Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection

by Chris Pourteau

  “How’d you get a SLACK?” asked Trick. For Sticks to have such a treasured item—essentially permission to move freely, if anyone could be said to move freely in New Pennsylvania—struck him as mighty suspicious. His confidence in Sticks’s loyalty was still as shaky as it had been when the ferryman had delivered them right into the hands of the Wild Ones. And that had been barely a week ago.

  The ferryman waved his way past Hawkeye and into the Pittsburgh’s pilothouse. Firing up the boiler, he cracked the pilot’s window and raised his voice. “I applied!”

  “You what?” asked Pusher, cocking her head to hear over the din.

  “I applied! A long time ago. And then, three days ago, Transport started granting these little beauties left and right,” called Sticks, revving the engines. “Probably to encourage private shippers to help move their own people out. All I know is, I was top of the list!”

  Water began to slowly sloosh … sloosh … sloosh over the paddleboat’s big portside wheel.

  “Like I said, Transport’s loosening up!” Sticks turned his attention to piloting his beloved riverboat safely away from Shenks Landing.

  “Maybe they think it’s easier to control all the rats in one cage,” said Hawkeye, rubbing his chest. The impact wound he’d taken when they’d raided Transport’s armory still ached seven days later. “But like the sergeant said, that doesn’t make any sense.” His eyes flitted from Trick to Bracer, then back to their newly minted captain. “Sir, like Pusher said, Transport’s been cracking down. Martial law in the City. Increased military activity between Columbia and New Detroit. The attack on Bedrock.”

  Pusher clenched her jaw. She was staring hard at Little Gibraltar as they crawled upriver, perhaps assigning blame with her eyes. “We should never have let those people go back there. Not without support.”

  “Don’t go there, Sergeant,” said Trick. “That was the colonel’s decision. And we can’t do anything about it now.”

  The deck jerked below them as the Pittsburgh found her river legs again. In a few moments, she arrowed smoothly over the dark water, white cream foaming at her bow.

  “We’ve got a difficult task ahead of us,” Trick said solemnly. “It’s a shame Colonel Neville wouldn’t let more than four of us go on this mission. But I appreciate that the three of you—those closest to Hatch and Stug—agreed to take the duty with me.”

  Hawkeye’s gaze flitted briefly to Pusher, but she steadfastly refused to meet it. Instead she watched Little Gibraltar fade slowly behind them as Sticks fed coal to the boiler.

  “Well, sir,” said Bracer, “it wasn’t up to anyone else to do it.”

  “No one else should do it,” added Pusher, at last prying her eyes away from the hidden fortress in the middle of the river. “And we don’t need anyone else. It’s up to us to help them.”

  “Help them?” Trick’s tone sounded confused.

  “Help them see the error of their ways is what she means,” supplied Bracer. “They can’t expect to run off when TRACE needs them the most, when we’ve almost won. We’ve got Transport on the run. We need every soldier more than ever now.”

  Trick nodded. “That’s why the colonel kept it to four, in case you’re wondering. He thinks it’s important to show the troops you can’t just walk out of camp against orders and get away with it. But any more than four is a waste of vital resources. That’s how he explained it to me, anyway.”

  “Any more than four would just piss Stug off,” said Bracer. “And no one wants that.”

  Smiling at a memory, Trick steadied himself on the gunwale and watched the water pass up and over the paddlewheel. Like their captain, the other members of B-Company stood quietly, recalling their own private run-ins with the big man and his temper.

  The Pittsburgh found her groove soon enough, and the power of the river thrummed up through the deck and into their feet. It was a thrilling feeling, thought Pusher, staring at the clear blue sky, crisp with the chill of late October. And such a different experience from traveling beneath the stars on a covert mission that seemed so long ago.

  “What about the QB?” asked Hawkeye. “That’s why they went.”

