CUL ROSS tried to ignore the stench of battle as he stood next to TORRY BURN, starting out at no-man’s land. Holographic flags dozens of metres high were projected onto his retinal monitor, a cybernetic implant all but the lowest, or poorest of soldiers had. Each flag marked an objective which had either been captured, blue, or was still in enemy hands. Red.

TORRY BURN sighed, gloved hand tapping away at his diagnostic tablet, muttering curses under his breath as he tried to get the battered machine to work. CUL ROSS stretched slightly, the machine not being the only thing which was battered. Neither of their armour was unblemished, each scored and pitted by non-fatal hits from enemy fire.

I need better padding in this damned suit. It’s way past overhaul time, thought CUL ROSS peering at the smoke drifting across the battle ground. Burning mecha, tanks and armoured vehicles littered the ground, scavengers from the local villages already picking their way through the wrecks.

They were joined by civilians, hangers-on looking for their loved ones. Shouted names reached his helmet’s audio pickups, as did the wails and sobs of those who had found their loved ones amongst the dead sentients littered across the ground as far as he could see.

And over the sounds of the weeping civilians were the cries of the wounded, screaming and pleading for help in every language known in the ‘verse. Ambu-drones from both sides flitted through the sky, scanning the downed sentient’s IFF (Identify Friend of Foe) chips, then lifting them gently into their bowels.

CUL ROSS Are they corvids or Valkyries? Thought as he watched a triple amputee be lifted from the ground, their screams shutting off as they were injected with nano-meds. No matter how fast those things work, there’s never enough of them.

He spat, trying to clear his mouth of the taint of battle. He’d bitten his tongue at some point, only now feeling the pain. He couldn’t remember when it happened.

I can never remember much of any battle, he thought. Which was a blessing. Too many screaming faces woke him up in the middle of the night as it was. But now, after so many years, they tended to blur into one long scream.

“Move your fucking arses, you sack of shits!” Bellowed a voice from behind him. Startling slightly, he turned and watched as a mix of human and Tigran guards marched a double line of prisoners to the rear lines. Just as with every prisoner he’d seen before, they marched with their heads down, hands on their heads, eyes scanning the ground, taking shortened steps as if they were afraid they’d be gunned down at any moment.

He didn’t blame them. Prisoner massacres weren’t unheard of. Especially if a Lord refused to pay a ransom and the prisoners couldn’t be trusted to be paroled. These ones were likely safe however. Lord Alejandro De Jimenez was known to care for his soldiers.

A rare breed amongst men and sentients, he thought ruefully.

With that thought he turned his attention to the one-man mecha standing behind him as rigid as only one can behind him. Smoke rose still from its heat sinks, testament to the energy expended during the last battle. Rust stains and old battle wounds covered it, a veteran of too many years of battle to be counted.

A cough sounded over the mecha’s external speakers. Wet and phlegmy it sounded as though it came from the bottom of an oil well.

CUL ROSS turned his head towards TORRY BURN. TORRY BURN’s face was grim, which was plain even under the grime of battle.

“The old bastard sounds worse. Those bloody implants haven’t taken.” He could barely summon up the energy to be disappointed.

TORRY BURN “All of our money, gone. And the silly bastard won’t rest.”

TORRY BURN’s voice was just as flat. It was as if the fighting had robbed them both of any emotion, and now they were as like two shadows of their former selves inhabiting suits of gothic battle armour purely because their spirits were bound to them and unable to escape.

TORRY BURN sighed. And even that seemed to take too much effort. CUL ROSS waited for them to speak again. They didn’t. There was another bout of coughing, a pause no more than a heart beat long, then another bout of coughing which ended in what sounded like a lung being expelled. Violently.

CUL ROSS swallowed the bile that rose into his throat. Few things disgusted him, but that sound. He repressed a shudder.  “Got just enough shillings to get a doctor to check him.”

TORRY BURN finally managed to stir up some emotion.  “What’s the point? He’ll just tell him to piss off, ignore all the advice, keep drinking, and try to fight.” Bitter cynicism wasn’t his usual approach to life, but the battle they’d just fought would have been enough to diminish all but the brightest of innocent souls so much blood and bodily fluid had been spilt. Some three hundred thousand souls lost all told according to the casualty lists. And over a million injured.

