“Yes, sir.” Mark left the command tent. The times are out of joint, he thought. Is that the right line? Whatever. Does anyone control his own life? I couldn’t. The police, the Marines, the boss, now these mercenaries—they tell us all what to do. Who tells them?
Now I’m one of them. Mercenary soldier. It sounds ugly, but I don’t have any choices at all. It’s no career. Just a way out of slavery.
And yet—
He remembered the morning’s combat and felt guilty at the memory. He had felt alive then. Men and women died all around him, but he’d felt more alive than he’d ever been.
He passed the graves. The honor guard stood at rigid attention, ignoring the buzzing insects, ignoring everything around them as they stood over the banner-draped figures laid out in neat rows. I’m one of them now, he thought, but whether he meant the guards or the corpses he couldn’t say.
XI
“Mr. President!”
“Mr. Vice!”
“I regret to report that, contrary to the rules of the mess, Captain Owensford brought his drink to his table. Sir!”
Captain Jesus Alana stood at the end of the head table and fixed Owensford with a chilly stare. “Captain Owensford!”
Owensford stood. “Mr. President.”
“What have you to say in defense of your heinous crime?”
“It was a good drink, sir!”
“Unconscionable, Captain. You will report to the grog bucket.”
“Sir!” Owensford marched to the end of the room.
“I presume you do this sort of thing on Sparta,” Major Savage said.
“Perhaps we don’t follow all of the old traditions,” Lysander said. Then he grinned. “Actually, very little of this, but I may change that when I get back.”
Owensford used fireman’s tongs to remove a smoking flask from within a container marked with radiation trefoils. He carefully poured a metal cup full of the smoking brew, then put on welders’ gloves and lifted the cup. “To our guest, to the mess president, and to the 42nd!” He drank, set the cup upside down on his head, and saluted.
“Mr. President!”
“Mr. Vice!”
“I regret to report that Captain Owensford neglected to salute the mess prior to imbibing. Sir!”
“Captain Owensford, what have you to say for yourself?”
“Previous drink was a very good drink, sir!”
“We’ll excuse you. Once. Take your seat!”
“Thank you, sir!”
The ladies, except those in uniform, had long since retired from the dining hall. Catherine Alana had worn a civilian gown, and didn’t return after escorting Ursula to her room in the regiment’s guest quarters. And I sleep alone tonight. Lysander looked down to the far end of the table where Falkenberg sat impassively. Interesting that he arranged our rooms that way. Or does he even know?
Guests were excused from following the customs of the mess, but even without visiting the grog bucket Lysander had drunk more than he usually did. There had been cocktails before dinner, wine during dinner, port after dinner, and brandy after the port. Then Falkenberg had signaled, and the stewards brought whiskey, Scotch so smooth that it was more like brandy.
Now the colonel caught Alana’s eye. The mess president nodded. “Pipe Major!”
“Sir!” A dozen pipers marched into the hall. Stewards brought more whiskey.
“Good God, Major,” Lysander said. “Do you do this often?”
“Only when we’ve a good excuse.”
And I expect you can always find one. “Of course, your victory last week needed celebrating.”
“Right. We already did that, you know. You’re the excuse tonight.” Savage glanced at his watch. “Actually, I expect things will end soon enough. Staff meetings in the morning.” He stood. “And on that score, if you’ll excuse me, I have some preparations.”
“I don’t suppose you need help?”
Savage grinned. “It can be a bit much. Tell you what, I’ll have a word with the mess president on my way out.”
Ten minutes later the pipers paused for refreshments, and Captain Alana announced the formal end of the dining-out. Lysander got unsteadily to his feet.
Captain Owensford came over and spoke quietly. “Some of them will stay at it all night. Would you like a guide to your room?”
“Yes. Please!”
* * *
It was almost cool outside, and Lysander felt a little less drunk.
“Actually, the noise gets to me as much as the whisky,” Owensford said. “I’ve never been crazy about pipers myself. Feeling all right now?”
