by David Drake
Allenson sighed.
“That’s logical but we couldn’t do it. Suppose the Brasilians simply barred the city to refugees, leaving them to starve on the peninsulas? Think of the message it would send to other colonial communities and the legacy of bitterness and hatred it would incur down the generations.”
He shook his head firmly.
“No in the event of an expulsion we’ll take in anyone who asks. We’ll find them food and accommodation and we’ll make sure everything is publicized here and back in the Home Worlds. If nothing else we should be able to claim the moral high ground and get some propaganda use out of the situation.”
Hawthorn shrugged.
“I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t concern me, but lots of things upset other people that don’t bother me much.”
Allenson reflected on the old saying that when you force the enemy into a corner where he has only two possible choices, the sensible one or the stupid alternative, then you can rely on him choosing the third option that you’ve failed to consider. So it was at Oxford.
Pynchon kept up an intermittent bombardment of the port more to remind the Brasilians that the Stream artillery was still there than with the hope of hitting anything vulnerable. Allenson took a rest on a rock on the side of the peninsula facing the port so he could observe events.
While he cogitated, a man rushed up, breathing heavily through his mask. He stumbled over a jagged projection until Allenson caught him.
“Steady son, this has been a near bloodless operation so far and I’ve a mind to keep it that way,” Allenson said
“The guvnor says you should come quick, boss,” the man got out.
Allenson translated guvnor as Hawthorn, whose security men had a cavalier attitude to military terminology.
“I’m to tell you that the bastards in the town are up to something.”
Having discharged his duty, the trooper sat down hard and bent over to catch his breath.
Allenson gingerly threaded his way over the treacherous slippery jagged stone to the Oxford side of the peninsula. Hawthorn studied something intently through a scope.
“What’s up?” Allenson asked.
“Not sure, three boats have put out from behind a pier below Oxford. Have a look yourself.”
Hawthorn handed Allenson the scope.
It took a moment for Allenson to adjust the binocular to his eye width—Hawthorn had a narrower face—then another half second to find the boats and up the magnification.
Small launches bounced over the waves in ragged line-astern formation. They had squared off bows and flat bottoms, judging from the manner in which they flopped over a swell. Strangest of all, large air fans at the rear pushed the launches forward. Boxlike rudders behind the blades controlled steering. It all seemed incredibly inefficient.
“What the hell are they?” Allenson asked.
“I’ve been asking myself that,” Hawthorn said faithfully. “Never seen anything like them before, but I suppose they would be useful in shallow water.”
“They’re crammed with men,” Allenson said.
“Yeah, I noticed that,” Hawthorn replied, dryly. “I suspect the boats are bigger than they look in the scope. The bloody thing tends to foreshorten shapes. I reckon they could have a dozen or more men in each hull.”
“That’s damn near thrice our strength but surely they can’t get to us. Flat-bottomed or no they still would get stuck out in the marsh where it’s mostly liquid.”
“Yeah, I agree, but they don’t look like a fishing expedition. Perhaps the Brasilians are treating their men to trips around the bay. Can you see ice creams or amusing hats?”
“No,” Allenson replied curtly.
Hawthorn’s sense of humor could be ill placed.
The launches turned in line, sliding sideways in wide arcs that suggested they had no keels at all.
“Shit!” Hawthorn said. “Come on.”
The boats began to run in towards the marsh. Allenson and Hawthorn scrambled back up to the artillery modules.
“Krenz, where the hell are you?” Hawthorn shouted.
“Here, gov,” replied an anonymously masked man.
“Get tooled up. We’re about to be attacked.”
“Righto, gov,” Krenz replied emotionlessly.
Hawthorn might have asked him to fetch lunch for all his reaction.
“I don’t understand,” Kiesche said, shaking his head. “How do they expect to get through all that liquid mud?”
“I don’t understand either, but I know an attack run when I see it,” Allenson replied.
