“Wilco, sir.” In the Tri-Vs, the doomed always gave a big speech. They’d say how proud they were to serve and spit out a litany of flowery BS. Real life seldom played out that way. Words wouldn’t help. He knew his new mission.
The surviving CASPers extended blades and, on the colonel’s command, launched toward the mass of wasps. Seconds after jumping, each one lost power, and they fell back out of the sky in unison, useless hunks of metal dropping like dead birds. Umbra almost lost his bearing at such a pathetic sight. He’d seen worse, much worse in fact, and a lot closer up, but this might’ve qualified for second place.
* * *
Umbra’s three drones watched from different points on the wall, completely unobserved. He’d planned to watch and record until all were killed, slowly exfil to another mining town, and hop a ride to the starport. Curiously, most had survived. The KzSha hadn’t dispatched them in their metal tombs. Instead, they’d cracked the CASPers open and herded the surprisingly high number of prisoners into a rough formation. The Regulators wouldn’t be worth ransom, and prisoner taking seldom made economic sense. KzSha did take slaves, but Human mercs made poor slaves. Even after the defeat, Umbra remained confused.
The cleanup and security of the KzSha unit focused entirely inward. These were some cocky bugs.
Two new creatures departed from an inner compartment in the large hauler. Hopefully they’d provide him answers. One was certainly a Veetanho, the large albino mole rat thing was unmistakable, especially since all mercs knew the infamous Peepo of Peepo’s Pit. This one was shorter and fatter than Peepo and, instead of goggles, it had a single monocle strapped to its head. Zooming in from a good angle, Umbra identified an asterisk or sphincter looking spot in place of an eye.
The other creature rolled along in a motorized wagon filled with water. What looked to be a large octopus occasionally flashed a pattern of light along its skin. A few taps on his slate identified it as a Wrogul, a creature common to the Scientist Guild and seldom seen outside of it.
One of the KzSha placed an overturned fuel barrel in front of the formation and lifted the Veetanho up onto it. Some unseen microphone projected its voice.
“Humans, I am General Vo. You may be wondering why you’re alive. You likely haven’t heard yet, but it’s been determined that Humans pose a great danger to the Galactic Union. Your reckless mercenary bands will soon be disbanded, and your planet will shortly be under new leadership.” Umbra subconsciously tensed up a bit at this news and with one hand searched data feeds for any related information. There was none. Was something drastic about to happen on Earth? “You’ve caused quite a disturbance in our Union and greatly unbalanced the Mercenary Guild. The great question is, ‘Why?’ Your physiology offers no great advantages…” Look who’s talking, rat, Umbra thought.
“…and most of your population is hardly smarter than the average insect.” A few KzSha turned to regard it as soon as their pendants had translated its statement, but none showed any emotion. Not that Umbra would recognize KzSha emotion.
“One of your more intelligent kind has blessed you with these impressive fighting machines, but as you’ve just seen, they come with great limitations which are easily exploited by the strategically minded.” It gave a smug little smirk as it stated this. “Weapons and armor, as you’ve seen, don’t make a species into great mercenaries. Neither does a mindless bloodlust, a trait your kind seems to have an abundance of. No, it takes something that by all appearances your species lacks. Which brings us back to the question of why. I would venture to say it is your occasional unpredictability. That’s my own personal theory. You frequently contradict good sense and strategy. Your reckless and unplanned behavior can occasionally catch your opponents by surprise.
“Everything, however, has a pattern, a method, or a design. Our only difficulty with your race, so far, has been determining that pattern. And that, my dear volunteers, is why you’re still alive. I’d like to take this opportunity to applaud the contribution you will soon be making to our understanding your kind. With your assistance, perhaps we can someday help develop Humans into productive participants in our Galactic Union.” It nodded to the octopus, who didn’t acknowledge it. It raised its short little arm and motioned the prisoners toward the haulers, at which point the KzSha prodded and their antenna flashed, translated by their pendants as directions to move. There were spontaneous attempts by the defeated Humans to grab at the stun batons or pull on the man-catchers, but all were met with electric jolts or hard smacks. One ballsy man attempted a rush to obtain a laser rifle, whose owner reflexively shot him. After a shout from “General” Vo, another KzSha, likely a sergeant, raised a pistol and killed the KzSha who’d fired. Apparently they were under strict orders to keep their test subjects alive.
