The Complete Hammer's Slammers: Volume 3 (76 page)

Joachim Steuben was as dapper as if he’d spent the past three days in Base Alpha instead of making a thousand kilometer run over difficult terrain. His companion was blond and in his thirties; Grayle’s chief civil aide, Huber recalled, the one who’d disappeared between the Assembly meeting and the time Captain Orichos found incriminating papers in the files that had been under the aide’s control.

“That one!” the aide said. What was his name? Patronus; that was it. “He’s Gerd Danilew. He was in charge of off-planet weapons purchases!”

“That one,” Steuben said, his amplified voice damped to silence when the hatch closed behind Huber. The pipper of the cab-mounted tribarrel framed the face of the sallow, moustached prisoner walking nervously between the barriers of razor ribbon.

The man looked up. Instead of trying to run, he fell in a faint as limp as if the tribarrel had decapitated him—as the slightest additional pressure of Steuben’s finger on the trigger control would’ve made it do.

“Well, carry him, then,” Steuben ordered into the pickup for the external speakers. He looked over his shoulder at Huber and raised an eyebrow in delighted amusement, then turned back and added, “Now!”

The procession resumed. Patronus kept his face rigidly forward as if he thought that by refusing to acknowledge Huber, he could deny what was going on.

Steuben rotated his full-function chair to smile at Huber. “So, Lieutenant,” he said. “I thought I’d use this opportunity to see if you’re still happy with a line command.”

Instead of the slot in the White Mice that he offered me three weeks ago, Huber thought. He shrugged and said, “Yeah, I’m happy. We did a good job here.”

He guessed he’d made that sound like a challenge, which wasn’t the smartest sort of attitude to show when you were talking to a weasel like Joachim Steuben. Huber didn’t care much at the moment.

“Indeed you did,” Steuben said, nothing in his tone but mild approval. “Both the task force and you personally . . . which is why my offer is still open.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“I said I was happy!” Huber said. Via, he was going to have to watch himself. It’d be a hell of a note to come through a mission like this one and then be shot because he mouthed off to a stone killer like Joachim Steuben.

He smiled—at himself, but it was probably the right thing to do because the major giggled in response.

“That one!” Patronus said, pointing at the image. His hands were clean but he’d chewed his fingernails ragged.

Major Steuben’s right hand moved minutely, then clicked the switch that controlled the laser marker. Huber didn’t see him look around, not even a quick glance, but the pipper was centered on the forehead of the grim-looking man who’d brushed his full moustache in an attempt to cover the scar on his cheek. “That one,” Steuben repeated into the PA system.

In a quick voice, bobbing his head to his words, Patronus continued, “That’s Commander Halcleides, he took over after Commander Fewsett—that is, when he died.”

“What happens next?” Huber asked. He didn’t exactly care, but he knew Deseau’d ask when he got back to Fencing Master and he wanted to have an answer. “You’ll shoot them?”

Patronus turned with a furious expression. “They’re traitors!” he snarled. “They deserve to die!”

Steuben made a peremptory gesture with his left hand. His head didn’t turn, but Huber saw his eyes flick toward the former aide.

“Master Patronus,” Steuben said without raising his voice, “I’d appreciate it if you’d attend to your duties while the lieutenant and I speak like the gentlemen we are. I don’t want the bother of replacing you.”

He giggled again. To Huber he added, “Though shooting him would be no bother at all, eh, Lieutenant? For either of us, I suspect.”

Patronus was on a seat that folded down from the sidewall. He turned again to face the screen across the front of the compartment, pointedly concentrating on the prisoners shambling through the identification parade. His face flushed, then went white.

Huber looked at the man who’d first planted evidence on his friends and now was fingering his closest colleagues for probable execution. In a good cause, of course: the Regiment’s cause. But still . . .

“No, Major,” Huber said. “It wouldn’t be much bother.”

“But to answer your question,” Steuben continued, “no, we’re not going to shoot them, Lieutenant. They’ll be shipped off-planet to a detention center; an asteroid in the Nieuw Friesland system, as a matter of fact. The Colonel believes they’ll be a useful . . . reminder, shall we say, to the government of the Point as to what might happen if it suddenly decided to back away from its support for the war with Solace.”

