My heavy lift sled sets down outside the ring of blazing buildings and releases the tiedowns fastened to my treads. I engage drive engines and begin a rapid circle of the town’s perimeter. A complete circuit reveals no trace of enemy personnel outside the ring of blazing buildings. In this, at least, I have been effective. But I must deal with the fires my HE rounds have ignited before the flames destroy what little Rustenberg’s miners have managed to salvage.
My commander has the same thought, for she says, “All right, Senator, if it’s burning, knock it down. We’ll salvage what’s left in the buildings that haven’t burned yet, then knock them down, too. I want a good, clear perimeter around this place.”
“Understood, Commander.”
I wade into the burning mass, grinding down blazing timbers and crushing plascrete walls to rubble. My commander punches controls to initiate radio transmission, muttering, “Those people have to be terrified, with all the explosions out here. It’s going to be hard enough on them, when they see how much they’ve just lost. Rustenberg, this is Captain Alessandra DiMario, Third Dinochrome Brigade. Do you copy? Repeat, this is Captain Alessandra DiMario. Are you receiving?”
Static greets us for zero point eight seven seconds. Then a human voice responds, a woman’s voice, babbling in tones of semihysteria. “Oh, my God, are you really here? Was that your guns firing, just now? We thought—never mind what we thought, oh, thank God you’ve finally come!”
“Sorry it took our transport so long to reach you. Where are you?”
“Underground,” the woman answers. Excited voices erupt through the open radio link somewhere close to her. “We used the mining equipment to dig bunkers.”
My commander says very gently, “You can come out of hiding very soon, ma’am. My Bolo has already killed nearly a hundred Tersae firing on your compound. As soon as we’ve cleared your perimeter, you’ll be able to come up.”
I fret over the unpleasant surprise waiting for these people. Very little shocks and demoralizes a civilian population more swiftly than the loss of homes. All else that civilians endure in combat—bombardments, destruction of livelihoods and cultural centers, even the death of friends—is simply part of the misery that must be lived through, however numbly or angrily. But the loss of home is a personal wound. Such violations breed hatred—and hatred becomes a wind that sweeps whole worlds into war.
I fear for the repercussions of my actions.
It takes me ten point three five minutes to knock down the greater portion of town. This leaves me with a beautifully clear perimeter where the enemy is denied concealment and cover, but leaves the owners of Rustenberg with a vast rubble field where an occasional warehouse or personal home rises, lonely and scorched, from the ruins. I feel a sensation akin to pity as I complete the task. Captain DiMario does not speak during the entire ten point three five minutes, but sits staring at the forward data screen, jaw muscles as tightly clenched as her fingers, which curl crushingly around the padded armrest.
“All burning structures outside the wall are down, Commander. There is still an unchecked blaze inside the defensive barricade. Shall I breach the wall and knock down these structures, as well?”
“Christ, no! Not until we find out where those people are.” She reestablishes radio contact. “Rustenberg, Captain DiMario here. You’re clear to come up. Please evacuate quickly. We have a fire burning out of control inside your defensive wall. We need to bring the buildings down before the fire spreads. If we run over your bunker, trying to reach the blaze, my Bolo will cave the roof in.”
“Good God, I hadn’t thought of that,” the same voice responds, sounding startled. “We’re coming up, Captain.”
From the vantage point of my uppermost turret sensors, I locate a deep pit gouged into the soil near the center of town. This proves to be the entrance to the underground bunker. Heavy-gauge metal doors crash open at the bottom. A moment later, a stream of shaken, filthy colonists appears, rushing forward to greet their rescuers. Most of them stare up at my war hull, which towers above the broken wall, bathed in harsh firelight from the blaze still burning inside the defended compound. My commander watches the exodus in silence for five point eight seconds, then issues rapid commands.
