Honor of the Clan (49 page)

"He wasn't asking
you
, Hutch," Doyle growled.

"Sorry, sir," the specialist said.

"I think I'm a bit older than you are, sir," Harkless said, chuckling. "I usually go with 'Smoke on the Water' or 'Highway to Hell.' "

"What in the
hell
is that?" Cuelho asked, thoroughly confused. "What are you
talking
about?"

"Lieutenants," Mike said, sighing. "You let them wear shoes . . . 'Honor' it is." He made a couple of more motions, then grasped his grav-rifle and toggled off the safety. "
Now
if you will please, Sergeant," he said somewhat loudly.

Kyle Davis hadn't suffered quite as badly as most of the rear-guard: He'd only had a foot blown off. On the other hand, somebody had to slow the ACS down so the rest of the group could get to minimum safe distance. Which was . . . pretty far all things considered.

But because he and a few others hadn't been more or less blown to shit, they were holding the forward portion of the defenses.

"
Davis
."

"Go, Maise."

"
What the hell is taking them so long
?"

"Dunno. Not going to knock it."

"
Fire some suicide bars down there to remind them we're in here
."

"Fuck you."

Whoever had designed the defenses knew what they were doing. All of the firing points they'd used had been good but this one was the cat's pajamas. There was only one way into the area and it was a narrow corridor that debouched into an open area about fifteen meters across. It looked like it had doors opening to other portions of the sector but only the inner one worked. Between the false doors were hidden firing points for five shooters. All of the points would close down for explosions and the armoring was proof against even grav-gun fire.

So whoever entered the open area was going to be taking fire from five DAG troops and two concealed automated grav-guns. And the only way to take out the DAG troops was to slide a round through a small opening with pin-point accuracy.

Which meant they were going to get shredded.

The port automatically closed when a suicide bar came flying into the open area and Davis leaned the barrel of his rifle against it. The system would drop the port as soon as the overpressure dropped. Since even ACS could take some serious damage from suicide-bars, they'd have to come in hard on its heels to get there before the DAG shooters could engage.

The port dropped and Davis instinctively began searching for targets even as the last of the propellant from the grenade washed past him through the port. But what he saw froze him for just a split second.

The entry-person was not running into the area. The entry person was not sliding into the area. The entry person was
flying
through the open-area in more or less a flat spin.

It took Davis just fraction of a moment to identify that the thing flying through the air, with rounds spitting out of its grav-gun, was, in fact, a small suit of ACS. One that, before he could react, took out the automatic guns and three of the defending DAG. Then hit the wall with both feet and flipped back across the open area.

Davis had just started to take up trigger squeeze when the little shit put five rounds of depleted uranium through a hole not much larger than a fist.

It just didn't seem fair.

"Clear," Mike said, flipping to his feet. He'd somehow ended up upside down right there at the end.

Rounds cracked through the open area from a further firing point and he pumped a couple of grenades downrange to keep their heads down.

"Okay," he said, crossing to the far side of the open area where there was a bit more cover. "Correction. More or less clear."

"Glad to hear it, General," Corporal Doyle said, thudding into the wall and craning his grav-gun around the corner. "These lads are a bit feisty."

"And well dug in, again," Mike said, flipping a sensor ball down the corridor. "More or less straight shot."

"Which means no more finesse, sir," Sergeant Harkless said.

"Suppose so," Mike said, getting to his feet.

"Oh, no, sir," Harkless said, putting his hand on the general's shoulder. "You've had your fun."

"You can't exactly order
me
, Harkless," Mike said.

"No, but I
can
sit on you, sir," the sergeant said.

"Grenades," Doyle said, falling on the general's suit.

The suicide bars fell all over the compartment but none of them actually managed to hit a suit.

"These guys are starting to piss me off," Harkless said. "Second Squad.
Clear
that corridor."

"Here they come," Maise said, opening up at full auto.

Both groups were using virtually identical weapons. The M-292 grav rifle could spit three thousand three gram depleted uranium pellets downrange per minute. Designed to not only kill the Posleen they hit but a couple of its buddies as well, the pellets had the kinetic energy of a small meteor.

