Sula’s head spun as she tried to remember communications protocols. “Comm: to Two-one-one. This is Four-nine-one. Acknowledge. We’re pulling out, too. Comm: send.”
Macnamara at last got the machine gun programmed. It tracked automatically on its mount as it found a target, depressed its barrel, fired, and promptly blew up—the barrel had been knocked out of alignment by enemy bullets, and the first round fired by Team 491 did nothing but destroy the gun that fired it.
Macnamara stared in disbelief at the ruined weapon, then reached for his rifle.“Enough!” Sula shrieked. “Get back here!”
Macnamara thought about it for a moment, then scuttled backward like an ungainly insect till he gained the doorway. Sula rose to a crouch, helped Macnamara rise, then said, “To the stair!Go! ”
Spence was already on her way, limping. Sula saw that she was leaving bloody footprints in the hall. She shoved Macnamara after Spence, then followed.
Bullets still found their way into the hall, but the danger was much less than that in the front rooms. Spence reached the emergency stair, hurled open the door, and disappeared into the stairwell. Macnamara followed. Sula entered the stair last, after casting a glance back at the Gueis, the bleeding father in the arms of his screaming wife, the daughter looking after the baby with her air of intense concentration, as if trying to will away the whole situation.Try not to hate us, Sula thought at them mentally, and then hurled herself down the stair.
There was a snapping sound overhead, and soft rain began to fall from the building’s sprinkler system.
“Fucking brilliant,” Sula breathed. “Absolutely fucking brilliant.” No matter how many times Group Blanche had been over the plan, no one had suggested that the first Naxid reaction to the bombing would be to randomly pump a million rounds of suppressive fire into every nearby building.
At least the stair was on the far side of the building from Axtattle Parkway, and no bullets penetrated the stairwell. As Sula’s boots clattered on the risers, she realized that she should let her superior know that Team 491 was running like hell, and then it took her a moment to sort out radio protocol.
“Comm: to Blanche,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “Naxid fire is too hot. Team Four-nine-one is pulling out. Comm: send.”
The response came within seconds, crisp over the sound of sprinkler water pattering on her helmet. “Four-nine-one, permission to withdraw granted.”
I don’t remember askingpermission, Sula thought. The thump of a grenade echoed through the building. Sula could smell smoke despite the gush of the sprinklers.
A chunk of plaster banged off Sula’s helmet, and she brushed wet plaster dust off her shoulder. Her team was making good time despite the water that was now beginning to spill down the stairs in little waterfalls.
The lobby was full of bewildered civilians, many partly dressed or in their night clothes. Some were wounded. The sound of wailing children echoed off the tile walls, and people sloshed in water in bare feet or slippers. There was no sign of Team 211.
“All of you clear out!” Sula shouted. She waved an arm to indicate direction. “Head back two or three streets and wait for the all-clear. If you’re hurt, you can call for help there.”
“What’s going on?” someone demanded.
“It’s the war!” shouted an angry bass voice. “The damn war!”
“But isn’t the war over?” asked the first.
“Get moving!” Sula shouted. “Move back before you get caught in the crossfire!”You idiots, she added to herself.
She turned to her team. “Ardelion, how badly are you hurt?” Using Spence’s code name.
Spence looked down at the boot that left red trails in the water. “I’m not sure. I think it’s minor, but it hurts like a bitch.”
“Do you need to be carried?”
Spence shook her head. “I can keep my feet. I just hope I don’t have to run.”
“All right, then. You and Starling pull your hoods over your heads. Rifles completely under the capes. Brush that crap off your shoulders. Move with these people till you get to the car.”
She tucked her rifle under her arm, barrel downward, knocked as much plaster dust off her shoulders as she could, and pulled the hood over her helmet. A pinch sealed the hood in front, over her faceplate, but her faceplate displayed the image transmitted by the hood sensors so that she had a perfectly workable picture of where she was going.
Macnamara in the lead, the team moved with the civilians till they got outside. Suddenly the sounds of firing were much louder, and echoed off the buildings. Vertigo eddied in Sula’s skull at the slight distortion in her vision, and the stuffy air inside her suit sent warning signs of claustrophobia tingling up her nerves. She had to marvel at how well the camouflage capes worked—she couldn’t see anything of Spence or Macnamara except their boots and the wet footprints they left on the pavement.
Once outside the civilians dispersed, and encountered groups of other civilians. They had heard the explosion that destroyed the bridge, apparently, and come either like fools to gawk or like good citizens to help anyone injured by the blast. But the shooting and the continued explosions had made them pause, and now they just hovered in the street, uncertain, all gawkers now.
Sula moved among them and tore open her hood. “Move back!” she called. “This is the war! We’re fighting Naxids! Pull back or you could get hurt!”
“Police!” someone shouted, and the whole crowd began surging back. Sula chanced a look over her shoulder, and saw Naxids in black-and-yellow uniforms scurrying around the corner of the building, having run from the parkway to cut off the retreat of anyone in the building.
“Hurry!” Sula shouted, terrified that the Naxids might decide to fire into the crowd. She and her team were sprinting when they arrived at their car; Spence’s wound barely slowed her down. Sula opened a rear door and flung herself sprawling across the backseat. Macnamara, the best driver, took the driver’s seat, and Spence the front seat opposite.
“Take us out slowly and as quietly as you can,” Sula said. The crowd was still falling back past them, and Sula was amazed the Naxids weren’t shooting at everything that moved.
“Comm,” Sula said, “to Team Two-one-one. Are you out of the building? The building is being surrounded by the enemy. Comm: send.”
Her mind filled with a hopeless plan for driving back toward the building and gunning down the Naxids to break Team 211 free. She’d do her best, but it would just get them all killed.
Two-one-one’s voice, when it came, was breathless. “We’re out, Four-nine-one! We’re running like hell for our car!”
Good for you, Sula thought. The Hunhao swung into the street, its four electric motors driving the wheels in silence. Sula bit her lip: if the Naxids saw them and opened fire now…she remembered the Naxid police vehicle that Hong had wrecked with just his rifle.
“Ardelion,” she said, “how’s that leg?”
Spence was bent over examining the injury. “I can’t bend over far enough in this damn armor to get a good look,” she said. “But I think the bullet went right through the calf. I’ll slap an aid pack on it and we’ll take a closer look at it later.”
Sula sat up and peered out of the back window as the car pulled away. The Naxid police were concentrating on the building, fortunately, not on any onlookers. Those yellow-and-black uniforms were now being reinforced by others in viridian Fleet body armor. She could still hear gunfire rattling away, but none of these Naxids were firing.
Suddenly there was a cry in her ears, and Sula’s blood ran chill as she heard a voice crying over the rattle of gunfire. “All teams! This is Three-six-nine! We’re with Team Three-one-seven! The Naxids have cut us off! We have one dead out in the street and the rest of us are wounded! We need help!”