by Mick Farren
As it turned out, Baptiste took a day and a night to reach the city. There was plenty of warning of his approach. General Zeum had organized a system of signal fires all along the river, starting just a few miles below the rapids. As Baptiste's force was sighted, the fires were lit and those who had been keepingwatch made themselves scarce. From the intervals at which new fires flared in the dark, it seemed that the raiders were moving very slowly. The moment the first signal was sighted, Reave, along with the Minstrel Boy, who also seemed unable to sleep, climbed to the same vantage point on top of the gatehouse from which they had watched the parade of the Grand Army. They stared silently at the pinpoints of flame in the dark. The beloved Master had ordered the pseudostars extinguished for better visibility, and the night beyond the lights of the city was black as pitch. Reave could imagine the line of ragged men with their cruel, hard faces and worn-out mounts. In his mind's eye he could see the drooping necks of the spavined lizards as they dragged themselves toward yet another slaughter.
'This has got to be the end to it, one way or another.'
The Minstrel Boy, who was watching from farther along the parapet, straightened up and looked at him. 'You say something?'
'Just talking to myself.'
'Just as long as you ain't talking to one of those gods they're so strong on around these parts.'
Reave laughed despite himself. 'You know me better than that.'
A sudden burst of music cut through the night air of the quietly waiting city, complex cascading figures from a chromacon played by an expert.
'Clay Blaisdell.'
'Grandstanding as usual. Trying to make it into history.'
Reave smiled, but he could not shake the oppressive melancholy. The music only made it worse. 'You think we'll hear him play that thing again?'
The Minstrel Boy looked at Reave in shocked surprise. It was not like Reave to give in to that kind of pessimism. 'Will you put a cover on that talk?'
Out of the flatland, beyond the city walls, other lights were moving. Zeum's preparations for repelling the invaders were in full swing. Reave had to admit that even though it was a suicidal fantasy, it was also a textbook defense. Neat shield squares were positioned in staggered rows, taking maximum advantage of the contours of the ground. If Zeum had been expecting three hundred Spartans, he would have been in fine shape.
The raiders came across the horizon just as the first gray ofdawn flashed gold with the coming sun. Just as Reave had imagined, they were strung out along the riverbank, black shapes plodding through the early morning ground mist like a dejected wolf pack, dispirited as men can be when there is no alternative except to perpetuate the horror. Reave could feel it as strongly as if he were down among them.
In comparison, Zeum's troops were magnificent. Their white tunics and scarlet plumes were dazzling. The sun flashed from their armor, and the horses of the small cavalry unit pranced eagerly. Reave turned away. It was too depressing to watch. They were quite insane.
The Minstrel Boy yawned. 'So now they're here, what do we do?'
'Absolutely nothing. I'm going to stay right here and observe.'
The Minstrel Boy looked curiously at Reave, who seemed to be in the grip of a grim fatalism. It was probably time to start getting everyone drunk. It might be the only way to get through the day.
The engagement started painfully slowly. At the same plodding pace, the raiders turned inland from the river. The Minstrel Boy noticed that there were no armored vehicles with the column. It was possible that they had no more fuel. They crossed the top end of the flatlands until they were spread out in a loose skirmish line — and there they stopped. They did nothing except lean on their saddles and wait. They reminded the Minstrel Boy of a flock of vultures waiting for a death in the herd.
The herd, or to be more precise, the leader of the herd, did not seem content to let death come in its own sweet time. General Zeum, followed by his aides and executive officers, clattered out of the gates below Reave and the Minstrel Boy on a huge black charger with a blond mane and tail. He cantered past the series of squares, doffing his plumed helmet and accepting the organized cheers of his legion. When he reached the last square, the one closest to the line of Baptiste's raiders, he reined in the charger. He was too far away for those on the gate tower to actually hear the order, but the intention was plain.
'I see it, but I don't believe it.'
