"First Henck, do you surrender?" the man called, stepping through the wreckage of the main door. He wore a Section First's chevron on his arm. Others poured in after him, surrounding Henck and his officers where they stared up in stunned disbelief.
Suffering to lift his hands, Henck nodded, dazed. How could this possibly be happening? Another urge to vomit, unrelated to the gravity flux, curled around his gut.
The young Section First grinned before he pulled up one of the spilled chairs and sat down before the comm. He pressed a stud and talked confidently into the system:
'Sink? Hope you can hear me. Mac, here. We've got
Kaspa. Looks like the Twenty-seventh Division is history, Boss." Mac paused as a faint voice that Henck coudn't make out replied. Then Mac added, "Tell Shiksta that shot was perfect! Building shielded us from most of it, but we're a little woozy."
Henck tensed and trembled as strong hands pulled him to his feet. His mind reeled as other hands stripped off his weapons and armor. The floor felt cold on his unsuited feet as they tied his hands with binding straps and led him out into the cool Kaspan night.
Hauws—with the remains of his Group—staggered up the steep slope, gasping and panting. Smoke-streaked and filthy, they stumbled upward through the gray-black angular boulders that littered the slope. Between them hung a huge four-man blaster that they toiled to lift over the rocks and fallen trees.
Hauws had broken away from his Section with twenty men and women. Fifteen of those lay dead on the slope below—picked off one by one by blaster fire and bombardment.
"Down!" Private Buchman screamed—and they flopped to the ground just as a high whistle ended in a loud crackbang! Shrapnel chipped fragments off the rocks they huddled in, while a haze of yellow-green vapor hissed, marking the ghostly shrapnel trails.
"Don't breathe!" Hauws ordered as the poison gas laced the air around them.
"Faces in the dirt!" They waited while the streamers of vapor drifted to the east with the breeze. Anxiously, Hauws lifted his head, peering around with owl eyes.
"That's it. Lets go!" He slapped the man next to him. "C'mon, c'mon!"
"Blaster's all right," another private reported. "All systems are go!"
"Let's roll, people!" Hauws bellowed, grabbing up his carry handle, feeling the heavy weapon lift unevenly.
"Fred's dead," Johey called. "Looks like a bit of that poisoned shrap got him in the leg."
"Keep away from that shit!" Hauws ordered. "Don't get close to that hole, one whiff—or even a touch of that tainted shrapnel—will kill you as dead as Freddie! Let's move."
They struggled up the slope, fighting time and gravity as the sun slanted toward the horizon. In the back of each mind lay the knowledge that the Third Ashtan was trying to line up another long shot like the last one.
Behind them and below, masked by the pine-thick brushchoked draws and gullies under the ridge, periodic concussions and faint flickers of laser and blaster light lashed back and forth as the other two Groups of Hauws' Third Section fought a desperate rearguard action to buy them time, to hold off the hordes.
"Another fifty meters, people," Hauws gasped, back cracking under the weight, lungs fire-pained. Sweat trickled in itching tracks down his face. Heat and stink rolled off his tired staggering body.
"Think . . . Sink's still ... out there?" someone puffed.
"He . . . better be," Hauws panted and coughed. " 'Cause if the damn Regans
... got him ... I'm gonna make . . . somebody pay."
"Damn right," another panting, staggering soldier agreed.
They heaved and struggled for footing in the loose dusty colluvial gravels near the top. Slipping and cursing, they wound between the scrubby pines.
Fifty yards to their left, the air crackled as pines and firs exploded into toothpicks—rock and dust blasting out and up in an earth-shaking upheaval that battered them to the ground.
"Regan bastards!" Hauws spit, blinking in the dust as rocks and debris cascaded around him. He looked up, eyes red in his black-skinned face. His voice came in wheezing gasps, "Blessed Gods, just get us to the top of this pusrotted ridge. Just that far. Then give us time for one lousy miserable shot with this heavy son of a bitch and I'll come screw the daylights outta each and every one of your little Priestess girls for the rest of my life!"
