Mercenary

by Piers Anthony

  “I am older than you,” she said.

  “I know. I could never love a younger woman.” I moved in to kiss her. A part of me was surprised to see this ready acceptance of a woman I had never met, yet I also knew she was as close to Helse as I could ever come. For even the suggestion of Helse, I would give up virtually everything else I valued.

  She met me part way. I felt a sting at my left shoulder; I shrugged it off. There was another. I ignored it and brought my lips to hers. The kiss was sharp, almost painful, but wonderfully sweet. I felt her body tight against mine, gradually relaxing. What a woman she was!

  We drew apart, a little. She gazed at me wide-eyed. “Oh, Hope, I’m sorry!” she said.

  “Sorry?” I asked, surprised.

  Then her lovely features clouded and changed and reformed to those of the jaguar maiden. A smear of bright red was on her chin. My lower lip hurt; I brought my left hand up to check it, and discovered I was wounded in the shoulder. Pain stabbed through me, and I saw there was blood down along my arm from two deep knife wounds. An artery had been punctured.

  “You stabbed me!” I exclaimed. “And you bit me!”

  “Well, you hugged and kissed me!” she retorted.

  “And you’re not Megan.” That, more than anything else, I could not forgive her.

  “Who the hell is Megan?”

  I struck her, a slashing openhanded blow across the side of the head. Her head rocked back, her mouth open, but I caught her again on the other side with my backhand. She fell on the bed, blinking. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

  Her right hand swung up, bearing the blood-tipped knife. My own right hand moved so quickly my eyes did not follow it and caught her wrist. I stared into her eyes as I brought her knife hand down to her own face. Strength for strength, she could not compete with me. “You prefer sadism?” I inquired. “Shall I make you slit your nose? Men would not find you so pretty, then.”

  She fought, but she could not budge the knife except by letting it go. She did so, and it fell flat across her mouth, not cutting her, and slid to the bed. “I never saw you like this!” she gasped.

  “You never saw me at all, you arrogant bitch!” I snapped. “You like me better now?” I jerked my right hand and forced her right hand to strike her face. “Suppose you chew off your finger while I watch?”

  “You brute!” But it was neither fear nor horror that governed her now. Her tone was one of discovery and admiration. “Kiss me again; I won’t bite!”

  I released her hand, moved my face close to hers, and spat in it. Blood and saliva splatted against her cheek. “I’d as soon kiss a snake!”

  She shuddered, not with anger but with rapture. She spread her arms and her legs. “Do it now!” she breathed. “I can’t fight you when you’re like this. You’re a real man after all!”

  I drew away from her and stood by the bunk. “Look at me,” I said. “I don’t want you. You’re not Helse, you’re not Megan. What good are you?”

  “Revile me!” she whispered. “Hit me! Make me scream!”

  “You aren’t paying attention, you pirate slut,” I said. “Look at my member. You don’t turn me on at all.”

  Now she looked. She saw I was not bluffing.

  “I can’t believe it. You brutalized me; you must want me.”

  “You have failed as a woman,” I told her.

  She snatched the knife from the bed beside her. She pointed it at my groin. “I’ll cut it off!”

  “Go ahead.” I raised my arms and set my hands behind my head, not retreating from her.

  She thrust and aborted, making a feint. I did not budge. I had called her bluff. She knew that if she castrated me she would lose the only man who had broken her will.

  Slowly she brought the blade to her own throat. “If you won’t have me, no one will,” she said.

  “Spirit,” I said.

  My sister rose from her chair. “Yes, Hope.”

  “If she dies, you are bound by honor to kill me.”

  Spirit hesitated. I had been in awe of her before; she was in awe of me now. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I can’t hear you,” I said.

  “Yes!” she screamed.

  “Set the laser.”

  Slowly she brought out her laser pistol, adjusted it, and aimed it at my face.

  My eyes had never left Rue’s. “You see we honor the pirate convention. Do you believe Spirit will kill me?”

  Roulette turned her head a moment to gaze at Spirit’s face. “Yes,” she breathed. “She doesn’t bluff.”

  “So you may safely kill yourself,” I continued. “You know you will be immediately avenged, and there will be no onus for your father to bear, no embarrassment to your clan.”

  Roulette flung the knife away. “You bastard, you have mastered me! Finish it!”

  “Why should I?” I demanded cruelly as Spirit lowered the laser and returned to her chair.

  Rue considered momentarily. “May I touch you?”

  “You may do what you like with me.”

  She leaned forward and reached for my member, but she was inexperienced and did not know how to force a reaction. Observing her defeat, she dropped to her knees before me, flung her arms about my legs, and pressed her face to my torso. I felt the moisture of her hot tears, and that brought on the masculine reaction. In humiliation she had won what she had lost in her arrogance.

  She returned to the bed and lay back, legs spread. “Now do it!”

  I stood still, in two senses. “Do what?”

