The spaceship warped through yet another dimensional crossing-point, but Mirza didn’t even wince as he felt his body broken down and reformed to comply with the similar, yet subtly different, spacetime configuration of the new dimension. Some of the other fighters aboard the ship were new to the experience, and glanced nervously at each other, wondering if the temporary sense of detachment they felt was normal.
Mirza was no stranger to the sensation of interdimensional travel. In fact, nothing about being a space mercenary, a laser-toter for hire, was strange to him anymore. He had been sent to every corner of every universe; wherever there was a powerful entity in need of an army and willing to pay for the privilege, Mirza would go. Presently, he leaned back in his not-very-comfortable seat and relaxed. They would probably arrive at the target planet in the next hour or so. Of course, there was nothing stopping the ship from instantaneously transporting to whatever location the pilot wished, but there was some value in giving the troops time to adjust to the conditions of whatever dimension they currently occupied.
The young laser-toter sitting in the seat next to him finally spoke after hours of silence. “So, when do they give us our combat suits?” he asked timidly, apparently afraid that he would be sent onto the battlefield wearing nothing but the standard-issue red jumpsuit that was the required uniform of every space mercenary.
“Your first time?” Mirza replied kindly.
“Yeah. Kinda,” replied the young man. “But you’re just sitting there like it’s no big deal that we’re about to go get vaporized by plasma rockets, so I figured that you’ve done this before.”
“You figured correctly. About this not being my first time, I mean. Our goal is to make sure that you’re wrong about the plasma rockets part,” he joked.
The young man grimaced. “I don’t know how you can joke about death like that. Even though we get re-downloaded into new bodies, it’s still death. It still hurts.”
“If you don’t have lax attitude regarding death, you might have picked the wrong occupation,” Mirza said wisely. “Especially when you consider that our enemies this time have no re-downloading capability that anybody knows of. You kill one of those bastards and they’re dead forever.”
“Just like my old ancestors from the Earth era,” the man mused. “What’s your name anyway?”
“Mirza Teletovic.”
The man stuck out his hand to shake. “Devin Booker.” He was about to say more when their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a face on the huge video screen at the front of the cabin. The image was of King Hyperiarch, and the futuristically-styled, intricate armor covering every part of his face made him seem not fully human. His voice blasted through the cabin, immediately ceasing all of the few conversations that were taking place between seatmates.
“Warriors! You may hail from one of many millions of star systems, but today, you are united under the glorious banner of King Hyperiarch!” There was a small amount of applause at this, although the troops had enough collective experience to not be whipped into a frenzy just by a few words from a charismatic leader.
“We sail to the planet of Grypnia to wage war against the Grypnian forces,” King Hyperiarch continued. “I had peacefully colonized their planet, but they resisted with violence, and their murder of civilians will not go unpunished! However, my standing military is currently engaged in other, more vital conflicts. Thus, I have assembled a force out of only the most skilled, yet ruthless, fighters in the entire multiverse!”
Mirza grinned. It was a common tactic to try to boost the morale of the bunch of outcasts that comprised a mercenary force by telling them that they were some kind of elite combat battalion. In truth, space mercenaries fell into one of three categories: young men deceived by the idealized representations of mercenaries in the media; men with no prospects for other employment; and plainly violent individuals who just wanted to blow stuff up.
“Your squadron commanders will brief you on the specifics of your mission,” King Hyperiarch said. “Do your home planets proud!” He saluted once, and then the screen went black. On cue, there was movement at the front of the cabin as the squad commanders, clad in armor similar to, if less ornate than, what their King donned. They began to shout orders at those closest to them, herding the mercenaries into the ship’s hold, where they would be armed with whatever weapons the Hyperian empire had been able to spare.
Mirza glanced at the young Devin, who wore a wide-eyed expression of something nearing terror on his face. “Don’t worry. Your re-downloaded self, by rule, won’t have any memory of the pain you suffer when a Grypnian ion grenade rips your limbs off.” He chuckled to himself as he stood up from his seat to proceed below deck.