by John Bowers
Rico rolled away from the man who'd taken him down, regained his knees in time to meet the next assault. He used his rifle as a spear, jabbing the barrel into the soldier's stomach with an upward thrust. It was hardly lethal, but it was painful, and the man stumbled briefly backward. But the BC on the ground next to Rico came at him again, a steel bayonet in his hand. Rico saw it too late, tried to turn away, but felt it rip into his chest. Fortunately, the laser vest was thick enough to deflect it, which gave Rico time to hammer the man again with his rifle butt. The BC had already lost the lower part of his face, and this time Rico cracked his skull.
Dropping his rifle, he wrested the bayonet away from the dying man and leaped to his feet, lunging at the BC nearest him. The blade sank into soft flesh, intestines spilled obscenely across the ground, and the BC stumbled back. Rico twisted away to face a third man, who thrust a laser pistol toward his face and fired. He barely had time to tilt his head to the side as the bolt chirped past his ear, then he grabbed the BC's wrist and jerked him forward, slicing upward with the bayonet at the same time. More guts flowed onto the ground and another man died.
"Goddammit!" Tiny screamed. "Goddammit!"
Rico turned, but Tiny was all right. He was on his feet, clubbing a BC on the ground. His arm was bleeding, but he was on top of the situation. Rico turned the other way, saw Maniac fighting off two of them, and leaped to his aid. He stabbed one in the back with the bayonet, flung him to the ground, and turned to get the other, but Maniac had already killed him.
Maniac stared at him with crazy eyes, panting heavily, blood trickling from a gash across his forehead. Rico just nodded wordlessly.
"Let's get the fuck outta here!" Maniac gritted.
"Texas! You guys all right?" The firing in that direction had stopped.
"We're alive," Texas replied in a strained voice, "but that's about all. We killed about twenty of the fuckers. They charged us."
"Yeah, here, too."
"Beaner, we're on oxygen masks. This place is unbreathable, we can't stay here."
"I know. The BC don't have masks, and if they stay they're gonna die, so let's head back for the stairwell. The fire's out, we're going out the way we came in."
"I hear that. Right behind you."
"Okay. Everyone take two grenades. Launch them as far as you can toward that far wall. We'll light this place up, and if anyone is over there we'll take 'em out. Plasma don't get 'em, the fire suppression shit will. Do it now."
Seconds later, all six men heaved two grenades each into the far reaches of the parking garage. Plasma squirted in hot white flashes, setting off more fires — which was guaranteed to keep the CO2 pumping into the area — and the Marines headed for the exit. They were back in the stairwell within minutes, heading back up, and five minutes after that found themselves back on the street.
Rico sank down against the side of the building, ripping off his mask to gulp the cool ocean air.
If he had to die, please God let it be in the open — not down in a hole like that.
Orbit of Beta Centauri
Capt. James Carson hit the landing tunnel of Sadat and fired reverse thrust, setting the ResQMed down like a feather two hundred yards later. His sickbay was crowded with fighter crewmen, several of them wounded, and as soon as the lift lowered him to the hangar deck, medical people with hover stretchers stormed his ship. He remained in the cockpit until the wounded had been offloaded, then jumped wearily down to the deck plates and heaved a sigh. Carla Ferracci stood a few feet away gazing after the retreating horde of medics and wounded.
"How long until we leave again?" she asked.
"Thirty minutes."
She nodded, her lovely olive features strained with worry.
"It won't do any good," he told her.
She turned dark eyes on him. "What?"
"If anything happened to him, you won't know until it's all over. Nobody down there has time to catalogue the dead."
"But I'll know if he's wounded," she said. "They scan the datatags as they come in. It'll be in their computer."
Carson shrugged, and she set off toward a distant tunnel leading to the comm center. He watched her go, hoping her quest would be fruitless. If she got any news at all it would only cause her to worry that much more.
He was already concerned about her objectivity.
Chapter 55
Presidential Palace, New Birmingham, Missibama, Sirius 1
"Did they — did they say what they're going to do with me?" Regina asked when she woke again.