Smaller pebbles and grit were settling on them now. "C'mon, another fifty meters, people!" And they staggered on, aware that hostile IR sensors were seeking from down below. Hopefully, for the moment, those seekers would be fooled by the hot spot where the particle gun had riven the mountain.
"Ten meters," Hauws gasped, his throat making whistling noises. His muscles had become quivering rubber under the strain, his feet slid in the loose dirt.
"By the Foul Bastard's balls, my throat's never been this dry in all my life."
Then, "Five meters!" And they were at the crest.
"Johey," Hauws grunted, "Take point. See what's on the other side. "
" 'Firmative.
They pulled and wedged the big blaster behind a solid looking outcrop, unslinging shoulder weapons and crouching in the rocks as the private, face sweat-shiny, mouth open as he panted, crept over the top.
"C'mon," Hauws whispered under his breath. "C'mon, kid. Get back and tell us it's okay!" He clenched his fist, jerking it up and down nervously, while he looked around, noticing the incredible beauty of the place-if it just weren't full of people trying to kill him.
The ridge exploded below, blasting more timber and rock to drop from the dust-streaked sky.
"Crap!" Hauws hollered. "C'mon! Let's yank this thing over the other side!
They've got the range, next one's gonna cook us!" The three of them, heaving, faces red, lifted the gun and struggled over the crest, stumbling, cursing, muscles tearing as they gulped air.
"Set! Let's roll!" Hauws barked, grin spreading as he saw the Regan Command headquarters: five dull gray buildings poking out of the far hillside above chutes of tailings. LCs were parked in neat rows along one side. A combat corn dish thrust up above the largest structure.
"C'mon, people! Let's go. One shot now, just one shot!" They spun the blaster, Private Buchman dropping into the gunner's seat, settling the sighting mechanism on the buildings across the valley.
"Charge is up!" Hauws hollered. "Five shots is all we got! Make them straight, Buchman!" He looked nervously at the way the gun sat on the sloping weathered soils. Not good, oughta have a better foundation.
A blaster bolt cackled past Hauws' shoulder, popping hollowly as it blew Private Rypmar's head off, showering bloody bony fragments around.
"Whore crap!" Hauws barked, as he threw himself into the low-lying skin-prickly shrubs. Pulling his blaster up, he cursed, seeing Johey's broken body where it had slid another ten meters down the slope.
"Shoot! Buchman, shoot!" Hauws hollered as he sighted on a Regan soldier scrambling up the slope below. He pressed the firing stud. The man's right arm exploded. The air above Hauws' back tore like an amplified sheet as the big gun cut loose. He felt the vibration along his sweaty back while he laid down a suppressing fire, blasting trees, powdering rocks, hoping to keep the advancing Regan Group from closing.
Again Buchman shot. Hauws took time to get a brief glimpse of a second building erupting in fragments and fire. The one with the combat comm had already been turned into smoking rubble.
"First!" Buchman's voice shrilled frantically. "The damn gun's sliding!"
"Terguzzi crap!" Hauws flung himself up over the rocks, heedless of a blaster bolt that almost clipped his side and left the armor cracked and flaking away.
He threw himself against the sliding gun and dug his heels into the loose stuff , aware of the hum of power. With all his strength, he braked the gun's slide.
"Shoot, Buchman. Get your sight picture-and shood" "But the radiation will-"
"Damn you! Shoot! That's an order!"
The sight in Hauws' left eye burned out as the blaster discharge
d and another building ripped apart in a gout of fire and death.
At the same time, chunks of the mountain to either side ripped and bucked as the Division guns were turned toward their position.
The fourth shot cooked the meat in Hauws' cheek. He howled curses into the wind, his one good eye blurred by tears and pain.
"Last shot," Buchman called. "I'm taking the largest of the buildings!" The blaster ripped the air and the tearing sound deafened Hauws.
, sending him A concussion blasted Hauws into the air spinning-the gun and Buchman lost in the haze. He smacked the ground, bounced, rolled, and stopped against a rock.
Searing agony shot up his leg while his body quivered in high frequency shock.
A curiously calm academic feeling settled on his shrilling nerves.
