Dancers in the Afterglow (20 page)

Daniel sighed. To the unreconstructed citizens of Ondine, it was the proper response, but for him— well, he'd seen the happy expressions, the togetherness, the touching, the feeling for one another that was obvious in the village.

He was their direct opposite, he thought. The Machists had killed the intellect and left the feeling, and the Combine had killed the feeling while expanding his intellect.

And he didn't know who got the better deal.

Sforzando

IT WAS ALMOST DAWN WHEN THE LAST OF THE GROUPS
reached the rendezvous, a deserted warehouse zone between them and the spaceport.

The spaceport itself loomed ahead of them, impressively massive despite the collapse of the terminal building and other large structures in the first morning's takeover of the place.

There were four pads; huge, golden disks ten kilometers around and a good kilometer apart. The edge of just one could be seen from their vantage point in the abandoned space-freight terminal. The hideout was infested with mice, the inevitable rats, and lots of bugs; many of the windows were gone. Anything of value had been stripped from it.

"I don't want to hit the port in daylight," Daniel told them. "It's too complex an operation. I want to use the day to observe the entries and exits, the number of Machists around the area, access points, and the like."

"What if a ship comes in?" someone asked nervously.

"So much the better, if it's not filled with troops. Then we get a ship, too. One that'll never act against the Combine again. I wouldn't worry about it anyway, though. The observers say there have been no ships in for over three weeks. I think the enemy feels it already has everything it needs here."

Daniel walked to the center of the large warehouse floor, took a rifle from one of the cases, and used its stock to draw in the muck while the others stood around in a circle.

"Okay," he said, roughly drawing a straight line. "Here's the coast. About ten kilometers. Now, we're here," he made an X back from the line about fifty centimeters. "The pads are here, here, here, and here," he continued, marking each around the X, "and the supply dump is over here." He made an oval to show the position of the large prefab structure that the Machists had thrown up on the other side of the spaceport.

"Now, my team will blow the supply depot. It shouldn't be too hard to hit, but you'll have lots of soldiers around, and probably lots of trucks as well. They keep these things guarded. We'll get in so close we can't miss, and spray as many torpedoes into the thing as we can. Once we do, all hell will break loose, and that's good. That means that the Machists will come running to the support of their people under fire. That'll draw them away from the rest of you."

He turned, pointed at one woman. "Oggie, when the dump blows your group must already be within striking distance of Pad Four. It's the farthest away. As soon as we blow the dump, the guards will start running for the big bang. Don't hit 'em or worry about 'em unless you are seen. Get your stuff in and pour it on as soon as you can." He looked at a whiskered man with long, curly gray hair.

"Foggy, you get Pad Three. Same deal. Now, the only thing you have to watch is not to take the tempting hideout under or behind the big tanks to the right of the pad. They're explosive, and if just one of you were spotted a single energy shot into the tanks would wipe you out. Stay away from them, or, if you get spotted, lure the
enemy
near the tanks and use the trick on them. Okay?"

Foggy nodded.

He went through the other two—for the thousandth time in a month—in the same manner. Somehow the tactics all seemed new, but the target was only a few hundred meters down the road.

They didn't need as much artillery to destroy the pads as they did the supply depot. The things were built on shock supports like giant mushrooms; two torpedoes into the base and the structure would collapse. He warned them to watch for flying debris, and to be careful about the pad surfaces when they toppled.

"The only thing that worries me," Oggie said seriously, "is your team. Oh, you'll blow the depot all right, but how the hell will you get out of there? It'll be crawling with troops. And they'll be able to bring in more from town."

"We'll have to worry about sneaking through the troops," Daniel admitted. "No way around it. As for town, though, no real problem. They seem to be headquartered in the old hotels, mostly up and down the beach, with their center in the old Grand Lamarine Hotel, and the big hospital behind it. It'll take them a good ten minutes, maybe more, to realize what's happening and get organized. Another ten to get here. If we aren't out in twenty minutes it's all over anyway."

