by David Drake
“It’s a good thing we hadn’t freed the cars before the outrigger gave,” Huber explained. “Bad enough people bouncing off the walls; at least we didn’t have thirty-tonne combat cars doing it too.”
“I don’t see why we’re landing in a cow pasture anyway,” Deseau muttered. “Isn’t there a real spaceport somewhere on this bloody tree-farm of a planet?”
“Yeah, there is,” Huber said dryly. “The trouble is, it’s in Solace. The people the United Cities are hiring us to fight.”
The briefing cubes were available to everybody in the Slammers, but Sergeant Deseau was like most of the enlisted personnel—and no few of the officers—in spending the time between deployments finding other ways to entertain himself. It was a reasonable enough attitude. Mercenaries tended to be pragmatists. Knowledge of the local culture wasn’t a factor when a planet hired mercenary soldiers, nor did it increase the gunmen’s chances of survival.
Deseau spit toward the ground, either a comment or just a way of clearing phlegm from his throat. Huber’s mouth felt like somebody’d scrubbed a rusty pot, then used the same wad of steel wool to scour his mouth and tongue.
“Let’s hope we capture Solace fast so we don’t lose half our supplies in the mud,” Deseau said. “This place’ll be a swamp the first time it rains.”
KPZ 9719 had come down on the field serving the dirigibles which connected Rhodesville with the other communities on Plattner’s World—and particularly with the spaceport at Solace in the central highlands. The field’s surface was graveled, but there were more soft spots than the one the starship’s outrigger had stabbed down through. Deseau was right about what wet weather would bring.
The starship sat on the southern edge of the kilometer-square field. On the north side opposite them were a one-story brick terminal with an attached control tower and a dozen warehouses with walls and trusses of plastic extrusion. Those few buildings comprised the entire port facilities.
Tractors were positioning lowboys under the corrugated metal shipping containers slung beneath the 300-meter-long dirigible now unloading at the east end of the field. A second dirigible had dropped its incoming cargo and was easing westward against a mild breeze, heading for the mooring mast where it would tether. The rank of outbound shipping containers there waited to be slung in place of the food and merchandise the United Cities imported. The containers had been painted a variety of colors, but rust now provided the most uniform livery.
A third dirigible was in the center of the field, its props turning just fast enough to hold it steady. The four shipping containers hanging from its belly occasionally kicked up dust as they touched the ground. A port official stood in an open-topped jitney with a flashing red light. He was screaming through a bullhorn at the dirigible’s forward cockpit, but the crew there seemed to be ignoring him.
Trooper Learoyd, Fencing Master’s right wing gunner—Huber chose to ride at the left gun, with Deseau in the vehicle commander’s post in the center—joined them at the hatch. He was stocky, pale, and almost bald even though he was younger than Huber by several years. He looked out and said, “What’s worth having a war about this place?”
“There’s people on it,” Deseau said with a sharp laugh. “That’s all the reason you need for a war, snake. You ought to know that by now.”
According to the briefing cubes, Rhodesville had a permanent population of 50,000; the residents provided light manufacturing and services for the Moss-hunters coursing thousands of square kilometers of the surrounding forest. Only a few houses were visible from the port. The community wound through the forest, constructed under the trees instead of clearing them for construction. The forest was the wealth of Plattner’s World, and the settlers acted as though they understood that fact.
“There’s a fungus that’s a parasite on the trees here,” Huber explained. “They call it Moss because it grows in patches of gray tendrils from the trunks. It’s the source of an anti-aging drug. The processing’s done off-world, but there’s enough money in the business that even the rangers who gather the Moss have aircars and better holodecks than you’d find in most homes on Friesland.”
“Well I’ll be,” Learoyd said, though he didn’t sound excited. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to squeeze the pain out through his eyesockets.
Deseau spat again. “So long as they’ve got enough set by to pay our wages,” he said. “I’d like a good, long war this time, because if I never board a ship again it’ll be too soon.”
