David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 01 - Counting The Cost

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Hammer’s Slammers

By David Drake

Counting the Cost

CHAPTER ONE

They'd told Tyl Koopman that Bamberg City's

starport was on an island across the channel from

the city proper, so he hadn't expected much of a

skyline when the freighter's hatches opened.

Neither had he expected a curtain of steam

boiling up so furiously that the sun was only a

bright patch in mid-sky.

Tyl stepped back with a yelp. The crewman at

the controls of the giant cargo doors laughed and

said, "Well, you were in such a hurry, soldier...."

The Slammers-issue pack Tyl carried was all the

luggage he'd brought from six month's furlough on

Miesel. Strapped to the bottom of the pack was

a case of home-made jalapeno jelly that his aunt

was sure—correctly—was better than any he could

get elsewhere in the galaxy.

But altogether, the weight of Tyl’s gear was

much less than he was used to carrying in weapons,

rations, and armor when he led a company of

Alois Hammer's infantry. He turned easily and

looked at the crewman with mild sadness—the

visage of a dog that's been unexpectedly kicked

. . . and maybe just enough else beneath the sad-

ness to be disquieting.

The crewman looked down at his controls, then

again to the mercenary waiting to disembark. The

squealing stopped when the triple hatches locked

open. "Ah," called the crewman, "it'll clear up in

a minute er two. It's always like this on Bamberg

the first couple ships down after a high tide. The

port floods, y'see, and it always looks like half the

bloody ocean's waiting in the hollows t' burn off."

The steam—the hot mist; it'd never been

dangerous, Tyl realized how—was thinning quickly.

From the hatchway he could see the concrete pad

and, in the near distance, the bulk of the freighter

that must have landed just before theirs. The flecks

beyond the concrete were the inevitable froth

speckling moving water, the channel or the ocean

itself—and the water looked cursed close to

somebody who'd just spent six months on a place as dry

as Miesel.

"Where do they put the warehouses?" Tyl asked.

"Don't they flood?"

"Every three months or so they would," the

crewman agreed. "That's why they're on the

mainland, in Bamberg City, where there's ten meters

of cliff and seawall t' keep 'em dry. But out here's

flat, and I guess they figured they'd sooner the

landing point be on the island in case somebody,

you know, landed a mite hard."

The crewman grinned tightly. Tyl grinned back.

They were both professionals in fields that in-

volved risks. People who couldn't joke about the

risks of the jobs they'd chosen tended to find

other lines of work in a hurry.

The ones who survived.

"Well, I guess it's clear," Tyl said with enough

question in his tone to expect a warning if he were

wrong. "There'll be ground transport coming?"

"Yeah, hovercraft from Bamberg real soon," the

crewman agreed. "But look, there's a shelter on

the other side a' that bucket there. You might

want to get over to it right quick. There's some

others in orbit after us, and it can be pretty inter-

esting t' be out on the field when it's this wet and

there's more ships landing."

Tyl nodded to the man and strode down the

ramp that had been the lower third of the hatch

door. He was nervous, but it'd all be fine soon.

He'd be back with his unit and not alone, the way

he'd been on the ship—

And for the whole six months he'd spent with

his family and a planet full of civilians who under-

stood his words but not his language.

The mainland shore, a kilometer across Nevis

Channel, was a comiche. The harsh cliffs were

notched by the mouth of the wide river which was

responsible for Bamberg City's location and the

fact it was the only real city on the planet. Tyi

hadn't gotten the normal briefing because the reg-

iment shifted employers while he was on furlough,

but the civilian sources available on Miesel when

he got his movement orders were about all he

needed anyway.

Captain Tyl Koopman wasn't coming to the planet

Bamberia; he was returning to Hammer's Slam-

mers. After five years in the regiment and six

months back with his family, he had to agree with

the veterans who'd warned him before he went on

furlough that he wasn't going home.

