John Dalmas - The Kalifs War

Skosh could hear their breath suck in. The major looked them over. "You mother haters like that?"

Three or four whooped. A few shouted "yes." Most just grinned or laughed.

"You do not," he went on-"I repeat not -shoot each other to get at Kalif. Your officers and sergeants will shoot any mother haters that fight each other. It's the Kalif we want dead, not you.

"How you know the Kalif when you see 'im? Look at me." The major stood tall in front of them. "He about my size. Your officers gonna show you pix of im to look at. Lotsa times Kalif wear a red cape, come down 'bout to here." The major gestured. "Lotsa times he wear a red robe." He gestured again. "But maybe he be dressed like anyone else there. So when you look at photos, look good. Make sure you know 'im.

"Now. You maybe see men in white capes or white robes. Them exarchs. Kill them, too, when you come to 'em. But the one to kill for bonus, he the Kalif. We wannim dead. You don't kill Kalif, you don't get bonus, don't get party.

"Any questions?"

There weren't. The men, their noncoms and lieutenants, pored over the photos-grimly or gleefully, according to the individual. The Kalif was a doomed man, thought Skosh. He wondered if he might get him in his sights himself.

Fifty-six

Alb Jilsomo Savbatso had just turned on his terminal when he heard and felt the explosions, a sequence of them. They sounded as if they'd been on the far side of the Sreegana, from the direction of the armory and Guard barracks. Jumping to his feet, he started for the Kalif's office, down the hall from his own.

It was early enough that no one else was in the hall except two guardsmen near the far end, clutching rifles, running toward him. Jilsomo surged through the Kalif's reception area-Partiil wasn't in yet-and into the Kalif's office. That's when he heard the first gunfire, heavy automatic weapons, a shocking, violent sound. It stopped him in his tracks. Then the two guardsmen burst in behind him and ran past, almost knocking him over, sucking him along in their wake. Tempered-glass doors were partly open to the morning cool, and they ran out through the gap, into the garden.

Jilsomo stopped at the door. The gray semi-cylindrical bulk of an armored personnel transport was settling onto the ground, and he could see a guardsman sprawled on a flowerbed not far off, as if all his strings had been cut. The kalifa was just rising from her knees behind a marble bench, then she sprinted toward him, fast as a man in her billowing pantaloons. The two guards had separated, both firing at the transport's opening doors.

Soldiers jumped out even as the doors opened. He saw more than one fall. Another fired a burst from the hip. A marble statue came apart, shards flying, ricochets keening. One of the two guardsmen fell, and the kalifa also, in mid-jump over a tangleflower bed. From somewhere came more furious gunfire, and emerging soldiers fell or hit the ground.

The other guardsman was darting toward the kalifa. Scarcely pausing, he scooped her up, with astonishing strength and agility jumped over a hip-high ornamental wall, then running low in its shelter, darted toward the office. The immobilized exarch had never imagined such an athletic feat.

The ground twitched with the massive explosions of three more bombs, shaking Jilsomo out of his paralysis. He stepped back out of the way as the guardsman with the kalifa rushed past him. Automatic weapons fire grew in intensity outside, and for some reason Jilsomo moved to slide the doors shut. Bullets sent glass flying, partly intercepted by curtains, and he felt a sharp sting in his cheek. Abruptly he fled, after the guard and the kalifa, through reception and into the corridor. Alb Thoga stood there, round-eyed, holding a folder in his hands like an offering. Jilsomo followed the guardsman, Thoga falling in beside him.

Ahead was a heavy door accessing a utility stairwell, and the guardsman paused there, lowered the kalifa to the floor, and opened the door with his security card. The exarchs held back till the guard had shouldered the kalifa again, Jilsomo shocked by the scarlet that stained her pale blue clothing. Then they followed him through.

"Lock it!" the guard shouted back, and started down the stairs. Jilsomo stared, confused, already breathing hard. Thoga crowded him aside, threw his slight weight against the steel door, closing it, pulled its wheel out half an inch and gave it a partial turn, then pushed it back in.

"Come, Jilsomo!" he said sharply, and tugged the larger exarch's sleeve. They hurried after the guardsman, down a double flight of stairs and into a tunnel containing pipes and conduits. By its light panels, Jilsomo could see drops of blood on the floor ahead of him. The kalifa's blood, he thought. The rebels-that's what they had to be-would surely follow the blood trail, blow down the door with something, and catch them, kill them all.

They ran what seemed a long way before they passed another stairwell. Farther ahead was still another. The guard went up its steps two at a time, the kalifa, who was taller than he, draped over his shoulder. Jilsomo was gasping now; to climb the stairs seemed beyond him. Thoga jabbed him. "Up!" he ordered, and somehow the fat exarch found himself climbing, clinging to the handrail, lungs heaving, Thoga continuing to push, yapping, "Move! Move!"

When they reached the top, Jilsomo reeled out into a corridor, against a wall, almost collapsing while Thoga drew the heavy access door shut behind them, the effort taxing his thin strength. Vaguely Jilsomo wondered if their supposed pursuers might be stopped by it after all. He became aware that he was bleeding, his white cape stained red.

Once more the slight Thoga confronted his much larger colleague, and pointed down the hallway. "Move!" he wheezed. He too was gasping.

Jilsomo shook his head, his chest heaving, and waved him on. "No," said Thoga, "rest later," and jerked on Jilsomo's sleeve for emphasis. Jilsomo stared for a second through blurring eyes, then somehow moved again, down the corridor with Thoga. Five guardsmen trotted by, faces grim, rifles ready, in duty uniforms and helmets. Jilsomo thought to tell them about the tunnel, but had no breath for it.

He realized where they were now-in the heart of the Administration Building. The guardsman carrying the kalifa turned through a door, the door to the clinic. Another guardsman, posted there, saw Jilsomo's blood-marked robe and barked him inside.

Jilsomo was staggering by then, walking with Thoga's help. He found himself in medical reception. A corporal grabbed the big exarch, getting a shoulder under his arm, and helped him down a small hall to another room.

Inside, the guardsman laid the kalifa down on an examination table, then turned to leave, but Thoga stopped him. "Stay!" he ordered, and stepped to the table. The kalifa's face was gray, her eyes closed. The corporal helped Jilsomo down onto a chair.

"Find one of the physicians!" Thoga told him. "Hurry!"

"Your lordship," the corporal said, "there's men looking for them now."

"Tell them to hurry. The kalifa's dangerously wounded."

The corporal ran without saying anything more.

Jilsomo felt of his face, the source of his bleeding. Glass from the garden door had sliced his cheek. Thoga, standing beside the kalifa, first felt for her pulse, then, with the guardsman's dagger, cut off her bloody clothes. Jilsomo was aware that she stank. With the guardsman's help, Thoga turned her onto her stomach. "Dear Kargh," he muttered.

"What?"

"She's been shot twice. Once in the side, the bullet following along the ribs, then emerging. The other entered the body from behind, probably below the right kidney. I hope it was below. It has to have passed through the small intestine. Missed the aorta, though, or she'd be dead already."