Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection

by Chris Pourteau

  Being unfamiliar with the Amish culture, I read Steven M. Nolt’s A History of the Amish: Revised and Updated to help me better understand the traditions of Pennsylvania’s Plain People. I also asked Michael Bunker some pointed questions about his own beliefs and experiences as a Plain Person, and he was very forthcoming, with great insights. I wanted to explore both our Englischer preconceptions about (and the actual, accepted role of) women in contemporary Amish society. And, again, I was fascinated by that question of whether or not it’s better to move on and preserve tradition (farming techniques), despite losing part of oneself (community) in the process; or to stay, modernize, and preserve ties to the community. During our exchange on how the individual relates to his or her community in Amish society, Michael introduced me to the concept of gelassenheit. (Elder Noffsinger’s definition is, verbatim, how Michael explained it to me.) Not only did Michael hand me the perfect title for my story, but he also showed me a way that Mary’s actions could be absolutely consistent with Amish beliefs, albeit within the limited understanding of those beliefs by a twelve-year-old mind. Talk about exploring a gray area!

  Chris Pourteau

  November 2014

  The First Day

  “You said it was undefended!”

  Another triplet of lasers sliced the afternoon sky, landing somewhere behind their makeshift trench.

  Lieutenant Sean Hatch shrugged. Difficult to do, head down in a ditch. “Oops.”

  Before his sergeant, nicknamed Stug, could snarl again, two more TRACE soldiers belly-crawled along the shallow ditch behind them, taking up position on their right.

  “Hey guys,” said Bracer. The huge machine gun on his back weighed him down, but he managed to huddle up under the embankment they were pressed against. “Nice fireworks, huh?”

  “Oh, delightful,” Stug groused in a fake high-society accent. It sounded particularly ludicrous coming from a soldier his size. “I seem to have forgotten the lounge chairs at home, wot? We’ll have to watch from down here. Sorry, guv’nor.”

  Laser fire pop-pop-popped the earth on their left.

  “Probably just as well,” said Hatch. “I hate getting sunburned.”

  “Another spectacular intelligence failure,” Hawkeye, the unit’s spotter, said. “Why am I even surprised anymore?”

  “The QB will not be happy,” said Bracer.

  “When is she ever?” asked Hatch.

  “Good point.”

  “We can’t just sit here,” Stug said. He turned his head, looking up and down their long, narrow hidey-hole. It offered little cover, but for now at least the berm protected them. If they flank us…

  “If they have drones, we’re dead,” deadpanned Bracer.

  “They don’t,” said Hatch. “Or we’d be dead already. So there’s that.” He spit on his hand, stuck his fingers in the moist dirt, and wiped it across his face. The process, punctuated by occasional triplets of laser fire, took about thirty seconds. “How do I look?”

  “Who said that?” Stug asked.

  Hatch grinned and waited. Like clockwork, the next laser blasts popped overhead. Before the air stopped humming, his head was up, scanning the town’s perimeter.

  “Three count, sir,” offered Hawkeye.

  Hatch returned to cover, nodding his thanks to the spotter. “Okay, here’s what I see. There’s a guard post with one man in it firing on our position. No drones. Yet.”

  “One man?” Stug again. He was a big, brave brute of a man but tended to whine when more advanced weapons kept him from using his fists on the enemy. His griping came not from cowardice but from a frustrated need to beat Transport soldiers until they didn’t need beating anymore.

  Bracer understood his lieutenant’s conclusion. “The three blasts we’re hearing don’t come from a choreographed squad of ballerinas firing with perfect timing, Sarge. One man, pew-pew-pew.”

  Hatch nodded. “And he’s probably more scared than we are.”

  “Good,” grinned Stug. “Looking forward to showing him what he’s scared of.”

  “What do we do, Lieutenant?” Hawkeye wanted a plan. A good spotter is always more comfortable knowing a plan’s details.

  “Access your BICE,” ordered Hatch. “Analyze the town and surrounding ground. Use the guard post as a reference point, find our position, and see what’s around us. Stug’s right. Eventually the Transporter with the itchy trigger finger will be reinforced and we’ll be flanked. And if they have drones…”

  No need to drive that point home again. Their own drones, hacked and reprogrammed for TRACE, were back with the QB. If Transport had drones here, the most Alpha Squad could likely do before dying for the cause would be to warn the rest of their company. And that assumed Transport didn’t have active jamming in the area, a distinct possibility.

