Strange Company Nick Cole (best classic novels TXT) 📖

loyalist guerilla fighters were dead or bleeding out on the street in the night as the moon disappeared behind the skeletal remains of skyscrapers to the west. I bet they’d wanted to die gloriously just like this kid sitting in front of me wanted to when he decided to try PMC’ing. Instead they made the mistake of running into us one dark and arty night. We waited for a few minutes and then sent Choker and Punch in to finish everyone off and get a unit ID for the bounty.

The company can turn the body count in for cash. But I have a gut feeling we’ll be lucky to get off this world alive much less get paid in any kind of stellar currency. Fat chance on seeing actual hard mem.

Last time I checked, the Coreward Currency Market was trading Astralonian baht at seventy-thousand to one against CoreBit. One mem is worth a thousand CoreBit.

A case of six-point-five for the Bastard costs twenty CoreBit on the black market.

But CoreBits are hard to come by and beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to hard mem. And that’s the thing no one ever tells you about being a merc. Yeah, you got freedom. But freedom’s just another word for nothing left to spend on something that might save your life when everything goes spinward.

So you’re kind of always begging. Especially if you’re not too proud. And merc’in and pride do not, I repeat, do not go hand in hand. There’s no pride in running when the contract’s dead and the LZ’s getting shelled. The locals who you’ve been defending want your blood, and the hoochies you promised were gonna end up on the right side of the conflict are now wondering why you’re running and not fighting like they thought you would when they gave away their goods for free.

Nothing’s free. Nothing. Is. Free. That can be read and believed both ways.

Nah, pride’s just a slick dress uniform and a cheap lie that’ll get you killed when the people you’re fighting for, who aren’t doing any of the actual fighting, start selling you out and making their best deal… for themselves and themselves alone.

So, chuck that. You don’t need pride. Not here. Not in the company. Full mags, working weapons, and some dudes who got your back. That’s what you need if you’re gonna see the other side of this. That’s what makes us brothers. Whether we like it or not. It’s the galaxy against us and the sooner you realize that the better.

“I’m Sergeant Orion,” I tell the kid. “First rule in Reaper is you do everything I tell you. Got that, Kid?”

He doesn’t realize it but for the foreseeable future Kid is his new name.

The Kid, holding the protein bar and staring wide-eyed at me who looks like he’s going to vomit and who has not eaten the bar as I asked him to, just stares at me, unsure what to do… not just next… but at all.

“So…” I tell him, real patiently. “Eat your bar. You’re going to need calories and I don’t need you getting all weak in the middle of a fight should we find ourselves in such later tonight. Which is probably going to happen sooner than later. Sorry about that.”

Still he doesn’t do anything. He just stares at me. I’m pretty sure he’s figuring out he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life in joining Strange Company. If the last two hours with the First Sergeant and his non-stop litany of death and injury life lessons he likes to salt indocs with haven’t freaked this kid out, then the energy tower that just exploded on the other side of the city, with close air support ripping the street and skies apart to boot, has done the trick for sure. Death is out there on the streets tonight. And there are darker things than just night on the prowl.

“First rule,” I say slowly like I’m talking to a child, or an imbecile. “Do. Everything. I. Say. Kid.”

Kid nods. Barely.

“Eat. The. Protein. Bar. I. Gave. You. Kid.”

The Kid looks at it. Nods again and begins to tear it open listlessly. If I wanted to double all my useless Astralonian Bhat I’d bet someone close by he’s going to hurl in the next two minutes. I don’t have very good leadership skills. But I’ve found betting against myself makes me play harder. So, call pessimism a survival tool.

“I’m gonna teach you how to survive this, okay?” I tell him.

Kid takes a bite and the taste of the bar does something to him. It settles him down. He chews slow at first. Then faster. There’s things in the bar that do that. Put you in the zone to get it on for the fight that’s coming our way. That’s why I make him eat one.

“Do everything I say and you might survive and get pushed to one of the other platoons. Got that? For now, you’re in the Reapers. We do all the worst jobs. We do those really well. You will learn to do so and either Ghost or Dogs will fight for your body to add to their squads. Or no one will and you’ll stay here and die doing something stupid. But doing it anyway. I’m pretty sure you got no medical training, otherwise you wouldn’t be here as both Ghost and Dogs lost medics this week. Tough business being a doc on this one. I’ll say that. Plus, Cutter’s a real crab and believe me you do not want to work for that man directly.”

Cutter’s the company doc. He’s also a mean drunk. But he’s pretty good at meatball surgery. Which, he tells everyone who has to get him out of trouble, is why he drinks. I’m pretty sure he drinks because he’s just a miserable human being and miserable human beings need excuses for why they’re miserable human beings instead of just owning that they choose to be miserable human beings.

See what