by James Axler
"Everybody who can see, back on the wall!" Kissel shouted, dumping his spent cartridges and reloading frantically. "I want every rocket we've got launched right now! Do you hear me? Now!"
Less than a dozen sec men stumbled up the ladders to the catwalk. Many more stayed where they were, wandering aimlessly or sitting in the dirt, clawing at their dead eyes. Then there was a deafening crash and the burning gate exploded off its hinges.
The horse beneath Kissel went wild with fear at the sight of the machine, rearing wildly. The sergeant struggled to maintain his seat in the saddle, but tumbled off, almost getting trampled under the slashing hooves.
Cursing bitterly, Kissel stumbled away and drew his revolver, then from out of the smoke the Beast was upon him, towering over the sec man like a metal building. Its laser traversed to the left, pulsed once, and a catapult burst into flames, while it continued to roll toward Kissel, crushing the bodies of guards under armored treads.
Screaming in terror, Kissel threw away his blaster. "I surrender! I surrender!" he whimpered, raising both hands. "Don't kill me!"
The Beast loomed before the shaking man, its cannon swinging to point at him directly. Openly weeping, Kissel braced himself for death, and the machine rumbled off, leaving him unharmed amid the wreckage and carnage of the defeated troops. "I'm alive. I'm alive," he whispered in shock. Then shouted. "It doesn't kill if you surrender!"
But there was nobody alive to hear the news. The catwalk was lined with smoking bodies, and most of the blind had long ago crawled away out of earshot.
A sudden crushing shame for his act of cowardice hit the sec man, icy fear knifing into his stomach almost making him retch. But nobody had seen, nobody had heard. Grabbing weapons off the ground, Kissel reclaimed his horse and galloped out the smashed gate of the fiery palisade, heading for the distant mountains.
SMASHING ASIDE a split-rail fence, the Ranger rolled into the marketplace of the civilian town. Single-story cabins of scrap wood and tar paper lined both sides of the common. Produce was strewn about and carts overturned. The area had been vacated in a hurry, yet every cabin door was closed, a most singular incongruity. The Ranger slowed, wary of a trap.
Across the market, a corporal stepped into view from behind a water barrel, drew a Yen pistol from his belt and put a single round into the air. He died a microsecond later, the charred corpse reduced to little more than ashes with boots. But the Ranger slowed, knowing something was about to happen.
Then the front of the cottages violently disintegrated as fifty muzzle-loading cannons fired in unison. The barrage of iron slammed into the tank, rocking it back and forth, as waves of gray smoke flooded over the market. Inside, relays cracked and the repair drones bustled to fix burgeoning short circuits. Bright orange tongues of flame stabbed into the murky smoke as a second volley hammered the tank, and it tipped over, exposing its belly. Unsure of what to do, the Ranger fired the laser randomly, but unable to traverse, it could only hit the earth and sky, not the enemy to the sides. Hydraulic systems began to leak thin red fluid on control boards, and the drones rushed to fix potentially dangerous leaks.
The sec men in the ruined cottages redoubled their efforts to load the cannons, swabbing inside the hot barrels with damp rags to kill any lingering sparks before pouring in fresh bags of black powder.
The main computer of the Ranger considered a million options and chose a direct tactic. All auxiliary power surged to the gyroscopes, increasing the revolutions to the maximum and then beyond. The rocking of the craft stopped altogether, and in majestic slow motion, the Ranger righted itself, the treads slamming onto the ground. Now the cannon swung to attack.
Dropping their wet nimrods, the armed sec men tried to flee from the cottages and failed.
ON THE EASTERN SIDE of the ville, a platoon of sec men hurried along a dank alleyway, struggling to carry a bulky, canvas-wrapped object approximately the size of a small car.
Calling for a halt, the sergeant advanced to the stone wall and began to run his hands over the rough surface as if fondling a lover. There was a click.
"This is it!" he announced, as a section of the wall disengaged and swung aside to reveal a large tunnel. "Everybody in!"
The platoon scurried inside as quickly as possible, the last man pausing at the entrance with blaster in hand, making sure no slaves saw their departure through the wall.
