The Thrakies, Prithians, and Hudathans had shared responsibility for the east wall, while the Clones had taken charge of the north, leaving the Ramanthians to guard the north half of the west wall.
So, as Miraby walked south, he passed through the troops directly under his command, and greeted most by name. Smoke drifted up out of the native quarter as the party crossed over the Jade River and looked down onto the destruction below.
No one was sure of exactly how the fire had started—although most people assumed that one of the hundreds of fire arrows fired over the walls during the night had landed on something flammable. Whatever the reason the misery was the same as now homeless LaNorians picked through the still-smoking rubble, salvaged what they could, and piled their finds on mats.
Miraby paused to look over the north–south street that most off-worlders referred to as ‘Embassy Row.’ It was there, about one city block north of the South Gate that Sergi Chien-Chu, with advice from Captain Seebo, had established a heavy barricade.
With a two-story tenement to the west, and an equally high row of warehouses to the east, the barricade turned that end of the street into a box. If the South Gate failed, if enemy troops managed to enter, the legionnaires behind the barricade, on the surrounding roofs, and the top of the walls would cut them down.
Though not supportive of the concept when Chien-Chu first proposed it, Miraby liked the idea now, and had already incorporated the structure into his diary as an example of the many things accomplished under his overall leadership.
Bullets continued to ping against the breastwork as Miraby, his beret-clad head bobbing along like a target at a shooting range, continued his tour.
There was a deep and resounding boom as a cannonball hit one of the apartment buildings to the east and crashed through the roof. That’s when it exploded and started a fire. Smoke boiled up through the hole as the already exhausted fire brigade struggled to respond to the latest crisis.
Miraby shook his head in exasperation, led the group onto the south wall, and paused to look out over Polwa. The response was nearly instantaneous. Dozens of bullets flattened themselves against the breastworks as snipers fired from the maze of roofs that stretched to the south.
Two members of the Claw paid the price for revealing their positions as the Legion’s countersnipers squeezed their triggers and sent .50 caliber bullets through the crates, baskets, and other materials behind which the enemy sharpshooters had taken cover. Their deaths had a sobering effect on the Tro Wa irregulars and the incoming fire stopped for the moment.
Miraby nodded as if the entire sequence of events had gone according to plan—and continued his inspection tour. He crossed over to the south wall, took a turn to the left, and passed into what had become known as the Thraki sector.
With the exception of some lookouts, who used homemade periscopes to look out over the breastworks, the rest of the troops were lounging against the stone wall, sitting on the firing step, and in one case taking a nap.
There was no sign of Flight Warrior Garla Try Sygor, a somewhat diffident pilot who knew nothing about ground combat, but nonetheless served as their commanding officer. Miraby, who was outraged by what he saw as dereliction of duty, looked for someone to collar. L-7 Iturno had the misfortune to top the stairs at that particular moment and soon paid the price.
“You!” Miraby said, spearing the noncom with a blunt finger. “What’s the meaning of this sloppiness? You’re supposed to be soldiers damn your infernal hides . . . Act the part! If the Tro Wa plant a charge against the wall you’ll be the first to die.”
Cowed by the vehemence with which the human spoke Iturno ordered his troops to stand which all of them did.
Satisfied that he had put the situation right Miraby made a mental note to report the matter to Sygor and stomped past.
But when Mee Mas looked back over his shoulder a few moments later he saw that the Thrakies had already returned to the same slovenly postures they had maintained before. A phenomenon that served to teach the princeling about the problems contingent on the use of mixed forces, how important it is to have good noncoms, and the fact that while clearly brave Miraby lacked something Santana had. A quality that the LaNorian couldn’t put into words but very much wanted to acquire.
Meanwhile Miraby entered the Prithian sector, where High Warrior Hak Orr came to flamboyant attention, shifted his plumage to signal a salute, and trilled a command. Most of his three dozen warriors were up on the firing steps, sniping at distant gun crews, but those who weren’t went to a brace.
