Mercenary (Bio of a Space Tyrant Book 2)

by Piers Anthony

  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 accomplish only 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 view-screens 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 view-screen. 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 resume,” 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.”

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” I said. “But would it be fair to say that the migrants would be satisfied with a higher rate of pay per bucket, nothing else? No unemployment insurance, medical coverage, retirement benefits—”

  “Retirement benefits!” the lawyer exclaimed, appalled, while the eyes of the migrant leaders widened with appreciation. They had not thought to try for anything like this!

  “I understand your problems of supply and shipment,” I said to the lawyers. “We have them in the Navy, too. Let’s concentrate on the central thing: the pay per bucket picked. If you pay the workers more, you will have to raise your prices in Jupiter, putting you at a competitive disadvantage.”

  “Exactly! We compete with pseudo-produce, and there are cut-rate imports from Uranus and Saturn—”

  “But you see, the workers’ rate has not changed in years, while the cost of living has,” I pointed out. “The workers are being severely squeezed. That is why they are restive. If you gave them more
to work for, you could save some of the cost by reducing your supervisory personnel, that we all know are really guards. Satisfied workers reduce your overhead.”

  “Well, if we could afford—”

  “Suppose you key the workers’ pay to the retail price of the produce?” I suggested. “That would alleviate the criticism some make that the farmers ignore the increasing cost of living of the workers while increasing their prices.”

  The farmers, and therefore their lawyers, were quite sensitive to such criticism. “Well, we have no objection in principle—”

  “Perhaps five percent,” I said.

  “Five percent!” a lawyer exclaimed indignantly. “Preposterous!”

  “Normally, as I understand it,” I said, “the fee for a significant service rendered, one necessary to business, is ten percent or more. Five percent seems modest enough, considering the importance of the service.”

  “But it has never been done before!”

  “We are all progressive people, willing to try new things when the old ones prove inadequate,” I said blithely. “This is, after all, the twenty-seventh century. Suppose the arrangement is publicly posted: Of each dollar retail price, five cents is allocated for the picker.”

  “But the men will not work, if it is not tied to the bucket!”

  “Tie it to the bucket, then. If a bucket contains one hundred peppers whose retail value is five cents per pepper, or five dollars to the bucket, the picker gets twenty-five cents.”

  “Twenty-five cents!” the lawyer cried as if in pain. “That’s two and a half times the present rate!”

  I shrugged. “I suppose we could publicize the fact that the farmers are unwilling to allocate more than two percent for harvesting, while paying more than that to keep discipline among the distressed workers, and see how the Jupiter public reacts. Perhaps the public will agree this is fair.”

  The lawyers blanched, knowing the outrage such statistics would incite on civilized Jupiter. “Perhaps three percent, which would represent a fifty percent improvement,” one began.

  I glanced at him. “What is the basis for your own fee for services rendered?”

  The man backed off hastily. “Perhaps if the percentage was publicly posted, so the consumer would know the reason for the increase in price—”

  “I think it might appear unpatriotic for the buying public to refuse to pay a few extra cents to allow the pickers a living wage,” I said. “I doubt you would lose much in sales—if that were the extent of the increase.”

  The lawyers pondered. They knew the farmers would not object to a settlement that successfully passed along the added cost to the public. But I suspected that when the time came to publicize the prices, the public would demand that the five percent be taken out of the original price, and the farmers would discover that they could, after all, afford it. Regardless, the principle of a fixed percentage for the pickers was the key to a long-term settlement. My staff had hashed this out beforehand and rehearsed me on it; I was not nearly as quick or informed as I appeared. That was the beauty of a good staff; it made the commander look good, when it was important that he do so.

  That, essentially, was it. We made a temporary agreement, and the foremen promised to put their workers back in the fields, and the lawyers promised to allocate five percent. If the remaining migrants or the farmers did not ratify the agreement, the five percent would still hold for the work done during the temporary period. After that, the strike would resume. But we all knew it wouldn’t come to that. We had worked it out.

  We returned the migrant leaders to their bubbles, and picked up our girls. Joshua was right: The migrants were ready to sell what remained of their souls, after enjoying the hospitality of our lovely personnel. They would ratify.

  Before we parted, Joshua spoke to me privately. “That bubble you blasted—rubber knives?”

  “You’re smarter than you look,” I said.

  “Thought so. You’re not really a killer.”

