A. Bertram Chandler - The Space Mercenaries

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SPACE MERCENARIES

By A. Bertram Chandler

Scanned by BW-SciFi

"I like money," remarked the ex-Empress Irene. "I have always liked money. But I

possess a conscience. A luxury," she added thoughtfully, "which I can now afford to

indulge."

"Mmph?" grunted her husband, as he made a fractional adjustment to the gain

control.

"When I was Empress," she went on, "things were different. I could do, or order to

be done, things that now would make me shudder. As a private citizen I can weigh the

consequences - the immediate ones, I mean, not the long-range ones. It's no longer my

concern what will work out best for the Empire a hundred or a thousand years from

today. But I am concerned with the effects of any action of mine upon the ordinary

people now."

Trafford sighed, and straightened up from the chart tank with which he had been

tinkering. It was obvious to him that he would not be allowed to work undisturbed.

He turned to look at his wife, to look up at his wife. He was a small man, compact and

wiry, a typical naval officer of his day and age, while she, like all of those selected,

through the years, to occupy the non-hereditary throne of the Empire, conformed to

the standards imposed by the Committee, the so-called talent scouts. She did not need

a crown to elevate her, physically, above general mankind. She was tall, but too

beautifully proportioned ever to be described as big. An illusion of imperial robes

hung about the plain business suit that she was wearing, and her gleaming hair, in

which a single bright jewel rested, was a natural coronet.

Trafford regarded her not without appreciation, then demanded, "Just what is

biting you, Irene?''

She collapsed gratefully into one of the control room chairs. "To begin with,

Captain, you shouldn't have to ask me. In any properly organized merchant vessel it is

the Master who goes ashore on business, while the Mate stays aboard to look after the

ship."

"In the Navy," pointed out Trafford, "business is the concern of the Paymaster

Commander."

"You aren't in the Navy any longer. You resigned your commission. Remember?

And we don't run to a Purser in this wagon."

Trafford sighed again, then put away his tools. He went to one of the other chairs,

swiveled it so that he was facing Irene when he sat down. He filled and lit his pipe,

deriving a certain pleasure from the fact that it was no longer necessary for him to

request permission to smoke in the Imperial Presence. To begin with, Irene was no

longer Empress. Secondly, she was his wife. Finally, she was on the Articles as Mate,

while he was Master - monarch (in theory) of all that he surveyed.

He said mildly, speaking through the self-generated smoke screen, "Suppose we

get all this division of responsibility ironed out now, my dear. You may be the Mate -

but you are also the owner. Wanderer is your property. Therefore, it is only right and

proper that you do the dickering with the ship brokers."

"Legally speaking," she told him, "the Master has the power to sell the ship."

"But it's not legalities that have you so worried. What was all that about your

conscience?"

She laughed ruefully. "Yes. That's what's worrying me. It all seemed so simple - to

hand off this alleged yacht to anybody wanting a relatively cheap warship, and then to

blow the proceeds on a nice, economical little star tramp. But this is the trouble,

Benjamin. The only reasonable offers for the ship are from people to whom I wouldn't

dream of selling so much as a peashooter. And it's so damned obvious what's behind it

all. That blasted Committee has been pulling strings and dropping hints and

dispensing back-handers. For example - the Empire does not, officially, approve of

the Duchy of Waldegren, but the Waldegrenese have their uses. Just by behaving as

they always have behaved - and always will behave until they're taught a lesson - they

deter their neighbors, the semi-autonomous Tashkent Commonwealth, from

screaming too loudly for full autonomy. As Empress I had to play along - but as a

private citizen I'll see those stinking pirates in hell before I sell them my ship!"

"H'm. So that's why the Navy was never allowed to take really strong action

against Waldegren and one or two other pirate nests. . . .."