  Hawkeye accessed his BICE device. The Beta Internet Chip Enhancement was a brain implant required by the Transport Authority. Among other things it allowed direct access to the Internet from inside a person’s head. The spotter’s eyes darted back and forth, ranging over GIS maps displayed on the backdrop of his brain. The terrain and town itself appeared in his mind like a dream, three-dimensional and vibrant. The Transport guard post was, of course, not a part of the public-domain data captured in the maps, but Hawkeye approximated its position with help from Hatch. He searched for better ground in his mind.

  “Bracer, reposition twenty-five meters that way,” Hatch said, pointing east, back in the direction the heavy-weapons man and his spotter had just crawled from. “Use the three-count rule and start returning fire. I want our Transport buddy firing in your direction when we move. We’ll cover you once we get repositioned.”

  “Try not to get sunburned,” suggested Stug helpfully.

  “Love you too, Sarge,” said Bracer. “Break out Betsy?”

  Hatch shook his head. “No, small weapons only. We need to stay mobile.”

  Bracer nodded, moving off. The hundred-pound weight of the 18-millimeter heavy machine gun on his back made moving belly down in the mud awkward, but he managed.

  “Lieutenant, I think I found something,” said Hawkeye. “A water well about fifty meters to the west. With Bracer in his new position—”

  “Crossfire. Got it. Move out. BICE me when you’re in position. Go to local area network comms only. Let’s take this bastard out,” said Hatch.

  Stug blew out his displeasure as Hawkeye moved west. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to get to hit anyone.”

  “Day’s young,” said Hatch. “Feel free to charge him from the front, meathead.”

  The big man grimaced. “I’m a brute. Not stupid.”

  Three more shots overhead. These hit closer, frying grass ten feet behind them on the embankment. The Transport soldier, commonly called a “porter” by TRACE, was finally ranging in on them.

  “Must be nice to fire laser rifles without a care for power,” said Stug while they waited for their squadmates to reposition.

  Hatch grunted. “Having an unlimited supply of okcillium cells to power your weapons will do that for you.”

  “Guess that’s why we’re here,” said the burly sergeant. “Only it was supposed to be unguarded.”

  Hatch rolled his eyes. “Please stop saying that.” He loved the big guy and would rather have Stug beside him in a bar fight than a whole squad of TRACE marines. But holy Christ, the man could get under his skin when the lasers started slicing. Nothing more grating on the nerves than a not-so-gentle giant with a nasal whine.

  “Just sayin’.”

  “Well don’t. That’s an order.”

  Stug smacked his lips, then shut them.

  “Bracer, in position,” said a voice in their heads.

  In battle, they turned off the option to see a projected image of the person communicating via the BICE. A voice inside your head was distracting enough; the speaker’s holo projection on the screen of your mind would be downright deadly.

  “Almost there,” answered Hawkeye.


  Three more pops. The grass on top of the embankment a foot in front of them exploded, kicking up clods of dirt.

  Stug groaned. “I just washed this uniform.”

  Hatch stuck his head up, finding Hawkeye’s water well as the spotter got into position. He quickly took in the tripartite lines of fire aimed at the guard post, then felt Stug’s meaty hand on his belt. Before Hatch could threaten a reprimand, he was face down in the ditch as the laser fire kicked up more earth just inches above him.

  “I said, I just washed this uniform,” said Stug. “The last thing I need is your seared blood on it.”

  The lieutenant ignored him. “My count. Bracer, then us. Hawkeye, you’re the kill shot.”

  “10-4,” came back in unison.

  Hatch turned to his sergeant. “If you want, I can have them fire simultaneously so you can charge him.”

  Stug twisted his head like a dog seeing something curious. “If you want, I can count to three for you the next time you stick your head up, Lieutenant Hatch, sir. One-Mississippi style.”

  Hatch smiled. Mentally clicking his BICE channel to squad, he monotoned, “Three, two, one.”

