by David Drake
He bent to shoulder the dufflebag’s strap. “We’ll watch it for you, sir!” called one of the guards on the front steps. They were alert and fully armed, but they seemed relaxed compared to the White Mice guarding the Provost Marshal’s office at Base Alpha.
The troopers of F-3 had been relaxed when they started to disembark, too. Huber winced, wondering how long he was going to remember the feel of Kolbe’s body slipping through his fingers like a half-filled waterbed. For the rest of his life, he supposed.
Gratefully he left his gear behind as he mounted the stone steps to the front doors. The four troopers were from G Company, wearing their dismounted kit and carrying 2-cm shoulder weapons. Their two combat cars and the remaining crew members were parked at opposite ends of the arena with their tribarrels elevated on air-defense duty. They’d track anything that came over the horizon, whether aircraft or artillery shell, and blast it if required.
“Where’s the signals office, Sergeant?” Huber asked the trooper who’d offered to watch his gear.
“All the way down and to the left, ground floor,” the fellow said. “Ah, sir? You’re Lieutenant Huber?”
“Yeah, I am,” Huber said, suddenly cold. The name tape above his left breast pocket was too faded to read; the fellow must have recognized his face.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” the sergeant said. “You saved everybody’s ass at Rhodesville. We all watched the imagery.”
For a moment Huber frowned, thinking that the man was being sarcastic. But he wasn’t, and the other troopers were nodding agreement.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. His voice wanted to tremble, but he didn’t let it. “That isn’t the way it looked from where I was sitting, but I appreciate your viewpoint on the business.”
Huber went inside quickly, before anybody else could speak. He was as shocked as if the guards had suddenly stripped off their uniforms and started dancing around him. Their words didn’t belong in the world of Arne Huber’s mind.
Dungaree-clad locals under the direction of a Slammers sergeant were bringing cartloads of files up the back stairs, two on each cart. When they got inside, they rolled them down the hallway to the big room on the right marked CAFETERIA. It was a clerical office now; the tables were arranged back to back and held data consoles manned by locals.
Huber moved to the left to let the carts get past. The sergeant turned from shouting at somebody in the six-wheeled truck outside and saw him. He looked like he was going to speak, but Huber ducked into the door with the recent SIGNALS LIAISON sign before he could.
Huber could have understood it if troopers turned their backs on him and whispered: five dead in a matter of seconds was a heavy loss for a single platoon. That wasn’t what was happening.
Lieutenant Adria Basime—Doll to her friends—was bent over the desk of a warrant leader by the door, pointing out something on his console. She saw Huber and brightened. “Arne!” she said. “Come back to my office! My broom closet, more like, but it’s got a door. Tory, have me those numbers when I come out, right?”
“Right, El-Tee,” agreed the warrant leader. Even Huber, who’d never seen the fellow before, could read the relief in his expression. “Just a couple minutes, that’s all I need.”
There were a dozen consoles in the outer office, only half of them occupied. Three of the personnel present were Slammers, the others locals.
“I’ve got ten more people under me,” Doll explained as she closed the door of the inner office behind her. “They’re out trying to set up nets that we can at least pretend are secure. Plattner’s World has a curst good commo network—they’d just about have to, as spread out as the population is. The trouble is, it all goes through Solace.”
Doll’s office wasn’t huge, but it compared favorably with the enclosed box of a command car, let alone the amount of space there was in the fighting compartment of a combat car like Fencing Master. All a matter of what you’ve gotten used to, Huber supposed. Doll gestured him to a chair and took the one beside it instead of seating herself behind the console.
“What’re you here for, Arne?” she asked. “Did you debrief to the Colonel in person?”
“I thought they were pulling me back to cashier me,” Huber said carefully. “I didn’t need Major Steuben to tell me how much damage we did to Rhodesville in the firefight. Apparently the locals want to void our contract for that.”
Doll frowned. She was petite and strikingly pretty, even in a service uniform. She wore her hair short, but it fluffed like a dazzle of blonde sunlight when she wasn’t wearing a commo helmet.
