"He screamed, begging for mercy as he burned alive…
Mason had the same nightmare every night. After over thirty years as a soldier and a mech pilot, he had been on every battlefield imaginable. He was a legend, he made his enemies tremble, and he had friends in every corner of the universe. But after a doomed drop, his team died screaming. He fled the life he knew, and lived under different aliases as he drifted from place to place trying to find a way to make the screams stop.
By the time he arrived on Titan, he barely remembered his own name anymore. Looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle, nothing seemed to silence the screams. He was ready to punch out his own ticket when a job from a mysterious, unknown client that offered him one last blaze of glory. But something was off, the person wasn’t quite who they seemed to say they were. He didn’t care.
If this job went south, the screams of his new team would join his nightmares."
"He screamed, begging for mercy as he burned alive…
Mason had the same nightmare every night. After over thirty years as a soldier and a mech pilot, he had been on every battlefield imaginable. He was a legend, he made his enemies tremble, and he had friends in every corner of the universe. But after a doomed drop, his team died screaming. He fled the life he knew, and lived under different aliases as he drifted from place to place trying to find a way to make the screams stop.
By the time he arrived on Titan, he barely remembered his own name anymore. Looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle, nothing seemed to silence the screams. He was ready to punch out his own ticket when a job from a mysterious, unknown client that offered him one last blaze of glory. But something was off, the person wasn’t quite who they seemed to say they were. He didn’t care.
If this job went south, the screams of his new team would join his nightmares."
“We need extraction! Now!” Sarah Becker, worth 5.1 million credits, screamed into her comms. “Commander! They are fucking everywhere! Where is the LZ?”
A wicked smile crept across my face; this round of the game was coming to a conclusion. Sarah Becker was worth a five-million-credit bounty, payable dead or alive, but my favorite part was after I finished toying with her. Hire them as a mercenary to work for me to generate money, drop them into unbearable situations, watch them struggle and fight, and then when they are dead, turn over their smoking corpses for cash. And oh, did they struggle beautifully. I loved to build them up. Make them feel strong, like they belonged, and then listen to them as they died. The Great Game.
“Sarah,” I stated calmly, “extraction has been delayed. Can your team hold on for just a few moments longer?” I dangled salvation in front of her and her group of misbegotten renegades. Criminals all, worth little other than amusement. But she was the cash cow, a piece of meat to be bought and sold at my whim. I eyed her profile with greedy eyes: wanted for murder of a wealthy Imperial Senator. Done at my request, of course. Payable in any system in Matae space. I would have to cash it in at some point, but that would be for later. I wanted to savor the fear first. The anguish. The despair. The shuttle would easily be thirty minutes or more; one of the technicians who liked money and asked few questions made sure that there was a delay. Easily deniable, commonly tragic, and undoubtedly effective.
I watched as one of her vagabonds, 0.2 million, turned into a liquid. His Trireme mech was torn in half by a railgun from a Matae Morningstar. The hole was gigantic, savage, and clean, a perfect end to an imperfect man. I drank in the screams of Sarah Becker like savoring a wine before the main course was a perfect start to my banquet. Soon I would be satisfied and five million credits richer. The money was nice, but it was the game that made this so enjoyable.
“ETA? Commander!” Sarah Becker screamed into the comms as the last of her squad began to crumble, the readouts on their mechs all slowly turning red. Filling the room with the warmth of their grisly ends. It was time to stop toying with her, but I wanted one last sip of despair.
“Sarah. I’m sorry, I tried,” I lied. She growled in frustration. She was beautiful, stunning, and filled to the brim with sublime rage. Her last moments would be of glory, violence, and retribution. I drank in every curse. Every violent promise. Every crushed foe at her feet. For a moment, it looked as though she might emerge victorious, but that was a risk I couldn’t allow. Letting the pawns know that they are being played in The Great Game means that they might do things like fight back—or worse, survive.
I swiped my keycard on the control panel, my only friend in this isolated command chamber. An innocent button without a label finally blinked to life. I watched her valor, her majesty, and her bestial fury. I pressed the button. A small explosive detonated in her mech’s left leg, crippling it. A wounded animal so that the wolves could finish tearing her to pieces. She fired off her death salute, accompanied by a fresh round of curses as a plasma cannon round slammed into her cockpit. She screamed, burning alive. Purging her tainted flesh by molten plasma. It was an odd but enticing song that trailed off, like a fade-out of a once-great orchestra. There wouldn’t be a body to present to collect her bounty, but the records and visuals should be enough. I will collect my dues.
