David Drake - Hammer's Slammers 03 - The Tank Lords

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The Tank Lords

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.

1997, all by David Drake.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-87794-1

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, August 1997

Second printing, July 1999

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

THEY WERE THE MEANEST, TOUGHEST BUNCH OF MERCS WHO EVER KILLED FOR A DOLLAR, OR WRECKED A WORLD

FOR PAY-AND THEY WERE ONE BOY'S SALVATION....

My Lady Miriam and her entourage rushed back from the barred windows of the women's apartments on

the second floor, squealing for effect. The tanks were so huge that the mirror-helmeted men

watching from turret hatches were nearly on a level with the upper story of the palace.

The Baron's soldiers had boasted that they were better men than the mercenaries if it ever came

down to cases. The fear that the women had mimed from behind stone walls seemed real enough now to

the soldiers whose bluster and assault rifles were insignificant against the iridium titans which

entered the courtyard.

Even at idle speed, the tanks roared as their fans maintained the cushions of air that slid them

over the ground. Three of the Baron's men dodged back through the palace doorway, their curses

inaudible over the intake whine of the approaching vehicles.

They did not need to respect us. They were

THE TANK LORDS

Under the Hammer

"Think you're going to like killing, boy?" asked the old man on double crutches.

Rob Jenne turned from the streams of moving cargo to his unnoticed companion in the shade of the

starship's hull. His own eyes were pale gray, suited like his dead-white skin to Burlage, whose

ruddy sun could raise a blush but not a tan. When they adjusted, they took in the clerical collar

which completed the other's costume. The smooth, black synthetic contrasted oddly with the

coveralls and shirt of local weave. At that, the Curwinite's outfit was a cut above Rob's own, the

same worksuit of Burlage sisal that he had worn as a quarryhand at home. Uniform issue would come

soon.

At least, he hoped and prayed it would.

When the youth looked away after an embarrassed grin, the priest chuckled. "Another damned old

fool, hey, boy? There were a few in your family, weren't there . . . the ones who'd quote the Book

of the Way saying not to kill-and here you go off for a hired murderer. Right?" He laughed again,

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seeing he had the younger man's attention. "But that by itself wouldn't be so hard to take-you

were leaving your family anyway, weren't you, nobody really believes they'll keep close to their

people after five years, ten years of star hopping. But your mates, though, the team you worked

with . . . how did you explain to them why you were leaving a good job to go on contract? 'Via!' "

the priest mimicked, his tones so close to those of Barney Larsen, the gang boss, that Rob started

in surprise, "you get your coppy ass shot off, lad, and it'll serve you right for being a fool!"

"How do you know I signed for a mercenary?" Jenne asked, clenching his great, calloused hands on

the handle of his carry-all. It was everything he owned in the universe in which he no longer had

a home. "And how'd you know about my Aunt Gudrun?"

"Haven't I seen a thousand of you?" the priest blazed back, his eyes like sparks glinting from the

drill shaft as the sledge drove it deeper into the rock. "You're young and strong and bright

enough to pass Alois Hammer's tests-you be proud of that, boy, few enough are fit for Hammer's

Slammers. There you were, a man grown who'd read all the cop about mercenaries, believed most of

it . . . more'n ever you did the Book of the Way, anyhow. Sure, I know. So you got some off-planet

factor to send your papers in for you, for the sake of the bounty he'll get from the colonel if

you make the grade-"

The priest caught Rob's blink of surprise. He chuckled again, a cruel, unpriestly sound, and said,

"He told you it was for friendship? One a these days you'll learn what friendship counts, when you

get an order that means the death of a friend-and you carry it out."

Rob stared at the priest in repulsion, the grizzled chin resting on interlaced fingers and the

crutches under either armpit supporting most of his weight. "It's my life," the recruit said with

sulky defiance. "Soon as they pick me up here, you can go back to living your own. 'Less you'd be

willing to do that right now?"

