Hak Orr sprayed the second team with machine-gun bullets, even as the third team actually topped the cargo modules, where they fought hand-to-hand with a party of irregulars prior to being killed and thrown off the wall.
That’s when the trumpets blew, and like a wave that has already thrown itself high onto a beach, the Imperials pulled back into the ruins. Piles of brightly uniformed bodies lay along the high-tide mark—evidence of their unfortunate valor.
Mee Mas felt a strange sense of exhilaration, knew it was somehow wrong, but couldn’t help himself. The battle had been exciting, no thrilling, and he had enjoyed every moment of it. Conscious of what an officer like Santana would do, and intent on quenching his own thirst for battle, the prince made his rounds.
Busso, tears running down his cheeks, sat at the base of the north wall and held Yao Che’s bloody body. The youngster had been there, pushing on a pole, when an Imperial bullet had taken him in the throat. Now, as the brave youngster’s life ran out onto the flagstones, there was nothing the human could do but grieve.
Hak Orr, his weapon slung over his shoulder, was busy preening his feathers when a subordinate approached and offered a radio. “It’s Captain Seeba-Ka, sir. He wants a report.”
The Prithian made no effort to accept the radio but looked out over the compound instead. They were still counting the bodies but it appeared that at least a hundred beings of various descriptions were dead. How many more attacks would they be able to repel? Two? Three at most? It didn’t look good. “Tell him that the enemy attacked, that we fought back, and that the cathedral stands.”
The warrior looked at the officer, decided that he wasn’t going to say anything more, and passed the message back.
Meanwhile, the sun climbed higher, the air grew warmer, and the bodies started to rot. Defeat, or the possibility of defeat, hung heavy in the air.
Well aware of how bad conditions within the city were, and concerned lest all the records of what had transpired be lost when Mys fell, Vanderveen had gone up to Pas Rasha’s office, and was sorting documents on the floor, when salvation crashed through what remained of the window, hovered, and did a full 360.
The far side of Embassy Row was infested with enemy snipers, and Private Bok Horo-Ba, who had been stationed in the office in order to keep the largely Tro Wa sharpshooters under control, saw metal flash through his peripheral vision, tried to bring the forty-seven-inch-long rifle around, but couldn’t do so in time.
The recon ball fired a stun pulse, the Hudathan fell over backward, and his rifle clattered to the floor. “Sorry about that,” the cyborg said to one in particular, “but I’m allergic to .50 caliber slugs.”
Vanderveen felt her back touch the wall and tried to scoot toward the door. The machine, if that’s what it was, appeared to be about four feet in diameter and made a soft buzzing sound. The ball rotated slightly, extruded what looked like a gun barrel, and said, “Hold it right there . . . I’m looking for Ambassador Pas Rasha, Major Homer Miraby, or both. You wouldn’t happen to know where they are would you?”
“They’re dead,” Vanderveen said shakily, still unsure of who or what she faced.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the cyborg replied. “Who is in charge if I may ask?” FSO Clauson perhaps?”
“No,” the diplomat replied, “I am.”
“And you are?”
“FSO Christine Vanderveen.”
The recon ball took a moment to consult his onboard computer, confirmed that a diplomat fitting her description was listed as part of the embassy’s staff, and made note of how junior she was. The situation was bad, very bad, much worse than he’d been led to expect. “Yes, well it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ambassador, although I’m sure we both wish it was under more favorable circumstances.
“My name is Hawes, Colonel Jack Hawes, not that rank means much in my line of work. You’ll be happy to know that the relief force that you’ve been waiting for has arrived.”
Vanderveen looked at the cyborg in astonishment. “They sent you down rather than send a message by radio?”
“All sorts of people have radios,” Hawes replied, “and discretion truly is the better part of valor. Why warn everybody? Now, we have aerospace fighters, a detachment of quads, and two thousand legionnaires who are just itching to shoot the place up. The only problem is that it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys in situations such as this one. Maybe you and your staff can enlighten us.”
