A fighting chance

3

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Having clumped into the living room of his waterfront home, Colonel Antov snatched the binos off the side table and brought them up to his eyes. A Ramanthian submarine! In the middle of Baynor’s Bay. It didn’t seem possible. Yet there the humpbacked apparition was, sitting on the surface and shelling his town.

Santana didn’t have glasses. But the submarine was large enough that he didn’t need them. The warship was about 150 feet long and mounted two auto cannons. One forward and one aft. They were firing three-round bursts at targets Santana couldn’t see from his position. “Is this sort of thing common?” Santana inquired, as the com set in his pocket started to vibrate.

“No, sir,” Captain Kimbo replied. “Air attacks, yes. But this is the first time the bugs have sent a submarine. We didn’t know they had one. I wonder where it came from?”

“Odds are that the Ramanthians assembled it here,” Antov said grimly as he lowered the binos. “They see the TACBASE as a harbinger of things to come and want to destroy it right away. Get on the horn, Captain. Order our people to open fire. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Santana removed the com set from his pocket but didn’t open it. He knew Rona-Sa was on the other end and wanted to open fire. And judging from the water spouts that had appeared around the submarine, the people in the north-bay area already had. “Could I make a suggestion, sir? Before you open fire?”

Antov frowned. “Yes? What is it?”

“I suggest that we keep our troops on standby for a minute or two. Let’s see what happens.”

“You surprise me,” Antov replied. “Why the hell would I…” Then a look of comprehension appeared on his face. “Why you tricky bastard! If we let them battle the sub by themselves, the bugs will concentrate their fire on the north side of the bay. And that will soften up Temo’s followers for us.”

“Exactly,” Santana replied. “Meanwhile, with your permission, I’ll send the Ramanthians a very nasty surprise.”

The submarine’s black hull was still wet and glistened in the sunlight as its auto cannons roared, explosions flashed across the surface of the TACBASE, and columns of dirt shot skyward all around it. Then the TACBASE disappeared inside a cloud of blue smoke as a dozen smoke grenades went off.

That wasn’t going to stop the Ramanthian bombardment, of course, since the bugs had a clear infrared image to fire at, but it did give one of the Legion’s quads an opportunity to disengage from the hull and head downslope without drawing as much fire attention as it would otherwise. The four-legged cyborg was twenty-five feet tall and weighed fifty tons. It was armed with self-loading missile launchers, a minigun that could be raised well above the massive hull, and a variety of antipersonnel weapons.

The cyborg’s cargo compartment was large enough to accommodate tons of supplies, a mobile surgical suite, or a fully armed squad of bio bods and T-2s. But what made the quad a truly fearsome weapon was the fact that it was controlled by a biological rather than an electronic brain. Because human brains can improvise, break rules when necessary, and imagine things that machines can’t. Even if Private Edwin Durkee was a convicted murderer.

That was what Earth’s criminal justice system had said. And it was true. Eighteen standard months earlier, Durkee had been lying in wait when his stepfather entered the little frame house located just outside of Chico and shouted his wife’s name. Or his version of her name, which was “bitch.” As in, “Hey, bitch, where’s my fucking dinner?”

It was a significant phrase because it inevitably signaled the beginning of a nightmarish evening. First came dinner, followed by half a bottle of vodka, and beatings for both his wife and her teenage son.

But not that night. Because Durkee was waiting. And one second after his stepfather said the word “dinner,” a three-foot-long section of rusty pipe slammed into the older man’s yellowed teeth and broke his jaw. Then, fueled by months of pent-up frustration and rage, Durkee beat his stepfather to death. Once the killing was over, Durkee made himself a peanut butter and jam sandwich and called the police. He was still in the process of eating it when they arrived. And that was how he earned the prison nickname “PJ.”

