by Mia R Kleve
“Bucking bronco is go,” Rylak said and unplugged his interface. “Ten minutes, starting now.”
“Best of luck, Captain,” Drake said. Klovelo led the way out the bridge—and then every interface terminal on the bridge powered down, leaving Blirr alone in the dark.
* * *
With Drake, Klovelo, and Rylak back aboard the Blythe, Meekos detached from where it was riding piggyback and blasted clear. Ten minutes after Rylak activated the program, the thrusters on the Kryvayla ignited, and the frigate pulled away in a long, slow arc that would take it all the way back to the emergence point on the far side of Antaro Five, a distance of more than five hundred light seconds that would take three full days to traverse before it returned to the planet itself. There was always a chance, of course, that the MinSha had a savvy engineer on board who could completely cut out the piloting and navigation systems and rewire a new one in its place, but Kreezasch assured him that would still likely take a day and a half to repair.
“Well, that bought us some time. Let’s go meet Captain Grymalkynn,” Drake ordered, and Meekos guided the Blythe over to the still-crippled Herald of Blades. With a light touch on the controls, their pilot brought the Blythe almost to the same spot where the Kryvayla had been just minutes before. They extended their umbilicus, pressurized it, and Drake reached Xandra on her pinplants.
“Can you put us in contact with the captain?”
“He’s here,” Xandra said. She sounded nervous—and Xandra never sounded nervous.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” Drake asked. He hated to ask, to be honest, the Herald of Blades was crippled, and the Blythe had her at her mercy. But considering Xandra had been outed as an infiltrator, it was probably best to be polite…ish.
“Permission granted, bounty hunter.” He sounded miffed.
“Meekos, Kreezasch, with me. They’re probably going to need some flight and engineering expertise.”
* * *
On the far end of the tube, Drake swam aboard. The interior bulkheads were scorched by laser fire, and fragments of slugs and divots of steel carved from the walls drifted lazily across the open space. Blue MinSha blood and other, less identifiable parts, had been liberally sprayed across the interior surfaces, and in some places the blue mixed with red. In the center of the carnage and blood, half a dozen Pushtal in armored shipsuits waited for them. The largest of them wore glossy black armor, although it was currently stippled with blue and red blood. One of the Pushtal was missing her arm below the elbow, and the seventh Pushtal, who could only be Ruxandra, knelt in front of them, her hands bound behind her. Drake offered them a communicator and they quickly linked their nets together.
“Funny way to show your gratitude,” Drake remarked. “She saves your lives and you tie her up?”
“This…traitor lied to us from the beginning. She’s been our crewmate for months!”
“Well…yeah,” Drake replied. “Her reports to us are essential in sussing out whether a clan…fits. Some—maybe even most—of the minor clans are beyond recruitment and are savage, murderous scum. But you run a tight ship, First Claw. You’re picky about your targets; you use tactics and strategies that minimize casualties for everyone. That’s important; we know how fucked up some clans can be. Roxtador was an utter disaster under Ruxandra’s old First. Regardless, if she’d come out and said, ‘hey, I’m a bounty hunter, and we’d like to recruit you and your clan,’ you’d have told us to fuck right off.”
“I think we’re at that point already, Besquith,” Grymalkynn snarled. “Give me one good reason not to blast you and her and your crew right now?”
“Aside from signing your own death warrants? Don’t you typically prefer to go out in combat? How’s that going to work for you if my ship just left? Do you have enough atmo in those suits to get your engines functional again?”
The captain exchanged a glance with the Pushtal to his right, and the second shook his head. Drake barked a laugh, and the captain came back on.
“You said, ‘recruit you and your clan.’ Tell me more.”
“Not until my crewmate is on her feet standing next to me, Captain Grymalkynn. I already got the MinSha off your back, and I’m a little insulted that Ruxandra is on your shit list for saving your lives. Let her up so she can come back with me to my ship, and we can speak to each other face to face. My associates will remain here to help your crew assess the damage and see if they can get the Herald spaceworthy again. Consider them hostages to guarantee your own safety if it makes you feel any better.”
