by David Drake
Lightless, the buildings faded to the appearance of the high concrete fortresses they were in fact. Repeated arches made the entrance of the China Doll, directly across the street from the commandant's offices, look spacious. The door itself was so narrow that only two men could pass it at a time, and no one could slip unnoticed past the array of sensors and guards that made sure none of those entering were armed.
Normally the facilities here at Paradise Port were open all day. Now an armored panel clanged down across the narrow door of the China Doll, its echoes merging with similar tocsins from the other buildings.
Much good that would do if the tanks opened up with their 20cm main guns. Even a tribarrel could blast holes in thumb-thick steel as easily as one had vaporized Jobber's knees and calves….
He slid into the street, directly into the path of the lead tank. He would have liked to glance up toward the bedroom window for what he knew might be his last glimpse of Vicki, but he was afraid that he couldn't do that and still have the guts to do his duty.
For a long time after he lost his legs, the only thing which had kept Horace Jolober from suicide was the certainty that he had always done his duty. Not even Vicki could be allowed to take that from him.
The tanks were advancing at no more than a slow walk though their huge size gave them the appearance of speed. They were buttoned up—hatches down, crews hidden behind the curved surfaces of iridium armor that might just possibly turn a bolt from a gun as big as the one each tank carried in its turret.
Lesser weapons had left scars on the iridium. Where light powerguns had licked the armor—and even a tribarrelled automatic was light in comparison to a tank—the metal cooled again in a slope around the point where a little had been vaporized. High-velocity bullets made smaller, deeper craters plated with material from the projectile itself.
The turret of the leading tank bore a long gouge that began in a pattern of deep, radial scars. A shoulder-fired rocket had hit at a slight angle. The jet of white-hot gas spurting from the shaped-charge warhead had burned deep enough into even the refractory iridium that it would have penetrated the turret had it struck squarely.
If either the driver or the blower captain were riding with their heads out of the hatch when the missile detonated, shrapnel from the casing had decapitated them.
Jolober wondered if the present driver even saw him, a lone man in a street that should have been cleared by the threat of one hundred and seventy tons of armor howling down the middle of it.
An air-cushion jeep carrying a pintle-mounted needle stunner and two men in Port Patrol uniforms was driving alongside the lead tank, bucking and pitching in the current roaring from beneath the steel skirts of the tank's plenum chamber. While the driver fought to hold the light vehicle steady, the other patrolman bellowed through the jeep's loudspeakers. He might have been on the other side of the planet for all his chance of being heard over the sound of air sucked through intakes atop the tank's hull and then pumped beneath the skirts forcefully enough to balance the huge weight of steel and iridium.
Jolober grounded his mobile chair. He crooked his left ring finger so that the surgically redirected nerve impulse keyed the microphone implanted at the base of his jaw. “Gentlemen,” he said, knowing that the base unit in the Port Office was relaying his words on the Slammers’ general frequency. “You are violating the regulations which govern Paradise Port. Stop before somebody gets hurt.”
The bow of the lead tank was ten meters away—and one meter less every second.
To the very end he thought they were going to hit him— by inadvertence, now, because the tank's steel skirt lifted in a desperate attempt to stop but the vehicle's mass overwhelmed the braking effect of its fans. Jolober knew that if he raised his chair from the pavement, the blast of air from the tank would knock him over and roll him along the concrete like a trash can in a windstorm—bruised but safe.
He would rather die than lose his dignity that way in front of Vicki.
The tank's bow slewed to the left, toward the China Doll. The skirt on that side touched the pavement with the sound of steel screaming and a fountain of sparks that sprayed across and over the building's high plastic facade.
The tank did not hit the China Doll, and it stopped short of Horace Jolober by less than the radius of its bow's curve.
The driver grounded his huge vehicle properly and cut the power to his fans. Dust scraped from the pavement, choking and chalky, swirled around Jolober and threw him into a paroxysm of coughing. He hadn't realized that he'd been holding his breath—until the danger passed and instinct filled his lungs.
