Ah, he moaned inwardly, so many ghosts will haunt me. So many ghosts. Is there enough incense in all Shinedo to placate your wailing cries?

Then the Chu-sa settled his breathing, forced every thought from his mind but the necessity of survival and began spider-walking across the hull towards the access door. Hidden by the z-suit, his med-band was burning crimson. A too-familiar stabbing pain rippled up his side with each movement, but Hadeishi only bent his head and continued to force arms and legs to move.

I will never fear loneliness, he sang to himself, crawling forward. I will always be accompanied.

Before long, I shall be a ghost

But just now, how they bite my flesh

These autumn winds.

Parus

The District of the Wheel

 

Rain poured down from a muddy, discolored sky. The gutters rushed with dark water, swirling around ancient drains clogging with leaves, paper bags and discarded wreaths of golden flowers. Four Arachosians – faces hidden under sharp-brimmed, waxed rain-hats – splashed through spreading pools and up to the ornately carved doors of a temple squeezed in between two larger, newer buildings.

Two of the highlanders swung a spike-headed ram between them. The wooden doors crashed aside, lock and bar broken, and the others leapt in, kalang-knives flashing. Inside, a lookout was hewn down – no priest he, in the gaudy harness and trappings of a pimp – and the Arachs bounded down age-blackened steps and into rooms once dedicated to a now-forgotten god. They burst into a chamber filled with hazy layers of drifting tchun-smoke and the hot neon glow of dozens of modern three-d gambling machines. Soft-scaled lowlander patrons surged up, horrified by the sight of long, lean highland reavers plunging among them, and the sound of wailing screams rang clearly through the spyeye feed. Blood spattered through the intricate holovee writhing in the heart of the nearest machine.

The kujen's board of taxation should pay me a stipend. Itzpalicue's wrinkled lips twitched in amusement and she shifted the active feed, searching for the next of her hunting teams. But this is not the lair of my enemy.

Arachosians loped through an empty warehouse, narrow snouts questing for signs of any inhabitants. The old NГЎhuatl woman could see the tracks of heavily laden carts on the dirt floor.

She switched the feed.

An Imperial-model truck careened around a corner, highlanders hanging off the sides, sopping-wet cloaks clinging to muscled scale, sending a wave of dirty water splashing against the wall of a house. Rain drummed on the roof of the cab. Arachosians on the runner boards pointed the driver towards a row of beehive-shaped workshops. Smoke puffed up into the rain from a forge chimney. The gate to a muddy yard crashed open, smashed aside by an armored bumper. The Arachs sprang down, striding through deep mud, assault rifles at the ready.

A sliding door on the side of the long, low building flew open and a crowd of angry metal-workers poured out into the yard, claws filled with hammers, tongs and lengths of iron bar. The spyeye darted past over their heads as the first burst of bullets tore into the workmen. Itzpalicue muted the sound on the feed – the warbling cries of dying Jehanan irritated her – and shook her head in disgust. The gleaming, modern shapes of two industrial welders sat on wooden platforms on one side of the long forge-room. Cables snaked across a spotless floor to four fuel-cell generators.

Stacks of recycled Imperial iron, aluminum and steel ingots stood behind a locked barricade.

Disappointed, Itzpalicue switched the feed.

An Arachosian glided out from behind a wagon heaped with firewood, assault rifle raised to a shoulder armored with quilted padding. Two more of the highlanders crept along behind, grenades and knives in their claws. Without warning, the rifle stuttered flame. The spyeye view rotated and lowland Jehanan in the livery of the kujen of Parus were staggering, raked with bullets. A heavy plastic case fell to the ground between the infantrymen and Itzpalicue straightened up in her nest of blankets, recognizing the shape of a military ordnance crate.

The woman tapped her comm alive. "Take some of them alive," she rasped, catching the attention of the Arachosian durbar commanding the hunter team. "Don't damage the goods!"

The knife-wielding Arachosians surged forward, broad feet light on the muddy ground, and were upon the surviving Jehanan in the blink of an eye. Two of the survivors were thrown to the ground and secured with ziptight restraints. The Arachs with rifles circled the truck carefully, searching for survivors. Itzpalicue's spyeye drifted into the covered cargo bed, lingered on three more plastic crates and she dialed up the magnification on the 'eye enough to read the stenciled lettering.

"Albanian work," she muttered, thumbing a translator glyph on her display. The angular Slavic letters were familiar, though she hadn't bothered to learn the little-used dialect.

Orkan anti-mobile-armor tactical missile, type three, export restricted, the comp declared.

"Mobile armor?" Itzpalicue frowned thunderously. "Lachlan?"

The Йirishman's head, dark beard entirely foul with bits of food, turned in the v-pane. The xochiyaotinime did not authorize any restricted imports. Only the outdated KГ¤rrhГ¶k anti-tank missiles. He pursed his lips, consulting a secondary display. This model of the Orkan is designed to neutralize a Fleet powered armor suit, or one of the Tonehua APAC's the 416th has in service. Very nasty – fires a cloud of self-tracking hypervelocity composites with reactive warheads – crew of two, integrated ammunition canisters, low-firing profile…

"Expensive. Someone has been spending freely to entertain us." Itzpalicue tapped her comm back to the Arachosian ground channel. A second team of highlanders had arrived and the apparently abandoned houses around the wagon-yard were being searched. "Put your prisoners to the question – who sold them these weapons, where were they going?"

The Arach durbar hissed in reply and knelt over one of the Parusian soldiers. The lowlander soft-scale hooted miserably, eyes fixed on the gleaming edge of the kalang-knife. The glittering point descended and Itzpalicue watched with clinical interest, sound muted on the channel, as the creature writhed and whimpered and finally, when the mud was puddling crimson, she heard what she had been waiting weeks to hear.

The durbar turned, catching sight of the translucent spyeye hovering at his shoulder and exposed many serrated, blackened teeth. The pretty softscale says these weapons came from a light-scaled asuchau. He has brought them many such devices in the last two weeks. This light-scale made many promises of help from 'friends far away.'

"A blond human? Lachlan…" The old NГЎhuatl woman growled, feeling her blood quicken.

I've dispatched a collection team to scope the equipment cases. Perhaps we can recover some skin flakes or hair or something to let us match to known humans on the planet.

"Are any of the Flower Priest agents lighthaired? Is someone playing a double-game?"

Lachlan tilted his head to one side, listening to his earbug. There is one, he replied, a Finn. He's used for high-level contacts with Jehanan elements sufficiently educated in Imperial politics to understand he might represent the HKV. His name is Timonen. His Mirror jacket says he's entirely reliable…

"Bring him in anyway." Itzpalicue shifted her attention back to the durbar. "Seal the truck and make sure nothing happens to the contents. Dispose of your captives as you please, but hold position until a pickup team reaches you." She smiled wickedly. "You've done well with this capture, durbar. You and your clan will be well rewarded."

The Arachosian flashed teeth again and saluted the drifting mote with his kalang. His forearm was drenched in blood.

Itzpalicue shifted the feed, eager for news.

Forty-five minutes later, Lachlan interrupted her scanning. His entire face was impassive and tight, which immediately warned her the Йirishman bore poor news.

Our Timonen is dead. A retrieval team has been checking the safe houses the xochiyaotinime provided for his cover as a purveyor of medical supplies, hoping to pick up a fresh DNA trace. They found an unusually high concentration in a bathroom in his Yellow Flagstone district flat. The team leader got suspicious and they tore the place apart. Looks like Timonen was murdered, dissolved with a bio-acid and flushed down the lavatory. Whoever did it cleaned up – the team found bleach and antigen foam residue in the tile cracks – but Jehanan toilets don't flush clean.

"Hmm…" Itzpalicue's white eyebrows made a V over her sharp nose. "How long has he been dead?"

Decay rates on the remains in the sewer line indicate a week or two.

The old NГЎhuatl woman blinked. "Strange…that's not much time to make so much mischief… Do we have a track on 'Timonen' afterwards?"

Yes, Lachlan smiled grimly. He's been lead on nearly every contact with the inner circle of the cabal, in dispersing weapons to the factions, in providing intelligence, planning and other supplies. Right at the heart of their whole effort in Parus.

"This is the one," Itzpalicue snarled, feeling fate gelling around her. "This is the creature I've felt moving at the edge of perception. Find him! Retask every team in the city, in the whole district. Arachosians, our men, the Whisperers, everyone!"

The old woman sat back, the tips of her fingers running along the rows of maguey spines piercing the sleeves of her mantle. The spines felt hard, smooth and glossy under her touch, like polished bone.

As you say, mi'lady. Lachlan began calling instructions to his subordinates. Then he said: Should I pass this intel about the Orkan to Regimental command?

"No." Itzpalicue displayed a cold smile. "Yacatolli and his men are managing. Let them show their true abilities – both the Mirror and Army command will be interested in the results."

 

The Cornuelle

A Decaying Orbit Over Continent Four

 

Clinging to the aft boat bay access door, Hadeishi coughed violently. The cutting tool in his hand flew loose, but was almost immediately stopped by a lanyard cinched to his equipment belt. The Chu-sa tried to breathe normally, felt the cool tickling of more coagulants and stabilizers flooding his body and opened his eyes. Reddish spots confused his vision for a moment, until he realized they were on the inside of the face-plate.

Not a good sign, he thought ghoulishly, keenly aware of a crystalline layer of pain suppression narcotics insulating fragile consciousness from the pain wracking his body. I must be getting tubercular.

He forced his hand to grasp the cutting tool, oriented the microscopic plasma beam emitter towards the emergency access plate cover and thumbed the control. A blue-white flare answered the motion and the beam resumed cutting away the damaged plate. The access door itself was undamaged, but the layer of shipskin covering the mechanism had been mortally wounded, stiffening into a hard, steel-like consistency. The flood of heat from the x-ray laser had distorted the fabric of the shipskin as well, occluding parts of the door and the access port.

Hadeishi completed the cut and the fold of shipskin came loose. Reaching in, he found the recessing bolt, drew it back and the entire cover came loose. Hadeishi felt a surge of relief. Something had gone his way at last, if only finding the green 'ready' light gleaming inside the cover. He punched an override code into the panel and let the Fleet transponder in his suit discuss security matters with the door.

Idle, his stunned mind fixed on the explosion which had obliterated the launch. A point-defense railgun must have targeted us. Ship's ident processor has been damaged.

An unusually long period of time passed as the two systems chattered to one another. Hadeishi managed to keep both hands flat on the door, letting the suit grippers hold him to the hull. He tried sucking some water from a tube in the neck ring of his suit, but his whole chest throbbed painfully and he abandoned the effort. He was very thirsty.

At length, the access door shivered, the bolts retracted and a darkened airlock opened before him. Wary – the emergency lights should be on – Hadeishi drifted inside and spun the locking wheel to rotate the outer door closed. As he did so, a single emergency illumination panel woke to life, strobed intermittently for a few moments and went out.

Hadeishi punched his access code into the inner lock door. Nothing happened, though the ready light was shining green on the panel. Feeling a cough coming on, the Chu-sa braced himself against the wall, let his broken chest heave for a moment and the salt and iron taste of blood fill his mouth. Then he checked his z-suit's environmental readouts. Pressure stood at zero in the airlock, though closing the outer door should have caused the chamber to flood with air.

Inner lock won't open to zero-pressure, he realized. Air circulation pumps must be dead.

Licking his lips, Hadeishi eyeballed his z-suit air reserve, trying to remember what minimum air pressure was to reset the safety sensor on the inner door. Three-quarters of a tank. Let's try half that.

Numb fingers unscrewed a valve on his shoulder pack, allowing a cross-connect hose to emerge from the environmental package on the suit. Hadeishi bounced gently from side to side in the lock, searching for the pressure sensors. After a moment, he gave up. Again, he braced himself against the wall next to the access panel and opened the valve.

A faint hissing sound grew louder, second by second. Hadeishi watched his air gauge fixedly, feeling fainter moment by moment as the capacity marker shrank. At one-half, he closed the valve, feeling dizzy and nauseous.

The environmental readout showed non-zero pressure.

The Chu-sa forced his hand – fingers trembling – to punch in the access code. There was another pause. The green indicator flashed to amber, then red. A message appeared on the tiny display. Hadeishi leaned in, having trouble focusing.

Ship's atmosphere compromised, the message read, rebreather support is required.

Hadeishi mashed his thumb against the override button. There was a trembling vibration in the wall under his shoulder. The inner lock door opened, grayish smoke rushing in. The Chu-sa stumbled through into the boat bay and weakly pushed the airlock door closed behind him.

Everything was very dark, save in the direct beam of his suit lamps, which pierced a smoky, turgid gloom. Hadeishi clutched for a guiderail, found the slim tubing along the wall, and began to pull himself forward, squinting into the haze.

At the first bulkhead outside of the boat bay proper, the Chu-sa kicked slowly down a transverse corridor, trying to reach one of the four lengthwise access ways which led from the stern forward. The smoke fouling the aft hangar section thinned but he was becoming seriously concerned. He had yet to see a single crewman, the lights were out, his comm failed to find a single relay node and the air was still unbreathable. Charred debris floated everywhere, making movement in the dark difficult.

Coasting to a halt at the end of the corridor, Hadeishi found the sectional door closed. Hefting the cutting tool, he checked the access panel. This time there was a 'locked' indicator, but the pressure and environment indicators for the far side were glowing green and amber.

Ah, he thought, the boat bay crews abandoned this section because of toxic air. One of the shuttle propellant tanks must have lost integrity and caused a fire. They've starved the fire out, but not bothered to restore atmosphere.

Trying to remember the fire control override codes for the internal doors, he poked experimentally at the access panel. After several tries the door glared red at him and locked out the panel. Hadeishi wanted desperately to scratch his beard, which was itchy with dried blood and bits of vomit, but a Fleet z-suit lacked that amenity.

He pushed up and peered through the glassite port into the access way. There too the main lights were out, but he caught a gleam of the emergency lights burning and a sense of motion. Encouraged, he flashed his suit lamps through the window, hoping to draw someone's attention. Then he waited.

A faceplate swam into view – a crewman with Engineering tabs on his shoulders and a spool of commwire on his shoulder – and an ensign started with surprise to see the haggard face of his captain. Hadeishi pointed at the access plate and made a circling motion. The Sho-i ko-hosei nodded violently and disappeared from view. The Chu-sa pressed himself against the bottom of the door. He felt vibration in the decking through his hands and the door levered up.

Hadeishi squirmed through, heard his comm wake to life with the chatter of crewmen working furiously at damage control and dragged himself up the wall to punch the close-code on the door. Smoke had spilled through with him, but not too much, he hoped. The Chu-sa turned to the boy, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile.

"Ship's status? How fast can you get me to Engineering?"

Twenty minutes later, Hadeishi swung along a guiderail into the main Engineering deck and stared around in tight-lipped concern at the wan faces of his crew and the rows of darkened comp displays. Only the stations devoted to the main drive coil and fusion reactors were showing the glow of active displays.

"What happened?" The Chu-sa kicked to the half-circle of panels associated with main comp.

Isoroku looked up, bald head gleaming in the light of Hadeishi's suit lamps. "The backbone network is infested with six or seven thousand kinds of attack viruses. We've got comm up in most of the ship via suit-to-suit relays and the hardline you followed up here. But everything else is still useless."

"Can you bring the main drives back on-line? We need to adjust orbit immediately."

The engineer nodded. "We can, but you won't have any navigational control from either the bridge or secondary command." A thick gloved finger stabbed at the single comp display still alive in the array. An endlessly mutating face was shining in the display, alternately leering, giggling and showing a sad expression. A dizzying array of ears, hats, tongues and noses changed with bewildering speed. "See this? This is what happens when you bring up a display."

"Main comp is infected?" Hadeishi tried to swallow, but his throat was dust dry. "That's impossible."

