Kobold was a joint colony of Aurore and Friesland. When eighty years of French oppression had driven the Dutch settlers to rebellion, their first act was to hire Hammers Slammers. The break between Hammer and Friesland had been sharp, but time has a way of blunting anger and letting old habits resume. The Regimental language was Dutch, and many of the Slammers officers were Frisians seconded from their own service. Friesland gained from the mens experience when they returned home; Hammer gained company officers with excellent training from the Gröningen Academy.
To counter the Slammers, the settlers of Auroran descent had hired three Francophone regiments. If either group of colonists could have afforded to pay its mercenaries unaided, the fighting would have been immediate and brief. Kobold had been kept deliberately poor by its home worlds, however; so in their necessities the settlers turned to those home worlds for financial help.
And neither Aurore nor Friesland wanted a war on Kobold.
Friesland had let its settlers swing almost from the beginning, sloughing their interests for a half share of the copper produced and concessions elsewhere in its sphere of influence. The arrangement was still satisfactory to the Council of State, if Frisian public opinion could be mollified by apparent activity. Aurore was on the brink of war in the Zemla System. Her Parlement feared another proxy war which could in a moment explode full-fledged, even though Friesland had been weakened by a decade of severe internal troubles. So Aurore and Friesland reached a compromise. Then, under threat of abandonment, the warring parties were forced to transfer their mercenaries contracts to the home worlds. Finally, Aurore and Friesland mutually hired the four regiments: the Slammers; Compagnie de Barthe; the Alaudae; and Phenix Moirots. Mercs from either side were mixed and divided among eight sectors imposed on a map of inhabited Kobold. There the contract ordered them to keep peace between the factions; prevent the importation of modern weapons to either side; andwait.
But Col. Barthe and the Auroran leaders had come to a further, secret agreement; and although Hammer had learned of it, he had informed only two menMaj. Steuben, his aide and bodyguard; and Capt. Daniel Pritchard.
Pritchard scowled at the memory. Even without the details a traitor had sold Hammer, it would have been obvious that Barthe had his own plans. In the other sectors, Hammers men and their French counterparts ran joint patrols. Both sides scattered their camps throughout the sectors, just as the villages of either nationality were scattered. Barthe had split his sectors in halves, brusquely ordering the Slammers to keep to the west of the River Aillet because his own troops were mining the east of the basin heavily. Barthes Company was noted for its minefields. That skill was one of the reasons they had been hired by the French. Since most of Kobold was covered either by forests or by rugged hills, armor was limited to roads where well-placed mines could stack tanks like crushed boxes.
Hammer listened to Barthes pronouncement and laughed, despite the anger of most of his staff officers. Beside him, Joachim Steuben had grinned and traced the line of his cut-away holster. When Danny Pritchard was informed, he had only shivered a little and called a vehicle inspection for the next morning. That had been three months ago.
The night streamed by like smoke around the tank. Pritchard lowered his face shield, but he did not drop his seat into the belly of the tank. Vision blocks within gave a 360° view of the tanks surroundings, but the farmer in Danny could not avoid the feeling of blindness within the impenetrable walls. Jenne sat beside his captain in a cupola fitted with a three-barrelled automatic weapon. He too rode with his head out of the hatch, but that was only for comradeship. The sergeant much preferred to be inside. He would button up at the first sign of hostile action. Jenne was in no sense a coward; it was just that he had quirks. Most combat veterans do.
Pritchard liked the whistle of the black wind past his helmet. Warm air from the tanks resistance heaters jetted up through the hatch and kept his body quite comfortable. The vehicles huge mass required the power of a fusion plant to drive its lift motors, and the additional burden of climate control was inconsequential.
The tankers face shields automatically augmented the light of the moon, dim and red because the sun it reflected was dim and red as well. The boosted light level displayed the walls of forest, the boles snaking densely to either side of the road. At Kobolds perihelion, the thin stems grew in days to their full six-meter height and spread a ceiling of red-brown leaves the size of blankets. Now, at aphelion, the chilled, sapless trees burned with almost explosive intensity. The wood was too dangerous to use for heating, even if electricity had not been common; but it fueled the gasogene engines of most vehicles on the planet.
