Empire of Man Page 51

  Gronningen tapped a control on top of the weapon and sat down cross-legged behind it. He looked at the bridge where the Mardukan soldiers in both guardhouses were watching the company deploy. None of them appeared to have noticed the team’s preparations.

  “We’re up,” he announced.

  “Plasma cannon’s up,” Moseyev relayed over the com.

  “Copy,” Kosutic replied. “We’re in position. Take the shot.”

  “Why haven’t they jumped yet?” Kidard Pla snarled. The Pasulian watched the wings of the fearsome weapon deploy and fingered the stone rail of the bridge nervously.

  “Maybe they weren’t told?” his companion suggested.

  The Pasulian guards had been specially detailed to the bridge because all of them could swim. They’d been informed of the plan just before they went on duty, and now they watched their Marshad counterparts, waiting for them to abandon their posts. The plasma weapons were supposed to sweep the Pasule defenders off the bridge, but they would kill or severely wound the Marshad guards as well, unless they got themselves safely out of the way. But none of them were moving. Either they hadn’t been informed that their “allies’” weapons were dangerous to them, as well, or else they were playing a game of basik. Whichever it was, Kidard Pla wasn’t playing along.

  “I’m going to start yelling and pointing,” he said. “Then we jump.”

  “Sounds good to me. Hurry.”

  “Look!” the guard leader called. “The human lightning weapons! Everyone off the bridge!”

  He took his own advice without further ado and launched himself over the low wall of the bridge and into the water. He was not sticking around to see what happened next.

  Gronningen had already started to depress the firing stud when he saw the Pasule contingent start pointing. He paused for only a moment, all the time it took the keyed-up guards to hit the water, and then fired.

  The plasma charge traveled at nearly the speed of light and smote the nearer Pasule guardhouse in a flash of actinic light and a bellowing explosion. The Marshadan guards were swept effortlessly from the bridge by the thermal bloom, vanishing like gnats in a candle flame, and the plasma bolt carved a ruler-straight line of blazing vegetation across the fields between the cannon and the bridge. The center of that line was bare black to the soil, which steamed and smoked in the blazing gray light.

  The Marines broke into a trot, heading straight for the bridge with bead rifles and grenade launchers at port arms, and the rest of the Marshad forces poured out of the city gates behind them.

  Gronningen flipped the safety back on and hit the collapse key, and the fire team waited while the cannon reabsorbed itself, then looked at their leader.

  “Mutabi,” Moseyev said, slinging his bead rifle and taking one of the handles. “Let’s go.”

  The team hefted their weapons and followed the rest of their company. Walking through the fire.

  “Glorious! Glorious!” Radj Hoomas clapped all four hands in glee. “The bridge is clear! Pity their guards got away, though.”

  “You didn’t inform your own guards?” Roger’s tone was wooden.

  “Why should I? If they’d panicked early, it might have given away our attack.” The king looked towards the distant city. “Look, they still haven’t even begun to issue forth. We’ve caught them completely by surprise. Glorious!”

  “Yes,” Roger agreed, as Pahner stepped up beside him, obviously to get a better view of Pasule. “It’s going well so far.”

  Eleanora O’Casey nodded at the group of guards around the king, who waved for them to move aside. It was well known that the chief of staff was an academic, not a fighter, and so tiny a person hardly posed a threat to Radj Hoomas.

  “What do you intend to do with them when you capture their city?” she asked, stepping up on the far side of the king from the prince and captain and gesturing at the other city.

  “Well, the market for dianda is fully satisfied at the moment,” the Mardukan said, rubbing his horns. “So after stripping the Houses, I will probably permit them to raise barleyrice. Well, that and use them to support my combined army as it conquers the rest of the city-states.”

  “And, of course,” O’Casey said, “we’ll be free to pass on our way.”

  “Of course. I will have no further need for you. With the combined force of Marshad and Pasule, I’ll control the plains.”

  “Ah,” the academic said. “Excellent.”

  The king grunted as the gates of the distant city opened at last. It was difficult to see much at this distance, but it was obvious that the city’s forces were pouring out into the plain to defend their fields.

  “I’d hoped they would take longer to respond,” he grumped.

  “Well,” O’Casey smiled, “they say no plan survives contact with the enemy.” She tried not to smile too broadly as she recalled Pahner’s explanation of the sole exception to that rule—the first few moments of a surprise attack.

  “Look.” The king pointed to the struggling plasma cannon team. “Your lightning weapon is almost to the hill.”

  Moseyev’s team had reached the parklike hill, and were toiling up the overgrown path, and Radj Hoomas pointed again, this time to a small group of his own forces which had separated from the main body.

  “I hope no one minds, but I sent along some of my own troops.” He grunted in laughter, looking down at the chief of staff. “Just in case your soldiers should meet up with stragglers or brigands. You can never be too careful, you know.”

  “Oh, I agree,” the academic said with a slight frown. “War is a terrible business. One never knows what might go wrong.”

  “Okay,” Gronningen said. “We’ve got nursemaids.” The big Asgardian frowned. “This is going to fuck things up.”

