by Chris Bunch
• • •
An MP, elegant in dress uniform, held up his hand. “Hold on, troops. This is the VIP area, and you can’t — ”
One of Brooks’ men shot him in the head, and he spasmed back and down. Brooks heard alarmed shouts, paid no mind. The bleachers full of the enemies of his people were just two hundred meters away. He was ready for his Task.
• • •
The news-lifter grounded outside the command center, and two of Williams security men came toward it as the hatch opened. Five bearded, dirty men wearing Blue armbands tumbled out. Dorwith fired a burst of blanks, and Njangu shouted, “You’re dead,” and the five crashed into the command center.
“Hedley!” Caud Williams sputtered. “What in the name of — ”
Hedley thumbed a blue smoke grenade, tossed it toward Williams. “We’re brave idiots on a suicide mission, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re dead!”
“You can’t — ”
“I did, sir,” and the command center swirled into a chaos of rattling blanks, varicolored smoke grenades and shouting, screaming staff officers. Outside was the drive-whine as the other commandeered lifters landed, and the shouts of the company as they rolled out and began “slaughtering” Strike Force Swift Lance’s command elements.
Over all was Caud Williams’ parade-ground roar: “You’re doomed, Hedley, you bastard! I’ll have you court-martialed! Your career — ”
Then Njangu heard the hard blast of real gunfire.
• • •
Three ’Raum knelt, sprayed the bleachers, and then the blaster explosions were drowned by the screams.
• • •
Gonzales was bellowing: “Come on, you stupid bastards! Get rid of those frigging blanks! This is for real!”
• • •
Jasith Mellusin stood, trying to see what was going on, saw a man suddenly without his head fall two meters away in the bleachers, blood spraying. Her mouth opened to scream, then her father knocked her down and threw himself on top of her.
• • •
A man in civilian clothes, with a pistol in his hand, ducked around the side of a lifter, hastily shot at Brooks, missed. Before Brooks could react, the man shot the woman next to Brooks, then Brooks fired two rounds, and the man fell. Brooks’ teeth were skinned back in a silent snarl as he ran closer to the bleachers.
A ’Raum beside him pulled the trigger on his blaster, gun set on automatic. Rounds yammered away into emptiness and the blaster was silent. He stood, stupidly staring at the empty weapon, finger moving on the trigger, then he was gone, and Brooks didn’t see who killed him.
• • •
Njangu ran out of the Command Center, finger pushing the magazine release, blank magazine dropping away, left hand reaching into his combat vest, finding the heavy magazine with real rounds, pushing it home in his blaster’s receiver, somehow remembering to tap the magazine base to make sure it was seated, then he was going forward, and heard, for the first time in his life, the slam of blaster explosions around him.
“Around here,” Hedley shouted, running toward a hasti-dome, and Njangu, Dorwith and a scattering of other I&R soldiers followed, running past an utterly motionless staff haut, mouth gaping open, shut, like a beached fish.
Njangu came into the open, into insanity. Confederation soldiers were systematically shooting into the VIP stands. What the hell was —
“Kill ‘em,” Hedley shouted. “They’re phonies! Kill ‘em all!”
Obediently Njangu knelt, pulled his blaster into his shoulder, put his sight’s dot on the center of one shooter, touched the trigger. He never saw the flame, never felt the recoil-tap, but saw the man convulse, flinging his weapon high into the air, and slump. Yoshitaro moved his aim to a woman reloading her blaster, fired again.
• • •
Dorwith’s SSW yammered, and blasts exploded across the ground, swept over the killers, then a bullet smashed his shoulder, and he rolled away, groaning. Njangu remembered his training, picked up the gun, and darted forward, hearing rounds slam in nearby. He crouched behind a wheeled transportall, used that for a rest, sprayed three attackers, saw them fall.
Someone was shouting, pulling at him, and the words came through: “Stop, dammit, you’re killing our men!” then a bullet took the fool, and Njangu found the shooter, killed him in turn.
• • •
A woman wearing a black dress stumbled toward Jord’n Brooks, bloody hands covering her face. She took them away, and there was nothing but gore and torn flesh. He shot her twice in the chest, looked for another target.
