Chapter 2: Refit
The world changed after 2045. I can't remember too much from homeschool, but we were the first to separate from the statist world. But...my memory escapes me.
I took a second to look up from my hash dinner, to glance over to Martinez, who was imbibing himself with a beer, reclining against a wooden crate with tools we stowed away inside our tank. The food, the booze, and the tool chest were marked with DtNaCo logos.
The boots? DyNaCo.
The Uniforms and rucksacks? DyNaCo.
Spare parts for the tank? DyNaCo.
Computers and thermal imaging tech? DyNaCo.
The shells we fired. DyNaCo. DyNaCo provided us with all the resources we needed to prosecute the will of the corporation--Our homes and our families depended on our success, as did the corporation itself.
Whitman popped his head out from his tent, a cigarette resting between his lips as he took a short drag, emerging from the small half-shell, his boots pressed firmly into the frozen ground underfoot. Frost flowers dotted the ground in front of our tents, the tank providing a windbreak from the pressure system that was building off to our west.
I could see a break in the grey sky above, the sun sinking under the distant horizon, immolating the sole patch of blue with stripes of yellow, blue, red, even green, if you looked closely enough, the chill of darkness ready to veil the air in a blanket of frost for the 2nd night. But we weren't sleeping another night here.
"Okay, guys," Whitman announced, like he did every time he got big news from up top, like a coach, or a production supervisor. "CEO Barstow and The Mannequin got another job for us."
Slowly, the members of our tank roused out of our tents and huddled around the fire we had prepared a day earlier and kept alight with loose timber from whatever we could find from the small forest fire we started the night previous.
The Samsonians were no more--Their bodies left as kindling or feed for the wolves that roamed this part of the Northern Hemisphere, so we were left with silence at night. Our company of tanks resting amidst the gentle prodding of winter's approach.
- "We're looking at another two-day travel to the Eastern coast of this region, where we're going to get a quick resupply and rearm before heading back north to have a friendly talk with Crazy Horse Company about their indiscretion the other day. We're in DyNaCo territory, so that means that we have a responsibility to Barstow to keep the frontiers here clear for further development; including chasing off squatters or encroaching corporations. Engines turn in 6 hours--get some sleep."
The next morning was uneventful. Whitman, Martinez, Sanders and myself packed up and fell into formation with the rest of Saber. We sat there for a moment, until Saber Actual came over the Net.
"All Saber, We'll be stepping off here...we'll have to leave 5-1's crew behind...I've been reassured DyNaCo will collect the bodies today, and their families have been notified...If we could take a minute to just reflect on our loss..."
The silence was astounding. The engines turned off, the hatches opened, and everyone looked out to the field to the right of the road we had fought over the day before, where the mangled skeletons of tanks still smoldering lay. Beside a destroyed M1A3, the emblem of Saber Company remained untouched by the fires that had consumed the tank. Its crew collected and lay side by side, black wool blankets covering them, their helmets seated atop their chests, their names stenciled on with the white paint we used to mark our vehicles.
I did not know them.
Despite our good harmony in combat, we didn't know each other well enough to feel sorry--At least I didn't. I was more disappointed they did not get to enjoy the wanton silence of nature. But, I suppose they were enjoying a different type of silence.
The wind cut across our faces as we silently stood vigil over their bodies for a few moments, each blast bringing with it the faint stench of death.
"Okay," Saber Actual said quietly over the net. "All Saber- Forward."
The engines turned on and we rolled out, leaving behind the somber memory of the dead. We had a mission to prosecute. The drive to our next point was long, quiet for a few moments, until Martinez plugged his mp3 player into the AUX port. The sounds of Metal blared through the internal headsets of everyone, the volume quiet enough to hear incoming transmissions--mostly banter, discussions about the financial strength of DyNaCo compared to the other corporations.
DyNaCo came into existence after a 30-year span of proxy wars led by rogue PMCs. The corporations involved in the arming and deployment of those mercenaries. Most corporations found that creating armed wings of their company to intervene in international politics appealed to their financial benefit, from what I remembered.
Eventually, every corporation found themselves fighting each other in various roles, as well as engaging in financial jockeying for position. Those corporations that were destroyed were assimilated and became part of the conglomerate. DyNaCo was the largest conglomerate before the establishment of the new order that we were living through--overthrowing the government by electing a leader sympathetic to their ultimate goal--the establishment of an Anarcho-Capitalist government. Canada, U.S.A., Mexico and everything south of it--ceased to be nation-states.
In its place, Corporations like DyNaCo took up the responsibility to protect, care for, educate, and support the citizens where their jurisdictions resided, all the while, fending off the last remaining nation-states, as well as enterprising corporations, or even splinter groups that were bought out by other companies, which is what happened the day before. The small town living by the port where we were looking to resupply was walled off--accessible through a toll gate. This far out on the frontier, the residents were wary to accept anyone without some sort of identification--and financial insurance, just in case.
We promptly gave them our vouchers from DyNaCo; they'd have to just wirelessly transmit the information when we were done there. The citizens were warm, caring folks who treated us with respect, as we did to them. It was an idyllic town, modestly built, a
standing militia on guard at the walls and within the town, working alongside one of the thousands private police forces--Masterson Enforcement. Their reputation was good; a majority of third-party watchdogs agreed on that based on their own independent research.
