by Vance Huxley
“I thought he was going to push it? You know, about the Frog weapons and such.” Bobby remembered the glare from the Super as they left. “Are you sure he’s squared?”
“It’s not down to him now because everything has gone to boardroom level. The Frogs are well and truly pooched and it will harm our lot’s case if they put any blame on you four. There’s rules as you know, contracts so the corporations don’t lose too many assets while we’re getting killed. One of them is about who fights who and putting the Legion in against Timers is a really big breach of contract. There’ll be a high level board meeting, lots of lawyers, and assets or more probably the border will be adjusted. That part is above my pay grade.” Sarge sighed. “It might not work out too well for you four, long term.”
“Why not?” Bobby frowned. “Hang on, you said we won’t be here when the Mob come back.”
“Nothing wrong with your ears now, Beebi, though you forgot some of your bledrin instructions, didn’t you?” Sarge raised a hand. “I know, it all went viral and you did what you had to, which turned out lucky because the Frogs were building up their numbers to launch an attack as well. They wanted to take these houses because from here they’d shut down the refinery. Buying them out would have cost Anglo-Dutch serious creds and assets.” Sarge sighed again. “This is a very important sector, the nearest the Frogs have ever got to the refineries, and what you did means they’ve got to pull back. Well back, to pay for the contract breach. The trouble with that is what you did is above your pay grade. Timers don’t pull that sort of stunt, so you can’t be Timers any more.”
Bobby stared. “What? But I’ve got another nine years to do. I’m not going down that bledrin mine!”
“The Chemworks will kill me! No way!” Siflis came to his feet, while behind him Bells started cracking his knuckles. Bobby frantically tried to find a way out because he meant it, he really wasn’t going down that mine. Sodit, the judge gave him a choice!
“Calm down you silly shites. You stay in uniform, but it’ll be a Trooper uniform.” Sarge laughed, a bitter laugh, then sipped his tea while they all stopped panicking and stared instead. “You’re supposed to stay as Timers until you learn how to stay alive or you die. During that time, you’d learn that the rules can be broken, providing it’s deniable and you win.” Sarge snorted. “You lot aren’t too good with the deniable part, but you’ve got the rule breaking nearly perfect. Luckily you got the winning bit right as well.”
All four looked at each other, baffled. Surely training for Trooper meant learning to fight? “But we aren’t trained to be Troopers.”
“No Beebi and that’s why this might be bad for all of you, though the Directors don’t really care about that. Because you are brave warriors who managed to survive the nasty cheating Frogs, you’ll get metal and promotion. Timers can’t be promoted, so you get to be Troopers even if you aren’t ready.” Sarge didn’t seem real happy about that.
“Metal? How can we get metal? We didn’t get hurt, not badly.” Bells looked at his splinted finger. “Unless I get a metal finger?” He grinned. “I’d have a hell of a punch after that.”
Sarge opened his uniform jacket and showed a patch of small metal squares fastened to the lining. They looked like steel and copper, maybe brass, and had writing stamped on them. Sarge closed his jacket and smoothed the Velcro. “That’s metal.” He rapped his kneecap. “It often costs this sort, but not always. You’ll get one of those squares, and a few extra creds every month.”
“That’s it? That’s metal? After all the bulsh about all the metal the real fighters have?” Fenton only said what they all felt because the Timers had heard about metal from day one. Metal arms, metal plates in skulls, metal legs, shite, they’d seen Sarge’s metal knees.
“Well it’s not much by itself, but there’s extras and not just the creds. Why do the medics open everyone’s jacket first, when they pick up the wounded?” Sarge wore a little smile and Bobby just knew he’d be wrong, but the official answer was...
“To check the heartbeat.”
“To check for metal. Just one of these little squares mean you get the first treatment, and the best, and that’s one reason they’re sewn in that position. The other reason is that if a flechette is headed for your heart, if you’re really lucky that bit of metal will stop it.”
“So if I’ve got a lot, like you?”
