"The new medic's a pussy," Red Sniper said to his team over supper. "Puked his guts out when I shot their solly's finger off."
They laughed. It was good to remind their opponents that Red was always watching, always ready to attack.
"Mundy, you wanna make a new pot o' coffee?" Demo asked. "We got us a couple days off still, even with the new meat over there."
"Yeh, sure, mate. …Who moved the coffee can? Why you wankers can't leave it alone – "
Gunter woke. He'd dozed off on a dig… no, it wasn't a dig. But the brief nap had helped, and food would likely help too, because he had an idea.
He sighed and sat up, and looked around the room. It was small, much like his college dorm room. A steel bed frame with a mattress, pillow and blankets, suitable for one; he'd slept on worse. A wardrobe and dresser. A wall-mounted light and another light on the end table, which had an inner shelf for books or other small stuff. A sink and mirror. Nail holes in the pale blue walls, probably from previous occupants. The door had a simple chain lock in addition to the deadbolt and opened inward. He'd been in some shady places, but this had to beat all. And there was some kind of a spy about?
The window wasn't painted or nailed shut, so he opened it and looked out at the sunset. This place could be pretty, maybe, if you liked that sort of thing. He left the window open to air out the room.
The dresser was empty. The wardrobe held quite a few identical outfits; uniforms, he guessed. A powder-blue coat, black pants, white shirts. The coats looked like a hybrid of overcoat and lab smock. Two pairs of boots that he hoped fit. He remembered now some questions about sizes, which had been explained as necessary for special protective clothing; but it was really for these. His recruiter had been on the dodge, Gunter thought sourly.
If that machine really worked that well, his mind said, why wasn't it in every hospital and clinic? Maybe the whole thing was an elaborate setup.
He checked his watch. Thirty minutes had passed. Time for dinner, he thought. What was Indian food like? Rice?
The kitchen and mess hall were one room, with a trestle table in the middle and a gas stove, sink, refrigerator, and some cabinets.
Vlad waited at the head of the table, at the opposite end from the kitchen. Liam cooked exactly two types of meals: hearty Irish breakfasts; and volcanic mixes of vegetables, whatever meat was on hand, and rice for supper. It had taken some getting used to, but Lonnie ate anything and the Mexicans had loved Liam's suppers.
Thinking of that reminded Vlad of David Lamb's death, and he sobered up. Damn, he wished David hadn't died. Dr. Lamb had been a good Medic. He'd come in a little after Martin. The new Heavy wanted to bring his brother in, and the current Medic was ready to move on. Now Samson was alone. It would've been bad enough losing Lamb, but to lose the Sniper and Scout with them… and then the Pyro had gone completely batshit and had to be carted off. What was it about teams here? Seemed like there was always a crazy one.
At least the new Pyro seemed normal so far. Vlad hadn't had a chance to check him out yet, what with this Medic problem. The Administrator would take care of whatever idiot recruited this one, but Vlad had never dealt with a merc who didn't want to fight. Pauling sure hadn't stuck around to deal with it, so it was his problem.
The mercs began gathering in the mess hall. They were all still a little subdued from Lamb's death, at least, the old hands were. How was Vlad going to get this team back in shape? He needed money. He needed allies. He needed –
Liam brought a big bowl of superhot peppery stuff and a plate piled with flatbread. Vlad was interested to see if Sasha and Finn would be able to get past a bite of supper tonight. They hadn't managed it yet in the two days they'd been here.
The Blues talked a bit as they drifted in, got something to drink and took their places. Martin came in and took his accustomed place. Then the new medic, Whatsisname. Everyone quieted down when he came in.
"Glad you could join us, golubka," Vlad said. It smelled like Liam's food was really spicy tonight. Sasha snickered at the name. The Medic looked ready to kill. Good, maybe he had some balls after all.
"Entschuldigung, bitte," the new Pyro said. "Excuse me, pliss. This, golubka. What does it mean, exactly?"
"It means, like, dove," Sasha said before Vlad could answer. "Except, like, you'd say it to a girl. Or a nancy-boy."
Everyone waited for a fight to break out. It had to break out after an insult like that.
"So," Krieg said, before the Medic could do something very wrong, "The country whose language that is, you need a separate word just for those people? I see. Very interesting." He lit a cigarette, studying the flame afterward.
Everyone looked to Vlad and the new Medic. Vlad studied the new Pyro. This was an odd duck, but at least he didn't seem crazy like the last one. Vlad laughed. "Leave it to you to point out something about the damn Russkies. You're all right, Krieg."
