Munitions hurled themselves in sparkling tracks from a bubble of orange flame.
"Blood 'n martyrs," Cooter muttered as angry light bathed his weary face.
He lifted a suit of hard armor from the floor of the fighting compartment. "Here," he said to Suilin, "put this on. Wish I could give you a helmet, but that dickhead Speed's got it with him."
Their combat car was sidling across the packed earth, keeping its bow southward—toward the flames and the continued shooting. The car passed close to where Fritzi Dole lay. The photographer's clothing swelled in the draft blasting from beneath the plenum chamber.
Dust whipped and eddied. The other combat cars were maneuvering also, forming a line. Here at the narrow end of the encampment, the separations between vehicles were only about ten meters apiece.
"The gun work?" Cooter demanded, patting the breech of the tribarrel as Suilin put on the unfamiliar armor. The clamshell seemed to weigh more than its actual twenty kilos; it was chafing over his left collarbone even before he got it latched.
"Huh?" the reporter grunted. "I think—I mean, I don't—"
Making a bad guess now meant someone might die rather than just a libel suit.
Meant Dick Suilin might die.
"Oh, right," Cooter said easily. He poked with a big finger at where the gun's receiver was gimballed onto its pedestal. A green light glowed just above the trigger button. "No sweat, turtle. I'll just slave it to mine. You just keep bombin' 'em like you been doing."
The helmet buzzed again. "Tootsie Three, roger," Cooter repeated. He tapped the side of his helmet and ordered, "Move out, Shorty, but keep it to a walk, right?"
Cooter and Otski bent over their weapons. When the big trooper waggled his handgrips, the left tribarrel rocked in parallel with his own.
"What are we doing?" Suilin asked, swaying as the combat car moved forward. The big vehicle had the smooth, unpleasant motion of butter melting as a grill heats.
The reporter pulled another loaded clip from the bandolier to have it ready. He squinted toward the barracks ahead of them, silhouetted in orange light.
"Huh?" said Cooter. His face was a blank behind his lowered visor as he looked over his shoulder in surprise.
"We're gonna clear your Consie buddies outta Camp Progress," Otski said with a feral grin in his voice.
"Yeah, right, you don't have a commo," Cooter said/apologized. "Look, anybody you see in a black uniform, zap him. Anybody shoots at us, zap him. Fast."
"Anything bleedin' moves ," said Otski, "you zap it. Any mistake you gotta make, make it in favor of our ass, right?"
Suilin nodded tightly. There was a howl and whump! behind them. For a moment he thought the noise was a shell, but it was only one of the huge tanks lifting its mass over the berm.
A combat car on the right flank fired down one of the neat boulevards which served the National Army's portion of the camp.
"Hey, turtle?" the right wing gunner said. "You got a name?"
"Dick," Suilin said. He'd lifted the grenade launcher to his shoulder twice already, then lowered it because he felt like a fool to be aiming at no target. The noise around him was hideous.
"Don't worry, Dick," Otski said. "We'll tell yer girl you was brave."
He chuckled, then lighted the wide street ahead of them with a burst from his tribarrel.
" You must send the 4th Armored Brigade to relieve us! " Colonel Banyussuf was ordering his superiors in Kohang. Since June Ranson's radio was picking up the call down in the short-range two-meter push, there was about zip possibility that anybody 300 kilometers away could hear the Yokel commander's panicked voice.
Two men in full uniform poked their rifles gingerly southward, around the corner of a barracks. Light reflected from their polished leather and brightly-nickeled Military Police gorgets. The MPs stared in open-mouthed amazement as the combat car slid past them.
"About zip" was still a better chance than that District Command in Kohang would do
"Blood 'n martyrs," Cooter muttered as angry light bathed his weary face.
He lifted a suit of hard armor from the floor of the fighting compartment. "Here," he said to Suilin, "put this on. Wish I could give you a helmet, but that dickhead Speed's got it with him."
Their combat car was sidling across the packed earth, keeping its bow southward—toward the flames and the continued shooting. The car passed close to where Fritzi Dole lay. The photographer's clothing swelled in the draft blasting from beneath the plenum chamber.
Dust whipped and eddied. The other combat cars were maneuvering also, forming a line. Here at the narrow end of the encampment, the separations between vehicles were only about ten meters apiece.
"The gun work?" Cooter demanded, patting the breech of the tribarrel as Suilin put on the unfamiliar armor. The clamshell seemed to weigh more than its actual twenty kilos; it was chafing over his left collarbone even before he got it latched.
"Huh?" the reporter grunted. "I think—I mean, I don't—"
Making a bad guess now meant someone might die rather than just a libel suit.
Meant Dick Suilin might die.
"Oh, right," Cooter said easily. He poked with a big finger at where the gun's receiver was gimballed onto its pedestal. A green light glowed just above the trigger button. "No sweat, turtle. I'll just slave it to mine. You just keep bombin' 'em like you been doing."
The helmet buzzed again. "Tootsie Three, roger," Cooter repeated. He tapped the side of his helmet and ordered, "Move out, Shorty, but keep it to a walk, right?"
Cooter and Otski bent over their weapons. When the big trooper waggled his handgrips, the left tribarrel rocked in parallel with his own.
"What are we doing?" Suilin asked, swaying as the combat car moved forward. The big vehicle had the smooth, unpleasant motion of butter melting as a grill heats.
The reporter pulled another loaded clip from the bandolier to have it ready. He squinted toward the barracks ahead of them, silhouetted in orange light.
"Huh?" said Cooter. His face was a blank behind his lowered visor as he looked over his shoulder in surprise.
"We're gonna clear your Consie buddies outta Camp Progress," Otski said with a feral grin in his voice.
"Yeah, right, you don't have a commo," Cooter said/apologized. "Look, anybody you see in a black uniform, zap him. Anybody shoots at us, zap him. Fast."
"Anything bleedin' moves ," said Otski, "you zap it. Any mistake you gotta make, make it in favor of our ass, right?"
Suilin nodded tightly. There was a howl and whump! behind them. For a moment he thought the noise was a shell, but it was only one of the huge tanks lifting its mass over the berm.
A combat car on the right flank fired down one of the neat boulevards which served the National Army's portion of the camp.
"Hey, turtle?" the right wing gunner said. "You got a name?"
"Dick," Suilin said. He'd lifted the grenade launcher to his shoulder twice already, then lowered it because he felt like a fool to be aiming at no target. The noise around him was hideous.
"Don't worry, Dick," Otski said. "We'll tell yer girl you was brave."
He chuckled, then lighted the wide street ahead of them with a burst from his tribarrel.
" You must send the 4th Armored Brigade to relieve us! " Colonel Banyussuf was ordering his superiors in Kohang. Since June Ranson's radio was picking up the call down in the short-range two-meter push, there was about zip possibility that anybody 300 kilometers away could hear the Yokel commander's panicked voice.
Two men in full uniform poked their rifles gingerly southward, around the corner of a barracks. Light reflected from their polished leather and brightly-nickeled Military Police gorgets. The MPs stared in open-mouthed amazement as the combat car slid past them.
"About zip" was still a better chance than that District Command in Kohang would do
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