Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection

by Chris Pourteau

  “What the—?”

  Stug had merely voiced the question on everyone’s lips as they came to a sudden halt. The road had dead-ended at a towering wall of debris. It looked like a dozen high rises had come crashing down here, then been shaped into a jagged superstructure jutting skyward. Made from the tons of transported debris from Earth’s destroyed cities, the wall was piled high and irregular, reaching hundreds of feet upward at schizophrenic angles.

  “You’ve led us to the wall around the AZ?” asked Smoker. “Why?”

  Hatch didn’t blame her for the desperation in her voice. What a perfect backdrop for a firing squad, he thought to himself. He barely remembered to keep it off the unit channel.

  “All walls have holes,” said the QB, as if that answered Smoker’s question. “Start finding this one’s.”

  Smoker merely stared at Trick, then Hatch. Her eyes didn’t need the LAN to speak her mind to her fellow lieutenants. She’s gone mad, they said. We’re all dead.

  One hundred meters up the hard-packed mud road, the dogs burst from the woods. Four of them, followed by their handlers. It was hard to tell who was controlling whom.

  Vines and ivy had crawled up and around the rubble of the wall, trying to reclaim the space for Mother Nature. Fitting, thought the captain, for a wall surrounding the Amish Zone. She stared at her officers, who stared back at her.

  “Get your goddamned hands in the ivy and find me a breach!” she ordered.

  Despite their doubts, Smoker and everyone else obeyed instantly.

  The bloodhounds strained at their leashes. Breaking out of the thick woods, Transport soldiers appeared behind them. The handlers kneeled down to their charges.

  As he felt beneath the living camouflage along the wall, Stug said, “They’re about to—”

  “Don’t say it!” ordered Hatch.

  “—release the hounds.”

  “Here!” yelled Hawkeye. The spotter had found a man-sized gap at the bottom of the wall. If they dropped their equipment first, they could pass through, if slowly.

  Stug pulled out a sonic grenade. “Go!” he ordered everyone, regardless of rank.

  “Sergeant—” began the QB.

  The dogs were braying as they leapt forward. They spread out as a pack does when approaching a trapped quarry.

  “Go!” Hatch echoed, kneeling to a firing position.

  “Everyone, through the breach! Help Bracer with that eighteen!” ordered the captain.

  The Authority soldiers, assuming they had the rebels boxed in, were in no hurry. They fell far behind the bloodhounds. At a dead run, the dogs would be on the TRACE fighters in seconds.

  Hatch took aim.

  “No, wait, chief,” said Stug.

  There was a quality in the giant’s voice Hatch rarely heard. Against his better judgment, he hesitated.

  The hounds were already too close; the sergeant couldn’t get them with the grenade without also being in the blast radius himself. He stood, cocked his arm, flicked his thumb, and let the grenade fly, aiming for a spot about twenty meters out.

  “I’d plug your ears if I were you,” he growled to Hatch.

  The grenade fell behind the charging hounds, but its silent explosion caught them from behind. To avoid being flattened themselves, Hatch and Stug covered their ears and fell backward, knocking their companions into the concrete and steel and rebar of the wall.

  Their balance blasted, the hounds went down hard, yelping and bruised by the petrified ruts in the road. The Transport soldiers behind them scattered left and right for cover, one firing uselessly over the heads of the rebels trying to crawl through to the AZ.

  Hatch righted himself to find that all but Bracer, the QB, and Stug had made it through to the other side. The handlers, incensed that their hounds might’ve been injured, took aim at the remaining commandos. Hatch flattened himself among the rubble.

  “Okay with you if I shoot the guys with the leashes?” he asked Stug as he sighted down the barrel.

  “By all—”

  Hatch fired a brace of bullets, causing the enemy to return fire, wild and shaky with fear. Having established the range and wind, Hatch fired once, twice, and a third time with precision. With each shot, a Transport soldier, leash in one hand and weapon in the other, fell to the ground.

  Pulled from the other side, Bracer went through. The QB ordered Hatch and Stug to follow, then dived through the rubble herself. The hounds howled in their confusion and pain, contorting on the mud road.

