Deadly Shores (43 page)

He contemplated this only an instant before hurrying on, reaching the next passageway. A musket roared in the hall to his left, and a ball
zwing
ed past and showered him with rock chips.
“Goddamn!”
Petey screeched, digging his claws into Silva's neck. He was through gliding off and climbing back up every time he was startled, apparently sure at last that he was safer where he was. That didn't mean he was enjoying himself—and Silva was increasingly aware of his painful presence.
Oughta just twist his stupid head off,
Dennis thought as he threw himself back. “Half a dozen Grik down there!” he shouted accusingly at Lawrence. The Sa'aaran just looked back, holding his arms out as if to say, “There weren't any there when
I
went past.” Dennis rolled his eye and tossed a grenade around the corner. “Just like I pree-dicted; they're workin' their way around us.” The grenade went off, and he followed it with a long burst from his Thompson, chopping wounded or dazed Grik to the floor. When he fished another magazine out of his pouch, he realized he had only a couple left.
Crap
. “C'mon,” he told the others. “It's clear—again. But keep your eyes peeled!”

Pam fired a burst behind them, but Dennis couldn't see her target through the smoke and gloom.
She's my damn problem!
he understood at last.
Her bein' here has me all screwed up! I gotta quit worryin' about her; she can take care o' herself!
Several shots came from the same corridor, from the
right
this time, as the party hurried past. Another one of their Marines fell while Isak and the other 'Cats returned fire.

“See?” Dennis warned. “They got us in the squeeze!”

“Forward,” Irvin ordered, “as fast as you can! We're nearly to the center of the palace! We'll end it there!”

For a moment, beyond the crossing corridor, no one moved, and Irvin had to catch himself. “What?” he demanded.

“End it—or start all over again, if there's more stairs!” Horn reminded. Irvin opened his mouth, but didn't reply before more shots sounded. The noise built until all the passageways echoed with almost continuous firing that was amplified and funneled around them as though the noise were coming from loudspeakers. As if in response, the monster from the lower level roared at the top of the steps. It was barely visible in the glimmer of the lamps that had survived the firefight near the landing.

“A helluva squeeze,” Silva proclaimed loftily.

“That shootin' is
rifles
!” Isak ranted indignantly. “Where'd the Griks get rifles?”

“Those aren't Grik,” Irvin declared, realization dawning. “Some of our people must have broken in from the south!”

“Against the 'all!” Lawrence snapped as Grik started racing past, fixated on the noise from their left.

“Even more in here than I thought,” Dennis mumbled, “an' they're pourin' out o' the middle like ants outa their hole, up there.” He nodded. “Right from the direction we was headed.”

“That's swell,” Pam panted from the rear. The 'Cat helping Miyata had been wounded, and the small woman was trying to support them both. Noticing her situation, a 'Cat took her place and she sagged.

Three again after all,
Dennis brooded.
Take my eye off her for one damn instant
 . . . The monster roared again, then sprinted to its left, toward what it must have perceived as other intruders—or maybe it went after some Grik it saw. There was still no telling if it differentiated between invaders or defenders. Dennis looked back over Lawrence's head, toward the center of the level. The stream of Grik had tapered off. “Okay, Mr. Laumer, how's this? The wounded fort up here in one o' these nasty rooms—with Pam and a couple o' Marines—an' wait for the good guys.” He gestured at the nearest arched entrance. “This spot's as good as any, I guess, with the diversion yonder.” He nodded toward the firing. “The rest of us leave 'em half the grenades, in case o' monsters—I think there's four left—an' we use the diversion too.”

“What for?” Isak groaned.

“To finish the damn job.”

Irvin Laumer watched the Grik guard reinforcements slow to a trickle, then looked back at the others. He nodded curtly, curious why Pam was glaring so intently at Silva. “Very well.”

