Maxwell Saga 5: Stoke the Flames Higher

by Peter Grant

  “I get it,” the diplomat called. He headed for the back of the group as Steve whirled and ran for its head.

  The soldiers fired point-blank into the mob as the trucks passed in front of the would-be looters, their rifles making a ragged, uneven, stuttering rattle. Bodies fell to the ground like wheat before a scythe. The roar of the mob rose to a screaming howl as it scattered, diving for any cover its members could find. As soon as the trucks had passed, dozens, then scores, then hundreds of people began to rush across the road towards the shopping center, trampling their own casualties in their heedless greed.

  As the trucks moved past the mob and drew closer to Steve and his party, the rising whine of their power plants became audible over the background noise. Steve had time to heave a sigh of relief that they’d gotten off the road before the transporters reached them. Based on what they’d already done, the soldiers would almost certainly have riddled the taxi and its occupants with bullets, then shoved it out of the way with their much heavier vehicles.

  He shouted aloud, “Here they come! Get down!” Everyone ducked even lower. He noticed a flicker of movement in the shop front behind them as they did so, and glanced at it. To his horror, he suddenly realized that the storefront was not covered by shutters, like so many others they’d passed. Its glass window was still exposed – and it reflected the group of diplomats as they crouched behind the nearest vehicles, right in front of it. If the soldiers saw that…

  He half-turned to look at the first truck as it drew level with them. The NCO in command of the vehicle, sitting with his soldiers on top of the loot in the load bed, was looking around, alert for trouble. He glanced at the storefront, looked away – then whipped his head back to stare at the reflection, before snapping his rifle to his shoulder and squeezing off a burst of full-auto fire. He aimed high, obviously intending to force the people he could see crouched behind the vehicles to stay low, so they couldn’t throw anything. His fire swept across the store window, spraying shattered glass in all directions. More soldiers opened fire as well, spacing their shots along the row of small shops. The diplomats screamed and cried aloud in fear as they were peppered with debris.

  “Don’t move! Stay down!” Steve yelled, trying to press himself even more tightly against the vehicle providing him with cover; but the diplomats and Lieutenant Chetty’s parents weren’t trained military personnel. They didn’t know how to maintain discipline under fire, and in their panic, some tried to stand. Others rose to their knees, preparing to run.

  “No! Get down!” Steve heard Peter Gallegros call from the other side of the group. The former Marine half-rose and grabbed Sarah Brightwaters as she lunged upright, forcing her back down to the ground – then he staggered, shouting in pain as a bead fired by a soldier hit him high on his left shoulder. A spray of bright red blood erupted from the outer part of his arm as the projectile tore through flesh and muscle.

  “Get down, Peter!” Steve yelled, half-rising to help him if necessary. He glanced at the second truck as it roared past. A soldier in the back half-rose from where he was sitting. Swaying with the motion of the vehicle, he plucked something from his battledress, holding it in his right hand while he pulled at it with his left. Steve realized instantly that it must be a hand grenade. He snapped his pistol into alignment, got a flash sight picture and squeezed the firing button. The weapon recoiled in his hand as its electromagnetic firing mechanism spat out a metal bead at hypersonic velocity, breaking the sound barrier with a sharp crack!

  The soldier spun around as the bead struck him, falling out of the load bed and onto the road – but he had already thrown his grenade. It soared across the serried ranks of vehicles, bounced off the wood frame surrounding the shattered storefront window, and dropped to the sidewalk, rolling to within a meter of Marisela Bonaventura and less than twice that far from Solveig Soldahl.

  As it fell, Steve tried to twist around to bat it away, but he’d been aiming into the street, his body pointing in the opposite direction. He lost his balance as he half-stood and half-turned, and had to clutch at the nearest vehicle to stay on his feet. Before he could steady himself, Peter Gallegros, heedless of his injury, launched himself in a flying leap from the other side of the group. He scooped up the grenade in his right hand as he threw an anguished look at Steve, then dropped to the sidewalk and doubled over, his body enfolding the grenade, his back to the diplomats.