Two ’Raum beside him fell, and he twisted sideways, went down, gun turning, firing. His shot took Dec Alyce Quant in the side of her chest.
• • •
Njangu saw a man fumble a thick cylinder from his backpack, come to his knees, lean back for the throw. Njangu killed him. The explosives thudded next to his body, and another attacker rolled away, screaming. The charge exploded, red fire, black smoke, mud cascading, shrapnel hissing, and bodies pinwheeled away.
• • •
Brooks saw his grenadier die, saw the blast kill half a dozen or more ’Raum, saw there were only three of his team left. “Away,” he shouted. “Away,” and ran, zigzagging, for the distant jungle.
• • •
“That’s it,” Njangu heard. “That’s it! They’re all down. Cease firing!” He realized with some surprise he was the one shouting. The firing stopped for an instant, and he faintly heard screams, moans from the VIP bleachers, saw men and women wearing crosses on their sleeves running toward them. Ahead was a scatter of uniformed bodies, shredded and torn by gunfire and the bomb blast. He saw movement, and someone fired, and the body contorted, lay still.
There were still a dozen rounds in the belt of his SSW. Weapon ready, he walked toward the dead madmen, barrel sweeping back and forth. Petr Kipchak was beside him shaking his head, eyes glaring in rage and disbelief. “What a hell of a way to run a war.”
CHAPTER
21
The Force buried its dead under a gray, lowering sky. The seven who’d died in war-games accidents were laid to rest with the same ceremony as the five men and women of Intelligence and Reconnaissance Company and the four other Force soldiers who’d been killed stopping the ’Raum attack. If anyone in I&R objected, they said nothing.
Nineteen civilians had been killed by the ’Raum, twice that number wounded. Six innocent ’Raum were murdered by roving gangs, and the Eckmuhl was put under a dawn-to-dusk curfew “for its own protection” by Governor General Haemer. The Rentiers suggested the ’Raum community have penalties levied against it, but Haemer refused to order this. The non-'Raum of Cumbre seethed — something must be done about this outrage.
• • •
“That was a damned-fool stunt,” Caud Williams told Alt Hedley. Hedley stayed at attention, and silent. He didn’t think Williams wanted either agreement or disagreement. “But you … and your men … must be commended for the swiftness you responded with when those traitorous backstabbers made their murderous assault,” he went on.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I have a question,” Williams said. “It appeared that all your men carried live ammunition, which you should certainly know is prohibited by regulations.”
Once more Hedley said nothing.
“If I were a fool … which I am not … I might ask why you allowed this, and where your men procured these rounds, when all our munitions are rigidly rationed. Would you care to volunteer any information?” He waited a bare second. “I thought not. Under normal circumstances, the heroism of your men would merit appropriate medals and promotion, just as your mischief requires punishment. It’s my thinking that the two even each other out. What’s your opinion?”
“Frankly, sir?”
“I doubt if you know any other way to answer.”
“Very well, sir. I don’t care about myself. But I think it’s a bit rotten for you to do that to my women and men
, who were merely following my orders.”
Williams’ ears reddened. He took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “I asked your opinion … and I received it. What I said, stands. Let us move on to other matters. There is a special mission required of me, and of certain Strike Force personnel in two days, on C-Cumbre, which is of all-encompassing importance. It should only take a day, little more. When I return, we shall finally dispose of these hill-bandits. Every effort must be expended, and I require the utmost diligence.
“I expect my Intelligence and Reconnaissance Company to be in the forefront. You’ll be reinforced by the band and the Honor Guard — that is, the Headquarters Security Section — when they return from C-Cumbre — and you will be supported by a section of Heavy Assault Vehicles and the Mobile Scout Troop. If you need further transport, Mil Rao will either call for volunteers or detail additional elements.
“ Yessir,” Hedley said, saluted, and left, wondering what his line-slime would think of xylophonetinklers and brasspolishers being added to their ranks.
