"And as for you, Luke," Hammer said as he faced around to Broglie again, "I won't have you talking nonsense. Your first duty is to your own troops. You'll take any bloody contract that meets your unit's terms and conditions . . . and I assure you, I'll do the same."
"Look,sir,"Broglie said. He wouldn't meet Colonel Hammer's eyes."I wouldn't feel right—"
"I said,"Hammer snapped,"put a sock in it! Or stay with me—the Lord knows I'm going to have to replace Chesney anyway, after the lash-up he made when the wheels came off at Morobad."
Des Grieux was dizzy. The world had disconnected itself from him. He was surrounded by glassy surfaces which only seemed to speak and move in the semblance of people he had once known. "Major Chesney—" Broglie began.
"Major Chesney had to be told twice,"Hammer said,"first by you and then by me, a thousand kays away with 3d Operational Battalion, to set his flanking tank platoons to cover artillery defense forthecenter.You shouldn't have had to hold Chesney's hand while you were organizing Han troops into a real defense."
Broglie smiled. "Their laser-vehicles were mostly bogged," he said, "so they couldn't run. I just made sure they knew I'd shoot 'em faster than the Hindis could if they tried to run."
"Whatever works," said Hammer with an expression as cold as the hatred in Joachim's eyes a moment before.
The expression softened. "Listen to me, Luke,"Hammer went on. "People are going to hire mercenaries so long as they're convinced mercenaries are a good investment. Having the Legion in first-rate hands like yours is good for all of us in this business. I'll miss you, but I gain from this, too."
Broglie stiffened. "Thank you, sir," he said.
"Listen!" Des Grieux shouted. "I'm the one who broke them for you! I killed Baffin."
"Oh, you killed a lot of people, Des Grieux," Colonel Hammer said in a deceptively mild voice. "And way too many of them were mine."
"Sir," said Broglie. "The disorganization in the Legion's rear really was Slick's doing. We pieced it together in post-battle analysis, and—"
"Saved about ten minutes, didn't it, Broglie?" the colonel said. "Before the flanking units closed on Morobad?"
Broglie smiled again, thinly. "That was ten minutes I was real glad to have, sir," he said.
Hammer stared up and down at Des Grieux. The colonel's expression did not change. "So, you think he's a good soldier, do you?" he asked softly.
"I think," said Broglie, "that . . . if he'd learn to obey orders, he'd be the best soldier I've ever seen."
"Fine, Mister Broglie," Hammer said. "I'll tell you what . . . ."
He continued to look at Des Grieux as if daring the tanker to move or speak again.Major Steuben was gone,but the White Mice at the outer doorway watched the discussion with their hands on the grips of their submachine guns.
"I'll let you have him, then," Hammer continued. "For Broglie's Legion."
Broglie grimaced and turned away. "No," he muttered. "Sorry, that wouldn't work out."
Hammer nodded crisply."Hareway,"he said to the Adjutant, "have Des Grieux here put in the lockup until we lift. Then demote him to trooper and put him to driving trucks for a while. If he cares to stay in the Slammers, as I rather hope he will not."
The lobby had a terrazzo floor. Hammer's boot-heels clacked on it as he strode off, arm and arm with Broglie. Their figures shrank in Des Grieux's eyesight, and he barely heard the orderly sergeant shout, "Watch it! He's fainting!"
Part III
The Slammers' lockup was a sixty-meter shipping container. The paired outer leaves were open, and the single inner door had been replaced by a grate. The facility was baking hot when the white sun of Meridienne cast its harsh shadows across the landscape. At night, when the clear air cooled enough to condense out the dew on which most of the local vegetation depended, the lockup became a shivering misery.
If the conditions in the lockup hadn't been naturally so wretched, Colonel Hammer would have used technology to make them worse. A comfortable detention facility would be counterproductive.
"Rise'nshine,trooper,"called the jailor,a veteran of twenty-five named Daniels. "They want you there yesterday, like always."
Daniels' two prosthetic feet worked perfectly well—so long as they were daily retimed to match his neural outputs. He had the choice of moving to a high-technology world where the necessary electronics were available, or staying with the Slammers in a menial capacity. Since Daniels' only saleable skill—firing a tribarrel from a moving jeep—had no civilian application, he became one of the Regiment's jailors.
"Nobody's waiting for me," said Slick Des Grieux, lying on his back with his knees raised. He didn't open his eyes. "Nobody cares if I'm alive or dead. Not even me."
"C'mon," Daniels insisted as he inserted his microchip key in the lock. "Get moving or they'll be on my back."
He clashed the grate as best he could. It was formed of beryllium alloy, while the container itself had been extruded from high-density polymers. The combination made a tinny/dull rattle, not particularly arousing.
Des Grieux got to his feet with a smooth grace which belied his previous inertia. There was a 3cm pressure cut above his right temple, covered now with Spray Seal. His pale hair was cut so short that there had been no need to shave the injured portion before repairing it.
"What's going on, then?" Des Grieux asked. His tongue quivered against his lips as the first wisps of adrenaline began to dry his mouth. There was going to be action . . . .
"Sounds like it really dropped in the pot," said Daniels as he swung the grate outward. "Dunno how. I thought it was gonna be a walkover this time."
He nodded Des Grieux toward the climate-controlled container that he used for an office."Iwonder,"Daniel sadded wistfully,"if it's bad enough they're gonna put support staff in the line . . .?"
Des Grieux couldn't figure why he was getting out of the lockup five days early. The Hashemite Brotherhood controlled the northern half of Meridienne's single continent and claimed the whole of it. They'd been raiding into territory of the Sincanmo Federation to the south—pinpricks, but destructive ones. Unchecked vandalism had destabilized governments and economic systems more firmly based than anything the Sincanmos could claim.
In order to prevent the Sincanmos from carrying the fighting north, the Hashemites had hired off-planet mercenaries, the Thunderbolt Division, to guard their territory and deter the Sincanmos from escalating to all-out war with local forces. The situation had gone on for one and a half standard years, with the Hashemites chuckling over their cleverness.
The Thunderbolt Division was a good choice for the Hashemite purposes. It was a large organization which could be distributed in battalion-sized packets to stiffen local forces of enthusiastic irregulars; and the Thunderbolt Division was cheap, an absolute necessity. Meridienne was not a wealthy planet, and the Hashemites expected their "confrontation" to continue for five or more years before the Sincanmo Federation collapsed.