Umbra recovered his drones one by one and moved his shell away. As he did so, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and organized his thoughts. Despite his promise to Coultrup, there was no way he was leaving them here.
First, his unit was being taken somewhere for study. Visions of 20th century concentration camps came to mind. He considered the sickest, most depraved, vile horrors the Nazis had visited on their fellow man and contemplated how much worse a morally disconnected alien species might do. Visions of vivisections, cybernetics, bioweapons, and psychological experimentation filled his head. These troops would be subjected to that.
Second, they hacked CASPers. One could only assume this capability could become widespread and, as such, was an enormous danger to all Human merc units. That had to get out before they were all destroyed.
Finally, the news about Earth. This was, putting it mildly, the most disconcerting. If this hadn’t happened yet, then he must do what he could to send warning. If it had happened, it meant there were no mercenary units to call for, no official rescue he could send for. Mentally, he canceled all thoughts of hiring a merc unit to come get them. Anything related to the Mercenary Guild was suspect. That even ruled out a “sort of secret” Combat Salvage, Search, and Rescue (CSSAR) unit he knew of. This really only left him one option.
He sent a requisition request through GalNet to Kit’d Foh Shipping for a “Fungal Agricultural Kit—Expedient” and then added a few remarks. He could only hope the “company” was still in business.
* * *
Durree plodded along, head buried in his slate. Normally, he would rush back into his cool, climate-controlled office trailer but, in this instance, distraction slowed him. The supply shipment should have been a routine matter of matching the list of crates ordered to the stack of crates that had arrived. Rarely did this take more than a few minutes, and issues were usually confined to parts mismatches or incomplete shipments. Never, in his time as Head Manager, had he encountered such a large shipment he hadn’t ordered.
A large, unordered shipment threatened the survival of the operation. The great mines they explored had long ago been emptied of the valuable ore and existed simply as ready-made quarries and treasure troves of recyclables. Barely worthwhile enough to turn a profit. Some were still actively mined for rare or heavy metals, some had found deposits of various fuels, but the profitable mines were appropriated by some entity with the funds to hire mercs. Durree’s masters weren’t willing to make such an investment. Thus, his job necessitated some profit, but not too much profit. To remain inconsequential, but still productive. Too much expenditure, even if unintended, and they were sunk.
Reaching out with one hand somewhat absentmindedly toward the door to his office, he turned his head back to regard the shipping crates. “ACME CORP” stood out in large, block, Human letters on the sides. On his slate, the company displayed as a small Earth-based company that delivered rare, expensive items. The catalogue seemed difficult to find. Whoever designed the GalNet site for this company hadn’t made it user-friendly. He wondered how they got any business at all. Being near-sighted, he squinted and held up an eyepiece to take one more good look at the crates. By the description, it appeared as if the co
mpany’s entire stock might have been shipped here. The crates were full of something called “kingpins.”
Dismay, and then anger with his underlings overtook him. He’d given explicit instructions the crates were, under no circumstances, to be opened. As a major error of someone else’s doing, he didn’t want to be made liable for the shipment by tampering with it before returning it. Yet one sat opened and, by the look of it, already nearly empty. His hunchbacked neck extended forward as he strained to identify the contents. It looked like seats…
“Are you coming in?” Instinct almost drove him to extend his massive claws in shock. On the other hand, the cool, soft manner in which the creature spoke calmed as much as its sudden appearance alarmed. A tall, lightly tanned, hairless, bipedal creature stood immediately next to him and held the door open. Durree dropped his eyepiece, and it dangled on its chain.