Miraby paused to compliment the Prithian on his troops, heard something whine past his left ear, and assumed it was an insect.
Then, still headed north, Miraby entered the section of the wall controlled by some fifty Hudathans, crack troops each and every one, and commanded by no less than the Hudathan ambassador himself who had been a warrior long before he became a diplomat, and would have preferred to charge the Imperials rather than crouch behind the defensive breastworks. His name was Dogon Doka-Sa. He nodded to Seeba-Ka before greeting the human. “Good morning, Major . . . Watch your head or someone will blow it off.”
“They haven’t so far,” Miraby observed blithely. “It’s good to see you and your troops up here. I have plenty of areas to worry about—but this sector isn’t one of them.”
The Hudathan inclined his head a quarter of an inch by way of an acknowledgment. He didn’t really care what the human thought but had learned the value of such pleasantries.
Miraby turned onto the north wall, and ran into Sergeant Alan Seebo-21,112, better known as “Sergeant Twelve.”
“Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
Miraby looked the length of the rampart and liked what he saw. The Seebos were alert and ready for action. “Nice show, Sergeant. Carry on.”
Twelve nodded. “Sir, yes sir.”
Sergi Chien-Chu and his crew of volunteers had constructed another box just inside the gate. This one had three sides, since there were no buildings to hem the potential invaders in, but the principle was the same. Contain the enemy, cut them down, and prevent them from entering Mys.
Then, having glanced out over the breastworks to where the previous day’s battle had been fought, the officer rounded the next corner and entered the Ramanthian sector. The troops looked active enough, but the moment Seeba-Ka appeared, something changed. Not only had the Hudathan killed their commanding officer, it appeared that he would go unpunished, a possibility that made the soldiers angry.
Sensing their unhappiness, and fearful of triggering some sort of incident, Miraby hurried down the rampart, entered the area controlled by the Legion and heaved a sigh of relief. “So,” Miraby said, as he turned to Mee Mas, “you can see how . . .”
But the sentence went unfinished as a 7.62 mm round entered the officer’s brain through his left temple and blew the other side of his head out. Blood and brain tissue sprayed the air, the flat report arrived like a period at the end of a sentence, and the major toppled sideways off the rampart to thump into the ground below.
Eight hundred yards out, in a carefully prepared hide, the sniper’s spotter lowered his telescope. “You got him, Pee Pas . . . that’s one more bottle of beer that the commander owes you.” The sniper gave a grunt of acknowledgment and began the long careful search for the next target.
Seeba-Ka looked down at the spot where Miraby lay and felt a moment of regret. Though pompous, not to mention hidebound, there was something about the officer that he had liked. Lieutenant Beckworth appeared at his elbow. “Damn . . . That’s too bad.”
“Yes,” Seeba-Ka replied somberly, “it is.”
Later that day, just before the tired-looking sun dropped down over the western horizon, Miraby joined the Thraki merchant whose throat had been cut the night before, a Seebo who had fallen prey to the same sniper, and seventeen LaNorians as the entire lot of them were lowered into a common grave.
But a legionnaire played taps, members of t
he embassy’s staff cried, and Miraby would have taken a peculiar sort of pride in the entry which went on the company’s rolls. “Major Homer Miraby, Killed in Action.”
NEAR THE VILLAGE OF NAH REE, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
It was a cold clammy morning. The sun was a distantly felt presence that peered down through multiple layers of cloud, fog and mist as if uninterested in the needs of those below. The bodies, hundreds of them, lay where they had fallen. Insulated as they were by those around them, many of the corpses were still warm, and steamed in the early-morning light. The river, still swollen with the rain that had fallen days before, raced past as if eager to keep its appointment with the Great Wet.
Fires had been built all along the beach, beacons of warmth for the cold bleary-eyed workers who waded and in some cases swam among the steadily growing fleet of rafts. Many paused just long enough to avoid hypothermia before plunging back into the water to fasten crosspieces in place, tighten final bindings, and secure newly made rudders.
