A fighting chance

12

PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

The military spaceport at China Lake, California, had been attacked shortly after the Ramanthians destroyed Earth’s orbital-defense platforms. Now the base was little more than a sprawling junkyard. The once-proud control tower lay like a fallen tree across the remains of an in-system freighter and the moonscape beyond. And the multitiered terminal building hadn’t fared any better. It had taken a direct hit from a missile that plunged down through five stories and exploded in the parking garage. So while the periphery of the structure was intact, the center was a burned-out hole.

Ironically enough, it was the destruction that made for a perfect hiding place. Despite the fact that just about all of China Lake’s surface installations had been destroyed, part of the spaceport’s underground storage-and-maintenance facility remained intact. The subsurface maze had been occupied more than once. But never for very long because shortly after a group of humans moved in, the bugs would attack. Roughly 10 percent of the much-disputed complex was still inhabitable so long as one didn’t mind the constant threat of a raid.

Navy Commander and Earth Liberation Brigade Leader Leo Foley knew that. So guards were in place all around the hideout, and a fast-response team was ready to respond within a matter of minutes. All of that was nice but brought him very little comfort given the extent of the threat. Still, there were only so many places where the ELB could hide.

Such were Foley’s thoughts as he left the utility room that served as his quarters, paused to collect a mug of caf from the makeshift cafeteria a hundred feet down the corridor, and followed a series of duracrete hallways back to the onetime storeroom that served as his office. Much to his surprise, the door was open, and a man was seated behind his desk. He had blond hair, a rigidly handsome face, and appeared to be in his midtwenties. However, Foley knew that Sergi Chien-Chu’s brain was well over a hundred years old-even if his cybernetic vehicle was much younger. It was one of many such “forms” he could call on. “Good morning,” Chien-Chu said cheerfully. “Sorry about the lack of advance notice, but coming and going from Earth is a rather complicated process these days, and my security people won’t let me publish a schedule.”

Foley understood but wished he’d been given time to prepare a report or at least get his thoughts in order. Of course, there was a distinct possibility that Chien-Chu wanted to catch him off balance. He was a very savvy businessman and ex-politician after all. “Yes, sir,” Foley replied. “Welcome to China Lake. Can I get you a cup of caf?”

Chien-Chu smiled. “Coffee is hard to come by these days. Why waste it on someone who can’t enjoy it?”

Foley said, “Yes, sir,” and took what normally served as his guest chair.

“Congratulations on Operation Cockroach,” Chien-Chu said. “The Ramanthian propaganda machine claims that you and your people killed five thousand of their supposed ‘peacekeepers.’ And we know that when it comes to casualties, they always subtract about twenty percent from the real number. So it’s safe to say that you nailed at least six thousand of the bastards.”

“It was supposed to be nine or ten thousand,” Foley said bleakly. “And I lost 423 people.”

“That’s a lot,” Chien-Chu admitted. “But, cold as it may sound, that’s something like fourteen of them for every one of us. Had we always done so well, the war would have been over a month ago.”

“Maybe,” Foley allowed, as his eyes drifted away. “But more than a hundred of the casualties were the direct result of my stupidity. I should have evacuated the mine before the attack. Or, failing that, left a significant force behind to protect it. I did neither. And lots of people died as a result.”

“That’s true,” Chien-Chu conceded. “You made a mistake. One born of hubris and overconfidence.”

“So you’re here to relieve me of my command,” Foley said dully, as his eyes swung back. “And you’re correct to do so.”

“Nice try,” Chien-Chu replied dryly. “But you aren’t getting off that easily. If we were to cashier every officer who made a mistake, sergeants would be in charge. Nope, your punishment is to stay right where you are and hatch more plans like Operation Cockroach. You really put the hurts on them with that one, son. Keep it up.”

It was strange to have what looked like a younger man call him “son.” “Yes, sir,” Foley replied, even though he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what to do next.

“Good,” Chien-Chu replied. “Nothing attracts resources like success. If you need something, let me know. You have a hypercom. Use it sparingly-but use it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Commander…”

“Sir?”

“Go get something to eat. You look like a skeleton.”

