Crack
The woman fell back and writhed for an instant, blood spraying over everything, him, the stairs, the ceiling . . . The soldier behind her was jumping back, face slack with alarm. Out of sight, almost, but the green dot settled on his leg.
Crack.
A scream as the Land soldier tumbled out of sight. The grid outlined a prone figure against the planks of the entranceway and an aiming-point strobed. Jeffrey squeezed the trigger four times.
Oh shit. There was another one—
The bark of the rifle was much deeper than his pistol. The nickel-jacketed bullet was also much heavier and faster; it punched through the thin planking and ricochetted, whining around the stones of the cellar like a giant lethal wasp. Jeffrey tumbled back down the stairs, snapping open the cylinder of his revolver and shaking out the spent brass. He snapped the three-round speedloaders into the cylinder and flipped it closed—bad practice normally, but he was in a hurry—and skipped back two steps before firing again through the overhead planks. The soldier fired back the same way, three rounds rapid, and Jeffrey threw himself down again as the ricochettes spun through the cramped confines of the basement before thumping home into the piled-up firewood and potatoes.
Lucretzia was scrambling at the belt of the fallen Land soldier. Damn, what’s she doing? Then: Damnation, I should have taken his rifle!
He scrabbled over to the corpse, ignoring what he was crawling through. Just before he reached it, Lucretzia figured out how to pull the tab on one of the potato-masher grenades the dead soldier had been carrying in loops at his belt. Her toss was underhand and rather weak; the grenade landed spinning on the top step of the cellar stairs and hung for a moment before it tumbled over the lip of the doorsill into the kitchen.
. . . three, four, five—
The confined space of the room upstairs magnified the blast, not nearly as much as having it go off in the cellar would have, of course. Jeffrey pounded up the stairs on the heels of the sound, caromed off the doorway and into the kitchen. The Land soldier was just staggering to her feet, blood running from her nose and ears. The green spot settled on the bridge of her nose, and Jeffreys finger tightened.
Crack.
The flat brightness faded from his eyes. “Christ,” he muttered, staggering. I just killed five human beings. He’d been in skirmishes before, minor stuff, but this . . .
this is what the world will be, for the rest of your life, Center said.
* * *
“You sure?” Jeffrey said.
Lucretzia nodded, looking down the street. “I am a danger to you. And you to me. Alone, I can fade into the city. Alone, you can move quickly—or find an enemy officer who will respect your neutrality.”
The Imperial woman leaned forward and kissed him lightly. “I have the code. I will be in touch, Jeffrey. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, shaking his head.
a prudent decision, Center observed. chances of survival are optimized for both individuals.
“I still don’t like it,” Jeffrey said.
You’ll like what comes next even less, lad, Raj said at the back of his mind. You’d better find an officer and turn yourself in.
chances of personal survival roughly equivalent to attempted flight in that scenario, Center said. mission parameters—
“I know, I know, mission first,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
Reluctantly, he laid down the rifle he’d taken from the body of the Protégé trooper. Logically, he should already be inside the Chosen unit’s skirmisher screen. Depending on how closely they were following Land doctrine, and how screwed up things had gotten . . .
He began ghosting down the street, staying close to the buildings and pausing to listen. It was late afternoon, the sun cruelly beautiful as it slanted through the hazy air. He could hear the heavy crumping of explosions from the south, down towards the river basin and the factory district. And closer, a rhythmic tramping.
He ducked into a doorway, the carved jamb and edge providing a little cover. A platoon of Land infantry were coming down the street, on alternate sides by eight-trooper squads; jog-trotting effortlessly with their bayonetted rifles across their chests at the port. And yes, an officer with them.