by J. L. Doty
Hackla kept them low, less of a target, skimming the roof-tops of a semi-residential district. The tallest structure in the area appeared to be the main embassy building standing on the horizon dead ahead. The pilot banked to one side, began a turn while decelerating and lifting the nose to gain altitude. The view in York’s visor suddenly shifted to a camera in the side of the craft, and as they rose above the city they circled the embassy slowly.
The embassy compound consisted of one large, square, six-story structure, several smaller buildings that were probably residential, what looked like a small barracks, and a large garage for surface craft. The whole was surrounded by a stone wall about three meters high, with wide avenues between buildings that had probably been spacious gardens, but now seethed with a mob that overflowed the compound wall and spilled out into the streets beyond, a sea of faces that swelled and rippled like the waters of some human ocean.
As Hackla banked One and began dumping altitude, a sharp ping reverberated through the gunboat’s hull, some fool with a rifle taking shots at impers.
A small crowd of people were gathered on the roof of the tallest building waving frantically at One as it approached. Vents and climate control equipment cluttered the roof, but there were also several stretchers lined up. York keyed his com. “Sergeant. Are you watching this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Apparently our people only control the top two floors of that building. When we hit the DZ secure the roof and those two floors. There’s also a member of the royal family down there—one Princess Aeya, daughter of the emperor. Find her. Put one of your best people on her. Tell him to stay with her no matter what, and to keep her alive.”
“Think this is more than just a riot, Cap’em?”
“I’m not paid to think, Sergeant. Hackla, can you hover about ten centimeters above the roof?”
“You got it, sir.”
York switched to the pickups on his helmet, which gave him the illusion of a transparent visor, though to someone facing him it would appear an opaque, shiny black. The boat’s drive whined for a moment, then steadied to a low hum. “Cap’em, we’re zoned for drop.”
York popped the clips on his safety harness, stood, stepped up to the hatch. He slapped the hatch release, and with a hiss and outrush of air the hatch slid quickly into the bulkhead. He stepped out, dropped to the embassy roof, heard his marines fanning out behind him. Palevi and Tathit knew what to do without York’s interference.
Harshaw stepped in front of him. “Lieutenant Ballin, you can’t believe how happy we are to see you.”
York flipped his visor up, and with it open the chant coming from the mob below was a deafening roar. Behind Harshaw a cluster of people were crowded about a single stretcher. “Who’s on the stretcher?” York asked.
Harshaw looked over his shoulder. “Lady Sylissa d’Hart. She’s—”
“Where’s the princess?”
Harshaw flinched at the interruption. “She’s the young one,” he said, indicating a young girl in her mid teens, wearing an unadorned coverall, kneeling beside the stretcher. She was crying.
York stepped around Harshaw to the stretcher. The princess looked up and stood to face him. Harshaw bowed deeply. York bowed too, but in the armor he was limited to a much shallower bow, and he saw the princess’ eyes flash angrily at what she ignorantly considered an affront. She started to say something but stopped suddenly, and looking over York’s shoulder she demanded angrily, “Where’s it going?”
“One lifting,” Hackla said on the com, “clearing for Two.”
“There isn’t room for two boats on the roof,” York said, “not if it isn’t absolutely necessary.” As an after-thought he added, “Your Highness.”
“But Syl’s hurt,” she pleaded, “badly. We have to get her up to your ship now, before she dies.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. But I have to stabilize this situation before we can evacuate anyone. And we’ll need both boats if a fight starts.”
“Well it’s up to you to see to it a fight doesn’t start. And Syl’s dying. I command you to evacuate her instantly.”
Clearly, logic would have little influence on her. He keyed his com. “This is Ballin. I want a medic on the roof immediately.”
He stepped around the princess and bent over the woman on the stretcher. She was about York’s own age—mid thirties—and in obvious pain, clutching one arm tightly to her chest. Somehow she forced a smile to her lips, managed to choke out, “Sorry to be so much trouble.”
York tried to give her a reassuring smile, though the way the phets chewed on his nerves it probably looked more like a snarl. At that moment a female medic knelt down beside him.
