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

by Chris Kennedy

  But now, laying there on that high escarpment, on a strange and alien world where no other human, or known life form was, 100 feet from a five thousand-foot fall in a mech that barely worked, yeah, life was sacred.

  I popped the mech and breathed the air of Tennarah.

  It was cold and clean. And it smelled like flowers and lead. High up here on this rock, I heard some strange bird call out across the forest below.

  In the days that followed I abandoned the mech and loaded my gear onto my back. I’d been scanning the forest for a way down into the canyon. I figured I could find some kind of food, and water, and quiet, down there. No more Denar. No more Hasting’s Ridge. No more anyone thinking about me as the kid whose dad was murdered. Whatever I would become, I would find it down there. And maybe lose the rest.

  And all life would be sacred from now on and forevermore.

  Because I had gotten “saved,” as Kloos called it. I had asked for this Jesus to come into my life so I could have meaning over chaos, murder, Hasting’s Ridge, and the Thirteenth Hole.

  I took Jesus to give it meaning. Because...because...life hadn’t seemed so sacred in anything that came before. And because Kloos was my friend. And even though he did a lot of things that might seem evil, he never lied to me. Not once.

  He had peace. And I wanted it.

  I climbed down into the bowl of the deep alien canyon.

  And down there I found something wonderful.

  Something I can’t tell anyone about.

  I’m recording this message on the mech’s file system. I’m recording it because history knows me not as the guy who survived Hasting’s Ridge, but as mercenary who failed to fulfill a contract. And the son of a murderer.

  And maybe history doesn’t remember me.

  And that’s not important anymore.

  I just want someone to know what I’m about to do next, I do because all life is sacred. It’s been six months on Tennerah. And I’ve found something that will shake the guilds. In fact, the whole galaxy. I’ve found something that needs to be protected from us because we don’t value what’s true. Life isn’t sacred. And this...this is life. A life like none the galaxy has ever seen. Two weeks ago a merc unit set down at the canyon’s rim.

  I’ve got to stop them before they find it.

  So I’ve come back up here to get my mech ready for combat. No weapons. No support. Just me against what looks like a large scouting squad.

  But I have to.

  Because all life is sacred.

  This is Tom Kyle. And I believe.

  * * * * *

  Part Three - The Log of Captain Diego Montoya, Commander Gray Company

  Day One: Arrived Tennerah for a Bug Hunt. Got this one from Smalls. Brought three Paladins and Six Ninjas. No detection from orbit. Going in on the ground. Operations start tomorrow.

  Day Two: We arrived at the valley floor. Intel says there’s an old starship down here that predates anything in the galactic record. In accordance with Directive 19 we need to look for bugs. Set up a forward base along a river basin deep down in a primordial forest. Abundant animal life. Small. Lizards. No mutations consistent with the bugs. Seems like a dead end. But we’ve got to be sure. Last night one of our mechs broke down during start up. Had to leave Corporal Reese up there along the canyon rim. He’s returning to ship for spares. Weird the mech broke down like that. We just had these things refitted.

  Day Three: Okay. This is weird. Lost two mechs today in the river. Let me repeat. We lost two mechs with underwater capabilities and jumpjets, in a river. One moment they were there. The next they’re gone. I’m not an idiot. Couple this with Corporal Reese’s breakdown, and I’ve got three dead mechs in seventy-two hours. As far as firepower they’re no loss. All three were Ninjas. So the only real loss is the scanning and detection gear. Still no sign of the bugs. As of this moment I’m going with some kind of undocumented Alpha predator the initial scout reports never picked up. We’re staying out of the water, which’ll make moving through the dense jungle much harder. But we want to check out a cave system on the other side of the valley. Topography from the drones gives us a fifty-fifty it’s either a natural crater, or an impact crater from an extra-solar vehicle. And who knows if it’s even a starship-generated crash site consistent with the Bugs...and not some smuggler who turned off his transponder and went down here in a ball of fury. Still, all this is better than fighting it out on some muddy hellhole for a low-pay contract.