The bulky engineer grunted in agreement. "Main comp is fine, the computational cores are fine, archive and ready memory is all fine. But…" He tapped the panel accusingly, voice grating harshly. "The display pane interfaces, the comm nodes and the transmission linkages between the millions of subsystems on this barge are all wrecked by this kind of baka infiltrator. We're isolating systems, reflashing them and stitching them back into the network, but it's going to take a long time."

"Hours? Days?" Hadeishi stared around the Engineering deck with a cold gaze. His eyes lingered on three z-suited corpses tied down to the deck behind one of the work panels. "How bad have casualties been?"

Isoroku glanced over, then shook his head. "Damage control teams are still sorting through the wreckage – somehow we lost the entire area around your suite, the officer's mess and the forward galley – Yoyontzin reports everything up there is just twisted metal. All the hallways are clogged with wreckage."

"Again?" Hadeishi stared at the engineer in confusion. He was starting to feel numb. "From the laser impacts? Did we lose hull integrity forward of bulkhead nine?"

"No," Isoroku said, shrugging. "Some kind of secondary explosion. Nearly severed the data mains to the front quarter of the ship, but the conduit armor held – which does us no good, since every comp panel on the ship is useless." He made a spitting motion towards the evil face.

"Do we have replacement interface panels in stores?"

Isoroku bit the inside of his lip, thinking. "If they're not trashed by battle damage…"

"Isolate the sublight drive system, and rig a control panel just for the engines. Don't connect it to anything else. Will that let us regain maneuvering control?"

The engineer nodded. "We've been trying to clear the primary combat control backbone, but -"

"One little problem at a time," Hadeishi coughed, starting to drift away. Blood was leaking out of his mouth and making tiny crimson bubbles inside his face-plate. "How long until we have pervasive comm in the ship?"

Isoroku stared at the Chu-sa in horror. He seized the nearest crewman. "The captain needs medical attention right now. Get a work cart, get him on it and get him to medical! Someone, what's the status of the medical bay? Do they have air pressure?"

Crewmen scattered in all directions, including one who began chattering into the hardwired comm. Another brought Hadeishi back to the ring of comp panels. The Chu-sa batted feebly at the helping hands. "I'm fine, just have some splinters loose in my rib-cage. Someone has to relay telemetry from the outside to whoever is driving with this panel, so…" He paused, trying to clear his throat. "Are any of the bridge crew alive? Anyone with a pilot's cert?"

"I don't know." Isoroku felt panic start to churn in his stomach. "How bad is the orbit?"

"Not good," Hadeishi wheezed, clenching his teeth together. His medband was shrilling alarms inside his suit. He clenched his arms across his chest protectively. "Ah…! I seem to have exceeded some kind ofthreshold. You must stabilize our orbit quickly. Then you'll have time to fix everything else.

"Find a clean comp and panel, load fresh soft and get them into the hands of someone who knows how to steer. They'll need Navplot, which means guidance sensors have to be working." He smiled, face obscured by the drift of crimson. "Only tiny problems, Thai-i, taken one at a time. Small movements, my friend, small deliberate movements."

Hadeishi's medband tripped the last of its alert levels and flushed his system with knockmeout and a cellular stabilizer. The Chu-sa's eyes rolled up and his head fell loosely forward against the faceplate of his suit.

Isoroku cursed silently, then the work-cart was being wrangled into the work station and he and two of the Engineering deck crew were strapping the captain onto the cart, trying to be as gentle and as quick as possible.

Near Rural Highway Two-Fifteen›

The Town of Chumene, Southeast of Takshila

 

A high-pitched wailing sound pierced the air, setting the hairs on the back of Gretchen's neck erect. The clatter of leathery hands on stiff-surfaced drums followed and then the tramping beat of hundreds of feet stamping on dusty ground. Malakar and Anderssen stepped out of the darkness at the edge of the village, faces lit by the hot glow of hundreds of torches and two enormous bonfires. The deep basso groan of bladder-horns joined the riot of sound. The gardener lifted her long snout, searching the furtive, twisting light for the proper street.

Gretchen watched the natives dancing with growing interest. A ring of elderly Jehanan – fairly dripping with flower petals, paper streamers and jangling charms – moved back, clearing the center of the street. Now they crouched at the edge of the light, long feet rising and falling in a steady, marching beat. A round dozen musicians were ensconced under a cloth awning festooned with statuettes and figurines and mandalas of flowers. One of the brittle-scales held a long, metal instrument in withered hands. The firelight gleamed on silver strings and an ivory-yellow claw began to pluck, sending a plaintive, echoing sound winging up into the dark sky above.

All else fell silent, leaving the trembling notes alone on the dusty stage.

Then, at the edge of the light, the villagers parted silently, bowing and snuffling in the dirt, and the slim figure of an adolescent Jehanan female appeared, wreathed in veils of pale gold and green. She darted out, fine-boned feet quick on the ground, the clink and clash of precious copper bangles marking counterpoint to the humming drone of the stringed instrument. The girl danced sideways, bending and stretching, miming – Anderssen realized, watching the movements – someone plucking flower buds.

"This is Avaya, twilight's maidenhead," Malakar whispered, "and she is dancing in the fields of the coming sun, collecting the opened buds of the sacred Nem as they lie cool, still unturned by the touch of the Lord of Light."

Avaya spun past, wholly concentrated upon the unseen, and Gretchen caught a rustle of feet in grass and the smell of a dewy hillside, pregnant with pollen and perfume. The girl danced on, the single instrument slowly, subtly, joined by the hissing wail of the bladder-horns and hooting flutes. So too brightened the illumination in the dusty circle and Anderssen blinked, startled and delighted to see the waiting crowd, still hidden by the gossamer barrier between shadow and light, raising many paper lamps on long poles to hang over the street.

A horn rang out, a cold, clear note. The girl stumbled, spilled her invisible basket of petals and raised her head in alarm, long back curving gracefully to the east. A deep-voiced drum began to beat, the tripping sound of a hasty heart, of blood quickened by danger. Avaya dashed here and there, snatching up petals from the ground.

So perfect were the girl's movements that Gretchen clutched Malakar's bony, scaled shoulder for support. In the flickering, dim light, surrounded by such rich noise, by so many swaying Jehanan, she began to see – darting, indistinct, gleam-ingly real – the petals on the ground, the rustling stands of green plants, golden leaves, waxy flowers half-open to the sky. Such an overpowering aroma washed over her she felt faint. Rich, dark earth; the dew on a thousand flowers; a cool, cold sky shining deep blue-black overhead. A steady emerald brightness rising on the horizon.

"See, now the king is coming. Her time grows short…"

Malakar's voice broke Anderssen from the waking dream. Another corridor opened in the crowd and a forest of torches clustered there, held aloft in scaled hands. Even now, with so many lights, she could not see the faces of the celebrants. They were dim and indistinct, bound by shadow, but the lamps and sputtering, resin-drenched brands burned very bright.

A tall, powerfully built Jehanan male glided out of the darkness. His scales were golden, shimmering, flashing like mirrors. Well-muscled arms wielded a burning stave, a length of wood wrapped with pitch and resin. He sprang into the circle, whirling flame over his head. So swift was the movement the blurring stroke became a single burning disc, shining in the east.

Avaya fled, leaping and bounding – and Gretchen knew she fled down the hillside, springing rushing streams, weather-worn boulders, seeking always the safety of night behind beckoning hills – and the Sun-King gave chase. The crowd of faces, the soft outlines of the rooftops, the dusty street of a market town, all fled from Anderssen's perception and for a timeless moment, all she beheld was the long chase of the Lord of Light to reclaim the precious Nem from the hands of iridescent Avaya and his endless quest to bring her forth from bondage in the underworld.

A chorus of voices joined the winging sound of the instruments, calling back and forth in counterpoint to relate the pleading cries of the King, and the demure, evasive answers of the maid.

Malakar shook her shoulder gently, drawing the human back into the shelter of the crowd.

"We must go," the gardener whispered. "The tikikit do not tarry on their rounds."

Gretchen blinked, rubbed her face and followed – unseeing, half-blinded by clinging smoke – as they passed down a narrow lane and a set of broad steps. The old Jehanan stopped, dipping her claws into a stone trough.

"Here," the gardener said, raising cupped hands. "Clear your eyes."

Anderssen splashed shockingly cold water on her face, shivered and wiped her nose. The glorious visions of the sun racing across the hills of a dry, green world faded. Everything was dark and close again, pregnant with the smell of cinnamon.

"Thank you. I was…overcome."

The Jehanan's eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the lighted windows of the nearest house. "You impress me, asuchau. You were singing, as the eldest do, remembering fragments of the lost… Most of those around us did not understand the words, but some did. They were becoming alarmed, once they realized who you were and had no business knowing such things."

"Singing?" Gretchen shook her head vehemently. "I can't sing."

"Certainly," Malakar said, amused. "Your throat and pitiful snout are not suited for our songs, of course. I see why you are shy – but still, a worthy effort."

"I was not singing," Anderssen said sharply, feeling intense irritation. "You must have been imagining things."

"Hoooo…" The gardener tilted her head to one side. "Perhaps."

"Where is this tikikit?" Gretchen said, relieved the creature did not pursue the matter. Her throat felt a little raw. She cupped her hands and drank from the trough, which flowed silently with cold spring water. The damp, fecund odor of moss filled her nostrils.

"It will come soon." Malakar continued on down the steps, which led into a grove of ancient trees. Forgetting to turn on her flashlight, Gretchen hurried after, not wishing to be left alone in the humid darkness. With the sun passed away behind the seventeen hills to the west, the night air was turning cold.

The path narrowed, winding among close-set trees, and then ended in a rutted track. A lamp-post stood beside the road, holding a paper lantern. Malakar stood in a circle of light cast by the dim yellow flame. In the wan radiance, the old Jehanan looked particularly tired, her scales glowing the color of brass. Gretchen slowed, boots sinking into soft, springy ground, and her eyes were drawn to the trees, to the moss covering their roots and the half-seen shape of a tiny stone house set between two enormous, gnarled trunks.

Dim outlines of seated figures were visible inside the open door. Anderssen felt a prickling chill; haphazard thoughts tickling the back of her mind. Spirits of forest and glade, watchers over traveling folk. Guardians to keep the foul denizens of the night at bay…the hatchet-handed corpse, the weeping woman, swarms of ciuateteo seeking warm blood…

"Do we have to wait here?" Anderssen pulled her jacket tight, shuffling forward. "This is an uneasy place… Don't your people know crossroads areunlucky, particularly at night?"

Malakar lifted her snout and blew disdainfully through her nostrils. "Where are your quick, knife-sharp thoughts now, asuchau? You're pale as new-laid shell. Did your grandmother feed you tales of ghosts and spirits with your growing milk?"

"I'm not comfortable here," Gretchen admitted, squatting down next to the old Jehanan. In the colorless lamplight, the muddy pools of water in the rutted road shimmered. Short-bladed grass growing at the verge cast long, sharp shadows. Gretchen shivered a little, feeling the eyes of the statue in the little house boring into the back of her neck. "Not comfortable at all."

The gardener made a low, hooting sound, little more than a rumble in the back of her throat. "Fear not – this is only a waiting place. Many have waited here before, many will wait here again. The tikikit will come soon and bear us south. Just sit a little, rest your weary feet. Feel the quiet under the trees, in the long branches…"

Anderssen tried, but squatting beside Malakar made her feel hot and uncomfortable, so she moved to the side, searching for someplace dry to sit. After a few moments of crawling in the low grass, she came upon a flattish rock and sighed with relief. Now she could sit properly. The gardener had been right about the silence – the only sounds were dew slowly dripping from overhanging boughs and the distant, faint murmur of the festival.

Gretchen realized she was tired and sore. Her legs hurt from running and walking and climbing stairs for days on end. Despite the complaints of her body, she didn't feel hungry, so she laid her head on her forearms and closed her eyes.

Anderssen woke abruptly, roused by the sound of someone singing in a queer, warbling voice, sending hooting, trilling calls wandering among the trees. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the light and found Malakar staring at her with a rapt expression, long head tilted to one side.

"Do not stop," the Jehanan begged. "The wholeness of HГєnd and the Diamond-Eye has been lost to all memory!"

"What are you talking about?" Nervous, Gretchen unfolded herself from the ground, legs numb and stared around at the dark trees and the road and the lamp-post with wide eyes. "Where are we? Where are the fire-tower and the plain of salt? The city of glass?"

"You were singing of them, but who knows where they lie?" Malakar bent her long snout to the ground. "Your voice is strange – hollow and low and soft – yet still I could make out the words…"

Anderssen pressed her palms against her eyes, feeling the edges of a dream fade away into darkness. Her throat hurt. She sipped some water from a flask, and then forced her numb, clumsy fingers to dig out a threesquare. Gagging, she managed half of the cold goo in the tube.

"Are you hungry?" Gretchen offered Malakar the rest of the threesquare. "This is human food, but you might be able to metabolize the proteins. It's spiced chicken."

The gardener sidled up, tail twitching and sniffed the tube. "Che-keen smells like sewage," Malakar declared, nostril flaps tightening. "I will wait."

Unable to finish, Anderssen nodded in commiseration and stuffed the threesquare back into her pocket. She rubbed her throat. "You heard me…singing?"

Malakar nodded solemnly, rising to her full height. "Without doubt. How can this be? Did you tarry upon Mokuil in your vision long enough to learn venerable songs, to sit at the feet of the eldest as they sang of the ancient heroes?"

"No." Gretchen closed her eyes again, feeling dizzy. "The music in the village affected me, the dancing, the light and shadow – I felt strange, uncoupled from my body. Ah, the old crow warned me this might happen!" She clenched her fists. "Damn him and his helpful powders…"

"What do you mean?" Malakar knelt, craning her head to look at Anderssen's face. She hooted, worried. "What yi bird spoke to you?"

"A…a trollkarl, they are called in my grandmother's tales. A sorcerer we would say today, if anyone believed such things existed." She spread her hands, groping for the proper words. "He gave me…drugs which opened my mind to the unseen. He hoped I could aid him, but I think – no, I know – they only made things far more dangerous. I was nearly consumed, destroyed, replaced."

Gretchen managed a grim smile. "He tried to make me forget, but I cannot. I thought these visions and phantasms would fade with time, but they have not." She turned her hand over, remembering the blaze of light which had haloed them in the vault. "When the kalpataru revealed itself to me, something changed again in my mind. I am waking up again."

"You are afraid." The old Jehanan stared at her curiously. "What will happen to you?"

"I don't know." Anderssen started to sweat and her breath hurried with incipient panic. "I don't really want to find out – he said, Green Hummingbird said, a woman isn't supposed to follow this path… He implied it was very dangerous." She laughed harshly. "I don't think he meant it was dangerous for anyone but me."

Malakar reached out a claw to grip the human's shoulder, but a wash of yellow light spilled over both of them and they heard the sound of a rumbling engine.

"The tikikit bus comes," the gardener said, helping an unsteady Gretchen to her feet. "Now we can be upon our way."

The blaze of light resolved into six headlights. The conveyance purred to a halt at the lamp-post. Malakar guided Anderssen forward and once they were out of the direct glare, she could see the smooth curve of a long, high machine with many wheels. A door opened in front of her with a hnnnnnng! sound and steps led up into a dim, quiet interior. Gretchen froze, staring at the driver of the bus, sitting in a low, round control compartment directly in front of her.

Glittering, multifaceted eyes returned her gaze. A sleek, chitinous thorax lay low over the controls, which were manipulated by too many forearms. The insectile Hikkikit shimmered and glowed in the reflected light of the lamp, gleaming with cool blues and greens.

Malakar prodded her gently and Anderssen climbed up into the bus, hands gripping smooth, slippery-feeling guide-rails. The Jehanan fluted a greeting to the driver, produced something from a pouch on her harness and then they moved down an aisle of low seats. Gretchen did not notice any other passengers. The seats were too low for a human to sit normally, so she sat cross-legged beside the bulbous window. Malakar sighed, twitching tail behind and raised her knees, arms folded across the join-scales.

The tikikit bus hummed into motion, raised up a little and then raced off down the road.

