A fighting chance

7

PLANET O-CHI 4, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Two days had passed since the attack on Baynor’s Bay. It was cloudy, a gentle rain was misting the air, and Santana welcomed it. Hopefully the bad weather would keep the Ramanthian fighters on the ground. Santana, Dietrich, and their T-2s watched from the top of a low rise as the O-Chi Raiders trooped through a coffee plantation and entered the verdant jungle beyond. Santana knew that the forest was going to be both a curse and a blessing during the days ahead. A curse because he would have to fight the planet before he could battle the bugs.

But the forest was a blessing as well. Because even though the enemy knew where the battalion was headed, it would be difficult to spot. Or, as Kimbo put it, “Finding us will be like looking for a blood tick in a dog’s fur.” Which was true although the Ramanthians weren’t stupid and would be able to narrow the search.

Rona-Sa, Zarrella, and Alpha company had already passed the knoll by then. But as Bravo Company drew even with Santana, he had an opportunity to inspect Kimbo’s command. A civilian earthmover led the way, blade up and ready to cut a path through the forest. It was loaded with a hodgepodge of gear, and two soldiers were perched behind the driver, ready to defend her from the local wildlife should any attack from above. Santana didn’t think the tractors would make it all the way to the objective. But even a primitive trail would be welcome and make the initial part of the journey easier on his troops.

Sergeant Marlo Lopez came next. Servos whined with each step, her pods made a thumping sound as they made contact with the ground, and the acrid odor of ozone followed wherever she went. Like the other quads, Lopez was burdened with a full load of weapons, food, and ammo, most of which had been provided by the militia. A real blessing since most of the Legion’s supplies was lost when the TACBASE had exploded.

There were two reasons to place the quads at the front of each company. The first was their ability to trample everything except the largest trees. And that would become very important if the battalion had to abandon the tractors. The second was that when it came to firepower, there was nothing on O-Chi 4 that was a match for the giant quadrupeds. In the case of an ambush, the lead cyborg would be able to fend the enemy off until infantry came forward to provide support. The idea was to rotate the companies every couple of hours so that each got its fair share of jungle busting.

Kimbo passed the rise next. He was mounted on a T-2 who was supposed to protect the company commander and provide him with mobility. The first, second, and third platoons followed. Santana was pleased to see the proper intervals between them. And judging from the marching ditty they were chanting, morale was good.

But as the third tractor appeared, followed by a quad named Jiro Yakumo, things took a turn for the worse. Captain Ryley was mounted on a T-2. But unlike his peers, who had distributed their T-2s at regular intervals along the length of the column, Ryley had surrounded himself with seven cyborgs. All carrying bio bods of various ranks.

Ryley nodded as he rode past and Santana nodded in return. When Santana spoke with Dietrich, it was over a private link. “Tell me something, Sergeant Major… Am I mistaken? Or are all of the people on those T-2s ex-members of the O-Chi Scouts?”

“You’re correct, sir,” Dietrich replied gravely. “It looks as though Captain Ryley thinks that his friends should ride rather than walk.”

Santana felt a sense of disappointment. It was the sort of favoritism that was not only glaringly obvious but would soon stir resentment among the ranks. Something would have to be done. And that wasn’t the worst of it. As the rest of Charlie Company trooped past, Santana saw that Ryley’s first platoon was so bunched up it would take heavy casualties in a grenade attack. Meanwhile, the third platoon was so strung out that there were a hundred feet between some of them. And that was a significant problem since they were supposed to guard the fuel truck that brought up the rear and protect the column’s six. Not Ryley’s fault personally, but a sign of laxness since it was his responsibility to keep a watchful eye on his officers. “Go have a word with the PL,” Santana said, knowing Dietrich had the same concerns he did. “Explain the importance of walking drag and tell her to close it up.”

Dietrich nodded. “Yes, sir.” His T-2 left tracks in the mud as the rain fell harder. Santana looked up. The sun was little more than a yellow smear in the gray sky. The long march had begun.