“P
our it in!” Risa-Sab-At shouted, pacing behind a platoon of Impies deployed in the eastern corridor off the anteroom to the various divergent passageways. She was somewhat surprised that “her” Impies seemed so poised in this confined space, in their first fight against the Grik, but they were loading and firing their breechloaders mechanically and well. The ordeal of the trek across Mada-gaas-car had clearly hardened them to the visceral shock that staggered so many, human or Lemurian, when they faced the Grik for the very first time. “Cut 'em down!” she continued, her voice as calm as she could keep it. There were suddenly a lot of Grik in front of her, charging in without regard for themselves. They might be fighting the “same old way” in a sense, but these weren't the “same old Grik.” Something had possessed them of an unusual desperation. She looked back at Chack, standing in the anteroom while guiding more troops to the corridors that seemed to need them most, as they charged through the entrance. Courtney was beside him, gazing at the walls and ceiling in rapt fascination, as if oblivious to the fight around him.

Something roared beyond the Grik, something big—and definitely
not
Grik. Risa felt a chill in her spine. The Grik surged forward and slammed into her narrow front, impaling themselves on bayonets that stabbed remorselessly into their bodies, their eyes, their throats. “What was that?” she shouted back at Courtney. He blinked at her. “I haven't the faintest idea, my dear. Something new, I expect.” Chack was looking at the fighting in the corridors, trying to gauge which ones seemed to carry the roar best. It was impossible. He did notice that all the Grik suddenly fought even harder, though it was hard to tell whether it was to kill more of his troops or to get away from whatever had roared. They had that look in their eyes he had seen before, the one that preceded panic, or “Grik Rout,” as Courtney called it, but they weren't trying to run away.

“Something's coming,” he said to Bradford. “Something they're afraid of!”

“So it would seem!”

The Grik in front of Risa surged maniacally, utterly wild-eyed now, and those behind them began to scream.

“Here!” she cried. “This corridor
here
!” Chack redirected a crew of three 'Cats carrying a rectangular crate through the entrance. There were wheels on it, but they'd been useless on the steps outside, and for most of the trip for that matter, and they'd grown used to carrying it. Now they slammed it down and opened the lid. Risa felt uneasy as they worked, preparing the contraption. She'd been born a wing runner on
Salissa
, and fire weapons of any sort inspired a special disapproval in her. She didn't know what was coming, but being close to one of the “flame throwers” when it was operated frightened her almost as badly. One of the “firecats” unrolled a hose and attached it to a nozzle equipped with a handle and a trigger mechanism. The trigger would spin a roller against a flint inside, like the Zippo lighters she'd seen. The other two 'Cats erected a pump handle atop the crate that contained a bottle of fuel. They'd pressurize the air in the tank, and that would force the fuel down the hose and out, once the one with the nozzle opened a valve. The valve was particularly important, she knew, because it also—theoretically—kept burning fuel from running back up the hose to the bottle and burning everyone around it alive.

The Grik were being slaughtered, but in their panic, they were close to breaking through anyway. “Get that thing up there!” she yelled. “Up to the line! If you light it in the antechamber, you'll burn us all. Only down the corridor, clear?” The line bulged, and the Grik screams became hysterical. Something was
mashing
them forward! The firecats shifted the crate, and two of them started pumping vigorously. The 'Cat on the nozzle looked at her and nodded. Judging by his blinking, he wasn't much more comfortable with his weapon than she was. “Forward!” Risa ordered her troops. “Push them back,
kill
them back! When I blow my whistle, break to the rear as fast as you can if you don't want to burn!” Those in her squad bellowed with rage and determination, physically heaving the Grik back up the passageway and killing as they went. They couldn't keep it up, but she hoped they wouldn't have to. They'd never practiced anything remotely like this, and she sure hoped it would work. She fingered the whistle around her neck and glanced back at her brother, Chack. He took a last look at the other squads, then nodded.

Her whistle trilled loudly. Some Grik recoiled from the unexpected sound, but most were too far gone with terror to even notice. The wall of bodies her troops had amassed was sufficient to create a slight delay, however, and those in the blocking force streamed past her, almost falling over themselves to get out of the way. The Grik were close on their heels, and so was . . . something else.

“Let 'em have it!” Risa cried, and stumbled back herself to join the line re-forming behind the flamethrower.

The firecat on the nozzle opened his valve, and fuel spurted at the charging Grik. He quickly pulled the trigger in the handle, and the stream of fuel ignited with a smoky bark. As long as the pumpers kept up the pressure, the flames would stay a few inches from the nozzle and
shouldn't
be able to race back up the hose after he closed the valve. That was how it usually worked. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the fuel in the sprayer to burn itself out. The effect on the target was not so benign. The fuel-drenched Grik squealed horribly when the flames found them, and the burning stream wilted the rest like moths. Black smoke gushed out of the passageway and swirled in the high ceiling of the antechamber before belching out the entrance in a boiling rush.

