When All Seems Los

11.

You cannot run faster than a bullet.

—Idi Amin

Ugandan dictator

Standard year 1955 (approximate)

ABOARD THE FREIGHTER SOLAR ECLIPSE, IN HYPERSPACE

The Solar Eclipse hummed to herself as she passed through hyperspace and entered Ramanthian-held territory. Thanks to intelligence received from agent Oliver Batkin, General Booly and his staff knew Thraki merchant vessels were used to bring much-needed supplies to Jericho, thereby freeing the Ramanthian navy to use its assets elsewhere. Which was why Chien-Chu Enterprises purchased a Thraki-built ship on behalf of the Confederacy and crewed it with Thraki mercenaries for the trip to Jericho. Where, if everything went as planned, Team Zebra would land undetected. Unfortunately, that meant living and working aboard a vessel designed for beings who averaged fi?ve feet in height, which explained why Santana’s knees wouldn’t fi?t under the fold-down desk. But if there was a shortage of space, there was no shortage of work, a great deal of which had been generated by Major DeCosta. A man who, in addition to his overbearing religiosity, loved to produce plans for every possible contingency. All these plans had to be written, edited, and rewritten to the offi?cer’s often arbitrary standards before being electronically fi?led. And, because much of this work fell to the XO, Santana was cooped up in his tiny cabin, plowing through the latest iteration of crap, when someone rapped on the metal next to the open hatch. It was a welcome diversion—and the offi?cer turned to see who it was. Maria Gomez came to attention, or was in the process of doing so, when Santana said, “At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat on my bunk, couch, and worktable.”

The surface of the neatly made fi?ve-and-a-half-footlong bunk was covered with printouts, aerial photos of Jericho, and pieces of standard-issue gear that Santana planned to modify prior to landing. The noncom made a space for herself and sat down. It was her opinion that Santana looked tired, which was troublesome, because if there was any hope for Team Zebra, it lay with him. Given her feelings for Santana, Gomez wanted to take the offi?cer in her arms and comfort him. But that was impossible, and rather than make Santana’s life easier as she wished to, the noncom knew she was about to make it more diffi?cult.

“So,” Santana said facetiously. “I hope this isn’t about the chow—because it isn’t going to get any better.”

“No, sir. It’s not about the food,” Gomez answered seriously.

The noncom was pretty in a no-frills sort of way. A fact Santana had been aware of all along but never allowed himself to think about. Because offi?cers weren’t allowed to fraternize with enlisted people, especially those in their own chain of command, no matter how pretty their big brown eyes might be. “Okay,” Santana responded. “If it isn’t about the chow, then what’s up?”

Gomez looked him in the eye. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Santana felt a sudden sense of foreboding. “Permission granted.”

“It’s about the major, sir,” Gomez said gravely. “I think he’s crazy.”

DeCosta was annoying, not to mention eccentric, but crazy? No, Santana hadn’t seen any evidence of that. Even if he had, it wasn’t a subject he could discuss with a noncom. No matter how good she was. Gomez saw the frown start to form and held up her hand. “Please hear me out, sir. I know that’s a serious charge—but I can back it up. Hargo gave DeCosta some lip about an hour ago. The CO

put Hargo on the shelf, and the team’s pissed. The truth is that things are starting to get iffy down in the hold.”

Santana knew that cyborg Jas Hargo was partnered with bio bod Nikko Zavala. Hargo was a convicted murderer, and Zavala was an inveterate gambler, but both had performed well during the fi?ght in Deepwell. “A run-in?”

the offi?cer inquired. “What sort of run-in?”

“I wasn’t there,” the noncom confessed. “But the way I hear it, most of the team was in the hold, tweaking their gear, when the CO walked in.”

Thanks to the fact that the Eclipse was a freighter, and had nothing to carry other than the team and its gear, the main hold was the natural place for everyone to congregate during the long, boring trip. Especially given how large the T-2s were—and how cramped the rest of the vessel was. So Santana could visualize the slightly chaotic scene as the hyperneat DeCosta made his unannounced appearance. His eyebrows rose. “Yeah? So, what happened?”

Gomez shrugged. “Nothing at fi?rst. . . . Not until the CO began to walk around and scope things out. That’s when he noticed that Sato has a shotgun in addition to his table of organization (TO) weapon. Bozakov is packing four knives—and Tang was busy putting war paint on Hargo’s face. His head looks like a human skull now—

complete with bleeding eyeballs.”

Santana sighed. “Don’t tell me. . . . Let me guess. The CO went ballistic, ordered Tang to remove the war paint, and Hargo ran his mouth.”

Gomez nodded. “Yes, sir. And that’s when the major ordered Zavala to pull Hargo’s brain box and shelve it. Things began to get dicey at that point, but Sergeant Snyder was present, and she kept the lid on. But Hargo is a member of my squad, and your platoon. That’s why I’m here.”

But there was another reason, and both of them knew it. Because while common at one time, the practice of “shelving,” as it was usually called, had offi?cially been banned ten years earlier. And for good reason. Because without a war form or spider form to provide input to his senses, Hargo was effectively blind, deaf, and dumb while hooked to the high-tech life-support machine generally referred to as “the shelf.” A punishment that was not only cruel, but patently unfair, since there was no equivalent penalty for bio bods.

And that made Santana angry, very angry, which Gomez could see in his eyes. Something that made the noncom proud but frightened, too, because she was afraid the XO

would do something rash. It didn’t make sense because Gomez hated offi?cers—and had no reason to feel protective toward one. No legitimate reason anyway. But the cavalry offi?cer was oblivious to such concerns as he stood and ducked his head. “Thanks for the sitrep, Sergeant. I’ll have a word with the major. I’m sure we can straighten this out.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Gomez replied obediently. “Can I make a suggestion?”

Santana paused. “Shoot.”

“I think it would be a good idea to post an armed noncom in front of the ammo locker, sir.”

Santana winced. “It’s that bad?”

“The team is pretty pissed, sir. . . . And we have plenty of hotheads. So why take a chance?”

“Point taken, Sergeant. Lieutenant Farnsworth is catching some Z’s—but it would be a good idea to roust him out. Tell him to arm Sergeants Snyder and Fox. Energy weapons only. . . . That should give any would-be mutineers reason to pause.”

“And Hargo, sir?”

“Leave him where he is for the moment,” Santana replied darkly. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Then he was gone.

Having found the cabin assigned to him to be too small for comfort, DeCosta had commandeered a larger compartment originally intended to serve as a lounge for Thraki merchants. As Santana entered the compartment, the halfnaked major was seated at one end of the long, narrow table that split the space in two, with his legs folded under him. DeCosta had short black hair, a single eyebrow, and a beard so heavy it would sprout stubble within an hour of being shaved. Though not a big man, the infantry offi?cer had broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, and a pair of powerful arms. Judging from the way the major held himself, and the fact that his eyes were closed, it seemed that he was meditating.

Karl Watkins was present as well. And given the fact that his right leg was laid out on the table in front of him, it appeared that the cyborg was performing maintenance on it. The civilian looked up as Santana entered, nodded politely, and returned to his work. A servo whined as his stylus touched a relay, and the waxy-looking foot fl?exed. Santana was just about to speak when DeCosta preempted him. “That’s a very distinctive cologne, Captain. . . . Perhaps it has escaped your attention, but God gave the Ramanthian race a very acute sense of smell. The average trooper could detect your presence from fi?fty feet away. . . . Something to think about, eh?” At that point DeCosta’s eyes snapped open as if to witness the other offi?cer’s reaction.

“That’s a good point, sir,” Santana allowed patiently.

“Although the average Ramanthian trooper could smell my sweat, too. . . . So I’m not sure it would make much difference. But it’s a moot point since I never wear cologne in the fi?eld.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” DeCosta said self-righteously.

“Now, how is the latest edit coming along?”

“Most of the changes have been made,” Santana replied.

“But that isn’t why I’m here. . . . Sergeant Gomez tells me that Lance Corporal Hargo stepped out of line.”

“Yes, he did,” DeCosta replied gravely, as he methodically cracked his knuckles. “I took issue with the nonreg paint job that was being applied to his head. Then, after he told me to take the Legion’s regulations and shove them up my ass, I ordered one of your ruffi?ans to shelve him. There’s nothing like a little time-out to teach these criminals a lesson. And it appears some lessons are in order, because during the short time I spent in the hold, I noticed at least half a dozen infractions. Some of which are quite serious. The possession of unauthorized weapons being an excellent example.”

Santana clenched his fi?sts to prevent his hands from shaking. Watkins was watching by then, and the cavalry offi?cer knew that the cyborg could, and probably would, record the interchange. “Sir,” the cavalry offi?cer began carefully. “Before you assumed command of Team Zebra, I authorized war paint for any cyborg rated completely satisfactory by his noncom, and gave my permission for bio bods to carry nonspec weapons so long as they carry a full load-out for their TO weapons. I neglected to check those exceptions with you, and I won’t make that mistake again. So, given that the fault was mine, I request permission to remove Hargo from the shelf.”

“That was quite a speech,” DeCosta said, as his bare feet slapped the deck. “And you’re right. . . . You were at fault. For fl?outing regulations, contributing to an overall lack of discipline, and ignoring your responsibilities as an offi?cer. All of which will be noted on your fi?tness report.”

“Assuming he lives long enough to receive a fi?tness report,” Watkins put in dryly, as his leg rotated and locked itself into place.

The comment took Santana by surprise—and earned Watkins a nasty look from DeCosta. “This conversation is between the captain and myself,” the major said primly.

“And, as for Hargo, another hour on the shelf will do him a world of good. The fact that you gave him permission to wear war paint is no excuse for gross insubordination.”

“No, it isn’t,” Santana agreed tightly. “But I would remind the major that unlike the use of war paint, or carrying a nonspec weapon, shelving constitutes a crime under the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And I refuse to comply with what I believe to be an illegal order.”

DeCosta placed both fi?sts on his hips. His eyes were dark with anger. “I read your P-1 fi?le,” the major responded thickly. “The last time you disobeyed a direct order, you were court-martialed! And, by God, I’ll see that you are again!”

“Those orders were issued by a bug,” Santana responded contemptuously. “A Ramanthian who ordered me to fi?re on innocent civilians. Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove Hargo from the shelf.”

“But why?” DeCosta demanded, as bluster gave way to genuine befuddlement. “God hates an abomination, which is to say anything unnatural, and what could be more unnatural than a cross between a man and a machine? We need the borgs right now, I realize that, but why coddle the creatures? Eventually, after the bugs have been eradicated, every one of their evil breed should be destroyed!”

Santana looked at Watkins. “Are you recording?”

The civilian made a face. “I am.”

“Good,” the cavalry offi?cer replied. “Save that stuff. . . . Assuming any of us survive, I look forward to playing that footage for General Booly.” And with that Santana turned to go.

“Wait a sec,” the cyborg said. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I think I’ll move into the hold.”

“No problem,” Santana answered. “You’ll be welcome there.”

DeCosta fell to his knees after the heretics left and called upon God to strike the evil ones down. But if DeCosta’s God was listening, he, she, or it chose not to respond. THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The alien sky was so dark that it was almost black. The rain fell in sheets, and rattled on the top of the chauffeurdriven car, as it carried ex-ambassador Alway Orno along a highway of fused glass toward the dimly seen high-rise spaceport in the distance. Lightning stabbed a nearby hilltop, as if probing the planet for weak spots, but the Ramanthian was happy. No, joyous, because within minutes, an hour at most, he and his sole-surviving mate would be reunited.

Then he would take her home to the rental house in the country, a mostly comfortable place where she could rest while he went to Jericho. Yes, Mutuu could be and generally was a cantankerous old coot. But Orno remained confi?dent that he could successfully manipulate the deluded royal into slaughtering the POWs and for free, too! That would allow Orno to keep Mutuu’s share of the fee. Once that task was complete, it would be time to return to Starfall, take delivery on the second payment, and book passage on a Thraki liner. There were colonies of Ramanthian expatriates out on the rim—some of which were said to be quite pleasant. Places where the residents were much more interested in how much money one had than the vagaries of imperial politics.

