David Drake - Paying the Piper

Paying the Piper

Table of Contents

A BACKGROUND NOTE

CHOOSING SIDES

THE POLITICAL PROCESS

NECK OR NOTHING

Paying the Piper

by David Drake

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

by Bill Fawcett.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3547-8

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, July 2002

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Drake, David.

Paying the piper / by David Drake.

p. cm.

"A Baen Books original"—T.p. verso.

ISBN 0-7434-3547-8

1. Life on other planets—Fiction. 2. Space warfare—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3554.RI96 P39 2002

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813'.54—dc21

2002018522

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

To Larry Barnthouse, who long ago as another 96C2L94 was

missed by all the same bullets that missed me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book involved computer adventures unusual even for me, The Man Who Kills Computers. (Three

dead within two weeks.) My son Jonathan, Mark Van Name, Karen Zimmerman, Allyn Vogel, and my

wife Jo, were of particular importance in making it possible for me to continue working.

This book required a lot of attention by Dan Breen, my first reader. I'm very fortunate to have him.

A BACKGROUND NOTE

I've always found it easier to use real settings and cultures than to invent my own. No matter how good a

writer's imagination, the six or seven millennia of available human history can do a better job of creating

backgrounds.

More than ten years ago I finally took the advice my friends Jim Baen and Mark Van Name had been

giving me and did an afterword, explaining where I got the details of the book I'd just completed. I'd

resisted this, feeling that it was bad art—the book should explain itself—and anyway, it was unnecessary.

It was obvious to any reader that I was using historical and mythological backgrounds, so why should I

bother to tell them?

It still may be bad art, and I may have been correct about readers in general seeing what I was doing

without me telling them explicitly, but reviewers suddenly discovered that my fiction utilizes literary,

historical and mythological material. I've kept up the practice, though generally not with straight Military

SF like the Hammer series—but in this case I thought it might be useful, because the background I've

used is from a backwater of history.

The Eastern Mediterranean at the end of the 3rd century bc was a very complex region. The three

empires founded by the successors of Alexander the Great were collapsing. They were locally powerful,

but none was a superpower. Usurpers and secessionists complicated their politics.

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Leagues of city states—the Achaeans and Aetolians in Greece proper, others in Asia Minor—had their

own interests. New kingdoms, particularly that of Pergamum, were growing at the expense of their

neighbors, and barbarians—both Celtic and Illyrian—were becoming regional powers instead of merely

raiding and moving on.

Rome was still in the wings but the violent morass would shortly draw her in, ending both the chaos and

her own status as a republic. (The region's enormous wealth and complexity, in my opinion, inexorably

turned Rome into an empire.)

I adapted this setting forPaying the Piper . The general background is that of the war between Rhodes

and Byzantium, ostensibly over freedom of navigation. It was about as stupid a conflict as you're likely to

find, during which the real principals licked their lips and chuckled while well-meaning idealists wrecked

their own societies in pursuit of unobtainable goals by improper means. Much of the military detail is

drawn from the campaigns of Phillip the Fifth and his allies against the Aetolian League, particularly the

campaign of 219 bc which culminated in Phillip's capture of Psophis.

I guess it isn't out of place to add one comment about the study of history. Knowing a good deal about

how cultures interacted in the past allows one to predict how they will interact in the present, so I'm

rarely surprised by the daily news. But I regret to say that this understanding doesn't appear to make me

happier.

Dave Drake

david-drake.com

CHOOSING SIDES

The driver of the lead combat car revved his fans to lift the bow when he reached the bottom of the

starship's steep boarding ramp. The gale whirling from under the car's skirts rocked Lieutenant Arne

Huber forward into the second vehicle—his ownFencing Master , still locked to the deck because a

turnbuckle had kinked when the ship unexpectedly tilted on the soft ground.

Huber was twenty-five standard years old, shorter than average and fit without being impressively

muscular. He wore a commo helmet now, but the short-cropped hair beneath it was as black as the

pupils of his eyes.

Sighing, he pushed himself up fromFencing Master 's bow slope. His head hurt the way it always did

just after star-travel—which meant worse than it did any other time in his life. Even without the howling

fans ofFoghorn , the lead car, his ears would be roaring in time with his pulse.

