A Choice of Treasons (36 page)

York shook his head. “We shouldn’t be stopping at all, not with half the royal family on board.”

Palevi grabbed York’s arm, a horrible breach of military etiquette, but one York could forgive under the circumstances. “What’s that bastard got up his sleeve, Cap’em?”

“I don’t know,” York lied, and he couldn’t look Palevi in the eyes. “But I’m not taking any chances. Load those boats to the gills with everything we’ve got. Full combat armor, and all the rations and fire power we can carry. Also anything that’ll help us hold a perimeter as long as we can.”

Palevi looked at him narrowly, then as understanding hit him he nodded slowly. “We could just kill ‘im, sir.”

York shook his head. “We’re marines, Sergeant. We obey orders.”

Palevi looked at him, then slowly his face broke into a grin, but it was that nasty grin that York hadn’t seen for a long time. “You’re right, sir. We obey orders.”

When York and Palevi started shouting orders at everyone to load everything they could on the boats, the loading took on a solemn air as all of the marines slowly came to the realization something really wrong was about to happen. The drop really called for light combat harness, but York couldn’t fit two hundred and thirty-seven combat troops, plus their equipment and full combat armor, in three assault boats without first stuffing most of the marines in their armor. For appearances sake, York and Palevi and a squad of twenty marines had their armor loaded separately on
Two
, and made the drop in light harness on
One
.

All the way down York stayed in touch with Straegga. Apparently, on and off for most of the three days they’d been down, the
feddies
had shelled them with surface artillery and made regular bombing runs with their fighters. But under threat of retaliation from
Cinesstar
all hostilities had come to a stop and they’d grounded the fighters.

On approach to the
Dumayia
crew York had the assault boats make a high altitude mapping run over Pare de’San and the forest between the city and the downed crew. And when
One
touched down at the edge of their camp he sent
Two
and
Three
on an expanding reconnaissance spiral around them.

York stepped out of
One’s
hatch, barked over his shoulder at Palevi, “Secure the perimeter, Sergeant. And have all three boats set up a four hundred meter electronic perimeter watch.”

Straegga and another officer approached York, and the
Dumayia
crew gathered behind them. Straegga was a small woman, with short, blond hair, which, like her face and her torn uniform, was streaked with dirt. The officer next to her and the crew gathering behind her were in no better shape. She walked with a limp, but she had a big smile on her face. Most of them carried a weapon of some kind, and not far away the bombed out hulk of their small shuttle was a smoking ruin.

York saluted her smartly, but, as per
drop zone
etiquette, he did not drop his guard by snapping to any kind of attention. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m Lieutenant Ballin, acting captain-of-marines.”

She reached out, shook his hand gladly. “Lieutenant, we’re glad to see you.” She looked at the marines spreading out into the forest around them. “And I appreciate your caution.”

She introduced the officer next to her. “This is my number one, Lieutenant Jakobee.”

York shook the young man’s hand, and Jakobee said, “Ballin! Haven’t I heard that name before?”

York shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

Mec Notay shouted from one’s hatch. “Cap’em. You better come and take a look at this.”

Straegga’s eyes narrowed as she caught the strain in Notay’s voice. She followed close on York’s heels as he turned and walked to the boat, stepped up through the hatch into the interior. Notay sat at the small command console used for coordinating assault troops. Straegga frowned oddly when she saw the sixty marines lined up in the boat in full armor, and as she and York leaned over Notay’s shoulder her frown deepened.

Notay had the output of their telemetry tap to
Cinesstar
on one of the screens, and it showed the cruiser accelerating at full sublight drive away from the planet. A few seconds later the screen filled with snow for a moment, then went blank. Notay touched a few switches on her console, shook her head and glanced over her shoulder at York. “
Cinesstar
cut our telemetry feed. I guess Sierka finally got rid of us, eh cap’em?”

Straegga could read the screens as well as York, and her jaw dropped as she looked at him angrily. York keyed his implants. “This is Ballin. Full alert status. Seal ‘em up and unload. We’re on our own, and as soon as those
feddies
realize that, they’re gonna hit us. Palevi, use your own discretion at setting up perimeter defenses.”

Straegga reached up and grabbed his arm angrily. “Lieutenant,” she shouted. “What in hell is going on?”

York owed her the truth. “I’ll explain fully after I’ve had a chance to set up our perimeter defense.”

Straegga let go of his arm, leaned back against a bulkhead and ran the dirty fingers of one hand through her dirty hair.

“Commander,” York said softly. “It’s a good guess we’re going to be under fire shortly, and I have work to do.”

She looked at him, blinked her eyes, took a moment to orient herself. “Certainly, Lieutenant. I guess this is your show, eh?”

They dug in, literally. The boats were equipped with heavy diggers that could move a lot of earth in a short amount of time, as well as other heavy equipment for establishing an emergency perimeter. In less than two hours they cut a hundred-yard wide swath of trees in a full circle around them, then mined it heavily.

They also dug four large pits for command bunkers, roofed them over with logs from the trees they’d cut from the perimeter, then covered them with about four meters of earth. They set up portable artillery all around the perimeter, as well as electronic counter measures, and they protected everything with electronic camouflage and shielding mesh. York was standing in the middle of the command center, watching the sun settle toward the horizon and wondering what he might have missed, when the first artillery barrage came in.

From the rate of fire it appeared the
feddies
had about a half dozen artillery pieces, and as many mortar emplacements. But the shells coming in were not smart shells; just casings with explosives, no on-board computer with tracking, homing, and trajectory adjustment.

