The Domination, page 93
The horse shied violently at the ghouloon’s roar and the crack of the firearms, enough to throw him a dozen paces further as he fell.
Damp gravel pounded into his back, jarring, but he scarcely noticed. Not when the transgene struck the horse at the end of its flight; the big gelding went over with a scream of fear, and for a moment the two animals were a thrashing pile on the surface of the road. Just long enough to flick the selector on his pistol to full-automatic and brace it with both hands. Wofor rose over the prostrate body of the horse, looming like a black mountain of muscle and fur, yellow eyes and bone-spike teeth.
Even with a muzzle brake, the Tolgren was difficult to control on full-automatic. The American solved the problem by starting low enough that the first round shattered a knee, letting the torque empty the magazine upward into the transgene’s center of mass. Wofor’s own weight slewed him around when the knee buckled, and the massive animal slammed into the ground at full tilt, a diagonal line across his torso sawn open by the shrapnel effect of the prefragmented bullets. The earth shook with the impact. Lefarge yelled relief as the pistol emptied itself, screamed again as the ghouloon’s one good hand clamped on his ankle. Dying, it still gripped like a pneumatic press, crushing the bone beneath the boot leather and dragging his leg toward the open jaws. The human twisted, raised his other leg and hacked down on the transgene’s thumb with the metal-shod heel of the boot; once, twice and then there was a crackling sound. He rolled, pulled free, came to his feet with a stab of pain up the injured limb.
Boot will hold it, he thought with savage concentration, as his hands slapped another cassette into the weapon.
Marya was running down the line of cars; the blond Draka lay on the ground, her hands to her belly. Lefarge hobbled forward, felt a stab of concern at the spreading red stain on the side of his sister’s jacket.
“Just a graze, first car in the row, go, go, go!” she shouted. At each car she paused just long enough to pump three rounds into the communicator; even so, she was in time to help him into the first as he hop-stepped to safety.
“Let’s go,” he snarled, wrenching at the controls as she tumbled through the entrance on the other side. The turbines shrieked and the aircar rose on fan thrust, just high enough to clear the treetops before he rammed the throttles forward. The SD would not shoot down a planter’s car, not until they got confirmation, and Marya had delayed that a vital fifteen minutes. At worst, a clean death when a heatseeker blew their craft out of the sky; at best, they would make it.
“We did it,” he breathed. Something slackened in the center of his body, and pain shot up the leg from the savaged ankle.
“We—did,” Marya replied. She was fumbling in the first aid box. “We . . . did.”
“I didn’t know that,” Yolande said, looking down at the body of her cousin.
The eyes stared empty upwards into the rain, and the steady silver fall washed the blood pale-pink out of the sodden cloth. The ambulance took off with a scream of fans; Mandy would be in that, and John riding beside her. Myfwany put an arm about her shoulders.
“You couldn’t, sweet,” she said. “If’n Alexandra couldn’t tell, how could you? Y’hardly met them.”
“Oh?” Yolande shook her head, and indicated the ghouloon; Wofor was not quite dead, though far beyond help. He had crawled the ten yards from the broken-backed horse with one good arm and one leg, trailing the shattered limbs and most of his blood. Now he lay with his head at Alexandra’s feet, and Yolande crouched to shelter his head from the rain.
“Not that,” she said softly, as the last trickle of sound escaped the fanged mouth and the labored breathing stopped. Her hand indicated the ghouloon, touched its muzzle. A bubble of blood burst at the back of its throat. “I didn’t know these could cry, is all.”
Chapter Ten
NEW YORK CITY
FEDERAL CAPITAL DISTRICT
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
DECEMBER 31, 1975
“Should auld acquaintance be forgooot—”
“I hate that bloody song,” Frederick Lefarge muttered, taking another sip of his drink. The room was hazy with smoke, and flickering light and music came through the door from the dance floor; the room smelled of tobacco and beer. More and more of the patrons at the bar were linking arms and swaying, attempting a Scottish accent as they sang.
