by David Drake
It hadn’t been a lucky night, but things could’ve been worse. Just as at Rhodesville . . .
They stepped around the corner of the building into the parking lot. Things got worse.
There were at least a dozen of them, maybe more, waiting among the cars. They started forward when Huber and the girl appeared. They had clubs; maybe some of them had guns besides. The light on the pole overhead concealed features instead of revealing them.
“Who are you?” Hera called in a voice of clear command. “Attendant! Where’s the lot attendant?”
“Get back into the restaurant,” Huber said. “Now!”
He grabbed the girl’s shoulder with his left hand and swung her behind him, a more brutal repetition of what he’d done with her earlier. Patroklos had been posturing in the restaurant. These thugs of his, though—this was meant for real.
Huber thumbed open his holster flap and drew his pistol. He held it muzzle-down by his thigh for the moment.
“He’s got a gun!” said one of the shadowy figures in a rising whisper. That was a good sign; it meant they hadn’t figured on their victim being armed.
“Shut up, Lefty!” another voice snarled.
The pistol had a ten-round magazine. Huber knew how to use the weapon, but if these guys were really serious he wouldn’t be able to put down more than two or three of them before it turned into work for clubs and knives. . . .
Huber backed a step, hoping Hera had done as he ordered; hoping also that there wasn’t another gang of them waiting at the restaurant door to close the escape route. If Huber got around the corner again, he could either wait and shoot every face that appeared or he could run like Hell was on his heels. Running was
the better choice, but he didn’t think—
“Easy now,” said the second voice. “Now, all to—”
A big aircar—it might’ve been the one that ferried Huber from Base Alpha to Benjamin—came down the street in a scream of fans. It hit hard, lifting a doughnut of dust from the unpaved surface. That wasn’t a bad landing, it was a combat insertion where speed counted and grace just got you killed.
Half the score of men filling the back of the vehicle wore khaki uniforms; they unassed the bouncing aircar with the ease of training and experience. The civilians were clumsier, but they were only a step or two behind when the Slammers tore into the local thugs with pipes, wrenches, and lengths of reinforcing rod.
“Run for it!” shouted the voice that’d given the orders before. He was preaching to the converted; none of his gang had stayed around to argue with the rescue party. Huber stood where he was, now holding the pistol beside his ear.
“Arne!” Doll Basime called. “This way, fast!”
She stood in the vehicle’s open cab, her sub-machine gun ready but not pointed. Sergeant Tranter was at the rear of the aircar; he had a 2-cm shoulder weapon. Both wore their faceshields down, probably using light-enhanced viewing. If a thug had decided to turn it into a gunfight, he and his buddies were going to learn what a real gunfight was like.
Huber ran for the truck. He heard screams from the parking lot; thumps followed by crackling meant that some of the expensive aircars were going to have body damage from being used as trampolines by troops in combat boots.
That didn’t even begin to bother Huber. He remembered the eyes on him in the restaurant.
“Recall! Recall! Recall!” bellowed the loudspeaker built into Tranter’s commo helmet. The other troopers had helmet intercoms, but the civilians didn’t.
“How’d you get the word, Doll?” Huber said as he jumped into the back of the vehicle, just behind Basime. Another of the party had been driving; the cab would be crowded even with two.
Doll was too busy doing her job to answer him. Her throat worked as she snarled an order over the intercom, though with the faceshield down her helmet muted the words to a shadow.
Sirens sounded from several directions. They were coming closer.
The rescue party piled into the back of the truck. Two Slammers and a civilian remained in the parking lot, putting the boot in with methodical savagery. Their victim was out of sight behind the parked cars. One of the thugs must’ve tried to make a fight out of it—that, or he’d hit somebody while flailing about in panic.
“Move it, Bayes!” Tranter called.
Huber pointed his pistol skyward and fired. The thump! and blue flash both reflected from overhanging foliage. For a moment the bolt was as striking as the blast from a tank’s main gun. The three stragglers looked up in palpable shock, then ran to join their fellows.