"No. They just dumped you here and left. I have no idea what their plans are."
Regina stared at the wall. "I thought they would just kill me."
"Usually they do, after they've interrogated you. But these weren't SE. They were Infantry Police."
Regina's eyes narrowed in surprise. "The army?"
Queenie nodded. "I'm as surprised as you are. The SE doesn't usually turn prisoners over to the IP. They are fiercely independent."
Regina tried to sit up, and found that her body complained less this time. She asked for more soup. As she ate it, she tried to reason out what was going on.
"Where exactly are we?" she asked.
"New Birmingham. Inside the Presidential Palace."
The redhead's eyes widened with amazement.
"The Presidential Palace?"
"Yes. Adolph has his residence less than a hundred yards from here. Tell me, dear, who exactly are you? You must be rather important to them yourself."
"My name is Regina Wells," she said. "I'm not anybody important, really. Just … "
Her mouth flew open.
"Oh, my god!"
Queenie leaned forward. "What is it?"
"I just realized," Regina said slowly. "My father is the President of the Federation!"
They stared at each other a moment. Queenie was as stunned as Regina.
"President Wells is your father?" she asked in disbelief.
"Yes. I completely forgot. When I came here he was a senator, but then I heard he ran for the presidency and won. At least, that's what Martin said."
"Who is Martin?"
"Field Marshal Martin Vaughn. I was his wife."
Queenie put both hands over her mouth.
"You were married to Vaughn? Goddess Sophia!"
Regina looked at her, startled by her reaction. The woman was practically in hives. She sat trembling, her lovely face ashen.
"Do you know him?" Regina asked.
"Oh — oh, my goddess, yes!" Queenie stood up and turned away, obviously struggling to regain her composure. She walked across the room and stopped, then turned back.
"Yes," she repeated. "I met him. He was a private then, in the Sirian Infantry."
Regina listened, trying to digest the information. It was all unraveling very quickly, too quickly to track it.
"It was on Vega," Queenie told her, speaking carefully as if treading on sacred memories. "Private Vaughn was the one who captured me. Made me his prisoner. I owe him a debt I will never be able to repay. He stole me from Vega and made it possible for me to be brought here. Yes, I know him."
Regina felt a peculiar crawling sensation as she heard the words. Her pulse quickened, and she felt a fresh shock of awareness as it fell into place.
"Don't tell me," she whispered, her scalp tingling. "Is your real name … "
"Ursula," Queenie finished for her. "That's where they got that horrible nickname for me. I was once Queen Ursula, the Monarch of Vega."
Periscope Harbor, Beta Centauri
Rico led his squad through the broad lobby of a business office on the ninth floor of one of the multitude of skytowers that dotted downtown Periscope Harbor. They'd cleared eight floors below without seeing a soul, but it had taken two hours, and was nerve-wracking, heart-stopping work. The lobby was luxurious and well appointed, the furniture tasteful and expensive. But a fine powder of pulverized Solarglas covered everything, and razor-sharp fragments glittered from the floor.
Artillery had blown out the windows at this level, letting in a fresh ocean gale that whistled through the corridors.
So far, the only casualty in Second Squad had been Sgt. Ragsdale, which was incredible considering what they'd been through the last thirty hours. That changed minutes later as they approached the inner offices of whatever business was housed here. A machine gun opened fire from behind a frosted window, blowing out the glass and spraying the Star Marines with lethal slugs. Rico dived behind a hover-sofa in sudden terror, shouting uselessly. Machado was lifted off his feet by the deadly hail, his blood spraying in all directions as arteries were pulverized. He fell in a lifeless heap, already dead, his rifle skittering across the carpet. Rico shouted orders, but the squad was already returning fire, chewing the frame out of the window and smashing everything inside the room behind it. The gunfire was deafening in the cavernous lobby, and Rico felt his arteries swell as his blood pressure soared.
Quiet descended as everyone stopped firing at once. Nothing moved except the Star Marines’ lungs, still drawing air. It seemed a miracle to each man that he was still alive.
"Did we get him?" Rico whispered over the squad mike.
