A fighting chance

11

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Trees had been cut down. Ground had been cleared. And graves had been dug. Seventy-six in all. Santana still had difficulty believing it. Nearly a third of the battalion had been wounded or killed in a single engagement. Yet as the sun sent hesitant rays of pale yellow light slanting down through what remained of the forest canopy, the evidence was clear to see.

Each hole was seven feet long, six feet deep, and four feet wide. They were spaced exactly two feet apart and laid out on a grid. Bodies and parts of bodies had already been placed in the graves. And with the exception of those assigned to guard the perimeter, the rest of the battalion stood at attention as soil was shoveled into the neatly excavated holes.

Captain Zarrella occupied one of the graves as did the mysterious Mr. Smith. But missing, and still unaccounted for, was Colonel Max Farber, who had last been seen running into the jungle as the fighting began. Dietrich had gone into the forest looking for the officer and returned with Farber’s still-functional helmet. But there had been no trace of the man himself. Dead probably. Killed by the O-Chies. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Dietrich’s voice. “The battalion is ready, sir.”

The holes had been filled in, laser-inscribed metal markers had been placed at the head of each grave, and the troops were waiting for him to say something. Santana knew that some of them believed in God and some didn’t. But all of them believed in each other and those who had gone before. So Santana read the words that Legionnaire Alan Seeger had written before his death in World War I on Earth. It began: I have a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade,

When Spring comes back with rustling shade

And apple-blossoms fill the air

I have a rendezvous with Death

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

And ended: But I’ve a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town,

When Spring trips north again this year

And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

“It is,” Santana finished solemnly, “our way. The way of the Legion. And it has been for more than a thousand years.”

Ponco, who like others present had already died in battle, felt a special kinship with Seeger. And a sad longing as she looked at Santana. Because even though both of them were alive, it was in very different ways, and what her heart wanted could never be.

Santana allowed a moment of silence. Then, conscious of what had to be done, he spoke again. “As is so often the case in war, there is no time to grieve. And won’t be until our mission has been accomplished. After discussing the matter with Captains Rona-Sa, Kimbo, and Ryley, I have come to the conclusion that the only way we can realistically hope to accomplish our objective is to divide the battalion into two groups.

“The first section under the command of Captain Rona-Sa will include the tractors, quads, and those bio bods who were severely wounded during the ambush. They will be accompanied by two platoons of troops who will provide security. Once group one arrives in Baynor’s Bay, they will seek additional medical attention for the wounded and establish a firebase.

“The second section, under my command, will consist of Captain Ryley, Lieutenant Ponco, and a force of thirty-four people. Half of them will be T-2s. This team, which will operate as two platoons, will be able to move quickly and take the bugs by surprise. And, even if we fail to accomplish that, the presence of seventeen T-2s will provide the company with overwhelming firepower. Thank you for your bravery and constancy. That will be all.”

The troops were dismissed a few seconds later. And as they took their places in their newly re-formed squads and platoons, Santana made his way over to the place where Rona-Sa was talking to Kimbo. Both officers had been wounded. They came to attention as Santana arrived. “As you were, gentlemen. I’m sorry to say that both of you look like hell warmed over.”

Rona-Sa was leaning on a homemade crutch. He had been hit by three darts during the ambush. But thanks to both his size and Hudathan physiology, he had survived. Kimbo had a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his head. “There’s no need to add insult to injury, sir,” he said with a grin. “Haven’t we suffered enough?”

“Sorry,” Santana replied contritely. “Now remember… I want you to maintain a high profile as you withdraw. We know the bugs supplied the O-Chies with weapons, so it’s logical to suppose that the indigs will be watching. And while the Ramanthians track you back to Baynor’s Bay, we’ll run straight down their throats.”

Rona-Sa was anything but happy with the assignment. “If you say so, sir. But I can still ride and respectfully request permission to accompany group two.”

“Permission denied, Captain. Your job is to get well-and get the rest of the battalion back safely. There is a very good chance that your column will be attacked by the O-Chies or Ramanthian aircraft, or both. So it’s very important that the group has an experienced officer to provide leadership.”

