Saul Jackson was not a man to be trifled with. He was big, had a mean streak two kilometers wide, and if he was drunk, no tolerance for people. Not that Jackson was that different when he was sober.
He watched Brown move on to some newbies, conscripts from farm worlds who’d spent their eighteen months of active duty serving on a picket ship in peaceful sectors on the border of Alliance or Confederation space. Youths who were bored and had no desire to return to the simple life of a farmer.
Jackson felt no sense of compassion for the youths, instead considering them fools for thinking the life of a mercenary was glamorous and exciting. Experience had taught the sergeant the truth. The possibility of mind-numbing boredom was even more likely, only to be interspersed with slaughter the likes of which he’d never experienced during his time in the Alliance Special Forces. Mercenaries like those young fools were cheap. Their training was already paid for, meaning the PMC that hired them would have nothing tied up in them beyond the price of their equipment. Jackson had learned the hard way that Black Star often valued the equipment more than the life of a common foot soldier.
Then there was the fine print that no newbie ever read when signing their first contract. The legalese that committed the man or woman who’d been stupid enough to sign the contract to obey any order given by a superior officer. Orders that would be illegal in the Alliance or Confederation militaries.
Images of his last contract came flooding back, made even more terrible than normal by the alcoholic haze muddling his thinking. Jackson had promised himself the job on P-42686 was his last as a merc.
But the nightmares were becoming worse, each night it was harder to find the peace of slumber. Alcohol helped to a point, allowing Jackson to pass out, often face down in a street gutter or in some filthy hotel room where he’d spent time with a hooker.
Eyeing a fresh young hooker who’d just been turned out, Jackson considered his options. Calculating in his mind the amount of credits in his pocket, Jackson decided he had enough money to forget his troubles for a few hours.
He stood up, pausing to balance himself and focus on the target. Mission objectives set, Jackson stumbled forward, his gaze locked in on the hooker’s round bottom. Swinging his right hand in an underhand motion, Jackson simultaneously slapped the girls behind and grabbed it, eliciting a squeal from her, one filled with a combination of indignation and surprise. Something a veteran working girl would never do.
Giving the girl’s firm bottom another squeeze, Jackson mumbled aloud to nobody in particular, “First phase of the operation complete, Major.”
Frantic to escape Jackson’s grasp and frightened by his drunken utterance, the girl started babbling on her own. “What? Please, don’t do that.”
“Moving out for the second phase, sir,” Jackson informed the hooker, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her with him towards the bar.
Pulling out a barstool, Jackson settled himself comfortably on the sturdy bit of furniture. Ignoring the look of fear and confusion on the young hooker’s face, the mercenary pulled the girl into his lap.
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“C’mon, now. Don’t be difficult,” Jackson commanded, frowning in displeasure at the girl. “You know exactly what. How much?”
It finally occurred to the inexperienced girl what Jackson was asking. She gave him a good once over and didn’t like what she saw. The mercenary wasn’t bad to look at, it was more the fact it was obvious he hadn’t showered or shaved in several days. If someone struck a spark near the man, he was liable to catch fire from the alcohol fumes emanating from him.
“I’m not working right now,” she informed him. Having turned the two tricks her pimp required of her for the night, the girl saw no reason to subject herself to the misery of having sex with the miserable wretch of a man who’d accosted her.
“Better not let your pimp hear you say that,” Jackson loudly informed her.
“Please, mister,” the girl pleaded, growing more frightened by the second. “There are other girls here that are on the clock.” She tried to escape Jackson’s grasp, pulling on his arm around her waist while flashing her best school girl smile. “I’ll introduce you to Millie, you’ll like her.”
“Don’t want Millie,” Jackson growled, pulling the girl closer. “Want you! Now how much?”
In a three-meter radius, everything around Jackson went dead silent as Scrag’s intimidating presence made itself known.
“Sarge, let her go. She’s a newbie, just turned out this week. She can’t handle a stud like you.”
Without taking his eyes off the terrified prostitute, Jackson waived Scrag off. “She’s a working girl, Scrag. Sooner or later she’s got to learn. Might as well be now.”
The sound of the plastisteel club clattering on the top of the bar as Scrag tossed it there doubled the size of the silent zone as bystanders stepped back to watch, eager to see a good fight but not wanting to be collateral damage.
Picking up on the fact Jackson was an NCO, the girl pleaded with him. “Sarge, please. Scrag’s right. I’m not broken in yet. A man like you needs a girl who knows her business.”
Frustration mixed with alcohol was starting to fuel the fire of Jackson’s temper. He pulled the girl tight to his chest and moved his face so close their noses touched.
“I don’t want a worn out, used up woman. I want someone fresh.” He squinted in an effort to focus and moved his head back a few centimeters. “I want you.”
With both hands, the girl began pushing against Jackson, struggling for all she was worth to escape.
“Scrag, do something,” the girl pleaded.
“Jackson, you know the rules. Working girl’s choice.”
“I’m the customer,” Jackson fired back without taking his eyes of the mission objective. “Customer is always right.”
“Not around here, Sarge,” Scrag shouted, propelling himself up and over the bar, grabbing his club in the process. Squaring himself the instant he landed, Scrag took a swing at Jackson’s head with the club.
Instinct kicked in, causing Jackson to let go of the now screaming hooker who promptly fell to the floor. With practiced ease the mercenary ducked underneath the arc of the club. A flash of bright light flickered for an instant as Jackson’s right arm shot out, driving the blade of a combat knife through the forearm of Scrag’s left arm.
Both combatants froze, staring at the knife as it vibrated in Scrag’s arm, buried to the hilt on one side and the tip of the blade protruding underneath.
“You still got it, Sarge,” Scrag announced respectfully. “But I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. You know the rules. If you deploy a weapon, you’re cut off for the rest of the night.”
His gaze locked on the weapon protruding from his friend’s cybernetic arm, Jackson’s senses seemed to clear. Sound returned as the other customers turned back to their business, the potential fight having stopped as soon as it had started.
“I’m sorry, Scrag,” Jackson mumbled. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Scrag carefully pulled the knife from his arm, flipped it around so he held it by the tip, and handed it back to Jackson.
“I do, Sarge.” Scrag patted his friend on the shoulder with his cybernetic arm. “You gotta get some kinda help. Something that will drive those demons out of your mind.”
Numbness began to spread through Jackson’s body. The numbness that would allow his mind enough peace to fall asleep. He nodded as if acknowledging Scrag’s advice as he turned and stumbled towards the exit.
One outside, Jackson aimlessly walked the streets and alleys near The Plasma Gun, looking for a place where he could conceal himself and pass out, escaping his living nightmare for a few hours. His wandering brought him to a small park. Without realizing he’d done so, Jackson climbed the iron fence and dropped inside. It only took a few minutes for him to find sufficient brush to hide in.
Confident he was concealed from any wandering patrols or drones seeking out stragglers, Jackson let the numbness he desperately wanted to seize control of him have its way. He blacked out, his sleep was neither peaceful and restorative, but at least it was devoid of the horrors that lurked in his soul.