The City Who Fought

  “What?” he barked at the info-systems watch-officer. Not now. He was scheduled to undock and begin transit first, to be there when the transports came in for rendezvous with the rest of the High Clan. Just in case, but the weight of the responsibility was heavy, and this was his first independent command.

  “Lord, our system is under attack!”

  “The worm program?” Chindik’t‘Marid was a specialist in those. He had designed the standard Clan attack worm himself. He was also a game designer of note, although that was merely a hobby.

  “No,” the tech said. His fingers were dancing over his board. “Something’s just smashing its way in.”

  “Aside.” Chindik called up a graphic. He whistled silently. Something with enormous computational power was battering at the defenses with tremendous force, trying all the solutions. There was no indication of realspace location. His computers were spending all their capacity just keeping the enemy out. But since there was only one enemy installation in sight—

  “Cut the cable feeds to the station,” he said. “Battle alert to all other vessels.”

  “I can’t cut the feeds,” the tech said. “The retractors won’t answer. Neither do the landline comms to the rest of the flotilla.”

  “Well, then—” Chindik began. Another cry stopped him.

  “Detection,” the sensor operator said. “Multiple detection. Powerplant signatures. Close, lord, close. Approaching.”

  “Attack vectors,” the tactical computer announced. “Vessel is under attack.”

  “Those aren’t warships,” Chindik said in astonished dismay as he read the screen. His head whipped back and forth, reflex in a creature attacked from all sides. Then he straightened, strode back to the commander’s station, and sank into the couch.

  “Combat alert,” he said. The chimes began to sound, wild and sweet. “Battlestations. Deploy short-range energy weapons. Fire on any of those . . . gnats as the weapons bear. Gantry?”

  “Lord?” The dockside guards were looking away from the pickup. “Lord, we hear—”

  “Silence! Send parties through the sidelock and blow the feeds connecting us to the scumvermin hulk.”

  “Lord?”

  “Obey!”

  The guards scattered like mercury struck with a hammer.

  “Blast-broadcast,” Chindik said. “Five-minute signal, all crew rally to the Crusher. Then undock.”

  “Lord, I’ve been trying to activate the decoupling procedure.” The bridge was filling as the standby crew ran in and slid into their stations. “My telltales say it is working, but the visual scanner shows no activity.”

  “Send a party from engineering to dog it manually. Engines, prepare to maneuver.”

  “Lord, we’re still physically linked.”

  “I know. We’ll rip loose, and take the damage. Estimate.”

  “Six minutes to readiness, lord.”

  The weapons team were working in a blur of trained unison. “Enemy closing. Velocities follow. Preparing to engage . . . Lord, we need maneuvering room! They are too close for interceptor missiles.”

  “Make it three minutes, Engines.” He turned back to the communications console. “Get me the commander!”

  “Down two decks, use the emergency shaft. Down two decks, use the emergency shaft.”

  Simeon’s voice rang through the corridor. All up and down it, the doors of the residential apartments were opening. Stationers came out, first singly, then in groups, in scores. They ran past the working party at the corridor junction, grabbed whatever shapes were thrust into their hands: needlers, industrial torches, bundles of blasting explosive with fuses cobbled together out of calculators, handlights and spare consumer-goods chips. Their faces were set and tight, or grinning, or snarling wordlessly.

  Simeon broke off another fragment of attention as Amos came up.

  “Channa?” the Bethelite asked. Then, as she moved into sight from behind Joseph, he cried in relief. “Channa!” They had time for a single swift hug.

  His eye widened slightly as he saw Joseph’s body splashed with drying blood from knees to neck.

  “Mostly not my own, Brother,” Joseph said grinning.

  “You are hurt.”

  “Cracked rib. It is nothing.”

  Amos nodded briskly. “So far, they are surprised,” he said to Channa. “But that will not last.” The fabric of the station quivered beneath their feet.

  Belazir’t‘Marid stepped back from the door. The frame of the chair was bent in his hands, but only gouges showed on the surface. He dropped the shattered mass and looked around, his eyes narrowed.

