Стивен Стирлинг - Against the Tide of Years

O'Rourke came dashing out, laughing again. There was a multiple massive BUDUMPF from both sides of the street, and the buildings collapsed inward with a long rumble that shook the ground.

"Put up those snipers… wait." Hollard stopped, thought, looking over the gap the explosions had created. Too far to throw, but… "We've got some of the new rifle grenades, don't we?"

"That we do," O'Rourke said and grinned wider. "Splendid thought, Colonel, sir. Two squads?"

"Do it. Let's get moving here! Lieutenant Mleckzo, get us some light."

And I hope to God the other company commanders are doing the right thing.

He looked over his position. The infantry were deployed in front of him, shoulder to shoulder across the roadway in three rows. They were buckling back the flaps of their bandoliers, some licking a thumb and wetting the foresights of their rifles. Others under Mleckzo's direction were hammering the handles of torches-bundles of oil-soaked reeds wrapped around sticks-into walls and setting them alight. A ruddy glow spread over the roadway, catching on the cold glitter of fixed bayonets and the yellow brass of cartridges.

"Colonel, sir, aren't we supposed to get a Gatling?" O'Rourke said, coming up beside him and dusting off his tunic.

"Yes, we were," Hollard said.

"Good," O'Rourke said. "The more one-sided, the better."

"I'm not looking forward to firing on these people," Hollard said softly; there were things you didn't say in front of the troops. "We're supposed to be here to help them, as well as the Republic."

O'Rourke looked at him with surprise in his eyes. "Well, we are helping them, sir," he said, his voice equally low. "We finished off the Assyrians for them, we're doing our best to stop this epidemic, and the fools would be fighting us."

"They're scared, Paddy," Hollard said. "Scared people don't think very straight. Now the smallpox has hit them, and some of the priests told them we were to blame. Why shouldn't they believe it? They've seen us fly and throw thunderbolts, why shouldn't they believe we can cause a pestilence?"

O'Rourke put a hand on his shoulder. "Sir… Ken… if you're going to be in this line of work, it's best not to think about some things too much. We can handle it here."

"Thanks, but if I can order it, I can watch it," Hollard said quietly. "Carry on."

Hooves rattled behind them. Hollard turned quickly, but it was the Gatling coming up, with an outrider in front of it. He let out a sigh of relief; it was extremely unlikely that any mob could storm this position, but the Gatling made it a lot less likely still.

The six-barreled weapon was mounted behind a sheet-steel shield, drawn by a two-horse team, with another drawing an ammunition limber behind it. Each team was guided by a Marine riding the left horse, and the mounted crews trotted behind. He recognized Sergeant Smith, transferred from mortars to the newly arrived weapons, and she grinned at him as she swung down from the saddle and saluted.

"Sorry we're late, sir," she said. "Had a little brush with some rioters who got through."

"Very well," he said. "Get set up-we left a gap in the middle of the line for you."

"Sir, yessir."

The noncom barked orders of her own, and the crews unhitched the teams, then ran the weapon forward, hands pushing on the wheels.

"Feed me!" Smith snapped, when the iron-and-brass machine was level with the front line of prone infantry. She sat on the little bike-saddle mounted on the trail and traversed the weapon experimentally.

The crew lifted one of the drum-shaped magazines and fitted it into the loading slot on top of the Gatling's breech. Smith swung the crank at the side back a half turn and then forward; there was a clunk-clank! sound, and the barrels turned two spaces.

"Ready, sir!"

Hollard nodded. The mob sound was much closer now; they'd stopped when they heard the blasting charges bring down the houses, but they were coming on again. Run away, you idiots! he pleaded within himself. Then his eyes panned across a slight figure helping run the limber forward. Oddly, there were no markings on the plain uniform, and the Marine was wearing a hat rather than a helmet. And… was that a dog with her?

"Can't be!" he muttered and stepped closer. "Jesus Christ- Raupasha! What the hell are you doing here?"

She looked up at him, pushing up the brim of the campaign hat.

"I am starting payment on a debt, Lord Kenn 'et," she said, meeting his eyes without wavering. "And you cannot send me back to the palace, because that would be more dangerous than staying here!"

Hollard opened his mouth. A voice rang out: "Heads up! Here they come!"

"Did you have to bring the dog!" he heard himself say, and a part of him marveled at the banal absurdity.

Raupasha smiled. "I had to. He kept barking; someone would have heard."

"Well, stay out of the bloody way, then," Hollard snarled, turning back to his work, surprised at the furious heat of his own anger.

Figures were moving down the road, shadows in the darkness. He raised his eyes and brought up his binoculars. Ayup. Figures flitting from rooftop to rooftop as well; it was as if there were two sets of streets, one on the ground and one at roof level.

I wonder how they control burglary here, he thought, and went on in a calm, carrying voice:

"Second and Third Platoons will fire and reload. Volley fire on the word of command only. Sergeant Smith, you will fire three three-second bursts at the command for volley fire. Understood?"

"Sir, yessir!"

A knot gripped the pit of his stomach as he saw the crowd milling, thickening as more and more pushed up, the sound of their voices growing. He could hear men shouting, probably haranguing the others and whipping them up to attack.

"Christ, I hate this," he muttered, then laughed harshly. O'Rourke made an interrogative sound, and Hollard went on, "I was just thinking how much I hate shooting people who can't shoot back-but when we finally get at Walker, I'm going to hate it even more, because his goons will be able to shoot back."

A long, baying snarl, and the mob was running at him, filling the street. There was a slight quiver along the line of bayonets ahead of him-picking targets. O'Rourke looked at him, and Hollard nodded.

The company commander filled his lungs. "Fire! "

BAAAMMM! The rifles fired a lacing of red needles into the gloom.

Run away, Hollard pled silently. Please, run away. Don't make us do this.

The Gatling opened up, the operator turning the crank three times; braaaaaaapppp, like a giant tearing canvas between his hands, and a stream of brass cartridges poured out of the bottom of the weapon. Braaaaaaapppp. Braaaaaaapppp.

Jesus, I'm glad it's dark.

Then there was a long whhhtt from one of the buildings ahead, and an arrow went by him, more sensed than seen in the flickering light of the torches. A Marine stumbled back from the firing line, fumbling at the shaft stuck in his hip, moaning. More arrows flitted past, a few hitting the timber of door frames and quivering like angry bees.

"Corpsman! Corpsman!"

Stretcher bearers trotted forward. As they did, the squads stationed on the rooftops opened up. A distinctive muffled badaff marked the rifle grenades, and then vicious red cracking sounds as they burst on the rooftops. Something caught fire from one, and then muzzle flashes stabbed out at the figures outlined against the flames, slow, deliberate, aimed fire.

Not all of them were dead; something arched down from a rooftop, trailing red sparks, and burst in a puddle of flames on the roadway. The fire was slow and red-sullen, not the quick rush of kerosene- sesame oil. It still burned, and a Marine's uniform started to burn, until comrades rolled him and beat out the flames. Another call for corpsmen went up, and Kenneth Hollard ground his teeth in rage.