The so called Dead Bug Lab was a step up from the grubby room that Margaret and her scientists had been forced to share deep in the bowels of the Lucky Fool mine. According to signs neatly stenciled onto duracrete walls, the large, rectangular space had once been the home of the 321 ^ st Aerospace Fighter squadron’s in-service training facility. And, thanks to the fact that the team was already present when Foley and the rest of the survivors of Operation Cockroach arrived, they had been able to hang on to the precious square footage. Power was flowing from a portable reactor, running water had been restored, and there was little to no chance of a cave-in. The bugs could attack, of course-but that was true anywhere.

So Margaret was sitting in her tiny office when Dr. Howard Lothar stomped in and dropped a head onto the surface of her metal desk. “There it is,” he said triumphantly. “Just like I said.”

“There what is?” Margaret wanted to know, as the dead Ramanthian glared at her. “And how many times have I told you? Put something under body parts. They leak.”

Lothar continued as if Margaret hadn’t spoken. “See the growth on the back of this specimen’s head? That’s called a stroma-or a fruiting body.”

One of the problems associated with supervising scientists, but not being one herself, was that there were frequent occasions when Margaret didn’t have a clue as to what they were talking about. “I’m sorry, Howard,” she said. “Please go back and lay the necessary groundwork, so I’ll know what you’re talking about.”

Lothar sighed. Then, in the manner of an adult instructing a child, he gave a minilecture. “We know that some Ramanthians are dying from the equivalent of a human skin disease. For a host of reasons I won’t bore you with, it’s my hypothesis that after arriving on Earth in large numbers and spreading out across the globe, they came into contact with a fungus called Ophiocordyceps unilateris. Probably in the equatorial jungles where our friend Ophio finds its way into carpenter ants and forces them to leave the forest canopy for the vegetation lower down. Then, having taken control, it compels its victim to bite onto a leaf.

“The ant dies,” Lothar added, “but continues to hang there, as the fungus grows inside of it. Eventually, a stroma like this one breaks through the anterior surface of the ant’s head. A couple of weeks later, spores begin to fall-each one of which can infect a new host. And that’s what happened to Marvin,” Lothar added, as he patted the head. “Although it’s my guess that the Ramanthians unknowingly made Ophio ’s task easier by flying their troops hither and yon all over the world. Who knows? Marvin could have been infected right here rather than down south somewhere.”

“I don’t know,” Margaret said doubtfully. “I’m not a scientist-but don’t parasites and their hosts coevolve? Plus, the Ramanthians just arrived.”

“You’ve been listening to Woo,” Lothar said accusingly. “She thinks the bugs brought the parasite with them. But that, like most of the stuff she says, is pure bullshit. I admit that the odds are stacked against an Earth parasite having the capacity to exploit an off-planet host, but it appears that Ophio is very resourceful. And I can prove it.”

“Really? How?”

“I took spores from a stroma produced by a specimen named Larry and used them to infect Marvin. He did everything a carpenter ant would do except clamp onto a leaf. He is, or was, a sentient with a very complex nervous system. So the course of the disease was different. Marvin experienced some pretty bad seizures before he died. I enjoyed that.”

Margaret was horrified. She knew her team had requested and been given control of Ramanthian POWs for study-along with the bodies of dead bugs found here and there. But the methods Lothar had been using were way over the moral/ ethical line. And she was responsible for allowing it to happen. “I hope you’re joking.”

“Hell no, I’m not joking,” the scientist replied defiantly. “ What? You’re feeling all gooey about the scum who took our planet, killed my wife and millions of your fellow citizens? Have you forgotten what they did to your daughter on Jericho?”

Margaret hadn’t forgotten. And she wondered where her daughter was. “I understand, Howard. I really do. But if we aren’t careful, we’ll wind up just as bad as they are.”

“So, shoot me,” Lothar said tightly, as tears began to stream down his cheeks. “I would do it myself if I had the guts.”

Margaret got up, circled the desk, and put an arm around Lothar’s shoulders. “What you need is some rest. Come on… I’m giving you the day off.”

“What about the fungus?” Lothar demanded stubbornly as he wiped the tears away. “We can weaponize it. I know we can. All we need is a large supply of Ophio.”

“I’ll work on it,” Margaret promised.

“And Woo? Will you tell her to shut the hell up?”

