He could see the approach lights of the station as they came down the hill above the bay. He had radioed ahead to have them prepare one of the craft for immediate use. The others would be booby-trapped.
They followed the coast road down, the half-track bucking on the steep gradient as the driver tried to brake without losing all his momentum. DeVore barked orders into the mike. There was no time for sophisticated planning. Five minutes, that was all they had. Five minutes to transfer the load onto the cruiser and get out of here. Whatever—and whoever—wasn't ready would be left behind.
As they came out onto the level, the compound's gates swung back and they sped inside, screeching to a halt beside the open hold of the biggest of the three cruisers.
DeVore smiled, pleased to see that the craft had been fueled and readied as he'd requested. Pulling himself up over the hood of the halftrack he jumped down onto the metal-grid surface. He was about to turn back, to begin supervising the unloading, when two figures came out of the darkness by the control hut and walked toward them.
He felt anger well up in himself. What the fuck are they doing here?
"Ah . . . Jackson. Now that you're back, maybe you can tell your man to get one of the other craft ready. The bastard seems to think—"
"Nolen? Franke?"
The two men came up to him, Nolen assuming an immediate air of command. "Look, Jackson, things are heating up. The Myghtern's dead and from what Tak says Security have sent in troops. Now, be a good man and do as I've asked."
DeVore stared at him, amazed. "Be a good man . . . ?" He laughed. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
Nolen's eyes widened. His mouth popped open in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
DeVore glanced at the timer inset into his wrist. There was no time for this. He looked at them, then drew his gun.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but—"
Two explosions echoed back from the cliffs nearby. DeVore holstered his gun and turned back, impatient now.
"Come on, move!"
THE CLAY was filling with smoke. Already Haavikko could see only those soldiers nearest him, their heads—encased in the bright-lit bubbles of their helmets—seeming to bob, disembodied above the swirling mist.
The order to wear breathing apparatus had gone out half an hour back, but it was only now that he understood the true nature of the problems facing them.
The darkness ... I could cope with the darkness, but this mist . . . It's like being dead. One feels like a phantom here.
If his instruments were right they were less than a li from the Myght-em's town, down a steep incline that began just a few ch'i up ahead, but their pace had slowed to a snail's crawl and more and more time was being spent checking along the line to make sure no one had gone missing.
It's like a nightmare, he thought, swallowing dryly. Their filters had not been designed for these conditions. If they did not find shelter soon . . .
A shout came down the line from his right, echoed from voice to voice. Someone was down. Haavikko called a halt, speaking into the open channel, then waited as slowly, much too slowly, two figures emerged from the mist, carrying a third.
There was another shout, a third. It's too much for them, he thought, feeling a sudden upwelling of despair. It wasn't just the darkness, nor was it the smoke—though those were bad enough—it was the sense of being trapped; the fear that they had stumbled through a door in reality and into the earth-prison itself.
"Gather round!" he ordered, knowing he must do something at once. "We'll take the wounded into the half-tracks."
Terming them "wounded" was technically inaccurate, he knew, but psychologically it would do them good. To be wounded was at least an honorable thing, whereas to fail because of the nature of the terrain— well, it was not "soldierly."
He pulled himself up onto the hood of the half-track and stood there, showing himself, watching as they grouped around the vehicle, all eyes looking up to him for their lead.
"Okay," he said, seeing how much easier they were now that they could see him. "We'll go down in formation. Lines of six, weapons to chest. Captain Freas, you bring up the rear. I'll lead us in."
He jumped down, to muted cheers and smiling faces. It was suddenly not so bad. The mist seemed suddenly less threatening, the dark less solid.
Below was the Myghtern's town. He would put it to the torch and then get out. The smoke would do the rest.
He moved between his men, smiling reassurance, touching an arm here, a shoulder there, then turned, watching them form up: soldiers again, with the indoctrinated pride of soldiers. He grinned, feeling his own fear melt away, then, turning to face the darkness, began to march, on and down, into the Myghtern's town.
TAK WATCHED them come down, fascinated by the sight of their brilliantly lit helmets bobbing in a regular rhythm—row after row of them—as they came through the gate and out onto the bridge.
All the rest had fled, or had choked and died where they fell. Only he remained now. He should have gone, should have taken Jackson's advice, but when it came to it he found he could not leave.
The breathing mask was tight about his nose and mouth, the tank almost empty, but they had served their purpose. He had stood and not run and now he, the Myghtem, would defend the Myghtern's town.
Tak drew his dagger, then took the old-fashioned gun he'd bought from Tynan from his belt. It felt strange and heavy in his hand. As the Above soldiers turned right into St. Mary's Street, he began to walk toward them.
He could see them clearly now. There were a hundred, maybe more of them, and at their front a single man—an officer? their General, maybe?—marched alone.
You, Tak thought, stopping, then raised his gun to take aim. I shall kill you. And then it will be over. Then both of us can rest.
He sighted along the line of the gun, the way Tynan had shown him, and pulled back the safety. The gun was cocked.
The soldiers came on, like some strange nonhuman mechanism, the sound of their marching feet echoing now through the misted streets of the deserted capital.
He counted down. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six ...
They did not stop, did not falter. It was as if he were invisible; as if they would simply march right through him, like an army of ghosts.
Five, four, three . . .
Something buzzed about him gnatlike, then clinked against the gun, putting him off balance. He turned, trying to shoo it off, and as he did the gun went off, the explosion deafening, a shower of hot, splintered metal hitting him full in the face and chest.
THE COLUMN HALTED. Slowly, hesitantly, Haavikko walked toward the fallen man. He was dead. Haavikko could see that at a glance. No one could have survived an explosion like that.
"Aiya!" he said softly, stooping over the bloodied mess.
"He's the Myghtern's man." The voice came from close by and he recognized it as Ben's.
He looked up. Two of Ben's remotes were hovering close by. One of them seemed damaged; fire blackened.
"Ah . . ." Haavikko nodded. But what was it doing with that ridiculously antiquated gun? It was a museum piece! No wonder the fucking thing blew up!
"The Myghtern is close by."
Haavikko looked up again. The undamaged remote was hovering much closer now. "What?"
"The Myghtern. You promised me you'd bring his body back, remember?"