“Sergeant, you and the others are performing a great service. A great … sacrifice … if necessary.”
He was pausing in all the right places again, she noticed. Maybe he was editing his future tome on the fly. Chapter Three: Acknowledging the Noble but Necessary Sacrifice of Cannon Fodder.
“Uh, yes sir. Thank you … sir.”
“Dismissed.” Neville waved her away and returned his butt to the creaking wooden chair.
Pusher saluted, received the colonel’s acknowledgment, and turned to leave.
Before she made it halfway to the door, Neville slapped his desk. “Sergeant!”
She stopped immediately. She’d almost made it. Now she wondered if the whole briefing had been an act, not just practice for the good colonel’s memoirs. What if Neville had actually known everything all along?
“Nothing for it now but to let it ride.” This time it was Hatch’s pragmatism voicing her thoughts. She turned around slowly to face the colonel.
“One more thing,” Neville said. His eyes were intense, piercing.
Pusher half-thought the slap on the desk had been a signal for members of A or C Company to come charging through the door and arrest her.
“Hatch and Miller are no longer to be addressed with rank. They’re deserters. I’d give you orders to shoot them on sight, but it’d likely draw Transport down on you like a bunch of hornets. They are no longer to be saluted, and they are certainly no longer to be obeyed should they attempt to issue orders. Am I clear, Sergeant Ellis?”
Pusher stiffened her back, legs, and shoulders to attention. She hoped it looked to Neville like she was acknowledging his authority in the matter—a little stagecraft of her own. But she knew it was really to keep herself from charging the overstuffed uniform in front of her.
“Sir! Yes sir!”
“Very well,” he said, stabbing his fingers toward the compound. “Uh, you’re still dismissed. Again.”
Pusher turned on her heel and exited the office, releasing her frustration with a silent sigh. It was going to be a long day.
“Bet you never thought you’d see me again,” said the ferryman. He flashed his near-toothless smile.
“We’d hoped,” said Bracer under his breath without looking at the man. Instead he stared across the Susquehanna at Little Gibraltar. He wondered if it was the last time he’d ever see the TRACE stronghold. Whichever way this thing went—right or wrong, success or failure—he knew that was likely the case.
“Oh, sure! Be like that,” said Sticks. “I’m your ticket into the City. Just like last time.”
“About that,” said Trick, squinting one eye against the rising sun. “I thought you could only move safely after dark.”
“That was last week,” answered Sticks, untying the first of two ropes securing the Pittsburgh to Shenks Landing. “And you’re just citizens looking to do some business in the City, not decked-out commandos like last time.” He didn’t offer further explanation.
But Pusher wanted more. “Transport’s still there. And they’ve been cracking down on everyone—TRACE, the Amish … everyone.” Her voice grew quiet.
“Oh, sure,” said the ferryman, pulling the second rope from its wooden post, freeing the Pittsburgh of all moorings. “Now that they’ve gotten their assets in gear and headed to the Shelf, Transport has bigger fish to fry. They’re mopping up behind themselves, a last gasp in the region, so to speak. Still, it’s like they want folks to move into the City. All I know is, I got this.”
He held up what looked like a broach. It was really a metal badge shaped in the symbol of the Transport Authority. Called a SLACK—a Shipper Locator and Consignment Key—it tracked inventory data and the GPS location of its bearer. The Authority sometimes granted free, though monitored, movement to shippers who carried food, goods, and, in some cases, people. But Transport usually reserved the keys for a select group of Authority-approved collaborators, and even then only those rich enough to own their own air transport.
“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 th
e 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 riverboat, 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 ton
e 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?”
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