Hawthorn produced a wicked looking dagger with a curved point and a serrated edge from a pocket in his suit. From another he extracted a similar blade which he offered to Allenson.
“Thanks. I didn’t bother to bring a weapon,” Allenson said.
“I guessed,” Hawthorn replied.
Various unpleasant devices appeared as if by magic in the hands of Hawthorn’s security detail. Kiesche removed one of the recharging levers from a power model and swung the heavy object, presumably to test its utility as a club. Pynchon chose a heavy wrench used to tighten the bolts on the hydraulics.
At the edge of the marsh muddy water transformed imperceptibly into watery mud. When they reached it the launches kept going.
“They’ll bog down soon,” Kiesche said, in disbelief.
But they didn’t. They didn’t even slow down. The launches penetrated deeper into the marsh until they reached the first mud flat, whereupon the front runner rode over the bank, spraying ooze in all directions as it came down.
“Shit,” Kiesche said. “They’re hovercraft.”
“What?” Hawthorn asked.
“Hovercraft, they ride over land or water on a cushion of air.”
“Terrific,” Hawthorn replied. He raised his voice. “Stand by to repel boarders. Stay up where we have the advantage of height, stay close, and keep them off the guns.”
“I guess we aren’t the only ones with inventive engineers,” Allenson said.
He was furious with himself because he should have anticipated something like this. Thank heaven for Hawthorn’s instinctive paranoia and indiscipline. At least they still had his security detachment with them.
The launches spread out. The lead vehicle headed straight for the guns on the peninsula while the other two swerved to the right and left to enfilade. This was normally good tactics if you were equipped with guns, but Allenson couldn’t imagine how splitting one’s force could help in a brawl. Soldiers, like ordinary people, tended to revert to what they knew under extreme stress when the forebrain shut down. That was why you trained troops hard so the right reactions would be instinctive. The problems were that standard reactions were designed to cope with standard situations and this was anything but.
The rudders on the lead launch went hard over when it was a few meters off the rocks. The craft spun on its axis, sliding sideways towards the promontory on its cushion of air.
CHAPTER 17
Cut and Trust
Allenson’s body went into that surreal zone he thought of as combat mode. Time slowed down and consciousness narrowed like turning up the magnification on a powerful microscope.
He saw the hovercraft in intimate detail. He noticed a spot where the carbon crystal skirt had been holed and patched with a material of a slightly different shade of light gray. The vehicle engine throbbed arrhythmically as it drove the rotor. A detached part of his mind speculated that one of the blades on the prop must be slightly out of balance.
The driver controlled the hovercraft from a small cabin in the center. He stretched one arm out towards the side of the cockpit. The hovercraft hit the boulder still traveling sideways at some speed and the skirt tore with a sound like ripping cloth. The subsequent deep gash was going to need more than a patch to fix.
Forewarned, the pilot managed to keep his feet but many of his passengers were not so lucky. They tumbled about the hull like children on a funfair
ride. One unlucky soul shot head first out of the hovercraft in a high arc. He crashed onto the rocks and lay like a crumpled paper model.
The driver had tried to do something clever. He turned the launch at the last moment intending it to slide gently into the bank sideways so that the assault troops could get over the gunwale onto the rocks as a single group. His instincts were sound. It would have been a more effective tactic in a contested landing than debussing a few at a time over the front or exiting at the sides and having to wade through the ooze.
But it hadn’t worked.
Maybe the driver was more used to boats than hovercraft. The greater viscosity of water compared to air would have slowed a boat for a perfect stop. Maybe, he just got it wrong in the heat of the moment. No matter, the result was chaos whatever the driver had intended.
“Take them before they can regroup,” Hawthorn yelled, projecting his voice through the mask. “Follow me!”
Despite his limp, Hawthorn made good time down the slime-covered rocks. He headed straight for the crippled hovercraft. Allenson did his best to emulate but he lacked Hawthorn’s balance. The younger men overtook him. A Streamer reached down and cut the throat of the Brasilian ejected from the hovercraft.