The trial lasted four minutes and thirteen seconds. It was carried out by an artificial intelligence known as JMS 50.3, which received the facts gathered by the police and agreed to by Durkee in a carefully monitored confession, and came to the conclusion that the accused was guilty of premeditated murder. “Yes,” JMS 50.3 agreed in response to a request for leniency from Durkee’s court-appointed attorney. “There were extenuating circumstances. But since neither the accused nor his mother was under attack at the time of the killing, there is no way that citizen Durkee can claim self-defense.”

So Durkee was sentenced to death. And in keeping with the letter of the law, the execution consisted of a carefully staged reenactment of the murder. Only with Durkee playing the role of victim this time. It was televised live for the purpose of preventing homicides. Except everyone knew that most of the people who watched the judicial channel did so because they enjoyed watching executions.

Durkee was strapped to a special X-shaped stand and his head was clamped in place as the piece of pipe smashed through his teeth. That was when he screamed, or tried to, but a second blow put an end to that. Moments later, Durkee was dead. Well, mostly dead. Because Durkee had been offered a reprieve of sorts. The agreement was simple. He couldn’t have his biological body back. That wouldn’t be fair to his victim. But he could enlist in the Legion, become a cyborg, and continue to exist. So his brain had been salvaged, installed in a high-tech life-support box, and trained to “wear” a quad.

As Durkee guided his huge body down a boat ramp and into the water, his onboard computer opened a series of valves that allowed water to rush into the saddle tanks located on both sides of his hull. That was sufficient to compensate for the air trapped in the tightly sealed cargo compartment so that the cyborg could walk on the seabed.

As Durkee prepared to enter combat for the first time, he was conscious of all sorts of things, including the data that scrolled down one side of his electronic “vision,” the way the six-inch-deep muck pulled at his foot pods, and the fear in his nonexistent belly. Here he was, a kid from the projects, about to tackle an enemy submarine all by himself.

The mission was simple, or that was what Captain Rona-Sa had said. “All you have to do is stroll out there, put a missile in that thing, and walk back. They’ll never know what hit them.”

The plan sounded good. Real good. And it seemed to be working as Durkee’s lights crept across the bottom, and a fish with an enormous jaw burst up out of the mud, gave a powerful flick of its eel-like tail, and disappeared into the surrounding gloom. What looked like a dimly lit wall appeared up ahead. Except it wasn’t a wall. The barge, which was covered with a thick layer of marine growth, had clearly been there for a long time and was stretched lengthwise across Durkee’s path.

That forced the cyborg to turn right to bypass the obstruction, a detour that would consume valuable time. Meanwhile, Durkee’s sensors were feeding him information on the water temperature, a current that was running left to right, and the target’s position relative to his. All he had to do was think about the targeting grid in order to summon it up. The submarine was a sausage-shaped blob of orange light located at the center of the crisscrossing amber lines. A tone sounded as Durkee rounded the north end of the barge and came into range.

The multipurpose missiles loaded onto Durkee’s racks could be used in a wide variety of environments, including the one he was in. But the cyborg knew that the surrounding liquid would slow the missiles down. And once the bugs became aware of the attack, they would use the lengthy “flight” time to employ countermeasures. So Durkee wanted to close the distance between himself and the sub. It was something Rona-Sa had been emphatic about. “You will have the advantage of surprise the first time you fire. But not the second.”

Of course, if Durkee waited too long and the sub got under way, the opportunity to destroy it would disappear. So a compromise was in order. And, because the target was currently broadside to him, Durkee decided to go for it.

He paused, brought his missile launchers online, and “felt” them deploy from recesses located along the top surface of his hull. Then, as the ready lights appeared, he fired. There was an explosion of bubbles as the missiles sped away. Durkee “heard” a tone and felt a momentary sense of jubilation as the weapons locked onto their target. But that emotion was snatched away as the sub began to turn toward him. The chits knew! They had been a little slow on the uptake, just as Rona-Sa predicted they would be, but they were reacting now.

The cyborg swore as the sub fired a salvo of minitorps from side-mounted tubes. The underwater flares exploded, forcing the guidance systems in Durkee’s missiles to choose between the original heat source and new ones. One of his weapons fell for the ruse and veered away. The other hit the sub and exploded. But it was still in the process of turning. So even though some damage had been done, the Ramanthian ship remained operational.

