Salvage Marines (Necrospace Book 1) Page 12

  “You’re reducing this whole thing to money, like the bloody hell we just walked through was tantamount to a financial wager between two companies,” argued Samuel, suddenly offended that the strange mercenary’s callous logic reduced the life and death of Boss Maggie Taggart to the cost of doing business. “Like this whole thing is just a balance sheet on some administrator’s desk.”

  The wargir’s body registered surprise. “Isn’t it? The events of today are logged, a tally taken of what was expended and what was gained,” he said, “who lived and who died.” He turned his grim visage to face Samuel.

  “Eventually that log is turned into a report, which is sent through various chains of command, all the way to the unseen few who manage the Bottom Line. To them, the faceless masters of the universe, the deeds of our lives, be they glorious or vile, are merely data points on a balance sheet.”

  “Good people died down there today! Some of them were my friends!” Samuel snapped through gritted teeth. “Your unit didn’t make it through unscathed either! I saw the man with the horns get blown to pieces!” He wasn’t sure why he said it. It felt like retaliation for the mercenaries’ previous remarks.

  The Errolite mercenary considered Samuel for a moment from behind his wicked mask. The salvage marine held his gaze, not wanting to back down regardless of how fearsome the man was.

  Something in the mercenary’s posture changed and he nodded his head. Reaching up, he unfastened the pressure seals on his dropsuit helmet. After the airflow balanced out he lifted it from his head. For the first time since meeting the strange warrior that morning Samuel saw his actual human face.

  Imago had dark brown eyes that matched his skin, though the entire left side of his face was a patchwork of tiny scars, while the right had a serrated looking spiral tattoo that started at his tear duct and curled down his cheek to end at his chin. The mercenary smiled to reveal canines filed to points.

  “You misunderstand my meaning, Hyst Samgir, but you are a man of Grotto, so I understand that my words are strange. I show you my face so that you may know me as friend.” His expression softened and he looked once more out over the colony as the birds squawked and descended to feast upon the dead for as long as they could before the salvage marines shooed them away, “When the Folken go to war it is because we have accepted a contract and are being paid to fight. There is no ideology at work in our hearts or minds, but a simple contract to be executed.

  Those who live and die by the sword, those like you and I, Hyst Samgir, would die of heartbreak sooner than violence were we to attempt to place value judgments on the righteousness of one war over another. The Folken have seen this truth, and it armors us against the decay of mind, body, and spirit that plagues all men and women who go to war. We sleep very well at night, my friend, because there is no cause upon which we judge ourselves, only that we were paid and the contract fulfilled.

  We rise to make ourselves equals to those who watch the Bottom Line by creating our own and fighting like devils for it.” Imago growled with obvious pride. “This is a hard universe, and the grim tide of war ever rises and ebbs upon the shores of everyone’s life. Even those who never see a battlefield are forever affected by it. Those balance sheets, the Bottom Line, is part of everyone’s life, and has been since humanity first took up sticks and stones.”

  Samuel studied the peaceful face before him, no anger, guilt or loss was reflected upon the placid visage.

  “When you speak of it like that, there is a poetry to it all, Imago, and thanks for sharing. I mean no offense when I say this,” Samuel nodded to the mercenary in acknowledgement, “But I still do not see the blood and dirt and individual life in your philosophy. I don’t see the man in the horned helmet, or my friends. It all sounds pretty textbook, like you’ve memorized this speech in front of a mirror over and over until you got it perfect.”

  Imago nodded his head. He reached into his satchel to produce a slagged piece of helmet that that bore the unmistakable base of one of the horns from the helmet worn by the elite Samuel had seen cut down. Imago stood, and turned the piece over and over in his hands. He looked back at Samuel.

  “The men and women who ride with the Folken are from many worlds, many cultures, but we when we fight we do so as one people, one tribe. The money is what determines when and where we fight, but once battle is joined, it is our comrades and our families that keep us striving for victory and survival.” Imago’s eyes suddenly moistened with emotion. “When the armor comes off, we are all just human beings. This is why I show you my face to speak with you thusly.”

