The Good, the Bad, and the Merc: Even More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 8)

by Chris Kennedy

  “I could not agree more, Captain.” Stinzel smiled, a coldly opportunistic expression. He knew a good thing when he heard it, and if Halloran was accidentally torn to pieces on her inevitable hunt, well then—it was a dangerous world. Things happened. Stinzel had a nose for profit, and something about the venture grabbed his attention. While the unknown could kill mercs, it might also lead to even greater profits, and that was a risk Stinzel would take. Blood was cheap. Market share was not.

  “You have my full support in the matter.” At the shock on Banacek’s face, Stinzel knew it was time to bring the hammer down once again. He couldn’t have these clods thinking his word was anything other than law. “Oh, and close the door on the way out. I’m not finished eating.” He watched Banacek’s face twitch, then fall still.

  There was peace between them. For now.

  * * *

  “How do you know it’s from a different tree?” Banacek asked. He regarded the spiral metallic sample with a suspicious glare, as if seeing a scorpion near his foot. It looked like any other metal they’d pulled from Praxis, maybe a bit brighter. The metal sat on Halloran’s desk, winking in the rising light of Carberus. Her desk was lean and spare, like her body.

  Dr. Erris Halloran liked Banacek, so she held back any retort, adopting the informative tones of a teacher. Tall and straight, she looked exactly like who she was—a scientist who was outside more than inside her lab—raised on Earth in the rough and tumble wilds of Wyoming. Her father, a horseman of some reputation, put her in the saddle when she was three, and Erris never left. She rode and shot and fished and trapped, until her curiosity about animals and science took her away from the farm to learn.

  And she did learn. Erris came to understand the value of things, well beyond the wonder of new species and biospheres. She knew her window would always be limited by profit, and rather than fight, she perfected a method of entering a hostile biosphere, identifying the fauna, and deciding what could be saved once the inevitable trade goods were discovered. Sometimes, the animals themselves were trade worthy, other times, it was their environment.

  Praxis was one such case.

  Halloran saw the trees and their roots, and she knew no force in the universe could stop someone from tapping them to get the bright money that poured from their wooden hearts. In Banacek, she found a fellow pragmatist; someone who knew that no amount of protest could stop the hunt for profit, so it was best to mitigate the situation and ride the wave toward their own success. Halloran was at ease seeking both knowledge and financial security, a fact that twinkled in her dark eyes as she flipped a lock of burgundy hair, spectral with moving shadows. Her hair was the one nod to vanity she would allow, and it circled her face like a swirling nebula, changing colors with the heat of her skin.

  She put the sample down, casting a weather eye outside to the building storm. Clouds rolled from the east, their tops soaring in wispy rags past the view screens of the ‘stat. Even now, massive storms would be churning beneath them, making mining all but impossible. That meant she had a window—not safe, but a window nonetheless—in which she had access to the entire grove for her own research purposes.

  And her idea was grand.

  “I know it’s my job to hug trees and animals, but something else is in play, and it’s because of Whitlock’s sample.” Halloran held out a small, hand-written note, watching as Banacek’s brows shot up. No one wrote by hand anymore; it was too expensive to extrude paper. “I didn’t want anyone accessing this on the net. For your eyes only and all that.” Her smile deepened with conspiratorial glee.

  He looked at the scribble. Four words and a small sketch of the next grove over, filled with a species of tree they hadn’t seen or sampled. The broad fronds were like an umbrella, shiny, dark, and verging into the ultraviolet of red and green, sometimes gray. “Is the scale accurate?” He stared at the sketch. A lone tree stood on the eastern ridge, its height noticeably taller than that of the others, surrounded by a dark circle of ink.

  “As well as can be. I’m no artist.” Halloran shrugged. “There’s a radar return from the surface. A ridge of some kind, almost circular, around the base of that big bastard. I don’t think it’s natural, and I’ve got the evidence to back it up.”

