by Nick Cole
I must be that bird, I think, as we begin to remove our dead from the floor of the bloody cargo deck.
The Battle Spire moans on some ominous hum high above us and sunlight breaks through the storm front and another squall of hot acid rain sweeps across our tragedy. Side effects of the space fold phenomenon, I am told.
“Incoming!” someone shouts uselessly. The air feels hot and electric and it’s clear the Battle Spire is about to fire one of her big six-gig D-beams. If it’s going to fire anywhere even near us, we’re dead. No “suck dirt” and cover is going to stop that thing. It’s like getting hit with a nuclear blast ray. And honestly, no such thing exists for the rest of us. If you’re going to go nuclear, it’s a bomb just like it’s always been since the beginning of time. But somehow, the Monarchs developed that technology into a death ray they can just turn on and off. The D-beam. As bad as it gets.
The ship above our heads, surrounded by swarms of dropping war machines and comet-streak infantry smoking in hot to make the LZ their Pathfinders have set up, fires at some distant target. Probably the naval carrier group off the coast because the D-beam strike doesn’t hit the city we’ve come down in the outskirts of.
Otherwise we’d all be dead, and all our problems would be solved.
“They do that, Little King, to let ya know who da bosses are,” says Stinkeye, who’s come to help as we get ourselves off the decks of the dropship. He’s come up with Preacher, the Strange Company chaplain, to retrieve the dead.
The First Sergeant is telling everyone there’s command brief and change of mission in ten, near the First Sergeant’s Mule.
I watch death fall from above as a thousand wonderful and terrible Ultra death machines and uber warriors awaken to their purpose. The hour of the First Pass is at hand. I hear Stinkeye whispering, his voice breathy and gasping as he and Preacher get So-So’s body off the deck of the drop.
“Now you know,” he says. “They boss. No room for doubt, Little King. They boss. We just the dead now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Change of mission,” begins the captain ten minutes later. He’s burning a cigarette and pointing at a tactical flexy he’s got set up on the First Sergeant’s Mule to show us our route out of this dog of a contract. The platoon sergeants and squad leaders are surrounding the Old Man as the briefing goes down, never mind the war breaking out all around us.
Ultra artillery is already shelling the mem fortress some local traders financing this conflict had set up inside the capital. Far away heavy machine-gun fire thuds across the landscape. Small explosions. Grenades. And then the fusillade of assaulter gunfire, frenetic and high cycle, as the Ultras begin neutralizing their first targets.
Whoever’s fighting back is dumb.
But that’s their story and not mine.
The Old Man is calm. But he looks tired. Then again, who ain’t. It’ll be dark soon and it’s starting to rain. Showers and electrical storms courtesy of the mysterious space-fold engine.
We’re at a supply depot that had been set up inside the city for our eventual conquest. The captain and the Old Man had decided to hop, skip, and jump behind enemy lines and hit the depot instead of running for the hills like the rest of our Resistance employers and allies.
“Contract’s over, Strange Company,” continues the captain as we all listen in silence over the screech of beam strike and thunder of outgoing artillery trying to hit and slow down those running from the justice of the Ultras. “Company is facing two problems at this moment. The first is our employers have decided not to pay us out and are declaring the contract unfulfilled. Our lawyers will have to argue that out with them for the next ten to twenty years. As all of you know, we needed that mem to get over to Blackrock sub-light and get the Spider’s hyperdrive repaired. So, we are currently broke. Not the worst problem. But not good because funds might not be available at Blackrock for the repairs. Which was the purpose of this whole contract.”
The captain gave it to us straight and looked us right in the eyes while we took it. It’s best to be honest about these things. If anyone wanted to complain or walk away, now was the time. Wasn’t much of a choice because right now the Ultras were going to annihilate every combatant they could get their hands on for probably the next three days. And if they even suspected you’d been in combat they were going to bring in the Inquisitors and you were gonna face the cyber-rack for a good three seconds and you’d tell ’em everything they needed to know at one.
