by David Drake
“What’s the matter, sir?” Tranter said.
“I screwed up,” Huber said. His face must’ve gone white; he felt cold all over. “It’s nobody’s fault but mine.”
Hera could’ve gone to her father with the information; she could’ve gone to the civil authorities—though Huber wasn’t sure the United Cities had security police in the fashion that larger states generally did; or she could even have gone to Colonel Hammer. Any of those choices would have been fine. The possibility that scared Huber, though, was that instead—
His helmet pinged him with an Urgent call. Huber wasn’t in a platoon and company net, so the sound was unexpected. He locked down his faceshield to mute the conversation and said, “Fox Three-six, go ahead!”
In his surprise—and fear—he’d given his old call signal. Somebody else was leader of platoon F-3 nowadays.
“Arne, this is Doll,” said Lieutenant Basime’s voice. “We don’t exactly monitor the civil police here, but we are a signals liaison section. Ah—”
“Say it!” Huber snapped.
“There was a police call just now,” Doll said mildly. She was a solid lady, well able to stand up for her rights and smart enough to know when that wasn’t the best choice. “There’s an aircar down west of town. The driver and sole occupant is dead. Initial report is that it’s your deputy, Hera Graciano.”
“Right,” said Huber. He felt calm again, much as he’d been as he watched the stern of the blazing dirigible slide slowly into the terminal building. The past was the past; now there were only the consequences to deal with. “Can you download the coordinates of the crash site?”
“You’ve got ’em,” Doll said. There was an icon Huber hadn’t noticed in the terrain box on his faceshield. “Anything more I can do, Snake?”
“Negative, Doll,” Huber said. “I’ll take it from here. Three-six out.”
He broke the connection and raised his faceshield. “Trouble, El-Tee?” said Sergeant Tranter. Tranter had been in the field, but he didn’t have a line trooper’s instincts. Deseau and Learoyd stood facing outward from their former platoon leader; their feet were spread and their sub-machine guns slanted in front of them. They weren’t aiming at anything, not threatening anybody; but they hadn’t had to ask if there was trouble, and they were ready to deal in their own way with anything that showed itself.
The civilian clerks looked terrified, as they well should have been.
“Tranter, I need a ride,” Huber said. “West of town there’s been an aircar crash. I’ll transfer the coordinates to the car’s navigation system.”
“We’re coming along,” Deseau said. He continued to watch half the room and the doorway, while the trooper watched the clerks on the other side. “Learoyd and me.”
“You go relax,” Huber said in a tight voice. “This is Log Section business, not yours.”
“Fuck that,” said Deseau. “You said we’re at liberty. Fine, we’re at liberty to come with you.”
“Right,” said Huber. He was still holding his big shoulder weapon; he hadn’t had time to put it down since he entered the office. “You—Farinelli? You’re in charge till I get back.” He thought for a moment and added, “Or you hear that I’ve been replaced.”
“But Director Huber!” the clerk said. “What if Deputy Graciano comes back?”
“She won’t,” Huber snarled. Then to his men he added, “Come on, troopers. Let’s roll!”
“She was up about a thousand meters,” said the cop. He was a young fellow in a blue jacket and red trousers with a blue stripe down the seam. For all that he was determined not to be cowed by the heavily armed mercenaries, he behaved politely instead of blustering to show his authority. “She had the top down and wasn’t belted in, so she came out the first time the car tumbled.”
It was probably chance then that the body and the vehicle had hit the ground within fifty meters of one another, Huber realized. Hera had gone through tree-branches face-first, hit the ground, and then bounced over to lie on her back. Her features were distorted, but he could’ve identified her easily if the UC policeman had been concerned about that; he wasn’t.
There was almost no blood. The dent in the center of her forehead had spilled considerable gore over Hera’s face, but that had been dry when the branches slashed her and wiped much of it off. Huber was no pathologist, but he’d seen death often and in a variety of forms. Hera Graciano had been dead for some length of time before her body hit the ground.