Margaret remembered the way Woo occasionally sobbed in the middle of the night. “No, Howard. I won’t tell Woo to shut the hell up. Actually, I think you two have a lot in common. But I will instruct the entire staff to follow up on your research.”

That seemed to do the trick as the tension went out of the scientist’s shoulders, and he allowed himself to be led away. The head, which was leaking goo onto the surface of Margaret’s otherwise-clean desk, was understandably mute.

As usual, there was a line out of Foley’s door, down a hall, and around a corner as Margaret barged into his office. The officer in command of the brigade’s nonexistent air force was seated in the guest chair. Margaret nodded to him and smiled pleasantly before dropping Ralph’s head onto the desk with a muted thump. The increasingly smelly object was sealed inside a bag and stared out through foggy plastic. “Sorry to interrupt,” Margaret said, “but I need to speak with you before Ralph here begins to rot.”

The pilot looked appalled-and Foley was annoyed. Because even though it wasn’t perfect, the line outside his office was part of an effort to make himself accessible. Something that was very important in an organization that was quasi-military at best. So line jumpers were a problem. Yet the head, combined with the fact that it was Margaret who had been toting it around, was an irresistible draw. Foley made eye contact with the pilot. “Would you excuse us, Major? If you would be so kind as to wait outside, we’ll resume our conversation in a few minutes.”

The pilot left, Margaret took his seat, and Foley frowned at her. “This had better be good, Margaret… Especially after the way you lied to the guards as you and your team left the mine. I didn’t order you to set up shop at this location, and you know it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Margaret agreed unapologetically. “But what if we had remained there? Where would we be now?”

The challenge was obvious. As was her meaning. Margaret and her scientists would have been dead had they remained in the mine. Foley winced. “That hurts.”

“Sorry,” Margaret replied. “It wasn’t my intention to be judgmental. But I felt compelled to defend my actions.”

“And you did,” Foley observed ruefully. “So what’s with the head?”

“The head is part of an experiment,” Margaret replied. “A morally questionable experiment. But important nevertheless.”

Having said that much, Margaret went on to repeat what Lothar had told her. She finished by saying, “So, here’s where the matter stands now. We have a weapon. One the planet gave us. All we have to do is use it. And if we do so quickly enough, it’s possible that the Ramanthians will be forced to withdraw. But odds are that they’re working on a defense. So we’ve got to hurry.”

Foley looked at the head and the space black eyes that seemed to bore into him. His thoughts were churning-and he felt a growing sense of excitement. What if Margaret was correct? What if they could force the bugs to withdraw from Earth? That would be a victory so important it could change the course of the war. “But how?” Foley wanted to know.

“We need a large supply of Ophiocordyceps unilateris,” Margaret answered matter-of-factly. “And since we don’t have the time or means to grow the fungus in a lab, we’ll have to get spores from donors like Marvin here.”

Foley frowned. “Okay… But how the heck would we do that?”

Margaret smiled sweetly. “That, Commander Foley, is your problem.”

Two days had passed since Margaret had entered Foley’s office and placed the Ramanthian head on his desk. Since that time, Foley had requested all of the information that his Intel people could provide on Ramanthian health problems, the status of their medical-support system, and an estimate of how many troopers were dying of natural causes versus combat-related trauma.

Hard data was difficult to come by. But some operatives believed that the Ramanthian mortality rate had increased even though they had a firm grip on the planet and combat-related casualties should have been down. So if the anecdotal evidence was true, there was a very real possibility that the bugs were losing a significant number of personnel to the fungus that Margaret and her team referred to as “Ophi.” But what if such reports had been exaggerated by amateur operatives who were eager to believe the worst?

That was a significant danger. Foley was determined to go out and get a firsthand look at what was taking place. So he was following a local named Pete Sawyer along a drainage channel in almost complete darkness. It was dry and would remain that way until spring, when the rains might or might not fall. In the meantime the floodway functioned as a nocturnal highway for rodents, coyotes, and the occasional human. Although, except for a few hardy souls like Sawyer, there weren’t many people who were brave or foolish enough to venture near the enemy-occupied town of California City. Prior to the war, it had been a bedroom community for nearby military bases. Now the bugs lived there.

