Edge World (Undying Mercenaries Series Book 14) Page 34

  Fresh, dry air rushed into my face. It felt kind of good.

  Then Graves finally shot me dead.

  -60-

  Coming awake the next day, I lamented the rough nature of my fate. It seemed to me that I’d died an inordinate number of times on this planet. I was beginning to get a negative view of the place. Walking out of the revival chamber, I painted one wall with the slime on my hand.

  My first action after revival surprised even me. I decided to go down to visit the quartermaster, the guy who distributed equipment. After all, I’d had some pretty special gear on my person this time around. I’d really like to get it back.

  “Quartermaster?” I asked.

  The prim non-combatant centurion nodded. He had a lipless mouth and a mustache that was too big for his face. “What is it, Centurion?”

  “Any chance you’ve seen a special suit of armor?” I asked him. “One tailored to a person of my unusual dimensions?”

  He began working a tablet as I talked to him. “McGill, James,” he read aloud. “Centurion, 3rd Unit, 3rd Cohort. Gear to be issued: one morph-rifle in serviceable condition. One—”

  I put a big hand between his eyes and his tablet. That earned me a scowl.

  “I know what’s on the screen, Quartermaster. What I’m asking is if you’ve recovered a very special piece of armor. It’s black, it’s form-fitting, and it will take a direct hit from an energy bolt and shrug it off.”

  His face soured. “That doesn’t sound like regulation equipment, McGill. I’m sure you’ve been briefed on the dangers of bringing privately owned items onto the modern battlefield. My files are replete with—”

  “Look,” I said, leaning a little closer to him. “I’m not talking about my granddaddy’s wetsuit from the Unification wars. I’m talking about an experimental piece of armor that’s invaluable, issued to me personally from the labs under Central.”

  His eyes widened a fraction at the mention of Central’s labs. They were a secret, but everyone knew about them.

  “Do you have a serial number? A requisition sheet? A—”

  “No. I’ve got none of that stuff. Like I said, the armor was specially issued—”

  “Well then, I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Nothing matching your description has crossed into my possession.”

  Gritting my teeth, I nodded. “All right. They told me upstairs you were a serious tool, but you’ve certainly proved everyone wrong today. Thanks much, Quartermaster.”

  He glared at me as I exited his lair, but I didn’t give him a kind word. He could shoot me in the ass for all I cared.

  Stomping and grumbling, I went up to see Graves. That turned out to be harder than it should be. After annoying a squad-full of noncoms and petty officers, I finally made it into his office.

  Graves was squatting in a low, dark bunker full of computer tables and coffee mugs. As usual, his office had very little in the way of adornment. When I stepped into his lair, he didn’t even look up.

  “Centurion McGill, your unit is waiting for you at your assigned gathering point.”

  “Yes sir, I get that, sir.”

  Slowly, he looked up from his work. “Then what are you doing here? There’s no need for you or Winslade to brief me. I saw the whole thing. If it’s praise you’re looking for, go find an underling to give it to you.”

  “Huh? Oh… no, sir. That’s not it at all. It’s just that I’ve become kind of attached to one of my pieces of gear, see…”

  He smirked. “Ah, I get it. This is about the armor. You like wearing it and playing the hero, don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact I do, sir.”

  He nodded. “Do you have any idea how many primus-ranked officers requested that I transfer that armor to them?”

  I blinked in shock. “They can’t do that, sir! I got that issued to me fair-and-square from Central itself. If they want a suit, they’ll have to talk to the nerds about it.”

  Graves nodded. “That’s what I figured you’d say, but something else helped you in this case—most men can’t fit in that suit. It’s adjustable, but too big for most.”

  I felt a surge of relief run through me. “That’s great news, sir. Where can I pick it up?”

  Graves looked down at his desk again. “You can’t. It’s been assigned to Sub-Tribune Fike. He happens to be close enough in general weight and dimensions to wear it—but I think it looks stupid. The sleeves and legs are too long.”

  “Aw, come on! Fike can’t just steal my armor!”

