Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Ten

 

1

It seemed a strange place for a council of war—a lovely, secluded glade in the shadow of a moss-clotted cliff, with a slender pink and orange waterfall splashing in a muddy pool and a tumbling stream that wound its way down a gentle slope into the tangle of jungle below. Parts of the base of the cliff had eroded away with the highly acid waters, creating deeply shadowed rock shelters and overhangs.

Retief sat within the depths of one of these. It was considerably cooler here than outside. More, he was having difficulty with the UV gel he'd spread on his skin . . . was it only the day before? Between sweat and scrambling through the woods and wearing full body armor for so long, that gel was starting to wear thin. There were raw spots on his forehead and on the backs of his hands where he'd already burned a little, and the acid-laden spray from the waterfall wasn't helping matters. He needed to stay in the shade as much as possible.

Around him, like giant, dark-gray starfish, a dozen Bloggies sprawled contentedly on convenient rocks, eyes glittering in the near darkness. Retief found he couldn't hear their thoughts now; perhaps only when they were excited or keyed up to a battle pitch could he eavesdrop on their natural telepathic connections.

"So explain it so a simple primitive native like myself can understand it, Retief," Schlup-shlupp was saying. "How are we gonna get the offworlders to leave us alone if you don't want us to attack them?"

"Schlup-shlupp, the only area of civilization you Bloggies are at all deficient in is the art and science of warfare . . . and that, believe me, is not something to be ashamed of! But it means you can't take on the Krll or the Concordiat war machines head on. If you try to confront them with their tactics and their mind-set, you will lose. Pure hearts and good intentions are all very well, but they won't make a dent in a Mark XVIII Bolo or a Krll Type-70 Deathwalker. And I don't care how thick and tough your hides are, they won't protect you against the half-megaton-per-second firepower of a 25cm Hellbore."

"'The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants,'" Schlup-shlupp said.

"Where did you learn to quote Thomas Jefferson?" Retief asked.

"The thought was in your mind a while ago. Sorry. Didn't mean to snoop."

"That's okay. And it's true that if you want freedom, you have to pay for it. But I think there are better ways for you folks to go about it than trying to drown all the offworlders in your own blood."

"When you put it that way, maybe you're right. Us Bloggies might be primitive, but we're not stupid."

"There's a good chance that the Krll will be leaving soon anyway," Retief said. "I learned a lot from Mr. Bug. It turns out the Krll are really interested in a planetary neighbor of yours."

"B'rukley."

"Right. It seems they have some old, old scores to settle with the B'ruklians, from back when the two of them were evolving together on the same planet."

"I've got a sixteenth cousin eight times removed," one of the Bloggies mused. "Nurk-nakk the Adolescent."

"I've heard the name," Retief said. "He works at the spaceport, right?"

"He's the one. Sometimes folks confuse him with Nakk-nurk the Adipose, but he's from the north-Nurk branch of the family."

"I gather he's been loading Krll transports," Retief prompted.

"Oh, yeah. Anyway, he told me a little while ago that things have really gotten stirred up in a big way down there. The Krll are starting to load up their big war machines. He says there's talk of them leaving real soon."

"It could be that my little tête-à-tête with Mr. Bug has made them advance their invasion schedule," Retief said. "If true, you might be rid of them sooner than we thought."

"So what about the other offworlders?" one of the Bloggies asked. "You know. The ones that look like you."

"Them we can probably handle with a few well-placed threats of diplomacy," Retief replied. "The Bloggies will just have to be careful about signing anything . . . and don't let them get you involved in PISH-TUSH resettlement programs or fast-food franchises."

"We don't eat fast food," Schlup-shlupp pointed out. "Foo-foo shrubs just sort of sit there. They don't try to get away or anything."

"Sounds easier on the digestive processes than the alternative. What's concerning me is what the Krll are planning to do about the Concordiat Navy."

"You mean all the spaceships you people have circling around in the sky up above the cloud layer?"

"Yes. The Concordiat has fleet elements parked in stellar orbit and out-system. The Krll aren't going to be able to slip a whole fleet of troop transports past the Concordiat pickets, so they must have something devious in mind. I wonder what it is?"

