Prodigal Son (Rise of the Peacemakers Book 5)

by Matt Novotny

  “Come on, Jackson. Time to go. I can’t be late for my meeting,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Jackson, jumping down from the tree he was climbing. His mother reached for his hand and, taking it, they headed toward the path and home.

  When they entered the apartment, Jackson heard the insistent chime of the comm. His mother glanced at the clock. “They must have started early!” she exclaimed. “Grab a vid, Jackson, I have to run. As soon as I’m done, we can get some dinner.”

  Jackson listened absently as his mother started her call, not really paying attention as he scrolled through the vid menu, until he heard his mother’s voice go shrill.

  “What? Oh, no, no, no, no, no! This can’t be happening. It can’t!”

  Jackson ran to his mother’s office and stopped at the open door. His mother was sitting in her chair, her knees pulled up to her chest. Tears streamed down her face as she stared at an older man on the screen. He had a ruddy complexion and thinning brown hair. It was a sweaty face with no expression, framing colorless eyes above a perfectly tailored suit like a boulder hovering over the edge of a precipice. The name on the image said “Arthwaite Lemberg.”

  “I’m sorry the news has come so late, Mrs. Rains, but we’ve just received the details ourselves,” explained the man. “I’m afraid there isn’t any question, but the mission your husband was on was a total loss. All the mercenaries deployed to that location were killed. We have confirmation from the recovery team that there were no survivors. We at Aces High offer our deepest sympathy for your loss. Our thoughts and prayers are with your family.”

  “Mom!” yelled Jackson, feeling the tears welling up and trying to deny he understood what the man had said. “He can’t mean—It’s not—He’s wrong, Mom! He’s gotta be!”

  Jackson’s mother looked up and started to speak, but no words came. Instead, she simply sat up and opened her arms. Jackson ran to his mother and clung to her, climbing into her lap and crying into her shoulder while she rocked him.

  Sweaty dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief but had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Mrs. Rains, I’m sorry to bring this up now, but there are certain financial considerations we need to address.”

  “We can discuss this later, Mr. Lemberg. I need to see to my son now.”

  “Now, I thought we had agreed you would call me Arthwaite,” Sweaty said. “I’m afraid it can’t wait, Mrs. Rains. You see, I’m required by law to inform you that our review of the mission logs indicates that Benjamin Rains was one of several personnel responsible for the mission loss. Per our standard contract that makes him financially liable for the company’s losses. I’m sure the insurance will take care of a portion of that, but as his spouse you will be liable for the rest.”

  Jackson let out a moan, thinking over and over again of his father, “I wa-want my d-d-daaddyy…” he sobbed.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” his mother said to Sweaty. “Can’t you see…?”

  Sweaty reddened. “Again, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have a choice. I’ve attached the package from our legal team with a detailed accounting. You will be served the official papers in the next few days as a matter of course. All very standard, I assure you. But I thought it best to tell you now. The amount comes to several million credits.”

  “Several million…” said Jackson’s mother. “How on Earth do you get to—”

  “As I said, we’ve sent you a detailed accounting,” he replied. “Normally we would proceed on seizure of assets immediately, but in your case, you have skills as a doctor that would be extremely valuable to the company. We would like you to consider serving out the rest of your husband’s contract. In return, the company would forgive the debt, pay out the balance of the contract, and even agree not to make a preemptive claim on the life insurance.”

  Jackson sniffled. He was still crying, but softly. He whimpered, and his mother squeezed him tightly then released him. “Go clean up, Jackson. We both need to eat something and then we can talk. I’ll be right there.”

  Jackson climbed down from her lap and moved slowly toward the door.

  “Not hungry,” he said defiantly.

  “Jackson, please…” His mother’s voice caught. Jackson stopped by the door, his hand trailing along the wall.

  “Please consider, Mrs. Rains, it may sound unusual, but we work with civilian contractors all the time. We can place you at one of our medical facilities to help injured mercenaries. I’m sure your husband would approve! You would be nowhere near combat, completely safe, and it’s an excellent offer.”