None of the troopers in Huber's platoon were in much better shape, and he didn't guess the starship's

crew were more than nominal themselves. The disorientation from star travel, like a hangover, didn't stop

hurting just because it'd become familiar.

"Look!" said Sergeant Deseau, shouting so that the three starship crewmen could hear him over the fans'

screaming. "If you don't have us free in a minute flat, startingnow , I'm going to shoot the cursed thing off

and you can worry about the damage to your cursed deck without me to watch you. Do you

understand?"

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Two more spacers were squeezing through the maze of vehicles and equipment in the hold, carrying a

power tool between them. This sort of problem can't have been unique toFencing Master .

Huber put his hand on Deseau's shoulder. "Let's get out of the way and let them fix this, Sarge," he said,

speaking through the helmet intercom so that he didn't have to raise his voice. Shouting put people's

backs up, even if you didn't mean anything by it except that it was hard to hear. "Let's take a look at

Plattner's World."

They turned together and walked to the open hatch. Deseau was glad enough to step away from the

problem.

The freighter which had brought Platoon F-3, Arne Huber's command, to Plattner's World had a

number rather than a name: KPZ 9719. It was much smaller than the vessels which usually carried the

men and vehicles of Hammer's Regiment, but even so it virtually overwhelmed the facilities here at

Rhodesville. The ship had set down normally, but one of the outriggers then sank an additional meter into

the soil. The lurch had flung everybody who'd already unstrapped against the bulkheads and jammed

Fencing Master in place, blocking two additional combat cars behind it in the hold.

Huber chuckled. That made his head throb, but it throbbed already. Deseau gave him a sour look.

"It's a good thing we hadn't freed the cars before the outrigger gave," Huber explained. "Bad enough

people bouncing off the walls; at least we didn't have thirty-tonne combat cars doing it too."

"I don't see why we're landing in a cow pasture anyway," Deseau muttered. "Isn't there a real spaceport

somewhere on this bloody tree-farm of a planet?"

"Yeah, there is," Huber said dryly. "The trouble is, it's in Solace. The people the United Cities are hiring

us to fight."

The briefing cubes were available to everybody in the Slammers, but Sergeant Deseau was like most of

the enlisted personnel—and no few of the officers—in spending the time between deployments finding

other ways to entertain himself. It was a reasonable enough attitude. Mercenaries tended to be

pragmatists. Knowledge of the local culture wasn't a factor when a planet hired mercenary soldiers, nor

did it increase the gunmen's chances of survival.

Deseau spit toward the ground, either a comment or just a way of clearing phlegm from his throat.

Huber's mouth felt like somebody'd scrubbed a rusty pot, then used the same wad of steel wool to scour

his mouth and tongue.

"Let's hope we capture Solace fast so we don't lose half our supplies in the mud," Deseau said. "This

place'll be a swamp the first time it rains."

KPZ 9719 had come down on the field serving the dirigibles which connected Rhodesville with the other

communities on Plattner's World—and particularly with the spaceport at Solace in the central highlands.

The field's surface was graveled, but there were more soft spots than the one the starship's outrigger had

stabbed down through. Deseau was right about what wet weather would bring.

The starship sat on the southern edge of the kilometer-square field. On the north side opposite them

were a one-story brick terminal with an attached control tower, and a dozen warehouses with walls and

trusses of plastic extrusion. Those few buildings comprised the entire port facilities.

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Tractors were positioning lowboys under the corrugated metal shipping containers slung beneath the

300-meter-long dirigible now unloading at the east end of the field. A second dirigible had dropped its

incoming cargo and was easing westward against a mild breeze, heading for the mooring mast where it

would tether. The rank of outbound shipping containers there waited to be slung in place of the food and

merchandise the United Cities imported. The containers had been painted a variety of colors, but rust

now provided the most uniform livery.

A third dirigible was in the center of the field, its props turning just fast enough to hold it steady. The four

shipping containers hanging from its belly occasionally kicked up dust as they touched the ground. A port

official stood in an open-topped jitney with a flashing red light. He was screaming through a bullhorn at

the dirigible's forward cockpit, but the crew there seemed to be ignoring him.

Trooper Learoyd,Fencing Master 's right wing gunner—Huber chose to ride at the left gun, with

Deseau in the vehicle commander's post in the center—joined them at the hatch. He was stocky, pale,

and almost bald even though he was younger than Huber by several years. He looked out and said,

"What's worth having a war about this place?"

