by Matt Novotny
“And that was a fantastic move by Florida Eagle in Green Machine! The Cajuns’ own Black Widow, BC Cormier, is staggered! But look out, here comes Steve Cameron in the Sandman!”
Amos saw a Mk 6 CASPer painted in desert camouflage arc over the arena, its jump jets spitting yellow fire. Sandman leaned forward, cut his jets and fired salvos of rockets from shoulder-mounted launchers that exploded in a hail of pellets and beige smoke. The barrage struck an all-black Mk 5 painted with a red hourglass, already on one knee, sheltering behind a shield with a black and red web pattern.
As soon as the barrage cleared, Black Widow discarded the now-useless shield and fired what looked like a net from a launcher, followed up by simulated MAC rounds. Sandman was cocooned in the thick, black netting that set off a shower of sparks. He staggered in the air as he flared his jets, trying to recover, then crashed to the ground.
“Black Widow is using her carbon nanotube webbing!” yelled the excited announcer. “That web is charged to 250,000 volts, ladies an’ gentlemen! How’s that for a shocker? That’s gotta hurt!”
Amos Delacroix glanced at the tables outside. He knew the demonstration would be over soon, and the tables would be filled with happy people waiting for a taste of “Famous Amos’” Cajun Cooking.
Amos’ cooking had reached a new level and was as much of a draw as the combat exhibitions. The smell of gumbo, old favorites like red beans and rice, catfish and gator, and the heavenly aroma of fresh beignets filled the air. Any could be had, along with a draught of Abita or a freshly brewed cup of chicory coffee.
“Dem boys pour it on harder all de time,” said Amos, looking up from his prep tables, squinting with watery blue eyes through the windows at the grounds and the stands.
“They do,” replied Greasy, leaning against the doorway and cradling his cup of coffee against the morning chill. “They bust ‘em all to shit and expect me to put ‘em back together again.” He took a long sip then held up his cup to Amos in salute. “A good cup, this. I really like the new blend. Richer, not as bitter.”
Greasy was a stray the Cajuns had collected. Despite his age, Greasy served as the Cajuns’ handyman and general mechanic. No matter what relic they brought in, it was a good bet Greasy had once worked on it. The old man was thin and weathered, with dark skin like old, stained parchment. What hair he had left was pure white and pulled back into a loose braid. He wore a neatly trimmed beard, and no one had ever seen him in anything but grease-streaked coveralls. If the bayou had garden gnomes, then surely Greasy was their leader.
An emerald-green CASPer triggered its jets, soaring over the field. When it reached the top of its trajectory, it performed an intricate midair flip and fired oversized MAC rounds at Black Widow and a red Mk 7 painted in the likeness of an old Japanese Samurai. The rounds were filled with a green gelatin that exploded on impact.
“Look at that, ladies and gentlemen! That’s Green Machine’s signature move! The battle flip! You won’t see that anywhere else! Green Machine has fired his hyper-cannon at Black Widow and Lee Bo driving Crimson Samurai! In actual combat, those acid filled rounds could have disabled both CASPers!”
“Will you look at that?” said Greasy. “Flips. Think they know how fast they’d have their asses shot off pulling that shit on the battlefield? What are you teaching those boys, Amos? You think they remember how to fight?”
Covered in green goo and out of the fight, Black Widow powered down. Crimson Samurai had side-slipped the barrage and returned fire from a shoulder-mounted cannon and a handheld MAC as he charged Green Machine. He pulled a huge katana from a hard point on his back with his right hand.
Green Machine deflected the round from the shoulder cannon with a shield deployed on one arm, then fired braking jets, landing with a crunch. He extended heavy blades from each arm and charged his opponent. The crowd in the packed bleachers roared.
The two exchanged a flurry of sword strokes and seemed evenly matched, the longer reach of Crimson Samurai offset by the second blade of the Green Machine. Green Machine backpedaled and tried to gain room to redeploy his hyper-cannon. Crimson Samurai raised his katana and, with a thunderous crash, sheared through both Green Machine’s blade and hyper-cannon causing Green Machine to overbalance and crash backward into the ground.
