Imperium Restored, page 41
Macnamara already had the wheels cocked, and as soon as he finished his transmission he made an abrupt acceleration that threaded the big Hunhao between two oncoming Sun Ray sedans. Sula saw the surprised driver of the oncoming car staring at her open-mouthed through his windshield. The Sun Rays were proceeding at moderate speed, and Macnamara had to brake in order not to ram the sedan behind him.
Still in reverse, they passed the third car in the convoy, which likewise backed and slotted itself into the queue behind the second Sun Ray. The lead car had plenty of room to reverse—Sula saw the silhouettes of her guards inside and un barrels protruding from open windows—and the car rocketed rearward on smoking tires, then vanished in an explosion so vast that her own car briefly sprang into the air. Debris spangled the windshield with stars, and Sula’s breath was punched out of her as if she’d been hit in the chest by a Torminel heavyweight prizefighter. Her pistol tumbled from nerveless fingers, and she desperately tried to heave air back into her lungs. She thought the stricken car had disintegrated until it tumbled from the sky and crashed on its roof in the front garden of a white marble palace.
That was supposed to be me, she thought. If her car had advanced just a little farther, she would have been placed right over the bomb, which was presumably hidden in a utilities conduit or a sewer below the street. The whole plan had been for the truck ahead to slow traffic to the point where the bombers couldn’t miss.
The traffic on the road froze in place as terrified, bewildered drivers slammed on the brakes. Sula groped for her pistol below her seat and was unprepared for her car ramming the motionless Sun Ray behind her. She rocked backward on the seat and lost her pistol again.
Sula sat up, staring over her shoulder at the stalled Sun Ray. A growl of rage escaped her throat. A kill zone was being set up, and she had only a few seconds to escape it. Frantically she waved at the Sun Ray’s driver, urging him to move on.
Macnamara was more direct. He pulled forward, then reversed and rammed the Sun Ray again at full throttle. He kept the throttle down, and smoke poured from the tires as Macnamara shoved the smaller car down the road, the Hunhao jouncing on its suspension all the while.
The Sun Ray’s driver got the right idea and accelerated. Macnamara followed, then found enough space for a J-turn and slid the Hunhao clean around, tires shrieking, then accelerated away from the bombing.
Except they were running out of room to run. The gray-skinned bus that had been coming behind them turned to block both lanes. Sula looked over Macnamara’s shoulder to see if it was possible to get around the bus by climbing over the curb and detouring over a palace lawn or two, but the bus driver had chosen his position well, and his bus was protected by stone garden walls fore and aft.
Sula looked for an escape route—they could abandon the car and make a run for it, dashing through the genteel districts of the High City and hoping to lose any pursuit amid the palaces and gardens—but then she glanced to her left and saw a small palace, a near-cube of pale golden marble with green pillars. What attracted her attention was not the pillars but a pair of military constables conspicuous by their red belts, body armor, and rifles. They stood before a pair of imposing double doors and peered in the direction of the explosion.
Sula had no idea who lived in the palace, but it had to be someone ranked high enough to rate guards, and she liked the idea of some well-armored fighters to add to her entourage. She leaned forward over Macnamara’s shoulder and pointed.
“There! There! Guards!”
Macnamara leaned on the control wand, and the Hunhao bounded over the curb and bashed through a box hedge onto a green lawn. Macnamara spun the car around again, shouldered an ornamental fountain out of the way, and ended with the car pointed out in the direction of the street and the rear aimed at the front door.
“Weapons and armor in the trunk, my lady,” he said, and released the trunk latch.
Sula rolled up the door and lunged from the vehicle, her hands raised in the hope that the constables wouldn’t shoot her down. Indeed, they looked ready to do exactly that, their rifles shouldered and bearing on the car that had just barged up to their doorstep.
Fortunately, Sula was not only in the uniform of a convocate, but with her military-cut tunic, shoulder boards, and silver-gilt hair she was one of the most recognizable convocates in the empire. One of the guards could only goggle at her, and the other started to brace at the salute, then went back on guard.
