Empire Of Man 3 - March to the Stars (57 page)

Now, with the sensor net and—hopefully—the plasma towers under the control of “friendly” forces, the time had come to knock on the front door.

“Well, let's find out what's going to go wrong,” Kosutic said as she dropped out of the bottom of a turom cart into a spider-crouch. She looked up at the open gates and shook her head. “Look out for one-shots; we know there are some around.”

There was virtually no other conversation as the Marines poured out of the carts and through the gates. They broke up into teams of three and four, and spread out through the facility.

“Commo secure,” Julian chanted, trotting after Pahner as they both headed for the governor's quarters. “Armory: a Diaspran took a hit there, but the Marine team has it secured.” A burst of firing sounded from the left, and he checked his pad. “Barracks are holding out, but the situation is secure.”

“Send the second wave of Vashin there,” Pahner said. “Diasprans to remain on call. Shin to the spaceport.”

“Secondary control tower secured,” Julian continued. “Nobody there. Maintenance and repair: no resistance.”

They rounded the Armory and pounded across the manicured lawn of the governor's quarters. Two humans by the front doors were being securely trussed up by Diasprans dressed as lawn maintenance “boys.”

“Servants are secure, Sir,” Sergeant Sri said as he yanked one of the human guards back to his feet. “The governor's in his quarters.”

Pahner followed the schematic, helpfully forwarded from Temu Jin, to the rooms marked on the map, and stopped outside the main doors.

Julian stepped forward and swept the interior with deep radar. Since Roger's unpleasant interaction with the one-shot, they'd all started getting back into “stuff can hurt us even in armor” mode. It took some adjustment—the armor had been the absolute trump card in so many previous encounters—but they were getting there.

“No high-density weapons,” Julian reported as he swept the sensor wand back and forth. “A twelve-millimeter bead pistol. That's it.”

Pahner considered the door's controls for a moment, then shrugged and kicked at the memory plastic until he'd inflicted sufficient damage to encourage it to dilate. He stepped through it, then cursed as a bead round bounced off his armor.

“Oh, this is lovely,” he snarled.

Julian followed him through and shook his head as he saw the naked, trembling boy in the middle of the bed. The boy—he couldn't have been much more than ten—had grave difficulty just holding up the heavy bead pistol, but his expression was almost as determined as it was terrified.

“Put that thing down, you little idiot,” Pahner told him severely over his armor's external speakers. “Even if you manage to hit me again, it'll only bounce off and hurt somebody. Where's the governor?”

“I'm not telling you!” the boy yelled. “Ymyr told me not to tell you anything!”

“Bathroom,” Julian said, and crossed to the bed. He reached out and thumbed the bead pistol to “safe,” then yanked it out of the kid's hands. “Just stay there for a second,” he told him.

Pahner strode across the bedroom. This time, he didn't bother kicking; he just put a bead cannon round through the upper part of the bathroom door after ensuring that his armored body was between the bed and any blow back that might occur.

The bead went through the door, through the wall beyond, through a section of barracks wall, and then headed for the mountains in the distance as Pahner stepped through the door and picked up the naked fat man inside the bathroom by what was left of his hair.

“Governor Mountmarch,” he growled, tilting the official's chin up with the muzzle of the cannon, “it gives me distinct pleasure to place you under arrest for treason. We were going to add all sorts of additional items, but I think we'll just stop at pedophilia. You can only execute someone once.”

“Damn.” Julian grimaced at the sudden yellow puddle on the floor. “Cleanup on Aisle Ten.”

* * *

“That's it?” Roger leaned back in the chair at the head of the conference table. “That's the big fight for the spaceport we've been sweating for the last six months?” He shivered and looked over by the door. “Speaking of sweating, or, rather not, somebody turn the thermostat up.”

Pahner smiled. Then he tapped a control on the surface of the faux-teak table and an image of the planet blossomed above it.

“Well, Your Highness, we had two hundred Vashin and Diasprans,” he said, nodding at Fain and Rastar, who were looking notably lethargic. Julian had set the thermometer at about thirty-five degrees, which was on the low side for Mardukans. “We also had inside help from Agent Jin and almost a thousand Shin.”

“Who expect to be paid,” the Gastan said. “I'll need various gee-gaws to placate the hill clans, but for me, I need weapons. Bead rifles, for preference.”

