by Carl Hubrick
Suddenly the growl erupted into a roar. Laser shares in makeshift turrets burned the battlements – a barrage of laser beams as bright and burning as Trion’s eternal suns.
The captain glanced briefly out the doorway of the keep into the white glare of the sunlight.
“It’s working, Lars,” he cried exultant above the battle’s din. “I just witnessed a parapet hit hard and every Megran on it burned away.”
Caroline came close and shouted in Lars’s ear. “Your weapon, Lars, it’s killing them.” Her eyes were ablaze with a warrior’s grim satisfaction.
But there were other sounds that joined the tumult now. Above the roar rose the shrill clarion of alarms, the pounding of Megran boots on stone, and the murderous boom of the fort’s light-bolt cannon in answer to the farmers’ laser fire.
“Right, let’s go,” the captain shouted.
* * *
They took the steps down in a rush, two at a time, the captain leading the way. The smack of their boots echoed loudly in the confines of the dark subterranean passageways – no secret now.
They reached a landing with a heavy wooden door off to the side, the guardroom. The door opened. A giant in Megran green with a barrel’s girth stepped out, the Meredith pistol in his hand thrust forward. The small dark eyes widened in recognition – bewilderment.
“The fool… How...?”
There was no time to speak, no time to play the jester as before. Lars pushed past the captain and leapt into the air. He swung his pistol at the fat giant’s head; suffered the shock of pain to his wrist as the barrel cracked bone.
The big man jerked back and crashed like a felled tree to the floor, blocking the doorway.
Inside the room, another green clad trooper leapt up agape, and spun to seize a rifle from the rack on the wall.
A light-bolt scorched past Lars’s ear like a thunderclap. He saw the blast pass through the Megran’s chest, catapulting him backwards over a chair to smash against the wall. The dead man lay folded at the waist like a cast off doll; his death wound smoking, the sickly smell of his burnt flesh fouling the air.
“Get them out of sight, quick.”
The captain grabbed one of the giant sergeant’s feet. Lars and Caroline pulled on the other. They lugged the unconscious man mountain behind the door.
“By the stars, that one was heavy,” the captain muttered, wiping his brow. He was breathing heavily.
The lieutenant, meantime, had dragged a table in front of the dead Megran.
“Too messy to shift,” she explained coolly.
“Here!” Caroline thrust an armload of light-bolt rifles at Lars. “We’d better have these in case we have to shoot our way out.”
She took another stack of rifles from the rack, and hung the cell keys from the barrel of one of them.
* * *
The descent was steeper now, down dark narrow steps hollowed and worn smooth by decades of countless heavy boots. More stone stairs, and then a yellow-lit landing, where the tunnel opened out and the maze of corridors to the cells began.
There would be many cells to open and the captain did not wait for keys.
“Stand back!” he cried to the occupants of the first cell. The Meredith in his hand roared and lit all around like sudden sunlight. The cell door lock melted away with a sputter. One hard kick and the door flew open. Without waiting, he went on to the next.
The lieutenant, meanwhile, had gone down another darkened passageway in the opposite direction. At each cell door, her pistol flared, lighting the darkness around her briefly in its brilliant glare.
“Lars!” Caroline’s hand sought his. “Don’t worry, we’ll find your sister.” She squeezed his hand gently and then was gone, calling on the bemused hostages to follow her.
By now, dozens of hostages were gathering in the corridor, their faces shaped in shadow, their eyes unsure and wary. Some wore the queen’s red, survivors of the brief battle against the Megran invaders, others Lars recognised as faces he had seen in Vegar in happier times.
“Lars, is that you, Lars?”
His gaze swung round to meet the voice among the crowd. Two almond shaped eyes gazed up into his, their dark stare anxious and confused.
“Amanda,” he replied with a quick smile. “So they got you too.”
“Oh Lars, it’s so good to see you. What’s happening? Is it all over? Are we going home?”
Lars nodded. “Yes, you’re going home. Follow the others, we’ll be moving out shortly.”
* * *
“Daddy!”
“Amanda!”
Ben Kassada, the manager of the Vegar bank in better times, took his daughter in his arms and hugged her.
“Oh sweetheart,” he cried. “It’s so good to see you.”
Ben Kassada was a happy man – his daughter at last returned to him.
But then his mind went down the perilous path of doubt. “Are you all right?” he asked with sudden dread. “They didn’t – hurt you?”
His daughter smiled. “No daddy, I’m fine, truly I am.”
She nestled into his shoulder. “We’re going home,” she whispered. “I spoke to Lars Kelmutt and he promised me.”
* * *
Lars entered another cellblock newly freed. The mass of hostages milled about him. His eyes searched among the throng. He smiled and replied - yes, you’re free to those who asked, and pointed the way to Caroline waiting at the foot of the stairs.