Satisfied, I went to inform my mercenary company of an unsuccessful mission. I had assured it when I sold the information to the belligerent, making sure there would be more than ample forces in the area to remove Sarah and her team. In exchange, they would allow me to salvage my mechs and begin repairs. They would just happen to “forget” that there was a bounty on the ground to be freely given. A little more than one million in repairs, but a partial payment for an unsuccessful but good-faith contract, and more than five million in bounty, more than a 400 percent return. Well, perhaps a bit less, since I would have to pay to cover up the work of art that happened to the Trireme. I smiled at the game I played. I had more than enough money to do whatever I wanted, but to watch people’s ultimate moments was enough for me. A genuine snapshot of people’s true characters, not the falsehoods that are worn like costumes, to be discarded when someone’s authentic self shines through.
As I stalked the halls, I thought of the way I would broach the topic with my cadre of officers. A group whose loyalty was never in question: obedience, conformity, and tradition. But they were not completely mindless. If they were, The Great Game would be no fun. After all, it was about how long I could maintain this masquerade. One day, someone would take it away to reveal my authentic self. I wondered who it would be or how long it would take. I hoped to revel in this dance a while longer yet before I tasted the sweet oblivion that I had served to Sarah Becker.
I perched at the head of the table, my pack of ten officers, each looking to jockey their way up the chain. All but one. Pathetic. Whining, sniveling things that wore the faces of people. Their mewling conversations ended, looking at me with eager anticipation. I looked at the empty space at the table that I had created. “We lost another one,” I said, feigning frustration.
The look of dismay came across their faces; they knew that the warzone was a meat grinder but not why their losses were so particularly high. I reached out with my mind to influence theirs, reinforcing their obedience. Just enough manipulation to make them compliant, but not enough that they were slaves, not like the others. It amused me, and that was enough. I held them in my hand. I could do whatever I wished to them, save one.
“Do we know why?” one of the sycophants, 0.5 million, asked.
“Poor intelligence and maintenance failure. Again.” I gave a feigned deep sigh.
“What if we spent more time on academic training? Like, teaching the pilots less about fighting and instead about the various aspects of the mechs and battlefields?” one of the worms, 0.3 million, mewled. The thing before me was young, too young to know anything but perhaps he should start being built up. Not much value in him right now.
“Not a bad idea. You want to give it a try?” I said, knowing full well that it would be worthless, and in fact, likely counterproductive.
The young idiot beamed with pride. “Happily, sir. I have a new team in mind,” he said, almost tripping over himself eager to please. Disgusting.
“To address the maintenance issues, perhaps we need to have something like an audit team or officer to review their work? Or maybe handle the shuttle schedules instead of allowing the pilots to do it?” a bootlicker who finally was worth enough for me to remember her name, Lee, worth 1.1 million, asked. Just a while longer yet for that specimen. If I cashed her in right now, she would be at least worth a replacement heavy laser on a mech. But she had potential.
“Give it a try. I will get the paperwork started,” I replied. “Also, I would like to go over something a bit more delicate with each of you.” I leveled my eyes across the room, drinking in their anticipation. “Do I have your word that anything discussed within these walls will remain purely confidential?” The gaggle nodded. “I am beginning to wonder if there is a traitor in our midst.”
The group had an audible gasp; a few even looked at each other wearily as though to size up the potential threats. Good, let them fight among themselves. “The past three drops have had bad intelligence. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy movement.” I let the accusation sit and simmer for a minute. “I think we should start monitoring all incoming and outgoing communication but quietly. We don’t want people to think we are on to them.” I wanted control, absolute and total control.
“Sir, won’t that … is that … ethical?” one of the maggots, 0.9 million, asked. Almost too much free will in that one. I exerted subtle control. He was almost ready.
“In most circumstances, I would say no, but I am tired of seeing torn-up mechs. I am tired of seeing my people zipped up into body bags. I am tired of writing messages home, telling loved ones how their family died valiantly,” I lied, laying it on thick. I managed to get a single tear to manifest and trickle down my cheek, to sell them on my commitment. I moved to quickly hide it but gave just enough time that a few people could see it. The masquerade must live on. “I would like to go over potential threats to our people, if you would give me the time.”
The dissenter gave a grim nod, having bought the performance. Pitiful. I went over the mission briefing about the feigned ambush and potential threats or spies, hackers, and dissidents, creating phantom enemies for them to spend their time fighting rather than risk them discovering the true source of the intelligence leaks. I would watch them scramble before me, looking for the enemies I asked them to find. It was truly wretched. Perhaps when they died, their characters would show more quality than I saw here.