CUL ROSS Sighed. He was lost for words. Unusual for him. But if breathing hadn’t been natural he would have likely just not bothered he was that tired. As the second-in-command of their Company of freelancers, he had fought many battles with their Captain, their Lord. And he knew more than any just how stubbornly stupid the man could be.

Another round of coughing came from the speakers. This time it was harder, longer, wetter. Truly stomach churning to listen to. It went one for far too long before finally, a pause. Then a long sigh. After that, nothing.

CUL ROSS turned to TORRY BURN, opened his mouth to voice his concerns, then shut it with a click when a siren sounded over their comms channel and through the air alike.  It was long, low, a bass that made his bowels vibrate. The sound of battle. Or rather, the ten minute warning of a battle soon to commence.

CUL ROSS “We need to get him up and ready.” He said instead. Licking his lips at the thought of another battle to come. Whilst war was his trade, it wasn’t something he relished. Unlike some he knew. Fortunately, the company he was in had no such sentients.

TORRY BURN stepped forward and pressed an intercom button on the mecha’s leg. Whilst they had broad, narrow and laser based communication systems, the best way to communicate with a metal giant was often the simplest. If you could get close enough without being stepped on that was.

“Boss. We need to get you to the staging point for the next attack.”

Boss. Some companies were tightly militaristic, trying to emulate the regular armies they served alongside as if that would lessen the contempt the so-called ‘real’ soldiers had for freelancers. But Boss sufficed in this unit. As well as some other choice nicknames the rank and file had come up with.

CUL ROSS knew of at least three different ways they referred to him. None of which were pleasant, or even respectful. And none of which he gave a toss about. Soldiers were soldiers, no matter if they were professional or freelance and so long as he wasn’t called one of those names to his face, he didn’t have a problem.

TORRY BURN looked over with a frown as there was no response from the mecha pilot. “Think he’s fallen asleep?”

CUL ROSS shrugged. He wasn’t worried, but there was an itch at the back of his brain.

TORRY BURN tried again, raising his voice as if that would make a difference, pressing hard on the button as if that too would help.

“Nothing.” he fussed around with the intercom. “Intercom’s working.”

He kicked the mecha’s leg with a dull thonk only made possible by the fact he was in a battlesuit. Had he done it wearing a normal boot he would have broken his toes.

“Stubborn fucking bastard!”

“Check his vitals,” CUL ROSS said. The itch now turned into worry. Red Rot was a nasty way to go, but they’d been assured by the physician that the vat-grown lungs would cure the Boss.

Guess you get what you pay for, he thought.

“Oh fucking hell,” TORRY BURN waved the tablet. “This is not good.”

CUL ROSS snatches the tablet from their hand. It communicated with all of the mecha’s onboard systems, including the pilot monitoring system. His stomach flipped as he looked at the flat heart and blood pressure lines, zeroes flashing where there should have been double digits at the very least.

“Shit.”

TORRY BURN “Shit’s right. You sure that thing’s working?”

CUL ROSS slapped the table in time-honoured fashion. Nothing changed.

 “He’s dead.”

TORRY BURN “No, he can’t be,” they said, even though they’d seen the exact same signs as he, and had done so first. “ He’s got to be ready to go in ten minutes or we lose our deposit, he breaks his contract, and we face a ten thousand shilling fine, followed by a lawsuit which will cost even more shillings even if we don’t contest it, and result in losing further shillings.. And we still owe the armourer a thousand credits for printing up the ammo.”

CUL ROSS passed him the tablet, lines still flat, numbers still showing zero. “He’s fucking dead.”

“Who’s fucking dead?” asked BAL GOWNIE as he joined them from where he’d been readying the rest of the company for the next stage of the battle. As ever, he was chewing on a protein bar. BAL GOWNIE never passed up an opportunity to eat, even going so far as to carry a large spoon with which he would visit the various elements of their small company during meal times and help himself to whatever morsels they had managed to rustle up.

CUL ROSS “Boss man, look.”

BAL GOWNIE took the tablet as CUL ROSS passed it over.

He studied it. Slapped it a couple of times. Shook it rapidly as if that might , then spat on the ground.

“Balls. He owes me three months’ back pay.” He stood, hands on hips as he scowled up at the mecha. He had a particularly fine scowl which could cow even the most belligerent of sentients.

