By force of arms

Chapter 5

Even the final decision of a war is not to be regarded as absolute. The conquered nation often sees it as only a passing evil, to be repaired in after times by political combinations. Karl von Clausewitz

On War

Standard year 1832

Planet Hudatha (Protectorate), the Confederacy of Sentient Beings The packet ship Mercury dropped into orbit, offered a burst of code, and waited for the appropriate response.Battle station Victory, one of four such structures constructed immediately after the last Hudathan war, hung like a dark omen over the planet below. One of the vessel’s many computers checked, confirmed the newly arrived ship’s identity, and gave the necessary permissions. The Mercury’s control room was too small to accommodate visitors—but a viewscreen filled one of the wardroom’s four bulkheads. Governor, now Envoy Sergi ChienChu watched with keen interest as the battle station grew to fill the smaller vessel’s screen. At the conclusion of the last war, he had played a role in the seemingly endless design process that led up to the Victory’s construction. So, in spite of the fact that he’d never seen the finished product before, the industrialist recognized the spherical shape as well as the heavy duty weapons mounts and the other installations common to Monitor class warships. Because, for all her size, the battle station was capable of movement, had to be capable of movement, given the complex interplay of gravitational forces associated with Hudatha and her Jovian binary. The battle station Triumph, now obscured by the planet itself, had nearly been destroyed during the mutiny while Victory and two other platforms remained loyal. A matter of no small importance lest the Hudathans escape.

ChienChu thought of the Monitor class ships as something akin to old-fashioned corks, the kind used to keep mythical genies trapped within their bottles. Now it was he who proposed to release them. Was he correct in wanting to do so? Or just terribly naive?

But the packet ship bore two passengers . . . and as the Victory grew larger and the landing bay opened to receive them, the second had some very different thoughts. War Commander, now Ambassador DomaSa looked out on what appeared to him as nothing less than a mechanical monster, a machine that could sterilize the surface of the planet below. The fact that his people had actually perpetrated such horrors on others, had reduced entire worlds to little more than radioactive slag, made no difference whatsoever. This was unjust, this was unfair, this must end.

The Victory’s cavernous landing bay swallowed the Mercury as if she were little more than a snack. ChienChu watched with considerable interest as the packet ship followed a bright orange robodrone down the center of a blast-scarred deck and toward the area reserved for transient vessels. Here was a significant portion of the Confederacy’s remaining strength, resident in row after row of sleek two-seat fighters and squadrons of boxy assault vessels. None of which could be used against the Sheen lest the genie escape. Who was truly captive? The industrialist wondered. The Hudathans? Or the forces left to watch them?

There was a noticeable bump as the packet ship touched down. All manner of maintenance droids, robo hoses and other automated equipment rolled, slithered, and swung into action. The Mercury would be refueled, provisioned, and relaunched in less than six hours.

DomaSa struggled into some standard issue Hudathan space armor. ChienChu thanked the Mercury’s four person crew and hauled his duffel bag to the lock. It took three minutes to cycle through. Self-propelled stairs stood waiting, along with a spacesuited lieutenant commander and two ratings. She saluted, and her voice came over ChienChu’s onboard multi-freq corn unit. “Welcome aboard. Admiral. My name is Nidifer. We received orders to dispense with the side party. I hope that was correct.”

ChienChu returned the salute and smiled. “Yes, thank you. Your people have enough to do... Let’s save the ceremony for real admirals Please allow me to introduce Ambassador Hiween DomaSa.”

The naval officer bowed to the extent that the space armor would allow her to do so. “Welcome aboard. Ambassador. My name is Nidifer, Lieutenant Commander Nidifer. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please follow me.”

It took the better part of fifteen minutes to cross the busy flight deck, enter the VIP lock, and cycle through. The Victory’s commanding officer was waiting to greet them. He was tall and thin, and looked like a skeleton brought to life. He was the real thing, meaning an officer who had graduated from the academy, and wore two stars. His hand was hard and bony. “Admiral ChienChu ... Ambassador DomaSa... welcome aboard. Admiral Kagan at your service. Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you ... but one of our shuttles lost power. A tug is bringing her in. I thought we’d give you a chance to stow your gear and gather in my cabin. Sound okay to you?”

The visitors assured him that it did. and little more than thirty minutes later the visitors arrived in Kagan’s cabin. The Victory was considered a hardship post, which meant that extra money had been spent to make the ship more livable. Wood paneling lined the bulkheads, backlit shelving held some of the art objects the naval officer had collected during his years of service, and the furniture was worn but comfortable. The admiral gestured toward some chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

DomaSa chose a chair backed by a bulkhead, knew it had been placed there for his comfort, and felt a little better.

Refreshments were offered, both guests refused, and Kagan looked from one to the other. He was curious and let it show. “So? What can I do for you?”

ChienChu gestured toward the planet that hung beyond the view port. “First we’d like a briefing, you know, surface conditions, intel reports, whatever you’ve got. Then we’ll need some transport.” He looked at DomaSa. ‘That should cover it.”

Kagan felt a rising sense of anger and fought to control it. Here he was, sitting on what amounted to a time bomb, while some half-baked has been thought up ways to waste his resources. But the bastard had pull, the kind of gees that could crush a there two-star, and the officer forced a smile. “Yes, of course. I’ll arrange for the briefing. But that’s as far as I can go. The ambassador isn’t cleared to receive military intelligence. As for the trip, well, Hudathan nationals can return to the surface whenever they choose, but you will have to remain in orbit. Or return with the There—the choice is up to you.”

One of the things ChienChu liked about his status as a cyborg was the fact that when he ordered his face to remain blank it actually did so. “I’m sorry. Admiral. I forgot to present my credentials. Perhaps you would be so kind as to review them.”

The cyborg withdrew a small case from his coat pocket and gave it over. The naval officer inspected the seal, applied his thumb to the print-sensitive pad, and saw the lid pop open. A disk nestled in a plastic holder. Kagan took the disk, excused himself, and entered the neighboring office. He was back three minutes later. His face was pale. The words sounded stiff and formal. “I am to place myself under your command for the duration of your stay, render all possible assistance, and keep the nature of your mission secret.” He looked down into ChienChu’s synthetic eyes. The resentment was clear to see.

“What may I ask is the nature of your mission?”

ChienChu smiled in an effort to put the man at ease. “Ambassador DomaSa and I are here to examine the feasibility of integrating certain branches of the Hudathan military into the Confederacy’s armed forces.”

A look of disbelief came over Admiral Kagan*s face, and he practically fell into his chair. His voice was thick with emotion. This was a joke. It had to be. “Surely, you jest.”

“No,” the cyborg assured him calmly. “Nothing could be more serious.”

The snow, which had been falling throughout the night, stopped, the sun came out, and the temperature soared to eighty. All before noon. Just another day on Hudatha. Legion Captain Augustus North warned the sentries that he was coming out, palmed the hatch, and waited for it to whir up and out of the way. They still had power, something of a miracle after months on the surface, but for how much longer? A week? A month? Maybe, if the tech heads could keep the fusion generator running, and the ridge heads allowed them to live.

The officer squinted into the glare, stepped out into the slush, and returned the cyborg’s salute. What remained of the battalion included four quads, plus thirty-six Trooper IF’s, down from twelve quads and seventy-two Trooper IF’s the day of the crash.

North turned, eyed the mountain of half-slagged metal, and started to climb. There were plenty of sharp edges where a wide variety of munitions had struck so it paid to be careful. Medical supplies were running low—and the doc was hard-pressed to patch people up.

The insanity had originated on the Triumph more than three months before. A cadre of mutineers, led by Major Pinchett, North’s commanding officer, received confirmation that the mutiny was under way, and took control of the ship’s bridge. Then, more than a little full of themselves, they had called on the rest of the battle stations to surrender.

The Victory, under the command of Admiral Kagan, along with the Celebration and the Jubilant had attacked their sister ship with a vengeance. The mutineers put up stiff resistance, and did pretty well for a while, but never stood a chance. Pinchett offered to surrender, but Kagan refused to listen, and the pounding went on.

North would never forget missile after missile slamming into the monitor’s hull, the steady bleat of battle klaxons, the smell of his space armor, people running down corridors, and Hudatha hanging above. The weird thing was that North had never been asked to join the mutiny .. . and wasn’t sure how he would have reacted. Lord knew there was reason, starting with the cutbacks, the way ex-soldiers were left to beg in the streets, and what could only be described as a pathetic state of readiness. But mutiny?

No, it didn’t seem right. There was no way to justify what Kagan did, though, pounding the T to scrap, and destroying each life pod within seconds after launch. The admiral saw the capsules as bacteria, as the manifestation of a horrible disease, to which no mercy could be shown. That’s when North, with help from a loyalist naval officer, loaded the freighter with troops and tried to escape. They didn’t get far.

Kagan caught the ship shortly after it left the Triumph’s launch bay, scored dozens of direct hits on the lightly armored vessel, and ignored their pleas for help.

Damaged, and with no possibility of escape, the freighter had fallen toward Hudatha’s surface. It was a miracle that anyone had survived, but a naval officer, a woman named Borkna, knew her stuff and managed to pancake in.

The transport skidded for the better part of two miles before running into a small hill. Not just any hill, but a hill with what remained of a castle on top, and walls on which many lives had been spent. The kind the Hudathans had spent hundreds if not thousands of years fighting each other for. Now, with the hull snuggled up against old stone walls, and both covered with patches of green-black mold, not to mention islands of quickly melting slush, it was hard to tell one construct from the other. Given enough time, say a year or so, and the wreck would be invisible from the air. North was sweating by the time he made it to the top of the wreck and stood on a barely legible “C,”

which, along with a “T” and a six-digit number was part of the ship’s official ID number. Listed as missing? As unrecoverable? There was no way to know.

Corporal Gorwin was there waiting for him. She lifted one of her energy-cannon-equipped arms by way of a greeting. “Morning, sir.”

The words were cheerful enough, especially in light of the fact that the lower part of her body was missing, and, with no chance of repairs, she had volunteered to stay on the top of the ship as a semi-permanent sentry.

North nodded and worked to catch his breath. He was short and stocky. His uniform was filthy but so was everyone else’s. “So, Gorwin, any sign of the geeks?”

The cyborg nodded. “Yes, sir. I notified the control room by radio. Right after you left. Take a look toward the west.” Her voice was dull—empty of hope.

North pulled a small pair of binoculars out of his shirt pocket and brought them up to his eyes. What he saw made him suck air into his lungs. The Hudathans had attacked before, twentyseven times to be exact, but never like this. An army was on the march. There were thousands of the bastards. More than he and his handful of troops could possibly deal with.

The situation was reminiscent of the Legion’s most famous battle, that day in the spring of 1863 when Legion Captain Jean Danjou and a force of sixty-four men took on more than two thousand Mexican troops and fought them to a standstill. That was the good news. The bad news was that only three legionnaires had survived. Danjou was not among them. The name of village where the fight took place was Camerone.

Gorwin, who had similar thoughts herself, read the officer’s face. “Yes, sir. It looks a lot like Camerone.”

In spite of the fact that ChienChu had been living in cybernetic bodies for many years now—he had never controlled anything like a Trooper IF. Theoretically outmoded some fifty years before, T2s continued to roll off the assembly lines because they were sturdy, effective, and, when compared with a Trooper IFI and its animal analogs, cheap to produce and maintain. Part of their value stemmed from the proven ability to operate in just about any environment that one could imagine, which was what awaited the industrialist below.

DomaSa, who had no need of technology in order to survive, watched the process with obvious amusement. The transfer took place in one of the onboard equipment bays. The cybertechs injected some drugs into ChienChu’s artificial circulatory system, removed his brain box from his “normal” body, and “loaded” a Trooper IF.

ChienChu endured the brief moment of sensory deprivation, felt the new body react to his presence, and experienced something akin to a drug-induced rush as system after system came online. Though theoretically analogous to what he had experienced before, there was no real comparison. The war machine was faster, more powerful, and loaded with systems civilians had no need for. The industrialist’s left arm was an air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun, his right arm was a fast-recovery laser cannon, and he could run at speeds up to fifty miles per hour. He spoke, realized how loud the PA system was, and turned it down. “I’m ready for anything—even Hudatha.”

DomaSa looked him over. “That may be true, my friend—but the switch did nothing for your appearance.”

“Look who’s talking,” ChienChu replied. “Come on, let’s see if I can walk.”

The thousands of Hudathan troopers marched as if on parade, which essentially they were, crossing the Plain of Skulls toward the castle Glid, where the great KasaKa had ruled during feudal times, and the aliens now lived. An insult that must be expunged . . but not till Ikor IfanaKa was finished with them. Training was important, and, if properly husbanded, the humans coutd be stretched for another couple of weeks. Real combat, with real aliens, was hard to come by. That’s why they had been allowed to live for such a long time.

Besides, the Hudathan liked the look of his troopers, the banners that flew above their heads, the gleam of their weapons, the sound of the drums, the way the whistles shrilled the air, and the wind in his face. This was the way things had been, should be, would be if his people were free. IfanaKa sat on what amounted to a half-enclosed sedan chair, winced as pain stabbed his fully extended leg, and listened to his aide. The youngster had little difficulty keeping pace. The words were clear—but the message wasn’t. “DomaSa? Landing with a high-ranking human? Impossible! Shoot the translator.”

Mylo NorbaBa was used to such excess. His words were both patient and respectful. ‘There was no translation. War Commander DomaSa spoke directly with me. He said the matter is urgent and of the highest importance.

Their shuttle has entered the atmosphere.”

IfanaKa adjusted his leg. “All right then, if we must, we must. Pass the word... the troops will stand down. We may as well feed them. Not for long mind you . . . We march two hours from now.”

A sudden gust of high altitude wind hit the shuttle’s hull. It rocked from side to side. The cargo compartment was empty except for the Trooper n that stood at the center of it, the Hudathan who overflowed a fold-down seat, and the orange exoskeleton secured toward the stem. Admiral Kagan had elected to ride up front with his pilots.

ChienChu felt his body tug against the cargo straps and questioned his own sanity. Was the trip to Hudatha’s surface truly necessary? So he could negotiate face to face? Or driven by curiosity? The desire to see the place that had given birth to such an implacable foe? He looked at DomaSa. “So, how would you rate our chances? Who sits on the Triad? And how will they react?”

The shuttle shuddered as the hull hit the bottom of an air pocket and continued to fall. DomaSa had known that the question would arise—and spent a considerable amount of time formulating a reply. A response calculated to conceal the infighting that years of planetary confinement had caused, the sense of hopelessness that commanded his people, and the fact that one member of the ruling body was more than a little eccentric. “I can’t speak for the rest of the Triad, but I favor your proposal, depending on what your race refers to as ‘the fine print.’ “

ChienChu wondered if he had misunderstood. “You!

You belong to the Triad?”

“Of course,” DomaSa replied easily. “What could be more important than our freedom? Besides, we have no diplomatic corps. Outside of myself that is.”

ChienChu wondered how he could have missed what now appeared to be obvious. The Hudathans favored a highly vertical almost dictatorial political system. They had never negotiated for anything, not until now, a fact that should have tipped him off. No one except one of the rulers could have been entrusted with something so critical. So, while many of those on board the Friendship treated DomaSa like a low level functionary, they had actually been dealing with a head of state. ChienChu struggled to remember everything he had said or done. DomaSa, who had come to know the human pretty we!) by then, gave the Hudathan equivalent of a chuckle. It sounded a lot like a rock crusher in low gear. “No, you never said anything to offend me, not that it would make much difference, since the Victory could sterilize the surface of my planet. “Ikor IfanaKa is another matter, however. He’s a lot more emotional than I am. It would pay to be careful in his presence.”

ChienChu frowned, or tried to, but discovered that the Trooper IF wasn’t equipped for that sort of communication.

“Grand Marshall IfanaKa? The officer that our intelligence people referred to as ‘the Annihilator?’ “

DomaSa looked as surprised as he was capable of looking. “You have a remarkable memory. Yes, IfanaKa carried out his duties with what you would refer to as ‘ruthless efficiency.’ “

“Meaning that he murdered hundreds of thousands of sentient beings,” ChienChu said coldly.

“Why, yes.” the Hudathan replied calmly. “And isn’t that why you came here? To recruit some killers?”

ChienChu sought some sort of comeback and was unable to think of one. Silence filled the cargo compartment

Clouds rolled in to cover the sun, rain fell in sheets, and Captain North struggled to penetrate the gloom. He’d gone below to grab a ration bar, and now he was back The Hudathans should have arrived by then

. .. and he wondered where they were. His troops, what were left of them, were dug in and waiting. Gorwin was quick to provide an unsolicited opinion. “The infrared is clear enough, sir. It looks like the ridge heads broke for some R&R.”

North lowered the glasses. Rain peppered his face, ran down the back of his neck, and sent damp fingers into his clothing. “Okay, but why? They could take us anytime they want.”

