At this, her escort started forward to lodge a protest, but she laid a gentle restraining hand on his arm and stepped forward smiling. She pointed out that the soldiers were perhaps mistaken in several of their assumptions about the situation at hand.
First, they were apparently under the impression that she was a call girl, when in truth, she was gainfully employed by the Corporate forces.
Second, her escort for the evening was not a paying date, but rather her brother. Finally, she pointed out that while she thanked them for their concern and their offer, she was more than capable of taking care of herself.
By the time she was done explaining this last point, the soldiers had become rearranged. Their formation was no longer in a half circle, but rather scattered loosely for several yards along the street. Also, their position in that formation was horizontal rather than vertical.
Her explanation complete, the lady took her brother's arm and they continued on their way.
As they walked, one of the soldiers groaned and tried to rise. She drove the high heel of her shoe into his forehead without breaking stride.
Julian rolled down his window as the service station attendant came around to the side of his car.
"Fill it up with premium."
The attendant peered into the back seat of the car.
"Who do you work for, sir?"
"Salesman for a tool and die company."
"Got any company ID?"
"No, it's a small outfit. Could you fill it up, I'm in a hurry."
"Could you let me see a business card or your samples? If you're a salesman . . ."
"All right, all right. I'll admit it. I work for the government. But . . ."
The attendant's face froze into a mask.
"Sorry, sir." He started to turn away.
"Hey, wait a minute!" Julian sprang out of the car and hurried to catch up with the retreating figure. "Come on, give me a break. I'm a crummy clerk. It's not like I had any say in the decisions."
"Sorry, sir, but . . ."
"It's not like I'm on official business. I'm trying to get to my sister's wedding."
The attendant hesitated.
"Look, I'd like to help you, but if the home office found out we sold gas to a government employee, they'd pull our franchise."
"Nobody would have to know. Just look the other way for a few minutes and I'll pump it myself."
The man shook his head.
"Sorry, I can't risk it."
"I'll give you $50 for half a tank of . . ."
But the attendant was gone.
Julian heaved a sigh and got back into his car. Once he left the station, though, his hangdog mask slipped away.
Things were going well with the fuel boycott. It had been three weeks since he had had to report a station for breaking the rules. He checked his list for the location of the next station to check out.
The mercenary was wearing a jungle camouflage kill-suit. The hammock he was sprawled in was also jungle camouflage as was the floppy brimmed hat currently obscuring his face as a sunscreen. He was snoring softly, seemingly oblivious to the insects buzzing around him.
"Hey Sarge!"
The slumbering figure didn't move.
"Hey Sarge!" The young private repeated without coming closer. Even though he was new, he wasn't dumb enough to try to wake the sleeping mercenary by shaking him.
"What is it, Turner?" his voice had the tolerant tone of one dealing with a whining child.
"The tank. You know, the one the detectors have been tracking for the last five hours? You said to wake you if it got within 500 meters. Well, it's here."
"Okay, you woke me up. Now let me go back to sleep. I'm still a little rocky from going into town last night."
The private fidgeted.
"But aren't we going to do anything?"
"Why should we? They'll never find us. Believe in your infrared screens, my son, believe."
He was starting to drift off to sleep again. The private persisted.
"But Sarge! I . . . uh . . . well I thought we might . . . well, my performance review's coming up next week."
"Qualifying, huh? Well, don't worry. I'll give you my recommendation."
"I know but I thought . . . well . . . you know how much more they notice your record if you've seen combat."
The sergeant sighed.
"All right. Is it rigged for quartz beams?"
"The scanners say no."
"Is Betsy tracking it?"
"Seems to be. Shall I . . ."
"Don't bother, I'll get it."
Without raising his hat to look, the sergeant extend a leg off the hammock. The far end of his hammock was anchored on a complex mass of machinery, also covered with camouflaging. His questing toe found the firing button, which he prodded firmly. The machine hummed to life, and from its depths a beam darted out to be answered by the chill whimp of an explosion in the distance.
The private was impressed.
"Wow, hey, thanks Sarge."
"Don't mention it, kid."
"Say, uh, Sarge?"
"What is it, Turner?"
"Shouldn't we do something about the infantry support?"
"Are they coming this way?"
"No, it looks like they're headed back to camp, but shouldn't we . . ."
"Look, kid," the sergeant was drifting off again. "Lemme give you a little advice about those performance reviews. You don't want to load too much stuff onto 'em. The personnel folk might get the idea it's too easy."
* * *
That evening the news on the Corporate Wars was the news itself. It seemed some underling at the FCC had appeared on a talk show and criticized the lack of impartiality shown by the media in their reporting on the Corporate Wars.
News commentators all across the globe pounced on that item as if they had never had anything to talk about before. They talked about freedom of speech. They talked about attempted government control of the media. They talked about how even public service corporations like the media were not safe from the clumsy iron fist of government intervention.
But one and all, they angrily defended their coverage of the Corporate Wars. The reason, they said, that there were so few reports viewing the Government troop efforts in a favorable light was that there was little if anything favorable to be said for their unbroken record of failures.
