by David Weber
“Preeee-sent arms!”
Energy guns snapped up. The honor guard, drawn from the first batch of Asian personnel to be bioenhanced, handled their massive weapons with panache, and Tsien noted the perfection of their drill without a smile as he and Hatcher exchanged salutes. The twinkle in the American’s brown eyes betrayed his own amused tolerance for ceremonial only to those who knew him very well, and it still surprised Tsien just a bit that he had become one of those few people.
“Good to see you, Tao-ling,” Hatcher said under cover of the martial music, and Tsien responded with a millimetric smile before the brief moment of privacy disappeared into the waiting tide of military protocol.
Gerald Hatcher placed his cap in his lap and leaned back as the city of Ch’engtu fell away astern. The cutter headed for Minya Konka, the mountain which had been ripped apart to hold PDC Huan-Ti, and he grimaced as he ran a finger around the tight collar of his tunic.
He lowered his hand, wondering once again if it had been wise to adopt Imperial uniform. While it had the decided advantage of not belonging to any of the rival militaries they were trying to merge, it looked disturbingly like the uniform of the SS. Not surprisingly, considering. He’d done what he could to lessen the similarities—exaggerating the size of the starbursts the Nazis had replaced with skulls, restoring the serrated hisanth leaves to the lapels, adopting the authorized variation of gold braid in place of silver—but the over-all impact still bothered him.
He put the thought aside—again—and turned to Tsien.
“It looks like your people’ve done a great job, Tao-ling. I wish you didn’t have to spend so much time in Beijing to do it, but I’m impressed.”
“I spend too little time here as it is, Gerald.” Tsien gave a very slight shrug. “It is even worse than it was while you and I were enemies. There are at least eight too few hours in every day.”
“Tell me about it!” Hatcher laughed. “If we work like dogs for another six months, you and I may finally be able to hand over to someone else long enough to get our own biotechnics.”
“True. I must confess, however, that the speed with which we are moving almost frightens me. There is too little time for proper coordination. Too many projects require attention, and I have no time to know my officers.”
“I know. We’re better off than you are because of how Nergal’s people infiltrated our militaries before we even knew about them. I don’t envy your having to start from scratch.”
“We will manage,” Tsien said, and Hatcher took him at his word. The huge Chinese officer had lost at least five kilos since their first meeting, yet it only made him even more fearsome, as if he were being worn down to elemental gristle and bone. And whatever else came of the fusion with the Asian Alliance, Hatcher was almost prayerfully grateful that it had brought him Tsien Tao-ling.
The cutter dropped toward the dust-spewing wound which had once been a mountain top, and Hatcher checked his breathing mask. He hated using it, but the dust alone would make it welcome, and the fact that PDC Huan-Ti was located at an altitude of almost seventy-five hundred meters made it necessary. He felt a bit better when he saw Tsien reaching for his own mask … and suppressed a spurt of envy as Major Allen Germaine ignored his. It must be nice, he thought sourly as he regarded his bioenhanced aide.
They grounded, and thin, cold air, bitter with dust, swirled through the hatch. Hatcher hastily clipped on his mask, and his uniform’s collar was a suddenly minor consideration as the Imperial fabric adjusted to maintain a comfortable body temperature and he led the way out into the ear-splitting, dust-spouting, eye-bewildering bedlam of yet another of Geb’s mighty projects.
Tsien followed Hatcher, hiding his impatience. He hated inspection tours, and only the fact that Hatcher hated them just as badly let him face this time-consuming parade with a semblance of inner peace. That and the fact that, time-consuming or no, it also played its part. Morale, the motivation of their human material, was all important, and nothing better convinced people of the importance of their tasks than to see their commanders inspecting their work.
Yet despite his impatience, Tsien was deeply impressed. Enough Imperial equipment was becoming available to strain the enhancement centers’ ability to provide operators, and the result was amazing for someone who had grown up with purely Terran technology. The main excavation was almost finished—indeed, the central control rooms were structurally complete, awaiting installation of the computer core—and the shield generators were already being built. Incredible.
