MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin

by Robert Asprin

  Damn radios! Another mission blown to hell!

  The major sighed again. Lying there in a dead suit was preferable to actually being dead, but that might be opened to debate when he reported in. Someone's head would roll over tonight's failure, and as the planner he was the logical choice.

  The bar was clearly military, high-class military, but military none the less. One of the most apparent indications of this was that it offered live waitresses as an option. Of course, having a live waitress meant your drinks cost more, but the military men were one of the last groups of holdouts who were willing to pay extra rather than be served the impersonal hydrolift of a Serv-O-Matic.

  Steve Tidwell, former major, and his friend Clancy were well entrenched at their favorite corner table, a compromise reached early in their friendship as a solution to the problem of how they could both sit with their backs to the wall.

  "Let me get this round, Steve," ordered Clancy dipping into his pocket. "That severance pay of yours may have to last you a long time."

  "Hi Clancy, Steve," their waitress smiled delivering the next round of drinks. "Flo's tied up out back, so I thought I'd better get these to you before you got ugly and started tearing up the place."

  "There's a love," purred Clancy, tucking a folded bill into her cleavage. She ignored him.

  "Steve, what's this I hear about you getting cashiered?"

  Tidwell took a sudden interest in the opposite wall. Clancy caught the waitress's eye and gave a minute shake of his head. She nodded knowingly and departed.

  "Seriously, Steve, what are you going to do now?"

  Tidwell shrugged.

  "I don't know. Go back to earning my money in the live ammo set, I guess."

  "Working for who? In case you haven't figured it out, you're blacklisted. The only real fighting left is in the Middle East, and the Oil Combine won't touch you."

  "Don't be so sure of that. They were trying pretty hard to buy me away from the Itt-iots a couple months ago."

  Clancy snorted contemptuously.

  "A couple of months. Hell, I don't care if it was a couple days. That was before they gave you your walking papers. I'm telling you they won't give you the time of day now. ‘If you're not good enough for Communications, you're not good enough for Oil.' That'll be their attitude. You can bet on it."

  Tidwell studied his drink in silence for a while, then took a hefty swallow.

  "You're right, Clancy," he said softly. "But do you mind if I kid myself long enough to get good and drunk?"

  "Sorry, Steve," apologized his friend. "It's just that for a minute there I thought you really believed what you were saying."

  Tidwell lifted his glass in a mock toast.

  "Well, here's to inferior superiors and inferior inferiors, the stuff armies are made of!"

  He drained the glass and signaled for another.

  "Really, Steve. You've got to admit the troops didn't let you down this time."

  "True enough. But only because I gave them an assignment worthy of their talents: cannon fodder! ‘Rush those machine guns and keep rushing until I say different!' Is it my imagination or is the quality of our troops actually getting worse? And speaking of that, who was that clown on guard with you?"

  Clancy sighed.

  "Maxwell. Would you believe he's one of our best?"

  "That's what I mean! Ever since the corporations started building their own armies all we get are superstars who can't follow orders and freeze up when they're shot at. Hell, give me some of the old-timers like you and Hassan. If we could build our own force with the corporations' bankroll, if we could get our choice of the crop and pay them eighteen to forty grand a year, we could take over the world in a month."

  "Then what would you do with it?"

  "Hell, I don't know. I'm a soldier, not a politician. But dammit, I'm proud of my work and if nothing else it offends my sense of aesthetics to see some of the slipshod methods and tactics that seem to abound in any war. So much could be done with just a few really good men."

  "Well, we're supposed to be working with the best available men now. You should see the regular armies the governments field!"

  "Regular armies! Wash your mouth out with Irish. And speaking of that . . ."

  The next round of drinks was arriving.

  "Say, Flo, love. Tell Bonnie I'm sorry if I was so short with her last round. If she comes by again I'll try to make it up to her."

  He made a casual pass at slipping his arm around her waist, but she sidestepped automatically without really noticing it.

