The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

The room was lighted by three globes, weaving a simple pattern as they hung unsupported in the air. The furnishings were of handmade wood rather than the plastic extrusions that Coke had seen everywhere else in Potosi. The syndicates preferred to import goods and even food rather than to turn the labor force into production of anything except gage.

Coke held Pilar by waist and shoulder. He kissed her again. “Your husband isn’t here,” he said. “You know he isn’t going to be back tonight.”

He thought of adding that Terence Ortega had gone to an apartment at the other end of town at midday. Barbour would warn them if Ortega left.

Coke decided not to explain that. Telling Pilar there was an electronic tag on her husband would have indicated the degree of preparation that Coke had made for this moment.

Coke was romantic—you didn’t stay a soldier because of the pay and benefits. But you didn’t survive as a soldier if you didn’t plan each possible step, and that carried over to the rest of Coke’s life as well. Women tended not to see things the same way.

Pilar snatched herself out of his grip again. “Terry’s behavior doesn’t affect my vows!” she said angrily to the far wall.

“Pilar,” Coke said softly, “I’m—not real settled just now. Forgive me if I misspoke.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and guided her around to kiss him again.

“Oh, Matthew,” she said, “you could have been killed, I know. Because of me. But …”

Her fingers brushed his cheek, dusted by tiny fragments of the concrete ceiling. He kissed her, pulling her toward him without resistance.

“Matthew,” she said desperately. She caught his hands as they rose again toward her breasts. “Matthew, I’m so sorry, please.”

She stepped away, still holding his hands. “Let me get you that drink, but then I’m afraid you’d better go.”

He lifted his chin and dipped it again. His face was as placid as that of a saint’s statue. He lowered his hands to his sides. “That’s all right,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll have the drink.”

Pilar began crying again. She swallowed the sobs, but the tears pulsed down her glistening cheeks. She held her crucifix with both hands. “I’m sorry, I just can’t,” she whispered. “I want to, but I can’t.”

An internally lighted button controlled each lock-plate from the inner face of the door. Coke thumbed the buttons in turn, switching them from green to red.

“No problem,” he said without emphasis. He donned the cape again. His hands and the needle stunner vanished beneath the gray shimmer.

“Matthew?” Pilar said. “Please? Call me when you’ve gotten back to Hathaway House safely.”

Coke looked over his shoulder at her. “I’ve got various business tonight,” he said. “If it goes well, I’ll probably see you tomorrow when I send another message capsule off from the port.”

Pilar caught the door behind him and kept it from swinging to. She watched through the crack.

Instead of going down to the street, Coke started up the stairs toward the brothel.

Moden and Esteban Rojo could have finished the job in an hour and a half, if they’d had good luck and the right tools. They had neither.

Removing the Stellarflow’s lower electronics module required either special equipment or great care. Moden was careful, but years of vibration had crystallized a plastic bearing. The joint snapped, and then they had to cut the other three straps as well because the clamps had frozen.

Four hours after they’d started—straps replaced with pieces cut from sheet stock, bearing freed in a sonic bath from the multitool, and journals cannibalized from one of the pair of redundant trunk-lid cantilevers—Esteban ran the fans up and down in perfect unison before shutting off the power.

“As good as new!” he announced.

Moden stretched mightily. “Which means,” he said, “it’s almost as good as a Frisian aircar that would have cost half as much free-onboard …but Via, some people have to have their Terran technology.”

He’d acted in place of a hydraulic jack when the bow of the car had to come up twenty centimeters. Judging from the weight, Stellarflow had used iridium for the frame. Moden ached, but it felt good to have been doing physical labor again.

“Will you eat with us, Sten?” Esteban asked. He tossed a rag to Moden so that the big man could wipe his—hand. Esteban’s mouth opened in embarrassment

Moden pinned the rag between his knees and dragged his hand through it determinedly. “Got the big chunks off,” he said.

He looked at the mechanic. “At your apartment, you mean, Esteban? I don’t want to be in the way.”

“We have a cafe,” Esteban said with dignity. The Frisian had skirted as delicately as possible the question of whether Esteban could afford to feed guests, but the well-meant concern still rankled. “My wife and children run it, Pito and our daughter Annunciata; and I help when there’s time. But I ask you there as a guest, not a customer, please?”

“Then I’d be honored,” Moden said. He flicked the rag through the air, caught it in a fold; and folded it a second time, into a square, against his thigh.