With no moonlight to go by, Sawyer was forced to use occasional blips from a handheld torch to confirm their position. And when one such check revealed the wreckage of a human shuttle lying crosswise over the channel, he held up his hand. “This is where we go up and over,” Sawyer whispered. “The best vantage point is the old water tower. The bugs left it intact. Probably on purpose. So we put a hole in it about three weeks after the city was overrun. Now they store their water underground. The point is that they don’t care about it. So there aren’t any guards. Bit of a climb, though… Have you got a head for heights?”

Now you ask me, Foley thought to himself. “I’ll be fine,” he lied. “Lead the way.”

So Sawyer led the way up the concrete slope to the point where a ragged hole had been cut in the security fence. After crawling through on hands and knees, Foley followed Sawyer on a zigzag path that took them between abandoned houses, through a much-looted minimall, and up to the base of a duracrete tower. Foley assumed there was a globular tank higher up. But he couldn’t see it. Sawyer said, “Wait here,” and vanished into the night.

Foley’s hand rested on the silenced pistol that rode under his left arm until Sawyer returned carrying an aluminum ladder over his shoulder. “I keep it hidden,” he explained. “No point in letting the bugs know what I’ve been up to.”

Then, with the ease of someone who had plenty of practice, Sawyer put the ladder up against the support tower and checked to make sure that it was solid. “Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Follow me up. The rungs start about ten feet off the ground. After that, it’s a climb of 130 feet or so. Oh, and one more thing. If you fall, try not to scream. That could attract the wrong sort of attention.” And with that, Sawyer disappeared into the gloom.

Foley looked up, swore softly, and followed. It was easy at first, and because Foley couldn’t see much, the height didn’t bother him. But his legs weren’t used to that kind of exercise, and it wasn’t long before he began to feel the burn. Then he saw the scattering of lights that represented the Ramanthian base and realized that he was at least fifty feet off the ground. That triggered fear-and it took all of his willpower to keep climbing.

Don’t look down, Foley told himself. Look up. And it worked. To some extent at least, as the resistance leader forced himself to reach, pull, and push. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a strong hand took hold of his wrist and pulled him up onto a circular walkway. “There you are,” Sawyer said. “What took so long?”

“I had to pause every now and then to shit my pants.”

Sawyer laughed softly. “So you don’t have a head for heights. Well, you have balls, that’s for sure. Come on… Let’s walk around to the other side of the tower. The sun’s about to rise, and it should be quite a sight.”

As the men watched, a horizontal ribbon of pink light appeared in the east, followed by the first rays of sunshine as a new day began. But before the sun could part company with the horizon, Sawyer led Foley around to the south side of the bulbous tank. It was painted green, and as Foley craned his head to look upwards, he could see the jagged hole where a human missile had struck. “The show’s about to start,” Sawyer said. “We’d better sit down, or the bugs might spot us. Did you bring a pair of binoculars?”

Foley was wearing a knapsack. He shrugged it off and lowered himself onto the grating. The glasses were inside, and he took them out. It was hard to ignore the fact that he was more than a hundred feet off the ground, but Foley did the best he could as he brought the device up to his eyes.

Seated as they were, Foley could see under the metal railing. That gave him a nearly unobstructed view of a large crater and the road that spiraled up around a cone-shaped hill to the fire-blackened grating on top. It was loaded with hundreds of plastic-wrapped bodies all stacked like spokes on a wagon wheel. Heads in and feet out. And as he watched, more dead Ramanthians were being unloaded from a truck. There were so many that it was necessary to layer the corpses.

“It’s like this every Thursday morning,” Sawyer put in. He was seated with his back against the tank, peering through a pair of beat-up binoculars. “Except that the bugs are processing more bodies every week. And there’s one more thing. Look at how they’re dressed.”

Foley looked and saw what Sawyer meant. The Ramanthians were wearing the bug equivalent of hazmat suits! A sure sign that they were concerned about a contagious disease of some sort. “So they didn’t wear protective clothing before?”

“Nope. And the bodies were wrapped in something that looked like linen rather than plastic.”

The reports were true. And he was looking at a very generous supply of Ophiocordyceps unilateris. Foley felt a rising sense of excitement as the last body was unloaded from the truck before it pulled away. The vehicle circled the hill, crossed the crater, and passed through a gap in the rim. What might have been an honor guard of roughly a hundred Ramanthian troopers was evenly spaced around the top of the depression.

