Ann Aguirre - Havoc

Before I set things right.

He mistimed a movement in the wash of memory, and the bastard he was using as cover was too heavy for him to haul for long. A blade sliced into him from behind, a solid strike. Another few centimeters, and I’m gone. The pain crippled him. For a few seconds, he didn’t see how he was getting out of this. And then Martine popped back around the corner, her blade sailing in a beautiful arc and slammed into a mongrel’s forehead. The bastard toppled, giving Tam the opening to throw himself forward. A laser burst slammed into his calf as he scrambled toward Martine.

“You should’ve left me,” he panted, as she hauled him forward.

The mercs took a few steps toward them, but the surviving mongrels seized that opportunity to renew their attack, so the mercs swung away and engaged. Two mongrels launched themselves at a single merc and dragged him to the ground, but his mates unloaded. The rifles went full auto behind them. Martine yanked him along despite his wounded leg and the blood gushing from his back.

“Not happening,” she said cheerfully. “I owe you, was my fault we ended up like that. And if I get how these things work, we were on the verge of an understanding, yeah?”

He choked out a gasp of a laugh. “It would be my pleasure.”

VOSTstrode through the command center, inspecting the facilities. The station was shot to shit, not worth the time it took to clean it out, but the payday had been too much for him to refuse. Resistance has been heavier than we were led to expect, too. But that was nearly always the case with bureaucratic assholes; they drew up mission parameters without regard for real-world conditions. They drew up charts, graphs, and budgets, then expected a miracle from their hired grunts.

He deployed the drone cams to keep track of the patrols. He watched a bizarre three-way battle, and he saw two of the combatants break free and bolt. The fact that they dropped from above told him that they weren’t run-of-the-mill convicts; they had the brains to try and avoid his patrols, but something told him that wasn’t their main motivation. Vost noted their faces as best he could and watched the fight for a few seconds before ascertaining that his men were wiping out the savages armed with blades and spears. A few of the prisoners seemed to be trying to attack with their damned teeth, useless against heavy armor.

Which means they’re completely insane.

Shaking his head, he checked on the mainframe/handheld connection. This room had antiquated equipment, but he plugged in his own gear, interfacing where necessary to update the ’ware. Before he finished the job, his second-in-command, Casto, strode up. He was a tall man with mud brown hair and deep-set eyes. Not even his mother would call him attractive, but he was dogged and persistent, and he didn’t break in battle, no matter how many assholes were coming at him. Vost admired those nerves of steel though he also wondered if the man was slightly brain-damaged. Fear was a normal response, one a soldier had to learn to overcome, hut Casto didn’t seem to experience it. However, he also had a strong sense of self-preservation, and he didn’t take stupid risks. That was part of why Vost had chosen him as his second. He wasn’t likely to risk the men in some misguided desire to be a hero. No, Casto was too selfish for that. Given the option, the man would always choose to live and fight another day.

The lieutenant wore a frown and a thoughtful expression. While the former looked natural on him, the latter did not. “I’m not sure dividing the men so soon was the best idea. These assholes are more aggressive and more organized than they said.”

Vost nodded. Well enough, he remembered the meeting with the Conglomerate drone in his expensive suit and his smooth Rejuvenex face. “They’ve probably devolved into an animal state by now. It won’t be a normal black op. It’ll be easier, I imagine. Just like shooting a bunch of rabid dogs.” Then he’d made an offer so astronomical that Vost hadn’t asked any more questions; he’d simply rallied his men the next day.

But he couldn’t reveal misgivings this early in the engagement. “We’ll clear this place. It’ll just take a little longer than we thought.”

Casto lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “If you say so. Then, shall I take the rest and see how many I can kill?”

Inspiration struck. This initiative would counter the unwelcome surprise that the job might take weeks instead of days. “Sometimes I think you’re smarter than you look, Casto. I’ve already got the morons mowing each other down. Now I need to motivate our guys.”

“What?” Casto was young to be second-in-command of a highly paid merc outfit, and subtlety wasn’t his forte.

But Vost wasn’t talking to him anymore. He put on his helmet and activated the internal communication system. “Attention, all units. I hope you’re keeping track of your kills. Use the helmet cam to document and the one with the highest body count will receive a 25 percent bonus on top of his usual cut.”

An excited, collective “Yes, sir” came back to him, then he cut the comm connection, not wanting to distract the men hunting with wondering if he was listening in. Sometimes he did, of course, but they never knew about it. And he’d go on patrol next time personally, once all the equipment was set up. He couldn’t lead these men if he wasn’t as good at killing as they were. Better in some cases.

“You can go ahead and transfer that into my account,” Casto said with a cocky grin. Then he whipped a quick salute and spun in tight posture to find his squad.

“And then there was one,” Vost muttered.

He hated this part of an op, but since he was the best with the gear—and the mission would suffer from lack of reliable intel—he completed the installation and made sure all tech was shaking hands and playing nice. He whizzed through activating the drone cams and sent them out to map the facility. A few early missteps before they found the tech lab had shown him that the schematics he’d been given were hopelessly outdated. The cons had been inventive in making the station their own; there were traps and hidden defenses all over the place, and if it hadn’t been for the damned expensive armor, he would’ve already been a man down just in setting up the command outpost.

One by one, his screens lit up with preliminary footage from his bots. They showed about what he expected, then he sent out a warning to Bravo team. “There’s mooks on the move, twenty of them. No weapons that can penetrate your armor. Continue as you are, and you’ll be on them in approximately 150 meters.”

“Copy that,” Bravo leader came back. “I can taste those extra credits already.”

He watched as the unit engaged, and the battle was clean, surgical, even. Whoops rang over the comm as the last fell, then the men moved on. He watched as more images came in and wondered why he felt unsettled. Probably because that Conglomerate asshole made this job sound too good to be true.

Things that seemed that way usually were.

Mungo’s crew wasn’t quite to the west barricades yet. They came in, lurching drunkenly toward the wall, activating the turrets. From his vantage on the other side, Jael watched as the guns mowed them down, but there were enough bodies that they used the death of their mates to push forward. The wall of junk teetered as the brutes scrambled toward the other side, bullets drilling them from the back. Jael was taking a risk by defending close up; his men stood to the rear, waiting for him to kill the enemy or for the cannibals to leave the turret’s range. One mongrel managed to ram his head through the gap, and Jael was waiting with a blade. He shanked the brute in the neck and left his corpse to block the way.