"C'mon," Hauws whispered under his breath. "C'mon, kid. Get back and tell us it's okay!" He clenched his fist, jerking it up and down nervously, while he looked around, noticing the incredible beauty of the place-if it just weren't full of people trying to kill him.
The ridge exploded below, blasting more timber and rock to drop from the dust-streaked sky.
"Crap!" Hauws hollered. "C'mon! Let's yank this thing over the other side! They've got the range, next one's gonna cook us!" The three of them, heaving, faces red, lifted the gun and struggled over the crest, stumbling, cursing, muscles tearing as they gulped air.
"Set! Let's roll!" Hauws barked, grin spreading as he saw the Regan Command headquarters: five dull gray buildings poking out of the far hillside above chutes of tailings. LCs were parked in neat rows along one side. A combat corn dish thrust up above the largest structure.
"C'mon, people! Let's go. One shot now, just one shot!" They spun the blaster, Private Buchman dropping into the gunner's seat, settling the sighting mechanism on the buildings across the valley.
"Charge is up!" Hauws hollered. "Five shots is all we got! Make them straight, Buchman!" He looked nervously at the way the gun sat on the sloping weathered soils. Not good, oughta have a better foundation.
A blaster bolt cackled past Hauws' shoulder, popping hollowly as it blew Private Rypmar's head off, showering bloody bony fragments around.
"Whore crap!" Hauws barked, as he threw himself into the low-lying skin-prickly shrubs. Pulling his blaster up, he cursed, seeing Johey's broken body where it had slid another ten meters down the slope.
"Shoot! Buchman, shoot!" Hauws hollered as he sighted on a Regan soldier scrambling up the slope below. He pressed the firing stud. The man's right arm exploded. The air above Hauws' back tore like an amplified sheet as the big gun cut loose. He felt the vibration along his sweaty back while he laid down a suppressing fire, blasting trees, powdering rocks, hoping to keep the advancing Regan Group from closing.
Again Buchman shot. Hauws took time to get a brief glimpse of a second building erupting in fragments and fire. The one with the combat comm had already been turned into smoking rubble.
"First!" Buchman's voice shrilled frantically. "The damn gun's sliding!"
"Terguzzi crap!" Hauws flung himself up over the rocks, heedless of a blaster bolt that almost clipped his side and left the armor cracked and flaking away.
He threw himself against the sliding gun and dug his heels into the loose stuff, aware of the hum of power. With all his strength, he braked the gun's slide.
"Shoot, Buchman. Get your sight picture-and shood" "But the radiation will-"
"Damn you! Shoot! That's an order!"
The sight in Hauws' left eye burned out as the blaster discharged and another building ripped apart in a gout of fire and death.
At the same time, chunks of the mountain to either side ripped and bucked as the Division guns were turned toward their position.
The fourth shot cooked the meat in Hauws' cheek. He howled curses into the wind, his one good eye blurred by tears and pain.
"Last shot," Buchman called. "I'm taking the largest of the buildings!" The blaster ripped the air and the tearing sound deafened Hauws., sending him A concussion blasted Hauws into the air
spinning-the gun and Buchman lost in the haze. He
smacked the ground, bounced, rolled, and stopped against a rock.
Searing agony shot up his leg while his body quivered in high frequency shock. A curiously calm academic feeling settled on his shrilling nerves.
"Been hit," he croaked. "Been hit hard." He blinked his one good eye clear of tears and looked. The hamburgered place where his leg ended at mid-thigh didn't frighten him like he'd always thought it would. The distance his pulver ized arteries shot blood fascinated him as red splattered the sunset-colored rocks.
Buchman appeared beside him, bending down, reaching.
"Get outta here," Hauws told him in a frog voice. "I'm gone. They got me. Just get back! Get our peope out! Get back to Sink! Report!" The mountainside wirled in his vision and he threw up without feeling it.
He couldn't seem to keep the world in focus. "Oughta be home culturing bacteria." He remembered the olive trees on Ashtan, and the coffeehouse that never could pass inspection — but still made the richest coffee in the world. He tried to see, but the gray shimmering grew black. "Got 'em Sink," he told himself, voice dwindling. "Got the bas tards in the end."
Ily Takka tapped her foot in irritation as she waited for the shuttle lock to sound an all clear. The thick doors hissed slightly as they finally opened — interstellar cold vaporizing moisture in the air as she stepped into Commander Rysta Braktov's Gyton.
The warship's lock looked just like every other military lock. Oval and featureless except for the armored Marine guard and the color-coded control panel. The Marine glanced at the jessant-de-lis, input his clearance, and saluted as the final door hissed back to allow her into Gytons lateral corridor.
Ily snapped a return salute to an officer and followed his stiff back as he led her through the spartan corridors of the star cruiser. The pace smelled of lubricant, humans, and synthetics. A pervading hum filled the air — a constant for Regan batte craft. Every surface had been painted in either
white or gray. The officer stopped before a wardroom hatch and pressed a stud to open a final door. The meeting room proved as sterile as the rest of the ship.
Rysta Braktov sat at the head of the small table where she scowled into a desk-mounted monitor. Acceleration helving and monitors filled the walls in a no-nonsense manner. Only one other chair module had risen from the floor
across from Rysta.
"You asked for a meeting?" Ily reminded, coming to the point, standing, arms crossed, before the small table.
Rysta looked up, moving her mouth as if she had a sour taste in it. "Want something to drink Minister?"
"Myklenian brandy?"
"This is a warship Minister," Rysta reminded dryly. Then she turned and slapped a wrinkled palm to the comm access. "Duty First, bring a bottle of our best — whatever's left — and see that we are not disturbed unless something impossible develops down there." Rysta removed a headset from her brow and the monitor went blank.
"I take it all is not well on Targa. You haven't killed Sinklar Fist, have you?" Ily barely acknowledged the officer who entered and left an expensive looking flask on the table. The door behind her slid shut as he left.
"Please, be seated Minister Takka," Rysta ran gnarled age-spotted hands over her dark face, momentarily stretching and rearranging the wrinkles. She looked haggard, grayshot hair disheveled. The hard squint in her eyes betrayed a weariness. "I'm past being formal. Let's just get to the point and find a solution to this damn mess one-on-one, all right?"
"You look tired," Ily offered as she settled into a seat.
Rysta leaned forward to prop her head between both palms. "Minister. I'll be honest. I've served the Imperium since before Tybalt's father took the mantle on Rega. I've seen Ministers come and go… watched the Empire grow and expand. I've been awarded citations, enjoyed state dinners in the company of the Emperors, and the Lord Commander himself offered me a commission among the Companions."
"Why are you telling me all this?" Ily tapped a stud on the table. A freefall cup appeared and she poured the
liquor-an amber Ashtan whiskey. Through it all, Rysta watched, but her keen edge had been blunted.
"You've kept track of the battle down there?" Rysta asked.
"A lot of fighting has been going on. We haven't been able to get all the communications. Your jamming doesn't only affect Fist's rebellious Division, it bleeds into our systems. We know the general pattern."