by Jay Allan
His head snapped around at the sounds of gunfire, and he stared in stunned surprise. It was the Supersoldiers. They were pouring out of the transports, firing as they did.
Akawa turned back, just as Jarn raised his pistol. For an infinitesimal instant he felt an urge to give up, to allow the Inquisitor to shoot him. But then his spirit rallied. He ducked to the side, just in time, and Jarn’s shot went wide. He leapt forward, his hands moving up, grabbing Jarn’s arm, pushing forward as they both fell to the ground.
The Inquisitor struggled with him, trying to bring the pistol around for another shot. But Akawa held on, pushing Jarn’s arm back, squeezing, trying to force the gun from his hand. He was aware of Jarn’s men, at least half a dozen, standing around, waiting for a chance to shoot without endangering their commander. Then they were gone. It was hazy, and it happened quickly. A hail of gunfire, Jarn’s men falling to the ground.
Then Jarn was gone too, ripped from his grasp. It took Akawa an instant to regain his sense, but when he did he saw his opponent, standing, gripped in the iron vice of two Supersoldiers. The pistol was on the ground.
Akawa felt hands on him, and he turned with a start. But it was one of Taylor’s soldiers, helping him up. He stumbled to his feet, relying more than he wanted to admit on the assist.
“Are you okay, General?” Karl Young stood in front of a row of Supersoldiers, looking toward Akawa with a concerned expression.
“I am fine, General Young,” he said. “I didn’t know you were in the convoy.”
“General Taylor thought it was a good idea. He figured you might need some help.” He looked out behind Akawa, to where several dozen of his veterans were fighting with the survivors of Jarn’s force. They had already gunned down most of the Inquisitor’s troops who’d been in the open, and now they were searching the vehicles and killing any stragglers they found.
“I think we’d better get you to your office, General,” Young said tensely. He turned and looked behind him toward the rest of the camp. The fighting had drawn attention and troops were running around, grabbing weapons. “You have to order your troops to stand down, before something…unfortunate…happens.”
“Yes, of course,” Akawa said, turning back toward Jarn for an instant. “And what of him?”
“General Taylor was very clear about the disposition of UNGov enforcement personnel.” From the tone of his voice it was clear Karl Young agreed completely with Taylor’s harsh policy.
Akawa nodded. “I will order the army to stand down.” He took a last glimpse at Jarn, and then he trotted toward his HQ shelter, half a dozen of Young’s men falling in behind him. About halfway to his office he heard a shot from behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know what it was.
* * *
“Sir, the rumors are true. The army has surrendered. General Akawa just broadcast the stand down orders.” The commando couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. “It appears that the Secretary-General’s order relieving the general was not implemented.”
Alexi Drogov sighed softly. Which means Inquisitor Jarn is dead…
“That is unfortunate.” Drogov knew the army was in bad shape, a pathetic remnant of what it had been before it fought a death struggle with Taylor’s veterans. But it was also the only thing with any chance of slowing the AOL’s advance on Geneva. Drogov knew Anton Samovich would never yield. He wouldn’t run either, not with the news from North America. The entire continent was in open rebellion, with widespread riots, and the Resistance in control of at least half a dozen cities. No, abandoning Geneva would be as good as surrendering.
Drogov took a deep breath. He knew what Samovich would do, and for once, even the emotionless, cold-blooded killer that he was felt a shiver of fear.
“Sir, we have our teams in position. We can’t stay hidden long. We have to move now.”
Drogov looked back at his aide. The Shadow Company was in place, all of it. He had planned and planned, studied every scrap of intelligence, commandeered half of UNGov’s satellites to his own purposes. He knew when Jake Taylor got up in the morning, when he ate, when he held his meetings…when he took a dump. All of it, more information that he’d need to plan an invasion. All to kill one man. And now it was time.