  “He can, and he already did. After Winslade broadcast that fight up on the plateau, everyone wanted something that would keep them alive under unbelievable conditions. Recently, human commanders of a sub-legion have been ruled to possess a rank half a level below their assigned positions.”

  “Uh…”

  “That means,” he said patiently, “that a sub-tribune overrules a primus like me. I’m only an acting tribune—I don’t actually possess the rank.”

  “That’s bullshit! I’m talking to Turov about this.”

  Graves stood up and shook his head. “I don’t want any more of that kind of nonsense out of you on this campaign, McGill. Do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, sir. The idea has flown right out of my head. Don’t even think of it again, and I won’t dare mention it.”

  Graves eyed me coldly and kicked me out of his dark office. Once I was out in the twilight of Edge World again, I cursed up a blue streak.

  Naturally, that armor was priceless to a man like me—but that wasn’t the only problem. Something of even bigger value was in one of the pockets: the Galactic Key.

  Sighing, I realized I had to contact Turov. She wasn’t going to be happy, but then, she rarely was when she was out commanding an army in the field.

  “Tribune Turov?” I said, dictating an audio message to her in a cheery tone. “How about that battle up on the hill? Pretty nice work, if I do say so myself. As an aside, however, I have to let you know about something Fike took from me… something of yours, I mean.”

  That was all I said. That was all I had to say. If she listened to the message—and I knew she would because she couldn’t help herself—she’d know instantly what I was talking about.

  Whistling, I headed for the officers’ mess. It was nothing more than a dugout with a few barrels for stools, but it was heaven as far as I was concerned.

  My tapper began buzzing before I had my first homebrewed beer halfway down. Chugging the rest real quick, I opened the channel and put on a happy-face.

  “McGill?” Turov asked. “You don’t mean what I think you mean, do you?”

  “Uh… about what?”

  “The key, you moron!”

  “Oh, that. Unfortunately, Fike pulled rank, and he—”

  “What do you mean he pulled rank? What kind of bullshit is this? He’s a sub-tribune, a zoo-keeper with big ideas.”

  “Don’t I know it, Tribune. But you see, Graves explained to me that according to the new regs, Fike outranks him.”

  “That’s nonsense. I put Graves in overall operational command.”

  “You sure did, and a wiser decision has never been made. But—”

  “Wait… that doesn’t count for something like a personal preference, does it? Technically, Fike has superiority. What a bastard. How did he find out about the key?”

  I shrugged. “As far as I know, he doesn’t know the key exists. But he wanted my armor, see. When I died, well, I left it in my pocket.”

  “Very thoughtless and sloppy of you, James.”

  That kind of surprised me, as I didn’t know how I was supposed to figure out when I was going to die and hide the key or something.

  “I’m sorry about that, Tribune,” I lied. “I truly am. It’s a damned shame.”

  “What are you talking about? Go get my property and return it to me. That’s an order.”

  “Uh… Fike kind of outranks me, sir. By a lot.”

  “And…? So what? Kill him if you have to.
Or arrange one of your farcical tricks. I don’t care—just get it back.”

  She closed off the channel. I sighed and then drank another beer. I found the second didn’t taste as bitter as the first one had, so I drank five more. That did the trick. With a few pretzels to soak it all up, I was feeling pretty good.

  -61-

  Sometimes, inspiration comes from an odd place. Today, as I slumped on a makeshift table, taking gulps of crappy-tasting beer—I got an idea.

  “Bevan!” I said aloud. “He’d love this shitty beer.”

  That was my first thought, so I contacted the guy, and he came out to see me.

  “Hey mate,” Bevan said, climbing onto the stool next to mine. “Say… you’ve been at this for a bit, haven’t you?”

  “Yep. Try the dark brew. It’s from the bottom of tank, they say, but you’d never know it by the taste.”

  Squinting, he did as I suggested. “Lovely and awful all at once.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Say McGill, where’s that fancy suit of armor I saw you in just the other day? Did you lose it?”

  “I was ripped off. Fike has it now.”

