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The military-unit-turned-pirate thought the planet, with its agriculture-based economy and lack of military forces, would be easy picking for a big payday. But they hadn’t counted on a grizzled veteran of an elite force who had retired to that world—and brought his formidable combat gear with him.


Miranda’s Last Dance

Quincy J. Allen


Chapter 1

September 2967 (Terran Calendar)—Colony World Bevin

“I hate this planet,” Kenny grumbled, loading another crate of shadda roots into Henry Combs’ battered Masahaki hovertruck. The truck was an old, military-grade hauler that still had the gun-mounts—albeit empty ones—on the hood and behind the cab. “Nothing ever happens, and nobody ever goes anywhere.”

At seventeen years old, Kenny Boudreaux had gone through his growth-spurt with a vengeance. He stood a few centimeters taller than Hank, with broad shoulders, a farmer’s physique, and a shock of curly orange hair that spoke of Irish descent.

A dozen meters off, Henry Combs smiled and, with a shake of his gray-haired head, swept several dead leaves from the headstone at his feet. He kneeled, placed his hand upon the name miranda laser-etched into the stone, and ran his finger over the dates, 2934–2942.

He remembered, and a wistful look—one neither happy nor sad—crossed his face.

“You managed one more year of sleep,” he said softly. “Let’s hope it lasts a lifetime.”

He straightened, his joints popping a staccato reminder of his seventy-nine years, and let out a long, weary breath. Stretching his strong, sinewy arms, he turned toward Kenny, whom he’d hired to help with this year’s harvest of the versatile tubers indigenous to Bevin. They were the colony’s primary cash crop. The meaty tuber was an ingredient for several anti-aging pharmaceuticals produced off-world, as well as an excellent source of carbohydrates and protein in meals. It also made excellent mash for those who knew how to distill it into a bourbon-like drink unique in the galaxy.

The exceptionally potent, yet silky-smooth libation had been dubbed “süns” by Kahn Soong Lei, the Mongolian descendant who’d invented it. The old man had thought his ancestral word for “ghost” was an appropriate name. When he’d arrived in 2952 with the first wave of colonists, he came up with the spirit almost immediately. He was a master craftsman of any distillation process, and Hank had considered the man to be the da Vinci of alcohol. A two-year-old batch of the old Mongolian’s brew was good. Five was better. Anything beyond that was like drinking God’s quicksilver without killing you.

Hank ambled over to his hovertruck and examined Kenny’s work. The crates had been stacked tight and neatly set into the bed of the vehicle. He had to admit, Kenny was well worth the eighty credits a day Hank paid him. He stepped up and gave Kenny the sort of patient, crotchety half-smile only old people know how to use.

“Son,” he replied, yanking off a dingy, broad-brimmed hat and running a hand through a high-and-tight swath of gray hair, “believe me when I say a shitty, backwater world like Bevin is a blessing.”

Kenny had worked for Hank for nearly two months and hadn’t let Hank down yet. The lad complained a bit, but never let it get in the way of the job. Hank had made the arrangement with Kenny’s father over a long card game and a daisy-chain of locally brewed ales made from an indigenous grain called traba. Like most of the colonists in New Haven, the oldest farming community on the planet, Kenny’s father looked up to Hank like a grandfather figure of sorts. The whole colony did.

Kenny turned sour, disbelieving eyes to the old man as he loaded another crate onto the truck. The kid really does have a solid work ethic, Hank thought with a satisfied nod.

“I don’t have to agree with you just because you’re paying me, do I, Mr. Combs?” Kenny said, stretching his shoulders as he moved to the nearby stack of crates.

“Not ever, son,” Hank said affably. “And maybe it’s time you started calling me Hank.”

“Alright,” Kenny said a bit uncomfortably, “. . . Hank.”

“That’s better.” Hank took a patient breath. “You don’t know it, but even that one question sorta makes my point for me, although you’re too inexperienced to know why. You should count that as a blessing, too.”

“If you say so.” Kenny chuckled. “I guess I’ll just keep counting my blessings. And crates.” He grabbed another crate and set it down in the bed of the hovertruck. “Not that the alternative would make any difference around here.”

As Hank moved over to the dwindling stack of crates, a faint but deep rumbling filled the air. Kenny scanned the countryside, running his gaze along the long dirt road that cut through Hank’s four-hundred-acre farmstead, but Hank’s eyes lifted to the sky, turned west toward the setting sun, and immediately picked out a narrow contrail tipped with a glowing spark of light that was coming in about halfway up from the horizon.

“There.” Hank pointed toward the incoming ship, and Kenny’s eyes shifted in that direction. “Were there any cargo haulers due in today?” Hank asked.

“Nope.” Kenny’s father doubled as both the colony’s mayor and the port master for the handful of airfields that qualified as the only official starport on the planet. There were even a few small, older starships parked out there gathering dust. They looked more like a ship graveyard than anything else. None had lifted off in over a decade. “Nothing was due in for another week, although another big süns shipment is scheduled to go up tomorrow night.”

As they watched, the ship stitched its way across the sky, bleeding off velocity as it dropped in altitude. It went into a hard turn a few miles to the east, and moments later passed directly over their heads. A sonic boom echoed across the landscape. A high-pitched turbine shriek filled their ears as the ship fired its retros. Its velocity decreased significantly, and Hank was able to get a good look at its silhouette. He recognized the design, although it was more modern than the ones he remembered.

“Well, shit,” he said, and then let out a long, disgusted breath.

“What’s wrong?” Kenny asked.

“One pass to reconnoiter, and a final approach to deploy,” Hank said, sounding like he was reading it out of a manual.

“What are you talking about?” Kenny’s voice was tinged with confusion and a trace of fear.

“That’s a Ming dropship, son,” Hank said, glancing at Kenny. “Watch . . .” Hank’s eyes darted back to where the dropship was making its final approach toward town six miles away. As it did, a half-dozen dark objects ejected—three on each side—from the main fuselage and shot away in downward arcs. “And those are drop pods. . . . God dammit,” Hank muttered, slapping his hat back onto his head.

“Jesus, Hank,” Kenny blurted “What the hell is going on?”

“Mercs, I imagine,” Hank said. “Probably looking for an easy payday.” His eyes flicked to Miranda’s headstone and then back to Kenny. “And if they’re this far out in the galactic arm, it’s because they couldn’t get an easier payday anyplace else.”

“Mercs?”

“Remember what I said about being on this planet being a blessing?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s a double-edged sword, and I was hoping I wouldn’t see the other edge before they planted me.” He turned toward Kenny. “Do you know anything about firearms?”

“Sure,” Kenny said. “Dad and I go hunting all the time.”

“Then I need you to do me a favor.”

“What?”

“I’m going into town to see what these bastards are after.” He took off his hat and laid it on top of the crates they hadn’t loaded. “I need you to go into my house and down into the basement.”

“What the hell for?”

“In case I’m right,” Hank growled. “You’ll find an old wooden table on top of a large floor rug. Move the table and pull back the rug. Beneath, you’ll see a small cover plate for a large hatch. Lift the cover plate, punch in the code miranda, and when the pod opens, start prepping everything you see in there as best you can.”

“But . . .” Kenny started.

“No buts,” Hank barked. “Just do as I say, and maybe we’ll all live through this.” In a flash, the nice old man Kenny knew had disappeared. Before him was someone else altogether, and Hank’s tone brooked no discussion. There was an edge to his voice and posture that Kenny had never seen before. Hank’s taut shoulders relaxed when he recognized the look in Kenny’s eyes. “Listen, son.” He looked down the road toward town. “Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m overreacting, and they’ll turn out to be new colonists or something.” He placed a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “It’s just better to be prepared, alright? Get on in there and do as I ask. It could make all the difference.”

Kenny licked his lips. “Okay,” he finally said.

“Good lad,” Hank said. “If nobody shows up here by midnight tonight, then head on into town like nothing happened.”

“You got it,” Kenny replied, heading toward the house.

Hank moved around and opened the door to his hovertruck, and as he thought about what he needed to do next, he realized he should probably warn Kenny.

“One more thing,” Hank called out. “A few folks might stop by this afternoon. If they show up and tell you Miranda sent them, take them downstairs.” He eyed Kenny. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Kenny replied, looking even more worried.

“Everything’s gonna work out,” Hank said.

Kenny turned, nodded once with a fearful expression on his face, and then headed for Hank’s front door.

Hank hit the power on his hovertruck, and the soft, electric hum of its Masahaki power plant filled the air. The vehicle lifted off the ground about a foot, and the struts beneath retracted up into the chassis. He eased the accelerator, guided the truck out onto the dirt road, and headed for town.

As he drove, he initialized the comm unit implanted beneath the scalp behind his right ear and connected to Sam Teller, one of his best friends. Sam, whose much larger plot of land lay five miles north, was fifteen years Hank’s junior and had been one of the older colonists in the first wave. The two men had hit it off immediately, for a variety of reasons, including why they had chosen to settle on Bevin.

The comm buzzed twice, and then Sam picked up.

“I take it you saw it?” Sam said quickly and without preamble. There was neither surprise nor worry in his voice, only resolve.

