By force of arms

Chapter 10

The key to opening new markets is to establish two-way communication. Failing to do so will often lead to disaster.

Prithian Handbook for Merchant Apprentices

Standard year 2842

Somewhere Along the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The Prithian freighter bore a vague resemblance to the beings who had designed it, in that the ship possessed wings for use within planetary atmospheres, which were folded white traveling through space, a strategy that allowed the birdlike beings not only to indulge their love of atmospheric flight but to avoid the delays so often associated with orbital parking slots. It was all part of doing what the Prithians did well, which was to carry small, highly valuable cargoes over relatively short distances leaving the high-volume long-haul business to the big conglomerates.

It was a niche market, which was perfect for a numerically small race having a low birthrate and rather insular ways. So insular—and some said self-serving—that the Prithians had ignored repeated invitations to join the Confederacy, while continuing to profit from the markets the organization had created and the stability it fostered. A policy that saved the merchant race a significant amount of money. All of which explained why the Dawn Song was jumping from one system to the next, delivering freight to a series of undistinguished planets, when it surfaced in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having arranged for the soft body to delete its other self, the Hoon had lingered for a bit, taking the time necessary to review the fleet’s operating system and root out those instructions authored by its recently deceased twin. A tedious process, but one that would ensure that the Hoon’s orders would be followed by every unit in the fleet, regardless of which entity had controlled it during the recent past. That’s why its forces were waiting there, with very little to do, when the Dawn Song dropped hyper, appeared on the detector screens as a spark of light, and attempted to run. The Hoon noted the event, dispatched two fighters to deal with it, and returned to what it had been doing: Reviewing each and every line of code that comprised the operating system for the fleet’s maintenance units. After all, the artificial intelligence thought to itself, I’m clever, which means my twin was clever, which means traps could have been laid. And where better than deep within some aspect of my own body? Which was how the computer regarded the thousands upon thousands of machines that comprised the reconstituted fleet Time passed, the Al searched, and the Dawn Song ran for her life. Whereas the control rooms on Hudathan ships resembled those on human vessels, and vice versa, the Prithians took an entirely different approach. There was no single place from which to pilot the Dawn Song anymore than there was a special place to sleep or eat. After all the birdlike beings reasoned, why limit oneself when there was no reason to do so?

The entire concept of a humanstyle control room stemmed from the days of sailing ships, steam locomotives, and early ground vehicles—times when the need to see where one was going, plus analogstyle controls, forced the helmsman, engineer, or driver to stay in one place. But now, more than a thousand years later, there was no need for such limitations beyond that required for their own psychological comfort.

All of which explained why Prithians like Per Pok preferred to con their vessels via audio interface and simply “sang” their instructions to the ship’s central computer.

Pok, who had a yellow beak, blue eyes, white head feathers, and the crimson shoulder plumage that marked his membership in the scarlet flock, cocked his head to one side and listened as the ship warbled its report. A report so strange, so essentially nonsensical, that merchant demanded to hear it again. Then, convinced that he really had dropped into the midst of an enormous fleet, Pok “called” for his daughter. Her name took the form of a short three syllable song.

Veera, who was a good deal smaller than her father but bore the same cape of reddish feathers, looked up from the component-strewn workbench. As with any vessel of her size and complexity, the Dawn Song required a good deal of maintenance—something Veera and a half dozen robots had responsibility for. There were twelve ways to sing her name each having a different meaning. This one meant, “come to me—and do so immediately.” It was one of the first communications a youngster learned, and Veera warbled the appropriate response.

The teenager placed the tuning wand on the tray-shaped work surface and entered the tunnelway that led to the portion of the Dawn Song where her father spent most of his time, a circular space that functioned as office, roost, and galley.

As with any spacegoing creature, Veera was very attuned to the feel of the ship. She noted the slight increase in vibration, one or two degrees of additional heat, and a change in the never-ending “ship song,” a sort of humming sound that provided the crew with feedback and was as unique to Dawn Song as Veera’s variegated back plumage was to her. The vessel spoke of how difficult it was to make more speed while simultaneously charging the accumulators—a process that preceded a hyperspace jump and normally took most of a day. They were in trouble then—and running from something. The youngster increased her pace and emerged into the all-purpose living area. “Father? What’s wrong?”

Pok finished his latest instruction to the ship, forced his feathers to fall into something resembling

“peaceful rest,” and turned toward his daughter. The extent to which the teenager resembled her mother never ceased to amaze him. The same expressive eyes, slender body, and gorgeous plumage. How long had Malla been dead now? Only two years? It seemed longer. But all things end—separations included.

“Some sort of fleet, my dear, though nothing we’ve seen before. It’s huge ... and clearly hostile. At least two ships are closing with us as I speak. I tried to make contact but no response. I want you to enter the lifeboat and strap yourself in. If, and I emphasize ;I, they attack, we’ll try to escape.”

Veera knew her father better than anyone else in the universe. The lie was as obvious as the brittle manner in which the song was sung, the high conflict-ready way in which Pok held his head, and the neck plumage that refused to lie flat. “No! I won’t go. Not till you do.”

Per Pok was far from surprised. His daughter was not only willful, but less deferential than was appropriate, the direct result of living with her father in such confined quarters. He fluttered the feathers along the outside surface of what had once been wings The gesture meant “I love you” and served to distract Veera just long enough for her father to produce the spray tube, aim it in her direction, and press the trigger.

The inhalant, which was found in every Prithian’s onboard medical kit, functioned as a powerful anesthetic. Veera barely had time to register the nonverbal communication and realize what the tube was before darkness pulled her down.

The merchant managed to catch the teenager before she hit the deck and swept her into his arms. She was light, very light, and easy to carry. Careful not to breathe, lest he inhale some of the still-lingering gas, the Prithian hurried away.

The ship song had changed by then, had grown more intense, and warned of approaching vessels. Pok scurried down a passageway into the ship’s belly. A hatch opened in response to the Prithian’s command, and indicator lights began to flash. The very act of entering the bay had activated the lifeboat’s various onboard systems. Any one of the four seats would do. The merchant placed his daughter in the one nearest to the hatch and strapped the youngster in place.

Then, knowing he would never see Veera again, Pok backed out through the lock. He sang “I love you,” and the hatch cycled closed. The Dawn Song shuddered as a missile exploded against her protective force field and started to cry. It was a keening sound like an animal in pain. The Prithian had one more thing to accomplish . . . something that might make all the difference. He turned and hurried away.

The fighters launched their weapons against the Prithian ship with no more emotion than a pair of maintenance bots might demonstrate while scrubbing a deck. They locked onto the target, activated their launchers, and waited for the range to close.

Then, just as the fugitive vessel came within reach of their long-range missiles, it seemed to vanish as a container fell free, exploded, and scattered preheated chaff in every direction. It was an old trick—and one the Sheen were well-prepared to deal with. It did buy some time, however, because as the fighters waited for their sensors to clear the Dawn Song continued to flee. Bio bods might have missed the lifeboat as it tumbled end over end through the chaff, dismissed it as unimportant, or, in a moment of pity, allowed the fugitive to escape. But not the Sheen. They identified the seemingly inert lump of matter as having an 82.1% match to the identification parameters typical of a Type 4 auxiliary spacecraft, which, based on a reading of its core temperature was equipped with a hyperdrive. This information was transmitted to a nearly insignificant aspect of the Hoon, which routed it to a salvage ship, which was already under way.

In the meantime the chaff had cleared, the machines took note of the fact that the quarry had turned on them, and fired their weapons.

Knowing that the Dawn Song’s relatively puny arsenal would have very little impact on his pursuers, and knowing he was about to die. Per Pok chose to target all the offensive weaponry he had on only one of the incoming fighters. Then, eyes closed, he thought of home and his fervent desire to go there. Unit AV7621769 registered the machine equivalent of surprise as the incoming missiles hit his shield and hammered their way through. Most destroyed themselves in the process but one managed to penetrate the hull.

Thousands of miles away the Hoon “felt” what amounted to a tiny pinprick, a unit of machine pain so small as to barely register on its consciousness, yet annoying nonetheless. The AI accessed the back feed from the surviving fighter just in time to witness the explosions. There were three of them, each more powerful than the last, as the Prithian vessel ceased to exist.

Satisfied, and eager to return to what it had been doing, the machine intelligence severed the connection. Veera felt pain at the back of her head, struggled to penetrate the thick gray fog, and remembered the tube. Had her actually father aimed the device at her? Or was that a dream? The teenager forced her eyes to focus, saw where she was, and knew the truth. She remembered the fleet, the argument with her father, and the hiss of anesthetic. The youngster threw herself forward, felt the harness cut into her shoulders, and called out loud, “Father? Where are you?”

But there was no answer. He was gone. Just like her mother. The weight of Veera’s sorrow threatened to crush her chest. But there was no time to mourn, to sing the death song, or to enter the traditional fast. Something grabbed me lifeboat, jerked it back and forth, and drew it in. Something huge. Veera touched controls located in the arm of her chair and a 3D vid screen popped into life. What she saw was a ship, a strange ship that shimmered as if lit from within, and a steadily growing rectangle of light. A hatch! The aliens planned to take her in! Veera felt her heart race and wondered what to do. The Sheen swallowed the lifeboat whole.

Though successful, from the Hoon’s viewpoint at least, the assassination, and Jepp’s role in it, left the human feeling depressed. He had been manipulated, used, and subsequently ignored, none of which was consistent with his status as God’s prophet, or his position as head of theNewChurch , an organization that would be of critical importance to all sentients once they realized how wonderful it was. Still, even the creation of a glorious new position for himself had not been sufficient to lift the human’s spirits. The truth was that he was both bored and lonely. Yes, members of his mechanical flock attended to his needs round the clock and, with the occasional exception of Henry, agreed with everything he said. But that wasn’t half as pleasant as he had assumed it would be ... not without genuine feedback. All of which accounted for why the onetime prospector had resumed his once habitual explorations of the ship and the fleet it was part of. Except that now, aided by both Alpha and Sam, the human had a good deal more access to things than he had had before. Things like the fleet’s electronic nervous system. That’s how Jepp heard about the fugitive ship, the lifeboat, and the fact that it had been salvaged. The process of being there when the salvage ship landed, of entering the bay only moments after it was pressurized, reminded the exprospector of his childhood. There had been two or three birthdays when he received presents ... and the emotions were very similar. The way the excitement started to build, the rising sense of anticipation, and the delightful delay. Then, when he could stand it no longer, the pleasure of opening the packages, except this present was wrapped in metal. The lock opened, the human stepped out, and eyed the bay. Silvery strings of nano hung from the overhead, slithered along the deck, and caressed the waiting ships. There were thousands, no millions of the tiny repair and maintenance machines, all linked together to create mechanical organisms. Organisms that could take ships apart and put them back together. Mindful of the fact that the “snake” nano had a tendency to slap unauthorized intruders, Jepp was careful to watch his step. The Prithian lifeboat was coaxed out of the salvage vessel’s hold by two tractor-sized robots. It might contain anything, or anybody, since the very existence of such a craft hinted at a survivor, or at least the possibility of one. Something Jepp wanted—or thought he did.

Finally, when the pod-shaped lifeboat had been removed and placed on the deck, a hatch started to open. The prospector, who prided himself on his knowledge of ships, was stumped. The vessel wasn’t human, Turr, Dweller, or...

Veera, terrified of who or what she might encounter, peeked out through the newly created opening. She wore a translator, an Araballazanie device common to Prithian merchant vessels, and her song sounded strange indeed. It was randomly transformed in Ramanthian, standard, and a half dozen other languages on the chance that one of them would be understood. “Is anyone there?”

Jepp heard a snatch of standard, cleared his throat, and yelled to ensure that she would hear him. “Yes, you can come out. The Sheen won’t hurt you. They have very little interest in biologicals.”

Veera heard the words as a series of chirps and twitters.

A human! What was he doing here? Could she trust him?

Not that she had much choice.

Slowly at first, head swiveling back and forth, the Prithian emerged from the lifeboat. The nanodraped compartment was strange, very strange, and took some getting used to. The human was flanked by two robots, one to each side, with a third perched on his shoulder. He approached slowly, as if worried he might scare the teenager away. “Hello, my name is Jepp.”

Veera, more from habit than anything else, offered the curtsy due anyone older than she was. “My name is Veera Pok.”

The Thraki robot transformed itself into the “jump” mode, leaped onto her shoulder, and sang the original sentence back to her. “My name is Veera Pok.”

Prithians don’t smile—but they do ruffle their neck feathers. Hers fluttered accordingly. “You speak Prithian.”

“You speak Prithian,” Sam chirruped. “My name is Veera Pok.”

Jepp smiled and waved at their surroundings. “Welcome to the family Veera—Come on, let’s salvage whatever rations you have before the nano disassemble your boat.”

The suggestion made sense. Like it or not—Veera was home.

Chapter 11

Life’s picture is constantly undergoing change. The spirit beholds a new world every moment. Rumi

Persian Sufi poet

Standard year circa 1250

Planet Zynig47, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

Having found it impossible to sleep. Admiral Hooloo Isan Andragna slipped out of bed, shivered in response to the breeze that found its way through a still unrepaired crack. and cursed the technicians who were supposed to have sealed it. While it was true that each and every one of them had spent their entire lives in space and knew next to nothing about the restoration of glass buildings, they did know something about airtight structures, or were supposed to, which made the transgression all the more annoying.

Careful lest he disturb his mate, Andragna dressed in the dark and slipped out into the courtyard. His pet robot jumped off a chair and scuttled along behind.

Used as he was to life aboard spaceships, the courtyard struck the military officer as unnecessarily target, although he did admire the fused glass tiles and the manner in which they went together to make complex geometric patterns. Some glowed as if lit from within—and served to illuminate a ghostly path. It led toward the remains of a gate. The Hudathans had attacked the planet many years before, murdered most of the inhabitants, and lost the ensuing war. Most of the surviving structures, his house included, had been left to the vagaries of the weather. The robot beeped softly and scrambled up a leg. It settled onto a shoulder and warmed his left ear.

Sentries, placed there to protect his wife and him against the possibility of assassins, stood a little straighten They looked dangerous, what with their assault rifles and all, but could they really protect him against the increasingly disaffected Runners, elements of the Priesthood, and the odd psychopath?

No, it didn’t seem likely. What protection he had stemmed more .from tradition, from the rule of law, than the obstacle posed by his guards. The military officer gestured for the sentries to stay where they were and ventured out into the center of the ancient courtyard.

Two moons hung against the velvety blackness of space. One of them was natural, the result of cosmic chance, or the work of the great god Rathna, depending on who you cared to listen to: the scientists or the priesthood. The other satellite was one of the arks his ancestors had built and used to propel their progeny out among the stars. Both glowed with reflected light.

Something about the thin, pale light brought the ruins to life. Andragna imagined the clutch of structures the way they must have been, humming to some forgotten purpose, unaware of the horror ahead. The Ramanthians said that the indigenous sentients, a race of wormlike creatures, had been slaughtered by the Hudathans and driven to the edge of extinction—the same fate that he and the rest of the Thraki people could expect should the Sheen gain the upper hand. Could they? Would they?

The Runners, for whom Andragna felt a considerable amount of sympathy, had deep misgivings about Zynig47 and the future of the race.

The Facers, who were in control of the Committee, had never been happier. Never mind the fact that Zynig47 was little more than an enormous dirt ball orbiting a soso sun, they reveled in running about the surface, squabbling over how much land each individual was entitled to, rummaging through the multicolored ruins and collecting bits of shattered glass. They called the bits and pieces “art,” and he called them “rubble.” The whole thing would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so dangerous. Well, that was his job, to make them see and understand. And today, when the Sectors met, he would make one last attempt.

The sun started to rise in the east, pushed the darkness off to the west, and took control of the sky. It was red, pink, and blue all at the same time. Like the glass in the courtyard walls. Andragna turned and returned to bed. Sleep brought peace.

Commensurate with its owner’s wishes the prefab shelter had been deposited at the summit of a gently rounded hill not far from the still rising community officially known as “Base NH426,” but increasingly called “Starfall” by those with more romantic sensibilities.

As the sun rose and kissed the hilltops with soft pink light, a door whirred open, and a tiny female emerged. In spite of the fact that her body was small, very small, the spirit that dwelt there was large and fierce. Energy crackled around her like electricity, her movements were quick and precise, and fire filled her eyes. This was what she had fought for! To fill her lungs with pure unrecycled air! To feel the sun’s slowly growing warmth on her face—and call a planet home.

And here it was, all around her, just as she had imagined that it would be. If she could hold the coalition together, if she could counter doubters like Admiral Andragna, (I she could coax two or three more years from her steadily aging body.

