Mercenary Read Free Page A

liked the symbolism, painful as it was. Perhaps my father's initials were there, M. H., and my mother's, C. H., and my two sisters, F. H.
    and S. H., and my lost love, H. H., Helse Hubris, for I had married her, almost. I liked that idea.
    I asked the judge what might be my fine....
    Twenty-one years on the migrant-labor line!
    That was, I learned later, adapted to the present situation; historically, back on Planet Earth, where all these songs had originated, it had been the Rocky Mountain Line. That was a mountain range in Earth's North America, said to be fairly formidable; presumably the line—which would then have been a locomotive or railroad line in which cumbersome steam-driven vehicles were propelled along metal rails laid on the ground—required hand labor for its initial establishment. I daresay it would have required a great deal of work to lay those rails properly in a mountain district, as the locomotives needed to operate on fairly level terrain. The technology of ancient times has always intrigued me. So the migrant laborers must have had back-straining work—as I would surely find out.
    Anyway, I now had my song and my culture-nickname; I would have to answer to either Hope or Worry. They were much the same, really; opposite faces of the coin, depending on whether anticipation was positive or negative. I did like the song, and especially I liked the belongingness it made me experience. Singing together—there is something special about it. I believe every experience in life, of any nature, has some value to a person; this one had a great deal of value to me. Deprived of my family and my culture, I desperately needed new ones, and now it seemed I had them. Not as good as the old ones, but much, much better than drifting alone.
    The songs continued as each man had his turn presenting his own, staking out his position in the group.
    But I was tired and hurting, as the exhilaration of my own song faded, and I lay on the bunk and listened and then slept. I suspected I was taking Joe's turn on the bunk, but he didn't say anything.
    I woke with a start as the gravity abruptly cut off; acceleration was over. But Joe's hand was on me, holding me to the bunk, so I didn't float away. I had forgotten to strap myself down this time, since the acceleration had provided weight. Now he was putting the strap across. “Finish your nap,” he advised me.
    “But it's your bunk, too,” I protested groggily.
    “Not to worry, Worry,” he said with a smile. “I can sleep floating while we're coasting.”
    “But when deceleration starts—”
    “Kid, it's a fifteen-hour trip. I won't sleep that long. You're the one with the hurting head; relax.”
    I followed his advice. I had been in free-fall before and could handle it. In fact, I think the free-fall helped, for it relieved my body of the ordinary strain of gravity, allowing it to concentrate on healing.
    Free-fall does not help all people, but it helped me. When I woke again, several hours later, my head was virtually clear.
    Joe was sleeping in air, one hand gripping a bunk rail. He looked perfectly comfortable.
    Now the waking workers were swapping yarns and playing poker for pennies. I was satisfied just to listen, familiarizing myself with their qualities. These were generally uneducated folk, illiterate or partially literate, but canny enough in their limited fashion. Literacy does not equate to intelligence or humanity, after all. I was not familiar with their game of poker, but figured I could learn it in due course.
    Meanwhile, as a mental exercise, I calculated, in the unfamiliar Jupiter units of miles, the location of the agricultural bubble we were traveling to. I had been raised on the superior metric system, but I knew I would have to become conversant with the system of the Colossus if I wanted to convert my alien residency to proper citizenship. Also, my lost love Helse had used the Jupiter system of measurements, so I felt closer to her with them,