Extremis (43 page)

(Sorrow.) “You may help by accepting my apology, brother.”

Ulshev never knew he had been discarnated: Khremhet’s
skeerba
came out and up so quickly, and cut through one side of his spine so expertly, that Ulshev was dead before he even saw the motion that ended his life.

The other Death-Vowed
Destoshaz
spun into action, their lesser brethren stunned, all three caught in the middle of a great, collective
befthel
as they died, most still in their seats.

* * *

At that moment, from the Empty Zone’s forgotten dumpsters, from under half-collapsed awnings on rooftops, from covered cargo beds of several “rescue trucks” now abandoned in the flooded streets, clusters of 78 mm self-guiding rockets roared skyward, fanned out, leaned quickly over into level flight, and oriented themselves toward their preprogrammed coordinates. A few of them added jinks and jerks to their trajectory: just enough to complicate the intercept calculations of the Baldies’ automated defense systems.

The smoke-trailing swarm leaned over even farther, starting to aim down into the West Shore District.

The Arduan weapon emplacements all along the bayside extents of Punt sputtered into life. Rockets began exploding in midair—brief orange rashes bright against the blue tegument of the sky—but the inbound weapons had spread out far enough that the destruction of one did not cause the loss of any of the others. Even so, by the time the rockets had closed half the distance to Punt, seventy percent of them had been destroyed.

But that was also the moment when two more mass launches took place: two more flocks of missiles climbed quickly up and then arced over toward Punt.

The Baldy defense emplacements fired continuously now. The point-defense lasers spat out short, crackling, invisible bursts that burned and ionized their way through the atmosphere. The emplacements at the south end of Punt, particularly in the vicinity of the University’s former extension campus, were hard put to sweep down the rockets. With those defense systems overburdened, the leading edge of the surviving mass of rockets edged closer to that zone with every passing second. For those weapon sites, there was neither rest nor respite.

* * *

Matthew Maotulu retracted the sensor filament back down through the grapple hole in the metal access plate overhead. “All clear.”

McGee nodded and turned to Li. “Harry, you and Simonson secure the first interior way point, then Mei goes on to unlock the door into the lobby. Kapinski, Battisti: you’re responsible for carrying two sea-scooters each until we reach the target building.”

Harry was already halfway up the short ladder, a 6 mm bullpup carbine in his right hand as rested his left palm against the underside of the access plate. Then he pushed lightly and mounted the rest of the rungs, weapon at the ready, the plate hinging upward as he went.

Evidently, Maotulu’s sensor sweep had been accurate: Li signaled all-clear to Simonson, who—small and lithe—was up the ladder in less than two seconds. She carried a complete set of the building’s prewar mechanical keys in her left hand.

McGee muttered his orders to the rest of the team. “Just as we practiced: dump your fins and tanks here, but keep your masks. Don’t unbag your gear until you get to the top. Then arm, toss your bag, and reform. Double-quick, after me.”

And despite his size, McGee’s actions fit his own instructions. He was up the ladder almost as fast as Simonson.

Scuttling away from the sewer-access shaft, he looked to Harry, who, peeking quickly into the janitor’s lounge and locker area, gave a single big thumbs-up.

McGee turned, sent the same sign back to his gathered Marines, and led the way up the stairs.

They caught up to Mei Simonson at the top landing, where she was peering out the door that opened onto the lobby. The wiry little Marine pointed at her eyes and then joined her index finger and thumb into the universal “okay” sign: all looked clear.
And all according to plan
, thought McGee,
which, oddly, makes me worry.
He nodded to Mei: she slipped out the door, followed by Li—and then McGee himself.

Simonson advanced to the first of the lobby’s grid of mirror-paneled support stanchions. Li peeled off in the other direction and ducked behind one near the elevators to cover their rear. McGee loped past Mei and snugged up against the next stanchion in sequence: one more to the main exit, and beyond that, a clear sight line to all three local weapon emplacements.