And it wasn’t time…not anymore. Killing Taylor would have been decisive, if he’d been able to do it before the battle. Or even before Akawa had surrendered the rest of UNGov’s military strength. But now it was too late. The war was lost…even without Taylor the AOL would prevail. The secret of UNGov’s great lie, the true story of how humanity ended up at war with the Tegeri…it was out, and there was no forcing it back into the bottle. The only way UNGov could maintain power was with massive force, gunning down rebels and protestors, drowning the rebellion in blood. But it didn’t have the force to do that, not anymore. Its enforcers had mostly been drafted into the army, and the majority of them were dead on the Russian plains…or prisoners of Taylor’s army, which he suspected would ultimately amount to the same thing.
Drogov was an amoral psychopath, at least in his own way. He’d never been troubled by useless emotions like guilt or fear. But he was rational, as rational as an AI. He was loyal too, though he gave his loyalty rarely. He’d known Anton Samovich since the two of them had been street rats, scavenging for food. He’d helped his friend, been the half of their team in the shadows, while Alexi stood in the public eye, rising through the ranks of UNGov. Anton had given the speeches, connived with the other politicians, crafted the policies and proposals. And Alexi had removed the obstacles in their way, usually burying them in some out of the way location. The two had been a team for as long as he had conscious memory. Anton Samovich was the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend. A brother.
But nothing lasts forever…
He didn’t sympathize with Taylor and his people, though he understood their motivations. But above all things, he was a realist. He knew what Samovich would do now, the great bluff he would play with Taylor.
But Taylor will never give in, he will never negotiate with UNGov. He is a zealot, committed in a way Anton could never understand. He will pay whatever price, endure any horror. And that will force Anton’s hand. His bluff will be no bluff at all. And in his final desperation, he will do the unthinkable…the bluff will become reality.
Drogov had thought himself immune to pity and the pain of others, but what Samovich would do shook even him to his core. He ached for his friend, and the thought of abandoning him was a difficult one. But he had no choice…
“Sir?” The aide was still standing next to Drogov. “Should I give the order, sir?”
Drogov turned and looked at the man. He paused for an instant and then he said, “No, Lieutenant. No.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Pull the men out…get everyone to the rally point.”
“Yes, sir…” The lieutenant looked confused.
“Just do it,” Drogov said softly. “I will explain later.” He turned and began to walk into the woods.
“Sir, where are you going?”
Drogov stopped and looked back. “Do as I ordered, Lieutenant. I have…something to do.” He turned back and continued into the woods, walking until the only sound was that of his boots on the snow.
I have to go see General Taylor.
* * *
“Get down!” Wickes shoved the last of his people down the stairs, and then he dove after them. Chunks of brick flew around as the autocannons from the UNGov airship fired into the narrow space, the heavy rounds shattering the masonry of the building. The rebels had left three of their number behind, dead in the street, gunned down as they tried to flee. The UNGov reinforcements reached New York just as Wickes and Charles had finished their broadcast. Half the rebels had already pulled out of the media center, but the others got caught by the arriving airships just as they were making a run for it.
The cellar was far from an ideal escape route, but Wickes knew they had no chance at all in the open. At least now, the ships would have to land
ground troops and send them after the rebels. They’d be outnumbered, and trapped in the narrow subway tunnels, but that was better than getting gunned down in the street.
At least Captain Charles made it. Or I think he did, at least.
Charles had gone around the back of the media center, off toward where his crew had landed their airship. The UNGov forces had pursued the Resistance fighters, and that gave Charles a chance to slip away.
For whatever good that will do him…
Wickes hadn’t known the AOL captain very long, but they had bonded quickly, each recognizing the veteran warrior in the other. And Stan Wickes knew Charles would never abandon his new allies. That meant he would come at the UNGov forces with his airship, do what he could to relieve the Resistance team. But there was a problem with that. UNGov had four airships, newly arrived, and Charles and his crew only one. They might distract the vessels, buy some time for Wickes to save some of his people. But they would likely pay for that with their lives.
Wickes felt the urge to climb back up the stairs, blast away with his assault rifle. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get a lucky shot in, disable one of the UNGov birds. But the thought faded. That scenario was unlikely almost to the point of impossibility…and even if he miraculously succeeded, three airships would still overwhelm and destroy Charles’ bird. No, his place was with his fighters, what was left of them. If he went out there and got himself killed, he knew none of them would survive. They needed him.