“Some of them maybe do,” she said. “The government’s in it all the way now, though. They can’t back down unless they want to risk not only losing their places but likely being tried for treason if the peace party gets into power.”
“Well, I’m transferred to run local transport,” Huber said. He felt better already for talking to Doll. She came from a powerful family on Nieuw Friesland and had a keen political sense. If she said Huber hadn’t jeopardized the Regiment’s contract, that was the gospel truth. “They had to get me out of the field after the way I screwed up, after all.”
“Screwed up?” Doll said in surprise. “You guys got ambushed by a company of Harris’s Commando while you were still aboard the ship that brought you. You not only saved your platoon, you wiped out the kill team pretty much single-handedly, the way I heard it.”
“That’s not—” Huber said; and as he spoke, his mind flashed him a shard of memory, his finger selecting three segments of the Automatic Defense System and the Whang! as they fired simultaneously. He hadn’t been thinking of the bunched infantry as human beings, just as a problem to be solved like the jammed turnbuckle. They were figures on his display; and after he’d fired the ADS, they were no longer a problem.
“Via,” he whispered. “There must’ve been twenty of them. . . .”
Huber had killed before, but he hadn’t thought of what he’d done in Rhodesville as killing until Doll stated the obvious. He’d been thinking of other things.
“Yeah, well . . .” he said, looking toward the window. “Given the way they caught us with our pants down, things went as well as they could. But we were caught. I was caught.”
Huber shrugged, forced a smile, and looked at his friend. “Major Steuben said you could give me a rundown on my new section, Doll. The people, I mean. I called up the roster on my helmet on the way here, but they were mostly locals and there’s nothing beyond date of hire.”
“I can tell you about Hera Graciano,” Doll said with a grin. “She’s your deputy, and she put the section together before the Regiment’s combat assets started to arrive. For what it’s worth, it seemed to me she was running things by herself even on the days Captain Cassutt was in the office.”
The grin grew broader. She went on, “That wasn’t many days, from what I saw. And he’s on administrative leave right now.”
“I’m glad there’ll be one of us who knows the job, then,” Huber said, feeling a rush of relief that surprised him. Apparently while his conscious mind was telling him how lucky he was to be alive and still a member of the Regiment, his guts were worried about handling a rear echelon job in which his only background was a three-month rotation in the Academy four years earlier.
“Her father’s Agis Graciano,” Doll said. “He’s Minister of Trade for the UC at the moment, but the ruling party shifts ministries around without changing anything important. He was Chief Lawgiver when the motion to hire the Slammers passed, and he’s very much the head of the war party.”
Huber frowned as he ran through the possibilities. It was good to have a competent deputy, but a deputy who’d gotten in the habit of running things herself and who had political connections could be a problem in herself. And there was one more thing. . . .
“Does the lady get along with her father?” he asked. “Because I know sometimes that can be a worse problem than strangers ever thought of having.”
D
oll laughed cheerfully. “Hera lives with her father,” she said. “They’re very close. It’s the elder brother, Patroklos, who’s the problem. He’s in the Senate too, and he’d say it was midnight if his father claimed it was noon.”
Her face hardened as she added, “Patroklos is somebody I’d be looking at if I wanted to know how Harris’s Commando learned exactly when a single platoon was going to land at Rhodesville, but that’s not my job. You shouldn’t have any trouble with him now that you’re in Log Section.”
“Thanks, Doll,” Huber said as he rose to his feet. “I guess I’d better check the section out myself now. They’re on the second floor?”
“Right,” Doll said as she stood up also. “Two things more, though. Your senior non-com, Sergeant Tranter? He’s a technical specialist and he’s curst good at it. He’s helped me a couple times here, finding equipment and getting it to work. The only reason he’s not still in field maintenance is he lost a leg when a jack slipped and the new one spasms anytime the temperature gets below minus five.”
“That’s good to know,” Huber said. “And the other thing?”
