The Kindly Ones

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The Kindly Ones Page 36

by Melissa Scott


  "That's good," Guil said, not daring to take her eyes off the swelling image. "That's fine. What are the fighters doing?"

  Corrie glanced at the radar screen. "Don't worry about them, they've got problems of their own. All right, Andrasteia's down."

  "Good," Guil said again. The end of the runway was approaching quickly, but Topper was still ahead of her, sinking toward a heavy landing.

  "And she's cleared the runway," Corrie said. "Topper's touched, and rolling. And she's clear."

  Guil took a deep breath. That was one fewer thing to worry about; now there was only her own landing, without the beam to keep her lined up or Port Control to talk her down. She shifted her shoulders, feeling the tension there, and forced her muscles to relax. The end of the runway, marked with broad white stripes, swelled in the screen.

  She pointed the Virago's nose at what she hoped was the center of the stripe, and hit the switch that started the landing sequence. Lights flashed across the board, and the computer said, "Warning. Beacon reader is not functioning. Repeat, priority warning. Beacon reader is not functioning."

  "Shut it off," Guil said. "Handle it, Corrie."

  "I've got it," the copilot answered.

  Then the Virago flashed across the line of lights that marked the edge of the field, and Guil turned all her attention to the ship. She cut speed at a reckless rate, pulling up the Virago's nose until they were almost stalling, easing the ship toward the metalled surface of the runway.

  "My God, there are vehicles on the path," Corrie shouted.

  Guil swore, but held the Virago steady, her mouth setting into an angry line. "Fuck them," she said. "I'm coming in."

  "They're not moving, Guil."

  "Fuck them," Guil answered, and dropped the Virago onto the runway. She caught the briefest glimpse of a heavy service van pulled broadside across the runway before the Virago, tires squealing, then smashed into it, shoving it bodily off the runway. The collision threw her back and sideways, but the harness held her at the controls. The image had vanished from the main screen: the bow cameras had been ripped away. Corrie was hanging half out of his harness, punching buttons on the sensor board. A new picture formed, slightly out of register in the middle, but clear enough to see another van, and a disaster unit, drawn up across the runway.

  "Oh, God, more of them," Corrie said.

  Guil swore again, and stamped on the throttle.

  "You can't do that," Corrie began, and broke off as Guil turned on him.

  "Watch me," she said, through clenched teeth. The Virago picked up speed again, until it was almost flying. Guil held it steady, caught in a strange, exultant pleasure, pointing the damaged bow straight at the blocking vehicles. She smiled, seeing tiny figures leap from the cabs to dive for cover along the sides of the runways, and laughed aloud as the Virago smashed into the first van, throwing it aside. It moved the disaster truck, too, though less easily; Guil's foot moved convulsively on the throttle, but she controlled herself in time. They were almost at the turnoff. She pressed the rudder controls experimentally, and was almost surprised when they responded. The Virago slowed, swung heavily toward the marked taxiway, hampered by the disaster van still tucked under its nose.

  "Christ, Guil," Corrie said.

  "I cleared the runway, didn't I?" Guil snapped. "We're in position—tell the passengers to get a move on."

  Corrie struggled free of his harness, and fought his way out of the control cabin. Guil concentrated on pulling the slowing Virago farther onto the taxiway, turning it so that a wing was between the main body and the field tower. She brought ship's systems to a quick shutdown, grudging every second she spent on it. Already she could hear the faint whistle of blaster fire: the people from the freighters and the aircraft had engaged the enemy.

  As soon as the last check light showed blue, she flung back her harness and bolted from the cabin. The main hatch was open, giving onto the protected side of the ship. The squad leader, another of the Rhawn refugees, waved to her from the hatchway. "All clear. You're the last one out!"

  Guil waved in answer, biting back the unreasonable anger that threatened to overwhelm her, and ducked into the pilots' cabin, emerging an instant later with a military handblaster slung around her waist. She paused in the hatchway, getting her bearings, and the squad leader leaned close, shouting in her ear.

  "Andrasteia's over there. You're to get your weapons from her."