That was too bad. So was the fact that the sub was equipped with torpedo tubes in addition to deck guns. Durkee’s onboard computer had a tendency to belabor the obvious. “Two enemy torpedoes have been fired and are running. Estimated time to impact is thirty-two seconds. Thirty-one… Thirty… Twenty-nine…”

Despite the fact that Durkee’s war form could operate underwater, it hadn’t been designed to battle submarines and had no defense against incoming torpedoes other than the thickness of its hull. So all Durkee could do was fire another salvo of missiles in hopes of scoring a lucky hit. Meanwhile, he was backing around the sunken barge in an attempt to take shelter behind it. The strategy worked to some extent as one of the Ramanthian torpedoes hit the wreck and exploded.

Durkee’s brain registered the momentary flash of light and “felt” the resulting concussion. But his senses were immediately overwhelmed by a searing pain as the second torpedo struck his right foreleg and blew it off.

Durkee knew that when his war form took a hit, the onboard computer was programmed to provide him with negative feedback by stimulating his thalmus and somatosensory cortex. The idea was to force cyborgs to protect their extremely expensive bodies. The fact that it was artificial didn’t make the pain any less excruciating, however.

What happened next was more a matter of instinct than logic. Even though Durkee had lost a leg, he could still move, albeit not very gracefully. Alarms battled for his attention, and the stump flailed wildly as Durkee ordered his body forward. One of the follow-up missiles had scored a hit. And there was a momentary lag as the Ramanthians reacted to the blow. Precious seconds during which Durkee was determined to close with the sub and get directly beneath it. Because once in place, it would be impossible for the bugs to fire on him without endangering themselves as well.

Mud dislodged by Durkee’s foot pods rose to cloud the water, a dark ribbon of bloodlike hydraulic fluid trailed away from his stump, and there was a terrifying thud as a Ramanthian torpedo hit the quad. But, rather than going off, the weapon simply fell away. That raised the possibility that Durkee had entered the zone where an explosion would threaten the sub, a theory reinforced by the fact that the cyborg was “looking” up at the enemy vessel by that time.

The realization that he was safe, for the moment at least, was followed by an overriding question: How could he destroy the sub? At close range, his missiles were just as impotent as the Ramanthian torpedoes were. Then, like a bolt out of the blue, the answer came to him. Durkee blew his tanks. And as a large quantity of water was forced out of the war form’s hull, it shot upwards. Durkee shut his eyes, or tried to, and waited to die.

Santana was worried. And for good reason. He was standing on the seawall out in front of Colonel Antov’s home. The Ramanthian submarine shuddered, as if it had been hit from below, but continued to shell the north side of the bay. Nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed since Private Durkee had entered the water. And rather than the quick kill that he had envisioned, a protracted battle was under way. Now, with the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight, Santana knew it had been foolish to pit an inexperienced legionnaire against a Ramanthian submarine.

One aspect of the plan had gone well, however. True to his prediction, the sub’s commander had turned both of his guns on the north side of the bay in an attempt to suppress the fire coming from that direction. But he couldn’t let that continue for much longer. Not if there was to be any hope of bringing Temo’s O-Chi Scouts back into the Confederate fold. Plus, there was the matter of civilian casualties to consider. So he was about to recommend that all of Antov’s forces including the TACBASE open fire when something unexpected occurred.

As Santana and hundreds of others looked on, something struck the Ramanthian ship from below and lifted it out of the water. The submarine seemed to hang there for a moment, as if suspended in time, before breaking open and spilling some of its contents into the swirling sea. A terrible groan was heard as the metal hull was torn apart, and both halves of the submersible took a final dive. Onlookers caught a brief glimpse of a boxy hull before it, too, slid beneath the waves.

“Damn,” Antov said from a couple of feet away. “What was that?”

“ That was a quad,” Santana replied as he lowered a pair of binos.