The two extra seconds was to make sure you thought real good and hard about lying even just a little.
As one guy I knew who’d had some firsthand experience with the cyber-rack put it, “It’s forever in there.”
Still, without saying a word as the Old Man smoked and watched us with his faded old blue eyes, scar, and iron-gray hair, daring us to walk away from the company, he was at least giving us that chance.
“Second problem is the Spider, as you all know. Besides not being jump-capable at this time, she’s also not atmo-capable. XO thinks he can get in close enough to do a high-altitude sub-orbital transfer if we can get up there. As you can see…”
He gave a brief nod toward the assault troops, thousands of them still raining down planetside from the behemoth above our heads.
“… these drops would be shot down if we even tried. So here’s our plan. First Sergeant has commandeered supplies and transport here at the depot. Draw immediately after this briefing. We roll in thirty minutes. Full convoy to the refueling station at Plethy. Hard takeover and we top off on energy cells. Then we break up into teams and take different routes out into the Crash Wastes. Our destination is Lost Road. It’s not marked on any map. Our new employer will be downloading maps to the platoon sergeant after this briefing.”
A few muttered at the news of a new employer. Most of the rest just exchanged glances. A few of us were too dead tired to do anything.
“Yes, the company has fortunately received a new contract offer as developments have taken a new turn in the last three hours.”
Did he emphasize the word fortunately?
That’s unlike him. He’s so dry. He doesn’t even do sarcasm.
Strange times makes strange things happen. Even the Old Man is not immune.
He didn’t say anything like, “Hey, and now I’m gonna be honest with you,” or anything like that. Wasn’t his way. If he said something it was the truth. If he didn’t say anything, I’d learned that’s when you needed to be worried.
“Our new employer is a Monarch. She calls herself the Seeker.”
A few murmured.
No one I knew had ever even seen a Monarch face to face. It just wasn’t done. They didn’t do that.
“She has a plan for us to get our owed mem out of our employers, provide her a service, and get off-world to at least effect a sub-orbital rendezvous with our ship.”
He looked around, inhaled what was left of his cigarette, and flicked it at the ground, watching the ember burn for a second before he crushed it out with his combat boot.
“This is dangerous. If you want to take your chances with the Monarchs, there’s supposedly a refugee collection point that’s taking combatants, no questions asked. And I think there’s a high-chance probability a lot of us are going to get killed trying to stay Strange Company and get off-world in the middle of an Ultra invasion. That just doesn’t happen. But when I took command, I swore on John Strange’s name I’d keep the company together. So, I gotta do that. Even if I do it alone.”
Then he turned and walked around the First Sergeant’s vehicle, heading into the darkness of the supply depot that was like a dark open mouth waiting for a meal.
The First Sergeant stepped forward and someone must have asked, “Where is this Seeker?”
“Over there, boys,” he said, not grandly. But big in his own way. I, and I guess the rest of us, followed his gaze. Ove
r to the dropships. The gorgeous flight leader, tall like an uber model for some mem zillionaire, still in her flight suit and holding her helmet with one hand, was handing out devices, payment devices to the remaining Valkyries. Pilots, door gunners, crew chiefs.
Then she turned and began to walk toward us after picking up a little wicked submachine gun and a ruck, and throwing her flight helmet off into the mud and light rain.
I was not alone in thinking she was the most beautiful woman that ever was.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The briefing broke up as most went back to what remained of their platoons to explain how bad the situation really was. Slick, the Ghost platoon sergeant, stood there with me exchanging meaningful information. Ghost had taken only one KIA. Soops. I’ll get to his story later if there’s time.
“Good scout,” said Slick as we finished our smokes, watching as the First Sergeant had his men start directing Hannibal’s Dogs toward the supplies he’d laid out for them. Then he had Amarcus, my personal villain, in tow and was headed straight for us.
