The Mercenary

by Jerry Pournelle

  Hamner was escorted across the camp to officers’ row. The huts and tent stood across a wide parade ground from the densely packed company streets of the troops and had their own guards.

  Over in the company area the men were singing, and Hamner paused to listen.

  “I’ve a head like a concertina, and I think I’m ready to die, and I’m here in the clink for a thundrin’ drink and blacking the Corporal’s eye. With another man’s cloak underneath of my head and a beautiful view of the yard, it’s the crapaud for me, and no more System D, I was Drunk and Resistin’ the Guard! Mad drunk and resistin’ the guard!”

  Falkenberg came out of his hut. “Good evening, sir. What brings you here?”

  I’ll just bet you’d like to know, Hamner thought. “I - have a few things to discuss with you, Colonel. About the organization of the constabulary.”

  “Certainly.” Falkenberg was crisp and seemed slightly nervous. Hamner wondered if he were drunk. “Shall we go to the Mess?” Falkenberg asked. “More comfortable there, and I haven’t got my quarters made up for visitors.”

  Or you’ve got something here I shouldn’t see, George thought. Something or someone. Local girl? What differ­ence does it make? God, I wish I could trust this man.

  Falkenberg led the way to the ranch house in the center of officers row. The troops were still shouting and singing, and a group was chasing each other on the parade ground. Most were dressed in the blue and yellow garrison uniforms. Falkenberg had designed, but others trotted past in synthi-leather battledress. They carried rifles and heavy packs.

  “Punishment detail,” Falkenberg explained. “Not as many of those as there used to be.”

  Sound crashed from the Officers’ Mess building: drums and bagpipes, a wild sound of war mingled with shouted laughter. Inside, two dozen men sat at a long table as white-coated stewards moved briskly about with whiskey bottles and glasses.

  Kilted bandsmen marched around the table with pipes. Drummers stood in one corner. The deafening noise stopped as Falkenberg entered, and everyone got to his feet. Some were quite unsteady.

  “Carry on,” Falkenberg said, but no one did. They eyed Hamner nervously, and at a wave from the mess president at the head of the table the pipers and drummers went outside. Several stewards with bottles followed them. The other officers sat and talked in low tones. After all the noise the room seemed very quiet.

  “We’ll sit over here, shall we?” the colonel asked. He led Hamner to a small table in one corner. A steward brought two glasses of whiskey and set them down.

  The room seemed curiously bare to Hamner. A few banners, some paintings; very little else. Somehow, he thought, there ought to be more. As if they’re waiting. But that’s ridiculous.

  Most of the officers were strangers, but George rec­ognized half a dozen Progressives, the highest rank a first lieutenant. He waved at the ones he knew and received brief smiles that seemed almost guilty before the Party volunteers turned back to their companions.

  “Yes, sir?” Falkenberg prompted.

  “Just who are these men?” George demanded. “I know they’re not native to Hadley. Where did they come from?”

  “CoDominium officers on the beach,” Falkenberg an­swered promptly. “Reduction in force. Lots of good men got riffed into early retirement. Some of them heard I was coming here and chose to give up their reserve ranks. They came out on the colony ship on the chance I’d hire them.”

  “And you did.”

  “Naturally I jumped at the chance to get experienced men at prices we could afford.”

  “But why all the secrecy? Why haven’t I heard about them before?”

  Falkenberg shrugged. “We’ve violated several of the Grand Senate’s regulations on mercenaries, you know. It’s best not to talk about these things until the CD has defi­nitely gone. After that, the men are committed. They’ll have to stay loyal to Hadley.” Falkenberg lifted his whiskey glass. “Vice President Bradford knew all about it.”

  “I’ll bet he did.” Hamner lifted his own glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  And I wonder what else that little snake knows about, Hamner wondered. Without his support Falkenberg would be out of here in a minute . . . and what then? “Colonel, your organization charts came to my office yesterday. You’ve kept all the Marines in one battalion with these newly hired officers. Then you’ve got three battalions of locals, but all the Party stalwarts are in the Fourth. The Second and Third are local recruits, but under your own men.”