"They'll come soon enough, boy," the older man said in a milder voice. "Sure, you've been ridden

by everybody you know . . . now that you're alone, here's a stranger riding you too. I don't mean

it like I sound . . . wasn't born to the work, I guess. There's priests-and maybe the better ones-

who'd say that signing on with mercenaries means so long a spiral down that maybe your soul won't

come out of it in another life or another hundred. But I don't see it like that.

"Life's a forge, boy, and the purest metal comes from the hottest fire. When you've been under the

hammer a few times, you'll find you've been beaten down to the real, no lies, no excuses. There'll

be a time, then, when you got to look over the product . . . and if you don't like what you see,

well, maybe there's time for change, too."

The priest turned his head to scan the half of the horizon not blocked by the bellied-down bulk of

the starship. Ant columns of stevedores manhandled cargo from the ship's rollerway into horse- and

ox-drawn wagons in the foreground: like most frontier worlds, Burlage included, self-powered

machinery was rare in the back country. Beyond the men and draft animals stretched the fields,

studded frequently by orange-golden clumps of native vegetation.

"Nobody knows how little his life's worth till he's put it on the line a couple times," the old

man said. "For nothing. Look at it here on Curwin-the seaboard taxed these uplands into revolt,

then had to spend what they'd robbed and more to hire an armored regiment. So boys like you from-

Scania? Felsen?-"

"Burlage, sir."

"Sure, a quarryman, should have known from your shoulders. You come in to shoot farmers for a gang

of coastal moneymen you don't know and wouldn't like if you did." The priest paused, less for

effect than to heave in a quick, angry breath that threatened his shirt buttons. "And maybe you'll

die, too; if the Slammers were immortal, they wouldn't need recruits. But some that die will die

like saints, boy, die martyrs of the Way, for no reason, for no reason . . .

"Your ride's here, boy."

The suddenly emotionless words surprised Rob as much as a scream in a silent prayer would have.

Hissing like a gun-studded dragon, a gray-metal combat car slid onto the landing field from the

west. Light dust puffed from beneath it: although the flatbed trailer behind was supported on

standard wheels, the armored vehicle itself hovered a hand's-breadth above the surface at all

points. A dozen powerful fans on the underside of the car kept it floating on an invisible bubble

of air, despite the weight of the fusion power unit and the iridium-ceramic armor. Rob had seen

combat cars on the entertainment cube occasionally, but those skittering miniatures gave no hint

of the awesome power that emanated in reality from the machines. This one was seven meters long

and three wide at the base, the armored sides curving up like a turtle's back to the open fighting

compartment in the rear.

From the hatch in front of the powerplant stuck the driver's head, a black-mirrored ball in a

helmet with full face shield down. Road dust drifted away from the man in a barely-visible haze,

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cleansed from the helmet's optics by a static charge. Faceless and terrible to the unfamiliar

Burlager, the driver guided toward the starship a machine that appeared no more inhuman than did

the man himself.

"Undercrewed," the priest murmured. "Two men on the back deck aren't enough for a car running

single."

The older man's jargon was unfamiliar but Rob could follow his gist by looking at the vehicle. The

two men standing above the waist-high armor of the rear compartment were clearly fewer than had

been contemplated when the combat car was designed. Its visible armament comprised a heavy

powergun forward to fire over the head of the driver, and similar weapons, also swivel-mounted, on

either side to command the flanks and rear of the vehicle. But with only two men in the

compartment there was a dangerous gap in the circle of fire the car could lay down if ambushed.

Another vehicle for escort would have eased the danger, but this one was alone save for the

trailer it pulled.

Though as the combat car drew closer, Rob began to wonder if the two soldiers present couldn't

handle anything that occurred. Both were in full battle dress, wearing helmets and laminated back

and breast armor over their khaki. Their faceplates were clipped open. The one at the forward gun,

his eyes as deep-sunken and deadly as the three revolving barrels of his weapon, was in his

forties and further aged by the dust sweated into black grime in the creases of his face. His head

rotated in tiny jerks, taking in every nuance of the sullen crowd parting for his war-car. The

other soldier was huge by comparison with the first and lounged across the back in feigned

leisure: feigned, because either hand was within its breadth of a powergun's trigger, and his

limbs were as controlled as spring steel.

