Читать книгу Joe Mauser, Mercenary from Tomorrow - Mack Reynolds - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

His permanent military rank—decided upon by the Category Military Department—the Haers had no way to alter, but they were short enough of competent officers that they gave him the acting rating and pay scale of major.

They also gave him command of a squadron of cavalry. Joe Mauser wasn’t interested in a cavalry command for this fracas, but he said nothing. It wasn’t time as yet to reveal the big scheme, and he didn’t want to buy trouble by complaining. Besides, he could be of use in whipping the Rank Privates into shape.

After they’d finished discussing the preliminaries, Mauser left to unsnarl the red tape involved in signing up with Vacuum Tube’s forces. He reentered the confusion of the outer offices just in time to run into a telly team doing a live broadcast.

Joe Mauser recognized the reporter who headed the team, although the man’s name escaped him. Mauser had run into him more than once in fracases, and knew the man to be a cut above the average newscaster. As a matter of fact, although Mauser held the military man’s standard prejudices against telly, he had a basic respect for this particular newsman. When he’d seen him before, the fellow had been hot in the midst of the action, hanging on even when things were in the dill—he and Mauser had even shared a foxhole at one point. He took as many chances as did the average combatant, and you couldn’t ask for more than that. Undoubtedly, he was bucking for a bounce in caste.

The other knew him too, of course. It was part of his job to be able to spot the celebrities and near celebrities. He zeroed in on Mauser now, directing the cameras with flicks of his hand. Mauser was glad to co-operate—like any old pro, he was fully aware of the value of telly to one’s career, even though he was at best ambivalent about the telly coverage of fracases.

“Captain! Captain Mauser, isn’t it? Joe Mauser, who held out for four days in the swamps of Louisiana with a single company while his ranking officers reformed behind him.”

That was one way of putting it, but both Mauser and the newscaster knew the reality of the situation. When the front collapsed, his commanders—of Upper caste, of course—had pulled out, leaving him to fight a delaying action while their employers mended their fences with the enemy, coming to the best terms possible. That had been the United Oil versus Allied Petroleum fracas, and Mauser had emerged with little either in glory or pelf.

What happened behind the scenes meant nothing to the buffs, though. The mind of the average fracas buff didn’t operate on a level that could appreciate anything other than victory. The good guys win, the bad guys lose—that’s obvious, isn’t it? Not one fracas fan out of ten was interested in a well-conducted retreat or holding action. They wanted blood, lots of it, and they identified with the winning side. What mattered the tactics and strategies that brought the blood? One might as well wonder at the workings of telly itself.

It was the fiesta brava of Spain and Latin America all over again. The crowd identified with the matador, never the bull. Invariably, the cheers went up when finally the wounded, bedeviled, and bewildered animal went down to its death, its moment of truth. In the fracases, fans might start out neutral, but as the action developed and it became obvious that the victors-to-be were going in for the kill, the fans’ loyalty was totally with the winner.

Mauser wasn’t particularly bitter about this aspect. It was part of his way of life. His pet peeve was the real buff. The type of fan, man or woman, who could remember every fracas you’d ever been in, every time you’d copped one, and how long you’d been in the hospital. Fans who could remember, even better than you could, every time the situation had pickled on you and you’d had to fight your way out as best you could. They’d tell you about it, their eyes gleaming, sometimes even with a slight trickle of spittle at the sides of their mouths.

They usually wanted an autograph, or a souvenir such as a uniform button. And there seemed to be no end to the tactics these fanatics would employ in consummating their adoration. Once a fan had maneuvered his way into the hospital where Mauser was laid up with a triple leg wound from a Maxim gun and begged for a piece of bloody bandage. It was one of the great regrets in Mauser’s life that he’d been in no shape to get up and kick the cloddy down the stairs.

Now he said to the telly reporter, “That’s right, Captain Mauser. Acting major in this fracas, ah—”

“Freddy. Freddy Soligen. You remember me, Captain—”

“Of course I do, Freddy.” Mauser spoke rapidly, to cover his embarrassment over his slip in memory. “We’ve been in the dill together more than once, and even when I was too scared to use my sidearm, you’d be scanning away with your camera.”

“Ha ha, listen to the captain, folks.” Freddy’s voice was smooth, his words practiced. “I hope my boss is tuned in. But seriously, Captain Mauser, what do you think the chances of Vacuum Tube Transport are in this fracas?”

