The Fracas Factor (9 page)

He shook hands, saying, “Joel Zen, it’s good to see you. I caught that duel you had with the Hungarian. For awhile there you were really in the dill. I thought the bulletproof Joe Mauser was going to finally cop his last one.”

Joe had to laugh, even as he shook. “Bulletproof,” he said. “I’ve got so many holes in me I look like an open door. How’s it going, Freddy?”

The other led him back to the king-size telly screen in one corner, saying, “I don’t know, Joe. I’m thinking of switching out of Branch Fracas News.”

Joe looked at him in surprise. Freddy Soligen was the best man in his field. While the other telly cameramen were crouched in their cement pillboxes, covering a fracas in safety, Freddy was usually out there in the thick of it, getting authentic closeups right in the middle of a pickled situation. Largely, mercenaries were contemptuous of the telly cameramen, but Freddy was respected by all. When they got into the dill, Freddy was in there with them and in his time he had copped one several times. Even top men like former Field Marshal Stonewall Cogswell and General Jack Altshuler respected him.

As they approached the telly set, and Joe had been surprised to find Freddy watching it, a man in uniform stood up from the comfort chair in which he had been hidden. He was in the uniform of an unassigned Rank Private of the Category Military. Calling him a man was stretching a point. He was about seventeen, bright of eye, toothy of smile, gawky as only a teenager can be gawky. It was Sam Soligen, Freddy’s son.

He said, “Hello, Major Mauser,” and held out his hand somewhat hesitantly, as though an old pro like Joe Mauser might think it beneath him to shake with a tyro such as Sam Soligen in the Category Military.

“Nice to see you again, Sam,” Joe said warmly. He had met the boy twice before. Joe had gone into the Category Military at the same age himself.

Freddy said, “Sit down, Joe. Could I get you a beer or something?”

“No thanks.”

Joe Mauser looked at the boy. He said, “How’d it go?” He was relieved to see Sam at all. In the mercenary trade, if you lasted six months, you had a chance. Many, if not most, didn’t. It was the tyros who copped their final ones, often the first time out. The veterans knew how to protect themselves, how to stay out of the dill. The longer you stayed in the Category Military, the better chance you had of surviving. You learned the ropes. Besides that, the older hands took care of each other. When the situation pickled, you sent some of the young lads in, not your old buddies. It wasn’t fair, perhaps, but it was reality.

Sam said, “Aw, it was nothing. I wasn’t in the dill at all. All I did was march and dig entrenchments for the whole fracas. I never did get close enough to the enemy lads to shoot at them or be shot at. I’ve never done so much digging in my life. And as soon as we’d get one trench dug, the fighting would move to some other part of the military reservation, and they’d march us off and put us to digging again. Some fracas.”

Both Joe and the boy’s father laughed.

Freddy said, “Sam, you don’t know when you’re lucky. You got your pay, didn’t you?”

“Sure, one share of Variable Basic and a bonus because our side won. But I didn’t join the Category Military to dig holes.”

Joe said earnestly, “Sam, if you’re going to survive in your category you’ve got to do everything you can to stay out of pickled situations. The world is full of dead heroes, or would-be heroes. When you sign up for a fracas, try to get a job behind the lines, in logistics, in an office, or, at worst, as an officer’s orderly, or even a messenger.”

The boy frowned. “But you’d never get a promotion or a bounce in caste that way.”

“No, but you’d stay alive.”

Sam said, “Well, gee, Major, that’s not the way you did it. I used to watch the fracases you were in, especially when Popper was casting them. You were getting into the dill all the time. And you got promoted all the way up to major and to Upper paste.”

Joe nodded and said, “Yes, that’s true, although I didn’t make Low-Upper until after I was thrown out of Category Military. You see, Sam, I was ambitious. The big thing I wanted in life was to become a member of the Upper caste. For fifteen years I fought my way up, taking chances. When I finally got to the top, I found it wasn’t worth it. And along the way, one by one, my closest friends copped one, the final one. I can’t think of a single friend remaining since the days when I first joined up. They’re either dead or retired as a result of their wounds. No, lad, if you must remain in the category, play it safe. Perhaps you won’t reap much glory, whatever that is, but at least you’ll live, and share by share you’ll accumulate Variable stock.”