Of all the stupidity Reave had witnessed since he had arrived in Palanaque, Zeum's act had to be the crowning folly. With a crash of drums, the square nearest the line of raiders advanced.
Close-ordered and in half-time lockstep, they moved on the enemy, spears advanced, banners spread, maintaining a perfect formation. It took just five raiders to cut them to pieces. They slipped from their saddles, took a couple of paces forward, and, without the slightest pretense of taking cover, raised their weapons just as though they were shooting at targets on a range. The casual way they opened fire was nothing short of insulting. Taking their time and picking their shots, they gunned down every one of the hundred men in the phalanx. The bloodily bizarre part was that the hoplites did not falter. They stepped over the fallen and just kept going. Even when there was only a handful of them left, the Palanaquii made no attempt to halt their advance, let alone run away or otherwise try to save themselves. At no time did the hoplites attempt to throw their spears: That would have been a breach of discipline. As the smoke drifted away from the litter of bodies, the raiders holstered their weapons and climbed back on their mounts. One at a time the Palanaquii squares moved up and changed position, filling the gap left by the massacred hundred.
The Minstrel Boy sighed and shook his head. 'I guess this is going to be repeated over and over until there are none left.'
Reave turned and leaned against the parapet. 'I won't be sticking around to watch it.'
The Minstrel Boy was looking toward the river. 'I think something else is about to happen.'
An armored car was racing along the riverbank, leaving a cloud of dust. Reave turned and looked. 'That's Baptiste himself.'
'And what's this?'
There were a pair of specks in the air above the horizon, leaving white contrails against the blue of the sky.
'Oh, shit, they do have aircraft.'
The specks were growing rapidly bigger and taking on recognizable shapes.
'A pair of box-wing deltas. I wonder where the hell Baprtiste recruited them from.'
The two identical dark blue needle-nosed aircraft with strange box-kite wing formations were coming in fast and low. They swept over the line of raiders in a roar of rocket motors. Their nose-mounted cannons began to flash and stammer. They roared over the Palanaquii squares little more than ten feet off theground, strafing as they went. While the dead fell and the dying kicked and screamed, the survivors rigidly held their position. Again there was no attempt to find cover, and no order was given to do so. As the leading plane approached the city wall, it lifted. The Minstrel Boy sprang at Reave and pushed him down into the shelter of the parapet. A line of small explosions stitched their way across the gatehouse roof. They lay huddled beneath the wall as the second plane followed the first. When it passed, the Minstrel Boy scrambled to his feet.
'WeVe got to get down from here before they come back.'
The two planes screamed on across the city, following the path of the main central boulevard. Halfway to the pyramid the first aircraft loosed the rocket that was slung beneath its fuselage. The rocket hit the pyramid about two-thirds of the way up in a burst of red fire and black smoke. The targeting of the Great Pyramid might have been a fine piece of symbolism, but for tactical effect it was a complete waste of ammunition. The marble surface was burned and shattered, but the underlying stone structure was virtually indestructible. Before the second delta could fire, there was the roar of a third motor.
'What the fuck does he think he's doing?'
Jet Ace was rising straight up into the air, his dorsal rocket firing at f
ull power.
'Does he really believe he can take on both of them?'
'He's always wanted to be a hero.'
The deltas had spotted the flying man and were turning to meet him. The leader opened fire, but Jet Ace executed a quick forward loop. He extended his right arm and loosed a massive focused heat blast. It struck the first plane directly in front of the rocket housing, and the delta blew apart like a bomb going off. Debris spiraled down over the city. Watching the spectacle. Reave and the Minstrel Boy completely forgot about their own safety.
'He got one! He goddamn got one!'
'Watch out for the other one, Ace! He's above you!'