“Why did the car tumble?” Tranter said, kneeling to check the underside of the crumpled vehicle. It’d nosed in, then fallen back on its underside with its broken frame cocked up like an inverted
V. “There’s an air turbine that deploys when you run outa fuel. It generates enough juice to keep your control gyro spinning.”
“You’re friends of the lady?” the cop asked. He was expecting backup, but the Slammers had arrived almost as soon as he did himself. He seemed puzzled, which Huber was willing to grant him the right to be.
But it was a really good thing for the cop that he hadn’t decided to throw his weight around. Huber wasn’t in a mood for it; and while he wasn’t sure how Sergeant Tranter would react, he knew that the two troopers from Fencing Master would obey without question if their lieutenant told them to blow the local’s brains out.
“She was my deputy,” Huber said. “She worked for the Regiment in a civilian capacity.”
“Somebody whacked the turbine with a heavy hammer,” Tranter said, rising from where he knelt. “That’s why it’s still stuck in the cradle.”
He pulled at an access plate on the wreck’s quarter panel. It didn’t come till he took a multitool from his belt and gave the warped plastic a calculated blow.
The local policeman looked at the sky again and fingered his lapel communicator. He didn’t try to prod the dispatcher, though. “There was an anonymous call that the car had been circling up here and just dropped outa the sky,” he explained. “D’ye suppose it was maybe, well . . . suicide?”
“No,” said Huber. “I don’t think that.”
“That’s good,” said the cop, misunderstanding completely. “Because you guys might not know it, but this lady was from a bloody important family here in the UC. I don’t want to get caught in some kinda scandal, if you see what I mean.”
“I see what you mean,” Huber said. His eyes drifted across Tranter for a moment, then resumed scanning their surroundings. They were within ten klicks of the center of Benjamin, but the forest was unbroken. Trees on Plattner’s World had enough chlorophyll in their bark to look deep green from a distance. Their branches twisted like snakes, but the leaves were individually tiny and stuck on the twigs like a child’s drawing.
The cop grimaced. “I wish the Commander Miltianas would get the lead outa his pants and take over here,” he went on. “Of course, he probably doesn’t want to be mixed up in this either—but curse it, it’s what they’re paying him the big bucks for, right?”
“There’s four fuel cells in this model,” Tranter said, his head inside the vehicle’s stern section. “The back three are disconnected and there’s a puncture in the forward cell.”
He straightened, looking puzzled and concerned. “El-Tee,” he said. “It looks to me like—”
“Drop the subject for now, Sergeant,” Huber said. He gestured to their own vehicle, a ten-place bus rather than the little runabout Tranter had used to ferry Huber alone. Four troopers in combat gear would’ve been a crowd and a burden for the smaller car. “We’ll talk on the way back to the office.”
“But—” said Tranter.
Deseau rapped the side of Tranter’s commo helmet with his knuckles. “Hey!” Deseau said. “He’s the man, right? He just gave you an order!”
Tranter looked startled, then nodded in embarrassment and trotted for the bus. There were three aircars approaching fast from Benjamin. Two had red strobe lights flashing, but they weren’t running their sirens.
Huber turned to th
e cop. “Thanks for letting us look over the site,” he said. “We’ll leave you to your business now. And we’ll get back to our own.”
“Yeah, right,” said the local man with a worried frown. “I sure hope I don’t wind up holding the bucket on this one. A death like this can be a lot of trouble!”
“You got that right,” Huber muttered as he got into the cab with Tranter. The tech already had the fans live; now he boosted power and wobbled into the air, narrowly missing a line of trees.
Kelso would have done a better job driving, but this was no longer business for civilians. Huber locked his faceshield down.
“Unit, switch to intercom,” he ordered. Nobody but the three men in the car with him could hear the discussion without a lot of decryption equipment and skill. “Tranter, I’m leaving you in the circuit, but I’m not expecting you to get involved. You’ll have to keep your mouth shut, that’s all. Can you handle that?”
