Baneblade

by Guy Haley

  They went round the back of the Baneblade, the tank’s reactor powerplant looming above them. Radden showed Bannick the crew ladder, hard by the plant on the left-hand side, and together they clambered aboard. They went up onto the wide shoulder of the main deck roof, upon which sat the turret.

  ‘Here.’ Radden banged on a hatch beneath his feet with his heel, ‘you can get into the main deck, it’s a squeeze, brings you right in over the tech station, only for escape or emergency, annoys Vorkosigen if you use it to get in and out, but don’t let that stop you. There.’ Radden paused and pointed along the tank to the front, ‘fore of the main deck, is another access hatch that leads into the forward compartment up where the driver’s station is. It comes down right on the second gunnery chair, so I’d avoid it unless you want to end up in Ganlick’s lap, and trust me, you don’t. That’s where you’ll be, sometimes, when Sergeant Ganlick is on other duties or off rotation, but mostly you’re in third gunnery, which is all remote-controlled from the command deck. We’ll go in through the top, that way you can see where everything is. Ganlick is that ox over there. See?’ Radden pointed out a bald head bobbing about near to the hull-mounted demolisher cannon. ‘Oi! ’Lick!’ Radden produced a small nut from in his overalls and bounced it off Ganlick’s head. The body it attached to unfolded to a ridiculous height. Not only was he one of the tallest tankers Bannick had ever seen, but among the biggest of men. That he could squeeze himself into a tank even so big as the Baneblade was a surprise.

  ‘Big as an ork he is,’ said Radden to Bannick, ‘smells like one too. Ganlick!’

  ‘Frag you, you skinny little basdack,’ growled the huge man, and bent back down to his task.

  ‘Hey! I thought I’d introduce you! Be nice! This is Lieutenant Bannick, our new third gunner and brass trainee.’

  ‘Frag him too,’ grumbled the sergeant.

  ‘He’s got a foul temper that one, only talks when he’s after something, but he’s as superstitious as they come, so he’s not too much trouble inside, because he doesn’t want to upset Mars Triumphant. See that big medallion on his neck? Bought it for a month’s wages the day we got here off some sand-dwelling basdack. Idiot. Supposed to bring protection from ghosts or somesuch. Still, if you want to know something, he can find it out. He might not say much, but Ganlick could get a commissar to spill his guts given enough time, it’s a real knack he has. Come on,’ he said, and led Bannick up onto the wide turret of the Baneblade. Two large hatches sat side by side, one proud of the other, jutting out of the turret’s side to form an observation cupola, the other ringed by a well-maintained vision block, and mounting a heavy stubber on a rail. Two periscope units and targeting arrays were to the front of the turrets, external comms gear to the rear. Radden pressed his forefinger into a slot by the vision-block hatch. A clunk of a lock disengaging came from within. ‘We’ll get your print patterned inside,’ he said. ‘All these lock down automatically; just one of the many benefits of serving onboard a genuine Mars-made war machine. Of course, you can still open them by hand from the inside, otherwise we might be in trouble, eh?’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Bannick. ‘These Mars tech too?’ he indicated the augur lenses to the front of the hatches.

  ‘Oh, all Mars tech,’ nodded Radden. ‘Real sophisticated stuff. Vorkosigen, that’s our tech-adept, can’t make head nor tail of most of it, that’s why we have Brasslock, Crampspan and the other enginseers permanently attached to the unit. Well, we had Crampspan…’ Radden’s normal bluster trailed off at the mention of the Shadowsword’s enginseer, no doubt dead with the rest. ‘It’s the kind of stuff an adept would sell his grandmama to learn about – Brasslock probably had. And you ain’t seen nothing yet, lieutenant, oh no.’ He hopped through the hatch. Bannick waited for a moment before following on down, having to twist his body to one side to avoid the firestep inside the turret.

  Inside there was not enough room to stand. Bannick hunched over, and looked around. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, lit by the red and green of multiple screens and what light came in through the hatch.