Risa crouched low to avoid the bitter smoke and stared at the ghastly sight of burning, convulsing Grik—then her sickened heart quickened when she saw what was beyond them. She caught only a glimpse of huge flame-lit, yellow-toothed jaws closing on squalling Grik, and horns protruding from an armored shield. There was an impression of comparatively tiny eyes rotating independently to glare brightly at her before the spattering river of fire touched the thing and it went amok.

“Open fire!” Risa trilled.

A ragged volley from the shorter Allin-Silvas favored by the Raiders slashed at the monster through the flames as it rolled and squealed in the passageway. Blitzer Bugs joined the fusillade and pattered the burning head with lighter bullets. The monster lunged, its fiery jaws snapping, but the firecat hosed it again. The smell of burning meat joined the charred canvas, sun-baked-toad stench of cooking Grik. The thing bashed its head against the walls in spastic fury, then exploded down the passageway, away from its tormentors.

“Cease firing!” Risa coughed. “Cease firing!” She looked at the firecats with a new appreciation. “Do shut that thing off before we choke, if you please!”

Wide-eyed and shaking, the Lemurian on the sprayer blinked gratefully and closed his valve. The firing down the other corridors eased a bit as the Grik guarding them began to melt away, or simply bolt back the way they came.

“After them!” Chack ordered. He started to warn them to have a care, remembering how dangerously trapped Grik fought, but realized that, though there were times for “careful” attacks, this wasn't one of them. “After them!” he repeated. “Are you ready, Mr. Braad-furd?” he asked, gesturing at Courtney's Krag with his own as his Raiders streamed down the passageways.

“Not entirely,” Courtney confessed. “Not as ready as those other fellows, at least. But sufficiently so to tag along with you in a relatively militant fashion, as long as nothing too terribly strenuous is required.” He grinned. “And I wouldn't miss it for all the world!”

*   *   *

Dennis Silva emptied his last Thompson magazine as he and Gunny Horn plowed their way up the stairway to the next level in the palace. Grik fell away, to the side and underfoot, under the hammering bullets—but then the bolt locked back and Dennis used the heavy Thompson as a club.
Tommy guns are hungry boogers,
he lamented between mighty swings that cracked arms and crushed heads.
But Arnie Horn really is an artist with a bayonet,
he reflected admiringly, seeing his old friend parry and thrust almost at will.
Might even be as good as Pete Alden
. “Shit!” he roared, taking another slash across his chest—with
claws
, damn it—and he battered his attacker's head to paste.
Gotta stay on my toes,
he scolded himself.
These Grik're better in a brawl than most
. He'd realized they were different when they first ran into them, milling a little awkwardly at the base of the stairs. None were dressed or equipped just alike, as the palace guards had been. On the other hand, though they seemed to be far more capable warriors, individually, they apparently couldn't fight together very well. A notion struck him. “I bet these are them ‘gladiator Griks' the Jap was talkin' about,” he wheezed, slamming the Thompson into a toothy jaw and shattering it. The Grik dropped, gurgling on gushing blood, but raked its claws down his side as it fell. “Goddamn it!” Silva roared. “They got me
again
!” He viciously crushed the staring eyes with the butt of his gun.

“Goddamn it!” Petey whimpered, his voice muffled by Silva's neck.

Lawrence battered a Grik away with his rifle, then shot it—and stabbed it for good measure. The little Sa'aaran hadn't said much at all from the start, but he'd been instinctively guarding Silva's blind left side, since the fighting got close. His orangish fur was clotted with blood and he'd been cut a few times, but he was just as lethal as always.

Irvin Laumer blasted a final wavering Grik with his shotgun, then drove his own bayonet past a still-slashing sword into its heaving chest. They'd reached the landing and there were still a lot of Grik, but they'd suddenly pulled back for a moment, as if actually
appraising
opponents that had fought their way past so many like themselves. “I think you're right,” Laumer gasped back, blinking and trying to wipe blood out of his eyes with bloody fingers. He squinted in the gloom. “They all have crests so they're adults, but none seem to be in charge! Each one is thinking for himself, wondering how
he
will kill us, not how
they
will,” he added.

