Port In The Storm

Amidst the sailors and crewmen working the various radio equipment, stood a lone figure, illuminated by the beams of holographic light, clad in a long, flowing blue dress, and a porcelain mask, covered by a veil, was the mastermind behind Saber Company.

The Mannequin.

"This is the driver of the last tank in my company, Captain?" the silvery voice from the hologram echoed through the room. The Captain himself nodded silently as the white mask turned its gaze toward me.

"Speak, child. What is your name, then?" Even without eyes, the blank stare froze me in place for a moment. I took one good look at the Mannequin and cleared my throat.

- "Funnily enough, it's Driver...that was the only name I was ever given by the orphanage where I grew up."

The figure laughed, bringing a hand to her motionless mouth as she recovered from the humor that was my name.

"Ideal, and quite fitting...I take it you were from one of the many orphanages we liberated in Montana some years ago...You may not remember it, but I remember you now...A shame the matrons gave you such a rough name...would you prefer if I bestowed something else for you?"

- "Another name?" I asked, sheepishly. "I've only ever known this one...and it fits, Ma'am...Maybe when I leave this line of work...I'll give myself another name."

"If that be your wish..." Her honeyed words were strangely, comforting now. She seemed fully focused on me as she continued. "The reason I brought you here was to commend your fine work today. You should've heard the commotion from the Captain when he

heard you were out there fixing that tank in the middle of a firefight...But that is neither here, nor there...I know not what to give you in exchange for your valor today, but rest assured, consider what you would want from me...and I will do everything

within my power to make it so."

Her holographic hand reached out to touch my shoulder. The sudden warmth from the laser projection almost felt real as she crouched a bit to look me directly in the eyes, and for a moment, I swore I could see the face suddenly smiling at me.

-"I...I have a few questions, Mannequin," I finally said as she tilted her head somewhat, curious as to what my request was.

"And what might that be, 'Driver'?"

- "I'd like to see what you look like without that mask...?" I queried. She brought a gloved hand to her chin, and stroked it thoughtfully.

"What good would seeing my face do you? I'm just as flesh and blood as you are...I was once in your shoes, young driver...those days were the happiest in my life...and the most dangerous...The mask itself is not just for show...but it is a life-support system I designed myself...frankly, everything you have aboard your tank, and this vessel, are of my design. Salvages from an older time. That tank of yours was regarded as the top of it's class. Sadly, it is all I can do- plan and develop blueprints...did you happen to have another question...or perhaps, a request I can fulfill that won't kill me in the process?"

I stood there, thinking through the thousands of questions I had, before asking another.

"What was life like before DyNaCo?" To this, the Mannequin chuckled and gave a slight nod.

- "You'd be surprised how often I give an answer to this question...Before DyNaCo, there was...America. It was a place of growth, of change, of desire. Young, passionate citizens carried their ideals on their sleeve...that is, until the recent century-The world used to be connected. Economies, markets, everything. Full to the brim with free-thought, free expression. True ideals of enlightenment were exercised on a frequent and daily basis..."

The faceless figure then reached up to her veil and pulled it up.

"...And then the markets collapsed. What took years to build in centuries was gone in the span of a decade. The world descended into hell. Millions of lives, forfeit to those willing to exploit the weak and ignorant; tribalism encouraged groups to prey on each other; When that wasn't enough, the nations declared war for resources. America was lucky- So many natural resources to be found in the soil beneath the many metropolises, that we carried on, fighting off whatever nation decided to attempt an incursion..."

Listening, I watched her become slightly animated, her voice stiffening up as if she were repressing a difficult memory.

"When the people finally gave up on their governments, it was the corporations that filled the gap. They gave people work. They paid them in favors, at first. Then as those corporations grew larger, one was large enough to begin controlling the market. When

the smaller companies protested, they sent out militia loyal to them. This was the first iteration of the PMCs...and the wars that began from those events have lasted until today. In the Americas, DyNaCo became the primary caretaker of the millions and millions of citizens the government failed..."

She paused, and turned away from my face. It appeared she had been interrupted. Turning quickly towards me, she gave a slight shrug

"I apologize. I wish I could tell you more, but I must go- CEO Barstow has arrived, and I must entertain my guest. I'm sure you understand, Driver. Should you live long enough, I may give you more of what you seek. Truth."

With that, the connection was cut, leaving me in a now empty communication room.

"I still had more questions," I mused, slightly frustrated.

Another time, perhaps.

[2 Weeks later]

A few weeks of sailing, and we were back home, DyNaCo's ports were bustling with new life, joyous prosperity, and teeming with mercantile ambition.

As we got off the boat, we took in the first real breaths of home into our lungs, our duffle bags hanging loosely by our fingertips as we felt the weight of what we had done came swinging in like a ton of bricks. Looking at the news ticker just down the port along the Massachusetts Bay, it claimed we were successful in negotiating the surrender of the Samsonians...

But we killed all of them.

Success it seemed, was measured in kill count, rather than a fulfilled contract, at least comparatively to the citizens of New Boston- but it was irrelevant; the people were consumed with themselves like they always had been. Eyes rarely ventured to the giant holographic neon screen describing the scene in the contention zone, the announcer's voice blanketing the sounds of the harbor as our cargo ship was unloaded with the dock equipment.

Even out of sight of the news ticker, the same broadcast repeated itself across countless storefronts and billboards for the transportation system. Every radio, television, taxi topper- nothing was safe from the inundation of the news: DyNaCo successfully negotiated their contract.

What utter shit.

The four of us didn't trouble ourselves with the goings on of the world. We were still on contract time. A company car arrived shortly after we disembarked, and the Chauffeur got out to greet us.