  “I see ‘em,” Moseyev grunted. “Stay with the plan.”

  “There’s nearly twenty of ‘em,” Macek’s tone wasn’t nervous, just professional.

  “Yeah,” Moseyev said, grunting again—this time under the combined weight of their overloaded packs and the plasma cannon. “And there’s four of us, and we planned for this. When we get in place, put out the gear right away. Even with this heavy mother, we can make it to the top of the hill in plenty of time.”

  The king grunted in laughter as the Marshad forces came to a halt on the plain. The formation’s wings were composed of standard mercenary companies, professionals who would stand and fight as long as they felt the battle was going for them, and not a second longer. They could be expected to lend weight to a successful attack, but only a fool would depend on them for more than that.

  No, the critical point was in the center, where the strongest and deepest companies stood. The humans formed the front rank, “supported” by the majority of the Royal Guard immediately behind them, ready to cut them down if they attempted to flee or to exploit the expected breach the human weapons were about to rip through the Pasulians.

  The Guards had stopped to dress their ranks before attacking . . . which gave the humans an opportunity to make one last communication.

  “Fire it off, Julian,” Lieutenant Jasco said.

  “Yes, Sir.” The NCO dug the star flare out of his cargo pocket and prepared it, then fired it into the air over the human forces—where both the Pasulian army and their Marshadan allies in the city could see it—with a thump.

  “What was that?” the king demanded suspiciously as the green firework burst in midair.

  “It’s a human custom,” O’Casey said indifferently. “It’s a sign that the force is here for battle and that no parley will be accepted.”

  “Ah.” The mollified monarch gave another grunting laugh. “You seem eager to enter battle.”

  “The sooner we finish, the sooner we can be on our way,” O’Casey said with absolute sincerity.

  “There’s the signal,” Denat whispered.

  “You don’t need to whisper,” Sena said grumpily. “No one can hear us here.”

  They were back in their se
wer tunnel, but Denat wasn’t paying any attention to the smell this time. The two of them were too busy watching the humans who had just topped out on the small hill across the river.

  “What’s that they’re setting up?” Sena asked. The activity could barely be seen at this range.

  “A lightning weapon,” Denat replied offhandedly. “One of their largest. It will cut through the enemy like a scythe.”

  “Ah,” the spy said. “Good. It looks like they’re ready.”

  “We’re up, boss.”

  “Roger.” Moseyev looked to where Macek and Mutabi were putting in the last of the crosslike stakes. The stakes ran in a semicircle ten meters back from where the plasma cannon was set up. “You set, Mutabi?”

  “Yep.” The grenadier dusted his hands. “Limit line’s all set.”

  “Good, because here comes our company.” The team leader raised a hand at the group of Mardukans struggling up the hill. “Hold it. Why are you here?”

  The Mardukan in the lead swatted at his hand.

  “We were sent to keep an eye on you, basik,” he grunted. “Make sure you didn’t scuttle off into the bush like the cowards you are.”

  “Did you see what this thing did to the bridge?” Moseyev snapped. “I could give a shit why you’re here, frankly, but if you don’t follow our instructions exactly, you’re all going to be a pre-fried lunch for the crocs, got it?”

  “We’re going to do as we damned well please,” the leader shot back angrily, but there was more than a hint of fear under his belligerence, and the troops behind him muttered nervously. “We’ll stay out of the way, but only where we can watch you,” he said in slightly more moderate tones. Clearly, he had no more interest in dying than the soldiers he commanded.

  “Okay.” Moseyev pointed to the line of stakes. “There’s enough room behind the gun shield for the four of us, but no more, and we all have jobs to do so we can’t put any of you behind it. The stakes are the limit line—you’ll be safe enough as long as you stay behind it, but you’ll be close enough so that if we try to run or do any other funny stuff you can fill us full of javelins.”

  The leader examined the situation and clapped his hands in agreement.

  “Very good. But remember—we’ll be watching you!”

  “You just do that,” Moseyev said, and turned back towards the gun so the idiot couldn’t see his feral smile.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  “Captain, this is Lieutenant Jasco,” the field commander said. He looked around at the bare platoon of soldiers and shook his head. “We’re in place with the Marshad forces. The plasma gun is in place, with its line out. Denat and the package are in place. I would say we’re a go.”

  “Roger,” Pahner replied over the circuit. “Plasma team, you’re the initiators. When the Pasule forces charge.”

  “Roger, Sir,” Moseyev responded nervously. “We’re ready.”

  “Pahner, out.”

  Moseyev looked over Gronningen’s fire plan one last time.

  “Wait for my call,” he said.

  “Got it,” the Asgardian grunted. “We’re locked and cocked.”

  “Corporal,” Macek whispered. “We’ve got movement.”

  “Let’s get ready to rock and roll, people,” Sergeant Major Kosutic said as a leader of the Pasule contingent stalked to the fore. The two armies had stopped just beyond javelin range from each other, and the Pasulian now waved his sword overhead, clearly exhorting his smaller force to attack. His words, probably fortunately for the humans, couldn’t be discerned, but whatever he said worked, for the mass started into a trot behind him.