“Human, I presume? Are you responsible for this misdelivered shipment?” Shivers ran along his spine, and he fought to maintain composure. Humans were known as a very rash and deadly species. One wrong word and they might spontaneously start shooting everything.
“Yes and no, sir. May we talk inside?” Though the words themselves processed through his translator pendant so he could understand them, he could feel the calm, yet powerful voice of the being. It was mentally relaxing, but emotionally terrifying, all at once. His confused emotions left him unequipped to do anything other than what the Human suggested. A tremor went up and down his dark brown fur, and he plodded inside on stubby legs. The tall, muscular, bald Human motioned to his seat, and his legs took him there. Leaning back into the wide black leather cushioning, Durree set down his slate and stared, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. The man sat as well, and, as Jivool seats had no backing, his posture was ramrod straight, yet still tranquil and nonchalant.
“The shipment (his emphasis seemed to indicate some kind of joke Durree didn’t understand) wasn’t misdelivered. You, of course, didn’t order it. Yet ordered it was. I imagine the one who did order it will be with us shortly. In the meantime, I have a proposal. There’s a substantial potential for profit for you if you agree.” The man reached into his thin, dark gray jacket. The Jivool’s hands tensed and clasped onto his desk in a death grip, expecting a large caliber weapon. The man drew out a long brown tube of plant leaf. In smooth, well-orchestrated movements, he proceeded to clip one end with a small metal contraption, and then swapped it for a match, which he used to burn one end of the tube. He’d seen other species “smoke” before, but this was particularly potent. The silence that lingered while this operation played out served to build tension in his shoulders. He mused his shoulders had become MAC proof.
“Life is about choices. We can rub each other’s shoulders, or kick each other in the nuts. Your call.” With these words, the icy blue eyes of this menacing creature stared at Durree and burned holes straight through him. There was no doubt whatsoever that he meant what he said. The large hunchbacked bear jumped an inch at a knock on the door.
The hairless demon rose and moved to open it. Another Human, this one much more gaunt, somewhat twitchy, and with thin wisps of gray hair, entered. The two grabbed each other’s hands and nodded.
Baldy stated, “Am I to understand you ordered a mushroom farm?”
The wrinkly one replied, “Only if it was Kept In The Dark…”
“And Fed Only Horse Shit,” Baldy finished. “Patches…good to see you. Sorry for the delay. There was a major situation at Karma as we were looking for a ride out. Your warning was a bit too late. Seems Human mercs are going to have to lay low for a bit. In any case, we’re here now.” He sighed, and they moved toward separate chairs. “You look old. I thought you’d retired?”
“I’m both, Bull. I thought you’d retired, though you haven’t aged a day.” This one’s voice was a little higher pitched and scratchy.
“I did. Still just an honest merchant. Sorry to hear about—”
“It happens, Bull, and it was time. Let’s get to business,” Patches stated flatly. Bull nodded and held eye contact a moment longer.
“Understood. I was about to finish my profit-making proposal, if you wouldn’t mind.” The large bald one, “Bull,” turned to re-engage Durree. “As I was saying, you have a choice of unexpected profits, or the immediate failure of your little operation. My assistant will be in shortly to discuss the details. When we’ve settled the details of the merc contract you’ll be submitting,” he raised a hand to prevent Durree from interrupting, “we’ll need it to go out immediately.”
The door opened and a slender, brown-haired Human entered without warning. By the scent, Durree could tell this one was female. Her dark green jumpsuit was adorned with an “Acme Corp” patch on the right shoulder, and one over her left breast that seemed to identify her as “SKYFAB.”
“Patches, this is Archie, my lead pilot.” The two shook hands.
“The new turnkey?” Patches asked cryptically.
“We’ll see,” Bull responded. “Go ahead, Archie.”
She gave a quick nod and a friendly smile to Durree.
