* * *
Toon offered his respects and requested a moment of Bool' s time. The older steam user lifted his snout and aimed it at his underling. Toon' s request no doubt concerned the long-legs; that seemed to be the only subject for which Toon cared anymore. While Toon was doing an excellent liaison job—the elders commended Bool on his choice—many of Toon' s important duties had gone wanting, and Bool was personally required to fill the void. His work groups were behind on corrosion inspections and link replacements for the lifts, in addition to the never-ending requirement to clear sediment from the accumulator channels.
"Steam user Toon," Bool replied superciliously. "What dost thee require?"
"To presume on thy time, master. A matter of the long-legs."
"Short-one-who-leads returned to our caves this morning, did she not? Art thy communication efforts progressing in a satisfactory manner."
"Most superbly satisfactory, master," Toon replied, his tone and choice of words obsequious and supplicating. Bool's interest was piqued.
"State thy business, steam user," he ordered.
"The long-legs have requested succor. They ask to be taken under our roof," Toon responded directly, taking his cue from Bool's abruptness.
"Impossible!" sputtered the older dweller. "We cannot support twenty long-legs. They are huge! They eat so much, and constantly!"
"Nineteen, master," Toon replied. "One has died. Another is injured."
"Dead!" Bool exclaimed. "Oh, no! May its soul rest. Tragic! Oh, my!"
"Master Bool," Toon said with unusual intensity. "The elders must be informed. I apprise thee before word reaches the elders."
"Thy loyalty is commendable, steam user Toon, and thou art correct. We must inform the elders immediately. I shall request an audience."
* * *
The biting wind was a two-edged sword; it had blown the snow from the plateau, but the temperatures were cruel, the bright sun providing light without heat. The return hike from the cliffs had been punishing. They trudged on the ice-armored lake below the camp; Buccari feared frost-bite in her extremities. She peeked forward into the rasping gusts; her watering eyes detected someone hurrying to meet them.
"Shannon and—Hudson," MacArthur shouted, his head next to hers.
"Hope everything's okay," she screamed. The blurry apparitions gave Buccari a sense of foreboding. They met in the lee of the island, the wind blunted by trees and rocks.
"You're in command, sir. Commander Quinn died last night," Shannon shouted, his face hidden behind a ragged muffler. "Fever took him away. Lee did what she could, but he went fast. Just gave up and died."
Buccari momentarily forgot the cold. Commander Quinn, the senior officer, was dead. The decisions were now hers to make. She was responsible; she was speechless. She stared at her feet.
"Tatum' s the one we need to worry about, Lieutenant," Shannon yelled against the wind thrashing through the trees. "He's in bad shape—infection, maybe blood poisoning. Lee says it's only a matter of time before gangrene takes over."
"We need to get him to the cliff dweller colony," Buccari said, shaking off her thoughts. "At first light tomorrow we're heading for the cliffs. The cliff dwellers have given us permission to stay there."
"Aye," Shannon said, looking up. "Best news in a long time."
"We'll have the wind at our back," Hudson shouted.
"Don't count on it," Buccari replied. "Look at those clouds. A front's coming. Bad weather and a wind shift. Let's get moving before the storm hits."
* * *
Large downy flakes sifted gracefully from an amorphous ceiling. The snows would last until the full moon, maybe longer. Old Kuudor, wearing black otter fur, slogged between posts through the delicate shroud of snow. The guard had been doubled, and he was checking sentry stations for vigilance. The pointillistic forms of two other hunters materialized from the textured curtain of snowflakes—Craag and Braan, in white growler skins and nearly invisible.
Braan spoke first, as was fitting. "Tidings, Kuudor, captainof-the-sentry."
"Hail and well met, Braan-our-leader. Greetings, brave warrior Craag," returned the sentry commandant, using ancient forms.
"All is in order," Craag said. "Thy sentries are well-taught and serious."
The old warrior swelled with pride. "But this storm is ominous," he responded. "It will last many days."
"No, and the long-legs are not yet within hail," Braan replied. "Daylight endures but one more hour. After dark the growlers will have their way."
"Perhaps they are not coming," Craag offered. "To wait would be wise."
"Perhaps," Braan replied. "But I think not. Short-one-wholeads said they would return this day. That creature seems sure-minded."
"I am told Short-one-who-leads is a female of the race," Kuudor said.