  Guil nodded, not looking at him. The Virago was too small to carry her share of weapons; the freighters had had to carry the bulk of that cargo. The full dark of the Eclipse had set in, and, tardily, the port authority had cut the field lights, increasing the darkness. Andrasteia was little more than a bulky shadow, only a thin wedge of light spilling out from her open cargo bay. There were other shadows beyond her, and two more to the Virago's stern: the rest of the fleet had landed safely. She drew her blaster and jumped, disdaining the stairs.

  Someone fired at her as she darted across the runway, a bolt of raw energy slashing across the fused earth ahead of her. She dropped to her knees, spinning instinctively, but saw no one. She fired twice anyway, enjoying the kick of the blaster and the electric smell that lingered in the air after the gun was fired. She stayed crouching a moment longer, hoping for another excuse to shoot, but nothing happened. She pushed herself to her feet and ran, zigzagging, the rest of the way to Andrasteia.

  Moraghan was standing in the hatchway, face remote, supervising a stranger as he handed out the weapons. She nodded to Guil as the pilot entered the hold, but did not speak. Guil nodded back, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry, and turned to the man with the weapons. He handed her a laser rifle and turned away, but Guil caught his sleeve.

  "Let me take one of the assault guns," she said.

  The man hesitated, glancing at Moraghan.

  "I can handle it," Guil said impatiently. "I've used commercial drills."

  The man waited, still looking at Moraghan. Guil took a quick breath, and let it out slowly, controlling herself with an effort. "Leith, you know I can use one. Tell him."

  Moraghan lifted an eyebrow. "Are you sure you want to?" Before Guil could answer, the other woman's face twisted, and she said roughly, "If she wants to take it, let her. She's good for it."

  "Thanks, Leith," the pilot said, Moraghan's strange look already forgotten. The stranger lifted the powerpack harness for her, and Guil shrugged herself into it. She tugged the straps tight across ribs and shoulders, enjoying the new sensation, then waited while the stranger plugged in the connecting wires and flipped the power switch. There was a faint buzzing, more a vibration in her ribcage, and she felt a gentle warmth under her right arm. The stranger handed her the stubby projector, and she took it eagerly, cradling it against her body.

  Moraghan was still eyeing her strangely, and Guil made herself meet the other woman's gaze. "Join up with second squad," Moraghan said after a moment, and turned away.

  "Right," Guil said, and jumped down from the hatch. She landed heavily—she was not quite used to the assault gun's weight—but righted herself without injury. A whistle sounded in the distance—two quick blasts and a longer one. That was the second squad's form-up signal, she knew, and turned toward it, hugging the gun to herself. Today, finally, old scores would be settled.

  Chapter 13

  Trey Maturin

  We landed at Madelgar in the teeth of the Eclipse, aircraft following the spaceships down onto the double field. Perhaps a dozen flyers landed before us, the rest hanging back to protect the more vulnerable fleet. As the last spaceship dropped onto the field, those aircraft wheeled to begin their landing. I had heard of swarms of aircraft so large that they darkened the sky. This was not so large—maybe a hundred craft in all, and some of those very small—but it was an impressive sight. The Brandr craft were nowhere to be seen, destroyed or driven off while the spaceships landed. Our aircraft landed in waves, two or three at once, the dark sky behind them barred with light. Then they were down, bringing f
ar more than the thousand men Moraghan had said she would need to make the plan work. A few flyers remained airborne, circling the field, ready to drive off any remaining Brandr craft.

  Moraghan had planned the action as a coup de main, and sent squads to take and hold the city's key points, gambling that the main Brandr forces would still be in the Halex Mandate. We took the port easily enough—it held only a skeleton staff, which surrendered almost as soon as the ships were down—and the stadthall and main power plant. The main part of the city, stripped of combatants, offered little resistance. The remaining Brandr fell back on the walled Necropolis as their last possible defense, and ran into the squad Moraghan had sent to secure that strong point. Outnumbered, the squad was slaughtered, and Moraghan turned her attention to the new danger.

