The Feeding of Sorrows

by Rob Howell

  “You must have heard there was an ‘incident’ involving supply a few days ago.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What you don’t know is that the only fully operational CASPer sized for a Cochkala was destroyed in that incident. Unfortunately, given the nature of our operations, we cannot put you with a line platoon without an operational CASPer. There is simply no way we can integrate an unarmored Human into one, much less a Cochkala.”

  Kiial’s tail drooped. “I see, sir. What’ll you have me do?”

  “I have a number of choices for you.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “First, we always need administrative personnel here, on Earth. Your family’s background in commerce would be especially useful in Procurement. There are some in Personnel who think you should be assigned there because of that experience.”

  The Cochkala drooped, and his tail dragged on the floor. “I see, sir.”

  Gregg smiled. “You ran at the enemy, son. An enemy we have yet to fully recognize. We’re still gathering data, and the man you killed has given us a wealth of information. Don’t think we don’t appreciate that. Nor do we think an effective rear-echelon motherfucker is the best you can be.”

  “Thank you, sir. I definitely didn’t want to be a REMF.” Kiial relaxed, and his tail twitched. “What are the other choices?”

  “We could assign you to administrative duties until Binnig delivers another fully-tested CASPer. According to them, that’ll take several months.”

  “And then I’ll get assigned to a line unit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there any other choices?”

  “We have a variety of tasks we could assign you to. You can look through the duty list.”

  “Thank you, sir.” His tail fell.

  “This isn’t entirely acceptable to you?” asked Gregg.

  “It’s acceptable, sir.”

  “But not ideal.”

  Kiial hesitated. “No, sir.”

  “There is another less-than-ideal choice.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Frankly, Recruit Private, I’m hesitant to make this offer. You’ve served us well already, and we don’t want to throw your life away.”

  The Cochkala’s tailed twisted. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  Gregg took a deep breath. “Binnig has offered to deliver one of their prototype Cochkala Mk 8 CASPers. They have been working to make it as operational as possible, but it was never designed to be used as more than a test model to ensure the interface worked with someone of your species.”

  Kiial sat straighter. “What are you saying, sir?”

  “We could assign you to a line platoon with that CASPer, but there are issues.”

  “What issues, sir?”

  “As I mentioned, it was never designed to be used. As such, it’s lacking in many ways compared to a fully operational CASPer Mk 8, or even our Mk 6s. They didn’t install all the internal ammo storage. Nor did they run all the weapons hardpoints. You can’t get a MAC, for example, or an integral K-bomb launcher. In fact, you’ll have essentially what we have on the Mk 6s, a 12.7mm machine gun. Also, you’ll have less than the full EW suite. Again, it’ll be about on par with what our current Mk 6s have, but it won’t be what a Mk 8 should have. Finally, while it’s built on a mid-range CASPer chassis, rather than waste armor, they only installed their scout variant level of armor. It’s significantly lighter than the normal Mk 8 armor. You’ll get some extra speed and stamina without the added weight, but they didn’t design it for combat. Essentially, you’ll be getting the worst of both worlds: much less armor than a Mk 6 and average endurance.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s more. Supply will be challenging. Ammo won’t be an issue, fortunately, since you’ll use our standard HEAT rounds. However, the Mk 8s use capacitors, not fuel cells like Mk 6s. There’s a chance you’d find yourself without power, with no way to charge your suit. The techs believe they can dump power from fuel cells into your capacitors, but it won’t be efficient or quick. Also, if you take any significant damage, it’s unlikely our repair guys will have the right parts on hand to fix it. If you’re on Peninnah or Maquon, we have the machinery to replicate a part from scratch, but even that’ll take longer than normal.”

  Kiial’s tail twitched back and forth. “That makes sense, sir.”

