The Long Year, Part 3

[Lambano]

Omega 21st, 2846
Sarah McCallum, Devil Dogs Company

“And this source? Is it reliable?”

That was always Marshall’s go-to verification process: ‘Are you certain about this? What’s your source?’ He never took anything at face value, but as one of the co-owners of Devil Dogs, that’s just the way it had to be. For the mercenary companies, we always had to verify the information. Too many times we’d get tipped by bad intel and get dropped in the middle of nowhere with no score to “settle,” or no contracts to “fulfill,” or no goods to “secure.” Every time we were dropping into nothingness, it meant Marshall and the other owners were paying money for mercs like us to play in the sand or snow.

Of course it’s not always this way. I mean, there’s no denying that working out with a mercenary company is definitely the best option revolutionaries have. The alternative is to work in the mines for the “war effort,” where you have to do battle with things like Yellow Lung or the Spots or any other diseases common with chipping away at the ores. There’s another alternative, but I’d hardly call it one, and that’s the Volunteer Army. That’s just a fancy name for the engineering corps that makes sure mercs like us are always supported. Their weapons aren’t much different from the miners—drills and hammers and welding tools.

But what else are you going to do? Scum-suck it up with the rest of those corporate bastards that are greedily rubbing their hands together at the prospect of banking big on this war? No thanks. We may work for the New Conglomerate, but I know that most of us are really working for a better tomorrow. One without the tyranny and fascism that the Republic has displayed since the Happening.

Things are getting restless, though, and that’s what’s making this all the more tougher. Yeah, okay, we have the resources and what not, but we don’t have a proper army or the numbers. And equipment is only as good as you can afford it. They’re even trying to mass-produce some new line of hardware as opposed to just continuing to use the NS stuff.

Bastards, by the way. You know, Nanite Systems. This war would’ve ended if they wouldn’t have gone all neutral. I suppose in the long run it’s also why TR runs into so many problems as well. I mean, they’ve gone back to using claymores. Claymores! Can you believe it? You only heard about those in the ancient history books.

But yeah, Nanite Systems. They were the number one government contractor. That’s what always pissed off the Conglomerate, really. All the really good contracts, like fabrication or space operations, went to Nanite Systems. The Republic was real keen about wanting to keep the war factories and anything that had to do with the spacecraft or satellites specifically under their control. They wanted the system so fool-proof that Nanite Systems was the sole contractor for this sort of stuff, and they thought it was extra fool-proof when they put in safeguards to ensure that at any point in time, the TR command could assume control.

Of course, when the war started and TR wanted to immediately bring down spacecraft for rapid deployment and orbital bombardments, NS did what NS did—they said no. And for a moment we thought, “Yes, they’re joining the cause!” but nope. Bastards just up and left to their stations in orbit. TR pushed the magic buttons that were supposed to give them control of everything or self-destruct things they no longer had control of and nothing happened. What did they expect when the people who installed the systems were NS employees to begin with?

Yeah, that’s the real irony. Such a small company holding all the cards, and they don’t want to join this card game. This is why tactical operations have been such a nightmare. We’ve had to do everything through old-school tech, like radio towers and ground radar. All of that is limited, and we can’t see what we don’t control. Taking satellites out of the picture is really what’s prolonging this fight, or else we would’ve just done missile strikes on the offset of all engagements. Instead we need to do this jungle bush shit that the ancient people of Earth had to once do.

So that’s why when we get intel about supply drops from Nanite Systems in the middle of nowhere here on Hossin, we want to double-check and triple-check the source, because it sounds like some really faulty intel or some sort of trap. Why would they be dropping supplies now? Is it just humanitarian relief? Do they feel bad about making us kill each other the old-fashioned way? Either way, we had to get down to the bottom of it. We’re not professional army. I mean, we once were—most of us were once Republican Army—but now we work for a different cause. Anyway, point is, we don’t need to wait for “orders” or any of that bullshit. Maybe some of the other merc companies that were formed out of the NC, but not Devil Dogs. We are our own masters.