“Senator, after you deal with this last fire, I want you to clear out those trees south and west of town. Give us a five-thousand-meter cleared perimeter in all directions. I want a report on the condition of the mines, equipment, and ore stockpiles. And scout our perimeter out to a distance of one kilometer. I want to know what we’re up against, out there. That terrain looks wicked. Map it to the last centimeter, along with anything the Tersae have stashed in convenient overhangs and crannies. Look for places we can leave a few surprises, too. And start thinking about what kind of surprises we can jury-rig from whatever the colonists can fabricate. If,” she adds grimly, “there’s anything left to fabricate things with. Any questions?”
“None, Commander. Permission to file VSR?”
“Shoot.”
“I have attempted to run diagnostics and cannot trace the difficulty with my tracking and fire-control systems. I believe the source to lie somewhere in the splices between my pre-existing systems and the new upgrades. I am experiencing data scrambling which suggests the systems are not entirely compatible. It is urgent that we discover whether anyone in Rustenberg has experience in psychotronic systems repair. This situation alarms me.”
My commander possesses a most creative vocabulary. Her tone, however, softens when she addresses me directly again. “It doesn’t make me want to dance, either. God, what else—” She bites off the rest of whatever she had planned to say. “All right, we’ll just have to play this hand as dealt, since there’s nobody out here to redeal. Get those burning buildings knocked down, get that perimeter cleared and that survey done, then we’ll take a look at your retrofitting specs.”
“Very good, Commander.”
Captain DiMario exits my command compartment and climbs down to greet the shaken inhabitants of Rustenberg. I wait until she and the colonists are clear, then engage drive engines. I back up and turn my prow towards the wall, then carefully push down the section closest to the blaze. Within two point three nine minutes, I have demolished the burning structures and contained the blaze, although the narrowness of the street requires additional demolition which distresses me.
I back out again with extreme caution and set out to complete the other assigned tasks. As I carry out the terrain survey, I realize that reconnaissance will be difficult across the entire range of territory to be monitored. I turn my thoughts toward ways other than aerial surveillance to accomplish this. I cannot formulate complete plans until I know what tools and materials remain available, but entertain fair hope of creating a simple, effective network which will surprise the enemy.
Given the circumstances and my uncertain malfunctions, I hope this not overly optimistic.
Chapter Ten
Bessany Weyman woke from a fragmented memory of falling walls and the howling roar of the tornado and wondered how long she’d been unconscious. She lay without moving, trying to determine exactly where she was and how badly injured she might be. She could feel pain, dull and frightening, along her back and legs where something heavy pinned her down. She was cold, too, and realized the tornado had knocked down enough of the building to let the freezing night air howl through the shattered remains of the rec room. She could hear the blizzard’s shrieking winds, but was so completely buried, no snow had reached her.
Gingerly, she tried to move, and found that she was pinned fast beneath the rubble. Some of it shifted ominously and she froze, heart pounding in renewed terror. Then, dimly, she heard voices, recognized Herve Sinclair and Ed Parker and Elin Olsson, shouting above the moaning of the wind. And somewhere farther away, someone was screaming in mindless agony. Bessany strained to hear and realized Sinclair was moving through the ruins, shouting names, trying to find people. Bessany cried out, “Herve! Herve, I’m trapped! Help!”
“Bessany?”
“I’m here! There’s rubble on top of me—I can’t move!”
The project director called faintly, “Ed, help me! Bessany, keep shouting so we can find you. Most of the lights are out and we can barely see!”
Bessany kept calling out, “Here! I’m over here! I think I’m under part of the doorway!”
Rubble started to shift above her. Bessany sobbed aloud, flinching and bracing herself for the worst as heavy slabs of plascrete teetered and moved with an ominous groan. She heard a wordless shout . . . Then the heaviest, largest slab lifted, freeing her. Bessany scrambled through the smaller debris, wincing as injuries along her back and legs protested the injudicious movement. The heavy plascrete fell as her rescuers dropped it, then someone helped her up—