He grimaced, then said, “One more damn thing to go wrong…”
Chapter 21
Carter peered down the track, looking for any trace of the approaching convoy. They’d done everything they possibly could to make it appear as though the newcomers were welcomed, the shuttle position as though it had been damaged in landing, flickering fires lit in a bid to overwhelm the cold as darkness fell, but there was no way of knowing just what was in the mind of the enemy commander, just what he was thinking as battle approached.
At least this time she had a working weapon, a rifle that had been carefully and thoroughly checked before battle. She looked across, trying and failing to spot Clarke and Falco in their ambush positions. That she failed to find them was proof enough that they had done their work well, that they had concealed themselves sufficiently to escape detection by the enemy. Their main ally was surprise. If they could catch the approaching rebel forces off guard, they had a chance of executing their attack.
There was a soft bleep from her scanner, and she looked down at the instrument’s monitor to see four targets heading towards her, moving at speed. She looked up, knowing that there would be drones overhead, watching their every move, waiting for a mistake, sending images of the battle that was to come back to Plato City. It was possible they weren’t being monitored. But that wasn’t something they could rely on.
She saw the vehicles in the distance, rumbling up the broken track, struggling up the slope towards the ruined compound. Already they were proving themselves sloppy. She’d have had a couple of drones close-in, scouting ahead, and a few men walking alongside the vehicles once they got close, ready to take up covering positions should they run into trouble.
With a grimace, she settled down into her firing place, pushing a few sharp rocks out of the way in what she hoped was a quiet, concealed move. They’d had a quarter of an hour to get ready for the fight, long enough for her to become intimately familiar with the geography of the intended battlespace, but also long enough for her muscles to freeze up, for the cold of the gloom to seep through her protective clothing, deep into her bones.
On Atlantis, there was no nightlife. Nobody in their right minds would go outside to look at the moon, not without insulated suits. One more reason for them to get this battle fought as soon as they could, before hypothermia could set in, the planet doing the work of the rebels for her. She peered through the scope of her rifle, scouting shots. Almost time to fire.
The lead truck rumbled up, but that wasn’t the target. Take out the leader, and the others would have a chance to escape, to get away, and the effort would have been wasted. She had to wait until she had a good shot at the rearmost truck, blocking the road and pinning the others in position. Victory had to be swift and efficient, or it would be no victory at all.
Just another few meters. Just a little closer, slowly dragging into firing range, the wind biting at her now, seeping into her core, chilling her still further. She was wearing insulated gloves, but had been forced to turn them down as low as she dared. No point being a nice warm corpse, showing up like a Christmas tree on infra-red detectors. The equipment she was using to camouflage herself had limitations she dared not press too hard.
The trucks were slowing now, the second moving up beside the first, ready to drive into the compound. They were on the verge of getting past them, a move that would leave the ambush party surrounded, and that she could not permit. She was waiting for a perfect shot. Perfection was never going to come.
She tried to think of it as just another day at the practice range. She’d spent enough times in awful conditions during her training at Fort McMurdo, or out in the Gobi. Desolate wastelands where she still might have been called upon to fight. Training that she had bitterly protested at the time, along with the rest of the cadets, but that she was overwhelmingly grateful for today.
Her old instructor had told her that he’d save her life. Now she’d have to write to him, and confess that he was right.
Deep breaths. Deep, calm breaths to steady her, to help her make that shot. It had been arranged that she’d take the lead, the others following her move once she made it. Finally, she had the last truck firmly in her sights, and stabbed the control that overcharged the laser rifle, the power pack building to discharge a frightening percentage of its charge in a single pulse. That only made it even more important that her shot found its mark.
One chance. Only one. And she had to take it.
With one last, minute adjustment, she took a final breath, and squeezed the trigger, the barrel of the rifle glowing briefly red, steam rising from the surrounding snow as the heat radiated away, a crimson pulse racing from the rifle and slamming into the engine pack of the truck, catching it dead on, smoke and flames instantly rising from the vehicle as the damage made itself felt. A second shot, from somewhere to her right, dealt with the leading truck, and a third finished off another. Just one intact vehicle now, surrounded by a collection of ruined, smoldering wrecks.
With the flick of a switch, she reset the power on the laser rifle, reducing the intensity as low as she dared, as the crewmen of the crippled trucks piled out into the snow, opening up with wild bursts of suppressing fire that hammered through the air, blasting into the terrain. Another bright burst of laser light briefly illuminated the sky as one of her comrades took another shot, the rearmost truck exploding from the second impact, a column of smoke rising into the air.
By now, back in Plato City, any number of people would be aware that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong out here, and would be frantically attempting to muster reinforcements. They couldn’t possibly get here in time. Overhead, two stars briefly lit in the night, the high-flying drones taken out by Falco, using her laser rifle in sniper mode, killing all the possible observation being used by the rebels. Now they’d only know what she wanted them to know. That their convoy was under attack, and that thus far, one truck had survived the encounter.
Five minutes, ten at the outside, before another drone would be in the sky. This was going to be close. The rebels were struggling to come together into some sort of order, trying to rally, but every time they made the attempt, another laser blast sent them running again, the explosion of the first truck sending them scrambling for cover.
