The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) by Ian Malone (great books of all time TXT) 📕

“We were,” Jack said. “That don’t change that fact that the major held mum on the whole thing until we could get back here to scoop you up.”

Taylor was getting a bad feeling about this. He turned for the shuttle’s boarding ramp. “I reckon we’ll find out soon enough, huh?”

The trio boarded the shuttle, then took their places in the passenger cabin while the pilot ran down their final pre-launch ones and twos from the cockpit up front. Several minutes of teeth-clenched g-forces later, the shuttle docked with the Eagles’ flagship, the EMS Ryley Osyrys, in orbit.

“Ten-HUT!” The brawny, dark-skinned lieutenant commander at astrometrics shot to his feet, looking like the cat who’d eaten the canary. “Commanding officer on the bridge.”

“Ya know, Quint,” Taylor said with a sigh, “it’s a good thing you took up merc work after your baseball career ended, because you’d be in the poor house right now if you’d turned to standup comedy to earn your livin’.”

Smitty chuckled from her post at the science station.

“I know you hate to admit it, Chief, but some folks in our profession actually appreciate a little formality from time to time,” the XO said at tactical. The consummate ex-soldier from Nebraska, Billy Dawson was impeccably dressed in Eagle-green fatigues with husky, clean-shaven features and a neatly trimmed brush cut of chestnut-brown hair. “I mean, when you get right down to it, salutes, proper haircuts, uniforms…they kinda go with the whole paramilitary motif.”

“Yeah, well they can have the fargin threads,” a male voice said in a thick New York accent.

All eyes turned to the Buma seated at the nav station down front.

“Speaking as one of the dozen or so non-humans on this motley little crew,” Frank continued, “I for one adore the fact that the only time I’ve gotta fight with uniform pants is when we’re operatin’ in front of clients. I kid you not. In all my years as a merc, I’ve yet to find a single brand of trousers, fatigues or otherwise, that fit these spindly little legs of mine with even a hint of comfort. Like, not even one.”

“I keep tellin’ ya, Birdman, go buy yourself some Wranglers and call it a day.” Jack entered the bridge with Stan. “Hell, you won’t even know you’re wearin’ pants at that point.”

“Whatever,” Frank muttered. “I may work with a pack of hillbillies. That don’t mean I gotta dress like one.”

“Yes, because cargo shorts and pastel shirts with a flat cap is the bloody picture of fashion,” Smitty noted in her Australian accent.

A chorus of snickers circulated the bridge.

“What’s our status?” Taylor pushed off from the topside banister, then coasted in zero G toward the Osyrys’ command chair beside tactical.

“We’re set to transition through the stargate in about twenty minutes,” Billy said. “I got the final all-clear from the gate master about a half-hour before you came aboard.”

“And how was Master Haju this fine summer mornin’?” Taylor hadn’t meant to laugh while asking that, but he couldn’t help himself. He adored being the only human in the Galactic Union whose merc company got to come and go as it pleased without paying stargate fees. That, and he lived for the pissed off looks he always got from Earth’s Sumatozou gate master, Zynom Haju, who had to process those requests. Nice doin’ business with ya, Vergola Council.

“Haju wasn’t in today,” Billy answered.

“Really?” Taylor glanced up from viewing the data on his chair-arm display. “That’s a first.”

“Tell me about it,” Billy said. “In all the years I’ve flown with the Eagles, both under your command and that of your brother, Haju has always called the shots for Earth’s stargate. Ah well. Things change, I guess.”

I reckon so. Taylor returned to his screen.

“Heads up, people,” Frank said. “I just got word from Control. We’re cleared to depart when ready.”

“Thanks, Frank,” Taylor said. “Break orbit immediately and bring us about.”

“Ayew,” Frank said—Eagles’ slang for Acknowledged and Understood, or AU—then swiped at his nav console. “Course laid in. We’re coming about now.”

The Ryley Osyrys’ engines whirred in the background as the deck plates under Taylor’s boots began to vibrate. “So, Major Dawson. Are you gonna break with the subterfuge and tell me about this mysterious contract you’ve tracked down, or what?”

“All in good time,” Billy said. “I promise I’ll spill all the gory details at church once we’ve transitioned into hyperspace.”

The term “church” was Eagles’ slang for a briefing.

“Can you at least tell me who the client would be?” Taylor asked.

“Patience is the hallmark of any good CO, Chief,” Billy noted. “If I’ve said that once during your training, I’ve said it a thousand times.”

Taylor cocked his head. “Why are you bein’ so cagey about this?”

“Not cagey.” Billy flashed a sly look. “Just patient.”

Taylor rolled his eyes. I hate it when he pulls that damn grasshopper card.

“Approaching the stargate now,” Frank announced. “ETA to visual, 30 seconds.”

Taylor keyed up the Buma’s nav data on the Tri-V display to the bridge’s right. All told, he counted four blips in the holographic image, all representing ships awaiting transition.

“Huh,” Billy noted. “Not a lot of takers today.”

“Agreed,” Taylor said.

“Entering visual range of the stargate,” Quint added.

“Confirmed,” Frank said. “Hyperspatial generator is online and active. Stand by for transition on my mark.”

Taylor’s muscles tensed as the massive ring drew larger in the Tri-V. They always did. No matter how many successful trips he’d taken during the past two years, the fact remained that Taylor’s brother had died during a botched transition, albeit from sabotage. Nevertheless, Taylor doubted there’d ever come a day when he was truly comfortable with hyperspace travel.

“Transition in five,” Frank began. “Four…three…two…one.”

A mild groan reverberated through the Osyrys’ hull. It was followed by the odd sense of disorientation that