Kris Longknife: Audacious Part 41

And the world in front of the Gallery lit up as a rocket shot from the roof to slam into the rear of the lead tank.

It hung there, burning for a second. Then it must have burned through. The rear of the tank exploded.

Another rocket led a straight line of glare to a second tank. In less than a breath, that one, too, was a flaming pyre.

NELLY, HOW MUCH LONGER?.

WE ALMOST HAVE THEM, KRIS.

ALMOST IS NO HELP TO THOSE POOR DEVILS BURNING OUT THERE.

I KNOW, KRIS. I AM DOING MY BEST.

Kris knew she was. Knew that no one could do any better. It wasn't Nelly that Kris was mad at. There was a certain Grant von Schrader who was running up quite a tab.

A tab Kris intended to collect to its fullest.

"We are clear. Only our nanos are left," Nelly announced.

Kris moved quickly, silently down the hall.

50.

Captain DeVar had gotten the whispered "Batter up," signal from Penny, followed by no more information than he could glean from the reflections of explosions and rocket fire as it lit up the soft afterglow of sunset around the Gallery.

He'd ordered Gunny to keep his own counsel, unsure if they'd have communications or not. The princess had warned about the possibility of jamming.

"Commander Tordon, are you on net?"

"Sounds like I'm about the only one on it."

"Are you being jammed?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Marine. I suspect if they jam us, they also jam themselves. Just now, they need to talk at least as much as us to find out what's happening."

"So what is happening?" DeVar asked.

"All h.e.l.l done broke lose, son, and the devil's out to lunch" came through in an easy drawl that almost made the Marine forget how bad things were.

"There's all sorts of confusion on the main government net about what may or may not be going on at the presidential palace. Some say he's dead. Some say he escaped but wounded. There's a whole lot of shouting on net for orders. Any orders. Any of that sound about right from your viewpoint?"

"Most of what's happening seems to be on the other side of the palace from me," DeVar said. "I see a lot of reflections of things. Is anyone being jammed?"

"Not that I can tell. But with everybody yammering and shouting, I can't tell if there's a hole in the middle of it. There's plenty of folks willing to fill any hint of silence."

"How's the rest of town?"

"There's an a.s.sault under way on that warehouse we visited yesterday. But we kind of expected that. Your Lieutenant Martinez is up to his eyeteeth on that one. Don't look for any help from him for a while."

"I wasn't expecting any. If he can hold, though, these folks out here won't be getting any extra help, either.

"So, what you gonna do? Storm the place?"

"I don't know, Commander. It don't look any too good, but I can't be sure it won't be worse in a few minutes."

"Ain't that what they call a leaders.h.i.+p challenge?" DeVar could almost hear the grin behind that.

"Seems to me that's what it is," he said. "Let me know if anything changes on your end."

"I will. You're about the only one calling home. Ain't that sad how kids never do?"

And the familiar voice was gone.

Captain DeVar studied the Gallery, or palace, or killing field. Whatever it was.

Talk to me Kris. What's happening?

Grant von Schrader watched as the last tank backed up, a failed ant.i.tank rocket sputtering on its heavily armored snout.

"Well, it will be a long while before they try that again," he said, smiling at the sergeant at his elbow.

"No question, sir."

Grant turned back to the huddled wealth before him. Many of them had watched through the Gallery's windows as their salvation turned to failure, death, and flight. He smiled as a wave of dread swept the place. Well, most of the place.

The Marines stared back at him with hard, defiant eyes.

"What shall I do about that missing princess?" As Grant mulled that conundrum, he climbed up to stand among the greats of Eden on Landing Day. And smiled at the image of himself. It was a pleasant thought.

The Marines had formed themselves into a loose battle array halfway down the great hall's south wing with their backs to the west wall. The only good shots at them would be from the east side of the second floor walk. The officers had their backs to the wall. The Marines held the first line.

More and more of the still-armed security guards migrated to stand with them.

During the initial planning, Grant had given thought to disarming everyone immediately. And given it up as taking too much time.

Grant figured the dispirited people would be helpless and little trouble even with guns.

He had not considered that some of the guards might be Marines. Dispirited and helpless didn't seem to be in their vocabulary.

"Commander," Grant shouted, "you over there. Where's Kris Longknife?"