It reminds me of Andy. Forget that.
O’Grady’s was supposed to be picturesque, a real Old New York hangout and Irish as all hell. The wainscotting was dark oak, and the walls of the booths were padded in dark leather as well; there were hunting prints and landscapes on the walls. It was crowded as all hell tonight, and noisy, but Cindy had swung a private booth just for them; some noncom friend of her dad’s ran the place. The food was better than passable, and the sides of the booth made conversation possible. There was a viewscreen on the opposite wall, showing the crowds outside in Jefferson Square, and the big display clock on the Hartmann Tower. Ten minutes to midnight, and the screen began flashing between views. Different cities all over the Alliance, Sao Paulo, London, Djakarta, Sydney. The Lunar colonies—they could almost be called cities themselves, now—and the cramped corridors of the asteroid settlements. A shot from low orbit, the great curve of Earth rolling blue and lovely.
“Don’t be such a grouch, honey,” Cindy said, and nibbled at his ear. Lefarge laughed and put an arm around her waist, always a pleasant experience. “You were happy enough after dinner.”
“There were just the two of us then,” he said.
“Grrr, tiger!” Another nibble on his ear. “And I’ve got some news for you, darling.”
“What?” he asked, raising the glass to his lips.
Cindy Guzman had had only two glasses of white wine with seltzer, but there was a gleam in her eye he knew of old. She was sitting in a corner of the booth, looking cool and chic in the long black dress with the pearl-and-gold belt. Her legs were curled up under her; the glossy dark-red hair fell in waves over her shoulder, and the diamond-shaped cutout below the yoke neck showed the upper curve of her breasts. The glass in his hand halted and he sat motionless, utterly contented just to look. She gave off an air of . . . wholesomeness, he thought, which was strange; you expected that word to go along with some thick-ankled corn-fed maiden from the boonies, not the brightest and sexiest woman he had ever known. It was like a draught of cool water, like . . . coming home.
“Miss?” Lefarge started slightly. It was old Terrance Gilbert, the proprietor, a CPO on one of Cindy’s dad’s pigboats back when. He gave the young woman a look of fond pride and Lefarge one of grudging approval. “Will there be anything else, Miss?”
“Not right now, Chief,” Cindy said. “Happy New Year.”
“And to you, Miss. Sir.” Lefarge was in uniform tonight, the major’s leaves on his shoulders; the owner nodded before he disappeared into the throng.
“Finish your drink, darling,” Cindy said.
He sipped. “What was the news, honey?” he asked.
“I’m pregnant.”
He coughed, sending a spray of brandy out his nose; Cindy thumped him on the back with one hand and offered a handkerchief with the other.
“The devil you say!”
“Dr. Blaine’s sure,” she said tranquilly. “Aren’t you happy? We will have to move up the wedding, of course.”
She flowed into his arms, and they kissed. Noise and smoke vanished; so did time, until someone blew a tin horn into his ear. Cindy and he broke from their clinch and turned, he scowling and she laughing. It was Marya and her current boyfriend—cursed if I can remember his name . . . yeah, Steve. Wish she’d pick a steady—in party hats and a dusting of confetti.
“It isn’t 2400 yet,” Marya said, sliding into the other side of the booth. Her face was flushed, but only he could have told she had been drinking; there was no slur in her voice, and the movements were quick and graceful.
She’s a damned attractive woman, Lefarge thought. In a strong-featured athletic way, but there were plenty of men who liked that. Plenty who liked her intelligence and sardonic humor, as well, but she seemed to sheer off from anything lasting. Hell, this isn’t the time to worry.
They all turned to watch the screen again; it was coming around to time for the countdown to midnight. It blanked, and there was a roar of protest from the crowd, redoubled when an NPS newscaster appeared. Sheila Gilbert, he remembered; something of a star of serious news analysis, a hook-nosed woman with a patented smile. She looked . . . frightened out of her wits, he thought suddenly. And it took something fairly hairy to do that to a professional like Gilbert. There was a sudden feeling like a trickle of ice down his stomach to his crotch: fear. Lefarge and Marya glanced at each other and back at the screen.