  “Showtime.”

  “Fire,” Moseyev whispered, and Gronningen tapped the fire button.

  The plasma cannon spat out three carefully calculated bursts. One into each flank of the Marshad contingent, and the third directly into the rearmost ranks of the Royal Guard.

  Pahner drew, turned, and fired three carefully aimed beads. The only three guards between him and the king went down like string-cut marionettes, and he sprinted forward.

  The anticipated explosions roared behind them, and Bravo Company, Bronze Battalion, The Empress’ Own, executed a perfect about-face and opened fire into the forces at their back.

  Eleanora O’Casey hit the ground and covered her head.

  Sergeant Despreaux dropped her bead rifle to hip level and followed her HUD aiming point as the grenadiers to either side of her went to continuous fire.

  Corporal Moseyev pressed the hand unit detonator button, simultaneously firing the semicircle of stake-mounted directional mines and detonating the kilo charge of C-20 catalyst under the bridge. The charge was half the company’s total supply . . . and sufficient to take down a three-story office building.

  Pahner’s first kick took Radj Hoomas in the groin. Anecdotal evidence had suggested that the area was nearly as vulnerable for Mardukans as for humans, which proved to be the case as the monarch doubled over in agony. The captain followed up with a spinning sidekick that intercepted the descending head on the temple. Mardukans, unlike humans, had thick bone there, but the impact still spun the king off his feet and stunned him.

  The ruler of Marshad hit the balcony’s stone floor and bounced, and Pahner grabbed the heavy Mardukan by one horn, yanked his head up, and shoved the muzzle of his bead pistol against it. Then he looked up, prepared to threaten the king’s life to control the guards.

  But there were no guards to control.

  Those who had lined the back wall of the balcony had been reduced to so much paste by the impact of hundreds of beads and a dozen grenades in the confined space. Stickles was down, with a javelin in the side, but he would live, and that was the only casualty the humans had taken.

  All eight of the guards who’d been directly around the king were dead. Most of them appeared to have been caught flat-footed, watching the plasma cannon, but one, at least, had apparently reacted to the captain’s attack. That one had his sword out . . . and a bloody hole in his stomach. All the others had been hit in the head, neck, and upper chest.

  Roger holstered his pistol and rotated his shoulder.

  “I really have to find the guy who wrote that program and thank him when we get back.”

  Gronningen pounded rounds into the two flanks. The company was too intermixed with the Royal Guard now for him to fire into the center, but the flanks were fair game. He winced as he saw another Marine go down, but there was nothing he could do from here. Nothing but give covering fire and keep the flanking mercenaries off their backs.

  Moseyev picked up one of the shredded guards’ javelins. The directional mines had stripped away a few centimeters of the end, but aside from that—and the dripping gore—it was intact, and he tied the first line to its haft and waited.

  Denat sprinted to the water’s edge, then skipped aside as the javelin came scything through the air. The last rocks were still raining down from the demolished bridge when he picked the weapon up and threw it over the chosen tree limb. He motioned for slack and quickly tied a bowline slipknot in the rope and signaled complete. The rope twitched upward, and he smiled. Company was coming.

  Roger heaved on his end, and the Mardukan he’d been sharing with Kyrou thumped soddenly into the pile against the door. He skipped aside and shook his head as Pahner and Surono came out with another.

  “I’ve heard the expression before,” he said, “but I never thought I’d do it.”

  “You see anything else to barricade the door with, Your Highness?” Pahner asked with a frown. “This is what war is all about: doing things you don’t like to people you don’t like even more.”

  “Sergeant Major,” Julian said, jumping over a small mountain of Mardukans, “remind me never, ever to make that joke again.”

  “What’s that?” Kosutic asked. She was simultaneously trying to walk sideways over the mounded bodies of the Royal Guard, tie a bandage on Pohm’s neck, and make sure nobody was being left behind.

  “Join the Marines .
. .” Julian said.

  “Travel to fascinating planets,” Georgiadas chorused as he fired at one of the flankers who’d stopped to throw a javelin at them. The Marshad contingent’s instinctive retreat to the city had come to a screeching halt when the bridge disintegrated in its face. Unable to fall back, it was beginning to reform south of the original battlefield, and even after the terrible pounding it had taken, the Marshadans were almost as numerous as the Pasulians.

  “Meet exotic natives,” Bernstein yelled, dropping a line of grenades across the line between the humans and the Marshadans.

  “And kill them,” Julian finished somberly as he shouldered the rolled up bag of ashes that was all that was left of Lieutenant Jasco. “Somehow, it’s just not funny anymore.”

  “It never was, Julian.” Kosutic finished the bandage and clapped the “repaired” private on the back. She looked around the battlefield and pointed to the marked assembly area. “Assemble at the O-P!” she yelled, then looked at the NCO who was jogging alongside her.

  “So I should just shut up and soldier?”

  “No. But you might wait until we’re done with the mission,” the sergeant major said, “and that will be a long time. Or at least wait to have your moral dilemma until the battle’s over. In case you hadn’t noticed, it isn’t. And afterwards, you can drown your sorrows in wine, like the rest of us.