"Weapons! Yes, of course!" the Deacon shouted, springing to his feet. Then, in a voice so low Maccabeus could barely hear it above the machines' idling generators: "The Huragok will be happy to affix whatever armaments you require!"
Had the Chieftain not again begun to focus on the quiet management of his pain, he might have more carefully considered the Deacon's sudden change of tone. But now the only thing he wanted was to get off his leg and let it mend. "Perhaps later. When the Yanme'e have withdrawn."
"If I might make a suggestion?" Dadab persisted.
"You can if you are quick."
"Let me take the Huragok to the orbital—keep it safe until we can discern the reason for the Yanme'e's unwarranted assault."
Maccabeus already knew the reason: the creatures were upset the Huragok had taken over their maintenance responsibilities and further addled by their unfamiliar combat role. After the Unggoy's poor showing in the gardens, the Chieftain had thought it wiser to enlist the single- minded insects. But now it seemed all they wanted was to return to their old routine, and the easiest way to do that was to eliminate Lighter Than Some.
"A wise suggestion. The Yanme'e can complete its work." Maccabeus took a final look at the Huragok's odd machines. "Properly armed, these will be fearsome steeds."
The Deacon bowed low and then trotted to the Huragok. Taking his comrade gently by one tentacle, he led it quickly to Calid's waiting Spirit. The Chieftain saw the Huragok attempt to speak with the Deacon as they settled inside the troop bay; no doubt it was curious what Dadab and the Chieftain had discussed. But the Deacon's fingers remained still—his eyes warily watching Maccabeus—as the troop bay door swung shut. Gritting his teeth for the inevitable shifting of bone, Maccabeus turned and hobbled to the hangar exit, Vorenus holding his arm tight and Tartarus stalking close behind.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HARVEST, FEBRUARY 22, 2525
News of Gladsheim's destruction traveled fast—much more quickly than the few hours it took Avery's container to make its way across the Ida and up the Bifrost. By the time the container eased into Utgard, most of the planet knew what the aliens had done and would surely do again.
Captain Ponder had been in contact with Lt. Commander alCygni throughout their journey.
She had told them Utgard (already packed with close to two hundred thousand full-time residents) was quickly overflowing with refugees from small settlements in the Vigrond. Avery had expected to find a mass of humanity inside the depot, but the container shed adjacent to the anchor for the Tiara's middlemost strand was largely empty—at least as far as humans were concerned.
Every empty space inside the massive warehouse was packed with busy JOTUNs.
Jumping down from his container's yawning door, Avery was shocked by the number and variety of the machines. There were dozens of the familiar yellow and black loaders, carrying light green plastic bins labeled FOOD and WATER and BLANKETS. As they sped their emergency supplies to the waiting containers—swerved to avoid one another with precise, last- minute timing—the loaders' large wheels squealed loudly on the shed's smooth polycrete floor, leaving faint black rubber skids.
But there were also JOTUN models Avery had never seen before: triangle-treaded supervisory units and spider-like maintenance all-in-ones. The latter scurried all around the containers, checking for surface faults and repairing them with short, blinding blasts from their integrated welders—one of a collection of tools attached to flexible booms equipped with grasping claws. As the marines and their recruits headed for the shed's exit between two container rows, they kept their helmets on and shoulders hunched. The all-in-ones' breakneck labor was creating unavoidable cascades of sparks, and no one wanted to get burned.
Outside the depot, Avery loaded into a waiting flatbed Warthog with Dass, Jenkins, Forsell, and the rest of the 1/A recruits. As they pulled into what Avery thought was heavy traffic, he realized all the civilian sedans and haulers packing the boulevard were empty. Some still had their engines running, others sat with doors wide open. But the only other vehicles actually driving on the road were blue-and-white patrol sedans from Utgard's constabulary. These had their roof-lights flashing and PA speakers blaring: PLEASE REMAIN CALM. STAY INSIDE THE MALL UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. PLEASE REMAIN CALM….
As the Warthog weaved through the abandoned cars north along the mall, Avery saw the park was even more packed than it had been during the solstice celebration. But the tenor of this crowd was much different. There was none of the mixing and mingling that the celebration's music and alcohol-licensed food-stalls had encouraged—just a single, silent huddle. Even the color of the crowd had changed. Gone were the bright pastels of the picnickers' semiformal attire. Now the mall's lawns were choked with dirty denim and faded cotton.
The Lt. Commander hadn't mentioned any civilian unrest. But here and there, Avery saw constables on foot patrol. The officers wore helmets and riot plating over their light blue uniforms; some even carried humbler stun devices and clear plastic shields. As his Warthog approached the parliament, Avery noted that the charlie squads had reinforced the main gate with an S-curve of sandbag berms. The militiamen seemed jumpy. Their eyes were locked on the mall and their hands were wrapped tight around their MA5s.
"Keep an eye on him," Avery said to Forsell as their Warthog came to a stop at the top of the parliament's curved drive. He nodded toward Jenkins, who had already dismounted and was slinking away, head down toward a line of canvas tents the militia had erected in the parliament's gardens. "Don't let him do anything stupid."
Jenkins hadn't spoken to anyone since they left Gladsheim—since he'd yelled at Avery. He wasn't angry anymore, just deeply depressed. Avery doubted the recruit would really do something as crazy as take his own life. But Jenkins had just lost his entire family, and Avery wasn't willing to rule anything out. Forsell nodded, shouldered the padded, rectangular bag that held his scope and Jenkins' BR55, and followed quickly after his fellow marksman.
"Round up your squad leaders," Captain Ponder said, approaching with Byrne and Healy from a second flatbed Warthog. "We'll debrief soon as I'm done with Thune." As the Captain mounted the parliament steps, he paused, leaned against the granite railing, and clutched his chest. Healy stepped quickly to his side, but Ponder waved him off.
The Corpsman had strongly suggested that the Captain not take part in Gladsheim's evacuation, knowing any exertion would only worsen his injuries. Ponder had, of course, told Healy exactly where he could stick his suggestions. But now, watching the Captain pretend not to struggle up the steps, Avery knew he was paying for his devotion to his mission and his men.
"Habel? You read me?" Avery growled into his throat-mic.
"Yes, Staff Sergeant," the 1/C squad leader replied from the ballroom balcony.
"We all clear?"
"Hard to tell. Crowd on the mall's pretty thick."