The barrage had only taken twenty seconds. The launch reached shore in about the same time; Marian gripped the thwart with one hand as the prow grated on gravel and the oars dropped, left to dangle in the thwarts as the Marines snatched up their weapons and vaulted over the sides. Marian leaped as well, came down in water barely deep enough to cover the soles of her boots, dashed forward to the dry verge of the riverside road with Swindapa at her side. The Marines pelted past her; all over the river boats were pulling for their assigned objectives. Guard sailors poured in a roaring wave over the gunwales of the moored barges, cut or clubbed down the scratch night-watch crews and set to work; others lay alongside the pontoon bridge. Marines landed all along the wharves.
There was a specific task for her and Swindapa. Two flicks of her finger, and the protective lids were off the ends of the telescopic sight mounted on the heavy game rifle; the forward one up like a cap, to keep rain off the lens, the rear fully back. She brought it to her shoulder and scanned up the
commandatura’s
tower. Intelligence said that Tartessians always put the commander’s quarters in the highest possible place....
Make
kan
primary
and ken
secondary;
Musashi’s words. Ignore the irrelevant; the noise all around her, the growing chorus of screams, shouts, shots, explosions, flashes lurid through the downpour. Muscles relaxed but not loose, only the effort necessary to bring the weapon up. Clear lambent yellow flame light in the scope sight, the circle bisected by the fine hairs of the granule. Two hundred yards, a clout shot with this weapon, if it weren’t dark and
raining
. . .
Now to see if the commandant of this base did the instinctive thing. Yes. A shape backlit by the lantern, against the glass. Finger forward to set the hair trigger. Curling back to stroke it as her breath went out in a single long smooth exhalation.
CRACK.
The recoil a surprise as it always was when you were on-target, but this gun really punished your shoulder; she swayed backward, taking the impact rather than trying to stop it. CRACK. Swindapa’s a second after hers. A shape falling limp forward through the broken glass, another behind clutching at it, trying to drag it back.
CRACK. CRACK.
The second figure fell on the first. They lay limp and motionless, arms dangling, locked together.
No time to do more. No time to wonder if the human being she’d just killed was a good man or bad, or if someone would weep for him, or whether children would keep asking when their father would return....
She thrust the rifle behind her, a sailor took it, and Swindapa’s —the weapons would be useless in a close-quarter scrimmage. They drew their Pythons and dashed forward toward the tall gates. Seconds, less than two minutes since the flares went up. No little winking firefly lights from the parapet, not yet. Move, move, their only chance was speed and impact and purpose, cutting through the enemy’s bewilderment.
“Clear!” from a bazooka team ahead of them.
The two women dived to either side with balletic grace, slapping down in controlled diving falls despite night and muddy ground.
SSSSSRAAAAWACK!
The rocket lanced out, the backblast a wave of heat across the skin of her hands and neck. It ended against the gateway a half second later, with a hollow echoing
booooom.
Bits of hot metal flew through the air; the leaves must have been heavily reinforced with iron strapping or even plates. When she looked up and blinked the gates were leaning drunkenly, one on a single hinge and a gaping hole where they met, but they were still there. Reinforced
indeed
Two more Marines ran forward, bundles in their hands—satchel charges. Neat as dancers they threw their burdens through the hole and then threw themselves aside, against the thick mud-brick wall and away from the gate. Another explosion, much louder this time—twenty pounds of gunpowder in each bag—and the gates disintegrated in a flurry of flying metal and splinters. The Marine platoon with them were on their feet and charging before the last wreckage pattered down; some of it struck their helmets as they pounded through.
Marian shoulder-rolled back to her feet, looked to her right, and felt a sharp stab of alarm; Swindapa was still on one knee.
“The stars put a rock where my stomach was going to be
,” she wheezed, then took a whooping breath. “Let’s go!”