"The Krll are kind of in-your-tentacles about stuff," a Bloggie opined. "Maybe they just mean to push right through."

"I doubt that. Troop transports don't take kindly to naval Hellbores. If they're planning on fighting their way through, they won't be able to count on having much of an invasion force left when they reach B'rukley." He thought for a moment. "Tell me something, someone who's related to Nurk-nakk."

"That would be just about all of us, Retief," Schlup-shlupp pointed out. "We have big families, with lots of cousins."

"I've noticed. He's still working at the spaceport? They haven't kicked all the Bloggies out after that little contretemps at the warehouse district?"

"Sure, he's still there." Schlup-shlupp paused, then added, "He says they're blaming the counter-temp on wild Bloggies. They think he's tame. I guess they don't know us Bloggies very well."

"No, I don't think they do. If I were to get to the spaceport, get inside the perimeter fence, could Nurk-nakk sneak me aboard one of those transports? Inside a cargo crate, maybe."

Again, Schlup-shlupp hesitated, as though carrying on an internal conversation. "Sure!" he said at last. "Right now, there's so much confusion there it shouldn't be a problem at all."

"Okay, then. Have him be ready to meet me. You decide where a good place would be."

"Uh . . . Retief? You sure this isn't like what you were telling us a while ago? Refreshing Krll with your blood, and everything?"

"Don't worry, Schlup-shlupp. I have no intention of giving my blood to anyone today. But it's just possible we have a way to stop this war and get the offworlders out of here. Now here's what I have in mind. . . ."

2

It was very nearly the end of the long, long Odiousitan day when Retief reached the starport perimeter fence, along with an escort of three Bloggies, including Schlup-shlupp. A fourth Bloggie waited on the other side of the fence with a handcart—no, a tentacle-cart—that carried a large wooden crate. "Hurry it up, you guys," this last Bloggie urged. "The Krll are really touchy today. They're checking ID badges and everything."

"ID badges?" Retief asked.

"Yeah." Nurk-nakk turned slightly, revealing a laminated card stapled to his tough hide just above one of his six eyes. "And it smarts, I can tell you."

"Let's see if we can avoid that for me," Retief said.

The Bloggies grabbed hold of the chain-link fence with their tentacle-tip tendrils and tore it open like tissue, creating a hole large enough for Retief to slip through. "Remember what I said, Schlup-shlupp," he said once he was on the other side. "Stay low and stay out of trouble. If I'm not back in five of your days, do what you feel you have to to get rid of the Krll . . . but try to find Desiree Goodeleigh first and tell her exactly what I told you. Okay?"

"Okay, Retief."

"Good luck, fellows."

"Same to you. May the mud ever squelch beneath your tendrils."

"With a blessing like that, how can I miss?"

The empty crate was large enough for Retief to crawl inside and hunch over while Nurk-nakk sealed the lid. It was back-achingly uncomfortable, but he shouldn't have to endure it for too long. Slender gaps between the slats admitted air and gave him a view on the outside world, albeit an annoyingly blinkered one. Nurk-nakk trundled the tentacle-cart across the spaceport tarmac, steering clear of massed ranks of waiting Krll troops and making for one of the largest of the Krll transports—an immense, flattened black-and-silver egg with a yawning cargo door in the side high enough to accommodate a fifty-foot warwalker. In fact, pressing his eye against one of the slit openings in his crate, Retief could see a line of Deathwalkers filing slowly up the ramp and disappearing into the starship's cavernous maw.

Before long, Nurk-nakk had joined a procession of armored Krll troopers, ponderously clumping warwalkers of all sizes, and other Bloggies pushing crates on wheeled tentacle-carts. A pair of Krll guards stood to either side of the boarding ramp, watching as the supplies were taken aboard, but they didn't give Nurk-nakk or the concealed Retief more than a passingly bored glance.

A moment later, the crate was plunged into near darkness as Nurk-nakk wheeled him into the starship's open cargo bay. There followed several starts and stops, several turns . . . and then the lid to the crate came off. "Psst! Retief! Here's where you get off!"

Retief unfolded out of the crate and looked around. Nurk-nakk had wheeled him into a sheltered recess behind a stack of supply crates, tucked away in one corner of the cavernous hold.