The first day passed without major incident. Knowing that it would take extra time to set up the first encampment and having been advised that night fell quickly in the forest, Santana ordered a halt in midafternoon. With both the Ramanthians and wild animals to worry about, Santana knew it was important to construct a marching fortress each night. Given the variations in terrain, no two camps would be alike. But, wherever possible, the sites were to be located on high ground, both to provide good drainage in the case of a torrential downpour and to provide the battalion with a tactical advantage if it was attacked.

Once the boundaries of the encampment had been staked out and approved by Rona-Sa, the next step was to bulldoze a free-fire zone that would prevent attackers from getting too close without being seen. After a sufficient swath of jungle had been cleared, it was time to excavate a deep ditch around the encampment itself. The loose dirt was placed inside the newly created moat to create a berm. Quads were assigned to anchor three corners of the fort, and a force of three T-2s was sent to protect the fourth.

Two platoons of bio bods were to be on duty at all times and expected to stand two-hour watches. That meant most members of the battalion would get six hours of sleep one day followed by eight the next, a strategy that ensured there would always be enough people on duty to repel a sudden attack.

That was the plan. But just as Santana had anticipated, the battalion’s first attempt to implement it took nearly three hours. Twice the length of time it should have taken given the fact that the unit had heavy equipment to dig the surrounding ditch.

Rona-Sa, who was responsible for the process, was anything but pleased. The two officers were standing outside the command tent at the center of the compound as fighting positions were excavated and pop-up tents were deployed. “I’m sorry, sir,” the Hudathan said. “Tomorrow we will cut the time by at least an hour.”

Santana nodded. “That would be wonderful. But even a half-hour improvement would be acceptable. Let’s try to get the time down to an hour and a half during the next three days. Practice makes perfect.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And please pass the word. I would like all of the officers and senior noncoms who aren’t on duty to gather in the command tent at 1900 hours. Pass the word.”

“Sir.”

Rather than eat by himself, or with his staff, Santana chose to roam the compound with empty mess kit in hand, mooching off the various units. Almost all of the squads had pooled their rations and added a variety of spices and other special ingredients to create communal meals. And, without exception, they were pleased to have Santana stop by.

The process gave Santana not only a feel for morale but an opportunity to put names with faces and occasionally pick up an interesting tidbit or two. Like the fact that some of the troops had seen enormous three-toed footprints in the mud next to a stream-and others were suffering from what they called “crotch rot.” It was also apparent that Captain Ryley’s troops were gathered together according to what outfit they had been pulled from rather than the squad they were assigned to.

Having completed the rounds, Santana made his way past the earthmovers and their fuel truck to the dimly lit command tent. Two of O-Chi 4’s three moons were partially visible through the interwoven branches above. An occasional howl could be heard from deep within the forest, and some rather large insects were flitting about. Santana batted at one of them as he entered the hab’s air lock and pushed through into the larger chamber beyond.

Thanks to Corporal Colby, the necessary preparations had already been made. So all Santana had to do was gather his thoughts as the battalion’s officers and senior noncoms began to arrive. Once all of them had taken their seats on equipment cases, crates, and boxes, the meeting got under way. “We made some good progress today,” Santana began. “But we’ll need to increase the pace tomorrow-and cut the time required to set up camp. So let your people know. The faster they put everything together, the more downtime they’ll have.

“But that isn’t why we’re meeting tonight,” Santana said as he let his eyes roam the faces around him. “All of you know why we’re here. And that’s to take out the STS cannon on top of a mountain called Headstone. But what you may not be aware of is the fact that there are two ways to get the job done. With more on that, I’m going to hand the presentation off to Lieutenant Ponco. Lieutenant?”

There was a humming sound as Ponco rose and glided forward to hover a few feet to Santana’s right. Besides serving as the battalion’s S-2, Ponco was in charge of a small group of men and women designated as scouts. And, thanks to her ability to fly through the treetops, she could see things that no one else could. It was a capability for which all of the officers and senior noncoms were grateful.