“I’m telling you, Marshall. I’ve got eyeball confirmation on this. The crates are marked ‘NS,’ and I don’t think that stands for, ‘no shit.’”

I could see the gears turning in Marshall’s head. He knew this guy would zip off to the next merc company willing to pay for his sort of bounty. “Alright, we’ll take the contract.”

Yeah, damn right we would. It’s not like Marshall really needed to check in with the five other founders of Devil Dogs to handle his own platoon. If there was an opportunity to seize, then we’d take it. That’s something of a Devil Dog motto, but really, that’s NC’s motto in general too. So we suited up. We were still mostly using the NS gear, but we’d been getting stress from high up to start switching over to that mass-produced crap to establish a “clear identity.” Stars to your identity, NC. That boxy miner stuff ripped off the side paneling of drilling machines and suits isn’t going to be any better than our current equipment, and I feel pretty damn comfortable in the NS vests already. They even want us to switch over to those stupid coilguns as well!

We were up in the air fifteen minutes later. The other companies were eyeballing us something fierce. Some of the more desperate ones might try to tail other mercs out on a contract for table scraps, but everyone knew better than to mess with Devil Dogs. We might be fighting on the same side, but that doesn’t mean we get along. And if you’re trying to steal my bacon, then your ass is going to get burned. That’s Marshall’s policy, not mine, but I like it all the same.

We were buzzing over the tree line rather low. We took two Storks instead of one Galaxy. True, the Gal could definitely fit our entire squad with room to spare, but the Storks were far more maneuverable and smaller, making it easier to set down in the thick swamps of Hossin. I guess it was fitting that we fly in old NS birds than that crap the NC is trying to push out for us. I don’t even remember the name for it, but it looks like a brick with wings. I really just don’t understand why we don’t utilize all the old NS equipment to the fullest. TR is practically chucking the stuff to the curb because of their irrational fears that the stuff may be “bugged” or that they may lose control of it. I swear, they lose the brains to the VS and suddenly they think technology is magic.

Actually, come to think of it, I never really understood those Vanu-lovers. I mean, we broke off for the explicit purpose of trying to change things—to try and work toward progression. And as far as I can figure, they’re working to a similar goal as well. I don’t know why they didn’t join forces with us to begin with. Then for certain we would’ve won this war a long time ago. But the bastards don’t keep to themselves either, and I’ve lost more than a few good friends to those sneaky bastards. Ever since the Stoneridge Massacre, we’ve taken a liking to the saying that the only thing we hate more than TR is VS.

I think they’re the real enemy, to be honest. Most of the TR are just blindly following orders, and the civvies don’t know any better. Those that could get out did when things first hit the ceiling, but now if there’s any TR coming to their senses, they’re just executed. And that’s the fault of the government, not the people. Once we win this war, brothers and sisters will be reunited on both sides. But not those cultists. They’re all sorts of bad news. Yeah, you hear about the horror stories of TR not taking prisoners, but the VS do. But we never hear from them again. No one really knows what the VS does with prisoners, and they certainly don’t have any POW camps. But I bet whatever it is they are doing with our boys and girls, it’s ten times worse than the noose of a public execution by TR.

“Ten seconds!”

Damn. All this time to myself and I wandered off point again. Thankfully the barking of the pilot brought me back to focus. We were coming to somewhat of a clearing and the jets were cooling off. The terrain was rough, so it was going to be a hard drop. He got as close as he could and we hopped off onto the muck of Hossin. We took point around the LZ while the second Stork dropped off the rest of our squad, Marshall included. We heard our pilots buzz away in the distance until all we could hear was the noisy racket of the Hossin wildlife.

“Sanders, you have point!”

Sanders is a big bastard, which is why he was always on point. We always joked it’s because he’d block all the bullets from hitting us, but the reality is Sanders could tear a guy to shreds with his bare hands. And in Hossin, a guy that can do that to some of the more dangerous creatures is exactly who you want up front. Most of the stuff here isn’t all predator-like, stalking its prey—they charge it out-right. Funny how your number one threat priority on Hossin seems to be the local wildlife and not eating a bullet from some red or purple bastard.