“Yep,” Hank replied.

“So, what do we do?”

“Get to my house,” Hank said. “Carl’s son Kenny is there. Tell him Miranda sent you. You’ll know what to do.”

“Copy that,” Sam replied. “And I may be able to round up a few more.”

“Do that,” Hank said. “I’m heading into town to see what’s up. If I’m not back by midnight, you’re on your own.”

“Good luck,” Sam said.

“You, too, Sam.”

Hank cut the comm and slammed the accelerator to the floor.

Chapter 2

Hank strolled into the small town of New Haven, a long stem of traba grain sticking out the side of his mouth. He had parked his truck on the far side of the wide, tree-lined river that ran north to south about a thousand meters outside of town. He’d kept the vehicle out of sight and hadn’t spotted any aerial drones or flitters, so it was likely the new visitors hadn’t seen him come in.

The city of New Haven, small though it was, had a population of about two thousand. They were mostly farmers and tradespeople who had sought refuge from the complicated life of cosmop worlds and large populations. They were—in general, anyway—a simple people in search of a simple life. As Hank surveyed the end of Main Street ahead, right where the dirt road ended and the permacrete pavement began, he knew their tranquil existence had been shattered by mercenaries . . . and not just mercenaries, but corporate mercenaries.

Standing in plain sight on the nearest street corner were two troopers, one man and one woman. Clad in light combat armor and helmets with opaque visors pulled down, they held pulse rifles casually cradled in their arms. The armor looked like modern derivatives of ArmyTek’s line of modular armor. The lines looked right to Hank’s eye, but it was an educated guess at best. Both troopers wore red and black uniforms, but they were clearly not Republic troopers, which meant New Haven was in real trouble. The troopers’ eyes were fixed upon Hank as he walked slowly up the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath his feet.

The nearest trooper, a man, shifted his grip on the rifle and moved forward.

Across the street from the two troopers was what Hank had feared the most—a dōrydō. It looked like an Aztek design to Hank’s eye, but it was considerably more modern than what he was familiar with. The Aztek’s surface was made of smooth plates of neutron-dense armor that looked almost faceted where they joined each other. It had been painted with the same red and black colors as the troopers’ uniforms, and the highly reflective surfaces meant the suit was designed for laser fire.

A god damn dōrydō, Hank thought.

The word went back more than a hundred years to the original Japanese conglomerate, TokaiCorp, that had coined it when they made the first model. The word “dōrydō” translated roughly to “powered armor,” and a trooper in a dōrydō was generally more effective than ten troopers in combat armor. The self-contained suits could shrug off small arms fire easily; most had an ablative component that gave them a significant defense against lasers. More specialized suits even had reflective armor specifically for laser fire. They had heightened strength, speed, and sensory packages that made them positively lethal against unarmed or even lightly armed combatants and vehicles. Some had limited thruster flight, while more modern designs had enhanced power plants that allowed for gravitic flight over short and even—in rare cases—long distances.

Generally, the rule was, you stopped dōrydō with dōrydō, an LCG (Large Caliber Gun), or a tank, if you had one handy. Hank was pretty sure there wasn’t a tank on the entire planet, unless one of the colonists had built one from spare parts lying around in a shed someplace.

The dōrydō driver stepped off the far corner, moved away from the buildings, and started scanning the line of trees along the river. A shoulder-mounted beam weapon moved in union with the helmet, tracking wherever the driver looked.

They’re not taking any chances, Hank thought.

“You looking for trouble, old man?” the male trooper said as he blocked Hank’s path. His voice was deep and threatening. With the visor down, Hank couldn’t tell what the man looked like, but his voice sounded middle-aged and confident. His armor was battered, slightly faded, but obviously serviceable. There was a bright area of paint on the chest piece where the trooper’s corporate insignia had been covered up.

No evidence, Hank thought. We’re in trouble.

“Not at all, son,” Hank replied with a smile. “Just getting the lay of the land. I saw y’all come in and wondered what brought you to this backwater shithole. I take it you’re not here for R and R?”

“You got that right,” the trooper grumbled softly. “You packing?” the trooper asked, looking Hank up and down.

“Hell, son,” Hank said, “I haven’t carried a piece in nearly twenty years.” Hank lifted up his shirt and turned in a circle, showing the trooper that there weren’t any bulges.

The trooper stepped up, slung his rifle, and patted Hank down his torso and along the sides of both legs.

“Good,” the trooper finally barked. “Now that you’re here, move on down the street and join the others at the courthouse.” Hank had no trouble figuring out it was an order, not a request.

“Whatever you say, son,” Hank replied easily as he sidestepped the trooper.

“I ain’t your son, grandpa,” the trooper said. “We’ll be watching. If you turn any corners, you’ll be shot down where you stand. We clear?”

“As crystal.” Hank gave a half-hearted salute and stepped past the trooper. Nodding once to the woman on the corner, he ambled down Main Street like he was on a Sunday stroll. He didn’t give a second glance to the dōrydō still scanning the trees.

As he made his way, he saw several more pairs of troopers, some on street corners and others patrolling side streets, their weapons at the ready. Mostly laser carbines, he thought. He saw no sign of the inhabitants of New Haven, and a pang of worry crept through him as he wondered if they’d been executed. He’d counted eight troopers so far and spotted another dōrydō standing at the edge of town along one of three larger cross streets that bisected Main.

Hank blew out a frustrated breath.

Corporate piracy was a fairly common event in the Republic. Ship captains in command of squads, platoons, and even companies of mercs sometimes took advantage of the space between stars. They raided vessels and preyed upon small, poorly-armed colonies with impunity. Of course, Terran Republic troops and system law enforcement did their best to come in after the fact, but by the time they arrived, all the civilians were usually dead and stripped of their belongings. In cases where there were survivors, the victims rarely had any way of identifying who had raided them.

As he approached the center of town, and the storefronts rolled by, he realized all of them appeared to be closed. Normally, the front doors of each one would be open to the warm autumn air, the shop owners inside. New Haven felt like a ghost town at the moment.

At the end of the street, parked in the town square between a large fountain and the courthouse, sat a pair of wheeled APCs topped with twin heavy laser turrets and manned by troopers in the same red and black uniforms. One of them tracked Hank as he walked up.

As Hank passed the fountain, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There on the ground by the fountain lay three bodies riddled and scorched by laser fire. He kneeled over the bodies, recognizing all three. His heart sank. It was Kenny’s father, the mayor, as well as Sheriff Cleil, and her deputy, Bill Baxter. The sheriff’s blaster lay on the ground a short distance from her outstretched hand.

Hank closed his eyes and got a grip on his emotions. Rage burned inside him, and a wellspring of sadness for people who didn’t deserve to die.

“Is there a problem?” one of the gunners called out. The tone of his voice was calm, easy, utterly uncaring.

Hank took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and faced the gunner.

“Not anymore,” Hank said, turning with a satisfied grin. “Who do I have to thank for popping the sheriff and her deputy, here? They’d been on my ass for a while now on account of my illegal still. I make the best süns around.”

“You were told to get inside the courthouse?” the trooper asked, ignoring Hank’s question.

“Yep.”

“Then get your ass in there, or you’ll be joining them.” The easy tone was gone from the trooper’s voice, replaced with venom.

“Whatever you say, son,” Hank said. “I’m not one for getting into trouble when the winds change. I go with the flow.”

“Then flow inside, ya dumb collie.”

Hank gave the trooper a weak smile, happy to be referred to as a collie. Collie was the standard pejorative for colonist. He moved around the APC, the turret following him as he went. Beyond lay the wide stairs of the courthouse, and at the top of them was another dōrydō, as well as two troopers in heavy combat armor and full helmets. Their armor looked vacuum-capable and would be much tougher to crack than the light combat armor of the other troopers. They were all guarding the large double doors that stood open.

Hank made his way up the wide stairs, nodded to the troopers, and walked inside.

Chapter 3

Hank strode purposefully into the entry area of the courthouse. The building had been a large prefab structure designed originally as a three-story office building. Assembled ten years earlier, the colonists had modified it to their needs. The interior was warm and well lit, with much of the decor done in the bluish wood of a local tree.

Hank scanned the interior at a glance. All of the administrative offices were upstairs beyond two large staircases on either side of the entryway. There was a large counter to the right, with a door behind, and a pair of doors along the left wall beneath the stairs. At the back of the entryway lay the courtroom. Normally hidden by an accordion wall which was now collapsed into a left-hand recess, the courtroom was fully exposed, with rows of benches on either side of a wide aisle that led up to a tall dais upon which sat the judge’s bench.

Twenty of New Haven’s citizens sat clumped together on the left side in the front two rows, their backs to Hank. There were two troopers on either side, their visors down, watching everyone carefully. In front of the judge’s bench stood a man in a dōrydō of a design Hank didn’t recognize. The suit had smooth lines and an almost feline appearance, particularly in the shape of the helm, which reminded Hank of a panther or jaguar. The armor itself looked a bit lighter than the Azteks Hank had seen outside, although that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It also didn’t have any integrated weapons systems, but there was an array of components built into the waist and wrists of the suit that made Hank surmise it might be an infiltration suit. A laser carbine lay on the judge’s bench within easy reach.

