by John Dalmas
"Colonel!" said the captain, and identified himself. "Acting for General Songhidalarsa, I've come to order the dispatch of the 11th Gunship Support Wing."
The subcolonel looked at him as if he thought this was some kind of crude joke.
"To order what?"
A premonition of trouble started in the captain's chest, and spread. "The dispatch of the 11th Gunship Support Wing," he enunciated. "General Songhidalarsa has ordered it in support of the 31st Brigade. To Ahantar."
"Huh! Interesting that I wasn't briefed that something like this might happen." The subcolonel reached out a hand. "Let me see the orders."
The captain counted mentally to eight, calming the panic that was beginning to tug at his mind. Obviously someone had screwed up. The dispatch officer was to have been notified in advance, given written orders in mid-evening, with a cover story of some kind.
"General Songhidalarsa indicated to me that they'd been given to you. I was simply to let you know the time. He wants the gunship support wing in the air at 0130."
"Well I'm sorry, Captain, but no one's given me anything in writing on this. And that's how I need it: in writing."
And it was not to be known that the general had accompanied the brigade in his own command floater. That had been stressed. Otherwise it would be obvious that the expedition was intended to do more than overawe and suppress the strikers and demonstrators at Ahantar.
"My orders came from General Songhidalarsa verbally," the captain said. "That's how I'm passing them on to you. I'm sure you don't want to reject them."
He realized, even as he was saying it, that the last sentence was a mistake. The subcolonel's brows drew down sharply; he'd taken it as an implied threat. "Captain, we operate according to regulations here. If it's not in writing, it's not an order. In writing and signed by someone authorized to give it to me: General Songhidalarsa or his deputy. Or General Mavaraloku, of course; the orders would need his initials at any rate."
The captain couldn't go to Major General Khobajaleera, the general's deputy in charge. Khobajaleera knew only the cover story; he wasn't considered politically safe either. He'd never acccept that the general wanted a whole damned gunship support wing dispatched just to help stare down a mob of strikers and demonstrators. He'd ask questions that the captain dare not answer.
And turning to General Mavaraloku was out of the question. Mavaraloku was the commanding general of the air services division. His initials were to have been forged on Songhidalarsa's orders. Mavaraloku too was politically unreliable, and under other than combat conditions, he was free to query orders he considered dubious, even from the corps commander. If he suspected that something covert was going on, he might well call the Imperial General Staff in Ananporu, to check. The fat would really be in the fire then. Thus the forged initials.
"Can I have the use of a commset?" asked the captain stiffly.
The subcolonel looked at him as if questioning his sobriety. Or his sanity. "There's a whole row of them in the common room."
"I need ... never mind." If he said he needed one with scramble functions, the frigging subcolonel might call a query of his own. He hurried out, glancing at the large wall clock as he did so: 0107. He'd use a commset at Corps. And even that might not work; he wasn't sure that Abrikalaavi was still in range. If not... He imagined himself coming back with a gun. Shove it in the subcolonel's gut, and then see if he'd honor a verbal order.
The only practical thing he could think of was to draft the order himself and forge the general's signature. And Mavaraloku's initials. The thought of it made his hair bristle with fear. It would have to look just right—wording and forgeries. He'd have to look up the relevant regulations, use the proper form, drill Old Iron Jaw's signature ... 0130 was out of the question.
It was a damned good thing the brigade had its own gunship squadron. But a mere squadron wouldn't discourage the Capital Division.
* * *
The subcolonel watched the captain leave. He remembered the written reprimand Old Iron Jaw had issued on him the spring before, during maneuvers, for releasing a mere flight of gunships on the verbal order of an unauthorized colonel. He'd been brand new here at Fashtar, and hadn't known the general's reputation for entrapment. Regulations, he'd learned then, were not to be slighted.
Fifty-five
The armored transport had lifted with both penal platoons on board. It was not an ideal situation; the two platoons were vicious rivals, had been conditioned that way, each led to consider itself the toughest platoon in the Imperial Army. Platoon Sergeant Skosh Viilenga couldn't vouch for it, but it seemed to him that one or the other might actually be the toughest. If not, they had to be close.
