The Mercenary

by Jerry Pournelle

Everyone spoke at once, shouting to the President, murmuring to their neighbors, until Grant cleared his throat loudly. “Mr. President,” he said, using the tone of command he’d been taught during his brief tour inthe Army Reserve. “Mr. President, if you will pardon me, that is a ludicrous suggestion. There is no one else in the Unity Party who has even a ghost of a chance of winning. You alone remain popular. Even Mr. Harmon speaks as well of you as he does of anyone not in his group. You cannot resign without dragging the Unity Party with you, and you cannot give that chair to Mr. Bertram because he couldn’t hold it six months.”

  “Would that be so bad?” President Lipscomb leaned toward Grant with the confidential manner he used in his fireside chats to the people. “Are we really so sure that only we can save the human race, John? Or do we only wish to keep power?”

  “Both, I suppose,” Grant said. “Not that I’d mind retiring myself.”

  “Retire!” Karins snorted. “You let Bertram’s clean babies in the files for two hours, and none of us will retire to anything better’n a CD prison planet. You got to be kidding, retire.”

  “That may be true,” the President said.

  “There’s other ways,” Karins suggested.

  “General, what happens if Harmon takes power and starts his war?”

  “Mr. Grant knows better than I do,” General Carpenter said. When the others stared at him, Carpenter continued. “No one has ever fought a nuclear war. Why should the uniform make me more of an expert than you? Maybe we could win. Heavy casualties, very heavy, but our de­fenses are good.”

  Carpenter gestured at the moving lights on the wall projection. “We have better technology than the Russki’s. Our laser guns ought to get most of their missiles. CD Fleet won’t let either of us use space weapons. We might win.”

  “We might.” Lipscomb was grim. “John?”

  “We might not win. We might kill more than half the human race. We might get more. How in God’s name do I know what happens when we throw nuclear weapons around?”

  “But the Russians aren’t prepared,” Commerce said. “If we hit them without warning-people never change governments in the middle of a war.”

  President Lipscomb sighed. “I am not going to start a nuclear war to retain power. Whatever I have done, I have done to keep peace. That is my last excuse. I could not live with myself if I sacrifice peace to keep power.”

  Grant cleared his throat gently. “We couldn’t do it anyway. If we start converting defensive missiles to offen­sive, CoDominium Intelligence would hear about it in ten days. The Treaty prevents that, you know.”

  He lit another cigarette. “We aren’t the only threat to the CD, anyway. There’s always Kaslov.”

  Kaslov was a pure Stalinist, who wanted to liberate Earth for Communism. Some called him the last Com­munist, but of course he wasn’t the last. He had plenty of followers. Grant could remember a secret conference with Ambassador Chernikov only weeks ago.

  The Soviet was a polished diplomat, but it was obvious that he wanted something desperately. He wanted the United States to keep the pressure on, not relax her de­fenses at the borders of the U.S. sphere of influence, because if the Communist probes ever took anything from the U.S. without a hard fight, Kaslov would gain more influence at home. He might even win control of the Presidium.

  “Nationalism everywhere,” the President sighed. “Why?”

  No one had an answer to that. Harmon gained power in the U.S. and Kaslov in the Soviet Union; while a dozen petty nationalist leaders gained power in a dozen other countries. Some thought it started with Japan’s nationalistic revival.

  “This is all nonsense,” said the Assistant Postmaster General. “We aren’t going to quit and we aren’t starting any wars. Now what does it take to get the support away from Mr. Clean Bertram and funnel it back to us where it belongs? A good scandal, right? Find Bertram’s dirtier than we are, right? Worked plenty of times before. You can steal people blind if you scream loud enough about how the other guy’s a crook.”

  “Such as?” Karins prompted.

  “Working with the Japs. Giving the Japs nukes, maybe. Supporting Meiji’s independence movement. I’m sure Mr. Grant can arrange something.”

  Karins nodded vigorously. “That might do it. Disillusion his organizers. The pro-CoDominium people in his outfit would come to us like a shot.”

  Karins paused and chuckled. “Course some of them will head for Millington’s bunch, too.”