“Maybe it has something to do with the shuttle,” the cyborg replied mysteriously. North was annoyed. Gorwin was playing some kind of game with him—and the only thing that saved her from a good ass chewing was the fact that the enemy had already blown it off. “Shuttle? What frigging shuttle?”

Gorwin, who knew when to quit, underwent a sudden change of attitude. ‘The assault boat that passed over our position a few minutes ago, circled the Hudathans, and landed over there somewhere.” The cyborg used her arm-mounted energy cannon to point toward the northwest. North felt his heart try to beat its way out of his chest.

“A human assault boat? You’re sure?”

Gorwin nodded. “Sir, yes sir. Some of the other borgs saw it too. We told the loot. She said you were on the way.”

North peered into the rain, made his decision, and gave the necessary orders. “Wait ten, and tell the loot I went for a stroll. If I don’t return by 1800 hours she’s in command.”

“She ain’t gonna like that,” Gorwin replied sincerely, “and neither do I.”

“Sorry,” North replied, “but rank hath its privileges. See you later.”

The officer disappeared over the side. The corporal tried to stand and cursed her missing legs. The wind picked up, the rain came in sideways, driven by forty mile per hour gusts of wind. The clouds were so thick that it seemed night had fallen. Rocks that had been too hot to sit on steamed as the moisture hit them. Some, stressed by years of abuse, cracked in two. The sound resembled rifle shots—and came from all around.

The assault boat crouched like some sort of gray-black monster, water streaming off its heavily armored back, beacons strobing the murk.

A hatch whirred open. Admiral Kagan directed the exoskeleton out through the opening, and was glad he had agreed to use it. This was the first time he had set foot on the planet, and he felt vulnerable, very vulnerable, in spite of the steel cage that protected his rain-soaked body. Still, if ChienChu could do it, then he could do it, never mind the fact that the industrialist was all snuggy inside a T2. The ramp bounced under his weight, a gust of wind attempted to push him over, and the officer was forced to focus the majority of his attention on the normally simple task of walking. Once on the ground, the officer confronted six heavily armed Hudathans. They stood and stared. Kagan stared back.

ChienChu stepped into the hatch, scanned his surroundings, and walked down the ramp. The admiral’s servo-assisted exoskeleton was equipped with amber shoulder beacons. They flashed through the downpour.

DomaSa was the last to leave the shuttle, and Kagan saw a distinct change where the reception party was concerned. They came to rigid attention as the Hudathan diplomat cleared the ramp and stomped through the rain. Water ran over his shoulders, down his chest, and spurted away from his boots. A series of short sentences were exchanged, and the ambassador turned to explain. “We landed in the middle of a field exercise. Ikor IfanaKa has agreed to receive us ... but hopes to resume training in an hour or so.”

Having said his piece, DomaSa set off for a pole-supported shelter that had been erected a few hundred yards to the east. It was gray, like the world around it, and shivered in the wind. The Hudathan savored the warm damp air, the way the rain pelted his chest, and the feel of gravel under his boots. It was good to be home.

ChienChu drew abreast of the admiral, took note of how pale the officer looked, and spoke via a heavily encrypted corn channel. It took less than a minute to brief Kagan regarding DomaSa’s actual rank—and urge him to use caution. The meeting would be critical.

Kagan took the information in, realized what it meant, and felt a deep sense of betrayal. After all the Hudathans had done, after all the murders they had committed, ChienChu, along with a bunch of suckass politicians were going to sell the Confederacy out. All to defend against a bunch of machines that might not exist. The whole thing made him sick.

That’s when Kagan came to an important realization:

He could end the insanity, he could save the Confederacy, he could go down in history. If he got the opportunity—if he had the guts.

North jogged through the rain, availed himself of what cover there was, but knew it was just a matter of time before somebody intercepted him. Would they shoot him? Before he could reach the people in the shuttle? That was his second greatest fear.

His greatest fear was that he had unintentionally betrayed the Legion, his battalion, and himself. Danjou had had many opportunities to surrender but had refused to do so. Here was an opportunity for glorious death, the kind the Legion respected, but rather than embrace it, as so many others had, he was trying to cheat his fate. Why? For the sake of his troops? Or out of cowardice? The possibility gnawed at his belly.

The legionnaire angled toward some rocks. Water splashed his ankles and wandered into his boots. He swore, allowed himself to slow, and pushed in among the boulders. One of them had cracked right down the middle during some previous storm leaving a V for him to peer through. It looked like an old-fashioned rifle sight. The enemy could be seen just beyond, preparing a meal. The legionnaire shoved both his assault weapon and his sidearm under a rock, used stones to wall them in, and returned to the viewpoint. North swallowed the lump in his throat, stepped out through the V-shaped crack, and raised his hands in the air. Nothing happened at first, and the officer was about to move, when a shout was heard. The words were in Hudathan, but there was no doubt as to what they meant. The officer stood fast.

The rain seemed to part tike a curtain. The troopers were huge. They gathered around. One grabbed the officer from behind. Another punched him in the stomach. The blows came hard and fast. North felt himself fold.

If there were negative things about Hudathan culture, such as their tendency toward genocide, there were some positive characteristics as well. One was a distaste for the trappings of power that so many humans lusted after. It could be seen in DomaSa’s matter-of-fact no-nonsense manner, in the plain rather utilitarian shelter erected for IfanaKa’s benefit, and the way that he waved them over. Much to ChienChu’s surprise, there had been no attempt to disarm Kagan or neutralize the Trooper IF’s weaponry. A sign of respect? A sign of contempt? There was no sure way to know. The exoskeleton and the Trooper IF were big ... but so was the tent. They whirred, whined, and crunched their way across the rain-soaked gravel. The fact that the shelter had no floor other than what the planet saw fit to provide was consistent with the lack of pomp. IfanaKa spoke Hudathan, but ChienChu’s onboard computer took care of the translation.

“Welcome. Please excuse me if I don’t get up. A Ramanthian war drone shot me more than fifty years ago. The butchers wanted to take the leg off but 1 wouldn’t let them. Now I’m too old for regeneration therapy, too set in my ways for a bionic replacement, and too mean to die. Isn’t that right. War Commander DomaSa?”

“I don’t know about the first two,” the Hudathan replied, “but there’s no doubt about the third.”

ChienChu took note of the military title and assumed the grunting noise equated to laughter. “So,”

IfanaKa asked, “who are you? And what do you want?”

The question was addressed to Admiral Kagan, since he was the only being who looked even slightly human. DomaSa, who was smooth by Hudathan standards, entered the gap. “Grand Marshall IfanaKa, this is Admiral Kagan. He commands the Confederate forces in our sector.”

The contempt on IfanaKa’s face was clear for even a human to see ... and DomaSa hurried to forestall whatever gaffe was in the making. “And this,” the Hudathan said, gesturing toward the hulking T2, “is none other than Sergi ChienChu, past President of the Confederacy, reserve admiral, Governor of Earth, and special envoy to the Hudathan people.”

ChienChu essayed a bow. “I apologize for my appearance. The body 1 normally wear was less than suitable for a visit to your planet.”

IfanaKa pushed himself up out of his chair and staggered forward. NorbaBa rushed to support him.

“ChienChu? The same miserable piece of excrement who fought PoseenKa off the planet Algeron?”

ChienChu tried to swallow but didn’t have anything left to do it with. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” IfanaKa said. “I served under the bastard, and he was tough. Very tough. So they sent a soldier to make their case? Smart, damned smart. Maybe there’s hope for humans after all.”

Disappointed by the warmth of ChienChu’s reception, and disgusted by the politician’s conciliatory tone, Kagan stood a little straighten Others could bend... he would refuse. ChienChu experienced a profound sense of relief, and was about to offer some sort of reply, when a disturbance was heard. All five of them turned toward the source of the noise. Captain North was a mess. His hair was matted from the rain, blood smeared his face, and his uniform was covered with mud. He had lost consciousness at some point during the beating and come to on a stretcher. That’s when he rolled off, dodged a slow moving trooper, and ran toward the tent. Maybe there would be someone in authority . .. someone who could . ..

A sentry yelled. North dashed for the tent, and waited for the inevitable bullet. It didn’t come. Not with two members of the Triad just beyond. He burst through the entryway and looked left and right. “My name is North! Captain North. Who’s in charge here? I want a word with them.”

That’s when the legionnaire saw Kagan, their eyes locked, and hatred jumped the gap. “Butcher!”

“Mutineer!”

Kagan went for his sidearm just as a 250pound Hudathan sentry flew through the entrance and hit North from the side. The two of them skidded across the gravel.

Undeterred, the naval officer raised his weapon, and was about to fire, when an ominous whine was heard. ChienChu looked through the sighting grid and knew the .50 caliber machine gun was ready to fire. “Hold it right there, Admiral. .. this man has something to say. I’d like to hear what it is.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Kagan allowed the pistol to fall. IfanaKa was amused. “I thank the Giver that humans spend most of their time at each other’s throats. Guard, help that officer up, and report for punishment. Twenty lashes should put you right. If the human were an assassin, I’d be dead by now.”

The sentry, who showed no reaction whatsoever, came to attention, did a smart about face, and marched into the rain.

North, who had the wind knocked out of him, spoke in short painful gasps. He described the battle, the attempt to escape, and what Kagan had done. The legionnaire had no hope of mercy from the admiral, assumed the cyborg was some sort of escort, and addressed himself to IfanaKa. “So, that’s it, sir. My people are ready to fight. Your forces will win, I know that, but we will kill a lot of them. And for what?

Nothing will be gained.”

IfanaKa looked at ChienChu. “He is yours—do with him what you will.’*

Kagan heard a roar in his head, felt heat suffuse his body, and understood his duty. Here was an opportunity to not only stop ChienChu but put the mutineer down. He would shoot the Hudathans, North, and himself in that order. The cyborg would survive—there was no way to prevent that—but not for long. IfanaKa’s troopers would see to that. He raised the slug thrower, turned toward IfanaKa, and felt the exoskeleton stagger as .50 caliber slugs tore his body apart. The vehicle shuddered, toppled to one side, and crashed into the ground.

Guards stormed into the tent, and DomaSa barked an order. Slowly, reluctantly, the troopers lowered their weapons. The soldier-diplomat turned toward ChienChu. A wisp of smoke drifted away from the arm-mounted machine gun. “You see my friend? We aren’t as different as you thought.”

The cyborg, who found the thought depressing, was forced to agree. The ensuing negotiations tasted for six local days. Long, seemingly endless affairs punctuated by hail, sun, rain, wind, snow, and combinations ChienChu had never experienced before. North, along with his sort of mutineers, were evacuated to await court-martial. ChienChu, relying on his on-again off-again status as an admiral gave his word that they would be treated fairly. That was relatively easy. The mutual defense pact cum treaty was a good deal more difficult. First came the question of who could and should conduct the negotiations. ChienChu made it clear that while he could help draft a proposal, the senate would have to review it, and the President would need to approve it.

Due to the fact that the third member of the Triad had been killed during an interclan feud and that a replacement had yet to successfully assert himself, IfanaKa and DomaSa would speak for the Hudathan race.

They opened the negotiations by demanding full unqualified freedom for their people. Understandable—but completely out of the question.

Literally dozens of models were discussed and eventually discarded. ChienChu discovered that the Hudathans were dogged negotiators ... never giving ground till the battle had been fully fought and lost. Still, when the process was over, the final draft was very close to what ChienChu had proposed to begin with. It was bound to be, given that his race held most of the cards, and any degree of freedom would be an improvement over what the Hudathans had prior to signing.

The key to the agreement’s appeal, if there was any, would be in the treaty’s clarity and simplicity. The essence of the document was that the Hudathans would resume their status as a sovereign state, would be entitled to a representative in the senate, would be free to engage in nonmilitary commerce with other members of the Confederacy, would pay their fair share of taxes, and, with one significant exception, would be subject to the mutual defense pact. The qualifier, the all important restriction, stated that the Hudathans would not be allowed to build, maintain, or operate a spacegoing navy. The responsibility for transporting Hudathan troops to and from their home planet or colonies, should they be permitted to retain some of the worlds previously under their control, would fall to other spacefaring races such as the humans and Ramanthians. Because without a navy, and the independence that went with it, there would be very little chance that the Hudathans would try their hands at conquest. This was a bitter pill to swallow, one that not only hurt the Hudathan’s pride, and made them dependent on other races. Something their inborn sense of survival argued against. But facts were facts, and DomaSa, who had spent a great deal of time observing the senate, knew that this was the best deal he and his people were likely to get for the next hundred years or so, and it certainly beat the alternative, sitting on Hudatha until their own combative culture turned inward and destroyed them, or the planet was torn apart. Besides, even the most superficial study of human history revealed what extremely short memories they had, a fact that augured well for the future. And so it was that an agreement was reached, that ChienChu and DomaSa returned to space, and that Admiral Dero Delany Kagan IF remained behind.

The marker, which stood alone on the rocky, often windswept plain, was cut from hull metal, and bore the best inscription that ChienChu could come up with. A poet named Carl Sandberg provided the words:

Pile the bodies high atAusterlitz andWaterloo , Shovel them under and let me work—

I am the grass; I cover all.

Chapter 6

Power never takes a back step—only in the face of more power. Malcom X

Malcom X Speaks

Standard year 1965

Somewhere beyond the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Far out in space, beyond the largely imaginary border that the Confederacy referred to as the Rim, the very fabric of space and time was momentarily altered. Hundreds of ships appeared, glittered like minnows, and swam through the surrounding darkness.

The Hoon’s scout ships detected the other fleet the moment it dropped hyper, issued an electronic challenge, and were answered in kind. Recognition codes were received, analyzed, and validated. Signals were sent, courses were altered, formations were merged, and for the first time in more than two hundred years the fleet was whole.

Whole, but divided, since the original Hoon, which had divided itself into two identical halves in order to cover more space and increase the odds of finding the Thraki, had yet to reintegrate itself. A process of highspeed bilateral updating, which if successful, would result in an artificial intelligence that incorporated all the knowledge and experience each entity had gained during the years of separation. A substantial gain that could lead to a high chance of success.

However, the same minds that had granted the computer the capacity to split itself in two had enacted certain safeguards as well. One such safeguard included a complicated matrix of truth tables intended to ensure that neither of the two halves had been corrupted during their years apart. Neither entity felt any qualms regarding the test, not at first anyway, viewing the process as entirely natural.

Hoon number one, defined as the receiving intelligence, sampled the inflow at; intervals frequent enough to ensure that its counterpart had been operating within the specified parameters. Everything was fine at first. The incoming data was not only acceptable, but judging from equally spaced nibbles, made an excellent meal. It seemed that Hoon number two had journeyed far, fed off many civilizations, but failed to turn up anything more than some Thraki splinter groups. But it was then, while number two reported on one such encounter, that number one spotted the potential problem. Careful to conceal its activities, lest the other AI realize that an investigation was under way, number one diverted part of the data feed to a parallel processor where it could be dissected without interrupting the main flow.

The essence of the discrepancy had to do with the outcome of that particular contact report. Having located a breakaway colony, Hoon number two had allowed itself to be drawn into a twoway conversation, and even worse, had been convinced to spare that particular group. Something that should have been impossible.

Worried lest it be contaminated by some sort of virus—

Hoon number one ran an in-depth review of the facts: Have identified a Thraki debris trail consisting of a wrecked in ship, a hastily mined asteroid, and a spent fuel core, his opposite number had given chase. So far so good.

Fleet number two followed the soft bodies, discovered that approximately three hundred Thraki had established themselves on a class two planet, and prepared to destroy them. That’s when a command override was received. Somehow, someway, one or more of the Thraki had come up with a way to spoof the Hoon.

It appeared that a very sophisticated virus had been planted in the Thraki wreck, a scout had been infected with the corrupted programming as it ingested the ship’s AI, and passed the disease along to its superior as part of an intelligence report. Not only that, but whoever built the virus was so clever that they had imbued it with the means to fool Hoon number two’s virus hunters, and take up residence in the AI’s central processor.

Once in place, the false input took on the appearance of original programming, programming that confirmed the existence of a special breed of Thraki, a group that could and should be allowed to live. An assertion that Hoon number one knew to be false.

That being the case, the AI routed the data to a sacrificial memory module, ran a high priority scrub on its primary, secondary, and tertiary backup banks, and did the only thing that it could: lay plans to murder its twin.

The cabin was dark, intentionally dark. in keeping with the way Jepp felt. Empty ration boxes littered the normally spotless floor, clothes lay heaped where they’d been thrown, and the wouldbe messiah lay huddled beneath a none too clean blanket.

The exprospector had been in a foul mood for weeks now, ever since the visit to Fortuna, and the manner in which God’s message had been ignored.

