Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE}

Outside, the snow fell more heavily; lights glowed through the falling snow, but visibility was limited. Another ping of her skullphone, this time from General Molosay’s staff at the base. “Air strike here; your guys IDed a ground force on the way—we’re ready. Good luck to you.”

“Going now,” Ky said. Her combat helmet gave her its interpretation of what she looked at, mixing multiple bands to provide a faux-sharp image that wiggled uneasily as thicker and thinner strands of snow crossed it. Another screen gave her a view from one of the drones poised above the government complex: looking down through falling snow dizzied her for a moment. The former gardens now looked like textbook earthworks, as they should, with rows of hot dots on the infrared view that the oncoming troops should assume were cadets.

“Commandant? We’re ready.” The command transport had pulled up beside her.

“Right.” Ky accepted a hand up the step and into an interior that reminded her a little of the ships she’d commanded: the glowing screens, the banks of instruments. Osinery followed her, looking nervous, the light on her recorder blinking. Once inside, Ky had a view of the two columns of personnel carriers ahead of them. One had already split off to the north. The other moved east.

“We’re on the tick,” said a familiar voice; she looked over and saw Corporal Inyatta grinning at her. “Column one is almost to the north end, well ahead of the attackers.” Seven of the survivors had argued their way onto this op, including the first three to escape plus Staff Sergeant Gossin, Sergeant Cosper, Corporal Lakhani, and Corporal Yamini.

Ky switched channels and contacted Neese, the northern base. “Cattle entering processing. Light the fires.”

She could hear nothing over the sound of the vehicle she was in, but imagined the big drones starting engines, the low whoomp-rumble rising to a high whine. Snow should muffle the sound; she hoped it would be enough.

“First enemy troops past the Defense HQ… President’s Guard and police opening sporadic fire.” Just enough to convince the enemy the defenders were there, but confused. Ahead of her command car, personnel carriers full of third-year cadets, and troops borrowed from the base moved out. At the head of each line was a squad of combat engineers with the armored earthmovers they’d used to rearrange the formal gardens into something resembling military earthworks. “Twenty percent past Defense HQ, coming up on Government House. Permission to launch—”

Here the attacking force would expect stiff resistance from the guard units normally stationed there.

“Launch defensive weapons,” Ky said. On both sides of the government complex, the buildings one street away from the original rectangle housed offices, not residences. Now the robotic batteries implanted in slightly hardened positions spouted fire at the attackers, fire they returned. The attack force’s movement slowed a little but did not halt. More and more of them poured out of the constriction of the business district onto the wider avenues that ringed the government district.

As expected, the attackers had personnel carriers, mounting both beam and missile racks, as well as dismounted troops in full battle gear. And with the first launch of missiles against the Presidential Palace, the battle was joined in earnest. As Ky had hoped, all those preparations in the great public gardens around the Palace had focused the enemy’s attention and convinced Kvannis—or whoever was commanding—that the defense plan hadn’t changed that much.

But it had. The robotic batteries simulated fire by actual troops—irregular and, though effective, less than what the batteries could produce. More and more of the enemy moved into the area, focused on resistance from the supposed defenders, pouring heavy fire at the trenches. The heads of their columns were now even with the Palace. Would they see what awaited them, through the snow now blowing out of the north into their faces? The big earthmovers had traveled dark, pushed by the vehicles behind them. Even infrared sensing might not spot them.

“In position,” Massoudian said finally. “Both routes blocked to the north. East still unsecured.”

“Set,” Ky said, and contacted the air base again. She felt the mix of alertness and calm so familiar from space combat. Once an engagement began, once forces were committed, the stomach-clenching wait was over. She watched the screens, the icons marking movement. Just as the attacking infantry overran the trenches and climbed up to the level beyond, the first flight of drones arrived, raining cluster bombs down on what had been the broad central walk. Debris clouded the sensors. Attackers still mounted in their carriers spun their beam weapons, trying to hit the drones, but those were long gone, heading for the harbor and the ships that had brought the attackers. The concussion and flare of that explosion traveled through the snow; for an instant all movement seemed to stop.

