by E. M. Foner
Joe knew how the Stryx hated inefficient engineering solutions, so he felt properly complimented and let the subject drop. Besides, the surface of Zach’s World was rapidly approaching on the main viewer. Typically, appearing in space above a planet would result in an immediate challenge from a ground-based controller. But Zach’s World was an open planet with only the loosest government, really just a glorified volunteer search-and-rescue group that monitored the spectrum for local distress calls.
“We’re coming around to the staging base, and I’m beginning our descent,” Jeeves continued. “I expect they’ll be hailing us in three, two, one…”
“Attention incoming ship, Nova. Your transponder identifies your homeport as Union Station. State the nature of your business. Over.”
“This is Commander McAllister, EarthCent Military Attaché for Union Station,” Joe replied, though he felt a little odd about claiming a job title that came without a real job. “I’m accompanied by Stryx Jeeves of Union Station, and we’re just coming in for a little look around. Please advise best landing location. Over.”
“That’s a negative, Nova,” the voice replied. “I don’t show you on our active roster and this is a closed base, military only. Do not attempt to land. Repeat. Do not attempt to land. Out.”
Joe looked over at Jeeves, who gave the robotic equivalent of a bored shrug. Time to get serious.
“McAllister to base. I’m carrying beer. Over.”
A full minute ticked by while Joe waited for some warning lights or word from Jeeves that they were being targeted. Then a burst of static came over the comm and the main viewer switched into conferencing mode. The scarred face of a man in his early forties came on the screen.
“That you, Joe? How much beer are we talking? Over.”
“Wooj. Good to see your ugly face. I’m carrying four barrels of homebrew, best on Union Station. I know because I made it myself. Over.”
“Roger that, Nova. You’re cleared for landing. Use the small pad just north of the base, and a lorry will be out to meet you. They’re turning on the landing lights now. Over and out.”
“Was this Wooj one of your men?” Jeeves asked.
“Other way around,” Joe replied. “He’s a few years younger than me, but he was one of the last guys I knew who was trained in one of the old national militaries, Republic of Korea. Tough, tough soldier, but a good man to follow. Wouldn’t throw lives away just to make a show for the client.”
A tiny red light appeared out of the darkness on the ground and slowly resolved into a circle as the ship slowed and descended. A fantastic display of electrical discharges lit up the atmosphere behind the Nova, as the reentry heat, which was converted directly into electricity by the ship’s skin, was dissipated. Then the circle of red beacon lights resolved into multiple concentric circles, each blinking on and off in turn, creating the illusion of an expanding bull’s eye. Jeeves set the Nova down in the dead center, and without further ado, popped the main hatch.
“I’ll just take a quick look around,” Jeeves said, and then darted out into the cold wind. It took Joe a moment to figure out that Jeeves was acting in accordance with a promise Kelly had extracted from the Stryx, not to let her husband take any unnecessary risks.
Joe stuck his head outside, noticed that the ladder looked higher than it seemed back on the station, and triggered the hatch mechanism to close. Then he grabbed his gym bag and took the bridge ladder down to the technical deck, where the kegs were stored. Next he hit the hydraulic control to start dropping the main hold door, which doubled as a ramp. He was wrestling the fourth keg into position at the top of the ramp when the lorry appeared and Jeeves arrived back from his recon.
The lorry driver hopped out of his three-wheeler, which reminded Joe of the sort of vehicle one would expect to see utilized for light grounds maintenance work in a park, hauling leaves or grass clippings in its low, short bed. It was painted black, with an emblem that looked like an artist’s conception of the perfect spiral arm galaxy, one that had been used by every unimaginative empire since space flight had been developed. Joe wondered if the equipment had been purchased surplus somewhere.
“Let’s go, Beer Man,” the young driver called up the ramp. He crouched and clapped his hands like he was waiting to receive a throw. “Roll ‘em down.”
“You do realize that these kegs are full of beer, not foam?” Joe regarded the young mercenary in amusement. “If I roll one down, it’s going right over you, or through you, and maybe through your little truck as well. Are you sure that thing can even take the weight?”
