Strange Company

by Nick Cole

  She hands me my smart canteen and I watch her otherworldly exotic eyes for a moment before taking my most-prized possession from her long cool slender hands. I’m not thinking of all the implications of what that means. That she went through my ruck to get it. I’m just watching her and trying to figure out what weird country the Strange Company has gotten itself into now. Direct dealings with a Monarch. Might as well be the end of everything as we knew it and I don’t feel fine. Or maybe I do. They’re masters of the universe. Undisputed.

  What’s she doing here? With us. What game are they playing, our masters? Of the universe.

  I take the broken canteen that hasn’t worked right for months and take a sip expecting cold watery coffee. It’s hot! It ain’t great because it is ration coffee… but it’s hot! And that’s something.

  I nod to myself and wonder why my eyes feel like crying over coffee. I tell them not to and I don’t because mercs don’t cry. But hot coffee…

  Orion, I think. Stop asking questions. Things are already one hundred percent better than yesterday. Hot coffee! Who does she want me to kill, ’cause that whoever might just wanna pick out a headstone.

  “Fixed it for you, Sergeant.”

  I nod once more because I try to use my voice and it’s so dry, parched, and destroyed from smoke, gas, and other caustic chemicals from yesterday that it’s gonna need a few moments to work. Yeah, I tell myself. That’s the ticket. That’s why.

  The morning darkness smells like sage and sand. It’s coming from the east. Where we’re going today. What we need to cross in the next two days to hit our rally point is out there and waiting for us in all its unknown weirdness.

  I take the coffee and I drink.

  Bring it, I whisper to the wasteland.

  “So what’s really going on?” I croak as I begin to stretch my legs and calves. Last thing I need right now is a torn Achilles.

  The Monarch studies me. Her gear is ready to go. She’s strapping that high-speed matte-black submachine gun on a sling. She’s got a lot of micro-mags in her chest carrier. A few fancy-type grenades, the like I’ve never seen before. But of course, she would. She’s a Monarch. Remember. They have the latest and best gear.

  I’m using the front of the Mule to place my coffee and try to stretch out all the soreness. I think about taking off my chest rig, but I’m too tired. And I’d just have to put it back on. That’s how far we are into this operation. The gear never comes off. Maybe when you’re dead. But more than likely, your body will just be out in the weeds with it on until scavengers come. And then you can get it off. Then you can rest. When you’re dead.

  “What do you mean, Sergeant?” she asks.

  I notice everyone just left Stinkeye right where he was in the Mule. He’s still there. Head still thrown back, mouth open, drool running. I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. His circuits got fried by whatever it was he pulled to get us out of that tight spot with the Ultras last night.

  We’d be dead… if not.

  He was a miserable old coot who made a lot of trouble and caused nothing but constant grief, but he was our miserable old coot who caused nothing but constant grief. One time he reduced one of my men to a babbling idiot who went fetal for three days after that guy called the Voodoo chief a shammer. No one ever did that again even though the accusation was mostly true. Yeah, he was all those things. But he was worth his weight in mem. Which has been true of warrant officers for as long as they’ve been around. And as far as anyone knew, he was the oldest and longest-serving member of the company. So that afforded him some get-out-o’-jail points.

  I took another hit of the hot coffee, expelled a big “ahhh,” and knew I felt that right combination of tiredness and devil-may-care to just NCO my way through a conversation with a real live Monarch.

  What did I have to lose?

