A Choice of Treasons (8 page)

York headed for the main embassy building at a trot. The lifts were still out of commission so he had to use the stairs, and after six flights he staggered out onto the roof gasping for air. Tathit was waiting for him, visor down. York dropped his visor and they both walked out to the edge of the roof. As he looked out over the city he heard
One
lift off behind him.

Tathit pointed down into the city. York watched carefully for some seconds, then, for just an instant, he caught a glimpse of a dark figure as it darted between two buildings. He adjusted the magnification on his helmet pickups, watched the scene on the inside of his visor expand rapidly.

The figure moved again, and while York’s glimpse was fleeting, it was enough to see the glint of armor and the hint of an insignia. A hard knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

He dropped the magnification back to normal and waited. Out in the city he saw another shadow move, then another, and another. He waited several seconds and saw a dozen more.

He and Tathit stepped away from the edge of the roof as he keyed his com to the open marine frequency. “This is Ballin. Visors down and seal ‘em up. We’ve got armored
feddie
regs out there. Looks like a full company of ‘em. Palevi, you’ve got the wall. Act at your own discretion. I’ll contact
Invaradin
.”

York keyed his com to
Invaradin’s
command frequency. “
Invaradin
, this is Ballin requesting emergency com clearance.”

There came no answer, Sierka again making him wait.

“
Invaradin
, this is Ballin. We are red down here.”

Still he had to wait, but Sierka finally did acknowledge him. “What do you want now, Ballin?”

“We’ve spotted a company of Syndonese regulars moving in on us, sir. We’re about to be hit hard.”

“Syndonese regulars, Lieutenant. I seriously doubt that. There are no Directorate troops operating within thirty light-years of this system. Stop trying to justify your earlier errors in judgment by—”

“God damn it!” York shouted. “I know a
feddie
when I see one. And if we’ve got
feddie
troops down here, you’ve got a
feddie
warship up there somewhere.”

York’s com went silent. He switched com channels. “
One
and
Two
, dump your passengers and get the hell down here on the double. We need fire support and evac. And if either of you can get hold of anyone on the bridge, let ‘em know we’re being hit.”

“Ready,” he heard Palevi say. “On my command: two second burst . . . FIRE!”

The embassy compound filled suddenly with the scream of automatic weapons. A few of the darting shadows in the streets below were caught in the open; one literally burst into pieces in the crossfire between two power rifles. York drifted off into that half-dream world of adrenaline and fear where he oscillated between hysteria and panic.

The two second burst ended abruptly and the
feddie
troops began returning fire. “Three second burst,” Palevi said. “Then fire at will . . . FIRE!”

The
feddies
were now returning a continuous stream of fire. York could see tracers from at least two emplacement skipping about through the compound. “Sierka, you son-of-a-bitch,” he screamed into his com. “Where the hell are you? We’re under assault. Now. We need fire support.”

“Cap’em, this is Hyer. I got bad problems down here. The locals’re out of control, crawlin’ all over the
Diana’s
shuttle.”

“Use your weapons,” York barked.

“Can’t, sir. The princess is with ‘em. Probably hit her too. It’s like she thought we was the enemy.”

“Damn!” York snarled. “I’m coming down, and if anything breaks before I get there, your only responsibility is to keep her safe.”

“Sir?” Hyer asked indignantly.

“You heard me. Just fucking do it.”

York hit the stairwell at a run, taking the steps three at a time. His world narrowed to the next step, and the importance of hitting it squarely.

He reached the bottom, burst into the hallway there, realized he’d overshot by one floor and was down in the basement. He reversed his tracks, ran back up to the ground floor, then down the length of the first floor hall and out onto the embassy lawn.

The Trinivanian locals, swarming all over the
Diana’s
shuttle, looked like ants on a piece of rotted food. They spilled out of the open cargo bay, with people climbing desperately over one another in a panicked effort to save themselves. Some had wrapped their arms tightly about the shuttle’s skids, hoping to ride out that way, never thinking what would happen when they reached the vacuum of space. And in the midst of it all stood the princess, shouting at everyone. York looked about quickly, spotted the churchman Rhijn standing far to one side out of danger.

“Cap’em,” Hyer said. “Shuttle pilot wants to lift off. Says he’s going whether you like it or not.”

“The hell he will,” York growled. “You tell him if he lifts one second before I give the word, we’ll shoot hell out of him and leave him for the
feddies
.

“What about these locals? Did you finish searching them?”

“Only about half, sir.”

York nodded unhappily. “I’m going into that mob to get the princess out. Cover me. And remember: her life has priority.”

York walked into the mob carefully with his hand resting on the hilt of his gun so no local could grab it. They took no notice of him at first. Frightened people ran about in front and behind him, but none blocked his path. He approached the princess from behind, reached out and gently took hold of her shoulder.

She jumped and turned to face him. “Who are you?” she shouted above the noise of the mob and the gunfire, unable to see his face through the blackened visor, and not thinking clearly enough to look at the name stenciled on his chest plate.

He activated his external speaker. “Ballin. Will you come with me please?”

“No,” she said flatly, though without conviction.

“Cap’em. This is Palevi. We can’t hold out much longer.”

“Two minutes. I’m on the front lawn trying to get the princess out. I need two minutes.”

There was an almost undetectable pause. “You got ‘em, sir.”

York switched back to his external speaker. The princess was shouting something at him. “Shut up!” he barked.

She started and her eyes narrowed angrily. “What did you say?”

