Shadows

by William A. Webb

  A young woman ran past him, face uncovered and black hair streaming. He recognized Waornaak, who was chasing her.

  Reaching out, he grabbed the big man’s arm. “What is going on? Who’s attacking us?”

  “Offworlders,” Waornaak said, stabbing a finger at the back of the fleeing woman. “She’s the spy I told you about. I’m going to make her pay for this.”

  “What about the other thing?” With all the yells echoing down the tunnel, Yukannak didn’t bother lowering his voice until he spoke the last two words. “The archive?”

  Waornaak pointed into the depths of the tunnel. “I think it’s that way somewhere. Now let me go.” Wrenching his arm free, Waornaak lurched into a run to catch up to the woman.

  Yukannak paused, uncertain. Should he follow Waornaak or seek out the archive on his own? The archive might be a bargaining chip with the Kulsians, the J’Stull, the satrap or the Offworlders. But then again, it might not. Without knowing what the archive might be, he couldn’t guess. But if the woman was a spy, then her safety—and insights—would definitely be important to the Offworlders. Without wasting another second, he took off after Waornaak, back toward the mouth of the tunnel.

  Through a small doorway, a spiral stone staircase led to a lower level. Yukannak heard running water below, and the rising air was noticeably cooler. When he came to a landing, he realized he was near the eastern junction of the wall and the plateau, where the man-made canal passed below it into the marshes on that side of the city. The noise of the battle told him the fighting was close.

  Waornaak ran outside without hesitating, and Yukannak followed. He didn’t want to, but there seemed no other choice. If he defected to the Offworlders, it was a good idea to have one of their operatives who might speak on his behalf; there was a vast difference between “valued ally” and “useful prisoner.”

  They ran along the base of the wall until he glimpsed the girl again, and Waornaak was close on her heels. Doorways lined the base of the thick wall. She went to open one but recoiled as soldiers poured out. She ran to the next and ducked inside. Waornaak did the same. Before the door swung closed behind him, Yukannak slid quietly inside.

  Barrels of water, marked as potable, lined the walls, along with boxes and empty stoneware jars. Even with the spring, the wells, and the river, it became a treasure when the Sear began. Crouching near the doorway, Waornaak didn’t hear him, but he heard Waornaak laugh.

  “I know you are here, woman. You’re going to answer for the trouble you’ve brought.” The sound of fighting outside grew heavier. Inside the room, however, only the crunch of Waornaak’s footsteps indicated the presence of other humans. “Come out, woman. I don’t know who you are, but you have brought trouble. Your curiosity will be your end.”

  It was clear now that Waornaak intended to kill her, and perhaps rape her first, the same type of cruelty Yukannak had seen often in such men. Leaning forward, he could make out Waornaak’s shadowy figure. Gripping his pistol tighter, Yukannak made up his mind. If the woman was a spy, what better way to endear himself to the Offworlders than by killing her assailant?

  “There’s nowhere to hide.”

  Waornaak wasn’t an agile man, and he made a lot of noise searching among the water barrels. Yukannak rose and moved toward him, being careful to make no sound. Seconds later, he heard scuffling and a woman’s shout. Spilling water followed a loud crack as somebody kicked a barrel.

  The woman screamed, “Get off me!”

  Waornaak yelled back. “Offworlder!”

  The word electrified Yukannak’s brain. She was an Offworlder? Here was what he’d been looking for, a chance to ingratiate himself with the Offworlders, to defect with a realistic chance of staying alive. He had to save her, if he could.

  The woman shrieked again, this time in unmistakable pain, but in the semidarkness all Yukannak could see were dark, tangled figures. Waornaak was wielding some sort of weapon, which he swung downward like a club.

  The doorway crashed inward in a spray of wood and rocks. Yukannak leapt sideways and slammed into a heavy crate, expecting men to rush inside, or the room to collapse. The last thing he expected was one of R’Bak’s ubiquitous whinaalanis, which charged into the room, bellowing at Waornaak with bared teeth.

