Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection

by Chris Pourteau

  It was all Hatch could do to stay on his side of Neville’s desk. He wanted to rip the colonel’s self-important head off his pompous shoulders.

  This is not the time for an I-told-you-so lecture, you insensitive ass.

  “Nevertheless, I must admit, her negotiations with Logan and his people achieved their primary goal. We have our food back, and a protected supply line besides. I can’t say I trust those cannibals as far as I can throw them, but they do have a vested interest in maintaining our good will. For now, the situation is stable.” His pronouncement sounded like he was already making his report to the SOMA. No doubt he was trying out the way the words sounded to determine how best to represent his own contribution to the victory.

  “Glad to hear you agree with the captain’s plan,” said Hatch. The words were neutral enough, but his tone betrayed him. It was pregnant with words unspoken, most of them consisting of four letters.

  Neville regarded him impassively. “I know you think I’m an idiot,” he said, noting the amused, then quickly hidden expression on Hatch’s face. “I am not, sir. And you’d best remember that. Without that Amish reject to insulate you, I suspect we’ll be seeing more of each other in campaigns to come.”

  Maybe I could just strangle your chicken neck and save us both the trouble, spat Hatch in his head. Hearing Mary called a reject made his calf muscles twitch. His fingers longed to feel Neville’s windpipe crushing beneath them. He was glad Stug wasn’t here. They’d both be in front of a firing squad by daylight tomorrow if he were.

  “You’re dismissed,” finished Neville. “And send in Lieutenant Mason.”

  “Trick?”

  “Lieutenant Mason,” growled Neville. “I hate those bloody nicknames you people use. So damned unprofessional. Yes, send him in here. When he walks out again, you will salute him as the new commanding officer of B Company.”

  Hatch was stunned, and Neville took some satisfaction in putting the cocky lieutenant back on his heels. Nodding, Hatch left the colonel’s office on auto-pilot.

  Shortly after oh-four-hundred, Trick and the rest of B Company had walked into Little Gibraltar with three wagonloads’ worth of food supplies, to the cheers and accolades of everyone in camp. If the fort’s soldiers weren’t awake when the food arrived, they were soon after. The news, and the aromas, spread quickly.

  Hatch considered recent events as he walked to the Rock Slide, his skin tingling with shock. Though Neville hadn’t initially been happy with the arrangement the QB had made with the Wild Ones, he soon warmed to the idea of having guaranteed food shipments from the Zone guarded by allies armed with advanced weaponry. And since Bravo Squad had led the escort that had brought the missing foodstuffs home, its lieutenant was to receive Caesar’s head wreath from Neville as a reward. Hatch had no doubt Trick hadn’t sought that reward for himself, and Hatch had no ambition to command Bestimmung Company either; seeing anyone other than Mary in that role had never occurred to him. To any of them. The very thought of it made his stomach twist. Then he recalled Mary’s crack to Trick before they’d left on their mission.

  I expect that brevet rank might be made permanent.

  If only her skills at predicting the future could’ve helped her see a way out of that armory, could’ve brought her home again. The ache in his stomach moved into his chest.

  As expected, he found Trick in the Slide, having drinks with his squad. As if from a distance, Hatch watched himself tell Trick that Neville wanted to see him. Mason’s face became concerned. He asked why, but Hatch just shrugged.

  Trick excused himself, downed the shot in front of him, and shuffled off with a worried look on his face.

  Hatch spied an empty corner table. Driven by a box fan, a hanging bulb, burned out and neglected, squeaked overhead like a pendulum.

  Perfect.

  His feet took him there and he ordered two fingers of bourbon from the private serving as a waitress. It was still early in the morning, but the Slide stayed open twenty-four hours a day. And whatever the time on the clock, it wasn’t too early for a drink or six. Especially on this day. Before the private turned away, Hatch ordered a second shot to go with the first. She gave him a look but moved away to bring him his drinks.

  After he’d drunk himself eight fingers deep, she brought him the bottle. Not long after, he felt a presence standing over him.

