Revolt on War World c-3

by Jerry Pournelle

  Linwah gasped and ran for the house as fast as she could.

  "Too late to worry about noise," Kyle said. "Come on!" He ran for one of the muskylopes. It shied, startled, when he threw a bridle over it. "Get on!"

  Tim didn't need any urging. As Kyle buckled the bridle, Tim clambered on, the heavy freezer case threatening to swing free of his hand, and stretched forward for the reins. "Jump, Kyle!"

  "I'll stall 'em!" Kyle shouted back. He yanked a rifle from the wagon and tossed it to him. "Go!"

  Tim caught the rifle in his free hand and held it by the crook of his elbow. Then he yanked open the freezer case and grabbed a handful of frozen vials, whichever ones he happened to snatch. He tossed them on the ground. "You'll need 'em!"

  Kyle swung a cartridge belt over Tim's head as Tim threw down one of the instruction manuals and a set of instruments rolled in their padded holder.

  "Go!" Kyle slapped the muskylope and sent Tim riding out through the rear gate. Then he ran to hook it shut. Tim needed every second.

  Lights had already come on in the compound. Kyle scooped up the frozen vials from the ground, leaving the other items for later, and ran to the rear door, hearing the hoofbeats of Tim's muskylope. For the first time in his life, he was acting without thinking, and he launched himself at the first dark shadowy figures that came running down the hall toward him, still clutching the vials clumsily.

  Kyle thrashed around as much as he could. His two assailants shouted to each other in Cantonese and were soon joined by others. They got in each other's way, however, in the narrow hall. Since Kyle's purpose was not to escape, but to create a diversion, he just kept struggling.

  More shouts sounded in other rooms, down other halls. By the time Kyle's assailants had a firm grasp on all his limbs, he could hear mounts being tacked up outside. Someone else had heard Tim's hoofbeats, too.

  In moments, Kyle had been dragged into a well-lit room to face the grim visage of Lungho Lei, dressed in a coarse brown robe.

  "So," said Lungho Lei. "You return our hospitality by fleeing? You have more interest in the northern steppes than you admit."

  "He chose to stay!" Linwah shouted in English, then changed to Cantonese.

  After a moment of quick talk with her in Cantonese, Lungho Lei switched to English again. "Where is your brother?"

  "You know where he is gone. But I wish to stay and I have my fee." Kyle held out his vials. "The manual and instruments are outside. Can you keep these frozen?"

  Lungho Lei nodded at someone, who quickly took the precious vials. Those holding Kyle released him.

  "So. My daughter tells me that when your brother chose to escape, you refused. She also confesses that she chose to unbar your door. How do I know you will not unbar our gate some night when your brother chooses to return with his Mongol friends?"

  Kyle looked into the old man's face, knowing it was at last time for him to land on his own feet, without his older brother to help. The white-haired man looked back sternly, but not angrily; he spoke with reasonable concern, not paranoid suspicion. What Kyle said next would determine his life and maybe his death. For one more time, he would have to trust his older brother to protect him and care for him even from a distance, as he always had since their childhood.

  "I ask for your daughter in marriage." He bowed, imitating the old Chinese style he remembered from some immigrants. "We shall give you grandsons and work your fields. We shall raise fine horses for you. This will be my land, too, and my brother will not raise his hand against it."

  The old white-haired man stared back, his face impassive. He glanced at Linwah, who looked down, reddening, but smiling, too. Then Lungho Lei nodded to Kyle, less deeply, in return.

  "It is enough. Welcome home."

  FROM:

  Consul-General Edgar Blair

  Government House, Castell City

  Haven, Tanith Sector

  TO:

  Director Stephen Scannell

  CoDominium Colonial Service

  CoDominium Headquarters, Luna Base

  Luna, Earth Sector

  DATE:

  October 18, 2089

  Dear Stephen, I regret the necessity of having to ask an old friend for yet another favor, but the situation here on Haven grows graver with each passing day. According to Admiral Hartman, Commander of the CD Naval Force for the Tanith Sector, there are no troops or ships to be spared in our attempt to police Haven. Local records indicate that Haven was-well, not peaceful-but under CoDominium authority until the discovery of those cursed shimmerstones. Now that the Haven Gear Consortium is no longer the sole official exporter of shimmerstones, theft, piracy and everything but outright war has broken out among the miners, "exporters," and thieves who control the discovery and exportation of Haven's most valuable export. While the 201st Provisional Marines and the Haven Volunteers have returned law and order to Castell City and the populated areas of the Shangri-La Valley, the same cannot be said for those areas in the fringes of the valley and elsewhere. Highly trained bands of brigands and bandits menace both miners and small communities alike. Population figures have at least tripled since the discovery of those damnable stones. The Haven Constabulary, with a total force of 179 men, can only patrol and maintain order over a fraction of even Haven's limited habitable area. After the "strike"-here we call it the Revolt-succeeded in breaking the Consortium's shimmerstone monopoly, many of the mercenaries deserted from their units before they went off-world and formed gangs and free corps to harass outlying miners and small towns. It now appears that several of those "outfits" (one rails itself the Iron Regiment and held out against the 201st for a month and a half before it was defeated) have obtained proscribed weapons, including T-680 tanks and Yak VTOLs, to give you an idea of how serious our situation here has become in the last few years. We have evidence that some of these "bandits" have been supplied unofficially by Xanadu and possibly even Sauron again. It is debatable whether or not even the under-strength 201st has the weapons and/or manpower to restore order and pacify some of these outfits. We need help badly. Maybe you can convince Grand Admiral Lermontov to send a regiment of Marines. If something is not done quickly, I fear for the safety and welfare of the peoples of this beleaguered planet, to say nothing of its official representatives. I will appreciate any help or support you can provide. Give my love to Blanche and the girls. Your friend, Edgar Blair

  Fire and ice

  Eric Vinicoff

  "Devil's Brewery ETA five minutes, Sarge," Darrow said conversationally. He wrestled the stick two-handed, while his gaze jumped back and forth between the instruments and the blurred terrain beyond the windshield.

  The ice-sharpened faces and scraggy vegetation of the narrow rift valley shot by at 240 KPH, ten meters down and closer off each wing. Gale-force gusts slammed into the transport. It boogied, groaned, and scraped belly and wingtips. My fingers were putting dents in the duraplast of the copilot's seat armrests. "You sure you've done this before?" I demanded.

  "More or less. The idea was, I believe, to avoid detection."

  "And the ground."

  "Bugger off."

  "If I knew what that meant, I don't think I'd like it." But Darrow had chauffeured CoDominium Marines in some heavy action before deserting, so he might know what he was doing. I staggered back to the cabin to check on the rest of the squad.

  The red-lit cabin looked like the ready room for Hell. Ski, Preacher, Toglog, White Cloud and Schmidt sat on the facing benches, field-stripping their weapons. One good thing about a black-budget pickup force was that you went first class. White Cloud, our sharpshooter, wore/carried a Gauss gun, while Toglog amped our firepower with a Remington Enforcer over-and-under grenade launcher. The rest of us had CoDominium-issue Kalashnikov 7-mm assault rifles with ten-shot clips. Bandoliers, grenades, commando knives and white cold-weather combat suits with Nemourlon body armor rounded out the tools of our trade.

  Toglog and Preacher were passing a flask of castor oil. Boozing on a mission
was contra regs, but then so were we.

  "Listen up, you grunts!" I yelled over the roar of the engines. "We're almost to our drop point! In case you've forgotten why we're taking this little joyride, I'll refresh your memory! A gang of shimmerstone hijackers is operating out of the Devil's Brewery! It's too well equipped to be local-probably a merc outfit! Our job is to find their base and wipe it! Any questions?"

  "Yeah!" White Cloud grunted. "What's for lunch?"

  "Your ass, if you screw up! Ski, get these yahoos ready to rock!"

  "On it, Sarge!" The ex-circus strongman from Nowy Krakow was smarter than he looked, which was why he had been slotted for corporal.

  I lurched back to the cockpit. Darrow was still hugging ground, but the valley had opened up into a dreary snowbound steppe. The Cat's Eye hung in the morning sky like some god's lost marble. Haven was only marginally habitable for terrestrial life around the equator; this far north it didn't even try. The temperature was sub-zero, the air was unbreathably thin, and the native flora and fauna were equally deadly.

  "Bloody right!" Darrow yelled eagerly. "That, I dare say, is our target."

  I followed his gaze.

