“Not to mention the fact the bugs are about to hatch 5 billion new citizens,” Doma-Sa said darkly, “about 1.6 billion of whom will be raised as warriors.”
Nankool’s legs felt weak. The afterimage of the explosion was still floating in front of his eyes as he collapsed into a chair, an officer arrived, and announced what they already knew: The Friendship was gone. One moment he had been talking to Murdo—and a fraction of a second later the naval officer was gone. He could hardly believe it. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Whatever will we do?”
The industrialist stared into the blackness of space. There wasn’t much point to it, but the reserve admiral knew that SAR (Search and Rescue) units had already been launched, and would comb the newly created debris field looking for survivors. His voice was hard and unyielding. “We’ll do the only thing we can do. We’ll bury our dead, reconvene the government, and prepare to fight.”
And it was only a few minutes later, with a dozen naval vessels closing in on his position, that Vice Admiral Norr gave a single somewhat terse order and 3,213 ships disappeared into hyperspace. More than 3,000 of the space craft were prizes. The Ramanthian navy had doubled its strength in a blink of an eye. Everything had changed.
16
* * *
Rare is the craftsperson who has all of the materials that he or she might desire. Build what you can, construct it to last, but know that nothing stands forever.
Author unknown
Aaman-Duu Rotes for Hatchlings
Standard year circa 250 B.C.
* * *
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
There was a deafening roar as tons of gunpowder exploded, the buildings along both sides of the wall rocked as if locked in the grip of an earthquake, and the once impregnable South Gate simply disappeared. No one was expecting it, especially at five in the morning, not even the Imperial officer in charge of driving the tunnel under the gate, excavating the chamber, and packing it full of explosives.
What had occurred? There was no way to know. A spark probably, generated by some idiot who had chosen to use a metal pick rather than a wooden one, or engaged in a similar folly. It didn’t matter though, not really, since the offender had already paid the price for his stupidity, and the whole idea was to destroy the gate. An objective that had been fully met.
The officer stood in the center of the street that led from Polwa into Mys, gave thanks for the fact that his breakfast had been served late, and stared in wonder at the huge column of smoke and dust that pointed up at the sky.
The wind was already in the process of pushing the dark pillar to the west, but the Imperial would never forget the sound of the explosion, the way the earth had moved, or the destruction left behind.
Others, the officers who had to lead troops into Mys, cursed the engineering officer as they struggled to round up enough troops to launch an attack before the devils could throw a barricade across the still-smoldering entryway. But he, still mesmerized by the extent of the destruction he had wrought, simply stood and smiled.
Meanwhile, about two miles away, Captain Seeba-Ka peered at the destruction through his binoculars. He spoke from the side of his mouth. “Tell High Warrior Hak Orr and Prince Mee Mas that they can expect an infantry attack in the very near future. Order them to pull back inside the walls and inform me the moment that the gates are closed.”
Lance Corporal “Bags” Bagano, the captain’s RTO for the day, nodded and passed the message along. She received a double click from Hak Orr, plus a paragraph of completely unnecessary commentary from Mee Mas. The LaNorian had come a long way, but still had a tendency to run his mouth.
Thanks to the time required to prepare the assault the allied forces had retreated inside the cathedral’s newly strengthened walls by the time the LaNorians launched their ground assault. It was easy at first, almost too easy, as Qwa Was led fifty troops into the gap, and prayed that the devils would miss. His mother had given him a spirit bag to wear around his neck, a powerful amulet which was supposed to render him invulnerable to bullets, a claim he had no desire to test.
But the off-worlders had run away rather than face his soldiers, that’s the way it appeared at any rate, and Qwa Was felt a tremendous sense of exultation as he took his soldiers north along Embassy Row. The ragged remnants of the force that had entered Mys via the western breach came out of hiding, waved red banners, and shouted happy slogans. The Imperials ran to embrace their much-put-upon comrades and congratulate them on their bravery. Though relatively inexperienced, Qwa was intelligent, and knew that the impromptu celebration was a bad idea. The officer was already shouting at his troops, trying to make them disperse, when the QRF appeared at the far end of the street.
There were four T-2s, all standing shoulder to shoulder, their weapons at the ready. Qwa Was spotted the danger, started to yell an order, and saw something wink. The energy pulse cut the officer in half, killed a group of four celebrants, and splashed the side of a half-burned-out hodo.
The Imperials began to run after that, seeking shelter anyplace they could find it, but it was far too late. Snyder, Zook, and two cyborgs from Lieutenant Beckworth’s platoon opened fire with everything they had. Machine-gun bullets cut the LaNorians to pieces, energy cannon pounded the pieces to bloody slush, and the street ran red with blood. Survivors, a couple of hundred or so, took shelter in the ruins where they would attempt to regroup.
Satisfied that he had forestalled the assault, Seeba-Ka ordered the cyborgs to pull back and used his binoculars to scan the area. There was nothing to be seen except smoke, devastation, and the sky beyond. How much longer he wondered? How much longer? The wind tugged at the sleeves of his jacket but offered no reply.