The truck vanished for a moment, then reappeared as it made for the base beyond. As Foley scanned the fortress, he saw a defensive ditch, weapons blisters, and high walls. The hint of a duracrete dome was visible beyond that.

That was impressive enough. But the knowledge that the base was like an iceberg, with most if its mass located below the surface, was quite sobering. Because any attempt to rush the crematorium and hijack the bodies there would be met with a counterattack from within the walls. Foley’s thoughts were interrupted by Sawyer. “Now watch this,” the civilian said. “They always do it the same way.”

Foley heard the faint squeal of something akin to bagpipes, followed by a sequential round of rifle shots from the troops stationed around the crater, and a loud whump as a tongue of fire shot up from deep inside the cone-shaped hill. Smoke poured up into the sky as the bodies began to burn. And the flames were so hot that all of the corpses were fully cremated in less than five minutes. “The ash falls down through the grate into some sort of bin below,” Sawyer explained. “They empty it every couple of weeks.”

Once the ceremony was over, the honor guard shuffled down off the rim of the crater, where they boarded a waiting truck and soon left for the base. The military funeral was over. “Well,” Foley said, “that was very interesting. Thank you for bringing me. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sawyer’s face was brown and wrinkled from years spent working outdoors. His eyes were blue, and, judging from the look in them, he thought Foley was crazy. “No can do. They’d spot us for sure. As the sun comes up, we’ll move west to place ourselves in the shadow thrown by the tank. It’ll be cooler that way. Later, once it gets dark, we’ll climb down. That’s why I told you to bring water and something to eat.”

Foley sighed. It was going to be a long, hot day.

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

It was Wednesday morning. Six days had passed since Foley had climbed to the top of the water tower and been witness to the mass cremation in California City. Now he was eighty miles south of there, belly down on a hill, looking west as the sun rose behind him. The HOLLYWOOD sign had been rebuilt many times over hundreds of years. The first five letters still stood off to his right. The others had been destroyed during the invasion. But that was the least of the damage.

Los Angeles, Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Pasadena, Alhambra, Monterey Park, and Montebello were history. And there, at the very center of a blackened crater, was an enormous starship. So large it would never be able to lift off. Foley assumed that the vessel had been intentionally sacrificed to provide the Ramanthians with an instant fortress.

The ship had a black, slightly iridescent skin that shimmered in the early-morning light. Artificial lighting crackled around it from time to time, killing any bird unfortunate enough to venture close and suggesting that the ship’s defensive screens were still operational.

Dirt ramps had been constructed so that hover vehicles could drive up into what had originally been the vessel’s launch bay, and all manner of prefab structures had been set up around the brooding globe. As Foley swept his glasses across them, he saw what looked like supply dumps, temporary mess halls, and rows of perfectly spaced troop habs.

The whole thing was more than impressive. It was terrifying. Because there, right in front of him, was the very core of the Ramanthian presence on Earth. And to touch it was to die. But that was exactly what he and thousands of others were about to do. Not because they had any real hope of conquering the beast, but in order to throw a scare into the invaders and get them to rush reinforcements into the area. Reinforcements from places like California City.

During the process, Foley hoped to kill a lot of Ramanthians-while suffering as few casualties as possible. And this time he had been careful to seek advice from key subordinates and plan for every imaginable scenario. Or so he hoped.

Foley and his security detail were all clad in precious ghost camos, which, along with some other specialized gear, had been shipped in for the occasion. They were covered with special netting that was designed to conceal both their heat signatures and a certain amount of electromagnetic activity.

Would the special-ops gear work? Foley hoped so as the radio reports began to come in. Each voice represented a group of resistance fighters, some of whom were at war with each other for one reason or another but had agreed to a temporary truce in order to participate in what promised to be the first really important attack on the Ramanthians.

They weren’t aware of the real purpose behind the attack, however, and Foley felt guilty about that, even though security demanded that only a few people be in on the secret. Still, Foley told himself as the calls came in, we’re going to kick some Ramanthian ass, and that’s for sure.

Most of the groups were made up of civilians, which meant that they weren’t that big on military radio procedure. “This is Commander Marcos,” a booming voice said. “The Conquis-tadores are ready.”