  “Mr.—” his mother began. Her voice like ice.

  “Arthwaite,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “No need to decide now, Mrs. Rains. We know you’ve had a shock. I’ll just send the detail of our offer along for you to review—”

  “But—” she tried to respond.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rains. And once again, our sincere condolences.”

  “—I’m not a merc,” she finished to an empty screen.

  * * *

  Sanctuary Plantation

  Louisiana, Earth

  “Good crowd today,” Amos told Greasy, listening with half an ear as the announcer finished working the crowd and sending the hungry ones in his direction. Amos took a spoon and sampled the dish he was working on. He nodded, smiled, then grabbed another spoon and held it out to Greasy.

  “Come an’ taste this.”

  Greasy ambled over, took the spoon, and scooped out a bite. He chewed. Nodded. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He set down the spoon and sipped from his coffee.

  Amos watched Greasy and thought about how things had changed. After Avbo, he’d come home with thoughts of retiring and setting up a restaurant, maybe in the French Quarter. But he’d quickly found that his boys would scatter to the winds if he didn’t find something to keep them busy, and so the Armored Olympics was born.

  “Well?” asked Amos.

  “Too spicy,” said Greasy.

  “The hell you say. I don’ know why I ask you anyways.”

  Never thought we’d wind up with this circus, thought Amos. At first, it had been just the Cajuns running CASPer drills, which drew some attention. The locals had come by to watch. Then they started bringing friends. Bes, ever the sensible one, picked up a lawyer and filed all the paperwork to lock down the idea six ways in four dimensions, and to cover the Cajuns’ six if any of the spectators got on the wrong side of a CASPer.

  Soon, other mercs, either on leave or retired like himself, who still had the bug, would stop by, share tips and tricks, or mount up to relive their glory days. Those who had done well would bring their own machines. Then the paint jobs and the weapons got wilder and wilder. The suits changed from being what the well-dressed merc wore to work into alter egos with personalities all their own. Where a working CASPer might have a stenciled line for each battle it survived, some suits in the Armored Olympics were covered with the stickers of corporate sponsors.

  There was a lot of discussion about setting up league competitions, even some interest from the actual Olympics about making it an official sport. Not the combat exhibitions that were half old school wrestling and half gladiatorial arena, of course, but there were plenty of endurance and marksmanship events that pushed man and machine up to and beyond their limits. Still, the greater interest was in the CASPer pilot as legend.

  The Cajuns now had a half-dozen sponsorships, including one from Binnig, and could run demos and drills in every version of CASPer from the Mk 1 on up to the Mk 6. The fun part was working out all the things a merc had to do that a CASPer was never designed for. The data from the competitions was pure gold, and a dump after each new combination was sent straight to Binnig R&D. They even had a line of action figures.

  Greasy grabbed a napkin and mopped his forehead. “First class grub, Amos, but if you ain’t used to it on the heat scale it falls somewhere between fusion reaction and orbital launch.”

  “You hopeless.” Am
os laughed.

  “I’m the very font of hope,” said Greasy unconvincingly. “Speaking of, when are you going to get a real mechanic? Somebody who knows the new stuff?”

  “You doin’ fine.”

  “I’m serious, Amos. I’m good with the antiques Binnig sent us. Hell, they’re even older than I am. But if you’re ever going to head back into combat, you need better support than ol’ Greasy.”

  “I’ll think about it, okay?” said Amos. He thought about their old place, then looked out over the sprawling plantation grounds.

  After a while, there had been enough traffic that they had to look for a place with more room than their old quarters had available. Amos had looked around before deciding to restore the almost-ruins of Sanctuary Plantation. The place had last been refurbished by Bernard Delacroix back in the 2000s, but with the difficulties of the family’s fortunes, he was forced to abandon the project, and Sanctuary was ignored for almost two hundred years.

