Only seconds later, the granite shielding her rang with the impact of native bullets. Stone chips scored her visor and slashed at her shoulders. Ignoring the shrapnel, the Marine dropped another two slicks, but hundreds more were swarming through the gap. The tank rumbled forward and its long gun boomed again. The marble gazebo disappeared in a cloud of dust and flame. Felix clicked her teeth, breaking into the chaos of voices on the combat channel.
"We need the Whipsaw in the eastern gardens with armor-piercing," she growled. "This tank nearly took Carlyle's head off!"
We can't spare the 'saw from anti-artillery duty, Kosho responded curtly.
The tank fired again, obliterating another of the ornamental buildings. The two Marines down in the gardens leapfrogged back again to a low wall only meters from the Residence. Felix gritted her teeth and fired five grenades in quick succession, dropping them right across a line of Jehanan troopers crashing forward through the rose bushes and beds of orchids.
The grenades burst in a rippling wall of fire. A hailstorm of bullets smashed against the granite around her, filling the air with whining shrapnel. Felix ducked down, hearing the high-pitched wail of mortar rounds dropping out of the sky. The Whipsaw on the roof of the Residence stuttered, snapping out interceptor rounds with a piercing whine. The sky blotted with black puffs of smoke.
"Stupid-always-right-officers…" The Marine flexed her trigger-hand and thumbed her visor to full automatic tracking. Bullets continued to spang! off the merlons. The engineer laid himself down, still fiddling with his comps and antenna array, trying to keep the channel to the ship open. "Carlyle, Renton, go to full auto! Helsdon, get below!"
Felix shifted position two embrasures and popped up. The Macana jerked in her hand, a full-automatic burst ripping from the rifle. Her visor lit up with hundreds of possible targets, glowing red crosshairs dancing across the gardens. She let her conscious mind subsume in the twitch-reflex of the gun/visor interface and emptied a two thousand round magazine coil into the charging Jehanan soldiers.
If I had a powered-armor rig… Felix had applied for transfer to a powered armor regiment before being posted to the Cornuelle. A rejection letter had caught up with her nine months ago, precipitating a mild funk. Luckily, the ship had immediately encountered a Khaid raiding group and been plunged into a ferocious battle for survival, which had cheered her up immensely.
Flame stabbed out from the other two Marines as the passage of so many hypervelocity flechettes made the air incandesce. For an instant, a whirlwind of ionization and metal lashed the Jehanan battalion spilling through the breach and hundreds of the natives staggered, torn to shreds. The tank continued to grind forward, lurching up over a carved alabaster retaining wall, the forward glacis spotted with smoking, red-hot impact scars.
Then the tank turret swung towards the southern tower and flame blossomed from the muzzle with a crack! Felix shouted at Helsdon and flung herself to the side, curling automatically into an impact resistant ball. The granite merlons shattered in a ball of plasma. The engineer's carefully pieced-together antenna array disintegrated, the comps were blown into the far wall and flame washed over both Imperials. The concussion threw Felix into the opposite stonework, where burning debris pelted her armor and face, and Helsdon – who had scooted towards the stairs – was flung down into the tower itself. Smoke and dust billowed up from the gaping hole torn in the parapet.
The Jehanan tank turret whined around towards the Residence, long gun sliding down.
On the roof of the main building, the Whipsaw team ran to the edge of the rooftop and set down the tripod-mounted weapon. The lead gunner cycled the ammunition coil to armor-piercing, flipped the targeting display on and squeezed the firing lever. A lance of super-heated flame – engendered by the supersonic passage of dozens of depleted uranium-core munitions – boomed out, leaping down to draw a white-hot line across the front of the tank and across the turret.
Metal squealed in agony as multiple jets of metal plasma spewed into the crew compartment. There was a deep, resounding whoomp! and the entire machine blew apart as the munitions and fuel inside brewed up. Flames engulfed the chassis and the turret, blown free by the explosion, crashed down into an apple tree, setting the leaves and trunk alight.
On the southern tower, Felix – wheezing and tasting gravel – rolled over, groping for her rifle. The Macana had vanished, along with the communications array and half of the tower wall. Pea-sized rubble and granite fragments slid from her thigh and arm as she sat up.