  The animal bit at Waornaak but missed, and Waornaak struck it near the left eye with his weapon. He moved closer, raising the weapon for another blow, but a gunshot echoed through the room and caused Yukannak to flinch. When he looked up again, Waornaak was standing over the woman again, a long rod held aloft in his right hand.

  Yukannak raised his pistol, told himself that this was no different than practicing at the range, and believed himself just long enough to squeeze off two steady rounds.

  Both rounds hit. Waornaak half-turned before his legs gave out, and he fell against the barrels, on top of which lay the woman they’d been following. Yukannak knelt over the dying man, grabbed his bloody robe, and pulled him close.

  “The archive, where is it?”

  “Wha—?” Waornaak said, his eyes focusing on something Yukannak couldn’t see. “Oh no, no…”

  “The archive, where—?”

  Waornaak never spoke again. Yukannak released him and glanced toward the woman. His eyes met hers, and they each recognized the other. He’d seen her at a merchant’s stall and found her attractive. She was the spy?

  The woman said, “Thank—”

  Something smashed through the wall behind him: a second whinaalani. Without waiting for it to bite him, Yukannak darted past the beast and out the door.

  “Wait! Yukannak!”

  * * *

  The crump of detonating mortar rounds caused Captain Cutter’s fists to clench with tension. He was sitting with his back to a boulder, some two hundred yards southwest of the last row of houses in Imsurmik’s Outer City. Between his position and the city were farm fields, shacks, and drainage sewers. They’d been in place for hours, now.

  Nearly two hundred years had passed since he last heard such explosions, but he’d passed those centuries in cold sleep; to him, it seemed like last week. The blasts sounded no different than any other detonating mortar shell. He’d been in desperate need of R&R then and was even more so now. But, as the old woman he’d met sitting in the ruins of her home in St. Lô, France, had said to him in a hopeless tone, “C’est la guerre.” If anybody knew about the fortunes of war, it was the French.

  It wouldn’t be long now until Cutter’s platoon went into the city looking for the HVTs Colonel Murphy wanted so badly, and he felt a rising panic he’d never felt prior to going into action before. When they engaged the enemy, how the men performed was entirely dependent on how well he’d trained them, and the burden of that responsibility weighed heavily on his mind. It might be hours yet before the assault force, under Major Bo Moorefield, secured the city firmly enough for his men to enter, and it was imperative he give the impression of calm. So, facing the day’s rising heat as the sun topped the horizon, Cutter closed his eyes and pretended to nap, although in reality he followed the battle’s progress by the sounds.

  Eventually, echoes from the last explosions faded, leaving only occasional bursts of rifle and automatic weapons fire to indicate ongoing fighting at the points of penetration. Some reports came from nearby in the Outer City, but most were muffled and distant, indicating Moorefield’s men were fighting either in the tunnels that cut through the plateau, in the streets of the Inner City, or at the cache site beyond the city’s eastern fringe. Two-thirds of his own men were there, under Lieutenant Tanavuna, facing what he hoped was the safer option of clearing the tunnels and Inner City, rather than the more easily defended warren of crowded homes in the Outer City. Tanavuna had fought in plenty of battles, sure—it was part and parcel of an Ashbander’s life on R’Bak—but never as part of a larger coordinated force. So much could go wrong.

  Soon, he knew, the order would come for them to move into the city and begin their search for persons unknown, against e
nemy opposition of undetermined strength and quality, through unfamiliar streets, and likely a hostile populace. The plan hadn’t changed for months, and Cutter had been privy to every detail, but now that the time had come to put planning into action, the realities of his mission seemed impossible. What the hell was Murphy thinking? What was I thinking, accepting such a hopeless mission?

  With the echoes of fighting coming from the nearby Outer City, Cutter stood over the radioman who was attempting to raise Tanavuna. He didn’t bother lowering his voice, and he used the platoon’s tactical call signs instead of those reserved for higher headquarters. “Shadow Six to Shadow Five, do you copy?”