He bent to listen to an engineer, and movement caught the corner of his eye as a breath-masked officer disappeared behind a heap of building material, waving one hand as he spoke to another officer at his side. There was something familiar about the small figure, but the engineer was still talking, and Tsien returned his attention to him.
“I’m impressed, Geban,” Hatcher said, and Huan-Ti’s chief engineer grinned. The burly ex-mutineer was barely a hundred and fifty centimeters tall, but he looked as if he could have picked up a hover jeep one-handed—before enhancement.
“Really impressed,” Hatcher repeated as the control room door closed off the cacophony beyond. “You’re—what, four weeks ahead of schedule?”
“Almost five, General,” Geban replied with simple pride. “With just a little luck, I’m going to bring this job in at least two months early.”
“Outstanding!” Hatcher slapped Geban’s shoulder, and Tsien hid a smile. He would never understand how Hatcher’s informality with subordinates could work so well, yet it did. Not simply with Westerners who might be accustomed to such things, either. Tsien had seen exactly the same broad smile on the faces of Chinese and Thai peasants.
“In that case,” Hatcher said, turning to the marshal, “I think we—”
A thunderous concussion drowned his words and threw him from his feet.
Diego McMurphy was a Mexican-Irish explosives genius from Texas. Off-shore oil rigs and dams, vertol terminals and apartment complexes—he’d seen them all, but this was the most damnable, bone-breaking, challenging, wonderful project he’d ever been involved with, and the fact that he was buying his right to a full set of biotechnic implants was only icing on the cake. Which is why he was happy as he waved his crew forward to set the charges on the unfinished western face of Magazine Twelve.
He died a happy man, and six hundred and eighty-six other men and women died with him. They died because one of McMurphy’s men activated his rock drill, and that man didn’t know someone had wired his controls to eleven hundred kilos of Imperial blasting compound.
The explosion rivaled a three-kiloton nuclear bomb.
Gerald Hatcher bounced off Tsien Tao-ling, but the marshal’s powerful arm caught him before he could fall. Alarms whooped, sirens screamed, and Geban went paper-white. The door barely had time to open before he reached it; if it hadn’t, he would have torn it loose with his bare hands.
Hatcher shook his head, trying to understand what had happened as he followed Tsien to the open door. A huge mushroom cloud filled the western horizon, and even as he watched, a five-man gravitonic conveyer with a full load of structural steel turned turtle in mid-air. It had been caught by the fringes of the explosion, and the pilot had almost pulled it out. Almost, but not quite. Its standard commercial drive had never been designed for such abuse, and it impacted nose-first at six hundred kilometers per hour.
A fresh fireball spewed up, and the death toll was suddenly six hundred and ninety-one.
“My God!” Hatcher murmured.
Tsien nodded in silent, shocked agreement. Whatever the cause, this was disaster, and he despised himself for thinking of lost time first and lost lives second. He turned toward the control block ramps in the vanished Geban’s wake, then stopped as a knot of men headed towards him. They were armed, and there was something familiar about the small officer at their head—
“Quang!” he bellowed.
The fury in Tsien’s voice jerked Hatcher’s eyes
away from the smoke. He started to speak, then gasped as the marshal whirled around and hit him in a diving tackle. The two of them crashed back into the control room, hard enough to crack ribs, as the first burst of automatic fire raked the open doorway.
“Forward!” General Quang Do Chinh screamed. “Kill them! Kill them now!”
His troopers advanced at the run, closing on the unfinished control block, and Quang’s heart flamed with triumph. Yes, kill the traitors! And especially the arch-traitor who had tried to shunt him aside! What a triumph to begin their war against the invaders!
As he and his men sprinted forward, construction workers raced to drag dead and wounded away from the explosion site, and six other carefully infiltrated assault teams produced automatic weapons and grenades. They concentrated on picking out Imperials, but any target would do.