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TORRY BURN snorted. “He owes us all three month’s back pay. Every sentient in the company.”

CUL ROSS Pinched his nose, trying to keep his anger in check.  “I lent him three thousand shillings. All of my savings. Everything left from my mustering out pay.”

The thought made him sweat. He’d lent the money in good faith with a promise of a twenty per cent return upon completion of the campaign. If they survived that was. It would have been enough for him to buy a small plot of land on a civilised planet in a peaceful part of the Baronies. Maybe even move to the Republic. One of the heart worlds. No war.

TORRY BURN “What the hells do we do now?”

Their voice brought CUL ROSS’s attention back to the matter at hand. He knew it was a dream. There wasn’t a chance he was going to live to retire, unless it was medically, and he was missing most of his limbs and organs.

“Smith the armourer is going to kill us. Literally. Not metaphysically. Have you ever seen what a Tiger chimeran can do to a person?” Said BAL GOWNIE. He shuddered dramatically. CUL ROSS couldn’t tell whether it was acting or genuine. Either way, it reflected how he felt.

The Tigran smith was two metres, barefoot, with arms thicker than most human’s thighs and claws which could gut an unarmoured sentient as easily as scissors through paper. And he was known for having a short temper.

CUL ROSS “Plenty, I was on Keene Five. Fought in the sixth, seventh and eighth battles. Faced the 9th Jihad Martyrs.” He ground out the words through gritted teeth, unable to speak more eloquently as he fought to push down the memories of those battles.

“Oooh,” cooed both TORRY BURN and BAL GOWNIE. Only a hermit living on an asteroid in the Outer Reaches would have heard of Keene Five. A war which saw the entire planet rendered inhospitable after twenty years of war.

BAL GOWNIE “You’ve never spoken about that,” said as they laid a hand on CUL ROSS’s shoulder.

CUL ROSS cleared his throat, took a shuddering breath before answering. “Would you?”

BAL GOWNIE shook their head, giving CUL ROSS a gentle shake. “No, no I wouldn’t.”

A drone hummed its way over to them, green light flashing. <>

CUL ROSS looked over his shoulder at the rest of the unit. Company was a loose term used to describe any freelancer force, as well as a unit of up to two hundred infantry, or up to 40 tanks, or ten to fifteen mecha. It all depended upon the various powers and how they structured their armies, or how the richer company Captains did .

And they weren’t one of the richer companies. Aside from him, Lieutenant of the Company, TORRY BURN was the Master-at-arms, and BAL GOWNIE was the Quartermaster and Provost Sergeant. On top of that they had approximately a platoon of infantry, thirty three sentients when at nominal full strength, backed up with nine armoured fighting vehicles, three main battle tanks, and an engineering section.

Roughly sixty sentient beings all told. And all owed money. All expecting a big pay out for the battle ahead.

CUL ROSS looked up at the drone. “We’ll be with you momentarily,” he said whilst shooting a glare at the other two to prevent them from contradicting him. The looks on their faces were priceless and would have had him cackling in glee at any other time.

The drone spun on the spot and zipped away, heading towards the next company to be summoned to battle.

“We can’t fight”, TORRY BURN hissed. “Not without our Mecha-knight. We’ll be slaughtered.”

“Well, if you want to tell our people that the boss is dead, go ahead. I’ll watch as they rip you to pieces,” BAL GOWNIE snapped. “If the armourer doesn’t get to you first.” They added.

“We’ll fight,” said CUL ROSS before he even knew he was saying the words. His subconscious had made the decision for him, and he couldn’t bring himself to take the words back once they were out. And even though his stomach flipped as though he’d been on a week-long bender, he knew it was the right decision. For now at least.

“How?” asked TORRY BURN. “Our boss is fucking dead. And Xerxes knows where his son is.”

“Delta Omicron 15,” said CUL ROSS. “Arms dealer. Doing quite well by all reports. Twenty gates away, three months of hard travelling if they only stop to refuel. Six if they travel like normal people.”

“How’d you find that out?” asked TORRY BURN.

“Despite the fact that the boss fell out with him, he still had me keep track of him,” CUL ROSS said. “Just in case. You know if he dies, or needs to be able to pass on his holdings.”

TORRY BURN laughed, a harsh, grating cackle that held no mirth. BAL GOWNIE joined in, the two of them sound like deranged pyschopaths.