“Really? How many did you send?”

“One.”

Antov looked incredulous. “Only one?”

“There was one submarine.”

Antov laughed. “What now?”

“We’ll regroup,” Santana replied. “And get some rest. Then, first thing in the morning, I’ll pay Major Temo a visit.”

The night passed without incident. Santana’s alarm went off at 0400. After a shave, a shower, and some of the O-Chi caf that Antov had provided, Santana was ready to face another day. Captain Zarrella was already in the process of inspecting the first platoon as he made his way across the base to visit Durkee.

Having returned home under his own power, the quad had been able to back into his parking bay and successfully reintegrate himself with the fortress on top of Signal Hill. A damage assessment had been carried out, and the results weren’t good. There was no way to recover, much less repair, the missing leg-and the TACBASE was too small to carry a full array of spares. A significant amount of damage had been sustained when the cyborg surfaced under the submarine as well. So rather than hand the job off to Zarrella, Santana had assigned himself the task of delivering the news.

Durkee’s cargo bay was open. Santana entered, went over to the fold-down seat intended for use by the quad’s platoon leader, and sat down. After pulling a headset on, he spoke. “Private Durkee? This is Major Santana… Do you read me?”

There was a slight hesitation, as if Durkee had been caught unawares or was worried about getting in trouble. “Sir? Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll get right to the point. First, you did a damned good job yesterday, and I was very impressed. So was Captain Rona-Sa. And he doesn’t impress easily.”

Durkee sounded relieved. “Thank you, sir.”

“Second, I’m promoting you to corporal effective today, and I’m putting you in for a DSM. Of course, the approval process takes time-so you may be forty by the time you actually get it. That’s the good news.

“The bad news is that we can’t repair your leg. So, rather than accompany us on the mission, I’ll have to leave you here. But I understand the bugs come by to shoot the place up every now and then, so stay sharp. I’m counting on you to protect the TACBASE and the local civilians.”

Durkee was both surprised and pleased that Santana would come to visit him. And put him in for a medal. His mother would be proud.

As for the leg, and limited duty, well that was something of a mixed bag. Durkee didn’t know them very well as yet, but he still felt a sense of kinship with the other legionnaires and wanted to accompany them. Still, he had a bad feeling regarding the mission and knew he’d be safer in Baynor’s Bay. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

The sky was gray, a steady rain was falling, and visibility was limited to a half mile as Captain Jo Zarrella and Lieutenant Bo Betz led the first platoon down the hill and north through the part of Baynor’s Bay that Santana hadn’t seen the day before. The force consisted of eighteen bio bods and an equal number of T-2s. All of the quads had been left at the TACBASE because Santana wanted to emphasize mobility over brute force.

After years as a company commander and a platoon leader before that, it felt strange to ride in the four slot. And to know that if the column came under fire, it would behoove him to keep his mouth shut unless asked for advice. Otherwise, Santana would run the risk of undermining Zarrella’s credibility.

Having been sent along in the role of advisor, Captain Kimbo and his T-2 were to Santana’s right. Kimbo’s visor was up, and he looked a bit green around the edges, leading Santana to suspect that he was seasick. It was a common occurrence for anyone not accustomed to riding a T-2. But practice makes perfect, and Santana felt sure that the last thing the militia officer would want was sympathy.

Santana allowed his weight to rest against the harness as Joshi carried him past the homes that lined the beach, occasional businesses, and piles of rubble. Computer-controlled antiaircraft weapons were located at half-mile intervals. They swiveled left or right as large seabirds triggered their sensors.

After a fifteen-minute jog, the patrol arrived at a barricade that consisted of an old fishing boat, two wrecked vehicles, and at least a ton of assorted junk. Kimbo appeared to be feeling a bit better-and pitched his voice so Santana could hear it. “This marks the border between the area controlled by Colonel Antov’s Rifles and Major Temo’s Scouts. It’s more symbolic than anything else. There hasn’t been any combat. Not yet anyway.”