“Lady d’Hart,” York said politely. “May my medic to examine your wound?”
The woman nodded, apparently finding speech too difficult.
The medic went to work immediately, cutting away the bandages the embassy people had improvised.
Palevi’s voice spoke on York’s command circuit. “Top two floors are secure, Cap’em. Where you want them mortars?”
“Here on the roof. I want to be able to target any place in the city.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, one more thing, sir. It’s real quiet down here all of a sudden. These fish are up to something. We’d better get the hell out of here, or start a fight.”
“Captain!” the princess shouted at him. “Don’t ignore me.”
She was starting to get on his nerves. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’m not ignoring you, but this is a very unstable situation we’re in and—”
“I don’t care. I command you to take Lady d’Hart up to your ship. Now.”
York looked at the medic. “How bad is the wound?”
“Fragment of a rifle slug, sir, just below the left breast about four centimeters under the skin. Didn’t do much damage, just some bleeding which I’ve already stopped. Want me to remove it?”
“Is she critical?”
“Na,” the medic said, shaking her head.
“Then don’t bother. Field prep it, give her something for the pain and report back to your squad.”
“Captain!” the princess shouted. “I demand that you obey me. Now.”
“Aeya . . .” the injured woman groaned. “Let Captain Ballin do his job. I’ve been waiting for several hours. I can wait a few more.”
“But Syl,” the princess pleaded. “You’re hurt, and in pain.”
With the little snot distracted York took the opportunity to get lost. He grabbed Harshaw, growled, “Stay close to me, and show me how to get below.”
A large hatch in the roof opened onto a stairway that led to a small storage room filled with janitorial supplies; no sign of the maintenance robot that should have been there. Harshaw led him out into a hallway jammed with people, many injured, some badly, and at least a hundred crammed into this one hallway. York turned on Harshaw angrily. “How many people you got?”
“A little over a thousand.”
“A thousand?” York demanded. “I was told less than two hundred.”
“Imperial citizens, yes, Captain. The rest are Trinivanian locals who’ve—”
“Then start cutting out the locals.”
“But the Trinivanians have to be evacuated too—”
“No locals,” York growled. “Imperial citizens only.”
That brought a mixed reaction from the crowd. On many of their faces the already visible fear turned to near panic, and anger.
“But Captain. You don’t understand—”
“I said no locals.”
“But that’s a death sentence for these people.” As Harshaw spoke the princess stepped out of the janitorial closet behind him. “These people were part of the embassy staff. If we leave them behind that mob’ll tear them apart. The Empire is responsible for their lives.”
“We refuse to abandon them,” the princess added. “Not one member of the embassy staff will board your shuttle if the Trinivanians are not included.”
> York looked at her carefully. She was just young enough to be just stupid enough to mean what she said, though at the look on Harshaw’s face he wondered if the embassy staff felt as strongly about it as she. Oh hell! he thought. He could drag her onto one of the boats, but that would only get him court-martialed. “I have to ask my captain,” he said, and without waiting for a reply he flipped his visor down and keyed Invaradin’s command frequency. “Invaradin. This is Ballin.”
The wait was much longer than would have occurred had there been anyone else at the com console. “What do you want, Lieutenant?” Sierka demanded unhappily.
“We’ve got problems down here. I need to speak with the captain.”
“Captain Telyekev is busy.”
“Please tell him I wish to speak with him.”
“He’s too busy to be bothered—”
York interrupted him. “I’m asking you, the communications officer, to relay an urgent message to my commanding officer while we are on alert status.” York had to quote regulations at Sierka to get anywhere. “Failure to do so at the earliest possible convenience can be construed as dereliction of duty in the face of the enemy.”
There was a pause. “And you, Lieutenant, are insubordinate.”
York didn’t answer. He waited, and it took even longer to get a reply this time, but Telyekev finally came online. York explained the situation quickly, though through his visor he could see that, for Her Highness, it was not quick enough.
