The Complete Hammer's Slammers: Volume 3 (69 page)

“Bring the wand closer,” Orichos snapped to the plump recorder. When there was no reaction, Orichos lifted the girl’s arm and placed the lens wand on the edge of the drawer. In a dry, mechanical voice Orichos continued, “I am removing a file marked Special.”

“What is this?” Grayle said on a rising note. She tried to look behind her but the way was filled with gunmen. “Where’s Patronus? Why isn’t he here?”

Orichos displayed her empty right hand to the lens wand, then reached into the drawer and brought out a folder with a red tab. She spread her left hand in plain sight also, then opened the folder.

Fewsett turned and bellowed, “Get that bastard Patronus here now! He’s the fucking party treasurer. We need him now!”

Huber didn’t move except to slide his finger into the trigger guard. He’d figured how the business was going to play out, but he didn’t know quite the exact time.

Or whether he’d survive it.

“The folder holds a list of amounts and dates,” Orichos said. “It purports to be records—”

The lens wand slipped off the drawer; the plump technician had curled her arms around herself, sunk into a personal world light-years away from this terror. In a sudden break from her detached calm, Orichos looked at the girl and screamed, “Hold that bloody thing up or I’ll have you executed for treason!”

The thin technician tilted her wand closer to the open drawer. She didn’t look toward Orichos.

“This is fake!” Grayle said. “It’s been planted! There’s no—”

“Purports to be a record,” Orichos resumed in a louder voice, “of payments—”

“—truth in it at all!”

“—by the Interior Ministry of the Government of Solace to the Freedom Party!”

Grayle turned to get out of the file room. Fewsett knocked her back accidentally as he raised his carbine. Huber fired from the hip. His 2-cm bolt hit Fewsett in the upper chest, vaporizing most of the big man’s torso in a thunderclap. The shockwave slammed Huber against a file cabinet and knocked the Volunteers in the doorway off their feet.

A Volunteer tried to aim his carbine, or maybe he was just flailing his arms for support. The powergun’s cyan flash would’ve blinded anybody seeing it close-up without the protection of a polarizing faceshield like Huber’s. He fired twice more, clearing the doorway save for a scatter of body parts. A blast-severed head flew past Huber, driven by vaporized body fluids.

The thin technician screamed and flung down her wand. It wobbled behind her on its flex as she sprang through the doorway Huber was trying to slam shut with his left hand. Two or more gunmen riddled her before she took a second step into the hallway. She thrashed backward, but Huber threw all his weight against the panel. It latched despite the obstructions.

A burst of shots whanged into the door from the outside. The panel was metal-cored, but concentrated gunfire would peck through it before long. For that matter there must be somebody in the gang outside with the key to the door’s snap lock.

“Don’t shoot, you idiots!” Melinda Riker Grayle screamed. “Don’t shoot or you’ll kill me!”

Huber glanced behind him. Grayle sprawled on the floor. Captain Orichos lay on top of her, twisting back her left arm and holding a pistol to Grayle’s neck.

The plump technician sat on the floor with her legs splayed, crying uncontrollably. The room was hot—oven hot, heated by the three heavy-caliber powergun discharges in its narrow confines.

When a bolt liberated its energy in a human body, it turned the tissues to steam with explosive suddenness. The file room’s walls, the ceiling, and the people within were all covered with a mist of blood. Huber’s hands were red, and there was a sticky film across his faceshield that the static charge hadn’t been able to repel. He flipped the shield up and out of the way.

The stench of cooked flesh and of the wastes voided when Fewsett’s sphincters spasmed in death was stomach-churning, even for Huber who’d smelled it before. Some things you never get used to. . . .

Captain Orichos raised herself to her knees, still pointing her pistol at the assemblyman. She patted the floor with her left hand till she found the lens wand and raised it vertical again. Grayle twisted to look back into the bore of the pistol.

“Assemblyman Grayle!” Orichos said. “You stand convicted of treason by your own records and by your failed attempt to use force against the agents of the Assembly!”

“That’s a lie!” Grayle said in a hoarse voice. “You planted that file!”

Several voices were jabbering at Huber through his commo helmet; at least one of them seemed to be from Base Alpha. He locked out all incoming channels and concentrated on the door in case the Volunteers tried to rush it. The muzzle of his powergun was cooling from yellow to bright orange.