"Oh, crap." The Marine spat blood to clear her mouth and realized most of the gear strapped to her gunrig and belt were gone with the assault rifle. She tapped her comm with a trembling hand. "Helsdon? Engineer? You still alive?"
In her sick-bed, Kosho heard the distant crash of artillery and tried to sit up. She winced immediately, her porcelain face twitching with pain as her head spun. "Who is attacking?" She snapped into the combat channel. "Can anyone see unit blazons, idents, regimental flags, anything?"
The Resident was parked at her bedside, one long hand to his ear, listening intently to the chatter of servants, troops and wayward Imperial citizens who had taken refuge in the Legation. He was still dressed in a formal mantle, cotton shirt and trousers – the rising had caught him amid a state luncheon and he hadn't found time to change. Between them, they represented Imperial command authority in central Parus. Attempts to contact the Regimental cantonment had failed. He shook his head, listening to a babble of reports from throughout the sprawling building.
"This doesn't sound like a single military unit," Petrel said, voice hoarse with weariness. "The rising must have split dozens of regiments along clan or parish lines… One of the lesser princes will have taken control of the forces in thisarea." He adjusted one earbug, rubbing an eye swollen by a bad cut. "This attack on the garden gate in the south – the harness and traveling cloaks on the dead sound like those worn by religious pilgrims… Rural zealots must be entering the city, looking for asuchau – the unclean – to expunge from holy Jagan."
"I see. They will be discerning, I'm sure." Kosho felt faint and tried to lie still on her pillow. The feeling of fine silk under her neck was disconcertingly at odds with the patina of dust on her coverlet and the acrid smell of burned metal and propellant hanging in the air. The banging sound of hammers resounded from the hallway where the household servants were busily fortifying the windows and doorways. At the edge of hearing, a human baby was crying hoarsely. "Do we know where kujen Bhrigu stands in all of this? Is he part of the rising, or a fellow target?"
Petrel shook his head in dismay, silver hair mussed by the events of the past two days. "He is a nervous, untrustworthy creature – ever at odds with his generals and the priests. No one trusts him either. I would wager, however, that someone is attempting to overthrow him amid all this chaos." The diplomat smiled, rather grimly. "If not, then he is hiding in the basement of his palace, waiting for the dust to settle."
Kosho sighed, wishing she'd stayed on the ship. I wanted to feel the wind on my face – and see what kind of vacation I am having. Battle reports continued to bark in her ear. Tireless dogs, tireless… "We needn't look to him for relief then." Exhausted, she made a courtly gesture of resignation to fate. "The enemy has withdrawn from the southern gate. But we will not be able to stop up the breach in the east. Not if they have another tank to send against us."
Petrel stared at her hand, surprised and a little alarmed. "Without holding the outer wall…"
"The Residence is large," Kosho replied. "Move the civilians into the basements. Once sufficient rubble has been generated to block their armor, we will be able to hold them off while we have ammunition -"
The combat channel cleared abruptly, leaving only the disgusted voice of the gunner commanding the Whipsaw on the roof shouting: Incoming aircraft! Three of them on my scope, on an attack run! We're swinging the 'saw round…
"Bah!" Kosho's rude exclamation took the Resident by surprise. "Where is our a
ircover? Are they jets?"
Fragmentary reports from the 416th had indicated the natives had several jet aircraft in inventory. The Sho-sa would have laughed at the futility of deploying air-breathing, turbine-powered atmospheric aircraft against Imperial forces in the field, save for her complete lack of orbital fire support to knock them down. The counter-battery guns on an APAC would do the trick as well, but she didn't have an armored personnel carrier on hand either.
No, answered the gunner. These look like prop-driven fixed-wing models.
"Antiques?" Kosho made a face. "They're emptying the pantry…" She looked at the Resident questioningly. "Have we sold the kujen any antique propeller-driven aircraft?"
Petrel shook his head. "Not that I've heard of…"
Kosho tapped up the helmet feed from the gunners on the roof. Three heat-emission signatures appeared in the relayed feed, stark against a cold pre-dawn sky. They swung into a banking turn, heading straight for the Legation. She automatically reached for her comp, intending to call up a recog soft and then stifled a curse – Helsdon had borrowed her command comp to drive his communications relay.