“She’s right,” Telyekev said. “They’re our responsibility. What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know, sir. Our assault boats are too small; we’d have to make too many trips. Take too long. Maybe the Diana. She’s got to have a cargo shuttle big enough to carry them up in three or four trips. At the same time we can send imperial citizens up in the boats, and we marines can follow last.”
“You’ve got it, Lieutenant. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. That cargo shuttle can’t hover over the roof like our boats. She’ll have to put down on the lawn, and that means I have to secure the entire compound.”
“I understand, Lieutenant. I’ll have the Diana’s shuttle awaiting your orders. And try not to damage too many of the locals.”
A burst of automatic weapons fire erupted up the stairwell from below. York crouched against the wall on the fifth floor, watched the burst tear into the ceiling above, splattering chips of masonry across the debris strewn floor. In reply one of his marines slung the muzzle of his rifle blindly over the edge of the stair and cut loose with a burst of his own.
York keyed his com, tried to sound confident. “All set, Sergeant?”
“All set, Cap’em,” Palevi answered.
York dropped his visor. His armor seals inflated and his ears popped. He keyed his com. “Visors down and seal ‘em up. Tathit, check in.”
Corporal Larwa Tathit was on the roof with Palevi’s best sharp-shooters. “We’ve got four of their ringleaders clearly identified, Cap’em. On your orders we’ll burn ‘em. Until then, standing by.”
“One and Two?” York demanded.
“This is Hackla holding at three hundred meters, Cap’em. All systems are hot. Standing by.”
“This is Two. We’re go, Cap’em.”
York made a mental note to ask someone the name of Two’s pilot. “Very good. Sergeant Palevi, count ‘em off.”
Palevi barked some orders into the com and the marines repeated their count. York looked up the hall. Earlier he’d had Harshaw move all the civilians up to the top floor and the roof, and now the fifth floor was empty except for York’s marines.
They’d finally found Cienyey, the imperial ambassador, hiding in the com room, interfering with Lassen and pretending he was there to be on hand for any communications from Invaradin. York couldn’t restrict a royal ambassador’s movements so he’d assigned a marine to dog his heels. He also had marines dogging the princess and Harshaw.
The stairwell was a continuous shaft from the top floor to the basement, with a landing and a doorway on each floor, and an intermediate landing half way between floors. It was Palevi’s idea to take only one of the building’s two stairwells, leave the other on the opposite side open so the panicked mob could escape. Now all they had to do was panic the mob.
“All marines accounted for, sir,” Palevi barked.
“All right,” York said. “This is Ballin. Listen up. Remember, all we want to do is clear the compound, not take prisoners or do a lot of killing. Once the action starts, if they stand and fight, or come at you, do what’s called for. But when they turn and run, let them go. But go ahead and unload a few rounds at their heels, help ‘em remember which way to run.
“Along those same lines keep use of the A-P gas to a minimum. We’re going to use it heavily in the stairwells, less so in the hallways and building proper, but outside I just want them uncomfortable and scared. If you over-do it and we end up with a lot of twitching, unconscious civilians, it’s going to be you who’ll have to carry them outside the wall and dump them in the street.”
York looked at Palevi. “Anything you’d like to add, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“Tathit. Your snipers ready?”
“All set, Cap’em.”
York looked down the hallway at his waiting marines: lined up, ready to file into the stairwell at his command. Oddly enough he was a little proud of them. They were good at what they did, and if nothing else, they were consistent. York unclipped his sidearm from his thigh plate, thumbed the safety. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go.”
Palevi handed him a gas grenade, a cold, gray cylindrical canister with a readout on one face. “After you, sir,” Palevi said.
York bent into a crouch, stepped onto the landing of the stairwell with Palevi behind him, thought he could imagine the grin on the sergeant’s face.
York keyed his com. “Tathit. Take out those ringleaders. One and Two. Start gassing that mob. All units go!”
York triggered his grenade, dropped it over the edge of the landing. One second later it let out a loud whoof, followed by a cloud of green smoke wafting upward. Someone below responded with two pistol shots that chinged off the landing above them.
