Friday (26 page)

(Jackpot!) “Interesting. Why are other outfits in town jockeying for recruits? Is the new Chairman hiring
everybody?
Just for his palace guard?”

“Miss, I wish I knew. I purely wish I knew.”

“Maybe I had better try to find out. How much time do I have? When are we sailing?” I quickly amended this to: “Or are we sailing? Maybe Colonel Rachel has a handle on some APVs.”

“Uh…damn it, how much classified do you expect for a lousy seventy stars?”

I thought about it. I didn’t mind spending money but I needed to be certain of the merchandise. With troops moving upriver smugglers would not be moving, at least not this week. So I needed to move with the traffic available.

But not as an officer! I had talked too much. I took out two more ten-spots, fiddled with them. “Sarge, are you going upriver yourself?”

She eyed the bank notes; I dropped one of them in front of her. It disappeared. “I wouldn’t miss it, dearie. Once I close down this office, I’m a platoon sergeant.”

I dropped the other note; it joined its twin. I said, “Sarge, if I wait and talk to your colonel, if she signs me on, it will be as personnel adjutant, or logistics and supply, or something dreary like that. I don’t need the money and don’t want the worry; I want a holiday. Could you use a trained private? One you could brevet to corporal on even buck sergeant once you get to shaking down your recruits and see what vacancies you need to fill?”

She looked sour. “That’s all I need, a millionaire in my platoon!”

I felt sympathy for her; no sergeant wants a cashiered officer in his/her ranks. “I’m not going to play the millionaire; I just want to be one of the troops. If you don’t trust me, stick me in some other platoon.”

She sighed. “I ought to have my head examined. No, I’ll put you where I can keep an eye on you.” She reached into a drawer, pulled out a form headed “Limited Indenture.” “Read this. Sign it. Then I swear you. Any questions?”

I looked it over. Most of it was routine trivia about slop chest and toke money and medical benefits and guild pay rate and bounty—but interlined was a provision postponing payment of bounty to the tenth day after enlistment. Understandable. To me it was a guarantee that they really were going in harm’s way and at once—i.e., upriver. The nightmare ruining every mercenary paymaster’s sleep is the thought of bounty jumpers. Today, with all recruiters active, it would be possible for a veteran soldier to sign up five or six ways, collect a bounty from each, then head for the banana states—unless the indentures were worded to stop it,

The commitment was to Colonel Rachel Danvers personally or to her lawful successor in case of her death or disability, and it required the signer to carry out her orders and those of officers and noncommissioned officers she placed over me. I agreed to fight faithfully and not to cry for quarter, according to international law and the usages of war.

It was so vaguely worded that it would require a squad of Philadelphia lawyers to define the gray areas…which did not matter at all because a difference in opinion when it counted would get the signer shot in the back.

The period was, as the sergeant had represented, ninety days with the Colonel’s option to extend it ninety days on payment of another bounty. There was no provision for additional extension, which gave me pause. Just what sort of a political bodyguard contract could it be that would run for six months and then stop cold?

Either the recruiting sergeant was lying or someone had lied to her and she wasn’t bright enough to spot the illogicality. Never mind, there was no point in quizzing her. I reached for a pen. “Do I see the medical officer now?”

“Are you kidding?”

“How else?” I signed, then said, “I do,” when she read off rapidly an oath that more or less followed the indenture.

She peered at my signature. “Jones, what does F stand for?”

“Friday.”

“That’s a silly name. On duty, you’re Jones. Off duty, you’re Jonesie.”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant. Am I on duty now, or off?”

“You’ll be off duty in a moment. Here are your orders: Foot of Shrimp Alley is a godown. Sign says
WOO FONG AND LEVY BROTHERS
,
INK
. Be there by fourteen o’clock, ready to leave. Use the back door. You’re free from now till then to wind up your private affairs. You are free to tell anyone of your enlistment but you are strongly admonished under penalty of disciplinary action not to make conjectures as to the nature of the duty on which you are embarking.” She read off the last rapidly as if it were a recording. “Do you need lunch money? No, I’m sure you don’t. That’s all, Jonesie. Glad to have you aboard. We’ll have a good tour.” She motioned me toward her.