“—so this doesn’t have to get any messier than it already has,” the dōrydō driver said, his voice amplified through speakers built into the chin piece. The driver turned his head to look at Hank as he walked in. “It seems we have another guest,” he added. “If you’ll just take a seat with the others, we’ll get on with our business.”

All the people on the benches turned their heads, and Hank saw a sea of mostly frightened faces.

They’re farmers, not fighters, Hank thought. He gave the driver an obedient nod.

“And what might that business be?” Hank asked as he moved toward the nearest bench.

The driver cocked his head to the side.

“I was just getting to that, old timer,” the driver said. “If you’ll shut your mouth and have a seat, I’ll get right to it.” Hank recognized the tone. It was the polite imperative of a person who believed he was totally in control.

Hank raised his hands in acquiescence and closed his mouth. He reached the second bench from the front, and the six women and four men already sitting there scooted down. He recognized them all. The closest was Elena Svodoba, the remaining deputy of New Haven. She had a fierce bruise beneath her left eye, and the tight blond bun she normally wore in her hair was disheveled in several places. She’d arrived in New Haven on a transport two years earlier and quickly found her way to Sheriff Cleil, who hired her on the spot. When Elena looked up at Hank with her deep blue eyes and motioned for him to sit down, he saw both worry and anger there.

There’s at least one fighter here, he thought.

They exchanged a glance as Hank sat down.

To her right sat three City Council members, five shopkeepers from the larger shops along Main, and Hakeem Najjar, the town’s best welder and metalsmith. Hakeem clenched one fist deliberately. When Hank met his eyes, there was iron there. And anger. Even at sixty years old, Najjar had arms like corded steel. As a younger man, he had made his way through a number of starship-building shipyards all along the main trade corridor of the Terran Republic. Hank suspected the man, almost twenty years his junior, had been in more than one scrape in his time. Shipyards drew mercs, and mercs generally caused trouble wherever they went. In that one glance, Hank knew the old Arab was itching for a fight. Hank got the message, and then he settled into his seat.

That’s two.

Elena leaned slightly toward Hank.

“They’re going to kill us all after they get whatever they came for.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her tone wasn’t one of warning or fear, simply a complete absence of doubt, as if she knew what the corporate mercs were planning, as if she’d been part of it. In that moment, Hank suspected he knew why Sheriff Cleil had given her a job.

Hank pretended not to hear her at first. He leaned back in his seat, a bored expression upon his face, and then stretched his arms out and yawned mightily. When he covered his mouth, he whispered back to her two words, “Be ready,” and then he shook his head and gave the dōrydō driver his full attention.

“Are we keeping you up, old man?” one of the troopers asked with a chuckle.

“I didn’t get my nap today, son,” Hank replied. “And with all this fuss, I’m feeling a little tuckered out.”

“Shut it,” the driver ordered, stepping forward. “I wanna get this over with.” He seemed to look over his audience, his helmet slowly panning from left to right.

Dōrydōs, including their face plates, were completely encased in a quark-bonded, neutron-dense alloy. There were neither eye slits nor any sign of a visual input mechanism. Despite this fact, the base electronics systems of a dōrydō allowed a driver to see across the full spectrum, provided image enhancement of thirty or more times normal resolution, and could even scan through a short list of materials.

“I’m going to make this very simple,” the driver said. “We’re here for that shipment of Kahn Süns slated to go out tomorrow.”

Hank felt Elena stiffen beside him. “They’re after your shipment,” she whispered.

Hank placed his hand on her thigh and squeezed as he glanced at her. He shook his head almost imperceptibly to silence her.

“My people,” the driver continued, “will finish loading up that fat cargo ship at the port, and then we’ll leave. Anyone who tries to stop us will end up like those three outside. We’ve cut your link to the SatComm at the source, so you can’t call for help, and while you might think you can overwhelm my troopers, there are six dōrydōs scattered around this shithole. You couldn’t even scratch one of us with the hunting rifles I’m sure you have lying around here, so don’t even try. You’ll just piss off the driver before one of us shoots you to pieces.” He turned and picked up his laser carbine. “You all heard the warning we gave when we arrived. If everyone stays in their homes until we’re gone, there won’t be any more trouble for them. And as for all of you, there’s an empty storage shed not far from here where we’ll keep you until just before we take off. Once we get back to our ship in orbit, we’ll fire up her systems, and you’ll never see us again. If you comply, all you’re out is a single shipment of booze. If you don’t, you’ll end up fertilizing the soil with your blood. Do not fuck with us.”

The driver turned and nodded to the two troopers on Hank’s right.

“Alright, you dumb collies,” a male trooper shouted, aiming his weapon. “Get moving.”

The female trooper beside him moved toward the back of the courtroom and motioned toward the front doors.

Hank got up quickly, took his place at the head of the line, and stared into the mirrored visor of the female trooper.

She stepped in front of him and hefted her carbine, like she was bored with the whole thing.

“If any of you backwater collies gets the bright idea to jump us or run, these carbines lay down enough fire to wipe you out in about eight seconds. You heard the commander. Don’t fuck with us, and I won’t have to work up a sweat killing you.” She took a position to Hank’s left. “Move it,” she ordered, and it was clear to Hank she felt like she’d drawn shit duty.

“Whatever you say, miss,” Hank replied, and he started walking toward the front doors.

Chapter 4

The female trooper guided Hank out the front doors, down the steps, and past the APCs still manned by the gunners. Night had finally settled upon New Haven, and the streets were illuminated by lamps at every corner. The trooper motioned for Hank to turn right toward the landing field, and the whole group shuffled along for a couple of blocks. They turned two more corners and came up to a large chromaplas storage building two stories tall and half a block wide. The two wide main doors had been secured with a length of chain and a thumb-lock. A small door set off to the side stood open, and a small rectangle of light brightened the sidewalk.

“Get inside,” she ordered, stopping just short of the door. She turned to the rest of the prisoners. “Everyone inside. Stay calm. Stay quiet. This will all be over by morning.” The female trooper seemed to only be keeping half an eye on the prisoners, and her attention seemed to wander, as if she was bored with the whole thing.

Hank nodded and stepped into the empty storage building. There were two other buildings closer to the landing field that he knew had been full to the roof beams with Kahn Süns.

They’re spread thin, if some of them are loading the rest of the shipment, he thought.

Hank moved off to the side, just inside the door, and waited for the rest of the prisoners to be pushed inside. When he saw Elena come in, he reached out and gently pulled her toward him, raising a finger to her lips to silence her.

She gave him a quick, knowing nod, and her shoulders stiffened slightly.

The rest of the prisoners who had been sitting on Elena’s row were shoved inside, and when Hakeem appeared, Hank pulled him aside as well. As the remaining prisoners shuffled in and grouped up like a flock of birds clucking to each other in low voices, Hank gently guided Elena and Hakeem to stand in front of him, their backs to the door.

When they were in position and blocking the troopers’ view, he lifted his pant leg and slipped a thin, well-worn, but extremely sharp tanto blade from the back of his boot. Tightening his grip, he took a deep breath and found himself wondering if he still had it . . . still had the mettle to do what had been easy when he was young.

When the last prisoner stumbled through the doorway, the male trooper stepped inside, his carbine slung over his shoulder.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just stay in here and keep your mouths shut,” the male trooper barked. “If I have to come back in here, I’ll just shoot one of you to get the message across.”

Hank stepped up to face the male trooper, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You picked the wrong colony,” he said as bright as sunshine.

“Whu—” the trooper started, but Hank’s blade cut his voice off as it came up under the chin of the helmet, pierced the trooper’s throat, and slid into his brain. Hank caught the trooper’s rifle as it fell, gave the hilt of his blade a twist, and yanked it free. Supporting the trooper against the door frame with his body, he let the corpse slide to the permacrete floor.

“Hey,” Hank called out as he stepped through the doorway. “I think there’s something wrong with your friend here.”

The other trooper turned her head to see what was wrong. Hank moved like a panther, stepped in close, and drove the blade into her brain, too. Her rifle clattered to the street as Hank dragged her lifeless body back inside the door.

Amateurs, he thought, the smile disappearing as he pulled the weapon free and wiped it off on his sleeve.

“Get that carbine, would you, Elena?” Hank said over his shoulder as he scanned the street outside. There were no troopers or dōrydōs in sight, so they had time. As Elena darted out and retrieved the weapon, he scanned the street and spotted what he was looking for. About ten feet past the door, in the middle of the street, was a manhole cover that led down into the storm drain systems. As Elena dashed inside holding the carbine like a professional, he stepped back through the door and closed it.

When he turned around, he found all the prisoners except Elena and Hakeem staring at him with wide eyes, fear filling their faces.

“Are you crazy?” Gill Juarez shouted. “You’re going to get us all killed!” He was a member of the City Council and owned the largest furniture shop on Main Street. He was also a teetotaler who never drank, never played cards, and spent his Sundays at the only church in New Haven.

