Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 2 - Mercenary

by Anthony, Piers

  "You going to arrest us all, officer? That won't pick these peppers."

  "I don't want to arrest anyone. I just want to see this thing amicably settled."

  "Easy enough," he said. "Just give us decent conditions and better pay and our union, and we'll be glad to work."

  "I can't promise any of that, especially not the union," I said. "But I can help negotiate something, if you will return to work first."

  Joshua spat on the ground and turned his back. It was his typical reaction to affront, as Mondy had informed me.

  I was ready. "Don't turn your back on me, gringo!" I snapped in Spanish.

  The man whirled, his face abruptly charged with fury, a knife appearing in his hand. But I was already moving, and a knife was in my hand, too.

  He paused, surprise tempering his anger. "You're bluffing, Navy man. You don't know how to use that thing."

  "Take my word, picker: I know how."

  "Watch it, Josh," one of the migrants said. "Either way, you're dead. They've got power weapons."

  "There is another way," I said. "Sergeant."

  The sergeant stepped forward smartly. "Sir."

  "The rubber knives."

  "Yes, sir." He lifted a case and opened it. Inside were two handsome knives. He removed first one and then the other, flexing them to show their nature clearly. They looked real, but they were toys.

  Joshua stared. "A joke?"

  I smiled. "You have doubted me twice," I said in Spanish. "I don't want to stop your doubt by killing you. Try it with these, and doubt no more."

  He shook his head. "What the hell." He put away his real knife and took one of the rubber ones. I did the same.

  He came at me suddenly, but I was already moving aside. Few amateurs can match the proficiency of one who has trained seriously with such weapons. In a moment I had his knife arm in a standing armlock, and my own knife poised at his throat. I had him.

  Joshua froze, then relaxed, as Lieutenant Mondy had predicted he would. He was a man of bluff and give, as my own talent had confirmed, seldom pursuing an unprofitable course too far. He laughed, converting his defeat to a joke. "Okay, Navy man; you can use a rubber knife. You say you can negotiate a better deal for us?"

  I let him go, and we returned the rubber knives to the case, and the sergeant put the case away exactly as if a genuine duel had been fought. "I can negotiate—if I have your help. Not for the union; the farmers will blow up their own bubbles before they give on that. But the rest, yes. I need to get the top leaders of the striking migrants together with the most intransigent farmers' representatives and have them bargain together in good faith. The only way I can get them together is if one of their own endorses my effort. The farmers say they'll meet if I can get the migrant leaders to come. So I am asking you to come with me and help persuade the other leaders to board my ship. I promise to treat them with respect and return them all safely to their locations, regardless how the negotiation works out."

  He squinted at me. "Do I doubt you a third time?" He gestured with his hands. "I guess I've got to believe you. You could have mowed us all down with lasers instead of talking. You could have taken me on with a real knife and killed me if you'd wanted to. In fact, you could have killed me with the fake knife! Sure, I'll do it. What I want is a fair settlement, not a lot of fighting." He glanced at his workers. "But maybe—"

  "To show my good faith to your people while you are gone, I will leave some of my personnel with you, unarmed." I turned to the sergeant. "Send out Corporal Allen with some food."

  "Food?" one of the migrants asked involuntarily. Yes, they were hungry!

  The sergeant spoke into his mike. In a few minutes Corporal Allen arrived with three privates, hauling a chest on wheels. "Corporal Allen reporting as directed, sir," she said, saluting smartly. She spoke in Spanish.

  The migrant workers stared. Corporal Allen was not only of mixed Hispanic descent, she was stunningly pretty—and so were the three female soldiers with her. Their uniforms had been tailored to enhance rather than diminish their qualities.

  "Remain here and serve these good men a good meal," I told her. "We'll pick you up when we return with Don Joshua." At that, Joshua gave a start; I had referred to him with respect, Spanish-style. Such little signals can carry powerful freighting.

