Starfist: Hangfire (38 page)

"I ain't worth a damn in the mornings without a cup of coffee," Claypoole said, stretching. Several of the guards laughed. They admired his pluck. Dean looked at him in admiration too. They were in desperate trouble and Claypoole was cracking jokes! A sudden wave of affection for his friend brought moisture to his eyes. Claypoole thought to himself, Where the hell is Nast!

"Damn!" Pasquin said, "I can actually walk on this thing!" He tested his weight on his injured foot and it held, with little pain. "Remember," he told the others as the guards unchained him, "we're in this together."

"Not him," a guard gestured to Prost. "He's going in first all by himself."

Already people were gathering in the Coliseum stands above, taking their seats in the early morning freshness, relaxing, buying their breakfasts from the vendors who plied the aisles. Out in the arena itself, clowns initiated mock battles for the amusement of the early crowd. Even in their subterranean prison the Marines could hear the muted laughter, like the audio from a vid being played two rooms over.

"Gate receipts are gonna top the record today," one of the guards remarked. "All right, into the showers with you birds."

Held by three guards each, the four men were hustled into a modem shower facility adjoining the mock dungeon. The warm water revived them somewhat after their ordeal. "We can't jump them," Claypoole observed, standing under the cascading water. "Too many of 'em."

"Listen," Claypoole told Prost, "the raptors' hamstrings have been cut, so they can't jump. We've encountered these things before. You do have a chance! Attack! Catch them off balance! They're only animals!"

"Go for the snouts," Dean advised.

"No talking, damnit!" one of the guards shouted.

"I'm very afraid, gentlemen," Prost whispered.

"So are we," Pasquin admitted, "but we're Marines, we've been shot at and shit at and this is the worst scrape any of us have ever been in, but we are not giving up! We are not going out quietly. Don't you give them that satisfaction, Mister Prost."

"Actually," Claypoole said, "the worst scrape I ever been in was on Elneal, when we were lost in the Martac. Remember, Joe? We were—" He shut up when the other two looked at him very strangely.

Well, they didn't know what he knew. "I got a score to settle with these bastards," he went on, "and no Wanderjahrian jackals and no gladiators are going to stop me. They got a fight on their hands today, by God, and we are gonna win it!" His voice rang off the walls, causing the guards to look at the four men suspiciously.

"I told you guys to shut up!" a guard hollered.

Claypoole's companions regarded him as if thinking, What the hell's gotten into him? Then they broke into cheers. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" they shouted and gave high fives all around. Dean, Pasquin, and even Prost felt a sudden surge of hope, so infectious was Claypoole's defiance. Claypoole thought, If Juanita's sent the message—But still he dared not tell his companions, in case the hope of their rescue proved false. He still didn't know if he could trust Juanita, if he'd done the right thing by giving her the code. Who can you trust? Claypoole asked himself. He looked at the other three and he knew.

Nast had finally agreed to set up a shelter between the two Essays, so he could get all his men together for a preflight briefing. An aerial blowup of the coliseum had been projected onto a screen so all of them could see it. They had been studying smaller versions for three days and knew the place by heart. But Nast insisted on one more rehearsal.

"They won't be expecting us," Nast said. "I'm going to be in the lead Essay. We'll land right here." He pointed to a spot in the arena just in front of the emperor's box "The bosses will be seated there, with their whole menagerie. Those walls are about four meters high. From the roof of an Essay that'll be an easy climb. We'll assault the mob bosses directly from the Essays. Number two will follow us in and provide security for the snatch. Do not fire unless you have to. We don't want to harm any of the spectators. But if you're fired on or if anyone tries to interfere with this operation, shoot to kill." They'd all heard that before too.

"Any word from our Marines?" Chief Riggs asked.

"No," Nast answered quickly. "Nothing. We have to assume they've been compromised So have my agents."

"Then how're you going to get the evidence you need to put these rats away?" Brock asked.

Nast paused for only an instant before he said, "I have enough evidence from their operations on a dozen worlds to extradite them from Havanagas."

