by Chris Bunch
“We’re following you,” Garvin said. “But no more lime waters, ‘kay?” He made a face. “If I have one more, I’ll wrinkle to death.”
“How about a beer?”
“Only if you aren’t planning on trying to kill us,” Njangu said.
“No. I need you.”
“For what?”
“Guns. Guns to fight the Musth.”
• • •
“I didn’t promise her anything, one way or another,” Njangu said, Mil Angara and Cent Hedley listening intently.
“How many fighters did she say she could muster?” Angara said, a bit incredulously.
“Somewhere between a thousand and fifteen hundred,” Garvin said.
Hedley shook his head.
“We flipping didn’t do near good enough a job of killing ‘Raum, did we? And why the hell didn’t all these eager flipping young warriors join the Force like we thought they were going to?”
No one bothered to answer.
“To tell the truth,” Njangu said, “I thought it was a pretty fine idea for some civilian Musth murderers, even if junior-class aspirants like me aren’t supposed to do situation analysis. The thing is, I didn’t know where we could come up with any spare guns, period.”
“Ignoring the fact I’m not really thrilled with the idea of arming a former enemy,” Angara said. “What happens when they run out of Musth to kill? Are they going to want to go back to old times?”
“Who cares?” Hedley said. “Like the old joke says, the fall’s going to flipping kill us anyway.”
He scratched his chin.
“Angara, my friend, we could let our young friends in on a secret. Like where there are nearly two thousand spare bangsticks.”
Njangu and Garvin looked startled.
“Go ahead,” Angara said reluctantly. “The ‘Raum are who they were for in the first place. I guess the gods’ve got a pretty wacky sense of humor.”
“Seems toward the close of the late unpleasantness,” Hedley said, “a flipping spaceship just happened to trundle through the Cumbrian skies, and happened to get shot down by one of our Zooks. Everybody dead in the crash, but it was easy to ID the ship and crew as coming from Larix/Kura. It appears that grand gentleman Red-flipping-ruth was trying to stir up the issue by sending guns to the goblins.
“We still don’t know who his liaison with the ‘Raum was, but at least we’ve got the guns, carefully stashed in one of our arsenals.”
“You two,” Njangu said, “don’t keep secrets half bad.”
“Of course,” Hedley said comfortably. “That’s why we outrank you. Now, the question is, do we give these perfectly functional guns to Poynton’s Pistoleers?”
The three looked at Angara.
“I’m acting commander of the regiment,” he said slowly. “But this one I think I’d better clear with Caud Rao. He’s in Kerrier. I suspect he’ll approve, on the old saw that the enemy of our enemy is our friend. So you can go ahead and prepare to get the weaponry over to the Eckmuhl. Hedley, you’ll be in charge of the whole operation.”
“I gave Poynton one of our off-channel coms,” Njangu said. “I’ll com her right now.”
“The real flipping problem,” Hedley said, “is to make sure this little transshipment doesn’t get spotted by our friends, which’d be sure to end this nonshooting situation we’ve lulled them into.”
“If it does, it does,” Angara said. “I figure we’ve stretched their patience about as far as we can with the stalling game. The rubber band’s going to go twang in another day or so anyway, and we’re as ready as we can be.”
• • •
Caud Rao considered, gave his approval, ordered the operation to be mounted immediately.
• • •
Someone set off a bomb in a warehouse on the outskirts of Taman City, close to the Third Regiment’s field headquarters, not long after full dark two nights later. The warehouse had been stuffed with waste lubricant from the Force’s ACVs, waiting recycling. The bomb blew the lid off the long building, and flames roared high into the skies, attracting planetary attention.
Everyone scrambled — the holo lifters, all heavy fire vehicles. Even the Musth patrols, more from curiosity than anything else, went at full drive toward Taman City, about a thousand kilometers from Leggett.