There was a loud clang as one of the Tro Wa snipers tried to put a bullet into the strange apparition that had seemingly materialized out of nowhere.
The cyborg turned, fired his energy cannon, and blew a hole through the sniper, the wall behind him, and the wall beyond that.
The ball rotated again. “Impudent beggars, aren’t they? Well, the Thirteenth DBLE will soon put an end to that . . . Now where were we? Oh, yes, the political situation. What say we retreat to more hospitable surroundings and talk things over?”
Vanderveen made as if to crawl over to Horo-Ba’s unconscious body.
“Your Hudathan friend will be fine,” the officer assured her, “except for a serious headache. He should come around in about ten minutes or so.”
Thus reassured, Vanderveen made for the door, the recon ball followed, and it wasn’t long before the besieged city felt the first stirrings of hope.
THE CITY OF POLWA, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The Empress Shi Huu had already risen, completed her makeup, and allowed herself to be wrapped in silk. This particular dress was gray, like the sky on a cloudy day, and decorated with cheerful ola blossoms. A fitting choice for a morning that would start on the air throne.
But even as Shi Huu and her retainers were clattering through the maze of hallways, passageways, and corridors designed to protect her from assassins, the very person she feared most had already entered the palace, and thanks to his intimate knowledge of the structure’s layout, was on his way to the same destination that she was.
Lak Saa had chosen a circuitous route however, one that would allow his force to engage and neutralize a significant number of bodyguards before an alarm was sounded, thereby reducing the level of response that would come later on.
The key to Lak Saa’s strategy was Nu Ga Su, or “the way of silence,” just one of the many subdisciplines that every third-level Tro Wa was required to master.
That was why the rebel leader had structured his force so that he along with ten level-three masters led the way, followed by thirty-five level-twos, the entire party of Ramanthians, and a rear guard comprised of ten level-threes, ten level-twos, and four level-ones. It was a configuration designed to cut through opposing forces, maintain control over the aliens, and create what Tro Wa literature referred to as the two-headed snake, meaning a column that was equally prepared to go in either direction.
The entire party was armed with knives and off-world pistols but had been forbidden to use them until specific permission had been granted. Heavier weapons would be obtained from the defenders themselves.
The slaughter began immediately. The outer ring of sentries, all of whom were young, barely had time to issue their challenges before Lak Saa and the other Tro Wa were upon them. Blood splattered the walls as the Claw slashed their throats, took their weapons, and passed them toward the rear of the swiftly moving column.
There was a great deal of blood, and even though Regar Batth would have preferred to leap over the puddles, there was no opportunity since he and his warriors were continually pushed from behind. His boot prints, plus those made by the rest of the column, created a long red snake that followed them down the corridor.
The so-called second wall was comprised of more seasoned soldiers, all of whom took one look at the blood-spattered Tro Wa, and immediately raised their weapons. Unfortunately their safeties were on, a wise precaution under normal circumstances, but one which cost them their lives.
Lak Saa nodded to his companions who used the one-
second-long interval to throw their double-edged knives. All but one of the weapons found their marks, and four of the guards went down with slivers of steel protruding from their throats.
The fifth managed to deflect the incoming knife with his rifle, shot one of the Claw in the stomach, and used his arm-long bayonet to spit another. Even as his opponents fell he blew three short blasts on his whistle and prepared to fire again.
Lak Saa spun, slashed the guard with a long, curved nail, and wished there had been a way to spare him. Such soldiers were rare—and he would have need of them.
The soldier was still clutching his neck, still trying to staunch the flow of blood, when Batth edged past. Although the War Batth would have been comfortable with such sights they made the diplomat uncomfortable. The pace picked up after that as Lak Saa and his fellow Tro Wa masters started to run.