“In order to prevent bloodshed among citizens . . .” Orichos continued as though her prisoner hadn’t spoken. She was facing Grayle over the gunsights, but Huber noted that her eyes weren’t focused anywhere in this world. “I’m offering you, in the name of the citizens of the Point, a chance to go into exile. You and all your fellow conspirators will have one hour to leave Midway and six hours to leave the Point. After that time, you will be considered criminals and dealt with according to law.”

“You faked that so-called evidence,” Grayle said, “and you faked the vote count to steal the last election from the Freedom Party! You’re the criminals! You’re thieves, and you’re bankrupting the state by hiring these mercenaries!”

“Assemblyman Grayle!” Orichos said. She jerked her weight backward to balance her as she stood. She held the wand in her left hand like a torch, and the pistol slanted down toward her prisoner’s face. “Do you accept my offer, made in the presence of the entire citizenry of the Point?”

“Better take the offer, lady,” Huber said. Ozone from the 2-cm bolts had flayed his throat, making his voice a rasp that he wouldn’t have recognized himself. “Whatever else happens, I guarantee you’re not going to leave here alive any other way.”

Grayle looked at him. Her eyes slid downward to the floor on which she lay. Fewsett’s head, severed when his chest exploded, stared back at her from a hand’s breadth away. She jumped to her feet, forgetting the threat of Orichos’ pistol.

“It’s all a lie!” Grayle said. She got control of her breathing and went on, “But I don’t have any choice. All right—we’ll leave Midway, but I’m agreeing under duress. You have no legal right to expel us!”

“You out there in the hall?” Huber shouted. He figured the Volunteers, a lot of them anyway, would be watching the broadcast along with the rest of the citizens, but the gunmen just outside the door might be an exception. “I’m going to open the door. The first one through it’s going to be your leader, Assemblyman Grayle. But be clear on this—you’ve got a deal with your government and your Gendarmery. You don’t have a deal with me personally. If anybody sticks his head into this room, I’m going to blow him to atoms just like I did a lot of his buddies a moment ago. Got it?”

Nobody answered. Huber thought he heard the sound of boots running down the staircase. Grayle was poised like a roach caught by the light, momentarily frozen.

“Captain Orichos?” Huber said.

“Yes, open the door,” Orichos said.

Instead of reaching, Huber kicked out with his right boot and sprung the latch. The panel bounced open. The hallway was empty.

Grayle jumped through so quickly that she slid on the blood pooling from the dead technician’s body. She caught herself on the wall and ran toward the stairs, leaving a handprint on the wall

behind her.

Nothing else moved for over a minute.

Huber let out his breath. He switched his helmet back to receive mode and said, “Fox Three-six to Sierra. We’re holding our present position on the fourth floor of the Freedom Party headquarters until somebody comes to fetch us out. And give me plenty of warning before you show yourselves, people, because I’m as jumpy as I’ve ever been in my life!”

Captain Sangrela’s driver had bounced his jeep up the Assembly Building steps and parked it under the porch. The officers and senior sergeants of Task Force Sangrela stood on the patterned stone, listening to the holographic image of Danny Pritchard speaking from Base Alpha.

Around them the citizens of Midway noisily celebrated their release from Freedom Party domination. In the street below whirled a round dance with hundreds of participants. A fiddler stood on a raised platform in the middle of the circle; beside him, occasionally crowding his elbow, gyrated a young woman wearing only briefs. Huber didn’t think she was professional—just exuberant and very happy. As far up and down the Axis as Huber could see there were similar dances as well as free buffets, speakers on makeshift podiums, and crowds of people drinking and singing in good fellowship.

“The Volunteers are gathering at their base on Bulstrode Bay on the northern coast,” said Danny Pritchard’s holographic image. “They call it Fort Freedom, and it’s going to be a tough nut to crack.”

Aircars spun and swooped overhead, often with sirens blaring. The drivers were as excited and as generally drunk as the people in the street. Huber had seen two collisions and heard a worse one that sent a car crashing to the ground on the other side of the Mound.

“Why us, sir?” Captain Sangrela asked. His voice was calm, but the way his hands tightly gripped the opposite elbows indicated his tension.

“Because you can, Captain,” Pritchard said simply. “Because we can’t leave ten thousand armed enemies in a state whose support we need. And because the locals can’t do it themselves—”

He grinned harshly.