  “That’s a shame. I wouldn’t think he’d be tall enough…”

  “Hey, Bevan? You’re a materials man, right? Could you make me a new one? Artificially, I mean?”

  Since I was kind of drunk and kind of pissed off, I proceeded to explain to him how the armor was made. “…so you see, it’s kind of a weave made with Vulbite spit and stardust.”

  “Absolutely fascinating,” Bevan said, and I knew he meant it. “If I could examine a sample in my lab—”

  “You’ve got a lab?”

  “Yes. That’s why they brought me out here, don’t you know?”

  I blinked at him stupidly. “But… what are you working on?”

  Bevan considered my question. At last, he decided to answer it. “I’m a last-ditch attempt to fix Earth’s problem.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know these Shadowlanders make our revival machines, right? Well, if we lost our supplier… we might have to construct our own.”

  “That’s what you’ve been up to all this time? Trying to make a bootleg, knock-off revival machine?”

  “Shhh… keep it down. But yes, that’s it. So far, I’ve had little success. The technology isn’t just a chemical process. It’s very odd and organic. Essentially, the revival machines use an organic computer with incredibly complex molecular chains to read DNA then reprocess cells on the fly. It’s amazing technology. I’m wondering where the Shadowlanders stole it from originally.”

  I squinted at him, digesting his statement. “You don’t think they came up with it all on their own, huh?”

  “Gods, no! It’s unthinkable. I believe they got the original technology from a Galactic.”

  “Ah…” I said, thinking that over carefully. “There is one race that could master such a thing: the Skay.”

  Bevan brightened. “You know, you might have something there. They’re masters of weaving together biology and machines. They seem to be odd hybrids themselves. They’ve mastered their own genetics, certainly.”

  I thought that over for a few minutes, but my brain was kind of foggy, so I ordered another beer. That helped, because I started getting ideas.

  Standing up, I almost pitched forward, but I caught myself. “I should have eaten a bit more…”

  Leaving the dive bar and Bevan behind, I made my way over to Fike’s encampment. That was quite a walk, as it turned out. He was clear on the other side of the Shadowlander town, camping with his Blood-Worlder legion.

  Being a bit drunk, I bought some food as I passed right through the middle of town. Shadowlanders looked at me like I was some kind of freak, but I didn’t care. I just grinned and ate their weird moss-fruits and walked on.

  When I got to Fike’s encampment, I threw up outside his command bunker. That made me feel a lot better. Wiping my mouth, I walked down the dusty steps into his oversized spider-hole.

  The one cool thing about running with a Blood-Worlder legion was how roomy the bunkers were. The ceilings were four meters high instead of the standard two, which meant I didn’t have to duck.

  Swaggering down the passages, it wasn’t hard to find Fike’s office. He was in there, proud as a peacock, with a line-up of Blood-Worlder troops in front of him.

  “That’s right. I do want you to strike an officer. In fact—that’s an order.”

  He started off with a slaver. They were tall, skinny freaks that were stronger than they looked. The first man in line dubiously unfolded his lengthy limbs in a wind-up punch that crashed into Fike’s belly.

  The sub-tribune whooshed, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he laughed and stood tall with my black suit of armor on. Right off, just looking at him, I knew that he’d cheated. He’d added his own padding. That was probably done in part to fill the empty space in the armor, in addition to making it more comfortable.

  “See?” Fike demanded. “This stuff is tough. Now, who’s next?”

  I raised my hand, but Fike waved me off irritably. “I see you, McGill. This exercise is intended to build morale, not damage it. Now, stand aside.”

  Willingly, I walked around to one side. From that standpoint, I could see all the action—but Fike wasn’t staring right at me.

  Next in the line was another type of Blood-Worlder, a heavy trooper. If slavers were sticks of spaghetti, these guys were the meatballs. They stood about three meters tall, but they were hugely broad and strong.

  When the confused man stepped forward, Fike ordered him to strike, slapping his armored gut.

  I, off to one side, made a different suggestive gesture. The Blood-Worlder glanced at me, but he didn’t say anything.

