Arthur Zagat - The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume IX

Joe 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.”

The recruiting sergeant looked up from the desk. It was Max Mainz’s turn to be processed. The sergeant said, “Lad, 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.”

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

The other said, evidently realizing Joe didn’t recognize him, “We were together on the Chihuahua Reservation, on the jurisdictional fracas between the United Miners 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 Joe 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 went businesslike. “If you want I should hustle this lad though, captain—”

“Please do, sergeant.” Joe added 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, O.K.,” Max said doubtfully, still scowling but evidently a servant of an officer, if he wanted to be or not.

“Sir,” the sergeant added ominously. “If you’ve had basic, you know enough how to address an officer.”

“Well, yessir,” Max said hurriedly.

Joe began to turn away, but then spotted the man immediately behind Max Mainz. He was one of the three with whom Joe had tangled earlier, the one who’d obviously had 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.” Joe’s former foe looked properly thankful.

Joe Mauser finished off 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 in his time.

In a career as long as his own from time to time you took semi-permanent positions in bodyguards, company police, or possibly the permanent combat troops of this corporation or that. But largely, 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 hadn’t her face projected quite such a serious outlook. Her features were more delicate than those to which he was usually attracted. Her lips were less full, but still— He was reminded of the classic ideal of the British Romantic Period, the women sung of by Byron and Keats, Shelly 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.”

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. He said carefully, “I came up from the ranks, Miss. Captain is quite an achievement, believe me.”

“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 knew, wearily. How well he knew. 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. Yes, how well he knew.

He said very evenly, “Mid-Middle now, Miss. However, I was born in the Lower castes.”

An eyebrow went up. “Zen! You must have put in many an hour studying. You talk like an Upper, captain.” She dropped all interest in him and turned to resume her journey.

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

Her eyebrows went up again. “The name is Haer,” she said. “Why can’t I go in here, captain?”

Now it came to him why he had thought he recognized her. She had basic features similar to those of that overbred poppycock, Balt Haer.

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

She made a noise through her nose 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 shorts, I seldom blush.”

She was gone.

Joe Mauser looked after her. “I’ll bet you don’t,” he muttered.

Had she waited a few minutes he could have explained his Upper accent and his unlikely education. When you’d copped one you had plenty of opportunity in hospital beds to read, to study, to contemplate—and to fester away in your own schemes of rebellion against fate. And Joe had copped many in his time.

By the time Joe Mauser called it a day and retired to his quarters he was exhausted to the point where his basic dissatisfaction with the trade he followed was heavily upon him.

He had met his immediate senior officers, largely dilettante Uppers with precious little field experience, and was unimpressed. And he’d met his own junior officers and was shocked. By the looks of things at this stage, Captain Mauser’s squadron would be going into this fracas both undermanned with Rank Privates and with junior officers composed largely of temporarily promoted noncoms. If this was typical of Baron Haer’s total force, then Balt Haer had been correct; unconditional surrender was to be considered, no matter how disastrous to Haer family fortunes.

Joe had been able to take immediate delivery of one kilted uniform. Now, inside his quarters, he began stripping out of his jacket. Somewhat to his surprise, the small man he had selected earlier in the day to be his batman entered from an inner room, also resplendent in the Haer uniform and obviously happily so.

He helped his superior out of the jacket with an ease that held no subservience but at the same time was correctly respectful. You’d have thought him a batman specially trained.

Joe grunted, “Max, isn’t it? I’d forgotten about you. Glad you found our billet all right.”

Max said, “Yes, sir. Would the captain like a drink? I picked up a bottle of applejack. Applejack’s the drink around here, sir. Makes a topnotch highball with ginger ale and a twist of lemon.”

Joe Mauser looked at him. Evidently his tapping this man for orderly had been sheer fortune. Well, Joe Mauser could use some good luck on this job. He hoped it didn’t end with selecting a batman.