They'd made the flight to Ahantar without any trouble. The men had dozed in their bucket seats, been taken off a squad at a time to relieve themselves, then loaded back on without any trouble. To wait.
They were peasants, their noncoms gentry, their lieutenants nobles. But some of these peasants were smart. Ignorant maybe, did dumb shit maybe, but they were shrewd; they could figure things about as well as anyone. And as far as dumb shit was concerned... In the penal platoons, the three classes had two things in common: They all had compulsions to get into trouble; serious trouble. And they all tended to be violent. Those were the reasons they were there, all of them, himself included.
For an officer or noncom to survive in the penal platoons, he had to have an edge, and the edge came from training. Special training in close combat—hands, feet, baton, knife, saber—and in the psychological handling of men like these. When to praise, when to reason, when to bribe, when to shout and curse. When to strike out—and when to kill without warning. You never bluffed and you never showed the slightest trace of fear. If you didn't learn those lessons well, you didn't last long. Sergeant Skosh had been in this platoon for more than four years, and had six more to go on his sentence. He was there for slugging a captain, a nobleman—broke his frigging nose, actually—which was the final straw in a career of fights and brawls.
When his ten penal years were up, Skosh fully intended to stay in the platoon until retirement. It seemed to him it was the best place for someone like himself. Outside there was too little tolerance, too many chickenshit regulations, with the risk of ending up on Shatimvoktos. Here he felt at home. These were his kind of people, from Lieutenant Paasalarogu to Harelip and the Slasher.
A major, the division's provost marshal, stepped into the floater. The lieutenant barked "at ease!" which woke the men who were dozing and stilled those who weren't. Major Dholagilarmo was one of the few outside officers who could step into the middle of these men without looking nervous. He called them his boys. Still, Skosh wondered why the provost marshal would be along on this expedition.
"Listen up!" the major shouted. The language he used was a sort of pidgin—an off-the-cuff, simplified Imperial with usages borrowed from peasant jabber. "You gonna fight some real troops, not just a buncha demonstrators. We gonna find out if you really any good or not. You gonna get big party and some big money if you do good."
He waited a moment before saying more, tightening their attention.
"Pretty soon we gonna lift for Ananporu, gonna land you men inside the Sreegana. You gonna kill the Kalif. He been fuckin' up too damn much."
Again he waited. Now he really had their attention.
* * *
"The Kalif got a short regiment—three short battalions—of pretty tough guards to protect 'im. They ain't got you firepower, but they pretty damn tough. You ask 'em, they tell you they tougher than you. We gonna waste 'em pretty bad with bomb attack on they barracks, but them that live, they be pretty mad.
"We gonna land a battalion in the Sreegana and cool 'em. The rest of the 103rd be close by if need 'em. You mother haters gonna land in Kalif's garden. You job to get inside palace and kill Kalif.
"You gotta do it without no dry runs or mockup drills. I just give your officers a map and tell 'em what to do.
"If one
of you kill Kalif, both platoons get big party. All the booze and all the broads you can handle! Each man get twenty dromas bonus. In platoon that kills 'im, each man get twenty more. Man that kills 'im gets 500 more!"
Skosh could hear their breath suck in. The major looked them over. "You mother haters like that?"
Three or four whooped. A few shouted "yes." Most just grinned or laughed.
"You do not," he went on—"I repeat not—shoot each other to get at Kalif. Your officers and sergeants will shoot any mother haters that fight each other. It's the Kalif we want dead, not you.
"How you know the Kalif when you see 'im? Look at me." The major stood tall in front of them. "He about my size. Your officers gonna show you pix of im to look at. Lotsa times Kalif wear a red cape, come down 'bout to here." The major gestured. "Lotsa times he wear a red robe." He gestured again. "But maybe he be dressed like anyone else there. So when you look at photos, look good. Make sure you know 'im.
"Now. You maybe see men in white capes or white robes. Them exarchs. Kill them, too, when you come to 'em. But the one to kill for bonus, he the Kalif. We wannim dead. You don't kill Kalif, you don't get bonus, don't get party.
"Any questions?"