  “The QB isn’t our mission,” answered Trick sadly. He tried to imbue his words with the power of command, but he wasn’t very good at that. He really wasn’t sure why Neville had even given him command of Bestimmung Company, other than because of the credit he’d received for having reopened the line of supply from the AZ. When he’d tried to share that credit with Hatch and the others, the colonel had waved off his protests as modesty. “A good quality in a good commander,” Neville had said at the time, before adding the warning: “in moderation.”

  Shortly after the colonel had appointed him to temporary command, Trick had approached Hatch apologetically, but he’d found that the heir apparent to Mary Brenneman harbored no desire to replace her. “Take it,” Hatch had said despondently, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Better the devil we know.”

  At least he was sober when he said it, reflected Trick. Otherwise Trick would never have felt comfortable assuming command. Besides, without Hatch’s support, he suspected that all of B-Company would have worked against him. Not overtly, of course, but in subtle ways that would have made his assumption of command much more difficult in the wake of losing the QB.

  A long silence followed Trick’s declaration that freeing Mary Brenneman—adored by her troops or not—was not their objective.

  “I still can’t believe she’s dead.” Her comrades scarcely heard Pusher over the sloshing water and pumping engine.

  “Apparently neither could they,” said Bracer. “And I hate the idea of punishing them for their belief that she’s still alive.”

  Trick cleared his throat. Even green in the role of CO, he knew this was a moment when he needed to keep them focused. “Yeah, but no one knows what her status is,” he said, trying to sound dispassionate. That didn’t come easy when they spoke of the QB. “And we’re not ‘punishing’ anyone. We’re enforcing the Military Code of Conduct. We’re maintaining a tradition of discipline that goes back to George Washington and beyond. Our mission is to retrieve our friends, because if anyone else had volunteered for this job, they might not care so much about bringing Hatch and Stug back alive.”

  Bracer approached the side of the Pittsburgh and leaned on the rail next to Trick. He could hear Hawkeye walking away, then climbing the ladder to stand on top of the pilothouse.

  No doubt so he can see better as we approach the City, thought Bracer. Or maybe just to get away from this conversation.

  He pulled out a cigar and lit it. “Stug gave me this after the raid on the armory,” he said to Trick, who nodded politely. “For bringing Hawkeye home.” Bracer took a long drag, then watched as the wind puffed the sweet-smelling smoke downriver. “I always do right by my friends, Captain.” The heavy-weapons man locked eyes with his commander. “You can count on that.”

  Glancing away from his subordinate and across the water, Trick missed seeing Pusher’s lips curling upward in an involuntary smile.

  Stepping off the Pittsburgh and into the City under the bright light of day was a strange thing, Pusher reflected. It made her uncomfortable. Her comrades’ body language showed they weren’t sure how to act either. Especially Trick, who was nervous by nature. They were commandos, not spies. They were used to night raids and skulking in the shadows, not role-playing and covert missions executed in the open.

  “Try to act natural,” said Trick, as much for himself as the others. “You’re all too stiff.”

  “Perhaps if you led by example,” grumbled Bracer. “Sir.”

  Trick glared in Bracer’s direction, then realized the man was goading him. The same way he would have goaded Hatch. So, Trick thought, they were beginning to accept him in his new role as commanding officer. He tried to think of something Hatchian to say in return.

  “If you insist.” Lame but acceptable, he thought.

  As soon as they stepped off the river
boat, they were scanned, of course. Authority officials first checked the ferryman’s SLACK, confirmed that four citizens were transferring to the City to take factory jobs, then scanned each of the passengers in turn to confirm their identities. The undercover soldiers held their breaths during the process, but there was no need: TRACE had programmed their BICEs with fake IDs and simple status updates, all backed with four canned personal histories that included no major run-ins with the Authority. They appeared to be four loyal Transport citizens, with no criminal records, taking advantage of an opportunity for employment left behind after four other loyal Transport citizens had been ordered by the Authority to move to the Great Shelf. Trick nodded at the customs officer as she waved them through with a lazy hand.

  Sticks made a show of checking his engines before casting off—stalling to ensure his passengers were processed safely. After he saw them appear dockside, he headed back downriver, careful not to acknowledge them with a wave or other farewell gesture. As far as Transport was concerned, these people were merely cargo to him.

