Joe Mauser, Mercenary from Tomorrow. Mack Reynolds
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Panhandle Reservation. Seems to me I’ve spotted you once or twice before, too.”
“Yes, sir,” Mauser said, somewhat relieved. This was some improvement over the way things had been going.
Now the older Haer was scowling at him. “Confound it, what are you doing with no more rank than captain? On the face of it, you’re an old hand, a highly experienced veteran.”
Old pros, we call ourselves, Mauser thought to himself. Old pros, among ourselves.
Aloud, he said, “I was born a Mid-Lower, sir.” There was understanding in the old man’s face, but the younger Haer said loftily, “What’s that got to do with it? Promotion in Category Military is quick, and based on merit.”
Mauser frowned. At a certain point, if you are good combat officer material, you speak your mind no matter the rank of the man you are addressing. On this occasion, Joe Mauser spoke his mind, and needed few words to do so. He let his eyes go up and down Balt Haer’s immaculate uniform, taking in the swagger stick, then said simply, “Yes, sir.”
Balt Haer flushed with quick temper. “What do you mean by your attitude? What…?”
But his father was chuckling. “You have spirit, Captain. I need spirit now. You are quite correct. My son—though a capable field officer, I assure you—has probably not participated in a fraction of the fracases you have to your credit. However, there is something to be said for the training available to Uppers in the military academies. For instance, Captain, have you ever commanded a body of men larger than a company?”
Mauser frowned. “In the McDonnell-Boeing versus Lockheed-Cessna fracas we took a high loss of officers when McDonnell-Boeing rang in some fast-firing French mitrailleuse we didn’t know they had.
“As my superiors took casualties I was field-promoted, first to acting battalion commander, then to acting regimental commander, and finally to acting brigadier. For three days I held rank of acting commander of brigade.” He took a breath. “We won that fracas, sir.”
The other’s brow creased, as if in thought. Apparently the incident was familiar to him. Joe certainly remembered it… how well he remembered. Now, bringing it back, he would be lucky if it didn’t come to him in his dreams this night. That was where Jim, his comrade in arms for six years and more, had taken a burst in his guts that all but cut him in two.
Balt Haer snapped his fingers. “I remember that. Read quite a paper on it.” He eyed Mauser almost respectfully now. “Stonewall Cogswell got the credit for the victory and received his marshal’s baton as a result.”
“He was one of the few other officers that survived,” Joe said dryly.
“But, Zen! You mean you got no promotion at all?”
Joe said, “I was upped to Low-Middle from High-Lower, sir. At my age, at the time, it was quite a promotion.”
The older Haer nodded. “That was the fracas that brought on the howl from the Sovs. They claimed those mitrailleuse were post-1900 and violated the Universal Disarmament Pact. Yes, I recall that. McDonnell-Boeing was able to prove that the weapon was used by the French as far back as the Franco-Prussian War.” He eyed Joe with new interest now. “Sit down, Captain. You too, Balt. Do you realize that Captain Mauser is the only recruit of officer rank we’ve had today? If only we could bring in a few more of his mettle…”
“Yes,” the younger Haer said dryly. “However, I doubt that we’ll see more officers, if you want my opinion, and it’s too late to call the fracas off now. Hovercraft wouldn’t stand for it, and Category Military would back them. Our only alternative is unconditional surrender, and you know what that means.”
“It means our family would probably be forced from control of the firm,” the older man rumbled. “But nobody has suggested surrender on any terms. Nobody, that is, until now.” He glared at his son, who took it with an easy shrug as he swung a leg over the edge of his father’s desk.
Taking advantage of the baron’s invitation, Mauser found a chair and lowered himself into it. Evidently, the foppish Balt Haer had no illusions about the spot his father had gotten the family corporation into. And the younger man was right, of course.
But the baron wasn’t blind to reality any more than he was a coward. He appeared to dismiss his son’s defeatism with a shake of his head. He eyed Joe Mauser speculatively. “As I say, you’re the only officer recruit today. Why?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Mauser replied. “Perhaps most of the freelance Category Military men are occupied elsewhere. There’s always a shortage of trained officers.”
Baron Haer was waggling a finger negatively. “That’s not what I mean, Captain. You are an old hand. Why are you signing up with Vacuum Tube Transport, rather than Hovercraft? Where is the benefit in signing with a smaller outfit, for a man of your caliber?” Mauser looked at him for a moment without speaking. He knew what the other was thinking. Theoretically, there was no espionage between rival outfits in the fracases, but in actuality, commanders as wily as Stonewall Cogswell might deliberately infiltrate the enemy force with a knowledgeable officer in an attempt to ferret out information. And Mauser was known to have fought under Cogswell before.
“Come, come, Captain,” the baron prompted. “I am an old hand too, in my category, and not a fool. I realize there is scarcely a soul in the West-world expecting my colors to have an easy time of it. Nor is it expected that I can attract the cream of the crop; pay rates have been widely posted. I can offer only five common shares of Vacuum Tube for a Rank Captain, win or lose. Hovercraft is doubling that, and can pick and choose from the best officers in the hemisphere.”
“I have all the shares I need,” Mauser said softly.
Balt Haer had been looking back and forth between his father and the newcomer, his puzzlement obvious. “Well,” he broke in, “what in Zen motivates you if it isn’t the stock we offer?”
Mauser glanced at the younger Haer to acknowledge the question, but he spoke to the baron. “Sir, like you said, you’re no fool. However, you’ve been sucked in this time. When you took on Hovercraft, you were thinking in terms of a regional dispute. You wanted to run one of your vacuum tube deals up to Fairbanks from Edmonton. You were expecting a minor fracas, involving possibly five thousand men all told. You never expected Hovercraft to parlay it up, through their connections in the Category Military Department, to a divisional-magnitude fracas which you simply aren’t large enough to afford. But Hovercraft was getting sick of your competition; you’ve been nicking away at them too long.
“So,” he went on relentlessly, “they decided to do you in. They’ve hired Marshal Cogswell and the best combat officers in North America, and they’re hiring the most competent veterans they can find. Even the fracas buffs figure you’ve had it. They’ve been watching you come up the aggressive way, the hard way, for a long time, but now they’re all going to be waiting for you to get it.”
Baron Haer’s heavy face had hardened. He growled, “Is this what everyone thinks?”
“Yes. Everyone intelligent enough to have an opinion.” Mauser nodded toward the outer offices. “Most of those men out there are rejects from Catskill, where Baron Zwerdling is recruiting. Either that or they’re inexperienced Low-Lowers, too stupid to realize they’re sticking their necks out. Not one man in ten is a veteran. And when things pickle, you want veterans.”
Baron Malcolm Haer sat back in his chair and stared coldly at Captain Joe Mauser. He said, “At first I was moderately surprised that an old-time mercenary like yourself should choose my uniform rather than Zwerdling’s. Now I am increasingly mystified about motivation. So again I ask you, Captain—why are you requesting a commission in my forces—which you seem convinced will meet disaster?”
Now they had reached the critical point. The old man was suspicious, and Mauser couldn’t blame him. He had to tread carefully, or he might fail to convince the baron of his sincerity when he offered his plan. A plan that was, on the face of it, outrageous. But now was not the time to reveal