  “As in?” Banacek was curious, now. His merc instincts were tickled by the presence of former occupation on a world as dangerous as Praxis. If Stinzel knew there was a prior claim, they were screwed. Not even his mother’s money could stop a torrent of claims and other mercs descending on Praxis, and that meant the Wind Dragons—and their money—were at risk. Banacek had a hybrid contract with Stinzel, and he needed his men alive and present to collect on the back half.

  “There aren’t any umbrella trees on this planet, despite what Stinzel might say about incomplete surveys, and there aren’t any trees 40 kilometers high, either.”

  “Forty? You said 40?” Banacek whistled low. That was nearly twice as tall as anything they’d mined, let alone surveyed. The root potential was—he stopped, thinking. “How can the roots go—”

  Halloran raised a finger, smiling. “They can’t. They’d be in the elastic part of the planet, well beyond the lithosphere. So, the tree—”

  “Would fall over. Meaning, that’s not a tree. Or at the very least, it’s not like all the others,” he concluded. “What aren’t you telling me?” He let the question hang between them, suspecting there was more.

  He was right.

  “The second part of my work is finding minerals in the biosphere. I was a damned good metallurgist before I joined this effort. But now? I’m even better, because I found the one thing everyone wants, and no one knows other than me.”

  Banacek was a soldier, and smart, but he couldn’t read her mind. Praxis wasn’t a gold mine; it was beyond gold, and that meant she was dealing with exotics outside his skill set. “And you didn’t write it down, which means you’re going to whisper sweet nothings in my ear?” His grin was youthful. It was sunshine on a face made of clouds and angles.

  Erris Halloran leaned forward, her finger pointing at the odd circle. “It connects to this grove through deep magma tunnels, and the exchange is a one-way street. I’m the only person who examined what Whitlock found, so I know the source. It’s here, not where we are, and that means we have a day to lock this down before Stinzel suspects we’re not on a bug hunt.”

  “What are we locking down, exactly?” He couldn’t think of anything so valuable that Halloran would move on it and risk the loss of her contract. And her life.

  “Before I tell you, I need the Dragons.” She gave him a winning smile. He was unmoved.

  “You can’t have them; at least not on a rumor. We’re mercs, and that means I’m not in the market for suicide.” Banacek’s response was low, his voice flat. He wouldn’t break contract on the word of a science wonk, no matter how charming her story.

  “I think you’ll give them to me when I tell you what’s underneath that artificial umbrella tree,” Erris said. She gave him a wintry smile of her own.

  “If it’s artificial, then there might be a defensive presence.” He tapped the slick surface of her desk for emphasis as the silence stretched, pregnant with unspoken negotiations. “Let me put it clearly for you, doctor. No cut, no Dragons. No disclosure—”

  “No Dragons. I understand.” She closed her eyes, thinking. “Five percent of the net for three years, 60-day renewal term if you survive. All holding and disbursements through a third party of our choosing.”

  He said nothing, but looked sharply at the sample again. “Five? Not even close. You’re asking me to breach my contract. I can lose my charter over this!”

  “Five or nothing, and here’s why—you’ll never work again, draw a sober breath, or spend a night alone if you get a tenth of one percent. You have my word on that.” Halloran smirked, knowing his interest was rising. She’d revealed nothing, and he was already considering the deal.

  Banacek nodded, but made a slashing movement with one of his
big, capable hands. The threat was unmistakable. “Five, but only if you disclose the whole deal to me, here and now. Without that, it goes nowhere. My Dragons fly away…but not until we tip off Stinzel. He might be in the dark, but he’s a vicious little prick. He’ll find out. Somehow.” Now it was his turn for a victorious grin.

  She had him, and she knew it. Halloran waved him closer so her lips were at his ear, like the confession of a lover at midnight. “There are residuals in that sample. No, don’t pull away, Stinzel is listening. I need some special gear, tailored for this job. It’s in the bay, marked as my own personal kit. Load it, don’t open it, and wait for me at the ramp. This conversation will compile in the ‘bots, and we’ll be blown within the hour. I can’t say anything in free air, but you need to have the Dragons suited and armed on the double. We’re abandoning Stinzel and taking the orbital lifters with us.”