The remaining delta had gained height and was turning to attack. Jet Ace let go with another blast, but it went harmlessly by the enemy aircraft. He desperately tried to gain height, but the delta pilot had him in his sights, and only a fast swooping roll saved him from being nailed by a burst of tracer. The rocket man and the airplane both came around, each in a tight Immelmann, each jockeying to lock onto the other's tail. Jet Ace proved to have the greater turning power. He fired again and hit the delta somewhere aft. Smoke streamed from the body of the plane, and it began to lose height.
'He's going down! He's going into the river!'
Just seconds before the delta hit the water, the pilot fired his missile. The rocket began to climb and turn.
'Damn it! He hasn't seen it.'
'It's behaving like a heat seeker.'
Jet Ace had his back to the missile. His arms were spread, and he was stationary in midair, riding on his powered-down dorsal rocket.
'He's taking a fucking bow.'
Almost like a swimmer, Jet Ace pushed forward and executed a slow victory roll. The missile was almost on him. It was likely that he never knew what hit him. There was little of Jet Ace left after the explosion, except for the shrapnel that rattled down on the streets and roofs of the city. The Minstrel Boy turned away.
'Now we're six.'
Although the behavior of the defenders during the fall of Palanaque seems scarcely plausible, the diaries of General Zeum that so miraculously survived the destruction tend to confirm, albeit from the general's uniquely psychotic perspective, the major details that are recounted in the legend. Although their seemingly mindless suicide may appear aberrant in the extreme, it was far from unique in human history. Frederick Barbarossa marched his crack troops over cliffs to their deaths to demonstrate their blind obedience to visiting dignitaries. Both the Poles and the Finns sent cavalry into battle against German tanks in the war against the Nazis. The Zulu nation engaged the British at the first Battle of Rourke's Drift. They had spears, while the British were armed with breech-loading Martini rifles. There was, however, one difference in this instance. The Zulus won.
— Pressdra Vishnaria
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
'Hear this, people of Palanaque. The options in frontof you are painfully simple. Your army is gone, and your city will be mine in the time it takes to burn through this gate. If you force me to do that, I shall go on burning until there is nothing left of your city except its ashes. People of Palanaque, I am Vlad Baptiste, and it is not for nothing that men call me the Torch.'
Baptiste stepped back from the microphone and paused to let the threat sink in. He was a square, Napoleonic figure in a stained leather coat, flowing scarf, and black goggles. His feet were planted firmly on the roof of the armored car, and his hands were clasped behind his back. The car was drawn up in front of the gates of Palanaque, but his amplified voice could be heard all through the city.
'There is one way that your city can be saved from destruction. I want the metaphysicians from Krystaleit. Deliver them to me, and I will spare the city and place it under my protection.'
After the destruction of the two aircraft and the death of Jet Ace, Baptiste had stopped playing with the Grand Army of Palanaque, and the raiders had gone about their fast and systematic extermination with bloody efficiency. A tearful Parshew-a-Thar had watched the slaughter, all the time demanding that his men be given real weapons. Unfortunately, that religious reform had come too late to do them any good, and they died to the last man. With only the gates of the city separating them from Baptiste, Reave and the Minstrel Boy decided it was high time they withdrew to the pyramid. When they arrived there, they found the entrance sealed.
'You think Showcross Gee's double-crossed us?'
The Minstrel Boy looked around tensely. 'I kind of figured that he'd keep his word.'
Baptiste's voice boomed on. 'I, Vlad Baptiste, will personally guarantee that any group of individuals who delivers the metaphysicians to me will be given control of the city under my own ultimate jurisdiction.'
It occurred to the Minstrel Boy that maybe Baptiste did not in fact want to raze the city. Maybe he actually needed a base in which to rest up and regain his strength. The Minstrel Boy could imagine just how unbearably wretched life would be in any city that had the Torch as its ruler. He had more important things to worry about, however. There was still no suggestion that the entrance to the pyramid was about to come open for them. On top of that, Baptiste was setting a deadline.
'You have one hour. If the metaphysicians are not delivered to me in that time, I will commence to destroy the city and its population.'