"There's people on it," Deseau said with a sharp laugh. "That's all the reason you need for a war, snake.

You ought to know that by now."

According to the briefing cubes, Rhodesville had a permanent population of 50,000; the residents

provided light manufacturing and services for the Moss-hunters coursing thousands of square kilometers

of the surrounding forest. Only a few houses were visible from the port. The community wound through

the forest, constructed under the trees instead of clearing them for construction. The forest was the

wealth of Plattner's World, and the settlers acted as though they understood that fact.

"There's a fungus that's a parasite on the trees here," Huber explained. "They call it Moss because it

grows in patches of gray tendrils from the trunks. It's the source of an anti-aging drug. The processing's

done offworld, but there's enough money in the business that even the rangers who gather the Moss have

aircars and better holodecks than you'd find in most homes on Friesland."

"Well I'll be," Learoyd said, though he didn't sound excited. He rubbed his temples, as if trying to

squeeze the pain out through his eyesockets.

Deseau spat again. "So long as they've got enough set by to pay our wages," he said. "I'd like a good,

long war this time, because if I never board a ship again it'll be too soon."

The third dirigible was drifting sideways. Huber wouldn't have been sure except for the official in the

jitney; he suddenly dropped back into his seat and drove forward to keep from being crushed by the

underslung cargo containers. The official stopped again and got out of his vehicle, running back toward

the dirigible with his fists raised overhead in fury.

Huber looked over his shoulder to see how the spacers were making out with the turnbuckle. The tool

they'd brought, a cart with chucks on extensible arms, wasn't working. Well, that was par for the course.

Trooper Kolbe sat in the driver's compartment, his chin bar resting on the hatch coaming. His faceshield

was down, presenting an opaque surface to the outside world. Kolbe could have been using the helmet's

infrared, light-amplification, or sonic imaging to improve his view of the dimly lit hold, but Huber

suspected the driver was simply hiding the fact that his eyes were closed.

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Kolbe needn't have been so discreet. If Huber hadn't thought he ought to set an example, he'd have

been leaning his forehead againstFencing Master 's cool iridium bow slope and wishing he didn't hurt so

much.

Platoon Sergeant Jellicoe was at the arms locker, issuing troopers their personal weapons. Jellicoe

seemed as dispassionate as the hull of her combat car, but Trooper Coblentz, handing out the weapons

as the sergeant checked them off, looked like he'd died several weeks ago.

Unless and until Colonel Hammer ordered otherwise, troopers on a contract world were required to go

armed at all times. Revised orders were generally issued within hours of landing; troopers barhopping in

rear areas with sub-machine guns and 2-cm shoulder weapons made the Regiment's local employers

nervous, and rightly so.

On Plattner's World the Slammers had to land at six sites scattered across the United Cities, a nation

that was mostly forest. None of the available landing fields was large enough to take the monster

starships on which the Regiment preferred to travel, and only the administrative capital, Benjamin, could

handle more than one twenty-vehicle company at a time. Chances were that even off-duty troopers

would be operating in full combat gear for longer than usual.

"What's that gas-bag doing?" Deseau asked. "What do they fill 'em with here, anyway? If it's hydrogen

and it usually is . . ."

Foghornhad shut down, well clear of the starship's ramp. Her four crewmen were shifting their gear out

of the open-topped fighting compartment and onto the splinter shield of beryllium net overhead. A

Slammers' vehicle on combat deployment looked like a bag lady's cart; the crew knew that the only

things they could count on having were what they carried with them. Tanks and combat cars could shift

position by over 500 klicks in a day, smashing the flank or rear of an enemy who didn't even know he

was threatened; but logistics support couldn't follow the fighting vehicles as they stabbed through hostile

territory.

"Aide, unit," Huber said, cueing his commo helmet's AI to the band all F-3 used in common. "Tatzig, pull

around where that dirigible isn't going to hit you. Something's wrong with the bloody thing and the locals

aren't doing much of a job of sorting it out."

Sergeant Tatzig looked up. He grunted an order to his driver, then replied over the unit push, "Roger,

will do."

There was a clang from the hold. A spacer had just hit the turnbuckle with a heavy hammer.