Reenergized, Nool Nortalla, also known to her people as “Sector 4.” whistled for her pet robot, waited for the device to climb up onto her shoulder, and took walking stick in hand. It would take the better part of an hour to walk down into the city of glass. A journey she would relish. The Chamber of Reason was lined with real stone, said to have been quarried on the Thraki home world, though no one was sure, since there were very few records that predated the fleet. Originally maintained aboard one of the moon sized arks that functioned as both habitats and battleships, the Chamber had been painstakingly disassembled, transported to the surface, and installed in a dome of rose-colored glass. The sun flooded the interior with blood-warm light as Andragna nodded to the sentries, entered through a tubelike door, and emerged into a formal reception area. Like the rest of his species, the military officer had a natural tendency to respond to certain colors in certain ways. The soft pink light made him feel good, a fact which though innocent enough, might be of concern. Could such a phenomena impact the quality of the Committee’s decisions? And was the placement part of a plot conceived by Nool Nortalla and her home-crazed Facers? Or, and this seemed more likely, had he become so immersed in his job that politics colored all his perceptions? There was no way to be sure—but Andragna feared that it was true.

The admiral’s boots made a clacking sound as they hit dark heat-fused glass. A group of Sectors, alerted by the sound, turned to greet him. There was Sector 12, a short somewhat pudgy female known for her bombastic ways, Sector 27, who was tall and something of a wit. Sector 9, a rather conservative Runner, and a half-dozen more.

Handcrafted “forms,” or robots, scampered about their feet, peered out of carrying cases, or lay cradled in their arms. Andragna greeted each of them by name, exchanged the usual pleasantries, and continued on his way. His form made little noises and scooted from one shoulder to the other while exchanging data with its peers.

It was the admiral’s right to enter the Chamber first. . . and to make the long somewhat humiliating crawl from the perimeter of the stone table to its center without the embarrassment of anyone looking on. Eager to conclude the process, Andragna dropped to his knees, crawled toward the splash of rose-colored light, and surfaced in front of his chair. Doing so brought with it the usual sense of pride, awe, and, yes, fear. Fear that he might fail.

The Thraki took his chair and eyed the recently completed enclosure. The roof of the Chamber was shaped like a dome, which, as the result of luck or divine providence echoed the native structure above. It was pierced by thirty-seven slit-shaped windows, each arranged to admit a single shaft of light, which thanks to the use of servo-operated reflectors, was quite steady. Artificial light up in orbit... sunlight here on the surface. All the beams of light converged on the table’s granite surface, just as the Sectors were supposed to meet and guide their race.

Having allowed the admiral an adequate amount of time to take his place, the Committee filed into the room and set their pets loose to roam the top of the table. Andragna’s form was quick to join them. The machines tumbled, rolled, and jumped, all vying for attention. Nothing was said, but each machine was awarded points for appearance, flexibility, and charm. Functionality, or a base level thereof, was assumed. Nortalla entered, still smiling as a result of her walk, followed by Sector 19 who liked to be last and usually was.

Once all of them were seated, the chamberlain called the meeting to order by administering a single blow to a large metal disk. It was known as the Shield of Waha. The sound echoed between the stone walls as it had so many times before. That’s when the forms were recalled, deactivated, and removed from the tabletop.

Under normal circumstances, Andragna would have waited for one of the Sectors to speak rather than open the session himself, but the situation was anything but normal. He took the initiative. “Assuming that no one objects, I would like to open today’s session by discussing our strategic position.”

Andragna paused, scanned the faces around him, and saw that he had their attention. “Thank you. The first thing to talk about is the political situation within the Confederacy. Based on intelligence provided by the Ramanthians, it appears that certain factions have used the threat posed by the Sheen to not only pull the organization together but make it stronger. The reality of this can be seen in the way that the once hospitable Clone Hegemony has begun to distance itself from us, and the fact that the Hudathans, once confined to their home system, are now referred to as ‘allies.’ “

“So, what’s your point?” Sector 12 demanded querulously. “The stronger the Confederacy is the more damage they will inflict on the Sheen.”

“Possibly,” Andragna replied carefully, “assuming they behave as the Ramanthians predict that they will. But how likely is that, given that our Ramanthian friends told us the Confederacy was about to crumble?”

“An excellent point,” Sector 9 put in. “I believe it was our friend Nool Nortalla who suggested that we use the locals as a screen, allow them to bear the brunt of the Sheen attack, and deal with the survivors at our leisure. A silly plan with a predicable outcome. Enough time has been wasted. It’s time to run.”

There it was, the very idea Andragna wanted the Committee to consider. Now it was out in the open. And, given that the meeting was available to the entire armada, the idea would circulate But not without opposition.

Nortalla came to her feet. Her eyes probed the room like laser beams, her body was rigid with the intensity of her emotions, and her voice was hard as hull metal. “Run you say? For what? So we can keep running? So our cubs can be born in the blackness of space, live their lives in fear, and run till they die? Is that what you want? Is that worth the price? Is that who we are?”

Nortalla let the question hang there, not just in the Chamber of Reason, but throughout the fleet. Then, with a perfect sense of timing, she broke the silence. Her voice was low now—little more than a whisper.

“The answer is ‘no.’ Many of us will die fighting the Sheen, but there are worse things than death, such as a life spent running away from it. I say we face the machines, fight them to a standstill, and claim what’s ours. This sun! This planet! This home!”

There was a moment of silence followed by the thump of a single foot, and another, and another until the individual sounds were lost in one massive beat. The female known as Sector 4 sought the admiral’s eyes. He tried to conceal how he felt, tried to erase all expression from his face, but the oldster knew the truth. A battle had been fought and won. How many more would it take? Nortalla felt tired and sank into her chair. The foot-stomping died away.

The sun, which was high in the sky, beat down on the officer’s back as he followed the slightly concave worm path upward. Although Andragna took pride in his body and worked hard to keep in shape, he had discovered that a lifetime of shipboard living had left him weak and out of breath. Something he was reluctant to admit to himself, much less to the fit, young bodyguards who trailed along behind. The errand—or was it a mission?—was something of a chore. Andragna had encountered a number of alien cultures during his lifetime. Many featured religions and were in some cases governed by religions. All of them had one thing in common, and that was a propensity to build monuments or other structures that were so large, so visible, that the population would hold them in awe. Sadly, from the naval officer’s perspective, the Thraki priesthood were possessed of the same unfortunate instincts. The steadily growing city ofStarfall offered plenty of choice building sites, many of which were on level ground, but had one of those been chosen? No, not when there was a hill to build on. A hill that would make any edifice built placed there even more visible. Broken glass crunched under the admiral’s boots as he arrived on a level area and paused to take a breather. His bodyguards paused as well, but didn’t need to, which he tried to ignore. Yes, he could have ordered up an air car, but that would smack of self-importance. and admirals, Thraki admirals, were politicians first and officers second. The view was quite pleasant Starfall occupied the foreground. Sun glittered off glass, worm orchards circled beyond, and hills shimmered in the distance. Pretty now, but what about later? After the Sheen came?

Andragna turned his back to the scene and resumed the climb. Refreshed, or at least partially so, the officer focused on the trail. The worm ruts had been filled with a mixture of gravel and bits of broken glass. They glittered like lost jewels as the admiral made his way to the top or, if not the top, a flat area where the remains of a once prominent building stood. Three of the four violet walls remained and, thanks to the work of a dozen robots, stood free of debris. In fact, so beautiful was the U-shaped enclosure that a stranger might have taken it for a piece of architectural art, and mistakenly assumed that it was supposed to look that way.

Now, as Andragna entered what felt like open arms he saw the mouth of a tunnel, one of many the indigenous population had left behind, and a magnet for the Thraki priesthood. The early histories had been lost, but much had been said and written during the last couple of hundred years regarding the possibility that the Thraki race was descended from subterranean ground dwellers. The theory was certainly tempting, accounting as it did for the race’s excellent night vision, the complex nearly warrenlike manner in which their space ships were laid out, and the average adult’s diminutive stature. Which, when combined with the prominence of the hill, would explain why the site had been selected. An acolyte stood at the entrance of the tunnel, back straight, spear grounded at her side. It was a rare individual who wasn’t acquainted with Andragna’s face. Both the challenge and the response were a matter of form. “Who comes?”

“A seeker of truth.”

“Enter then ... for all who seek truth are welcome here.”

Andragna stepped into the mouth of the tunnel, but his bodyguards were forced to remain outside. Weapons were not allowed on holy ground, unless they belonged to the priests themselves or their highly trained assassins. A fact that spoke volumes about the amount of power vested in the priesthood, the extent to which they influenced the government, and the reason for the officer’s visit. A second acolyte, this one male, came forward to greet him. A triangle had been shaved into the fur on his forehead, a second-year kilt was buckled around his waist, and his demeanor was respectful. “The high priestess is expecting you. Admiral. .. please follow me.”

The passageway, which had been blocked at various points, was clear now, but work continued. Construction robots, many of which had only recently been retrieved from deep storage, would handle most of the work, with acolytes pitching in to help.

What light there was emanated from a spray-on fungus that Thraki scientists had harvested from a planet visited more than a hundred annums before and stored in the Armada’s extensive “life” banks. Some of the Facers opposed the wholesale use of offplanet “biotools,” fearing the manner in which native species might be impacted, but the Runners, who still harbored hopes that the stop on Zynig47

was little more than a pause, had no such concerns. In spite of the fact that the priesthood was a theoretical mix of Facers and Runners, the leadership had a pronounced proRunner bias. A fact which had everything to do with Andragna’s visit.

While the priests didn’t swing enough votes to stop the Facers, and feared the backlash that might result from any attempt to leverage the secular political process, they could be counted on to support conservative initiatives. Or, so he hoped.

Suddenly, the passageway opened to an enormous cavern. Light poured down through a partially restored dome to paint the lake below. The water was smooth as glass. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the acolyte said softly, and the admiral, who took the stars themselves as his standard of beauty, was forced to agree. “Yes, it certainly is.”

The trail, which had formerly resembled a gently turning trough, followed the cavern’s wall and wound down toward the lake. Once they arrived at the bottom Andragna discovered a large relatively fiat area only partially visible from above. It was there, where numerous tunnels met, that the priesthood was in the process of establishing its headquarters. The temple was only half built but had already started to resemble those seen in the ancient texts. A swarm of robots, priests, and acolytes were hard at work, their tools screeching and clattering. It seemed that, Runner sympathies not withstanding, the church was building a home. Not a good omen from Andragna’s point of view.

A tall, rather regal-looking female spotted the visitor, handed her power wrench to a priest, and made her way over. Her name was Bree Bricana, and beyond the almost palpable magnetism that surrounded her, there was nothing to distinguish the high priestess from her subordinates. Certainly not the rough work clothes, tool belt, or heavily abraded boots. Both were leaders and knew each other well. The tu, or nonsexual embrace appropriate to male-female friends felt both natural and unforced. Each took a step back. “You look well, admiral.”

“As do you,” Andragna replied truthfully. “Work clothes become you.”

Bricana laughed. “I understand that you chose to walk ... Who would have thought that legs could be so useful?”

“Yes,” Andragna agreed soberly. “But for how long?

The Sheen are on the way.”

Fur rippled down both sides of Bricana’s face. “I share your concern. Come ... we’ll find a place to sit.”

Andragna followed the high priestess through a maze of neatly stacked construction materials and into a fungus-lit tunnel. It wasn’t until he was within the corridor itself that he realized that he felt more comfortable there. Why? Because it resembled one of the passageways in a spaceship, that’s why. If he had his way, if the race continued its journey, how long would it be until Thraki were no longer comfortable beyond the hulls of their spaceships? A thousand annums? Ten thousand? And was that good or bad?

The question went unanswered as the tunnel opened into a cavern. Alcoves had been carved into the sides of the chamber, creating rooms of various sizes. Bricana chose the largest of these, dropped her tool belt, and gestured toward some upended boxes. “Which would the admiral prefer? Rations or wall fasteners?”

“Rations,” Andragna replied solemnly, “in case I get hungry.”

The priestess laughed and took the other seat. “So, my friend, tell me the worst.”

Andragna’s facial fur rippled in different directions. He chose his words with care. “In spite of the fact that this planet meets many of our needs—the Confederacy becomes stronger with each passing day.”

“Yes,” Bricana agreed, “I listened to the audio portion of this morning’s meeting. You were quite articulate. 1 think it’s safe to say that there’s no possibility whatsoever that the aliens will allow themselves to be manipulated in the manner first described by Sector 4.”

Andragna felt a sense of relief. “I’m glad we agree.”

“However,” the priestess continued soberly, “we foresee the possibility of an even greater danger.”

The admiral’s ears stood straight up. An even greater danger? One that had already been discussed?

Here was something he didn’t know about but should have. He ordered his ears to relax and adopted a matter-of-fact tone. “Yes, our people face many threats... To which do you refer?”

But Bricana had seen the officer’s involuntary reaction and knew the truth. The possibility, no, the reality of what the Confederacy would do, hadn’t occurred to him yet. She kept her voice neutral. “We think the aliens will attack and, depending on how the conflict goes, might join forces with the Sheen.”

Andragna felt the fur bristle along the back of his neck. Of course! How could he have missed such an obvious possibility? Because he’d been trained to focus on the Sheen ... and the tactics of flight. A threat such as the one posed by the Confederacy lay outside the framework of his training and experience. And his subordinates, who had the same background, were no better equipped. He felt a crushing sense of shame.

It must have shown. Bricana was gentle. “You musn’t feel that way . . . We are what we have been. It could happen to any of us.”

Andragna looked up. “It didn’t happen to you.”

“Ah,” Bricana replied, “but it did. The only reason we have discussed the matter is the fact that something very close to this situation is mentioned in the Book of Tomorrows.”

As with many members of his monotheistic culture Andragna had a pretty good understanding of the gods, their attributes and powers, but didn’t really know very much beyond that. The truth was that like his military peers, the officer had more faith in the laws of physics than the somewhat wordy Tomes of Truth, one of which was called the Book of Tomorrows. The fact that it covered something that might have practical value came as a pleasant surprise. “Really? What does it say?”

Bricana seemed to look through him to something else. Her voice, which had been conversational up till then, seemed to deepen. The words, written hundreds of years before, had an archaic quality. “.. . And our people will settle a new world. Some will call it ‘home,’ and wish to stay there, while others will point to the stars, and the menace that follows. Beware of those who call themselves ‘friends,’ for they may attack, or align themselves with the menace. Run if you can, but failing that, call on the twins.”

Andragna allowed the fur to bunch over his eyes. “The twins? What twins?”

The high priestess stood. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”

Bricana rose, led him across the open chamber, and entered a side tunnel. It was guarded by acolytes armed with blast rifles rather than ceremonial spears. Andragna registered surprise but kept the emotion to himself. What did the priesthood have that required such heavily armed sentries? It was difficult to imagine.

The tunnel turned left, ran for twenty units, turned right, ran for twenty units and turned left again. Each right angle turn represented a potential point of defense, each was monitored by a clutch of sensors, and each had been executed with machinelike precision. These walls appeared raw, as if only recently excavated, and still wore marks left by the tools used to make them. The odor of ozone mixed with some sort of sealant hung heavy on the air.

Bricana stopped before a blast-proof hatch. Andragna noticed that it still bore the number of the ship from which it had been salvaged, still another sign of the power that the priesthood continued to wield. She placed her forehead on a reader, lasers scanned her retinas, and a blue light appeared. Servos whined, the door swiveled open, and the visitors stepped through. A priest was waiting. He was armed and wore the black robes favored by the Brother/ISisterhood of Assassins. Andragna couldn’t see them—but felt sure that others lurked nearby. The priest bowed. “Welcome. How can I be of assistance?”

Bricana bowed in return. “Thank you. The admiral and I would tike to visit the twins.”

If the assassin was surprised by the request, he gave no sign of it. He bowed a second time. “Of course

... Please follow me.”

Thus began a second journey that was much like the first, a series of carefully planned rightangle turns that led to a second blastproof hatch. Andragna was more than intrigued ... he was angry and fearful. What terrible secret had the priesthood been keeping? And if they had one, did they have others as well?

The second door opened. Bricana went first, followed by the males. There was nothing especially attractive about the cavern that lay beyond. No worm glass, no special lighting, no effort to smooth the recently machined walls. It was perhaps fifty units across and twenty units high. A pair of what appeared to be golden cradles, each heavily decorated with scroll work, sat on a raised dais. The twins, if that’s what they were, consisted of bright metal tubes. They were approximately ten units in length. It appeared that each construct was protected by a force field, which, if not identical to those used by the Sheen, then were very, very similar. There was no need to tell Andragna what they were ... He knew. The twins were weapons.

The priestess waited for her military colleague to reach the obvious conclusion. He asked the same question she had asked so many years in the past. “How do they work?”

Bricana offered the Thraki equivalent of a shrug. “Given the nature of your responsibilities, I’m sure you are familiar with black holes.”

Andragna was. He knew that when gigantic stars explode, or go supernova, something remains. A

“hole,” or an object so dense that nothing could escape its gravitational field, not even light itself. Anything that ventured sufficiently close, including starships, asteroids, or planets risked being sucked in. What happened after that was unknown since there was no way for information to come back out. “Of course. It’s part of my job to avoid them.”

