“How long’s it been?” he said aloud, marvelling at the sound of his voice. “How long’ve I been out?”
“Four days,” Danny Pritchard said. “Going on five if you count the time before we got you back to Base Alpha by aircar.”
“Right,” said Huber. “Well, I’m ready to go back to my platoon now. Are we still in the field?”
As he spoke, he braced his hands on the edges of the pallet and with careful determination began to lever his torso up from the mattress. A spasm knotted his muscles; his vision went briefly monochrome. The technician clicked his tongue.
“F-3 ought to be out of the line,” Hammer said in a gravelly voice, “but we can’t afford that luxury just now. We’ve assigned a car from Central Repair and personnel from the depot to bring them up to strength. I’ve put in a lieutenant named Algren as CO. He’s green as grass, but he was top of his class at the Academy.”
“I’m the fucking CO of F-3!” Huber said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I can—”
He lurched to his feet. His knees buckled. Hammer caught him expertly and lifted him onto the pallet. Huber gasped, hoping he wouldn’t vomit. There was nothing in his stomach, but acid boiled against the back of his throat while the technician’s fingers danced on his keypad.
“No, you can’t,” Major Pritchard said. “We need the troopers we’ve got too badly to let you get a bunch of them killed to prove you’re superman, which you’re not. Besides, I want you in Operations.”
“Right,” said Hammer. “Bad as things are in the field, just now I need experienced officers on my staff worse than I do line commanders. I might transfer you to Operations even if you were fit to go back to F-3.”
Huber glared at the Colonel, then let himself relax on the pallet. “Yeah, well,” he said. “I’m not fit, you’ve got that right. But . . .”
“But when you are,” Hammer said, “then I guess you’ve earned your choice of assignments. You did a good job getting your people out of that ratfuck. I won’t bother saying I’m sorry for the way you got left hanging, but sure—I owe you one.”
“For now you can do the most good to F-3 and the whole Regiment just by helping ride herd on what passes for the military forces of the United Cities,” Pritchard said. “If we don’t get them working together, it’s going to be . . .”
His voice trailed off. He shook his head, suddenly looking drawn and gray with despair.
“The first thing you can help with,” said Hammer, “is coming up with a platoon sergeant. I don’t want to bring in somebody new, not with a newbie CO. I offered the job to your blower captain, Sergeant Deseau, and he turned it down; the others aren’t seasoned enough on paper, and I don’t know any of them personally.”
“Frenchie’d hate the job . . .” Huber said, his mind settling into professional mode instead of focusing on his body and its weakness. “He could do it, but . . .”
“I can put the arm on him,” the Colonel said. “Tell him it’s take the job or out—and I wouldn’t be bluffing.”
“No,” said Huber. “There’s a sergeant in Log Section now, Jack Tranter. He’s worked with us before. He isn’t a line trooper, but he’s seen the elephant. He’s got the rank and organizational skills, and he’s got the judgment to balance some young fire-eater straight out of the Academy.”
“I remember him,” said Pritchard with a frown. “He’s a good man, but he’s missing his right leg.”
“The way things are right at the moment, Danny,” said the Colonel with a piercing look at his subordinate, “he could be stone blind and I’d give him a trial if Huber here vouched for him. We don’t have a lot of margin, you know.”
Pritchard nodded with a grim smile. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s that.”
Hammer turned to Huber again. The movement was very slight, but his gaze had unexpected weight. Huber felt the sort of shock he would if he’d been playing soccer and caught a medicine ball instead.