  As we departed with Joshua, the girls were opening up the chest to reveal a relatively sumptuous array of hot meats and vegetables and cold fruits and wine, with spices on the side. They smiled winningly at the hungry workers, who were covertly wiping the dirt off their faces and combing their hair. There would be no quarreling with the Navy in this dome!

  Joshua paused to look back, half-longingly. "By the time I get back, my men'll vote to take anything you offer," he muttered.

  "That's better than bloodshed, isn't it?" I inquired innocently.

  Food and attention were awaiting Joshua on the ship. He was treated with deference by our personnel, as if he were an honored dignitary. He well understood the psychological ploy, but he enjoyed it. The fact that we were making the effort was as impressive as the effort itself. The bubble-farmers had spurned him and his cause; we were doing him the signal honor of taking him seriously. Dignity and respect—these can be magic.

  We detached and jetted to the next bubble on our list, as carefully targeted as the first had been. Lieutenant Mondy and Lieutenant Sheller had choreographed this precisely; I was merely the officer implementing their strategy.

  The second leader was a straight Saxon original-stock illiterate leader type, stupid but strong. He was not about to fight the Navy but also not about to be moved. His name was Laredo, and I remembered the song that was from. I left Joshua Jericho in Juana's care, feasting on Spanish-style food, and took my squad out into the bubble. The preliminaries were similar to those of the prior session, but this time I spoke no Spanish and made no challenge with the knife. Instead I glanced at the acreage filled with tomato plants. "That certainly doesn't look like such hard work to me," I remarked.

  Now Laredo was an excellent tomato picker. He didn't know that I had developed a good technique myself, in my year as a picker. I could move tomatoes about as fast as anyone, without bruising them. He assumed I had always been a Navy officer.

  "Shipman, you couldn't do no work like this," he asserted. "It takes speed, stamina, and a sure touch. This ain't soldiering; this is real work."

  I shook my head, disbelieving him. "It seems to me anybody could do this sort of work."

  "Oh, yeah? Well, soldier boy, why don't you just try it yourself? Then maybe you'll see what we're striking about."

  I pondered. "I'll tell you what. If I show you I can pick as well as you can, will you come on my ship and negotiate with the farmers to end the strike?"

  He laughed, and so did the other workers, who well knew the pitfalls of the simple-seeming job of tomato picking. Too fast or hard, and they bruised and were rejected. There were many migrants who couldn't pick tomatoes, because their touch was too heavy. This was a chance to put a snobbish Navy officer in his place without getting into further trouble! "You're on, mister!"

  We set it up. The deal was to pick ten buckets of tomatoes and deliver them to two migrant inspectors for checking. The winner would be the one who completed the job first with fewer than ten tomatoes rejected for bruising. Each of us had a row. My men became my cheering section, while the migrants favored Laredo. We took our buckets, and started picking at the "go" signal.

  It had been eight years since I had picked, but a skill once mastered is never forgotten, and I had had considerable training in the interim. I had muscle and stamina, and I could handle explosives rapidly without a slip. Also, I had rehearsed during the trip to the Agricultural Ring, with tomatoes on the ship, recalling and sharpening my technique. I was ready for this.

  Laredo, on the other hand, was a foreman. He had not actually done much picking in the past two years, so was rusty.

  My hands moved rapidly, plucking the fruits, twisting the
m expertly from their attachments without damaging the plants, and setting them gently in the bucket. The migrants gaped, then frowned, realizing that they had been suckered. I delivered the first bucket before Laredo did, and started on the second.

  Laredo now realized that he was in a serious contest. He was a good picker. He buckled down with increasing speed and skill, getting back into the familiar routine. I had a slight lead but could not improve on it. No doubt he thought I would fade, but I was too fit for that; I continued without slacking. He began sweating, for he was heavyset; his eyes flicked often to my bucket.

  I brought in my tenth just ahead of his. My troops cheered.

  But there was a hitch. "Too many rejects," the man who checked my total announced. Sure enough, there were a number of badly bruised fruits.

  I knew I had not bruised them. The migrant checker had done it himself, to disqualify me. That was one thing we hadn't counted on: cheating.