  “Peter!” Steve screamed, but it was too late. The grenade exploded with a barely muffled bang. Several shards of shrapnel ripped all the way through the diplomat’s body, erupting through his clothes in bloody spurts. He jerked in a spasm of agony, then all his muscles went limp.

  Steve threw himself at him, heedless of the last shots from the trucks as they sped away, and the screams of the diplomats. Gently, almost tenderly, he lifted Peter’s head in his hands and tried to pull his contorted body straight… only to stop as blood gushed in rivulets from his torn, ripped torso. His right hand and stomach had been blown apart by the grenade. His face bore an astonished expression, his eyes frozen wide in death, almost as if he’d been caught in some final, unpardonable indiscretion.

  Steve held Peter’s head for a long moment as he stared down at him. He hadn’t had time to get to know the diplomat well, but he’d just proved himself a true brother in arms in the toughest, most brutal test of all. He’d died for his comrades.

  Steve blinked back sudden moisture as he laid Peter’s head down on the pavement once more, then bent and kissed his forehead, not thinking or caring about the eyes of the others that were fixed on him. “Thanks, buddy,” he murmured softly. “If I’m spared, I’ll make sure you’re remembered for this. God rest you.”

  He raised his head. The others were frozen in place, their faces aghast, staring at the dead man. “All right,” he said, his voice tired and old even in his own ears. “Peter died to save us. Let’s not waste his sacrifice. Were any of you hurt by flying glass?” Several of them showed him cuts and scrapes, but he shook his head. “Those are minor. We’ll treat them later. Get back aboard the taxi, and let’s get out of here before any more soldiers arrive.” Nobody moved, and his voice rose to an exasperated rasp. “I said move, damn you! Get going! Lieutenant Chetty, get them moving!”

  “Yessir!” The Devakai officer shook himself, as if coming out of a deep coma, and stood. “Come on! Come on!” He began hauling people to their feet and thrusting them towards the taxi.

  Steve reached for the dead man’s left hand. “I can’t take you with us,” he said softly, as if the former Marine could still hear him. “There’s no room to lay you out in the taxi, and even if there was, these people couldn’t handle the sight and smell of all that blood. I’ll take your signet ring, and give it to your family if we make it out of here. That’s the best I can do. I… I’m sorry.” He slipped the ring off Peter’s finger, and dropped it into his pocket as he stood. He’d known him only slightly, for just a couple of weeks, but he knew he’d never forget him. “If Abha and I have another son, we’ll name him for you, and raise him to be proud of his namesake. That’s a promise.”

  Looking up, he saw Solveig standing near him, still recording everything. He asked, “Did you get Peter’s death on vid?” She nodded silently, face pale and drawn. “Thank you. I don’t know whether his family will want to see it, but at least they’ll be able to learn how he died, and why.”

  “I – I’ve never seen anything so brave in my life!”

  “We’ll make sure he’s remembered for it. Now, come on! We’ve no time to waste!”

  He hurried down the sidewalk to where Peter had been crouching, and picked up the pistol he’d dropped when he took his flying leap at the grenade. As the journalist boarded the taxi and Lieutenant Chetty started the power pack, Steve went into the road to check the body of the soldier he’d shot. The projectile probably hadn’t killed him, but he’d hit his head against one of the parked vehicles as he fell. The side of his skull was deeply indented, with blood and gra
y matter leaking from the depression. He wasn’t breathing. Steve dragged his body out of the open lane, then unslung his rifle. It had been protected by his body from being damaged during his fall. Steve took it, along with a couple of spare magazines of ammunition and two more hand grenades from his battledress. Carrying the weapons, he hurried back to the taxi and got into the front passenger seat.

  “All right, everyone, keep down. Lieutenant, drive past that shopping center as quickly as you can. I know there are bodies in the road, but if we stop, the mob will be all over us. Try to avoid any bodies that are still moving, but if they’re not, and if you must, drive over them. Understand?”

  Chetty gulped. “Y – yessir!”