The Pushtal captain seemed to consider the suggestion and nodded to the same subordinate to his right. That Pushtal helped Ruxandra back to her feet and untied her hands. Without further delay, Drake, Ruxandra, Grymalkynn, and another Pushtal swam back down the tube to the Blythe’s airlock.
* * *
The Blythe had a decent operations planning room. Drake led the other three into the ops room and offered them chairs. The fourth Pushtal, whom Ruxandra identified as Vanneck, the combat systems engineer, preferred to stand. Drake didn’t beat around the bush.
“First, you should know the MinSha frigate was a surprise to us as well, one of those random, unlucky things. We had planned to meet you by the gate and have this conversation under far better circumstances. Having said that, we can’t do anything about that now. I assume you two are aware the Pushtal have a Fangmaster establishing a government for all Pushtal on Draxis?”
Vanneck laughed, a sharp, derisive sneer, and Grymalkynn’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes, the child. Magnus, whose bloodline was so weak his father renounced the title not an hour after receiving it. I know of them.”
“I hardly think Meerawn weak,” Drake replied easily. “It takes cold courage to acknowledge one isn’t suited for the task at hand. Especially after one has just had their ass kicked by an Oogar in hand-to-hand combat.”
“What do you know of such things,” Vanneck snarled.
“I was there,” Drake replied and nodded to Ruxandra. “As was she. She was slated to be Regent of Roxtador until Magnus received the title. This isn’t my first pitch, and you’re not the first Claw who didn’t believe me right off the bat.”
Grymalkynn’s eyes narrowed tightly, a snarl of disbelief crinkling his nose. Drake shrugged and pulled up a 2D video recorded, apparently, from someone’s helmet camera. On-screen, a young white-and-black striped Pushtal argued with an enormous purple Oogar in combat armor. Although he hadn’t been there in eighty-five years, Grymalkynn recognized the House of Claws, the Pushtal ceremonial seat of power since the fall of Vorrhurna. The Oogar and Meerawn of Arwoon argued and then fought in vicious hand-to-hand combat until the Oogar caught Meerawn in a rear-naked choke hold. The Fangmaster lost consciousness. He came to a few seconds later, and Grymalkynn shook his head.
“See? He lost. His first challenge as a Fangmaster and he lost. He’s weak.”
“Keep watching.”
A few short minutes later, Grymalkynn watched Meerawn resign, and the remaining major clans back young Magnus. It was not at all how it had been described to him. It was a matter of honor and courage, not weakness and cowardice. Farnon, of Clan Grotha, had been at the Moot, too; he had been Grymalkynn’s source on how the whole mess went down. Farnon had not been in favor of Meerawn or Magnus as Fangmaster. The old bastard had gone to his grave believing it should have been his. The new First Claw of Grotha was rather more in favor of the Fangmaster cub.
“Interesting,” was all he could say.
“So here’s the pitch,” Drake said. “Magnus, the Fangmaster, believes the Pushtal are stronger when they work together. Roxtador and Arwoon, two of the largest Pushtal clans, are practically one and the same, now. With Magnus’ mother as Hr’ent’s Regent for Roxtador and Magnus’ father as First Claw of Arwoon, it was inevitable. Oronhaia and Azrigaez back them, and those four Clans together represent seventy percent of the Pushtal living on Draxis.”
“I have yet to hear ‘the pitch
,’ bounty hunter.”
Ruxandra spoke now. “So long as you and yours keep up the piracy, you’re going to wind up in prison or dead. The Fangmaster and the Council want the smaller Clans to come to Draxis, to come home. Are we going to be mercenaries again? Certainly not, the MinSha and the Veetanho will see to that. But there are other trades, other skills, other needs. We have a need for skilled pilots, skilled crews, and skilled marines to guard our ships as Draxis expands its industry off-world. Come in from the cold, Grym, and make Draxis home again.”
Grymalkynn pondered for a moment, and the massive Besquith changed the viewscreen from the helmet-cam to a still of the Herald as the Blythe had seen it. The scars on her hull were terrible, and whole chunks of the drives were gone.
Ruxandra spoke again.
