Chapter One:

Be Fast and Don’t Be Seen

I’m Hunter Caine. I’m a soldier of fortune—some might call me a mercenary—who does her level best not to get herself killed. I take all kinds of jobs: treasure hunting, protectin’ folks, savin’ folks, even some stone-cold killing if the target makes some sense. On this occasion, I was doing a little bodyguarding for a group going about a treasure hunt. They were museum types, looking to loot some native cave on Planet #4 to show it off to rich folks back in Corporate Space.

We were looking for some damn thing called the Soul Crystal. It was nothin’ but a planet #4 legend, some said. But my employers were damn sure it wasn’t no such thing. Truth was, that others had gone huntin’ for it, and lots of folks disappeared doing such. I was beginning to reckon we were in for a similar fate. We’d been on the trail for days, weaving in and out of mountain passes, and the stunted forests that covered the planet, following some map they’d brought from their Archives back in Chi-town on Earth.

It was late. I was bone tired and pissed off at the never-ending trek we seemed to be on when I rolled up my blue-dreads on the back of my head, crawled into my fart sack, and lay my noggin’ down on my pistol rig. At that point, it was easy to divine why previous hunters had disappeared without a trace.

Embarrassingly easy.

The fact is . . . it should have been obvious when I signed up for the gig with that bunch o’ well-meanin’ museum folks weeks ago, back in Perdition. Ignoring the fact that the Soul Crystal was probably nothing more than myth, a sort of intergalactic fountain of youth that attracted every treasure hunter in the Frontier, the imbecilic plan our particular mission had undertaken was on display for anyone who wanted to see, probably like every ill-conceived mission before it. It goes something like this: when do-gooders, like these fools from the Chicago Museum of Intergalactic Cultures decide to go skipping around the cluster on some damn treasure hunting scheme, they invariably run afoul of the two cardinal rules of grave robbing, those being, number one: be fast, and number two: don’t get seen.

I suppose I shouldn’t be so ornery about the whole thing. At least the idiots were predictable, and I, truth-be-told, shoulda known better. This team of wannabe tomb defilers was determined to make me crazy.

They made ineptitude their calling card.

For weeks, we’d spent our time making sure we flushed those two rules so far down the damned shitter, we’d forgotten all about them: the long-ass trip here, stocking up on supplies for days and days, hiring porters and guides, the never-ending trek across the waste, the interminable, mealy-mouthed bullshit dealt out by the irascible, if absolutely steaming hot Curator, Doctor Polly fucking Evans.

I was fit to be tied.

By the time we left Rehvik’s Peak, the only somewhat viable settlement on the backside of Planet #4, everyone on the surface knew what we were doing and where we were going.

All that to say that when our perimeter siren squealed a damned banshee’s warning into the silent desert night, I was on edge and ready for a fight. That is if I hadn’t just fallen asleep and started a rather appealing dream about redheads, strawberries, and just a smidgen-little dose of White Scog.

Startled from my zees, I threw off my sleeping cover, strapped my pistol rig on my hip, and grabbed my Sharps Particle Carbine. I considered grabbing my protective vest, but there was no time. I rushed outside the portable shelter into the darkness.

Well and good, finally—a little excitement!

I was quite prepared to cause some trouble.

*

And trouble there was. In spades. Plenty for all of us, with excess to boot.

At first, however, all was calm as calm can be, and I wondered if the damn equipment had malfunctioned. Fact o’ the matter was that it would not have surprised me, given the shit-show this enterprise had become. But, that fantasy quickly dissipated in a blast of gunfire that tore into the supply shelter to my left.

The tent erupted in a brilliant yellow flash that lit up the sky for a split second, just about deafened me, and just as quickly disappeared, plunging the night into absolute darkness.

The shock wave from the explosion knocked me silly, and I sort of stood there like a dipshit, nursing the ringing in my ears and the flash spots behind my eyes. When I got my shit together, I dived into a recess in the hard ground next to me and burrowed myself in as deep as I could go.

The alarm went quiet, which is never a good thing.

Then, the shit hit the fan.

I slid the muzzle of the ol’ Sharps up over the depression’s little ridge, followed by as little of my head as I could manage, and brought the carbine to bear. I lowered my sighting monocle. My vision toggled to my cybernetic eye, and the night cleared today.

Time to kill these sumbitches.

I had to decide who I’d blast off the planet first. Scanning the scene in front of me, I took stock of the situation. I was quite disappointed by what luck had presented to me.