“I said shut up. You’re coming with me now if I have to carry you out. Is that clear?”

She put her hands on her hips. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Listen to me,” York said. “You can pound on me all day and my armor’ll protect me. But you start that and this mob’ll go crazy, and my marines will then protect you with some very powerful weapons and kill a bunch of these people. Or you can come with me nice-like. It’s your choice, so make up your mind and do it now.”

She said nothing, gritted her teeth and glared.

He grabbed her by the upper arm, gripping her hard enough to hurt. “Now walk beside me and try not to look forced.”

Together they turned away from the shuttle and began walking. At first the crowd paid no attention to them and York thought they might get away with it. But then suddenly the mob stilled, a deathly silence descended, and with the sound of the weapons fire at the wall providing a deadly backdrop, the crowd began to close menacingly about them.

The mob’s panic was gone. Fear still hung in the air but it no longer had the taste of many individuals. This was the fear of a single monstrous entity, cold, deadly, united. This mob would get foolishly brave now.

In that moment he almost halted, but he realized that to hesitate in any way would be a confession to them that he was not the one in control. He kept walking, taking long, great strides as if he would climb over anyone who got in his way, literally pulling the princess after him. His hand still rested on his grav-gun, and he knew how intimidating a faceless, black-visored suit of plast-armor could be.

The mob parted reluctantly, though one man was a little braver—or more foolhardy—than the rest and he refused to step aside. York plowed into him, hit him under the chin with an armor-plated forearm and knocked him down. And then he was walking across open lawn, with Hyer standing not far away, a rifle in his hands.
We made it
, York thought.

Suddenly Hyer raised his rifle and screamed over the com, “Cap’em behind you!”

York threw the princess to the ground and spun about as something zinged off his armor. A young woman stood a few meters away with a gun aimed at him.

Later, much later, when looking back on the incident, he could never remember pulling and aiming his sidearm. He remembered the fear, and he remembered that eternity of an instant when the gun in the young woman’s hand kicked, spitting a puff of angry, gray smoke while he squeezed the trigger on his grav-gun, only then realizing that it was aimed at her abdomen, and that she was just a little girl, no more than ten or twelve years old, and that she was far more frightened than he, and that the signal from his brain to his trigger finger had already been sent, and the action irrevocably begun.

The bullet from her gun smashed into the center of his visor, splattered just in front of his eyes and slammed his head back painfully. He staggered with the force of the impact as his own gun kicked in his hand, barely managed to keep his feet.

“Hold fire,” he screamed into his com, fearing a massacre if his marines lost control. “As you were.” He glanced up at the telltale in his helmet; still green, his visor had withstood the impact of the bullet.

He didn’t remember crossing the distance to stand over the Trinivanian woman—girl. The single shot from his grav-gun had blown away most of her abdomen and pelvis. She was quite dead, and York felt nothing for her, only the letdown that followed the rush of adrenaline needed to react. His own cold, unemotional lack of reaction bothered him far more than the actual death of the poor girl.

“You bloodthirsty son-of-a-bitch!” the princess screamed. “You bloody butcher.”

York turned on her angrily, felt his control slipping away. “She had a gun,” he growled, “and I had to protect you. Those are my orders.”

“Orders?” she screamed. “You animal.” She struck at him, hit him square in the visor with her fist, knocked his head back. “You monster! You maniac!”

Suddenly she was all over him, screaming and kicking and tearing at his armor. “Somebody give me a hand,” he yelled.

“Incoming mortar!” someone screamed over the com.

York reacted instinctively, wrapped his arms around the screaming princess, let his knees buckle and fell on his back, pulling her down on top of him. She landed with an “oomph,” lost her wind, and with his arms still locked tightly about her he rolled over and lay on top of her, trying to protect her from what he knew was coming.

The ground beneath them bucked like a wild animal. The shock wave hit with a loud
whomp
partially muffled by his helmet speakers as they cut out to limit the volume, and even York, protected within his shell of power-reinforced plast, was momentarily stunned while clumps of dirt and lawn rained down upon them.

York scrambled to his feet, took quick note of a large, smoking crater nearby. The next mortar round followed instantly, taking out a section of the compound wall. York keyed his com. “This is Ballin. Pull back to the roof. Double-time.”

The princess picked herself up slowly, but her knees wobbled and she swayed from side to side like a drunkard as she tried to walk. York grabbed her by the back of her collar, swung her around and threw her at Hyer. She landed in a sprawl at the marine’s feet.

“She’s yours, Corporal,” York shouted. “Get her to the roof and on the first available boat. And get her there alive.”

Hyer pulled her to her feet. She started to struggle but the marine ignored her, threw her over one shoulder and ran unsteadily toward the main building. York and Hyer’s squad turned toward the breach in the wall, started backing toward the main building and laying down a continuous barrage of cover fire.

The shuttle pilot begged for permission to lift without being shot down. “Go,” York hollered.

“But what do I do about these fools hanging onto my skids?”

“Hell if I know,” York shouted as he squeezed off several rounds at a gap in the wall. “You wanna stick around and figure something out that’s your busi—”

The hand of some enormous god came out of nowhere and swatted him like a bug, left him dazed and sitting on the ground near another smoking crater. The
Diana’s
shuttle had already lifted several hundred feet in the air, ant-like humans still clinging to its skids. One of them lost hold, and in a last, frantic effort to save himself managed to take several of his friends with him when he fell.

York crawled to his feet and looked around groggily. The same godlike hand of the mortar had swatted his small squad, and two of them were not getting up.