by David Weber
He staggered to where the phone lay on the floor and picked it up. He reseated the receiver, paused for a kysaq, then picked it up again. Dwomo be thanked, there was a tone, and his nasal flaps rose in a smile as he dialed the number of the cutout.
“Chyltak’s Bakery,” a voice said on the other end.
“I got your shipment,” Sydar replied, “but it was damaged in transit. It looks like it was subject to severe damage. I haven’t opened it yet, but I don’t see how anything could be intact.”
“We’re sorry,” the voice said. “We’ll send a replacement as soon as we’re able.” The line went dead.
Sydar replaced the receiver on the phone, then dropped it to lie amid the rubble. He looked out the window once more—the Earthians appeared to be having an issue with a natural gas line that was burning merrily nearby, hampering their recovery efforts—then he hobbled towards the door and left as quickly as his battered body was able.
* * *
“DAD! DAD!”
Malachi Dvorak didn’t remember dismounting his Airaavatha. He ran towards his father’s demolished vehicle, left arm raised to shield the side of his face against the bellowing demon of flame gushing from the ruptured natural gas line, and as he ran, he realized Mbarjet Celaj was right behind him. Unlike him, however, she’d unlimbered her Bronto.
“Oswald!” he heard Captain Berarroa announcing over the com net. “Oswald! Troy, we have an explosion!”
“Troy copies.” Rob Wilson sounded almost obscenely calm in Malachi’s implant. “Ground One, I need a report from you,” he continued, and this time Malachi heard the edge in his voice.
“Troy, three of the Airaavathas are down,” he heard his own voice say, and he didn’t recognize it. He could feel it gusting and flickering with terror for his father, but there was no sign of it in the words actually coming out of him. “I say again, three Airaavathas down. And the Secretary’s vehicle is—” he heard a quaver at last “—badly damaged.”
“Rescue and medical personnel are en route,” Wilson said. “ETA ten minutes. I say again, ten mikes.”
“Understood.”
Malachi slid to a halt beside the shattered Airaavatha. It lay crazily canted on its left side, rent and torn, despite its armor, by the force of the explosion. He opened the cover, grabbed the emergency override latch for the starboard hatch, and heaved, but nothing happened.
“Shit!” he snarled and dropped back down to the belly hatch. The latch cover was buckled and twisted, and he rammed his fingers under its warped edge, wishing desperately for his Heinlein’s exoskeletal strength. He heaved with all his might, but it didn’t even bulge.
“Margie!” he snapped.
“Right here, Boss.” Her voice was amazingly calm as she slapped him on the shoulder. He looked around, and his eyes widened as she handed him the krystar prybar she’d had the presence of mind to snatch from their vehicle before she followed him.
He grabbed it from her with a look of profound thanks even as he cursed himself for not remembering the same thing, then shoved the end of the bar under the cover’s lip and threw every one of his eighty-four kilos of muscle and bone against it. Nothing happened for an instant, and then metal screeched in protest as the cover yielded.
He reached in, yanked the handle, and almost sobbed in relief as the belly hatch, despite its surface damage, opened. He had to heave it fully open, and then his heart seemed to stop.
None of them had been strapped in.
Patricia McGillicuddy lay on her back, head twisted at an impossible angle, surprised gray eyes open and staring at something she would never see again, and the interior was drenched in blood. The driver’s corpse was still at the controls, virtually decapitated by a flying sliver of armorplast spalled from the inside of the canopy, and much of the blood coating every surface had to have come from her. Her wing hadn’t bled as badly, but he was either unconscious or dead, and David Dvorak—
Malachi’s vision blurred as he took in the unnatural angle of his spine, the blood pooling under him, and tried to access his phone. There was no signal, so Malachi leaned in through the hatch and made himself touch his father’s limp wrist. For an endless moment he felt nothing at all, but then something fluttered faintly against his fingertips.