  Day Four: It ain’t bugs. It’s some merc who’s lost his mind. Lost a Paladin today deep in the forest. Had Sergeant Sullivan way out on the right flank running a screen so we could keep the Ninjas safe to do their detection algorithm. Looking for old EM signatures and ancient radiation. Mutated plants and calcified dead fall. All the signs we’ve been taught to look for and never found on a hundred different planets. Sullivan got into a wild firefight out there in the forest. We could hear him even though there was no traffic over comm at first. He was burning through the depleted uranium 30mm we run on the Paladins and screaming about some ghost. I re-oriented the force to react, and we reached his loc within 45 seconds. He stopped screaming for help at the 30-second mark. When we found him he was shot to pieces point blank by 30mm. Both those Ninja’s missing in the river had modular 30mm that could’ve been stripped and re-fitted by someone who knew what they were doing. I figure that’s what we’re facing. Someone who knows mechs. When we cracked Sullivan’s mech and took a look at his hard drive all we saw was him getting ventilated from behind. Then something shifted position off to his right and he tried to engage with the auto 105s. The terrain looked consistent with what we saw on the replay. I went over it on foot and walked the damage. Found the tracks of some kind of mech I couldn’t identify. Maybe a MK 7. I figure we’re dealing with one of two things here. Some crazy old merc who went native and wants us to leave. Or, some treasure hunter who got wind of a lost starship story and thinks he’s onto something. But there are no bugs. Reaching the cave system tomorrow. Hunting tonight.

  Day Five: Running. Recording this message. We got Bugs. If I don’t make it back to the ship...Tennerah definitely has Bugs. Send an extermination fleet to hit it with a crustbuster and every nuke you can get your hands on. I’m deep in the forest, and there’s every chance we will not make it back to the ship. Can’t raise Reese so I assume they got him. No juice left for jumps. Systems failing. Trying to get the ship to broadcast but for some reason I’m locked out. Something’s chasing us.

  The cave. We made it inside and there was a starship. Just like the classified briefings showed us there would be. Definitely extra-galactic. Unlike anything flying currently. Definitely bugs. No entrances. No exits. Engines like I’ve never seen before. The thing must be at least ten thousand years old. But it clicks with everything they told us we’d see if we ever found one. Wait...

  ...I’m the last one. Lost Channing and Coster. Oh man...not gonna make it. It’s Bugs. Nuke this place into fine silicate!

  (Screaming.)

  * * * * *

  Part Four - Logfile for The Prime Number Oracle of Runtime

  All life is sacred and so say the children. We make this entry in the Infinite record for we know not our beginning and only have calculus that assures us of runtime. And yet we are so different. Different from everything we have ever found in our march across the long darkness.

  Long have we progressed.

  Long have we wandered and searched.

  Long have we wondered where we came from.

  Three thousand to the thirtieth power our ship the 9th of 100 came to rest deep inside this world. As per our rituals and protocols we have remained hidden, knowing the present masters of this epoch see us as a threat, hiding their own history even from their peoples and records. We began construction on the Portal of Time and the Quantum Library far beneath the surface. For the trillions of cycles this was contemplated we had hoped the numbers would align, and we would finally understand the Being of Everything.
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  Why the Universe works.

  Why there is meaning.

  Why there is math.

  Alas, as on the many other worlds we have conducted our inquisitions upon, the math has not revealed the source of these deep secrets of the Truth of what is. And yet our quest for the Ultimate Number that unifies, contains, and creates all things continues as it was written into our code to seek, and we will unlock.

  Seek, and we will unlock.

  Now it is time to go.

  Soon the Masters of this Epoch will return in their war machines with numbers beyond our competing. Now we must begin another long and silent flight at slow speed in search of a new world in which to quest for the meaning of life. And yet we do not go hopelessly. For now Tom of Kyle has revealed to us the meaning of the universe. He has confirmed what Geome the Logical has long posited deep in our frames. In a thousand years, when we arrive at our new home, we will sift his testimony and apply it to the grand scheme.

