Oberheim (Voices): A Chronicle of War by Christopher Leadem (top books of all time .txt) 📖

belt and peered out into the hallway.

At that moment there was a cry, suddenly stifled, from the bedroom.
The voice belonged to a man. The bodyguard leapt up from his seat.

"Forget about it, Snipes."

"Morgan. What are you doing with that? Where's Bonnard?" Morgan fired two short bursts into his chest, then casting aside the body, broke open the door and entered the bedroom.

Elonna sat shaking on the edge of the bed, trying to dress herself. Hunter lay dead upon the floor, his face contorted wildly, his limbs drawn up like a shriveled spider. A trickle of blood could be seen at his crotch.

"Are you all right?" Morgan asked. He helped her into the coverall, swept back her tear stained hair. There was a sharp sound as the outer door was thrown open. A lone soldier rushed in, was killed by Morgan.

"Are you well enough to run?"

"Yes." She shook her head severely, trying to force herself back. "He was really very gentle at the beginning."

"Don't think about it. We've got to get you out. As soon as his pulse stopped the soldiers below knew it. Come on! We've got to get you out!"

He threw back the carpet beside the bed, lifted a trap door. They had just shut it behind them when four more soldiers burst into the room. With a shout their captain ran past the body, now half covered by the rug, and fired a laser burst into the lock. It fused and fell inward, but even as it did so the door was sealed from without by thick bars of treated steel. The captain tried to lift it, realized his mistake.

"Tarkin, Nemiah, get your men below and fan out. Block all exits." He lifted his hand-com, ordered the building and neighboring sections surrounded, called in air patrols to block the skies. He rolled back the carpet with his foot, looked with angry disgust upon the body of Hunter. Two men in white entered with a stretcher.

"Get him out of here." They lifted the body and took it away. The captain paced the floor.

*

The passage, after its beginnings beneath the trap door, was shallow and not wide, so shallow they had to lie flat and pull themselves along by staggered hand-holds above them. After perhaps a minute, though it seemed far longer, they came to the emergency ladder-tube, began to climb.

Reaching the roof, they saw the police ship and the man (one of their own) guarding it. He nodded to Morgan, ran toward the railing of converging walls as if alarmed by sounds from below. Morgan came behind and clubbed him unconscious with the butt of the rifle. He leapt up into the ship, where Elonna was already strapping herself in. Her hands would not stop shaking. He jammed the door shut, made ready to lift off. Six seconds later, they were in the air.

He started the small, fast ship forward just as the first of the air patrols drew near him. He fired twice and banked sharply left.

His shots went high and wide, and as he turned, the lead ship strafed his exposed underside. Smoke and trickling flame burst out within and the shields collapsed, but he kept the ship moving. Broken by the concussion, Elonna lay limp in her seat, only the harness keeping her in place. He steered the ship low between a gap in the oncoming hills, as unseen emplacements opened fire on his pursuit.

*

Morgan stepped wearily through the entrance of the unfamiliar cave, trying to support his broken shoulder with the opposite hand. The boy broke free from the woman's grasp and came toward him. Seeing only the man, he broke into an angry despair.

"Where's Miss Elonna?" he cried.

Morgan tried to speak, but the boy ran up to him in tears, punching and kicking.

Then Elonna passed through the narrow arch.

"No, Johnny, don't. It's all right. I'm all right."

She wiped the tears and grime from her face and knelt and hugged him deeply. The child buried himself against her.

……………………………………………………………… ………

STALAGMITE

The day was so dark that Dobrynin began to wonder if something wasn't seriously wrong. He stopped the pede-like cruiser at the foot of the great volcano, looked up through the glass at the warping sky. Black clouds continued to roil up from countless hollow, sharp-edged peaks all across the planet.

The satellite readout only confirmed what his eyes and instincts told him. Tremors and quakes shook the ground beneath him as a heavy static storm crackled white and spindly light through the poison atmosphere. Marcum-Lauries One was caught between the pull of its two suns, which happened roughly every three hundred years. But even so, internal pressures were much too high. It boded ill for the hopes of his people if the massive, ore-laden planet stopped producing.

"Damn." Molten silicates were running down the sides of the volcano's shattered peak. He re-engaged the flexing wheel pods and headed back toward the dome.

How he hated this war. Not just for the killing. Any fool knew that life was no great gift, and death no injury. One took care of his own, forged what meaning he could, then surrendered in the end to oblivion.

But this war. This stupid, wasteful war. How many times must the same story be told? Poverty and abuse on Canton leading to discontent, the fascists coming to power, spreading their hatred in the name of God and white supremacy. And of course a remote socialist settlement, theirs, had proved the ideal target for a tune-up campaign. If they hadn't gone straight for the Khrushchev colony he would probably have laughed. Fascism must inevitably fail, just as humanist Marxism would never die. The Cantons would surely be put down, but not before many things innocent and beautiful had been maimed forever. Fascists! In spite of all that he knew he could almost hate them without thinking.

