Mercenary

by Piers Anthony

  I completed my inspection of my unit, then retired to my office in the ship to ponder. I believed the agent of QYV would keep her word; I did not know her name but had gotten to know her well enough to know she was dealing honestly in her fashion. My key was safe from molestation while I remained on Chiron. But there were two other matters.

  First, this showed that QYV was going to keep trying to acquire the key. I would have to take better measures to protect it— and myself. In fact, I might have to deal directly with QYV. I had his Jupiter address; perhaps it had been a mistake not to follow that up.

  Second, there had been that reference to trouble on Chiron, not of QYV’s making. It sounded serious. This was a place where violence could break out at any time. Something must be in the offing—something bloody. I had better do something about it.

  I followed the book. I went to my supervisor, the Company Commander, Lieutenant Commander Hastings, the martinet. He was not pleased to have me intrude on his time. I wasn’t sure what he did all day, as little evidence of it filtered down to the units. But he had to see me when I put in the request, by military protocol. “What is it, Hubris?” he snapped.

  I was aware that, among things, he didn’t like Hispanics, and therefore held me in automatic contempt. Prejudice does exist in the Jupiter Navy, as elsewhere, but I had long since learned to live with it and often to turn it to my advantage. I was much closer to the men of my platoon than I would have been if I had been Saxon. I was also helped by the fact that I had come up through the enlisted ranks. Hastings had not; he was an Academy graduate and exemplified the liabilities of that. The best and the worst were Academy, because of that lack of leavening.

  “Sir, I suspect that serious trouble is brewing,” I said carefully. “Perhaps a deliberate program of mischief by terrorist revolutionaries. We should take special measures to—”

  “You suspect, Lieutenant?” he demanded nastily. “On what evidence?”

  I could not give my source; that was part of my deal with the QYV agent-woman, she of the delicious bottom. “It is just something I heard, sir. A passing reference to—”

  “Are you an expert in Intelligence, Hubris?”

  “No, sir. But it is wise to pay attention to—”

  “It is wise to confine yourself to your area of expertise, Hubris. Perhaps you should return to scrubbing floors with the grunts.”

  I made one more attempt. “Sir, I feel a report should be made, and a warning issued—”

  “Forget it, Hubris! Leave policy to those whose concern it is.”

  So much for that. I had received the anticipated response. “Yes, sir.” I saluted and turned away. He didn’t bother to return the salute.

  I had played it by the book. There would be a recording of my suggestion, putting me on record to that extent. Now I had to put my own program into effect, for I had no intention of being a scapegoat. I also had no intention of getting myself killed, or of allowing disaster to strike my unit through any neglect of mine.

  My options were limited since my superior had rejected my petition. I could not take any official action. But I did act unofficially. I informed my platoon sergeant that I had gone to Commander Hastings with my concern about a possible outbreak of violence and had been put in my place. “I do not necessarily regard this as a private matter,” I concluded.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. I had just provided him with some hot gossip, and signaled that he could spread it freely. In fact, I had hinted that he should do so. He was one Saxon who had quickly learned how to get along with a Hispanic officer.

  “Inform the men that I will be available for personal dialogue in the rec room,” I said. That meant that my enlisted men could come and talk to me informally.

  News travels at close to C (light-speed) in a unit. I had hardly sat down at a table and set up the dominoes before several of my Hispanic troops appeared. “Sir,” one said in Spanish. “What are you up to this time?”

  “I am up to nothing,” I replied innocently in the same language. “I have been instructed to leave significant matters to those equipped to comprehend them, and to concentrate on my floor-scrubbing. I would not presume to do otherwise.”

  They grinned knowingly. “Everyone knows how stupid Hispanics are,” one said. “Scrubbing is all they understand.”

  “Only a very stupid man would believe that a program of riot and possibly assassination could be in the offing,” I agreed. “Or that interplanetary peace-force troops and officers could be the target. Far better to scrub floors!”

  The grins faded. “What do we do, sir—off the record?”

  “I believe we should try to ingratiate ourselves further with the natives,” I said. “To treat them well and try to get to know them as friends. Entertain their children. Study their cultures. Listen to their concerns with real interest and help to what extent we can, as fast as we can.”

  “But we are not supposed to get social with them!”

  “No sex with their women,” I said. “But other favors, other forms of social interaction are permitted. Off-duty personnel should be friendly, like brothers. We want them to like us.” I paused. “And if any of them mention things in confidence, such as the secret movement of weapons, we must protect their secret. We must never betray them in any way. But I want to know, off the

  record, immediately.”

  Now they understood. “Spy work,” one said.

  “Social work,” I clarified. “Commander Chicken has forbidden spy work to floor-scrubbers. But we want the local Chironiotes to be concerned if anything should threaten us.”

  “You really think something might, sir?”