  Fool, he thought, and suppressed anger. There would be time for recriminations later. Perhaps . . . He retrieved his equipment belt and extracted the universal microtool. There had to be a connecting line somewhere around the entranceway. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the titanium pillar that had been beneath the tapestries.

  “You will pay for this, my friend,” he said. “For a very long time.”

  “Eat shit and die, Master and God,” Simeon replied. God, that felt good. I’ve been waiting to say that. “You screwed the pooch. You did the doo-doo, big. You’ve got a place in the next edition of From the Jaws of Victory.”

  Belazir turned away with a smile and a shrug, going to work on the exterior access panel.

  “Can you feel pain?” he said as he began slicing it open with the short-range cutting laser in the tool “I hope so. Very much.” He deployed the hair-thin probe.

  “And I was playing below my level on the war games,” Simeon added.

  “Barricade at the next junction, lord.”

  The groundfighter’s voice sounded in her headphones. Pol’t‘Veng filed it with the other voices filling her helmet, squeezing at them with the force of her will until they began to assume some pattern.

  “Takiz,” she said to her second. He looked around from the six power-armored figures at the junction. Just ahead the corridor had been wrecked by a satchel-charge; the tangle of walls, tubing and the remains of the floating gun was still white-hot. Two of the suited Kolnari forced their way into the narrow place and began to straighten. Metal screamed as it was deformed again. Hot gases pooled around them and the remains of the gun-crew.

  “Takiz, when we’re through here, take four and make another attempt at Lord Belazir’s last location. Maximum effort.”

  That translated as “Bring him or don’t come back.”

  “I hear and obey, Lord Pol.”

  “Lord Pol, we have a cleared line to the main axial corridor.”

  “Good,” she said. Good news, the first since this started. “Reports.”

  “Fighting on all the docking levels, Lord. Data follows.”

  It did; also pickup views. One for only a second; the view from a powersuit as its wearer backed into the open port of a Clan transport. Stationers were firing from behind barricades of machinery and crates in the open space beyond. The lights were out and the view had the glassy look of light-enhancement. Softsuited crewfolk ran past the groundfighter. His plasma rifle snapped again and a makeshift breastwork exploded along with the bodies of the scumvermin behind it. Then all the telltales that ran below the visual flashed red. Not good news for the occupant of that suit, since the internal temperature was now over two hundred degrees. The scene began to fog just as she could make out a bundle of plastic bricks wired together arcing toward the airlock. Then it cut out abruptly.

  Bad. That was one vessel that would be undocking with extreme difficulty. She projected a schematic on the corridor wall and studied it as the information flowed in. More bad news, but at least she had a picture.

  “General transmission,” she said. “Lord Pol’t‘Veng, assuming command in the absence of Lord Belazir. Crews, report to nearest vessel. Those near the exterior, blow your way out of the pressure hull and EVA to the nearest vessel.”

  Many of them would be suited, and emergency clingmasks—films that protected the face somewhat, with
a miniaturized recycler—were standard issue. For that matter, Kolnari could endure about four minutes of vacuum if trained and prepared.

  “We retreat?” someone asked, shocked.

  “No, fool!” she said. The speaker was an officer with an intact company ranged behind him. It was worth the time to answer as she might herself fall, in which case he would need the information. “Look!” She downloaded her appraisal. “They fight to keep us here. We fight for fighting room. We have completed our mission.”

  “I hear and obey, lord.”

  “You had better,” she muttered to herself. Now that the blockage had been cleared, more Kolnari were gathering in the cross-corridors.

  “We fight our way through to the axial corridor,” she said. “You, Dittrek. Is that barricade still holding?”

  “Yes, lord. I do not have enough men to rush it again.”

  “Blow through the access walls to either side of your position,” she said. “Then blow through the connecting partitions and flank them. Quickly.”

  “Lord.”

  She turned to the others. “To the docks—follow me!”

