round of double canister preceded a bayonet charge by the two companies of’Cats and men. The fighting in the rubble of the entrance, and then through the corridors of the building, had been savage but ultimately futile for the defenders. Some surrendered-rebels and Company men for the most part-and were dragged roughly into the street where Chack and his Marines had been pinned down.
“What shall we do with them?” Jindal had asked, still breathless after the fight. Chack saw the cobbler and his sons coming from the door he’d entered earlier. More “rooftop militia” appeared as well, from other doors and buildings.
“We can’t take them with us,” Chack said. “You, sir,” he addressed the cobbler. “We must move on. We have wounded, and perhaps twenty prisoners here. Can we leave them with you?”
“Aye,” said the cobbler. ‘We’ll do whatever we can for your wounded.” He’d looked hard at the prisoners, some he likely knew. “We’ll take care of them as well.”
That was almost two hours ago, and Chack and Jindal had finally linked up with the Marines who’d taken the port facilities. Most of those had moved east and southeast toward the still-unconquered fort. Its guns had finally fallen silent, but it hadn’t surrendered. Apparently, Blair was moving north, going for the bastion, but much was still confused. Many enemy troops were still encountered in what had to be Blair’s rear, and clumps of Marines were swept along as Chack and Jindal advanced.
“Jindal’s on the move!” came a cry from above. Chack had sent a few Marines to augment the rooftop militia and help form a verbal semaphore system.
“All right, take your positions,” Chack ordered. As often as not, when one element moved forward, enemy troops ran out in front of the other, trying to flank the first, or just get out of the way. Chack never knew what their intent was, and didn’t care. The idea of receiving or giving quarter still struck him as odd. Sure enough, dark forms appeared in the flame-lit streets, scurrying around a corner and heading in their direction.
“Make ready!” Blas-Ma-Ar cried beside him. The growing gaggle of Doms tried to slow their advance, suddenly aware of their mistake.
“Fire!” Chack yelled. The booming volley echoed down the rubble- strewn avenue and men fell, or clutched themselves, screaming. Others bored in. In the flashes, Chack saw the uniforms of these men and recognized them as “Blood Drinkers,” the elite, special force of the Dom Army, commanded by their “Blood Cardinals” and sworn to their twisted “pope.” They wouldn’t ask for quarter. “Bayonets!” Chack yelled. “At them!” He lunged forward himself, his old Krag lowered. His hatred for the “Blood Drinkers” rivaled his hatred for the Grik. Even badly outnumbered, this group of Doms sold hack yell lives dearly, but none were left for Chack to kill when he reached the melee.
Blas grabbed him from behind. “Quit that!” she seethed forcefully. “You get killed, who’ll take over here? Not me! Our guys would be okay, but you think these Im-pees do what I say?” She snorted. “Not god-daamn likely! I’m just a dame to them, a forrin ‘ape’ dame to some! We still win this fight if you’re dead?”
Chack almost laughed at the little female shaking him by the arm-then remembered a time when she’d been shaking, under entirely different circumstances. She’d been through a lot and come a long way. And she was right. Suddenly, as often happened in the midst of battle, he thought of his love, Safir Maraan, impossibly distant. She wouldn’t be holding him back; he’d be trying to restrain her -but that was what kept them balanced. She’d been born to this, but he’d come to it late and without her influence, or more properly his need to influence her, he chased it like an addict. He suddenly missed her so intensely, he felt almost ill.
“I… will try to refrain from impulsive acts, in future, that might leave you with the burden of command,” he said.
“Daamn well better,” Blas muttered, blinking rapidly as she released him and turned away.
“Females,” Chack grunted. “All right,” he said, raising his voice. “Wounded to the rear. The rest of you, let’s move up to that next street crossing. Major Jindal may be about to give us more business; I hear firing from his direction!”
“That’s not Jindal!” came the voice of a Marine on a rooftop. “That’s one o’ yer bloody flyin’ machines! There’s a dragon latched onto it, an’ it’s comin’ down! Somebody’s shootin’ one o’ them fast shooters at it!”
Almost at that instant, the plane staggered overhead, aiming for a bayside park a few blocks over. A grotesque, winged shape was plummeting away from it, but another was underneath, clutching its tail.