  When the heavy trooper stepped up to the plate, I figured it was fifty-fifty he’d follow my suggestion. As I had nothing to lose, I watched with interest.

  To my delight and Fike’s shock, the Blood Worlder brought his basketball-sized fist down on Fike’s head. It was an overhand chop, and I couldn’t have done a better job myself.

  Fike went down like a sack of grain. He lay there, groaning. To my mind, it was all Fike’s fault. After all, he should have been wearing a helmet.

  The Blood-Worlder stepped from side-to-side uncertainly. Fike rolled onto his side and groaned.

  I stepped up, grinning broadly. I put my hands on my knees and looked down at Fike.

  “Well done, sir!” I told him. “That was highly morale-building. This man will never forget the thrill of this moment.”

  “Fuck off, McGill.”

  I praised the Blood-Worlder, who looked kind of upset and worried, until he walked off-stage. The rest of the line-up behind him sensed the fun was over and melted away as well.

  “That dumbass nearly brained me,” Fike said when he managed to stand. “You can’t know what a daily raft of disappointments I endure while working with these morons.”

  “Aw now, that’s not fair, Tribune. He was just doing his best. The next time you do this exercise, you might consider wearing a helmet. I mean… it’s safety first, right?”

  Fike grumbled and rubbed at his neck. He was going to be sore in the morning, I could tell.

  “What do you want over here anyway, McGill?”

  “I just thought I might drop by to pick up my property, sir.”

  “What? I thought that was settled. The armor is mine. I know there are size differences—I’m not blind—but rank does have its privileges. Be assured that when we get back to Earth, my custom suit should be ready. I’ll return this suit to you then.”

  “Huh? Oh… no, no, sir. There’s some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not talking about the armor. There was a small, personal item in the pockets, sir. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  “A personal item?”

  “Yessir. If you could just let me—” I reached for his pocket, but he slapped my thick fingers away.

  He fished in the pockets himself. He dug
out the Galactic Key. He looked at it curiously. “What’s this?”

  “That’s a prime specimen, sir. A seashell from my home district’s best beaches.”

  “Why the heck would you carry something like this into combat?” he asked, tossing it into the air and catching it.

  His careless behavior made me want to squint and wince, but I did neither. Instead, I grinned. “A lot of people wonder how I’ve gotten so lucky over the years. The secret is right there in your hands. This item is a bona fide talisman of good fortune.”

  “Talisman? Are you mentally-challenged?”

  “Some do maintain that, sir. But the proof is in my personal records. Haven’t you ever wondered how I manage to survive so many insane missions?”

  Fike laughed. “What I’ve wondered is how you’ve managed to get yourself killed so damned frequently. I think I understand that better now. Here.”

  He pitched the Galactic Key high into the air, and I scrambled to catch it before it hit the ground. This made Fike laugh again and shake his head in amusement—which caused him to grimace in pain and grab at his neck again.

  I caught the key, fortunately. I’d dove for it for a good reason. Any normal shell would have shattered when it struck that stone-hard floor—but the key wouldn’t. I didn’t want Fike catching on to its strange nature.

  Once I had the key in my hands, I stuffed it away and said my goodbyes. Fike looked after me suspiciously. He was still rubbing his neck, and he was still wearing my armor.

  But I had the key in my possession. By my scoring, I was halfway done with old Sub-Tribune Fike.

  -62-

  Sauntering out into the twilit world, I decided Fike hadn’t yet seen enough of old McGill. Accordingly, I didn’t head off to the other side of town where my legion was camped. Instead, I wandered the trenches and firebases, talking to Blood-Worlders and squids at random.

  Unsurprisingly, this gained me the attention of various sub-legion officers. Two of them, both squids, approached me while I chatted-up some slavers.

  Now, when I say I was having a conversation, you have to understand that this was a highly one-sided affair. Slavers only talk occasionally, and heavy troopers are even quieter. As far as I knew, the giants—one of whom was standing over my shoulder drooling and listening to me—never talked at all.