If he already had what he needed, then why—Chief Riggs asked himself. A sudden thought occurred to the old navy chief that made him start but he dared not give voice to it. "We'll snatch Draya, Ferris, and their henchmen and transport them to the
Wanganui
. She should be in orbit by now. I know, I know, customs will have queried Perizittes why he's here, and he'll tell them it's to effect emergency repairs to their Beam drive. I anticipated something like this might happen. We're off schedule, I know.

But we have the element of surprise and we'll get them by the balls."

Brock and several other policemen looked dubious.

"Brock, you and your team'll be on the lead Essay with me. Soon as we're down, up you go and into the box. You all know what our targets look like; any doubt, secure or disable everyone. Don't let anyone get out of the boxes. Is that clear? If you have to shoot anyone to stop him from getting away, shoot him. We'll sort out who's who when we get back to the
Wanganui
."

Brock looked at the officer sitting next to him and they exchanged glances. Was this a license to kill?

"Chief," Nast turned to Riggs, "we go in as if this were a wartime combat assault. You know how to do that. When the prisoners are secure, you take off for the
Wanganui
immediately. The rest of us will remain on the ground until you can get back for us. Gentlemen, it might be a very hot hour down there for those of us who stay behind. Make sure you have plenty of ammunition. Chief," again he turned back to Riggs, who then briefed the men on how an assault landing would go, despite the fact they'd practiced dry runs many times over the previous days.

Riggs explained again that they would go in at wave-top level at supersonic speed When they approached the coast of the continent where Rome was situated, they would rise to treetop level. That way they should be able to avoid any surveillance radars the mob might have in operation. Nast was not worried about armed interference while they were airborne, just that their quarry might get advance warning and get away.

"Okay, men, thirty minutes to 8 hours," Nast announced when Riggs was done. "Team leaders, review your assignments with your men. Once we're away you can catch some sleep."

Nast turned to go but Brock stopped him. "How're we gonna make an arrest that'll hold up in court if you don't have that evidence your agent was supposed to get for you?"

Nast regarded Brock for a moment. Still the dumb street cop from back in, where was it, someplace called Fairfax County? "Welbourne, look at it this way. I'm the number two man in the Ministry of Justice. I have a phalanx of lawyers just waiting to go into action, and besides, the President of the Confederation bought into this operation months ago. But if that's not enough for you, there won't be any trial for these swine. They're going straight to Darkside, those who survive the raid. It's not the first time and it won't be the last. Now get with your men and get them ready. And Welbourne, the fewer of those rats that survive the assault, the better it'll be for the taxpayers."

The four prisoners sat chained to a wall just inside the staging area. From outside came the hubbub of the crowd waiting impatiently for the games to begin. There was a sudden burst of laughter.

"What time is it?" Claypoole asked one of the guards.

"Eleven twenty-two. Eight minutes to show time." He laughed and came over to where the four sat.

"Look. We're only following orders. We're not responsible for this. There'll be at least two jackals out there. You've got a chance if you stick together and cooperate." He glanced sideways at Prost. "But he doesn't," the man whispered.

"Where the hell are the cops when you need them most?" Claypoole muttered. The others laughed briefly, thinking it was Claypoole's dogged sense of humor, but he really meant what he said. Where the hell was Nast, anyway? On the other side of the planet? What could be taking him so long? Now he had serious doubts Juanita had ever sent the message. He could see her now, schmoozing with Johnny Sticks, laughing at how easy it was to get the code. More laughter from the crowd. "Jesus," he muttered, "don't any of those fools realize what's really going on down here?"

"No, they think it's all done by special effects," Dean answered. "When Tara and I—" he stopped short. Tara. Burned at the stake. Anger bordering on madness swept through him. He got control of himself after a moment. "They don't think these fights are any more real than the vids all of us watch," he said in a tired voice.

A very big man in gladiatorial armor came up to them. "If you survive the raptors, and you just might, you'll have to deal with us," he said "We'll kill you quickly, if you cooperate. That's all I can promise.

Quick and clean."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir," Pasquin replied, "but you kill us and you'll know you've had a goddamned fight on your hands."

