A Fistful of Credits: Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 5)

by Chris Kennedy

Chapter 1

  It was supposed to have been a simple smash and grab. The Zuparti crew had no idea that Ulah and his fellow Besquith had secreted themselves aboard the luxury yacht. Ulah and his two compatriots had hidden among the crates in the cargo bay as the yacht prepared to leave on its maiden voyage from the construction yards around Tora IV bound for Soland and its new owners.

  For four hours, they bode their time, as the yacht boosted toward the stargate. Once the ship entered hyper, the second stage of Ulah’s plan began. The part which he, Pukil, and Kalaz had looked forward to. The killing!

  According to the information Ulah purchased from a sniveling Jeha at the construction yard’s offices, the yacht was sailing with a skeleton crew. Ulah had no doubt the three Besquith could overpower a few Zuparti. Those paranoid weasels were traders who hired mercenaries to do their fighting for them, so taking control of the yacht should be easy. Ulah had imagined selling the yacht for a tidy profit.

  How was he to know the wife of the new owner would decide to deliver the yacht, a present for her husband, personally?

  When Ulah reached the cockpit entrance, instead of the expected confrontation with two Pendal pilots, he ran slap bang into the owner’s wife and her Lumar bodyguard.

  Close combat in a weightless environment was never pretty.

  The Lumar, seven feet tall with four arms, were known throughout the galaxy as great brawlers, especially in close quarters. Fortunately for Ulah, he reacted first and got the drop on the Lumar. Razor-sharp teeth and claws disemboweled the Lumar before he could get his laser pistol free of its holster. Then things started to go south.

  The bodyguard’s dying brain sent an order to his muscles; they complied and pulled the trigger of his pistol. The single shot missed Ulah by a mile. However, in the confined space of the corridor, the owner’s wife was not so lucky. The shot speared through her neck, neatly removing her head from the rest of her body. She was dead before she knew she was hit.

  Ulah raced along the once spotless corridor, now splattered with the bodyguard’s blood and entrails, and burst into the cockpit. The Pendal pilots’ four arms were a blur of motion. Ulah grabbed the pilot’s upper left hand, braced his feet against the back of the now squealing pilot’s seat, and pulled with all his considerable strength. The squealing rose in pitch to an ear-shredding scream as the arm separated from the shoulder socket. Bone, muscle, tendon, and skin ripped asunder and arterial blood sprayed the victim’s fellow pilot and the interior of the cockpit.

  “Stop what you are doing immediately!” Ulah ordered. He whipped the separated appendage like a club, and he struck the screaming, mortally-wounded Pendal, knocking him unconscious. A blessing, perhaps, as his life blood spurted from the ragged wound to the beat of his ever-weakening heart. A final shudder indicated the pilot’s death. “I told you to stop...” Ulah’s words died in his throat; the cockpit control panel went dark as the second Pendal pilot’s hands stopped their feverish movement. The yacht’s controls were locked out. Whatever the ship’s destination, the computer would ensure the yacht reached it, with or without input from the pilots.

  Ulah let out a mighty rage-filled roar, grasped the remaining pilot by the throat, and pulled his face close to his own salivating mouth. Teeth bared, the blood of the bodyguard and the first pilot combined to mat the fur around his snout.

  The foul, iron-tinged smell of his breath filled the squirming pilot’s nose.

  “Tell me the access codes, Pendal, and I will make your death quick. Refuse and I will ensure it lasts an eternity.” The pitiful whimper that escaped the lips of the Pendal did nothing to salve Ulah’s rage.

  Behind him, the familiar deep voice of Pukil came from the cockpit entrance. “Ulah, my brother. If the cursed Pendal has indeed locked the controls, the possible combinations run in the hundreds of millions. We could spend the rest of our lives trying to enter the correct combination into the computer and never get it.” A wicked-looking claw extended from its sheath, glinting in the overhead lighting. Pukil’s voice came out low and steady. “Perhaps I can persuade him to share it with us.”

  Ulah released his stranglehold on the Pendal who floated above his seat. A short, barking laugh filled the cramped cockpit. “He’s all yours, brother. Where is Kalaz?”