Mauser looked earnestly into the camera lens. “The best, of course, or I wouldn’t have signed up with Baron Haer. Justice triumphs, Freddy, and anybody who is familiar with the issues in this fracas knows that Baron Haer is on the side of true right.”

Freddy said, holding any sarcasm he might have felt, “What would you say the issues were, Captain?”

“The basic right of free enterprise to compete. Hovercraft has held a near monopoly on transport to Fairbanks. Vacuum Tube Transport wishes to lower costs and bring the consumers of Fairbanks better service through running a vacuum tube to that area. What could be more in keeping with the traditions of the West-world?” He paused, wondering whether the fans would even consider the issues. “Although Continental Hovercraft stands in the way of free enterprise in this dispute, it is they who have demanded of the Category Military Department a trial by arms. On the face of it, justice is on the side of Baron Haer.”

Freddy Soligen addressed the camera. “Well, all you good people of the telly world, that’s an able summation the captain has made, but it certainly doesn’t jibe with what Baron Zwerdling said this morning, does it? However, as the captain says, justice will triumph, and we’ll see what the field of combat will have to offer. Thank you very much, Captain Mauser. All of us, all of us tuned in today, hope that you personally will run into no dill in this fracas.”

“Thanks, Freddy. Thanks all,” Mauser said into the camera before turning away. He wasn’t particularly keen about this part of the job, but you couldn’t underrate the importance of pleasing the buffs. In the long run your career was aided by your popularity—and that meant your chances for promotion both in military rank and in caste, since the two went hand in hand. The fans took you up, boosted you, idolized you, even worshiped you if you really made it. He, Joe Mauser, was only a minor celebrity, and as such appreciated the chance to be interviewed by such a popular reporter as Freddy Soligen.

Even as he turned, he spotted the men with whom he’d had his spat earlier. The little fellow was still to the fore. Evidently the others had decided the one place extra that he represented wasn’t worth the trouble he’d put in their way to defend it.

On an impulse he stepped up to the small man, who grinned in recognition. The grin was a revelation of an inner warmth beyond average in a world which had lost much of its human warmth.

Mauser said, “Like a job, soldier?”

“Name’s Max. Max Mainz. Sure I want a job. That’s why I’m in this everlasting line.”

“First fracas for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I had basic training in school.”

“What do you weigh, Max?”

Max’s face soured. “About one twenty.”

“Did you check out on semaphore in school?”

“Well, sure. I’m Category Food, Sub-division Cooking, Branch Chef, but like I say, I took basic military training like most everybody else.”

“I’m Captain Joe Mauser. How’d you like to be my batman?”

Max screwed up his not overly handsome face. “Gee, I don’t know. I kinda joined up to see some action. Get into the dill. You know what I mean.”

Mauser said dryly, “See here, Mainz, you’ll probably find more pickled situations next to me than you’ll want—and you’ll come out alive, or at least have a better chance of it than if you go in as infantry.”

The recruiting sergeant looked up from the desk. “Son, take a good opportunity when it drops in your lap. The captain is one of the best in the field. You’ll learn more, get better chances for promotion, if you stick with him.”

Mauser couldn’t remember having run into the sergeant before, but he said, “Thanks, Sergeant.”

Evidently realizing Joe didn’t recognize him, the other said, “We were together on the Chihuahua Reservation in the jurisdictional fracas between the United Mine Workers and the Teamsters, sir.”

It had been almost fifteen years ago. About all that Joe Mauser remembered of that fracas was the abnormal number of casualties they’d taken. His side had lost, but from this distance in time Mauser couldn’t even remember what force he’d been with. But now he said, “That’s right. I thought I recognized you, Sergeant.”

“It was my first fracas, sir.” The sergeant returned to a businesslike manner. “If you want me to hustle this lad through, Captain—”

“Please do.” Mauser turned back to Max. “I’m not sure where my billet will be. When you’re through all this, locate the officer’s mess and wait there for me.”

“Well, OK,” Max said doubtfully, still scowling.

“That’s ‘sir’,” the sergeant added ominously. “If you’ve had basic, surely you know how to address an officer?”

“Well, yes sir,” Max said hurriedly.

