Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist 

Chapter Eight
Report

    The rude buzz of the intercom forced Major Bludd to sit up. No rest for the wicked, he thought sarcastically, opening the line for communication with the flick of a switch. "Bludd. What is it?"

    A young male voice answered immediately. "Sir, your presence is requested by Destro, in his conference room."

    Bludd gave his best imitation of a sigh (even that was gravelly). "And what, pray tell, does His Highness want of me?" As expected, the young voice didn't have an immediate answer for that.

    "Sir... I... Destro has requested that you--"

    Bludd cut off his stammering. "Nevermind the snappy patter, boy. You've relayed your message, though most clumsily. May I offer you a bit of advice?"

    A second of silence. Then: "Sir?"

    "Being a communications expert, I think you may want to work on your communication skills." He switched off the intercom, giving the young man no time to fashion a response, as it would no doubt be not in the least entertaining.

    He stood up from the bed and walked to his desk. Paperwork. Lists. Current personnel. New recruits. There was so much dead weight in this organization, like the young man he'd just had the displeasure of speaking with. People with nothing to add to the whole, only something to take. A paycheck. The masters pay X dollars for Y amount of effort, and that's what the masters will get. That was the formula by which most of the dead weight operated. Bludd was himself a mercenary, but he would not be the influential man he was without some understanding of the need for order, discipline, camaraderie. He was not a savage. He had earned his place, and, more important, he wanted to keep it. So he worked hard. And was paid well.

    No, Cobra was not run the way Bludd would run it. Not at all. He would never let it become a monster of the size it was now. Thousands upon thousands of men and women, and so few of them dedicated to any real cause. An army of thugs, vermin, and scum. Sooner or later, Cobra Commander would lose control of his terrorist army, and who would pick up the pieces? No one in their right mind, of course. Not all of the pieces, anyway. Bludd would select a worthy few and create a small group of loyal soldiers. He would carry on and continue to turn a profit. Destro would do the same. Cobra would eventually shatter, spread on the winds of greed, each surviving seed vying with the others for nourishment in a world too small for them all to survive. Only the fittest would make it. Bludd would be among them. Or at least he would give everything he had in the effort to survive.

    But that prospect was still in the future and the money was still good. Fanatic presiding over a doomed project or no, Cobra Commander could at least pay a man what was promised. If not a man of true charisma, he yet had a certain power in his ability to run a tight payroll office. But that, of course, was his peculiar failing. When a man's company (after all, Cobra was above all else a company, with lawyers, board members, even a public relations division) became focused on organization rather than innovation, the company became a thing despicable. And the man became a thing worse than the company, that thing most hated by every man with a blue collar: The Boss.

    "Destro," Bludd let the word slide slowly from his mouth, reminding himself of the problem at hand. He wanted the report, no doubt. It had been eighteen hours since they'd arrived at the Cobra base from Yellowstone. Wildcat had yet to meet them, but she was on her own, had to make her own arrangements for getting back.

    Bludd made his way to Destro's strategic quarters and was admitted. Dark eyes stared out from the metal face. He was seated at the end of the conference table. Bludd sat at the opposite end, offering a stoic stare of his own.

    "Has your man reported in yet?" Destro's heavy voice asked.

    "My man is a woman," Bludd answered, not answering at all.

    "Ah," Destro intoned. "The one called Wildcat, then? The one you've been specially grooming?"

    Bludd nodded. Nice touch, the word "grooming" in description of a woman called by the name of an animal.

    "She's a bit young, isn't she?" Destro continued. "A bit lacking in experience?"

    "She is young," Bludd conceded. "And inexperienced." He conceded that too. "But she is capable." He was sure of that. After all, he had been "grooming" her himself. Her talent tended toward singularity - that of spy/tracker/sniper. Bludd encouraged her to hone this talent. He himself could not honestly claim to be master of any one area of ultimate expertise; he preferred to consider himself similar to all the great men of history who dabbled in all available outlets of talent instead of focusing on one in particular.

    Destro sat back in his chair and stretched out his arms, laying his hands flat on the table. What thoughts might be churning behind that false face were not to be guessed. Bludd believed that it was perhaps better not to know. Every man had things to hide, but in Destro's case, they were so delicate, perhaps so horrific, that they needed an extra face to hide behind. "I will not begin my work with Odem until I am sure our ruse was a success. I have no time to waste. You understand this."

    "Of course," Bludd said. "It will not be long, Destro. Wildcat is like us."

    Destro didn't move, but something in his demeanor changed nonetheless. His voice, becoming annoyed, confirmed the change. "Like us? You presume to compare yourself and this girl of yours to me?"

    Bludd pushed his chair back, giving him room to raise his feet and place them on the table, which he did, crossing his legs. He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair to make the gesture all the more galling. "Like it or not, Destro, we are not so different. We both are here temporarily, with full knowledge that it is indeed temporary. We both live for the day that we are given our due. And we both do what we do for the money." He knew this last remark would not be taken well. Destro was not fond of being linked with the common mercenary.

    But he saw that Destro had not missed his sarcasm. What he said was honest (thus, commendable to a man of pride like Destro) but self-deprecating (thus, interesting). That it was crude was deserving of Destro's reprimand. "You may find it in your best interest to address me with respect," he warned.

    "Respect is relative," Bludd countered, expecting just such a bit of pomposity. "You get what you earn. You may find that earning my respect could be most... what word would you have me use? Ah, yes. Profitable."