The Navy commander shared a few words with the woman in the ridiculous orange taffeta affair. She nodded and then stood a bit straighter.

"I speak for this detachment." The missing "sir" hung like a slap in the air.

"And you are?"

"Lieutenant Pasley-Lien, United Sentient Navy."

"Where's Kris Longknife?"

"The last place you want her, buster" shot back at him. That brought a t.i.tter of laughter to the hall.

Looking ridiculous in front of these people was the last thing Grant wanted.

"Throw down your guns, and I'll let you live."

"Our guns are all that's keeping you from slaughtering us. No way, my optimistic little friend."

Again the hall ran with that nervous twitter.

Above them came the sounds of running feet. The riflemen brought in on the last of the caterer's trucks galloped down the second-floor gallery and took up positions, a.s.sault rifles aimed down into the crowd.

With luck, they might actually hit something if they fired, Grant thought. He'd been briefed about their poor performance on the rifle range.

But no one down there knew that.

"You, security guards," Grant shouted. "You still have your weapons. Disarm those hardcases for me. You can't be afraid of a couple of Marines. Do it and you have a job with me."

The security guards looked around among themselves. Some whispered things Grant didn't catch.

One looked like he might take Grant up on his offer, but he ended up coldc.o.c.ked before anything came of it. Someone picked up his pistol and joined the group around the Marines.

"You're putting a lot of people at risk, Lieutenant Pasley. You could lose everything very quickly."

"I'm a widow, buster, you Peterwald toadies already took everything I hold dear" came back in a cold voice.

A check with his computer told him what he should have researched sooner.

"You going to let a nutcase like that get you all killed?" didn't have the impact Grant expected.

"Sergeant," he shouted to one that commanded the shooters on the second-floor balcony, "throw down some plastic cuffs. If you allow yourself to be cuffed we'll move you down to the north wing. You won't get killed if we have to shoot these crazies."

The plastic stringers were thrown out, scattering as they fell. Some people did offer their wrists to their neighbors to be bound.

"Don't do it," the orange harridan shouted. "They want to kill us all. If you make it easy for them, they'll just kill you last."

The eager rush to be cuffed died.

Grant eyed the firing line on the second floor. Should he give the order to fire? Let the ma.s.sacre begin? He did not plan to let anyone here out alive. The only question was when to let them in on the secret.

"Hey, Grant!" That blasted woman's voice drew his attention back to her. The tall Naval commander moved out from in front of her.

She held a service automatic. It was aimed directly between Grant's eyes.

"You die first," she said.

A second later, several of the Marines had joined her, their automatics on him. Reflexively, Grant's eyes searched their uniforms. All were sharpshooters. One a sniper.

Somewhere in the building there was an explosion.

Now Marines and armed security guards drew beads on the punks lining the upper balcony.

"You sure you want to die with a jarhead's dart between your eyes" came in the voice of a Marine sergeant.

Above, rifles wavered. One disappeared from view as someone broke into a run.

Grant waited for one of his sergeants to tell him what was happening. Better yet, for one of his sharpshooters to take that woman down.

Then the lights went out.

Grant dropped into the darkness and off of the bronzes. Behind him darts pinged off the artwork where he'd been a second ago.

Kris said a bitter word as the lights went out. That was not what she'd intended.

She'd edged up to the door slowly, examining it as she went. It was metal, with an armored-gla.s.s window, reinforced with bars. In an older, more safe world, it would have been the epitome of maximum security.

Today, it was puny.

She waved a Marine forward. He frowned at the lock, then reached into this uniform and withdrew a coil of plastic explosives.

While he rigged the door for destruction, Kris risked a few glances through the gla.s.s.

It showed her little. Whatever was inside was far inside, well away from the door. What she did see carried the hint of observation and security.

Hopefully, this was where the auto-guns were controlled.

The Marine stepped back, signaling that he was ready to blow both the lock and the hinges.

Kris reached into the padding of her rear and pulled out two whizbangs. Jack took one. She kept the other.

The sergeant held up three fingers, then two. Finally one.

And the door exploded.

Kris launched herself from the wall in a low crouch. She hit the door low, Jack high. It went down ahead of them.

But not flat. A body was on the floor beneath it.

Ahead of Kris was a counter, a gla.s.s cage cutting off further access to the computer stations within.