“Not a problem,” Roger assured him. “We'll get a shipment set up as soon as possible.”

“We've got other needs, as well, Your Highness,” Pahner pointed out. “The troops need to be refitted. We've got base stores on most of the materials, but they'll need to be set and the electronics fitted. That takes the manufactory.”

“We'll set up a schedule,” Roger said. “I hope no one minds if outfitting the troops takes precedence?” He looked around at the shaking heads and gestures of negation. “Good. I want the Vashin and Diasprans outfitted as well.”

“Why?” Pahner asked. “I thought we'd agreed they were going to secure the port, not come with us?”

“Well, they still need uniforms,” Roger replied. “Proper, antiballistic uniforms—I want them running around in better armor than those steel breastplates. And the temperature control will keep them from going into hibernation every evening, too.”

“And there's the taking of this ship to consider,” Rastar commented. “I know you think we can be of no use in that, but I have to differ. Our place is in battle with the prince and his Marines.”

“Rastar,” Roger said uncomfortably, “again, I thank you for the offer. But ships are . . . They're not good places for the untrained to be running around.”

“None the less,” Rastar said, “it is our duty.”

“Well,” Roger said after a moment's thought, “how about if you're backup? We're going to recover the assault shuttles, anyway. We can pack about sixty Mardukans into them, once we pull out all the extraneous gear. If we need you in the assault, we'll call you in. If we don't need you, sorry, you'd really just be in the way. Once we have a ship and you've had a chance to examine it, you'll understand.”

“That's a good point, Your Highness,” Pahner put in. "Actually, they could get a little off-planet training by lofting the shuttles; there's plenty of fuel on the base. And the manufactory can be programmed to fit them with chameleon suits and standard helmets. They won't have all the features of our stuff, but enough. Coms at least, and basic tactical readouts. And thermostats.

“Furthermore,” he smiled thinly, “they can act as bodyguards for you, Your Highness. You realize, of course, that you're not going to be in on the ship assault.”

“Oh?” Roger said dangerously.

“Oh,” the captain replied. “You're Heir Primus now, Your Highness . . . and there is no Heir Secondary or Tertiary. You can't be risked. And, frankly, many of the points you brought up about the Mardukans hold for you. You're not trained in shipboard combat. I'll freely admit that—leaving aside such minor matters as the imperial succession, a little matter of a coup, the need to rescue your Lady Mother, and my personal oath to protect your life at all costs—I'd take you in a Mardukan jungle over a squad of Marines any day. But not in a ship. Different circumstances, different weapons—and you're not trained for either. And it's not a time to let 'natural ability' take its course.”

“So the Mardukans and I sit it out on the planet? While you and the Marines take the ship?”

“That's the right plan, Your Highness,” the sergeant major interjected.

“But—”

“If you decide to overrule me, Your Highness,” the captain said stoically, “I will resign before I'll attempt the action. I will not risk you at this point.”

“Pock,” Roger said bitterly. “You're serious.”

“As a heart attack, Your Highness. You're no longer in a category that can be even vaguely threatened. You are the Heir. I can't stress that enough.”

“Okay,” Roger said, shaking his head. “I'll stay on the ground with the Mardukans.”

“I want your word on that. And no weaseling.”

“I'll stay on the ground . . . unless you call for reinforcements. And take note; if you don't call for reinforcements when you need them, you'll be endangering me. And if you are rendered hors de combat, all bets are off.”

“Agreed,” Pahner said sourly.

“So you'd better take the ship quick,” Roger pointed out.

“That shouldn't be a big deal,” the sergeant major said. “Most tramp freighters are pretty coy about being jacked, for obvious reasons. But we'll have a shielded shuttle, and once we're through the airlock, there's not much they can do with a platoon of Marines on board.”

“You're taking everybody?” Roger asked.

“There are enough suits in the Morgue to outfit all our survivors,” Kosutic pointed out. “It's another thing to toss on Poertena's pile, but it's not like he's busy.”

* * *

Julian strode down the hallway, twisting his shoulders from side to side. The issue uniforms were made of a soft, pleasant cloth, and should have been very comfortable. But the uniform he'd just carefully folded and put away had been on his body for almost eight months. The various cloths of which it was comprised had been worn in. No matter how well-made, or how basically comfortable its fabric, a new uniform always took a certain amount of breaking in.