  “Not of migrants,” I agreed.

  The agreement stood. There was no further violence. We got our blanket promotion: I advanced to full Commander, O5: Repro, Spirit, Emerald, and Mondy to Lieutenant Commanders, O4; and right on down to our lowest E2’s becoming PFC’s. We had gambled big, and won. And my name flashed across the Jupiter news of the day. Commander Hubris was momentarily famous.

  And perhaps I had at last repaid Joe Hill for his kindness.

  CHAPTER 6

  PUGIL

  There are set routines for promotion and assumption of commands, but Lieutenant Commander Mondy knew how to circumvent them. Our next step was perhaps unique for the time: my company expanded into a battalion; my three platoons became companies; and my squads grew into platoons. New personnel came into this framework mostly from below. We simply fissioned away from our former battalion and became our own.

  Now my battalion staff became official. Lieutenant Commander Phist transferred in to be my S-4 Logistics officer; he had not been part of our unit before, so had not shared in the blanket promotion. I now ranked him and could include him in my command.

  Now our training commenced in earnest. Some of it made little sense to the troops, but they worked at it, anyway, because the penalty for unsupport was to be transferred out again. You see, it wasn’t just physical training, it was social.

  I required each man to learn a song, and that he always be ready to sing it in public. I had been reminded of the power of song by my experience with the migrants. The migrant laborers had a special kind of camaraderie, and I wanted it for my battalion. This was my first major step. The men grumbled, but they picked out their songs in the migrant manner and rehearsed them. We had regular singing sessions where enthusiasm counted more than skill. There were a good many duplications of songs, and those who shared songs were supposed to look out for each other’s interests, even if they had no other bond.

  I had Sergeant Smith, now E7, instruct a program of special training in judo, fencing, and pugil sticks. Why? Because I wanted my men to be expert in hull-fighting. You see, there are several ways to take out an enemy ship in space. You can blast it to pieces, which I deem to be wasteful; or you can disable it and force surrender, which is risky when dealing with dishonorable folk such as pirates; or you can board it and take it over from inside by using a pacifier or gas grenade. To board it you have to land suited men on the hull, who then operate the airlocks and get inside to do their work. A stun-bomb flung through as the inner lock opens is very effective. But a smart ship’s captain will post guards on his hull to prevent exactly such intrusion, and those guards have to be dealt with quickly and silently.

  Picture the problem: There you are, just arrived on the hull, your magnetic boots clinging to the metal surface, the centrifugal force of the ship’s rotation pulling you outward. (Technically, there is no such force, but it is more convenient to deal with that imagined force than with the more complex input of the vectors of deviation from rest.) You are, in essence, hanging upside down, with little leeway for error; the moment your feet lose contact with the hull, you fall out into space. The boot magnetism is not great, because you need to be able to move individual feet readily; falling is all too easy. And here is this enemy soldier coming at you—

  Perhaps the best way to illustrate this is to describe an episode of the training in which I was personally involved. We did not have many discipline problems, because of the spirit of unity we cultivated, but any organization has some. This one involved Corporal Heller, a huge, tough, canny brute of a Saxon who went in for all the violent activities. He wasn’t popular, because he had a sarcastic mouth and was apt to hurt people by too-vigorous physical competition, and he had a bad attitude. But he insisted on remaining in our unit, and he was competent and worked hard, so we tolerated him.

  When an opening came for a squad leader, there were two prime candidates: Corporal Heller and Corporal Valencia, a qualified Hispanic. I interviewed both men, for even small decisions of personnel were
important to me and the lower officers had not wanted to touch this particular case. I made my decision in favor of Valencia. He was designated squad leader and was promoted to sergeant.

  Heller was furious. He claimed I had discriminated against him as a Saxon. Actually, I had seen that however well qualified Heller was otherwise, he was unsuitable as a leader of men, because he had little sensitivity to the needs of others. This was a largely Hispanic squad that would be more responsive to one of its own, and Valencia spoke Spanish. He could not compete with Heller physically, but leadership is more than physical. He would do a better job, and his squad would have higher morale and fewer gripes and superior performance.

  However, a sizable segment of my unit did not see it that way, including many Hispanics. Sergeant Smith explained it to me succinctly: “We’re training to go out and fight pirates, right, sir? Pirates are tough, so we need tough leaders to match them, not just good organizers or nice guys. Heller is tough.”