“Fuck not being involved,” Tranter said. His hands were tight on the control yoke and his eyes were straight ahead; a degree of hurt sounded in his voice. “I knew the deputy better than you did, sir. She was a good boss; and anyway, she was one of ours even if she didn’t wear the uniform. Which I do.”
“Right,” said Huber. “Deseau and Learoyd, you don’t know the background. I figure her brother killed her or one of his thugs did.
It was probably an accident, but maybe not. She’d have gone to see him, threatening to tell the world he was an agent for Solace. She maybe even guessed he’d set up the ambush at Rhodesville.”
Sergeant Deseau made a sound loud enough to trip the intercom. In something like a normal voice he went on, “We gonna take care of him, then?”
“He’s got a lot of pull,” Huber warned. “I went to Major Steuben about him and got told to mind my own business. It’s going to make real waves if somebody from the Regiment takes him out. Real waves, about as bad as it gets.”
“El-Tee?” Learoyd said, frustration so evident in his tone that Huber could visualize the trooper trying to knuckle his bald scalp through his commo helmet. “Just tell us what to do, right? That’s your job. Don’t worry about me and Frenchie doing ours.”
Learoyd was correct, of course. He had a simple approach of necessity, and he cut through all the nonsense that smarter people wrapped themselves up with.
“Right,” Huber repeated. “There’ll be a gang of thugs at the guy’s townhouse, and they’ll have guns available even if they aren’t going out on the street with them just yet. It could be that he’d got a squad of Harris’s Commando on premises. I doubt it because of the risk to him if it comes out, but we’ve got to figure we’re going up against people who know what they’re doing.”
He paused, arranging his next words. The aircar was over Benjamin now, but Tranter was taking them in a wide circuit of the suburbs where the tree cover was almost as complete as over the virgin forest beyond.
“For that reason,” Huber said, “I figure to borrow Fencing Master for the operation. There’s a detachment leaving Central Repair for Base Alpha tonight. We’ll tag onto the back and trail off when we’re close to the bastard’s compound. If we can, we’ll duck back to CR when we’re done—but I don’t expect to get away with this, troops.”
“I been shot at before,” Deseau said calmly. “I can’t see anything worse’n that that’s going to happen if they catch us.”
Learoyd didn’t bother to speak. Huber heard the clack as the trooper withdrew his sub-machine gun’s loading tube, then locked it back home in the receiver. Like he’d said, he was getting ready to do his part of the job.
“Sergeant Tranter,” Huber said, turning to the tech beside him. “Now that you know what we’re talking about, I think it’d be a good night for you to spend playing cards back at the billets. You’re a curst good man, but this really isn’t your line of work.”
Tranter’s face was red with suppressed emotion. “Guess you’ll need a driver, right?” he snapped. “Guess I’ve driven the Lord’s great plenty of combat cars, shifting them around for repair. I guess it bloody well is my line of work. Sir.”
“Well in that case, troopers . . .” Huber said. “We’ll leave our billets for Central Repair at twenty hundred. Start time for the draft is twenty-one hundred, but they’ll be late. That’ll make the timing about right.”
Tranter muttered, “Roger,” Deseau grunted, and Learoyd said as little as he usually did. There wasn’t a lot to say at this point.
Huber wasn’t frightened; it was all over but the consequences.
Senator Patroklos Graciano was about to learn the consequences of fucking with Hammer’s Slammers.
The racket of drive fans made every joint in the girder-framed warehouse rattle and sing. There were two other combat cars besides Fencing Master; all three thirty-tonne monsters were powered up, their fans supporting them on bubbles of pressurized air. From the way the interior lights danced, some of the overhead fixtures were likely to be sucked down into the intakes unless the cars either shut down or drove out shortly.
“Are they going to get this bloody show on the road?” Sergeant Deseau muttered. His faceshield was raised and he wasn’t using intercom. Huber wouldn’t have understood the words had he not been looking into Deseau’s face and watching his lips move.