“What the hell is happening?!” Gerald Hatcher’s voice was muffled by his breath mask, but it would have been hoarse anyway—a hundred kilos of charging Chinese field marshal had seen to that. He shoved up onto his knees, reaching instinctively for his holstered automatic.
“I do not know,” Tsien replied tersely, checking his own weapon’s magazine. “But the Vietnamese leading his men this way is named Quang. He was one of those most opposed to joining our forces to yours.”
Another burst of fire raked the open doorway, ricochets whining nastily, and Hatcher rose higher on his knees to hit the door button. The hatch slammed instantly, but it was only lightweight Terran steel; the next burst punched right through it.
“Shit!” Hatcher scurried across the control room on hands and knees. Major Germaine already stood with his back to the wall on the left side of the door, and his grav gun had materialized in his right hand like magic.
“What the fuck do they think they’re going to accomplish?!”
“I do not know, Gerald. This is pointless. It simply invites reprisals. But their ultimate objective is immaterial—to us, at least.”
“True.” Hatcher flattened himself against the wall as another row of holes appeared in the door. “Al?”
“I already put out the word, sir.” Unlike his boss, Germaine had a built-in communicator. “But I don’t know how much good it’s going to do. More of the bastards are shooting up the rescue crews. Geban’s down—hurt bad—and he’s not the only Imperial.”
“Goddamn them!” Hatcher hissed, and fought to think as the half-forgotten terror and adrenalin-rush of combat flooded him. Continuous firing raked the panel now, and he gritted his teeth as bullets and bits of door whined about his ears. This room was a deathtrap. He tried to estimate where their attackers had been when Tao-ling tackled him. On the ground to the south. That meant they had to climb at least three ramps. So whoever was firing at the door was covering them until they could get here … probably with a demolition charge that would turn them all to hamburger.
“We’ve got to get ourselves a field of fire,” he grated. His automatic was a toy compared to what was coming at them, but it was better than nothing. And anything was better than dying without fighting back.
“I agree,” Tsien said flatly.
“All right. Tao-ling, you pop the hatch. Al, I think they’re coming up from the south. You can cover the head of the ramp from where you are. Tao-ling, you get over here with me. We’ll try to slow ’em down if they come the other way, but Al’s got our only real firepower.”
“Yes, sir,” Germaine said, and Tsien nodded agreement.
“Then do it—now!”
Tsien hit the button and rolled across the floor, coming up on his knees beside Hatcher. They both flattened against the wall as yet another burst screamed into the room, and Hatcher cursed as a ricochet creased his cheek.
“Can you get that sniper without getting yourself killed, Al?”
“A pleasure, sir,” Germaine said coldly. His eyes were unfocused as his implants sought the source of the fire, then he crouched and took one step to the side. He moved with the blinding speed of his biotechnics, and the grav gun hissed out a brief burst, spitting three-millimeter explosive darts at fifty-two hundred meters per second.
Quang swore as his covering fire died. So, they had at least one of the cursed grav guns. That was bad, but he still had twenty-five men, and they were all heavily armed.
He had no idea how the rest of the attack was going, but Tsien’s reactions had been only too revealing, and the only man who could identify him must die.
His men pounded up the ramp ahead of him.
* * *
Her name was Litanil, and, disregarding time spent in stasis, she was thirty-six. It took her precious moments to realize what was happening, and a few more to believe it when she had, but then cold fury filled her.
Litanil hadn’t thought very deeply when Anu’s people recruited her, for she’d been both young and bored. Now she knew she’d also been criminally stupid, and, like her fellows, she’d labored with the Breaker’s own demons on her heels in an effort to atone. Along the way, she’d come to like and admire the Terra-born she worked with, and now hundreds of them lay dead, butchered by the animals responsible for this carnage. She didn’t worry about why. She didn’t even consider the monstrous treason to her race the attack implied. She thought only of dead friends, and something snarled inside her.