There weren't. The men, their noncoms and lieutenants, pored over the photos—grimly or gleefully, according to the individual. The Kalif was a doomed man, thought Skosh. He wondered if he might get him in his sights himself.
Fifty-six
Alb Jilsomo Savbatso had just turned on his terminal when he heard and felt the explosions, a sequence of them. They sounded as if they'd been on the far side of the Sreegana, from the direction of the armory and Guard barracks. Jumping to his feet, he started for the Kalif's office, down the hall from his own.
It was early enough that no one else was in the hall except two guardsmen near the far end, clutching rifles, running toward him. Jilsomo surged through the Kalif's reception area—Partiil wasn't in yet—and into the Kalif's office. That's when he heard the first gunfire, heavy automatic weapons, a shocking, violent sound. It stopped him in his tracks. Then the two guardsmen burst in behind him and ran past, almost knocking him over, sucking him along in their wake. Tempered-glass doors were partly open to the morning cool, and they ran out through the gap, into the garden.
Jilsomo stopped at the door. The gray semi-cylindrical bulk of an armored personnel transport was settling onto the ground, and he could see a guardsman sprawled on a flowerbed not far off, as if all his strings had been cut. The kalifa was just rising from her knees behind a marble bench, then she sprinted toward him, fast as a man in her billowing pantaloons. The two guards had separated, both firing at the transport's opening doors.
Soldiers jumped out even as the doors opened. He saw more than one fall. Another fired a burst from the hip. A marble statue came apart, shards flying, ricochets keening. One of the two guardsmen fell, and the kalifa also, in mid-jump over a tangleflower bed. From somewhere came more furious gunfire, and emerging soldiers fell or hit the ground.
The other guardsman was darting toward the kalifa. Scarcely pausing, he scooped her up, with astonishing strength and agility jumped over a hip-high ornamental wall, then running low in its shelter, darted toward the office. The immobilized exarch had never imagined such an athletic feat.
The ground twitched with the massive explosions of three more bombs, shaking Jilsomo out of his paralysis. He stepped back out of the way as the guardsman with the kalifa rushed past him. Automatic weapons fire grew in intensity outside, and for some reason Jilsomo moved to slide the doors shut. Bullets sent glass flying, partly intercepted by curtains, and he felt a sharp sting in his cheek. Abruptly he fled, after the guard and the kalifa, through reception and into the corridor. Alb Thoga stood there, round-eyed, holding a folder in his hands like an offering. Jilsomo followed the guardsman, Thoga falling in beside him.
Ahead was a heavy door accessing a utility stairwell, and the guardsman paused there, lowered the kalifa to the floor, and opened the door with his security card. The exarchs held back till the guard had shouldered the kalifa again, Jilsomo shocked by the scarlet that stained her pale blue clothing. Then they followed him through.
"Lock it!" the guard shouted back, and started down the stairs. Jilsomo stared, confused, already breathing hard. Thoga crowded him aside, threw his slight weight against the steel door, closing it, pulled its wheel out half an inch and gave it a partial turn, then pushed it back in.
"Come, Jilsomo!" he said sharply, and tugged the larger exarch's sleeve. They hurried after the guardsman, down a double flight of stairs and into a tunnel containing pipes and conduits. By its light panels, Jilsomo could see drops of blood on the floor ahead of him. The kalifa's blood, he thought. The rebels—that's what they had to be—would surely follow the blood trail, blow down the door with something, and catch them, kill them all.
They ran what seemed a long way before they passed another stairwell. Farther ahead was still another. The guard went up its steps two at a time, the kalifa, who was taller than he, draped over his shoulder. Jilsomo was gasping now; to climb the stairs seemed beyond him. Thoga jabbed him. "Up!" he ordered, and somehow the fat exarch found himself climbing, clinging to the handrail, lungs heaving, Thoga continuing to push, yapping, "Move! Move!"
When they reached the top, Jilsomo reeled out into a corridor, against a wall, almost collapsing while Thoga drew the heavy access door shut behind them, the effort taxing his thin strength. Vaguely Jilsomo wondered if their supposed pursuers might be stopped by it after all. He became aware that he was bleeding, his white cape stained red.
