Mutineer's Moon

“You have to understand that their enclave is like feeding time in a snake house. The difference between them and what I’ve seen here—well, it’s like the difference between night and day. If I were in the position of any of their leaders, I’d be looking over my shoulder every second, waiting for the axe to fall. Mix a little guilt with that kind of long-term, gnawing anxiety, and you could just have a man who wants out, any way he can get out.

“I certainly can’t guarantee any of that. It’s possible we’ll walk right into a trap, and if we do, it’s my evaluation that is taking us into it. But if they let us through the access point at all, we’ll be inside their shield, and Captain MacIntyre has accepted my offer to personally carry one of your one-megaton nuclear demolition charges.”

He met their eyes, his own stubborn and determined in the silence.

“I can’t guarantee it isn’t a trap,” he said very, very quietly, “but I can and will guarantee that that enclave will be taken out.”

General Gerald Hatcher opened his office door in the underground command post and stopped dead. He shot a quick glance back at the outer office, but none of the officers and noncoms bent over their desks had looked up as if they expected to see his surprise.

He inhaled through his nostrils and stepped through the door, closing it carefully behind him before he walked to his own desk. He’d never seen the twenty-five-centimeter-long rectangular case that lay on his blotter, and he examined it closely before he touched it. It was unlikely anyone could have smuggled a bomb or some similar nastiness into his office. On the other hand, it should have been equally difficult to smuggle anything into it.

He’d never seen anything quite like it, and he began to question his first impression that it was made of plastic. Its glossy, bronze-colored material had a metallic sheen, reflecting the light from the improbable, three- headed creature that crowned it like a crest, and he sank tensely into his chair as the implications of the starburst between the dragon’s forepaws registered. He reached out and touched the case cautiously, smiling in wry self- mockery at his own tentativeness.

Metal, he decided, running a fingertip over it, though he suspected it was an alloy he’d never encountered. And there was a small, raised stud on the side. He drew a deep breath and pressed it, then relaxed and exhaled softly as the case’s upper edge sprang up with a quiet click.

He lifted the lid cautiously, laying it back to lie flat on the desk, and studied the interior. There was a small, lift-up panel in what had been the bottom and three buttons to one side of it. He wondered what he was supposed to do next, then grinned as he saw the neatly-typed label gummed over one button. “Press,” it said, and its prosaic incongruity tickled his sense of humor. He shrugged and obeyed, then snatched his hand back as a human figure took instant shape above the case.

Somehow, Hatcher wasn’t a bit surprised to see Hector MacMahan. The colonel wore Marine battledress and body armor, and a peculiar—looking, stubby weapon with a drum magazine hung from his right shoulder. He was no more than twenty centimeters tall, but his grin was perfectly recognizable.

“Good evening, General,” Hector’s voice said in time to the moving lips of the image. “I realize this is a bit unusual, but we had to let someone know what was happening, and you’re one of the few people I trust implicitly.

“First, let me apologize for my disappearance. You told me to make myself scarce—” another tight grin crossed his leprechaun-sized face while Hatcher stared at him in fascination “—so I did. I’m aware I made myself a bit scarcer than you had in mind, but I’m certain you understand why. I hope to apologize and explain everything in person in the near future, but that may not be possible, which is the reason for this message.

“Now, about what’s been happening in the last few weeks. For the moment, just understand that there are two separate factions of … well, call them extra-terrestrials, although that’s not exactly the best term for them. At any rate, there are two sides, and they’ve been fighting one another clandestinely for a very, very long time. Now the fighting’s come out into the open and, with any luck, it will come to an end very soon.

“Obviously, I’m a supporter of one side. I apologize for having used you and your resources as we did, but it was necessary. So”—Hector’s face turned suddenly grim—”were all the casualties. Please believe that you cannot regret those deaths any more than we do and that we did our best to keep them as low as possible. Unfortunately, our adversaries don’t share our own concern for human life.

“This message is to tell you that we’re about to kick off an operation that we hope and believe will prove decisive. I realize your own reports—particularly those from New York—may’ve led you to conclude we’re losing. Hopefully, our opponents have reached the same conclusion. If they have, and if our intelligence is correct, they’re about to become our late opponents.

“Unfortunately, a lot of us are also going to die. I know how you hate terms like ‘acceptable casualties,’ Ger, but this time we really don’t have a choice. If every one of us is killed, it’ll still be worth it as long as we take them out, too. But in the process, there may be quite a ruckus in points south, and I’m sorry to say we really aren’t positive how thoroughly their people may have infiltrated Terran governments or even your own command. I think USFC is clean, and you’ll find a computer disk in the bottom of this case. I ask you to run it only on your own terminal and not to dump it to the main system, because it contains the names and ranks of eight hundred field grade and general officers in your own and other military forces in whom you may place total confidence.

“The point is that when we attack, your own bad guys may go ape on you. I have no idea what they’ll do if they realize their lords and masters have been taken out and, frankly, we don’t have the numbers or the organization to deal with all the things they may do. You, working with our allies on the disk, do. We ask you to stand by to do whatever you can to control the situation and prevent any more loss of life and destruction than can possibly be avoided.

“Watch your communications. You’ll find instructions on the disk for reaching the others via a commo net I’m almost certain is secure. Until you’ve talked to them, don’t use normal channels. Above all, don’t talk to any civilians until your plans are in place.

“Our attack will kick off approximately eighteen hours from the time you get this. I know it’s not much time, but it’s the best I can do. When you talk to the others on the disk, don’t mention the attack. To succeed, we need total surprise, and they already know what’s coming down. They’ll be waiting to discuss ‘general contingency plans’ with you.

“I’m sorry to dump this on you, Ger, but you’re a good man. If I don’t make it back, it’s been an honor to serve under you. Give my love to Sharon and the kids, and take care of yourself. Good luck, Ger.”

The tiny Hector MacMahan vanished, and General Gerald Hatcher sat staring at the flat, open case. He never knew exactly how long he sat there, but at last he reached out to press the button again and replay the message. Then he stopped himself. In the wake of that message, every moment was precious.

He lifted the panel and took out the computer disk, then swiveled his chair and switched on his terminal.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Nergal’s hangar deck was crowded once more. The Imperials stood out from their allies in the soot-black gleam of combat armor, limbs swollen and massive with jump gear and servo-mech “muscles.” They were festooned with weapons, and their faces were grim in their opened helmets.

The far more numerous Terra-born wore either the close-fitted blackness of Imperial commando smocks or the battledress of a score of nations. There were only so many smocks, and the people who wore them wore no body armor, for they were better protection than any Terran armor. The other Terra-born wore the best body protection Earth could provide—pathetic against Imperial weapons, but the best they could do. And there were still many Terra-born inside the enclave; it was highly probable they would face Terran weapons, as well.

Their own weapons were as mixed as their uniforms. Cut-down grav guns hung from as many shoulders as possible, while the very strongest carried lightweight energy guns, like the one Tamman had used in Tehran and La Paz, and a few teams carried ten-millimeter grav guns mounted on anti-grav generators as crew-served weapons. Most, however, carried Terran weapons. There were quite a few battle rifles (and the proliferation and