"Muster!Muster!" commander Lurn bellowed over aug channels. "We are under attack!"
Proctor Molat grimaced at that: how incredibly observant of Lurn. He glanced over to where some soldiers were setting up a gun on the embankment to the right of the burning tower, and observed aerofans spiralling up into the air in the eastern section of the compound, shortly followed by Lurn's two carriers. Arms fire crackled in the air, and other explosions blossomed in the compound as Lurn's forces ran for the embankments, whilst his own armoured vehicles trundled from garages they should have abandoned, in Molat's opinion, as soon as the laser arrays had been destroyed.
"Molat here," he said over the Proctor's channel. "That you up there, Voten?"
"It is, sir," replied his lieutenant.
"What do you see?"
"Four heavily armoured tanks coming in from the east."
Molat flinched as a wall blew nearby, and something that might once have been a soldier bounced across the ground. Attempting to retain some dignity, he continued walking to where he had last left his own aerofan. Climbing inside it and initiating the lift control, he went on, "What kind of armament? Anything we haven't got?"
"All looks fairly standard to me," replied Voten.
Within a few seconds, Molat was high enough to see for himself. He watched one of the tanks spin on its wide treads and spit out a missile that blasted a hole through the earthen embankment, incidentally burying one of Lurn's armoured cars and the small field-gun it was towing. It had always been Molat's worry that when the rebels finally did do something big, it would be with advanced Polity weapons. He was considering how little different was the armament on these tanks from that of Lurn's own forces, when a pulse-cannon opened up from the lead tank down there. To his right he saw one of Lurn's carriers tilt in the air as one corner of it blew away, then slewed sideways and down to obliterate a barracks building. The blue fire continued to stab upwards, and with merciless accuracy began to nail aerofan after aerofan.
Molat hit rapid descent and watched in horror as the fire tracked across towards himself. There was a flash, a sound that seemed to tear his eardrums, and he was clinging to the rail as his aerofan plummeted, tilted sideways, the motor making a horrible whickering noise as of a horse being led to slaughter, and the fans setting up a teeth-rattling vibration as they went off balance. Black smoke was pouring from under the cowling, and the coils were spitting out tendrils of St Elmo's fire. He glimpsed a tank right underneath him, then mud, something belching black smoke, then flute grass. It wasn't instinct that made him jump, just the sure knowledge, from long experience of flying those unstable machines, that either a motor or a fan was about to fly apart.
There seemed to him only half a second before he crashed through flute grass, hit the ground, and penetrated the surface. Up to his waist in the mud below the rhizomes, he glanced back just in time to see his aerofan arc up and suddenly slam down nearby. He was congratulating himself on having survived, when one of the abandoned craft's fans went completely out of balance and disintegrated. Something smashed Molat in the back of his head, almost hauling him out of the ground again before depositing him face-first back into it.
"Any activity?" asked Lellan.
Studying the screen showing a picture transmitted by the probe they had initially sent up to observe Dragon, Polas very quickly and coldly replied, "Fleet ships just out from Charity and taking on landing craft and troops."
Lellan allowed herself to feel some relief — perhaps, she thought, this was the relief of the condemned upon discovering it would be the cage rather than the spring pinning over the flute-grass rhizomes. Had that fleet come direct to the planet, without stopping to take ground forces and the means to get them down to the surface, she knew that they would have been in for nuclear bombardment. Such a possibility remained, but it was now just that little bit more remote.
"Did you get that, John?" she asked.
From Lyric II, it was Jarvellis who replied, "John's already on his way, Lellan. I'd comlink you through to him, but I know he doesn't like any more of a distraction than having me speaking to him."
"Just so long as he does what is required," said Lellan.
"Have you known him to do any less?" Jarvellis asked.
"Very well," Lellan went on, "what about the transmitter?"
"The U-space transmitter is up and running, and you can patch through at any time. What do you want to do: send your megafile?"
"Yes — send it now."
"Okay, it's on its way," Jarvellis replied. "What about the realtime broadcasts?"
"As soon as you get a reply on the megafile, liaise with Polas and go to realtime. Polity AIs will know what's going on and how best to deal with the information. The ballot we won't get up until the compounds have been taken, but we'll send that as soon as possible."
Lellan cut the connection. There had been no real decision to make: the file documenting two hundred years of Theocracy atrocities, with its depositions and sealed tamper-proof holocordings, would go first, to give News Services and Polity AIs something to get their metaphorical teeth into. The viewing time of that file was something in the region of five thousand hours, but it seemed likely that the first viewers of it — being Polity AIs — would not take so long. Then, as soon as it had been safely received, the rebels would go realtime and ask outright for Polity intervention — their request reinforced by the ballot. But that was for the future; right now she had a battle to organize. She turned her attention back to the screens before her.
"Carl, that was quick — or do you have a problem?" she asked, observing the pattern of dots spread across a map showing the inhabited area of the continent.
"All somewhat quicker than expected," Carl replied. "They put their aerofans and carriers up straight away, and we took them down with the pulse-cannon. They're now coming after us with a few ground-cars and infantry."
"Our losses?"
"None. I think we caught them well untrousered — but that won't last."
Lellan studied closely the dots on the maps, the constant readouts and battle stats. One tank had been blown at Cyprian compound, and a further two north of the spaceport. They were doing better than expected but, as expected, were now encountering real resistance from the old fortifications around the city. Lellan swore and stood up.
She turned to Polas. "Take over here, Polas, and keep relaying through to my console on the carrier." Then, before Polas could voice any objections, "What's the minimum time we have before their landers start coming in?"
Polas glanced at his screens. "If the fleet left now, which it shows no sign of doing just yet, then they'd be landing on the day after tomorrow. I'd still reckon on that, as I don't think they'll delay much longer."
Molat hauled himself up out of sticky mud as slowly as he could, wondering if he dared reach round and touch the back of his head — scared he would find broken bone and touch living brain with his filthy fingertips. Even this deliberate slowness was too fast, and the ringing in his ears rolled back down his spine, stamping on every nerve on the way. He vomited into his crumpled mask, choked as he tore it away from his face, and fumbled for another from the container on the side of his oxygen bottle. With the second mask finally in place, he carefully eased himself to his knees then attempted to stand. What had happened meanwhile? Was the battle over? Surrounded by tall flute grass and with the continued ringing in his ears drowning out any other sound, he had no way of telling for sure. Looking at his watch he saw that he'd been unconscious for maybe twenty minutes, and turning in what he hoped was the right direction, he began to trudge for home. The tank which loomed suddenly ahead of him, flattening flute grass, he had no time to identify as friend or enemy before it knocked him backwards, and its foamed titanium tread crushed Molat into the ground. Maybe he screamed — he never got time to hear.