Hank ignored him. “Elena, Hakeem,” he said pointing at them, “put on their gear as fast as you can. Elena, you can help Hakeem, right?”

“Yes,”

“I don’t need any help,” Hakeem replied. “I wasn’t always just a metal worker.”

“Copy that,” Hank said. “Get going.”

The two of them moved quickly, pulling the combat armor and uniforms off the bodies as fast as they could.

Hank watched Elena’s hands move like she’d worked with combat armor her whole life.

“Merc, right?” Hank asked, looking straight at her.

Her hands froze and she turned slowly to him. When they locked eyes, he could see pain there.

She nodded once.

“Corporate?” he asked.

Elena’s features filled with shame, and then she went back to pulling gear off the female trooper lying on the floor.

“Five years. At the end of it, I got transferred to a new ship . . . a ship with a bad captain . . . and for three months, I was one of them. Like what’s outside. I always managed to arrange for guard or support duty. I never killed anybody—I told them I wouldn’t. I turned a blind eye, took the money, and kept my head down. Then, one day, when we raided our first colony—one not too different from New Haven . . .” Her voice cut off, and she fought back tears. “When we hit orbit,” she said through clenched teeth, “we bombed the whole settlement to cover our tracks and went back to our regular transport support assignment. I got out as soon as we docked at Boondock Station and came here to start a new life.” She turned and looked at the stunned faces of the other townspeople. “They are not going to let us live . . . They can’t. They’ll wipe us off the map, head for deep space, and nobody will ever know what really happened here.”

“That’s right,” Hank said. “So we’re going to fight.”

“Fight?” Juarez asked. “We can’t fight that. And even if we could . . . even if by some miracle we were able to stop them all, their buddies in orbit can just come down, take what they want, and bomb us anyway.” He glared at Hank. “The only way out of this is to give them what they want and pray.”

“There isn’t anyone up in orbit,” Hank replied flatly.

“How could you possibly know that?” Juarez asked angrily.

Hank turned to Elena. “You heard that driver back there. He needs to fire up their systems before they leave. If there were even a few crew members up there, the starship would be ready to go the moment he boarded. He brought his entire crew down here, and the ship is unmanned and asleep up there, waiting for a wakeup call.”

Elena’s eyes went wide with realization.

“You’re right,” she said. “And if that’s the case, then it has to be a corvette class with a single drop ship, the two APCs, and what looks like a platoon of troopers, plus the six dōrydōs. Standard compliment for that class. They were Ming APCs out front.”

“And it was a Ming dropship that landed.”

“So that’s probably a Ming in orbit.” Elena looked up.

“Exactly,” Hank said. “Can you pilot one?” he asked.

“In a pinch,” she replied uneasily.

“I can,” Hakeem said. “I think you know I was once a starship engineer. Before that, though, I was a pilot. I’m not the best there is, but I can get it wherever you want it to go.”

“This is getting better by the second,” Hank said. “We’re all going into the storm drain out there. I need you two to take the others and head for the north side of town, toward the airfield. I’ll be back in a few hours. Listen in on their comms, call me if they realize you’re gone, and I’ll let you know when you can pop your heads up.”

“What are you gonna do?” Hakeem asked.

“I’m going to see if we can’t give these bastards a little bit more than they bargained for.”

A minute later, with Hakeem covering, Elena led the still terrified townspeople into the storm drain. Hakeem then went down, followed by Hank, who pulled the manhole cover back over them.

When he got to the bottom, he saw the lights from Elena’s helmet and rifle heading down a side pipe, leading the freed prisoners. Hakeem was standing there, waiting.

“How will you know how to get out?” he asked. “You won’t have any light.”

Hank bent down, put his hand into the small channel of water flowing beneath their feet, and nodded as he felt the slight current.

“It rained last night,” he said with a grin. “The water will lead me straight to the river.”

“In total darkness?” Hakeem said, astonished.

“Piece of cake,” Hank replied. “Keep them safe,” he added, and then he headed away from the direction the others had gone.

“See you on the other side, Hank,” Hakeem said.

Hank raised a hand and kept walking. He heard Hakeem turn and set off toward the others, casting Hank in total darkness.

He kept going, feeling his way along with every step.

Chapter 5

Hank pulled the Enhancement Optics off his head as he pulled into the drive of his homestead. Five ground vehicles and one two-man flitter sat parked just outside his house. The sight of them made him smile.

Sam’s been busy, he thought.

He’d had no difficulty making his way to the river, nor getting back to his hovertruck, and the optics had been tucked beneath the driver seat, just one more Alternate Plan Bravo in a long line of them that had kept Hank alive through some pretty rough times. He’d raced back home with the lights off, checking the rear view to make sure nobody followed. That had been his one worry—well, one of two, actually. The other was if somebody had noticed the two troopers he’d killed weren’t where they were supposed to be.

I just need a little more time, he thought, hoping the merc commander was too busy to worry about them.

He stopped the truck, got out, and walked over to Miranda’s headstone. Kneeling down on the back side of it, he pulled out his tanto and dug a small hole into the turf. About four inches down, he found the sensor panel he was looking for. He widened the hole, cleared out the dirt, and brushed the plate clear of soil and grass.

He stared at it for a few moments, drawing in a deep breath. He let out a long sigh and placed his hand on the sensor plate. The panel lit up with several status lights, all in the green. Hank nodded once and leaned forward.

“Wake up, Miranda,” he said. “It seems we’ve got one last dance together. Security access Five-Five-Two Alpha.”

He heard a faint, metallic clunk from beneath the soil, the whine of servos, and then the ground in front of the headstone started to rise. Without waiting, Hank rose to his feet with the same staccato popping sound of joints that had plagued him for over a decade, turned toward the house, and walked up to the front door. As he reached for the doorknob, the front door opened, and he found himself staring into the eyes of Sam Teller.

“Sam,” Hank said, his eyes darting to the heavy assault rifle the thick man held at the ready.

He looked past Sam and saw eight other figures standing in his living room, all armed with a variety of rifles. They were all farmers with homesteads on the periphery of New Haven. On the left stood Jodai Mumbassa and his two eldest sons, Marovar and Yobani, all traba grain farmers, as well as Cleve and Borda Svenson, who were big, burly vehicle mechanics of considerable skill. On the right was Sam’s cousin Treat Encinas, another shadda farmer, as well as Felicia Sweeny and her partner Abigail Takashi, who ran a small grocery a few miles down the road.

“Come on in, Hank,” Sam said.

As Hank stepped in, he spotted Kenny coming up the stairs from the basement. He held a long MAC sniper rifle in his hands, and to Hank’s surprise, he looked fairly comfortable with it.

“Kenny,” Hank said, “set that down for a minute. I need you to grab one more thing from the cache.”

“What’s that?” Kenny leaned the rifle against the door jamb.

“It’s a silver cylinder about thirty cents long, with green lights up the side, and a power coupling on one end.”

“You got it, Hank.” Kenny quickly disappeared down the stairs.

“So, what’s the deal?” Felicia asked. There was neither fear nor nervousness in the question.

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Hank said. “Before I do, I need to know who has combat experience. I don’t care what kind.”

Sam, Jodai, Cleve, Borda, and Felicia all raised their hands.

“Good. And the rest of you know how to shoot?”

Everyone nodded.

“People?” Hank asked, his face deadly serious.

Abigail stepped up, her shoulders squared, and hefted a laser carbine. “We already talked about that,” she said. “Those are our friends in town, and if mercs want to try and take what we’ve built here, then we’ll kill them as easily as we would any other animal.”

Hank smiled as everyone in the room nodded.

“Fair enough,” he replied just as Kenny came up the stairs.

Kenny stepped forward and handed Hank the silver cylinder.

“Thanks, Kenny,” Hank said. “Now, let me tell you what’s up and what we’re going to do about it.”


When Hank finished, everyone looked at him with dubious faces.

“Hank,” Sam said uneasily. “That’s a great plan and all, but you kept saying you’re doing this or that, and frankly, I don’t see how you could possibly accomplish half of it, even with those heavies that are still sitting in the basement. I’m guessing the two bigger ones go on your truck, but even one dōrydō will take that truck apart, given half a chance. You can’t get all of them with any of this stuff, including Kenny’s MAC rifle and that boomer that’s down there. You’ll be a sitting duck.”

Hank gave him a lop-sided smile. “That’s where Miranda comes in.”

“Miranda?” Sam asked. “Like on that headstone out there?” The few people who had asked Hank about the headstone had always gotten the same reply: that he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Come on,” Hank said. He walked out his front door with everyone in tow and then stopped. “Oh,” he said as he turned, “and Cleve, before we take off, go get the boomer. It’s only got two rounds, but it goes with you.”

Cleve, a giant of a man just like his brother, gave a big shit-eating grin. “Thanks, Hank,” he said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He led them straight to Miranda’s grave. “I’ll show you.”

As they approached in the darkness, Sam hit the light on his assault rifle and shined it onto what Hank had buried twenty-five years earlier.

