Set the Terms

by Mia R Kleve

  Calm. I must be calm.

  She took a long slow breath. Held it. Released it. Her blades and sidearm might be holstered—this was only a business meeting with her boss, after all—but it was nevertheless a battle of sorts. Her primary objective in that battle must be kept clear: get the wages and operational expenses owed to her and her company.

  There was a secondary objective, of course, and one that was equally important: find out what the problem was with cash flow…and whether or not the Hellchasers needed to resign and look for a new owner. Money, after all, was everything.

  Razzik’s personal shuttle had landed a full five minutes ago, twenty meters from where she and her mercs waited. The sleek bullet-shaped craft sat there ticking and tocking as its skin and engines cooled, and there’d been no sign until now of anyone coming out. Presumably, Razzik was attending to personal business, and he would come out when he was good and ready.

  Well, I’m hell-damned good and ready, she thought. I was good and ready a week ago.

  As she thought it, something chimed from above the shuttle’s hatch. A loud hiss signaled the seal releasing. The hatch came away, unfolding into a ramp.

  Time for the main event, Hahnu thought, straightening.

  Another chime announced the ramp was secure. A moment later, Elder Razzik exited down the ramp toward her.

  Hahnu’s jaw snapped shut in surprise. She had expected a stately male, a Zuul with height and powerful jaws and lively eyes. She had expected him to have an armed escort in keeping with his prestige. Her expectations couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Razzik had no bodyguard.

  And he was far from stately and lively.

  The President of DeepRetrieve Scout-and-Collect was about as infirm an individual as she had ever seen. He crossed the rooftop via motorized chair, a conveyance of the disabled. He had hind legs, but they were folded and angled aside, as if no longer serving any purpose or importance. Razzik’s official images depicted the Elder’s fur as a lively brown, streaked with patches of space-black. Well, it may have been a decade ago, but now his coloring had faded—no, she corrected herself, it was depleted. It was not so much gray as it was colorless. Her troopers stirred again at her back, evidence they were as unsettled by the sight as she was.

  “Commander Hahnu,” Razzik said, his voice a raspy echo of the one she’d heard in recordings.

  “An honor to finally meet you,” Hahnu replied with a grace she didn’t feel.

  “Where are the rest of your company?”

  You’re lucky they haven’t already left us weeks ago, old Zuul, she thought.

  She said, “Two are in the bar across the street.” Spending credits they don’t have. “The rest are in orbit.” On a ship that currently has barely enough fuel to make it from here to anywhere else worth flying. She gestured behind her. “These are my most trusted mercs.” The ones who’ll follow me anywhere, trust me always. The ones who’ll tear you to pieces if you don’t pay them today.

  Razzik coughed weakly. One of his forepaws dabbed at the spittle below his jaw. “I’ve always heard great things about you, Ren Hahnu. I’ve enjoyed reading your reports. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. And I wish I had better news. You and your troops—your fine, fine troops,” he added with a prolonged look of admiration directed at them, “you came here expecting payment. And payment you deserve. You certainly do. But I have three pieces of news for you, the first two unpleasant, and the last perhaps reassuring…in its way.”

  Hahnu’s composure began to slip at Razzik’s blunt manner. “Tell me,” she said, then gestured to her mercs. “Tell us.”

  “First,” he told the assembled mercs in his dry, unsteady voice, “there is no money. Not enough to pay you all, at least. DeepRetrieve Scout-and-Collect finds itself in deep, deep trouble financially. And so, therefore, do I.”

  Disgust rippled through the Zuul ranks. One of them—her best warrant officer—muttered a string of expletives in different languages. Under the circumstances, Hahnu let the lapse in discipline slide.

  “Second,” Razzik continued as if he hadn’t noticed the rise in tensions, “the cause of our sudden financial devastation is, sadly, my other merc company.”

  Hahnu knew about the Hellchasers’ counterparts. She had always understood DeepRetrieve’s need for two companies. They had even cooperated once on a contract on Degardo. The Maulers were limptails and idiots—that was for sure—but…thieves?

