9. Enter the Debian Raiders I
"Guys, this might be turning into a bit of a rough trip. There's massive solar activity from the system we're heading for, and it's wreaking havoc on the navigation systems. Buckle yourselves in," said Sal over the comm unit in the lounge. The ship shuddered like an asteroid rammed by a runaway shuttle.
The Debian Raiders sitting in the lounge of the spacecraft groaned in unison. It had already been a rough trip. They'd lost their way once because Rod had forgotten to update the star maps. Then they'd had that little mishap at the refuelling station due to Alb complaining about their food and threatening them with Ziggy's Galactic Guide[1]. And now this. What else could go wrong? They gripped their arm-rests a bit tighter, as if willing the ship to land in one piece instead of ending up scattered over the landscape in a million pieces. All of them, that is, except for Cal, who appeared to think that this was as good a time as any to get things off his chest.
"Ben, you asked me a question once, 'What has you all tied up in knots when you wake up sweating in the middle of the night?' You still wanna know? I've been thinking about it. Been thinking about it a lot. It's not the work. I love the work. I've always loved the work. It's the game. The game, Ben. And I was so good at it. I made sure all the right people liked me. At night, I'd go through the checklist in my mind: Am I cool with Jon Bovi? Am I cool with Mr. Onionson? Am I cool with all the people who can help me? Am I cool with all the people who can hurt me? Nobody thought I was weak or a loser. There was nobody I was offending, nobody I loved. That game, Ben. But guess what? You taught me how to live outside of the game. You taught me how to live. And you know what scares me even more? That I'm going back in."
Ben stared at Cal, perhaps wondering how he'd ever managed to say all of those things. Ben had never spoken a word in his entire life. Being mute would do that to you.
Cal was a round faced, curly haired, slim individual with a cheerful smile, and he was smiling now that he'd gotten the whole monologue out of his system. Cal's smile was as familiar to Ben as was his own. In fact, it was his own since Cal happened to be Ben's clone.
Since they were clones, maybe Cal did know what Ben might have said in that mythical conversation, the one which had never taken place. Or rather, it might have taken place, but certainly not between Cal and himself. Cal did have a habit of launching into these soliloquies where Ben had a starring role, and Ben was content to listen to Cal going on. Ben knew that he himself couldn't have said what Cal attributed to him any better. It was the best of both worlds as far as Ben was concerned. He never had to say a word and yet, Cal would say the things that Ben knew he'd have said for sure if he'd been able to talk.
"Damn right, we are going back in, Cal!" interrupted another one of the people crammed[2] into the little spacecraft's lounge, with considerable heat. "We've been out of action for too long and people are saying that the Debian Raiders are a bunch of has-beens. It's time to prove them wrong! Come on, show me the credits!"
Ben looked at the new speaker, though he needn't have bothered since he knew the speaker's face as he knew his own. That was because it was his own face, more or less, since the speaker happened to be his clone, too. But then again, everybody in the ship was his clone. Or rather, everybody was a clone of each other or of some other individual who'd be the original to their copies or ... He checked his thoughts, he'd been down this particular mental avenue before and it was a dead end street. Better to retrace his steps and concentrate on the conversation between his brothers.
"You're right, Rod. I might be scared of getting back into the game but the Debian Raiders need to get back out there where things are happening. We've got to let them see that, when it comes to mercenaries, there isn't a better outfit in the Fifty Galaxies than us!" replied Cal, eager for action now that he'd voiced his fears and gotten them off his chest.
He looked around the lounge of the little spacecraft as if seeking confirmation and was rewarded by nods from his brothers - some enthusiastic, some reluctant. The stars flashed by in milky white streaks on the viewscreens as the ship rocked and rocketed on towards its destination.