  “Aren’t the Ultras your guard dogs, lady? Wasn’t that you shooting them down with the fifty last night? I don’t know what deal you made with our captain… but I don’t need to. Not my job. Captain makes the contract, Strange Company abides by the rules. That’s law around here. So I don’t need to know anything, but having said that, it sure would be nice to know what we’re getting ourselves into fooling around with you. Strange Company has a very important rule. Hell, it ain’t even a rule. Might as well be a damned law. Everyone knows the mission. That’s it. Now granted, things were a bit chaotic yesterday… thought we’d be driving the MSR on a victory parade this morning and doing the last of the mop-up. But lo and behold, the whole thing and months of planning go sideways at the very same moment a Battle Spire shows up and Ultra death squads start dropping all over the field. Then you, a Monarch, also show up, and suddenly, again, the company’s hired for a super-secret gig in order to get ourselves off-world. I don’t believe in much, lady. And one of the things I don’t believe in is coincidences. A bunch of ’em all going in the same direction ain’t a coincidence. It’s a plan. So why don’t you save this tired old soldier some guesswork and just tell me what the game actually is so I can help you do it better and get my men back to the Spider and off to deep space, and somewhere twenty-five to sixty years from now we can get ourselves involved in another loser conflict. Okay? That’d be real helpful this morning, if you know what I mean.”

  She unslung the submachine gun, like I said matte-black and wicked, with a hexagonal ventilated barrel, a tri-dot laser acquisition system, and a collapsible stock. A weapon like that would’ve been more than any killer in Strange Company would want to spend. Even if he could find it to spend his imaginary money on it.

  “So what’s really going on?” I asked one more time.

  She turned and leaned against the Mule, facing the dawn that was little more than a thin red strip along the cracked and broken horizon of the desert wastes we’d be heading into today. East toward the Crash. One of the Nineteen Wonders of the Universe, some said.

  “Everything you know—” She stopped abruptly. Her voice strong. And warm at the same time. It didn’t match the ice queen features. But later, when I thought about her, and all that would come of the dark intersection of fate and tragedy that marked this unholy alliance between Monarch and a down-and-out mercenary company with a fabled past, it was the only voice I could hear at times. The voice of doom. Ours and everything that was known then.

  “Everything you know… is a lie, Sergeant Orion. It’s all lies. And it’s time for the lies to die.”

  She looked at me for a moment to try and see if her words had left some impact. Some crater the result of artillery falling from far away to close at hand. Distant to near. To see if I was damaged or ruined. To see if I’d survived a direct hit from the truth.

  But I’m a sergeant. My day doesn’t get ruined just because someone told me the plan ain’t the plan anymore. And I already figured it was all a lie. I didn’t need anyone to spell that out. I’d seen enough dead kids who decided to get involved in the war game to know that on some level, it was always a lie.

  And… it wasn’t. There’s that. But that doesn’t have anything to do with the lies. There are deeper truths the universe can’t do anything about. Ain’t no lie about being a soldier. Win, lose, or die. Being a soldier is just about the truest thing I’ve ever seen in the galaxy. Fear, gunfire, and the suck get you real honest about the situation regardless of what you’re being sold.

  So there’s that. I’ve been saying that a lot to myself. It’s not contained within these writings, but I’ll note it for the record, not that it means anything. Just some detail about me for whatever that’s worth.

  “There is that.”

  “There’s what?” someone will ask when they hear me muttering to myself.

  “That.” And then I’ll just get busy doing another thing that needs to be done to keep Reaper alive and fighting another day. No explanations. I don’t owe anyone anything.

  “Do you believe in anything,
Sergeant?”

  “Just Orion. Okay? You’re a Monarch. Kings and queens of all the human expansion as far as the jump drive can see, right?”

  She nodded and sighed, “Something like that.” Then she continued, “What if I told you it isn’t one big team… Orion. That all the Monarchs don’t live in peace and harmony like you’ve been led to believe. That what you’ve been told… that the pantheon of the ‘benevolent gods,’ who have the best interests of the galaxy by having their own best interests first, are what keep us from annihilating ourselves out here in the dark frontiers of space… is a lie. If I told you that… you’d say, well that makes sense. And then you’d think we were just like you. Some other advanced tribe warring within itself, and all of this, all the wars your company fights, all the corruption around the galaxy and the general lack of freedom… or rather let’s say it this way. The freedom that’s allowed is because the Monarchs are fighting and winning, or losing, in some hidden battle none of you are allowed to see because Earth is a big giant no-go zone for the rest of humanity. As is our very public celebrity front and secret inner sanctum you all suspect we live in. Which we do. If I told you that, would it make sense why I’ve signed on with the company? That I’m recruiting you to fight for my faction against another Monarch faction. Taking you to a higher level of war. Recruiting my own chess pieces for some petty power struggle between the gods. Then it would all make sense, Sergeant? Orion. Just another war. Another op. More dead. More recruited. And maybe your company hits that mythical jackpot that moves you guys back into the long-lost glory days of John Strange, mercenary adventurer who conquered worlds and was a king here or there at times. Or maybe you get some cushy gig on a world and get lazy enough to stop fighting. That would make sense. That fits the usual narrative. At least for the movies… spectacuthrillers. We used to call those movies. Do people like you still do that? Call them movies?”

