Mercenary

by George Chetwynd Griffith

  VII

  In a far away past, Kingston had once been the capital of the UnitedStates. For a short time, when Washington's men were in flight after thedebacle of their defeat in New York City, the government of the UnitedColonies had held session in this Hudson River town. It had been its onemoment of historic glory, and afterward Kingston had slipped back intobeing a minor city on the edge of the Catskills, approximately halfwaybetween New York and Albany.

  Of most recent years, it had become one of the two recruiting centerswhich bordered the Catskill Military Reservation, which in turn was oneof the score or so population cleared areas throughout the continentwhere rival corporations or unions could meet and settle theirdifferences in combat--given permission of the Military CategoryDepartment of the government. And permission was becoming ever easier toacquire.

  It had slowly evolved, the resorting to trial by combat to settledisputes between competing corporations, disputes between corporationsand unions, disputes between unions over jurisdiction. Slowly, butpredictably. Since the earliest days of the first industrial revolution,conflict between these elements had often broken into violence,sometimes on a scale comparable to minor warfare. An early example wasthe union organizing in Colorado when armed elements of the WesternFederation of Miners shot it out with similarly armed "detectives" hiredby the mine owners, and later with the troops of an unsympathetic Stategovernment.

  By the middle of the Twentieth-Century, unions had become one of thebiggest businesses in the country, and by this time a considerableamount of the industrial conflict had shifted to fights between them forjurisdiction over dues-paying members. Battles on the waterfront,assassination and counter-assassination by gun-toting goon squadsdominated by gangsters, industrial sabotage, frays between pickets andscabs--all were common occurrences.

  But it was the coming of Telly which increasingly brought such conflictsliterally before the public eye. Zealous reporters made ever greatereffort to bring the actual mayhem before the eyes of their viewers, andnever were their efforts more highly rewarded.

  A society based upon private endeavor is as jealous of a vacuum as isMother Nature. Give a desire that can be filled profitably, and themeans can somehow be found to realize it.

  * * *

  At one point in the nation's history, the railroad lords had dominatedthe economy, later it became the petroleum princes of Texas andelsewhere, but toward the end of the Twentieth Century thecommunications industries slowly gained prominence. Nothing was moregreatly in demand than feeding the insatiable maw of the Telly fan,nothing, ultimately, became more profitable.

  And increasingly, the Telly buff endorsed the more sadistic of thefictional and nonfictional programs presented him. Even in the earliestyears of the industry, producers had found that murder and mayhem, warand frontier gunfights, took precedence over less gruesome subjects.Music was drowned out by gunfire, the dance replaced by the shuffle ofcowboy and rustler advancing down a dusty street toward each other,their fingertips brushing the grips of their six-shooters, thecomedian's banter fell away before the chatter of the gangster's tommygun.

  And increasing realism was demanded. The Telly reporter on the scene ofa police arrest, preferably a murder, a rumble between rival gangs ofjuvenile delinquents, a longshoreman's fray in which scores of workerswere hospitalized. When attempts were made to suppress such broadcasts,the howl of freedom of speech and the press went up, financed by tycoonsclever enough to realize the value of the subjects they covered soadequately.

  The vacuum was there, the desire, the _need_. Bread the populace had.Trank was available to all. But the need was for the circus, thevicious, sadistic circus, and bit by bit, over the years and decades,the way was found to circumvent the country's laws and traditions tosupply the need.

  Aye, a way is always found. The final Universal Disarmament Pact whichhad totally banned all weapons invented since the year 1900 and providedfor complete inspection, had not ended the fear of war. And thus therewas excuse to give the would-be soldier, the potential defender of thecountry in some future inter-nation conflict, practical experience.

  Slowly tolerance grew to allow union and corporation to fight it out,hiring the services of mercenaries. Slowly rules grew up to govern suchfracases. Slowly a department of government evolved. The MilitaryCategory became as acceptable as the next, and the mercenary a valued,even idolized, member of society. And the field became practically theonly one in which a status quo orientated socio-economic system allowedfor advancement in caste.

  Joe Mauser and Max Mainz strolled the streets of Kingston in an extremeof atmosphere seldom to be enjoyed. Not only was the advent of adivisional magnitude fracas only a short period away, but the freedom ofan election day as well. The carnival, the Mardi Gras, the fete, thefiesta, of an election. Election Day, when each aristocrat became only aman, and each man an aristocrat, free of all society's artificiallyconceived, caste-perpetuating rituals and taboos.

  Carnival! The day was young, but already the streets were thick withrevelers, with dancers, with drunks. A score of bands played, youngstersin particular ran about attired in costume, there were barbeques andflowing beer kegs. On the outskirts of town were roller coasters andferris wheels, fun houses and drive-it-yourself miniature cars.Carnival!