Yes, the sentients who lived there were the dregs of the Confederacy and committed to their evil ways. Still, he had assumed one or two of them would respond and form the core of what would eventually be a galaxy-spanning religion.

But he’d been wrong, very wrong, and was depressed as a result. Nothing, not even Sam’s most entertaining antics had been sufficient to rouse the human from his emotional stupor. In the meantime, the fleet continued to travel through space, the Sheen continued to hunt Thraki. and his followers continued to attend the daily prayer meetings Humans, bored by the repetitive nature of the gatherings might have stayed away, but not the machines, who listened to Alpha’s rantings with limitless patience, and always came back for more.

In fact, had Jepp been in a better mood, he might have taken heart from the fact that more than two thousand machines routinely attended services held in the vast nano-draped launch bay where hundreds of vessels sat, waiting for their next assignment.

It was at the conclusion of one such session, as the congregation walked, rolled, and crawled to their various tasks, that a pair of recycling droids, the closest thing the Hoon had to police, took Alpha into custody.

The robot complained, but his various utterances and transmissions were to no avail. The recycling machines were not only larger than it was, but stronger and equipped with the ability to override the acolyte’s motor functions.

That being the case. Alpha could do little more than pepper some of his escorts with some of Jepp’s favorite admonitions while they conveyed him through the main lock and into a labyrinth of passageways.

“ ‘He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword.’ ‘As you sow so shall your reap.’ ‘What goes around comes around,’ “ and half a dozen more.

But the recycling droids remained unmoved and continued to chivvy their charge through the brightly lit passageways. It took less than ten minutes to reach the cabin Jepp had assigned to himself. Then, with the signal lack of courtesy typical of mechanical devices everywhere, the robots pushed their way in. The human took exception. “Alpha? Is that you? I don’t want to be disturbed. Please go away.”

In spite of the fact that the answer came via Alpha’s speech synthesizer, it sounded entirely different. It was harder, stronger, and much more insistent. “The ship belongs to me. I will do as I please. I am the Hoon.”

Jepp felt the bottom drop out of his stomach The Hoon! Coming lo him! Nothing of that sort had ever happened before. What did it mean? He swung his feet off the bunk and placed them on the hard cold deck. “Yes, of course. I apologize. Please excuse the mess.”

The Hoon processed the message, concluded that an answer would constitute a waste of time, and moved to the matter at hand: While its counterpart, Hoon number two, possessed all the same defenses that it had, the other entity shared the same vulnerabilities as well. That’s where the soft body came in. The trick was to use the biological without allowing the human to know it had been used. It might balk otherwise, or even worse, obtain more data than it was entitled to have. “There is a task that you will perform.”

Jepp noted the apparent lack of courtesy but knew there was no reason for an alien artifact to observe social niceties appropriate to human culture. Besides, the Hoon saw everything that existed within the structure of the fleet as falling within its domain, and the human was forced to agree. If the AI wanted him to do something, Jepp could either comply or face the not too pleasant consequences. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, if I can help. ..”

The Hoon seemed oblivious to the human’s words. “The unit through which I am communicating will escort you aboard vessel 179621 where you will be asked to perform a simple maintenance procedure. Once the task is complete, you will be allowed to return here.”

“You can count on me,” Jepp replied, determined to sound positive. “I have one question however... If the maintenance procedure is so simple—why can’t one of your robots take care of it?”

“You will perform a maintenance procedure,” the computer reiterated sternly. “You are leaving now.”

“Okay,” Jepp said, getting to his feet. “No need to get your processor in a knot... Allow me to get dressed, grab some toots, and we’re out of here.”

The onetime prospector hurried to pull some fairly clean overalls on, selected some of the tools salvaged from the Pelican, and stuffed them into a pack. “All right your supreme Hoonship .. lead the way.”

But the AI had more important things to do than stand around and wait while the somewhat sluggish biological wrapped itself in fabric. That being the case, it was Alpha who replied to the human’s comment. “The supreme intelligence will meet us later.”

“God is the supreme intelligence,” Jepp growled. “The Hoon is a pain in the ass. Well, come on, let’s get it over with.”

Sam, the Thraki robot, cartwheeled across the cabin, transformed itself into something that looked a lot like a spider. Then, climbing quickly, the device took its place on Jepp’s shoulder. The three of them left together—but it was Alpha who led the way.

Vessel 179621 glowed with the same shimmery force field that gave the Sheen their name. Like Hoon number one, Hoon number two could project itself to any ship in the fleet, but if its intelligence could be said to reside anywhere, it was aboard that particular ship. For it was there, within a carefully secured compartment, that its various components were located. Having been alerted to expect a biological and asked to render an opinion as to its usefulness, a very small portion of the AFs total consciousness tracked the incoming shuttle, noted its arrival, and monitored the creatures that disembarked.

There was an all-purpose unit similar to thousands on board the ship, an alien construct of no obvious value, and the biological that Hoon number one had warned of. An inquisitive creature who seemed headed for the very compartment in which number two was centered. That observation was sufficient to generate a low-level threat warning and to focus more of the computer’s attention on the visitors and their activities.

As with all Sheen vessels, 179621 was equipped with a multiplicity of surveillance devices. Some took the form of tiny silicon imaging chips that had been “painted” onto the bulkheads. The computer preferred infrared to video, however, which meant that what it “saw” looked like a bipedal green blob. It seemed intent on approaching number two’s sanctuary. Why?

Hoon number two sent a message to number one, ran into an electronic wall, and became immediately suspicious. Pathways were verified, systems were checked, and a second attempt failed just as the first had. The AI jumped to the logical conclusion: The other half of itself had severed their relationship and declared the electronic equivalent of war!

A biological might have waffled, might have questioned its own judgement, or been hesitant to take action. Not number two. The second Hoon went to the highest state of alert, directed fifty robots to intercept the intruders, and locked itself in. Monsters roamed the corridors ... and the computer was scared.

Servos whined as Alpha moved down the passageway.

Jepp’s shoes squeaked when they came into contact with the deck, and Sam nattered in the exprospector’s ear. Insofar as Jepp could tell, this vessel was the twin of the one in which he had spent most of his captivity. That being the case, he was familiar with the basic layout and could have navigated on his own, right up till the moment when Alpha approached a heavily armored hatch. The human was familiar with the door, or its analog, but had never been able to open it. One of Alpha’s armlike extensions whirred as it telescoped outwards, made a clicking sound as it mated with some sort of receptacle, and was immediately withdrawn.

Air hissed as the barrier disappeared overhead, a whiff of ozone found its way into the human’s nostrils, and they were in. “I didn’t know you could do that,” the human said, as he followed Alpha down the brightly lit hall.

“It can’t,” Hoon number one replied, “but I can. Now listen carefully because there are limits to how far I can go. Robots wilt be sent against us, I will neutralize most if not all of them, while you proceed to the goal.”

Jepp felt a rising sense of panic. Whatever he had landed in the middle of was more than a routine maintenance chore. That much was clear. Questions begged to be asked. “Robots? Goal? What goal?”

Hatches opened up ahead, a swarm of silvery robots flooded the corridor, and the Hoon hurried to answer. “After you pass through the last door you will find yourself in a circular space. Go to the bright blue module located at the very center of the compartment, take hold of the red handle, and give it one full turn to the right.

“Once that’s accomplished, you must pull the handle, and the component to which the handle is attached, clear of the console. Then, assuming that you survive, you can return to my ship. Questions?”

Questions? Jepp had dozens, but the robots attacked right about then, and the conversation came to an abrupt end. Metal clanged as the oncoming wave smashed into Alpha. None of the units had weapons or were programmed for grasper-to-hand combat. That being the case, they fought like Sumo wrestlers, pushing, shoving, and bumping with their torsos. Alpha staggered under the onslaught, Sam danced the width of Jepp’s shoulders, and the human was forced to retreat.

There were lots of attackers, but the width of the passageway acted to concentrate them, thereby limiting the number that could make contact at any given moment. Still, the phalanx had force, and the intruders gave ground.

The whole thing was strange ... If the Hoon had taken over Alpha’s body, and the robots worked for the Hoon, why would they attack?

Jepp was still pondering that question, stilt trying to figure it out, when the Hoon-Alpha extended an arm. Bright blue electricity arced between it and one of the oncoming Sheen. A black spot appeared between the robot’s sensors, a wisp of smoke drifted away, and the construct collapsed on the deck. Another machine took the first robot’s place, another spark jumped the gap, and another unit fell. Jepp backpedaled, ducked a clumsy roundhouse right, and backpedaled again. That’s when something unexpected took place. Sam morphed into a configuration the prospector had never seen before, threw itself at one of the oncoming robots, and drilled a hole through the top of its shiny metal skull. The bit screamed, bright metal shavings curled toward the deck, and sparks jetted upwards. The machine jerked spasmodically, its joints locked, and it toppled forwards.

Sam rode the robot down, popped loose, and rolled away. The next victim didn’t even know it had even been selected until the diminutive machine swarmed up one of its legs, scampered onto its head. and started the drill.

Emboldened by the inroads achieved by his electromechanical allies. Jepp uttered a primal war cry, charged the machine in front of him, and pushed it over. Metal screeched on metal as the defender hit the deck. The human stepped on the robot’s abdomen and tackled the next unit in line. The battle raged hot and heavy for the next few minutes, started to wane as the causalities increased, and came to a sudden halt. The drill bit screamed as Sam left its most recent victim twitching on the deck. Eyes wild, adrenaline pumping, Jepp turned and charged for the opposite end of the corridor. Never mind the fact that he didn’t know who he was fighting, or why, the human wanted to win. “Come on!

This is our chance!”

Sam scrambled onto the prospector’s shoulder as Alpha charged forward and hit a force field of some sort. The robot staggered and started to convulse. The Hoon spoke but the words arrived one at a time.

“The force fields were designed for robots. Continue to the objective.”

Of course! Jepp thought to himself. That’s why the tricky pile of nuts and bolts recruited me—the security systems are designed to stop machines! Sheen machines since Sam remains unaffected. That’s when the thinking ended, lost in the rasp of his own breathing and the pounding of his pulse. The hatch! At the far end of the corridor—how would he get the damned thing open? That’s when Jepp remembered the pack, still pounding the lower part of his back, and the tools it contained. Maybe . . . just maybe ...

Hoon number two monitored the biological’s approach with a growing sense of dread. Hoon number one had not only conceived the assault but had actually participated in it. Why? A software problem?

No, not unless number two wanted to consider the possibility that it was vulnerable as well. The Thraki then ... a virus of some sort... or ...

The greenish blob knelt in front of the hatch, removed a colder object from its pack, and triggered a green-white flame. A torch! The soft body planned to bum its way in!

Hoon number two gathered the most critical aspects of itself into one digitized file, sent it down a fiber optic path bay, and hit some sort of blockage. The escape route had been severed!

There were others, backups, and backups for the backups. The computer intelligence tried each and every one of them. None were open. The trap had closed.

Metal glowed cherry red, turned liquid, and trickled toward the deck. The heat, reflected off the hatch, waned Jepp’s skin and drew sweat from his pores. Now, with a little time in which to think, ice cold fear trickled into the pit of his stomach. What lay in wait on the other side of the hatch?

The question went unanswered as metal surrendered to heat and a locking rod was severed. The door sagged, Jepp hit the “Off” switch, and the torch made a popping sound. He placed the tool on the deck. The recesses had been engineered for use by hands smaller than his but still managed to accommodate his fingers. Jepp lifted and felt the hatch roll reluctantly upwards. Success!

The human retriggered the torch, held it like a handgun, and crept forward. Woe be to the machine that got in his way!

The interior looked the way the Hoon said it would look. The compartment was circular. A blue console stood at its center. The exprospector pulled a 360 to ensure he was alone, released the trigger, and heard the torch pop.

The handle was red all right... and easy to spot. Jepp placed the torch on the deck, felt Sam leap off his shoulder, and wiped the palms of his hands. Here it was, what he’d been sent for, ready for the taking. The voice made him jump. It spoke highly stilted standard and came from all around. “Why are you doing this?” It sounded like the Hoon—only different somehow,

“Because you told me to,” Jepp said defensively.

“I told you nothing of the kind,” the voice answered evenly. “The orders you received came from Hoon number one.”

“Hoon number one?” the human asked hesitantly, scanning the bulkheads for some sign of the intelligence he was talking to. “So who are vow? Hoon number two?”

“Precisely,” the AI replied. “Now, leave this compartment, and return to wherever you came from.”

Metal scraped on metal. Jepp turned to find that Alpha had entered the compartment. The robot walked with a limp but its voice was clear. “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. James 4:7.”

Who had spoken? Alpha? Or Hoon number one? Jepp decided it didn’t make any difference. God had would have his way. He took the handle, gave it one turn to the right, and pulled it free. There was only one sensor built into Hoon number two’s main processor module, but that was sufficient to monitor the carefully computed launch, the fall toward the sun, and one last moment of existence. What is a devil? the AI wondered. And what would such a being look like? An image etched itself onto the computer’s consciousness and it looked a lot like Jorely Jepp.

Chapter 7

Just as the process of natural selection will determine which species shall ultimately prevail, a logical tendency toward self-interest applies similar pressure to the covenants, treaties and other agreements that govern affairs of state.

Mowa Sith Horbothna

Turr academic

Standard year 2227

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Conscious of the fact that his movements were monitored, Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six palmed the panel, waited for the hatch to open, and nodded to the embassy guards. Both had been cloned from a much celebrated soldier named Jonathan Alan Seebo whose badly mangled body, and the DNA stored there, had given birth to entire armies.

Each trooper had experienced different things, leading to different personalities, but remained very similar. They had strong bodies, the intelligence necessary to operate sophisticated weapons systems, and a near fanatical devotion to duty. The guards came to attention, but there was nothing respectful about the look in their eyes, or the expressions on their identical faces. The soldiers had been briefed by either his clone brother, Harlan Ishimoto Seven, or his assistant, Svetlana Gorgin Three, both of whom were aligned with Alpha Clone Magnus Mosby One and his brother Pietro. They, along with a significant number of the advisors who served them, had been seduced by the Ramanthian-led cabal. Something that Six, along with his sponsor, the reclusive Alpha known as Antonio, both opposed. That being the case, the sentries would make a note of his departure and enter it into a log. The politician nodded an acknowledgement and stepped out into the nonstop foot traffic. The corridors, busy during the most lax of times, positively hummed as the senators and their staffs prepared for the half-session hiatus. A rather important opportunity to return home, rub elbows, tentacles, and pseudopods with constituents, and enjoy some R&R.

Six allowed himself to be absorbed into the crowd but was far too experienced to think that it would shield him from surveillance. No, not on board a vessel that crawled with every sort of bug known to more than a dozen races. Information was power—that made it valuable—and everyone sought to obtain as much as they could.

Private meetings were possible, however, provided that the participants took elaborate precautions and left nothing to chance. That being the case, the clone adopted a quick decisive pace, stepped onto a fully packed lift at the precise moment when the doors started to close and rode it down. Then, following the crowd into a labyrinth of corridors, he took a shortcut through one of the passageways reserved for robots, paused in a public restroom, donned a privacy mask, changed into some electronically laundered clothes, and left via the back door.

The mask smelled of plastic, and made the area around his eyes itch, but did offer a modicum of anonymity. The fact that about ten percent of the crowd wore similar disguises hinted at the number of last-minute schemes, deals, and agreements being hammered out as the hiatus began. Finally, after the senator had done everything he could to shake surveillance, he entered a one-person lift tube, dropped to the less-trafficked boat deck, and took a careful look around. Nothing. Nothing he could see anyway.

Then, with the quick, positive movements of someone who knows his way about, the politician followed the gently curving hull to a multilingual sign that read: “Lifeboat46, Oxygen Breathers Only.”

Then, after another backward glance, the clone removed a card from his pocket and inserted the rectangle into a slot. The lock mechanism read what it thought was one of 749 acceptable DNA-based codes and released the hatch. It hissed open and closed.

The lifeboat was equipped with a tiny lock, but it was located toward the stem—and away from the main hatch.

Seconds would count should an actual emergency occur, and the entry had been designed to accommodate a large number of beings in a short period of time. The air was cold, and the lights were on. The interior smelled like the inside of a brand-new ground car. Six removed the mask. “Maylo? Are you here?”

There was a whisper of fabric, followed by the slightest whiff of perfume. Six turned, and there she was. An overhead spot threw light across her face. She wore a plain high-collared sheath-style dress. It clung to her body the same way he wanted to and was slit up both legs. Wonderful legs, which on one memorable occasion, had been used to pull him in. But that was months in the past, a moment he’d never been able to replicate, much as he desired to do so. His voice was husky. “You are very, very, beautiful.”

