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Sin Eater and shoot him dead in his seat. He snarled,
before he could stop himself, "You tried to chill Bap-
tiste, you tried to chill Grant, you tried to chill me
and you think I give a shit about your idea of loy-
alty?"
Salvo's face twisted in stunned disbelief. "What
the fuck are you talking about?"
A cold fist of dread closed around Kane's heart.
"Forget it," he mumbled.
"No, I won't forget it," Salvo snapped. "Those
are pretty outrageous charges you just leveled against
a superior officer. When was I supposed to have done
this?"
"Forget it, I said. I apologize. I was out of line."
Salvo plunged on as if he hadn't heard. "Besides,
why do you care what happens to those two, espe-
cially Grant? He's more of your rival than I am. As
for Baptiste, I hear she's fucking Colonel Oberntiz.
If anybody is going to have her killed, it's him."
Kane folded his arms over his chest and leaned
back, tipping the rim of his helmet down over his
eyes.
"Then again, maybe she'll just be stripped of her
rank and thrown to the Breeder Division. That's
something to look forward to."
Kane realized Salvo was doing his damnedest to
provoke him, and Kane was doing his damnedest not
to rise to the bait. All the thinly concealed hatred,
jealousy and manipulation his own Salvo had di-
rected toward him was mirrored here, in his analogue.
Evidently, knowing from birth they were genetic
twins hadn't made a difference in their relationship
on this casement.
After a few more remarks about what a delectable
morsel Captain Baptiste seemed to be, Salvo fell si-
lent, although he strained mightily to keep the taunt-
ing leer stitched on his face.
As the day wore on, now and then he caught the
eyes of Salvo, cold and deadly, watching him. It did
not frighten him, but the poorly veiled hostility did
begin to bore him, despite his familiarity with it.
The OGRE chugged on, angling across the flat-
lands, splashing through creeks, churning up and
down bluffs.
As the sun began to sink, a tension grew in Kane.
He looked up to the cockpit and through the ob port
saw twilight painting the sky above the Black Hills
in purple-red pastel tints. Towering in the distance he
could discern five faces staring out from the edges of
eroded butte rock. He tried to focus on the fifth face,
the carved image of Hitler, but he swayed in his seat
as the OGRE clanked its way down the side of a
bluff.
"Not long now," Salvo commented.
The pilot of the vehicle downshifted, and the
huge machine shuddered through the gears until it
achieved a slower speed.
"Time," the copilot announced over the public ad-
dress system.
Kane unlatched the seat restraint and made his way
along the aisle and up the short ladder to the cockpit.
Gazing out of the port made of triple glazed thickness
of bulletproof glass, he saw flames dancing in the
dusk from at least twenty bonfires.
In consternation, he said, "The Roamers don't
seem too worried by our arrival. I'm sure they have
outriders with radios. They've probably known we
were coming for an hour or more.
The pilot, a wiry little man with a blond crew cut
and rawboned face, didn't answer. He nodded tersely
to the copilot. The man flipped up the cover on the
fire-control board and his hands hovered over the
keys, like a concert pianist preparing to go through
the scales.
"I didn't give you an order," Kane snapped.
The pilot retorted. "Field Marshal Thrush in-
structed us to follow standard engagement procedu-
res. That's what we're doing. Sir."
The man sounded as if he could barely summon
up the energy to voice the honorific.
A dim blur of motion appeared in the path of the
OGRE, fifty yards distant. Kane commanded, "Hit
the spots."
The copilot flicked a toggle switch, and funnels of
incandescence speared out from the array mounted
above the ob port. Kane stiffened. gaped and mut-
tered, "What the hell is going on?"
In a loose parade formation, dozens of men,
women and children trudged toward the armored ve-
hicle. They wore rags, buckskins and scraps of old
uniforms from the Calgary campaign. In the blazing
wash of the spotlights, they looked like the walking
dead, many of them horribly scarred by poorly healed
wounds. The children were even worse, sporting
bellies swollen from malnutrition, their limbs stick-
thin.
A limping man led the parade over the rock-
strewed ground. From a long pole, obviously cut
from a pine sapling, fluttered two banners. One was
a tattered and scorched American flag, the stars and
stripes perforated by a patchwork of bullet holes. Be-
low that hung a white cloth. Actually, it was more
gray than white, but it was probably the closet thing
to the traditional flag of truce the Roamers could
scrounge up among their meager belongings.
"They're surrendering," Kane said in surprise.
From behind him, Salvo's gloating voice declared,
"That's their plan, anyway."
Kane gave him a hard, questioning, over-the-
shoulder glance. "Their plan? Explain."
A grin of pure enjoyment split Salvo's sallow face.
"Yeah, the Roamers and the outlanders made over-
tures that they wanted to come in, that they couldn't
run or fight anymore. The field marshal's been play-
ing along with them for months. He finally persuaded
all the bands to agree to meet here and sign a formal
declaration of surrender and loyalty oath. The stupid
subbreeds think the OGRE is full of food and med-
icine and even a doctor or two."
A low chuckle bubbled at the back of his throat
"And I guess we do have the cure for what ails
them."
Raising his voice, Salvo said. "They're in range
now. Open up with everything we've got The
works.''
The copilot's fingers tickled the keys. The mortar
launchers gouted thunder and smoke, the minigun
emplacements roared in a stuttering rhythm. tracer
rounds cutting threads of phosphorescence through
the twilight
Kane caught a glimpse of the man bearing the flags
spinning, clutching at himself as the bullets clawed
open his chest, sending fragments of clavicle and rib [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]