“Gonna hafta do better than they done so far,” Isak shouted from the steps behind. He and the two remaining Marines were guarding the rear. They'd lost the rest of their Lemurians in the gang fight below, but Isak was satisfied these last two were the best of the lot. “Hewy an' Dewy here is a match for the rest o' these Griks by theirselves.”

“That ain't our names!” one of the 'Cat Marines snapped indignantly.

“I don't care,” Isak sneered back, opening the loading gate of his Krag and dropping three cartridges into the magazine. “I swear. Give a fella a kind word, an' all he does is bitch. My days o' heapin' praise on undeservin' fuzzballs is
through
!”

“Shut up, Isak. By rights, you shoulda been ate already,” Dennis said, watching the warriors before them move and shift, brandishing swords, axes, spears, but no muskets or crossbows. “You know, I figger these critters are the skimmed-off cream—the more experienced fighters that know they gotta defend their lizardy queen, but they let the younger rascals whittle us down a little first.” He shrugged. “That's what I woulda done.”

“Yeah,” Horn agreed resignedly, breathing hard. “So now what? I bet there's a hundred of 'em, and we're about outa ammo.”

“We kill 'em, o' course! Look, this level has a whole different layout again, only one long corridor, spirallin' clockwise up.”

“Silva's right,” Laumer said. “We can't wait for relief because there are a lot of Grik still behind us, and I doubt our hosts here will allow it in any case. We can't go around them. . . .”

“So we gotta go through the sons o' bitches, as Chief Gray once so delicately said, an keep goin' all the way to the twisty top o' this joint, where I bet we'll find their sequesteral mother. I b'lieve I'd like to give her a stern talkin' to,” Dennis finished. Regretfully, he let the empty Thompson slip to the damp stones and pulled his Colt out of its holster. “Why don't we play pistols an' cutlasses—or bayonets if you'd rather.” He grinned at Horn. “A
hundred
of 'em,” he mocked. “There you go again, overestimatin' the odds—just like usual!” Casually, Dennis retrieved the last two grenades from his pouch. “All bunched up like that, I bet there ain't fifty or sixty we'll actually hafta
fight
!” He handed one grenade to Horn and tossed the other to Irvin. “You wanna do the honors, Mr. Laumer?” he asked, drawing his cutlass. “It appears them gladiator Griks is just waitin' for somebody to say ‘when.'”

Irvin Laumer looked at his comrades and smiled, realizing he'd been waiting for something like this ever since he came to this world: an opportunity to stand and fight with Silva—or someone like him—who'd been in the thick of it from the start. He didn't expect to survive, but that didn't really matter anymore. He'd finally do his part with “the best of them,” and he'd be remembered for it. Maybe Silva guessed what was on his mind, because the big man's grin faded a little. “Fight careful, all of you, 'cause there
is
a lot of 'em an' we're here to do a job, not be hee-roes.” His grin returned. “Live hee-roes have a lot more fun than dead ones, an' that's a fact!”

Irvin nodded, pulling the pin from the grenade. With a final glance at his little squad, he threw it past the closest Grik and into the press in the corridor beyond. “When!” he shouted. Horn's grenade followed closely behind, and Silva, Horn, Laumer, Lawrence, Isak, and two Lemurian Marines charged forward behind a flurry of pistol shots just as the grenades went off. The pistols were quickly emptied, and Silva, Horn, and Lawrence formed the battering ram at the front as they pushed the startled Grik out of the landing chamber and into the narrow corridor. Silva stuffed his pistol in his belt and drew his '03 Springfield bayonet with his left hand to use as a second, shorter cutlass. His two blades wove a savage tapestry of death before him. Lawrence stabbed with his bayonet, pushing his squalling victims back to crowd others behind them until he could pull his weapon clear and stab again. Horn did much the same, shouting with every thrust, his dark bearded face streaked with sweat that glistened in the yellow lamplight. Ferocious as their attack was, Laumer, Isak, and the two Marines did most of the killing. They were free to reload their weapons and fire past their friends with a relatively careful aim. Their muzzle blasts were painful for those in front—at first—but were quickly easy to ignore.