“As you might imagine,” Ponco began in her usual matter-of-fact manner, “an STS cannon requires a lot of power. That’s why the bugs drove a thermal tap down to access the heat available in the planet’s mantle. But rather than drill down through Headstone, which would have made the task that much more difficult, they chose a site located about fifteen miles west of the mountain. And according to information gathered by Colonel Antov and passed along to us through Captain Kimbo-the process of trenching, laying conduit, and backfilling the ditch was well under way three weeks ago. We don’t have much imagery since the chits own such a large section of the sky, but here’s a peek at the site.”

Ponco deployed a tool arm, aimed a remote at the black box positioned on the floor in front of her, and pressed a button. A holo blossomed above the box and began to rotate. The picture had been snapped from the edge of space and enhanced. The audience could see the section of raw earth where the forest had been cleared away, the moatlike defensive ditch, and the carefully placed weapons emplacements. A com mast, a landing pad, and the top of what might have been a subsurface installation were visible as well. So was a trench that extended out from the compound and ran through the forest like an unhealed scar.

“So there you have it,” Santana said, as the image imploded. “At first glance, the tap looks like it would be easier to attack than Headstone. Of course, all of the important stuff is buried Ramanthian style-so it’s likely to be more difficult than it looks. The bugs are very good at building underground habitats as all of you know.

“At this point, we’re far enough away that we could go for either target. So I’d be interested in your opinions. Or, put another way, which pile of shit would you like to step in first?”

That got a laugh, just as it was intended to, and the discussion began. It went on for twenty minutes or so. Most of the debate centered around a very important question: Was the geothermal tap the only source of power for the cannon? Or had the Ramanthian engineers installed a fusion plant or something similar on Headstone? If so, the bugs might be able to fire a shot or two even if the tap had been destroyed.

Although he had invited his subordinates to discuss the matter, Santana had been careful to reserve the final decision for himself. So once all of the viewpoints were aired, he stepped in. “Thank you for the lively discussion. It’s my view that we have to go after Headstone because even a couple of shots fired at ships clustered around the O-Chi jump point could be disastrous. But now that you have considered the matter, you will be ready to answer questions from your troops. I think you’ll agree that they deserve to know what we’re doing and why. Questions? No? Then I’ll see you at 0500. Let’s see if we can break camp more efficiently than we made it. Captain Ryley… A moment of your time please.”

Ryley, who was already on his feet, looked surprised. Some of his subordinates lingered, as if to stay with him, but left after Santana frowned at them. Ryley was a little over six feet tall. He had dark hair, beady eyes, and a sensual mouth.

According to what Santana had heard from others, Ryley was the well-connected son of a wealthy family who had been hired straight out of college and sent to O-Chi 4 to learn the pharmaceutical business from the ground up. Then, when the war began in earnest, Ryley had enrolled in the militia to avoid the draft back home. Once Earth fell to the Ramanthians, he was trapped on O-Chi 4 and couldn’t get off-planet when the bugs landed. A not-altogether-complimentary biography.

However, on the flip side, Ryley was said to be intelligent and had distinguished himself during the failed assault on Headstone. As a result, he had won both a planetary defense medal and a field promotion prior to Temo’s attempt to seize control of O-Chi 4’s government. Plus, rather than stay with her, he had chosen to support the existing power structure. “Have a seat,” Santana said, as the hab emptied out. “How are things going?”

“Fine, sir. Thank you.”

Judging from the look in his eyes, Ryley was wary and a bit suspicious. Why had he been singled out? Santana, who had been a captain only months before, understood how the other man felt. “Good. Captain Rona-Sa tells me that your people did a good job breaking trail today.”

Ryley seemed to relax a bit. “Some of us have had quite a bit of experience, sir.”

Was Ryley’s comment a simple statement of fact? Or a slap at the off-world troops and the locals from south bay? There was no way to know. Santana nodded. “Yes, of course. Tell me something. I noticed that you chose to place all of your T-2s at the front of your column. I wondered why.”

Ryley was immediately defensive. “I thought we were free to run our companies as we see fit.”

“Within certain parameters, yes,” Santana said mildly. “Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to answer my question.”

