Barbarians at the Gates (41 page)

He shuddered inwardly, wondering how anyone could manage to remain indifferent in the face of such suffering. Now that he knew to look, he saw hundreds of slaves, mainly young and female. One of the dumpsters had been turned into a brothel, with girls outside waving to customers and inviting them to come inside for some fun and games. The youngest he saw couldn’t be older than twelve, perhaps younger. Or perhaps she’d been engineered to meet a particular demand...no, that wasn’t possible. Hobson’s Choice didn’t have the medical tools to engineer a person’s body for a given specification.

His nose twitched as the wind caught a smell of cooking meat and blew it his way. Someone was cooking a dinner for a pirate crew and showing off the loot they’d taken from their victims. He almost stopped dead as he saw the people following them, nine girls and five boys, their hands manacled in front of them. They had to be captives and, judging by their state, not ones worth ransoming. He saw their fate in the eyes of the people watching them, studying the captives as a farmer would study a cow or a horse, and shivered. The Federation Navy needed to stomp on the pirates, hard. Perhaps, after the war, the corrupt governors would be deposed and Hobson’s Choice could be invaded and crushed.

“This way,” Uzi said. He led them towards a small bar. There was no music coming from inside, thankfully. “I suggest that we all have a drink here before you go back to the ship.”

Roman said nothing as they found a table and ordered drinks. The bar seemed to be marginally civilized, although the waitress was topless and had the tired expression of a person who had seen too much too young. The scars covering her breasts and arms made Roman look away in a hurry. He studied the drink she placed in front of him, but decided not to try it. A pint glass of foaming green liquid didn’t look particularly appetizing.

“May I join you?” a new voice asked.

Roman looked up to see a man who was blatantly out of place, wearing a black business suit and tie even in the heat. He was a man who didn’t want to remain unnoticed, he realized. He wanted the planet’s inhabitants to know who he was, and why.

“You’re off the
Wildflower
, are you not? A free company ship?”

“That we are,” Uzi said in a bored tone. He’d warned them that there might be a “chance” meeting with a recruiter and, if so, they were to keep their mouths shut. Roman was happy to obey.

“My unit just worked out our last contract,” Uzi continued. “And who might you be?”

“I am Devon,” the man said. “My employers have a particular interest in hiring men of the free companies.”

He reminded Roman of the man who’d tried to sell him a used aircar. There was something greasy about him. But there was an odd sort of contempt behind the man’s smile that didn’t add up; what was this man doing here?

“And we happen to be in need of a new contract,” Uzi said. He pulled out a chair for Devon and waved to the waitress. “Another beer for my new friend here, love!”

Devon settled himself down with the grace and poise of a visiting aristocrat slumming it among the common herd. Roman was privately surprised that the man had lasted so long on such a lawless planet, but perhaps he had the money—or connections—to keep him alive. If he was willing to make an approach to a ship no one had seen before, at least as a mercenary ship, he was clearly rolling in cash.

Or perhaps he was an idiot. There was no way to know.

“Thank you, my friend,” Devon said with a rather sardonic smile. “I’ll get right to the point. What do you have to offer my employers?”

Uzi pretended to consider it. “I would be more interested in knowing what you can pay us. There are plenty of possible employers out there looking to hire combat veterans. My crew and I were on Paradise, and several of us were on Romulus during the civil war. We’re not exactly desperate for cash, you know.”

There was, just for a second, a brief flash of anger on Devon’s face.

“Nor are my employers,” he said evenly. “They are prepared to offer very competitive rates to any starship crews or groundpounders that are prepared to sign up with them. They will even throw in a limited budget for repairs and spare parts, or even training if you feel it necessary. And there may be other incentives, should you perform well.”

“I see,” Uzi said. “And who might we be fighting?”

Roman saw his expression alter, slightly. It was a good offer, perhaps too good.

“Ideally, you won’t be fighting anyone at all,” Devon said.

Uzi didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.

“If it does come down to a fight, your exact roles will depend upon your capabilities,” Devon explained. “You have a light cruiser. You may be asked to escort convoys, or even take part in small actions. You may even...”

Roman listened with carefully-hidden amusement as Devon and Uzi bartered. He’d learned a great deal over the past few years about the economics of mercenary service. Mercenaries weren’t cowards, far from it, but they were often reluctant to risk their ships in direct combat. An even fight, particularly against the Federation Navy, might see those valuable investments destroyed in battle. They tended to prefer groundside actions, where their valuable starships wouldn’t be at risk.

And that raised the question of just who Uzi and his team would be working for. The obvious answer was one of the warlords, yet Roman wondered if that were actually true. There was something about the whole arrangement that puzzled him. The two warlords might have been at daggers drawn over the last few weeks—the raid on Tranter had been repaid by a raid on Marx, which had led to another raid, and another—and yet, there was no sense of urgency. Devon was bartering carefully, rather than desperately, as if he had all the time in the world. Or it could all be an act.

He looked up sharply as a pair of hulking green aliens advanced into the bar. They both wore nothing more than loincloths and weapons bandoleers, each one carrying a full-sized plasma cannon on their backs. The aliens were known for serving as mercenaries and enforcers for the criminal underworld, although they were rarely seen near the Core Worlds. They were followed by another alien—a cross between a human and an octopus—and several humans, all of whom looked tired and worn.

Uzi paid them no attention. “You want, then, for us to go into your service without knowing precisely who we may be serving? Do you suppose we are that trusting?”

Devon smiled. “You will be paid a formidable retainer,” he pointed out, with surprising calm. “And even if the cause doesn’t come to blows, you will be paid combat rates.”