A brief, nasty little firefight was spilling around the courtyard of the
commandatura
as they came through the wreckage of the gates. A two-story gallery upheld by tree-trunk pillars lined the inside of the fort’s square shape. The barracks were on the other side where the tower had its base, the angry red eyes of muzzle flashes winking out from under the overhang that made its roof. A Tartessian on the fighting platform that topped the second story aimed a rifle at her; she fired, three quick shots with the pistol. It wasn’t her choice of weapon—she’d been good enough to requalify as necessary, before the Event, no more—but since then she’d practiced rigorously. The third shot hit him, and Swindapa took down the man behind, and they both emptied their pistols to drive the ones remaining to cover. The enemy in the barracks were shooting, too, and the Marines were returning fire from behind the wooden posts. Marian put her shoulder behind one, felt the wood give a solid quiver as a bullet hammered into the other side, risked a look behind. Swindapa coiled ready without a trace of tension, the Coast Guard Intelligence specialist who accompanied them clutching his pistol in both hands. He was a weedy little man with glasses who’d been a clerk in a house trading with Tartessos before the war and a designer of computer war games before the Event.
Hope he doesn’t manage to shoot me in the back by accident,
she thought.
At the next pillar a Marine fired his Werder, then ducked back, thumbed a fresh round from his bandolier down the grooved ramp of the block and into the breech, thumbed back the cocking lever in its semicircular groove, leaned around the pillar, and fired again. There was less black-powder smoke than in an ordinary firefight, with the fine drizzle washing it out of the air.
“Covering fire!” Alston called to the Marine officer. “We’ve got to get to that tower room before someone destroys their files.”
“Hell with that!” he called back. “You need the barracks
suppressed
to get across the courtyard, ma’am.” Louder: “Everyone, load a tit.” That meant filling the strip of six loops on the left breast of the uniforms. Hands transferred shells. “Everyone ready ... rapid fire, independent ...
fire!”
The Werders cracked faster, mad-minute speed; trained shooters could manage a round every three seconds this way, and aim them, too. Spurts of damp adobe pocked out all around the windows in the barracks opposite as the bullets struck. More shots were going
through
the windows, and the enemy fire died down as Tartessians ducked. A pair of Marines dashed around the perimeter of the courtyard as their squadmates fired, threw themselves flat, leopard-crawled the last few yards. Grenades flew out of their hands, through the windows. Seconds later fire and shattered sun-dried brick gouted back out and the Marines all charged forward. All but the squad assigned to her.
“This way!” she shouted, drew the
katana,
and went out across the courtyard’s wet stone pavement, cutting diagonally toward the rear.
Granite rutched under her boots, flickering liquidly in the flashes of light; her sword gleamed as well. A quick glance aside showed her Swindapa’s face; the same high-cheeked oval as always, but unrecongnizable with the blue eyes in a wide fixed glare and teeth bared.
Nearly to the stairs, a spiral of wooden planks around a post inside the ten-foot square of the tower’s base. Men bursting out of a side door, out into the wet,
probably trying to get away out the front gate.
No time, and two had leveled their rifles at her from only five yards distance.
A shot cracked, the bullet whining dangerously off stone near her feet. The other ended in a damp fizzle as the hammer cracked the frizzen back and sparks showered into damp priming powder. The man came on without missing a beat, lunging behind the bayonet. Half a lifetime of relentless drill and the experience of far too many real post-Event encounters snapped Marian’s
katana
from
jodan
up into a sweeping parry. Steel banged on wood, and the bayonet went up over her right shoulder, her left punched into the Tartessian’s chest, knocking him back on his heels. Her wrists turned, hands sliding on the long hilt in small, swift, precise movements. The superb
shihozume
forged blade swung back until the point nearly touched her left buttock, then forward with the falling stamp of her right foot. The sword flashed through an arc, all the whipping strength of arms and shoulders and gut, hips and thighs behind it.
Tense the wrists just before impact, thumping strike of sharp metal into meat and bone, rip the cut through and across, and follow through until the blade is parallel to the ground.
“
Disssaaaaa!
” she shrieked.
What had been a man flopped at her feet, neck half-severed and a great diagonal slash opening the front of his body, letting the pink-purple intenstines fall free in a sharp stink of acid stomach juices and half-digested food. The Tartessian behind saw her face clearly through some freak of sight, screamed, and threw away his weapon, turned and ran facefirst into the wall and then cowered, dazed, with his arms wrapped around his head.
