Dogs of War Read online

“He's the only source,” said Jolober tautly. “Nobody knows where the Dolls come from—or where Ike does.”

  “Then nobody can argue the price isn't fair, can they?” van Zuyle gibed. “And you know what, Commandant? Take a look at this tank right here.”

  He pointed to one of the vehicles beside them. It was a command tank, probably the one in which Hoffritz's predecessor had ridden before it was bit by powerguns heavy enough to pierce its armor.

  The first round, centered on the hull's broadside, had put the unit out of action and killed everyone aboard. The jet of energy had ignited everything flammable within the fighting compartment in an explosion which blew the hatches open. The enemy had hit the iridium carcass at least three times more, cratering the turret and holing the engine compartment.

  “We couldn't replace this for the cost of twenty Dolls,” van Zuyle continued. “And we're going to have to, you know, because she's a total loss. All I can do is strip her for salvage… and clean up as best I can for the crew, so we can say we had something to bury.”

  His too-pale, too-angry eyes glared at Jolober. “Don't talk to me about the cost of Dolls, Commandant. They're cheap at the price. I'll drive you back to the gate.”

  “You may not care about the dollar cost,” said Jolober in a voice that thundered over the jeep's drive fans. “But what about the men you're sending back into the line thinking they've killed somebody they loved—or that they should’ ve killed her?”

  “Commandant, that's one I can't quantify,” the Slammers’ officer said. The fans’ keeping lowered as the blades bit the air at a steeper angle and began to thrust the vehicle out of the bivouac area. “First time a trooper kills a human here, that I can quantify: we lose him. If there's a bigger problem and the Bonding Authority decides to call it mutiny, then we lost a lot more than that.

  “And I tell you, buddy,” van Zuyle added with a one-armed gesture toward the wrecked vehicles now behind them. “We've lost too fucking much already on this contract.”

  The jeep howled past the guard at the bivouac entrance. Wind noise formed a deliberate damper on Jolober's attempts to continue the discussion. “Will you forward my request to speak to Colonel Hammer?” he shouted. “I can't get through to him myself.”

  The tank had left the gate area. Men in khaki, watched by Jolober's staff in white uniforms, had almost completed their task of restringing the perimeter fence. Van Zuyle throttled back, permitting the jeep to glide to a graceful halt three meters short of the workmen.

  ‘The Colonel's busy, Commandant,” he said flatly. “And from now on, I hope you'll remember that I am, too.”

  Jolober lifted his chair from the back seat. “I'm going to win this, Captain,” he said. “I'm going to do my job whether or not I get any support.”

  The smile he gave van Zuyle rekindled the respect in the tanker's pale eyes.

  There were elements of four other mercenary units bivouacked outside Paradise Port at the moment. Jolober could have visited them in turn—to be received with more or less civility, and certainly no more support than the Slammers’ officer had offered.

  A demand for change by the mercenaries in Placidan service had to be just that: a demand by all the mercenaries. Hammer's Slammers were the highest-paid troops here, and by that standard—any other criterion would start a brawl— the premier unit. If the Slammers refused Jolober, none of the others would back him.

  The trouble with reform is that in the short run, it causes more problems than continuing along the bad old ways. Troops in a combat zone, who know that each next instant may be their last, are more to be forgiven for short-term thinking than, say, politicians; but the pattern is part of the human condition.

  Besides, nobody but Horace Jolober seemed to think there was anything to reform.

  Jolober moved in a walking dream while his mind shuttled through causes and options. His data were interspersed with memories of Vicki smiling up at him from the bed and of his own severed leg toppling in blue-green silhouette. He shook his head gently to clear the images and found himself on the street outside the Port offices.

  His stump throttled back the fans reflexively; but when Jolober's conscious mind made its decision, he turned away from the office building and headed for the garish façade of the China Doll across the way.

  Rainbow pastels lifted slowly over the front of the building, the gradation so subtle that close up it was impossible to tell where one band ended and the next began. At random intervals of from thirty seconds to a minute, the gentle hues were replaced by glaring, super-saturated colors separated by dazzling blue-white lines.