Ryley shrugged. “The T-2s are fast and heavily armed. So they constitute the perfect fast-reaction force.”

It was a reasonable answer. Even though it was Santana’s belief that the cyborgs should be stationed at regular intervals throughout the column where they could provide immediate fire support. “I see. And the bio bods assigned to ride them? I noticed that all of them were ex-Scouts.”

Resentment flashed in Ryley’s eyes. “Is that what this is about? I chose those individuals I believed to be best qualified.”

“And that makes sense,” Santana replied. “Up to a point. However, what if your most qualified people are wounded or killed? Riding a T-2 takes some getting used to. Others must be ready to step in. Plus, there are appearances to consider. Some might look at the situation and come to the conclusion that you have favorites. That would be bad for morale.”

“Someone?” Ryley demanded resentfully. “Or you?”

The conversation was not going well. In fact, Ryley’s combative manner could only be described as disrespectful verging on insubordinate, something Santana wouldn’t tolerate. He frowned. “Unfortunately, your comments serve to confirm my worst fears. Beginning tomorrow you will integrate the T-2s into the column and rotate the bio bods assigned to ride them. And, when you address me, you will use the honorific ‘sir.’ Understood?”

Ryley stood. His face was flushed with anger. “Yes, sir. Am I free to go?”

“Dismissed.”

Ryley did a neat about-face and marched to the lock. Moments later, he was gone. Santana heard a stir and turned to see Dietrich emerge from the walled-off cubicle that he shared with Colby. “That one looks like trouble, sir.”

Santana frowned. “You were listening?”

Dietrich nodded. “Of course.”

“Shouldn’t you mind your own business?”

A smile appeared on Dietrich’s cadaverous face. “I was.”

The proximity alarms that had been placed around the perimeter were triggered by animals during the night-and one soldier managed to trip and take a tumble into the defensive ditch. A mishap that would dog him for days if not weeks.

Breaking camp was always easier than making it. So once the troops were fed and the pop-up tents came down, it was only thirty minutes before the march resumed. Unfortunately, the weather had improved, and as Joshi carried Santana up to the head of the column, he knew it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthian aerospace fighters found them. All the chits had to do was open a map and draw a straight line from Headstone to Baynor’s Bay-knowing that the Confederate force would have to be within one or two degrees of it.

Fortunately, the enemy didn’t have enough arms, legs, and beaks to launch a long-distance counterattack and work on the STS cannon at the same time. So the battalion was reasonably safe from a ground attack until it was a lot closer to Headstone.

Meanwhile, Bravo company’s tractor roared loudly as its fifteen-foot-wide blade cut a swath through the thick undergrowth and threw waves of brown soil to either side. The crawler was about thirty feet long, fifteen feet wide, and thirteen feet high. That was large but not big enough to fell the forest giants that towered more than three hundred feet in the air. As a result, the temporary road snaked back and forth as it followed the path of least resistance in a consistently southeasterly direction.

The march was pleasant at first. The air was cool, birds sang from the trees, and the terrain was mostly flat. But as the sun rose higher in the sky and the humid air grew warmer, people began to tire. And what had been a pleasant walk was transformed into a mind-numbing trudge. A constant effort was required to keep the column moving, while noncoms worked to maintain the correct intervals and medics dealt with foot problems.

Adding to the difficulty was the need to conduct occasional drills. Because the question wasn’t if they would be attacked but when. All of which kept Santana and his officers busy roaming the length of the column. And that was where Santana was, about halfway back, watching a tech repair a T-2’s knee servo, when Ponco’s voice flooded his helmet. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. We have a casualty. One of my scouts is down. Over.”

Santana frowned. “This is Nine. Was it due to an accident? Or enemy fire? Over.”

“The latter… But the bugs weren’t involved. Over.”

“I’ll come forward,” Santana replied. “Keep your eyes peeled. Over.”

