Тим Пауэрс - Free Stories 2018

The hostiles had started firing again, long bursts on full auto. Some slugs ripped high over the roof of the headquarters building. Woetjans guessed that the shooters were sticking their gunhands around corners or over walls and emptying the magazine. That way their heads were well under cover.

Dimitrovic and Tech Three Sapony came up the stairs. The midshipman was wearing a commo helmet linked to the base unit in the main hall. The tech bent over Balliol and opened a medical kit while Dimitrovic huddled beside Woetjans.

Rather than take the time to reload her own impeller, Woetjans took the one that’d finally slipped from Balliol’s hands. She hadn’t pulled the stairhead door fully closed, so she could see the building opposite while staying in shadow.

The barrel of the weapon she’d emptied still glowed. Dimitrovic glanced at it and said, "Bloody hell, Voyt. Did you run the whole magazine through rapid fire?"

"Yeah, I guess," Woetjans said. She rubbed her right shoulder with her left fingers; it hurt like hell. "I couldn’t hit anything even if I aimed so I just blasted away to keep their heads down. I could get Balliol back then."

She glared at the midshipman. "Say, what’s all this about? I thought we was on their side?"

Dimitrovic shrugged. "We aren’t on any side, Loyalist or Freedom Party either one," he said. "Two thirds of the RCN bulk supplies for the sector ship out of Dashiell Harbor, though, so Navy House sent Vocaine here to keep the lid on when the riots started. I guess Elder Foscara started out thinking we were going to help him mop up the Freedom Party, and he wasn’t best pleased when he found out we weren’t."

"Not a reason to start shooting at us," Woetjans muttered. In her heart she figured it was all you could expect from the locals once you got off Cinnabar.

There was a sustained burst of firing from an automatic impeller across the street. Metal rang as the osmium slugs tore through something out of Woetjans' sight. There was a dull boom! Their—the detachment’s—truck’s diesel fuel exploded.

Dimitrovic swore. " Renown ," he said, keying the link on his commo helmet. "This is Unit Twelve, over."

Woetjans could hear the response as insect sounds, but she couldn’t make out words. She continued to scan her narrow angle of the building opposite.

"Sir," Dimitrovic said. "They’ve got an automatic impeller. I don’t think aircars to the roof are survivable. Isn’t there a way to get a company of Marines into the back side of the building the shooting’s coming from? Over."

Buzzing .

"Sir," Dimitrovic said, "I appreciate that the Marines have a lot of their plate now, but we need some help here and we need it bloody fast! We don’t have an hour, over!"

Buzzing.

"Unit Twelve out!" Dimitrovic snarled. He looked at Woetjans and took a deep breath. "They’re working on it!" the midshipman said, making the phrase a curse.

It’s gone tits-up for good and all, Woetjans realized. Oh, bloody hell!

"Look," she said. "This place has a back way out, don’t it? Maybe we can at least get into another building that they’re not looking down on the way they do this one."

A slug from the opposite roof came in through an angle to hit the inside of the door they were sheltering behind. It ricocheted off the steel with a whang! and a spray of white sparks. The main portion of the osmium projectile shrieked across the stairhead. It blew a hole through the back wall.

"They’re back there too," Dimitrovic said. "We tried the alley when the shooting started. Bevan got one in the chest. Now they’ve rolled a cart down to block the door and we can’t even push it open from the inside."

Bloody hell! The thing to’ve done was to charge on through right at the start before the hostiles set up. Sure, you’d have a couple people shot, but if you go in hard and fast the chances are that a bunch of untrained civilians are going to run. Most of them would throw away the guns they likely saw that morning for the first time.

Too late now. Oh, bloody hell! And if the rest of the detachment had gotten out by the alley, she and Balliol on the roof would’ve been well and truly screwed.

Which they were anyway, of course. The only chance Woetjans saw for them was that the hostiles were going to take hostages. Probably not: both sides in Dashiell had been burning prisoners alive before Force D landed, and no admiral who did a deal with wogs had a career left in the RCN.

Another slug hit the door, this time from the outside. Again it howled away, but the impact bumped the panel closed and on the inner surface left a glowing red dent the size of a soup plate. Woetjans pushed the panel part-open again.

Buzzing .

"Unit Twelve, over," Dimitrovic said.

Buzzing .

"Bloody hell! Can you? But there’s at least forty of them and a full-size automatic in the front. Over."

Buzzing .

"Roger that! We’ll be ready! Unit Twelve out!"

Dimitrovic looked at Woetjans and said, "That was Rudolf! He and Mckinnon are coming to take us off the roof in the Renown 's pinnace! I’ll get things organized below!"

The midshipman disappeared down the stairs as another slug zipped through the stairhead from right to left, this time without touching the steel door. Grit and dust from the walls exploded around the spacers.

Sapony bent over Balliol to cover the wounded man’s face. He bent his left arm over his own nose and mouth. Balliol’s trousers were ripped open and the thigh was bandaged. Blood hadn’t seeped through the padding yet.

"Can a pinnace land on the roof here?" Sapony asked when Woetjans glanced back.

"It’ll light it on fire," Woetjans said. The roof was covered with a mixture of sand and tar.

She shrugged. "Guess we’ll have burns. It’s still the best idea I’ve heard yet."

The bigger question, which Woetjans didn’t mention aloud, was whether the roof trusses could support the weight of the pinnace. For herself, she wouldn’t bet on it—but like she’d said, it was the best idea she’d heard yet. The pinnace’s hull plates were over an inch thick; they’d turn even slugs from an automatic impeller.

"You gonna give me a hand with Balliol?" Sapony asked. "I give him a shot and he’s really out of it."

"Yeah, sure," Woetjans said. There were going to be more wounded—and maybe dead too, though Dimitrovic might decide to leave them behind. If the building burned, the locals wouldn’t find much to wave around for a trophy.

The locals kept shooting. Every once in a while somebody in the RCN detachment would shoot back, but when that happened a storm of shots replied. Dimitrovic had guessed more than forty hostiles, but it must be closer to a couple hundred. They could’ve brought the whole building down if they’d known what they were doing, but Woetjans figured you could usually trust wogs not to know what they were doing.

Spacers started up the staircase. They weren’t crowding or panicked: just ready to move when they got the word. Looking down, Woetjans saw two more wounded, each being supported by a buddy or two.

Clason moved up beside Sapony. Woetjans was afraid more would try to squeeze into the stairhead—and there wasn’t room. Clason said, "I’m supposed to help get Balliol aboard."

"I figured I’d do that," Woetjans said in surprise.

Clason shook his head. "Dimitrovic wants you at the end with him for clean-up, Voyt," he said.

Woetjans nodded understanding. That made sense. Dimitrovic was doing okay for a green midshipman.

"They’re about to splash!" Dimitrovic shouted up from invisibly below. "Hang on!"

Woetjans expected the pinnace to arrive from the left because the hatch was on the starboard side, but instead the boat roared up the street from the right. They’re moving too fast … As the boat approached the buildings, it rotated a quarter turn on its axis.