  “Now!” Gus muttered to himself. The computer did the actual release. The tug released its grapnel field and applied lateral thrust, just enough to swing him wide of the station itself.

  He removed his hands from the controls and slapped the main power switch; the safest thing to do, now. There was a lot of high-velocity debris around . . . including the wrecks of the other tugs. He felt a curious peace, almost as if he could sleep.

  “Lord, we boost,” the engine comm of Heart Crusher said. At the same moment, the weapons console gave a cry of fury.

  “Kinetic slugs inbound. Prepare for impact. Inner defense batteries on auto.”

  “Full maneuver power. Boosting.”

  Chindik’t‘Marid prayed silently to the platform joss, making reckless promises. The big vessel lurched and rending sounds echoed through the fabric of its hull as the jammed connectors tore out, like roots parting in the earth. The most effective weapons were on the underside, and that was still pointed towards the SSS-900-C. There was nothing he could do, anyone could do, except the AI systems handling the close-in defense—something beyond even Kolnari reflexes.

  Sprays of trajectory crossed on the screens. Absently he noted the second to last attacking vessel taking a beam. An irrelevancy now, after the huge scatter of high-velocity projectiles had been loosed against his command. The slew of dots diminished, as the beams swept, more and more with each second as the stubby disk turned its teeth toward the sky.

  Tinngggggg. Tinnggggg. He waited, tense. No more contact. The rest of the incoming flotsam had been stopped, or missed, or struck the station instead.

  “Damage control!”

  A few lights were strobing from green to amber to red. The engines screen came on.

  “Lord . . . the exciter coils for the FTL were hit.”

  “How long?”

  “A week, lord. It is a dockyard job.” The Kolnari on the bridge exchanged looks. They had just heard news of their deaths.

  “You,” Chindik snapped to a backup crewman. “Take that—” he indicated the joss “—and space it.”

  “We have Lord Pol, lord.”

  The doors hissed open. Belazir jumped back with a yell as the plasma rifle leveled.

  “Lord!” The man seemed ready to weep with relief Belazir ignored him, diving for the empty suit that followed behind the warrior. For a wonder, it was his own.

  “Where is Serig?” Belazir barked. He had expected him to be here, or taking command. Matters should not have gotten so far out of hand.

  With the door open, the smells and sounds of combat were obvious: deep toning sounds as explosions tore at the fabric of the station, far off chuddering of beam weapons, the stink of hot metal and ozone. Belazir folded the suit around him, leaving the catheters for later. If I have to piss down my leg, so be it. It came alive with a jerk, and he flexed the servo-powered limbs and gauntlets with exultation.

  “Lord Serig is dead, Great Lord. Lord Pol commands. We have a link.”

  The news staggered Belazir for a moment. Serig dead? Then he damped the helmet. “Lord Pol?”

  “Here! Report follows.” Mostly disaster. “They came at us out of the walls, must have been hiding there since the occupation began.”

  Belazir nodded jerkily.

  “We hold the ships,” Pol said crisply. “Except for one transport that has, incredibly, been overrun. They attack the docks and encircle pockets of our troops.”

  “Continue consolidating the pockets and punch through to the ships,” he said. “Status?”

  “Heart Crusher is free but her FTL is down,” Pol said. “My Shark is also disengaged and I am not bringing her back. Half the transports are moving, but some with heavy damage. Dreadful Bride has nearly full crew, plus personnel from others, and is in control of her docking area and ready to boost.”

  “Age of Darkness?”

  “Still not even answering her comm,” Pol said, her voice taking on emotion for the first time. “My youngest daughter against a used wiperag. Her outer info was penetrated and they did not even,” she spat the word, “notice.”

  “No wager,” Belazir said. He reached back over his shoulder and swung the punchgun rack down. It clicked into its rest along his right arm. The aiming bars lit on his faceplate as he turned and cycled for sonic and IR scan on the pillar that held the brain. Ahhh, yes. There is the interior structure, and the access hatchway. “You may assume tactical command from the Age of Darkness, Lord Pol, once you reach it. I will follow to the Bride. There is a matter to attend to here.”