  "I'll tell her, Steve, but don't hold your breath about her coming back. I think you're safer when you're sulking!"

  She turned to go and received a loud whack on her backside from Clancy. She squealed, then grinned and did an exaggerated burlesque walk away while the two men roared with laughter.

  "Well, at least it's good to see you're loosening up a little," commented Clancy as their laughter subsided. "For a while there you had me worried."

  "You know me. Pour enough Irish into me and I'll laugh through a holocaust! But you know, you're right, Clancy . . . about the men not letting me down, I mean. I think that's what's really irritating me about this whole thing."

  He leaned back and rested his head against the wall.

  "If the men had fallen down on the job, or if the plan had been faulty in its logic, or if I had tripped the fence beams, or any one of a dozen other possibilities, I could take it quite calmly. Hazards of the trade and all that. But to get canned over something that wasn't my fault really grates."

  "They couldn't find any malfunction with the Throat-Mikes?"

  "Just like the other two times. I personally supervised the technicians when they dismantled it, checked every part and connection, and nothing! Even I couldn't find anything wrong and believe me, I was looking hard. Take away the equipment failure excuse, and the only possibility is an unreliable commander, and Stevey boy gets his pink slip."

  "Say, could you describe the internal circuitry of those things to me?"

  In a flash the atmosphere changed. Tidwell was still leaning against the wall in a drunken pose, but his body was suddenly poised and his eyes were clear and wary—watchful.

  "Come on, Clancy. What is this? You know I can't breach confidence with an employer, even an ex-employer. If I did I'd never work again."

  Clancy sipped his drink unruffled by his friend's challenge.

  "You know it, and I know it, but my fellow Oil Slickers don't know it. I just thought I'd toss the question to make my pass legit. You know the routine. ‘We're old buddies and he's just been canned. If you'll just give me a pass tonight I might be able to pour a few drinks into him and get him talking.' You know the bit."

  "Well, you're at least partially successful." Tidwell hoisted his glass again, sipped, and set it down with a clink. "So much for frivolity! Do you have any winning ideas for my future?"

  Clancy tasted his drink cautiously.

  "I dunno Steve. The last really big blow I was in was the Russo-Chinese War."

  "Well, how about that one? I know they shut down their borders and went incommunicado after it was over, but that's a big hunk of land and a lot of people. There must be some skirmishes internally."

  "I got out under the wire, but if you don't mind working for another ideology there might be something."

  "Ideology, schmideology. Like I said before, I'm a soldier, not a politician. Have you really got a line of communication inside the Block?"

  "Well . . ."

  "Excuse us, gentlemen."

  The two mercenaries looked up to find a trio of men standing close to their table. One was Oriental, the other two Caucasian. All were in business suits and carried attaché cases.

  "If you would be so good as to join us in a private room, I believe it would be to our mutual advantage."

  "The pleasure is ours," replied Tidwell formally rising to follow. He caught Clancy's eye and raised an eyebrow. Clancy winked back in agreement.
This had contract written all over it.

  As they passed the bar, Flo flashed them an old aviator's "thumbs-up" sign signifying that she had noticed what was going on and their table would still be waiting for them when they returned.

  To further their hopes, the room they were led to was one of the most expensive available at the bar. That is, one the management guaranteed for its lack of listening or interruptions.

  There were drinks already waiting on the conference table, and the Oriental gestured for them to be seated.

  "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Yamada."

  His failure to introduce his companions identified them as bodyguards. Almost as a reflex, the two mercenaries swept them with a cold, appraising glance, then returned their attention to Yamada.

  "Am I correct in assuming I am address Stephen Tidwell . . ." his eyes shifted, "Michael Clancy?"

  The two men nodded silently. For the time being they were content to let him do the talking.

  "Am I further correct in my information that you have recently been dismissed by the Communications Combine, Mr. Tidwell?"

  Again Steve nodded. Although he tried not to show it, inwardly he was irritated. What had they done? Gone though town posting notices?