With careless expertise, the driver backed his trailer up to the conveyor line. A delicate hand

with the fans allowed him to angle them slightly, drifting the rear of the combat car to edge the

trailer in the opposite direction. The larger soldier contemptuously thumbed a waiting horse and

wagon out of its slot. The teamster's curse brought only a grin and a big hand rested on a

powergun's receiver, less a threat than a promise. The combat car eased into the space.

"Wait for an old man," the priest said as Rob lifted his carry-all, "and I'll go with you." Glad

even for that company, the recruit smiled nervously, fitting his stride to the other's

surprisingly nimble swing-and-pause, swing-and-pause.

The driver dialed back minusculy on the power and allowed the big vehicle to settle on the ground

without a skip or a tremor. One hand slid back the face shield to a high, narrow nose and eyes

that alertly focused on the two men approaching. "The Lord and his martyrs!" the driver cried in

amazement. "It's Blacky himself come in with our newbie!"

Both soldiers on the back deck slewed their eyes around at the cry. The smaller one took one

glance, then leaped the two meters to the ground to clasp Rob's companion. "Hey!" he shouted,

oblivious to the recruit shifting his weight uncertainly. "Via, it's good to see you! But what're

you doing on Curwin?"

"I came back here afterwards," the older man answered with a smile. "Born here, I must've told you

. . . though we didn't talk a lot. I'm a priest now, see?"

"And I'm a flirt like the load we're supposed to pick up," the driver said, dismounting with more

care than his companion. Abreast of the first soldier, he too took in the round collar and halted

gape-mouthed. "Lord, I'll be a coppy rag if you ain't," he breathed. "Whoever heard of a blower

chief taking the Way?"

"Shut up, Jake," the first soldier said without rancor. He stepped back from the priest to take a

better look, then seemed to notice Rob. "Umm," he said, "you the recruit from Burlage?"

"Yessir. M-my name's Rob Jenne, sir."

"Not 'sir,' there's enough sirs around already," the veteran said. "I'm Chero, except if there's

lots of brass around, then make it Sergeant-Commander Worzer. Look, take your gear back to the

trailer and give Leon a hand with the load."

"Hey, Blacky," he continued with concern, ignoring Rob again, "what's wrong with your legs? We got

the best there was."

"Oh, they're fine," Rob heard the old man reply, "but they need a weekly tuning. Out here we don't

have the computers, you know; so I get the astrogation boys to sync me up on the ships' hardware

whenever one docks in-just waiting for a chance now. But in six months the servos are far enough

out of line that I have to shut off the power till the next ship arrives. You'd be surprised how

well I get around on these pegs, though. . . ."

Leon, the huge third crew member, had loosed the top catches of his body armor for ventilation.

From the look of it, the laminated casing should have been a size larger; but Rob wasn't sure

anything larger was made. The gunner's skin where exposed was the dense black of a basalt

outcropping. "They'll be a big crate to go on, so just set your gear down till we get it loaded,"

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he said. Then he grinned at Rob, teeth square and slightly yellow against his face. "Think you can

take me?"

That was a challenge the recruit could understand, the first he could meet fairly since boarding

the starship with a one-way ticket to a planet he had never heard of. He took in the waiting

veteran quickly but carefully, proud of his own rock-hardened muscles but certain the other man

had been raised just as hard. "I give you best," the blond said. "Unless you feel you got to prove

it?"

The grin broadened and a great black hand reached out to clasp Rob's. "Naw," the soldier said,

"just like to clear the air at the start. Some of the big ones; Lord, testy ain't the word. All

they can think about's what they want to prove with me . . . so they don't watch their side of the

car, and then there's trouble for everybody."

"Hammer's Regiment?" called an unfamiliar voice. Both men looked up. Down the conveyor rode a blue-

tunicked ship's man in front of what first appeared to be a huge crate. At second glance Rob saw

that it was a cage of light alloy holding four . . . "Dear Lord!" the recruit gasped.