As if in answer, the snow thickened. Some of the attackers turned, tried to flee back across the broad avenues to the cover of buildings, but the cadets, stiffened by a few experienced troops, mowed them down. Belatedly, the personnel carriers turned their guns to the other side, but by then the smaller drones had locked in on them. Only two on this side, three on the other, were able to return fire before they blew, one after another, debris shattering windows across the street as effectively as their weapons.

“Timing is everything,” Ky murmured. Several people in the car gave her a startled look. “Old military axiom,” she said.

At both ends, attackers tried to get out of the now-obvious killzone. To the south, they ran into their own still-arriving troops; to the north they met the cadets and troops behind the earthmovers with their impervious blades.

“Should’ve brought real artillery,” Major Oslik said.

“Glad they didn’t,” Ky said. Some of the attackers now ran for the Presidential Palace, encountering the minefield that would’ve been obvious in daylight or clear moonlight. Compared with space battles, this one seemed faster in some ways, slower in others. In space, ships might have only a second or two to attack a target before it was out of range; here, stuck in almost two-dimensional space, troops could pound each other again and again. But the weirdest thing to Ky was the way all the debris fell onto the planet’s surface and stayed there, instead of expanding in a lethal sphere.

She shoved that thought away. The surviving enemy had better armor and more experience than her cadets—they were still very dangerous, more effective one-to-one. And they weren’t about to surrender yet. They could endure a higher percentage of loss before breaking than her green troops.

Those in the main plaza had regrouped and moved cautiously, using every bit of cover, toward Government House. Presumably they knew about the tunnel between that and the Palace. Not that it would do them much good. She called in another drone strike. This time they heard the drones coming and dove for the trenches on that side of the plaza, but the bombs targeted the trenches. The drones themselves went on south, to finish the attack on the two ships.

“It’s just… killing,” someone murmured. “They don’t have a chance.”

“It’s not a game,” Ky said. “They intended to kill the defenders, including our cadets, and seize the President and other government leaders, if not kill them. And there are plenty still alive.”

“If they surrendered—”

“If they surrendered, we’d put them under guard. I don’t expect they will; the media’s been savage ever since the Miksland survivors had a chance to tell their stories. They know they’re not popular. Even in Dorland and Fulland.” Her skullphone pinged; she held up a finger for silence.

“Academy’s now under attack—a small force, maybe six hundred, mix of uniforms and civvie. We’re handling it. Any change in engagement orders?”

“No,” Ky said. “Lethal force authorized.”

“Lethal force, understood.”

What she could now see in the screens showed the first real fragmentation and disorganization of the attacking force. And in that moment she felt for the first time a wrenching sense that these, too, were her people, on her home planet, some of whom she might have known if she’d stayed here. She knew, she felt, what they were feeling and thinking as their plans unraveled around them. She had felt that same confusion and uncertainty herself—and gone on to win engagements, or at least escape destruction. And where were their commanders? Here, or out at the base, or safely hidden somewhere else? She had a sudden urge to leave the command carrier and knew it for folly.

Instead, she reached for the link to Major Massoudian. “Put some pressure on them, advance fifty meters.”

“Fifty meters, understood.”

A new heat signature bloomed in the infrared feed as the earthmovers’ engines spun up. Behind them, the troops advanced firing steadily. Ky watched closely. If the attackers had any ace in the hole, now would be the time to play it.

“Ky—air strike on the way!” That was Rafe in her skullphone. “Under two minutes.”

Nothing showed on the screens. That meant nothing; the suspect air base had a squadron of stealth aircraft. She opened the all-units channel. “Air strike—pull back now.”

“Commandant?”

“Now! With luck they’ll hit their own troops instead.”