The jeep pulled up beside Jolober, its fans kicking up still more dust, and the two patrolmen shouted words of concern and congratulation to their commandant. More men were appearing, patrolmen and others who had ducked into the narrow alleys between buildings when the tanks filled the street.
“Stecher,” said Jolober to the sergeant in the patrol vehicle, “go back there—” he gestured toward the remainder of the column, hidden behind the armored bulk of the lead tank —“and help ‘em get turned around. Get ‘em back to the Refit Area where they belong.”
“Sir, should I get the names?” Stecher asked.
The port commandant shook his head with certainty. “None of this happened,” he told his subordinates. “I'll take care of it.”
The jeep spun nimbly while Stecher spoke into his commo helmet, relaying Jolober's orders to the rest of the squad on street duty.
Metal rang again as the tank's two hatch covers slid open. Jolober was too close to the hull to see the crewmen so he kicked his fans to life and backed, a few meters.
The mobile chair had been built to his design. Its only control was the throttle with a linkage which at high-thrust settings automatically transformed the plenum chamber to a nozzle. Steering and balance were matters of how the rider shifted his body weight. Jolober prided himself that he was just as nimble as he had been before.
And before he fell back into the trench on Primavera, half wrapped in the white flag, he'd waved to the oncoming tanks. The only conscious memory he retained of that moment was the sight of his right leg still balanced on the trench lip above him, silhouetted against the criss-crossing cyan bolts from the powerguns.
But Horace Jolober was just as much a man as he'd ever been. The way he got around proved it. And Vicki.
The driver staring out the bow hatch at him was a woman with thin features and just enough hair to show beneath her helmet. She looked scared, aware of what had just happened and aware also of just how bad it could've been.
Jolober could appreciate how she felt.
The man who lifted himself from the turret hatch was under thirty, angry, and—though Jolober couldn't remember the Slammers’ collar pips precisely—a junior officer of some sort rather than a sergeant.
The dust had mostly settled by now, but vortices still spun above the muzzles of the tribarrel which the fellow had been firing skyward. “What're you doing, you bloody fool?” he shouted. “D'ye want to die?.”
Not any more, thought Horace Jolober as he stared upward at the tanker. One of the port patrolmen had responded to the anger in the Slammer's voice by raising his needle stunner, but there was no need for that.
Jolober keyed his mike so that he didn't have to shout with the inevitable emotional loading. In a flat certain voice, he said, “If you'll step down here, Lieutenant we can discuss the situation like officers—which I am, and you will continue to be unless you insist on pushing things.”
The tanker grimaced, then nodded his head and lifted himself the rest of the way out of the turret. “Right” he said. “Right I…” His voice trailed off, but he wasn't going to say anything the port commandant hadn't heard before.
When you screw up real bad, you can either be afraid or you can flare out in anger and blame somebody else. Not because you don't know better, but because it's the only way to control your fear. It isn't pretty, but there's no pretty way to s
crew up bad.
The tanker dropped to the ground in front of Jolober and gave a sloppy salute. That was lack of practice, not deliberate insult, and his voice and eyes were firm as he said, “Sir. Acting Captain Tad Hoffritz reporting.”
“Horace Jolober,” the port commandant said. He raised his saddle to put his head at what used to be normal standing height, a few centimeters taller than Hoffritz. The Slammer's rank made it pretty clear why the disturbance had occurred. “Your boys?” Jolober asked, thumbing toward the tanks sheepishly reversing down the street under the guidance of white-uniformed patrolmen.
“Past three days they have been,” Hoffritz agreed. His mouth scrunched again in an angry grimace and he said, “Look, I'm real sorry. I know how dumb that was. I just…”
Again, there wasn't anything new to say.
The tank's driver vaulted from her hatch with a suddenness which drew both men's attention. “Corporal Days,” she said with a salute even more perfunctory than Hoffritz's had been. “Look, sir, I was drivin’ and if there's a problem, it's my problem.”
“Daisy—” began Captain Hoffritz.