  Automatic weapons fire from their right. One short burst from Bracer, then the sound of bullets hitting the concrete of the guard post. As soon as it ceased, the tip of a laser rifle poked through a slit in the guard post and fired in Bracer’s direction again. Pew-pew-pew.

  “Spotted,” said Hawkeye in their heads.

  Stug bellowed a long, yipping war whoop from deep in his gut as Hatch went up and over the lip of the embankment and dropped prone, firing a long burst from his rifle. More ineffective ricochets off the concrete protecting their enemy. But the porter moved to face the new threat and, for a moment only, became visible from the left.

  A single shot.

  Hawkeye whispered through the BICE. “Got him.”

  “Oh, good,” the sergeant said. “Can I hit him now?”

  “Do you ever get tired of playing comic relief?” Hatch asked. “Hawkeye, heatmap the area. We’re near the outskirts of town, so try to distinguish any citizens as best you can and give me a threat assessment. Look for okcy signatures.”

  “Thank you, sir, I was awake that particular day of training,” said Hawkeye, distracted. It was clear he’d started following the lieutenant’s orders before they were given.

  Bracer broke in. “Right flank is clear.”

  Stug blew out another breath. “Looking more and more like I’m not going to get to hit anyone today.”

  Hatch glanced down into the ditch. “Thanks for definitively answering my comic relief question. Now I no longer need wonder.”

  “Okay, it’s a little hard to believe, but I’m not seeing any credible threat,” sent Hawkeye. “A lot of heat signatures in homes, hunkered down. So far, no porters though.”

  Hatch pushed himself to his feet as Stug crawled up the embankment to stand beside him.

  “That makes no sense,” said the sergeant, all business now. “One soldier in that guard post, sure. But they’ve had plenty of time to bring up reinforcements since we engaged.”

  “Maybe his BICE malfunctioned and he had no way to call them?” wondered Bracer.

  “Maybe they’re on their way,” replied Hawkeye. “Should Bravo Squad advance to our position?”

  “No,” Hatch said, mentally flipping a switch to bring them into the conference. “Bravo Squad, maintain position in the trees until further notice. Hawkeye likewise, and keep your eyes on the heat map. Bracer, you stay put too, and cover the approach to the town.” Turning to Stug, he added, “Come on. You can punch the concrete or something.”

  They made their way the forty meters across the meadow to the guard post. A small bunker, really, meant to guard the old-style mud road that entered the town from the southwest. The road was still used by the more orthodox to ferry the goods grown in the nearby Amish Zone, an indulgence Transport allowed the local Plain People. Almost everyone else transported goods, and themselves, via Transport-regulated airbuses. Still, the positioning of the post commanded a wide and well-protected view of the western approach to the town.

  While Stug inspected the dead porter, Hatch looked around the small post. It was Spartan, devoid of anything inside its concrete walls save for a chair and a half-eaten afternoon ration. Not that much else was necessary. Anything the soldier needed—area maps, duty rosters, tactical alerts—he would’ve accessed through his BICE.

  “Laser rifle, three charge packs, two grenades,” itemized Stug as he stripped the dead soldier of equipment. “BICE?”

  Hatch nodded, so Stug took out his knife and moved to the back of the porter’s skull. Some of the civilian leadership of TRACE found the practice distasteful, and others thought it disrespectful of the dead. But it was standard TRACE military policy to remove BICE implants from captured or killed Transport personnel whenever possible. Hackers later analyzed them, noting upgrades and operating system advances to improve the rebels’ own hacking skills and equipment.

  Stug went to work while Hatch surveyed the town through the bunker’s rear port window. Gettysburg served as a hub in County Adams, New Pennsylvania, and was modeled after its namesake, its architecture simple and functional. Nearly the entire town’s population was employed by the massive distribution center located there, so most of the buildings Hatch could see were homes and small businesses that supported their daily lives. Food grown in the nearby AZ was processed out to the rest of the planet, while refined goods were brought in from Earth and shipped via cargo ship to other settlements. TRACE insurgency in nearby Columbia—called “the City” by most, since it was the largest urban center of its kind in New Pennsylvania—had increased dramatically in recent years, so the Transport Authority had begun using smaller towns as strategic depots to support its war effort. In the case of Gettysburg, refined okcillium produced on Earth was brought through to supply the military’s insatiable need for power cells to fuel its laser weapons.

