Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection

by Chris Pourteau

  The captain’s lips formed a thin line. “Understanding.” Outwardly she was calm, even relaxed. To her squad, the QB sent Stay alert, stay frosty via BICE.

  Eeguls nodded and, with one last gesture of respect to the gray man, wandered off into the camouflage of his community. Mary noted how the children jumped excitedly around him, a wizened wizard returning from the wide world with stories to tell.

  “My name’s Logan,” said the gray man. “Please, sit down.”

  The QB regarded him coolly. That he was in charge was obvious from his easy, relaxed bearing. The inverse of Obadiah Neville, her inner voice said. A slight, knowing gaze played around his eyes, which she read as his acknowledgment that they were equals here. She sensed no threat, though the scavengers around them were well armed with knives, bows, and a few long rifles like the one Eeguls had carried.

  “Mary Brenneman, captain of the Free Forces of New Pennsylvania,” she returned. “You probably know us better as TRACE. And I prefer to stand.” Her men followed her lead. All stood at an easy parade rest, hands resting casually near their weapons.

  Logan shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it’s harder to eat standing up.” He returned himself to a seated, cross-legged position.

  “Nice knife,” the QB said, measuring the blade with her eyes.

  The gray man picked up the machete-like knife he’d been whittling with when they’d arrived. Its twenty-inch blade made it seem more like a short sword of the ancient world, but its clipped point defined it technically as a knife. Silver sunlight reflected off the steel, a clear sign that it was diligently cared for, though its rough edge showed it was sharpened and used often.

  “Thanks. It’s called a Bowie knife. Named after a famous knife-fighter from a long time ago. Handed down in my family since God knows when.”

  He sheathed it. Probably to show he means us no harm, the QB guessed. She didn’t relax an inch.

  “I know who you are, by the way,” he continued. “And, obviously, why you’re here.”

  Stug’s stomach growled.

  “Does that gut of yours ever shut up?” Bracer whispered.

  “Only when its mouth is full.”

  Logan overheard and chuckled. It was a good-natured sound. Nevertheless, the QB maintained her vigilance.

  “Your men are hungry, Captain. Please, sit and eat. After all, we’re the ones who took your supplies. We should at least offer you a meal, no?”

  He was trying to be humorous, but the QB’s face showed she was in no mood for joking. Still, she considered it. If they were truly here to parlay, as Sticks had suggested, then maybe they shouldn’t refuse the hospitality.

  Nothing more important than getting those supplies back, her inner voice reminded her.

  “If we wanted you dead,” Logan said in all sincerity, “you’d already be that way. And we certainly wouldn’t have let you keep your weapons.”

  He makes a good point, Hatch sent via BICE.

  “Very well, then,” said the QB, nodding permission to her soldiers. Two of them took up position on either side of her, as the space allowed, before sitting down. Even on their butts, Alpha Squad had arranged themselves tactically, in case events took a wrong turn. Stug sat directly behind the captain, a blocker protecting his quarterback.

  Several Wild Ones brought over small baskets of food. Roasted deer, cooked carrots and potatoes, even fresh bread and churned butter. Not overly generous portions, but fresh and hot. Stug’s gut groaned louder than ever at nirvana’s nearness.

  “Since you know why we’re here, would you please tell me why you took our food?” asked the QB.

  “Eat first,” said Logan easily. “Else we’ll never hear one another over the mountain’s stomach begging to be fed.”

  Another ten or fifteen minutes won’t matter, suggested Hatch in her head.

  “Thank you,” she acknowledged, taking a bite of the roast deer. Making small talk, she said, “Obviously, this is more than a camping ground. I thought the scavengers were supposed to be migratory.”

  “We prefer the term salvagers,” Logan corrected her. “Moving around is becoming more dangerous by the day.” Motioning to the stone buildings around them, he said, “We call this place Bedrock.”

  While her men chowed down, the QB took a few moments to assess the situation. For the squad’s benefit, she used their shared channel. Obviously, this is where they live. She cast her eyes around again to confirm the camp wasn’t transient. This place had been their captors’ home for a while. That we haven’t been harmed and still have our weapons suggests they want something for the food. Else they’d have killed us outright rather than risk losing it to us in a fight.