“Holding? A ship that doesn’t have enough fuel to leave atmosphere,” said TORRY BURN. “If it hadn’t been abandoned by the crew because the boss wasn’t paying them. And a company of misfits who will fucking kill us, if they find out boss is dead. Some fucking holding.”

 “So, we don’t bloody tell them!” snapped CUL ROSS. “It’s not like he was ever interested in attending briefings anyway. We did all of the planning and the briefings. He just strode about being mister big suit.”

They all turned to look at the fifteen-metre high suit. It was a Pike, named after a predatory fish from ancient history. Decades old it barely qualified as a heavy mecha, only doing so due to its payload. By modern standards it was more of a heavy light. There were scout mecha taller. Still, it had thick armour, could hit a good running speed and its weapons packed a punch far heavier than would be expected on a mecha of its size.

“You sure you want to do this?” BAL GOWNIE asked, brow furrowed. “It’s theft, and you’ll be impersonating a Mecha-knight. They’ll cut your balls off, lobotomise you, and stick you in some static defence position.”

Despite a suddenly dry mouth, CUL ROSS nodded. Jerkily. “There’s no other choice. If we break contract we can’t pay. If we can’t pay, we’ll be put into a debtor’s regiment. Probably be made to clear a mine field with our feet. And that’s if our own people don’t kill us. Hell, we’d have killed anyone stiffing us like this.”

Mecha-knights liked to talk about their code of honour, chivalry. But the reality was that after a century and a half of bitter war across thousands of planets in the Duchies, there was no honour. And especially not amongst the freelancer companies. To call it a cut-throat business was literal, not metaphysical.

“Well, we do have the user codes,” TORRY BURN said, if not enthusiastically. “It’s not as if we haven’t all moved the bitch at some point or other after a refit, or test run.”

Both battle suits and mecha used the same body glove to interact with their control systems, which meant CUL ROSS would be able to interface with the mecha easily. If he’d only been wearing a combat suit, he’d have been forced to get body glove implants, and find a body glove. Something their funds would not have allowed.

BAL GOWNIE kicked the ground, his servo-powered foot shattering a large rock. “Fuck it. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. We’ll stick the body in that crater.”

They all turned to look. It was at least ten metres deep and half-filled with stagnant, blood-red water. Another body added to the field would make little difference. CUL ROSS tried to summon some sort of feeling, some emotion about the loss of his lord. They’d fought alongside each for eight years. And yet, despite that, they’d never been anything more than employer and employee. Not a glimmer of friendship, more of a hint of grudging respect. A marriage of convenience if you would. And so, there was nothing. The thought of dropping the man into the crater disturbed him no more than picking a piece of lint from his dress uniform would.

“It’s a plan. We’re agreed then?” CUL ROSS looked at the other two, making sure that he met their eyes. Whilst he hadn’t had a good relationship with the boss, he counted the other two as the closest friends he’d ever had. And hoped with all his heart that they felt the same about him. Both nodded, faces resolute. Which was as good as a promise for him.

With a thought, he ordered his battle suit to release him which it did with a hiss of pneumatics. Even though he’d had his sallet’s visor raised, the relatively fresh air washing over his sweat-soaked body was more than welcome. Three metres tall, it was a miniature mecha, capable of destroying at least a platoon of unarmoured soldiers and quite possibly  His personal motif, three gold stars on a red background was displayed proudly on its shoulder armour. He’d earned those stars when he personally destroyed three enemy battle suits in close combat. He’d also been made a page at that point as well, although that honorific meant little as the boss was unlikely to ever have the means necessary to grant him a proper knighthood.

Taking hold of a grab handle, he peeled himself out of his pilot’s couch. Dropping to the ground with ease born out of years of practice he blinked-clicked the suit shut again with a command from his retinal monitor.

“I’ll leave this here. We’ll get it later.”

Walking up to the mecha placed a hand on one of the recessed handholds, looking over at his two friends. “Last chance. You sure?”

BAL GOWNIE “Sure is a strong word. But like I say we don’t have a choice.”

TORRY BURN just shrugged, then gave him a double thumbs-up, the gesture massive in his battle suit.

