COPYRIGHT INFO
Joe Mauser: Mercenary from Tomorrow is copyright © 1986 by The Literary Estate of Mack Reynolds.
This edition is copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Cover art © 2014 by © Angela Harburn / Fotolia.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Wildside Press has been publishing great science fiction and fantasy since 1987. We have continued to grow and expand into many other genres, until today we are one of the largest “small presses” in the world.
Over the years, we have purchased the estates of a number of classic authors, including Lester del Rey, Mack Reynolds, Carl Jacobi, Reginald Bretnor, and others. We are working hard to digitize their backlists and bring out new editions of their classic works. (Sometimes we work with other publishers to fascilitate it.)
If you enjoy the work of Mack Reynolds, watch for additional new releases coming soon. (More are definitely on the way!)
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
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JOE MAUSER: MERCENARY FROM TOMORROW
by Mack Reynolds & Michael Banks
DEDICATION
To Mack…
with Compounded Interest
And to Rosa!
CHAPTER ONE
Joseph Mauser spotted the recruiting lineup from two blocks down the street, shortly after driving into Kingston. Perhaps three hundred men stood in a ragged line that terminated at a monolithic structure sporting a decorative facade. That would be the local office of Vacuum Tube Transport. Baron Haer would be recruiting there for the fracas with Continental Hovercraft if for no other reason than to save on rents.
The baron was watching his pennies on this one and that was bad, very bad.
So bad, in fact, that as Mauser let his hovercraft sink to a parking level and vaulted over its side he found himself questioning his decision to sign up with the vacuum tube outfit, rather than with their opponents. Joe was an old pro, and old pros do not get to be old pros in the Category Military without developing an instinct to stay away from the losing side, no matter what the opportunity.
Fine enough for Low-Lowers and Mid-Lowers to sign up with this outfit as opposed to that, motivated by nothing more than the stock shares offered and the snappiness of the uniform, but an old pro considered carefully such matters as budget. Skimping on equipment, provisions, or the quality of soldiers and officers could get a lot of good men killed, and he’d heard that Baron Haer was watching every expense, even to the point of calling upon relatives and friends to serve as his staff. Continental Hovercraft, on the other hand, was heavy with variable capital and in a position to hire old Stonewall Cogswell himself as their tactician.
However, the die was cast. You don’t run up a caste level, not to speak of two at once, by playing it careful. Joe had planned this out; and for once, old pro or not, he was taking risks. Big risks, but with an eye toward a bigger payoff His plan, properly timed and properly carried out, would win him Upper status—the final goal of his career. Everything he had was riding on its success.
He made a beeline for the offices ahead, striding past the line of potential soldiers. Recruiting lineups were not for such as he, not for a man of officer rank.
Mauser glanced over the lineup as he walked. Among these men were the soldiers he’d be commanding in the field. He calculated the general quality of these would-be mercenaries. The prospects looked grim; there were few veterans among them. Their stance, their demeanor, their… well, you could tell a veteran even though he be Rank Private, and few here could claim even that status.
He knew the situation, and why such as these were here. The word was out among those in the know: Vacuum Tube Transport and Baron Malcolm Haer had been set up for the defeat. You weren’t going to pick up any lush victory bonuses signing with him; the odds were too heavy against it. The baron was equipped to mount an army for a regional dispute, but not to handle what he’d been maneuvered into this time.
In short, no matter what Haer’s past record, the word was that Continental Hovercraft would take this fracas. Continental Hovercraft and old Stonewall Cogswell, who had lost so few engagements that most telly buffs could not remember even one.
Individuals among these men did show promise. Mauser spotted a few possibles as he walked. But promise means little if you don’t live long enough to cash in on it. Combat odds dictated that you’d lose eight to ten of these bright-faced first-timers for every veteran. It was a safe bet that most of them didn’t even have such basic knowledge as how to take cover. A fold in the terrain had to be ten inches or a foot high before they even noticed it.
But, Mauser told himself, you still kept your eye open for those who showed promise. He noticed one such, dead ahead—a small fellow who’d obviously gotten himself into a hassle trying to keep his place in line against two or three heftier men. The little guy wasn’t backing down a step. Mauser liked to see such spirit. It could mean the difference between life and death when you were in the dill.
He wasn’t particularly interested in the argument, beyond breaking up a situation that might cause trouble in the ranks later on. As he drew abreast of the men he assumed an attitude of authority and snapped, “Easy, lads! You’ll get all the scrapping you want with Hovercraft. Wait until then.”
He’d expected his tone to be enough, even though he was in mufti. A veteran would have recognized him as an old-timer and probable officer, and heeded automatically.
These were obviously not veterans.
“Says who?” one of the Lowers growled back at him. “You one of Baron Haer’s kids or something?”
Mauser stopped and faced the Lower. He was irritated now, largely with himself; he didn’t want to be bothered. But he’d committed himself. He had no alternative but to see the matter through. He expected to be in command of some of these men by tomorrow; in as little as a week he would go into combat with them. He couldn’t afford to lose face. Not even at this point, when all, including himself, were still effectively civilians. When matters pickled in a fracas you had to have men who respected you, who had complete confidence in you.
An expectant hush fell over those nearby, all Lowers so far as Mauser could see. Their long wait had been boring. Now something would break the monotony.
The man who had grumbled the surly response was a near physical twin of Joe Mauser, which put him in his early thirties, gave him five-eleven of altitude and about one hundred and eighty pounds. There the resemblance ended. Mauser bore himself with the quiet dignity of he who had faced death over and over again, and had handled himself under such conditions as to satisfy himself. He was a moderately handsome man, his face marked but not particularly disfigured by two scars—one on forehead, one on chin—which cosmetic surgeons had not been able to eradicate completely.
The pugnacious Lower was surly in manner as well as voice, and his shoulders slumped in a way that seemed to proclaim that fate had done him ill through no fault of his own. His clothes marked him a Low-Lower—a man with nothing to lose. Like many who have nothing to lose, he was willing to risk all for principle. His face now registered that ideal. It also registered the fact that Joe Mauser had no authority over him, nor his friends.