Cardomon: Spaceport Battle

          Jason was the forward gunner, with a seat in front of the motor compartment. The chamfered armor sides of the tractor gave no headroom over the catwalk and he crawled to take the position. Chattagong wqas supposed to ride at the turret gun but when Nubieber got tired of standing and fighting the lurches he commandeered the seat. Chattagong stood behind his commander's shoulder with his head rising from the open top hatch. Ricardo operated the machine.

The tractor rolled in a halo of artificial brilliance from lights mounted around the exterior. Over the flat terrain of the farm the glow broadcast for miles in every direction. Ruts and dips formed wavering pools of shadow as the light source bounced across the landscape. There was ten miles of perimeter fence they patrolled. The view never changed, monotony was the worst hazard of overnight rounds.

Four miles out and they approached the northwest corner, the site of the old equipment yard, now relocated far from the ravine. The tractor crew edged up to a sharper alertness. But the long wet winter was quiet, the farm was virtually an island for three months. There was no Actionist movement the entire time and vigilance dulled.

One of the shadows directly ahead of the tractor concealed a foxhole. Three figures emerged and stood in front of the machine.

Nubieber was nodding sleepily before he saw them, he jolted awake when Ricardo applied the brakes. The commander recognized Bobol and Hildy, the third man was a colonist and unknown. But runaways were designated targets. Nubieber’s hands went to the gun and swiveled it to cover the trio, he squeezed the trigger. The gun fired a two-second burst before Chattagong put his hands around Nubieber’s neck and started to throttle the manager.

Seized from behind and restrained by the safety belt, Nubieber was helpless. Chattagong bore down on his collar and clutched his throat tighter and tighter. There was no choice but to die.

Ricardo twisted around and looked up at the strangler: “What’d you do that for?”

“You wanted him to shoot Bobol and Hildy?”

“No. But now we can’t go back.”

“Now we’re free.”

Ricardo went silent and Jason crawled from the passage to the front: “What’s going on?” When he stood up behind Ricardo his eyes were level with Chattagong’s belt.

“I killed Nubieber. We’re going to use this machine and break out everybody.”

“Are we?” Jason went to the ladder into the turret, climbed up to Chattagong’s side and put his head out through the hatch. The top of the tractor was a spot of darkness amid the flood of light glaring from its flanks.

Chattagong: “My Karin died. Yesterday. Somebody was playing too roughly… One of her cribmates told me she turned into that purple dust and disappeared. This fucking planet’s too weird for me.”

“Too bad, she was a good lay.” Jason paid little attention, watched the landscape outside.

He saw Hildy, crouched over a prone figure—it looked like the colonist Jody—administering first aid. Bobol stood in the foxhole and pointed a crossbow at the tractor, blinded by the lights.

Jason shouted: “It’s okay. We killed him.”

Bobol: “Killed who?”

“Nubieber—he was supervising the patrol. Corman’s getting wise to us.”

Hildy lifted his eyes to the machine: “Jody has a bullet in his shoulder, he’s bleeding badly. I need to get him into camp.”

Chattagong: “You take him. We’re going to liberate the women.”

“You can’t attack the spaceport. Corman will torch the barracks. You’ll start a massacre.”

“Karin’s dead. I’m getting the rest of them out of there. They can either die tonight in a sudden massacre or keep dying from a slow one. Anybody that dies will be better off anyway, you know that.”

Jason: “We’ve been on half rations all winter. Now we killed Nubieber, can’t go back. We got to make this move, prove we still got balls.”

Chattagong: “You got balls, Hildy? Or have you given them to colonist babes?”

“You look kind of fat.”

The barbs were effective, triggered self-conscious guilt. Abandoning his loyalties to Glatz meant turning his back on a barracks full of comrades, but Hildy’s new life was sweet and precious, connecting in love with Jody polished everyday experience, it shined brilliantly for him. Ashamed for leaving his old friends, though, the shine had tarnish already.

