“Captain,” Kref said loudly. “We might have a problem!”
Just as the Henkayan spoke Pyke heard the faint crack of small arms fire and the high-pitched insect whine of rounds.
“Evil gougin’ maggots!” Pyke roared as he wrenched the lightwing into a tight bank.
The tower swung across their path, looming hugely as Pyke’s manoeuvre brought the craft in close. He had to reduce the suspensor field a notch again so that he could dive and try to locate Ancil and Mojag… and there they were, already on one of the lower balconies. He cheered and pointed them out to Kref.
“But how we gonna land on that little shelf, Captain?”
“By virtue of me amazing talents and piloting skill, of course!” And our handy onboard antigrav generator!
Coming around and gaining a little height Pyke managed to get a better view of the balcony in question. As he caught sight of it again he was in time to see two figures go into crouching positions at either end of the balcony a moment before there was a flash, a gout of smoke and the muffled bang of a detonation. Pyke grinned–Ancil wasn’t wasting time with those charges!
“Ancil’s just blown open the shutters!” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’m gonna try to get us down on that balcony, nice and gently.”
“Wha—?”
Pyke laughed and shrugged in the icy slipstream. He now had to bring their altitude down, level with the balcony, simultaneously increasing the suspensor field strength while cutting the lightwing’s airspeed enough to result in a soft landing. Pyke thought it was an excellent plan but the guards on the ground had other ideas. A volley of shots, including bright energy-weapon barbs, whined and buzzed past, with accompanying cracks and rips as rounds struck the lightwing. Hanging onto the control column he felt the craft lurch to the side even as Kref let out a wordless yell of panic.
“Hold on, Kref!” Pyke roared.
The suspensor unit, mounted directly beneath their back-to-back seats, was giving off a high-pitched wavering rasp sound. The lightwing was jerking in time with it and as more shots cracked past, Pyke knew that he wouldn’t get another chance at this.
“Brace yerself, Kref–this’ll make yer teeth rattle!”
The tower rushed towards them. Snarling and cursing, Pyke fought to keep the craft level as it swooped towards the balcony. Ancil and Mojag were crouching either side of the now-gaping window–it looked as if they had pulled the broken shutters aside or away because Pyke could actually see into the shadowy interior. And for a second he locked gazes with a wide-eyed Ancil when the lightwing was just yards away…
There was a cracking sound as the lightwing’s landing struts sheared off, then Pyke and Kref and their flying machine plunged through the open window into shadowy darkness. The wings were ripped away in an instant. Pyke tasted dust and grit and he held grimly on to the control column as they struck the floor of some large chamber, scraped and slid across it and eventually slewed to a halt next to a wall. Dizziness assailed him for a moment then he began tugging at the safety belt, just as Ancil came rushing over.
“Dammit, chief, ya made it!”
“Well, o’ course! I got too many axes to grind to peg out this early… how’s Kref doing?”
“Lost my boots, Captain–something knocked them off.”
Coughing, Pyke stood, brushed dust off his jacket then stepped out of the lightwing’s wreckage and headed back towards the balcony.
“Hang on, chief,” Ancil said. “Shouldn’t we set about heading up this damn tower?”
“Yes, laddy, just as soon as I bid farewell to our good friends.” Pyke went out onto the balcony, leaned over the balustrade and bellowed at the guards milling about below:
“Pog mo thoin, ya gang of pukes!”
Grinning, he pushed away from the stone coping and went back inside. Mojag was leaning on a large piece of furniture like a gargantuan desk, arms folded as he watched Pyke haul out the big chunky Gruxen pistol and check it. Mojag’s smile was languid, thoughtful and distinctly un-Mojaglike as he glanced over at Ancil, who was still helping Kref out of the destroyed lightwing.
“When?” he said. “I can’t go on pretending like this, so if you don’t tell them, I will.”
In a low voice Pyke said, “Not the time, Oleg, and not the place. Let’s just get this devil-damned mission settled and try to get Dervla and Win back, then we’ll get everyone together and lay it all out, right?”