  “Searching the rest of the yacht in case we missed any of the crew” replied Pukil as he floated over to place a heavy, furred hand on the pilot’s shoulder. His extended claw touched the Pendal’s skin, causing an involuntary shiver to run the length of his body.

  “I’m going to enjoy our time together, Pendal. Somehow, I don’t think you will, though.”

  Ulah let out another, more prolonged, laugh as he left the cockpit in search of Kalaz. He pushed past the headless corpse of the wife. Too bad she was dead; she would probably have been worth a small fortune in ransom money. Well, they had 170 hours to find and strip everything of value from the yacht before they emerged from hyper, and a ship like this would fetch them a pretty penny on the black market.

  Ulah, Pukil, and Kalaz had no idea the chain of events they had set in motion.

  Chapter 2

  Nikki tuned out the animated Wathayat freighter captain that filled the Tri-V. The Wathayat freighter was crewed by Cochkala, and this specimen of the badger-like species whipped his long prehensile tail around so much that Nikki saw the other Cochkala avoiding being near their obviously-irritated captain. Not for the first time in the 170-hour trip from Karma to Hano, she wished that another, any other ship, had been heading for Hano.

  Deciding enough was enough, she interrupted the captain mid-flow. “Again, you have my thanks for allowing me to piggy back on your hull, Captain. You have my gratitude, and I will be sure to mention to my employers your invaluable assistance in helping me complete my mission.” The Cochkala captain uttered something which the translation pendant hanging around Nikki’s neck struggled to find a fitting English word for. Nikki cut the link and his image vanished from the display.

  Nikki ran both hands through her long auburn hair, held back from her face in a ponytail that only served to emphasize her classical bone structure and striking emerald green eyes. “Sculpted by an artisan of ancient Greece,” one suitor had described her; many others had done their utmost to woo her over the years, only to have their advances dashed like a matchwood ship upon a reef. Nikki Sinclair had neither the time nor the inclination to become any man’s trophy wife. Her father, Alastair Sinclair, commanded the Sinclair’s Scorpions mercenary company and was somewhat over-protective of his only daughter, which also tended to dissuade suitors’ advances. Nikki would probably die of sheer boredom if, God forbid, she had to play the part of a genteel housewife and host. Hence, Nikki’s current chosen profession, and her presence in the Crapti region of the Jesc arm, which was about as far from Earth as she could get.

  Nikki adjusted the four-point harness hugging her to the seat so it didn’t press on her pistol. The vintage M1911, a present from her father on her sixteenth birthday, sat in its shoulder holster on her left side.

  Coming from a merc family, she was brought up around weapons and could not remember a single day when either her father or one or two of her two elder brothers had not been on the range, practicing with the latest hand-held laser rifle or one of the state-of-the-art CASPer Mk 7s. Nikki remembered vividly how, on first receiving the pistol, she felt deflated and even a little annoyed because her brothers got to play with lasers and armored combat suits while she got an antique pistol from the beginning of the twentieth century. Disappointment had turned to pride, though, as her father explained the pistol had been passed down the generations from her great-great-grandfather to him; now, he was entrusting it to her, so she could continue the tradition. From that day, the pistol was never more than an arm’s length from her side.

  Nikki reached out and grasped the thin lead that floated free in the zero-g environment of the cockpit. Cocking her head to one side, she clicked the lead onto the pinplant behind her left ear. W
ith a rush that almost took her breath away, her brain connected directly with the flight computer of her ship, the Anat. Closing her eyes momentarily, Nikki controlled the flow of information, slowing it to a more manageable stream. Satisfied, Nikki commanded the computer to disconnect the magnetic grapple which held the Anat firmly to the Wathayat freighter, then she applied power and set course for Hano’s starport. A familiar tingling ran down Nikki’s spine. It had been a long hunt, but now…her quarry was near.

  * * *

  The Anat was well into atmosphere, and closing on the starport rapidly, when a tickle from her pinplant alerted Nikki to an incoming call. A half-thought command activated the Tri-V, and Nikki was confronted by a pair of yellow eyes with black, unblinking, slit-like irises set in a green-scaled bulbous head. A pink forked tongue flicked out from a lip-less central mouth. Why is it the Hano reminds me of Vassily? Nikki had mixed feelings about the pet lizard she owned in middle school.

