“Yes.”
“Okay, for which branch?”
“Uh, mercenary, Colonel Thiele’s Jasmine Panzer Brigade.”
“Good. Soldier to soldier, I advise you to pass through my station.”
“Those two are with me,” Galen indicated Tad and Spike.
“All three of you, anything to declare?”
“No.”
“Pass through my scanner and then give your paperwork to the liaison.”
They did so, laying their documents on a counter just inside the gate. An M.P. Lance Corporal looked over their documents, stamped the date and time of their arrival on their contracts and told them, “Wait in the lounge here behind me. We’ll have a bus coming to take you and the rest of the soldiers to initial processing. After that you’ll get assignment orders and they’ll send you to your unit. Although you are mercenaries, you should process with our regular troops and let us take care of you and get you to your unit. You have the option at this time to split off and find your own way, but that’s complicated and will cost you money.”
“No problem,” said Galen, “We’ll go through your system. A sure thing is a sure thing.” They waited about twenty minutes in the lounge. Approximately thirty government troops wearing class B dress uniforms were in the lounge and seemed friendly enough, but the mercenaries kept to themselves. The bus drove for a couple of hours, reaching a compound in the older part of the city. The group filed into a dark and musty classroom where a Gunny Sergeant in field uniform handed out in-processing forms and stood at the front of the room telling the soldiers how to fill them out, what to write in each block and then answered questions from the soldiers.
“Uh, Sir, what do we put?” asked Galen. “We’re mercenaries.”
“Except for personal identification information, leave everything else blank. Then write ‘MERCENARY’ in big block letters diagonally across the page, from the bottom left corner to the top right. Then hand the bottom copy of your contract in with the form. We all know where you’re going, so we’ll process you first and get you on your way.”
Subdued chuckling rose and fell among the government troops. Galen didn’t know if it was because of his status or destination. Obviously, the regulars knew something he didn’t. A clerk in class B dress uniform took their paperwork and returned five minutes later with travel passes and copies of the documents. He handed the documents to their respective owners and said, “Go out the back door, straight down the hallway to the exit and board the courtesy sedan at the curb. Show the driver your travel passes, he’ll know where to take you. It’s a three hour ride, so you may want to hit the latrine on your way out. Last door on the left before the exit.”
“Thank you,” Galen told him, “you’ve all been very helpful.”
“Not a problem. Good luck,” said the clerk.
They used the latrine along the way and waited outside. It was just starting to get dark on Mandarin, the sky glowing deep orange as the sun sank below the over-industrialized horizon. The mercenaries were picked up at the curb by a military sedan. It was painted light brown and had the words “Government Vehicle” stenciled on the doors.
“Don’t see too many of these around,” said Spike as he boarded the vehicle. All three got in the back seat.
“Your passes, men.” The driver was a man in his early twenties, pudgy and heavyset, wearing a class B uniform but without the necktie, collar open.
They handed their travel passes to him while Spike said, “This is an old design, a spirit-burning internal combustion engine, and a piston engine at that.”
The driver pulled onto the street and said, “This is a pretty common kind of car on this part of Mandarin, it’s the only kind I drive. They got some hovercraft, but those are for tactical units only. Sure would like to drive one though.”
“Then transfer to a tactical unit,” said Galen.
The driver looked over his shoulder to give a dirty look, as though Galen had just shot his mother. Obviously, this particular troop was strictly rear-echelon. He had not even the slightest desire to see combat. Or hard work, for that matter. He was just a glorified cab driver, soaking up government army pay. Small wonder, thought Galen, such a populous planet had to rely on foreign mercenaries to do their fighting for them.
“So driver, what’s the engine made of?” asked Spike.
“High-temp ceramics coated with Teflon. The staple fuel is alcohol but it’ll run on everything from cough syrup to methane. Acceleration is smoothed by varying the compression ratio. That gives an efficient and clean burn of just about anything you care to put in the fuel cell.”
“Hey, it’s quite a car.” Galen knew the design was outmoded and impractical by Ostreich standards, but he let the driver go on being proud of his car. After all, it was probably one of the finest on Mandarin. An hour later the driver stopped in front of a large residential structure, a three-story house surrounded by exotic landscaping and a decorative—but deadly—security fence.
“This will only take a minute,” said the driver. He then spoke into his personal communicator. “Sir, your ride is here…very good, sir.”
About two minutes later the front door of the mansion opened. They watched as a dashing Mandarin man, about forty years old and dressed in a finely tailored dress uniform bearing Colonel rank, was kissed full on the lips by a woman half his age. She wore a blue silken nightgown with a slit up the side revealing a shapely set of legs and the better part of a ripe buttock. Her silky jet black hair framed her face and stopped at her shoulders in a neat, straight line. Her almond eyes and delicate features beckoned to Tad, but he restrained himself. Galen already knew about Tad’s weakness for Asian women, so he gripped Tad’s shoulder tightly to prevent the red-haired mercenary from springing out of the car. Galen took only a passing aesthetic interest in the woman; he personally didn’t find Asian women attractive. Most of them were too short, too small for him.
The Colonel opened his own door and slid into the front seat to sit beside the driver. He handed the driver a brown paper sack rolled tightly at the top and said, “Here you go. Take me home, Nam.”
“Thank you sir. You really didn’t have to; I still have plenty left at home.”
“A deal’s a deal.”
“Yes sir. Still, sometimes I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Sometimes. Who have we got in the back seat?”
“Oh, just some mercenaries. I’m taking them out to their regiment.”
“Grunts?” said the officer, turning to face the mercenaries.
“Tankers,” said Spike.
They rode in silence for another hour. Just beyond the outskirts of the city the driver pulled into the circular drive of another luxurious mansion. The man in the officer’s uniform got out, thanked the driver, and was met on the front steps by another lovely woman, this one closer to his own age. She was dressed fit for public view and simply looped her arm around his as they ascended the stairs.
“Had to work late again, dear.” mocked Tad. The driver simply drove away.
“What do you think our first duty will be?” said Spike.
“Probably just helping out with the mechanics until they have some openings in a tank platoon for us. One thing I don’t want is some panty waste job, like protocol driver or something,” said Galen, the last sentence spoken for the benefit of the driver.