The scout broke into a rare grin. His teeth were white. “She locked herself inside DeVane’s cargo bay. The com gear belongs to him.”
The Boolys laughed, and Kattabi shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Yes, sir,” the frequently insubordinate scout agreed. “You probably will.”
Acosta smiled grimly as the lights flickered and came back on. De Vane was testing to see how far her control extended—and searching for the means to reassert himself.
She glanced around. There were six control panels in the bay, each protected by a door. She had opened every one of them, scanned the handheld technical interface, and used the onboard tool kit to make some modifications. Nobody was going to open the door, not without shutting DeVane down, or cutting their way in. A real possibility if De Vane allowed them to do it.
So, while the technician couldn’t control the quad, she could monitor his actions, and use his com gear. Did he know that? Acosta wasn’t sure but didn’t really care. Whatever was, was.
The deck swayed and pushed against the legionnaire’s boots. The quad was on his feet! The technician grabbed a handhold as the deck shimmied from side to side. The bastard was trying to kill her! To bash her brains out against a bulkhead!
Acosta hung on for dear life as the deck tilted, bucked, and swayed. Tools flew every which way, and the technician swore as one hit the bulkhead inches from her face.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour but was no more than a minute, DeVane broke it off. His voice was hopeful. It boomed over the intercom. “Acosta? Are you there?”
The cables that connected the vid cams to the cyborg’s com system had been cut. Should she answer, and run the risk of another round of cybernetic calisthenics? Or remain silent, and invite an attack on the door?
The legionnaire sat down, strapped herself in, and offered a response. “Yeah, I’m here, shit-for-brains, living in your guts. What’s up?”
The quad went crazy. Legionnaires looked on in open-mouthed wonder as the machine danced around the bay, bellowed obscenities, and crashed into walls.
Finally, after Acosta had tossed what remained of her breakfast, the quad calmed down.
Careful lest the borg catch her off guard, Acosta scurried around the bay, stored the tools, and took her seat. That’s when she made the call.
It took the technician the better part of ten minutes to talk her way past a com tech, a sergeant, and get Kattabi on the horn. He was calm but suspicious. “Dog-One here... go.”
Acosta didn’t have a call sign, so she made one up. “Roger, Dog. This is Flea... I could use your help.”
Kattabi laughed. “We’re all ears, Flea—how ’bout a sit rep?”
The ensuing conversation lasted for the better part of fifteen minutes and was hampered by the fact that there was no way to ensure security.
So, in spite of the fact that Acosta could confirm that a mutiny had taken place, there was no real resolution. Neither of them liked it, but the next moved belonged to DeVane, and he was crazy.
The cell, which was the most uncomfortable his jailers had been able to find, still smelled like the previous occupant, a thief named “Lucky” Luko, who really was lucky, and had been released to make room for officers and loyalist scum.
Though a large man, General Stohl seemed smaller now, as if the loss of authority had left his skin only half full.
Still stunned by the hand fate had dealt him, Stohl sat with his head bowed, trying to collect his thoughts. The beatings had been painful, but the humiliation hurt most of all. How could they? Didn’t they realize who he was? The Legion’s most senior officer. The leader of...
A door slammed. The general stood and backed into a corner. The worst part of the beatings was not knowing when they would occur. The lack of surety caused fear—something the officer had rarely experienced.
A man laughed, an old-fashioned key rattled in the lock, and the door squealed open. Stohl squinted into the handheld light. Private Zedillo hated officers—especially generals. His voice was sarcastic. “Ooops! Sorry, General, sir. I didn’t know you were in a meeting. My apologies.”
Poor though it was, this example of wit was still sufficient to summon a chorus of guffaws from the hallway. Stohl sank into the corner and tried to shield his swollen face.
Zedillo, who had taken beatings nearly every day of his rather truncated childhood, shook his head in disgust. “Get a grip, General—what will your officers think? Besides, we’re gonna have a parade—and you get to lead it! Nifty, huh?”