  When Razzik took a shuddering breath, Hahnu interrupted. “The Maulers? The Maulers stole DeepRetrieve’s assets?”

  Razzik’s ears folded back in a gesture of despair. “Sadly, yes. They hacked the server containing 71% of our liquid assets. Then split them with their owner.”

  “Their…?” Hahnu put a paw to her muzzle, felt her breath coming out hot and hard. “But you are their owner.”

  Razzik met her gaze fully for the first time. “Not their only owner, apparently. They betrayed me, Hahnu. They betrayed all of us.”

  Something more dangerous than mere disgust now rippled through the Zuul ranks. The positions of each of her people were clearly marked in her mind and Hahnu took a step sideways, out of all the possible firing lines.

  “You mentioned a piece of ‘reassuring’ news, Elder Razzik?”

  It had better be very reassuring.

  “This is a travesty!” Razzik barked, and for a moment his voice showed an inkling of the command it must have carried in his prime. “Shameful! But here is ‘the good news,’ as the Humans like to say. The Maulers are close by. Those fiend-hounds are here. On Langwarrin.”

  There had been the beginnings of murmurs and growls from the other Zuul, but all sound ceased now, except for the hum of an air taxi passing overhead and the sighing of the wind through rooftop fixtures. As one, the group held their breath at this new information.

  Razzik’s lips peeled back from his yellowed teeth as he hissed, “I summoned the Maulers here on a pretense, but in reality to confront them. And to get back the money that will finally pay you Hellchasers your due wages.”

  Hahnu had worked hard to keep calm, to keep her blue blood cool. But she could feel it boiling now.

  Calm be damned, she thought.

  “Where are they?” she growled.

  * * *

  Trigger Happy

  Approaching Langwarrin Starport

  “Langwarrin, Trigger Happy on final approach for Pad 94. Thanks for the great transfer clearance. As smooth as ever.” Marc Lemieux released the radio transmit button and rolled his eyes at his wife, Jessica. “Gods, I hate buttering up the natives.”

  His wife of almost three years frowned. Sitting at the executive officer’s station, the redhead tapped her slate and looked up. “Buttering up the natives, as you say, gets us a reduced transfer rate and docking fee. The last time I checked, we don’t have that much liquid credit to operate with and saving whatever we can on fees and stupid charges is critical, Marc.”

  “Lighten up, Jess.” He smiled and raked a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Once I negotiate a nice fee for us on this next mission, how about we rent a suite for a couple of days while we rest and refit? I know the team needs a break, and you’re always bitching at me about needing quality time in the sack.”

  Her frown deepened. “Whatever fee you negotiate won’t hit our accounts until after the next mission is over. See my earlier comment. The last thing we need is a couple of nights in an exorbitant suite, Hammer.”

  His callsign, earned from an old movie and his occasional ineptitude, erased the smile from his face. Jessica never used it unless she was trying to make a point. The Marauders were a reasonably capable mercenary company—one of only a few dozen Human companies that could make such a claim. While much of the longtime success of the company, and the reputation the present leadership traded upon, had been built by Lemieux’s father, a substantial portion of the operating funds came from Jessica’s trust. Her father, James Francis, had disappeared when J
essica was a child, yet his company, Intergalactic Haulers, remained one of the most reliable and profitable long-distance freight companies in the Union. As such, he’d built up a tremendous amount of wealth that Jessica was reluctant to spend on company matters.

  “We could use your yack for it.” He grinned at her and tried to waggle his eyebrows.

  Jessica didn’t respond for a moment and when she did, her words were not for him. “Lucille? Disengage autopilot. I have the spacecraft.”

  <> the onboard computer replied.

  Lucille was equals parts navigator, communicator, and engineer. She’d belonged to Jessica’s father a long time ago and whoever had programmed her had done Marc Lemieux many favors. She was worth five or six crew members alone, and that capability also saved them a tremendous amount of credits.