  That, at least, is the explanation after the fact. I remember chiefly the darkness over the city, broken here and there by the brilliant flash of a laser rifle, or the redder flash of an assault gun. We had taken most of our objectives by the fourth hour of the Eclipse, though the Brandr technicians had cut the city's power almost as soon as we attacked. I remember the incongruously soft lights in the freighters' holds, and the stark white circle of the doctors' sterile field. And, of course, I remember the bodies, piling up on the fused earth runway behind the freighter that was our field hospital and headquarters. Alkres remained there—we could not risk his death—and I stayed with him, dividing my time between Moraghan's improvised communications station and the field hospital. We had three doctors, two Orillons who had come with us from Electra, and a volunteer from the Ansson Branch who was trying hard to hide her disappointment at missing the fighting. Most of the time they were enough to handle things, but every so often an unskilled pair of hands came in useful.

  The reports trickled in: first the field was secure, and the squad leader had locked the surviving Brandr into one of the windowless storage buildings. Then the stadthall was taken, and the fourth squad announced it was inside the power plant complex.

  "Trey!" It was the Ansson doctor, supporting another woman whose left arm and part of that shoulder had been burned away. It was obvious she was dying—I didn't understand how she'd lived long enough to reach the hospital—but a dark-haired young man hovered behind the doctor, his eyes wide with hope.

  "See to him, will you?" the Ansson went on, and jerked her head at the man. We locked eyes for an instant, and she shook her head fractionally. I went to him, averting my eyes from the woman's charred flesh and scored bone, and took his arm, using all my strength to turn him back toward the hatch.

  "Come on, the doctors can't work with you in the way." I kept my voice gentle, knowing he didn't really hear my words. He gave a convulsive start, and let me draw him away.

  "Will she die?" he asked, still with a faint note of hope.

  I looked away, hating myself for what had to be said. "I'm sorry." I made myself meet his eyes. "She's kin?"

  "My true-sib—my sister." He closed his eyes for a moment, tears glittering in long lashes. "And my partner. Oh, Costa."

  "I'm sorry," I said again, knowing how useless it was.

  He stood for a moment longer, eyes closed, tears staining his cheeks. Then he took a deep breath, dragging both hands across his eyes. "I'm all right," he said, almost to himself, and reached for the rifle he'd discarded at the hatchway. He checked the power, ejected the spent pack, and slammed a new one into place, nodding to himself all the while. "I'll be fine," he said again, to me this time, and jumped down from the hatch. I caught a last glimpse of him running back across the field, and then he disappeared among the buildings' shadows.

  "She's gone," the Ansson said wearily. "Give me a hand, Trey?"

  Together, we lifted the woman's body by head and heels, the doctor's hand digging into the burned shoulder, and carried it across the hold to the loading hatch. There was a pile of bodies already beneath it. We dropped hers onto it, and turned back toward the improvised tables.

  "Not too bad," the Ansson said. Something of my revulsion must have shown in my face, because she laughed softly, bitterly. "Trey, I'm from mining country. This is nothing, compared to a big cave-in."

  I turned away from her, unable to speak, sickened and ashamed to have had any part in this. Luckily, there was no one waiting for her attentions—we must have hit a lull in the fighting. I went forward, stepping carefully over the double row of wounded, lying in drugged sleep, aid packs taped to their bodies.

  Moraghan was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new tension in the air around the communications board. Alkres started to his feet at my entrance, and I moved to join him, saying quietly, "What's happened?"

  "We don't know," Alkres answered.

  At the sound of our voices, one of the people gathered around the board looked up. Seeing me, he said something in a low voice to the greying woman at his left, and came to join us.

  "We got a transmission from the third squad—the one sent to the Necropolis—reporting heavy fighting. They were cut off, and second squad, backing them up, reported that a fairly large party had broken into the Necropolis and was defending it strongly. Captain Moraghan took a squad and went to reinforce them, but now we're being jammed. We can't pick up anything useful, except a rough position fix."

  "So Leith—Captain Moraghan's all right?" Alkres interjected.

  The man looked at him, and then at me, and answered carefully, "Her people are transmitting, sor, which is a good sign." He looked back at me. "We don't have many people to spare, Medium. Would you go forward, see what's happening, and report back?"