Rona-Sa’s face was expressionless, but Santana could tell that he was somewhat mollified. “Sir, yes sir.”

Confident that group one was in good hands, it was time for Santana to turn his attention to group two. Preparations were already under way. The first step was to repair all of the T-2s that could be repaired, a process that often involved using parts salvaged from cyborgs killed in action. So that in some cases the neatly mounded graves held little more than a badly mangled brain box.

Then, once the T-2s were fully operational, it was necessary to perform preventive maintenance on them. That included replenishing their ammo bins and mounting missile launchers on every other unit. There wouldn’t be any reloads. But the SAMs would give the company a limited ability to engage enemy aircraft. Meanwhile, those T-2s not encumbered by missiles were equipped with backpacks. That didn’t leave much room for the flesh-and-blood riders, but it couldn’t be helped.

The company’s bio bods were equipped with helmets, body armor, and a variety of weapons. More than half of them were legionnaires who were not only combat veterans-but had the technical skills required to keep the cyborgs up and running. Ryley came forward to meet Santana as he approached the column. The former militia officer still had a supercilious air, but the legionnaire had come to trust him. “We’re ready, sir.”

“Excellent. Let’s mount up. I’ll take the point, and you ride drag. We’ll switch places in two hours. Remember… If I fall, carry on. The Confederacy will be counting on you.”

Ryley nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Keep it closed up back there.”

Five minutes later, both officers were mounted, strapped in, and all of the radio checks were complete. A new reporting structure had been put into place. That meant new call signs and the need to memorize them. “This is Alpha One,” Santana announced. “Alpha One-Three will provide our eye in the sky-and Alpha One-Four has the lead on the ground. Maintain visual contact with the team in front of you at all times. Let’s move out. Over.”

And with that, Dietrich and his T-2 went into motion. They could see Ponco’s alphanumeric symbol on their HUDs as well as those of the people behind them. So their job was to follow the recon ball while keeping a sharp eye out for obstacles on the ground and any threats the Intel officer might have missed.

Ponco was flying about fifty feet off the ground as she wound her way in and out of the trees. The task was to stay ahead of the column but not too far ahead, and monitor the level of the forest that the O-Chies liked to use as their arboreal highway. Because it was important to not only prevent another ambush but kill any scouts before they could get back to the Ramanthians and report the truth: Part of the battalion was in retreat, but the rest was coming on fast. And Santana was counting on her.

The first couple of hours were exhilarating. Having been freed from the constraints imposed on them by the slow-moving column, the cyborgs were free to run. Once the correct intervals were locked in and a suitable rhythm had been established, the T-2s were able to make a steady twenty-five to thirty miles per hour. That pace couldn’t be sustained, of course, since there were rivers to cross and other obstacles to deal with, but the average speed was still much higher than anything the battalion had been able to manage during the previous week. So Santana felt good.

His surroundings were little more than a green blur, there were moments of what felt like weightlessness as Joshi jumped over fallen trees, and the occasional pop as an insect came into violent contact with Santana’s visor. But after a couple of hours had passed, Santana began to tire. And he knew that the rest of the troops felt the same way. However, it was important to push the company, and he did. So that by the time the light had begun to fade and Santana called a halt, the team had covered nearly two hundred miles. It was an accomplishment that put them only two days out from the G-tap.

But to maintain that pace, Santana knew it was important to perform maintenance on the cyborgs. So rather than eat, pee, and push on, he granted the company an eight-hour respite. Although once the bio bods consumed their rations, carried out repairs, and stood an hour of guard duty, they would be lucky to get five or six hours of sleep. Instead of taking the time and energy required to build a marching fort, Santana had the troops put out sensors and sleep within a circle of watchful T-2s.

The hours of darkness passed uneventfully, but Santana hadn’t been able to sleep as well as he would have liked and was unexpectedly sore as he made the rounds. Months had passed since he had spent a full day on a T-2 that was running cross-country. But everyone else had sore muscles as well, and it gave the bio bods something to bitch about as they ate their rats, drained their bladders, and strapped in. Moments later, they were under way.