  “Anyone drinking that?”

  Hatch pulled his eyes up slowly to find Logan. The salvager motioned again at the still-full second shot sitting across the table from Hatch.

  “I could use a drink,” Logan hinted.

  “Then pour yourself one. But leave that one alone.”

  Motioning to the private to bring him a shot glass, Logan sat on Hatch’s right. The unclaimed shot occupied a third spot all its own.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Better by the minute!” said Hatch, downing two more fingers.

  The waitress quickly dropped off a glass and retreated. Logan was quiet as he poured himself a drink.

  “I see you’re feeling better.” Hatch’s voice was bitter.

  The ex-spy chose to ignore the tone. “Yes, thanks. Mostly concussive damage. The ride back on the Pittsburgh did me some good, I think.”

  “Well, bully for you.”

  Logan was not a man to take crap from anyone. But he figured Hatch had some cause to be angry with him. Toward him, anyway. In the lieutenant’s eyes, the mission to secure the guns had cost Hatch his captain. And something more, acknowledged Logan, recalling the non-conversation he’d had with the QB as they churned their way up the Susquehanna. He downed his own shot of bourbon.

  “Well, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate … how much her sacrifice will mean—”

  “Sacrifice?”

  Damn it, thought Logan. Hatch wasn’t slurring yet, but the bourbon was definitely working in him. Got here too late.

  “You say that like she’s dead,” Hatch said.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s what you impl—impl—it’s the way it sounded!”

  Logan backed off. Now wasn’t the time. “I chose my words poorly.”

  “You goddamned sure did.”

  Pouring another drink, the salvager downed it quickly before rising. “I appreciate the drink,” he said.

  “Take your guns and piss off.”

  Logan walked away. Hatch resumed his descent into a hole, clawing his way there two fingers at a time.

  “He’s been like that for nearly an hour, Sergeant,” said the private-waitress. Hatch lay sprawled across the table, snoring. The empty bourbon bottle lay on its side. The shot for their absent comrade sat undisturbed. “The brunchers will be coming in soon…” Her need to be rid of a drunken officer was clear and immediate.

  “I’ll take it from here, Private. Do me a favor and don’t add this to your list of bar stories.”

  “No problem, Sarge. There’s hardly been anyone in here all morning anyway,” she said. “I’ll clean up. What do I do with that shot? It’s been sitting there for hours. I’m afraid to touch it, frankly.”

  Stug grunted. “Drink it. No sense letting it go to waste.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she replied, gathering up the bottle and empty shot glasses. “That wouldn’t be right. I’ll just throw it out.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  He shot a questioning look at Bracer. The machine gunner had come into the barracks after checking on Hawkeye, when word had arrived they were needed at the Slide. He’d had to roust Stug from slumber, always a dangerous mission.

  “Best to let him sleep it off,” said Bracer. “Want me to help you carry him?”

  “Naw. You’ve got a bum leg. Get the door, though. Don’t want to chance waking him up by bumping his noggin.”

  Stug moved around behind Hatch and lifted him out of the chair. He thought about slinging him over his shoulder, combat-rescue style, but figured he’d just end up with Hatch’s vomit down the back of his fati
gues. So instead he cradled the lieutenant and carried him in his massive arms.

  After the dim, artificial light of the bar, Stug had to squint against the late morning sun. He moved across the assembly ground, tired but strong. Bracer walked with a half-limp next to him. The camp was fully awake now, bustling as usual, but with renewed energy now that the food supply had once more been secured. Crowds of two and three stopped what they were doing and watched as Stug walked past, lugging his lieutenant.

  “Hey, Sarge! Hatch have too much to drink? Must run in the squad!”

  Stug had the absurd thought that even insults sounded nicer with a Spanish accent.

  “Not today, Garza,” he said under his breath. The rest of the company hadn’t yet been briefed about the QB, though the rumor mill was grinding at high speed. Stug had other things on his mind, so he let Garza be a horse’s ass. Just this once.