  “You’re fatter, you go,” said Hatch.

  For once not arguing, the sergeant handed his rifle carefully through the gap, mindful of sliding it through the dust and dirt. Flipping on his back, he squeezed through the hole, with the help of a long, cursing haul from the AZ side. His wide shoulders barely let him through.

  The few veterans in the Transport ranks advanced more boldly than before. Laser fire scorched the debris around him as Hatch turned and crawled to the opening. First his rifle went through, then his body. With arms extended, he was yanked out the other side.

  “Get him out of the way,” the QB said. “Be quick about it.”

  His men hauled Hatch away from the wall. The others tossed rocks and refuse toward the gap, packing it quickly.

  The QB nodded to Smoker, who like her captain held one of the captured laser rifles. The two women positioned themselves at opposite angles to the wall and took aim above the breach. From the Amish side, the wall had been smoothed over with concrete, like an old rebar-skeletoned sidewalk from the now-destroyed suburbs of old Earth.

  “Now.”

  Both fired their lasers in a long, continuous burst at the packed debris over the hole. There was no effect at first. But slowly the molecules of the concrete coating began to heat up, then disrupt. In less than thirty seconds, the hole was plugged.

  “That won’t last long,” said Stug.

  “It won’t matter anyway,” observed Hawkeye. “They’ll have dropships coming from the City soon enough.”

  “Let’s go,” said the QB, slinging her laser across her back. Favoring her ankle but unflagging, she led them into the interior of the AZ.

  The rutted road was less overgrown and better cared for on this side of the wall. As the soldiers slogged along, few had time to notice. Being hunted like escaped prisoners had already sapped what meager reserves a fitful night’s sleep had rebuilt.

  “We need to get off the road,” said the captain. “Hawkeye’s right. Those ships will be coming.”

  “I didn’t think Transport could enter the AZ without permission,” said Smoker.

  “Like getting a form signed would stop ’em,” groused Stug.

  Now that they were beyond the wall some 150 meters, the QB led them at a perpendicular angle to the road and back into the woods. Their pace slowed as their path grew thick again. And with her adrenaline fading, the throbbing pain in the captain’s ankle demanded notice. But she gritted her teeth and led them deeper into the zone. After half an hour’s broken march, they came into a clearing, where her ankle failed at last. She tumbled to the ground, cursing.

  Hatch knelt beside her and spoke quietly so the others couldn’t overhear. “Mary, that’s enough for now.”

  Through a clenched jaw, she said, “They’ll be coming. Transport.”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “They’d have been here already. Our heat sigs are obvious. They must’ve written us off, at least for now. Maybe they really are negotiating the politics of our extraction with the elders in the AZ. Hell, I dunno. But I think we can afford a rest.”

  “We need to keep—”

  “Mary!” His whispered urgency cowed her stubbornness. “If they come, whether they catch us here or a mile from here won’t really matter, will it? You need a rest.”

  Her energy drained, her will to fight as low as it had ever been, she nodded wearily.

  Hatch stood up. “Hawkeye, climb the tallest tree you can find within fifty meters. Keep an eye on the wall.” A
s the spotter nodded and turned to carry out his orders, the lieutenant said, “Smoker, Trick, can you range for half a klick toward the interior and report back?”

  “That’s not necessary,” said the QB.

  “Captain—”

  “I know exactly where we are,” she finished.

  Trick asked, “How can that be, ma’am? I know we’ve all got the GIS maps, but thanks to the Ruling, the AZ isn’t part of the public record.” The principal purpose for the Richmond Ruling had been to exempt the Plain People on New Pennsylvania from having electronic devices—TRIDs and BICEs—installed. But one of the subparagraphs, one few paid attention to, exempted the AZ’s interior from grid surveys by Transport. Not many people believed the Authority actually kept its end of the bargain on that point, but at least the zone wasn’t on the official maps accessible by the public. “Unless the SOMA passed along intel—”

  “Nothing so nefarious, Lieutenant. I was raised here.”

  Hatch did a double take. It was the first he’d heard of that little fact. “You?”

  She turned to him. “Why so shocked, Lieutenant Hatch?”

