Quang’s number four attack squad had a good position between two huge earth-movers, but there were no more targets in their field of fire. It was time to go, and they began to filter back in pairs, each halting in turn to provide covering fire for their fellows. It was a textbook maneuver.
As the first pair reached the ends of their shielding earth-movers, a pair of bioenhanced hands reached out from either side. Fingers ten times stronger than their own closed, and two tracheas crushed. The twitching bodies were tossed aside, and the crouching ambushers waited patiently for their next victims.
Quang popped his head up and saw the grav gun lying two meters beyond the door. Now! He clutched his assault rifle and rose, waving his surviving men forward, and followed up the ramp in their wake.
A last attacker crouched on the scaffolding. He’d seen what happened when his fellows exposed themselves, and he poked just the muzzle of his rifle over the edge. It was a sound idea, but in his excitement he rose just too high. The crown of his head showed, and Gerald Hatcher put a pistol bullet through it in the instant before the automatic fire shattered both his legs.
Litanil swung her power bore again and knew they were winning.
The attackers had achieved the surprise they sought, but they hadn’t realized what they were attacking. Most of the site personnel were unenhanced Terra-born, but a significant percentage were not, and those who were enhanced had full Fleet packages, modified at Colin MacIntyre’s order to incorporate fold-space coms. They might be unarmed, but they were strong, tough, fast, and in unbroken communication.
And, as Litanil herself had proved, a construction site abounded in improvisational weapons.
Tsien Tao-ling was no longer a field marshal. He was a warrior alone and betrayed, and Quang was still out there. Whatever happened, Quang must not be allowed to live.
Tsien tossed aside his empty pistol, his mind cold and clear, and rose on his hands and toes, like a runner in the blocks.
General Quang blinked as Tsien exploded from the control room. He would never have believed the huge man could move that quickly! But what did he hope to gain? He could not outrun bullets!
Then he saw Tsien drop and snatch up the grav gun as he rolled towards the scaffolding.
Assault rifles barked, but the men behind them had been as surprised as Quang. They were late, and they tried to compensate by leading their target. They would catch him as he rolled over the edge of the scaffolding into cover.
Tsien threw out one leg, grunting as a kneecap shattered on concrete, but it had the desired effect. He stopped dead, clutching Germaine’s grav gun, and the bullets which should have killed him went wide. He raised the muzzle, not trying to rise from where he lay.
Quang screamed in frustration as Tsien opened fire. Three of his remaining men were down. Then four. Five! He raised his own weapon, firing at the marshal, but fury betrayed his aim.
Tsien grunted again as a slug ripped through his right biceps. A second shattered his shoulder, but he held down the grav gun’s trigger, and his fire swept the ramp like a broom.
Quang’s last trooper was down, and sudden terror filled him. He threw away his rifle and tried to drop down the ramp, but he was too late. His last memory on Earth was the cold, bitter hatred in Tsien Tao-ling’s pitiless eyes.
Gerald Hatcher groaned, then bit his lip against a scream as someone moved his left leg. He shuddered and managed to raise his eyelids, wondering for a moment why he felt so weak, why there was so much pain.
Tao-ling bent over him, and he bit off most of another scream as the marshal tightened something on his right leg. A tourniquet, Hatcher realized dizzily … and then he remembered.
His expression twisted with more than pain as he saw Allen Germaine’s dead face close beside him, but his mind was working once more. Poorly, slowly, with frustrating dark patches, but working. The firing seemed to have stopped, and if there was no more shooting and Tao-ling was working on him, they must have won, mustn’t they? He was rather pleased by his ability to work that out.
Tsien crawled up beside him. One shoulder was swollen by a makeshift, blood-soaked bandage, and his left leg dragged uselessly, but his good hand clutched Allen’s grav gun as he lowered himself between Hatcher and the door with a groan.
“T-Tao-ling?” the general managed.
“You are awake?” Tsien’s voice was hoarse with pain. “You have the constitution of a bull, Gerald.”
“Th-thanks. What … what kind of shape are we … ?”
“I believe we have beaten off the attack. I do not know how. I am afraid you are badly hurt, my friend.”
“I’ll … live…”
“Yes, I think you will,” Tsien said so judiciously Hatcher grinned tightly despite his agony. His brain was fluttering and it would be a relief to give in, but there was something he had to say first. Ah!
“Tao-ling—”
“Be quiet, Gerald,” the marshal said austerely. “You are wounded.”
“You’re … not? Looks like … I get my … implants first.”
“Americans! Always you must be first.”
“T-Tell Horus I said … you take over…”
“I?” Tsien looked at him, his face as twisted with shame as pain. “It was my people who did this thing!”
“H-Horse shit. But that’s … why it’s important … you take over. Tell Horus!” Hatcher squeezed his friend’s forearm with all his fading strength. It was Tsien’s right arm, but he did not even wince.
“Tell him!” Hatcher commanded, clinging to awareness through the shrieking pain.
“Very well, Gerald,” Tsien said gently. “I will.”
“Good man,” Hatcher whispered, and let go at last.