  Agreed, sent back Hatch.

  They took a big risk bringing us here, noted Hawkeye. Showing us the location of this place without even putting blindfolds on us.

  The captain clicked an acknowledgment in her head. We need to figure out what they want.

  Logan smiled at the seemingly quiet squad. “Sharing thoughts on why you’re here, I imagine,” he said.

  Mary barely avoided showing her surprise. Stug laughed out loud, a muted greasy sound. He’d never had much of a poker face.

  “I used to be a TRACE espionage agent,” Logan said, rescuing them from their sudden paranoia. “I infiltrated places like this village all the time. Many years ago, before the SOMA even broke the BICE codes.” He wiped a piece of bread in the deer grease and took a bite.

  That explains a lot, sent Hatch on the channel. Better spoken than most of these folks, better educated. More strategically minded.

  He took us without a shot and has us eating a meal with him in minutes, sent Bracer. Gotta admire that.

  “How did you end up with these—with the Wild Ones?” the QB asked. Scavengers they might be, but they didn’t refer to themselves as such, as Logan himself had said. Negotiations 101. Speak to the other party on their own terms.

  “I wanted a simpler life. I got tired of the constant battles. And the constant losing.”

  That was something Mary understood. Despite TRACE’s long-term success in the war with Transport—the resistance still existed, after all—they were perennially behind the power curve. Until now. Though they’d technically been routed at Gettysburg, the rebels had still come away with a cargo ship full of okcillium. Now most of their fighters were on an equal footing with the Authority, at least in terms of weaponry. Time and resources were not on their side, however.

  “So this is your home now?” she asked.

  Logan nodded. “For many years. But it’s not like it used to be. Transport is now actively trying to eradicate the Wild Ones. Before, they ignored us. We existed technically outside the law, but no one really cared. Now, we’re another thumb in the Authority’s eye. They’re even losing patience with the Amish since the AZers are such reliable, if covert, supporters of the resistance. No one is safe now. No one.”

  “Why are we here, Mr. Logan?” the captain asked.

  “No ‘mister,’” he said. “We don’t use titles here. Of any kind.”

  Stug grunted.

  “You have an opinion, Sergeant?” asked Logan.

  “Clearly you’re their leader,” said the big man. “So you have a hierarchy.”

  “We have functional, practical relationships. These people asked me to guide them a long time ago. I have done so. But I claim no title for the honor.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” said the QB. She tapped her rifle. “You’ve left us our weapons. You’ve brought us here in apparent friendship and fed us. What are you buttering us up for?”

  Logan laughed out loud again. “Direct! I like that. And you couldn’t have chosen a more apt way to phrase your question.”

  The QB raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you familiar with the phrase ‘guns and butter’?” asked Logan.

  The captain turned to Hawkeye, who was like a human encyclopedia when it came to military trivia.

  “It’s a phrase from
the Old Planet,” he said. “It refers to a government’s need to strike a balance between buying enough food to feed its citizens and enough weapons to defend them. Too little of one, you have a revolution. Too little of the other, you get conquered.”

  “My God,” said Logan. “Did he come out of the box like that?”

  Stug chuckled.

  “Okay, so you’ve taught me a new phrase,” said the QB. “How does it apply here?”

  Logan smiled at her from under his brows, finally ready to share his secret. “I have butter,” he said, winking. “I need guns.”

  Neville will serve you up with a side of butter is what he’ll do, said Hatch in her head as they marched.

  Logan had given them their space to talk over whether or not they’d help him. His plan was to go to the City and, with their help, steal the guns the Wild Ones needed directly from Transport. The plan was bold, something the QB liked. But it was also dangerous and something Neville would never approve of. Worse, in Hatch’s eyes, Logan refused to take any Wild Ones with them. Should things go sideways, he wanted no trace of their involvement, lest Transport exact revenge by finding and exterminating Bedrock.