I went to her; she put an arm around my hips, smiled up at me. Inwardly I shrugged as I decided that this was no time to be getting my platoon sergeant sore at me. I smiled back, leaned down, and kissed her. Not bad at all. Her breath was sweet.

The excursion boat
Skip to M’Lou
was a real Mark Twainer, much fancier transportation than I had expected—three passenger decks, four Shipstones, two for each of twin screws. But she was loaded to the gunwales and it seemed to me that a stiff breeze would swamp her. At that we were not the only troopship; the
Myrtle T. Hanshaw
was a few lengths ahead of us, carving the river at an estimated twenty knots. I thought about concealed snags and hoped that their radar/sonar was up to the task.

The Alamo Heroes were in the
Myrtle
as was Colonel Rachel, commanding both combat teams
—
and this was all I needed to nail down my suspicions. A bloated brigade is not a palace guard. Colonel Rachel was expecting field action
—
possibly we would disembark under fire.

We had not yet been issued weapons and recruits were still in mufti; this seemed to indicate that our colonel did not expect action at once and it fitted in with Sergeant Gumm’s prediction that we were going upriver at least as far as Saint Louis
—
and of course the rest of what she said about our becoming bodyguard to the new Chairman indicated that we were going all the way up to the capital
—

—
if the new Chairman was in fact at the seat of government.—if Mary Gumm knew what she was talking about.—if someone didn’t turn the river around while I was not looking. Too many “ifs,” Friday, and too little hard data. All I really knew was that this vessel should be crossing into the Imperium about now
—
in fact I did not know which side of the border we were on or how to tell.

But I did not care greatly because sometime in the next several days, when we were close to Boss’s headquarters, I planned to resign informally from Rachel’s Raiders
—
before action, by strong preference. I had had time to size up this outfit and I believed strongly that it could not be combat-ready in less than six weeks of tough field training at the hands of tough and blooded sergeant instructors. Too many recruits, not enough cadre.

The recruits were all supposed to be veterans…but I was certain that some of them were farm girls run away from home and in some cases about fifteen years old. Big for their age, perhaps, and “when they’re big enough, they’re old enough,” as the old saw goes
—
but it takes more than massing sixty kilos to make a soldier.

To take such troops into action would be suicide. But I did not worry about it. I had a belly full of beans and was settled on the fantail with my back against a spool of cordage, enjoying the sunset and digesting my first meal as a soldier (if that is the word) while contentedly contemplating the fact that, about now, the
Skip to M’Lou
was crossing into, or had crossed into, the Chicago Imperium.

A voice behind me said, “Hidin’ out, trooper?”

I recognized the voice and turned my head. “Why, Sergeant, how could you say such a thing?”

“Easy. I just asked myself, ‘Where would I go if I was goldbricking?’
—
and there you were. Forget it, Jonesie. Have you picked your billet?”

I had not done so because there were many choices, all bad. Most of the troops were quartered in staterooms, four to each double room, three to a single. But our platoon, along with one other, was to sleep in the dining salon. I could see no advantage to being at the Captain’s table so I had not engaged in the scramble.

Sergeant Gumm nodded at my answer. “Okay. When you draw your blanket, don’t use it to stake out a billet; somebody’ll steal it. Portside aft, abreast the pantry, is the dining-room steward’s stateroom
—
that’s mine. It’s a single but with a wide bunk. Drop your blanket there. You’ll be a damn sight more comfortable than sleeping on the deck.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, Sergeant!” (How do I talk my way out of this? Or am I going to have to relax to the inevitable?)

“Call me Sarge. And when we’re alone, my name is Mary. What did you say your first name was?”

“Friday.”