This was followed by a capsule summary of the Wars since the government stepped in. Some television channels did a half-hour special on the ineptitude of the Government efforts. Some newspapers ran an entire supplement, some bitter, some sarcastic, but all pointing out the dismal incompetence displayed by the governments.
The man from the FCC was dismissed from his post.
The blood-warm waters of the Brazilian river were a welcome change from the deadly iciness of the Atlantic. The two frogmen, nearly invisible in their camouflage kill-suits and bubbleless rebreather units, were extremely happy with the new loan labor program between the Corporate mercenaries.
One of the men spotted a turtle and tapped the other's arm, gesturing for him to circle around and assist in its capture. His partner shook his head. This might have the trappings of a vacation, but they were still working. They were here on assignment and they had a job to do. The two men settled back in the weeds on the river bottom and waited.
It was oven-hot in the armor-encased boat. The Greek officer in command mopped his brow and spoke in angry undertones to the men with him in the craft. It was hot, but this time there would be no mistakes. He peered out of the gun slit at the passing shore as the boat whispered soundlessly upstream.
This time they had the bastards cold. He had the best men and the latest equipment on this mission, and a confirmed target to work with. This time it would be the laughing mercenaries who fell.
"Hello the boats?"
The men froze and looked at each other as the amplified voice echoed over the river.
"Yoo-hoo! We know you're in there."
The off
icer signaled frantically. One of his men took over the controls of the automount machine gun and peered into the periscope. The officer put his mouth near the gun slit, taking care to stand to one side of the view.
"What do you want?"
"Before you guys start blasting away, you should know we have some people from the World Press out here with us."
The officer clenched his fist in frustration. He shot a glance at his infrared sonar man who shrugged helplessly; there was no way he could sort out which blips were soldiers and which were reporters.
"We were just wondering," the voice continued, "if you were willing to be captured or if we're going to have to kill you?"
The officer could see it all now. The lead on the target had been bait for a trap. The mercenaries were going to win again. Well, not this time. This boat had the latest armor and weaponry. They weren't going to surrender without a fight.
"You go to hell!" he screamed and shut the gun slit.
The mercenary on shore turned to the reporters and shrugged.
"You'd better get your heads down."
With that, he triggered the remote control detonator switch on his control box, and the frogmen-planted charges removed the three boats from the scene.
The mercenary doubled over, gasping from the agony of his wounds. The dark African sky growled a response as lightning danced in the distance. He glanced up at it through a pink veil of pain.
Damn Africa! He should have never agreed to this transfer.
He gripped his knife again and resumed his task. Moving with the exaggerated precision of a drunk, he cut another square of sod from the ground and set it neatly next to the others.
Stupid! Okay, so he had gotten lost. It happens. But damn it, it wasn't his kind of terrain.
He sank the knife viciously into the ground and paused as a wave of pain washed over him from the sudden effort.
Walking into an enemy patrol—that was unforgivably careless but he had been so relieved to hear voices.
He glanced at the sky again. He was running out of time. He picked up his rifle and started scraping up handfuls of dirt from the cleared area.
Well, at least he got 'em. He was still one of the best in the world at close, fast pistol work, but there had been so many.
He sagged forward again as pain flooded his mind. He was wounded in at least four places. Badly wounded. He hadn't looked to see how badly for fear he would simply give up and stop moving.
He eased himself forward until he was sitting in the shallow depression, legs straight in front of him. Laying his rifle down beside him, he began lifting the pieces of sod and placing them on his feet and legs, forming a solid carpet again.
He head swam with pain. When he had gotten lost, his chances of survival had been low. Now they were zero.
But he had gotten them all. He clung to that as he worked, lying now and covering his bloody chest.
And by God, they weren't going to have the satisfaction of finding his body. The coming rain would wash away his trail of blood and weld the sod together again.
If they ever claimed a mercenary kill, it was going to be because they earned it and not because he had been stupid enough to get lost.
The rain was starting to fall as he lifted the last piece of sod in place over his face and shoulders.
Tidwell frowned as he scanned the bar. Damn! Where was Clancy? This was the fourth bar he had been in looking for his drinking partner. It wasn't like Clancy to be this elusive.
He started to leave, then a figure caught his eye. Was it . . . it was! Clancy! Tidwell wondered why he hadn't seen his friend in his earlier scan, then realized with a start that this was the first time he had ever seen Clancy's back.
"Good news, Clancy!" he announced dropping into a vacant seat at the table.
"Oh, hi Steve!"
"It's been finalized! A fat percent increase for fighting the government's boy scouts! Is that a gift?"
Clancy mumbled something.
"How's that again?"
"I said that's terrific."
Tidwell cocked a sharp eye at his friend.
"You all right, Clancy?"
"Me? Sure, why?"
"I dunno. You seem to be taking the news pretty calmly. The only times I've seen you act calm if there was any other option was when you were drunk, thinking deep thoughts, negotiating a contract, or all three."