"Thanks, Nurk-nakk. You'd better make yourself scarce, so they don't connect you with me."

"Will do, Retief. Good luck!"

The Bloggie turned and trundled the empty tentacle-cart off. Retief crouched in the crate-walled hideout and examined his surroundings.

One entire bulkhead of the cargo deck, the one opposite the huge door, was covered by catwalks, feed pipes, gantry ways, and enormous magnetic clamps securing a score of Krll warwalkers upright and motionless. Krll workers busied themselves about their monstrous charges. Several of the big combat walkers were open, their chest control centers exposed. As Retief had expected, it looked as though Krll in ordinary battle armor sat in those cockpits, presumably connecting to the walker by means of the foil neural transceiver. Retief touched the breast pocket of his combat blacks, making certain the folded-up transceiver was still there.

It was. Good. He began looking around for a way of reaching one of the monstrous walkers.

3

Steel ladder rungs were set into the bulkhead leading up forty feet to a catwalk overhead. Taking a final look around, Retief grabbed hold and started climbing. For a long and tense few moments, he was in plain view of every Krll soldier in the cargo hold, but apparently every Krll soldier was busy with the loading process, and none was watching the bulkhead ladder. Swiftly, as silently as a shadow, Retief reached the catwalk and began making his way toward the gantry cradle embracing the closest warwalker.

The walker was mid-range in size, mass, and armament, with a massive, headless torso like a squat beetle, heavily armored legs, and a pair of articulated arms ending in ion-bolt infinite repeaters. The blunt muzzle of a 10cm Hellbore protruded from a blister turret on top. The whole machine stood perhaps thirty feet above the cargo-hold deck and in a one-G gravity field would probably have weighed on the order of fifty or sixty tons.

To Retief's eye, the machine looked like an old Bogan design, a Drggha-class reworked and refitted to Groaci specs, then, most likely, retrofitted once again for Krll use. The cockpit blister was propped open, revealing a padded, man-sized couch within. He leaned over the lip of the cockpit and began examining the interior.

"Hey! You!" a voice called from behind. "You're one of them humans!"

Retief turned to face an armored Krll soldier, his red scanner light quivering nervously in his helmet visor slit. The helmet insignia indicated he was an NCO. "Actually, I'm not," Retief said coolly.

"G'wan!"

"Have you ever seen a human?"

"Sure I have! Well . . . from far off. They're ten feet tall and got three arms, with long claws on them!"

Retief looked at his own hands. "Do I fit that description?"

"Well . . . no. Not exactly. But . . ."

"This is a new armor design. Very hush-hush." He raised his arms and did a gentle pirouette. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"I dunno. Doesn't look very functional. And your headlight is out."

"They've been telling me that all day. It's a special design, for top-secret commando work. Won't give me away in the dark."

"Ooooh." The armored figure took a step closer, examining Retief. "That's why the black coloring on the legs, arms, and torso, then."

"Hey, you're sharp."

"I ain't a spear-corporal for nothing. Just be careful not to let the humans see you. Up close, the disguise really isn't very good. I mean . . . only two arms, and the hands only have five whatchamacallums."

"Fingers."

"Yeah. And two oculars instead of one. I mean, how stupid do you think the Terries are, anyway?"

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks." He jerked a thumb at the warwalker. "Is this your Drggha-class walker?"

"Sure is. Wish it weren't."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because the krrkking things are too slow, too lightly armored, and too undergunned to stand up to a Concordiat Bolo, that's why. They say the life expectancy in one of these things on the battlefield is like fifteen seconds, if you don't meet a Bolo. Then it's more like two seconds. But the krrkking officers get the decent ones, the Zuubas and Gnrrlies and such like. Us NCOs get stuck with the crappy stilters and the short life expectancy. Uh . . . wait a second. What's your rank?"

"Rifle-sergeant."

"Oh, okay." The Krll noncom sounded relieved. "Give a fellow a turn like that, not showing rank or anything. For a minute there, I thought you might be one of them."

"Don't worry. I would never be one of them, and even if I was, I wouldn't tell on you. Us rankers have to stick together."

"Thanks. You're a pal."