The third dirigible was drifting sideways. Huber wouldn’t have been sure except for the official in the jitney; he suddenly dropped back into his seat and drove forward to keep from being crushed by the underslung cargo containers. The official stopped again and got out of his vehicle, running back toward the dirigible with his fists raised overhead in fury.
Huber looked over his shoulder to see how the spacers were making out with the turnbuckle. The tool they’d brought, a cart with chucks on extensible arms, wasn’t working. Well, that was par for the course.
Trooper Kolbe sat in the driver’s compartment, his chin bar resting on the hatch coaming. His faceshield was down, presenting an opaque surface to the outside world. Kolbe could have been using the helmet’s infrared, light-amplification, or sonic imaging to improve his view of the dimly lit hold, but Huber suspected the driver was simply hiding the fact that his eyes were closed.
Kolbe needn’t have been so discreet. If Huber hadn’t thought he ought to set an example, he’d have been leaning his forehead against Fencing Master’s cool iridium bow slope and wishing he didn’t hurt so much.
Platoon Sergeant Jellicoe was at the arms locker, issuing troopers their personal weapons. Jellicoe seemed as dispassionate as the hull of her combat car, but Trooper Coblentz, handing out the weapons as the sergeant checked them off, looked like he’d died several weeks ago.
Unless and until Colonel Hammer ordered otherwise, troopers on a contract world were required to go armed at all times. Revised orders were generally issued within hours of landing; troopers barhopping in rear areas with sub-machine guns and 2-cm shoulder weapons made the Regiment’s local employers nervous, and rightly so.
On Plattner’s World the Slammers had to land at six sites scattered across the United Cities, a nation that was mostly forest.
None of the available landing fields was large enough to take the monster starships on which the Regiment preferred to travel, and only the administrative capital, Benjamin, could handle more than one twenty-vehicle company at a time. Chances were that even off-duty troopers would be operating in full combat gear for longer than usual.
“What’s that gas-bag doing?” Deseau asked. “What do they fill ’em with here, anyway? If it’s hydrogen and it usually is …”
Foghorn had shut down, well clear of the starship’s ramp. Her four crewmen were shifting their gear out of the open-topped fighting compartment and onto the splinter shield of beryllium net overhead. A Slammers’ vehicle on combat deployment looked like a bag lady’s cart; the crew knew that the only things they could count on having were what they carried with them. Tanks and combat cars could shift position by over 500 klicks in a day, smashing the flank or rear of an enemy who didn’t even know he was threatened; but logistics support couldn’t follow the fighting vehicles as they stabbed through hostile territory.
“Aide, unit,” Huber said, cueing his commo helmet’s AI to the band all F-3 used in common. “Tatzig, pull around where that dirigible isn’t going to hit you. Something’s wrong with the bloody thing and the locals aren’t doing much of a job of sorting it out.”
Sergeant Tatzig looked up. He grunted an order to his driver, then replied over the unit push, “Roger, will do.”
There was a clang from the hold. A spacer had just hit the turnbuckle with a heavy hammer.
A huge, hollow metallic racket sounded from the field; the dirigible had dropped its four shipping containers. The instant the big metal boxes hit the ground, the sides facing th
e starship fell open. Three of them did, anyway: the fourth container opened halfway, then stuck.
The containers were full of armed men wearing uniforms of chameleon cloth that mimicked the hue of whatever it was close to. The troops looked like pools of shadow from which slugthrowers and anti-armor missiles protruded.
“Incoming!” Huber screamed. “We’re under attack!”
One of the attacking soldiers had a buzzbomb, a shoulder-launched missile, already aimed at Huber’s face. He fired. Huber reacted by instinct, grabbing his two companions and throwing himself down the ramp instead of back into the open hold.
The missile howled overhead and detonated on Fencing Master’s bow. White fire filled the universe for an instant. The blast made the ramp jump, flipping Huber from his belly to his right side. He got up. He was seeing double, but he could see; details didn’t matter at times like this.
The attack had obviously been carefully planned, but things went wrong for the hostiles as sure as they had for Huber and his troopers. The buzzbomber had launched early instead of stepping away from the shipping container as he should’ve done. The steel box caught the missile’s backblast and reflected it onto the shooter and those of his fellows who hadn’t jumped clear. They spun out of the container, screaming as flames licked from their tattered uniforms.