  Trick stood silently, watching the Pittsburgh steam away. Hawkeye was turned in the other direction, already reconnoitering the City from the docks. Minus his precious omni-lens, of course. No private citizen would own such a sophisticated and expensive piece of military equipment.

  “I feel naked,” said Bracer. He shifted his shoulder, like he felt the ghost of his hundred-pound field gun resting on his back. Or maybe its absence.

  “You and me both,” said Hawkeye, squinting inland. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “We’ll pick up basic hand weapons from Wainwright,” Trick reminded them. “Thanks to the 3-D printing, the plastic will be undetectable. Best we can do under the circumstances.”

  When the captain didn’t move, Pusher got antsy again. “Any reason we’re standing here, sir? A bit conspicuous, don’t you think?”

  Trick blinked. This was his first mission as captain of Bestimmung Company. And he was a fish out of water—on land, in daylight, and a bit jumpy to say the least. Then he remembered why they were here, and it steeled his resolve.

  “You’re right, Sergeant. Let’s get moving.”

  After leaving the docks and breaking into their assigned pairs, they walked on opposite sides of the street; crowds tended to attract Transport’s attention. Pusher and Hawkeye went first, with the spotter doing his old job using only his eyes. Trick and Bracer brought up the rear, half a block behind. They stayed on foot rather than taking public transportation, to avoid interacting with the Authority. The stories told by their BICE ident packages were, in theory, airtight—but you never knew when some Transport true believer might notice something about them that smelled funny.

  They reached Ye Olde World English Tavern in a couple of hours. The walk had done them good. Even Trick was considerably less nervous when the proprietor finally approached their table during the mid-morning lull.

  “I hear you’re looking for work,” said Wainwright, placing a pitcher of water and four glasses on the table. “Lots of opportunity here in the City these days.”

  Trick nodded. “Times are tough down south. We’ll be glad to find work.”

  With the countersign given, Wainwright bobbed his head and began slowly pouring the first glass of water. “Your men were here,” he said, his voice low. “Last night. They bought some intel and moved on.”

  “Moved on where?” Trick took the glass and swigged half its contents.

  “Detention Center is where they were headed. Looking for someone.”

  “Mary Brenneman?” asked Pusher. Her tone was hopeful. Even she noticed it. She’d have to rein that in.

  “That’s her,” Wainwright said, pouring water into the second glass.

  “They got out clean?” asked Bracer, smiling like he’d just complimented the establishment to its owner.

  “Barely. TAC team came in. I brushed ’em off.”

  “You mean they plan to infiltrate the Detention Center? By themselves?” asked Hawkeye. His tone was unbelieving. Not even Hatch and Stug were that stupid.

  “Keep your voice down,” warned Wainwright, smiling for the handful of other patrons in the bar. After last night, one of them was likely a Transport follow-up. A year ago, he’d never have agreed to meet TRACE operatives two days in a row like this. His bar was too hot now, too bright on the radar. But times were tough. Business was way down. And TRACE had paid in cold, hard unis.

  Pouring the last of the pitcher’s water into the fourth glass, he said, “They seemed hell-bent. And one other thing … something’s going down. Something big.”

  “Something like what?” asked Pusher, leaning forward.

  Wainwright set the empty pitcher on the table, took out the rag from behind his belt, and began wiping the tabletop. “No idea. But this exodus by Transport is unprecedented. My theory: they’re gonna turn this place into a maximum security dumping ground for all their political prisoners. The whole damned City is gonna be a Detention Center. Maybe build another Wall around it, like with the Amish.” He made a show of studying a spot on the table, then scrubbed at it for a moment. Looking satisfied, he tucked the towel back in his belt. “But I have no idea, really.”

  Trick held his glass up again. “Any chance we can get a copy of those plans too?” he whispered.

  Shaking his head, Wainwright picked up the pitcher and said in his best stage voice, “Sorry, sir. That’s all I’ve got free for you today. Best of luck with those jobs.”