  None of the brothels in Paradise Port were sedately decorated, but the China Doll stood out against the competition.

  As Jolober approached, a soldier was leaving and three more—one a woman—were in the queue to enter. A conveyor carried those wishing to exit, separated from one another by solid panels. The panels withdrew sideways into the wall as each client reached the street—but there was always another panel in place behind to prevent anyone from bolting into the building without being searched at the proper entrance.

  All of the buildings in Paradise Port were designed the same way, with security as unobtrusive as it could be while remaining uncompromised. The entryways were three-meter funnels narrowing in a series of gaudy corbelled arches. Attendants—humans everywhere but in the China Doll—waited at the narrow end. They smiled as the customers passed—but anyone whom the detection devices in the archway said was armed was stopped right there.

  The first two soldiers ahead of Jolober went through without incident. The third was a short man wearing lieutenant's pips and the uniform of Division Legere. His broad shoulders and chest narrowed to his waist as abruptly as those of a bulldog, and it was with a bulldog's fierce intransigence that he braced himself against the two attendants who had confronted him.

  “I am Lieutenant Alexis Condorcet!” he announced as though he were saying “major general.” “What do you mean by hindering me?”

  The attendants in the China Doll were Droids, figures with smoothly masculine features and the same blushing complexion which set Red Ike and the Dolls apart from the humans with whom they mingled.

  They were not male—Jolober had seen the total sex-lessness of an android whose tights had ripped as he quelled a brawl. Their bodies and voices were indistinguishable from one another, and there could be no doubt that they were androids, artificial constructions whose existence proved that the Dolls could be artificial, too.

  Though in his heart, Horace Jolober had never been willing to believe the Dolls were not truly alive. Not since Red Ike had introduced him to Vicki.

  “Could you check the right-hand pocket of your blouse, Lieutenant Condorcet?” one of the Droids said.

  “I'm not carrying a weapon!” Condorcet snapped. His hand hesitated, but it dived into the indicated pocket when an attendant started to reach toward it.

  Jolober was ready to react, either by grabbing Condorcet's wrist from behind or by knocking him down with the chair. He didn't have time for any emotion, not even fear.

  It was the same set of instincts that had thrown him to his feet for the last time, to wave off the attacking tanks.

  Condorcet's hand came out with a roll of coins between two fingers. In a voice that slipped between injured and minatory he said, “Can't a man bring money into the Doll, then? Will you have me take my business elsewhere, then?”

  “Your money's very welcome, sir,” said the attendant who was reaching forward. His thumb and three fingers shifted in a sleight of hand; they reappeared holding a gold-striped China Doll chip worth easily twice the value of the rolled coins. “But let us hold these till you return. We'll be glad to give them back then without exchange.”

  The motion which left Condorcet holding the chip and transferred the roll to the attendant was also magically smooth.

  The close-coupled soldier tensed for a moment as if he'd make an issue of it; but the Droids were as str
ong as they were polished, and there was no percentage in being humiliated.

  “We'll see about that,” said Condorcet loudly. He strutted past the attendants who parted for him like water before the blunt prow of a barge.

  “Good afternoon, Port Commandant Jolober,” said one of the Droids as they both bowed. “A pleasure to serve you again.”

  “A pleasure to feel wanted,” said Jolober with an ironic nod of his own. He glided into the main hall of the China Doll.

  The room's high ceiling was suffused with clear light which mimicked daytime outside. The hall buzzed with excited sounds even when the floor carried only a handful of customers. Jolober hadn't decided whether the space was designed to give multiple echo effects or if instead Red Ike augmented the hurn with concealed sonic transponders.

  Whatever it was, the technique made the blood of even the port commandant quicken when he stepped into the China Doll.

  There were a score of gaming stations in the main hall, but they provided an almost infinite variety of ways to lose money. A roulette station could be collapsed into a skat table in less than a minute if a squad of drunken Frieslanders demanded it The displaced roulette players could be accommodated at the next station over, where until then a Droid had been dealing desultory hands of fan-tan.

