There will be a day where no words ring true
No excuses seem sound and justifications hold no water
That day, faced with staunch adversity
Will you be able to endure or will you fade away?
- Yes, I know. No. No. Of course.
Through the windshield all Dirk saw was snow. No matter how he squinted or how strong the floodlights on top of the truck beamed, there was nothing to see. Just an endless white expanse.
It was to be expected, after all they were trailblazing the tundra with only rough estimates of their location, but the sheer monotony of the task upset him.
The voice on the phone certainly wasn’t helping either.
- What do you mean by ‘liability?’ - Dirk couldn’t help but scoff at such an unfounded slight.
- Exactly what it sounds like, Chernobog. - in stark contrast to his own, Tom Holder’s voice on the other side was brimming with amusement. - If your little ‘fight club’ took place anywhere closer to the habitable areas, someone might have been compelled to investigate the ‘parabolic projectile’ being launched from the old quarry.
- If spats between mercenaries hired by Ourobors were that much of an issue, the higher brass should have just put some limitations in place. It worked for Castor, didn’t it?
- Ah, you’re acquainted?
- Tom–
- Astute observation, and a good deflection, “Mr. Leader of Squad 1”. Wouldn’t have expected anything less from you. - he commended, his tone mocking, but friendly nonetheless.
The way in which the Senior Human Resources Acquisition Manager played with him grated Dirk like no tomorrow. When combined with the bumpy road underneath the thick snow and the blurry range-finder he was forced to look at while driving, his nerves were really being tested.
- You know how the saying goes, don’t shoot the messenger. - the corporate lackey continued. - I’m here to inform you of what the higher-ups thought about the whole ordeal. Don’t sweat it, they like to yap on those meetings.
- Are you sure you can say that? - Chernobog couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.
- If I couldn’t they would have sacked me long ago. The Board of Directors likes my impertinence and my bite, makes me perfect for HRA.
- Can’t argue with that.
Not like the old soldier could knock him for this behavior. Similar swagger going hand-in-hand with undeniable results was what landed him his own position in The Empire’s military force almost 30 years ago. They were kindred spirits in a way, Tom and him, but ones that could never be honest about it with one another.
“What a pain in the ass” - soldier thought a moment before the rangefinder started filling the cabin with ear-splitting noise.
Without delay he pressed the button on his side with speed and force strong enough to almost smash the device to pieces. Almost being the key word. He wouldn’t want to owe Ouroboros anything.
- Ah, the partings! - Tom spoke melodically.
- Okay, I’ve got the memo from the big-wigs, I’ll be hanging up now. Got work to do.
- So soon? But there were many more complaints I received about you.
- Send them to me by mail. Chernobog, out.
Cutting the conversation short Dirk put the phone on top of the dashboard and grabbed the small receiver hanging loosely from the ceiling. He took a deep breath, pressed the PTT and spoke out loud:
- Next tracking beacon. Get to it.
A cacophony of upset, muffled voices reached him from beyond the tightly shut door in his cabin.
Shaking his head slightly, he simply looked to the side, towards his sole companion within the cab. A tall, ripped beast of a man who, despite his appearances, seemed to be in perfect harmony with the universe. He fiddled with a device that looked tiny in his hands and mouthed silently:
“Six”.
- Number 6, you’re up.
- Again? You gotta be kiddin’ me. - the owner of said number loudly proclaimed their displeasure through the radio.
Dirk sighed. This was another thing that made the journey of their squad so unbelievably tedious. It wasn’t enough that they made it through the unforgiving Russian landscape. No. If that was the case, this whole journey would be a walk in the park. Unfortunately Ouroboros had other plans for the Scout Unit.
They had to mark out a path in the everchanging frozen tundra by planting a guiding beacon every 20 km or so to ensure that the convoy didn’t stray and could easily get back on track if a strong blizzard or enemy excursion were to immobilize them.
The theory was simple. Grab a beacon, plant it deep into the snow, ensuring that the hook at the end drills into the frozen soil. Activate it, wait for it to unravel, calibrate and move on to the next.
In and out, nothing special.
Theory rarely matched up with practice, unfortunately. The howling wind, the deep snow and the constant temperature of -40 degrees Celsius in reality made it quite an ordeal.
Originally, Dirk had a simple plan to make things snappy, not really keen on the idea of making prolonged stops that would leave them vulnerable to the mutated wildlife that reigned in the Russian wasteland. They’d create small away teams of 2-3 people, get things done and return.
That idea quickly fell through, however, when Ted Lance and his clique of 2 other young mercs protested to the idea, accusing Dirk of “bossing people around”. While none others objected outright to the idea, Dirk could see in their eyes the seeds of doubts taking root as they chose to stay quiet.
Soon, however, in the midst of petty squabbles and general disorganization, another idea quickly rose to prominence. One, perhaps, as simple as the mind of an average merc.
It was to draw lots.