The act wasn’t nice and it wasn’t fair but it had to be done. It would be insane to leave an enemy behind them. Just because he was down now didn’t mean the soldier couldn’t get up. It wasn’t worth the risk of a knife in the back.
The first man over the side of the hovercraft stabbed at Hawthorn when he jumped down into the hull. Hawthorn deflected the Brasilian’s strike with his left arm and stabbed the man under his mask. He drove his blade brutally upwards through the victim’s neck into his skull. The Brasilian dropped back into the hovercraft. Before he hit the deck Hawthorn turned to engage another target.
Allenson slipped on some goo. He put down his left hand on the ground to recover.
Brasilians jumped out of the crippled launch only to slip and slide on the rocks. One went down on both knees. He held up a knife to scare off a large Streamer who threatened him with an iron bar. The Streamer swung the lever down with both hands. Muscles bulged under his jacket with the power of the blow. The Brasilian’s arm broke with an audible crack and he dropped his knife. He screamed, cradling his broken arm with his remaining hand. It was an understandable if suicidal reaction.
The Streamer struck again, catching the soldier’s helmet. It deformed under the blow, pitching the soldier forward on his face. The Streamer hit him repeatedly across the back and neck until he stopped moving.
A Streamer went down from a knife thrust to the chest. Allenson tried to catch him but he was beyond help. Bloody froth bubbled on the inside of his mask. The badges on his uniform identified the stricken figure as one of Pynchon’s artillery men.
Allenson charged the artilleryman’s attacker. He mistimed his knife thrust and they crashed together. Allenson knocked the smaller man over and he rolled down the bank. One of Krenz’s men dropped on the Brasilian with both knees and thrust a knife through his mask. The man’s scream turned into a gurgle when toxic fumes filled his lungs.
A Streamer threatened a Brasilian soldier with a knife to hold his attention while a comrade swung a hammer from behind. A blow to the back of the knee brought the soldier down and the two troopers fell on him like wolves. They got up covered in blood.
Allenson reached the hovercraft. Two of Krenz’s men materialized at each side to assist him over the gunwale. This bodyguarding lark was getting bloody ridiculous.
The fight was almost over by the time he jumped into the hull. The driver held both arms outstretched, hands open to show he had no weapons. He appeared to be trying to surrender.
“Too late now, chum,” said a Streamer wearing a security badge.
A vicious blow knocked the pilot out of the launch. He fell into the ooze on the offside. Allenson leaned over to pull him back on board but the mud had closed over.
“Defend the guns!” Hawthorn said.
Allenson took stock.
Streamer casualties were mercifully light. They’d wiped out the first unit of attackers. Few wounded survived, as a damaged mask meant a death sentence. A Streamer lay back against a boulder, clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers. He would have to look after himself as nobody had time for first aid.
Brasilians scrambled towards the artillery from the hovercraft that had stopped to seaward. The one that had split formation to get inland behind the Streamers had farther to go so was still maneuvering. Climbing back up the slippery scree was easier than going down. Hawthorn’s small force soon assembled in front of the artillery modules. The enemy came on in a disorganized group.
“Stand, wait for my command,” Hawthorn said, spreading out both arms as if to physically hold his men back.
The Brasilians lost further cohesion as they ran across the rocks. They looked more like a cross country run than a military unit. The first few to reach the colonial position slowed and looked nervously behind for support.
“Get them,” Hawthorn yelled, charging forwards.
The Streamers rolled over the Brasilian vanguard without breaking stride. They left a trail of broken bodies in their wake. The charge slowed as it plowed into thicker clumps of enemy soldiers, until it halted in chaotic melee. Allenson hacked and stabbed as targets crossed his path. He lost his knife when it snagged on a Brasilian’s clothing. Cursing, he picked the man up and threw him bodily at a fellow. Both Brasilians went over. He lost sight of them when he had to defend himself against an enemy stabbing at his chest.