"Yes, my innocent Benjamin. That's why. Of course, we had to make noises of

disapproval about such things as piracy and confrontation - but we never did

anything. And there were always ways and means of seeing that the more unsavory

planetary governments never went short of arms and ships. . . .." She slumped deeper

into her chair, frowning heavily. "So it looks as though our learned friend Dr. Petti-

grew pushed off an urgent, top priority spacegram to his fellow Committeemen as

soon as we berthed - and then, flashing his identification, demanded an audience with

the Planetary Manager and dropped him a few hints. Then the P.M. did some hint

dropping in his turn - to the bosses of Dolkar Hulls Incorporated, the only firm of ship

brokers on this hick world. The word has been passed that the Empire will not, repeat

not, be pleased if Miss Irene Smith sells her armed yacht to any buyer not approved

by said Empire."

Trafford relit his pipe. He said thoughtfully, "I wasn't happy about this business

from the start. Don't these people think there's something odd about a private citizen

owning a vessel that's practically a light cruiser?"

"You should know, Benjamin, that they think that every damn thing about Terrans

is odd. A reptile just does not have the same thought processes as a mammal. But they

realize which side their bread is buttered on, make no mistake about that. They know

that they, as citizens of a frontier world, are well advised to remain on friendly terms

with the people on the other side of the frontier."

"But the Lady Eleanor is officially Empress now. Couldn't you persuade her to put

a spoke in Pettigrew's wheel?"

"Give the wench time to recover from her brain-washing. She had a far rougher

time on that hallucinogenic world than either of us. It'll be months before she's

anything more than a puppet."

"So what do we do?"

"Have you any suggestions, Benjamin?"

"We could lift ship and proceed to Llinifarne. . . ."

"Only to find that a spacegram has beaten us there, and that the brokers have been

warned to play ball with the Empire, or else."

"We could gut the ship of her armament and convert her into a cargo carrier."

"And who'll pay for it, Benjamin? I have, as you know, a considerable private

fortune - but there wouldn't be much of it left after a conversion job. We should have

no reserves whatsoever - and we shall need reserves. I know that a small, independent

operator, bucking the old-established shipping lines, is licked before he starts unless

he can afford a freight war. You people in the Navy don't know the first thing about

ship management for profit. You're far too used to signing a requisition form and then

getting everything you asked for."

"Not all the time, Irene," protested Trafford. "Some of those petty pen-pushers in

the Bureau of Supply . . ."

"Somebody has to look after the taxpayer's interests." She smiled grimly. "But all

this bickering is getting us nowhere. Let's just face the facts. We have on our hands a

ship that's at least as good as any light cruiser in your precious Navy - and the only

people willing to take her off our hands, at a fair price, are a horde of bloody-minded

pirates of whom neither of us approves. We also have on our hands a bunch of highly-

skilled technicians who are merely on loan to me from the Navy until such time as we

sell the ship. I'm surprised that they haven't demanded that they be given passage on

the same liner as Pettigrew and the prisoners. Except in times of crisis, the Navy's not

used to be being away from home for more than a week at a time."

"Lay off the Navy, can't you? But if it's any comfort to you, Metzenther and

Bronheim are incurable bachelors. And young Tallentire is quite happy to stay with

the ship as long as Susanna's here to hold his hand."

"So we can keep our Engineer, our Communications Officer, and the Gunnery

Boy. That's good to know, especially about the Gunnery Officer."

Trafford looked at her, trying to read her expression. She was not, he decided at

last, being sarcastic. But what was she driving at?

She went on, "I wonder if your friends would be willing to do the same as you -

resign their commissions?"

"We can use a first class engineer, and a trained telepath, But a gunnery

specialist?"

"Just an idea . . ." she murmured. "Just an idea. But suppose you get out of that

uniform which, after all, you aren't entitled to wear any longer, and dress up like a

respectable shipmaster having a wander ashore, and come for a pub crawl with your

Mate. . . ."

"But this chart tank . . ."

"The calibration's not all that important. Come on."

