Fenaday booted one of their dead men into the corridor. The corpse jerked under bullet strikes. He yanked a fragmentation grenade off his belt and lobbed it down the corridor, then pulled Risky back into the skyway with him. The blast blew out windows on the outside of the building, taking out the lights in the corridor. Under the cover of the dust and blast, he threw his last grenade, going for distance. The skyway rocked again. Fenaday reloaded his carbine and leaned into the hall. At the far end, under emergency lights, he saw one man running away, helping a wounded comrade.
“Keep after them,” Fenaday yelled to his imaginary troops, firing short bursts from his carbine. The guards disappeared.
He ran back to Schiller. The young K-9 handler lay dead, eyes empty and accusing.
“Damn it,” Fenaday sank to his knees. His ears rang from the explosions and shots, and weariness dragged at his limbs. “Damn it all.” He turned to Risky next. The dog limped over to him, his armored blanket scorched and torn. At close range it couldn’t stop all the weapon fire. Fenaday put field dressings on the worst wounds using trauma tabs from the dog’s own aid kit. He took the shepherd’s head in his hands. Brown eyes looked back at him, containing an intelligence not human but more than animal.
“I have to go, fella. You’re hurt. Go find Rask. Understand? Find Rask and stay with him.”
The dog whined in disagreement. Fenaday repeated his instructions, pointing back the way they had come. Risky limped back across the skyway.
Realizing he’d used up most of his ammunition, Fenaday pulled extra clips off Schiller’s body. Re-armed, he ran out of the skyway and headed right. It took him away from the direction the guards had fled and toward where he last saw Shasti. Fenaday moved as quickly as he dared. His leather jacket shed most of the water, but his clothes under the body armor were soaked with water and sweat. The building’s air-conditioning struck a chill into him.
Fenaday padded along, trying to look in all directions at once. As he passed one door, it opened. Snapping around, he loosed a shot. A young girl, not long out of her teens, screamed. The bullet from the carbine missed, but the particle beam nicked her side. She grabbed at the wound and froze. Her perfectly engineered features looking at him in sheer terror.
“Hide, damn it,” he snarled at her
With a sob, the girl slammed the door.
Great, he thought, now I’m shooting kids. Fenaday started running. He reached the windows and looked out over the compound. A flash of movement caught his eye. Shasti, heading out of the burning main gate. He lost her as she left the pool of firelight. Fenaday sped down the stairs, throwing away caution. At the bottom, he kicked open the door. Sounds and smells from the battle awaited him on the other side. A blast pelted the area with debris. Dust and bits of paper debris swirled around him. He ducked back into the building, then dashed out, running low, bent almost double. When he reached the next bit of cover, he tried the mike. “Mmok,” he rasped, “Mmok, come in.” He got only splutter and crackle, a gabble of encrypted speech.
Hell, he thought, either the frequency is overloaded, someone is jamming it, or both. He wondered if they were unlucky enough to be using the same frequency as Pard’s troops. In any event, he could get no help. Jamming would not affect Mmok’s telemetric control of the robots, but he had no way to break into that secure circuit.
He got up, starting out low, and ran about a hundred meters. Then firing broke out in front of him. Fenaday hit the dirt and rolled. Nothing struck near him. They’re shooting at somebody else, he realized, feeling momentarily weak with relief. He fast-crawled on his belly until he could see into the plaza ahead. The terrace he lay on extended over a broad building front, lined with columns. A squad of Pard’s troops had caught some of Rask’s troops on the street. The ASATs were in the open with only a burning aircar to hide behind. As he watched, one ASAT dropped and his teammates dragged him back into cover.
Damn, if he ran off after Shasti they wouldn’t last a minute. He battled with himself for a second, then Schiller’s face came back to him. Fenaday cut right, until he reached a raised section of terrace behind Pard’s troops. Return fire would sweep him away easily, but he had no other choice. He lay prone, switching the selector to full auto to alternate mini-grenades, particle beam and depleted uranium slugs. Wishing for some more real grenades, he sighted in on the furthest man, squeezing off a burst. The Olympian dropped. His rear armor couldn't handle the hammering at close range. Mini-grenades sprayed the others with shrapnel, causing more panic than harm as fragments rattled off their armor. Fenaday dropped another man before the Denshi located him.
