For a Few Credits More: More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 7)

by Chris Kennedy

  “Thus the Terrible Texans successfully completed another contract.”

  Sheila grimaced. “No, sir, my people and I successfully completed the Texans’ contract, in spite of everything they did wrong to set us up. My first act after getting back and picking up my pay and bonus was to resign from the whole outfit. My second act was to tell you all here at the guild.”

  The auditor, a scarred, old, rat-like Veetanho, stood from her seat and approached Sheila. “Staff Sergeant Murphy, thank you. What the Zuul did to you is part of the game, and it appears you ended with the upper hand in the end. But what your own merc company did to you and yours is unconscionable. We will be taking action to censure them.”

  Sheila nodded and could feel the ghosts of all those she had lost calm just a bit, not to mention the restlessness of her own spirit. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “And for you? Using your newfound cache as a successful freelancer to get on with one of the Four Horsemen? With your sudden record of success in command, you could pretty much name your own price.”

  Sheila sighed and smiled back. The flamboyant figure of First Sergeant Brenda Reeves came to mind. “I don’t think so. Not yet anyway. I’ve had my fill of command. For the foreseeable future, the only thing I plan to be in charge of is a bar stool and a glass.

  “There are some dear, departed friends I have to toast.”

  # # # # #

  A FAMILY TRADITION by Ian J. Malone

  Kicking out over an open hill, Taylor threw his CASPer into high gear and vaulted the summit, soaring some 30 feet through the air.

  “Woo!” he shouted, the full North Florida moon at his back. Water plumed in a mushroom of mud and lily pads when Taylor struck the marsh, then just like that, he was off and running again.

  Taylor loved it in the swamp, almost as much as he loved piloting a 10-foot-tall, battle-armored war suit like the CASPer. Ever since he’d come out camping for the first time as a kid with his late father, he’d felt drawn to it, as if he were connected to it somehow. There was a peace out here, a tranquility, that couldn’t be found in the everyday hustle and bustle of city life. Then again, Taylor thought, in a metropolis the size of Jacksonville, North Florida, with its population of 1.8 million, that was sort of a given.

  Skidding to a halt alongside a riverbank, Taylor popped his CASPer’s canopy and removed his helmet, instantly feeling the night humidity on his skin. All around him, frogs croaked, birds cooed, and crickets chirped. Meanwhile, a mild splash rippled the otherwise glassy surface some 20 yards out from his feet. He keyed his spotlight to dim and glanced that way; two red eyes looked back.

  Gator. Taylor threw the beast a nod—one predator to another—then returned to the serenity of his surroundings. Only, they weren’t there anymore. Instead, Taylor was standing in the mess hall of a starship—an Akaga-class cruiser, if he guessed right. The place was filled with uniformed personnel—mercenaries mostly, judging by their battle-dress fatigues and standard-issue hardware. They were all laughing and joking over cocktails, as if there weren’t a care in the world to consider.

  But that wasn’t the case. Not on this ship, and most certainly not on this day.

  Taylor’s eyes bulged in revelation. Oh please, God, no. He whirled. “Terry!”

  No one acknowledged him.

  “Terry!” he screamed again, panic growing. How had they not heard him?

  Taylor darted his eyes around the room, searching frantically for the one face in the crowd he longed so very much to see.

  A familiar laugh chortled from the back corner, and Taylor snapped his gaze that way. His older brother, Terry, was sharing a beer with one of the others from his company. He was just as Taylor remembered—rugged-lean looks with a tight, blond brush cut and a swagger that’d never failed to brighten a room. He looked happy, too. Or at least, that’s how Taylor had always imagined him in this moment.

  Time slowed to a crawl as Taylor bounded forward. He thrust out a hand, lips formed into the one word he’d have given all to scream when it mattered. “Run!”

  A massive thunderbolt rocked the scene as a white light slashed at Taylor’s eyes, blinding him. He threw up his arm to cover, but as always it was no use. Nerve endings ignited as flesh seared from the bone—and all the while, his brother just stood there, laughing.

  “Terry!”

