Asbaran Solutions (The Revelations Cycle Book 2)

by Chris Kennedy

  “Yeah, there are fewer,” Mason said, “but we’re still vastly outnumbered. Even if you only count the air defense assets as half-strength troopers, the Besquith still have the equivalent of at least three companies of troops on the ground, and we only have a platoon of CASPers.”

  “I hope we find some troops at Telgar II, then.”

  “We’d better.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gravity Ring, Free Trading Station, Telgar II

  Mason put his hand on the door, then he stopped and turned around. “This pit is different than Peepo’s,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Nigel asked.

  “I don’t know…it’s just different. Rougher, somehow. I’ve only been here once, and it was a long time ago. Don’t expect Peepo’s, though; if you do, you’ll be disappointed.”

  He opened the door and walked in, followed by Nigel and Turk. Nigel could tell immediately what Mason meant by ‘different.’ It wasn’t that the layout was different, although the establishment was smaller by about half. It also wasn’t that the illumination was poor, which made things harder to see. Jingo’s Jobs had a totally different feel to it that Nigel had a hard time placing.

  As they walked across the pit to a table on the other side, Nigel finally figured it out. The place had a different vibe due to the undercurrent of conversation. In Peepo’s, conversations were generally upbeat—positive people looking for work and finding it. When contracts couldn’t be arranged or didn’t go as planned, the parties usually separated peacefully or took it outside.

  Business was handled differently at Jingo’s. The mood seemed far more negative, with discussions usually devolving into yelling, insults, and aggression. Even though smaller and not as busy as Peepo’s, the background noise was far louder, and the tone set him on edge. His eyes roamed the merc pit almost on their own, searching for the danger he could feel but not see.

  “I see what you mean,” Nigel said as they sat down at a table along the wall. “This place seems…I don’t know. Evil isn’t the right word for it, but it’s not too far off.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Mason agreed. “It feels like someone is staring at me, but I can never catch anyone doing it.”

  Nigel’s eyes swept the room. The size of a neighborhood bar back in the United States, it could have held 200 or so humans, although there weren’t any other humans there, and the various alien species tended to take up more space than the average human. As expected, there was a much higher percentage of Besquith, which didn’t make Nigel feel any more comfortable. If any of them knew the humans had not only been to Bestald, but had also blown up one of the merc bases there, he doubted he would leave the establishment alive.

  He didn’t recognize many of the other species represented in the pit, and he realized that finding an appropriate subcontractor was going to be a lot harder than he had originally assumed. Besides the Besquith, he only recognized a couple of races he knew to be mercs.

  On the opposite side of the pit, two minSha stood at a table, recognizable as the only race that looked like oversized praying mantises. Considering mercs from that race had destroyed nearly all of his home country, including most of his ancestors, he had no desire to work with them or do anything that would advance their cause.

  The other merc he recognized, a Selroth, sat a couple of tables away. A race that developed underwater, the Selroth had a rebreather unit on its tentacled head and a water tank on its back. Although he had heard they were honorable in nature, a Selroth unit would have a difficult time just staying alive in the arid climate of Moorhouse. They were out.

  Before he had a chance to look further, a Veetanho appeared at the table. Nigel never saw her coming; she was just there. The Veetanho looked a great deal like Peepo, but was slightly shorter and her fur was a little darker.

  The alien removed her dark glasses and sniffed several times. “You are newcomers to Jingo’s,” she announced. “No, one has been here before,” she corrected, peering at Mason, “but the rest are new and unwelcome. We are currently not taking on new clients.”

  “I assume I have the honor of talking to Jingo?” Nigel asked.

  “Yes, I am Jingo,” the alien replied. “Why is it you are still talking to me when I have already informed you we are not taking on new clients?”

  “May I at least establish my credentials?” Nigel asked. “While I may not be known to you, it would surprise me greatly if my company has not done business here before.” He handed over an Asbaran Solutions coin.

  Jingo took the coin and peered at it for a few moments before removing her goggles and staring at it a little longer. She handed the coin back. “I am sorry,” she said, “but this company is unknown to me. As I earlier indicated, Jingo’s is not taking new clients at the moment.”

  “It looks like business is going pretty well,” Mason said, holding out a hand to indicate the busy interior; “aren’t you even interested in what we’re looking for?”

  “No, I am not,” Jingo replied. “Now, it is time for you to go.”

  Two Besquith appeared next to the Veetanho. Nigel had to force himself not to shrink back from them; they were the largest of their species he had seen, and saliva dripped from the open mouth of the alien on the left. Nigel wasn’t sure how that many teeth could fit in one mouth.

  “Are these…creatures…bothering you, Jingo?” the one on the right asked.

  “No, I think they were just leaving.”

  “C’mon, let’s go,” Nigel said. Mason’s mouth opened, and Nigel added, “No, let’s just go.”

  The group walked out of Jingo’s Jobs with the Besquith following one step behind. “And don’t come back!” yelled the one that had previously spoken to them before slamming the door.