Meanwhile, oblivious to the cold but exhausted by a lack of sleep, Zook and Snyder splashed from one raft to the next. The cyborgs lifted, pushed, and pulled thereby cutting hundreds of hours off the assembly process.
Santana stood on a slight rise and looked inland. When trouble came, as it eventually must, it would come from there. The Claw had suffered a defeat the night before—a terrible defeat from which it would take days to recover. That’s what the legionnaire hoped at any rate but what if he was wrong? What if fresh troops were already on the way? Warmfeel and Fareye would provide some warning, hours perhaps, but not enough to restore the compound’s heavily ravaged defenses.
Because rather than use hundreds of person-hours to fortify the very place he was trying to evacuate, Santana had chosen to put all of the group’s energies into the rafts and gamble everything on a timely escape. That very evening if at all possible—or the following morning if it wasn’t.
Santana’s thoughts were interrupted as Platoon Sergeant Hillrun seemed to materialize out of the mist. Doc Hixon had cut the right sleeve off the noncom’s shirt in order to bandage his arm. The Naa smiled. He had lots of white teeth. “Good morning, sir.”
Santana was not only grateful for having such an experienced noncom as his number two—but enjoyed the legionnaire’s unflappable personality as well. “If you say so, Sergeant. Personally, I think it leaves a lot to be desired.”
Hillrun managed to look surprised. “This, sir? Why back on Algeron we would regard this as a fine summer day. The little ones would come out to play while their elders sat in the sun.”
“No wonder you left,” Santana replied dryly. “Perhaps the Legion should charge you for the privilege of serving on LaNor.”
Both of them laughed. Hillrun jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “We’re about to launch the RAVs . . . Would the lieutenant care to witness the great moment?”
“The lieutenant would,” Santana replied, “providing that the units in question remain afloat. Otherwise, the lieutenant will be filling out reports long after the sergeant has retired.”
“Oh, they’ll float all right,” the Naa replied. “The question is for how long?”
It was a good question. Could the RAVs, which were weathertight, act as pontoons? If so, they would continue to offer some cargo-carrying capacity, the nearest thing the medics had to an intensive care unit, and some forward-firing offensive weaponry. Or, and this was all too possible, the first machine could sink like a rock.
What once appeared to be a great idea suddenly seemed a lot less exciting as Santana followed Hillrun up toward the point where the raft already dubbed the flagship, strained at the end of its tether some fifteen feet from the shore.
“There goes,” Hillrun remarked as Sergeant Cvanivich used a remote to guide the first RAV down the gently sloping beach into the relatively calm water upstream of the newly completed jetty. Corporal Carol Serka, straddling the robot like a razbul rider, waved as the machine waded out into the river.
A team comprised of both LaNorians and legionnaires waited to receive the RAV. They hurried to connect lines to the hard points located on various parts of the robot’s anatomy, ran them through pulleys, and stood ready to pull as the water lapped at the machine’s belly and eventually lifted it off its feet. “Now!” Corporal Serka ordered, and the lines sang through their blocks as the workers pulled on their various ropes.
The RAV started to roll as it was pulled sideways, threatening to throw Serka into the water, and expose the seal that ran around the top hatch to the full effects of the water.
But Zook was there, reaching out to stabilize the RAV, and prevent the machine from rolling belly-up. Then, with the lines taut, the robot was snugged into place alongside a six-log span. Later, after the first machine had been tested for leaks and potential malfunctions, the second robot would take its place on the other side of the raft.
Santana heaved a sigh of relief as the first RAV was secured, knew it was just the first of many challenges the day would hold, and glanced at his watch. Each second that ticked away was like an ally deserting his cause. Who would ready themselves first? The Claw, eager for revenge? Or the people they wanted to kill, desperate to escape? Only time would tell.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Vanderveen left the embassy through the front door, said, “Hi,” to the heavily armed legionnaires who stood guard outside, and took a quick look around. The city had changed a great deal over the past few days—and so had the lives of those who lived there. It was crowded for one thing, a reality that hadn’t hit home until the artillery fire began, and thousands of LaNorians were driven out of their hidey-holes and into the streets. Pitiful people who had chosen the wrong religion, gone to work for an off-world corporation, or simply been seen near one of the foreign “devils.”