“Ambush!” she said. “Call for backup!”
She hauled armor, weapons, and ammunition out of the trunk. The Hunhao with the surviving bodyguards bounded onto the lawn and came to a stop short of the porch. Three guards jumped out, rifles at the ready, and went to their trunk for helmets and ammunition.
Macnamara joined Sula in dragging gear out of the trunk. He slung a rifle over his shoulder and grabbed a case of ammunition and a holdall with body armor. Sula had already equipped herself and made a sprint onto the porch and to the front door just as the attackers opened fire and sprayed the front of the building with fire.
Sula shouldered open one of the imposing double doors and nearly fell into the foyer. She staggered, the holdall with its armor tumbling to the floor, and then came to a halt in front of a startled Gareth Martinez.
She stared up at him as the fanlight over the door shattered beneath a storm of gunfire.
“Ah. Hah,” she said.
The explosion came in two stages, first the light and noise and blasting wind that shook the windows in the frames and shrieked down the chimneys, followed less than a second later by the ground wave that seemed to pick the house up off its foundation, then drop it down again. Coffee cups and glasses clattered, light fixtures swayed, objects tumbled from shelves and bounded off walls. Martinez, frozen in shock, stared into Kelly’s black eyes.
He rose just in time to prevent a rocking vase from toppling off his office shelf. He placed the vase safely on the carpet and looked out the window to see a dark cloud rising just a few hundred paces from where he stood. Kelly was reaching for her canes.
“I’m going to see what . . .” His words trailed away as he left the room and dived for the stairs leading to the ground floor. “Mei-mei!” he called. “Chai-chai! Are you all right?”
Gareth the Younger’s high, clear voice called down the stairwell. “Nonii!” he said. “What just happened?”
“Find Mei-mei!” Martinez called. “Then go to a safe place and stay there!”
“Was that an earthquake?”
“Find Mei-mei!”
Young Gareth’s answer was cheerful. “Message acknowledged, forebear!”
A series of crashes sounded from outside the building—not explosions this time, but noises like a giant blundering around an ironworks. Martinez reached the ground floor and loped toward the front of the building, and as he entered the foyer the front door burst open and Caroline Sula stumbled into the house burdened with weapons. The fanlight above the door exploded to a burst of fire as if it were an overture to a hellish symphony of violence.
She’s here to kill me! Martinez thought. He thought of himself lying lifeless on the carpet, staring at the ceiling like Hector Braga.
Sula righted herself and stared at him, her eyes wide, shock showing on her face.
“Ah. Hah,” she said. Gunfire smacked into the front of the building.
He found words. “What the hell is . . . ?”
“The Counter-Restoration,” Sula said, words that sent searing heat shooting up Martinez’s spine. He had been in danger before, he had been in battle, but never had his own children been at risk. For a moment he was nearly paralyzed by a tsunami of adrenaline storming into his veins, and then he and Sula were nearly trampled as Gavin Macnamara and three armed constables stampeded into the foyer. Past them, Martinez could see his own two guards returning fire, rifles leveled at an invisible target.
“Pull back!” Martinez told them. “Get into the house!” The palace, solid masonry faced with marble, was proof against anything but explosives.
Sula had passed into the front parlor and was directing her people to the windows. Martinez’s own guards scuttled through the double doors, then pulled them shut.
Doshtra appeared, his gray Daimong face set by nature in a bland expression completely at odds with his arrival on a battlefield. He gazed at the warriors upending furniture, opening cases of ammunition, and crouching behind windows.
“My lord?” he said. As always, he spoke in perfect bell-like tones.
“Find my children,” Martinez said. “Take them down to the cellar, and build some kind of shelter to help keep them safe.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Martinez ducked as a window shattered under fire and tumbling bullets buzzed through the air. Doshtra ignored the gunfire and turned to walk to the elevator. Martinez crouched and shuffled to where Sula was crouched behind an overturned table, dragging body armor out of a holdall.
“Is this happening everywhere?” he asked.
Sula shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
“How many of these people are there?”
“A bus full maybe.” Sula shrugged. “I really don’t know.”
