said. “Since you mention it, we’d like to know how you are going to defend the factory.”
“We’re going to guard it, of course.”
“We know that, silly Human—we wrote the contract. What we want to know is how you intend to fulfill that duty. You’re at least going to put up defensive works in the area, correct? So that nothing hits the building where we’re working?”
“Uh, well, maybe…” Altan said.
“Yes, we are,” Sokolov said. “We just need a bulldozer or something like that, and we’ll get right on it.”
“You don’t have the equipment to do what you need to?”
“Uh, no,” Altan replied. “It…uh…it wouldn’t fit in the ship. Do you have one we can use?”
“Yes, we do, but I am making a complaint to the Merc Guild that you showed up without all of the equipment you needed.”
“That’s fine,” Altan said. “Perhaps we can trade for its usage.”
“What do you have to trade?” the Zuparti asked, sounding suspicious.
“I have a large amount of heroin and other opium-based products you might like to try.”
“Try how? What does it do?”
“It’s a drug. It makes you feel good.”
“Oh, Entropy! No, I wouldn’t want anything like that! On second thought, perhaps we will leave you alone and watch what you do, instead. That way, we have a better opportunity to see how badly you perform, without giving you any hints that might help you figure out what you are supposed to be doing.”
* * * * *
The Golden Horde - 9
“Quick, Boss!” Borte yelled. “I mean, Colonel, come outside!”
Altan dropped his spoon and sprinted out of the tent. He ran over to where Borte was standing, looking toward the mountain range 13 miles to the west. “What is it?” he asked.
“Dropships. I think I saw five.”
“What were they doing?”
“Landing. I suspect this is the attack our employers were worried about.”
“Really? To get some video games?” Altan shook his head. “I thought the Zuparti were just over-reacting. It’s what they do.”
“It appears they weren’t,” Borte said. He paused and then asked, “What are we going to do about it?”
“Do we have anything that can shoot that far?”
“No.”
“Then I guess we do nothing for now.”
“We’ve got to do something!” Borte exclaimed, exasperation in his voice. “They’re going to attack us!”
“Not immediately,” Altan said, “or they’d have done it already. No, they are too far away to attack immediately. I suspect they will organize tonight and attack tomorrow.”
“But how do you know that?” Borte asked. “At what point did you become the alien expert?”
Altan shrugged. “Standard assault practice versus a target with no air defenses,” he said. “I had one of the boys research assault tactics on the GalNet. Technology is a wonderful thing, just like back home.”
Borte stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Okay,” Altan said. “Let’s go find out who they are; that way, we can research them and find out their weaknesses.”
“Go talk to them? Just like that?”
“Of course,” Altan replied. “They’re mercenaries, not ravening hordes. Well, as long as they aren’t Besquith, anyway. Bring along some of our product samples, too. Maybe we can do some business while we’re there.”
* * *
Altan, Borte, and one of the boys approached the enemy encampment in a hover car their employers had loaned them. Their pay was going to be docked again. “Stop,” Altan ordered as an armed road block came into view. “Let’s walk from here; that way, they won’t feel the need to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Borte pulled the car over, and the group got out.
“They’re KzSha,” Sukh said, looking back and forth between the figures at the checkpoint and his slate. A recent graduate of Sister Mary Margaret’s school, he had a knack for finding info on the internet that had translated well to the GalNet.
“Who are what?” Borte asked.
“The aliens are KzSha,” Sukh said, looking down at his slate again. “Basically, they look like giant wasps that are more massive than a Human, they wear unenhanced combat armor, can fly in low to medium gravity, and have two bladed middle arms tough enough to cut steel or punch through carbon-ceramic armor.” He paused and looked up. “Apparently, they are also really hard to kill.”
“Thanks,” Altan said, somewhat sarcastically. “Anything else we need to know?”
“They are also known for conducting less-than-legal enterprises when they think they can get away with it.”
“Hunh,” Altan replied. “They’re my kind of people, after all.”
“So, um, Boss, how do we do this?”
“What?”
“Go talk to them without getting shot.”
“I read that most mercs recognize holding your rifle above your head as a sign of peaceful intent.”
“Most?”
“Yeah, most.” Altan shrugged. “Life is a gamble. If you don’t want to come, stay here.”
“No. If you’re going, I am, too.”
The group proceeded toward the checkpoint and could see two of the giant wasp-like figures behind a barricade. Altan and Borte flinched as something started flashing at them.
“Sorry, I forgot to mention,” Sukh said; “they communicate with light pulses from their antenna.”
“That would have been helpful to know ahead of time,” Altan growled, trying to control the adrenaline rush.
“Halt,” the translation pendant on his chest said. “Who—no, what are you?”
“We are Humans,” Altan yelled. “We are part of the merc contingent at the factory.”
“Keep your appendages up and approach.”
The Humans walked up to the checkpoint and were liberated of their weapons. “I will take you to the captain,” one of t
he KzSha said. The giant wasp led them into the camp, where it looked like at least four companies of KzSha were setting up camp and buzzing around. Wherever the Humans went, numerous eyes followed them while the aliens continued working.
After a couple of minutes, they came to a prefab building with a guard at the door. “Watch them while I go talk to the captain,” their guide said. The guard unlimbered its weapon to point in their general direction as their guide went into the building.
“Why don’t you stay out here and talk to some of the troopers?” Borte suggested to Sukh while they waited, handing his translation pendant to the boy. “Maybe some of the aliens might be interested in partying a bit.”
“What do I tell them the price is?”
“With this group? I’ll bet they have connections. Tell them it’s free—the first taste is always free.”
The KzSha sentry came back out and motioned them into the building, and Altan and Borte turned and entered. The light was dimmer, and it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. The sentry led them into a room with a large table in the center, covered with a tarp. Based on the bumps under the cover, Altan suspected it was a model of the area.
“What is it you want?” asked a large KzSha as it entered the room. “I am not familiar with your species—I thought the Zuparti owned the factory.”
“They do,” Altan said. “We were hired to protect it. We saw your ships land and thought we would come by and see if we could work out a deal.”
“A deal? What kind of a deal?”
“Well, this is our first contract as mercenaries, so we’re hoping it will be successful. We’d be willing to trade our opiates if you will hold off attacking until all of the factory’s product is shipped.”
“Hold off attacking? Are you serious? If we didn’t perform to the specifications of our contract, we would be in breach of it and would have to pay reparations. Not only that, our standing in the Guild would drop; it would be harder to find new contracts, and we would get paid less for them. The answer is ‘no.’”
Alpha Contracts Page 29