  Max said happily, "You drink, Joe? Or maybe you like trank, better."Obviously, he loved to roll the other's first name over his tongue.

  Joe wondered in amusement how often the little man had found occasion tocall a Mid-Middle by his first name. "No trank," he said. "Alcohol forme. Mankind's old faithful."

  "Well," Max debated, "get high on alcohol and bingo, a hangover in themorning. But trank? You wake up with a smile."

  "And a desire for more trank to keep the mood going," Joe said wryly."Get smashed on alcohol and you suffer for it eventually."

  "Well, that's one way of looking at it," Max argued happily. "So let'sstart off with a couple of quick ones in this here Upper joint."

  * * * * *

  Joe looked the place over. He didn't know Kingston overly well, but bythe appearance of the building and by the entry, it was probably theswankiest hotel in town. He shrugged. So far as he was concerned, heappreciated the greater comfort and the better service of his Middlecaste bars, restaurants and hotels over the ones he had patronized whena Lower. However, his wasn't an immediate desire to push into thepreserves of the Uppers; not until he had won rightfully to theirstatus.

  But on this occasion the little fellow wanted to drink at an Upper bar.Very well, it was election day. "Let's go," he said to Max.

  In the uniform of a Rank Captain of the Military Category, there waslittle to indicate caste level, and ordinarily given the correct air ofnonchalance, Joe Mauser, in uniform, would have been able to goanywhere, without so much as a raised eyebrow--until he had presentedhis credit card, which indicated his caste. But Max was another thing.He was obviously a Lower, and probably a Low-Lower at that.

  But space was made for them at a bar packed with election daycelebrants, politicians involved in the day's speeches and voting,higher ranking officers of the Haer forces, having a day off, andvarious Uppers of both sexes in town for the excitement of the fracas tocome.

  "Beer," Joe said to the bartender.

  "Not me," Max crowed. "Champagne. Only the best for Max Mainz. Give mesome of that champagne liquor I always been hearing about."

  Joe had the bill credited to his card, and they took their bottles andglasses to a newly abandoned table. The place was too packed to haveawaited the services of a waiter, although poor Max probably would haveloved such attention. Lower, and even Middle bars and restaurants wereuniversally automated, and the waiter or waitress a thing of yesteryear.

  Max looked about the room in awe. "This is living," he announced. "Iwonder what they'd say if I went to the desk and ordered a room."

  Joe Mauser wasn't as highly impressed as his batman. In fact, he'd oftenstayed in the larger cities, i
n hostelries as sumptuous as this, thoughonly of Middle status. Kingston's best was on the mediocre side. Hesaid, "They'd probably tell you they were filled up."

  Max was indignant. "Because I'm a Lower? It's _election_ day."

  Joe said mildly, "Because they probably are filled up. But for thatmatter, they might brush you off. It's not as though an Upper went to aMiddle or Lower hotel and asked for accommodations. But what do youwant, justice?"

  Max dropped it. He looked down into his glass. "Hey," he complained,"what'd they give me? This stuff tastes like weak hard cider."

  Joe laughed. "What did you think it was going to taste like?"

  Max took another unhappy sip. "I thought it was supposed to be the bestdrink you could buy. You know, really strong. It's just bubbly wine."

  A voice said, dryly, "Your companion doesn't seem to be a connoisseur ofthe French vintages, captain."

  Joe turned. Balt Haer and two others occupied the table next to them.

  Joe chuckled amiably and said, "Truthfully, it was my own reaction, thefirst time I drank sparkling wine, sir."

  "Indeed," Haer said. "I can imagine." He fluttered a hand. "LieutenantColonel Paul Warren of Marshal Cogswell's staff, and Colonel LajosArpad, of Budapest--Captain Joseph Mauser."

  Joe Mauser came to his feet and clicked his heels, bowing from the waistin approved military protocol. The other two didn't bother to come totheir feet, but did condescend to shake hands.

  The Sov officer said, disinterestedly, "Ah yes, this is one of yourfabulous customs, isn't it? On an election day, everyone is quiteentitled to go anywhere. Anywhere at all. And, ah"--he made a soundsomewhat like a giggle--"associate with anyone at all."

  Joe Mauser resumed his seat then looked at him. "That is correct. Acustom going back to the early history of the country when all men wereconsidered equal in such matters as law and civil rights. Gentlemen, mayI present Rank Private Max Mainz, my orderly."

  Balt Haer, who had obviously already had a few, looked at him dourly."You can carry these things to the point of the ludicrous, captain. Fora man with your ambitions, I'm surprised."

