“Tranter, when we make the corner up ahead,” Huber ordered, “cut your headlights and running lights. Can you drive using just your visor’s enhancement?”
“Roger,” the driver said calmly. Behind them the guard vehicle was pulling back across the compound’s gateway; ahead, the last of the cars in the detachment proper slid awkwardly around an elbow in the broad freight road leading west and eventually out of Benjamin.
Even here in the center of the administrative capital of the UC, there were more trees than houses. The locals built narrow structures three or four stories high, with parking for aircars either beneath the support pilings or on rooftop landing pads. Most of the windows were dark, but occasionally they lighted as armored vehicles howled slowly by on columns of air.
Even without lights, Fencing Master wasn’t going to pass unnoticed in Senator Graciano’s neighborhood of expensive residences.
This’d have to be a quick in and out; or at least a quick in.
Tranter was keeping a rock-solid fifty-meter interval between him and the stern of Red Eight. He seemed to judge what the driver ahead would do well before that fellow acted.
“Start opening the distance, Tranter,” Huber said, judging their position on the terrain display against the quivering running lights of Red Eight. “We’ll peel off to the right at the intersection half a kay west of our present position. As soon as Red Eight’s out of sight, goose it hard. We’ve got eighteen hundred meters to cover, and I want to be there before they have time to react to the sound of our fans.”
“Roger,” Tranter said. He still didn’t sound nervous; maybe he was concentrating on his driving.
And maybe the technician didn’t really understand what was about to happen. Well, there were a lot of cases where intellectual understanding fell well short of emotional realities.
Fencing Master slowed almost imperceptibly; the fan note didn’t change, but Tranter cocked the nacelles toward the vertical so that their thrust was spent more on lifting the car than driving it forward. Red Eight ahead had gained another fifty meters by the time its lights shifted angle, then glittered randomly through the trees of a grove that the road twisted behind.
“Here we go, Tranter,” Huber warned, though the driver obviously had everything under control. “Easy right turn, then get on—”
Fencing Master was already swinging; Tranter dragged the right skirt, not in error but because the direct friction of steel against gravel was hugely more effective at transferring momentum than a fluid coupling of compressed air. As the combat car straightened onto a much narrower street than the route they’d been following from Repair, the headlights of four ten-wheeled trucks flooded over them. An air-cushion jeep pulled out squarely in front of the combat car.
“Blood and bleeding Martyrs!” somebody screamed over the intercom, and the voice might’ve been Huber’s own. Tranter lifted Fencing Master’s bow, dumping air and dropping the skirts back onto the road. The bang jolted the teeth of everybody aboard and rattled the transoms of nearby houses.
The combat car hopped forward despite the impact. They’d have overrun the jeep sure as sunrise if its driver hadn’t been a real pro as well. The lighter vehicle lifted on the gust from Fencing Master’s plenum chamber, surfing the bow wave and bouncing down the other side on its own flexible skirts.
A trim figure stood beside the jeep’s driver, touching the top of the windscreen for balance but not locked to it in a deathgrip the way most people would’ve been while riding a bucking jeep upright. The fellow’s faceshield was raised; to make himself easy to identify, Huber assumed, but the glittering pistol in his cutaway holster was enough to do that.
“Lock your tribarrels in carry position!” Huber shouted to his men. As he spoke, he slapped the pintle catch with his left hand and rotated the barrels of his heavy automatic weapon skyward. “That’s Major Steuben, and we won’t get two mistakes!”
Tranter never quite lost control of Fencing Master, but it wasn’t till the third jounce that he actually brought the car to rest. Each impact blasted a doughnut of dust and grit from the road; Huber’s nose filters swung down and saved him from the worst of it, but his eyes watered. The jeep stayed just ahead of them, then curved back when the bigger vehicle halted.
The trucks—they had civilian markings and weren’t from the Logistics Section inventory—moved up on either side of the combat car, two and two. They were stake-beds; a dozen troopers lined the back of each, their weapons ready for anybody in Fencing Master to make the wrong move.
That wasn’t going to happen: Huber and his men were veterans; they knew what was survivable.
“Bloody fucking hell,” Deseau whispered. He kept his hands in sight and raised at his sides.
“Get out, all four of you,” Major Steuben ordered through the commo helmets. He sounded amused. “Leave your guns behind.”
Huber slung his 2-cm weapon over the raised tribarrel, then unbuckled his equipment belt and hung it on the big gun also. He paused and looked, really looked, at the White Mice watching Fencing Master and her crew through the sights of their weapons. They wore ordinary Slammers combat gear—helmets, body armor, and uniforms—but the only powergun in the whole platoon was the pistol on Major Steuben’s hip. The rest of the unit carried electromagnetic slug-throwers and buzzbombs.
“Unit,” Huber ordered, “let me do the talking.”
He raised himself to the edge of the fighting compartment’s armor, then swung his legs over in a practiced motion. His boots clanged down on the top of the plenum chamber. Starting with the coaming as a hand-hold, he let himself slide along the curve of the skirts to the ground.
Deseau and Learoyd were dismounting with similar ease, but Tranter—awkward in body armor—was having more difficulty in the bow. The technician also hadn’t taken off his holstered pistol; he’d probably forgotten he was wearing it.
Huber opened his mouth to call a warning. Before he could, Steuben said, “Sergeant Tranter, I’d appreciate it if you’d drop your equipment belt before you step to the ground. It’ll save me the trouble of shooting you.”
He tittered and added, “Not that it would be a great deal of trouble.”
Startled, Tranter undid the belt. He wobbled on the hatch coaming, then lost his balance. He and the belt slipped down the bow in opposite directions, though Tranter was able to keep from landing on his face by dabbing a hand to the ground.
Huber stepped briskly toward the jeep, stopping two paces away. He threw what was as close to an Academy salute as he could come after five years in the field.
“Sir!” he said. Steuben stood above him by the height of the jeep’s plenum chamber. “The men with me had no idea what was going on. I ordered them to accompany me on a test drive of the repaired vehicle.”
“Fuck that,” Deseau said, swaggering to Huber’s side. “We were going to put paid to the bastards that set us up and got our buddies killed. Somebody in the Regiment’s got to show some balls, after all.”
He spit into the dust beside him. Deseau had the bravado of a lot of little men; his pride was worth more to him than his life just now.
Joachim Steuben, no taller than Deseau flat-footed, giggled at him.
Learoyd walked up on Deseau’s other side. He’d taken his helmet off and was rubbing his scalp. Sergeant Tranter, his eyes wide open and unblinking, joined Learoyd at the end of the rank.
“What did you think was going to happen when a Slammers combat car killed a senior UC official and destroyed his house, Lieutenant?” Steuben asked. The anger in his tone was all the more terrible because his eyes were utterly dispassionate. “Didn’t it occur to you that other officials, even those who opposed the victim, would decide that Hammer’s Regiment was more dangerous to its employers than it was to the enemy?”