“We’ll try to keep it that way,” Santana replied, as the column of T-2s snaked its way around the barricade and returned to the highway. The legionnaires were wearing long slickers over their body armor, but cold rainwater still found its way past Santana’s collar and began to trickle down his back.

This time there were no clusters of welcoming citizens. The locals were present, though. They peeked from windows or stopped what they were doing to watch the off-world troops splash past. None of them smiled or waved. Santana understood. The locals had every reason to support Temo given how important her family’s pharmaceutical plant was to the local economy. But, after months of being attacked by the Ramanthians, they had to feel a little better now that some Confed troops were on the ground. Maybe that would help to bring them around. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by a burst of static and the sound of Ponco’s voice. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. Over.”

Ponco was scouting ahead. And when Santana brought his HUD (heads-up display) up, he could see a delta marked A-2 superimposed over a map of north bay. It was about half a mile ahead. “This is Nine. Go. Over.”

“A platoon of O-Chi Scouts is blocking the road. Their PL, a lieutenant named Milly Yorty, wants to speak with you. Over.”

“She’s a good officer,” Kimbo put in from his position to Santana’s right. “But not one of Temo’s favorites. Which is a good thing in my opinion.”

Santana opened his mike. “Tell Lieutenant Yorty that I’d be happy to speak with her. We’ll be there shortly. Over.”

As the distance between the houses began to close, Santana saw gaps where dwellings had been destroyed. One of them was at least three homes wide. What had been a fortified gun battery was positioned at the center of the still-steaming rubble. It appeared to have taken a direct hit, and the crew was almost certainly dead. Probably as a result of the manner in which Santana had manipulated the situation.

He felt a sudden surge of guilt, wondered if he’d been wrong to engineer the bombardment of north bay, and what Christine would think of the strategy. She was a diplomat, but a tough one, so it was impossible to know.

Then the column began to slow and came to a complete halt as Captain Zarrella’s voice came over the platoon push. “Alpha Six to Alpha One-Six. We’re going to pause here. Have the first squad take up defensive positions. Over.”

Zarrella clearly had a good grasp of the situation, and Santana felt pleased, as Lieutenant Betz acknowledged the order. Then, as Joshi came to a stop, Kimbo’s T-2 sidled up next to him. “Would you like me to go forward, sir?” Kimbo inquired.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Santana responded. “If you were to serve as a go-between, the Scouts might conclude that the Legion is taking sides. I’d like to avoid that if possible.”

Kimbo nodded. If he felt disappointed, there was no sign of it on his face as Ponco arrived. Her rain-streaked body coasted to a stop a few feet away. “The lieutenant is waiting, sir.”

“Okay,” Santana said as he hit the harness release. “I’ll go forward on foot. Sergeant Joshi can be somewhat intimidating.”

“Who, me?” the T-2 growled innocently.

Santana grinned, jumped to the ground, and made his way past Zarrella and her T-2 to the point where a couple of olive drab ATVs blocked the road. The heavily armed vehicles looked imposing. But any one of the T-2s could have cleared them away in seconds. The lieutenant was a small rain-soaked figure who came forward to meet him as her troops looked on. She was wearing a black beret with a crossed-machete insignia on it, a glistening poncho, and jungle boots. Water splashed away from them as she stomped both feet and came to attention. The salute was crisp and perfectly executed. “Lieutenant Milly Yorty, sir!”

Santana returned the salute. “At ease, Lieutenant. I’m Major Santana. Thanks for coming out to meet us. Especially in this downpour.”

Yorty had brown hair, a round face, and wide-set eyes. Santana thought he saw relief in them. Maybe she had been expecting a fire-breathing fanatic or something. Yorty nodded hesitantly. “You’re welcome, sir. Normally, Major Temo would be here. Or Captain Omo. But they aren’t available right now.”

Santana could tell there was more. And Yorty wanted to tell him. All he had to do was ask. “I see. If you don’t mind my asking, where are your senior officers?”