Bricana offered what amounted to a smite. “Yes, and we appreciate your efforts!” Her expression grew more serious. “Ask yourself this . . . what happens to all the matter captured by a black hole? It’s reduced to amorphous energy. Ships, asteroids, planets, whatever. All transformed into radiation. Maybe it stays there, trapped in time and space, or maybe it exits somewhere else. Were it to emerge, the exit point could be referred to as a ‘white hole.’ Imagine how much energy we’re talking about—imagine how destructive it could be.”

Andragna took a moment to do so. The results would be awesome. His eyes met hers. “So that’s what these are? White holes?”

“Artificial white holes,” the high priestess corrected him, “created and suspended within an antimatter container, and housed in a normal matter shell.”

Andragna eyed the twins. Here was something any military officer would appreciate. Power on an unparalleled scale. “How? How do they work?”

“I’m no expert on such matters,” Bricana said evenly, “but it’s my understanding that each tube can be launched like a missile. Once the weapon enters the target area a signal is sent, the magnetoelectric locks are released, and an atom-sized white hole pops into existence. It would last for no more than a millisecond, but the result would be devastating. If used against us, the entire armada would cease to exist.”

Andragna wasn’t sure which was more amazing, the fact that such weapons existed, or how they came to be. So long ago that they were mentioned in the Book of Tomorrows. “So the old ones foresaw our situation? Knew what would face us? How could that be?”

Bricana looked uncertain. “I honestly couldn’t say. They were given into our possession when the great journey began. That’s as much as we know.”

“Why two Why not one, three, or fifty?”

“There is no mention of what the old ones were thinking.”

“But why keep such weapons secret?” Andragna demanded. “How can the church justify such a thing?”

Bricana’s eyes met his. “There has been no need—not until now.”

It was the answer he might have expected from the priesthood, more than a little arrogant, and completely unapologetic.

Both were silent for a moment. The naval officer was first to speak. “This changes everything.”

“Yes,” the high priestess replied, “I think it does.”

Chapter 12

In forming the plan of a campaign, it is requisite to foresee everything the enemy may do, and be prepared with the necessary means to counteract it.

Napoleon I

Maxims of War

Standard year 1831

Planet Arballa, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The Friendship’s sick bay smelted of disinfectants, plastic, and the faint odor of coffee that emanated from the much abused pot that crouched on a counter. General William Booly sat in Treatment Room 4. He was stripped to die waist. The medic, who happened to be female, grabbed a handle and directed the overhead light onto his torso. She couldn’t help but notice the breadth of his shoulders, the muscular arms, the ridge of fur that ran the length of his spine. There were scars, too, some old, and some newly healed. The latter came courtesy of a planet named Drang. Most were what they appeared to be, but the blister looked suspicious. The medic pointed toward the carefully draped Mayo stand. “Place your arm on that. General.”

Booly did as he was told. “I have a meeting in ten minutes or so.”

The tech passed a scanner over his forearm, nodded in response to the reading, and returned the device to its holster. “Well, it’s your call. sir, but it appears as though a footlong parasitic worm has taken up residence in your right arm. The good news is that she wants to come out and lay her eggs. We can help her—or you can attend that meeting. Which will it be?”

The medic was something of a smartass, but Booly knew she was right. He growled, “Go ahead,” and watched her prep his arm. He had lifted from Drang a good four weeks earlier but been so busy stitching the Confederacy’s command structure together that he barely found time to sleep, much less worry about a rash. But that was before the rash turned into a blister, which not only hurt but itched like crazy.

“I could squirt some local in there,” the medic said cheerfully, “but the pain will be equivalent to a small incision. What’s your preference? Local or no local?”

“Skip the local,” Booly replied grimly. “Just get on with it.”

“Yes, sir,” the rating answered evenly. “Here goes ...”

She squinted her eyes, brought the blade down onto the surface of his skin, and cut a cross into the blister. Yellowish fluid jetted out followed by a small white head. It had tiny jet black eyes. The worm looked from left to right,

The tech had been waiting for that moment and was quick to seize the parasite with some forceps.

“Gotcha! Now, this is the difficult part,” she cautioned, “some people pull too hard. That’s when the head comes off... Makes for a nasty infection plus minor surgery. The trick is to wind the little bastard around a probe and reel his ass in.”

Booly watched in queasy fascination as the young woman pulled inch after nauseating inch of worm out of his arm. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was finished. Then, with the parasite twisting and turning at the bottom of a kidney basin, it was time to disinfect the wound, close the incision, and apply a self-sealing dressing. “There you are, sir. good to go.”

Booty thanked the tech, donned his shirt, and look one last look at the worm. It squirmed every which way. Kind of like the politicians he was about to deal with. His smile lasted all the way out into the corridor.

Senator Omo was angry, very angry, as he entered the conference room, saw that he was first to arrive, and located the Ramanthian-style chair. A quick check revealed that the back adjustment was broken. It sometimes seemed as if everything he touched was cursed. The plan to destabilize Earth, and thereby weaken the Confederacy, had very nearly succeeded, would have succeeded, had his coconspirators been more competent. Subsequent efforts, such as the plot to kill DomaSa, had proved equally disastrous. Still, he who tunnels must move some dirt, so that’s what he would do. Omo took his seat, preened the areas to either side of his beak, and allowed his mind to wander. It was spring in Hive’s northern hemisphere—and the politician wished he could see it. DomaSa stepped out of his cabin, checked to ensure that the hatch was locked, and strode down the corridor. Beings who had previously gone to considerable lengths to ignore the Hudathan nodded, smiled, or waved. All because their perceptions had changed. Now, after weeks of surprisingly positive media coverage, the Hudathans had miraculously been transformed from villains to heroes. Never mind the fact that they hadn’t changed in the least and viewed their new allies with the same level of paranoia reserved for the oncoming Sheen. The stupidity of their psychology astounded him. The entire lot of them were beneath contempt. Yet, there he was, nodding in return, giving the scum what they craved. The illusion of solidarity. Why? Because they had him by the testicles that’s why. Imagine! Hudathans fighting for a human general... The great Hiween PoseenKa never would have believed it. Ah well, the War Commander thought to himself, nothing lasts forever. Not even our shame. The thought brought comfort and put a bounce into his step.

Senator Ishimoto Six stabbed a button with his index finger, waited for the platform to arrive, and stepped aboard. It carried him upwards. Any number of things rode on the upcoming meeting: the safety of his people, his position as a senator, and the way in which Maylo perceived him—something he still wasn’t sure of. Which would be worse, the politician wondered. Failing my government? Or losing Maylo? Not that I have her. The platform coasted to a halt. Six nodded to a staffer and stepped out onto the deck. The corridor led him away. A younger version of the same man had fantasized about being at the center of things, about making a difference, and his dreams had come true. But what was the saying? Be careful what you wish for? You might just get it? Suddenly it made sense. The watch had changed, breakfast was over, and the Friendship’s corridors were relatively empty. A senator rushed past, nodded, and kept on going. Maylo ChienChu forced a smile. Her heeis clacked on the deck. General William Booty had boarded the ship some twelve hours before and would chair the meeting. Ishimoto Six would attend as well. The knowledge left a hollow place at the bottom of her stomach. It was silly, she knew that, but true nonetheless. Would Booly detect the nature of her relationship with Samuel? And why did she care? The officer was yesterday’s news ... Or was he? Some very expensive lab-grown roses had arrived just a few days before. Right smack on the six-month anniversary of what amounted to their first date. Damn it! She was too old for this sort of crap. The executive cursed her own stupidity, increased her pace, and passed a maintenance bot. It scrubbed the deck.

The conference room was packed by the time Booly arrived. There were familiar faces, like those that belonged to Admiral Angie Tyspin, the naval officer who had risked her life and career to help the 13thDBLE during the mutiny. Major, no Colonel Nancy Winters, his newly named chief of staff, Major Andre Kara, his inter-service liaison officer, and CO of the 1 st Foreign Regiment, Colonel Kitty Kirby, CO of the 13thDBLE, War Commander Wenio MortaKa, CO of the newly integrated 3rdForeign Infantry Regiment, his superior. Ambassador DomaSa, Battle Leader Pasar Hebo, CO of the 4thForeign Infantry Regiment, Senator Alway Omo, representing the Ramanthian government. General Jonathan Alan Seebo346, CO of the 2ndForeign Parachute Regiment, plus a lot of beings he hadn’t met, and last, but certainly not least, Maylo ChienChu.

She sat toward the front of the room, next to Ambassador DomaSa, and smiled when his eyes made contact with hers. A spark jumped the gap, and the legionnaire remembered how those same eyes had stared up at him from the misery of a prison cell. And later, over a dinner table on a beach inRio , and eventually in the warmth of his bed. What had gone wrong anyway? And how could he fix it?

Winters cleared her throat, and Booly realized that he should have spoken by then. He forced a smile.

“Good morning—if that’s what this is. Thank you for coming. We have a lot to accomplish, so let’s get started.”

Booly paused and allowed his eyes to drift across the room. “This is a truly historic occasion. The creation of new alliances, the structures required to make them viable, and the problems that naturally follow.

“As I look out on your faces, I see both soldiers and civilians. There are a number of different cultures represented here, so the mix may or may not seem natural to you. Please suspend whatever doubts you may have, and give the process a chance. We have very little time. Civilian support is critical. Without it, we cannot possibly win. It’s my belief that everyone must come to agreement on the overall strategy, and once that’s accomplished, the military will do its best to carry the plan forward. Does anyone have questions regarding that approach?”

There were questions, niggling matters for the most part, as various beings sought to establish their importance, impress their counterparts, or simply exercise their mouth parts. Ishimoto Six, who sat to Maylo’s right, tuned them out. He was much more interested in watching her out of the comer of his eye. And what the senator saw disturbed him. Her relationship with General Booty was over—everyone said so—but what of her eyes? They suggested something different.

The clone looked at Booly. The soldier answered a question. The Sheen were coming—that was the point of the meeting—so what would happen then? Booly was brave—everyone agreed on that—which meant he would participate in the fighting. Perhaps the machines would kill him. It was a small thought, a horrible thought, but one he couldn’t shake.

“So,” Booly said, “did I answer your questions? Good. Let’s move to the next step. The presentation materials have been downloaded to your personal comps so there’s no need to take a lot of notes. I would remind you that this material is secret and not for disclosure to anyone who hasn’t been cleared.”

Omo listened to the translation, wondered if the last comment was directed at him, and decided it didn’t matter. The Thraki were the only party that might be interested, and they were losers. Or would be, assuming Booly made the logical moves. “Here’s the situation,” Booly began, and turned to watch a holo bloom at his side. The star map, prepared with the aid of clones themselves, showed most of the Hegemony. “Reduced to the simplest possible terms, the Sheen have been chasing the Thraki for hundreds if not thousands of years, and plan to eradicate their race. Why? They aren’t sure, and neither are we.

“Thraki politics revolve around two groups, the Runners, who favor continued flight, and the Facers, who want to turn and fight. About the time that the Thraki armada entered Hegemony-controlled space—the Facers took control of the government.”

Conscious of the clones in the room—the officer chose his next words with care. “The Hegemony greeted the newcomers in what can only be described as a peaceful fashion, allowed them to establish some bases, and settled into what they assumed would be a peaceful coexistence.”

All as part of a cynical attempt to use the Thraki against the Confederacy, Maylo thought to herself. . . Not that she blamed Booly for leaving that out—since his job was to strengthen the alliance not destroy it.

“Unfortunately,” Booly continued, “the Hegemony had no way to know that the Thraki hoped to use them as a sacrificial pawn.”

There was a pause while someone explained the game of chess to a Dweller at the back of the room.

“More than that,” Booly went on, “it now appears that the Thraki hierarchy hoped to use the rest of the Confederacy in much the same manner. A plan that could still succeed if we allow them to remain where they are.

“We don’t know a whole lot about the Sheen, only what the Thraki have chosen to share, and the report citizen Williams brought in. However, assuming that those reports are accurate, the machines are absolutely ruthless and will lay waste to any planet found to harbor the Thraki.”

“So let’s go to Zynig47 and root the bastards out,” the senator from Turr growled. “It would serve the unnamable interlopers right.”

Booly had been expecting a comment of that sort and nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, it would. But there’s a problem. Even now, after the consolidation of our forces, the Thraki have more ships than we do. A lot more. Admiral Tyspin”

Tyspin rose and made her way to the front of the room. She wore a blue flight suit, the star that denoted her rank, but none of the many decorations to which she was entitled. Though not especially pretty, there was strength in her face, and her eyes gleamed with intelligence. They were green and swept the compartment like lasers. “What General Booly told you was correct... The Thraki fleet, or armada as they prefer to call it, consists of more than five thousand ships, plus auxiliary craft equivalent to shuttles, tugs, tankers and so on.”

Tyspin pointed toward the holo that appeared next to her. A series of computer-rendered ships appeared. “The main body of the armada consists of supply ships, which might more accurately be referred to as ‘factory ships,’ since they carry raw materials plus the robotic machinery required to manufacture every item the fleet requires.

“The factory vessels are protected by three types of warships roughly analogous to what we refer to as battleships, destroyers, and fighters, though of differing displacements. It should be noted that all of their vessels are equipped with standardized weapons and propulsion systems, something that gives them a logistical advantage and represents an area that we haven’t even started to address.”

It was a telling point and one that some of the civilians hadn’t considered as yet. There were thousands of differences between the ships built on Hive, Earth, and Alpha001, a factor that would add a great deal of complexity to any effort aimed at using them in a concerted fashion. Some, dismayed by what they heard, felt their hearts begin to sink.

Tyspin scanned their faces. “Sorry, but that’s not the worst of it. Thanks to countless years of unremitting warfare the Thraki have evolved into a race of warriors, which, with the possible exception of the Hudathans, is something none of us can claim to be. That culture—that toughness—is a weapon in and of itself. Questions?”

There was silence for a moment, followed by a voice from the back of the room. The figure who rose wore a black pressure suit, which made him instantly recognizable. The senator from the Drac Axis seemed to grind the words out. ‘”Ships, many have we?”

Tyspin was barely able to recognize the syntax as a question. She didn’t trust the Drac, knew they were among the least dependable members of the Confederacy, but had very little choice. To conceal such information, or seem to conceal the information, could weaken the already flimsy alliance. She could feel Booly, Maylo, and others staring at her, wondering how she would respond.

“We are still in the process of assessing the extent of our assets—but current estimates run to about thirty-five hundred ships of various classes and sizes.”

“Plenty should be,” the Drac gurgled. “Ships too many get in each other’s way.”

“There’s some truth to what you say,” the naval officer conceded. “Large fleets require advanced command and control infrastructures and generate all manner of logistical problems. There is one additional factor, however. . . Besides the ships mentioned earlier, the Thraki possess a number of moon-sized arks—all of which are heavily armed. We on the other hand have nothing that even begins to compare with that sort of throw weight.”

The answer seemed to satisfy the Drac, or at least silence him, because he took his seat. Booly stood.

“Thank you. Admiral. Now, with that information in mind, lei’s examine the alternatives.”

The holo swirled and morphed into text. It dissolved from one language to another. “We have a number of choices,” Booly continued. “We could take no action whatsoever, hoping that the Sheen will ignore us, we can attempt an alliance with the Thraki, remembering their plans to use us, or we can pursue unilateral action. My staff and I recommend option three.”

Booly paused and, not hearing any objections, took the next important step. “So, assuming we opt for unilateral action—some additional choices open up. We could wait to see what the Sheen do and react accordingly . . .”

Senator Omo stood and gave himself permission to speak. “A reactive strategy is best—we fully endorse it.”

Ishimoto Six was well aware of the fact that his clone brother had been a member of the Ramanthian-sponsored cabal and felt the blood rush to his face. He came to his feet. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You’d like to see the machines attack Thraki colonies—some of which are on Hegemony worlds!”

“Established with permission from your government,” the Ramanthian observed mildly. “Or had you forgotten?”

“That’s enough,” Booly said firmly. “We’re here to establish a strategy .. not debate the past. Senator Ishimoto Six is correct about one thing, however, the penalty for adopting a reaction-based strategy is that the Sheen may decide to attack some of our assets, leading to heavy casualties.”

Maylo, who paid close attention to the debate, felt sorry for Six. It wasn’t his fault that the Hegemony had made itself vulnerable.

Oblivious to what Maylo was thinking, the military officer continued. “All of which suggests a second alternative: Root the Thraki out of their bases so the Sheen have no reason to attack, realizing there are no guarantees—and that they may decide to come after us regardless of where the Thraki happen to be.”

DomaSa had been silent up till then—but couldn’t remain so any longer. He lurched to his feet. “With all due respect, General—why be so subtle? The Thraki took Zynig47 and are in the process of colonizing it. Let’s attack, take the planet back, and send them on their way. The chances are good that the Sheen will follow.”