The final run-through concerned the getaway. "Small groups, singles, twos, threes," he reiterated. If you can get back into the coastal park they'll have to march up and down through all their pretty little camps to get at you. Sure as hell will make a lousy impression on their new converts, right?"

They smiled. Most of them knew, deep down, that their chances of making it back were slim, but this was the only way they had to strike at the people who'd ruined their world, altered their friends and relatives, wrecked their lives.

After a while, Amara came over to where he was resting with his back against a wall and sat next to him. The waiting was the hardest part of all.

"You beat it when the attack starts," he warned her. "I'll catch up to you."

"The hell I will!" she shot back. "I was in on this party from the beginning, and I'm going through with it. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

He sighed, exasperated. They'd been through this discussion time and again.

"But you can't
do
anything!" he repeated for the hundredth time.

"I can do more than you think," she responded as she had during the previous ninety-nine arguments. "And in the getaway it'll be hand-to-hand, or hand-to-foot," she added, and gave a kicking motion with her right leg.

"Besides," she continued, "you can't stop me, now. You can't spare a guard, and if you leave me here I'll most likely get shot or captured."

He threw up his hands and waited for dark.

The afterglow had faded in the south, and darkness shrouded what was left of Lamarine. The spaceport pads were lit, of course, and there were lights around the supply depot's loading area, but they cast shadows that were deeper than the night. Daniel's team crept slowly to within a couple hundred meters of the four-story depot, gleaming white in the strip lighting that kept the loading docks in perpetual day.

Each of the four members of Daniel's team had a fully loaded torpedo launcher, and they spread as far apart as they could in the shadows of the buildings and isolated palm trees along the road.

"Four in position," came a call over the tiny communicators stuck in their ears. "Three ready," came Foggy's voice. "One ready," said Deater. They waited anxiously.

The depot was not busy, but occasionally a flyer would dock on top or a truck would lumber up to the loading docks. The place was thick with soldiers; there seemed to be at least fifty of the black-clad, rat-faced men around, and they were all heavily armed.

"Two, what's the problem?" he called impatiently. "We're hemmed in," came the reply. "Lots of soldiers here, like they were expecting an incoming. We can't get a clear shot unless we're in the open."

That was bad. The Machists had obviously cleared away some minor structures they'd counted on for cover.

"Well, sit tight," he told them. "Well blow the depot, and that should draw them off, give you a shot at it."

He paused, feeling the tension not only within him but in the others as well. Amara stayed close to him and down, crouching like a cat.

"Depot team, are you set up?" he whispered into the little transceiver.

"Just say the word, Cap'n," came a gruff reply. "On my count. Ten . . . nine . . . eight. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . arm . . . FIRE!"

Four hands pressed four studs and rolled to one side. Four sleek programed torpedoes sped like blazing blue-white cigars for their targets. The results were almost immediate because of the short distance.

Stage Ones blew with enormous force, spreading severe concussion and a near-horizontal mini-firestorm. It looked as though the building had erupted at four points. A flyer on the roof flipped up, over the side, and crashed into a truck below. Daniel could swear the roof had lifted five meters and crashed back down again.

Now Stage Twos went, triggered by the Stage Ones. Blue-white globes formed in four places in the burning structure, and the areas the spheres touched simply ceased to exist.

They waited for the building to collapse. Most of the soldiers had been blown in
various directions and there were only a few figures running about, yelling instructions to each other.

But the building, on fire and terribly punctured, stood. Noting that, the torpedo teams rolled back, retrieved their launch tubes thrown back by the first blasts, and shoved their spare torpedoes home. One misfired, but three did not, and the sequence of the first attack was repeated, this time with devastating effects. The building collapsed like a house of cards.

Amara looked around warily at the now brightly illuminated road area.

"I don't like this!" she screamed over the explosions. "It's too easy!"

