Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 2 - Mercenary

by Anthony, Piers

  "No. Mine is not hallucinogenic. It merely enables me to function. I am on it now."

  Just so. I had never inquired into his addiction, because if I ever officially learned of it, I would be required to discipline him—a pointless exercise. I knew he would die if deprived of his drug. Only in this privacy could the subject be mentioned at all, and only now was he trusting me with this confirmation. My staff had given him the song "Beautiful Dreamer," but there was nothing beautiful about it. Commander Repro was on a spiral sliding slowly to Hell, and the best I could do for him was to try to implement his dream of the perfect unit—and use it to extirpate both piracy and the drug trade from the face of the Solar System. Certainly I did not wish to join him on that spiral!

  We reviewed my activities immediately prior to the episode in detail, and concluded that the drug must have been slipped into my food. These chemicals could be tasteless and colorless, so potent that a few milligrams did the job. Therefore we launched a rapid private investigation into both the food supplies and personnel associated. With excellent computerized records and Commander Mondy's insights, we were able to accomplish in hours what once would have required weeks.

  Food and personnel were clean. We had to assume this had been a one-shot deal, leaving no trace. It was frustrating, but we were stuck. QYV was indeed a slick operator. But I felt no compulsion to take more of whatever drug it was.

  Then I had another vision. This time the geometric and color patterns were fleeting, and I proceeded directly to the action. I became the jaguar, hunting prey. The colors about me formed a rainbow, and that converted to a huge python, and that became a bolt of lightning that returned to thunder and rain. The rain fell so heavily that it formed a huge, branching river, and I saw that rivers, like snakes, were both male and female. The mouth of the river was its female orifice, and to ascend by that mouth was to indulge in symbolic copulation. I did this and saw the water nymphs swimming; I resolved to catch one for my own, but she eluded me, being more versatile than I in this medium, and so the jaguar had no woman.

  Repro was there again when I came out of it. "Must have been a smaller dose this time," he said. "That's fortunate; your intoxication was not as intense."

  I agreed, relieved. Not only had the duration been less, so had the intensity of the experience. I had enjoyed it but felt no strong compulsion to return to it. I remained unaddicted; but where had the drug come from?

  My food had been monitored this time, just to be sure; there had been no drug in it. We searched everything, and tested the water I had last drunk: nothing. We had the air ducting gone over and the rest of the life-support apparatus. Nothing.

  "Maybe it was only a flashback," Repro said doubtfully. "That does happen. Many of the visual effects are the result of phosphenes, subjective images that originate within the optic system itself. It's a common phenomenon, and phosphenic patterns appear in many art forms. Drugs stimulate them, but they can occur spontaneously. Many hallucinogenic drugs produce phosphenes of geometric motifs; these are not true visions, but an intermediate form."

  "Maybe," I agreed uncertainly. I was deeply disturbed by this demonstrated ability of QYV to penetrate our defense.

  Next day I had another vision. This time I entered a quiet jungle glade where natives were playing flutes formed from bones and the shells of snails. This was a haunted spot, dangerous to visit, because spirits of slain animals were present. When I intruded, the spirits of those animals turned on me and riddled me with tiny arrows: their vengeance for being hunted. "But I'm not a hunter!" I protested. "I'm a refugee!" Then they faded away; I knew that none of this was real, and I snapped out of it.

  When I told Repro, he was perplexed. "That was a vision, not a phosphene," he said. "Yet very mild, almost a daydream. You must have been dosed—"

  I shrugged, and touched one of my healing scrapes, which were not after all the wounds from tiny psychic arrows. The medicinal salve had really helped.

  Salve? I had used it three times....

  "Test this salve!" I exclaimed.

  That was the answer. The salve had been heavily laced with an extremely rare, potent, highly addictive hallucinogenic drug whose chemical description was meaningless to me but caused Repro to whistle, shaken, as he reviewed the lab results. "You have had three doses; you should be addicted now. This stuff is like a shot from a laser cannon!"