“Alright, down into the sub-basement, now…and through the tunnel. The subway’s our only way out, so let’s move!”
He started to follow, but then he stopped abruptly and spun around. Footsteps, and then a shadow, a figure at the door. For an instant he wondered if Charles had followed, but then he saw the uniform, one he’d seen far too many times. UNGov security. His people were out of time.
He whipped up his rifle and fired just as the first trooper moved into the doorway, diving for the cover of a pile of boxes as his victim hit the ground. Then the next came, firing back as he did. And another after that.
Wickes gritted his teeth and flipped his rifle to full auto. “Move, all of you…now!”
I’ll try to buy you some time, whatever I can…
And a vicious smile slipped onto his face as another two UNGov thugs went down under his fire.
It’s a good day to die…
* * *
Rod Charles stared at the display, watching the four UNGov vessels. One of them was hovering, firing at the ground, most likely at the fleeing rebels. Another had landed in the street, probably deploying a squad of ground troops. But the other two were coming at his bird. One of Colonel MacArthur’s crack crews might have managed a two to one fight and prevailed…if luck went their way. But his bird was far from that, just two regular airship crew, and ten others whose primary reason for being there was the fact that they were born within fifty miles of New York. Far from an ideal situation for a desperate, battle against the odds.
“Alright, we’ve got to take one of them down quick,” he said. “Gunners, prepare to fire.”
The two UNGov ships were coming on fast, about a thousand meters off the ground, above even the tallest buildings. His flyer was facing them. He wasn’t looking to close the distance any faster, so they were just hovering…and waiting. Speed wouldn’t be an advantage in this fight, just marksmanship.
“Okay, get ready. We’re going to launch the rockets…and then we’re going to hit the thrusters and climb. Got it?”
There was a ragged chorus of “yessirs.” Charles knew his people were well aware how little chance they had. But there was no panic, no disorder. They were veterans, and they behaved accordingly.
“Fire rockets,” he snapped to the makeshift gunners. “Thrusters full now…take us up.”
The ship shook slightly as the rockets fired, and then it lurched hard as the thrusters engaged, pushing them higher, in a likely futile effort to gain position on the enemy.
The UNGov ships had launched their own rockets almost at the same time, but the sudden climb confused their guidance systems. Two of them zipped by, impacting into buildings below. The other two swung around, their homing systems pinging hard, seeking a new lock on their target.
Charles stared at the display, hanging onto his chair as he watched the two rockets his ship had launched. If his people were to have any chance, he knew they needed a critical hit. It felt like a punch in the gut when he saw one of the weapons vanish, destroyed by enemy interdictive fire. Then, an instant later, the second one followed, exploding less than a thousand meters from its target.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes darted toward the screen tracking the two enemy rockets still in the air. One of them had reacquired its lock, and it was arcing around to come back at the airship.
“Defensive fire,” Charles muttered. But his amateur gunners were already on it. He watched on the screen as the rocket came closer…closer…and then the airship’s weapons fired.
The rocket vanished, disintegrated in the concentrated autocannon fire. A few seconds later his people took out the last enemy weapon. But by then the enemy ships were closing fast, their autocannons firing at full.
The ship shook hard, and Charles heard the sound as the heavy rounds tore into his bird’s hull. He heard a cry, saw a splash of blood against the wall, as one of his people fell, almost torn apart by the autocannon projectiles ripping through the hull. He’d barely turned, jumped from his seat and started toward the stricken crew member when another yelled. Charles turned and saw one of his gunners, the man’s arm torn clean off. He turned quickly. The man on the deck was dead, almost certainly. The gunner he could save. If he had time. He suspected all his people would be dead in a minute…
“Sir, we’ve got a third enemy ship closing.”
Charles felt the fight drain away from him. Whatever slim chance they’d had…it was gone.