  Samuel watched without comment as Imago turned his attention back to the helmet fragment.

  “His name was Costa Sagge. He was a veteran of many campaigns, the father of three children, the husband of two. He lived on a ship that perpetually sailed the oceans of Abzu,” Imago’s voice was solemn and grave, as if reciting an epitaph. He lifted the jagged remnant to his lips and kissed the top of it gently. “His tithe is paid.”

  Imago placed the helmet fragment back into his satchel with a degree of finality and turned to face Samuel.

  “As you know, the Merchants Militant maintain strict confidentiality when negotiating and executing contracts so that there is little to no direct contact between mercenary operators and corporate employers,” said Imago as he reached into a compartment in his armor withdraw two small data-coins with a symbol embossed on the surface that looked like a skull with a rifle and sword on either side of it.

  “Makes sense, given that you sell your services to whoever can afford your rates,” Samuel replied. “I could see it being easy to make enemies out there. Grotto, at least, provides us with some sense of place, an idea of whose side we’re on.” Samuel’s voice was flat, devoid of the confidence in his words he might have felt just a few years ago. “Without the shelter of the corporate umbrella, we’re on our own and no better than the Red List.”

  “This is the purpose of the Merchants Militant; it provides us with shelter, of a sort. Though we belong to no corporation or even hail from similar cultures, all registered mercenaries have a reasonable expectation of privacy,” Imago replied. “We arrive, we fight, we get paid, and we leave. There is a simplicity to that which is a shelter all its own.”

  The mercenary then returned his helmet to his head and stood up. He tapped a locator beacon on his forearm and almost immediately one of the combat speeders approached the hill.

  “Most of us live in the more remote places of the universe,” Imago said, “where we can use our wealth as a shield against corporate interests, to keep our homes wild, our hearts free and our families healthy,” The speeder pulled up near the hill and a hatch opened, revealing several other elites and an empty seat within.

  “You don’t worry about being on the frontier? Even Abzu is on the edge of a pretty wild tract of unmapped space,” questioned Samuel as he stood politely to see Imago off.

  The mercenary considered Samuel’s comment for a moment, then nodded towards the battlefield below them as he said,

  “A philosopher and an economist might speak in agreement that they see the view below to represent both the best and the worst aspects of capitalism. What I see is truth. Two great houses competing for resources, their economic struggle expressed as a military conflict, and crushed between them are the Red Listed colonists.

  They probably thought they were lucky to have discovered such a valuable resource, that is, before the tanks and the soldiers. To exist outside the system, but still be subject to its power, is a desperate sort of freedom. The Folken are still part of the system, though we live upon its fringes.”

  Samuel frowned. “So you’re saying the only difference between your people and the Red Listed is the fact that you still fight for the system, even if you loathe it and keep yourself and your families apart from it,” he snorted. “It doesn’t seem like you hold civilization in much high regard.”

  “There is time enough for civilization when we are at war,”
replied Imago. ”As long as we are willing to pay the tithe when our times comes, it is a good life.” Imago offered Samuel the data-coins. “Hyst Samgir, each day as a soldier you risk your life. The wise man gets paid as much as he can, as fast as he can, so that he may retire before the tithe takes him.

  Your deeds on the field were noticed by the Folken and we agree that you and your comrade Takeda Bengir have earned these. A coin for each of you, and once a second is earned, upon any field and by the hand of any wargir, you will be able to seek membership to the Merchants Militant. I hope that one day soon there will be a place for you among us.” He gave Samuel a firm warrior’s handshake. “Until that day.”

  The mercenary nodded once to Samuel, then boarded the vehicle without another word. As the speeder rocketed out of sight Samuel could see that many other speeders and various planetside ships were leaving the area en masse.