Pard’s troops snapped around. Fenaday hit another man. This one did not go down, armor or luck. The carbine clicked empty: mini-frags gone, capacitor and magazine empty. I’m dead, he thought numbly. I hope it doesn’t hurt.
Return fire blazed around the prone Fenaday. Shots spalled the marble he lay on and chips cut him through gaps in his armor. A mini-frag banged off over him. It felt like a gorilla bouncing off his back. With a scream, he rolled, frantically grabbing for his laser. Again he fired in a flashing, wasteful arc. Not deadly but enough to make men flinch and spoil their aim. Below, the ASATs saw Pard’s troops lit by the sweep of the laser. The ASATs poured fire up on the Denshi. Most fell, others fled into the interior of the building. The ASATs made the bottom of the stairway, continuing their duel with the Denshi in the building.
They can fend for themselves now, Fenaday thought, amazed at still being alive. I’m after Shasti. Fenaday ran back toward the gate, reaching for his last clip only to find it gone. He slung the empty carbine, running on armed with only a laser and his long Scottish dirk. The palm tingler in his laser pulsed, warning him of depletion. Maybe two or three short bursts left.
Reaching the gate, Fenaday quickly checked the bodies. Civilians mostly. The few dead soldiers’ weapons lay either empty or smashed. No help there.
Here I am, he thought, running from an inferno. Out of ammo, alone in the dark. Chasing a crazed superwoman and a deadly superman. This simply sucks.
Loosening his Scottish dagger in its sheath, he settled into his best running pace. It wasn’t very fast. He stayed on the main road, chugging along past scrubby brush and small twisted trees. His breath rasped, and his ribs grew sore. Ships’ captains did not get much chance for marathons. He did not know if Pard and Shasti fled on the main road. If they went cross-country, he’d never find them. He was no tracker. Fenaday reasoned that Pard’s best chance lay in getting over the bridge spanning the gorge. Reinforcements and escape lay that way.
After two miles he stopped, fighting the desire to retch. More time in the gym, he promised himself, if I live. Pushing forward into a trot, Fenaday dropped most of his equipment, including the empty carbine. He took a mouthful of water from the canteen, then left it by a large gray boulder.
The eastern sky ahead began to lighten. A winter storm filled the sky with clouds. Thunder rumbled. Fenaday threw away the heavy helmet with its night vision equipment. He kept only the short-range talker, his knife, laser and aid kit. He struggled on for another two miles before realizing he needed to drop the body armor. Shasti ran like a gazelle. Pard was either no slower or had quite a lead since Fenaday had not caught up to them. Fenaday shrugged off the heavy body armor, even his leather jacket. A stern chase is a long chase, he thought grimly, flogging himself back into a run.
I’ve got to find her, he prayed. I’ve got to. If you’re out there, if anyone is out there, I’ll trade you anything just to find her alive. He’d made the same desperate plea the night the young lieutenant arrived to tell him Lisa was lost. No one answered then either.
Fenaday thought about the aerial maps he’d studied. Mountains to the left confirmed he was still on the main road. The ravine ran north to south in a curve. Pard would not double back as Fenaday’s force had attacked out of the mountains to the west. They had to be on this eastern road.
As if in answer to his thoughts, firing broke out a
head. Fatigue forgotten, his legs lengthened into a flat run.
*****
Pard loped on. Even at his age, he could outrun the fittest standard human male. His pursuer was not such; she was Engineered, younger, fitter, closer to perfection. At some point, he needed to make a stand. With luck, he might make the bridge before she caught up with him. Most of the troops there would have raced back to the compound when the attack began. A few would remain on the bridge to defend it or, if needs be, explode it.
He knew she’d trailed him out of the camp. Her lithe body made her the better runner, but she hadn’t overtaken him. He must have hit her. Pard alternated AP’s and hollow points in his personal sidearm. The hollow point squash-heads would not penetrate her body armor. Still, the smash of one would disable most men. She was not a man, she was Unknown Generation Engineered. Her body recovered amazingly fast. With luck one of the APs might have cut through. Whichever struck her, clearly it had done some damage.