Well, I guess there is some use to this “living legend” shit, then,
she thought bleakly, vaulting over the prostrate form of the one she’d killed. Four more enemy soldiers tumbled backward through the entranceway of the tower and slammed the door behind them.
Marian and Swindapa plastered themselves to either side of the tower entrance for a brief second. Marian looked across the doorway into her partner’s face; they were both panting with the exertion of close combat.
She gasped air back into her lungs, forced the quivering out of hands and arms and shoulders, then caught the eye of the Marine squad’s noncom, jerked a thumb at the door to the stairwell, and raised three fingers for an instant.
Aloud, to Swindapa: “If I’m the supreme commander, why do I always end up drawing point duty in an assault commando?”
“Maybe you’re punishing yourself,” Swindapa replied, her teeth showing in a brief grin. “What’s the word, guilt? Next time, remember you’re punishing
me,
too, and I wasn’t raised to do this guilt thing. It’s even stupider than monogamy and a lot less fun!”
“One . . .”
“Two . . .”
“Three!”
they shouted together.
Baaaamm.
Six rifles blasted holes through the pine planks, knocking splintered holes. Two rounds came back through the boards . . . probably all the reloading the enemy had had time to do. The two women hit the door with their shoulders and burst into the room. Marian ducked and flicked her blade to the left as a rifle butt went by. It brushed across the inch-long wool on the back of her head; she pivoted and cut horizontally, uncoiling like a twisted spring. A spray of blood followed the steel as it ripped across the soldier’s belly, swept upward into
chodan,
snapped down in the pear-splitter. There was a thump of steel in wood as the next man blocked the cut with the stock of his rifle. Marian snap-kicked him in the groin, rammed her knee up to meet his descending face, jerked the sword free, and lunged over his back in a two-handed - thrust as he crawled away....
It was too dark, cramped, chaotic for the Marines behind them to fire. For the space of twenty seconds the room was full of the deadly whirling flicker of their swords, clash and clang and clatter of metal on metal and on wood, the shrieking of
kia
-calls and the shocked screams of pain beyond what human flesh could imagine. Parry and strike by instinct and reflex with nothing clearly seen and wounded men writhing on the ground beneath . . .
Then the last Tartessians were backing up the stairs; Marian and Swindapa pressed them hard, lest they have time to reload or think up some other devilment. Bayonets stabbed down, swords licked out as the enemy climbed backward. Crash and clang . . . At last the stair came to a landing.
“Down!” someone shouted behind them.
They dropped forward, driving their opponents that last step back with thrusts at their feet. A wobbling cast-iron egg flew over their heads, rebounded off the outer wall, dropped behind the green-clad soldiers. Marian could distinctly hear the
ckkkkching!
as the spoon flew free of the grenade and clattered away. Badammpp, and a wash of heat in the damp still air of the stairwell. Up again, over the bodies—ignore them, the sight will come back too soon whether you want to remember or not, the way blood spattered in fans and arcs across the whitewashed earth-brick walls, the reflex quivering of a heel beating a tattoo on the floor—and through the door. The top of the tower was a suite, a bedroom below and an office above. The bedroom was empty, but they went up the stairs cautiously. The office above was still brightly lit by a kerosene lamp.
“Oh,
hell,”
Marian said.
They’d killed the Tartessian commandant with their game-rifle barrage, all right; the massive bullet had taken the top right off his head and he lay with a sprinkle of glittering shattered glass dusted over the wetness. The woman draped over him didn’t look much better; the exit wound in her back was big enough to hold paired fists.
Well
,
the gun was designed for elephant and buffalo,
she thought with angry resignation, as automatic reflex drew a cloth out of her belt and ran the sword through it.
It wasn’t that Marian Alston-Kurlelo objected to killing women, specifically.
I scarcely could, being one myself.
What she hated was noncombatants getting injured, and the Tartessian woman obviously was no warrior. Not least because of the baby lying on the floor by the desk, still swaddled in cloth as was the custom here, screaming angrily, its face and wrappings spattered with its parents’ blood and bits of their lung and brain and bone.