Collision with Chronos

The wild looks on the faces of the Titans who clung to the swaying gun carriages told them that the situation had more than a measure of desperation. No natives were in sight: presumably they were all huddling somewhere, terrified of Titan savagery when the going got tough. A Titan soldier, for example, would shoot anyone who happened to be standing in his way when a sense of urgency overtook him.

“What in the Mother’s name is going on, sarge?” one of the troopers asked.

“Must be something big.” He ruminated. “Maybe the Chinks were holding onto their defences.” He nudged the driver. “Our job is to get this man to HQ. Get across the highway when there’s a gap and go by way of the secondary route.”

The highway came in from the main supply dump, close to the dock. HQ was in a central part of the city. Eventually they crossed the busy viaduct and continued, past empty tiers, galleries and plazas.

“This place gives me the creeps,” someone grumbled. “I’ll be glad to get back to Pradna.”

Ahead of them was a machine gun post. Troopers yelled at them, brought them to a halt.

“You can’t go up there,” a corporal told them, “it’s cut off.”

“Cut off by who?”

“The Chinks have an army,” the corporal said stolidly. “Everything’s in chaos.”

Suddenly the machine gun gave out a short stuttering burst. “Here they come!” yelled the man firing it.

The sergeant reached into the runabout and brought out his burp gun. He could see them, too, now, emerging from the end of a tree-lined avenue. They wore rough, blue uniforms and wide-brimmed dome helmets.

He rapped out orders. The armoured runabout proceeded slowly up the avenue, its occupants firing from its slits. He stayed with the machine gun crew, down on one knee, peering over the barricade and fingering his burp gun.

And then, without any warning, the Chinks were upon them: all around them, as if they’d dropped from the nonexistent sky.

Titan-Major Brourne knew already that he’d committed a tactical error when he moved his HQ from the cramped accommodation at the dockside to his present palatial quarters near the centre of the city.

At the time it had seemed reasonable. The city had been taken. He needed an administrative centre, and the dock just wouldn’t do.

But now, up through the bottleneck from the Production Retort which all his scouts had assured him was empty, had come a huge army, well-prepared and well-disciplined. Brourne still only had an inkling of where this army had really come from, but in any case explanations, at this stage, were very low down on his list of priorities.

When it first became clear that the threat was serious he’d given thought to the route back to the dock, to a withdrawal to the ships floating outside the city if necessary. With deep chagrin he learned that the dock was one of the first points to be seized by the enemy. His forces were still trying to retake it.

Elsewhere the story was one of repeated disaster. The invasion force was overwhelming, and none of the measures he’d taken to retain military control seemed effective. The Chinks were able to flit in and out of existence like shadows, by means of some device they possessed, apparently, and so were able to infiltrate all his fixed defences. They carried only light arms and knives, but more often than not fought using an unarmed combat technique that was as deadly as anything he’d come across.

His ire rising, Brourne listened to the distressing tale of section after section of the city falling, of the enemy appearing simultaneously everywhere, that the battle reports told. He slammed down the key that opened the line to all district commanders. For some minutes now they’d been requesting instructions.

“Kill everything that moves!” he roared. “Have you got that? Everything that moves!”

“Haven’t I met you somewhere?” Leard Ascar asked, squinting quizzically at the white man wearing the uniform of the Lower Retort invaders.

“Sobrie Oblomot.” The other smiled. “We met twice, a few days ago. For you it was a few days ago, that is; for me it was more than a year.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” Ascar muttered. “You came in on the ship from Earth, in Rond Heshke’s place. Forgive me, I’ve a poor memory for faces.” He waved a hand negligently. “So the Titans haven’t had it all their own way?”

Sobrie allowed himself a look of quiet triumph. “They don’t know what’s hit them. You know the secret of the Lower Retort’s success, of course – that it can always take as much time as it needs to work on something, even when results are required in minutes. We only spent a year in organising our onslaught, but we could have taken twenty-five years if need be.”

“Yes, I thought there would be something like that,” Ascar said. “I’m surprised the Titans let you pull off such a stunt.”