Cresting the last hill before the gorge, Pard stopped in dismay. The gate post was shot up, part of it burning. He could see bodies scattered at the bottom of the hillside. One of the robots must have cut them down as they raced back to defend the compound. Pard hurried on. The men were beyond help, chewed to pieces by medium-caliber weapons. One of the guard’s weapons looked usable. He scooped it up gratefully, heading for the bridge.
A shot slapped the reddish soil next to him. In a trained response, he dropped like a man shot, then lunged under the cover of the smoke, diving into the burning structure before she could retarget him. Stupid, he thought. Both of us. Me, for stopping beyond cover; you for a hasty long-range shot. To the master assassin’s trained mind, the shot spoke volumes. It expressed desperate rage. Had she waited, she could have caught him out on the bridge. Not the cool, killing skill of an assassin at all. She’d be no closer than the last hillcrest, five hundred meters away. Too far for laser or particle beams. She must be low on ammunition to fire only a single shot.
So, he thought, wounded and alone, low on ammunition, you chase me. Ah, Rainhell, did I train you no better than this? Perhaps you were never more than a bed toy after all.
Pard moved deeper into the damaged building. He could not chance the bridge with her above him. He’d have to run five hundred meters under her gun. She would not miss a steady, aimed shot over such a distance.
A sensible person would stay on the hill, under cover, keeping him in check, unable to go forward or backward. Make it a question of whose reinforcements arrived first, Denshi’s or hers. She would not, he judged. She would come to him because she dared not take the risk Denshi would arrive first. She wanted to kill him herself, so she would close, sacrificing her advantage. Fool, he thought. Assassins kill without passion and flee when they miss.
Casting about in the wrecked building, he searched for a vantage on the hillside, hoping to hit her as she came on. The back of the guardhouse did not offer a good view. It did not face the hillside squarely. He could not use the burning section, and smoke hung heavily on the hillside, eroding his view further. At best he might get a deflection shot. He set up by a shattered window and checked his weapon. One mini-frag. Damn.
Even expecting her, he failed to anticipate the tigery rush she made from cover she’d somehow reached unseen. The tri-auto bucked in his hand, particles, the mini-grenade and bullets hit just behind her. Pard cursed as the weapon’s battery pack hissed. The particle beam began to sputter. He ejected the magazine, six rounds of caseless 5MM left. He’d shot off the two clips for his sidearm earlier. Her long shot had done her some good. He lacked the time to either field strip the weapon or check other bodies for ammunition or power packs. Bitch, he thought, she is going to make today one of those days.
Warily, he moved back, leaning into the smoke-filled corridor, searching. She must be inside by now. A fearsome smile lit his face. It had been years since he faced a worthy opponent face-to-face. Suddenly she appeared at the far end. A beam snapped by his ear. He returned the favor from a diving roll. More fire broke out as their beams hit flammable material.
Pard dropped to his belly behind a metal desk at a T-intersection. There was less smoke and better air. He saw her booted leg in an eddy of clear air and cut loose with the particle beam, playing it like a hose. A cry rewarded him. The sputtering particle weapon cut out. Shasti did not fall, leaping instead to disappear into the smoke again.
One for me, he thought, if only a hot foot. It must have hurt. She didn’t get a return shot off. He switched positions, starting to move down the corridor just as a burning drapery behind him flared up. It silhouetted him as he lunged toward the nearest office door. An AP round slammed into his side. Body armor and the angle diminished the blow but could not stop the round from penetrating. It dug a gouge an inch wide, six inches long on his ribs.
“One for you,” he muttered, shrugging off the pain. Blood loss he could not dismiss so easily. It poured down his side. Unlike Rainhell, his generation of Engineered lacked built-in bio-medical self-repair. We were built big and tough, he thought, and I am the biggest and toughest of all. He tore strips from his jacket, then stomped through the wall into the adjacent room, gaining distance and time to bind his wound.
More smoke billowed as the fire spread. Pard opened a window and stepped out, rifle in front of him, intending to circle the building and flank her.
