“The cameras on the last point were destroyed, commander. It's a good thing they didn't leave the guys in place of the automatics. They would have put them there, wouldn't have let them get away.”
The old sergeant was the only one who could address Lurg as an ‘old friend.’ The others were usually sent on endless patrols for this kind of flattery, which sooner or later ended with the wreck of a burnt-out rover in the wastelands. And since there were no fools among the colony's military, the chain of command was respected as it should be, without trying to play too smart and cool. Only the sergeant, as the former teacher of the commander of the Downworlders, allowed himself a little more than was written in the swollen in recent years' regulations. On occasion, he could give quiet advice. And sometimes, he even participated in the discussion of future raids, criticizing unnecessarily risky suggestions. Of course, when discussed among themselves and not among the whippersnappers of the Council.
But despite his forty-eight years filled with shooting and walking on the edge of life and death, he understood the new order immediately and only inquired:
“Do you have an exact list of personnel yet? Who will go on the raid, and who will stay at the posts to meet the guests?”
Then he checked every rover, packed with equipment and food. And when the bristling barrels of the caravan passed the point of the declared dispersal, personally stuck three poles with clusters of cameras, gestured for the radio silence and led the rearguard, covering the hastily departing to the south of the soldiers. Behind them was left a virtually defenseless colony, but this worried armed men much less than the message from the luger: "You really have no more than half an hour before the collision with cyborgs and mutants ... No more than half an hour..."
After another hour, the column huddled on the slope of a low hill. The battle group commanders and Lurg gathered at the command tablet, peering at the sparse red dots on the map.
“So, sensors had been knocked out here and here. But there's been no direct engagement yet. If I understand correctly, the enemy is trying to cover the main structures from the north and south to cut off help from neighbors. And also to cut off possible escape routes... Here is the last picture, which shows that the mutants move with the support of heavy cyborgs. At least one in each group of fanged creatures. Plus jamming systems, plus targeting and destroying defenses and movement sensors,” the commander outlined a tapering ring around the blue outlines of the domes and greenhouses. “This isn't just a retaliatory raid. This is a strike calculated to destroy. No one will fire from afar, artillery duels. The enemy will pelt the approaches to the fortress with bodies but will try to deal with us once and for all.”
“So maybe we can outflank their group from the south and stab them in the back?”
“With a one-in-ten advantage? Are you kidding me? No, our only chance is to break through to Stellar and fight back from there. Maybe next winter. Or even a couple of years from now. But we can't do anything right now except prolong the agony for a day or two at most. We'll lose trained soldiers, that's all.”
Some of them were frowning at the cloudy skies; some were clutching a flask of the morning liquor. Because it was the commander, who was used to hiding the stinking reality behind beautiful words, while the ordinary soldiers remembered perfectly well what they had told the inhabitants when they rolled out of the gates in the morning. And they understood what really awaited those left behind in the maze of corridors and tunnels pierced in the cold earth.
“What else did the aerial reconnaissance yield? Was Too able to estimate approximately how many came to us?”
“He managed to spot the second column, and that was it. Didn't show up again. I take it they shot down our rescuer. There's a reason they put cyborgs in every pack. Once he got close, all was silence in response...”
The sound of the radio hissed faintly and then exploded into screams as soon as the volume was turned up:
“Mutants! Mutants! Breakthrough in the greenhouses! Mu...”
Lurg flicked the toggle switch and grinned angrily:
“That's what I said: no chance... Get to your rovers! Heading the same way to the former trading post. We'll try to contact Stellar from there. First and fifth rovers, stand guard. Sensor mine and motion sensors here. We'll cover for possible pursuit. Who knows what the metal guys might think... Let's move, boys! Tempo, tempo...”
The fighting core of the Downworlders army was heading south in a hurry. All sixty-five of them, weapons packed from head to toe. In armored crates stuffed with food and spare parts for cars. The best of the best, who made their choice between life and death. And who chose to live...
