by Chris Bunch
"Flipping-A," Hedley said. "Happy to help. Sibyl Six out."
The Eckmuhl was no longer a sanctuary.
———«»———«»———«»———
Ton Milot had his blaster slung over his shoulder, and three portable rocket launchers under one arm, and a case of ammunition beside him. He crouched behind a statue of something or other that'd been blasted into unrecognizability. Take a minute to think about things. You don't want to go and do something stupid and get shot, he thought. The rest of the guys are over there . . . and the 'Raum are over there. So I'd best get my young ass moving, like yesterday, but cutting around this frigging statue, out of the line of fire. He grabbed the resupply, burst out into the open, thudding along, seeing bolts smash into the pavement, not letting his mind realize it, come on now, twenty-five meters to go, you can fly over that, just like training, those bullets won't really hit you, you're doing fine, just fine—
Something smashed his leg, and he crashed headlong, tasting grit, blood, smelling smoke, and pain grabbed him, like a red-hot clamp pulling at his thigh, and he saw blood, and other bullets were beating the ground around him. He felt a thud, saw blood stain his uniform sleeve black. He couldn't move, and guessed this was about all, that he'd die in this goddamned dirty-ass sun-baking square, never see the boats or Lupul again, and—
—And somebody had him by the back of his combat vest and was dragging him, and pain seared, but he bit his lip hard. No, dammit, I won't scream. And the sun was gone, and he was in the shade, being rolled over, and hands were tearing his pants open. Fuzzy shapes above him became figures, and he saw one of the Troop medics, and next to him was Hank Faull.
"Where the hell did you come from?" Milot croaked. "You're in Vie Team, aren't you?"
"Saw you go down," Faull said. "Thought you might need a hand."
"Hank, my friend, my father, my mother, my brother," Milot said. "You can have anything I've got. You can drink on me from now until the sun goes black. If you ever want to cheat on your wife, I'll provide the giggler and the alibi."
Faull grinned, started to say something, then looked startled. He slumped forward across Ton Milot, as if all the bones in his body had melted. Another soldier was there, pulling Faull away, and Ton Milot saw the fist-sized hole in Hank Faull's back.
"No," Ton Milot managed. "That can't be. That can't be." Then the universe went black.
The medic shouted, "Get a lift in, dammit! I've got one down, one critical. Come on, people!"
———«»———«»———«»———
"They're in that building over there, Petr," Penwyth said. "We'll need a goddamned air strike to get 'em out. That goddamned door's solid steel or something, and they've got the windows sandbagged. Not to mention we're more'n a bit outnumbered."
"Maybe," Kipchak said. "Maybe not. Gimme that SSW."
The two were crouched in a shop door, catty-corner from the big building that held half a hundred 'Raum. The rest of Alpha Team held positions up and down the street. Penwyth licked his lips, ducked into the next store, and came back with the squad weapon, trying to ignore the two dead I&R men beside it and the bolts exploding around him.
"Find something to sandbag me," Kipchak ordered, and Erik puzzled, found a flatiron and four sacks of washers, piled them for Kipchak to rest the forehand of the Squad Support Weapon on.
"See that little bitty window?" Kipchak asked.
"Hell yes. They shot at me out of that."
"Spot me."
"Huh?" Erik said.
"I said spot me, dammit! Like on the range."
"Oh. 'Kay."
Kipchak fired a single shot.
"Uh . . . high. Left."
Kipchak tsked, moved his sights a little, fired again.
"High. Center."
Another round went out.
"I didn't see it. I think a hit. Yeh. You put it in the window all right!"
"Nail this bastard down." The weights went around the bipod legs of the Squad Support Weapon. "Now lemme show you something," Petr said.
"They're all nice and bulletproof outside, right?"
"Right."
Petr braced the butt of the SSW, let twenty bolts slam through the tiny window, paused, then another twenty, then another pause and the rest of the belt. "More ammo," he ordered, but the door to the bank, if that was what it was, came open, and bleeding 'Raum, waving white rags, handkerchiefs, even pieces of paper, came stumbling out. "Bulletproof outside means bulletproof inside," Kipchak said in satisfaction.
"Bouncing bolts bedazzle and baffle bandits."