Trees blurred past, then fields opened out on either side and the bus sped south under a brilliant, clear night. The queer lights distorting the daylight sky were gone, though the northern horizon leapt with enormous aurorae, casting shimmering curtains of jewels to blind the stars. Gretchen leaned her head against the window, marveling at the smooth, effortless ride.

Unbidden, her eyes closed and she fell sound asleep, cradled in the arms of a seat curling slowly around her. Malakar watched her for a little while, concerned, then laid a bony forehead on her own arms and fell asleep as well.

The tikikit raced south, six yellow spotlights illuminating the road and washing across hedges, slumbering farm houses and the streets of little night-shrouded towns. From time to time the bus turned onto larger roads, following them for a time, slowing to pass vehicles parked beside the thoroughfare. The headlights briefly lit columns of Jehanan troops dozing beside the highway, rucksacks piled at their feet, rifles and machineguns clutched to their shoulders, glossy scales gleaming in the light of the sodium lamps.

Then the tikikit passed on into the dark, turning down forgotten byways, crossing rivers and canals on crumbling bridges, following no straight path, yet still making excellent time. Occasionally, when an isolated lamp-post appeared in the distance, the bus would slow. If someone waited in the circle of light, the driver would quiet the engine, gliding to a halt, and another jeweled insect or sleepy Jehanan would climb aboard.

As night wore on, the seats slowly filled, though none of the passengers ventured to speak to one another, and all save the insectile Hikkikit soon fell asleep. Parus grew closer, hour by hour, though there was still a considerable distance to go.

The Southbound Express

Approaching Parus From the North

 

A delicate hand jogged sergeant Dawd's knee and he came instantly awake. Mei leaned towards him in the dim compartment, palms on his thighs. The swaying of the train surrounded them with a musty, rattling blanket. The air was hot and close.

"I heard something," she whispered, lifting her chin towards the roof. "Someone is on top of the train."

"Have we just left a station?" Dawd licked his lips, horrified to realize he'd actually fallen asleep. He clutched the Whipsaw, just to make sure the weapon was still in his hands, and carefully cleared the safety.

Mei shook her head, dark eyes wide. Dawd swallowed and looked to Colmuir for guidance.

The master sergeant was eyeballing the corridor and shook his head, signing no one outside.

Dawd unclipped a longeye of his own and gently slipped it under the velvet curtain covering the window. Almost immediately his visor displayed an image of the outside world: a bakingly hot morning glared down on endless flat plains of fields, canals and scattered copses of trees. The sky was spotted with fluffy white clouds, each majestically solitary against an azure background. The shadow of the train rushed along an elevated road running beside the railroad tracks. And on the road, racing to catch the train, he saw three Imperial-style trucks. Jehanan soldiers crowded the cargo beds, hanging on for dear life as the vehicles bounced over potholes and washboarding in the road.

"They're on to us," Dawd hissed, pulling the spyeye back. "Three trucks, each with a platoon, and if Mei-sana heard someone on the roof, they're already aboard the train."

"Everyone up," Colmuir said, voice harsh. Mrs. Petrel and Cecily were already awake, faces tight and composed. The master sergeant jogged Tezozуmoc's shoulder, drew a snore and then a grumbling complaint. The older Skawtsman pinched the boy's ear, which caused the prince's eyes to fly open. "All quiet now," the master sergeant said, rising from his seat, assault rifle slung behind his shoulder.

Dawd rose as well, swinging the Whipsaw onto his hip and struggling to shed the bulky, confining poncho. Immediately the two girls took hold of the fabric, ran a fingernail down the sealer strips and pulled it away. The sergeant nodded thanks, patted his Nambu, knife, cutting bar, backup pistol and the strip of grenades down the left side of his gunrig. Then he tapped each earbug, making sure they were firmly seated.

"You've a gun?" Colmuir offered his spare Nambu to Mrs. Petrel, but the lady declined, producing a Webley AfriqaExpress from her handbag. "Good…Now, here's what we'll do – our sole duty is t' the prince – he canna' fall into their hands. So, we move t' the train engine with all speed and separate it from the rest of the cars, leaving the heathen savages behind. Then we run into Parus and make for either the Legation or the cantonment, as circumstances allow."

The Anglish girl folded the rain poncho expertly and tucked it away in her bag. Mei, meanwhile, had produced a tiny black Moisin-Nagant Mini and held the pistol clasped in both hands. Dawd put a hand on the edge of the curtains, waiting for Colmuir to give the word.

"Ma'am," the master sergeant said, checking the corridor one last time. "You lead, then the prince, then the girls, then me. Dawd will…ah, he will reduce the number of the enemy. You understand me, Sergeant?"

Dawd nodded, licked his lips and thumbed the fire control selector on the Whipsaw to high-explosive full-automatic.

"Go!" Colmuir slammed the door open and rolled out, facing the rear of the train. Petrel ducked past him, the Webley in both hands and took off down the corridor. Tezozуmoc, pale as a ghost stumbled after her, forcing Mei and Cecily to seize his arms and push him along. Dawd threw back the curtains, paused a half-second to let his combat visor adjust to the blaze of morning sunlight as he braced himself and squeezed the trigger on the Whipsaw.

A deafening howl ripped at his ears, defeating even the protection afforded by the earbugs. The window shattered outwards, spraying glass into the air, and a licking tongue of flame slashed across the front of a cargo truck racing alongside. Jehanan soldiers, preparing to leap onto the roof of the train, were sawn in half in a rippling line of explosions as the highex rounds punctured scale, flesh and bone. The roof of the truck vanished in a convulsion of flame. The driver, decapitated, was flung across the cab. The vehicle swerved violently at full acceleration, bounced into the side of the speeding train and was smashed aside.

Dawd leaned out the window, hip grinding into splintered glass, and traversed the Whipsaw across the front of the second truck. Recoil slammed him back against the window-frame. The entire vehicle was immediately obscured by a gout of flame and steam. The engine block stopped sixteen of the flechettes and shattered into a cloud of superheated metal. The front axle sheared off and the truck pitched forward, back end flying up. A dozen Jehanan soldiers flew out, some already smashed into bloody ruin, and then the whole assemblage was cartwheeling violently down the road, engulfed in flying dust and smoke.

The first truck, meantime, spun off the elevated road, plunged nose-first into a nearby field and burst into flame. Dawd ducked back inside. Machine-gun fire from the third pursuer, which had deftly swerved past the first two wrecks, marched along the side of the train, shattering windows. Heavy, thumb-sized rounds tore through the wood beside the sergeant's head. Splinters stippled his armor and spanged away from his visor.

"Damn!" Dawd leapt to the side, blood streaking the side of his jaw. The curtains disappeared, snatched away by the hail of gunfire tearing into the siding. The sergeant switched the Whipsaw to armor-piercing, braced his legs and squeezed the trigger again.

This time the jolt of flame sheared through the side of the compartment, blowing out a huge cloud of metal, wood and fabric. The third truck, hanging back a bit, suddenly came into view as the wall of the train vanished in a rain of depleted uranium needles. Dawd grinned, face blackening with propellant gasses, and walked the stuttering, sun-bright line of explosions across the engine, cab and cargo bay.

The entire vehicle convulsed, perforated by thousands of tiny punctures. The driver vanished in a red haze, the soldiers with their assault rifles staggered, cut in half, and then tumbled out onto the road in a welter of arms and legs and bloody tails. The truck staggered, swerved wildly, the roof of the cab sliding back with a crash into the truck bed, bounced over the margin of the road and rolled, spewing chunks of metal, spraying liters of blood and vanished into a stand of stumpy-looking trees in a plume of dust.

The train raced onward and Dawd swung round, suddenly thinking of the other side of the passenger car, in time to have the butt of a HK-45B smash into his face. The combat visor held, deflecting some of the blow, but his head flew back, slamming into the wall. A Jehanan in the uniform of the kujen of Takshila loomed in the doorway, reversing his assault rifle.

Dawd's hand clenched on the Whipsaw's trigger. Flame flooded the cabin, setting the seats, walls and remains of the ceiling alight. The Jehanan vanished, torn apart by a buzzsaw burst of armor-piercing, and the doorway and the far wall of the passageway disintegrated. A clear view of a field of waving grain was revealed through the ragged opening. The sergeant staggered up, switched the targeting selector to semi-automatic, and swung groggily out into the remains of the corridor.

Smoke whipped away into the slipstream of the train. Dawd caught sight of another truck racing past on the roadway, and then tried to twist left as another Jehanan charged up the corridor. This one had a bayonet affixed to his rifle and the muzzle of the HK-45B was spitting flame. The ripping sound drowned out the rattling roar of the train wheels. Dawd staggered backwards as the burst ripped across combatskin covering his left thigh and chest, but most of the heavy 8mm bullets smashed into the Whipsaw, reducing the squad support weapon to tangled, smoking-hot wreckage and tearing the remains from his hands.

The Jehanan lunged, bayonet gleaming wickedly, and Dawd caught the blow on his right forearm. Metal pierced the ablative armor, tore through his combat-skin and washed his arm with a rushing cold feeling. The slick bore down, jaws gaping, and the sergeant groped with his left hand, seized the Nambu and emptied the clip directly into the creature's snout.

A spray of blood painted the ceiling, blinding the next soldier swarming up the corridor. Dawd kicked the body of the first aside, forced himself up with one hand and thumbed the second magazine coil into the automatic. There was a burst of full-auto fire, he ducked and shot back into the smoke-choked corridor. His visor compensated for the haze and two more Jehanan staggered, pitching backwards. But there were more in the corridor behind them.

Dawd cursed; his right arm felt cold and weak and his left hip was throbbing ferociously. He ducked into the next compartment and found it choked with wounded civilians. The window was gone, ripped away by the machine-gun fire from the trucks, and the passengers were crying piteously, snouts smeared with blood, clutching their wounded to scaly chests. Broken glass was everywhere.

"Shit!" The sergeant popped back out into the corridor and pitched a handful of grenades at the muzzle-flashes. More 8mm slapped past him and he ran, bouncing from side to side. The whoomp-whoomp-whoomp of explosions propelled him down the passage. The rear half of the train car blew apart, sending a gout of smoke, wood and bodies cascading onto the tracks. The roof buckled, sending a rush of flame into the morning air. A long plume of black smoke spilled out behind the ruined car.

Still the train rushed on, heedless, clattering down the long straightaway into the outskirts of Parus.

The roar of an assault rifle in the passageway snapped Parker awake and sent his blood racing with horror. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. His mind started to question its identification of the violent sound, but his skin was flushed and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

Magdalena had jerked awake as well, and her head darted from side to side. "I smell -" she started to declare, and was immediately drowned out by a second burst of machine-gun fire. The little window looking out into the passage shattered, and something zzzzinged into the wooden wall above Parker's head.

"Blessed Mother Mary!" the pilot gasped, throwing himself onto the floor, hands over his head. "Get down, Mags!"

The Hesht plastered herself to the floor, mostly on top of Parker, which made him cry out in a muffled voice. Desperate to breathe, he twisted aside, head coming up slightly. Peering over the Hesht's furry shoulder, he caught sight of a human walking backwards, silhouetted against the windows lining the passageway. A Macana assault rifle bucked in his hands, fouling the air with propellant smoke.

"Oh, good and gracious lord," Parker whined into Maggie's ear. "Some stupid-ass Imperial Eagle Knight is shooting up the train!"

Colmuir reached the end of the third passenger car and ducked around the corner into a tiny space reserved for the washroom. The wooden sliding doors connecting the cars were banging open, letting a harsh, dusty wind tug at his hair. Gunfire stabbed up the corridor behind him and the facing wall splintered, torn by a handful of bullets. The master sergeant plucked a grenade out of his gunrig, twisted the arming knob and skated it back down the corridor. Then he jumped through the connecting doors and into the next car.

He was met by a wild burst of machine-gun fire and shattering glass. Colmuir plastered himself against the wall, cursing violently. Two Jehanan soldiers rushed down the corridor at him. The master sergeant swung his Macana underarm, ripped off a burst – punching the lead slick back, chest pulping red – and threw himself into the shadow of the falling soldier. The second Jehanan hoisted up his gun, cut loose a burst over the body of his falling comrade, and then the long, scaled head pitched back, punched through by a single shot from Colmuir's rifle.

As he dashed forward the length of the car, there was a sharp boom! as the grenade went off, shattering all of the windows in the second car and flinging a screaming Jehanan out to bounce along the side of the tracks, limbs flailing. Heart thudding with fear, the Skawtsman's hands were busy dumping one spent ammunition coil and loading up another.

He reached another set of connecting doors, stepped sideways into cover, heard the bang-bang of the Webley discharging and seized the opening lever for the sliding door. Two bursts of assault rifle fire smote his ears, there were screams – human screams – and Colmuir threw the lever, bursting into the compartment beyond with a single leap.

The swaying contents of a baggage car appeared before him. He saw three Jehanan in black body armor, modern combat goggles on their heads and cut loose with the Macana. The tiny space erupted with sound – bullets flayed the Takshilan commandos – and one of them, spinning at the sound of the door, rushed in low, his rifle blossoming with flame.

Colmuir felt a huge kick in his chest and shoulder and flew back into the wall. He bounced off, twitched the Macana aside, fired a burst into the Jehanan and saw the commando's head burst like a ripe melon. One of the others was down and there were bodies scattered on the floor. Colmuir dragged the rifle back towards the last Jehanan, but that one had sprung across the compartment and smashed the gun aside with a blow from his own rifle.

The master sergeant threw himself into the motion, colliding with the commando's chest. The blow staggered both of them, though the Jehanan recovered instantly; his brawny, scaled chest easily absorbed the impact. The Jehanan kicked, smashing a long, clawed foot into the side of Colmuir's head. The Skawtsman slammed into the wall again, vision blurred, then choked as a second kick lashed into his stomach.

Gagging, Colmuir felt huge claws seize him and fling him against the other wall with a bone-shattering crash. He crumpled. The sound of a knife rasping from a sheath penetrated the blinding pain. The Skawtsman twisted, trying to roll up, and the knife sheared through his gunrig, pinning him to the wall.

A gaping jaw filled with chisel-sharp teeth yawned in front of Colmuir's face.

The Webley belched flame and a heavy 9mm round punched through the Jehanan's skull from side to side. Blood vomited out of the mouth, blinding the Skawtsman. The prince's voice was yelling something, but Colmuir had lost his earbug and he was deafened by the pistol blast. The master sergeant wiped gore from his eyes and tried to stand up. A hand seized his shoulder.

Tezozуmoc's face appeared over him, staring down with wild fear. The boy dragged at Colmuir's shoulders, but now the Eagle Knight's legs had gone weak and his medband was shrilling wildly. Over the prince's shoulder, the Skawtsman saw Petrel's face – pale as ghost, spotted with blood, her raven hair a black cloud behind her head – turning in alarm.

Two crisp shots rang out and Tezozуmoc was flung aside, his Fleet skinsuit crackling and turning gray as a bullet smashed into the back of each of the boy's knees. Petrel was raising the Webley when a long-barreled military pistol – Colmuir didn't recognize the type – pressed into her throat. Pale as a sheet, she released the pistol, letting the Express fall.

There was a frozen moment as the Eagle Knight slid to the floor, hands numb. A Jehanan commando with blacked-out officer's tabs gestured Petrel aside and reached down to seize the prince's neck. Colmuir forced his hand to move. Muscles and nerves responded with glacial speed. He saw the pistol turn over once in the air. His hand was out, reaching and -

The Jehanan's tail whipped around, slapping the Webley across the compartment with a ringing clatter. The officer grinned, hoisted Tezozуmoc up and dragged him away. A hoarse hooting sound filled the baggage car and Petrel, hands behind her head, hurried to keep ahead of the gesturing pistol.

Groaning, Colmuir scrabbled for purchase on the floor, trying to lever himself up. He came face to face with Cecily, whose lifeless eyes were filmed with blood. Her festival dress was torn, her chest and stomach oozing crimson. The Skawtsman swallowed, tasting iron, and groped for his backup pistol.