Booty, who was well aware of the Hudathan’s military background, gave a slight bow. “The Intaka, or

‘blow of death,’ mentioned by Grand Marshal Hisep RulaKa in his book Analysis of the Legion, is a proven strategy. And, if it weren’t for the arks that orbit Zynig7, I’d be tempted.

“However. I believe it was none other than the esteemed warrior Mylo NurIonDa who said, ‘Lives are as arrows— fire no more than you can afford.’ “

DomaSa found himself not only neutralized, but honored, and possessed of new respect. Here was a human, one of the few, who deserved Hudathan troops. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, General. You have more than answered my question.”

“So,” Booly concluded. “Here is the strategy that my staff and I recommend. With your permission and support, we intend to attack the Thraki colonies and allow most of the inhabitants to escape.”

“Escape, allow them to?” the senator from Drac growled. “Mind, have you lost?”

“No,” Booly answered patiently. “Why kill more of them than necessary? Or more of our troops for that matter? Once dislodged, the colonists will run for Zynig47.”

“Providing the Sheen with a single target,” Ishimoto Six said gratefully, “and sparing our planets.”

Booly shrugged. “That’s the plan ... but plans can and do go awry. For example, we assume that the machines operate in a logical manner, and are primarily interested in the Thraki. We could be wrong.”

The meeting broke up shortly after that. Booly made eye contact with Maylo but was mobbed by back-patting, hand-shaking politicians. The businesswoman waited for a moment, realized it would take a long time for the room to clear, and made her way into the corridor. Ishimoto Six was waiting. They walked toward the lift. “So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About General Booly’s plan.”

Maylo shrugged. “I think it will be difficult, but if anyone can pull it off, he can.”

Six glanced sideways. Was the statement what it seemed? A straightforward endorsement of a competent general? Or something more? He decided to take the chance. “Maylo ...”

“Yes”

“There’s a dance tonight, in honor of the President’s birthday, and I wondered if you would come?”

Maylo noted the hesitancy in the clone’s voice and considered her response. The truth was that she would have been there anyway—everybody who was somebody would be—but this was something different. A date or something very similar. If she said “yes,” he would take her answer as permission to proceed, to take the relationship to the next level, and if she said “no,” he would be hurt and wouldn’t ask again.

So, what did she want? To open the door or close it? And what of Booly? Why couldn’t he pursue her with the same ardor that Six did? Because he was so desperately busy? Or just didn’t care? The words formed themselves. “That sounds like fun Samuel—thanks for asking.”

Ishimoto Six followed Maylo into the lift, knew the platform was falling, but felt his spirits soar. In spite of the fact that only the humans, dwellers and a few other races liked to dance, or even had a name for it, nearly everyone wanted to participate in President Nankool’s birthday celebration—some because they truly liked the chief executive, some because it pays to suck up, and some because there was nothing else to do.

That being the case, the corridors were overflowing with revelers, would-be revelers, or reveler watchers all heading for the Starlight Ballroom. They were dressed to the nines, or whatever the nines were in their particular cultures, which made for a nearly overwhelming assault on the senses. Booly stepped out of his sixth meeting of the day, felt the crowd pull him along, and was stunned by the bright shimmering reds, blues, and greens. Capes, gowns, and robes rustled, swished, and in once case chimed. The smell of perfume, incense and things the officer wasn’t quite sure of filled the air. Add the drone of multilingual conversation to the mix, and it made for a stunning combination. It was the sort of thing that the officer in Booty dismissed as a complete waste of time. Still, odds were that Maylo was somewhere about, raising the distinct possibility that he could talk to her. or better yet, convince her to leave early.

Booly was considered a player by then, a being to be reckoned with, which meant that he was forced to shake all manner of limbs, answer nonsensical questions, and dodge various types of supplicants, the worst of whom were arms dealers, eager to sell him everything from pocket knives to nukes. Finally, after what felt like a swim upstream, the officer heard music, managed to break through a screen of onlookers, and made it to the dance floor. It took less than a second to spot Maylo and recognize the man she was with, Senator Samuel Ishimoto Six.

They were dancing to something slow and stately. Maylo wore a bright red dress and positively glowed. Her teeth flashed when she laughed. They looked happy, as if made for each other, and the spectators thought so too. Comments came from all around. “Aren’t they wonderful together?” “Look at that dress!” “He’s so handsome!” “What a beautiful couple.”

Booly looked down, realized how plain his class two khaki’s were, and felt suddenly out of place. Maybe it stemmed from his upbringing on Algeron, maybe it was the result of too many years on the rim, but the entire atmosphere made him uncomfortable. This was Maylo’s world and one in which he would never be able to compete. Slowly, reluctantly, the soldier turned and forced his way back through the crowd.

Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, Maylo caught a glimpse of khaki. Her eyes followed, she saw his face, and then he was gone. Something, she wasn’t sure what, seemed to squeeze her heart. The music played, her feet moved, but the dance was over.

Chapter 13

Any and all available resources can and should be used while searching for the Thraki. The Hoon

General Directive 00003.0

Standard year 2502

Inside the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

The Sheen fleet swept through the Istar Seven system with the slow sureness of an organism that knows where it’s headed but is in no particular hurry to get there. And with good reason. In spite of the fact that the Hoon had completed its inventory and destroyed all remaining vestiges of its other self, the computer intelligence had something new to concern itself with.

Scouts had come across signs that the Thraki armada had not only come that way—but done so within the relatively recent past. There were other portents as well. . . Ships that flashed into existence at the far end of detector range, the presence of computer controlled drones that exploded if tampered with, and hundreds of free-floating relay devices that “squirted” data to each other as the fleet drew near. The occurrences were interesting for any number of reasons, beginning with the fact, that, old though the Hoon was, the computer had never observed such phenomena before. They suggested coordinated activity of some sort and presented a 92.3 percent match with instructions the AI had never been called upon to use before

How had the creators been able to provide instructions regarding events that would transpire hundreds of years in the future? The machine neither knew nor cared.

The essence of the newly revealed directions were actually quite simple: Although the Sheen had pursued the Thraki armada for centuries now, the day would almost certainly come when the hunted would turn and make a stand. And, as part of that effort, they might attempt to lure the Hoon into some sort of trap. The AI would know that day had arrived “when signs start to thicken, when ships harry the fleet, and when mysteries appear.”

The first pair of parameters made sense, but the last didn’t. “Mysteries?” What did that mean? Ah well, what the computer didn’t or couldn’t understand it had been programmed to ignore. So, cautious as to the possibility of a trap, the Hoon doubled the number of units assigned to reconnaissance, ordered the rest of the fleet to the highest possible state of readiness, and stowed the overall rate of advance.

That’s how the Sheen discovered that a Thraki convoy had taken refuge on the eleventh planet out from a rather undistinguished sun and turned to investigate.

Veera was playing with Sam, something she did at least once a day, and Jepp was watching. Their cabins were too small for such activities ... so they had moved out into me long, sterile corridor. Well, mostly sterile, since the human’s quasi-religious graffiti added what he considered to be a much needed touch of color.

The game, which Jepp watched from the comfort of a chair that Henry had fashioned from metal tubing, was as old as man’s relationship with dogs. Veera, her iridescent underfeathers occasionally catching the light, would throw the crudely made ball down the passageway, and Sam, pleased to be the center of attention, would chase it. Not only chase it, but perform tricks while doing so, each calculated to outdo the last. Jepp watched the device scoot along the ceiling, drop from above, and swallow the ball. The robot’s reward for this activity, if “reward” was the right word, were trills of approval from Veera. Trills that Sam answered in kind and made Jepp jealous. He couldn’t “sing” her language, hadn’t even tried, and felt left out.

Still, some company was better than none, and he had vaguely paternal feelings toward the little alien. Though competent in many respects, and almost impossibly bright, she was vulnerable, too. Both her mother and father were dead, she was passing through a stage analogous to human adolescence, and was trapped aboard an alien ship.

Dealing with Veera, which also meant dealing with her moods, had altered Jepp’s life. When she felt good then he felt good—and when she felt bad then he felt bad. The back and forth of which nearly drove the human crazy but beat loneliness. Something he had experienced all to often over the last six months.

Sam did a series of cartwheels, disgorged the ball at Veera’s feet, and dashed away. The Prithian uttered a series of chirps, threw the sphere down corridor, and seemed to stiffen. Her crimson shoulder plumage rose slightly and stuck straight out. Though unable to converse with the alien without the assistance of a translator, Jepp understood some of her nonverbal communications. He sat up straight.

“Veera? What’s wrong?”

The Prithian cocked her head to one side. “The ship changed direction—and picked up speed.”

The human hadn’t felt a thing but believed her nonetheless. The teenager had mentioned such changes shortly after coming aboard, and Jepp, having doubts regarding the veracity of her claims, ordered Alpha to check them out. The results were amazing. The Prithian was right at least 95 percent of the time. Her senses were more acute than his. So, given the fact that the ship had maintained the same course and speed for the last week or so, why change now? He frowned. “Tap into the Hoon and find out why.”

What could have been phrased as a request was expressed as an order. Veera felt mixed emotions. Her father ordered the youngster around all the time. And, as someone who was older than she was, and presumably wiser, Jepp was entitled to the same level of respect due Prithian elders. Or was he? Veera’s father was dead, her companion was eccentric by human standards, and she was alone. It was tempting to say “no,” on principle. To take a stand and maintain some personal space. The problem was her own highly developed sense of curiosity. What was behind the change in course?

Where was the Hoon taking them? The teenager wanted to know.

Veera trilled an order, Sam cartwheeled in her direction, and followed the Prithian down the corridor. Data ports were located at regular intervals along the bulkheads. The Hoon’s mechanical minions used them whenever they had a need to access certain types of information. The Thraki device scuttled up the wall, created the necessary adapter, and plugged itself into the ship’s electronic nervous system.

The way in which Veera communicated with machines was different from the manner in which Jepp accomplished the same thing. Her songs were comprised of individual notes, each one of which could easily be translated into binary code, and manipulated by any device having the intelligence to do so. The resulting transfer was that much more efficient. Just the son of thing that the average machine is likely to appreciate.

More than that was the fact that most soft bodies required a machine interface to communicate with other machines, which marked them as clearly inferior. Al! except for Veera, that is, who, from a machine point of view spoke something very close to unadulterated code. An accomplishment that marked her as superior to the biped with whom she chose to associate herself. That’s why the Hoon had a tendency to indulge her A tiny, nearly insignificant part of the AI’s consciousness listened as the interrogatory arrived. “The ship [I am on] changed course. Why?”

The computer intelligence spent a fraction of a fraction of a second considering the question and formulating a response. “Thraki have been detected. The fleet must respond.”

Jepp had arrived by then, and Veera relayed what she had learned. The human felt a variety of emotions: a sense of excitement born of boredom, feelings of guilt that stemmed from his last encounter with the Thraki, and a sort of spiritual lust. Because if there was anything the human hungered after it was live, honest to goodness converts.

Yes, it was true that the last group of Thraki had gone so far as to deny the existence of a single all-powerful, all-knowing god, and having done so, had paid with their lives, but they were outcasts, and these Thraki might be more amenable to reason. It was worth a try. “Tell the Hoon that I wish to speak with the Thraki in the hope that we might convert them to the cause.”

Though relatively young, Veera was possessed of an excellent mind and knew the human wanted to convert the Thraki to his cause, rather than the Hoon’s. But she was also smart enough to know that escape, if such a thing were possible, was more likely to result from her relationship with Jepp than from any connection to the Hoon. She decided to comply.

The request stuttered through the ship’s fiber optic nervous system and made the jump to Vessel 179621 where the Hoon was currently in residence. Not just any residence but the one time electromechanical home of the ill-fated Hoon Number Two.

Having received the request, the machine intelligence spent a quarter of a second thinking about it. The idea had obviously originated with the “human” soft body, and while it seemed like a waste of time, there were reasons to approve it. True to its nature, the Hoon listed them in descending order of importance: The being called Jepp had not only been useful where the elimination of Hoon Number Two was concerned, but had proven his willingness to slaughter the Thraki, and never stopped advocating the necessity for other others to do likewise. Add that to the new soft body’s ability to communicate via code—and the Hoon was ready to indulge the strange twosome. Veera cocked her head, listened, and made the translation. “The Hoon says ‘yes.* A shuttle awaits.”

Jepp gave a whoop of joy, jumped into the air, and landed with a thump. “Come on! Let’s get ready!”

Veera uttered the Prithian equivalent of a sigh, waited for Sam to scramble up onto her shoulder, and followed the alien toward his quarters. Once again, her father was proven correct: humans were a pain in the posterior.

The control area was neat, but homey, as if those assigned to it lived there, which they basically did. There were monitors, gently curving control panels, and holes into which the pilots and other crew members could insert their hands. Once positioned within a laser beam matrix, the ship’s Navcomp

“read” the complicated hand finger signals that controlled not only the vessel itself, but the various subsystems of which it was comprised.

Convoy CommanderPolBaySeph struggled to maintain her composure as alarms sounded, hatches hissed closed, and her crew went to battle stations. She should have been focused on the situation, on the fact that her forlorn group of stragglers had been overtaken by what appeared to be the entire Sheen fleet, but was filled with self-pity instead. Why now? After so many years had been left behind? After the fire that once burned in her eyes had dimmed? Why had the gods waited till now to fling the challenge in her face? Not that it mattered, since even a younger version of herself would have been helpless in the face of such an enemy.

Subcommander Ith Tor Homa shook her shoulder. It was a serious breach of etiquette and a sure sign of how desperate he was. “Commander! Every captain in the convoy requests orders . . . what shall I tell them?”

Seph glanced at a display. Once the Sheen were detected, she had ordered the convoy to land in the hope that they could avoid detection. The ships were arrayed around her. There were no signs of life on the airless planet, and the enemy was closing in. She felt like telling her captains to pray, since there was nothing else they could do, but she knew the unyielding younger version of herself, would almost certainly disapprove.

Seph was about to offer some sort of meaningless platitude when a holo popped into existence in the upper right hand quadrant of her command space. The technical looked worried. “Commander, I have an incoming message ... A Sheen envoy is on the way.”

Seph was surprised. Very surprised. Not by the arrogance involved—that was expected—but by the act itself. Why send an envoy when there’s nothing to negotiate? The Sheen never took prisoners, never made deals, and never showed mercy. The convoy was doomed. What were the machines up to? There was no way to know.

An envoy implied time, however, time the officer never expected to have, and she was determined to make good use of it. Years seemed to drop away. She felt younger and filled with energy. “Homa, you wanted some orders? Well, here they are: I want every youngster under the age of sixteen to suit up, grab what they can, and head for the hills. Any hilts. Got it? Good.

“The minute that effort is under way have the technicals alter all of the crew manifests, supply inventories, and other lists to reflect the reduced muster.

“While the technicals work on that have someone clean out their cabins and destroy anything they can’t take with them. And Homa...”

“Yes?”

“Prep some class two beacons. I want them to activate thirty cycles from now. Maybe, just maybe, one of our ships will happen along.”

Homa considered the possibilities ... Death at the hands of the Sheen—or by slow starvation. Which was worse? The decision was made, so it didn’t matter. He saluted, said “Yes, ma’am,” and turned away.” His daughter was on one of those ships . .. and there was no time to lose. Like the Sheen shuttles Jepp had used in the past, this one was equipped with a small almost perfunctory control space consisting of little more than a view screen, minimal controls, and a pair of uncomfortable seats.

Unlike previous outings, however, was the fact that Veera had agreed to accompany him and, after a quick survey of the lifeless control panel, had warbled a series of seemingly random notes. The human watched in annoyance as four additional displays appeared. One showed the relative positions of the shuttle, the planet they were about to land on, and the Thraki ships. The second consisted of colored bars that fluctuated in length. There was no way to be certain, short of asking Veera that is, but Jepp figured each bar was associated with one of the shuttle’s major systems. The third display shimmered with color but remained blank, as if not in use, and the fourth, which the human found to be especially interesting, scrolled through line after line of alien hieroglyphics. Jepp had seen similar symbols before, printed on bulkheads, hatches, and other surfaces, but never obtained a large enough sample to attempt some sort of analysis.

He was about to signal Sam and order the robot to record the alien text, when the surface rose to meet them. The planet was barren and seemingly lifeless. A mountain range stretched from north to south. It rose sharp and jagged—like the teeth of a saw blade. And, judging from the nav display, twelve Thraki ships waited up ahead, grounded at the bottom of a monster crater. In order to hide? Probably, though the attempt had been futile.

Jepp remembered the text, turned toward the holo, and discovered it was dark. Then, before he could give the matter further thought, the shuttle flared in for a landing. The human sought his space suit. There were heathens to convert—and God was waiting.

There were sixty-seven youngsters in a line that wound away from the Spirit of Gatlw and out toward the perimeter of the crater. They were clad in spacesuits, bulky affairs with which they were well acquainted and decorated to their liking. Some bore markings, some sported text, and others had been painted in fanciful ways.