"Don't see anything," Maniac replied.
Rico lifted his head enough to peer over the hover-sofa; heavy Spandau slugs had destroyed the window, but he couldn't see much in the office beyond; a tall cabinet blocked part of the view. His eyes swept the other offices, wondering if more BC were waiting for them.
He opened his mouth to give the next order — to put a frag through the window just to be sure. Before he could speak, Roberson was on his feet, darting toward the target window. Rico shouted.
"Preacher!"
Flame stabbed from the ruined window, and Rico caught a glimpse of a slight figure behind it, a pasty white face and curly yellow hair. Roberson tried to change direction, diving to the left, but his right arm disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone. He hit the floor and bounced, screaming insanely.
"Cover him!" Rico shouted, and six Spandaus resumed the work of reducing the target to kindling. The BC gunner disappeared, but once again Rico couldn't tell if he was hit. The firing stopped and silence returned …
Almost.
"Shiiiiiiiit!" Roberson screamed, twisting in agony, his right arm flopping like a stalk of rhubarb. "Save me, Jesus! Pleeeeese! I can't stand it! Knee Grow! Help meeeee!"
Jeff White was the closest to where Roberson lay writhing, but ten feet of open floor separated them. White's eyes reflected his horror as he stared at the wounded corporal and tried to figure out how to reach him.
"Stay where you are, Knee Grow!" Rico ordered tersely. "You show yourself, that fucker'll get you, too."
"We gotta do somethin', man! He's hurtin'!"
"Try to get a frag through that window. We got to kill that gunner or he'll get us all."
Roberson's hideous screams were rising in volume. He cursed and prayed and begged for mercy, divine or human. White worked his way closer to the window, keeping furniture in front of him for cover. When he was ready, Rico and Texas, who had the best angles, lifted their Spandaus to cover him.
"Merry Christmas, peckerwood!"
White rose to his knees to throw the grenade, but as if the enemy gunner had read his mind, the moment his chest was exposed the BC darted out and fired again. Flame stabbed across the lobby, and White jerked in surprise as bullets ripped through him, his body twitching like a puppet on a string. The grenade tumbled from his fingers and bounced across the carpet.
"Shit!"
"Grenade! Take coverrrrrrrrrrrr!"
The men of Second Squad scattered in panic, burying their heads in their arms. Jeff White slumped heavily to the floor, arterial blood pulsing from two-dozen holes in his body. He should've been dead, had only seconds to live, but awareness hadn't left him, quite. He blinked once, surprised that he felt no pain. Everything numb, no pain. His cheek rested flat on the carpet, his eyes still open, gasping for his last lungful of air. Remarkably, his eyes focused on the grenade, which had spun underneath a chair, and with his last ounce of strength he reached for it. Closed his fingers weakly over it, drew it back against his body. Tucked it under his stomach. He grimaced with the effort, feeling the coldness spread upward from his legs.
"God … damn … " he panted, " … peckerwood!"
The fragmentation grenade exploded, lifting Jeff White off the floor, churning his midsection into fish bait, but his body absorbed the blast, and when the sound died away the other men of Second Squad lifted their heads in astonishment. Rico stared in disbelief at White, his friend. He'd saved them all, though surely he must have already been dead …
"Where'd that little cocksucker come from?" Texas demanded, shaken. "I didn't even get off a shot!"
"Me, neither. Christ!"
"Rico! Rico, please! Shoot me! Kill me, please! I can't stand it!"
For just a moment he'd forgotten Roberson, who still writhed in indescribable agony a few yards away. Jesus, they had to do something!
"Texaaaaas! Tiny! Somebody — help me!"
"So much for the whole armor of God," Texas muttered bitterly, but his eyes were sick with horror.
"Be still, Preacher!" Rico said curtly. "We'll get you out of here! Just hang on —"
Unexpectedly, the BC appeared in the window again, the machine gun stammered, then he was gone. Roberson shrieked in fresh agony, his body literally bouncing as he tried to beat off the pain. Rico's stomach twisted as he saw the corporal's right leg, chewed to shreds below the knee, blood spraying the carpet around him. Rico's bile surged upward with rage — even a Star Marine could only take so much.
