The dead man was the F’ahdn.
He fought the impulse to turn down the tunnel toward the cache site and surrender to the Offworlders. With bullets filling the passageway in both directions, simply running past the opening was dangerous enough. Instead, he put his head down and ran so fast that he stumbled, hoping no bullets would find him.
* * *
Cutter called for a short rest, and his squad deployed around a small plaza centered on a well. Under Sergeant Riidono’s eye, they formed a perimeter defense. After half an hour of moving through the Outer City, Cutter had stopped worrying whether Riidono could handle being a combat sergeant. Some men were natural non-coms, and he was one of them.
Like the rest of the Outer City, shattered pottery crunched underfoot in the plaza, particularly near the well itself. Discarded clothing and bodies—already bloating in the heat—lay scattered in irregular heaps. The unmistakable reek of a nearby sewer hung heavy in the air, and Cutter pitied the people who smelled that every day of their lives.
The angle of the sun had shifted enough that a small patch of shade was created by the buildings near the square’s northern side. Cutter knelt there trying to avoid gulping the hot air, not only because it hurt to breathe too deeply, but also to keep his men from seeing the extent of the mental strain with which he was already dealing. Draining the last drops from his canteen, Cutter nodded at the well.
“Think the water’s potable?” he asked the radioman.
“Sir?”
“Is it safe to drink?”
“I’ll find out.”
“No—”
The young man, Suukamanu, was the second youngest in the whole platoon. He set his radio aside and sprang toward the well. Everybody else was under cover. They’d cleared the area, but Cutter’s brain rejected that reassurance. Instead, it offered images from a tiny French village where a German sniper hit two of his men long after they thought the village had been cleared. Unable to stop Suukamanu, he brought his Thompson up to the ready position and scanned their surroundings.
He sensed movement in the periphery of his left eye. The corpse of a shriveled old woman, her throat sliced open so deeply it had nearly decapitated her, inched upward. Cutter squinted against the glare and caught a brief glint of sunlight off dark metal. Some part of his brain identified it as a rifle barrel even before the thought was fully formed. He swung the Thompson around but the hidden gunman fired at the same instant he did.
Suukamanu staggered under the impact of the big slug, and his legs locked in place for almost two seconds before he collapsed like a sack.
Cutter’s initial three-round burst ripped into the body of the old woman the gunman was using for cover, and at least one penetrated enough to hit him. The man rolled over, howling. Cutter pushed to his feet and covered the twenty feet between them in four strides. Behind a dirty face wrap, the man’s eyes met Cutter’s as he tried to bring his rifle to bear. Cutter kicked it away, then slammed the toe of his boot into the shooter’s jaw, and put a final burst into his chest. Shooting him in the throat would have been more satisfying, but a ricochet off the stone plaza flooring was not something he could risk; any over-penetrating bullets had no place to go but straight back into the body.
Oddly, as the life drained out of the man’s eyes, the vicious satisfaction Cutter had felt when killing the Waffen-SS wasn’t there. The man may not have been a supporter of the F’ahdn at all; he might simply have been defending his home. Even if he had served the F’ahdn and satrap, it was likely the only life he’d ever known. On R’Bak, those autocrats represented order in his life, and Cutter was the invader. Sure, the Lost Soldiers were trying to help these people throw off the yoke of servitude to those who stripped them of their greatest wealth, the planet’s medicinals, but how could the dead man have known that?
“Suukamanu’s dead,” Sergeant Riidono said. “He didn’t feel it.”
Cutter stood over the gunman’s body, feeling the sun burning the back of his hands and didn’t answer right away. If he knew how to do anything well it was kill, but keeping men alive was a different story. “Spread the word: new procedure. From here on, check every body—man, woman, or child—to make sure they’re dead.”
“And if they’re not?”
“If they’re unarmed, tell ’em to get lost.”
“What if they’ve got a gun?”
“Kill ’em.”
“Sir?”
