The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

Huber knew now what that erect posture had cost Priamedes. Because of that, and because Daphne Priamedes really was a stunner, he said, “Ma’am, I don’t want company for dinner. But if you’ll run me back to my barracks down in the warehouse district, I’ll buy you a drink on the way.”

“Yes, of course, Lieutenant,” the woman said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Daphne, but I understand that you may prefer a more formal posture. Perhaps you’re uncomfortable with the attitude toward hostilities we have on Plattner’s World.”

She strode past and opened the limousine’s passenger door for him. That was a little embarrassing, but there wasn’t a lot Huber could do about it in his present condition. Walking upright was about as much as he could manage at the moment. He braced his hands on the door and side of the vehicle to swing himself onto the seat, noticing the inlays of wood and animal products on the interior panels.

“I’m not uncomfortable, ah, Daphne,” he said, “since it’s the same attitude we mercenaries have toward each other: we may be enemies today and fighting on the same side tomorrow, or the other way around. Either way the relationship’s professional rather than emotional. But I didn’t expect to see a Solace citizen traveling openly in the UC capital when there’s a war on.”

Daphne Priamedes got in behind the control yoke and brought the car live. The vehicle had six small drive fans on each side instead of the normal one at either end; it was noticeably quieter than others Huber had ridden in.

Aircars were uncommon on most planets, but special circumstances on Plattner’s World made them the normal means of personal transportation. The per capita income here was high, the population dispersed, and the preservation of the forests so much a religion—the attitude went beyond awareness of the economic benefit—that people found the notion of cutting roadways through the trees profoundly offensive.

Only in the Solace highlands where trees were sparse and not parasitized by Moss was there a developed system of ground transportation. There a monorail network shifted bulky agricultural produce from the farms to collection centers from which dirigibles flew it to the Outer States and returned with containers of Moss.

“There’s ten generations of intercourse between Solace and the Outer States,” Priamedes said. “This trouble—this war—is only during the past six months. We need each other on Plattner’s World.”

Her eyes were on the holographic instrument display she’d called up when she started the motors; it blinked off when she was comfortable with the readouts. She twisted the throttle in a quick, precise movement.

As the car lifted, she glanced over at Huber and went on, “Besides, for the most part it’s you mercenaries fighting—not citizens. We in Solace tried to fight with our own forces at the beginning, but we learned that wasn’t a satisfactory idea.”

She smiled. Her expression as bright and emotionless as the glint of cut crystal.

“War’s a specialist job,” Huber said, keeping his tone flat. The car was enclosed and its drive fans were only a hum through his bootsoles. “At least it is if you’ve got specialists on the other side. We are, the Slammers are, and the other merc units are too even if they don’t necessarily have our hardware.”

He paused, then added, “Or our skill level.”

“As I said, we recognized that,” Priamedes said. “A disaster like Northern Star Farms rather drives the point home, particularly since it was obvious that things could have gone very much worse than even they did. Instead we’re mortgaging ten years of our future hiring off-planet professionals to do what the Solace Militia couldn’t.”

Huber didn’t speak. He regretted getting into the car with this woman, but he regretted a lot of things in life. This wasn’t his worst mistake by any means.

Northern Star was a collective farm that’d been turned into a firebase under Colonel Priamedes. He commanded an infantry battalion and an artillery battery from the Solace Militia, with a company of mercenaries whose high-power lasers were supposed to be the anti-armor component of the force.

Huber’d led the combat cars in the company-sized Slammers task force that had punctured the defenses like a bullet into a balloon. The Militia were brave enough and even well trained, but they weren’t veterans. The cars’ concentrated firepower had literally stunned them, and the mercenary lasers were too clumsy to stand a chance against 20-cm tank guns which had virtually unlimited range across flat cornfields.

In retrospect it hadn’t been much of a battle, though it’d seemed real enough to Arne Huber as he watched scores of Militiamen rise from a trench and aim at his oncoming combat cars. And all it takes is one bullet in the wrong place and you’re dead as dirt, no matter how great your side’s victory looks to whoever writes the history books.