No one saw an in-system freighter, one of the Force’s unrostered acquisitions, lift from the Force’s hidden base on Mullion Island, and, flying nap of the earth, soar across Dharma Island’s narrow peninsula, just east-southeast of Leggett. It held low over the bay, then banked north, and came in low and fast on Chance Island, landing beyond Camp Mahan, in the maze of ammunition/weapon dumps, its loading ports yawning wide.
Two Griersons and one aksai, flown by Ben Dill, escorted the ship. Haut Jon Hedley was aboard one Grierson. When the freighter landed, the escorts grounded on one of Camp Mahan’s distant ranges, waiting.
A three-company-strong working party was waiting for the freighter. Cased weapons, five to a case, were hurriedly loaded aboard, and the freighter lifted off.
It stayed low, over the water, at a moderate speed, and its escorts quickly caught up with it.
The freighter lifted just high enough over the Leggett waterfront to keep from alarming anyone, then landed just inside the Eckmuhl’s walls, antigrav hissing softly.
Waiting were Poynton, Garvin, Njangu, and several hundred ‘Raum.
No commands were necessary. The ‘Raum scurried into the ship, came out lugging cased rifles and ammo crates, disappeared into the depths of the Eckmuhl.
“They’ll be broken out of the cases and out of the Eckmuhl for our other fighters before dawn,” Poynton said.
“Smooth,” Garvin admired.
“That’s what worries me,” Njangu said. “That means something’s bound to go wrong on the back end.”
Poynton caught his eye, motioned him to her. Garvin saw the action, discreetly walked a few paces away, to where their Cooke waited.
“Thanks,” Poynton said. “Although I swore I’d never say that to any soldier, even you.”
Njangu shrugged. “Keeping things stirred up’s what makes life interesting for me.” He grinned. “Seems like you can’t stay away from guns, can you?”
Poynton started to get angry, then saw the humor.
“They won’t let me, it seems like.”
“Maybe you should’ve gone with the main chance, and enlisted like some of the others in The Movement did,” he suggested.
“I thought about it,” Poynton confessed. “But I wasn’t sure if the amnesty extended as high up as I was.”
“So you found a nice, safe hiding place … right in the middle of PlanGov. Subtle, very subtle, Jo.”
She smiled. “It worked, didn’t it? Nobody blew my cover.”
“True,” Njangu said. “So what now?”
“We go to ground, and go back to what we know best,” Poynton said. “Except we’ll be sniping at Musth when the time is right for shooting.”
“They’re bigger targets,” Njangu said. “One thing. Remember what happened to Brooks?”
“He got dead,” Poynton said, voice becoming harsh.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” Njangu said. “My call is he was starting to get ideas about the future. Big ideas. I’m not sure, if you folks had won, you would have ended up with the power going where you thought it’d go.”
Poynton’s lips thinned.
“And you think I could go the same way … even if I concede you were right about Brooks?”
“Having a thousand or so people backing whatever you say with guns can get real seductive, I’ve been told.”
“Don’t worry,” Poynton said. “I’m not that sort.”
“I don’t think you are,” Yoshitaro said. “But there’s nothing wrong with a warning, is there?”
Poynton gave him a hard look.
“You surely know how to get back into a person’s good graces, don’t you?” Njangu grinned.
&nb
sp; “That’s why you’re the Councilor and I’m the guy running through the bushes. No goddamned tact at all.”
For some reason, Poynton found herself answering Yoshitaro’s grin.
“Look,” he went on, “you keep that com I gave you handy. It might be my turn to need some help next.”
“If we can, we will.”
The two looked at each other, and Njangu had a sudden desire to lean over and kiss her, and see if she wanted to remember a different night, when she’d worn a blue-velvet jumpsuit.
Perhaps he swayed a little close, perhaps she moved toward him a trifle.
But Garvin called softly.
“Let’s hike! The ship’s unloaded!”
They broke away, both looking a little embarrassed.
“Next time around, hey?”
Poynton nodded, and trotted after the column of ‘Raum, disappearing into the ruins.
The freighter lifted off, turned, and climbed over the walls of the Eckmuhl, headed for the bay.