  I nodded grimly. “My evidence is thin, but I am very much afraid it might. We need to be careful.”

  “We shall spread the word, sir.”

  “I realize this is not very dramatic,” I said. “But it’s all I can think of. I’m not expert in intrigue. Let’s hope my concern is groundless.”

  “Yes, sir.” They departed, ready to spread the word.

  Naturally, for a week thereafter, things were perfectly quiet on Chiron. But my men, showing more faith in me than I felt in myself, labored diligently to be Good Guys. They found a number of ways. They arranged little parties for the children, giving out token prizes and singing songs. They helped old ladies do their shopping. They even filled in for ill men, doing work in their off-duty hours. They chipped in to help a poor family make an overdue payment on a mortgage. They spread cheer.

  News of this foolishness spread through the other units. Jokes abounded. We were the loco platoon. But my men merely shrugged and continued. They had never tried being Nice Guys this way before, and they found they liked it. And the natives, originally diffident or even covertly hostile, became friendly very quickly. They began inviting favored soldiers to meals and parties. All it took was our genuine effort to relate.

  Ten days after my alert, one of my men brought me a slip of paper. “A little Greek boy,” he said almost apologetically. “I helped him carve a sailboat. He gave me this. Sir, I don’t know if it means anything—”

  I unfolded the paper. One word was crudely printed on it in Spanish: hoy.

  “Did the child speak Spanish?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  The word was today. Innocent, by itself; it could mean anything. “We’ll find out,” I said. “We must continue as usual, so as not to betray our informant. But watch it, and be ready.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said doubtfully, perhaps thinking I was being kind to take the note seriously. Perhaps I was.

  We proceeded as usual, though the word spread throughout my unit and no one slept. Nothing happened.

  But during the night shift, most of hell tore loose.

  Firearms were forbidden in the domes because of the danger they posed to the environment. One small hole in the seal meant a pressure leak, and a large hole could mean explosive decompression. A city of a hundred thousand people could be suffocated in seconds. But now there
was the sound of guns firing.

  I knew when I heard the first shot that this was serious. “Full alert, all shifts!” I barked into the unit intercom. “Double the present duty shift. The rest form a section with me—Hispanic.” Because neither the Greeks nor the Turks understood Spanish well; it was a code language.

  My sergeant saw to the disposition of men. I took my Hispanic squad—ten men and a corporal—directly toward the sound of shooting.

  Men were in the streets, tough-looking Greeks, but they were not rioting. “Lieutenant,” one called as I approached. “Do not go abroad.”

  “It is my duty to keep order,” I said, pausing.

  “There is no disturbance,” he said. “See, our streets are quiet.”

  “Yes? But there is gunfire in the next section.”

  “Lieutenant, you have been good to us. We forbade the terrorists to come here. But in the other sections you are not safe.”

  So my policy had paid off! These were our friends. But I couldn’t stand idly by while a riot or insurrection proceeded. “I have a job to do.”

  “Please—you do not understand. Foreign officers are being executed!”

  “Then I must get there immediately!” I broke into a run, my squad double-timing behind me.

  The Greeks kept pace. “Lieutenant, you force our hand! We do not wish harm to come to you!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I am here to keep the peace. I must do it. Please return to your homes.”

  “No. We must come with you. There is great danger!” I sensed the mood of these people. They knew more than they were telling, but they were uncertain. They had assumed that I would stay at my post and not interfere with what occurred elsewhere. Ordinarily, I would have. “Come if you wish, but do not interfere with my men.”

  We jogged to the next section. I saw I was already too late; two uniformed men lay in blood. A wild-looking Greek stood over them, waving a pistol, haranguing the crowd in Greek. Here was a terrorist leader!

  “Halt!” I cried. “You are under arrest!”

  The terrorist whirled, bringing his gun to bear. I carried only my billy club, and my men were no better off. We had been keeping the peace without power weapons, not even stunners. I realized that I had indeed been foolish to charge here, knowing we would face firearms. My life might well be forfeit. Yet this policy had been necessary to assure the folk of our region that we were basically men of peace.

  The terrorist aimed at me. I threw myself to the side. “Take cover!” I yelled.

  Then something flew through the air and struck the terrorist in the chest. He cried out and staggered and fell. The handle of a knife protruded from his body. I knew one of the Greeks from my sector had thrown it, for my men did not carry knives on this duty either.

  I reached the bodies. One was a corporal, part of the office staff of our company. He was dead; he had been shot through the head. The other was Lieutenant Commander Hastings. He was dead, too.

  I faced the Greeks. “The other officers?”

  “I fear all are dead,” the Greek leader said. “The terrorists, the leaders—”

  “Well, I’m not dead!” I snapped. “Until I verify who survives, I’m assuming charge of this sector. I hereby declare martial law. All citizens will confine themselves to their homes until further notice. Only international troops will remain on the streets. Any Greek found abroad fifteen minutes from now will be subject to immediate arrest.”