“Can it!” Huber snapped. “Take care of your own end and keep your mouth shut.”
Deseau grimaced agreement and faced front again. They were all nervous. Well, three of them were, at any rate; Learoyd seemed about as calm as he’d been a couple hours before, when he’d been methodically loading spare magazines for his sub-machine gun.
“Seven Red, this is Green One,” ordered the detachment commander—an artillery captain who happened to be the senior officer in the temporary unit. If the move had been more serious than the five kilometers between Central Repair and Base Alpha, the detachment would’ve been under the control of a line officer regardless of rank. “Pull into place behind Five Blue. Eight Red, follow Seven. Unit, prepare to move out. Green One out.”
“Tranter, slide in behind the second blower,” Huber ordered. “Don’t push up their ass, just keep normal interval so it looks like we belong.”
Chief Edlinger had put Huber and his men on the list for admission to Central Repair, but that was easily explained if it needed to be. The chief didn’t know what Huber planned—just that it wasn’t something he ought to know more about. The detachment commander didn’t know even that: he was in the self-propelled gun at the head of the column. The eight vehicles leaving for Base Alpha included two tanks, four combat cars, the detachment commander’s hog, and a repair vehicle with a crane and a powered bed that could lift a combat car. The crews didn’t know one another, and nobody would wonder or even notice that a fifth car had joined the procession.
The lead car jerked toward the open door. The driver, inexperienced or jumpy from the long wait, canted his nacelles too suddenly. The bow skirt dipped and scraped a shrieking line of sparks along the concrete floor until the car bounced over the threshold and into the open air.
The second car followed with greater care but the same lack of skill, rising nearly a hand’s breadth above the ground. The skirts spilled air in a roar around their whole circuit. The car wallowed; when the driver nudged his controls forward Huber thought for a moment the vehicle was going to slide into the jamb of the sliding door.
“They’ve got newbie crews,” Tranter said scornfully. “Via, I could do better than that with my eyes closed!”
“I’ll settle for you keeping your eyes open and not attracting attention,” Huber said tightly. “Move out, Trooper.”
Fencing Master slid gracefully through the doorway and into the warm night. The skirts ticked once on the door track, but that wasn’t worth mentioning.
“Let’s keep him, El-Tee,” Deseau said with a chuckle. “He’s as good as Kolbe was, and a curst sight better than I ever thought of being as a driver.”
“Keep your mind on the
present job, didn’t I tell you?” Huber snapped. “I don’t think any of us need to plan for a future much beyond tonight.”
Deseau laughed. Huber supposed that was as good a response as any.
Plattner’s World had seven moons, but none of them were big enough to provide useful illumination. The pole lights placed for security when these were warehouses threw bright pools at the front of each building, but that just made the night darker when Fencing Master moved between them. Huber locked down his faceshield and switched to light enhancement, though he knew he lost depth perception that way.
The rocket howitzer at the head of the column started to negotiate the gate to the compound, then stopped. The tank immediately following very nearly drove up its stern.
There was something wrong with the response of the hog’s drive fans, or at any rate the captain thought there was. He began arguing off-net with Repair’s Charge of Quarters, a senior sergeant who replied calmly, “Sir, you can bring it back and park it in the shop if you like, but I don’t have authority to roust a technician at this hour on a non-emergency problem.”
The CQ kept saying the same thing. So did the captain, though he varied the words a bit.
Huber listened for a moment to make sure that what was going on didn’t affect him, then switched to intercom. “They’ll get it sorted out in a bit,” he said to his crew. “The blowers are straight out of the shops and half the crews are newbies. Nothing to worry about.”
“Who’s worried?” Deseau said. He stretched at his central gun station, then turned and grinned at Huber.
They were all wearing body armor, even Tranter. The bulky ceramic clamshells crowded the fighting compartment even without the personal gear and extra ammo that’d pack the vehicle on a line deployment.