“Doubtless,” Uzi said. “And what happens if our noble benefactors refuse to pay?”

“We will place the first year’s worth of wages in an escrow account for you,” Devon said. He made a show of consulting his watch, and then looking over towards the newcomers. “I have little more time. Will you accept the contract?”

Uzi made a show of considering it. “Subject to a get-out clause, yes,” he said finally. “I will have to consult with my senior crew, and then I believe that we are yours.”

* * *

“Well,” Uzi said, when they were back onboard the shuttle. “Did you find the trip enlightening?”

“Yes,” Roman said. “And what, exactly, did it gain us?”

Uzi smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

“Here’s where we part ways,” he said. “My crew and I take the
Wildflower
and accept the contract. Whoever is hiring so many mercenaries—and it isn’t either of the warlords—will eventually be revealed, at which point we get the information back to the Federation. The information should help the Federation Navy deal with the problem before it is too late.”

“You’re going to be alone...” Roman frowned.

“Not a problem,” Uzi assured him, as the shuttle took off and climbed into the sky, heading for the captured ship high overhead. “We’ve done it before, captain.”

“If they’re not warlords, then they have to be Outsiders,” Elf said. She’d been very quiet during the meeting on Hobson’s Choice. “I was listening carefully. They want you to train people as well, and the only reason to do that is if they want to build a larger army.”

“Then we need to identify the people behind it before the shit really hits the fan,” Uzi said firmly. “As I will say in my report to the admiral, whoever is behind this is pouring out money like water. That alone makes them a major threat, for who has that sort of money to hire mercenaries on spec? He didn’t even ask for major credentials or references, or even some guarantee of our good conduct.”

“Maybe he’s just really stupid,” Elf said dryly. She held up a hand before Uzi could say anything. “I know; wishful thinking.”

“Very wishful,” Uzi agreed, equally dry. He looked over at Roman. “I hope you enjoyed the visit to Hobson’s Choice, captain. That planet is what life is like without the Federation. No law and order, no common decency; nothing but the rule of the strong.”

Roman nodded slowly, privately resolving to convince Admiral Mason—or better yet, Admiral Drake—to pay a call on the system once the war with Admiral Justinian was over. Even if most of the pirates escaped before the Federation Navy could seal off the planet, they’d be able to liberate the slaves and shut down the fences. The pirates would need time to regroup. Perhaps by then the Navy would be able to provide more escorts to civilian shipping.

He clung to that thought as they returned to
Midway
, remembering the slaves and how the pirates had acted. Whatever it took, he swore to himself, he would return with the Federation Navy behind him. Destroying the pirate operation would be worth the price.

With the increasing return to aristocratic rule by a political elite—the Senate—arranged marriages have become far more common. The prospective partners get very little say in the matter as the arrangements are made by the parents after careful considerations of the advantages of the match. It is perhaps not surprising that High Society also has the greatest level of adultery and divorce in history
.

-
An Irreverent Guide to the Federation,
4000 A.D.

Earth/Sol System, 4095

“But I don’t
want
to marry him!”

Lady Tiffany Eleanor Diana Katherine d’Artagnan faced her father, Senator William d’Artagnan, and pushed all of her determination into her words. “I don’t know him, I don’t want him and I am sure as hell not going to marry him!”

At twenty-nine, Tiffany had grown out of altering her body to suit convention and had returned to her natural appearance. Long red hair cascaded down her back, framing a heart-shaped face and bright green eyes. Unlike most of the other young ladies in High Society, she eschewed the long formal dresses that had come back into fashion, choosing instead to wear a basic tunic and shorts. She preferred being active to being indolent, even if it meant risking her father’s wrath by having adventures and even slipping out into the vast cities of Earth. It would be decades yet before she could become a Senator—if she even wanted to run for office, for it all looked like a crock to her—and she wanted to keep herself from becoming an indolent child. Too many High Society children, unable to displace their parents as their parents lived for hundreds of years, had become nothing more than wasted souls, seeking nothing but entertainment. The current fashion was for direct brain alteration to produce a permanent state of orgasm, but that sickened Tiffany to her core.

Her father produced a truly impressive sigh. He was pushing one hundred years old but looked around forty, at least by the standards of pre-rejuvenation Earth. Tiffany was actually his youngest child—he’d had five, with different mothers—and he tended to ignore her as much as possible. He’d only married his wives—and then separated from them—for political advantage. If he’d loved any of them, Tiffany had never seen any sign of it. His children, too, were just pawns in his political games. After all, he’d been a Senator for nearly fifty years, following his father, grandfather and great-grandfather in an unbroken chain that reached back all the way to the dawn of the Federation. What did one young girl matter compared to such a legacy? d’Artagnan might be the current Senator, but he had no intention of being the last.

“I would prefer it if you accepted him willingly,” her father said firmly. “It took several years of horse-trading to arrange your marriage. You knew that you would be marrying one day and that day has finally come. As my daughter...”

Tiffany would have stamped her foot if she hadn’t grown out of such childish gestures.

“But I don’t love him,” Tiffany protested. “How am I supposed to leave everything and go with him to some barbaric posting on the other side of the universe?”

Her father didn’t seem impressed by her arguments.

“You grew up in a world where you lacked for nothing,” he said. “When there were people starving, you had plenty; when there were people dying because of poor medical care, you were healthy; when people lived without any sense of safety, you were safe. The only danger you’ve faced in your life was the danger you brought upon yourself when you had the insane idea of abandoning your security team and heading into an untamed city. And even then, you were rescued before anything bad could happen.”

“I know, father,” Tiffany said, “and I am grateful...”