***
The machine gun spits out its last icy charges and falls silent, hovering overheated barrel. The hastily equipped defensive point was able to wipe out twenty mutants who stumbled into the dark corridor but did not protect the base. Nor did it protect the crumbs of the militia, clutching old guns and heavy sticks of tasers in their sweaty, frightened hands. The avalanche of toothy critters simply swept the frail ranks away, passing in a bloody hurricane through the poorly lit passageways. Somewhere near the greenhouses, the doors were still breaking down, the hungriest still clawing at the air ducts, trying to break into the crowded central hall, and Tirith was already commanding, lavishing slaps all around:
“No humans to eat! I said no eating! Anyone who doesn't resist, herd them near the greenhouses. All weapons are here in these rooms. Anything that gets underfoot takes it to the workshops. And whoever breaks crates or smashes furniture, I'll personally tear your throat out, do you hear? This is our lair now! Ours! There's nothing to smash; we'll have to rebuild it later...”
Catching one of his most agile subordinates, the mutant chieftain hissed hotly in an ear soaked in someone else's blood:
“Go to the spiked ones! There they are, by the barracks. Tell them all the warriors are at the bunkers. You tell them the gray paint-stained ones where they're still shooting. Tell them the bastards are going to attack right now. They're gathering everyone they haven't captured and getting ready to fight back. If the cyborgs don't get them, we're all screwed. Understand? All of us! Go, go, go!”
Seeing that the humpbacked creature galloped across the muddy plastic in the proper direction, Tirith grinned in satisfaction and went to the crammed hall, where in a corner guarded by mutants huddled together the formerly frightened colony owners in overalls. Stopping beside them, the leader of the hastily made pack asked, careful to pronounce the words:
“We brought some throwers here. They had boxes of shells in the workshop. Who can load the guns and show you how to shoot? Well? Do you know? Or you're stupid useless trash, and I'll feed you for lunch... Who wants to live?” He looked at his unbravely raised hands and yanked the young boy with the soiled cheek: “I see, you're a clever one. You know how to use a thrower. What are you squeaking at? Oh, you saw it. Well, if you've seen it, you can teach it... Listen carefully. Very carefully... This is my home now. I am your master. And you are my slaves. And if you want your life not to end up in a feeding trough, do as you're told. Quickly and correctly. Because I don't like it when my slaves make mistakes... Move, brute...”
Tirith tried not to show his face through the broken windows, where the cold air reeked in. He generally tried to lead the capture of the colony as if he was not in the ranks of the invading mutants. All orders and all communications went through the others. Through the small leaders of the hastily assembled packs. Through the chain of intermediaries. Through the idiots in the crowd, drunk with blood and sudden success. Tirith was well aware that if they failed, the cyborgs would stage an all-out mop-up. And so he tried only to play the stupid and loyal executor, tucking in other people's grinning faces for possible reprisal.
But now, as the spitting-fire machines finished off the last pockets of armed resistance, the cunning leader of the youngsters from the wastelands was preparing one last trap, which was to determine who would rule the seized base. Who really is the true master and not a mindless puppet? And the seven throwers who had secretly deployed their guns to the square in front of the colony's central structure were to be a powerful argument in clarifying relations.
“They're coming, the bastards. Two on the left flank, one hidden behind the base of the substation.”
The remnants of the militia gathered in the smoky dugout: those who had been selected to support the regular fighters, the last hope, and protection. The last and only, as it unexpectedly turned out. In the morning, fifteen men watched with the hope of victory as the heavily laden rovers departed to reconnoiter. They waved after them, then went down into the concrete gut of the casemate, closing the armored doors tightly. They swung their flamethrowers with their clumsy barrels and clattered the boxes to their throwers. They listened to the lazy roll call over the radio station that was crackling in the corner. Then the mood slowly but steadily began to fall. Lower and lower, imperceptibly replacing joy with sticky fear. And two hours later, instead of the army that had disappeared, the mutants and cyborgs came. They came to kill the former masters of the free-spread city under the gray sky. To trample the Downworlders into the dirt.
The first wave of attackers from the rear was burned to a crisp. Every last drop of fuel was used, leaving a field of blackened corpses. Then the shrieking throwers stepped in, disemboweling one pendulous cyborg and snapping up another thirty or so furry creatures in helpless fury as they threw themselves against the concrete walls.
Then there was a brief respite that gave a semblance of hope. Could it be that the disappearing soldiers had struck from the rear and repulsed first the greenhouses and then the main complex? Maybe someone managed to gain a foothold in the maze of passageways and shot the leader of the enemy army? Or had the raid gone down at all, and the damned mad neighbors were rolling back into the cold and snow?
