The Mercenary

by Jerry Pournelle

  They wound down stairways and through more passages, then up to another set of locked doors. Through those was the Palace courtyard. The celebrations were already under way, and it would be a long night.

  George wondered what would come now. In the morn­ing the last CD boat would rise, and the CoDominium would be gone. Tomorrow, Hadley would be alone with her problems.

  “Tensh-Hut!” Sergeant Major Calvin’s crisp command cut through the babble.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen.” Falkenberg took his place at the head of the long table in the command room of what had been the central headquarters for the Co­Dominium Marines.

  Except for the uniforms and banners there were few changes from what people already called “the old days.” The officers were seated in the usual places for a regimen­tal staff meeting. Maps hung along one wall, and a com­puter output screen dominated another. Stewards in white coats brought coffee and discreetly retired behind the armed sentries outside.

  Falkenberg looked at the familiar scene and knew the constabulary had occupied the Marine barracks for two days; the Marines had been there twenty years.

  A civilian lounged in the seat reserved for the regi­mental intelligence officer. His tunic was a riot of colors; he was dressed in current Earth fashions, with a brilliant cravat and baggy sleeves. A long sash took the place of a belt and concealed his pocket calculator. Hadley’s upper classes were only just beginning to wear such finery.

  “You all know why we’re here,” Falkenberg told the assembled officers. “Those of you who’ve served with me before know I don’t hold many staff councils. They are customary among mercenary units, however. Sergeant Major Calvin will represent the enlisted personnel of the regiment.”

  There were faint titters. Calvin had been associated with John Falkenberg for eighteen standard years. Presumably they had differences of opinion, but no one ever saw them. The idea of the RSM opposing his colonel in the name of the troops was amusing. On the other hand, no colonel could afford to ignore the views of his sergeants’ mess.

  Falkenberg’s frozen features relaxed slightly as if he appreciated his own joke. His eyes went from face to face. Everyone in the room was a former Marine, and all but a very few had served with him before. The Progressive officers were on duty elsewhere-and it had taken careful planning by the adjutant to accomplish that without sus­picion.

  Falkenberg turned to the civilian. “Dr. Whitlock, you’ve been on Hadley for sixty-seven days. That’s not very long to make a planetary study, but it’s about all the time we have. Have you reached any conclusions?”

  “Yeah.” Whitlock spoke with an exaggerated drawl that most agreed was affected. “Not much different from Fleet’s evaluation, Colonel. Can’t think why you went to the ex­pense of bringin’ me out here. Your Intelligence people know their jobs about as well as I know mine.”

  Whitlock sprawled back in his seat and looked very re­laxed and casual in the midst of the others military for­mality. There was no contempt in his manner. The military had one set of rules and he had another, and he worked well with soldiers.

  “Your conclusions are similar to Fleet’s, then,” Falken­berg said.

  “With the limits of analysis, yes, sir. Doubt any competent man could reach a different conclusion. This planet’s headed for barbarism within a generation.”

  There was no sound from the other officers but several were startled. Good training kept them from showing it.

  Whitlock produced a cigar from a sleeve pocket and in­spected it carefully.

  “You want the analysis?” he asked.

  “A summary, please.” Falkenberg looked at each face again. Major Savage and Captain Fast weren’t surprised; they’d known before they came to Hadley. Some of the junior officers and company commanders had obviously guessed.

  “Simple enough,” Whitlock said. “There’s no self-sus­taining technology for a population half this size. Without imports the standard of livin’s bound to fall. Some places they could take that, but not here.

  “Here, when they can’t get their pretty gadgets, ‘stead of workin’ the people here in Refuge will demand the Government do something about it. Guv’mint’s in no position to refuse, either. Not strong enough.

  “So they’ll have to divert investment capital into con­sumer goods. There’ll be a decrease in technological effi­ciency, and then fewer goods, leadin’ to more demands, and another cycle just like before. Hard to predict just what comes after that, but it can’t be good.