  They all laughed. No one worried about Millington’s Liberation Party. His madmen caused riots and kept the taxpayers afraid, and made a number of security arrange­ments highly popular. The Liberation Party gave the police some heads to crack, nice riots for Tri-V to keep the Citizens amused and the taxpayers happy.

  “I think we can safely leave the details to Mr. Grant.” Karins grinned broadly.

  “What will you do, John?” the President asked..

  “Do you really want to know, Mr. President?” Moriarty interrupted. “I don’t.”

  “Nor do I, but if I can condone it, I can at least find out what it is. What will you do, John?”

  “Frame-up, I suppose. Get a plot going, then uncover it.”

  “That?” Moriarty shook his head. “It’s got to be good. The people are beginning to wonder about all these plots.”

  Grant nodded. “There will be evidence. Hard-core evidence. A secret arsenal of nuclear weapons.”

  There was a gasp. Then Karins grinned widely again. “Oh, man, that’s tore it. Hidden nukes. Real ones, I suppose?”

  “Of course.” Grant looked with distaste at the fat youth. What would be the point of fake nuclear weapons? But Karins lived in a world of deception, so much so that fake weapons might be appropriate in it.

  “Better have lots of cops when you break that story,” Karins said. “People hear that, they’ll tear Bertram apart.”

  True enough, Grant thought. It was a point he’d have to remember. Protection of those kids wouldn’t be easy. Not since one militant group atom-bombed Bakersfield, California, and a criminal syndicate tried to hold Seattle for a hundred million ransom. People no longer thought of private stocks of atomic weapons as something to laugh at.

  “We won’t involve Mr. Bertram personally,” the Presi­dent said grimly. “Not under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” John answered quickly. He hadn’t liked the idea either. “Just some of his top aides.” Grant stubbed out the cigarette. It, or something, had left a foul taste in his mouth. “I’ll have them end up with the CD for final custody. Sentenced to transportation. My brother can arrange it so they don’t have hard sentences.”

  “Sure. They can be independent planters on Tanith if they’ll cooperate,” Karins said. “You can see they don’t suffer.”

  Like hell, Grant thought. Life on Tanith was no joy under the best conditions.

  “There’s one more thing,” the President said. “I under­stand Grand Senator Bronson wants something from the CD. Some officer was a little too efficient at uncovering the Bronson family deals, and they want him removed.” The President looked as if he’d tasted sour milk. “I hate this, John. I hate it, but we need Bronson’s support. Can you speak to your brother?”

  “I already have,” Grant said. “It will be arranged.”

  Grant left the meeting a few minutes later. The others could continue in endless discussion, but Grant saw no point to them. The action needed was clear, and the longer they waited the more time Bertram would have to assemble his supporters and harden his support. If some­thing were to be done, it should be now.

  Grant had found all his life that the wrong action taken decisively and in time was better than the right action taken later. After he reached the Pentagon he summoned his deputies and issued orders. It took no more than an hour to set the machinery in motion.

  Grant’s colleagues always said he was rash, too quick to take action without examining the consequences. They also conceded that he
was lucky. To Grant it wasn’t luck, and he did consider the consequences; but he anticipated events rather than reacted to crisis. He had known that Bertram’s support was growing alarmingly for weeks and had made contingency plans long before going to the conference with the President.

  Now it was clear that action must be taken immediately. Within days there would be leaks from the conference. Nothing about the actions to be taken, but there would be rumors about the alarm and concern. A secretary would notice that Grant had come back to the Pentagon after dismissing his driver. Another would see that Karins chuckled more than usual when he left the Oval Office, or that two political enemies came out together and went off to have a drink. Another would hear talk about Ber­tram, and soon it would be all over Washington: the President was worried about Bertram’s popularity.

  Since the leaks were inevitable, he should act while this might work. Grant dismissed his aides with a sense of satisfaction. He had been ready, and the crisis would be over before it began. It was only after he was alone that he crossed the paneled room to the teak cabinet and poured a double Scotch.

