Boss

by Scott Moon

  “The sales rep, if you can call him that, didn’t say.” Johnny popped his knuckles and ignored the sound of Davenport yelling at Jessup inside the barn.

  “Oh,” Marney said. “Probably just one or two then. That’d cause some problems with Davenport and his circle. Speaking of which, are you sure about… that?” she asked, cocking her head toward the barn.

  “No. I’m not,” he said.

  A dangerous silence grew. He refused to look at the barn.

  “Why haven’t you ever come on to me?” Marney asked.

  “You’d hurt me.”

  She shoulder bumped him. “You are a smooth talker, Johnny Boss.”

  “You only want one of those MK9s,” he said.

  “Are you still getting them?”

  “Not without the slate contract.” He stood and faced the barn. “Take the team on a patrol. They don’t need to be here for a while. Leave a couple veterans for security. You can tell them the bounty for the slate tripled again. Then mention they should stay alert until I can deal with the Peacemaker warrants they just issued for all of us.”

  She nodded and looked down as Jessup screamed.

  Johnny slipped inside and leaned against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. It was a terrible way to stand and a guilty pleasure he rarely indulged. Dust motes twisted on sunlight streaming down from a vent near the apex of the ceiling. Several of Davenport’s cronies lounged in the hayloft. For a second, their shadowed faces reminded Johnny of Nightmare — which was unfair to the Besquith.

  Blood puddled under Jessup’s chair.

  Johnny thought about his last argument with Cindy. I thought you liked Jessup, he’d said.

  Davenport walked around the chair, patting the young man on his left shoulder, then his right. He stopped just out of sight, forcing Jessup to look around for him — not an easy thing to do the way he was tied up. He barely moved his eyes.

  Johnny looked at his feet.

  Davenport arrived in front of Jessup and stopped, then gently slapped his victim. The other men and women in the room, Davenport’s inner circle, watched without a word. A few of the hayloft spectators moved close enough to the edge to dangle their feet.

  Another gentle slap, then another, and another until Jessup cursed.

  Davenport stomped on Jessup’s toes and Johnny almost went outside. Tears filled the corner of his eyes. He moved forward.

  “Don’t do it, Boss. You gave this job to me,” Davenport said.

  Johnny stood close enough to get spattered with blood, but remained silent for as long as he could. “Take a break, XO.”

  Davenport stepped back and toweled blood from his knuckles.

  “We’re all going to hell, Jessup,” Johnny said.

  Jessup nodded. His eyes were swelling shut. He wouldn’t look up. “You taught me to do the right thing.”

  Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose as hard as he could and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the young merc. “I never taught you that.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me you need the slate to save the OFC? That it’s for the good of the Company? You’ll forgive me, get me a new identity. Put me back in my old job?” Jessup asked, crying each time he tried to draw a breath.

  Davenport injected healing nanites into Jessup’s arm.

  “Is that what you told him?” Johnny asked.

  Davenport looked at him and smiled. “I told him a lot of things.”

  Johnny pushed down his battle rage, locked his jaw tight, clenched his fists, and counted to ten in his head. “Get this over with. We’ve all got warrants and the Golden Feet Company is making noise on the Galnet about being the ones to collect it.”

  “They’re weak,” Davenport said.

  “They’re not the only merc unit on Calista right now. If they find out we’re close to getting the slate it will be us against every merc race on the planet. Are you ready for that, Davenport. Make him talk. Get it done,” Johnny said.

  He stormed out of the barn, went around back, and puked until he stopped crying.

  7

  Ogres Versus Golden Feet

  EXPLOSIONS echoed from the perimeter of the three-hundred and eighty acre cornfield. Columns of fire mushroomed on the horizon — one, two, three. Johnny stared, recognizing not only the type of explosion but who had fired them. He didn’t know why, but Lamart’s rockets sent up a debris cloud tinted red and green like something from a holiday parade.