"Roger, Hammer's," Leon agreed, handing the crewman a plastic chit while the latter cut power to

the rollers to halt the cage. The chit slipped into the computer linkage on the crewman's left

wrist, lighting a green indicator when it proved itself a genuine bill of lading.

There were four female humanoids in the cage-stark naked except for a dusting of fine blue scales.

Rob blinked. One of the near-women stood with a smile-Lord, she had no teeth!-and rubbed her groin

deliberately against one of the vertical bars.

"First-quality Genefran flirts," Leon chuckled. "Ain't human, boy, but the next best thing."

"Better," threw in Jake, who had swung himself into the fighting compartment as soon as the cage

arrived. "I tell you, kid, you never had it till you had a flirt. Surgically modified and

psychologically prepared. Rowf!"

"N-not human?" Rob stumbled, unable to take his eyes off the cage, "you mean like monkeys?"

Leon's grin lit his face again, and the driver cackled, "Well, don't know about monkeys, but

they're a whole lot like sheep."

"You take the left side and we'll get this aboard," Leon directed. The trailer's bed was half a

meter below the rollerway so that the cage, though heavy and awkward, could be slid without much

lifting.

Rob gripped the bars numbly, turning his face down from the tittering beside him. "Amazing what

they can do with implants and a wig," Jake was going on, "though a course there's a lot of cutting

to do first, but those ain't the differences you see, if you follow. The scales, now-they have a

way-"

"Lift!" Leon ordered, and Rob straightened at the knees. They took two steps backward with the

cage wobbling above them as the girls-the flirts!-squealed and hopped about. "Down!" and cage

clashed on trailer as the two big men moved in unison.

Rob stepped back, his mouth working in distaste, unaware of the black soldier's new look of

respect. Quarry work left a man used to awkward weights. "This is foul," the recruit marveled.

"Are those really going back with us for, for . . ."

"Rest'n relaxation," Leon agreed, snapping tiedowns around the bars.

"But how . . ." Rob began, looking again at the cage. When the red-wigged flirt fondled her left

breast upward, he could see the implant scars pale against the blue. The scales were more thinly

spread where the skin had been stretched in molding it. "I'll never touch something like that.

Look, maybe Burlage is pretty backward about . . . things, about sex, I don't know. But I don't

see how anybody could . . . I mean-"

"Via, wait till you been here as long as we have," Jake gibed. He clenched his right hand and

pumped it suggestively. "Field expedients, that's all."

"On this kinda contract," Leon explained, stepping around to get at the remaining tiedowns, "you

can't trust the local girls. Least not in the field, like we are. The colonel likes to keep us

patrol sections pretty much self-contained."

"Yeah," Jake broke in-would his cracked tenor never cease? "Why, some of these whores, they take a

razor blade, see-in a cork you know?-and, well, never mind." He laughed, seeing Rob's face.

"Jake," Sergeant Worzer called, "Shut up and hop in."

The driver slipped instantly into his hatch. Disgusting as Rob found the little man, he recognized

his ability. Jake moved with lethal certainty and a speed that belied the weight of his body

armor.

"Ready to lift, Chero?" he asked.

The priest was levering himself toward the starship again. Worzer watched him go for a moment,

shook his head. "Just run us out to the edge of the field," he directed. "I got a few things to

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show our recruit before we head back; nobody rides in my car without knowing how to work the

guns." With a sigh he hopped into the fighting compartment. Leon motioned Rob in front of him.

Gingerly, the recruit stepped onto the trailer hitch, gripped the armored rim with both hands,

lifted himself aboard. Leon followed. The trailer bonged as he pushed off from it, and his bulk

cramped the littered compartment as soon as he grunted over the side.

"Put this on," Worzer ordered, handing Rob a dusty, bulbous helmet like the others wore. "Brought

a battle suit for you, too," he said, kicking the jointed armor leaning against the back of the

compartment, "but it'd no more fit you than it would Leon there."

The black laughed. "Gonna be tight back here till the kid or me gets zapped."