  ‘The gunnery deck,’ said Radden proudly. ‘Where you’re standing is where Meggen, my loader, stands when he’s up here. This is me, main gunnery.’ He grabbed a much-patched, high backed chair set partway into the turret floor and gave it an affectionate shake. ‘Right by the main gun. That’s my suite. Nice eh? I get the secondary scope directly in – that’s the small boxy one next to the big fancy one up there.’ He rapped a knuckle against the ceiling, ‘though the honoured lieutenant gets the feed off it. Told you the tech was good. The commander sits below, not like in one of your Leman Russ, this, oh no. Too much going on to have him isolated up here in the turret, although of course all the main feeds to his tac displays come direct from the top, gives him a good view.’ He pointed up. ‘And there is a secondary command chair to the back here.’ He pointed to a cramped cubby hole in the observation cupola. ‘If he needs a look out top, he can direct us all from up here.’

  It was oppressively hot inside the turret, airless, noisy with muted voices and the hammering of engineering works on the outside. ‘Meggen’s job right there.’ He pointed out a shell rack and a boxy shell lift hard to the central turret well. Six shells sat to attention, ready for action. They were half the height of a man, crowding the turret further. Between them, the breech of the gun, access points and the main gunnery station, there was little space to move. ‘Ralt sends ’em up from the shell store on the lower deck. Sometimes Meggen gets a bit bored and rattles off a few shots from the stubber. Don’t touch it, he thinks it’s his,’ he added conspiratorially. ‘Gets real jealous, so he does.’

  ‘Now, down here.’ Radden went over to the turret ladder well, set centrally so access could be had at all times between turret and main decks, the shell elevator hard by it. ‘The main command deck.’

  They descended into a room, the sides of which formed an irregular octagon, viewing cupolas of armaglass set into each facet. The track units ran under the extreme edges of the deck, the space they occupied creating shelves down either side of the compartment, both full of equipment. Like the turret, it was incredibly cramped and hot. ‘This is where Cortein sits.’ He gestured to a high-backed seat, multiple tac-displays in front of it. ‘And that there,’ he said, pointing to another tanker, stripped down to his vest, skin running with sweat, tattoo of the Epperaliant clan clearly visible, ‘is Second Lieutenant Epperaliant, commsman and second-in-command.’

  ‘Welcome aboard, lieutenant,’ said Epperaliant, and went back to whatever he had been doing. His comms-suite and Cortein’s command suite formed a continuous L-shaped run down the right side of the room and across the front, Epperaliant’s chair set at right-angles to that of the commander, rails allowing it an easy run up and down the bank of monitors, logic engines and augur readouts. Cortein’s station included a chart desk, a highly sophisticated cogitator display capable of three-dimensional map projection, something Bannick had only ever seen in static facilities before. Radden had been right about the level of technology aboard. ‘This is you, third gunnery station, all remotes. You’ll be primarily responsible for the sponson weaponry and the hull turret heavy bolter, because Outlanner’s always too busy actually driving to fire that. You can actually man all the guns from this station, twitch stick activated mostly.’ Radden activated a few screens, dragging his fingers across them, pushed some of the station’s bewildering array of controls.

  Radden noticed Bannick’s expression of concentration. ‘Don’t worry, it’s much more sophisticated than a Leman Russ, but you’ll get the hang of it. It’ll do half the work for you. Mars tech, y’see? All STC stuff, but not like the templates we have back on Paragon, only the higher tech-adepts can manage this level of systems integration. Make sure you pray to it properly, at least when Brasslock’s around. Oh, and don’t try and run my gun remotely, okay? What I said about Meggen and his weapon goes doubly fo
r me, just so’s we’re clear, that’s mine and mine alone, and I don’t like other people touching it, unless I’m dead, huh? Then help yourself, because I’ll be past caring,’ he grinned.