Maylo smiled. The truth was that she liked Samuel Ishimoto Six, liked him more than she should have, or even wanted to, given her relationship with Booly. Whatever that was. The clone was about six feet tall, had a slightly Japanese cast to his features, and looked very handsome. “Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”

Both were silent for a moment—taking each other in. The clone spoke first. “I didn’t know about the cabal—not till your uncle and Ambassador DomaSa forced the whole thing out into the open.”

Maylo nodded. “Yes, I thought as much. I’m sorry they threw you into the brig with Ishimoto Seven.”

The politician shrugged. “It was for the best. Otherwise, the conspirators would have assumed the worst and arranged for some sort of accident. The cabal will stop at nothing. The so-called duel proved that.”

“So?” Maylo asked gently, “why the meeting?”

Six grinned. “Because I want to seduce you.”

“I believe you have already accomplished that,” Maylo observed dryly.

“Which is why I know it’s worth the effort,” Six replied.

‘That’s it then?” me executive inquired mischievously.

“You put your life on the line in order to get in my pants?”

The politician laughed. “No, I have an ulterior motive as well.”

“Ah,” Maylo replied. “I thought as much . .. My career as a sex goddess comes to an end. Come on, let’s find a place to sit.”

The lifeboat’s interior was somewhat spartan. An emergency services droid stood motionless at the rear of the compartment. A forehead-mounted “Ready” light blinked on and off. There were overhead bins packed with supplies, pressure suits racked along the bulkheads, and rows of adjustable seats. Maylo sat on one, heard a whirring noise, and felt it conform to the shape of her body. Six took the chair opposite hers. “So,” the executive continued, tell me more ... What’s on your mind?”

The clone forced his thoughts away from die way she looked and focused his mind on business. The business of politics. “I know that you know there’s been a schism within our government. It would be hard to miss. What you don’t know, or I hope you don’t know, is how deep it went.”

“I couldn’t help but notice the use of the past tense,” Maylo observed. “Has the schism been healed?”

The senator shrugged. “No, not yet. I think such a thing is possible, however, remembering that I’m something of an optimist. The essence of the situation is this: Alpha Clones Magnus and his brother Pietro allowed themselves to be drawn into an alliance with the Thraki in hopes that the aliens would serve as a counter to the cabal’s steadily growing influence. A situation the Hegemony could have avoided by steering clear of the conspiracy in the first place. My sponsor, the Alpha known as Antonio opposed the plan—but lost the vote.

“During the period immediately after Magnus and Pietro authorized the alliance with the Thraki, the aliens took possession of Zynig47 and were allowed to establish military bases on a number of our sparsely settled planets.

“The strategy, as conceived by my brother Ishimoto Seven, was that anyone who attacked the Hegemony would be in the position of attacking the Thraki as well, and, given the size of their armada, would have second thoughts.”

“A strategy your leaders have since come to regret,” Maylo finished for him. “Especially in light of the fact that the Sheen are headed this way—and seem bent on destroying the very armada that you spoke of.”

“Exactly,” the politician agreed. “Which equates to a one-of-a-kind opportunity. This is the time to speak, to offer countervailing counsel, and turn them around.”

Maylo nodded. “What you say makes sense ... But why tell me?”

His eyes locked with hers. “If, and I repeat if, we are able to convince Magnus and Pietro of the truth, we’ll need Nankool’s support. The Thraki value their bases and will strive to keep them.”

“And you believe that I can secure Nankool’s support?”

The clone nodded. “Yes, but more than that, I want you to accompany me home. Your experience, your views, and your connections will add weight to my arguments ... We must convince the Alpha Clones that if they change, if they break with the cabal, the Confederacy will take us in.” His eyes pleaded with her. “So, will you come?”

Maylo felt a rising sense of excitement. If the Sheen were on their way, and should they turn out to be even half as powerful as the Thraki claimed that they were, the Confederacy would need every bit of strength that it could muster. The Hegemony, along with its highly developed military, could make an important difference. Her uncle would want her to go.

There was another reason however—one that had more to do with him than politics. Maylo smiled.

“Yes, I’ll come.”

The two of them left after that, but the emergency services robot stayed where it was, waiting to repeat what it had seen and heard.

Exhausted by the long hours he’d been keeping, and still grieving over the War Omo’s untimely death, the Ramanthian senator retired to his warm, somewhat humid quarters. The politician noticed the ultraviolet message light, decided to remove his computer-assisted contact lenses, and saw the light replicate itself dozens of times. He had grown used to the transition but it still made him dizzy.

Omo listened to the message, listened again, and wondered how two seemingly intelligent beings could be so stupid. Meeting in a lifeboat, discussing how they had mated with each other, then switching to politics. It made him feel unclean. Well, there was a solution for that, one of the few pleasures the Ramanthian allowed himself.

The politician made his way back to his private quarters, took pleasure in the low murky light, and released his robes. The garment was left for a drone to deal with while he shuffled toward the sand bath. Though smaller than the ones typical of dwellings on his native planet, the transparent duraplast box was functional nonetheless. The Ramanthian entered, descended a set of stairs, and mounted the equivalent of a stool. The switch was located next to his left pincer. The Omo triggered the pre-warmed sand, and felt it rise around him, and experienced something verging on bliss.

Then, when the finely grained stuff lapped around his neck, it stopped. That’s when the entire mass started to vibrate, each grain acting like a tiny scrub brush, removing dirt while it polished his chitin. The senator allowed his mind to drift and knew that it was here, within the warm embrace of the sand, that some of his most inspired schemes had been hatched. And, painful though the knowledge was, the Omo realized that some of his worst plans had been concocted there as well, as measured by the extent to which they had been successful.

Now, as he prepared to return home and report to the hive mother, it was necessary to evaluate the situation as dispassionately as she would.

The plan to destabilize the Earth government, and thereby lessen the extent to which the humans controlled the Confederacy, had been successful initially, and might have achieved the desired end had it not been for the sudden reemergence of the damnable ChienChu, and for the meddling by Hiween DomaSa. A dangerous pair who had suddenly dropped from sight. Why? Where were they? And what were they up to? There was no way to be sure.

What the Ramanthian did know was that the newly stabilized Earth government, plus the arrival of the Thraki, plus the threat posed by the Sheen had altered the political landscape. Yes, it would take idiots like Ishimoto Seven and his ilk awhile to notice, but the nature of the game had changed. Certain elements within the Hegemony were in the process of reconsidering their options. The conversation between Ishimoto Six and Maylo ChienChu was proof of that, and the possibility of war lurked just beyond the horizon. War between the clones and the Thraki, war between the Thraki and the Sheen, and war between the Sheen and the Confederacy.

Should the Ramanmians choose sides? No, the politician decided, not with so many variables clouding the outcome. His race had been scavengers once and could so profit again. The most intelligent strategy was to pull back, allow the cabal to wither, and wait to see who or what reigned victorious. Then, their strength undiminished by war, his people would emerge to claim the worlds they so desperately needed. Omo settled into the sand and allowed the substance to take most of his weight. Warmth sought his center. Yes, the Ramanthian decided, there are times to act and times to wait. The trick was knowing the difference. Sleep pulled him down.

Clone world Alpha001 was extremely Earthlike in keeping with the nearly endless edicts laid down by the Hegemony’s founder Dr. Carolyn Anne Hosokowa. Though beautiful when viewed from orbit, the surface of the planet was less attractive from thirty-five thousand feet, and even less so as the courier ship came in for a landing. Not because of some failure on nature’s part but due to what human beings had done to it.

Maylo watched with a growing sense of dread as the carefully laid out farms gave way to low-strung factories and rank after rank of identical high-rise buildings. They looked like what they were meant to be: cold, cost-effective boxes in which workers were “stored” during nonproductive “rest and regeneration periods.”

The business executive glanced sideways, saw the look of eager anticipation on Ishimoto Six’s countenance, and was reminded of how adaptable human beings were. First, they had colonized every conceivable comer of their native world, and later, other planets as well. Even those that swirled with methane, were almost entirely clad in ice, or subjected them to 1.5 gees. More than that, they frequently came to love them, like ducks that imprint on the first animate object they see, and claim it as their own. And here, where an effort had been made to establish the “perfect” society, one could expect to see even more of that. “Beautiful isn’t it?” Six inquired as the ship flared in for a landing.

“Yes,” Maylo lied, remembering similar questions from Booly. He enjoyed looking at rank after rank of carefully arranged legionnaires .. . and couldn’t understand her lack of interest. Men. They were the true aliens.

There was a noticeable thump as the ship settled in. The senator’s assistant, Gorgin Three, appeared at the center of the aisle and announced the obvious: “We’re on the surface now—I will check on the ground transportation.”

Ishimoto Six wanted to stand and choke her into submission. The ‘bitch had boarded the ship at the last possible moment, and by her miserable presence, had prevented him from enjoying some time with Maylo. Some zero gee sex, a pleasure he had enjoyed only once before, would have been a wonderful way to pass the time.

Now, determined to dog him, and report everything he said or did, she was like a cloud hanging over the clone’s head. Solely because she was a fanatic? Or because she had a crush on him? It hardly mattered. The senator growled a reply, gathered his belongings, and prepared to disembark. Maylo did likewise. The tarmac shimmered in the afternoon heat, drives roared as an insystem freighter fought its way up through the atmosphere, and the courier settled onto the blast-scarred pad. The kill ball had been waiting for the better part of a local day. But machines are patient, especially those designed to assassinate people, so the delay was unimportant.

Some environments are difficult to operate in, especially those where a spherical self-propelled droid has a tendency to stand out, but there was no such problem here. The kill ball had simply lowered itself onto a pylon-mounted sensor pod where it looked very much at home. So much so that any number of birds landed on the machine, crapped on the brushed aluminum housing, and made it appear that much more natural.

Now, as the courier’s lock cycled open, the mechanical assassin activated its weapons and rose into the air. The moment had arrived. There was a task to perform. What it was made no difference. A variety of droids converged on the spaceship. The kill ball joined the throng. Gorgin Three stepped out onto the rollup stairway, nodded to the Jonathan Alan Seebo who’d been sent to greet them, and scanned her surroundings. The assassins were waiting, of that she was sure, but where were they? In among the hangers that lined the tarmac in front of her? The thought that cold-blooded killers might be staring at her through high-powered telescopic sights sent a chill down the staffer’s spine.

However, while Ishimoto Seven had told Three what to expect, he hadn’t told her who, or even how. Perhaps death would find Maylo ChienChu, while having a drink or taking a shower. It made little difference. The slut needed to die, deserved to die, for any number of reasons: for her opposition to the Hegemony’s legitimate interests, for the exploitation of workers, and for having sex with Ishimoto Six. Gorgin Three heard movement behind her, turned, and allowed Six to pass. He looked so handsome that feelings bubbled up from deep within her. What did it feel like? she wondered. To let a man... But no, such things were forbidden. She pushed the thought away.

Maylo nodded to the staffer and descended the stairs.

They bounced slightly. The sun warmed her face.

Gorgin Three caught movement from the comer of her eye. turned, and saw the sphere closing in. Some sort of guide drone? On its way somewhere else? No, those were orange. Then it struck her... Something was wrong! The droid paused, hovered, and fired a targeting laser. The dot wobbled across the top of Ishimoto’s head.

Gorgin Three screamed. “No!” at the top of her lungs, launched herself off the stairs, and hit Six with both her outstretched hands. He fell facedown. The high velocity slug tore through the staffer’s body, and the shot echoed across the spaceport.

Jonathan Alan Seebo saw what took place and fired a quick series of shots. Later, after the investigation had been completed, official documents would show that twelve of the fourteen shots fired hit the target and four caused serious damage.

The kill ball took note of the fact that it had failed to hit the assigned target, knew it was damaged, and tried to self-destruct. The mechanism failed, the device lost altitude, and crashed into the tarmac. All in a matter of five seconds.

Six did a pushup, made it to his feet, and turned toward the ship. Gorgin Three lay in a pool of her own blood. The politician rushed to her side. The clone was very near to death. She knew it, and so did he. There was something in her eyes, a tenderness the clone had never seen before, and suddenly wished that he had. “Samuel?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I would have done it, if you had asked me to.”

Ishimoto Six looked surprised. “Done it? Done what?”

Blood rose to fill Three’s mouth. She worked to swallow it. “You know .. . what you did with her.”

Maylo was there—pressing a makeshift compress against the entry wound. The politician’s eyes flicked to her and back. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Svetlana. I wish I had known.”

But her face was slack, the light had faded from her eyes, and Gorgin Three was gone. The villa, which had been constructed to meet the exacting standards set forth by Antonio Seven, crowned a verdant hill. The roof was covered with locally manufactured tile, the walls were painted pristine white, and bright-red fire trees guarded the grounds. A series of gracefully proportioned arches admitted large volumes of air into the dwelling along with semicircles of warm orange-yellow sunlight. Simply put, the villa flew in the face of the sort of institutional architecture the founder favored, and it was indirectly responsible for the rounded, more organic shapes that were starting to appear out away from the cities.

There was nothing especially luxurious about the house, however. The furniture was of good quality but far from ornate. Nor was there much of it, which meant that Alpha Clones Magnus Mosby One and the flamboyant Pietro Seven could either take the seats that were offered, or sit on the floor. Magnus, who had been born of a union between the Alpha Clone Marcus Six and Marianne Mosby, one of the Legion’s most storied officers, had his father’s black hair, his mother’s tendency to put on weight, and a deep booming voice. He wore a plain white toga held in place by his favorite double helix pin. A pair of plain but sturdy sandals completed the outfit.

Pietro, who had exactly the same features as his host, wore a gauzy lime-green pullover top, matching pantaloon-style trousers, and a pair of leather slippers. A single earring dangled from his left lobe. It was an embellishment Antonio considered to be excessive, like a dish with too many ingredients or a contrived work of art. He preferred a spartan black tunic, matching pants, and bare feet. They padded across the floor and stopped in front of his favorite chair. It was made of cane and creaked under his weight. His voice was slightly higher than that possessed by Magnus but a good deal more melodious. He looked from Magnus to Pietro. “Much has changed.”

“Yes,” Magnus agreed thoughtfully. “It has. Much as it pains me to say so ... it appears that you were correct.”

Pietro looked surprised. “He was? About what?”

“Almost everything,” Magnus replied somberly. “Starting with his opposition to the cabal—and extending to his suspicions regarding the Thraki. The first strategy failed to achieve its purpose, and, should the Sheen arrive, the second could actually destroy us. Especially if the alien military bases come under attack.”

Pietro, who was a much better administrator than a strategist looked alarmed and defensive. “That’s not what our experts say . . they say ...”

“They are fools,” Antonio finished for him. “Many of them are sincere but misled. Much of the counsel they received originated with this man.”

The Alpha Clone touched a button and a holographic likeness of Ambassador Ishimoto Seven blossomed at the center of the conversation area. The footage had been obtained surreptitiously. It stabilized and started to rotate. The diplomat was talking to someone.

“Nonsense,” Pietro replied. “Ishimoto Seven is not only genetically appropriate to his task, he has years of relevant experience, and has been rated ready for promotion.”

“The very thing he seeks most,” Magnus observed. “Before all else.”

“Surely you are mistaken,” Pietro insisted, looking from one face to the other. “Where is your proof?

Something objective?”

“Right here,” Antonio replied calmly. “Watch this.”

The holo of Ishimoto Seven dissolved into a shot of a spaceport. Judging from the way it was framed and the duration of the subsequent zoom, the camera had been a long way off. All three of the men watched as the kill ball closed on a courier ship, lined up on Senator Ishimoto Six, and fired a single shot. The clones remained silent as Gorgin Three died—and was carried away. Antonio was the first to speak.

“My agents were caught by surprise and have some explaining to do ... The kill ball was dispatched by Ishimoto Seven. He knew Six was on the way to see us ... and hoped to intervene.”

“So you say,” Pietro replied stubbornly. “Prove it.”

“All three of the Alpha Clones were equipped with implants. Antonio cocked his head as the message came in. “The accused has arrived,” Antonio replied. “Make no mention of what you’ve seen, wait for the rest of our guests to arrive, and watch Seven’s face. His personal communications devices were spoofed hours ago... He will convict himself.”

Pietro considered the matter for a moment, gave a jerk of his head, and wondered if the rumors were true. Had his brother’s DNA been obtained from one of their predecessor’s backup copies rather than stored material? And if so, could that account for the differences between them? There was no way to know.

A chime sounded. Three officials were shown into the room and left to choose from the few remaining chairs. There was Catherine ChambersNine, the secretary of state, Morley Hyde Thirteen, deputy secretary of state, and Harlan Ishimoto Seven, the Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy. Magnus, who had long wished that he were someone else, watched them in a way that he never had before. How, the clone wondered, had he failed to see the cruel almost predatory curve of the secretary’s lips? Her deputy’s sleek, overfed assurance? And the diplomat’s oily self-satisfied smirk?