"Ghawww-yeh," rumbled an alien voice. Colmuir raised his eyes and found the muzzle of a HK-45B pressed against his forehead. The metal was hot and burned his skin.

Dawd scrambled down the third car passage, his way blocked by burning debris and scattered bodies. At least two Jehanan in uniform were sprawled among the wreckage. Buildings rushed past outside, the agricultural plain now filling with warehouses, single-family dwellings and kilometer after kilometer of brick yards. The Skawtsman had his backup Nambu in one hand and a combat knife in the other. A chorus of screams and hooting wails came from the compartments he passed, making him sweat.

He ducked past a half-open door near the end of the car, automatically swinging his pistol to cover the opening and froze – eye to eye with a sandy-haired, thin human and the huge black shape of a Hesht – each of whom were wielding lengths of splintered wood.

"Ay!" Dawd shouted, jumping aside and jerking the automatic back. "No quarrel!"

A club split the air where he'd been and the Skawtsman shook his head, scrambling on down the passage. Behind him, there was a shrieking growl and someone cursing in NГЎhuatl.

He slid around the corner at the end of the car, knife towards the washroom, then glimpsed – out of the corner of his eye – a Jehanan soldier's back, heavy with a rucksack and harness and a bandolier of ammunition for an assault rifle. Wooden doors separating the cars banged open and closed between them. Dawd paused, gathering himself, timed the swinging doors and then vaulted across the gap, crashing into the baggage car with his left shoulder forward.

The Jehanan snapped around, rifle coming up and Dawd shot him twice in the chest, pitching the creature back. The soldier flailed, HK-45B flying out of his hands. The sergeant leapt a pair of bodies without noticing who they were and landed in a slippery pool of intestines. His foot flew out – he shouted – and fell hard. The Jehanan staggered up, wailing a warning cry, and ripped the crumpled shirt of ceramic armor from his chest.

Dawd slid in gore, twisting his feet under, and fired the automatic wildly at the soldier. Both shots missed, pock-marking the far wall of the compartment. The Jehanan lunged, tail lashing and batted the Skawtsman's outstretched hand away. His finger jammed painfully in the trigger guard, Dawd blocked a vicious kick with his knife.

Monofil sheared through scale and bone. The soldier screamed horribly, stumbling, useless leg collapsing. Dawd reversed the blade, slashing open the side of the slick's head from shoulder blade to snout. The Jehanan toppled over, gargling. The Skawtsman lunged, clearing the slippery pool and reached the far door of the compartment. Pressing his back to the wall, he extracted his mangled finger from the pistol, switched it to his off hand and jammed the wounded arm into his gunrig.

Flames licked along the ceiling over his head as the baggage car filled with smoke.

"Dawd," a familiar voice coughed. The sergeant's head snapped up. Colmuir crawled out from under the bodies by the door, combat visor gone, hair greased to his head. "They've got the prince and the Resident's wife…quickly now, lad, quickly! There's only one or two of them left."

Wrenching his attention around, Dawd swayed into the doorway, timing his motion to the jump and rattle of the train car. The sliding door banged back and the sergeant dodged through, automatic close to his chest. Sunlight blazed around him – he was exposed on an open platform, facing a tender stacked with firewood – and Dawd flung himself to the side. His hip struck a railing, he tipped over halfway and was staring down at tracks and gravel rushing past. Bullets shattered the door and tore chunks of wood out of the end of the baggage car.

Dawd folded himself back, falling to the floor of the little platform, and crawled on one hand and both knees to the other side. Craning his neck, he glimpsed a Jehanan in black body armor and a modern pair of combat goggles crouched on the far end of the fuel tender.

Cursing all arms merchants for fools, Dawd forced his injured hand to work, plucked the last grenade from his gunrig, armed the device and flipped it up and into the back of the tender. In the next motion, he rolled out from the platform, legs hooked into the railing and the automatic blazed twice in his hand as the Jehanan flinched back from the flash of the grenade bursting atop the firewood.

The commando jerked aside, hit twice in the chest, and then the blast of the grenade knocked him over the side with a scream. Dawd hauled himself back onto the platform, shucked a clip from the automatic and jammed in a fresh one. Gathering himself, he vaulted up into the fuel tender, which was now smoldering. Keeping low, he scrambled up along the cords of firewood and hurried forward. He could make out the chuffing smokestack of the engine ahead. Cinders dinged from his combat visor.

The railroad tracks split and split again as the express entered the Parus rail-yards. Despite this, the train did not slow down, roaring ahead at full steam.

Parker picked his way down the hallway, duffel digging into his shoulders as if it were filled with lead bars. Smoke bit at his throat and fouled the air. The passenger car behind him was now burning furiously, the flames fed by the rushing air of the train's passage. Gingerly, the pilot climbed over a dead Jehanan and found himself staring into a blood-streaked baggage car littered with bodies.

"Oh, Maggie," he groaned, hands clutching the sides of the connecting door, "this does not look good!"

"Move it, witless!" The Hesht shoved his duffel with her shoulder, forcing Parker to scramble across the gap and into the next car. "We'll be burned alive if we stay here."

Inside the ruined baggage car, Parker kept to the wall, trying to avoid the lake of blood, urine, intestinal fluid and limbs sloshing back and forth on the floor. He stared with amazement at the crumpled bodies of two young human women and then froze, terrified to see that one of the bodies leaning against the wall was alive. Fierce brown eyes met his and the seeming-corpse stirred.

"Ahhh…Maggie! Maybe we should…"

The Hesht was caught in the sliding doorway, but, by dint of a rasping growl and main strength, she managed to force her way through, despite the pair of duffel bags on her back catching in the mechanism. Panting, she shucked the bags, letting them splash to the noisome floor.

Colmuir glanced from the thin human to the Hesht and back again. "Civilians," he choked, sounding amused. "Give a man a hand up, would you?"

Magdalena stared down at him with cool interest. "You're the brainless kit who tossed a grenade into our compartment, I think."

"Did I?" The master sergeant swallowed, trying to muster the strength to stand. One thigh bone seemed to be broken and his chest stabbed with pain each time he took a breath. "Sorry about that, I was in a bit of a hurry."

"Luckily, Parker has quick hands." The Hest leaned down, nostrils flaring. "Pfah! You stink." She stood up, reaching for her duffel bags. "Let's leave him. The fire will reach this car soon, and we'd best be -"

All three heads turned, hearing the blast of a grenade and the rattle of gunfire.

"Ah now, the lad's in trouble again." Colmuir beckoned to Parker. "C'mon, sport, help me up. There's still work to be done. You haven't a gun to hand do you?"

Parker stared at Maggie, who snarled, showing a great many white teeth in her black face.

"Leave him!"

"But -"

The train lurched, making a shockingly loud grinding sound. Something metallic shrieked in agony and everyone in the baggage car was abruptly thrown the length of the compartment with tremendous violence.

Dawd surged up over the top of the last stack of cordwood, automatic in both hands and caught sight of the enormous glassed-in roof of the Parus train station looming ahead of the train engine. Four tracks ran into the building, and the train, still barreling ahead at full speed was rushing into siding number two. Smoke stained the sky and an unexpectedly large number of multistory buildings loomed on all sides. The sight of panicked Jehanan scattering away from the passenger platform froze him for just one tiny instant.

His eyes snapped down, the gun leveling, and he glimpsed – in a moment of crystalline, unforgettable clarity – Mrs. Petrel staring up at him with open, glad relief; the prince lying limply on the floor of the engineer's compartment; the engine-mouth blazing red; and the Jehanan officer swinging around, a long-barreled pistol lined up along his shoulder, the muzzle looming huge in Dawd's vision.

Too fucking late, he had time to think, squeezing the trigger of his automatic.

The native pistol flashed, Dawd's Nambu bucked and something slammed into his chest, smashing through the tools hanging on his gunrig and flattened violently against the combatskin. The light armor stiffened automatically, absorbing the hammer-blow of the slug, but the Skawtsman pitched backwards, spilling across the cordwood and crashing into the side of the tender. His head rang, a cloud of sparks flooded his vision and – despite the valiant efforts of his medband – Dawd blacked out.

At that very moment, while the Jehanan officer was distracted, Mrs. Petrel threw herself on the brake lever of the engine, bearing down with all her strength. A rippling shock leapt through the train cars as each set of brakes engaged in turn, shrilling deafeningly with the agony of metal on metal. The wheels skidded, gouting sparks and the entire train slid wildly out of control into the station at forty kilometers an hour.

An Undisclosed Location

Central Parus

 

A string of portable lamps hanging from the ceiling of the bunker jiggled, sending shadows chasing across concrete walls. Bhrigu, kujen of Parus and the principality of Venadan, halted in the midst of incessant pacing and lifted his long, cream-colored snout. Nervous, he turned an Imperial-made comm over and over in his claws. Rubbing the hard plastic case against his scales distracted his thoughts from veering into bleak despair.

"What was that?" The prince rasped, glaring at the commander of his guard.

"A bomb," the Jehanan soldier replied, holding a bulky set of headphones to one ear-hole. Insulated wires trailed off under wooden tables covered with papers and boxes of ammunition. One entire wall of the subterranean room was covered with an immensely detailed, hand-drawn map of the city and the surrounding countryside. Three thin little females were busy chattering into speaking tubes and moving back and forth, updating a forest of pins, flags and stickers adorning the chart. "There is fighting in the western portico. Looters are trying to break into the palace."

"With what? A tank? A battering ram?" Bhrigu wrinkled his snout in disbelief. His lower stomach felt pinched and the sensation did not improve a habitually nervous disposition. "Are we being bombed? Didn't I order our aircraft to stay hidden?"

The guard-captain shook his head. "No bombs, sire. A runner-cart filled with cheap explosives was used to break down the gate. Sirkar Khanus and his company are holding them off." The soldier flashed his teeth in amusement. "They do not like machine-gun fire, this rabble."

"Huh! I hope not…" Bhrigu turned back to the map wall, hopping nervously from foot to foot as he studied the latest reports. Once, long ago, and well before the kujen's ancestors had hared down from the hill-country of Agen to pillage and then seize the ruined metropolis of Parus from the degenerate, cannibalistic tribes scratching out a living amid the decaying grandeur of old Jagan, the series of chambers under the palace had been equipped with comps and display panels and all matter of technological wonders.

Now there were only gaping cavities in the walls, filled with stacks of leather-bound pypil booklets and boxes of dried meat and fish. The ancient gipu-lights had been replaced by portable oil lamps and strings of imported camping lanterns. Bhrigu's technicians and craftsmen told him there were kilometers of tunnels beneath the city, filled with an intricate network of old cable, but the equipment required to use the decaying telecom network was beyond their ability to manufacture.

The prince had spent every coin he could scrape together on guns and parts to repair the ancient tanks and aircraft his grandfather had collected in secret depots. Weren't the Imperials going to build us a shiny new communications system, he thought, rather bitterly, staring at the comm in his hand. And they did, and it worked wonderfully for a year. And now? So much expensive trash littering the rooftops…

Bhrigu picked at his teeth with the edge of a small-claw. His lesser stomach continued to clench intermittently, making his entire lower body queasy with pain. "How stands the battle?" he demanded, rather querulously, of the females updating the huge map. "Has Humara taken the Legation yet?"

"No, sire." The seniormost of the scribes shook her head. "The asuchau defenders received reinforcements by air during the initial assault. The kurbardar is preparing to attack from several directions at once, as soon as his reinforcements are in position."

"Huh! Well then, we will see if old Scar can prove his reputation against a real foe."

Bhrigu rolled from foot to foot, trying not to feel queasy. His relationship with Humara had never been entirely cordial. The general had been hatched with the kujen's father and they had always been close. Shell of shell, they were. The prince started to gnaw at his claw. He possessed an abiding suspicion the kurbardar intended to ride any victory over the Imperials straight to the high seat of the kujenate itself. "What about the attack on the Imperial cantonment?"

The scribes put their heads together, huddled near the section of map showing the sprawling Imperial encampment on the southern edge of the city. Bhrigu had a too-clear memory of the tricky negotiations which had led to his 'leasing' an entire district to the soft-skinned humans for fifty-two solar orbits. At least it was marsh-land and refuse dumps, he thought sourly. And their primary presence is here, rather than in Takshila or Patala. Denying his northern and southern rivals direct access to Imperial goods was some leavening to the bitterness of watching their aerocars come and go in his sky. Counting the duties his tax collectors imposed on imports from Sobipurй did bring a sweet taste to his mouth, even if he was reviled as a traitor throughout Jagan.

"There is heavy fighting there," the scribe reported. "The lance-commanders are pressing the attack, but casualties are rising very rapidly. Several detachments of the enemy have fought their way in from the countryside. Initial gains have been reversed." One of her subordinates removed several flags from the map and plucked a set of pins out of the diagrams showing the cantonment buildings.

"Hrrr…" Bhrigu felt his upper stomach clench as well. His nostrils wrinkled. "Have any of the Imperial detachments been destroyed? Even one?"

The kujen had received the news of the asuchau regiment dispersing to 'protect Imperial interests' with cautious optimism. His generals had been ecstatic, believing the enemy had played directly into their claws by reducing his concentration of forces to a 'manageable level.' Bhrigu was notoriously cautious, however, and had taken the human Timonen's offhand remark about the power of Imperial weapons to heart.

If a squad of their troops can match a brigade of ours, he remembered thinking, then scattering their maneuver elements gives them a free field of fire…and the reach to come to grips with more of us than would otherwise be the case.

"We have reports from various commanders," the scribe said, nostrils wrinkling in obvious disbelief, "indicating thousands of the enemy have fallen. Entire regiments," she continued, "have been destroyed, their bodies scattered, vehicles and weapons captured, females taken as prizes and young crushed alive in their shells."

"Ha!" Bhrigu hooted with laughter, appreciating the female's bone-dry delivery of the news. "What do you see, eye-of-knowing-all-things?"

"They have been hurt," she replied, moving to the chart. A thin claw indicated the rail-line south to Sobipurй. "Where forces loyal to the moktar managed to surprise the asuchau soldiers in exposed positions, such as along the elevated highways in the farm country, many enemy vehicles have actually been destroyed. Several groups of the enemy have been wiped out."

"And here in Parus?"

The scribe shrugged, tilting her head to one side. "There are too many places to hide in the city. One Imperial in the rubble can kill a hundred times his number before being chased to ground." A delicate claw tapped the diagram of the Cantonment. "The defenders of their main base are grinding up our men as quickly as fresh brigades can be shoveled into their maw. Zhern and Kuvalan will not be able to take this place, not without massing all our forces there."

Bhrigu ground his teeth together in dismay. In the twenty hours of battle which had passed, the kujen had been very careful to hold his best troops out of the fray. Humara had taken the field with his own household guards, various brigades of rural levies and the not-so-secret armies of the religious brotherhoods. Thousands of common Jehanan had joined the rising, venting blind fury at the Imperials. Their pride ran deep – even now, after so many disasters and catastrophes – even the lowest beggar knew Jagan had once been ruled by a glorious civilization.

All my enemies are dying, he realized. Humara is truly too reckless to ever be kujen. Should I take a hand? There are hundreds of tanks and dozens of aircraft ready to strike, artillery by the battery…all of the newly trained troops with modern equipment…

Bhrigu's grandfather had been a far-sighted old snake. When Jehanan industry had recovered to the point where scrap iron and hoarded steel could be worked again, and the chemical processes described by the old books could be followed, he had invested decades in scrounging up all of the detritus of the cataclysm which had swallowed the Arthavan civilization. Old Vazur had known the day would come when the cities of the Five Rivers would contest for supremacy with more than bow and shield and lohaja-bladed spears.

On that day, the old kujen had sworn his dynasty would prevail over their many rivals. The coming of the Imperials and their greedy merchants had vaulted a plan requiring decades of painstaking work to the edge of reality in only five years. Entire catalogs of machine tools and raw materials and prefabricated engines and pure, refined source chemicals had been presented to the kujen by the NГЎhuatl pochteca – all for the picking, if the quills could be had.

