The War for Profit Series Omnibus (100 page)

Galen entered his office and fired up the comms. The latest message from the Chancellor’s office was sent by his chief of staff. It simply said, “The Chancellor is dead. Died of a single, self-inflicted gunshot wound to his right temple.”

Galen keyed his personal communicator. “Hey Colonel Baek, you there?”

“Yessir.”

“We’re leaving ASAP. How much space do you have on those assault boats?”

“Enough. They’re on the tarmac outside the marshaling yard.”

Galen thought for a moment. “Good. Tad, you catch that?”

“Roger.” Tad’s voice was strained. “What happened?”

“Why the rush?” Spike’s voice.

Galen said, “The Chancellor is dead. Our obligations here have been met. It is time for extraction. Get out everybody we can get out in six hours or less. We need to get out of this system before that Mosh fleet can get back from blocking the solar storm. Also, the indigs at High Command will want us to stay here and get turned into dog meat while they skate off to Capella. Not acceptable.”

Tad’s voice, “Roger, we’re moving on that now.”

“Jasmine Six out.” Galen sat at his desk, shut off the comms gear. He then changed into a fresh, clean set of combat coveralls and hung his gun belt on the back of his chair. Leave it for the Mandarins, they would need it. He left his office and jogged across the quadrangle to the marshaling yard. Tad was there, directing the troops to leave their vehicles and move out to the tarmac on foot.

Galen got his attention. “Hey ops daddy. Going well?”

Tad shrugged. “Lift capability. We can get our troops out but their gear weighs too much.”

Galen nodded. “Tell them to ground everything but boots and coveralls.”

Tad said, “That’s about all we can manage. But it’ll still be tight. You have room for me on the command drop ship?”

“Sure.” Galen smiled.

“Okay. We’ll have to leave last so I can direct operations right up to the end.”

“Sure. No problem.” Galen patted Tad on the shoulder and walked through the marshaling yard, past vehicles parked in somewhat sloppy rows. Beyond the yard was the tarmac and company-sized formations of Marines and Mercenaries formed up. They grounded their war gear and weapons and then marched off to board assault boats.

They were packed in tight, standing room only. Galen looked back at the tarmac and saw several blocks of grounded gear from formations that had already prepared to depart. He then made his way over to this command jump ship and sat in the cockpit with the flight crew. The pilot said, “Welcome aboard, sir.”

Galen said, “Won’t be long. Are you sure about the jump?”

“We can do it. Won’t be easy, but it can be done.”

Colonel Baek entered the cockpit and sat next to Galen, handed a slip of paper to the pilot. “The coordinates I promised you.”

“Thanks.” The pilot began entering data and making calculations.

Tad entered and said, “That’s about it, just two boats to go.”

“Have a seat,” said Galen.

Tad sat and fastened his seat belt, looked at his communicator screen. Beyond the chain-link fence of the marshaling yard was a mass of military-age Mandarin men. They pressed against it, a few climbing over. Here to get their hands on the gear left by the Marines and Mercenaries, most likely.

The loadmaster called up to announce that the ramp was closed and the cargo secure. Tad nodded and the pilot ordered the assault boats to lift. They took off and headed for he coordinates of the pirate jump point provided by Colonel Baek. It was a longer flight, but Galen didn’t want to have to confront the Capellan Space Force at the conventional jump point. The Interceptors lifted off next, and then Galen’s jump ship followed last. Through the view port, Galen saw Mandarin men grabbing at the war gear on the ground. An organized group of uniformed soldiers marched in formation toward the military vehicles in the marshaling yard.

The pilot arrived at the jump point and engaged the jump point generator. The assault boats moved toward it, made final adjustments to their vectors, and passed through one after the other. An indicator on the instrument panel of the command drop ship turned amber. The pilot shut down the jump point and said, “It’s not a problem, just have to let the generator cool for a couple of minutes.”

