David Drake - The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

The surface waggled, flipping Margulies like a pancake. She hit the ground again and bounced onto her back, stunned but no more severely injured than the mine had left her. Dirt rained down for tens of seconds.

All the shooting from the left side of the roadway ceased. A guerrilla, stark naked and bleeding from nose and ears, ran out of the trees. A tribarrel on the combat car roaring forward from the rear of the convoy cut the man in half.

The Frisian vehicle swung around the bogged second road train, ripping the right treeline with its full firepower. The guerrillas on that side were already disengaging. Hoses of cyan plasma devoured the few snipers trying to provide a rear guard for the main body.

Artillery shells began to land on both treelines. They were late as Margulies had feared, but at least they were accurate.

She saw a Brigantian carbine, dropped or flung on the ash ten meters from the crater. She crawled toward the weapon, ignoring the pain in her legs.

Halfway between her and the smoking gap in the treeline, a man in Frisian khaki rose on one arm and waved his muddy pistol at Margulies. Her eyes filled with tears of joy, but she continued to crawl.

The door opened and a full colonel stepped unexpectedly into the anteroom. Sten Moden rose to his feet and saluted crisply.

“Captain Moden?” the colonel said. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Which, when asked down a gradient of three steps in rank, was a rhetorical question if Moden had ever heard one.

“Yes sir,” Moden said, sounding as alert and ready as he knew how. His tailored dress uniform was brand new; he’d had his hair cut that morning—he’d showered afterward to wash away the clippings; and for the first time in his military career he was wearing all—all but one—of the medal ribbons to which he was entitled.

Not even for this purpose would Sten Moden wear the most recent citation for bravery. That would be too much like drinking the blood of his own troops.

Moden followed the colonel, Dascenzo according to his name tape but not somebody Moden knew or knew of, into a comfortable office. One wall was a holographic seascape. Waves surged from horizon to horizon without a hint of land.

The view could have been from Dascenzo’s home-world. Moden’s suspicion was that the view was intended as a soothing backdrop for interviews by an officer with a medical rather than personnel specialty.

Moden wasn’t worried about his physical profile. If that was the only determining factor, the Frisian Defense Forces would give him a new assignment with no difficulty. The fact that he was talking to a colonel instead of an enlisted clerk proved what Moden was afraid of: there was a problem with his psychiatric evaluation.

“Please, sit down,” Colonel Dascenzo said. He gestured toward a contour-adapting chair. “This isn’t anything formal, Captain. I’d just like to chat with you.”

The chair into which Moden lowered himself was the only piece of furniture in the office, save for Dascenzo’s own console with integral seat. Moden wondered how many sensors were built into the chair or focused on its user from the surrounding walls.

Captain Sten Moden had given the Frisian Defense Forces valued, even heroic, service, so no invasive methods would be used on him. Apart from that, however—

The FDF would recompense its veterans for past service, but the organization had to look to the future as well.

“I’ve gone over your file, of course, Captain,” Dascenzo said. “I must say I’m impressed by it.”

Moden decided a slight smile was appropriate. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “All I’m looking for now is a chance to continue serving Col-C-President Hammer for the foreseeable future.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to check with you about,” Dascenzo said. He looked serious, though he wasn’t scowling. His expression was probably as calculated as Moden’s own. “You do realize that you qualify for a pension at one hundred percent pay?”

“Yes sir,” Moden agreed with a measured nod, “and I very much appreciate the honor implicit in that offer. But I’m still able to provide the FDF with useful service, and I’d like to stay on the active list for as long as that’s true.”

“The extent of your injuries …” Dascenzo said, letting his expression darken into a frown. His voice trailed off, forcing the captain to decide what the question really was.

Moden decided to take a chance. He rose slowly to his full enormous height. “Sir,” he said as he gripped the arm of the heavy chair with his right hand, “my injuries were extensive. What remains of me, however—”

Moden’s biceps muscles flexed, threatening the weave of his uniform jacket. He pulled with the inexorable strength of a chain hoist.

“—is more than you’ll find filling most of the slots in the FDF!”

The chair jerked upward with the sound of ripping metal. Only then did Moden realize that he’d been tugging against the conduits serving hard-wired sensors rather than merely gravity.

“Sorry, sir,” he said ruefully, looking at the wreckage of a piece of very expensive equipment in his hand. He’d made the point he was trying to make. If he’d blown his psych profile off the map, then he may as well hung for a sheep as a lamb. “But strong and stupid has a place in an army too.”

“Bloody hell, man,” Colonel Dascenzo murmured. “Look, put that thing down before you drop it on your foot and do yourself some real damage.”

His expression softened as Moden obeyed him. The chair balanced awkwardly on the ends of tubes which had stretched and twisted before they broke. “You really do want to stay in the service, don’t you?” Dascenzo said softly.

“Yes sir,” Moden said, standing formally at ease. “I really do.”

“There’s a team being formed to survey a planet called Cantilucca,” Dascenzo said. “They’ll need an officer with a logistics background. Do you want the slot?”

“Yes sir,” Moden said. “I’d like that very much.” He heard his voice tremble with the relief he felt.

“You’ve got it,” Dascenzo said matter-of-factly. He touched the keyboard of his console. “Assignment orders will be waiting for you in your quarters.”

The colonel threw another switch, then looked up at Moden again. “Captain,” he said, “you don’t have to believe me, but I just turned off all the recording devices. Would you answer me a question, just for my personal interest?”

“Yes sir,” Moden said. He flexed his right hand behind his back. Now that it was over, he too was surprised at the amount of force his body had been able to deliver to the task he had set it.

“Why do you want to stay in uniform so badly?” Dascenzo asked.

Moden smiled, amused at himself. “Because I screwed up,” he said. “I therefore owe a debt. For a while I thought I should kill myself—I suppose you know that?”

Dascenzo nodded, tapping the data-gorged console without taking his eyes off Moden’s.

Moden nodded also. “I decided that wouldn’t pay anybody back,” he continued. “I don’t know who I owe, you see, but that wouldn’t help anybody. I—I believe that if I’m given duties to perform, then someday I’ll be able to …balance the account.” He barked a humorless laugh. “Does that make me crazy, Colonel?” he asked.

“Captain Moden,” Dascenzo said, “‘crazy’ isn’t a term I like to use when discussing professional soldiers. What I do know, however, is that if all you want is a chance to do your duty—I’d be a traitor to Nieuw Friesland if I took you out of her service. You’re dismissed, Captain.”

Dascenzo rose and extended his right hand across the desk to shake Moden’s hand. The psychiatrist was smiling sadly.