“Boys,” he began grandly to his three platoon sergeants. Voodoo didn’t have a sergeant. No one knew how the hell Voodoo ran. We only knew it did. Mostly. “This is where things are gonna get real improvisational. That Monarch jazz ain’t gonna sit well, and you might want to brace everyone. She just signed the auto doc to join the company. She’s in, and that was part of the whole messed-up deal. But the only way I can see us gettin’ paid and gettin’ ourselves the hell outta here and clear of this mess is just to go ahead and let it happen. Captain ain’t sayin’ nothin’ but I don’t think he likes it none too much either. I ain’t gonna ask any of you if you got a problem with it because as far as Top is concerned you don’t. Got me, boys?”
We got the First Sergeant.
Then he looked at me.
“Sar’nt Orion. You got her. She didn’t want Voodoo and Stinkeye’s already threatening to desert. There’s gonna be trouble between them two. So she’s with you, and she’s running our operation once we reach Lost Road out in the Wastes. Reaper’s tip of the spear on this exit.”
That’s… great.
“Copy, First Sergeant.”
I watched Amarcus smirk, his wicked scar telegraphing his amused contempt. He shrugged his cut-down Bastard model. Everyone in Dog worked the shorty. Extremely violent, accurate not so much. Sergeant Hannibal preferred the kinetic violence concept as opposed to good shooting. Aggression over marksmanship.
He wasn’t wrong. It was just a choice in a scenario of limited resources. The company needed about six months to a year of training to get everyone where I wanted them. But… that just hadn’t been possible. And as Amarcus likes to tell everyone, “Orion wants a perfect universe, not the one you actually gotta go kill people in.”
He said that to my face one time. So we had it out. Later, it was chalked up to too much Arcturan rye and half-price pitchers at the bar where we had our little disagreement. But I’d only had one shot and I knocked out one of his fake teeth.
To his credit he left it out and every time he “smiles” at me he makes sure I see the gap. Like he’s letting me know there’s some payback coming down the line one day.
Every time we talk, I slip my index finger into the ring of the karambit I carry in my pocket. I practice every day with it and when I do, executing combos and putting the tip of the extremely sharp blade into the xiphoid process… I see his face.
So, there’s that.
Then I added, “First Sergeant, Third is no longer a squad. Just Hauser and Nox. Second and Fourth are down to half each if we don’t take the seriously wounded. So I’m folding Fourth into Second and adding what’s left of Third to First. That gives Reaper two squads. You still good with us taking point?”
“Affirmative, Sergeant. Doc Cutter is putting the wounded into stasis bags inside the crawler with Sergeant Biggs.”
He turned to Sergeant Hannibal.
“Your boys will be surrounding the supply crawler, Amarcus. Need you to keep any enemies off of them. We roll into the top-off point Reaper moves to secure. The perimeter of the station. I’m marking three roads into that point. Right now, recon drone says the streets are packed and the main line for top-off is six clicks long heading down the road into town. We’re bypassing that. Reaper, go in hot and secure the two roads at the far end of the station. Amarcus, hard take over and we top off the crawler, command vehicles, then Reaper, then Dog, and finally Ghost comes in with the captain as the QRF in case we get jumped. Once he gives the all-clear we break up and follow our routes. Meet at Lost Road to reassess the plan and proceed on to the bank robbery. You boys got all that? Now c’mon, I got some super-charged Mules sportin’ fifties you guys are gonna dig. Was supposed to go for some special ops merc team that never made it through to planetside. Drop got lit up on insertion and last I heard they were all dead out to sea.”
He smiled and adjusted his pistol belt.
“So, we got that goin’ for us.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I got Punch on the draw. We were topping off on ammo, explosives, and some armor plates that were supposed to be experimental. Which was good. Most of our plates were shot to hell or cracked straight up. The vehicles were slick. Operator black. Twin turbos with some sort of nitro fuel-air burst system that could really get the vehicle moving. Armored, but still open. The vehicle commander position in the right seat came with a mounted minigun and there was indeed a Suupmann fifty-cal system mounted on the gunner’s deck in the rear.