The ACS armor was proof against one pellet. Even five pellets. The bunkers the last of the DAG were in were proof against about the same fire power. They could shrug off suicide bars a bit
better
than ACS.

The corridor was narrow and there was only one way to clear it: Brute force.

Or, when it came down to reality: Mutual annihilation.

Maise let out one long scream as thousands of grav-rounds caused the armored bunker to ring like a tocsin. If anyone else was screaming he couldn't tell but he could see lines of silver fire stretching out to rip the armored suits apart. More, though, was coming in the opposite direction and the corridor quickly filled to choking with gaseous uranium as one by one the final defense points fell.

"No surrender," Maise said as the bunker came apart under the concentrated fire of five grav-guns.

"That was . . . unpleasant," Mike said, looking at the scorched corridor. They'd lost two troopers but they had the, hopefully, final defenses. "But I will reiterate. I wish these guys were on
our
side."

"Be careful with the door," Harkless said. "Lord only knows what sort of booby traps these guys lay."

"Something . . . unpleasant I suspect," Mike said. "Onward, Lieutenant."

"Second Squad," Lieutenant Cuelho said. "Move out."

The actual door, per se, at the end of the corridor was slag. But a few kicks from one of the suits got it knocked off its hinges at least. On the far side was another small open area, apparently unguarded. However, there
was
a large Galplas box blocking the far door. It was gray, unmarked and had no apparent way to open it. On top was a large purple bow.

"What do we have here?" Doyle asked, stepping around the box. It . . . boded. And there was no way to get the door open without moving the box out of the way.

"Nothing good," Mike said, slipping through the gathered platoon. "Shelly?"

"It's got an AI broadcasting from it," Shelly said. "One of those buckley things but with an emulation of . . . Oops."

"What is 'oops'?" Mike said.

"I don't think I should have talked to it," Shelly said as a hologram appeared on top of the box.

"Greetings, Gentlemen."

The hologram was of a thin, faintly Native American female wearing a mini-skirt, go-go boots, a wildly tie-dyed halter top and a bandana around her head.

"It is my pleasure to welcome you to the final challenge," she continued, smiling merrily. "You have until the music stops to reach minimum safe distance. Good luck."

"Antimatter!" Shelly shouted as rock guitar started to play and the hologram started dancing on top of the box. "Antimatter source revealed! Twenty
grams
of antimatter!"

"We have three minutes and either ten or eleven seconds to get to minimum safe distance," Mike said, spinning in place. "Which is
very
far away. Move!"

"Sir," Cuelho said. "Move out by squad!"

As the ACS troops started pounding past him, Mike slapped them on the shoulder to hurry them, and Cuelho contacted him on the command freq.

"Sir?" the LT said as the last trooper passed and he dropped into place. "Three minutes and
either
ten or eleven?"

"Depends on whether it's
Disraeli Gears
,
Best of Cream
or
Cream of Clapton
," Mike said, running after him. Keeping the suits down while runing was the tough part of running indoors. They had so much power they tended to want to jump.

"Sure it's not London Philharmonic?" Harkless asked. "That would give us . . . more time."

"Not echoey enough," Mike said. "Eight minutes and forty-two seconds. Includes a one minute and fifty second and a separate three minute instrumental portion."

"Sir?" Cuelho said, now thoroughly confused.

"Cream, sir," Harkless said, starting to faintly pant. "Eric Clapton, lead guitarist. The song is 'Sunshine of Your Love.' "

"My Dad's favorite song," Mike said. "I've got most of the versions available."

"I'm not feeling very well loved," Cuelho admitted. They'd gotten to the elevator and fortunately it was open. The troops were piling in. Unfortunately . . .

"
Very Best of Cream
," Shelly interjected. "You now have two minutes, forty-three seconds to reach minimum safe distance. The elevator takes two minutes and twelve seconds to reach the top."

"Fine," Mike said, last to pile in. He hit the up button and the 'close door' button, controlling his power so the finger of the suit didn't go straight through the plate. That would probably break the elevator which would be . . . bad. "No problem. I eat stress for breakfast."