They were like fingers on a hand. Their joint perfidy seemed so obvious now, so amazingly clear, that he could barely believe his own lack of clarity. His mother would have seen it, his father would have seen it, but he was blind. Damn them anyway! For giving him a life that he neither wanted nor was qualified to have.

There was small talk, the awkward, somewhat stilted kind of conversation that occurs when human beings attempt to communicate across a social chasm, followed by the same chime heard earlier. Chambers and her subordinates turned toward the main hallway. They were curious—but far from alarmed. More officials they supposed or—and this seemed more likely—senior military officers who, in spite of their lack of expertise, never tired of dabbling in statecraft. None of them noticed that the Alpha Clones remained as they were, watching, and waiting. Harlan Ishimoto Seven felt a sudden sense of alarm as Maylo ChienChu entered the room, wondered how she had managed to find her way alone, and what the development would mean. That’s when the diplomat spotted his clone brother, knew the assassination attempt had failed, and heard Chambers gasp. It was the moment Antonio had been waiting for. He turned to Pietro. “So, my brother, took at their faces. What do you see?”

“Surprise,” the Alpha Clone replied sadly. “All of them are surprised.”

“Yes,” Antonio agreed. “Not proof of guilt... but that will come. A citizen is dead and the investigation has begun. One of them will rat on the rest. Guards! Take them away.”

Ishimoto Six was confused, then angry, as the meaning became clear. He lunged forward, stopped when a guard seized his arms, and confronted his brother. “Svetlana is dead. Why?”

Seven saw the hatred in his brother’s eyes, felt Antonio’s contempt, and couldn’t believe it was happening. “Wait! Stop! You don’t understand!”

Oh, but we do,” Magnus replied. “We understand all too well. Take this trash away.”

The subsequent meeting lasted the better part of two local days. Though not empowered to act on behalf of the Confederacy, Maylo was knowledgeable regarding the political climate, and well worth listening to. The Clones did so.

It was clear from the beginning that the Alpha Clones had already decided to form a closer relationship with the Confederacy—the question was how and within what time frame. Finally, when the session was over, Ishimoto Six was empowered to open certain areas for negotiation, and the two of them left. They had the courier ship all to themselves this time. Maylo, who had never tried zero gee sex before, decided that she liked it. The only problem was that the act left her feeling sad somehow—as if something had gone missing. She wrestled with her dreams and felt tired when she awoke.

Chapter 8

In war I would deal with the Devil and his grandmother.

Joseph Stalin

ArmyStaffCollegePapers

Standard year circa 1909

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Sergi ChienChu awoke where he usually did—standing in one comer of his small, and rather sparsely furnished stateroom. It had been a long time since he had made use of a bed. He’d been back for about three standard days by that time but was still in the process of reintegrating with his own body and the Friendship’s daily routines.

He thought the word “vision” and scanned the interior of his cabin. It was dark, so he switched to infrared. The corn console glowed green, as did the battery-powered holos of his family, and the overhead heat duct.

The cyborg wondered what time it was, saw 0633 appear in the lower right-hand quadrant of his vision, and knew he should get to work. Hard work—since the task the industrialist had set for himself would be anything but easy.

The Hudathans had agreed to fight... but would the senate allow them to do so? Millions of deaths argued against it. Even he wondered about the wisdom of the idea.

Slowly, reluctantly, the industrialist unlocked his joints, brought all of his systems on line, and departed his quarters. The first meeting would be held over breakfast. A meal he had once enjoyed. Life was anything but fair.

The Molly B popped out of hyperspace like a cork out of a bottle, fired her insystem drive, and immediately started to tumble.

Willy Williams swore a long string of colorful oaths, took the Navcomp off tine, and assumed manual control of the ship. Located deep within the durasteel hull, the computer depended on external sensors for input, and roughly half of them were out of action.

Both the ship and its owner, a man of somewhat elastic morals, had been on Long Jump, minding their own business, catching a little R&R when the Sheen dropped in for a visit. Machines that preached on street comers . .. What was next? Talking dogs?

Willy wanted to leave, wanted to boost ass as fast as possible, but needed his cargo. A nice load of custom-designed bacteria, all destined for a dirtball called Clevis, where the colonists were hanging by their fingernails while they waited for microscopic reinforcements. The kind that eat rock, burp oxygen, and shit fertilizer.

They weren’t gonna get “em, though, not anytime soon, not since the machines slagged Fortuna, Willy hauled butt, and a Sheen fighter put the hurts to Molly.

But that was then, and this was now. The ship rolled, the smuggler fired a jet, and she stabilized. He was about to check his position, find out where the hell he was. when something hit the hull. The Molly shook, and some buzzers went off.

Willy tapped some buttons, discovered that the delta-shaped fighter was still on his ass, and wondered how.

None of the civilizations he was familiar with had the technology to lock on to another ship and follow it through hyperspace. But this sucker did ... and was determined to kill him. The Molly B shuddered as a missile exploded in the vicinity of her hull—and shuddered once again when Willy took evasive action. His eyes were bloodshot, veins traced his nose, and stubble covered his cheeks. The words went out over freq four. “You want some of me? You wanta dance? Well, come on you pile of metallic shit, let’s get it on!”

The Sheen fighter took note of the transmission, had no idea what it meant, and filed the message away. Such matters were handled by the Hoon—and the Hoon was a long way off. President Marcott Nankool nodded to Chief Warrant Officer Aba, the senate’s master at arms, climbed the short flight of stairs and made his way to the podium. Ironically enough it was Senator Omo who was tasked with the introduction by right of seniority. He rose from the specially constructed chair located to the right of the speaker’s position. His voice, translated by the computer woven into his iridescent robe, filled the chambers. The chatter died away. “Please allow me to welcome each and every one of you back to this, the sixty-ninth gathering of this august body, and the second half of this year’s session.

“Here to open the proceedings is the Right Honorable Marcott Nankool—the Confederacy’s President and Chief Executive Officer. President Nankool?”

There was sustained applause followed by the usual rustle of fabric, creak of chairs, and whir of servos. Nankool smiled. Most of the senators knew what the expression meant. The rest ignored it. “Thank you. It is a great pleasure to be here. You have an ambitious slate of legislation to consider—and I have no wish to delay your deliberations. With that reality in mind, I will keep my comments short and to the point.

“We have reason to believe that a force known as the ‘Sheen is headed our way. The purpose of this fleet is to destroy the Thraki plus any race that gets in the way or offers them support.”

Many of the senators had heard rumors and offered gestures of agreement while some looked confused. They turned to neighbors, and words were exchanged.

Nankool scanned his audience, prepared the next volley of words, and delivered them with care. “Even as we meet, efforts are under way to marshal what forces we have and prepare a defense. However, a series of budget cuts, combined with troubles on Earth, have left our forces at little more than half strength. That being the case, it is my hope, no, my prayer, that you will understand me when I say that desperate times call for desperate measures.”

Nankool looked out into the chamber, located the eyes he was looking for, and continued his speech.

“You may be interested to know that Governor ChienChu, acting at my request, accompanied Ambassador Hiween DomaSa to the planet Hudatha, where they met with senior officials.

“The result of those discussions, pending your approval, was the outline of what could become a mutual defense pact. An agreement that would allow the Hudathans some measure of additional freedom in exchange for their assistance against the Sheen.”

It was as far as Nankool got. Shouts were heard, and someone threw a glass. It shattered against the podium. Aba moved to protect the chief executive, and democracy turned to chaos. Every being present had lost someone to Hudathan aggression—and was opposed to any sort of rapprochement. ChienChu looked at DomaSa. The Hudathan shrugged.

There was nothing else he could do.

The Molly B shuddered, rolled, and corkscrewed away. The fighter followed. Willy had been in his share of scrapes during more than forty years of working, stealing, and smuggling, but couldn’t remember one worse than this He needed to beat the machine and do it soon. Coherent light blipped past the view screen and raced past the ship. The human scanned the instrument panel, was frightened by how many red and amber lights he saw, and took a firm grip on the control yoke. He pulled back. The Molly B

broke out of the corkscrew and started to climb. Not really, since “up” was relative, but that’s the way it felt. The smuggler’s mind started to race.

The machine was a machine. That constituted both its strength and its weakness It would do what it supposed to do, which, if its programming followed the dictates of logic, meant achieving its objective in the shortest possible period of time, while expending the minimum amount of energy required to get the job done.

He, however, was human, which meant he could do anything he frigging wanted to do, no matter how stupid that might seem.

Williams turned the yoke to the left, fought the gee forces that threatened to distort his movements, and checked the heads-up display (HUD). The enemy fighter appeared as a three-dimensional red outline. Suddenly, the ships were headed at each other at a high rate of combined speed. The smuggler steered into the center of the sighting grid, gave a whoop of joy, and sent another transmission. “You got balls?

Steel balls? Let’s find out.”

The fighter’s processor made note of the change, ran the numbers, and received negative results. Since it was bow-on, the target vessel would be extremely hard to hit. Not only that, but there was the very real possibility of a head-on collision, which while it would almost certainly destroy the enemy, would have similar implications for the fighter.

Something the Hoon was almost sure to disapprove of.

Added to that was the fact that the tactics employed by the opposition didn’t make much sense, suggesting that the enemy intelligence was inferior, defective, or—and this seemed unlikely—possessed of a plan so sophisticated that only one such as the Hoon would be capable of understanding it. The oncoming vessel was closer now, a lot closer, and showed no sign of turning away. A subprocessor signaled alarm. The Sheen fired two missiles, turned to the left, and ran into a beam of coherent light. It was powerful, much more powerful than a ship of that displacement would logically have, and therefore unexpected. The force field that protected the fighter, and was the origin of the name “Sheen,” flared and went down. Steel turned to liquid, a drive went critical, and the machine exploded. Willy saw the fireball, heard the tone, and the impact all at the same time. One of the enemy missiles had missed—but the other struck its target. The Molly took the blow, seemed to hesitate, and took a jog to starboard.

Most of the remaining green lights morphed to red, a klaxon began to bleat, and the control yoke went dead. Willy swore, attempted to kill power, and discovered that he couldn’t. The ship was hauling butt, heading out past the sun, bound for nowhere. The planet Arballa, to which the smuggler had been headed, was off to port. Way off to port.

Williams bit his lip, checked to see if the auxiliary steering jets were on line, and discovered most of them were. He fired two in combination, the vessel jerked to port, and the smuggler dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could bring her in.

It took the better part of ten minutes, plus a dozen minute adjustments, but he brought the Molly around. Finally, convinced that the ship was on course, Willy sent a message: “Confederate vessel CVL9769 to any Confederate warship—over.”

There was a pause while the signal made the necessary journey, but the reply was as prompt as the laws of physics would allow. The voice belonged to a corn tech named Howsky—and she was bored. Nothing interesting had happened for weeks. ‘This is the vessel Friendship ... we read you loud and clear. Over.”

“Glad to hear it. Friendship, cause I’m declaring an emergency and comin’ in hot. Over.”

Howsky sat up straight, signaled her chief, and eyed an overhead holo. CVL9769 appeared as a blue delta. It was coming in fast. “Declare your emergency, 69... What kind of problem do you have? Maybe we can help. Over.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Willy replied, “but I went head-to-head with a Sheen fighter. I nailed the bastard... but took some damage. Navcomp’s down, controls are shot, and the drives won’t answer. They’re maxed, repeat maxed, and my board reads red. Other than that—things couldn’t be better.”

“Got it,” Howsky replied. “Hold one... will advise.

Over.”

The chief called the division commander, who called the executive officer, who confirmed the remote possibility of collision, and notified Captain Boone. He hit the crash alarm and hell broke loose. Klaxons sounded, signs flashed, and traffic was diverted away from the ship. The Friendship’s crew raced to their damage control stations, hatches dropped into place, and the ship’s PA system came to sudden life. Translations followed.

“This is the captain. Nonessential personnel will take seats, strap themselves in, and remain in place till further notice. There is a remote, I repeat remote chance that an incoming vessel will collide with the Friendship, but there is no need for concern. Based on current calculations the ship should miss ours by more than a thousand miles. If that were to change, we have plenty of ways to deal with it. I will provide more news the moment it becomes available. Thank you.”

Down in the senate, where pandemonium reigned only moments before, silence claimed the chamber. Marcott Nankool felt a sudden sense of relief. Suddenly, as if by magic, the arguments had stopped. Not forever, but for the moment, which would act as a damper. The emergency was an opportunity in disguise.

There was a rustling of fabric and the occasional clink of metal as the senators strapped themselves in. The President had just secured his harness when Captain Boone spoke via the implant in his skull. Very few people had either the authority or the means to do so. That being the case, there was no need for an introduction.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but the owner of the incoming vessel, one Willy Williams, desires to speak with you He says it’s urgent, and, given his present situation, he may be correct. There’s a very real chance that he will hit Arballa at two or three thousand miles per hour.”

Nankool frowned and subvocalized his reply. “I’m kind of busy ... did he mention a subject?”

“Sir, yes sir. Williams claims that the Sheen attacked a planet called Long Jump, destroyed the city ofFortuna , and are headed this way. One of them followed him through hyperspace A freak accident most likely—but the effect is the same.”

The tone was clear: Boone didn’t believe much if any of what Williams had to say. But Nankool, politician that he was, felt his heart beat a little faster. The truth didn’t matter.. . not right then. What mattered was perceptions ... An idea flashed through his mind. If the strategy worked, it could save day If it failed he would look like an idiot.

Oh well, Nankool thought to himself, it’s all on the line in any case. My reputation won’t matter if I’m dead. He cleared his throat. ‘Tell Williams that I will take his call... Monitor the chamber, and the moment I give the word, pipe him through the PA. I’ll take a holo if you have one available.”

Boone thought the President was out of his mind but was far too professional to let it show. “Sir, yes sir.”

Nankool released his harness and stepped to the podium.

“May I have your attention please? Thank you.”

Most of those present assumed the President had information pertaining to the emergency and were quick to quiet down.

Like most high-ranking politicians Nankool was a consummate actor. He had even gone so far as to study some of what he considered to be the more important alien cultures, not striving for a fluency that would take a lifetime to achieve, but settling for a basic understanding of what constituted a gaffe, or an out-and-out insult. Now, as the President looked out over his audience, he applied all that he had learned.

“Most honorable gentle beings ... please watch and listen as the pilot of the incoming ship describes what happened to him. Captain, if you please . ..”

The holo blossomed, and the senate found itself staring into Willy Williams’ grizzled countenance. Though conscious of the fact that he was on camera, the smuggler’s eyes flicked from side to side as he checked the wildly fluctuating readouts. “Sorry to bother you Mr. President, but I reckon you need to know. I was on Long Jump, mindin’ my own business, when a fleet dropped hyper. There were lots of ships, hundreds, maybe thousands of ‘em, all wrapped in some sort of shiny force field.

“No bio bods, though, not unless you want to count Jorley Jepp, and most people think he’s crazy. That’s cause he’s been loadin’ the machines with some sort religious gobbledygook. Sent ‘em down to preach on the street corners. Not sure what happened after that. The Sheen attacked Fortuna and reduced the place to rubble. A few of us managed to lift. I came here to warn you. Guess that’s it ‘cept for the pickle I’m in. Sorry ‘bout the inconvenience ... but the Molly took a whole lot of damage.”

Nankool cleared his throat. “Thank you. Citizen Williams. What you did required a great deal of courage. I’m sure that Captain Boone and his crew will do everything in their power to assist you. Once this matter is resolved, please ask to see me. The Confederacy owes you a debt of gratitude.

“Now,” Nankool continued, turning his attention to the senators arrayed before him, “you see what I’ve been talking about. This is no phantom menace ... The Sheen are real, we must ready ourselves to meet them, and they are knocking on the door. Fortuna lies in ruins... It could have been one of your cities. Will be should you fail to take action.

“Your reservations regarding the possibility of an alliance with the Hudathans are understandable—and deserve reasoned discussion. A discussion that must be held in light of what we know: The Sheen are coming.”

Most of the senators were moved by Willy’s story and convinced he was telling the truth. That, plus the fact that they were strapped in place, fueled some rational discussion. DomaSa sat toward the rear of the chamber next to ChienChu. “Your President fires words like bullets. They hit the mark.”

ChienChu nodded. “Yes, he’s very skilled. If, and I stress if he pulls this off, Nankool will be President of our Confederacy. Yours and mine.”

DomaSa felt the reality of that sink in. The Hudathans?

Led by an alien? Unthinkable! Yet what of the alternative? The annihilation of his people. Equally unthinkable. There was no way out. The debate droned on.