"Hey!" Sasha yelled, suddenly aware of the insult now dealt to him.
"Deal with it, Sashka," Vlad said. He glanced at the Medic, who was doing a good job of barely containing his rage. "C'mon, Doc. Eat. If your tender tummy can handle it."
"Bread and vegetable stew? Is that all?" Gunter snarled. "You want me to stick around and be your Medic, you've got a damn funny way of showing it, Arschloch." He still hadn't seated himself.
"Fine," Vlad said, leaning forward. "Eat a double bowl of this and keep it down and I'll stop calling you 'little dove'." He gave Liam the barest glance, but Liam caught it and knew. It was hazing, all the new guys got it, and besides, this guy was trying to replace Dr. Lamb.
"Dish it up," Gunter said.
Liam ladled a good portion of hot peppers into Medic's bowl and tossed him a flatbread. Everyone else sat very casually, waiting to see the new guy holler with his mouth on fire.
Gunter dug in. It was spicier than he'd ever had, but the bread helped, and though his sinuses opened up shortly after starting, he finished off the first bowl and handed it to Liam, eyes watering.
"Well?" he asked the rest, all watching him. "Nobody else is going to eat? It's good stuff," he said to Demo, who "came to" and began filling bowls.
Martin relaxed a bit. This new Medic was going to be all right, then. He'd been watching when the man refused to exit the van and loudly proclaimed himself to be anything but a physician, and that had been worrisome. Mind you, there were good points to that sort of inexperience and reluctance – the new doctor probably wouldn't insist on regular physical exams, which no one liked doing – but it was a relief that the man looked like having enough nerve to do his job. They'd already lost enough time seeking out replacements.
Even with Medic getting the hottest bits, the food was still fiery. Vlad and the others laughed as Finn and Sasha struggled, while Gunter finished his second bowl (feeling very stuffed), eyes and nose watering and cheeks flushed red, but without coughing or other ill effects.
"Well, Doc, you did it, and I'm a man of my word," Vlad said. The Medic looked grimly satisfied by that. Good, that was over with. Vlad needed to get the team back into battle, pronto. Every day they didn't fight, they didn't get paid. It had already been over a week. The new Sniper and Scout had had a couple of days to settle in now; tomorrow they could get into practice with Liam and Lonnie. Now he just had to get the Pyro and Medic on track, and that would take at least a day, maybe two. And on that thought…
"Liam, put together something and I'll see if I can get Samson to eat." Vlad looked at the two new guys. "Don't suppose either of you boys speaks Spanish?"
Krieg shook his head, but Medic – clearly never having heard the good advice "don't volunteer" – hesitated, then admitted, "I know some Spanish."
"Come with me, then. It's time you met our Heavy."
As Vlad collected the bowl of food and a flatbread, he leaned in close to Martin. "Come with," he said. "I need to talk to you."
Martin gave a fractional nod, finishing his remaining bite of flatbread and leaving the empty bowl. "Bonne soirée," he said politely to the men remaining at the table, and followed the Soldier and their new Medic out of the room.
Vlad summarized the Heavy's recent struggles as he, the Medic and Martin walked to the barracks. "His name's Samson Lamb. His brother is – was – our previous Medic. They got caught in a flash flood and Dr. Lamb and our Scout and Sniper died. Samson lived, but we can't get him to come out of his room."
They'd reached the door with a plaque of a fist. (Gunter wondered if the Heavy was a brawler.) Vlad gestured with his head and Gunter knocked on the door. There was no response.
"Samson?" Vlad called. After a continued lack of response, he told Gunter to take the food in. "Talk to him."
"But I'm – "
"Yeah, yeah. But you're new and you speak his language. The Lambs're Mexican Indians."
Gunter looked about to argue, but Vlad sent him into the room. Then he pulled the door to, and gestured for Martin to come with him several feet down the hallway.
"Martin," he said quietly, when he was sure they wouldn't be overheard. "I need you to be my second-in-command. Just for a while. You keep your head and I can trust you." Dr. Lamb had been Vlad's previous second. "Here's the deal. Lonnie and Liam can keep the new Sniper and Scout busy on drills tomorrow. We have to get the new Pyro and Medic up to speed. I'll take the Pyro, and I want you to work with Medic." Vlad shook his head. "He's got to want to work with us. Pauling dumped him here, we won't get another Medic anytime soon. It's him or nothing. I'd rather not rely on dispensers alone."