One person would become an easy scapegoat every 20 kilometers or so, so that the rest of the group could go on about their business. Risky and inefficient.
Maybe it was in their very nature to trust in their own luck above all else. If somebody else got chosen, then it was no skin off their back, after all. If they did get picked, well, it wouldn’t happen too often, would it? That was probably what Ted, one of the most vocal supporters of this solution, was thinking at that time, smirking to himself as Dirk could only stare in disbelief as the mercs unanimously agreed to shoot themselves in the foot. And now it was biting Young Ted in the ass.
Democracy had once again proven itself to be flawed. “Vox populi”, or the voice of the people, was the voice of idiots most of the time, after all. And thus, Dirk had no choice but to appease the mob.
During each stop, the coordinates of which were roughly calculated by the automatic range-finder in the truck, Jason, or as Dirk told the team, he himself, would spin the wheel of fortune within his smartphone, drawing from numbers from 1 to 10, each corresponding to a member of the Scout Squad in order of their arrival from the combat assessment.
Excluded from this list were the two drivers - Chernobog himself and a guy named “East Wind”. Such exclusion roused some upset in the group, but after explaining in the simplest manner possible that Ouroboros directives prevented drivers from leaving their vehicles under normal circumstances and without proper authorization, everyone settled down.
It’s been somewhat of a smooth sailing since then. For now.
- It sure sucks to suck, Teddy! - somebody hollered. - It’s your fourth time.
- Go fuck yourself, Match. I hope that when you go out, you trip and break those pearly whites.
A wave of laughter erupted from the cargo compartment of the vehicle - the place quickly turned into a hang-out area for the mercs where they played cards all day.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Makes me miss Byron’s place” - Dirk thought while looking over to Jason.
Hidden away from curious glances and unwanted attention in the confines of the cabin, the giant of a man could finally unwind with his limiter helm laying idly on the floor. He was running a number generator app on Dirk’s Ourboros-provided burner phone to support the lottery Dirk came up with, while reading something on a small stack of paper in his other hand.
- What are you reading? - Dirk asked, stretching his back.
- Transcripts of the speech the proxy of the Ouroboros General Committee gave us before departure.
- Please. - the old soldier’s mane swung slowly from side to side. - Cherish your time some more and don’t waste any brainspace on that corporate hogwash.
- I prefer to be informed.
- Advertisement slogans made by artificial intelligence aren’t good sources of info.
- At least one of us needs to be on top of things.
- If you actually want to learn something, we should go over your fight with Barbara.
- C’mon, don’t be that guy. - Jason stirred in his seat, moving the stack of paper closer to his face.
- You know, I gotta be that guy. - no amount of guilt-tripping would dissuade Dirk when it came to that topic.
Especially not after the talk with Marcus. Both Dirk and Jason needed to improve, and tidying up their act was a good place to start, even if both of them would rather not talk about their failures.
“I do wonder who he inherited that proud streak from.” - the old soldier pondered, unfastening his seatbelt and turning around, to face his friend head on.
Dirk wasn’t jazzed about this talk.
After you know someone from their ‘infancy’ all up to their adulthood, your relationship transcends what laymen would describe as ‘friendship’. Jason may not have been his kid, he didn’t even really raise him in the traditional sense, but he showed him a way to live. A way to integrate back into society when no one else did.
And yet, it always felt wrong, in a way, for him to school Jason. Like he was encroaching on some forbidden territory. It made him uneasy. Unsure.
And so, paradoxically, Dirk felt all the more compelled to share his insights whenever he could use his expertise with absolute certainty.
Their loss at the campgrounds was a calculated risk. A blessing, even. It gave them enough credit not to be messed with by the other mercs, while also creating a perfect distraction as everyone’s attention shifted to the winner of their bout, Barbara in her mech. And yet, the bitterness of a loss remained.
“An Issue unresolved is a crisis waiting to happen.” - the old dog thought before reaching underneath his jacket and grabbing a ‘scrunchie’ given to him by the very same Barbara.
As much as he didn’t like to acknowledge it, that little thing was quite handy. After tying up his hair, he looked at Jason.
- Holy shit, you showed off your wrinkled forehead. - the regenerator barely held his laughter. - Shit is going down.
- Buzz off, I am delaying it as much as I can. - Dirk smiled, realizing the ridiculousness of the whole charade. - Do we do it like men, or chicks?
- Men.
- Men it is then. I am sorry for making you a punching bag for a second time this week, Jason. The first time, at least, was for your own good, but regardless, getting whooped never feels nice.
- My turn. - Jason flung the papers at the dashboard. - Sorry for still being immature and letting Fleece control me. On top of getting my ass kicked so easily by people I should be able to wreck seven-ways-to-Sunday.
- That was awkward as shit. - the old soldier said what they both thought.
- Ayup, but some old geezer once told me to say things when you can because you may not have time later. - Jason lifted both his legs and crossed them over the dashboard.
