Mercenary from tomorrow.., p.1
Mercenary From Tomorrow (UC), page 1
part #1 of Joe Mauser Series
To Mack…
with Compounded Interest
And to Rosa!
CHAPTER ONE
Joseph Mauser spotted the recruiting lineup from two blocks down the street, shortly after driving into Kingston. Perhaps three hundred men stood in a ragged line that terminated at a monolithic structure sporting a decorative facade. That would be the local office of Vacuum Tube Transport. Baron Haer would be recruiting there for the fracas with Continental Hovercraft if for no other reason than to save on rents.
The baron was watching his pennies on this one and that was bad, very bad.
So bad, in fact, that as Mauser let his hovercraft sink to a parking level and vaulted over its side he found himself questioning his decision to sign up with the vacuum tube outfit, rather than with their opponents. Joe was an old pro, and old pros do not get to be old pros in the Category Military without developing an instinct to stay away from the losing side, no matter what the opportunity.
Fine enough for Low-Lowers and Mid-Lowers to sign up with this outfit as opposed to that, motivated by nothing more than the stock shares offered and the snappiness of the uniform, but an old pro considered carefully such matters as budget. Skimping on equipment, provisions, or the quality of soldiers and officers could get a lot of good men killed, and he'd heard that Baron Haer was watching every expense, even to the point of calling upon relatives and friends to serve as his staff. Continental Hovercraft, on the other hand, was heavy with variable capital and in a position to hire old Stonewall Cogswell himself as their tactician.
However, the die was cast. You don't run up a caste level, not to speak of two at once, by playing it careful. Joe had planned this out; and for once, old pro or not, he was taking risks. Big risks, but with an eye toward a bigger payoff. His plan, properly timed and properly carried out, would win him Upper status—the final goal of his career. Everything he had was riding on its success.
He made a beeline for the offices ahead, striding past the line of potential soldiers. Recruiting lineups were not for such as he, not for a man of officer rank.
Mauser glanced over the lineup as he walked. Among these men were the soldiers he'd be commanding in the field. He calculated the general quality of these would-be mercenaries. The prospects looked grim; there were few veterans among them. Their stance, their demeanor, their… well, you could tell a veteran even though he be Rank Private, and few here could claim even that status.
He knew the situation, and why such as these were here. The word was out among those in the know: Vacuum Tube Transport and Baron Malcolm Haer had been set up for the defeat. You weren't going to pick up any lush victory bonuses signing with him; the odds were too heavy against it. The baron was equipped to mount an army for a regional dispute, but not to handle what he'd been maneuvered into this time.
In short, no matter what Haer's past record, the word was that Continental Hovercraft would take this fracas. Continental Hovercraft and old Stonewall Cogswell, who had" lost so few engagements that most telly buffs could not remember even one.
Individuals among these men did show promise. Mauser spotted a few possibles as he walked. But promise means little if you don't live long enough to cash in on it. Combat odds dictated that you'd lose eight to ten of these bright-faced first-timers for every veteran. It was a safe bet that most of them didn't even have such basic knowledge as how to take cover. A fold in the terrain had to be ten inches or a foot high before they even noticed it.
But, Mauser told himself, you still kept your eye open for those who showed promise. He noticed one such, dead ahead—a small fellow who'd obviously gotten himself into a hassle trying to keep his place in line against two or three heftier men. The little guy wasn't backing down a step. Mauser liked to see such spirit. It could mean the difference between life and death when you were in the dill.
He wasn't particularly interested in the argument, beyond breaking up a situation that might cause trouble in the ranks later on. As he drew abreast of the men he assumed an attitude of authority and snapped, "Easy, lads! You'll get all the scrapping you want with Hovercraft. Wait until then."
He'd expected his tone to be enough, even though he was in mufti. A veteran would have recognized him as an old-timer and probable officer, and heeded automatically.
These were obviously not veterans.
"Says who?" one of the Lowers growled back at him. "You one of Baron Haer's kids or something?'