  The infantry officer the younger Haer had introduced as LieutenantColonel Warren, of Stonewall Cogswell's staff, said idly, "Ambitions?Does the captain have ambitions? How in Zen can a Middle have ambitions,Balt?" He stared at Joe Mauser superciliously, but then scowled."Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

  Joe said evenly, "Yes, sir. Five years ago we were both with the marshalin a fracas on the Little Big Horn reservation. Your company was pinneddown on a knoll by a battery of field artillery. The Marshal sent me toyour relief. We sneaked in, up an arroyo, and were able to get most ofyou out."

  "I was wounded," the colonel said, the superciliousness gone and astrange element in his voice above the alcohol there earlier.

  Joe Mauser said nothing to that. Max Mainz was stirring unhappily now.These officers were talking above his head, even as they ignored him. Hehad a vague feeling that he was being defended by Captain Mauser, but hedidn't know how, or why.

  Balt Haer had been occupied in shouting fresh drinks. Now he turned backto the table. "Well, colonel, it's all very secret, these ambitions ofCaptain Mauser. I understand he's been an aide de camp to MarshalCogswell in the past, but the marshal will be distressed to learn thaton this occasion Captain Mauser has a secret by which he expects to routyour forces. Indeed, yes, the captain is quite the strategist." BaltHaer laughed abruptly. "And what good will this do the captain? Why onmy father's word, if he succeeds, all efforts will be made to make thecaptain a caste equal of ours. Not just on election day, mind you, butall three hundred sixty-five days of the year."

  Joe Mauser was on his feet, his face expressionless. He said, "Shall wego, Max? Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. Colonel Arpad, a privilege tomeet you. Colonel Warren, a pleasure to renew acquaintance." Joe Mauserturned and, trailed by his orderly, left.

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Warren, pale, was on his feet too.

  Balt Haer was chuckling. "Sit down, Paul. Sit down. Not important enoughto be angry about. The man's a clod."

  Warren looked at him bleakly. "I wasn't angry, Balt. The last time I sawCaptain Mauser I was slung over his shoulder. He carried, tugged anddragged me some two miles through enemy fire."

  Balt Haer carried it off with a shrug. "Well, that's his profession.Category Military. A mercenary for hire. I assume he received his pay."

  "He could have left me. Common sense dictated that he leave me."

  Balt Haer was annoyed. "Well, then we see what I've contended all along.The ambitious captain doesn't have common sense."

  Colonel Paul Warren shook his head. "You're wrong there. Common senseJoseph Mauser has. Considerable ability, he has. He's one of the bestcombat men in the field. But I'd hate to serve under him."

  The Hungarian was interested. "But why?"

  "Because he doesn't have luck, and in the dill you need luck." Warrengrunted in sour memory. "Had the Telly cameras been focused on JoeMauser, there at the Little Big Horn, he would have been a month longsensation to the Telly buffs, with all that means." He grunted again."There wasn't a Telly team within a mile."

  "The captain probably didn't realize that," Balt Haer snorted."Otherwise his heroics would have been modified."

  Warren flushed his displeasure and sat down. He said, "Possibly weshould discuss the business before us. If your father is in agreement,the fracas can begin in three days." He turned to the representative ofthe Sov-world. "You have satisfied yourselves that neither force isviolating the Disarmament Pact?"

  Lajos Arpad nodded. "We will wish to have observers on the field,itself, of course. But preliminary observation has been satisfactory."He had been interested in the play between these two and the lower casteofficer. He said now, "Pardon me. As you know, this is my first visit tothe, uh _West_. I am fascinated. If I understand what just transpired,our Captain Mauser is a capable junior officer ambitious to rise in rankand status in your society." He looked at Balt Haer. "Why are youopposed to his so rising?"

  Young Haer was testy about the whole matter. "Of what purpose is anUpper caste if every Tom, Dick and Harry enters it at will?"

  Warren looked at the door through which Joe and Max had exited from thecocktail lounge. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again,and held his peace.

  The Hungarian said, looking from one of them to the other, "In theSov-world we seek out such ambitious persons and utilize theirabilities."

  Lieutenant Colonel Warren laughed abruptly. "So do we here_theoretically_. We are _free_, whatever that means. However," he addedsarcastically, "it does help to have good schooling, good connections,relatives in positions of prominence, abundant shares of good stocks,that sort of thing. And these one is born with, in this free world ofours, Colonel Arpad."

  The Sov military observer clucked his tongue. "An indication of adeclining society."

  Balt Haer turned on him. "And is it any different in your world?" hesaid sneeringly. "Is it merely coincidence that the best positions inthe Sov-world are held by Party members, and that it is all butimpossible for anyone not born of Party member parents to become one?Are not the best schools filled with the children of Party members? Arenot only Party members allowed to keep servants? And isn't it so that--"

  Lieutenant Colonel Warren said, "Gentlemen, let us not start World WarThree at this spot, at this late occasion."