  He snatched binoculars from his belt, zoomed in, and saw kinetic projectiles ripping through an automated harvester. A missile struck the combine causing an explosion of yellow kernels like Johnny would never see again. Lamart and the others crouched fifty meters apart in the two meter tall corn rows. The attacking Golden Feet squads moved forward, seeking the same concealment but sending waves through neat, dense rows as they picked up speed.

  Ogre Fists and Golden Feet exchanged heavy weapons fire, including rockets and then grenades as the distance closed.

  A few seconds later, Johnny felt a pulse of air from a distant shockwave. No one in his unit was certified for nukes or nearly nuclear armaments. That didn’t mean they lacked some big bangs.

  He sprinted to his MK7 and clambered in, shouting orders on the OFC communication band even as he was gearing up. Nightmare and the rest of the rear guard Marney had left at the farmhouse moved with practiced efficiency to reinforce the inner perimeter. They made two rings of gear and improvised barriers; one a hundred meters from the house and the other three hundred meters out. His Ogres never defended fixed positions for long; he preferred to shoot and move. Defenses had to be just strong enough to make whoever was coming work for it.

  “Put the first ring farther out, Nightmare,” Johnny ordered. “Davenport, do you copy?”

  No response.

  Nightmare growled over the comm band. “Perimeter out this far. Do it now you dog Ogre Fists!”

  “Do it now you Ogre Fist dogs,” Johnny corrected.

  “That is what I say,” Nightmare said. “You must tell what a dog is.”

  “You’re a dog, Nightmare,” Johnny said on cue. Laughter rippled through the company radios.

  Johnny marched his MK7 to the barn and yanked open the door.

  Davenport and the others were scrambling for their CASPer units. “We got it! Jessup gave it up like a little punk kid,” Davenport said.

  “Fine. Right now we have at least one merc unit coming to cash in on our warrants,” Johnny said. “Probably the Golden Feet.”

  “This day just keeps getting better!” Davenport shouted, then high-fived several of his team. “Someone get this piece of shit out of that chair. Dose him with healing nanites and tie him up. Put him on a flatbed.”

  Johnny watched until Jessup was lifted from the chair by Davenport’s personal medic, who was a decent guy despite his choice of friends. Never talked much unless it was about horses or the latest medical journal publication.

  One laser after another punched holes in the top of the barn.

  Johnny moved out, taking three of his Team 1 and one of Davenport’s Team 2 to face the main thrust of the GFC assault. “Marney, are you back yet?”

  Static crackled through the communication link as she answered. “Back at the farmhouse. Setting up inner defenses. Nightmare has it all fucked up.”

  “Roger that,” Johnny said. “Lay down mortar fire. We will sally with a five-mecha sortie.”

  “Good luck, Boss. Thanks for the invite, you asshole,” Marney said.

  “You’ll get your turn,” Johnny said, then rushed toward the Golden Feet MK6 mechas rushing forward as they launched rockets from shoulder mounts.

  The GFC mechas charged three by three — just as Elfrick and his dumbass squad leaders always did. Little trios of inverted V icons moved downward on Johnny’s heads up display. Vs of Vs, he thought without laughing. Humor died a little each time he faced Elfrick’s nutjobs. Thoughts of the one-eyed albino in the Twelve Gage Laser invoked a stream of curses Johnny d
idn’t share with his mercs. Maybe Cindy was right. Maybe he did blame all of his problems on other people.

  For starters, there was Jessup who should’ve known better than to steal a slate, and especially should’ve known better than to steal a slate without asking Johnny first. Then there was Rylin Tobias, the Peacemaker who’d spit on the honor of all the Ogre Fist Company members by beating Jessup half to death in front of God and everyone. No matter that Jessup was on the run from the law. No one gave an OFC, past or present, that kind of beat down.

  Then there was Cindy, playing games instead of just grabbing Jessup and bringing the kid to Johnny.

  Worst of all was Gabriel Davenport, his Executive Officer and rival. He needed to get the man his own company soon or there was going to be a mutiny. Or he could kill the hot headed jerk. Maybe in battle, or in a duel, or however it had to be done.

