Mercenary

by Dave Barsby

  We all respond affirmative, and Drift goes a little too far by saying how succulent the meat was. True, compared to Dirk’s cooking, it was a banquet, but I suspect most of the rebel soldiers eat such a stew on a regular occasion. However, it doesn’t seem to faze Bailes.

  “Good, good,” he says. He sighs. “So, how long have you lot been in the game?”

  “It varies,” Rogdo answers. “I’ve been fourteen years.”

  “Hmmm, yes,” Bailes answers. He studies Rogdo for a moment. “I’m surprised it isn’t you who is in command of this scouting party, if you’ve been in the wars that long. That’s nearly since the beginning.”

  I suddenly notice there is something sad about Bailes, something behind the eyes. His outward persona is as lively as ever, but it seems he is choosing his words carefully to mask his inner emotions. The man becomes ever more complex, and ever more intriguing.

  “And you,” he says, suddenly turning to me. My heart briefly flutters in panic. “You’re a young rookie. What do you think of the war?”

  “Well, we’re doing the right thing, aren’t we. No matter how many die, Gartha has to be removed. As long as there are still people out there who have the chance of freedom, no sacrifice is too high.” I am inwardly quite proud of the passion with which I presented my short speech, but unlike my colleagues I know my passion is real.

  “Huh,” is all Bailes offers, disappointingly. I expect a little more, but none seems to be forthcoming. He rubs his chin thoughtfully. As he stares at me, I almost feel as though he is reading my character, my soul, my integrity. It is quite an elated feeling. My desire to stop Rogdo from committing this crime burns stronger than ever.

  “Do you know the story of Tara’s Pillow?” he suddenly asks. The crackle of the fire is the only response he gets. The group turn to look at me. I start to feel ill again. Here is an area of intelligence we weren’t privy to. Ignorance is bliss, I think, and if I mess it up and we all die, at least I’ll die blissful.

  “I’m sorry, no,” I answer. “I came from a small town, not much education.”

  “Oh, well,” Bailes slaps his thighs, happy. “I will tell you the story.

  “Tara’s father, of course, was the explorer who discovered this planet of mine. He named it Pillow Tara because his young daughter was obsessed with this pillow she had. It was a beautiful, soft eiderdown with the most delicate lace frills and intricate patterns woven across its length. It was, in short, a nice pillow. And Tara loved that pillow so much, she never let it out of her sight. If it was washed, she would keep a vigil by the machine. If she went to the bathroom, the pillow would follow.

  “Well, one day Tara decided to go for a wander, explore this new land of hers by herself. She knew it was against her father’s orders, but she had her trusty pillow with her, so what could go wrong? Well, guess what, something went wrong. An earthquake, and Tara found herself hanging on the edge of a crevice with her beloved pillow just out of her reach.

  “Her father eventually found her, but she was too far down the slope. He could just reach one of her hands, but he needed to grab both hands if he was to pull her to safety. However, Tara was convinced she could reach and rescue her beloved pillow. Despite her father’s protestations, she reached not for his other hand to drag her to safety, but for her pillow. It was still out of reach, but Tara knew another stretch and she would get it. However, it was also clear that her father was losing his grip on her hand and if she stretched once more for that pillow, his grip may be lost completely.

  “There is a moral to the story, of course. If you embrace the material things in life, you will only suffer in the end. If you embrace life itself, you will be fulfilled.”

  We listen to the dancing embers of the fire for a few moments.

  “Hold on,” Rogdo says. “Was that it?”

  “No. But you have to ask yourselves, what would you do in that situation. Would you risk pain and suffering so you can have your pillow?”

  “Well, the other way is the safe option, isn’t it,” Rogdo answers. “It can be interpreted that way too. Not just material versus spiritual, but living life on the edge to gain rewards, or playing it safe and losing any chance of enjoyment.”

  “So I guess you’d go for the pillow. Hmmm, I thought so. What about the rest of you? What would you all do? And don’t just presume taking the hand is the correct answer, really think about it.”

  “I’d try for the pillow, to be honest,” Hiaelia says.