  He’d refrained from calling every ten minutes like he’d wanted to. Experience had taught him that his men fed off his energy; if he was nervous, they’d be nervous. So, grinding his teeth, Cutter had waited out the attack in silence.

  Unlike Moorefield, Cutter only had one platoon to comb an entire town. He wouldn’t have to kick down the gate, but he had to comb every nook and cranny for armed men who didn’t want to be found and likely had a lot of other armed men helping them stay that way.

  Tanavuna’s voice crackled faintly out of the speaker. “Shadow Five copy.”

  The radioman handed Cutter the handset. The radio protocols were from the modern US military, not the World War Two army he’d known. Cutter still hadn’t gotten the hang of them, although he’d tried. It was doubtful the J’Stull had signals-intercept equipment at Imsurmik, but radio discipline was never a bad idea.

  “What’s your status, Shadow Five?”

  “We’re in position and standing by. Scouts are looking for other ways into the city. Are you in contact with the enemy? Shadow Five over.”

  Tanavuna’s question must have been prompted by gunshots heard over the radio, as Cutter heard them, too. He found that reassuring, since it meant the rest of his platoon really wasn’t that far away. “Negative, we are not yet in contact with the enemy.”

  Cutter wanted to remind the distraught lieutenant not to get reckless in pursuit of saving his wife, but bit his lip as he weighed the risks. The J’Stull were technologically backward compared to the Lost Soldiers, but a bullet was a bullet and dead was dead, no matter how you got killed. After a few seconds in deliberation, he decided to risk it.

  “I know you’re anxious, Shadow Five, but remember your training. You’re entering enemy territory, so movement and fire support are critical. Don’t get ahead of yourself and don’t try to be a hero. If you go charging in looking for the subject target, you will only wind up getting killed. The city is swarming with militia. Most probably don’t want a fight, but they won’t mind shooting you if you give them an easy target.”

  “I understand, Shadow Six. I want Kes—the target—back, but dying won’t accomplish that.”

  “Good man. Shadow Six out.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 9

  “Desperado Six Actual to Shadow Six Actual, primary objective is secured. My men are ready to pass you through our lines, over.”

  “Shadow Six Actual responding. I read you, Desperado Six Actual. Do you have description of any HVTs?”

  Moorefield filled him in on what he had learned.

  “Roger that, we’re moving up. Shadow Six Actual out.”

  “Good hunting!”

  First Squad was huddled in a draw, out of line of sight from the city. As the boredom of waiting wore off, the men’s faces showed their barely contained rage from the attack on their homes. Somewhere within Imsurmik was their healer, Tanavuna’s wife, Kesteluni. Although married to the hetman’s son, who was now the hetman himself, healers had a matriarchal status in the village. She looked after all of them and taught others her skills. Aside from those they’d killed, the men who had kidnapped her had threatened the very existence of Nuthhurfipiko. They wanted her back.

  Except, that wasn’t the mission.

  Cutter had seen this before, when his old platoon got caught up with a patrol of Waffen-SS from the 17th SS Panzergrenadier Division Götz von Berlichingen, whom his men believed had gunned down four American prisoners. The German soldiers pleaded innocence but his men shot them down where they stood, releasing their anger by kicking the bodies after they were dead. For just a moment, Cutter had been distracted by the battlefield justice, long enough for an MG 42 crew to set up and fire on them from a nearby hill. By God’s good fortune, nobody was hit, but his inattention could have cost his men their lives. He swore never to let that happen again.

  “We move out as we practiced it,” Cutter said, sidling down the draw in a crouch. “Do not forget our primary mission, do you understand me? We are here to identify and apprehend persons of interest who might have information about what the satrap, other J’Stull, or the Harvesters are planning. After the attack on your homes, those plans might also include wiping out the rest of you with their heavy weapons. And even if some of you escape, what chance do you have of surviving the Sear without food, water, or shelter?”