  Without the OFC, Johnny Boss was nothing. His life lacked purpose without the ability to take contracts and go to war for someone who couldn't or wouldn't do it themselves.

  “Mortars!” Johnny called to Marney. “Use ‘em all. Bonus for ending this fight with empty mortar tubes.”

  “You heard the boss!” Marney shouted to her fire team. “Mortars away!”

  Whump. Whump. Whump.

  The sound of mortars leaving their tubes brought a smile to Johnny’s face. He laughed as he picked up speed. Dirt and organic debris blasted into the air just in front of him. He smashed through the smoke and flying cornstalks to hit the first of the Golden Feet losers hard.

  “Is that you, Elfrick?” he shouted.

  The nameless, faceless man in the CASPer mecha shouted something the GFC Cant Elfrick had bought years ago from a second rate linguist on Therman’s World. Johnny had learned a few phrases the last time they worked on the same side of a large contract.

  “Ver dis Elfrick Dingl-dikl-dac?” Johnny said. Instead of waiting for an answer he closed to melee distance, something he told his less seasoned mercs never to try. Aiming by instinct, he shot the mecha in its feet, then slammed into its armor frame, tumbling it to the ground.

  The battle raged above and on all sides.

  Whump. Whump. Whump.

  Whump. Whump. Whump.

  Marney and her mortar team worked the field indiscriminately since there were far more enemies than friendlies at this point.

  In the distance, five or six thousand meters at least, Elfrick’s famous battle tanks responded with hard hitting sabot rounds. Right on schedule, a second squadron of tanks shed their camouflage and pushed in closer with lasers and energy weapons. Mercs in CASPer units rushed around the right flank only to face Nightmare and two of Johnny’s best Ogres.

  “Marney! Bury those tanks! This soil is soft. The armor units will sink if you give ‘em some encouragement,” Johnny ordered.

  The battle lost cohesion and resembled the bar fight from the night before.

  Enthusiasm for violence led to individual victories here and there.

  “Rally in five, four, three, two, go!” Johnny ordered. He watched to be sure his order was being carried out, then turned and raced toward the prearranged location.

  “Lamart, have you contacted that air support?” Johnny asked.

  “There is an on-call wing of freelancers, but they say the price is double because the Golden Feet smuck-jobs paid to keep them on stand-by,” Lamart said, barely audible above the weapons fire around him… wherever he was in this smoke.

  “Then they should be ready,” Johnny said. “Being on stand-by and all. They just didn’t realize they were on stand-by for us.”

  “I took the liberty of having our credit pre-approved. The interest rate we’re getting charged should be illegal, but I figured this is all or nothing for us,” Lamart said.

  “It is,” Johnny replied. He spent the next fifteen minutes on the move with Marney and one of Davenports bodyguards whose name he forgot. “Cover me, I need to switch magazines on my main laser.”

  “Covering,” Marney said.

  Davenport’s goon sprayed a burning cornfield with suppressive ballistic fire.

  Johnny moved to his side, beeping him on the radio link rather than touching him on the shoulder as he would if they were out of their CASPers. “Got it. Go reload and take a piss if you need to.”

  The new guy laughed and fell back to attend to his gear.

  He wasn’t that new, Johnny realized. None of them were.

  Red V-carrots regrouped and thrust downward at the blue upside down V-carrots. “No rest for the likes of us,” Johnny said.

  Davenport emerged from the barn. “I left four solid men to guard Jessup until we get back. He’s in no shape to travel.”

  “Just leave him here,” Johnny said, immediately realizing how stupid that decision was.

  “Got to keep him here in case he is sending us on a wild goose chase,” Davenport said. “Are you about done with these Golden Toes jerkoffs?”

  “Get in the fight, XO,” Johnny said.

  “Don’t have to ask me twice,” Davenport said. “Team 2, break from whatever you are doing and rally on me. We’ve got the left fifty of this sector.”

  Johnny moved, expecting Team 1 to do the same without being told. He didn’t want to echo the orders of his XO.

  “Did you get a location?” he asked Davenport on their semi-private channel, the one they agreed to use but that almost anyone could eavesdrop if they knew the arrangement.