Whatever his motivation, the gunman who killed Suukamanu had been the enemy, and living enemies could only be given two choices, surrender or death. Any trace of compassion vanished from Cutter’s mind, so the determined scowl he gave Riidono underscored the absolute certainty in his voice. “This is close quarters urban combat, Sergeant. Hesitation gets men killed. I’ve lost two men today; I don’t intend to lose any more. We can’t guess why people might conceal a weapon; we can only operate on the assumption they mean to use it against us. Don’t let ’em.”
Riidono swallowed hard. Cutter’s platoon had never seen his true ruthless side, the genuine version that only emerged during combat. “I understand, Captain. I’ll spread the word.”
* * * * *
Chapter 13
After they double-checked all the bodies within their perimeter, First Squad refilled their canteens from the well. The surrounding wall was made of rough, waist-high stones, fitted with the usual overhead crank-and-bucket to bring water to the surface. Leaning over to see how deep the water might be, Cutter noticed rusty iron rings set into the stone: probably to simplify descending to retrieve dropped items, particularly pollutants. What surprised him was the circular lattice grill about twenty feet down, with a central opening for the bucket to pass through. Perhaps it was to catch things like dead animals—or incautious children—that fell down the shaft.
“Militia headed this way!” called a sentry from a narrow alley on the plaza’s western side.
“I need a number!” replied Sergeant Riidono before Cutter could ask the same question.
“Ten or more, and they heard me. They’re fifty feet from my position.”
“Same here,” yelled another sentry, this one located a hundred feet down a wide street to the south. “At least a dozen armed men. One is wearing red paint, and the others have a red mark down their noses.”
“Red paint?” Cutter asked Riidono. “Another tribe?”
“Yes, sir. Just like blue paint: it means a militia leader favored by the F’ahdn. They get special privileges and a share in the harvest in return for their loyalty and support. People know to leave them alone. They are quite powerful here in the city. To use your words, he is another high value target.”
Cutter had seconds to consider the tactical situation. Earlier, they had discussed the possibility of sending men onto the roofs, both for a firing advantage and to keep the enemy from doing the same thing. The problem was their unfamiliarity with the buildings they were moving through. On Earth, Cutter would have called the Outer City a slum, and the houses shanties or shacks, even though they were partly made from stone. Only a few had a second story, and many had collapsed walls from a lack of quality mortar. The roofs were in even worse shape and couldn’t be trusted to support a man’s weight.
“Is that militia from Imsurmik?” Cutter asked.
“No, sir. The F’ahdn doesn’t like having too many armed men in the city except during special times. There aren’t that many J’Stull here; the F’ahdn fears a revolt. He trusts no one and sees enemies everywhere.”
“Good. That means they don’t know the ground any better than we do,” Cutter said. “Or which roofs might hold a man’s weight. That makes it a two-dimensional fight.”
“I don’t—”
Cutter held up a hand. “The main assault will come from there,” he said, pointing to a broad street running north. “We’ve already got fire teams in place against incursions from the south and west. Deploy the third fire team to block that north road, and use the other three men there, at the e
astern exit, to cover our retreat.”
“Are you sure, Captain?” Riidono peered over his shoulder at the empty road to the north. The first shot came from the western attack group.
“Moorefield’s men hold the road, and that gives the enemy too little room to assemble for an attack. Moorefield’s men would see them and engage. That’s why they’re trying to drive us north, probably into an ambush. When we don’t bite, they’ll move on the plaza. Hold your positions as long as possible, then retreat in stages to the east.”
“What about you, sir?”
Cutter changed the magazine and charged the Thompson. “I’ll be in the well.”
* * *
Behind him, Yukannak heard the sounds of battle approaching the intersection of the cache tunnel and the main one. Zeesar had told him the entrance to the archive might be in the cache tunnel, but exploring that option had now been overtaken by events. He had no choice but to follow his own instincts about where it might be.
