Ice, Iron and Gold

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Ice, Iron and Gold Page 28

by S. M. Stirling


  "We needn't stand on the wall while they're shooting," Pasqua said. "I'd stake my life on it that they won't come down here until the Bolo's out of commission."

  He turned to look at her. Her eyes slid away from her reflection on his faceplate's opaque surface.

  "Good suggestion," he said. "Unit push. Stand down from the wall. They probably won't charge until and unless the Bolo's destroyed. No sense in risking our necks for nothing. Fall back to the first row of houses, take shelter in the basements. Avoid the ones between the gun and the Bolo; I think we can assume they'll be casualties."

  James held his position and Pasqua stayed beside him as she'd promised Paulo.

  "If I can't be there you have to be," he'd insisted fiercely. He'd met her just outside the women's tent in the blue-gray light just before dawn. "Dad's making me stay here," Paulo muttered resentfully. "He needs someone to watch his back." He'd glared at her then, dark eyes glittering with unshed tears, silently demanding her word.

  "I'll do it," she'd said simply, and he'd nodded once and walked away.

  "It isn't necessary for you to stay," James said quietly.

  "I want to see."

  They turned and trotted back, through the vegetable gardens and the flowers, into the courtyard of a building and down into the cellar. Above was a distillery; the fruity-sugar smell of rum was strong from the wooden vats behind them. As one, they stepped up to a shelf that gave them a view through the narrow ground-level windows.

  After that they were silent. Their bodies tense as drawn wire, the mounting horror of the giant gun being brought into position bearing down on them like a physical weight.

  "Tops, how's it going?" James asked suddenly, breaking the long silence.

  Tops paused; they could hear a rasping sound as he raised his visor and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  "I've got the infinite repeater ports clear," he reported. "The Bolo says it can use 'em. But," he paused and licked dry lips, "it can't turn and it can't walk. And you'll have noticed, sir, that bastard's comin' up from behind."

  "Thanks, Tops. Martins out." James turned back towards the ridge and found himself staring into the barrel of the railgun. "Shit!" he snarled, and grabbing Pasqua around the waist, dove from the wall just before it disintegrated.

  The impact of the blast knocked the breath from their bodies and carried them for yards, before the giant, invisible fist that had smacked into them allowed them to fall. Dirt and fragments of wood pummeled them where they lay, writhing as their stunned lungs refused to take in air. Beams sagged into the cellar as the endless rumble of falling stone from above avalanched down.

  At last, with a painful spasm, James was able to draw breath, only to cough uncontrollably as he inhaled the dust that was still settling around them. Pasqua gasped and began hacking a moment later.

  "Tops," James croaked, "what's happening?"

  "Oh, thank God," Tops said. "I thought you were dead for sure, sir. They're dancing around and slapping themselves on the head up there, yellin' and singin' from the sound of it."

  The buzzing in James' ears was fading and he could indeed hear, very faintly, what sounded like singing.

  "It would be really nice if Markee could return the favor," James prompted.

  "Workin' on it, Captain."

  Yeah, workin' on it, Tops thought as he and his crew hammered desperately at rock that had flowed deeply into the Bolo's crevices, freezing it in its current position. Why didn't we do something about this before?

  He knew the answer, of course. They didn't want to admit that a day like this would come. I'm as spoiled as any of the kids who were born here, he castigated himself. Only I don't have an excuse, because I knew better than to believe we were safe.

  Somewhere behind him a house rose like a flock of startled birds, broke apart in midair and fell into a pile of rubble. The shockwave smacked his ears painfully and he felt the heat of the blast on his skin, though the explosion was a quarter of a mile behind him.

  He hammered, they all hammered and prayed that they'd free the Beast in time.

  Seven-Deer's joy was like a swelling sun in his chest. He grinned as the wall blew apart and the first row of houses disintegrated. Fire began to spread from the demolished buildings and he was certain that they had killed at least two of the defenders.

  Tezcatlipoca, he prayed, such sacrifices I shall give you! The ground will flow with a river of blood, all offered for your pleasure.