Zedillo turned. “O’Dell! Get your ass in here! The general needs a hand.”
Stohl whimpered as the mutineers dragged him out of the cell and down the hallway. Other officers, confined to cells on either side of the corridor, watched in silence.
One of Algeron’s supershort nights passed into day as a line of artillery shells marched down off a low-lying hill, exploded with the same ruthless efficiency as the computer that controlled them, and hurled fountains of dirt high into the air.
Kattabi waited for the barrage to end, strolled out of the CP, and nodded to a sentry. “How’s it goin’, Hays? Better keep your head down. Those idiots might get lucky.”
Hays laughed, just as she was supposed to, and told Corporal Laskin. He told Sergeant Mutu—and the entire battalion had the story within the hour.
“Yup,” everyone agreed, “there ain’t nothin’ that bothers the old man, ’cept cold tea, and stupid orders.”
None of which would have surprised Kattabi, who knew that the troops took a considerable amount of comfort from such anecdotes, and tried to keep them happy.
Major Kitty Kirby frowned as her boss wriggled up next to her, produced his binoculars, and scanned the distant fort. She considered Kattabi’s predilection for leading from the front to be admirable, but somewhat misguided, given how important he was. She couldn’t say that, however, not to his face, so she made room instead. “Welcome to the Hotel Algeron, General. Where the days are short, the nights are cold, and the accommodations suck.”
Kattabi’s response was lost as the fort’s well-sited artillery fired another mission. The shells soared over the officers’ heads, landed half a mile to the rear, and made the ground shake. The General lowered his glasses. He yelled to be heard. “So, Kitty, what do you think?”
Kirby was as different from her commanding officer as night is from day. She had been born into a prosperous merchant family, attended the academy, and graduated with honors. But, unlike some of her peers, she respected officers like Kattabi. “I think they’re letting the computers run the show. This latest barrage lacks the kind of finesse that a true dyed-in-the-wool arty officer would toss in. Stuff like backtracking, leapfrogging, and just plain guessing.”
Kattabi grinned. “My thoughts exactly. Assuming the red legs survived, they’re locked in a cell. Some noncom is calling the shots and doing it by the book. And why not? They have intel from our spy sats and know we won’t fire on them. Not with all those prisoners... not if we can avoid it. How ’bout deserters? Have you seen any more?”
Kirby nodded. “Yes, sir. Twenty of them went over the wall about an hour ago. Half were killed in the minefield, sentries nailed two of them, and the rest made it to safety. That’s more than forty so far. We can thank DeVane for that. He’s crazy, and the muties know it.”
Kattabi shrugged. “He’s got problems... but so have we.”
Kirby nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The voice belonged to com tech Salan. Dog-Six to Dog-One. Over.”
Kattabi touched his ear and spoke into the wire-thin boom mike. “Dog-One... go.”
“We have the Navy on a long-haul push. One, maybe two ships, ETA thirty-six hours standard. Over.”
“Contact? Over.”
“Negative, sir. Not with field stuff. The muties could reach ’em though. Over.”
“Any reason to think they have? Over.”
“No, sir. Over.”
“Thanks, Six.
Keep me advised. Over.”
A shell exploded in midair. Both officers kissed dirt as the device hurled bomblets in every direction. The explosions rippled along the side of a hill. Two legionnaires were killed and a third was wounded. He screamed, grabbed his thigh, and started to swear. A medic arrived, slapped a self-sealing dressing on the wound, and radioed for a stretcher.
Kattabi spit dirt. “They’re getting better.”
Kirby shrugged. “Practice makes perfect.”
The general turned to the fort. “De Vane needs to win... and he needs to do it now. Those ships could be loaded with mutineers—or packed with loyal troops. He’s hoping for the former, but scared of the latter. Pass the word.... When the barrage lifts, DeVane will attack.”
Kirby questioned the certainty of Kattabi’s prediction, wondered if something less precise might be in order, but kept her opinions to herself.