He came out on the bridge side. A breeze played here by the canyon. Immediately to his right, the road split to go around the white outpost building that looked directly across the bridge. Sun must be up, he thought, light’s still bad though. He heard a rumble of thunder and spared a glance for the clouds.
Pard crept down the side of the building, crouching as he passed under the windows. A loud bang sounded behind him as something inside blew. Glass shattered over his head as Shasti Rainhell leapt out the window, choking on smoke, landing square on his back. It was the last thing either expected. She fell heavily on him, sending them both sprawling. His weapon flew out of his hand. She hit the ground on her back. Quick as a cat, she jumped up. Only slightly slower, Pard surged to his feet. With a roar he smashed the tri-auto out of her hands with a backfist. The weapon discharged, spalling the wall behind him. Chips cut them both. He lunged forward to grapple. Rainhell, her beautiful ivory face twisted, green eyes blazing, stomped a foot in his sternum, grabbed his jacket and, dropping backward, threw him over her head. He hit heavily. They both scrambled to their feet and lunged for each other. They flashed in and out, trading kicks and blows. Rainhell drew a long-bladed knife and waded in. He blocked, took a cut to the arm, but got a grip on her wrist. Her knife spun away into the canyon.
They squared off a pace apart. Shasti, so big among regular humans, looked slender and fragile next to him.
“Bastard,” she spat. “You low-life bastard.”
“All this way to tell me that,” he taunted. “My little Shasti, have you never grown up?”
She screamed and plunged in, hands flashing. Pard smiled and leaned into her. Mass still counted. He had twice hers.
Rainhell spotted the bandage on his ribs then slammed a roundhouse kick in. He feigned a stagger and caught her in the face with a fist. The blow rocked her. He followed up, putting her on the defensive. His huge foot booted her midsection and doubled her over. With one hand he reached under, lifted her and flung her into the bridge abutment.
*****
Fenaday raced through the smoke and around the building. He saw Shasti. Pard stood over her, slamming her head against the bridge.
“Paaaaaarrd,” Fenaday screamed, rushing down on him. The giant ceased battering Shasti’s head against the railing, whirling to face him. Fenaday snapped off two shots. The first hit Pard’s shoulder, making him drop Shasti. She sprawled face down on the gravel road, unconscious or dead. Pard dodged the second shot. Fenaday’s laser sputtered on the third shot. The beam, too weak to cut through Pard’s vest, still caught it on fire. The big man backed against the railing, batting at t
he flames. Fenaday flung the pistol at Pard’s head, tucked into a forward roll and lunged into Pard’s belly, dirk in hand. The impact rocked Pard back against the bridge railing. He lost his balance. Fenaday slashed wildly with the knife, connecting in Pard’s gut. He shoved until he felt like his back was breaking.
As Pard toppled over the rail, his hand snapped down on Fenaday’s neck, pulling him up and over.
Fenaday desperately grappled with Pard as the genetic superman’s hands found purchase in a girder. They stopped with a neck-breaking jerk. The dagger came out of Fenaday’s hands as he clawed for handfuls of Pard’s clothes. He pulled himself upward on the giant’s back, wrapping his legs around the barrel of Pard’s chest. The huge Engineered’s head snapped backward. Fenaday leaned aside. Pard’s fist crashed down on Fenaday’s thigh, and the feeling left his leg. Fenaday reached around with both hands, gouging both of Pard’s eyes. Pard screamed.
Fenaday grinned in savage satisfaction. But victory was short-lived. From inside his vest, Pard produced a small knife. He reached behind him, the blade pointed downward in his huge hand and slammed the small blade into Fenaday’s back. Fenaday’s breath left in an agonized gasp. Pard still hung by his right arm, his face a gory mask. He pulled the blade out for another stab. Fenaday reared back, the wild smile of the Irish, seen in many a losing battle, on his face. He slammed blows into Pard’s right elbow. The joint gave a wooden crack, and Pard howled. The Olympian dropped the knife, gripping the girder with his left hand, as Fenaday, shrieking like a madman, struck the right elbow again, snapping it.
Fearful Symmetry (The Robert Fenaday and Shasti Rainhell Chronicle Book 2) Page 24
