“Oh,” Miles carolled sarcastically, “we’re just going to waltz right over to Bharaputra Station and drop them off, and thank Vasa Luigi kindly for the loan. Idiot! What d’you think? We load up and run like hell. The only place to put them would be out the airlock, and I guarantee you’d go first!”
Mark flinched, but took a deep breath and nodded. “All right, then.”
“It is not. All. Right,” Miles bit out. “It is merely … merely …” he could not come up with a word to describe what it merely was, aside from the most screwed-up mess he’d ever encountered. “If you were going to try and pull a stupid stunt like this, you might at least have consulted the expert in the family!”
“You? Come to you for help? D’you think I’m crazy?” demanded Mark furiously.
“Yes—” They were interrupted by a staring blond clone boy, who’d walked up to them open-mouthed.
“You really are clones,” he said in wonderment.
“No, we’re twins born six years apart,” snapped Miles. “Yes, we’re just as much clones as you are, that’s right, go back and sit down and obey orders, dammit.”
The boy retreated hastily, whispering, “It’s true!”
“Dammit,” Mark howled under his breath, if that squeezed sotto vioce could be so described, “how come they believe you and not me? It’s not fair!”
Quinn’s voice, through his helmet, derailed the family reunion. “If you and Don Quixote Junior are done greeting each other, Medic Norwood has Phillipi prepped and loaded, and the wounded ready to transport.”
“Form up, let’s get the first batch out the door, then,” he responded. He called up Blue Squad’s sergeant. “Framingham, take the first convoy. You ready to roll?”
“Ready. Sergeant Taura has marshalled them for me.”
“Go. And don’t look back.”
Half a dozen Dendarii, about three times that many bewildered and exhausted clones, and the two wounded troopers on float pallets assembled in the foyer and filed out the ruined doors. Framingham did not look too happy to be using a couple of young girls as a projectile-weapon shield; his chocolate-dark face was grim. But any Bharaputran snipers were going to have to take aim very, very carefully. The Dendarii forced the kids forward, if not at a run, then at least at a steady jog. A second group followed the first within a minute. Miles ran both non-coms’ helmet transmissions down either side of his peripheral vision, while his ears strained for the deadly whine of small-arms fire.
Were they going to bring this off? Sergeant Taura shepherded the final gaggle of clones into the foyer. She greeted him with a demi-salute, without even pausing to puzzle between himself and Mark. “Glad to see you, sir,” she rumbled.
“You too, Sergeant,” he replied, heart-felt. If Mark had managed to get Taura killed, he didn’t know how it could ever have been made right between them. At some more convenient moment he urgently wanted to find out how Mark had managed to fool her, and how intimately. Later.
Taura moved closer, and lowered her voice. “We lost four kids, escaped back to the Bharaputrans. Makes me kinda sick. Any chance … ?
Regretfully, he shook his head. “No way. No miracles this time. We’ve got to take what we can get and go, or we’ll lose it all.”
She nodded, understanding the tactical situation perfectly well. Understanding didn’t cure the gut-churning nausea of regret, unfortunately. He offered her a brief I’m sorry smile, and her long lips twisted up on one side in wry response.
The Blue Squad medic brought in the big float pallet containing the cryo-chamber, a blanket tossed over the transparent part of the gleaming cylinder to shield his comrade-and-patient’s naked and cooling body from uncomprehending or horrified outsiders’ eyes. Taura urged the clones to their feet.
Bel Thorne glanced around. “I hate this place,” it said levelly.
“Maybe we can bomb it this time, on the way out,” Miles returned, equally levelly. “Finally.”
Bel nodded.
The mob of them, the fifteen or so last clones, the float pallet, the Dendarii rear-guard, Taura and Quinn, Mark and Bel, oozed out the front door. Miles glanced up, feeling like he had a bull’s-eye painted on the top of his helmet, but the moving shape crossing the roof of the building opposite wore Dendarii grays. Good. The holovid on the right side of his field of view informed him Framingham and his group had made it to the shuttle without incident. Even better. He cut Framingham’s helmet transmissions, squelched the second squad leader’s to a bare murmur, and concentrated on the present moment.
His concentration was broken by Kimura’s voice, the first he’d heard from Yellow Squad across town in their own drop zone. “Sir, resistance is soft. They’re not buying us. How far should I go to make them take us seriously?”
“All the way, Kimura. You’ve got to draw Bharaputran attention off us. Draw them away, but don’t risk yourselves, and especially don’t risk your shuttle.” Miles hoped Lieutenant Kimura was too busy to reflect upon the slightly schizoid logic of that order. If—
The first sign of Bharaputran sharpshooters arrived with a bang, literally; a sonic grenade put down about fifteen meters ahead of them. It blew a hole in the walkway, which returned a few moments later in obedience to gravity as a sharp hot patter of raining fragments, startling but not very dangerous. The clone-childrens’ screams were muffled, in his stunned ears.
“Gotta go, Kimura. Use your initiative, huh?”
The miss hadn’t been accidental, Miles realized as plasma fire struck a potted tree to the right and a wall to the left of them, exploding both. They were being deliberately bracketed to panic the clones. It was working quite nicely, too—they were ducking, dropping, clutching each other and screaming, and showing every sign of getting ready to bolt off in all directions. There would be no rounding them up after that. A plasma arc beam hit a Dendarii square on, just to prove the Bharaputrans could do it, Miles supposed; the beam was absorbed by his mirror-field and re-emitted with the usual hellish blue snap, further terrifying the nearby kids. The more experienced troopers fired back coolly, while Miles yelled into his headset for his air cover. The Bharaputrans were above them, mostly, judging by the angle of fire.
Taura studied the hysterical clones, glanced around, raised her plasma arc, and blew apart the doors of the nearest building, a big windowless warehouse or garage-looking structure. “Inside!” she bellowed.
It was good, in that if they were going to bolt, at least it had them all bolting in the same direction. As long as they didn’t stop inside. If they got pinned down and penned up again, there’d be no big brother to rescue him.
“Move!” Miles seconded the idea, “but keep moving. Out the other side!”
She waved an acknowledgement as the kids stampeded out of the fire-zone into what no doubt looked like safety to them. To him, it looked like a trap. But they needed to stay together. If there was anything worse than being pinned down, it was being scattered and pinned down. He waved the squad through and followed. A couple of Blue Squad troopers took rear guard, firing plasma arcs upward at their … herders, Miles feared. He figured it for keep-your-heads-down warning shots, but one trooper got lucky. His plasma arc beam hit a Bharaputran who unwisely attempted to dart along the roof-edge on the building opposite. The Bharaputran’s shielding absorbed the shot, but then he unbalanced and fell, screaming. Miles tried not to hear the sound when he hit the concrete, but did not quite succeed, even with grenade-stunned ears. The screaming stopped.
Miles turned and dashed down the corridor and through some big double doors, beckoned anxiously onward by Thorne, who waited to help cover him.