Warlock

heart, fully as much as he could love Gregor, and perhaps more. In this long journey, Mace's clownishness had taken a back seat, and his manhood, his formidable strength and cunning, had come to the fore. Yet it was not only this show of adulthood and capability which made him more lovable in the Shaker's eyes: it was his obvious emotion and his limitless love for both his master and his step-brother. Though his power was super-human, he had stretched even that to the breaking point to rescue Gregor from the pulley. He had carried his brother on his back for some long while, never once complaining. And when Berlarak had assured him that the autodoc was bound to deliver up a healthy Gregor, he had still refused to go to sleep until his brother was safe before his eyes, laughing again and ready to joust with words as they always had. As a result, the giant had been the last to sleep-and still the first to wake, worried about the enemy above them.
        
        He looked weary, sitting here behind the grill, within minutes of striking at the enemy. But his weariness and his travails on this journey would not change his personality. For the first time, the Shaker realized that Mace had long ago come to understand the meaning of death and the way of the world, unlike Gregor. He had learned nothing new about himself on this trip, unless it was the fantastic limits of his endurance. Mace would always be Mace, weary or rested, a granite resting place for the both of them in times of turmoil.
        
        Crowler's shoulder wound was completely healed, and the feisty sergeant was more eager than any of them to be done with the battle ahead. He had no doubts about their winning it, seemed even more certain of the ultimate outcome than Berlarak was. All afternoon, during the training periods and the briefings, he was on the move, cajoling a man here, offering a word of praise there, acting as if he commanded the unit instead of Richter. And one day he will, the Shaker thought. He is the sort of man the commander is, just younger. When his day comes, he will be as good an officer as any man can be.
        
        They waited.
        
        The silence seemed interminable.
        
        And then there was a crackling noise on the radio against Crowler's hip, and they strained forward, listening.
        
        “In place,” the radio said. “Move out.”
        

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    25
        
        
        
        They proceeded according to Berlarak's plan, lacking open the ventilation grill. It fell backward and crashed loudly against the floor, echoes ringing along the corridors like poorly cast bell resonances. The noise had no sooner settled than voices rose down the hall, growing nearer. When he judged the enemy was as close as he should be permitted to get, Sergeant Crowler rolled out of the air-conditioning crawl space, onto the grate, and brough his weapon to bear.
        
        He wore a harness of heavy black leather which cut him under the arms, across the chest and back. This affair held two light metal braces across his shoulders. Attached to the braces and curved out around his head, leaving the back open but the front enclosed, was a half-cup of some coppery metal whose front curve was studded with three conelike knobs, the narrow ends of these projecting several inches beyond Crowler's forehead. A flexible metal cord led downward from this coppery section to a small packet which the sergeant held in his left hand. There were two buttons on that controls package: the first fired the strange gun as long as it was depressed; the second stayed down when pushed and kept the gun firing until the first button had been touched again, thus freeing the gunner's hands for close infighting while the braced weapon directed its charge at more distant targets.
        
        Crowler depressed the first button, using his head as a positioning instrument for the shoulder-mounted device.
        
        There was no sound, no light, no show of projectiles having been launched. But Berlarak had called it a vibra-rifle, a sound weapon that worked with directional waves placed above the range of human hearing.
        
        The four men fell, almost as a single creature, groped about them for the invisible enemy that assailed them.
        
        The other three men of One Squad followed Crowler into the corridor, but did not augment his fire with their own weapons. That was clearly not