———«»———«»———«»———
No one except a couple of radar techs noticed the luxury lifter as it climbed high into the sky, Leggett no more than a dot below.
———«»———«»———«»———
Griersons dropped into the Eckmuhl, and troops trotted off. I&R men were waiting to escort them.
"Just follow me," a grimy soldier told a group of officers. "I'll put your men where they're supposed to be."
The haut in charge looked suspiciously at the man, who wore no insignia.
"Follow you? Might I ask your rank?"
"Cent Radcliffe's my name," Striker Penwyth said. "And I've got personal authorization from Mil Rao."
"Oh. Then I guess everything's all right. Come on, troops," the haut said.
———«»———«»———«»———
Njangu came to his feet, surprised, as Garvin walked out of the hospital entrance. He wore oversize fatigues, and one shoulder was lumpier than the other.
"What ho," he said. "I thought you'd be flat on your ass in a ward, trying to play giggle and pinch with the nurses and feebly taking visitors."
"That's what they wanted to do to me," Garvin said. "I didn't like the idea."
"Why not? Some nice days off after the shit we've been through. Float back, relax, and get some ghost time."
"Uh-uh. I'm going back over, as soon as I can scrounge a combat vest and a blaster."
"You're what?"
"I promised I was going to kill Tver . . . his real name's Brooks, by the way . . . if I got a chance. So I'm making the chance."
"Aw shit, Garvin. I barely had time to take a shower and you want to go jump back in the shitter. You getting medal-happy or something?"
"Nobody said you had to go."
"Not much they didn't." Njangu growled. "All right. Let's scout up some bangsticks. You got any ideas how we're gonna find our boy?"
"Yeah. But I'm not telling you 'til we're on the ground. You might jump the line and kill him first."
———«»———«»———«»———
"Is the fuse set, my brother?"
"It is."
The pilot of the luxury lifter bowed his head, and his lips moved silently. "Then we go, and may the One bless our Task." He pushed the control wheel forward, and the lifter nosed over. It dived down and down, starting to shudder, and the lifter's computer pushed out dive brakes and the shuddering went away.
The driver tried not to look at his friend next to him, tried not to look out at the blue of the bay and the white stone, now smoke-covered, of the Eckmuhl, whose every alley he knew and loved. All that existed, all that should exist, was the swelling mass of the fortress below.
———«»———«»———«»———
The sentries at the gates of the Planetary Government's headquarters had a bare moment to react to the sonic boom, look up, and see the blurred black lifter as it dived almost straight down, into the main PlanGov building, centering on the mosaiced stained-glass dome over the main conference room, where most of D-Cumbre's governing element were concluding a day-long meeting.
In the explosion died Planetary Governor Wilth Haemer, and most of his staff; about half of the Rentiers on the Council, including Bampur and Loy Kouro's father, publisher of Matin; Godrevy Mellusin, Jasith's father; Police Major Gothian, head of Planetary Police's Policy and Analysis Division; and
Caud Jochim Williams, along with his aides and heads of II Section (Intelligence), III Section (Operations) and V Section (Civil Coordination).
———«»———«»———«»———
Jord'n Brooks watched the holo of central Leggett, the cauldron of destruction where Planetary Government had been for a brief moment, then slung his blaster, started out of the snack bar.
"There have been enough words," he said, "Now is the Time. Our time to kill them all." He smiled.
Chapter 35
The 'Raum boiled out of the Eckmuhl. Some were disciplined assault forces on their assigned Tasks. Others were looking for revenge or loot.
About two hundred trained warriors attacked the ruins of the PlanGov fortress, with orders to leave no officials alive, and destroy all PlanGov records, from police files to mining deeds to land documents.
The firefighters and medics swarming around the capitol didn't see the formation trotting up the winding avenue, but one man did.
Finf Running Bear, Caud Williams' driver/orderly, was crumpled inside his Cooke. The explosion had sent the vehicle tumbling across the avenue, flattening Running Bear on the floorboards, as he tried to keep from being thrown out and crushed. The Cooke came to rest halfway up a grassy bank, windscreen shattered. Stunned and bruised, Running Bear half sat, opened an eye, saw armed men and women running toward him, perhaps two hundred meters away. He vaguely identified them as 'Raum, and wondered why they were attacking him. He looked for Caud Williams for orders, saw no one.
