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the Anglic words. Concussion struck like a fist. The tower seemed to
sway.
"Flandry here." He remembered to overlook naming his rank, and
crisped his tone. "I'm down on the east side. Have you seen what's on
the bay?"
"Sure have. A sub "
"I know. Is help on the way?"
"No."
"What? But that thing's Merseian! It'll take this town apart unless
we strike."
"Citizen," said the voice raggedly, "I've just signed off from HQ.
Recon reports the greenskin air fleet at hover in the stratosphere.
Right over your head. Our fliers are scrambled to cover Highport.
They're not going anywhere else."
Reckon they can't at that,
Flandry thought.Let a general dogfight develop, and the result is up
for grabs. A Merseian could even break through and lay an egg on
our main base.
"I understand Admiral Enriques is trying to get hold of his opposite
number and enter a strenuous protest," Kaiser fleered.
"Never mind. What can you yourselves do?"
"Not a mucking thing, citizen. HQ did promise us a couple of
transports equipped to spray firefighting chemicals. They'll fly low,
broadcasting their identity. If the gatortails don't shoot them
regardless, they should get here in half an hour or so. Now, where are
you? I'll dispatch a flitter."
"I have my own," Flandry said. "Stand by for further messages."
He snapped off his unit. From across the river began a high and
striding peal.
"Well?" Dragoika's ruby eyes blazed at him.
He told her.
For a moment, her shoulders sagged. She straightened again.
"We'll not go down politely. If a few ships with deck guns work close
"
"Not a chance," Flandry said. "That vessel's too well armored.
Besides, she could sink you at twice your own range."
"I'll try anyhow." Dragoika clasped his hands. She smiled.
"Farewell. Perhaps we'll meet in the Land of Trees Beyond."
"No!" It leaped from him. He didn't know why. His duty was to save
himself for future use. His natural inclination was identical. But he
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wasn't about to let a bunch of smug Merseians send to the bottom
these people he'd sailed with. Not if he could help it!
"Come on," he said. "To my flier."
Ferok stiffened. "I, flee?"
"Who talked about that? You've guns in this house, haven't you?
Let's collect them and some assistants." Flandry clattered down the
stairs.
He entered the alley with a slugthrower as well as his blaster. The
three Tigeries followed, bearing several modern small arms between
them. They ran into the Street Where They Fought and on toward
Seatraders' Castle.
Crowds milled back and forth. No one had the civilized reflex of
getting under cover when artillery spoke. But neither did many scuttle
about blinded by terror. Panic would likeliest take the form of a mob
rush to the waterfront, with weapons-swords and bows against
pentanitro. Sailors shoved through the broil, purpose restored to
them by the bells.
A shell smote close by. Flandry was hurled into a cloth-dealer's
booth. He climbed to his feet with ears ringing, draped in
multicolored tatters. Bodies were strewn between the walls. Blood
oozed among the cobbles. The wounded ululated, most horribly, from
beneath a heap of fallen stones.
Dragoika lurched toward him. Her black and orange fur was
smeared with red. "Are you all right?" he shouted.
"Aye." She loped on. Ferok accompanied them. Iguraz lay with a
smashed skull, but Ferok had gathered his guns.
By the time he reached the castle, Flandry was reeling. He entered
the forecourt, sat down beside his flitter, and gasped. Dragoika called
males down from the parapets and armed them. After a while,
Flandry adjusted his pump. An upward shift in helmet pressure made
his abused eardrums protest, but the extra oxygen restored some
vitality.
They crowded into the flitter. It was a simple passenger vehicle
which could hold a score or so if they filled seats and aisle and rear
end. Flandry settled himself at the board and started the grav
generators. Overloaded, the machine rose sluggishly. He kept low,
nigh shaving the heads of the Tigeries outside, until he was across the
river and past the docks and had a screen of forest between him and
the bay.
"You're headed for Whitestrands," Dragoika protested.
"Of course," Flandry said. "We want the sun behind us."
She got the idea. Doubtless no one else did. They huddled together,
fingered what guns they had, and muttered. He hoped their first
airborne trip wouldn't demoralize them.
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"When we set down," he said loudly, "everyone jump out. You will
find open hatches on the deck. Try to seize them first. Otherwise the
boat can submerge and drown you."
"Then their gunners will drown too," said a vindictive voice at his
back.
"They'll have reserves." Flandry understood, suddenly and
shatteringly, how insane his behavior was. If he didn't get shot down
on approach, if he succeeded in landing, he still had one blaster and a
few bullet projectors against how many Merseian firespitters? He
almost turned around. But no, he couldn't, not in the presence of
these beings. Moral cowardice, that's what was the matter with him.
At the beach he veered and kicked in emergency overpower. The
vehicle raced barely above the water, still with grisly slowness. A gust
threw spray across the windshield. The submarine lay gray,
indistinct, and terrible.
"Yonder!" Dragoika screeched.
She pointed south. The sea churned with dorsal fins. Fish-drawn
catapult boats had begun to rise, dotting it as far as one could eye.Of
course, trickled through the cellars of Flandry's awareness.This has
to be largely a Seatroll operation, partly to conserve Merseian
facilities, partly to conserve the fiction. That sub's only an
auxiliary & isn't it? Those are only advisors well, volunteers this
time at the guns & aren't they? But once they've reduced Ujanka's
defenses, the Seatrolls will clean the place out.
I don't give a hiss
whathappens to Charlie.
An energy bolt tore through the thin fuselage. No one was hit. But
he'd been seen.
But he was under the cannon. He was over the deck.
He stopped dead and lowered his wheels.A seat-of-the-pants shiver
told him they had touched. Dragoika flung wide the door. Yelling, she
led the rush.
Flandry held his flitter poised. These were the worst seconds, the
unreal ones when death, which must not be real, nibbled around him.
Perhaps ten Merseians were topside, in air helmets and black
uniforms: three at either gun, three or four in the opened conning
tower. For the moment, that tower was a shield between him and the
after crew. The rest wielded blasters and machine pistols. Lightnings
raged.
Dragoika had hit the deck, rolled, and shot from her belly. Her
chatterbox spewed lead. Flame raked at her. Then Ferok was out,
snapping with his own pistol. And more, and more.
The officers in the tower, sheltered below its bulwark, fired. And
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