  “You know what!” she flared.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, God—must I beg for it?”

  “Yes.”

  She stiffened, then forced herself to relax. “Please.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Please!” she cried.

  “Address the camera,” I said.

  She faced the camera. “Please rape me! I beg you!”

  I glanced at the audience. All of their eyes were glowing, and their jaws were set. They were embarrassed and angry. There are reasonable limits to all things, even sadism. I realized that I did not like what had been evoked in me.

  I looked back at Roulette. She lay there, spread, waiting. Her bosom was heaving, and her face and neck were flushed.

  It had to be violent; that was important. I owed her that.

  I got on her, and as my member touched her flesh, I felt the climax on its way. I thrust savagely, not to hurt her but because I had only about three quarters of a second to get into her before exploding.

  She clung to me, relishing it, climaxing instantly as I tore through her virgin membrane. She kissed me passionately. My blood was on her lips, her blood on my member. My essence pumped into her with the most urgent pleasure I have experienced.

  “Promise me one thing,” she whispered as it subsided.

  “One thing,” I agreed into her soft, fragrant hair.

  “Never make me beg again.”

  “I promise.” I had raped her spirit rather than her body; I would never again need to humiliate her like that.

  CHAPTER 11

  PRISONER

  She had stabbed me twice in the left shoulder, severing an artery, but in my vision-trance I had exerted control over the autonomic system and closed the wounds with minimum loss of blood. She had bitten right through my lip, but again I had sealed it off. The holo-tape showed it perfectly. That was what had cowed her: I had seemed like other than a man, a creature she could neither hurt nor resist. At that point it had become psychologically necessary for her to prove I was a man and that she could make me respond to her appeal. That she was a woman. The more I demurred, the more important it became for her.

  The rest was routine. I took her back to her father’s ship. The holo of the proceedings was not necessary; indeed, Roulette insisted that it not be shown, and that none of the witnesses speak of the nuptial night in any except the most general terms. As far as outsiders were concerned, I had charged in, gott
en stabbed, disarmed her, knocked her semiconscious, and raped her while she bit through my lip: exactly the way it should be. Now she was mine, and she stayed close by my side and limped a little and obeyed my every word without protest, demonstrating the extent to which she had been tamed. It was a matter of pride for her to do this, to make it absolutely clear. Her father glanced at her and nodded, satisfied. He glanced at my bandaged shoulder and swollen lip and nodded again. Obviously it had been a good fight.

  Now the alliance was made. It had, in fact, been sealed the instant I penetrated Roulette. The fleet of the Solomons became a division of ours, their stores of money became ours, and their men saluted our officers. We could now afford to purchase all the supplies we needed, without holding back on our pay roster. We integrated our commands, and I interviewed key Solomons personnel, making sure there were none who would betray our effort. There were none; whatever their nature, they were loyal to Straight— and to his daughter. Roulette was now our S-3 Operations officer and my wife, and that was good enough. And the Navy made no further issue of the Solomons’ business interests. Straight had his legitimacy. I realize this may appear to be an accommodation with mischief, but my objection was not to gambling but to criminal activity. In the real world, such distinctions and compromises have to be made.

  It took time, of course, for fleets are not integrated in a day. Or in a week. But we now had time, thanks to this alliance. We organized our forces, trained them—Sergeant Smith had his work cut out!—and prepared for the next engagement. We had our Navy fleet, the Solomons fleet, and the remnants of the Fiji fleet, but our next encounter was to be with the Marianas, the most formidable of the pirate bands, and they were organizing, too. The fate of the Belt would hinge on this next battle.

  There was one gratifying consequence of the marriage in another respect. My staff had been debating what song to give Roulette when she joined us, and factions were forming in support of one song or another. Spirit favored “Wheel of Fortune,” which describes a man’s glimpse at the body of a fabulously beautiful young woman and his dazzlement thereof, while Emerald preferred something relating to the ravishing of maidens. Our community was split; they referred to Roulette as “The Ravished” while humming “Wheel of Fortune.” We needed to settle this, but neither Spirit nor Emerald would yield, their rivalry finding expression in the naming of a new officer.

  Shrapnel, our hostage-status pirate, made petition to address my staff. I granted it immediately, knowing what was on his mind. He stood before us and spoke his piece:

  “I hereby offer my service and my loyalty to Rue, if she accepts.” Roulette, annoyed by this familiar use of her name, frowned. “Why the hell should I want it, Fiji?” Oops! I tried to catch her eye, but she arranged not to let it be

  caught. She remained imperious in little ways. “I bring a gift that will please you,” Shrapnel said. “I need nothing from you!” “Um, Rue ...” Spirit murmured. “Oh, all right,” Roulette snapped. “You think you can please

  me, Shrap? Show me your power.”

  For answer, Shrapnel began singing. We listened, amazed, for he had the finest tenor voice any of us had heard, and complete control. Obviously he had had training in this, somewhere along the way; there was magic in his delivery.