  “We are?” Banacek asked, his voice low but incredulous. She had unbelievable balls. “Why?”

  “F11. It’s coming through that magma tube. Lots of it. It’s refined, pure, and it’s coming to us here, on Praxis. No fighting huge conglomerates for a contract. No prospecting ancient burned out mines. It’s right here for the taking. Do you understand? The umbrella tree? It’s a construct to cover an F11 source.”

  Banacek twitched as the tumblers clicked in his head. “It’s a mining cover. But how?”

  “Smart boy. You’ll figure it out.” She kissed his ear, and the touch was electric. Banacek loved women, but he loved money just as much. It was the perfect combination, and his smile was incandescent.

  “Meet in the main bay. Thirty minutes.” He turned to leave, mind swirling with possibility.

  “Make it twenty. I get lonely when I can’t visit my money,” Halloran said. Banacek agreed.

  * * *

  “It’s below the fog deck, and that means we go in blind until avionics punches through,” Kernan said over comms. Her voice was cool and tinged with the old Texan affectation of every pilot in the Wind Dragons; it was their verbal marker that put the mercs at ease when they went into a hot landing zone.

  The umbrella tree would be hot indeed.

  “There’s no way we keep stability in that shit storm below. Who’s going in?” Halloran asked, knowing she would fight tooth and nail to be in any hard ground landings. They had three platoons, all CASPer’d up in full battle rattle. They feared nothing, not even the howling beasts that hunted in the murk below.

  Banacek gave Halloran a measured look, considering his words. He picked idly at a dent on his chest plate, the composite scored with hieroglyphs from a life of danger and war. Under one boot, he felt the comforting heft of a pocket nuke, hidden from everyone but him. His natural sense of preservation made such things necessary, especially when dealing with the unknown. Like Praxis and its mountainous predators. After a moment, he pushed the nuke back under his bench, staring shortsighted into the deck.

  Without looking back up, he spoke, his tone neutral.

  “Something I’m wondering. About your conclusions.” He rubbed at a shiny ding on his chest armor where a MAC round had broken on impact.

  “About the element? It’s there, I can assure you. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. I have no desire to be anywhere near the apex predators on this world.” Halloran suppressed a shudder. She’d seen imaging from down in the soup. Some of the creatures were big enough to give orbital ships trouble, if they could get through the laser mounts and fixed missile batteries.

  “Yes, there is that.” Banacek’s voice took on a note of suspicion. “What made you lead me to the conclusion? About the mining op? The umbrella tree might have been a simple oddity, a fluke—but you left bread crumbs and lit up when I reached your conclusion.” Every head turned to listen, and Halloran felt the hostility of their stares.

  “I may have had outside information. You can’t expect me to trust that prick Stinzel.” Her head was high, tone challenging.

  “And why should we trust you?” Banacek’s hand rested idly on his sidearm, the message clear.

  “Because the Anax wouldn’t endanger their cut.” Banacek’s head came up.

  “Anax?” he asked, his brow furrowing in thought. After a second he remembered the stories. “You dealt with the Anax for this lead? Are you out of your fucking mind? They make MinSha look reputable.” He was standing now, weapon drawn. Other Dragons were all keenly aware in their CASPers. Halloran felt like every sensor in the ship was looking at her.

  “Cap, we’ve got a weird signal. A klick above the hard deck and rising,” the pilot’s voice reported. Her cool was forced, the words brittle.

  Halloran patted the air, then licked her lips as she rolled the dice. “The F11 is good, but the tech is just as good. Trust me, you’re going to want both. We can’t get it all if you dust me here, I promise you.”

  Banacek edged closer, until his weapon’s barrel inches from her chest. “What tech? Think carefully. You’ll want to spill it all, now.”

  She licked her lips again, eyes darting to the side. Several of the Dragons had released their straps and stood in the hulking combat suits, clearly listening closely. Exhaling slowly, she looked up at Banacek, willing him to listen. There was more money beneath them than any one person could spend in a hundred lifetimes. “Kahraman tech. The F11 is just gravy, but the tech is—it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen.”