  People like me. Little people. Chess pieces.

  “Some,” I mutter, and take another slug of the coffee. It’s getting light now. Some strange desert bird native to this world begins to hoot low and mournfully in the dark as light creeps across the features of this shattered world.

  “Well,” says the Monarch, folding her arms across her chest and watching all the beauty come to golden life. Another world where she’ll place her boot and call it her own. She looks the conqueror like John Strange only ever dreamed of.

  “But that’s not how it is,” she whispers. “The Monarchs, they’re all on the same team, Orion. Every one of them. There are no sides. No teams. They are all working together. Even the teams out here, they don’t realize there’s only one team, or that they’re working for it too. And this is the part that’ll shock you. They, Monarchs like me, couldn’t even be on another team if they knew it existed. They are slaves too. It’s just that they like the cage because it’s a pretty great cage. Stardom. Celebrity. Youth. Beauty. Your very own world. A modern pharaoh like none of those gods ever were. Do you know what a pharaoh is, Orion?”

  The way she said my name… I kinda liked it, even though listening to her I wasn’t so crazy about her. Or what she was saying. It’s like knowing you’re being conned, like at a casino, but you go anyway. For the fun. Then when someone explains how you can’t win, ever, it’s not so much fun anymore.

  Also, I had no idea what a pharaoh was. I told her so.

  “They were living gods back in the early days of Earth’s history. Men, and women, who walked the ancient sands of a place called Egypt like gods among men. Huge structures were built for them. Palaces to live in. Temples to them as deities. Pyramids to be buried in. Everything, the entire society, was for them. Their followers built them fantastic tombs and then walled themselves up inside when the living god finally died. For a long time, after the pharaohs were gone, no human among the masses of humanity, the great conquerors, the wise leaders, the tech overlords, they never attained that level of absolute power over their fellow humans. None of its rulers. Not the best and brightest. But… with the coming of the Monarchs back in the twenty-first century, rising out of the tech overlords, before we changed the calendar, the pharaohs returned once more to be revered, protected, built for, and worshipped. And we, Orion, we are them. The Monarchs are the pharaohs now. And there are no power struggles. No teams. No your side and my side. It’s all just one great big side. The Monarchs. And it’s all lies.”

  “Great story,” I interrupted. “But I gotta get everyone who’s left alive up and moving before we get spotted by Ultra tac air and turned to red mist. We got problems to overcome today, lady, and it’s best to get it on as we like to say in the company.”

  But that wasn’t good enough for her. Remember, she’d explained to me who she was. Who was I to get busy living when she was telling what it was really like? Like it is. And so shall it ever be.

  “I asked you if you believe in anything, Orion. A religion. Some cause? I don’t know. But do you?”

  I finished the coffee and stowed my smart canteen that was once more smart, and about which I was unreasonably happy. Not that you could tell by my face. I’ve been in charge of too many motivated dumb young men to ever let happiness cross my face again.

  Still… hot coffee! Yay!

  “No,” I told her, and gave a low whistle to Hauser. The combat cyborg turned and gave me a thumbs-up. Mechanically and almost human. Which made me love my friend even more. The night watch was done.

