It was not a dream. My grip on the hatch coaming made the iridium bite my fingers as I stepped into the tank at Curran’s direction; and besides, I would never have dared to dream this paradise.
The tank’s fighting compartment was not meant for two, but Curran was as small as he had implied and I—I had grown very little since a surgeon had fitted me to become the page of a high-born lady. There were screens, gauges, and armored conduits across all the surfaces I could see.
“Drivers’ll tell ye,” said Curran, “the guy back here, he’s just along for the ride ’cause the tank does it all for ’em. Been known t’ say that myself, but it ain’t really true. Still—”
He touched the lower left corner of a screen. It had been black. Now it became gray unmarked save by eight short orange lines radiating from the edge of a two-centimeter circle in the middle of the screen.
“Fire control,” Curran said. A hemispherical switch was set into the bulkhead beneath the screen. He touched the control with an index finger, rotating it slightly. “That what the Slammers’re all about, ain’t we? Firepower and movement, and the tricky part—movement—the driver handles from up front. Got it?”
“Yes, My Lord,” I said, trying to absorb everything around me without taking my eyes from what Curran was doing. The West Wing of the palace, guest and baronial quarters above the ground-floor barracks, slid up the screen as brightly illuminated as if it were daylight.
“Now don’t touch nothin’!” the tank lord said, the first time he had spoken harshly to me. “Got it?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Right,” said Curran, softly again. “Sorry, kid. Lieutenant’ll have my ass if he sees me twiddlin’ with the gun, and if we blow a hole in Central Prison here—” he gestured at the screen, though I did not understand the reference “—the Colonel’ll likely shoot me hisself.”
“I won’t touch anything, My Lord,” I reiterated.
“Yeah, well,” said the mercenary. He touched a four-position toggle switch beside the hemisphere. “We just lowered the main gun, right? I won’t spin the turret, ’cause they’d hear that likely inside. Matter of fact—”
Instead of demonstrating the toggle, Curran fingered the sphere again. The palace dropped off the screen and, now that I knew to expect it, I recognized the faint whine that must have been the gun itself gimbaling back up to a safe angle. Nothing within the fighting compartment moved except the image on the screen.
“So,” the tanker continued, flipping the toggle to one side. An orange numeral 2 appeared in the upper left corner of the screen. “There’s a selector there too—” he pointed to the pistol grip by my head, attached to the power seat which had folded up as soon as it lowered me into the tank at Curran’s direction.
His finger clicked the switch to the other side—1 appeared in place of 2 on the screen—and then straight up—3. “Main gun,” he said, “co-ax—that’s the tribarrel mounted just in front of the hatch. You musta seen it?”
I nodded, but my agreement was a lie. I had been too excited and too overloaded with wonder to notice the automatic weapon on which I might have set my hand.
“And 3,” Currant went on, nodding also, “straight up—that’s both guns together. Not so hard, was it? You’re ready to be a tank commander now—and—” he grinned, “—with six months and a little luck, I could teach ye t’ drive the little darlin’ besides.”
“Oh, My Lord,” I whispered, uncertain whether I was speaking to God or to the man beside me. I spread my feet slightly in order to keep from falling in a fit of weakness.
“Watch it!” the tank lord said sharply, sliding his booted foot to block me. More gently, he added, “Don’t be touching nothing, remember? That—” he pointed to a pedal on the floor which I had not noticed “—that’s the foot trip. Touch it and we give a little fireworks demonstration that nobody’s gonna be very happy about.”
He snapped the toggle down to its original position; the numeral disappeared from the screen. “Shouldn’t have it live nohow,” he added.