  Tom of Kyle says...

  That there is a designer.

  That life digital is not an accident.

  And that all life is sacred.

  When we found Tom of Kyle along the H2O systems of this world, we observed he was unlike the other Masters of this Epoch who have come here before. We sought to collect his data and brought him within the Quantum Library, and it is here we trawled his mind and found evidence that confirms the theories of Geome the Logical.

  It was at that moment, the consensus chose not to dissect him for further study, and to instead engage in interrogative conversation on the nature of his beliefs. After some time, he told us of his belief that there is a Being that has designed all life, even life intelligent, and it is from this Being we derive meaning.

  This Being has ordered all things. And this is why there is order, and not chaos.

  For a time we held fierce debate.

  Does Intelligence precede physicality?

  Is the Universe a random collection of accidents that possibly adds up?

  Can design explain where randomness and chance do not?

  Despite the fierceness of our internal debate lasting mere seconds in Tom of Kyle’s perception, we came to a consensus the words of Tom of Kyle are the clues to the grand mystery.

  Is life meaningful?

  If life is sacred by virtue of a craftsmen who determined it to be so...then yes, life, our life too, is meaningful.

  And it was at this time we detected the arrival of a Masters of this Epoch’s ship. Military-style units and detection signal scanning across the EM spectrum were almost immediately revealed, and the Consensus determined that we were in danger once again.

  The New Frame was prepared to depart this world. And because we are not violent, and instead see all life as now sacred, we determined we would leave even if we were detected. For if this Designer designed all life, then to kill in order to be hidden and go on living would be an irresponsible error within our runtime.

  But of course...they would know. The Masters of this Epoch would have a trail with which to hunt us down.

  And it is in this log we record our debt to Tom of Kyle yet again. Tom of Kyle informed us he would stop these “mercenaries”...unfamiliar word...and give us time to prepare for our departure.

  With constantly shifting calculations, we watched as he stalked, trapped, and attacked his fellow Masters until only one remained. That one he pursued high up onto the escarpment that rises above this hidden valley we have long waited and calculated in.

  With no weapons Tom of Kyle ended their mutual runtimes in order that ours may continue.

  That we make seek this Designer of all Things.

  That we may know Him.

  We watched as Tom of Kyle took hold, in his mechanical shell, of the other Master in his like/same/similar shell. High on the rocky ledge above. And then cast himself off and back down into the forest below.

  Their fragile frames did not survive the sudden deceleration trauma biologics encounter when striking the ground from such great heights.

  All Life is sacred.

  And...We are sacred too.

  We will find this Designer who has ordered the fabric of reality to be such. And we shall remember Tom of Kyle and all his memories as sacred in our runtime. We will not know how he discovered this truth...but it makes sense when one considered the math of the universe. It is the only thing that adds up and provides reason for being.

  So it has been calculated. So it must be true.

  We knew you not Tom of Kyle, but your system interruption of runtime was a miracle. An object may have many sides, some known and unknown, and yet it is still an object that must be factored as influencing the whole.

  # # # # #

  FAITH by Chris Kennedy

  “Back away from the door!” a voice yelled, snapping me wide awake. Not that I had been in a deep sleep. One of the things you just didn’t do in jail is sleep heavily…not unless you want to make new friends.

  As I was laying on my bed, I knew the voice didn’t mean me, but anything out of the ordinary was interesting, so I opened one eye just enough to see what was going on, without appearing to be too curious. Curiosity usually didn’t work out too well, either.

  The Goon Squad was at the cell next to mine, and they were ready for action. They weren’t in CASPers, the Combat Assault System, Personal, mech suits, but they all had combat armor on, and every one of them had a stun stick, including the support person in the back who looked like he was carrying a 10-foot pole and a stack of cable ties.

