To his surprise, Niohuru found himself wishing that he had Bannermen Axum Ouazebas and Cong Ren at his side. There were times when the differences in temperament and personality among the three members of Niohuru’s combat cell led to aggravated clashes, often threatening to erupt into full-blown violence. But when they were in the field, each performing his duties, all such conflicts were forgotten. Like that first engagement after the night drop, when the Falcon’s Claws had finally entered into the fray of Operation Great Holdings, the three bannermen had learned to act as a smoothly-running machine, every component knowing their place, every man knowing his role. And however odious Niohuru might find Axum’s presumption or Cong’s manner when they were at ease in the barracks, now that he was in the field of battle without them, he realized that there was no one else he would rather have at his side.

Pity, then, that Axum and Cong were more than likely at their leisure back within the mining facilities, or else pulling some relatively stress-free sentry duty. Of course, they had spent the day exchanging fire with the Mexic defenders, while Niohuru had spent most of the hours since morning driving or walking, either out of the range of the Mexic guns or otherwise hidden from their fire. But at the moment, his muscles already fatigued by the long hours of walking and driving, Niohuru hardly felt that it was any kind of fair trade. After all, it wasn’t as if Axum or Cong had actually been hit by enemy fire.

The bannerman ahead of Niohuru—who like him had spent the day driving and walking—suddenly drew up short, dropping outstretched to the ground, and raising his left hand in a fist as he fell. It was a signal all of the Falcon’s Claws knew well. Enemy sighted.

Without the need for discussion or delay, Niohuru and the others, already advancing in low crouches, dove forward, pressing their bodies as low to the ground as possible. Niohuru scanned the darkened buildings that hulked on the near horizon, little more than shadowy outlines against the last dying light of the setting sun. He was looking to see if he could spot what the other bannerman might have seen, what trace of the enemy had prompted him to dive to the ground and…

There… Niohuru saw it, a grim smile just turning up the corners of his mouth. A faint flashing in among the shadowed habitats, a glint of metal and movement. Sunlight bouncing off an armored surface suit, perhaps? The angle of incident seemed wrong. Perhaps an artificial light then, used to consult a map, or check a weapon’s ammunition? Or perhaps even a signal? It was difficult to say. All Niohuru knew for certain was that there was something moving within the cluster of habitats, and that his orders were to clear them out.

What Niohuru and the rest of the Falcon’s Claws did not know, what they could not know given the imposition of radio silence and the lack of communication between different elements of the advance, was that the habitat cluster to the west of the mining facility had been the target of the Akali Sena, who had assaulted the habitats from the north that morning just as the First Raider Company had been approaching the mining facility from the east.

There had been nearly a hundred Mexica in and among the habitats when the Sikh warrior-saints attacked, the balance of those whom Captain Hughes had anticipated would be defending the mine to the east. And the reason that these hundred Mexica had not joined in the defense of the mining facilities, as Hughes had expected they would, was that they had been too busy engaged in the ultimately fruitless attempt to stave off the Immortals’ assault.

Unfortunately for the Mexica, the communication between the defenders of the mining facilities and those occupied with the defense of the habitat cluster was scarcely better than the communication between the Falcon’s Claws and the Immortals. When the mine at last fell to the First Raider Company, and those Mexic not willing to stand and fight to the death turned tail and fled to the west, they had no idea that they were running right into the bullets and blades of the Sikh warrior-saints.

The Akali Sena, for their part, had assumed the fleeing defenders from the east to be ill-advised attackers, a last-ditch attempt to win the habitat back from the warrior-saints. And once the Mexica who had approached from the east had been cut down, the Sikhs lay in wait, watching the eastern approaches warily, anticipating a further attack.

Then, as the sun was setting in the west, a Sikh lookout’s eye was caught by a flash of movement out on the red sands, and glimpsed a half-dozen figures quickly drop to the ground and out of sight.

With a series of quick, abbreviated hand gestures, the lookout alerted the rest of the warrior-saints ranged along the western side of the habitat cluster, and the Immortals prepared themselves for a final assault.

Niohuru and the other five bannermen in the raiding party held still for a seemingly interminable number of heartbeats, then after a quick exchange of hand signals, barely visible in the faint moonlight, they began to creep forward, pulling themselves along with their elbows, their bodies remaining flat against the ground.

They had covered half the remaining distance to the nearest of the habitats, which ranged in an arc from left to right, and Niohuru had just about decided that the Mexic defenders within the habitat cluster had not seen them. They might have maintained the element of surprise, after all.

Then the bannerman to Niohuru’s right suddenly reared back as his helmet’s faceplate exploded with the force of a projectile’s impact, and it was clear that any hope of retaining the element of surprise had been long lost.

As the bannermen around him raised the barrels of their semi-automatics to return fire, remaining as low to the ground as possible, Niohuru unclipped a fragmentation grenade from his waist and lobbed it towards the habitats, despite having no idea where the shots were coming from, or even what sort of weapons were being fired.



Ramdas Singh, the Akali Sena lookout, fired his carbine at the indistinct shadows humped along the irregular ground to the east, then flinched back as a grenade exploded behind him and to one side. He checked himself for any impact or abrasion, knowing that even a small rent in his armored surface suit would be enough to bruise him badly, at best, and cause him to freeze to death, at worst, to say nothing of the loss of blood from any cuts.