"Listen," Retief went on. "How'd you like to take some time off, unofficially?"

"Huh? Whatcha mean?"

"I need a combat walker for my secret mission, and this one might just fit the bill. Since you don't care for this model anyway . . ."

"Oh, Krll! I'd love to, but . . ."

"I won't tell a soul. It'll be our secret."

"You sure it's okay? It's not like goin' AWOL or anything?"

"Nah. I told you, I'm on a secret mission. I can go get special authorization papers and everything from Lord General Kreplach, but . . ."

"Oh, hey! Don't go to any special trouble! I mean, if you want that hunk of junk, it's yours! It'll give me a chance to catch up on my reading. Playkrll . . . the June issue." He made a double clicking sound and nudged Retief gently in the ribs with his elbow.

"Big thoracic knobs, huh?"

"The biggest! Hey, I'll catch you later, Rifle-sergeant!"

"Absolutely. I'll be right here."

The Krll turned and, whistling happily—a sound like a strangling teakettle—strode off down the catwalk.

4

Retief stepped into the machine's cockpit and settled himself onto the couch. The controls were dual-labeled in Krll, which he couldn't read, and Groaci script, which he could. Readouts in this last assured him the big machine was on standby, its weapons safed, its power plant ticking over at five percent, with magnetic locks engaged and life-support functions on. Reaching into his breast pocket, he removed the neural transducer, carefully unfolded it, and placed it on his scalp.

Once again, he felt that oddly disconcerting cellophane crackle inside his skull, like mental static as his brain connected with the walker's computer. Again, he felt that strange two-places-at-once disorientation. The cockpit blister hummed shut and locked with a sharp click, plunging him into total darkness.

And now, he could see with the walker's camera eyes. For a moment, it felt as though he was leaning against a wall, looking down at toy vehicles, blocks, and foot-tall dolls scattered about the floor at his feet. Then he saw that the dolls were Krll in man-sized armor suits, and his new giant's scale began to sink in.

For a few moments, he studied the dance of words and numerals flicking through his skull. It seemed as though he were listening to several conversations simultaneously. The Krll words were unintelligible—grunts, coughs, clicks, and chirps. Since they were being relayed straight to his brain, they were bypassing the translator program in his commando-suit electronics. He wondered how long it would take him to learn Krll.

As he scanned through the available radio chatter, though, he suddenly heard a voice speaking English. By concentrating on that one voice, he could drown out the rest of the incoming chatter and focus on it alone.

"This is the Terran Concordiat dreadnaught Eximious on outer perimeter patrol!" a very human voice was saying, the words edged with tension. "We have incoming bogies, repeat, incoming bogies, at Right Ascension eight hours twenty-five point one-niner minutes, Declination minus twelve point seven-two! Range . . . four hundred K. It looks like the whole damned Krll battle fleet, coming in hot!"

"This is the Concordiat battlecruiser Inenarrable!" another voice said. "We've got your bogies, Eximious! Hang on! Inenarrable, Eshcarotic, and Equipollent are under acceleration! We will rendezvous with you in . . . mark! Fourteen point three one mikes!"

"This is the Concordiat heavy destroyer Irritable! We're locked on to the bogies and are on intercept course! Destroyers Invidious, Inveigle, and Invariable have matched course and are moving out at three Gs! We are going to battle stations!"

"Ah-ha!" a much deeper, rougher voice exclaimed. "This is the barrier bastion Ineluctable, of the Greater Krll Prosperity Sphere! Behold your approaching death, Terry vermin! Our magnificent battle fleet shall transform your pitiful task force into its component atoms forthwith!"

"Aw, your mother chases after troopships! Get off the channel, Krlljoy!"

"Never! This is our wavelength!"

"Go on! The Articles of Police Actions and Civilized Warfare clearly state that the blockading force shall have sole use of all mid- to upper-range frequencies, from fourteen hundred unicycles to—"

"I twitch my anterior antennae in derision at your Articles of Police Actions and Civilized Warfare! I insultingly waggle my posterior antennae at your mid- to upper-range frequencies in contempt! I—"

"Hey, the Krll so-and-sos aren't playing fair, boys! Let's give it to 'em!"