  Taylor bolted upright in bed. What the…It took a second to find his bearings, but eventually they came. He sucked in a breath, heart pounding in his throat, as the last vestiges of his nightmare retreated to his subconscious. Terry…

  Someone knocked at his bedroom door.

  “Yeah?” Taylor gulped.

  His older sister, Rita, peaked inside, her long auburn hair draped in a bedhead of curls over her gray Georgia Bulldogs t-shirt. “You okay?”

  Taylor rubbed his eyes as heat became frostbite. He grabbed a sheet, sweat-soaked as it was, and wrapped it around him for warmth. “Yeah, I…I think so.”

  “You sure?” Rita kept her voice low to avoid waking the others. “I ain’t heard you holler like that in a long time—real long.”

  “I’m fine.” Taylor tightened his grasp on the covers. “Just bad dreams. Ain’t nothin’ to worry over. Go back to bed.”

  Rita chewed her lip. “You were there again, weren’t you?”

  Taylor shivered, and that was all the confirmation his sister needed.

  “Try to get some sleep,” Rita said, pulling the door to. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day, for all of us.”

  * * *

  Waking the next morning, Taylor rose from his hand-me-down bunk and headed for the Jack and Jill bathroom he shared with his two sisters. He hated—hated—sharing bathrooms. However, the aging craftsman bungalow in which they now lived only had two, and his mother needed the second for its wheelchair access. That’d been one of the reasons they’d picked the place. That, and it’d been all the bank would finance them for after the bankruptcy hearing.

  At least we’re back in the old neighborhood, Taylor thought. Then again, if the bars on their windows were any indication, the old neighborhood wasn’t what it used to be.

  Knocking on the bathroom door and getting no answer—a small victory in itself—Taylor slipped inside and shuffled across the scarred linoleum floor to splash some water on his face at the sink. It felt warm and life-giving, like it always did just after dawn.

  Taylor inspected himself in the mirror. His hair, long and blond, hung in matted clumps past his tattooed shoulders. He also looked paler this morning than usual, a fact unaided by his two-day beard and the Goodyear-like bags under his eyes.

  “So, what’ll it be, hoss?” Taylor asked his reflection. Today was the day, and a decision had to be made. He weighed his options, along with the out he’d gotten last night from his general manager.

  After a hard minute of introspection, the mirror man rendered the answer. Nope, ain’t doin’ it.

  That was good enough for Taylor. Laying out a fresh change of clothes—his usual wardrobe of faded jeans, t-shirt, and his dad’s old arrowhead necklace—he flipped on the shower to start his day.

  “Mornin’, sleepy head.” Rita was already seated at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, when Taylor entered. “You get any more sleep last night?”

  He shrugged in route to the cabinet for a mug of his own. “I got enough.”

  “Gotta work on that,” Rita said.

  Taylor threw her a cursory smirk as he fixed himself a coffee. Then, turning, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of her nurse’s scrubs. “I thought you were off today.”

  “I’m just goin’ in for the mornin’ shift,” Rita said. “Dr. Newlin agreed to let me off at lunch so I could bus it back here to pick up mom for the ceremony. We’ll meet you downtown.”

  Taylor frowned, drawing a perplexed look from his sister.

  “You are plannin’ on bein’ there, right?” she asked, sea-blue eyes narrowing.

  And here we go. Taylor exhaled.

  “Taylo
r?” Rita pressed.

  “Ziggy called last night,” Taylor said. “Apparently, Harvick’s Hurricanes just fulfilled a sizable garrison contract, and they’re due back later today. Sizable contracts typically mean sizable celebrations, and sizable celebrations typically mean sizable tips. We need all of those we can get these days.”

  A touch of red flashed in Rita’s cheeks. “There’ll be other chances to get tips. Tell Ziggy to find somebody else.”

  “Can’t do it,” Taylor said. “Deal’s done made. I gotta be at The Hell House by 11:00 to prep for open.”

  “But the whole family’s gonna be there,” Rita protested. “You can’t just bail on us like this, Taylor. It’s the five-year anniversary!”