  “Yeah, why so shocked?” asked Stug. “I was raised plain too.”

  The sergeant’s tone was defensive, challenging his superior to make something of it. But Hatch just shook his head, laughing to himself. The irony of two of B-Company’s best fighters—one with the iron will of a billy goat, the other the strength of a bear—raised as plain folk could not be denied.

  “Guess that whole pacifist thing fell through, eh?” he said.

  Neither his captain nor his sergeant was laughing.

  “Lieutenant,” said Stug with barely repressed anger, which in such a large man was somehow more frightening than all-out rage, “all due respect—but try not to speak about things when you don’t know anything about them. Sir.”

  Hatch stared at his old friend. He’d really hit a nerve. “Stug, I—”

  “We don’t need to go ranging, ma’am,” cut in Smoker.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “They’ve found us.”

  Rifles came to ready positions, but when Smoker nodded in the direction of the threat, she did so without raising her own. Coming toward them were two men wearing simple clothing and sporting long beards, which wisped in the light warm breeze as they walked. Both were shaded by broad-brimmed, flat hats, and they seemed to have no qualms about approaching the heavily armed soldiers.

  “Weapons down,” said the QB simply as the plain men approached.

  “Good morning,” the older man said. He removed his hat, shaded his eyes, and noted the position of the sun. “Although, it is getting along a bit.” Replacing his hat, he said, “I’m Paul Noffsinger, one of the elders here in the AZ. Welcome.” He held out his hand.

  Every member of B-Company stared at it. They weren’t sure of protocol. And one or two were just a little wary of touching the hand of what were, to some, near-mythical people.

  The QB moved forward. “Mary,” she said shaking his hand firmly. “Captain Mary Brenneman.”

  The second man stepped forward. He didn’t offer his hand.

  “That’s an Amish name,” he said simply. Direct, as if stating the current temperature for everyone’s edification. “Are you Amish, Ms. Brenneman?”

  She stared just as directly at him. “And who are you, sir, if I might ask?”

  “Name’s Shetler,” he said. Each syllable was cut sharply.

  Noffsinger stepped forward. “Aaron, is that tone necessary? These people are tired and could use a good meal.” The fact that they were TRACE soldiers recently in battle and clearly on the run from the Authority hung unspoken in the air.

  “If we feed them, we could incur Transport’s wrath,” said Shetler.

  “And if we don’t, we could incur God’s,” responded Noffsinger with a sigh that said they’d had a score of such conversations. “Come,” he said, motioning to the soldiers, who stood awkwardly, unsure how to act around such pious people. “We have food. It isn’t far.”

  Shortly after noon, they were sitting in Paul Noffsinger’s barn and wolfing down a hastily prepared meal of fresh vegetables, warm bread, and jerked beef. The curious community had gathered as word spread of their arrival. Out of respect for Amish traditions, the QB had made her troops stack their weapons and packs against one of the horse stalls, though she was careful to keep them in plain sight.

  “We know about what happened in Gettysburg,” said Noffsinger. “It was … unfortunate.”

  Smoker stopped eating. “Unfortunate?” She sounded insulted.

  “Lieutenant,” the QB admonished. “Elder Noffsinger,” she said, drawing the conversation away from the previous day’s events, “you are the minister here?”

  He nodded, glancing once at Smoker. “One of them.”

  “The Amish have multiple preachers speak when they worship,” explained Stug for the group’s benefit. “Services can last for hours.”

  “That sounds awful,” said Trick without thinking. He looked up sharply. “Sorry.”

  The captain gave him the eye, then said to Noffsinger, “I think I knew your father. He was also a minister?”

  Noffsinger sat back. “Yes, yes he was. You are Amish, then,” he said, confirming something for himself. “And that Mary Brenneman.”

  “Used to be. Not anymore,” she said around the beef she was chewing.

  “Oh yes, she used to be one of us,” said a new voice entering the barn. A large man approached. All heads turned from the table. “But now she’s shunned.”

  Stug couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. Hatch smelled the electricity in the air. Noffsinger, who’d suspected the truth and had only now seen it confirmed, stood up from the table.