He forgot his minor discomforts as he rounded a corner on the final approach to the Armory. Besides new uniforms, they were drawing new weapons and turning in the ones they'd wielded for the last half year. Given that most of the bead rifles and grenade launchers with which they'd arrived were suitable only for salvaging as spare parts, he'd simply packed the weapon up and headed for the Armory. Like the uniforms, it made more sense to throw the guns away than store them.

Which was why he stopped with an expression of surprise. Half the remaining Marines were lined up on the floor in the corridor outside the Armory, laboriously cleaning their weapons.

“Don't even bother, man,” Gronningen growled. “Poertena's being a pocking bastard.”

“You're joking.”

“Go ahead,” Macek said tiredly. “See for yourself.”

Julian stepped through the blast doors and shook his head. The new weapons, many of them freshly manufactured, and all of them gleaming with lethal purpose, were arrayed on racks in the back of the Armory, with a mesh security screen between them and the main administrative area. In the front of the large vault was a counter, with a swinging gate on one end and a repair area on the opposite end. Poertena had settled himself behind the counter and was minutely inspecting each weapon that was turned into him.

“Pocking pilthy,” he said, and tossed the grenade launcher back to Bebi. “Bring it back when it clean.”

“Come on, Poertena!” the grenadier snarled. “I've cleaned it twice! And you're just going to DX it anyway!”

“I'm not explaining to Captain Pahner why t'e pocking Inspectorate downcheck my pocking Armory,” the sergeant growled. “Bring it back when it clean.”

“We're planning on overthrowing the Inspectorate!” the grenadier protested, but he left anyway. With the launcher.

“Poertena,” Julian said, “you've got too much to do to be picking over guns with micro-tools!”

“Says you,” the Pinopan replied, and snatched the bead rifle out of Julian's hands. “Barrel dirty!” he said, as he broke the weapon open and checked it. “Silica buildup in t'e pocking discharge tube! Julian, you know better t'an t'at! Nobody gets a pass in t'is Armory!”

“Goddamn it, Poertena, you've got thirty suits to get online!” Julian snapped. “There's a week of solid day-in-day-out work right there. More, probably! Not to mention reconfiguring the manufactory to outfit all the Vashin and Diasprans!”

“I guess I'm going to be too busy,” the armorer replied with a grin. “I hear t'at t'e sergean' major is looking for you, though . . .”

“Ah, there you are, Adib!” Kosutic strode into the Armory. “Poertena, take the sergeant's rifle and find somebody else to clean it. He's going to be rather busy.”

“Oh, no,” Julian groaned. “Come on, Eva.”

“Don't you 'Eva' me, Sergeant,” she said with a grin. “You're fully qualified out on a Class One—I checked your records. And it's going to take a squad to get all the work done, anyway. Fortunately, you're a squad leader.”

“Look,” Julian said mulishly, “I can stand here and argue all day over whether you should pick me or somebody else. And do it well. To start with, I am a squad leader; I'm supposed to manage my squad. You're the one who told me that—”

“Hi, Poertena,” Roger said, as he stepped through the blast door. “I need to turn in my bead pistol and—”

“I'm outta here,” Julian announced, and darted for the exit. “I think you said something about setting up the manufactory, Sergeant Major?”

“What did I say?” Roger asked as Kosutic snickered her way out of the room in Julian's wake, and Poertena snatched the pistol from his hand.

“What? You call t'is po . . . You call t'is clean? You Highness.”

* * *

“Okay, Captain Fain, welcome to Supply Central,” Aburia said as she beckoned for the Mardukan to come through the door.

In deference to the locals' temperature sensitivity, the room had been set at nearly forty degrees. For most humans, it would have been sweltering, but after six months on Marduk, the Marines found it pleasantly cool. Which didn't prevent the corporal from wiping a drop of sweat from her forehead as she gestured to the platform.

“Sir, I'd like you to stand up here, please,” she said. “We're going to measure you for your uniform.”

“This is an odd way,” the Diaspran said. The room was filled with sounds that the Mardukan classified as a triphammer, and also a peculiar rushing noise. The most prominent feature, though, was a low vibration through the floor that Fain found very unpleasant.