“Yes, a heart shot probably won’t work on me.” Sarge looked at Bobby. “If Beebi had been accurate that the Legionnaire would have laughed and shot him while the flechettes were bouncing. Because Beebi is shite with a carbin, he put flechettes in the Frog’s throat, an eye, his arm, other lung and even a couple in the gut, from under three metres away.” Sarge shook his head. “That was on top of some buckshot in his back. I’ve never seen worse shooting or such a thorough job.”
“He was pointing that bledrin cannon at me and I thought it would be loaded with buckshot!”
“Fair comment.” Sarge grinned. “There’s another benefit to having metal. When you four allegedly weren’t in Rotterdam, you were turned away from some bars even though you were somehow dressed as Troopers. Turned away for no apparent reason?”
“Yeah. We were scanned and then refused but didn’t get a reason. There were some truly sleek Divas in there as well.” Bells sighed because he really fancied the Divas, the sleek types. Bells always complained that the Divas in the Timer bars were all spam, and were usually drunk, stoned, or bledrin ugly. In truth, on a bad day they’d be all three, fat and unwashed as well.
“Those bars have decent beer, no crowding, and enough of those Divas to go round. No spam allowed, only the sleekest, hot to trot and stone cold sober as you’ll find out next time.” Sarge grinned at Bells, and tapped his chest. “The scan only checked here, and if it shows metal you get in. Rest up first because those Divas love to pooch the metal, and you’ll all be fresh meat.” He’d started laughing now, and so did the rest at the look on Bells’s face.
Bobby wanted to know more about the metal, not the bonus. “What are all the colours then, and why are they on the inside?”
“Well if they were outside they’d make a good aiming point for someone like Fenton, and on top of that the management don’t want a lot of innocents reading that writing. After all, metal usually means someone broke a rule or two. It goes outside for official parades but they won’t happen often. Otherwise you don’t tell anyone you’ve got it and if they find out you never say why or where.” Sarge looked at Bells. “Make up some heroic bulsh for the Divas. They know it’s bulsh, but love it anyway. You already know why it’s a good idea to wear it in a ruck.”
“So what about the colours?”
“Gold, Silver and Bronze. No, not really you prats or your own mates would cut your throat in the night. It’s what they’re called and might even have been real back in the day.” Sarge straightened. “Enough about the pretties. If you’ve finished scarfing all the doughnuts, I’ll take you to your temporary home. Bring everything since none of you are coming back.”
The four of them collected their kit and followed Sarge to an empty room in a small barracks for visiting Squaddies, further behind the lines. A room Sarge explained would be their new home until upper management sorted everything out and awarded the metal. Their Trooper kit would arrive before then. Then Sarge started explaining about the differences between Timer and Trooper and why he wanted to be a bledrin Trooper again instead of stuck with the Timer rules. Once he’d left they chewed it all to death before getting their heads down.
* * *
The Squaddies made it clear that Troopers were still well down the shite heap from real Squaddies, not as far as Timers but still a long way down. Over the next five weeks, the four of them ate regular, slept regular, and as advised by Sarge they all toughened up. All four used the gym as often as they could stand it and also ran with the Squaddies as instructed, which amused the Squaddies and nearly killed the four of them. Still, those were the orders, and by the end o
f the five weeks they were only knackered instead of dead on their feet at the end of a run.
The four of them were given time on the range. The Squaddies had more laughs at their shooting, though they reckoned Fenton had promise. Then the Squaddies offered to spar a bit. That nearly killed the four of them again but they all learned some really nasty shite. This time their trainers reckoned that Bells had promise. The Squaddies said it was a favour, a thank you, because if the Frogs had succeeded. The Squaddies would have had to retake those houses and then the flats. That would have got bloody because the Frogs would have put Legion in to hold the gains. Though they also reckoned part of it was they felt sorry for the four of them, that sending children to be Troopers without some training would be like drowning kittens. Worryingly, the Squaddies sounded serious about that.