  “Me too,” answers Drift.

  “I’d go for the hand,” Tima says after some thought.

  Bailes smiles. “You’re in the wrong line of business, you know that.”

  “This is war,” Tima says. “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Everyone has a choice. And some day everyone will have to make that choice. Daddy or pillow. Or however you want to put it.” He nods, studying our faces. When he gets to me, he smiles. “And how about you? What would your choice be?”

  “Option C,” I answer.

  “Hah! Option C? Interesting. And what is option C?”

  “Let go of the hand completely. If he’s losing his grip, I’d be better for the time being to keep a grip on the cliff side myself until he can get better purchase. When that happens I should be able to get the pillow and the hand.”

  “Hah!” Bailes shouts again and claps his hands together in glee. “Beautiful. You wouldn’t take anything for granted, you’d work hard and get both.”

  “Don’t get too smug,” Rogdo warns me as I beam at my colleagues.

  “Wait,” I say. “This Tara’s Pillow. This is how the planet was named. Doesn’t that mean it’s a true story?”

  “Yes,” Bailes answers. “Yes, it is.”

  “So…”

  “So?”

  “So, what did Tara really do?”

  “She did what you said. Let go of the hand. Found purchase. Grabbed the pillow. But there was an aftershock and her father was pitched over the edge to his doom. If Tara had taken his hand straight away, they would have both lived. As it was, only Tara survived, and ever since that day her pillow only served to remind her of the death it had inadvertently caused.

  “You see, greedy people always get their comeuppance one way or another. That is why we cannot lose this war. If I die, if all my soldiers die, Gartha’s greed for wealth and power will be his downfall. I can see it working already. He needs to kill me and my men to get all the power. But do you know what will happen when he gets that power?”

  “No,” I say.

  “What?” Hiaelia asks.

  Bailes just grins. “I’ll tell you later,” he says. “Get some shut-eye.”

  He stands, turns and disappears inside the folds of his tent. His speech has had a profound impact on me (less so the somewhat tepid story). This man knows so much. How can such a flame be extinguished? I look across at my colleagues.

  “Rogdo?” I whisper.

  “What?” he whispers back.

  “Don’t do this,” I say.

  “Not that again,” he hisses and stomps off to his hammock.

  “Hiaelia?” I try. “Drift?” But when I mention their names they silently get up and walk to their own hammocks.

  “Tima?” I try, one last ditch attempt.

  She looks at me sadly. “We’ve taken the contract,” she says quietly. “We have to.”

  She stands, brushes down her clothes and heads for her tent. “Good night,” I hear her whisper to me as she enters. I don’t respond, I don’t look in her direction. I stare at the fire, the violent, raging flames that devour everything in its quest for dominance, in its insatiable, selfish desire to consume as much as it can. I know I will be unable to rest tonight, not for those three hours before the plan reaches its final stage. I only hope my ‘colleagues’ suffer such a restless night too. It is the least they deserve.

  The two moons are waning when the others stir. The fire has long died, but a few lightly smoking embers still catch my gaze. Rogdo
is the first to join me. He sits on the log next to me.

  “Maybe you’d better stay out here,” he says. “Maybe this whole book thing was a bad idea.”

  “Maybe,” I answer. “But if you’re going to do this, I have to see it. No matter how much it pains me.”

  “I think I understand. I respect him, I really do. But this is my business. I’m sticking to my end of the bargain. If there was a code for my line of work, that would be the first on the list, the prime directive.”

  The other three assassins join us. Tima looks a little tired, the rest seem to have enjoyed a peaceful sleep.

  Rogdo stands. “Okay then,” he whispers. Reluctantly I stand too.

  We make our way across the camp, to Bailes’ tent. Rogdo slips the sonic neutraliser into one hand then quietly parts the tent’s flaps. He steps inside. We all follow.

