The shot never came. Mordecai's shuriken flashed across the distance and the Ryq toppled over, the throwing star buried in his forehead. Another alien started to lean out, ducked quickly back as Spadafora sent a primer cap past the corner to explode against the cross corridor's far wall.
And as he fired off a second cap to the other side of the intersection, Mordecai and Lathe were on the move, running silently toward the concealed defenders. They reached the intersection simultaneously, one turning to each side of the cross corridor and charging in among the hidden aliens. There was a single surprised squawk from someone; and then Lathe flashed a hand signal, and Judas and Spadafora ran up to join them.
By the time they arrived it was over. Five armed Ryqril lay scattered on the floor on Lathe's side, while six bodies decorated Mordecai's. The rest of the cross corridor, on both sides, was deserted. "One down, four to go," Lathe said, peering at the four cross corridors cutting across their path ahead. "Spadafora, watch the backtrail; Caine, stay close to him."
Shifting his nunchaku to his left hand and pulling out a fresh pair of shuriken with his right, he started forward.
There were nine of them in alclass="underline" six heavily armed Security types followed by three lightly armed men carrying tech-type equipment boxes. All were young, all were clearly nervous, and as they filed one by one through the scorched entrance they formed themselves into a parade-ground-perfect semicircle perimeter until the three techs had negotiated the last part of the passage and joined them.
The whole spectacle was so training-school fresh that it made Foxleigh wince. Clearly, these were brandnew recruits to the Ryqril cause, chosen for their courage and stamina.
And, no doubt, their expendability.
He grimaced, fingering his pistol as the group reformed itself into a standard boxed-centipede formation and started moving toward the door. He couldn't afford to think of them as people, he reminded himself firmly. They were the enemy, their presence an obstacle to his own redemption.
Lifting his gun, bracing his wrist on the edge of the box he was hiding behind, he lined up the muzzle on the lead Security man and squeezed the trigger.
His aim was every bit as good as he'd promised Jensen it would be. The leader toppled over, and the rest of the group behind him erupted in instant chaos. For a few precious seconds they looked around in panicked bewilderment, the echoes from walls and ceiling apparently having confused the direction the shot had come from. Foxleigh lined up his gun on the next man in line; and as he did so one of the armed men in back twitched violently and similarly collapsed to the floor. Foxleigh fired his second shot, and one more of the enemy was eliminated.
But this time one of the others had apparently spotted his muzzle flash. There was a hoarse shout over the echoes, a pointed finger—
And suddenly Foxleigh's hiding place was the center of a hailstorm of return fire.
He ducked back as a horizontal hail of paral-darts thudded into his box or burned past to clatter against the far wall. He stuck his hand around the side, exposing as little flesh as possible, and blindly fired two quick shots before yanking his hand back. As he did so, the soft chuff-chuff of paral-dart fire was joined by the sharper cracks as some of the Security men switched over to flechette guns. Foxleigh could hear tearing sounds as the tough plastic of his refuge began to disintegrate under the assault. He started to stick his hand out for another shot, jerked it back as a stray flechette sliced a thin line of pain across his wrist. The barrage seemed to waver....
And then, abruptly, all was silence.
Foxleigh waited another handful of seconds, then eased a cautious eye around the corner of his box.
They were all down. All of them. Two of the three techs were still twitching, clearly still alive. None of the others was moving at all. Gathering himself back to his feet, Foxleigh limped over for a closer look.
He and Jensen reached them at the same time, the blackcollar pressing a hand to his thincast above his injured ribs. "Thanks for your help," he said, his voice strained a little.
"You're welcome." Foxleigh looked around at the bodies, feeling more than a little sick. "I wish to God we hadn't had to do that."
Jensen sighed. "So do I," he said. "This war was never supposed to be against our own people. Damn the Ryqril to hell for doing this to them."
"And to us." Foxleigh took a deep breath. "Speaking of hell, it's time for us to deliver some." He looked up from the bodies and locked eyes with Jensen. "I presume we're not going to have any more nonsense about who's going to fly my plane?"
"No," Jensen said quietly. "Under the circumstances, I think you deserve a final crack."
"Thank you." Foxleigh hesitated, then turned his gun around and offered it to Jensen. "Here—I won't be needing this anymore. Tie up the survivors and meet me back at the Talus."
He started to turn away, but Jensen caught his arm. "I was willing to fly the fighter into that hell, you know," the blackcollar said quietly.
"I know," Foxleigh assured him. "And I'm sure the ghosts of your past appreciate the thought. But this is my world, and my duty."
"And you have your own ghosts to deal with?"
"Actually, I've been able to mostly put them to rest over the years," Foxleigh said, eyeing him. The man still wasn't completely convinced, he sensed. "You mentioned someone named Novak just before I pulled my gun on you. A friend of yours?"
"The best," Jensen said, a flicker of old pain crossing his face. "Two years ago, on Argent, he died in my place."
"I'm sorry," Foxleigh said. "But look at it this way. If I'd been in Gotterdammerung that day like I should have been, I'd probably have died very quickly, certainly without making any real difference. Was Novak a pilot?"
Jensen shook his head. "He couldn't have found the throttle with a map."
"So if he'd been here instead of you, he probably wouldn't have had any reason to want to get into Aegis," Foxleigh said. "And without someone to help me, I wouldn't have been able to get in. I trust you see where I'm with this."
Jensen rolled his eyes. "By surviving the way we did, we're now going to get a better shot at hurting the Ryqril than we would have had otherwise?"
"Basically," Foxleigh said. "Don't you love it when the universe gives you object lessons?"
"Not really," Jensen said candidly. "But I guess it's better than no lessons at all."
"Agreed," Foxleigh said. "So tie them up and let's get to it. We've got a final checklist to run. And odds are I'm going to need your help getting into the cockpit."
The last cross corridor had been cleared, with another half-dozen Ryqril bodies to add to the afternoon's toll, and Spadafora had spotted and driven back two attempted sorties from behind.
It had been a good assault, Lathe knew, as such things went. All four of them had collected a number of laser burns across their flexarmor, but so far none of the enemy had been lucky enough to get that crucial second shot that would burn all the way through to the fragile skin and bone and blood underneath.
Eventually, they would, he knew. Certainly for many of the blackcollars embroiled in the battle outside their skill and luck had already run out. The tingler messages flashing back and forth between Shaw's men was a bitter reminder of what it was costing to keep the bulk of Taakh's troops pinned down and out of the inside team's way.
It was up to Lathe to make sure those men hadn't given their lives for nothing.
"Is that it?" Spadafora asked, coming up behind him and pointing to the door directly ahead.
"Should be," Lathe agreed, reaching behind him and sliding one of the appropriated Ryqril short swords from his belt. "Let's see what's happening with those lasers." Holding the sword like a spear, he threw it toward the door.