“People of Felca!” he said, aware that as soon as he started his transmission he would have only seconds before a bomb came his way. Ruthlessly, he put the Influence voice patterns of Magstrus Olbin in his speech: “Your only chance of survival is to flick to safety beneath the planet’s surface. Repeat. Flick to the lower caves.”
A building whine warned him. He whirled, seizing the boy. “Flick us out of here! Anywhere! Now!”
With the boy’s groan in his ears, Brock felt them waver unsteadily in and out, then they were gone, escaping the concussion of a blast by a split-second. They reappeared outside in an alley that reeked with nust gas. The boy sank to his knees, clutching his chest.
“I can’t go on!” he cried.
“Run then,” said Brock, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a scrambling run that took advantage of every inch of cover. Disciplines, thought Brock, ignoring the ache in his lungs and the trembling exhaustion in his legs. He dragged the boy, who grew slower and slower and finally stopped altogether.
“No farther,” he gasped, shaking his head. “No.”
Somewhere nearby a woman was screaming. Brock smelled fire, and smoke had begun to fill the sky. It was growing dark, but he knew the attack would not stop until the Colonids decided their victims were ready to crawl eagerly to surrender.
Surrender. Brock snorted at the word. How could the Sedkethrans surrender when they had forgotten how to fight?
He could not stay with the boy. He had to get to the chamber of the magstrusi, where the entrance to the goda control room was.
Brock gave the boy a little shake. “Take care of yourself. Get to safety as soon as you can.”
And he ran on, shouting at everyone he saw to flick below. Some nodded; others stared at him in bewilderment. He passed a burning inferno that had once been a patient ward and saw workers desperately trying to pull the helpless victims from the flames.
As the bombing stopped, trailer sleds came rumbling overhead to blare out commands in one of the Held dialects, ordering assembly and surrender.
You will not win, Colonid dogs! thought Brock, his breath sawing in his lungs as he pushed himself on. I will not let you!
It was dark when he finally staggered into the training compound. All the children were gathered outside in small huddles, silent, herded by their instructors, foolishly waiting in good order for the slaughter.
“What are you doing out here?” Almost too breathless to speak, Brock still managed to roar out the words.
Two instructors faced him, slender rods in their hands, determined in their own naive way to defend their charges. “The magstrusi told us to comply with the Imish demands.”
“A thousand damnations upon the magstrusi!” shouted Brock. “Go back in the buildings.”
“The buildings are unsafe.”
“Then flick the children below ground to the caves. The lower caves.”
“Forbidden—”
Brock’s fist struck the man to the ground. “Do not speak that word again! The Colonids will kill you, all of you, unless you do what I say.” He turned on the other instructor, a reed-slender woman with short-cropped hair.
At once she stepped back, holding the long rod before her like a weapon. “You are as bad as those who seek to destroy us.”
“Be logical,” said Brock, watching her stiffen at the insult. “You have a choice. Stand out here and be slaughtered at the Colonids’ convenience, or go below to safety.”
“The magstrusi have given us their instructions.”
Beside her the other instructor climbed slowly to his feet, holding a hand to his jaw. “They will not harm children—”
“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Brock, at the end of his patience. “They have bombed the patient wards indiscriminately. They blew Mabruk out of existence without warning. They do not know the meaning of compassion. To them, we are the enemy—”
A trailer sled rumbled directly over them, drowning out his words. A blinding spotlight stabbed down, illuminating the compound in stark white light.
“You see?” said the woman. “The violence is over. We have demonstrated our willingness to—”
“No!” cried Brock, seeing the pivoting motion of slammer guns aiming at them from the sled’s undercarriage. “Run! All of you!”
Whirling, he grabbed two of the nearest children and propelled them ahead of him, dodging behind a pillar of the loggia as the slammer guns began spewing death across the compound. The screams pierced Brock. He closed his eyes, shaking with anguish as he clutched the two young bodies close to his, feeling their terror merge with his anger and frustration. Some children came flicking into the loggia, sobbing as they dived into the shadows. Others shrieked as they were cut down.