  If Haven was the asshole of the galaxy, the Devil's Brewery was what came out. Tidal pull from the Cat's Eye had fractured and crumpled the planet's crust, letting out some of its boiling guts. Active volcanoes mounted guard over several hundred square kilometers of lava rivers and lakes, fumaroles, geysers, and hot springs. Crevasse-shot ice and snow covered the tortured terrain, shaken by frequent quakes. Volcanic ash, rising steam and a permanent blizzard muted the crimson hell-fires.

  I licked my lips in anticipation.

  The transport knifed into the white-out of the blizzard. It bucked like a bronco on loco weed, and the screaming of the wind came loud and clear through the double hull. Something with the kick of a SAM slammed the transport upward. Ice or magma from an explosive eruption," Darrow explained as he veered to miss-barely-a smoking gray cone.

  Fire and ice. Mix them together, and you get hell. Like a soldier's soul. I went back to the cabin. "Get them strapped in, Ski! Could get a bit-"

  Craaaaang!

  "— hairy!"

  The cockpit was gone. Wind, snow and blood-red light exploded into the cabin. I jammed my arms into safety straps and braced. The cabin started tumbling. Preacher's "Now I lay me down to sleep-" and White Cloud's war cry were lost in a bedlam of crashing gear and tearing duralloy. The god who had lost his marble took his anger out on what was left of the transport: a roundhouse right, stiff uppercuts, then a flurry of jabs. The punches dribbled my head against the cabin plasteel, while the straps cut into and almost through my arms.

  Then I noticed we weren't tumbling anymore. We were down.

  The cabin lights were out. I gasped for breath, and the frigid air thrilled my lungs. Fumbling around, I found my helmet and put it on. The combat suit started compressing and warming the air before it got to me.

  Shadowy shapes were moving and moaning happily in the red-tinted gloom. Switching on my helmet com, I growled, "Anybody have enough sense to suit up?" Silence answered me.

  I found and checked out my Kalashnikov by touch, while Ski, Preacher, Toglog, White Cloud and Schmidt reported. Preacher had lost a few teeth from his winning smile, and we were all beaten up, but we were still armed and dangerous.

  "Ski," I ordered, "go forward and check on Darrow."

  "On it, Sarge." A dark bulk crawled through the crumpled hatchway.

  A moment later Ski was back on the com. "The Brit is squashed against the rear cockpit wall. Messy."

  Climbing to my feet, I announced, "Rest break is over, grunts. Up and at 'em." Minus our aerial cover, our com fink to HQ, our retrieval, and one squad member.

  Leaving the cabin wasn't hard; we had our choice of cracks. I led the squad out into the teeth of the blizzard. The slippery snow made standing hard and walking almost impossible. Despite my suit, the cold and the banshee howling cut to the bone, amping my pleasant glow from the crash. Everything was luridly red-lit, including us. Visibility was a handful of meters.

  "Have you had a revelation as to the location of the hijackers' base, Sarge?" Preacher asked. He had gotten the nickname because he was a Harmony from Castell City, but he was an unlikely candidate for salvation. His evangelistic yack was retaliation for the squad's ribbing.

  "Well, it ain't here, so let's go find it. I'll take the point-Ski, cover the rear."

  "On it, Sarge."

  I picked a direction, and started fighting through the blizzard. The squad was strung out behind me.

  An ice-covered lava flow was the closest thing to a path available. It zigzagged between a tumbled ridge and a deep fissure. Steam and heat roared up from the fissure; I peered into it, and saw bubbling red magma. Wind-driven snow and ash hammered at me.

  We passed a hole in the side of a dormant cone which was spewing pale gas. A fumarole. Spotting Schmidt swaying a bit, I dropped back and slapped the filter button on his helmet. "Stay sharp, kraut. I'm not always going to be around to wipe your ass for you."

  The taciturn little New Rhinelander gave me a one-fingered gesture of thanks.

  Forward progress came slowly and awkwardly. Walk. Slip and fall. Walk. Ground tremor knocks you down. Walk. A flying chunk of lava hits you. Walk. Step in a crevasse and trip. .

  "Does that lava pool over there look familiar, Sarge?" White Cloud grunted.

  "No. Why?"

  "I thought it might remind you of home."

  "Droll. Very droll."

  "Feed the squaw man some sugar," Toglog suggested.

  "You cheap imitation Genghis Khan-!"

  I let the squad yack. The com transmissions might attract attention, which was what I wanted.