"Roger that! Imperious, Impediment, and Impertinent are shaping course for fleet rendezvous in twelve point one one mikes!"

I wish I could see what was happening, Retief thought . . .

. . . and then he could see, as a computer-generated schematic unfolded in his mind's eye. The neural transducer apparently could tap into the starship's battle computers and show him a diagrammatic view of the unfolding tactical situation.

He could see the blue sphere of Secondsun in the center, hooped by the emerald green orbits of six planets. A scattering of pink icons marked Concordiat vessels, while Krll ships and bases showed bright purple. Only three purple blips showed near Odiousita V—the Ineluctable and the two other low-orbit barrier bastions that had so far kept the Concordiat fleet at bay. Far out-system, almost at the edge of Retief's awareness, thirty more purple icons moved en masse toward the star and its retinue of worlds.

And the pink icons were swarming in from all across the system—from high orbit around Odiousita V, from the system perimeter, and from marshalling centers in between. The Concordiat vessels were outnumbered better than two to one, but if the size of the icons Retief was seeing were any indication, the Krll vessels were much smaller and would be correspondingly lightly armed and armored. Krll alphanumerics wrote themselves across the three-D mental map, most likely readouts giving acceleration, speed, and course. The pink icons were boosting hard to intercept the incoming Krll fleet.

"Geeze!" a Concordiat commo officer called. "There sure are a lot of 'em!"

"Yeah, but they're all small stuff—frigates and escorts, mostly. Combat Central Command says we'll have a two-point-five to one advantage in firepower. We're gonna mop the floor with those creeps!"

"Looks like this is the big fight we've been waiting for, guys!"

"It's about damned time! No quarter!"

Minute by minute, the Concordiat ships crawled away from their initial positions, drawing pink contrails in their wakes. The purple fleet appeared to be decelerating, slowing as the Terry ships raced out to meet them.

The nameless Concordiat communications officer had been right. This was the big fight everyone had been waiting for. An all-out battle between Krll warships and the Concordiat Peacekeepers would probably signal the end of the Odiousitan police action, and the beginning of general war. . . .

Or . . . did the Krll have something else in mind? The purple icons appeared to have come to a halt at the fringes of the star system. That hardly made sense. They should be taking advantage of their maneuverability, not sitting in place like so many bright purple targets.

No, now they were beginning to move once more, out-system, away from the oncoming Terry warships.

"Hey, the Krlljoys are running for it, boys! Pour on the coal!"

"Don't let them get away, men! Keep on them!"

"Yah, we'll chase 'em clean back to their home port if we hafta!"

The Krll warships did indeed appear to be faster and more maneuverable than their opponents, but they were accelerating from a dead stop while the Concordiat ships were already in high-G pursuit. The Terry ships were closing . . . closing . . .

"Don't do it, guys," Retief said to himself. "It's the oldest trick in the book. . . ."

The Krll admiral had certainly timed things nicely. As the Concordiat Peacekeeper ships merged into a single fleet at the periphery of the Odiousitan system, the Krll war fleet vanished beyond the ken of the animated chart in Retief's mind. Minutes passed, and then the Terry ships, too, passed out of range.

"So that's how they're going to do it," Retief said. As he blanked out the computer-feed animation, he could sense the increased pace of activity around him—orders being relayed, individual ships checking in, the last armored Krll soldiery filing onboard and up into the troop compartments forward. With a little experimentation, Retief at last found a computer feed showing the starport from a camera mounted somewhere on the exterior of the Krll transport's hull. All across the spaceport, the huge and lumbering troopships were rising on their gravs, kicking up vast swirls of dust, hovering a moment before beginning to rise into the cloud-locked sky.

Retief's transport was lifting as well. He felt the shudder of inertial dampers coming online, then watched the starport dwindle below until it was lost in the clouds. A sudden blast of raw, blue sunlight flooded his mind as the ship accelerated hard through the fast-thinning upper atmosphere and into space. He caught a glimpse of one of the Krll orbital fortresses in the distance, and then the planet waned into a slender crescent close by the brilliant flare of its sun. The troopship accelerated faster, and soon the crescent was lost in the blue star's glare.