“It’s good advice, Son,” Freddy Soligen said. “I was the same as the Major, here. I was ambitious to get bounces in caste. So I’d get right out there in the middle of a fracas and give the buffs real coverage with my camera. It’s a miracle that I’m still alive. And after all these years, where am I? A Low-Middle—and it’s unlikely I’ll ever get any higher.” He looked at Joe. “That’s why I told you I was thinking of getting out of the Branch Fracas News.”

Joe said, “A job’s a job these days, Freddy, and with your reputation you must pull down pretty good pay. Why don’t you just take it easy and stay in the pillboxes like the other reporters? You’d have your work cut out getting a position in any other field. There just aren’t any jobs any more, since practically everything’s become automated.”

“That’s part of it, too,” Freddy told him. “I want to get in on the ground floor of another branch of Category Communications before half of the telly reporters in the country make the same decision. Joe, the fracas is on its way out.”

Joe eyed him. “What’re you talking about?”

“That last one you and I were in together with Marshal Stonewall Cogswell. I wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t the last divisional magnitude fracas ever to be fought. Haven’t you noticed? Most of even the largest ones these days are usually no more than regimental magnitude, and usually smaller. A lot of them are fought between only companies of lads. The fact of the matter is that the corporations and unions who fight them are bleeding themselves white. They’re too damned expensive. A king-size fracas costs tens of millions of dollars to mount. Get yourself into two or three a year, and you’re bankrupt.”

Joe said, “Wizard, but the people, especially the Lowers, demand their bread and circuses—their dividends from their Inalienable Basic Stock and their telly fracases. They’d be up in arms if either of them were restricted.”

Freddy looked at his wrist chronometer and said, “Yeah, but I didn’t say they’d eliminate gore on telly, just that they’re cutting back on the fracases.”

Joe scowled at him in puzzlement.

The telly cameraman said, “Have you ever watched any of these new gladiator meets?” He reached out and switched on the telly set.

“Hell, no,” Joe Mauser said in disgust. “And I’m not about to begin. I’ve seen enough blood and guts to last me the rest of my life.”

“I watch them,” Sam said. “They’re wizard. They fight with the old weapons, like the Romans used to use.”

As the scene faded in, Freddy said, “Watch this one, Joe, just for the experience. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, later.”

Joe shrugged and resigned himself. He wanted to watch a couple of present day gladiators hack each other apart about as much as he wanted to have his left ear shot off.

It was all new to Joe Mauser. He had heard about these mushrooming gladiator amphitheaters, but had been contemptuous of the whole idea. In his time, he had followed a full-scale fracas on telly, usually because some close friend was involved and he was agonizing over the other’s safety. He had also watched some of the major fracases simply because he wished to study the tactics of some commanding officer whom he was going to be up against in the future. He had never in his life watched one for pleasure. Joe Mauser, who had for so many years dealt in death, found no pleasure in it. But he knew no one in these gladiator “games” and had no connection with them whatsoever. And he had no interest in them whatsoever. Let the drooling telly watchers follow them. It wasn’t for Joe.

Onto the screen faded the arena, which turned out to be approximately the size of a bullring in a smaller Mexican or Spanish city. By the looks of the stands, Joe estimated that the amphitheater would seat about five thousand, so that all could be near enough to the combat to get a good view. Joe could make out five telly camera crews on the arena barrera. That would mean six in all, counting the camera they were now utilizing on Freddy’s set. Joe imagined that there was a director in charge of deciding what camera to use at any given time. Freddy was obviously knowledgeable about the whole thing and gave a running description of what was going on. The stands were packed with yelling, cheering fans. In the sand-strewn arena were three pairs of fighters, just about to go into action.

“Secutors and Retiarius,” Freddy explained. “The Retiarius are the ones with the nets. The whole thing goes back to Roman days.”

The Retiarius wore no armor and carried only a tridents as a weapon. The Secutors wore helmets, carried swords and shields, and wore breastplates, and their right arms and left legs were protected with armor.

Joe said, “I wouldn’t think those netmen would have much of a chance.”

“It’s the other way,” Freddy said. “The odds are five to three against the Secutors. They’re too clumsy in all that armor. They can’t move fast enough to avoid getting netted. Then the Retiarius steps in with his three pronged spear and finishes him off before he can get untangled.”