Mauser stopped and faced the Lower. He was irritated now, largely with himself; he didn't want to be bothered. But he'd committed himself. He had no alternative but to see the matter through. He expected to be in command of some of these men by tomorrow; in as little as a week he would go into combat with them. He couldn't afford to lose face. Not even at this point, when all, including himself, were still effectively civilians. When matters pickled in a fracas you had to have men who respected you, who had complete confidence in you.
An expectant hush fell over those nearby, all Lowers so far as Mauser could see. Their long wait had been boring. Now something would break the monotony.
The man who had grumbled the surly response was a near physical twin of Joe Mauser, which put him in his early thirties, gave him five-eleven of altitude and about one hundred and eighty pounds. There the resemblance ended. Mauser bore himself with the quiet dignity of he who had faced death over and over again, and had handled himself under such conditions as to satisfy himself. He was a moderately handsome man, his face marked but not particularly disfigured by two scars—one on forehead, one on chin—which cosmetic surgeons had not been able to eradicate completely.
The pugnacious Lower was surly in manner as well as voice, and his shoulders slumped in a way that seemed to proclaim that fate had done him ill through no fault of his own. His clothes marked him a Low-Lower—a man with nothing to lose. Like many who have nothing to lose, he was willing to risk all for principle. His face now registered that ideal. It also registered the fact that Joe Mauser had no authority over him, nor his friends.
Mauser's gaze flicked to the Lower's allies. They weren't quite so aggressive, and their rapidly shifting eyes indicated that they had come to no conclusion about their stand. Still, Mauser recognized them for what they were: bullies. Let there be a moment of hesitation and all three of them would be on him.
That in mind, Mauser wasted no time on verbal preliminaries. In a lightning move, he closed on the belligerent Lower. His right hand darted out, fingers close together and pointed. An instant later his fingers sank into the other's abdomen, immediately below the rib-cage, and found their target—the solar plexus. The man jerked, doubled over, and sank silently to the ground.
It was then that Mauser discovered he had underestimated the other two. Even as his opponent crumbled, they came at him from both sides. And at least one of them had been in hand-to-hand combat before, probably in the prize ring. Another pro like Mauser himself, though from a somewhat different field.
Mauser took the first blow, rolling with it, then automatically dropped into the stance of the trained fighter. He retreated slightly to erect defenses, plan attack. They pressed him strongly, reading victory in his withdrawal.
The one to his left mattered little. Mauser could have polished him off in a matter of seconds, had there been seconds to devote. The other, the experienced one, was the problem. He and Mauser were well matched, and with the oaf as his ally the Lower really had the best of it.
Just then the source of the problem waded in, delivering sudden, unexpected support. As big as any of the men there so far as spirit was concerned, the little man advanced on the veteran, fists before him in typical street-fighting fashion.
His attack proved a bit hasty, however. He took a crashing blow to the side of his head which sent him sailing back into the recruiting line, now composed of excited, shouting onlookers.
That small wrangle bought what Mauser needed most—time. For a double second he had the oaf alone on his hands, and that was enough. As the man swung on him, Joe sidestepped, caught a flailing arm, turned his back and automatically went into that spectacular wrestling hold called the Flying Mare. Just in time he recalled that his opponent was a future comrade-in-arms and twisted the arm so that it bent at the elbow rather than breaking. He hurled the other over his shoulder and as far as possible to take the scrap out of him, then twirled to meet the attack of his sole remaining foe.
That phase of the combat failed to materialize.
A voice of command bit out, "Hold it, you lads!"
The situation that had originally started the fight was being duplicated. But while the three Lowers had failed to respond to Mauser's tone of authority, there was no similar failure now.
The owner of the voice, beautifully done up in the uniform of Vacuum Tube Transport complete to kilts and the swagger stick carried by ranks of colonel or above, stood glaring at them. Age, Mauser estimated as he came to attention, somewhere in his late twenties. An Upper in caste—a born aristocrat, born to command, his face holding that arrogant, contemptuous expression once common to the patricians of Rome, the Prussian Junkers, the British ruling class of the 19th century. Joe knew the expression well. How well he knew it—on more than one occasion, he had dreamed of it.