Vlad paused to pull a pack of smokes from his coat pocket, offering one to Martin before lighting up. "We could even fight without Samson if we had to, but I want that Medic out on the field within two days. Can you do that for me, Martin?"
Martin raised an eyebrow, but did not reply until he puffed out a smoke ring to hover gently upward.
"Yes," he said at last, watching the ring slowly dissipating in the dim light near the ceiling. "Oui, I think this can be done. Already he tries to prove himself to you. So, you continue to be the bad cop, and I can be the… What is it you called me? 'Sneaky bastard' cop." Martin did not smile, but without the mask of the Spy, it would be difficult to miss the amusement in his smirk. "It will be a worthy challenge, to both persuade and train."
Vlad smiled grimly back. "Whatever gets the job done. Get me that Medic on the field and I'll owe you. Now – " He stopped as the new Medic returned to the hall and looked for them. "What is it, Medic?"
"It's Dr. Schlachterhauser," Medic said, with admirable German gutturals. "Samson needs help, help that I can't give."
Well, it was worth a shot, Vlad thought. "How bad is it?"
"His soul is lost," Doc said.
Vlad stared at him. What did that mean? Samson was dead?
"I have some knowledge of Southwest Indian beliefs," the Medic said. "Samson's soul is lost, out of his body. When he and his brother were in the flood, and his brother died, his soul left to go to the next world. But Samson was left behind. His soul has left his body to look for his brother's soul. Without his soul, his body won't respond, and eventually his body will die."
Vlad didn't know what to make of any of that. "You learned all that just by talking to him?"
"Sort of," the Medic shrugged. "I knew of a similar case when I was at Canyon de Chelly. That was a grieving mother. They don't snap out of it themselves, they need a shaman to go into the spirit world and find their soul, then help guide it home to their body."
"I don't suppose you can do that," Vlad said.
Doc shook his head. "No. I wasn't part of the ceremony, either, being a white man. Besides, that's anthropology, not archaeology. Samson needs a shaman."
Vlad took a sharp draw on his cigarette. "A shaman. Huh." He shook himself. "All right, let me get Pauling on the horn and see if she can get us one. Thanks, Doc." He looked meaningfully at Martin before heading to his office. If Medic was right, maybe they could get Samson back in the fight at the same time as the new guys.
"You're welcome." Gunter watched the soldier leave. There was a moment of the Spy coolly studying him and exhaling smoke. "So," Gunter said, "can you give me a tour of the base?"
"Certainly, Docteur Abattoir." The Spy's lips curved slyly, inviting Gunter to share the joke. "You have seen the mess hall of course, and your office I believe. Perhaps the most important thing now is to ensure you know where not to go, for you own safety."
He snuffed his cigarette and gestured for Gunter to precede him down the hall. Normally he wouldn't have spoken further: it was safest for most teammates not to feel too close to him, after all, so he didn't seek to make many friends. Now, however, they needed this man, their new Medic, to feel himself truly a member of the team.
"Thank you, Docteur, for helping our Heavy, even if it is not your specialty. We have, I think, all been at something of a loss to help him."
"I'm glad I could help," Gunter said. "Of course, I'm sure when you get a real medic in, he'll be able to do much more. I hope your Miss Pauling can find someone soon."
"Monsieur, I do not believe a 'real' Medic could have done more. It is not a part of a Medic's duty to treat the mind." Though Martin suspected Dr. Lamb had done so in some way, keeping their previous Pyro stable longer than would otherwise have been possible. It would explain why the man had gone round the bend so suddenly after the doctor's death. "But how did it come to be, that you signed a contract to do this job you find odious?"
Gunter grimaced. "I was misled," he said sourly. "I thought I was hired to perform a dig on a construction site. An archaeological dig, on ancient Indian works. Instead I got sent up the river and your boss was sold a bill of goods." He tried to pace himself so he was walking alongside Martin. "I'm an archaeologist by trade and training, and I applied, but wasn't told I'd be doing surgery and – are they on the level, about a war over this place? Eight hours a day, five days a week? I still don't want to get shot and killed, even on banker's hours."
"On the level?" Martin answered seriously. "If you must ask that question, you were misled indeed. Yes, it's true: you are here to fight in a war. That said, you will not die permanently; you will remain dead for a few seconds, a minute or two at most. The death itself might hurt – some means of death are more unpleasant than others – but then you will respawn, as hale and hearty as you were in the morning."
"You're kidding me." Gunter stared at Martin. "You're not kidding me. "This is – that's insane. That's impossible. If that were real, why isn't it everywhere? Why do people still die?"
