The War for Profit Series Omnibus

by Gideon Fleisher

  Finally the klaxon sounded to warn the passengers that the jump was about to take place. Galen grabbed hold of the handles at either side of his seat and braced himself. Spike remained strapped to the floor, and Tad grabbed a beam spanning the ceiling.

  Spike said, “Why’d they have to wake me up for this? I’m secured right here on the floor.”

  “Not everybody is as secure as you,” said Tad.

  “Not everybody can sleep out here in space,” said Galen.

  Moments later the ship pushed into the point created by its jump point generator. Galen watched with curiosity as his reality was compressed into nothing and then expanded to infinity. For him, time stood still and ceased to exist. He felt nausea. Then all sensation left him. He was enveloped in darkness, his body left him and he had nothing but his own thoughts. So he thought, and thought and thought some more. He wished he had something to look at, something to feel, some way of writing things down, and someone to talk to. After one eternity he fought boredom by exploring exponential growth. He multiplied two by itself again and again, reaching farther and farther each time. He thought about the meaning of life for another eternity. Next he tried to find the end of pi, finding the end of twenty two divided by seven but wished he had an accurate measure of a circumference to divide by its diameter.

  On it went, an infinite amount of time to ponder, existing as mere consciousness. A lesser man might have gone insane from boredom, thought Galen, but he held on to his concept of reality. He remembered the joy and suffering of his corporal life, pondered his true purpose, and simply waited patiently, for an eternity, for his own theory of personal actual existence to be proven.

  Suddenly he was blasted with sensation. Bright searing light blazed into his tightly-closed eyes. His body was racked with sensation, pain, and when he screamed for the first time in an eternity his ears hurt. His mind hurt.

  “Galen, what’s wrong?” he heard someone say. Spike, he remembered. Then his mind shut down, overloaded with sensory input.

  Chapter Three

  Spike and Tad carried Galen when he came out of unconsciousness, an arm draped around each of their necks as they walked him to a booth at the spaceport bar.

  “What happened?” Galen said.

  Spike said, “You’re one of the lucky few individuals who experience a jump space syndrome, something like that. You’ve been out for two days. The ship’s medical technicians gave us something to revive you, but because you found space travel so disagreeable we decided to leave you in the infirmary, knocked out until the ride was over.”

  “You got a couple of hours to get your head together before we meet our liaison. So, drink up and celebrate!”

  Galen spoke, “We do not exist to simply indulge in leisure, to imbibe in harmful elixirs simply for pleasure. We must work hard, work together to-”

  Spike cut him off, “We were told you’d talk like that for awhile. Now take my advice, trust me as a friend. Drink your ale and just relax. You can’t be all wigged out when the liaison meets us. They want warriors, not philosophers.”

  “Yes, life is so simple for you, when you are caught up in its complexities. My challenge to you is introspection, look--”

  “Shut up,” said Tad.

  “But I have so much to tell you, so much wisdom to impart. Why do you not want to hear about the meaning of life? The purpose of the cosmos?” Galen was sure his friends were hooked by his opening statement.

  Spike said, “Because we don’t want to become babbling idiots. Now you just sit here and act like us, and don’t think!”

  Galen sat and studied reality, enjoyed the warm comfort of companions, relished the flavor and effect of the ale. That’s why he came back from eternity. He came back to reality for camaraderie. This was home, any place with people, actually any place with life. Galen was amazed how in only a few seconds he was able to figure himself out when an eternity hadn’t been long enough. A few deep thoughts slipped away, his mind letting go of the mighty concepts it had been holding. He was back, satisfied more than ever before.

  “I propose a toast,” said Galen, raising his third glass of ale.

  “Only if it ain’t to some transcendental number,” said Spike.

  “It’s great to be back, you don’t know how long I’ve been gone,” said Galen.

  “Toast,” said Spike and Tad, downing their drinks and slamming their glasses on the table along with Galen.