  Taylor raised a shoulder. “Sorry, sis. I’m just doin’ what I thought was best for everyone involved.”

  Rita huffed in disbelief. “He’d want you to be there. You know that, right? He’d kick your ass for hangin’ us out to dry this way.”

  “Yeah well, he ain’t exactly here wearin’ the boots, now is he?”

  Rita’s gaze plummeted, and Taylor hated himself immediately. He rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry, Rita. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right.” She stayed him with a palm. “Today’s a tough day for all of us. I get that. If you feel you’ve gotta go, then go. I’ll cover for ya with the others.”

  Now Taylor really felt like crap. His focus drifted to the hallway in search of a new topic. “Where’s Jolene? She not up yet?”

  Rita returned to her coffee. “She was out late again last night. I expect she’ll be up in an hour or so.”

  “Just long enough to pop some more stims and head back out, right?” Taylor rolled his eyes. “Typical Jo. Heaven forbid she’d ever help around here.”

  “Jolene’s dealin’ with her issues like the rest of us,” Rita said. “Her ways are just a little different than ours.”

  “Yeah, but our ways don’t take us to rehab,” Taylor shot back.

  “So says the boy with his head over a commode three nights ago while I held back his hair,” Rita said.

  Taylor had no answer for that.

  “Jolene’s family, plain and simple. For all her faults, she’s still one of ours, and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.” One of Rita’s auburn curls fell across her face as she peered into her mug. “Family sticks together, Taylor. Has to. It’s the only way we survive days like today.”

  A soft groan carried from the master suite down the hall.

  “Mom’s up,” Taylor said.

  “Been up all night.” Rita sighed as she rose from her chair.

  “Want me to handle it?” Taylor asked.

  “Nah, I’m already up,” Rita said. “You go ahead and take off before you get the third degree for skippin’ the service. I’ve got this.”

  “Hey Rita?” Taylor asked.

  “Yeah?” She held at the corner.

  Taylor pursed his lips. “You deserve a break on occasion, too, you know.”

  Rita swallowed, staring off into nowhere. She looked so much older now. Between the growing wrinkles on her forehead and the deepening lines on her face, it was easy to forget that she was only 27.

  “That’s…a real nice thought, baby brother.” Rita forced a smile and pointed to the stove. “There’s biscuits in the oven. Take one for the road so you don’t go to work hungry.”

  * * *

  Closing the door behind him, Taylor threw the lock to their stucco house in the old Riverside neighborhood and descended the weed-covered driveway to the sidewalk across the street. From there, it was over three blocks to the corner of Saint Johns and Cherry, where he’d pick up the JTA redline bound for Jacksonville Startown. Thankfully, the wait wasn’t long, only about five minutes. Once the bus arrived, Taylor boarded the armored tube on dual rollerballs, paid the robotic driver via UACC, or Yack as most called it, then assumed his usual spot near the back. If he’d had his own transportation, the startown commute would only have been about 10 minutes door-to-door. Via public transit, however, the trip was more like 90 minutes.

  Man, what I wouldn’t do to have my flyer back. Taylor missed having a personal vehicle almost as much as he missed having his own bathroom. He’d had a sweet one, too. With her candy-apple paint scheme, black racing stripes, and modified capacitor system for max thrust, she’d been the envy of most of his friends. He’d even taken her Daytona for a handful of amateur racing events, although that’d been before the bank had taken it all away.

  Damn money-suckin’ vultures. Taylor fished his biscuit from his knapsack and thought of something else.

  Several stops and a station transfer later, the Jacksonville skyline crested the horizon in Taylor’s window. He’d always found it an amazing sight, in part for its sprawling expansiveness, though mostly for how much it’d changed, even in his lifetime.

  Taylor had been lucky. He’d grown up at a time when Jax had ranked among the top cities in America, but it hadn’t always been that way. Toward the end of the 21st century, after decades of political feuding with the so-called “Panhandle Rednecks” up north, the citizens of South Florida had petitioned the federal government for the right to independent statehood. The request was granted, and in the year 2085 the American flag saw the addition of a fifty-second star to its pattern.