“All right,” he shouted at the tractor. “We got a small army out here. Not a lotta guns but plenty of crossbows—remember Merlo? They work. Let me get Jody to camp and then we’ll bring the troops. Give us three or four hours and we’ll rendezvous at the entrance to the farm.”

Chattagong: “That’s a long time waiting.”

“You won’t take the spaceport with just that tractor. I’ll bring the troops. We can do it. Only a few hours to rally them all.”

Jason: “Okay. Three hours. Get your people, we’ll be ready.”

Chattagong took the headset radio from Nubieber’s ear. He put it on: “Hello? Anybody there?”

Corman’s voice came through: “Yeah. Who is this?”

“Chattagong. Did you hear Nubieber die?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re next.” He took off the radio and threw it out of the hatch.

Cardomonas is an aerobic organism. In the symbiotic phase of its life cycle it obtains oxygen from its host. If the host should expire from anoxia, as in drowning or strangulation, the resident portion of the fungus dies as well—there is no eruption of purple disks, other decay processes take over. Luenda was clever about inventing strangulation traps for her fur harvesting, making crafty nooses from leather and gut. Poor throttled Nubieber’s body remained for his killers to deal with.

Hildy took off his jacket and shredded it with a knife then packed a compress for Jody’s wound as best he could and tied it on with long strips lashed around the torso. The patient continued to bleed, it seeped through bandages, but the Actionist camp was only a mile away with a complete field medicine station.

They helped Jody to unsteady feet and he used Hildy’s left arm for a buttress. Passage under the fence was the worst of it, the access trench was narrow, intended to be wormed through with a lot of shoulder action. Jody went on his backside, pushed with his lower legs, Hildy was directly ahead clearing rocks from the path and he lifted Jody’s collar, helped him move and kept the wound off of the ground.

When they emerged on the surface the tractor was rolling away with their light source. They hurried across the cleared ground and into the brush.

Chowder and Gardul were in camp and took charge of the casualty. They were good field surgeons and had a complete dressing station. They put Jody on a backboard on the ground and squatted over him as they worked. They removed the bullet and patched him up, gave him a pain killer and fluids. Afterward, Jody’s arm felt swaddled and hot but comfortable enough, he could barely wriggle the fingers.

Meanwhile, Hildy and Bobol explained the situation and there was a conference, Actionists gathered in a crowd around the aid station.

Gardul looked up from his work: “I’m ready for it, I’m tired of running around these camps and doing nothing. You guys say the security there is really thin.”

Hildy shook his head: “Corman knows that. The whole crew there are his hostages. Barracks and the brothel are packed with flammables ready for a torch.”

“Jason and Chattagong don’t care.”

Leon: “They’re crazy. Everybody at the farm’s going whacked. We’re out here to take the place—maybe this isn’t the slickest move, but it is a move. They make a half-assed play with that tractor and they got no back-up, it will be a disaster. I won’t let my buddies go in there alone.” There were other, unvoiced, thoughts in his mind. Life with the colonists was pleasant, but he craved exotic excitements not available in the free world.

Hildy nodded: “It looks like a disaster whichever way… Bobol, what do you think?”

He looked from Hildy to Leon, then regarded the dozen colonists with them, his head shook: “Good people die, it’s a shame. Most you folks never been in a fight. Crossbows… they have machine guns. I don’t want to chicken out, but this looks stupid—Corman will burn that brothel, everyone in it. But Chattagong was right, they’re all dying in there anyway. Maybe this is their only chance… I don’t know… don’t like it. But if we’re gonna go—let’s go.” He looked down at his toes and went silent.

It was Brenda’s turn: “We shouldn’t even be talking about this. We call ourselves Actionists, it’s time to make that real, do some Action. That farm doesn’t belong here on our world and those workers need us. I don’t want Rajin growing up on a slave planet so we have to do this.”

The voice went around the circle, nobody expressed restraint, nobody was going to be the coward.