Having been summoned by the whistle a squad of guards appeared at the far end of the corridor, saw the blood-drenched assassins, and did what they had been trained to do. Three of the soldiers knelt, three continued to stand, all of them fired.
Four out of the six bullets found their targets. Two of the Claw were snatched from their feet. A third felt something hot slice the outside surface of his left arm, and the fourth fell as a slug punched its way through the meaty part of his thigh.
The guards, all of whom were armed with brightly chromed off-world hunting rifles were in the process of working their bolts when the flying column collided with them. They fell in a welter of blood and were literally trampled as the “snake” passed over them and continued on its way.
Now, as the invaders wound their way toward the inner guardroom, the place where the majority of the ready reserves were likely to be, most of the lead Tro Wa stepped off to either side, allowed the Ramanthians to advance and fell in behind them.
Lak Saa, along with his most trusted lieutenants, remained at the head of the column. He smiled in anticipation. Besides their potential usefulness as shields, the aliens represented a critical part of his plan, and the means by which he would pass through the “third wall” to penetrate the throne room.
Batth, who understood at least part of the role that he and his soldiers were slated to play, began to shed his disguise. The medallion, hood, and robe all fell to the floor. The rest of the Ramanthians rid themselves of their LaNorian garb as well.
The result was what appeared to be a phalanx of has, devils such as the household guard had never seen before, and would almost certainly scare the hell out of them. The plan worked even better than the Claw leader had hoped as a full company of soldiers, all summoned by the sound of gunfire, rounded a corner and spotted the oncoming Ramanthians. The officer who led them skidded to a halt, a pair of soldiers slammed into him, and someone yelled the key word: “Has!”
That was all it took. Convinced that evil spirits had somehow managed to invade the palace, and scared out of their wits, the Imperials attempted to run.
But the Ramanthians were ready for that. Rather than the sidearms that the rank and file Tro Wa carried, they had machine pistols, which the aliens fired in short, three-round bursts. The bullets caught what had been the front end of the column first, forced the retreating soldiers to dance, and plowed ahead, sometimes taking as many as three lives before lodging themselves against bone, or becoming trapped in muscle.
The slaughter took less than thirty heartbeats to accomplish—and left a charnel house of bodies through which Lak Saa was forced to pick his way.
Some of the soldiers were still breathing, so pistols were used to finish them off, even as their weapons and ammunition were added to supplies captured earlier.
Shi Huu had already entered the throne room by then, passed under the transparent dome, and climbed the four steps that led up to the throne. Though muted by many intervening walls, and therefore rendered unidentifiable, the gunshots were out of the ordinary and sufficient to elicit a royal frown.
Ever solicitous of Shi Huu’s comforts the minister Dwi Faa hurried off to identify the culprits and have them punished.
But the culprits found him, and Lak Saa, who had known the other eunuch since the age of six, was the one who seized Dwi Faa by the throat and lifted him up onto his toes. “Well, well, look what we have here! Shi Huu’s favorite Dar Tu (puppet person.) I have waited a long time for this moment.”
Dwi Faa, who had been instrumental in sowing the seeds of doubt and suspicion that eventually undermined Lak Saa’s position and forced him into exile, blanched. “Please, Lak Saa, I beg of you . . .”
However, much as Lak Saa would have enjoyed stretching the moment out, time was of the essence, and the real prize lay in the room beyond. Having already used his left hand to hoist the more diminutive Dwi Faa up off the ground—the Tro Wa used his right to open the eunuch’s belly.
The cut felt like nothing at first, but that was before Dwi Faa’s abdominal cavity opened like a tired envelope and dropped his intestines onto his feet.
“Why don’t you gather them up,” Lak Saa suggested kindly, “and go seek help? Perhaps a seamstress could sew you up.”
Dwi Faa looked down to see that his robe had been split open as if by scissors, only to give birth to a mass of dark, dangling flesh.
The Tro Wa laughed uproariously as the minister gathered his entrails into his arms and shuffled up the hall.