Lis was one of the oldest and, along with some other sixteen-year-olds, nominally in charge. It was her job to bring up the rear, urge laggards to greater speed, and keep an eye on the robot assigned to erase their tracks.

A little one, no more than five, tripped on something. He went head over heels, hit the dry, powdery soil, and sent a wail over Channel Two. Were the machines listening? It was best to assume that they were.

Lis hurried to pick the youngster up, rapped on his faceplate, and gestured for silence. Wonderfully, amazingly, he obeyed. She put the cub down and looked back over her shoulder. The sweeper, oblivious as to the reason behind its current assignment, continued to run backwards, as it erased its tracks. Satisfied that the machine was operating properly, Lis turned and hurried to catch up. A male named Rak had set the pace—and the little ones had a hard time trying to keep up. Legs pumped, arms windmilled, and dust marked their passage. Would it settle before the machines arrived? And did she really care? Subcommander Homa was her father—and would die with all the rest. No, they hadn’t told her that, but didn’t need to. It, like most of the really important events in her life, needed no explanation. Another youngster went down. A pair of ten-year olds pulled her back up, and the column wound in among some ancient rocks. Many were quite large. The ground sloped upward now, reaching toward the crater’s rim, leaving the flat behind. Lis slipped, managed to regain her footing, and looked back over her shoulder.

The robot had stalled. Its drive wheels threw plumes of dirt up into the airless atmosphere as it struggled to find purchase. Lis said a word she wasn’t supposed to say, directed the youngster to proceed without her, and waited to make sure. He waddled up the slope. An eight-year-old saw and took his hand. Conscious of how the seconds were ticking away, Lis dashed down the slope, eyed the robot, and knew the situation was hopeless. The maintenance unit had been designed to operate within the confines of a spaceship and couldn’t handle the uneven terrain.

Something flashed off to the east. The sun reflecting off a rock face? Or the hull of an incoming shuttle?

Lis threw herself forward, hit the robot with her shoulder, and pushed to machine over. It hit the dirt and struggled to right itself. She slapped the kill switch. The robot went inert, the youngster showered the machine with dirt, and fell facedown as a shadow slipped past.

The shuttle, which shimmered with light, dropped toward the ground. Had the machines been able to spot her? Lis didn’t think so—but hurried anyway. The ground rose in front of her, the incoming air rumbled in her ears, and sorrow filled her heart.

Convoy CommanderPolBaySeph met her visitors at the main lock. They were different from what she had expected: two biologicals and a robot of Thraki origins. Where were the firebreathing shiny-assed machines? It really didn’t matter, not if the aliens had the power to negotiate for the machines, which apparently they did. Both removed their helmets. The larger of the two spoke. His robot handled the translation. “Hello, my name is Jepp, Jorely Jepp, and this is Veera. The Hoon asked that we speak with you.”

Though a bit misleading, the human felt the lie was justified. He realized that the Thraki was female, guessed she was older rather than younger, and saw the intelligence in her eyes. She offered some sort of gesture. “You are welcome ... especially if your presence will help to avoid bloodshed.”

“It may,” Jepp answered agreeably, “God willing.”

“One never knows what games the gods may play,” Seph said politely. “Come ... let’s find a more comfortable place to talk.”

The Thraki led their guests down a passageway, and Veera, who had no role in the negotiations, took everything in. She noticed that in spite of the fact that the ship was in good repair the fittings bore the patina of hard use.

Another item that attracted the Prithian’s attention was the considerable number of robots deployed throughout the ship and their degree of sophistication Based on travels with her father, Veera knew that most spacefaring sentients had such machines, but couldn’t remember another race that was quite so dependent on them or had taken the science of robotics so far.

It seemed that most members of the crew had what amounted to pet robots, which scurried, pranced, rolled, and jumped wherever they chose. The result of all this activity was a sort of benign chaos that Veera found annoying but the Thraki seemed completely unaware of. Not Sam, however, who uttered a squeak of delight, jumped off Jepp’s shoulder, and joined a round of wall tag. Veera had the distinct feeling that these observations all added up to something, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. Commander Seph took a turn and led the visitors into a relatively large space. It looked and felt like a communal living room. She gestured toward some amorphous looking chairs. “You are welcome to sit... although I’m not sure how comfortable you’ll be.”

Jepp eyed the furniture, decided it was too small to support him, and did his best to sound friendly. “I’m afraid you arc correct. Besides, our pressure suits would get in the way, and we don’t have enough time to remove them. May I be frank?”

“Of course,” Seph answered smoothly, wondering how the youngsters were doing. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”

“Thank you,” Jepp replied. “Here’s the situation . . . The Sheen are governed by a machine intelligence called the Hoon. It has orders to destroy the Thraki race.”

Seph felt a crevasse open at the pit of her stomach. Contrary to the dictates of both logic and common sense, she had allowed herself to hope—that the stories were wrong, that the machines had changed, that something good would happen. Fur rippled away from her eyes. “Then why did you come? To tell us our fate?”

The words had a hard almost metallic edge to them. The human didn’t blame her. “No, that was not our purpose. I came to ask that you embrace the one and only all-knowing, all seeing, all-powerful God.”

Like 99 percent of her race Seph believed in a pantheon of gods and considered the god the alien described to be patently impossible. After all, how could one god, no matter how capable, possibly handle the running of the universe? The idea was laughable. Still, there were the Children to consider, and if the alien proved sufficiently gullible, the rest of the convoy as well. “One god? What an interesting notion. Tell me more.”

Veera, whose father had trained her to look for lies, watched in silent amazement as the exprospector turned amateur messiah not only fell for the Thraki’s attempt at deception, but proceeded to spew the same line of nonsense he had tried on her.

It took the human the better part of twenty minutes to rattle off all the stuff about how the machines were a gift from God, the mission to which he alone had been called, and the opportunity that stretched before them. “I can save your souls,” Jepp said importantly, “and deliver them to the Lord.”

“We accept,” Seph answered earnestly. “What should we do?”

This was a much different response from the one given by the earlier group that Jepp had encountered. He was surprised. Very surprised. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yes,” Seph lied fervently, “I do. Save our souls from the Sheen, and give them to the one all-knowing God.”

The words summoned up images of a triumphant Jepp presenting a gift to God. This was it! The moment he’d been waiting for! “God bless you. Commander—and all your people. My assistant and I will return to the shuttle where we can petition the Hoon. A warning, however—the machine is stubborn. It may be necessary to tell a few untruths.”

Seph struggled to control her expression, realized it wouldn’t mean anything to the creature in front of her, and let the matter go. The alien was an idiot, and she couldn’t imagine why the Sheen continued to put up with him. “Really? What sort of untruths?”

Jepp appeared hesitant. “That you and your companions are not only renegades—but willing to aid the Sheen.”

“Of course,” Seph replied calmly. “Do as you must.”

Jepp, victory almost in his grasp, was eager to leave, Real live converts! Doubters? Yes, almost certainly, but that would change. He knew that it would.

Seph saw the aliens to the hatch and waited for it to close. She turned to Subcommander Homa. “The little ones? Where are they?”

Homa, acutely aware of the fact that one of the youngsters was his, discovered the lump in his throat. He struggled to swallow it. “They made it to the edge of the crater—and hid among the rocks.”

Seph looked her subordinate in the eyes. She had never produced any offspring of her own—but could imagine how the other officer felt. “The alien is a fool. The Hoon will refuse. The Sheen will attack.”

Homa met her gaze. “If you are correct, and they attack from space, the little ones will be killed.”

“Exactly,” Seph agreed. “Unless we run.”

“Which would force them to chase us,” Homa said thoughtfully. “Saving the cubs but negating any possibility that the machines will accept your lies.”

“So,” Seph said gently, “what should we do?”

Homa felt a great upwelling of sorrow, for the daughter he would never see again, for himself, and for the entire Thraki race. Why? Why did the machines continually hunt them? The priests offered platitudes but no one really knew. All of it was so stupid and unnecessary. The words were little more than a croak.

“We must run.”

Seph, who felt strangely detached, bowed her head. “I’m sorry old friend—but I’m forced to agree.”

As the Hoon listened to the human’s rantings with a minute part of its consciousness, it also monitored streams of data from even the most distant parts of its far-flung body. That’s how the Al knew when the Thraki convoy started to power up. It seemed that the biological’s plan had failed, a rather predictable outcome that confirmed the Hoon’s preexisting bias: Though mostly harmless, and occasionally useful, Jepp was an idiot. That being the case, the computer intelligence ordered the human’s shuttle to lift, severed the incoming communication, and ordered his forces to attack. They confirmed the nature of his instruction, and insofar as the Hoon was concerned, the incident was over. Jepp staggered and nearly lost his footing as the shuttle pushed the planet away. Veera, who had been serving as interpreter, quit in midsentence and was quick to strap herself in. The human looked left and right. “What’s happening? I demand to know! Veera ... Sam ... tell the Hoon.”

The teenager warbled to the robot. It answered in kind. Jepp collapsed into the ill-fitting seat. “Switch to standard, damn you! And hurry up.”

“The Hoon broke the connection,” Veera said simply.

“That’s his way of ending a conversation.”

“But the Thraki!” Jepp objected, “They are under my protection!”

Veera could have said something regarding how much his protection was worth but chose to remain silent instead. Though not of his species, and not capable of tears, she knew how he felt. When the Thraki died, his dreams died with them.

Lis and the other youngsters watched from the rocks as repellors stabbed the hard oxide-rich soil. The ships hovered head high until the insystem drives were engaged. Then, with the precision born of long practice, the spaceships accelerated away. With them went fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, friends, and more, never to be seen again. The battle, if that’s what the massacre could properly be called, would take place on the far side of the planet where the thin, nearly nonexistent atmosphere gave way to vacuum. A small mercy—but a meaningful one.

The cubs, especially the younger ones, made little noises toward the backs of their throats. Lis thought about saying something, warning them to be quiet, but decided to let it go. There was only a limited chance that the machines would pick up on such a low-powered transmission. One of the males said, “Look!” and pointed toward the center of the crater. Lis looked, and there, exactly where her father’s ship had been, sat a cargo lighter. Like an egg in a nest. The vessel was small, very small, but capable of a hyperspace jump. It was gray, about the same temp as the surrounding rocks, and completely innocuous. Had a course been entered into the ship’s navcomp?

Yes, she knew that it had.

They waited for three long days before concluding that the battle was over and the Sheen had left. Slowly, almost reverently, the youngsters filed down out of the rocks and made their way toward the ship. It was only when they stopped to look up that Lis saw the name spray-painted across the bow. It was hers.

Chapter 14

I always say that. next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained. Attributed to the Duke ofWellington

Standard year circa 1815

Clone World BETA018, the Clone Hegemony

Vice Admiral Ham Ista Rawan, who, as the senior officer on the ground, had the dubious honor of commanding all Thraki forces stationed on Clone World BETA018, secured the fasteners on his standard issue parka, waited for the form to climb onto his shoulder, and left the relative comfort of his office. Metal clanged under his boots as he crossed the catwalk that bisected the cavern and eyed the fighters arrayed below. They were Owana IFI Interceptors and, like the admiral himself, had seen long, hard service.

The aerospace fighters were parked in two opposing rows. Wraithlike wisps of vapor leaked from the umbilicals that connected the ships to the ground support systems. Some twenty transports, easily identified by their larger hulls, lurked deep within the shadows.

The interceptors would be busy soon, Rawan reflected as he returned a technical’s salute, stepped onto a freight platform, and stabbed the “Down” button. His breath fogged the air as a motor whined, the lift jerked in protest, and sank toward the flight deck below. Ships had dropped in system. Confederate ships, with not a word of protest from the normally contentious Hegemony. The same clones who had welcomed his people with open arms only months before, had turned decidedly less hospitable of late, even going so far as to cut off communications. It didn’t require diplomatic credentials to understand why. The Hegemony feared that if the Sheen attacked their guests they would suffer as well.

The officer could have felt bitter, could have felt betrayed, but didn’t. It seemed as if his people were destined to go friendless, to roam the stars forever, bereft of peace. The clones were nothing more than the latest manifestation of a hostile universe.

The platform clanged to a stop, Rawan stepped off, and turned toward the cold gray light. It flooded through the cavern’s entrance and glazed the deck in front of him. Walking into the alien glow, then peering out over the semi-frozen landscape, was part of his daily routine. Officers saluted from a distance, technicals went about their chores, and the robots ignored him. The admiral’s breath came in gasps as his lungs struggled to extract oxygen from the cold thin air. The medical officer claimed they would get used to it after a while, but Rawan had his doubts.

A wrench clattered as the officer neared the opening. A cold, clammy wind caressed Rawan’s face and sent his hands into his pockets. The gloves he had intended to bring remained on his desk. Warning lights chased each other around the opening, deck icons warned of danger, and snowflakes swirled beyond. The sun struggled to push its pale yellow light through a corona of white mist and failed. Rawan stepped over the kneehigh safety chain and paused to eye the twin energy cannons positioned to either side of the passageway. Stripped from a decommissioned cruiser and protected by localized energy shields, they could defend against both aircraft and a ground assault. Even the Sheen would be forced to take such weapons seriously. It was a comforting thought. The admiral leaned into the wind and forced himself onto the outer platform. Moisture formed at the comers of his eyes and he blinked it away. Though technically classified as “Earth normal,” the Hegemony planet designated as BETA018 was actually quite marginal, which had everything to do with why the clones allowed the Thraki to establish a colony there.

The entrance, and the base to which it led, were located at the head of a U-shaped canyon, and, more than that, were roughly one hundred units off the ground. That meant that any pilot so foolish as to attack would have to fly between the computer-operated weapons positions that lined both walls of the valley and into the combined fire of the energy cannons that flanked the entrance. Not a pleasant prospect. The same thing would apply to ground forces, since Rawan and his staff had gone to considerable lengths to ensure that all of the defensive weaponry could depress their barrels and launch tubes far enough to reach the canyon floor.

In addition to those precautions, Rawan had laid a minefield across the canyon’s mouth, ordered his robots to construct a variety of obstacles, and even gone so far as to prepare trenches for the six hundred ground troops assigned to protect his air squadron.

The wind renewed its assault on the officer’s face and only the fact that the Thraki had short, bristly fur prevented him from getting frostbite. He stared down into the valley below but was unable to see his marines. Because their camouflage was so good? Or because he was getting old?

Whatever the reason Rawan feared that the ground forces represented the chink in his armor. The navy was strong, very strong, thanks to hundreds of years spent fighting duels with the Sheen, but the ground arm was weak and relatively inexperienced. Just one of the things that explained his Runner sympathies. A klaxon sounded somewhere behind him. Fighters probably—back from a sortie. He could clear the deck or risk being blown off the ledge. Rawan took one last look at the valley and turned away. The cavern yawned and he stepped inside.

The holo, shot during a rare break in BETA018’s cloud cover and augmented by footage supplied by recon drones, ran its course and faded to black. The Gladiator’s hangar deck had been pressurized and, with the addition of folding chairs, transformed into a serviceable auditorium. The tights came up as Booly stood and made his way to the portable podium. The ship’s motto, “For glory and honor,” faced the audience. He looked out at the crowd. It was the most unlikely gathering the officer could have imagined. The Jonathan Alan Seebos claimed the first couple of rows and, if it hadn’t been for differences in age, would have been as identical as the hard eyed stares fastened on his face. Immediately behind the clones sat the men, women, and Naa warriors still at the Legion’s core. Further to the rear, like mountains rising from a human plain, the Hudathans loomed. Their skins were gray, their backs uncomfortably exposed, and their expressions were grim.

And behind them, like a race unto itself, the cyborgs stood. Some human, some Hudathan, they were big, but dwarfed by the aerospace fighters beyond and by the scale of the Gladiator herself. Here, Booly thought to himself, are the real aliens, beings who no longer resemble the species from which they came, and no longer perceive life in the same way.

None of the Ramanthian ground forces had been as signed to the assault on 18, both because of their lack of experience in fighting on ice worlds and their participation in other initiatives. These were the minds that would take Booly’s ideas, translate strategy to tactics, and lead their troops into battle—not in segregated units, as certain politicians had suggested, but in integrated groups in which Hudathans, Naa, and humans would fight side by side. It was a risk, a big risk, but so was the alternative. Assuming the Confederacy managed to win most of the upcoming battles, assuming that it managed to survive the Sheen onslaught, the heat of the conflict would bake the military into its final form—a form that would be difficult to break without causing considerable damage. The kind of damage that might lead to another rebellion or civil war.

Still, it was with a sense of deep-seated concern that the officer started to speak. His words were translated as necessary. “You’ve read the reports, heard the analysis, and seen the footage. So you know what we’re up against. Given the threat posed by the Sheen, the Gladiator is the only ship the Confederacy could put against BETA018. One ship—on& planet. Why use more?”

