The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

“There won’t be a fight,” Coke said to Peres. The pulse of the music overrode the discussion anywhere beyond the booth itself. The gigolo’s decision to negotiate here had been a reasonable one. “There’s only a few watchmen in the warehouse. I can show you how to get through the walls, and how to disconnect all the alarms before you start the operation.”

“Are you afraid of a fight, Master Peres?” Vierziger asked in a voice too soft to be a gibe …and with a grin that could have sharpened knives.

“No,” the Astra leader snapped. He looked at Coke. “Money in my purse so that there can be money in yours, hey? Very reasonable. So we’ll do it—but you’ll come along, Matthew, so that we can be sure the deal is that reasonable.”

“All right,” Coke agreed. “We’ll go to your headquarters now and I’ll brief you. I’ll need a hologram projector—or I can get one from the hotel.”

Peres’ lips tightened. “We have projectors. We’re civilized here, not some backwater, you know!”

Coke didn’t laugh in the gigolo’s face. Again, it wouldn’t have been politic.

“Then let’s go,” he said, rising. “After I brief you, I’ll send a message capsule to my superiors to update them. The operation itself will take place tonight, if you can get your end together that quickly.”

“Yes, of course we can!” Peres snapped. He looked at Vierziger, rising also. “Are you going?”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” said Johann Vierziger, stroking the inside of his left wrist with his right index finger, his trigger finger.

Coke viewed his surroundings from a cool vantage point above his flesh and prickling nerves. He would see Pilar when he routed the message capsule toward Nieuw Friesland. There would be time for dinner afterward, and other things.

And it might be the last time Matthew Coke had.

Sten Moden emerged from the alley between a pair of six-story structures. Washed clothes hung by an arm or leg from poles thrust out of windows on the upper floors. The washing was the first sign of domesticity the Frisian had seen on Cantilucca.

The area behind the buildings along Potosi’s single street was given over to garbage, storage, and living quarters. In a few places the forest had been cleared. Generally the trees had died when human activities stripped their bark or poisoned their roots. Derelicts used dead limbs for firewood and sheltered beneath the fallen boles.

This ten-by-twenty-meter space equidistant from the two syndicate headquarters was one of the formal exceptions. Four large trees had been left at the corners to support a roof of structural plastic. A metal post peaked the center of one end; the sheeting was rectangular, while the area it covered was a rough trapezoid. One of the corner trees was dead, but for the moment it seemed steady enough.

The fenced area under the rigid marquee garaged vehicles ranging from jitneys to the elaborate aircar beneath which projected the legs of a man in multi-pocket overalls. The four lift fans whined in different keys. They were spinning out of synchrony, obvious even to ears less trained than Moden’s.

A boy of twelve or so was in the driver’s seat, adjusting controls in obedience to orders which the man under the chassis shouted. The boy saw Moden and chopped the car’s throttles. “Father!” he called. “A man is here. A big man!”

Moden waved to show that he was friendly. The fence around the garage was a combination of woven wire, barbed wire, and the body panels of wrecked vehicles welded to metal posts.

The chained and locked gate was metal plating on a tubular frame. Judging from the power cables, it could be electrified. Moden didn’t feel a prickle when he passed the back of his hand close, but he didn’t actually touch the panel to be sure that the power was off either.

The man who pushed himself into sight from beneath the aircar was dark-skinned and solid-looking; in his late thirties or maybe forty standard years, though Moden didn’t consider himself any judge of age.

“Yes sir?” the mechanic called.

“I want to rent a vehicle,” Moden replied. “Maybe several, there’s six of us. We landed from Nieuw Friesland yesterday on business.”

The man relaxed slightly. He wiped his hands carefully on a rag, giving himself time to consider both the request and the stranger making it.

“My name’s Moden,” the logistics officer went on, adding reassurance. “Besides, I’ve worked maintenance myself and I wanted to see what your operation was like. Who decided to bring a Stellarflow to Cantilucca?”

He gestured toward the aircar, its fans now at idle.

The mechanic’s face changed again, this time to an expression of interest and even hope. “I am Esteban Rojo,” he said. “I am the owner here, though not of the aircar.”

He glanced over his shoulder and called to the boy, “Pito? Go on back to the house now. It’s time for your lessons.”

He unlocked the chain. Moden stepped aside so that Esteban could swing the gate outward. The boy darted through, following the one-armed stranger with his eyes until disappearing into the alley.