  ‘Now, there’s space in this second chair for your loader, Marsello. He’s just a kid, but he’s a pretty good shot, and with both of you working the console you should be able to put out a high rate of fire. Try not to fire off too much in one burst. The bolters don’t often go dry, the hoppers have four thousand rounds in them each, but the interior reloading systems don’t always work so well. The only reliable way to reload is to clear out and refill the entire system. That’s through the sponson access hatch, and they’re on the outside. If you do need a reload, that’s Marsello’s job, just don’t send him out in the middle of a firefight. Don’t worry about the lascannons too much, they’re run directly off the powerplant, so no energy packs there to worry about, though the shunts sometimes burn out. If they do, Marsello or Engineer Vorkosigen can swap them pretty quick. Basically, both of you fight. Anything goes wrong, you carry on firing, Marsello or the tech-adept will sort it. Tech station’s to the rear.’ He indicated another large station, second only in size to the comms suite, at the back along the longest face of the irregular, octagonal room. The floor stepped up to this, meaning it was not possible to stand at all in that part of the compartment; the tech-adept would have to slide into the depression housing his seat, the back of which nearly bumped the low ceiling.

  The whole deck was crammed with tech, the shell elevator and turret well ladder cutting right up the middle so that it was almost unrealistic to expect five men to work in there. The combat stations were so close they’d all be rubbing elbows. There was far less space in the tank than Bannick had expected, a consequence of thick armour, multiple systems and the ten-strong crew needed to operate it all.

  ‘Access to the lower deck is this way.’ Radden moved over to a kidney-shaped slot to the front left of the compartment. They clambered down a ladder to a corridor beneath. For the first time, they could stand up almost straight, although Bannick’s shoulders brushed either side of the narrow gangway. The air below was even thicker and hotter than in the two decks above. ‘The command deck floor sits low, but there are stores underneath, plus three bunks.’ He showed Bannick three openings leading into boxes as small as coffins. ‘When we’re travelling, we rotate. You get time to grab some shut-eye, do so. We’re in demand and can be in the field for weeks.’ He rolled his eyes and grinned as he said this. ‘Your locker’s here too.’ He banged on a tiny door. ‘Glad I made you leave all that rubbish behind? I thought so. You might want to take that jacket and shirt off later, as I’m sure you’ve noticed it’s very hot in here, but let’s meet the honoured lieutenant first while you’re looking respectable, make a good impression, eh? We’ve got bunks in the barracks, but we never see them, so if you want something to hand, keep it here.’

  He turned round and faced the track unit’s inner wall. ‘This door in the track unit goes out into the bolter hoppers. From here we can replenish the sponsons during an engagement, there’s another in the shell room. Feed magazines in, shell side first, the tank’s autoloaders take care of the rest. Or I should say, “should”, always jamming, the damn things, so don’t rely on it. What did I say?’

  Bannick, entranced by the Baneblade, was flustered by Radden’s sudden question, but recovered quickly.

  ‘Short bursts,’ he managed.

  ‘That’s right. But like I say, if we’re reloading, that’s Marsello’s job. This cabling’s for the lascannons.’ He pointed out thick bundles of power lines heading to the reactor. ‘Try not to catch your shoulders on the clasps, they’re sharp as razors and they’ll make you bleed like a stuck hog. Watch out for the quick release caps, knock one of them the wrong way and you’ll have the best part of the batteries’ charge running through you. It’s supposed to make them easy to swap out, and we do need to, but it’s a hazard if you ask me. This way, ’ he turned and pointed towards the front of the Baneblade, ‘is the driver and second gunner’s compartment, but we’ll leave that, that’s Ganlick’s and Outlanner’s realm. Outlanner’s never out of there. Even in base he sleeps in his chair, it’s so hard to stop him driving the Honoured Lieutenant’s given up, overlooks his gleece habit, because he’s the best driver there is in this army, on the sauce or off it. He’s there right now, should be if old habits are anything to go by, and we all got those eh?’ Another smile. Bannick found himself warming to the talkative gunner. ‘Let’s go aft, meet the others. Watch out you don’t trip on the rails, they’re for the shell sled to the demolisher up front.’

  They took a few steps up to the rear of the tank, passing a pair of votive recesses, wherein sat small effigies of the Emperor and the servo-skull of the Omnissiah. Next to that, a wall of tarnished brass plaques, the decorative framing of which was obscured by crumbling parchment, Adeptus Mechanicus seals, medals on age-dark ribbons and ancient dogtags. ‘What’s this?’ asked Bannick.

