Against that came the Agitar, tiny specks at first, then growing until they could be individually distinguished across the storm-tossed sky. Great horses of many colors, broad swanlike wings flapping gently in the rough air, in V-shaped formations-dozens of them in the leading wave, then dozens more behind, protecting the flanks.
They came in fairly low; the maximum altitude of the pegasus was between fifteen hundred and eighteen hundred meters, and they generally stayed lower than that as a safety margin-in this case much lower, due to the upper-air turbulence, perhaps no more than three hundred meters above the ground troops.
Pterodactyllike Cebu, red eyes blazing, moved off behind the Makiem ground troops to provide additional cover for the incoming Agitar. Each of the great giant reptiles wore a harness with twin harpoon tubes that could be aimed and triggered by a flick of the head, then dropped down to be reloaded from quivers strapped to their undersides.
The Makiem could almost feel the great beating of those wings as they passed just overhead, and some of the giant frogs cheered both in optimism and to release the tension from their own impending jump-off.
The enemy, its forces depleted by near-continuous battle, its reserves pulled in from North and South, waited until the last moment before challenging. Their only hope was to get inside the Cebu defensive screen and strike the great pegasi down by bullet or stinger, even though the latter method would mean their own deaths as well.
The Agitar were in sight of the objective now; the monstrous hive half above ground rose over thirty meters in the air. It had been badly damaged by cannon fire and past aerial attacks, but it had stood, torn though it was by great gaping holes and scars.
From its thousands of tiny black pockmarks there appeared to be some sort of reflection of the storm flashes, and it was-from the great, huge, multifaceted eyes of the defenders, who now rose in highly organized, tight-knit swarms to meet the coming foe. The two sides were joined in less than a minute.
The bees were huge, over a meter long, with menacing stingers to match. But the stingers were also an integral part of their backbone; to use it was to break it off-thus breaking its back and causing death. They depended first on their weapons-projectile-types, since theirs was a semitech hex, contained in large boxes located under the thorax, operated by one of the eight flexible, clawlike legs that furred black and gold creatures possessed. Spring-wound, they could fire ten rounds a second, with a two-hundred-shot cartridge.
Actually, the bees’ greatest problem in aerial combat was their semi-automatic weapons; they had to be careful in the increasingly rough air to keep from shooting one another down as well.
The tactics were simple. The bees formed a solid wave; the front line waiting until it was hi easy range of the Cebu screen and the first line of Agitar, then opening fire. When they were spent, they would drop down and slow, letting the oncoming swarm pass over them, so the next row was clear for a shot. If the progression went well, they could drop back to the hive for additional cartridges and rejoin the back row. But their forces were badly depleted; once the line had fired, it then became a series of free agent aerial soldiers, coming up from below.
The Cebu’s harpoons were not as efficient as the Djukasis’ machine guns; but, facing a swarm, they could hardly miss. Their objective was to knock holes in the formation, then get into the midst of the swarm, where great, sharp, teeth-filled beaks could rend and tear in quarters too close for the machine guns to do any good.
The rumble of the quickly oncoming storm and the tremendous air turbulence it created started to tell on both sides as they struggled for balance.
The bees’ leading line of machine guns started, and some of the attackers were hit, falling from the sky, to be replaced by those from the second and third waves so the formations were maintained. The Djukasis’ aim was off; they were having real problems remaining stable in the storm-tossed air, and some were partially spun around still firing, knocking holes in some of their own numbers.
The Cebu took advantage of this, rushing up into the holes, firing then-harpoons into soft Djukasis bodies, then spearing, ripping, and tearing through the ranks while trying to avoid the lethal stingers. Of the eighty-four Agitar in the leading combination, only seventeen still flew, yet the formations were tight and steady as the places of the fallen were taken by those behind. Despite the Cebu’s effectiveness, some of the Djukasis were penetrating now.
Renard had just moved up into second wave position behind the leaders, and he didn’t have time to think. A great black-and-gold body suddenly swept up into his view on his left, and he swung his own harpoon projector over and fired without thinking. The missile struck the giant bee, and it went down without a sound.
There were more of them now; they were flying directly into the swarm, now too close for the Djukasis to use their machine guns but close enough for close-quarter combat.
Suddenly the Agitar drew their tasts and energized them. They did not have to spear the enemy, only touch him; that seemed easy to do; everywhere you swung the rods there seemed to be Djukasis.
But not enough Djukasis, not any more.