Huber hung over the truck’s sidewall to make sure Hera was all right. She wasn’t in sight, so she’d probably gotten back into the restaurant. If she hadn’t, well, better the local cops look into it than that the cops spend their energy discussing matters with the rescue party. That was a situation that could go really wrong fast.
The fans roared. Kelso, a civilian clerk from Log Section, was in the driver’s seat. From the way the vehicle’d nosed in, Huber’d guessed a trooper was at the controls.
The aircar slid forward, gathering speed but staying within a centimeter of the gravel. Faces staring from the restaurant’s front windows vanished as the car roared by in cascades of dust and pebbles.
Only when the vehicle had reached ninety kph and the end of the block did Kelso lift it out of ground effect. He banked hard through a stand of towering trees.
Huber could still hear sirens, but they didn’t seem to be approaching nearly as fast as a moment before. Witnesses being what they were, Huber’s single pistol shot had probably been described as a tank battle.
Doll put her hand on Huber’s shoulder. Raising her faceshield she shouted over the windrush, “That was a little too close on the timing, Arne. Sorry about that.”
“It was perfect, Doll,” he shouted back. The aircar was racketing along at the best speed it could manage with the present overload. That was too fast for comfort in an open vehicle, but torn metal showed where the folding top had been ripped off in a hurry to lower the gross weight. “Perfect execution, too. What brought you?”
They were heading in the direction of the Liaison Office, staying just over the treetops. Kelso had his running lights off. Red strobes high in the sky marked the emergency vehicles easing gingerly toward the summons.
“That’s a funny thing,” Doll said, her pretty face scrunched into a frown. “Every trooper billeted at Base Benjamin got an alert, saying a trooper needed help—and if there was shooting, the best result would be courts martial for everybody involved. It gave coordinates that turned out to be you. We hauled ass till we got here.”
She shrugged. “Sergeant Tranter invited some civilian drivers from Log Section, too. I guess there was a card game going when the call came.”
“But who gave the alert?” Huber said. “Did the—”
He’d started to ask if the restaurant manager had called it in; that was dumb, so he swallowed the final words. There hadn’t been time for a civilian to get an alarm through the regimental net.
“There was no attribution,” Basime said. She lifted her helmet and ran a hand through her short hair; it was gleaming with sweat. “That means it had to come from Base Alpha; and it had to be a secure sector besides, not the regular Signals Office.”
“The White Mice?” Huber said. That was the only possible source, but . . . “But if it was them, why didn’t they respond themselves?”
“You’re asking me?” Doll said. She grinned, but the released strain had aged her by years. She’d known she was risking her career—and life—to respond to the call.
“I will say, though,” she added quietly, “that whoever put out the alarm seems to be a friend of yours. And that’s better than having him for an enemy.”
“Yeah,” said Huber. Through the windscreen he could see the converted school and the temporary buildings behind it. Kelso throttled back.
Much better to have him for a friend; because the people whom Joachim Steuben
considered enemies usually didn’t live long enough to worry about it.
This time Huber had his equipment belt unbuckled and his knife in his hand before he stepped out of the four-place aircar in which Sergeant Tranter had brought him to the Provost Marshal’s office. The sky of Plattner’s World had an omnipresent high overcast; it muted what would otherwise be an unpleasantly brilliant sun and was turning the present dawn above Base Alpha into gorgeous pastels.
Tranter had shut down the car in the street. He sat with his arms crossed, staring into the mirrored faceshields of the White Mice on guard.
The guards didn’t care, but the trivial defiance made Tranter feel better; and Huber felt a little better also. He wasn’t completely alone this time as he reported as ordered to Major Steuben.
“Go on through, Lieutenant,” said the faceless guard who took Huber’s weapons. “He’s waiting for you.”
Huber walked down the hall to the office at the end. The door was open again, but this time Steuben dimmed his holographic display as Huber approached. The major even smiled, though that was one of those things that you didn’t necessarily want to take as a good omen.
