The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

“Well, we’ve got some good news for you, Vierziger,” Hartlepool said. The cheerful tone was wearing thin, but he didn’t know what other persona to adopt. “To begin with, Sergeant Vierziger. On the basis of Sergeant Malaveda’s report—”

He nodded to the non-com. Malaveda’s forehead glistened with sweat. He stared at the wall across the desk without acknowledging the remark.

Hartlepool cleared his throat. “Based on that,” he resumed, “and my analysis of both yours and Malaveda’s helmet recorders from last night’s incident, I requested that Lawler Command grant you an immediate field promotion. I’m pleased to say that they’ve agreed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Vierziger said. He reached across the desk to take Hartlepool’s proffered hand. His grip was firm and dry, almost without character.

“And thank you, Sergeant Malaveda,” Vierziger added, glancing at the non-com. “I trust your promotion will come through quickly also. You deserve it.”

He was perfectly appropriate in words, tone, and expression, but Hartlepool got the feeling that Vierziger was laughing at them. It was like watching a master artist accept the congratulations of a six-year-old on the quality of his painting.

Vierziger’s faint smile made memories click into place: another man, dark rather than blond, but small and pretty and queer …

“Ah, Vierziger?” the lieutenant asked. “Do you—did you happen to have a relative in the FDF? In Hammer’s Slammers, actually?”

Vierziger shook his head easily. “Not me,” he said. “No relatives at all, I suspect, though it’s been a very long time since I was home.”

Hartlepool thought of asking where Vierziger called home. He decided not to.

“I, ah …” he said. “I met Major Joachim Steuben once. He was an interesting man.”

He raised an eyebrow, an obvious demand that Vierziger reply to the non-question.

Vierziger smiled wider. The expression was as unpleasant as a shark’s gape. The lieutenant had been playing games with him. The lieutenant would never do that again. “So I gather,” Vierziger said. “Hammer’s hatchetman, wasn’t he? Until someone shot him in the back.”

“Bodyguard, as I heard it,” Hartlepool said. He chewed on his tongue for a moment to stimulate the flow of saliva in his dry mouth. “Well, he’s been gone for some while now. Almost since Colonel Hammer’s accession to the Presidency.”

“Seven years,” Vierziger said. “Seven years to the day I joined the Frisian Defense Forces. Or so they told me.”

Vierziger’s battle dress uniform was perfectly tailored. That wasn’t surprising, since Frisian MP units were traditionally strac, even on field duty. On Vierziger, however, the garb hung so perfectly that he might have modeled for the tailor.

Hartlepool cleared his throat again and tried on a brisk, businesslike expression. “Along with the promotion, Vierziger,” he said, “you’ve been reassigned. You’re, ah, quite remarkable. Of course you know that. Somebody seems to have decided you’re too valuable for a line unit here on Lawler.”

He was betting that Vierziger was too new to the FDF to know that the statement was utter nonsense. Nobody got transferred so quickly unless his commanding officer made a “This or I resign!” point of it with echelon.

From Vierziger’s icy smile, he knew exactly why he was being transferred. Hartlepool had been shocked speechless by the images recorded by the new recruit’s helmet cameras the night before.

Granted that Johann Vierziger was a valuable member of the FDF, the fellow was still too dangerous for Hartlepool to risk having him around. It was just that simple.

“Very well, sir,” Vierziger said. “My service with you has been interesting. I wish you the best of luck in the future.”

As if he were a commanding general speaking to his staff as he stepped down.

Vierziger stood up. “Am I dismissed, then, sir?” he added calmly.

“What?” said Hartlepool. “I, ah—I’d tell you your new assignment if I knew what it was, of course.”

Hartlepool didn’t know how he’d expected Vierziger to react to the notice of transfer, but he’d expected some reaction. The lieutenant felt as if he’d tried to climb one more step than the staircase had.

“It doesn’t really concern me, sir,” Vierziger said. “I’ll serve in any capacity to which my superiors choose to assign me.”

Vierziger’s voice was without expression, and his face was a skull.

If the man was what he appeared to be, he was a tool like the pistol in his belt holster or the knife whose hilt projected from his boot top…. But guns and knives will not act of their own accord. Nobody could watch images of the previous night without wondering whether Vierziger was at heart as uncontrolled as he was unstoppable when he went into action.

“Yes, well,” Hartlepool said. “Good luck in your assignment, wherever it is, Sergeant.”

Vierziger threw him a crisp salute. He looked like a boy in uniform—or a girl—as he turned on his heel and left the office.