“Troy, Ground One,” someone else said with his voice. “We have at least two dead, but Secretary Dvorak is alive. I don’t know for how much longer. He’s unconscious; I estimate his spine is broken, and he appears to be bleeding heavily. I can’t tell how badly because he’s lying face down on top of the wound.”
“Troy copies. Can you move him?”
“Troy, I’m afraid if I try to move him and his back is broken I’ll kill him.” An icicle went through Malachi as he said the words.
“Ground One, I understand. But medical is still six minutes out. If he’s bleeding as badly as you say he is, we may lose him.”
Malachi Dvorak closed his eyes, then he inhaled deeply and opened them again.
“I understand, Troy,” he said, and crawled in through the belly hatch. He looked back out at Celaj, his eyes dark. “I’m going to need another pair of hands, Margie.”
“Right here, Boss,” she said gently. “Right here.”
. XV .
CITY OF SHALTAR, DESQWER;
CITY OF SYRZHYR, REPUBLIC OF NEW DIANTO;
CITY OF KWYZO NAR QWERN, QWERN EMPIRE;
AND 50 KILOMETERS NORTHWEST OF
THE CITY OF KWYZO NAR QWERN, QWERN EMPIRE,
PLANET SARTH
“This is how we assemble our latest aircraft,” Terkyr TerJarGen said over the noise, extending a hand to indicate the production line below the catwalk on which they stood. Darkness had fallen outside, but the work continued; Terkyr had already mentioned the factory ran all sixty hours of the insanely long Sarth day.
James Ivanov nodded as he looked down, realized his mistake, and shook his head. He smiled as he listened to the familiar pounding—it wasn’t too different from the way Russia had assembled its aircraft back in his younger days. Quality control was always an issue, so the people in the assembly line would put the next piece into place and beat it into position with a ball-peen hammer if it didn’t fit. He still probably had a few calluses after the years he’d spent doing exactly the same thing.
He surveyed the line with a practiced eye. Although the Sarthians were very different in their looks and attitudes, there were still a number of similarities between the two races. The form of the cockpit was different due to the Sarthians’ physiology, but the aircraft was easily identifiable as a fighter, and he was curious how it would have stood up to similar craft from World War II back on Earth.
Lost in his reverie, it took a second for the scene below him to register on his conscious mind as one of the Sarthians on the line pulled a pistol from its pocket, turned towards the guard standing at the base of the catwalk, and shot him through the head.
The report from the pistol was louder than the hammering, and the background noise ceased as the workers turned to see what had caused the unexpected sound. By then, the Sarthian with the pistol was already charging up the catwalk’s steps towards Ivanov, and he was pushed to the side as the two members of his security detail moved to intercept the gunman. Both humans fired nearly simultaneously, and the Sarthian was thrown backward down the steps. As the body hit the floor below, Ivanov could feel the vibrations of many feet pounding along the catwalk, running towards him, and he turned to greet them.
“It’s—” was all he was able to say before he saw the barrel of the pistol pointed between his eyes. Several other Sarthians rushed past towards his security detail, but they were no more than a blur as Ivanov’s eyes focused entirely on the pistol’s muzzle.
Which meant he had a great view of it as it fired.
* * *
IT WAS RAINING hard in the city of Syrzhyr, New Dianto. Kelsyr FirKelMel nor Surak heard it drumming on the kitchen roof as she turned and motioned her followers forward with her free ha
nd.
The kitchen staff lay dead behind her. Only one of them had managed to find a weapon—even in a kitchen where knives were handy—before her team put them down. They’d even captured one of the serving staff and stripped her of her uniform kilt before killing her; Kelsyr now wore that kilt as she led the assault team towards the dining room where the negotiations were being held.
Kelsyr approached the double doors and looked through the crack between them. It was as she’d been briefed to expect. All the delegates sat at a long table that ran the length of the room. The intermixed Sarthians and Earthians sat talking to each other animatedly. At the far end of the table, seated in the position of highest rank, sat Representative Jane Simmons, her target.