“Th-the-there,” Patronus said, pointing at the strikingly attractive woman going through the chute. His outstretched hand trembled. “Talia Mandrakora, she was in charge of propaganda.”

“That one,” Steuben said, highlighting the woman. To Huber he added, “Do you fancy her, Lieutenant? I dare say you could convince her that the only chance she has to survive would involve pleasing you.”

Huber felt his lip curl. “No thanks,” he said. “I don’t have trouble finding company for the night.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Steuben said with a smirk. He rotated his chair toward the screen again. His posture didn’t change in any definable way, but he was no longer the man who’d been joking with catlike cruelty. “And now, I think, we have the personage we’ve been waiting for.”

The prisoners waiting to walk through the chute parted, glancing over their shoulders and then lowering their faces as they pushed clear. Melinda Riker Grayle strode through the gap which fear rather than respect had opened for her. She was no longer the woman who’d cowed her colleagues in the Assembly. She wore a white uniform but the right sleeve had been singed and at least some of the stain on her trousers was blood. Nonetheless she walked with her back straight, glaring toward the command car.

“Invite Assemblyman Grayle to join her associates in our van, if you please, Sergeant Kuiper,” Steuben said into the pickup.

Grayle walked alone into the chute. The trooper there hesitated, his arm raised but not fully extended.

“Keep your filthy hands off me!” Grayle said. Steuben must’ve switched on the external microphones, for the assemblyman’s voice sounded as clear as if she’d been in the compartment with them.

She turned to face the car and shouted, “You in there, whoever you are! Hired killers! You know the election was rigged! And you know that you’re charging ten times what the citizens think they’re paying for your services! Tell them!”

“Take her away, Kuiper,” Steuben said, sounding vaguely bored. “I’d rather you not shoot her in the legs so that she has to be carried, but do that if she won’t come peaceably.”

“You know it’s true!” Grayle screamed. When the trooper reached for her shoulder she slapped his hand away, but instead of resisting further she marched down the chute and turned toward the truck where her aides were being held. Her head was high, and she didn’t look around.

Steuben smirked at Huber. “She’s right, you know,” he said conversationally. “The election was rigged. The Freedom Party would’ve taken forty-four percent of the seats if your friend Captain Orichos hadn’t manipulated the vote count.”

Huber looked sharply at the smaller display above the big screen, a 360-degree panorama from the command car. Mauricia Orichos stood watching the parade with three other Gendarmery officers, a few meters behind the White Mice who did the sorting. They followed Grayle with their eyes until she’d disappeared into the box of the truck.

“Orichos did that?” Huber said.

“She asked us for technical help so it could be done without detection,” Steuben said, looking up at the panorama with a faint smile. “I provided someone from my signals section. It would’ve been extremely awkward if Grayle had become Speaker and tried to take the Point out of the war.”

As Steuben spoke Patronus turned slowly toward him, like a rat hypnotized by the slowly waving hood of a cobra. Steuben focused his ice-colored eyes on the traitor and said, “I believe I told you—”

He broke off in the middle of the passionless threat for another giggle. “But then,” he continued, “with Mistress Grayle in hand, we don’t have to worry about other threats to hold over our friends, do we? I suppose we could just dismiss the rest of the prisoners . . . though I don’t believe we will for the moment.”

He gestured Patronus back to the screen and the line of prisoners resuming their procession through the chute. Patronus obeyed with the slow, jerky motion of an ill-made automaton.

“Was the rest of it true too?” Huber asked harshly. His throat hadn’t recovered from the ozone he’d breathed during the battle, but he and the major both knew there was more to his tone than that. “About the costs being higher than they know?”

Steuben shrugged. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “The governments of the Outer States believe the Regiment’s price is only about twenty percent of the real figure. . . . But don’t worry: our fees are being paid, and line lieutenants don’t have to worry about where the money comes from.”

“I suppose not,” Huber said. He tried to make his mind go blank, but he couldn’t manage it. “Sir, if you don’t have any further duties for me here . . .?”

“You don’t like our company?” Steuben said, his smile flashing on and off like a strobe light. “All right, Lieutenant. You’re free to leave.”

Major Steuben rotated his chair toward Huber again. His face, too pretty to be handsome in a man, was suddenly as hard as chilled steel. “The offer remains open, Lieutenant,” he said. “You should feel flattered, you know.”