Ponco had her sensors on max. That was a good thing to the extent that it enabled her to “see” the occasional group of grazing triturators and lead the company around the massive beasts. But there was a downside as well. Cranking her sensors up to high gain resulted in a lot of visual clutter. That included the presence of arboreal animals that were of little or no threat to the company, hot spots where the sun had been baking a tree trunk for an hour, and, in one case, the wreckage of an air car that had been hanging in the canopy for years.

So when Ponco “saw” the scattering of heat blobs at a distance, she didn’t take them very seriously. Not until she got close enough to make a positive ID. That was when she took cover behind a Ba-Na tree and put out the call. “This is Alpha One-Three. I have approximately twelve-that is one-two-indigs in sight, and suggest that the column pull up while I deal with them. Over.”

Santana’s voice was concerned. “This is Alpha One. I read you. Can you handle them alone? Over.”

“Affirmative,” Ponco replied, although she wasn’t as confident as she sounded. “I’ll give you a holler if I need help. Over.”

“Roger that. The column will take a break. Over.”

Ponco’s first task was to circle around the O-Chies and place herself between them and the G-tap. Because if this particular group of indigs was hostile, she wanted to prevent them from making contact with the Ramanthians. But were they? Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.

So Ponco darted from tree to tree until she was as close as she dared to go. Then she showed herself. The result was almost instantaneous, as the natives opened fire on her.

Ponco took evasive action, secured a good vantage point, and prepared to fire. Rather than pull the trigger manually, she chose to bring her. 50-caliber weapon online and marked three targets for the onboard computer to shoot at. Then it was a simple matter to give the order, feel the recoil, and watch the symbols disappear.

Then the survivors came straight at her. Now that they knew off-world troops were in the area, they were determined to report the invasion. But they fell one after the other as Ponco marked them for death, and the computer did her bidding. Then the target blobs began to coalesce as the O-Chies banded together and charged her. They were moving up, down, and sideways as they swung from vines and jumped branch to branch.

But Ponco could deal with that, or believed she could, until a shrill tone sounded inside her “head.” The computer’s voice was emotionless. “Incoming missile. Incoming missile. Take evasive action.”

Ponco obeyed in hopes that she could shake the weapon. “Type?”

“Type R89 fire-and-forget with hunt/pause capabilities.”

Ponco wasn’t scared anymore. She was terrified. Apparently, one of the O-Chies had been armed with a Ramanthian Type 89 missile. The weapons were easy to fire and could not only track their targets but wait for a clean shot if necessary. “This is Alpha One-Three. A Type 89 missile has a lock on me. Estimated six hostiles on the loose. You’re on your own. Over.”

Then it was kill or be killed as Ponco was forced to switch her attention away from the O-Chies to the computer-controlled killing machine that was stalking her. She triggered all of the electronic countermeasure gear she had on board but knew it wouldn’t be enough in a situation where the enemy had visual contact with her.

As Ponco flitted from tree to tree and from shadow to shadow, she caught brief glimpses of the deadly thing as it darted through the foliage. It was shaped like an elongated bullet. But unlike a projectile fired from a gun, the 89 could hover before speeding in for the kill. Such were Ponco’s thoughts when Santana’s voice came over the push. For the first time in memory, he made use of her first name. “We’re ready for the little bastard, Sally. Home on my signal and come straight in.”

Ponco felt a sudden surge of hope as she swerved, flew under a thick branch, and weaved her way between sun-splashed tree trunks. “The missile is closing,” the computer announced dispassionately. “Ten to impact. Nine, eight, seven…”

Then Ponco was down at ground level, following a game trail through the woods, as gunfire erupted from the right flank. The missile, which had been suckered into flying past a rank of four T-2s, exploded. Pieces of the machine flew for another thirty feet before plowing into the ground.

A cheer went up as Ponco soared into the treetops. She was giddy with relief and surprised to be alive. “This is Alpha One-Three. Thank you. Over.”

“You’re welcome,” came the reply. “Close with those O-Chies and kill them. Over.”

Ponco was alive, but the job was far from over.