The Friendship’s control room was huge—as befitted a ship of her importance—and self-consciously quiet. The multi-species crew took pride in their professionalism and always sought to meet emergencies with exactly the right amount of effort. Captain Boone scanned the screen for a second time and gave a sigh of relief. There would be no need to break the former battleship out of her parking orbit. The Molly B would clear his vessel by more than a thousand miles. There was so much clearance in fact that he would have lifted the shipwide lockdown had it not been for Nankool’s insistence that the restrictions remain in place. A nonsensical request the naval officer thought absurd. Still, the situation did allow him to turn his attention from the spacegoing capital to the Molly B and her somewhat disreputable owner. It seemed that Williams, aka Kline, Peters, and Howe, the last being the name he’d been born with, was a wanted man. A fact that might or might not get in the way of the reward promised by Nankool.

None of which mattered to Boone, who knew his duty, and was determined to save the smuggler if such a thing was possible. He opened a corn link. “Captain Williams? This is Captain Boone. What kind of emergency gear have you got on board? A lifeboat? Escape pod?”

Willy gritted his teeth as the drive cut in and out. The ship was doomed and so it seemed was he. “My lifeboat needs some repairs ... and the pod was damaged during the fight.”

Boone bit his lip. The very idea of lifting with a lifeboat in need of repairs went against every bone in his naval body. Such things were common among civilians, however—just one of the reasons why they required supervision. “Yes, well that’s a bit unfortunate. How about space armor? You have some I trust?”

Willy looked up at the camera. “Of course I do! What do you take me for? An idiot?”

Boone decided it would be best to let the question pass unanswered. “Excellent. That being the case you’ll be able to abandon ship. I suggest you step out of the lock in two hours and twenty-seven minutes. One of our search and rescue sleds will pick you up.”

“What about the Molly?

The naval officer glanced off screen then back. “Our calculations suggest that your ship will impact the surface of Arballa at approximately three thousand miles per hour. The Araballazanies have given their permission for you to land or, more accurately, to crash. I doubt your ship will be worth much after that.”

Willy squinted into the camera. His mother plus all three of his former wives knew the expression well.

“No.”

Boone raised an eyebrow. “ Wo?’ What does that mean?”

“It means I ain’t gonna do it,” Willy replied stolidly.

“The Molly’s been hurt worse than this ... I can repair her.

All you gotta do is stop her.”

The bridge crew, all of whom were surreptitiously monitoring the conversation, snickered. “And how,”

Boone said patiently, “would we do that?”

“Simple,” Williams replied. “You got tractor beams don’tcha? Well, use ‘em.”

The naval officer frowned. “Yes, we do. But snatching a fast-moving object like your ship takes a great deal of effort and skill. You claim your ship can be repaired. I doubt it. Why should I go to the effort?”

Willy leaned forward until his heavily veined nose looked like an overripe tomato. “Because if you don’t help me, I’ll end up spread across twenty square miles of Arballa’s surface, and you’ll have to explain why.”

Boone felt a rising sense of anger but knew the civilian was correct. He would have to launch an investigation, convene a board of inquiry, and sit through days of boring testimony. “I’ll think about it.”

Willy grinned. “You do that. Captain. I’ll be waiting.”

Ishimoto Six had to bully traffic control before getting permission to land in the Friendship’s cavernous launch bay—and was surprised to see how quiet the facility was.

It wasn’t until Maylo and he had cleared the lock and entered the ship that they heard about the emergency. Given a choice between sitting in their staterooms or joining the senate, they chose the latter. Sergi ChienChu and Hiween DomaSa waved them over. Some whispered conversation was sufficient to bring the newcomers up to speed. Ishimoto Six was amazed at how audacious the plan was, saw how it could serve the Hegemony’s interests, and wondered if the Alpha Clones would support him. The debate was well advanced. Senator Hygo Pulu Darwa, who represented the Dwellers, had come forward to oppose the proposal. The senate listened as he spoke.

“So,” Darwa concluded, “while I can see the benefit to be realized from an alliance with the Hudathans, the dangers are much too great. What happened to the legion could happen again. While it’s true that the lack of a deepspace navy might serve to brake their expansionist tendencies, a revolt by one or more of the Hudathan military units could wreak havoc on our defensive efforts, and threaten the Confederacy as a whole. I’m sorry—but that’s how I see it. Thank you.”

Nankool, who had expected the Dwellers to support rather than oppose his initiative, struggled to conceal his disappointment. A rare moment of somewhat awkward silence fell over the chamber. Those who sought to block the proposal relished their moment of victory—while those who favored it stared defeat in the face. ChienChu wished he had the right to speak—and DomaSa struggled to hide his rage. Ishimoto Six felt himself stand was surprised to find that he had. “The Clone Hegemony seeks to be recognized.”

Senator Omo looked for Ishimoto Seven and wondered where he was. Not that it made much difference. Ishimoto Six had every right to speak. The Ramanthian ran his tool legs back along the sides of his beak. “The chair recognizes Senator Ishimoto Six.”

Six saw his image appear at the front of the chamber. Most of his peers settled for that—but a few turned to look. He established eye contact with those that did. “I suggest that in addition to the proposed restrictions on the Hudathan navy, that their ground forces be integrated into the Legion, so that there will be little to no possibility that an entire unit could or would revolt. Thank you.”

Slowly, inexorably, every ocular organ in the room turned, swiveled, and in one case slithered toward Ambassador Hiween DomaSa. Every single being in the room knew how xenophobic the Hudathans were. Would the race submit? Agree to take orders from those they had long sought to annihilate?

DomaSa felt the scrutiny and knew what they were thinking. In spite of the fact that the thought was new to them, he had already considered the possibility and hoped it would never come up. But now it had, which forced him to confront a terrible choice: Accept the clone proposal, thereby ceding control of the Hudathan military to the Confederacy, or—and this was equally unthinkable—open his people to an attack by the Sheen. He ignored Omo and spoke without benefit of a mike. The words were bitter—like poison. “My people stand ready to accept the clone proposal if we receive a full membership in the Confederacy, if all trade restrictions are lifted, and if the Hegemony agrees to a joint command structure.”

There was a hiss of in drawn breath as everyone turned to stare at Ishimoto Six. Here was a brilliant counterstroke. A piece of political legerdemain that would be discussed for months if not years to come. Though a member of the Confederacy, the Hegemony had always been very independent. A unified command structure would limit that... How would the clone respond?

Ishimoto Six wondered the same thing. How would his government want him to respond? But more importantly how should he respond? Because this was one of those moments, the kind he had once dreamed of, when a single person could make a difference. If he had the courage. Whatever he said, whatever he did, would be hard if not impossible for the Hegemony to retract. The politician looked at Maylo, saw the question in her eyes, and got to his feet. Like DomaSa, he decided to ignore Senator Omo. The almost perfect silence was permission to speak. “The Sheen are on the way ... It will take every bit of our strength to stop them. The Hegemony will place its forces under a unified command for the duration of the crises. What happens after that will be subject to negotiation.”

Stroke and counterstroke! Every single one of them understood the qualification. It gave Six a way out, an escape hatch, should his superiors take issue with the decision. Not immediately—but down the line. It was a smart, gutsy move.

President Nankool released his harness, stood, and started to applaud. The rest of the senate did likewise, or, in the case of those who lacked hands, made an assortment of celebratory noises. ChienChu felt a sudden surge of hope. He looked from DomaSa to Ishimoto Six. Both were close enough to hear. “Thank you—thank you both. We have a chance now, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.”

The Hudathan offered a human-style nod. “My people have a saying . . ‘hope lights the way.’ “

Arballa had grown from little more than a pinprick of light to a luminous brown ball. The elation that had accompanied Willy’s victory over Captain Boone had faded to be replaced by a growing sense of concern. What had he been thinking anyway? Shooting his mouth off that way . .. Yes, he needed Molly, but only if he was alive, not spread all over the surface of some godforsaken dirtball. Pride prevented the smuggler from saying anything, however—which accounted for his silence. Perhaps Boone was playing a game with him, waiting to see if he’d crack, or, and this seemed more likely, the miserable swabbie was off on a coffee break, sipping Java and trading scuttlebutt while he ... The voice sounded bored. “Stand by CVL9769. We intend to seize control of your vessel with two, repeat two, tractor beams. You may feel a bump.”

Willy ran his tongue over dry lips. “And if I don’t?”

There was a momentary pause. The woman was amused.

“Then either we did one helluva good job or we missed.”

“And if you miss?”

“Say hello to the Arballazanies for me. I love the computers they make.”

Willie could almost hear the swabbies laughing, forced himself to smile, and leaned back in his seat. He’d hold that position all the way to the surface if necessary, to the point when the Molly B drilled her way into the planet’s crust, and the worms came to ...

The bump was more of a violent jerk, and Willy’s head flew forward then back. The drive screamed, edged into the red, and shut itself down. “Congratulations,” the voice said cheerfully. “You’re going to live. The first round is on you.”

Chapter 9

The commander must try, above all, to establish personal and comradely contact with his men, but without giving away an inch of his authority.

Field Marshal Erwin Rommel

The Rommel Papers

Standard year 1953

Planet Drang, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

General William Booly climbed the same metal stairs that he had climbed more than twenty years before, opened the naval-style hatch, noticed the fact that the hinges had been heavily greased, and knew why. The indigs, more commonly referred to as the frogs, owned the lake in which Firebase Victor had been constructed, and loved to take potshots at anyone unfortunate enough to “pull the O,” which was slang for walking endless circles around the metal observation deck. The locals had excellent hearing, which meant that the sound of a squeaky hinge could attract a bullet from a pre-registered sniper’s rifle, about head-high straight through the hatch. How had that lesson been learned? The hard way—from someone who had been dead for a long time.

The legionnaire stepped out onto the metal grating, nodded to a heavily armored private, and knew she was an old hand. Newbies, also known as “frog food,” had a tendency to salute officers and thereby pick them out for the snipers. She smiled and a network of creases exploded away from her bright blue eyes. “Welcome back, sir. The name’s Harris. I hear you’ve been here before.”

Booly nodded. “They sent me here right out of the Academy. Said I’d learn a thing or two.”

“And did you?”

“Hell, no. I was a second lieutenant.. . and you can’t teach them anything.”

Harris laughed. “Well, you survived, sir, and that’s more than some can say.”

“Yes,” Booly replied soberly, “it sure is.”

The legionnaire continued her rounds as the officer scanned his surroundings. The water had a dark, oily look, mist hovered like ectoplasm, and some unseen thing sent ripples radiating in all directions. The firebase sat at the exact center of the lake, which seemed like a stupid place to put it unless you were familiar with Drang and its relentless jungles. The water kept the vegetation back and provided a natural firefree zone.

That didn’t stop the indigs from swimming in close, though . .. They liked to take potshots at the sentries, ambush Trooper IPs as they returned from patrol, and place charges against the tower’s supports. If they got that close—which was a rarity. The firebase was protected by sensor arrays, robotic weapons emplacements, and some pretty sophisticated booby traps.

Something clanged off the metal behind him, and Booly heard the report of a distant gunshot. Harris materialized at his elbow. “It doesn’t pay to stand still, sir. A gunrunner managed to land about two months ago. Sold the frogs some fairly decent hunting rifles. Scopes, infrared, the whole shebang. That shot came from the jungle. The swimmers get in close. Nailed Oki last week. Miserable bastard.”

There was no way to know if the “miserable bastard” was Oki or the sniper who shot him. Booly thanked the trooper and started to walk. His boots clanged on metal. Dark gray clouds merged to produce a spattering of rain. Each drop hit the surface of the lake and gave birth to concentric rings. A lot like recent events. Who would have envisioned a time when Hudathans, Hegemony, and Confederate forces all came under a single command? His.

Not because Booly was best qualified, not in his judgement anyway, but because better men and women had been killed, or, as was the case with officers like Colonel Leon Harco, were rotting in prison. All of which left the officer with little choice but to muddle through. The challenge was enormous. He had what? Weeks? Months at most to deal with the Thraki military bases, fold three vastly different military cultures into one, and mount a credible defense. In the meantime, the Sheen could do as they pleased. Including roll over the Confederacy in less than a month, should they decide to move more aggressively. That’s why Booly had selected the best officers he could find and tasked them with building the command, communications, and logistics systems necessary to unify such a diverse force. And they were hard at work, doing the sort of things he could have done, would have preferred to do, rather than risk his life on Drang.

But that’s where he was because leadership starts at the top and is built on trust, plus a set of common standards, beliefs, and values. The task, his task, was to select officers from each of the disparate military traditions, assess their strengths, understand their weaknesses, and forge a single blade. A weapon so strong, so sharp, that it would cut the Sheen to pieces. Was he up to the task? Were they up to the task?

There was no way to know. All he could do was try.

The officer paused and allowed the rain to hit his face. The rail felt cold beneath his fingers. Something screamed in the jungle . . . and night swallowed the sky.

The rain stopped just before dawn, and the sun came out of hiding. It rose through a clear blue sky, claimed its place in the heavens, and bathed everything in gold. A layer of mist floated over the surface of the take, jerked in response to the ebb and flow of the early morning breeze, and parted for the flat-bottomed boat.

The scow was constructed of aluminum, was twenty-two feet long, and heavily loaded. General William Booly sat toward the bow, War Commander Wenio MorlaKa occupied the next seat back, General Jonathan Alan Seebo346 shared a seat with Battle Leader Pasar Hebo. Staff Sergeant Mordicai Mondulo commanded the stem. He steered the boat and kept his eyes fixed on the shoreline. The small electric motor whirred, water rippled away from the bow, and the Jungle waited. The trees were taller now, hosts to a tangled mass of intertwined vegetation that was involved in a nonstop slow-motion working out of complex symbiotic, commensualistic, and predatory relationships. Here was an enemy even more implacable than the frogs—a biomass eager for nourishment. Booly had survived the forest once before, but just barely, and felt something cold trickle into the bottom of his gut. Mondulo had black skin, wore tattoos on both brawny forearms, and possessed a deep resonant voice. It carried all the way to the bow. “The water looks real nice, don’t it? Well, it ain’t. There’s all kinda critters in there . . . some of which have mighty sharp teeth. That bein’ the case, don’t stick nothin’ in there you wanta keep.”

None of the officers said anything, and Booty wondered what they were thinking. That he was crazy?

That the whole exercise was a joke? Maybe. One thing was for sure however, even if he didn’t manage to get their attention, Drang sure as hell would.

Mondulo killed the motor, allowed the boat to coast, and felt it slide onto the mud bank. None of the occupants noticed the sleek head that surfaced behind them, the yellow eyes, or the ripple left when the creature submerged.

Booly stood, scanned the area ahead, and noticed boot prints in the muck. He eyed the tree line, saw something move, and flicked the safety off his assault rifle. “We have movement in the trees, Sergeant.. . you make the call.”

“Not bad for an officer,” the noncom said grudgingly.

“There’s an entire squad concealed in the undergrowth along with three T2’s. They secured the area just before daylight. This is the last time we’ll have that kind of support.”

Mondulo nodded towards Booly *s subordinates. “Safe your weapons and deass the boat.. The general gets a word with you, then it’s my turn.”

Booly felt mud suck at the bottom of his boots as he stepped out of the boat and climbed the gently rising bank. He hadn’t carried a full combat load in a long time—too long, judging by how heavy it felt. The training exercise, if that’s what the evolution could properly be called, was scheduled to last three days. Shorter than he would have liked but all the time that could be spared. No one knew when the Sheen would make their next appearance, and he wanted to be there when they did. Like the others, Booly carried a waterproof corn set capable of reaching the firebase from any location on Drang, an extensive first aid kit, six days worth of rations, two canteens, a hammock made of superstrong netting, a dozen hand grenades, an assault rifle with a built-in grenade launcher, twenty magazines, each containing thirty rounds, twenty shotgun style 40 mm rounds, his favorite sidearm, two extra clips, a combat knife that hung hilt down from his harness, and numerous odds and ends. No big deal when he was twenty-three—but a pain in the ass now.

MorlaKa looked as if he were underloaded, Seebo wore a self-confident smile, and Hebo, who carried his gear in something that bore a resemblance to a pair of saddlebags, appeared unaffected. The Ramanthian was something of an enigma. What was the insectoid sentient thinking? There was no way to know.

The officer met each set of eyes in turn. “One of my people’s greatest military thinkers, a man by the name of Sun Tzu, wrote a book called the Art of War. It begins:

‘The Art of War is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin.

Hence under no circumstance can it be neglected.’ “

“Another great warrior, this one Hudathan, wrote, ‘The survival of the Hudathan race cannot be left to chance. Anything that could threaten our people must be destroyed. Such is the warrior’s task.’ A little more preemptive than humans would prefer—but to the point.”

A look of newfound respect had appeared in MorlaKa’s eyes. The words had a sibilant quality. “Those words were written by Mylo NurtonDa in standard year 1703.”

Booly nodded. “Yes. The Life of a Warrior should be mandatory reading for anyone who takes up the profession of arms. And that’s what this is all about.

“We represent different races, come from different military traditions, and share a common enemy. In order to fight that enemy and defend those who depend on us, we must operate from a set of common values. The concepts I’m about to put forth may be consistent with your native culture, or they may not. I don’t care. They are the precepts by which you will lead our troops. Fail to do so at your peril.