  Laredo went over to inspect my tomatoes, frowning. "Them's all recent bruises," he said. This was the premium variety, very delicate, that discolored almost immediately.

  I shrugged, knowing complaint would only seem like an excuse. "I guess I wasn't as good as I thought I was,"

  "Man, I saw you setting 'em in! You never—" Then he paused. He was an honest man, but he didn't want to accuse his own worker of cheating. "It don't matter. You proved you could pick. I'll go on your ship."

  So I had won what counted. We brought out the food, as before, this time served by petite Saxon privates, and Laredo boarded the ship. "You was a picker," he said to me challengingly. "You never learned to pick like that in the Navy!"

  "Before I joined the Navy," I admitted. "We rioted, too." Then I proffered my hand, and he took it. I had another man with me in more than body, which was the point of the exercise.

  The third bubble was the toughest. The strike leader was an old-timer, as tough as they came, named John Henry. Neither physical force nor picking expertise would move him, we knew; he would settle for nothing less than victory. His workers were expecting us, too; they had a barricade set up, and they were armed with knives and clubs. Any attempt to roust them out would result in bloodshed, and that could set off the remaining crews. The migrants had set up their own minor radio network, so they were current on our activities.

  This was an apple bubble. Small apple trees covered its inner surface, hardly more than bushes, loaded with ripe fruit. I saw that dry brush had been piled in one section, glistening with oil; the flick of a lighter would set it blazing, and the fire would be hard to stop because the brush extended to the trees; flame-dousing chemicals would damage the trees.

  But if I could get John Henry to negotiate, I could get the rest. This was a crucial encounter.

  This time I brought Joshua and Laredo with me. Both of them stood before the barricade and pleaded my case: I was Hispanic, I had been a picker, and I just wanted to help them get a fair settlement without violence.

  "Yeah?" John Henry demanded. "We heard how those Navy dolls've been turning your heads, but I'm too old for that. If he was a picker, where's his song? You schnooks ever think of that?"

  Joshua and Laredo fell back, dismayed. Of course, a Navy man could arrange to fight or pick; that didn't make him one of them. Had they been taken in?

  Now I stepped out alone. I took off my hat and jacket and rolled back my sleeves as if preparing for a heroic effort. Then I sang:

  It takes a worried man to sing a worried song...

  "God Amighty!" someone cried. "Wasn't you with Joe Hill?"

  That was the single break I needed. This was a large group with many old-timers, but Mondy had not been able to ascertain whether any had shared crews with me. The odds had been about two to one in my favor, but it had remained a gamble. It seemed one had been there—or at least had known of me.

  "Yeah, I was with him," I agreed aggressively. "You got anything to say against Joe Hill?"

  "He's dead!"

  "Joe Hill never died!"

  The man stared at me a moment, then nodded somberly. He knew what I meant. The spirit of Joe Hill lived in the striking laborers, as it had for centuries.

  I finished my song, and some of them joined in. Then I started Joe Hill's song, and soon they were all singing. And John Henry was mine; of course, he had known of Joe Hill and what he stood for. I had shared Joe's life; I had rioted at his death. No better credits existed.

  It was downhill after that. We picked up several more leaders without difficulty; the radio network was helping us now. It was the long shadow of Joe Hill that did it. I was still in his debt.

  But I had to explain that the farmers remembered Joe, too, and that they still feared him; no way would they let a union get started. Not this year or next. That was their real balking point. The migrants could go for the Galaxy in other matters, if they yielded on this one.

  The leaders greeted this with stony silence, as had the owners when I had mentioned how generous it would seem if they were to upgrade the working conditions in the domes. We had two unfortunately intractable sides here.

  We rendezvoused with the yacht carrying the lawyers who represented the farmers. We were ready for our negotiation session.

  "But first, if you don't mind, there is a little errand I have to do," I said. "Bear with me, please; it won't take long."