"By Bacu, we're going to show them that the Debian Raiders haven't gone soft! We've got a shelf life of ten years, tops. Our next contract's gotta bring us the credits that'll last us, and ours, a long time. In the mercenary biz, we're just a blip on the long range scanners. Blip, we'll be out of this game in five years. What's my family gonna live on? Huh?" asked Rod, turning to face the rest of his brothers.
"Aw, stop yer bellyachin', Rod! We all know the reasons for this job and the fact that we've gotta make enough to retire on, soon," said Tre, joining the conversation.
"Yeah, none of us are getting any younger and the mercenary trade isn't for old men[3]. But then again, I suppose it's not even for young men. But everybody's got to make a living, right?" added Rus, giving Rod a lopsided grin.
"This job should set us up sitting pretty. It's the kind of deal that should bring us a lot of publicity. Everybody in the Fifty Galaxies will be talking about us soon, you can be sure of that!" said Rod, looking at the others almost as if pleading for their agreement.
"That's for sure! After this mission we'll have jobs coming our way like debris to a black hole!" said Tre with enthusiasm, nodding his head like a puppet on speed.
Several of the others nodded in agreement as if they'd had the same thought. Not surprising since the Debian Raiders tended to come to about the same conclusion on most matters, which is what made them a good mercenary unit - the fact that they could act in concert even when they hadn't planned it out that way. Of course, there were instances when it worked against them - like the time on Rigel 7 when they'd all gone after the same girl, or that time they'd all decided to use the same bar window to escape a fight on Carillus. But most of the time, it worked out in their favour.
Some people assumed that being clones, they'd all think, act and feel the exact same way. That just went to show that most people didn't understand clones. The life experiences you've had dictate your reactions and behaviour, and even clones couldn't have the exact same life experiences. Otherwise, they would have turned out to be twelve peas in a very big pod.
Of course, they'd look a lot more like each other if Ben hadn't gone and gotten his hair singed off for good in that selfsame brawl on Carillus; or if Rus hadn't grown that moustache to impress his girlfriend. One had to accept that kind of thing sometimes, even from your own clones.
The ship did another wild belly-flop as the comm unit crackled to life again. "Rod, you told me to let you know the moment we entered the planet's atmosphere."
"So?" Rod was irritated. He didn't like to be disturbed when he was on his favourite subject - credits.
"We've entered the planet's atmosphere," said Sal's clipped voice. Nobody knew how his voice became clipped - maybe it had been those training lasers on the military academy he'd attended. None of the others had had a hankering to join the military. They'd preferred experience from the school of hard knocks, or so they'd said. In reality, they'd spent most of their time in bars while Sal was in the academy. They had indeed gotten a lot of hard knocks, but mostly from falling off bar stools after a night of heavy drinking. Sal had come away with his clipped voice and the rest of them had a good collection of mugs swiped from a variety of bars in the system - it had sounded like an equitable exchange at the time.
That was before Sal had proposed that with his military experience and their practical experience the logical career path for them to follow would be to become mercenaries. They should have thought things through at that point. Unfortunately, the school of hard knocks as experienced at a bar tended to leave one with a rather reduced capacity to think matters over in a coherent and logical manner. They figured that one out later - much, much later. By that time, it was too late. Sal had already committed them (and more to the point, their total credit reserves) to being mercenaries. From those confused beginnings, a legend[4] had been born.
To be continued ....
[1] No, he hadn't threatened to write to the ZGG. Instead, Alb had threatened the owner with a thump on the head with the guide. It was a big galaxy and the ZGG was rather bulky. But then again, Alb took his food seriously.
[2] One might have said "like sardines in a can" except that sardines would have kissed their can and given thanks to the big fish in the sky if they'd seen how crowded it was in this particular spaceship.
[3] Everybody said that being a mercenary wasn't for old men. Mostly due to the fact that there were hardly any old mercenaries around - people took this to mean that old men did not like the mercenary trade.
[4] Most people said that it certainly was a legend, but one about a bunch of fumblers so inept that they bungled all jobs. But what did they know?