  “Afore long, then, they won’t have the technological re­sources to cope even if they could get better organized. It’s not a new pattern, Colonel. Fleet saw it comin’ a while back. I’m surprised you didn’t take their word for it.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “I did, but with something this im­portant I thought I better get another opinion. You’ve met the Freedom Party leaders, Dr. Whitlock. Is there any chance they could keep civilization if they governed?”

  Whitlock laughed. It was a long drawn-out laugh, re­laxed, totally out of place in a military council. “Bout as much chance as for a ‘gator to turn loose of a hog, Colonel. Even assumin’ they know what to do, how can they do it? Suppose they get a vision and try to change their policies? Somebody’ll start a new party along the lines of the Freedom Party’s present thinkin’.

  “Colonel, you will never convince all them people there’s things the Guv’mint just cain’t do. They don’t want to believe it, and there’s always goin’ to be slick talkers willin’ to say it’s all a plot. Now, if the Progressive Party, which has the right ideas already, was to set up to rule strong, they might be able to keep something goin’ a while longer.”

  “Do you think they can?” Major Savage asked.

  “Nope. They might have fun tryin’,” Whitlock an­swered. “Problem is that independent countryside. There’s not enough support for what they’d have to do in city or country. Eventually that’s all got to change, but the revolu­tion that gives this country a real powerful government’s going to be one bloody mess, I can tell you. A long drawn-out bloody mess at that.”

  “Haven’t they any hope at all?” The questioner was a junior officer newly promoted to company commander.

  Whitlock sighed. “Every place you look, you see prob­lems. City’s vulnerable to any sabotage that stops the food plants, for instance. And the fusion generators ain’t exactly eternal, either. They’re runnin’ ‘em hard without enough time off for maintenance. Hadley’s operating on its capital, not its income, and pretty soon there’s not goin’ to be any capital to operate off of.”

  “And that’s your conclusion,” Falkenberg said. “It doesn’t sound precisely like the perfect place for us to retire to.”

  “Sure doesn’t,” Whitlock agreed. He stretched elaborate­ly. “Cut it any way you want to, this place isn’t going to be self-sufficient without a lot of blood spilled.”

  “Could they ask for help from American Express?” the junior officer asked.

  “They could ask, but they won’t get it,” Whitlock said. “Son, this planet was neutralized by agreement way back when the CD Governor came aboard. Now the Russians aren’t going to let a U.S. company like AmEx take it back into the U.S. sphere, same as the U.S. won’t let the Com­mies come in and set up shop. Grand Senate would order a quarantine on this system just like that.” The historian snapped his fingers. “Whole purpose of the CoDominium.”

  “One thing bothers me,” Captain Fast said. “You’ve been assuming that the CD will simply let Hadley revert to barbarism. Won’t BuRelock and the Colonial Office come back if things get that desperate?”

  “No.”

  “You seem rather positive,” Major Savage observed.

  “I’m positive,” Dr. Whitlock said. “Budgets got cut again this year. They don’t have the resources to take on a place like Hadley. BuRelock’s got its own worries.”

  “But-“ The lieutenant who’d asked the questions earlier sounded worried. “Colonel, what co
uld happen to the Bureau of Relocation?”

  “As Dr. Whitlock says, no budget,” Falkenberg an­swered. “Gentlemen, I shouldn’t have to tell you about that. You’ve seen what the Grand Senate did to the Fleet. That’s why you’re demobilized. And Kaslov’s people have several new seats on the Presidium next year, just as Harmon’s gang has won some minor elections in the States. Both those outfits want to abolish the CD, and they’ve had enough influence to get everyone’s appropriations cut to the bone.”

  “But population control has to ship people out, sir,” the lieutenant protested.

  “Yes.” Falkenberg’s face was grim; perhaps he was re­calling his own experiences with population control’s methods. “But they have to employ worlds closer to Earth, regardless of the problems that may cause for the colonists. Marginal exploitation ventures like Hadley’s mines are being shut down. This isn’t the only planet the CD’s aban­doning this year.” His voice took on a note of thick irony. “Excuse me. Granting independence.”