In fact, based on what he’d heard, some of the settlements had chosen democratic forms of government. Who knows? Orno thought to himself. Maybe I’ll run for offi?ce, use my experience to good effect, and wind up better off than I was!

Such were the Ramanthian’s thoughts as the car was forced to pause at a rain-drenched checkpoint before being allowed to enter the spaceport.

An air car hovered above, and a multiplicity of eyes watched as the limo snaked its way across the shiny black tarmac toward the hangar beyond. But Orno was oblivious to such matters because his thoughts were focused on the future and the good times that lay ahead.

The nearly empty offi?ce was part of a hangar, and while a bit colder than the Egg Orno might have wished, a lot more private than the main terminal would have been. And the aristocrat took comfort from the fact that her long voyage through space was fi?nally at an end. As soon as the shuttle cleared Hive, and the cargo module had been transferred to the Thraki freighter, the Egg Orno had been released. But it wasn’t until the ship was in hyperspace, where the Queen couldn’t possibly touch her, that the aristocrat had been able to relax.

What the Egg Orno didn’t realize, however, not at fi?rst anyway, was the fact that the merchant vessel was scheduled to make stops in two Ramanthian-held systems prior to the much-anticipated arrival off Starfall. Each stop raised the possibility that government agents would storm aboard and take her into custody. But they didn’t, and the freighter completed its journey without incident. And now, having been brought down to the surface of the planet, the Egg Orno was in an agony of suspense. Had her mate aged? Had she aged? Would they be happy? Could they be happy? Would she have servants? And what if she didn’t?

All of those thoughts and many more swirled through the aristocrat’s mind as she stood in front of the Thrakisized window and stared out across the tarmac at the rainsmeared lights beyond. True happiness was impossible without the War Orno, but at least she still had one mate, and that gave her life purpose.

That was when the door opened, the Egg Orno turned, and felt an explosion of warmth in her chest. Because there, coming through the entranceway, was her beloved Alway! And, judging from the fi?nery that he wore, things were going well indeed.

The female hurried forward to stand inside the circle of intimacy where only mates could linger for more than a few seconds and allowed her antennae to absorb the wonderful cocktail of pheromones produced by her mate. And that’s where they were, wrapped in the chemical equivalent of an embrace, when two Ramanthian agents entered the room. They had been outside, waiting for Orno to enter, and water continued to drain off their poncho-style raincoats as they shuffl?ed into the room. Both held silenced pistols. Alway turned to confront the assassins, but it was too late. “So,” Ifna Bamik said contemptuously. “Look what crawled out from under a rock. . . . All that was required to catch this vermin was the right kind of bait.”

Orno felt his heart sink as he stepped sideways to shield the Egg Orno’s body with his own. He should have known. It had been too easy to get his mate off Hive. The whole thing was part of a plot to lure him out of hiding so government agents could kill him! But what about the Egg Orno? Did the assassins have orders to terminate her, too? Or could he buy her life? Both of their lives? It was worth a try. “Please,” the ex-diplomat said imploringly.

“Don’t fi?re until you hear what I have to say. . . . I have information, extremely valuable information, that pertains to Marcott Nankool.”

The War Bamik had heard it all before. The extravagant lies, the heartfelt pleas, and the shameless attempts at bribery. Yet none of those strategies had been successful because he was just as much a soldier as anyone in uniform and a patriot besides. A patriot who was in love with the godlike power that went with his profession. “Stop that,”

the assassin said disgustedly. “Don’t embarrass yourself. . . . Not after such a long and colorful career. Yes, it would have been nice to die while taking a nice warm sand bath, but very few of us are granted that privilege. You’ll be happy to hear that both of us are excellent shots—so the whole thing will be over before you know it.”

“Kill me if you must,” Orno replied earnestly. “But spare my mate. Her only crime is loyalty to me. Besides, what I said was true, I really do have information about President Nankool. Information that would be extremely valuable to the Ramanthian government!”

Bamik glanced at his partner. “Did you hear that, Nondo? Some people simply refuse to listen.” That was when the agent fi?red. There was a pop as the bullet entered the ex-diplomat’s chest, exited through his back, and struck the Egg Orno. Both collapsed without a sound and lay motionless in a steadily expanding pool of blood.

“Nice work, boss,” Nondo said admiringly. “The idiot never saw it coming. . . . Not to mention the fact that you took care of both targets with one bullet!”

Bamik looked down at the bodies and nodded. “We’re on a budget,” the assassin said coldly. “And bullets cost money.”

Nondo thought that was funny, and was still clacking his left pincer in approval, as Bamik took a series of photos plus two tissue samples, all of which would be sent to Hive to prove that the hit had been completed. Then, having accomplished their mission, the agents left. But, unbeknownst to the assassins, one of their victims was still alive. PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

There was a solid thump as the shuttle’s skids touched the tarmac, followed by a steadily diminishing scream as the engines spooled down, and the troopers at the front of the cargo compartment rose and went to work. Because the POWs had been divided into multiple work groups Tragg was no longer able to oversee all of the prisoners personally. So to enhance security the slaves had been chained to their seats and couldn’t leave the spacecraft until released. A good fi?ve minutes passed before Vanderveen and her companions were freed, ordered to stand, and herded out into the bright sunshine.

The sky, the humid air, and the feel of solid ground under the diplomat’s feet all came as something of a shock after weeks in orbit and made her head swim. There were gasps of astonishment as the POWs paused to look up at the long slivery thread that hung suspended above them. The origins of the space elevator were too high to be seen, and the cable end wasn’t low enough to touch the ground as yet, but the results of their efforts were plain to see. Like those around her, Vanderveen couldn’t help but feel a moment of pride as she looked up into the achingly blue sky, saw the crosshatched contrails created by the hardworking tugs, and knew that more sections of cable were being hung even as she watched. And soon, as more and more of the elevator became subject to Jericho’s gravity, both the POWs and the tugs would move down to the surface. It was a moment Vanderveen and the other members of the LG were looking forward to because Nankool was still in orbit, and it was diffi?cult to protect him there. The POWs might have gawked a bit longer had they been allowed to, but the Ramanthian everyone referred to as “gimpy” behind his back was in a hurry to get rid of his charges and eat dinner. “You move!” the guard insisted, as he jabbed a marine with his rifl?e. “Or I shoot you good!”

So with the Ramanthian limping ahead, and more guards following along behind, the slaves made their way across the hot tarmac. Vanderveen noticed that a lot of things had changed during her absence. More shuttles were parked along the edge of the fi?eld. And in spite of the fact that the furballs claimed to be neutral, some of the ships belonged to the Thrakies.

And given the number of spacecraft on the ground, it wasn’t surprising to see ragged looking POWs loading cargo modules onto a train of driverless fl?atbed carriers that whined loudly as they followed a lead unit off the apron and into the jungle.

Farther out, beyond the airfi?eld’s perimeter, Vanderveen could see that the newly excavated forerunner ruins were being prepped to receive the cable end. Which, if the scuttlebutt was correct, was what she and her companions were slated to work on next.

Tower-mounted automatic weapons tracked the prisoners as the gate swung open to admit them, and the line of emaciated scarecrows who sat with their backs resting on the wall of the so-called dispensary sent up a reedy cheer as their newly returned comrades entered the camp. But Vanderveen was saddened to see that very few of the patients were able to stand, much less come forward to greet their friends, as they might have four or fi?ve weeks earlier. And they were the healthier specimens, the ones judged fi?t to go outside, while those who were dying lay within. But other than the handful of people sitting outside the dispensary, the rest of the camp was practically deserted. Partly because the able-bodied personnel were outside the fence on work details, but also because hundreds of prisoners were still working in space, where they would remain until phase two began.

So Vanderveen had every reason to expect that she and her comrades would immediately be put to work. And maybe they would have if Tragg had been present. But in the absence of orders from the Ramanthians, most of the POWs withdrew to the huts, where they took muchneeded naps. And the diplomat was no exception. Within moments of going facedown on a sour-smelling pallet, Vanderveen was unconscious, and remained that way, until a few hours later when the noise generated by the returning work crews woke her.

Vanderveen was hungry by then, very hungry, and followed the others to the chow line where the so-called scoops were serving the same gray gruel they had been ladling out when she left. Except that after weeks of cold MSMREs eaten aboard the Imperator, the hot mush actually tasted good! A sad state of affairs indeed. There wasn’t enough of the brew, however, and Vanderveen was busy licking the bottom of her bowl, when Calisco plopped down next to her.

Some people, no make that most people, had been systematically weakened since the surrender. But Calisco was a notable exception. Because by some form of alchemy the diplomat couldn’t quite fathom, the sly, often-leering sycophant she had known aboard the Gladiator had been transformed into a person Vanderveen could almost like. Because he was a man who had been through a terrible experience and somehow been purifi?ed by it. Even if Calisco still had a tendency to look at the FSO as if she were naked.

Calisco had been on the ground while Vanderveen worked on the Imperator—so the next fi?fteen minutes were spent exchanging information until both were up-to-date.

“So,” the bearded offi?cial concluded, having checked to ensure that no one was listening, “tonight’s the night.”

Vanderveen raised an eyebrow. “Tonight’s the night for what?”

“For Batkin,” Calisco said conspiratorially. “As luck would have it, Tragg left a navy robo tech here on the ground when he took the rest of you up into orbit. We scavenged bits of wire here and there and stole parts from incoming cargo modules. The tech took what we gave her, cobbled it all together, and got Batkin up and running again. He can fl?y!”

“Damn!” Vanderveen enthused. “That’s wonderful. . . . Congratulations.”

“Yes, it is good news isn’t it?” Calisco commented contentedly. “With Batkin on the other side of the fence, who knows what we can accomplish? But fi?rst we need to get him out of here, and that’s where the suicide comes in.”

Vanderveen’s eyes widened. “Someone’s going to commit suicide?”

Calisco nodded. “Yeah. . . . Petty Offi?cer Kirko is still up and around—but the doc says he has a terminal disease. So just after sundown, Kirko’s going to attack one of the guards at the east end of the camp. Then, while the Ramanthians are busy killing him, Batkin will cross the fence. Slick, huh?”

The way Calisco explained it sounded so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion, that had someone from off-planet been able to hear the conversation, they might have concluded that the offi?cial with the bright eyes and the deeply tanned face was a cold-blooded monster.

But Vanderveen knew better. The prisoners had to fi?ght with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on, and if that meant taking advantage of Kirko’s inevitable death, then so be it. Because if they could put Batkin on the other side of the electrifi?ed fence, where the cyborg would be free to roam, then an important battle would have been won. But there was a potential problem. A serious one.

“What about reprisals?” the FSO wanted to know. Calisco shrugged. “We’re hoping there won’t be any. . . . Not if Kirko can get himself killed without harming one of the guards. But if there are reprisals, it will still be worth it.”

Vanderveen looked away. “Is Batkin aware of all this?”

Calisco shook his head. “Hell no. . . . He knows there’s going to be a diversion but nothing more.”

The diplomat nodded understandingly. “That makes sense. He might refuse if he knew. So, what now?”

“It’s time to say good-bye to Kirko,” the offi?cial announced solemnly. “And wish him God’s speed.”

No matter how long she lived, Vanderveen knew she would never forget the on-again, off-again line of POWs that straggled through Kirko’s barracks. Each paused to offer the petty offi?cer a few words of prayer or a gruff joke as they said their good-byes.

Vanderveen didn’t want to cry, promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but the tears came anyway. Kirko was obviously in pain but managed a smile nonetheless and offered words of comfort. Which, coming from the man who was about to die, were backwards somehow. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Kirko said kindly. “I know my messmates are waiting for me—and they’ll show me the ropes.”

By the time the good-byes were over, darkness was beginning to fall, and Batkin was nervous. And there was plenty to be nervous about since there hadn’t been any opportunity to test the makeshift repairs outside the four walls of the barracks. But the alternative, which was to hide under the fl?oorboards until his power ran out, wasn’t that attractive. Besides, the spy had a job to do, and remained determined to do it.