The next couple of days were not only physically demanding but emotionally exhausting. As the company continued to race toward the Ramanthian geo tap, a series of scrambled radio messages had come in from Rona-Sa. The larger group had been attacked by Ramanthian aircraft twice. But thanks to the heavily armed quads, two fighters had been shot down, and casualties were relatively light.

Did that mean the bugs believed all of the Confederacy troops were retreating toward Baynor’s Bay? He couldn’t be sure. But as Santana lay belly down at the edge of the forest and looked toward the geothermal power plant, there was reason to hope. Because there had been no further contact with the enemy or its auxiliaries subsequent to Ponco’s nearly fatal encounter with the Ramanthian missile. Having carried out a reconnaissance during the hours of darkness, the recon ball was hovering inches off the ground to the officer’s left.

As Santana peered through a pair of binoculars, he saw a stretch of open ground, X-shaped monster barriers similar to those he’d seen in Baynor’s Bay, and weapons blisters between them. Farther back a windowless, one-story building hugged the ground. There was a landing pad on the roof. That was flanked by three vertical stacks, all leaking what might have been steam into the cool morning air. The only other feature worth noting was a com mast that poked straight up from the south side of the installation.

That was what Santana could see from the edge of the forest. But he knew that in keeping with both the power plant’s function and the Ramanthian preference for living underground, most of the facility would be below the surface. And that, he figured, was where most of the troops were housed.

The general impression was that of a well-fortified installation but one the battalion would have been able to take had the entire force been present. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. “So,” Santana said, as he panned the glasses from left to right. “There’s no way to take this thing head-on. Not given the force at our disposal.”

“No, sir,” Ponco agreed. “I circled the entire facility last night and concluded that we would need the quads to beat their defenses down.”

Santana knew he had allowed himself to engage in wishful thinking where the installation was concerned. He had hoped that the geo tap’s defenses were only partially completed. Or maybe they were poorly built. But no such luck. The Ramanthians had done their work well. So what to do? Quitting wasn’t an option. Not with so much at stake.

Think, Santana told himself. Every fortress has a weakness. All you have to do is find it. But there weren’t any weaknesses. None Santana could see anyway. So he and Ponco were forced to withdraw without formulating a plan.

After being undermined by a rain-swollen stream many years earlier, a giant Ba-Na tree had fallen over and left a deep hole where its root ball had been. By stretching a camo net over the depression, the company had been able to create a serviceable hiding place. The key was to keep both their electronic and physical activity to a minimum.

Even so, Santana knew the Ramanthians could be depended on to send patrols out into the surrounding area on a regular basis. And that meant the company couldn’t stay where it was for more than a day. The second platoon was on duty, and the first was trying to get some sleep as Santana held the net for Ponco. “I’d like to see the video you shot last night,” Santana said. “Maybe I’ll see something we can use.” Ponco might have harbored doubts about that, but if so, she kept them to herself.

So as Santana sat on a rock with a cup of hot caf in his hand, Ponco projected a three-dimensional image into the air in front of him. It had been shot at night, so everything had a greenish hue. He was intrigued at first, but after the first couple of minutes the footage became very boring. Santana forced himself to pay attention as the recon ball skirted the perimeter of the Ramanthian base. And what he saw served to make him even more depressed. Because in addition to the defenses he’d seen firsthand, it soon became clear that the free-fire zone in front of the weapons blisters was mined, razor wire had been put in place to protect the approaches to the gun positions, and slit trenches zigzagged from one bunker to the next.

But then, just as Santana was about to give up in disgust, something caught his eye. “Roll that last twenty seconds again.” Ponco responded, and Santana watched the recon-ball view of the jungle floor slide past as the cyborg skimmed across bare dirt. Then the view changed as the forest closed in around the camera again.

“The bugs cleared a fifty-foot-wide swath of forest that leads east,” Ponco explained, as the video stopped. “It’s my guess that they dug a trench and buried the power conduit in order to protect it from both animals and air attacks.”

“Of course they did,” Santana said, as his mind began to race. “They would have to. And that could be the opportunity we’ve been looking for. What’s to stop us from digging down into the ground and cutting that conduit?”

Ryley had been listening in. “My guess is that they positioned sensors all along the length of the conduit, sir. We start digging, and they come a-running.”