  “What the hell?” Mason asked. “I’ve never heard of a merc pit closed to new customers before. Selective? Yes, Peepo’s is selective and you have to have some credibility to get in. But to be told ‘no’ without even getting a chance to identify yourself? Never.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Nigel said; “we weren’t getting anything there, and we needed to leave. Arguing wasn’t going to get us anywhere. Worse, nearly every Besquith was watching. If you’d done anything to Jingo or her pets, we’d have been torn to shreds. As it is, all of them probably now have categorized our scents for future reference.”

  “Well…hell,” Mason said. He shook his head. “How did we get in this position?”

  “Out of a job and unable to hire a subcontractor?”

  “No, where you’re the smart, rational one, and I’m the impatient hothead?”

  “I think it’s mostly because of something my grandfather used to say. He always appreciated Thaddeus Cartwright as a friend and competitor, and he used to say that Thaddeus gave him the best piece of advice he’d ever received.”

  “What’s that?” Mason asked.

  “Never trust a smiling Besquith. You couldn’t see it, but the one behind you was smiling. It was time to go.”

  “Oh. Shit.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Hey,” Turk interrupted, “If I can interrupt your lovefest, there’s someone at that bar over there waving at you.”

  The three humans looked where the trooper pointed; two human males sat at an outdoor café. Judging by the uniform and their builds, they were both mercs.

  “Do you know them?” Nigel asked. “Looks like an officer and a senior enlisted, but I can’t place the company.”

  “Not me,” Mason replied. “Never seen them before, and I thought I knew all the human outfits.”

  “Looks like they’ve been out for a while,” Turk added. “Their uniforms are pretty beat up. I can’t place them either, though.”

  “Well, know them or not, they’re the first friendly faces I’ve seen here,” Nigel said, “and it looks like they have beer. Let’s go see what they want.”

  The officer introduced himself as Colonel Antonio Moretti of the White Company and the
other man as his senior enlisted, First Sergeant Paolo Valenti.

  “Did they let you in the merc pit?” Moretti asked after the group had been seated and ordered the closest thing the café had to a beer.

  “No,” Nigel said. “Jingo said they weren’t taking any more clients.”

  “Got rather adamant about it, too,” Mason added. “She even called a couple of her pet Besquith to see us out.”

  “One talked, and the other drooled?” First Sergeant Valenti asked.

  “Yeah,” Nigel said. “Somewhere between a St. Bernard and a Bloodhound.”

  “Si, we got the same treatment,” Moretti replied. “The thing is, we aren’t new clients. We’ve been there before. Hell, we got the contract we just finished in Jingo’s. It was two years’ ago, but still, that’s where we got hired. How can she say we’re not clients?”

  “You just finished a contract?” Nigel asked.

  “Si, we just finished a garrison gig. It was probably the most boring contract I’ve ever taken, but it was the only thing available here. In case you haven’t noticed, humans aren’t well-loved in these parts.”

  “Yeah, I’ve kind of noticed.”

  “Well, business used to at least be okay out this way, but it looks like the Besquith are trying to kick us out of this part of the arm. Or something. There were a whole lot more humans here when we left on the last job; you’re the first ones we’ve seen since we got here two days ago.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Nigel asked.

  Moretti snorted. “I think the company’s had enough of this part of the arm—”

  “Got that damn right, sir,” Valenti interrupted.

  “—and I know I’ve had enough of it,” Moretti finished. “The problem is that we are stranded here. Our first contract went bad, and we got left out here. I keep trying to negotiate a ride back to Earth as part of our contracts, but I haven’t been able to find an employer that would let that clause stand. ‘Too expensive,’ they keep saying.”

  “Well, as it turns out, we’ve got a ride home,” Nigel said.

  “Anybody says something that way, there’s a catch,” Valenti said. “Read the fine print, sir!”

  “There isn’t a catch, per se, but we do have some business we have to complete prior to returning to Earth.”

  “What’s the business?” Moretti asked.

  “We have to kill a few Besquith that have claim-jumped on a contract of ours and, while we’re there, get my sister back from the bastards.”

  “How many is a ‘few’ Besquith?”

  “Four companies.”

  “I see,” Moretti said, sounding considerably less enthusiastic than he had a moment previously. “How many companies do you have to kill them with?”

  “How many men do you have?”

  “We have two companies with Mark 7 CASPers.”

  “Then counting your troops, we have about two and a half companies.”

  “Figlio di puttana!” the first sergeant exclaimed. “Sir, these men are crazy. Let us leave before they infect us with their idiocy! I’ll walk home first, if that’s what it takes. I’d have a better chance of living through it!”

  “I am afraid my first sergeant is correct. No matter how much we want to return home, to assault a planet with two-to-one odds against you is not bravery, it is lunacy. There will be none of us left when we are through to accept your ride home.”

  “What if I told you I knew their operational patterns? How and where they deployed their forces?”

  “I believe we would still have to pass, grazie.”

  “What if I had an operational transponder from one of their ships that would probably get us through their defenses so we could take them by surprise?”

  “That might actually be something worth talking about…if we were starting from better odds. As we are not, unfortunately, we must still pass.”

  “What about the fact that the Besquith are holding my sister? Surely you must want to help a damsel in distress?”

