For the next few seconds the crowd does just what I want them to do: Nothing. But I know I’m getting in deep water fast. This terrorism stuff is a sideline to getting planetary defenses disabled, and prior to this moment I’d’ve figured it’s going to be a cold day in hell before I become a terrorist platform speaker. But here I am trying to distract what you might call a hostile crowd while my compadres get their act together and join me.
I look around. What should I say next? “I want all of you to lay down your arms. Now!” Hell, these people couldn’t hurt me. It’s stupid, but it seems like the thing to say, and it certainly beats standing there holding up two hostages and saying nothing.
On their frequency I mutter, “Al, Chin, how are you coming?”
“We ain’t doin’ bad but, Christ, they’ve got a lot of wood in this pile. Chin’s got the boys off. I’m clearin’ a way to the armor. It’s hot in here. … Ah, here we go. I got to one suit. It’ll be a minute more before they’re both out.”
Chin adds, “These guys are both out of it. This experience must’ve freaked ’em out pretty bad and one got sparks in his hair. He’ll have a headache for quite a while.”
“Okay, get them buttoned up in herd mode and get over here, fast. I’m going to entertain.”
The audience is getting restless and I’m getting worried. With good reason. Some old codger on the platform draws his sword, starts yelling, and charges me. It’s probably the best thing that could’ve happened. He has blood in his eyes as he closes. He’s ready to die for God, Mom, honor, the country, or whatever. Then at the last moment I swing one of my hostages, still in hand, between us. The hostage yells and squeals and the old man seems to see him for the first time. He stops, then drops the sword. I’ve apparently made a good choice in who I’ve grabbed.
“Back in line!” I yell at the old man. “The rest of you, drop your weapons!” I lift the two hostages by their collars and swing them slowly around while they kick and scream a bit.
“You people on the platform: Lie down on your stomachs and don’t move. You people in the square: Time to go home. The party’s over. You policemen: Disperse this crowd before someone gets hurt. DO IT!”
I keep yelling this as I turn slowly around. I let the two I’m holding down so they aren’t hanging and can breathe again. “Tell them to do it. Tell them who you are, then to do it,” I say to the one I used to stop the old man. I push him in front of the mikes. This way I’ll find out who I have.
He chokes a bit then says, “This is High Commander Shultz. Do what this creature—” I shake him roughly.
“Who am I?”
“… this man, Kull the Conqueror, says.”
“Thanks for your testimonial, Commander.” Then I set the other to the mikes. He turns out to be some ranking clergy.
And things are finally happening. The platform crowd is about half down and a few of the police are starting the crowd out of the square.
“We’re coming,” announces Al.
Ah, but just when the rays of sunshine start coming through the parting clouds some idiot decides to water the lawn. From above and behind me comes a blast of machine gun fire. It rattles off my armor harmlessly, but my two hostages are sporting red, ugly holes.
“You’re not the only ones with enemies,” the High Commander gurgles. I put the two dying men down somewhat gently and return fire. The assailant drops, but the damage is done. Sporadic shooting starts breaking out. By the time Al and Chin arrive with Johann and Gunther in tow, anyone with an enemy on the plaza has decided now is the time to settle the score. The shooting is spreading, as is the kicking, clubbing, trampling, and screaming. One or two of the soldiers on the roof are even tossing grenades. It’s clear that within five minutes everyone left on that plaza will either be stiff or finishing off an enemy.
That’s the bad news. The good news is that we’re practically ignored in the chaos. One squad leader manages to muster a volley on us from the far side of the podium, but before I can return fire somebody drops a grenade on him. “Let’s get out of here. Follow me,” I say.
The building at the end of the plaza is clearly the oldest. It is dwarfed on one side by a couple of skyscrapers, but it’s a massive stone edifice that clearly says “church and pride” or “government and pride.” I’m not having much luck with people hostages so we might as well try property hostages. We run for it.
Inside the building is labyrinthine: Halls and corridors of the sort that says offices. Rats, I was hoping for a church, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Let’s head down. There’ll be tunnels or something that can get us out of here unobtrusively when the time comes.” We break a few doors finding stairs down but it doesn’t take long. In the basement we find central power or central communications or something, and a thick-wall storage room of some sort adjoining it. We camp there.
“Al, you’ve got sentry.”
“Jessie in sentry mode okay?”
“That’ll do. These guys won’t be sneaking up on us with anything sophisticated for a while. Armor sentry should do for now. Let’s get about finding out where we stand.”
Cleaning, diagnosing, and fixing; cleaning, diagnosing and fixing; a soldier’s work is never done. I start diagnostics and hop out of the suit to help with the others.
“Hell, that fire burned off most of my ablation protection,” says Al.
“That’s what it’s supposed to do: Disintegrate under heat—laser blast or otherwise.”
“Yeah, but it’s a shame it went to a silly bonfire. And it’s gone all over. I feel naked.”
“Fortunately for you bonfires are about all you’ll need it for: These people seem exclusively projectile-based.”
“Still, that’ll be the first thing I fix when we get off this rock,” he sighs.
“Yeah.” I duck the unasked question, When will we get off this rock?
Chin isn’t doing badly. Her armor wasn’t in the fire nearly as long and the drugs have her concussion under control. She’s checking Johann and his armor. I start the diagnostics on Gunther.
Their suits are in worse shape than ours. They’d survived the trip down, but barely. The operator-repair facilities are still working but without spare parts these units will never shoot or fly.
The mercs inside are even worse off: Broken bones and massive internal damage. If the natives hadn’t been slow to get them out of the suits where healing had started, they’d be dead already. The experience of being ripped out, thrown into the clink, and lashed to the bonfire post didn’t help any either. The closest a merc normally gets to this kind of body- and mind-abuse is a barroom brawl ending in a quick trip to the clinic.
“How long before they’re functional?” I ask Chin.
“Minutes, days, weeks, how should I know?”
“You’ve been with them a little longer than I have, that’s all.”
“I don’t know. They may have been drugged,” says Chin. “They were pretty frantic up on those posts. I know they’re in bad shape, but are we in any better? Have you got a plan yet?”
“Hell, we’re alive and we ain’t catatonic like these two. Are we doing that badly?” interjects Al.
“Ask me tomorrow.” She starts cleaning her own suit. I walk back to Mary and do the same. It helps me think.
So here we are in a circle in the room. Three of us out-of-suit cleaning and adjusting diligently and two in-suit healing.
“Well, folks,” I say. “We can avoid capture and death as long as our suits stay operational—if we don’t get nuked or surprised somehow. That’ll give us ’til the power supplies run out, right?”
“Right,” says Al. “I’ve got about 20 battle hours on mine.”
“24 on mine,” says Chin.
“I’ve got 21,” I say. I check the newcomers. “Damn, one is damaged and on reserve—50 minutes—and the other’s at 26.”
“Can we get the fleet back?” Al wonders aloud.
“For five of us? I doubt it,” Chin responds.
“They may come back for a second try.”
“They may, and that would be the easiest for us," I agree. “We just sit on our ass and stay alive. But I wouldn’t plan on it.”
“We could pirate a ship, Frank,” Al suggests.
“Yup, and get blown out of the sky ten clicks up. Whatever their other deficiencies, these people are obviously very good at shooting things out of the sky.”
“Stow away?”
“Now there’s a possibility. I wonder where spaceships from this world go to? Let’s keep that one in mind.”
“Go native?” Chin puts in.
“Well, if we can find an isolated part of this world, one that hasn’t heard about the invasion, or doesn’t care. And we can learn the language and culture. And we can find gainful occupation. And we can hide the armor. … It sounds possible!” Al and Chin laugh along with me.