  “Now let’s go find that liaison,” said Galen.

  They left the bar and walked down a wide corridor, passed under a large sign that said, “Welcome to Mandarin Space.” They came to a set of gates blocking the corridor. They were labeled “Mandarin Citizens, Planetary,” “Confederation Citizens, (off-planet),” “Tourists,” and several other classifications. Finally Galen noticed the one marked “Military” and headed for it. It was controlled by a government army M.P. who stopped them and said, “You have the option of going through regular civil customs or my checkpoint. However, once you consent to this gate, you can’t change your mind and go back through another gate. Are you military?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, for which branch?”

  “Uh, mercenary, Colonel Thiele’s Jasmine Panzer Brigade.”

  “Good. Soldier to soldier, I advise you to pass through my station.”

  “Those two are with me,” Galen indicated Tad and Spike.

  “All three of you, anything to declare?”

  “No.”

  “Pass through my scanner and then give your paperwork to the liaison.”

  They did so, laying their documents on a counter just inside the gate. An M.P. Lance Corporal looked over their documents, stamped the date and time of their arrival on their contracts and told them, “Wait in the lounge here behind me. We’ll have a bus coming to take you and the rest of the soldiers to initial processing. After that you’ll get assignment orders and they’ll send you to your unit. Although you are mercenaries, you should process with our regular troops and let us take care of you and get you to your unit. You have the option at this time to split off and find your own way, but that’s complicated and will cost you money.”

  “No problem,” said Galen, “We’ll go through your system. A sure thing is a sure thing.” They waited about twenty minutes in the lounge. Approximately thirty government troops wearing class B dress uniforms were in the lounge and seemed friendly enough, but the mercenaries kept to themselves. The bus drove for a couple of hours, reaching a compound in the older part of the city. The group filed into a dark and musty classroom where a Gunny Sergeant in field uniform handed out in-processing forms and stood at the front of the room telling the soldiers how to fill them out, what to write in each block and then answered questions from the soldiers.

  “Uh, Sir, what do we put?” asked Galen. “We’re mercenaries.”

  “Except for personal identification information, leave everything else blank. Then write ‘MERCENARY’ in big block letters diagonally across the page, from the bottom left corner to the top right. Then hand the bottom copy of your contract in with the form. We all know where you’re going, so we’ll process you first and get you on your way.”

  Subdued chuckling rose and fell among the government troops. Galen didn’t know if it was because of his status or destination. Obviously, the regulars knew something he didn’t. A clerk in class B dress uniform took their paperwork and returned five minutes later with travel passes and copies of the documents. He handed the documents to their respective owners and said, “Go out the back door, straight down the hallway to the exit and board the courtesy sedan at the curb. Show the driver your travel passes, he’ll know where to take you. It’s a three hour ride, so you may want to hit the latrine on your way out. Last door on the left before the exit.”

  “Thank you,” Galen told him, “you’ve all been very helpful.”

  “Not a problem. Good luck,” said the clerk.

  They used the latrine along the way and waited outside.
It was just starting to get dark on Mandarin, the sky glowing deep orange as the sun sank below the over-industrialized horizon. The mercenaries were picked up at the curb by a military sedan. It was painted light brown and had the words “Government Vehicle” stenciled on the doors.

  “Don’t see too many of these around,” said Spike as he boarded the vehicle. All three got in the back seat.

  “Your passes, men.” The driver was a man in his early twenties, pudgy and heavyset, wearing a class B uniform but without the necktie, collar open.

  They handed their travel passes to him while Spike said, “This is an old design, a spirit-burning internal combustion engine, and a piston engine at that.”

  The driver pulled onto the street and said, “This is a pretty common kind of car on this part of Mandarin, it’s the only kind I drive. They got some hovercraft, but those are for tactical units only. Sure would like to drive one though.”

  “Then transfer to a tactical unit,” said Galen.