  ‘Wall of honour,’ said Radden, as if that explained it, and pressed ahead into the gloom. ‘This is the shell locker.’ They stuck their heads in through a tiny doorway, the sliding door already open. A low room greeted them, evidently the part of the tank directly beneath the tech station above. Two men with bulging arms, also stripped to their vests, sat playing cards on upturned crates, squeezed into the tiny space between the shell racks, choking out what little oxygen there was with cheroot smoke. Which, even though there was no exposed explosive material, was completely against regulations. Munitions of various sizes stood in racks on the walls, the room so small and the shells so big that their detonation caps were less than half a metre apart.

  At the front of the compartment, which Bannick judged to be more or less the exact centre across the width of the tank, stood the base of the shell elevator, a tube with a closeable slot big enough to take two rounds of the tank’s metre-long battle cannon shells. ‘This is the magazine, the most heavily armoured part of Mars Triumphant. Makes sense, eh? We call it the shell store, Ganlick boom box. Doesn’t matter does it, as long as we all know what we’re talking about, eh? These’re Meggen and Ralt, that young ’un there with the clipboard is Marsello. Ralt and Marsello are Clan Meggen too,’ said Radden, pointing at their matching clan markings, ‘but it gets too damn confusing having three loaders with the same name, so they go by their mother-names.’

  ‘And I was here first,’ said the original of the three Meggens, his voice deep and gravelly, a sure-fire sign of long-time lho addiction.

  Ralt grunted his hello without taking his eyes off the cards on the crate. Marsello forced his way past the other loaders, however, and shook Bannick warmly by the hand. He was significantly younger than the rest of the tankers, his biological age couldn’t have been more than twenty or so.

  ‘See, he’s the keen one! He’s not been with us long, picked him up to replace the last third loader we had, man by the name of Atrellis.’

  ‘Atrellan,’ grunted Ralt.

  ‘Yeah, that was it. You forget, after a while. He’s the youngest. New recruit we picked up from Dostan, Paragon colony IV, not far out from the Dentares belt, a few years back. Wouldn’t normally take someone this young, but there wasn’t much choice at the mining station. We’d had heavy casualties and the top brass didn’t want any tank crew entirely made up of greenhorns, so we got lumbered. The battlegroup got about five hundred guys sick of mining, we got him.’

  The young tanker ignored Radden’s chatter. ‘Lieutenant, sir, welcome to Mars Triumphant, I’m looking forward to serving with you.’

  ‘If you can show me the ropes, I’d appreciate it,’ said Bannick. ‘That targeting suite’s like nothing I have ever seen before.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ The kid’s face lit up.

  ‘Young, isn’t he? Told you,’ said Radden. ‘Right, introductions over, this way, the Honoured Lieutenant’s waiting.’

 
A pace past the shell locker, and the corridor turned ninety degrees and became a shallow alcove. The roof thereafter dipped to form a crawlspace running under Mars’s massive powerplant. Jammed into the alcove were two men, oblivious to the furnace heat radiating from the reactor. Bannick was starting to wish he could take his uniform jacket and shirt off, his collar felt two sizes smaller than normal.

  ‘Just make sure they don’t burn up again,’ one of the men was saying. ‘Those fires are a damn distraction. If one goes down in a storm we’ll all choke to death in here, am I clear?’ said one. He had no cap or rank badges on; like the rest of the tankers he was only wearing his vest in the hot interior, but Bannick immediately recognised him as Cortein, there was no mistaking it.

  ‘Yes, sir. But I can’t rush it. Perhaps if I can get one of the higher adepts to look at it properly and placate the…’ said the second, a much smaller man, smaller even than Radden, crouched in the crawlway entrance. He wore the deep-red robes of the Adeptus Mechanicus, stained deeper with sweat and oil, his large eyes blinking often.

  ‘I’ll speak to Brasslock, just see what you can do Vorkosigen. Get it fixed and stop talking about the damned spirits. That’s not your realm, this is.’ He kicked the engineer’s toolbox. ‘If anyone is going to be praying, it’s not going to be you. Last thing I need is the Mars going down because you missed tightening a nut and messed up one of the rituals, you understand?’ The little man nodded morosely. ‘Now, Radden, back with the new boy already?’