  Now that the hardest of the fighting was done the elite troopers were pulling out. It was the duty of the Reapers to mop up the last pockets of resistance, strip the dead, and begin the clean up and salvage operation. It was the battlefield clean up phase of the process that seemed to tug at Samuel’s resolve the hardest. It was one thing to fight and survive in the furious chaos of battle, but once the combat was over, Samuel found that the violence did not stop. There were corpses, both enemy and comrade, to be looted, cataloged, and incinerated. There would be a multitude of fires to extinguish and untold chemical spills, fuel leaks, and containment breaches.

  The Reaper environmental suit was of a very old make and model. Though they were ugly to behold, they were indeed robust in their effectiveness. Over the last four years Samuel had endured a broad range of hazardous materials during the clean up phase of the salvage operation. This colony operation did have its differences however, as this was the first battle in which the salvage marines had been part of a front line action.

  Reapers were much like the kyracks, Samuel mused as he watched the flights of birds dart in and out of the battlefield while marines moved through the area. The salvage marines were deployed to the abandoned places of the universe, the decommissioned, the derelict, and the forgotten, to pick over the bones of the remains in the aftermath of battle. It was somewhat out of their scope to be placed on the front line of a trade war. While Reapers were indeed soldiers, they were predominantly salvage workers who had military training and hardware. Their combat effectiveness on the front line paled in comparison to the likes of Imago and his comrades.

  Samuel walked down the hill as he thought of Mag. It was she, among many other Reapers, who had paid the price today for the administration’s insistence that a salvage team participate. When Samuel looked at the conflict in the terms laid out by Imago’s grim philosophy, it made perfect sense to have the Reapers present, as they, unlike the elite troopers, were trained to fight in such a way as to preserve the mission target. For the salvage marines, the purpose of any given mission was asset procurement or recovery. The marines used small caliber weapons, few explosives, and were trained to avoid causing unwarranted collateral damage.

  Elite troopers had little concern for such things, and were more likely to destroy anything in their path rather than concern themselves with preserving buildings, hardware, or potential resources. In time, Mag would simply be logged in the loss category, and her life would be balanced against the net gains made by the corporation.

  PROFIT AND LOSS

  Samuel looked out over the battlefield, feeling as if he was seeing it with new eyes indeed. Many of the buildings had been spared destruction, as had most of the vespine gas reserves. The Helion forces were so soundly beaten that they’d left behind much of their own military and mining hardware, which would no doubt be considered an additional gain allocation on the final operation balance sheet.

  When he looked at it from the perspective of the Bottom Line, Samuel could see that this had shaped up to be a very profitable venture and that the lives of the marines lost today would be considered a worthwhile expenditure in the course of conducting business in the sector. This battle was going to make an administrator’s career, thought Samuel as he watched the first of the Reaper breaker skiffs hitting atmosphere.

  Samuel walked down the hill to join Ben and Patrick, who had been resting in the shade of a blasted out storefront near the edge of town, just beneath the hilltop. They had taken their helmets off, which was generally frowned upon as a breach of military discipline, especially since the fighting had not ended officially.

  “Hyst, pull your squad together and converge on my waypoint. I’m uploading to your man’s rig now,” crackled the deep voice of Boss Marsters in Samuel’s com-bead. “There’s a problem with the turbines down there. Looks like a few hostiles got left behind when Helion pulled out. Double time it marines!”

  “Takeda! Patrick! Get your helmets on!” shouted Samuel as he strode towards them, “We’re back online.”

  Ben and Patrick appeared taken aback by Samuel’s commanding tone, though they did as they were told and donned their helmets. Ben left his heavy machine gun where it sat and hefted a Helion rail rifle.

  Though it wasn’t protocol to use off-brand weapons, without the chance for a rest and refit, the marines used whatever tools they could to suit the job at hand. From what Samuel could see Ben had managed to figure out how to operate the rail rifle, no doubt from watching Imago and Costa Sagge.

