Mercenary

by Piers Anthony

  She was smart, too. She had had a good education, as I had; her family had been reasonably well-to-do. That was one reason she had had such a problem in the Tail; she had expected to be a virgin at her marriage. The brutality of her rape and loss of her family had shocked her fundamentally but had not made it easier for her to indulge in casual sex; the opposite was the case. I understood this all too well, so in this sense I was right for her. I was almost sorry I could not love her, for she was worthy of love, but neither Navy policy nor my private emotional makeup permitted that. From the outset we had our understanding: we would be friends and sexual partners, but not lovers. That may seem like a strange distinction, but it was valid. Sex can be separated from love, and love from friendship, and only by recognizing this separation could I believe I was not being false to Helse.

  Juana shared my eagerness to score well in the Challenge. We agreed to be buddies there, trading off our assigned partners so we could be together. That way we would succeed or fail together, and that was as it should be. Buddies were to be chosen ahead of time, since the Navy knew that strangers did not make the best buddies, but for convenience they had to be in-platoon at the start. So I paired with a handsome Saxon youth, and Juana took a voluptuous Saxon girl; then we introduced them to each other and asked if they would like to make the exchange in the Challenge. They were more than happy to oblige; they had not thought of this particular device.

  Then we got down to serious planning. I showed Juana the maps of prior layouts, and she made suggestions on how to proceed. She came up with one notion that appalled me, but she showed me her research and finally convinced me she was correct. The more I considered her proposal, the more I liked it. It was risky; we could be genuinely hurt if we miscalculated. But it offered a chance to complete the probable course in well under two hours—perhaps even record time. As far as we could tell, no one else had ever tried this ploy, and it required courage for us to decide on it. But we did; it was basically double or nothing.

  It took some preparation. We were allowed to bring no props to the Challenge Dome, but we could develop whatever skills we wished and had time for. So we researched and found out how to make a paddle-board from natural materials. We went swimming at one of the Base pools—Juana looked great in a suit—where paddle-boards were allowed, and learned how to use them. It took some effort, and we weren’t expert, but we could make do. We also practiced our straight swimming, especially the breast-stroke-frog kick combination.

  All too soon, the day came. We were marched into the Challenge Dome. We stripped and stepped naked into the supply section. We had to choose our equipment from what was available and use it to run the course. Anyone who chose foolishly would pay the consequences soon enough. The Dome personnel quickly provided what was ordered but made no suggestions or remarks. Some trainees evidently hadn’t thought about it ahead and wasted precious time making up their minds. I had memorized my list and was one of the first on my way.

  I wore standard combat boots, jungle fatigues, heavy gloves, and a cap with mosquito netting that tied around my neck, so that no part of me was open to the bugs. Other men simply used insect repellent and traveled lighter and cooler, but I had my reasons to do it my way. I took a standard machete and a small hunting knife and a quadruple ration of reptile repellent. “Going swimming?” the clerk inquired wryly, in violation of the non-comment regulation, but I didn’t answer. He thought I was a fool, since land was faster than water for foot soldiers. And, of course, I took one of their little maps.

  I smiled as I viewed it. They had set the course just about where I had anticipated. I knew this layout in more detail than the map showed, for it was supposed to be only a general guideline, with a few minor errors to simulate real-life conditions. This was verisimilitude; maps could be out of date or simply wrong, so part of the challenge was to make do despite errors of information.

  I focused on a particular area. Sure enough: There was a mismarked quicksand bog. Anyone who trusted this map and tried to swim in clear water could blunder into quicksand instead. Since clear water was infested with crocodiles, few were likely to try, however. Mainly, they would lose time, having to skirt an unexpected bog. Never trust a map too far.

  I proceeded to the rendezvous point with my buddy. There were the two girls, as agreed. Juana was shapeless in fatigues and netting, as I was, but her friend was in a fake wool sweater and skirt and looked stunning. The other couple evidently planned to hike through the mountain region where the air was cool, even snowy, so they were warmly dressed. They wore spiked boots and carried coils of fine rope, so they could navigate the high pass. I had studied that route; it was a slow but sure one. They would finish in the middle of the pack—perhaps a little behind, if they dallied during a rest stop for a little romance. It wasn’t that either was starved for sex; that was impossible in the Navy. It was that the Challenge Dome was a very special place and this was a special occasion; they were all worked up for it, and love in the wilderness has unique spice.

  Now Juana and I were together, and we had no present interest in sex. We forged directly for the quicksand, moving swiftly over the firm ground, then carefully through thickening jungle lowlands. The headhunters were here; we saw one of their snares. But we passed through their territory unmolested, because of our silence and the fact that we wore no strong-smelling bug repellent. Juana had figured that out: The headhunters sniffed the odors and zeroed in on them for the kill.

  We came to the edge of the open water by the map, and now the error of the map was plain, for this was perhaps six inches of water topping a quicksand bog. There was no question about the quicksand, because a float carried a sign: QUICKSAND. A real wilderness wouldn’t have such a marker, but this was a mock wilderness and the quicksand was simulated; we had to accept it by definition. A Dome observer sat in a shallow-draft boat, ready to pull out any fools who stumbled into it and to ferry them to the morgue.