  "I'm not addicted," I protested. "I have no craving for it."

  Indeed I was not. There are ways to test for drug susceptibility, and Repro knew them, and we used them. I was now immune to this particular drug. My system was developing antibodies against it, protecting me. "I never heard of that before," Repro said. "Apparently you cannot be habituated; your body treats addictive drugs like disease and fights them with increasing effectiveness on repeated exposure."

  Just as my mind was able to tune in to the natures of other people, rapidly enabling me to protect myself against them. And my emotion had developed a block against the shock of threats against my life, so that the horror of death had not caused me to suffer from post-traumatic stress in the manner of Mondy. I had not before realized that there was a physiological component of my talent, but it made sense. I was blessed with an unusual, subtle, but quite useful system.

  It developed that I remained vulnerable to other types of drugs. My immunity was only to this specific one, and to a lesser extent to closely related drugs, and it did take time to develop. We found that I had used the salve before, but only irregularly and in very small amounts, so that the full effect had not been triggered and I had suffered no visions. But my body had gotten a head start on defending against it. Otherwise, my second and third major episodes could have been far more intense than they were, though I still could not have become addicted.

  Repro shook his head. "I wish I had your immune system."

  "I wish I could share it with you." But, of course, I could not.

  We agreed to keep this matter private. We couldn't even discover who had doused the salve; it had been part of my private supply for several months. Evidently QYV had set this up as a sleeper, knowing that sooner or later I would use it. That had been correct, and only my unusual body chemistry had prevented this insidious ploy from being effective.

  But QYV might now suppose that I was addicted. Quite possibly I could turn that supposition to my advantage when the right time came. Mondy was the one who perceived how: "Have Commander Phist put in a requisition for some of the components of that drug," he suggested. "We cannot duplicate it precisely, but this will suggest we are trying to. Kife will get the message and may come forward with an offer."

  I smiled like a jaguar. "You are an evil genius!"

  Mondy nodded, pleased. He was doing very well in our unit.

  One other matter I should mention here. We were adding considerable personnel during this expansion phase, and I left most of the details to my Adjutant, as is normal. But officers and key enlisted personnel I interviewed myself, to be quite sure they were what we wanted. In the Navy a commander's powers of choice are limited; some higher and somewhat erratic power directs the movements of personnel. That was one reason we had to use marriage to fetch our most vital members; it bypassed the red tape without betraying the nature of the larger plan. But the commander can do quite a bit to encourage particular people to remain or to move on, and this I did, whichever way was called for. Most were all right, for they knew of me and my unit and wanted to join; many were Hispanic, but others were ambitious Saxons or minority factions, highly motivated. We promised fair treatment and no-fault advancement for those with merit and loyalty, regardless of background, and it seemed this was unusual in the contemporary Jupiter Navy. So now we were getting skilled personnel without going after them, apart from the marriage acquisitions.

  Spirit surprised me one day by bringing in a civilian clerk. The Navy did employ a number of civilians, because they were cheaper for mundane purposes such as kitchen police and janitor service and clerking, and oft
en better suited for these jobs. It made little sense for the Navy to draft qualified personnel, run them through expensive training and conditioning, grant them generous medical and retirement benefits, then put them to work scraping dirty pots. Also, the job requirements for specialized noncombat positions are beyond what is normally available in the military system, especially when sophisticated computerized equipment is involved. For these positions civilian specialists must be hired, theoretically temporary until qualified Navy personnel are assigned; actually, they tend to be more permanent than most Navy assignments, since they are not subject to whimsical rotation. The local commander can hire and fire directly, without significant interference from above. Thus he has greater control, and often the truly key personnel in a unit are almost invisible civilians, known in the trade as technical mercenaries, hired out by civilian companies. This process was so advanced at this time that unit commanders sometimes vied competitively for desirable civilians. The rates of pay were fixed by Navy regulations, but there were off-the-record inducements. Some civilian employees lived quite royally, with government meals and the pick of enlisted (and sometimes commissioned) roommates of the opposite sex. For centuries it had been said that a master sergeant had things as good as anyone in the Service; today it was the choice civilian mercenary. As a military mercenary myself, I was quick to appreciate the situation. But in fairness I must also say that most civilian employees were simply that: hirelings with no job security and not a great deal of respect.