“Sir, they’ve got six air skiffs we could use. They need major maintenance and mods, but Skippy’s on it. Problem is, they’re VMC only,” (the translator only gave letters, Durree could only guess at the meaning), “we’re short on what we need to upgrade them, and nothing here is big enough for what we need. I’ll draw up a plan to hit up the starport for proper shuttles and some quadcopters.” Raising both eyebrows gave her the effect of having bigger, rounder eyes. If he wasn’t so terrified, he might have found it adorable.
Bull casually glanced at Durree. “We’ll have to charge those to you initially. Don’t worry, we’ll keep good records and reimburse you as soon as our delivery is complete.” He stood up. “Thank you for your time and cooperation, Head Manager Durree. Patches, Archie, let’s head back into my office to talk.”
It was several minutes before the poor Jivool mining manager moved. He felt certain his cooperation had been assumed, and he was expected to comply with whatever insane request they forwarded to him. Hiring a merc unit? Buying shuttles? He had the autonomy to do so, but not the budget. Even so, as soon as the corporate office made a review, he’d be fired and maybe even executed for all he knew. On the other hand, the psychopathic Humans would certainly execute him if he failed to follow their directions.
As a separate thought, the older Human had obviously not arrived with the others, so how’d he gotten inside the compound? Were his Zuul guards completely worthless? With only questions and no solutions, he could work out no alternative. Somehow, they’d completely usurped his quiet, simple little mining operation.
* * *
The commander’s “shipping crate” contained a long conference room. A long, thin desk with built-in slates ran down the middle, with chairs on either side. A refreshment area was set up along the far backside. In the middle, on the left side, halfway down, was a projection. Patches stood by it and pointed around.
“So you know this is the starport here, this is us…and there’s the hole they were moved to. All the equipment wound up here, in this one. As you can see, the whole of the plains are riddled with these massive mining holes. Generally 500-1000 feet straight down, around a hundred feet in diameter. Most’ve played out and been abandoned, including our target. Now…there’re several groups out there with different claims mapped out. There hadn’t been any intrusion from one group to another for recorded history.
“For some reason, about a year ago, one of the companies hired a large unit of KzSha for ‘defensive operations.’ Naturally the others got suspicious. Because most mines are only marginally profitable, there was no one to defend against, and because, well, they’re goddamn KzSha. The whole thing sparked a bit of a merc hiring race, and the Regulators pulled the contract for the border against the KzSha’s employer, here. The whole thing smells of a setup to get a Human merc unit there where they could be taken, just like they were. I’ve already explained their purp
ose.” His eyes lowered with a sigh. “That about brings us to where we are.”
Bull nodded, expressionless. “Thank you, Patches. As soon as this is over, I need you back out there, all right?” He nodded to the brunette. “Obviously time is of the essence, everyone. Archie?”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded. “We’ve got ten of these ancient junk skiffs they use here. They only fly them during the day and when there isn’t a sandstorm. We’ve got two dropships that can lead the formations and two quadcopters for the infil. One issue is, these cheap POSs basically use something resembling AvGas, if you can believe it. They normally have the range to get from here to the starport, but they won’t have the range to hit the objective and continue. I’m planning one from each formation as a tanker to top them off right before crossing the fence. Otherwise, we’ve planned a dozen semi-random routes. We’ll train so each formation is familiar with the other’s tasks so they can be interchangeable the night of. That said, with your concurrence, sir, I’d like to get my pilots going running the simulations.”
“Hold off; we still have a few issues to discuss.” He leaned forward to make eye contact with a fit, younger, bearded black man halfway down the table. “Whiskey, do we have a target for my buddy yet?”
The man leaned forward and spoke fast and animatedly, especially for this crowd. “Yes, sir, there were four strong possibilities, but based on distance, placement, estimated response times, and strength of the defenders, this one here wins.” As with the others, the target he referred to illuminated as he spoke.
“Has that been pushed through our host?” Whiskey nodded. “Okay then. That sets the ‘H’ hour. Tara, you find some space in these tunnels for a range yet?” A short but heavy-set pale-faced kid spoke up in a Boston accent and annoying nasally tone.
The Gates of Hell Page 25