Martinez glanced over the busy scene, the guards taking position to cover all possible entrances.
“You know more about this kind of war than I do,” he said. “What should I be doing?”
She gave him a feral grin. “Lock all the doors and windows, for a start,” she said.
“Right.” He opened his sleeve display and told the house to lock all outside doors and windows. He glanced behind him and saw Kelly coming down the stairs, moving slowly and with care, her pistol in one hand and her canes in the other. Bullets buzzed through the air like hornets. Martinez rose from his crouch, dashed up the stairs, picked Kelly up bodily in his arms, and carried her to the ground floor, where he laid her on the floor next to Sula.
“That wasn’t necessary!” Kelly said. “I was doing fine!”
“Yes, you were,” Martinez agreed. “Back in a minute.”
He ran up the stairs and down the hall, where he found Mpanza rushing toward him carrying his pistol in its holster. Martinez strapped on the offered gun belt, noted that Mpanza had already donned his own sidearm, then went to his office and opened his gun safe with his thumbprint. He hesitated between a rifle and a shotgun, then gave the shotgun to Mpanza and took the rifle for himself. He handed Mpanza boxes of shotgun shells and stuffed rifle magazines into his pockets.
His heart leaped with every gunshot. He realized he didn’t have body armor—that was in the trunk of the car that had taken Terza to the ministry.
Mpanza looked uncertainly at his shotgun. “I’m a weaponer, my lord,” he said, “but I’ve only trained on missiles.”
“You’ll be my runner then.”
“Yes, my lord. What’s a runner?”
“I’ll let you know when I need one.”
Martinez was uncertain about what to do next. Sula had shown up at his front door and brought a battle with her, and he had no contingency plan for that. He opened his sleeve display and made an emergency call to Lord Chen at the Commandery.
Chen appeared on Martinez’s display, half-distracted by something off camera. “Yes Gareth,” he said. “What can—”
“My house is being attacked by a pack of armed men,” Martinez said. “Your grandchildren are in the building, though fortunately Terza’s at the ministry.”
He now had Lord Chen’s full attention. “That’s you?” Chen said. “I’ve had reports of an explosion from Lady Sula’s party, and I’m sending constables to the area.”
“Send more,” Martinez said. “Sula picked my house to hide in, and it’s a proper battle here.”
“Right away, Gareth. I—”
Martinez twitched aside the window curtains and saw crouched figures in helmets moving along the side of the building.
“They’re going for the back door,” he said, then looked at his sleeve display and said, “End message.” He slapped a magazine into his rifle—it wasn’t a military weapon, but an antique hunting rifle with a seven-round magazine, its grip and stock made of arculé wood chased with silver. Martinez went for the back stairway at a run, dashed down three flights of stairs, then went down the fourth and final flight more cautiously.
The rear door, not being intended to impress people, was less sturdy and less imposing than the heavy doors at the front. It featured solid wood paneling set into a steel frame, but it had a large window of strong safety glass designed to withstand hammers or footballs or thrown lawn furniture, but which would probably not stand up to gunfire. Outside the door was a patio suitable for al fresco dining, and inside was a well-lit pantry, refrigeration, and food preparation area that formed the anteroom to the kitchen on the east side of the building.
Martinez nudged open the door at the bottom of the stairs and peered out to see a dark silhouette at the back door. Martinez recognized a Daimong, the lower part of its head muffled, with only the round black eyes visible beneath the brim of a helmet—one that had come from the Urban Patrol, apparently. The Daimong was trying the door, shoving it back and forth in hopes of popping the bolt.
Martinez shouldered the rifle and tried to take careful aim, but to his frustration his charge of adrenaline made his hands shake, and he braced the rifle against the doorjamb in order to keep the sights on the Daimong’s center of mass. He was on the verge of squeezing the trigger when he realized that the Daimong seemed to be bulkier than most members of its species, and that he was probably wearing armor. Martinez raised his sights to the Daimong’s head and tried to calm himself. The sights jittered. Martinez let his breath out in a long sigh, and when the gun seemed to jitter in the right direction, he squeezed the trigger.
