For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  The words were more assertive than what Shi Huu was used to, but they rang with truth, and continued to echo long after the Ramanthian had left.

  THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR

  It was dark, or would have been, had the glare of the generator-powered work lights not pushed the darkness back. Captain Drik–Seeba-Ka stood next to FSO-5 Christine Vanderveen as both stared at the inside surface of the west wall. The entire day had been spent trying to shore up the wall but to no avail. Even as the twosome watched the Imperial cannon boomed, another iron ball struck the severely weakened structure, and workers ran to escape their own falling timbers, an avalanche of stone, and rock fragments that scythed through the air.

  “My ancestors fought like this,” the Hudathan said somberly. “First you surround the city, then you select a weak point, and put the artillery to work. The inhabitants attempt repairs, but can’t keep up, and the breach becomes practical. Counterfire is an option of course, but the defenders must have plenty of ammunition, or the attackers will fire unopposed.”

  Vanderveen tried to remember the last time she had heard outgoing mortar fire . . . the closest thing the allies had to artillery. She looked up at the legionnaire. “We ran out of rockets, didn’t we?”

  “They’re normally referred to as ‘bombs,’ ” the officer said impassively, “but yes, we fired our last round at 15:32. The cannon had been blown off its carriage by then, but repairs were made, and the battery was back in operation by 1900 hours.”

  Vanderveen looked at the wall. What remained of the scaffolding that her people had worked so hard to put in place was tilted and appeared ready to fall. The wall, which had appeared intact only thirty minutes before, was cracked. Not only that, but a small hole had appeared at a point roughly fifteen feet off the ground, and would soon grow bigger. “So, what should we do?” the diplomat asked, her voice hard and determined.

  “We’ll have to pull out of the southwest quadrant,” Seeba-Ka said grimly, “cede Dig Town, and try to keep them contained. We still command the top of the walls and that will help.”

  The diplomat tried to visualize the resulting grid, one in which each side controlled two diagonally opposed quarters of the city, and the manner in which the off-world forces would be cut off from each other. It didn’t look good.

  “Pull your workers,” the legionnaire continued, “and do it now. The wall could go at any time and I don’t want any civilians in the area when it does.”

  The cannon fired, the projectile struck the wall very close to the existing hole, and flying rubble sprayed the area within. A LaNorian screamed, one of the work lights crashed to the ground, and the retreat began.

  It was dawn on what promised to be a beautiful day. The sky was clear, the sun was out, and a city waited to be conquered. Lak Saa drew the cold morning air deep into his lungs and released it. It felt good to be alive. Thousands of troops, many of whom would be dead by the time the sun arrived at its zenith, stood in hushed silence. The eunuch could hear the gentle clink of metal on metal, smell their unwashed flesh, and feel their tightly coiled energy. There was something magical about that, something powerful, something which fed the fire in his soul. Within a matter of minutes, the cannon would fire one last time. This particular shot would have more symbolic than real value because the breach had been practical for hours by then.

  However, unlike Lak Saa’s troops, who delighted in fighting at night, the Imperials preferred the full light of day. A time when their often poorly trained troops were less likely to march in the wrong direction, open fire on each other, or fall victim to evil spirits. Ah well, the rebel leader consoled himself, given the fact that most of the soldiers in the first few waves were likely to be cut to shreds they should be allowed to die at whatever time they preferred.

  The cannon fired, the ball struck the pile of rubble that had accumulated in front of the breach and bounced up through the hole. A signal rocket went off, the Imperials shouted some sort of nonsense about death and glory, and ran toward the breach. That was when the machine guns started to chatter—and the brightly clad LaNorians began to die.

  But there were thousands of Imperial troops, all of whom had been waiting for weeks with nothing to show for it, and were eager to be the first through the breach. Partly for the glory of it, partly because they had been ordered to do so, but mostly because Mys was rumored to be rich with potential loot. The troops wanted to get their hands on the hodos filled with supplies, the wealth of prosperous refugees, and the weaponry that gave the devils their power.