“This is the Hammer,” another chimed in. “We’re ready to fall. Over.”

“The Rats are in position,” a female voice said. “Just say the word.”

And so it went until more than a dozen groups had reported in. Then it was Foley’s turn. “This is Shoshone One. I promised you a surprise, and it’s on the way. Keep your heads down. Over.”

What followed was a long, agonizing three minutes, during which nothing happened and all sorts of negative scenarios ran through Foley’s mind. What if the whole thing had been called off for some reason? Or some sort of technical glitch had occurred?

The possibilities ate at him, and he was just about to place a hypercom call when a clap of thunder was heard. Seconds later, the incoming missile struck the Ramanthian ship dead on and exploded. Shields flared, and some of the energy was dispersed, but the explosion was powerful enough to scorch the ship’s skin.

The capability had been there all along of course. Because if the Confederacy could send supply drones through hyperspace, it could send missiles, too; but it had been reluctant to do so, knowing that the slightest miscalculation could result in collateral damage. And even if each weapon landed on target, everyone knew that the bugs would react by placing hostages in and around any installation that might be worthy of an intersystem missile.

But now, with a one-of-a-kind strategic opportunity in the offing, Foley had requested and been granted an intersystem strike. There was another clap of thunder followed by a second hit. The missile struck the huge side hatch just as the bugs were starting to close it. The explosion slagged the door, scoured the vehicle park inside the warship, and triggered a series of loud booms. “This is Shoshone One,” Foley said over the radio. “So far so good. Stand by for one more. Once it hits, you will be free to attack. Over.”

Foley had requested nine missiles and been granted three, which, as Chien-Chu pointed out, cost five hundred million credits each and would require the Confederacy to sacrifice hyperdrives that otherwise could have been used in destroyer escorts or other ships of a similar size.

But all things considered, Foley was satisfied. Because even though he liked killing Ramanthians, the real prize lay elsewhere, and the completely unexpected attack would almost certainly have the desired effect.

The last missile missed the ship but fell in the middle of the encampment just east of it. The weapon went off with a brilliant flash and a resonant boom. Secondary explosions rattled like firecrackers, what looked like a firestorm swept hundreds of evenly spaced habs away, and at least a thousand bugs were killed. All things considered, that was better than a direct hit on the grounded vessel. Because, in spite of its size, the battleship’s weapons were designed for space battles. And there was no way to know where the incoming missiles were coming from and, therefore, no way to respond.

Smoke was pouring up into the air, and the destruction was still under way when the second phase of the attack began. Predictably enough, Ramanthian troops began to pour out of the ship like ants escaping a ravaged nest. Bloodthirsty resistance groups came after them. Some swept into the crater on light trucks with weapons blazing. Others, the Rats in particular, surfaced from Metro tunnels, which ran under the crater and were supposedly blocked off. All were supported by a wild assortment of aircraft that had been rolled out of their hiding places and launched for the occasion. Foley saw air cars with the word POLICE painted on the side, crop dusters, and even ultralights, all climbing, turning, and diving as they dropped hand grenades and homemade bombs on the aliens below.

But the battle was far from one-sided. The same aircraft were very vulnerable. And it wasn’t long before some of them were blown out of the air or simply shot to pieces.

The situation on the ground wasn’t much better. Brave though the resistance fighters might be, they were no match for heavily armored Ramanthian veterans, who were not only enraged by the sneak attack, but led by fanatical members of the Nira cult urging them to fight to the death. They met the humans and drove them back.

Foley put out a final message. “Shoshone One to all allied forces. Withdraw… I repeat, break contact and withdraw. A major battle was won here today. The Confederacy thanks you. Over.”

Then, having done all that a leader could, Foley threw the protective net off and stood. “Come on,” he said to the men and women around him. “There are wounded down there. Let’s collect as many of them as we can.”

CALIFORNIA CITY, CALIFORNIA

It was cold and dark-an early Thursday morning. Margaret was scared as Pete Sawyer led the resistance fighters up the dry channel toward the Ramanthian base. According to the reports from Foley, the attack on the ship had been a success. Heavy casualties had been inflicted on the bugs, and the aliens had been forced to bring in reinforcements from as far away as California City. In fact, a convoy estimated to include at least three hundred troops had departed late the day before. So assuming that the adjoining base had been sufficiently weakened, then a force of about fifty security people should be able to raid the crematorium without too much trouble. The problem, Margaret thought to herself, was the words “should be.”