“I appreciate your confidence, sir,” Huber said. He turned to the hatch; it opened before he could touch the control plate.

Huber stepped into the gathering darkness. Grenade launchers continued to work, the choonk/wham! choonk/wham! punctuating the sound of drive fans and power tools. Troopers were pulling maintenance on their vehicles with spares the column had brought from Base Alpha. The white flashes of the bombs were quick speckles through the fabric of tents bulging outward before they collapsed.

Mauricia Orichos saw Huber come out of the command car. She stepped away from the group she was with and waved to him.

Huber looked at her, then slipped his faceshield down and quickened his stride in the direction of Fencing Master. As he’d told Major Steuben, he could find his own company. And he wasn’t going to find it there.

Neck or Nothing

“Red Section, pull back two hundred meters!” Lieutenant Arne Huber ordered over the platoon channel. A laser from one of the hostile hovertanks touched a tree to the right, blasting a ten-meter strip off the trunk. Fragments of bark and sapwood stung Huber and the two gunners with him in the combat car’s open fighting compartment. “Blue, we’ll hold till Red’s in position! Six out.”

The artificial intelligence in Huber’s commo helmet imposed a translucent red caret on his faceshield, warning of movement to the left. Huber was Fencing Master’s left wing gunner as well as commander of platoon F-3. At the moment, swinging his tribarrel onto the threat took precedence over controlling the platoon’s other five cars.

The motion was the hull of a hovertank from a mercenary unit hired by Solace in its war with the Outer States. The vehicle was three hundred meters away, much farther than you could generally see in the forests of Plattner’s World, and the tank’s two crewmen probably weren’t aware of Fencing Master as they drove across the battlefront hoping to take F-3 in the flank.

The target quivered in Huber’s holographic sight picture. He settled his weapon and squeezed the butterfly trigger with both thumbs. The cluster of iridium barrels rotated as they fired, giving each tube a moment to cool after spewing a bolt of ionized copper downrange at the speed of light.

The narrow window didn’t allow Huber to choose a particular spot on his target, but the energy a 2-cm powergun packed made most things vulnerable. The compartment holding the hovertank’s crew was armored with ceramic layered in ablative sheets, proof against single bolts or even a short burst, but the skirts enclosing the plenum chamber were light plastic to keep the weight down. Huber raked the bulge where the two joined.

A fireball erupted from the tank’s port side: the cyan plasma had converted the plastic into its constituent elements—which recombined explosively. The flash ignited even the loam of the forest floor.

“I can’t see it!” screamed Frenchie Deseau at Fencing Master’s bow gun. “Padova, pull up, for Hell’s sake! I can’t see the target!”

The hostile was directly ahead of Fencing Master, so by rights it should’ve been Deseau’s target while Huber watched the left flank the way Trooper Learoyd was doing the right from the other wing gun. It was a chance of visibility that made the tank Huber’s prey while the trees concealed it from Deseau.

The tank rocked to the right, then slewed to a halt because Huber’d ripped its skirts wide open. The tank’s gunner tried to rotate his roof-mounted laser, but Huber’s tribarrel blew the weapon to fiery slag an instant before rupturing the crew compartment itself.

What mattered was that somebody got the tank before it took F-3 from the rear; but if F-3 didn’t fall back quickly, another tank or tanks were going to circle them. There were too many hostiles for a single platoon of combat cars to deal with for long. Where the bloody hell was Ander’s Legion, the combined arms battalion that was supposed to follow when F-3 seized the knoll in the face of the advancing Solace column?

“Three-six, this is Three-three!” crackled the voice of Platoon Sergeant Jellicoe, commanding the three cars of Red Section. For this operation Huber would rather have operated in three two-car sections, but two of his vehicles were crewed with replacements. The newbies had been trained and may well have been veterans of other units before they joined Hammer’s Slammers, but Huber didn’t want to risk anybody operating alone until he’d personally seen how they held up in combat. “We’re in position! Over!”

“Blue Section,” Huber ordered, “pull—”

Fencing Master was already starting to reverse. Although she’d just been transferred to F-3, Padova’d already shown an ability to anticipate orders—sometimes the difference between life and death in combat. As the car grunted backward, Deseau and Learoyd fired simultaneously.