“For that reason, the existence of professional mercenary units has brought peace more than it has brought war. Governments have to sacrifice money to hire us. Civilians don’t learn to fight, which means the populations are easier to police. The whole process has, over time, become much more civil. Even crime has been reduced, thanks to the important work we do. Sure, most governments have standing armies, government troops, but they don’t have the advanced weapons systems or the skills to fight like we do. Mostly they are there to provide stability, service and support for their people. They are very good at disaster relief, fighting forest fires, cleaning up after earthquakes, things like that. Tasks we are not prepared to do, but they certainly would perform badly against an armed enemy on the field of battle. I know. I’ve seen it.
“Human suffering in time of war has also come down. We don’t fight for fun, we fight for profit. Bullets cost money so we don’t waste them. Every one of you here today would rather process a prisoner than scoop guts into a body bag. Just because some government gives a young man or woman a cheap uniform and a rusty rifle, you are under no obligation to kill them. We avoid killing civilians because, as I said, bullets cost money. And every civilian is a potential future employer. Let fly a laser bolt into a building full of civilians and a couple years later you may find yourself trying to negotiate a contract with a family member of one of those civilians you killed. That will cost you money.
“Mercenary work curtails hate in society. As you go into battle as a professional, you don’t kill your opponent out of hatred. You are there to accomplish a clear mission and achieve a defined objective. If somebody gets in your way, you can use deadly force. And when the contract is completed, you and your fellow mercenaries leave with your agreed-upon compensation in your pocket. The civil government doesn’t have a large number of grieving family members or injured veterans to care for, and doesn’t have a large group of experienced combat killers mixed in amongst its population.
“This fosters social development. Hatred abates and peace and prosperity reigns. Nations are free to devote more resources to social development, to quality of life, and can’t oppress their people because their people might just hire you to come get rid of an oppressive government. And nations can be generous to their people. They don’t have to devote their resources or their best and brightest minds to the development of weapons of war or military leadership. But in every society there are always those who would like to fight. It is human nature. And we are them, the fighters. We take them; they come here of their own volition to attend our academies and become leaders along side us or voluntarily enlist in the mercenary units based on their home worlds to serve as our troops. We provide a home for them, a place to serve.
“Then there’s the debate about tanks, something that comes up over and over. And time and again, for thousands of years, tanks prove decisive in battle. We still carry knives, pistols and rifles. Bigger weapons systems do not make the smaller ones obsolete. If anything, it makes them even more essential. It wasn’t that long ago I raised a big rock above my head in both hands and smashed an opponent’s head with that rock, and my ability to smash a head with a rock is the reason I’m alive today to talk about it. And it didn’t bother me one bit. Did I have to do it? No, I had a choice. I could have let my opponent get up, and could have passed that moral dilemma of whether it’s okay to smash a person’s head with a rock over to them by giving them the chance to smash my head instead. But I liked it and I’d do it again, given the chance. And that’s why we have mercenary units. That’s why we are called upon and paid well to fight battles and wars. We don’t belong in the civilian world, and this profession keeps us segregated from it. We’d be nothing but trouble. We belong here. Most of you can satisfy your wild side with a single five-year enlistment and then mellow out and go into civilian life with a pocket full of money and war stories to tell. But anyway, back to the speech…
“Tanks are essential. They dominate the ground battle in a way no other weapons system can. Being on the ground is their strength. But most of all remember this: the existence of the professional mercenary industry promotes social development, reduces human suffering and makes peace across the galaxy. We do important work and we love doing it.”
His speech concluded, he took one step backward and enjoyed the applause of the audience. The academy president gave him a gentle nudge to step sideways. Colonel Johnston took his seat.
The academy president addressed the crowd, “Thank you Colonel Johnston for that inspiring speech…”
Three more speakers spoke, and then the graduates marched across the stage to get their handshakes and diplomas from the Commandant and the President. Galen felt absent, as though he weren’t in his body but just observing as it went through the motions, disassociated with the long, drawn out experience. But finally it was over. The ceremony ended with the playing of the Academy song. At the first note of the song, the column of dignitaries rose from their seats and formed up behind the guest speaker and he led the procession out of the coliseum. As the end of the procession passed, the graduates stood row after row, faced inward and marched out through the main doors to leave the coliseum.
The cadets kept formation and marched back to the barracks to recover their personal bags. But not Galen. Upon exiting the coliseum he kept walking straight across the street, committed the forbidden act of walking across the grass of the lawn, kept walking, removed his jacket and slung it over his left shoulder, removed his hat and held it in his right hand, sauntered along lazily and strode right out the front gate of the Academy and boarded the next airbus that came by without noting its route. A few stops later he got off the bus and waited for the one that would drop him off at home. Then is personal communicator buzzed.
Where are you? A message from his mother.
He called her. “On my way home.”
“Oh. We were waiting for you here. Cadet Miller gave me your bag. Not much in it. Why did you leave on your own?”
Galen took a deep breath. “Freedom. I saw that gate right across the lawn in front of me and it just, I don’t know, drew me toward it. It’s hard to explain. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“It will take me a half hour to get there. Just wait in the bar.”
“Yes, Mom. Love you.”
“I love you too.” The call ended.
After a few stops the bus let Galen off a few doors down from the Outlander Bar. Nestled between the other four-story buildings of the street, the bar had a distinctive red brick facade, windowless on the first floor, setting it apart from the large granite stone blocks and picture windows of the stores, shops, and business spaces near by. To its right was a medical care building where specialized technicians and doctors provided everything from cosmetic surgery to back re-alignments to orthopedic services. On the left, a financial services conglomeration. The first floor was a pawn shop, with brokers and bankers and tax attorneys in the offices above. Galen stepped into the alcove of the bar and beat on the steel door and stepped back. It opened outward.