The column stopped suddenly, and Margaret ran into the man in front of her. He swore, and she whispered, “Sorry.” Then the line was moving again with nothing but the glittering stars to light the way. Her husband, Charles, was out there somewhere, on Algeron probably, fighting a war of words. And Christine? Well, she had followed in her father’s footsteps, even if her methods had a tendency to raise eyebrows. Wouldn’t they be surprised, Margaret thought, to know that she was packing a pistol and part of an effort to raid a crematorium!

Margaret’s thoughts were interrupted as the column turned left and scrambled up a steep slope. The line slowed as people were forced down on their hands and knees to crawl through the hole that had been cut in the fence. The empty pack on her back caught on the wire and had to be freed by the person behind her.

Once Margaret was through and back on her feet, there was a short wait while the rest of them arrived. Then the column surged ahead, and it became difficult to keep up as Sawyer led his charges between houses, down deserted streets, and past a fire-scorched high school.

The sun had started to rise by then, and Margaret could see the water tower and the volcano-shaped hill off to the right of it. The miniature mountain grew larger, and an embankment appeared as they arrived at the crater wall. The facility was unguarded. And why not? The bugs had no reason to think anyone would want to attack it.

So Sawyer took them along the edge of the embankment to the point where a well-packed section of dirt road cut through the obstruction. That led them into the circular arena where the ambush would take place. The whole thing had been rehearsed back at China Lake, so everyone knew what to do. “Remember,” Sawyer cautioned them, “it’s important to kill the honor guard silently. The last thing we need is to have more bugs arrive on the scene.”

Margaret and her team weren’t expected to fight. So they were directed to take cover behind the pieces of earthmoving equipment that were parked next to the crater’s wall. Lothar was there, as was Woo, each of whom seemed determined to ignore the other.

Margaret’s thoughts were focused on the plan. Would the Thursday-morning cremation ceremony actually take place? Especially in the wake of the battle in LA? Sawyer thought so. “What are they going to do?” he had demanded earlier. “The base is clearly being used as a mortuary. So unless they burn the incoming bodies, they’ll start to pile up. Plus, they know some of them are diseased. Don’t worry, ma’am. They’ll come.” But despite Sawyer’s unwavering certainty, Margaret continued to worry.

The resistance fighters had intentionally arrived fifteen minutes early to allow for the possibility of delays along the way. So time seemed to crawl by as the sun inched higher in the sky and finally rose over the east rim of the crater. And it was then, right on time, that the distant sound of engines was heard. Margaret felt her heart start to beat faster as the noise grew steadily louder and eventually turned into a roar as the first hover truck floated into the arena. It paused for a moment before following the spiral road to the top of the miniature mountain. The second and third trucks followed.

Then the fourth truck arrived, pulled over to one side, and settled onto its skirts. Just as it had many times before. Except Sawyer said there had been a fifth vehicle in the past. A transport loaded with troops. Did that mean the base was running low on personnel? Margaret hoped that was the case, as Ramanthian troopers shuffled down out of the fourth transport and formed two ranks.

The noncom who began to inspect them was about halfway along the first rank when the resistance fighters emerged from their various hiding places. All were armed with silenced weapons. Some of the noise suppressors were military issue, and the rest were homemade. But all of them were reasonably effective. The Ramanthians began to jerk and twitch as a hail of bullets hit them.

Margaret closed her eyes. She understood the necessity of what was taking place and knew that the enemy had done worse, but she was still sickened by the cold-blooded slaughter. It took less than a minute to put the entire honor guard down.

But the bugs up on top of the hill were still alive and could theoretically alert the base. Sawyer was about ten feet away from Margaret holding a radio up to his ear. She knew that two snipers, both positioned up on the water tower, were supposed to neutralize the troopers on the hill. Sawyer nodded. “Good, good, what? Well, shoot the bastard!”

That was when one of the men to Margaret’s left pointed up into the sky. “Look! One of them is flying!”