  Yamada reached into his pocket and withdrew two envelopes. Placing them on the table, he slid one to each of the two men.

  "Each of these envelopes contains $1,000 American. With them, I am purchasing your time for the duration of the conversation. Regardless of its outcome, I am relying on you professional integrity to keep the existence of this meeting as well as the context of the discussion itself in strictest confidence."

  Again the two men nodded silently. This was the standard opening of a negotiating session, protecting both the mercenary and the person approaching him.

  "Very well. Mr. Tidwell, we would like to contract your services for $60,000 a year plus benefits."

  Clancy choked on his drink. Tidwell straightened in his chair.

  "Sixty thousand . . ."

  "And Mr. Clancy, we would further like to contract your services for $45,000 a year. This would of course not include the $18,500 we would have to provide for you to enable you to terminate your contract with the Oil Coalition."

  By this time both men were gaping at him in undisguised astonishment. Clancy was the first to regain his composure.

  "Mister, you don't beat around the bush, do you?"

  "Excuse my asking," interrupted Steve, "but isn't that a rather large sum to offer without checking our records?"

  "Believe me, Mr. Tidwell, we have checked your records. Both your records." Yamada smiled. "Let me assure you, gentlemen, this is not a casual offer. Rather, it is the climax of several months of exhaustive study and planning."

  "Just what are we expected to do for this money?" asked Clancy cagily, sipping his drink without taking his eyes off the Oriental.

  "You, Mr. Clancy, are to serve as aide and advisor to Mr. Tidwell. You, Mr. Tidwell, are to take command of the final training phases of, and lead into battle, a select force of men. You are to have final say as to qualifications of the troops as well as the tactics to be employed."

  "Whose troops and in what battle are they to be employed?"

  "I represent the Zaibatsu, a community of Japanese-based corporations, and the focus of our attention is the Oil vs. Communications War currently in process."

  "You want us to lead troops against those idiots? Our pick of men and our tactics?" Clancy smiled. "Mister, you've got yourself a mercenary!"

  Tidwell ignored his friend.

  "I'd like a chance to view the force before I give you my final decision."

  "Certainly, Mr. Tidwell," Yamada nodded. "We agree to this condition willingly because we are sure you will find the men at your disposal more that satisfactory."

  "In that case, I think we are in agreement. Shall we start now?"

  Tidwell started to rise, closely followed by Clancy, but Yamada waved them back into their seats.

  "One last detail, gentlemen. The Zaibatsu believes in complete honesty with its employees, and there is something I feel you should be aware of before accepting our offer. The difficulties you have been encountering recently, Mr. Tidwell with your equipment and Mr. Clancy with your assignments, have been engineered by the Zaibatsu to weaken your current employers and ensure your availability for our offer."

  Again both men gaped at him.

  "But . . . how?" blurted Tidwell finally.

  "Mr. Clancy's commanding officer who showed such poor judgment in giving him his team assignments is in our employment and acting on our orders. And as for Mr. Tidwell's equipment failure . . ." he turned a bland stare toward Steve, ". . . let us merely say that even though Communications holds the patent on the Throat-Mikes, the actual production was subcontracted to a Zaibatsu member. Something to do with the high cost of domestic labor. We took the liberty of making certain ‘modifications' in their design, all quite undetectable, with the result that we now have the capacity to cut off or override their command communications at will."

  By this time the two mercenaries were beyond astonishment. Any anger they might have felt at being manipulated was swept away by the vast military implications of what they had just been told.

  "You mean we can shut down their communications any time we want? And you have infiltrators at the command level of the Oiler forces?"

  "In both forces, actually. Nor are those our only advantages. As I said earlier, this is not a casual effort. I trust you will be able to find some way to maximize the effect of our entry?"

  With a forced calmness, Tidwell finished his drink, then rose and extended his hand across the table.

  "Mr. Yamada, it's going to be a pleasure working for you!"