  “Marcus, your suspicions seem to have been proven correct,” Noffsinger said, his hands coming up to placate the other man. “But it is also true that, at times, we help TRACE. Many of their fighters are formerly of the AZ. We have never used that fact as a litmus test for our willingness to provide succor.”

  “None have ever shamed us as she and her family did,” the new man—Marcus—said, his anger growing. “We should turn her and her rebel friends over to Transport immediately.”

  Stug began to stand up, but Hatch put his hand on the sergeant’s thick forearm. They shared a look, and the lieutenant merely shook his head.

  “Who are you?” asked Mary.

  “Marcus Yoder,” he said. His eyes dared her to remember.

  The QB looked down at the table briefly, then stood. “We must leave. Elder Noffsinger, everyone,” she said, casting her eyes across the stunned onlookers, “on behalf of TRACE and the SOMA, thank you for your hospitality. You’ve given us aid when we needed it most. Blessings upon you and all in the AZ.”

  Hatch started to rise.

  “Oh, no, please stay,” said Yoder, his words dripping with crocodile honey. “You look tired. No need to rush off. I called my cousin, Donavan, with Transport. They’ll be here shortly.”

  “Sonofa—” Stug rose as one with the others to retrieve their weapons.

  “Marcus!” Noffsinger gasped. “You had no right—”

  “I have every right!” Yoder exploded. “After what she did to my family? Every right!”

  B-Company was already slinging their gear when they heard the whine of the first airships in the distance. Everyone in the barn began to talk at once as violence threatened to erupt all around them.

  “Hurry up, people!” said Hatch.

  “Elder Noffsinger, my apologies for what I have brought down on your head,” said the QB quickly. “You must evacuate this barn, with all your people. We must make our stand here.”

  “No!” said Noffsinger. “We cannot condone your committing violence here! This is our home, our land!”

  “See? It’s in her nature. Like her stubborn father, her hot-headed brother,” said Yoder, venom in his voice. “She poisons us all with her very presence.”

  The captain looked to be
at a loss. Obviously, the Amish were not clearing out, and yet to run now with her fellow soldiers would be committing pointless suicide. Fortifying the barn would at least give them the opportunity to take a few of the Authority with them.

  Then all the TRACE fighters in the barn shook their heads simultaneously.

  “Was that what I think it was?” asked Stug.

  Another ping resounded in their skulls. Someone was trying to contact their BICEs.

  “No sense hiding now,” said Hatch, connecting to the Internet.

  “—extraction from your present location. Captain Brenneman, please respond. This is Lieutenant Norwich of Stillen Company. Our orders are to conduct your extraction from your present location…”

  Stug’s baritone whooped so loud it filled the barn from stalls to hayloft. “They’re ours!”

  “No!” shouted Yoder. “Transport is on the way! I will not allow—”

  “Marcus! Quiet yourself,” said Noffsinger, visibly perturbed by how events had unfolded. “You’re already in trouble with the elders. Try not to compound it.”

  Admonished, the other man glared daggers at B-Company’s captain but said nothing more.

  Noffsinger turned to her. “It is good that God has provided your deliverance, Mary Brenneman. For if it were left up to me…” His hands showed that he had no idea what his decision would’ve been.

  “I understand, Elder,” she said.

  Heralded by the babble of livestock, the airbuses were landing in the barnyard.

  “No time for long goodbyes, ma’am,” said Hatch, with a wry grin. “Your deliverance awaits.”

  “Go,” she ordered, and the others began to move out. Turning to Noffsinger, she said, “Don’t punish him harshly, Elder. And if Transport gives you a hard time, say we merely held you hostage until you fed us and we could get away. It’s what they’ll say anyway, when they spin this battle for the public.”

  “Go now,” he said to her. “And may God bless.”

  The ride to the TRACE safe zone provided a final release of tension for the eight survivors of Gettysburg. Crammed into one airbus, the exhausted and overfed members of Bestimmung Company held loosely to the straps keeping them in their seats, their heads lolling. When they landed, the airbus opened to a busy camp. In one corner, one of the cargo ships full of okcillium sat, scorched but intact.