Crystal Dragon (36 page)

A sudden downburst of wind raised dust in a swirl. Jela threw an arm over his eyes; the wind struck again, lifting him off his feet as if he were no more substantial than a leaf, then set him smartly down again.

He staggered, recovered his footing, lifted the shielding arm away from his eyes—and looked directly into startled face of M Sergeant Lorit.

"I need to talk to command," he gasped. "Immediately."

"We are not," Arin said sternly, "aborting this project and going off to Solcintra on the say-so of the old M soldier. We do not take orders from M soldiers; we take orders from Uncle, who—"

"Arin," Dulsey broke in. "The devices are calling the Enemy
here
. Whether or not we take Pilot Jela's advice regarding our destination, it might well be prudent to load what we can now and lift out."

"How close d'you think the Enemy is?" Jakoby asked in her ragged whisper. "Even if the devices have networked and put out a call for aid, it's going to take some time to transition from the raw end of never—"

"We don't know," Fern said, quietly, not looking up from her work, "where the Enemy
is
, Jakoby. I remember hearing tales of crews put to sleep with their ships, parked off the traveled routes, waiting. When the Enemy needs them, up they wake, with their destination already coded into the nav-brain."

"Baby-stories," Jakoby scoffed. "The Enemy is no more or less—"

"Arin," Dulsey said urgently. "We should go. I think that Pilot Jela has the right of it. We do not wish to be caught in a battle for this planet."

"No," Arin said sharply. He looked at each of them in turn. "I am the team leader, Uncle's representative on this project. We will complete our assignment. I checked the ship-boards last night. There's a freighter due in within the next two local days. When it's on-port, I'll negotiate for space with the captain."

"Arin—" Dulsey began, and he rounded on her, eyes snapping.

"That is my final word!"

Dulsey's mouth tightened and her shoulders sagged.

"Yes, Arin," she said softly.

At which point, the workroom went away.

CANTRA EASED OPEN the door at the top of the stair, wincing as the noise hit her: klaxons, people yelling, and the unintelligible drone of an automated voice. Carefully, she looked both ways, then slipped out into the hall and relocked the door. The ruckus was coming from the street and—she hoped—had nothing to do with her or her little look-see. Straightening her jacket and adjusting the kit over her shoulder, she ambled down the hall to have a closer look.

The noise was both better and worse outside. Worse, because there was more of it. Better because she could finally make out what the autoshout was saying.

"We are on attack standby! Repeat: Attack standby! All citizens are urged to evacuate. Those who choose not to evacuate and who have weapons are advised to arm themselves now and report to the garrison. This is not a drill. This is not a drill. Situation Level Two: Imminent Enemy Action. Message repeats..."

Imminent Enemy action? Loitering in her doorway, Cantra saw some people run, some laugh. Most just shrugged their shoulders and keep on about their business like announcements of imminent Enemy action were an everyday affair. She watched a woman with a old-style blunderbuss over her shoulder walking purposefully toward the garrison. A couple others followed, including a boykid with an energy pistol strapped to his leg. All in all, not much help to the garrison, if an Enemy attack really was imminent.

At least, Cantra thought with a sigh, she knew exactly where to find Jela.

She eased herself out into a lull in traffic, thinking to check the needle-gun riding in its inside pocket. She'd left her heavy weaponry on the ship, not having expected to need it on a snoop job, and set out toward the garrison at a light jog.

FERN WAS WEBBED into the pilot's chair; Arin sitting co-pilot. Dulsey and Jakoby were strapped into the jumpseats behind each pilot.

"How—" Jakoby began, but her broken whisper was overridden by Fern's crisp, "Co-pilot, report!"

"My screens are clear, Pilot," Arin replied, his voice shaking only a little. "We are in transition."

"We are," Fern agreed, her fingers busy on her board. "How and why can wait until we are certain that the ship is hale and functioning as it should. Systems check, if you please. All remain strapped in until the pilots give the aye."

There was silence while the pilots worked. Then—

"The ship is secure," Fern announced. "Unstrap at will." It was, Dulsey thought, notable that she herself did not unstrap.