Punch would get both squads portioned out between the three vehicles we had. What remained of First Squad was just Punch, Choker the medic, Hustle and Hoser with the Pig, and Boom Boom who’d taken a round in the leg but was still walkie-talkie. Folding in Hauser and Nox gave me a solid First Squad. And the Kid. He was still good to go. He’d kept his head down and his powder dry. There just wasn’t time to start to figure out his tag. But he was close. After his time as a New Guy. I’d have to talk to the others if we ever got a chance.
The new Second Squad, a combination of Second and Fourth, consisted of their squad leader Jacks, along with Dip Weasel, Killer Joe, and six guys from Fourth who’d managed to keep themselves alive despite So-So getting killed.
My mind was still trying to figure out how to run my platoon in its new configuration, assault and support, and I needed to inhale some chow. I felt too wired to ever sleep again even though I was exhausted. But first I left Punch and went to see about the company dead.
I found Stinkeye and Preacher in back of the supply depot. There was a patch of bare ground near an old fence. The bodies were laid out and the wind was beginning to blow. Explosions to the west and south told us where the Ultras were coming down to start the death scythe of their First Pass.
“Won’t be long now,” muttered Stinkeye as he leaned on a shovel he had no intention of using. So-So was there. Others from the company too. Gains had been too badly burned to pull out. But I’d sent comm to Astacia Esquival, our company lawyer and account rep, and started a claim to have his body retrieved and eventually delivered to a cemetery company funds had already been set aside for. We’d lost thirteen on this contract since it began a year ago. Before today. The bodies from today would go there in the end.
Above our heads the Battle Spire loomed. More strike firefighters were sweeping off her carrier decks to hit targets all across the world. I’d been close to this moment before. But only weeks away. One time the company finished a contract that was going bad, got on the Spider, and hauled away. The Monarchs and Ultras showed up two weeks later, and now that irradiated nuclear wasteland of a world that was once called Blue because of its beauty is now just marked as off-limits on the stellar charts.
“They be bringin’ in a bank ship in the next few hours,” muttered Stinkeye as he hit his flask, didn’t work the shovel, and stared up at the giant Monarch ship, whispering curses
like incantations under his hot breath.
“You don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’, Little King. No one does.”
Preacher was moving down the line. Kneeling over each body bag. Murmuring a few words. I watched his work. No one believed in anything. But they all needed to know he was doing this. I saw guys hauling out cans of 5.56 and belts of 7.62. Fifty, also. Crates of grenades. Like we were going for sabertoothed bears on Cylor instead of running for our lives on a world called Crash. Not Astralon. That game was over. Mark it so on the maps. As the men lugged, I watched them cast quick glances at Preacher. Watching his work no one believed in. Needing it all the same.
More freak squalls of hot rain coming down off the giant ship swept the yard, leaving everything wet and sticky. Strange gusts and breezes would come out of nowhere and wash over body bags, blowing Preacher’s white hair. Titanic noises and lights in the clouds above that made you feel small and desperate.
Preacher.
Yeah. He’s some kind of holy man. But he doesn’t shun weapons. I’ve seen him show up at the most convenient of times in the middle of a battle to start blazing away with his sidearm or carry the wounded out of harm’s way. Or jump on a gun whether it needs a gunner or an AG.
I asked him what his story was once, and he said he didn’t have one. How he’d come to the company. What he was running from. That last part was implied. But everyone knows it’s there. He told me he was forgiven of all his story. That he didn’t have one anymore.
I asked, “What do I put down in the logs when it’s your time to go?”
He just smiled and replied, “Oh, I don’t know. You’ll know, Orion. Maybe say something about how he preached what he believed every day without ever saying a word. I’d like that. I’d like to be worthy of that.”
And then he added, “And say the part that’s true, Orion. Put Strangers to the universe. Brothers to the end.”
