Rakoan closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he said, “Maybe we should. But the admiral says we’re going in now, so we’re going in now! Because for you, Lieutenant, the Fleet may be just an exciting place to visit—but for me, it’s home! And my world and my universe, too, so whatever the admiral says, I’ll do! And so will you, because I’ll be right behind you and your fellow lieutenants when we hit the dirt! Understand?”
“Sir!”
“All right.” Rakoan straightened into a brace. “Go tell your platoons what they’re doing. Dis-miss!”
The lieutenants stiffened, saluted, and turned away to their troops. For her part, Lutane went with determination—Rakoan had voiced her own doubts, and answered them. In spite of her questions, she knew what it was like landing an assault force on the enemy’s ground; she’d joined up when the Nietszean rebels had tried to take over Galath, and had been in on the end of it, chasing them back to their home province and going in to mop up their army and bring in the ringleaders. So she also knew what it was like to have every civilian turn out to be a soldier in retirement, or a soldier in training.
The floor lurched, and Lutane grabbed at it stanchion, waiting till the floor and her stomach settled. Her gaze darted to her troops, and she saw, with a glow of pride, that not one of them had landed on the floor. She let go of the stanchion and went on to them.
“Plasma bolt, sir?” Darby asked as she came up.
Lutane nodded. “They missed, though, sergeant.”
One of the troopers brayed a laugh, quickly smothered; Lutane glared at him, then turned back as Darby said, grinning, “Reckon so. An they’d’a hit us, we’d’a heard it.”
“Or felt it,” a corporal muttered.
“We won’t,” Lutane snapped. “Our computer’s got the records of a hundred battles like this one in it. But if we’re close enough to feel the shock waves from their bolts, we’re close to landing, too. Stand to!”
The men and women stood, grim-faced, shouldering their packs and checking their weapons. Lutane walked down their line, glance flicking over each soldier from head to toe, checking to be sure all was in order. It was, and she felt that glow of pride again. She came back to the center of the line just as the boat lurched again and caught the stanchion just in time to save herself from the embarrassment of a tumble in front of her platoon. She recovered and said, just loudly enough to be heard above the noise of other platoons getting ready, “Okay. There’s no point in my giving you a pep talk; you know why we’re here. You’ve all heard how many ships the Khalia have taken, and what they’ve done to the people on them. Don’t expect any mercy from them, and don’t give any, either-—they’ll surrender, sure, but they’ll stab you in the back if they get a chance. Just hit hard, and keep hitting.”
Then she was quiet, glaring at the hatch in front of them.
After a moment, her troops began muttering to one another. Somebody laughed, quietly, and Lutane felt an impulse to pray. In the nick of time, the transport hit dirt.
It hit gently, as such things go, but flexed knees and handholds were all that kept the soldiers from slamming to the deck. A crash behind them told them that one veteran wasn’t as salted as he’d thought.
Then the hatch dropped away from them, and Lutane shouted, “Out!”
They shot out of the transport and hit the dirt in a semicircle as slugs peppered the hull behind them and troops slammed out of the transport all around its perimeter. It helped a little, knowing that three other transports were landing at the compass points around the city, so that the enemy couldn’t devote its full attention to any one of them. It helped, but not much.
Then the transport’s cannon began roaring, and Lutane shouted, “Now!” Her platoon surged to their feet and charged out under the transport’s covering fire.
They hatched out of their egg like a thousand dragons, spawn of death spewing streams of bullets before them. The company spread out in a wave, firing at all and any near them in the city square. Khalia answered fire from the rooftops and doorways. Here and there a ricochet struck home, and a Khalian soldier toppled out with a death shriek almost too high to hear, but just right for abrading Terran nerves. The slaves were caught in the open and fell like stones—and they were all featherheads. Lutane felt her heart sink, but shot forward with her platoon. “Watch out!” she barked as they came up near a fallen featherhead. “It might be armed!”
Delacroix stitched the body with a stream of bullets.
Lutane caught her breath; it hadn’t been necessary. Or had it? But then they were beyond the corpse and charging in among the shadows of the houses, and she cried, “Halt!”
A rifle barked overhead, and one of her soldiers screamed, falling.
“Doorways!” Lutane shouted, and the platoon jammed into nooks and crannies. Something snapped, and the back of Lutane’s nook crashed open, spilling soldiers onto a wooden floor. Lutane whipped about, rifle up and ready, covering her troops.
It was a sparsely furnished, almost bare room, but lighter areas on the walls showed where ornaments had been. All that was left now was a table and chairs, massively built and plain, but rubbed to a gloss. The featherheads around it were scrambling to their feet, backing away, two small ones, a medium-sized one, and a wide one, spreading his hands out, trying to cover the other three who retreated behind his bulk, cowering against a wall. Lutane couldn’t read his facial expressions.
“Lieutenant,” Gorman asked, “do they always shiver like that?”
“I don’t know any more about them than you do, Gorman,” she answered, “and I don’t think any of our people do.”
“I don’t see any weapons,” Olerein said.
“They got forks next to their plates, if that’s what those slabs are,” Delacroix pointed out.
Gorman made a noise of disgust. “Its paws are better weapons than that.”
Something snored by overhead. Lutane went back and ducked her head out for a quick look. As she ducked back in, she studied the afterimage; Terran fighters wheeled across the sky, cannon blasting at Khalian patrol boats. But underneath them, Terran grav floaters moved. She risked another peek, and saw a floater drift over the rooftop across from her, where the sniper had fired from. His rifle stuttered, giving Lutane a hard smile; the weasel didn’t lack guts. But his machine gun wasn’t going to do much good against the floater’s armor plate.
The pilot wasn’t taking any chances, though; his own guns spoke. They stopped, and Lutane held her breath. Then an amplified voice boomed down, “Sniper cleared. Take the street.”
“Up!” Lutane barked, and her troops scrambled to their feet and jogged out. Lutane looked back and gave the cowering featherheads a mock salute. “Sorry we couldn’t stay.” She pulled the door shut as she followed her troops.
The floater drifted ahead of them, firing as it went.
“Don’t think he’s doing everything for you,” Lutane called. “There’re still windows.”
Sobered, the platoon sprinted out, dodging from doorway to doorway in a staggered, always moving line. At its head, Ranton ducked into a niche and yelled in surprise as two rifles barked. Then a Khalian toppled into the street, and Ranton staggered out, hand pressed to his side, eyes bulging.
Lutane dashed up and caught him, lowering him back into the doorway and howling, “Medic!”
“They’re following close, Lieutenant,” Belguire called. “They’ll have you in a minute or two, Ranton.” Lutane ripped his shirt open as she yanked the anesthetic bulb from his belt and shoved it into his hand. “Spray the wound with that. The bleeding’s steady; you’ll last till they’re here. Good luck.”
Her answer was a grimace of pain, and she dodged back out, frog-hopping from doorway to doorway, helplessness clawing at her gut. She wouldn’t know whether or not he’d made it till an hour or two after it was all over. With a mental effort, she put it behind her and dodged for the next doorway, glancing up at the rooftops as she did. Ahead of her, the array of antennas loomed larger, closer.