Once more the slight Thoga confronted his much larger colleague, and pointed down the hallway. "Move!" he wheezed. He too was gasping.
Jilsomo shook his head, his chest heaving, and waved him on. "No," said Thoga, "rest later," and jerked on Jilsomo's sleeve for emphasis. Jilsomo stared for a second through blurring eyes, then somehow moved again, down the corridor with Thoga. Five guardsmen trotted by, faces grim, rifles ready, in duty uniforms and helmets. Jilsomo thought to tell them about the tunnel, but had no breath for it.
He realized where they were now—in the heart of the Administration Building. The guardsman carrying the kalifa turned through a door, the door to the clinic. Another guardsman, posted there, saw Jilsomo's blood-marked robe and barked him inside.
Jilsomo was staggering by then, walking with Thoga's help. He found himself in medical reception. A corporal grabbed the big exarch, getting a shoulder under his arm, and helped him down a small hall to another room.
Inside, the guardsman laid the kalifa down on an examination table, then turned to leave, but Thoga stopped him. "Stay!" he ordered, and stepped to the table. The kalifa's face was gray, her eyes closed. The corporal helped Jilsomo down onto a chair.
"Find one of the physicians!" Thoga told him. "Hurry!"
"Your lordship," the corporal said, "there's men looking for them now."
"Tell them to hurry. The kalifa's dangerously wounded."
The corporal ran without saying anything more.
Jilsomo felt of his face, the source of his bleeding. Glass from the garden door had sliced his cheek. Thoga, standing beside the kalifa, first felt for her pulse, then, with the guardsman's dagger, cut off her bloody clothes. Jilsomo was aware that she stank. With the guardsman's help, Thoga turned her onto her stomach. "Dear Kargh," he muttered.
"What?"
"She's been shot twice. Once in the side, the bullet following along the ribs, then emerging. The other entered the body from behind, probably below the right kidney. I hope it was below. It has to have passed through the small intestine. Missed the aorta, though, or she'd be dead already."
Already. "Can she..." Jilsomo began, then didn't finish.
"I don't know. My training ended with pre-med. I've had courses, observed dissections, worked on dummies with syntho-flesh ... that's all." He stared helplessly at the kalifa's lax, corpselike body.
The corporal entered again.
"Alb Thoga," he said, "none of the physicians answer. The bachelor apartments were bombed. No one seems to know where the on-duty physician is. I'm told his breakfast tray was delivered just before the trouble started, and he went into the common garden to eat. Probably with his beeper on. One of the men says he saw him start running toward the palace. No one knows where his receptionist is. Smoke's pouring out the windows there, and there's still a lot of shooting. Plus we've got rebels in the upper floors here; got in from the roof."
Thoga blew tiredly. "Well, then." He looked at the guardsman who'd brought the kalifa. "Private," he said, "you've done marvelously well so far. Now you'll have to help me." He went to a cabinet and opened the doors. Instruments lay inside, wrapped in clear plastic. "We'll see what we can do. And hope for the best."
* * *
The Kalif crouched at the window, Sergeant Yalabiin beside him. It was a ground-floor window; there were none higher in the House of SUMBAA. Outside, the rebels held the quadrangle, more or less. A number of armored troop carriers lay parked where they'd landed, their turrets erupting spasmodically with heavy automatic weapons fire at the surrounding buildings. Occasionally he saw rebel soldiers move, quickly and low, under light fire from windows. He couldn't see the palace except for a couple of its roofs, but he could see smoke rising from it. Light troop carriers were visible on the roof of the Administration Building.
He wondered where Tain was. How she was. He told himself she was a survivor, but was not greatly reassured by the thought. If she was harmed and he came through it all... He banished the train of thought. This wasn't the time for it.
He'd seen from other windows what had happened to the Guard barracks and the Bachelor Apartments. It was surprising that so many guardsmen had gotten out alive and with their rifles. As for the bachelor exarchs and collegial staff caught at their breakfasts...
He'd been lucky. He and Yalabiin had just finished their workout when the first bombs struck, and had ducked into the House of SUMBAA. A dozen or so other guardsmen had come in afterward, in off-duty uniforms but armed and some with helmets.