We were walking through the mud for a good ten minutes now. The blood flies were trying to cling to whatever wasn’t covered. Lucky me I wore full cover under my helmet. It was still pretty unnerving though. All you could really hear were the chirps and creaks of the swamp, the bubbling sound of some gas pockets rising out from the thicker bits, and the quick slap of a hand upon soft skin followed by a soft curse. Oh yeah. This is exactly how I pictured we would be winning the war effort.

Then there it was, up in the distance—a crate stuck in the mud, and, sure enough, with big, emblazoned letters, ‘NS’ was scribbled on it. It was the Nanite Systems logo alright. Up in the canopy above was the parachute for it. It still didn’t make any sense what it was doing out in the middle of nowhere, though. Marshall signaled for us to split up into fire teams, so I took my guys around to the left while Sanders took his to the right. Marshall went right up the middle and to the crate. If this was supposed to be an ambush, at least we would be somewhat prepared.

As I watched over them, crouched in the mud, I felt something underneath my knee. I pulled out some sort of small metal box with the NS logo etched on the side of it as well. It was probably important, or part of the package. I mean, I could clearly see the crate had a pinned package upon it and it was ripped. Chances are it fell right out when it crashed down. I pocketed it in my boot, savoring the moment later when I’d be the one to bring the last puzzle piece when we got back. I’d get a bonus for it too.

Marshall and his guys quickly got to work on the crate. There was no sense opening it up in the middle of a swamp and possibly contaminating whatever was inside, so the plan was to bring it back to the LZ and lift it out. They lifted each side of it up to push the lifter underneath it. First two guys tried to lift it by the handles but no luck, so all of Marshall’s fire team was going to have to take one handle and carry it out. Sure enough they got it off the ground with a struggle and that was that. Marshall had Sanders take point again and we covered the rear.

It took a half hour to get back to the LZ. By the end of it, we were all flustered, sweaty, and tired. Hossin takes a lot out on you, but I suppose it beats freezing your ass off on Esamir. It’s unfortunate that the more temperate islands were mostly under firm control of some faction. It would make sense that the more undesirable ones would be the areas of contestation—it’s not like TR presence was heavy here before the war either.

Our pick up came a moment later, and a tether was set up to latch it onto the first transport. The others and I had to climb up via the Stork’s personnel hook, on the account that the automatic motor that’s supposed to pull us up was out. Great, that’s all I need—work up a sweat to sweat off this sweat. By the time all six of us were up and secured, we were ready to call it quits. The transport hovered out of the way to make room for the second Stork.

Marshall and the others had it easy—at least their hook worked, so no strenuous climb for them and no tedious waiting for us. A few minutes later both Storks whirled about and were making their way back home. I was looking forward to that dry air shower and a nice meal to make up for the burning sensation in my legs.

“What’s in the box?” Jones, the pilot, looked at me expectantly.

“Why don’t you keep your eyes on the sky, Jones, and let me worry about the big score.” I fired back casually as I slumped over like the rest of the guys.

I was about to say, “This was way too easy,” and, would you know it, fate would walk right in and say, “I agree,” and fuss with the whole damn moment. The familiar alarms blared in the cockpit and I knew we were getting a lock-on signature. That shook everyone awake, and if it didn’t, then Jones’s flying sure did. We couldn’t hear it or see it, but we knew we were pretty much screwed when the lock-on alarm screamed like a child when it switched to “missile launch.” A moment later the Stork shook violently and we all got a nasty jump—me in particular. In fact, I knocked my skull against the bulkhead and I was out like a light.

* * *

I wasn’t awake. Not just yet. But I could hear voices over me. I knew I must’ve been in a recovery tent because I could smell the antiseptic. But I wasn’t ready to wake up just yet. My ears were working fine though.

“So she’s the only survivor?”

“Afraid so.”

“What about the crate?”

“It was retrieved.”

“So Nanite Systems made good on their deal.”

“Not entirely. The key for it is missing. Without it, trying to open it will dissolve its contents.”

I tried to speak, but my mouth wasn’t working. A moment after that, neither were my attempts to stay awake.