  ‘That’s a fair enough description, yes, sir,” Falkenberg said.

  And you know my question, George thought. “Why, Colonel? A suspicious man would say that you’ve got your own little army here, with a structure set so that you can take complete - control if there’s ever a difference of opinion between you and the government.”

  “A suspicious man might say that,” Falkenberg agreed. He drained his glass and waited for George to do the same. A steward came over with freshly filled glasses.

  “But a practical man might say something else,” Falken­berg continued. “Do you expect me to put green officers in command of those guardhouse troops? Or your good-hearted Progressives in command of green recruits?”

  “But you’ve done just that-“

  “On Mr. Bradford’s orders I’ve kept the Fourth Bat­talion as free of my mercenaries as possible. That isn’t helping their training, either. But Mr. Bradford seems to have the same complaint as you.”

  “I haven’t complained.”

  “I thought you had,” Falkenberg said. “In any event, you have your Party force, if you wish to use it to con­trol me. Actually you have all the control you need any­way. You hold the purse strings. Without supplies to feed these men and money to pay them, I couldn’t hold them an hour.”

  “Troops have found it easier to rob the paymaster than fight for him before now,” Hamner observed. “Cheers.” He drained the glass, then suppressed a cough. The stuff was strong, and he wasn’t used to drinking neat whiskey. He wondered what would happen if he ordered something else, beer, or a mixed drink. Somehow it didn’t seem to go with the party.

  “I might have expected that remark from Bradford,” Falkenberg said.

  Hamner nodded. Bradford was always suspicious of something. There were times when George wondered if the First Vice President were quite sane, but that was silly. Still, when the pressure was on, Ernie Bradford did manage to get on people’s nerves with his suspicions, and he would rather see nothing done than give up control of anything.

  “How am I supposed to organize this coup?” Falkenberg demanded. “I have a handful of men loyal to me. The rest are mercenaries, or your locals. You’ve paid a lot to bring me and my staff here. You want us to fight impossible odds with nonexistent equipment. If you also insist on your own organization of forces, I cannot accept the responsibility.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Falkenberg shrugged. “If President Budreau so orders, and he would on your recommendation, I’ll turn command over to anyone he names.”

  And he’d name Bradford, Hamner thought. I’d rather trust Falkenberg. Whatever Falkenberg does will at least be competently done; with Ernie there was no assurance he wasn’t up to something, and none that he’d be able to accomplish anything if he wasn’t.

  But. “What do you want out of this, Colonel Falken­berg?”

  The question seemed to surprise the colonel. “Money, of course,” Falkenberg answered. “A little glory, perhaps, although that’s not a word much used nowadays. A position of responsibility commensurate with my abilities. I’ve al­ways been a soldier, and I know nothing else.”

  “And why didn’t you stay with the CD?”

  “It is in the record,” Falkenberg said coldly. “Surely you know.”

  “But I don’t.” Hamner was calm, but the whiskey was enough to make him bolder than he’d intended to be, even in this camp surrounded by Falkenberg’s men. “I don’t know at all. It ma
kes no sense as I’ve been told it. You had no reason to complain about promotion, and the Ad­miral had no reason to prefer charges. It looks as if you had yourself cashiered.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “You’re nearly correct. Astute of you.” The soldier’s lips were tight and his gray eyes bored into Hamner. “I suppose you are entitled to an answer. Grand Senator Bronson has sworn to ruin me for reasons you needn’t know. If I hadn’t been dismissed for a trivial charge of technical insubordination, I’d have faced a series of trumped-up charges. At least this way I’m out with a clean record.”

  A clean record and a lot of bitterness. “And that’s all there is to it?”

  “That’s all.” It was plausible. So was everything else Falkenberg said.

  Yet Hamner was sure that Falkenberg was lying. Not lying directly, but not telling everything either. Hamner felt that if he knew the right questions he could get the answers, but there weren’t any questions to ask.