Weak from blood loss, Jody slept the rest of the night away, but in his dreams he went to that other space: It was there and used her green eyes, Jody walked with his memories from the physician and he healed.

A dozen Actionists dispersed from the main camp to assemble the forces. Scattered across the plains and marsh, eight field camps, more than seventy people, surrounded farm and spaceport.

After throwing his body out the side hatch Jason and Chattagong tied Nubieber to the front of the tractor beneath the armor housing for the forward gun. They spread his wrists and ankles, formed the corpse as a large ‘X’. Ricardo turned the machine about and drove it back to the farm’s main gate. They waited. Jason had a few doses of a popular stimulant—flush—and they shared the drug to help bring up the fighting edge.

There was no plan, no organization of forces. Forty Actionists rendezvoused with the tractor. Others moved across the countryside almost randomly, converged on the spaceport gate, they gathered wood as they traveled. Further back, the stragglers and latecomers filtered over the landscape, unclear of their objective.

Nubieber led the advance, angry foot soldiers in his wake. With floodlights, engine noise and agitated mob, stealth was impossible. They crossed the half-mile of road and turned right at the wall. Under the security lamps they expected hostile artillery raining down at any moment and the infantry stayed out in the shadows. But no attack came. They arrived near the midpoint of the wall and stopped. The tractor turned about to face it, moved back for space to build momentum before impact. Nubieber was still on point.

They waited, anticipating a diversion, if one were possible. To the east the first silhouette of the horizon tokened the coming day.

Tamborak was asleep when Brenda came around, but he roused quickly and they called a dozen people awake. The crowd went for the spaceport gate, their only idea for a diversion was to light a bonfire. They gathered wood and brush as they went and rallied any other troops they found, assembled a mound of fuel nearly as high as the wall. The damp materials smoldered and smoked before blazing up. There was no response from within.

Ricardo drove the tractor, Chattagong rode at the turret gun and Jason followed on foot, carrying a rifle. When they saw flames and sparks rising from afar they moved forward. The tractor had fifty yards before hitting the wall.

Nubieber exploded on impact. The wall bowed inwards and cracked at the section joints. Part of the top rail fell, pulled down the tangle wire and the exterior floodlights went out.

The tractor backed up for another run and more lights came on inside the wall. A harsh metallic horn brayed deafeningly. The tractor charged and rammed a second time, a wide slab of concrete collapsed in front of it leaving jagged rebar teeth rising from the footings. Arching over the gap, heavy lintel blocks dangled from reinforcing wire—the broken teeth of the upper jaw.

The forward armor on the tractor had crumpled, folded over the remnants of Nubieber and the gunner’s seat had merged with the radiator, clouds of steam shrouded the front end. But it still operated and Ricardo guided the machine up onto the rubble, foot soldiers swarmed alongside. Blinded by the vapors and the lights they passed through the mouth.

Chattagong started shooting, aimed short bursts at the spotlights. The defenders returned fire and the first wave of attackers fell down. Some were shot but most scrambled for cover beneath fragments of the wall. Jason and a handful of others stayed close behind the tractor, crouched low, shooting around its flanks.

          The front tires went flat but the drive wheels were metal and the machine continued onward, scarcely under control. Chattagong had good aim, the lights were systematically extinguished and opposing fire steadily diminished.

          Just as the last spotlight died there were two fiery explosions in the darkness somewhere ahead of the attack. Flames and oily black smoke roiled into the dawning sky, the sound of agonized screams arose.

The defending gunfire ceased, but the tractor stopped as well when the front wheels buckled and it nosed into the ground. Attacking forces clambered through the breach in the wall.

The bonfire roared, brushy green tinder smoked and sparked, belched orange and black flickers.

Sounds of battle came from afar.

Most Actionists at the gate ran toward the gunfire and alarms and joined the main combat.

Brenda and Tamborak stayed, anticipated a break-out. Brenda carried a pistol, Tamborak had a crossbow, a few others stood at their side.

The explosions: two fireballs flamed up behind the wall, there was a roar of a heavy motor.