She turned back to her team. “She’s here,” she said, shaking her head. “Give me five seelaqs.”
They shook their heads in agreement, and she took a deep breath. Releasing it, she turned back to the doors and pushed through them, careful not to spill her tray of beverages. Smiling with her nasal flaps, she walked the length of the table, acknowledging various requests from the Earthians and the members of the New Diantian Sitting.
As she reached Representative Jane, she heard a sudden buzz from the far end of the table and knew without looking that her team had entered the room with their weapons drawn. She tossed the tray of drinks aside and pulled her other hand out of a pocket, her pistol already set to fire.
The tray hit the floor as the members of her team began firing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the door behind the representative swing open as she pulled the trigger. The woman in the doorway blurred, and Kelsyr was catapulted into the air to crash down on the table as the slaughter continued.
* * *
MELTAU FIRKELMEL WAS the last of the group to enter the room. As the junior member of the team, his duty was to stand guard at the double doors and ensure no one made it out. His mate, Kelsyr, would perform the same task at the other end of the room once the representative was dead.
He watched as Kelsyr cast aside the tray in a fountain of spilled drinks and started to smile as her pistol came out and pointed down at Representative Jane. Kelsyr was exactly where she was supposed to be, her moves were flawless, and her timing was perfect.
But that was as far as the perfection went.
From his position at the end of the table, he had a perfect view of the door at the other end of the room as it swung in with enough force to shatter the wall with its entry knob when it slammed back, revealing a tall Earthian with long, dark hair.
The female—he’d seen her several times while spying for the group and knew the Earthian was female—moved faster than any being he had ever seen; if she hadn’t been coming straight at him, he doubted his eyes could have kept up with her. She had nearly a cheran to cover in the time it took Kelsyr to pull the trigger—it was an impossible task, but she nearly made it; she struck the barrel of the pistol just after the bullet had left it, and then hit Kelsyr with enough force to catapult her through the air.
Shocked by the Earthian’s speed and power, Meltau froze, unable to move, as the female raced down the length of the table, chopping the necks of his team members faster than they could react to stop her. Pop! Pop! Pop! The bones breaking sounded like the reports from the team’s pistols just seelaqs before.
She circled around to the other side of the table in a blur of motion, killing the rest of the team. Meltau’s mate struggled weakly on the table, and the Earthian raced towards the movement. The Earthian took Kelsyr’s head in her hands, looked into Kelsyr’s eyes, then brutally twisted Kelsyr’s head around in a complete circle to the crunch of her shattering spine.
“No!” Meltau cried, his pistol finally coming up, seemingly of its own accord.
The Earthian turned towards him and the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. She took a step towards him.
He fired, and she took a second step. He didn’t see how his first bullet had missed, but he fired again. She took another step, and the corners of her mouth rose higher. Before he could fire a third time, she blurred again and appeared right in front of his pistol. Her hands reached towards his head, and he fired again.
The bullet passed through the Earthian without any effect at all. Her hands touched the sides of his head, and he had a moment to mouth a quick prayer to Chelth as he realized to his horror that the Earthians really were the demons that Sokyr ChelSo had declared them to be. Then his neck snapped, and he didn’t worry about it anymore.
* * *
ON THE OTHER side of the planet, Theodore Berke dove through the door into the café’s storeroom and Flock Lord Consort Pantyl slammed it behind him. Berke cued his AI to access the military’s tactical operations command and control net. “Troy, this is Representative Berke in Kwyzo nar Qwern! Come in! I need help!”
“Representative Berke, this is Troy.” The voice sounded bored. “You know you don’t have authorization for this circuit, correct?”
“I know, damn it, I know! But I’m being attacked, and I need help!”
“Roger. Understand you’re being attacked.” The voice sounded much more interested and professional this time. “State the nature of the assault and what assistance you need.”