Irene was no longer Empress, but she could still give orders. Anything for a quiet

life, thought Trafford, and went to his quarters to change.

from the Terran viewpoint Slithila City had little to recommend it - but a climate

congenial to reptiles is not likely to appeal to mammals. Trafford had made Slithila

his first port of call after lifting from the planet of the hallucinogens, for only one

reason: it was the nearest world with a regular service of interstellar passenger liners.

He had wanted to get the prisoners off his hands - and Dr. Pettigrew, that overly

conscientious Committeeman, out of his hair - as soon as possible. Too, according to

the Directory of Port Information, Slithila City boasted a reliable firm of ship brokers.

No doubt the Imperial Bureaucrats still regarded Messrs. Dolkar Hulls in that light. . .

A cab summoned by Susanna on the ship-to-shore telephone was waiting at the

airlock by the time Trafford was ready. He was pleased that Irene - who was

something of a fanatic on the subject of healthy exercise - had decided not to walk.

The sky was overcast, as usual, and the thin drizzle that drifted between the low

spaceport buildings and the wet, gleaming hulls of the berthed ships made the day

seem far colder than it actually was. The mist hung in gray, ragged curtains from the

fronds of the huge tree-ferns, condensed in clammy drops that spattered down to the

apron from cranes and gantries, from the overhead structures of machines that still

functioned, somehow, in spite of their being overgrown with densely intertwined

creepers.

A dismal, green-gray world - that was Slithila. A planet whose cities were no more

than haphazard collections of low, mud-colored mounds, among which and over

which flourished the ferns and the lianas. A planet with a perpetually weeping sky

that was a low, dreary canopy over mile after mile of dismal swamp. A world whose

natives had nonetheless contrived to become fire-making, tool-using animals and

who, when the first interstellar ship from outside came in to a cautious landing, had

already established colonies upon both of the planet's satellites.

The cab was the usual three-wheeled affair, with the passenger compartment air-

conditioned for the comfort of the outworld customers, and with the driver's seat

situated over the single rear wheel, exposed to the weather. The cabbie grinned

hideously at them as they emerged from the airlock, flicked his scaly tail in the local

salutation. "It iss fine day, Kapitan. Yess?"

"Fine for you, you glorified dinosaur," responded Trafford. For some obscure

reason the Slithilians had been flattered by this expression, first used by an

irresponsible junior officer of a visiting Earth ship and then explained, in some detail,

by his embarrassed and apologetic Captain.

"To where, Kapitan?"

"Mars," answered Irene.

The driver regarded her with the expression of a petulant crocodile, then stared

reproachfully at Trafford, "Kapitan, do I the orders of this egg-layer take?"

"Yes," Trafford told him, repressing a grin. "Mars, please."

They got into the vehicle. It was warm, but not too warm, in the cabin, and dry.

They had an uninterrupted view in all directions from the wide windows. On some

worlds such a cab would have been ideally suited to sight-seeing - but on Slithia there

was little to see. The misty rain cut down visibility to less than half a mile - and, as

Trafford complained, one tree fern is very like the next one, and the one before it.

Traffic became heavier as they approached the city: cabs like their own, but with

open passenger compartments so that the occupants could enjoy the omnipresent

dampness; larger three-wheeled vehicles piled high with tarpaulin-shrouded

merchandise; and a veritable army of cyclists, each peddling his tricycle with an odd,

jerky motion, like a mechanical toy, each with his tail cocked in the air so that it

would not foul the rear wheel.

And then there was Mars - a rectangular box of a building, its straight lines in

startling contrast to the curves of the low domes surrounding it, with a mast on its

roof, at the truck of which, in crimson neon, was the age-old symbol, the circle and

arrowhead, for the Red Planet of Earth's solar system.

And it was strange, in this age of interstellar travel and commerce, how Mars itself

still remained the symbol for aridity, for jealously hoarded water, for the climatic

harshness that was the antithesis of the prevailing weather of the world of Slithila. But

it was not at all strange that Mars should be a port of refuge for those Terrans exiled

in the humid, muddy city - the clerical staff of shipping lines, consular officials, and

the like. Inside the building the air was dry, with the acrid pungency of Martian sand,

while outside it was saturated with moisture, heavy with the stink of simultaneous

growth and decay. Inside there were garish reds and oranges and yellows - sand and

wind-sculpted rocks, crimson lichens and the angular contortions of towering, golden

cacti. Outside there was the all-pervading gray-green lushness.