Charlie Company had come to a halt, and Rona-Sa was already on the scene when Santana and Joshi arrived. Puffs of dust rose as Santana’s boots hit the ground. Ponco glided in to receive him. “It was Atkins, sir. He was about a hundred yards in front of the tractor, and I was operating at treetop level. We were on the team push, and he was telling me about something he had found when the transmission was cut off in midsentence. That’s when I came down to investigate. He was dead by the time I arrived.”

Santana nodded. “Show me.” Then, turning to Rona-Sa, he said, “Put the word out. The rest of the battalion will take a fifteen-minute break. Even-numbered platoons will remain on high alert.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Sergeant Joshi… Please keep your sensors on max and stay close.”

With the T-2 bringing up the rear, Santana followed Ponco past the yellow tractor and into the bush. A trail of broken twigs and occasional boot prints led to a small, sun-dappled clearing. That was where Atkins lay, facedown in front of a tree, to which an oval wickerwork container was attached. As Santana approached the body, the cause of death was readily apparent. Bright blue feathers were attached to the six-inch-long dart that had penetrated the base of the soldier’s skull. “Poison?”

“Probably,” Ponco agreed. “I doubt the tip is more than three inches long. But look at where it went in. Below the edge of his helmet but just above his armor. Either the killer was lucky or an extremely good shot.”

“I’d put my money on the second possibility,” Santana said grimly. “I know there are indigs in the forest. Thousands of ’em. And you’d have to be a good shot to survive out here. What’s the thing on the tree?”

“I can answer that,” Ryley answered, as he arrived on foot. “If you look closely, you’ll see a hand-carved spirit doll cradled inside. The sticks use them to mark territorial borders. Whenever we send teams out into the bush to gather raw materials, we have to pay the bastards off. This is what happens if you fail to do so. Our scientists turned the neurotoxin used for those darts into some very profitable products by the way.”

“Thank God for that,” Santana said sarcastically. “Put the body in a cool pack and load it on a quad. We’ll hold a burial service tonight.”

Santana kept the battalion moving, and the hours dragged by. The mood had changed. The forest felt oppressive. It was like a green hand that could close and squeeze the life out of them as the soldiers scanned the thick foliage above and kept their body armor zipped tight. They were scared, and that was a good thing so long as it didn’t get out of hand. “Creative paranoia,” was how Rona-Sa referred to it, and he should know, since Hudathans were hardwired for it. That was one of the primary reasons why his people had battled the Confederacy in the past.

Eventually, the battalion came to a river that, unlike the many streams and creeks encountered thus far, was too deep for the bio bods to wade through. Plus, the water was moving quickly enough to cause eddies and splash the boulders that poked up here and there.

Rather than take the time to fell trees and build a bridge, or construct a raft, Santana elected to ferry his troops across the barrier using quads, T-2s, and one-way trips on the tractors. Though time-consuming, the operation went fairly well.

The problem was the fuel truck. It lacked the clearance required to cross the river on its own and was too large for the quads. Even if one of them had been empty, which wasn’t the case. They could leave the vehicle behind, but Santana wanted to keep the crawlers operational for as long as possible, and they required fuel. So what to do?

Santana and a group of his officers were standing next to the river gazing at the truck when Captain Ryley offered a possible answer. The officer had to raise his voice in order to be heard over the roar of the river. “What we do,” he said in an obvious reference to Temo Pharmaceuticals, “is to strap bola logs to both sides of a vehicle and winch it over. Bola trees are strong but light. And they have thousands of air-filled cells inside their trunks.”

“Okay, Captain. Make it happen. And the faster the better.”

To his credit, Ryley was able to execute his plan in record time by ordering a T-2 to cut down a nearby bola tree with her energy cannon. The trunk was delimbed and sliced into sections the same way. Then, by using more cyborgs to drag the logs into place, Ryley was able to complete all of his preparations in half an hour.

Because of the strong current, Santana insisted on attaching cables to both ends of the truck so that it wouldn’t be swept downstream, where it would slam up against the rocky riverbank. There was a scary moment when the fueler was about halfway across the river and a log appeared upstream. It was seemingly aimed at the truck. But a current jerked it sideways, and the troops cheered as the would-be battering ram slid past the back end of the tanker with only a foot to spare. That was when Santana exhaled and was surprised to learn that he’d been holding his breath.