The lookout allowed himself a brief sigh of relief, muttering the words of a hymn of thanksgiving, but then caught sight of a brother Immortal a few meters away who had not been quite so lucky. Shrapnel had torn the other Sikh’s surface suit open, in the process sending a spray of freezing blood out in the cold, thin air that was now drifting down like a crimson snowfall to the hard packed dirt beneath their feet.

There would be time for sabads to be sung later, once the enemy was routed, to celebrate another fallen brother gone to reunite with god, free from the cycles of rebirth. Ramdas Singh had been on Fire Star for nearly ten years, and had attended the funerals of more fellow warrior-saints than he could recall.

For now, though, there were still the Mexica out in the dark to consider.

A pair of Immortals were bringing the chakram-gun up from the rear, setting it up on a tripod a few meters from Ramdas Singh’s position. Firing chakrams, flat steel rings about thirteen centimeters across with razor-sharp outer edges, the massive gun was remarkably simple and deadly accurate. Once the slide atop the launching mechanism was racked forward and back, the massive spring inside was pulled back to full tension, while the return motion also dropped one of the chakram discs into place. When the trigger was pulled the spring was released, pulling the disc forward and setting it spinning. The discs flew out with extremely rapid rotations, keeping them steady as they went, and though their forward velocity was lower than that of a bullet from a carbine, the discs were just as accurate, and capable of inflicting devastating damage on the target.

With the chakram-gun set up and ready to fire, the operators looked to Ramdas Singh to help them range their fire, and he pointed out towards the humped shadows out in the near distance, from which the grenades had been thrown. Their fallen brother’s life of service had earned him release from the cycle of rebirth, but that didn’t mean that the surviving Immortals wouldn’t avenge his death.



Niohuru and the other four surviving Falcon’s Claws were pinned down, caught in crossfire that appeared to be coming from both the left and right extremities of the habitat cluster. If they tried to pick up and run back the way they’d come, they’d get mowed down in an instant, and if they advanced they’d fare no better. But staying in one place meant that the defenders in the cluster could simply plink shots at the bannermen at their leisure, and eventually they’d all end up like the bannerman who’d taken the shot to the head only moments before.

Something whizzed by Niohuru’s left shoulder, just missing the side of his helmet. It was too slow to be a bullet, and far too large, but he hadn’t got a good glimpse of it before it flashed by and out of sight in the darkness behind.

Niohuru turned to the bannerman at his left side, to see if he’d seen the projectile flash by as well, and just as Niohuru’s gaze fell on him the bannerman floundered as something sliced into his neck, right where his helmet joined his chest carapace. Pulling himself over to see if he could offer any assistance, Niohuru grimaced when he reached the other man’s side and saw that he’d arrived too late. Blood painted the inside of the dead man’s helmet, and the oxygen escaping from the severed carapace-seal fogged in the thin air.

Niohuru reached out, brushing his fingers against the edge of the thing wedged into the dead man’s neck. It was a metal disc about two handbreadths in width, razor sharp on the edge.

This was no Mexic weapon, Niohuru realized at once. This was a chakram. And the only units he’d ever heard of who used the flying discs were the Sikhs of the Akali Sena. For a moment he considered the possibility that one of their disc-flinging guns had fallen into the hands of the enemy, then rejected the idea out of hand. The so-called Immortals would sooner destroy themselves en masse than let their weapons end up in the enemy’s possession.

Which meant only one thing. It wasn’t the Mexica who were sheltered in the habitats at all. They were facing friendly fire. He was able to reach the other three surviving Falcon’s Claws by radio, to tell them to hold their fire, but when he tried to radio to the forces within the habitat cluster, he was unable to raise them. Still bullets spanged off the rocks around them, still the deadly chakram-discs whizzed by overhead.

They couldn’t retreat, couldn’t advance, and yet Niohuru knew if they lay where they were, eventually they’d all end up with chakrams buried in them. Their only hope was to convince the Sikhs in the habitats that they were not enemy forces, but on radio silence it was impossible to raise them.

There was only one option.

Niohuru pulled a flare from the pouch at the small of his back, and as he snapped it in half to light it he jumped to his feet, throwing up his hands in surrender.

There was still the chance that the Sikhs might shoot a chakram at him before recognizing he was in Middle Kingdom armor, but Niohuru hoped that he might be able to dodge the relatively slow-moving disc, if so.



The gun crew were readying the chakram-gun for another volley when Ramdas Singh rushed over and pushed the barrel of the launcher towards the ground.

“Do not shoot!” he repeated for the third time, turning his radio up to the fullest broadcast power and hoping the other two had their radios set to receive. “Bannermen!” Ramdas Singh turned and pointed at the figure standing out in the clearing, a flare held over his head, no weapon in his hand. “They are Bannermen!”



In the end, there were only three casualties fallen in the misunderstanding, two members of the First Raider Company and one of the Akali Sena. But even those few deaths were deemed too many to fall to friendly fire, and all for the sake of poor planning and miscommunication. Still, it was agreed on all sides that if not for the quick action of Bannerman Niohuru Tie, the death toll could have been even higher.

---

PREVIOUS CHAPTER: Hexagram 39
Adversity
Below Mountain Above Water
Atop the Mountain, there is Water. In the same way, the noble man reflects upon himself and cultivates virtue.

NEXT CHAPTER: Hexagram 41
Diminution
Below Lake Above Mountain
Below the Mountain, there is the Lake. In the same way, the noble man checks his anger and smothers his desire.

Return to Index.

Chapter 40 of Three Unbroken by Chris Roberson. Copyright © 2008 Monkeybrain, Inc. For more action from the Celestial Empire don't miss The Dragon's Nine Sons.

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