“Close the door behind you, Lieutenant,” Steuben said as Huber raised his hand to knock. “I want to discuss what happened last night. How would you—”
He waited till the panel closed behind Huber’s weight; it was a much sturdier door than it looked from the thin plastic sheathing on the outside.
“—describe the event?”
“Sir,” Huber said. He didn’t know what Steuben expected him to say. The truth might get some good people into difficulties, so in a flat voice he lied, “I was eating with my deputy in a restaurant she’d chosen. When we went out to get into her aircar, we were set on by thugs who’d been breaking into cars. Fortunately some off-duty troopers were passing nearby and came to our aid. My deputy went home in her own vehicle—”
He sure hoped she had. He didn’t have a home number to call Hera at, and the summons waiting at Huber’s billets to see the Provost Marshal at 0600 precluded Huber from waiting to meet Hera when she arrived at the office.
“—and I returned to my quarters with the fellows who’d rescued us.”
“Want to comment on the shooting?” Steuben asked with a raised eyebrow. “The use of powerguns in the middle of Benjamin?”
“Sir,” Huber said, looking straight into the hard brown eyes of Colonel Hammer’s hatchetman, “I didn’t notice any shooting. I believe the business was handled with fists alone, though some of the thugs may have had clubs.”
Steuben reached into his shirt pocket and came out with a thin plastic disk. He flipped it to Huber, who snatched it out of the air. It was the pitted gray matrix which had held copper atoms in place in a powergun’s bore; a 1-cm empty, fired by a pistol or sub-machine gun.
Specifically, fired from Huber’s pistol.
“Sir, I don’t have anything useful to say about this,” Huber said. The bastard across the desk could only kill him once, so there wasn’t any point in going back now. “If it came from the scene of the fight, it must have been fired after we left there.”
“It’s old news, Lieutenant,” Steuben said, “and we won’t worry about it. If there had been a shooting incident . . . let’s say, if you’d shot one or more citizens of the UC, you’d have been dismissed from the Regiment. It’s very possible that you’d have been turned over to the local authorities for trial. Our contract with the UC really is in the balance as a result of what happened at Rhodesville.”
“Then I’m glad there wasn’t any shooting, sir,” Huber said. “I intend to stay inside the Liaison Office for the foreseeable future so that there won’t be a repetition.”
The holographic scenes on the major’s wall weren’t still images as Huber had thought the first time he’d seen them. What had initially been a tiny dot above the horizon had grown during the interview to a creature flying at a great height above the snowfields.
Steuben giggled. Huber felt his face freeze in a rictus of horror.
“Aren’t you going to tell me it isn’t fair, Lieutenant?” the major said. “Or perhaps you’d like to tell me that you’re an innocent victim whom I’m making the scapegoat for political reasons?”
For the first time since the ambush at Rhodesville, Huber felt angry instead of being frightened or sick to his stomach. “Sir, you know it’s not fair,” he said, much louder than he’d allowed his voice to range before in this room. “Why should I waste my breath or your time? And why should you waste my time?”
“I take your point, Lieutenant,” the major said. He rose to his feet; gracefully as everything he did was graceful. He was a small man, almost childlike; he was smiling now with the same curved lips as a serpent’s. “You’re dismissed to your duties—unless perhaps there’s something you’d like to ask me?”
Huber started to turn to the door, then paused with a frown. “Sir?” he said. “How many people could have given Harris’s Commando—given Solace—accurate information as to when a single platoon was landing at Rhodesville?”
“Besides members of the Regiment itself?” Steuben said, his reptilian smile a trifle wider. Huber nodded tersely. He wasn’t sure if the question was serious, so he treated it as though it was.
“A handful of people within the UC government certainly knew,” the major said. “A larger number, also people within the government or with connections to it, could probably have gotten the information unattributably. But it wasn’t something that was being discussed on the streets of Rhodesville, if that’s what you meant.”
