by Mark Wandrey
“I wasn’t,” Jim admitted. “The thieves?”
“Two dead, one wishin’ he was. You killed the shit out of one of them.” Jim looked moribund. “Hey, none of that now! They’d be chopping you up into convenient, marketable pieces right now if you hadn’t done the right thing.”
A pair of Startown constables came over when they realized Jim was conscious and conversational. He looked around and saw there were multiple law enforcement flyers, a couple of ambulances, and a hearse.
“You ready to talk, kid?”
“This ain’t no kid,” Hargrave said. “This here is Jim Cartwright, commander of Cartwright’s Cavaliers.” They both looked at Jim, over 300 pounds of soft city boy dressed in shorts and a faded vintage Half Life tee shirt all covered in blood and gore and shook their heads.
“I’m sure you can prove that,” the older of the two said. “And explain what you were doing wandering around out here with a ‘kill me and sell my liver’ sign on your back?”
“He got turned around,” Hargrave said. “He’s only lived here a few months.” Jim handed the officers his UACC. The younger one took it and made a face at the sticky blood on the card as he used his slate to check it.
“I was walking to the captain’s hangar,” Jim added, pointing toward the building in question. He then explained how his car was out for repairs and the rules against just walking around on the tarmac.
“And what about the one who blew that man’s head half off?” the younger cop asked, pointing with a stylus at a sheet covered body.
“That was my work,” another voice said. It was the old guy who’d saved Jim. “Murdock, First Sergeant of the Cavaliers.” Jim glanced at the man, remembering the name on the personnel report for his hiring.
“Bodyguard?” the constable asked. Murdock shook his head.
“Out for a stroll.”
“Well, that I believe,” the older cop said. “What fuckin’ idiot would mess with you? Especially with that street sweeper on your belt?” Jim noted that Murdock had the carbine on a custom holster hooked to his right leg, carrying the damned thing like a pistol. “I wouldn’t try to go out into town with that thing.”
“No shit,” Murdock growled, and the officer looked at him through narrowed eyes. Another constable came over, this one in a suit with a badge-holder clipped to the suit’s breast pocket.
“Looks like a clean shoot,” he said after listening to his men for a moment. “You,” he said pointing at Jim, “better either open-carry, or stay inside the perimeter.” He glanced at the bodies being bagged. “All said, I consider you did us a community service today. If this becomes a habit, though, we’ll have to wonder if you’re playing vigilante.”
“And what if he is,” Murdock chuckled, “looks like you need the help.”
“I’ve heard plenty about you,” the inspector said to Murdock. “You’ve spent as much time in our lockup as you have in the companies.” Murdock fished a stick of gum from his pants, popped it in his mouth and chewed as the inspector continued. “You have a real attitude problem, you know that?”
“Blow me,” Murdock retorted. The inspector took a step toward Murdock, and Hargrave stepped between them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is all just a misunderstanding.” While Hargrave tried to cool things off between the constable and Murdock, one of the medtechs came back over to Jim.
“You okay now?” the young man asked.
“Better,” Jim said. “My back hurts, still.”
“Bruising,” the medtech said. “The bullet was simple lead and the armor did a perfect job. Guy would have gotten you in the kidney. Not good.”
“The second one going to live?”
“The one with his face blown off? He was dead when we got here.”
“No,” Jim said, and looked down at all the gore on his clothes. “The one I shot in the stomach.”
“Yeah,” the medtech said and shook his head. “He’s alive. I doubt he can afford the replacement parts though. They’ll plug him into life support and see if he lives. If he does, we’ll go from there.”
“I didn’t think the gun would do that much damage,” Jim said, still having mixed feelings.
“You know what they wanted to do to you?” Jim nodded. The medtech looked around to be sure none of the constables were listening. “Then, good job. We’ve picked up dozens of people just this week, all missing parts. Serves that son of a bitch right, what you did to him.” Jim frowned and mumbled something indifferent, still not convinced. The medtech handed him a printout and a little plastic packet of pills. “Take one of these every two hours if you have pain. Monitor your urine for any blood. Take it easy for a day or two.” He looked down unconsciously at Jim’s gut. Jim blushed. “I know you’re not happy with your weight.”