But then, all the cyborgs who had flashed in the rear ranks before joined the attack. The giant scorpion-like machines went on the assault, actively using all their weapons, trying to break through the walls as quickly as possible and destroy the firing points spitting deadly ice in all directions. The first attack was stifled. It was followed by a second. But the third enemy wave came again, crushing the loopholes with grenade launchers and chipping the concrete crumbs with short machine gun bursts. The aliens shredded the remnants of their optics and swept away the whistling barrels of their throwers. Somewhere to the side, the mutants were already yelling happily, breaking open the door that had been skewed by the blast.
The dusty gray man looked at his frozen comrades and swallowed frantically. The plastic wall between the compartments of the dugout was hardly capable of holding back even a child, to say nothing of the furious creatures who dreamed of getting even with the men for the burnt bodies outside. Shaking fingers tore open the locking seal, and his hand rested on the cracked plastic handle of the switch:
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“Sorry, boys...”
The explosion blew debris from the walls into the air, scattering the tiny group of colony defenders and the assault squad that had broken through. Along with them, the militia buried nearly all of the cyborgs who had coordinated the last attack.
Rattling their claws on the plastic plates, one of the observers raced to the Tirith:
“They're coming! They're coming! Eight to go, half of them broken! Tough on them, eh... And how many wild packs have put down - it is impossible to count!”
Mutant Chief stepped closer to the window and looked closely at the silhouettes crawling through the smoke. Six, seven ... Exactly - eight iron coming back. Eight in all. All that was left of the former masters of the nest was hidden in the distant ruins. Half of them were burned by the rocket-bombers and soldiers who dropped in the other day. The people who dared to snap at fire instead of resignedly surrendering at the mercy of the victor had another good go at the plastic hulks. They fought a good war, by the way. And the stupid machines bought the lie; they believed that it was there, in the basements, that the remnants of the army were hiding. Hiding so they could regroup and take the base back... They didn't care about the mountain of crimson bodies next to the deep crater. No pity for the brainless neighbors. You can easily get another hundred or two or three idiots in the wastelands, capable only of baring their teeth and obeying the simplest orders. The cleverest and most cunning ones are all here, as leaders of battle groups, with swords and spears at their fingertips. And next to other people's throwers, baring seven bundles of barrels through broken windows. His, Tirith's, is the main trump card.
“Listen to me! We knock out the cyborgs from the edge of the chain to the center! At once, on my order! Stand by... Come on!”
The last two mechanical warriors were finished off with whatever they could get their hands on: pieces of rebar, bricks, and torn pieces of plastic. Fortunately, the ice shells still managed to break the alien light armor, exposing skeins of wires and thin hoses of giblets. But they were finished. They ripped it up into its twitching parts and ground it into bent gears. And while the prisoners dragged what had once been mutant masters into the cellar, Tirith stood staring at the setting sun and breathing in the smelly, garbage-smelling air. Standing and trying to comprehend what it was like to be the sole and independent ruler of a former human colony. To be the master of thousands of living beings from the cold snow-covered mountains in the south to the far northern frontier of the Wild Anclaves.
“I wo-o-on!” The lean, wiry mutant shouted, unable to contain his outburst of pure joy. “I am the Lord of the Wastes! Me, and only me! Ti-i-r-r-r-r-rith!”
***
Carlos drove a stub of wire across the crumpled plastic map, tapping at the intersections of pipelines and communication centers:
“Our job is to disappear. For everyone. For the Blinders included. Because any attempt to get in touch, to track our movements, and that's it, the signal will be picked up. I've read everything they've collected on the Irreconcilables. These things have been fought since birth. They have been at the throats of anyone they can get their hands on for decades. And they have a keen nose for any movement on their borders. So we tiptoe. Quietly, quietly, like mice. Like ghosts...”
The copper band ran down the blue band and stood still beside the tiny ball, which was strung along the corridor threads.
“We have several pluses to play on. First, our group is tiny to attack. So we can infiltrate where there are traps set for large units. Second, we go in, going at a good pace. We easily disguise ourselves first as reconnaissance drones and then as technical personnel who are constantly hanging around inside security perimeters. No outsiders are welcome in this direction. No warrior would think that the Wild Ones would go into the middle of nowhere, closer to the site of the nuclear strikes.”
“But we're not much different from strays, same meat, and bones. We could just as easily take a dose.”