Jenne gestured ahead. Blowers, he muttered on the intercom. His head rested on the gun switch though he knew the vehicles must be friendly. The Plow slowed.
Pritchard nodded agreement. Michael First, this is Michael One, he said. Flash your running lights so we can be sure its you.
Roger, replied the radio. Blue light flickered from the shapes hulking at the edge of the forest ahead. Kowie throttled the fans up to cruise, then chopped them and swung expertly into the midst of the four tanks of the outlying platoon.
Michael One, this is Sigma One, Capt. Riis angry voice demanded in the helmet.
Go ahead.
Barthes sent a battalion across the river. Im moving Lt. Schilling into position to block em and called Central for artillery support. You hold your first platoon at Haacin for reserve and any partisans up from Portela. Ill take direct command of the rest of
Negative, negative, Sigma One! Pritchard snapped. The Plow was accelerating again, second in the line of five tanks. They were beasts of prey sliding across the landscape of snow and black trees at 80 kph and climbing. Let the French through, Captain. There wont be fighting, repeat, negative fighting.
There damned well will be fighting, Michael One, if Barthe tries to shove a battalion into my sector! Riis thundered back. Remember, this isnt your command or a joint command. Im in charge here.
Margritte, patch me through to Battalion, Pritchard hissed on intercom. The Plows turret was cocked 30° to the right. It covered the forest sweeping by to that side and anything which might be hiding there. Pritchards mind was on Sally Schilling, riding a skimmer through forest like that flanking the tanks, hurrying with her fifty men to try to stop a battalions hasty advance.
The commo helmet popped quietly to itself. Pritchard tensed, groping for the words he would need to convince Lt. Col. Miezierk. Miezierk, under whom command of Sectors One and Two was grouped, had been a Frisian regular until five years ago. He was supposed to think like a merc now, not like a Frisian; but.
The voice that suddenly rasped, Override, override! was not Miezierks. Sigma One, Michael One, this is Regiment.
Go ahead, Pritchard blurted. Capt. Riis, equally rattled, said, Yes, sir! on the three-way link.
Sigma, your fire order is cancelled. Keep your troops on alert, but keep em the hell out of Barthes way.
But Col. Hammer
Riis, youre not going to start a war tonight. Michael One, can your panzers handle whatevers going on at Haacin without violating the contract?
Yes, sir. Pritchard flashed a map briefly on his face shield to check his position. Were almost there now.
If you cant handle it, Captain, youd better hope youre killed in action, Col. Hammer said bluntly. I havent nursed this regiment for twenty-three years to lose it because somebody forgets what his job is. Then, more softlyPritchard could imagine the colonel flicking his eyes side to side to gauge bystanders reactionshe added, Theres support if you need it, Captainif theyre the ones who breach the contract.
Affirmative.
Keep the lid on, boy. Regiment out.
The trees had drunk the whine of the fans. Now the road curved and the tanks banked greasily to join the main highway from Dimo to Portela. The tailings pile of the Haacin Mine loomed to the right and hurled the drive noise back redoubled at the vehicles. The steel skirts of the lead tank touched the road metal momentarily, showering the night with orange sparks. Beyond the mine were the now-empty wheat fields and then the village itself.
Haacin, the largest Dutch settlement in Sector Two, sprawled to either side of the highway. Its houses were two- and three-story lumps of cemented mine tailings. They were roofed with tile or plastic rather than shakes of native timber, because of the woods lethal flammability. The highway was straight and broad. It gave Pritchard a good view of the three cargo vehicles pulled to one side. Men in local dress swarmed about them. Across the road were ten of Hammers khaki-clad infantry, patrol S-39, whose ported weapons half-threatened, half-protected the trio of drivers in their midst. Occasionally a civilian turned to hurl a curse at Barthes men, but mostly the Dutch busied themselves with offloading cartons from the trucks.