Ahead, he heard the growl of an engine starting. Although the light was bright enough to read by, at a distance of three hundred yards he could barely make out Subitorni and his men piling into a large vehicle and then heading into the tunnel to the north. During his arrival, Yukannak hadn’t noted how far he had traveled down the tunnel before reaching his quarters. It hadn’t been relevant then. Now, tired and on foot, it was very relevant. It was a long, long way.
A stitch in his side grew with each breath. How far could the passage possibly go? The original passage might have been carved by natural forces, but widening and squaring such an immense space must have taken thousands of people and many years. Here and there, narrow side tunnels branched off, and he reckoned they all led to the network of tunnels rumored to run throughout the region, perhaps even to the rumored escape passage. None was large enough for a vehicle, though. Yukannak had a growing suspicion that Subitorni not only knew where and what the archive was, but, with the F’ahdn dead, he was planning to take it for himself and escape through the secret entrance. That realization leant new speed to Yukannak’s steps.
Eventually, the tunnel turned sharply to the left. About two hundred yards ahead, he saw the glow from the large room he remembered, the one with the vehicles in it, and he slowed. Subitorni might turn out to be an ally, or he might simply kill the silci on sight. The worst case was if the Kulsians had discovered his crime and sent out a capture order. There was just no way to know, so it was better for him to hide, listen, and wait.
* * *
Tanavuna, Ammaii, Unaa, and Kuun lay on the cool stone floor, watching from under one of the powered vehicles Captain Cutter called a “truck” as a similar one rumbled past and stopped near a pair of large double doors set into the western wall. Nine men climbed out of the truck’s bed, and it surprised Tanavuna to see they wore not the red, blue, green, or purple paint of the four major militias who served the F’ahdn, but instead had the white paint of the J’Stull guards. He was further surprised when Kuun elbowed him and pointed to Subitorni, the local J’Stull commander. That changed everything.
Why was the J’Stull commander down here when the city was under attack? He should have been leading the defense against Major Moorefield’s assault teams. Was the F’ahdn down there, receiving treatment…perhaps from Kesteluni? No answer made sense except that they were protecting the city’s leader.
Subitorni’s presence made Tanavuna’s decision to investigate the entrance look like a shrewd tactical move instead of disregarding orders. Other than the F’ahdn himself or the Kulsian rumored to be in the city, the J’Stull commander was the very definition of a high value target. And for him personally, the raid on Nuthhurfipiko had all the marks of a J’Stull operation, including the use of trucks. That meant Subitorni had not only approved it, he likely also planned it, participated in it, and was directly responsible for the murder of his father and all the others. For that, Subitorni deserved death. Instant, terrible death. But he couldn’t, though; in addition to his mission objective, if anybody knew where Kesteluni was being held, it would be Subitorni.
Once the last of the J’Stull passed through the open doors, Tanavuna and his men advanced until they were twenty feet from the two men talking in the truck’s bed. Based on their lack of face paint and the smears of dirt and lubricants on their skin and clothing, they rarely went to the surface. He made out snatches of their conversation but became alert when one spoke about the beautiful black-haired healer; that could only be his wife. With rifles shouldered and aimed at the two mechanics, he, Kuun, and Ammaii walked forward in a skirmish line, ready to shoot.
* * *
Across the room on the western wall, Subitorni’s vehicle was backed up to a wide doorway with the engine off. The J’Stull commander was surrounded by his men, giving them orders Yukannak couldn’t hear. He’d even pulled the mechanics over, making it clear he needed their muscle to load something. Two men climbed into the vehicle’s open bed while the rest disappeared through the doorway.
With their backs to him, Yukannak intended to slip past the ramp and hide behind the vehicles parked against the wall on his left, most of which were in various stages of repair. Crouching in the shadows, he rose to run for cover but detected movement to his right. He stopped and crouched.
Four men dressed like tribal militia flitted between the carts and vehicles on the far side of the ramp, moving toward the door through which Subitorni had disappeared. They surprised the two men in the vehicle bed, motioned them to a corner, and tied and gagged them. After checking the mechanic’s bonds, the militiamen followed Subitorni into the darkness.