  That meant that even as Santana and his legionnaires fired their automatic weapons there was little that they could do beyond force the oncoming troops to pay for the privilege. And pay they did falling in waves as members of the heavy weapons platoon, sent to the top of the wall for that very purpose, swung their crew-served .50 caliber and 7.62 mm machine guns back and forth.

  However, horrible though the slaughter was the LaNorians had more bodies than the off-worlders had bullets, and it wasn’t long before a handful of brave Imperials staggered up over the pile of rubble to enter the breach itself. They screamed their victory, staggered under the impact of more .50 caliber slugs, and died as Sergeant Carlos Zook, Corporal Norly Snyder, and two additional T-2s detached from Beckworth’s platoon stood on what had been one of Dig Town’s busiest streets, and poured fire into the gap. The cyborgs couldn’t remain for long, however, not in an area that would clearly be overrun, and backed down the thoroughfare toward Embassy Row and the barricades intended to keep the invaders from flooding into the city.

  That’s where Mee Mas, along with his increasingly effective force of three hundred irregulars, waited to provide covering fire. Though armed with a hodgepodge of off-world as well as LaNorian weapons, the Freedom Brigade as the prince had named them, had been drilled by none other than First Sergeant Neversmile himself, and were fairly reliable by then. “Hold your fire!” Mee Mas commanded his troops. “Wait for the cyborgs to pass through our lines!”

  The LaNorian knew that the T-2’s armor would protect them from a few rounds fired from behind, but took pleasure in the fact that discipline held, and all four of the off-world creatures were safely behind the barricades when his newly minted officers gave the orders to open fire.

  The Imperials continued to flood in through the breach. They were well mixed with the Tro Wa by then, who rather than pouring into the city as they imagined, found themselves trapped in a killing zone. The weapons on the top of the wall had been turned inward by then, and while free to enter the southwest sector of the city, the invaders had no place to go.

  Having been caught in an overwhelming cross fire those fortunate enough to survive did the only thing they could, they hid in the half-burned-out remains of Dig Town’s tenements, shops, and hodos, fired on targets of opportunity, and searched for things to eat.

  Confident that Mys would fall by early afternoon, and that their troops would feast on the food stored in the city, the Imperial officers had sent their soldiers into battle with no more than a single canteen full of water, four cold kas balls apiece, and a hundred rounds of ammunition. Though successful, the attack had stalled, and the siege continued.

  Lak Saa was disappointed by the failure to end the siege, very disappointed, but far from depressed. Progress had been made, the devils had been denied yet another sector of the city, and forced into a pair of boxes which remained linked, but only tenuously so, where their corners touched.

  Yes, all things considered the morning could be described as a success, and that was the Tro Wa’s state of mind when the Imperial messenger arrived.

  Lak Saa accepted the baton, broke the seal, and withdrew the message. It seemed that Sha Nef, one of Shi Huu’s more competent generals, wanted to meet with him during the early afternoon. Casualties had been heavy, but the combined assault had been successful, and there were further matters on which the two groups could cooperate. A rather sensible suggestion—an
d one with which Lak Saa concurred.

  Was Sha Nef positioning himself for a position within a Lak Saa-led government? Yes, quite possibly, but so what? All that indicated was that the general was possessed of good sense.

  Buoyed by success, as well as the possibility that key military leaders might be interested in joining his cause, Lak Saa sent his reply. Yes, he would be willing to come, and looked forward to doing so.

  The messenger departed, the Tro Wa returned to his tent, and was halfway through a sponge bath when the second runner arrived. This one was a member of the Claw, and so dire was the news that he carried, that Dee Waa felt it necessary to interrupt his leader’s absolutions and show the youngster into the Lak Saa’s tent.

  Both visitors stared aghast as Lak Saa stood before them nude, with only a pucker of badly mangled flesh left to mark the spot where his genitals had once hung, soapy water streaming the length of his body to collect in a pan at his feet. The eunuch, who seemed oblivious to their horror, rubbed a rag over the surface of his paunch. “Yes? What could possibly be so urgent that you would need to interrupt my bath?”