Which were, as he had expected, beehives of partially seen but obviously frenetic activity. The rapid strobe-sparking near the bayside periphery of each emplacement marked the nonstop activity of the expected point-defense lasers. Well, the skulking part of the operation was at an end: hell, there really wasn’t any cover left. Besides, at ranges this close, surprise and speed would be better friends than stealth. McGee raised his right hand and looked behind; his team stared back like a pack of Cyclopi, a combo monocle blocking each one’s shooting eye. McGee nodded, turned to face their objective, and then dropped his hand sharply.

The Marine section charged out the front doors of the lobby of the Sociology and Special Education building. McGee waved Danilenko’s team forward to the “X marks the spot” pavestone they had identified in the overhead photographs. Jon Wismer and his team started heaving prismatic aerosol smoke grenades in a semicircular pattern around their current position, the arc flattening and extending so that it also covered the twelve meters of open ground to their objective: the entrance of the Psychology Lab Annex. McGee waited a two-count, letting the smoke build, and then rushed across that space.

* * *

Igor Danilenko had already dropped down into a kneeling position, left knee centered on the “X” of the marble pavestone, even as he was releasing the safety on the rocket-propelled grenade affixed to his rifle’s under-muzzle shoot-through launch ramp.

He looked down the Alliant-Rimstar’s Serrie scope, watching the bearing and elevation numbers change as he adjusted his aim with them: although thermal imaging still showed him a few murky outlines, the wall of smoke was already opaque. When the Serrie scope’s telemetry counters hit the numbers that indicated his aimpoint was directly upon the first weapon emplacement, he hit the
encode
button. The grenade’s computer chip now knew where to fly. He checked the weapon’s preset detonation range—another piece of data derived from the bird’s-eye photographs—and saw that it matched the Serrie sight’s multispectral laser ping against the target. Danilenko pulled the trigger.

The clearing charge boosted the grenade off the launch ramp with a dull cough. A millisecond later, and five meters into the obscuring cloud, the weapon’s actual rocket kicked in: a bright flare illuminated the near edge of the smoke as it did. An eyeblink later, the concussive wave and sound of a ferocious explosion came buffeting over the hard stone expanse of the esplanade.

“That’s one down,” muttered Danilenko as he handed off the rifle to one teammate and took a new, identically rigged and armed Alliant-Rimstar battle-rifle from another. His left knee still planted firmly at the center of the X, Danilenko rotated around that pivot point until the new azimuth bearing in the Serrie scope matched the position of the second emplacement.

* * *

As McGee reached the entry of the Psych Annex—a broad glass-faced lobby with five wide doors evenly spaced along its front expanse—he heard Danilenko’s second grenade go off. He had expected some blind fire into the smoke from the third emplacement by this time, but no: nothing. Probably because the Baldies were not going to fire blind while they were on their own turf. Meaning any of their Security personnel who were not manning the air-defense laser were probably closing on foot—

“Jon,” he ordered Wismer. “Scan south. Drop any thermal signatures. Now.”

Wismer and his team, having finished with their grenades, dropped into kneeling positions, scanned into the smoke—and evidently discovered the anticipated outlines of approaching Baldies. The Marines’ weapons stuttered, stuttered again—just as Danilenko’s third and final grenade went off.

“Clear,” announced Jonathon.

“And clear,” supplemented Danilenko regarding his own three targets.

McGee toggled his com-link. “Li, rejoin main body. Fire-team leaders, leapfrog advan—”

And then there was movement in the lobby—lots of it. Baldies, almost a dozen, were running every which way—but none of them had weapons, and all were scattering toward either the side or front entrances as though they were fleeing something
inside
the building.
What the fu—?

Then Matto opened fire. The odd-even mix of discarding sabot and dum-dum rounds disintegrated two standing panels of glass an instant before two of the Baldies went down, one still thrashing. The other Baldies who had been heading for the front entrance—arms waving wildly—swerved toward the sides. Other Marine carbines were already up and tracking.

“Cease fire,” McGee shouted over the unit channel. “They’re not targets.”

“Wha—?” started Wismer.

“They’re civilians.”

“
Shto
? How can you know?”

“Stow it, Igor. It’s my command, it’s my call. Now we go in, hot and ready—but something smells funny here. Wits and guns ready, Marines—but just as we drilled it. Simonson, are you and Chakrabarti ready?”