“We can,” Carlos agreed with Hut's remark. “That's why we've been chewing on treads for two days now. Besides, instead of heavy armor, we'll take light kits, which will protect us from radiation and chemical reagents in the first place. A third of the gear on the ‘dogs’ is filters and regeneration cassettes. We gutted someone else's supplies on purpose so we'd have enough to get us there and back. Speaking of which... Sharra, are you getting used to the machine?”
The driver nodded. The lame man had been riding the multi-wheeled caterpillar through the cramped tunnels of the underground city for twenty-two days. They were cramped inside, and some equipment had to be installed on the outer crawler, but the carriage had no trouble getting the troops to the drop point.
“That's great. Then let's do what we agreed. In two hours, we move to the transition area. From there to the mine, which will lead to the old workings. We'll lay electro-pulse charges, turn off the assistants and go to ground. We are waiting for the Blinders to simulate an accident at the Irreconcilables' eastern substation tomorrow morning. The cyborgs will have twenty minutes to respond. During that time, they'll move the search teams out there and release the scout teams along their usual routes. We pass the drones that patrol the mine, burn out the electrical circuits and tamper with the answering machine signal. Instead of the enemy, we continue along the route and go inside to the first perimeter. There - change the camouflage and wait for the second phase.”
The wire danced on the tangle of lines, moving deeper and deeper into the mishmash of marks on the map.
“The ‘caterpillar’ left by the mine explodes, extinguishing all neighboring equipment with an impulse. At the same time, the second charge near the substation is detonated. As a result, some of the groups gathered to comb the eastern area got hit. And there will be at least 24 hours of confusion with the identification codes in the passageway area. Plus, the Blinders will release reprogrammed robots from the top of the mine, and they'll get into a fight with each other at the edge of the area. In the end, we'll have a mess behind us, which will draw some more cyborgs to our backs. The main thing is confusion. That's the key element of the operation. As far as I have been able to understand all the enemy's actions, the Irreconcilables don't react well to a sudden change of scenery. Especially haphazard introductions, often unrelated to each other. What will happen on the surface will mix up the response actions to prepare to repel the attack, repair work in the blast zone, and figure out who and why made their own war, yelling ‘cover, attack!’ on the open frequencies.”
Leaning back in the creaky plastic chair, Carlos ruffled his short-cropped hair and finished:
“One last thing is the pace. We've gone over the plan more than once before, but I'll say it again. If we make it to the reserve command bunker, we buy time. Not only that, but this mothballed center has its own independent defense system, which has never been activated. We grab the key, and we're out of here. And the possible pursuit, which is likely to happen, will first hitch a ride with an unidentified threat. And while they'll be breaking their teeth on other people's machine guns, we'll have time to retreat to the northern border of the Irreconcilables. They should be waiting for us there in the evacuation zone. North, as far away from the underground city as possible.”
“No good,” sighed Hut, finishing the rest of the vitamin drink he'd been given at lunch. “I'd rather sit out the noise that comes up. At least for a week.”
“They'll find out. It's their turf, explored up and down. No matter how you bury it, they'll find it. And if we're going against the grain, they'll be sure to chase down anything that moves. That's why we must run, don't look back. A little slower, and they'll grab us in the scruff of the neck and never shake us off. We're a subversive unit, not an assault battalion with reinforcements. We are all designed for silent infiltration and point; I would say surgical action in case of contact with some errant cyborg. Except... Sharra, what about the leg? It's going to be a lot of running.”
“It's patched,” the driver said, stroking the sore knee gently. “They put a lot of plastic and stuff in it and said it would work for a week. Then we'll have to see again. But so far, I'm floundering like a young lazybones among the pickers of crops in greenhouses.”
“Well, that's good. When I come back, we will see; maybe they will put some kind of prosthesis. And now I suggest we have a bite to eat and rest for an hour and rake up the stuff. An hour to go...”
The Analyst switched cameras, ran a glance down the barely lit corridors, and interrogated the Defender, who peeked just for a minute:
“Do you really think this plan is nonsense from a military point of view?”
“Yes. Your protégé is going to go beyond any acceptable standard of risk. Almost every step is beyond reason.”