  Dee Waa, who had obtained a pretty good idea of what the message was likely to say from the youth who bore it, gestured toward the tube. “May I, sire?”

  “Please get on with it,” the Claw leader said grumpily, applying soapy water to his groin.

  The ex-teacher unrolled the parchment and read the text out loud. “The commander of the Hokla District is sorry to inform the supreme commander that the devil factories were attacked by Imperial troops, put to the torch, and destroyed. Local elements of the Tro Wa attempted to stop the Imperials, but were badly outnumbered, and went down to defeat.”

  Lak Saa swore. Shi Huu! It had to be Shi Huu . . . The old lizard had informers, plenty of them, at least one of whom had figured out the special relationship he had with the Ramanthians. Shi Huu, eager to punish him for killing her pet Thraki, had ordered the factories destroyed.

  But wait, the LaNorian thought, the messages had other implications as well, some of which were quite unpleasant. If the Empress had decided to move against the factories, it was logical to suppose that she was ready to move against him generally, which meant that the meeting with Sha Nef was likely to be a trap!

  Lak Saa snatched a towel off the back of a folding chair, used it to dry his chest, and started to issue orders. The alliance, such as it was, had ended.

  Ambassador Pas Rasha’s exoskeleton whined intermittently as he made his way into the basement lounge that now served as a multipurpose room and paused to look around. The gray concrete walls, sketchy refreshments, and haggard-looking diplomats were in marked contrast to the pleasant room, heavily loaded buffet table, and well-rested faces that had once defined such occasions.

  Not only that, but certain faces were missing, including that of Fas Doonar, who had been killed when the rebels had blown his shuttle out of the sky, and Fynian Isu Hybatha, whose ill-fated peace mission had ended with her head being flung over the south wall and into Mys. Pas Rasha sighed, said, “Good morning,” even though it wasn’t, and heard the usual pro forma responses as he took his seat.

  Those present included Ishimoto-Forty-Six, the Clone Hegemony’s ranking diplomat, Dogon Doko-Sa, who had left his troops long enough to attend to the diplomatic aspect of his job, Sea Sor, the Prithian ambassador, and Regar Batth, who represented the Ramanthians and appeared especially glum. There was a dull thump, as an explosion of indeterminate origin shook dust off the light fixtures, causing them to sway gently. Ishimoto-Forty-Six frowned. “What the hell was that?”

  “Who cares?” Batth replied gloomily. “The outcome is certain. Mys will fall.”

  “Really?” Pas Rasha said primly, “I hadn’t heard that . . . The last time I looked we were holding our own.”

  “They have the native quarter,” Batth responded. “The rest will follow.”

  “Not necessarily,” the Dweller replied calmly. “Captain Seeba-Ka did a masterful job of containing the damage. It’s true that a combined force of Imperials and Tro Wa now occupy the city’s southwest sector, but they are largely contained. The clock continues to run.”

  “Which raises the following question,” Sea Sor put in. “Where is the relief force? It should have been here by now.”

  In spite of the fact that Pas Rasha asked himself the same question at least a hundred times a day he did the best he could to put a good face on the situation. “These things take time, which is why we need to hold, and refuse to give in.”

  “Nice in theory,” Batth said heavily, “but the reality may be different. We might be able to get halfway-decent terms if we surrender now. But later, after the city falls, we’ll have no leverage whatsoever.”

  “What about the civilians?” Doko-Sa inquired, his voice rumbling like an engine in low gear. “Do you seriously believe that the Claw will leave them unharmed?”

  The Ramanthian hunched his narrow shoulders. “Who knows? Perhaps not, but most of the civilians are here because they believe in a human-conceived religion, which means that Earth should look out for them. I have my staff to consider.”

  And yourself, Pas Rasha thought cynically, which always comes first. The diplomat was tired, so tired that he was about tell the Ramanthian where he could shove his defeatist crap, when Vanderveen slipped into the room and signaled from the doorway. “Excuse me,” Pas Rasha said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Only a few seconds passed as Vanderveen whispered into her superior’s ear, he nodded, and returned to the makeshift meeting room. Pas Rasha paused by the back of his chair. “Good news! Nobody knows why, but based on recent troop movements, it looks like some sort of schism has developed between the Imperials and the Tro Wa. Thousands of irregular troops have left the battlefield and are pulling back toward the west.”

