For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  The Claw had attacked during the night. It started the way it always did with the thump, thump, thump of the drums. Then came the red lanterns, hundreds of them, bobbing and twisting through the night.

  That was the moment that Frank Busso, his wife and two children had come to dread the most, the pause before the next assault, when there was nothing to do but wait, and listen to the drums.

  Then, just when they, plus the more than one thousand souls in their care had begun to hope that the Tro Wa wouldn’t attack, they always did. Sheets of fire arrows fell like red rain. Hundreds had landed on the mission, which though constructed of flame-resistant materials, and having survived a dozen previous attacks, finally succumbed as one of the burning shafts found its way inside and landed on a pile of moss dressings.

  The initial onslaught was surprisingly ineffective against the hundreds of LaNorians crouched behind the water-filled ditch. Most of the arrows hit the surface of the damp soggy ground, sizzled as they dived into the moat, or thudded into the large densely woven mats behind which most of the females and their offspring had taken temporary shelter.

  However, once the mission started to burn, and Busso was forced to lead a rescue party in to get the patients, he and companions were exposed to a second flight of arrows.

  It was no accident that these shafts bore poisoned tips. That meant anyone who suffered so much as a scratch was soon transformed from one of the rescuers into a casualty. Nor were those farther back spared. Many of the juveniles died, but most of the adults didn’t, thereby placing an even greater burden on the remaining defenders. The poison caused cramps and vomiting, which soon led to severe dehydration unless efforts were made to boil river water, and force it down.

  All of which meant that scores of converts fell as they rushed through the hail of falling wood to invade the makeshift hospital, pull their relatives, friends and fellow converts out of the dome, and carry the invalids back to where the mats could offer some protection. All in the dark, with a light rain falling from the sky, and mud underfoot.

  That was when the second attack began. Having prepared the way with a storm of arrows the Claw launched another in the long series of brutal assaults to which the Transcendentalists had become accustomed over the last few weeks.

  The Tro Wa came as they always did, under covering fire provided by a wild assortment of muskets, trade rifles, and a couple of Negar III rifles obtained from the Ramanthians.

  Frank Busso, Hwa Nas, and the rest of the males still able to fight had little choice but to grab their makeshift weapons and assemble behind the berm that lined the northern edge of the moat. The Claw had attempted to throw portable bridges across the gap two days earlier and been thrown back when the defenders set the Tro Wa spans alight with homemade fuel bombs that Busso had cobbled together using locally brewed alcohol and odds and ends scrounged from Bethany’s laundry room.

  More than thirty Claw had died in the moat on that particular night and many continued to rot there. The stench of their decomposing bodies added to the already noxious miasma created by the open-pit latrines, the smell of vomit, and the muck excavated from the moat.

  But the Claw learned from its mistakes and this attack was different. Leadership had performed the rituals necessary to render their followers invulnerable to bullets, blades, and arrows, formed their troops into four columns and driven them forward.

  The drums beat out an insistent rhythm, the Tro Wa started to chant, and there was the pop, pop, pop of small-arms fire as Claw snipers went to work.

  Busso, who had learned the importance of being able to see during previous engagements, yelled, “Lights!” and was rewarded by the glare of battery-powered spots which threw a gruesome green glare over the area beyond the moat.

  The missionary knew he wouldn’t have that advantage for long. The reactor had gone off-line the moment that Trudy was assassinated—and the never-ending overcast made it next to impossible to pull a full charge out of the six solar panels that the mission had. But that problem would come later and this was now.

  The Tro Wa entered the wash of light at a jog and went straight for the moat. Each column was spaced out in order to divide the defenders into smaller groups.

  Busso led one contingent of converts while Hwa Nas and two of his most trusted lieutenants took the other three. Given the fact that the columns were only two bodies wide there were only two individuals to aim at. Busso shot both, saw them fall, and watched the column march right over their bodies. Within seconds the third rank was at the edge of the moat, their bodies falling into the ditch, as the fourth rank attempted to move forward. They looked like peasants, scared peasants, rather than the half-mad fanatics the missionary expected to see.

  That was when the off-worlder understood the true genius of the latest strategy. The purpose behind the columns was to fill the moat with bodies so that those in the rear, the real warriors, could march across!

  And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it except encourage his troops to drop arrows and spears into the center of the oncoming phalanx in an effort to kill as many of the hard-core Claw as he could.

  “Aim for the center of each column!” Busso shouted to his lieutenants. “That’s where the meanest bastards are hiding!”

  Orders were given, and the archers, many of whom were female, directed a hail of arrows up into the sky. The fell in nice tight groupings, hitting many of the Tro Wa faithful, cutting the columns in half.

  Many of the shafts the defenders launched had been fired into the compound by the Claw, gathered into bundles by daring youngsters, and dumped at the archers’ feet.

  But the archers became targets for Claw snipers some of whom were quite good. Busso, who made it a practice to keep moving, if only from side to side, saw one of his archers stagger and fall back into the mud as a rifle bullet struck her chest.

  A youngster, who couldn’t have been more than twelve, grabbed her mother’s fallen bow, fitted an arrow to the string, and fired. The shaft took one of the Tro Wa in the throat. He was tugging at it even as he slipped and fell.