  The fairly spacious tent interior is lit by a single burning gas lamp, the flickering flame creating dancing shadows across the tarpaulin. Bailes is patiently sitting cross-legged at the far end of the tent. Surprised to see Bailes awake, it takes a few seconds for Rogdo to react. He activates the sonic neutraliser with a barely audible pop of static. The snoring of nearby soldiers and the cacophony of the night-time jungle vanish, to be replaced by utter silence.

  “Sit down,” Bailes calmly says. “Have a drink.”

  He takes a bottle from a small table next to him, then arranges six mugs by his feet. He methodically pours a double measure into each. Rogdo pockets the sonic neutraliser and withdraws his pistol, but he doesn’t move closer to Bailes.

  “Please,” Bailes says. He takes a swig of the drink, as if to prove its safety.

  Finally Rogdo moves, and we all follow suit, sitting in a rough semi-circle around the mugs of alcohol. Again the rest of us wait for Rogdo’s move. He takes a mug and sips it. We each grab the nearest mug to us. I gulp at mine and finish it in one second. All eyes are focussed on Bailes. He smiles at me and refills my mug.

  “I’m surprised it took this long, to be honest,” he says. “I’ve been expecting this for quite a while.”

  “Expecting what, exactly?” Rogdo asks.

  “You. I assume you are the leader.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know as well as Gartha does that he can’t kill me without causing an uproar. But this, well this is a lot different. Killed by my own troops in an act of mutiny. The rebel forces are falling apart. It has always been his only option. I would have thought he’d have worked it out sooner, though.”

  “So, you know who we are. Why we’re here.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew this before? By the camp fire?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did nothing?”

  “It was inevitable. I have accepted my fate. I have become a myth to these people, a legend. They don’t need me anymore, not an actual physical me. I will be more powerful as a martyr. It was inevitable that Gartha would send assassins after me. So I decided, many years ago, that when they come, let them do what they came to do. It may sound perverted to you, but I care more about my people than I do myself, and I understand that my death can only help my people to become more focussed, more determined to win.”

  “When did you know?” I ask, taking another big gulp then helping myself to the bottle. I need the alcohol to give me courage here tonight.

  “When you mentioned Traskill’s nephew Spud. He has a nephew, but the nickname Spud was a deliberate lie placed by us to fool the military intelligence. Worked a treat, I’d say.”

  “So, right from the start, you knew we were your assassins?” I ask incredulously.

  “Yes. Well, not you. I can tell you’re not one of them. What are you?”

  “I…” is all I can manage.

  “A journalist,” Rogdo answers.

  “Ah,” Bailes says. “You’ve got one hell of a story coming up.” He turns his attention back to Rogdo. “Can I ask how much you’re being paid?”

  “Four million,” Rogdo answers.

  “Wow!” Bailes seems genuinely impressed. “It’s just a drop for him, but to actually get money out of Gartha? That’s fantastic. Well done, Mr, err…”

  Rogdo glances at the pistol, plays with it in his hand. His trigger finger is getting itchy. “Flavian.”

  “Well,” Bailes says. He reaches to the table again, and this time produces a datacard. He holds it out to Rogdo. “Here you go.”

  “What’s this?” Rogdo asks, staring at the card in Bailes’s outstretched hand.

  “Two point four million tabs.”

  “I can’t take bribes. I’ve already made a deal with Gartha.”

  “I know. This isn’t a bribe. I’m not trying to buy my life. I want to hire you.”

  Rogdo snorts. Here is a twist I didn’t see coming. “Hire us?”

  “Yes. To assassinate Gartha.”

  “Gartha’s a big fish. Two point four million is-”

  “Enough. Surely. You have the pillow already, Mr Flavian. Do you want the hand as well?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that for once in your job, you can do some good to something other than your bank balance by killing an evil man. And you’ll still get paid for it.”

  Rogdo sighs. “Two point four mill.” He glances at his colleagues. No one is offering an opinion, especially not me.

  He takes the datacard.

  “Thank you, Mr Flavian. Though they know not who you may be, the people of this world will forever be indebted to thee.”

  Rogdo slips the card into his pocket, then stands and raises the pistol to Bailes’s temple. “It is time. Please don’t let that crap poetry be your last words.”