CUL ROSS took that as good-to-go. Taking a steadying breath, he climbed as quickly as he could before he gave in to the doubts that decided at that point to crowd into his mind. He licked his lips, wishing he could go and take five minutes to himself to deal with the cravings that were starting to wrack his body.

Steel yourself dammit, get the battle done, which was easier said than done. His stomach fluttered and he felt as though he’d been gut punched. Sucking hard on his water bladder he tried to get rid of his suddenly dry mouth. He hadn’t felt this nervous since his first battle. Which was so far in the past he he’d forgotten how inured to battle he was.  

Reaching the top of the ladder, he looked down briefly, giving his comrades a jaunty wave he most certainly didn’t feel, before slapping the cockpit emergency release. As with most mecha, the pilot was ensconced in the chest of the machine where the armour was thickest, sensors, cameras and other McGuffins being located in what could be called a head. Other mechas, such as the Martelle were far more anthropomorphic, but the Pike resembled a neckless golem. As mecha went, it was ugly. But it was also solid, carrying tons of armour.

As soon as the cockpit opened the stench of loosened bowel and bladder blasted out in warm, stomach churning gust. Death, especially when it was caused by a lung-rotting disease was not pretty. The boss hung in his restraints, eyes bulging, bloody drool dripping from his gaping mouth.

‘Dammit,’ he sighed as he saw the vomit over the front of the boss’ chest. It was full of thick, black clots, and what he thought might well have been pieces of lung. ‘All those shillings.’

Still, it must have been have been a horrendous way to die. Coughing up your lungs, whilst struggling to breathe was not the way he wanted to go. In bed, warm, cosy, after a good meal, and in my damned sleep, that’s how I plan on going out.

Although he had chosen the completely wrong profession if he was honest with himself. Taking a deep breath, he leaned into the cockpit and punched the quick-release on the man’s harness. The boss sagged forward, restraints keeping the corpse from tumbling to the ground.

Grunting, CUL ROSS slipped off the first shoulder strap, grabbing the body by a drag-strap on its armour. Settling himself, he pulled hard, twisting the body forward and free. No matter how may times he had carried a corpse, the weight of the dead always surprised him. Barely slipping aside in time, he watched as the body tumbled to the ground, landing with a wet thump as the weight of his boss’ combat armour ploughed him into the soft battle field ground.

TORRY BURN and BAL GOWNIE danced back as liquid mud and bodily fluids sprayed out with the impact.

“Fucking nice one, you twat!” BAL GOWNIE yelled up at CUL ROSS, who just gave an apologetic wave. Leaning into the cockpit again, he grabbed a spray bottle full of anti-bacterial and anti-viral agents, spraying the contents liberally over the pilot’s seat as well as all of the monitors and the cockpit’s one-way glass steel windows. Plucking up a rag he set to cleaning as quickly as he could, cursing as some of the clots spread rather than wiped off first time.

“Might want to get a shift on, you need get to get going,” BAL GOWNIE commed.

“Under enough pressure right now, thanks,” CUL ROSS snapped back. He knew TORRY BURN was just as anxious as he was about what they were going to do, but couldn’t find the time to be patient with them. Heart pounding, he used a grab handle to swivel himself around and into the pilot’s chair. Self-adjusting, it quickly moulded itself to his body, the contact points accessing those on his own combat amour, before slotting into his body glove. A slight tingle confirmed he was paired with the system.

<< Systems synching. Enter user code. >>

As quickly as he could, CUL ROSS punched in the code. Although ‘punched’ was more of an anachronism, as he touched the virtual keypad appearing on his retinal monitor. To anyone watching it would have looked like he was stabbing the air with his fingers.

Flashing green as soon as he punched the last digit in, the keypad disappeared.

<< Code accepted. Welcome Lord Drezna. >>

CUL ROSS pushed down a pang of guilt. Or fear at how the system recognised him as his boss. Targeting systems, counter-measures, damage control, and a whole slew of other systems started to appear on his retinal monitor as he finished strapping himself in. There was no need for a catheter as he was already wearing his combat suit. Slipping his feet into the control pedals, he waited until all systems were flashing green, then pressed the start button.

His body tingled as the fusion drive powered up, a bass hum which he knew would soon fade into the background filling the cockpit.

CUL ROSS “All systems good to go. We need to get to the staging area.”

TORRY BURN “Roger that boss. We’ll see you there.”