  The migrant leaders and the farmer's lawyers were sullen; they were not at ease with each other. They had come to the meeting, but it was obvious that neither side cared to compromise. I had made an impression on the migrants, but that was personal; it would not persuade them to desert their fundamental interests. Good food and pretty girls can only accomplish so much. That was why we had scheduled this "errand."

  We accelerated to one of the derelict bubbles. I did not explain what the errand was, and our guests did not inquire.

  Our ship oriented on the bubble. "Has there been any change?" I inquired of my Exec gravely, in the presence of my guests, as the viewscreens were activated to show the bubble.

  "None, sir," Emerald replied as gravely. She was in full uniform, very severe.

  "No response to our final communication?"

  "No, sir." She looked grim indeed.

  I frowned. "Unfortunate." I made a small sigh of resignation. "Well, it has to be done. Proceed with the alternative measure."

  The image of the bubble magnified on the screen, becoming quite clear to our guests. They watched. They had nothing else to do at the moment. They did not know this was a derelict.

  "Fire one missile," Emerald said clearly into her mike.

  Our ship rocked as the missile was launched.

  A lawyer looked about, startled. "Missile?"

  "Do not be concerned," I reassured him. "This is an incidental action."

  The planet buster struck the bubble. It detonated. There was a brilliant flash, prevented from being blinding only by the automatic dampers on the viewscreen. From the flash emerged a cloud of debris, fragments flying outward in an expanding kaleidoscopic pattern. It was one devastatingly beautiful explosion.

  "The—you—" the lawyer exclaimed, for once failing in eloquence.

  "Let's hope such discipline does not again become necessary," I said somberly. "I dislike certain measures, but I learned long ago not to indulge in half-measures." I turned to our guests. "My apologies for this delay. Now let's get on with the negotiations. I'm sure something can be worked out."

  "But that bubble!" Joshua exclaimed. "You blew it apart!"

  I shrugged. "Sometimes my hand is forced." Then I paused, as if realizing something. "This is not one of your bubbles, of course. You are cooperating. We were not able to obtain representation from either side from this one. Naturally I would not discipline a bubble involved in honest negotiation."

  The migrants looked at each other, then at the lawyers. The two parties seemed to draw closer together. "In your resumé," a lawyer said cautiously to me, "there is a reference to the slaying of a number of pirates, when you
were a refugee—"

  "They were criminals. That's ancient history."

  "You ain't changed much," Laredo muttered.

  The lawyer glanced again at the dissipating cloud, unwilling to accept the implication, but shaken. He licked his lips nervously. "Perhaps we should get on with it."

  "By all means," I agreed heartily. "Now let me summarize the points at issue. As I understand it there are three. Working conditions—"

  "Can be upgraded," a lawyer said quickly, glancing at the others for confirmation. "The farmers are not unmindful of the practical comforts of the workers. They are willing to provide better food, and to space the working hours for greater worker convenience. Internal discipline can be ameliorated or placed directly in the hands of the migrant foremen. There really is no problem there, so long as the work is properly done."

  "Excellent," I said. "I was sure your employers were reasonable men. Now the workers say they want a union—"

  "Uh, if we get what else we want, maybe the union can wait," John Henry said, his eyes also on the dissipating cloud, and the others nodded agreement. "One thing at a time, I always say." It was amazing how readily peripheral elements could be dispensed with when the hint of violent destruction was made. Civilians were not inured to such measures. I had obliquely shown them my power.

  "Excellent," I repeated. "It is generous of you to postpone such a heartfelt issue. We all remember Joe Hill." I took a measured breath. "Now the central issue: the rate of pay for work performed. Now this does appear low compared to the prevailing Jupiter scales—"

  "This is not Jupiter," a lawyer said. "Minimum-wage scale does not apply—"

  "Yet," John Henry said meaningfully.

  "Our clients have formidable problems of supply and transportation that make the standard scales inapplicable."

  "Yeah, they prefer slave labor," Laredo said.

  "The migrants work voluntarily!" the lawyer snapped.

  "We ain't working now," John Henry said.

  "We volunteer to work instead of starve," Joshua said. "That is not much choice, my friend."