  The Greeks exchanged glances. “Yes, sir.” They dispersed.

  It would have been awkward if they had balked! But they trusted me, and my decisiveness. I turned to my corporal. “Take five men,” I said in Spanish. “Check the whereabouts and condition of all company officers and NCO’s, and report to me at my office in the ship. Be on guard against gunfire.”

  “Yes, sir!” Quickly he chose five, and hurried away.

  I picked up the fallen pistol, checked it, and tucked it into my belt. “Now we return to the ship,” I said to the five remaining men. “Form a cordon around me; I believe I am now the prime terrorist target.”

  They did, and we proceeded to the ship without further event. We heard distant shots but none in this region.

  At the ship I used the intercom to clarify that one officer survived: Commander Waterman. He had barricaded himself in his office instead of going out on the street. He was, in fact, a coward. He had done nothing to stop the violence.

  I went to his office, and he let me in. “Commander, I believe all the other officers of the battalion have been assassinated,” I said briskly. “I suggest you appoint me Battalion Executive Officer and let me carry on from there.”

  He stared at me, trying to fathom my motive, so I spelled it out for him. “Commander, when I was fifteen I saw my father and friends slaughtered by pirates, and my sister raped. I swore vengeance and have been taking it. I had more blood on my hands before I entered the Navy than most careerists ever see. These terrorists are in the same class as pirates. I can handle this; it’s not new to me, it doesn’t touch me the way it does others.” Actually, I never liked killing, but I had learned to function amidst it. “But I need authority to act. I’m not trying to usurp your authority; I’m trying to salvage the situation. Support me, and I will support you.”

  Waterman considered. He remained severely shaken, but now he realized how his inaction would be interpreted. “Scuttlebutt has it you forced an officer to retire—when you were a sergeant.”

  “There was no blemish on his record, sir.”

  “I retire in ten months.”

  “Retire with honor, sir.”

  He nodded. We had an understanding. Even in an institution as wedded to spelled-out formality as the Jupiter Navy, much of the real business is done by unwritten understanding. He activated the intercom, and it was answered by the private filling in for a slain sergeant. “Cut the orders for Lieutenant Hubris to be Battalion Executive,” he said. “Temporary field promotion to O3 and complete authority to act for me for the duration of the crisis.”

  “Yes, sir,” the private said.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, saluting.

  I deputized my trusted men to fill the vacant offices, and we cleaned up the mess, extended our area of control, and got things restored to a facsimile of normal until reinforcements arrived. As it turned out, the violence had largely passed. Evidently the terrorists had intended to precipitate a riot and revolution by assassinating the officers of the peace force and haranguing the populace, but when the segment controlled by our battalion remained orderly, the effort lacked sufficient momentum to continue. I was able to track down and arrest the inciters, thanks to the cooperation of our Greek friends, and that looked very good on my record. Things settled down.

  Commander Waterman was permitted to retire in due course, without prejudice, and my promotion was confirmed. I received a commendation, a ribbon, and a medal for heroism. It was more than I deserved, but I did not protest. For one thing, I had issued a number of emergency promotions, putting privates into NCO spots and granting a field promotion to an ensign to fill my own vacated position as Platoon Commander. I kept my mouth shut, sparing the Navy embarrassment, and every one of those promotions was confirmed. The Navy had tacitly paid me off.

  When notice came that our battalion was relieved of peace duty, we flung a party like none the Greeks had seen before. The Greeks who had helped us were given special attention, and our stores were raided for presents for them all. This wasn’t strictly Standard Operating Procedure, but no protest was heard.

  CHAPTER 5

  MIGRANT

  Again, I must plead dullness as the pretext to skim over much of the ensuing eight years. Military life is not generally filled with excitement; tedium is its ordinary nature, except for fleeting periods of devastation, as happened on Chiron. I organized the company I commanded as well as I could, given the restrictions of the Book; it became a haven for ambitious Hispanics. Perhaps this amounts to segregation; well, there is more of tha
t than the Navy admits. Other units were generally glad not to have to deal with aggressive Spanish-speaking men and officers; as long as neither they nor we protested, the Navy went along. There is a lot of live-and-let-live in the military.

  My sister Spirit abruptly transferred to another base, one orbiting closer to Jupiter, and entered into a term marriage with Lieutenant Commander Phist, the whistle-blower. How she managed that on either practical or social levels I hesitate to conjecture; she was always more clever than I at manipulating her circumstances. I still tended to think of her as the twelve-year old child I had left among pirates; at eighteen she was a long way from that, but even at twelve she had been nervy and tough in a crisis, always ready and able to do what had to be done. Her restored presence was enormously gratifying to me, and her renewed absence was hard for me, though I knew she would return. She and I could never truly be separated again.