  We were in the lee of a steep slope when a sharp tremor started its white face sliding. I yelled, "Avalanche!" and scrambled to get clear. Preacher, Toglog, White Cloud and Ski made it too, but Schmidt disappeared under the pile of ash-darkened snow.

  "Can't take him anywhere," I muttered. "Ski!"

  "On it, Sarge." Ski went over to the snow pile. Lifting his right arm" he announced, "A magic trick that I learned in the Cracovia Traveling Show. Presto." His arm plunged into the pile, and came out holding a sputtering Schmidt by the neck.

  "Too small. I better throw it back." Ski brushed snow off Schmidt, and put him down.

  "Move out, you yahoos!" I growled. "Before the hijackers die of old age!"

  The lava flow started up a volcanic cone too steep to climb. We angled across the boulder-littered slope, then slipped and slid into a gorge with weirdly eroded rock formations. Scrawny native grass and shrubs surrounded steaming hot springs. Slogging through knee-high snow drifts, exertion put an edge on my glow. Sweat was keeping my helmet's defogger busy.

  Toglog was telling one of his innumerable and interminable war stories. He came from a tribe which roamed the steepe near Novy Tartary, and he was a model of traditional Mongol virtue. "-so I tied one end of the chief's guts to a tree, then I chased him around it until he-"

  Suddenly something leaped down from a high ledge, so fast that it was a blur. Our reflex shots missed. It landed on Preacher, knocking him down.

  It was a northern cousin of the cliff lion, white instead of grayish-brown, one hundred-plus kilograms of felinoid predator. Roaring like a shuttle engine, it sought Preacher's throat with its slavering jaws. Somehow he managed to get his forearm in the way. They thrashed about in a deepening hole in the snow, while the cliff lion tried to chew through Nemourlon. Preacher's Kalashnikov lay nearby.

  The rest of us surrounded the pair, but nobody could get a clear shot. Preacher moaned as the powerful paws batted and raked him.

  "Having fun?" I asked.

  "Heavenly bliss," he gasped. I caught a brief glimpse of his crazy grin.

  "Quit playing with that damned cat," I ordered. "We've got a job to do."

  "Spoilsport." But Preacher managed to pull out his knife. He knew he would
only get one chance, so he made it count. He plunged the blade behind the massive head, severing the spine. The cliff lion spasmed violently, then went limp.

  Preacher rolled the carcass off of him. "The lamb shall lie down with the lion, and the meek shall inherit the Earth."

  His forearm armor hadn't been designed to cope with large carnivores. It was intact, but the arm under it was crushed and mangled. I got out my medkit and tied a tourniquet. "Best I can do. Can you handle a rifle?"

  Preacher looked blissed-out. "Amen to that, Sarge. I'm ambidexterous."

  "Sarge didn't ask you about your sex life," White Cloud contributed.

  "Soldier," I told White Cloud, "shut up and soldier."

  Preacher retrieved his Kalashnikov, and we moved out.

  A few minutes later we emerged from the gorge into a relatively open area. Deep snow smoothed over the uneven ground which climbed gradually into the white-out. To our left a rocky rampart curved toward and then away from us; an irregular scarlet glow reflected from the thick clouds over it. Either an active volcanic crater or a lava lake. The blizzard was less severe here, just snow flurries and moderate gusts.

  The back of my neck started itching.

  "Stay sharp, grunts!" I growled. "This looks like a good spot for-"

  The world split wide open in a blinding brilliance and a deafening bang. I found myself flying. I got a quick whirling view of rifle slugs kicking up sprays of snow, and the squad scrambling for cover. Then I crashed through a patch of ice.

  "— trouble!" I finished.

  Slugs chopped the ice around me, ricochetting off my body armor. One punched through and sent a thrill up my left thigh. Another mortar round went off a dozen meters away, showering me with snow.

  The fire was coming from the rampart and the higher ground ahead. Spotting a car-sized boulder nearby, I dove behind it. "Sound off!" I ordered.

  Ski, White Cloud, Preacher and Schmidt reported that they were okay. Toglog had taken a piece of shrapnel, but he was still ambulatory.

  The hail of depleted uranium slugs kept up unabated. Chips flew as my boulder was whittled away. The mortars were zeroing in on our positions. We snapped off a few rounds to keep our hosts interested.