After the meeting, one of the lieutenants approached to speak with me. It was lieutenant Tiberia Magnus, worth 11.6 million, perhaps one of my most valuable assets and one of the few Matae on board. I loved their culture, their traditions. I was born into the wrong species. A cruel twist of fate. Had I been Matae, I might have been a glorious legate. Instead, I was merely something else. A fact that disappointed me. She was also the only one who could resist my mental influences, which made her fascinating and dangerous. A potent cocktail, I longed to savor her.
“Sir, I have a solution to dealing with potential infiltrators on Haborym,” Tiberia explained. “I have a security protocol that I would like to test out.” I had promoted her to the head of security, knowing that she had little experience with foot combatants. This would allow me to slip people on and off with ease. She was a mech pilot at heart, not a security specialist.
“Explain it to me, Tiberia,” I said in the most empathetic voice I could muster. To use the first name of a Matae is to convey a level of intimacy saved for close friends, lovers, and family. I knew it was where I belonged. She had a daughter, somehow worth 0.4 million, whom she kept on board like a pet. After I cashed in her mother, I would have to see what I could do with the child.
She bristled adorably, a barely audible hiss, and gave a curt nod and handed me a data slate. I would read it later; I had no interest right now, as I was still buzzing from the wine of mortality that I had drunk earlier. “Summarize it for me,” I ordered.
“To address potential spies coming aboard the Haborym, we need to tighten our security forces inside hangar bays and while landed. I have created a new methodology to have three rings of defense, which should eliminate that security threat.”
“Interesting,” I mused; she was wonderfully effective. While it would pose a small risk to my personal operation, it had potential, assuming she didn’t blow it. I looked down at the data slate. “Are you sure it will work?”
“With 95 percent confidence, sir.” She nodded; I sampled her exotic scent. It was intoxicating.
“Then I approve,” I said, locking eyes like a predator. She was a warrior, not some bureaucrat or pencil pusher. She had dozens of kills under her belt and had probably as many trophies as I did, though hers were probably less morbid than mine.
She gave an odd look, perhaps shock or disbelief, and gave a nod. “Our next stop is Titan. It would be one of the best places to recruit potential test infiltrators or assassins.”
Before I could stop myself, “Assassins, please.” I had committed and almost let something slip. “You are one of the best, so I trust your expertise,” I recovered.
“Understood, sir. Then I will place myself as the target,” she said coolly. She was no coward and put her own skin on the line. If they didn’t find anyone on Titan who was worthy of my next adventure, perhaps she would do. It would be a pity to lose her, but it would be a tantalizing vision to watch her work. Her final struggles would put Sarah Becker’s to shame. How hard does one fight if you have a child at home to see? I could hardly wait. I would alter the guards a little bit, just to make things interesting. I couldn’t have the plan be too effective.
“Do you have one in mind?” I almost purred.
“Yes.” She reached over to flip the dataslate in my hand. I felt the warmth of her closeness. “Maxwell ‘Max’ Taylor. He has a solid reputation, reasonable rates, and according to his profile, always finishes the job.” The image flicked to a broken man, a rent and twisted thing. Apparently, he had a bounty on his head too, a cool 3.2 million. He would do for now.
“Lock him in,” I commanded. “You have a budget of half a million. Do not go over.” She gave a brisk nod and sped away from me. I savored the image of her walking away.
After the song and dance, I returned to my hunt. I had a few last things I had to tie up before they left planet and made their way to Titan to test Tiberia’s venture. The costs should be low, so I had little concern. I called my crony-mech tech to his office; I wanted to celebrate his latest hunt and give the man his just rewards. A few of my most loyal stood nearby, understanding what was about to transpire when the tech was called up. They placed a mop and bucket nearby in case he reacted poorly.
The putrid husk of a being, 0.0 million, staggered into the office; he stank of oil, sweat, and insignificance. In tradition for the celebration, I had a cigar and glass of bourbon set out for him, I put on my best fake smile. Before I could even bid the man to sit, the husk plopped down and greedily drank the offering. A small shiver of contempt ran up my spine; it found its resting place as an itch at the back of my skull. The husk leaned forward for a refill.
“It was easy. You ever need work like that again, you let me know, eh?” the husk bragged. Disgusting.
“Happily, I just wanted to seal the deal before the final credits hit your account with a toast.” I proceeded as though it were routine. I refilled the glass for the thing in front of me and lit up his cigar. Reaching out to his mind, I could feel the space in the husk’s skull where willpower and pride should be, finding it barren. I let the creature smoke and drink his offerings before exerting dominance.