“Yeah,” Jim said sheepishly, “I’ve been working on that.”
“What I was going to say was that the padding saved you a ruptured kidney this time. Sometimes, things happen for a reason.” He patted Jim on the arm. “Now get your not-dead self off my gurney! We have another call.”
After a trip back to his tower to shower and change, escorted by Hargrave, a car was waiting outside to take him to the meeting he was late for. It was the first time he got to meet the command staff of the Cavaliers all in one place. It was also the first time he’d put on a legitimate Cartwright’s Cavaliers BDU. When he looked at himself in the mirror he thought he looked like a clown. The BDUs weren’t intended to be worn by fat people.
Hargrave had taken care of everything with his contacts. From the hiring of office staff to logistics and maintenance. As he approached the conference room that had once been an elite flyers’ club at the Hobby Airport overlooking the concourse, Jim could hear Hargrave discussing the new Cavaliers.
“I know you’ve all heard rumors that the Cavaliers had been bought by a consortium.” There were some grunts. “Another one says that one of the other Four Horsemen own us now.” More mumbles. “Even one that Thaddeus is really still alive, and he’s about to walk in through that door.” A few people chuckled this time. “Yeah, you should laugh at that. Thaddeus Cartwright is gone. But his only son, is right here.” It was Jim’s cue, so he walked through the double doors into the conference room.
He looked around at those seated at the table. He found mostly unfamiliar faces, with a few exceptions. Hargrave sat next to the head of the table where Jim’s empty seat waited. He looked at Jim and gave him a wink and nod of encouragement. Along one side of the table were his trooper commanders, led by Lieutenant Bran Parker. Next was First Sergeant Murdock, whom he now knew. The next one was platoon Sergeant Paul Rodriguez who would command Second Platoon of twenty CASPer troopers. They were still looking for a Sergeant to ramrod First Platoon.
The other side of the table was support and flight. Two APC commanders, Corporal Okoda, and Corporal Glazer. Next to them the four dropship pilots, Prescott, Miller, and Chin, with their command pilot Lieutenant Stackhouse. A pair of engineers sat next to Hargrave, under his command.
The reactions of those around the room varied from recognition by Murdock, to disbelief by the troopers, and maybe confusion by a few. One took it worse than others.
“This is a pretty fucked up joke, Hargrave.” The man looked infuriated.
“Not a joke, Stackhouse,” Hargrave replied evenly. “This is Jim Cartwright, Thaddeus’s son.”
“I met Thaddeus once years ago,” Stackhouse said; “his kid was with him on a mission.” He looked at Jim like he was looking at a bug on his dinner. “I see he’s just as much a slug now as he was then.”
“That’s enough,” Hargrave said.
“Well look at him.” Stackhouse laughed and pointed a knife-edge hand at Jim. “He’s what, eighteen or nineteen? He looks like a quarter ton of chewed bubblegum.”
“You can stow that shit,” Murdock growled from across the table.
“You on his side?” Stackhouse said incredulously. “Murdock, man, you want that
commanding you? What was his VOWS, 700 at most?” All eyes turned from Stackhouse to Jim who sighed and spoke for the first time.
“My combined score was 664,” he said. The trooper sergeants looked at each other, while others shook their heads. Hargrave’s mouth tightened into a line. “I’m never going to be a trooper.” He gestured down at himself. “Yeah, I’m a fat kid. Well, so fucking what? I’ve studied how to run a company most of my life, from financial to operations. And what I don’t know, that’s what I have you here for. But I know what it means to be a merc. It’s in my family’s blood.”
“Looks like it skipped a generation,” Stackhouse snorted.
“I said that’s enough of that shit,” Murdock said menacingly.
“Why are you taking up for that tub of lard?” Stackhouse demanded. “First shot hits the command ship or the APC he’s huddling in, he’ll piss himself and crawl into an equipment box.” Murdock slowly got to his feet, and all eyes turned to him.
“You gonna shut your miserable cake-hole for a minute, or do I have to close it for you?” The muscles in Stackhouse’s jaw bunched, but Murdock was twice his size, and three times his age. “You’re a fucking pilot.”
“So what?”