Major Phil Rectomore (Corporate Corps of Engineers, retired) cowered on his ass behind the wide-bodied Chevy hover utility we’d used to pack in all our shit. He sat there, shivering like a leaf, clutching his burp gun—a sort-of blaster sub-machinegun—like it was his pecker and his pants were on fire, lips clenched beneath his long, gray mustache, eyes staring straight ahead, into the night, away from the fight, as if he could will the ambush away.

Let me say that again: away from the fight.

Fuck me! The one military officer on the mission, and he’s a dam pussy. Rectum. Not Rectomore.

It didn’t matter, I reckoned. There was no way this fight was going away. Whoever was out there didn’t bring the Infantry Gun—a fancy-ass name for a small, transportable cannon they’d used to blow our supply shop to kingdom come—for shits and giggles.

No such luck. No shits. No giggles.

Beyond Rectomore, I saw Curator Evans lying prone, down behind the hovering water tank we’d towed along, hiding her face in her hands. Probably sobbing her pretty eyes out. Water spilled over the woman from several holes that’d peppered the tank.

Not so cocky now, are ya, Ms. hoity-toity museum lady?

A pang of guilt or conscience—or whatever—poked me in the heart, and I blinked. She was pretty. And smart. And I knew I didn’t like her, ’cause I really liked her. And that was that. I shook the stupid thoughts away.

Some ten meters or so beyond her, the body of Santee, a very nice native-born man, and one of our guides, lay twisted on the ground. I saw smoke from the blast through my reticle—or steam escaping her busted-open body—rising into the sky. Fuckers! In front of the corpse was Johnny Rayse, the Curator’s assistant, clutching some ancient pistol he’d probably picked up in Rehvik’s Peak, and a rock hammer he said he used for breaking away loose stones at dig sites, crouching behind a stack of boxes. I couldn’t see the security detail anywhere.

Dead, or hightailed it, I figured. They shoulda let me hire ‘em, I couldn’t help thinking. But that was neither here nor there. Things were heating up.

Spilled milk.

These ambushers were smart, killing off the security first—or lucky, maybe. I generally don’t believe in luck, so that was a nonstarter. Or, could be this was an inside job.

So far, though, my scan had revealed no bad guys. They were still out there, though. Occasionally, a burst of blaster fire would zip through the camp and burn a path through an equipment bag, or a provision crate, or tear up the ground.

Likely all our folks were well behind cover—or dead—by now.

Then . . . there they were. Black figures against the dark blue night sky. They walked forward tactically, heads swiveling back and forth, looking, scanning, seeking for where—or from whom—a killing shot might come. I supposed that would just have to be. Only two options when fighting brigands like these, ones intent on doing you harm, I mean, not just run-of-the-mill highwaymen: Option one: we keep killing them till they get tired and leave, or two: they kill us and take our stuff.

Fuck that. I ain’t givin’ up my shit out here in the middle of no-fucking-where. And, I’m not about to be killed on this shithole planet. Gotta give these ruffians what for. Whoever they are.

“Major Rectum, git yer ass up and start shooting!” I yelled as loud as I could.

Then, not waiting to see what he’d do, I started shooting.

*

My first shot blew the lead dude away, and he dropped like a stone. I slid back down and inched forward along the ditch, half-submerged in the shale-like dust. It wouldn’t do to come up in the same place, so I crawled a spell. As if to confirm my tactical genius, a thundering burst of blaster fire destroyed the section of ditch from where I’d just dispatched their buddy.

I breathed a sigh of relief and, after reloading, came up shouldering the Sharps. This time, a dozen figures darted in and out of my sighting monocle’s aperture as I followed and tracked; it magnified and calculated the optimal shot. It sounds involved, but it happened in a split second.

I fired again. Another fucker dropped.

Someone yelled, “Shit!”

I yelled back, “That’s right, asshole! Shit all over yerself.”

The night erupted in bright flashes, explosions from the Infantry Gun and an errant rocket grenade rocked the earth where it exploded some twenty paces ahead of me. It all lit the sky like the Collective’s damn Red-October firework shows. I considered getting back down, but fuck it. What’d that solve?

In the corner of my cyber eye, I saw Johnny jump into the open, scream like an idiot and fire a shot into the night. Wild. Foolish. Missed all hell-and-gone. A bright yellow explosion ripped the night right in front of him, launching him backward onto the ground.

God damn it!

I waited, watched. He moved, crawled toward his cover.

