Freehold (29 page)

Stell swore and lowered the binoculars. The way things stood, they were stalled about two thousand yards from the admin complex, and that energy cannon was the reason why. Now he was paying the price for sending all the armor and heavy weapons home on the transports. But he'd had little choice. Even without armor and heavy weapons, there had been standing room only aboard the single troop transport on the way out from Fabrica. He winced as blue light flicked out once more and filled the air with the smell of ozone. This time it missed its target, as five troopers ducked behind a building that even the cannon couldn't cut through. He didn't like it, but there was only one thing to do. “Give me an uplink to Falco,” he ordered the com tech beside him.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, tapping a quick sequence of keys on her portable board. “He'll be on freq four,” she added.

Stell chinned over to frequency four, knowing his voice would be relayed up to a satellite, from there to the
Nest,
and then on to Falco. The pilot's voice came through loud and clear. “And how can I serve the greater glory of the brotherhood?”

Stell smiled at Falco's tongue-in-cheek imitation of pirate radio traffic. “By removing the goddamn energy cannon that's in our way, that's how.”

There was silence for a moment before Falco's voice came back. This time he was completely serious. “According to your radio markers, the target area looks a bit tight, brother; are you sure you want an air strike?”

Stell shared his concern. Unless Falco and his pilots had pinpoint accuracy, they could accidentally take out half of the brigade's forces instead of the enemy's—but he couldn't see any other way to go. “That's an affirmative,” he replied. “Give us ten minutes to dig in.”

“Roger,” Falco replied. “Dig deep, brother.”

“All right,” Stell said to the com tech, “tell everybody to find a hole and pull it in after them. In about nine minutes, the sky's gonna fall.”

She nodded, and began talking earnestly into her com-set. Stell turned to Flynn and the four troopers whom she had assigned to guard him. “Come on ... let's find someplace to hole up.” With the com tech in tow, Stell led them half a block back and into the lobby of some kind of underground transportation system. He'd noticed it earlier as they had worked their way up the street. A quick check proved it to be completely deserted. Skipping down the frozen steps of the escalator two at a time, they passed one, and then two levels. Finally, they were forced to stop by a wall of fallen duracrete. Evidently the retreating Intersystems troops had blown the passageway, rather than allow the brigade access to the underground transportation system. “Okay,” Stell said, “I guess this is far enough.”

“All units report that they've found cover, sir,” the com tech reported evenly.

“Let's hope so,” Stell replied fervently as he looked up toward the surface. “Let's hope so.”

As the planet's surface rushed up to meet him, Falco wished he were in his own interceptor. He knew they were all identical, but like all pilots before him, he knew
his
fighter was different. It had its own soul, a personality with which he was familiar, and upon which he could depend. But his interceptor was aboard
Nest.
It couldn't go atmospheric with a damaged wing. So here he was in one of the few replacement craft, and he didn't like it. The controls seemed just a hair slow, the port engine was only 96% effective, and his seat wouldn't adjust properly.

Checking his stern screen, Falco saw that the other ten interceptors were forming up behind him, getting ready for their own runs over the target. Without conscious thought, his mind and eyes ran through the checklist. Engines, weapons, electronics—everything checked out within acceptable limits. Now his attention shifted to the target—an absurdly small patch of ground on the north side of the admin complex. The trick was to dump everything inside that small space. If he hit too far to the north, he'd take out everything in the brigade's LZ. Too far south, and he'd turn the admin complex into rubble; and that wouldn't do, because the money was in there. Too far east, and they'd wipe out a lot of dependent housing, and a lot of noncombatants with it. And if they overran to the west ... the whole damn run would be wasted.

Now he had visual contact. He locked the area into his sighting grid, flipped a switch that sent information about the target's appearance, range and coordinates to all weapons systems, and then activated those systems. Pushing the stick forward, he nosed the fighter down until it was following the terrain, rising and falling with the contours of the land. Below, the surface raced by, and once again he felt the thrill, the surge of raw power that always went with this moment. Part of him was ashamed, while another part was exultant—glorying in the speed, the control, and the danger. He forced himself to wait, to hold out for that perfect moment when he and his machine were one, when the target was his. “Almost ... hold ... hold ... fire!” He felt the fighter lurch as his verbal command launched four air-to-ground missiles and a cluster of bombs, and activated his twin energy cannon. Ten seconds later he ceased firing and was past the target.