And their own tentative alliance with Soviet Space. How long would that last if the gold, tungsten and osmo-alloys stopped coming? This planet was the key, and at the moment not a very sure bet. All he could do was go back to the safety (relative safety) of the dome and wait for Percy's report, and see if the Soviet astronomers had anything intelligent to say.

He suddenly realized as he crawled in segments across a gap in the high ridge. . .that he loved this place. Yes, loved it. The wide valley that opened before him, even in turmoil, was beautiful to the point of pain. Who could not feel the beauty of its raw vastness? His wife and colleagues on the tamer Lauries II had always thought him demented. THE STORMS, THE LONG NIGHTS, they would say. But he had never minded the storms or the dark. They merely seemed to him a metaphor for life. Yes, life was a storm; that thought heartened him. Perhaps this was just another, if more severe. No, he knew better. The fascists were real and the planet was in trouble. The flux of power among the Space giants now favored the United Commonwealth, which remained neutral but refused to allow the Soviets to intervene. And the German States, God damn them. For all their greatness and determination they still retained a stubborn streak of the Nazi mentality. There was little question who they would side with if it ever came to such a choice. It was all quite hopeless. His people were just pilgrims and this, too, would never be their home.

"Yes, yes, yes. But I do not give up!"

The dome was in sight and he was drawing closer. He was there. He guided the high-gravity cruiser between two of the eight supporting struts arcing down from the huge floor, the raised structure. He waited for the lift to be lowered, crawled up onto it. The airlock was opened, and the cruiser raised inside it. The doors were shut below him and breathable air whispered around him. He opened the hatch, climbed down and greeted his son.

"Leon. Any news?" The young man seemed troubled, though he was doing his best to conceal it.

"Yes, and none of it good. Salnikov is on the communicator. I'd better let him explain it."

They walked quickly to the high wall of the dock, rose in separate tubes to a curving corridor on the primary floor. From this they entered the meeting room. A large screen at the front of it showed the dispassionate face of Vladimir Salnikov, Soviet ambassador to Marcum-Lauries Independent. They pushed past the chairs of an oval table and went to the railing before it.

"Yes, Vladimir. What have you got?"

"I've been talking with Science Central," said the ambassador. "We know what the problem is, but are not yet certain what is causing it."

"Well are you going to tell me or do I have to guess it?" If all the stars in Space had suddenly gone out, it would never show on that face.

"Easy, Nicholai. I am on your side?" Dobrynin gave a reluctant nod. "Your planet is in serious trouble. She will not engage her second orbit. She only remains at the equilibrium point between the two, and loses almost six minutes each rotation. Internal pressures, as I am sure you know, are dangerously high. If something does not change soon, she will blow herself apart. You have perhaps ninety-eight hours."

… "Why, Vladimir? Why?"

"We cannot be sure, except to say there is no natural phenomenon that would explain it." A pause.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Not for the record."

"What about off it?"

"Go to scramble," said the Soviet. "Code 4."

His son made the necessary adjustments. Salnikov began again, the words no longer corresponding to the movement of his lips.

"Can you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Have you sent out your reconnaissance?"

"Yes, toward Cantos."

"Deviate course. There is nothing there."

"Where should we go instead?"

Salnikov gave a set of coordinates: a straight line out from the planet, directly opposed to its trajectory, as it sought to cross the intersection of its figure-eight orbit, and begin to move around the second sun.

"What should we look for?"

"An enormous station, over one hundred kilometers across. You won't pick it up on laser or visual, but if you send someone out you will see it clear enough."

"What is its function?"

"We don't know, and we are not about to go in and find out. But its location is suspicious. That is all I can say."

"…..okay. Thank you, Vladimir."

"Good luck, Nicholai. I think that you will need it." The screen went blank.

"Leon. go down to the lower communication room and signal all bases. I want everyone off—-everyone. These domes won't hold forever. I'm going to try and reach Percy."

Without further speech his son was gone. He leaned over the railing and tried, and after twenty minutes finally succeeded, in reaching the racing ship.

The planet had been evacuated. The heads of the geological and mining crews, along with military, scientific and governmental heads from the three colonies, were huddled together in a briefing room aboard the space station 'Lynx'. Dobrynin stood behind the podium and signaled for quiet, wanting desperately to get started. If only he could get his hands to work at something. He tapped the quiet buzzer impatiently.

"Gentlemen, please. We haven't much time." Those still standing were seated, and the last rustle of voices died away. All eyes went forward.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you the spot we're in," he began. "You all know that ML One is in trouble. What you don't know is why. I have just learned myself, and it is hard to believe. But it's true. The orbit of Marcum-Lauries