Once they were through the airlock door, Irene took the lead, threading her way

between the tables, at most of which there were groups of serious drinkers, to where a

man was sitting alone, moodily staring at the bottle and glass before him. He looked

up, then got to his feet, making a stiff little half-bow.

"Mr. Smith," said the ex-Empress, "this is my husband, Captain Trafford."

The two men shook hands, with conventional firmness, and Trafford studied this

new acquaintance with some curiosity. Never, he decided, had he seen such an

ordinary looking individual. Hair-colored hair. Eye-colored eyes. Face-shaped face.

And the clothing was the drab, gray cover-all that was almost a uniform for the

privates of the armies of industries and commerce, although quality and cut put its

wearer into at least an officer's category.

"Perhaps you will drink with me," the man said as the others seated themselves. "I

can recommend the tequila." He pressed the call button set in the center of the table.

"Before we go any further," asked Irene sharply, "is this place bugged?"

"No," Smith told her. "Besides, I have a distorter. And it's switched on. But it's no

use here. Wait."

With a soft whirring of caterpillar treads a robowaiter - modeled on the all-purpose

robots employed by the first Martian colonists - scurried towards them over the dry

sand covering the floor. Its receptor lenses glared at them redly. "No service," it said,

flatly, mechanically. "No service. No service."

"Don't panic," Smith told it. His hand went to a side pocket. There was a barely

audible click.

"No service," it reiterated. "No service. No service . . ."

Irene's hand went up to the jewel in her hair. She said, "I had intended to make a

wire-recording of this conversation but. . ."

Her slim fingers made an almost imperceptible twisting motion, and the robot said,

"Your orders please. Your orders please."

"Another bottle of tequila," said Smith. "With salt and lemon slices. And two more

glasses."

"The place seems to be well anti-bugged," commented Trafford.

"Too right," agreed Smith. "The proprietor maintains that there should be one

place in this city where people can drink and talk like civilized human beings without

having to worry about spies, industrial or ... otherwise. Should the offending

electronic gadgetry not be switched off at once, after a few seconds, the robowaiter

won't just say, 'No service'. It will shout the words - and the customers who want to

enjoy their drinks in peace and quiet are not slow in taking action."

"Telepaths?" asked Irene curtly.

"They're as scarce as hen's teeth. The only one that I know of is the owner himself,

and should he suspect any psionic eavesdropping, it's the bum's rush for the eaves-

dropper."

"Just as well we didn't bring Metzenther." The robowaiter brought the drinks.

While Smith was filling the glasses Irene salted a slice of lemon, nibbled it

thoughtfully, and then took a sip of the fiery spirit. "Not bad," she commented.

"No, it's not. I think that the Martian tequila is even better than the so-called

genuine stuff from Mexico."

"Is it?" Her manner became businesslike. "Now, Mr. Smith, you gave me to

understand, when we had our brief talk in the office of Dolkar Hulls, that you had a

proposition that would interest me."

"I have. You, of all people, know that it will be almost impossible to sell your

yacht to a buyer of whom you approve."

"What do you mean - me, of all people?"

The man laughed softly. "I don't know what's been going on - but I do know that a

very pale and subdued Empress Irene has booked passage aboard the Trans-Galactic

Clipper Lightning, and that she is accompanied by her personal physician and adviser,

one Dr. Pettigrew. And I know that this same Dr. Pettigrew is a ranking member of

the famous Selection Committee, and also that he has been breathing hard down the

neck of the Planetary Manager. . . .

"I also know, Miss Smith - if I may call you by the name under which you are

registered as the owner of Wanderer - that although an occasional member of our clan

can afford a space-going yacht, nobody, except yourself, owns a yacht that is a tarted-

up version of an Imperial Navy light cruiser. So, Your Imperial Highness ..."