The camera zoomed in on two of the contestants, who were beginning to square off.

Freddy said, “The netman is a celebrity. Name’s Jones. The gladiator buffs love him, because he puts on a show. They call him Speedy. The other cloddy’s a newcomer. Name’s Rykov, I believe. He hasn’t got much of a chance.”

Joe took in the net. It was fringed with small lead weights, so that when it was thrown it would open to form a circle, which was very similar to a fisherman’s net.

Jones, the Retiarius, waved his trident at the cheering crowd. He obviously liked his moment in the limelight. Then he came in, making tentative casts with his net. He was obviously an expert with it. Then he pretended to slip and fall, undoubtedly hoping that the swordsman would come running clumsily in, and put himself off balance.

But Rykov wasn’t having any of that, thank you. He had his feet firmly planted and waited for the more active gladiator to come at him.

Jones danced around him, holding his net by one end and slinging it at the swordsman’s feet, evidently hoping to have it wrap around the other’s feet and legs and trip him. Then he suddenly changed his tactics and threw the net in a cast. Rykov turned it with his shield, but one of the lead pellets hit him in the left eye, partially blinding him. The Retiaruis saw his chance and, rushing in, knocked the sword out of his opponent’s hand with his trident.

Both of the men ran for the sword, but the lighter Retiarius got to it first, scooped it up, and tossed it into the stands. Then he returned to finish off his unarmed opponent.

The crowd roared approval.

“Rykov’s had it,” Freddy said.

“Holy Jumping Zen, what a way to go,” Joe Mauser muttered in disgust.

But Jones made the mistake of first showing off with some fancy net casts. Rykov managed to give the trident a kick that sent it flying across the arena. The suddenly frightened Retiarius turned to run after it, but before he could get away Rykov grabbed him by his tunic. As the Retiarius went down on his knees, Rykov gave him a rabbit punch with the edge of his shield and Jones, his neck obviously broken, sank to the sands.

The mob in the stands, shocked by the sudden turnabout and the death of their champion, fell silent. Rykov looked up at them contemptuously. They began to boo him.

Joe said, “Turn the damn thing off.”

“Well, there you are, Major,” Freddy said. “That’s what’s going to take the place of the fracas. And I figure on switching over to handling one of those telly crews. Obviously, it’s a damned sight safer for me than being right in the middle of the combat.”

Joe said thoughtfully, “I can see where it would have advantages over the fracas from the viewpoint of the buff. In a fracas, you have no guarantee that there’ll be a telly crew on the spot when some action takes place. You might sit through a whole battle and never see any of the gore and death you tuned in for. But in a fight like that, you can’t miss. Those poor funkers are on lens from the moment they walk into the arena.”

“There’re other angles too,” Freddy told him. “When a corporation or a union gets permission from the Category Military Department to fight a fracas, it costs them millions to hire mercenaries. But these gladiator bouts make money for whoever throws one. Those gladiator buffs up in the stands, who’d rather see the fighting live than on their telly sets, pay plenty for seats. Each gladiator who survives gets ten shares of Variable Basic stock, but…”

“Ten shares!” Sam said. “Holy Zen, what am I doing fighting in fracases? A Rank Private like me only gets one share. I ought to switch over.”

“Didn’t you see what just happened?” Joe asked. “We just saw two men fight it out and one was killed. In a fight like that you have a fifty-fifty chance of copping your final one. In a fracas, either side seldom takes more than ten percent casulties, and usually less than that. So there’s only one chance in ten of getting yourself in the dill and winding up in a hospital—or in the ground.”

“Well, you have to take your chances,” Sam said.

“You sure do,” his father growled. “That man you just saw killed, Jones, was one of the oldest hands in these gladiator fights, and he was finished off by a tyro. It’s a sucker’s game, Son.”

The boy looked at his wrist chronometer and got up from his chair. “I gotta go,” he said. He came over to Joe Mauser to shake hands. “It was nice to see you again, Major.”

Joe stood and said, “We’ll have to get together more often, Sam.”

When young Sam was gone, Joe turned back to Freddy Soligen and reseated himself. He gestured at the telly set and said, “What in the devil’s the country coming to when they allow that? The fracases were bad enough.”