  And that’s why TRACE was here. With no okcillium source of their own, the rebels raided whatever sources they could find for the rare and vital power source. Intelligence had reported that a new shipment of okcillium ore had just arrived in Gettysburg and that a military escort was almost nonexistent. The theory ran that policing the Wild Lands and rerouting troops to meet the heavy insurgency by TRACE in the City had resulted in an unguarded okcillium supply. Or maybe the Authority had decided a minimal military presence at a vital supply hub would keep rebel attention away from the town. But thanks to the ability of the SOMA—their supreme commander and administrator of the Southern Oklahoma Militia—to crack each new upgrade of BICE code the Authority threw at them, TRACE had learned of the okcillium shipment and sent two squads to probe the town’s defenses.

  “You done yet?”

  “He must’ve been a vet,” Stug grunted, nodding at the gray on the dead man’s temples. “Lots of scar tissue to cut through.” Another hiss of effort and the sergeant held up bloody fingers with the dead man’s BICE chip clamped between them. “There.”

  Hatch nodded. “Bag the tag and let’s go. This whole one-soldier-only thing is making me nervous. Too good to be true and all that.”

  At that moment, Hawkeye’s voice whispered in their heads. “Dropship. Ten klicks.”

  Stug withdrew a plastic bag for the exhumed BICE as Hatch stood up.

  “Bravo Squad, fortify and prepare to cover our retreat. Hawkeye, Bracer, we’ll be out in five, four—”

  “Bagged,” reported Stug as he slung the dead porter’s laser rifle over his shoulder.

  The lieutenant motioned him out and covered his back as the big man lumbered across the distance to their embankment. Seems longer going back, thought Hatch, though he did so in protected mode, keeping his thoughts private, off their shared BICE channel. Once the sergeant was safely back in the ditch, Hatch followed.

  “Thirty seconds,” reported Hawkeye. “Only one that I can—damn it! Drones.”

  Tra
nsport drones zipped over the warehouses on the south side of town, zeroing in on the lieutenant as he leapt into the ditch.

  “Alpha Squad, we’ve got your backs. Go, go, go!” said Lieutenant “Trick” Mason, Hatch’s counterpart in Bravo Squad.

  “Peel off,” ordered Hatch, clipped and precise. “Bracer, go.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Standard operating procedure. The man with the heaviest weapon gets to run first.

  It was the spotter’s turn next. “Hawkeye.”

  “Lieutenant, I’ve got the eyes here, I should—”

  “Were you awake the day they taught you to follow orders? Move!”

  With no time to argue, the spotter dropped his omni-lens to his chest and ran for Bravo Squad and the safety of the trees.

  Hatch could feel the white noise building in his brain. It was expected. Transport had learned how to aim a jamming signal at rebel BICEs to disrupt their communications, and they tended to deploy the strategy any time they were in range. No one, not even the SOMA, had yet figured out why only rebel implants were affected.

  “Shut down BICEs, go to visual,” sent Hatch as he followed Hawkeye, leaping over the ditch and running for the tree line. He powered down his BICE and felt the usual light nausea as its constant stream of information, projected in his mind, suddenly went dark and vacant. It almost felt like he’d lost his eyesight for a moment, and he half-stumbled. He saw Bracer go down on all fours as he succumbed to his own shutdown process, then watched the heavy-weapons man right himself again. The hundred pounds on his back slowed him down, but he resumed his loping, mad dash for Bravo Squad.

  Precise laser strikes burned the plain behind Hatch. This was no lone soldier with a laser rifle. This was a dropship’s gunner, whose sole purpose was to hit what he was aiming at from a moving air vehicle. The lieutenant quickened his step. Bracer made it to the trees and dove past the 18-millimeter machine gun deployed by Bravo Squad. It peppered the sky.

  “Aim that bloody thing higher!” bellowed Stug as he, too, pounded through the tall grass and past the thundering thrrrit-thrrrit-thrrrit of Bravo’s machine gun.