  The owner walked away to greet a new customer coming in the door. A Transport officer. Trick glanced at the newcomer, then quickly away. All of them fingered their water glasses while Bracer made polite conversation about how long it’d take them to get to the employment bureau.

  Wainwright ushered the Authority officer to a table nearer the bar and pulled out a chair for him. The officer sat down, his back to Trick and the others.

  “Assuming they did what we think they did,” said Hawkeye in a low voice, “are we really going to try and … extract them … from the Detention Center?”

  All eyes turned to Trick. He was looking at his empty glass like maybe the first free serving of water had been a tease. “We’re going to pursue our mission to the best of our ability,” he said, quoting the manual. “And do what we came here to do.”

  “And do right by our friends,” said Pusher.

  Trick looked over to her. “Yeah, and that.”

  The Tick-Tock of the Okcillium Clock

  “Oh, I don’t do this because it’s my job,” said Gutierrez. He turned around to face her directly. “I do this because I enjoy the work.”

  Mary Brenneman sat strapped in a converted dentist’s chair in the middle of a cold room. The tile on the floor was chipped. The walls were concrete blocks pitted with what could’ve been bullet holes. A lone bulb hung overhead, surrounded by a wire cage.

  “That much is clear,” she said weakly. “That’s why I like killing porters, too.”

  Gutierrez smiled wolfishly. The scar running along the left side of his face stretched at an odd angle. “It’s important to find satisfaction in what you do,” he said. “Would you like some water? I know it’s easy to get dehydrated in our facility.”

  Mary thought she felt the saliva in her mouth actually dry up at the suggestion—a strange reaction. It was as if her body feared Gutierrez so much that even his thinking about her need for hydration made her want to curl around what little fluid she currently retained.

  “Oh, wait,” said Gutierrez. “You haven’t answered my question. So, no water for you then.”

  She hated how her body still reacted to him—exactly as he wanted it to, even after all these years. Her mind knew the game he was playing, knew that he knew exactly what he was doing by suggesting the water. He knew how she’d respond, even involuntarily, and that she was powerless to stop her own reaction. She hated that he was so damned good at the job he loved so much. And she hated Gutierrez, as she had for a long time now
.

  “You’ve come a long way from that scared little murderess I met, what, a quarter century ago now? My how time flies,” he said wistfully, pouring himself a glass of water.

  Mary watched the liquid fill the glass. Listened to the delicious sound it made.

  “A long way.” Gutierrez took a long, leisurely drink from the glass. “What were you … twelve? We were all a lot younger then, of course. Less efficient at our jobs.” He shrugged. “Gotta learn someway, right?”

  Mary found the strength to smile at him pleasantly. The skin of her dry lips stretched thin. The cotton in her mouth … maybe she couldn’t control that. But what she showed him outwardly—that was entirely within her power.

  Even that appearance was hard for her to maintain though, and she knew, from long acquaintance, that he knew it was hard. When they’d first met, she’d been a terrified but defiant young girl, ripped from her family. Gutierrez had been young and zealous and, yes, less efficient at his job.

  Her defiant side had come to dominate as she’d grown older. It had taken over her inner voice from that frightened little girl the young Lieutenant Gutierrez had questioned so rigorously. Sometimes the little girl—alone, cold, unsure if her entire family had been killed by Transport—still held up the mirror of Mary’s fears inside her mind. But for now, Captain Mary Brenneman, the QB to her soldiers, the woman who bucked authority and often placed courage before prudence, soothed the little girl and said with her adult’s inner voice, Let me handle this.

  “How’d you get that scar?” she asked around a thick tongue. “Displease the wife again? Or is it that you can’t please her at all?”

  Gutierrez set the glass down on the table and sighed his satisfaction. Apparently he’d been thirsty.

  “On the other hand,” he said, gathering up his coat, “some things never change. Your humorous attempts to incite me to anger are as sad as always. The desperate braying of a frightened farm girl who needs to see herself as stronger than she really is. A bark that sounds so fierce to her scared ears. Pathetic to mine.”