  “Through there,” Amos said. He pointed to two broken access doors across the circular open space. Most of it had been covered with kiosks, stores, restaurants and other structures until an hour ago. Now those were smoldering ruins, scattered among that were the bodies and the wreckage of the servomechs the stationers had used as their first wave. “They are back from the entrance on the second to the right.”

  “We’ll go through subaxial E-9 and punch across,” Keri Holen replied. “That’s one of the hidden sections.”

  She turned to her squad, a mix of station repair people with their working tools and ordinary civilians armed with whatever.

  “C’mon, scumvermin,” she said. “Let’s go show the lords what we think of ‘em. Follow me.”

  “How are we doing?” Channa said beside Amos, bobbing up and loosing a burst with her needler. Covering fire from all the stationers lashed out at the exit shafts as the assault team dodged forward. The barricade ahead of them was corycium, brought in by the handler servos, and plasma rounds had splashed off the front, or welded the ingots together and made the barrier stronger. They still had to expose themselves to shoot, if only in a crevice between two ingots.

  Amos ducked down with her as another series of bolts hit the metal. They could feel the barricade shudder and tone. The inner layer was barely warm, but the temperature above flash-heated enough to make their skins tingle. The stink of hot corycium made them cough, and Channa thought how worried she would have been in ordinary times; the fumes were not healthy. Then the whole station shuddered, and the gravity fluxed sufficiently to be noticeable.

  Nothing like a plasma bolt to give you a sense of perspective, she thought.

  “Not doing too well, my darling,” Amos said absently. A team from the Perimeter Restaurant was crawling from person to person with bags of sandwiches and juice. More of the restaurant’s people were back two junctions, running a triage station under the direction of one of Chaundra’s meditechs. “They are using the battle platform and the warship for fire support from outside, and we cannot stop them uniting their scattered groups. The groups that survived, that is.” He sighed and smiled at her through the black smudges of powdered metal. “I cannot think of finer company than yours to travel to God with, Channa Hap,” he said.

  “I’m glad, too,” she said. “Sorry it was t
his way, but glad.”

  He reached out to touch her shoulder. Then her face went glacial. For a moment he feared she had been hit, before he recognized the expression. She was communing with Simeon. Her throat worked. “Amos!” she burst out. “They’re taking Simeon out of his column!”

  The Bethelite paled. Without their all-seeing commander and chief of general staff, the station was doomed, and quickly. Channa turned and began to leopard-crawl backward. He grabbed for her ankle.

  “There is nothing you can do,” he hissed

  “I’m his brawn! I have to!” she cried, and kicked free. Amos looked after her and cursed.

  “Joseph!” he said. “We have to retake main axial, at least for a moment—along the path to the central command. Take—”

  The final lead connecting Simeon to the station came free. No! Simeon cried into the darkness. The self-destruct had been left too late. The Navy had not come, and the enemy were breaking free. When they had him on board, the station would die.

  He had nothing now, nothing but the single pickup and audio circuit that were part of his inner shell, life support was on the backups. It would keep his nutrient feeds going for days . . . but a single hand could switch him into total darkness, utter isolation. Madness, death without the mercy of oblivion. No!

  Belazir was still visible, leaning over the shell. He lifted off his helmet with both hands, looming over the pickup to smile whitely. The shell surged as the powersuited warriors bent carefully and lifted, the huge weight coming up slowly as their armor whined in protest. There was a slight klinking sound as the helmet rested on the upper face of the shell itself.

  “So that you should have my face for your last sight,” the Kolnari chieftain said, reaching for the keypad on the shell exterior. “When you see again, you will call me Master and God . . . and you will mean it.” He touched a finger to the control. “Beg, Simeon.”

  “Eat shit and die!”

  The Kolnari chuckled. “Not good enough,” he said, and pressed the stud.