  Whatever the game was, it was fair. Every hand, every throw, every pot was recorded and processed in the office of the port commandant. None of the facility owners doubted that a skewed result would be noticed at once by the computers, or that a result skewed in favor of the house would mean that Horace Jolober would weld their doors shut and ship all their staff off-planet.

  Besides, they knew as Jolober did that honest games would get them most of the available money anyhow, so long as the Dolls were there to caress the winners to greater risks.

  At the end of Paradise Port farthest from the gate were two establishments which specialized in the leftovers. They were staffed by human males, and their atmosphere was as brightly efficient as men could make it.

  But no one whose psyche allowed a choice picked a human companion over a Doll.

  The main hall was busy with drab uniforms, Droids neatly garbed in blue and white, and the stunningly gorgeous outfits of the Dolls. There was a regular movement of Dolls and uniforms toward the door on a room-width landing three steps up at the back of the hall. Generally the rooms beyond were occupied by couples, but much larger gatherings were possible if a soldier had money and the perceived need.

  The curved doors of the elevator beside the front entrance opened even as Jolober turned to look at them. Red Ike stepped out with a smile and a Doll on either arm.

  “Always a pleasure to see you, Commandant” Red Ike said in a tone as sincere as the Dolls were human. “Shana,” he added to the red-haired Doll. “Susan—” he nodded toward the blond. “Meet Commandant Jolober, the man who keeps us all safe.”

  The redhead giggled and slipped from Ike's arm to Jolober's. The slim blond gave him a smile that would have been demure except for the fabric of her tank-top. It acted as a polarizing filter, so that when she swayed her bare torso flashed toward the port commandant.

  “But come on upstairs, Commandant,” Red Ike continued, stepping backwards into the elevator and motioning Jolober to follow him. “Unless your business is here—or in back?” He cocked an almost-human eyebrow toward the door in the rear while his face waited with a look of amused tolerance.

  “We can go upstairs,” said Jolober grimly. “It won't take long.” His air cushion slid him forward. Spilling air tickled Shana's feet as she pranced along beside him; she giggled again.

  There must be men who found that sort of girlish idiocy erotic or Red Ike wouldn't keep the Doll in his stock.

  The elevator shaft was opaque and looked it from outside the car. The car's interior was a visiscreen fed by receptors on the shaft's exterior. On one side of the slowly rising car, Jolober could watch the games in the main hall as clearly as if he were hanging in the air. On the other, they lifted above the street with a perfect view of its traffic and the port offices even though a concrete wall and the shaft's iridium armor blocked the view in fact.

  The elevator switch was a small plate which hung in the “air” that was really the side of the car. Red Ike had toggled it up. Down would have taken the car—probably much faster—to the tunnel beneath the street, the escape route which Jolober had suspected even before the smiling alien had used it this afternoon.

  But there was a second unobtrusive control beside the first. The blond Doll leaned past Jolober with a smile and touched it.

  The view of the street disappeared. Those in the car had a crystalline view of the activities in back of the China Doll as if no walls or ceilings separated the bedrooms. Jolober met—or thought he met—the eyes of Tad Hoffritz, straining upward beneath a black-haired Doll.

  “Via!” Jolober swore and slapped the toggle hard enough to feel the solidity of the elevator car.

  “Susan, Susan,” Red Ike chided with a grin. “She will have her little joke, you see, Commandant.”

  The blond made a moue, then winked at Jolober.

  Above the main hall was Red Ike's office, furnished in minimalist luxury. Jolober found nothing attractive in the sight of chair seats and a broad onyx desktop hanging in the air, but the decor did show off the view. Like the elevator, the office walls and ceiling were covered by passthrough visiscreens.

  The russet wasteland, blotched but not relieved by patterns of lichen, looked even more dismal from twenty meters up than it did from Jolober's living quarters.

  Though the view appeared to be panorama, there was no sign of where the owner himself lived. The back of the office was an interior wall, and the vista over the worms and pillows of lava was transmitted through not only the wall but the complex of rooms that was Red Ike's home.