  “So they can’t rely on CoDominium help,” Captain Fast said.

  “No. If Hadley’s going to reach takeoff, it’s got to do it on its own.”

  “Which Dr. Whitlock says is impossible,” Major Savage observed. “John, we’ve got ourselves into a cleft stick, haven’t we?”

  “I said it was unlikely, not that it was impossible,” Whitlock reminded them. “It’ll take a government stronger than anything Hadley’s liable to get, though. And some smart people making the right moves. Or maybe there’ll be some luck. Like a good, selective plague. Now that’d do it. Plague to kill off the right people-but if it got too many, there wouldn’t be enough left to take advantage of the technology, so I don’t suppose that’s the answer either.”

  Falkenberg nodded grimly. “Thank you, Dr. Whitlock. Now, gentlemen, I want battalion commanders and head­quarters officers to read Dr. Whitlock’s report. Meanwhile, we have another item. Major Savage will shortly make a report to the Progressive Party Cabinet, and I want you to pay attention. We will have a critique after his pre­sentation. Major?”

  Savage stood and went to the readout screen. “Gentlemen.” He used the wall console to bring an organization chart onto the screen.

  ‘The regiment consists of approximately two thousand officers and men. Of these, five hundred are former Marines, and another five hundred are Progressive parti­sans organized under officers appointed by Mr. Vice Presi­dent Bradford.

  “The other thousand are general recruits. Some of them are passable mercenaries, and some are local youngsters who want to play soldier and would be better off in a na­tional guard. All recruits have received basic training com­parable to CD Marine ground basic without assault, fleet, or jump schooling. Their performance has been somewhat better’ than we might expect from a comparable number of Marine recruits in CD service.

  “This morning, Mr. Bradford ordered the Colonel to remove the last of our officers and non-coms from the Fourth Battalion, and as of this p.m. the Fourth will be totally under the control of officers appointed by First Vice President Bradford. He has not informed us of the reason for this order.”

  Falkenberg nodded. “In your estimate, Major, are the troops ready for combat duties?” Falkenberg listened idly as he drank coffee. The briefing was rehearsed, and he knew what Savage would answer. The men were trained, but they did not as yet make up a combat unit. Falken­berg waited until Savage had finished the presentation.

  “Recommendations?”

  “Recommend that the Second Battalion be integrated with the First, sir. Normal practice is to form each mani­ple with one recruit, three privates, and a monitor in charge. With equal numbers of new men and veterans we will have a higher proportion of recruits, but this will give us two battalions of men under our veteran NCO’s, with Marine privates for leavening.

  “We will thus break up the provisional training organi­zation and set up the regiment with a new permanent structure, First and Second Battalions for combat duties, Third composed of locals with former Marine officers to be held in reserve. The Fourth will not be under our com­mand.”

  “Your reasons for this organization?” Falkenberg asked.

  “Morale, sir. The new troops feel discriminated against. ‘They’re under harsher discipline than the former Marines, and they resent it. Putting them in the same maniples with the Marines will stop that.”

  “Let’s see the new structure.”

  Savage manipulated the input console and charts swam across the screen. The administrative structure was stan­dard, based in part on the CD Marines and the rest on the national armies of Churchill. That wasn’t the important part. It wasn’t obvious, but the structure demanded that all the key posts be held by Falkenberg’s mercenaries.

  The best Progressive appointees were either in the Third or Fourth Battalions, and there were no locals with the proper experience in command; so went the justification. It looked good to Falkenberg, and there was no sound military reason to question it. Bradford would be so pleased about his new control of the Fourth that he wouldn’t look at the rest; not yet, anyway. The others didn’t know enough to question it.