  This one was a woman in her forties, slender and serious. "Isobel is a resident alien," Spirit said. "She migrated from Titania as a child and lost her papers."

  "I know how that is," I said. "It took over a year for my lost papers to be replaced, and then only because I joined the Navy—and even then my age slipped by them."

  "She's a skilled military-computer operator, and conversant with navigation in space. But she does not want any security clearance."

  I looked more carefully at the applicant. She had shoulder-length brown-red hair and color-matched painted fingernails. Her eyes were deep gray. Her face was poker, giving nothing away, and she had no body mannerisms to signal her thoughts. I could not read her, yet she was oddly familiar. "We can use her qualifications," I said, "but the position we need her for requires a clearance, or personal assurance by the commander. Does she have good references?"

  "No," Spirit said.

  I glanced at her, annoyed. And paused, for Spirit was virtually quivering with excitement. Something was afoot.

  I looked again at Isobel. "Speak to me," I said.

  "As you wish, sir," Isobel said.

  Then it struck me. "Captain Brinker of the Hidden Flower—in drag!"

  She grimaced. "It is the only way to conceal my identity. A necessary evil." She glanced with distaste at her nails.

  I had made a deal with Brinker, sparing her life in exchange for mine, and preserving the secret of her sex in exchange for information about QYV. The deal had been honored by both parties. She had spent her adult life as a male; how ironic that she now had to hide by reverting to her true nature.

  But hiring her in my unit?—I really did not want any further association with this pirate. Yet my sister had brought her.

  I returned to Spirit. "You know this woman a good deal better than I do. Do you speak for her?"

  "I don't like her," Spirit said. "But she treated me fairly and kept my secret, and she is the most competent fighting woman I know. If she will serve you, you can't afford to turn her down. I gave her my word not to betray her to the authorities."

  "That word shall be honored, of course," I agreed. "But she is a pirate!"

  "Was," Spirit said. I saw that despite her personal distance from Brinker, she did want the woman to be hired.

  I turned to Brinker. "My friends died because of you."

  "I lost my ship because of you," she said evenly. "It happens, in war."

  So she viewed piracy as a state of war. Well, perhaps it was. It was true that I had done her about as much damage as she had me; several of her officers had been executed. It was also true that I had recovered my sister, who probably would not have survived on another pirate's ship.

  "With your qualifications," I said, "you can hire out elsewhere. Why come to me, the one who knows your secret?"

  "I can't return to space without protection. I am confined to low-grade clerical tasks and subject to the whims of men."

  The whims of men. Yes, women had little sexual privacy in the Navy, and civilian employees could have difficulty retaining their positions if they differed too obviously from Naval norms. If she wanted to be inconspicuous, she had to go along. "Are you homosexual?" I asked. Even today, some people distinguish between homosexuality and lesbianism, but they are the same: sexual preference for one's own sex.

  "No. I don't like sex at all."

  I glanced again at Spirit, who nodded. In this manner I had the answer to a question I had not been able to ask before: whether Spirit had been subjected to same-sex sex. I knew Spirit could handle anything she had to, but the information gratified me. I had feared what I might have left her to, among pirates.

  But now this woman wanted not only employment, but also protection: from the attentions of men, and from revelation of her history. And she wanted to get out of the clerking trade. She wanted a lot, and I could not see my way clear to giving this pirate any of it. I would much prefer to put her on trial for her past.

  But Spirit spoke for her. I had to hedge.

  "Bring Repro," I said to my sister.