Brock shook himself into action. “Quickly!” he shouted, hearing the sled’s engine throttle down as it circled. “We can’t stay here. Keep low!” he said as the spotlight swept into the loggia, freezing them like small helpless animals blinded by a hunter’s torch. “Flick into the building. Go to the magstrusi chamber. Hurry!”
The slammer guns tore into the stucco walls, cutting one young girl into pieces. The others flicked, vanishing into thin air. Except for the two still hanging onto Brock. He looked down at them in startlement and met wide, terror-stricken eyes.
“Go!” he said. “There’s no time to be frightened.”
The little girl buried her face against his hip and trembled against him. The boy flinched as the slammer guns all but shattered the pillar they were hiding behind.
“She can’t flick, magstrus!” he said desperately. “She’s sick. She isn’t strong enough. I can’t leave her.”
“Get to safety,” said Brock. “I’ll bring her.”
The boy hesitated, torn. “She is my sister,” he gasped out, plainly terrified to make such an admission. “We are twins.”
It was Forbidden for siblings to retain their bond for each other, but twins always resisted repression. Brock gently touched the boy’s head, then crouched, holding both tightly in his arms, as a section of the pillar was blasted away over their heads.
“I’ll protect your sister with my life,” he said.
The boy’s startled eyes flew to his and widened at what they read in Brock’s face. Then he nodded and touched his sister’s arm. “Hurry, Hannia.”
He flicked, leaving Brock to scoop Hannia up in his arms and dodge to the next pillar just as the one they had been hiding behind exploded to a mere stub. And it became a twisted, scrambling run of target practice. First one to shoot down the little man gets the gunnery prize, thought Brock grimly. He dived headfirst into the shadowy end of the loggia, and rolled like a ball, holding his body around Hannia. He could go no farther without breaking into the open. Gulping in a breath while the sled lifted and circled, seeking a better angle to reach him, Brock shifted his weight and felt the drainage grate beneath his feet rattle loosely.
At once he leapt off it and dropped Hannia in order to seize the grate with both hands. He ripped it up, feeling a muscle pull in his back as the grate resisted at first. Flinging the grate aside, he got the child by the arm and dragged her down into the hole with him, aware he was being too rough and not having enough time to be more gentle. The slammer guns thudded angrily at the spot where they had just been, chipping stone into the hole in a fierce splatter that cut flesh mercilessly. Hannia screamed, and Brock pushed her ahead of him into the tile drainpipe.
“Crawl,” he said. “As fast as you can.”
“It’s so dark!”
But in spite of that whimper, she was accustomed to following training instructions, and she began to scuttle along the pipe on her hands and knees. For Brock it was a close fit. Flat on his stomach, with his shoulders painfully compressed, he struggled to slither along behind her, hoping the pipe did not narrow up ahead. If he got stuck, it would be a long horrible death of starvation. That is, providing the Colonids didn’t decide to pump nust gas down the pipe instead.
20
&
nbsp; Lt. Izak was fidgeting nervously as he took his place on the transender platform, but Nls Ton paid him no heed. The governor gazed a minute longer at the awesome sight of the goda filling the spaceport viewscreen. A smile crossed his face that he did not trouble to conceal. Why shouldn’t he show his pleasure? This was the day of his greatest triumph. Falmah-Al had brought him a goda, the prize of all prizes, an operational, deadly, invincible goda. With this to his credit, he was certain to be recalled immediately to Kentra for rewards and promotion, perhaps even to the wearing of the medallion of Im!
Rubbing his hands together briskly, he bounced up onto the platform beside Izak and gave the transcender operator a nod. Seconds later, he was standing open-mouthed in the gloomy control room buried deep beneath the surface of the goda. The design was unobtrusive, functional, and alien. The walls curved where he did not expect them to. The lighting was too dim for comfort. The air was chilly and smelled stale.