  “Unknown vessel, this is Hano Traffic Control. State your business and intentions.” The Hano’s tone of voice did nothing to disguise his obvious irritation at being distracted from something of far greater importance.

  Nikki ordered the ship’s computer to transmit its identification and her credentials. The traffic controller scrolled down the information on his display until, finally, he reached the seal at the end of the transmission. A blue tree. The seal of the Peacemakers.

  The reptile’s body went very still, and Nikki swore his scales took on a sickly blue tinge. The corners of Nikki’s lips twitched as she fought to suppress a full, cocky smile. She watched silently as the Hano wrapped his arms around his chest, dipping his chin as he assumed the position of supplication. His voice, when it came, was free of all previous signs of irritation.

  “Please accept my apologies, Peacemaker. How may I be of service to you?”

  “I require a landing pad cleared for my imminent arrival at the outer edge of the starport.”

  Six green, claw-tipped fingers flew across a control panel. “It is done, Peacemaker. Landing Pad 17 is at your disposal for the duration of your stay. Is there anything else you require?”

  “Yes, you will immediately erase any record of my arrival from the planetary database...” Nikki’s voice dropped an octave and her face hardened. “You will inform no one that a Peacemaker is on the planet. If it comes to my attention that my presence is known then there will be...” Nikki locked eyes with the traffic controller, ensuring her words left no room for misunderstanding. “Consequences.”

  A pink tongue flicked out to wet suddenly dry scales, accompanied by rapid blinking. Yeah, he got the message. Nikki cut the link and busied herself with preparations for landing.

  * * *

  Nikki stood before an open locker in the cramped personnel bay of the Anat. Reaching inside, she retrieved a utility belt complete with thigh holster. Buckling on the belt, Nikki bent to secure the holster to her right leg before slipping in a sleek, custom-made laser pistol. Shrugging on a battered leather flying jacket, she slipped a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses from her pocket and put them on. She brushed her left hand behind her ear, making sure the arm of the glasses had an unobstructed connection with her pinplant. Slamming the door closed, Nikki headed for the aft loading ramp, and her booted footsteps echoed around the bay. Ready or not…

  Walking into the bright sunlight, Nikki stopped at the top of the ramp and drank in her surroundings for the first time. To say the starport was rundown was a disservice to the word. Shithole was a much more fitting descriptor. The pad upon which her ship sat was nothing more than an engine-scorched circle of concrete. Off to one side were a couple of locals standing beside a motorized bowser. A bored-looking third local, with a laser rifle slung over his shoulder, stood a few feet away. Nikki made an educated guess the bowser contained F11. Why else have an armed guard unless they protected something valuable? F11, the element which made space travel possible, had caused a number of wars and was certainly worth protecting. After hitching a lift on the Wathayat freighter, though, her ship’s F11 bunker was still topped off, so Nikki threw a dismissive wave at the crew, and they jumped aboard the bowser with the armed guard in tow. The bowser’s engine burst into life, and the vehicle chugged off in the direction of a cluster of buildings partially hidden by a line of low trees.

  Setting off down the ramp, Nikki moved out of the protective lined hull of the Anat. Like all spacefaring vessels, the ship was designed to protect its occupants from deadly solar radiation; as a result, it hindered the passage of normal radio frequencies. Nikki’s glasses, while admittedly shit hot, were not just for appearances; a micro transmit and receive chip was embedded in the frame. This chip activated as it detected the signals from a planetary GalNet node, and, after a brief electronic handshake identifying Nikki as an authorized Peacemaker, the entire data store of the node was at her disposal.

  If I were a Besquith with credits to burn, where would I be? pondered Nikki. Accessing the GalNet node via her pinplant, Nikki ran a quick search for any active Universal Account Access Cards, or Yacks as they were commonly known, belonging to Besquiths. The answer jumped out at her immediately. A Yack, with a balance that had too many zeros and belonged to a Besquith, was regularly used at a place called Walars. Per the local directory, Walars was a multi-species bar in a rather disreputable part of the starport. A soft ping alerted Nikki that the Yack had just been used at…surprise, surprise, Walars.

  “Time for a drink, I think,” Nikki said to no one in particular as she headed toward a line of flyers waiting to whisk disembarking passengers and crew off to destinations throughout the sprawling starport.

