The Mercenaries

by Bill Baldwin

  As they approached the entry port, two of the sentries gave an Imperial Fleet salute and held it while the third blew two shrill notes from a tiny silver whistle. At that moment, a fourth white-uniformed crew member appeared inside the large airlock. Even at a distance, she was stunning.

  "At ease," Calhoun said, standing aside while Brim stepped over the coaming.

  Inside, the woman saluted, in a most military fashion.

  Instinctively, Brim returned her salute, upon which, she met his surprised gaze with a most charming smile. She was tall and slim with high cheekbones; a sharp, attractive nose; soft eyes; small breasts; and legs that seemed to go on forever. Her black, shoulder-length hair was cut in severely coiitured bangs, and she wore two full gold stripes on the cuffs of her white cloak: a Lieutenant Commander of some sort. Brim guessed. And try as he might to maintain a professional attitude toward her, she was simply beautiful.

  "Make you feel at home?" Calhoun chuckled proudly.

  "Especially the white Fleet Cloaks," Brim equivocated, struggling to dismiss the seductive woman who still held his glance. "Almost as if I'd never left Starfury."

  "Commander Brim, meet Lieutenant Commander Cartier," Calhoun said perfunctorily, indicating the woman with his hand. "She's Patriot's Number Ane."

  "Eve Cartier," the woman said, extending her hand. "An' it's quite a pleasure to meet you.'' Her face colored for a moment. "I've heard much aboot you from the Governor."

  "Any of it good?" Brim asked.

  "A wee," she chuckled in a soft voice.

  "Eve," Calhoun interrupted, "I'm on my way to the bridge. Show the Commander to a stateroom so he can stow his gear, then bring him along as soon as possible. I'll hae the skipper begin his start-up checklists the moment I get there."

  "Aye, Governor," Cartier said. "But you'll find the checklists done already; Patriot's ready for generators on a moment's notice. All we need are your orders."

  "How about that for a seasoned crew?" Calhoun asked, starting toward the far end of the airlock.

  Brim nodded. Clearly, Calhoun had established a little Carescrian Admiralty, with himself as First Lord.

  As the older Carescrian passed Patriot's builder's plaque he stopped to polish it with the sleeve of his coat. "A wee trick I learned from a mutual friend," he called over his shoulder to Brim. Then he disappeared into a companion way.

  * * *

  Only cycles after Brim stowed his duffel in the most luxurious stateroom he'd ever encountered, he followed Cartier onto Patriot's roomy bridge. It was laid out in the standard warship manner with twelve rows of consoles split along the ship's center line by a wide aisle. Through a tremendous expanse of Hyperscreens that wrapped completely around the bridge, he could see nearly the whole upper deck. "Nice view," he whispered to no one in particular.

  "Nice view indeed," Cartier answered. "And you, Commander, are one o' the very few individuals who hae e'er been up here to see it, except for the flight crews, o' course." She smiled. "Greyffin IV was here for a wee flight, and Prince Onrad's been wi' us on numerous occasions. Regula Collingswood's been here, too—she an' Admiral Plutron."

  Brim nodded, peering out at two circular plates expertly fitted into the center line of the forward deck. Each was perhaps thirty-five irals in diameter. Two more occupied the aft corners of the triangular hull. "How long does it take to remount the turrets?" he asked nonchalantly.

  "Something less than three Standard Days—at the Governor's private facilities in Rhodor," Cartier answered as if it were common knowledge. "That includes the twa' twin-mounts that by noo you've guessed we can carry ventrally." She laughed quietly. "Tis why few outsiders ever get a glimpse o' the ship from her bridge."

  No need for comment on that, Brim thought. A powerful warship like this in private hands would be enough to unnerve any politician. Three could cause an absolute panic! He grinned as he caught sight of Calhoun seated at one of two raised stations behind the Helmsmans' positions. He was staring intensely at his console and uttering short phrases from time to time. By the multitude of glimmering rings diffusing outward from Patriot's high KA'PPA mast, Brim guessed "The Governor" was making up for time he'd lost playing chauffeur during the morning.

