Last Stand of the DNA Cowboys

'I still think our only practical option is to leave immediately. '

Showcross Gee was being unusually patient. 'Let me make a suggestion.'

Reave raised an eyebrow. 'An offer?'

Showcross Gee looked at him coldly. 'A suggestion.'

Reave sighed. 'Okay, a suggestion.'

'You will hold to your contract for two more days. Military contact with Baptiste's raiders will be strictly at your own discretion unless we are directly threatened. Your only duties will be to protect us in any situation where our lives and liberty are at risk, regardless of whether the threat comes from Baptiste or the Palanaquii. The moment the situation in the city becomes untenable, we will retreat in here and seal the pyramid.'

'All of us will retreat into the pyramid?' Renatta asked.

Showcross Gee eyed her curiously. 'You don't trust me at all, do you?'

'Should I?'

'I'm afraid you may have to before this thing's over.'

'So do we all get into the pyramid?'

'If it is humanly possible. You have my word.'

'And once inside you will include us all in this mysterious way out?'

'That's correct.'

'Do you want to explain this escape route to us?'

Showcross Gee shook his head. 'Not yet.'

'Just another item that we have to take on trust?'

'For the moment.'

Reave turned to Stent.'How does all this sit with you? You're the one with the fine-tuned sense of duty.'

Stent raised a metal hand. 'Under the terms of our contract, it sounds like a legitimate request.'

Reave scowled. 'And if it was couched as a direct order, you'd be compelled to enforce it.'

Stent reluctantly half bowed, his armor making a soft, sad squeaking noise. 'I'm afraid that I would.'

Reave faced the metaphysician. 'It looks like you have your two days.'

Showcross Gee laid a calming hand on his arm, 'You shouldn't take it all so personally, Reave Mekonta.'

Reave's shoulders sagged. He was suddenly very tired. Although he hated to admit it, the metaphysician was right. The man was doing the best he could according to his own weird priorities. 'All we can hope is that Baptiste takes his time coming.'

As it turned out, Baptiste took a day and a night to reach the city. There was plenty of warning of his approach. General Zeum had organized a system of signal fires all along the river, starting just a few miles below the rapids. As Baptiste's force was sighted, the fires were lit and those who had been keepingwatch made themselves scarce. From the intervals at which new fires flared in the dark, it seemed that the raiders were moving very slowly. The moment the first signal was sighted, Reave, along with the Minstrel Boy, who also seemed unable to sleep, climbed to the same vantage point on top of the gatehouse from which they had watched the parade of the Grand Army. They stared silently at the pinpoints of flame in the dark. The beloved Master had ordered the pseudostars extinguished for better visibility, and the night beyond the lights of the city was black as pitch. Reave could imagine the line of ragged men with their cruel, hard faces and worn-out mounts. In his mind's eye he could see the drooping necks of the spavined lizards as they dragged themselves toward yet another slaughter.

'This has got to be the end to it, one way or another.'

The Minstrel Boy, who was watching from farther along the parapet, straightened up and looked at him. 'You say something?'

'Just talking to myself.'

'Just as long as you ain't talking to one of those gods they're so strong on around these parts.'

Reave laughed despite himself. 'You know me better than that.'

A sudden burst of music cut through the night air of the quietly waiting city, complex cascading figures from a chromacon played by an expert.

'Clay Blaisdell.'

'Grandstanding as usual. Trying to make it into history.'

Reave smiled, but he could not shake the oppressive melancholy. The music only made it worse. 'You think we'll hear him play that thing again?'

The Minstrel Boy looked at Reave in shocked surprise. It was not like Reave to give in to that kind of pessimism. 'Will you put a cover on that talk?'

Out of the flatland, beyond the city walls, other lights were moving. Zeum's preparations for repelling the invaders were in full swing. Reave had to admit that even though it was a suicidal fantasy, it was also a textbook defense. Neat shield squares were positioned in staggered rows, taking maximum advantage of the contours of the ground. If Zeum had been expecting three hundred Spartans, he would have been in fine shape.

The raiders came across the horizon just as the first gray ofdawn flashed gold with the coming sun. Just as Reave had imagined, they were strung out along the riverbank, black shapes plodding through the early morning ground mist like a dejected wolf pack, dispirited as men can be when there is no alternative except to perpetuate the horror. Reave could feel it as strongly as if he were down among them.

In comparison, Zeum's troops were magnificent. Their white tunics and scarlet plumes were dazzling. The sun flashed from their armor, and the horses of the small cavalry unit pranced eagerly. Reave turned away. It was too depressing to watch. They were quite insane.

The Minstrel Boy yawned. 'So now they're here, what do we do?'

'Absolutely nothing. I'm going to stay right here and observe.'

The Minstrel Boy looked curiously at Reave, who seemed to be in the grip of a grim fatalism. It was probably time to start getting everyone drunk. It might be the only way to get through the day.

The engagement started painfully slowly. At the same plodding pace, the raiders turned inland from the river. The Minstrel Boy noticed that there were no armored vehicles with the column. It was possible that they had no more fuel. They crossed the top end of the flatlands until they were spread out in a loose skirmish line — and there they stopped. They did nothing except lean on their saddles and wait. They reminded the Minstrel Boy of a flock of vultures waiting for a death in the herd.

The herd, or to be more precise, the leader of the herd, did not seem content to let death come in its own sweet time. General Zeum, followed by his aides and executive officers, clattered out of the gates below Reave and the Minstrel Boy on a huge black charger with a blond mane and tail. He cantered past the series of squares, doffing his plumed helmet and accepting the organized cheers of his legion. When he reached the last square, the one closest to the line of Baptiste's raiders, he reined in the charger. He was too far away for those on the gate tower to actually hear the order, but the intention was plain.

'I see it, but I don't believe it.'

Of all the stupidity Reave had witnessed since he had arrived in Palanaque, Zeum's act had to be the crowning folly. With a crash of drums, the square nearest the line of raiders advanced.

Close-ordered and in half-time lockstep, they moved on the enemy, spears advanced, banners spread, maintaining a perfect formation. It took just five raiders to cut them to pieces. They slipped from their saddles, took a couple of paces forward, and, without the slightest pretense of taking cover, raised their weapons just as though they were shooting at targets on a range. The casual way they opened fire was nothing short of insulting. Taking their time and picking their shots, they gunned down every one of the hundred men in the phalanx. The bloodily bizarre part was that the hoplites did not falter. They stepped over the fallen and just kept going. Even when there was only a handful of them left, the Palanaquii made no attempt to halt their advance, let alone run away or otherwise try to save themselves. At no time did the hoplites attempt to throw their spears: That would have been a breach of discipline. As the smoke drifted away from the litter of bodies, the raiders holstered their weapons and climbed back on their mounts. One at a time the Palanaquii squares moved up and changed position, filling the gap left by the massacred hundred.