"It would be true," Braan stated.
"Strange beings, allowing smaller and weaker females to lead," Craag ventured.
"Perhaps their females are the more intelligent, as with guilders and hunters," Braan responded.
"We would never allow a guilder to lead us into battle!" Kuudor exclaimed. "Guilders have neither the will nor the means to fight, and they lack courage."
"Evidently female long-legs have the necessary attributes," Braan answered. "I doubt not their courage."
"Most curious. You will pardon me, warriors, for I must complete my rounds," Kuudor said. He saluted and stepped away and was immediately swallowed in a white matte curtain of snow.
* * *
MacArthur checked his compass and refigured his reckoning. The snow masked all directional references. He looked about, his anxiety rising. Goldberg was done—Mendoza was bodily carrying her. Lee and Fenstermacher tried to help, but it was all they could do to help each other. Shannon had his hands full with Dawson, but at least he was keeping her moving. Tatum was the problem; too heavy to carry, he fainted with disturbing frequency. It took two men to keep him moving. MacArthur, recalling the delirium and fever of his own infected shoulder, knew how his friend felt. The dwellers would heal Tatum—if only they could get there in time.
"How's Tatum doing?" MacArthur asked. Chastain, carrying an enormous backpack, also supported Tatum' s lanky weight. Hudson attempted to help, but Tatum's sagging body and the absence of a left arm made it awkward.
"Dunno, Mac," the big man gasped. "He ain't stirring." "How're you doing, Jocko?" MacArthur asked. "You need a relief?"
"I'm okay," Chastain wheezed, plowing through the yielding whiteness.
"I'll take a break," Hudson gasped.
"Sure thing, Mr. Hudson. I'll tag O'Toole," MacArthur said. He hated to take O'Toole off guard detail; he wanted his best guns on the line. MacArthur walked toward the rear of the refugee column. The column was stringing out dangerously.
There was movement to his right! Something vague and without definable shape. MacArthur halted and stared into the downy precipitation, straining to distinguish what his peripheral vision had discerned; but he could see nothing. He shook his head to clear his tired brain, and he pulled his face protector away from his eyes, giving him a wider field of vision, but to no avail. His five senses could tell him nothing, and yet he was certain something was lurking in the drifts, only paces away. Buccari, walking on snowshoes alongside the column, came up to him.
"I don't like you staring like that," she said. "What'd you see?"
"Something…maybe," MacArthur responded. He looked at her. She looked away.
"The last time we made this trip was more fun," he said, smiling behind his scarf. "I only had you to worry about.""Thanks a bunch," she replied sarcastically, turning face him.
"Don't get me wrong," he protested. "I worried about you at first, a lot! But after the first night, I worried more for the nightmares."
"Flattery!" she said. "I accept your praise, fierce warrior." "Praise easily given, fair damsel."
They touched shoulders as they turned and walked together, trudging along the column to where Tookman
ian and Schmidt, struggling under their large backpacks, kicked through the snow. Petit and Gordon followed, also heavily burdened, wallowing in the whiteness.
"How much farther?" Buccari asked.
"Can't be far. Maybe a kilometer." MacArthur glanced sideways into the falling snow. The nagging feeling would not leave.
"We're too spread out," he said. "I want the rear closed up. Let's take over the rear guard from O'Toole. I'm putting O'Toole with Chastain. Tatum's really slowing us down."
A single rifle shot sounded from the head of the column. Burping automatic fire followed, shattering the cottony stillness. MacArthur turned and lunged ahead with Buccari in his wake. Growls reverberated in the air. As he came even with Tatum, he saw five wraithlike apparitions, their paws throwing up a furious churning of snow, charging the column from the opposite side. Tatum and his attendants blocked his line of fire. MacArthur dove behind the men, plunging into the dry snow, and fired a burst into the black-rimmed maw of the closest beast. Buccari's carbine stuttered over his head. Another nightmare fell. Chastain stumbled, dropping Tatum facedown in the snow. Someone screamed! Hudson drew his pistol as two ferocious animals rammed into him, jaws snapping for flesh. MacArthur rose to a knee and fired a round into the closest beast, knocking it squealing and whimpering. Chastain stepped forward and grabbed the other growler by its thick scruff and heaved it into the air. The agile, twisting beast landed on its feet and withdrew.