The Minstrel Boy looked around anxiously. 'Where the hell are the others? You think they're inside already?'
Reave did not answer. He was scanning the boulevard for any sign of Billy, Renatta, or Blaisdell. 'This is one sorry time for them to go missing.'
Gord the driver helped Baptiste down from the roof of the armored car and folded away the microphone. The raiders were drawn up in front of the city walls in four ranks. The only casualties they had suffered so far were the two delta pilots who had been lost to Jet Ace. The warriors sat hunched in their saddles as though they were quite ready to wait forever.
Inside the city, on the other hand, there was a considerable sense of urgency. The beloved Master had not missed Baptiste's implication that if he did not hand over the metaphysicians, there were plenty in the city who would, and that it was unlikely that he would survive such a transaction. It was not that Parshew-a-Thar had any objection to turning the metaphysicians over to Baptiste and what was undoubtedly their certain death. The problem that had him screaming hysterically at his retinue was that he was not sure if he was going to be able to deliver them.
'What about those brutes that they have protecting them, those bodyguards with the weapons? They're almost as bad as Baptiste's men. Am I supposed to face those animals myself?'
The first that Reave and the Minstrel Boy knew of all this was when General Zeum, followed by all that was left of his army, came striding down the boulevard toward them. The general had decided not to perish with the Grand Army. When he had finally realized that the situation was hopeless, he had hastily withdrawn inside the walls with his aides and a small personal guard.
'I think he's on his way to ask us for Showcross Gee and his gang.'
'Are you going to give them to him?'
Reave glanced back at the pyramid. 'Not unless they open up the door.'
The Minstrel Boy swatted at something with the flat of his hand. It was a thin silver cylinder about the size of a cigarette. 'Goddamn snooper.'
The snooper skittered away, easily avoiding the blow, flew off to a safe distance, and hung in the air, apparently watching the two of them.
'I figure that little sucker belongs to Showcross Gee.'
'At least he's still taking an interest in the outside world.'
'The outside world is getting a little radical for me. I wish he'd open that door.'
General Zeum and his band of men were two-thirds of the way along the boulevard. Reave and the Minstrel Boy were momentarily distracted as Billy Oblivion came around the corner of the pyramid. He looked out on his feet, but he did have the multiplex slung over his shoulder.
'Did the world end yet?'
'You vanished again.'
'I decided that I'd jag out during the slaughter.'
'You're fucked up, Billy.'
Billy glared at the two of them with hung-over belligerence. 'Oh, yeah? I suppose you two feel a whole lot better for watching it all happen?'
'Do you have any idea what's happened to Renatta or Blaisdell?'
Billy shook his head. 'I've been out for the last hour.'
'But you heard Baptiste?'
'Couldn't miss him.'
Reave pointed to Zeum. 'We think the generalissimo is coming for the metaphysicians.'
'Is he getting them'.'
'I don't think so. Not yet, at least.'
Zeum was only fifty yards away. The hoplites with him appeared to be armed only with spears, but it was hardly the moment to take chances. Reave drew one of his pistols.
'I think it's time to put the brakes on this.'
He held up a hand and called out to Zeum. 'That's quite far enough.'
Zeum ignored him. Reave drew his pistol, took quick aim, and sprayed the road surface a few paces in front of the general. Zeum and his men stopped dead.
Reave yelled again. 'Do you hear me, General Zeum?'
'I hear you.'
'If you have something you want to discuss with us, you'll have to come up here on your own.'
Zeum turned for a hurried discussion with his aides. Then he started walking alone toward the plaza in front of the pyramid. Even in the face of what had to be considerable stress, he still maintained his confident military stride.
Billy shook his head in wonder. 'Is he terminally stupid, or what?'
The general started up the steps to the plaza. Reave stopped him halfway up with a gesture of his pistol.
'You can say your piece from there.'
'You must be aware of the current situation.'
Reave nodded. 'We heard Baptiste's ultimatum.'