He had left home, because the Slammers were

the only home he'd got.

The shelter was a low archway, translucent green

from the outside and so unobtrusive that Tyl might

have overlooked it if there had been any other

structure on the island. He circled to one end,

apprehensive of the rumbling he heard in the

sky—and more than a little nervous about the pair

of star freighters already grounded in the port.

The ships were quiescent. They steamed and

gave off pings of differential cooling, but for the

next few days they weren't going to move any

more than would buildings of the same size. Nev-

ertheless, learned reflex told Tyl that big metal

objects were tanks . . . and no infantryman lived

very long around tanks without developing a healthy

respect for them.

The door opened automatically as Tyl reached

for it, wondering where the latch was. Dim shad-

ows swirled inside the shelter, behind a second

panel that rotated aside only when the outside

door had closed again.

There were a dozen figures spaced within a

shelter that had room for hundreds. All those

waiting were human; all were male; and all but

one were in civilian garb.

Tyl walked toward the man in uniform—almost

toward him, while almost meeting the other man's

eyes so that he could stop and find a clear spot at

the long window if the fellow glared or turned his

head as the Slammers officer approached.

No problem, though. The fellow's quirking grin

suggested that he was as glad of the company as

Tyl was.

It was real easy to embarrass yourself when you

didn't know the rules—and when nobody wore

the rank tabs that helped you figure out what

those rules might be.

From within the shelter, the windows had an

extreme clarity that proved they were nothing as

simple as glass or thermoplastic. The shelter was

unfurnished, without even benches, but its con-

struction proved that Bamberia was a wealthy,

high technology world.

There was a chance for real profit on this one.

Colonel Hammer must have been delighted.

"Hammer's Regiment?" the waiting soldier asked,

spreading his grin into a look of welcome.

"Captain Tyl Koopman," Tyl agreed, shaking

the other man's hand. "I'd just gotten E Company

when I went on furlough. But I don't know what

may've happened since, you know, since we've

shifted contracts."

He'd just blurted the thing that'd been bother-

ing him ever since Command Central had sent the

new location for him to report off furlough. He'd

sweated blood to get that company command—

sweated blood and spilled it ... and the revised

transit orders made him fear that he'd have to

earn it all over again because he'd been gone on

furlough when the Colonel needed somebody in

the slot.

Tyl hadn't bothered to discuss it with the folks

who'd been his friends and relatives when he was

a civilian; they already looked at him funny from

the time one of them asked about the scrimshaw

he'd given her and he was drunk enough to tell

the real story of the house-to-house on Cachalot.

But this guy would understand, even though Tyl

didn't know him and didn't even recognize the

uniform.

"Charles Desoix," the man said, "United De-

fense Batteries." He flicked a collar tab with his

finger. "Lieutenant and XO of Battery D, if you

don't care what you say. It amounts to gopher,

mainly. I just broke our Number Five gun out of

Customs on Merrinet."

"Right, air defense," Tyl said with the enthusi-

asm of being able to place the man in a structured

universe. "Calliopes?"

"Yeah," agreed Desoix with another broad grin,

"and the inspectors seemed to think somebody in

the crew had stuffed all eight barrels with drugs

they were going to sell at our transfer stop on

Merrinet. Might just've been right, too—but we

needed the gun here more than they needed the

evidence."

The ship that had been a rumble in the sky

when Tyl ducked into the shelter was now within

ten meters of the pad. The shelter's windows did

an amazing job of damping vibration, but the con-

crete itself resonated like a drum to the freighter's

engine note. The two soldiers fell silent. Tyl shifted

his pack and studied Desoix.

The UDB uniform was black with silver piping

that muted to non-reflective gray in service condi-

tions. It was a little fancier than the Slammers'

khaki—but Desoix's unit wasn't parade-ground

pansies.