She signaled to the command car driver, who immediately started backing down the street. “We need to clear this route for those ahead of us. If that were me, in those planes, I’d hit the buildings on Promenade and Military and the street behind. Try to catch all the defense in one or two passes. This weather—”

A roar in the distance broke through the soundproofing of the vehicle.

“What if they attack the Academy?” asked Osinery.

“They certainly could. All the cadets there should be safe enough in the underground. But since Kvannis knows it will be mostly empty, attacking it would be a waste of his resources. He’s not stupid.” Her helmet picked up the infrared signatures of the four aircraft coming in low and fast. What were they carrying? Missiles, bombs? And what were they targeting?

In seconds they knew: the Palace, Government House, Defense, and Treasury. When the debris and smoke cleared enough to see, the infamous pink dome of the Palace was gone and the walls just east of it were piles of rubble. Government House had also taken a direct hit. But up in the clouds, blurry flashes of light revealed an aerial battle going on.

Ky concentrated on the ground fighting, concerned that her inexperienced troops would get into trouble, but the professionals were doing a good job of leading the cadets where they needed to be.

“Ships sunk,” Rafe reported on her skullphone. “Direct hits on both, and they’re now flickering hulks.”

“You’re getting poetic,” Ky said. “But glad to know they won’t be reinforced from there. Any word from Grace and company?”

“All fine so far. I expect some trouble here, but Stella’s safe where she is.”

President Saranife sat in a comfortable overstuffed chair in the living room of the house where she’d stayed since the evacuation. At her feet, a large, furry tan dog leaned on her legs, its heavy head on her knee, pinning her down.

“All right, Hester?” asked the Second President, Joram Cassidy, from a similar chair across the room. “You’re looking strained.”

“There’s a war starting,” Saranife said. “I should be strained.” She was not particularly fond of her Second President, a stiff man who rarely smiled and who had told her once he was more competent than she. She started to stand up and pace, but the dog leaned harder and put a big furry paw on her other knee.

“It’s more comfortable here than at the Palace,” Cassidy said. “You won’t find—” A loud whomp in the distance rattled windows. “What was that?”

“An explosion,” said one of their hosts, the tall rangy woman called Kris. “Somebody’s lobbing something at the base.”

“Should we… uh… find shelter or something?” Cassidy asked. Now he looked strained.

“Not yet,” Kris said. “Irene—let’s bring them all inside.”

Saranife heard a door open and the scrabble of many dogs bounding up the back steps, across the porch, and into the kitchen. Two of the dogs came right through into the living room. One was a reddish dog with a splint on one hind leg—Ginger, belonging to Sergeant Major Morrison. Suzy was the dog now leaning on her, and Billy, a match for Suzy, had now pinned Cassidy just as efficiently.

“I don’t really care for—” Whomp! “—this dog sitting on my feet.”

“Therapy dog,” Irene said, coming in with a tray of mugs and pastries. “They know when people are nervy.”

“I’m not nervy!” Cassidy protested.

Irene, a little shorter than Kris but radiating equal authority, raised her brows and said nothing, offering the tray instead. He took a mug in both hands, as did Saranife.

“You didn’t put anything in it—”

“No sedatives. You want to be clearheaded, I know. We have a storm shelter; we’ll move there if there’s need.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“A little. The ships unloaded troops into the city; the battle has started there.”

“I should be there,” Saranife said. “I should be in contact—”

“Safer this way,” Kris said. “They don’t know where you are, and you’ll still be here when it’s over, able to take charge of the civilian side. I know it’s frustrating.”

Kris was a veteran, Saranife knew. “Do you wish you were back in at times like this?”

The dark eyebrows went up. “ ‘Times like this’? This is the first armed conflict since the Unification War. Yes and no, is the honest answer. I never wanted to see combat—and didn’t—but I know people who are active now, and I’d like to be with them, helping them. But the best thing I can do is keep the two of you safe.”