“Not too bad—”
“I know a way to feel better.”
“Yes?”
“We have a concoction. Vitamins. Tonic. Other stuff. Works every time. Would you care for some?”
“Captain, I would kill for a glass of that. Or two glasses. Please?”
Owensford grinned. “This way.” He led Lysander to a small bar at the far end of the officers’ mess, and ushered him to a table. “Billings, two Night Befores, please.”
“Sir.” The bartender was an old man, but he carried himself like a soldier. His left hand was a prosthetic adapted to bartending. He grinned and set two tall glasses on the table, went back, and brought a pitcher of water.
“You sip it,” Owensford said. “Then down at least two glasses of water. Works like a charm.”
Lysander sipped, and grimaced.
“I didn’t say it tasted good,” Owensford said. “Cheers.” He sipped at his drink. “Understand you see the governor fairly often.”
“Yes. Things heated up a bit while you were out in the field.”
Owensford’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“More plantation owners have joined the combine. Several dozen more. The boycott is working better than anyone expected.”
“Damn. But I’m not surprised.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve known Ace Barton for a while.”
“Barton. The major in charge of the opposition’s mercenaries.”
“That’s Ace.”
“How did you get to know him?”
“Well—actually he was responsible for my being recruited into the Legion. It’s a long story.”
Lysander sipped at the drink and grimaced again. “I may be a while getting this down—”
Owensford leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “It was quite a long time ago, long enough that it’s almost as if it happened to someone else. I was much younger then. . . .”
XII
“As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free. . . .”
The song echoed through the ship, along gray corridors stained with the greasy handprints of the thousands who had traveled in her before; through the stench of the thousands aboard, and the remembered smells of previous shiploads of convicts.
Peter Owensford looked up from the steel desk that hung from the wall of his tiny stateroom. The men weren’t singing very well, but they sang from their hearts. There was a faint buzzing from a loose rivet vibrating to a strong bass voice. Owensford nodded to himself. The singer was Allan Roach, onetime professional wrestler, and Peter had marked him for promotion to noncom once they reached Santiago.
The trip from Earth to Thurstone takes three months in a Bureau of Relocation transport ship, and it had been wasted time for all of them. It was obvious to Peter that the CoDominium authorities aboard the ship knew that they were volunteers for the war. Why else would ninety-seven men voluntarily ship out for Santiago? It didn’t matter, though. Political Officer Stromand was afraid of a trap. Stromand was always suspecting traps.
In all the three months Peter Owensford had held only a dozen classes. He’d found an empty compartment near the garbage disposal and assembled the men there; but Stromand had caught them. There had been a scene, with Stromand insisting that Peter call him “Commissar” and the men address him as “Sir.” Instead, Peter addressed him as “Mister” and the men made it come out like “Comics-star.” Stromand had been livid, and he’d stopped Peter’s classes.
Now Peter had ninety-six men who knew nothing of war. They were educated men. He had students, workers, idealists; but it might have been better if they’d all been zapouts with a long history of juvenile gangsterism.
He went back to his papers, jotting notes on what must be done when they landed. At least he’d have some time to train them before they got into combat.
He’d need it.
* * *
Thurstone is usually described as a hot, dry copy of Earth and Peter found no reason to dispute that. The CoDominium Island is legally part of Earth, but Thurstone is twenty parsecs away, and travelers go through customs. Peter’s ragged group packed away whatever military equipment they had brought privately, and dressed in the knee breeches and tunics popular with businessmen in New York. Peter found himself just behind Allan Roach in the line to debark.
Allan was laughing.
“What’s the joke?” Peter asked.
Roach turned and gestured at the men behind him. All ninety-six scattered through the first two hundred passengers leaving the BuRelock ship, and they were all dressed identically. “Humanity League decided to save money,” Roach said. “What do you reckon the CD makes of our comic-opera army?”