The gladiator stared silently at the Marines, shrugged and touched a hand to his helmet's visor. "We who are about to die salute you," he whispered.

"These guys take this stuff awful serious," Dean whispered. He thought the remark sounded extremely nonchalant and he was proud of himself for saying it. Claypoole wasn't the only one with a sense of humor.

Pasquin had to laugh. "I'll miss you fools," he whispered to his two teammates. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke.

"No! No!" Prost protested as two guards unchained him and hauled him to his feet.

"These things never start on time," one guard said, grinning. "Your life has been extended by approximately two minutes. Hope you used the time to good advantage."

It was precisely 11:32.

Dressed in a loosely fitting toga that came to just below his knees, and armed with only a short sword, Gerry Prost was thrust unceremoniously into the arena. The door slammed shut behind him. The sun was blinding! As his eyes adjusted, he saw thousands of people looking down at him from their seats in the galleries. The arena was empty. He staggered forward and then stopped. From the opposite wall another door opened and out hopped two of the most horrible creatures he'd ever seen. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as the animals stood blinded by the strong sunlight, seeking their bearings. The crowd erupted in an enormous shout of delight.

Bent low to the ground, sniffing the sand as they came on, the jackals advanced cautiously to the center of the arena. Prost stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, his sword dangling uselessly from his hand. They saw their prey at last and scuttled forward rapidly in short hops.

The faster of the two jackals skidded to a halt inches from where Prost stood. Suddenly, a survival instinct took over and the old man swung his sword and brought it straight down onto the creature's snout. It gave a piercing skree! and reared back on its haunches. Prost dashed around to one side as the second monster lunged at him, its fangs bared and dripping. Dodging nimbly under its neck, he whacked it on the side with his sword. To his horror the weapon bounced harmlessly off the thing's hide and out of his hand into the sand.

The crowd was on its feet, screaming and cheering, but Prost could've been alone in the world for all the notice he took of the noise. The first jackal fastened its jaws upon his injured leg and lifted him bodily off the ground as it got back on its hind legs. Prost screamed in agony as the beast began shaking him like a rag doll. His leg separated just below the knee and he fell heavily into the sand, rich red blood spurting from the arteries in his severed limb. The jackal tossed back its head and swallowed the leg. The second creature leaped upon him. Prost had just enough time to turn face down on the ground. The thing gripped him firmly with its short upper arms and raked him viciously with its hind claws. Prost screamed in agony as the razor-sharp talons shredded his back and buttocks. Attracted by the source of the screams, it dipped its head quickly and decapitated Prost with one bite. The two then went to work on what was left of their victim.

It was 11:34.

"Jeez, Dad, that was great!" the young lad from Sisyphus enthused, sitting in the gallery between his parents. "First that witch thing and now this! Boy, I can't wait until the gladiators come on!"

The crowd shrieked as one of the jackals ripped the intestines out of its victim and gulped them down like slimy red sausages. "Oh, that's disgusting!" The boy's mother said, and laughed.

"Animal entrails," her husband said knowingly. "But wonderful special effects. I've read where they use several hundred pounds of raw meat here each day, to simulate human body parts."

"Look! Look!" their son shouted, getting to his feet in his excitement, "Three guys! Now there's gonna be a real fight!"

"Siddown up front! Siddown!" a fat man sitting behind the family from Sisyphus shouted around a mouthful of hamburger.

It was 11:39.

The jackals looked up from their meal as the three men entered the arena. They were dressed like Prost and also armed with the short gladius swords.

Something red and stringy dangled from one of the jackal's jaws. "Oh, Christ," Dean groaned when he realized what it was. The sand around where the two creatures crouched was stained dark red; chunks of meat lay scattered about.

"Ah, goddamn, they're gonna pay for this!" Claypoole shouted, and started toward the jackals.

"Hold it, Rock! We stick together." Pasquin grabbed Claypoole's shoulder and restrained him. "We stand here and let them come to us. Save our energy."

The jackals seemed in no hurry. The crowd began to jeer and throw things into the arena. "Fuck you!"