Yorty’s eyes flicked away and came back again. “There was a disagreement, sir. When it became clear that the Legion had landed, some of us felt that we should report to you for orders. Others, the major included, believe the Scouts should operate independently until certain matters have been resolved.”

“Meaning Major Temo’s claim on the governorship?”

Yorty nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I see. Well, Lieutenant, here’s the situation as I see it. Governors are named by the president of the Confederacy-and must be confirmed by the Senate. That means the lieutenant governor is in charge of civilian affairs for the moment. And it’s my understanding that she resides in the city of Tal, about a thousand miles west of here. True?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s settled then. As for the Scouts, this is a time of war, which means they fall under the senior officer on O-Chi 4. And, like it or not, that’s Colonel Antov. But, as his executive officer, I can assure you that you and your troops will be treated fairly.”

“Sir, yes sir. And the others? Those who followed the major into the bush?”

“I want them to return to duty,” Santana answered. “We were sent here to tackle an important mission, and we’re going to need all the support we can get. But if Major Temo’s troops fail to report within two local rotations I will list them as deserters. And, if they attack anyone other than the Ramanthians, I’ll charge them with treason. So you might want to pass the word.”

Yorty swallowed. “Yes, sir. And Major Temo?”

“The same applies to Major Temo. Although she’s likely to face charges no matter what happens. But that won’t be up to me. Where is she anyway?”

Yorty looked at her boots and back up again. She was clearly conflicted. “May I ask what will happen if I tell you?”

“No,” Santana replied levelly. “You can’t. Please answer the question.”

There was a long moment of silence as Yorty studied her boots again. Finally, her eyes came up to meet Santana’s, and she began to talk.

It was nighttime. But, thanks to the three moons that were slowly arcing across the sky, a silvery glow pervaded the upper reaches of the forest. However, lower down, within the inky blackness that lay between the trees, nocturnal animals were locked in life-and-death battles as Ponco hovered some fifty feet above. The surface of O-Chi 4 was a dangerous place regardless, but the darkness made the cacophony of screeches, howls, and gibbering noises even more unnerving.

More than two days had passed since the landing. Roughly half of the O-Chi Scouts had reported for duty, choosing Colonel Antov and the Confederacy over the rebellious Major Temo. That was progress of a sort. But, with a group of well-armed renegades out in the bush ready to attack Baynor’s Bay at the first opportunity, Santana couldn’t go after the Ramanthians.

So with time ticking away, the decision was made to track Temo down and capture or kill her. However, first they had to close with her. And the Temo clan’s hunting lodge was up ahead. But before charging into the area with guns blazing, Ponco took a moment to look around. She had been killed twice before and had no desire to go through the process again.

Her first death had taken place when the assault boat that she and her platoon were riding in was shot down during the attempt to retake Savas Prime. Fortunately for her and a couple of other legionnaires, the navy pilot had been able to crash-land within a quarter mile of a Confed field hospital. That was when Ponco’s brain had been surgically removed from her shattered body and shipped to Adobe, along with more than twenty others.

A few days later, Ponco woke up to discover that most of her body had been left back on Savas Prime, and she was wired to a life-support system. It was a terrible shock. She wanted to cry, to sob herself to sleep, but lacked the means. A computer took note of her brain waves, administered a sedative, and put her under.

Three days later, a cheerful noncom stopped by. He offered her a job as a T-2. The other choices were to buy a civilian-style body she couldn’t afford or remain bodiless and wait. Maybe, if she and others like her were lucky, the government would grant them utilitarian spider forms as part of the much-debated veterans bill presently stalled in the Senate. Or maybe she would eventually die of old age. The choice was no choice at all.

Then, seven standard months later, Ponco had been killed all over again when a shoulder-launched missile hit the middle of her chest and exploded. Fortunately, a bio bod had had the presence of mind to find her severed head, pull her protective brain box, and hand it over to a medic. It was during the subsequent recovery process that Ponco had been invited to join military intelligence. And now, after months of additional training, she was risking her life again. How many lives do I have left? she wondered. There was no way to know. But she liked Santana. And was happy to serve under him.