The driver continued to crouch and clapped again, swaying noticeably, and Joe began to suspect that the kid had either drawn the short straw, or been the low man on the totem pole at a party that had been going on for some time. Joe sighed and looked around for the two-wheeled hand truck he had used to load the beer with Paul, hoping he hadn’t left it back at Mac’s Bones. Fortunately, Jeeves was in an uncharacteristic hurry to get the show on the road.
“Just hop in the cab with the driver,” Jeeves instructed Joe, as he floated up and grabbed the top edge of an aluminum keg in each pincer. “I’ll load two of these on the kid’s tricycle and I’ll bring the other two myself. Don’t worry about the ship, I’ll close up.”
“Thanks, Jeeves,” Joe replied, and strode down the ramp to the inebriated driver, who was still crouched like a baseball catcher waiting for a pitch. “Let’s get in, son. It’s cold, and I’ve always wanted to drive one of these things.” Fortunately the kid was used to taking orders, and a few minutes later, Joe was backing the little lorry up to the loading dock of the building that the driver had pointed out as the mess hall, before slumping unresponsive against the door.
Woojin must have been waiting just inside at the window, because the overhead door began to rise before Joe killed the motor and got out. The kid had fallen asleep, so Joe went around to the other side of the cab, opened the door, and caught him as he fell out.
“Inside, son. It’s too cold to sleep out here.” Joe gave the youngster a push towards the stairs and watched as the kid stumbled up to the dock and through the overhead door.
Woojin was followed outside by four boisterous men in T-shirts, who grabbed a pair of kegs from the lorry and carried them inside like they were hauling ammunition crates, two men per keg. Jeeves floated after them with the other two kegs, and Joe and Woojin brought up the rear. Woojin closed the overhead door and left the kid sleeping in the supply room.
“Not like you to send a boy to do a man’s job, Wooj,” Joe addressed his former superior from several assignments.
Pyun Woojin took his time studying Joe’s face for information before replying. “I see life has been good to you, Joe. I heard a while back that you stuck it out on Union and even tied the knot. Still got the boy you pulled out of the wreckage on that mining colony?”
“Paul. He’s a great kid, but he’s eighteen already, so I won’t hold him much longer. He won the Nova tourney that the Drazen held a year back. And I taught him everything he knows,” Joe boasted.
“You mean you taught him everything you know. He couldn’t have won beans if he didn’t have more than that going for him,” Woojin corrected Joe. “So how does one become an EarthCent military attaché when EarthCent lacks a military?”
“Uh, my wife is the ambassador,” Joe admitted.
Woojin stopped, barked a short laugh, and slapped Joe on the back hard enough to make him stagger. “You’ve got more sense than I gave you credit for, McAllister.” Without waiting for an answer, he returned to his line of questioning. “And what’s the story with your little robot friend? Strikes me as a bit odd to have a Stryx working as a bar-back.”
Joe vacillated for a second between telling the whole truth and the partial truth, and decided on the latter course, even though it meant looking silly. It just made more sense to give out the explanation that was easiest to believe.
“My wife made him promise to keep me out of trouble
,” Joe replied. “Somehow, she’s built up a lot of credit with the Stryx.”
“That’s a woman I’d like to meet one day. Does she have a sister?” Wooj was having trouble holding back his laughter, and Joe saw that the party really had started a while ago.
“Security seems a bit loose around here,” Joe said, an understatement if he had ever heard one. “I know it’s just a staging base and that the planet is under Stryx protection in any case, but…”
Woojin cut him off with a gesture as they entered dining hall. “The business is changing, Joe. We don’t even run a separate officer’s mess here. It’s less of a base and more like being on shore leave with nowhere to go. I don’t know what that idiot on the comm was doing, telling you not to land in the first place. Probably just mad that he was stuck in the communications shack.”
“Oh, man, I hope you brought a tap,” a mournful-looking fellow called to Joe from the improvised bar. “Your robot buddy doesn’t seem to have one.”
