Thoga blew tiredly. "Well, then." He looked at the guardsman who'd brought the kalifa. "Private," he said, "you've done marvelously well so far. Now you'll have to help me." He went to a cabinet and opened the doors. Instruments lay inside, wrapped in clear plastic. "We'll see what we can do. And hope for the best."
The Kalif crouched at the window, Sergeant Yalabiin beside him. It was a ground-floor window; there were none higher in the House of SUMBAA. Outside, the rebels held the quadrangle, more or less. A number of armored troop carriers lay parked where they'd landed, their turrets erupting spasmodically with heavy automatic weapons fire at the surrounding buildings. Occasionally he saw rebel soldiers move, quickly and low, under light fire from windows. He couldn't see the palace except for a couple of its roofs, but he could see smoke rising from it. Light troop carriers were visible on the roof of the Administration Building.
He wondered where Tain was. How she was. He told himself she was a survivor, but was not greatly reassured by the thought. If she was harmed and he came through it all… He banished the train of thought. This wasn't the time for it.
He'd seen from other windows what had happened to the Guard barracks and the Bachelor Apartments. It was surprising that so many guardsmen had gotten out alive and with their rifles. As for the bachelor exarchs and collegial staff caught at their breakfasts…
He'd been lucky. He and Yalabiin had just finished their workout when the first bombs struck, and had ducked into the House of SUMBAA. A dozen or so other guardsmen had come in afterward, in off-duty uniforms but armed and some with helmets.
The building had very few windows, and a casual move by rebel troops to get in had been repulsed by automatic rifle fire from what windows there were. They'd scarcely fired back, and afterward had stayed clear. Obviously they'd been told in advance not to fire on the House of SUMBAA; to govern and administer the empire would be virtually impossible if the great computer was out of order. The Kalif in turn had told the guardsmen inside not to fire except to repel attacks.
He wondered what would happen if the rebels knew he was inside. Right now things were disordered, chaotic out there. But sooner or later, unless something intervened, they'd take the rest of the Sreegana. And discover that no one had seen what had to be their principal quarry.
He wondered what the Capital Division was doing. These rebels were not Caps, he knew that from their transports.
**
Colonel Vilyamo Parsavamaatu stuck his neck out, literally, made a quick scan, and pulled it in again. Bursts of bullets struck the marble wall outside, several coming through the shot-out window to strike inner walls and ceiling. One of the guardsmen stepped up beside the window and threw out one of their too few grenades. A building entrance was directly below them, and this was one way to discourage a rebel rush on it.
The rebels effectively controlled the quadrangle, and greatly superior rebel firepower inhibited firing out at them through windows. On top of that, there were rebels a few floors above him, trying to battle their way downward, with all the advantages that elevation gave them.
Unless the Caps came, came soon enough, the Sreegana would be lost. An hour at most, given the way things were going. It seemed to the colonel that the Kalif was probably already dead, but Alb Jilsomo, the Kalif's deputy, was alive. It was the Guard's responsibility to protect him now.
Vilyamo considered and decided. Turning, he headed for the door, his aide and his master sergeant close behind. He needed something white, a pillow case maybe.
He went down the stairs three at a time. On the ground floor, guardsmen stood or knelt at corners back from the entrance, rifles ready to repel any rebel rush. The floor was littered with glass from the entryway, the walls gouged and pocked. "Sergeant!" he shouted at one of the men there. A sergeant turned his face to his commander.
Vilyamo almost gave his order openly, then thought better of it. Instead he gestured, and the man followed him a little ways down a corridor. "Sergeant," he said quietly, "I presume you know where the trumpeters' locker is." He referred to the ceremonial trumpeters. "I need a man to do something extremely dangerous. A man about the Kalif's size and build, whose face isn't too different from the Kalif's. Do we have anyone like that?"
"Yessir. Me."
Vilyamo eyed the man critically. Hardly a look-alike, but maybe as good as he'd find. Size and build were close, and the facial structure wasn't too far off. "All right. Go to the clinic and get your head shaved and bandaged. Bandaged down to the ears, and maybe across one cheek, but not hiding your face. Tell whoever does it that you need to look as much like the Kalif as you reasonably can. And send someone to the trumpeters' locker. Have them bring you the Kalif's trumpeter's red cape."
He paused then, thinking. The sergeant was poised to run. Somewhere, automatic weapons fire intensified as if a rush was being made. "If someone can find you a pair of white pants like the exarchs wear, or the Kalif, and if they fit anything like decently, put 'em on."
The sergeant's expression changed as if he just now fully realized what the colonel was getting at.
"Yessir."
"Change into them in the clinic, pants and robe, and splash a little blood on them. Shouldn't have any trouble finding blood around there. Put some blood on the bandage, too, but don't overdo it. Then stay in the clinic, out of sight, until I send for you."
"Yessir."
"All right, that's it. Get after it!"
The sergeant took off running. The colonel turned to his aide. "Fareehu," he said, "go back to the command post. Tell Basar he's in operational charge till I say otherwise. I've got a project to handle. Don't tell him what the project is-or what you think it is. Keep your mouth shut about it. Then come to the clinic. I may need you there. Get going!"
The aide, a captain, left at a trot. The colonel turned, and with his sergeant major, started for the clinic himself. That was the place to find a pillow case.
Since the assault battalion had opened the main gate and let in more of the 103rd, its regimental C.O. had taken over direction of the rebel force inside the Sreegana. He'd had his own well-armored command floater fly into the quadrangle. There he'd had it parked with a good view of the Administration Building, the only stronghold left to the Guard, aside from sections of the wall. Obviously the Guard had nothing that could touch him in his floater. If they'd had any anti-armor weapons in their armory, which was doubtful, they hadn't gotten them out after the bombing.
Around him, the floater's interior smelled like a ship's engine room-like metal and oil. Occasional rounds popped against the command floater's hide, a sound dulled by the laminated armor. He didn't notice. He was watching the array of battle screens in front of him.
"Did you see that?" he asked his aide.
The man knew which that his commander referred to. "Yes, Colonel. Looks like a flag of truce."
"Manich!" the commander said, "order a cease fire! We've got a flag of truce out there, and I want to see what it's about. Anyone who fires after the command will answer to me with his ass!"
The assault battalion CO. nodded. "Yes, Colonel!" He wasn't happy with his colonel having taken command of the fighting in the Sreegana-it had started out as his action-but that was life for you.
The colonel watched while the major gave the order, first on radio, then on the floater's loud hailer. "All right," the colonel said. "Now tell the man with the truce flag that I'm sending someone out to meet him. Tell him that if my man is harmed out there, there'll be no negotiations and no prisoners taken. Everyone we get our hands on will die. The wounded-everyone."