CHAPTER
22
C-Cumbre
Winds swirled across the planet’s man-scarred surface, sent dust devils curling up into emptiness. Its dry, hot atmosphere was breathable but unpleasant, each breath tasting of invisible razor blades.
The human Planetary Headquarters was a series of cold temporary-looking buildings sealed under a low dome, as if it were precariously situated on an airless moon. Half a planet away was the Musth Center, two four-story buildings with inverted-C roofs.
Great jagged pits, inverted ziggurats, dotted the landscape, and machinery, some robot, some remote-controlled, a very little hands-on-operated, churned around the diggings.
The two fly-on-fly-off transports that’d brought the Strike Force’s Griersons and two Zhukovs hovered a dozen meters above the ground, side ramps gaping, and a stream of combat vehicles floated out, each disgorging its antenna array as it did.
Garvin and Kang were out of their stations, hanging over Ben Dill’s seat, looking through the curving windscreen at the desolation.
“I know all this digging pays the rent,” Kang said. “But does it have to be so ugly?”
“Shaddup,” Dill ordered. “Stanislaus’s working his usual magic, and I’d as rather he not ram one of these cargo pigs while he’s listening to your brillig repartee.”
The two stayed silent while Gorecki maneuvered the Grierson away from the starship to the line of ACVs parked outside Planetary Headquarters, where a guide waited. He motioned the ACV back, forth, to the side, until it was precisely aligned, then brought his forearms across his chest in a chopping motion. Obediently, Gorecki grounded the vehicle. “We’re down, Ben,” he reported.
“Power stays on,” Dill ordered. “But you can lock the controls.”
“ ’Kay.” Gorecki came back from his position in the nose. “What now?”
“Just exactly what we’re trained to do,” Ben said. “We wait.”
“You got any idea what we’re waiting for?”
“Hell no,” Dill said. “We’re mushrooms. Kept in the dark and fed only on shit.”
Caud Williams had ordered the combat vehicles detailed for the Protector’s visitor to be at Condition Yellow — missiles, rockets, shells out of their lockers and in the launchers/guns. Garvin remembered the Malvern, Protector Redruth’s cold-eyed bullyboy Celidon, decided that if he were Williams, he’d have more artillery loaded and locked on Condition Red, and in the air, not sitting around waiting to be hit.
• • •
Half an E-day later the com ordered: “All personnel disembark.”
“With or without sidearms?” Garvin asked.
“With,” Dill said. “When in doubt, carry.”
Ten minutes after they’d formed up in front of the Grierson’s nose, a starship on secondary lowered out of the yellow-brown murk toward them.
“Good gods, what’s that?” Garvin asked.
“Uh … I think it’s a Remora-class destroyer leader,” Kang said. “It would’ve commanded a flotilla of smaller Confederation destroyers. I built a model of one when I was a kid. But the one I built didn’t have all those extra blisters and gun stations.”
“That’s what happens here on the fringes,” Dill said. “The Confederation finally grants a goodie, figures that’s enough for a generation or two, so whoever gets the goodie has to do field modification until his eyes bleed.”
“That makes sense,” Gorecki said. “But what did they use to make the mods with? A sledgehammer? And what the hell are those?”
Those were four very sleek, very modern darts of patrol ships, flying close formation around the DL.
“Damfino,” Dill confessed. “That big hog’s something that looks like my grandfather commanded it, and it’s flanked with some trick stuff that looks like it came straight out of Centrum last week.”
“Son of a bitch,” Garvin remembered. “You know, we were told the Malvern had some real zoomie new spit-kits back in the hold when we were coming out. Wonder if ol’ Redruth traded for ‘em with the ‘pirates,’ or — ”
“Shaddup,” Dill said. “Don’t go out of your way to get in trouble.”
The DL grounded, but the patrol craft kept orbiting. There was an emblem on the large ship’s nose Garvin couldn’t make out. The ship’s name was the Corfe.
Their earpieces clicked, and they heard Caud Williams’ voice: “All Strike Force Swift Lance elements … stand by to render full honors to Alena Redruth, Protector of Larix and Kura.”