The husk stopped his repulsive indulgence and stared slack jawed, his mind an open book awaiting the author’s words.
“On your knees,” I commanded. The husk complied. I needed to tie up the loose ends of this, but The Game demands that everyone at least have a chance of survival, otherwise it just isn’t fun. I removed the six-round revolver from my desk, a timeless classic of elegance and power. Much like myself. I loaded three bullets into the revolver and spun the cylinder. Let fate decide. I placed the barrel directly against the puppet’s fat, fleshy face and pulled the trigger. His death was almost assured. Click. Fate was on his side. I loved the smoke that should have hung in the air; how I missed the old cartridges these ancient weapons used to use. I stood, thinking for a moment before circling behind my desk to refill my glass and light my own cigar. The Game had decided that he should live, so instead I cleared his mind. Forcing my mind into his, removing all memories of his involvement. It would break him mentally, but that was not my problem. I couldn’t let someone so worthless ruin The Game.
The cronies arrived a moment later, body bag in hand that was bound for the trash incinerator and the regular cleaning crew. I had long established dominion over their minds. They were obedient and compliant at this point, happy to serve my whims. They roughly grabbed the now-confused husk and pushed him out of the office. I pulled up the accounting spreadsheets to review the quarterly numbers for the mercenary company. I answered only to those who contracted my services, the bank, and myself. And the first two only cared that those jobs got done, not how messily they got done.
Unfortunately, things were not going quite as I would have liked. I would need to increase the collection of my bounty harvesting over the quarter if I wanted to continue my game a bit longer. I hoped I wouldn’t have to cash in Tiberia so soon, but unless we could secure Max and someone else within the next eight weeks, the bookkeeper must be paid his dues. None of the other maggots had any real value to them yet. I would have to start grooming them.
I closed that tab and turned to open a new file. It was time to begin writing Sarah Becker’s family about her heroic and valiant end. I would shower praise upon her and instill a feeling of love and admiration. But I needed inspiration; a day of meetings, accounting, and cleaning up loose ends had dashed my memory. The sad reality of life. I pulled up the recording of Sarah’s final moment to review the footage. God, I loved my job.
Andrew Stover’s Press-Ganged Hellwalkers Trilogy: Book One follows Mason Carver, a man who goes by many names—from Max to John. Mason has served as both a pilot and an assassin. When press-ganged, he finds himself back in the cockpit. But this time is different. For one, he has a team to protect. For another, he might find an opportunity to put a permanent end to the voices in his head.
Life on planets other than Earth could not be as we know it, and as Press-Ganged reveals, a lot is going on out there. The protagonist’s nightmares set the stage for the story, and as it unfolds, Mason’s team suspects a traitor, encounters the enemy, and must rely on teamwork to survive. Interestingly, the team members look out for each other. For instance, they all admit to stealing an officer’s badge to protect the thief’s identity. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Griswald remains unpopular among the new merc pilots, and Mason is having difficulties managing his aliases. The others, notably White, feel Mason is more than he’s letting on.
The beginning is enough of a hook, as it introduces a protagonist whose way of life and perception are completely different. He’s pessimistic at best. He calls his humble abode a coffin. When he walks into a group of troublemakers harassing a harmless woman, he intervenes, politely at first, but then opts to use force when left with no choice. Here, he reveals his humanitarian side and shows the mission that awaits him. As part of the beginning, the single-man assassin mission draws the reader in completely. It really tells who Mason is. Is he suicidal? “I took my last breath in and savored the air one last time. The taste of my sweat, the burn of the gunpowder, and the heat of the metal. There was a brief flash of light, and that was it. Freedom.”
And Mason Carver is a strong character. He personifies his weapons; as he talks about them, you might think he’s talking with an adorable woman. As much as he’s an assassin, he upholds a moral compass; “I can’t kill a woman in front of her child.” Writing from the first-person point of view always makes the reader invest in the story — a fact that Mason reaffirms here. A female pilot tells him, “I look forward to killing you,” to which he calmly replies, “I’m sure you will get the chance,” unconcerned.
Another thing to appreciate and enjoy about this book is Stover’s mastery of outer-space-related events. His voice meshes well with the genre. He captures the interplanetary feel and events there, transporting the reader to experience them. Additionally, writing from the first-person point of view enhances this book.
Sci-Fi readers, particularly those who love stories that explore the planets far from home, will find this book deservingly appropriate.