  And, Hamner thought, I must either trust this man or get rid of him; and to irritate him while keeping him is the stupidest policy of all.

  The pipers came back in, and the mess president looked to Falkenberg. “Something more?” Falkenberg asked.

  “No.”

  “Thank you.” The colonel nodded to the junior officer. The mess president waved approval to the pipe major. Pipe major raised his mace, and the drums crashed. The pipers began, standing in place at first, then marching around the table. Officers shouted, and the room was filled with martial cries. The party was on again.

  George looked for one of his own appointees and dis­covered that every Progressive officer in the room was one of his own. There wasn’t a single man from Bradford’s wing of the Party. Was that significant?

  He rose and caught the eye of a Progressive lieutenant. “I’ll let Farquhar escort me out, Colonel,” Hamner said.

  “As you please.”

  The noise followed them out of the building and along the regimental street. There were more sounds from the parade ground and the camp beyond. Fires burned brightly in the night.

  “All right, Jamie, what’s going on here?” Hamner demanded.

  “Going on, sir? Nothing that I know of. If you mean the party, we’re celebrating the men’s graduation from basic training. Tomorrow they’ll start advanced work.”

  “Maybe I meant the party,” Hamner said. “You seem pretty friendly with the other officers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hamner noted the enthusiasm in Jamie Farquhar’s voice. The boy was young enough to be caught up in the military mystique, and George felt sorry for him. “They’re good men,” Jamie said.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Where are the others? Mr. Brad­ford’s people?”

  “They had a field problem that kept them out of camp until late,” Farquhar said. “Mr. Bradford came around about dinner time and asked that they be sent to a meet­ing somewhere. He spends a lot of time with them.”

  “I expect he does,” Hamner said. “Look, you’ve been around the Marines Jamie. Where are those men from? What CD outfits?”

  “I really don’t know, sir. Colonel Falkenberg has for­bidden us to ask. He says that the men start with a clean record here.”

  Hamner noted the tone Farquhar used when he men­tioned Falkenberg. More than respect. Awe, perhaps. “Have any of them served with the colonel before?”

  “I think so, yes, sir. They don’t like him. Curse the col­onel quite openly. But they’re afraid of that big sergeant major of his. Calvin has offered to whip any two men in the camp, and they can choose the rules. A few of the newcomers tried it, but none of the Marines would. Not one.”

  “And you say the colonel’s not popular with the men?”

  Farquhar was thoughtful for a moment. “I wouldn’t say he was popular, no sir.”

  Yet, Hamner thought, Boris had said he was. Whiskey buzzed in George’s head. “Who is popular?”

  “Major Savage, sir. The men like him. And Captain Fast, the Marines particularly respect him. He’s the adjutant.”

  “All right. Look, can this outfit fight? Have we got a chance after the CD leaves?” They stood and watched the scenes around the campfires. Men were drinking heavily, shouting and singing and chasing each other through the camp. There was a fist fight in front of one tent, and no officer moved to stop it.

  “Do you allow that?” Hamner demanded.

  “We try not to interfere too much,” Farquhar said. “The colonel says half an officer’s training is learning what not to see. Anyway, the sergeants have broken up the fight, see?”

  “But you let the men drink.”

  “Sir, there’s no regulation against drinking. Only against being unfit for duty. And these men are tough. They obey orders and they can fight. I think we’ll do rather well.”

  Pride. They’ve put some pride into Jamie Farquhar, and maybe into some of those jailbirds out there too. “All right, Jamie. Go back to your party. I’ll find my driver.”

  As he was driven away, George Hamner felt better about Hadley’s future, but he was still convinced something was wrong; and he had no idea what it was.

  IX

  The stadium had been built to hold one hundred thou­sand people. There were at least that many jammed inside it now, and an equal number swarmed about the market squares and streets adjacent to it. The full CoDominium Marine garrison was on duty to keep order, but it wasn’t needed.

