Ah, wee lad, Alex thought. M'moon's in benev'lence, an' Ah lie y' t'livit.
And he was out the door, moving toward the second vehicle. He picked up its ramp and slammed it sideways into the track's now-clamped-shut door. Door and ramp gave way at the same time. Bullets seared out, and Alex flattened to one side.
Ah c'd use m'willygun ae thae very moment, he thought, and then saw what looked like a hydraulic jack nearby. Alex rolled to it, took the meter-long handle in both hands, and twisted. The handle, only half-inch mild steel, snapped off cleanly.
Alex rose to his feet, hefted the handle, then hurled it through the vehicle's door. Followed it with a thermite grenade. A howl gurgled down and then sparks began flashing and Alex could see flames crackle.
He picked himself up, dusted his knees, and looked around for something else to demolish. The headquarters was in chaos— it seemed as if everyone was shooting. But not at Alex.
Since panic spreads, the line units opened up. Alex wondered idly what they thought they were shooting at, then wandered over to see if Sten needed any help.
He didn't.
Alex started to enter the command track, then checked himself. "Ah'm wee Alex a' th' Pacifists," he said softly.
Sten chuckled and emerged from his lurking place just inside the track's entrance. He wiped his knife-blade clean and slid the knife back into his arm.
The two men stood, slightly awed by the high explosive and pyrotechnics on the plain around them.
"C'mon, laddie. Thae clowns'll be ae it a' night, an' Ah'm thinkit Ah buy y' a wee brew."
And, as silently as they came, Sten and Alex disappeared back into the night.
"Ah dinnae like to tell the wee laddie no," Alex explained. "PREEEEE-SENT... HARMS!"
And the ragged formation of beings brought their weapons up. At least those that had them did.
"Aw," Alex said, entranced, "ae likit ae wave an' all."
"You," Sten said, "have even a lousier sense of humor than Mahoney."
"HIN... SPECTION... HARMS!" A bucket-of-bolts clatter as the assembled hopeful mercenaries snapped their bolt-carriers open. The young man wearing captain's bars, khaki pants, and a blue tunic managed a salute.
"Unit ready for inspection, Colonel," he said.
Sten sighed and started down the line. He stopped at the first person, who was trembling slightly. Sten snapped out a hand for the man's rifle. The prospective merc didn't let go.
"You're supposed to give it to me when I want it," Sten explained. The man released the rifle. Sten ran his little finger around the inside of the firing chamber, then wiped off traces of carbon. He glanced down the corroded barrel and gave the weapon back. Then he moved on to the next person.
The inspection took only a minute.
Sten walked back to the captain. "Thank you, Captain. You may dismiss your men."
The captain gaped at him.
"But, uh...Colonel..."
All right. He wants an explanation, Sten thought.
"Captain. Your men are not trained, are not experienced, are not combat ready. Their weapons—those they have—are ready for recycling, not for killing people. If I hired your unit, I'd be..."
"Like takit wee lambkins t'slaughter," Alex put in. Both Sten and the captain wondered what the hell he was talking about.
"I'm sorry. Captain," and Sten started away.
The young officer caught up with Sten, started to say something, reconsidered, then began again.
"Colonel Sten," he finally managed. "Sir, we... my unit...need this assignment. We're all from the same world, all of us. We grew up in the same area. We've used all our savings just to get here. And we've been on Hawkthome for five cycles, and so far, well..." He suddenly realized that he sounded like he was begging and shut up.
"Thank you for your time. Colonel," he finished.
"Hang on a second, Captain." Sten had a thought. "You and your men are stranded, yes? Zed-credits? And nobody, justifiably, will hire you?"
The captain nodded reluctantly.
"Captain, I can't use you. But in the center of the city there is a man who can."
The man's expression grew hopeful.
"He's an old sergeant, and you'll find him at Imperial Guard Recruiting. Now, here's what he'll want to see from you..."
Sten ignored the boy sitting across the mess table from him and glowered at Alex.
"Another joke, Sergeant?"
"Nossir. Ah dinnae ken whae tha' lad comit frae."
The boy was about nineteen years old. About Sten's height and possibly fifty kilos in weight with an anchor tied around his ankles. Even in the daylight Sten could see the glitter of the boy's surgicorrect lenses.
"You want to enlist?"
"Certainly," the boy said confidently. "By the way, my name's Egan. And I'm speaking for twelve colleagues."
"Colleagues," Sten said amazedly.
"Indeed. We would like to sign on. We've read your contract and accept the terms for the duration of service."
Sten moaned to himself. It was turning out to be a very long day.
"If you read my, uh, proposal, you'd have seen that—"
"I saw that you want a hardy crop of killers. Daggers in their teeth or wherever you people carry them."
"Then why—"
Again an interruption. "Because you can't fight a war without brains."
"I assumed," Sten said, "that I could possibly provide those."
"You? Just a soldier?" It was Egan's turn to sound amazed.
"I manage."
"Manage? But you need battle analysis. You need projections. You need somebody to run logistics programming. You need somebody who can improvise any ECM system you might require. You need—Colonel, I'm sorry if I sound cocky. But you really need us."
"Not a chance. You and your friends—I assume they're like you?" Sten tried another, somewhat more polite tack. "First of all, how can I tell if you're really the brain trust you say?"
"Possibly because I know your payee account on Prime World is 000-14-765-666 CALL ACCOUNT PYTHON, account depositor one Parral, world unnamed, and your current balance, as of this morning, was $72,654,080 credits."
Very silent silence. Sten decided he was getting tired of gaping. It was time to start laughing. "Howinhell," he managed, "did you find that out? We are operating through cutout accounts."
"You see why you need us. Colonel?"
Sten didn't answer immediately. Oh, Mahoney, his mind went. Why did you put me out here by myself? I don't know what the clot kind of people you need to run a private war. So far all I've done is fake it. I wish I were back with Bet and the tigers and doing something simple like icing some dictator.
Stalling, he asked, "Egan. One question. Who are you and your friends?"
"We... up until recently, we were advanced students at a lycee."
"Which one?"
Egan hesitated, then blurted, "Prime World."
Both Sten and Alex looked impressed. Even soldiers knew that the Empire picked its brightest to attend the Imperial Home World Lycee.
"So what are you doing here?"
Egan looked around the mess. No one was within earshot. "We were experimenting one night. I built a pickbox—that's something you use to get inside a computer—"
"W'ken whae i' be," Alex said.
"And I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, but somehow we ended up inside the Imperial Intelligence computer."
Sten, carefully keeping a straight face, held up a hand for silence. Egan shut up. Sten motioned to Alex. They rose and walked to the far end of the mess, both automatically checking for mikes.
"D'ye ken whae yon wee but wickit lad done? He an' his boyos got aeside Mahoney's files. Ah nae wonder wha' thae b'doint ae Hawkthorne. Espionage's good frae ae penal unit f'r life." Alex chuckled.