Yukannak ran for the far side of the now-empty cavern. High above, at the head of the ramp, a slit of sunlight showed how the invaders had gotten in, probably after finding the trap door from the wheel tracks. One thing the Kulsians and J’Stull knew about the Offworlders was that they were professionals, not amateurs like the forces allied with the satrap. Hiding a secret entrance was a brilliant idea, but showing its exact location by leaving wheel tracks was utter stupidity.
He reached a vehicle near the darkened rectangle of the doorway. Leaning with his back to the front tire, Yukannak tried to slow his breathing so he could hear anything coming from inside.
* * * * *
Chapter 14
The two mechanics glanced up at Tanavuna and his men, at first with eyebrows raised in a gesture of unspoken question, then in narrowed squints at the rifles aimed their way.
“Speak one word, and you’re both dead,” Tanavuna said. “You have a choice, either point out rope and a cloth to bind you with, or I’ll have to cut your throats.” Both mechanics raised their hands and climbed down. Minutes later they were tied and sitting in a corner.
Tanavuna stood before the double doors, and a quick peek inside showed stairs going down, with no way of knowing how deep they went. All he could think about was Kesteluni at the mercy of the J’Stull, so rather than wait for someone to return he took half a step into the darkness with his rifle pointed ahead.
Kuun’s hand stopped him. “We can’t afford to lose you,” the man whispered, without explaining if he was referring to his role as lieutenant or hetman. Not waiting for Tanavuna to respond, Kuun led the way down, his brother close behind.
Lanterns set at intervals along the walls shed wan light on the steps, with illumination at the bottom coming from rooms or passages to either side. The stairs were rough-hewn and wide enough for firm footing but with worn indents that could trip the unwary. A tumble might well prove fatal, even without J’Stull waiting below. Tanavuna had taken eight steps down when Kuun sped up, came to a landing, and wheeled right with his M14 leveled at the waist. Unaa took a step to follow but Tanavuna grabbed the back of his robe.
“Who are you?” somebody yelled. Kuun opened fire with the selector set to full-automatic, which made bracing it against his hip understandable. Firing an M14 at full-automatic from the shoulder made it impossible to keep on target, no matter how good you were.
The 7.62mm rounds packed a heavy punch, but the tradeoff was a strong recoil that threw off aim at more than a semi-automatic rate of fire. Captain Cutter said the only time it made sense to use full-automatic was to spray a small area where it was hard to miss, or to drive the enemy to ground.
“Let me go!” the younger man yelled, but Tanavuna held on. Return fire ripped into Kuun before they had a chance to move. Going to his aid would have meant stepping into a storm of bullets.
Bleeding from a dozen hits, Kuun somehow remained standing and kept firing. When his first magazine ran dry, he took three seconds to swap out magazines and started firing again. Brass casings clinked on the floor. The noise of the gunshots echoed like thunder in the stairwell while the air stank of burnt gunpowder. Return fire from inside the room blended into a cacophony that made it impossible to tell one shot from the next. Kuun’s body jerked both from holding the gun and being ripped apart by bullets. Blood sprayed the walls and turned the front of his robe crimson.
When the second magazine was empty, the dying man waved the others back up the stairwell. He met the eyes of his sobbing brother and waved again. Incredibly, even as more bullets hit him, Kuun clicked a third magazine into place and continued firing. When the last bullet left the chamber, he finally slumped sideways.
Tanavuna was only halfway from the bottom when Subitorni stepped into view, pistol extended. He shot Kuun once in the head. Tanavuna raised his rifle but a second J’Stull came up behind Subitorni, saw them, and started shooting.
He dragged Unaa back up the stairs, bullets zipping off the walls with at least one hitting a step and ricocheting back down the stairwell. A loud grunt indicated it struck J’Stull flesh, and no more shots followed them out. By a miracle, they got back to the top without injury.
Shadows Page 10