“There's no problem, Corporal,” Jolober said firmly. “Go back to your vehicle. We'll need to move it in a minute or two.”
Another helmeted man had popped his head from the turret—surprisingly, because this was a line tank, not a command vehicle with room for several soldiers in the fighting compartment. The driver looked at her captain, then met the worried eyes of the trooper still in the turret She backed a pace but stayed within earshot.
“Six tanks out of seventeen,” Jolober said calmly. Things were calm enough now that he was able to follow the crosstalk of his patrolmen, their voices stuttering at low level through the miniature speaker on his epaulet. “You've been seeing some action, then.”
“Too bloody right,” muttered Corporal Days.
Hoffritz rubbed the back of his neck, lowering his eyes, and said, “Well, running… There's four back at Refit dead-lined we brought in on transporters, but—”
He looked squarely at Jolober. “But sure we had a tough time. That's why I'm CO and Chester's up there—” he nodded toward the man in the turret“—trying to work company commo without a proper command tank. And I guess I figured—”
Hoffritz might have stopped there, but the port commandant nodded him on.
“—I figured maybe it wouldn't hurt to wake up a few rear-echelon types when we came back here for refit. Sorry, sir.”
“There's three other units, including a regiment of the Division Legere, on stand-down here at Paradise Port already, Captain,” Jolober said. He nodded toward the soldiers in mottled fatigues who were beginning to reappear on the street. “Not rear-echelon troops, from what I've heard. And they need some relaxation just as badly as your men do.”
“Yes, sir,” Hoffritz agreed, blank-faced. “It was real dumb. I'll sign the report as soon as you make it out”.
Jolober shrugged. “There won't be a report, Captain. Repairs to the gate'll go on your regiment's damage account and be deducted from Placida's payment next month.” He smiled. “Along with any chairs or glasses you break in the casinos. Now, get your vehicle into the Refit Area where it belongs. And come back and have a good time in Paradise Port. That's what we're here for.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hoffritz, and relief dropped his age by at least five years. He clasped Jolober's hand and, still holding it, asked, “You've seen service, too, haven't you, sir?.”
“Fourteen years with Hampton's Legion,” Jolober agreed, pleased that Hoffritz had managed not to stare at the stumps before asking the question.
“Hey, good outfit,” the younger man said with enthusiasm. “We were with Hampton on Primavera, back, oh, three years ago?”
“Yes, I know,” Jolober said. His face was still smiling, and the subject wasn't an emotional one any more. He felt no emotion at all… “One of your tanks shot—” his left hand gestured delicately at where his thighs ended “—these off on Primavera.”
“Lord,” Corporal Days said distinctly.
Captain Hoffritz looked as if he had been hit with a brick. Then his face regained its animation. “No, sir,” he said. “You're mistaken. On Primavera, we were both working for the Federalists. Hampton was our infantry support.”
Not the way General Hampton would have described the chain of command, thought Jolober. His smile became real again. He still felt pride in his old unit—and he could laugh at those outdated feelings in himself.
“Yes, that's right,” he said aloud. “There'd been an error in transmitting map coordinates. When a company of these—” he nodded toward the great iridium monster, feeling sweat break out on his forehead and arms as he did so “—attacked my battalion, I jumped up to stop the shooting.”
Jolober's smile paled to a frosty shadow of itself. “I was successful,” he went on softly, “but not quite as soon as I would've liked.”
“Oh, Lord and Martyrs,” whispered Hoffritz. His face looked like that of a battle casualty.
“Tad, that was—” Corporal Days began.
“Shut it off, Daisy!” shouted the Slammers’ commo man from the turret. Days’ face blanked and she nodded.
“Sir, I—” Hoffritz said.
Jolober shook his head to silence the younger man. “In a war,” he said, “a lot of people get in the way of rounds. I'm luckier than some. I'm still around to tell about it.”
He spoke in the calm, pleasant voice he always used in explaining the—matter—to others. For the length of time he was speaking, he could generally convince even himself.