"I do not know," Martin said, still serious. "There must be a reason. Perhaps this is experimental; perhaps it is too expensive to maintain anywhere else. Our employers have been described as… eccentric. Wealthy and eccentric, to pay for this war and all our equipment, including miraculous machines of healing."
"That's – " Gunter hesitated, then: "That's cowshit." And yet, he'd seen the quick-fix medigun make a man's hand whole again. Maybe Respawn was just a bigger version, able to put entire bodies back together. He shook his head. It was too hard to believe.
That led to the respawn room, and from there the supply room, and the gates to the battlefield, and outside on the battlefield showing how Red and Blue were roughly laid out, and be careful about going onto the Red side off-hours because they wouldn't take it kindly.
Then the laundry, the rec room, and the motor pool. The laundry consisted of two each washers and dryers. Gunter wondered how often they were expected to wash their uniforms; there was no official rotation for laundry, but that meant it could be anything goes, he gathered. The rec room had a bookcase, some couches and an easy chair that had seen much better days, and a TV. Gunter wondered if they could even get a signal, this far out from civilization.
"On some nights, yes," Martin said. "When the weather is good."
The motor pool only had one vehicle, an ancient-looking truck that must be at least twenty years old – no, older, Gunter decided, as he peered in at the controls. He knew how to drive a stick shift, of course, but this had extra levers and things he didn't recognize. "Wow."
"Indeed," Martin said, leaning languidly against a column. "Lonnie is the only one who can drive it. We used to have the Medic's van, but it was ruined in the flood that took our teammates' lives."
Gunter turned to look at Martin. "So that was really a freak accident for you. Because otherwise, nobody would die on the battlefield." If the Respawn really worked as described. "None of you would ever die."
"We can die," Martin said with a Gallic one-shoulder shrug. He didn't wear the balaclava when he wasn't on duty, but even so his hair was an unruly mess of curls. "But not on the base. If we leave the base, we can die permanently. It has happened, now and again. But most men, when they leave, do not die. They retire, they move on, they cannot take the battle any longer."
Gunter nodded. "Will there be another Medic van?"
Another shrug. "In time, I expect so."
Overall, Gunter thought he had a good mental map of the Blue side of the base. "Now what?"
"Now, you should know that tomorrow, your training begins," Martin said. "I will meet with you in the morning, and we will go over your equipment and what to expect."
"I see. Thank you, Martin." Gunter made his goodnights and went back to his room. He brushed teeth, noted people moving around outside his room, and set his alarm clock, placing it under his pillow. He made sure everything was in place, and turned in early.
At two AM, the alarm went off under his pillow, waking him but, he hoped, not anyone else. He'd slept in his clothes to save time, and not unpacked any of his things. He was going to get out of here.
Lonnie's truck wasn't an option – there was no way he could drive it. But if he started now, he could get to town by morning, he hoped, and get out of here.
Gunter put socks over his shoes to muffle the sound, at least until he got to the road. Backpack on and luggage in hand, he crept into the hall, lit by faint lights from outside, and made his way soundlessly to the base exit, the one he'd arrived through yesterday, brought by that damnable Miss Pauling.
He got to the gate, and stopped to listen and look. Nobody was there; it was closed but, he could tell by a feel, not locked. Maybe they didn't worry about anyone breaking into this place.
Vlad also listened and looked. He'd suspected the new Medic might try something like this. They hadn't had anyone try to bolt in the first day, at least as far as Vlad could remember. But this guy was different.
Now he was standing at the gate, and Vlad waited.
The half-moon shone down on the landscape. It would be enough for the Medic to see the road, since there weren't any clouds. Coyotes howled. It was quite a pleasant night. A good night for a walk. Clear weather, good visibility.
Both men waited for several long minutes, listening to the slight breeze and the animal noises. The Medic was absolutely still as if trying not to be noticed. Not that he'd done a good job, since he couldn't cloak himself and wasn't hiding all that well.
At last, the man moved, but he didn't try to open the gate. He acted angry with himself, if Vlad was reading the body language and head-shaking correctly. The medic turned and walked back to the barracks. Vlad was curious; the man's shoulders were slumped as if in defeat. What could that mean?
Well, he realized, it meant that at least for now, they didn't have a runaway merc on their hands. He waited until he saw the Medic enter the barracks, then put the safety back on his handgun.
Medic had had a change of heart, Vlad guessed. He'd have to leave a note for Martin as to what had happened – slipping it under the Spy's door – but now he, too, could get some sleep, and in the morning the new pigeons could be trained.