One by one, the ten interceptors behind him did the same thing. Their missiles sought out the heat of heavy weapons, slammed into hastily fortified positions and reduced them to rubble. Smart bombs chose the largest and densest targets-of-opportunity. After they hit, they crashed down through walls and floors, until finally coming to rest somewhere near the bottom of the structure. Five seconds later they exploded, often causing the entire building to cave in on itself. Meanwhile, pulses of blue light pounded everything into a flowing muck of melted earth, flesh, and metal.

As Falco made a quick pass over the area, to check the effectiveness of their run, his exultation was quickly gone. A brassy taste filled his mouth. Down below, all was deathly still. Nothing moved. He chinned his mic on and croaked, “Mission accomplished.” Pulling his nose up, he put the interceptor into a steep climb toward the clean blue sky.

In small groups, the troopers emerged from their hiding places—tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence. As Stell and his party left their underground shelter, he was amazed. The entire target area had been completely leveled. For the moment, there was no trace of enemy troops, no sound of insects, nothing—except for the crackling of fires and the crunch of boots on gravel. Smoke eddied and swirled, forming strange shapes before drifting away on a light breeze like ghosts fleeing dead flesh. It was eerie. He forced himself to shrug it off and concentrate.

They had to take advantage of the situation before Malik could rush in more troops. As they moved forward, orders were whispered instead of yelled. It was as if no one dared disturb the silence that hung over the place. But soon that began to change. It started with a single shot, then a burst, and finally the rolling thunder of massed fire. Just as Stell began to fear the worst, the fire slackened, and began to die down. Then, as they neared the admin complex, resistance seemed to melt away. It was a good sign, and Stell began to hope. And when they rushed up the front steps, and into the admin complex itself, and still encountered no opposition, he knew it was true: they had won. He was surprised, having expected Malik to fight for every inch of the admin complex, but he wasn't about to question his good fortune. Nonetheless, it pays to be cautious, so he ordered Flynn to send out scouts and set up a defensive perimeter.

Meanwhile, Mueller had appeared with the reluctant Nars at his side. Relying on Nars for directions, teams of troopers were dispatched to look for the various kinds of valuables that Mueller deemed acceptable. Muffled explosions were soon heard, as the teams used explosives to force their way into secured areas. Before long, a steady stream of troopers began to return, carrying all sorts of containers. As they arrived, Mueller inspected each find, often shaking his head in disapproval. But occasionally he clapped his hands with enthusiasm. The containers so blessed were stacked on an empty ammo carrier for transportation to an assault boat. Rejects were thrown unceremoniously into a large pile under the Intersystems logo, which dominated one wall. Just a little bit longer, Stell thought to himself. Then we can load the troops and get the hell out of here. Something he couldn't wait to do.

“General ... the Corporal says he found something you ought to see.” It was Mueller. With him was a middle-aged man wearing the chevrons of a Corporal. He looked familiar.

Stell looked again. Those beady brown eyes and the big red nose could only belong to one man. “Is that you, Sergeant Dickerson?”

Dickerson looked embarrassed. “Corporal Dickerson now, sir.”

“Booze?” Stell asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, sir. I'm afraid so, sir,” Dickerson replied sadly.

Stell shook his head in amazement. He'd personally promoted Dickerson to Sergeant at least three times. “You know, Dickerson, if it weren't for booze, you'd be a General by now.

Dickerson grinned widely. “Then it's a good thing I drink, sir, because I'd make a piss-poor General!”

Stell laughed, and asked, “So what's up?”

“Follow me, General,” Dickerson replied confidently, “You'll want to see this.”

With Sergeant Major Flynn and his bodyguard trailing along behind, Stell followed Dickerson down two flights of stairs, through three sets of blown durasteel doors, and into a large room that was obviously some sort of command center.

“Over here, General,” Dickerson called, and Stell stepped over to join him. Following the other man's eyes, Stell found himself looking at Malik. He was dead. His eyes were bulging, his face was blue, and strong metal fingers were locked around his throat. The fingers belonged to Lady Almanda Kance-Jones. She was beautiful no longer. The plastaskin flesh of her face had been melted away by the energy pistol still gripped in Malik's hand. Where once-perfect features had flowed smoothly over her metal skeleton, now there was only an obscene swirl of fused plastic and metal. Except for her lips—they had somehow survived, and were curved upward in a smile.