He did not care. He did not mind any of it. Forgetting that until today he had been furious with Falmah-Al for having allowed the dire-lord to escape, he smiled at the colonel and her deputy as they approached and saluted him smartly. They wore dress uniforms, crisp and polished right down to their gunbelts. Returning the salute with sloppy indifference, Ton gazed straight into Falmah-Al’s intense eyes. They were glowing like black obsidian that had been fired, and he found himself caught by old memories. She had been beautiful in her youth, her body as muscular and sinewed as a boy’s, yet wholly female, her need to please greater than her ambitions. Yes, he remembered his Kezi, his delightful houri of the night. And now, after all these years of argument and enmity when she had plotted against him and stood in his service like a poisoned thorn of distrust, she had brought him the ultimate gift. With the goda in his possession, he had supreme power. He decided to overlook her spying upon his personal affairs, her incredible blunders, and her unauthorized attack upon the planet Felca.
“Kezi, my dear,” he said, dispensing with formality. “Fairest huntress, raw meat to your table a hundred times over!”
That peculiar light flamed more brightly in her eyes at the compliment, but she merely inclined her head and signalled to her deputy.
“Would the governor be pleased to have a tour?” asked Lt. Tirza.
“The governor would,” responded Lt. Izak.
The crew of technicians were largely non-military, looking rumpled and ill-at-ease. Ton’s few questions were answered with a degree of vagueness that brought his brows sharply together.
“What is wrong with these people? Don’t they know what they are doing?”
“Not entirely,” said Falmah-Al as the two deputies stepped back to let them speak in private. “We have basic operations figured out. The rest is less certain.”
Ton lost his breath. “Dangerous!”
“Why?” Falmah-Al eyed him coolly. “There is enough power here for anyone. Why worry about the rest?”
“Indeed.” Relaxing, Ton laughed. “I am most pleased. You realize what this means for my career?”
Her glance sideways was sharp. “Let us discuss your career in my quarters.”
Her voice was soft, almost pleasing. Ton drew himself up and expansively decided to reward her in a personal way.
Leaving the deputies behind, they exited the control room and walked through a rough-hewn passageway into a series of small chambers carved from the rock. This area was well-heated and comfortable in a spartan way. Ton lifted his brows as he glanced around, noticing the lack of personal possessions beyond a pack lying casually in the corner. The bunk looked hard and narrow; he found himself wishing for his luxurious suite in Impryn.
“Well, Kezi,” he said huskily, touching her thin cheek. The skin was stretched tautly over her bones, making her face all angles. He preferred a plumper profile, but what did it matter? It was a small enough exchange for what she had given him. Besides, he could see the hunger in her dark eyes, smouldering from beneath lowered lids as she pressed her cheek against his hand and stepped closer.
“It’s been a long time, Nls,” she whispered. “You left me to follow your dreams when we could have shared them equally.”
“Don’t stir up old arguments.” He buried his face in her hair, inhaling its faint scent of herbs. His hands slid across her shoulders and down her back. “Thank you, Kezi. I knew that no matter how far apart we might grow, you would always help me advance—”
The knife plunged deep into his abdomen like a shaft of ice. Stunned, for a moment he could not breathe; he could not comprehend what had happened. Then he gazed down into her flaming eyes and saw the full malevolence of her hatred.
“Help you!” she spat, patches of scarlet burning on her cheekbones. “Why should I? You’ve used me and despised me and discarded me as you pleased, and now it’s my turn.”
“But—” The coldness in his belly spread out in a sudden ripple of weakness. He sank to his knees, his eyes staring at the blood seeping between his fingers, at the blood blazing crimson across the blade of the knife in her fist. “But you brought me here to give me the goda—”
“I give you nothing! I brought you here, Ton, to show you what you will never have! Ultimate, supreme power. It’s mine! I am going to take this goda to Kentra, and I am going to wear the medallion of Im. Not you! I am going to rule this entire galaxy. And you, Ton the Butcher, are going to die.”