  The celebration was boisterous, but there wouldn’t be any trouble today. The Freedom Party was as anxious to avoid an incident as the Marines on this, the greatest day for Hadley since Discovery. The CoDominium was turning over power to local authority and getting out; and nothing must spoil that.

  Hamner and Falkenberg watched from the upper tiers of the Stadium. Row after row of plastisteel seats cascaded like a giant staircase down from their perch to the central grassy field below. Every seat was filled, so that the Sta­dium was a riot of color.

  President Budreau and Governor Flaherty stood in the Presidential box directly across from Falkenberg and Ham­ner. The President’s Guard, in blue uniforms, and the Co­Dominium Marines, in their scarlet and gold, stood at rigid attention around the officials.

  The President’s box was shared by Vice President Brad­ford, the Freedom Party opposition leaders, Progressive officials, officers of the retiring CoDominium government, and everyone else who could beg an invitation. George knew that some of them were wondering where he had got off to.

  Bradford would particularly notice Hamner’s absence. He might, George thought, even think the Second Vice President was out stirring up opposition or rebellion. Ernie Bradford had lately been accusing Hamner of every kind of disloyalty to the Progressive Party, and it wouldn’t be long before he demanded that Budreau dismiss him.

  To the devil with the little man! George thought. He hated crowds, and the thought of standing there and listen­ing to all those speeches, of being polite to party officials whom he detested, was just too much. When he’d sug­gested watching from another vantage point, Falkenberg had quickly agreed. The soldier didn’t seem to care too much for formal ceremonies either. Civilian ceremonies, Hamner corrected himself; Falkenberg seemed to like military parades.

  The ritual was almost over. The CD Marine bands had marched through the field, the speeches had been made, presents delivered and accepted. A hundred thousand peo­ple had cheered, and it was an awesome sound. The raw power was frightening.

  Hamner glanced at his watch. As he did the Marine band broke into a roar of drums. The massed drummers ceased to beat one by one until there was but a single drum roll that went on and on and on, until finally it too stopped. The entire Stadium waited.

  One trumpet, no more. A clear call, plaintive but trium­phant, the final salute to the CoDominium banner above the Palace. The notes hung in Hadley’s airlike something tangible, and slowly, deliberately, the crimson and blue banner floated down from the flagpole as Hadley’s blazing gold and green arose.

  Across the city u
niformed men saluted these flags, one rising, the other setting. The blue uniforms of Hadley saluted with smiles, the red-uniformed Marines with in­difference. The CoDominium banner rose and fell across two hundred light-years and seventy worlds in this year of Grace; what difference would one minor planet make?

  Hamner glanced at John Falkenberg. The colonel had no eyes for the rising banners of Hadley. His rigid salute was given to the CD flag, and as the last note of the final trumpet salute died away Hamner thought he saw Falken­berg wipe his eyes.

  The gesture was so startling that George looked again, but there was nothing more to see, and he decided that he had been mistaken.

  “That’s it, then,” Falkenberg snapped. His voice was strained. “I suppose we ought to join the party. Can’t keep His Nibs waiting.”

  Hamner nodded. The Presidential box connected directly to the Palace, and the officials would arrive at the re­ception quickly while Falkenberg and Hamner had the entire width of the crowded Stadium to traverse. People were already streaming out to join the festive crowds on the grass in the center of the bowl.

  “Let’s go this way,” George said. He led Falkenberg to the top of the Stadium and into a small alcove where he used a key to open an inconspicuous door. “Tunnel sys­tem takes us right into the Palace, across and under the Stadium,” he told Falkenberg. “Not exactly secret, but we don’t want the people to know about it because they’d demand we open it to the public. Built for maintenance crews, mostly.” He locked the door behind them and waved expressively at the wide interior corridor. “Place was pretty well designed, actually.”

  The grudging tone of admiration wasn’t natural to him. If a thing was well done, it was well done . . . but lately he found himself talking that way about CoDominium projects. He resented the whole CD administration and the men who’d dumped the job of governing after creating problems no one could solve.