  “He was taking it to sell to a Zuul trader, but got caught trying to go around the Cathedral,” Davenport said.

  Johnny cursed. “We need to get there before they can call in their muscle and synchronize their autocannons. That place should be called the Fortress.”

  “Well, at least it ain’t a real Cathedral. We shouldn’t go to Hell if we die smashing our way in,” Davenport said.

  Johnny was too tired and pissed off to laugh.

  Team 1 pressed hard, drawing most of Elfrick’s wrath. The one eyed Albino hated anyone who’d ever dated Cindy, and since Johnny had married her three times, the GFC versus OFC vendetta was practically codified in merc law.

  “Reload,” Johnny’s CASPer computer advised.

  He stared at his gauntlets and shook off fatigue. It had been years since he heard the reminder. Training an experience taught him to bump his mags frequently, always keeping a full one in his primary weapon and the partially used mags close at hand in an emergency pouch.

  He needed to focus. Moving and firing at GFC CASPers, he worked through his priorities.

  The facts of his situation hadn’t changed much since the Ultra Max Prison breakout. He still needed money to keep the OFC viable. Jessup was still an outlaw, and was likely to remain wanted until the Peacemakers brought him in with or without the slate that was worth so many credits.

  A casual observer might say the current battle was his biggest problem, and it was, to an extent. But fighting was what he and his Ogres did. He found it relaxing at times. Routine.

  A game changing revelation dawned on him as smoke cleared from the scorched and cratered cornfield. He needed money and wanted Jessup safe, but his real problem was his Executive Officer.

  Gabriel Davenport began the mop up operation, disarming Golden Feet who were smart enough to know they were beaten and punching the rest with directed laser fire. Most of Johnny’s Ogre Fist Company followed him and cheered each time a Golden Feet CASPer merc was humiliated and disarmed.

  I only have one real problem, and its name is Gabriel Davenport.

  “Marney,” Boss said when no one else was paying attention.

  “Yeah, Boss?”

  “Status?”

  “Little banged up. What’d you need?”

  “Stay here and make sure Davenport’s men don’t kill Jessup. Once we have the slate, we need to turn him over to the Calista Marshalls. I can’t bear to give him directly to the Peacekeepers.”

  “Davenport is in rare form,” Marney said. “When this is over, we need to talk. I ha
ve some concerns.”

  “Those concerns are about to be addressed.”

  8

  The Cathedral

  LIKE the automated farm, the Cathedral was located well beyond the influence of Nemis City. The thick walled structure stood at one end of a massive plateau. Veins of red and yellow minerals streaked through the rock where it had been carved and shaped on an industrial scale. Corrosion resistant alloys and carbon bonded concrete linked manufactured structures that were not part of the raw stone.

  Nimbus clouds arrayed themselves on the horizon like an armada touched by the dying day. This part of Calista was harsh and the changes of a landscaped abrupt. The desert gave way to robust cornfields and other staple crops. Networks of arterial canals nurtured the plants with snow melted from distant mountains.

  At the center of the fortress was a gothic church with elaborate stained glass windows glowing in the harsh sunset of Calista. Johnny saw the colorful spire from kilometers away.

  “That’s close enough,” Johnny said.

  Davenport, helmet removed for this part of the trip, nodded and carried out the order.

  The Ogre Fist Company settled down for the night to observe the fortress town around the Cathedral. Over the years, a warlord known as Bloody Ambrose had built a system of modern defenses.

  “I see fixed energy and kinetic weapons on every tower of the wall. I assume no man’s land is a minefield,” Davenport said as he lie prone with binoculars next to Johnny on a hill top.

  Johnny made his own assessment. “Don’t sound so dire. What are a couple of high intensity laser batteries, heavy machine guns, and missile racks to guys like us?”

  Davenport shifted uncomfortably.

  9

  Challenge And Resolution

  Johnny spent much of the night watching regular patrols around the edge of the plateau. He rested when he could and made sure his Ogres did the same. In the morning he rejoined Davenport near the observation post.