“That’s the pitch, First Claw of Ihlosi. Stop killing innocents who don’t deserve it and keep flying, or rot in jail. The Herald of Blades is almost certainly ruined scrap. If we hadn’t been here, if I hadn’t infiltrated your crew, you’d be dead right now. Your cargotainers of food were destroyed when the MinSha attacked; your people will go hungry. Again. The Fangmaster may be a child, but he’s of my Clan—we understand what it is to be hungry. Skipistal believed in three things: combat drugs, opiates, and sex. We were hungry, constantly. There was always enough Venom to go around, but never enough meat. Say the word, and we’ll have an entire wing from Draxis meet us at whatever rock Ihlosi has been hiding on with enough food to tide everyone over. We will lift the whole clan and transport them to their new home. Draxis has vast wilds that need taming, and you can make it your own. The Fangmaster will provide food, skilled trainers, and dirt to call your own. No one will be hunting you. No more dead packmates and crippled veterans.”
“What’ll it be, First Claw? Stars? Or bars?” asked Drake.
Grymalkynn looked at the red and blue blood splattered on his armor and thought of his packmaster, Karin, now missing an arm. He looked a question at Vanneck, who was transfixed by the image of the ruined Herald of Blades and saw him nodding.
“We choose the stars.”
* * * * *
Jamie Ibson Bio
Jamie Ibson is a new writer from the frozen wastelands of Canuckistan, where moose, bears, and geese battle for domination among the hockey rinks, igloos, and Tim Horton’s. After joining the Canadian army reserves in high school, he spent half of 2001 in Bosnia as a peacekeeper and came home shortly after 9/11 with a deep sense of foreboding. After graduating college, he landed a job in law enforcement and has been posted to the left coast since 2007. He published a number of short stories in 2018 and 2019, and his first novel came out in January 2020. He’s pretty much been making it up as he goes along, although he has numerous writer friends who serve as excellent role models, mentors, and, occasionally, cautionary tales. His website can be found at ibsonwrites.ca. He is married to the lovely Michelle, and they have cats.
# # # # #
A Natural Selection by Kevin Ikenberry & Peter J. Aldin
Langwarrin
Tossen’s Bar resembled any other mercenary bar across the Galactic Union. The establishment of ill-repute featured cheap drinks, exotic dancers from a diverse range of species, and the quiet, dark recessed tables where mercenaries sealed the deadliest contracts. At one such table, with a clear view of both the U-shaped bar and the front and rear entrances, a Sidar hunched over a glass of whiskey and resisted the urge to check his slate for fear of missing a cue. A Tri-V above the bar displayed two teams of Oogar trying to move a ball of some sort. The game was violent and brutal. He sighed and looked toward the front entrance as a massive shadow moved from the well-lit passageway into the cavernous bar.
The Sidar watched the shadow resolve into an Oogar once the entrance closed and the dim light of the bar illuminated him better. Over his broad shoulders hung a black combat vest. There was a massive pistol strapped to each of his muscular legs. Atop his head was a set of dirty goggles that had seen better days. The volume of the few conversations around the mostly-vacant bar dipped perceptibly. Without looking around, the purple-furred Oogar moved confidently around the bar in the Sidar’s direction. With uncanny grace, he slid into the opposite seat.
“Nice of you to join me,” the Oogar said.
The Sidar nodded and pointed to a glass on the table that matched his own. “I ordered you a bourbon.”
“As long as it’s not Jack Daniels.” The Oogar reached for the glass and sniffed. “Good. I won’t have to hurt you this time.”
The Sidar laughed and shook his head as they sipped their drinks. A party of three Besquith entered the bar, laughing at some joke one of them had told. Soon, Tossen’s Bar would fill as mercenaries between jobs finished their daily labors.
“You’re certain this Human will be here? This doesn’t seem like the place a Human mercenary company would frequent.”
“The pursuit of credits is quite persuasive, especially for commanders existing in a constant state of near bankruptcy. I have seen a great deal of this, and while it is not entirely a Human problem, their weaker commanders are exceptionally prone to frivolous expenditures at the cost of their soldiers. Given the promise I have arranged for them, they will be here.”