The announcer screamed into his microphone, “Oh yeah! That’s it! Game, set, and match! Crimson Samurai wins today’s exhibition by shattering Green Machine’s weapons!”
Green Machine raised both arms in surrender. Crimson Samurai turned to the crowd and flourished his katana in a bow.
Dewey, Amos’ aging bloodhound, looked up from his bed on the porch at the sound of the last clash and looked at Amos, giving a slight whine.
“Don’ you worry, Dews,” Amos told the dog gently. “Dem boys gon’ be jus’ fine, I gar-on-tee.”
Dewey gave Amos a long suffering, skeptical look, but settled back on his bed with a sigh.
* * *
New Orleans
Louisiana, Earth
Pop!
“Ow!” Remmy quickly stuck his finger in his mouth and glanced up and down the fence line. There was no movement. In the distance, he could hear a barking dog, but that wasn’t his concern. He turned his attention back to the control box for the gate. He deftly secured the alligator clips and pulled out a pair of wire cutters. With a quick snip, the electric motor powering the gate hummed to life.
“We are in business,” Remmy said to the hulking brute next to him. “Back the truck in here and I’ll get our prize.”
“All right, Remmy,” the Lumar said. He crossed the road to where an old tow truck was idling.
Remmy made for a warehouse about twenty meters away. Surprisingly, the side door was unlocked. With a shrug, he slipped inside the building. Dim lights, hung high in the rafters, cast pools of sporadic yellow through the wide-open space. The place was deserted except for several two-and-a-half-meter-tall humanoid shadows. Remmy grinned.
Tap, tap came from the large garage door. Remmy quickly located the control box and pushed the button. A metallic thrum and several creaks, and the garage door retracted up on its frame.
“Gimme a sec,” Remmy told his partner. He turned back to the large figures and extracted a penlight from his chest pocket. He hurried to the first one and shined his light on the metallic right leg of a Binnig Mk7 CASPer. He grunted and moved to the next one. “Ha!” he huffed. “Burton, this is it. Pull the rig in and let’s get it connected.”
A scrape on the concrete of the warehouse floor and displacement of air gave Remmy enough warning to duck as a pipe crashed into the side of the CASPer with a loud ring. Backing up, Remmy flashed his light at his erstwhile attacker. His beam speared a young man in a dingy tan flight suit. He had short-cropped sandy hair and held his arm up to shield his face.
“Hey,” the man said, “y’all can’t be in here!” He hefted the pipe, readying for another swing. “And get that light out of my eyes.”
“Well, my little chickadee, ah do believe you were fixin’ to do me some harm.” Remmy smiled and moved the bright circle down to the man’s chest. Remmy could make out a name tag. “Now, Mister Stevens, why don’tcha run along now and let your elders finish their work.”
“Elders? Who are you? How do you know my name? This is the Marauder’s area. You can’t be in here.” Stevens took a half step forward and raised the pipe threateningly.
Remmy sighed and brought the light up to blind him again as he moved forward. A quick punch took Stevens square in the nose and knocked him backward from the force and ferocity of the attack. Remmy caught the pipe before it hit the floor and could make any more noise.
Now seated on the concrete, Stevens cried out in pain, hands on his now-broken nose, blood flowing freely down his face and drenching his uniform.
“Now see here, cher. I can appreciate wanting to protect you and yours, however, I am taking back property you stole,” Remmy explained. He glanced around to see if anyone else was creeping u
p on them, then put the light back on Stevens.
“Stolen?” Stevens squeaked. “That CASPer belongs to the Marauders.”
“Well, that is the point of contention,” Remmy said and stepped to the mech. “You see this here tag?” Remmy put the bright circle of light on the right leg of the CASPer, illuminating an iridescent strip of metal about the size of a deck of playing cards. “Your boss was either too stupid or too arrogant to remove the property tag showing the rightful owners of this here suit.” He straightened and dropped the beam between them on the floor. “Now, if you truly didn’t know, then I’d suggest finding a new employer.” He turned to the tow rig as it stopped backing up. He gave Stevens a sidelong glance. “Am I gonna have any more trouble from you? No?” Remmy nodded.