"What is this?" asked the corporal as the secret door closed with an echoing boom.
"Private escape route for the ward," the sergeant said, raising the lantern higher to spread out the light "Built generations ago in case of a slave rebellion."
The corporal glanced around them. "This is big enough for the Beast to move through!"
"That's why we're going to trap it outside the wall," the sergeant replied. "Just in case it can find the passage."
Emerging out the other side, the guards found a horse stable, a blacksmith shop, a gaudy house and dozens of the usual slave cottages. But no people; the area was deserted.
"We'll set up in the brothel," the sergeant directed, starting across the muddy street, his boots squishing in the filthy muck.
A layer of gravel lay scattered around the gaudy house, rendering the ground more solid and less prone to make drunken customers slip and soil their uniforms. A single kick from a private rendered the front door passable, and the platoon swarmed inside. The main room was filled with patched couches and a bar made from stained planks laid across several hogshead barrels. Clearly, the establishment had been vacated recently, as a spilled beer still dripped onto the sawdust-covered floor.
"Move these couches," the sergeant ordered. "We'll set up here."
An area was cleared in front of the broken door, and the canvas-covered object was set down with grunts of relief. In practiced movements, the platoon busied itself unwrapping the thing. The massive autofire weapon consisted of a cylindrical firing chamber, the eight 20 mm barrels joined in a circle, a top-loading ammunition box and a squat motor, supported by a heavy tripod. It was the pride of the ville, a Vulcan minigun salvaged from the back of a predark military wag the lady ward had found outside the yule. In the light of the oil lamps, the predark superweapon gleamed like polished death.
"Bring some wine barrels from the cellar," the sergeant ordered. "They'll help hide us."
Then he turned. "You there, take cover behind the bar. Be ready to give protective fire in case of a mishap."
The man with the RPG launcher slung over his shoulder saluted and moved with due haste. Two more guards carrying the huge rounds for the weapon followed closely.
Kneeling, the sergeant assisted the corporal with attaching the wide ammunition belt. The dull gray cartridges for the Vulcan were thicker than a cigar, and weighed considerably more than lead or steel.
"What are these made of, sir?" a guard asked, jockeying the belt feed into position.
"Don't know. But the heirs say it will punch through the armor of the Beast like it was flesh," he said, watching the work in progress. "Here now! Tighten that bolt, or the first round through will be our last!"
The top hatch was closed and locked in place, the firing bolt thrown and the safety unlatched. Dangling wires were carefully attached to a collection of car batteries, and a light glowed green on a small panel.
"Armed and loaded, sir," the corporal reported crisply. "What is the plan of attack, sir?"
"We wait here until it goes into the tunnel," the sergeant said, lighting a cigar.
"Begging your pardon, sir," the corporal said hesitantly, "but is that wise? Wait until it is past us? Why not fire broadside? It's an easier target."
"You're a fool. Tank armor is thinnest in the back. That's our best chance to blow it to hell, when it's moving away from us."
"So, now we wait?" the corporal asked.
"Hate waiting," the man grumbled.
The sergeant blew a smoke ring at the open doorway. "Trust me, you'd hate dying a lot more."
IN THE WESTERN courtyar
d, a sergeant slashed with his sword, cutting loose a team of mules from a gunnery carriage. Working like slaves, the guards struggled to position the antique muzzle loader on the cobblestone courtyard before the huge iron gate. Mostly salvaged from museums and parade grounds, the predark weapons had each been painstakingly rebuilt to function fully and had slain many bikers and muties over the years. There were already forty assorted cannon placed in a broad semicircle in the courtyard, teams of frantic gunners preparing for the battle.
More and more wags constantly arrived, carrying shot and powder. When unloaded, the wags were rolled into position and toppled onto their sides in front of the cannons to hide them from direct sight, hopefully fooling the Beast for a few precious seconds until the fuses could be lit. Along the rooftops of buildings, in every window and doorway, swarms of guards with long blasters were ready to give cover fire and confuse the tank with multiple targets.