Heavily armed troops and cyborgs packed the immense parade ground. Orders were shouted as infantry units assembled, servos whined as quads picked their way through the crowd, and radio traffic crackled as Trooper IIs and IIIs took their assigned positions.
Though reasonably well organized, the revolution lacked the precision officers would have insisted on. That bothered some of the troops, who knew Kattabi was good and didn’t want to die.
One level below, DeVane ran one last check on his systems, tried to ignore the unwanted passenger, and lumbered up the ramp.
The cyborg knew Kattabi could keep the mutineers bottled up inside the fort if that’s what he chose to do, but didn’t think he would. Partly because he was an ornery old bastard, and partly because he hoped to settle the matter before the Navy arrived, for the same reasons that DeVane did.
A victory would enhance the cyborg’s status if the vessels were friendly and strengthen his position at the bargaining table if it happened that they weren’t. He paused at the top of the ramp.
“Let’s get this show on the road. Strap the general into position, open the gates, and let’s kick some ass.”
Stohl had been sitting for about an hour by then, arms around his knees, ordering God to save him.
The officer struggled as the guards jerked him to his feet. They half carried, half dragged the prisoner across the parade ground. A metal cross had been welded to the front of DeVane’s quad. They wrestled Stohl into position, tied his arms to the crosspieces, and secured his feet to an eyebolt.
“There,” DeVane said callously. “Officers should lead from the front—don’t you agree? Hey! This would be an excellent time to consider the nature of your relationship with Kattabi. How much shit did you heap on the poor bastard, anyhow? Enough to piss him off? What goes around comes around. Should be interesting.” Stohl soiled himself and started to gibber.
A cheer went up, the gates opened, and De Vane marched out.
Kattabi, his elbows resting on the quickly melting snow, watched the quad appear. Not just any quad, but one with monster features, and a cross welded to its bow. Kattabi felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
The officer increased the magnification, and the heretofore unrecognizable blob leapt into focus. There was no mistaking the staring eyes, the contorted face, or the horribly bared teeth. It was Stohl.
Kattabi felt an irrational surge of anger. Damn the miserable sonofabitch to hell! Damn him for allowing such a thing to happen, damn him for being alive, and damn him for putting me in this position!
Kirby nudged his arm. “The man on the cross ... Did you see who it is?”
Kattabi answered without lowering his binoculars. “Yeah, he’s hard to miss.”
“So what should we do?”
The words seemed to hang there as Kattabi considered his options. One solution was to ignore Stohl, attack, and let the chips fall where they may.
But what if their positions were reversed? What if it were he on the cross? Or an officer that he liked and respected? What then?
And what about the troops? How would they view Stohl’s death? As an understandable sacrifice? Or the act of a commander so ruthless he couldn’t be trusted?
Surely some of them felt sympathy for the muties, would be muties if given the chance, and might turn on him.
There was movement in front of DeVane’s quad. Nothing much, but strange nonetheless. Kattabi raised a hand. “Hold ... what’s going on out there? Do we have an observer that far forward?”
Kirby got ready to say no, looked through her glasses, and saw riders emerge from a gully. There were two of them, both humans. One led the other. Major Booly and Connie Chrobuck! The older woman turned, met Kirby’s gaze, and smiled. The salute was parade-ground perfect. Her husband, face toward the enemy, sat straight and tall.
De Vane spotted the interlopers, swung his Gatling gun in their direction, and prepared to fire.
Kattabi saw the movement and yelled into his mike. “What the hell are they doing? Get them out of there!”
Kirby shook her head sadly. “Too late for that, sir. DeVane has a lock.”
Kattabi knew his XO was correct, swore as Chrobuck drew the long-barreled pistol, and knew what she would do. They had been officers themselves, understood his dilemma, and were determined to help.
Chrobuck took one last look at her husband, at the towers of Algeron, and the planet she called home. There was time to inhale the cold, clean air, marvel at what life had given, and say good-bye to her son.