THE CITY OF POLWA, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Literally thousands of workers were required in order to maintain the palace and the elaborate grounds that surrounded it. However, rather than house the workers within the walls during the night, where their presence might give offense to the Empress and represent a threat to her security, the vast majority of the gardeners, carpenters, and other craftspeople required to keep the Imperial household functioning were herded out into Polwa’s noxious streets at six each evening.
Now, even as the dust continued to settle from the massive explosion off to the north, a long line of ragged-looking workers were queued up to enter the so-called inner city. But some of the workers, a group totaling nearly a hundred, and sprinkled through the crowd like spice on kas, were not what they appeared to be.
In fact some, such as Ambassador Regar Batth and two dozen of his Ramanthian soldiers, weren’t even LaNorian, much less skilled craftspeople, in spite of the fact that they possessed credentials that claimed otherwise. The diplomat, who feared that the foul-smelling hood and robes, which nearly dragged on the ground, couldn’t possibly disguise his alien physiology, was terrified.
Not only was his decision to sneak out of Mys, and throw his lot in with the Tro Wa starting to look a bit premature, it now left him at the mercy of Lak Saa, an individual who had no mercy and was quite possibly insane. Something which had everything to do with the diplomat’s present predicament.
Having lost some real as well as political ground over the last few days, and aware that more off-worlders could arrive at any time, the Claw leader had decided to risk everything on a single audacious plan. If he could reach Shi Huu, and do so with a large enough force, it would then be possible to seize the palace from within, and with it the power he had sought for so long.
Were that to take place, and were the rest of the off-worlders put to the sword before the relief force could arrive, then Batth would be in a position to sell them on his own highly edited version of history. That’s why he had been convinced to come, that’s why the plan had to succeed, and that’s why what felt like cold lead rode the pit of the Ramanthian’s stomach.
Forward of the diplomat’s position in line, but dressed just as humbly, La
k Saa eyed the guards ahead. They were members of the household guard, an elite organization known for its loyalty to the royal family, and the intelligence of those who served in its ranks. But monotony can dull even the keenest mind, and rather than rotate the guards from one activity to another, the unit’s officers had a dangerous tendency to assign the same soldiers to the same duties day after day. That’s why the guards were less alert than they might have been.
Claw spies had made note of the fact that they seemed more interested in checking to see if the heavily embossed disks that each worker wore were genuine, rather than focus their attention on the equally important question of who was carrying them. It was a tendency Lak Saa hoped to exploit.
The line jerked forward and the eunuch followed. He was larger than the average LaNorian and was careful to slouch. His hands, including the long lethal fingernails, were concealed in wide funnel-shaped sleeves. A grubby hand reached out to grab the disk that dangled from Lak Saa’s neck and a pair of well-trained eyes scanned both the front and back to ensure that the code stamped into the metal was authentic.
Not something the rebel leader was concerned about since every medallion issued to the force of Tro Wa cutthroats and off-world devils who accompanied him had been obtained from an actual craftsperson. Some had surrendered their livelihoods willingly—others lay dead in one of Polwa’s stinking alleyways.
The guard, who in addition to his role as security officer was also expected to monitor the workers’ physical cleanliness, detected the faint odor of urine. “Do everyone a favor and take a bath tonight,” the soldier said, and allowed the disk to thump against the eunuch’s chest.
Lak Saa felt a tremendous sense of relief as he bobbed his head and shuffled forward. The soldier’s face was burned into his memory. The Empress could employ fools if she chose to—but he would insist on a higher level of talent. A great many people would die during the days that followed his ascension to the throne and the guard would be one of them.
And so it went as dozens of LaNorians and Ramanthians were admitted to the inner city. But that kind of luck couldn’t last forever, and came to an abrupt halt as one of the guards noticed a medallion that had a familiar-looking dent in it, looked up ready to greet his uncle, and found himself looking at a stranger instead. The soldier grabbed the imposter, summoned help, and the guards threw the offender to the ground.
Lak Saa, who was pretending to tend some plantings not far away, waited to see what would happen. Would the prisoner give his companions away? Or follow instructions—and allow himself to be arrested?
It soon became clear that rebel had a clear head and would pretend to be a cutthroat and thief who was intent on stealing whatever he could lay his hands on. He would be sentenced to death, but the executioners had a three-day backlog, and there would be plenty of time in which to free him. Having frisked the imposter and confiscated both a knife and an off-world pistol, the guards hoisted the miscreant to his feet and led him away.
Then, rather than become even more vigilant as Lak Saa might have imagined they would, the guards seemed to be even less attentive, as they commiserated with the soldier who had lost an uncle, joked about how stupid the imposter was, and placed bets on how long the thief would dangle before death finally claimed his spirit.
Ten minutes later the last Tro Wa cleared the check point and entered the inner city. Lak Saa licked his lips, used a Ramanthian-supplied whisper mike to marshal his forces, and led the way toward the palace. Every step the eunuch took, every odor that invaded his nostrils, every sound he heard reminded him of his youth. Hard memories, cruel memories, all of which were about to be avenged.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
Having blown the South Gate, and infiltrated more than two hundred troops into what had been the corporate sector, the Imperials wanted to finish the job.