“Give it up!” Carter yelled. “Throw your weapons away, put your hands in the air and nobody else will get hurt. We don’t want to kill you, but we will if we must. Do as I say, or you die were you stand.”
For a moment, all was quiet, and then finally, belatedly, the rebels did as they were bid, throwing their weapons to one side and slowly rising to their feet, hands held high in the air. Carter climbed out of cover, her rifle positioned to ensure that none of them could make a sudden move, and gestured for them to head up to the compound.
“Head into the supply building,” she said. “Leave your respirators and jackets outside. You won’t need them. There’s power, heat, and food and water to last you for a few days. By then, someone will be up to rescue you. We’re going to seal the door to stop you getting out, and even if you do, without respirators or protective clothing, you’ll be dead in ten paces.”
One of the rebels paused, and a laser blast erupted at his feet, Clarke saying, “Don’t even think about it, old friend. Or I’ll start thinking that I might as well inflict the same sort of death that you were planning for us. I know that your orders made it clear that none of us were leaving the compound alive.”
“That’s not true…,” the rebel began.
“Give it up, damn it,” another replied. “I don’t want to die here.”
“Do as we say, and you won’t,” Carter said. “Move.”
The rebels reluctantly filed into the compound under the watchful gaze of Clarke, and Carter made her way to the undamaged truck, climbing through the hatch into the passenger section, looking around for any signs of a trap, any rebel deciding to turn himself into a martyr for the cause. Falco followed her inside, the two of them climbing i
nto the cabin, the warm air soothing their weary limbs as they settled into the control positions.
“This is more like it,” Falco said. “One of our fast ATVs. All systems seem to be working fine. You’d better let me drive. I’m used to it.” Turning to her, she said, “I’ve disabled the communications systems. When they send a drone, it should look like one of the trucks managed to get clear of the battle, with damage that explains why no distress call has been sent. They’re still going to send someone up here to take a look, and soon.”
“How long to get to the stadium?” she asked.
“Maybe twenty-five minutes if we drive flat-out,” Falco replied. “Five minutes more will take me to the spaceport.” The rear hatch opened for a moment, sending a blast of cold air into the cabin as Clarke climbed inside.
“They’re all secure back there,” he said. “I locked them in, then smashed up the mechanism. They can probably get out of there in an hour if they really work at it.”
“Did you destroy the respirators?” Falco asked.
Shaking his head, he said, “I’m not stranding them there without rescue kit. I left them their equipment, just outside. They can save themselves if they need to. I don’t trust my happy comrades any more than you do.” Before Falco could say another word, he added, “They’re doing a job, just like we are, and all of them were told that we’d changed sides, were working for the Belters. Any rubbish they could feed them to convince them to gun us down without mercy.”
“I still think…” Falco said.
“Probably not a good idea,” Carter interrupted. “The last thing we need right now is an excess of thought. I can already imagine far too many things that can go wrong with this crazy idea as it is, without conjuring up more.” She gestured at the road, and said, “Let’s get this thing moving, shall we. If we’re not on the move by the time the drones are overhead, then all of this could have been for nothing.”
“Brake off,” Falco said. “Here we go.”
The engine burst into life, and Falco carefully guided it around the still-burning remains of the other vehicles, back onto the road that led back down to civilization, or at least what passed for it on this world. Carter glanced at her watch, then back at the compound. In less than half an hour, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest whether the rebels managed to escape their temporary prison.
They’d bought themselves a little time. Not much. Perhaps enough. They had to hope it would suffice, in any case. The truck gathered speed as it bounded down the hill, a faint smile on Falco’s face as she accustomed herself to the controls, nimbly guiding it along the track.
“You realize we’re bound to run into a roadblock, sooner or later, right?” Clarke asked. “They’re going to be on alert. We’re not going to be able to beat it with laser rifles. They’ll shoot first.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Carter replied. She turned to the erstwhile rebel, and said, “Tell me about the stadium. We’ve got this far. Now we need to plan the rest of it.”
“In twenty minutes?” Clarke replied.
“Unless you’ve got a time machine, yeah. It’ll be enough.” She frowned, then added, “For the sake of a hundred and twenty people, it’s got to be.”
Chapter 22
Corrigan looked out at the stars, watching the planet below slowly drift by beneath them, caught in a problem with which he was all too familiar. He had nothing to do. The satellites were in position, swinging around Atlantis every thirty-one minutes in their orbits, Crawford and Dixon busily completing the calibration process. Down on the surface, the revolution continued to simmer, the mobs gradually beginning to disperse for want of any new targets to hunt, and he’d heard nothing from Carter or Falco since they’d landed, an hour ago. The sensors were clear, no sign of enemy activity.