  At that moment, a tall, aristocratic man strode onto the bridge, took one look at Brim, and thrust out his hand. He had three stripes on the cuffs of his white Fleet Cloak. "Aha, 'tis you, young Brim—finally. We've been a long time in meetin', but I used to watch you flyin' ore barges years ago in Carescria. I knew your family afore they were killed in the war."

  "Universe," Brim said, shaking the man's hand. "That's a few Standard Years ago."

  "Don't I know," the man agreed, rolling his eyes.

  "Probably I ought to introduce the twa' o' you afore you've become auld friends," Cartier laughed. "Captain Melbourne Byron: Commander Wilf Brim."

  "Byron," Brim said, testing the name with his mind. "That does sound familiar, but..."

  "I wadn't expect you'd remember," Byron said with a chuckle. " 'Tis been a number of years noo, and you war' in a mighty big hurry to get on wi' your life."

  "You've been with Calhoun long?" Brim asked.

  "A wee," Byron replied, his eyes momentarily peering far into the past. "Since his first ship." He smiled. " Which reminds me that I'd best gat to my console. The Governor is anxious to be under way. We'll talk further ower a cup o' cvceese' once we're spacebome."

  "I'll took forward to it," Brim said. He turned to Carrier. "Guess I'd better find myself a place to sit," he said. "I take it the jump seats are over there along the starboard 'screens."

  "They are," Carrier answered with a look of surprise, "but nae ane's sittin' there this trip, at least to my knowledge."

  "What do you mean'no one'?" Brim asked with a grin. "I'm someone, aren't I?"

  "Well, o' course you are," Cartier said with a raised eyebrow. "But...." Then she frowned. "Wait a cycle. Fit bet the Governor ne'er told you, did he?"

  "Told me what?"

  She laughed. "That you're to replace him at the right-hand command console. Beside Captain Byron."

  At that moment, Calhoun swung himself out of his console and strode toward them along the main aisle. "Come on forrard, Brim," he said with a grin. "This trip, I've nae time for gawkin' thro' the Hyperscreens. An office is a better place to prepare for sellin' m' plan. Besides," he added, clapping Brim on the shoulder, "I've been told that you'd ne'er believe we war' off the ground if you didn't watch the takeoff. So I thought I'd make things easy on you." Before Brim could answer, he was through the hatch and clattering down the companion way.

  "I was wrong," Cartier chuckled. "He did tell you, after all."

  "When you said it, you were correct," Brim mumbled, shaking his head.

  "All hands to stations for lift-off!" piped over the blower. "All hands to stations for lift-off!"

  Within fifteen cycles, they were headed for deep space.

  * * *

  Four Standard Days out from Bromwich—and less than a week from the turn of the year—Brim watched Cartier lay Patriot in through heavy traffic for a perfect landing on an autumnal Lake Mersin just off Avalon's sprawling Grand Terminal: civilian gateway to a thousand-odd civilizations scattered throughout the galaxy—and beyond. Swinging off toward shore, they followed three gleaming liners and an old tramp into the prodigious mooring basin of bustling canals, fanciful bridges, gravity pools, reactors, and towering goods houses that surrounded the terminal, all connected by fleets of high-speed pool trams that made the mammoth complex feasible.

  Under a high overcast, the sky was never without starships of one sort or another coming and going in all directions at all altitudes. War might be looming throughout the galaxy. Brim considered, but the interlocking gears of commerce still managed to turn and mesh as if little were amiss. Trade was the very lifeblood of civilization; when it stopped, whole dominions died, as had nameless thousands during the long march of history.

  General Harry Drummond of the
Imperial Army met them at the terminal. An enigmatic character who appeared to rove at will among all Imperial Services—including the Foreign Diplomatic Corps—Drummond often exercised extraordinary prerogative and clearly served someone with tremendous political power as a military wild card. Small and perfectly tailored in the tan and red uniform of Greyffin IV's Imperial Expeditionary Forces, he had a long narrow face, a prominent nose, and laughing eyes with an irrepressible natural humor. "Cal... Brim," he said, shaking their hands, "it's good that you have come. The time is ripe."