"It's gonna get tougher quick!" he yelled back, and pointed. A truckload of soldiers was bearing down on them from the direction of the city.

The four torpedomen grabbed energy pistols and began a running, firing retreat. Daniel and Amara, keeping low, headed back to the shadows of the buildings as well, his two pistols firing repeatedly.

The soldiers spread out professionally. One would occasionally catch a beam, flare, and flicker out, but with an uncanny silence. No yells, no screams, neither of pain nor of orders.

Daniel looked back, spraying the area to cover the others. His aim was deadly, and he picked the Machists off methodically until they learned his position. Then he had to move with superhuman speed back to the shadows.

He switched to low-light mode and looked around as the corner of a building flared and vanished, starting a small fire.

He didn't see anyone, including Amara, and suddenly he was worried.

As he pressed back, more soldiers streamed in behind him, making him even more wary.

Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion, and everyone, including the soldiers, turned toward the spaceport. A huge pad lifted briefly into the sky, appeared above the ruined buildings for an instant, then fell with a tremendous roar. And then another!

Two!
he thought with some satisfaction. He'd stopped firing, and managed to elude the pursuing soldiers for a moment. Frantically he looked around for the others, saw not a trace of them. Several hundred meters to his right, soldiers were firing at something or someone, and he noted with surprise that they were using tight beams. That made the energy bolt a cutter; a slicer rather than a disintegrator. Now that they'd grouped, he realized, the Machists had decided to try and take as many people alive as possible.

Still, easier said than done on tight beam against a running target. He could see that their target, who, thank God!, had arms, had been cut completely in two and was certainly dead.

Where is she?
It was all he could think about for a moment, and he had to calm himself down. There was still a mission.

"Pad teams! What the hell happened to the other two explosions?" he called.

He finally got a response, against the sounds of whining energy weapons and close explosions. "Captain!" It was Foggy. "Four and one were blown, and four went up with such a roar it landed on three, and three went up of its own accord! They had 'em mined to blow themselves, Captain!"

Sure they would! he thought, feeling stupid. Just in case the Combine scored a surprise breakthrough they had to be able to cut off a marine landing force.

"What about two?" he called back, still hiding in a ditch, still watching the soldiers spreading out everywhere but in his direction.

"They're all dead, Captain!" Foggy yelled back. "Only three of us left. Them soldiers didn't run for the big bang. We didn't fool 'em. No more torpedoes. There's bodies all over, Captain! And them soldiers, they ain't human. No yellin', no screams. Catch one partway and he keeps comin'!"

"Do you have any more torpedoes?" he asked.

"Yeah, two, and one launcher, but I can't get at Pad Two without getting mowed down. I think they're toyin' with us, or worried about the torpedoes. They got us pinned down but aren't movin' in for the kill. Yet."

"Depot team! Amara! Anybody! Is there anybody left?" he called.

"Mage, here," came a woman's breathless gasping. "I've made it clean. Heading out."

"Did you see anybody else?", he replied, almost pleading.

"All gone," came the response. "Maybe not Amara. I saw her get hit, and they were on her in a moment. I dont know."

He sank, seemed to wither. He just sat for a few precious seconds, unable to function.
I can't even cry,
he thought emptily. Then, suddenly, he was enraged, enraged at all of them. Slowly, carefully, he began moving along the ditch in the direction of the spaceport. There were soldiers all along the road, and he knew he'd have to shoot his way past them. It didn't seem to matter.

Elsewhere on Ondine, eleven of the fifteen attacks on the other supply depots had been successful, after a fashion. Most personnel killed, five more of his symbs gone as well, but it was a victory all the same.

He looked at the Machist soldiers patrolling the road, peering about.

They're all symbs, too, he knew now. Simpler, less sophisticated than he, but symbs all the same. That's why they didn't react normally to stimuli, like running toward the first blow-up. That's why they kept coming when maimed, didn't cry out when hit.