“Miss, I wish I knew. I purely wish I knew.”
“Maybe I had better try to find out. How much time do I have? When are we sailing?” I quickly amended this to: “Or are we sailing? Maybe Colonel Rachel has a handle on some APVs.”
“Uh. . . damn it, how much classified do you expect for a lousy seventy stars?”
I thought about it. I didn’t mind spending money but I needed to be certain of the merchandise. With troops moving upriver smugglers would not be moving, at least not this week. So I needed to move with the traffic available.
But not as an officer! I had talked too much. I took out two more ten-spots, fiddled with them. “Sarge, are you going upriver yourself?”
She eyed the bank notes; I dropped one of them in front of her. It disappeared. “I wouldn’t miss it, deane. Once I close down this office, I’m a platoon sergeant.”
I dropped the other note; it joined its twin. I said, “Sarge, if I wait and talk to your colonel, if she signs me on, it will be as personnel adjutant, or logistics and supply, or something dreary like that. I don’t need the money and don’t want the worry; I want a holiday. Could you use a trained private? One you could brevet to corporal on even buck sergeant once you get to shaking down your recruits and see what vacancies you need to fill?”
She looked sour. “That’s all I need, a millionaire in my platoon!”
I felt sympathy for hen; no sergeant wants a cashiered officer in his/her ranks. “I’m not going to play the millionaire; I just want to be one of the troops. If you don’t trust me, stick me in some other platoon.”
She sighed. “I ought to have my head examined. No, I’ll put you where I can keep an eye on you.” She reached into a drawer, pulled out a form headed “Limited Indenture.” “Read this. Sign it. Then I swear you. Any questions?”
I looked it over. Most of it was routine trivia about slop chest and toke money and medical benefits and guild pay rate and bounty- but interlined was a provision postponing payment of bounty to the tenth day after enlistment. Understandable. To me it was a guarantee that they really were going in harm’s way and at once-i.e., upriver. The nightmare ruining every mercenary paymaster’s sleep is the thought of bounty jumpers. Today, with all recruiters active, it would be possible for a veteran soldier to sign up five or six ways, collect a bounty from each, then head for the banana states-unless the indentures were worded to stop it,
The commitment was to Colonel Rachel Danvers personally or
to her lawful successor in case of her death or disability, and it required the signer to carry out her orders and those of officers and noncommissioned officers she placed over me. I agreed to fight faithfully and not to cry for quarter, according to international law and the usages of war.
It was so vaguely worded that it would require a squad of Philadelphia lawyers to define the gray areas . . . which did not matter at all because a difference in opinion when it counted would get the signer shot in the back.
The period was, as the sergeant had represented, ninety days with the Colonel’s option to extend it ninety days on payment of another bounty. There was no provision for additional extension, which gave me pause. Just what sort of a political bodyguard contract could it be that would run for six months and then stop cold?
Either the recruiting sergeant was lying or someone had lied to her and she wasn’t bright enough to spot the illogicality. Never mind, there was no point in quizzing her. I reached for a pen. “Do I see the medical officer now?”
“Are you kidding?”
“How else?” I signed, then said, “I do,” when she read off rapidly an oath that more or less followed the indenture.
She peered at my signature. “Jones, what does F stand for?”
“Friday.”
“That’s a silly name. On duty, you’re Jones. Off duty, you’re J onesie.”