In past attacks over the previous three days, a new swarm had popped out of that hive at the last minute, and they had been unable to get directly into or on it. Now the situation had changed. On either side of the saddle sat canisters of a highly flammable liquid; now, for the first time, they were able to dump it onto the hive.
They made their passes and dumps; going back up into the still fierce aerial combat, then looped again. More horses, men, and pterodactyls fell from the sky, but ten suicidal defenders fell for every one of the attackers, and, unlike the attackers, they had no more reserves. The leading edge of the Agitar then moved in again, very low this time, so close they could see the impassive faces of the flightless workers peering out at the grim battle from the cells and doorways of the hive.
The Agitar tied thin copper wire to the hilts of their tasts and prepared to throw, being careful that they didn’t get tangled as they moved away.
Firing was coming from the hive, but it was intermittent after the fuel dump; the burning smell and feel of the liquid had driven them back under where it had hit, and the stuff now pretty well saturated the top of the hive.
The copper wire unreeled, ten meters, twenty, as the leading second wave was covered by, but not followed in by, its backups. The Agitar were nearing the limits of the wire reel, and, when the mark was reached on the reel, they energized the wire with their hands.
Energy flowed along the wires; electricity followed its natural pathway in this semitech hex. Though only the Agitar would hold a charge here, it was enough.
Where the tasts had stuck in the hive in places that had been wetted down by the flammable liquids, and despite Djukasis efforts to get the tasts out and throw them to the ground, the energy charge struck.
It only took one.
The liquid burst into flame with a roar; a chemical fire that even the oncoming storm would be hard-pressed to slow.
The Makiem on the ground cheered as the blue-white flame and billowing smoke showed success, and they grasped their own weapons and prepared to charge, rain or no.
With sudden explosive fury, the storm hit, turning the/field in front of the hive to a low-visibility quagmire hi seconds. The Makiem, who liked rain and muddy weather, leaped for all they were worth.
As Renard turned from the hive, amazed at the fact that he and Doma were still untouched as it was, he felt the storm hit. For the first time he started to think, instead of act on instinct. If he just relaxed, he knew that Doma would fly back to the base camp; the horse had an unerring instinct for getting back to where she had started from. Looking around in the driving rain, he was just barely able to make out the Djukasis trying to get back to the hive but being knocked out of the air by the force of the rain. A Cebu almost panicked him, flying across directly in front, but it was on a different errand. The great flying reptiles weren’t much better in the rain than the Djukasis, and were going to ground fast.
The water beaded and rolled off Doma’s back. Yet there were severe updrafts and downdrafts that the great horse could not avoid, so it was a rocky ride, smoothed only slightly by the horse’s apparent ability to see changes in air pressure. When Renard saw the direction Doma was taking, a million doubts assailed him. If he deserted, he would have to fly through the teeth of the storm, perhaps battle isolated back-country Djukasis on his way. And, once in Lata, he’d be a castout, a man who could never go home again.
But he felt little loyalty for the Agitar, although he liked them as individuals. He could not get away from the fact that, behind all of the terrible carnage he had witnessed and had been a part of, there was the grinning, self-satisfied egomania of Antor Trelig.
And Mavra Chang. Somehow, he knew, she had saved him, somehow her unwillingness to be defeated had kept him alive. For what? To be killed in the next battle, in the next hex, in Antor Trelig’s cause?
No! his mind shouted to him. Never! He owed her, and, in a different way, he owed Antor Trelig something, too.
So he gently pulled and turned the great green pegasus to the right, far to the right, and headed into the fury about him.
SOUTH ZONE
The Czillian, Vardia, entered Ortega’s increasingly cluttered offices, a mass of computer printouts and diagrams clutched in its two tentacles. Ortega was just switching off from an intercom communication and glanced up as the plant-creature entered.
“New data?” he asked, sounding more resigned than happy at the prospect.
Vardia nodded. “We have run the projections through the computers at the center. Things don’t look good.”
Ortega wasn’t surprised. Nothing looked good any more. “What have you got?” he asked glumly.
The Czillian spread out the charts as well as some diagrams. Ortega couldn’t read the normal Czillian originals, but the computers at the great university and research center in the plant hex had provided translations in Ulik. He studied them, expression becoming increasingly grim.
“Ship design certainly has changed in the past three hundred years,” he commented.
“What did you expect?” the Czillian asked him curtly. “After all, there were periods in the past histories of many races when they went from primitive barbarism to space in less time than that.”