“Last warning, flyboy.” He leaned forward, and the big conference table groaned. “One more peep out of you before I have my say, and I’ll take you outside and rub your ass in the dirt until you can’t stand.” Stackhouse leaned back and threw his hands out in a ‘go ahead’ gesture. “We’re troopers,” he said to the men on his side of the table. “We get in the shit. Face to face, we slug it out until we’re dead, give up, or the other side calls it quits. We don’t drop bombs or fly into LZs. We’re the ones you fly there. Your ass is in the shit too, I know that. But if you get your ticket punched, it happens in an instant. I’ve talked to plenty of pilots.” He pointed a beefy finger at Stackhouse. “You guys don’t really think about it,” he moved the gaze to the other three pilots, “do you?” The other three shrugged; Stackhouse just stared.
“Any of you been in a hand-to-hand fight? I don’t mean in a bar or with some chick, I mean fight or fucking die?” None of them said anything. “I didn’t think so. Different, ain’t it? That’s what we troopers do. Kick their asses, face to face. A little bit of armor between us.” He paused for a moment. “This kid here; this man, actually,” he pointed at Jim. “Yeah, he’s a round boy that got shit for his VOWS. Not a fucking merc company on the planet would hire him for anything except office work. Maybe not even then. But they don’t know anything about him. I do. A couple hours ago, he went for a little walk behind the wire here. By himself. In the starport.” They all looked at Jim curiously. “You can guess what happened.”
“Got his fat ass kicked?” Stackhouse asked, casting a baleful glance at Jim.
“He got jumped all right. Three body jackers cornered him behind a hangar and figured he’d make an easy mark.” Murdock turned and looked Stackhouse square in the eye. “Well, he killed one of them, nearly cut the other in half, shot the third once in the shoulder. Only mistake he made, not finishing the job. All he had was a little GP-90. This one.” Murdock pulled out a rag from a pocket, opened it and dropped the bloody gun on the table with a metallic thud. Jim grunted. He’d wondered where his gun went after the shooting. He’d assumed the cops took it. “I finished the job for him after one of the jackers shot him in the back.” He pointed at Jim, but never took his eyes off Stackhouse. “He was knocked on his ass, rolling around in one of those punk’s fucking guts, trying to get his gun back up and finish the fight. He didn’t stop, he didn’t cry, he didn’t beg for mercy. He fucking fought like a Cartwright!” Murdock nearly yelled the last, making several in the room jump.
“So, Stackhouse, I’ll tell you what. You want to judge this kid because he’s fat and looks like a lazy fucking pizza eater, you go right ahead. I might have done the same a few hours ago.” Murdock looked at Jim. “But I’ve seen his heart. He’s his father’s son. He doesn’t have any quit in him, and I bet he has the instincts to be a first rate merc commander, too. So I’ll follow him, sure. And if you don’t like it, you can take a long deep suck on my balls.” He nodded to Jim and sat down.
The room was completely silent for a minute. Jim had never got to the point of sitting down, everything had happened too fast. He looked around the table, a little nervously. He was confused by Murdock’s speech. He hadn’t done anything special, he just reacted as best he could. He knew the punk jackers wouldn’t have given him any slack no matter what he did, so giving up was a waste of time. What else could you do in that situation but fight? Murdock looked at him and Jim saw the tiniest hint of a nod there. Okay then, Jim thought.
He stepped up to the table and scooped up his gun. He verified it was on safety, popped the magazine and saw it was still loaded, returned it and holstered the weapon. It was all done smoothly after weeks of practice with Hargrave. The gun holstered, he moved to the head of the table and took a seat. The seat of the commander of Cartwright’s Cavaliers.
“Don’t mean shit,” Stackhouse said, looking around for support. He didn’t find any.
“You have a problem with me?” Jim asked. The chair felt comfortable. It felt right. He began to radiate confidence as he settled into it.
“Yeah, I do,” Stackhouse said, trying to sound as confident as Murdock had sounded, and failing.
“Okay, fine,” Jim said. “You’re fired.”
“What?”
“The commander said you’re fired,” Murdock growled. “What, you fucking deaf, too?”
“You can’t fire me,” Stackhouse said.
