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DEMON

SEVEN

There was a pause longer than Conal would have liked. Somebody had been separated from his radio, he realized.
“Rocky Road here, Canuck. I don’t see any more enemies.”
“That’s right. They’re all dead. The Fifth is no more. I haven’t heard from my Third Squadron yet, but I know they engaged the Eighth somewhere over Dione, and you people have at least a half-rev breathing space before any survivors could get here.”
“Roger, Canuck. We’ll be digging in.”
Conal was moving at dead slow, just over stall speed, while the computers formed up the First and Second Squadrons. Glancing around, he saw one hole in the Second, and one in his own, the First. He looked at his screen and saw one emergency beacon, stationary, on the ground, just short of Hestia. He dispatched one of his pilots to fly over and see if it was a survivor.
Two planes lost. One pilot lost, possibly two. Two other planes with minor damage.
Conal realized he was soaking wet. He put his plane on complete automatic, sat back, and shook for a few minutes. Then he wiped the sweat from his face.
“Big Canuck, Big Canuck, this is Squad Three.”
Conal recognized the voice. It was Gratiana Gomez, the youngest and least experienced pilot in Third Squadron.
“I read you, Gomez.”
“Canuck, Third Squadron engaged the enemy ten klicks south of Peppermint Bay. Ten aircraft were reported, and ten were destroyed. One got through to Bellinzona, and I have just destroyed it. It dropped three, maybe four bombs on the city.”
There was something in her voice that disturbed Conal.
“Gomez, where is your squadron leader?”
“Conal . . . I am the squadron leader. In fact . . . I’m the Third Squadron.” Her voice broke at the end, and he heard a dead mike.
“Gratiana, go back to Iapetus North and park it.”
There was a long pause. When she spoke again her voice was under control.
“I can’t, Canuck. The aircraft is pretty shot up. I think it might be salvageable. I’m gonna try to put it down on the football field up by the labor camps. I think I can—“
“Negative, Gomez.” Conal knew exactly what she was thinking. Pilots were easy to come by, but airplanes were at a premium. The equation offended him.
“Well . . . then I’ll ditch it up close to the wharves, where the water isn’t too deep. They can pull it out and—”
“Gomez, you head that thing out toward Moros, and when you‘re right over the biggest, flattest piece of land you can find, you punch out of it.”
“Canuck, I think I can—”
“Punch out, Gomez! That’s an order.”
“Roger, Conal.”
Later, when things were sorted out, Conal learned that Gomez had made it safely to the ground. She died an hour later of blood loss from the shrapnel wounds she had not told him about.

Nova slowly realized that things had quieted down.
She lifted her head a little. There were fires in the night. She could hear people moaning not too far away. Some were screaming. She moved cautiously around on her elbows, straightened her helmet, and found herself face to face with one of her trench-mates. He gave her a foolish grin. She heard herself giggling. Great Mother, what a terrible thing to do. But she could not shut it off for a long time. The man laughed with her, glad to be alive. Then they turned to the third person in the trench to let him share in the joy.
But there was a little hole under the man’s left arm, and a big one in the center of his chest. Nova held the bloody corpse for a long time, and could not cry, though she wanted to.
Though they never spoke a word to each other, they had shoveled together like mad animals, and huddled together in the dark and the fire, shivering, sharing warmth. And she hadn’t known when the warmth leaked out of him in a flood of red.

