Robert Asprin - The Cold Cash War

He smiled grimly at them. Not a person in the room doubted him.

"Now, there are several automatic objections which would be raised to such a force. The most obvious is the fear of a military takeover. In reply, I would point out that right now we could kill everyone in this room. The question is why? Any such army which abused its power would rapidly be confronted by several things. The first would be an armed uprising of the general populace. If every time we killed someone, five other people got upset and we had to kill them, eventually there would be no one left in the world but soldiers. We are not that kind of madmen. By definition, we are soldiers, not farmers or storekeepers. We are dependent on you for our livelihood. You don't kill the goose that lays the golden egg, and a sane man doesn't shoot his boss."

He paused. There was a thoughtful silence in the room.

"It might be pointed out that we have been operating in the C-Block for a number of years now in this capacity. They needed all available manpower for their rebuilding, so they cannibalized the army and turned the job of security over to us. It was a desperation move, but it's worked. The arrangement has proven beneficial to all concerned. I might add that to date there have been no attempted military takeovers. The only lingering fear is of a takeover attempt from outside the C-Block, which is why we are here. We offer you a cheap and lasting peace by subscribing to our services. There is no threat of invasion if there is no armed, organized invasion force."

His words hung in the air. Fred found himself trying to imagine a world without a threat of war.

"There is another, less pleasant objection which might be raised to this plan. I'm sure that as businessmen, it has occurred to you. War is good business. It can provide a vital shot in the arm to a sagging economy. Do we really want to eliminate war?

"Before I answer that question, let me point out another problem. How do we keep in training? If we are successful, if war becomes obsolete, if there is no enemy for us to train for, what is to keep us from becoming fat, lazy, and useless leeches?"

He smiled at the room.

"You in this room have given us an answer to both problems. For the last two years in the C-Block, we have been using your kill-suits in our training. Our main purpose was to provide hard training for our troops, but it had a surprising side product. Military maneuvers in kill-suits have emerged as a spectator sport of astounding popularity. We have developed various categories of competition and regular teams have formed, each with their followers and fans. Apparently, once the populace becomes accustomed to the fact that no real injuries or deaths are incurred, they find it far more enjoyable than movies or television. Certain of our mercenaries have become minor celebrities and occasionally have to be guarded from autograph-seeking fans."

There was a low buzz of conversation going as he continued.

"Now this means that not only does the military industry continue, but that there is an unexpected windfall of a new spectator sport. I am sure I do not have to elaborate for this assemblage the profits latent in proper handling of a spectator sport."

This time he actually got a low ripple of laughter in response to his joke. Even Fred found himself chortling. Don't teach your grandmother to steal sheep, sonny.

"Well, I feel I have used up enough of your time on the proposal. I'd ask that you discuss it among yourselves and with your superiors. We will be back in a week, at which time we will be ready to answer any and all questions you might have. I would like to apologize for the tactic of holding you at gunpoint, but we were not certain what your initial reaction would be to our appearance. I will pay you the compliment of telling you the guns are loaded. We are more than slightly afraid of you. You are dangerous men. Thank you."

He stepped down from the podium and started for the door, gathering his men as he went.

Gutsy bastard! thought Fred, and started to clap. Others picked it up, and by the time the mercenaries reached the door, the applause was thunderous. They paused, waved, and left.

"Sorry I couldn't tell you sooner, Steve, but orders are orders."

"No problem."

"I want to tell you I rate drawing down on you as one of the nerviest things I've done in my life. Oh, I have a contract offer for you from the coalition."

"Kind of hoped you would. Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"Hey, thanks. I need one after that."

They walked on in silence for a while. Finally Tidwell broke the reverie.

"Autograph-seeking fans?"

"Hey, wait till it happens to you. It's spooky."

They both laughed.

"Say, tell me, Clancy-what's it like working for the C-Block?"

"Do you want the truth? I couldn't say this back there for fear of being torn apart, but there's no difference. Call it the United Board of Directors or the Party. A fat cat string-puller is a fat cat string-puller, and anyone in a position of power without controls has the same problems. The phrasing is different, but they both say the same thing. Keep the workers happy with an illusion of having some say so they don't tear us out of our cushy pigeonholes. That's what makes our job so easy. People are people. They shy away from violence and stuff their faces with free candy whenever they can. And nobody but nobody acknowledges their base drives like greed. We do, so we have the world by the short and curlys."

Tidwell waved a hand.

"That's too heavy for me. Speaking of base drives, I still want that drink. Where are we going?"

"Aki's found a little Japanese restaurant that serves a good Irish whiskey. The whole crew hangs out there. "'

"You're on. Autograph-seeking fans, huh?"

The two mercenaries walked on, laughing oblivious to the curious and indignant stares directed at them.

Thomas Mausier was extremely busy. Ever since the C-Block's curtain of silence had been lifted, his business had almost tripled. All the questions that had backlogged so long without answers were suddenly live again. His agents were having a field day.

The biggest problem confronting Mausier currently was determining if this was merely a wave that would die back down to normal levels, or if he should expand his operations to handle the new volume. He had already had to add a second shift just to process the items pouring in 'round the clock, and he hadn't had time to pursue his hobby in nearly a month. Not bad for a little business he had started to escape the gray flannel rat race.

At one point he had been worried about his business collapsing in the wake of the new order, but he should have known better. Information doesn't answer questions, it raises new ones. As long as there was money and people at stake, he'd be in business.

The light on the closed circuit television screen on his desk glowed to life, and he keyed it on.

"Yes, Ms. Witley?"

"Two men in the outer office to see you. They say it's important."

As she spoke, she subtly manipulated the controls and the two men appeared in a split-screen effect.

They looked like corporate types, and their visit was uncomfortably close to lunch. Then he remembered his first visit from Hornsby.

"Bring them back."

A few moments later they appeared. Ms. Witley did a quick round of introductions and left. Mausier slyly tripped the videotape recorders as he shook their hands. He'd gotten into the habit of taping all of his private conferences for later review.

"Now then Mr. Stills, Mr. Weaver. Are you buying or selling?"

They looked at him blankly. He felt a spark of annoyance.

"Buying or selling...?"

"Information. I assume that's why you're here. We don't deal in anything else."