The pilot’s face turned pale. He reached under the lower edge of the instrument panel and felt for the cylinder. Without the device it would be impossible to start the engines. Having found the lock-out, he gave it one turn to the right and felt it pop into his hand. An enormous gauntlet was waiting when he turned back. “Don’t lose it,” the pilot warned. “Because all of us will be stuck here if you do.”
“Roger that,” Tychus said approvingly, as he tucked the device away. “Now, unless I call you, stay off the comm. Private Haster is going to stay here and keep you company. Hand me your sidearm.”
“This is entirely unnecessary,” the pilot objected, as he complied with the noncom’s instructions.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Tychus replied. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Tychus gave the pistol to Haster, cautioned the private to stay alert, and made his way down the ramp to where the rest of the platoon was waiting. Vanderspool arrived seconds later in one of the sabers that had been unloaded from the third dropship. Vanderspool jumped out onto the tarmac. “Lieutenant Fitz and I will take the marines to the train station,” Vanderspool said as he jumped onto the tarmac. “Your job is to sweep the west side of town, deal with any KMs you come across, and make sure the area is secure. Meet me at the lev station at 1330 hours and not a second later. Understood?”
“Sir, yes sir,” Tychus replied.
“Good. You have a suit comm… . Use it if you need to. Execute.”
Tychus saluted in the vain hope that an enemy sniper would see the gesture of respect and put a bullet through Vanderspool’s visor. But nothing happened as he turned to rejoin his platoon.
Having assigned all of the vehicles to the resocialized marines, Vanderspool, his Kel-Morian guide, and Lieutenant Fitz left the starport a few minutes later with a column of armored resocs double-timing along behind.
Tychus gave them a one-fingered salute as they left, waved his platoon forward, and led them west toward the low-slung food processing plants. The starport’s comm tower was topped with an array of sensors, as were the metal masts that stood at regular intervals, so Tychus knew someone was watching as they crossed the parking lot. Would they send a force of soldiers out to meet him? Or had the loss of their commanding officer thrown the Kel-Morians into a state of confusion?
The answer came quickly as a door opened and half a dozen unarmored soldiers spilled out into the parking lot, firing their slugthrowers. Tychus didn’t even slow down as the bullets pinged against his hardskin. He simply bowled two of the KMs over, knowing that the men behind him would handle the rest as he burst through the open door and entered the plant beyond.
The interior was lit by skylights, and there, under the cold gray light, hundreds of workers could be seen standing in front of long tables upon which all manner of produce was being sized and sorted. They had gaunt faces, and were dressed in little more than rags, as they turned to look at the invaders.
“You’ve been liberated!” Tychus announced via his external speakers, knowing that once the workers flooded into the streets it would make it that much harder for the Kel-Morians to reassert control of the town.
But the workers had been slaves for a long time, and rather than head for the exits, they remained right where they were. So Tychus fired a short burst through one of the skylights, saw them flinch as broken glass showered down on them, and felt a sense of satisfaction as the mad scramble to escape began.
Having cleared the processing plants, Tychus led his platoon south along the western security fence with plans to turn east to rendezvous with Vanderspool at the lev station. It was necessary to pause every once in a while to deal with pockets of resistance, but the Kel-Morian troops weren’t equipped to handle combat-armored soldiers, and were quickly dealt with. Tychus didn’t even break a sweat. “Maintain your intervals,” he said. “Don’t bunch up.”
He took a hard left and began to follow one of the main streets east toward the railroad tracks. That was when three soldiers ran out into the street. Two opened up with assault weapons as the third fired a rocket launcher. The heat-seeking missile seemed to wobble slightly as it left the tube. Then it locked onto a target, drew a straight line to Sergeant Pinkham, and exploded on impact. The resulting boom echoed between the surrounding buildings as it sent pieces of armor and chunks of bloody flesh flying in every direction. Thanks to the space between them, none of the other soldiers suffered more than minor damage to their suits.
“Shoot them, goddamn it!” Tychus roared. “What are you waiting for?”
The man with the rocket launcher had less than three seconds to celebrate his kill before Kydd brought him down. Then Zander fired and a second KM fell. But the third turned, ran up a short flight of stairs, and pushed his way through a door.
Zander checked his ammo indicator, saw that he still had 357 spikes left, and followed the soldier up the stairs, through the door, and into a lobby. Two young women were huddled off to one side, sobbing, as Zander appeared. Even though Zander was small compared to his friends, he looked enormous in his armor, and they were clearly terrified when the blue giant paused to look down at them. A servo whirred as Zander’s visor slid out of the way. He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t cry… . I won’t hurt you. What is this place?”
“I-i-i-t’s a daycare,” the taller of the two women sobbed.
“Take a walk,” Zander said kindly. “I’m going to kill the man who went inside.”
They took off down the stairs.
Ward was there, right behind Zander, ready to back him up. “The bastard will be waiting for you.”
“Yeah,” Zander said, “I know.” And with that he turned to push the door open. A small-caliber bullet hit Zander right in the middle of the chest as he entered the office. The soldier was standing in front of a desk holding a wailing toddler with one hand, and a pistol with the other. His rifle was slung across his back. The handgun came up so that it was pointed at the child. “Get out!” he snarled. “Get out or the kid dies.”
Without a second’s hesitation, Zander pulled the trigger and the gauss rifle jumped. It was pointed down, but not all the way down, and the guard screamed as the lower part of his left leg disappeared. The Kel-Morian fired reflexively, but the bullet missed the toddler’s head by a fraction of an inch, and Zander was there to catch the child as the soldier fell. By then, he was rolling around on the floor trying to stop the bleeding with both hands.
Concerned as to what the toddler might see next, Zander held him so they could see each other through the open faceplate, and was rewarded with a big grin.
The screaming stopped when Ward kicked the soldier in the head. “Come on, Max… . We have to go.”
“Yeah,” Zander said, as he jiggled the toddler up and down. “You go ahead… . These people need to haul ass while they can. I grew up in a place like this so I know how to get a lot of children from one place to the next. I’ll get them started in the right direction and catch up with you in a few minutes.”
Ward started to object, started to say that Tychus would be pissed, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t help but think of his own children—and the raid that killed them. “Okay, but you hurry … hear me?”
As Ward turned to leave, the toddler bopped Zander on the head with a tiny fist, and giggled.
Some of the Kel-Morians were still on the loose. Raynor knew that. But at least a couple dozen of the bastards had been dealt with—and he figured that was good enough for government work. So, cognizant of the time, he and Tychus led what remained of the shrinking command east toward the train station.