- What a gloomy-sounding guy, I wonder what his name is. - Dirk chuckled nervously.
It was the only reasonable reaction to someone digging up his words from many years ago. Dirk didn’t even remember when he said that, and it wasn’t the first time when Jason caught him off guard like that, seemingly paying more attention to what Dirk said than the man did himself.
Still, the words rang true, even though Dirk could hardly imagine himself from the past coming up with something so profound.
- So coach. - Jason shot him a mischievous glance. - You cooked up some strategy for the rematch?
- If you’re asking for a surefire way to win, then no. But I got one to make you improve as much as possible during the spars with Pollux. By the end, you’ll be able to beat Barbara without my input.
- Playing the long game, huh? Now that’s the Dirk I know.
- Getting down to the brass tacks–
Just as the old soldier was about to unveil his master plan, an ear-piercing crackling came from the short-distance radio, startling both him and Jason. Rolling his bloodshot eyes, he grabbed the receiver, pressed on the PTT with both hands and asked as politely as an upset person could:
- Who the fuck sat on their receiver?
- Yo, “cabbie”, it’s me! - the voice from the other side was very difficult to make out due to the howling wind.
- The hell you want Lance? Which part of planting a beacon don’t you get?
- Can’t find a good spot anywhere close by. It’s all mud and shit under the snow, it doesn’t stand right.
- Are you kidding me? Can’t you walk a bit further out? Do I need to spell it out for you?
- I can barely see the flood-lights through the snowstorm. I’m not heading out alone.
- You’ll manage, you’re a big-boy with a gun. - at this point, Dirk was massaging the bridge of his nose with a free hand, being taken aback by the absurdity of the situation.
- No fucking way, send someone out. This shithole is filled with those mutants, isn’t it? I ain’t walking around on my own.
Dirk wanted to say something else, but stopped himself, instead opting to open his mouth a few times before resting a weary brow in the receiver. If the words of Tom from the strategic meeting about the members of his team being experts in their own fields carried any water, then Ted Lance must have been a specialist in being a fucking nuisance.
- Have it your way. I’ll ask who is interested in doing you a solid.
- Be quick about it, I’m freezing my nuts off out here!
With that, the driver of the Taurus Effluvium military truck hung up. He needed a moment to compose himself, trying to ignore Jason silently snickering from across the cabin.
A few seconds of express meditation later, he reached out towards the knob at the radio station and changed the channel.
- Attention, Scout Squad. - he began, commandeering a total silence within the vehicle - Turns out, your fellow mercenary, Theodore Lance is quite a fuck-up incapable of managing a single tracking beacon.
He stopped for a second, allowing the burst of laughter to run its course before continuing.
- To that end, he is begging for your help. Which one of–
- Fuck that! - a yell belonging to a certain armored individual interrupted him.
- … you is willing to go out and show him how it’s done? If no one volunteers, we’re gonna be sitting here for a while. If it takes too long, I might have to cut the heating to save fuel.
- Oh come on! - someone else kicked something that made quite a ruckus. - Can’t you send your dog?
Jason’s eyelid twitched slightly in response to that comment.
- We’ve already discussed that, Match. - Dirk’s patience was starting to run thin, as he already gave everyone a rundown. - I cannot move away from the wheel, and sending Argonaut along into the blizzard would be like letting your dog loose in a forest. Yes, it is trained to come back to you, and it will the first time, then the second, maybe even the tenth time. But one of those days it may no longer respond to your calls. So with me playing the part of a broken record already out of the way, will someone please go and help Ted before he does something to the beacon?
The vehicle went silent for a while. Mercenaries probably contemplated the ups and downs of following someone else's orders and what they can get from it. But before the bunch playing cards made up their minds, someone knocked on the cabin door, slowly and methodically.
- I’ll do it, can’t fucking sleep with all this hollering. Fucking kids. - the tired voice belonged to someone Dirk had a passing acquaintance with.
- Appreciated, Black. - Dirk responded, this time around, not on the intercom.
- Mhm, just do me a favor and get outta that stuffed cabin once in a while, Chernobog. - his steps became distant. - I still want you to show off that Makarov of yours. A real beauty, that.
With that issue settled, Dirk changed the channel again.
- Lance, you’re still breathing?
- Took your sweet time, “cabby”. - the young merc sounded quite alive.
- Call me that one more time, and…. - Dirk almost let himself get sidetracked, but regained his composure promptly. - Black is going out to help you.
- Won’t his old ass die from the co–
Chernobog didn’t have enough patience to continue that conversation, so he simply hung up. With each interaction between him and the other members of his squad, he believed a little less in his desire to keep them all alive.
- Maybe I should keep some of them alive and strangle the rest myself? - he muttered.
- Now, now, don’t be mean, gramps. - Jason responded - Or you'll get even more wrinkles on your brow. You’ll end up looking like Black.
- Fuck off. - the soldier smiled. - There are still a few decades between me and him.
- Could have fooled me.