High walls surrounded the cathedral, but everyone knew it was packed with converts, not to mention the devils themselves. To leave such a place untouched would be a failure of will, an affront to the spirits, and a surrender to evil. After all, everyone knew that the devils loved nothing better than to rape LaNorian females, and sacrifice their babies to off-world gods.
Though not privy to the Imperial plans those within the walls didn’t have to be. They knew the attack would come; the only question was when. A special noon service was held. Hundreds of candles, something the defenders had plenty of, filled the cathedral with an ethereal glow. As Frank Busso led his followers in prayer the sound of their individual voices blended together to form a rich harmony that lifted spirits and caused sections of richly carved wood paneling to vibrate in sympathy.
The sound was so loud, so strong, that the Imperials heard it as well, many of whom covered their ears lest the has (evil spirits) invade their minds and take control of their bodies. Finally, once the service had ended, Busso retrieved his rifle from a corner, kissed his wife on the cheek, and told her he loved her.
Bethany looked up into his face. “Are you sorry?”
Busso shook his head. “No. I was at first . . . but not anymore.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Busso kissed her forehead, but the words rang false, and Bethany doubted that either of them would live to see the next dawn much less each other.
The shelling started a scant thirty minutes later. The first shell landed outside the wall, the second on top of it, and the third blew a crater in the courtyard. Shrapnel cut a work party to shreds. It was just a matter of time before the LaNorian gunners dropped a shell through the roof of the cathedral.
The purpose was obvious. The Imperials hoped to soften the place up prior to attacking it. And, since the off-worlders didn’t have any artillery of their own, they had no choice but to hunker down and wait. That’s the way it seemed anyway, until High Warrior Hak Orr asked for three volunteers, and his entire detachment warbled a response.
Busso watched in disbelief as the Prithians spread their wings, launched themselves off the wall of much-abused cargo modules, and soared over the desolation below. Rather than the gunfire the missionary expected to hear, there were screams as the seemingly supernatural off-worlders glided out over the eastern wall, and the superstitious Imperials dived into whatever holes they could find.
The cannon fired, a shell whistled over Busso’s head, and crashed into the main gate. It knocked a timber loose but failed to explode. Foro, the same cyborg who had volunteered to cut through the western water gate, hurried to disarm the unexploded shell. There was silence for a moment, followed by an explosion, and the rattle of gunfire.
The Prithians returned a few minutes later. Each carried two or three LaNorian ear fans which they submitted to Hak Orr as proof of their valor. He trilled a quick series of notes to which they responded in kind. The warriors returned to their sectors and Busso approached Hak Orr. “What did they say?”
“I asked them about the cannon,” the officer said evenly. “They blew it off its carriage. It won’t bother us until the enemy can come up with another one.”
“Will they bring more artillery to bear?”
The Prithian cocked his head to one side. “Of course . . . but that will take hours.”
It was said as if hours were equivalent to weeks—and it certainly felt as if weeks were passing as the day wore on.
Denied their cannon, the Imperial infantry withheld their attack and used other methods to prepare the way instead. Message arrows fell like rain, some found flesh, but most clattered off the cathedral’s walls, or shattered on the flagstones below. The messages they bore urged the converts to rise up against the “devil masters,” promising mercy to those who did. Each arrow and piece of parchment was saved for use as fuel for the cook fires.
Then came the catapult-launched fire pots, iron kettles filled with hot burning coals, each lobbed from the relative safety of Polwa. The coals exploded a
s they hit, sprayed sparks in every direction, and started numerous fires.
Then, even as many defenders were drawn away from the walls to fight the flames, trumpets blew and the long-awaited infantry attack was launched.
Mee Mas and his irregulars were responsible for the vast majority of the wall, and he walked it much as Major Miraby had, though careful to keep his head down. He heard the yells, knew what they meant, and said the same things over and over as they circled the perimeter. “Wait for them to come in range . . . Make every bullet count . . . Kill their leaders . . . Wait for them to come in range.”
Steadied by the prince’s presence, and confident after days of combat, the irregulars obeyed. Not a single weapon was fired as ragged lines of Imperials appeared and charged the walls. They advanced in groups, all holding newly made ladders over their heads, intent on placing them against the walls.
The Prithians, conscious of how important their fully automatic weapons might become if the Imperials found a way in, held their fire as well.
The irregulars waited for the assault teams to enter what Mee Mas and First Sergeant Neversmile had taught them to think of as the “killing zone,” and opened fire. The leaders, made conspicuous by the fact that they weren’t burdened by ladders, went down first. Many, distant as they were, seemed to trip and fall.
Then, having switched their fire to the ladder teams, the defenders aimed for the lead individual in each file. When he went down those behind him were not only forced to shoulder more of the load, but to walk over his body, which caused some of them to trip. Mee Mas watched in grim satisfaction as one entire ladder team went down, tried to get back up, and were slaughtered on the ground.
However, in spite of the defenders’ best efforts, three ladder teams managed to reach the walls, and tried to climb their ladders. A team of civilians led by Busso made use of long forked poles to push one ladder over backward. The Imperials fell, tried to regroup, and were killed with a homemade grenade.
For More Than Glory Page 48