  I took a deep breath, wishing I could refuse.

  Alkres said, passionately, "I wish I could go."

  "You know that's impossible," I snapped, more angrily than I'd meant. I looked back at Moraghan's aide, and nodded. "Of course I'll go."

  "Thank you, Medium," the man said. He glanced over his shoulder. "Corol!"

  I gasped at the sight of the man who stepped out of the shadows, and Alkres gave a little crow of pleasure. "I knew you hadn't heard," he said.

  "I thought you were dead," I said.

  Corol Ingvarr gave me a lopsided grin, and came forward to touch hands. "I wasn't there," he said, simply. "That's all."

  I shook myself, trying to suppress the shock of seeing Corol Ingvarr alive again, after I'd thought him dead in the Tower. He had been my first guide on Orestes—the first of the Halex kin to accept me as a medium; after the field hospital, this was like a little resurrection.

  "I can't spare you an escort," the commander was saying to Corol. The grey-bearded man looked offended.

  "I doubt we'll need one," he said, stiffly. He turned to me, giving a little nod to Alkres as he did so. "Sor. If you're ready, Medium?"

  "I'm ready," I said. I wished we did have a bigger escort—competent fighter though Corol might be, it seemed self-evident to me that two people alone practically invited attack—but I knew better than to say anything. I checked the charge on the blaster Moraghan had insisted that I carry, made sure the needle was on "full." Not that I thought it would do me much good if we were attacked—I had fired a blaster years ago, in training, and that was all—but I couldn't bear the idea of being without some means of defense. Bracing myself, I followed Corol from the ship.

  The Eclipse was ending now, the darkness slowly lifting, shadows reappearing in the blackest corners. The streets were utterly empty, lower-floor windows blankly shuttered, doors locked and barred, or shielded with metal screens. We met no one until we passed the stadthall. A group of Halex were crouched on its broad porch, sonic mortars trained on the square around them. Handlights burned inside the building, marking it as ours. Corol paused to confer with the mortar squad's leader, then started off again, turning left down a narrow alley. I bit back an instinctive protest, and followed.

  The alley gave onto a broader street that ran along the base of the Necropolis wall. In the distance, we could hear the whistle of blaster fire and the steady thump of a mortar. Corol grunt
ed.

  "Not this way," he said, and led me back up the alley until he found an even narrower cross street. This led into another filthy alley, and another, until at last we emerged into a wider street running perpendicular to the Necropolis wall. The street ended in a typical greengate, but the usual drop bar had been reinforced with a miscellany of objects—metal packing crates, shutters ripped from windows, a wrecked groundcar. A similar improvised barrier had been thrown up across the end of the street, and there were shapes crouched behind it. Corol whistled sharply twice, and several of the shapes turned, showing pale faces in the gloom. One rose and ran toward us, keeping to the shelter of the buildings to either side of the street. We advanced to meet it, hugging the buildings ourselves.

  "Trouble?" the figure asked sharply. It was a woman's voice, but I couldn't make out many details of her face.

  Corol shook his head. "Headquarters sent me to find Moraghan," he said. "You're being jammed."

  The woman snorted. "That we knew," she said. "The captain's this way."

  She led us back to the barricade, still hugging the walls of the buildings. Moraghan was crouched in the angle of a door, conferring with a technician in the muted glare of a handlight. She looked up at our approach, and her grim expression eased a little. "Good, Terend figured out what was happening and sent runners." She edged further into the deepset doorway, beckoning us in afterward. "They've got a strong force holed up in the Necropolis, and we're going to have to dig them out before we can implement step two."

  Step two was informing Halfrid Brandr that we controlled Madelgar, and suggesting that we renegotiate. I nodded. Corol showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. "But that's going to take some time," Moraghan continued. "Trey, I want you to stay here, we may need a medium. Corol, you get back to headquarters—go with him, Elevy—and tell Terend what's happened. Are they picking up any of the transmission?"

  "Enough to get a fix on you, nothing more," Corol answered.

 

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