Governor General Haemer, flanked by Caud Williams, Mil Rao, and a bluster of staff officers plus a color guard and a few bandsmen, came out of the dome and went to the Corfe. A lock opened, a ramp slid down, and four men walked down. The Cumbre colors dipped and music played.
“Now please God, let ‘em walk on by,” Gorecki said. “I got no interest in playing pet for offworlders.”
But the officials seemed intent on trooping the line.
“Stand tall, fellers,” Dill said, and his crewmen obeyed, peripheral vision at Condition Red. Garvin especially wanted to see Alena Redruth, never having been this close to what was supposedly the last of an endangered breed, an absolute dictator. Redruth wasn’t that impressive, smallish, balding, in his late thirties, more like a minor bureaucrat than a warlord. He wore a simple dark brown tunic and pants, with a single decoration around his neck. Flanking him were two obvious bodyguards.
Garvin’s attention was jolted away by the man just behind Redruth. The man was tall, muscular, with the inadequately repaired remnants of a scar across his forehead. His expression was mixed cold amusement and mild dislike. He wore a dark green dress uniform with decorations, black knee boots and a black-leather Sam Browne belt with a dagger sheathed on one side and a pistol on the other. Garvin remembered him well, from the troop compartment of the Malvern, Celidon, the leader of the “pirates.” I’m invisible, Garvin thought as the party came abreast of the Grierson. Of no interest. Just another ranker.
Naturally Celidon paused. “If you don’t mind,” he said to Williams, “I’d like to ask a question or two of your men here.”
“Of course not,” Williams said, a trifle nervously.
Celidon went to Dill, looked at the single row of decorations on his chest. “You’re on your … second enlistment?”
“ Yessir,” Ben said.
“Plan on making a career of the service?”
“Haven’t decided yet, sir.”
Celidon nodded, then his eyes went, like a stooping hawk, to Garvin. “You, Striker. What’s your post?”
“Gunner, sir.”
“What’s the maximum effective range of one of your Shrikes?”
“Classified, sir.”
“You can tell me, troop,” Celidon snapped. “Larix and Kura are allies of yours, and I spent a good deal of time as a Confederation officer.”
Garvin didn’t answer.
“Go ahead, Striker,” Caud Williams said.
&nb
sp; “In theory, ninety kilometers once the target is thoroughly acquired,” Jaansma said by rote. “In fact, probably fifty or sixty should be the maximum allowed for, and that in extremely favorable conditions.”
“Pretty close,” Celidon said. “Try forty in combat. You fired one yet?”
“No, sir.”
“You think you could hit something under real-world conditions?”
“I know so, sir.”
Celidon smiled briefly. “May your confidence be rewarded. What about your chainguns?”
“Four thousand meters effective range, best used under visual conditions, either natural or amplified.”
“How long does it take to reload?”
“About three minutes, sir.”
“I’d guess you could do it in less,” Celidon said. “You’re a big lad. My congratulations — you appear to know your tools. Let me ask you another question, if I might. Does it worry you that your Strike Force has no interstellar capability, that no elements of the Confederation Navy are stationed in the Cumbre System?”
“No, sir, it doesn’t bother me. Things like that are Caud Williams’ concern, not mine.”
“What about the Musth?”
“What about the Musth? Sir.”
“Do they worry you?”
“No, sir. We’re at peace. Should they?”
Celidon nodded, as it satisfied. “One final question: How long have you served with the Strike Force?”
“Eight months, sir. I came out on the Malvern.”
Celidon jolted slightly, tried to cover. “Not familiar with that ship,” he said. “Carry on,” and started away.
The dignitaries moved on. Caud Williams remained next to Jaansma. “I told you once to rethink what you told me, didn’t I?” he asked.
“ Yessir,” Garvin said.
“I’m not a total oaf. I saw Celidon’s reaction just now. And I’m capable of reevaluating things when necessary. I assume you haven’t blathered your theories about the Malvern to everyone?”
“Nossir,” Garvin said truthfully. “You ordered me not to.”
“Good man.” Williams looked after Redruth. “Yes, some things might just be worth reconsidering. Tell your company commander I authorized you to add another slash, Finf Jaansma. You did well today.”