Cirocco and Hornpipe had been knocked over by the blast wave of a near-miss. Though unhurt, they had decided to stay down. Enough was enough.
Now she strode through the battlefield, limping slightly. Her ears were still ringing. The ends of her hair and her eyebrows on the right side were singed. There was a little blood on her right hand.
She took it all in. There were many dead and injured, but they were being attended to. Sergeants were shouting like it was just another drill on the obstacle course. Dirt was flying everywhere. Many of the trenches were already eight feet deep. Cirocco couldn‘t find a single slacker. The Fifth Wing had made believers of them all.
The infirmary was a large tent set up as far away from the trenches as Cirocco had dared. She had debated a long time about whether to mark it with a big white cross. In the end, she decided not to. Gaea had cast herself in the role of the bad guy. She might very well have told her buzz bombs to seek out white crosses.
She entered the radio shack and grabbed a hand mike.
“Big Canuck, are you still up there?”
“I’m not going anywhere. Captain, have you seen Robin?”
“I have no information on that, Canuck.”
“ . . . Okay. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Cirocco glanced around, saw no one was watching her.
“Conal, I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.”
“Right What do I do now?”
They discussed it, using code words Gaea and her troops would not understand if they happened to be listening in. Conal was the only other person who knew about Cirocco’s plan for the Gaean Air Force.
“I think,” Conal said, “if you’re gonna do it, you ought to do it as quickly as possible.”
“I agree. Give us . . . two more revs to get as solidly dug in here as we can. You and your people go back to Iapetus and re-arm and refuel. I’ll take it up with the Generals.”

Robin had spent most of the battle half-buried under a dead Titanide.
She and four others had dug a foxhole, the bombs had started to fall . . . and the Titanide had fallen right at the edge of it. Its body slipped slowly down, not quite covering Robin. She thought it had probably saved her life. When everything was over and she was able to struggle out, she saw the amount of debris the huge, dead hunk of meat had soaked up. One of her companions in the foxhole had a chunk of metal in her leg, but the others were unharmed.
She managed to locate Cirocco, who had time for a brief embrace before hurrying off toward the Generals’ tent.
Robin and Nova were oddities out here, and Robin was acutely aware of it. They were not in the army, as everyone else was. They had no assigned duties. Nova was not even in the city government anymore. In a sane war, one fought entirely by strategy and tactics of masses of soldiers and airplanes, Robin would never have been brought along. But her presence here was necessary.
The trouble was, she couldn’t tell anybody why. She didn’t even entirely understand it herself.
So now she wandered through the carnage, looking for her daughter. A few other people were wandering as aimlessly as she was, but they had that shell-shocked look. Robin was shaken, but in control of herself. She had come to terms with her fear twenty years ago, when she first allowed herself to feel it. She had been very afraid while the attack was happening, shocked and sorrowful at all the casualties, but now that it was over she felt only disgust at the atrocity of the attack . . . and worry for her daughter.
She found her digging a trench. She had to call three times before Nova looked up. Then the girl’s lower lip quivered, she climbed out of the hole, and went to Robin’s arms.
Robin felt only tears of happiness. And she felt a little silly, as she always did, putting her arms around a daughter almost a foot taller than she was. Nova wept uncontrollably.
“Oh, Mother,” she said, “I want to go home.”

