March Upcountry

There were four of the weapons at ground level: one in each bastion, and two mounted in armored suits in the keep. Some of the natives had begun poking spears into the firing slits before Pahner gave the word, but a few blasts from bead rifles had cleared the Kranolta away. Now all four plasma gunners thrust the muzzles of their weapons outward, a moment after the “special actions” cartridges had scythed across the bailey, and filled the courtyard with actinic silver fury.

The charges from the cannon were five times as powerful as those from mere plasma rifles, and the volcanic impact of four of them within the confined space of the bailey flashed all of the remaining vegetation into flame and cooked every Kranolta inside the gates.

The remaining plasma cannon on the wall level opened up simultaneously. Their blasts of silver fire were less intense and concentrated than in the confined space of the bailey, but that made them no less effective. They turned the Kranolta attacking the bastions into charred stumps and flaming torches. The hydrophilic Mardukans were particularly susceptible to burns, and the silver death of the plasma cannon was pure horror to them as it swept the top of the wall.

The handful who survived threw themselves shrieking from the wall’s height, accepting broken bones or death itself—anything —to escape that ravening, hideous furnace.

Pahner stepped back up to the spear slit and looked out over the area in front of the citadel. The true horror within the bailey and atop the walls had been invisible to most of the enemy outside the fortress, and its impact had been lost on them, for all their attention was concentrated on gaining entry themselves. As he’d expected, the horde continued to push forward into the citadel, although with slightly less haste.

“Check fire,” he said calmly, face and voice leached of all expression as he gazed down upon the unspeakable carnage.

No need to rout them. Not yet.

“Pull back, you old fool!” Puvin Eske shouted. “Now will you believe us? This is the death of the clan!”

“Great rewards require great sacrifice,” the clan leader said. “Do you think we took this town before without loss?”

“No,” the chieftain snapped. “We obviously lost everyone with any sense! I’m taking the rest of my people to the camp. We will prepare to try to hold off the humans when they come forth to take our horns. And may the forest demons eat your soul!”

“You shall be cast out of the clan,” the elder said calmly. “Coward. We shall deal with you after the victory.”

“Go into that hell yourself, coward,” the younger Mardukan hissed. “Then come tell me of ‘victories’!”

Eleanora O’Casey wore one of the “spare” helmets and the same uniform as the Marines, but unlike them, she’d never been trained to break down the net’s clipped transmissions or the military technobabble which comprised them. For her, the majority of the bursts that came over her radio were cryptic “Tango at two-fifty” conversations which, unfortunately, her translator software was useless for deciphering, so she generally depended on some friendly Marine to interpret for her.

In this case, however, the only available translator was Poertena. Which created its own problems.

“What’s happening?” she asked the armorer. She, Matsugae, and three of the pilots sat on a pile of ammunition boxes halfway back into the cave that made up the majority of the keep’s interior. The noncombatants shared the space with the wounded, Doc Dobrescu, the mahouts, and nineteen nervous flar- ta. Flar-ta reacted in a predictable animal way to nervousness. It was a hot, smelly existence.

“Tee scummies, they off tee wall,” the diminutive Pinopan said with a shrug, “but they getting ready to ’tack again. Tee Cap’n is gonna say somethin’ soon.”

“How is Roger?” Matsugae asked quietly. He had his own helmet and had heard the terse report of the prince’s injury.

“He fine,” Poertena said. “Jus’ shock. He be fine.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Matsugae said. “Very pleased.”

“Great,” Pahner said, nodding as he listened to the transmission. “Great. Get him to Doc Dobrescu as soon as possible. I know you don’t dare now, but as soon as we open that door, I want him in the keep.”

He looked out the slit at the reforming enemy and shook his head. Bravo Company had really whittled them down that time, but the barbs were still coming back for more, and he sent his toot the command that opened the general frequency.

“Okay, people, they’re coming back for another round. We took some wounded that time, so we’re a little thin on the walls. I want platoon sergeants to select your best walking wounded for bead rifles and send out everyone else you can to stand by as grenadiers. They don’t seem to be bothered by casualties, so I’ll call for fire a little further out this time.

“Grenadiers, when they start coming through the gate, I want you to fill the bailey with their dead. I think they’ll still come on in, so when they start coming up the stairs or over the walls, retreat to the bastions.”

He thought of trying to say something stirring, but the only thing that came to mind was “once more into the breach, my friends,” which was both technically inaccurate and too theatrical for him. Finally he just keyed the mike.

“Pahner, out.”

There was silence over the com for several seconds, except for the occasional laconic transmission of firing points and targets. But then Julian’s distinctive voice came over the Third Platoon net.

“Okay, Second Squad. I know I can’t be up there with you, but I want you to remember that . . . that . . . you’re members of The Empress’ Own, damn it.” There was a cracked sob, and he choked out the next words. “I want you to do me proud. Remember: long, wildly uncontrolled bursts!”

A tide of laughter welled up over the net. Gunnery Sergeant Jin was faintly audible, protesting the bad radio discipline, but it was almost impossible to understand him through his own barking belly laughs.

“Remember,” the squad leader continued with another sob. “You’re Marines, and The Empress’ Own! We’re the best, of the best, of the best. Well, maybe not the last best. That would be Gold Battalion, actually, but—”

“Juliannn,” Jin wailed, “stoppp!”

“And, I just want to say . . . if these are our last moments together . . .” the NCO continued.

“Company, stand by to open fire!” Captain Pahner’s voice crackled over the general frequency, oblivious of the transmissions on the platoon net.

“Gronningen,” Julian said, with another choking sob, to the biggest, ugliest, most straightlaced private in the entire company, “I just want you to know: I love you, man!”

Eleanora looked up in surprise and fear as one of the armored plasma gunners fell over on her side, bent nearly double. The academic started to get up to try to render assistance, but Poertena held up his hand to stop her as he switched frequencies on his helmet radio. She watched in fear as his expression slid from worry through annoyance while the plasma gunner first tried to get to her knees, and then fell over again, twitching. O’Casey couldn’t imagine what could have happened to the woman, but then the armorer began to laugh. He slid down from his perch on the ammunition boxes, holding his sides, and the civilian’s eyes went wide as Doc Dobrescu opened his mouth and began to howl with laughter of his own.

“Third Platoon!” Pahner barked as a burst of bead fire went flying off into the distance and a grenade volley rolled through the enemy’s ranks like a surf line of fire and death. “Sergeant Jin! What the hell is happening down there?”