The Brasilians melted away suddenly. One moment Allenson was surrounded by struggling figures, the next there were only enemy corpses. Some of the Brasilian rearguard never got as far as the colonial position. Upon seeing how the battle was going, they dropped their weapons and made a run back to their hovercraft.
A Streamer whooped and started to follow. Hawthorn backhanded him head over heels.
“Nobody pursues except on my order, Krenz!”
“You heard the guvnor,” Krenz said, to no one in particular.
“We walk back to the guns and we wait,” Hawthorn said.
The third party of attackers halted twenty meters from the guns. They appeared to be holding a conference. Many of the soldiers displayed a reluctance to close. The fate of the first two groups probably did nothing for their confidence. Brasilian morale probably wasn’t helped by the various obscene gestures directed at them by the rude colonials.
An officer waved his arms. Sergeants physically shoved men into a skirmish line. Then the group advanced slowly and carefully.
Hawthorn ordered a charge when the Brasilians closed to just a few meters. The Streamers had their tails up. They pounded into the Brasilian line despite their fatigue, bowling over soldiers with the ferocity of their attack. Allenson’s attention focused tightly on the opponent directly in front. A shock of orange hair projected out from under his mask like tangled fibers from a particularly revolting fungus.
The soldier lunged with a knife large enough to be an ancient short sword. He feinted, then slashed at Allenson’s neck.
Allenson caught the knife hand by the wrist but another Brasilian dropped his weapon and grabbed Allenson’s free arm. He hung on with both hands, preventing Allenson from using his weapon.
The three of them struggled like some sort of perverted love triangle. A small Brasilian hovered nervously at the edge of the melee waiting for a safe opportunity to sneak in and stab. Allenson must have seemed a sitting duck. The small man jumped forward, knife-arm outstretched. Now would have been a good time for Allenson’s minders to intervene but they had unaccountably vanished in the confusion—sod’s bloody law.
Allenson had only his own personal resources to draw on. It was not enough for him to merely push at his attackers. Something so feeble would end with a blade in his gut. He had to overpower them, to deal them such a crack that they never got to exploit the advantage of their numbe
rs.
He dropped his knife and took a firm grip on the two men clinging to him. He reached deep within himself as if to toss a rock for the winning throw. Allenson lifted his attackers off their feet. He clapped their bodies together like a cymbal player marking the final of a particularly energetic concert.
The men bounced off each other. Allenson released his hold, allowing them to drop. The little man stared at Allenson goggle-eyed. He’d lost his knife. He raised both hands ineffectually as if trying to swat a fly.
Allenson was fresh out of pity. This little bastard tried to gut him like a fish, thinking him helpless. Some fish. He seized the soldier by the back of his neck with his left hand and pulled him in. Putting the heel of his right hand under the man’s chin, he thrust upwards with a powerful rotating motion. The scrawny neck broke with an audible crack.
Allenson looked around for his other two assailants. The one on his right lay face down with the hilt of the small man’s weapon jutting from his back. That explained where the knife had gone.
The one on the left scrabbled on his hands and knees in the process of climbing to his feet. Allenson kicked him hard in the face like a footballer making a strike for goal. The soldier rolled down the slope and disappeared.
Just for a moment Allenson was clear. He did a quick three-sixty to gauge the tactical situation. The Brasilians were brave and determined, but they were soldiers. Krenz’s men were street fighting thugs. This was no place for a soldier used to wielding a laserrifle at two hundred meters. This was a brawl for men who weren’t afraid of sharp edges and who were willing to shed blood, their own or someone else’s. A fight for men who had no compunction about ganging up on an opponent and hitting him from behind, men who were willing to put the boot in. Hawthorn’s type of men.
A clang of metal against metal drew Allenson’s attention. A Brasilian officer somehow broke free of the ruck and made it to the nearest artillery piece. He swung an iron bar vigorously and there was another clang.