The door close and he winced.

"Oh," Sergent First Class Harkless said. "That's just . . . wrong."

The booming music that had been blasting over the annunciator was cut off. But the elevator was playing the same song, Muzak style.

"Whoever did this . . ." Mike said. "Just . . . sick. Shelly. Time?"

"Two minutes, twenty-two seconds . . ."

"Nearly as sick as I am," Mike added.

"Yes, sir," Harkless said.

"
Been waiting so long . . .
" Lieutenant Cuelho muttered without really thinking about it.

"
To be where I'm going
 . . ." Doyle added, his suit absentmindedly rocking back and forth.

"
In the sunshine of your lo-o-o-ve!
" Third Squad chorused.

"Nah-nana, nah, nah! Nah! Nah! Nah, nanana!" Hutch screamed, plowing an air-guitar on his grav cannon.

"Hutchinson!"

"Sorry, Sergeant."

"Sort of didn't complete the mission, sir," Sergeant Harkless pointed out. "We're entirely sans Indowy."

"Hey, they're all over the place," Mike said. "If the Darhel want Indowy let them catch their own." He paused and shook his head. "I
hate
Muzak."

"Thank God for Eric Clapton instrumentals, sir," Harkless said.

"Agreed, Sergeant," Mike said, rocking back and forth. "
The moaning of just we two
 . . ." Mike muttered as the doors opened. "Haul ass for the stairs!"

"After you, General," Harkless said.

"Get
moving
, Sergeant," Mike snapped as the platoon pounded past. "I'm faster than you are."

Mike made it out of the hidden entrance just as the vocals cut off. Not a good sign. The platoon was well ahead of him, spread out in a broad formation and heading for the horizon.

"Twelve seconds, General," Shelly said. "You're not yet to minimum safe distance."

"How bad could it
be
?" Mike said, panting. He wasn't, in truth, much of a runner. Short legs and all. "I've been much closer to nuclear weapons before. It's in the ground . . ."

"Five. Bad. Four. Twenty
grams
. Three . . ."

"All units tuck and inertial dump!" Mike shouted, jumping into the air and tucking into a ball.

"One . . ."

"Just
sick
."

And then there was sunshine.

Mike didn't feel very well loved.

Epilogue

Cally opened her eyes and looked around. Tommy was standing by her bunk with a cup in his hands. From the smell of it, it contained some of Aelool's herbal tea.

"Status?" she asked, sitting up. Hiberzine didn't leave any sort of a hangover. You just went right back to the condition you were in before you got shot with it. In Cally's case, angry.

The room seemed to be a normal "human" style stateroom. She'd been on Himmit ships and this didn't look like a Himmit ship. It didn't even look Indowy made. It looked like something that had come out of Titan yards.

"We're already out of orbit," Tommy said, handing her the cup. "The Himmit are, as usual, being cagey about where we're going. But we loaded all the dependents and Indowy before we left. You missed the interesting part."

"I take it Maise blew up the base," Cally said.

"Quite spectacularly," Tommy replied.

"So much for Base One," Cally said. She took a sip of tea, then lowered her head onto her hand. "Tommy, you're a really good friend but right now I'm looking for someone to kill. You're a big guy and it'd be tough, but you know I'd manage. I think I'd rather just be alone right now."

Tommy nodded, started to speak, then walked out of the stateroom.

"How are you doing?" Tam asked as he walked into the room.

"Fine," Mike replied. "I don't even know why I'm in the hospital. I've been through much worse explosions in my time." He paused and thought about it. "Six . . .
seven
times."

"You're not for long," Wesley said. "There's a shuttle standing by to pick you up. Good news, you don't have to sit through the rest of the briefings. We'll just send you the minutes."

"Get his ass off-planet?" Mike said, his face hard. "Thanks very much for killing a bunch of humans, now get as far away as possible?"

"Pretty much," Tam said. "The good news is you'll have someone to talk to. The platoon's training assignment has been permanently suspended. They're being assigned to operational units."