"If the pilot pleases," she said softly. "May we know our condition and course?"

Fern sighed. "We're on course for Solcintra, Dulsey. Your M seems to have the means to enforce his ...suggestions."

"No mere soldier could have instantly transported us from the workroom to our ship, already in transition, with a destination coded in!" Arin protested. Fern shrugged.

"Can or can't, that's what we have."

"We need to change course," Arin said firmly. "There's no need for us to raise Solcintra."

"Yes, there is," said Fern, at last unstrapping and rising in a single, fluid dancer's motion. She met each of their eyes in turn. "The course is
locked
. Pilot's override is non-functional."

SOLDIERS WERE COMING out of the inner gate in pairs, moving with that same ground-eating quick-walk that was so frustrating in Jela. Wide-shouldered and solid, clad in military 'skins; heavy, dual-energy rifles held at ready; helmets on, face-screens down, they were disconcertingly alike, and not a little frightening. Cantra faltered, staring.
Jela's mates
, she thought. Those calm and faceless forces of destruction moving out quick and light to face the incoming Enemy—
This is what Jela was bred to love
.

Which meant, she reminded herself forcefully, that the man was likely in the garrison, getting 'skinned up, and in need of a sharp talking to on the subject of getting to his ship and off-planet before jolly hell broke loose. She only hoped the garrison folks would count her friend rather than foe at the gate.

She moved into the jog again, pushing past the crowd that had gathered to watch the soldiers march out, like it was some kind of play-parade, instead of an earnest deployment against a fast-approaching doom.

"Cantra!" His shout was 'way too loud in her ear, his fingers too hard 'round her arm as he dragged her back out of the crowd.

Concentrating on keeping her feet, she let him pull her clear, then dug her heels in, thinking it was going to hurt something bad if he dislocated her arm.

Fortunately, he was paying more attention than that, though he did scowl at her, and if she didn't have bruises on her arm the size and shape of Jela's fingers for this day's work, it would be through no fault of his.

"You've got to get to
Dancer
!" He yelled at her. "Now!"

Jela wasn't quite in full battle dress, she saw with relief. He'd thrown on a flak vest and grabbed himself up a rifle, which was only prudent, given the circumstances, and he wore a light helmet with an embedded com-set. There were marks on the helmet that looked like some of that silly new-soldier script, and some bright silver bars on the shoulders of the vest.

"I was coming for you!" She yelled back at him. "Let's go!"

He nodded and started off at his quick not-run, she jogging after—and six full-'skinned soldiers fell in behind and at the sides, weapons up, status lights glowing ready.

Might be the escort was heading to occupy the port, she thought, as the substantial wing of them sliced through the crowd. That would make sense. The port could need defending.

It comforted Cantra some little bit that their party grew as they rushed on—it seemed that one in every ten or twelve of the soldiers was getting direction from somewhere, or saw Jela's helmet or vest and knew that they were heading toward the proper duty station.

SHE HADN'T RUN so far in a long time; and it was a good thing she'd had time to heal up from the strain of being a scholar. Their group moved with a quiet clatter; and now over all came new sounds, the sound of firing somewhere, out toward the mines Dulsey and her team were working—and of an attempt to bring order. The port gate was half-shut as they approached, a single forlorn police-type with a hand gun nervously eyeing them as they ran toward her.

"Attention! Attention!" The autoshout gave out. "Enemy soldiers on the ground in Druidill Park. Enemy ground action to east and south of Wister. Enemy forces emerging from the Southard mines. Repeat! Enemy soldiers at the mines. The planet is under attack! All soldiers to stations! All civilians to cover!"

Their group was through the gate, the policewoman giving way gladly to the soldiers, and flat-out running across the near-empty yard,
Dancer
before them. From the left, another, smaller, squad was approaching, their battle dress slightly different from—

"Enemy in sight!" Jela shouted. "Intercept!"

Three of their escort peeled off in the direction of the interlopers.

The rest of them ran for the ship, and there were more soldiers in those subtly different battle 'skins coming in, Cantra saw. Hundreds of them.

"Perimeter three!" Jela ordered, without breaking stride. "Expanding circle!"