Twenty minutes later, the battalion was snaking its way between a series of widely spaced low-lying hills when Santana heard Ponco’s now-familiar voice. Despite the fact that it was computer-generated, Santana could hear the tension in it. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. I’m five miles southwest of your position, and I can see a Ramanthian drone quartering the area ahead of me. Over.”

Santana swore softly and opened his mike. “Roger that, Seven. You have a decoy aboard, right? Over.”

“Affirmative. Over.”

“Drop it a couple of miles south and turn it on. Over.”

“Understood. Over.”

The decoy was designed to put out a steady stream of bogus radio transmissions similar to what a battalion of troops could be expected to produce. Then, assuming the bugs went after the decoy rather than the battalion itself, Santana would have one or two days of grace during which to move the unit forward.

But what if the strategy didn’t work? And the chits were able to locate the real target? That was Santana’s worst nightmare. Because an air attack on massed troops would produce dozens if not hundreds of casualties. Even with AA fire from the T-2 and quads. So Santana issued a new set of orders. “This is Zulu Nine. Alpha Nine will break north, Bravo Nine will break south, and Charlie Nine will hold position. Cyborgs will link up via the ITC and prepare to provide coordinated antiaircraft fire. The battalion will maintain radio silence until further notice. Over.”

By breaking the battalion into three separate units and giving them time to prepare, Santana hoped to minimize casualties if the chits realized what was going on. Would his strategy work? Only time would tell.

The drills paid off as Zarrella and Kimbo led their respective companies into the bush and began to set up defensive positions. Santana followed Bravo Company, being closest to it as the evolution began, and watched approvingly as Kimbo built his defenses around Sergeant Marlo Lopez and her considerable weaponry.

There was a potential problem, however, and that was the screen of interlocking foliage directly overhead. It would help hide the quad from the air-but it would prevent her from firing her surface-to-air missiles as well since many of the branches were large enough to block the missiles, knock them off course, or cause them to detonate prematurely. The T-2s could use their energy cannons to create an opening, of course. Which to choose? Having given the matter some thought, Santana chose concealment over offensive capability and informed Zarrella and Ryley of his decision. That meant there was even more riding on the electronic decoy.

Kimbo and his people were busy digging defensive fighting positions by then. The pits would offer Bravo Company some protection in the case of either an air or ground attack. Rather than stand around and watch, Santana jumped to the ground and made his way over to where a squad was hard at work. “Can someone lend me a shovel? I could use some exercise.” A corporal grinned, gave Santana an excavating tool, and went to work beside him.

Dietrich tried to remember if he’d seen another officer do something similar, couldn’t, and dropped to the ground. That’s the problem with war, the noncom thought to himself. There’s too much digging.

As the battalion dug in, Ponco weaved her way through the sun-splashed treetops, heading south as quickly as she could. The drone was still visible on her sensors though still too far away to see with a vid cam. And based on the precise nature of the aircraft’s movements-it appeared that a very methodical bug was piloting it. Ponco could imagine the Ramanthian, sitting in front of a console hundreds of miles away, guiding the airborne robot through a standard search grid.

Her job was to trick the bastard. And to do that, the recon ball would need to use some finesse. That meant letting the chit discover the bogus battalion rather than simply plopping the decoy down and turning it on. Because if what “looked” like a battalion of troops suddenly appeared out of nowhere, the operator would know he was being scammed. So Ponco had to pull up sooner than she would have liked, spiral down to the ground, and drop the decoy onto the forest floor below.

Then it was time to climb and wend her way back toward the battalion before activating the decoy. A steady tone indicated that the unit was operational. That was Ponco’s cue to pause, take cover in the foliage near the top of a tall tree, and wait to see what would happen.

A good ten minutes passed before the silvery drone suddenly broke away from its back-and-forth search pattern to circle the decoy. The robot was visible, but just barely, on high magnification. Ponco would have smiled had she been able to do so. The Ramanthian pilot was excited by then and busy telling his superiors how smart he was. So would they bite? The next fifteen minutes would tell.

