The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

The sensor tech unlatched a case of his own. It too was full of gear. He took out a series of sensors, broad-band optical and radio frequency, whistling under his breath.

Clothing hadn’t been a high priority for a team operating out of range of support—save for the suitcase Margulies had insisted on bringing as a decoy, and that thought had earned her a commendation if Coke lived to write it.

“Ah, would you gentlefolk not like some refreshment?” Georg Hathaway suggested. “We have what we like to think is a very good beer, I brew it on the premises myself, and there’s local cacao as well, good enough to export, if it weren’t that no one cares for anything but gage on Cantilucca.”

“Gage and killing,” his wife said bitterly. “And mostly killing. I don’t think it’ll stop before there’s only one of the bandits left.”

“About how many men do the gage syndicates employ, mistress?” Coke asked as he continued to look out the viewport. Barbour and Daun would give him much more precise data in a moment, but in some ways there was nothing to equal the naked eye.

“Too many,” Evie said. “And they’re hiring more every day.”

Georg—eyeing the array of devices the tech specialists were assembling—said cautiously, “Sirs, I’d judge that Astra and L’Escorial have at least a thousand, ah, employees each. They aren’t all in, ah, the patrol branch, but most of them are.”

“Usually most of them are out in the fields, bullying the growers,” Evie Hathaway said. “But they’ve been bringing them into Potosi since the trouble started.”

She raised her arms and combed her fingers through her artificially bright hair. She looked tired and frustrated, a woman near the end of her tether. “I hope the growers are getting some benefit. Because it’s hell here for decent folk.”

The makeshift armored truck revved its air-cooled diesel engine. The separately bolted body panels vibrated at different frequencies, creating a grinding rattle. For the crew, it must have been like riding in a cement mixer—but maybe they were so stoned that they wouldn’t feel the effects of their silliness until the next morning.

Niko darted up the stairs to arrange his equipment from high vantage points. Margulies came down, wearing a satisfied expression, and gave Coke a thumbs-up. The upper floor and roof were secure in her—expert—estimation.

“And there’s no police force, I understand?” Coke said.

The tribarrel in the armored truck’s cupola pointed up at twenty degrees, probably its maximum elevation, and fired a two-round burst. The rich cyan of the high-powered 2-cm charges flashed in reflection from the facades.

“Police?” Mistress Hathaway crowed. She pointed into the saloon. “Police? Look at them there, afraid to go out without covering up so they won’t be seen! Oh, we’ve got fine police here in Potosi!”

The two men drinking morosely at a corner table did, now that Evie called attention to the fact, wear white uniforms. Dingy white uniforms. They hunched their shoulders under the lash of her tongue. Drab capes like the one with which Pilar covered herself hung over the backs of their chairs.

“Evie, now, don’t get yourself into a state,” Georg murmured, wringing his hands again.

The gunman in the armored truck rotated his barrels manually, then fired another two rounds. The ill-maintained tribarrel jammed again at the third loading sequence.

One of the policemen turned and glared from deep-sunk eyes. “Look, what do you want us to do?” he demanded. He waved a shock baton, the only weapon he carried. “Go out and arrest them all, and for what?”

He made a face as if to spit, then thought better of it. Sinking back over his mug of beer he added, “Better I should shoot myself. At least I could be sure it was quick if I did it myself.”

“Find someone worth a bullet!” Evie Hathaway snapped, but she’d lost the edge of anger. Exhaustion reasserted itself.

A ripple—three pairs—of hypervelocity rockets cracked down the street in the opposite direction, well over the heads of the L’Escorial cordon. The Astras must have brought one of their own armored vehicles out, though Coke couldn’t see it from his present vantage point.

The projectiles were aimed deliberately high, just as the L’Escorial tribarrel had been; but that sort of game could get out of hand as quickly as Russian roulette could. A red-clad gunman spread his fringed leather kilt and urinated in the direction of the Astra line.

“You gentlemen—and lady, of course,” Georg Hathaway said cautiously, “are in the instrument business, then? You plan to sell instruments to the gage syndicates?”

“Not exactly,” Coke said curtly.

“I’ve got a hook-up, sir,” Barbour said. “Ah, Matthew. You can have a panorama here on the console or fed to your helmet.”

Coke glanced briefly at the data console. A holographic globe a meter in diameter hung above the base. The image was a schematic of the center of Potosi. Buildings appeared as simplified versions of themselves, while vehicles and armed personnel were icons—red and blue, as indicated.