  Chapter 3

  Walars was exactly as Nikki imagined. A dive. The first thing to hit her as she walked through the door was the stench of too many species in close proximity eating 100 types of diverse food.

  In the dim lighting, Nikki saw the bar was divided into seating areas, each surrounded by a low privacy wall. Green-scaled Hano waitresses weaved between the tables with practiced ease, carrying unrecognizable liquid concoctions. A bubbling azure-colored beverage caught her eye; there was a large worm-like thing doing the backstroke in it. Alien Tequila? Nikki wondered.

  Stepping to one side to avoid being highlighted in the doorway, Nikki scanned the booths. It took one pass of her glasses’ biometric recognition software to ping Kalaz. Slipping the aviators off, she placed them into her jacket pocket. The same hand continued its downward motion to rest lightly on the grip of her laser pistol.

  Strolling to the bar on the far side of the room, she squeezed between two Caroons who, despite the low lighting, both had darkened goggles over their eyes. The Caroons were more adapted for life underground than above. Nikki supposed a mining corporation must have imported them rather than using locals. A slate was attached to the bar’s counter top, and Nikki scrolled through the alien drink menu until she found a drink she recognized. Gosh Berry juice. Tapping her Yack against the slate, she placed her order. Turning her back to the bar and resting against it, she got her first proper look at the booth containing Kalaz from her new vantage point. Shit, he wasn’t alone!

  On either side of the large Besquith were a pair of Flatar. No wonder she hadn’t seen them at first. The raised wall around the booth had easily been tall enough to hide the one-foot-tall aliens who looked like overgrown chipmunks. The crossed bandoliers and the ugly-looking compact pistols they carried made them well-armed chipmunks, and where there was a Flatar, there was most likely to be a Tortantula. Nikki now had an inkling that going into the bar without back up was a bad idea. Besquith were one thing. Tortantula were a decidedly different kettle of fish. Taking the glass of Gosh Berry juice that had magically appeared behind her, she took a sip and scanned the crowded bar with fresh eyes. No sign of any Tortantula; at 10 feet long, they would have been hard to hide.

  Nikki downed the remainder of the juice and casually walked over to the booth containing Kalaz and the Flatar. It took a moment for
the three aliens to notice her; their animated conversation centered on a slate propped up on the table in front of them stuttered to a halt. The Flatar on the left was the first to speak, and the pendant around Nikki’s neck converted the Flatar’s squeaks and yowls into standard English.

  “Get lost...” The Flatar eyed Nikki up and down. “Whatever you are! This is a private conversation.”

  “It’s a Human,” the second Flatar said helpfully.

  “You heard my friend,” growled Kalaz, baring his teeth.

  Nikki looked from one Flatar to the other, before her hard, emerald eyes focused on Kalaz like high-intensity lasers. With her left hand, she lifted the collar of her battered leather jacket and revealed the glowing blue tree secreted there. Conversation in the bar ceased, as if someone had flipped a switch.

  “Kalaz of the Besquith. I have a warrant for your arrest.” Nikki’s voice held not a shred of emotion as it carried across the entire bar. On either side of Kalaz, the Flatar slowly slid away, pointedly keeping their hands in plain sight and as far from their weapons as possible.

  “The charges are: murder, piracy, theft...” With a roar, Kalaz surged to his feet, and his powerful arms flung the table in Nikki’s direction. Well, it would have been in her direction if she had still been standing there. With the grace of a gymnast Nikki rolled to the side and came up on one knee, laser pistol in her right hand, M1911 in her left. Kalaz moved with frightening speed, bearing down on Nikki, teeth and claws intent on ripping her to bloody pieces. The high-pitched whine of the laser pistol firing was overshadowed by the deafening blast of a .45. Being a near-light-speed weapon the shot from the laser pistol struck Kalaz first; it pierced his chest, cut his heart neatly in two and killed him instantly. The arrival of the heavy .45 round, a fraction of a second later may have been unnecessary, but it didn’t detract from its spectacular nature. The round hit Kalaz square between the eyes and blew the back of the Besquith’s head off. Bar patrons directly behind the charging Besquith were covered in a mix of Kalaz’ remains.