The dōrydō, standing upright in the bottom of a military-grade, long-term storage capsule, was painted a mottled dark gray on black pattern. It had smooth lines and thicker plating than the Azteks in town. A railgun rose straight up behind the right shoulder. The weapon fired slugs made of the same neutron-dense material as dōrydō armor. Over the other shoulder sat a small missile pod about thirty centimeters on a side, with six launch tubes and what looked like a wide exhaust port sticking out a couple centimeters on the side. A commander’s insignia—a cluster of three stars joined by a circle—decorated each of the outer shoulder plates, and over the right breast was the insignia of an angel in black armor, wings outstretched, holding a flaming sword. An elongated double-diamond of gold encompassed the angel, and across the bottom were the words, “non enim misericordiae impius,” which translated as, “No mercy for the wicked.”

“Holy shit,” Sam said. “That’s a Terran Republic Assault Unit . . . a Mancuso.” Sam turned to Hank with wide eyes. “You were a—”

“Yeah,” Hank replied. “For a lot of years.”

“I knew you were military, but I had no idea.”

Hank gave him a wry grin. “That was the general idea. I wanted to forget all that, but once an Archangel, always an Archangel. It’s the oath we swear.”

“What’s an Archangel?” Kenny asked, staring in awe at the war machine before him. He’d obviously never seen anything like it.

Felicia spoke up, “They’re the TR’s best. When the Republic wants to put the hammer down on alien incursions or rogue mercs, they send in the Archangels.” She looked at Kenny. “And the Archangels kill everything in their path.”

Hank moved up behind the dōrydō, twisted a small hatch mechanism on its back, and a small door opened with a whine of servos. He slid the powercell into the empty socket, and there was a subtle hum as the primary systems powered up.

Miranda,” he said to the Virtual Intelligence, “would you please open up for me?”

More servos whined. The back of the suit, including helm and legs, split along invisible seams as the suit automatically leaned forward for counterbalance. Hank stepped into the dōrydō with muscle memory that hadn’t faded in twenty-five years.

“Button it up, Miranda,” he said as the HUD came alive before his eyes and ran through a sys-check. Most drivers viewed their VIs in the same way captains viewed their ships.

“Copy that,” a feminine voice replied within the suit. Miranda was not a created intelligence in the classic definition of the term. She was merely a Virtual Intelligence simulacrum that gave the appearance of sentience, but was actually just an advanced combat system. VI rigs were only available to Terran Republic dōrydōs, the Archangels in particular. Drivers required an intensive and intrusive surgery that implanted a hard-wired networking mesh just beneath the cranium. The process was one of the military’s most closely guarded secrets and had, as yet, not been duplicated by the private sector. At least, not the last time Hank checked.

Servos whined again, and he felt the suit close up around his body with a thunk-hiss as the atmosphere equalized within the suit. He felt a dozen pinpricks pierce his close-shaved scalp, and then a surge of energy flowed through his body as he joined with the suit. A wave of memories washed over him. He had never wanted to get back into the thing, but there wasn’t much choice at this point. When the sys-check came back with all systems nominal, he checked his weapons loadout: twenty-seven MAC rounds and eighteen hyper-velocity micro-missiles in the launcher module. He also had three recon floaters built into a small housing attached to the back of the missile launcher. He bent down and picked up the Aggressor Mark V Heavy Autocannon nestled into the side of the storage capsule. He checked the mag, saw it had all eight rounds, and then ran his hand over the two mags clipped to the back of his suit just above his ass.

You ready to dance, Miranda? he asked with his mind.

No mercy for the wicked, the VI replied.

In his HUD, he looked over the nine figures standing before him, all their faces frozen with awe. His system automatically did a scan of their weaponry and sent back the threat-analysis data. He actuated the external comms.

“Alright, everyone,” he said. “You know the plan. Mount those heavies on my truck and get moving.”

“Copy that,” Sam, Jodai, Cleve, Borda, and Felicia said together. The others merely nodded their heads.

As they all started moving, Hank sent a signal to the local comm tower that served the area and confirmed that their satellite linkup was dead. He had Miranda ping the comm units for all nine of the people headed toward the house. Everyone raised their hands to an ear to activate their comms.

“Hello?” all of them replied, and then stood looking at one another in surprise.

“Just checking comms, everyone,” Hank said. “We’re linked by my dōrydō through the central comm tower.” He could reach anyone in New Haven, but not beyond about a twenty-mile range from the center of town.

It would be enough.

Miranda, Hank thought, ping the tower and connect to every comm unit inside of New Haven. Activate the Emergency Broadcast System, temporarily cut their transmitters, and then pipe me in.

Stand by, Miranda replied. EBS coming online.

The alert warning sounded in the entire town’s comms three times, and then a default message indicating an emergency played out. When it was finished, Hank spoke up.

“People of New Haven, I need you all to pay attention. This is Henry Combs. As you undoubtedly know, mercs have invaded New Haven. What you don’t know is they’ve come to take the süns shipment and kill everyone once they’re clear so there’s no trace of what they did here. I and a few others intend to stop them. I need everyone to lock your doors, get down into your basements, and get beneath as much cover as you can. Tables, benches, whatever. There’s about to be a fight, and I can’t promise there won’t be weapons fire or worse going through your houses. Don’t come up until you get an all clear from the EBS. This will all be over soon. I give you my word as a Terran Republic Archangel.”

He disconnected and turned toward town.

Hank lost track of time as the memories flowed over him. Years of combat, and friends dying, and killing bastards—alien and otherwise—who would inflict themselves upon the innocent and take what they could. He felt the old ire rising within him. He shifted and flexed inside his dōrydō, loosening up, and the suit gyrated and moved with him. He had to admit, it felt good to be back inside again. There was a part of him that hated how much he enjoyed doing what he was so good at, but he pushed that aside and reveled in the power that thrummed around him. There were six considerably more modern dōrydōs out there. But they’re only Azteks, Hank thought with a smile. His Mancuso Assault Unit was old, but even an old Mancuso was feared by drivers in lesser suits.

“No mercy for the wicked,” he said out loud, and then he turned to see his friends carrying out the two heavy guns for his truck.

The first was a twin laser cannon for the front hardpoint plugged directly into the Masahaki power plant. It would burn through energy quickly, but Hank was certain it would be more than enough for the coming fight. The weapon had a ninety-degree traverse left and right, and could elevate to about thirty degrees. The other was a Mizuki swivel-mount chem-laser, with belt-fed charges ignited by a power-feed from the truck.

He watched them quickly drop the weapons into their hardpoints, and then Kenny hefted the heavy ammo-case and belt into the back of the truck. He locked it down, and Felicia connected the belt mechanism and actuated the weapon like she’d been doing it her whole life.

“Felicia,” Hank said over the comms, “you look pretty comfortable with that. You want the duty?”

“Hell yes,” she said. “I can make this thing sing and dance,” she added enthusiastically.

“Sam, you operate the twin instead of the swivel,” Hank said. “Marovar still drives the truck, while Yobani takes the flitter. You two are hell on wheels in those things.”

“Yes, sir,” they both said. Anyone who knew the Mumbassa family knew Jodai had taught his boys how to drive just about any vehicle, and they clearly had a gift for it.

“Alright,” Hank said. “Everyone mount up. I’ll ride on the hood. Kenny, you’ll set everything in motion just like we discussed.”

“Yes, sir,” Kenny said. Hank picked up just a hint of nervousness in the boy’s voice, but not enough to worry him.

“It’s just like shooting wild game, son,” Hank said. “All you have to do is not miss and then do what I told you.”

Kenny swallowed once and gave a quick nod.

Hank moved around the truck, leapt up onto the hood, and went down into a crouch, gripping one of the turret barrels.

“Move out!” he ordered, and everyone scrambled for their positions.

Chapter 6

Hank clumped across the bottom of the river as everyone moved to their positions. He sloshed out of the water and made his way up the steep bank. He couldn’t help but wonder how many of his friends might be dead soon. Would they get lucky and not lose anybody? Or had he led them all to a messy death? Only a few of them were soldiers. The others were just pissed-off farmers and kids. It’ll have to be enough, he thought. Us collies are tough by definition.

“I’m in position,” Hank said over the comms. “Who isn’t?”

“Gimmie thirty seconds,” Marovar replied from the truck. “We’re almost there.”

“No sign that they’ve spotted you?” Hank asked.

“I didn’t pick them up on thermal or enhanced with these optics you gave me,” Marovar said. “The trees provided plenty of cover. I can’t see them, so I have to hope they can’t see us.”

“If you’re not taking incoming fire, they haven’t spotted you,” Hank said. “And remember, if you see a dōrydō, get the hell out of there. They should come to me once I’m spotted, and send the troopers out to fill the gaps, but we won’t know until they’re engaged.”

“Understood,” Marovar replied.

“Yobani, remember not to jump the gun. You don’t head in until I say, no matter what you hear on the radio. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied.

“We’ll be fine, Hank,” Cleve assured him. “Just do what you do. We’ve got your back.”

“Copy that,” Hank said.

“I’m in position,” Marovar said.

“We’re ready to rock and roll,” Sam added.

“Charged and ready.” Felicia sounded hungry for blood.

