The Complete Hammer's Slammers: Volume 3 by David Drake Page B

“I’m not afraid,” he concluded. “But I won’t be any place that I have to depend on indigs.”
    Avenial nodded. “Just wanted to be clear about the situation,” he said.
    His lips pursed, then grinned like those of a frog swallowing the biggest fly of its life. “There’s one problem remaining,” he said. “The slot in a six-man survey team is for a Tech Four. You’re only a Two.”
    Daun looked stricken. “What does that—” he began.
    His mind paused in mid-thought, then resumed smoothly like a transmission shifted from the lay-shaft to a front gear with only the least clicking of teeth. “If there were a way you could arrange for me to get the assignment on a provisional basis, mister, I would be personally grateful to you. I’ve got more saved up than you might think because there was no way to spend it—”
    Avenial, still grinning, waved Daun to silence. There were times he’d been insulted by an attempt to bribe him, but this wasn’t one of them.
    “What I thought,” Avenial said, “was that we’d just get you the extra stripes. Stripe, really. Like I said before, you’re due for your third already.”
    “I—” Daun said. “I . . .”
    He sat up very straight in his seat. “Mister Avenial,” he said, “you don’t need my money, I understand that. But some day you may need something from me. Let me know.”
    “Just doing my job, kid,” Avenial said.
    But someday it might be good to know a guy who could make walls talk and knew what anybody he pleased was saying, right up to the President . . . Yeah, that just might be.
    Daun rose to his feet. “I’ll wait for my assignment, mister,” he said. “Ah—do you have any notion when it might come through?”
    Avenial touched another button. “It just did, kid,” he said. “You’re bound for a place named Cantilucca.”
----

Earlier: Maedchen

    As Technician Niko Daun dealt the last cards, Bondo, one of the two Central States soldiers in the game, grumbled, “If I get a decent hand this time, it’ll be the first tonight.”
    A dripping soldier entered the twenty-man tent that served as living quarters for the battalion’s Technical Detachment. His boots slipped in purple mud as he tried to seal the tent flap. He thumped the ground, cursing in a monotonous voice.
    “You’re only a rubber down,” objected Sergeant Anya Wisloski, Daun’s Frisian Defense Forces superior, partner, and—for the three months they’d been on outpost duty—lover.
    “Yeah, but that’s on Hendries’ cards, not me,” Bondo said. “I want some cards of my own.”
    Daun picked up his own bridge hand. Based on what the dealer had, everybody else in the game was looking at great cards.
    “What I want,” said Anya, “is some decent weather. I haven’t seen the sun since we’ve been up here.”
    Anya was short, dark-haired, and white-skinned. Her waist nipped in and her chest was broad, but the breasts themselves were flat. She was several years older than Daun’s twenty-one standard— how much older she’d avoided saying—and had gone straight into the Frisian Defense Forces while Daun had four years of technical school.
    Daun trusted his own judgment inside a piece of electronics farther than he did Anya’s (or most anybody else’s, if it came to that). There was never any question about who was in charge of a group when Anya decided to take charge, however.
    Another gust pelted the tent as a colophon to Anya’s statement. For the most part, today’s rain had been a drizzle, but occasionally big drops splattered to remind the battalion outpost that there were various forms of misery.
    Support Base Bulwark was almost as isolated as a space station would have been. Weekly convoys brought food, replacements, and very occasionally a team of journalists from one of the major cities.
    The journalists never stayed long. Sometimes the replacements didn’t either. Troops who shot themselves in the foot or, less frequently, in the head, during