The two dozen remaining assault boats and seventeen Interceptors waited. Galen said, “Can we get them all out on the next jump?”

The pilot nodded. Then a mass of space shimmered and shifted and fourteen Mandarin Space Force stealth boats materialized in front of the command drop ship. The instrument panel received an encrypted hail. The pilot looked back at Galen.

Galen said, “Answer it.”

The pilot acknowledged the hail.

“Mercenaries, this is Commander Chey. Requesting assistance.”

Galen paused. He was staring at enough firepower to turn his little refugee caravan into less than an historical footnote. He cleared his throat and said, “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“We ran out of chow three days ago and just today ran out of water. Can you give us anything, anything at all?”

Galen looked at Tad, at the pilot. Colonel Baek shook his head. “We got nothing. We left supplies on the ground to make room for people.”

Galen said, “We’ll give you passage to Capella. I’m sure they can help you out.”

A long pause and then Commander Chey said, “Thank you, that will do.”

“Stand by for eleven minutes. I’ll send you vector data.”

“Standing by.” Commander Chey waited.

The assault boats and Interceptors passed through the point, the pilot let the generator cool, sent vector data to the stealth boats, generated the point again to let them pass, then took the command drop ship through behind them.

On the other side they were detected by a Capellan Confederation Space Force patrol. They sent a transport ship to their location. The boats and Interceptors docked and the personnel were sorted out. All the Capellan Space Marines re-boarded their assault boats for a ride to their home planet. The Mandarin Stealth Boats were taken by Capella, not permitted to return to Mandarin. That war was essentially over. The Capellan Space Force wasn’t in the business of sending its people to certain death.

Galen sat in the lounge of the transport ship and sipped ale. Soon this ship would take his people to Juventud, the new home for what was left of the Jasmine Panzer Brigade. He sat and wondered abut the troops left behind. The dead, he could honor their service, their sacrifice. That was something he knew how to do, he had plenty of practice. But the ones captured by the Mosh, the ones taken prisoner. He could only guess at their fate and the thought of it churned his stomach.

Mike Stovall lay on his back under the quilt of his sturdy bed. It was in the loft of an A-frame resort getaway cabin in the mountains to the east of the Skeleton Desert on Mandarin. He slept naked, not much sense in getting dressed. He did have a bath robe and a pair of slippers by the door, something to wear if he wanted to leave his room. The sun was just coming up over the ridge of the mountains across the valley. He was Terran as a child, taken to grow up on Langston by his parents, enlisted in the Langston Legion, was discharged early for not being black enough…

Moved to Capella and joined their Space Marines, became an assault boat pilot, became a Panzer Brigade Interceptor pilot, was shot down and captured, held as a bondsman by the Mosh. His mission, at the request of his captors, was to impregnate as many Mosh women as possible during a Standard year. Their gene pool was getting stale; they needed an infusion of new blood. They could all pass for first cousins; the majority looked like brothers and sisters, and there were clones too.

A knock came at the door. Inger was the house keeper, a young woman not yet ready for breeding. In her mid-teens, perhaps. She was one of the High Chief’s great-grand daughters. Stovall was certain that the intention was for him to marry her after his year of bondsmanship was over, an enticing bribe to get him to choose to remain with the Mosh instead of going home. She was pretty, super-cute.

Stovall said, “Inger?”

The door opened. “No. My name is Marpha.”

Marpha was tall, blonde, full-figured, mid-thirties. She wore a shawl over her white peasant blouse, a red knee-length wool skirt, and sturdy black walking shoes. She removed her shawl and hung it on the coat rack by the door next to Stovall’s robe. Stovall eyed her ample cleavage. She approached the bed and pulled back the blanket, leaned over and fondled Stovall’s genitalia. She then stood up and reached under her skirt and removed her underwear, climbed onto the bed and straddled Stovall, enveloped him, rode and thrust. He climaxed, glanced at the clock. Six minutes this time, not too bad. She leaned forward and lay on him until her ragged breathing and fast pulse went back to a normal resting rate. She rolled off him, sat up, stood by the bed and slid her underwear back on, put her shawl back on and looked back and winked as she left the room.

