Under Strange Suns (35 page)

But only the bulk. What Park hadn’t been able to fabricate with the limited time and materials at hand were detonators. Instead he had provided a sheaf of fuses, all cut to different lengths and labeled: 1 minute; 2 minutes; 5 minutes; 10 minutes. On up to one hour, though his note indicated the longer periods were mostly estimates.

Park had also, thoughtfully, included a book of matches among the miscellany of other items he had deemed might be useful.

The packing crate also contained a variety of cases in which the assembled explosives could be housed. Park’s note indicated that three were frangible, intended as anti-personnel devices. The other three were thick walled except in one dimension. These latter were intended as directional devices, more useful against structures.

The final entry in the note was a wish of good luck to Aidan and an apology that the included backpack could only fit two of the makeshift bombs.

Aidan took his time familiarizing himself with the contents of the crate and Park’s instructions. He knew time was short, but some things should not be rushed. And, though he did not like to admit it to himself, he was tired and could use every extra moment of rest.

When he felt comfortable with the care package, he instructed his datapad to link with the mining craft’s computer and download the maps McAvoy had prepared.

He focused on the terrain features lying across the Lhakovi army’s extrapolated route of advance. There were discouragingly few such features. This side of the Wall did not boast the extensive stair-stepping foothills of the south side. The wide stream running through Girdled-by-Fields was the most prominent geographical feature. Presumably the Lhakovi would follow it as both a convenient route marker and a source of drinking water. But that information was of little use to Aidan.

He zoomed in, scanned, reading contour lines, looking for choke points, promontories overlooking the army’s expected path. Anything. But it was depressingly flat country.

And then...maybe.

“Aidan to the
Yuschenkov
,” he said, activating the datapad’s radio.

“I’m a little busy now,” Yuschenkov’s voice said, distorted by metallic, mechanical noises.

“Not you, Doc. The ship.”

“Right, sorry.” The clattering and banging ceased.

“This is Matamoros. Go ahead, Aidan.”

“Matamoros, is the spy satellite up yet?”

“Inserted into orbit five minutes ago. I’m running diagnostics now.”

“Can you send me a feed right now? You can let me know later if you’ve discovered any glitches I should know about.”

A pause, then, “Okay, Aidan. It’s live now and the computer has authorized your datapad’s access.”

“Thank you. Aidan out.”

He looked at his map again, at the scree of boulders and rubble deposited within the inner rim of a terminal moraine by glacial activity in some remote, colder period of Ghark’s existence. The Girdled-by-Fields stream split the crescent shaped hill that backed the mass of loose rock, a hill that had eroded to little more than a knoll or low rise.

Aidan fixed the location in his mind before he activated the live feed.
Where was the Lhakovi army? Please, please do not have passed–yes, there!
Still south of the moraine, a broken line leading back toward the Wall on both sides of the stream. Stopped. Probably waiting for the stragglers and the baggage train before consolidating for the final push. That was fine with Aidan; it might allow him time to reach the site of his proposed delaying action.

He considered the crate again. He assembled the explosive components of two bombs. Then, after another moment’s deliberation, he selected one of each type of bomb housing and slotted in the bombs, noting Park’s clever positioning of a fuse grommet. He tucked the bombs into the backpack and slung it over his combat harness. Finally, he snatched a spare radio from the case and checked its functionality. He clipped the radio to his harness while it and his datapad linked, shaking electronic hands.

Aidan straightened with a grunt. His first few steps south were stiff, but by the time he reached the rising berm of the defensive wall his legs were loosening up, though the occasional twinge stabbing through his muscles warned him the trip would take a toll.

The joon workmen had raised the berm to nearly twice Aidan’s height. A crude parapet had been hacked into the mass of pounded soil about halfway up, allowing the defenders to hurl missiles at the Lhakovi while still retaining the protective cover of the wall which tapered to an average thickness of about four feet. Spindly observation towers rose about every kilometer. Aidan nodded approvingly as he ascended the ladder that two joon held propped up for him. He should have been overseeing all this personally. He was, after all, Captain of the Militia of Girdled-by-Fields.

“One more thing to feel guilty about,” he muttered, hauling up the ladder. He laid it against the steeply pitched glacis on the other side and climbed down, facing out from the wall, catching each rung with the heels of his boots.

He turned as the joon recovered the ladder. Doubting they’d understand the gesture, he offered a hand salute.

Then Aidan made for the river, moving at just short of a trot, letting his mind drift. He felt conflicted by Yuschenkov’s plan. Making an attack pass over the Lhakovi army struck Aidan as an uncertain tactic. He didn’t doubt Yuschenkov’s sincerity; he was sure the physicist had no intention of abandoning Girdled-by-Fields to its fate. Frankly, this was exactly the sort of thing he should have expected Yuschenkov to come up with. The man was a brilliant scientist, but he had no military experience and he tended to approach non-mathematical problems in a rather off-the-cuff fashion. In his mind, no doubt, this plan would work–see off the invaders and allow him to leave Ghark with a clear conscience. Aidan, however, was not so sure. He’d had too much experience to expect any particular tactic to come off without a hitch. Committing to a half-baked idea like this seemed akin to desertion, and he did not want to fail these people. He couldn’t leave without ensuring a victory. Somehow. Still, too early to think of staying behind. Anything could happen over the next couple of days. Best to focus on the present.

The farmlands outside the wall made for easy going as long as he stayed clear of deeply plowed soil. The ground rose almost imperceptibly toward the looming, snow-capped massifs of the Wall. The far snow, beneath the gas giant trundling by overhead, reminded Aidan of a shave-ice he had enjoyed in Hawaii, some sticky, tropical flavor intended to resemble blue curacao.