She turned her power bore towards the fighting, and her neural feeds sought out the safety interlocks. It was supposed to be impossible for any accident to get around them—but Litanil was no accident.
Allen Germaine went down on one knee, bracing his grav gun over his left forearm, as the first three raiders hurled themselves over the lip of the topmost ramp, assault rifles on full automatic.
They got off one long burst each before their bodies blew apart in a hurricane of explosive darts.
Litanil goosed her power bore to max, snarling across the stony plain at almost two hundred kilometers per hour. Not even a gravitonic drive could hold the massive bore steady at that speed, but she rode it like a bucking horse, her implant scanners reaching out, and her face was a mask of fury as she raised the cutting head chest-high.
Private Pak Chung of the Army of Korea heard nothing, but some instinct made him turn his head. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the huge machine screaming towards him. Rock dust and smoke billowed behind it like a curdled wake, and the … the thing at its front was aimed straight at him!
The last thing Private Pak ever saw was a terrible brilliance in the millisecond before he exploded in a flash of super-heated body fluids.
General Quang cursed as his three lead men died, but it had not been entirely unexpected. It must be the American’s African aide, yet there was only one of him, bioenhanced or not, and the ramp was not the only way up.
“They’re spreading out,” Germaine reported. “I can’t get a good implant reading through the ramp, but some of them are swinging round front.”
“There is a scaffold below the edge of the platform,” Tsien said.
“Damn! Remind me to detail armed guards to each construction site when we get home, Al.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Litanil wiped out Private Pak’s team and raged off after fresh targets. Ahead of her, half a dozen bioenhanced Terra-born construction workers armed with steel reinforcing rods and Imperial blasting compound began working their way around the flank of a second assault group.
Quang poked his head up. This was taking too long. But there would still be time. His men were in position at last, and he barked an order.
“Down!” Germaine shouted, and Hatcher and Tsien dropped instantly as the stubby grenade launchers coughed. Two grenades hit short or exploded against the outer wall; the third headed straight into the door, and Germaine’s left hand struck it like a handball. The explosion ripped his hand apart, and shrapnel tore into his chest and shoulder.
Agony stabbed him, but his implants stopped the flow of blood to his shredded hand and flooded his system with a super-charged blast of adrenali
n. The first wave came up the ramp after the grenades, and he cut them down like bloody wheat.
Hatcher fired as a head rose over the edge of the scaffolding. His first shot missed; his second hit just above the left eye. Beside him, Tsien was flat on his belly, firing two-handed. Another attacker dropped.
A sudden burst of explosions ripped the dusty smoke as the construction workers tossed their makeshift bombs. The attack squad faltered as three of their number were blown apart. A fourth emptied a full magazine into a charging man. He killed his assailant, but he never knew; the steel rod his victim had carried impaled him like a spear.
His six surviving comrades broke and ran—directly in front of Litanil’s power bore.
Eight more of Quang’s men died, but a ninth slammed a heart-rupturing burst into Allen Germaine. Major Germaine was a dead man, but he was a bioenhanced corpse. He stayed on his feet long enough to aim very carefully before he squeezed the trigger.
Gerald Hatcher swore viciously as his aide toppled without a sound, grav gun bouncing from his remaining hand. Bastards! Bastards! He squeezed off another shot, hitting his target in the torso, then dropped him with a second.
It wasn’t enough, and he knew it.
Quang’s number four attack squad had a good position between two huge earth-movers, but there were no more targets in their field of fire. It was time to go, and they began to filter back in pairs, each halting in turn to provide covering fire for their fellows. It was a textbook maneuver.
As the first pair reached the ends of their shielding earth-movers, a pair of bioenhanced hands reached out from either side. Fingers ten times stronger than their own closed, and two tracheas crushed. The twitching bodies were tossed aside, and the crouching ambushers waited patiently for their next victims.