A huge, hollow metallic racket sounded from the field; the dirigible had dropped its four shipping

containers. The instant the big metal boxes hit the ground, the sides facing the starship fell open. Three of

them did, anyway: the fourth container opened halfway, then stuck.

The containers were full of armed men wearing uniforms of chameleon cloth that mimicked the hue of

whatever it was close to. The troops looked like pools of shadow from which slugthrowers and

anti-armor missiles protruded.

"Incoming!" Huber screamed. "We're under attack!"

One of the attacking soldiers had a buzzbomb, a shoulder-launched missile, already aimed at Huber's

face. He fired. Huber reacted by instinct, grabbing his two companions and throwing himself down the

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ramp instead of back into the open hold.

The missile howled overhead and detonated onFencing Master 's bow. White fire filled the universe for

an instant. The blast made the ramp jump, flipping Huber from his belly to his right side. He got up. He

was seeing double, but he could see; details didn't matter at times like this.

The attack had obviously been carefully planned, but things went wrong for the hostiles as sure as they

had for Huber and his troopers. The buzzbomber had launched early instead of stepping away from the

shipping container as he should've done. The steel box caught the missile's backblast and reflected it onto

the shooter and those of his fellows who hadn't jumped clear. They spun out of the container, screaming

as flames licked from their tattered uniforms.

A dozen automatic weapons rakedFoghorn , killing Tatzig and his crewmen instantly. The attackers'

weapons used electromagnets to accelerate heavy-metal slugs down the bore at hypersonic velocity.

When slugs hit the car's iridium armor, they ricocheted as neon streaks that were brilliant even in sunlight.

Slugs that hit troopers chewed their bodies into a mist of blood and bone.

The starship's hold was full of roiling white smoke, harsh as a wood rasp on the back of Huber's throat

in the instant before his helmet slapped filters down over his nostrils. The buzzbomb had hitFencing

Master 's bow slope at an angle. Its shaped-charge warhead had gouged a long trough across the armor

instead of punching through into the car's vitals. There was no sign of Kolbe.

The tie-down, jammed turnbuckle and all, had vanished in the explosion. Two pairs of legs lay beside

the vehicle. They'd probably belonged to spacers rather than Huber's troopers, but the blast had blown

the victims' clothing off at the same time it pureed their heads and torsos.

Slugs snapped through the starship's hatchway, clanging and howling as they ricocheted deeper into the

hold. Huber mountedFencing Master 's bow slope with a jump and a quick step. He dabbed a hand

down and the blast-heated armor burned him. He'd have blisters in the morning, if he lived that long.

Huber thought the driver's compartment was empty, but Kolbe's body from the shoulders on down had

slumped onto the floor. Huber bent through the hatch and grabbed him. The driver's right arm came off

when Huber tugged.

Huber screamed in frustration and threw the limb out of the vehicle, then got a double grip on Kolbe's

equipment belt and hauled him up by it. Bracing his elbows for leverage, Huber pulled the driver's torso

and thighs over the coaming and let gravity do the rest. The body slithered down the bow, making room

for Huber inside. The compartment was too tight to share with a corpse and still be able to drive.

Kolbe had raised the seat so that he could sit with his head out of the vehicle. Huber dropped it because

he wanted the compartment's full-sized displays instead of the miniature versions his faceshield would

provide. The slugs whipping around the hold would've been a consideration if he'd had time to think

about it, but right now he had more important things on his mind than whether he was going to be alive in

the next millisecond.

"All Fox elements!" he shouted, his helmet still cued to the unit push. Half a dozen troopers were talking

at the same time; Huber didn't know if anybody would hear the order, but they were mostly veterans and

ought to react the right way without a lieutenant telling them what that was. "Bring your cars on line and

engage the enemy!"

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Arne Huber was F-3's platoon leader, not a driver, but right now the most critical task the platoon faced

was getting the damaged, crewless, combat car out of the way of the two vehicles behind it. With

Fencing Master blocking the hatch, the attackers would wipe out the platoon like so many bugs in a

killing bottle. Huber was the closest trooper to the job, so he was doing it.

The fusion bottle that powered the vehicle was on line. Eight powerful fans in nacelles underFencing

Master 's hull sucked in outside air and filled the steel-skirted plenum chamber at pressure sufficient to lift

the car's thirty tonnes. Kolbe had switched the fans on but left them spinning at idle, their blades set at

zero incidence, while the spacers freed the turnbuckle.