Pritchard gave a brief series of commands. The four line tanks grounded in a hedgehog at the edge of the village. Their main guns and automatics faced outward in all directions. Kowie swung the command vehicle around the tank which had been leading it. He cut the fans angle of attack, slowing The Plow without losing the ability to accelerate quickly. The command vehicle eased past the squad of infantry, then grounded behind the rearmost truck. Pritchard felt the fans hum through the metal of the hull.
Whos in charge here? the captain demanded, his voice booming through the command vehicles public address system.
The Dutch unloading the trucks halted silently. A squat man in a parka of feathery native fur stepped forward. Unlike many of the other civilians, he was not armed. He did not flinch when Pritchard pinned him with the spotlight of the tank. I am Paul van Oosten, the man announced in the heavy Dutch of Kobold. I am Mayor of Haacin. But if you mean who leads us in what we are doing here, wellperhaps Justice herself does. Klaus, show them what these trucks were carrying to Portela.
Another civilian stepped forward, ripping the top off the box he carried. Flat plastic wafers spilled from it, glittering in the cold light: powergun ammunition, intended for shoulder weapons like those the infantry carried.
They were taking powerguns to the beasts of Portela to use against us, van Oosten said. He used the slang term skepsels to name the Francophone settlers. The mayors shaven jaw was jutting out in anger.
Captain! called one of Barthes truck drivers, brushing forward through the ring of Hammers men. Let me explain.
One of the civilians growled and lifted his heavy musket. Rob Jenne rang his knuckles twice on the receiver of his tribarrel, calling attention to the muzzles as he swept them down across the crowd. The Dutchman froze. Jenne smiled without speaking.
We were sent to pick up wheat the regiment had purchased, Barthes man began. Pritchard was not familiar with Barthes insigniae, but from the mercs age and bearing he was a senior sergeant. An unlikely choice to be driving a provisions truck. One of the vehicles happened to be partly loaded. We didnt take the time to empty it because we were in a hurry to finish the run and go off dutythere was enough room and lift to handle that little bit of gear and the grain besides.
In any case and here the sergeant began pressing, because the tank captain had not cut him off at the first sentence as expectedyou do not, and these fools surely do not, have the right to stop Col. Barthes transport. If you have questions about the way we pick up wheat, thats between your CO and ours, sir.
Pritchard ran his gloved index finger back and forth below his right eyesocket. He was ice inside, bubbling ice that tore and chilled him and had nothing to do with the weather. He turned back to Mayor van Oosten. Reload the trucks, he said, hoping that his voice did not break.
You cant! van Oosten cried. These powerguns are the only chance my village, my people have to survive when you leave. You know thatll happen, dont you? Friesland and Aurore, theyll come to an agreement, a trade-off, theyll call it, and all the troops will leave. Its our lives theyre trading! The beasts in Dimo, in Portela if you let these go through, theyll have powerguns that their mercenaries gave them. And we
Pritchard whispered a prepared order into his helmet mike. The rearmost of the four tanks at the edge of the village fired a single round from its main gun. The night flared cyan as the 200 mm bolt struck the middle of the tailings pile a kilometer away. Stone, decomposed by the enormous energy of the shot, recombined in a huge gout of flame. Vapor, lava, and cinders spewed in every direction. After a moment, bits of high-flung rock began pattering down on the roofs of Haacin.
The bolt caused a double thunder-clap, that of the heated air followed by the explosive release of energy at the point of impact. When the reverberations died away there was utter silence in Haacin. On the distant jumble of rock, a dying red glow marked where the charge had hit. The shot had also ignited some saplings rooted among the stones. They had blazed as white torches for a few moments but they were already collapsing as cinders.
The Slammers are playing this by the rules, Pritchard said. Loudspeakers flung his quiet words about the village like the echoes of the shot; but he was really speaking for the recorder in the belly of the tank, preserving his words for a later Bonding Authority hearing. Therell be no powerguns in civilian hands. Load every bit of this gear back in the truck. Remember, theres satellites up there Pritchard waved generally at the skythat see everything that happens on Kobold. If one powergun is fired by a civilian in this sector, Ill come for him. I promise you.
The mayor sagged within his furs. Turning to the crowd behind him, he said, Put the guns back on the truck. So that the Portelans can kill us more easily.