Shi Huu had just completed her breakfast, but was still sipping her tea, when a small group of invaders burst into the throne room through three of the six possible doors. Her bodyguards turned, raised their ceremonial pikes, but fell as each was riddled with bullets.
Then, with gun smoke still drifting through the air, Lak Saa entered the room. He bowed formally, as he had so many times before, and offered the usual greeting: “Hoso poro, (good morning) Your Majesty, I see all the rumors are true. The full beauty of your youth has been restored.”
Shi Huu was so startled, so taken aback by the sudden violence, that she sat frozen with the delicate teacup halfway to her lips. She was frightened, very frightened, but more than sixty years of training enabled the Empress to hide what she felt. The teacup completed the journey to her lips, she took a sip, and put the container down.
“If it isn’t my ex-minister Lak Saa—what an interesting surprise. You never were one to worry about appearances—but that outfit falls beneath even your standards.”
The eunuch bowed once more. “My apologies, Highness, but at least the blood I wear is honest blood, shed by those who died trying to defend you. But the blood on your clothes, though a good deal less visible, is real nonetheless.”
Shi Huu laughed. “This is amusing. To hear you, he who has slaughtered thousands of those he claims to fight for, make a claim of moral superiority. Enough of this nonsense . . . What do you want?”
“That which is mine,” the eunuch answered. “The throne you sit on.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Shi Huu replied contemptuously. “You can’t take the throne, you must be born to it, and though of noble birth you were never in line for the throne.”
“Those are the old rules,” Lak Saa answered evenly, “and I’m here to introduce some new rules. I am more intelligent than you are, and stronger than you are, so the throne is mine.”
The foot pedal had been installed after Lak Saa’s banishment—and was concealed by the carpet under Shi Huu’s feet. Now, as the eunuch took one step forward, she pressed down with her right foot.
Lak Saa felt the slight give as the trapdoor started to fall and threw himself forward. Perhaps one in a thousand could have reacted quickly enough to initiate the necessary move, and perhaps one in ten thousand could have landed on the palms of his hands, only to push his entire body up into the classic gund do, or “kick the sky.” But the eunuch was one such person and made the move look easy.
And so it was at that moment, just as Lak Saa’s left “claw” broke off near the end of his middle finger, that both feet struck the bottom of Shi Huu’s jaw. Her head snapped back, an a
udible snap was heard, and the Dawn Concubine was dead.
Lak Saa held the position for a fraction of a second, allowed himself to bend, and was soon back on his feet. Even as the sound of intense fighting could be heard from out in the halls, the eunuch grabbed hold of the good luck amulet that hung from Shi Huu’s neck and used it to jerk the corpse off the throne.
The still-yawning hole in the floor seemed like the ideal place to dump the body, so Lak Saa did so. Then, unwilling to deny himself a pleasure so long delayed, the eunuch sat on the throne. A smile claimed his face, and for the first time in many years, Lak Saa was happy.
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
The three aerospace fighters started out as specks in the east, nearly invisible against the still-rising sun, but quickly became more substantial as they roared over Mys only a hundred feet over the roof tops. Engines screamed, sonic booms rattled the few remaining windows, and the diplomatic community cheered. Though still conscious of snipers, they had turned out to see the display, and were understandably jubilant.
Vanderveen, the person who had engineered the show of power, yelled with all the rest, jumped up and down, and waved at the pilots.
Then, even as the fighters came around for a low-altitude pass over Polwa, the political situation started to change. Some of the Imperial troops ran every which way, alternately firing their weapons at the aircraft, and looking for a place to hide. Others, those who were more disciplined, formed up into the equivalent of companies, and marched off the plain. Though lacking orders, the senior officers knew they couldn’t fight the flying machines, and saw no reason to commit suicide.
The Tro Wa troops, however, many of whom had started to gather at the far edge of the plain awaiting orders from Lak Saa, were a good deal more belligerent.
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