“You’ve promised them something?” The Sidar reached for his amber-colored liquid and swirled the glass slightly. “Please tell me you haven’t insinuated that our—”
“I have not,” the Oogar rumbled. “Unlike you, I prefer that my duplicities happen through the machinations of others and not through what I reveal or compartmentalize. A less direct route often pays the most dividends.”
The Sidar chuckled. “Point taken.”
“They transitioned into the system sixteen hours ago and requested docking services. I expect the Trigger Happy to dock in less than an hour, at Dock 94, about two hundred meters from here. My contact will arrive soon to meet the Human company commander. From there, we’ll watch and see what happens.”
After a moment of silence, the Sidar shuffled in its seat. “I can surmise the Human you want me to interview is not the mercenary company commander?”
“That’s correct.” The Oogar grinned.
“Someone on his payroll?”
“You really can’t handle not knowing all the details, Hak?” The Oogar rumbled a laugh like the echoes of a distant thunderstorm. “Your potential candidate is the company commander’s wife. For at least the next few hours.”
Selector Hak-Chet of the Peacemaker Guild cradled his glass of bourbon and took a deep sip. He turned to the Oogar and spoke softly. “You’ve piqued my curiosity, Golramm. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Enforcer Hr’ent Golramm, unrecognizable in his attire and headgear, smiled and nodded. “I learned subterfuge from one of the all-time greats.”
“You’re too kind.” Hak-Chet laughed. “Asshole.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Hr’ent smiled. “Now, we wait. But I don’t think we’ll have to wait very long.”
“I hope you’re right. About the Human, that is.”
Hr’ent said nothing in return, instead smiling at his old friend before returning his gaze to the patrons entering Tossen’s Bar. There was much a Peacemaker could learn by observation. Knowledge, after all, was power.
* * *
Langwarrin Mercenary Guild Complex
Rooftop
Langwarrin Starport wasn’t a place Zuul merc commander Ren Hahnu would have chosen for a meeting like this.
She stood upright and at ease to the side of the Mercenary Guild building’s rooftop, away from the shuttle landing pads and close by the elevator doors. Bitter thoughts chased each other around her mind. In her opinion, Hahnu’s Hellchasers was the finest Zuul merc company there was. The members had served their employer well in her father’s day; they had served him and his business very well in her day. They should be off executing a new and exciting contract in a more lucrative region, not idling around some stinking backwater with their tongues hanging
out.
But—she sighed and wrestled her churning emotions into submission—we do what we must for payment.
Hanhu kept her hind feet firmly planted. She’d crossed her front legs over her suit’s belly plating, one paw lightly grasping the other. No fidgeting. With eleven of her brightest and most trusted fighters lined up behind her, it paid to fake calm, to project confidence.
Of course, there was another reason she needed calm, needed to maintain discipline with her thoughts and words and actions.
Elder Razzik is coming, and if I want him to finally pay us, then I’d better find a way to balance pride with diplomacy. Best not to bite the hand that feeds.
Elder Razzik. Hahnu had never met her company’s owner personally. Razzik was a busy person, the President of DeepRetrieve Scout-and-Collect, a Zuul F11 survey-mining concern and a Wathayat subsidiary. When it came to his mercs, he preferred communicating through intermediaries and subordinates. But her father, the Zuul who’d established the Hellchasers, had met the Elder, and more than once. He’d described Razzik as a tough and wily alpha, a male with an appetite for profit and a disdain for the lives it might cost to gain that profit. Any such business ruthlessness was perfectly acceptable in Hahnu’s opinion: Elder Razzik’s track record as a pay-on-time-and-pay-in-full kind of Zuul made it acceptable.
Of course, her father’s last dealing with the Elder had been a full decade ago, before he’d resigned and transitioned to life as a contract broker. Perhaps Razzik had softened in the intervening years.
Which might account for the fact we haven’t been paid for the last two bone-rotted contracts!
The thought—no, the insult, the dishonor!—set Hahnu’s pulse racing, her nostrils flaring, her jaw opening wider to allow her breath to come in shorter and shorter pants.