"Been hit," he croaked. "Been hit hard." He blinked his one good eye clear of tears and looked. The hamburgered place where his leg ended at mid-thigh didn't frighten him like he'd always thought it would. The distance his pulver ized arteries shot blood fascinated him as red splattered the sunset-colored rocks.
Buchman appeared beside him, bending down, reaching.
"Get outta here," Hauws told him in a frog voice. "I'm gone. They got me. Just get back! Get our peope out! Get back to Sink! Report!" The mountainside wirled in his vision and he threw up without feeling it.
He couldn't seem to keep the world in focus. "Oughta be home culturing bacteria." He remembered the olive trees on Ashtan, and the coffeehouse that never could pass inspection—but still made the richest coffee in the world. He tried to see, but the gray shimmering grew black. "Got 'em Sink," he told himself, voice dwindling. "Got the bas tards in the end."
Ily Takka tapped her foot in irritation as she waited for the shuttle lock to sound an all clear. The thick doors hissed slightly as they finally opened—interstellar cold vaporizing moisture in the air as she stepped into Commander Rysta Braktov's Gyton.
The warship's lock looked just like every other military lock. Oval and featureless except for the armored Marine guard and the color-coded control panel. The Marine glanced at the jessant-de-lis, input his clearance, and saluted as the final door hissed back to allow her into Gytons lateral corridor.
Ily snapped a return salute to an officer and followed his stiff back as he led her through the spartan corridors of the star cruiser. The pace smelled of lubricant, humans, and synthetics. A pervading hum filled the air—a constant for Regan batte craft. Every surface had been painted in either white or gray. The officer stopped before a wardroom hatch and pressed a stud to open a final door. The meeting room proved as sterile as the rest of the ship.
Rysta Braktov sat at the head of the small table where she scowled into a desk-mounted monitor. Acceleration helving and monitors filled the walls in a no-nonsense manner. Only one other chair module had risen from the floor across from Rysta.
"You asked for a meeting?" Ily reminded, coming to the point, standing, arms crossed, before the small table.
Rysta looked up, moving her mouth as if she had a sour taste in it. "Want something to drink Minister?"
"Myklenian brandy?"
"This is a warship Minister," Rysta reminded dryly. Then she turned and slapped a wrinkled palm to the comm access. "Duty First, bring a bottle of our best—whatever's left—and see that we are not disturbed unless something impossible develops down there." Rysta removed a headset from her brow and the monitor went blank.
"I take it all is not well on Targa. You haven't killed Sinklar Fist, have you?" Ily barely acknowledged the officer who entered and left an expensive looking flask on the table. The door behind her slid shut as he left.
"Please, be seated Minister Takka," Rysta ran gnarled age-spotted hands over her dark face, momentarily stretching and rearranging the wrinkles. She looked haggard, grayshot hair disheveled. The hard squint in her eyes betrayed a weariness. "I'm past being formal. Let's just get to the point and find a solution to this damn mess one-on-one, all right?"
"You look tired," Ily offered as she settled into a seat.
Rysta leaned forward to prop her head between both palms. "Minister. I'll be honest. I've served the Imperium since before Tybalt's father took the mantle on Rega. I've seen Ministers come and go ... watched the Empire grow and expand. I've been awarded citations, enjoyed state dinners in the company of the Emperors, and the Lord Commander himself offered me a commission among the Companions."
"Why are you telling me all this?" Ily tapped a stud on the table. A freefall cup appeared and she poured the
liquor-an amber Ashtan whiskey. Through it all, Rysta watched, but her keen edge had been blunted.
"You've kept track of the battle down there?" Rysta asked.
"A lot of fighting has been going on. We haven't been able to get all the communications. Your jamming doesn't only affect Fist's rebellious Division, it bleeds into our systems. We know the general pattern."
Rysta took a breath. "Then you know that somehow, some way, that little bastard is pulling the rug right out from under us." She-shook her head. "I don't get it. Fist's Targan Division is defying every law of warfare-and by eggs and ions, he's cutting our throats. Unethically, to be sure, but a cut throat bleeds whether it's slit by an emperor or a thief."