Clapping Hoffritz on the shoulder—the physical contact brought Jolober back to present reality, reminding him that the tanker was a young man and not a demon hidden behind armor and a tribarrel—the commandant said, “Go on, move your hardware and then see what Paradise Port can show you in the way of a good time.”
“Oh, that I know already,” said Hoffritz with a wicked, man-to-man smile of his own. “When we stood down here three months back, I met a girl named Beth. I'll bet she still remembers me, and the Lord knows I remember her.”
“Girl?” Jolober repeated. The whole situation had so disoriented him that he let his surprise show.
“Well, you know,” said the tanker. “A Doll, I guess. But believe me, Beth's woman enough for me.”
“Or for anyone,” the commandant agreed. “I know just what you mean.”
Stecher had returned with the jeep. The street was emptied of all armor except Hoffritz's tank, and that was an object of curiosity rather than concern for the men spilling out the doors of the reopened brothels. Jolober waved toward the patrol vehicle and said, “My men'll guide you out of here, Captain Hoffritz. Enjoy your stay.”
The tank driver was already scrambling back into her hatch. She had lowered her helmet shield, so the glimpse Jolober got of her face was an unexpected, light-reflecting bubble.
Maybe Corporal Days had a problem with where the conversation had gone when the two officers started talking like two men. That was a pity, for her and probably for Captain Hoffritz as well. A tank was too small a container to hold emotional trouble among its crew.
But Horace Jolober had his own problems to occupy him as he slid toward his office at a walking pace. He had his meeting with the Facilities Inspection Committee, which wasn't going to go more smoothly because of the interruption.
A plump figure sauntering in the other direction tipped his beret to Jolober as they passed. “Ike,” acknowledged the port commandant in a voice as neutral as a gun barrel that doesn't care in the least at whom it's pointed.
Red Ike could pass for human, until the rosy cast of his skin drew attention to the fact that his hands had only three fingers and a thumb. Jolober was surprised to see that Ike was walking across the street toward his own brothel, the China Doll, instead of being inside the building already. That could have meant anything, but the probability was that Red Ike had a tunnel to one of the buildings across
the street to serve as a bolthole.
And since all the real problems at Paradise Port were a result of the alien who called himself Red Ike, Jolober could easily imagine why the fellow would want to have a bolt-hole.
Jolober had gone down the steps in a smooth undulation. He mounted them in a series of hops, covering two treads between pauses like a weary cricket climbing out of a well.
The chair's powerpack had more than enough charge left to swoop him up to the conference room. It was the man himself who lacked the mental energy now to balance himself on the column of driven air. He felt drained—the tribarrel, the tank… the memories of Primavera. If he'd decided to, sure, but…
But maybe he was getting old.
The Facilities Inspection Committee—staff members, actually, for three of the most powerful senators in the Placidan legislature—waited for Jolober with doubtful looks. Higgey and Wayne leaned against the conference room window, watching Hoffritz's tank reverse sedately in the street. The woman, Rodall, stood by the stairhead watching the port commandant's return.
“Why don't you have an elevator put in?” she asked. “Or at least a ramp?” Between phrases, Rodall's full features relaxed to the pout that was her normal expression.
Jolober paused beside her, noticing the whisper of air from beneath his plenum chamber was causing her to twist her feet away as if she had stepped into slime. “There aren't elevators everywhere, Mistress,” he said. “Most places, there isn't even enough smooth surface to depend on ground effect alone to get you more than forty meters.”
He smiled and gestured toward the conference room's window. Visible beyond the China Doll and the other buildings across the street was the reddish-brown expanse of the surrounding landscape: ropes of lava on which only lichen could grow, where a man had to hop and scramble from one ridge to another.
The Placidan government had located Paradise Port in a volcanic wasteland in order to isolate the mercenaries letting off steam between battles with Armstrong, the other power on the planet's sole continent To a cripple in a chair which depended on wheels or unaided ground effect, the twisting lava would be as sure a barrier as sheer walls.