“Yes sir,” said Huber. “That’s what I meant.”
He went out the door, closing it behind him as he’d been told to do the first time he’d left Major Steuben’s presence. It was good to have the heavy panel between him and the man in that room.
He walked quickly. There was a lot of work waiting in Log Section; and there was another job as well, a task for the officer who’d been commanding platoon F-3 when it landed at Rhodesville.
Huber hadn’t forgotten Kolbe or the crew of Foghorn; and he hadn't forgotten what he owed their memory.
Hera Graciano arrived at Log Section half an hour after Huber and the sergeant got back from Base Alpha, well before the staff was expected to show up for work. She stepped in, looking surprised to find the Slammers at their consoles.
“I rearranged things a bit.” Huber said with a grin. “I moved my desk into the main office here; I figure we can use Captain Cassutt’s office for a break room or something, hey?”
“Well, if you like . . .” Hera said. “But I don’t think . . .”
“If they see me . . .” Huber explained quietly. Sergeant Tranter watched with the care of an enlisted man who knows that the whims of his superiors may mean his job or his life. “Then it’s easier for them to believe we’re all part of the same team. Given the number of factions in the UC right at the moment, I’d like there to be a core of locals who figure I’m on whatever their side is.”
“I’m very sorry about last night!” Hera said, bowing her head in the first real confusion Huber had noticed in her demeanor. She crossed the room quickly without glancing at Tranter by the door. “That isn’t normal, even for my brother. I think something’s gone wrong with him, badly wrong.”
“Any one you walk away from,” Huber said brightly. He was immensely relieved to learn that Hera was all right, but he really didn’t want to discuss either last night or the wider situation with her. “I’m paid to take risks, after all. Let’s let it drop, shall we?”
“Yes,” she said, settling herself behind her desk. Her expression was a mixture of relief and puzzlement. “Yes, of course.”
Hera hadn’t powered up the privacy shield as yet, so Huber could add smilingly, “By the way—does the UC have a central population registry? An office that tracks everybody?”
“What?” Hera said in amazement. “No, of course not! I mean, do other planets have that sort of thing? We have a
voter’s list, is that what you mean?”
“Some places are more centralized, yeah,” Huber said, thinking of the cradle to grave oversight that the Frisian government kept on its citizens. Those who stayed on the planet, at least; which was maybe a reason to join a mercenary company, though the Colonel
kept a pretty close eye on his troopers as well.
Through the White Mice . . .
“No matter,” he continued. “Would you download a list of all the Regiment’s local employees and their home addresses to me before you get onto your own work, Hera? It may be in this console I inherited from the good captain, but I sure haven’t been able to locate it.”
“Yes, of course . . .” she said, bringing her console live. She seemed grateful for an excuse to look away from Huber. Last night had been a real embarrassment to her.
One more thing to thank her brother for. It was pretty minor compared to the rest of what Huber suspected Patroklos was involved in, though.
Other clerks were coming in to the office; perhaps merely to make a good impression on the new director, but maybe they’d heard about the business last night and hoped to get more gossip. Huber grinned blandly and set to work with the file that appeared in his transfer box.
The business of the day proceeded. Log Section had been running perfectly well without Huber for the past three weeks, but as more starships landed—three in one mad hour at the relatively large field here in Benjamin, and four more during the day at other members of the United Cities—there were frequent calls to the Officer in Command of Log Section. None of the Slammers calling wanted to talk to a wog: they wanted a real officer wearing the lion rampant of the Regiment. They were fresh out of stardrive, with headaches and tempers to match.
Huber fielded the calls. He almost never knew the answer to the angry questions himself, but he dumped quick summaries to Hera through his console while holding the speaker on the line. As a general rule she had the answer for him—a vehicle dispatched, a storage warehouse located, or a staff member on the way to the scene—in a minute or less. When it was going to take longer, that warning appeared on Huber’s console and he calmed the caller down as best he could.