“Right,” Santana said, as he continued to think about the problem. “But what if we pretend to attack the base at the same time? That might bottle them up. And, or, reduce the number of troops they can send to stop us. Plus, we’d be waiting for them when they arrived.”

“It’s an intriguing idea,” Ponco replied carefully. “But it has a lot of moving parts.”

“So does an automatic weapon,” Santana said grimly. “And, in the right hands, it will kill you.”

It had been a long day. The waiting was the worst part. Because the company’s hiding place was so close to the G-tap that it wasn’t a question of if they would be discovered but when. And if that occurred prior to nightfall, Santana’s plan would go up in smoke. Worse yet, he and his troops would have to run, the STS cannon would remain functional, and an entire battle group would be at risk.

But, thanks to strict radio discipline and some good luck, they made it through the day undetected. So as darkness fell and the platoons parted company, they still had the element of surprise on their side. Santana and the first platoon followed Ponco into the jungle. Ryley led the rest of the company west. It took half an hour for Santana and his troops to make their way to the point where the fifty-foot-wide scar cut through the forest.

The location was about a mile east of the power plant. The Ramanthians were methodical creatures, so Santana figured the power conduit was buried at the center of the pathway. Once a security screen was established, a pair of T-2s began to dig. They were equipped with the only sets of shovel hands that the company had brought with it. But they were making excellent progress. Santana glanced at his watch. The time had come to send a scrambled message to Ryley. And the result was spectacular as two missiles struck the power station’s com mast, and it collapsed. Predictably enough, the bugs fired back.

Meanwhile, Santana was standing a few feet away from the steadily deepening hole, battling the urge to issue unnecessary orders. Speed, that was the most important thing, and the cyborgs were already digging as fast as they could. “This is Alpha One-Three,” Ponco said over the radio. “There are three airborne targets inbound. They’re too small to be aircraft.”

“Track ’em and kill ’em,” Santana said, as a scraping sound was heard and Private Sam Voby’s shovel hand came into contact with concrete. “Over.”

The T-2 was up to his shoulders in the hole by then-which meant that the containment was about six feet down. The other cyborg said, “Bingo,” as she ran into concrete as well. They were close. Very close. But could they crack the tunnel open quickly enough?

Based on the data provided by her sensors, Ponco figured that the incoming targets were flying robots. Which made sense because while the Ramanthian command structure opposed the use of cyborgs, they had some very effective attack drones in their inventory. So Ponco, a T-2, and a couple of bio bods were waiting for the enemy machines as headlights appeared and three cylindrical robots came sailing down the path. They were equipped with argrav units, nose cannons, and a variety of sensors. The lead unit managed to get off two blobs of coherent energy before it ran into a hail of bullets and exploded.

Having been warned, the second and third machines took evasive action. Ponco went after one of them, saw an opening, and took it. A flash of light strobed both sides of the forest as the robot exploded.

Meanwhile, the surviving drone was driving in toward the hole in the ground and the T-2s working there. It was clearly determined to sacrifice itself if necessary. But the T-2 assigned to assist Ponco fired its fifty and blew the machine out of the air. Santana was so focused on the effort to access the cable vault that he was only dimly aware of the red-hot bits of metal and plastic that fell on him.

Light flared as Private Hopson made use of his energy cannon to slice into the concrete containment. The weapon wasn’t designed for that purpose and quickly began to overheat. But not before it cut through into a hollow interior. That was when another cyborg took over.

Santana felt a rising sense of excitement. Rather than simply dropping the conduit into a trench and pouring concrete over it, the Ramanthians had constructed a relatively spacious tunnel. That meant his troops could not only cut the conduit whenever they chose, but follow it back to the geo tap, and attack the plant itself! And that was important. Because while the bugs might repair the cable before the Confed ships arrived, they wouldn’t be able to replace the G-tap itself. “Hurry!” Santana said, conscious of the fact that the order was unnecessary. “Cut a hole large enough for a T-2 to drop through. We’re going in.”