A dozen automatic weapons raked Foghorn, killing Tatzig and his crewmen instantly. The attackers’ weapons used electromagnets to accelerate heavy-metal slugs down the bore at hypersonic velocity. When slugs hit the car’s iridium armor, they ricocheted as neon streaks that were brilliant even in sunlight.
Slugs that hit troopers chewed their bodies into a mist of blood and bone.
The starship’s hold was full of roiling white smoke, harsh as a wood rasp on the back of Huber’s throat in the instant before his helmet slapped filters down over his nostrils. The buzzbomb had hit Fencing Master’s bow slope at an angle. Its shaped-charge warhead had gouged a long trough across the armor instead of punching through into the car’s vitals. There was no sign of Kolbe.
The tie-down, jammed turnbuckle and all, had vanished in the explosion. Two pairs of legs lay beside the vehicle. They’d probably belonged to spacers rather than Huber’s troopers, but the blast had blown the victims’ clothing off at the same time it pureed their heads and torsos.
Slugs snapped through the starship’s hatchway, clanging and howling as they ricocheted deeper into the hold. Huber mounted Fencing Master’s bow slope with a jump and a quick step. He dabbed a hand down and the blast-heated armor burned him. He’d have blisters in the morning, if he lived that long.
Huber thought the driver’s compartment was empty, but Kolbe’s body from the shoulders on down had slumped onto the floor. Huber bent through the hatch and grabbed him. The driver’s right arm came off when Huber tugged.
Huber screamed in frustration and threw the limb out of the vehicle, then got a double grip on Kolbe’s equipment belt and hauled him up by it. Bracing his elbows for leverage, Huber pulled the driver’s torso and thighs over the coaming and let gravity do the rest. The body slithered down the bow, making room for Huber inside. The compartment was too tight to share with a corpse and still be able to drive.
Kolbe had raised the seat so that he could sit with his head out of the vehicle. Huber dropped it because he wanted the compartment’s full-sized displays instead of the miniature versions his faceshield would provide. The slugs whipping around the hold would’ve been a consideration if he’d had time to think about it, but right now he had more important things on his mind than whether he was going to be alive in the next millisecond.
“All Fox elements!” he shouted, his helmet still cued to the unit push. Half a dozen troopers were talking at the same time; Huber didn’t know if anybody would hear the order, but they were mostly veterans and ought to react the right way without a lieutenant telling them what that was. “Bring your cars on line and engage the enemy!”
Arne Huber was F-3’s platoon leader, not a driver, but right now the most critical task the platoon faced was getting the damaged, crewless, combat car out of the way of the two vehicles behind it. With Fencing Master blocking the hatch, the attackers would wipe out the platoon like so many bugs in a killing bottle. Huber was the closest trooper to the job, so he was doing it.
The fusion bottle that powered the vehicle was on line. Eight powerful fans in nacelles under Fencing Master’s hull sucked in outside air and filled the steel-skirted plenum chamber at pressure sufficient to lift the car’s thirty tonnes. Kolbe had switched the fans on but left them spinning at idle, their blades set at zero incidence, while the spacers freed the turnbuckle.
Huber palmed the combined throttles forward while his thumb adjusted blade incidence in concert. As the fusion bottle fed more power to the nacelles, the blades tilted on their axes so that they drove the air rather than merely cutting it. Fan speed remained roughly constant, but Fencing Master shifted greasily as her skirts began to lift from the freighter’s deck.
A second buzzbomb hit the bow.
For an instant, Huber’s mind went as blank as the white glare of the blast. The shock curtains in the driver’s compartment expanded, and his helmet did as much as physics allowed to save his head. Despite that, his brain sloshed in his skull.
He came around as the shock curtains shrank back to their ready state. He didn’t know who or where he was. The display screen before him was a gray, roiling mass. He switched the control to thermal imaging by trained reflex and saw armed figures rising from the ground to rush the open hatch.