"Irene Smith was my maiden name," she told him coldly. "I am now Mrs. Trafford.

I am the legal owner of the armed yacht Wanderer. Now, what is your proposition?"

"You no longer have any connection with the Imperial Government?"

"No more than any other private citizen of the Empire. I can assure you of that. So,

talk. The hints that you dropped earlier today interested me. See if you can interest

Captain Trafford."

"I will try," said Smith quietly. "To begin with, I am employed by Dolkar Hulls as

their Terran Adviser. In this capacity I advised against arranging the sale of your ship

to the Duchy of Waldegren. I was told by my principals that it was none of their

concern if Terrans wished to slaughter each other as long as they, Dolkar Hulls,

received a commission on the deal. I was told, too, that the prospective sale had been

approved both by the Planetary Manager and by the representative of your Imperial

Government. I have reasons for not liking the Waldegrenese, so I was pleased when

Mrs. Trafford refused to sell.

"But I am not meeting you here as the representative of Dolkar Hulls."

"Then whom do you represent?" asked Irene quietly.

"GLASS"

GLASS . . . thought Trafford. Yes, it all added up. What was their slogan? "Our

motives are transparently clear." And their detractors sneered, "They're too dirty to

see through."

GLASS. The Galactic League for the Abolition of Suppression and Slavery.

"Aren't you getting ambitious?" queried Irene. "I thought that lending a financial

helping hand to the odd revolution was as far as you ever went. But chartering a

warship . . ."

"We can afford it."

"I'm pleased to hear that. I was afraid that you'd be wanting our services for free."

"We prefer to pay. After all, history tells us that mercenaries in general have a very

good record of loyalty to their paymasters."

"And what do you say, Benjamin?" Irene seemed to be enjoying herself. "What do

you say, ex-Commander Trafford, late of the Imperial Navy? Do you want to be a

mercenary? Do you want to enlist under the banner of this bunch of traitors,

subversives, and screwballs?"

"If they are, as they claim, on the side of the angels . . ." said Trafford dubiously.

"But they are, they are. Unfortunately their activities often run counter to Imperial

Policy. But that's not my worry."

Trafford was silent. The conditioning of years of training was hard to shake off. As

a naval officer he had always been an instrument of Imperial Policy, had always

believed that the object of this policy was the greatest good for the greatest number.

He met his wife's questioning stare, and then stated this belief.

"Is it?" she countered. "Is it?" She laughed. "I know too much. I allowed myself to

be kidded along when I was Empress, the glamorous figurehead who was, actually,

quite a lot more than a figurehead. But that experience on the hallucinogenic planet

opened my eyes. Frankly, I want to do something to make up for the many wrong

things - and to hell with the Empire's long-term policy! - That I did when I was

Empress. No, not for nothing. I know that do-gooders are responsible for more harm

than good, and are justly despised by the people with whose lives they tamper. But -

how does that quotation go? - I don't mind making a stab at saving the sum of things

for pay."

"Spoken like a true mercenary," said Smith.

Trafford said to him bluntly, "You want a warship. So you think that there will be

fighting."

"What else is a warship for?"

"Sometimes just for show. But if there is fighting, I'll not turn my guns on any

vessel of the Imperial Navy."

"We shall respect your loyalties, Captain Trafford. But we have yet to discover

whether or not you will be loyal to us. You and your officers will be handled very

cautiously indeed, until we are sure of you. But this opportunity of obtaining the

services of a cruiser was far too good to let it slip by."

"I shall need my specialists," Trafford said to Irene. "But will they be willing to

work for an organization like GLASS?"

"I think they will. Like us, they were able to stand well back, to take a good look at

themselves, their loyalties and their beliefs and their prejudices."

"Tallentire missed out on the deal, and so did Susanna."

"Susanna is loyal to me, and Tallentire will go where she goes."

"I'm still not sure about it all . . ." murmured Trafford.