"Goddammit!" he cried. "Texas, Tiny — cover me! Continuous fire!"
He pulled himself to his knees, keeping his head out of sight of the window, and tugged two plasma grenades off his belt. Using plasma inside a building was extremely dangerous, but this shit had gone far enough! Two men were dead and a third was mangled beyond belief. If something didn't happen soon, Second Squad would cease to exist.
Texas and Tiny poured 11mm into the office in short bursts, keeping the enemy gunner out of sight. Rico began to crawl through the lobby, around furniture, past Knee Grow's remains, as close to the office as he could get without exposing himself. Spandau fire streaked over his head as the others covered him. Rico reached the last bit of cover and halted, panting as he pulled the pin on the first grenade. Apprehension shivered through him as he considered the possibilities. He steadied himself for a few seconds, filling his lungs with oxygen, then nodded toward Texas.
"Now," he said into his helmet mike.
Texas and Tiny held their fire; Rico flexed his muscles and started to rise. As he leapt up with the grenade in his hand, he came face to face with the BC gunner, who appeared in the window at the same instant and opened fire. Rico's heart suddenly stopped, but he managed to throw the grenade even as he realized the BC wasn't shooting at him — but at Roberson. The wounded corporal screamed anew as hot slugs ripped through his pelvis, shattering bone and scrambling the tender organs inside.
Rico was off balance from his grenade toss, and when he tried to throw himself down he teetered precariously for what seemed an eternity as his body reversed its center of gravity. The BC swung the machine gun toward him, almost point-blank; Rico saw the man's eyes lock onto him for that frozen instant — pale blue, cold, emotionless, completely devoid of feeling. The eyes of death. The BC pulled the trigger and Rico tensed, holding his breath for the impact. But the BC's magazine was empty, the last rounds used on Roberson. The gun clicked impotently.
Rico hit the floor, his heart lodged in his throat.
"Fire in the hole!" he gasped into the helmet mike.
In the next instant, the office window gouted flame; fire blasted through the walls as plasma flushed through the room on the other side. The Star Marines buried their faces in the carpet and held their breath as the white-hot plasma sheeted outward toward the windows, scorching furniture and drape
s, blowing objects out into space where they tumbled to the street below.
Still holding his breath against the heat, Rico bounced to his feet and brought his Spandau to bear, waiting. Plasma killed with heat, not blast, and two seconds later he saw the BC stagger through the window like a fire monster, bathed head to foot with flame, mouth open in a silent scream, machine gun still clutched in his right hand. Rico gunned him down with bared teeth, his internal organs soaking up the recoil from the Spandau. The BC danced hideously as 11mm slugs chewed him to pieces, then collapsed in a flaming heap across a wooden desk and slid to the floor. Rico stared at him with grim satisfaction. It was the first time he'd ever enjoyed killing anyone.
Texas had dived toward Roberson, pulling him clear of the flames. The plasma had passed over him; he wasn't even singed. Fortunately, he was unconscious at last, and as the rest of Second Squad skirted the flames that raged in the inner office, Texas witnessed the mangled corporal's final few seconds of life. Rico knelt beside him.
"Poor fucker!" Texas breathed. "Poor fucker!"
Rico tore off Roberson's datatag and slipped it into his pocket. Still looking at the body, he spoke in a harsh whisper.
"I want plasma in every fucking office on this fucking floor! Burn the whole fucking building down! I don't want a fucking mouse left alive!"
Texas turned haunted eyes on him, shaken at the murder in Rico's voice. He'd never dreamed the Beaner had it in him.
"You got it," was all he said.
* * *
They reached the tenth floor, bone weary and sick at heart. Outside the windows the light was slanted from the east, bluish rays from the star thickening as the atmosphere refracted them. Sunset was approaching. None of them had slept significantly since landing, for they'd been more or less in constant action, with only short breaks for rest. Rico hoped they could clear the building before dark, as the power grid to the downtown section had been cut, and there would be no light for their work.