  Bracer peeled off, but Stug brought him back with a quick, “Let it go.” The last thing they needed was Bracer court-martialed for striking his superior. They’d need every man they could get. And so with some effort, they ignored the laughter behind them.

  Once inside the barracks, the handful of soldiers still there at this time of the morning made way. Bracer helped Stug lay out Hatch on his bunk, pull off his boots, and cover him up.

  “Draw those shades,” ordered Stug. “Everybody else, out.”

  “Right.” The room cleared as Bracer made the rounds, pulling the shades down on the half a dozen windows they usually kept open this time of year. Barracks get rank with sweat, and fast. In the fall, at least, the wind swept the air clean and kept the interior cool at the same time. This morning, though, the breeze coming off the Susquehanna was downright nippy. Stug pulled an extra blanket off the shelf.

  “What now, Sarge?”

  “Now? Now we go get her. How long will Hawkeye be down?”

  “A day, max. Mostly bruising from the omni-lens. The doc’s insisting he stay in the infirmary for at least twenty-four hours.” Bracer hesitated, but felt like it needed to be said. Just so they were clear. “I heard that Neville put the kibosh on a rescue attempt,” he said quietly.

  “I won’t ask him to go, then.”

  “What about the rest of B Company?”

  The sergeant thought about it. “Trick’s in command now. Can’t ask him or Bravo Squad. I’ll have to think on the others.”

  “I’d like to go.”

  They turned toward the doorway where Pusher stood, leaning casually.

  “Well, now I guess you kinda have to,” said Stug. A knowing smile stretched across her face. It reminded him of the QB’s rare, cynical grin. Why do all women know just how to look at you like they know something you don’t want them to know? he mused.

  Stug returned his gaze to Hatch and saw that he was shivering. The October air and bourbon were double-teaming him. The big man carefully laid the second blanket over his lieutenant, pulling it up to his chin and around his shoulders.

  Rest well, my friend. We’ve got work to do.

  Historical Note: Susquehanna

  Unlike Gettysburg, Susquehanna wasn’t inspired by a single battle from the American Civil War. I did, however, weave various elements from that conflict together into the story, so if you’re interested in that kind of thing, here you go.

  In October 1859, John Brown—a firebrand abolitionist who advocated open slave revolt in the United States—conducted a raid on the federal arsenal at Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. His goal was to secure weapons to facilitate said revolt by arming the slaves themselves. Some historians even view that raid, rather than the firing on Fort Sumter two years later, as the actual beginning of the Civil War. From a contemporary perspective—when everyone should agree that slavery of any kind is not a good thing—Brown might be seen as a freedom fighter. At the time, though, he wasn’t just seen as radical; many considered him unhinged. And the way he conducted his raid—not with the most realistic expectations or best tactical sense—only added to that impression.

  After two days, Brown and his raiders were captured when U.S. Marines, led by Col. Robert E. Lee, stormed the armory. (Yes, that’s the same Robert E. Lee who was offered command of the Union army when hostilities first broke out with the South, and whose strategic brilliance, until the debacle at Gettysburg, would nearly lead the Confederacy to victory. History loves irony.) Brown was hanged for sedition a couple of months later. Irony followed him beyond the grave. The music for “John Brown’s Body,” a popular marching tune in the Union army during the war, was repurposed during that conflict. You might recognize its refrain, “John Brown’s body lies a’mouldering in the grave,” by the more popular lyric, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.” That’s right—though hanged for treason against the United States, John Brown inspired the Union’s Civil War fight song “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” You can’t make this stuff up, folks.

  In my story, Logan sets his sights on the Transport armory in Columbia (a.k.a. the City) to arm his people, the Wild Ones, for their imminent struggle against the Authority. The idea of raiding the armory of the controlling power is pretty much all I lifted from Brown’s story. Obviously, Logan’s motivation is, from our perspective, a pure and justified one. But I wonder: if anyone were to ever interpret Michael Bunker’s world from the point of view of the Transport Authority, might Logan be seen as a bit lacking in the noggin, as Brown was perceived? Understanding is really all about perspective, isn’t it?