  “Cap! Signal is tracking us, go to hover?” Kernan’s voice blared over an open channel. The ship jerked up and away, evening out at her feather touch. The Dragons clashed together before grabbing stabilizer bars, their movement like a school of fish dodging a marauding shark.

  “Hover and hold!” Banacek snapped, his eyes never leaving Halloran. She seemed different now, somehow diminished by her fear. And her lies. “One minute. Explain the tech, or you’re going flying. I’m sure you won’t hit the ground. Not here. Too many mouths to feed and all that.”

  “Synthesis tech,” she said, knowing he was telling her exactly what would happen. An unseen corporal slid his CASPer’s arm blade out; a meter of razor sharp steel gleaming in the ready lights of the ship. “Plant and metal made one. The best of both worlds, and capable of anything. Even drilling into the mantle and extracting a hidden deposit of stolen F11.”

  Banacek knew it was true. He also knew high risk, and his blood sang at the thought of tech that could reach into the elastic mantle of a planet. It wasn’t possible, at least not where the laws of physics prevailed. That meant it was something new and advanced.

  To a merc, new and advanced meant an early retirement. The Dragons would be neck deep in money. GalNet wouldn’t be able to keep track of their holdings if what Halloran said was true, and every bone in Banacek’s body told him the story would prove out.

  If they could get to the surface without becoming a meal.

  “Have you seen it?” Everything hinged on the question. He waited, watching Halloran’s eyes, but her only response was to reach for her slate. Thumbing the screen, she flipped to a blurred image, the colors silver and blue. A tree, and not a tree. Biomechanical, like something out of an old Earth artwork. Banacek wondered how many lasers it would take to bring down something like that. There was nothing in the picture to indicate scale, but—

  “Up! Now!” The pilot’s shriek blew speakers out on the bulkheads, dying in a hiss of static as the ship lurched sideways with a squeal of metal. Chaos erupted inside as Dragons lashed back and forth in their harnesses—those who were not strapped in were sent crashing headlong into the deck, some knocked out on contact.

  “How big is this thing, goddamit?” His bellow was nearly lost in the tearing of metal. Chemical smoke began to jet from unseen ports as the ship came apart at the seams, jerking up and down in the grip of a nightmare.

  Halloran’s eyes went round as the ramp was torn away, spilling two squads out into the raging sky. The suits spun and fired jumpjets, trying desperately to regain control, only to be swatted from the sky by a hundred meter long
mechanical tree branch. Some regained control and fired their weapons and fought on the way down. Banacek wanted to smile, but a fragment of metal laid his cheek open to the bone. Halloran lay in a heap on the deck, her blood spattered across the metal grate in a wild, looping series of sprays.

  The 40-kilometer umbrella tree was the creature. It had come to life to wreak vengeance on whoever came to take its treasure. A serrated branch tore into the ship, spilling more Dragons down into the wildly churning mass of killer branches. He had an instant’s view of a sweeping tendril shattering a half-ton armored suit like it was cracking a walnut.

  Plasma began to spill from the ship in its dying throes, the last of his squads mounting a sporadic defense from the two working missile turrets, their frames locked onto the remaining section of ramp.

  It wasn’t enough, and Banacek knew it. The Dragons had been sold like cattle, and Halloran had been selfish enough to die before he could shoot her himself. He braced against the collapsing bulkhead as a tree branch as thick as his body, tipped in alloy, burst through the hull to deliver the final blow.

  With one hand, Banacek drew his pistol, while he pulled away the safety on the pocket nuke with the other.

  “Fuck you, tree,” he snarled as he depressed the plunger once, then twice. Simple.

  In the milliseconds before detonation, Banacek thought, if we can’t have it, no one can. Wind Dragons forever, and fuck you, too, Stinzel.

  A new star bloomed and died, cooking off the grove, and the mist, and everything around it.

  # # # # #