The Lumar got out of the rig and glanced at Stevens sitting on the ground with a bloodied face. “We have a problem, Remmy?” he asked, shrugging two sets of shoulders and cracking knuckles on all four hands.
“Nah, Burton. This here is our new friend Stevens. We had a bit of a disagreement, but we came to an understanding.”
Stevens sat wide eyed, transfixed by the sight of the giant alien, a member of a race with a deserved reputation for killing things with their bare hands. He shifted his gaze back to the truck. With a whine of hydraulics, a giant metal claw grabbed the CASPer and pulled it bodily onto the bed of the tow truck. He gave a dismissive flick of his wrist.
“Y’all have a right good evenin’,” Remmy said, climbing into the truck. Burton got behind the wheel and started the truck out the door.
Remmy’s pinplants buzzed—more of an electronic tickle in the brain—and he saw it was an incoming comm. “Why if it isn’t my favorite aunt. How’re ya doin’, Bes?” Remmy asked with a smile.
“Remmy, you little charmer. Where’re you at?” The warm Cajun voice on the other end was music in Remmy’s ears. Bes wasn’t really Remmy’s aunt by direct blood, but down in the parish, second and third steps get erased, and family is family.
“Oh, I just finished up a local job.” He winked at Burton, who chuckled a low bass rumble as he drove.
“Now don’ you tell me you be stealin’ again, Remington Bouchard!”
Remmy laughed. “Naw, Aunt Bes. You know I gave that up when I joined Intergalactic Haulers. This was a legal repo job. I have the papers on it and everythin’,” he said calmly. “Now, I know you weren’t callin’ to make sure I’m on the side of the Lord.”
“I want to remind you that Sabine’s party’s comin’ up,” she said. “I expect you won’t be missin’ it, right?”
“Aw, yeah. I’ll be there. Especially if Amos is cookin’,” Remmy said enthusiastically.
* * * * *
Chapter Three
Gorton Station
The heavy blast door shot open with a hiss from the hydraulics. A robed figure entered the musty, dimly lit room, dragging a large soft duffle.
“Illumination.”
The lights came up slowly, revealing a large workspace with a bench on one side, some lockers along the wall, and a large door on the far wall. Yellow and black markings around it indicated the door opened to space. A small craft was poorly hidden under a tarp on the opposite side of the room.
Thin, black-clawed hands reached up and pushed the robe’s cowl back, revealing the black fur-clad head of a Sirra’Kan female. A light gray scar bisected one side of her face from the top of her head, across her eye socket, to her jaw. A bright red cybernetic eye glowed where the natural eye used to be.
The bag moved. “Now, now,” she said soothingly. “I vill get to you soon enough.” She spoke in accented English, which sounded very much like Russian from Earth. She kicked the bag, and a muffled exclamation of pain followed. She grinned when the bag stilled. She sauntered to the middle of the space and set down a small, flat, iridescent disk. With a thought from her pinplants, the disk projected a hologram image of a large Equiri.
“Sin’Kura, report,” the Equiri ordered.
Sin’Kura gave a half bow. “Everything moves as planned, Kr’et’Socae. Phase one is complete. Shall ve proceed vith phase two?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said curtly. “Were you able to find our friend?”
Sin’Kura nodded. “Oh, yes, I arranged a gift for him.”
“Good. And the contact?” Kr’et’Socae asked.
“He is here. Vould you like to meet him?” Not waiting for an answer, Sin’Kura dragged the bag to the holo-projector and unzipped it. She yanked hard on one side and the occupant was unceremoniously dumped onto the hard metal floor with a thud.
Blinking, the Human held out his bound wrists to block some of the light from the projection. “What the hell—” He was silenced with a sharp blow to his mouth from Sin’Kura.
“You vill speak only ven spoken to, gry’zun,” she hissed, her fangs glistening in the light. Her eye flared white before settling back to a warm green when she addressed Kr’et’Socae. “This thing vill answer your questions.”
The Equiri looked at the crumpled Human. “Charles, you know better than to play both sides in this matter. Think of your family. Tell us where it is and Sin’Kura, here, will let you live,” Kr’et’Socae said.