  "I kind o' thought so, Harry," Calhoun replied. Then he looked the General over critically. "An' you haen't luiked so good in years. You must be takin' care o' yourself."

  "No more than usual," Drummond replied with a smile. "Maybe it's that plan of yours that gives me a bit more hope these days, Cal, You know, those xaxtdamned CIGAs have made it pretty rough on those of us who stayed loyal to the Fleet."

  Calhoun grinned. "Tell that to my friend Brim here," he said. "He knows."

  Drummond nodded at Brim. "I've heard," he said.

  "An' I've also heard that you hae a most attractive chauffeur, General," Calhoun continued.

  "My chauffeur?" Drummond said, his cheeks reddening slightly. "Why," he blustered, "I suppose I hadn't noticed."

  Calhoun grinned. "Weel, I consider myself to be an extraordinary noticer. An' my sources say that she's really somethin'," he pronounced, snapping his fingers to summon his traveling case. "Maybe Brim and I ought to hae a luik at her. That way, we can make a mair honest judgment. What do you think, Wilf?"

  "Sounds like a great idea to me, Commodore," Brim agreed.

  "Absolutely," Calhoun mused. "An' while we do that, we'll let her drop us off at our hotel, killin' twa' birdies with ane stone. How aboot it, General?"

  "Unfortunately, you'll have to wait till morning for her," Drummond chuckled. "I decided I'd drive you to your hotel myself this afternoon." Then he winked. "But yeah," he admitted, his cheeks coloring, "she is a knockout. You'll see in the morning." With that, he led the two Carescrians through the huge terminal to a skimmer parking lot.

  * * *

  Next morning, Brim regretfully climbed from his luxurious hotel bed and stretched agreeably. Starship bunks were never more than just bunks—built more for durability than comfort. After a quick shower, he dressed in the living room while scanning the media. Nergol Triannic and Grand Baron Rogan LaKarn of The Torond had just issued a joint warning to Fluvanna concerning use of the Grompton Corridor, a narrow strait through the teeming asteroid shoals of Kara'g. The fact that the strait had been swept by the thrifty Fluvannian government for nearly five hundred years clearly meant little to Gorton Ro'arn, Triannic's Minister of State Security. It was no surprise to Brim who had met the man years before during a Mitchell Trophy race. Even then, Ro'arn appeared to be a most pragmatic politician.

  Elsewhere, CIGAs were manning twelve, disparate, anti-Fleet demonstrations throughout the Empire. Two of the larger gatherings were being kicked off simultaneously in Avalon at that very metacycle; one was before the gates of the Imperial palace; the other at the Admiralty in Locorno Square. Both would be vociferant protests against Onrad's order for Starfury production. Brim grinned in spite of himself as he strode downstairs two at a time. If nothing else, the demonstrations proved that the Leaguers felt they had little to counter Sherrington's new warships....

  A chilling rain began just before Drummond's big limousine pulled up to the curb. Brim knew better than to hope that it would dampen the CIGAs' enthusiasm for their demonstrations. Zealots thrived on bad weather, it seemed.

  "Morning, Wilf," Drummond said as Brim climbed into the jump seat.

  "Mornin', young Brim," Calhoun said, handing over a plastic mug of steaming cvceese'. "Thought this might come in handy."

  "And how," Brim said, sipping the hot, sticky-sweet liquid. Somehow, cvceese' and Fleet work seemed to go together. So did Felicity, the chauffeur. Drummond had made no exaggeration the last afternoon, at least from what he could see. Long blond hair, a profile that would gladden the heart of a pin-up artist, keen blue eyes, full lips, and a captivating smite. Her wink told Brim all he needed to know. Good for Drummond!

  The rain continued without let up all the way across town, along with a brisk wind that littered the streets with a rainbow of fallen leaves. As they glided across a second ruby arch spanning the Grand Achrite Canal, two humpbacked tugs below were dragging a long string of barges toward Lake Mersin, presumably for transshipment to some remote part in the galaxy. Farther on, past the great domed tower of Marva, only a few damp-looking tourists had gathered in the Palazzo Edrington to look up at the Desterro Monument with its colossal spiral of sculpted flame. It was the kind of morning when sensible people avoided the out-of-doors at all costs; tourists simply didn't fit that category.

