Chapter 11
Bill Sutherland led his small contingent along the cold dark beach, stumbling now and again over frozen clumps of seaweed. The bitter March wind howled off the Atlantic, driving the frigid evening tide at their feet. He wasn’t aware of his numb hands or frozen feet. With the others, his whole attention was held by Goose Hill, its summit now lit by the flash of massed energy weapons, their shrill whine clear above wind and surf.
As they watched, a great explosion tore open the night, throwing him and his men to the sand, bathing them in an ochre glow. “Sweet Jesus.” He stumbled to his feet, squinting into the glare. Scotar warriors swarmed unopposed past the fiercely burning shuttle.
“Someone friendly is up there and in trouble!” Bakunin’s shout carried over the secondary explosions. Like the rest, he’d traded his business suit for more practical clothing from the Institute: wool turtleneck sweater, heavy twill pants and a fur-lined field jacket, the Leurre Institute dolphin crest on its left shoulder. And like the Americans, he carried an M-16 taken from the Institute.
“Sure looks that way.” Sutherland nodded, dropping his voice as the explosions died. “How do we get to them?” He pointed his rifle up at the carnage. “We can’t fight our way through that!”
The small pickup force from Otis—APs, mechanics, techies—had secured the Institute, meeting no resistance—the buildings and grounds were deserted. The infantry brigade was still forming up at Ft. Devens. Before leaving Oystertown, Bill had changed half the airmobile brigade’s destination from the Institute to Goose Hill, but it would be at least another hour before their arrival. Whoever was holding the hill didn’t have an hour. Suddenly it came to Bill—a way to bypass the summit.
“There’s a tunnel leading from the site here to the beach,” he said, sweeping his light along the embankment as they walked. “My people escaped through it and one of them left his stick as a guide. If we’re lucky, it’ll still be there.”
Yazanaga spotted it, just as more explosions rocked the ground: a blackthorn walker leaning precariously against a great boulder. As they approached at a trot, the ground shook again and Bob’s stick fell with a clatter, rolling to a stop at their feet.
Picking up the stick, Bakunin skeptically eyed the weathered granite. “So?”
“So . . . this!” With the air of a conjurer, Sutherland flashed his light into a small niche above where the stick had leaned. A tiny green light winked back as a great stone slab swung noiselessly aside.
The agents stood blinking in the yellow circle of light from the tunnel. Johnson gave a low whistle of astonishment. Another barrage rocked the hill, sending a shower of loose rock down on their heads.
“After you, Colonel,” Bill said, gesturing toward the entrance.
The Russian shook his head. “Your tunnel, you lead, mine host.”
M-16 leveled, Bill slipped into the passage. Marsh, Yazanaga and Johnson followed, weapons poised. Bakunin, bringing up the rear, covered the doorway until the slab swung shut, then trotted after the Americans.
“Junk! Junk!” Kiroda said through clenched teeth, glaring at the console’s merrily twinkling lights. It was the first time Zahava had seen him lose his composure.
“All the positions were lit before,” she said, staring at the other consoles, now gone dark.
“I think the last time you triggered the defenses,” speculated the Kronarin. “Perhaps your metabolism is a bit different from ours. Or perhaps the computer has standing orders to transport intruders to the nearest manned station. Perhaps Implacable qualified. And perhaps I don’t know what I’m talking about,” he concluded ruefully, returning to his task. “According to the Imperial Archives,” he added, hopefully typing a fresh sequence of numbers, “the ground defenses can be activated from a remote terminal—assuming we’re faced with a Mode Two or Three system. Anything higher and who knows?”
Zahava watched the screen respond to the input with a fresh burst of figures. Figures her brain knew, through the magic of the translator, to be mathematical symbols akin to calculus.
“Hmmm.” Kiroda stared hard at the new figures.
“Maybe?” asked the Israeli, peering eagerly over his shoulder.
“Maybe. He rubbed his eyes. “The Planetary Operations Command series—the POCSYMs—had a reputation for chattiness that’s endured over fifty centuries. If Terra’s POCSYM was functioning, we wouldn’t be able to shut it up.”
They looked up, startled, as the shrill of blaster fire echoed down the tunnel. “Cover the corridor,” said the officer, tapping again on the trilevel keyboard.
Rifle at high-port, Zahava ran from the room.
The outer door flared white and was gone. Aiming carefully, the handful of humans fired into the packed Scotar, dimly visible through the haze and smoke. Much like a child’s toy, a small blue ball rolled in.
The Kronarin commtech moved first. “Grenade!” he cried, hurling himself atop the ball. His body absorbed much of the energy that vaporized him, saving the others.
Commando Sergeant Danir leading, the survivors charged into the altar chamber and down the ladder into the lower tunnel. John, in the rear, secured the altar stone with a blast to the wall sensor. “That should slow them.”
“Not for long,” said the commando, running ahead of him. The small troop halted where Zahava waited, just outside the control room. “Commander, I need a blastpak,” Danir said, bursting in on Kiroda.
“Over there.” Not taking his eyes from the screen, the officer gestured toward their neat small stack of equipment.
The sergeant, no older than Kiroda, ran to the pile. Tumbling it in his haste, he yanked out a flat gray packet, then hurried back down the corridor.
Kiroda typed in another sequence. “How long?” he asked over the commnet.
“Assuming maximum delay at the ladder—twenty minutes,” Danir reported. The NCO reappeared a moment later, sans blastpak. “It’ll detonate when the first warrior reaches the bottom rung. It’s set for just Scotar.”
John poked his head through the doorway. “If you don’t get that thing working soon, we’re going to be fatally overcrowded.”