  “Despite our Italian heritage, we are mercenaries, not romantics. I am sorry for your sister, and I hope she has an easy death, but adding ours to it won’t make it any better. Pass.”

  “Not even to help one of the Four Horsemen? We have long memories for those who help us…as well as for those who did not.”

  “Your memory will be somewhat shorter when you are all dead, which you will be after this assault. I have a tremendous respect for the Horsemen…but I must decline.”

  Nigel sighed. “I had hoped to appeal to your softer side, but what if I could pay you ten million credits for two weeks’ worth of work, plus a ride home when we’re done?”

  “Ten mill—I’m sorry, did you say, ten million credits for two weeks’ work?”

  “I did.”

  “And how exactly do you intend to pay us this fee?”

  “It’ll be paid in red diamonds.”

  Valenti leaned over and whispered something into Moretti’s ear. Moretti made eye contact with him afterward and nodded.

  Moretti turned back to Nigel and asked, “How do I know your word is good and that these red diamonds actually exist in this quantity?”

  Nigel reached into a leg pocket and pulled out a small wad of folded up papers. He unfolded them and smoothed them out on the table. “Here’s the applicable pages from the initial contract. We were to be paid 20 million credits for keeping four companies of troops on garrison duty on Moorhouse while our employers mined the red diamond vein there. It was a one-year contract that ends in two weeks. We also had a combat clause of 5% per occurrence, with a maximum of 25%. Our assault on the Besquith will be the fifth combat action between us, so we stand to make another five million. All told, whoever is in possession of the garrison there will be paid 25 million credits if they can keep the red diamond mine from being damaged for the next two weeks; I will pay you 10 million credits if you help us recapture the garrison.”

  “Well, this certainly sheds a different light on the situation,” Moretti noted. He looked around the cafe. “Please put away the papers before someone else sees them.”

  Nigel folded the papers and returned them to his leg pocket. “So,” he asked, “are you in?”

  Gravity Ring, Free Trading Station, Telgar II

  “Okay,” Colonel Moretti said, “you’ve piqued my curiosity, especially if it comes with a ride home. I’m interested enough to listen to your plan, anyway. If there’s only two and a half companies of us, though, and four companies of Besquith, it’s going to take a good plan or we’re out. A damn good one.”

  “And hopefully the plan includes a big pre-assault bombardment to even the odds, right?” First Sergeant Valenti asked.

  “Well, no,” Nigel replied. “Actually, it doesn’t. They are holding my sister hostage. If we bomb them, we may inadvertently kill her. They would also know we’re coming, and they might kill her or try to use her against us.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Moretti asked.

  “I have a few options I’m looking at. Before I tell you what they are, how about telling me a little bit more about your forces and what their capabilities are. That way, I can incorporate them into the plan to the greatest extent possible.”

  “We are returning from an extended period of garrison duty—”

  “Non-combat garrison duty,” Valenti interjected.

  “A period of non-combat garrison duty,” Moretti finished. “On the good side, we have state-of-the-art Mark 7 CASPers that are in pretty good shape since they haven’t been used much.”

  “Mark 7s?” Nigel asked. “How long have you guys been out here?”

  “A while. Why?”

  “Because the Mark 8 has been the standard for several years now.”

  “Really?” Moretti sighed. “It has been too long since we were home.”

  “How much better are the Mark 8s?” Valenti asked.

  “They’re a little more agile,” Mason replied, “and they’ve got a bit better power management, but
they’re small as hell and chafe something fierce.”

  “I will look forward to seeing your Mark 8s in action then,” Valenti said.

  “Me too,” Mason replied. “At the moment, we are using a combination of 6s and 7s.”

  “What?” Moretti asked. “I thought the Horsemen always had the best equipment.”

  “Usually, we do,” Nigel replied; “however, after several failed attempts to recapture Moorhouse, we are down to our backup gear.”

  “If you have already tried to recapture this base ‘several times,’” Moretti remarked, “what is going to make this attempt succeed, where the others did not?”

  “This time, we know where they are,” Nigel said. “We have their base schematic and know where all their fortifications are. More importantly, though, we also have one of their transponders.”

  “And what is that going to do for you?”

  Nigel smiled. “What’s that going to get us? Close.”

  Moretti leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “If you can get us close, I have something that may help.”

  “Sir, you’re not going to—” Valenti started, but Moretti cut him off.

  “Yes. Yes, I am. I hate those bastards, and this will help even the odds.”

  “But sir, if it gets out…”

  “Well then,” Moretti replied, twirling one side of his mustache, “I guess we will just have to make sure the word doesn’t get out, won’t we?” He turned to Nigel. “What are your intentions regarding Besquith prisoners?”

  “We’re outnumbered, and I don’t have anyone to guard them,” Nigel replied. “Besides, how many times have you ever heard of a Besquith surrendering?”

  “Never.” He released the mustache and smiled. “In that case, I’d like to let you know we are still in possession of several thousand gallons of diethylzinc left over from our last garrison contract.”

  “I’m not familiar with that. What do you do with it?”

  “I’m told it is an important reagent in organic chemistry; however, our use was somewhat less esoteric.” The smile grew. “We have it because it is also highly pyrophoric.”