  More than anything else, what had convinced the QB to help the salvagers was Logan’s willingness to explain his people’s needs while leaving B Company armed and dangerous among their children. Hatch had tried to convince her otherwise, something no one else would’ve dared, but with no success so far. And since the plan required they wait until darkness to enter the City, they had spent most of the day debating it. Now, as they marched beneath the trees in the late afternoon sun, Hatch attempted one last time to convince her what a mistake this was.

  I wish you’d stop trying to change my mind, she said on the private comm channel she’d opened with him. We need that food. And what he’s proposing will arm an ally for us. I don’t see a downside.

  Then you’re damned shortsighted, replied Hatch. He touched her arm, and they let the rest of Alpha Squad buffer the distance between themselves and Logan. He looked directly into her eyes and sent, Have you considered that arming these people with advanced weapons might not be a good idea? An ally today. An enemy tomorrow, maybe.

  She had considered it, yes. He was right, of course. In politics, allies became enemies faster than drunken porters traded bedfellows at a City brothel. But that didn’t change TRACE’s need for those supplies.

  I’m worried about TRACE soldiers starving today, she replied. If by arming the Wild Ones we can weaken Transport one iota, I’ll not only hand them the weapons, I’ll load them myself. Besides, Logan has pledged security for future shipments from the AZ. Out loud, staring hard into his eyes, she said, “I’ll ask one last time, Sean. Do you support me or not?”

  Her voice, as usual, had its intended effect.

  Sighing, he said, “Always.”

  Finally, the debate was over. They hurried to catch up to the others as they neared the banks of the Susquehanna.

  “Here we are,” said Logan ahead of them. When the QB saw where his finger pointed, she felt like he’d shown her the punch line to a day-long joke.

  The smile on Sticks’s face was broad and disturbing in its toothlessness. “Told ya I’d be seein’ ya again!”

  “Seriously?” Bracer couldn’t believe it himself.

  “Oh sure! Gimme lip!” Sticks said. “And after I set it up so nice for you to get all your supplies back.”

  Hatch glanced guardedly at the QB. Still think this is a good idea?

  In answer, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she stepped onto the old man’s ferry. It was a small side-wheeler with a bridge and aft quarters, a smaller version of the historic riverboats from the Old Planet. Her soldiers followed her. The waterline barely rose as they climbed aboard; the ferry was used to carrying cargo heavier even than Stug.

  Trick approached the dock. He’d done a good job hiding the rest of Bestimmung Company. Until they came out from under their camouflaged canopies, the stillness on the banks around the docks had been broken only by the croaking of frogs and the ballet of water dancers.

  “Captain, looks like you’re not done with your trip yet,” said Brevet-Captain Mason.

  “Right, Lieutenant. Come aboard. I’ll brief you.”

  As Trick stepped onto the ferry, he didn’t think he liked what he saw in Hatch’s body language. And after the QB introduced Logan and explained the plan to secure the Transport weapons from Columbia, he was sure of it.

  “The only way to get these people their weapons is to break into Transport’s armory? Inside the City?”

  “Unless you have a better idea,” said the QB. “I’m all ears.”

  “Can’t we just smuggle guns out from Pook?”

  “And power them how?” asked the captain. “TRACE will never release the okcy we took at Gettysburg for that purpose. The only cache of laser rifles with batteries this side of the Great Ridge is in Columbia.”

  Trick admitted he had no better option for securing weapons for the salvagers. He wasn’t happy, she knew, but he’d follow her orders.

  “Once we’re away and committed, Logan’s people will deliver the supplies to you. Expect a flat barge to come down the creek, loaded with what’s left from the three wagons. It should be here in six hours. Secure it and have Charlie and Delta squads escort it to the island. Hold this position with Bravo and Echo until we return, or until oh-four-hundred, whichever comes first.”

  Trick acknowledged her order. “But what do I tell Neville? He’s due an update at sundown. I fended him off earlier, but he’ll want details on your progress.”

  “Tell him you don’t have any. He’ll believe that. He’s used to my mavericking.”