Huber palmed the combined throttles forward while his thumb adjusted blade incidence in concert. As

the fusion bottle fed more power to the nacelles, the blades tilted on their axes so that they drove the air

rather than merely cutting it. Fan speed remained roughly constant, butFencing Master shifted greasily as

her skirts began to lift from the freighter's deck.

A second buzzbomb hit the bow.

For an instant, Huber's mind went as blank as the white glare of the blast. The shock curtains in the

driver's compartment expanded, and his helmet did as much as physics allowed to save his head. Despite

that, his brain sloshed in his skull.

He came around as the shock curtains shrank back to their ready state. He didn't know who or where

he was. The display screen before him was a gray, roiling mass. He switched the control to thermal

imaging by trained reflex and saw armed figures rising from the ground to rush the open hatch.

I'm Arne Huber. We're being attacked.

His right hand was on the throttles; the fans were howling. He twisted the grip, angling the nacelles back

so that their thrust pushed the combat car instead of just lifting it.Fencing Master 's bow skirt screeched

on the deck, braking the vehicle's forward motion beyond the ability of the fans to drive it.

The second warhead had opened the plenum chamber like a ration packet. The fan-driven air rushed out

through the hole instead of raising the vehicle as it was meant to do.

The attackers had thrown themselves flat so that the missile wouldn't scythe them down also. Three of

them reached the base of the ramp, then paused and opened fire. Dazzling streaks crisscrossed the hold,

and thewhang of slugs hitting theFencing Master 's iridium armor was loud even over the roar of the

fans.

Huber decoupled the front four nacelles and tilted them vertical again. He shoved the throttle through the

gate, feeding full emergency power to the fans. The windings would burn out in a few minutes under this

overload, but right now Huber wouldn't bet he or anybody in his platoon would be alive then to know.

Fencing Master's ruined bow lifted on thrust alone. Not high, not even a finger's breadth, but enough to

free the skirt from the decking and allow the rear nacelles to shove her forward. Staggering like a

drunken ox, the car lurched from the hold and onto the ramp. Her bow dragged again, but this time the

fans had gravity to aid them. She accelerated toward the field, scraping up a fountain of red sparks from

either side of her hull.

The attackers tried to jump out of the way. Huber didn't know and didn't much care what happened to

them when they disappeared below the level of the sensor pickups feedingFencing Master 's main

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screen. A few gunmen more or less didn't matter; Huber's problem was to get this car clear of the ramp

so thatFlame Farter andFloosie, still aboard the freighter, could deploy and deal with the enemy.

Fencing Masterreached the bottom of the ramp and drove a trench through the gravel before

shuddering to a halt. The shock curtains swathed Huber again; he'd have disengaged the system if he'd

had time for nonessentials after the machine's well-meant swaddling clothes freed him. Skewing the stern

nacelles slightly to port, he pivotedFencing Master around her bow and rocked free of the rut.

The air above him sizzled with ozone and cyan light: two of the tribarrels in the car's fighting

compartment had opened up on the enemy. Somebody'd managed to board while Huber was putting the

vehicle in motion.Fencing Master was a combat unit again.

There must've been about forty of the attackers all told, ten to each of the shipping containers. Half were

now bunched nearFoghorn or between that car and the starship's ramp. Huber switchedFencing

Master 's Automatic Defense System live, then used the manual override to trigger three segments.

The ADS was a groove around the car's hull, just above the skirts. It was packed with plastic explosive

and faced with barrel-shaped osmium pellets. When the system was engaged, sensors triggered segments

of the explosive to send blasts of pellets out to meet and disrupt an incoming missile.

Fired manually, each segment acted as a huge shotgun. The clanging explosions chopped into cat food

everyone who stood within ten meters ofFencing Master . Huber got a whiff of sweetly-poisonous

explosive residues as his nose filters closed again. The screaming fans sucked away the smoke before he

could switch back to thermal imaging.

An attacker aboardFoghorn had seen the danger in time to duck into the fighting compartment; the

pellets scarred the car's armor but didn't penetrate it. The attacker rose, pointing his slugthrower down at

the hatch Huber hadn't had time to close. A tribarrel fromFencing Master decapitated the hostile.