  * * *

  A few scrawny weeds dotted the cliff's face, outlining the outcroppings and crevices there. It would be a real obstacle, but there wasn't time to look for another route down.

  The man at the top of the cliff didn't even break stride as he sprinted up to the edge of the precipice. He simply stepped off the cliff into nothingness, as did the three men following closely at his heels. For two long heartbeats they fell. By the second beat their swords were drawn, the world famous Katanas, samurai swords unrivaled for centuries for their beauty, their craftsmanship and their razor edges. On the third heartbeat they smashed onto a rock slide, the impact driving one man to his knees, forcing him to recover with a catlike forward roll. By the time he had regained his feet the others were gone darting and weaving through the straw dummies, swords flashing in the sunlight. He raced to join them, a flick of his sword decapitating the dummy nearest him.

  The straw figures, twenty of them, were identical, save for a one inch square of brightly colored cloth pinned to them, marking five red, five yellow, five white, and five green. As they moved, each man struck only at the dummies marked with his color, forcing them to learn target identification at a dead run. Some were marked in the center of the forehead, some in the small of the back. It was considered a cardinal sin to strike a target that was not yours. A man who did not identify his target before he struck could as easily kill friend as foe in a firefight.

  The leader of the band dispatched his last target and returned his sword to its scabbard in a blur of motion as he turned. He sprinted back toward the cliff through the dummies, apparently oblivious to the deadly blades still flashing around him. The others followed him, sheathing their swords as they ran. The man who had fallen was lagging noticeably behind.

  Scrambling up the rock slide they threw themselves at the sheer cliff face and began climbing at a smooth effortless pace, finding handholds and toeholds where none could be seen. It was a long climb, and the distance between the men began to increase. Suddenly the second man in the formation dislodged a fist-sized rock that clattered down the cliffside. The third man rippled his body to one side and it missed him narrowly. The fourth man was not so lucky. The rock smashed into his right forearm and careened a
way. He lost his grip and dropped the fifteen feet back onto the rock slide.

  He landed lightly in a three point stance, straightened, and gazed ruefully at his arm. A jagged piece of bone protruded from the skin. Shaking his head slightly, he tucked the injured arm into the front of his uniform and began to climb again.

  As he climbed, a small group of men appeared below him. They hurriedly cut down the remains of the straw dummies and began lashing new ones to the supporting poles. None of them looked up at the man struggling up the cliffside.

  They had finished their job and disappeared by the time the lone man reached the top of the cliff. He did not pause or look back, but simply rolled to his feet and sprinted off again. As he did, five more men brushed past him, ignoring him completely, and flung themselves off the cliff. Tidwell hit the hold button on the videotape machine and the figures froze in midair. He stared at the screen for several moments, then rose from his chair and paced slowly across the thick carpet of his apartment. Clancy was snoring softly on the sofa, half buried in a sea of personnel folders. Tidwell ignored him and walked to the picture window where he stood and stared at the darkened training fields.

  The door behind him opened and a young Japanese girl glided into the room. She was clad in traditional Japanese robes and was carrying a small tray of lacquered bamboo. She approached him quietly and stood waiting until he noticed her presence.

  "Thanks, Yamiko," he said, taking a fresh drink from her tray.

  She gave a short bow, and remained in place, looking at him. He tasted his drink, then realized she was still there.

  "I'll be along shortly, Love. There's just a few things I've got to think out."

  He blew a kiss at her and she giggled and retired from the room. As soon as she was gone, the smile dropped from his face like a mask. He slowly returned to his chair, leaned over and hit the rewind button. When the desired point had been reached, he hit the slow motion button and stared at the screen.

  The four figures floated softly to earth. As they touched down, Tidwell leaned forward to watch their feet and legs. They were landing on uneven ground covered with rocks and small boulders, treacherous footing at best, but they handled it in stride. Their legs were spread and relaxed, molding to the contour of their landing point, then those incredible thigh muscles bunched and flexed, acting like shock absorbers. Their rumps nearly touched the rocks before the momentum was halted.