  “Trigger Happy, this is Victory Twelve,” a female voice called over the unit’s private frequency. “On final for Pad Bravo at the Mercenary Guild headquarters. They had an open slot and a lower-than-normal fee.”

  “Copy, Twelve, nice work,” Jessica replied without taking her eyes from the controls. “Put her down and rendezvous with me at Pad 94. Trigger Happy, out.”

  Lemieux didn’t bother watching the final approach and docking sequence. Since he trusted Jessica’s piloting skills, his thoughts turned to the meeting scheduled for Tossen’s Bar in an hour’s time. The proposed mission was almost a “milk run” —an unchallenging walk around the galaxy in pursuit of a missing socialite. If successful, the payment would place the Marauders’ main accounts firmly in the black and allow them to pay off the creditors for the most recent upgrades to his company of tanks. He knew they would succeed.

  There was a quick tap of maneuvering thrusters and the soft but distinct thump of the ship against the main and secondary docking collars. The Trigger Happy was the largest of the Marauders’ vessels, capable of carrying a full complement, a company of CASPers supported by six armored tanks. Along with two drop ships, there was a third hard point designed to ferry smaller ships for additional credits. On this mission, they’d taken along the ship left to Jessica by her father, the Victory Twelve.

  “Contact. Pressurizing docking collars,” Jessica said. As gravity returned, she paused for a moment. Lemieux felt his own equilibrium adjusting. He closed his eyes and let the sensation pass as Jessica resumed speaking. “Lucille, notify the crew. Fueling and rearming are the priority, and no one gets paid or authorized for liberty until they’re complete.”

  <>

  Lemieux snorted. “They’re good people, Jess. You don’t have to remind them how to do their jobs every time we reach port.”

  “Even good people require good leadership, Marc. While I trust them implicitly, our job is to make sure they understand expectations and standards.”

  She pulled her auburn hair out of the ponytail it had been in and let it drape over her shoulders. Lemieux caught himself staring.

  “You really are beautiful, Jess.”

  “Don’t change the subject, okay?” She smiled, but it seemed to stop short of her eyes. Where there had been mirth and joy only a few years before, there was now a resigned sadness. “Good luck with the proposal. I’ll meet you at the bar after I’ve released the crew for liberty. I’m allowing thirty-six hours. That should be enough time to have the Victory Twelve’s shunts inspected.”

  Lemieux nodded, his mind already drifting. The promise of a brisk walk, a real bathroom, and a long-needed drink propelled him. He unbuckled from the commander’s console, grabbed his slate and a khaki shoulder bag, and pulled himself up to stand. “How long do we have in port?”

  He’d taken two steps toward the hatch before realizing Jessica hadn’t responded. He turned and saw her staring at him. She’d been talking, and he hadn’t heard her. Again.

  “I said I’m authorizing thirty-six hours,” Jessica repeated in a clipped monotone. “I’m planning on meeting you in the bar, or did you not hear that either?”

  Lemieux’s face flushed in embarrassment. He took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “I didn’t hear that, either. Look, this meeting is a huge payday for us. All I have to do is sell our ability to make it happen. We’ve got good intelligence and a damned fine team. We just need better-paying missions and this is a great step in that direction. I’m sorry, Jessica. My mind’s on that, right now.”

  “Then go take care of it, Marc.”

  He squinted at her. “What is it? What aren’t you saying?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not as confident as you are in our ability to pull this prospective mission off. We’re a combat unit. A missing person? Really? I don’t give a damn how many media followers she has or anything like that. Finding her isn’t something we should waste our time doing, no matter what the pay is. We need a win, Marc. Badly.”

  “And I’m trying to get us one!” His temper flared, and he pointed at her with one finger. “This whole setup is to get us a win and get us back on our feet. Not completing the mission at the Riff damned near bankrupted us, but we’ve been able to claw back to this point. One mission. One easy fucking mission gets us back over the top and into the better pools for contracts, Jessica. Let me do my job as the commander of this company. Secure the ship, see to our stores, and release the crew for liberty.”

  “That’s my plan,” she deadpanned.