Now I must choose to show my hand…or not. Bhrigu stepped closer to the map, deep-set eyes searching the icons and flags and pins for an answer. How fragile is the balance in this moment? How much of a push is needed…

"How many tanks does Humara have?" he asked curiously after a long moment of consideration. "How does he plan to attack the Legation?"

"Three Aganu-class medium tanks, sire. Heavy cannon, machine-guns, composite armor…not the most powerful weapons we have in inventory, but sufficient for the task, if there are as few asuchau in the Legation as we suspect." The scribe searched around on the table and unrolled a large plan of the old citadel. "At least one company of engineers from the 3rd division has joined his attack, sire. They'll cut open the eastern wall with explosives and send at least a brigade through in support of the armor."

"Against how many humans?" Bhrigu wondered if his grandfather ever felt faint and dizzy in the midst of battle. Never! He breathed fire and spat steel nails…

"Reports from our spotters in a nearby khus say there are ten to fifteen Fleet Marines in light armor, plus another hundred or so unarmored civilians with a variety of small arms. They have some kind of high-speed cannon on the roof of the Legation, which has been shooting Humara's mortar and artillery rounds out of the sky as they drop in."

"Hrrrr! They have quick eyes," Bhrigu scowled, remembering diagrams in the old books of such systems. More toys we cannot afford and desperately need. He measured the length of wall around the citadel and frowned. "Old Scar will get inside if he breaches that wall – there's too much perimeter for the humans to hold the whole length…if that roof-mounted gun is destroyed, he could flatten the whole complex and let them suffocate in the ruins…"

I know what to do, he realized. Where to push, and just how hard.

The kujen turned to his guard-captain, scaleskin around his eyes tight. "Tell the pilots to get in the air and make for the Rusted Citadel with all speed."

Then Bhrigu hefted the comm in his hand and toggled the switch. The device came to life, made a fluttering noise while the unit searched for a relay node and then beeped happily, showing a green 'ready' indicator. This is what Vazur the Great felt like, he thought, feeling both stomachs unclench. He felt light, as if the weight of ages had been lifted from his shoulders. When his lancers burst from hiding upon the highlander left at Acare and shattered their great army. And then, as now, timing and leverage are everything…

His claw depressed the control button and the kujen raised the comm to his lips.

"This is Bhrigu," he said. "Tell your mistress I've matters to discuss with her."

Of course, mi'lord, Lachlan answered, sounding pleased. One moment, please.

The Imperial Legation

Within the Red Fort at Parus

 

The distant pop-pop-pop of small-arms fire permeated the air as Felix jogged up a flight of ancient steps within the southern bastion of the dhrada. Her skin was stretched tight and tingling with the aftereffects of too much stayawake. Her med-band should have locked itself out – or put her to sleep – if she hadn't disabled the safety features immediately after her last equipment review. The Marine Heicho ducked out a heavy stone embrasure, keeping her head low, and scuttled along a broad parapet lined with granite merlons. The ancient Jehanan stonemasons who'd raised the Rusted Citadel expected to defeat sinew-driven catapults, onager-driven stones and sheer muscle power; but the fortification they'd raised in the heart of Parus was proof against 8mm caseless as well.

A squat octagonal tower bulked against the night sky at the end of the parapet and Felix slipped into the shelter of a doorway with relief. Despite the intermittent snap! of Imperial guns along the perimeter, and the occasional mortar round whistling over the walls – the situation in and around the fortress had been quiet since dusk.

This does not, she reminded herself, hustling up a circular ramp, prevent some canny slick from potting me with an elephant-rifle at six hundred meters. There were four dead Marines in the makeshift medical bay as proof of the ability of massed native firepower to overcome light Fleet combat armor. Now, if we'd shipped down with powered armor suits, Felix thought, licking her lips in anticipation of the likely outcome, we'd be herding the survivors into detention camps by the morning.

But her troops did not have heavy armor, or weapons, and the Legation guards were no better equipped. Her lone Whipsaw was tasked to anti-artillery duty. Everyone else was scrounging ammo coils and whatever sharp sticks they could find in the Residence. Communications with the Regimental cantonment on the southern edge of the city were out – native jamming continued to snarl the comm channels – and there was no prospect of relief with the nearing dawn.

An attack is what we'll get with light, the Marine grumbled to herself. I should have taken my mother up on that offer to manage her hotel on Corcovado…

Her head rose through a hexagonal opening in the roof of the tower and the Heicho stopped. "Clear to enter the satellite relay station?"

"Clever, Corporal, very clever," Helsdon replied from the shadows on the far side of the rooftop. "Best to crawl – I've avoided attention by showing no lights and very little motion – but I am sure someone is watching out there in the darkness."

Felix bellied down and sidewindered over to the chief machinist's mate, who was sitting cross-legged in the protection of a heavy square flagpole mount. The engineer was surrounded by a motley collection of comps, toolkits, comm gear and miscellaneous lengths of pipe fitted together into a rough antenna array. The Heicho stopped at his feet and tilted her combat visor up so they could talk without resorting to comm.

"The runner said you'd gotten a fix on the ship?"

Helsdon nodded towards a crude parabolic antenna hand-wired to Sho-sa Kosho's Fleet command comp, which had survived the destruction of the shuttle. A heavy-duty Fleet comm laser was mounted on a motorized tripod nearby, metal legs thick as wrists with their hydraulic stabilizers extended. The engineer had a handful of wire-leads and earbugs pressed to the side of his head. "Skyscan picked up a matching radar silhouette about twenty minutes ago. I've been playing the comm-laser over the surface since then, trying to get a fix on an active data aperture. Haven't had much luck until just a minute ago…"

Helsdon tilted his head, listening to the warble of static and chattering machine noise on one of the earbugs in his hand. "Shipside comm has reset – these are all default negotiation messages in the data-stream – the Thai-i changed them all years ago…"

"What does that mean?" Felix tried not to growl impatiently.

"I'm not sure." Helsdon pursed his lips, puzzled. "One moment, an aperture has come on-line…"

He pushed an earbug into Felix's hand. She popped out her Fleet one and screwed the new one in. Immediately, the background warbling and chirping of the local jamming vanished and she could hear the cool, even tones of a Fleet comm relay.

Stand by please, your call is being forwarded to the appropriate personnel.

"Huh! Didn't think I'd ever be happy to hear Miss Manners…"

Connecting…

"Hello?" The Heicho twisted the comm thread on the bug around to her lips. "This is Felix groundside, calling the Cornuelle, can anyone hear me?"

I hear you loud and clear, the tart, grumbling voice of Isoroku replied after a second's delay. Where is Sho-sa Kosho?

"In medical," Felix said, vastly relieved the ship was still in operation.

First tour recruits were treated to a variety of ghoulish stories by the twenty-year veterans. Most of them began with a variation of "when I was serving on the Cotopaxi…" and ended with the slow horrible death by mutilation of the officers or enlisted men who had not heeded the sage advice of their sergeants in matters of war, personal hygiene or keeping Fleet-issued equipment spotlessly clean. One of the more lurid tales concerned a company of Marines stranded on a primitive world when their troop transport had been shot up by a Megair battlecruiser. Lacking even the most primitive food-processing technology, the troopers had been forced to resort to cannibalism to survive. Since hearing the gruesome tale of the Margaret Acatl and her survivors, the Heicho had harbored a recurring, paranoid fear of being stranded after her ship had been disabled or destroyed.

"We lost a shuttle on landing to an ATGM," Felix continued, wrenching her mind back to the matter at hand. "The Sho-sa was wounded, but she'll be fine. What happened to the ship? Where's Chu-sa Hadeishi?"

In medical, Isoroku said blandly. Stove some ribs in and nearly asphyxiated himself by dumping most of his suit air. He'll live – if we can get the ship in a stable orbit – so listen, Heicho – we can't help you. No fire support, no evac shuttles, not even much comm relay, until we get the ship stabilized and under control.

"I understand," Felix said, feeling queasy. She looked across at Helsdon, who'd turned a little pale. "How bad is it?"

Bad. We took six mine strikes simultaneously and the 'skin overloaded. Then there were secondary explosions in the officer's mess and galley. Don't really know what caused that, but we're clearing the wreckage, so -

"Six anti-ship mines?" Felix's brow furrowed. Helsdon jerked back a little in surprise, alarmed by the news. "How did Navigation miss mines parked in orbit? Wait a moment…"

The Development Board – the engineer started to say.

"The satellite power cells!" Felix cursed. Helsdon turned green and his eyes widened. "The civilian power cells had been replaced by anti-matter fueled ones…"

Good to know that. Now. The engineer's voice was very flat and tense with strain. A little late, Heicho but I'm sure you'll get a nice note in your personnel jacket at some point.

"Sabotage," Helsdon muttered, nervously counting the tools in his kit. "The Board foreman who sold us all those spare parts was in charge of the satellite network repair and maintenance." The older man's head lifted, eyes narrowing. "He sold us all that lohaja wood too…"

"Thai-i?" Felix ventured. "Did you hear -"

I did. Isoroku's voice affected a zero-Kelvin chill. We put nearly six hundred kilos of lohaja flooring into the officer's mess the day before yesterday. Helsdon, did you bioscan those supplies before they came aboard?

The machinist's mate blanched. "Hai, kyo! But I just scanned them for biological infestations – worms, beetles, egg cases, pupae, virus filaments – I didn't scan them for cellulose-based explosives. Or for shielded fuses or detonators."

There was a hiss of rage on the comm. We put our neck right in the noose!

Felix heard an impatient chime on her other earbug, cursed and switched devices.

…are you there? Heicho?

"Hai, Sho-sa Kosho!" Felix started to sweat, overcome with nervousness. "I'm here! I'm on the roof of the south tower with Helsdon, we've got comm back with the ship! The Chu-sa is fine – he's wounded, but stable in medical -"

Be quiet. Kosho sounded irritable. The Chu-sa can take care of himself. Listen, the eastern perimeter lookouts are reporting suspicious heat plumes two streets over and out of line-of-sight from their position. Can you eyeball anything from up there?

"I'm on it," Felix blurted, sliding over to the eastern side of the tower. From the clear, concise sound of the officer's voice, one wouldn't have thought she was laid up in an antique four-poster bed in a guest bedroom in the Residence with a medband on each arm and under-pain-of-death orders not to move while her ligaments reknit. The Imperial Resident wasn't a military commander – and didn't pretend to be – but he knew how to sit on recalcitrant Fleet officers who needed to recuperate after being nearly incinerated.

But that's our dear old wind-knife, the corporal thought, relieved to have someone confident in command, and ran a longeye up over the embrasure and swung the sensor from side to side. "Kyo? I've got visual of the streets east of the main wall…"

She paused, watching the feed very carefully. Between the southern tower and the eastern wall was a wide expanse of wooden buildings, ornamental gardens, a twisting pump-fed stream and a variety of huge, carefully tended fruit trees. The outer wall was a solid red cliff rising over acres of flowers. Felix twitched her lips, starting to frown. The composite image included ambient light, infra-red and high-spectrum radiation – whatever the longeye could pick up – all integrated into one color-corrected, annotated image. At the moment, a motion flicker was outlining the roof of a house just across the street from the eastern ramparts.

While the citadel had once protected the northeastern corner of Parus from assault, the centuries since its construction had engendered kilometers of suburbs beyond the squat towers. A variety of brick-and-plaster buildings crowded each side of the old fortress, separated from the wall only by the width of a city street. Even a governor of kujen Barak's time would not have allowed civilian buildings so close to the defenses…

"There's a building shaking from foundation to gable, Sho-sa." Felix's voice was taut with suspicion. "I've seen that before…a tank is cutting through the interior! Tell eastern perimeter to fall back – they're about to come under fire!"

The composite image shifted, focusing as her battle comp recognized something of interest. A long barrel crashed through a window on the ground floor of the building. The muzzle swung to one side, clearing away four tall panes of glass and belched flame. The boom of the gun firing reached Felix a heartbeat later. A plume of dust and shattered brick puffed up from the eastern wall. The plaques of two Imperial soldiers bolting back across the ornamental gardens were very clear on her visor.

All hands to battle stations! Kosho's voice rang clear across the Imperial com channels. Attack underway on the eastern perimeter…attack underway at the south gate…all fire teams to overwatch positions!

Felix wedged her shoulder into one of the granite embrasures and thumbed the safety from her Macana, activating the sighting reticule on her visor. Another explosion rocked the eastern wall and the clatter of tank treads on cobblestones rose in counterpoint. The clamor of voices on the comm faded into the background as her attention focused. Dust drifted white among the fruit trees. The two Marines who'd fallen back took up firing positions in the shelter of a delicate gazebo of marble and alabaster. The Heicho cranked a lever to load the grenade launcher housed under the rifle's main barrel. She licked her thumb, rubbed a spot from the targeting viewer and settled her breathing.

Whooomp! The air trembled and the eastern wall shuddered from top to bottom. A huge blast reverberated in the air, followed by a string of sharp reports. The inner face of the rampart collapsed, tumbling down in a landslide of bricks and dirt and shattered concrete. Something growled mechanically in the opening, treads spinning and the prow of a tank emerged from the ruins.

Felix drifted the targeting indicator for her grenade launcher over the rear deck of the tank, saw running shapes emerge from the cloud of dust and squeezed the trigger. The Macana banged against her shoulder, the grenade whistling away, and she immediately switched to single-shot flechette.

She began firing methodically, tracking the swift, blurring shapes of Jehanan soldiers spilling out of the breach one by one. The grenade burst in a bright flare, knocking down some of the invaders. The tank lurched, smoke boiling from plated armor, but did not slow down. Three Jehanan dropped, smashed to the ground by the flechette rounds from her assault rifle.

Only seconds later, the granite shielding her rang with the impact of native bullets. Stone chips scored her visor and slashed at her shoulders. Ignoring the shrapnel, the Marine dropped another two slicks, but hundreds more were swarming through the gap. The tank rumbled forward and its long gun boomed again. The marble gazebo disappeared in a cloud of dust and flame. Felix clicked her teeth, breaking into the chaos of voices on the combat channel.

"We need the Whipsaw in the eastern gardens with armor-piercing," she growled. "This tank nearly took Carlyle's head off!"

We can't spare the 'saw from anti-artillery duty, Kosho responded curtly.

The tank fired again, obliterating another of the ornamental buildings. The two Marines down in the gardens leapfrogged back again to a low wall only meters from the Residence. Felix gritted her teeth and fired five grenades in quick succession, dropping them right across a line of Jehanan troopers crashing forward through the rose bushes and beds of orchids.

The grenades burst in a rippling wall of fire. A hailstorm of bullets smashed against the granite around her, filling the air with whining shrapnel. Felix ducked down, hearing the high-pitched wail of mortar rounds dropping out of the sky. The Whipsaw on the roof of the Residence stuttered, snapping out interceptor rounds with a piercing whine. The sky blotted with black puffs of smoke.

"Stupid-always-right-officers…" The Marine flexed her trigger-hand and thumbed her visor to full automatic tracking. Bullets continued to spang! off the merlons. The engineer laid himself down, still fiddling with his comps and antenna array, trying to keep the channel to the ship open. "Carlyle, Renton, go to full auto! Helsdon, get below!"

Felix shifted position two embrasures and popped up. The Macana jerked in her hand, a full-automatic burst ripping from the rifle. Her visor lit up with hundreds of possible targets, glowing red crosshairs dancing across the gardens. She let her conscious mind subsume in the twitch-reflex of the gun/visor interface and emptied a two thousand round magazine coil into the charging Jehanan soldiers.

If I had a powered-armor rig… Felix had applied for transfer to a powered armor regiment before being posted to the Cornuelle. A rejection letter had caught up with her nine months ago, precipitating a mild funk. Luckily, the ship had immediately encountered a Khaid raiding group and been plunged into a ferocious battle for survival, which had cheered her up immensely.