  Carefully he aligned the red dot on the next row of targets, the last row of buildings between the gun and Mountain that Walks.

  "Soon," he crooned softly. "Soon you will die, monster."

  James levered a beam aside. They both stuck their heads through, coughing at the thick smoke that was beginning to spread. He stared up the slope, through the ruins of his town at the gun that was tearing his world apart. He looked at Pasqua, prepared to hate her, only to find a pitifully shaken woman. Her green eyes were wide with shock and horror, pale lips trembling.

  "I swear to God," she said, "I will never sell another gun as long as I live."

  "Better late than never," he muttered. The ground quaked as another shot hit home. Anything solid enough to slow the ultradense material of the penetrator caused it to give up every erg of energy it possessed . . . and at those speeds, the kinetic force involved was huge. More buildings fell. The dust and smoke made it as hard to see as it was to breathe, but James knew that the Bolo was now fully exposed to Seven-Deer's gun.

  There seemed to be a long breathless pause. No sound of triumph came from the ridge. Only the clatter of settling rubble or the sound of flames taking root in the houses around them was to be heard in the town.

  Pasqua found James' hands with her own and he clasped them, pressing them to his chest as they watched the distant figures on the hill. They were fanning out, shaking themselves out into combat formations and coming down.

  Seven-Deer didn't seem to think there would be much resistance. James wished he didn't agree.

  "Sergeant," the Bolo said in its incongruously sweet voice. "You and the rest of the crew should seek shelter now. The enemy is targeting this unit."

  Tops glanced behind him and froze. All that stood between him and the tank killer was an impenetrable cloud of dust.

  He stood and shouted. "Everybody off the Bolo, get to cover!" Then he leaped himself, wincing at the pain in his ankles and knees as he struck the paving stones. Long time since he'd done that. It didn't stop him running as fast as he could; men and women dropped their tools and scrambled down the sides of the tank, moving with desperate speed around him.

  A bolt pierced the drifting cloud of smoke and dirt. Far too fast to see, but the incandescent track it drilled through air and dust was solid as a bar for an instant, burning a streak across his retinas.

  A flash like a dozen bolts of lightning burned through his closed eyelids and upraised hand. Heat slapped at his face, as the hypervelocity shot liberated all its energy. A plasma bloom of vaporized uranium and durachrome washed halfway across the plaza, burning everything it touched to ash. A hundred and fifty tons of war-machine rocked with the blow, surging backward on maglev suspension, wheeling in a three-quarter circle as the off-center impact torqued against the enormous weight of the Bolo. Lava stone fell from her sides like rain and clouds of electric sparks burst from her.

  Tops rolled to a halt in the shadow of a house and turned to watch, sick with dread.

  But the Bolo was not shattered. A disk twelve feet broad on its surface was clean, polished as if by a generation of sandblasters to a mirror finish. The rest of it looked different too; it took a moment for his blast-stunned mind to grasp why.

  Pasqua leveled her M-35 and stroked the trigger. Braaaap. The 4mm slugs whipped away downrange. A Jaguar Knight tumbled; perhaps her fire, perhaps someone else. She spat aside to clear her mouth of some of the gritty dust and blinked at the rubble and smoke before her.

  "It's been good to know you!" she shouted over
the noise.

  James nodded without looking around. Mortar shells began dropping on the rubble at the edge of Cacaxtla; the Knights had their heavy weapons in operation.

  Move, baby, Tops thought. Move!

  He held his breath and watched the huge machine. Under the impact of the railgun shot the whole surface of the durachrome armor had flexed. The lava that had covered it was gone, blasted away in molecular dust, coating the plaza stones for hundreds of yards in all directions.

  But there were also electrical fires on the Bolo's surface, and the bright dished spot in the armor glowed, the heat cycling down from white towards a sullen red.

  Move, he thought as despair washed over him, along with the conviction that the Bolo was dead.

  "Markee!" he shouted. And waited. No answer.

  But in the silence the sound of shouting men grew, and he didn't need the captain's voice to tell him what was happening.