  Trick nodded reluctantly. She had no doubt he planned to practice his report before giving it. Or that he was uncomfortable lying to a superior officer. Even Neville.

  “We could take the food from these people,” Pusher said, stepping onto the ferry. “It’s ours by right, and we have the firepower.”

  The QB stared Pusher square in the face—really for the first time since the day after the battle that had taken the lives of her squadmates. That day they’d both stood in the bar, consoling one another with words of salt and steel.

  “Sure, we could do that,” the captain replied. Her voice carried. She wanted Logan to hear, to understand why, exactly, TRACE was willing to help. “And make a new enemy. Or, we have the chance to make an ally instead, and impede Transport in the process. It’s a no-brainer, Sergeant Ellis.”

  Pusher said, “I know. I just wanted to hear you say it, ma’am. I like to know what I’m fighting for and why these days. It makes a difference.”

  Mary understood Pusher’s need to know. Specifically, her need to know that their objective was worth the cost. Something Pusher, as much as anyone, understood personally. The damnable thing about it was, you never knew the cost till fate had exacted it.

  “And I’d like to go with,” said Pusher.

  The QB observed her for a moment. “Why?”

  The question was simple and direct, its tenor unforgiving. As it needed to be.

  The sergeant paused before answering.

  “Is it because you have one of those ‘I lost my squad and I feel guilty’ death wishes?” pressed the captain. “Because we’ll have enough on our hands with Transport. I don’t have time to babysit you, too.”

  Hatch narrowed his eyes at Mary. There it was again, that uncaring, aloof attitude he both admired and loathed in her. Even Stug stopped what he was doing and watched the two women.

  “No, ma’am,” said Pusher, not the least bit put off by her captain’s icy challenge. “But you might need an extra hand. And I’m tired of sitting on my ass all day.”

  Stug’s hooting drowned out the frogs.

  Mary allowed herself a bleak smile. “Smoker, can I borrow your sergeant for a few hours?”

  Lieutenant Gray made a whatever sign. “Not much going on around here, ma’am.”

  The QB
said, “Trick, we’ll be back by oh-four-hundred. If we’re not, get the rest of B Company back to Little Gibraltar. And I expect that brevet rank might be made permanent.”

  “Don’t say that, ma’am,” admonished Trick.

  “You’re too superstitious,” she teased, though secretly she was touched when her soldiers showed they genuinely cared for her. “We’ll see you in a few hours. Come on, Pusher.”

  “Welcome to Alpha Squad,” Stug said to Ellis. “Consider it a temporary promotion. Don’t expect my position to open up anytime soon.”

  “Honestly, Stug,” said Pusher, looking down in approving appraisal, “I could never fill your shoes.”

  The big man smiled and clapped her on the shoulder.

  The soldiers got their river legs as Sticks made ready to cast off. Logan asked him, “How long till we reach the City?”

  “Coupla hours,” estimated the ferryman. “Should be full-on dark by then.”

  Logan nodded. “The darker, the better,” he said.

  As night came on, the Pittsburgh—a name Sticks insisted fit his workhorse vessel to a T—rolled up the Susquehanna, its single paddlewheel stroking against the current. The ferry’s smokestack puffed black clouds that were almost invisible in the night, and the low rush of the river masked the slow churning of the ferry’s small steam engine. To anyone on the riverbank, the Pittsburgh’s dark wood painted black with pitch would appear as only a specter gliding over the water.

  Logan walked the small deck fitfully. B Company’s soldiers lazed around, mostly because standing upright threatened to bring up the meal he’d fed them earlier. When Logan finally lit on the bow, staring forward toward the City, the QB joined him.

  “I can have Hawkeye scan ahead more often, if you like,” she said to break the ice.

  The Wild Ones’ leader gave a half smile, though she couldn’t see from where she stood. “That’s okay. I’m a deal-with-it-as-it-comes kinda guy.”

  “Comes in handy in the spy business, I guess,” she said.

  He looked at her, the low moonlight etching his face with frown lines. “I’m not a spy anymore. I told you that.”