Frowning, Oleg-Mojag nodded.
“Okay, my crafty brigands,” Pyke said loudly. “Get yer guns at the ready ’cos we’re off to find the aristothug who runs this shack, and send him to his maker. Then maybe we can get out of this madhouse.”
Ancil raised his gun, a heavy fat-barrelled revolver, and spun the cylinder. “Lead the way, chief–let’s give ’em a thrashing.”
Kref looked unhappy. “But I got no boots…”
Pyke pointed a thumb upwards. “I’m sure we’ll find a guard in this place who’ll be only too happy to lend you his. As long as you ask nicely.”
The big Henkayan gave a wide grin. “I’m good at that, Captain.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was dark and cramped inside the Zavri troop lander, with only shipboard system indicators providing the meagrest of glows to brighten the gloom. The lander engines moaned high and loud as the craft swooped into the heart of Armag City, braking strongly for touchdown. The impact gave everyone a jolt, then the pitch of the engines slowed and dropped. Akreen nodded to Temek, the strike squad-leader, and the main boarding hatch unsealed, hinging down to become the disembarkation ramp.
At the head of twelve shining Zavri fighters, First Blade Akreen walked out into the smoke-hazy air of Armag City. The Lord-Governor’s tower loomed imposingly nearby and moments later they were approached by an officer in the sheer black uniform of the Governor’s compound guard.
“First Blade, it is a great honour to welcome you to our city. I am Pro-Captain Yorez–how can we—?”
“Pro-Captain, we are in pursuit of dangerous extremists reported to be operating in this part of the city. Have you heard any reports of intruders that might match this description?”
“Indeed, yes! A group of armed terrorists gained access to the tower through a second-floor balcony–I saw it with my own eyes.”
“I assume that you have sent your men in after them.”
An agonised look came over the pro-captain’s face. “Sir, earlier today the Lord-Governor ordered us to seal the tower and admit no one, including ourselves, whatever the reason.”
“And what if I wish to enter the Lord-Governor’s tower to continue my pursuit?”
“Honoured First Blade, I was given the strictest of instructions…”
“Pro-Captain Yorez, I am conducting the operation under the express authority of the Shuskar Gun-Lord Xra-Huld himself. I strongly advise you to order that the tower entrance be unsealed.”
The pro-captain’s face went pale at the mention of Xra-Huld; he swallowed hard, then gave a swift, sharp salute.
“First Blade, by your command.”
Minutes later the line of tall silvery figures had reached the head of the wide ornamental stairs that led up to the tower’s majestic entrance, triple doors of masterforge steel inlaid with fireglass. Once all the squad were inside, Akreen ordered Temek to close up the doors and seal them from the inside. He was intent on completing this mission as swiftly and efficiently as possible–Gredaz’s advice to proceed to the Zavri holdworld, Drevaul, and its portal gate, was constantly in his thoughts.
The grand entrance hall was dark, with only a handful of muted maintainer lights indicating the location of doors to ancillary chambers and the main curving staircase. Once he had all twelve Zavri gathered around him, Akreen paused to take in the encompassing grandeur but only for a moment.
“You have been told that we are in pursuit of armed and dangerous terrorists,” he said. “I can now tell you that the ones we hunt are no ordinary extremists, fostered in some dise
ased slum on one of the agri-worlds. They are in fact advance scouts sent here by one of the civilisations that border on the territory where the Warcage is currently at rest.
“Intruders such as these will carry invaluable information which is why Gun-Lord Xra-Huld has authorised us to carry out this operation, because they are to be taken alive. That is his express command and we possess certain attributes which make us ideally suited. This task will present us with difficulties but I have every confidence in your matchless skills and unvarying courage. Eternal loyalty!”
“Loyalty eternal!” came the massed reply in voices pitched low.
He then turned to Temek.
“Squad-leader, I reiterate the Gun-Lord’s orders–the intruders are to be taken alive, whatever the sacrifice. Is that clear?”
“We will fulfil our duty, invincible one, to the very limits of our being.”