  The driver looked over his shoulder to give a dirty look, as though Galen had just shot his mother. Obviously, this particular troop was strictly rear-echelon. He had not even the slightest desire to see combat. Or hard work, for that matter. He was just a glorified cab driver, soaking up government army pay. Small wonder, thought Galen, such a populous planet had to rely on foreign mercenaries to do their fighting for them.

  “So driver, what’s the engine made of?” asked Spike.

  “High-temp ceramics coated with Teflon. The staple fuel is alcohol but it’ll run on everything from cough syrup to methane. Acceleration is smoothed by varying the compression ratio. That gives an efficient and clean burn of just about anything you care to put in the fuel cell.”

  “Hey, it’s quite a car.” Galen knew the design was outmoded and impractical by Ostreich standards, but he let the driver go on being proud of his car. After all, it was probably one of the finest on Mandarin. An hour later the driver stopped in front of a large residential structure, a three-story house surrounded by exotic landscaping and a decorative--but deadly--security fence.

  “This will only take a minute,” said the driver. He then spoke into his personal communicator. “Sir, your ride is here…very good, sir.”

  About two minutes later the front door of the mansion opened. They watched as a dashing Mandarin man, about forty years old and dressed in a finely tailored dress uniform bearing Colonel rank, was kissed full on the lips by a woman half his age. She wore a blue silken nightgown with a slit up the side revealing a shapely set of legs and the better part of a ripe buttock. Her silky jet black hair framed her face and stopped at her shoulders in a neat, straight line. Her almond eyes and delicate features beckoned to Tad, but he restrained himself. Galen already knew about Tad’s weakness for Asian women, so he gripped Tad’s shoulder tightly to prevent the red-haired mercenary from springing out of the car. Galen took only a passing aesthetic interest in the woman; he personally didn’t find Asian women attractive. Most of them were too short, too small for him.

  The Colonel opened his own door and slid into the front seat to sit beside the driver. He handed the driver a brown paper sack rolled tightly at the top and said, “Here you go. Take me home, Nam.”

  “Thank you sir. You really didn’t have to; I still have plenty left at home.”

  “A deal’s a deal.”

  “Yes sir. Still, sometimes I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “Sometimes. Who have we got in the back seat?”

  “Oh, just some mercenaries. I’m taking them out to their regiment.”

  “Grunts?” said the officer, turning to face the mercenaries.

  “Tankers,” said Spike.

  They rode in silence for another hour. Just beyond the outskirts of the city the driver pulled into the circular drive of another luxurious mansion. The man in the officer’s uniform got out, thanked the driver, and was met on the front steps by another lovely woman, this one closer to his own age. She was dressed fit for public view and simply looped her arm around his as they ascended the stairs.

  “Had to work late again, dear.” mocked Tad. The driver simply drove away.

  “What do you think our first duty will be?” said Spike.

  “Probably just helping out with the mechanics until they have some openings in a tank platoon for us. One thing I don’t want is some panty waste job, like protocol driver or something,” said Galen, the last sentence spoken for the benefit of the driver.

  Tad looked out the window. “No, they’ll probably put us right out in the field together in a recon troop. Give us a chance to show them what we’re made of. I heard the Panzers are getting old and need some young blood to get the unit moving again.”

  The driver became smug and seemed to giggle under his breath when he hit bumps and potholes. Finally the long ride was over. “Here’s where you get out, Colonel Norbert Theil’s Jasmine Panzer Brigade’s welcoming center. Good luck.” They stood in the parking lot and faced the side of the building. The driver beeped his horn and waved as he drove off.

  “Let’s see what they have for us,” said Galen, leading his buddies down a sidewalk and around to the left end of the building. It was still warm, a steamy level of humidity making the heat uncomfortable. Galen checked his personal communicator: almost midnight, local time.