Inger entered and used a hot washcloth to wipe his groin. He sat up and pulled his quilt up to his waist. Inger sat a breakfast tray across his lap. Pork chops, fried eggs and a tall glass of cold milk. Breakfast. Stovall said, “Thank you, Inger.”

Inger curtsied and left, a blush on her cheeks.

He turned on the vid and watched a news show about events from the day before. The conquest was complete. The last Mandarin offensive campaign was crushed and the victorious Mosh were rooting out the last tiny pockets of resistance in the capitol city of Mandarin itself. In the background of some of the combat footage, Stovall recognized the buildings of the Jasmine Panzer Brigade. The news reported that the mercenaries managed to flee but had left their equipment behind for the Mandarins to use.

Stovall stared. So that’s how it ends. Maybe he would settle here with the Mosh. He’d be a land owner, head of a household and a member of the ruling elite. If he went home he’d be starting from scratch at the very bottom of society. Anyway, where was home, he wondered. Maybe this was it. So far so good.

***

Galen’s command jump ship landed at the spaceport on Juventud and backed into a hangar. He and the other members of the command group strode down the cargo ramp toward a collection of friends and family there to greet them. Galen recognized Karen and angled toward her. The boys were at her side and charged forward to hug him, stopped him in his tracks. Karen stepped from the crowd and Galen noticed her distended belly. The boys stepped aside and she wrapped her arms around him and he kissed her full on the lips. They broke off the kiss and she said, “Welcome home, Mister.”

Galen stepped back and looked her up and down. “Good news?”

She patted her belly. “It’s a girl, due next month.”

Galen hugged her again and their boys followed them out the back door of the hanger where a taxi waited to take them to their hotel.

Next morning, the senior leaders of the Brigade met with the board of directors in the hotel conference room. The Chairman cleared his throat and said, “First order of business is a vote to disband the Jasmine Panzer Brigade. After careful consideration, I’ve decided that this is the best course of action for all involved. All in favor?”

The board members all raise their hands.

“Unanimous. Good. Now that’s settled, Mister Raper, what are your plans?”

Galen said, “I’m taking an instructor position at the Ostwind Armor Academy on Osterich.”

The Chairman said, “Good choice. The rest of you, go around the table and tell us what you have planned.”

Marjorie Polar said, “I’m a year and a half out from retirement. I’m going to Fairgotten to serve with General Sevin long enough to finish my twenty.”

“Me too,” said Spike. “Going to serve with Sevin.”

Tad said, “I’m staying here on Juventud, planetary defense operations chief.”

The Chairman said, “General Sevin will take anyone from the Brigade who wants to serve with him. Otherwise, the troops are hereby released from their contracts. If there is nothing else, this meeting is over.”

The Chairman stood and they all stood along with him and made their way out of the room.

***

The Mosh High Chief stood in the press box of the stadium in downtown Mandarin City and spoke using the sound system. “Good people of Mandarin, it is good, to serve the Mosh.”

Nearly sixty thousand Mandarins filled the seats of the stadium. An omnidirectional hologram hung high in the air above the athletic field. It was not three dimensional but did give a projection that seemed oriented directly to the viewer no matter what angle it was viewed from. The High Chief’s face filled that screen. A procession of civilians entered the stadium from beneath the press box. A long line of men and women, young and old. Some well-dressed, some overdressed in tacky socialite gear, others wearing conservative business attire. Fat, skinny, a real slice of humanity but for one important distinction: they all had an aloof, superior, and generally annoyed demeanor.

After the group filed in under Mosh warrior escort, the High Chief announced, “What you see before you are your old masters, the five hundred people who were the wealthiest and most powerful citizens of Mandarin. Notice that not a single one of them suffered injury or death. They, however, sent millions of Mandarins to die on the field of battle to protect their wealth and power from my invasion. I lost many good friends, relatives, even one of my two sons were killed. But that was my responsibility and I ask no sympathy from you, the people of Mandarin.

