the hijacked train. Rebo knew all of that, and knew he would eventually have to deal with it, but not for a few minutes yet. Because right then, as if burned onto his retinas by the force of the blast, he was still staring at the image of the scout, the fl?are, and the nameless boy’s fi?nal salute.
The city of Shimmer
The council of mayors had been reconvened, and at Norr’s request, was about to hear from a very distinguished guest. Ever since Norr brought a message through from Mayor Pontho’s disembodied aunt, the politician had been very deferential toward the sensitive. And now, as the other variant entered a trance, the phib looked on with an expression of awe as Norr’s chin touched her chest and a deeper voice was heard. “Greetings,” the disincarnate said, as the sensitive’s head came up. “My name is Lysander, Milos Lysander, but like the rest of you I have been known by other names as well. Once, during a lifetime as a man called Hios, I brought your people to Zeen, helped them establish their great underwater cities, and gave them the gift of tides.
“Back in those days we worked together to create the planet’s infrastructure, which had it not been for my many errors, would probably be intact today. But I was foolish, very foolish, and hope to make things right. Thanks to you, and your support, that process is already under way. In fact my spirit allies tell me that your commandos were successful, the ironclads were destroyed, and even as I speak your warriors are battling their way back to safety. That will be diffi?cult, however, since Lord Arbuk’s wings will attack them along the way, and ground troops will be sent against them as well.”
There was muttering, as all of the mayors tried to speak at once, and Pontho called for silence. Norr’s head nodded jerkily. “Yes,” Lysander said, “I understand your concern.
Fortunately, there is something we can do to help! But, by taking action, we will reveal the full extent of our powers and thereby elicit what is sure to be a desperate response.”
The politicians listened intently as Lysander outlined his plan. And when asked, Sogol, who had been silent up until then, agreed that the scheme was theoretically possible. Although the AI went on to point out that not only would the timing would be iffy, but the results would be unpredictable and possibly dangerous to the very people they were trying to save.
Then, having heard from a dead man and an artifi?cial intelligence, the politicians did what they were best at, which was to talk, and talk, and talk some more. Until Pontho became frustrated, insisted on a vote, and fi?nally got one. The plan was approved. But could the scheme be implemented quickly enough to save Rebo and his commandos? The clock was ticking.
FOURTEEN
Near the village of Prost, on the Planet Zeen
—Artifi?cial Intelligence Borlon 4,
Once clear of Prost, the track followed the Otera river valley west. Thanks to the gun at the engineer’s head, plus the fi?reman’s frantic efforts to feed the hungry boiler, the locomotive was traveling at full speed by then. Thick black smoke poured out of the stack, the engine made a steady chugging sound, and the wheels clacked rhythmically as they passed over evenly spaced expansion joints. But Rebo took little pleasure in the train’s speed. He stood on the narrow walkway that ran along the side of the locomotive’s boiler and eyed the track ahead. Since Arbuk’s troops knew where the engine had to go, they would move to block it. The original plan, which involved a return trip down the Otero River, incorporated the same fl?aw—although the water route might have offered more protection from the wings. Had he been wrong to abandon the fi?rst plan? Would a real military offi?cer have chosen a third course? Rebo feared the answer might be yes.
Space was at a premium. Commandos clung to both sides of the locomotive, squatted on top of the cab just behind the stack, and were crammed into the coal car as well. Most of the smoke passed over their heads but not all of it.
“There they are!” one of the phibs exclaimed, and pointed to the west. Rebo looked, saw the formation of dots, and knew they were wings. The runner faced two choices. He could order the engineer to stop the train, pull his troops together, and respond to the coming attack with massed fire. That technique would probably be effective against the winged variants but would give Arbuk plenty of time in which to bring ground troops against the stationary train. The other possibility was to keep going, accept some causalities, and hope to break through whatever obstructions lay ahead. Finally, for better or worse, the runner chose the second option. The commandos on the roof were attempting to engage the winged variants at extreme range by then but with little success. Rebo turned to one of the noncoms. “Put your best marksmen where they can fi?re on the wings—but tell them to hold off until the bastards come in closer. There’s going to be a hellacious battle within the next couple of hours, and we’re going to need every power pack we have. . . . Tell everyone else to safe their weapons and seek any cover they can fi?nd.”
The phib said, “Yes, sir,” and began to work his way back to the cab. It wasn’t long before some of the commandos came down off the roof while those with a reputation for marksmanship went up to replace them. Then, just as the train passed through the point where the valley narrowed, the airborne warriors attacked. And, thanks to the fact that they had been practicing such maneuvers for years, some of their shots went home.
One of the phibs who was hugging the side of the locomotive looked surprised, let go of the handrail, and fell away from the train. A marksman jerked as a bullet struck his chest. He released his weapon, and toppled back into the coal car, where a commando called for help. A medic stood, lost the top of his head, and collapsed in a heap. The commandos were quick to return fi?re, and a cheer went up as one of the wings spiraled out of the sky, but the phibs were going to take more casualties. Not only that, but Rebo was pretty sure that something worse lay ahead.
Lord Arbuk was angry. Very angry. Which was why he didn’t want to simply stop the phib raiders, he wanted to crush them, even if that meant destroying a valuable locomotive in the process. That was why no less than six cometfi?ring artillery tubes and a thousand troops lay in wait as the train rolled down out of the low-lying foothills and was momentarily lost from sight as it passed through a dip in the terrain.
A platform, complete with awning had been established on a likely-looking rise, and that was where Arbuk, Tepho, and two dozen government offi?cials were waiting to view what promised to be a magnifi?cent slaughter. In the meantime, there was music, refreshments, and an absolute orgy of posturing as the colorfully clad functionaries attempted to outdo one another.
And it was during that period that Tepho slipped away to inspect the high-tech mortar tubes. Since a