"In position and loaded, sir," a corporal announced, sweat pouring off the man in spite of the chill night air.
"Good. Wait for my command," the lieutenant replied, slamming a clip into his rebuilt AK-47. "And shoot any man you even think is lighting a fuse early."
"Sir?"
"We only get one chance at this," the sec man stated grimly. "One chance. We stop the Beast here or die trying."
JOSTLING THROUGH the plowed farmlands surrounding the odd stone fortress, the Ranger was apprehensive that nobody had attacked while it was crossing the open fields. Logic dictated only two possibilities: the defenders of the enemy had fled, or much more likely, they were gathering their forces for an ambush.
There was no sign of a gate or door in the tall granite wall, but that was to be expected. Any openings would be on the other side of the stout barrier, where an invader would have to pass more traps and weapons before reaching the portal. And this wall would be much more trouble than the wooden fence.
The layers of granite blocks forming the six-yard-tall barrier were so dense that its sensors couldn't properly register the thickness. The Ranger guessed at a thickness of six feet, but it could be a lot more. And while its polycyclic pulse cannon could blast its way through anything given enough time, it would be at a cost of mobility and power unwise to expend at the present moment. Although its attackers were using primitive weapons, the tank had already sustained minor damage, and it would be unwise to risk further disablement that could jeopardize the mission. General order 1471/82: Unless the proper authorization codes were issued, anyone or anything attacking or escaping from the redoubt was to be terminated with extreme prejudice at all cost. There was no other option for the robotic Ranger. It would pursue the invaders forever.
The radio signal from the wheeled tank it was pursuing was still coming from ground level, roughly in the middle of the approaching compound. Since there was no obvious superior choice of direction, the Ranger arbitrarily headed to the left and began circling, searching for the entrance, pausing only for a moment to pulse its laser at the top of then tallest tower to remove any possible sentries or video cameras from observing its progress.
A SCREAMING MAN on fire plummeted past the window of the Citadel, distracting the heirs from their work for only an instant. Glancing into the courtyard, Amanda noted the guards scurrying about, dragging a single massive cannon in front of the Citadel.
Everywhere else, slaves were running amok, dashing back and forth, carrying bundles of worthless possessions or their wretched children, totally out of control. For a split instant, the lady ward thought she saw Ryan in the crowd, but then he was gone. She stepped away and closed the shutters. She bad to have been mistaken.
"And you said the cannons had no effect?" Amanda demanded, returning to the conversation.
Standing by the map-covered table, McGregory spread his arms. "None that we could see, my lady. There might have been internal damage, but there's no way for us to know."
"How far away is it?" Richard asked.
"About ten minutes."
"Dearest brother," Amanda began sweetly, "I suggest we use the rest of the bazookas and LAWs, including those from the outlanders' vehicle."
He questioned her. "Take the missiles from the launch pods also?"
"No. Those can't be fired by hand. Just the light antitank weapons, and those fiery things."
"The HAFLAs," he said explained curtly.
She smiled, knowing how much he enjoyed correcting other people. "Those are the things. The HAFLAs."
"Granted," Richard said. "Captain, have sec men get them from the armory. Not slaves, mind you, guards. The ones you most trust. And you are in charge of the matter."
McGregory smiled in relief. "At once, my lord!
Certainly!" He hurried from the room, the attending slaves parting before him as if he carried disease.
"And perhaps we should prepare the outlander tank for our departure," Amanda added, moving closer to her sibling.
Bending over the table, Richard partially turned. "Leave our ancestral home?"
"Prepare to leave, darling," she corrected, lightly resting a warm hand on his bare arm. "Purely as a precaution."
"Never!" he spit, shaking her off. "I'd rather die than betray our beloved father."
Amanda took a stance. "And what if the slaves use this opportunity to start a rebellion?"
He went back to studying the table. "The guards will slaughter them."
"While fighting the Beast at the same time?"
Richard moved more cannon to the front gates. "Then we'll use the gas."
"Of course. But later on-"
"Not later, now. Right now."
She blanched. "What?"