So Batkin remained where he was, with two marines to keep him company, until a very brave petty offi?cer picked up a rock and threw it at one of the Ramanthian guards. The ensuing burst of gunfi?re, followed by the urgent bleat of a Klaxon, and a whole lot of yelling was Batkin’s cue to fi?re his repellers, ease his way out into the cool night air, and make straight for the fence.

The spy waited for the cry of alarm, and another burst of gunfi?re, but nothing happened as he cleared the top of the electrifi?ed barrier and sped toward the jungle. The trees welcomed the cyborg back, the darkness took him in, and Batkin was free.

12.

There is no way to know what archeological treasures lie hidden beneath the surface of planets like Jericho—or what knowledge will be lost if the planet falls into the wrong hands.

—Hibeth Norroki

Turr academic

Standard year 2743

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Within seconds of exiting hyperspace the Solar Eclipse was challenged by a Ramanthian traffi?c control offi?cer and two Sting Class patrol vessels were dispatched to intercept her. But thanks to information provided by agent Oliver Batkin, the ship’s Thraki pilots were not only familiar with in-system arrival protocols, they had the latest recognition codes as well—meaning anything less than six months old. That vulnerability would be eliminated once all ships were equipped with hypercom sets, but that day was off in the future.

So that, plus the reassuring sight of some Thraki faces, put all Ramanthian fears to rest as the patrol boats turned away, and the Solar Eclipse entered orbit. Meanwhile, down in the main hold, twenty-one specially modifi?ed drop pods were loaded and ready to be ejected once the ship was in position. Sixteen of the capsules contained one cyborg and one bio bod each, plus a thousand pounds of food, ammo, and other gear required to support them on the ground. The remaining pods carried RAVs, each of which was loaded with additional supplies.

The problem was that unlike military drop ships, which were equipped to jettison up to thirty-six pods at once, the Solar Eclipse didn’t have drop tubes, which meant that Thraki crew members would have to push Team Zebra’s containers off the stern ramp two at a time. And no matter how quickly the mercenaries completed the task, the pods were going to hit Jericho’s surface miles apart, thereby forcing the legionnaires to waste precious time coming back together. But there was no way around it, so as a team of four space-suited crew members waited to propel the pods down the roller-equipped ramp, the beings sealed inside the entry vehicles continued to communicate with each other on a low-power, short-range com channel. Each eggshaped container was pressurized and divided in half. That meant that as Santana stood on a compartment packed with supplies he was effectively face-to-face with his tenfoot-tall T-2, even though a well-padded partition served to separate them. The idea was to make sure that each twoperson fi?re team hit the dirt together, thereby enhancing their chances of survival as well as their ability to engage the enemy within minutes of touchdown.

But it was claustrophobic inside the module, and Santana was extremely conscious of the way the hull pressed in around him, so much so that DeCosta’s prayer came as a welcome distraction. And even though the platoon leader wasn’t a religious man there was no denying the beauty and power of the ancient words.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. . . .”

And as the words went on, Santana’s thoughts turned to Vanderveen, and the very real possibility that he would see her soon. But what if he didn’t? What if it turned out that she was dead? That possibility brought a lump to the legionnaire’s throat as the prayer came to a close.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,

and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”

“After I kill every frigging bug on this planet,” squad leader Husulu Ibo-Da put in, his words serving to drown out DeCosta’s “Amen.”

There was a chorus of laughter, and Santana couldn’t help but smile knowing that the response would drive DeCosta crazy, assuming the little bastard was sane to begin with. The major started to speak but was cut off for a second time as the Thraki pilot overrode him. And the words were familiar since Santana had been required to write them at DeCosta’s behest. “All personnel stand by for launch. . . . Check onboard nav functions and reset if necessary. . . . The ship is now in orbit. . . . Stand by for launch in thirty seconds. . . .”

And so it went until Santana felt the pod start to move, followed by a sudden bout of nausea as the module fell clear of the argrav fi?eld, and the steering jets fi?red. Because there were thousands of pieces of space junk circling Jericho, the offi?cer was fairly confi?dent that the pods would be lost in among them. But if the Ramanthians took issue with the sudden appearance of twenty-one additional blips on their tracking screens, then the Solar Eclipse’s pilot would admit to dumping garbage and accept the inevitable tongue-lashing. Then, having delivered a cargo of delicacies that the Ramanthian command structure hadn’t ordered but was unlikely to refuse, the freighter would depart.

In the meantime the computer-guided drop pods were following trajectories calculated to reinforce the impression that they, like the hundreds of other objects that entered the atmosphere each day, were about to burn up. Santana felt the pod begin to vibrate, and even though he couldn’t see the three-thousand-degree envelope of plasma fl?owing around him, he knew it was trying to fi?nd a way in through the capsule’s thermal protection system. And the offi?cer could feel the heat start to build up inside the pod as the vehicle shook violently. The legionnaire chinned the intercom. “Snyder? How are you doing?”

“I was taking a nap,” the cyborg lied. “Until you woke me up that is.”

Santana laughed. “Sorry about that. . . . Go back to sleep.”

And, had such a thing been possible, the next few minutes would have been the time to try. Because once the pod lost a suffi?cient amount of altitude, parachutes were deployed, and Santana felt a distinct jerk as the vehicle slowed. That was followed by a gentle swaying motion—

and the sure knowledge that they would be on the ground soon.

However, pod Bravo Two-Four, which carried bio bod Jamie Ott, and cyborg Bindi Jasper was in trouble. Both legionnaires felt a jerk, followed by continued free fall, as a buzzer began to sound. The NAVCOMP triggered the reserve chute, which turned into a streamer, as the capsule continued its plunge toward the jungle below. Ott took over at that point, fi?red all of the drop pod’s retros, and was still punching buttons as the vehicle hit the ground. There was no explosion, but the impact crater was fi?fty feet across, and at least fi?fteen feet deep.

But the jungle had covered other secrets over the ages, thousands of them, and the force of the impact brought long dormant seeds to the surface, where the sunlight could fi?nd them. And even before the wreckage could cool, vines had already begun their slow-motion advance in from the margins of the newly created clearing to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

The sudden loss of Ott and Jasper was immediately visible to the entire team as the Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system threw a revised TO chart up for the legionnaires to see. But there was no time to mourn for lost comrades as their pods hit the jungle’s topmost canopy of vegetation, where they paused for a fraction of a second before crashing through a second layer of foliage to land on whatever lay below. Which in Santana’s case was soft loam.

The capsule bounced once, landed at something of an angle, and blew itself apart. Santana fell free, rolled into the shelter offered by a fallen tree, and brought his assault rifl?e up. Snyder broke out of what remained of the shell, shook off some loose pieces, and began to scan. If there was some sort of threat in the immediate area, the cyborg would fi?nd it.

A variety of jungle smells fi?lled the legionnaire’s nostrils as he came to his feet and eyeballed the data provided by the ITC. The good news was that there was no sign that a Ramanthian reaction force was on the way to intercept them, and all of the surviving pods had landed safely. The bad news was that Team Zebra was spread out along a twenty-mile-long axis. But DeCosta had a plan—which the impatient offi?cer was quick to implement. “This is Zebra Six. . . . All team members will form on Bravo Six and myself. And let’s fi?nd those RAVs. . . . We’re going to need them. Over and out.”

DeCosta’s reasoning was sound as Santana could see on his HUD. Because Bravo Six, which was to say Farnsworth, was closest to the coordinates where the POWs were being held. So it made sense for both the platoon leader and those fi?re teams closest to him to remain stationary, while the rest of the team hurried to catch up. The mission clock was running, and there was no way to shut it off.

Now that Santana had a clear mental picture of how the company was deployed, it was time to look at the needs of his own platoon, and fi?gure out how to link up with his legionnaires. Since Gomez and the rest of the fi?rst squad were north of his position, and therefore closer to the fi?nal objective, the platoon leader decided to remain stationary while he waited for Sergeant Ibo-Da and his squad to arrive from the south.

A decision that was further justifi?ed by the fact that according to the topo map projected on the inside surface of the offi?cer’s face shield, one of the RAVs was located only a half mile away. Which meant that he and Snyder could secure the robot while the second squad caught up. Having dragged the debris into the jungle and concealed it as best he could, Santana helped Snyder clamp the auxiliary supply module to her chest. With that accomplished, Santana sent two succinct radio messages. One to DeCosta, letting the major know what he planned to do, and the other to his squad leaders.

Then it was time to climb up onto Snyder’s back and strap in. The T-2 could “see” the RAV on the topo map superimposed over her electronic vision, so there was no need for the bio bod to do anything other than duck branches and become more familiar with his environment as the cyborg carried him through the jungle. By that time the local residents had recovered from the violent manner in which the alien invaders had crashed through the upper regions of their largely green universe and were busy screeching, howling, and chittering at the ten-foot-tall, two-headed monster lumbering through their forest.

Santana leaned backwards and let the harness accept his weight as he looked up through the sun-dappled foliage to patches of blue sky. Every once in a while it was possible to catch a glimpse of sleek bodies as they jumped from branch to branch and gibbered at each other.

Water splashed up and away from Snyder’s blocky feet as she forded a shallow stream, made her way up the opposite bank, and followed a game trail into the forest. The RAV was right where it was supposed to be, standing near the remains of its pod, when the T-2 and bio bod entered the newly created clearing. The robot consisted of two eight-foot-long sections linked by an accordion-style joint and supported by four articulated legs. Though not intended for offensive purposes, each RAV was equipped with two forward-facing machine guns and a grenade launcher. Which, when integrated into a defensive perimeter, could be quite useful in repelling ground attacks. Having dismounted, and with the T-2 there to provide security, Santana gathered the pieces of the RAV’s specially designed pod together and carried them over to a natural depression, where he did what he could to hide them without killing any of the vegetation. And that was when the offi?cer came across an empty meal pak with Ramanthian script on it, plus more than two dozen pieces of broken shell, which suggested that whatever had once been inside the egg had hatched. That was interesting because the legionnaire had read all of Batkin’s reports at least three times, and therefore knew that thousands, if not millions of Ramanthian tricentennial eggs, had been transported to Jericho and “planted” by specially trained teams of civilians.

A fi?rst, insofar as the experts knew, since it was believed that all of the previous megahatchings had taken place on Hive, where they had been responsible for social upheaval, prolonged warfare, and extended famines. Problems the Queen and her advisors were trying to avoid this time around. Santana put both the empty meal pak and a fragment of eggshell in his backpack and made a mental note to share both the artifacts and his conclusions with DeCosta. Sergeant Ibo-Da and the rest of his squad arrived shortly thereafter. Good-natured insults fl?ew back and forth between the cyborgs, and Snyder gave as good as she got as the combined force left the clearing. Darby and Nacky had the point, followed by Santana on Snyder, the RAV, Shootstraight on Ichiyama, and Ibo-Da on Kappa. The last two had the drag position, which meant Kappa had to walk backwards much of the time in an effort to protect the column’s six.

But there were no threats in the area. None the T-2s could detect anyway—as the huge cyborgs made their way north. There was something about the rhythmic motion of Snyder’s body, the comforting click, whine, thud of her gigantic footsteps, and the now-familiar scenery that made Santana sleepy. But it wasn’t until Darby’s voice came over the radio that the offi?cer realized he’d been dozing. “This is Alpha Three-Four. . . . There’s a clearing up ahead—

with a large corpse at the center of it. Six or seven dogsized things were gnawing on the body but took off once we arrived. Over.”

“This is Alpha Six. . . . Hold your position,” Santana instructed. “We’re coming up behind you. How ’bout it Alpha Three-Three? Have you got video for me? Over.”

Santana eyed his HUD, saw a box appear, and watched video roll inside of it. The fi?rst thing he saw was foliage, an opening, and the clearing beyond. The badly ravaged carcass was clear to see. But the predators, or scavengers as the case might be, were little more than a blur as they took off in a half dozen directions.