The Squaddies were nearly friendly sometimes, and let slip bits like that. Timer Supers were jumped up little shites, apparently, and the Squaddies thought it bloody hilarious that the four of them killed so many Frog Supers yet missed their own. Every one of the Squaddies had started as Timers and then showed promise as a Trooper. When their ten years as a Trooper were up, or in two cases before, they got the offer. A couple eventually showed their metal, briefly, and nobody would get a flechette near their hearts or probably lung.
They asked Bobby about the B, everyone did, but Bobby didn’t explain the B to anyone. He’d got in fights all his life over the B in Bobby B. His Mam told everyone the B meant he ran about like a busy Bee. A lot of kids at school said it meant basted, or bandit, and the last one meant a fight. He liked women, not boys. Basted didn’t matter much because at least one in three didn’t know their Da, and plenty of others knew their Da wasn’t coming back. Bobby’s Da stayed down the mine with about thirty of his mates, and his bones would stop there unless Britmine re-opened the collapsed shaft. The Squaddies asked why Bobby didn’t drop it, and decided he kept the B because he was B-bloody-minded.
Fenton had a nickname now, Hood. Not for Robin Hood though that worked in a way. One of the Squaddies said they should all read the books about the Malazan Empire. Blacklisted books, but as Troopers they should get access if only when raiding Pleb black markets. In those, Hood was the God of Death. Fenton liked that and adopted Hood straight away, then the basted wouldn’t answer to Fenton any more so it stuck. Everyone called Bobby B Beebi but he hung on to his real name as much as possible. Bloody-minded, though that wasn’t the real reason for the B.
By the end of five weeks the Squaddies seemed to have sort of adopted the four of them, and before the ceremony had a chat. One of them, Ham, finally explained his comments about the four of them being a squad. “You four are a natural scouting and sniper squad. Siflis is a scout and he’ll get you in, and out. Hood is your shooter, and Bells is close guard if it goes viral. Beebi, you keep your head and break rules, so you’ll be squad leader.” Ham grinned as he told them, probably knowing what they’d say.
“But will the Troopers care? We’ll be new meat to them, and not even properly trained?” Bobby worried about them being broken up, since he could rely on the other three.
“The real record of this bledrin shambles will go with you. If your next Super has two brain cells he’ll keep you together because you worked well as a squad. Not only that but he won’t want a greenie getting any of his experienced Troopers shot while doing something stupid. You four are too young to be Troopers, nine years too young and he’ll expect you to die young. If you all live long enough the squad will become settled and Supers are lazy.” Ham shrugged. “They won’t split up what works.”
Ham stopped smiling and leant closer, dropping his voice. “Troopers are for security work. You’ll be shooting Plebs, people just like you, in the company housing complexes. It’s a shite job and it’s at least partly meant to make sure you, and us Squaddies, are hated by the Plebs. That way we’ll never retire and go back into the complexes where we might become a problem.” The Squaddie frowned, and a trace of bitterness entered his voice. “Do not hesitate even if it’s a woman because the Plebs will be shooting right back, and probably first. Or worse, the bitch with a pram will be pushing a bomb. You should have had years as a Timer to toughen you, break any ties to the Plebs, so it’ll come hard at first.” All four of them had a very sombre evening after that, but the next day they were on the move so didn’t have time to brood.
The presentation of the metal turned out to be a long afternoon of bulsh. Very public, shiny bulsh and the speeches didn’t really get specific about what they’d done. Though Bobby noticed that Sarge got it right, a couple of the brass were crowing about the border being pushed back two miles. Public meant people who were management or already had metal according to the shiny patches on the Troopers and Squaddies. No Timers. Bells nearly had a seizure when he saw the truly sleek Divas with some of the management. Fenton and Bobby B got a gold, Siflis got silver and Bells a bronze. They saw Sarge there, but Bobby, Siflis, Hood and Bells were driven there and back in an armoured truck and never managed to talk to anyone.
