The huge one-section gate must have been heavy, for Barbousse and Fragonard struggled considerably before it grudgingly slid aside. Extinguishing his running lights, Brim began to move through the opening. He slowed to a crawl while the two ratings boarded on the fly, then shoved the big traction system to its highest speed and roared into the campus toward their second objective: the hostage compound.
Moments later, Barbousse and Fragonard yanked the hatch open and clambered over the coaming, dripping rain.
"I think it's lettin' up," Fragonard declared, popping off his helmet.
"Has to," Barbousse agreed. "Can't be much left up there anymore." He peered through the windshield. "They've got a map in the guard shack back there, Lieutenant," he said. "We guessed right—that square fenced area is marked with the Vertrucht symbol for prisoners you taught me."
"Good," Brim said, nodding out ahead and to his left. "That's it, just off the port bow." He switched off two of the three cable followers. "How'd it go back there?" he asked.
"Like it was programmed, Lieutenant," Barbousse declared. "They never got the first warning out."
Brim smiled to himself. So far, so good, he thought—but the business was far from finished. At about three thousand irals, he eyed the entrance to the hostage compound. He could just make out the rooflines beyond against the sky, and in that instant, the last details of his plan fell into place. "Second and third fieldpieces follow me!" he yelled at the COMM cabinet. "Last three shear off and take out anybody you find at the city-side gate. Got that?"
Five voices returned a confusion of assent just before the last three fieldpieces pulled out of line. The Carescrian grinned and flexed his shoulders. Then he disengaged the third cable follower and leaned hard on the left rudder pedal. His big machine banked wildly and skidded around until it was racing full speed for the gate. The roar of the traction system was deafening in the cab. A glance over his shoulder assured him the other two fieldpieces were in close formation behind him, bobbing and swaying ponderously as they galloped over the uneven ground, battle headlights like the eyes of great steam-breathing nocturnal monsters.
"Halt and identity yourself!" someone yelled over a loud hailer from the guard shack ahead.
Brim opened the phase gate farther and the speed increased again. The big machine was barely under control now, swaying and skidding from side to side, clouds of steam belching from the cooling system and the rain streaming from its sodden flanks. "Buckle in!" he warned.
Ahead, a cluster of figures burst from the guard shack with blast pikes, kneeled, and began to fire, their charges pattering harmlessly against the armored plate of the rampaging fieldpiece.
"Hang on!" Brim yelled over the howl of the straining traction system. Simultaneously, the guards seemed to realize what was about to happen. As one, they dropped their pikes and scattered in all directions—but much too late. Every one disappeared beneath the front of the vehicle into the thrashing torrent of gravity from the raging logic lens. An open-mouthed head suddenly bounced forward into the glow of the battle headlights, rebounded from a rock, and trailed a smeared string of dark red offal across the armored windshield as it joined a ragged upper torso that spun lazily in their wake like a thrown rag doll. Then, with a tearing, shrieking crash, the fieldpiece burst wildly over the guard shack, throwing a torrent of flying debris in all directions.
Brim jammed the thrust sink into full detent amid screeching protest from the traction system; they shuddered to a stop not more than fifty irals from the first four hostage barracks. He glanced over his shoulder again as the other two fieldpieces drew to a skidding halt nearby—the last spun dizzily out of control for a moment before coming to rest precariously against a solid-looking utility building. At the same moment, the sky to his right lit, blazing forth with terrific flashes of disruptor fire, followed by waves of concussion as the last three cannon went to work on whatever League forces they found marshaled at the city-side gate.
Leaving the controls set at a fast idle, he joined the two ratings at the hatch. "You know what to do,"
he yelled over the hiss of the cooling system. "Each of you take a building—get the hostages out quick as you can. Any of 'em can't fly, get 'em on one of the fieldpieces—anywhere. Understand?"
"Understand, Lieutenant," Barbousse answered, then he disappeared over the coaming, followed by Fragonard. Brim clamped his helmet firmly in place and climbed down the ladder after them. Outside, the storm appeared to have run its course. Only a few drops spattered against his faceplate before they were instantly cleared. Ahead, Barbousse was already inside the first building of the first row. Fragonard was heading for the second. To his right in the darkness, Brim made out six other figures heading in a low crouch for the second row of barracks. All the buildings appeared to be dark, both outside and inside.
Unexpectedly, a group of figures dashed from the third building, firing wildly in all directions. One discharge flashed blindingly beside Brim, knocking him from his feet and rolling him across the muddy turf. He lay low for a moment while deadly beams of energy crisscrossed only fractions of an iral above his helmet. Proton grenades flashed coldly in the darkness and guttural shouts filled the air. Then his vision cleared and he clambered stiffly to one knee, took his great side-action blaster from its holster, and, in an Academy-perfect two-hand crouch, blew the nearest Leaguer completely in half. Sodeskayan Bears, he observed, built powerful hand weapons. Moments later, a number of thundering Gantheissers suddenly joined his blaster, and the defenders rapidly disappeared, screaming in a welter of flame and concussion.
An instant later, he was back on his feet and at the entrance to one of the barracks. He blew the latch from the door and burst into the poorly lighted room—where he stopped short shuddering in absolute horror. The stench of rotting flesh alone was almost enough to drive him gagging into the fresh night air.
The far end of the room was filled by a pitiful knot of cadaverous things he guessed once were like the flighted people he had seen aboard Prosperous. Now they were unbelievably emaciated—with shriveled stumps where once there had been wings. No wonder he'd seen no one aloft! He'd been warned—characteristic Triannic pragmatism. He stood for a moment, transfixed, then forced his mind once again into action. "Can any of you walk?" he choked.
"Y-You...an Imperial!" one of them stammered from behind starved, deep-set eyes. "Our hopes are answered."
"Have you come to set us free?" a spectral woman asked in a thin voice.
"Yes," Bum said, his eyes filling with tears. "Can any of you...walk?"
"We can walk if our steps lead to freedom," a gaunt old man with a white beard and spindly, ill-matched wing stumps pronounced somberly. "Freedom of any kind."
Brim fought his emotions back under control. 'Three League fieldpieces wait outside," he said. "Climb aboard—anywhere. They're not very suitable, but..."
"They will serve, young man," another haggard prisoner said. "We shall carry our comrades who can no longer walk. Come, my friends. We make our way to more useful employment."
Brim nodded as the fleshless mass of humanity untangled itself from the end of the room and began to shamble for the door. Outside, he could see other halting lines of people already struggling to reach the waiting vehicles. Barbousse and Fragonard were both in the adjacent barracks as he ran along the walkway. The next building—opened by someone else by now—was a repeat of the last, emptying a pitiful remnant of emaciated bodies with blackened, deep-set eyes and torn, snapped-off wings. Some were already dead, as were many others in the remainder of the barracks he visited.