Doll’s grin was back, broader than ever before. “Mistress Graciano is a real stunner, trooper,” she said. “And she wasn’t a bit interested when I tried to chat her up, so I figure that means a handsome young hero like you is in with a chance.”
Huber gave his buddy a hug. They were both laughing as they walked back into the outer office.
Instead of a stenciled legend, the words LOGISTICS SECTION over the doorway were of brass letters on a background of bleached hardwood. Huber heard shuffling within the room as he reached the top of the stairs, then silence. He frowned and had to resist the impulse to fold back the flap of his pistol holster before he opened the door.
“All rise for Lieutenant Huber!” bellowed the non-com standing in front of the console nearest the doorway. He had curly red hair and a fluffy moustache the full width of his face. There wasn’t a boot on his mechanical left leg, so Huber didn’t need the name tape over the man’s left breast to identify him as Sergeant Tranter.
There were ten consoles in the main room but almost a score of people, and they’d been standing before Tranter gave his order. Beside Tranter stood a wispy Slammers trooper; his left arm below the sleeve of his khakis was covered with a rash which Huber hoped to the good Lord’s mercy wasn’t contagious. The others were local civilians, and the black-haired young woman who stepped forward offering her hand was just as impressive as Adria said she was.
“I’m glad you made it, Lieutenant Huber,” she said in a voice as pleasantly sexy as the rest of her. “I’m your deputy, Hera Graciano.”
“Ma’am,” Huber said, shaking the woman’s hand gingerly. Was he supposed to have kissed it? There might be something in the briefing cubes that he’d missed, but he doubted they went into local culture at this social level. It wasn’t the sort of thing the commander of a line platoon was likely to need.
“Sergeant Tranter, sir,” said the non-com. He didn’t salute; saluting wasn’t part of the Slammers’ protocol, where all deployments were to combat zones and the main thing a salute did was target the recipient for any snipers in the vicinity. “This is Trooper Bayes, he’s helping me go over the vehicles we’re offered for hire.”
Hera looked ready to step in and introduce her staff too. Huber raised his hand to forestall her.
“Please?” he said to get attention. “Before I try to memorize names, Deputy Graciano, could you give me a quick rundown of where the section is and where it’s supposed to be?”
He flashed the roomful of people an embarrassed smile. “I intend to carry my weight, but an hour ago I couldn’t have told you anything about Log Section beyond that there probably was one.”
“Of course,” Hera said. “We can use your office—” she nodded to a connecting door “—or mine,” this time indicating a cubicle set off from the rest of the room by waist-high paneling.
“We’ll use yours,” Huber said, because he was pretty sure from what he’d heard about Captain Cassutt that useful information was going to be in the deputy’s office instead. “Oh—and I don’t have quarters, yet. Is there a billeting officer here or—?”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Tranter said. “Do we need to go pick up your baggage too?”
“It’s out in front of the building,” Huber said. “I—”
“Right,” said Tranter. “Come on, Bayes. Sir, you’ll be in Building Five in back of the vehicle park. They’re temporaries but they’re pretty nice, and engineering threw us up a nice bulletproof wall around the whole compound. Just in case—which I guess I don’t have to explain to you.”
Chuckling at the reference to Rhodesville, the two troopers left the room. Huber smiled too. It was gallows humor, sure; but if you couldn’t laugh at grim jokes, you weren’t going to laugh very much on service with the Slammers.
And it wasn’t that Tranter didn’t have personal experience with disaster. The nonskid sole of his mechanical foot thumped the floor with a note distinct from that of the boot on his right foot.
“I’m impressed by Sergeant Tranter,” Hera said in a low voice as she stepped into her alcove after Huber. Though it seemed open to the rest of the room, a sonic distorter kept conversations within the cubicle private by canceling any sounds that crossed the invisible barrier. “As a matter of fact, I’m impressed by all the, ah, soldiers assigned to this section. I’d assumed that because they weren’t fit for regular duties. . . .”