Temo was in the cell-like room that had been assigned to her, lying on the pallet she had created for herself and staring at the ceiling when Sub Commander Hutlar Remwyr threw the curtain aside and entered without warning. He didn’t like having a human living in his power plant but had been forced to tolerate Temo’s presence because Commander Dammo had ordered him to do so. The result had been a sort of chilly civility between the two of them.

But now Remwyr put all pretences aside as Temo turned in his direction. “Get up,” he ordered. “Animals are attacking. Why?”

All of the Ramanthians had looked alike to Temo until she’d been forced to live with them. And as the renegade came to her feet, she found herself looking at what she knew to be an especially short officer whose left leg had been replaced by a prosthesis. Because of Remwyr’s reference to “animals,” she thought a group of velocipods were attacking the base at first. Then she realized that the officer meant humans. “Because they want to get in?” she inquired innocently.

Though short and stocky, Remwyr was tough. His right pincer stabbed forward, hit Temo in the stomach, and caused her to double over. Then his good knee came up to strike her chin. She dropped like a rock. “I know they want to enter the base, filth… You told me that they had been defeated. And were retreating toward the west. Now they’re attacking. How is that possible?”

Temo had lurched to her feet by that time. Something warm was dribbling down her chin. When she wiped it, her wrist came away red. “My report was correct,” she insisted. “And you know that. Your planes attacked the retreating column twice. So it looks like they tricked you. Part of the battalion continued this way. And they got past my scouts. Or killed them. But so what? The force they sent is bound to be small and lightly armed. So they won’t be able to force their way in.”

“Wrong, animal,” Remwyr responded. “They already have.”

Temo was genuinely surprised. “ Really? How?”

“One group pretended to attack us while a second dug their way down to the tunnel east of here. Now they’re inside and headed this way.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Temo said admiringly. “Somebody has a brain.”

“Get your soldiers,” Remwyr said. “Follow Section Leader Sotim. You will stop them.”

“Or?” Temo said defiantly.

“Or I will kill you.”

Temo sighed. “That’s what I like about you Sub Commander Remwyr. You have a way with words.”

It was dark inside the tunnel. But the combination of the work lights thrown forward by the lead T-2s, and the less powerful spots projected by the helmets the bio bods wore, was sufficient to illuminate the next thirty feet or so. The passageway was so narrow that only two cyborgs could advance, with no more than a few inches between their massive shoulders. Santana and the rest of the troops followed.

The power conduit ran down the center of the tunnel. It was about the same diameter as a man’s thigh and had an oily appearance. The cable was shielded but caused Santana’s radio to crackle and pop. Shiny tracks ran to either side of the conduit. That suggested that the bugs could send some sort of vehicle up the line to carry out repairs on the conduit.

Rather than cut the cable, which would alert the forces on Headstone to the fact that something was wrong, Santana had elected to follow it back. The bugs weren’t going to like that. So he knew it was only a matter of time before the enemy attempted to block him and wasn’t surprised when a bright light appeared up ahead. “This is Alpha Four-Four,” Corporal Pryde said. “A vehicle is coming our way. It’s picking up speed. Over.”

That was bad news. What if they destroyed the vehicle but couldn’t squeeze past the wreckage? But Santana knew that was a chance they’d have to take. “Stop it,” he ordered tersely. “And do it now.”

Both of the lead T-2s fired, but it didn’t make any difference. The light kept coming, slammed into them, and blew up. The powerful blast ripped the cyborgs apart. But their bodies served to shelter Santana and the rest of the platoon to some extent. The blast wave threw him onto his back as Dietrich and the T-2s immediately to his rear opened fire. A dozen Ramanthians had been following along behind the sled. They jerked spastically as the bullets tore into them. Then it was over as more cyborgs crowded past and Dietrich paused to give Santana a hand. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Bruised, that’s all,” Santana replied. “We need to clear the tunnel and do so quickly.”

“I have a better idea,” a female voice said over the platoon push. “This is Major Temo. You might be able to save a few of your people if you pull back now. Otherwise, we’re going to kill every single one of you.”

Santana felt a sudden surge of anger. “Wait right there, you traitorous bitch… We’ll see who kills who.”