“So here they are ... First: Strategy and tactics will be formulated and implemented for the greater good. That means what’s good for the Confederacy as a whole. Not Earth, not Alpha001, not Hudatha and not Hive.

“Second: We will lead by example and never order our troops to do something we would refuse to do ourselves, and treat them respect. Regardless of what species or group they represent.

‘Third: We will think first—and fight second. The Sheen will be as smart as someone was able to make them. We must be smarter.

“And fourth,” Booly continued, “is the need to conserve lives, options, and supplies. Our resources are limited. Use them wisely. Any questions? No? Then it’s time to hear from the sergeant. He has orders to treat us the same way he would treat raw recruits, so the next few days will be a bit rough, but it will teach us to work as a team. Listen to what he says—it could save your life. Sergeant? We’re all yours.”

Mondulo nodded. “Sir! Yes, sir.” He took three paces forward, performed a crisp rightface, and stood at parade rest. The voice was the same one perfected on parade grounds at a dozen forts. “You pukes want know what my claim to fraxing fame is? Well, I’ll tell you what my claim to fraxing fame is... I’ve been on this pus ball for two years, and I’m still alive. That’s my claim to fame, and there ain’t a fraxing one of you who can say the same thing. That makes me numero uno, the big dog, and the main enchilada.”

Booly watched his officers out of the comers of his eyes and fought to restrain a smile. With the possible exception of Seebo; none of them had ever run into a noncom like Mondulo before.

“Now,” the sergeant said, gesturing to the verdant foliage. “That’s the jungle ... My fraxing jungle, and it’s full of nasty-assed shit. Take a look around. See those trees? Tall suckers ain’t they? Tall enough and thick enough to block out the sun. That means a low tight level down on the ground, damned little undergrowth, and relatively easy walking. The frogs aren’t very comfortable on land so you’re relatively safe from them.

“You gotta watch for reptiles, though, includin’ the dappled Drang adder, the vine viper, and a nasty piece ‘o work called the stick snake, cause that’s what the bastard looks like, till you grab his ass and he kills you.”

Mondulo looked from one face to the next. “You got any questions? No? Okay, then. Once we leave the jungle, we’re gonna travel through some suckass swamps. The fraxing frogs love the swamps so they’ll be waitin’ for us.”

Mondulo glared at them from under a craggy brow. “That ain’t the only problem—not by a long shot. I don’t how many of you have dicks, you bein’ XTs an all, but take my word for it, don’t pee when you’re wadin’ through the water. Not unless you want a tiny wormlike critter to swim up your uretha and lay eggs in your bladder. The medics tell me that the young ‘uns eat their way out.”

The noncom shrugged. “Course we got water snakes, blood suckin’ plants, and some nasty-assed parasites all waitin’ to take a bite out of your ignorant butts as well. . . That’s why you’re gonna do what I say, do it fast, and do it right. You got any questions? No? Then saddle up. Booly, you take the point. MorlaKa, Hebo, and I will follow. Seebo has drag. Practice those hand signals—you’re gonna need

‘em.”

Booly experienced a strange sense of deja vu as he eyed the jungle, spotted a break in the foliage, and headed that way. A heavily camouflaged human peered out of the undergrowth, offered a thumbs up, and faded from view.

Then, some fifteen or twenty steps later, the friendly forces were behind them, the lake was little more than a memory, and the jungle wrapped the interlopers in its warmwet embrace. Booly—worried lest he miss something and lead the team into a disaster—focused on the environment around him. Memories came flooding back. Memories and knowledge. The kind gained the hard way. The trail had been used many times before. That made for some easy walking. But Booly, mindful of similar patrols twenty years earlier, knew that easy things were dangerous. Once the enemy knew where you were likely to go, it was easy to lay traps, set mines, or establish ambushes. None of which would be good for their health.

That being the case. the officer checked the patrol’s position on his wrist term, glanced at the waterproof map strapped to his left forearm, and stepped off the trail. It would have been different if he’d been looking for the enemy, rather than trying to avoid them, but such was not the case. Staff Sergeant Mondulo observed Booly’s decision and gave the officer some mental points. At least one of his charges knew a thing or two . .. which increased the odds of survival. Theirs—and his. Hebo had removed the special contact lenses that converted hundreds of images into one and felt very much at home. The Jungle reminded him of Hive, his youth, and good times past. He relished the warmth, the slight odor of decay, and the well-filtered light. The Ramanthian held his weapon at the ready, watched to ensure there was sufficient space between his body and the black-skinned human, and felt a steadily growing sense of superiority. This was his world, or should be, by right of adaptation. No matter what happened to the others he would survive

MorlaKa fought to control a rising sense of panic. Not in regard to the jungle, which he felt competent to deal with, but from prolonged contact with non-Hudathans. Contact—bad enough in and of itself—was made worse by forced interdependency. To rely on aliens, to place his life in their hands, went against his most basic instincts. Yet that was his duty to the Hudathan race, since without the alliance, and the strength it would provide, his kind would almost certainly perish. The knowledge brought small comfort. The fact that a heavily armed human was following along behind added to the officer’s discomfort. Seebo watched the Hudathan’s back, thought about how easy it would be to put a few rounds into it, and made a silent vow: If anything went wrong, if it looked like he was about to die, the geek was going first. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

Conscious of his role, the clone turned, and walked backwards for awhile. How long had it been since he had taken part in an honest-to-god patrol, rather than the endless staff meetings, review cycles, and readiness reports that claimed most of his time? Too long that was for sure ... Truth was that it felt good. Seebo turned, hurried to close the gap, and was glad to be alive.

Eyes watched, vanished behind nictitating membranes, and reappeared. Their owner hissed softly, slithered upwards, and sampled the air. Breakfast was waiting.

The morning passed without incident. Each individual rotated through point and drag. Hand signals were perfected. Their surroundings became more familiar. Nobody blew a foot off. Not bad for a bunch of greenies.

Mondulo called for a break, ordered Hebo and Seebo to stand guard, and allowed the others to eat. The human rations included built-in heat tabs, but the noncom liked his cold. He peeled the top off something that claimed to be beef stroganoff, stirred the mess with the tip of his combat knife, and used the same implement as a pointer. “We’ll spend the better part of the afternoon hiking thata way, haul our butts up into the trees, and wait for daylight.”

“ *Haul our butts up into some trees?’ “ MorlaKa inquired warily, “What for?”

“So nothin’ can eat ‘em,” Mondulo replied matter-of-factly. “Let’s say one of you generals gets killed ... You got any idea how many forms I’d have to fill out? Too many—so you’re goin’ up into them trees.”

The Hudathan weighed more than three hundred pounds and didn’t fancy climbing anything as insubstantial as a tree, but he didn’t want to say so. He nodded, finished his rations, and sealed the empty into a bag. Both went into his pack.

MorlaKa relieved Seebo, who came in to eat. The clone jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “I think the big guy is all pissed off. What’s his problem anyway?”

Booty looked up from the log where he was sitting. “It’s hard to know for sure—but it’s my guess he doesn’t like to climb trees.”

Seebo frowned and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Is that all?”

‘That’s all,” Mondulo answered. “I’ll relieve Hebo.”

Seebo watched the noncom go. It seemed strange to serve with beings who looked so different from the way he did. Strange and a little scary, since he knew how his clone brothers would react in an emergency. Simply put, they would react the way he did—which was the genius behind the founder’s plan.

Still, Mondulo was sharp, anyone could see that, which made him feel better. When Booly spoke, it was as if the free-breeder could read his mind. “It’s going to be different, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Seebo replied thoughtfully, “it certainly is.”

“Do you think it will work?”

Seebo activated the heat tab and felt the container start to warm. “Yes, sir. Where the humans are concerned. We’re different but the same. As for the geeks, well, the jury’s out on that one.”

Booly raised an eyebrow. “We need to walk the talk ... so please avoid using terms like ‘geek.’

Personally, I think it will work.”

The clone tore the cover off his food. Steam thickened the air. “Sir, yes sir. But that’s what you have to think. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Booly replied. “I guess it is.”

The Pool of Fecundity had been created by digging a canal from the river into a natural depression. A second ditch carried the water back to the river for a real as well as symbolic union. Only one individual was allowed to use the pond, and she floated about ten feet from shore. The Clan Mother was very, very pregnant. So much so that her swollen abdomen made it next to impossible to walk. Because of that her attendants marched into the pool, positioned the specially constructed litter under her grotesquely swollen body, and carried her ashore. The path from the pond to the village had been paved with a thick layer of crushed white shell. It made an attractive surface and provided excellent traction. A small detail but a critical one, since the Clan Mother was the only female permitted to reproduce. One slip, one accident, and hundreds of eggs could be damaged or destroyed, an important matter for a race in which normal infant mortality ran to sixty percent.

The village, which was know as the “Place Where the Water Breaks White over Old Stones before Turning South toward theGreatSwamp ,” consisted of some thirty beehive-shaped mud huts clustered around a larger mound that served as warehouse and provided the Clan Mother with a residence commensurate with her considerable status.

She had a tendency to become irritable during the final stages of pregnancy and was quick to make her annoyance known. The snakelike head rose and rotated from left to right. Speech came from deep in the back of her throat and emerged as a series of variegated croaks, burps, and coughs. “What’s taking so long? We are hungry.”

The “we” was a not so subtle reminder that she spoke for not only herself but for a generation unborn. Cowed, but careful lest they drop her, the litter bearers hurried up the path. The warriors, their mottled green-black bodies still damp from the trip downstream bowed respectfully as the conveyance passed. Many of them, all of those in their prime, had mated with the Clan Mother, and might have fertilized her eggs. That being the case, they would fight to the death to protect not only her but her progeny.

The litter passed out of broken sunlight and into the mound’s cool. dark interior. Once the stretcher came to a stop, the Clan Mother used her long willowy arms to support her grossly distended belly, lurched to her feet, and shuffled toward the carefully constructed throne. It was made from tightly woven reeds fitted onto a frame made of steambent wood and decorated with colorful flyer feathers, clan charms, and beads provided by gunrunners. It creaked under her considerable weight. “Well?” she demanded. “Where is our food?”

A platter appeared. It was laden with dried water skimmers, spiced flit fish, and recently harvested grot roots. A fine feast indeed. The Clan Mother dug in. The eggs were hungry. Words emerged between bites of food. Some of it landed on her stomach, tumbled off, and fell to the floor. Minute scavengers moved in to harvest the crumbs. “Who lurks in the darkness? What do you want?”

Drik, who had been waiting patiently toward the back wall, took three steps forward. He had fertilized the Clan Mother for the first time that year and felt certain it was his strong sperm that had so efficiently quickened her eggs. “I come bearing news.”

“So?” the Clan Mother said imperiously, “out with it!”

But Drik, who had long fantasized about such a moment, refused to be hurried. He chose his words with care. “Five of the offworld intruders left their metal island, crossed the food lake, and entered the jungle.”

The Clan Mother paused in midbite. Food dribbled down onto her well-rounded belly. “How many of them were hiding in machines?”

“None,” Drik replied, “although two looked strange, like weed dreams come to life.”

The Clan Mother chewed thoughtfully. There was very little point in attacking the machines, or offworlders protected by the machines, due to the heavy casualties that her warriors were certain to sustain. But this was something different. This was an opportunity to capture weapons and punish the sky people at the same time. “Wait for them in the swamp. Kill them there.”

Drik bowed. “Yes, Clan Mother... It shall be as you say.”

It rained like hell about two in the afternoon, a downpour that drenched the treetops and sent water cascading from leaf to leaf, to soak those down below. Hebo seemed even happier, MorlaKa barely noticed, and the humans were miserable. The water found its way under their collars, seeped over their shoulders, and entered their boots.

The ground turned soft, sucked at their boots, and drained their energy. The branches that brushed their shoulders, the vines they slashed in two, and the knee-high foliage all conspired to deliver even more water to their moisture-laden clothing. And, as though that weren’t bad enough, many of the local life forms seemed energized by the afternoon soaking. The hopped, slithered, and swung from branch to branch.

Hebo knew the point position was dangerous, knew he was showing off, but couldn’t help himself. Drang was so pleasant, so much like Hive, that he felt at home. Maybe that’s why he missed the vine viper, mistook the reptile for one of the green runners that dangled from the canopy, and whacked at it with his machete. Not edge on, which might have killed the creature, but with the flat of the blade, which served to make it angry.

The snake, which hung head down, released its grip on a branch twenty feet over the Ramanthian’s head, allowed the full weight of its long sinuous body to fall on the officer’s torso, and struck for the alien’s neck.

The lactic would have worked on a frog, or on a human, but not on a jungle-evolved Ramanthian. Fangs grated on dark brown chitin, tool arms grabbed a section of the viper’s body, and a razor-sharp beak slashed through skin and muscle.

The reptile reacted with understandable violence. It whipped coils of rockhard flesh around the Ramanthian’s thorax and started to squeeze.

Seebo, true to the DNA for which his ancestor had been chosen, took immediate action. Not because he had developed a sudden fondness for geeks, but because he was who he was, and couldn’t stand idly by.

The human’s assault weapon was useless, not unless he wanted to kill Hebo as well, so the clone drew his combat knife, threw himself into the fray, and grabbed a thigh-thick section of the viper’s muscular body. The blade had two edges, one straight, the other equipped with sawtike teeth. It was the second that proved most effective as Seebo sawed through the red-tinged white meat. Hebo made a note of the human’s attack, felt the snake shudder in response, and knew it was distracted. That being the case, the Ramanthian felt for the short sword that projected up over his right shoulder, pressed a button on the hilt, and felt the weapon come to life. The force blade made a sizzling sound as it burned through the reptile’s flesh. The viper’s head bounced off the jungle floor, the body gave one last convulsion and finally lay still. Mondulo stepped over a section of the long serpentine body and said, “Good thing it was only half grown,” and took the point.

Seebo started to laugh, Hebo made strange popping sounds, and Booly shook his head in wonder. It wasn’t the kind of bonding he had envisioned—but something was better than nothing. Dinner looked a lot like lunch, hell, it was exactly like lunch, which suited Mondulo just fine. The jungle offered enough variety, and it was nice to deal with something you could count on. The noncom stirred the stroganoff with the dp of his combat knife and watched his charges prepare for the night. The Ramanthian turned out to be one heck of a tree climber, which came as something of a surprise and made the noncom just a little uneasy. The bugs were allies today—but how ‘bout tomorrow? Fighting an army of Hebos in a triple-canopy jungle would be a nasty business. Still, a rough and ready sort of teamwork had emerged, which was the point of the exercise.

MorlaKa whacked trees down with five or six blows of his machete, Seebo cut the resulting poles into sections, and Hebo carried them aloft. That’s where Booly took the raw materials, made some modifications, and added them to the steadily growing platform. He used a timber hitch to get started, followed by square lashings to secure the basic framework.

Then, when that task was complete, he tied a series of forty man-harness hitches into a doubled piece of rope, passed sturdy sticks through the matching loops, and pulled them tight. The result was a crude but serviceable ladder. Not a necessity where he, Seebo, and Mondulo were concerned, and useless for a body like Hebo’s, but a courtesy for the Hudathan. It creaked when MorlaKa made his way upward, but it held and was easy to hoist up onto the platform.

Once everyone was in place and the humans had smeared their bodies with Drang-specific insect repellent, it was time to eat. Mondulo stood guard as the officers grumbled over their rations, the day creatures went into hiding, and the night hunters started to emerge. The first hint of their presence was heard rather than seen. There were the clicks, pops, and buzzing noises associated with the local insect population, quickly followed by the grunts, howls, and occasional screeches made by higher lifeforms. All of which made Booly glad that they were up off the jungle floor. He finished his meal, used some water from a canteen to speed the last lump on its way, and let his weight rest on a tree trunk. The moon was up, and that, combined with a hole in the canopy, provided some light to see by.

Seebo and Hebo were reliving their battle with the snake, while Mondulo sat with eyes closed, and MorlaKa cleaned his assault weapon. It was strange how the trip into the jungle had served to transform these officers into regular troops. Nowhere was that more visible than in the way they talked. The conversation was about the day’s adventures, about the food, and presumably, when he stepped out of earshot, about what an asshole he was. Because if there’s anything grunts like to do, it’s bitch about the command structure, which in their case came down to one single individual. Booly felt an insect land on his cheek, swatted, and knew it had escaped. A tree dweller screeched and was answered from a long way off. Seebo said something to the Ramanthian, who made the popping noises that equated to laughter.

So, Booly asked himself, which one of them should I designate as second in command? Which one can the Confederacy count on? Seebo? Because he’s human? MorlaKa because he isn’t? Hebo as a compromise? No, those were political considerations. The one I choose should be the best leader available—and to hell with the way they’re packaged.

