The tower lasers were apparently not set to automatically fire on a ground-level intrusion—a system, Novak decided, that the collies would probably regret very soon—and he reached the far side without being shot at. His twenty-man team was right behind him, the twelve trainees climbing almost as well as the eight blackcollars. Crouching near the foot of the bridge, Novak waited until the others were across.
"Everyone ready?" he whispered.
"Ryqril!" someone hissed, pointing.
Novak had already seen the alien figures pouring from their barracks. "No problem," he said confidently, though his mouth seemed unusually dry. "Let's move."
They fanned out into the darkness, the blackcollars heading to intercept the approaching aliens as the trainees scattered among the parked Corsairs. By now the Ryqril would have discovered the emergency floodlights were gone—Haven's sharpshooters had taken care of that earlier—and would realize a major assault was in progress. Novak swallowed hard as he slipped between the rows of parked fighters, feeling out of practice and very vulnerable. Ahead, in the starlit area between the Corsairs and the Ryqril barracks, a one-sided battle was already in progress as hidden blackcollars picked off the approaching aliens with slingshot and throwing star. Occasional flashes of laser light briefly illuminated the scene, but the aliens seemed understandably reluctant to risk damaging their Corsairs.
That phase ended quickly, though, as the surviving Ryqril reached the shadows around the Corsairs. Crouching near the front landing skid of one of the fighters, Novak realized he had a macabre game of hide-and-seek on his hands. The aliens had realized that firing a laser invited a quick death and had adopted the blackcollars' skulking technique, relying on their short swords and superhuman speed. It was a risky game for both sides—the Ryqril had a numerical edge, but the longer they delayed the obvious gambit of putting one or more Corsairs in the air, the better the blackcollars' chances. Sliding a gloved finger under his right sleeve, Novak tapped out a message on his tingler: Ryqril gone to ground, hurry with main objective.
His answer was a short flurry of combat-coded orders as Kwon and Haven shifted some of their forces to his aid. With luck, the Ryqril would be effectively encircled before they realized it—
A faint rustle of cloth was Novak's only warning. He half leaped, half rolled to the side, not quite fast enough, as a short sword whistled through the air and caught his left forearm. He twisted the limb as fast as he could, letting the blade skitter off along the flexarmor sleeve, but it still felt like being hit with a brick. He continued his roll, yanking out his nunchaku and lashing out blindly in an effort to keep his assailant away until he could regain his balance. The counterattack was clumsy, and the Ryq avoided it easily, swinging under it at Novak's neck. But the alien apparently underestimated blackcollar reflexes. Novak evaded the blade by a whisker, took a couple of steps back, and drew a long knife from his left forearm sheath.
The Ryq was on him immediately, slashing silently with speed and skill. Sweating under his flexarmor, Novak continued to back up, fending off the attacks with knife and nunchaku. His left arm ached fiercely, a mute reminder of his danger. Theoretically, the sword couldn't penetrate his flexarmor, but the blows were easily hard enough to break bones if they landed right. And once disabled... well, the Ryq could always strangle him.
Novak swallowed involuntarily. He was between two rows of Corsairs now, exposed to the faint backwash of light from the distant buildings. It was a lousy position to be in—not only was he wide open to attack, but the Ryq could easily be forcing him toward a second alien's hiding place. Desperately, he tried to take the offensive but the alien was a trained warrior, too. Slowly but steadily, Novak lost ground.
And then, like a gift from heaven, a terse signal tingled into his wrist: stand clear, two seconds.
Novak's heart leaped. Wielding his knife with new vigor, he got ready and with a roar, a flash of flame erupted simultaneously from the tail of every Corsair around them.
For a brief instant the Ryq froze, startled by the unexpected explosions. But Novak was ready, and in that instant he hurled his knife at the alien's face. Breaking his paralysis, the Ryq ducked, raising his swordarm reflexively—and Novak swung his nunchaku with all his strength into the other's side.
There was the dull crack of bone breaking and the alien stumbled, off-balance. Novak pressed his attack, flailing the Ryq's head and torso with all the power he could muster. Again and again he struck, and even when the Ryq lay unmoving on the ground he kept up the assault for several seconds before it occurred to him to stop.
Kneeling beside the body, he drew a shuddering breath. That had been close—far too close. And yet, strangely, he felt a sudden new confidence in himself It had been a long time since he'd fought for real, but he'd done all right—and against a Ryq, too.
A flash of laser light erupted off to his side, and even as he snatched out a throwing star he knew what was happening. The Ryqril, startled back into the open by the blasts, had reverted to the use of their superior firepower in an effort to regain the upper hand.
The laser flashed again. Someone screamed, but even as the Ryq swung his weapon at a new target, he fell, Novak's star buried in his neck. Farther ahead, Novak could see reflected light from other lasers. Sheathing his nunchaku, he drew two throwing stars and, keeping to the shadows, moved silently forward. Firepower, the Ryqril would learn, was of only limited use against blackcollars.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over.
The 'port had been quiet for half an hour before Lathe let Hawking guide the autocab through its main gate. Gazing out the window, Caine spotted two or three blackcollars loitering in various shadows; none of the usual Security uniforms were visible anywhere. "You took the whole 'port?" he asked unbelievingly.
"That's what we're going to find out," Lathe told him. "Over there, Hawking—looks like Kwon."
It was indeed the husky blackcollar, sporting a captured laser. He stepped forward as the autocab rolled up. "Report," Lathe said.
"The tower and most of the 'port are ours. There are still some Ryqril in the barracks, but they're pinned down. If necessary we could fry them with the antiaircraft lasers, or even drop the whole building on top of them—Novak looked it over and says it could be done with five modest-sized bombs thrown in at key sites."
"I'll take his word for it," Lathe said. "We'll hold off on that for now—there might be something in there we'd rather have in an undemolished condition. What about the Corsairs?"
"All but one are effectively disabled, at least for anything involving the rear grav stabilizer. We left one intact, as per your instructions. Dodds is out there looking it over."
"Casualties?"
"Here at the 'port, nineteen: three blackcollars and sixteen trainees. Durbin reported two trainees killed among the rioters in Capstone—that number could go higher. And both Shen and Dhonau were killed."
Lathe nodded heavily. "Victory's expensive these days."
"As always."
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Lathe gazed across the landing field. "Those freighters look pretty small. Any idea what size they are?"
Kwon squinted into the darkness. "Not sure. F-class, I'd guess. Jensen could tell you better—he's around here somewhere, probably within tingler range. Shall I ask him?"
"Please. If he confirms they're big enough, call the trucks in and start loading; I want to get off before daybreak. And let me borrow your long-range—I need to call the tower."
Kwon unclipped a small lens-shaped object from his belt and handed it over. "Tower can probably be reached by tingler, if you'd rather use code."