  On the roof beside the elevator tower was an aircar sheltered behind the concrete coping. Like the owners of all the other facilities comprising Paradise Port, Red Ike wanted the option of getting out fast, even if the elevator to his tunnel bolthole was blocked.

  Horace Jolober had fantasies in which he watched the stocky humanoid scramble into his vehicle and accelerate away, vanishing forever as a fleck against the milky sky.

  “I've been meaning to call on you for some time, Commandant,” Red Ike said as he walked with quick little steps to his desk. “I thought perhaps you might like a replacement for Vicki. As you know, any little way in which I can make your task easier … ?”

  Shana giggled. Susan smiled slowly and, turning at a precisely calculated angle, bared breasts that were much fuller than they appeared beneath her loose garment.

  Jolober felt momentary desire, then fierce anger in reaction. His hands clenched on the chair handles, restraining his violent urge to hurl both Dolls into the invisible walls.

  Red Ike sat behind the desktop. The thin shell of his chair rocked on invisible gimbals, tilting him to a comfortable angle that was not quite disrespectful of his visitor.

  “Commandant,” he said with none of the earlier hinted mockery, “you and I really ought to cooperate, you know. We need each other, and Placida needs us both.”

  “And the soldiers we're here for?” Jolober asked softly. “Do they need you, Ike?”

  The Dolls had become as still as painted statues.

  “You're an honorable man, Commandant,” said the alien. “It disturbs you that the men don't find what they need in Paradise Port.”

  The chair eased more nearly upright. The intensity of Red Ike's stare reminded Jolober that he'd never seen the alien blink.

  “But men like that—all of them now, and most of them for as long as they live … all they really need, Commandant, is a chance to die. I don't offer them that it isn't my place. But I sell them everything they pay for, because I too am honorable.”

  “You don't know what honor is!” Jolober shouted, horrified at the thought—the nagging possibility—that what Red Ike said was true.

>   “I know what it is to keep my word, Commandant Jolober,” the alien said as he rose from behind his desk with quiet dignity. “I promise you that if you cooperate with me, Paradise Port will continue to run to the full satisfaction of your employers.

  “And I also promise,” Red Ike went on unblinkingly, “that if you continue your mad vendetta, it will be the worse for you.”

  “Leave here,” Jolober said. His mind achieved not calm, but a dynamic balance in which he understood everything—so long as he focused only on the result, not the reasons. “Leave Placida, leave human space, Ike. You push too hard. So far you've been lucky—it's only me pushing back, and I play by the official rules.”

  He leaned forward in his saddle, no longer angry. The desktop between them was a flawless black mirror. “But the mercs out there, they play by their own rules, and they're not going to like it when they figure out the game you're running on them. Get out while you can.”

  “Ladies,” Red Ike said. “Please escort the commandant to the main hall. He no longer has any business here.”

  Jolober spent the next six hours on the street, visiting each of the establishments of Paradise Port. He drank little and spoke less, exchanging salutes when soldiers offered them and, with the same formality, the greetings of owners.

  He didn't say much to Vicki later that night, when he returned by the alley staircase which led directly to his living quarters.

  But he held her very close.

  The sky was dark when Jolober snapped awake, though his bedroom window was painted by all the enticing colors of the facades across the street. He was fully alert and already into the short-legged trousers laid on the mobile chair beside the bed when Vicki stirred and asked, “Horace? What's the matter?”

  “I don't—” Jolober began, and then the alarms sounded: the radio implanted in his mastoid, and the siren on the roof of the China Doll.

  “Go ahead,” he said to Central, thrusting his arms into the uniform tunic.

  Vicki thumbed up the room lights but Jolober didn't need that, not to find the sleeves of a white garment with this much sky-glow. He'd stripped a jammed tribarrel once in pitch darkness, knowing that he and a dozen of his men were dead if he screwed up—and absolutely confident of the stream of cyan fire that ripped moments later from his gun $$$.