Then a half-seen profile amid the crowd caught his eye. Lars held his breath. He moved a pace forward, tilting his head this way and that to see more clearly. Then there, at last, the face he knew so well, a thin face, a pale face, her blue eyes now finding him.
“Helen!”
All at once, his sister was in his arms, hanging on to him, trembling, her hair soft against his cheek, her scent warm in his nostrils.
“You came back for me,” she whispered. “I always knew in my heart you would.”
And he could not help the tears that welled up suddenly and rolled in torrents down his face.
Chapter 31
The Postern Gate
The hostages gathered in the dim stone chamber of the keep. The brightness of the sunlight outside seared their eyes, the noise of battle stabbed at their ears, and the strange smells of burning assaulted their nostrils. But the presence of the queen’s red in their midst heartened them. Their ordeal was surely nearly over.
“Daddy!” Amanda Kassada clutched at her father. “I’m frightened. There’s fighting happening out there. Will we be all right?”
Her father nodded. “Yes, I’m sure we will. I can see the queen’s uniforms up there on the battlements.”
* * *
“Right! Your attention, please!” The captain shouted above the battle’s clamour. “I am Captain De Vries and this is Lieutenant York. We are the advance guard of the queen’s forces. Our mission is to get you out of here to safety.
“We’ll be leaving by a small gate at the rear of the fort. Our friends outside will keep the Megran troopers busy for as long as it takes.” He paused. At that instant, the sound of an explosion came from outside the walls. The Megran troopers gave a rousing cheer.
“But whatever you do,” the captain continued, his countenance suddenly grim, “once we start to move, don’t stop! And whatever you do, don’t look back!”
* * *
Things went well to begin with. The first rush of prisoners, with Caroline at their head, made it safely across the open ground to the postern gate and into the gully beyond where an escort of armoured ploughs stood waiting. For a time, Lars believed they might all make it without casualty. The sounds of battle and the thick clouds of grey smoke had helped screen their escape.
* * *
“Hold it right there!” The Megran was puzzled. He pointed his Meredith at the captain’s chest.
There were three of them, Megran troopers in their phony red, on their way to the ramparts as reinforcements. They had come up through the smoke
and commotion before anyone had seen them, catching the last batch of hostages out in the open.
The first one spoke again, directing his question at the captain.
“Who are you?” he wanted to know, his dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I haven’t seen you before. And what do you think you’re doing with the prisoners?”
The captain gave a wry smile. “Captain De Vries – private – is the answer to your first question,” he replied easily. “And as to your second, we have orders to escort the prisoners to a place of safety.”
* * *
“Daddy, what’s going on?” Amanda asked, looking up at her father. They were in the last batch of hostages to leave the keep.
“I don’t know, Sunshine,” her father said, attempting a comforting smile. “I can’t hear what’s happening. There seems to be an argument among some of the officers. However, they’re all wearing the queen’s red, so I’m sure everything’s going to be okay.”
The remaining hostages pressed up beside the father and daughter to see and hear more clearly, the same uncertainty on their minds.
* * *
De Vries?” the Megran trooper was saying. “I’ve not heard of you, sir.” He was far from convinced. “May I see your orders – sir?”
“I was given the authority, personally,” the lieutenant intervened smoothly.
“And who might you be?” The Megran’s gaze shifted abruptly to the lieutenant, but the Meredith in his hand never wavered.
“Lieutenant York,” the young woman replied.
“York?” The Megran was now doubly confused. “Any relation to the general?”
“Yes, General York is my father. My identification tags will prove who I am.”
The Megran leaned in to take a closer look.
“Lieutenant Cheryl York,” he read aloud. The pistol barrel dipped slightly. “But it says here – Queen’s Regiment…” He was now even more perplexed if possible than before.
“That’s right,” the lieutenant replied evenly.
What happened next, happened almost too fast for the eye to see. Lars saw the lieutenant leap into the air, saw the Megran crash backwards under a savage storm of kicks, heard the Meredith pistol rattle across the black stone yard.
The second trooper went down the same way in almost the same instant before he even knew the tide had turned.
The third froze where he stood as he felt the sharp stab of the captain’s Meredith in his ribs.
“Sorry we can’t stay to chat,” the captain muttered, his eyes like flint. He swung the pistol barrel swift and hard, clubbing the man under the ear. The Megran dropped to the ground without a sound.
But the incident had not passed without Megran witness. Shouts of challenge now rang out from around the ramparts. Abruptly the grey air about the last hostage group grew bright with the fury of weapon fire.
“Get moving! Run!” the captain shouted.
And run they did, in groups of three or four, running low, the quarry of the Megran guns. Lars saw his sister run with the others, the light-bolts slashing round her as thick as rain.
The hostages with weapons now returned the fire, their light- bolt volleys slicing through the acrid smoke.
“Keep moving!” It was the lieutenant’s voice above the wild confusion. “Keep moving! Run!”