  The Maryland countryside slipped past far below as the Cadillac cruised on autopilot. A ribbon antenna ran almost to Grant’s house, and he watched the twilight scene with as much relaxation as he ever achieved lately. House lights blinked below, and a few surface cars ran along the roads. Behind him was the sprawling mass ofColum­bia Welfare Island where most of those displaced from Washington had gone. Now the inhabitants were third generation and had never known any other life.

  He grimaced. Welfare Islands were lumps of concrete buildings and roof parks, containers for the seething resentment of useless lives kept placid by Government furnished supplies of Tanith hashpot and borloi and American cheap booze. A man born in one of those complexes could stay there all his life, and many did.

  Grant tried to imagine what it would be like there, but he couldn’t. Reports from his agents gave an intellectual picture, but there was no way to identify with those people. He could not feel the hopelessness and dulled senses, burning hatreds, terrors, bitter pride of street gangs.

  Karins knew, though. Karins had begun his life in a Welfare Island somewhere in the Midwest. Karins clawed his way through the schools to a scholarship and a ticket out forever. He’d resisted stimulants and dope and Tri-V. Was it worth it? Grant wondered. And of course there was another way out of Welfare, as a voluntary colonist; but so few took that route now. Once there had been a lot of them.

  The speaker on the dash suddenly came to life cutting off Beethoven in mid bar. “WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING A GUARDED AREA. UNAUTHORIZED CRAFT WILL BE DESTROYED WITHOUT FURTHER WARNING. IF YOU HAVE LEGITIMATE ERRANDS IN THIS RESTRICTED AREA, FOLLOW THE GUIDE BEAM TO THE POLICE CHECK STATION. THIS IS A FINAL WARNING.”

  The Cadillac automatically turned off course to ride the beam down to State Police headquarters, and Grant cursed. He activated the mike and spoke softly. “This is John Grant of Peachem’s Bay. Something seems to be wrong with my transponder.”

  There was a short pause, then a soft feminine voice came from the dash speaker. “We are very sorry, Mr. Grant. Your signal is correct. Our identification unit is out of order. Please proceed to your home.”

  “Get that damned thing fixed before it shoots down a taxpayer,” Grant said. Ann Arundel County was a Unity stronghold. How long would that last after an accident like that? He took the manual controls and cut across country, ignoring regulations. They could only give him a ticket now that they knew who he was, and his banking computer would pay it without bothering to tell him of it.

  It brought a grim smile to his face. Traffic regulations were broken, computers noted it and levied fines, other computers paid them, and no human ever became aware of them. It was only if there were enough tickets accumulated to bring a warning of license suspension that a taxpayer learned of the things-unless he liked checking his bank statements himself.

  His home lay ahead, a big rambling early twentieth-century place on the cove. His yacht was anchored off­shore, and it gave him a guilty twinge. She wasn’t neglected, but she was too much in the hands of paid crew, too long without attention from her owner.

  Carver, the chauffeur, rushed out to help Grant down from the Cadillac. Hapwood was waiting in the big library with a glass of sherry. Prince Bismark, shivering in the presence of his god, put his Doberman head on Grant’s lap, ready to leap into the fire at command.

  There was irony in the situation, Grant thought. At home he enjoyed the power of a feudal lord, but it was limited by how strongly the staff wanted to stay out of Welfare. But he only had to lift the Security phone in the corner, and his real power, completely invisible and limited only by what the President wanted to find out, would operate. Money gave him the visible power, hered­ity gave him the power over the dog; what gave him the real power of the Security phone?

  “What time would you like dinner, sir?” Hapwood asked. “And Miss Sharon is here with a guest.”

  “A guest?”

  “Yes, sir. A young man, Mr. Allan Torrey, sir.”

  “Have they eaten?”

  “Yes, sir. Miss Ackridge called to say that you would be late for dinner.”

  “All right, Hapwood. I’ll eat now and see Miss Grant and her guest afterwards.”

  “Very good, sir. I will inform the cook.” Hapwood left the room invisibly.

