Part 24 (1/2)

”Can't be far. Maybe a kilometer.” MacArthur glanced sideways into the falling snow. The nagging feeling would not leave.

”We're too spread out,” he said. ”I want the rear closed up. Let's take over the rear guard from O'Toole. I'm putting O'Toole with Chastain. Tatum's really slowing us down.”

A single rifle shot sounded from the head of the column. Burping automatic fire followed, shattering the cottony stillness. MacArthur turned and lunged ahead with Buccari in his wake. Growls reverberated in the air. As he came even with Tatum, he saw five wraithlike apparitions, their paws throwing up a furious churning of snow, charging the column from the opposite side. Tatum and his attendants blocked his line of fire. MacArthur dove behind the men, plunging into the dry snow, and fired a burst into the black-rimmed maw of the closest beast. Buccari's carbine stuttered over his head. Another nightmare fell. Chastain stumbled, dropping Tatum facedown in the snow. Someone screamed! Hudson drew his pistol as two ferocious animals rammed into him, jaws snapping for flesh. MacArthur rose to a knee and fired a round into the closest beast, knocking it squealing and whimpering. Chastain stepped forward and grabbed the other growler by its thick scruff and heaved it into the air. The agile, twisting beast landed on its feet and withdrew.

The other growlers swerved at the rifle reports but maintained their attack. Snarling animals leapt for Chastain's hamstrings. A burst from Buccari's carbine hit one growler in the shoulder, knocking it down, but the remaining beast struck at Chastain's b.u.t.tocks and drew blood. Chastain went to his knees. Hudson, already on the ground, put his pistol behind the growler's ear and squeezed off two rounds. The growler fell dead.

MacArthur leapt to his feet. Hudson, clothing torn and bloodied, attended to Chastain, helping the big man stagger to his feet. As Buccari rolled Tatum' s snow-covered form face up, more rifle fire exploded from the rear of the column.

Explosions of death sticks reverberated along the cliffs. Braan and Craag, bows drawn, rushed into the snow. Kuudor deployed two sections of archers and called up the next watch. With nothing further to do, he drew his bow and marched forward, confident his sentries would stand their ground.

The reports from the death sticks were louder, the frenetic explosions coming in desultory bursts and random single shots, all m.u.f.fled by the deadening snowfall. Shouts and screams wafted through the flurries, the long-legs' rumbling voices growing louder and louder. Sentries gave the alert-movement had been seen. The first hulking form appeared; it was colossal, and it carried the limp form of a fallen comrade. Two others followed closely behind, their heavy bodies sinking in the snow. They were startled by the cliff dwellers. One giant shouted, signaling his own warriors not to their point death sticks at the hunters.

”Craag! Guide them!” Braan ordered. ”We will help those that follow.”

The next group came out of the blizzard-another injured one attended by three heavily burdened long-legs intent on keeping the hurt one moving. There was much shouting and screaming. Confused, the long-legs stumbled and fell in the deep snow. Kuudor bravely approached, grabbing one by the hand. Two of the longlegs, seeing cliff dwellers and sensing safety was near, left the injured ones and returned toward the gunfire, all the while shouting with their booming voices. Braan followed them into the unyielding whiteness.

From out of the dusk-darkened snowfall came the largest of the long-legs. He was injured, leaving a trail of blood and staggering ponderously through the powder. He also struggled with the limp form of an injured comrade. The two long-legs returning to the fray relieved him of his burden, leaving the giant standing unsteadily, looking lost. Braan was concerned he might fall, but more long-legs came out of the flurries; two grabbed the big one's arms and pushed him forward, supporting his great weight. A third one took his rifle and turned to face the rear, maintaining a guard. Another long-legs advancing from the snows appeared; they retreated together.

More shots, near! Craag was at his side, and Kuudor, bows drawn and ready. And more shots! Brilliant flashes of orange! The cliff dwellers flinched and recoiled at the barking death sticks. Growls! Snarling growlers! The hunters smelled the deadly animals despite the chemical reek of death stick magic. The scent of blood was also strong, as snowflakes drifted gently downwards, serenely oblivious to the carnage.

”Fall back, Lieutenant! Fall back!” MacArthur shouted. ”O'Toole! Boats! Who else is still here? Shout your name and close up!”

No answer. It was just the four of them, formed into a tight huddle, their backs together. They knew that cliff dwellers were close by. They had made it! Almost made it-the four of them still needed to break off the engagement. They could not turn and run.