Joe reached in his gym bag and pulled out the vital piece of equipment. Over a hundred men in the packed mess broke into cheers.
“You might want to let those kegs settle for a bit before tapping the first one. We haven’t rolled them, but the atmosphere was a bit bouncy,” Joe warned, as he handed the tap to a guy with a beer tattooed on his arm.
“Do you want to live forever?” the man asked by way of response. Joe exchanged a glance with Woojin and they both backed away. A minute later, the men around the keg were treated to a beer shower, but after that, it only took a couple cups of foam before the flow ran to dark amber and a fire brigade of cups, mugs and glasses began passing under the stream. The men were disciplined enough to make sure that everybody got a share before allowing seconds. Despite the oversized vessels a few men presented, the initial keg held out long enough to provide a first round for everyone.
“That’s some good-tasting beer,” Woojin complimented Joe, as he lowered his wide-mouthed canteen and wiped his lips. The captain was the only one who had presented a canteen to the tap boss for filling, so Joe figured it meant that officers still had some prerogatives. Either that or Woojin was the only one who thought far enough ahead to return to his quarters and snag a canteen. Meticulous planning had always been one of the things that gave him an edge over the officers who lacked his military college training.
“Thanks,” Joe said, relaxing back on the folding chair and hoping it was stronger than it looked. “I’ve been selling it to a few pubs on the station for the last year or so. Helps to keep me busy.”
“Did you already give up on that junk business I heard you won?” Woojin asked. “I figured you’d be good at it, since you always liked fooling around with tools and equipment.”
Joe snorted and took a deep sip from his cup. “It’s this Raider/Trader game that put me out of the scrap business. First, the players bought up every ship controller and all the bridge hardware I had in order to build mock-ups. Then we started renting the empty space so the kids would have somewhere to put the things, added shells, and even some full ships. Last count, there were nearly three hundred gamers parked in my hold, all paying rent. And they’ve formed into a squadron with Paul as the leader. Can you believe that?”
“If he won a Drazen Nova tournament, he’s got the makings of a gameverse admiral,” Woojin replied. “War games used to be a big part of our training back on Earth, though we played them out on the field with real men and equipment. This new game has some of those elements, and I can tell you I’ve lost some of the young guys to it already.”
“Lost them? You mean you can’t get them out of their mock-ups for drill?” Joe asked in amusement. A cheer went up from the men as the second keg was tapped, and Joe looked enviously at Woojin’s canteen.
“Lost them as in they left. Some of the kids even skipped out on contracts and forfeited the holdback money. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a couple of them in your barn, playing for Trader gold and selling it on that exchange they all use.”
“That’s something,” Joe replied wonderingly. “I knew the game was big, but I didn’t realize guys were changing careers for it.”
“Fighting for money was never much of a career to start with, and you obviously figured that out before I did,” Woojin remarked. “Listen, Joe. What are you really here for? I can see from halfway across the mess that your Stryx friend is pumping the men like they’re pumping your kegs. We’ve got nothing to hide from Big Brother around here, but I tell you, if he starts a poker game, I’m going to have to ask him to leave.”
“There have been some weird things going on with Earth, and the Stryx take an interest. You told me yourself that the business is changing. What’s with the galaxy symbol on your uniforms? I keep hearing about some consortium taking over the mercenary business and then paying you to sit around and drink beer. If that’s the deal, maybe I’ll get back in!”
Woojin looked at Joe a little sadly. “No, you’re out for good unless somebody comes after that home you’ve built for yourself. You can tell a man’s done with this game just by looking at him, though I guess you’ve forgotten that.” Woojin stopped and took a long, slow pull from his canteen, then weighed it in his hand, as if he was trying to decide if he should make a move now or wait for the third keg to be tapped. A hundred thirsty men make quick work of fifteen gallons of beer.