  Grant smiled again. Hapwood was another figure from Welfare and had grown up speaking a dialect Grant would never recognize. For some reason he had been impressed by English butlers he’d seen on Tri-V and cultivated their manner-and now he was known all over the county as the perfect household manager.

  Hapwood didn’t know it, but Grant had a record of every cent his butler took in: kickbacks from grocers and caterers, contributions from the gardeners, and the surprisingly well-managed investment portfolio. Hapwood could easily retire to his own house and live the life of a taxpayer investor.

  Why? Grant wondered idly. Why does he stay on? It makes life easier for me, but why? It had intrigued Grant enough to have his agents look into Hapwood, but the man had no politics other than staunch support for Unity. The only suspicious thing about his contacts was the re­finement with which he extracted money from every trans­action involving Grant’s house. Hapwood had no children, and his sexual needs were satisfied by infrequent visits to the fringe areas around Welfare.

  Grant ate mechanically, hurrying to be through and see his daughter, yet he was afraid to meet the boy she had brought home. For a moment he thought of using the Security phone to find out more about him, but he shook his head angrily. Too much security thinking wasn’t good.

  For once he was going to be a parent, meeting his daughter’s intended and nothing more.

  He left his dinner unfinished without thinking how much the remnants of steak would have cost, or that Hapwood would probably sell them somewhere, and went to the library. He sat behind the massive Oriental fruitwood desk and had a brandy.

  Behind him and to both sides the walls were lined with book shelves, immaculate dust-free accounts of the people of dead empires. It had been years since he had read one. Now all his reading was confined to reports with bright red covers. The reports told live stories about living people, but sometimes, late at night, Grant wondered if his coun­try were not as dead as the empires in his books.

  Grant loved his country but hated her people, all of them: Karins and the new breed, the tranquilized Citizens in their Welfare Islands, the smug taxpayers grimly hold­ing on to their privileges. What, then, do I love? he won­dered. Only our history, and the greatness that once was the United States, and that’s found only in those books and in old buildings, never in the security reports.

  Where are the patriots? All of them have become Patriots, stupid men and women following a leader to­ward nothing. Not even glory.

  Then Sharon came in. She was a lovely girl, far prettier than her mother had ever been, but she lacked her mother’s poise.
She ushered in a tall boy in his early twenties.

  Grant studied the newcomer as they came toward him. Nice-looking boy. Long hair, neatly trimmed, conservative mustache for these times. Blue and violet tunic, red scarf ... a little flashy, but even John Jr. went in for flashy clothes when he got out of CD uniform.

  The boy walked hesitantly, almost timidly, and Grant wondered if it were fear of him and his position in the government, or only the natural nervousness of a young man about to meet his fiancée’s wealthy father. The tiny diamond on Sharon’s hand sparkled in the yellow light from the fireplace, and she held the hand in an unnatural position.

  “Daddy, I ... I’ve talked so much about him, this is Allan. He’s just asked me to marry him!” She sparkled, Grant saw; and she spoke trustingly, sure of his approval, never thinking he might object. Grant wondered if Sharon weren’t the only person in the country who didn’t fear him. Except for John Jr., who didn’t have to be afraid.

  John was out of the reach of Grant’s Security phone. The CD Fleet takes care of its own.

  At least he’s asked her to marry him. He might have simply moved in with her. Or has he already? Grant stood and extended his hand. “Hello, Allan.”

  Torrey’s grip was firm, but his eyes avoided Grant’s. “So you want to marry my daughter.” Grant glanced pointedly at her left hand. “It appears that she approves the idea.”

  “Yes, sir. Uh, sir, she wanted to wait and ask you, but I insisted. It’s my fault, sir.” Torrey looked up at him this time, almost in defiance.

  “Yes.” Grant sat again. “Well, Sharon, as long as you’re home for the evening, I wish you’d speak to Hapwood about Prince Bismark. I do not think the animal is prop­erly fed.”

  “You mean right now?” she asked. She tightened her small mouth into a pout. “Really, Daddy, this is Victorian! Sending me out of the room while you talk to my fiancée!”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Grant said nothing else, and finally she turned away.