"I will immediately release the sleep gas outside the stone wall," he stated. "The slaves outside will fall asleep, but that doesn't matter. They won't be assisting in the defense of the ville anyway."
"Their bodies will line the roads," she said, thinking aloud. "Perhaps slow the advance of the Beast. Legend says it won't kill if you surrender. This could work.... No, it won't. Have you forgotten the guards with the Vulcan? If they fall asleep, they can't operate the gun!"
"I gave them the antidote," Richard said, shifting the position of an oversized brass cartridge outside the eastern section of the stone wall.
"Before this trouble began?"
"Yes. Anticipation is the cornerstone of victory."
Amanda watched her brother for a long time before speaking. "Most wise," she purred, pressing her soft body against him. "Father would be proud."
Richard moved another piece inside the Citadel and smiled briefly. "How nice of you to say so, my sweet sister."
STAYING IN THE SHADOWS of a tack shop, Ryan and the companions watched the growing bedlam on the streets of Novaville, waiting for an opportunity to move unnoticed. But it wasn't forthcoming. Slaves dashed about in every conceivable stage of dress.
People were screaming. A glass window was smashed. Far off, a cannon boomed and a bell started to clang. A coal oil lantern was smashed, setting a cottage on fire. At the smell of the smoke, horses stampeded from a corral. A group of rushing sec men turned a corner, and a gang of prisoners in chains jumped them, using the iron links to strangle the guards to death. Fistfights were everywhere, blasters spoke constantly and a weeping woman with a bullwhip was lashing at anybody near her.
Crouched under a window, Ryan frowned at the madness. "This is getting worse," he observed. "Not slowing down."
"Good," Jak drawled, peeking out the door crack. "Hides us from heirs."
"Unless a random slug blows off your head," Krysty pointed out. "But Ryan's right. This has become a full-blown rebellion, not just a simple uprising."
"Lisa and her people must be doing their job,"
Mildred said, pouring some water from a canteen into her hand and then rubbing it on Shard's face. "Whoever the invaders are, they must be giving the sec men a hard fight."
"D-death to the heirs..." Shard whispered, sitting limply in a wooden chair.
"The ward won't
allow this to go on much longer," Ryan said, pulling the vial from his pocket.
He thumbed off the stopper and took a sip of the milky fluid. It tasted sweet at first, then burned its way down his throat like undercooked moonshine whiskey. Trying not to gag, he passed it around and everybody forced themselves to take a sip.
"Ghastly," Doc rumbled. The last in line, he tossed away the empty vial. "If that does not kill us, nothing will."
"Agreed," Ryan scowled, scouring his mouth with his tongue. He wanted to hawk and spit so bad it was an ache within him, but he knew better than to waste a single drop of the sleep gas antidote. "So let's move. And leave the crossbows here. We don't need silence anymore."
Krysty, Dean and Mildred divested themselves of the cumbersome weapons along with the quivers of arrows. Then, pushing open the door with the barrel of his Steyr, Ryan took the point. The rest followed him into the street, Doc with Shard in his arms, J.B. and Mildred giving them protective cover, At the sight of the weapons, dashing slaves arched around them, some reversing course and running away in the other direction.
Then a ragged man charged into view carrying a melted rifle in a blistered hand. "The Beast is here!" he shouted, waving the steaming blaster stub. "It's at the wall! Run for your lives! The Beast is here!"
Ryan stared hostilely at the blind guard as he stumbled off into the chaotic throng.
"He said 'the Beast,'" Dean said hesitantly. "Could it be?"
Her hair tightly curled, Krysty nodded dumbly.
"Impossible," Mildred stated. "After we dropped a building on it? It must be another tank."
"Let's not stick around and find out," Ryan said, grimacing. "Double time, people. Shard, which way?"
The wounded man pointed. In a two-on-two cover formation, the companions moved through the melee, avoiding conflict with the slaves whenever possible, and chilling any sec men who came their way. Soon the stink of a dog kennel filled their nostrils, and Shard directed them to the right, past a beheading block, and then to the left.