The artillery barrage lasted through most of the night. It caused very little damage—in fact, one of the command bunkers took a direct hit, but it was buried so deeply the damage was minimal. For the most part
One
,
Two
and
Three
were able to track the incoming shells, predict their trajectories, and warn any station seconds before it sustained a hit. But the barrage served its purpose: it kept them up all night, stretched their nerves to the limit and reduced their effectiveness as a combat unit.

The fighters came in at dawn, their targets the three assault boats. They were using missiles guided by heat, light, and electronic emission. At high altitude the boats were no match for the fighters with their blinding speed and air-to-air strike capability. But the boats were each equipped with about thirty small drones which, when released, provided a field of randomly shifting targets for any incoming missile by darting around the boat and broadcasting target emissions. So the boat pilots stayed close to the ground, darted in and out of the forest, made effective use of their drones and a boat’s hover capability. And since the fighter pilots had to be constantly alert for small surface-to-air missiles from the marines, they were relatively safe.

At dusk on the second day York took stock of their casualties: three dead, eight wounded, one portable mortar destroyed, and they’d lost about a dozen of their ninety drones.

Jewel shook her head, mumbled to herself, “What the hell is he up to?”

“Maybe it’s a trap,” Soe said.

Jewel glanced over her screens. They were about a tenth of a light-year out from the Anachron system, drifting slowly toward the planet. The
imper
was either a genius or a maniac, or maybe both, or just maybe schizophrenic. “What the hell is he doing in that system? Yesterday he transits out of there, and now he’s coming back?”

Innay said, “He’s got people down on the surface of number four.”

Jewel shook her head. “I guess we’ll just have to be patient, wait and see.”

In the distance the crump of the mortar was followed by a burst of automatic weapons fire, all muffled by the dirt walls of the bunker. Each time a shell hit somewhere the walls shook and a soft rain of dust settled down through the shadows of the dim lamp overhead.

York sat down on a shelf of dirt next to Palevi, struggled at the neck seals of his helmet for a few moments. Palevi lent a hand, and when he finally lifted the helmet off his head the earthy smell of the bunker was a real pleasure. After three days in armor all of them had grown quite ripe. The armor kept them disinfected, but it couldn’t replace a trip to the fresher, and the hot, steamy air rising up out of the neck ring of his armor warred with the smell of the bunker.

It was about an hour before dawn, and Straegga and Jakobee and Palevi and York had gathered to make some tough decisions. “What’s our situation now?” Straegga asked.

Palevi pulled out a flask containing diluted
trate
, took a healthy swig and passed it to Straegga. She sniffed at the flask, then put it to her lips while Palevi spoke mechanically. “Fourteen dead, thirty-two wounded, one portable mortar destroyed, one rotary emplacement gone, and we’re down to fifty-three drones.”

York spoke, tried not to sound as mechanical but failed. “We’ve burned two of their fighters, and that sortie last night took out two of their artillery pieces. We’ve probably killed more of them than they have us, but we examined a few bodies last night and they’re using amateurs—farmers, civilians, whatever. They’re eventually going to wear us down just by the numbers, and as our fatigue increases, our effectiveness will steadily decline and our casualty rate will grow exponentially.”

The flask came York’s way. He put it to his lips, relished the burn of the
trate
as Straegga shook her head hopelessly. York had privately filled her in on the real situation with Sierka, so she had no fantasies about rescue. “We’re equipped better than they are—you haven’t seen any body armor, have you?”

York shook his head.

“Well then,” Straegga asked. “Could we take that city, maybe just take the power plant?”

York and Palevi looked at one another. York shrugged. “Probably, but we can’t hold it. Occupation troops need a strong supply line connecting them to their base of operations. We have no base.”

Straegga sat silently for some seconds shaking her head. She looked odd in armor. “Well that does it. I don’t see any choice but to face reality and surrender. At least we can negotiate from a position of strength, get some terms.” She looked at York. “I’ll use the com tomorrow, try to set it up. I think it should be you and me, Mister Ballin.”

York nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Straegga dismissed him and Palevi. They helped each other back into their helmets, then crawled up the ladder into the darkness just before dawn. Palevi leaned close to York, and with both their visors up, he whispered, “Cap’em. Why don’t you come with me? If you’re goin’ in among a bunch of
feddies,
you might as well take some insurance.”

York grinned. “What have you got in mind?”

“Trust me, sir.”

CHAPTER 17: ESCAPE

Hackla brought
One
down slowly, held it hovering about twenty centimeters above the forest floor. York dropped his visor and sealed his armor. His suit said in his ear, “Minor hazard warning. Gauntlet breach. Decompression compensation activated.”

His suit inflated an isolation seal around his left wrist, and he glanced up at the silhouette displayed on the interior of his visor. His left gauntlet was shaded red, a small tear in the flexible power mesh covering the palm of his left hand. He’d noticed it just after dawn, hadn’t yet had time to repair it.

He stepped up to the hatch, hit the release and the hatch slid back into the skin of the boat. Outside stood about thirty
feddies
with rifles of various kinds aimed at him. He kept his hands well away from his sidearm as he stepped to the ground. Straegga followed him, wearing no armor. As a ship’s officer it would not be appropriate for her to wear armor to a truce conference. As a marine, under the circumstances, it would be out of character for York to wear anything else. The boat lifted off behind them and disappeared into the sky.