Heicho Felix picked her way down a rubble-strewn ramp and hissed in alarm as a body appeared in the light of her hand-lamp. The chief machinist's mate was sprawled on the landing, one arm twisted beneath his body, scalp and face streaked with blood.
"Helsdon?" The Marine knelt down, shoving broken bricks out of her way. "Can you hear me?" Gently, she turned the body, lips tight to see the older man's head fall limply to one side. Felix tugged back his uniform jacket sleeve, exposing his medband.
The silver band was a mixture of amber and crimson, but he was breathing.
"Not dead yet," Felix breathed in relief. She wiped blood out of his eyes with the edge of her hand. "You and the Sho-sa will make a fine pair in medical bay together. But at least Isoroku won't stripe my hide bloody for getting you killed."
Grunting, the Marine heaved the engineer up onto her shoulders. Goddamn, she thought, straining to lift his body, bones like lead! He doesn't look this heavy…
A resounding boom! shook the tower, precipitating more rubble to cascade down the ramp and nearly knocked Felix from her feet. Swaying, she leaned against the wall, tapping her comm awake. "What the hell was that?"
Got two more tanks coming through the breach! Carlyle bawled on the channel.We're out of here! Whipsaw to anti-armor, Kosho's voice followed, cutting clear and cold through the Marine's panic. Ignore the aircraft for the moment. Kill that armor, in the breach if you can. Felix swore, shrugged the engineer into a slightly less uncomfortable carry, and waddled down the ramp as fast as she could. The opening onto to the retaining wall was only meters away and she turned sideways in the narrow doorway. Outside, the night was alive with the crash of heavy guns, the rattling sound of small arms and the clanking rumble of armor treads chewing more brick to dust. Intermittent tracer fire jagged into the sky. Burning vegetation lit the stones of the wall with a ruddy, orange glow. Craning her neck, she stared down into the gardens.
Sure enough, two more of the flat-turreted tanks ground noisily through the ornamental trees. A fresh attack out of the breach had developed while she'd been inside – this time the slicks were sending the armor first, with the infantry holding back and scuttling from cover to cover.
Sure are a lot of them, she thought with a sinking feeling. A couple hundred this time…
A sharp basso droning sound overhead made her turn. "What the -"
Her visor adjusted, scanning the pitch-black sky. The image changed tone and hue, and three cross-shaped aircraft roared over the Legation. Felix blanched, goggling at the antiques winging towards her, and took off at a run for the next tower on the wall.
The Whipsaw on the roof of the Residence shrieked. A hard white streak of light intersected the first of the prop-driven planes and the machine shattered in a violent burst of flame. Debris rained down, trailing smoke and flames. The other two planes broke away from their attack run, dumping their bomb loads.
Cease fire! Kosho barked on the channel. Kill the tanks first!
Four heavy black canisters plummeted out of the night sky and crashed through the canopy of leaves spreading over the garden. One bomb bounced up, skidded across a lawn of short-cropped grass and plowed through a clutch of scattering Jehanan soldiers. There was a bright spark in the darkness as a phosphorus igniter cooked off.
Felix flinched back, one arm thrown up by reflex to shield her eyes, even though her combat visor mirrored immediately. The bomb detonated with an ear-shattering roar, spewing liquefied flame in every direction. Three more napalm canisters exploded in succession, filling the air with a burning white-hot mist. The burning cloud rolled across the gardens, incinerating the Jehanan soldiers, consuming every scrap of vegetation and engulfing the tanks. A wave of terrific heat boiled up over the walls, shattering brick and splintering marble, granite and alabaster alike. The windows of the whole eastern side of the Residence shattered, cracked by the concussive effect of the blast and then coated with blazing jelly.
The crews of the Jehanan tanks survived a moment longer – protected from the flame and explosion by thick armor – but none of the three vehicles were secured for a zero-pressure environment and carbon monoxide flooded in through the gun aperture and air recirculators. The crewmen succumbed to paralysis and violent hallucinations within seconds, then strangled on their own blood.
Felix bolted forward, chased by a wall of fire, and hurled herself and the unconscious engineer into the secondary tower. Her combat visor sealed itself automatically as the monoxide level in the air spiked, fresh oxygen hissing into her nostrils.