“Let’s go,” Garvin said to his pilot as he and Njangu climbed into the Cooke. “Hang a zig west out to sea before we cut back toward Mahan. I’d just as rather not be around that freighter. Too big an echo.”
The pilot obeyed, and the Cooke climbed above the Eckmuhl’s walls. Ahead was the glistening water of the bay, and Camp Mahan’s lights.
Garvin could just see the freighter, above the water as it cleared land.
“This is Toy Six,” his com said. That was Hedley. “In the air. Climax Mass.”
Continue the mission.
Suddenly a xenon searchlight speared from the darkness, caught the freighter.
One of the coms on Garvin’s Cooke scanned to the standard watch frequency:
“Unknown ship, unknown ship, this is the Planetary Police. Identify yourself at once and come to a hover, over.”
Another com came on.
“Planetary Police, this is Confederation business. Douse your light and break off, over.”
But the police, now visible in a modified Cooke, didn’t give up.
“Unknown broadcaster, this is Planetary Police. We have no clearance for any operation at this time. Identify yourself at once, and obey our instructions, over.”
“This is Toy Six,” Hedley said. “I say again, this is Confederation business, none of yours, over.”
“This is Planetary Police. Illuminate yourself or prepare to be fired on. This is your only warning.”
“Toy Baker, this is Toy Six,” Hedley’s voice came on the operation’s frequency. “Take the cop out.”
“Toy Baker, roger that.”
“Oh shit,” Njangu muttered.
He saw a spit of fire from out at sea, a missile launch from the other Grierson, and the police Cooke exploded, spun down toward the water.
“This is Toy Six,” Hedley’s came voice came. “Climax Mass, over.”
Garvin clicked his mike sensor once, stomach roiling for an instant, thinking about a pair of stubborn men who’d just gotten very dead, when his driver swore, and pointed to the radar screen.
Over the tiny, spread-out flotilla was a blip, larger than anything except the freighter.
“What the hell … Musth, by the speed of it,” Garvin muttered. “We’re for it now.”
An instant later, the freighter blew up as three missiles from the Musth velv that’d appeared from nowhere, attracted by the police lights, struck home.
The com waves were a blur of surprise, shock.
“This is Toy Six, Toy Six,” Hedley’s voice hammered. “All stations, keep silence! Stand by for orders!”
But before he could give any, the action had ended:
Ben Dill, lying full length in his aksai, had seen the velv as soon as it’d fired on the freighter, fed full power into a climb, touched two controls, and missiles whispered out of his launch pods. They barely had time to arm before homing on the velv.
The nose of the Musth ship vanished, then its rear finning. The velv spun, the pilot regained control for an instant, then lost it, and dived down toward the water. There was a flash of fire, quickly extinguished.
“Son of a bitch,” Njangu said. “That’s torn it.”
CHAPTER
12
For three days there was nothing from the Musth except an ominous silence.
Then, at dusk, they struck Camp Mahan out of the setting sun, arcing around from their base in the Highlands and coming in vertically from space, from Silitric, E-Cumbre.
Velv and mother ships held altitude, lobbing missiles down against the feeble antimissile barrage.
It was as if they’d surprised the Force garrison again, and the missile batteries were taken out within minutes.
Wlencing ordered the landing force down, and wynt poured out of mother-ship bays, while aksai flew security.
Then the real Force missile stations on Chance unmasked and opened fire. The sites that’d been suppressed had been dummies or automated. Less than half a dozen Force troops died in that first attack.
The missiles came up in swarms, overloaded the Musth ECM operators, struck home in the wynt formations.
For a long moment it was boiling madness in the skies. Then Wlencing and his subordinate war leaders regained control, and the invasion continued.
Wynt landed in dead ground behind Camp Mahan, or on the beaches, and Musth warriors bounded out.
The beaches and approaches to the base had been mined, and Musth screeched and died in sandy explosions.
Furies bank-launched, and the rockets harrowed the Musth ranks as Force cannon fired canister at pointblank range, shrapnel spraying the attacking aliens. The Musth were so close that Shrike operators had to send their missiles on a loop out to sea while they armed. Some were hit by Musth antimissiles, but not enough to matter.