His gentle prodding was rewarded by a wry smile from his friend.
"Guilty as charged, Steve."
"Which?"
"Well, I haven't been offered another contract if that's what's bothering you. As for the other two, I've been drinking a little and thinking a lot."
Tidwell signaled for a round of drinks.
"That can be a dangerous combination, Clancy. Do you want to talk it out?"
Clancy leaned back, sipping at the remnants of his drink.
"How would you say the war's going, Steve?"
"Well . . ." Tidwell scowled in mock consideration. "It's my studied and learned opinion that we're kicking the hell out of them."
"And you think that's good?"
"What do you mean, ‘do I think that's good?' That's what we're getting paid to do isn't it?"
"Let me put it differently. Do you think we'll win?"
"You said it yourself, there's no contest! They can't even find us unless we want 'em to, and we only want 'em to when we're sure we'll win. We may not be able to win the war, but we can run 'em in circles until they quit. The worst we could get out of it is a draw."
"Then what?"
"Huh?"
"I said then what? What happens when the governments back down?"
Tidwell lapsed into thought, only to be interrupted by the arrival of their drinks.
"I really don't know, Clancy," Tidwell resumed after the waitress retreated. "I've never really thought that far ahead."
"Well maybe you'd better start. First off, it won't be a draw from the government's viewpoint. Either they win it, or they've lost. They've issued orders, made laws, whatever, that the corporations have refused to obey. Right now, their armies are trying to enforce those orders. If they can't enforce it, they're dead. Any governing body that can't enforce its orders loses the ability to issue orders."
"Then who would . . ."
"The corporations, that's who. They're the ones with the power now, military as well as economic."
"So what? We've picked the right side."
"Have we? Steve, would you really want to live in a world controlled by the corporations?"
Tidwell shrugged and sipped his drink. He was getting a bit annoyed.
"Frankly, I don't see that it would be much different than the world we're in right now."
"Controls, Steve!" Clancy was leaning forward now.
"If the governments lose the war, there will only be the corporations, one power with no counter balance, no court of appeals. If you get blacklisted by the corporations, you don't work, period!"
Tidwell shook his head.
"That's too heavy for me, Clancy. Like I told you before, I'm just a soldier, and I don't . . ."
"Bullshit!" Clancy was looming over Tidwell in his anger. "I'm just a soldier . . . I'm just a housewife . . . I'm just an executive . . . I'm just a kid . . . Bullshit! Nobody's responsible for anything. Everybody's just earning a living, just following orders, just looking out for themselves. I'm telling you, Steve, unless people stop taking the easy route; unless we start thinking instead of letting other people think for us; unless we do it now, we may not ever get a chance to think!"
"If you are quite through, Mister Clancy . . ." their eyes glared into each other. "It's too late for all that crap. Too late. The governments are finished. The corporations are going to get a chance at running the world."
"I don't think it's going to be all that great a world, Steve."
"We'll see, buddy," Tidwell said. Then he smiled, slowly. "If we don't like it . . ."
"Yeah?"
"We're sold
iers, aren't we? There'll be work for us to do."
You Never Call
Robert Lynn Asprin
The two fleets maneuvered subtly as they drew ominously closer. The crowd would have held its breath in anticipation . . . if there had been a crowd to witness the spectacle . . . or if there were breath for it to hold in the vacuum of outer space.
On the bridge of the Terran flagship, the crew waited in nervous silence. Steely-eyed, with his jaw set in stern determination, the human commander's authoritative pose would have sent any artist scrambling for his or her sketch pad. Without unclenching his teeth, he nodded to his communications officer to open the hailing frequency.
An annoying shrill whistle sounded as the enemy's image swam into focus on the main view screen. While to the untutored human eye, it might look like just another huge reptile in a uniform, the commander was a seasoned space veteran and could readily recognize the individual differences of several alien races.
"Well, Zoltron?" he said harshly. "Have you reconsidered your position? This is your last chance to avoid needless bloodshed. Will you relinquish your claim on this sector and withdraw your forces?"
His rival's response was a sharp bark of laughter.
"Really, Raymond. I thought you knew us better, or at least that you knew me. Did you really expect me to back down from a threat?"
"That's ‘Commander Stone,' under the circumstances," the commander spat back. "And I thought you knew us better, Zoltron. Did you think I was bluffing? You have five minutes to begin your withdrawal. Then we open fire."
On the screen, Zoltron stared back for several seconds in silence before speaking.
"We've been friends for a long time, Raymond," he said softly, his voice heavy with regret.
The Terran commander hesitated as years of memories flashed through his mind. Memories of happier days before the alliance fell apart . . . of shared holidays and family outings . . . of how he was first surprised, the friendship with this non-human counterpart.
Then the moment passed.
"Times change, Zoltron," he said firmly. "We aren't the first friends that politics have set against each other, nor will we be the last. We used to kid about what would happen if someday we found ourselves on opposite sides. Well, it would seem that day has come. You have five minutes."
MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin Page 31
