A soldier backed out of a doorway down the street, circling his left thumb and forefinger to indicate all clear. Vanderdrekkan, breathing hard, trotted from the adjacent garden with a galvanized bucket. 'Here you go, sir,' he gasped. 'It's water.'
Stephen squatted, resting the rifle across his knees so that he could take the bucket in both hands to gulp from it. Beverly leaned forward and slipped a cartridge into the loading gate without disturbing the way the weapon lay. Lewis was three blocks back, his leg broken not by a bullet but when the stones of a crumpled wall turned under his boot.
Stephen thought the water had a chemical tinge, but that could as easily be the crap he'd been breathing in the past however long. He'd exhausted his four 2-liter canteens by the time he reached the city. Since then there'd been nothing but dust and powdersmoke and the stink of air burned by flashgun discharges. He'd refused to take water from the troops he commanded.
Stephen lowered the bucket and checked the location of the dozen men with him on this street. 'Odd numbers!' he ordered, his voice no longer the croak it had been during several previous leapfrog advances. He rose to his feet and jogged deliberately forward, scanning for motion.
Fed resistance had broken almost before Stephen and his troops reached the city proper. There'd been a short struggle among the houses barricaded on the edge of town, but the crash of the first starship had shaken down much of the prepared defense line. When the Feds saw the second vessel flee with its tail between its legs, they'd lost heart. Besides, though the Berryhill defenders were armed better than most Federation troops in the Reaches, they didn't have the body armor that protected the Venerians in a close-range slugfest.
At the head of the street was a park behind a waist-high brick wall. Three Molts and a human in a white jacket knelt on Stephen's side of the wall. They didn't see him coming. Cartridge cases around the Feds indicated they'd been firing through the plasma-seared hedge toward the pair of Venerian cutters in the park. A number of Molts with head wounds sprawled among the survivors.
Stephen fired four times. Some of the men who'd advanced with him, the odd numbers covered by the evens, fired also, but there wasn't need for more bullets than the one Stephen Gregg put through each Federation skull.
He swapped his rifle for the loaded carbine without needing to say anything to Beverly. 'Coming through!' Stephen cried. 'God for Venus! Coming through!'
He jumped over the wall. The Commandatura on the other side of the park was a mass of flames, as was what looked like a barracks block beside the administrative headquarters. Cutter 551's 5-cm plasma cannon wasn't a powerful weapon for space combat, but its slug of plasma could ignite virtually any structure on the ground.
Piet, wearing a helmet of plain off-white ceramic instead of his usual gilded piece, covered Stephen from the hatch of 551 until he was sure of the identification. More heads lifted from the cutters, two beside Piet and three from the farther vessel. Sal's mate, Harrigan his name was, and-
Sal. Captain Sarah Blythe. Her right cheek was bruised blue, but her eyes focused.
More Venerian troops entered the park from other radial streets. St. Mary's Port was built like the southern half of a wheel, with the Commandatura at the center of the chord and the spaceport directly north of the city. A heavy plasma cannon from a gun tower in the middle distance blasted its charge toward the orbiting squadron. There was no other sign of resistance.
Stephen halted by 551. Piet climbed down wearily, taking the hand his friend offered. 'Piet,' Stephen said, 'the whole rest of the squadron could dive into the sun, and it wouldn't hurt Venus as much as if you'd gotten your head blown off here.'
'I was going to pick up the crew of 725,' Piet said, avoiding the question and Stephen's eyes. 'But I had to use the exhaust to keep the Feds away, and then I didn't trust the reaction mass we had left would be enough to get us to a better spot.'
'There's only been sniping since P-p-Captain Ricimer swept the north wall with his thruster,' Sal said.
Stephen couldn't look at her. 'The second ship, that would have been a problem,' he said, facing Piet. 'I suspect we'd still have gotten through the cannon fire, but not near so many of us. Thanks.'
A plasma cannon fired. Only one gun tower seemed still to be operating. 'Follow me!' Stephen said, shambling across the ruined park. It was better to act than to think about what might have happened, and might happen yet.
A brick arch beside the burning Commandatura marked the entrance through the port enclosure. A high-sided truck had driven onto the berm and overturned, blocking the passage for further vehicles trying to escape. They were abandoned in the entrance switchback.
Stephen climbed the sloped turf bank and lay down at the top to view the spaceport proper. Piet was on his left; someone else was on Stephen's right, but he refused to look to be sure.
The gun tower from which occasional bolts ripped skyward was half a klick away. The walls were sheer-sided with no rifle ports, even under examination through the electronic magnifier Piet handed Stephen without comment. The door at the base was metal and solid enough, but it wouldn't withstand more than a minute or two of surgery with cutting bars. The gun mounts were countersunk beneath a deep coping for protection, but that meant the tubes couldn't be depressed to bear on attacking infantry.
The tower had external loudspeakers. Through them blared harmonica music at distorting amplification.
'Let's go,' Stephen said as he got to his feet. 'But watch out for diehards in the ships on the field.'
'Wait,' said Piet, tugging Stephen's sleeve. 'Listen to the music.'
What had been puzzling noise suddenly clicked into place in Stephen's consciousness. His brain filled in the lyrics:. .
'
The harmonica music cut off. A voice, also distorted, called, 'If the Venerian gentlemen would care to approach the fort, a European whom the Feds captured and enslaved on New Bayonne would be delighted to open it to them. And if the gentlemen have a way of opening a door which the Feds locked when they fled, they can shut off the noise of these cannon and their damnable automatic loaders.'
'We've won,' Sal said.
'In three weeks or a month we'll be back on Venus with all the loot the squadron can carry,' Stephen said as he started down the inner slope, reaching for a cutting bar with his left hand.
He wondered if there'd ever been a time he'd believed that the survivors won a battle.
ISHTAR CITY, VENUS
March 4, Year 27
0900 hours, Venus time
The footman swung the door of the private office inward and called, 'Factor Ricimer and Mister Stephen Gregg to see you, sir!'
Uncle Ben-Factor Gregg of Weyston-rose behind a clear glass desk with nothing on its shimmering top. He'd redecorated the office since Stephen last saw it. The walls and ceiling were single-sheet mirrors, and there were no shelves nor cabinetry to interfere with the illusion of volume.
'Factor Ricimer, I'm honored,' Benjamin Gregg said, extending his hand. 'Stephen, I'm pleased you were able to come also. It's been too long.'
It'd been longer than Stephen had realized. Uncle Ben looked old. His arm trembled, and there were liver spots on the backs of his hands.
Piet Ricimer had entered this office when he was a brash young space captain with a dream for Venus and mankind. In the decade since, Piet had gained experience and ten kilograms of flesh. The lines of his face were softer, but the spirit still burned as bright as it ever had. Piet hadn't lost his dream or his faith in God.
Stephen forced himself to view his own reflection. He was wearing a new set of court clothes in deference to Uncle Ben's sense of occasion. The fabric was a fine twill whose black-and-white striping looked gleamingly gray from any distance. Occasional silver threads added highlights to the perfectly tailored, obviously expensive ensemble.
Wearing the garments, Stephen Gregg looked like Death. The problem wasn't color. If he'd worn pink, he'd have looked like Death. He was tall, gaunt, and blond, and he looked like what he was.
'Gentlemen, please seat yourselves,' Uncle Ben said. He sank gratefully into his own chair. The seats were
