His plan, such as it was, was based on two operational premises: (1) The Wyzhnyny were already alerted; and (2) the mission now demanded quickness, not stealth, aggression, not caution. But not stupidity, either.
The immediate challenge promised to be finding a place to pull into the forest. He couldn't expect to find Menges' old hiding place; his fix wasn't that good. But his warrior muse smiled on him: he emerged above the gorge at close to rim level, within recognition distance of the gap between trees that Menges had used before. Jockeying the Mei-Li fully into the forest, he set her down.
His marines were already gathered at the gangway; he keyed it open and they moved out, taking defensive positions nearby. The naval gunners sat tense and ready at their heavy weapons. Gabaldon opened his transmitter and spoke. "Stoorvol, this is Gabaldon. We're parked where Menges hid earlier, but close to the rim. Do you read me? Over."
The message took Paul Stoorvol by surprise. "Gunny," he murmured, "there should be a platoon or so of aliens very near you. Maybe just north, if you're where you say. They seem to be waiting for a ride home, or maybe for orders. They've given up hunting for me. I'd about decided I needed to do something more to keep them around. Right now I'm in a tree, a couple of hundred feet from… from the rim."
He'd stumbled orally because the Wyzhnyny on the ground had opened fire, at either the Mei-Li or the marines. He doubted that anything the Wyzhnyny had on the ground was adequate to breach her hull metal, but if they concentrated on her sensor array… Or if a gunboat was still hanging around…
From his perch he could make out two Wyzhnyny, eerie gold by night vision. He unslung his blaster and shot them both, not to draw attention-the firefight with the marines held that-but to help the odds. Then he climbed down the liana, unslung his blaster again, and clicked his helmet transmitter.
One of the Mei-Li's guns began hammering heavy bolts at the Wyzhnyny, bolts crackling and thudding. Stoorvol realized he could be killed by his own people.
"Gunny," he said, "I'm on the ground now. Their attention is on you. I've killed two more of them, and I'll take out as many more as I can. We need to settle this now. Their command is likely to pour support forces in quickly. Over."
"Received. Received. This is Miller in charge. Gunny's out of touch; left the ship. Miller out."
Out of touch? "Got that. Stoorvol out." Gunny knows what he's doing, Stoorvol told himself, and this was no time for discussions. He found himself a new spot, a large tree with a broadly buttressed base. He wished he had a bag of grenades, instead of just the two on his harness. Taking one off, he charged it, then peered around a buttress and chose his next target-three Wyzhnyny thirty yards away, crouching together behind a fallen tree. He threw the grenade to land just behind the one in the middle, then ducked behind the buttress again, heard the explosion and peered out. All three seemed dead.
The firefight ahead of him went on as if he weren't there, so he darted forward in a low crouch to where his latest victims lay. There he raised up enough to peer over the log. Ahead as well as to the sides, he could see numerous Wyzhnyny kneeling behind trees and the occasional fallen trunk. And he could see casualties. The marines weren't laying down much fire now though, as if there weren't many of them left. The thought flashed: How many? Four? Five? But the Mei-Li's starboard gunner, in his armored bubble, was still pumping out the heavy stuff.
With bursts of rotten wood, bolts blew through the log within ten feet of Stoorvol. To his right, a Wyzhnyny he'd thought was dead, stood as if to flee, then stopped as if in freeze-frame, staring at the marine officer. Stoorvol shot him down, then turning, began to shoot at every Wyzhnyny he could see.
It seemed the final straw. All along the Wyzhnyny line, aliens rose to flee. Stoorvol crouched low again, and from his thigh pocket drew his stunner. To his left, a Wyzhnyny cleared the log in a bound, so easily and gracefully it startled the marine. As it landed, Stoorvol thumbed the trigger. The Wyzhnyny stumbled, pitched forward and lay still. Another followed, and it too fell.
The starboard gun hammered a dozen more trasher bolts after the fleeing Wyzhnyny before it stopped. Then, heart in his mouth, Stoorvol stood and jumped onto the log, waving both arms overhead. The Mei-Li's gangway slid open, its ramp extruding. Three marines rode out on an AG freight sled, followed closely by two crewmen riding another.
"Over here!" Stoorvol shouted, again as if he didn't have a radio. "I've got two prisoners stunned." The marines veered to the north as if they hadn't heard. It was the crewmen who responded to Stoorvol, quickly setting down where he indicated. He helped them load an unconscious Wyzhnyny on the sled. "Your gunner did good work with that heavy weapon," he said. "He broke them with it."
"Wasn't that," the older crewman grunted, lifting the second Wyzhnyny's hindquarters.
"What, then?" It seemed to Stoorvol the man was going to give him the credit, for taking them from behind.
"Wyzhnyny aircraft are on their way, sir. They'll be laying heavy fire in here." They finished getting the second Wyzhnyny aboard, and as if that was a signal, an alarm horn blared from the Mei-Li.
"Come aboard, Captain," said the older. "That's Mr. Menges' twenty-tick warning."
Menges? Where was Gabaldon? And the marines with the other sled? He realized then; it was casualties, not prisoners they were collecting. Instead of getting on the sled, Stoorvol started toward the marines, but the senior crewman drew his stunner and thumbed the trigger. Quickly the two crewmen dumped the inert marine officer onto the sled with the prisoners, then sped to the gangway and inside the Mei-Li.
The marines, on the other hand, hadn't even looked toward the ship when the gangway slid shut. The senior crewman activated the sled's restraint field, felt it snug around him. "Jesus, Buddha, and Rama!" said the younger. "What's the matter with those marines? They should've come!"
Another alarm clamored through the boat, warning of imminent takeoff.
"They wouldn't leave their buds behind," the elder said.
"They were probably all dead!"
"Apparently it doesn't make any difference to them."
They felt the Mei-Li lift, pull backward from the forest edge, then swing about. At once it took flight, for five seconds of acceleration before warpspace generated. After a long moment's stillness, the senior crewman released the restraint field. Two others appeared, and helped transfer the inert prisoners onto AG litters, to be taken to a holding cell.
When the two Wyzhnyny had been taken away, the younger crewman gestured toward the unconscious Stoorvol, still lying on the sled. "He was going to help them, wasn't he?"
"Yep. Who knows? Maybe those hyenas eat enemy casualties."
He said it absently. His mind was on the Mei-Li's last remaining scooter, with Gunnery Sergeant Gabaldon piloting. It had left shortly after the Mei-Li landed. The crewman had heard enough to know the strategy: the sergeant would drop into the depths of the gorge, speed north a couple of miles, then climb a couple, to watch for Wyzhnyny aerial reinforcements. Finally he'd seen some coming: gunboats and APCs. A lot of them.
Chapter 42
Moribund
"They are both moribund."
The Bering had left Tagus's moon less than two hours earlier, and Christiaan Weygand felt comfortable now about questioning the expedition's scientists working on the alien captives. The two Wyzhnyny lay strapped on examination tables, wires and tubes leading from them to a life support system and a bank of readouts. If everything above the withers had been covered, and you overlooked the feet, they might have passed for some Terran mammal in a large-animal clinic.