“The two of you and that squad of cadets who think this is a great break from class and are chowing down on doughnuts,” Irene said. She sipped from her own mug. A series of smaller whoomps in rapid succession startled Saranife enough that her warm drink sloshed on her hand. The dog leaned even harder on her leg.

“Anti-aircraft,” Kris said.

“Shouldn’t we be watching the news? Surely someone—”

“Power’s out in the city,” Kris said. “We’ll probably lose power here, too.”

Saranife had never experienced a full power outage; Port Major had been built with redundancy in mind. Both the Palace and Government House had emergency generators as well. A night without streetlights? Without lights and heat in the house? She opened her mouth to ask and shut it again. She had never felt so inadequate.

“This is ridiculous!” Cassidy pushed Billy aside and lunged to his feet. “I’m not going to sit here helplessly like a baby in a crib.”

Irene opened her mouth; he shook his finger at her. “You’re just a dog doctor; what do you know? Hester, if you’re too scared to take charge, I’m not. I’m going out there, and back to the city, where I can do some good.”

Hester tried to sit up straighter, but Suzy now had half her furry body across the President’s lap. Cassidy strode across the living room, out to the front porch, and slammed the door. “Men,” Irene said, with feeling. “I suppose we should—”

“Let him go, is what we should do,” Kris said. She smiled at Saranife. “Now that he’s gone, would you like to come down to the bunker? Suzy, go easy.”

The dog slid off Saranife’s lap and stood with waving tail as Saranife clambered up, a little stiff. Kris led the way to a concealed door, and then down a stairway into a basement lined with wine racks and shelves of supplies. Another door, a shorter stairway, another door, and they entered a large room, very quiet. Bunks were built in on one side; a door at one end led to a shower, toilet, and sink. “You’ll be safe here with the dogs,” Kris said. When Saranife looked back, Irene was coming down slowly with Ginger, helping the dog navigate the stairs.

“Do I have to be alone?”

“No—I’m going back up to fetch your guard detail.”

“What about Joram—Cassidy?”

“He won’t make it to the city.” Kris’s look chilled Saranife to the bone. “He’s on the other side,” Kris said gently. “Your guard will take care of him.”

Grace Vatta watched the battle from the clubhouse of her residence tower, though the blowing snow obscured it almost completely. The sound of explosions carried through, muted by snow and the double-glazing. Nearly all the inhabitants of the tower crowded in, like scared cattle Grace thought. Her excuse was more reasonable.

After the streetlights below went out, some residents followed the emergency instructions to return to their apartments. Corridors had emergency lighting and every apartment had at least two, but the clubhouse had gone dark. Those who did not obey clustered near the windows, not sure what they were looking for. Then a column lit by chemlights appeared first as a long blue-green glow, then as individual lights making their way toward the tower.

“Rector—get away from the window. Uh… please?” Cadet Price had not developed any command voice yet.

“They can’t see me,” Grace said. “With the snow, they’re going to have trouble counting floors.”

“Yes, Sera—Rector—but we want you down in the basement level for your own safety.”

Grace gave him a look that had withered stronger men, but realized it didn’t do any good in the dark. “I need to go by my apartment first.”

“I’m supposed to take you directly—”

They were in the hall now and she gave him the look; sure enough he wilted a little. “Apartment first; I have classified materials there. In case they scale the back side of the building and break in through the windows.” Unlikely, but war was war. In her apartment, Grace picked up her two light bags and handed the one with clothes and snacks in it to him. “Don’t drop that; it’s important.” She had the classified bag herself. The elevators weren’t working of course. They took the stairs—she more slowly, because she still did not have her full strength back. Cadet Price galloped ahead, pausing at each landing to wait for her.