The answer was a burst of defiant laughter followed by a click as the contact was broken. Now Santana knew who had been responsible for sending the sledload of explosives up the tracks. Major Temo had a lot to account for, and the bill was overdue.

The replacement T-2s pushed what remained of their dead comrades aside, tore into the wreckage beyond, and ripped it apart. The resulting hole was large enough for a single cyborg to pass through. But that was sufficient, and the surviving members of the platoon began to stream through. “Ponco,” Santana said, as the recon ball appeared at his side. “Scout the tunnel ahead. Look for booby traps.”

Ponco didn’t want to do it. She’d been blown up before. But she couldn’t refuse Santana.

Ponco was about to move forward when somebody opened fire from the other end of the tunnel. Thanks to the lights mounted on the T-2s, Santana could see that a hastily constructed barrier had been thrown across the passageway. And judging from the number of ricochets that were zinging around him, the defenders were trying to bounce bullets off the walls as a way to score hits on the people sheltering behind the T-2s.

Ponco was forced to retreat, and the T-2s paused as projectiles pinged off their armor. They fired in return, but it appeared that the barricade was serving its purpose. “This is ridiculous,” Dietrich said disgustedly, as he stepped in between the cyborgs. His grenade launcher produced a ka-chunk sound followed by a couple of seconds of silence. Then came an explosion loud enough to deafen unprotected ears. The firing from the far end of the passageway stopped. “That’s better,” Dietrich said. “Stomp ’em!”

The T-2s went forward, with Ponco right behind them. They tore the barricade apart and kept going. Santana had to step over three human bodies all dressed in militia uniforms before he could proceed. None of them appeared to be female, so he knew Temo had survived and was on the run.

A steel door marked the end of the tunnel. It had been open but began to swing closed as somebody pulled on it. A T-2 made a grab for the handle as Dietrich fired a grenade through the gap. There was a flash, followed by a bang and the clatter of shrapnel hitting the door. Then the T-2s led the way into the staging area beyond the door. As Santana entered, he saw chunks of meat lying around, blood-splattered walls, and a wounded Ramanthian. The trooper raised a pistol, and Santana shot him.

Then it was time to call a momentary halt so that the rest of the platoon could catch up. And that’s where Santana was when Lieutenant Grisso prodded a militiaman into the room with her assault rifle. “This one was playing dead, sir. Jordin was going to kill the bastard, but I said you’d want to talk to him.”

Santana realized how stupid he’d been. It was a basic rule. Dead bodies aren’t dead until they’re proven to be dead. He’d been so eager to move forward that he had forgotten to check. He was lucky to be alive. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Good work.”

Having turned to the militiaman, Santana frowned. “You have one chance to survive-and that’s to cooperate. Where is the control room? And where did Major Temo go?”

The soldier had lost his helmet. There was blood on one side of his face. Someone else’s probably-and he had a furtive look. “The control room is two levels below us. I can take you there. As for the major, I don’t know. There’s a landing pad on the roof. She might be headed for that.”

Santana turned to Grisso. “Take everyone but Lieutenant Ponco and Sergeant Major Dietrich. Go to the control room, place the charges, and meet us on the roof. If this man is lying shoot him.”

“Yes, sir,” Grisso said eagerly. “Come on people… You heard the major. Let’s rig this place to blow.”

“Okay,” Santana said as he looked from Ponco to Dietrich. “Let’s hustle. We need Temo alive if possible. If anyone can give us a status report on the STS cannon, she can. Plus, I want to see her hang.”

A Klaxon was bleating, bursts of click speech could be heard over the PA system, and the floor trembled as something exploded outside. Ryley? And the second platoon? Yes, Santana thought so. It seemed they were making good progress.

Ponco led the way, with Santana and Dietrich close behind. They followed a ramp up along the side of a wall. It led to a dead body. A Ramanthian body. Santana was determined not to make the same mistake twice so he stopped to check it. “Either Temo and her people killed this bug, or he committed suicide. My money is on the first possibility.”

“Mine, too,” Dietrich said. “It looks like the love affair with the bugs is over.”