  Nor CIGAs. Outside the Imperial palace, Courtland Plaza was a seething mass of malcontents marching around the Savoin gravity fountain and its onyx reflecting pool. Most carried the costly holographic placards that characterized all CIGA gatherings.

  Old Men Declare Wars;

  Youths Fight Them.

  Stop The Admirals!

  -----------------------------------------

  Ponder Galactic Peace

  -----------------------------------------

  A War Worth Waging:

  Close The Admiralty,

  Once And For All!

  The marchers were sheltered by bobbing shoals of hovering, multicolored umbrellas struggling to keep station against the wind. Brim nodded to himself as the limousine slowed to a crawl in the single lane that remained open to traffic. Puvis Amherst needed extravagant resources to imprint pretentious posters like that, especially since they were supplied to CIGAs all over the Empire. He also needed considerable credits to pay for the large brass band that had set up in front of the guard station in a position unquestionably calculated to produce the most difficulty for Avalon's Peace Officers.

  Peace Is Made By The Hearts Of Men,

  Not Warships!

  Stop The Starfuries!

  "Leaguer money," Drummond growled as rain streaked the windows. "Triannic knows just where to put his credits. Voot's beard, we couldn't make that much trouble in Tarrott with half the Fleet."

  Even Freedom May Be Purchased

  At Too High A Price! No Starfuries!

  "Or what's left of half the Fleet," Calhoun laughed wryly. "Just look at those zukeeds. I'd like to see anyone try something like this outside Triannic's palace in Tarrott."

  Peace Won By Compromise

  Of Principles Is Short-Lived.

  Stop Onrad! Stop The Star Furies!

  "Oh, they could try," Drummond put in. "They'd simply be jailed for their pains."

  "Or shot," Calhoun snorted.

  Brim peered into the crowd, concentrating on individuals here and there. He'd seen them all before; ordinary CIGAs exhibited a certain conformity. Most were elegantly costumed, except those who favored the currently fashionable simulated tatters known among the modish as "poverty chic." All but a few appeared to be well fed, too; in fact, a significant number were overly so. They marched in little bunches, seldom more than three or four to a group, and only a few had the look of bona fide zealots. Soft-looking innocents: most were babbling and laughing impulsively—well nigh nervously—as if out for some shady childhood lark. Doubtless, few had fought to protect the privileges they enjoyed. Certainly their leader had done no fighting during the last war. Puvis Amherst was one of the most craven individuals Brim had ever encountered. Until his father—Admiral Amherst—was able to extract him from blockade duty aboard I.F.S Truculent, the man had spent most of his time cowering in any available hiding place.

  From time to time, the marching CIGAs made furtive glances at a thin line of determined-looking men and women who marched in an opposite direction, surrounding the whole demonstration area. Hardened-looking individuals these were, dressed in ordinary clothing—some wearing po
rtions of old Fleet uniforms from the last war. They carried hand-lettered, amateurish placards of a much different type.

  Why Is It Nobody Listens When

  History Repeats

  Itself?

  Remember Atalanta!

  -----------------------------------------

  Keep Our Freedoms Safe.

  Back Prince Onrad!

  Build Star Furies!

  -----------------------------------------

  Don't Sell Our Children

  Into Triannic's Slavery!

  Down With CIGA Traitors!

  "Glad to see those," Brim remarked, nodding through the window.

  Drummond nodded. "Aren't we all?" he growled. "They've only just started to show up at these affairs." He shrugged. "It's taken a long time for the CIGAs to push people over the brink, but some of our citizens are finally waking up to what's going on. There'll be others. In the end, nobody really wants to lose his freedom."

  Continuing on, they passed Avalon's imposing Admiralty building where a second CIGA demonstration had traffic in Locorno Square tied in knots. Here again, fifteen, perhaps twenty, counterdemonstrators were carrying pro-Fleet placards.

  We Are Committed To The Mission.

  Back The Fleet!