  “You never said yes to the suite.” He smiled at her. “Interested?”

  Jessica rolled her eyes. “I’ll meet you at Tossen’s in a couple of hours. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Who me?” Lemieux laughed and pushed through the bridge hatch. Once through the open docking collars he could smell the fresher air of the station, and it called to him with the promise of easy credits, cold drinks, and the thrill of the hunt.

  * * *

  Langwarrin Mercenary Guild Building

  Ground Level

  Each one of the guild building’s five floors held a small lounge area. The company commander of Razzik’s Maulers, Marrek Rooss, had waited in the ground level lounge for many reasons. It was closest to street access in case he needed the extra squad he’d hidden in a mobile supply container outside. There were several windows here he could use in case of emergency. And its carpet was the most recently replaced, and the least mildewy. But the room stank like a urinal.

  Not a great place to be doing this, he thought. I’d rather be out in the open, with snipers in the hills covering me.

  A glass wall streaked with dust-smears and finger marks separated the lounge from the corridor outside. The room held fifteen hard-plastic chairs, half of them big enough to seat an Oogar, half small enough for Veetanho. Rooss’s seven mercs squirmed in the larger ones.

  “Langwarrin Starport,” grumbled Araagah, Rooss’s senior lieutenant, as he oiled his knife. “This whole place is a stinking shithole.”

  “You said that ten minutes ago,” Rooss told him.

  “And ten minutes before that,” another Mauler added with a chuckle.

  “Still true,” Araagah muttered.

  “For the last time,” Rooss said, “Elder Razzik’s secretary told us this was the Hellchasers’ destination, so this is where we need to be. If you want to get paid, that is.”

  Araagah’s grumble was quieter this time as he bent his head over his blade. “‘Course I do.”

  Rooss leaned in closer, lowering his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “Put your knife away, Ara. I understand your need to keep busy—we’re all on the edge of our nerves. But we can’t afford blood-letting. Not here in a guild building. Not over this.”

  Araagah slid the blade into a vest sheath. His reply came back just as low. “You’d like to, though. Wouldn’t you, sir? Start shedding some blood? Some Hellchaser blood?”

  “Oh, I’d love to paint these walls a bright Zuul blue. Absolutely, I would. But dead Chasers can’t give that money back, can they? And the whole point is to get paid.”

  Rooss stood th
en and arched his back. Where was the usual multiple-species adjustable seating?

  These shit-stinking seats. They’re all made for giants or small fry, not for Zuul. Not for us! The administrators of this bowel-stank building deserve a shot in the face. Even better, they should have their guts pulled out through their asses and strung up on…

  A sound from the foyer drove the murderous fantasy from Rooss’s mind. An elevator chimed. He squinted, crossing the floor to the glass wall. The others rose, too. Yes, he could see the indicator counting down.

  “Finally,” muttered his best close-quarters fighter from behind him. Rooss flashed her a sharp-toothed grin of agreement.

  “Think it’s them?” Araagah asked.

  A sideways glance at his lieutenant showed that the idiot had one paw on his sidearm. Rooss gestured impatiently for him to leave it alone.

  Besides, if anyone gets to shoot one of these shitcrusts, it’ll be me.

  Another gesture sent the close-quarters fighter to station herself at the front entrance—from there she could suggest to any would-be visitors they should came back later.

  Rooss followed her to the lounge door, then hooked left toward the foyer. Reaching it, he planted himself directly in front of the elevator doors and put his forepaws to his hips.

  With his lips curling in barely restrained fury, he thought, Those bone-rotten Hellchasers better be ready to give that money back. Or guild building or not, there’ll be hell to pay.

  * * *

  Docking Pad 94

  Langwarrin Starport

  An hour after landing, Jessica signed the starport contract and disclaimers officially placing the Trigger Happy into the care and maintenance of the port authority for refit and refueling for 36 standard hours. Sliding two fingers across the slate, she terminated the program and leaned back in the seat.

  “Lucille? Port authority has ground command. Maintain security protocols. Emergency procedures are authorized if you deem them necessary.”