Santana chose one of the images by focusing on it and blinking twice. The fugitive froze, grew larger, and began to rotate as the ITC system took the visual data and made an educated guess as to what the rest of the creature would look like. And the result looked very familiar indeed. Because like their human counterparts juvenile Ramanthians were known to follow what the xenobiologists called, “. . . a simple development pattern.” Meaning that nymphs looked like adults, except that they were smaller, and, judging from the video, a helluva lot faster. All of which served to confi?rm Santana’s hypothesis that the tricentennials were not only hatching out, but well into the equivalent of early adolescence, a stage of development the Confederacy’s scientists knew very little about. Especially in the wild since what little information they had pertained to nymphs hatched in civilized settings.

Snyder paused next to Nacky, which allowed Santana to nod at Darby before directing his T-2 out into the clearing. The carcass was surrounded by a cloud of voracious insects, and big gaping wounds made it diffi?cult to tell what the creature looked like before the nymphs tore into it, other than to say that it had a relatively small head, a highly specialized claw-tipped tentacle that extended from what would otherwise have been described as its nose, and four short legs. Judging from appearances, the Ramanthians had swarmed the beast, opened its belly with their parrotlike nose hooks, and ripped its guts out. Not a pleasant way to die, but interesting, because it implied some sort of group cohesion.

“Alpha Six to all units,” Santana said as he looked down at what remained of the jungle animal. “Be advised that a large number of Ramanthian nymphs have hatched out and are on the loose. They could be dangerous, especially if encountered in large numbers, so keep your eyes peeled. Over and out.”

What followed came so quickly it was as if DeCosta had been waiting to punch the “transmit” button. And rather than utilize the command push, so his comments would be heard by Santana alone, he chose to broadcast them to the entire company. “I will be the judge of what does and does not constitute a threat to this team,” DeCosta grated. “Which means your role is to submit what you consider to be relevant data to me. At which time I will analyze it and notify the team if that’s appropriate. Understood? Over.”

Ibo-Da and the rest of his squad didn’t approve of the rebuke and directed disbelieving looks at each other, but there was nothing they could do but glower and look uncomfortable as Santana gave the only response he could.

“Yes, sir. Over.”

“Good,” DeCosta concluded stiffl?y. “Zebra Six, out.”

Had the bio bods been on foot, the next three hours of travel would have been exhausting, as Santana and half his platoon fought their way through vegetation so thick that whichever T-2 was in the lead had to use his or her energy cannon to clear a path. And on one occasion, the cyborgs were forced to ford a river so deep that the bio bods had to stand up straight in order to keep their heads above water. So thanks to the cyborgs, the bio bods were able to not only conserve their energy, but enjoy moments like the one when the legionnaires marched through a cathedral-like open space where shafts of dusty sunlight fed pools of gold, and jewel-like insects fl?itted through the air. But such moments were all too rare as the temperature increased, the bio bods’ hot, sweaty uniforms began to chafe, and time seemed to slow.

Finally, as darkness began to fall, the second squad found itself within fi?ve miles of Sergeant Gomez. Santana was tempted to proceed, confi?dent that the T-2s could fi?nd their way through the dead of night if necessary, but DeCosta refused, insisting that each group camp and create its own defensive perimeter. That was stupid to Santana’s way of thinking, since a unifi?ed platoon could mount a better defense than two isolated squads, but it was not for him to decide.

So the platoon leader chose a rise, where attackers if any would be forced to advance uphill, and ordered the cyborgs to clear a 360-degree free-fi?re zone. Though far from happy about it, the bio bods dug defensive positions before they sat down to eat. Then, once the T-2s were fi?nished constructing a barrier made out of fallen logs and sharpened stakes, it was time to settle in for the night. A scary business for any bio bod not accompanied by four battleready war forms. Especially given the strange sounds and continual rustlings that issued from the jungle. The hours of darkness were divided into four two-hour watches, and Santana had just completed his shift when DeCosta spoke over the command push. “This is Zebra Six. . . . Do you read me? Over.”

The major sounded strange, or so it seemed to Santana, although the offi?cer knew he might be mistaken. “This is Alpha Six. . . . I read you. Over.”

“How are things at your location? Over?”

Santana frowned. The answer was obvious, or should have been, given the fact that DeCosta could access the ITC. It was as if the other offi?cer was simply nervous and wanted to chat. “No problems so far, sir,” the platoon leader answered. “What’s the situation there?”

“We lost Frayley,” DeCosta replied harshly. “She went outside the perimeter to take a leak, fi?red three shots, and was gone by the time her T-2 arrived on the scene. Smith saw more than a dozen heat signatures but withheld fi?re out of fear of hitting her. Over.”

Santana wasn’t wearing his helmet at that point, so he hadn’t seen Frayley’s name and status pop up on the ITC, but he remembered the legionnaire well. A fresh-faced young woman with reddish hair and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. One of the few team members with a clean record, who, if rumors were correct, had volunteered in order to be with Sergeant Jan Obama.

“Damn,” Santana said sadly. “How is Bravo Two-Six taking the news? Over.”

“Obama went nuts, if that’s what you mean,” DeCosta answered clinically. “We had to restrain her. Over.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, as if DeCosta was hoping that Santana would make sense of the incident somehow and thereby make him feel better. But the cavalry offi?cer didn’t have anything to say, other than it was stupid to pee outside the perimeter. A lesson Frayley learned the hard way. Eventually, when it was clear that the conversation was over, DeCosta broke the contact.

“Zebra Six, out.”

It was diffi?cult to sleep after that, but Santana fi?nally managed an hour or so and woke just before dawn, when standing orders required that all units serving in the fi?eld stand to arms. It was a tradition that went back hundreds of years and was based on the fact that predawn attacks were and always would be common.

But no attack was forthcoming, which left the second squad free to brew hot drinks and eat their MSMREs before taking fi?fteen minutes to erase the more obvious signs of their presence. Then it was up and off, as the legionnaires made their way through a long, narrow gorge before climbing up over a thinly forested ridge and descending into the jungle below. And that was where Sergeant Maria Gomez and the fi?rst squad were waiting for them. There were the usual catcalls, insults, and other greetings, but the only person Gomez truly cared about was her platoon leader.

Santana took note of the fact that the noncom had chosen to spend the night with her back to a cliff and a good fi?eld of fi?re. The pits had been fi?lled in, however, and the barricade had been removed, which meant the fi?rst squad was ready to move. The platoon leader nodded approvingly. “Nice job, Sergeant. Any excitement last night?”

But before Gomez could answer, DeCosta was on the team freq, his voice tight with anger. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . The clock is running! Or have you forgotten?

Please bring your platoon forward as quickly as possible. Over and out.”

It was the sort of thing that Gomez expected from offi?cers, and her anger was clear to see. She opened her mouth to speak, but Santana frowned and shook his head. Then, having made no response, he ordered Snyder forward. Meanwhile, as Santana took to the trail, the platoon seethed. None of the legionnaires approved of the way DeCosta was harassing the XO, and Hargo least of all. The serial murderer was still angry about the manner in which DeCosta had shelved him. “Who the hell does the little shit think he is?” the cyborg wanted to know. “One of these days I’m going to grab the bastard and twist his pointy head off!”

“That will be enough of that,” Gomez said sternly.

“Stow the bullshit, or I’ll put you on point for the next fi?ve days.”

With the shrewdness of enlisted people everywhere, Hargo had taken advantage of the disagreement between Santana and DeCosta to keep the war paint on in spite of the major’s order to get rid of it. Which meant that, as the T-2’s big blocky head turned her way, Gomez found herself looking into a pair of bleeding eyes. Hargo was pissed, the noncom knew that, but couldn’t be allowed to run his mouth. Slowly, so as to emphasize what she was doing, the squad leader pulled the zapper out if its holster and held it up for him to see. “You want to dance, big boy?” she inquired. “If so, then bring it on!”

There was a pause, followed by a synthesized rumble. “I got no beef with you, Sarge. You know that.”

Gomez made the zapper disappear. “Yeah, I know that,”

she replied casually. “I was checking, that’s all. Come on, you slackers. Let’s get our asses in gear before the major goes crazy on the captain again.”

The next few hours were largely uneventful as Santana led his platoon north. The column bushwhacked where necessary, but followed game trails whenever possible, to save time. But the legionnaire knew there was something even more important than speed, and that was the need to maintain the element of surprise. Because the moment the Ramanthians became aware of the team, they would bring an overwhelming amount of fi?repower to bear, and the mission would be over. Worse yet, the bugs might fi?gure out what the legionnaires had been planning to do and identify Nankool.

So when the fi?re team at the front of the column announced a clearing ahead, plus some sort of structure, the platoon leader was quick to order both squads off the trail. Once all of them were hidden, Santana directed Snyder to keep an eye on the back door while he followed Private Noaim Shootstraight forward. The brindled Naa was a crack shot, a skilled scout, and had been court-martialed for desertion. Not once but twice. However, in spite of the fact that there weren’t any jungles on Algeron, and the way his sweat-matted fur caused him to pant, the Naa seemed to slide between the leaves and branches as if raised on Jericho. Santana, by contrast, made twice as much noise, and was hard-pressed to keep up.

Ten minutes later the twosome arrived at the edge of a blackened clearing that had obviously been created with energy weapons or something very similar. And there, sitting at the very center of the open space, was a cylindrical structure. The construct was about twenty feet tall, shaped like a grain silo, and had evenly spaced holes all around its circumference. Ramanthian script had been spray-painted onto whatever the object was along with a six-digit number. None of it made any sense to Santana—but was seemingly obvious to Shootstraight. “It looks like a feeder, sir,”

the private whispered. “Like the ones we have for dooths back home.”

What the Naa said made sense. But the Ramanthians didn’t have any dooths. Then the offi?cer had it. . . . The food was for their tricentennial nymphs! The same ones who were out hunting. He was about to say as much when DeCosta spoke in his ear. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . What are you waiting for? Get a move on. Over.”

There were no Ramanthians in sight, young or old, which meant that the way was clear. Or that’s how it seemed. But the area around the silo was littered with the remains of dead animals. Bones mostly, since it looked as though scavengers had been at them, but some half-eaten corpses as well. Had foraging nymphs killed them? Or had the slaughter resulted from something else?

“Answer me, damn it!” DeCosta demanded shrilly. “I know you can hear me!”

DeCosta was distracting, so Santana killed the input, as he brought his binos up and inched them from left to right. There was nothing to see at fi?rst, other than corrugated metal, but then he spotted them. Half-hidden within the shadow cast by the feeder’s conical roof was an array of spotlights, vid cams, and some sort of weapons!

Which made sense if the bugs wanted to observe what the nymphs were up to and keep indigenous animals from getting their food. The platoon leader reactivated his radio to discover that DeCosta was in mid-rant. “. . . or I will know the reason why! Over.”

“This is Alpha Six,” Santana said softly. “We ran into a Ramanthian feeding station—complete with cameras and a computer-controlled weapons system. That means we’ve got to backtrack and go around it. Out.”

Even DeCosta could understand that, so there was no reply, which the platoon leader chose to interpret as a win. But Hargo wasn’t so easily satisfi?ed. He took each of DeCosta’s diatribes personally—and continued to fume. Having backtracked more than a mile and successfully circled around the Ramanthian feeding station, the fi?rst platoon continued toward the north and a reunion with the rest of Team Zebra. The much-awaited linkup took place at about 1500 hours, which left them about fi?ve hours of daylight.

DeCosta, who was clearly eager to get going, chose to position himself near the head of the column just behind the team on point. The decision spoke to his personal courage since both he and his T-2 would almost certainly be in the thick of things were the company to be ambushed. In the meantime Santana found himself in the drag position, which made tactical sense, but might be by way of a punishment as well. But whatever the reason for the assignment, the platoon leader took his duties seriously, which meant Snyder had to as well, even if that required extra effort. Because rather than simply walk backwards every once in a while, and scan the back trail with her sensors, the offi?cer ordered the T-2 to leave the trail periodically, hunker down, and wait to see if anyone was following. And not just following, but lagging so far back, as to initially fall outside of sensor range. Which seemed unlikely at best—and forced Snyder to jog in order to catch up with column.