"He's succeeding in taking the command staff?" Ily mused, a light enjoyment touching her heart. "Succeeded," Rysta grunted. "The Third Ashtan Assault Divisional headquarters was just blown away. Seems the Section they faced-yes, I said Section-dragged a four-man blaster up an impossible cliff and wiped out Weebouw and all his staff. What was left of the Targan Section melted .away into the trees, surrounded the Ashtan positions, and started closing on the Section commands. They're wiping them out now-while the Third Ashtan sits in the hills waiting for orders that won't come."
Rysta hissed derision. "Oh, we hurt them. Of their two hundred we killed almost one hundred and seventy-five, but the fact remains-"
"And how much of the Third Ashtan did they get?" Ily interrupted.
"Almost five hundred combat personnel, not including Division and Section command staff."
"And then?"
"We're not sure. An LC showed up. One of Fist's. We don't know what happened then, but there's been no further communication. After each and every Divisional command down there was captured or destroyed, our troops went silent. We've been broadcasting queries since we lost the Third Ashtan.
Nothing."
"And now what?" Ily lifted an eyebrow.
Rysta dropped her eyes. "You know what this means?"
"For all intents and purposes, Sinklar Fist has destroyed five Regan combat Divisions." And I have the tool I need to place me on the Regan throne!
Sinklar Fist, for all your odd looks and your funny eyes, you are the most precious human in Free Space!
Rysta tilted her head back and exhaled. "Yes, he's done it. It's against all the odds. It's against any military axiom we know." She slapped a bony hand into a hard palm. "They established laws for the conduct of war years ago!
This Fist is ... barbaric! A damn criminal butcher! If he gets away with this, the whole of Free Space will suffer."
"You've called the Emperor?" Ily wondered, beginning to see Rysta's problem.
No wonder she related her illustrious career. Old school to the hilt, Rysta had to stop this new genie before he wisped out of the Targan bottle.
Smoking brown eyes met hers. "No, I haven't. I thought perhaps it would be worth discussing the present situation with you. You carry the jessant-de-lis."
"And you want authority?"
Rysta pursed her lips, pulling her old body up straight. "What I want is to finish this. Rega, right now, can't, can't allow Sinklar Fist to win.
Everything we've built would tumble into chaos. The very nature of war is being-"
"And you can prevent it?"
Commander Braktov nodded, the action making her sagging flesh wiggle. "I don't like it, but I think we have extraordinary circumstances." She patted a horny
palm on the duraplast table. "The decision didn't come easily. It will mean the sacrifice of a lot of good men and women. Veteran troops the Emperor will need in the struggle against Sassa, but we must be willing to-"
"No.,, Rysta leaned forward intently. "Minister? I don't think you understand the grave nature of the situation down there. Sinklar Fist, with an untrained Division, just-"
"No." Ily repeated, sipping her liquor. "That is the last thing you will do."
"What? How can we conduct war in the future if just any old barbarity is allowed? How can we get trained responsible people to take command of the military ... knowing they might die as a result? Do you have any idea of what you9re proposing? It's ... it's insanity if-"
"Commander, consider." Ily crossed her legs and leaned back. Her fingernails tapped out a staccato on the drinking bulb. "Sinklar Fist just destroyed the combat capabilities of ten thousand veteran personnel with roughly two thousand thinly spread troops of his own."
"There were more," Rysta pointed out. "He had Targan revolutionaries he'd recruited."
"And who were mostly unarmed," Ily rejoined. "He also only had the use of five LCs and no orbital intelligence or bombardment. Now, using your own misfortune as a guide, how much damage do you think he could do to the Sassans given the advantages of Regan technology and crack veteran combat personnel?"
"He destroyed most of those on the ground down there," Rysta growled.
"Weebouw. Henck. Damn." She blinked as her mouth screwed up. She shot a pained look at Ily. "Your thrice-cursed Sinklar Fist killed a lot of my good friends.
Capable and competent commanders."
"Then I suppose we had better talk to him sometime soon," Ily decided. "Lord knows, if we don't, he'll have the troops he captured down there recruited, too, and next thing we know, he'll be marching up the Grand Hallway and into the Imperial Court."
Requiem for the Conqueror Page 48