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DEMON

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SEVEN

Conal had wanted to lead an attack on the base in Cronus. He had argued his point long and well, until all Cirocco could do was let him in on her top secret plan, the one that might or might not work. There was just no other way Conal was going to sit still while Robin—and the rest of his friends, of course—marched helplessly under those bloodthirsty monsters perched on that loathsome cable.
When he heard the plan he agreed, reluctantly. It still put Robin in danger, but there was no way to get completely around that.
“It has to be this way, Conal,” Cirocco said. “I suspect an attack on the Cronus base will bring in reinforcements from all around the wheel, before we’ve had a chance to pull our surprise. If enough of them show up, you and your people could be wiped out. Then we’ll be vulnerable to air attack all the way to Hyperion.”
So Conal sat at his base now, well-concealed in the northern highlands of Iapetus, and brooded. It seemed an eternity. He didn’t sleep well. He never went more than two hundred meters from his plane, which was always fueled and ready.
The other pilots played cards, told jokes, and generally tried to pass the time. These were mostly men and women who had flown military aircraft back on Earth. Conal didn’t have much in common with them. College kids, most of them. They looked down on him, resented the fact Cirocco had placed him in command . . . but admired his skills in aviation. He was a natural, they said. That was true, but the biggest factor that made them listen to him was that he had more air time in Gaea than all the rest of them put together. He knew the special conditions of Gaea, knew what the tough little planes could endure in the high pressure and low gravity, understood the coriolis storms that so confused many of the other pilots.
They tolerated him, and learned from him.
He sat by the radio every waking hour.
The base itself maintained radio silence. It was their hope that Gaea did not know its location, and their suspicion that the buzz bombs could hear radio communications. So they listened to the forward observers in Metis, and to the terse communications from the advancing army.
At last the alert came.
“Bandits at eight o’clock,” said the voice on the radio. “ . . . six, seven . . . there’s the eighth, nine . . . and Big Daddy makes ten.”
The crews scrambled. Conal was already in the air when the rest of the message came.
“They’re dropping down to the deck. Can’t see them anymore. Station one signing off. Come in station two, station three.”
Station one was in the southern highlands of Metis. The people there had the biggest telescope in Gaea—requisitioned, as so many other high-tech things had been, from Chris’s improbable basements—and it was constantly trained on the Metis central cable.
Two and three were to the east and west of the cable. No matter which direction the Eighth went, Conal would know soon. He expected them to turn east, toward Bellinzona and the army; still, it was always possible this was a diversion or a trick.
But he was pretty sure of one thing. The Fifth Wing was dropping down toward Cronus, and they didn‘t have far to go.
“Station three reporting. We have all ten bandits in sight. Heading . . . due east, within the limits of our radar.”
Three squadrons of five planes had scrambled at the initial alarm. Conal didn’t like to think of how few planes were in reserve.
“This is the Big Canuck,” Conal said. “Squad Leader Three, turn east and execute plan three.”
“Roger, Canuck.”
“And good luck to you.”
“Roger,” came the laconic reply. They would need it, Conal knew. The Eighth would head due east for as long as possible before disclosing their final destination by either turning sharp left for Bellinzona, or continuing toward Cronus and the army. Either way, the Third Squadron would take them on, outnumbered two to one.
Conal watched the five planes peel off, neat and sweet as an air show. He wished that was all it was.
They had been heading due south. Now he gave the order to turn to the east. Squads one and two would angle away from each other and then converge over the army from the north and south.
Just as they were completing the turn his radio gave him the message he had been dreading.
“This is Rocky Road. We are under attack from the air. No ground troops reported. Attackers are believed to be the Cronus Fifth, but unable to confirm at this time.” There was the sound of an explosion. “Hurry up, you guys! We‘re getting chewed to pieces out here!”