A powergun converted a few precisely aligned copper atoms into energy which it directed down the

weapon's mirror-polished iridium bore. Each light-swift bolt continued in a straight line to its target,

however distant, and released its energy as heat in a cyan flash. A 2-cm round like those the tribarrels

fired could turn a man's torso into steam and fire; the 20-cm bolt from a tank's main gun could split a

mountain.

One of the shipping containers was still jammed halfway open. Soldiers were climbing out like worms

squirming up the sides of a bait can. Two raised their weapons when they saw a tribarrel slewing in their

direction. Ravening light slashed across them, flinging their maimed bodies into the air. The steel container

flashed into white fireballs every time a bolt hit it.

Huber's ears were numb. It looked like the fighting was over, but he was afraid to shut downFencing

Master 's fans just in case he was wrong; it was easier to keep the car up than it'd be to raise her again

from a dead halt. He did back off the throttles slightly to bring the fans down out of the red zone, though.

The bow skirt tapped and rose repeatedly, like a chicken drinking.

Flame Farterpulled into the freighter's hatchway and dipped to slide down the ramp under full control.

Platoon Sergeant Jellicoe was behind the central tribarrel. She'd commandeered the leading car when the

shooting started rather than wait for her ownFloosie to follow out of the hold.

Jellicoe fired at something out of sight beyond the shipping containers. Huber touched the menu,

importing the view from Jellicoe's gunsight and expanding it to a quarter of his screen.

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Three attackers stood with their hands in the air; their weapons were on the gravel behind them. Jellicoe

had plowed up the ground alongside to make sure they weren't going to change their minds.

Mercenaries fought for money, not principle. The Slammers and their peers took prisoners as a matter of

policy, encouraging their opponents toward the same professional ideal.

Enemies who killed captured Slammers could expect to be slaughtered man, woman and child; down to

the last kitten that mewled in their burning homes.

"Bloody Hell . . ." Huber muttered. He raised the seat to look out at the shattered landscape with his

own eyes, though the filters still muffled his nostrils.

Haze blurred the landing field. It was a mix of ozone from powergun bolts and the coils of the

slug-throwers, burning paint and burning uniforms, and gases from superheated disks that had held the

copper atoms in alignment: empties ejected from the tribarrels. Some of the victims were fat enough that

their flesh burned also.

The dirigible that'd carried the attackers into position now fled north as fast as the dozen engines podded

on outriggers could push it. That wasn't very fast, even with the help of the breeze to swing the big

vessel's bow; they couldn't possibly escape.

Huber wondered for a moment how he could contact the dirigible's crew and order them to set down or

be destroyed. Plattner's World probably had emergency frequencies, but the data hadn't been

downloaded to F-3's data banks yet.

Sergeant Jellicoe raked the dirigible's cabin with her tribarrel. The light-metal structure went up like

fireworks in the cyan bolts. An instant later all eight gunners in the platoon were firing, and the driver of

Floosie was shooting a pistol with one hand as he steered his car down the ramp with the other.

"Cease fire!" Huber shouted, not that it was going to make the Devil's bit of difference. "Unit, cease fire

now !"

The dirigible was too big for the powerguns to destroy instantly, but the bolts had stripped away swathes

of the outer shell and ruptured the ballonets within. Deseau had guessed right: the dirigible got its lift from

hydrogen, the lightest gas and cheap enough to dump and replace after every voyage so that the ballonets

didn't fill with condensed water over time.

The downside was the way it burned.

Flames as pale and blue as a drowned woman's flesh licked from the ballonets, engulfing the middle of

the great vessel. The motors continued to drive forward, but the stern started to swing down as fire

sawed the airship in half. The skeleton of open girders showed momentarily, then burned away.

"Oh bloody buggering Hell!" Huber said. He idledFencing Master 's fans and stood up on the seat. "

Hell!"

"What's the matter, sir?" Learoyd asked. He'd lost his helmet, but he and Sergeant Deseau both were at

their combat stations. The tribarrels spun in use, rotating a fresh bore up to fire while the other two

cooled. Even so the barrels still glowed yellow from their long bursts. "They were hostiles too, the good

Lord knows."

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David Drake - Paying the Piper

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