Mauser began to turn away, but then spotted the man immediately behind Max Mainz. He was the one with whom he had tangled earlier, the one with previous combat experience. He pointed the man out to the sergeant. “You’d better give this lad at least temporary rank of corporal. He’s a veteran and we’re short of veterans.”

The sergeant said, “Yes, sir. We sure are. Step up here, lad.” Mauser’s former foe looked properly thankful.

* * * *

Mauser finished with his own red tape and headed for the street to locate a military tailor who could do him up a set of the Haer kilts and fill his other dress requirements.

As he went, he wondered vaguely just how many different uniforms he had worn over the years. In a career as long as his own one could take, from time to time, semi-permanent positions with bodyguard services, company police, and the permanent combat troops of this corporation or that. Such positions held an element of security, but if you were ambitious you signed up for the fracases and that meant into a uniform and out of it again in as short a period as a couple of weeks.

At the door he tried to move aside, but was too slow for the quick-moving young woman who caromed off him. He caught her arm to prevent her from stumbling. She looked at him with less than thanks.

Joe took the blame for the collision. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you, Miss.”

“Obviously,” she said coldly. Her eyes went up and down him, and for a moment he wondered where he had seen her before. Somewhere, he was sure.

She was dressed as they dress who have never considered cost, and she had an elusive beauty which would have been even the more had her face not projected quite such a serious outlook. Her features were more delicate than those to which he was usually attracted, her lips less full, but still—he was reminded of the classic ideal of the British Romantic Period, the women sung of by Byron and Keats, Shelley and Moore.

She said, “Is there any particular reason why you should be staring at me, Mr. …”

“Captain Mauser,” Joe said hurriedly. “I’m afraid I’ve been rude, Miss—well, I thought I recognized you.” He hoped that she wouldn’t think he was running a tired old line on her.

She took in his civilian dress, typed it automatically, and came to an erroneous conclusion. She said, “Captain? You mean that with everyone else I know drawing down ranks from lieutenant colonel to brigadier general, you can’t make anything better than captain?”

Joe winced. “I came up from the ranks. Captain is quite an achievement, believe me. Few make it beyond sergeant,” he said humbly.

“Up from the ranks!” She took in his clothes again. “You mean you’re a Middle? You neither talk nor look like a Middle, Captain.” She used the caste rating as though it was not quite a derogatory term.

Not that she meant to be deliberately insulting, Joe told himself wearily. It was simply born in her. As once a well-educated aristocracy had, not necessarily unkindly, named their status inferiors niggers—or other aristocrats, in another area of the country, had named theirs greasers—so did this aristocracy use derogatory labels in an unknowing manner.

“Mid-Middle now, Miss,” he said slowly. “However, I was born in the Lower castes.”

An eyebrow went up, half cynical, half mocking, as though amused at a social climber. “Zen! You must have put in many an hour studying. You talk like an Upper, Captain.” With a shrug, she dropped all interest in him and turned to resume her journey.

“Just a moment,” Mauser said. “You can’t go in there, Miss—”

Her eyebrow went up again. “The name is Haer,” she said. “And just why can’t I go into my father’s offices, Captain?”

Now it came to him why he had thought he recognized her. She had basic features similar to those of that overbred ass, Balt Haer. With her, however, they came off superlatively.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess you can, under the circumstances. I was about to tell you that they’re recruiting, with men running around half clothed. Medical inspections, that sort of thing.”

She made a noise of derision and said over her shoulder, even as she sailed on, “Besides being a Haer, I’m an M.D., Captain. At the ludicrous sight of a man shuffling about in his skin, I seldom blush.” She was gone.

Mauser watched her go. Her figure was superlative from the rear, as Grecian classic as her face. “I’ll bet you don’t,” he muttered.

Had she waited a few moments, he could have explained his Upper accent and his unlikely education. When you’d copped one and spent days or weeks languishing in a hospital bed, you had plenty of time to read, to study. And Mauser had decided early on in life that any bit of knowledge he might gain was precious, potentially useful. His career had verified that belief on numerous occasions, and his natural curiosity and intelligence made it easy for him to follow his program of self-education. Had he been born an Upper, he might have been an Academician, but as it was…

Yes, time in the hospital had given him time to study, and more. Time to contemplate—and fester away in his own schemes of rebellion against fate. And Mauser had copped many in his time.