  That was the moment when Busso heard his wife yell, “They’re on the river!” and knew that the third and quite possibly final attack had begun. Having engaged the religious community from the front, and managed to weaken it, the Claw hoped to drive a dagger into its back.

  The possibility of a downstream waterborne assault had been there all the time which was why lookouts had been posted upstream and defenses erected along the river’s edge. Busso wanted to go there, to be with his wife, but knew he couldn’t. The frontal attack had stalled, but it wouldn’t take much to get it going again, and he was needed to be where he was.

  Bethany stood at the river’s edge, gave thanks for the lights that illuminated the water with their glare, and waited for the first boat to appear. There was a plan, a good plan, but timing was everything. Two teams of LaNorian males watched anxiously, waiting for the signal that would send them backing in opposite directions, their hands clenched around two-inch-thick cables.

  Then, like the ghosts that were said to ride the waves at night, the first of three heavily laden fishing boats entered the light. The Tro Wa stationed in the bow stood, shouted something unintelligible at the Transcendentalists, and gave an involuntary jerk as Mark Busso put a bullet through his head.

  There was a splash as the body tumbled into the river followed by the sound of Bethany Busso’s voice as she said, “Readddy . . .” and the LaNorians pulled the slack out of their respective ropes.

  The second boat entered what Bethany thought of as “the killing zone,” quickly followed by the third, and she took a deep breath. “Pull!”

  Both teams of LaNorians backed in opposite directions, the cables made a zinging sound as they passed through well-secured pulleys, and the carefully weighted net came up off the bottom of the river. It jerked tight, seemed to shake itself as the current pushed past, and made a formidable barrier.

  The first fishing boat
hit almost immediately, the second crashed into the first, and the third wobbled as those with paddles struggled to arrest its forward progress. Voices shouted and water foamed white as the last vessel made a stand against the current and began to win. That was when Natalie Busso, along with thirty archers of about the same age, hollered “Fire!”

  Such were the distances that the arrows went nearly straight up and disappeared into darkness before falling like a lethal rain. At least half of them dived into the river, popped to the surface, and were swept away. The rest hit those who were in the water, those struggling to free their boats from the net, and those in boat three.

  Two of their paddlers fell; the open-hulled craft slid broadside to the current, and was pushed into the wreckage below.

  A second volley of arrows whispered into the air and fell into the thrashing mess that had been caught in the net. Natalie felt sick as she heard the subsequent screams but knew what she had to do.

  A third flight of arrows flew up out of the light, descended on the survivors below, and found their marks. There was very little noise this time, just a lot fewer heads, and a net full of bodies.

  The Claw pulled out after that, and faded back toward the village of Nah Ree, where they would lick their wounds and prepare for the next attack.

  But as the morning light caressed the body-strewn battlefield Busso wasn’t sure there would be a “next attack” for him and his family. The Tro Wa would break through soon—if not that night then the next—and the final slaughter would ensue. Not just killing, but the worst sort of torture that the mind could imagine, and it would last for days.

  But Busso’s family would be spared that. The missionary had three rifle bullets set aside for them—all zippered into his breast pocket. He would shoot Natalie first, Mark second, and Bethany last. Then, true to the promise that he had made to them, Frank Busso would die with his flock.

  That’s what the missionary was thinking about when the mist on the far side of the corpse-strewn field seemed to shiver, then parted to reveal something he had given up all hope of seeing: a hulking T-2 with a small figure perched on its back. “Frank!” Yao Che called, “It’s me!” and waved his arm. “I told you I would come back and I did!”

  There was more to see, much more, but the tears got in the way. Busso’s prayers, the ones said every morning for weeks on end, had finally been answered.

  THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  Rather than begin as Pas Rasha fancied that it might with a desperate battle, the first day of the siege was characterized by chaos and confusion.

  Having had only four hours sleep since the dramatic conclusion to the meeting at the Strathmore Hotel the diplomat was tired and crabby as he took the lift down to his office, waited for the door to open, and came to face-to-face with just a few of the beings in line to see him. A sort of communal wail went up as the Dweller stepped out and plowed his way toward his office.

  Voices called the diplomat’s name, hands plucked at his clothes, and a legionnaire shouted for order. There were missionaries, business beings, LaNorian nobles, staff from various embassies, and at least one robot, all hoping for an audience with the person in charge of Mys. The line started just outside his reception area, ran down the hall, and spilled onto the stairs.

  Pas Rasha waved, shouted assurances, and hurried into the relative tranquillity of his office. Servos whined as his assistant brought the usual cup of tea plus a stack of messages. “You’re rather popular this morning, sir.”

  “Too damned popular,” the ambassador responded grouchily. “How come I’m the only one doing any work around here? Send for Harley Clauson, Christine Vanderveen, Marcy Barnes, Yvegeniy Kreshenkov, Dr. Hogarth, and Willard Tran. Once I’m done with them it’ll be Major Miraby’s turn.”

  Cerly Nor Nama nodded and turned to go.

  “And Cerly . . .”

  The other Dweller paused. “Yes?”