  Chapter Four

  A door stood open, yellow light spilling from it onto the grass of the quadrangle. Galen walked up to the doorway, mounted its two steps in one stride and stepped inside. Spike and Tad followed. Inside were four men wearing field uniforms, the tops of their coveralls pulled down around their waists. They sat on two couches flanking a coffee table. It was covered by paperwork and electronic clipboards.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked the oldest one. His dark green t shirt was soaked with sweat and his semi-grey hair was damp, bangs hanging over his forehead and hair covering his ears, long enough in the back to hang below the base of his neck. Galen was disgusted with the slovenly appearance of all four men, old men. If they were more squared away, they wouldn’t be up half the night doing their jobs, they’d have it all done during duty hours.

  “We’re tankers. We’re here to in-process.”

  “You young men have just made a very unusual entrance. Do you know who I am?”

  “No.” Probably some of the old duds we’re here to replace, or a bunch of clerking jerk rear echelon bums, thought Galen.

  “My name is Colonel Norbert Theil. This is my executive officer, my logistics officer, and my training/tactical officer.”

  Galen looked around the office. The back wall was covered with military decorations and certificates. A shield and crossed sabers, a sniper rifle, a tattered and dirty Regimental standard, a diploma from a military academy, a framed certificate awarding a high order of valor to… Captain Norbert Theil, dated about ten years earlier.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize…”

  “You have two seconds to get out of my office. In-processing is handled by the other end of the building. Move it!”

  They darted out of the room and raced to the entrance at the other end of the building. This time they passed through double-doors into a well-lit corridor. Barring their way was a counter attended by an alert Corporal.

  “Greetings, gentlemen. What may I help you with?”

  “We’re here to in-process.”

  “Good. Put your contracts on the counter, go get your bags and put them by the coat rack, then wait here.”

  “We don’t have bags.”

  “Where are your clean clothes, your toothbrushes?”

  “Well, we put our clothes in the cleaner when we shower, and use the water pick on our teeth. No need for excess baggage. You’d learn that, if you went to an academy,” said Tad.

  “We do things differently here. You’ll learn. The tech level at this garrison is primitive. Use what you learned about field hygiene at your academy.”

  “What do you mean?” Galen hung his coat on the
rack and thought about leaving it there.

  “I mean, we have old running-water showers, laundry ladies wash our clothes in a sink, and you’ll need a toothbrush or your teeth will rot out of your head. But we do live better here than in the field.”

  “Oh.” They laid their paperwork on the counter. The Corporal hit a buzzer and a Troop came out and collected the paperwork. The three new mercenaries stood waiting for him to return.

  “So Corporal,” said Spike, “any idea where we’re going?”

  “Probably up north. Been some trouble up there lately.”

  “How long will we be here?”

  “About two hours. The next convoy should leave at zero two hundred, provided they don’t foul up your paperwork, or if nobody decides to keep you here. If you waited five more days to come, you might’ve got my job. That’s when I’m due to rotate out.”

  Tad said, “No thanks, we’re not here to hang around garrison. We want action.”

  Spike shrugged. Despite the sultry weather, Tad and Spike still wore their jackets. Tad began pacing, his red-orange hair brighter than ever, longer than Galen had ever seen it at the academy. Spike’s hair was the same, as though it never grew and was never out of place. His moustache was getting longer at the ends, starting to grow into handlebars. The Red Baron, remembered Galen. That’s who Spike looked like, the Bloody Red Baron.

  “Hey, you all can go out and move around the compound and get your war gear ready. Just don’t wander off too far, like stay within a couple hundred meters. Come back when you hear the convoy.”

  “What’s the convoy supposed to sound like?” asked Tad.

  “Don’t worry; you’ll know it when you hear it.”

  “And where are we supposed to go at this late hour?” asked Galen.

  “Oh, this is the welcome center. We deal with a lot of transient troops processing in and out of the Brigade. Twenty four hour operations on everything. Maybe you want to visit the exchange, pick up some field essentials. Also open an account at the armory, pick up your basic issue plus whatever extra armaments you think you’ll need.”