Mauser said, "Yes, sir."
"What in Zen goes on here? Are you lads over-tranked?"
"No, sir," Mauser's veteran opponent grumbled, eyes on the ground, a schoolboy before the principal.
The Upper glared at Mauser. Maus
"Disagreement?" The Upper snorted. His eyes went to the two fallen combatants, now beginning to recover. "I'd hate to see you lads in a real scrap."
That brought a strong response from the men in the recruiting line. The bon mot wasn't that good, but caste has its privileges; the laughter was just short of uproarious.
This seemed to placate the kilted officer. He tapped his swagger stick against his leg while he ran his eyes up and down Mauser and the others, as though memorizing them for future reference.
"All right," he said, "get back into line, and you troublemakers quiet down. We're processing as quickly as we can." Then he added insult to injury with an almost word-for-word repetition of what Mauser had said a few minutes earlier. "You'll get all the fighting you want from Hovercraft, if you can wait until then."
The Lowers who had been in the original altercation resumed their places sheepishly. The little fellow, rubbing what had to be an aching jaw, made a point of taking up his original position. None challenged him. He darted a look of thanks to Mauser, who remained at attention.
The Upper looked at him. "Well, lad, are you interested in signing up with Vacuum Transport or not?" There was a fine impatience in his voice, just a touch of extra emphasis on "lad."
"Yes, sir," Mauser replied. Then, "Joseph Mauser, sir. Category Military, Rank Captain."
"Indeed." The officer looked him up and down all over again, his nostrils high. "A Middle, I assume. And brawling with recruits. " He held a long silence.
"Very well, come with me." He turned and marched off.
Mauser shrugged inwardly. This was a fine start for his fling—a fine start. He had half a mind to give it all up, here and now, and head on north to Catskill to enlist with Continental Hovercraft. He was almost sure to win at least a junior position on Stonewall Cogswell's staff, although that would mean that his big scheme would have to wait for another day.
But, at the thought of his plan, he set his lips and fell in behind the aristocrat. A few hundred steps brought them to the offices which had been Joe's original destination.
Two Rank Privates, carrying 45-70 Springfields and wearing the Haer kilts in a manner that indicated permanent status with Vacuum Tube Transport, came to the salute as they approached. The Upper flicked his swagger stick to his cap in easy nonchalance. Mauser felt envious amusement. How long did it take to learn to answer a salute with just that degree of arrogant ease?
They passed through double doors into a large room. Office furniture, terminals, and other pieces of equipment were scattered about, apparently at random. Counters and desks trailed long lines of recruits. The sound of printers humming, keyboards clicking, sorters and collators flicking, merged into an annoying hum as Vacuum Tube Transport office workers, mobilized for this special service, processed volunteers for the company forces. Harried noncoms and junior-grade officers buzzed everywhere, failing miserably to bring order to the chaos. To the right, a door sported a newly-painted medical cross. When it occasionally popped open to admit or emit a recruit, white-robed doctors, nurses, and half-nude men could be glimpsed beyond. Joe gave the scene a cursory glance; he had seen it all a hundred times over.
He followed the Upper through the press and into an inner office at which door the Upper didn't bother to knock. Instead he pushed his way through, waved in greeting with his swagger stick to the single occupant, who looked up from a paper-strewn desk.
Joe had seen the face before on telly, though never so worn and haggard as this. Bullet-headed, barrel-figured Baron Malcolm Haer of Vacuum Tube Transport: Category Transportation, Mid-Upper, and strong candidate for Upper-Upper upon retirement. However, few expected retirement of the baron in the immediate future. Hardly. Malcolm Haer found too obvious a lusty enjoyment in the competition between Vacuum Tube Transport and its stronger rivals. A roly-poly man he might be physically, but his demeanor reminded one of Bonaparte rather than Humpty Dumpty.
Mauser came to attention and bore the sharp scrutiny of his chosen commander-to-be. The older man's eyes left him to go to the kilted Upper. "What is it, Bait?" he said.