“Good–despatch your scouts.”
Temek nodded and hurried off, rapping out a string of orders.
The very model of the efficient Zavri warrior, said Gredaz within Akreen’s thoughts. Does he brood over Zavri history in his private moments, do you think?
I cannot picture him doing so, Akreen replied. Temek focuses mainly on maintaining his combat effectiveness.
Which is admirable, if somewhat austere. Our distant ancestors counted composers, writers, musicians and all kinds of artists among their number. Once we had a culture, rather than just a parade ground.
Akreen frowned. You’ve been very quiet up until now. Is something wrong?
I decided not to disturb your thoughts while you were busy with this assignment, but something new has come to my attention since we landed, something quite crucial.
Squad-leader Temek, having sent his scouts off to make a slow, careful ascent, had also readied the rest of the squad and was now waiting at the foot of the stairs for Akreen. The First Blade nodded to him and began to follow.
I assume that you are about to reveal your discovery before my patience runs out.
You may have to reassess the tactics of this ongoing assignment, Gredaz said.
And my store of patience continues to run down.
Then listen–through the medium of your physique, and the singular Zavri biology, I have detected a weak energy emission with a very specific pattern, namely the cyclic signal of a portal gate in standby mode!
Akreen almost stumbled on his way across the darkened grand hallway.
Are you certain? he said.
Yes. This is not the kind of thing that can be mistaken for something else.
Akreen gestured Temek to ascend the stairs ahead of him while he followed at a steady pace.
And where?
Up high, near the tower’s apex. It appears that the exalted Lord-Governor Gyr-Matu has his own private escape hatch.
A sardonic smile passed across Akreen’s features.
In that case there is no need to concern ourselves with the Lord-Governor’s safety.
You think that he has already departed?
The very moment that the intruders broke into his tower, Akreen said. But you are correct–I will have to rethink this operation as I now need to be leading from the front, not the rear.
Perhaps Temek’s scouts could benefit from the First Blade’s incomparable expertise in clandestine techniques.
Perhaps they could.
By the time they reached the fifteenth floor they had already encountered and dealt with three two-man guard posts, each protected by a barricade of furniture and fittings. Ancil’s charges had smashed apart the improvised defences and a barrage of gunfire through billowing clouds of dust and smoke had settled matters with brutal finality. But this one was somewhat different.
The fifteenth floor was similar to the ground floor hallway, at least in scale–it had high walls with shining pillars, seating balconies, a profusion of decorative plants, and an elaborate central atrium with a pulpit-like platform fringed with glittering bushes. Little waterfalls trickled down stepped channels on either side of the atrium to a wide ornamental pool, filling the air with a constant liquid whisper. Raised stone flags led across the water to a recessed elevator, but Pyke felt sure that couldn’t be the only way to the upper floors.
Crouching with the others behind a wide, low stone barrier out on the lobby-landing, he peered over it at the lie of the land, indicating the balconies and the pulpit.
“Sentries at three points,” he said. “Filthy gougers have set up a nasty crossfire. Could be tricky.”
Ancil frowned as he peeked over the barrier. “You sure they’re up there, chief? I can’t see…”
There was a stuttering flash as a cluster of blaster bolts struck the edge of the stone barrier. Splinters flew amid puffs of pulverised dust and Ancil cursed floridly while dabbing at several cuts on his forehead. Pyke smiled.
“Believe me now? Question is, have you got any of them charges left?”
“All out, chief.”
“No throwables at all?”
“Nah, not unless yer counting Kref’s socks.”
“I heard that,” came Kref’s basso voice from further down the steps where there was sufficient cover for his bulk. “My feets is still getting a good airing–all those guards had titchy little boots.”
“We could try sniping at them from back here,” said Mojag. “But then they could break out the suppressing fire and one of us might get hit!”
Pyke caught the emphasis in the last few words and conceded that Oleg-via-Mojag had a point. Kref was usually target No. 1 in these situations.