The leave afterwards came as a revelation and Bobby learned a lot more about what went on under a real Diva’s clothes. They actually took them off instead of hoiking their skirts up! Some bledrin mind-blowing things followed and showed what an enthusiastic Diva could manage if she stayed sober. The other three reported similar experiences. It wasn’t anything Bobby intended putting in his monthly letter to Ma, though he could mention he’d got metal against the Frogs without the censor giving him shite. Ma had been told officially and management sent a picture of the ceremony though she’d never get any details.
When their leave finished a truck picked them up and the four of them went home, or back to the UKs at least.
Trooper
Their first posting as Troopers came as another revelation, just as exciting but nothing like as pleasant as their first real Divas. The Super sneered as they came through the door, and waved a hand at four thin files. “I didn’t believe this shite. Four children! I ask for reinforcements and I’m sent babies with the fuzz still on their chins.” He sighed dramatically. “Well hard luck because I’m not putting an experienced Trooper with you, or you’ll get him killed as well. You’ll be dead in a week because these files say you barely know which end the bullet comes out of. Scout and sniper squad. Now piss off and try to die where we can get the weapons back.” He waved an arm and a Corporal showed them out.
The same man showed them into an eight-man squad room in the barracks. “You live here. There’ll be inspections but you’ll get a warning. Don’t get caught with notsi.”
“What’s notsi, Corp?” Bobby held the Trooper’s eye, because they had to start learning, and fast.
The Corp rolled his eyes. “Bledrin greenies. Notsi. Not standard issue. Weapons or ammunition that you are not allowed to have.”
“You mean like Frog carbins and shotguns and grenades?” Bobby frowned. “We were threatened with a firing squad for that.”
“When you were Timers? What did you four do?” The Corp frowned, looking closer. “How old are you?”
Bobby cringed inwardly. “Sixteen.”
“Shite. You are all dead men, regardless of how fast you learned.” He sighed. “I suppose I ought to give you some sort of a chance. Every Trooper has notsi, but not grenades. Nobody has grenades, or double-barrelled shotguns, and hide anything else.” He shook his head again. “The Plebs will slaughter you.”
* * *
Ham had been right, which meant a lot of the time they didn’t have an experienced Trooper to help them learn. Three of them really did have a hard time learning to shoot Plebs, but since the Plebs didn’t seem to have any qualms about shooting first that didn’t take too long to sort out. Luckily Bells had no trouble shooting or knifing anyone, which gave the rest time to get their shite together. The other three learned fast and the lessons stuck, and eventually all four were accepted as a Trooper squad, not greenies.
The squad were moved a few times, to
different housing complexes, but the general layout seemed more or less the same. Bare concrete housing blocks, a section of slums, workshops and warehouses, and several open spaces that held markets. Siflis became sneakier and talked less, Hood became more accurate and less concerned about shooting people with a rifle, Bells became twitchier, more prone to instant violence, and Bobby learned how to keep them all aimed in the same direction. Though he avoided being promoted to a Corp, because that might mean more men in the squad, or him being given a different squad. They’d made a pact, to cover each other, and that didn’t include anyone else in the UKs.
Once they survived long enough to be useful, the four were moved to another unit and had to learn about a whole new housing complex and deal with a different Super and Sarge. They were moved twice more in the first three years but always as a squad. The four of them learned how to break rules and when, and how to deal with superiors. Better yet, as a tight group they weren’t picked on despite their youth, or not twice in the same unit. Siflis really could be sneaky, while Bells could turn into a bledrin maniac at any time. Or any time Bobby told him to, because Bobby made sure Bells got his Divas and plenty of notsi weapons.
The last Super said he didn’t want a bunch of wet behind the ears amateurs messing up his operations and had split them up. That had lasted for three months until the Super jumped off the top of a building. Bobby had been sat in full view when the Super tried to fly, so nobody could prove a thing. The replacement Super got the message and shipped all four out as a squad. The new Super stuck their chips in the reader, shook his head and said, “You four, who did I piss off?”
