bicone of the Shinseiki’s lander. In the far distance, near the horizon, he could see the great profile of the Face, staring bleakly upward into the darkening sky.
When they come, he thought, it will be over the Face…
The Commonwealth’s Central Intelligence Service had known about the secret American effort to build a Mars space-to-surface fighter for quite some time. In fact, the very reason why Oeljanov had been sent to this godforsaken place had been to counteract a possible American takeover of the base. If only the CIS had something like the Hornets…
No. This was wishful thinking. He would have to depend on the autotanks which flanked him on either side. If worst came to worst and he found himself outgunned, he could always command Unit One to train its guns on the habitat’s command module. Then, perhaps, he could dictate terms of surrender by the American pilots.
But that was a coward’s way out. Oeljanov almost automatically ruled it out. This was to be a showdown: Russian cybernetics and armor matched against experimental American spacecraft.
Yes. A showdown…
He noticed his shadow stretching out before him, cast across the red dust by the setting sun at his back, and was reminded of the old American Western movies he openly adored. His fellow cadets at the Russian Military Academy used to call him ‘Cadet Clint’ because of his predilection, and he had not minded the nickname all that much. He was a loyal officer of the Russian Army, but in his fantasy life he always wore a bandolier and two Colt six-guns; in his fantasy-self, there was a knowing squint in his eyes.
Yes, this was going to be much like a Western: he was Bob Wayne… nyet, he reminded himself once again, that’s John Wayne… Gary Cooper, Steve McQueen, Yul Brynner, Clint Eastwood…
‘Okay, pilgrim,’ he said in English, imitating Bob-John Wayne’s drawl, ‘I’m calling yew out…’
As if on cue, the RWS bleeped, alerting him to something which had been picked up within radar range. Two blue crosshatches appeared on his VR screen, overlaying twin white streaks which were rising over the north-eastern horizon. Very good; just as he had predicted.
‘Unit One, Unit Two,’ he said aloud, ‘track and target incoming objects at azimuth fifty-five degrees nine-point-two minutes and lock-on weapons.’
There was a double-bleep in his headphones as the autotanks obediently followed his instructions; he didn’t need to look at his heads-up to see that their guns were armed and following the track of the Hornets.
Oeljanov raised his right arm to point at the sky, feeling his index finger coil around the recessed trigger of his own built-in gun. ‘Continue autotargeting,’ he told his suit. ‘Fire control select on manual.’ He could have allowed the suit to determine the optimum target and automatically fire for him, but that was much too unsportsmanlike. A soldier, or a gunslinger, doesn’t let a computer pull the trigger for him. That’s not the way Clint would have done it…
As the RWS’s beeps rose in cadence, signaling the rapid approach of the enemy, Oeljanov planted his feet wide apart and sucked in a deep breath. When the sun sets, he told himself, I’ll be a Hero of the Commonwealth…
The first indication Paul Verduin had that something was seriously wrong was when he received a terse radio message from Arthur Johnson, telling him to take cover near the City. Then the comlink went silent, leaving the Dutch scientist with little choice but to run for his life.
He’d felt certain that a showdown was inevitable, ever since the Russians had brought their weaponry to Cydonia. But he had never expected it to be so fast…
Verduin knew something was coming out of the sky when the C-4 scanner turned its head toward the east. The scanner was a stationary robot: a tall, slender automaton fixed permanently in the ground, with a cluster of cameras, sound and motion detectors, recorders, and transmitters built into
When they come, he thought, it will be over the Face…
The Commonwealth’s Central Intelligence Service had known about the secret American effort to build a Mars space-to-surface fighter for quite some time. In fact, the very reason why Oeljanov had been sent to this godforsaken place had been to counteract a possible American takeover of the base. If only the CIS had something like the Hornets…
No. This was wishful thinking. He would have to depend on the autotanks which flanked him on either side. If worst came to worst and he found himself outgunned, he could always command Unit One to train its guns on the habitat’s command module. Then, perhaps, he could dictate terms of surrender by the American pilots.
But that was a coward’s way out. Oeljanov almost automatically ruled it out. This was to be a showdown: Russian cybernetics and armor matched against experimental American spacecraft.
Yes. A showdown…
He noticed his shadow stretching out before him, cast across the red dust by the setting sun at his back, and was reminded of the old American Western movies he openly adored. His fellow cadets at the Russian Military Academy used to call him ‘Cadet Clint’ because of his predilection, and he had not minded the nickname all that much. He was a loyal officer of the Russian Army, but in his fantasy life he always wore a bandolier and two Colt six-guns; in his fantasy-self, there was a knowing squint in his eyes.
Yes, this was going to be much like a Western: he was Bob Wayne… nyet, he reminded himself once again, that’s John Wayne… Gary Cooper, Steve McQueen, Yul Brynner, Clint Eastwood…
‘Okay, pilgrim,’ he said in English, imitating Bob-John Wayne’s drawl, ‘I’m calling yew out…’
As if on cue, the RWS bleeped, alerting him to something which had been picked up within radar range. Two blue crosshatches appeared on his VR screen, overlaying twin white streaks which were rising over the north-eastern horizon. Very good; just as he had predicted.
‘Unit One, Unit Two,’ he said aloud, ‘track and target incoming objects at azimuth fifty-five degrees nine-point-two minutes and lock-on weapons.’
There was a double-bleep in his headphones as the autotanks obediently followed his instructions; he didn’t need to look at his heads-up to see that their guns were armed and following the track of the Hornets.
Oeljanov raised his right arm to point at the sky, feeling his index finger coil around the recessed trigger of his own built-in gun. ‘Continue autotargeting,’ he told his suit. ‘Fire control select on manual.’ He could have allowed the suit to determine the optimum target and automatically fire for him, but that was much too unsportsmanlike. A soldier, or a gunslinger, doesn’t let a computer pull the trigger for him. That’s not the way Clint would have done it…
As the RWS’s beeps rose in cadence, signaling the rapid approach of the enemy, Oeljanov planted his feet wide apart and sucked in a deep breath. When the sun sets, he told himself, I’ll be a Hero of the Commonwealth…
The first indication Paul Verduin had that something was seriously wrong was when he received a terse radio message from Arthur Johnson, telling him to take cover near the City. Then the comlink went silent, leaving the Dutch scientist with little choice but to run for his life.
He’d felt certain that a showdown was inevitable, ever since the Russians had brought their weaponry to Cydonia. But he had never expected it to be so fast…
Verduin knew something was coming out of the sky when the C-4 scanner turned its head toward the east. The scanner was a stationary robot: a tall, slender automaton fixed permanently in the ground, with a cluster of cameras, sound and motion detectors, recorders, and transmitters built into
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