”Keep moving. O'Toole! Watch our backs and lead the way,” MacArthur ordered. ”Do you see anything? Any cliff dwellers?”

”Not yet. Which way do we go, Mac?” O'Toole asked helplessly.

MacArthur glanced at his compa.s.s, trying to hold it steady. Uncertain, he pointed in a general direction. They could be marching off the cliff for all he knew.

Growlers exploded from the blizzard. Buccari' s carbine and Jones' pistol barked viciously and were quickly joined by the lower-pitched and angry reports of MacArthur's and O'Toole's heavy automatics. Only two of the growlers survived to close the gap, and one of those was dispatched with MacArthur' s bayonet. The last growler fell to the ground with three arrows in its throat. The firing stopped. The humans stared at the shaft-studded growler and looked about for the unseen archers.

Fur-shrouded cliff dwellers materialized, bows drawn and arrows nocked. One of them approached and indicated with a sharp gesture they should follow.

”It's Captain!” MacArthur shouted, recognizing the dweller leader by his manner and gait. ”Follow him!”

The hunters turned and ambled over the snow, their broad feet keeping their light bodies from sinking. The humans followed, struggling to keep pace, eyes scanning the snowy gloom.

Chapter 27.

War It had gotten extremely late. Runacres was escorted from the inner offices of the west wing to the empty lobby of the deserted a.s.sembly forum. Only janitors puttered about, attempting to bring order to the hallowed chambers of that last bastion of democracy on Earth, such as it was. Runacres proceeded to the east entrance alone. He knew the way well. His footfalls on the lacquered floor echoed from the mahogany paneling and high-ceilings of the interminable corridors. His pace was measured, neither quick nor slow, but then again gravity was a nuisance. Of habit he enjoyed reviewing the yellowed oils of ancient leaders and war heroes hanging from the walls, along with mildewed draperies and innumerable faded, dusty campaign banners and flags. The glorious past.

He entered the east wing rotunda ”Guard! Attennn-huttt!” the captain barked. Elite troops of the Alberta Brigade in chromed helmets cracked explosively to attention. Runacres pulled on his thick reefer, donned his heavily braided cap, and tossed a s.p.a.cer salute, flipping a hand from the cap brim, neat and quick, unlike the chest-thumping, fist-in-the-air salute of the Legion Federation Peacekeepers. Runacres laughed at the irony of that appellation as he stomped into the snowy night.

Night reigned over Edmonton, but there was precious little darkness. Arc lights illuminated the capital mall, all the way to the distant Defense Ministry, in which he had labored the past months. Armed patrols in combat fatigues, some leading dogs, crisscrossed the grounds. Other than ground-wire trolleys, there were no powered vehicles within the administration perimeter. Runacres elected to make the short walk to the General Officers' Club, a refres.h.i.+ng prospect after so many hours in closet session. Jupiter, he hated politics! His planet was dying.

He glanced at his watch; it was two hours after than their agreed-upon meeting time, but he knew they would be waiting. He walked through the bra.s.s and teak lobby of the officers' club and into the secluded apartments reserved for the occasion. Sarah Merriwether stood at the window watching snow fall softly through the harsh glare. The others, cl.u.s.tered on leather sofas near the fireplace, jumped to their feet-all except Ca.s.sy Quinn who remained seated, staring at the floor. A magnificent oil of an ancient sail-powered dreadnought heeling to the wind hung above the mantel.

”We're going,” Runacres announced stolidly. ”The president wants us on that planet. We've been authorized to use all available means.” He looked around the silent room, not knowing what to expect, anything except silence. Quinn looked up at the ceiling, her eyes glistening in the firelight.

”I'll get the word out, Admiral,” Wells replied, putting on his winter cap. ”We have a few logistic problems to iron out.”

”More than a few, Franklin. Get on it,” he said, turning to face the geologist. ”Commander Quinn, your report was the hammer. The president's advisors swallowed the hook. You are to be commended. I know how hard you worked for this.”

”Thank you, Admiral,” Quinn replied, color just starting to flow into her face. ”I really believe my-h-how soon, sir?”

”Of course you do, Ca.s.sy,” Runacres replied. ”We'll have to see how quickly Commodore Wells can crank up the refit. Not sooner than three months, probably more like six. We must be prepared to do battle.”

Muzzle blasts from heavy artillery thundered across the land. Pig-snouted cannons erupted, hurling hunks of demon iron screaming through tortured skies, and distant, low-pitched explosions beat an arrhythmic dirge day and night. Black clouds of greasy smoke tumbled skyward from hideously orange tongues of flame raking the brutalized horizon. Joined in mortal combat were the konish armies of north and south. Devastation spread, and word of war flew in the wind. Millions of panicked civilians and thousands of furtive soldiers fled southward, forming endless refugee columns, filled with despair and absent hope.