At the first word from station one, the army executed their defense plan, meager as it was.
They had pushed on into Cronus from Ophion, over gently rolling land that left them hideously exposed from the air. They were moving into a narrowing neck of grassland that would eventually be squeezed out by the jungle to the south, and the sea of Hestia to the north.
There was no offensive action open to them. Nothing in the arsenal had any hope of hitting a buzz bomb. Attempts had been made to convert the Air Force’s weaponry to ground-launched control, and they had been dismal failures. Cirocco had given it up, knowing she had already wasted too much of the Air Force’s dwindling supplies in her self-indulgent display over Pandemonium. She would pay for it now, and so would everyone around her.
Bellinzona had recently begun the manufacture of gunpowder and nitroglycerine. The army had gunpowder, in the form of big rockets, but almost all the nitroglycerine—in the form of dynamite—had been diverted to a destination Cirocco would not disclose, which infuriated the Generals. But even if they had access to dynamite it would not have made much difference in fighting off an aerial attack. The rockets and their warheads were useful only as diversions. It was hoped the red-eyes and sidewinders would be attracted to their heat.
The bonfires had been constructed with the same principle in mind. Several dozen wagons were filled with dry wood and kerosene. As the attack was announced, these wagons were driven forward, backward, and out to each side as far as they could get before the planes were sighted, then set afire. In the middle of the Cronusian night, it was hoped these bright lights would confuse the attackers as to the size of the army, and provide them with easy and expendable targets.
The main body of the army extinguished all lights, spread out, and set to work with their Personnel Entrenching Tools—shovels, to a civilian—something high-tech had done little to improve. An infantryman from the Argonne would have known how to use them instantly. The ground was hard, but it was amazing how quickly one could dig when the bombs began to fall.
Cirocco found herself doing an amazing thing. As the blue-white dots of the Fifth Fighter/Bomber Wing began circling above them, getting into position for their runs, she ran back down the Highway, shouting and waving her sword.
“Get down! Take cover! Get down, get down! The Air Force is on the way. Keep your goddamn heads down!”
She saw the first deadly orange blossom ahead of her and to one side, still quite far away, and she was grabbed by the arm, lifted, and tossed onto Hornpipe’s broad back. She landed on her feet, and held his shoulders, then yelled into his ear.
“Take cover, you crazy bastard!” she told him.
“I will when you do.”
So they thundered down the highway, startling the troops, waving their swords, shouting warnings that were entirely unnecessary as the landscape began to thunder and burn beneath the pounding of the Ferocious Fifth. She knew it was insane. She had never understood how commanders could do crazy things like that, and wasn’t quite sure how she was managing it herself. She had no illusions about being immune to bombs and bullets, did not think the mad force of her personality could somehow protect her—a theory she had actually seen propounded in some of the more fanciful military texts.
She only knew it wasn’t right for her to take cover now. Better to chance being killed. The troops had to see her and perceive her as unafraid, even though she was shaking so badly she almost dropped her sword. There was no other way to convince them to risk their own lives when she demanded it of them.
God, she thought. Ain’t warfare wonderful?
Most of the Titanides took the course Cirocco and the Generals had agreed was the logical thing for them to do. It would take them forever to dig trenches big enough to protect their huge bulk. Their great advantage was speed.
So they ran away.
They scattered in all directions, got as far from the center of the action as they could, and watched, horror-struck, as the malignant beauty of the battle unfolded in the air and on the ground.
Skyrockets screamed into the air from the pyrotechnics wagons, trailing orange sparks, glowing bright red, then exploded. Red-eyes and sidewinders burst like coveys of incandescent birds from beneath the wings of the buzz bombs, trailing red or blue or green fire, accelerated at a frightening rate, screaming in bloodthirsty joy as they suicidally dived into the bonfire wagons or chased skyrockets or, all too often, were not fooled and raced along a few meters above the ground to spread liquid fire over the pock-marked landscape. The aeromorphs themselves were visible only by their blue-white exhaust. The bombs were not visible at all until they reached the ground, and then they made everything else seem insignificant.
A few Titanides, moved beyond endurance, started back, but were stopped by their more sensible comrades.
Only the Titanide healers did not run. Like the human medics, they did what doctors have always done in war. They gathered the wounded, tended them . . . and died beside them.

“Oh Great Mother if you let me live through this I’ll never leave my computer again, never again, never again, never again . . . .”
Nova was not aware she was shouting. She was scrunched up in a trench that seemed about a quarter of an inch deep—and she was sharing it with two foot soldiers she had never seen before.
It was actually quite a bit deeper than that, and when a relative lull came all three of them scrambled out and dug like maniacs. Then the monsters made another pass and they piled in again, a mess of sharp elbows, boots, sheathed swords, askew helmets, and the stink of fear. They held their shields above them and heard dirt clods rattle against the dull bronze.
A bomb hit very close. Nova wondered if she would ever hear again. There was nothing but ringing for a long time. Shards of hot metal fell on them, and steaming soil.
“Never again, never again, never again . . . ”