He undipped the autocannon from its travel lock, swung it up into position. He opened a box of ammunition, fed the belt of dully gleaming shells into the breech, ratcheted the operating handle twice, as he'd been trained so long ago, chambering the first 20mm round. Running Bear turned the range-finding sight on, hit the RANGE sensor as the oncoming 'Raum closed, and touched the trigger between the twin handles. The gun chattered, and he swung it across the formation. The hand-long shells, intended to penetrate light armor, sliced through the crowd. Bodies spun, shattered, and blood sprayed.
Running Bear heard blaster bolts explode around him, paid no mind. He swept the 'Raum again, and again. Something—an almost-spent bolt—cut his side, and he saw blood, but he had no time for that. 'Raum were falling back, some running, others, braver or more disciplined, found firing positions behind debris or in the open. Running Bear corrected his aim, and in two- or three-round bursts, killed them as well.
The gun stopped firing, and Running Bear realized the two-hundred-round ammunition box was empty. Moving carefully, slowly, he took another box from the rear of the Cooke, opened it, and fed another belt into the cannon. Something was running in his eyes, and he wiped his sleeve across them, saw blood, but felt no pain. He saw a group of 'Raum on their feet, about to charge, cut them down, swung his aim to the other side of the road, blasted three 'Raum who thought an overturned lifter would be adequate cover.
The dullness was fading, as if he were waking, and he felt the slash across his scalp, the wound in his side, another one he hadn't noticed on his upper arm, but they didn't matter. He shouted, a long, ululating cry no one on D-Cumbre would have known, but might have been familiar to warriors a millennium earlier, on battlegrounds around Fort Phil Keamey, on the banks of the Rosebud River, at a place called Little Bighorn.
Again the gun clanked empty, and again he reloaded. He was aware there were other soldiers behind him, and he heard their guns firing. He looked for more 'Raum to kill, saw none. There were a few of them, running hard far down the avenue, then they, too, were gone, their attack shattered before it began. The street was carpeted with broken bodies, and the wounded groaned, screamed.
Finf Running Bear got out of the Cooke. Someone came up, but Running Bear looked at him, and he stood away. He did not need, would not allow, anyone to help him. Proudly, slowly, he walked up the avenue, to where a Grierson with a bright red cross waited.
———«»———«»———«»———
Loy Kouro stared blankly out of the screen at Mil Rao. "My father . . ." he said brokenly.
"Was killed with Governor Haemer," Mil Rao said patiently. "As was Caud Williams and most of the other officials of the Planetary Government. I have assumed command of the Strike Force, in the name of the Confederation, and have temporarily taken charge of Cumbre's government. I want my proclamation broadcast by Matin . . . you are now its publisher . . . and the other holos immediately."
"Yes," Kouro said. "That is good. My father would approve. Yes. I can do that."
Mil Rao broke contact, turned to Cent Angara. "Damfino if he understood. He's shocky."
"A lot of people are," Angara agreed. "Now, sir. What are your orders?"
Rao drew a deep breath, walked away from the knot of Command and Control Griersons backed up to each other just outside the Eckmuhl's main gates, ramps lowered.
"All right. I'm thinking out loud. Tell me when I miss something. First, is it legal for me to continue martial law without dealing with whoever survives from PlanGov?"
"I think so," Angara said. "But there's surely no one who'll argue. Not now."
"That's done, then. I'm bringing you up as Force XO. Put whatsisface, Hedley, in charge of II Section. Operations . . . I'll control that myself, appoint someone else when the smoke clears. Civil Coordination . . . we'll find somebody to give excuses and press conferences later, when we're through killing them." He spotted Hedley coming toward the command group with two soldiers. "Alt Hedley! Over here!" The three hurried over, and Rao told the alt of his promotion. "You'll be a cent, maybe a haut, I'll figure out what your rank should be later."
"Yessir."
"Who're these two?"
"Our agents inside the Eckmuhl. We just extracted them. Finf Jaansma, Striker Yoshitaro."