  Gregg’s tone became grimmer. “There’s one other issue. Lieutenant Fournette, the company S-2, has rightly pointed out that the attack on Recruit Platoon Alfa-29 and the ‘supply incident’ happened after you arrived. He also pointed out just how bold those attacks were. He’s concerned they might have something to do with you, Recruit Private Kiial.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  Gregg looked at him. “What would be your guess?”

  After a pause, Kiial responded. “My uncle.”

  “Exactly. You’re probably too young to have mortal enemies, but your uncle isn’t. We don’t know for sure that you’re a special target, especially since the Foresters have had some interesting experiences of late, but we don’t want to discount the possibility.”

  “Then maybe I want to be in a CASPer all the time,” said the Cochkala, moving his tail back and forth.

  “Perhaps. However, you will be the only Forester in a CASPer Mk 8 for the time being, and that’ll make you easy to spot. A lot of non-Human mercs know what it takes to kill a Mk 8, and they’ll expect you to be protected by the normal amount of armor. Your death will likely involve a messy amount of overkill.”

  “I understand, sir. Tenacious and versatile! I’ll take it.”

  “You’re like all of us,” said Gregg with a sigh. “We all forget we’re only immortal for a limited time.”

  Kiial’s tail stilled in confusion. “As you say, sir.”

  “Never mind, it’s a line from an old song.” Gregg pulled out some paperwork. “I suspected you would choose the prototype option, so we’ve already made some preparations. You’ll be on the Algonquin with many of your platoon mates going to Maquon for final assignment.”

  Kiial’s tail flashed back and forth.

  “We’re operating on the assumption that you are a specific target, so we’re going to take a few precautions. First, we’ll smuggle the CASPer directly to the Algonquin. It’s likely you won’t really have a chance to work with it until you get to Maquon. That’ll put you behind the rest of your platoon, and we’ll likely give them a permanent assignment before you. However, you’ll be in the rotation once you have successfully completed the training tests. Understood?”

  “Tenacious and versatile!”

  “Excellent. You’ll walk out of here with an assignment to Maquon’s Logistics Command station. It’s the most obvious reason you would go to Maquon, other than a line assignment.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Recruit Private Kiial, we do expect you to serve in that role for the time being. It won’t hurt a line ape to know exactly how the bullets and beer get to the platoons.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll say nothing of your prospective change in assignment. Your permanent assignment as a line trooper will commence immediately upon your getting up to speed on the CASPer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We recognize it won’t be easy, but we’ve made arrangements that should help. Your normal duty will give you some opportunity to work with your CASPer on company time. However, the more of your personal time you devote to training, the faster you’ll be transferred. And, of course, as soon as we can get you an all-up suit, we’ll get one out to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The duty sergeant has your assignment papers. Enjoy your time with logistics. Dismissed.”

  Kiial retrieved his papers and headed toward the platoon barracks, thinking through all Gregg had said.

  And not said.

  Kiial was so preoccupied, he barely heard McWhorter snarling around the c
orner of the mess hall. He started to ignore it, but heard him say, “Cochkala.” He halted before the corner, straining to hear more.

  A second voice he didn’t immediately recognize hissed something at the sergeant. The two were arguing, though both kept their voices down. Finally, McWhorter spoke in a louder voice, “Your request is granted. You’ve done a shit job here. You’ll never serve at West Rocks again. Get your gear ready, you’re going on the Algonquin.”

  The other voice snapped, “Yes, Sergeant!” This time Kiial recognized it.

  It’s Cox. Better not let him see me.

  The only place he could hide was the mess hall, so he went in. The cooks looked up quizzically. “Dinner call is in two hours,” snapped one. “Nothing’s changed because of your graduation.”

  “I know that.” He squared his shoulders. “It’s like this. They assigned me to Maquon Base Logistics Command, and I really don’t know much about logistics. I was wondering if you have…” He hesitated. “I don’t know, a manual or something about how much food and such you go through?”

  Another cook laughed and blurted, “They found a job for the badger!”

  The others joined him.