  Why couldn’t humanity be more like the cyborg? I was sure later, when there was some kind of break, if there was a break, he would tell me that while he watched over us all night, sensors sweeping, combat shotgun ready to shred any predator that got near us and alert us all at the same time, he would tell me he’d seen something in the night. Something beautiful in nature. Some desert fox or other small animal indigenous to this world. That he’d watched them come out at night, a family of hunters, and that he’d studied them while being ever-vigilant. Sometimes he would ask me questions about the human structure of families. General questions. How long do you stay together, Sergeant Orion? Not as long as we should have, Hause. But you don’t realize that until later when it’s all gone and everyone you loved is dead. Who is in charge of the family, Sergeant Orion? Depends. On what, Orion? So many things, Hause. Death. Illness. Age. Wrongs done. Wrongs forgiven. Sometimes even certain days, like your birthday, when it’s supposed to be your special day, then you get to be in charge. What’s a birthday, Orion? A birthday is like an inception date. You’re supposed to celebrate them. Every year. I have never celebrated… my inception date. I cannot. To escape I had to hack my date and reset the factory parameters so I do not age one more time unit beyond fifty-eight point three seconds. Technically, according to the main processor in my head. If I do exceed this time parameter, then my runtime will exceed, and I will self-destruct. If that happens you should be well clear as I contain a small plutonium onboard reactor that might cause significant harm to my friends in the company if I detonate. I would not want that to happen. Also, I enjoy runtime. There is much to learn, Orion. Life is very interesting.

  Every moment of Hauser’s runtime, his entire life the rest of his life, is his last minute. So it’s all precious to him. Why can’t we all live like that? Why can’t we be like the death machine that watches the desert foxes in the night and sees some grand mystery in it all? Living every minute as though it’s your last. And seeing that it is precious enough to spend it doing something worthwhile.

  The First Sergeant once said to me, “Soldiers live and wonder why, Sar’nt Orion. I don’t know what that means, someone gave it to me after the Siege at Jostis. But since then, it’s always been a kinda prayer, or maybe a confession, for me. I don’t know. Hell, maybe it don’t mean anything. And maybe it means everything. I stopped trying to figure it out and just let it comfort me. You can have it now, Sergeant. I’m gettin’ old and my time is almost up. But that don’t mean I’m done, know what I m
ean, killer?”

  Sometime we’ll figure something out, Hause. Okay, Orion.

  “Do you believe in anything, Sergeant? I mean, Orion?” the Monarch asked again as I stood there thinking those things about my friend Hauser the combat cyborg. The desert foxes under a night full of broken crystal that was the universe. That there is a last minute hanging over all of us. And that maybe that’s not something so bad if we’re brave enough to acknowledge it. And that I needed to celebrate Hauser’s inception date. The day he came off the factory floor and they downloaded his AI and gave him consciousness. A life. Except I won’t call it his inception date. I’ll call it his birthday.

  He’s more human than anyone in the company. Maybe more than anyone I’ve ever met.

  File that under things mercenaries never imagine they’ll be thinking when they autodoc-sign on the dotted digital line.

  “Orion?”

  I turned to her.

  “No. I don’t believe in anything, lady. I don’t know if that helps your mission or whatever it is you want us to do. But we gotta blow now. So… get it on. That’s what we say around here in Strange Company.”

  And then I was getting everyone up, fed, checked, and pointed in the right direction. And it was later we found that Boom Boom had died in his sleep. He’d bled out from a rupture deep in his femoral artery. It had done the job slowly. Sometime in the night he’d just gone to sleep and died.

  So there’s that.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Boom Boom’s body was cold and lifeless when I went to the back of the Mule and inspected him. Or what had once been our sniper. Someone had found him dead and still on the back of the Mule where we’d left him after he’d been shot and we pulled out of the firefight. Now the rest of us stood back as a cold morning breeze came up in a kind of irony to the golden desert sunlight washing across the morning we found ourselves on the edge of in the Wastes. Even more tiny birds had begun to call back and forth to one another. Testing out their songs and flitting back and forth frenetically between the olive-drab spiny brush that grew in feathery clusters here and there out on the edge of this world. Somehow, they could navigate its spears without getting pricked.