Com Tech Chu watched her monitor as
Nest
broke out of orbit and headed for a hyperspace jump. She hated to see the Falcons go, but they'd been offered another assignment, and Freehold couldn't afford to keep them indefinitely. Besides, she thought, scanning the bank of monitors in front of her, things are definitely looking up. For starters, Captain Boyko had filled most of the holes in her satellite network. Besides that, the brigade's three transports and the pirate DE were also in orbit around the planet. And soon there would be regular patrols a few lights out. She swung her feet up on the console and leaned back contentedly in her chair. Picking up her cup, she sipped some tea. To her enormous satisfaction, it was still hot.

Sergeant Major Flynn and Sergeant Stickley sat elbow to elbow in companionable silence. Behind them, First Hole's domes and buildings were an untidy sprawl. In front of them, stretching away from the open-air bar, clean sand reached out to touch the shimmering dome of the Senate. With the rainy season just past, and the heat of summer still ahead, the air was warm and balmy. Every now and then, one of them would refill their glasses from the bottle in the middle of the table. Otherwise, they were content to simply enjoy the moment. Eventually, however, Stickley broke the silence. “Well, Sergeant Major, what's next?”

Flynn shrugged. “Getting drunk?”

“Naw,” Stickley replied, “I mean what are you gonna do? Are you gonna accept the commission?”

Flynn laughed. “Me? An officer? You gotta be kidding. Besides, you know damn well that Lieutenant's a demotion from top kick.”

There was a moment of silence before Stickley spoke again. “So you're stayin’ in?”

Flynn tipped a little more whiskey into her glass and took a sip. “I guess ... the General says the brigade will go on. He even said we might take a job, once in a while. Sort of keep our hand in.” She looked toward the horizon. “We've got something to fight for now, and a place to come back to. How about you?”

For a moment he gazed off into the distance where the Senate shimmered in the sun. A monument had been built in front of it, and dedicated to Sergeant Major Como and the others who had died inside. Earlier, he and Flynn had gone there to pay their respects to their friends and comrades. “Eventually I'd like something more than an A-suit to call home. But there's no hurry ... and someone's gotta stay around and take your abuse.”

She was pleased, but snorted in derision to hide it.

Stickley grinned. “I mean, just suppose someone attacked Freehold, Sergeant Major ... what would we do then?”

Flynn smiled, and raised her glass in a salute. “Why, we'd do what we always do, Sticks—we'd kick some ass!”

A light breeze blew off the lake. It was warm and sweet, bearing the faint scent of flowers. It ruffled Olivia's hair and stirred the wind chimes that hung near the edge of the veranda. The tinkling music was in perfect rhythm with the shimmering light that reflected off the water. Stell sipped his coffee, enjoying Olivia's presence at his side and the beauty of the moment.

Olivia took pleasure in watching him, in knowing he was there, alive and safe. But she knew from the tightness around his eyes, and the coiled tenseness of his body, that he was worried. There was one last battle to fight, and it would be won or lost right there. The early skirmishes had taken place over appetizers and salad. Both sides had feinted once or twice during the main course, and now, with dessert out of the way, the decisive moment had come.

“Thank you for a wonderful dinner,” Lt. Commander John Paul Jones said as he patted his lips with a linen napkin and settled back in his chair.

“You're quite welcome, Commander,” Olivia replied sincerely. “Your company made it a special occasion.” And it was true. In spite of the verbal fencing match, Jones had proved a most entertaining and enjoyable dinner guest. His DE had swung into orbit around Freehold the day before. Neither President Bram nor Stell had been surprised. Intersystems had accused Freehold of attacking its Sector Headquarters and the empire had sent someone to investigate. The extra ships had been disposed of at bargain prices, all those likely to be interviewed had been briefed, logs had been edited, computers were reprogrammed, and a thousand other details had been attended to. But it was still pathetically thin, and wouldn't withstand more than the most superficial investigation. As for going to court, that was out of the question. They'd tried to retrieve data from Lady Almanda Kance-Jones's electronic brain, and met with only partial success. So, with only a dead robot and a reluctant Nars as witnesses, they didn't stand a chance of winning. Nars had been returned to Fabrica and told to keep his mouth shut. He probably hadn't, but it wouldn't make much difference.