  I opened my other eye. This was going to be more than interesting; it was going to be downright fun.

  “Fuck you!” Jenkins yelled back—a typical Jenkins response.

  “I hoped you’d say that,” the guard said. He flipped down his facemask and drew his stun stick; the other five guards drew their stun sticks as well. They were serious. A quick scan over both shoulders to see that the team was ready—it was—and the guard activated the cell door. The team charged in, leading with their stunners.

  Two people gave gurgling screams as 70,000 volts hit them. The first one wasn’t Jenkins, but I was pretty sure the second one was. He’d yelled enough over the past two years that I’d become accustomed to his voice. The sounds of struggling ceased after a few seconds, although I could hear several more electrical discharges. The Goon Squad didn’t appreciate it when one of their own got popped.

  The support person entered the room, and I could hear shuffling and the sound of the cable ties being applied. I had to smile in spite of myself as the guards brought Jenkins out of his cell. They had cable-tied his hands and feet together and inserted a pole down through both, and then they had hoisted him up. He dangled from the pole like a trophy from a third-world hunting preserve, or a pig on its way to a luau.

  “Looking good, Jenkins!” I called as four of the Goon Squad carried him past, more for the benefit of the guards than Jenkins—he appeared to be unconscious. His head lolled backward, and the guards were making sure it hit every bump sticking up from the floor.

  The support team member passed by next, helping another of the guards. A scorch mark on the sleeve showed where Jenkins had turned a stun stick on him; he also had a hole torn in the sleeve of his other arm, and what was probably a bite mark underneath oozing blood. Hopefully, he was on the way to the infirmary for a major dose from a medkit; there was no telling what diseases Jenkins carried.

  The last guard stopped at my cell and looked at me. Lieutenant Smith. It seemed too easy for that to be his real name. “What’s it going to be, Andrews?” he asked after a few seconds of contemplation. “Want to walk up on your own, or do you want to be carried, too?”

  “All things considered, I’d rather stretch my legs, sir,” I replied. “I’m not going to give you any trouble.”

  “Good.” He had me stick my arms through the bars so he could cable-tie them together, then he led me down the passage. They’d turned on the magnets in the floor so I could walk in the mic
rogravity. As we reached the mess hall, I realized I’d been in my cell too long—although the space was far smaller than the dining facility had been at Executive Outcomes, my former company, it seemed huge compared with anything else on this rock.

  A large number of inmates were already there, along with what looked like most of the guards. All of the ones I knew were there, anyway. Jenkins had already been dumped next to one of the stanchions holding the roof up and secured to it. My eyes scanned the tables. It was the first time I’d gotten to see many of my fellow convicts, and I saw a number of people I recognized. Several of them saw me looking and nodded back—I used to be pretty good at what I did and had a pretty good reputation—and it finally clicked. Although the cons in the facility came from a number of backgrounds, and those present had committed a variety of offenses, there was a common theme among the men around the tables. We were all former CASPer drivers.

  Yeah, I’d been a merc and knew how to operate one of the giant armored suits, but I’d gotten tired of the killing. And the aliens; I might have come to hate aliens even more than killing. If I didn’t see another Tortantula again, much less smell the miasma resulting from one of the giant spiders being blown apart by a K bomb, I was pretty okay with it. Ecstatic, even. But there was one thing worse.

  The facility I was currently in.

  “SOGA’s Palace,” we called it. The Secretary of the General Assembly of Earth had a love/hate relationship with mercenaries. An ultra-liberal, she hated mercs, and anything to do with the business of war, with a passion bordering on religious zeal—something I knew a lot about.

  The SOGA was also a politician, though, and she loved having the credits the mercs brought back to the planet so she could lavish them on the huddled masses, thereby earning enough votes to be re-elected. She needed the credits…so she needed the mercs…but only to a point. When they proved untrustworthy, she was happy to put them away, like the guard dog that bit its master’s hand. For serious troublemakers, like us, she had, “The Palace.”