Consistent with Snyder’s expectations the fi?rst fi?ve attempts produced negative results. But then, just as the legionnaire was beginning to resent the process, something registered on the cyborg’s sensors. And not just one something, but a parade of heat signatures, all coming up the trail. The targets weren’t large enough to qualify as Ramanthian troopers, plus they had a tendency to advance in a series of fi?ts and starts, but the presence of so many unidentifi?ed life-forms was unsettling, nevertheless. Especially if the targets were Ramanthian nymphs. So Snyder told Santana, who ordered her back onto the trail, and relayed the information to DeCosta. And rather than pooh-pooh the report the way the platoon leader half expected him to, the major even went so far as to offer up a grudging, “Well done.” Followed by a brusque, “Keep an eye on the buggers.” Which Santana did.

Darkness fell earlier on the forest fl?oor than up above the canopy. So, when the column came across some vinecovered ruins, DeCosta called a halt while there was still enough light to work by. Lieutenant Farnsworth’s platoon was ordered to establish a defensive perimeter around the stone structure. That left the fi?rst platoon to set up camp, which required them to clear obstructing vegetation, establish fi?ring positions, and seal off the steep stairwell that led underground.

Santana monitored the work by walking around. He paused every now and then to offer words of encouragement, but generally let his noncoms make decisions, knowing it was important to build confi?dence in their leadership. Eventually the work was done. And just in time, too, as the sun sank in the west, and six small fi?res were lit inside the embrace of the ancient walls. They threw shadows onto the carefully fi?tted stones, but none were positioned to silhouette the legionnaires or reveal too much to prying eyes. DeCosta was sitting in a corner, reading a holy book by means of the lights built into his helmet, and Farnsworth had the fi?rst watch. That meant Santana had the small fi?re all to himself as he consumed his rations. “So,” a voice said, as servos whined. “We meet again.”

The offi?cer turned to fi?nd that Watkins was standing next to him. Having been ejected from the ship immediately after DeCosta, the civilian and his T-2 landed within half a mile of the major, and had been with the offi?cer ever since. Santana gestured to the space next to him. “Pull up a chair. . . .”

“I’m sorry about all of DeCosta’s bullshit,” the media specialist said, as he lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs. “You’ve been very patient.”

Santana was surprised by both the tone of the comment and its source. “Really? No offense, sir. . . . But it was my impression that the two of you were pretty tight.”

Even though his plastifl?esh face was less responsive to emotion than skin-covered muscle would have been—

there was no denying the look of disgust on the cyborg’s face. “I can certainly understand how you came to that conclusion,” the civilian allowed. “But no, the truth is that I met DeCosta just two hours prior to boarding, and have come to like the man less with each passing day. His attitude toward cyborgs is nothing less than appalling.”

Rather than agree with Watkins, which would have been disloyal, the cavalry offi?cer chose a less risky path as he bit into a fruit bar. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you come along?”

Watkins smiled thinly. “Well, that depends on whom you ask. . . . Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would tell you that I’m here to document the mission. Because if you and your legionnaires succeed, then she wants the credit to accrue to Jakov. And, if you fail, she wants evidence that an attempt was made.”

The fruit bar was woefully dry, and Santana chased the fi?rst bite with a mouthful of water from his canteen before wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “No offense, sir. . . . But if we fail, the odds are that you’re going to wind up dead, along with the rest of us.”

The cyborg chuckled. “That’s true. Which is why the Solar Eclipse dropped some message torps into orbit before she left. I upload everything I have twice a day. And if I fail to do so, the torps will return to Algeron on their own.”

“So,” Santana said, as fl?ames began to lick around his empty MSMRE box. “That’s how the assistant undersecretary would account for your presence here. . . . But how would you explain it?”

Watkins gave the offi?cer a sidelong look. “You don’t miss much, do you? No wonder General Booly chose you to command the mission. Well, as it happens, I do have a personal reason for coming along. One I hope you will keep to yourself.”

Santana shrugged. “Sure. . . . So long as it won’t compromise the mission or endanger my troops.”

“It won’t,” the cyborg assured him. “It’s a family matter actually. . . . One that goes back about fi?ve years. It all started when my sister Marci fell in love with a total bastard named Maximillian Tragg, then ran off with him. He was a Confederacy marshal back then—and charged with enforcing the law.

“But, marshals don’t make much money,” Watkins continued harshly. “Or not enough to satisfy a man like Tragg. Especially given the fact that he liked to gamble. First he lost his money, then Marci’s, and fi?nally the house my parents gave them.

“My sister begged him to quit,” the cyborg said wearily, “but he wouldn’t or couldn’t. So Marci went to work in an effort to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Tragg continued to gamble—and wound up owing a lot of money to the combine.

“The mob was understanding, very understanding, so long as my brother-in-law was a marshal. That came to an end when he was arrested for a long list of crimes and placed in jail. But not for long because Marci put up the money required to bail him out in the naïve belief that he would change his ways.

“Well, the combine came a-calling shortly after that,”

Watkins added sadly. “Looking for the money Tragg owed them.”

The civilian paused at that point, as if fi?nding it diffi?cult to continue, and Santana was about to break the conversation off when the other man raised a hand. “No, I want you to hear this. With no money to give them, and no badge to protect him, Tragg gave the mob the only asset he had left. My sister. Marci was pretty you see,”

Watkins said bitterly, as he stared into the fi?re. “Very pretty. And there are people who will pay large sums of money to use, abuse, and destroy beautiful women.

“So my brother-in-law listened to Marci’s screams as they took her away, packed a suitcase, and ran. I followed. It took six standard months, and all the money I had, but I found the bastard on Long Jump.”

Watkins shook his head sorrowfully. “It was foolish, I know that now, but I wanted to kill Tragg with my own hands. However, I was a journalist, and he was an ex–law enforcement offi?cer, which put me at something of a disadvantage. All of which is a long-winded way of saying that Tragg won the fi?ght and left what remained of my body in an alley. Which, in case you wondered, is how I wound up as a cyborg.

“But he didn’t escape untouched. . . . Oh, no he didn’t!”

Watkins said with obvious satisfaction. “The fi?ght took place in the repair shop where he was working at the time. And having otherwise been disarmed, I grabbed a blowtorch. The fl?ames burned his face so deeply that no amount of reconstructive surgery is going to make the bastard look normal again. And that’s why I’m here,” the cyborg added, as he turned toward Santana. “Because Tragg’s face was among those that Oliver Batkin recorded and sent to Algeron. Except he isn’t one of the prisoners. He’s guarding them! For the bugs! If you can believe that. The fact that I was working for the government, and in a position to hear about the mission was providence, or random chance. It makes no difference.”

Santana looked into the other man’s eyes. They weren’t real, not like fl?esh and blood, yet the pain was clear to see.

“So, you came here to kill him?”

“Exactly,” Watkins confi?rmed grimly. “Only this time I plan to do the job right.”

“And your sister?”

“Never heard from again.”

“I’m sorry,” Santana responded sincerely. “I really am. But why tell me about all of this?”

The cyborg looked down into the fi?re and back up again. “Because,” he said fi?nally, “none of us know how things will turn out. Maybe I’ll survive—and maybe I won’t. But if I die, and you make it through, promise me you’ll kill him.”

It was a bizarre request, and all things considered, one that Santana knew he should refuse. But such was the other man’s passion, and the extent of his pain, that the offi?cer relented. “You have my word.”

13.

Blood is the price of victory.

—Carl von Clausewitz

On War

Standard year 1832

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

It was raining, and had been on and off for two days, as a succession of weak storm fronts crossed over Camp Enterprise. President Marcott Nankool and FSO Christine Vanderveen sat side by side as they ate their noon meal and looked out over the muddy compound. “So,” the chief executive said listlessly, “what’s your guess as to what that thing is?”

Vanderveen knew the “thing” Nankool referred to was the raised platform and thatched roof that was gradually taking shape under Tragg’s watchful eye. Because now that phase one of the space elevator project had been completed, the renegade was living dirtside again. Like everyone else in the camp, the diplomat had considered Nankool’s question before but had been unable to come up with a believable answer. Still, thinking about “the thing”

was better than thinking about the metallic taste she couldn’t seem to get rid of, the persistent ringing in her ears, or the fact that she hadn’t had a period in more than a month. Symptoms that troubled her, but were nothing compared to what some of her fellow prisoners suffered, as a persistent lack of vitamin B caused their limbs to swell up. They were easy to spot because of the way they shuffl?ed along. Which, since it was similar to way the Ramanthians moved, had become known as “bug walking.” “It beats me,” Vanderveen answered fi?nally. “But whatever that thing is, I doubt we’re going to like it.”

The words proved to be prophetic the next morning when the rain stopped, the sun reappeared, and Vanderveen left her barracks for breakfast. The monitor hummed ominously as it swept in to hover in front of her. The computergenerated voice was fl?at and infl?ectionless. “Are you prisoner Trevane?”

The diplomat had been using the dead offi?cer’s name for so long by that time that she didn’t have to think before answering. “Yes, I am.”

“Please follow me,” the robot said, as it turned and began to move away.

Vanderveen frowned. “Please?” She couldn’t remember an occasion when the word had been spoken by either Tragg or one of his mechanical minions. A dozen POWs watched sympathetically as the young woman was forced to follow the monitor out toward the center of the gently steaming compound. Because they knew that attention, any kind of attention, was almost always bad. Meanwhile, Vanderveen felt something cold gather in the pit of her stomach as she was led toward the mysterious platform. It was fi?nished now, or that’s the way it appeared, and a table plus two chairs had been placed under the pitched roof. Maximillian Tragg was seated off to the right, and judging from the smirk on the mercenary’s badly scarred face, he was pleased with himself. “Come on up,” Tragg said conversationally, as the diplomat paused in front of a short fl?ight of stairs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

An invitation from Tragg was equivalent to an order—

so the FSO had no choice but to make her way up onto the platform. Once there, Vanderveen realized that the table was covered with white linen and set with silver. If she hadn’t known better, the diplomat might have thought she was about to join her parents for a meal on the veranda.

“Please,” Tragg said, as he gestured toward the empty chair. “Have a seat.”

Since there hadn’t been any direct one-on-one contact with the overseer since the day Dent had been killed, Vanderveen assumed Tragg had lost interest in her. Now he was using the P-word and inviting her to sit down. There had to be a reason. . . . But what was it?

“Please. . . .” Tragg reiterated. “Have a seat. Breakfast will be along in a moment.”

So being unsure of what was taking place, and hoping to forestall one of the murderous episodes Tragg was famous for, Vanderveen sat down, an act witnessed by POWs far and wide. Many of whom continued to spoon their morning mush into their mouths as they watched the tableau unfold. “Good,” Tragg said approvingly, as Vanderveen took the chair across from him. “It’s been a while since that chunk of metal nearly took your head off. A lot has been accomplished since then.”

That was true. Because by turning her head only slightly Vanderveen could see the lower end of the silvery comma that hung over the camp. “Yes,” she said levelly.

“And a lot of people have died.”

“That’s one of the things I like about you,” Tragg replied indulgently. “Besides your tits that is. You have the guts to speak your mind. Even if that is somewhat stupid at times.”

The largely one-sided conversation was interrupted as a pair of heavily burdened POWs arrived carrying trays. Both were so starved they looked like walking skeletons as they placed heaping plates of hot food in front of the diners. The sight and smell of the feast caused Vanderveen’s stomach to growl. Even though she knew one of the men, he refused to meet her eyes.

“There,” Tragg said, as the servers left. “All of it was frozen, I admit that, but it beats the hell out of the crap that you eat every morning! Dig in!”

Vanderveen swallowed the fl?ood of saliva that had entered her mouth and kept her hands in her lap. “No.”

One of Tragg’s nonexistent eyebrows rose a notch. “Why not?”

“Forcing me to have breakfast with you is a trick,” the diplomat stated. “A device that’s intended to drive a wedge between me and the rest of the prisoners.”

“That’s very astute,” Tragg observed. “But it’s more than that. Have you seen yourself lately? No, I don’t suppose you have. Take a look in the mirror.”