  Without waiting for anyone else to speak, Platoon Sergeant Riidono half-stood, keeping his head below the lip of the draw. Although the nearest buildings were hundreds of yards away, Cutter had drilled into them that you couldn’t take anything for granted when your life was at stake. Cutter had always wondered how his platoon sergeants knew exactly when to jump in, and figured it was an instinct you were born with. Either you had it, or you didn’t.

  “All of you know he is right,” he said with a tone Cutter associated with far more seasoned non-coms. “Imsurmik is a big city, and that plateau is cut through with tunnels and caverns; most of you have seen them from the inside when we traded with the F’ahdn or brought goods to the marketplace. The shevfashli could be anywhere. There are less than fifty of us and thousands of them. Your best chance of finding her is to find somebody who knows where they took her. That won’t be a kr’it monger or a leather tanner; it will be somebody with fancy paint and nice robes, or maybe a J’Stull soldier trying to slip out of the city. Find them and we might find the shevfashli.”

  Naanni couldn’t quite let it go. One of the youngest, his eyes were brimming with tears. “What if she’s…what if they did something to her?”

  “Then we will hunt down and kill the men responsible,” Cutter said, baring his teeth for emphasis. “You know my words are true, you saw what I did to the rapist back in your village. I will gladly kill such men wherever I find them, but first I must find them.” He looked at each man, and, once he was certain he had their attention, Cutter continued, “I believe in the fighting spirit inside each and every one of you. We’ll operate in three fire teams, as planned. First, we’ll cross the bridge and meet up with Moorefield’s people and take up firing positions in those houses to the right of the road.”

  “The ones with the fields to their east?” asked Riidono.

  “Yes. From there, we’ll augment Moorefield’s firepower as needed. Then we’ll leapfrog forward. Fire Teams One and Two, you stay with me at that point. Fire Team Three, you follow Sergeant Riidono and occupy those first buildings on the left. They’re about two hundred feet further north, and there’s a blind spot where we can’t give supporting fire. More of Moorefield’s men are holding the road outside the Outer City near the gate, but there aren’t many of them and we could draw fire from any direction, so be on your toes.”

  Sergeant Riidono held up a hand to interrupt. “Won’t that slow us down, sir, if we try to run on our toes?”

  Cutter blinked. In 1944, he would have chewed out the wise guy, both for interrupting him and for making such a stupid joke. But it was two hundred years later, on a world he previously couldn’t have conceived existed, and so he laughed. He couldn’t help himself. All of the pent-up nervous tension came out in a few seconds of laughing so hard it hurt. Some of his men laughed with him, but most just looked confused.

  “It’s just a saying, Sergeant, an expression that means be alert.”

  “Oh. Thank you. I am sorry, Captain.” />
  Cutter chuckled and wiped away tears. “Don’t be. I haven’t laughed in a long time. All right; any more questions?” Nobody spoke, and Cutter’s smile fell away. “Remember what those people did to your friends and family. Go find your shevfashli, and if anybody shoots at you, kill ’em.”

  * * *

  Like every soldier he’d ever known, Cutter dreaded the first moment of exposure to enemy fire. Old clips of Doughboys going over the top in World War One invariably included one where the first man to show his face toppled back into the trench after being stitched with machine gun fire. Given that image, it amazed him that anybody would ever be first, yet, as leader of more than a dozen combat virgins, he had no choice except to go first. “Lead and they will follow” was what he’d been taught, and he prayed it held true with his new group.

  It did.

  Cutter didn’t wait to see if his men followed as he climbed out of the draw. He jogged toward the bridge some forty yards distant. A broad river valley with shallow banks fifty yards across held sluggish water filling less than half that width. The worsening drought and rising heat leeched moisture from both soil and river, like a parasite draining its host of blood. Built of heavy stone to withstand high and rushing water, Cutter eyed the bridge supports for cover in case he drew fire.

  Despite the plan to keep the population inside the city until they could be screened by his men, Moorefield didn’t have any troops to accomplish such a goal. In twos and threes, people ran from the outlying homes toward the bridge, mostly women and children. Upon spying Cutter and his platoon, they veered to either side and crossed the river on foot. Instinct warned him to watch out.