  There was a stand of papyrus-like reeds at the edge, as I had known there would be. I began cutting these down with my machete as Juana scouted for suitable vines. Soon we were fashioning two paddle-boards: flat bundles of the buoyant reeds. When they were ready, I faced the observer and made my statement: “Quicksand is more dense than water. A person can float in it if he doesn’t panic, especially if he is buoyed. There will be no need to consider us mired; we know what we’re doing.”

  There was no response from the observer. But when we stripped, bundling our fatigues into our boots and hooking the boots to our bodies by their linked laces, and smearing croc repellent over our naked bodies, and flopping on our boards in the water, the observer made no protest. In fact, his rapt attention was on Juana’s splendid body; observers seldom got the chance to observe this sort of thing in the Dome. We had a viable program.

  We paddled carefully across the quicksand, keeping our arm and leg strokes shallow. This was the second reason we used no bug repellent; it was water soluble and would have been lost here. The reptile repellent was more durable in water, and we had plenty. Even so, I felt a thrill of nervousness, not so much for the actual dangers as for the possible reaction of the observer. The crocs were fangless, but if they came too close, we would be disqualified; our repellent had better work!

  We swam slowly across. No crocs came. We climbed out on the far bank and shook ourselves off and got dressed again before the bugs could cluster. Then, with a cheery wave to the observer, we resumed our trek. I had not thought of Juana’s body as an asset, but surely if the observer had been in doubt about whether to call a fault, this had helped keep him positive.

  We had, by use of this shortcut, reduced our travel distance by almost fifty percent. It had taken time to prepare the paddle-boards, but we were still a good half hour ahead of any ordinary schedule, and not as tired as we would have been had we spent that time plodding on foot.

  We had to cut through a section of palmetto, and at one point heard a rattle; whether it was a real rattlesnake or a planted sound
we could not know, but we gave it a wide berth and renewed our dosage of reptile repellent. The headhunters could smell this, too, but according to the map there were none of them in this region, and this coincided with my judgment.

  Then we came to higher ground, and moved faster. But it was hot in our netting, and Juana was tiring; it is a fact that the type of flesh that makes a woman a delight to view is not as useful as plain muscle, in such a trek. We had to slow. I carried all our extra equipment, her pack and mine, but still we lost time. Yet she had done very well so far, and was striving hard now; I would not have traded her for a man.

  Breathless, we hastened to the finish zone. We were numbers five and six, and Juana was the first woman here. So she would have qualified for the bonus even if she hadn’t made the first nine. We had made it!

  One day later, when the official tabulations were posted, Sergeant Smith’s well-prepared platoon was shown as the leader. A cheer went up, and the troops bustled out on their three-day pass. Juana and I sewed on the single stripes of Privates First Class and moved into a room together, with the blessing of the Navy. Never again would we have to endure the rigors of the Tail.

  We received a note from one Commander Dunsted, whose name neither of us recognized. It said, “Congratulations.” When I checked the Base listing of officers, I discovered that this was the gracious woman who had put us together in the Tail.

  CHAPTER 3

  FIVE STEEL BALLS

  My life as a PFC in the Jupiter Navy was full, but again it would be tedious to detail it. I continued my training, for though I now had some slight rank, about six months before I would ordinarily have had it, I still had much to learn. I was studying how to raid a ship; that is, how to perform as a member of a specialized crew who would board and take over an enemy spaceship. This was considered to be one of the most dangerous and challenging specialties, with a brief life expectancy. Few soldiers either wanted it or could keep its pace; therefore, promotions within it were prompt. I had jumped to E3 while most of my cycle-mates remained E1; after completing four months of training as a raider with top scores, I made E4, corporal.

  Juana, not being driven as I was, pursued a more normal course and trained as a computer clerk and secretary. This was a good, secure specialty, but beneath her potential. It became apparent that she and I were not at all similar in personality, but we related well as roommates. Maybe opposites do attract. She was not keen on sex, and my preoccupation was elsewhere, but we performed our weekly stint because the Navy expected it of us, and it was said the Navy had ways of knowing.

  Having said that, I must also say it was not an onerous duty, and as I came to understand Juana’s nature better, I believe she came to appreciate it as I did. Indeed, though we both agreed that love was no part of this relationship, there were times when a third party might have thought otherwise. Our sex was always gentle and often fulfilling, as Helse had taught me, and I’m sure Juana gradually lost her fear of it. She did not have any strong drive to participate, but she liked to please me, and sometimes we even exceeded the minimum frequency quota. Certainly she valued the closeness of it, if not the mechanics.