For the fi?rst time Vanderveen realized that a small mirror lay on the table next to her place setting. Eating the food was wrong, but looking at herself in a mirror seemed harmless enough, so she did so. And what the diplomat saw came as a shock. Her previously blonde hair was almost white—having been bleached by weeks of tropical sun. Her eyes were still blue but stared back at her from cavernlike sockets.

Tragg saw the horror in her eyes and nodded. “That’s right. You look like hell. Not quite as bad as I do, but close enough! Which brings me back to what I was saying before. Eat the food, drink the juice, and take the vitamins on your plate. You’ll feel better within a week. Especially since I plan to have you over for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then, in a month or so, you’ll be worth looking at again.”

There was a clatter as the mirror fell, and Vanderveen stood. “No!” she said angrily. “I won’t do it!”

“Oh, but I think you will,” Tragg responded grimly, as he reached for the rifl?e that was leaning against the rail.

“Go ahead,” Vanderveen said defi?antly. “Shoot me! It’s what you wanted to do from the very start.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” the overseer replied dryly, as he worked a shell into the weapon’s chamber. At that point Tragg brought the long gun up in one swift motion, tucked the butt in against his shoulder, and selected a target. Vanderveen shouted, “No!” but the sound of her voice was lost in the fl?at crack of the rifl?e, and the echoes that followed. The bullet fl?ew straight and true, plucked a marine off his rag-wrapped feet, and dumped him on his face. Everyone saw it, and given the way Vanderveen was standing there, it looked as though she was spotting for Tragg. Even Nankool sat stunned as the diplomat took her seat at what was already rumored to be a feast.

But, strangely enough, it was Calisco who came to Vanderveen’s defense. “I know what you’re thinking,” the skinny little offi?cial put in. “But that’s bullshit. She’s stronger than either one of us.” Nankool wanted to believe that, he really did, but found it diffi?cult to do. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

There were only two sentries posted outside of General Booly’s quarters, and because it was their job to protect the Military Chief of Staff from deranged soldiers and the possibility of Naa assassins, they had no reason to expect trouble from a squad of marines. Especially given the fact that the jarheads were not only under the command of a hardfaced captain, but marched up the corridor as if on parade and came to a crashing halt. The fact that one of the marines was armed with a sledgehammer should have triggered suspicions, but it wasn’t until the soldiers leveled their weapons at the legionnaires that the sentries understood the true nature of the situation.

One of the legionnaires opened his mouth, as if to speak into his lip mike, and took a rifl?e butt to the head. A marine caught the unconscious body before it could hit the fl?oor. The second sentry surrendered his weapon without protest.

Booly was asleep when the sledgehammer hit the front door and a resounding boom echoed through his dreams. But, having no reason to expect a break-in, it wasn’t until the third blow that the offi?cer sat up and started to turn toward the pistol on the nightstand. But it was too late because the marines had entered the apartment by then.

“Drop it,” the marine offi?cer said, as Booly’s fi?ngers closed around the grip. “Or die in bed.”

Booly took note of both the command and the offi?cer’s failure to use the honorifi?c “sir,” and knew what was taking place. Maylo was sitting up by then with a sheet clutched to her otherwise-naked breasts. “Bill? What’s going on?” Her voice was tight but level.

“I think it’s called a coup d’etat,” the legionnaire replied, as he put the weapon down. “Isn’t that right, Captain?”

But the marine wasn’t about to be drawn into a conversation. A corporal confi?scated the general’s weapon as the offi?cer pointed his pistol at Maylo. “Get up. . . . And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Booly struggled to control his temper. “There’s a closet over there. . . . Perhaps one of your men would be kind enough to get my wife’s robe.”

The marine’s eyes narrowed as the pistol came back to Booly. “Shut up! I won’t tell you again. Now, both of you, get off that bed. Or die right there. . . . It makes no difference to me.”

Both Maylo and Booly could see that the offi?cer wasn’t bluffi?ng, which forced them to stand, something the male marines thoroughly enjoyed. Because although Booly was clad in a pair of boxer shorts, Maylo was completely naked. Her breasts were small, but fi?rm, with brown nipples. Creamy skin led down to a narrow waist, fl?ared hips, and long shapely legs. And rather than attempt to hide her private parts, the business executive held her hands out away from her body. “So, Captain,” she said. “Are you looking for weapons? Or just looking?”

The captain blushed, ordered a female marine to help Maylo get dressed, and turned his attention back to Booly.

“Clasp your hands behind your head and turn around.”

Booly had no choice but to comply. The marine gave a snort of disgust when he saw the ridge of silvery fur that ran down the senior offi?cer’s spine. Evidence of a coupling that some saw as unnatural but many scientists pointed to as evidence that humans and Naa had common forerunner ancestors. “So what they say is true,” the marine said disgustedly. “You are a half-breed freak. And in command of our armed forces, too. Well, President Jakov will soon put a stop to that! Let’s fi?nd some civilian clothes for you to wear—since you have no right to a uniform.”

A feeling of anticipation pervaded the executive dining room as a mix of civilians and military offi?cers stood waiting for the moment that all of them knew was coming. The long dining table had been pushed over against one wall—and a single chair stood on the riser at the south end of the room as the crowd awaited Vice President Leo Jakov. Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs, soon to be Secretary of Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, was extremely tired. And she had every right to be since the vast majority of the administrative work associated with what she preferred to call “the succession” had fallen to her. But as Jakov entered the room and took his place on the thronelike chair, it was worth it. Because even though exambassador Alway Orno had been assassinated before he could arrange for Nankool to be killed, she felt confi?dent that the new strategy would not only work, but work brilliantly. Especially given the fact that a rescue mission had been sent to Jericho, thereby proving Jakov’s sincerity, even though he was about to assume the presidency. Yes, there was the possibility that the rescue mission would fi?nd Nankool alive, but the battle group that was supposed to extract Team Zebra had been “diverted” to help with a very real threat elsewhere. Which meant no one would arrive to pick them up! So the succession plan was secure. Or would be once certain troublemakers had been dealt with.

There was a stir at the back of the room as more than two dozen hooded fi?gures were escorted into the room. All wore cuffs and leg shackles, which in the case of the Hudathan prisoners, had been doubled to make sure they couldn’t break free. And, judging from the black eyes, cut lips, and swollen faces that were revealed as the hoods were removed, it quickly became apparent that many of the former offi?cials and offi?cers had put up a fi?ght. The purpose of the hoods was to prevent people in the halls and corridors from recognizing the prisoners. Especially General Booly, who, because of his popularity with the troops, was especially dangerous. Later, after a carefully worded indictment had been released, offi?cers recruited by Jakov would take over.

Among those being herded into the room were General Bill Booly, his wife Maylo Chien-Chu, Colonel Kitty Kirby, Major Drik Seeba-Ka, Intelligence Chief Margaret Xanith, Ramanthian expert Yuro Osavi, diplomat Charles Vanderveen and a dozen more Nankool loyalists. All of whom looked grim and defi?ant. One individual was missing, however, and given his history, was a cause for concern. But even though Sergi Chien-Chu was still on the loose, Wilmot felt certain the marines would fi?nd the industrialist and bring him in.

Fortunately, from Wilmot’s point of view, Triad Hiween Doma-Sa was off-planet. Because the Hudathan was not only a close ally of Nankool’s, but a head of state as well, he couldn’t be neutralized in the same fashion as the others could.

So it was a special moment. One that Jakov had been looking forward to and was determined to enjoy. That was why the group had been brought before him. Not because there was any real need to do so—but to revel in his newly acquired power. “Good morning,” the vice president said, as the last of the prisoners was revealed. The greeting elicited snickers and even outright laughter from the sycophants, toadies, and other self-serving individuals who supported Jakov. All of them fell silent as the executive raised his hand. His eyes glittered as they roamed the room. “The Confederacy is at war, the president has been missing for months, and our citizens deserve strong leadership. With those factors in mind, and consistent with my responsibilities under the constitution, I will take over as interim Chief Executive as of 1300 hours this afternoon. The Senate has been notifi?ed to expect an announcement, as have the press, and I have every reason to expect a quick confi?rmation. Once that process has been completed my administration will take immediate steps to resolve the unfortunate confl?ict with the Ramanthians.”

“The president is alive,” Booly said grimly, as his eyes roamed the faces in front of him. “And all of you know it. . . . You’re traitors, nothing more, and you’ll never get away with it.”

“Really?” Jakov inquired sarcastically. “Rather than attack the legally constituted government, I suggest that you, your wife, and the cadre of scum you’ve been plotting with begin to think about how to defend yourselves against charges of criminal conspiracy and treason. Who knows?”

the politician asked rhetorically. “Perhaps some of the criminals in the pit can offer you some advice. Especially the ones you sent there!”

That elicited another round of jeers and laughter as the hoods were replaced for the long roundabout journey down to the pit. But as Booly waited for the cloth to come down over his eyes, he made a mental photograph of each face in front of him and sealed the images away. Because somehow, someday, they were going to pay.

*

*

*

The normally raucous prison, also known as “the pit,” was extremely quiet. And for good reason. Because while the prisoners weren’t in the political loop, they were hypersensitive to even the smallest change in prison routine. So when all their normal guards were suddenly “reassigned,”

and replaced by marines brought in from off-planet, they knew something important was afoot—something very important indeed. So when orders were shouted, gates clanged open, and a new contingent of hooded prisoners shuffl?ed into the space between the cliffl?ike cellblocks they paid attention. The females were separated out and led away as the men were freed from their restraints.

Chains rattled as shackles were removed, and cuffs clanged as they were tossed into a cleaning bucket before the heavily armed guards backed out of the pit. That was when the newly inducted prison rats were free to remove their hoods and look around. There was a long moment of silence while both groups regarded the other followed by a loud comment from one of the lowest tiers. “Well, I’ll be damned,” a grizzled legionnaire commented loudly. “If it isn’t General Bill Booly. . . . Come to lead us on the march into hell!”

What happened next left the newly appointed warden dumbfounded. Because rather than turn on the general, as she had been led to believe they would, the prisoners shouted a greeting instead. It consisted of a single word. A word so loud it made the windows in her offi?ce rattle as she looked down into the concrete canyon.

“CAMERONE!”

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Stars glittered above, but down on the jungle fl?oor it was as black as the inside of a combat boot, and the cyborgs were the only ones who could truly “see” the growing host of nymphs as they generated an almost deafening chittering noise, caused the foliage to rustle as if in response to a windstorm, and fi?lled the air with the acrid scent of their urine. The resulting tension was suffi?cient to make even the most-combat-hardened veteran sweat.

Like all the rest of the bio bods, Santana was wearing his helmet, which not only served to protect his head, but provided access to the ITC and served to amplify the ambient light. But there wasn’t much light to amplify, which meant the legionnaire saw little more than green streaks as the adolescent Ramanthians dashed back and forth outside the stone walls. The team had fl?ares, of course, but their effectiveness was limited by the forest canopy, which meant the company would have to use jury-rigged spotlights once the fi?ghting began.

Which was why every single legionnaire was at his or her post as Major DeCosta made his rounds. And, except for the senior offi?cer’s tendency to reinforce his orders with scriptural references, Santana had to admit that DeCosta had done a good job of preparing the company for combat. Each corner of the roughly rectangular space was protected by a well-entrenched RAV and a T-2. The rest of the cyborgs were evenly spaced along the perimeter, and interspersed with bio bods, who stood on improvised fi?ring steps so they could fi?re over the walls. All of which should make for an impenetrable curtain of fi?re once the nymphs attacked.

That was DeCosta’s plan, anyway, and it would have worked if the nymphs hadn’t found their way into the labyrinth of passageways below Team Zebra and boiled up out of the ground inside the defensive perimeter. The stairway had been blocked, but not well enough, as the madly chittering mob managed to force its way through the opening. Watkins, who hadn’t been given a place on the fi?ring line, was the fi?rst to notice the incursion. “Watch out!” the civilian shouted, as the fi?rst bugs appeared. “They’re inside the wall!”