Hank tasked Jodai, Borda, Treat, and Abigail to take up positions just outside of town with assault rifles and snipe any mercs who tried to run out of town. There would be no mercenary prisoners.

“Kenny,” Hank said, “it’s on you now.”

Hank moved up to the edge of the river and looked up at the high riverbank and thick line of trees that rose above him twenty meters. He unslung the autocannon, flipped the safety off, and initialized his weapon systems with a thought.

Combat Mode initialized, Miranda piped into his thoughts. All weapons armed.

“Three . . .” Kenny’s voice came in. “Two . . .” Hank went down into a crouch. “One.”

A single, massive gunshot tore through the night air.

“Get out of there, Kenny,” Hank ordered, and then he leapt.

His boot and back thrusters activated, sending him rocketing straight up into the air. He launched all three recon floaters as he cleared the trees and the town came into view. His targeting system picked out the nearest threats as the six-centimeter floaters raced forward into the darkness.

In Hank’s HUD, a dōrydō was highlighted in red, and the two troopers who had taken cover behind the corner of the building were a yellowish green.

The dōrydō, a slightly different Aztek design than the one that had been there previously, was clearly fixed on identifying where the shot had come from as it strode forward, an autocannon aimed toward the trees. Hank could see a scorch mark, and part of the armor bent outward on the chest plate, dead center. Nice shot, Kenny, he thought as he reached the top of his arc.

Hank’s railgun tracked with his helm, locked onto the dōrydō with a flash, and Hank heard the lock tone. The enemy dōrydō shifted, his weapons tracking toward Hank . . . too late. Hank willed the weapon to fire.

CRACK!

Miranda shuddered around him, and his trajectory was altered as the first hypersonic round, magnetically accelerated to Mach 7, slammed the dōrydō to the ground. Thermals registered a massive heat bloom as the energy dissipated across the enemy dōrydō. It wasn’t moving, and it looked like the armor had been breached. Hank let his body fall, locked onto the dōrydō’s helm, and fired again.

CRACK!

Another round pierced the night, this time into the dōrydō’s helm.

The resulting explosion of neutron-dense metal streaked out like a grenade going off. Shrapnel peppered the nearby buildings, and undoubtedly passed through at least several walls. It also caught one of the two troopers across the street and sent him to the ground in a heap.

Hank was halfway to the ground. He targeted the remaining trooper, raised the Aggressor Mark V, and fired a single round that caught the trooper in the midsection. The man’s abdomen exploded in a splash of fire and blood as his body was slammed backward into the building.

“One dōrydō and two troopers down,” Hank said as he hit his thrusters and landed.

He stagger-stepped just as an enemy lock tone blared in his ears and heavy laser-fire streaked down main street. Miranda immediately identified the source of the lock-on and lit up an APC coming down the street.

A single blast impacted upon his right thigh plate, burning away enough layers of the dense, semi-reflective armor for him to feel the heat. The energy released spun Hank slightly. He instinctively lowered to a crouch, hit his thrusters, and fired two missiles from the pod on his shoulder as he jetted to the side.

More heavy laser fire filled the space where he’d been a moment before, and he took cover behind the building.

The recon floaters, small fan-lifted drones full of sensors, transmitted an overlay of the town with all threats identified.

Hank leapt straight up, using the power of the suit rather than his thrusters, and landed on the nearest wall. If he put the full weight of the suit on the flat roof, he’d probably crash through, but the chromaplas outer walls were strong enough to take the weight.

In the HUD, he identified four dōrydōs coming from the edges of town on foot, moving from cover to cover. There were also seven troopers moving from the perimeter into town. The APC that had shot him was halfway down Main, while the other one remained parked in front of the courthouse, but it was shifting its position, so the nose was also pointed down Main. There was a dōrydō climbing into the turret, and Hank recognized it as the leader’s suit.

A flash of motion to his left sent an alarm blaring. Hank leapt forward as blasts from a laser carbine splashed against his suit. He barely registered the impacts and realized the dōrydō firing at him only had a light weapon. Hank crashed down through the roof of the building, hit the floor, and leapt back up through the hole in the roof as the APC shot round after round into the building. Hank cleared the roof, aimed at the dōrydō, and let his autocannon do the talking.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

High Velocity Armor Piercing rounds spat from the barrel and slammed into the dōrydō that had been standing two buildings away. In a burst of explosions, it tumbled over the side of the building and disappeared. Hank leapt, jetting after it in a low arc.

CRACK!

Something slammed into his left shoulder just beneath the missile launcher and sent him spinning. Miranda’s auto-recovery system kicked in as he dropped beneath the wall, landed on his feet, and faced the dōrydō that had shot him just as it was getting to its feet.

Hank kicked out, slammed the dōrydō through the nearby wall, and then stepped forward with the railgun to find the dōrydō still standing as the driver leveled his laser rifle. Hank’s targeting system locked, he fired, and, as several laser blasts splashed into his chest, the center of the enemy dōrydō broke apart into three sections and bounced off the walls.

Hank realized there was going to be a hell of a mess to clean up once this was all finished.

Nothing I can do about it now, he thought.

Checking the inputs from his floaters, Hank stepped out through the shattered wall, turned, and leapt straight up into the air. He got an instant lock on a dōrydō coming toward him across one of the roofs. The system gave him a tone, and he cut loose with the railgun. The round caught the dōrydō in the shoulder joint. There was an explosion of energy, and an arm went sailing sideways as the dōrydō tumbled into the next street.

“Three dōrydōs down,” he said as he dropped back to the street. “The others are on me. Marovar, start your run.”

“Copy that,” the young man said, and Hank could hear the power plant scream as Marovar hammered the accelerator.

Hank checked the floaters and saw his hovertruck enter the theater on the far side of the airfield, headed straight for the cargo ship. He picked up a handful of trooper blips exiting the cargo ship. There was a brief volley from the truck, illuminated on his HUD by dashed lines that flickered, and then the enemy blips went dark.

He also saw a squad of troopers moving with a dōrydō only a couple blocks away to the southeast.

You’re next, he thought.

He raced down the street at a dead run, his feet hammering into the ground in a straight line toward the enemy squad’s right flank. Hank stopped dead in his tracks halfway past the building he was using as cover. He quickly backtracked as quietly as he could as the buzz-crack sounds of more laser fire filled the air, all of it coming from the airfield.

Miranda, plot a targeting solution around the corner to hit that squad, he thought.

The micros will not do appreciable damage to the dōrydō, she replied.

Acknowledged.

Hank moved forward along the curb. He got a tone when Miranda’s solution was locked in. He fired, and a half-dozen missiles streaked out and darted around the corner. Explosions and people screaming filled the night. Hank leapt forward into the street, the autocannon leveled, and fired into the smoke and dust that filled the area, emptying the mag. He heard the telltale crack of two rounds hitting a dōrydō. The floaters showed him where the enemy unit stood, and he fired the railgun without a lock.

CRACK!

There was an explosion within the cloud that pushed the dust and smoke aside.

The dōrydō now lay in the street, one leg torn away, as the driver flailed his arms helplessly, and great gouts of blood sprayed from the severed limb. To his credit, the driver managed to raise his weapon, an autocannon similar to Hank’s, but he fell back, and the weapon lowered to the ground before he pulled the trigger. Hank dropped the empty mag from his rifle and slipped a new one into place.

“Four dōrydōs down, and a full squad eliminated.”

“We think we’ve cleared out the troopers around here,” Sam chimed in. “How’s it look from your end?”

Hank checked the HUD and saw one more squad now grouped around the APC in the center of town. Another dōrydō stood beside the vehicle, and the commander still sat inside the turret. The other APC was moving toward the airfield, however, so Hank needed to do something about that.

“Marovar,” Hank called out urgently. “You’ve got an APC incoming. It’s running along the northeast side of town. Get around to the southwest side of that cargo ship and stay put.”

“Yes, sir.” Marovar’s voice was cool and calm.

“Yobani.”

“Yeah, Mr. Combs?”

“Get ready. Set up just past the trees at the end of Main. The plan hasn’t changed. When I say go, you hit it hard.”

“We got you, Hank,” Cleve chimed in.

Just then, Hank’s comms rang with an incoming call. The ID said Elena Svodoba.

“Stand by, everybody,” Hank said, and switched over to a secondary channel.

“Elena?” Hank said. As he did, he saw a single new blip suddenly appear on the street behind the APC headed toward the airfield.

“Stay put,” she said. “The idiot-gunner didn’t button up. I got this.”

“What?” Hank said, stunned, as he watched the small blip move quickly up behind the APC.

The vehicle came to an abrupt halt, and the threat-indicator of the APC’s field of fire started swiveling just as a dotted line of laser fire traced from the blip. The turret’s field of fire stopped moving, and the blip moved on top of the APC. There was the barest flash of laser fire on the HUD.

“Two down,” Elena said. “I hosed the interior, so I don’t think this APC is going anywhere.”

“Roger that,” Hank said. “And thanks for the assist.”

“I enjoyed it,” Elena responded.

“Now find some cover. There’s only the APC, a squad, and two dōrydō to take care of.”

Only?” Elena asked.