The Slammers provided their own defense against

hostile artillery. Most outfits didn't have the lux-

ury that Fire Central and the vehicle-mounted

powerguns gave Hammer. Specialists like United

Defense Batteries provided multi-barreled weapons

—calliopes—to sweep the sky clear over defended

positions and to accompany attacking columns which

would otherwise be wrecked by shellfire.

It wasn't a job Tyl Koopman could imagine him-

self being comfortable doing; but Via! he didn't

see himself leading a tank company either. A one-

man skimmer and a 2 cm powergun were about all

the hardware Tyl wanted to handle. Anything big-

ger cost him too much thought that would have

been better spent on the human portion of his

command.

"Your first time here?" Desoix asked diffidently.

The third freighter was down. Though steam hissed

away from the vessel with a high-pitched roar, it

was possible to talk again.

Tyl nodded. Either the tide was falling rapidly

or the first two ships had pretty well dried the pad

for later comers. The billows of white mist were

sparse enough that he could still see the city across

the channel: or at any rate, he could see a twenty-

story tower of metal highlights and transparent

walls on one side of the river, and a domed struc-

ture across from it that gleamed gold—except for

the ornate cross on the pinnacle whose core was

living ruby.

"Not a bad place," Desoix said judiciously. He

looked a few years older than the Slammers offi-

cer, but perhaps it was just that, looks, dark hair

and thin features contrasting with Tyl’s broad pale

face and hair so blond that you could hardly see it

when it was cropped as short as it was now.

"The city, I mean," Desoix said, modifying his

earlier comment. "The sticks over on Continent

Two where it looks like the fighting's going to be,

well—they're the sticks."

He met Tyl’s eyes. "I won't apologize for get-

ting a quiet billet this time 'round."

"No need to," Tyl said . . . and they were both

lying, because nobody who knows the difference

brags to a combat soldier about a cushy assign-

ment; and no combat soldier but wishes, some-

where in his heart of hearts, that he'd gotten the

absolutely necessary assignment of protecting the

capital while somebody else led troops into sniper-

filled woodlands and endured the fluorescent drum-

beat of hostile artillery.

But Via! Somebody had to do the job.

Both of them.

"Hey, maybe the next time," Tyl said with a

false smile and a playful tap on the shoulder of the

man who wasn't a stranger any more.

Several boats—hovercraft too small to haul more

than a dozen men and their luggage—were put-

ting out from Bamberg City, spraying their way

toward the island with an enthusiasm that sug-

gested they were racing.

Tyl's view of them was unexpectedly cut off

when a huge surface-effect freighter slid in front of

the shelter and settled. The freighter looked like a

normal sub-sonic aircraft, but its airfoils were canted

to double their lift by skimming over water or

smooth ground. The bird couldn't really fly, but it

could carry a thousand tonnes of cargo at 200

kph—a useful trade-off between true ships and

true aircraft.

"Traders from Two," Desoix explained as men

began scuttling from the freighter before its hy-

draulic outriggers had time to lock it firmly onto

the pad. "They circle at a safe distance from the

island while the starships are landing. Then, if

they're lucky, they beat the Bamberg factors to

the pad with the first shot at a deal."

He shrugged. "And if their luck's really out,

there's another starship on its way in about the

time they tie up. Doesn't take much of a shock

wave to make things real interesting aboard one of

those."

Tyl squinted at the men scuttling from the

surface-effect vehicle. Several of those waiting in

the shelter were joining them, babbling and wav-

ing documents. "Say, those guys 're—"

"Yeah, rag-heads," Desoix agreed. "I mean, I'm

sure they're in church every day, kissing crosses

and all the proper things, but . . . yeah, they're

looking at some problems if President Delcorio

gets his crusade going."

"Well, that's what we're here for," Tyl said,

looking around horizons that were hemmed by

starships to the back and side and the surface-

effect vehicle before him.

"Now," he added, controlling his grimace, "how

do we get to the mainland if we're not cargo?"