The muffled voice laughed squeakily. Seems the Commander of the Underground City wasn't the only one who liked to act human emotion:
“Then they will break through. Because the Irreconcilables don't expect a squad of idiots from us, either. An assault team, a squad with heavy equipment to break through. A mole armed to the teeth as a last resort. Or some armored shuttle, which would be shot down on approach to the border. But to have three people with toothpicks in their hands stumbling into the very lair - it would not occur to them. So it has a good chance of success. I'd bet on Totem 2. On his luck.”
“If it were a lousy base in the foothills or a rover repair shop, I'd be glad to take that bet," the Defender muttered back. - But when they've been ground into bloody mincemeat, the hope of starting the dormant reactor is dead next door. And with it, the hope for our future.”
With a creak of rubber, the robot rolled toward the exit of the room. He jerked when he heard a quiet voice at the door:
“I was wrong when I said I would put... ‘Would’ is redundant. I think Carlos will come back. Because he needs it as much as we do. There's a boy waiting for him here that he promised he'd help get home...”
***
“Did you see the polish they gave me?”
Stump nestled next to his friend, perched on the high parapet of the roof overlooking the wide courtyard. Twisting the shiny metal hook in front of someone else's nose, the tracker got his favorite pipe and looked with interest at the bustle below:
“What does management say?”
“The management is pissed in their pants with joy. Gray climbed for an hour: in and out of the cabin. He wants to fly very much but is afraid; what if they drop him?”
“Did they come here to fly down from above? What's the point?”
“Well, they flew in because the corrals are being gutted all over the wasteland today. What we couldn't do, the mutants did just fine. First, they chewed up the warriors, then they went after the colony. Last I heard, they were screaming about carnage all over the airwaves. Then they shut up. Sounds like they'd really slaughtered the Downworlders. They were finally destroyed.”
Squinted grinning, he spat down, trying not to get on anyone's head:
“It's about time; I won't regret it. It would be good to go in after, to clean out the nests of the toothy creatures. Somehow I don't think there shouldn't be too many of them after the scuffle. Just enough for us.”
Krap brushed away the stinking smoke and grimaced unhappily:
“You might as well sit on the other side, the stench in your face... I don't think we're going there now. The pilot said the mutts had amassed a large horde. The pilots at the base had only to fire back once or twice. So they ate people up almost unopposed. So we'll deal with our toothy neighbors later. And obviously with a lot of blood.”
Pathfinder gently released another club to the side, not to annoy his friend, and asked:
“And where have I seen this crooked-headed monkey? I don't remember seeing the girl, but I've definitely seen him.”
A glimpse of the dwarf below him hardly heard his name. The weathered Too, for the umpteenth time, showed off his flying apparatus and in a husky voice, extolled his own talents.
“Shorty? So he was a senior lifeguard. Remember the older man they brought back with the burnt-out rover? Well, we sold them off to the Blinders so well afterward? Well, they were the doers. And now the head that commanded them came to us. True, he lost her feathers on the way, but he wasn't any worse at thinking. So he came with gifts.”
“Yes, a flying box is a valuable acquisition for us. Maybe to patrol, maybe to bomb somebody from above,” Ruffles looked at laughing cousin with astonishment. “What is wrong?”
“What patrolling, you! Why would Gray be running around in circles? He's looking for his own crew. Can you imagine - a dozen Anclaw chiefs have carts or a rover or something. But here, he's got his own luger. A working luger with a private pilot. Now the last of the villains will be bored out of his mind. You'll think of bombing, too... If he gets shot down, who's going to ride Him under the clouds?”
“You'd have to be willing to do that first. You said it yourself - what if they drop him?”
Krap threw his legs back on the roof and got up easily, still smiling:
“That's for now. A day or two more, and Gray won't be impatient; he'll make a circle or two over the city. So everyone can see... I suggest we go somewhere quiet. Because if we're late, they'll catch us and make us listen to how wise and mighty our chief is. They're running away with all these gifts. We'll have to hear about the flying iron for the hundredth time until morning.”
Pathfinder followed, knocking out an extinguished pipe:
“Only we must take this girl with us. Do you think we can steal her? I'd like to hear firsthand what really happened to the ranchers. It seems strange, such a powerful colony, and literally in a day - to pieces. Not good. Maybe the mutts won't sit in the heath and come to us. They'll think they're stronger than all their neighbors.”
“Good thinking. I was just about to offer you a word with the guards. But if you're ready to set the table, I'll do it myself. Don't forget to bring snacks. Because I want to talk to my guest, not get her drunk. So, do we have a deal?”