  Spirit made a military turn and departed, leaving me alone with Isobel Brinker. "The things you want can be arranged, if I choose," I said carefully. "You could be assigned a male roommate whose sexual interest matches yours. You can be assigned compatible work. Your past can be private, with certain exceptions. Lieutenant Commander Repro is our unit psychologist and our S-5. He and my other key officers would have to know."

  "Your word governs them?"

  "Yes."

  "Then do as you will."

  "You know I have sworn to extirpate piracy from the face of the system."

  "I have no loyalty to piracy. It was a necessary expedient."

  "You would serve in this cause?"

  "Yes."

  Spirit returned with Repro; he must have been close at hand. I outlined the situation briefly to him. "What is your advice?"

  He considered. "She was not on my list, because I did not know of her. She belongs on it. Hire her."

  "But she is a pirate!" I protested again, dismayed by his ready acceptance.

  "Sir, you swore to eliminate piracy. You can do that by conversion as readily as killing. You must be ready to accept those who genuinely reform, otherwise you are no better than Mondy was."

  "Mondy?"

  "He has killed as many as you have, in much the same manner, and now cannot escape his conscience."

  Conversion—it did make sense. Why had I never been able to see it before? Because I was overly obsessed with vengeance. I did not need to consult with my other officers; I knew they would agree with Repro. Captain Brinker, former pirate, was not really the issue; my attitude was.

  "It seems I have been overruled by my staff," I said. I turned to Spirit. "Hire her."

  Brinker and I both knew the commitments implied.

  Brinker would not attempt to kill or harm me and would serve in whatever capacity assigned with complete loyalty and effectiveness. I would protect her from certain types of exposure. Objectively I knew it was a good deal for both of us; she could return to space action in no other way, and she could do our unit a lot of good, for she was highly competent. Still, there was a bad taste.

  Repro was right; it did work out. Brinker served me better than I could have anticipated. My unit even gave her a song: "Who's Going to Shoe Your Pretty Little Foot?", which concludes, "I don't need no man." Brinker sang it with a certain pride.

  Chapter 7 — QYV

  Time passe
d. In due course we sought and got another inclement assignment: the elimination of the pirates of the Juclip. My sister Spirit, my S-l Adjutant, had been keeping her eye out for this opportunity, and Mondy had advised her when it was coming; when it arrived, we pounced.

  The pirates had been getting bolder. It seemed the flow of illicit refugees from the Hispanic planet-moons had ebbed, and the ships that normally preyed on them had had to turn to other areas in order to sustain themselves. I state this dispassionately, but, of course, that is illusion; Hispanic refugees are very much my people. But I had been powerless, hitherto, to strike back at the pirates; I had to remain in military channels or lose my position. Now, however, the pirates had taken to raiding pleasure craft, including some wealthy yachts; a prominent debutante had been kidnapped, raped, and ransomed. That finally got the attention of the Jupiter governments. The authorities had chosen to ignore the increasing raids on agricultural bubbles, and, of course, refused to acknowledge the brutal decimation of refugees. "Hell, they're doing us a favor!" one high government official was reported to have remarked about that aspect of pirate activity. I smoldered; there were bigots in high places, and I hated them in much the way I hated the pirates, for they were almost equally responsible for the murder of refugees such as my father. But the rich girl had been beautiful and purest Saxon and well connected, her family vested with enormous wealth; she made excellent news copy, and her family was a major contributor to the party in power in North Jupiter. So the word went out: Do something about the local pirates. Teach them a lesson. And we were ready. We had spent three years preparing our battalion.

  I had four hundred Hispanics in my unit. When I announced our intentions to go out after the pirates, they raised a cheer that shook the ship. Most of them had had at least peripheral experience with the pirates; many of them had scores to settle as savage as mine. It was for this I had forged my fighting force, and for this these Hispanics had flocked to my banner. But the non-Hispanics were, for different reasons, as eager for action. They wanted the glory and promotion attendant on success, and many of them sincerely believed that piracy was evil.