“Continue the push,” Chack said. “I’ll rejoin you shortly. If any still live when that craft comes to rest, I must hear their news and observations at once! Anyone who questions Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar’s orders will regret it! Half a dozen volunteers, with me!” He looked at Blas, and his eyes and tail flashed irony, confidence, and fondness simultaneously in the pulsing lights of the citywide battle. In an instant, he raced off in the direction the “Nancy” disappeared, followed by a mixed group.
“Hold up!” cried a ’Cat in the “point” position of the squad, flinging himself against a plastered corner as white, dusty chunks erupted around him. He slammed back against the wall as several more musket balls whizzed past. “A dozen-red on coat fronts; more ‘bloody boys,’ work their way to plane!” he said.
“Did you see it?”
“Ay, te plane busted up, one wing tore off-hit tree, I tink. Lizard bird still ’live, but busted up too!”
“Did all the Doms fire?” Chack demanded.
“Ah,” the point ’Cat blinked furiously. “Ay, most.”
“Then at them!” Chack yelled.
Not all the Doms had fired, and one of the two Imperials in Chack’s squad went down as they rushed the “Blood Drinkers” with the disconcerting Lemurian battle shriek Pete Alden had once compared to a “Rebel yell.” Almost on top of the frantically reloading Doms, they all planed their feet and fired directly into them, then leaped forward with their bayonets. The elite troops almost never surrendered, but these never even had a chance to decide. All were killed while either still doggedly reloading, or reaching for bayonets. Chack twisted his Krag and dragged his own sixteen-inch steel from the chest of a writhing man and snapped his gaze toward the wrecked plane, when a mournful, hissing wail caught his attention. The lizard bird had been flung against some other trees beside a nearby circle of benches in this apparent “park” area, and it was quickly stumping back toward the smoking wreckage, dragging a shattered wing and leg. It used its other folded wing like a foreleg, though, and its progress was surprisingly swift. In an instant, it was be- tween them and the broken “Nancy,” its jaws agape, protecting its “prize.”
This was Chack’s and his squad’s first real look at one of the things, and it did look shockingly like a big Grik, with thicker, oddly colored plumage-and, of course, wings instead of arms. Chack’s squad was furiously loading its muskets, and the thing, seemingly convinced they didn’t mean to challenge it, turned its attention back to the plane. Chack opened the bolt of his Krag enough to ensure there was a round in the chamber, and raised it to his shoulder. Just as the beast peered into the rear opening in the fuselage, where the observer sat, a rapid burst of yellow- orange flashes tat-tat-tat ted from within, and the “flying Grik” collapsed backward, flailing and flopping with a spastic energy that only lifeless creatures seemed capable of. Chack lowered the Krag and sprinted for the plane. “Two with me!” he shouted. “The rest of you, keep a careful watch! Others will have seen the crash!”
Reaching the warped, wingless wreckage, he saw a practically shaven head, followed by a pair of massive shoulders, a Thomson SMG, and then mighty arms pried themselves through the relatively small oval opening like a brontasarry emerging from an improbably tiny egg. The head swiveled, exposing a blond beard and black eye patch. A good eye focused on Chack, and the brow above it arched.
“Goddamn snakey-bird bastards!” Dennis Silva grumbled. “ This ain’t my fault!”
“Dennis!” Chack was utterly stunned. He’d heard of Silva’s recent exploits, but the last time he’d seen his friend was before the “Second Allied Expeditionary Force” left to secure Aryaal and B’mbaado, and finally invaded Singapore. That force was now collectively referred to as “First Fleet,” and so much had happened since…
“It’s me in the battered flesh, Chackie! Are you gonna stand there starin’ and chewin’ yer cud, or help me outta this junk heap before I have a hydrophobic fit?”
Except for a few ugly cuts, Silva emerged relatively unharmed. Quickly, they practically tore the plane off Lieutenant Reddy. The man was unconscious but alive, and they carried him to a group of trees and laid him on the grass. Lawrence was banged up, but not too badly. They’d found him in the nose of the plane, under its pilot, where he’d tumbled during the crash. He limped a little from smashing the control stick and rudder pedals with his hip, but he quickly busied himself removing their weapons from the wreckage.
“What about the wireless set?” Silva demanded loudly, checking Orrin’s pulse.
“It’s ’usted,” Lawrence cried back, his voice muffled. “You ’recked it’ith your idiot ass!” Despite his aches,
