The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

Hera could’ve gone to her father with the information; she could’ve gone to the civil authorities—though Huber wasn’t sure the United Cities had security police in the fashion that larger states generally did; or she could even have gone to Colonel Hammer. Any of those choices would have been fine. The possibility that scared Huber, though, was that instead—

His helmet pinged him with an Urgent call. Huber wasn’t in a platoon and company net, so the sound was unexpected. He locked down his faceshield to mute the conversation and said, “Fox Three-six, go ahead!”

In his surprise—and fear—he’d given his old call signal. Somebody else was leader of platoon F-3 nowadays.

“Arne, this is Doll,” said Lieutenant Basime’s voice. “We don’t exactly monitor the civil police here, but we are a signals liaison section. Ah—”

“Say it!” Huber snapped.

“There was a police call just now,” Doll said mildly. She was a solid lady, well able to stand up for her rights and smart enough to know when that wasn’t the best choice. “There’s an aircar down west of town. The driver and sole occupant is dead. Initial report is that it’s your deputy, Hera Graciano.”

“Right,” said Huber. He felt calm again, much as he’d been as he watched the stern of the blazing dirigible slide slowly into the terminal building. The past was the past; now there were only the consequences to deal with. “Can you download the coordinates of the crash site?”

“You’ve got ’em,” Doll said. There was an icon Huber hadn’t noticed in the terrain box on his faceshield. “Anything more I can do, Snake?”

“Negative, Doll,” Huber said. “I’ll take it from here. Three-six out.”

He broke the connection and raised his faceshield. “Trouble, El-Tee?” said Sergeant Tranter. Tranter had been in the field, but he didn’t have a line trooper’s instincts. Deseau and Learoyd stood facing outward from their former platoon leader; their feet were spread and their sub-machine guns slanted in front of them. They weren’t aiming at anything, not threatening anybody; but they hadn’t had to ask if there was trouble, and they were ready to deal in their own way with anything that showed itself.

The civilian clerks looked terrified, as they well should have been.

“Tranter, I need a ride,” Huber said. “West of town there’s been an aircar crash. I’ll transfer the coordinates to the car’s navigation system.”

“We’re coming along,” Deseau said. He continued to watch half the room and the doorway, while the trooper watched the clerks on the other side. “Learoyd and me.”

“You go relax,” Huber said in a tight voice. “This is Log Section business, not yours.”

“Fuck that,” said Deseau. “You said we’re at liberty. Fine, we’re at liberty to come with you.”

“Right,” said Huber. He was still holding his big shoulder weapon; he hadn’t had time to put it down since he entered the office. “You—Farinelli? You’re in charge till I get back.” He thought for a moment and added, “Or you hear that I’ve been replaced.”

“But Director Huber!” the clerk said. “What if Deputy Graciano comes back?”

“She won’t,” Huber snarled. Then to his men he added, “Come on, troopers. Let’s roll!”

“She was up about a thousand meters,” said the cop. He was a young fellow in a blue jacket and red trousers with a blue stripe down the seam. For all that he was determined not to be cowed by the heavily armed mercenaries, he behaved politely instead of blustering to show his authority. “She had the top down and wasn’t belted in, so she came out the first time the car tumbled.”

It was probably chance then that the body and the vehicle had hit the ground within fifty meters of one another, Huber realized. Hera had gone through tree-branches face-first, hit the ground, and then bounced over to lie on her back. Her features were distorted, but he could’ve identified her easily if the UC policeman had been concerned about that; he wasn’t.

There was almost no blood. The dent in the center of her forehead had spilled considerable gore over Hera’s face, but that had been dry when the branches slashed her and wiped much of it off. Huber was no pathologist, but he’d seen death often and in a variety of forms. Hera Graciano had been dead for some length of time before her body hit the ground.

“Why did the car tumble?” Tranter said, kneeling to check the underside of the crumpled vehicle. It’d nosed in, then fallen back on its underside with its broken frame cocked up like an inverted

V. “There’s an air turbine that deploys when you run outa fuel. It generates enough juice to keep your control gyro spinning.”

“You’re friends of the lady?” the cop asked. He was expecting backup, but the Slammers had arrived almost as soon as he did himself. He seemed puzzled, which Huber was willing to grant him the right to be.