Ortega nodded. “But it would help if I could understand more of the design theory,” he said wistfully. It didn’t really matter, though; the computers could follow it-and if the computers could follow it in Czill, then the computers of, say, Agitar or Lamotien or a half-dozen others could, too.
“They made the sectional cuts in just the right places,” Vardia noted. “The pieces were barely large enough for the Zone Gates, but they all fit-and we could hardly stop them by rights anyway.”
“Or force, either,” he pointed out. “No wars in Zone, eh?” He looked again at the printout collection. “So the power plant is the only thing we couldn’t manage here? They’re sure now? Wonder why?”
“You know the answer,” Vardia responded. “The plant is sealed and works off principles we don’t know. We could create a power plant, of course, but almost certainly not with sufficient thrust to clear the adjacent nontech hexes before they caused shutdown. You know what a miserable failure even our little attempts with cameras have been. Moving a mass this size is, I think, beyond us. It’s built into the Well to keep us here. But the size of those engines must indicate power. They could do it, if trajectory at launch was nearly straight up.”
Ortega admitted the possibility. He had to-it was sitting there in mathematically precise black and white in front of him. “But to make it work they’ll need the programming,” he objected. “That means the Yaxa or nothing.”
“Bullshit, and you know it!” the Czillian shot back, displaying uncharacteristic emotion. “So maybe it takes the Agitar a couple of years to jury-rig a replacement. More likely they’ll either deal or steal what’s needed. You of all people should know what politics and espionage on the Well World is like. You have Yaxa agents, Dasheen agents, Makiem agents, Agitar agents-probably agents of half the races on the planet.”
Ortega didn’t reply. Being true, it wasn’t worthy of a retort. He just smiled, but it was not a satisfied smile. All of his old friends, all of those who owed him or were in his pay, had provided a great deal of information. But no results. More, he was well aware that the Yaxa would cheerfully double-cross their own parents to get in on the deal, and the Lamotien were as trustworthy as rats in a cheese factory. Whoever got the power supply would, politically, be able to put all the pieces together, he felt sure. He wasn’t the only competent backstabbing puppet-master politician on the Well World, only the oldest and most experienced.
But the Czillian printouts indicated the worst from a technical standpoint: the sections had separated intact. They had landed, for the most part, in reasonably good shape. Disassembly where necessary had been professional, knowledgeable, and at the right points.
“What’s the war news?” Vardia asked apprehensively.
He sighed. “The Djukasis were tough, but they were whipped. Klusid doesn’t have a module, but it does have atmospheric problems for them. It’s a fight going around, but there’s a very heavy ultraviolet radiation in the Klusidian atmosphere. It’s what makes things so pretty and yet so strange there. Their atmosphere has protected them from the Zhonzorp. But, I think the Makiem have managed a deal with the Klusidians through an alliance with the Zhonzorp. The need for passive radiation shielding will slow them down, but the Klusidians aren’t able to withstand the alliance from the west and those two-legged crocodiles from the east. They’ll give in, since it’s only free passage they’re seeking. With Zhonzorp having both a module and a key position, they’ll be natural allies. The Agitar don’t like them, but the Makiem and Cebu are interested because the crocs are another hightech hex, and can help see that the goat-folk don’t do any double-crossing themselves. I’d say the whole force of them will be at the borders of Olborn within ten days at the outside, with Zhonzorp handling most of the resupply problems.”
Vardia looked at the map. “Only two hexes from Gedemondas. What about the Yaxa?”
Ortega sniffed in such a manner that it was evident that there was more bad news.
“While the Yaxa got the Porigol module back, the Lamotien infiltrated Qasada. It only takes six Lamotien to create an exact duplicate of those little rodents. Sabotage, false information-and really effective, since the Lamotien are hightech themselves and knew where to throw everything out of gear. The Dasheen cow army wasn’t a big help, but it caused additional contusion, and its Yaxa advisors had done their jobs well. There’s still hard fighting there, though; it may be a week or even two before they get through. The Yaxa will deal with the_Palim-they’re great at that. Another five, six days to move through Palim with their stuff, maybe one more to get the Palim module out, and they’re on the Gedemondas border.”
“So the Yaxa will get there first,” the Czillian concluded, staring again at the map.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Ortega said. “Depends for one thing on the strength of the Qasada resistance, and on whether the others listen to the Zhonzorp. I’d fly over Alestol ferrying everybody in a continuous airlift. The air is uncomfortable, and it stinks, but the Alestoli are barrel-shaped moving plants that emit a variety of nasty noxious gasses. You can’t talk to them-but they have no air capability whatsoever. If the Makiem-Agitar-whatever alliance can push through Olborn, I’d say that it might be a dead heat.”