  “Yeah, that they did.” Kiial controlled his tail. “And if I’m not to fuck it up, I’d like to have something to read while I’m on the Algonquin.”

  Still laughing, the first one pulled down a three-ring binder from a bookshelf. “Here, take this, Tailboy. Good luck.”

  The cooks all sniggered, but Kiial took the thick notebook and went outside. Corporal Cox was still there and stopped when he saw the Cochkala.

  “What’s that?” Cox grabbed the notebook and flipped it open. “What the hell are you doing with this?”

  “I’ve been assigned to the Logistics Command, and I really don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “First right thing you’ve ever said.”

  “Yes, Corporal. I thought it would be smart to get some idea of what’s involved.”

  “Logistics Command, eh?”

  “Yes, Corporal.”

  Cox snorted. “I suppose you can’t fuck it up worse than most REMFs. Best use for trash, probably. I’m surprised the brass did something smart.”

  He leaned forward. “And it looks like I’ll be with you on the Algonquin. I may not be cadre anymore, but I’d be falling down on the job if I didn’t make sure the privates know what they’re doing.”

  Kiial didn’t speak for a moment, focusing on not wrapping his tail around Cox’s throat.

  “Well, Private?”

  “Nothing, Corporal. I’d never think you capable of falling down on the job.”

  Cox stared at him with hateful eyes for a long time. “Don’t you have packing to do?” He dropped the notebook on the ground and strode away.

  Kiial took a deep breath. Before he could pick up the notebook, Private Ericson stepped forward, picked it up, and handed it to him.

  “You know, mate, if you’re in logistics, you can make sure Corporal Bag O’Dicks has some interesting issues with his equipment.”

  The Cochkala blinked and looked up. After a moment, he curled his tail around himself slowly. “That I can.”

  * * * * *

  Part III

  The Problem With Putting Two and Two Together

  Is That Sometimes You Get Four,

  and Sometimes You Get Twenty-Two

  —The Thin Man

  Chapter 12 – Rick Blaine

  St. Louis Library – Schlafly Branch

  St. Louis, Missouri

  My sweeper buzzed.

  Again.

  Twelve times in the last two hours. Okay, I’ll admit I’m curious.

  I accepted my boss’s call.

  “How are things, Bullitt?”

  “Rick, I need you in the office,” he snapped.

  “I thought I was fired.”

  “Bah! Get in here as quickly as you can.”

  “I’m busy, you know.”

  There was a moment of silence, and I knew he was eating some of the pecans he habitually kept at his desk. I only knew him by the name Frank Bullitt, which had never stopped being funny after I watched the ancient vid. As far as I knew, the boss had never driven a car.

  Bullitt sighed. “I don’t blame you, Rick. It’s hard to trust in this business, and sometimes I go too far.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dammit, Rick, I don’t want to beg.”

  “What do you need me for?”

  He drew a shocked breath. “You want me to tell you now? Over the communicator?”

  I chuckled. “Not really, but it was fun to make you think so.”

  Bullitt laughed sharply. “Asshole.”

  “I’ll be in presently.”

  “Good.” It was the answer Bullitt had hoped for. We avoided mentioning itineraries over any comm unit. “That’ll do.”

  Three days later, I strolled into our office building. I set my sweeper to warn me about any targeting emissions, not that knowing about them would do me much good as I entered the lion’s den.

  Bullitt would never have anyone murdered here. Too much attention, I reminded myself.

  Dozens of people dressed in conservative suits and red ties filled the hallways and elevators. It was, after all, the uniform of a stock analyst. I wore it too. Stock trader is a fantastic cover ID. Every stock trader has secrets, so no one ever suspected my secrets were worth more than a billion Galactic credits here or there. I simply had secrets. Just like everyone else.

  Others in the halls hid probing queries in polite nothings. I answered with nods and modest shrugs. Then I asked the same sort of questions and accepted their enigmatic smiles. You had to ask, after all. Someone might slip up, and stock data was intel.