“I do point out, however, that each and every one of these people had contacted me or one of my Chiefs, negotiating with us, your enemy at the time, begging us to allow them to keep some of their wealth and power, to preserve their lives of wealth and privilege after our victory was complete. They offered to assist us in our conquest in exchange for our favor, and at the very same time they were sending millions of you to your deaths. This is a crime and will be punished.”

The Mosh warrior escorts left the field and the five hundred Mandarins on the field looked around and spread out into little groups of two and three. Hands on hips or arms folded, displeased and bored. The guards locked the gate behind them. At the far end of the field, a group of thirty one Mosh men entered wearing simple olive drab coveralls and leather work boots. They were unarmed.

The High Chief announced, “Now entering the stadium are Mosh warriors accused of cowardice. No one can know what is truly in the heart of another warrior. What may look like cowardice to an observer might actually be discretion and valor. For this reason, these warriors have been granted trial by combat, the chance to prove their accusers wrong.”

The civilians on the field meandered to encircle the warriors, to get a good vantage point to view this trial by combat. The High Chief announced, “Let the trial begin!”

The Mosh warriors each grabbed a civilian, pushed them face down and then wrenched their necks. They then began bare handedly killing the civilians on the field. The civilians soon realized the combat was not for their entertainment, but for their own execution.

The crowd cheered, roared, and applauded the more interesting kills. A clump of business executives ran to the far wall from the killing and gestured wildly for their comrades to give them a hand up so they could escape over the wall, while the business executives near them suggested they should be lifted out first. This side-show continued while the business executives vainly tried to convince the others to form their hands into stirrups to help them out over the wall.

The Mosh tried more interesting moves, caught up in the applause of the crowd. They truly wanted to put on a good show. One Mosh warrior grabbed the necks of two obese women and cracked their heads together several times until one of them burst, then put the boots to the other’s head until it split open as well. A pair of Mosh teamed up, the first one doing rolling tackles to knock civilians off their feet, the second one following along to stomp their necks to kill them.

Soon there were less than twenty civilians left alive on the field. Half a dozen Mosh kept their distance, injured in one way or another. Dislocated joints, sprains, and one seemed to have a broken leg.

The last of the civilians stood their ground. Business executives, for the most part. The Mosh set upon them individually, wrestled and grappled for a few seconds to entertain the crowd, then broke the necks of their opponents and stood and brushed themselves off. All but one. One Mosh warrior lay on the ground, his limbs contorted into impossible positions, his head turned backward. A gray-haired business executive stood over the body, raised his balled fists and looked up and let out a bellowing scream. He was the last civilian standing.

The uninjured Mosh formed up in two rows of ten and moved slowly toward the old business executive. He managed a solid kick to the face of one warrior, a vicious punch to the neck of another, was pushed to the ground and smothered by a pile of Mosh warriors who waited a full two minutes before untangling the dog pile to see if their intended victim were dead. He was. His hands were in a death grip around the throat of a Mosh warrior who had died along with him.

The surviving Mosh faced the press box.

The High Chief announced, “You have proven yourselves worthy and are granted all the rights and privileges of being my adopted sons. Your accusers acted in good faith, reporting what they perceived as cowardice. I bear them no ill will. However, from this day forward, beware any fool who accuses you of cowardice again.”

The screen shut off. The Mosh High Chief shut off the sound system and said to his son, “That didn’t go quite the way I expected.”

His son said, “Even our least worthy warriors understand the importance of teamwork. The wealthy elites, they were selfish. They believed it was beneath them to help one another. That is why five hundred of them were no match for thirty one of our least worthy warriors.”

The High Chief said, “And I have gained twenty nine sons because of it. They will fill bureaucratic offices in my lodge. All is well.”