DyNaCo's ships were in the harbor, paying by the hour, so our job was to assist the crew in off-loading our supplies, then getting them ready to sail in as short a time-span as possible. Barstow gave us the financial incentive to do some manual labor, but most
of us felt compelled to do it anyway-- it was, as some say, "the least we could do".
It took us 4 hours, but our cargo was offloaded, and the DyNaCo freighter was aweigh, which left us the small issue of distributing the cargo and refueling. Saber Actual went to the help center in the middle of town, and payed a good amount of AmCreds (Amorphous Credits) asking for volunteers. Needless to say, the town had to convert the credits to their currency to get the approximate value, but within a few moments, the blockchain updated and the jobs were posted.
About a dozen volunteers appeared, standing at the docks waiting for Saber Actual to distribute wallet vouchers and get them to start working. Didn't take long once they got the vouchers, and they helped immensely, cutting the workload down to 3 hours. By
this point, the Sun had started to set, and the volunteers had left already. Sanders was too busy trying to flirt with one of the local girls who had taken a fancy to his uniform, however plain it was. Perhaps she liked the cut of it, but when time came to roll
out after supper, Sanders gave her a voucher for DyNaCo products, with his email on it. She then went on her way. The mountain range to our north became illuminated in the sunset, as another torrent of clouds poured down the side of the low hills
ahead of us. The drive would be a long endeavor, another 2 days to link up with Crazy Horse company if we drove through the mountains, but we were planning on taking the coast to the East, bypassing them. They were no place for a tank company.
Saber Company would link up with our partners, Gauntlet and Shield at the old town of Montpelier, where Crazy Horse was waiting for us. That'd make 43 tanks against...We weren't sure. We were going to wait on The Mannequin to give us exact estimates, as she was closer to the intelligence company she had hired for us.
[Montpelier]
[2 Days Later]
DyNaCo had made a good established beachhead in this old continent, and we were the spearhead for them. It had been a very slow process taking territory for the company, as it had been a game of trade contracts and mutual agreements to come under
control, with the occasional armed response to our approach. Crazy Horse had to fuck it up, however. The Mannequin relayed the information to us that she found out that the Samsonians had a grand total of...
Nothing.
There was nothing left in their crypto wallets and couldn't afford to pay Crazy Horse. It was assumed that someone else gave them the finances to do so.
We had left the road sometime before and were now in a long-abandoned grain field, where the wheat flourished freely from the black soil, leaving the crops unattended. We lined up and sat just a mile outside the city gates of Montpelier, all the while a
guitar plucked its strings for us, feeding the audio into the company's radios. We were holding quietly, anxiously. Would we get attacked before we had a chance to react
Always a possibility.
"Cut the music," Saber Actual said. Whitman complied. Saber Actual seemed pretty upset about something. "We're expecting Crazy Horse in 15 mikes. Load Sabot and get your engines on, weapons ready. Standby for a transmission from The Mannequin."
There was a period of silence, followed by the motherly-like voice of The Mannequin.
"Saber Company...I congratulate you on your rapid response to the Samsonian incident 3 days prior. Rest assured, your client appreciates your professionalism--He has said it firsthand. Unfortunately, our work is not done; despite DyNaCo's success here, we are at the flashpoint of a potential war between DyNaCo and the Slav-owned KWP. They financially intervened in the Samsonian Incident by paying off The Crazy Horse PMC. We are planning on meeting the PMC here to reiterate the wishes of our client- Not to trifle with our affairs. For the duration, you, Gauntlet, and Shield PMCs will be on DyNaCo Payroll until this incident is settled, no matter how long it takes."
- "Holy shit," Sanders said quietly. "Another big war." Martinez gave an audible "Hmm", alluding to his agreement as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. "We're looking at a long fight ahead of us, right boss?" He was asking Whitman. Whitman waited a moment before responding.
"Ask Driver."
- "Me?" I asked. "I don't know the first thing about the situation...I just drive the tank. That's my name, boss."
Whitman shook his head and responded.
"KWP has been establishing territory here in the Contested zone for years...Since we arrived from the Atlantic, we've been gaining territory much faster than we had estimated--Faster than the KWP had anticipated. We're two thousand miles away from each other...The Contested Zone is more like a corridor, or a Demilitarized zone, so to speak..."
- "So we're looking at war, A long war." I concluded.
"Looks like it," Whitman said. "I suggest mailing home most of your personal effects from Seville...We're not going home anytime soon."
Saber Actual's voice came through the net just then, his voice tense with a mixture of fear, determination, and grit.
"All Saber, Intel has indicated a large force pushing through the city ruins. Orders are to advance and investigate. You are weapons free. Roll out!"
Just like that, we were going into battle again. Tanks in the city, most likely Crazy Horse, backed by KWP. That was apparent now--It wasn't just a war for territory. This was a fight between PMCs representing corporations--An action that was illegal; it went against the PMC-Corp treaty signed decades ago. We weren't supposed to represent corporate fights. This was supposed to be a lawyer's' job. Alas, the pay was good, and 43 tanks rolled into the city, unsure of what we were going to find.
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