“I’ll tell you what I know because nobody has told me not to,” Woojin continued. “The consortium that bought up all of our contracts isn’t interested in the old business. They brokered a few deals in the first couple months, but I think that was just to keep the men busy while they got organized, found the right ships, set up some staging bases like this one. At this point, it’s clear that they could care less about all the little wars of succession and tech-ban planets that used to pay the bills.”
“You mentioned finding ships. Does it mean that it’s all fleet actions now?” Joe prompted in a confidential tone.
“Exactly wrong as usual, McAllister,” Woojin replied with a laugh. “If I had to sum it up in two words, I’d say that they’ve turned the whole lot of us into caravan guards. Funny thing is that it’s fairly interesting work, lots of planning involved. But in some cases, I’ve got almost no information to go on. Our last job was escorting a string of jump freighters to a world I can’t even pronounce in an area so far off the tunnel network that all their ships have jump drives, though they still used Stryxnet controllers. It took three weeks just to do the round trip.”
“Who were the merchants willing to pay for an escort?” Joe asked. “I thought that the high-risk boys always flew armed and were only one bad trade away from becoming pirates themselves.”
“My guess is that the folks supplying the caravan guards are the same as the folks who are running the caravans. Just one big happy consortium,” Woojin concluded, and tipping up his canteen, drained whatever was left. He let out a happy belch. “Come on, they’re tapping the third keg. Let’s get back in line before it’s all gone.”
“What kind of cargo is worth all this fuss? I mean, interstellar trading in this galaxy has been going on for tens of millions of years.” Joe tried to think it through as they waited behind a dozen serious drinkers who were getting back in line immediately after their cups were filled and drinking standing up. “I guess I can see the point of hiring guards if you’re taking a whole string of jump ships off the tunnel network, but I didn’t realize that anybody was that desperate to find new markets.”
“This you’ll never believe,” Woojin said, and put a hand on Joe’s shoulder to turn him so they were face to face. “The three-week jaunt I mentioned, to a world so out of it that I didn’t recognize the aliens and the traders did some of their bartering in sign language? The ships we were escorting carried a half a million pairs of rubber boots made for Verlocks, twenty thousand empty fire extinguishers from Earth and three thousand barrels of some purple slime being transshipped from nobody knew where.”
“Three-toed rubber
boots, empty fire extinguishers and purple slime? Sounds more like a practical joke than a trade.”
Woojin shrugged and handed his canteen to the tap man for filling. “The merchants all seemed happy. And the stuff they loaded for the return trip? I don’t have a clue what most of it was, and I’m not sure anybody else knew much about it either. But they were all in a hurry to get back and unload the stuff on markets because they were working on a tight timetable.”
Joe handed his glass over for a refill, feeling a little silly about queuing up for his own beer, but happy there was still enough left for at least one more glass. He wondered how Jeeves was doing with his investigation, especially since Joe couldn’t see any deep, dark motive behind what Woojin was telling him.
“Since when do caravans run on a tight schedule?” Joe asked, as they headed back to their table. The other drinkers were leaving them alone, either out of respect for Woojin, or because they were afraid Joe was going to surprise them with a bar bill.
“I guess you came close enough to guessing that I can give you the final piece of the puzzle, but you owe me dinner if I ever make it to Union.”
“Deal,” Joe replied, and two men bumped fists in the traditional mercenary oath.
“The merchants weren’t independents, they were on commission. That’s why I said this consortium is one big happy family.” Woojin thumped his chest where the galaxy symbol was sewn on his uniform. “I’ve been around plenty of markets in my life, you have too. Sure, there was a little give and take between our merchants and theirs, but it was weirdly efficient, like the whole thing had been worked out ahead of time, and we were all just some kind of biological robots making the clockwork turn.”
Biological robots. The phrase stuck in Joe’s head even after the rest of the evening got fuzzy, thanks to Woojin digging out an old bottle of scotch and insisting they drink each other toasts, Korean style. The last thing he remembered was Jeeves lugging the empty kegs back to the Nova as the men serenaded the robot with dirty limericks that all started, “There once was a girl named Stryx…”