Bait gestured with his stick at Mauser. "Claims to be Rank Captain. Looking for a commission with us, Dad. I wouldn't know why…" The last sentence was added lazily.
The older Haer shot an irritated glance at his son. "Possibly for the usual reasons mercenaries enlist for a fracas, Bait." His eyes, small and sharp, returned to Mauser.
Still at attention, Mauser opened his mouth to give his name, category and rank, but the older man waved his hand negatively. "Captain Mauser, isn't it? Right. I caught the fracas between Carbonaceous Fuel and United Miners, down on the Panhandle Reservation. Seems to me I've spotted you once or twice before, too."
"Yes, sir," Mauser said, somewhat relieved. This was some improvement over the way things had been going.
Now the older Haer was scowling at him. "Confound it, what are you doing with no more rank than captain? On the face of it, you're an old hand, a highly experienced veteran."
Old pros, we call ourselves, Mauser thought to himself. Old pros, among ourselves.
Aloud, he said, "I was born a Mid-Lower, sir."
There was understanding in the old man's face, but the younger Haer said loftily, "What's that got to do with it? Promotion in Category Military is quick, and based on merit."
Mauser frowned. At a certain point, if you are good combat officer material, you speak your mind no matter the rank of the man you are addressing. On this occasion, Joe Mauser spoke his mind, and needed few words to do so. He let his eyes go up and down Bait Haer's immaculate uniform, taking in the swagger stick, then said simply, "Yes, sir."
Bait Haer flushed with quick temper. "What do you mean by your attitude? What…?"
But his father was chuckling. "You have spirit, Captain. I need spirit now. You are quite correct. My son—though a capable field officer, I assure you—has probably not participated in a fraction of the fracases you have to your credit. However, there is something to be said for the training available to Uppers in the military academies. For instance, Captain, have you ever commanded a body of men larger than a company?"
Mauser frowned. "In the McDonnell-Boeing versus Lockheed-Cessna fracas we took a high loss of officers when McDonnell-Boeing rang in some fast-firing French mitrailleuse we didn't know they had.
As my superiors took casualties I was field-promoted, first to acting battalion commander, then to acting regimental commander, and finally to acting brigadier. For three days I held rank of acting commander of brigade." He took a breath. "We won that fracas, sir."
The other's brow creased, as if in thought. Apparently the incident was familiar to him. Joe certainly remembered it… how well he remembered. Now, bringing it back, he would be lucky if it didn't come to him in his dreams this night. That was where Jim, his comrade in arms for six years and more, had taken a burst in his guts that all but cut him in two.
Bait Haer snapped his fingers. "I remember that. Read quite a paper on it. " He eyed Mauser almost respectfully now. "Stonewall Cogswell got the credit for the victory and received his marshal's baton as a result."
"He was one of the few other officers that survived," Joe said dryly.
"But, Zen! You mean you got no promotion at all?"
Joe said, "I was upped to Low-Middle from High-Lower, sir. At my age, at the time, it was quite a promotion."
The older Haer nodded. "That was the fracas that brought on the howl from the Sovs. They claimed those mitrailleuse were post-1900 and violated the Universal Disarmament Pact. Yes, I recall that. McDonnell-Boeing was able to prove that the weapon was used by the French as far back as the Franco-Prussian War." He eyed Joe with new interest now. "Sit down, Captain. You too, Bait. Do you realize that Captain Mauser is the only recruit of officer rank we've had today? If only we could bring in a few more of his mettle…"
"Yes," the younger Haer said dryly. "However, I doubt that we'll see more officers, if you want my opinion, and it's too late to call the fracas off now. Hovercraft wouldn't stand for it, and Category Military would back them. Our only alternative is unconditional surrender, and you know what that means."
"It means our family would probably be forced from control of the firm," the older man rumbled. "But nobody has suggested surrender on any terms. Nobody, that is, until now." He glared at his son, who took it with an easy shrug as he swung a leg over the edge of his father's desk.