And it was true. Even though Ramanthians, especially older ones, couldn’t fly very well, they could get aloft for short periods of time. And this individual was not only young, judging from the energy with which he was flapping his wings, but had the advantage of a hill from which to launch himself into the air. So he was already gliding over the crater wall by the time the humans opened up on him from the ground. But the fusillade of bullets had no visible effect on the trooper, who quickly disappeared from sight. “Goddamn it to hell!” Sawyer raged. “The idiots on the tower missed. I’ll go after him.”

“No, you won’t,” Margaret said sternly. “Phase one is over so I’m in command. He’s halfway to the base by now, so it’s very unlikely that you’ll catch up with him. Prepare another ambush-and whack the bastards when they arrive. In the meantime, my team will go up and collect what we came here for. Let’s get to work.”

Sawyer opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, clearly thought better of it, and closed it again. “Yes, ma’am. Maybe we can get that hover truck running. If so, it might come in handy.”

Margaret nodded, turned to her team, and waved them forward. “Come on… We have a hill to climb.” The scientists weren’t in very good shape. So there were lots of complaints as Margaret sent them huffing and puffing up the spiral road to the top of the conical mountain where the trucks were parked. Bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen. One of the vehicles had been partially unloaded. Margaret, who was out of breath herself, pointed at the first transport. “Get the rest of the bodies off that truck. Lothar and Woo will identify donors.”

The team went to work. The bodies were sealed in plastic. They made thumping sounds and sent up little clouds of dust, as Margaret went over to supervise the sorting process. Woo made a face as she cut a body bag open and the stench of decomposing bug filled her nostrils.

Then, with help from Lothar, Woo took a close look at the back of the bug’s head. It had a normal appearance. So Lothar spray painted a red X onto the soldier’s bag. The second body had a bullet hole in its forehead and had clearly been killed in combat. But the third had the very thing they were looking for. An attempt had been made to cover it with a bandage, but a stroma was visible on the back of the soldier’s head. “Sistek!” Lothar shouted. “Over here.”

Sistek was a burly lab tech who had been selected for the job of harvester because of his upper-body strength. He motioned the scientists out of the way and raised a razor-sharp machete over his head. The blade generated a solid ka-thunk sound as it came down.

Lothar made a grab for the head as it rolled free, got hold of a stubby antenna, and held his prize aloft. “Pay dirt!” he proclaimed proudly. “Just one of these melons contains enough spores to infect a hundred bugs-each of whom can infect a hundred more. Margaret-turn around. You’re the boss, so the first head goes into your pack.”

The grisly business of harvesting heads continued after that, as the scientists examined bodies, and the machetes fell. But as Margaret made the rounds and urged her team to work faster, she knew it was only a matter of time before Ramanthian reinforcements arrived. So it came as no surprise when the radio in her pocket burped static, and Sawyer spoke to her. “Look toward the base, ma’am. It’s time to pull out. The hover truck is running, and we’ll use it to make our getaway.”

Margaret looked south, saw the airborne transport, and realized that she’d been wrong about a ground attack. The Ramanthians had a faster way to respond. Worse yet, it was a sure bet that the boxy aircraft had at least thirty troopers on board. And it was coming straight at her. Shells kicked up dirt on top of the hill as the pilot fired his nose cannons. “Run for the truck!” Margaret shouted to the team as she pointed downhill. “Run like hell.”

That was easier said than done since every one of them was carrying a pack loaded with Ramanthian heads. Some made the trip in well-calculated leaps. Others tripped, fell, and skidded downhill. Margaret caught a glimpse of Lothar pausing to help Woo as she ducked behind one of the hover trucks.

But the improvised escape plan wasn’t going to work because the ship would land, the troops would get out and fire down on the humans before they could board Sawyer’s truck. Unless…

As the ship flared in for a landing, Margaret hurried over to a small platform she had noticed earlier. Then she pulled her pistol and fired. It was impossible to miss. But the small-caliber bullets had no effect as the transport settled onto the grate, and a ramp hit the ground. That was when Margaret pulled the lever on the side of the control station. It released a roaring blast of fire that shot upwards and wrapped the ship in flames.

There wasn’t much time. No more than a second or two in which to think about Charles and Christine. Would her daughter marry Antonio Santana? Was he still alive? Then there were no more thoughts as the ship’s fuel supply went up, and the resulting explosion swept the top of the hill clean.