split seconds before the ground shockwave came to hammer his
feet and shudder the building around him, that the ship was gone. Unit One was
dead! For one sagging moment he was shocked stilL Then, desperately, he threw
the idea away. It didn't matter now. Time to think about it later. Accept it.
Face it. What now? He surged back from Mordin, and the single step brought one
urgency hard into focus. The body-armor was now a hindrance, not. a help.
He
reacted instantly, slapped buckles and fasteners, tore the inert equipment
clear, then hesitated in momentary indecision. Mordin curled a lip at him in
grim understanding.
"What now,
Zorgan?" he challenged.
Bragan
had no time for badinage. His mind spun frantically, juggling a thousand
possibilities at once, seeking a pattern. He stepped rapidly back to the
discarded armor and grabbed a long-bladed chrome-steel machete, the only weapon
still operable. Sparking intuition warned him that the Scar-tanni must have
planned further ahead than just the simple destruction of the ship, however
they had done it. They would attack in some way. No point, then, in joining up
with troopers. They'd be an obvious mark. He had to get away.
Alone!
He spun and caught up a heavy chair, clasped it to his chest with the legs
aimed in front, and ran full-tilt against the far wall.
The impact winded him and hurt his ribs, but
he went through, snorting and coughing in a shower of shards and dust, to find
himself in a smaller and deserted room. Memory served to
help him guess where he was. He aimed at a wall again, full-tilt, grunted at
the shock, blew the clouds of stone-dust from his mouth and nostrils, and he
was outside. He discarded the chair, made another fast guess, and ran. Across
the sidewalk, leaping the gutter, and off to his left down the road. He hoped,
was reasonably sure, that he was heading directly away from the ship. If so,
then not too far ahead there should be the river, and a bridge. Then some
lesser buildings, a warehouse or two, more small buildings, and then open
country. There was no point, now, in thinking any farther than that. If he got
that far he would be lucky and it would be time to plan again.
Spitting
stone-dust from his mouth and slapping it from his clothes, he ran steadily,
not too fast, knowing he had a long
way to go. As he ran he had time to harry his mind with the big question.
How—had they managed to scupper the ship? He could imagine all kinds of
threats, as any good commander must, but never for one moment had he imagined
the loss of the ship. Of all six ships, in fact. It was safe to assume that, he
thought. If they could knock out Four, then Two, then Ons, in rapid succession, then
the rest were out too, by this time. A coordinated effort, obviously. But how,
and with what? The question bubbled in his mind and brought fear, but no
answers. He let it go and concentrated on his running.
And
braked to a skidding halt at a corner, warned by the noise of conflict.
Carefully edging, he peered around and saw a skimmer flat down on the road,
powerless and useless. And five troopers, backed into a huddle and struggling
clumsily in armor to defend themselves against the agile onslaught of about
thirty Scartanni. There were men and women in even proportions, and each one
armed with a metal rod of some kind, dodging and leaping in and out, pausing
only to deliver a hefty wallop and away.
The troopers had no chance at all. The armor
that took some of the sting of the blows also took all the spring out of their
movements. As Bragan watched, heaving for breath, he saw one man go down
heavily. And he couldn't get up, not with that dead load on him. The Scartanni
pressed harder. A faceplate shattered, and another man went down.
Bragan
turned away, chose a side-turning, and ran on, laboring for breath and with
sagging hopes. He was not a superstitious man, but the dread fingers of fear
began to reach for him now, to tell him that this was unnatural work, that
these odd
feet and shudder the building around him, that the ship was gone. Unit One was
dead! For one sagging moment he was shocked stilL Then, desperately, he threw
the idea away. It didn't matter now. Time to think about it later. Accept it.
Face it. What now? He surged back from Mordin, and the single step brought one
urgency hard into focus. The body-armor was now a hindrance, not. a help.
He
reacted instantly, slapped buckles and fasteners, tore the inert equipment
clear, then hesitated in momentary indecision. Mordin curled a lip at him in
grim understanding.
"What now,
Zorgan?" he challenged.
Bragan
had no time for badinage. His mind spun frantically, juggling a thousand
possibilities at once, seeking a pattern. He stepped rapidly back to the
discarded armor and grabbed a long-bladed chrome-steel machete, the only weapon
still operable. Sparking intuition warned him that the Scar-tanni must have
planned further ahead than just the simple destruction of the ship, however
they had done it. They would attack in some way. No point, then, in joining up
with troopers. They'd be an obvious mark. He had to get away.
Alone!
He spun and caught up a heavy chair, clasped it to his chest with the legs
aimed in front, and ran full-tilt against the far wall.
The impact winded him and hurt his ribs, but
he went through, snorting and coughing in a shower of shards and dust, to find
himself in a smaller and deserted room. Memory served to
help him guess where he was. He aimed at a wall again, full-tilt, grunted at
the shock, blew the clouds of stone-dust from his mouth and nostrils, and he
was outside. He discarded the chair, made another fast guess, and ran. Across
the sidewalk, leaping the gutter, and off to his left down the road. He hoped,
was reasonably sure, that he was heading directly away from the ship. If so,
then not too far ahead there should be the river, and a bridge. Then some
lesser buildings, a warehouse or two, more small buildings, and then open
country. There was no point, now, in thinking any farther than that. If he got
that far he would be lucky and it would be time to plan again.
Spitting
stone-dust from his mouth and slapping it from his clothes, he ran steadily,
not too fast, knowing he had a long
way to go. As he ran he had time to harry his mind with the big question.
How—had they managed to scupper the ship? He could imagine all kinds of
threats, as any good commander must, but never for one moment had he imagined
the loss of the ship. Of all six ships, in fact. It was safe to assume that, he
thought. If they could knock out Four, then Two, then Ons, in rapid succession, then
the rest were out too, by this time. A coordinated effort, obviously. But how,
and with what? The question bubbled in his mind and brought fear, but no
answers. He let it go and concentrated on his running.
And
braked to a skidding halt at a corner, warned by the noise of conflict.
Carefully edging, he peered around and saw a skimmer flat down on the road,
powerless and useless. And five troopers, backed into a huddle and struggling
clumsily in armor to defend themselves against the agile onslaught of about
thirty Scartanni. There were men and women in even proportions, and each one
armed with a metal rod of some kind, dodging and leaping in and out, pausing
only to deliver a hefty wallop and away.
The troopers had no chance at all. The armor
that took some of the sting of the blows also took all the spring out of their
movements. As Bragan watched, heaving for breath, he saw one man go down
heavily. And he couldn't get up, not with that dead load on him. The Scartanni
pressed harder. A faceplate shattered, and another man went down.
Bragan
turned away, chose a side-turning, and ran on, laboring for breath and with
sagging hopes. He was not a superstitious man, but the dread fingers of fear
began to reach for him now, to tell him that this was unnatural work, that
these odd
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