Free The Battle for Terra Two by Stephen Ames Berry

same careful pace, the convoy reached a deserted Copley Square at twilight, halting before the Ital-ianate masterpiece that was the Boston Public Library. The cobblestone square should have been aflow with the early evening theater crowd, the cafes crowded.
    Not tonight. The rattle of machine-gun fire had sent many of the urban pioneers scurrying north over the expressway, until mortars atop Bunker Hill had mangled the evacuation, sealing the technos into their enclaves. Now they huddled in their town homes and condos, as much afraid of UC's shoot-to-kill curfew as of the approaching rage.
    Aldridge mounted the worn granite steps of the library, turning to face the troopers forming up between the fountain and stairs. Homo fascis, he thought, watching the black-uniformed, starhelmed troopers dressdown, each indistinguishable from the next save by position. You were wrong, Plato. The best guardians of the State aren't like obedient watchdogs; they're automatons, as much a machine as the needs of the psyche allow.
    "At ease." His dry voice cracked over them like a whip. "You've done well," he said, a wireless microphone carrying his voice into every helmet. "But it's not over yet. With the red line breached and the Army hours away, it's going to be a long night. You'll be assigned to this and the Harbor subgarrison, maintaining zonal integrity. I know you'll acquit yourselves as honorably as you did today. Good luck."
    Returning Grady's salute, he and zur Linde entered the library, heading down into the basement command post. The distant gunfire faded as the elevator's blastdoors closed.
    "Hardly Pompey's battle oration, was it, Erich?" the colonel said as the elevator sank.
    "Adequate, sir, if not enduring," said the German. The doors opened. Stepping into the CP, his became a gray uniform in a sea of black. Colors shifted, swirled and reformed on the big situation board as reports came. Alarms competed for attention.
    The two stopped as a hollow-eyed officer came up, saluting Aldridge. "How's it going, Sardon?" asked the colonel, sketching a salute.
    "Not well, sir, as you can see." They turned toward the board. Tired as he was, the Copley CO's voice was crisp, efficient. "Three projected breakthroughs—Brookline, the South and North Ends." As he spoke, three red gashes moved deeper into the map's green.
    "Any hint it's a coordinated attack?" asked zur Linde.
    "None," said Sardon, absently running his fingers through his thinning, close-cropped hair. "But that doesn't help much. That Brookline incursion's headed straight for here. My Charlie and Delta companies are fighting house-to-house less than a mile away. Fighting and losing. Those animals are born urban warriors."
    "Any gunships at all?" asked Aldridge, turning from the board.
    "None."
    The lights and air wavered, died, came back up.
    "Got the mains," someone called as the ground shook. "We're on no-break."
    "Make that half a mile," said Sardon, stating the distance to the Edison plant.
    "Get some napalm down on them, Erich," said Aldridge. "I'll authorize air strikes. Also, have Air Command hit all turfs. We may go down, but so will the gangers."
    Zur Linde frowned. "Simultaneous napalming of so much of the city might trigger firestorms, sir. Remember Leningrad and the Japanese cities."
    Aldridge shrugged. Raising his voice, he spoke to the small group of officers his presence had attracted. "Recall, gentlemen, that Urban Command is an instrument of both domestic and foreign policy. We're not merely suppressing insurrection. We're also sending a message to Moscow, a firm demonstration of our resolve. If ever the Kremlin is convinced that the Alliance will flinch when attacked, anywhere, anytime, by anyone, then the West and five hundred years of humanism dies.
    "Our willingness to incinerate many of our best people, to destroy one of our great cultural centers, can only be seen as a stand against barbarism.
    "Never forget, gentlemen," he concluded with quiet passion,