"A warm DyNaCo welcome to you gentlemen. I hope Europe was full of adventure for you."

-"Yeah, forty dead comrades makes for great fun," Whitman grumbled as he shoved his duffle into the backseat, before entering himself, followed by the rest of us quietly contemplating what was next. "Just shut up and drive us to DyNaCo. Barstow wants to see us."

It seemed we rode in that oversized SUV for hours, crawling through miles of traffic and fathoms of high-rise, glass-paned skyscrapers as we eventually made our way to the business district. The sun seemed hidden behind the shadows of the high rises as neon lights began to flicker to life, washing everything in a sea of technicolor. People reverted to their true forms- silhouettes- shadows of what they appeared to be. I scoffed it off as something cynical, but in the back of my mind, I felt it was more true than I would have liked to believe.

Approaching the mirrored glass of the DyNaCo building, I could finally see my reflection in for the first time in 4 months. It was funny. The scrawniest, youngest idiot in this crew- was me. I could see my youth contrasted with the grim dispositions of Whitman, Sanders and Martinez.

It had been this way, every day, for months. A few more cup sizes on my chest and i'd be a literal short stack. I took another moment to imagine what could've been, before I was tapped on the shoulder by Sanders.

"No time like the present. C'mon, kid."

As we walked through the revolving doorway, we were come upon by the brilliance of the interior of the DyNaCo building. Bright television screens depicting the accomplishments of everything the corporation had accomplished, similar to what had been accomplished in the old order, before things went to hell. In the middle of the atrium stood a marble statue of what could only be a barely clothed male, a spear in one hand, and an ornate helmet in the other, the tip of his spear pointing to some distant area beyond this realm. Behind it resided the elevator that would take us to Barstow's office.

We stumbled off the elevator, and walked through the long hallway, through the oak door to Barstow's office, we filed in quietly, Sanders closing the door behind us. There, sitting at his desk was Deke Barstow, with the Mannequin standing beside him in all her regalia, porcelain mask included. The dark void that made her eyes seemed to pierce through all of us as Barstow reached into his desk and retrieved a small manila envelope.

"You gentlemen performed well in the contested zone...Given the circumstances. I've had a few analysts provide me with information regarding the situation with Crazy-Horse and KWP."

- "You want the short story? We lost a lot of men," Sanders grumbled, much to the visual chagrin of the DyNaCo CEO.

"Listen, I know Europe was a tough assignment-"

- "Understatement of the year."

"But I need you to understand...DyNaCo's in a fight for its survival."

Barstow. The arrogant bastard he was, knew our contract was nearing its completion with him, and if word got out that he had thrown in an entire company of mercenaries, let alone three of them, and only have one tank survive- it was bad for business ventures in the future, and we were standing with a sour taste of blood in our mouth.

"KPW's violated the Chicago Treaty," He said, finally dropping the act. "They want to convene in South Africa- Cape Town. I need you for VIP duty."

Now, Whitman was pissed. His long legs strode 10 feet across that red satin carpet in less than a second, placing his weathered, oil-stained hands on the mirror-like varnish of the table Barstow sat behind. Whitman's face turned red like a tomato, making his wispy, blond hair appear near-white as he pressed his hands firmly into the wood, his blue eyes narrowed at the visage of the chiseled jawline and deep-set brown eyes of the DyNaCo CEO.

"You're real cold-blooded, you know that? Weeks of field work, years of friendships, gone in a matter of minutes, but as long as the big bossman gets his affairs in order, all is right with the world, is that what I'm hearing?!"

Martinez, knowing better than I that Whitman was about to take a swing at our walking payroll, rushed up and threw his arms under Whitman, gripping the back of his leather jacket in a sloppy Full-Nelson, pulling him back, just as my cherry-faced tank commander attempted to swing.

"You motherfucker!" Whitman blurted out as Martinez wrestled him to the ground. Sanders, not wanting any business to deal with Whitman, or Barstow, had wandered off to gaze at one of the many paintings lining the walls of the office, leaving me alone to speak with Barstow and The Mannequin, while the two most senior men continued struggling on the carpet.

This time, The Mannequin decided to play peacemaker, having seen enough. Her voice was just as heated as Whitman's voice, but the manner in which she spoke, and her movements as she walked closer to Barstow to push the manila envelope towards me, showed that she was in far better control of her emotions than anyone else in the room.

"Saber, Barstow and I have come to the consensus that this next job will be our last. Neither side wants a war, so we're going to Cape Town, and we will hold a cordon zone with Rhodes Group around the Ysterplaat Aerodome. Barstow meets with the KPW CEOs, and they'll come out with an agreement, we get our pay, and we leave. Simple. The payout is much larger than our regular transaction fee- due to our good history together and the untimely loss of our other assets. We. Are. Taking. This. Job. So for now, Go back to the boat, get some rest, we will be setting sail in seventy-two hours."

By this point, the struggling behind me had stopped, as Martinez had soothed Whitman's dander, giving him a brotherly hug, telling him "Basta, Calmense." Meanwhile, Sanders had found his way back to my side, his expression tired, but eager to finish this contract.

"One more, Mannequin," He said gruffly. "Then I'm done with the whole lot of you. I'm going back home to Michigan."

-"Back to Dafter, I presume? To the ranch?"

"Yes ma'am. I'll have enough to sit easy, and as far as I'm concerned, that means I don't have to take any more blood money."

-"I can only imagine you'll be a shining example to your community. Now, if you're finished, the clock is ticking. On the desk are your passports. I'll speak with you again when you've arrived at Cape Town."

Just like that. Back to business, it seemed.