That theory was borne out as the threesome followed a trail of bodies out into the main corridor, where they came under immediate fire from a group of Ramanthian troopers who were hiding behind an improvised barricade. Weapons clattered madly as bullets flew, and Ponco was forced to back up.

Dietrich threw a grenade at the opposite wall. The angle was such that it bounced out of sight and blew up. Santana followed the noncom’s example, heard a second explosion, and entered the corridor ready to fire. But there was no need. The Ramanthians were not only dead, but doubly so, as Dietrich put an extra bullet into each one of them. Meanwhile, having jerked some furniture loose, Santana made a hole in the barricade.

Then it was onwards and upwards toward the roof and the sound of fighting outside. “This is Alpha One to Alpha Two-One,” Santana said. “We’re inside the plant and about to exit onto the roof. Alpha Three is setting charges in the control room. Use fire from the T-2s to plow a path through the minefield and enter the building. Over.”

“This is Alpha Two-One,” Ryley replied. “Roger that. We’ll join you as soon as we can. Over.”

Santana heard a roaring sound punctuated by the sound of gunfire as Ponco led them onto a flat roof. A Ramanthian transport was parked at the far end of the space. Its engines were running, and a side door was open. And there, with their backs to Santana, three humans could be seen. They were crouched behind a pile of cargo modules, firing at a group of Ramanthians who had taken cover behind a waist-high blast wall. “The bug pilots are waiting for someone,” Santana shouted. “A VIP of some sort, and Temo is trying to hijack his ride. Dietrich, watch our six. Ponco, circle around. See if you can enter the transport from the other side. Take control of it if you can.”

Dietrich turned back toward the ramp, and Ponco flew away as Santana raised his weapon. The CA-10 wasn’t a sniper rifle. Far from it. But the range wasn’t too bad, and he was a good shot. The key was to leave Temo alive.

He looked through the scope, selected the man on the left, and fired. The target toppled forward and collapsed. Temo was in the process of turning in that direction when the man to her right fell. Having realized where the fire was coming from, the renegade turned. Santana was waiting. The bullet flew straight and true. Temo’s left knee exploded in a spray of blood. She made a grab for it and fell over backwards.

Santana heard a couple of explosions as he ran forward, knew that Dietrich was taking care of business, and figured that the VIP was dead. Bullets whipped past his head as the Ramanthians fired at him. The projectiles sounded like angry bees.

Temo had managed to sit up by that time. She was trying to bring her weapon to bear on him when Santana arrived to knock it away. “Oh, no, you don’t!” he said, as the rifle clattered onto concrete. “Stay where you are.”

Then he was down behind the cargo modules as Ramanthian bullets hammered them. Temo pulled her belt loose and began to wrap it around her leg just above the knee. “I suppose you’re Alpha One,” she said through gritted teeth. “Congratulations. I don’t think Antov could have accomplished what you have.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Santana said, as he raised his visor. “Now tell me about the STS installation.”

“What do you want to know?” Temo said as she pulled the tourniquet tight.

“I want to know what kind of backup power supply they have.”

“Smart,” she said. “Very smart. What’s it worth to you?”

“Nothing,” Santana said coldly, as Dietrich arrived and ducked down beside him. “But you could save the other knee.”

Pain was etched into Temo’s face. Her eyes were locked with Santana’s. “You wouldn’t.”

“He would,” Dietrich put in, as a series of loud reports were heard from the direction of the transport. “If not, I’d be happy to do it for him.”

Temo closed her eyes and opened them again. “The head bug is a fanatical bastard named Commander Dammo. He has a fusion reactor on Headstone. Chances are that he could fire two or three shots without using power from the geo tap.”

Santana felt his spirits fall. He’d been hoping that if the power plant went off-line, the STS cannon would be rendered useless. “This is Alpha One-Three,” Ponco said over the radio. “The transport is ours. Over.”

“Roger that,” Santana replied. “Keep the engines running.”

“It won’t work,” Temo said tightly. “Headstone is crawling with bugs.”

“Well, you’d better hope that it does,” Santana replied grimly. “Because you’re going with us.”

Dietrich grinned wolfishly. “Welcome to the Legion, Major Temo. The pay sucks, but there’s plenty to do.”