“No—”
“Yes, die. Unmourned, unloved, and despised.” Lifting her foot, she gave him a shove so that he toppled over.
Something seemed to part inside him, and the last thing he heard was her laughter, harsh and mocking, above him.
Falmah-Al bent down and wiped her knife blade clean upon his sleeve. His sightless eyes stared at her boot toe.
“You fool,” she said, and without a backward glance returned to the control room.
Tirza was waiting alertly and as soon as Falmah-Al appeared, the deputy pulled her disruptor on Lt. Izak.
“Governor Ton is dead,” said Falmah-Al, and before shock could do more than flash across Izak’s face, she added, “You can join my army or die with him. Make your choice!”
His narrow eyes shifted from face to face. Then he stiffened to attention and said, “I choose to join your army, Colonel.”
Her lip curled with contempt. She had never trusted this worm, and he had just proven her suspicions correct. “Traitor!” she said. “There is only one army, that of Im! Kill him, Tirza.”
“No—”
There was a brief burst from the disruptor and then silence. The unpleasant stench of burned flesh curled through the air. Lt. Tirza stepped back, holstering her disruptor. She signalled two of the guards standing on duty. “Clear it from the bridge,” she said.
“Colonel!”
Falmah-Al glanced toward the technician monitoring the scanners.
“Relay coming in now from Baz long-range sensors, linking to ours. A fleet of Held ships is approaching the system.”
The thrill of the hunt sprang through Falmah-Al. She stepped to the man’s post. “How many?”
“Undetermined as yet. Distance is too great.” He hunched over his instruments, concentrating. “But the size of the blip indicates a substantial number.”
“Their last attempt at retaliation,” she murmured. “Fools! Wait until they see what we have to shove down their throats.”
Tirza frowned. “But, Colonel. I thought we were returning directly to Kentra—”
“With this opportunity to crush the Held once and for all right in our laps?” Falmah-Al laughed. “We’ll wipe Heldfleet from existence as though it never was!”
Chief technician Egel turned pale. “Colonel,” he said, rising to his feet. “Surely you do not intend to actually fire the weapons.”
“But of course,” she retorted coldly, displeased by his cowardice. “One does not enter a battle unless one intends to win it.”
“But when they see us, they’ll surrender,” said Egel. “Surely they will surrender
.”
“I don’t care whether they do or not. I intend to test this weapon. And it might as well be on a moving target.”
“But the entropy reaction. We aren’t sure just what will occur—”
Falmah-Al’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Her hand moved to the weapon at her side.
“Return to your post!” barked Tirza, and Egel sank down in his chair like a heap of limp clothing.
A tense silence hung over the control room. Falmah-Al’s gaze swept the frozen faces.
“Helm,” she said tersely. “Plot an intercept course.” And in silence she was obeyed.
Holding hands, Brock and little Hannia stumbled into the round chamber of the magstrusi. To his relief it was still intact and had not been bombed. To his surprise it was filled, not just with children but also with instructors and healers.
“Hannia!”
“Dunen!” She released Brock’s hand and ran forward to the embrace of her brother. “Dunen, I was so scared.”
He hugged her tightly, his young eyes lifting past her thin shoulder to thank Brock. “Hush. You’re safe now.”
“No,” said Brock, coughing. His throat was raw from the smoke and gas he’d inhaled. As soon as he caught his breath, he said, “We’re not safe until we are below ground in the lower caves.”
“But surely we need not penetrate so far—” began someone, only to falter under Brock’s weary look of impatience.
“It is the magstrusi who should decide,” said another. “Let us call the elder council.”
“There isn’t time.” Brock shoved his way through their ranks to the altar. It still set askew, half-revealing the trap door. “Hannia and I are only minutes ahead of pursuit.”
There were fearful stirrings. In the corner, a female healer was rocking a child in her arms. The child stared fixedly at nothing; its body was rigid with shock. Others were whimpering as healers tried to tend their wounds. There was no sound worse than that of children in pain, thought Brock.
The Goda War Page 24