Before, when he’d had a command, there had always been something for him to occupy his mind with. One of his first commanding officers had told him that he believed the profusion of paperwork was designed with that goal in mind, to give them something to do. Space warfare was hours of boredom interspersed with seconds of furious terror. Long cruises were even worse. In normal routine, a starship could take care of itself. Only in an emergency was the full crew needed. He’d known commanders who went to extraordinary lengths to keep their people busy, keep them active, stop them from brooding. One who imposed mandatory weekly marathons, jogging around the perimeter of the ship two hundred times. Another who set up a musical theater company, touring some of the deep space outposts to break the monotony, provide some cheer in the dark.
That had been Commodore McBride, twelve years ago. When McBride had been a commander and he’d been Ensign Corrigan, fresh from the Academy and ready to shake the pillars of heaven to see what might fall. Everything had seemed so much simpler then, the course of his life straightforward, pre-determined. Now all was chaos, the truths and certainties he had known burned away.
It had started with Admiral Klein. Learning that his fleet commander was a traitor, who had attempted to sell out to the Belt, had been the first blow, and when he and Rojek had dug through the mountain of corruption they’d discovered in the senior echelons of the Fleet, it grew worse. They could help clean it out, and the recent purges had gone some way to at least ensuring that the Admiralty was fighting on the side of Earth, but the longer this war lasted, the less familiar the Fleet he had served, had loved, became.
He remembered the joking McBride, dedicated to his crew, to Earth, always attempting to bring the best out of his subordinates, fighting a series of political battles even when he knew he couldn’t win, because it was what he believed was the right thing to do. Striving for honor and perfection.
This man, this man he had revered as a mentor, was willing to spend the lives of fifty thousand civilians to gain a temporary strategic advantage. Was more than happy to justify that decision to others, to himself, and seemed perfectly content with the result. The Atlanteans had made the decision to revolt. That much was true. But how much had that decision been influenced by the presence of a senior Earth commander to help with planning, to assure them that their idea might work, that they could be free.
Without McBride, it was more than likely that Harrison, Todorova and the others would still be sitting in dark, dusty basements, in lonely caverns deep underneath the vast mountain ranges below, plotting, planning and scheming for a better day that would in all likelihood never come. Instead of leading a pogrom that Robespierre would have approved of.
This was not what he had signed up for. Not in the slightest. The idea that a senior fleet officer would turn traitor to Earth was bad enough. The idea that they would betray all of their ideals in the service of Earth was somehow worse, as though the cause he fought for had been corrupted, contaminated beyond all redemption. He looked at the rank insignia on his sleeve, remembering what it had meant to him when he had first put it on, one of the youngest officers of his rank in the Fleet. He’d felt ten feet tall.
Now it was just a costume, a part of a performance he no longer believed in. A role he no longer knew how to play.
“Hurts, doesn’t it,” Rojak said, walking into the cramped observation room. “You try working in Intelligence full-time. There’s a reason I took all the sabbaticals I could. You’ve got to get back your perspective.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” Corrigan replied. “Maybe I don’t have the sort of character suited for this sort of work. Maybe I just don’t have what it takes to command a mission like this.”
“McBride’s a bastard,” Rojek said. “I know how you used to feel about him, but people change. Hell, we don’t know what the Belters did to him when he was captured. None of this is an excuse. It might be an explanation.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Corrigan asked. “I looked up to him. He was my example of what a good commanding officer was meant to be, how to act, how to serve. Now…”
“Now you’ve found out that your idols have feet of
clay, which is always an uncomfortable discovery,” his friend replied. “Believe me, I’ve been there, and it always hurts like hell.”
“I don’t know if I can do this, Clyde,” Corrigan said. “I’m not sure I have it inside me to keep up this charade.” Shaking his head, he added, “What the hell are we fighting for, anyway?”
“Atlantis was a nightmare under Belter control,” Rojek replied. “You know that. You know what they’ve been through, what they’ve lived through. Everything that is happening down there is a response to that, to generations of misrule, of slavery. They’ve been longing for their freedom for decades, but now that they have it, they don’t know what they’re going to do with it.”
“And then you have people like Harrison, who know precisely what to do with that brief flicker of freedom. Snuff it out.” He paused, turned to Rojek, and asked, “What’s her plan?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you have the training and ability to think that way.”
He smiled, shook his head, and replied, “I’m not completely sure, but I think that I’ve just been insulted. I suppose I could tell you anything at this point, but my guess is that Harrison is planning to cut her own deal with the Belt. She wouldn’t have gone this far without something up her sleeve. I’ve no idea whether she’s already contacted figures in the Belter administration, or whether she’s hoping to cut a deal when they enter orbit, but she’s no fool. She knows they can’t win. She’s using McBride every bit as much as he’s using her. I just wonder if he realizes that.”
“I doubt he cares, either way,” Corrigan said. “He’s smart enough to have included that as a factor in his calculations. Either way, there still needs to be a garrison.” He looked at the planet, and said, “They’re celebrating down there. Their first day of freedom.”
“And probably their last,” Rojek replied. “They’ll have one hell of a hangover in the morning when this party is over.” Shaking his head, he added, “It’s a mess, Bill. It’s not our mess. As I said before, we’re just the clean-up crew. We’ve got to try and salvage something out of this disaster, and at least this way they’ll have a chance to make their freedom stick.”
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