  Steve squeezed his upper arm. “You’ve done very well so far. I’m going to hang out of my window and fire a few shots over the heads of anyone who looks like they may try to block our path. If that doesn’t clear the road, drive on slowly and push them out of the way. Let’s roll.”

  People were darting back and forth across the road, most still heading for the shopping center, a few carrying away their first bags and boxes of loot. Some turned towards the taxi and made threatening gestures, but a couple of shots into the air from Steve’s pistol sent them diving for cover. Lieutenant Chetty steered gingerly between the fallen bodies of the rioters killed by the soldiers. He hissed sharply between his teeth at a couple of points where the road narrowed, almost blocked by abandoned vehicles and corpses, but managed to get through without having to drive over any bodies, to his obvious relief – and Steve’s, too.

  As soon as they were past the shopping center and clear of the looters, Steve said to Chetty, “Drive on. I’m going to call the ship.” He took out his satphone. “Maxwell to Pickle, over.”

  Juliette Laforet’s voice came back. “Pickle to Maxwell, go ahead, sir. Over.”

  He described briefly what had occurred. “If I don’t make it back to the ship, Number One, make sure your recording of this conversation gets to Commodore Wu. I’m nominating Peter Gallegros for the Lancastrian Cross of Valor with combat device. He sacrificed his life so that we could live, and make our escape. See to that, will you? Over.”

  “Yes, sir, but I’d much rather you got back to the ship, to do it yourself! Over.”

  “You know, I think I’d be happier that way, too. We’ll do our best. Anyway, back to business. Are there any more incidents like that on our direct route to the first rendezvous point? Over.”

  “No, sir. You’re moving out of the shopping and commercial districts into an industrial area. The roads are more open there, because there was less traffic to block them. You should be able to make better time. The Ayyappan Temple is about seven kilometers ahead of you, on the outskirts of the city. Senior Chief Aznar and his party have reached it. The Chief says, drive past the south side of the temple, leaving its parking lot on your left side. About one kilometer after it ends, on the right, there’s a mechanic’s shop. The forecourt is filled with parked vehicles, but there’s an open path heading around the back. Take it, and look for an open roller door. His two vans are inside, and he’s left room between them for your taxi. Over.”

  “Thanks, Number One. We’ll head for it. Keep watch over our progress, and call at once if anything looks like trouble ahead. Over.”

  “Will do, sir. Over.”

  “Very well. Maxwell standing by.”

  He put the satphone back in his pocket, conscious of a sudden, overwhelming weariness. He knew it was a reaction to the stress of combat and the loss of Peter Gallegros. He turned to Chetty. “All right, Lieutenant. The going should become easier now. The others are waiting for us at the rendezvous. Let’s crack the whip and keep moving.”

  November 29, 2851 GSC, 14:30

  As they pulled into the workshop, the roller door behind them clattered down with a rumble, followed by a bang as it hit the ground. Senior Chief Aznar stepped out from where he’d stood behind one of his vehicles, concealed from anyone passing by. His face lit up with a big smile and a relieved expression as Steve opened the door of the taxi and stepped down.

  “Great to see you again, sir! I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it. The ship told us about Mr. Gallegros. I’m really sorry, but he died like a hero, sir.”

  “Yes, he did, although I doubt whether that’ll be much comfort to his family.”

  “No, sir. A lot of people never fully understand something like that. Still, if we don’t want to end up that way too, we’d better not get trapped in the city. The rendezvous with the cutter is about twenty-five kilometers from here.”

  Steve nodded. “We’ll wait for darkness before we head out into the country.”

  He turned to the diplomats, who were exiting the taxi and clustering together, looking around. “All right, everyone, listen up! Those of you who were injured by flying glass from the storefront window back there, see Spacer Thompson” – he indicated the medic who’d accompanied the liberty party – “and he’ll clean and dress your wounds. After that, we’ll eat, then I want you to get what rest you can. We’ll be leaving in a few hours.”

  As the diplomats clustered around the medic, Steve said quietly to Aznar, “Plug all the vehicles into charging points. We don’t know how far or how fast we may have to run if things go wrong. I’d rather start with their capacitors fully charged.”