"Move 'er out," Worzer ordered. The words came through unsuspected earphones in Rob's helmet,

although the sergeant had simply spoken, without visibly activating a pickup.

The car vibrated as the fans revved, then lifted with scarcely a jerk. From behind came the

squeals and chirrups of the flirts as the trailer rocked over the irregularities in the field.

Worzer looked hard at the starship's open crew portal as they hissed past it. "Funny what folks go

an' do," he said to no one in particular. "Via, wonder what I'll be in another ten years."

"Pet food, likely," joked the driver, taking part in the conversation although physically

separated from the other crewmen.

"Shut up, Jake," repeated the blower captain. "And you can hold it up here, we're out far enough."

The combat car obediently settled on the edge of the stabilized area. The port itself had capacity

for two ships at a time; the region it served did not. Though with the high cost of animal

transport many manufactures could be star-hopped to Curwin's back country more cheaply than they

could be carried from the planet's own more urbanized areas, the only available exchange was raw

agricultural produce-again limited to the immediate locality by the archaic transport. Its fans

purring below audibility, the armored vehicle rested on an empty area of no significance to the

region-unless the central government should choose to land another regiment of mercenaries on it.

"Look," the sergeant said, his deep-set eyes catching Rob's, "we'll pass you on to the firebase

when we take the other three flirts in next week. They got a training section there. We got six

cars in this patrol, that's not enough margin to fool with training a newbie. But neither's it

enough to keep somebody useless underfoot for a week, so we'll give you some basics. Not so you

can wise-ass when you get to training section, just so you don't get somebody killed it if drops

in the pot. Clear?"

"Yessir." Rob broke his eyes away, then realized how foolish he must look staring at his own

clasped hands. He looked back at Worzer.

"Just so it's understood," the sergeant said with a nod. "Leon, show him how the gun works."

The big black rotated his weapon so that the muzzle faced forward and the right side was toward

Rob and the interior of the car. The mechanism itself was encased in dull-enameled steel

ornamented with knobs and levers of unguessable intent. The barrels were stubby iridium cylinders

with smooth, 2 cm bores. Leon touched one of the buttons, then threw a lever back. The plate to

which the barrels were attached rotated 120 degrees around their common axis, and a thick disk of

plastic popped out into the gunner's hand.

"When the bottom barrel's ready to fire, the next one clockwise is loading one a these"-Leon held

up the 2 cm disk-"and the other barrel, the one that's just fired, blows out the empty."

"There's a liquid nitrogen ejector," Worzer put in. "Cools the bore same time it kicks out the

empty."

"She feeds up through the mount," the big soldier went on, his index finger tracing the path of

the energized disks from the closed hopper bulging in the sidewall, through the ball joint and

into the weapon's receiver. "If you try to fire and she don't, check this." The columnar finger

indicated but did not move the stud it had first pressed on the side of the gun. "That's the

safety. She still doesn't fire, pull this"-he clacked the lever, rotating the barrel cluster

around one-third turn and catching the loaded round that flew out. "Maybe there was a dud round.

She still don't go, just get down outa the way. We start telling you about second-order

malfunctions and you won't remember where the trigger is."

"Ah, where is the trigger?" Rob asked diffidently.

Jake's laughter rang through the earphones and Worzer himself smiled for the first time. The

sergeant reached out and rotated the gun. "See the grips?" he asked, pointing to the double

handles at the back of the receiver. Rob nodded.

"OK," Worzer continued, "you hold it there"-he demonstrated-"and to fire, you just press your

thumbs against the trigger plate between 'em. Let up and it quits. Simple."

"You can clear this field as quick as you can spin this little honey," Leon said, patting the gun

with affection. "The hicks out there"-his arm swept the woods and cultivated fields promiscuously-

"got some rifles, they hunted before the trouble started, but no powerguns to mention. About all

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file:///F|/rah/David%20Drake/Drake,%20David%20-%20Hammer's%20Slammers%20\-%20The%20Tank%20Lords.txtTheTankLordsbyDavidDrakeThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinth\isbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright(c)1997byDavidDrake."Underth...

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