Gorruk' s hordes poured into the cratered and torched salients. They did not appear to be conquerors. Parched and blackened by sun, the troops of the north were also refugees, fleeing from the unmerciful heat and winds of their forced march across the arid sands. The soldiers stumbled forward, relentlessly, knowing too well the searing tribulation behind them; they would rather die attacking the unknown than to repeat the ordeal of the deserts. As the dehydrated hordes reached the pitiful tributaries draining the contested lands, they would raise immense cheers and stampede the feeble watercourses, falling and wallowing in muddy ditches like cattle. Their footholds established, the northern armies flowed inexorably southward, supported by ma.s.sive logistics convoys. Engineers, ruthlessly employing prisoners, struggled to erect rail systems spanning the deserts, striving desperately to complete their slave-driving atrocities before the weather systems returned to normal, reverting the deserts to impa.s.sable infernos.

The southern tribes put aside argument and rivalry. Gorruk' s daring invasion eclipsed petty trade and boundary squabbles, putting in their stead a full blown threat to their very existence. Jook' s iron-fisted general did not subscribe to civilized conventions of warfare. To Gorruk, all war-by definition-was total war. Torture, genocide, plunder, the torch-all of these, and more, were weapons in his a.r.s.enal of terror. The kones of the south were victims of their own complacency. The equatorial deserts had not been the ultimate barrier after all. Madmen knew no barriers.

”Rather obvious, is it not?” Et Kala.s.s asked wryly. He stared from his fourth-story penthouse overlooking the regimental parade field. Lovely orange-blossomed kotta kotta trees lined the gra.s.s-covered fields. The atmosphere was thick with particulates and smog-as usual. The muted sky, clear of clouds, yet still murky, was tinted almond, complementing the bright blossoms. trees lined the gra.s.s-covered fields. The atmosphere was thick with particulates and smog-as usual. The muted sky, clear of clouds, yet still murky, was tinted almond, complementing the bright blossoms.

”Perhaps we can argue our way clear, Your Excellency,” said his militia commander, General Et Ralfkra. ”We can say that the satellites were possibly defective-or already sabotaged, built with time bombs installed. There is no proof they were destroyed at our hand.”

”Proof is rarely a weapon of justice, certainly not of the ilk served by our friend Gorruk,” said the ancient kone lounging in the corner.

”Our wise and worthy Samamkook is correct, of course,” Et Kala.s.s said. ”We may have to relent, or we will surely be purged. How goes Gorruk' s latest attack?” Et Kala.s.s turned his attention from the window, back to the long wall of his office suite upon which strategic maps were arrayed.

”He has broken out to the west, along the Ma.s.sif of Rouue. Et Barbluis is ready for him at the highlands. They will engage at day's end.”

”So many to die!” the minister moaned. ”When will we be free of this?”

”With the Restoration, m'lord!” the general replied, too loudly.

”It is dangerous to flatter ourselves,” Samamkook said.

”Truth and freedom were in our past,” Et Ralfkra said. ”So will they be in our future.”

”Only if our kings are pure and wise-a difficult challenge for mortal kones, good General. Even those of unblemished n.o.bility,” Et Kala.s.s reflected. ”And let us not forget: our pretender is himself in grave danger.”

Gorruk's attacking advance was met by superior forces occupying developed defensive positions-a recipe for disaster- but Gorruk was not to be denied. It was a disaster, a disaster for both sides, and despite horrendous casualties, casualties no sane military commander could tolerate, Gorruk' s forces rolled over the bodies of dead mult.i.tudes and climbed the high ground. Marshall Et Barbluis's lines were irresistibly bent and then finally broken by Gorruk' s maniacal charges, ammunition depleted on both sides, blasters melted, soldiers reduced to scratching, clawing, stabbing, and clubbing. General Gorruk was prominent on the front lines, exhorting and goading, brave and resolute, constantly exposing himself to enemy fire. At one critical juncture he personally led a charge against an enemy strong point, suffering a superficial wound. He was seen to wipe the blood across his face as he pressed onward, onward toward the objective, screaming the battle cry of his ancient tribe. His men, witness to the inspiring charge, carried everything before them and would not be stopped. The southern army retreated, gravely mauled, leaving the field to the bleeding barbarians of Gorruk' s decimated armies.