  “I’ve got the waypoint, looks like we’re only a few clicks away,” said Patrick as he started off at a run, followed by Samuel and Ben.

  As they sprinted through the colony streets, Samuel was reminded of the brutal combat that had occurred there only hours before. Where there had once been a furious storm of smoke, gunfire, blood, and the roar of tank engines, now the streets were bustling with the busy work of salvage and repair. Samuel figured that if the pace of work stayed consistent, the colony would be cleaned up and back to optimal production within a few days. After a few weeks it would be as if there was no battle here at all.

  Boss Marsters was waiting with his squad at the entrance to the turbine station. The squad leader nodded at Samuel and gave the signal to move out.

  “Squad Ulanti is already inside, they’re pinned down by an unknown number of shooters. They’d send elites in there to root them out with seeker rounds, but the turbines are necessary for the vespine extraction,” said Boss Marsters as the two squads descended the stairs to the sound of sporadic gunfire from within the station, “We need to flank whoever is down there and get this fight finished without damaging the turbines.”

  “Grotto can’t just buy some replacements? This colony is a big win, they’re gonna be swimming in cash once this place gets liquidated,” protested Ben as they crept through the half-light of the station, moving slowly down a series of hallways and empty monitoring rooms.

  “The administrators want this place back up to full production as soon as possible, they’re only going to liquidate the salvaged Helion assets,” Boss Marsters replied as he continued onward. “Replacement turbines would delay the whole project by months.”

  “We’re the cheaper option, brother,” said Samuel as he took point position from Ben, since his combat rifle was better suited to the close quarters gloom of the station.

  The sound of gunfire continued to ring out, and finally Samuel was able to reach the end of the maze of halls and engineer compartments as the walkway opened up to reveal the primary turbine chambers.

  From his vantage point, Samuel could see that Squad Ulanti had entered the building through the access tunnels in an attempt to infiltrate the building from the lowest point and clear their way upwards as was standard Reaper tactic. However, it appeared as if something had slowed their progress. They were holding position beneath a gigantic sump-water tank that was already riddled with bullet holes and leaking gallons of pressurized water across the base of the station. As he tried to get a clue as to what had them pinned down a whirring sound came from below as Samuel was joined by Ben
and the rest of the marines.

  “Mini-gun!” shouted Boss Marsters as he pushed Samuel and Ben to the side, shoving Jada back into the walkway, “Scatter!”

  From somewhere below the weapon began spitting rounds at the newly arrived marines and the two old friends from Baen scampered to avoid being pulped by the salvo. The marines hurled themselves down the corrugated metal stairwell, tumbling a full flight down to the next level, well ahead of the bullets that chased them.

  Samuel was dazed, but pushed himself to his feet and raised his combat rifle just in time to see a mech-warrior painted in Helion logos switching off its mini-gun and rotating the weapon arm to activate what appeared to be an infantry sized plasma-lance.

  Ben roared and began firing his rail gun as he and Samuel rushed to get out of the enemy’s line of fire. Their only hope was to keep moving and use their superior mobility to out-flank the mech-warrior. The two marines had landed on the wrong side of the water container and were unable to use it for cover, so they ran past it, doing their best to dodge the high-pressure spray of the water as it poured from the rents in the container.

  Ben’s rail-gun slammed enough bullets into the mech-warrior that it finally stumbled and was forced to readjust its aim as Samuel continued to cut to the right while Ben lunged left laying down suppressing fire. By then the rest of the marines above had begun to pour fire down on top of it.

  The mech’s armor was strong, though enough projectiles slammed into it that the odd round was managing to damage the robust war machine. Ben’s weapon clicked empty and he kneeled behind cover to slot a fresh magazine, which seemed to be giving him some trouble, as the weapon, though powerful, was still unfamiliar. The mech-warrior’s off hand was outfitted with a basic combat rifle attachment, drum fed for continuous use, and the mech-warrior sprayed semi-automatic fire at the marines above as it turned the plasma-lance towards Samuel.