  "They're coming!"

  The Jaguar Knights pounded down the hill, literally screaming for blood. James Martins fired again and again, but he could feel the small hairs along his spine lifting at the sound of their gleeful shrieks.

  Pasqua envied him his preoccupation, as he snapped out orders and offered encouragement. She could only kneel, dry-mouthed, clutching her M-35 and watching death come bellowing down the hill after her.

  "All right, aim and shoot, aim and shoot, people," James said. I wonder how many of us will be able to aim today. They'd all been hunting, most were pretty good shots, but they hadn't been firing on men. Or under the stress of attack, with our houses burning behind us.

  "Damn," he said.

  "What?" Pasqua said.

  James tapped the side of his helmet. "They're not just charging in. Mortar teams moving forward, and they're swinging around to flank us. We've only got about twenty assault rifles, and not all that much ammunition. They've got two hundred. The rest of us . . ."

  Not far off, a Cacaxtlan raised her rifle and fired over a hill of rubble. Gray-white smoke jetted out, marking her position; she rolled down the rubble as bullets spanged and sparked off the spot she'd been occupying, struggling with the lever of her weapon. It gave, and a brass cartridge popped out. She fumbled another free of the bandolier across her chest, and thumbed it home into the breech. Another smack of the lever closed it, and she began to crawl toward another pile of broken stone.

  "We don't have the firepower to stop them. Down!"

  He caught Pasqua and flattened himself. A mortar landed not ten yards away, and fragments whined viciously about them. Their strained faces were inches apart, and James opened his mouth to speak.

  An earsplitting scream of tortured metal stopped the words. Something made the earth shake beneath them, an endless droning, creaking rumble. Time slowed. Pitching and swaying with the uneven stress of advancing on three treads, the Bolo surged forward to fill the gap in the center of the villagers' line. Rock crackled beneath it, louder than gunshots; rock crunched and bled out of its road wheels.

  Many of the villagers screamed at the sounds and spun 'round with their M-35s leveled at the Bolo, only to start laughing as the Bolo swept towards them, moving to fill the gap in the gate.

  Seven-Deer screamed hatred as the Bolo moved across the holographic sight-image.

  "I killed you!" he shouted. "I will kill you again, and again!"

  His hands gripped the control yoke. His thumbs stabbed down on the firing button.

  Status: weapons 27%, sensors 38%. Severe degradation of function due to kinetic-energy round impact. Power reserves 64%. Forward sensors at 3% optimum. 51% of drive units inoperable due to surge overload. Main data processors secure. Infinite repeaters nominal. Main armament nominal.

  Mission priorities: fire support to Cacaxtla forces defending position; as per, orders, Martins, Lieutenant Bethany, 01/07/2040.

  Threat envelope: enemy infantry, small arms.

  enemy infantry, mortars.

  enemy antitank gun, towed, manned.

  :[decision tree]—priority. Query.

  Query: continue fire support mission/interrupt.

  :[decision tree]—maintain unit integrity/vital assigned mission parameters.

  Priority: threats to unit integrity. Threat is antitank gun.

  distance/bearing/wind factors/weapons selection/ status

  :[decision tree]—main gun.

  Bearing. Fire as you bear.

  Fire.

  Enemy damage assessment.

  :[decision tree]: resume fire support mission.

  The process had taken quite a long time; Unit #27A22245, Mk III, was in grossly suboptimal condition. Fully 1.27 seconds elapsed before the coils energizing the Bolo's main gun activated.

  James and Pasqua stood, the muzzles of their rifles drooping earthward as they watched the fireball climbing into the sky as Seven-Deer met the Sun. The flash made their eyes wince and water, but they could already see that nothing remained of the railgun—nothing remained of the ridge, either; there was a great big semicircle taken out of it, like a bite. The muzzle of the Bolo's long main cannon throbbed blue-white, a deep humming through the air as it cooled.