Part of Conal’s mind knew that the Metis invaders had turned north, were headed for Bellinzona. That part of his mind wept for the outnumbered Third Squad.
The rest of him was concentrated on the dark air ahead that, minute by creeping minute, grew lighter. They could see the battle long before they arrived there.
Then they engaged the enemy, and there was no time to think of anything but flying.
He had to let his computer do a lot. There were too many blips on the screen, too much confusion, too much darkness. He twisted and turned, got lined up on something promising . . . and was overruled by the firecontrol computer, who had identified his target as friendly. Then he splashed a buzz bomb. The whole encounter between them was over in less than three seconds. He did not bother to watch the wreckage fall down into the night, but immediately slammed into a ten-gee turn toward the next target of opportunity.
The battle was actually anticlimactic. He knew it hadn’t been for those who had sat it out on the ground for the twenty minutes it had taken his squadrons to arrive. But by the time they got there the Fifth Wing had foolishly used up much of its air-to-air capacity. Their guns were running out of the little bullet-creatures. They still had some bombs left, and that was gratifying, as it made a much healthier explosion when Conal’s missiles hit them. Each airburst meant one less parcel of death for those in the trenches below.
At last there was only the Luftmorder. Conal and two of his pilots closed in on it from behind. He shot off most of its left wing. A Gnat seemed to be trying to fly right up its tailpipes, then delivered a missile, and they all throttled back and watched it fall. The air was full of smoke, and there were a frightening number of fires on the ground.
“This is Big Canuck, calling Rocky Road.”
There was a pause longer than Conal would have liked. Somebody had been separated from his radio, he realized.
“Rocky Road here, Canuck. I don’t see any more enemies.”
“That’s right. They’re all dead. The Fifth is no more. I haven’t heard from my Third Squadron yet, but I know they engaged the Eighth somewhere over Dione, and you people have at least a half-rev breathing space before any survivors could get here.”
“Roger, Canuck. We’ll be digging in.”
Conal was moving at dead slow, just over stall speed, while the computers formed up the First and Second Squadrons. Glancing around, he saw one hole in the Second, and one in his own, the First. He looked at his screen and saw one emergency beacon, stationary, on the ground, just short of Hestia. He dispatched one of his pilots to fly over and see if it was a survivor.
Two planes lost. One pilot lost, possibly two. Two other planes with minor damage.
Conal realized he was soaking wet. He put his plane on complete automatic, sat back, and shook for a few minutes. Then he wiped the sweat from his face.
“Big Canuck, Big Canuck, this is Squad Three.”
Conal recognized the voice. It was Gratiana Gomez, the youngest and least experienced pilot in Third Squadron.
“I read you, Gomez.”
“Canuck, Third Squadron engaged the enemy ten klicks south of Peppermint Bay. Ten aircraft were reported, and ten were destroyed. One got through to Bellinzona, and I have just destroyed it. It dropped three, maybe four bombs on the city.”
There was something in her voice that disturbed Conal.
“Gomez, where is your squadron leader?”
“Conal . . . I am the squadron leader. In fact . . . I’m the Third Squadron.” Her voice broke at the end, and he heard a dead mike.
“Gratiana, go back to Iapetus North and park it.”
There was a long pause. When she spoke again her voice was under control.
“I can’t, Canuck. The aircraft is pretty shot up. I think it might be salvageable. I’m gonna try to put it down on the football field up by the labor camps. I think I can—“
“Negative, Gomez.” Conal knew exactly what she was thinking. Pilots were easy to come by, but airplanes were at a premium. The equation offended him.
“Well . . . then I’ll ditch it up close to the wharves, where the water isn’t too deep. They can pull it out and—”
“Gomez, you head that thing out toward Moros, and when you‘re right over the biggest, flattest piece of land you can find, you punch out of it.”
“Canuck, I think I can—”
“Punch out, Gomez! That’s an order.”
“Roger, Conal.”
Later, when things were sorted out, Conal learned that Gomez had made it safely to the ground. She died an hour later of blood loss from the shrapnel wounds she had not told him about.