  In due course I was contacted by the anonymous officer Sergeant Smith had promised: the one who had the list of pirate ships doing business with Chip Off the Old Block. He was Lieutenant Repro, a psychologist attached to the Public Relations staff of the training battalion, and he was a drug addict. I quickly realized that while Sergeant Smith had been relegated to the lowly training unit as an extension of his scapegoat punishment, Lieutenant Repro had been relegated here as an act of mercy. A training battalion had little need of publicity; it did not deal very much with the outside world. Especially not when most of the soldiers were refugee orphans. So this was a sinecure, where Lieutenant Repro could drift out his enlistment in obscurity without doing much harm. No wonder he had not been eager to reveal himself; his shame was best kept private. No wonder, too, that he kept track of pirate vessels: They supplied the drug he had to have.

  Why, then, had he agreed to contact me? I realized that he could not have much interest in my need to locate my sister. There had to be something in it for him. I needed to ascertain what this was, to be sure I could trust him.

  Repro was a friend of Sergeant Smith’s, and I learned later that Smith had pointed out that I might be a suitable pawn in a kind of game they were playing. It was a game that was to have amazing impact on my life, and this contact was perhaps the major break of my military career. But, of course, I did not know this then. Let me render this more directly.

  I met Lieutenant Repro in his office in the S-5 section. I should clarify that a battalion has five special sections, each headed by an officer and designated S-1 through S-5. They are, respectively, Adjutant, Intelligence, Operations, Logistics, and Public Relations, otherwise known as Propaganda. As an enlisted man, I was hardly aware these existed; later in my career, that was to change.

  Lieutenant Repro was a tall, thin, unhealthy-looking man in his late thirties or early forties—perhaps he looked older than he was because of the ravages of his addiction—with thinning brown hair and deepening lines on his face. He was at the moment in command of his faculties, but I could see he wasn’t enjoying it. He must have straightened out temporarily, for this occasion. His Class A uniform was slightly rumpled, and his brass slightly tarnished. He was about as unimpressive an officer as I had seen.

  On his desk was a little stand, from which five steel balls were suspended by angled threads, barely touching each other. He showed me how it operated. “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,” he said, lifting an end-ball to the side and letting it go. It swung in its arc down to strike the stationary four, and the ball on the far side swung out, leaving the other four unmoved. The force of the first had been neatly transferred to the last, without moving the intervening masses. Then the end-ball swung back, and the first one rebounded. The principle was simple enough, but I was fascinated to see it in action.

  Repro stilled the motion by touching the center balls with his hand. Then he lifted two balls from the end. “If I drop this pair, what will happen?” he asked.

  I started to answer, then hesitated, realizing that I wasn’t sure. Would two balls beget two balls—or one ball with twice the force?

  He let go, and two balls reacted. I had my answer; a ball for a ball, two for two.

  Then he lifted three. “Now?”

  Three balls. That suggested three to react, but only two remained. What would happen?

  He let the three go, and three balls rebounded. Rather, two did, and the third carried through without pause. Fascinating!

  “Action-reaction,” Lieutenant Repro said. “Inevitable.”I wondered what the point was but remained too intrigued by the balls to inquire. Such a simple yet effective way to demonstrate a principle of physics. “May I try it, sir?”

  He nodded acquiescence. I lifted one ball, let it go, and watched the far one fling out with similar force. I let the progression continue, noting that the size of the swinging arcs gradually diminished, and that the row of steel balls began to get moving, until finally all five were gently swinging in unison. Friction, I realized. No process was perfect in atmosphere. In a vacuum it would work better, though there would still be some power siphoned away by the inefficiency of the supporting strings.

  I tried two balls, then three, then four, then five—and smiled, for, of course, the five merely swung without collisions. Then I started a ball on each side, watching them rebound outward simultaneously. Then I started two balls on one side and one on the other, and saw the reaction proceed without hitch. The two proceeded back on the one side, the one on the other. This device could handle opposite impulses without confusing them.

  Then I swung a single ball down with a double force. The opposite ball flung out with similar force.

  I looked up. “How does it know the difference between two balls with normal force, and one with double force?”

&nbs
p; “It knows,” Repro said gravely.

  I played with it some more. “The double-force ball is traveling faster,” I decided. “That speed is transmitted.”

  Then I tried two balls at normal force, and then three. Two, then three rebounded. “The velocity is constant,” I said, bemused. “But somehow it knows how many there are.

  “It knows,” he agreed again. “Action and reaction are constant, anywhere in the universe, and in any form in the universe. One has but to read the forces correctly.”

  “Even in human events?” I asked, beginning to catch on.

  “If we read correctly.”

  “Then psychology reduces to elementary physics?”

  “If.”

  I nodded. “It must be so.”

  He looked at me, his wasted body strangely animated. “Show me your power,” he said, using a Navy idiom.

  “Yes, sir.” I took a breath, studying him with more than my eyes and ears. “You are intelligent—about one point three on the human scale—and have a civilian university education. You are honest but lack physical courage, so you become compromised. You see reality too clearly, but it is painful, so you dull your sensitivity with a drug, and have done so increasingly for the past decade. You had and lost a woman; that contributed. When your Navy enlistment expires, and they deny you reenlistment, you will retire without protest, step off into space, float free toward the sun, and open your suit.”