Such people had been entering Mys for weeks, and now, having been twice displaced, they stood, squatted, and lay as near the center of the city as they could get. A strategy designed to get them as far away from the areas where the vast majority of the shells landed as possible.
So now, as Vanderveen wound her way through their ranks, hundreds of hopeless eyes followed the diplomat out of sight, each hoping that she would turn and somehow pluck them out of their misery. But that was impossible since the FSO lacked the means to pluck herself out of the situation much less anyone else.
A flight of what the off-worlders had come to call screaming meemies roared up into the sky, seemed to sigh as their propellant gave out, and nosed toward the ground. The screaming noise was supposed to wear on the city’s nerves which it certainly did. The rockets landed off to the west somewhere and presumably smashed themselves apart.
The sporadic sound of gunfire came from somewhere behind her. Though too busy to go up on the embassy’s roof for a look Vanderveen had heard that the Imperials were massing for a second attack on the North Gate. Captain Seeba-Ka, now acting in Miraby’s place, was doing what he could to disrupt the enemy’s preparations.
Somewhere off to the east drums pounded as the Imperials dug trenches in toward the walls in hopes of moving their guns closer. Some even went so far as to suggest that the Imperials might try to tunnel in under the walls though nobody had seen any sign of that yet.
But, in spite of all the madness that surrounded her, Vanderveen had been sent home to prepare for a party. A social even that would help maintain morale. That was what Pas Rasha thought—and others agreed. So, during an evening when Vanderveen should have been working on the city’s ever-worsening sewage problems, she would be in attendance at a reception the Ramanthians had agreed to host.
A nice gesture since the Strathmore Hotel’s kitchen was being used to feed more than a thousand souls twice each day—and the ballroom had been converted into a makeshift hospital.
Still, Vanderveen thought she knew how to use the time profitably. There were a lot of things that LaNorian refugees were willing to tell Prince
Mee Mas that they weren’t willing to share with someone from off-world.
One such tidbit was the fact that the Ramanthian factories, all of which produced household products like molt picks, not only continued to run full blast, but were doing so without any interference from the Tro Wa! This while other foreigners were murdered—and their property destroyed. It didn’t make any sense, not unless there was some sort of quid pro quo, which Vanderveen felt sure there was.
And of equal interest was motivation. Why, in the face of all-out war, were the Ramanthians so intent on producing the alien equivalent of combs? Something was very, very wrong. But to believe it was one thing and to prove it was something else.
That’s why the junior FSO planned to slip away from the party, place a tap on the Ramanthian computer system, and drain it dry. Not then, while in the building, but later, from a safe distance away.
It was wrong, Vanderveen knew that, since diplomats were expressly barred from “. . . initiating, coordinating, or participating in any sort of intelligence-gathering activity regardless of purpose or intent.” That’s what it said in the regs and she knew that Pas Rasha would enforce them. But it needed doing, and insofar as she could tell, there was no one else to do it.
Her partner in crime, a young computer specialist named Imbulo, had reluctantly agreed to provide some much-needed assistance. Hopefully, given a little bit of luck, the two of them would pull the theft off.
Vanderveen hurried over the bridge, took the stairs that led down into the corporate sector, and made her way through the now-crowded streets. It seemed as though every square foot of ground had been claimed by someone, even if their chunk of real estate was no larger than a two-foot-by-three-foot mat.
Many of the homeless appealed to the diplomat for help, but Vanderveen forced herself to ignore their cries and kept on going. If she stopped, if she allowed herself to be drawn in, hours would pass and any chance of entering the Ramanthian embassy would disappear.
For More Than Glory Page 35