Half their little troop responded instantly, deploying toward the advancing enemy.

"Go!" Jela roared, and the rest of their escort was gone, running and firing, and it was only the two of them and
Dancer's
ramp right there!

Around them the sounds of firing intensified, and in the distance the chatter of heavier weapons sounded. There were sounds of ricochets, likely off the space-hard hull of
Dancer
herself.

"Up!" Jela shouted, a solid presence behind her; his weapon up and firing ad they advanced. She jumped the "Captain's Out" barrier, landed light on her feet and ran the rest of the way, never faster, knowing he was behind her, triggered the hatch, ducked in, turned—

He halfway to the unstoppable wave of the enemy, dodging and firing, and there was no way—

"Jela!" She screamed, but he didn't hear her. Couldn't possibly hear her.

"GO!" His voice came back to her over the terrific noise of the fighting. "Damn you, Cantra,
GO
!"

She took one more look out over the port and the plain beyond, at the steady stream of soldiers in the wrong color 'skins—and she went.

"...GO!"

The plan, in so far as there was a plan, was working. He'd brought troops to the port, intercepted a rash attempt to take the field, gotten Cantra to her ship. Now to clear launch room...

"Expanding perimeter!" he ordered. "Charge fifty paces!"

He was among them now, his troops, and they were doing well. They were advancing, they were pushing the stunned enemy back against their own on-rushing troops, creating consternation.

Into his head stormed the largest dragon the tree had ever shown him, wings black and terrible, scattering dozens of the less mighty with roar, tooth and talon—

Before him, he saw the enemy scuttle, retreat, fall.

He picked a target, fired; fired again, a head shot, then the next...

The cermacrete trembled as the mass of
Spiral Dance
lifted on maneuvering jets behind him.

"Down all!" he shouted.

Following his own order, he fell forward, let the steam and gas wash over him, and rush out toward the enemy, obscuring everything. He laughed and the dragon in his head echoed him.

There was a glow within the steam; the pulse of low carrier power booming ... and he knew the plan could work. The ship's rising would give them time to gather their strength....

And now the steam was thinning. Time to move.

"Ahead fire four count, charge ten paces!"

He came up with his troops, never doubting that they'd drive the enemy back to the perimeter. The dragon in his head screamed defiance and he echoed it at full volume into the mic and across the field!

"Back to their holes! Chase them back! No prisoners, no surrender!"

He jumped a downed comrade, and another, fired ahead, felt the presence of someone too close, had time to swing the butt of his gun into a yielding face, fell, got up—numbness was growing in his left leg, but he refused to notice it, shot again, but now the noise wasn't right, he couldn't separate his own yelling from the sounds of the weapons.

A quick glance behind showed three of his own and an X with a bloody grinning face, firing his weapon one-handed, screaming along with him. His right arm went numb, and the gun slid away—but no matter—his knife came to his left hand and he brought it about, his leg not quite giving him the distance he wanted and not working at all, really, but there was the enemy within reach—

Black wings roared in his ears, or it was it
Dancer
lighting up full thrust? Hah! The ship was lifting! His knife was gone, wrenched out his hand as the enemy fell. He snatched at his belt, freed the wicked ceramic whip with a snap that took the arm off an approaching soldier. Another snap, but his leg gave out and the whip flew out of his fingers—

It was silent on the field; in his head, he could hear the black dragon singing.

Jela sighed a last sigh, and the black dragon lay down beside him. Above them, wings flashing against the brilliant sky, a golden dragon danced.

SHE HIT THE CHAIR hard, called up systems, and screens. She found him almost at once, surrounded, firing, each shot taking its target, but there were too many, too—

They were charging the enemy like a bunch of madmen, giving her room for lift off. She had her eyes on him, and watched his back in the screen as the maneuvering jets puffed their first lift...

"Override, dammit," she spat as the warning bells screamed. "I need some room..."

The ship started a lazy drift, and she lost sight of him, hit the jets harder, setting an auto-orbit switch, saw his back again. Far away, he looked, and so small, leading a knot of soldiers into a sea of Enemy. They'd gained ground somehow, but the tide was turning and—