Then, suddenly, one of the icons on the display disappeared.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the symbol was still gone.
“Captain, we’ve got incoming Dragonfires, sir. They’re firing at the UNGov ships!”
Charles looked back to the display, watching four more icons appear. There was an instant of shock, but then he knew what it was…what it had to be. It was their comrades. The other airships that had come to North America. They had responded to his calls.
Now it was a fight!
Chapter 23
From the Office of the Secretary-General:
I hereby order program omega-99 to be activated at once. All units are to be fully armed and authorized to accept final code.
“Guards!” Samovich screamed, the insanity clear in his voice.
The two soldiers raced through the door, guns drawn. They looked around the room, looking for any threat to the Secretary-General, but there was nothing. Nothing save the body on the floor, one of Samovich’s aides. The leader of the world stood behind his desk, staring out the window, pistol still in his hand.
“Sir!” the lead guard snapped uncertainly. “What happ…”
“Get rid of him,” said Samovich, the crazed intensity of his scream replaced by an eerie calm. “And get me a new aide, one who understands I have had all the bad news I am prepared to accept.”
“Y…yes, sir,” the guard responded. He motioned for his comrade to move toward the victim’s legs, and he slung his rifle across his back. Then he slipped his hands under the aide’s arms. The two security troopers exchanged glances that said one thing…let’s get out of here. They hurried through the door, carrying the body as quickly as they could.
Anton Samovich turned and tossed the pistol down on his desk, and he flopped down into his chair. Years…no, more than years. A lifetime. That is how long he had pursued this seat, this office. He’d held it now for almost a year and a half, and when he’d first strode into this room, he’d fancied himself the most powerful man who had ever lived. Secretary-General by unanimous vo
te. The rest of the Secretariat either his longtime creatures or old enemies, who had seen so many of Samovich’s foes die they were too scared to make eye contact with him, much less resist him. His word was law, his slightest whim and edict that all men obeyed.
Now it was slipping away. He could feel it. A few years ago, Taylor and his men were a threat, one that was far away, with a dozen armies between him and Earth. He was a rebel, a madman…but not a real danger, not a power capable of overthrowing UNGov. And now, Taylor’s army was moving forward, toward Geneva. Toward Samovich himself. He’d thought about running, about retreating to some city far from the invaders, to regroup and put up a new defense. But North America was in open revolt now, and UNGov’s terrible secret was out, spreading all around the world by now, no doubt. In another day, two at most, there would be unrest in every city. There was no place to go, nothing to do but make a final stand…right where he was.
“That traitor, Akawa,” he muttered angrily. That was the latest bad news, the dispatch the unfortunate aide had been sent to deliver. Not only did Akawa escape the Inquisitor Samovich had sent to execute him, he’d managed to retain control of the army despite the orders relieving him. And the son of a bitch had surrendered to Taylor…every unit UNGov had left in the field, now prisoners of that accursed rebel. There was nothing—nothing—between Taylor’s army and Geneva, naught save distance, and each day brought them closer. Samovich had a few days, at best, before the city would come under attack. He had guard battalions in place, but he didn’t fool himself that they could stand up to Taylor’s veterans.
Alexi, Samovich thought with a smile. Alexi will kill this rebel for me…
Even now he knew his longtime friend and henchmen was out there somewhere, with his elite commandos. The Shadow Company was the best UNGov had left under arms, and Alexi Drogov was the most gifted killer Samovich had ever known.
“And a loyal friend,” he muttered to himself. “Not like the rest of these traitors, ready to abandon me at the first sign of trouble.” He resented the members of the Secretariat, the other high-ranking officials. He knew their loyalty was based on fear. And they had as much reason to fear Taylor now as they did him. Taylor was a zealot, by all accounts a man dedicated to destroying UNGov root and branch. Samovich supposed the others in UNGov’s great headquarters were planning surrenders, deals they would make to preserve as much of their wealth and power as possible. They didn’t understand a man like Taylor…they imagined he just sought power for himself, that if they gave him the top position, he would treat with them, offer them a compromise.