But the warning generated a smaller response than the media specialist expected, because the aliens located outside of the enclosure chose that moment to attack as well, thereby forcing the defenders to respond to them at the same time. Flares shot upwards, collided with the canopy, and went off. Some of them remained there, trapped in the foliage, and others drifted down under tiny parachutes. Battle lights came on, and the fi?fties began to thump as what looked like a tidal wave of sharp beaks, chitinous bodies, and fl?uttering wings surged toward the walls. Each slug killed at least half a dozen Ramanthians as bolts of coherent energy plowed bloody furrows through the oncoming horde. The chatter of assault weapons and submachine guns was interspersed with the occasional crack of a grenade as hundreds of attackers fell.

A legionnaire yelled, “Take that, you bastards!” as he emptied a clip into the mob and fumbled for another. But even as the oncoming wave faltered, the defenders were attacked from within. Sergeant Jan Obama screamed as two nymphs landed on her back. Body armor protected her from the fi?rst few bites, but a third found her throat and ripped it out. Blood sprayed the surrounding area as Private Dimitri Bozakov turned to spray both the dead legionnaire and the Ramanthians with steel-jacketed bullets. But before the troopers on the wall had time to fully engage the enemies behind them, another wave of nymphs surged out of the jungle and into the harsh light. DeCosta was busy. So that left Watkins, Santana, and Farnsworth to deal with the steady stream of Ramanthians that continued to pour up out of the passageways below. Not an easy task since a poorly aimed shot could kill one of the legionnaires beyond. “Put your backs to the walls and keep them contained!” Santana shouted, as he fi?red a burst from his CA-10. The tricentennials seemed to fl?y apart as the bullets shattered their exoskeletons and threw sheets of viscous goo in every direction.

Watkins had armed himself with a pump-style shotgun that turned out to be an effective weapon for the situation at hand. Because every time the civilian pulled the trigger at least one bug exploded. Until the media specialist ran out of shells that is—and was forced to back away as he fumbled more into the receiver.

Fortunately, Farnsworth was there to take up the slack with an ugly-looking submachine gun. Having come up through the ranks, the offi?cer had seen just about everything during his years in the Legion and wasn’t about to be intimidated by a thousand baby bugs. He fi?red his weapon in carefully modulated three-round bursts, a pace calculated to keep the barrel cool and conserve ammunition. The Ramanthians chittered as they charged the veteran, driven by hunger, and a wild inarticulate hatred of everything not them.

But the well-aimed bursts cut the attackers down, and continued to do so, until Santana managed to toss a couple of grenades into the stairwell. The platoon leader yelled,

“Fire in the hole!” and went facedown, as twin explosions strobed the night. The blast decimated the bugs fi?ghting their way up through the narrow passageway as Watkins began to fi?re his newly reloaded shotgun at the invaders still on the surface.

Snyder had been detached to assist them by that time and Santana was quick to call upon the cyborg’s enormous strength. “Grab some rocks!” the offi?cer ordered. “And toss them in the hole!” The rocks that Santana referred to had once been part of the structure itself, but the combined forces of heat and cold had loosened them over time, and caused one of the internal wing-walls to fail. So as the bio bods began to fi?re into the blood-splattered stairwell, Snyder threw blocks of stone into the opening, thereby crushing some of the nymphs and blocking others. It took more than fi?ve minutes of hard work, but once the exit was sealed, Santana felt satisfi?ed that the bugs wouldn’t be able to break through. But just to make sure, the platoon leader ordered Watkins to guard the exit before heading for the wall and the battle beyond.

A hellish sight greeted his eyes as Santana stepped up onto an ammo container and looked out onto the south side of the body-strewn clearing. As one fl?are burned out, and thereby allowed darkness to claim the outermost reaches of the killing fi?eld, another was launched. There was a soft pop as it went off and threw a garish glow over the scene below. The battle lamps added their own cold white glare to the nightmarish scene as still another wave of alien fl?esh swept in toward the walled compound. It wasn’t so easy to advance now that the Ramanthians had to climb up and over piles of their dead and wounded comrades. But each succeeding wave went a little farther—

until they began to break only yards from the walls. And as Santana added his fi?re to all the rest, the offi?cer wondered what drove the nymphs. Was it hunger? Yes, that much seemed clear, based on the evidence observed earlier. But the mindless, suicidal rush, seemed indicative of something else as well. It was as if the tricentennial bodies had grown faster than the minds they housed and were under the infl?uence of some very primitive instincts. A wilding intended to sweep everything that could compete with them away—thereby creating conditions in which the survivors could fl?ourish. It was a violent process that had no doubt devastated Hive during past birthings and clearly accounted for the Ramanthian desire to acquire more real estate. Later, within a month or two, Santana suspected that the locustlike behavior would end, thereby giving the adult bugs an opportunity to round up their feral progeny and install them in crèche-style facilities where they could be raised.

But all such considerations were driven out of Santana’s mind as Corporal Diachi Sato screamed, and a nymph tore his throat out. “It came from above!” DeCosta shouted into his mike. “First platoon, maintain fi?re. . . . Second platoon, switch to air defense. . . . Execute!”

Because the platoons had been integrated, the order made sense, as roughly half of Team Zebra’s considerable fire-power was directed upwards. And none too soon. Because as Santana released an empty clip and seated another one in the CA-10, at least a hundred tricentennials dropped onto the legionnaires from above! All Ramanthians had wings, the offi?cer knew that, but rarely fl?ew. Of course that applied to adults, and judging from the ominous whir, the nymphs were under no such constraints.

Why the nymphs had waited to take to the air was a mystery, but one that the legionnaire had no time to contemplate as he shot an incoming bug and turned just in time to pull another off Darby’s back. The nymph struggled in an attempt to free itself, and snapped at Santana’s face, as the soldier threw the juvenile down. There was a horrible cracking sound, followed by a squeal of pain as the offi?cer stomped the Ramanthian.

“Well done,” DeCosta said matter-of-factly as he strolled past, pistol in hand. “Smite them down, for you are the hammer of God!”

The senior offi?cer paused at that point, raised his pistol, and shot the nymph that was trying to fi?nd a way into Nacky’s armored head.

But Santana was back in the battle by that time and felt a wave of heat wash across the left side of his face as a T-2

named Prill fi?red the fl?amethrower that that been installed in place of his energy cannon. The weapon sent a fl?are of light across the compound, and the tongue of fi?re caught two bugs in midair. They screeched piteously as their wings caught fi?re but were soon put out of their misery by wellaimed bursts of fi?re from Farnsworth’s SMG. All of the T-2s were out of machine-gun ammo by that time. As were the RAVs, because even though more ammo was available, the bio bods didn’t have time to load it.

That meant the cyborgs had to rely on their energy cannons and in some cases fl?amethrowers to defend the compound. But the jets of liquid fi?re, combined with accurate shooting on the part of the bio bods, proved to be an effective combination. So effective, that after twenty minutes of sustained fi?ghting, the nymphs’ assault began to falter. Sensing victory, DeCosta was quick to follow up. “Send the Godless heathens to hell!” he shouted hoarsely. “Loose the Lord’s fury upon them! For thou art the angels of heaven sent to cleanse this polluted planet!”

Though surprised to hear that they had been elevated to the status of angels, the criminals under DeCosta’s command understood what the offi?cer wanted, and increased their rate of fi?re. Muzzle fl?ashes stabbed the darkness, grenades sent gouts of jungle loam and body parts high into the air, and there was an occasional whir of wings as Santana patrolled the perimeter. The air was thick with the stench of nitrocellulose, ozone, and burned fl?esh. The combined odor caught in the back of the offi?cer’s throat and caused him to gag as he paused to deal with a wounded nymph. The nameless tricentennial was pinned under the legionnaire’s helmet light, desperately trying to drag itself forward, when Santana pointed the CA-10 at the creature’s head. And it was then, in the fraction of a second between the order he sent to his index fi?nger, and the recoil of the weapon, that something jumped the gap between them.

Because while the hatchling wasn’t truly sentient yet, the potential was there, and in that brief moment prior to the nymph’s death Santana thought he had a glimpse into the Ramanthian’s soul. A place so unfathomable that the human knew he would never understand it. But then the nymph was dead, the moment was over, and what had been a hellish symphony of chittering bugs, madly whirring wings, and rattling machine guns began to die down until there was little more than an occasional rifl?e shot to punctuate the end of the bloody confl?ict. “They’re leaving,” one of the T-2s said out loud, as her sensors started to clear.

“Thank God for that,” DeCosta put in gratefully. And no one chose to contradict him.

Hot metal pinged, a breeze ruffl?ed the jungle foliage, and it began to rain. The battle was over. Raindrops drummed against his alloy casing, and his juryrigged propulsion system had a tendency to cut out every once in a while, but Oliver Batkin was happy for the fi?rst time in months. Partly due to his recent escape from Camp Enterprise, but mostly because his reports had been received, and a rescue party was on the ground!

The good news had arrived a few days earlier when the same freighter that dropped Team Zebra into the atmosphere sent out a millisecond-long blip of code. It hit Batkin like a bolt out of the blue and elicited a whoop of joy so loud that it scared a fl?ock of blue fl?its out of an adjacent tree.

Now, having traveled day and night ever since, the cyborg had entered the area where the rescue party should be. An exciting prospect, but a dangerous one, given the fact that the legionnaires would be understandably paranoid and therefore likely to shoot anything that moved, including spherical cyborgs should one appear without warning.

So Batkin ran a full-spectrum sweep as he weaved his way through the treetops and was eventually rewarded by a burst of scrambled conversation on a frequency often used by the Legion for short-range communications. That was suffi?cient to bring the spy ball to a temporary halt while he sought to make contact. “Jericho One to Team Zebra. Do you read me? Over.”

There was a long pause, as if the legionnaires hadn’t heard him, or were busy deciding how to respond. Then, after about twenty seconds, there was a challenge. “This is Zebra Six. . . . We read you, Jericho One. Please authenticate.”

So Batkin rattled off a nine-digit code, which was soon answered in kind, thereby satisfying both parties that security was intact. With that out of the way, the spy was able to make visual contact with the rescue team within a matter of minutes. And the much-contested battlefi?eld was a sight to see. Due to the effects of sustained gunfi?re, energy weapons, and fl?amethrowers the partially blackened clearing was larger than it originally had been. And there, within the eye of what had obviously been a storm, was a walled enclosure. Which, judging from the way that waves of dead nymphs lapped up against it, had been extremely hard-pressed. Thanks largely to the fact that he didn’t smell or look like food, the spy ball had been able to avoid the roaming packs of tricentennials thus far, but it had seen what they could do to native species. And it wasn’t pretty.

All of the legionnaires who weren’t standing sentry duty around the clearing looked upwards as the cyborg swept in to hover at the center of an excited crowd. There were cheers from the troops, but rather than the warm welcome the cyborg expected to receive, the offi?cer who came forward to meet him was cold and matter-of-fact. The way he always was where cyborgs were concerned.

“So,” DeCosta began, “what can you tell me about President Nankool? Is he alive?”

Though taken aback by the way the bio bod had addressed him, Batkin managed to maintain his composure.

“And you are?”

“DeCosta,” the offi?cer answered impatiently. “Major DeCosta. I’m in command here.”

“And my name is Batkin,” the agent replied calmly.

“Welcome to Jericho. I’m glad you’re here. The answer to your question is yes. President Nankool is alive. Or was when I escaped from Camp Enterprise.”

The next few minutes were spent bringing DeCosta and his offi?cers up to speed regarding Nankool, the POWs generally, and the camp itself. “I have pictures of everything,” Batkin fi?nished proudly. “Plus detailed information regarding defenses, Ramanthian troop strength, and daily work routines.”

“That’s wonderful!” Santana commented enthusiastically. “What you managed to accomplish is nothing short of amazing.”

“Yes. . . . Well done,” DeCosta added tepidly. “Tonight we will go over that material in detail. In the meantime, we have a schedule to keep. . . . So, if Captain Santana, and Lieutenant Farnsworth would be so kind as to pull the pickets in, we’ll get under way. And, if you would be willing to serve as scout, then so much the better. There’s nothing like a bird’s-eye view of the terrain ahead to keep one out of trouble.”