“—which is generally why people hire the Slammers, right?”

The Gendarmery had been conspicuous by its absence during the events of the afternoon. Now the Point’s gray-uniformed police were out in force, though they seemed more to be showing themselves than making an effort to control the good-natured partying that was going on. The Gendarmes on foot patrol carried only pistols; those in the cruising aircars may have had carbines but they weren’t showing them.

“Ten thousand of ’em, sir?” said C-1’s platoon sergeant, a rangy man named Dunsterville. He sounded incredulous rather than afraid at what he’d heard. “You mean the guys with red sweatbands?”

“The Volunteers, yes,” Pritchard agreed with a grim nod. “You won’t have to deal with all of them—indeed, that’s why we’ve decided to move on Fort Freedom immediately. We expect that at least half of Grayle’s Volunteers will decide to stay home in the woods if they know that joining her means facing tanks. If we withdraw from the Point and the Volunteers don’t have anybody to worry about except the locals, then they’ll everyone of them march back into Midway and this time loot the place.”

When Pritchard said “we’ve decided,” he meant Colonel Hammer and his Regimental Command group. The “we” who’d be carrying out the operation meant Call-Sign Sierra, ten vehicles and less than a hundred troopers under Captain Sangrela. Huber was a volunteer, and he knew that the senior officers had all been at the sharp end in their day too . . . but Via! Fifty to one was curst long odds!

“Here’s a plan of Fort Freedom,” Pritchard continued. The image of his body disappeared, leaving his head hovering above a sharply circular embayment viewed from the south at an apparent downward angle of forty-five degrees. The sea had cut away the northern third of the rock walls and filled the interior. “Bulstrode Bay’s an ancient volcano. The walls average a hundred meters high and are about that thick at the base. There’s normal housing inside of the crater, but the Volunteers have also tunneled extensively into the walls.”

“Have they got artillery?” Huber asked. He was still trying to get his head around the notion of going up against five thousand armed hostiles . . . or maybe ten thousand after all, because staff estimates were just that, estimates, and Sierra would be facing real guns.

“The Volunteers don’t have an indirect fire capacity so far as we can tell,” Pritchard said, nodding at a good question. “Not even mortars. What they do have—”

The holographic image transformed itself into a gun carriage mounting eight stubby iridium barrels locked together in two banks; each tube had its own ammo feed. The chassis was on two wheels with a trail for towing the weapon rather than being self-powered.

“—are calliopes. We’ve traced a lot of twenty purchased by Grayle’s agents nine months ago, and it’s possible that there’ve been others besides.”

Calliopes, multi-barreled 2-or 3-cm powerguns, provided many mercenary units with the air defense that the Slammers handled through their own armored vehicles. The weapons were extremely effective against ground targets as well. A short burst from a calliope could shred a combat car and turn its crew into cat’s meat. . . .

Pritchard’s full figure replaced the image of the calliope. “I’m not making light of the job you face,” he said. “But I do want to emphasize that the Volunteers are not soldiers. Most of them have only small arms, they aren’t disciplined, and they’ve never faced real firepower. If you hit them hard and fast they’ll break, troopers. You’ll break them to pieces.”

“Calliopes cost money,” Mitzi Trogon said. “More money than I’d expect from a bunch of hicks in the sticks.”

Pritchard nodded again. “Whatever you think of the documents the Point security police found,” he said with a grin, “we have evidence that the government of Solace is indeed supporting the Freedom Party.”

Solace would be insane not to, Huber thought. Arming the internal enemies of a hostile government was about the cheapest way to reduce its threat.

In the street and sky, the citizens of Midway danced and sang. They were the rulers, the people who split among themselves the wealth and the status and the political power of the Point. They were right to fear Melinda Grayle, a demagogue who’d united the Moss rangers against the urban elite who lorded it over them.

Captain Sangrela rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re going cross-country, I suppose?” he said. “There isn’t much but cross-country on this bloody planet.”

“Not exactly,” Pritchard said as the image of a terrain map replaced that of his body. “The direct route’d take you through ancient forest. The trees are too thick and grow too densely for your vehicles to push through or maneuver through either one. We’ve plotted you a course down the valley of the River Fiorno. It won’t be fast, but the vegetation there’s thin enough that even the cars can break trail.”