“ . . . President Gupta Rao of the Progressive Party has committed suicide.”
“Shit!” Lefarge whispered.
“I repeat, the President of the Indian Republic has shot himself; the body was found in his office only two hours ago. The suicide note contains a confession, confirmed by other sources in the Indian capital . . . ” More shouting from the customers, but less noisy; Lefarge strained to hear, and then the volume went up. “ . . . Hindi Raj militants have documentary proof that OSS agents were responsible for planting the information which led to the Hamburger Scandal and the disgrace of late presidential candidate Rashidi. Riots have been reported in Allahabad and—”
It was a full ten seconds before Lefarge felt Cindy’s tugging on his arm. Gently, he laid a finger over her mouth and looked at his sister.
“We’d better—”
“Attention!” The civil-defense sigil came on the viewer, cutting into the newscast. “Alliance Defense Forces announcement. All military personnel Category Seven and above please report to your duty stations. I repeat—”
DRAKA FORCES BASE ANTINOOUS
PROVINCE OF BACTRIA
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
JANUARY 14, 1976: 1500 HOURS
“ ’Tent-hut!”
The briefing room was in the oldest section of the base, built fifty years before, when this had been part of newly conquered northern Afghanistan. Built for biplanes, ground-support craft dropping fragmentation bombs and poison gas on the last badmashi rebels in the hills, when the Janissary riflemen had flushed them out. Yolande blinked at the thought: two generations . . . her own parents squalling infants, way down in the Old Territories. Her birthplace still outside the Domination . . . A few banners and trophies on the walls, otherwise plain whitewash and brown tile.
Fifty years from biplanes to the planets, Yolande thought as she saluted. Not bad.
“Service to the State!”
“Glory to the Race!” A crisp chorus from every throat.
“At ease.” The hundred-odd pilots sank back into their chairs.
The hooting of the wind came faintly through the thick concrete walls, and the air was crackling dry. There was very little outside that you would want to see. Pancake-flat irrigated farmland hereabouts, near the Amu Darya, and the climate was nearly Siberian in winter; even more of a backwater than Italy, unless you were interested in archaeology. The hunting was not bad, some tiger in the marshes along the river, and snow leopard in the mountains. Quite beautiful up there, in an awesome sort of way; the Hindu Rush made the Alps look like pimples. Otherwise nothing to do but fly and study, almost like being back at the Academy. She and Myfwany had both passed their Astronautical Institute finals last month, and could expect transfer soon. Now that would be something . . .
“The balloon’s going up day after tomorrow.”
The squadron commander grinned at them with genial savagery. Her nickname among the pilots was Mother Kali, and not without reason. There was a collective rustle of attention. Yolande felt a lurch below the breastbone, and reached out to squeeze her lover’s hand.
“Here’s the basic situation.” The wall behind her lit with a map of the Indian subcontinent; the Domination flanked it to the north and west, the Indian Ocean and the ancient Draka possession of Ceylon to the south.
“The Indians pulled out of the Alliance last week, aftah the head-hunters revealed the little nasty the Alliance OSS pulled on they last election . . . but it’s almighty confused. Burma”—an area in the lower right corner shaded from white to gray—“counterseceded back to the Alliance, and there was fightin’ in Rangoon. Alliance seems to have won, worse luck. We’ve stayed conspicuously peaceful”—a snicker of laughter ran through the room—“which put the secessionists firmly in power in New Delhi. Just long enough fo’ the ground an’ air units the Indians were contributin’ to the Alliance to transfer their allegiance to the new Indian Republic, but not long enough fo’ them to settle their share of the orbital assets. We’ve recognized the new government, an’ they’ve reciprocated. Nice of them.”