“I’m at a café in the city where I was having lunch with one of the Qwernian ministers. All of a sudden, a group of Sarthian gunmen attacked us!”
“Understood, Representative Berke. I am sending assistance. Drones and forces en route. Say status of your protective detail?”
“I don’t have a protective detail!” Berke wailed. “Abu Bakr took the duty section when he went out with Minister Cholkyr. Flock Lord Consort Pantyl brought along several of her soldiers and told me she’d provide security! I didn’t think I’d need anyone else!”
“Understood. Relief force ETA five minutes. Drones in three.”
“Hurry!” Berke transmitted. The sounds of gunfire continued from outside the door. If anything, they were louder now. “I think they’re getting closer!” He looked down and realized he’d wet himself, but couldn’t remember that happening.
The clock ticked slowly. He could hear Flythyr MuzTolFlyth firing from the other side of the door; the terrorists—or whatever they were—were close, if they’d gotten past the flock lord consort’s bodyguards. Berke found he couldn’t stop shaking, and it was all he could do to keep his bowels from letting go, too.
Then he jumped as the voice from Troy came back.
“Drones overhead,” it said. “It looks like there are five people shooting from the street into what may be a café of some sort.”
“That’s us!” Berke couldn’t contain his excitement. “We’re on the inside!”
“Roger. Firing.”
Berke didn’t hear any firing, but the ground jumped from several explosions close by. There was no more firing from Flythyr in the stillness that followed; Berke had no idea whether that was because Flythyr no longer had any targets or because she’d been killed.
“Targets neutralized,” the voice said. “Troopers inbound.”
If the sensation of the earlier explosions was a jolt, the next round of explosions was an earthquake. The ground shook with the detonations, and smaller, secondary explosions followed immediately. There was a pause, then crashing sounds took the place of the previous gunfire. At a guess, it was tables being turned over or thrown aside. There was a tremendous clatter, then an augmented voice commanded in Qwernian, “Drop the pistol and step aside.”
Additional crashing followed, and Berke had just begun to worry about the building’s structural integrity when the door to the room was torn off its hinges, revealing a trooper in Project Heinlein armor. The trooper bent over—the doorway was sized to Sarthian standards—and looked into the room.
“Representative Berke?”
“That’s … that’s me,” Berke said. He found he had a hard time finding his voice; the cyborg-looking trooper was incredibly intimidating, even when you knew it was on your side.
“Follow me!” the trooper ordered. He turned and stalked towards the front of the building, weapons at the ready, and Berke followed. As he exited the room, two things were apparent. The last crashing sounds he’d hear had been the trooper tearing up the ceiling of the passageway so the armored suit would fit, and that Minister Flythyr was wounded. Blood flowed from a couple of wounds.
“Wait!” Berke called. “We need to take the Minister with us!”
“My orders don’t include her,” the trooper replied, scanning the remains of the dining area and the street immediately outside the café. Three other troopers were on guard in the street, and Berke could see the bodies of the troopers Flythyr had brought with them. They were behind tables and benches where they’d died, defending him.
“We need to…” Berke replied. He had to pause as he was overcome by the gore in the restaurant. In addition to the dead soldiers, a number of civilians had been killed, and blood was everywhere. “We need to help her. She’s a minister … and she’s wounded. Wounded defending me! We can’t leave her here—our mission will suffer if we do!”
“Sir,” the trooper replied, “my orders are to retrieve you, and that’s what I’m going to do. You can either get on the Starfire yourself, or I’ll carry you aboard. The choice is yours.”
Berke looked back at Flythyr, who was following at a cautious distance. The Qwernian had a noticeable limp and blood dripped from her left leg. “No,” Berke said, coming to a halt. “You need to at least call your superiors and tell them I said we need to bring her.”
The soldier muttered something, but then said, “Okay,” and came to a halt. He continued to scan the area around them while he called for clarification.
“You got your wish,” the trooper said after about thirty seconds. “She can come with us, but we need to get out of here now!”