  “Call the kitchen . . . let’s offer the people in the hall some tea. Maybe that will take the edge off.”

  Nor Nama smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  The staff members arrived fifteen minutes later. Not a lot of time, but enough for Pas Rasha to pour himself a second cup of tea and scribble some notes on a scratch pad. He waited for them to get settled, ordered Nor Nama to hold his calls, and immediately got down to business. “All right, I’m sure all of you have questions, but please put them on hold for the moment. You saw the insanity in the hall . . . I’m sure it’s worse out in the streets. We need to impose some order and do it fast. The details, and there be plenty, can wait till later.

  “Harley, you will act as liaison between me and the other ambassadors. Your job is to facilitate communication, foster cooperation, and listen to all the bitching. I won’t have time.

  “Christine, you saw the people on the stairs. The moment this meeting is over I want you to interview each one of them. Find out who they are, what they want, and assign a priority to each. Those who can be taken care of by one of our subject matter experts should be routed to them. Those who truly need to see me will receive appointments in priority order. Once that task is completed check on the prince. Make sure that he’s safe and reasonably comfortable.

  “Marcy, in your capacity as our agriculturist I’m placing you in charge of the city’s food supply. Round up some help from your peers in the other embassies, inventory what we have, and place all of it under guard.

  “Once that has been accomplished figure out some sort of communal kitchen, a multispecies menu, and a rationing system that’s fair to everyone. That includes the LaNorians as well.

  “Then, as soon as you can manage it, take a second look at storage. Is the food located where we can protect it? Or should it be moved to a safer location? Major Miraby or one of his officers can help you with that.”

  Barnes was writing furiously. She didn’t look up but nodded once.

  “Yvegeniy, given your expertise where science and technology are concerned, you seem best qualified to accept responsibility for the city’s power and water supplies. As with Marcy I recommend that you call on your peers in other embassies for additional support.

  “Willard, see what you can do to solicit help from the business community. Find Sergi Chien-Chu. I’m embarrassed to say that he came to get my support for defensive measures and was turned away. Please convey my apologies and see what if anything he can do.

  “And Willard, I want you to establish some sort of constabulary to control hoarding, prevent predatory pricing and the possible emergence of a black market. Understood?”

  It was a big order—but Tran met the ambassador’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Dr. Hogarth, I need a hospital, and I need one fast. We’re likely to see a lot of casualties during the days ahead. Work with Major Miraby to chose the best site, recruit medical personnel from all of the embassies, and work with Marcy to stockpile all the medical supplies you can find. Once that’s accomplished see what you can do to manufacture more.”

  Hogarth, a mild-mannered woman with red hair, chubby cheeks, and an ample bosom eyed the diplomat over the mutable 10X med specs that she wore nearly all the time. “Is that all?” she inquired sarcastically. “Or would you like me to transform water into wine as well?”

  “Nope,” the diplomat replied serenely, “that’s Marcy’s job. All I need from you is a hospital. We’ll meet here at 6:00 P.M. each day for the duration of the crisis. Have your preliminary plans ready for the first get-together. Now, do you have any questions? The kind that only I can answer?”

  The staffers, all of whom had been pleasantly surprised by the manner in which the sometimes vague diplomat had stepped up to the administrative challenge exchanged glances. It was Clauson who spoke. “Yes,” the FSO answered, “I have a question, the same one that people will ask us. Have we sent for help? And if so, when will it arrive?”

  Pas Rasha nodded. “Quite right . . . Here’s the answer: Every message torp we had was pro
grammed with the same message and dispatched last night. It will take them at least three weeks to reach the Friendship, and assuming that the government acts expeditiously, at least the same amount of time for a relief force to make its way here.

  “But that’s the optimistic estimate. A more realistic scenario, one that takes the political process into account, would allow for at least two weeks of senatorial posturing before some sort of response is finally authorized. So I suggest you tell people eight weeks . . . and use ten for planning purposes. Especially where food, water, and medical supplies are concerned.”

  Vanderveen considered the diplomat’s words. Ten weeks. It was a long time. Could the off-worlders really hold Mys for that long? And what about Santana? Assuming he was alive, and managed to make it back, how would the legionnaire enter the city?

  Somewhere, out beyond the walls, a muzzle-loading cannon was fired. The projectile, an iron ball that weighed nearly twenty pounds, fell into the Jade River. Water geysered up into the air, a flock of flits took off from the adjacent park, and passersby turned to look. The first shot had been fired.

  NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  A defensive perimeter had been thrown around the compound and both T-2s stood guard as brush crackled, sparks flew, and smoke billowed up into the lead gray sky. The converts had set fire to the first of two funeral pyres. One for their relatives and friends—the other for members of the Tro Wa.

  It had been raining on and off for a long time and dry fuel was hard to come by. A farmer attempted to light the second pyre but it failed to catch. Busso sloshed what remained of his locally distilled alcohol onto the bodies, gave the liquid time to trickle down into the fuel below, and gave a nod. Hwa Nas tossed a torch onto the pile and there was a loud Whump! as the accelerant took off.

  Santana felt the wave of heat wash over his body and managed to resist the temptation to hold his hands out toward the warmth of the fire.