Nova slowly realized that things had quieted down.
She lifted her head a little. There were fires in the night. She could hear people moaning not too far away. Some were screaming. She moved cautiously around on her elbows, straightened her helmet, and found herself face to face with one of her trench-mates. He gave her a foolish grin. She heard herself giggling. Great Mother, what a terrible thing to do. But she could not shut it off for a long time. The man laughed with her, glad to be alive. Then they turned to the third person in the trench to let him share in the joy.
But there was a little hole under the man’s left arm, and a big one in the center of his chest. Nova held the bloody corpse for a long time, and could not cry, though she wanted to.
Though they never spoke a word to each other, they had shoveled together like mad animals, and huddled together in the dark and the fire, shivering, sharing warmth. And she hadn’t known when the warmth leaked out of him in a flood of red.

Cirocco and Hornpipe had been knocked over by the blast wave of a near-miss. Though unhurt, they had decided to stay down. Enough was enough.
Now she strode through the battlefield, limping slightly. Her ears were still ringing. The ends of her hair and her eyebrows on the right side were singed. There was a little blood on her right hand.
She took it all in. There were many dead and injured, but they were being attended to. Sergeants were shouting like it was just another drill on the obstacle course. Dirt was flying everywhere. Many of the trenches were already eight feet deep. Cirocco couldn‘t find a single slacker. The Fifth Wing had made believers of them all.
The infirmary was a large tent set up as far away from the trenches as Cirocco had dared. She had debated a long time about whether to mark it with a big white cross. In the end, she decided not to. Gaea had cast herself in the role of the bad guy. She might very well have told her buzz bombs to seek out white crosses.
She entered the radio shack and grabbed a hand mike.
“Big Canuck, are you still up there?”
“I’m not going anywhere. Captain, have you seen Robin?”
“I have no information on that, Canuck.”
“ . . . Okay. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Cirocco glanced around, saw no one was watching her.
“Conal, I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything.”
“Right What do I do now?”
They discussed it, using code words Gaea and her troops would not understand if they happened to be listening in. Conal was the only other person who knew about Cirocco’s plan for the Gaean Air Force.
“I think,” Conal said, “if you’re gonna do it, you ought to do it as quickly as possible.”
“I agree. Give us . . . two more revs to get as solidly dug in here as we can. You and your people go back to Iapetus and re-arm and refuel. I’ll take it up with the Generals.”

Robin had spent most of the battle half-buried under a dead Titanide.
She and four others had dug a foxhole, the bombs had started to fall . . . and the Titanide had fallen right at the edge of it. Its body slipped slowly down, not quite covering Robin. She thought it had probably saved her life. When everything was over and she was able to struggle out, she saw the amount of debris the huge, dead hunk of meat had soaked up. One of her companions in the foxhole had a chunk of metal in her leg, but the others were unharmed.
She managed to locate Cirocco, who had time for a brief embrace before hurrying off toward the Generals’ tent.
Robin and Nova were oddities out here, and Robin was acutely aware of it. They were not in the army, as everyone else was. They had no assigned duties. Nova was not even in the city government anymore. In a sane war, one fought entirely by strategy and tactics of masses of soldiers and airplanes, Robin would never have been brought along. But her presence here was necessary.
The trouble was, she couldn’t tell anybody why. She didn’t even entirely understand it herself.
So now she wandered through the carnage, looking for her daughter. A few other people were wandering as aimlessly as she was, but they had that shell-shocked look. Robin was shaken, but in control of herself. She had come to terms with her fear twenty years ago, when she first allowed herself to feel it. She had been very afraid while the attack was happening, shocked and sorrowful at all the casualties, but now that it was over she felt only disgust at the atrocity of the attack . . . and worry for her daughter.
She found her digging a trench. She had to call three times before Nova looked up. Then the girl’s lower lip quivered, she climbed out of the hole, and went to Robin’s arms.
Robin felt only tears of happiness. And she felt a little silly, as she always did, putting her arms around a daughter almost a foot taller than she was. Nova wept uncontrollably.
“Oh, Mother,” she said, “I want to go home.”

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