“If I do,” replied Kiroda, “the defenses may be inoperative. And if I don’t, we won’t have to spend much longer in these dreary tunnels. Sergeant, plant the nuclear demolition charge on this equipment. Set timer for command detonation and detonation within three feet of any non-humanoid life form.”
A dull KRUMMP! punctuated his order, the floor shaking dust billowed in from the ruined altar well. Gagging and wheezing, the humans switched their warsuits to internal atmosphere.
The installation’s scrubbers quickly swept the air clean, affording a clear view of the first wave of Scotar as they rounded the tunnel, firing. Crouching low, the defenders fired back.
One crewman lost an arm to concentrated fire. His suit sealed the blood-gushing stump, clamping off the wound and filling his body with painkillers, but not before his agonized shrieks had filled the commnet.
The humans cut down the first wave of warriors. Another wave followed. And another. And another, charging unwavering into the human’s blaster fire. The corridor became a charnel house heaped high with Scotar.
John’s blaster quit without warning. A quick look showed over half a charge left. Hearing curses, he looked up. All of their weapons had failed.
“Damper field!” spat Danir. He drew a wicked-looking knife from his boot sheath.
“Their blasters won’t work, will they?” asked Greg. He peered down the tunnel’s curve, around which the Scotar had withdrawn.
“No.” Leaning his useless rifle against the wall, the NCO took up position midtunnel. “It’ll be small consolation, though. Form on me.” The other commando and the three Terrans fell in beside him. “Commander!” he called. “Now or never.”
“Never,” said a resigned voice. Knife in hand, Kiroda came to stand with his men.
John felt a hand squeeze his arm. Zahava stood next to him. “
The French have a saying,” she said with a sad smile. “‘Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse.’ You know it?”
“Yes, and it’s very depressing. Today’s not our day to perish, he said, giving an answering squeeze. “My bad knee doesn’t hurt.”
“So, some good news,” quipped Commander Kiroda.
The warriors came at them six abreast, leaping toad-like over their dead, sweeping down on the humans, a great green flood. At twenty paces, John gamely fell into a fighting crouch, his left knee throbbing again.
“Drop!” roared a voice from behind. The humans dropped, faces to the rock floor, as a hail of gunfire tore into the Scotar. The victorious charge became a rout.
Firing from the hip, Sutherland led his men after the retreating warriors. A final burst of fire killed the last of them just as they reached their blasters, stacked beside the altar well. The five men walked slowly back to where John and Zahava stood, helmets under their arms.
“Long night, Bill?” John smiled weakly, clapping a hand to his friend’s shoulder.
“Long night,” said John.
Bill nodded. “Like Mr. Scrooge, I keep hoping I’ll soon wake up to a familiar world.”
Zahava, ever direct, kissed Sutherland soundly on the lips.
He grinned, tired but appreciative.
“Something out of an opium dream,” said Sutherland, nudging a torn Scotar corpse with his rifle butt. “And who those people are, I’m afraid to ask,” he said, nodding toward the Kronarins. “They supplied your space opera props?”
“They’re from a nearby starship,” said Greg, helping carry the unconscious crewman into the transport room. Sutherland merely nodded. Bakunin, standing nearby examining a blast rifle, didn’t look up.
“I can see you’re overwhelmed by the news,” said John.
“I was overwhelmed hours ago. Now I’m just trying to cope. What are they called?”
“They’re Kronarins,” said Zahava. “Their ancestors built this installation, centuries ago. Apparently, we’re cousins—a lost colony.”
“And the big green bugs?”
“Scotar. The two are fighting a war of extermination,” John said.
“Who’s winning? The Scotar?”
“Yes.”
Sutherland grunted. “Joy.”
Kiroda had vanished into the transport room just after the warriors’ destruction. He reappeared, intent on the small scanner he was holding. After a moment he looked up, relieved. “All enemy forces have left the area.” He gave a crooked grin. “We did it—we held. And it’s because of you that we did,” he said to Sutherland. “Thank you.” He held out his hand.
“I can’t understand you,” said Bill, shaking hands, “but I can guess. You’re welcome.”
“By a clever oversight, I neglected to bring translators with us.” Kiroda led them into the transport room. Bakunin, exploring, looked up as they trooped in.
“May I present Colonel Andréyev Ivanovich Bakunin, Russian Federation,” said Sutherland. “These two people’—he indicated John and Zahava—“work with me.”
Bakunin nodded pleasantly. “May I know their names?”
“No.” Bill looked at Greg. “You, I don’t know,” he said.
“If you’re Joe Antonucchi’s boss, you might recognize my fingerprints from a piece of granite I gave him.”
“Implacable to ground force.” Detrelna’s voice came from their commlinks. “What’s your situation?” A ragged cheer preceded Kiroda’s report.
“I’m coming down with reinforcements,” the captain said, an anxious McShane hovering at his elbow. “By the way, fifty Terran rotoplanes are closing on you—ETA two minutes. I assume they’re friendly.” (He assumed nothing. Four batteries were locked on the unsuspecting Rangers.)
John relayed the information to Sutherland.
“Rapid Deployment Force out of Ft. Devens. I’d better get up there. Where’s the front door?”
His men hadn’t been idle. A rope ladder now dangled down the altar well, its bottom draped over and dead Scotar. He made a face then swung up the ladder, Kiroda close behind. “Why didn’t that blast collapse this shaft?” he asked, climbing.
“It’s not rock—it’s an battlesteel alloy,” said Kiroda.
“I don’t know about anyone else,” said Bakunin, “but I need rest.” The Russian lay down on the floor and was instantly asleep.
“Food for those who want it,” said Danir, passing out handfuls of tasteless protein wafers.
Tired but hungry, the remaining allies ate.