The other growlers swerved at the rifle reports but maintained their attack. Snarling animals leapt for Chastain's hamstrings. A burst from Buccari's carbine hit one growler in the shoulder, knocking it down, but the remaining beast struck at Chastain's buttocks and drew blood. Chastain went to his knees. Hudson, already on the ground, put his pistol behind the growler's ear and squeezed off two rounds. The growler fell dead.
MacArthur leapt to his feet. Hudson, clothing torn and bloodied, attended to Chastain, helping the big man stagger to his feet. As Buccari rolled Tatum' s snow-covered form face up, more rifle fire exploded from the rear of the column.
* * *
Explosions of death sticks reverberated along the cliffs. Braan and Craag, bows drawn, rushed into the snow. Kuudor deployed two sections of archers and called up the next watch. With nothing further to do, he drew his bow and marched forward, confident his sentries would stand their ground.
The reports from the death sticks were louder, the frenetic explosions coming in desultory bursts and random single shots, all muffled by the deadening snowfall. Shouts and screams wafted through the flurries, the long-legs' rumbling voices growing louder and louder. Sentries gave the alert—movement had been seen. The first hulking form appeared; it was colossal, and it carried the limp form of a fallen comrade. Two others followed closely behind, their heavy bodies sinking in the snow. They were startled by the cliff dwellers. One giant shouted, signaling his own warriors not to their point death sticks at the hunters.
"Craag! Guide them!" Braan ordered. "We will help those that follow."
The next group came out of the blizzard—another injured one attended by three heavily burdened long-legs intent on keeping the hurt one moving. There was much shouting and screaming. Confused, the long-legs stumbled and fell in the deep snow. Kuudor bravely approached, grabbing one by the hand. Two of the longlegs, seeing cliff dwellers and sensing safety was near, left the injured ones and returned toward the gunfire, all the while shouting with their booming voices. Braan followed them into the unyielding whiteness.
From out of the dusk-darkened snowfall came the largest of the long-legs. He was injured, leaving a trail of blood and staggering ponderously through the powder. He also struggled with the limp form of an injured comrade. The two long-legs returning to the fray relieved him of his burden, leaving the giant standing unsteadily, looking lost. Braan was concerned he might fall, but more long-legs came out of the flurries; two grabbed the big one's arms and pushed him forward, supporting his great weight. A third one took his rifle and turned to face the rear, maintaining a guard. Another long-legs advancing from the snows appeared; they retreated together.
More shots, near! Craag was at his side, and Kuudor, bows drawn and ready. And more shots! Brilliant flashes of orange! The cliff dwellers flinched and recoiled at the barking death sticks. Growls! Snarling growlers! The hunters smelled the deadly animals despite the chemical reek of death stick magic. The scent of blood was also strong, as snowflakes drifted gently downwards, serenely oblivious to the carnage.
* * *
"Fall back, Lieutenant! Fall back!" MacArthur shouted. "O'Toole! Boats! Who else is still here? Shout your name and close up!"
No answer. It was just the four of them, formed into a tight huddle, their backs together. They knew that cliff dwellers were close by. They had made it! Almost made it—the four of them still needed to break off the engagement. They could not turn and run.
"Keep moving. O'Toole! Watch our backs and lead the way," MacArthur ordered. "Do you see anything? Any cliff dwellers?"
"Not yet. Which way do we go, Mac?" O'Toole asked helplessly.
MacArthur glanced at his compass, trying to hold it steady. Uncertain, he pointed in a general direction. They could be marching off the cliff for all he knew.
Growlers exploded from the blizzard. Buccari' s carbine and Jones' pistol barked viciously and were quickly joined by the lower-pitched and angry reports of MacArthur's and O'Toole's heavy automatics. Only two of the growlers survived to close the gap, and one of those was dispatched with MacArthur' s bayonet. The last growler fell to the ground with three arrows in its throat. The firing stopped. The humans stared at the shaft-studded growler and looked about for the unseen archers.
Fur-shrouded cliff dwellers materialized, bows drawn and arrows nocked. One of them approached and indicated with a sharp gesture they should follow.
"It's Captain!" MacArthur shouted, recognizing the dweller leader by his manner and gait. "Follow him!"
The hunters turned and ambled over the snow, their broad feet keeping their light bodies from sinking. The humans followed, struggling to keep pace, eyes scanning the snowy gloom.