The first wave hesitated, fell back to the shelter of their wynt, and Shrikes were guided in on them.
The surviving Musth commanders called for immediate support, or permission to lift off, abandon the attack.
Wlencing denied it, ordered the second wave in, preceded by an all-out aerial attack.
Aksai and velv strafed the island, attacking any building or possible target. Barracks, hangars, and buildings on Mahan exploded, and flames built a whirlwind into the darkening skies.
But the Force was far underground, in bunkers, gun positions, and launch stations.
More missiles came out of the smoke, and more Musth died.
The second wave came in, was riddled, and pinned down in a thin perimeter around the Force base.
Wlencing hid his rage, claws moving in and out as he paced the bridge of his command ship.
A few minutes later, his intelligence analysts reported all Confederation codes had been changed.
He needed no explanation. If the codes could be changed that rapidly, that meant the Confederation knew he’d been reading their “secrets,” and were sophisticated enough to make sure they weren’t real secrets at all, but false data they wanted him to believe.
And believe it he had, Wlencing thought in fury. He’d thought the Confederation were passively kneeling under his whip, whereas it was obvious they were waiting for the right time to react. Perhaps they’d lost the initiative at the beginning, but now it appeared they might have been calling the shots for some time.
The first question was: How long?
Wlencing growled aloud, wanted to hurt something, anything, anyone. But he found control. A new thought came, and he almost wanted blind rage to return: What else had the Confederation managed to conceal from him?
He had no answers … and needed some, badly and quickly.
• • •
More than a thousand kilometers away, on Seya Island, men and women had trotted out of hasty prefabs in and around the massive junkyard the Zhukovs had been abandoned in, just as Force Headquarters reported the first incoming Musth ships. They’d been waiting for some time, after they’d been secretly shuttled back to their ACVs, with nothing to do but practice
on sims and be bored.
The Zhukovs, already fueled and armed, were airborne within a dozen minutes, and, in three-ship combat elements, sped toward Chance Island.
Two hundred kilometers from Dharma Island, they climbed into the low ionosphere.
Haut Chaka, CO of Golan Flight, opened his mike and reminded his flight:
“Golan Element, we’ll go straight down on ‘em. Try for the mother ships, then the transports. Don’t play glory girl yet, leave the aksai alone. Straight through, then climb, and we’ll go back through ‘em again.”
Other commanders gave like orders as the Zhukovs closed on Chance Island.
A fisherman, far below and out at sea who’d been staring at the turmoil above Chance Island saw, distant in the sky, gleaming in the last light of the dying sun, flashing reflections. He wondered what they were, went back to gaping at the whatever-the-billy-blue-hell was going on over at the soldiers’ camp.
The Zhukovs weren’t the most maneuverable combat vehicles ever built, but were among the most heavily armed.
As they dived, their gunners launched ship-killing Goddards. Most of these were taken out by Musth countermissiles, but two hit a mother ship and sent it spinning out of the fight, and four more homed on velv, destroying two of them.
Then the aksai were in the fight, slashing into the Zhukovs as the heavier craft bucked and swayed, trying to evade combat and go for the soft-skinned troop carriers.
Now it was the Force’s turn to take casualties, and Zhukovs blew up, rolled, dived, smoking toward the far-below ground. But more than enough were beyond aksai range, covered by Force antiaircraft, and they swept over the landing grounds, missiles hissing out, 150mm autocannon thundering, chainguns chattering. Wynt blew up, and the third wave of attacking Musth was shattered.
The aksai and velv, on Wlencing’s orders, screamed down, heedless of AA fire, intent on smashing the Zhukovs.
Then the secret ships from Mullion Island struck, everything from yachts and speedsters with improvised missile racks to close-system patrol craft to the three lovingly restored aksai.
The skies were swirling madness, and not even the best of the gunners in RaoForce could hold a target long enough to make a launch, nor be sure they’d be able to guide a missile in without a friendly getting in the way.