Firstsun, B'rukley's primary, glowed orange dead ahead.

They were driving now for out-system . . . and there wasn't a Concordiat warship within a thousand AUs that could stop them.

Nice going, guys, he thought. Someone is going to end up running the automated weather station on Iceball for this little fiasco. 

There wasn't anything Retief could do about the decoyed Concordiat fleet. They might recognize their mistake in time . . . or they might not. Either way, Retief was helpless for the moment, locked away in the invasion transport's hold. Even if he could find his way up to the bridge and take over the ship single-handedly—not, by any means, a promising option—the transport was unarmed, and at least two dozen other transports were en route to B'rukley.

In fact, Retief could imagine only one thing to do at the moment. It had been many, many hours since he'd last been able to sleep.

He turned off the voices and pictures in his head, closed his eyes, and settled back for a long and much-needed nap.

5

By the time the Krll invasion fleet was approaching B'rukley, Retief was again awake and feeling much better for the downtime. He'd eaten one of the survival nutribars he'd carried in a coverall pocket and begun studying the mental controls of the warwalker in earnest. He wished he could practice a bit with the machine—but he doubted that the transport's captain would care to have him moving about—a literal loose cannon on his cargo deck.

But Retief had his plan ready. The tricky part was in the timing. Set his plan in motion too soon, and he'd be easy prey for the Krll troops onboard the cargo ship; delay too long, and his warning would come too late to do the Concordiat any good.

He waited until the transport was just entering B'rukley's atmosphere and already committed to a landing. Mentally, he shifted through the communications frequencies, until he could hear voices speaking Standard.

"Unidentified vessels, please respond, over. I repeat, unidentified vessels approaching B'ruklian airspace, this is B'rukley Space Control requesting verbal confirmation of Concordiat Navy IFF codes. Please respond. . . ."

Retief snapped home the mental connections, opening the channel.

"B'rukley Space Control! This is Jame Retief, on board a Krll military troop transport, inbound to B'rukley! These are not, repeat, not Concordiat warships, no matter what their IFF codes say! This is a Krll invasion fleet en route to B'rukley! I say again . . ."

As he repeated the warning, Retief was aware of sudden, frenzied activity within the Krll transport's computer as his transmission was detected and the ship's masters moved to cut him off. A moment later, he felt the communications channel go dead.

Had they been able to identify where the rogue message had originated? Probably, given time. But time was something that neither the Krll nor Retief had much of at the moment. Armored Krll warriors, robot troops and NCOs both, began spilling into the cargo hold, gesturing wildly, waving weapons.

And they were advancing on his warwalker, so they knew where the message had come from.

It was time to act.

Focusing his mind, he commanded the magnetic grapples to release. Nothing happened. They'd overridden the control from the bridge. He thought about arming his weapons, but that command was overridden as well.

He concentrated instead on taking one giant, powerful step forward. He could feel the strain in his right leg as his brain told it to move, but the gantry clamps were holding him fast.

Inside the walker's cockpit, the muscles of Retief's human body bulged with the strain, and sweat trickled down his face and chest. He could hear a high-pitched whine of overstressed servomotors.

Suddenly, hardened steel snapped, sending shrapnel spraying across the cargo hold, scything down several robotic soldiers and sending the piloted armor scrambling for cover. His right leg swung forward, scattering a handful of Krll troopers. He planted his right foot solidly on the deck, then switched his full concentration to his left leg, twisting as he pulled it slowly from the gantry clamps.

Those grapples shattered as well, and he stepped clear. Pink lights winked on within his mind's eye as his weapons armed themselves.

Power-gun bolts flashed and snapped from every direction, but the Drggha's armor could absorb that level of punishment for hours and not even grow warm. The real threat was from the five other walkers secured in the hold with him. He could see their pilots racing up gantry ladders and down the catwalks toward their waiting machines.

Ignoring the small-arms fire, Retief focused on raising his right arm and felt the walker's right arm snap into a stiff-armed gesture, aiming its ion-bolt infinite repeater at the nearest walker. Mentally clenching his fist sent a stream of dazzling blue tracers slamming into the pinioned machine, gouging foot-wide craters in its black carapace, blasting into the open cockpit, ripping shards and scraps and ragged chunks of armor out of the walker's torso in blazing, half-molten handfuls.