  Come all ye fair and tender maids Who flourish in your prime, prime: Beware, beware! Make your garden fair Let no man steal your thyme, thyme— Let no man steal your thyme.

  For when your thyme is past and gone He’ll care no more for you, you; And every day that your garden is waste Will spread all o’er with rue, rue— Will spread all o’er with rue.

  A woman is a branching tree A man a singing wynd, wynd; And from her branches, carelessly, He’ll take what he can find, find— He’ll take what he can find.

  It was the loveliest, saddest song I had ever heard, and the feeling came through with an impact that smote us all. The allegory was potent: a woman like a garden, with fragrant herbs growing, like thyme, that would be replaced by the bitter medicinal plant rue, if not properly kept up. But thyme is pronounced “time” and rue is also regret, and wynd is wind; when the wind carelessly plucks what it wishes and departs, the garden may be destroyed. For a woman to leave herself open to that is to invite heartbreak.

  And the name of the song was “Rue.”

  Emerald and Spirit exchanged a glance and nodded. Rue sat stricken, not moving at all. The song was apt in so many ways, and so beautiful; there was no question it was hers. Shrapnel had done more than show her his power; he had named her. And her name was Rue.

  Now Shrapnel saluted, sharply and cleanly, and held it until Rue, moving as in a trance, returned it. “Welcome to the S-3 staff, Shrapnel,” I said.

  In an hour the song was all over the fleet. But no one could lead it but Rue. She had to go from ship to ship, to sing it for each company; it was, in fact, her initiation.

  In due course we arrived at the Marianas’ segment of the Belt. My Navy fleet led the way with the Solomons auxiliary taking an alternate route through a channel in the Belt debris. We were to rendezvous at the Marianas capital region; then we would tackle the main pirate force in one definitive battle.

  “I’m using the Mongol strategy for this one,” Emerald said at our staff meeting. “I trust you all are familiar with it?”

  Phist coughed. Spirit smiled. Naturally none of us were familiar with it. “I’m just a ravished pirate wench,” Rue said. “What do I know of history?”

  “Pirates do not study history?” Emerald inquired.

  “We’re too busy with the present.”

  “The Marianas won’t be familiar with the tactics of the ancient Earthly Mongols, then?”

  “What the hell do the Mongols have to do with us?” Rue demanded. “Of course they don’t know about that stuff.”

  “That’s what I thought. Those who will not heed history are doomed to repeat it. Perhaps you would be willing to play the devil’s advocate here.”

  “The what?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said quickly. I had learned already that Roulette had a prickly temper, especially where her areas of ignorance were concerned.

  “Good enough,” Emerald said. “You’ll play the part of King Bela of Hungary. You have a force equivalent to that of the invading Mongols, and you are established west of the River Danube, while the Mongols, having destroyed Russia, are advancing southwestward toward you. What do you do?”

  “Hold on, Rising Moon!” I protested. “I’ve got to know more than that! What kind of armament do the Mongols have? How does it compare to mine? Whose side are the natives on? What about supply lines?”

  She smiled. “You’re learning, sir. The Mongols are a real terror. The force they send against you is a spin-off from the greatest land empire ever conquered, but now their supply lines are so extended they must forage from the land. They are lightly armed horsemen, highly mobile, who tend to attack swiftly and retreat, then attack again. They have destroyed all enemies so far, including your associates, who underestimated them. But you are on your home territory, and the local people support you. In addition, it is winter, with deep snow all about, hindering their mobility and making it impossible for them to steal or destroy your crops. You have your secure bases, with ample supplies, while they are traveling in the open, lean and hungry. They’re coming fast.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just sit tight and wait for them,” I decided. “And I’ll attack them as soon as they cross the Danube, catching them with their formations unformed and their backs to the river, while they’re tired from traveling. I’ll probably pulverize them.”

  “One branch of their force splits off, attacking your allies to the north,” Emerald continued. “The Mongols are successful, so you can’t depend on help from your allies, but it is plain that this side campaign will prevent that smaller Mongol force from rejoining their main force in time to fight you. So in that respect their diversion seems to have backfired; you now face a slightly inferior force.”


  “I’ll polish them off before their other unit gets here,” I said. “It’s my golden opportunity.” I paused. “Unless they have a secret weapon?”

  “Nothing physical,” she assured me. “But strategically they’re sharp.”

  “Like boosting drones backward,” Roulette muttered. “Or mining their own bases.” The other officers chuckled. The Solomons had been able to replenish their lost drones from the Fiji reserve force that had not come against us, but it had been an effective lesson.

  “Well, you won’t catch me with any of those cheap tricks!” I said, enjoying this. “I’m canny old King Bela, and I know my troops and my territory, and I’ll follow sound strategic and tactical principles. The Mongols can’t budge me by anything less than a full-scale attack, and I’m well prepared for that.”