“So this is basically a bottleneck with limited options,” he said. “Not the kind of situation where we can set up a diversion, either…” He shook his head, feeling stumped but letting his gaze roam around the sumptuously ornamented landing, the friezes, the statues, the vidframes showing odd writhing abstract patterns, the gauzy drapes, the cornices…
Suddenly, he chuckled quietly and took out the bulky Gruxen revolver. He aimed its hefty barrel up at one of a line of bulb-like protrusions dotted along the stairwell ceiling, and fired off a couple of rounds. The bulb object disappeared in a scattering of sparks and fragments. He gazed at the others in the line, waited for a few seconds, then a few seconds more just to be sure.
“Chief, I think that was one of the fire sprinklers,” Ancil said.
“Well spotted! Which is why we’re going back down a floor to start collecting furniture, curtains, rugs, anything that’ll burn. Then we haul it up here, stick it all in a grand old heap…”
“And get a blaze going!”
“… but not before we shoot out all the sprinklers near this landing, get me?” Pyke grinned. “Yeah, get a good bonfire going, then start throwing some plants on it. That should get it nice and smoky in there, eh?”
“A smokescreen,” said Ancil. “Good cover for all manner of skulduggery!”
“Right enough, so let’s head down and start scavenging.”
The internal structure of the tower was similar to that of the chambered shells created by certain sea creatures. Each floor was made up of pleasure bowers, plunge pools, party rooms and picture galleries, almost a self-contained unit linked to other floors by stairs and elevators of one kind or another. As the crew raked through the fourteenth floor for burnable (and carriable) items, Kref was sent down to the thirteenth to tear down the curtains from a series of high windows that they’d passed earlier.
After about half an hour they had gathered a growing stack of divans, chairs, stands and strange frameworks hung with paintings, thick jewelled cords made from braided hair, and what looked like groups of small toy dolls, all with open mouths. But no curtains. Pyke was about to wonder aloud where Kref had got to when he spotted a mound of tangled drapes ascending the stairs, one heavy footstep after another. On reaching the landing, the mass of patterned cloth was dumped unceremoniously at their feet, revealing a red-faced, gasping Kref.
“’s hot!” he said. “Smells like flowers, too.”
“Bet they have servants for that,” said Ancil. “An official curtain-scent technician–or Lord High Pongmaster to his friends!”
“Did you see the moving statues?” Kref asked Ancil.
“Moving what?”
“Yeah, I seen one when I ripped down one of the big curtains–weird-looking silver thing, really lifelike. Saw it turn its head, like a robot, then it froze.”
A dubious Ancil eyed Kref. “Creepy.”
Pyke picked over the drapes, tugging them out one by one. “This is good–wind ’em over and around, set fire to the gauzy ones first, that’ll get the heavy ones going and pretty soon we’ll have a monster holy show!”
A smiling Ancil held up one finger and, wordlessly, reached down behind a nearby padded chair and came up with a cloth bag, which clinked. He delved in with his free hand and brought out a squat triangular bottle half full of something with a rich red-brown hue. He unscrewed the stopper and held the bottle up for Pyke to take a sniff. The pungency of it made his eyes water.
“That’s some powerful rocket fuel, Ans, me old blagger,” he said. “Are you by any chance thinking ‘Molotov’?”
Ancil jiggled his bag to a chorus of clinks. “In the plural, chief!”
“Nice bit of rummaging. Okay, boys, light ’er up!”
The bonfire had been piled up next to the entrance to the atrium, its base spread nearly halfway along the threshold. Flames were quick to take hold in the curtains, which were interwoven through the furniture as well as around it. Then seat padding caught fire while melting paints and lacquers added inflammable fumes and it wasn’t long before the wood started to burn. The growing heat drew in air from the stairwell and thickening clouds of smoke billowed out into the atrium.
Pyke grinned at his crew and gestured for them to start adding the plants and bushes which had been pillaged from the floor below. And at last the guards hidden on the balconies opened fire. Bright barbs flickered through the haze, hammering burning holes in the furniture, in the floor, in the walls.
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