  For a moment silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the crackling flames and the screams of wounded humans. Then another tortured squeal of metal came as the Bolo lurched forward. Fire stabbed out from it, and the next flight of mortar bombs exploded in midair. The infinite repeaters sounded again and again; smaller globes of fire marked the sites where the mortars had been. Again, and Jaguar Knights exploded into mists of fractionated bone and blood. They threw down their weapons and fled, screaming as loud in terror as they had in bloodlust. Again . . .

  James ran forward. "Cease fire!" he shouted. "Cease fire!"

  The low sweet voice of the war-machine sounded in his ears. "Mission priority is to protect the valley from exterior aggressors, Captain," it said. Men died. "Are my mission parameters to be changed?"

  "No! But let them surrender—that's an order, Markee!"

  "Yes, Captain."

  A voice spoke, louder than a god; James threw his hands to his ears in reflex, shouting with pain even though the cone of sound was directed up the slope. The Voice blasted again, in the guttural choppy sounds of Nahuatl. Then in Spanish, and English.

  "THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND PLACE YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR NECKS. SURRENDER AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. RESISTANCE IS DEATH. THROW DOWN—"

  A Jaguar Knight raised his M-35. For an instant a bar of light seemed to connect him to the Bolo, and then his body splashed away from the contact. All except for his legs; those fell outward, one to the left and one to the right.

  The Knight beside him bent and laid his rifle on the ground.

  "God," James murmured. He looked around at the town, at the charnel house spread out on the slopes above it. "God."

  "Which one?" Pasqua said, coming up beside him.

  James found Pasqua watching the celebrations from the shadow of a neighbor's wall. She looked different in a flounced skirt and bodice . . . He handed her a beer and took his place beside her.

  "You don't dance?" he said.

  She shrugged.

  "Are you staying?" he asked, watching the dancers whirl and clap their hands, sweat glistening on happy faces.

  Her brows went up and she turned to look at him.

  "Would I be welcome?"

  James grimaced slightly. "I'm the only one who knows everything and I'd say you'd balanced things out over the last week."

  Tell that to Gary, she thought.

  "Yeah," he continued, "you'd be welcome. I . . . you'd be welcome, sure."

  Beside him she inhaled deeply and straightened. Oh, God, he thought. What's coming now? That was the way she'd looked at the last confession.

  "I think you should know that my name is Giacano," she said.

  "Instead of Pasqua?"

  "I'm Pasqua Giacano," she snarled.

  She obviously expects a comment on that, he thought.

  "I li
ke it. It's very musical."

  She gaped at him. Then a slow smile took possession of her face, one that she couldn't have suppressed to save herself from torture.

  Musical! My relatives started out as extortionists, pimps, and murderers. They moved up to slaving and grand-scale tyranny; and this guy thinks my name is musical? She could have hugged him. I could be my own person here! No vile expectations, no fearful gasps of recognition. I won't have to be ashamed of not making my bones.

  "If I can stay, I'd like to," she said in a choked voice. "I think I'd like it here."

  James shifted into a more comfortable position against the wall and sipped his beer.

  "Oh, you will," he assured her confidently. "Hey, let's go punish the buffet—the carne advodada is to die for."

  Tops settled himself on an outcropping in the Bolo's side, a beer in his hand and a smile on his face. In the distance the villagers danced and sang around bonfires in the plaza.

  "You did good, Markee," he said.

  "Actually, Sergeant Jenkins, I have been derelict in my duty."

  He looked up at the Bolo towering over him, his eyebrows raised.

  "That's a little harsh for a Bolo that just saved all our asses," he observed.

  James and Pasqua passed near him, heading for the buffet with their heads together. Tops smiled and eased the splint around his broken arm more comfortably in the sling. There was something a little strange about Pasqua Giacano . . . but then, you could say that about all of them.

  "I'd say you did pretty good," he went on, patting the durachrome beneath him.

  "Lieutenant Bethany Martins ordered me to defend the valley from external aggression," it said. "But when the invasion came I was virtually unable to defend myself. I should have recognized my diminished capacity and asked that something be done about it."

  "We could have seen it for ourselves, honey."

  What the hell, why not surrender to it, this tank's a she.

 

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