Hank cut the connection and swapped over to the team channel.

“—ank, do you copy?” It was Sam’s voice.

“Don’t worry,” Hank replied. “I’m still here. Elena Svodoba gave us an assist on that APC. The airfield is safe.”

“Elena?” Sam asked. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Hank replied as he reviewed his HUD.

The last APC hadn’t moved, which meant the enemy commander was too scared to move and wanted Hank to come at him where he could concentrate his firepower. The commander was undoubtedly still buttoned up inside the turret, manning the twin heavy lasers, and the other dōrydō now stood on the rear of the vehicle. The squad had taken cover inside the fountain, spread out to give them a 360-degree view of the center of town.

There was no way Hank was getting in there unscathed. The dōrydō’s autocannon would be enough to put a hurt on him. The twin lasers, if they got more than a few hits in the same place, would burn through in moments, and the concentrated fire of the squad would wear him down. All together, he was up against enough firepower to bring this little dance to an unhappy ending.

Miranda just has to hold together long enough, he thought. There was only one thing left to do.

The floaters provided the precise distance between himself and the courthouse. He factored in the required thrust and trajectory, and then calculated the expected acceleration of Yobani in the flitter.

“Okay, folks, we’re about at the end of this,” he said. “One last Hail Mary, and it’s half-a-bottle of beer for everyone.

“You ready out there, Yobani?”

“And waiting.”

“Good. On my mark, count down five seconds and then launch. Stay at the roof line and hit it just like we talked about.”

“Copy that,” Yobani and Cleve said together.

Hank took a deep breath and primed his systems for one last assault. “No mercy for the wicked,” he said, “and . . . mark!” Hank shouted as he leapt and hit his thrusters.

The roof flickered by as he shot skyward.

Everyone in the enemy ranks heard his thrusters fire, and as the APC and the fountain came into view, he saw all of them raising weapons in his direction. The railgun got its lock and toned just before the missile pod did. With both tones blaring in his ears, he pulled the trigger and fired both shoulder-mounted weapons as a wave of incoming fire filled his viewscreen. Alarms blared.

The railgun let out its distinctive CRACK! as the hiss of missiles filled the air. Munitions passed each other in midair.

Light laser fire splashed into Hank’s suit, and he felt the armor warm against his skin.

The dōrydō on top of the APC came apart from the railgun round that hit it in the center of its chest, and the fountain was lost in a half-dozen antipersonnel missile explosions.

Hank felt three terrible impacts, chest, thigh, and knee, as his body spun in midair. The dōrydō had scored three massive hits with his autocannon. The world tumbled around him as he fell. Warning lights filled his vision.

There was a terrific crashing of chromaplas and timbers as he broke through the roof of the courthouse, and then another as he hammered into the hardwood floor and sank into a crater a foot deep.

Hank’s head swam. His leg felt like it was on fire, and he smelled cooking meat. Alarms blared in his ears, and as he looked up, he saw the APC backing up with the turret swiveling around to draw a bead on him.

Hank tried to actuate the railgun, but it sent him a critical failure warning. The missile launcher was dead, too, and he could see his autocannon lying on the floor between him and the APC.

The twin turrets were almost on him when the shriek of a flitter filled the air. Hank waved and pointed as Yobani flew, canopy yawning open, and hovered directly above and in front of the APC. Cleve rose in the back seat and fired the anti-tank rocket just as the laser turret centered on Hank.

He saw a flash of light, felt the impact and the burn, and then the lights went out.

Chapter 7

December 2967 (Terran Calendar)—Mavesheur

Hank stepped off the elevator with a severe limp and winced as the skin-graft patches on his thigh and across his chest sent a wave of pain over his entire body. Although his leg had been shredded by shrapnel and he had been pretty badly burned, he knew in time it would be almost as good as new.

In time.

They’d won, and Hank had been the only casualty—well, him and Miranda. His dōrydō was a total loss, and he’d put her back where she belonged. It had taken him a week to heal up enough to get mobile . . . and think. When he was ready, he boarded the courier he’d first arrived on Bevin in, and let Hakeem take him to where he wanted to go.

Taking a deep breath to push aside the pain, Hank picked up the square case he’d carried with him from the starport, where Hakeem was waiting for him.

In his other hand, he held a wrapped bottle that he tucked under his arm. With his gifts in hand, he hobbled into a lavish reception area on the top floor of a three-hundred-story building. The megapolis of Mavesheur, capital city of Draliel 3, stretched out forty miles in every direction. Flowing airways of city traffic hundreds of stories above the ground moved past in every direction.

The reception desk lay a dozen meters off, with not one, but two stunning beauties; one platinum blond, and the other an obsidian brunette. They both smiled in stereo at him as he approached. A red and black logo decorated the front of the desk, with a red border, a black field, and NasCom dead center in red letters.

“Salutations,” the blond said in a silky-sweet voice. “We are most happy to greet you.”

“You are Mr. Combs, yes?” the brunette asked. “Of the Kahn Süns Distillery?”

“That’s right,” Hank said, giving the ladies one of his famous smiles. “I have an appointment with Director Giles.”

“And those are?” the raven-haired beauty asked, glancing at the bottle and the box.

Hank held out the bottle. “This? It’s a token of my esteem.” He lifted the box. “I’m returning this to Director Giles. I don’t believe he knows it, but he misplaced it, and I wanted to return it to him.”

“How thoughtful,” the blond said.

“It’s the least I can do,” Hank replied.

The brunette turned, activated a screen behind the counter, and gave a ravishing smile.

“Director Giles, a Mr. Combs, president of the Kahn Süns Distillery, is here to see you for your nine o’clock. He was vetted by security when he entered the building.”

“Send him in,” a smooth man’s voice replied.

A pair of three-meter doors made of dark wood opened to Hank’s left, revealing a cavernous den of luxurious furnishings. At the far end, up against floor-to-ceiling windows, sat a dark-haired man with a perfect goatee and a curious expression that turned to mild surprise as Hank approached. He wore a glimmering gray suit that looked opalescent in the sunlight.

“Good afternoon, Mister . . . Combs, was it?” the director asked as Hank stepped in and the doors closed behind him. “Please, have a seat.”

Hank reached the offered chair, stepped past it, and set the case on the table.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Hank replied affably, “I’d rather stand. If I put my butt in that chair, I’ll play hell getting back up again.”

“As you wish,” Giles said with a nod. “Can I offer you a drink? I happen to have an eight-year-old bottle of Kahn Süns over in the bar, as well as a number of other small-batch liquors.”

Hank turned and spotted a bottle with his label, top and center, amidst three rows of bottles behind a dark wood bar.

“I’m good,” Hank replied.

“I thought Kahn Süns was owned by its namesake, an older gentleman of Mongolian descent, I believe.”

“It was,” Hank replied. “Old Soong and I became fast friends when he arrived with the first ship of colonists to make landfall on Bevin.” Hank smiled, remembering. “Soong was an artist when it came to distillery. Truly a master. At the time, I grew the shadda, and he made the hooch. He taught me how along the way, and when he passed from the living a few years back, he left the whole thing to me. I still think of myself as a farmer, but I keep Soong’s dream alive because he asked me to.”

“Indeed,” Giles said, raising an eyebrow. “As I understand it, Kahn Süns—the only brand, I might add—is served across thirty systems. I’m sure the fact that the company is worth several hundred million annually didn’t factor into your acceptance?”

“Not really,” Hank said. “Sure, it’s made a lot of things easier, but to be honest, it was the simple life that brought me to Bevin. I pay a slew of folks to take care of the day-to-day operations over at Kahn. I still consider myself a farmer by trade, but recent events have forced me to take a more active role. It seems you, or I should say, NasCom, misplaced something on Bevin, and I’ve come to return it to you, along with an offer.”

“Misplaced?” Giles asked, suddenly confused. “I can’t imagine what that might be.”

“Let me show you.” Hank stepped forward, released two latches on the top of the case, and lifted. The top and all four sides rose in his grip, revealing a clearplas jar with a severed head in it. The eyes were closed, and the face a bit swollen, but otherwise it looked perfectly preserved.

Giles’ eyes darted to the jar, and when he realized what he was looking at, he gasped slightly. It took only a moment for him to regain his composure.

Hank had to give him some credit. Not everyone could stay cool under those circumstances.

“Forgive me,” Giles said, “but I’m fairly certain I could never have misplaced something like that.”

Hank smiled. “This is Commander Raul Sanchez Villalba of the Saraphon. If you look that up, you’ll find he captained one of your smaller corvettes. He was part of a squadron of ships under your oversight, and I believe he bit off more than he could chew.”

“Clearly,” Giles said. “Piracy?”

Hank nodded. “The folks of New Haven didn’t want to get wiped off the map, so I stepped in, and with a little help, terminated Villalba’s command, along with his entire platoon.”

“I can assure you, neither I nor anyone in my chain of command tasked him to undertake such an operation.”

“I have no doubt,” Hank said. “Which is why his head is on your desk, rather than your head being on someone else’s. The only reason you’re still alive is because there would be no reason in the world for a director to task a commander to hit a backass planet for a hundred-thousand liters of booze. The numbers are too small for a guy like you.”