Flame stabbed out from the other two Marines as the passage of so many hypervelocity flechettes made the air incandesce. For an instant, a whirlwind of ionization and metal lashed the Jehanan battalion spilling through the breach and hundreds of the natives staggered, torn to shreds. The tank continued to grind forward, lurching up over a carved alabaster retaining wall, the forward glacis spotted with smoking, red-hot impact scars.

Then the tank turret swung towards the southern tower and flame blossomed from the muzzle with a crack! Felix shouted at Helsdon and flung herself to the side, curling automatically into an impact resistant ball. The granite merlons shattered in a ball of plasma. The engineer's carefully pieced-together antenna array disintegrated, the comps were blown into the far wall and flame washed over both Imperials. The concussion threw Felix into the opposite stonework, where burning debris pelted her armor and face, and Helsdon – who had scooted towards the stairs – was flung down into the tower itself. Smoke and dust billowed up from the gaping hole torn in the parapet.

The Jehanan tank turret whined around towards the Residence, long gun sliding down.

On the roof of the main building, the Whipsaw team ran to the edge of the rooftop and set down the tripod-mounted weapon. The lead gunner cycled the ammunition coil to armor-piercing, flipped the targeting display on and squeezed the firing lever. A lance of super-heated flame – engendered by the supersonic passage of dozens of depleted uranium-core munitions – boomed out, leaping down to draw a white-hot line across the front of the tank and across the turret.

Metal squealed in agony as multiple jets of metal plasma spewed into the crew compartment. There was a deep, resounding whoomp! and the entire machine blew apart as the munitions and fuel inside brewed up. Flames engulfed the chassis and the turret, blown free by the explosion, crashed down into an apple tree, setting the leaves and trunk alight.

On the southern tower, Felix – wheezing and tasting gravel – rolled over, groping for her rifle. The Macana had vanished, along with the communications array and half of the tower wall. Pea-sized rubble and granite fragments slid from her thigh and arm as she sat up.

"Oh, crap." The Marine spat blood to clear her mouth and realized most of the gear strapped to her gunrig and belt were gone with the assault rifle. She tapped her comm with a trembling hand. "Helsdon? Engineer? You still alive?"

In her sick-bed, Kosho heard the distant crash of artillery and tried to sit up. She winced immediately, her porcelain face twitching with pain as her head spun. "Who is attacking?" She snapped into the combat channel. "Can anyone see unit blazons, idents, regimental flags, anything?"

The Resident was parked at her bedside, one long hand to his ear, listening intently to the chatter of servants, troops and wayward Imperial citizens who had taken refuge in the Legation. He was still dressed in a formal mantle, cotton shirt and trousers – the rising had caught him amid a state luncheon and he hadn't found time to change. Between them, they represented Imperial command authority in central Parus. Attempts to contact the Regimental cantonment had failed. He shook his head, listening to a babble of reports from throughout the sprawling building.

"This doesn't sound like a single military unit," Petrel said, voice hoarse with weariness. "The rising must have split dozens of regiments along clan or parish lines… One of the lesser princes will have taken control of the forces in thisarea." He adjusted one earbug, rubbing an eye swollen by a bad cut. "This attack on the garden gate in the south – the harness and traveling cloaks on the dead sound like those worn by religious pilgrims… Rural zealots must be entering the city, looking for asuchau – the unclean – to expunge from holy Jagan."

"I see. They will be discerning, I'm sure." Kosho felt faint and tried to lie still on her pillow. The feeling of fine silk under her neck was disconcertingly at odds with the patina of dust on her coverlet and the acrid smell of burned metal and propellant hanging in the air. The banging sound of hammers resounded from the hallway where the household servants were busily fortifying the windows and doorways. At the edge of hearing, a human baby was crying hoarsely. "Do we know where kujen Bhrigu stands in all of this? Is he part of the rising, or a fellow target?"

Petrel shook his head in dismay, silver hair mussed by the events of the past two days. "He is a nervous, untrustworthy creature – ever at odds with his generals and the priests. No one trusts him either. I would wager, however, that someone is attempting to overthrow him amid all this chaos." The diplomat smiled, rather grimly. "If not, then he is hiding in the basement of his palace, waiting for the dust to settle."

Kosho sighed, wishing she'd stayed on the ship. I wanted to feel the wind on my face – and see what kind of vacation I am having. Battle reports continued to bark in her ear. Tireless dogs, tireless… "We needn't look to him for relief then." Exhausted, she made a courtly gesture of resignation to fate. "The enemy has withdrawn from the southern gate. But we will not be able to stop up the breach in the east. Not if they have another tank to send against us."

Petrel stared at her hand, surprised and a little alarmed. "Without holding the outer wall…"

"The Residence is large," Kosho replied. "Move the civilians into the basements. Once sufficient rubble has been generated to block their armor, we will be able to hold them off while we have ammunition -"

The combat channel cleared abruptly, leaving only the disgusted voice of the gunner commanding the Whipsaw on the roof shouting: Incoming aircraft! Three of them on my scope, on an attack run! We're swinging the 'saw round…

"Bah!" Kosho's rude exclamation took the Resident by surprise. "Where is our aircover? Are they jets?"

Fragmentary reports from the 416th had indicated the natives had several jet aircraft in inventory. The Sho-sa would have laughed at the futility of deploying air-breathing, turbine-powered atmospheric aircraft against Imperial forces in the field, save for her complete lack of orbital fire support to knock them down. The counter-battery guns on an APAC would do the trick as well, but she didn't have an armored personnel carrier on hand either.

No, answered the gunner. These look like prop-driven fixed-wing models.

"Antiques?" Kosho made a face. "They're emptying the pantry…" She looked at the Resident questioningly. "Have we sold the kujen any antique propeller-driven aircraft?"

Petrel shook his head. "Not that I've heard of…"

Kosho tapped up the helmet feed from the gunners on the roof. Three heat-emission signatures appeared in the relayed feed, stark against a cold pre-dawn sky. They swung into a banking turn, heading straight for the Legation. She automatically reached for her comp, intending to call up a recog soft and then stifled a curse – Helsdon had borrowed her command comp to drive his communications relay.

Heicho Felix picked her way down a rubble-strewn ramp and hissed in alarm as a body appeared in the light of her hand-lamp. The chief machinist's mate was sprawled on the landing, one arm twisted beneath his body, scalp and face streaked with blood.

"Helsdon?" The Marine knelt down, shoving broken bricks out of her way. "Can you hear me?" Gently, she turned the body, lips tight to see the older man's head fall limply to one side. Felix tugged back his uniform jacket sleeve, exposing his medband.

The silver band was a mixture of amber and crimson, but he was breathing.

"Not dead yet," Felix breathed in relief. She wiped blood out of his eyes with the edge of her hand. "You and the Sho-sa will make a fine pair in medical bay together. But at least Isoroku won't stripe my hide bloody for getting you killed."

Grunting, the Marine heaved the engineer up onto her shoulders. Goddamn, she thought, straining to lift his body, bones like lead! He doesn't look this heavy…

A resounding boom! shook the tower, precipitating more rubble to cascade down the ramp and nearly knocked Felix from her feet. Swaying, she leaned against the wall, tapping her comm awake. "What the hell was that?"

Got two more tanks coming through the breach! Carlyle bawled on the channel. We're out of here!

Whipsaw to anti-armor, Kosho's voice followed, cutting clear and cold through the Marine's panic. Ignore the aircraft for the moment. Kill that armor, in the breach if you can.

Felix swore, shrugged the engineer into a slightly less uncomfortable carry, and waddled down the ramp as fast as she could. The opening onto to the retaining wall was only meters away and she turned sideways in the narrow doorway. Outside, the night was alive with the crash of heavy guns, the rattling sound of small arms and the clanking rumble of armor treads chewing more brick to dust. Intermittent tracer fire jagged into the sky. Burning vegetation lit the stones of the wall with a ruddy, orange glow. Craning her neck, she stared down into the gardens.

Sure enough, two more of the flat-turreted tanks ground noisily through the ornamental trees. A fresh attack out of the breach had developed while she'd been inside – this time the slicks were sending the armor first, with the infantry holding back and scuttling from cover to cover.

Sure are a lot of them, she thought with a sinking feeling. A couple hundred this time…

A sharp basso droning sound overhead made her turn. "What the -"

Her visor adjusted, scanning the pitch-black sky. The image changed tone and hue, and three cross-shaped aircraft roared over the Legation. Felix blanched, goggling at the antiques winging towards her, and took off at a run for the next tower on the wall.

The Whipsaw on the roof of the Residence shrieked. A hard white streak of light intersected the first of the prop-driven planes and the machine shattered in a violent burst of flame. Debris rained down, trailing smoke and flames. The other two planes broke away from their attack run, dumping their bomb loads.

Cease fire! Kosho barked on the channel. Kill the tanks first!

Four heavy black canisters plummeted out of the night sky and crashed through the canopy of leaves spreading over the garden. One bomb bounced up, skidded across a lawn of short-cropped grass and plowed through a clutch of scattering Jehanan soldiers. There was a bright spark in the darkness as a phosphorus igniter cooked off.

Felix flinched back, one arm thrown up by reflex to shield her eyes, even though her combat visor mirrored immediately. The bomb detonated with an ear-shattering roar, spewing liquefied flame in every direction. Three more napalm canisters exploded in succession, filling the air with a burning white-hot mist. The burning cloud rolled across the gardens, incinerating the Jehanan soldiers, consuming every scrap of vegetation and engulfing the tanks. A wave of terrific heat boiled up over the walls, shattering brick and splintering marble, granite and alabaster alike. The windows of the whole eastern side of the Residence shattered, cracked by the concussive effect of the blast and then coated with blazing jelly.

The crews of the Jehanan tanks survived a moment longer – protected from the flame and explosion by thick armor – but none of the three vehicles were secured for a zero-pressure environment and carbon monoxide flooded in through the gun aperture and air recirculators. The crewmen succumbed to paralysis and violent hallucinations within seconds, then strangled on their own blood.

Felix bolted forward, chased by a wall of fire, and hurled herself and the unconscious engineer into the secondary tower. Her combat visor sealed itself automatically as the monoxide level in the air spiked, fresh oxygen hissing into her nostrils.

On the comm, Kosho was bawling commands and Felix could hear Carlyle scream helplessly for a long drawn out second before his voice cut off. Then she was rolling down the ramp as the ceiling roared with billowing flame and everything turned red-orange from the furnace glare howling at her back.

The Courts of the Morning

On the Banks of the Phison,

Southeastern Parus

 

Flower petals, shriveled by the queer light in the sky, fluttered down from a roseate claw. Bhazuradeha was sitting beside an ornamental pool, her slim head bent over the waters, watching the sicane buds drift on the current, slowly fattening as they saturated. The pool was served by a hidden pump and the frail gray blossoms swirled away to disappear beneath mossy rocks.

"Phantom petals fall into moonlight," she whispered. "Autumn has come too soon…"

A crashing sound echoed through the tall pillars around the courtyard, followed by the tramp of heavy, booted feet. The Jehanan woman did not look up. The transparency and color of the water had caught her attention, curving over the rocks, capturing the morning light with a faint rainbow sheen. A multitude of tiny blue-green tendrils – a long-stemmed algae – waved on the surface of the stones, capturing invisible prey from the flow of water.

An image occluded the smooth surface of the water – a long-jawed Jehanan in a trailing cloak, jangling with iron and leather and smelling of oil, fire and bitter smoke. Bhazuradeha looked up, enormous green eyes taking in the crowd of barbarians who had invaded her apartments. A jeweled display box, she corrected herself, a stage for my skills, filled with soft, elegant things.

One of her 'guardians' was among the tribesmen, half-paralyzed by fear, a kalang knife against the rough pebbled skin of her throat. Bhazuradeha ignored the matron, attention hungrily fixed on the leader of the Arachosians arrayed before her. The common literature of the lowland cities was filled with lurid descriptions of the habit, mien, clothing and vicious temper of the highland raiders, but the poetess had never seen them before, not up close.

The Jehanan looming over her was tall, scales hard and bright, powerful chest draped with a leather harness holding knives, pistols, soft leather pouches bulging with bullets and powder, and thumb-sized cylinders of black metal thrust into fabric loops. Leather cords heavy with fore-teeth crowded his neck and upper arms. Oddly, to her eye, his broad shoulders were draped with a thick linen cloak in dull gray and brown, though the inner layer – only partially exposed – seemed to be of a softer, shinier fabric. The poetess realized temperatures among the highland mountains must be regularly chill, requiring the inhabitants to conserve warmth. Even the bone structure of his face was strange – harsher and crueler than the soft-scaled denizens of the lowland plains. His hands and forearms were scarred and chipped from rough usage on the field of war.

Humara would be apoplectic at this sight. All his glorious civilization laid to naught by one day of strife.

"This is the one we seek," the Arach war-captain said, after looking her over carefully. "Kill the others."

"How can you be sure?" Bhazuradeha stirred, rising to her feet. The engraving on the creature's sword hilt had captured her attention for a moment – obviously the work of a woman with fine, delicate hands and skill the equal of any jeweler's shop in the city. "What if I am only an attendant? If you reach so high, do not pluck a rotten fruit by mistake!"

"You are no milkmaid," the Arach growled, turning back to face her. His snout was oddly shaped, to her eyes, almost hooked, with twin ridges of jutting scales starting above the nostrils and rising up behind the eye-shields. In contravention of the literature, his eyes did not blaze with the fires of burning cottages, but they were very, very cold. "But you are indeed the 'color of dawn.' "

There was a choked cry, and the matron crumpled to the floor, blood sluicing from her neck. The kalang had sheared through soft scale and bone alike, making a clean, neat incision.

No molk was ever butchered with less thought or more skill. Bhazuradeha allowed her nostrils to flare slightly as the smell of urine and blood and severed bone washed over her. The Arachs did not seem to notice, or care. She considered the arrangement of the invaders, saw they had formed a loose cordon around her and their captain. Not one of them paid her the least attention, save the creature directly in front of her. The others were keeping a wary eye on the rooftops, the doors opening into the bedrooms off the courtyard and the passageway whence they had come. All of the raiders were armed with asuchau weapons, and Bhazuradeha was sure the dull, efficient-looking rifles had issued from workshops tended by human hands. No Jehanan craftsman could reproduce one object with such soulless perfection.

Not a dozen times. At least once, some hint of beauty might leak in.

"I am Bhazuradeha," she said, lifting her wrists, palms together. "Do you take me for yourself, or for another, or for ransom?"

The Arachosian hooted in amusement, adjusting his cowl. His eyes glittered in shadow. "Our master does not desire you," he said. "You are summoned to observe a thing of import and – in time, when the gods move your tongue to recite – to sing of what you see." He pointed to her proffered hands with his snout. "No restraint will be placed upon you."

Bhazuradeha drew back, alarmed and insulted. "Not a properly taken captive? What kind of cruel master do you serve? Do they wish me to beg?"

The Arach snorted, nostrils flaring and shook his head. "By my eye, singer, you are a delight to look upon." He gestured sharply at his men and made a deep, respectful bow. "Bringing you home in chains or tied to the stirrups of our sherakan would bring us vast honor. No greater prize has been taken from the lowlander soft-scales in a thousand years! Even under the White Teeth, tales are told of your skill and beauty."

Well! The poetess started to smile. He's well spoken, at least!

"But," he continued, turning away, "you will accompany us and observe."

"I will not," Bhazuradeha declared, irritated and growing angry with his obstinacy. "When did an Arachosian ever ask a lowlander for anything! Where is your spirit? Have the men of Ghazu lost their kshetrae to some malign demon?"

The Arachosian turned sharply, a low hooooo rumbling in his throat. "Do not insult me, singer! You are summoned and you will come – in chains and gagged, if you like – but standing upon ritual and convention is useless in this case. My master is no Jehanan, but an asuchau human from beyond the sky and she cares not at all for your propriety!"

Bhazuradeha recoiled, fear finally seeping into her heart. "You serve the asuchau…willingly?"