The gate burst open with force that scattered the bonfire fifty yards.

A second armored tractor rolled through the opening, its machine guns blazed.

The Actionists had no chance, Brenda, Tamborak and four others were raked with slugs, dead before they reached the ground.

The tractor turned onto the main road and accelerated, attackers came behind, ducked machine gun fire. It continued to gain speed and pulled away toward the hills. Two miles from the spaceport the top-heavy vehicle sped into a hairpin turn and lost balance. It tilted against the embankment, skidded along the road cut for two hundred yards and then rolled onto its left side when the berm ran out into a creekbed. The machine slid another dozen yards and slammed to a halt at the bottom of the gully.

The turret hatch flew open and five persons, bruised and battered, emerged. Corman was the first to crawl out, rifle ahead, his right leg limped. Another man rubbed a massive bruise under his left ribs, breathed with obvious pain, stiff hips and rigid spine, he moaned involuntarily, loudly.

Sounds of pursuit came from the direction of the spaceport. They fled toward Firstown, a slow, grim, struggle. It was nearly sunrise and garish colors glowed off of buttermilk clouds.

Around a bend and across the final flat, spanned by the fence: gate locked.

They attacked the barrier, threw their weight at one point and rocked a support post, it gradually loosened in the mud and lay down.

Back to the road and away from the chase…

Gardul and Hildy carried crossbows and entered the spaceport with the first assault, dived to the ground when the gunfire erupted. Hildy found shelter behind the broken wall, Gardul fell dead. Hildy didn’t see, he crept forward in the wake of the tractor, weapon at the ready, but with no target. When the explosions flared out he fell face to the ground.

The gunfire went silent and people came up from behind. Hildy rose and ran toward rising flames. He heard screams ahead.

The brothel and the barracks burned. Both structures were locked from the outside, the windows were barred. People trapped inside beat at the doors, screaming and choking and dying. All the attackers could do was stand back from the intense heat. Hildy ran for a firehose, only to discover the water pressure turned off.

Sun came up, the battle was over. Actionists had complete control of the spaceport and their objective was in flames. For ten minutes all they could do was stand clear and listen to agony.

Somebody ran to an equipment yard and returned with a tractor. He used the earth moving blade to knock a corner support from the brothel, then he peeled a wall away from it’s columns.

A rescue access.

He moved the tractor to the main barracks and repeated the demolition.

Hildy found the power switches and turned the water pumps on, turned the alarms off.

Actionists wet down blankets and moved in with hoses. The scene inside was grim. Both structures were littered with corpses: burn victims and smoke asphyxiation, some were crushed in panicked mobs. Smoke and heat killed fungus too, there were few piles of purple dust within.

But there were a handful of people still alive.

Nine women and two eunuch boys survived the brothel fire, twenty men escaped the barracks. But the flames claimed two hundred twenty-four others. Additionally, twenty four spaceport security officers died from gunshot or crossbow, ten more surrendered.

Ricardo died at the controls of the tractor, besides Tamborak, Brenda and Gardul, eleven other Actionists fell.

Old friends Chattagong and Leon used the opportunity to liberate certain pharmacological materials.

Actionists came upon the overturned tractor, broke off pursuit to examine the hulk. Inside the machine they discovered two piles of purple dust, presumably human remains.

Corman’s fugitive party staggered through the hills and approached the farms as the first colonists came to work. Startled by the sight of armed men, the laborers spun around, ran back to town and raised an alarm.

Up the hill, into Old Firstown.

Homer and Charlene stood in the road.

Homer: “What’s going on?”

Corman’s gun leveled on Homer’s belly: “Leave us pass and there won’t be trouble.”

The couple stood back.

No other words exchanged.

Fugitives worked the road and brandished arms at any approach.

Colonists followed at a safe distance.

A mile past the Hospice Lucy’s house stood behind its wall. Corman and his group let themselves within, bolted the gate behind them.

A confused crowd gathered outside.