“Ma’am,” Huber said, hearing the unmeant chill in his voice. “We’re the Slammers. It’s not just that everybody in the Regiment’s a volunteer—that’s true of a lot of merc outfits. We’re the best. We’ve got the best equipment, we get the best pay, and we’ve got our pick of recruits. People who don’t do the job they’re assigned to because they don’t feel like it, they go someplace else. By their choice or by the Colonel’s.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean . . .”
Her voice trailed off. She had meant she expected people on medical profile to slack off while they were on temporary assignment to ash and trash jobs.
Huber gave an embarrassed chuckle. He felt like an idiot to’ve come on like a regimental recruiter to somebody who was trying to offer praise.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I was out of line. I just mean the folks who stay in the Slammers are professionals. Sergeant Tranter, now—he could retire on full pay. If he didn’t, it’s because he wants to stay with the Regiment. And I’d venture a guess—”
Made more vivid by Huber’s own sudden vision of being cast out of the Slammers.
“—that it’s because he’s grown to like being around other professionals, other people who do their job because it’s their job. You don’t find a lot of that in the outside world.”
She looked at him without expression. “No,” she said, “you don’t. Well, Lieutenant Huber, again I’m glad for your arrival. And if it’s agreeable to you, I prefer ‘Hera’ to ‘ma’am’ or ‘Deputy Graciano.’ But of course it’s up to you as section head to decide on the etiquette.”
“Hera’s fine and so’s Arne,” Huber said in relief. “And ah—Hera? About Captain Cassutt?”
She gestured to affect disinterest.
“No, you deserve to hear,” Huber said, “after the way I got up on my haunches. Cassutt had a bad time the deployment before this one. It wasn’t his fault, mostly at any rate, but he got pulled out of the line.”
The same way I did, but Huber didn’t say that.
“He’s off on leave, now,” he continued. “He’ll either dry out or he’ll be out. If he’s forcibly retired, his pension will keep him in booze as long as his liver lasts—but he won’t be anywhere he’s going to screw up the business of the Regiment.”
“I . . .” Hera said. There was no way of telling what the thought she’d smothered unspoken was. “I see that. Ah, here’s the transport that I’ve either purchased or contracted for, bas
ed on volume requirements sent me by the regimental prep section. If you’d like to go over them . . .?”
She’d set her holographic projector on a 360-degree display so that they both could read the data from their different angles. Huber checked the list of tonnage per unit per day, in combat and in reserve, then the parallel columns giving vehicles and payloads. Those last figures floored him.
“Ma’am?” he said, careting the anomaly with his light wand. “Hera, I mean, these numbers—oh! They’re dirigibles?”
She nodded warily. “Yes, we use dirigibles for most heavy lifting,” she explained. “They’re as fast as ground vehicles even on good roads, and we don’t have many good surface roads on Plattner’s World.”
She frowned and corrected herself, “In the Outer States, that is. Solace has roads and a monorail system for collecting farm produce.”
“I don’t have anything against dirigibles in general,” Huber said, then said with the emphasis of having remembered, “Hera. But in a war zone they’re—”
He kept his voice steady with effort as his mind replayed a vision of the dirigible crashing into Rhodesville’s brick-faced terminal building and erupting like a volcano.
“—too vulnerable. We’ll need ground transport, or—how about surface effect cargo carriers? Do you have them here? They look like airplanes, but their wings just compress the air between them and the ground instead of really flying.”
“I don’t see how that could work over a forest,” Hera said tartly— and neither did Huber, when he thought about it. “And as for vulnerable, trucks are vulnerable too if they’re attacked, aren’t they?”
“A truck isn’t carrying five hundred tonnes for a single powergun bolt to light up,” Huber said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “And it’s not chugging along fifty or a hundred meters in the air where it’s a target for a gunner clear in the next state if he knows what he’s doing.”
He shook his head in memory. “Which some of them will,” he added. “If Solace hired Harris’s Commando, they’ll get a good outfit for air defense too.”