* * *
“Amanda! No! No!” Ben Kassada slid to his knees beside his fallen daughter. “Amanda!” he wailed, his dark eyes glistening with incipient tears. “Oh Amanda! Amanda!”
But he knew at once that she was dead. The light-bolt had burnt a fist-sized hole through the centre of her back, the bones of her exposed rib cage burnt black.
He scooped her up in his arms and began to run.
He did not see the light-bolts strike round him, nor hear the shouts and cries of friends or foes. He did not feel the blast that killed him, the force of it driving him on another three metres before he dropped to his knees and toppled forward. He fell across the body of his only child.
Another half-dozen light-bolts struck his twitching form. His hair blazed briefly, blackening his skull. Finally, he lay still.
* * *
The enemy’s fire was taking its toll. Lars saw five more hostages fall to one cruel fusillade. The smoke burned his eyes and his voice was hoarse with shouting. “Run! Run!”
The Meredith pistol in his hand grew hot with work. But in the swirling world of grey smoke, he could only aim at the flash from the Megran weapons and trust to luck some of his shots hit home.
Lars saw the captain, his helmet all but burnt away, stand steady as a rock to draw the Megran fire, the light-bolts from his Meredith picking their way along the battlements, seeking targets.
But nothing could withstand the relentless Megran fire for long, no armour protect against the light-bolt storm, and it was but a moment before he saw the captain fall, three bolts of light converging at his chest to strike him down.
Lars would have gone then to the captain’s aid, but suddenly the lieutenant was there, standing over the stricken form, her light-bolt rifle spitting fire. She turned and cast him one fleeting look. And he heard her voice cry out above the battle’s rage.
“Get them out, Lars! Get them out! The fighting’s ours to do, not yours.”
And as he led the remaining hostages out under the cover of the rolling smoke, he saw her small dark shadow standing firm, and white hot flames leap from her arms against the foe.
* * *
Six of Hakim’s ploughs were waiting outside the walls. Hakim clapped a hand in quick greeting upon his young friend’s shoulder.
“Thank the stars you made it,” he said. “Are you the last?”
Lars looked back at the fort’s dark walls. Thick billows of smoke blotted out the sky’s deep blue.
He nodded. “Yes, we’re the last,” he said.
“Good, then we’d better move fast. We’re heavily outnumbered and can’t hold on for long. We’ll have to try and make a run for it.”
“Hakim!” The cry was little more than a croak. It was one of Hakim’s farmers, red faced and breathless. “Megran reinforcements have come up from Vegar. Horse troopers are everywhere. We’re surrounded.”
And even as he spoke, they heard the deep crump of explosions as the battle intensified.
Hakim’s eyes were deep pools of despair.
“Now we’re for it,” he muttered.
Chapter 32
The Battleship
Commander Usha Sinha spun her bridge chair round and glared at the silent computer face of lights and data displays that stood beside her.
“Wake up you worthless box of circuits,” she muttered angrily beneath her breath. “Wake up!”
The computer scans had reported nothing but empty space along their planned course through the Jupiter Trojans. Empty space, and a few hundred thousand harmless chunks of rock, some as small as footballs, others the size of mountains.
“Did you speak, commander,” the computer enquired – a smile in the mellifluous tones of its perfect male voice.
“No!” the commander snapped back in reply.” I sneezed.
“Gesundheit,” the mellow voice crooned.
The secret with humans, its programmers had said, was to ignore their emotions as being entirely unreliable. And the commander was being totally unreliable today.
Usha Sinha stared out through the space glass dome of the Daring’s bridge. Her crew had been on hostile alert for nearly an hour. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the bridge chair arm…They were out there somewhere. She believed the boy. It was her instinct too…
Whoop! Whoop! Alarms sounded and warning lights flashed from the computer face as if the machine had suddenly come awake, as indeed in a way it had.
Battle stations! Battle stations! Hostiles dead ahead. Range 5000 kilometres and closing.
Clever electronic screening had kept the hostiles hidden from the Daring’s computer scans until the last moment, but even so, their own screenin
g devices must have worked at least as well, for they seemed to have taken the enemy ships by surprise.
“All ships! All ships! This is Commander Sinha speaking. Take up battle formation in a line behind me.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw her red-faced captains bellow out her commands and on the navigator screen saw the other ships swing into line like ducklings behind a mother duck.
Range 3000 kilometres and closing. Range 3000 kilometres and closing…
The computer’s peremptory tones boomed out across the bridge. The stupid machine was in its element now, the 4DTWS sphere calculating speed and distance, computing guns and angles, and rate of fire. It would automatically issue battle orders based on the split-second decisions of its electronic brain, unless overridden by the ship’s captain.
Range 1000 kilometres and closing…
There, the blips were on the monitor now. Seven enemy ships moving in a wedge shaped formation, the leading ship a good deal larger than the rest.
Range 500 kilometres and closing…
The two fleets were racing toward each other’s mutual destruction.
Range 300 kilometres and closing…