"Ah, but we are," Desoix noted as he raised the

briefcase that seemed to be all the luggage he

carried. "Just not very valuable cargo, my friend.

But I think it's about time to—"

As he started toward the door, one of the

hovercars they'd watched put out from the city

drove through the mingled cluster of men from

the starships and the surface freighter. Water from

the channel surrounded the car in a fine mist that

cleared its path better than the threat of its rubber

skirts. While the driver in his open cab exchanged

curses with men from the surface freighter, the

rear of his vehicle opened to disgorge half a dozen

civilians in bright garments.

"Our transportation," Desoix said, nodding to

the hovercar as he headed out of the shelter.

"Now that it's dropped off the Bamberg factors to

fight for their piece of the market. Everybody's

got tobacco, and everybody wants a share of what

may be the last cargoes onto the planet for a

while."

"Before the shooting starts," Tyl amplified as he

strode along with the UDB officer. They hadn't

sent a briefing cube to Miesel for him . .'. but it

didn't take that or genius to figure out what was

going to happen shortly after a world started hir-

ing mercenary regiments.

"That's the betting," Desoix agreed. He opened

the back of the car with his universal credit key, a

computer chip encased in noble metal and banded

to his wrist.

"Oh," said Tyi, staring at the keyed door.

"Yeah, everything's up to date here in Bamberg,"

said the other officer, stepping out of the doorway

and waving Tyl through. "Hey!" he called to the

driver. "My friend here's on me!"

"I can—" Tyl said.

"—delay us another ten minutes," Desoix broke

in, "trying to charge this one to the Hammer account

or pass the driver scrip from Lord knows where."

He keyed the door a second time and swung

into the car, both men moving with the trained

grace of soldiers who knew how to get on and off

air cushion vehicles smoothly—because getting

hung up was a good way to catch a round.

"Goes to the UDB account anyway," Desoix

added. "Via, maybe we'll need a favor from you

one of these days."

"I'm just not set up for this place, coming off

furlough," Tyl explained. "It's not like, you know,

Colonel Hammer isn't on top of things."

The driver fluffed his fans and the car began to

cruise in cautious arcs around the starships,

looking for other passengers.

were busy with merehar

themselves, preparing th<

would load the vacuum-s<

Bamberg tobacco when thi

deals.

No one looked at the <

interest. The driver spun

channel with a lurch and

CHAPTER TWO

"One thing," Desoix said, looking out the win-

dow even though the initial spray cloaked the

view. "Money's no problem here. Any banking

booth can access Hammer's account and probably

your account back home if it's got a respondent on

one of the big worlds. Perfectly up to date. But,

ah, don't talk to anybody here about religion, all

right?"

He met Tyl’s calm eyes. "No matter how well

you know them, you don't know them that well.

Here. And don't go out except wearing your uni-

form. They don't bother soldiers, especially meres;

but somebody might make a mistake if you were

in civilian clothes."

Their vehicle was headed for the notch in the

sea cliffs. It was a river mouth as Tyl had assumed

from the spaceport, but human engineering had

overwhelmed everything natural about the site.

The river was covered and framed into a triangu-

lar plaza by concrete seawalls as high as those

reinforcing the corniche.

Salt water from the tide-choked sea even now

gleamed on the plaza, just as it was streaming

from the spaceport. Figures—women as well as

men, Tyl thought, though it was hard to be sure

between the spray and the loose costumes they

wore here—were pouring into the plaza as fast as

the water had left it.

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摘要：

Hammer’sSlammersByDavidDrakeCountingtheCostCHAPTERONEThey'dtoldTylKoopmanthatBambergCity'sstarportwasonanislandacrossthechannelfromthecityproper,sohehadn'texpectedmuchofaskylinewhenthefreighter'shatchesopened.Neitherhadheexpectedacurtainofsteamboilingupsofuriouslythatthesunwasonlyabrightpatchinmid-s...

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David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 01 - Counting The Cost

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