    "Oh?" Destro allowed a tone of amusement to cover his consideration of Bludd. He admitted that of all the factions under the Cobra banner, those in Bludd's influence were perhaps the most loyal. Much as Destro may have taken exception to the man's personal demeanor, he couldn't deny that he had a talent (or a skill, which was really only a talent refined) for winning the trust of his men. Bludd could indeed be a powerful ally. However, Destro held fast to his stance of condescension. "And what is the going rate these days for your respect, Major?"

    Always taking the superior ground! Well, let him, Bludd thought. It was good to know the vanities of one's associates for various reasons, and such knowledge could have various uses. "I couldn't put an exact price on such a thing, of course. But I do admit that this business with Dr. Odem interests me."

    "Knowing, as you must, so little about it, why should it interest you?"

    Bludd lowered his feet, assumed a proper position in his seat, and then leaned forward with a hungry smile on his face. "I know only this: It interests you. And if it interests you, it must indeed be very interesting."

    "Are you formally casting your lot with me then, Major?" Destro asked.

    Bludd sat back and folded his arms over his chest. "Formally, no. Were just talking, friendly-like."

    "Good," Destro said, a certain steel (not unlike that of his mask) present in his voice. "Because if there was ever a word said about the kind of conspiracy we've just avoided, formally, Cobra Commander would possess the heads now sitting on our respective shoulders." Destro had put that nicely. As it stood now, nothing was sure, all was possible.

    A series of beeps caught Bludd's attention. He pulled the compact com device from his belt and read the words displayed on the small screen. "Wildcat is on base," he informed Destro. Bludd pushed a button (one that demanded Wildcat to report to his location immediately) and hooked the com device back onto his belt. "She will be here presently with her report."

    A few moments of silence passed. Neither man spoke. Bludd spent the time wondering what fantasies were being played out behind that metal face sitting across from him. Feeling at a disadvantage for this, Bludd tuned his face to an amused look in the hope to inspire Destro to wonder what Bludd was thinking.

    The door opened and Wildcat entered. She was dressed in a blue working uniform, the Cobra insignia wrapped around the upper part of her right arm. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back into a bun, and Bludd noted that she had taken the time to clean herself up before reporting to him. She'd probably been on base an hour already. Haughty, this girl. She stood at attention, facing Bludd. "Sir," she acknowledged. This, at least, was a good move.

    Good girl, Bludd thought. Let Destro see your loyalty to me. She would ignore Destro, focus only on Bludd - her patron - until he gave her permission to face Destro. "I trust your escape went as planned?"

    "Yes, sir," she answered.

    "Give Destro your report," he said, gesturing toward the other end of the table.

    Wildcat turned and faced Destro. "As ordered by Major Bludd, sir, I tracked Lowlight's progress after his execution of the decoy."

    Destro cocked his head. "Lowlight's progress? What of Scarlett?"

    "After she was wounded, they fled about four miles," Wildcat explained. "They stopped then and he bandaged her wound..." (she left out the bit about almost being spotted and killed) "...and they pressed on for another mile or two. Scarlett then collapsed." More details left out. It had been an odd scene. Lowlight shouted at her to move. Shook her by the shoulders. Slapped her across the face, more than once. Then he was still for a moment, as still as she was. He just sat there, staring at her. From her position, Wildcat was sure that Scarlett was no longer breathing. In a sudden flash of action, Lowlight thrust his arms under Scarlett's unmoving body, and heaved her over his shoulders, bounding off again into the darkness. "Lowlight carried her maybe four or five more miles." Recklessly, desperately. He crashed through the growth like a man possessed by some wild demon. Or some wild animal. The fierceness of his pace was difficult to keep up with, and Wildcat had not been shouldering the extra weight of a person. "He over-exerted himself though and also collapsed. Before he let himself fall into unconciousness, he emptied the clip of his sidearm into the air. It had been a signal, as I realized perhaps twenty minutes later when a jeep arrived. Lowlight and Scarlett were dragged into the jeep by two men, the driver and a medic. Lowlight was alive, but unconscious. His ailment was mere exhaustion. I saw him breathing."

    Destro leaned forward. "And Scarlett?"

    Bludd watched his protege with interest. She beamed with remembered excitement. "The medic was too late. I have no doubt that Scarlett was already dead."

    Destro tapped his gloved fingers on the table in an even, measured pattern. "It would seem our gambit was a complete success then."

    "Yes, sir," Wildcat confirmed.

    Destro waved his hand. "That will be all. Dismissed."

    She did not move. Bludd suppressed a smile. She was good. After a brief moment to let Destro see that his order was ineffectual, Bludd spoke up. "You are dismissed." She turned to leave. "I'll expect a full report when I'm done here. One hour, we'll say."

    She nodded her understanding and exited. As she closed the door behind her, images of Lowlight continued to dominate her mind. Why had he done what he had done? What did he have to gain by carrying what was probably a corpse for all those miles? Her assessment of him was defied; he was neither sly animal nor paranoid man. He was somewhere in between. He was hero. Lowlight the failed hero. A familiar pang of loneliness emerged in Wildcat's chest. She knew that no one wearing the Cobra insignia would do for her what Lowlight had done for Scarlett, even (especially!) if it was an empty effort. She certainly would not do it for someone else. There was no room for weakness (and, really, wasn't Lowlight's odd display just weakness? Wasn't it?) in this army. No room for the sentimental fool. No room for the hero.

    Wildcat clutched at her chest, rubbed her hand in a circle to soothe the ache, to dispel the weakness. There was no room in her for such a thing. No room for sentimentality. No room for heroism.

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Continued in Part Nine!
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