Chapter 27. War
It had gotten extremely late. Runacres was escorted from the inner offices of the west wing to the empty lobby of the deserted assembly forum. Only janitors puttered about, attempting to bring order to the hallowed chambers of that last bastion of democracy on Earth, such as it was. Runacres proceeded to the east entrance alone. He knew the way well. His footfalls on the lacquered floor echoed from the mahogany paneling and high-ceilings of the interminable corridors. His pace was measured, neither quick nor slow, but then again gravity was a nuisance. Of habit he enjoyed reviewing the yellowed oils of ancient leaders and war heroes hanging from the walls, along with mildewed draperies and innumerable faded, dusty campaign banners and flags. The glorious past.
He entered the east wing rotunda "Guard! Attennn-huttt!" the captain barked. Elite troops of the Alberta Brigade in chromed helmets cracked explosively to attention. Runacres pulled on his thick reefer, donned his heavily braided cap, and tossed a spacer salute, flipping a hand from the cap brim, neat and quick, unlike the chest-thumping, fist-in-the-air salute of the Legion Federation Peacekeepers. Runacres laughed at the irony of that appellation as he stomped into the snowy night.
Night reigned over Edmonton, but there was precious little darkness. Arc lights illuminated the capital mall, all the way to the distant Defense Ministry, in which he had labored the past months. Armed patrols in combat fatigues, some leading dogs, crisscrossed the grounds. Other than ground-wire trolleys, there were no powered vehicles within the administration perimeter. Runacres elected to make the short walk to the General Officers' Club, a refreshing prospect after so many hours in closet session. Jupiter, he hated politics! His planet was dying.
He glanced at his watch; it was two hours after than their agreed-upon meeting time, but he knew they would be waiting. He walked through the brass and teak lobby of the
officers' club and into the secluded apartments reserved for the occasion. Sarah Merriwether stood at the window watching snow fall softly through the harsh glare. The others, clustered on leather sofas near the fireplace, jumped to their feet—all except Cassy Quinn who remained seated, staring at the floor. A magnificent oil of an ancient sail-powered dreadnought heeling to the wind hung above the mantel.
"We're going," Runacres announced stolidly. "The president wants us on that planet. We've been authorized to use all available means." He looked around the silent room, not knowing what to expect, anything except silence. Quinn looked up at the ceiling, her eyes glistening in the firelight.
"I'll get the word out, Admiral," Wells replied, putting on his winter cap. "We have a few logistic problems to iron out."
"More than a few, Franklin. Get on it," he said, turning to face the geologist. "Commander Quinn, your report was the hammer. The president's advisors swallowed the hook. You are to be commended. I know how hard you worked for this."
"Thank you, Admiral," Quinn replied, color just starting to flow into her face. "I really believe my—h-how soon, sir?"
"Of course you do, Cassy," Runacres replied. "We'll have to see how quickly Commodore Wells can crank up the refit. Not sooner than three months, probably more like six. We must be prepared to do battle."
* * *
Muzzle blasts from heavy artillery thundered across the land. Pig-snouted cannons erupted, hurling hunks of demon iron screaming through tortured skies, and distant, low-pitched explosions beat an arrhythmic dirge day and night. Black clouds of greasy smoke tumbled skyward from hideously orange tongues of flame raking the brutalized horizon. Joined in mortal combat were the konish armies of north and south. Devastation spread, and word of war flew in the wind. Millions of panicked civilians and thousands of furtive soldiers fled southward, forming endless refugee columns, filled with despair and absent hope.
Gorruk' s hordes poured into the cratered and torched salients. They did not appear to be conquerors. Parched and blackened by sun, the troops of the north were also refugees, fleeing from the unmerciful heat and winds of their forced march across the arid sands. The soldiers stumbled forward, relentlessly, knowing too well the searing tribulation behind them; they would rather die attacking the unknown than to repeat the ordeal of the deserts. As the dehydrated hordes reached the pitiful tributaries draining the contested lands, they would raise immense cheers and stampede the feeble watercourses, falling and wallowing in muddy ditches like cattle. Their footholds established, the northern armies flowed inexorably southward, supported by massive logistics convoys. Engineers, ruthlessly employing prisoners, struggled to erect rail systems spanning the deserts, striving desperately to complete their slave-driving atrocities before the weather systems returned to normal, reverting the deserts to impassable infernos.
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