  “You and me both, sir!”

  “Have you placed sentries?”

  “I’ve put a spacer by a front window to watch the road, sir, and told him to stay out of sight. I’ll relieve him every two hours.”

  “Good. Station another spacer at a rear window, too, just in case. I’m going to call the ship. Stay here and listen in, so you know what’s going on.”

  Steve took out his satphone, switched on the speaker, and called the ship via the drone. “What’s going on? Over,” he demanded.

  Warrant Officer Macneill replied, “Sir, the roads are deserted in your area, but roadblocks are being set up in the center of town, in shopping and commercial districts, and near the military base where you landed this morning. We’ve managed to break the new scramble code on planetside circuits, and we’re monitoring developments using our translation software. It’s definitely a coup d’état, sir. The rebels are reporting to their headquarters, at the military base where you landed, about the capture of buildings and individuals. Kodan Sastagan is on his way there now. Some of the assault shuttles you saw this morning went to his temple to collect him. They’re escorting him back to Gangai in a massed formation. He’s going to assume power publicly on the steps of the parliament building later today.

  “Sir, the rebels captured the President and his Cabinet, lined them up on the stairs in front of the presidential palace, and shot them all. Looped vid of the executions is being broadcast all over Devakai, with a voice-over saying that’s what will happen to anyone who refuses to submit to what they’re calling ‘Kodan Sastagan’s divine rule’. I suggest you don’t let them capture you, sir. Over.”

  “You’re not kidding! Tell me you made a copy of that vid. Over.”

  “Yes, sir, we did. Over.”

  “Good. If there’s ever any question about why we had to fight our way off this planet, that will answer it. We’ve joined the liberty party at Rendezvous One. Has anyone tried to board you? Over.”

  “Not yet, sir, but there’s been some traffic from the planet up to the space station. Our observations suggest they were assault shuttles, sir – at least a dozen of them. Over.”

  “I don’t want them to get within range of you. A shuttle’s plasma cannon can do a lot of damage to a spaceship.” Steve couldn’t help a mental wince as he recalled the devastation they’d caused aboard the pirate ship Blanco. He’d opened fire on it with three assault shuttles, some years before. It had been reduced to scrap metal and electronic slag, and almost everyone aboard had been killed. “Tell Senior Lieutenant Laforet to leave orbit at once and head for the rendezvous, avoiding detection. Leave the drone to guide us, with a
second comm circuit so I can talk to the cutter directly. The cutter is to remain in orbit, maneuvering to avoid detection if necessary. Maintain a listening watch through the drone on the rebels’ transmissions, and keep me informed. Over.”

  “Understood, sir. The First Lieutenant is listening, and she’s already issuing orders to get under way. We’ll – wait one, please, sir.” There was a short pause. “Sir, an all-points alert has just gone out from the military base, telling rebel forces to look for a party of seven ‘unbelievers’. It says you’re all foreigners, who look and dress differently from locals and don’t speak Hindi, so you should be easy to spot. If any rebels see you, they’re to arrest you if possible, and kill you if not. Dead or alive, you’re to be brought to the base for identification. Over.”

  Steve felt his blood run cold. “At least we know where we stand. Very well, we’re going to get some food and a rest. Maxwell standing by.”

  They accepted paper plates from Lieutenant Chetty’s mother, piled high with chapatti flatbread, and bowls filled with cold aloo mattar, a pea, potato and tomato dish. As he scooped up some of the savory food with a piece of bread and took his first bite, Steve noticed a spacer handing out blankets and pillows. Swallowing, he asked Aznar, “Where did those come from?”

  “Ah… well, sir, when things went to hell in a handbasket this morning, the hotel staff simply vanished. There wasn’t even a desk clerk. Since I couldn’t ask anyone’s permission, I presumed it, and told my spacers to get take enough from the hotel’s supplies for a dozen people. I left a gold tael in the top drawer of the manager’s desk to cover our bill, with a note telling him what we’d taken. I reckon that was more than twice what we owed, even including the bedding.”