Booly waited for the laughter to die away. “The Thraki are extremely experienced warriors. They have their backs to the wall and are well dug in, not only dug in, but dug into an allied planet, with civilians in residence. The settlement called ‘Frost’ lies only six miles away from the Thraki base. An orbital attack would destroy both.

“To root the Thraki out, Admiral Tyspin’s fighters are going to have to penetrate the valley and put weapons on hardened targets.. . me most important of which is the base itself.” Booly paused to scan their faces. Pilots stared up at him. “In order for the jet jockeys to hit their targets, the ground pounders will need to silence at least some of the batteries that line both sides of the canyon.”

A major yelled, “Camerone!” and a substantial portion of the audience roared the appropriate response.

“CAMERONE!”

Booly noticed that many of the Jonathan Alan Seebos remained silent, as did a substantial number of the Hudathans, but some joined in. That was progress. He grinned.

‘Thank you. I’m glad to see that someone’s awake out there.”

Laughter rippled through the audience. Booly picked up where he had left off. “You and your troops come from different worlds, pack different DNA, and have different cultures. Those differences could manifest themselves as a weakness, a. fatal weakness, or, and tremendous progress has been made in this direction, they could become the source of our strength, and the reason we emerge victorious. Not just here, but elsewhere, when the Sheen drop hyper.

“Long hard days have been spent establishing a chain of command, integrating our varied systems, and selecting best practices. Every single one of you deserves credit for making that happen. Now comes the test, the moment when steel meets steel, when courage owns the day.”

A human legionnaire rose at the back of the audience and shouted the ancient Hudathan battle cry:

“BLOOD!”

The audience roared the response: “BLOOD!”

A Hudathan stood, raised his fist, and shouted “CAMERONE!”

Booly smiled, waited for the noise level to drop, and brought the meeting to a close. “You know what to do—so go and do it. Insertion teams Blue, Red, Yellow, and Green will drop about six hours from now. Kick some butt for me.”

The flight of six daggers shuddered as they forced their way down into the planet’s hard, thin atmosphere. Lieutenant Commander Rawlings bit her lower lip. She’d seen combat before, back during the mutiny, but not like this. She had been a watch officer then, standing shoulder to shoulder with the bridge crew, staring into a three-dimensional holo tank as brightly lit sparks fought duels in the dark. This was different. There was the loneliness of her one person cockpit plus the knowledge that five pilots were counting on her for guidance and leadership. One Hudathan, two Seebos, and a couple of

“greenies” right out of the navy’sAdvancedCombatSchool . Rawlings didn’t know which scared her most, their lack of experience or hers. A group of red deltas wiped themselves onto her HUD and Lieutenant Hawa MorloBa, who never tired of being first, made the call. “Blue Five to Blue One . . . bandits at six o’clock!”

Rawlings listened to herself say, “Roger that. Five,” and took pride in the flat laconic sound of the words. ‘Tally ho!”

Clone intelligence claimed that Thraki interceptors were protected by cloaking technology obtained from a race called “The Simm,” and it appeared that they were correct. The enemy interceptors were a good deal closer than she would have preferred. The naval officer “thought” her aircraft to starboard, felt it side slip into a dive, and brought the ship’s weapons systems online.

The others watched her go, followed the officer down, and scanned their readouts. Power was critical, weapons were critical, everything was critical or would be soon.

Flight Warrior Hissa Hoi Beko watched the Confederate aircraft descend, checked her wing mates, and confirmed their positions. The pilot’s weapons, like the rest of her ship, were controlled by the special gauntlets she wore. Each movement had meaning. Index to finger to thumb:

“Safeties off—accumulators on.” First two fingers in parallel: “Ship-to-ship missiles—safeties off—guidance on—warheads active.” The pilot’s displays flickered with each carefully articulated movement. Then, as the enemy fighters came into range, a circuit closed, and her fingers began to tingle. Beko fired and the air war began.

Rawlings heard tone, fired chaff, and rolled. The enemy missile sped past and exploded. The fighter that had fired it pulled a highgee turn and attempted to flee. The rest of the Thraki interceptors did likewise. Both of the Seebos responded with a nearly identical cheer, applied full military power, and gave chase, Rawlings wanted to stop them, wanted to call the pilots back, but wasn’t sure why. Good fighter pilots were aggressive, competitive, and little bit obnoxious. But this was too easy, too tempting, too ... Beko checked her screens and grinned as the enemy ships took the bait. The Hegemony had been most accommodating during the early stages of the Clone-Thraki relationship and shared some of their knowledge regarding Confederate technology. That was how Beko knew the range at which her adversaries would be able to detect her fighters and was able to put that knowledge to work. By leaving two heavily cloaked interceptors behind, and leading the enemy towards them, she and her wing mates had closed the trap.

The Seebos saw deltas appear as if by magic, tried to react, but ran out of time. Rawlings winced as the orange-red flowers blossomed, gritted her teeth, and took the challenge. The Thraki had reversed direction by then . .. which meant that she and her three surviving pilots were about to go head to head with six enemy aircraft. That’s when the naval officer noticed how precisely the enemy was grouped. Because they had a taste for discipline? Or because the pilots were trained to fight tightly controlled machines? Computer controlled machines that behaved in predictable ways? Words followed thought: “Break! Break! Break! Take ‘um one on one, over.”

Beko frowned, and the fur crawled away from her eyes as the oncoming formation seemed to explode. Confederate vessels went every which way as she struggled to understand. But there wasn’t enough time, not at combined speeds of more than a thousand units per hour, and the .sky went mad. The Confederate ships rolled, turned, dove, and climbed. Missiles left their racks, coherent light stuttered toward their targets, and 30 mm cannon shells tunneled through the air. Beko yowled in frustration as the formation disintegrated around her, fired at one of the oncoming ships, and knew she had missed. And then, before she could recover, the interceptor took a hit. Alarms went off, systems failed, and a computer made a decision. The cockpit blew itself free of the ship, a cluster of chutes popped open, and the planet swayed below. Beko saw no less than three of her pilots die or bail out during the next two minutes. Shame filled her heart, and the weight of it pulled the warrior down. The Command andControlCenter , or CCC, was almost eerily quiet. Near disasters, disasters, and total disasters were announced in the same emotionless drone used to describe the most important of victories. It was a large compartment by shipboard standards, buried deep within the Gladiator’s armorclad hull, and the place from which Booly, his staff, and a group of highly skilled technicians ran the assault on BETA018.

Screens lined the bulkheads, video flashed, rolled, and stuttered; indicator lights signaled from the darkness, and “Big Momma,” the ship’s primary C&C computer murmured in the background. Booly cocked his head as the latest summaries came in over the speakers. “Preliminary totals indicate casualties more than 16 percent in excess of plan. Estimate that 86.2 percent of enemy force engaged. Approximately 72.1 percent of enemy aircraft destroyed.”

Something moved through the officer’s peripheral vision, and a coffee cup landed at his elbow. Admiral Tyspin lowered herself onto a chair. She looked tired. He smiled. ‘Thanks for the coffee.”

She lifted her cup by way of an acknowledgement. “Denada.”

“So how’re we doing?”

Tyspin eyed him through the steam, took a sip, and lowered the mug. “You heard Big Momma ... We took causalities ... too many ... but the sky belongs to us.”

Booly nodded. “And the insertion teams?”

“Ready to drop.”

“Give ‘em my best.”

Tyspin smiled. “I already did.”

Once Dagger Commander, now Lieutenant Drik SeebaKa felt the landing craft fall free, checked the seal on his anus, and was relieved to find that it was intact. He hadn’t been so lucky the first time out—and spent the day wallowing in his own shit. No one had noticed though, not in the stink of the training swamp, and disgrace was avoided.

But what of today? the Hudathan asked himself, as he stared down the aisle. What of the twenty-five Hudathans, twenty-five legionnaires, four Naa and six cyborgs placed under his command? How would they regard him when the sun finally set? Assuming some survived? Would they honor his name? The officer was determined that they would. But what did barbarians know of honor? And could he trust them? War Commander DomaSa said “yes,” but who could be sure?

SeebaKa touched the Legion-issue wrist term and watched video blossom on the inside surface of his visor, He saw the ridge, two of the weapons emplacements that topped it, and the initial objective: a cluster of Thraki airshafts. The mission was simplicity itself. Neutralize the defenders, drop through the airshafts, and destroy everything in sight, If they made the LZ, if they could penetrate the complex, )I the enemy gave way. The purpose of the assault was to take some pressure off the forces detailed to drive the length of the valley floor. The landing craft shuddered as the hull hit the upper part of the atmosphere, but the Hudathan didn’t even notice. He ran the sequence again.

About four feet away, thumbs hooked into his battle harness. First Sergeant Antonio Top” Santana eyed his commanding officer through half-closed lids. What was the hatchet head thinking anyway? Jeez, the sonovabitch was ugly. He seemed to know his shit, though, which was good, because Santana was ready if he didn’t. Two slugs in the back of the head, and the matter would be settled. Not a pleasant thought but better than letting a geek waste his team. The noncom smiled.

A little further down the aisle, over on the starboard side, Quickfoot Hillrun started to snore. Oneshot Surekili took exception and kicked the other scout’s foot. The sound stopped for a moment but quickly resumed.

Lower in the hull, below Surekill’s feet, cyborgs hung within cylindrical drop tubes. The team consisted of four humans and two Hudathans. The tech types had gone to considerable lengths to ensure their corn equipment was compatible. That being the case, and borgs being borgs, the “machine augmented”

troopers chatted on a low power utility band. Corporal Lars Lastow, one of the 1,021 cyborgs that then Colonel Bill Booly had rescued from Fort Portal back during the mutiny, was interrogating one of his Hudathan colleagues. “So, Sergeant HorlaKa, how’s your sex life?”

‘The same as yours,” the noncom answered stolidly.

“Nonexistent.”

‘That’s not what I hear,” the human continued. “I hear they wired you guys to come every time you kill someone.”

“Come?” HorlaKa responded, “I don’t understand.”

“You know,” Lastow went on, “shoot your load, blow your rocks, have an orgasm.”

“Oh that,” HorlaKa answered evenly. “Yes, it’s true.”

“Damn,” the human responded. “You are one lucky bastard.”

The Hudathan eyed his readouts, saw the seconds ticking away, and knew the enemy was waiting. And not just waiting, but locked, loaded, and ready to fire. “Yes,” he replied dryly. “I am one lucky bastard.”

One level up, and all the way forward. Navy Lieutenant Mog Howsky “thought” the nose up, wished she had something to do with her hands, and kept her eyes on the HUD. The “backdoor” as she and her copilot called it consisted of a broad U-shaped valley that lay behind the Thraki stronghold and ran parallel to it.

The plan was to approach from the south and then, when the enemy base was due west, make a hard turn to port. Conditions permitting, Howsky would make two separate passes. The cyborgs would drop during the first, engage the weapons emplacements, and secure the LZ. With that accomplished, the assault boat would return, offload the soft bodies, and haul ass. Assuming I have one to haul, Howsky thought to herself.

Mountains rose on both sides, sparks floated up to greet them, and the hard pan began. “All right,”

HorlaKa growled, using his external speakers in spite of the fact that there was no need to, “we are two from dirt. Remove safeties—prepare to drop.”

Conscious of what awaited them and the importance of their role, the cyborgs were silent. They could

“feel” the side-to-side motion as the ship jinked back and forth. Thanks to the fact that they could “see”

via the landing craft’s external sensors, the team knew what to expect. A missile raced over her head and a green tracer whipped past the cockpit as Howsky completed the run. Commands that originated in her brain burped through the computer-assisted interface to make things happen. Flaps fell, jets fired, and the ship started to stall. Repellors stabbed the darkness, the belly gun fired, and slugs hosed the ridgeline. There it was, just as the simulators said it would be, a flat area, a series of duracrete weapons emplacements, and the stacks beyond.

There was a cracking sound as a high velocity slug punched a hole in the canopy and took Second Lieutenant

Gorky’s head off. Howsky felt her friend drop out of the control matrix, swore as blood splattered the side of her helmet, and forced herself to concentrate. The tubes opened on command, the borgs dropped free, and she turned to port. If anything happened, if the boat took a hit, the hard bodies would be safe. Well, not safe, but safer. She lined up the targeting reticule on the pillbox and thumbed the pickle. Slugs marched their way up to a pillbox and forced their way inside. Something exploded, and flames belched out through the side-mounted cooling vents.

Lastow “heard” the buzzer, “felt” the clamps release, and nothing happened. He should have been falling, should have cleared the ship, but hadn’t dropped more than an inch or two. Okay, okay, the cyborg said to himself, it’s a jam. How many simulated jams have you cleared? A hundred? Yeah, easily. Test the circuits, look for shorts, reroute the signal. Electricity did as it was told, a relay closed, and the clamps opened.

It was only then, as the Trooper IF body dropped clear of the ship, that the legionnaire remembered to check the target, discovered that the boat had cleared the ridge, and realized he was still in the process of falling. Not ten feet as he had planned, but a hundred feet, onto the rocks below. Those who monitored his scream, and that included HorlaKa, would never forget the sound. But there was no time for sympathy, for grief, or any of the other emotions that tried to push their way in. Thraki shells exploded all around. The Hudathan gave his orders. “Form a line abreast! Missiles first!

Engage the weapons emplacements!”

Dor Dupio, with Lastow’s scream still echoing through his mind, launched two missiles at once. They sensed heat, accelerated away, and hit the closest pillbox. Light flashed, thunder cracked, and the bunker came apart.

“Passable,” HorlaKa commented calmly as the cyborgs advanced along the ridge, “though wasteful. One missile would have been sufficient.”

Dupio started to object, started to tell the hatchet head he was crazy, and realized it was a waste of time. All of them were crazy.

Someone, HorlaKa thought it was Himley, yelled “Hit the deck!”

The noncom obliged, “felt” something warm pass over his head, and “heard” the assault boat crash. Metal screeched, a turbine roared, and something exploded. Santana staggered, tried to pull the shard of hull metal out of his chest, and collapsed. HorlaKa got to his feet. “The airshafts! Follow me!”

Bak BorloKa, the second Hudathan on the team questioned the order, but followed it. What of those on the landing craft? Some were clansmen.

But there was no time to think, only to act. Thraki troops boiled up out of the ground and opened fire. That was a mistake. With no cyborgs of their own, the defenders were outgunned. Arm-mounted Catling guns roared, energy cannons burped, and the soft bodies ceased to exist. HorlaKa felt orgasm after orgasm ripple through a body he no longer possessed—and found the split-second necessary to hate the scientists for what they had done to him. To take the pleasure associated with the creation of life and use it as a reward for destroying it... What could be more twisted?

But there was no time to think, to do more than run, as the airshafts rose, and the resistance started to fade. The first objective had been secured—but what of the second? The borgs were too big to fit inside the airshafts and too clumsy to lower themselves to the bottom. The mission was at risk. Lieutenant SeebaKa felt the SLM hit the ship, heard the explosion, and knew they were in trouble. He yelled, “Hang on!” took his own advice, and saw the deck tilt.

The pilot was fighting for control, the infantry officer could tell that, and struggled to suppress his fear. Fear he wasn’t supposed to feel, fear that signaled his weakness, fear that... The ship side-slipped into the ground. Howsky died instantly as did a third of the troops seated with their backs to the port bulkhead. Toba, Ibens, Ngugen, Al Saifd, IstaSa, PorloBa, BoroDa, and NomoKa—all dead.

SeebaKa, who was seated just aft of the impact zone, released his harness and lurched to his feet. Though conceived in Hudathan the words were not all that different from what a human might have said.

“What the hell are you waiting for? A full-blown holo presentation? Hit the dirt!”

Hudathan, human, and Naa alike released their harnesses, struggled to make their way the length of the steeply slanted deck, and headed towards the bright green lights. Due to the fact that the ship had fallen onto the port side that door was blocked. Thanks to the manner in which the hull had rotated, the opposite hatch was high, and very difficult to reach. A legionnaire boosted another legionnaire up, but he lost his balance. Both tumbled to the deck.

Private Lars Lasker solved the problem by triggering the belly mounted escape hatch and jumping up and down on the door. It gave, and he fell through the hole. Sergeant Quickfoot Hillrun pointed and yelled. “Move! Move! Move!”

Legionnaires poured out onto the ground, took defensive positions around the wreckage, and waited for orders. Wounded were dragged outside, carried beyond the reach of the potential blast zone, and given first aid. SeebaKa called for an air evac and was assured that it was en route. Once that was accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to check with HorlaKa, confirm that the air shafts were secure, and send the report. Like so many of its kind the communication said nothing of the sacrifice required to make it possible. “Red Team is on the ground . .. The first objective is ours.”