Rather than continue to hover, Ponco searched for a spot to perch and found one where a sturdy limb split into two smaller branches. The drone was still circling-and that was a good sign. Because there was no reason for the scout plane to linger unless the Ramanthians were hooked. And it wasn’t long before two fighters appeared out of the south. They circled the area where the decoy was located and began their runs. They came in low, released canisters from under their wings, and accelerated away as the fuel bombs exploded.

A raging red-orange firestorm rolled over the jungle like a wave hitting a beach. Those trees that weren’t incinerated soon began to burn. The flames spread via interlocking branches, and it wasn’t long before an enormous pall of smoke rose to throw a dark shadow over the land.

Ponco’s first reaction was one of jubilation because the ruse had been successful. But that emotion was soon replaced by a growing sense of concern as thousands of birds rose from the foliage round the fire and flapped in every direction. Some were in flocks, others by themselves, all looking for safety.

And that raised a very important question. If thousands of birds had been displaced by the fire, what about animals? Ponco knew that the battalion was supposed to maintain radio silence. But this was important. Very important. So she opened a link and was careful to keep her message brief. “This is Zulu Seven to all units. The bugs went for it, but the fuel bombs they dropped set the forest on fire. Thousands of panicked animals could be headed your way. Over.”

Santana was still in the process of absorbing Ponco’s report when a swarm of small animals poured out of the undergrowth to the south of Bravo Company’s position and surged into the clearing. They made all sorts of noises and scurried in every direction. Some of the soldiers opened fire but stopped when Kimbo shouted at them. “Hold your fire! Save your ammo for the big boys. They’re on their way.”

Kimbo was a local and knew what he was talking about. It was only a matter of seconds before the first velocipods burst out of the underbrush and rushed Bravo Company. The quad’s minigun roared as it sprayed thousands of rounds into the surrounding forest. Many of the charging reptiles were torn apart, along with bushes, trees, and the ground itself, as the hail of bullets struck. But there were hundreds of targets, and some of the fleet-footed velocipods managed to make it through the curtain of lead.

The company’s preparations began to pay off as Kimbo hollered, “Fire!” and the troops on the south side of the defensive circle let loose with crew-served machine guns, grenade launchers, and assault rifles. Santana stood shoulder to shoulder with Dietrich and a burly platoon sergeant as he fired short well-aimed bursts from his carbine.

Santana saw his bullets hit one of the yellow-eyed monsters and felt a stab of fear as it kept on coming. What was it Antov had said? Anything less than a. 50-caliber bullet pisses them off? Something like that. Fortunately, lots of smaller-caliber bullets were effective. The velocipod stumbled and fell nose down. Forward momentum carried it all the way to the edge of Kimbo’s fighting position where he put another bullet into the beast’s head.

Then the earth began to shake as one of the locals yelled, “Here come the crushers!”

“Lopez will engage if necessary,” Kimbo shouted over the company push. “Everyone else will cease fire. Get down and stay down.”

The order didn’t make sense. Not to Santana. And he was about to override Kimbo when lesser trees began to shatter and fall, fearsome screeches were heard, and the first triturator appeared. It was at least twenty feet tall and covered with overlapping sections of loose shell. The protective plates made a wild clattering sound as the behemoth lumbered north. Unlike the carnivorous velocipods, it was an herbivore and entirely focused on escaping to the north.

Now Santana understood why Kimbo had given the orders he had and realized that an off-worlder like Zarrella might make the mistake of opening fire on the crushers. A cloud of dust rose as a herd of the gigantic beasts thundered through the clearing, and Santana made contact with Alpha and Charlie Companies.

A second wave of animals, including a scattering of velocipods, followed. But Bravo Company was ready, and when the exodus finally came to an end, Santana was pleased to learn that with the exception of a fatality in Alpha Company and half a dozen minor injuries, the battalion had emerged unscathed. Not so the forest, however, which continued to burn. There had been casualties-and O-Chi 4 was one of them.