“Friday. That’s kind o’ cute, when you stop to think about it. Okay, Friday, I’ll see you around taps.” We watched the last reddish slice of sun disappear into the bottomland astern of us, the
Skip
having swung east in one of the river’s endless meanders. “Seems like it ought to sizzle and send up steam.”

“Sarge, you have the soul of a poet.”

“I’ve often thought I could. Write poetry, I mean. You got the word? About the blackout now?”

“No lights outside, no smoking outside. No lights inside except in spaces fully shuttered. Offenders will be shot at sunrise. Doesn’t affect me much, Sarge; I don’t smoke.”

“Correction. Offenders will not be shot; they’ll just wish to God they
had
been shot. You don’t smoke at all, dear? Not even a friendly hit with a friend?”

(Give up, Friday!) “That’s not really smoking; that’s just friendly.”

“That’s the way I see it. I don’t go around with my head stuffed full of rags, either. But an occasional hit with a friend when you’re both in the mood, that’s sweet. And so are you.” She dropped to the deck by me, slipped an arm around me.

“Sarge! I mean Mary. Please don’t. It’s not really dank yet. Somebody’ll see us.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. It makes me self-conscious. Spoils the mood.”

“In this outfit you’ll get over that. You’re a virgin, dear? With girls, I mean.”

“Uh…please don’t quiz me, Mary. And do let me go. I’m sorry but it does make me nervous. Here, I mean. Why, anybody could walk around the corner of that deckhouse.”

She grabbed a feel, then started to stand up. “Kind o’ cute, you bein’ so shy. All right, I’ve got some mellow Omaha Black I’ve been saving for a special
—
”

The sky lit up with a dazzling light; on top of it came a tremendous
karoom
! and where the
Myrtle
had been the sky was filled with junk.

“Jesus
Christ!
”

“Mary, can you swim?”

“Huh? No.”

“Jump in after me and I’ll keep you afloat.” I went over the port side in as long a dive as I could manage, took a dozen hard strokes to get well clear, turned over onto my back. Mary Gumm’s head was silhouetted against the sky.

That was the last I saw of her as the
Skip to M’Lou
blew up.

In that stretch of the Mississippi there are bluffs on the east. The western limit of the river is simply higher land, not as clearly marked, ten or fifteen kilometers away. Between these two sides the location of the river can be a matter of opinion
—
often of legal opinion because the river shifts channels and chews up property rights.

The river runs in all directions and is almost as likely to run north as to nun south. Well, half as likely. It had been flowing west at sundown; the
Skip
, headed upriver, had the sunset behind her. But while the sun was setting the boat had swung left as the channel turned north; I had noticed the red-and-orange display of sunset swinging to portside.

That’s why I went over the side to port. When I hit the water, my immediate purpose was to get clear; my next purpose was to see if Mary followed me in. I did not really expect her to because (I’ve noticed!) most people, human people, don’t make up their minds that fast.

I saw her, still aboard; she was staring at me. Then the second explosion took place and it was too late. I felt a brief burst of sorrow
—
in her own rutty, slightly dishonest way Mary was a good sort
—
then I wiped her out of my mind; I had other problems.

My first problem was not to be hit by debris; I surface-dived and stayed under. I can hold my breath
and
exercise almost ten minutes, although I don’t like it at all. This time I stretched it almost to bursting before surfacing.

Long enough: It was dark but I seemed to be clear of floating debris.

Perhaps there were survivors in the water but I did not hear any and did not feel impelled to try to find any (other than Mary and no way to find her) as I was not well equipped to rescue anyone, even myself.

I looked around, spotted what was left of the loom of sunset, swam toward it. After a while I lost it, turned over on my back, searched the sky. Broken clouds and no moon. I spotted Arcturus, then both the Bears and Polaris, and I had north. I then corrected my course so that I was swimming west. I stayed on my back because, if you take it easy, you can swim forever and two years past, on your back. Never any problem to breathe and if you get a touch weary, you can just hold still and twiddle your fingers a trifle until you are rested. I wasn’t in any hurry; I just wanted to reach the Imperium on the Arkansas side.