  Ishimoto-Forty-Six led the light applause. “That is good news indeed! We’ll take anything we can get at this point.”

  Batth remained silent—but his mind was racing. A schism? Why? And how might that affect Ramanthian interests? The situation was changing, he could feel it, but lacked sufficient information. Specialist Dusso was supposed to provide that, not to mention liaison with the Claw, but hadn’t been heard from for days. Had the eggless bastard deserted? Been murdered in some dark alley? Or found himself trapped outside the walls? There was no way to know.

  “So, what would you suggest?” Sea Sor asked. “What should we do?”

  “Hold,” Pas Rasha said simply as he took his seat. “Hold, hold, and hold some more. Captain Seeba-Ka is concerned about the rather fragile connection between the two sectors that we still control and would like to reinforce the cathedral the moment that darkness falls. Prince Mee Mas is there, along with his irregulars, but they lack experience. An injection of off-world troops would go a long way toward strengthening the corporate sector’s defenses.

  “Oh, really?” Batth inquired sarcastically, “and how are we supposed to accomplish that? The corridor into the corporate sector is iffy at best—and subject to unrelenting sniper fire.”

  The Dwellers weren’t a warrior race, they never had been, just one of the reasons why their culture had produced so many excellent diplomats. But Doko-Sa, who was from a warrior race, knew a predatory look when he saw one, and that was a fair description of the expression that stole over Pas Rasha’s features.

  “You are absolutely correct,” the diplomat said softly. “It is dangerous to make the journey across the river and into the corporate sector. Fortunately for us, however, we have not one, but two different military contingents capable of flight, one of which belongs to you. For that reason Captain Seeba-Ka requests that twelve Ramanthians and twelve Prithians be placed under High Warrior Hak Orr’s command and transferred to the cathedral.”

  Ambassador Sea Sor was proud of the fact that Seeba-Ka was willing to entrust such an important responsibility to his senior military officer and the brightly colored feathers around his neck rose. “Please inform Captain
Seeba-Ka that the Prithians would be proud to participate in the corporate sector’s defense.”

  Pas Rasha nodded. “Thank you. Ambassador Batth? Can the captain count on your forces as well?”

  Batth was trapped. There was nothing he could do but offer a grunt of assent, wait out the rest of the day, and make his final decision later on.

  “Good,” Pas Rasha said, “I appreciate your time. It has been a good meeting—and I remain confident that we can hold out until the relief force arrives. Please do everything in your power to bolster morale. All of the people, off-world and indigenous alike, take their cues from you. Let’s be careful what kind of messages we send. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some funerals to attend.”

  And that’s where Ambassador Pas Rasha was, standing next to an open pit, listening to an all-too-familiar burial service, when an Imperial soldier stationed out beyond the west wall accidentally triggered his weapon. The slug stalled and fell two seconds later. It plunged straight down, struck the top of the diplomat’s unprotected head, and took his life. The exoskeleton served to hold Pas Rasha’s body upright—and nearly five minutes had passed before anyone realized that he’d been hit. The Dweller was buried along with those he had come to mourn.

  The Strathmore Hotel’s once beautiful ballroom had been transformed into a large hospital ward. FSO-2 Harley Clauson lay in bed 43, not far from the stage on which he and his band sometimes played, and next to a Hudathan trooper who made horrible gurgling sounds as he struggled to breathe.

  Christine Vanderveen nodded to Dr. Hogarth, as she passed what had once been a bar but now served as the nurse’s station, and wound her way back through the maze of hotel beds. The air was thick with the combined odors of alcohol, vomit, and fecal matter. Attendants, most of whom were LaNorian, moved from bed to bed in an attempt to keep the patients clean and comfortable. It was a difficult and for the most part thankless job.