The cabin had been designed for use by admirals and more than met Booly’s needs. He sat in an easy chair guarded by two stacks of printouts. One that he had read and one that he hadn’t. In spite of 18’s importance, the Confederacy covered a lot of space, and Booly, as Military Chief of Staff, had responsibility for the whole thing. That’s why he was busy scanning an intelligence summary on Zynig47

when the message came in. Tyspin chose to bring it herself. She entered without knocking, dropped into a chair, and offered the slip of paper. “Here, add this to your reading.”

Booty read the words, nodded, and handed the slip back.

“Casualties?”

Tyspin shook her head. “No data as yet... but Red One requested a medevac.”

“And Objective Two?”

“They’re tackling it now.”

Booly paused, imagined what it would be like to rappel down one of those airshafts, and grimaced.

“And Blue One? How’s she doing?”

Tyspin grinned. He noticed her eyes were rimmed with red. She hadn’t slept in days. “McGowan? Are you kidding? She was born ready.”

Booly nodded. ‘Turn her loose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Angie?”

“Sir?”

‘Take a nap.”

The assault team was located on a plain just beyond the canyon’s mouth. A thin layer of snow covered the rocks, low lying vegetation, and the ground itself.

Four widely spaced piles of burned wreckage marked sorties by low flying Thraki aircraft. The balance of Blue Team was hunkered down, weapons scanning the sky, waiting for the next assault. The fur balls knew where they were, and, if it hadn’t been for the swabbies patrolling the airspace above, would have greased the entire force by then.

Captain Bethany “Butch” McGowan had been dirtside for more than eight hours by then. She cursed the cold, blew on her hands, and prayed for a green light. Every hour that passed meant that her troops were a little more tired. .. and a little more likely to make mistakes. Her force consisted of six quads, sixteen Trooper IF’s, twelve Hudathan “heavies,” and a mixed force of infantry under the questionable command of Lieutenant Jonathan Allan Seebo872. The groundpounders included more Jonathan Alan Seebos plus a platoon of legionnaires under Gunnery Sergeant Roily True Bear.

Blue Team was supposed to negotiate a minefield, find its way through the tank traps, and, should Red Team fail, make their way up the length of the valley through a withering crossfire. Not a stroll in the park.

McGowan’s corn tech, a woman named Bagano, stuck her head up through a hatch. She wore a corn helmet, a nonreg nosering, and a shiteating grin. ‘The big dog is on line one ... We’re good to go.”

McGowan sighed. Bagano had a problem where military courtesy was concerned, had been disciplined any number of times, and didn’t seem to give a shit. The officer could have brought the soldier up on charges, and probably would have, except for one little problem: Bagano, or “Bags” as her buddies referred to her, was the best damned corn tech on that side of galaxy. McGowan had seen the woman take three mangled PR3s, fieldstrip them, and build a new unit in less than three minutes. When it came to a tradeoff between formality and competency, McGowan would take competency every single time. Her voice was intentionally loud. “All right! That’s the kind of news we’ve been waiting for! How’s Red?”

“Red is down,” the corn tech confirmed “Objective One is secure—and they’re working on Two.”

McGowan considered what that meant. The cyborgs would hold the stacks while the balance of the team dropped through the shafts, located the enemy command and control center, and blew the computer. That should silence the remotely operated weapons emplacements that lined the canyon walls. Weapons emplacements that the jet jockeys had been unable to overcome. Not that the swabbies hadn’t tried. The remains of one dagger was scattered about halfway up—pointing at the ultimate goal—while a second was smeared across the face of a cliff.

Then, assuming that some of the Red Team managed to make it through—the poor bastards were supposed to throw themselves at the heavily shielded energy cannons mounted to either side of the main entrance—and attempt to shut them down.

Meanwhile, assuming McGowan made it past the many obstacles that lay in her path, she could expect to come into contact with some nasty-assed tanks the Thrakies had stashed at the base of the cliff. “Ah well, it was like they said: *Don’t join if you can’t take a joke.’ “

McGowan triggered the command push. A wire thin boom mike captured her words. “Blue One here ... we are green to go. Repeat green to go. Return to your vehicles, saddle up, and strap in. The last sonofabitch to reach the wall buys the beer!”

There were cheers, some of which were muffled, as steel clanged on steel. McGowan grinned, circled a quad named Yen, and switched to another frequency. The ramp bounced under her boots. “I’m in—seal the hatch.” Servos whined as the armor-plated ramp rose to mate with the cyborg’s durasteel hull.

About a hundred feet away, sealed into the belly of a Hudathan heavy, Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo872 eyed his clone brothers. They sat in double rows facing each other. In spite of the fact that each one wore battle armor and carried a full complement of weapons plus ammo for the crew served machine guns and rocket launchers, they were still dwarfed by the Hudathan-sized seats. That, plus the fact that he and his brothers were actually sealed inside an alien cyborg, added to the somewhat surreal atmosphere. In spite of the fact that the Legion had used cyborgs for a considerable length of time, even going so far as to station them on Hegemony-held worlds, the Alpha Clones had never seen fit to commission intelligent constructs of their own.

Now, trapped within the belly of such a being, 872 had reason to question their wisdom. Of even more concern, however, was the fact that his superiors had not only acquiesced to the Confederacy’s decision to place a free breeder in overall command of the allied forces, they failed to intervene when the same officer placed McGowan in charge of Blue Team. A serious error, given not only her gender but the likelihood that she would sacrifice his brothers and him rather than risk her precious legionnaires. Ail the infantry came under him, however—which would make it more difficult for McGowan to implement her plan. The officer grinned but knew it looked more like a snarl. IFhe died, ifhe wound up in hell, the legionnaires would arrive there first.

Power went to the axles, tracks started to chum, and the cyborg moved forward. Blue Team was on the way

The sun had broken through. Sergeant Quickfoot stood in the hard black shadow cast by a spire of rock. He along with twelve legionnaires were gathered around one of the Thraki-constructed air shafts. Each was approximately ten feet wide and lined with metal. The protective covers had been cut free and removed. The Naa peered down, but outside of the blue-green glow of the flare, there was nothing much to see.

The mechanism that pushed stale air up toward the surface remained operational, however, and there were plenty of odors. The noncom’s nose, which was at least ten times more sensitive than the nearly useless protuberance humans were equipped with, sent information to his brain. There was the harsh odor of the demo charge they had lobbed in first, followed by the tang that was characteristic of Legion-issue flares, and yes, the faint odor of cooking.

Satisfied that he knew everything about the shaft that his senses could tell him, the noncom looked up. His teammates included Sureseek Fareye, Rockclimb Warmfeel, Oneshot Surekill, and Quickhand Knifemake. The words were in Naa: “The enemy will reach the bottom of the shaft soon. I think we should be there to greet them.”

Teeth gleamed in the half lit murk. All of the Naa were equipped with rock-climbing gear, including sit harnesses, carabiners, descenders, and other equipment required for rappelling, but carried none of the hardware associated with climbing. The reason was simple: Once down, they would fight their way out through the complex itself.

Coils of half inch kemmantle fell into the void, unwound, and pulled themselves straight. Hillrun grabbed a rope, stuck a loop through the hole in the figure eight descender, and used a locking Decarabiner to secure it to his harness. Now, with his heels on the lip of the shaft, the noncom was ready to go. That’s when he looked up to find that Lieutenant Drik SebaKa’s eyes were fixed on his. And that’s when Hillrun saw something he’d never expected to see. Though still close to expressionless, it seemed as if there was a little bit of warmth in the Hudathan’s expression and, more remarkable yet, a measure of respect. The officer’s voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Watch your step, Sergeant... I’m short of noncoms.”

Hilirun grinned, said “Yes, sir!” and stepped backward into the void. The office, modest to begin with, seemed even smaller now. No less than three Thraki officers waited to report. None were happy. Flight Leader Pak Harpu was upset about the fact that the aliens had been allowed to seize the orbital high ground without so much as a shot fired. Base Commander Mot Bara wanted to know what she should do about the invasion of her air shafts. And Armored Commander Stik Colep wanted permission for a counterattack, all of which was quite logical given who and what they were.

But Vice Admiral Ista Rawan had to consider the larger picture, focusing on that which was best for the race, that which was good for those under his command, and that which could actually be carried out. And there was the difficulty. Yes, they could hold for a while, could make the invaders pay, but to what end? BETA018 was a long way from Zynig47 and of limited strategic value. Yes, he could request assistance, but even if Andragna decided to send some, what would the relief force find? A Confederate ambush? And the smoking ruins of a devastated base?

No, it didn’t make sense. Unfortunately, and me thought pained him, it was time to retreat—to take what he could, run while he could, and head for home. The word surprised him. Like it or not, for better or worse, his people had a home. A place from which they would refuse to run. Something worth defending.

There was silence in the room, and, judging from the expressions of his subordinates, Rawan knew it had been that way for quite some time. He looked from face to face. “Here’s what I want each of you to do: Base Commander Bara will use part of her security troops to delay the invaders and the rest to prepare for evacuation. Flight Leader Harpu will ensure that the transports are loaded and ready to lift. Commander Colep will engage the enemy in an attempt to delay them for the maximum amount of time.”

Rawan eyed his subordinates. Their pain was clear to see. They wanted to fight. Alt of them. Even the Runners like Bara. “Timing will be critical. All three of you will share the responsibility of making sure that the maximum number of people escape.”

Rawan’s eyes shifted to the Armored officer. “And that includes you ... I expect you and your troops will engage the enemy, fall back, and run as if the gods themselves were nipping at your heels. Understood?”

Colep stood gunbarrel-straight. The orders ran contrary to everything he believed in, everything he was, everything he had ever wanted to be. Here, served from on high, was eternal dishonor. Be that as it may there was only one answer that Rawan would accept. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

“Good,” Rawan finished. “You have your orders. Carry them out.”

Gunnery Sergeant Roily True Bear put a chunk of granite between himself and the enemy, brought his binoculars up to his eyes, and scanned the terrain ahead. The bottom of the canyon was relatively flat, increasingly narrow, and dotted with sizeable boulders. The walls were too steep for a quad to climb and were covered by loose scree. Everything wore a coat of crusty white snow, thinner where the seldom seen sun occasionally struck, but thick where shadows fell thick and black. Data scrolled down the right side of the screen. It included the range of whatever fell under the crosshairs, the prevailing wind direction, the surface temperature and more. Lots of information, but not what the noncom needed most. Blue Force was stalled. Crab mines, which roam from place to place, would disturb the snow, but there was no sign of that. So, assuming the mines existed, where were they? It was a job for robots ... but none had been issued. The voice arrived over the company push, which meant mat everybody could hear it. “Blue Two to Blue Four... over.”

True Bear grimaced. He didn’t care for Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo872 and knew the feeling was mutual. Maybe that’s why he and his troops were out looking for mines while the clones napped in a heavy. “This is Blue Four... go. Over.”

“What’s taking so long? We haven’t got all day. Over.”

True Bear wrestled with his temper and managed to win. “Roger that, Two. We’ll know in a moment. Hold on. over.”

The noncom broke the link and turned to me legionnaire crouched to his right. “You heard the loot…

we’re in a hurry. Knock on the door.”

Dietrich grinned, raised his drum fed grenade launcher, and fired a six round burst. A mixture of snow and soil fountained into the air as the grenades detonated. A loud boom followed the third explosion and echoed off the valley walls. Sand and gravel geysered upwards.

Dietrich shouted “Bingo!” and grinned from ear to ear.

The response was nearly instantaneous.

“Blue Two to Blue Four! Who authorized you to fire?

Over.”

True Bear, no longer able to conceal his feelings, said what he felt. “Common rucking sense, sir. Over.”

Laughter was heard. Lieutenant Seebo sputtered and was about to reply, when McGowan activated the command push. “That will be enough of that, gentlemen ... You can compare the size of your dicks later on. Let’s clear those mines and put this team into high gear.”

Both men scowled, a specially equipped Hudathan cyborg rolled forward, and the clearing began. Sheet metal boomed as Quickfoot Hillrun dropped five feet and his boots hit the side of the air shaft. There were similar sounds as the other scouts did likewise.

Then, while halfway through the next drop, Hillrun heard the sounds he’d been dreading: A shout followed by six shots. He suspected that they had been fired by an officer, who, having been alerted to me invasion, had opened an inspection hatch, thrust his or her torso inside, and turned to look upwards. Then, having spotted the enemy, it was natural for the Thraki to pull a sidearm and open fire. Natural but stupid, since the muzzle flashes provided Oneshot Surekill with a clear aiming point. His weapon, a highly modified service pistol made a soft popping sound, and reentered its holster. The Thraki went limp and, in doing so, blocked access to the shaft. Security troops struggled to pull him free. swore when his pistol belt caught the edge of the hatch, and stumbled backward as the corpse came loose. That gave the Naa the seconds they needed to land on the steel mesh mat protected the slow moving fan, release their ropes, and prepare to fight.

The Thraki were still recovering, still struggling to stand, when a grenade landed amongst them. One saw the object, started to reach, and ceased to exist. The explosion tore bodies asunder and painted the bulkheads with blood.

The scouts wasted little time signaling for the group to come down and pushed their way out through the hatch. That’s when Hillrun realized that someone was missing.

He looked upwards and saw the dangling body. Quickhand

Knifemake—dead at twenty-five.

Someone yelled “Stand clear!” and cut the rope. Metal clanged as Knifemake’s body hit the mesh. A replacement rope tumbled me length of the shaft and swayed as a Hudathan started down. Hillrun stooped to unclip the handmade combat knife from the scout’s harness, made a promise to return the weapon to the warrior’s family, and ducked out through the hatch. The carnage was sickening, even for a veteran like Hillrun, and he averted his eyes. He felt sorry for me Thraki and knew the same thing could happen to him. Would happen if he wasn’t careful. The first thing to do was to establish some sort of defense perimeter. The Thrakies would send reinforcements soon, and the majority of Red Team was still on me surface. The NCO eyed his surroundings. “Fareye, Warmfeel, take that end of the corridor. Block the point where it turns. Surekill... come with me. We*U take the other end.”

Lieutenant SeebaKa followed the Naa down, was glad when his boots hit the mesh, and swore when he saw the hatch. Though sufficiently large, a Naa, or the average human, there was no way in hell he was going to fit his bulk through that hole. He got on the radio. Red One to Red Team ... I want humans first... Hudathans last. We need a laser torch down here ... and I mean now!”

Private Lars Lasker was among the first humans sent down. He landed on the mesh, freed himself from the rope, and turned toward the hatch. One glance at the Hudathan officer and the Thrakisized rectangle of light told him everything he needed to know. The legionnaire laughed, gave thanks for the protective visor, and ducked through the hatch.

There were boot prints in the blood, and the legionnaire followed a set down the corridor to the point where the passageway took a sharp righthand turn. Fareye and Warmfeel were waiting. They gestured. Lasker had no more than skidded to a stop when a bolt of energy hit the bulkhead to his left, made a black blotch, and left the odor of ozone floating on the air.

“Shit!” Fareye exclaimed, not wanting to stick his head around the comer. “What the hell was that?

Some sort of crew served energy cannon?”

“No such luck,” Lasker replied grimly. “Feel the deck.”

The scouts followed the human’s suggestion, felt the floor vibrate, and looked at each other in alarm.

“It’s a robot,” Warmfeel exclaimed, “or robots plural.”

“Damn the fur balls anyway,” Lasker said darkly. “I heard they were into robots.”

“Fur balls?” Fareye growled. “You got a problem with fur?

“Hell, no,” the human replied hurriedly. “You ever seen my back? I got more fur than you do.”

“Let’s try to stay focused,” Warmfeel put in. “Are either one of you idiots packing a rollerbaU?”

“That’s affirmative,” Lasker replied. “I’m toting a satchel of six.”

“Well?” Fareye inquired sarcastically. “You gonna use them? Or send ‘em to your momma?”

“Sorry,” the human replied contritely, “here you go.”

Another energy bolt hit the wall, heat washed over the legionnaires, and air thumped their eardrums.

“Damn,” Fareye complained, dipping into the haversack. “This bastard is starting to piss me off! Let’s see how the sonofabitch likes these babies .. .”

Just as the name would suggest the rollerballs were spherical in shape. The Naa felt for the thumb-sized depression, pressed three times in quick succession, and tossed the weapon around the comer. It bounced off the opposite wall and caromed down the hallway. Three more followed. The explosions shook the walls.

The legionnaires waited for a full thirty seconds before risking a peek. The rollerballs had accomplished their purpose. The attack robot was down. That’s when the newly liberated SeebaKa arrived, eyed the mass of twisted metal, and frowned. “So what the hell are you waiting for? A thank you note from General Booly? Let’s move out.”

Ice crackled, snow crunched, treads clattered, engines roared, and explosions pushed fountains of soil high into the air as a pair of Hudathan cyborgs advanced toward the end of the canyon. They operated side by side, tracks pushing them forward, white arm-mounted rollers applied pressure to the half frozen ground. Mines blew in response, a path was cleared, and the rest of Blue Team followed behind. Captain McGowan stood atop the second quad back, braced herself against the side-to-side motion, and checked her wrist term. Blue Team was still on schedule, but just barely, and the hard part lay ahead.

Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov materialized at her side. He was a little man, no more than five-foot-five, but nobody thought about him that way. His face, sorrowful even during the best of times, looked positively funereal now. “No offense ma’am, but if you park your butt up here, the Thraki will blow it off.”

McGowan laughed. “What are you trying to say, Sergeant? That the target’s so big they couldn’t miss?”

Kreshnekov shook his head. His expression remained the same. “No, ma’am. I’m saying that we’re coming up on those automated weapons positions, and the moment you die Lieutenant Seebo will assume command.”

The comment, which bordered on disrespectful, would have been cause for rebuke had it originated from another NCO. But McGowan had known Kreshnekov for a long time, and that made a difference. Neither put much trust in Seebo. She grimaced. “Point taken. Sergeant. Button it up.”

Weapons Emplacement 14 took its orders from the Command and Control computer located deep within the Thraki complex, but had its own localized intelligence as well, to lighten Central’s load and provide tactical redundancy. Sensors registered heat and movement. Scanners checked the atmosphere and detected no signs of incoming aircraft. Convinced that it was safe to engage surface targets, the computer brought 14’s weapons on line, and ordered the target lasers, energy cannon, and launch racks to tilt downward. The computer confirmed a lock, checked with Central, and opened fire. Emplacements 12, 13, and 15 did likewise.

Energy beams stuttered toward the ground, missiles raced to their targets, and the valley seemed to explode.

Sheltered as his brain tissue was by layers of steel armor, the heavy known as Bak BorioBa took note of the incoming ordinance but was more annoyed than frightened. That kind of fear, the type associated with the possibility of physical harm, had been left with his biological body. The sense of invulnerability was deceptive—he knew that—and had been warned to be on the lookout for it, but felt it anyway. Columns of snow-tinged dirt soared into the air. A quad exploded, killing all of those within. Steel fell like rain. BorloBa thought death toward those who sought to harm him. Servos whined as a pair of tubes rose and spun to the right. The Hudathan’s energy cannon burped coherent light, pulverized rock squirted away from the canyon wall, and pebbles clattered across the top of the hull. The attack, which had been coordinated by Central, met with a well-orchestrated response. By using hardware and software developed for that very purpose, the borgs were able to construct a temporary or “flying” parallel processor that divided the overall problem into subtasks and worked them simultaneously.

Return fire was prioritized, coordinated, and adjusted. Emplacement 12 was the first to go offline, quickly followed by 14, which took two missiles in quick succession. It opened like an orange-yellow flower. The sound of the explosion was still bouncing back and forth between the canyon walls when the surviving cyborgs entered the maze of obstacles.

Corporal Norly Snyder found the first tank trap the hard way by guiding her enormous body out onto what looked like solid ground, only to have it give way beneath her. The pit, which had been dug based on intelligence obtained from the Hegemony during the early days of the clone-Thraki alliance, was a perfect fit. Though only ten feet deep, it was sufficient to prevent Snyder from climbing out without assistance.

The mine, which exploded the moment she landed on it, settled the matter. Her armor held, protecting the troops riding in her belly, but the cyborg’s right rear leg was damaged beyond repair. McGowan, who along with Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov, was among those riding in Snyder’s cargo compartment, felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, swore when the barrel of her assault rifle tagged her chin, and knew something was wrong. The explosion, which she experienced as a dull thump, served to confirm that impression. She activated the intercom. “Snyder? What the hell happened?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the cyborg replied sheepishly, “but I fell into some sort of pit. A mine blew one of my legs off.”

“Any tissue damage?”

“No, ma’am. I feel stupid that’s all.”

“Could happen to anyone,” the officer replied. “How ‘bout the Galling gun? Is it still operational?”

“Green to go,” Snyder replied eagerly. “It will clear the edge of the pit if I push it all the way up.”

“Then do so,” McGowan instructed. “Watch for friendlies, mark your field of fire, and stand by. The traps are there for a reason. We can expect a counterattack any moment now.”

“Roger that,” the quad acknowledged grimly. “I’ll be ready.”

McGowan replied with two clicks of the switch and nodded to Kreshnekov. “Is everyone okay? Let’s bait out.”

The rear hatch whined open, boots thundered down the ramp, and a familiar cry was heard.

“Camerone!”

McGowan joined the response. “CAMERONE!”

Section Leader Hak Brunara prepared himself to meet the gods. Like all the Thraki under his command, the marine had never fought an actual engagement before and knew that most, if not all, of the enemy troops had.

Now, with half of their cybernetic vehicles trapped in the maze, and the rest backed up behind them, battletested infantry were boiling up out of the pits, trenches, and channels that cut the snowcrusted ground.

Even as Brunara stood, even as he signaled the advance, the section leader knew the transports were being loaded. Many would escape, would live to see their loved ones, but not him. Everything seemed so bright, so very, very clear as the marine yelled “Advance!” and led his troops into battle. Snowflakes caressed his face, bullets ripped through his chest, and light flooded his mind. The gods ... Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo872 was pissed. Consistent with his worst suspicions, the Hudathan heavy had wandered into a labyrinth of concrete barriers where it had been ambushed by a Thraki anti-armor team. They were dead—but the problem lived on. How to take the objective with minimum casualties to his clone brothers? The answer presented itself in the form of Gunnery Sergeant Roily True Bear’s leathery face. “The heavy is dead, sir—that’s the way it seems anyway—and we’re taking fire.”

Armor rang as bullets bounced off the Hudathan hull. “Thanks for the intelligence summary,” Seebo said sarcastically. “Genius, pure genius. Now that you have proved your worth as a strategist—it’s time to earn your spurs as a tactician. Take your people out there and secure our perimeter.”

True Bear looked the officer up and down. Seebo appeared small in the Hudathan-sized seat. The legionnaire’s voice dripped with contempt. “Sir! Yes, sir. Let us know when you boys are ready to come out. We’ll be waiting.”

True Bear turned and nodded to Dietrich. The grenadier hit a saucer-sized button. Servos whined, double doors opened outwards, and the noncom waved to his troops. “Vive le Legion!”

Dietrich hung back as the rest of his platoon double-timed out through the hatch, waited for the doors to swing inward, and nodded to the clones. “See ya later assholes ... sweet dreams.”

Lieutenant Seebo saw the legionnaire’s mouth move, saw something fly between the steadily closing doors, and heard the grenade clatter across the metal deck.

At least six of the clone brothers realized what had occurred and wore identical expressions of horror. They threw themselves forward, but harnesses held them in place.

Lieutenant Seebo screamed, but the sound of the explosion filled his ears. Dietrich watched the doors seal, heard a muffled thud, and watch the borg’s body rock from side to side as some demo charges cooked off. Some people hated the Legion, and couldn’t wait to get out, but he wasn’t one of them. No, the Legion was family, the only family he had. And family comes first. The heavy shuddered as metal sheared and a locker full of ammo exploded. A hatch cover sailed into the sky. Flames shot out of the cooling stacks. Heat blasted the legionnaire’s face. A voice crackled through his earplug. “Dietrich? Where the hell are you? Get up here and do your job.”

The grenadier backed away. “Sorry, Gunny. I had to take a pee . .. I’m on the way.”

Vice Admiral Ham Ista Rawan stood high on the catwalk, hands clasped behind his back, contemplating the scene below. The interceptors were hot and ready to launch. They crouched in flights of three, sitting on their skids, waiting to lift. The transports, all of which were fully loaded, sat ready to follow. Assuming the fighters could punch a hole through the Confederate air cover and assuming the larger vessels could escape the orbiting warship, the majority of his people would make it to Zynig47. As for the rest, well, they had done their duty. First against the troops who had dropped through the air shafts—and then on the canyon floor. Even now, he could hear the dull thump, thump, thump of cannon fire interspersed with the crackle of assault weapons. His marines were dying. The officer’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice in his ear. “The transports are ready, Admiral. .. and the launch parameters are optimum.”

Rawan worked his jaw for a moment. The order would hurt .. but his duty was clear. ‘Tell them to launch ... and may the gods protect them.”

The words were barely out of the admiral’s mouth when repellors flared. The first flight of fighters rose into the air and fired their main engines. They were gone within seconds. Flight after flight took off, until the cavern was as empty as Rawan’s heart.

Finally, after the last ship had departed, the Thraki made his way down to the flight deck and faced the wind. The light was hard and cold. He had time for one last walk.

Tyspin listened to the reports, eyed the forward-mounted screens, and confirmed what she’d been told. The Thrakies were pulling out Well, some were, while others continued to fight. The naval officer could have delivered the news via the ship’s intercom system but chose to do it personally instead. She eased her way out of the command chair, made eye contact with the ship’s XO, and said, “You have the con.”

He nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am. I have the con.”

With little to do beyond the need to recover the ship’s fighters, the atmosphere aboard the Gladiator was relatively serene. Ty spin’s shoes made a clacking sound as she marched the length of the corridor. A somewhat bored voice announced that the midwatch chow call was about to begin. A rating nodded as she passed, and a robot hurried to get out of the way.

Booly was where Tyspin had expected him to be—hard at work in his makeshift office. Message torps continued to arrive every few hours or so bringing an unending flow of intelligence, status reports, and a mind-boggling array of administrative work, which, if left undone, would soon bring the Confederacy’s armed forces to their knees.

A conference room table served as a desk. It was covered with printouts, half-consumed cups of coffee, the remains of a breakfast, and a computer-designed model of both the canyon and the Thraki complex. The legionnaire heard the knock, said “enter,” and looked up from his comp screen. “Thank god! A rescue mission!”

Tyspin grinned, spent a second wishing the other officer had never met Maylo ChienChu, and took a seat. “You were right, Bill. The Thrakies pulled up stakes. Do you still want to let them go?”

Booly nodded. “Yes, I do. Let ‘em run all the way to Zynig47. A constant stream of refugees will sap morale. Besides, there’s been enough dying. How’s the Blue Team? Did the Thrakies disengage?”

Tyspin shook her head. “No, the battle rages on.” Booty rubbed his temples. “Why? It’s pointless! We can leave a detachment and starve them out. Get McGowan on the horn ... tell her to break contact. And pass the message to SeebaKa.”

Tyspin stood. “Aye, aye, sir. Anything else?” Booly looked around him. “Yeah, tell the OOD to watch for the next inbound message torp, and blow it up.”

Lieutenant SeebaKa turned his back to the heavily armored hatch, heard Lasker yell, “Fire in the hole!”

and felt the air nudge him as the charge went off. The officer turned back, saw that the door hung askew, and waved what remained of his team forward. The Thraki had put up one helluva fight and forced the invaders to pay dearly for every foot of corridor, every intersection, and every hatch. Roughly half his force remained on their feet. The rest had been killed or wounded. The result was that the team was behind schedule, had failed to neutralize the enemy’s command and control computer, and hadn’t even seen the energy cannons much less attacked them. The Hudathan had failed, and the knowledge ate at the lining of his stomach.

There was the cloth-ripping sound of an assault rifle, a cry of “Blood!” and the team charged ahead. SeebaKa was third or fourth through the entry, wasted a fraction of a second thinking about the extent to which the Hudathans, humans, and Naa had learned to work together, and heard a tone through his earplugs. “High Horse to Red One ... Over.”

SeebaKa, who was still struggling to assimilate Confederate corn procedures, saw something move, fired a three round burst, and managed a reply. “This is Red One . Go. Over.”

The voice was hard and metallic. “Break it off, One.

Objective achieved. You can pull back.”

SeebaKa thought about the bodies left behind, the team he had come to be so proud of, and anger filled his chest. The swear words were part of his recently acquired vocabulary. “No frigging way. High Horse! We’ll break when the furry little bastards are dead! Over.”

A Thraki noncom popped out of a maintenance bay, shot Jamal in the back, and staggered as Lasker put half a magazine into the Marine’s chest.

SeebaKa roared his approval and charged the next set of doors. They were open, and he saw rock walls beyond. It was the chamber! His objective! Finally within reach. What remained of the team charged, limped, and in one case was carried out into the gallery. The rail had been designed by Thraki for Thraki. It hit the Hudathan at midthigh. The voice was louder this time and more insistent. “High Horse to Red One ... That is negative ... Repeat negative. Break contact immediately.”

SeebaKa took a long hard look around. The flight deck was empty—but the battle continued down on the canyon floor. He could heard the dull thump, thump, thump of outgoing cannon fire interspersed with the rattle of automatic weapons and a loud “boom” as a missile struck its target. Blue Team was taking a beating—that much was clear. If he could make his way down onto the floor below, If he could neutralize even one of the energy cannons, lives would be saved. Hudathan lives, Naa lives, and yes, appalling as the notion was, human lives.

The Hudathan waved his troops forward and opened the corn link. “Red One to High Horse ... Roger your last... contact broken.”

Booly was standing toward the rear of the makeshiftOpsCenter , talking to a naval intelligence officer, when the chief petty officer approached. She looked clean and almost unnaturally crisp. “Excuse me, sir, sorry to interrupt, but the lieutenant has something he wants you to see.”

Booly nodded, assured the intelligence officer that he would read the latest report ASAP, and followed the CPO to a bulkhead covered with flat panel displays. Some naval vessels had been designed to support ground actions, but the Gladiator wasn’t one of them. The wardroom had been converted to anOpsCenter , and everything had a temporary makeshift feel.

The lieutenant was young and earnest. He had dark hair, a nose that was slightly too large for his face, and a wire thin body. “Red One agreed to break contact... but look at this.”

Booty looked at screen, realized it was a trooper’s eye view of the Thraki military complex, and that his host was running. Not just running, but running toward a brightly lit entryway, flanked by a pair of alien energy cannons. Both batteries were depressed, to command the valley below, and both burped cold blue light. The name at the bottom of the frame read: “Corporal Sureseek Farcye.”

The naval officer saw the glance and pointed to an enormous body that lumbered along the right side of the frame. “That’s Red One, sir. Lieutenant SeebaKa. We don’t have compatible cameras for the Hudathans yet.. .but that’s him all right... What should we do?”

It was a good question. SeebaKa had chosen to disobey a direct order—but one that Booly now realized was wrong. “Is Blue One online? Show me her video.”

The lieutenant nodded and pointed. “Yes, sir. She’s right there.”

McGowan looked up into the slowly twirling snowflakes, saw the energy cannons burp, and watched geysers of mud sullied snow march her way. “Put some more SLMs on those guns’ Take the bastards out!”

Missiles, all of which had been fired prior to her order, hit only fractions of a second apart. The Thraki energy screens flared, shimmered like silver, and faded as the force of the explosions dissipated. A quad exploded, an entire squad was cut down, and McGowan yelled through the link. “I want some air support damn it—and I want it now! Where’s the Red Team? We’re dying out here.”

Booly gripped the back of the chair with both hands and knew it was too late. Blue One was so far up the canyon, so close to the target, that an air strike would hit her, too.

“What about Lieutenant SeebaKa?” the naval officer persisted. “What should I do about him?”

“Pray the insubordinate sonofabitch makes it,” Booty grated, because he’s the only hope we have.”

Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan stepped away from energy cannon number two, raised the assault weapon, and thumbed the safety into the “off position. The four remaining members of the security team did likewise.

The Thraki officer could see the oncoming soldiers, could feel the wind at his back, could smell the ozone that swirled around him. The force field caused his fur to stand on end, and his bladder felt unnaturally full. This was it, the last moment of his life, and the end of the journey. At least, the officer thought to himself, I will die with my face to the enemy. His weapon chattered, others did likewise, and the world ceased to be.

“Blow those emplacements!” SeebaKa ordered, waving his team forward. “There’s no point in saving ordinance—pack every charge you have around those hatches.”

The protective shields, which were effective against anything packing sufficient mass and velocity to damage the energy cannons, were useless when it came to a lowtech infantry assault. The legionnaires moved forward, felt a tingling sensation as they entered the force field’s footprint, and set about their tasks. The cannons continued fire, and the Blue Team continued to suffer as the explosives were put in place.

Then, having moved everyone back, the Hudathan gave the order. “Lasker, you know what to do, pull the plug.” The human nodded, flipped the safety cover off a remote, and pressed the big red button. McGowan, looking up from below, saw two flashes of light, heard two overlapping explosions and fell as the shock wave knocked her off her feet. The first thing she noticed was how peaceful it was, lying on her back, watching chunks of debris somersault through the cold, frosty air. They would land—she knew that—but couldn’t quite muster the energy to deal with it. Most fell short of Blue Team, however—for which she was thankful. That’s when a strange sort of silence fell on the valley, when McGowan wondered if her eardrums were damaged, or if everyone else was dead. Then came the first reedy cheer, soon joined by others, until the officer heard her own voice join the rest.

The Blue Team rose like ghosts from so many graves, marveled at the fact that they were still alive, and knew the ultimate truth: This day was theirs. Not through good fortune—but by force of arms.