"Oh. Right. Well-done. You're both kicked up to dec, effective immediately." Rao put them out of his mind. "Now, let me collect myself. First thing, we'll withdraw First Regiment from the Eckmuhl. The 'Raum have broken out into Leggett in two places already. We'll have to pull back to Camp Mahan, regroup, and—"
"Sir! We can't do that!"
Rao stopped cold, stared at Garvin. "I beg your pardon, Dec?"
"I said, sir, begging your pardon, sir, we can't do that," Jaansma went on. Hedley, behind Rao, was motioning for him to shut the flipping hell up if he knew what was healthy, and Njangu was trying to look like he was somewhere else. "Sir, we spent time around that 'Raum named Brooks. He's the leader . .. or anyway as much of a leader as they have . . . of The Movement."
"I don't have time for this, soldier."
"I'm sorry, sir, but this is important. Sir, Striker, I mean Dec, Yoshitaro knows a great deal about the man. Don't you, Njangu? He knows what he'll do next."
"I'm listening," Rao said, in a dangerously cold voice. "I hope I'm not listening to the two shortest-lived decs in the history of the Force."
Njangu gave a hard look at Garvin, but they were for it now. "Yes, sir. His intelligence chief, a woman named Poynton, told me a lot. The way he handles a problem is to hit it hard. He leads from the front. But if something happens, if it doesn't go right, he'll break contact immediately. He thinks The Movement is more important than anything, and it must be preserved. If he loses today, there's got to be fighters for tomorrow or next year. Poynton told me he was the one who ordered the 'Raum out of the jungles into the cities, where it was easier to fight and hide."
"So what should I do?"Rao's voice was a little less cold. Hedley was suddenly very glad that Williams was gone, for he couldn't picture the late caud doing anything in this situation beyond ordering up a firing squad.
"Hit them where they're breaking out of the Eckmuhl, sir," Garvin said. "Hard enough so that you cannot just stop them, but wipe them out. Hit them hard enough, and you'll have Brooks, and maybe that'll break them for good. If the attack breaks, hit the stragglers, and that'll maybe finish this."
Rao nodded. "Thank you. Dec. Now, if you and your mate'll excuse us . .
."
Garvin saluted, and he and Njangu hastily backed away.
"Nice going," Njangu muttered. "Bigmouth."
"You wanted a chance to kill the bastard," Garvin said. "If we pull out, he'll go back into the frigging woodwork, and we'll have to start all over again going up and down those goddamned hills."
"Maybe you're right. So now what?"
"So now we go get Dill," Garvin said firmly, "then look up Petr, and go hunting."
"Oh joy," Njangu said. "Nothing like a nice, private little war in the middle of all this nutsiness."
———«»———«»———«»———
Mil Rao looked at the two rankers as they hurried away. "He made some sense. But we're spread very thin."
"Not necessarily," Angara said. "Second Regiment's in reserve. Dump them with First into the Eckmuhl. Get all those independent companies back, and that'll give you Fourth Regiment as reserve."
"What about the other cities? The 'Raum are hitting all over D-Cumbre . . . and the mining companies' police on C-Cumbre are about to break."
"If we lose Leggett," Angara said, "nothing else matters."
"You're right," Rao said. "And I've got to stop thinking like . . . like the way things were done before. You didn't mention Third Regiment."
"Third'll be the bastard," Angara said. "Grab all the MPs from the whole goddamned Force, and put them in the streets with PAs going, saying anybody . . . and this means anybody . . . who's on the streets and armed is a dead pigeon. Then dump in Third Regiment and make it so. Hammer the 'Raum back into the Eckmuhl, and kill any vigilantes the Rentiers put in, as well as any private looters."
"We'll have some innocent dead out of that."
"When it's all over, we'll make reparations and apologies, which is easy when nobody's shooting. Just like we're going to have to make sure somebody changes the way this goddamned planet's run, unless we want Son of The Movement coming back in five or ten years."
Rao thought for a moment. "You know," he said, "when you read about great battles and things, there always seems to be a single point that everything devolves from. Is this one of them? If it is, damned if I don't feel uncomfortable, having figured out a long time ago I don't fit into a star marshal's boots."