I’m Arne Huber. We’re being attacked.
His right hand was on the throttles; the fans were howling. He twisted the grip, angling the nacelles back so that their thrust pushed the combat car instead of just lifting it. Fencing Master’s bow skirt screeched on the deck, braking the vehicle’s forward motion beyond the ability of the fans to drive it.
The second warhead had opened the plenum chamber like a ration packet. The fan-driven air rushed out through the hole instead of raising the vehicle as it was meant to do.
The attackers had thrown themselves flat so that the missile wouldn’t scythe them down also. Three of them reached the base of the ramp, then paused and opened fire. Dazzling streaks crisscrossed the hold, and the whang of slugs hitting the Fencing Master’s iridium armor was loud even over the roar of the fans.
Huber decoupled the front four nacelles and tilted them vertical again. He shoved the throttle through the gate, feeding full emergency power to the fans. The windings would burn out in a few minutes under this overload, but right now Huber wouldn’t bet he or anybody in his platoon would be alive then to know.
Fencing Master’s ruined bow lifted on thrust alone. Not high, not even a finger’s breadth, but enough to free the skirt from the decking and allow the rear nacelles to shove her forward. Staggering like a drunken ox, the car lurched from the hold and onto the ramp. Her bow dragged again, but this time the fans had gravity to aid them. She accelerated toward the field, scraping up a fountain of red sparks from either side of her hull.
The attackers tried to jump out of the way. Huber didn’t know and didn’t much care what happened to them when they disappeared below the level of the sensor pickups feeding Fencing Master’s main screen. A few gunmen more or less didn’t matter; Huber’s problem was to get this car clear of the ramp so that Flame Farter and Floosie, still aboard the freighter, could deploy and deal with the enemy.
Fencing Master reached the bottom of the ramp and drove a trench through the gravel before shuddering to a halt. The shock curtains swathed Huber again; he’d have disengaged the system if he’d had time for nonessentials after the machine’s well-meant swaddling clothes freed him. Skewing the stern nacelles slightly to port, he pivoted Fencing Master around her bow and rocked free of the rut.
The air above him sizzled with ozone and cyan light: two of the tribarrels in the car’s fighting compartment had opened up on the enemy. Somebody’d ma
naged to board while Huber was putting the vehicle in motion. Fencing Master was a combat unit again.
There must’ve been about forty of the attackers all told, ten to each of the shipping containers. Half were now bunched near Foghorn or between that car and the starship’s ramp. Huber switched Fencing Master’s Automatic Defense System live, then used the manual override to trigger three segments.
The ADS was a groove around the car’s hull, just above the skirts. It was packed with plastic explosive and faced with barrel-shaped osmium pellets. When the system was engaged, sensors triggered segments of the explosive to send blasts of pellets out to meet and disrupt an incoming missile.
Fired manually, each segment acted as a huge shotgun. The clanging explosions chopped into cat food everyone who stood within ten meters of Fencing Master. Huber got a whiff of sweetly poisonous explosive residues as his nose filters closed again. The screaming fans sucked away the smoke before he could switch back to thermal imaging.
An attacker aboard Foghorn had seen the danger in time to duck into the fighting compartment; the pellets scarred the car’s armor but didn’t penetrate it. The attacker rose, pointing his slugthrower down at the hatch Huber hadn’t had time to close. A tribarrel from Fencing Master decapitated the hostile.
A powergun converted a few precisely aligned copper atoms into energy which it directed down the weapon’s mirror-polished iridium bore. Each light-swift bolt continued in a straight line to its target, however distant, and released its energy as heat in a cyan flash. A 2-cm round like those the tribarrels fired could turn a man’s torso into steam and fire; the 20-cm bolt from a tank’s main gun could split a mountain.
One of the shipping containers was still jammed halfway open. Soldiers were climbing out like worms squirming up the sides of a bait can. Two raised their weapons when they saw a tribarrel slewing in their direction. Ravening light slashed across them, flinging their maimed bodies into the air. The steel container flashed into white fireballs every time a bolt hit it.