“Bet me,” Jim said and gave a little laugh. It wasn’t a nervous laugh; it was a confident one. The laugh of someone who wasn’t impressed with the person he was dealing with. He gestured at the conference room door. “Stop at payroll, draw your cache, and get the fuck out, or I’ll throw you the fuck out.”
“You…” Stackhouse started to say, then he noticed the look on Murdock’s face. The old merc gave Stackhouse a wink, then looked down at the bloody rag on the table. Stackhouse grunted and stood. Jim tensed slightly. “Fine,” Stackhouse said and headed for the door. “To hell with all of you. If you want to get killed with this fat kid in charge, I’ll enjoy reading about it.”
“Just get out,” Hargrave said. A moment later the doors closed behind the man. “Well, I guess we need a new head pilot.”
“Anyone else?” Jim asked. Everyone stayed in their seats. “Good, thanks for coming. You all have a special place in history. Cartwright’s Cavaliers has been at a low point, but now we’re on the way back up. You all stand to make a hell of a lot of money from this.” Now there were some smiles and a couple murmurs of appreciation. “Two full platoons are hired and our equipment, while not new, is undergoing checkout as we speak. Hargrave assures me it’s all in top condition, and we have plenty of spares. I’ve filed the paperwork with the Mercenary Guild on Karma, and we already have our first post-reconstruction contract. I’ve made Hargrave my Executive Officer, so I’ll let the XO lay out the mission.” The other man stood up and gestured at the windows that overlooked the concourse. They changed to translucent and maps of the galaxy appeared.
“Thanks, boss,” he said and pointed at a section of the galaxy that then began to expand. “Here we are, Tolo arm of our galaxy, Cresht region. Home.”
“How sweet it is,” Murdock grumbled, several nodded in agreement, and some chuckled. Hargrave waited for them to die down then continued.
“Trailward of our arm is the Jesc arm, the Centaur region. It’s a very populous region. The Galnet lists just over 500 occupied worlds controlled by 400 species.” Someone whistled. “A very diverse number of species, on mostly native worlds. It doesn’t have a high density of wealth though, so when it’s found, it’s pretty hotly contested. And as usual, as long as the locals play by the rules, the Union lets them deal with it.” The view moved to the Jesc arm, Centaur region. For a moment all the inhabi
ted systems flashed green, then only one remained lit and the view zoomed in.
“This is Kash-Kah, home of the race called Duplato.” He pronounced it “Dew-play-toe.” “They’re not one of the big players, not signatories of the Mercenary Guild, and don’t belong to any of the cartels.” The screen displayed a species which most thought looked like a bipedal tree sloth. One was displayed next to a human for reference, and was almost as tall. Their arms were long enough for the six long fingers to brush the ground, even when standing erect. They wore extensive thick furs. “The planet, as you can guess, is cold. They farm mostly fungus underground. The planet’s surface growing season is extremely short.”
“Why do they need mercs?” Jim asked.
“I was getting there,” Hargrave said. “They are adept miners, thanks to the underground farming techniques they developed over thousands of years. They’ve made modest amounts of credits for their planetary economy through the rare earths they’ve found. Even some precious metals.” He gestured, and a small ore processing plant near a cave complex was displayed. Arrayed out from the caves were avenues and dwellings of all types. “But they’ve come upon a sizeable quantity of radioactive ore, mostly Uranium-238. It might not be F11, but it’s valuable.” The display changed once more to show overhead maps of the Duplato’s settlement.
“Over the last few months they have been the victims of numerous raids against their stores of U-238, as well as some of the rare earths they were stockpiling for trade. Like most species in the Union, they are non-combatants. They tried automated defenses and repelled one raid. The next one came in overland and bypassed the defenses. Their application to the Mercenary Guild for a garrison contract was granted.” The contract came up on the screen.
“It’s for six months. At that point they will have completed extraction and processing of the ores. We will escort their transport to the stargate, at which point our contract will be complete.” He gestured at the screen. “Retainer is for ten million credits. Combat bonus of five percent per engagement, maximum of fifty percent total. Safe delivery of goods to the stargate pays a twenty-five percent bonus. Even if we don’t catch any action, we’re looking at twelve point five million credits. For a garrison duty, and only two platoons, that’s pretty juicy.”