  Naturally, most of Florida’s powerhouse tourism drivers—Disney, Universal Studios, the cruise industry, and so forth—had supported the move, as had many others who fled south to join them in the new South Florida capital of Orlando. This left North Florida—and therefore cities like Jax—with nothing on which to hang their hats for commerce. Soon, empty shopping parks, rotting factories, and decimated property values were commonplace from the Volusia County line to the Alabama border. By the year 2096, the state’s lawmakers faced a grim choice: “we either change, or we die.”

  In a stunning break from tradition, the North Florida Congress passed sweeping legislation that slashed its entire tax code and replaced it with a 1% consumption tax on retail goods and services. In effect, this took the state from being among the nation’s highest taxers to one of the cheapest places in the country to do business. Almost overnight, companies from across the country flocked to cities like Pensacola, Destin, Tallahassee, and Gainesville to seize the new incentives. Every industry was represented—from textiles to tech—though none more so than the mercenary field, which, by then, had become the backbone of the global economy. Fast-forward to the present, and, while the South Florida economy languished under bloated deficits and an overabundance of entitlement programs, North Florida’s economy was alive and vibrant, and flush with billions in hard-earned mercenary cash.

  And guns. Lots and lots of guns.

  Feeling the bus halt alongside the A1A strip, Taylor spotted his stop through the window, Cocktail Junction, and rose to get off. Once outside, he shouldered his knapsack and lobbed his biscuit wrapper into the trash as a Douglas-class frigate flew by overhead.

  Cocktail Junction was the northernmost stop at the Jacksonville Startown. Partially named for its array of bars and restaurants, and partially in homage to The World’s Greatest Cocktail Party (the annual rivalry game between the Universities of Florida and Georgia), the Junction occupied most of the old Neptune Beach area. The rest of the region—the towns of Mayport, Jax Beach, Atlantic Beach, and much of Ponte Vedra—were all now private property, owned by merc companies. Throw in Jax Starport, the largest east of Houston, and Jacksonville Startown was never short on action.

  Strolling down the strip, sea breeze rustling his ponytail, Taylor soon arrived at the Junction bar where he spent most of his time. The sign out front read simply, The Hell House, in bold red font. Legend had it the faded red splotch beside it in the logo had once been a caricature of the devil, but no one had been able to corroborate that for years.

  Fishing the keys from his pocket, Taylor offered a quick wave to the bar’s custodian and house Dobro player, Mr. Lowe, in route to the door. Once insi
de, he flipped the light switch then waited as, one by one, the florescent bulbs over the main hall hummed to life.

  By all rights, The Hell House was a total dive, although most agreed this was part of its charm. After all, not every pub on the coast needed a cabana with a thatch roof, umbrella drinks, and a beach deck. Sometimes people just wanted a bar—a dingy, dumpy, crap-hole bar—and it was in that capacity The Hell House had proudly served for more than 32 years.

  Taylor rounded the horseshoe bar, with its array of scratches and scars, and headed for the 1950s-era jukebox in the corner. Granted, it was by no means an original—more like a novelty knockoff built in Grand Rapids, Michigan. However, it still carried the look and design of the old machines, which was cool, plus a full library of music thanks to its direct uplink to Earth’s Aethernet.

  Taylor keyed in his manager’s code then toggled to his personal playlist. Yep, that oughta do. A few seconds later, Statesboro Blues from the Allman Brothers Band was blaring through the speakers.

  “Aw, damnit,” a voice grumbled behind him. The accent was a thick Bostonian.

  Taylor turned to find Rex, The Hell House’s resident metal-head, frowning behind him wearing frayed jeans, Doc Martins, and a tour t-shirt for the slasher band, Napalm.

  “I knew I shoulda come in early,” Rex muttered. “Now I’ve gotta sit here and be subjected to another one of your hick-shtick twang-athons until we open. Because, you know, that’s awesome.”

  Taylor folded his arms. “Rules of the bar, hoss. He who opens picks the prep tunes. He who follows shuts his pie-hole and listens.”