Charles wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. It came away bloody. “You know I don’t mean you no disrespect, Mister Kr’et’Socae. But I can’t—” Sin’Kura grabbed his throat in one vice-like hand and dug her claws into his flesh. Blood trickled down his neck.
“Think very carefully, Human,” she said with a growl, “before finishing that sentence.”
Eyes wide with terror, Charles choked as Sin’Kura’s grip tightened. “Urk!”
“Sin’Kura, let him speak. He was just about to make the right decision,” Kr’et’Socae said.
She let him go and stepped behind Charles so he couldn’t see the predatory grin and warm pink glow of her eye.
Kr’et’Socae motioned. “You were saying, friend Charles?”
Charles wheezed and gasped for breath. “I was…” he coughed and cleared his throat. “I was saying that what you want is in the Blood Son annex on level four. But the Besquith won’t let it go easily,” Charles said hoarsely. “It’s in lockup two-four-two. All right?”
Kr’et’Socae smiled at Charles, which on an Equiri was not a pretty sight. “Yes, Charles. That is very good.” He nodded. “Sin’Kura has your payment.”
“You’re still going to pay me?” Charles asked, hope leaping into his eyes.
“Oh, yes. You will be paid what you deserve,” Kr’et’Socae said. To Sin’Kura, “Get it and move on to phase two.” He cut the transmission.
Charles blinked at the sudden lack of light and turned around. “So, about my payment—” he stopped and stared transfixed as a clawed hand punched into his chest, reached under his sternum, and grabbed his still-beating heart. Charles’ last sight was his heart being ripped from his chest. Sin’Kura’s eye glowed a bright red, and she had a feral grin on her face as she showed the dripping organ to him.
* * *
Snowmass
Jackson pushed his plate back with a contented sigh. He winced as he sat back in his chair. He had been pouring over the records of Kr’et’Socae’s and his associates’ activities. Even with Lucille’s help, trying to piece together the larger picture was frustratingly slow. To work off some of that frustration, he was putting in extra time working with Bev and Thomas recalibrating Bruno, and those sessions took a physical toll. That project, at least, was moving along nicely.
The mess hall at Force 25’s HQ had some of the best food he’d eaten off Earth. Called the “Cantina,” the place had a kitchen staff that, naturally, specialized in dishes from Victoria, but in the month or so since they had settled on Snowmass, they had picked up some new dishes from the locals.
One of today’s selections was a spicy sausage with peppers grown in the local hydroponics garden. Stewed in a rich sauce and served over rice, the heat cleared his sinuses and set him to sweating. The delicate smell
of the spices filled the air and drifted down the corridors, somehow managing to not clash with the ever-present smell of wet fur that had come to Force 25 after integrating the Trenta Knights. The spicy flavor reminded him of home and Amos’ cooking.
When did that happen? he wondered. Across the table from him, Vannix drew up her legs into the chair and sat, hugging them.
“You know exactly when that happened, partner. You got ambushed,” she said.
Rains smiled as he remembered. After Avbo, Rains had a short but busy assignment on Earth to help smooth over some minor difficulties at the newly established Peacemaker Regional HQ. After he finished, he had taken a quick trip to see the Cajuns’ new setup. The work was still ongoing, but Amos and his crew had made huge strides with the old place. It had been good to see everyone, and it amazed him that Sanctuary Plantation, with its mossy oaks and bald cypresses, had been abandoned for so long. For Rains, Sanctuary was history come to life.
“Uncle Jackson! Come see! Come see!” Sabine had shouted, grabbing Rains’ hand after their evening meal and pulling him in the direction of the plantation’s grand staircase, her ever-present stuffed crab trailing from the other. She gave him the grand tour, including the wing that held the rooms for the rest of the Cajuns.
“This is my room!” she said proudly. She opened a door into a small suite with a sitting area, vid screen, a desk strewn with coloring books, and a nook with built-in shelves holding some real books as well as toys. An open door showed a bedroom painted blue. “I have a poster bed and my own bathroom!” she said.
“That’s great, Sabine,” said Rains. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
“Uh uh. Nana Bes helped!” she said.
“We do it together,” said Bes from the doorway behind them.