  Logan gets his name from a famous Native American of the Old Planet’s Pennsylvanian history. Logan Elrod, who in turn was named after a friend of his father, lived in the middle of the eighteenth century and had a love-hate relationship—or so it would seem; the history is obscure—with whites. He was involved in several campaigns against the white settlers, theoretically launched in response to their having killed members of his family. Part of Lord Dunmore’s War, these reprisals eventually led to “Logan’s Lament,” a speech so well regarded by Thomas Jefferson that he reprinted it in Notes on the State of Virginia. I took the historical Logan’s apparent gift for oratory and handed it to my character (he is a smooth talker), as well as made Logan the de facto champion of the closest thing New Pennsylvania has to an indigenous population.

  Speaking of Native Americans, tribes fought on both sides in the Civil War, choosing to ally themselves, like everyone else, with whoever best served their interests. As I’ve intimated, the Wild Ones represent the Native Americans in the land of New Pennsylvania, and they join forces with TRACE for one simple reason: both have a common enemy in the Transport Authority, which is trying to stamp them out. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that. Hatch raises a good point, though: is arming the Wild Ones a good idea over the long term? The QB’s response is all too common throughout history and often the default position today: “We’ll worry about that tomorrow.”

  Even using the Susquehanna River for moving supplies recalls aspects of the Civil War. In that conflict, the ability to move goods by water was vital. A primary Union strategy, known as the Anaconda Plan, was to strangle the Confederate economy by blockading key Confederate ports and cutting off its supply of European capital to fund the Southern war effort. The Mississippi River was another necessary artery for the Confederacy to move goods, men, and materiel, and the Union extended its strangulation strategy by capturing large river port cities, the most famous of which was Vicksburg.

  So, there is historical precedent in Transport’s obsession with controlling the movement of its citizens. If you think about it, every aspect of our lives relies on transportation—it provides access to work, play, education, goods, and services; even the Internet (remember when we used to call it the “Information Superhighway”?) is a transportation system of sorts, albeit for information exchange. When you lose that freedom, your world suddenly becomes much smaller, your options much more limited. Hence the strategic significance of controlling how and where people moved along rivers like
the Mississippi during the Civil War, and Transport’s own obsession with regulating how everyone and everything moves in New Pennsylvania.

  Chris Pourteau

  October 2014

  A Little Night Work

  The waitress left the bourbon on the table and waited. Sean Hatch extended his uni bracelet and tapped it against the exchange scanner she held.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d have one of those,” he said.

  “Most people pay by BICE,” she said. “But I know you TRACE types prefer staying off the grid, especially in the City.”

  When the waitress didn’t move, Hatch looked up from beneath his fedora and found himself facing a raised eyebrow, expectant and impatient. He sighed, tapped her tip into the reader and received a bored, half-satisfied smile in return.

  The bourbon better be good at least, Hatch thought, pulling his long coat closer around him. It was chilly in here. Probably used to having more body heat in the place.

  He picked up the glass and swirled the bourbon. The dark-brown liquid reflected the low light of the bar as it moved. Hatch pretended to appreciate the contents of his glass, though in reality his eyes peered over its rim, surveying the establishment for threats.

  Nearly deserted this close to midnight, the place was furnished with traditional tables and chairs of real wood, something you didn’t see much anymore. For atmosphere, no doubt. Part of its appeal to the locals. Initials engraved on tabletops proved that. In the Age of Okcillium, people still liked carving wood, even in bars—perhaps especially in bars. When a person wanted a drink, they sought out old-fashioned intimacy: the scrape of a chair’s legs on a hardwood floor; the low murmur of half-hidden conversations in a corner unmolested by synthetic light. But this late at night, that particular aspect of atmosphere was missing from this bar, one of the TRACE network’s best-kept secrets.

  Intermittent light from a flickering streetlamp beyond the window made the shadows dance. The bar’s sign out front swayed in the breeze. If you watched long enough, you could piece together the name of the place: “Ye Olde World English Tavern.”