On the comm, Kosho was bawling commands and Felix could hear Carlyle scream helplessly for a long drawn out second before his voice cut off. Then she was rolling down the ramp as the ceiling roared with billowing flame and everything turned red-orange from the furnace glare howling at her back.
The Courts of the Morning On the Banks of the Phison, Southeastern Parus
Flower petals, shriveled by the queer light in the sky, fluttered down from a roseate claw. Bhazuradeha was sitting beside an ornamental pool, her slim head bent over the waters, watching the sicane buds drift on the current, slowly fattening as they saturated. The pool was served by a hidden pump and the frail gray blossoms swirled away to disappear beneath mossy rocks.
"Phantom petals fall into moonlight," she whispered. "Autumn has come too soon…"
A crashing sound echoed through the tall pillars around the courtyard, followed by the tramp of heavy, booted feet. The Jehanan woman did not look up. The transparency and color of the water had caught her attention, curving over the rocks, capturing the morning light with a faint rainbow sheen. A multitude of tiny blue-green tendrils – a long-stemmed algae – waved on the surface of the stones, capturing invisible prey from the flow of water.
An image occluded the smooth surface of the water – a long-jawed Jehanan in a trailing cloak, jangling with iron and leather and smelling of oil, fire and bitter smoke. Bhazuradeha looked up, enormous green eyes taking in the crowd of barbarians who had invaded her apartments. A jeweled display box, she corrected herself, a stage for my skills, filled with soft, elegant things.
One of her 'guardians' was among the tribesmen, half-paralyzed by fear, a kalang knife against the rough pebbled skin of her throat. Bhazuradeha ignored the matron, attention hungrily fixed on the leader of the Arachosians arrayed before her. The common literature of the lowland cities was filled with lurid descriptions of the habit, mien, clothing and vicious temper of the highland raiders, but the poetess had never seen them before, not up close.
The Jehanan looming over her was tall, scales hard and bright, powerful chest draped with a leather harness holding knives, pistols, soft leather pouches bulging with bullets and powder, and thumb-sized cylinders of black metal thrust into fabric loops. Leather cords heavy with fore-teeth crowded his neck and upper arms. Oddly, to her eye, his broad shoulders were
draped with a thick linen cloak in dull gray and brown, though the inner layer – only partially exposed – seemed to be of a softer, shinier fabric. The poetess realized temperatures among the highland mountains must be regularly chill, requiring the inhabitants to conserve warmth. Even the bone structure of his face was strange – harsher and crueler than the soft-scaled denizens of the lowland plains. His hands and forearms were scarred and chipped from rough usage on the field of war.
Humara would be apoplectic at this sight. All his glorious civilization laid to naught by one day of strife.
"This is the one we seek," the Arach war-captain said, after looking her over carefully. "Kill the others."
"How can you be sure?" Bhazuradeha stirred, rising to her feet. The engraving on the creature's sword hilt had captured her attention for a moment – obviously the work of a woman with fine, delicate hands and skill the equal of any jeweler's shop in the city. "What if I am only an attendant? If you reach so high, do not pluck a rotten fruit by mistake!"
"You are no milkmaid," the Arach growled, turning back to face her. His snout was oddly shaped, to her eyes, almost hooked, with twin ridges of jutting scales starting above the nostrils and rising up behind the eye-shields. In contravention of the literature, his eyes did not blaze with the fires of burning cottages, but they were very, very cold. "But you are indeed the 'color of dawn.' "
There was a choked cry, and the matron crumpled to the floor, blood sluicing from her neck. The kalang had sheared through soft scale and bone alike, making a clean, neat incision.
No molk was ever butchered with less thought or more skill. Bhazuradeha allowed her nostrils to flare slightly as the smell of urine and blood and severed bone washed over her. The Arachs did not seem to notice, or care. She considered the arrangement of the invaders, saw they had formed a loose cordon around her and their captain. Not one of them paid her the least attention, save the creature directly in front of her. The others were keeping a wary eye on the rooftops, the doors opening into the bedrooms off the courtyard and the passageway whence they had come. All of the raiders were armed with asuchau weapons, and Bhazuradeha was sure the dull, efficient-looking rifles had issued from workshops tended by human hands. No Jehanan craftsman could reproduce one object with such soulless perfection.
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