Having checked the area, Ponco ghosted forward. Her sensors were on high gain and sensitive to even the slightest bit of heat, movement, or electronic activity. The problem was that, because they were set on max, her detection systems were producing a great deal of clutter. And all of it had to be evaluated. Most of the heat signatures belonged to local life-forms and could be ignored.

But when Ponco saw what looked like a string of lights hanging between two giant trees, she knew she was looking at a chain of proximity detectors that could pick up on the metal in her body, thereby distinguishing her from the local wildlife. That brought her to a full stop. Her voice was internalized and made no sound whatsoever. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. I can’t advance without triggering a chain of proximity detectors. Over.”

There was a momentary pause followed by the sound of Santana’s voice. “This is Nine… Roger that. We’re almost in position. Give us three minutes and go in hard. Take out any bio bods you see. Especially those on the elevated weapons platforms that Lieutenant Yorty warned us about. Over.”

As part of Santana’s effort to make peace between the two factions, members of both the O-Chi Rifles and Scouts had been intentionally barred from participating in the mission. And that was fine except for the fact that it left the Legion to carry the load and absorb all of the casualties. “Roger,” Ponco replied. “Three and counting. Over.”

Time seemed to slow as the recon ball allowed herself to drift in among some branches. Ponco knew that the ground-assault team had to slip past the huge X-shaped animal barriers that ringed the lodge before it could proceed. Then, as the final seconds ticked away, Ponco went on the attack.

Consistent with her orders, the Intel officer sped past the chain of proximity detectors, followed a leafy passageway into the clearing beyond, and “saw” a huge blob of heat. The elaborate tree house was located about fifty feet off the forest floor, where it was safe from even the largest predators and well positioned to repel a human ground attack. No wonder Temo had taken refuge there.

But lofty though the lodge might be, it was still vulnerable from the air. And, as a Klaxon began to bleat, Temo’s soldiers were already dying. Wooden platforms had been established high in the branches of the surrounding trees. Each supported an automatic weapon and a two-person crew. All of whom were positioned to fire on the assault team below.

Ponco’s initial shots were fired from long range as she swept into the clearing that fronted the lodge. A gunner was snatched off his platform and thrown into the darkness, quickly followed by his loader, who crashed through a succession of branches before thumping into the ground.

Then the attack became increasingly personal as Ponco passed within feet of a second crew-served weapon. The gunner shouted something incoherent as Ponco dropped a grenade at his feet and accelerated away. There was a flash of light as the resulting explosion lit up the forest, and the assault team entered the clearing. The chatter of machine guns blended with the staccato bark of assault rifles to create a hellish symphony.

Ponco couldn’t deal with all of the aerial gun platforms, however. Not and take care of her primary mission, which was to prevent Temo from escaping in the family’s private air car. The orange-red blob was sitting on a circular landing pad, adjacent to the lodge, ready for takeoff.

The defenders had Ponco in their sights by then, and two streams of tracers rose to greet the recon ball as she prepared to release a thermite bomb from her small drop bay. She only had one of the weapons, so accuracy was important. A bullet slammed into Ponco’s casing, glanced off, and whined away. But the impact was sufficient to knock the recon ball off course and send her spinning.

The tracers sought to follow her as Ponco fired her steering jets. Then, once the cyborg had regained control, she went in for the kill. The bomb fell, landed right in the middle of the open air car, and detonated. The result was a column of fire that shot straight upwards as a mixture of powdered red iron and aluminum was ignited. The air car was destroyed in a matter of seconds as Ponco entered a spiraling climb, paused a hundred feet off the ground, and looked back. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. Objective destroyed. Over.”

Santana experienced a momentary sense of satisfaction as Ponco’s report came in. But the emotion was short-lived as someone fired from above. Geysers of loam shot up all around Santana, Dietrich, and their T-2s. Thanks to his onboard computer, Joshi could pinpoint the exact spot the fire was coming from. His arm-mounted energy cannon came up and sent blips of coherent energy into the treetops. Dietrich’s T-2 joined the effort, and Santana watched as the blue blobs converged on each other.