The pistol shots were flat and dull. Stohl jerked under the impact, fell forward, and hung from his wrists. The battle had started.
The Gatling gun opened fire. A hail of metal tore the riders and their mounts to bloody shreds. Cheered by DeVane’s victory, and encouraged by their noncoms, the mutineers continued to advance.
A lump formed in Kattabi’s throat. He turned to Kirby.
“Kill the bastards. Kill every damned one of them.”
Kirby nodded, gave the necessary orders, and watched her armor move out onto the killing ground. Static roared as both sides initiated electronic countermeasures, energy cannons burped coherent light, and missiles flashed from launcher to target.
A quad exploded, a Trooper II somersaulted through the air, and one of the personnel carriers veered into a ravine. Legionnaires piled out, found some cover, and set their mortars.
The fight was far from one-sided, however, as DeVane led his troops forward, killed a Trooper III, and massacred its analogs. Artillery, firing from within the fort, dropped a curtain of steel behind the loyalist forces.
Kattabi watched the bloodshed and knew the terrible truth: No matter who won the battle... the Legion would lose.
It was warm within the cyborg’s metal belly, very warm, and Acosta wiped the sweat off her brow. DeVane had cut the air-conditioning half an hour before. The heat had slowed her work and forced the legionnaire to rest.
She braced herself against the cyborg’s movement and watched the monitors above her head. Naa Town passed to either side, and riders appeared ahead. One of them fired a pistol. Both ceased to exist as the Gatling gun growled and the hull shook.
The brutality of the action was like a bucket of cold water. The technician came off the bench, grabbed the power drill, and resumed her work.
The motor produced a high-speed whine as the bit chewed its way down through quarter-inch steel plate. The metal was thin compared to the external armor, but thick enough for her.
Acosta struggled to keep her balance as silver shavings curled up and away from the fourth hole. The bit surged as it broke through into the space beyond. Fifty-caliber slugs hammered the hull and made it ring.
The battle was under way, the technician knew that, but she couldn’t take the time to look. She was close, extremely close, and seconds were critical.
Acosta released the drill, fumbled for the saw, and got a grip on the handle. “All I gotta do is connect the dots,” she thought to DeVane, “and your ass is mine.”
The saw screamed as the blade ate through metal. It was sharp, and t
he cut went quickly. The technician hit hole number two, turned the comer, and went for three. She bit her lip. Would DeVane notice? And what would happen if he did? There was no way to tell.
The blade entered hole number three and turned toward four. That’s when the saw nicked the protective mesh that protected the cyborg’s brain, an alarm went off, and DeVane took notice. He fired on a missile battery and spoke through internal speakers at the same time.
“Okay, Acosta. You win. Drop the ramp and go.”
The legionnaire laughed as she lifted the newly created panel out of its hole. She could see the brain box through a layer of metal lace. “Sure, you’d like that. How far would I get? Thirty feet? Dream on, asshole.”
“No,” DeVane insisted. “Go—I promise not to hurt you.”
Acosta glanced at the monitors and heard a piece of shrapnel clang as it hit the hull. She wouldn’t get very far even he did honor his promise. The technician felt for the drill and found it.
“Tell you what, shit-for-brains.... If you hold your fire, and if your friends do likewise, I’ll cut you some slack. Keep on fighting, and I’m gonna sink a drill bit into what’s left of your brain. You have ten seconds to decide. Nine... eight ... seven ...”
“Okay!” the cyborg exclaimed. “You win. I’ll issue the order.”
Many of the mutineers were happy to quit, figuring any punishment they pulled would be better than life under DeVane, but some were less cooperative. They took some convincing. The news that the Navy ships were not only loyal to the Confederacy, but prepared to attack from orbit, settled any remaining doubts.
It was only then, after the cyborg had lowered his ramp, that Acosta remembered how cold it was, and remembered her pants. They were dry by that time—and the smell didn’t matter at all.
10
To win without risk is to triumph without glory.
Pierre Corneille
By Blood Alone Page 14