  Old Bernard had put good foundations into Sanctuary, covering modern materials with a façade of antebellum glory. When the Cajuns had decided to refurbish and expand the old place, there was a lot less work than they thought there would be, and now Sanctuary Plantation had a veneer of old-world charm set over the bones of a state-of-the-art facility. Amos was proud, and a little surprised, at how much they had accomplished in the last few years. There was still a bunch of work to be done to get all the remote sensors placed and online, but they had set aside a lot of the work they would normally do to work on the major buildings and get the Olympics up and running.

  Amos and Greasy both winced at the squeal of springs as the screen door on the porch was thrust open. Amos glanced toward the house. Bes was stalking across the yard toward the cookhouse with a determined expression on her face. That she hadn’t just commed him meant she had something she wasn’t going to take no for an answer on.

  “Lookout, Dews, Miss Bes’ gotta full head o’ steam on, and no mistake,” he said to the bloodhound. Hearing his name, Dewey got up from his bed and came and sat at Amos’ feet, looking hopefully at the counter.

  “I think that’s my cue to go see ol’ Lem about getting some solvent,” said Greasy, topping off his cup and heading for the door.

  “I see how you are.”

  Greasy chuckled. “A wise man retreats when he can’t win.”

  “Only when dat’s an option!” Amos called after Greasy’s retreating back.

  Amos cut a few pieces of andouille sausage for the dog and held them up. Dewey drooled, then cut loose with a thunderous WOOF that Amos was sure could be heard down at the demo grounds.

  “All right. Here you go. I give you too much. You gettin’ fat like ol’ Amos.”

  The door opened, and, before he could say a word, Bes started in. “Amos, I’m looking at the schedule, and I see there are still Olympians on it for Sabine’s Birthday. We can’t have both. You need to change it and change it fast. I told you about dis last week—”

  Amos held up his hands. “Now, Bes—”

  Bes stalked across the kitchen and stood right in front of Amos. “Don’t you ‘now, Bes’ me.”

  “Them on the schedule are here for the party. I cleared the whole week. Those the people Sabine want to invite, I gar-on-tee! Why you so worked up?”

  “What about the surprise? That partner o’ yours gonna make it?”

  “All set up. And the rest are coming, too. This gonna be one to remember.”

  “What about Jac-son? You hear from him?” asked Bes.

  “I do. He said he try. He got a mission, Bes. He not say it, but it sound like things not going right for him. He in it deep. Them Peacemakers, they no just take off when they wa—”

  “If he is, why you no packin’ up to go help? You had one job, Amos. You know how much this mean to her.” Bes poked the air with a finger.

  “Because,” Amos retorted, “Jac-son ain’t one of my boys, Bes. He’s a Peacemaker. You tell ‘im ‘Be True,’ you have to let him be. He know it important, too. He’ll be here if he can.”

  “I’ll talk to him mysel’!” Bes said, turning and slamming the door.

  Amos watched it close behind her.

  Dewey looked from the door back to Amos. “Don’t I know it,” said Amos, giving Dewey another piece of sausage. “Here you be, Dews. Dere might as well one of us be happy.”

  Dewey gave a slight burp, his tail thumping the floor.

  * * *

  Gorton Station

  The voices, Rains decided, were far away. Somewhere behind a wall of pain and the ringing in his ears. He tried to open his eyes, then gave it up as a bad job.

  “How’s he doing, doctor?” asked the first voice. He’d heard the voice before. It was one he should remember.

  “The auto-doc says he’ll live, though he may not be happy about it,” said the second voice. It was low and growling and made whatever he was lying on vibrate.

  Rains tried to take a deep breath and open his eyes again. Pain overwhelmed him. He panted a little; short shallow breaths didn’t hurt so much. He tried to ask, “Where am I?” but between the desert in his mouth and the inability to force air past his vocal cords, all that came out was “Whgh’m Agh?”

  “He’s coming around,” said the second voice.

  “Are you sure?” asked the first. “That wasn’t some sort of death rattle? We have one missing Peacemaker and another that was just blown up. The last thing we need is the station overrun with Enforcers.”

  “Chief, I may not have much experience with Humans, but I can read my instruments.”

  “If you say so…” said the chief.