"Their copper is as good as anyone's," the Arachosian captain spat, seizing her by the neck with a rough, well-calloused claw. "Now move!"

Weeping and distraught, the poetess was dragged from her courtyard and out past the bodies of the guards General Humara had set to watch over her. A truck was waiting, engine idling, stinking of half-combusted ethanol and motor oil. She was shoved into the back and the Arachosians piled aboard, glad to be moving again.

There were far too many lowlanders with guns abroad in the streets of Parus for their taste.

Crying and feeling very ill used, Bhazuradeha started to sing under her breath, hoping old familiar words might buoy her spirits.

"The Night comes near and looks about," she wailed softly,

"A goddess with her many eyes, she dons shining silver glory.

Immortal, she fills the limit of sight, both far and wide, both low and high;

for whose approach, we seek today for rest, like the yi , who in the branches seek their nest.

The villages have sought for rest and all that walks and all that flies.

Black darkness comes, yet bright with stars, it comes to us, with brilliant hues…"

She stopped, feeling the gaze of every highlander in the truck fixed upon her.

"Prettily sung," the captain said, watching her with eyes shrouded by his cowl. "You are a worthy prize…"

Bhazuradeha turned away, delicate snout in the air, pleased someone had the wit to respect the old usages.

The Main Train Station

District of the Ironwrights, Parus

 

The sound of hissing steam – a long, ululating wail of pressure venting from a split boiler – greeted Mrs. Petrel as she woke from an evil dream of pain and leering, sharp-toothed ogres cracking her bones with iron mallets. She found her vision obscured and the flushed, hot sensation of a medband surging painkillers and reoxygenated blood through her joints made her feel nauseated. Moving as little as possible, she tested her fingers – found them to work – and essayed raising one hand to brush matted, sticky hair away from her face.

A vision of glass panes set between wooden beams greeted her. The windows gleamed pearl with mid-morning sunlight for a moment before a drifting, translucent shape no larger than a child's marble floated directly into her field of view.

A spyeye, her muddled brain realized after patient consideration. Greta was puzzled by the provenance of the indistinct creature for a moment, but then other memories intruded, the haze clouding her mind faded and she realized she was being watched from the aether. Oh bloody hell, Petrel grimaced, baring her teeth at the tiny flying camera. I'm sure this will go Empire-wide on Nightcast if the old hag has her way…

"I'm getting up," she whispered to the spyeye, "just as soon as I can feel my toes."

The translucent sphere bobbed in the air once and then darted away towards the roof of the train station. Human voices approached, sharp with whispered argument, and Greta fumbled with her earrings, fingertips brushing against a particularly smooth pearl. With a twist, the earbug was snapped from its fitting and safely lodged out of sight.

A beautiful day, my dear, echoed almost immediately in her mastoid, so much has been happening.

"I'm sure it has," Petrel whispered, feeling dreadfully tired and numb.

"Ma'am?" A haggard, blood-streaked face appeared above her, blotting out the graceful carvings and delicate woodwork ornamenting the station roof. Sergeant Dawd peered down at her, his broad, common-born face tight with worry. Gloved fingertips turned her wrist. "Ah, thank the good Lord, you've taken no permanent hurt."

"Of course not," Greta heard herself say, clutching his hand for support. Even in such extremity, years of polite conversation amid wretched circumstances came to her rescue. "Only a little tumble. I just need to get on my feet…"

Petrel felt herself raised up by two sets of hands and turned to find Master Sergeant Colmuir by her side. She was momentarily taken aback by the dreadful appearance of the older Skawtsman. Then, glancing past his puffy, badly bruised face, she caught sight of the train station itself and became quite still. "Oh dear."

Despite her effort to set the brakes, the train had barreled into the station at a very decent speed. The engine had smashed through a retaining barrier at the end of the track and plowed into the side of the station itself, destroying a seating area and collapsing a washroom. The boilers, subjected to pressures and stresses far beyond their design capacity, had ruptured, venting an enormous amount of steam. Dozens of Jehanan bodies lay scattered about, hides scalded an ugly red. Burning coals smoked and sputtered on the platform. Flames licked up the broken wall, devouring the wooden timbers and charring the brick pillars holding up the roof. The train cars had jackknifed behind the engine, which was mangled beyond recognition, and crushed themselves into a huge pile of splintered wood, broken glass and tumbled iron wheels. Smoke oozed from the wreckage. Greta put a hand to her mouth, realizing she'd escaped a particularly gruesome death by no more than a hair's breadth.

The pinging sound of hot metal cooling mixed with the moaning cries of injured Jehanans unlucky enough to have taken refuge in the station. A creaking sound echoed from overhead, where the roof-beams were beginning to give way as the walls shifted. A section of green glass suddenly cracked, showering glittering debris towards the station floor. Greta clutched Colmuir's supporting hand, trying not to fall to her knees. Waves of dull pain radiated through her right leg, arm and rib-cage.

I will never complain about wearing a medband and gelsuit again, she vowed silently. Never. Not even once.

"You're a lucky one, mi'lady," the Skawt declared, staring in disbelief at the carnage all around them. "Must have been pitched clear on impact."

"Where…" Petrel cleared her throat. "Where is the prince? Has he been injured?"

Dawd shook his head. "Your pardon, ma'am, but we searched for him first – his Fleet skinsuit has a responder…" The Eagle Knight held up a scratched and dented but still working comp. The machine was displaying unintelligible symbols. "…which says he's alive, at least. We just can't find him."

"Curst jamming," Colmuir interjected. "They've taken the lad away – we're sorry, lass, but we have to find him. You stay with these other civilians -" The master sergeant pointed with his head and Petrel became aware of the bulky, inhuman shape of a Hesht kneeling beside a badly injured human male amid drifts of scattered coal, charred paper scraps and abandoned parcels.

"Who are they?" Petrel fingered her medband, summoning a cold, sharp rush of clearmyhead. The Hesht was making a growling sound as she poked and prodded the man's limbs. He was grimacing and the awkward position of his leg told Greta he'd suffered worse injury than her own.

"Never mind." She tested her own legs, finding them weak but serviceable. "The Jehanan who had the prince in his clutches is an agent of the moktar, the cabal behind this stupid war. We have to get Tezozуmoc back as quickly as possible, before he comes to mischief."

Petrel gave the two Eagle Knights – who were staring at her with alarm – a quick smile. "The boy may believe he is of no use to anyone, but I do not agree. The moktar, in particular, will gain heart from his capture." She paused, thinking. Voices whispered to her from the air. "I have an idea where he might be…"

"Mi'lady…" Dawd stepped forward, extending a hand in warning. "You're in no condition to venture out into these streets – can't you hear the guns?"

Greta bound back her hair, head cocked to one side as if listening. There was a tumult of sound on the air – a hoarse droning sound filling the sky, the crash of distant bombs, the crack of rifles, screams, wailing alarms, the crackle and snap of burning buildings. She breathed in, tasting air stiff with smoke and fumes and the cloying, sweet smell of burning methanol. The whisper of her earbug was very faint, the voices of faeries and sprites darting among the hanging limbs of ancient trees.

"I've heard worse," she said, tying back the sleeves of her mantle and making sure her skirts were untangled. The absence of the antique Webley brought a keen, heartfelt pain. Poor James gave that to me…"Quickly now, if you value the oath you swore to the boy's father."

Without waiting for their response, Petrel limped across the rubble-strewn platform, heading for an arched doorway leading out into the street. Colmuir glanced at the two civilians who'd dragged him from the wreckage of the baggage car, cursed to himself and then ran after the woman. Dawd paused a moment as well, but only long enough to settle his gunrig and check the ammunition load in his spare Nambu. Then he too jogged out into the bright, humid morning.

The comp in his hand continued to flicker and whine, trying to pick up the prince's trail and failing, confused by the electronic maelstrom raging invisibly over the city.

"I don't feel so good," Parker said faintly. The pilot's face was chalk-pale and his lips were tinged with blue. Magdalena made a rumbling sound in the back of her throat, the soft pads of her fingers delicately probing the massive welting along his hip and knee. She considered his medband, which was two-thirds crimson and guessed the kit had shattered some joints.

"You're looking poorly," she allowed, searching quickly among the debris scattered around them for lengths of wood. The remains of a bench provided her with the rudiments for a splint. Maggie extended her claws, scored two of the sections lengthwise with a slash and then broke them apart by main strength. "Fur matted, can't clean yourself, nose cold as freezer-ice…"

Parker tried to smile, but failed to muster the strength. "Better…shut me down, Mags. Don't suppose…there's a medibot anywhere near…"

The Hesht shook her head, producing a roll of stickytape from her sole surviving duffel bag. The others were lost – along with thousands of quills' worth of comps, surveillance equipment and camping gear – in the wreck of the train. Working as swiftly as possible, she laid one section of wood along the human's side, then the other inside his leg. The tape drew tight, making Parker gasp. Magdalena showed him her teeth. "No stasis bag for you, my fine kit. No sharp-smelling, shiny clean medical bay. Only an old mother cat and a medband made of bark keeping you from the Peerless Hunter!"

"Oh…" Parker twitched painfully as she adjusted his shoulder. "Better get me…a fresh band, Mags. Something…sharp."

"All out." Magdalena fitted slats of wood around his shattered arm and went to find a board to immobilize his chest. "You'll have to share teat like everyone else."

Five minutes later, Parker was trying not to pass out as Magdalena hoisted him onto broad, ebon-furred shoulders, arm and leg taped tight to his torso. Her last duffel had been cut into a rough sling harness to carry him.

"You have to hold on," she growled, wondering if the monkey could handle the pain of being moved. "There's no medical attention here…we need to get you to a human hospital. Gretchen will be very displeased if you die. She will blame me."

"Ooooh…" Parker's head rolled limply to one side as his medband complained. "Don't wan' tha'…"

Time to go, the Hesht thought, licking her lips nervously. He's turning gray.

Setting her feet, Maggie adjusted her shoulders, took a step and then padded quietly out of the station house. The flames licking along the walls had reached up to brush the ceiling, and more glass was warping and cracking, adding yet more noise to the lamentations of the wounded and the dying hiss of steam.

On the steps leading down to the street, the Hesht raised her head and tasted the air. The sound of war continued to mutter and growl in the distance, leaving the avenue littered with debris – scattered bodies, abandoned runner-carts, drifts of blowing leaves and paper – and the air was tight with fumes and smoke. Far away, among the clouds, an air-breathing dragon boomed from horizon to horizon.

Looking both ways from the shadow of the door – just as her mother had taught her on the training fields of the clan-ark – Magdalena set off after the three other humans, following the clear scent of their blood drifting in the air. They had taken to the middle of the avenue, but Heshatun were drawn from warier stock and she kept to the mottled shadows under the shop awnings and broad-leafed trees lining the road.

 

Aboard the Cornuelle

In the Upper Troposphere

Above Continent Three

 

A familiar vibration against his back roused Hadeishi from a drugged, placid daze. He woke with his heart racing, overcome by a feeling of near-panic. There were voices on the air, but more immediate was an overriding urgency… The ship is waking, Mitsuharu, you must be at your station!

The metallic smell of urine and blood filled his nostrils. Hadeishi opened his eyes, took in a ceiling with two dead lighting panels and a dull emergency light and turned his head carefully to the side. The Chu-sa had woken up in Medical more than once and experience reminded him to move with deliberation. A handful of medical staff, haloed by portable lamps, tended an inordinate number of patients. The bay itself was in zero-g, which was one more sign of severe damage, and sticky webs of damage control spray kept loose garbage, debris and the wounded from drifting.

Hadeishi craned his neck, looking down his arm. His usual medband was gone, replaced by a cufflike unit attached to the medical bed. An amber indicator showed the medibot was running on battery power. I'm still in my suit – odd – ah, now I remember. The ship is damaged. I am damaged.

Everything popped back into focus. Hadeishi cleared his throat experimentally and found he could still move his tongue. And speak, I hope.

He clicked his teeth and felt the comm thread and earbug come alive against his cheek.

"Hadeishi to Engineering. Status?"

That was quick, Isoroku responded after a moment's delay. The engineer's voice was overlaid with a buzz of static. The Chu-sa heard the throttled growl of the main power plant and its attendant transformers, heat-exchangers and transmission apparatus in the background. The gui-ni said you'd be out for hours while you healed…

"The ship woke up," Hadeishi said, still feeling rather distant from the dark, suffocating room and his numbed body. "And so did I. Main power is on-line?"

Hai. Bottle's up, control systems are clean. We're about to start bringing up navigational control and the reaction drives. Should be able to make orbital correction in about…forty minutes.

"Do we have communications outside the ship?"

To the surface, you mean? Isoroku's voice faded with exhaustion, and then strengthened again. We had a tightbeam link to the Legation about an hour ago…but the Residency came under attack and the comm dropped out. I think Helsdon is dead.

"What about traffic control?"

Up here? Chu-sa , there's no one to talk to! Only derelicts…

Hadeishi convulsed with a wheezing hack. The table beeped angrily at him and sleepyhead began to leak into his blood. The Chu-sa felt a familiar numbness in his extremities and began breathing through his nose, slowing his heart. Sometimes the medical bay bedsensors had to be treated delicately if a man was to get his work done.

"Thai-i, the ship will be a danger to navigation – including our own shuttles – as long as the point defense systems have node power. So as you restore grid by grid, make sure none of the gatling or railgun mounts come back on-line. Route your damage control teams to disable them as soon as possible."

Hai, kyo!

"What is this?"

The gui-ni in charge of the bay suddenly appeared over Hadeishi, a reproving scowl on his dark brown face. "Awake despite the drugs, I see." The Mixtec leaned close, one hand on the bed-rail, and produced a sensor wand, watching the readout from the heavy-duty medband. "Chu-sa Hadeishi, your rib-cage is badly bruised, your lungs are half shriveled from lack of oxygen and low suit pressure, your leg muscles are badly strained and you've suffered a heavy dose of radiation poisoning."

He passed the wand over the Chu-sa's forehead. "Why don't you let yourself heal? In sixteen or seventeen hours, the worst of the damage will be repaired…"

Hadeishi moved his head aside. "There are crewmen who need your assistance, isha. My condition is sufficient for duty. I am needed on the bridge before more of my men are injured or killed."

The gui-ni regarded him levelly for a moment. "Both medical bays are full. I've men in trauma bags hanging in the hallway like cuts of meat and there are whole compartments from bulkhead sixteen back the damage control teams haven't managed to cut into yet. I need this medical bed, but you're the captain and that means you get priority treatment -"

"I disagree." Hadeishi pointed his chin at the restraints across his chest. "Release me and you'll have the bed back."

"Your condition -"

"Isha, I'm giving you an order," Hadeishi said, forcing his tongue to move. "I'll sit very still once I'm on the bridge."

The Mixtec grunted noncommittally. His face was dotted with tiny green flecks of drying woundgel. "Fleet executive authority does not extend to the medical branch, save in an advisory role, Chu-sa. You can't order me to do anything."

Hadeishi suppressed a ghoulish laugh. "Nor can you restrict my authority, save by rendering me unconscious. This argument is pointless – here, I do nothing but take up space and your time. On the bridge, I can improve matters for all of us."

"Perhaps." The Mixtec sighed and made a hand motion indicating the acceptance of fate.

The gui-ni called for one of his corpsmen and keyed the bed to detach itself from the captain. "The primary bridge is either destroyed or unreachable," the Mixtec said conversationally. "Hayes and Jaguar were processed through here about six hours ago. Command and control has shifted to the secondary. I believe Smith-tzin is now acting duty officer."

A corpsman kicked over and took hold of the railing on the edge of the bed. "Kyo?"

"The Chu-sa needs to get to secondary control. Make sure he doesn't overexert himself while you're moving him." The doctor nodded to Hadeishi. "This man will take you there."