"It's employment," Irene told him cheerfully. "And the pay's good." She looked at

Smith. "Is it?" she asked.

"We've yet to draw up the contract," the man told her. "But we are not without

funds." He smiled. "We have been known to accept contributions from the people we

help."

"So you're mercenaries yourselves," said Irene.

"I suppose we are. But ethical ones. And I hope that you will be able to say the

same about yourselves."

III

So they were mercenaries, all of them.

The specialist officers had agreed to stay in the ship out of personal loyalty to

Trafford and to Irene - and after all, Tallentire said, their commissions had been

signed by her and not by the present Empress. She thought it wisest not to enlighten

the officers on this point. And then Irene, more or less disguised by dark glasses, a

wide-brimmed hat, and a high-collared coat, had stormed aboard Lightning a bare half

hour prior to lifting. She had sought out Pettigrew and bullied him into letting her see

the woman who had been her stand-in, the Lady Eleanor - and who was now,

officially, the Empress Irene. She had persuaded her to append her signature to the

documents releasing Metzenther, Bronheim, and Tallentire from the Imperial Naval

Service. She had watched the liner's Captain and Chief Officer, stiff and formal in the

presence of Royalty, witness the scrawled Irene Imperatrix. It was not the first time

that Eleanor had written those words. As stand-in she had often signed official papers

and, in fact, by this time would have found it hard to put anything down in her own

handwriting.

And then Irene, taking Trafford by the hand, had led him gently but firmly through

the jungles of red tape by which merchant shipping is overgrown. To begin with, the

Terran Consul had to issue provisional Certificates of Competency to Trafford and the

others, their naval commissions being regarded as proof that they were adequately

qualified. (Irene, as she sourly reminded her husband, had been obliged to gain her

Master Astronaut's Certificate the hard way.) Then the Consul General put Trafford's

name on the Register as Master.

Next, Trafford had to open Wanderer's Articles of Agreement at the Shipping

Office. This task completed, he stood by while the others signed in their various

capacities - Irene as Mate, Tallentire as Second Mate, Bronheim as Chief Engineer,

Metzenther as Communications Officer, and Susanna as Purser.

Finally, when they were all seated around a table in Mars, he protested, "But

Wanderer is not a merchant vessel."

"In the eyes of the Law she is," Irene told him. "She's privately owned. She wears

the flag of no Navy. . . ."

"But a merchant vessel with laser projectors and guided missiles!" went on

Trafford.

"Just a defensive armament," she said airily. "Quite legal. After all, I got my

gunnery training in the defensively armed ships of the Dog Star Line."

Tallentire muttered something about an armed rabble and she snapped, "Pipe

down, Second Mate!"

The Gunnery Officer sat back in his chair, his lean, darkly handsome face sulky.

He takes himself too seriously, Trafford thought. And then he looked at Susanna,

who, in appearance, could almost have been the young man's sister. She was

regarding Tallentire with a quizzical expression. She caught his eye and smiled

slightly, and he flashed her a white grin in return. The Captain, watching the brief

interchange, was relieved. Susanna would be able to keep Tallentire in order.

"But just when does defense end and attack start?" asked Trafford.

"That," answered Irene, "has been a fruitful field for legal quibbling ever since

there was a line of demarcation drawn between the merchant ship and the fighting

ship. This much is clear - the Master of a merchantman is entitled to resist seizure or

destruction by force of arms. But as to whether or not he is entitled to fire the first

shot . . ." She shrugged.

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SPACEMERCENARIESByA.BertramChandlerScannedbyBW-SciFiCopyright©,1965,byAceBooks,Inc.AllRightsReservedI"Ilikemoney,"remarkedtheex-EmpressIrene."Ihavealwayslikedmoney.ButIpossessaconscience.Aluxury,"sheaddedthoughtfully,"whichIcannowaffordtoindulge.""Mmph?"gruntedherhusband,ashemadeafractionaladjustmen...

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A. Bertram Chandler - The Space Mercenaries

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