The machine's pilot, halfway out on the catwalk, decided better of his course of action and scuttled clear, moments before the catwalk itself was torn apart by spinning debris. Flame gouted from the walker's open cockpit. Retief pivoted, sending the stream of ion bolts hosing into the next walker in line.

That walker was small and squat, a Nrrghl-class mobile battery with quad-mounted 5cm autocannons in a dorsal turret. The infinite repeater bolts slashed through the Nrrghl's thin armor . . . and must have connected with the onboard munitions stores, because the twenty-foot walker exploded in a violent detonation that ripped open the bulkhead, demolished the gantry, and slammed Retief back a step or two with the hammer-blow concussion.

The end walker in line suddenly stepped clear of its grapples, its upper torso pivoting to take aim at Retief's machine. It was an old Bogan model, what the Bogans called a Ch'udd gnish, a word that meant, roughly, "Bludgeon." Concordiat intelligence reports called the Krll version a Slag Type 24. It was bigger and heavier than Retief's Drggha and more heavily armed. Each forearm mounted a 15cm Hellbore; the hunched-over torso, looking like a seventy-ton beetle on two massive legs, bristled with turret-mounted lasers and chainguns. It raised both Hellbores, taking aim . . .

And hesitated. Those weapons were designed for combat in the emptiness of space or an open-air battlefield on a planetary surface, not within the confines of a thin-skinned transport still in flight. One missed shot, or even the spillover from a direct hit, could easily burn through the hull and cause unpredictable but death-serious damage.

Retief was not operating under the same limitations, though he preferred to have the transport land him more or less in one piece. He took ten swiftly scissoring strides across the wreckage-strewn deck, closing with the Slag-24, stepping inside its Hellbore reach and bodily slamming into the other machine, armor to armor.

Explosive chaingun shells clawed and hammered at him; point-defense lasers chewed into his armor. Retief concentrated on moving his head, turning it slightly left and nodding sharply down, and the 10cm Hellbore turret on his own machine's dorsal surface pivoted and depressed, jabbing deep into the Slag's armor. As the Krll machine's pilot scrambled clear in a wild, clawing panic, Retief triggered the Hellbore, and the machine in his embrace exploded in ragged, smoking chunks and gobbets of liquid metal.

The blast staggered Retief back a step. Turning, he continued firing his infinite repeaters into the other waiting Krll warwalkers, completing the destruction begun in the cramped confines of the starship's hold. A portion of the bulkhead gaped open on blue sky and a howling wind. Retief could feel the damaged transport shudder as its pilot tried to guide it down through unforgiving atmosphere. Retief turned his infinite repeaters toward the overhead, sending twin streams of coruscating blue flares lancing into the upper levels. The shuddering became worse, the death scream of the giant ship.

Satisfied that the vessel was doomed, Retief moved his walker to the gaping hole in the hull, bracing the arms against either side of the gap to keep from being thrown clear. The ship, he estimated, was less than a mile above the ground, now. He could see forests, a meandering river . . . and on the horizon the sprawl of a city—almost certainly High Gnashberry, if that cluster of domes and towers to the right was the university.

Good. It would have been inconvenient if he'd been forced to walk halfway around the planet.

Right now, though, his first goal was to get himself down in one piece. The pilot of the wounded transport still had partial control of the stricken craft. Retief flexed his arms and pulled the tear in the hull wider. More internal explosions shook the falling troopship.

The ship was flying now with all of the grace and beauty of a falling brick. Treetops flashed past below, and Retief could see the transport's oblong shadow rippling across the upper surface of the forest canopy, growing steadily larger as the ship descended.

Retief took stock of his warwalker's jet pods—strap-on thrusters for use in jumping rivers or other obstacles. They were fully charged and ready. He wasn't going to survive this if they weren't.

Small-arms fire crackled and snapped, as energy bolts slammed into his walker armor from the rear. More Krll troopers were racing into the wrecked cargo hold now and opening fire on him. Retief took a deep breath, braced himself at the ragged tear in the hull . . . and jumped. . . .

 

Back | Next
Contents
Framed