The thought served to remind him of his own mixed ancestry, of the fact that some people would regard his command structure as something of a freak show, a thought that struck him as funny. Booly laughed. Seebo looked at Hebo, MorlaKa looked up from his weapon, and Mondulo opened a single eye. The old man was a nutcase but what else was new? Officers were weird, and sergeants, who served as the Legion’s backbone, would never be able to understand them.

Something made a gibbering sound. A cloud cloaked the moon. The noncom smiled and drifted off to sleep.

Drik floated just beneath the surface of the dark, murky water. It was thick with algae, sediment, and hundreds of tiny lifeforms all vying for their share of the swamp-born soup. Air bladders located beneath his armpits allowed the warrior to control the extent of his buoyancy. That being the case, he could hang suspended in the water for hours or even days should that become necessary. But it wouldn’t be necessary—not unless his senses had suddenly decided to betray him. A flock of flyers had fluttered into the air moments before. A school of swamp darters had propelled themselves toward deeper water, and he could feel an alien presence. None of the clan members had ever asked him about such impressions, since they had them too, but a xenoanthropologist would have been interested in the fact that while some portion of the data required to generate them flowed from “normal”

sensory input, the rest stemmed from something else, which if not telepathy, was somehow related. In any case, Drik “felt” the aliens approach, could distinguish between different personas, and, had he been allowed to observe them for a longer period of time, might have been able to describe their various emotions.

His emotions were clear. The offworlders had murdered members of his clan, poisoned the planet’s water, and interfered with the Great Mother’s plan. The crimes were clear—and so was the punishment: death.

Booly smelled the swamp long before he actually saw it. The damp, slightly malodorous scent of decayed plant life, combined with the stink of stagnant water, sent invisible tendrils into the jungle as if to warn of the terrain ahead.

That being the case, the legionnaire was far from surprised when his machete slashed through the final screen of vegetation to reveal a broadly shelving mud bank and an expanse of coppery brown water backed by a stand of what Booly remembered as sponge trees, tall woody tubes that contained membranes through which swamp water was continually filtered. Nutrients were removed, waste products were added, and what remained oozed into the estuary.

Booly scanned the area for danger, failed to identify any, and moved to one side. MoriaKa stepped forward, followed by Mondulo, Seebo, and Hebo. The latter shuffled backward, his world divided into hundreds of images.

The noncom squinted into the brighter light, directed a stream of spit into the toffee-colored water, and removed a grenade from one of his cargo pockets. The pin had been pulled, and the object was high in the air before Booly managed to spit the words out. “Sergeant, what the hell are you ... ?”

An explosion, followed by a geyser of momentarily white water, served to punctuate the sentence. “Just some reconnaissance by fire, sir. Stir things up, see what’s what, if ya know what I mean.”

Booly swallowed his anger. “So much for keeping our presence secret.”

Mondulo looked surprised. “Secret? Beggin’ the general’s pardon, but we ain’t got no fraxin’ secrets. The frogs know where we are and what we’ve been doin’. Well, not what we’re doin’, since that wouldn’t make any sense to a frog, but what they think we’re doin’, which is stompin’ all over the Great Mother’s sacred body and pissin’ on her face. The slimy bastards are out there all right—the only question is where.”

Booty swallowed his pride, nodded, and said, “Carry on.”

Mondulo did—and more grenades flew through the air.

The geysers formed a tidy row.

Though moderated by the density of the surrounding water, the explosions wounded a warrior named Gril and delivered what felt like a series of blows to Drik’s abdomen. He felt the air rush out of his lungs, stuck his nose up through the surface, and drew some much-needed air. If the aliens saw, they gave no sign of it, and the warrior was gone before the water started to settle. Other warriors, too far from the bang thing to be affected by it, towed the half-conscious Gril away. The first blow had been struck—but far from the last.

The Hudathan’s machete made a solid thunking sound as it bit into the side of the TT tree, produced another wedge of flying wood, and squeaked free. The blade, harnessed to three hundred pounds of bone and muscle, had already made short work of fourteen carefully matched eightinch trunks. The trees, which bore only four branches apiece, were strong but buoyant, important qualities for a raft. Seebo had lobbied for a lunch break but been forced to give way under Mondulo’s insistence that the team construct their vessel prior to eating. Now, with hunger driving them on, the officers were hard at work. The first task was to assemble the materials in the proper manner. The noncom was a strict taskmaster. “This is called a ‘gripper bar raft’ ‘cause of the way we place two lengths of wood on the ground and place logs on top of them. “Now, if you would be so kind as to lay the logs at right angles to the crosspieces, we’ll be damned close to done.”

Booly assisted Seebo, and the majority of the logs had been rolled, dragged, and kicked into place by the time MorlaKa arrived with his latest arboreal victim.

Then, with the tree trunks lying side by side, the last two crosspieces were lowered into position and secured to the first pair, “gripping” the logs between them.

Once that was accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to construct an A-frame-style support structure, secure it in place with guylines, and add the pole-mounted paddlestyle rudder. Once the last knot had been tied, the entire team took a moment to admire their work. The finished raft was about twenty feet long and nine wide. Though flat, and not especially pretty, Seebo figured it would float. “I christen thee Pancake,” the clone said, sprinkling some canteen water on the craft’s bow. “Long may you sail.”

Other and in some case more colorful names were submitted for consideration, but Pancake stuck, and they broke for lunch. No one had given much thought to Hebo’s rations up till that point, but when he opened a container of grubs, squirted some sort of stimulant into the mix and brought the creatures to squirming life, that got their attention.

The entire group watched in horrified fascination as the Ramanthian speared one of the creatures, shoved it under his parrotlike beak, and bit down. A mixture of blood and intestinal contents sprayed outwards. Seebo shook his head in amazement. “Jeez, Hebo ... that was gross.”

The statement would have been a breach in etiquette within diplomatic circles but was well within the realm of what one legionnaire would say to another. Which way would the Ramanthian react? Booly waited to see.

There was a pause while the insectlike alien considered the human’s comment. When he spoke, the words had the hard, flat sound of his computer-driven translator. “Screw you, Seebo, and the test tube you were born in.”

It was exactly how the typical legionnaire would respond. The rest of the group laughed, and Booly smiled. The team was coming together. The officer closed his eyes, thought of Maylo ChienChu, and wondered what she was doing.

The Pancake was launched with more swearing than ceremony. By constructing the raft up on the mud bank, the team had kept their feet dry. Now, in order to launch their vessel, the officers had to lift it. MorlaKa made his part took easy, while the rest of the group strained, stumbled, and swore as they struggled to break the logs free from the mud, hoisted the Pancake into the air, and carried her down into the water. She landed with a splash. Everyone got wet, and waves rolled toward the opposite side of the estuary.

“All right,” Mondulo said, squinting into the sky. “We got ten miles of swamp to cross before nightfall. Time to get our asses in gear.”

Drik, along with fifteen of the clan’s most fearsome warriors floated just below the surface of the water and watched the aliens board their clumsy-looking craft. They knew the little bay was little more than a fingerlike extension of the great northern swamp. There was one way in and one way out. All they had to do was sit at the entry point and wait. The ambush was ready. Drik felt a rising sense of excitement, allowed more water to enter his auxiliary bladders, and sank further below the surface. His war party did likewise.

Mondulo stood with the long half-peeled steering oar clamped under one arm while he read the coordinates supplied by his Legion-issue wrist term and examined a map. Seebo, and his Ramanthian counterpart stood back to back, scanning for trouble. MorlaKa and Booly used poles to push the Pancake out and away from the shore.

The scenery seemed to glide past as if mounted on rollers. A weed-draped snag appeared off to the left, bobbed as a bird launched itself into the air, and fell behind. That’s when Booly noticed how quiet their environment had become, as if the entire swamp was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The legionnaire felt the fur rise along his spine, started to say something, but never got it out. Four warriors rose as one. Each held a well-sharpened blade, each cut through the bindings that held the gripper bars in place, and each flutter kicked out of the way. It took a moment for the raft to come apart. Seebo was the first to notice. “The raft! Something’s wrong!”

But there was no time to respond, no time to make repairs, no time to mount a response. One after another they felt into the water. It was blood warm. Booly assumed the raft had come apart of its own accord, and realized how wrong he was when a two-foot long harpoon bounced off his chest armor. Mondulo gave the alarm: “Frogs!”

Bubbles exploded around Booly’s face as he went under, thought about the assault rifle, and remembered that it was slung across his back The officer groped for the combat knife, thumbed the release, and saw a narrow snakelike head emerge from me surrounding murk. Something gleamed, and the legionnaire managed to catch the warrior’s arm as a blade flashed for his throat. He brought his own knife around in a long loop, felt the steel hesitate as it sliced through flesh, and saw the face convulse. The body fell away. Something jumped him from behind. An arm slithered around his neck and began to tighten. He needed air! The frog pulled him down. Hebo had a secret. Like most members of his race he could swim when forced to do so but hated the water. Land was what his body had evolved to deal with—and where his psyche was at ease. Fear rose like a wall as the logs drifted apart. Frogs! He saw them floating below the surface ! The Ramanthian squeezed the triggerlike firing sleeve that activated his weapon. The water acted to slow most of the bullets but an individual named Ralk had the misfortune to be only inches beneath the surface when the alien fired. The hard ball ammo cut him nearly in two, flooded the already murky water with his blood, and cut the opposition by one. The logs parted, Hebo floundered, and thrashed toward shore. Mondulo felt the harpoon slide up under his arm, where the armor couldn’t protect him, and enter his chest cavity. There was time, not much, but time to press the 9 mm handgun against the phib’s gut, feel the recoil, and harvest the look of surprise.

Then, before the pain could make itself felt. there was another increment of time in which to wonder why it was he, the fraxing expert, who was going to frigging die, while Booly and his team of XT weirdoes would probably emerge unscathed. But that’s how it was with officers . .. they ... A knife sliced through Mondulo’s throat, and the thinking was over.

MorlaKa felt the logs part beneath his massive boots, heard Hebo open fire, and drew the machete. Had Drik and his companions known to look and been trained to interpret the Hudathan’s expression, they would have been frightened. MorlaKa smiled as he launched himself over the side, landed on something solid, and carried it down. Drik felt the crushing weight, managed to flip himself face up, and wished that he hadn’t. The alien looked monstrous, like something from a nightmare, like the last thing he would ever see.

Seebo fired into the water, wished he could see what he was shooting at, and felt something grab his ankle. The clone looked, saw the long sinewy arm, and corrected his aim. The 5.56 mm rounds chewed the limb off at the elbow, the logs rolled under his boots, and he hit the water sideways. Booty backed-bowed his assailant, felt the arm loosen, and ducked through the loop. He wanted to surface, wanted to breathe, but knew he shouldn’t. The frog would follow, nail him from below, and that would be the end of it.

The human turned, saw the warrior raise some sort of spear gun, and felt the shaft race past the side of his face. A single shot weapon? The officer hoped so as he lunged forward, grabbed the launcher with his left hand, and pulled it toward him.

The frog could have let go, should have let go, but was reluctant to part with his most prized possession. He paid with his life.

Booly rammed the knife up into the warrior’s unprotected abdomen, felt the gun come free, and kicked for the surface. His gear plus the weapon across his back weighed him down. His body urged him to breathe anything, water if that’s what was available, but his mind refused to do so. The legionnaire pulled with his arms, kicked with his feet, and willed himself upwards. The murk seemed to clear after a bit, his head broke the surface, and he opened his mouth. Air entered his lungs, a log bumped his shoulder, and he managed to capture it with an arm. Nothing had ever felt so solid and reassuring.

Hebo flailed right and left, felt one of his pincers encounter something soft, and a frog fell away. A ribbon of blood trailed behind. The bottom! Where was the bottom? The Ramanthian aimed himself toward shore and started to paddle. Then, just when it seemed as if he would swim forever, the alien felt mud under his feet. He paused, tested to see if the bottom would take his weight, and discovered that it would. That’s when the War Hebo uttered a long cluttering challenge, turned his back to the jungle, and invited attack.

MorlaKa broke the surface like a breaching whale. He spouted a mouthful of foul-tasting water and turned his attention to the warriors who hung from various parts of his mighty frame. Drik, who had the signal misfortune to be clutched to the alien’s chest, felt the hug start to tighten. What seemed to last for an eternity took less than three seconds. The warrior felt his spine snap, lost contact with his extremities, and wondered where the pain was. Darkness came instead. In spite of the fact that the Hudathan had successfully dealt with one attacker, three remained. Hebo saw that and knew he should go to the other officer’s assistance but was reluctant to leave the security of solid ground.

MorlaKa bellowed his anger as a knife entered his shoulder, threw one of his assailants into the air, and struggled with the others.

Hebo saw the splash, cursed his luck, and threw himself forward. The Ramanthian hadn’t traveled more than three feet when warriors rose to either side of him, threw a fish net high into the air, and used ropes to pull it down over his head. Pincers trapped, legs thrashing, Hebo waited to die. Seebo kicked a frog in the stomach, felt the top of his head hit the underside of a log, and swallowed a mouthful of water. It went down the wrong way. The soldier kicked, broke the surface, and fought to clear his airway. He did so just in time to see MoriaKa break the surface, covered with frogs. A phib went flying. A knife flashed downward. The Hudathan bellowed in pain. There was no room for error, not given the tolerances involved, but Seebo knew the extent of his skill. Where it started, how far to trust it, and when to stop. By some miracle, the assault weapon was still there—clutched in the clone’s hands. He brought the rifle up, fired a burst of three shots, and saw a frog take the bullets. It screeched, fell back into the swamp, and quickly disappeared.

Steel flashed. MorlaKa roared with rage, broke the grip that encircled his neck, took hold of an arm, and jerked the warrior up over his shoulder. The long sinuous neck was an obvious point of vulnerability. The Hudathan got a grip on it, twisted, and heard something pop. The body went limp. He let the warrior go.

Though filled with the rage of battle, his body pumping chemicals into his blood, MoriaKa’s mind had stayed in control. He saw the net fall over Hebo’s torso and considered his options. He could let the bug die, a rather reasonable course of action given the manner in which the Ramanthian government hoped to annex Hudathan-controlled worlds, or—and this possibility went against all of the officer’s instincts—MorlaKa could wade out, pull his sidearm, and shoot the frogs in the head. The sound of his own gunfire served to alert the War Commander that thought had been translated to action. The bodies fell away, splashed into the water, and floated with arms extended. Silence descended over the lagoon. Those frogs that were still alive had escaped.

Booly saw some mottled fabric, swam over, grabbed

Mondulo’s battle harness, and towed the body to shore. The others salvaged what gear they could, recovered most of the logs, and pulled them up onto the mud. Once that was accomplished, Booty took control. “We’ll bury the sergeant, make camp, and spend the night up in the trees. Seebo, MorlaKa needs some first aid. See what you can do. The raft can wait till morning.”

“We will use wire to lash the binders on next time,” Hebo said reflectively. “That should stop them.”

“Yes,” Booly replied wearily, “I think it wilt.”

Dinner was a somber affair, the night passed slowly, and dawn brought rain. Not a downpour, but a steady drumbeat, that peppered the surface of the lagoon.

Each member of the team paused by the mound of newly turned earth and said goodbye in their own special way. But it was Seebo who quoted a long-dead poet—a legionnaire named Alan Seeger: When Spring comes back with rustling shade,

And apple blossoms fill the air,

I have a rendezvous with Death,

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

Booly nodded solemnly and followed the rest of the team down to the muddy beach. The work went quickly, and the heavily reinforced raft was ready less than three hours later. No one bothered to name this one, no one questioned the grenades that blew holes in the water, and no one looked back. The Clan Mother awoke to an overwhelming sense of loss. The eggs? No, they were safely contained within her abdomen.

Then it came, the sudden realization that the thin tenuous thread that connected her to the leader of the war party had been severed. Drik was dead.

The Clan Mother cried out in sorrow, attendants rushed to her side, and the entire village began to mourn. For the warriors, yes; but for themselves as well, since each death weakened the social organism. For there were crops to be harvested, fish to catch, and repairs to be made. And ultimately, should the village be unable to defend itself, another clan would force the group to surrender its identity and accept outside rule.

Clouds hid the sun, darkness settled into her heart, and the Clan Mother started to cry. The pickup zone consisted of a flat scrub-covered island. The clearing, which had been enlarged with machetes, was barely large enough to accommodate the flyform already on its way. Outside of their weapons, which looked as clean as the morning they had left, the team was dirty, ragged, and tired. Still, they lay in a circle, facing outwards, ready for anything, a disposition that was indicative of the mutual dependency, respect, and trust developed during the last few days. Booly considered saying as much, heard the approaching aircraft, and decided to let it go. Words have their place ... but blood binds all. The officer turned his face upwards, gloried in the way the raindrops struck it, and was grateful to be alive.