He heard a scream, followed by a sequence of crashing noises as a severed branch fell. The limb was at least twenty-five feet long and two feet thick at the butt end. That made it large enough to crush Private Morton and his T-2. Both of whom vanished from the Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system on Santana’s HUD.

That was bad, but things were about to become worse, as the surviving cyborgs charged across the clearing and grenades fell around them. Though random, the bombardment was effective. A headless bio bod continued to ride the T-2 off to Santana’s left as an explosion blew a cyborg’s foot off. He fell, taking his rider down with him, while geysers of dirt rose all around.

Then, as Joshi began to close with the enormous tree trunk, the number of explosions started to dwindle. Santana thought he knew why. Ponco was still at work high above, as were his Naa snipers, both of whom had orders to stay back and fire on targets of opportunity.

The tree trunk that supported the lodge was at least fifty feet in diameter, and the lowest branches were twenty feet overhead. “Okay,” Santana said, as Joshi came to a halt. “This is where I get off. Watch your six.”

“Roger that,” Joshi replied. “Give me a holler when you’re ready to leave.”

Dietrich was next to him as Santana followed the trunk around to the right with his CA-10 carbine at the ready. There were two ways to reach the lodge according to Yorty. An elevator, which was sure to be off-line, and a spiral staircase that circled the tree. It would have been nice to send a T-2 up to clear the way. But the cyborgs were too big and heavy.

A few moments later, Santana and Dietrich arrived at the foot of the stairs, where a squad of bio bods was gathered. “What’s this?” Dietrich demanded harshly. “A circle jerk? The enemy is up there-not down here. Follow me and keep your heads on a swivel.”

Dietrich was carrying a drum-fed shotgun, which was ideal for close-in work. So Santana took the two slot and chinned the mike switch as they began to climb. “Zulu Nine to Zulu Seven. We’re on the stairs. Clear the way if you can. Over.”

There was no response as a grenade fell from above, hit a railing, and bounced into the gloom. That was followed by a flash of light, a loud explosion, and a series of woody thuds as pieces of shrapnel struck the tree trunk. Then came the rattle of an automatic weapon, which Dietrich answered with three blasts from his shotgun.

The firing stopped, and two bodies were sprawled on the blood-slicked platform when Santana arrived. He followed Dietrich as the noncom led him upwards. It was a steep climb, and the officer was struggling to catch his breath when Ponco’s voice sounded in his helmet. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. I think I have the target located. Mark my position. Over.”

Santana took a moment to scan the ITC. The recon ball was about fifteen feet above and south of the main trunk. “Roger that… We’re on the way. Over.”

Dietrich heard, continued to lead the way upwards, and arrived on a generously proportioned observation deck moments later. A tribarreled minigun had been set up there. But, judging from the dead bodies scattered about, either Ponco or one of the snipers had been able to silence the weapon.

The darkened lodge was on their left as they followed the deck to a suspended walkway. The bridge was supported by cables fastened to the branches above and started to sway as the legionnaires crossed it. Santana was forced to let his weapon dangle from its sling so that he could get a firm grip on the side ropes. The ITC system was still displayed on his HUD, and he could see Ponco’s Z-7 marker pulsing on and off about fifty feet in front of him. Major Temo was within his grasp. Or so it seemed until Ponco shouted a warning, a powerful light flooded the area, and a windstorm descended on them.

“It’s a transport!” Dietrich shouted. “They’re coming for Temo.” And as Santana looked up into the dazzling spotlight, he realized that the noncom was correct. A ship was about to rescue Temo. But how could that be? The local militia had one cargo vessel, and it was called The Hangar Queen for a reason. But what if…

“Watch out… I think the ship is Ramanthian,” Ponco said over the radio. Suddenly, fire lashed down from above, the rope bridge parted, and Santana began to fall.