  Yes, Falkenberg thought. It ought to work. He waited until Savage was finished and thanked him, then addressed the others. “Gentlemen, if you have criticisms, let’s hear them now. I want a solid front when we get to the Cabi­net meeting tomorrow, and I want every one of you ready to answer any question. I don’t have to tell you how im­portant it is that they buy this.” They all nodded.

  “And another thing,” Falkenberg said. “Sergeant Major.”

  “Sir!”

  “As soon as the Cabinet has bought off on this new organization plan, I want this regiment under normal dis­cipline.”

  “Sir!”

  “Break it to ‘em hard, Top Soldier. Tell the Forty-second the act’s over. From here on recruits and old hands get treated alike, and the next man who gives me trouble will wish he hadn’t been born.”

  “Sir!” Calvin smiled happily. The last months had been a strain for everyone. Now the colonel was taking over again, thank God. The men had lost some of the edge, but he’d soon put it back again. It was time to take off the masks, and Calvin for one was glad of it.

  X

  The sound of fifty thousand people shouting in unison can be terrifying. It raises fears at a level below thought; creates a panic older than the fear of nuclear weapons and the whole panoply of technology. It is raw, naked power from a cauldron of sound.

  Everyone in the Palace listened to the chanting crowd. The Government people were outwardly calm, but they moved quietly through the halls, and spoke in low tones- or shouted for no reason. The Palace was filled with a nameless fear.

  The Cabinet meeting started at dawn and continued until late in the morning. It had gone on and on without set­tling anything. Just before noon Vice President Bradford stood at his place at the council table with his lips tight in rage. He pointed a trembling finger at George Hamner.

  “It’s your fault!” Bradford shouted. “Now the techni­cians have joined in the demand for a new constitution, and you control them. I’ve always said you were a traitor to the Progressive Party!”

  “Gentlemen, please,” President Budreau insisted. His voice held infinite weariness. “Come now, that sort of language-“

  “Traitor?” Hamner demanded. “If your blasted officials would pay a little attention to the technicians, this wouldn’t have happened. In three months you’ve managed to con­vert the techs from the staunchest supporters of this Party into allies of the rebels despite everything I could do.”

  “We need strong government,” Bradford said. His voice was contemptuous, and the little half-smile had returned.

  George Hamner made a strong effort to control his anger. “You won’t get it this way. You’ve herded my techs around like cattle, worked them overtime for no extra pay, and set those damned soldiers of yours onto them when they protested. It’s worth a man’s life to have your co
n­stabulary mad at him.”

  “Resisting the police,” Bradford said. “We can’t permit that.”

  “You don’t know what government is!” Hamner said. His control vanished and he stood, towering above Brad­ford. The little man retreated a step, and his smile froze. “You’ve got the nerve to call me a traitor after all you’ve done! I ought to break your neck!”

  “Gentlemen!” Budreau stood at his place at the head of the table. “Stop it!” There was a roar from the Sta­dium. The Palace seemed to vibrate to the shouts of the constitutional convention.

  The Cabinet room became silent for a moment. Wearily, Budreau continued. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I sug­gest we adjourn for half an hour to allow tempers to cool.”

  There was murmured agreement from the others.

  “And I want no more of these accusations and threats when we convene again,” President Budreau said. “Is that understood?”

  Grudgingly the others agreed. Budreau left alone. Then Bradford, followed by a handful of his closest supporters. Other ministers rushed to be seen leaving with him, as if it might be dangerous to be thought in opposition to the First Vice President.

  George Hamner found himself alone in the room. He shrugged, and went out. Ernest Bradford had been joined by a man in uniform. Hamner recognized Lieutenant Colonel Cordova, commander of the Fourth Battalion of constabulary, and a fanatic Bradford supporter. Hamner remembered when Bradford had first proposed a com­mission for Cordova, and how unimportant it had seemed then.

  Bradford’s group went down the hall. They seemed to be whispering something together and making a point of excluding the Second Vice President. Hamner merely shrugged.

  “Buy you a coffee?” The voice came from behind and startled George. He turned to see Falkenberg.