Vardia looked at Olborn. “What do you know about the place?” it asked curiously.
The big snake-man shook his head. “Not much. No ambassador I ever knew about. Sealed itself off from the outside world. Anybody who tries to go in never comes out. They’re mammals there, air’s okay, and my stuff says that they’re a semitech hex with light magic capabilities, whatever that means. You gotta watch those magic types. All sons of bitches or fanatics-if there’s a difference. Even Zhonzorp goes around them, but I can’t imagine the most powerful hex on this planet standing against the kind of combination roaring in there. A magic hex tends to rely on its magic too much for its defense; a good bullet stops a good spell every time when you’re outnumbered four to one by now well-seasoned troops.”
“So either one has a crack at being first to Gedemondas,” the Czillian mused. “And what about them? Anything?”
Ortega shook his head. “Nothing. Very high mountains, cold, and snowy mostly. They live high up. They’re big-Dillians have seen them, but only briefly. Big suckers, three meters, all covered in snow-white fur, almost invisible against a snow field. Big four-toed clawed feet. They shun all contact, but if you go in too far, they’ll drop an avalanche on your head.”
The relief map showed a mild plain at the Alestol-Palim-Gedemondas border, then tremendously high, faulted mountains, four to five thousand meters many of them. Rough, cold country.
“Any idea where in Gedemondas the engine module fell?” Vardia asked the snake-man.
Serge Ortega shook his head. “No, not really, and neither do they. Not on the plains area, though.” He hesitated. “Wait a minute! Maybe I do!” He rummaged through a bunch of papers, cursing and fussing. Papers went everywhere, until he finally came across a tattered yellow sheet of lined notepad. “Here it is. The Agitar plotted the mass and shape of the mod from the pieces they already recovered, checked climatological data and such, and came up with the probable location. About sixty to a hundred kilometers inside the northeast border, give or take ten. In the mountains, but still a needle in a smaller haystack.”
“How in the world did you get hold of-” the Czillian started, then decided questioning Ortega wasn’t worth it. He’d only lie, anyway. “Then there’s not only the possibility of a search, but, if they find it, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the Gedemondas will either let them take it out or try to destroy them. That’s not a body to be deterred that easily in the latter case.”
Ortega nodded. “They’re funny people, but we just don’t know. That’s the problem. We need to know. We need to send somebody in there to try and talk to the Gedemondas, ahead of the armies, if possible. Maybe they’ll run away, maybe they’ll try to kill them, but we have to try. Warn them ahead of time. Offer to-”
Vardia turned and faced him. “To take the engines off their hands, perhaps?”
Ortega shrugged. “Or, failing that, to try and destroy them.”
Vardia would have sighed if it could. Instead, the Czillian asked, “Who do you have in mind for this suicide mission to the frozen wastes? Count me out. I go dormant under two or three degrees centigrade.”
He chuckled. “No, you had your fun once. Or one of you did, anyway. No, I don’t like what I’m thinking, but it keeps coming up the same answer. There’s only one person qualified to inspect the engines, decide if they can be moved, or, failing that, know how to destroy them beyond repairing.”
Vardia nodded. “Mavra Chang. But you said she was too valuable to risk!”
“And so she is,” Ortega admitted. “It’s a calculated risk, I agree. But she’s the only one who can do the technical end of the job for us. We’ll try and minimize the risk, of course. Send some other people along with her for protection, not expose her to any needless risks.”
“From what you’ve said of her, I doubt that sincerely,” the Czillian replied skeptically. “But, all right. It’s come down to this. We have been passive observers, and we’ll continue to be passive observers watching the Trelig or Yulin bunch blast off for the satellite unless we do something. I agree action is called for. I only wish we’d done something sooner.”
“Sooner, none of us thought either side had a prayer of actually making it,” Ortega reminded the plant-creature. “Now we know it’s possible. It’s now or never.”
The Czillian turned. “I’ll notify my population and our friends as discreetly as possible. You will assemble the personnel, I assume?”
Ortega smiled. “Of course-subject to Czillian Crisis Center’s approval, of course.”
“Of course,” Vardia echoed, not at all certain it made any difference.
Ortega went back to his maps and was soon talking to himself. Xoda was out; the Yaxa would be there. That left Olborn. Damn! . ..