Well, it was unlikely he’d see Hawaii again. Shave-ice was a long shot, curacao flavored or not. In fact if he couldn’t get off this rock, he’d never taste any sort of liquor ever again.

Not bad for motivation
, he thought,
though more likely to work for McAvoy. Just keep moving. There’ll be plenty of time for rest in zero-g
.

The grade inched marginally steeper as he entered the belt of outlying farms, hardscrabble affairs but just as devoid of life now as the more affluent spreads nearer the village. Beyond these he could see a few stands of trees. Not much use for concealment, these spindly, naked Ghark trees. But should he run into an advance Lhakovi patrol, they’d be better than nothing. The smart camo of his jacket might make a difference.

He munched another energy bar. His stock was nearly depleted, but he figured this was the last push, do or die. He hoped it wouldn’t prove his Alamo or his Camarón. But if saving the people of Girdled-by-Fields and getting Yuschenkov and McAvoy back to the ship required his going down fighting, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it? It was the sort of battle that might actually make a real difference, might prove to be more than a stop gap or a simple eye for an eye.

Maybe. And maybe he really and truly need to focus on the present.

He pushed himself, slowing occasionally to check the progress of the Lhakovi. For the first three hours the army appeared content to rest, reincorporating the stragglers into the ranks. Probably mending equipment damaged during the crossing, tending to blisters, sleeping. The apparently universal activities of soldiers at the end of a march.

Nearing the fourth hour, the live feed displayed obvious signs of mobilization. Shit, they were moving. Aidan took another pull from his water bladder, nearing half-empty now. Then he pushed on, increasing his speed, trying to ignore the jets of pain in his legs. He refused to lose this race.

Noise ahead alerted him in time to fall prone into the tall grass lining the banks of the stream. His jacket mottled into deep shades of blue. He could only hope the backpack humping atop him like a snail’s shell didn’t give him away.

He waited. The scouting party neared, boots swishing through the grass within yards of his position. Then they passed, diminished in the distance.

Aidan released his death grip on his pistol, rose to his feet and continued on, almost at a jog, trying to make up lost time.

The stream banks began an abrupt ascent, the burbling water dropping away by feet, then by yards. He’d done it. At least he hoped so. He checked the map. Yes, this was the back end of the terminal moraine. Had he beat the Lhakovi army to this position? He checked the live feed. Yes, the vanguard was still a mile south.

Aidan had won the race. Step one. Now for step two.

He climbed the rise, his legs screaming at him for rest. He crouched as he neared the summit, not wanting his silhouette visible above the ridge line. He lowered himself to his belly and crawled the last few feet, then lifted his head and scanned the terrain spreading in a shallow half bowl below him.

This side of the stream–the east–was a debris field, pushing up to near the brink where he lay. Rocks ranging in size from boulders to pebbles interrupted the relatively smooth grass and scrubland the Lhakovi army had to traverse. Just picking through this would slow it, but would not delay it nearly as much as would taking the time to go around. Time was a factor. The army would pass through.

On the far side of the stream the going was, if anything, even more treacherous, the boulders piled higher, the ankle-turning, fist sized rocks spread across even more area. So the bulk of the army would most likely pass by on Aidan’s side.

He looked about for ideal locations to plant Park’s care package. Aidan’s plan called for two detonations. First, the shaped charge would bring down a tumble of stone to sow panic and further impede passage, bunching up the army. Second, the anti-personnel charge would harrow the massing lead elements of the army. Sorting out the chaos, triage, and reorganization would, he hoped, provide McAvoy and Yuschenkov the time they required.

That was the plan. He would have to see if the Lhakovi army would cooperate, give him time to locate promising spots to plant his homemade bombs. A wry grin quirked his mouth as he squirmed over the lip of the rise and wormed his way among the boulders. He wondered if the situation qualified as ironic. He was about to employ improvised explosive devices in furtherance of guerilla warfare. He had spent years fighting against an enemy that employed those tactics. And now here he was, light years away from the old battlefields, taking a page from the insurgent playbook. Though he supposed he wasn’t yet technically an insurgent. He was the duly appointed captain of the Girdled-by-Fields militia, attempting to halt an invading army crossing the frontiers.

He decided it made no difference what labels he used. A bomb was a bomb. And he was fighting on the right side whether he employed the tools of his old enemies or not. He owed a debt to Girdled-by-Fields and to Checkok, a debt he meant to pay.

He wriggled downslope about ten yards. Aidan wished McAvoy was there to advise him where best to plant the directional charge, but he’d do his best. He spotted a boulder like a top-heavy egg, roughly man height, leaning downslope. A cluster of smaller boulders fanned out below and assorted lumps of rock–shifting beneath him as he descended–seemed poised to avalanche if the larger boulder was removed.

Aidan shrugged off the backpack and eased out the bomb. He wedged it tightly at the base of the boulder, backing it with a mound of soil and pebbles.

He checked the live feed on his datapad. He thought he still had time. He did not yet hear the approaching Lhakovi vanguard, though the video showed him it was close.

He climbed back above the boulder and slithered nearer the stream. He was relying on instinct and imagination now. How might the rock tumble? Where might the army bunch up? He was gambling the avalanche would angle somewhat to the east and that would funnel the vanguard toward the stream, away from the worst of the blockage.

Aidan planted the anti-personnel device with sight lines derived from the imaginary carnage of the initial explosion. He checked the video again. Very close now. In fact he heard indistinct noises from the direction of the approaching host, though a glance to the south showed only patchy copses of trees, thickening in number and density as they neared the Wall. He considered the distance the enemy had covered since he had last checked the live stream. Then he ran some rough calculations, factoring in some additional time to account for the increasing difficulty of the terrain. Then he added a couple more minutes–better to be too late and at least catch some of the army marching by than to be too early and miss them entirely. He wanted to cause casualties, not just the minor inconvenience of a landslide.