Another wave of chuckles. “Which means as of the present everybody has recognized the new government as sovereign. But.” The squadron commander tapped her pointer into a gloved hand. “But, the Alliance hasn’t yet signed a defense treaty with the Republic, which has no credible nuclear strike force or defenses. We’ve got a window of opportunity; now we’re goin’ jump through, shootin’. Calculation is that the Alliance will run around screamin’ and shoutin’ and do fuck-all fo’ the week or so we need to overrun India. We’ll carefully avoid any provocation elsewhere, or in space. Now, befo’ I proceed to the tactical situation, any questions?”
“Ma’am?” A man’s voice, from the seat on the other side of Myfwany.
Yolande turned to look at him. Pilot Officer Timothy Wellington; a slim man of middle height, with a conservative side-crop and a seal-brown mustache, a jaunty white scarf tucked into his black flight overall. She gritted her teeth and fought back a flush. Not that he was a bad sort. City boy from Peking; knowledgeable about the visual arts, worth talking to on poetry. She had even quite enjoyed the several occasions when Myfwany had invited him over for the night. I just wish he’d learn not to presume on acquaintance, she thought. Also that Myfwany would slap him down more often. He had been hanging around entirely too much lately.
“What if the Alliance treat it as an attack on they own territory?” Wellington said.
The commander shrugged. “Everybody dies,” she answered. “Any other questions?”
He sat down and leaned over to whisper in Myfwany’s ear; she turned a laugh into a cough. Yolande keyed her notebook and poised to record, elbowing her friend surreptitiously in the ribs: This is important.
“Our role will be to interdict the medium-high altitudes. We’re doin’ this invasion from a standin’ start, can’t mobilize without scaring the prey back into the Yankee camp. We expect the Alliance to continue feedin’ the Indians operational intelligence. No way we can complain of that as hostile activity. Our preliminary sweep will be—”
“Woof,” Myfwany said, as they cleared the doorway. “And to think, only yesterday I was complainin’ on how dull everythin’ is around here!”
Yolande nodded, standing closer for the comfort of body warmth. “Some of that schedulin’ looks tricky; we’re dependin’ hard-like on the groundpounders takin’ the forward bases.”
She stretched. “Well, let’s go catch dinner.” Their squadron had always been theoretically tasked with neutralizing Alliance turboram assets in India . . . in the Final War nobody had been expecting. This won’t be the Final, she told herself firmly. Images of thermonuclear fire blossoming across Claestum painted themselves on the inside of her eyelids, and she shivered slightly. Nobody’s that crazy, not even us. I hope.
“Ah—” Myfwany hesitated, then leaned against the corridor wall. “Ah, actually, sweetlin’, Tim sort of invited me ovah to his quarters fo’ the evenin’ and night. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Oh.” Yolande swallowed. A pulse beat in her neck. “Mmm, was I included in the invite?”
“I’m sure Tim wouldn’t mind ’tall, if’n you wants to, sweet.”
“I—” Yolande looked aside for a moment. “Let’s go, then.”
CENTRAL INDIAN FRONT
15,000 METERS
JANUARY 16, 1976: 1400 HOURS
“Shitshitshit,” Yolande muttered to herself. Myself and the flight recorder, thought some remote corner of her mind.
The canopy of the Falcon Vl-a went black above her for an instant. Automatic shielding against optical-frequency lasers—the Alliance platforms in LEO had decided that that did not constitute intervention, and all the Draka orbital battle stations could do was to respond in kind. She banked, and acceleration slammed her against the edge of the clamshell, vision graying. The Indian P-70 was still dodging, banking; they were at Mach 3, and if he went over the border into Alliance airspace the battle stations would not let him back in. There was no way to dodge orbital free-electron lasers; they could slash you out of the sky in seconds . . . as the Alliance platforms would do to her if she followed the Indian too far.
“Bing!” Positive lock on her Skorpion AAM.
“Away!” she barked. The computer fired, and the Falcon shuddered; on the verge of tumbling as the brief change in airflow struck. The canopy cleared, and she had a glimpse of the missile streaking away. Then her fingers were moving on the pressure pads, cut thrust, bank-turn-dive, and the red line on the console map coming closer and closer. Closer, too close.