The bullet made a neat hole in the glass and knocked the Daimong backward and out of sight. There was a pause, and then return fire came, the thunderous chatter of automatic weapons fire that shattered the windows at the back of the house and sent pots and pans clattering from shelves in the pantry.
At the torrent of bullets, Martinez’s heart leaped into his throat and he ducked his head between his shoulders. Mpanza, crouched behind him, gave a strangled yelp and flopped onto the stairs.
The volley died away. Martinez chanced a look into the pantry and saw nothing. He readied his grip on the rifle.
He gave a spasmodic twitch as another silhouette appeared at a window. This was a female Torminel, the fur on her face erect to form a kind of brown-and-white puffball broken by large dark eyes and a snarling fang-filled mouth. The Torminel stuck the muzzle of a rifle into the window and held the trigger down, sweeping the room with fire. More pans clattered to the dark marble floors. A refrigerator door blew open, spilling liquids and sauces and foodstuffs. Martinez pulled back into the stairway as bullets turned the plaster over his head to dust.
The gunfire died away. Martinez chanced a glance and saw the Torminel standing in the window, her oversize eyes tracking the room for a target. Martinez shouldered his rifle, placed the jittering sights on the Torminel’s chest, and fired.
The Torminel gave a shriek and leaped straight up, hanging in midair for a surprising stretch of time before dropping onto her feet. Snarling, she bounded through the window in a single clear leap and raised her rifle, the barrel tracking across the room and moving in Martinez’s direction.
Martinez overcame surprise to fire first, and the Torminel sagged, the gun barrel dropping. Martinez shot her again, and the Torminel dropped to the floor amid a clangor of pots and pans.
Apparently this one wasn’t wearing armor.
Martinez gasped for breath—a gunfight turned out to be surprisingly physical—and then he saw the Torminel’s rifle lying next to her lifeless fingers.
“Mpanza,” he said. “Can you crawl out and get that rifle? And as much ammunition as you can find?”
“My lord?” Mpanza lay supine on the stairs, both hands clutching the shotgun.
“I’ll cover you,” Martinez said.
Mpanza took a breath, picked himself up, and peered out of the stairwell and into the pantry. “Which rifle now?” he asked.
“The one next to the dead Torminel.”
“Ah. Right.”
“Go.”
Mpanza put down the shotgun, took a deep breath, and threw himself onto his belly. He squirmed across the pantry floor, knocking pots out of his way and sweeping away broken glass. Martinez shouldered his weapon, braced it against the doorframe, and tracked the sights from one window to the next. The room smelled of propellant and blood.
Mpanza reached the Torminel and plucked the rifle away with his fingers. Then he began searching the dead body for spare magazines, found three, squirmed back across the floor, then crawled into the stairway. Crimson Torminel blood stained his hands and clothing, and shards of glass spangled his arms and wrists. Mpanza was panting, and Martinez realized that Mpanza had been holding his breath the entire time he’d been on the pantry floor.
“Breathe next time,” he advised, and took the Torminel’s rifle from Mpanza’s fingers. The weapon had a laser sight, which would help with Martinez’s jittery hands. The digit counter showed only five rounds remaining in the magazine, and Martinez found the magazine release, dropped the old magazine, and fitted in a new one.
“All right, runner,” he said. “Run to the front of the house and tell Lady Sula that the attackers are trying to get in here, and I could use reinforcements.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Mpanza took another deep breath and readied himself to launch for the corridor.
“Breathe,” Martinez told him, and Mpanza launched himself down the corridor. He had been gone only a few seconds when a brilliant light illuminated the hallway and the shattering sound of an explosion hammered Martinez’s ears.
Sula thought that the defense was going well. Armed and armored guards at the windows were forcing the attackers to keep their distance, and as yet there seemed no real organized attempt to storm the house. The attackers were hidden behind incidental cover, which provided decent protection, but they were so scattered it was difficult for them to organize anything. None of the defenders had been killed, and wounds were confined to nicks and scratches, mostly from flying glass.