  Bailes nods and takes a deep, ragged, nervous breath. We all stand. Knowing the end is so near, I can take this no longer and retreat to the rear of the tent.

  “Just remember, Mr Flavian,” Bailes says, a slight tremor to his voice. “You can always get more pillows.”

  I turn my head away moments before my ears are assaulted by the deafening bang of a discharging pistol.

  We exit the tent immediately, walk through the camp and slip into the vegetation of the surrounding forest.

  “What now?” Tima asks when it is clear no one else will speak.

  “President Gartha now has all the power,” Rogdo says. “Do you know what will happen now he’s got that power? It will be his downfall.”

  By the time we have returned to the Diablo III and rested, word has already spread to Pilatara City of Bailes’s death.

  President Gartha is so overjoyed with our work he insists we are led directly to him. We don’t even have to check our weapons with the security officials. This ruins our intricate plan: Sanshar would have avoided the X-ray scan armed with a falsified id card claiming she has a memory implant. This would allow her to smuggle a furball-covered pistol in her stomach, ready to cough up at a moment’s notice. All the trouble she had swallowing that weapon is for nothing. At least the job should now be a lot easier with Rodgo still having his pistol strapped to his hip.

  I refuse the offer of a cup of coffee this time, and settle down to see how all this will play out. Gartha is beaming, for once showing a sincere emotion.

  “Mr Flavian,” he grins. “Welcome, welcome.”

  We all sit. This time there are just four of us, Bolland has elected to stay behind on the ship as his body is currently going through its 80-year-old period.

  “Well, that was…stunning,” Gartha offers, before mangling a cliché. “Nobody knows who committed the crime and there hasn’t even been a whisper of a finger pointing in my direction. I couldn’t have dreamed of a better resolution.”

  “Well,” Rogdo begins. “We just did the job you paid us for. Speaking of which…”

  “All in due time, Mr Flavian. Please, let me bask in this glory for a moment longer before you relieve me of three million tabs.”

  “Very well, but we’re already late for another appointment, Mr Pres
ident.”

  “Pah, four million tabs richer, and you’re worrying about another appointment. Tell me, Mr Flavian, how do you feel knowing that your greatest work will never be attributed to you?”

  “Well, I don’t know about ‘greatest work’, but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

  “Good, that’s good. Because if anyone ever discovered it was you, they may trace you back to me-”

  “I’m well aware of that, Sir. Now, could I have my money, please?”

  Gartha takes a moment to beam at each of us in turn. He is thrown a little off-kilter by my sullen expression, but quickly recovers.

  “Certainly.” He opens a drawer and removes a datacard. “One datacard, maxed out to the tune of three million tabs,” he says. He throws it like a Frisbee into Rogdo’s lap. “You will always be welcome on my planet, Mr Flavian.”

  Rogdo stands, we follow suit. The time has come.

  “Oh, before you go, Mr Flavian,” Gartha continues. “Please, tell me a little about what happened. Did he say anything? Did he beg for his life?”

  “Not exactly,” Rogdo answers, his right hand casually resting on the butt of the silencer pistol at his hip. “He offered me two point four million tabs.”

  Gartha slaps his hands together with glee. “He tried to pay you off! Oh, how pathetic!”

  “It wasn’t to pay me off, Mr President. It was for a contract.”

  Gartha looks momentarily confused. “A contract?”

  Rogdo removes his weapon from its holster and aims it at Gartha’s forehead. The President is so shocked he forgets to breathe.

  “An assassination,” Rogdo points out, then pulls the trigger.

  The small hole in Gartha’s head doesn’t faze me, but the sight of the sickly, browny-red mess splattered over the window behind him makes me go faint. The pistol itself made barely a whisper, the only sound Gartha was able to contribute was the icky splat of his brains impacting the window. The calm and quiet surprises me. My colleagues look on without emotion. Silence fills the room. It is the first murder I have witnessed, and the tranquillity following such a violent demise is highly disturbing. I wish I’d turned away at the last moment, like I did at Bailes’s camp. I can feel the colour has drained from my cheeks.