Now knowing he was ok, I turned back to killing. My monocle linked to the Sharps bead again, hovering over one dark figure. He was rushing forward, submachine gun at his waist, and waving his hand in the air like he was summoning a fucking horde. I breathed, held it for a fraction of a second, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun went boom and rocked back against me. The crackling, ripping sound of a particle round crashing against body armor rent the night. No body armor I was aware of could stop my Sharps. The figure collapsed, a smoking hole blasted through plasti-steel plates, flesh and bone and all. I loved the Sharps for that. It was slow, but it killed everything it hit. I suppressed a bit of a giggle. No one walked away when the big gun boomed.

Then I saw it—for the first time on this god-forsaken mission. Behind the attacking brigands, a bent-over, loping figure, with five—no six, twisted arms waving about wildly, dashed between them, grabbed one of them and crushed him into the ground, following up the terrible body slam by leaping on the man’s broken form. I heard his bones crack, even a hundred yards distant. The man screamed, unholy, dark, and ominous as he died.

The thing let out a howl, and disappeared.

I ducked down. What the fuck was that?

A shiver ran up my spine—no time to think about it. I reloaded the carbine, came back up, picked another charging fool, and fired again.

This one fell just like the last.

I dipped down as a burst of slugs tore the ground around me. I crawled forward another six feet and came up again. Picked a target—a hundred yards distant through blazing fire and billowing smoke, took a breath and blasted him into oblivion before I scrunched down again. I was running out of ditch.

I came up for another shot, sure that they’d gotten my number by now and expecting to be sent to the great beyond. As luck would have it, there was no one there.

Everything went silent. Except for my breathing. And my thundering heartbeat.

The fuckers had skedaddled.

*

I couldn’t help but release a laugh and then a guffaw that ripped through the darkness—a way of dealing with stress, I s’pose, but looney nonetheless.

The team must have thought me mad for sure. Gladly, I couldn’t see their faces in the night.

We’d driven the bastards off, but barely. The camp was a damn shambles. Tents, bodies, wrecked cargo sleds. The Chevy was listing heavily, its hover pad punctured and hissing. Our water tank was pissing all over the ground like a Lexington racehorse from its many blast wounds; our provisions were shot full of holes. We’d probably lost half our food and water. Guess the lucky part was that we’d have half the people now.

Lucky for us. Not for the poor dead fuckers.

There were four of them. Dead fuckers, that is. Three porters and the guide. The security team was nowhere to be found. Run off, I reckoned.

The place reminded me a little of the carnage left on Mars after the Battle of Lunae Planum, where the Mars Schism in the Third Labor War had been decided. I was young then, a Sergeant in the President’s 3rd Cavalry, in Corporate Security Forces. The Corporates had pushed the Collectivists off Mars then. Killed a pot full of them. Lost a pot full too. After that shit, I’d decided being a soldier was plain old madness.

I’m not shy about killing. But, violence on this scale was a far sight beyond my line of work. I stopped soldiering for a reason. Running down natives in the Corporate Territories and killing off Collective dissidents took that kind of killing out of me. The Collective’s troops did the same. Not that I didn’t have a soft spot for soldiers—generals even—but folks sitting on the Corporate Board or the General Committee, those folks were stone killers.

I’d had enough.

So, I’d left. Gone into marshaling. Left that too, after a spell. But that’s another story.

The point is—this shoot-out stunk of big players. Corporate Space or Collective Space. Maybe something worse, if there was such a thing. There was no doubt in my little mind.

What artifact could be worth all this?

Johnny came up to me, still shaking. He was young and rather cute, in a nerdy kind of a way. Short hair. Dark, lost eyes. Intelligent. Weak, though. The kind of boy, I’d bedded dozens and dozens and d . . . well, you know.

“Nice shot,” I said and laughed.

He just sneered at me.“Shut up, at least I . . .”

I patted him on the shoulder and strode past the Major as he struggled to his feet, nursing a bum leg I’d seen him favoring since the beginning of this trek and trying—unsuccessfully, to save some semblance of his dignity. I ignored him; Doctor Evans was top of my list. In quick seconds, I reached her. She was still behind the water tank, standing now.

She was wet, mucky from the mixing of mud and red dust. Her clothing stuck to her, which would have been nice for me if she hadn’t worn that damn jacket. She straightened the jacket, pulling it away from her, then, for a brief moment, brushed her jet black hair away from her pale face. Clearly frustrated, she tossed her head and threw back her hair. I sucked in a breath as I got a look at her dark eyes, smooth neck, full lips.

I felt that desire again; a feeling of empathy kind of slithered through me. This isn’t her world, I told myself. How could I be angry at . . . I forced the thought down. I let out a long breath.

Concentrate, Caine. Stupid woman almost got us all killed, and all you can do is drool over her like a virgin debutante lookin’ for her first piece of ass.