The Chu-sa nodded, still very weak and was happy to lie still, head back, while they detached the various tubes and sensors connecting him to the medical bed. He tried to muster the strength to ask if senior lieutenant Patrick Hayes and ensign Three-Jaguar had been 'processed' alive, dead, or crippled, but failed. The effort of holding back tears, of showing the dignity proper to a Fleet officer, was enough to exhaust the tiny store of energy left to him.

So many ghosts cling to your soul, the air whispered. Like the ship herself, only a tattered hull, filled with indistinct voices. Do you hear them calling your name?

Hadeishi curled his arm around the corpsman's shoulders and let himself be removed from the bed.

Near the Train Station

The Streets of Parus

 

Mrs. Petrel limped to a halt, biting back an exhausted wheeze. Her thigh and hip stabbed with pain every time her foot came down on the broken concrete sidewalk. The three Imperials had come to the edge of a traffic circle where one of the grand avenues cutting through the tightly packed buildings intersected a spray of lesser streets. A jumbled pile of broken runner-carts had been pushed from the main road, making an impromptu barrier between a series of shops and one of the ancient trees lining the boulevard. There was broken glass and scattered dribs and drabs of cloth, plastic toys and sheets of charred pypil everywhere. Two of the shops were gutted, black holes in the face of the building.

"Ah now," Colmuir said quietly, coming up to her shoulder. "We've surely come the wrong way…"

The traffic circle ahead was crammed with vehicles – imported Imperial trucks; the flat, angular shapes of Jehanan troop carriers; even the hulking shape of an Aganu medium tank – and there were literally hundreds of native troops milling about. The rumbling engines filled the air with the stink of methanol and diesel. Most of the soldiers were squatting on the sidewalks, tails wrapped around their long feet, passing bottles and bhang-pipes from claw to claw. One of the troop carriers had its rear compartment open and four Jehanan mechanics were banging around in the engine, cursing and muttering at ancient machinery. Two short-horns pushed a cart past the soldiers, offering grilled spiced zizunaga on wooden tines. The clang of their advertising bell was nearly lost in the general murmur. None of the soldiers seemed interested.

"Do you see the building on the right?" Mrs. Petrel gasped, leaning her hands on her thighs. Oh my god, I hurt inside. I think I've ruptured something. "It's a hotel – a very expensive Jehanan hotel – where the kurbardar Humara makes his residence when he is in the city. There is a suite of rooms on the third floor…" She paused, coughed, hand over her mouth, listening with growing irritation to the smooth, self-satisfied voice chattering in her ear. "…which my husband and I once visited for a dinner party. The – uhhh! – commando who took the prince was wearing a regimental insignia from an elite battalion under Humara's command."

Colmuir grunted, looked askance at Dawd, who shrugged, just as worried as he. "So you think they've taken the lad in there? T' drag before the general and gain their honor for a braw captive?"

Mrs. Petrel nodded weakly and forced herself to stand up straight. The tree afforded her some support and her hands pressed against the crinkly bark with relief. "Humara will be ecstatic to have the prince in his claws. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't make the boy call on the Imperial troops on the planet to surrender."

"Ha!" Dawd smiled in grim amusement. "I'm sure Tlacateccatl Yacatolli will immediately send forth a noble envoy to the sound of drums, trumpets and whistles when he hears the news! He will have some choice words to say about such a turn of events… Doesn't Humara know the Mйxica don't believe in surrender, or in ransoming captives? The colonel is more likely to demand the boy be sacrificed, as was done in the old days!"

Colmuir nodded in agreement. "But we can't let the lad languish. He's our responsibility and he's no legal captive until the battle's doon." He pointed with the muzzle of his Macana. "There'd be a service way in from the back?"

Petrel peered at the front of the hotel, noting the garish, gilt-embossed balconies were now draped with blankets and reinforced by rows of sand-bags. Machine-gun barrels snouted from the lower windows. The main doors were wedged back, allowing entrance into the building, but again there was a redoubt of sand-bags draped with camouflage netting in the entryway. The carpets in those dining rooms will be ruined, she imagined. Very pretty they were.

Voices were whispering to her again, and Greta turned slightly to keep her earbug away from Dawd, who was staring at her in a puzzled way.

"There is a delivery entrance in the rear," she said, as if remembering. "But not directly behind the front doors of the hotel – it's offset behind that dun-colored building. There are – there will be – guards, but not so many as in front."

"Right," the master sergeant said, eyeing her with suspicion. He produced a slim little comp from a thigh pocket. The device made a creaky sound, but lit at his finger-press. Colmuir tabbed up a map of the city and popped through several views before finding the street intersection. Once he'd oriented himself, the Skawtsman peered around the corner and checked out the adjoining streets. Wisps of hazy smoke drifted among the buildings. To the right, a shop selling imported Imperial toys was still burning, spilling a cloud of dark gray ash out into the avenue. The sun had mounted past noon, but in the thick, polluted air down in the city, with the air reverberating with the distant bang and crash of explosions, the hour felt very late.

"Back a block," Colmuir announced, "and over one and we can get into that service access."

Dawd nodded, offering Mrs. Petrel a hand and then they crept back away from the barricade. As they moved, two of the spyeyes drifting above the woman darted off ahead, letting Lachlan's controllers spy their path for unseen foes.

A wide loading dock stood at the back of a particularly rundown-looking building. Three Jehanan soldiers with modern rifles slung forward at their hips stood in the shelter of an overhanging awning made of wooden slats. Coils of yellowish smoke drifted above their heads as they passed a bhang from claw to claw.

"That's the place…" Colmuir waited for the reptilian heads to turn and then signed for Dawd to leap-frog past him to a square-linteled doorway on the opposite side of the of the tiny lane. The younger Skawtsman dodged past, taking a long step over a pair of water-filled ruts worn into the cobblestones by the passage of generations of runner-carts. The master sergeant watched for any sign of alarm until Dawd was ensconced in the shadows of the doorway, automatic pistols in either hand.

"Now miss," Colmuir said, giving Petrel a worried look, "you're in no shape t' be invading the stronghold of the enemy today. You'd best stay in hiding out here somewhere. Do y' know -"

"I do." Mrs. Petrel nodded. Her face looked notably pinched and she stood only by dint of leaning into a sooty brick wall. She motioned back down the alley. "Just off that last turn is a very nice little bed and breakfast on the Court of Yellow Flagstones. The owners are friendly towards humans." She laughed bitterly. "If their avant-garde politics have not gotten them murdered, I will be safe there."

The elder Skawtsman nodded slowly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. "Well, then. We'll be about rescuing the prince – again! – from the heathens." He paused, watching her right leg, which was trembling under her tattered, dirty festival skirts. "But we could go with you…"

"I will be fine, Master Sergeant." Mrs. Petrel drew herself up and wiped her hands on the bottom of her mantle. "The hotel has a small sign – three Nem flowers in a triangle. I will wait for you there." She essayed a brave smile. The Eagle Knight nodded, dubious about abandoning her on the streets of the war-torn city and equally anxious to burst in amongst his enemies and recover the person of his lord from captivity. "Go on now, time may be wasting…"

"Aye," he said, unmoving, "it might. But we should -"

"Go on," Mrs. Petrel waved an imperious hand at him, starting to feel rather faint from standing unsupported. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode off down the alleyway. Colmuir cursed, started to follow and then heard Dawd whistle softly behind him.

Turning, the master sergeant saw the other Eagle Knight sign the way is clear.

Hooting among themselves, the guards had finished their smoke and gone back inside.

"Ah, that tears it," he mumbled to himself and checked the ammunition level on his assault rifle. Colmuir signed for Dawd to advance and then ducked around the corner himself.

Finally!

Petrel watched the two Eagle Knights glide up to the loading dock, weapons at the ready, and breathed a sigh of relief. She tapped her medband awake again and sighed with relief at the cool touch of painkillers flooding into her system. Her injured leg was throbbing with each beat of her heart.

"I'm clear," she muttered, checking to make sure her earbug was firmly planted. The replacement unit didn't have the same fit and finish as her usual one. "Where to now?"

Excellent. The chittering voice of the old NГЎhuatl woman sounded like a cricket had crawled into her hair. Back to the main street, but right instead of left. You'll meet an old friend within fifteen minutes – he's bringing your poetess – and some others of use…

"Bhazuradeha is here?" Petrel frowned, limping quickly along the alley. She found the emptiness of the streets unsettling – Parus was so densely populated even these back lanes were usually the scene of constant traffic and commerce – and her shoulders twitched with the sensation of being watched by hundreds of hostile eyes. "I thought you didn't approve of her!"

I've thought upon the matter, Itzpalicue said in a very smug voice. She could be of great use to us, if properly handled.

Petrel snorted. "You think everything and everyone is of use, if properly handled. Can your little friends find me a gun? I feel naked out here without my Webley."

The old NГЎhuatl woman chuckled. Gehr Shahr can provide you with whatever kind of weapon you desire, as soon as you find him. He has an extensive collection to claw.

Mrs. Petrel winced, feeling a trickle of fear at the back of her throat. "Gehr Shahr is a murderous thug, a notorious villain and entirely untrustworthy. What is he doing here?"

Nonsense, Itzpalicue said, sounding self-satisfied. He is a gentleman of impeccable honor, as long as the benefits of my employment outweigh his natural inclination to steal or burn everything he sees. He and his cousins have been of great use in the last several days, so you must treat him politely…

"His cousins?" Mrs. Petrel started to feel faint despite the drugs and cleaning agents coursing through her bloodstream. "Just how many Arach slavers did you bring into the city?"

Only a few hundred, the old woman said in an offhand way, just enough for all the murdering and thieving I needed done. It is always a joy to employ craftsmen.

"Oh, Holy Mother of Tepeyac," Petrel moaned, limping out onto the street leading towards the court of Yellow Flagstones. "Hundreds of Arachosians are loose in the city? They'll – oh, hello!"

Greta stumbled to a halt, astonished to find herself face to face with the looming black shape of the Hesht female she'd glimpsed at the train station. A pasty-faced human lolled on her shoulder, grimy hands clutching the furred neck of the alien woman. Seeing them again nudged a memory loose and suddenly she realized the two refugees were, by a quirk of fate, her direct responsibility. Oh damn.

"Hrrr!" Magdalena growled in warning, long hands swinging up a length of saw-edged lohaja.

"Peace!" Mrs. Petrel exclaimed, drawing back. "I've no quarrel with you, Heshak."

"I remember your smell…" the Hesht's voice trailed off into an exhausted hiss. "You were on the train." Sleek black eyebrows rose sharply and her fists tightened on the crude spear. "This stinking male needs a bone-setter and right away, or he will die. Is there a hospital or a doctor who understands the arrangement of human organs?"

"I…don't know. Not near here…" Mrs. Petrel eyed the length of razor-sharp wood with trepidation. And me without so much as a knife in my girdle! She frowned, a buzzing rising and falling in her hair. "Wait, I am searching for some friends – I'm sure they are nearby – come with me and we'll find help for your companion."

Itzpalicue cackled in her ear. Yes, I'm sure Gher Shahr will take good care of some stray civilians…

"This way," Mrs. Petrel said, hurrying past the Hesht and her deathly burden. "Not far, only a few blocks…" Under her voice, she muttered fiercely. "We're not going to dispose of these people – they're Imperial citizens and Company employees! I know their oyabun. Send me a doctor as quickly as you can."

Dawd set his back to a wall covered with posters of dainty Jehanan females hiding behind their tails and tucked one pistol under his wounded arm for safe-keeping. The hallway was rather dark, lit only by lamplight streaming from beneath a half-closed door. He groped in his thigh pockets and found, by touch, a pair of screw-on silencers. Only a few feet away, the master sergeant had already mounted a flash-suppressor on his assault rifle. Colmuir was taking the quiet moment to count his ammunition coils and remaining munitions.

"I've four grenades left," he said. "Do you want two?"

Dawd shook his head, the second silencer clicking into place. "I'll do the quiet work," he said, settling both pistols in his gloves. "And I'll lead. You've the longer reach."

Colmuir nodded. He started thumbing grenades into the launcher on his Macana. "Arm holding up?"

"It'll do." Dawd checked the set of his combat visor, tapped his earbug experimentally – he'd been getting some kind of interference out in the street – and sidled quietly up to the doorway. His breathing slowed appreciably with each step.

The three Jehanan soldiers from the loading dock had joined two of their friends around a low table. All of the slicks were kitted out in Vendanian uniforms; soft, campaign-style caps; leather harness for their ammunition, tools and personal effects; olive-colored baldrics front and back with heraldic symbols representing their brigade and lord. In comparison to the softness of the hand-made fittings, the gleaming metal HK-45B assault rifles seemed out of place.

Dawd nudged the door wide with his foot and stepped back a pace. Both automatics rose, bucked sharply in his hands as he fired, making a hissing ptttht! Two of the Jehanan jerked, the sound of bullets puncturing scale sounding like a broken plate hitting a tiled floor. The other three slicks sprang to their feet. Blood dusted the far wall. Dawd shifted slightly, shot two more as they clawed for their guns and then ducked into the room, sliding to his left.

The last Jehanan has his assault rifle swinging up, an outraged hoooo! bursting from his throat, when Colmuir – his line of fire clear – shot him in the throat with the Macana. The flechette burst inside the slick's cranium, shredding muscles, spinal cord and brain alike. There was a choked, gurgling sound mixed with a whine of spinning metal and the Jehanan soldier toppled over.

Colmuir signed for Dawd to check the far door as he advanced, checking each body for signs of life. The younger Skawtsman drifted to the exit, slid a spyeye thread through the door and signed all-clear. Moving quietly, they slid out into a darkened kitchen. Colmuir's backup comp was flickering, showing an intermittent signature from the prince's skinsuit.

Five minutes later, on the third floor, Dawd darted out of the landing at the head of the servant's stairs, caught sight of two Jehanan officers in the hallway, long heads together in conversation and charged towards them. The passage was high ceilinged and filled with painted wooden panels depicting great feats of Parusian arms – most by brawny slicks wielding axes and swords of enormous size. The Skawtsman's boots raced across deep, plush carpet. A tall pair of double-doors stood closed behind the two natives.

Hissing in irritation, the taller of the two officers turned away sharply and immediately saw Dawd loping towards him, automatics raised. A wild hoooo! leapt from his scaled throat and he snatched for his own sidearm. Dawd dodged to one side and fired his lefthand Nambu twice. The other officer, still unawares, spun around, chest and face smashed by the bullets. Gargling, he fell in a cloud of blood.

A dozen paces behind, Colmuir calmly shot the alerted officer twice in the chest, the impact throwing the Jehanan back into the doorway with a crash. Dawd grimaced, stepped over the twitching body and tried the locking wheel.

"Shut tight," he whispered. The Jehanan under his feet groaned, trying to rise. The Eagle Knight knelt, jamming his knee into the slick's throat. The master sergeant drifted up, Macana swinging back to cover the hallway. Dawd fumbled in the remains of his gunrig. "Damn – I've lost my cutting gel."

"I've some," Colmuir said, slinging his assault rifle to clear both hands. "Cover my back."

Dawd made sure the wounded Jehanan wouldn't be getting up and stood aside while the master sergeant drew a box around the locking wheel with a tube of demolition paste. Colmuir mashed a lighter tab into the orange goo, and flattened against the wall, head turned away.

The paste ignited with a sharp bang and the locking wheel crashed to the floor. Dawd tensed, the master sergeant paused a heartbeat, hearing a chorus of alarmed warbling from inside and popped one of the grenades out of his launcher. A twist of the arming ring switched the little bomb from highex to flash mode.

For a second, nothing happened. The hallway was empty, the room was silent – save for the harsh breathing of many lizardy throats – and neither man moved.

Dawd crouched down, automatics on the floor. Colmuir set the flash grenade in his hand to the shortest possible fusing.

Inside the room, a human voice bleated "Get off of – mmrph!"

The master sergeant flipped the grenade through the smoking hole. There was an immediate roar of automatic rifle fire. The doors shredded and bullets whined down the long hallway, smashing lamps, paintings and chewing up the wall at the far end.