  Bullitt hid the company’s secrets in plain sight. Every stock firm had excellent electronic security, so no one ever noticed just how good ours was. Even with my sweeper and many of the company codes, it had taken me days to hack into our system. Two minutes after I got in, Bullitt sent me a message to “knock it off.” I had time to find all sorts of information about stock trends, but not much else.

  Bullitt called his admin assistant John Moneypenny. Another name from an old movie, I supposed. Wherever the name came from, he was imperturbable and efficient.

  “Mr. Blaine is here to see you, sir.”

  “Send him in,” snapped Bullitt.

  Moneypenny hit the door release, and I entered the sanctum sanctorum.

  “Good to see you, boss,” I said airily.

  Bullitt waited for the door to close. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “My job,” I replied as I took a seat.

  “Bullshit! I gave you a direct order to come into the office. Then you promptly stole company equipment and disappeared.”

  “I didn’t want to deal with HR.”

  “Bah! You’ll fucking deal with HR when I say you’ll deal with HR!” He stood up and pointed a finger at me. “You fucking piece of shit. What the hell did you think you were getting into? I migh—”

  My hand twitched toward my GP-90.

  My boss was a prick, but he was also sharp. He saw the slight movement, and he closed his mouth. He sighed and sat down. “Sorry, Rick. HR’s been on my back about you and…”

  “Tell them to shut up. You’re the boss, right?”

  “Whatever.” He grimaced. “Why did you have to use the full power of the symplant? That’s what’s really got them in a tizzy. Techies across the world are wondering about that damn power spike.”

  “I couldn’t let the Foresters get killed.”

  “When have we ever had a contract with the Foresters?”

  “With them? Never.” I crossed my legs and leaned back. “With Human mercs? Pretty much since you got too fat to fit into a CASPer.”

  Bullitt’s eyes bulged, and he snapped, “You son of a bitch.” He then laughed and patted his belly. “The damn Mk 7s were poorly designed.” He ate a handful of pecans.

  I raised an e
yebrow.

  He chuckled again. “You’re still a son of a bitch. Why I ever hired you, I’ll never know.”

  “Look, we both know what your ‘severance package’ might include. I’m not trying to leave, but I couldn’t let them get murdered. Especially since…”

  “Someone’s going after the whole damn unit.”

  “Yeah.” I leaned forward. “Someone has been going after the Horsemen, too, but they have the resources to fight back.”

  “And they still are getting hurt.”

  “Yeah. The Foresters don’t have as much. They’ve got what they need to serve their customers efficiently. They can get by with Mk 6s, so they haven’t upgraded, giving them the money to purchase and refit a couple of old destroyers as company transports. Lots of units don’t have a ship, much less two, but it helps them fulfill their garrison contracts at a reasonable price. Still, F11 and ship upkeep mean they’re always on the edge.” I smiled. “The good news is they’re getting an upgrade. Mk 8s ought to help keep their maintenance costs down and reduce their losses.”

  “They were getting an upgrade.”

  “Were?” I tilted my head.

  Bullitt grimaced. “We’ve got a new contract. I’ll assign it to you, and you can do what you were going to do anyway, only I’ll get paid.”

  “And we don’t have to go through a messy exit interview.”

  “And that.” He slid over several pages of hand-written notes.

  My jaw dropped. “Someone hit Binnig?!”

  “Yes.”

  “And they squashed every hint of it with the newsies.”

  “They might be the only corporation that could, but yeah, that’s why you haven’t seen anything yet.” He paused. “Did you notice where their convoy got hit?”

  I glanced back at the notes. “Shit. That order was for the Foresters.”

  Bullitt nodded.

  “Someone attacked Binnig to get at these guys? That makes no sense. They use outdated equipment, and they only serve a small niche. Mostly they provide garrisons on worlds with forest analogues.”

  “Yes.”

  “Binnig’s never hired us before. Why now?”