  Chief…thought Rains. Chief Barn? Barf? Bosk…? Bosk! That was it. The first voice was Chief Bosk.

  “Peacemaker Rains, I’m Doctor Ulmesh. Leave your eyes closed for the moment. I’m going to give you some water to sip. Do you understand?”

  “M’hhmgh,” Rains replied.

  He felt something prod at his lips, realized it was some version of a straw, and sipped the cool water. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. The desert retreated.

  “Whaa-t happened?” Rains asked as he tried to sit up.

  “Did I say you could move?” asked the doctor. Rains felt a gentle pressure across his entire chest. Red spots flashed behind his eyelids as pain hit him again. “You were in an explosion and you are in the Gorton Station med center. Your shoulder is dislocated. I need to reset it.” Rains felt gentle paws on his shoulder. “On three, Peacemaker,” said Ulmesh. “One, two—” With a quick wrench, Ulmesh set Rains’ shoulder back into the socket with a wet, grinding pop! “That’s better. Are you in any pain?”

  Rains clenched his teeth and nodded tightly.

  “There, I’ve boosted your pain meds. You have six broken ribs and a severe concussion. Give the nanites time to work.”

  “Peacemaker Rains—” started Chief Bosk.

  “You,” interrupted the Doctor, “quiet. You can badger my patient in a minute. Make yourself useful and notify his ship that he’s awake so they will quit calling on the hour.

  “Peacemaker,” continued Ulmesh. “I want you to open your eyes. I’ve turned down the lights.”

  Rains felt a weight on him and pushed against the pressure. It didn’t budge. Was he restrained? Rains relaxed, then slowly opened his eyes. An enormous shadow loomed over him. Wide, concerned eyes looked down from a meter and a half away.

  There was, quite literally, an Oogar on his chest.

  “Welcome back, Peacemaker. Now, are you going to lie still and let the nanites work or do I sit on you like a cub?”

  “I’m good,” Rains said weakly and ceased to struggle.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said the doctor. “You are my guest for the next couple of hours. Once I get you patched up, if you decide to imitate a MAC round again, do it somewhere else. I already have plenty of work.” To Bosk, “Okay, Chief. He’s all yours. Keep it brief. He needs to rest so we can get the bed back.”
/>   With that, the towering purple figure headed into the next room. Rains and Bosk watched her go.

  “Wow,” said Rains.

  “Tell me about it,” replied Bosk.

  “Tell me what happened, Chief.” Since Dr. Ulmesh mentioned nanite therapy, it made his bones itch everywhere he couldn’t scratch.

  “Not much to tell. Someone planted a bomb in Peacemaker Ravak’s quarters. We are going through the security logs now, but my guess is we will find that Sin’Kura or one of her associates accessed those quarters. The next question is whether it was meant for you or for us.”

  “I would say it was aimed at the Peacemakers or an Enforcer team. There is no way anyone could know who would respond when Ravak didn’t check in. It’s fortunate your people didn’t go in.”

  “And you were damned lucky that armor you people wear is as tough as it is, or you would have been a splatter on the wall instead of leaving a Peacemaker-sized dent in our corridor.” Bosk gave a very Human-like shrug. “So, what’s next?”

  “Next, I see if I can catch up to our friend or get ahead of her somehow,” said Rains. “And you spend a bunch of time you don’t have checking the station for other surprises. How is the station?”

  Bosk looked around and grabbed a stool from the foot of the bed and rested on it. “We’re stable. The worst of the damage is patched, but the repair work is going to take some time. It’ll probably be months before we are back to normal, and there is no telling how much business the station will lose in the meantime. We’ve continued our search of the security records. Sin’Kura and her associates were in the area close to where the explosion first took place. It looks like the F11 storage facility wasn’t the target; that was nearby in the Blood Son annex. There is a chemical signature that matches the explosives used in Peacemaker Ravak’s quarters. If Sin’Kura’s seen on this station again, she is likely to be spaced.”

  Doctor Ulmesh shuffled back in and checked Rains’ data on a slate. “That’s enough for now, Peacemaker. I want you to rest.”