When the exit door at ground level opened just as Price reached the landing above it, Grace had no time to say more than “Look—” before two armed men in the wrong uniform barged in and fired on Price, who fell. Grace had paused on the landing above him, trying to get her breath. She opened the door beside her and found herself in the building’s administration section. The keys she’d insisted on having from day one let her lock the door and she moved quickly down the passage, past Accounting, Maintenance, and Service to lock the service stair door as well. Then she called the guard unit in the basement.

“Rector?”

“Enemy is in the building, ground level, and has access to the stairs. I’m on level two, Building Administration. I’ve locked two staircases into this level; I’m heading for the others. Cadet Price was shot and killed below me on the stairs.” She ended the call and headed for the far end of the building, where another bank of nonworking elevators and two staircases were. This level had few windows, which was good, but she knew it was a trap if they got in. Maybe resistance elsewhere would keep them busy.

She was able to lock the other two staircases before any intrusion, so she found a convenient office that provided multiple hiding places, opened her case of classified materials and devices, and considered trying to find a shredder. Every office had a shredder. But even if she could bypass the lockouts to emergency power, a shredder would make noise, and data cubes and sticks merely jammed shredders. She picked up the shielded communicator Rafe had given her and called him.

“I’ll get help,” he said.

“Not you,” Grace said. “But if you could get word to Ky…”

“Stay alive,” he said, “or I’ll never hear the end of it from your niece.”

And that was that.

Michael Quindlan had heard nothing from Benny. Had Benny not gone home? He wasn’t in the Quindlan headquarters; he wasn’t at the Quindlan warehouse. Though in either case the downtown power outage might be to blame. Frustrating that the progress of the battle wasn’t available on the vidscreen. He peered out the window of his elegant three-story home, seeing nothing now but heavy snowfall.

When his skullphone pinged, he tongued it open.

“Michael—get out!” That was Derrin Malines, his counterpart in the Malines family and his ally in everything.

“What’s wrong?” Ally or not, Derrin did have a tendency to overreact to problems.

“It’s all over. They’re all dead.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know where that bitch got the troops, but our people—I have hundreds dead in the street. Caught in crossfire. There were drones—planes—I thought we had the planes! Isn’t that what Kvannis told you?”

“We did—we do.” Michael tried to sort it out. Something had gone wrong but surely not everything. “Ordnay air base—ours, I’m sure of it. Lots of planes—where are these other planes coming from?”

“How should I know? The whole center of the city is dark, my people are pushed back into the warehouse district, the ships just blew up and sank—”

“What? What do you mean the ships blew up?”

“Michael, they’re just hulks in the water, and the other dockies are ambushing my people—they have weapons, Michael. I didn’t know they had weapons!”

The phone on the desk rang. Michael muted the sound in his skullphone and picked up the handset. “Yeah?”

“Kvannis here. The landing was unsuccessful. Be advised I can get you on a flight to Makkavo if you can reach Ordnay in the next ninety minutes—”

“It’s a two-hour drive—”

“The flight leaves in ninety minutes; take it or leave it.”

“I’ve got my own damn plane—where do we meet?”

The line went dead. Fine. Malines was shouting into his skullphone when he turned up the volume. “Calm down, Derrin. Kvannis called me. He’s pulling out of Ordnay—”

“What about us? What about me? I’ve got—”

“Can your people get around the harbor to the south docks? We have a ship there, ready to go. Zazdotlyn.”

“Is that where you’re going?”

“No, I’m going inland. But I’ll call the ship. Captain’s name is Mohardhri.” It might just be time to sever the old connection with Malines, if enough Malines—the ones who knew where the bodies were buried—didn’t make it out. “I’ll call him but here’s an ID code for you: Better Days.” He ended that call, made the call to the Zazdotlyn’s captain, and gave his instructions. Most Quindlan aircraft were somewhere else, as usual—their air freight service was much smaller than Vatta’s, though just as widespread. But the executive craft were always available… if he could get to the small airport south of the city and if the weather allowed a flight. He called the staff he wanted, picked up his overnight bag, and left his wife asleep in her suite.