Using the smoke as cover York jumped to the intermediate landing in a single bound. Half a flight below he caught a glimpse of a lone figure partially hidden by the green haze. The man was turned away from him, clutching desperately at his eyes as he aimed a pistol blindly in the wrong direction and fired a single shot. York bounded down the half-flight of stairs, landed behind the man and kicked him out into the hallway on the fourth floor. The man staggered for a moment; York was about to follow him when he heard the unmistakable scream of a large rotary wind up to a firing rate of several hundred rounds per second. The hallway erupted with streamers of tracer fire crisscrossing from both ends.
Two rotaries, York realized as he watched the man cut to pieces by dozens of small shells. He started to back up the stairs but before he’d moved a step the streams of fire converged on the open stairwell door; the stairwell walls exploded in York’s face and he went down amidst the scattered rubble. He keyed his com, screamed, “They’ve got rotary emplacements at both ends of the hall.”
York curled up in a tight ball as the two cannons tore at the wall, hurtling fist-sized blocks of masonry against his plast-armor, redlining his reactor pack. Over the com Palevi shouted, “Cap’em’s pinned down. One and Two. Take out the southeast and southwest corners of the fourth floor. On the double.”
The cannons continued to rip away at the wall for a few seconds, then York heard the crump of a large shell, felt the building shake, and one of the rotaries went silent. An instant later he heard another crump, the building shook again and the scream of the second rotary ceased.
“That changes the rules,” Palevi growled over the com. “Advance with caution. And don’t take chances.”
York struggled to pull free of the rubble as several marines sprinted past him to take up
positions at the gaping hole that had once been the stairwell door. He right leg was still stuck beneath a small piece of wall, and he was tugging at it when several gauntleted hands grabbed him by the armpits and hoisted him to his feet. “You all right, Cap’em?”
York shook his legs and arms: no pain; his suit status showed all green: no breeches. “I’m okay.”
“Let’s try ‘er again, eh sir?” Palevi handed him a grenade and crouched by the hole in the wall leading to the fourth floor. York pressed his back against the wall on the other side of the hole. Small arms fire zinged and spattered up and down the corridor. Palevi smacked his grenade against the wall, tossed it up the hall at an angle. York followed suit, tossing his down the hall. Another whoof; more green smoke. A bullet zinged off his armor.
Palevi nodded at two of his marines, both carrying small four-barreled portable versions of the emplacement rotaries they’d just faced. The two marines jumped through the door, turned back to back, dropped to one knee, sprayed shot up and down the hall. The sound of their weapons made York think of a cutting machine grinding away at thick steel. Then abruptly they ceased fire, and on queue Palevi’s top corporal, a man named Baddin Hyer, filed through the doorway between York and Palevi with forty marines behind him.
Palevi held out another grenade. “One more time, eh sir?”
York took the grenade, turned away from the fourth floor hall and back to the stairwell leading down to the third floor landing. He triggered the grenade, tossed it down, waited for it blow and waft the green smoke up, then jumped to the intermediate landing, saw something moving in the swirling, green mist below him. He took no chances this time, squeezed the trigger on his grav-gun; the bullet hit something, exploded with the muted thump of a fragmentation shell.
York took the stairs two at a time, halted at the door to the third floor hall and pressed his back against the wall. A stream of bullets spattered at the door jam.
Palevi and five marines joined him on the third floor landing. One of the marines handed him a grenade. “Careful, sir. That ain’t gas.”
York looked at the canister in his hand, a fragmentation grenade with a one-pound rating. At some time in the past he’d had to learn what a pound was, recalled only that it was some archaic measure of the weight of an archaic chemical explosive used to rate the yield strength of modern explosives. Someone called over the com, “One pound hot.” A moment later the building shook, and he realized Tathit and her marines were using the same explosives on the floor above. York thumbed the timer for a two-second delay, touched the trigger, stepped against the wall again and tossed the grenade up the hall. He turned his back to the doorway and keyed his com. “One pound hot.”
