Temporary Merc - Reprobate Check out Chapter One

CHAPTER

 

 

 

 

 

First rule.

There are no gentleman's rules in war.

Rules get written by survivors, and those survivors don't want anyone to know what kind of shit they did or how horrible they were to survive.

So they create the myth of the gentleman.

Honor. Duty. All that shit.

And it is just that. A bunch of shit.

Cause when you're going through Hell, it's all about you and the guy next to you, and that gal on the other side of you.

All about surviving and staying alive.

And to do that, you have to kill the enemy.

You kill the hell out of them, and live to do it all over again, like some time loop crazy way of living.

Second rule.

When you get out, when you put in your twenty and you're done, you don't talk about it.

Not to anybody.

You can talk shit to the people who survived it with you. But talking shit ain't doing shit, if you know what I'm saying.

Cause talking shit sounds like a fishing tale from earth.

Everything gets bigger with the retelling of the tale.

And I was done talking anyway.

I did my twenty, and got out of the Galactic Federation Corps with all limbs intact and planned to collect my pension and drink.

I didn't talk to anyone for the first six months.

Just did a tour thing, the kind of thing kids did in a gap year back on earth when they backpacked around Europe and slept in hostels.

Or some of my veteran buddies still did, heading back to the North American Union and hiking up one side of the continent on the Pacific Coast Trail, across the whole of it on the Cross Canadian Trail way and down the Appalachian Trail.

I didn't want to go back to earth.

Not ever again.

So I took a tour of the space stations and colonies.

And I drank and I didn't speak to one living soul.

Plenty of dead ones did enough talking to me.

The guy who did our group separation said that we needed a hobby. Said that seventy percent of veterans of combat operations ate the end of a blaster in the first six months they were out because they couldn't do the transition to civilian life.

Seven out of ten hard charging sons of bitches couldn't handle that kind of life.

For six months, I didn't say a word and wondered which side of the spectrum I'd fall into.

The seven or the three.

I didn't have any hobbies.

Unless you counted drinking and barge hopping and moving on before the memories could catch up.

"There you are," a man stepped out of the crowd and hopped up on a stool next to me.

I couldn't remember what space station we were on.

Damn things dotted the galaxy wherever precious minerals could be found and that was a lot of space.

Asteroids. Moons.

Hell, I'd been on a rocket powered station that tailed a comet because the core was made of palladium.

Lots of miners and scientists and politicians on every single one.

A lot of current soldiers, all young, dumb and full of piss.

I looked at the guy on the stool next to me.

We were in a bar, which could have been called a dive on earth, but it was the kind of place I liked.

Drinks were cheap and it was dark, lit by neon colored LED's and populated with hard workers just looking for a place to unwind after a shift.

Maybe I looked like I belonged.

It had been a few weeks since I showered, longer than that since I hadn't slept in my wrinkled jumpsuit.

He did not look like he belonged.

He looked fresh, and crisp, buttoned up.

Hair clipped short in military fashion, black and tight and slick. Ice blue eyes that flashed with intensity.

Trim waist, gray shirt tucked into non-descript black pants.

He held out a muscular calloused hand I didn't shake.

That didn't seem to bother him.

"I've been searching for you," he said and pulled a tablet from the small bag carried on a cross strap on his shoulder.

He set it on the bar between us, finger poised above the touchscreen.

"I almost caught up with you on Ceres," he said and waved off the robot drink tender as it rolled over on a rail to offer a drink. "But you hopped a freighter just as I docked."

I held up a finger to stop him and he bit back what he was going to say next.

Then I motioned to the robot to come back and tapped my glass.

The metallic arm whirred up and a stream of amber colored liquid trickled from one of the fingers into the glass.

"You will need to reboot your credits," it said before whirring away again.

"Don't worry, next round's on me," the man said.

I opened my mouth to offer thanks, but closed it again before the words came out.

I was on a streak, like a monk with a vow of silence, so I tried to thank him with my eyes instead.

"Are you injured?" he creased his eyebrows in concern and tapped the screen.

He pulled up a file and used his thumb and forefinger to make it larger.

"No mention of accidents in your file, but did something happen since you separated?"

I took a sip of my drink and thought about telling him that I wasn't interested in what he was selling.

The Galactic Federation Corp, GFC, released lists of separated veterans every month when they turned out the next group of survivors.

Those lists were picked up by markets and insurance salesmen, or salesman of all types looking to remove as much of the thin pension from the vets as they could.

I wondered if this guy was selling life insurance and how many pay outs he had made seven out of ten times.

"I know what you're thinking," his bright eyes flashed.

I bet he didn't.

"You're wondering why I'm looking for you. Wondering what I've got to say to you all the way out here on the asteroid rim."

I wasn't.

I wanted to drink in peace and silence and try to drown out the screams of the dying.

The ones I killed and the ones who once were beside me.

"I'm Major Jorge Strait," he tried the hand again. "Have you heard of me?"

Heard of him?

"Son of a bitch," I croaked and finally took his hand.

 

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