“We’ve got the backdoor, Sarge.” The two of them were already moving to enter the lobby on either side and take up their out-facing flanking positions.

“Good. Li?”

“I’m on your six—and waiting.”

“Fine. Here we go.”

* * *

Ankaht reapproached the observation labs, signaling (urgent, all, urgent).

From several dozen meters away, the
selnarm
of Ipshef reached out to touch hers. “Elder, what distresses you?”

“Quickly, Ipshef, gather the staff and the humans together. All staff split into teams of two; each team take four humans. And then run. Do not tell me where. Do not tell each other. Run as far and as fast as you can. Stop for nothing.”

Orthezh intruded. “Elder, why—?”

“Assassins. Death-Vowed. They are coming for us. Mretlak showed me. And now our Security detachment does not respond.”

She entered the observation lab’s lounge. All the humans and Arduans were already together, in mixed groups. There was something terribly reassuring about the sight, but also something poignant, as if it were a tableau of impending tragedy. Ipshef involuntarily radiated (horror) when she saw Ankaht arrive, saw the
skeerba
that was already in her right cluster. “No, it cannot be—”

Orthezh overrode her with a sort of loving brusqueness. “There is no logic in denying the truth we can feel in
shaxzhu
Ankaht’s sendings. We are wasting time.” In the next instant, he was giving orders for dispersal.

Ankaht sent a tender tendril across Ipshef’s gentle and terrified soul, and ran back the way she had come, straining to get to Jennifer.

And hoping it was not too late.

* * *

Leading from the front, McGee reached the back staircase. They’d greased two more Baldies on their way back here, and although he never thought he’d feel such an emotion for the three-eyed monsters, McGee actually experienced a pang of regret: the two they’d vented had popped out of doorways, unarmed, hapless, and panicked. But on this kind of op, there was no time to check intent. You had to presume it was kill or be killed. And so his team had efficiently and swiftly gunned down two harmless Baldies who had been wearing what might have been the alien equivalent of lab smocks.

But now, as the Marines reached the backstairs, they heard the approach of something or someone from down below. McGee waved his two squads back against the side of the corridor and listened. Faintly, rising up out of the stairwell, came the sliding, gliding sound of Baldy legs swiftly mounting stairs—but these were not the sounds of panicked movement. No, these steps were sure and purposeful.

McGee pulled one of the older frags off his web-gear and nodded to Matto to do the same. McGee pulled the pin, counted down two seconds and lobbed the grenade down the stairwell. Matto’s arced in right after it.

A second of silence, the briefest moment of frenetic skittering—and then a double blast. McGee and his team were at the railing, aiming over the side, before the last bits of shrapnel had fallen. Three Baldies were sprawled on the landing below, all cloaked in black. Without checking for movement, McGee and his team tagged each of them with a short burst. One twitched. Another flopped and cough-howled like a junkyard dog getting kicked in the ribs. Then there was nothing but stillness.

Li came to look over the banister. “Lucky we heard them coming up.”

“Damned straight. Kapinski.”

“Sir!”

“The animal-behavior labs are right under us, so proceed downstairs with your team and secure that position. Confirm our egress point, set the charges, and have our exfil gear ready and waiting. We’re going up to the human-observation labs—and we could be coming back with trouble right behind us.”

“Yes, sir.” Kapinski looked over the railing. “Think there are more of those black-robed Baldies down there?”

“Can’t tell. But they weren’t running scared.”

“Which means what?”

Damn, logically, that would normally mean that
they’re
what the other Baldies were running away from—
but the Baldies were unfailingly loyal to each other, so that made no sense. “I don’t know what it means, Juan—except that something’s off-center, here. Expect the unexpected.”

“Gee, thanks, sir. Any more words of wisdom?”

“Yeah—don’t sass your boss.” McGee returned Juan’s smile. “Move out.”

* * *

As Ipshef reached the intersection where they had planned on turning left toward the lobby staircase, she felt Orthezh reach out to her, both physically and through his
selnarm
. “What, beloved?” she asked.

“We must separate.”

She halted. “Separate? Why?” The four humans with them, detecting the pause, were already growing restless, anxious.