There was no mistaking the look on Giles face. The man was not accustomed to hearing such threats, and he clearly considered Hank to have a good deal of raw chutzpah. Hank could see Giles factoring in the situation and what his possible options were. The man had to be thinking Hank was there for reparations, blackmail, or even assassination.

“Before you get too worried,” Hank said, “I’m here to make your day better, not worse.”

“Really?” Giles replied with a good deal of suspicion.

“That’s right,” Hank said. “You got a couple of clean glasses handy?”

Giles got a curious expression on his face, and then he opened a lower drawer, pulled out two rocks glasses, and set them on the desk.

Hank pulled the paper off the bottle of Kahn Süns he’d placed between them.

Giles eyes went wide when he saw the distillation date: 2954. The bottle was thirteen years old, and any connoisseur of süns would know that’s as old as it got.

“That’s from the first . . .” Giles’ voice trailed off.

“That’s right,” Hank said. “I still have a number of cases laying around.”

Hank pulled the wooden stopper from the bottle with a soft pop, and a few tendrils of wispy Bevin atmosphere drifted away. He poured a finger of the pale lavender fluid into both glasses, and then put the stopper back in. Setting the bottle on the desk, he locked eyes with Director Giles.

“The people of Bevin would like to license NasCom to set up a large-scale süns operation on the other side of the planet . . .” Hank waited a moment to let that sink in. A number of corporations had offered the inhabitants of Bevin a similar offer, but they’d always been turned down.

Giles’ eyes narrowed briefly. “Aren’t you worried we’ll put you out of business?”

“Not at all,” Hank replied easily. “Corporations like NasCom mass produce average to sub-standard products—lower quality for a better price. We, on the other hand, produce a top-shelf libation. Even if you upped your quality, there could only ever be one original: Kahn. The one. The only. I’ll do just fine, and the licensing fees, a mere ten percent of your gross, will go to the people of Bevin.” Hank raised his glass and inhaled deeply. “And if something happened to go wrong, say, for example, a member of NasCom decided to alter the deal after the fact . . . well, I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’ve also made arrangements to have an Archangel garrison stationed a few hundred miles from our colony. Anything that happens to us will catch their attention very quickly. And I don’t think either of us wants Terran Republic Archangels involved in any of our affairs.” Hank slipped a military ID from one of his pockets and slid it across the desk. Giles eyes went wide when he saw Archangel Commander (Ret.) beneath Hank’s image. “Did I mention I was an Archangel in a previous life?”

Giles paled.

“No,” Giles said. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Yeah. Their current commandant, Vice Admiral Jokimbun, was one of my protégés a while back.” Giles seemed to have gone speechless. “Don’t worry, Director. Like I said, I’m here to make your day better, not worse.”

“I must say,” Giles said as he slowly regained his composure, “you have my full attention, but why all the intrigue?”

“Well, if I’m going to make a deal with the devil, I’m gonna be damn certain to do it on my terms.”

Giles smiled and nodded respectfully. “I must say, Mr. Combs—”

“Call me Hank. And I’m not done putting things on the table for you. Every year, on New Year’s, I’ll have delivered to you a case of the next thirteen-year-old süns in my inventory. That’ll be for life, although it’s non-transferable. Let’s call it an incentive clause.”

Giles leaned back in his chair, and it looked like he was fighting the smile that had split his face.

“I must say, Hank, you’ve played this brilliantly.” Giles eyed the glass in front of him. “With NasCom on one side of the planet, and the Archangels in your back yard—I’m guessing you sold it to the vice admiral as an R and R facility?”

Hank nodded.

“You’ll never have to worry about more piracy, corporate or otherwise.”

“You’re very astute,” Hank said. “Add in the fact that I won’t have to work as hard, and for me it’s the best deal in the history of deals. More credits. Security . . . and all it really costs me is a case of thirteen-year-old hooch a year.” He paused, looking expectantly at the director. “So, we do have a deal, don’t we?”

Giles picked up the glass in front of him. He leaned forward and clinked it against Hank’s.

“I believe we do, Hank.” He waited for Hank to take a drink—just to be sure it wasn’t poisoned, no doubt—and then sniffed at the oldest glass of süns he was likely to ever have in his hand. Closing his eyes, he finally took a single sip and let the subtle flavors and smooth warmth flow down his throat. There really was nothing like it in the galaxy. Another smile crossed his lips, and then he opened his eyes to see Hank standing with a wry grin on his face.

“I’m glad you like it,” Hank said.

“Süns has always been my favorite, and this is exquisite.”

“You can keep the bottle,” Hank offered, sliding it across the desk. “We did claim the Saraphon as salvage, by the way. At this point, an escort-class corvette will go a long way in helping New Haven hold onto what we already have.”

“Completely understandable,” the director said.

Hank finished his glass, set it down, and then reached for the box cover so he could take Sanchez’s head.

“I would like to ask one favor,” Giles asked, holding up his hand to stop Hank.

“Oh?” Hank said, suddenly wary but curious.

“I was wondering if you’d let me hang on to that.” Giles nodded toward the head. “I have a number of ship captains who have, as well you know, taken it upon themselves to step outside of NasCom’s policies regarding piracy . . . ignoring my repeated, explicit directives, I might add.”

Hank nodded in understanding. “Certainly,” he said with a knowing smile. “It’s all yours.”

“Hank,” the director said softly. “I’m beginning to think you and I have something in common. I find myself wondering . . . if I should learn of other NasCom . . . infractions . . . might I pass such information along to you? The hierarchy here is, shall we say, more of a straitjacket than anything else. As I’m sure you know, corporate politics is what it is. You could, at your leisure, pass along such information to . . . well . . . whomever you chose. What they do with that information, I’m sure I wouldn’t want to know. Although it would be a drop in the galactic bucket, I see an opportunity here to potentially accomplish something worth doing.”

Hank cocked his head to the side, wrapping his head around what the director was proposing. Officially, neither the director nor the Archangels could go after corporate pirates without official sanction by the Terran Republic. It would all have to be off the books. But wiping out even one rogue mercenary crew would be worth the price of admission.

“You know what, Director,” Hank said, “I think I’m going to make that two cases a year of the current thirteen Kahn. You go right ahead and reach out to me whenever you like.”


Hank walked down the loading ramp of a gleaming new Mancuso Executive Courier. With Hakeem Najjar at the helm, they’d returned from Draliel with the NasCom contract in hand and a couple of new acquisitions in the hold. They’d landed across the dirt road from Hank’s homestead, forgoing a landing at the starport, and Kenny Boudreaux was standing there to meet him.

“Come on up here, Kenny,” Hank said, retreating back up the loading ramp.

The young man strode up the ramp to find Hank unlatching the door of a tall cargo case secured to the left-hand side of the cargo bay. An identical case, secured to the other side, was already open, and the doors of the storage unit within were already swinging open to reveal a gleaming new dōrydō inside.

“It’s a new Mancuso,” Kenny blurted, “isn’t it?”

“Brand spankin’,” Hank said. “That one’s mine.” He hit the actuator on the other case to expose an identical dōrydō. “This one is yours, assuming you want it.”

“What?” Kenny’s mouth dropped open.

“Kenny,” Hank said, “I don’t have too many years left, and I never had kids. After what happened to your father, I was wondering if you might be interested in picking up a crotchety old farmer to fill the vacancy, although I could never fill his shoes.”

Kenny gulped. “I suppose so,” he said. “I mean, yes, absolutely yes!”

“Good. I’ll take care of the adoption paperwork.” Hank eyed Kenny. “There are a few conditions, though.”

“What’s that?”

“One, you learn how to drive this dōrydō as well as I do. Second, you learn how to distill süns. Third, you promise to carry on old man Soong’s dream after you plant me next to what’s left of Miranda over there. You’ll inherit the whole company, of course.” He gave Kenny a hopeful smile. “I know it’s a lot, and you don’t need to decide right now. It’s hard work, long hours, and the whole colony will depend upon you. I’ll teach you everything I can in the time I have left.”

In that moment, Kenny seemed to grow up a little more than he had when he saw the dead body of his father. His eyes grew hard, but hopeful. He understood at least a little of what he would be taking on. Hank could see it in his eyes.

“Hank, I swear I’ll meet all three conditions . . . if for no other reason than for what they did to my dad. That shouldn’t happen to anybody.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Hank agreed. “There’s more I have to tell you . . . I made a couple deals that complicate this whole thing—for the better—but it’s all wrapped up together. We’ll get to all that eventually. For now, let’s go get the paperwork done, and then you can try on this dōrydō and see if I got the size right.”

“Okay, Hank.” They strode down the ramp and headed toward Hank’s old beat-up Masahaki hover truck. The weapons had been removed and, along with all the other weapons, secured in Hank’s basement for the next rainy day.

As they reached the truck, Kenny stopped.

“Hank?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I’m gonna work your ass off.”

“I won’t let you down,” Kenny promised as they both got in.

“You haven’t yet, son,” Hank said, firing up the power plant. “You haven’t yet.”


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