Santana waited until the other offi?cers were out of earshot before addressing the cyborg. “I’m sorry about the reception. Believe me. . . . We are extremely happy to see you! And, should I be fortunate enough to survive this mission, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are recognized for what you accomplished here.”

Batkin would have shrugged had he been able to. “That isn’t necessary. . . . But thank you.”

“Can I ask a question?” Santana wanted to know.

“About one of the prisoners?”

“Of course,” the spy responded cautiously. “Remembering that I had contact with only a small number of the POWs.”

“Yes, I understand,” Santana agreed. “The person I have in mind is female, about the same age I am, and blond. Her name is Christine Vanderveen—and she’s a diplomat.

She was a member of Nankool’s staff when the Gladiator was captured. So, if the president survived, then she might have as well.”

Santana felt a sense of dread as the cyborg reviewed the faces and the names of the POWs with whom he was familiar. The answer, when it fi?nally came, was more than a little disappointing. “I met a blond,” the cyborg allowed.

“But her last name was Trevane, and she was a naval offi?cer rather than a diplomat. A lieutenant if I remember correctly. I’m sorry.”

Santana nodded mutely and turned away. Only years of military discipline, plus a strong will, were suffi?cient to keep what the offi?cer felt inside as he took his place on Snyder’s back and the march began. As the column made its way out of the body-strewn clearing and topped the rise beyond, they passed three graves. Obvious now, but soon to be lost, as had thousands of others over the years. Santana offered the legionnaires a salute as he passed, wondered where Vanderveen was buried, and gave thanks for the face shield that hid his tears.

14.

Power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

—Lord Acton to Bishop Mandell CreightonStandard year 1887

PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

The Queen was dying. She knew it, her courtiers knew it, and all but the most ignorant of Ramanthian citizens knew it. Because, ironically enough, death was the price each tricentennial queen had to pay for the creation of so many new lives. It was a bittersweet process that systematically destroyed their much-abused bodies and a reality the current monarch had accepted years earlier. Not only accepted, but planned for, by doing everything possible to prepare her successor for the throne.

And now, being only weeks away from the day when the last egg would be ceremoniously laid, the Queen was still in the process of imparting all of the knowledge gained during an active lifetime to the female generally known as “the chosen,” a seemingly low-ranking servant who had been brought in from off-planet and integrated into the royal staff many months earlier. A position that provided the chosen with an intimate knowledge of the way the royal household worked and gave her access to the lies, plots, and counterplots that continuously swirled around the Queen. Something that was going to come as a shock to individuals who had been rude to the chosen.

“So,” the monarch said solicitously, as she looked down at her successor. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Highness,” the chosen replied humbly. And she was ready. Unlike her fi?ve billion newborn cousins, the Queen-to-be had come into the world twenty years earlier the same way most Ramanthians did. Then, having been selected at the age of fi?ve, she and six other candidates had been raised to fi?ll a position only one of them could actually hold.

“Good,” the monarch said soberly. “Give me your opinion of Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha.”

The younger female looked up. Her eyes were like obsidian. “He’s very proactive,” the chosen observed thoughtfully. “Which is good. But he’s extremely ambitious as well, and would turn the monarch into little more than a megaphone through which to speak, if allowed to do so.”

“I can see that I chose well,” the Queen replied contentedly. “So, knowing Ubatha as you do, make use of him but be careful. Because when a tool works, and works well, there is a natural tendency to reach for it fi?rst regardless of the circumstances. And that is Ubatha’s strategy. So identify other advisors, place them in powerful positions, and thereby balance him out. Am I clear?”

“You are, Majesty,” the younger female replied as her eyes returned to the fl?oor.

“Then enter the cloister and continue to learn.”

The chosen bent a knee, backed away, and shuffl?ed over to a corner where a curtained enclosure allowed her to observe all that took place without revealing her identity. It was a tradition that went back thousands of years and signaled the upcoming transition.

Meanwhile, in a waiting room normally reserved for those of lesser rank, Ubatha shuffl?ed back and forth across the chamber while deep in thought. Because while any royal audience was stressful, he knew this one would be even more so, due to the fact that the chosen would be present. There was no way to know which of the seven eligible females had been selected, but the Chancellor hoped that the Queen had chosen well. Not only for his wellbeing but that of the Ramanthian people as well. Because even though the war was going well, it would take a strong pincer to guide the empire through the next few years. The Ramanthian’s contemplations were interrupted as a midlevel functionary entered the room. “Chancellor Ubatha? The Queen will receive you now.”

The offi?cial clacked his right pincer by way of an acknowledgment, checked to ensure that both his antenna and wings were positioned just so, and left the waiting area for the ramp that led up to the royal platform. All manner of courtiers, offi?cials, and military offi?cers had emerged from their various lairs to take up positions on the platforms adjacent to the walkway. Ubatha exchanged greetings with the more-senior members of the royal entourage as the rich amalgamation of odors associated with the Queen and the egg-laying process came into contact with his olfactory antennae and triggered the usual chemical changes.

Having gained the top level, Ubatha saw the brandnew enclosure off to his right, and decided to risk the Queen’s displeasure by nodding in that direction. A gesture intended to convey acceptance and respect. Then, having turned toward the monarch, he bent a knee. “I’m not dead yet,” the Queen said tartly.

“Nor will you ever be,” Ubatha replied smoothly. “Since you live within our hearts.”

That elicited the Ramanthian equivalent of laughter, since the royal didn’t believe a word of it, but admired the way it had been done. “You are absolutely shameless,” the Queen observed indulgently. “But useful nevertheless.”

Ubatha bowed. “Majesty.”

“So,” the monarch said, “it seems that congratulations are in order. . . . I understand you located ex-ambassador Orno and put him to death.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Ubatha replied humbly. “But the credit for the execution belongs to your chief of intelligence rather than myself.”

Meanwhile, still hidden within her fabric-draped enclosure, the chosen took note. Another one of the things that made Ubatha different from so many of the empire’s offi?cials was his willingness to form alliances and then honor them. It was a strategy cunningly devised to make him more effective and reduce the amount of blame that would otherwise come his way when an initiative went awry. All of which would be taken into consideration when the Chancellor went to work for her.

“Yes,” the Queen replied. “My intelligence service deserves both credit for terminating the ambassador—and some of the blame for allowing the Egg Orno to live. The agent responsible for that failure has been assigned to a research station on an ice planet.”

“As he should be,” Ubatha replied sanctimoniously. What was the chosen thinking, he wondered? And would she be as challenging to deal with as her predecessor? Yes, he decided. The royal clan breeds true.

“But that’s a minor detail,” the monarch continued dismissively. “My intelligence chief offered to take care of the oversight personally, but I told him no. Having lost both mates and narrowly escaped death herself, the Egg Orno has suffered enough.”

“You are known for your mercifulness,” Ubatha intoned, and momentarily wondered if he had pushed it too far. But because the Queen truly believed she was merciful, the fl?attery slid past her if not the chosen one.

“But you didn’t come here to discuss the Ornos,” the monarch said, as she gave birth to another fi?fty citizens.

“No, Highness. I didn’t,” Ubatha agreed. The Confederacy put out an announcement, a rather interesting announcement, that was relayed to me by the Thraki ambassador.”

“An ugly breed,” the Queen observed distastefully.

“But I digress. What is that pack of degenerates up to now?” Both the monarch and the chosen listened intently as Ubatha relayed the news regarding Nankool’s disappearance and Jakov’s elevation to the presidency.

“What do we know about this Jakov person?” the Queen wanted to know, as the narrative came to a close.

“We know he’s ruthless,” Ubatha observed. “Since he made the announcement in spite of the possibility that Nankool is alive. Details regarding Jakov’s background will be included in your mid-morning intelligence briefi?ng.”

“Good,” the monarch replied. “Perhaps this human will prove to be more reasonable than his predecessor was.”

That was a given insofar as the chosen was concerned. Because she had been careful to memorize all the information available regarding Nankool’s staff—and was pretty sure that Jakov would make signifi?cant concessions for a peace that left him in charge of the Confederacy. A promising development indeed.

“And Nankool?” the Queen inquired. “Is he among the prisoners?”

“I don’t know yet, Majesty,” Ubatha replied honestly.

“But I will certainly fi?nd out.”

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Thanks to the repellers that kept it aloft, the Ramanthian scout car could travel more slowly than a conventional aircraft could, giving the insectoid troopers plenty of time in which to inspect the verdant jungle below. And that was what they were doing as the air car drifted over the treetops.

Thanks to advance notice from both Batkin and the T-2s, Team Zebra had been given plenty of warning before the scout car arrived. Enough to hide themselves under a thick layer of foliage, activate all of their countermeasures, and suspend use of their radios. That strategy had proven effective three times over the last few days. As the insistent thrumming noise generated by the scout car increased, and the downdraft from the Ramanthian repellers caused the treetops to thrash about, Santana and the rest of the legionnaires peered upwards. They hoped to escape notice one more time but feared they wouldn’t. And for good reason since it was clear from Batkin’s electronic intercepts that the bugs knew some sort of incursion had taken place.

How didn’t really matter, although there was the distinct possibility that the battle with the nymphs had been visible from space or that one of their patrols had stumbled across the body-strewn clearing. And, had the Ramanthian military presence on Jericho been larger, it was almost certain the team would have been interdicted by that time. But since there weren’t all that many soldiers on the ground, and those present had their pincers full guarding both civilian and military POWs, the aliens had been unable to bring a suffi?cient amount of bug-power to bear on the problem. Up until that point anyway. As if working in concert with Santana’s thoughts, the scout car paused almost directly above the hidden legionnaires and hovered, as if the Ramanthian troopers had seen something suspicious. If they had, and tried to report it, Batkin would “hear” and order the T-2s to fi?re. The scout car and its occupants would almost certainly be destroyed. But, rather than improve, conditions would almost certainly become worse. Because when the scout car failed to return, even more units would be sent to the area, and the team would soon be located. So everything was at stake as the enemy vehicle hung like a sword over the legionnaires’ heads.

But just when Santana feared that discovery was imminent, the engine noise increased, and the vehicle slid toward the north. No one moved. . . . And it was a good thing, too. Because the Ramanthians returned four minutes later. The scout car thrummed softly as it passed over them a hundred feet higher than before. They’re looking to see if anyone or anything went into motion after they left, Santana thought to himself. The bastards.

The team was forced to remain where it was for another hour before DeCosta felt it was safe to proceed. Precious time was lost, but the team had gone undetected. Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon was relatively uneventful. The company was able to make fairly good time since they had Batkin to scout the area ahead and guide them around obstacles.

Finally, as the sun started to set, Batkin led the team out into a shallow lake. It was the same lake the Confederacy POWs had been forced to cross on their way to Camp Enterprise. And it was then, as they passed through a grove of frothy-topped trees and entered the oily-looking water, that everyone got a good look at the space elevator hanging above them. The structure was very nearly pink at the moment, and incredibly beautiful, as it hung suspended halfway between day and night.

A line of poles led them out to the island at the center of the lake. It was the same spot where the POWs had camped for the night—and Cassidy had subsequently been roasted over a fi?re. Camping on a trail utilized by the Ramanthians clearly entailed some risk, but Batkin theorized that the marauding nymphs wouldn’t want to get wet, and DeCosta was willing to try it.

But rather than camp outside, as the POWs had, the major insisted that the entire team spend the night inside the half-buried building, where they were less likely to be detected from the air. The mazelike interior was a mess—

so work was required to make a section habitable. It was dark by the time carefully screened fi?res were lit, battle lamps came on, and the evening routine began. The second squad of the second platoon had guard duty. That left the rest of the legionnaires free to choose a section of fl?oor to sleep on and prepare a communal meal, a brew made more fl?avorful by the addition of nonissue sauces and spicy condiments.

Then, once the meal had been eaten, and the legionnaires’ mess kits had been washed in the lake, it was time for the so-called foot patrol, which was when Kia Darby, who doubled as a medic, went from person to person and inspected their feet. A none-too-pleasant chore, but an important one for any group of soldiers, including those who rode war forms all day. Because in spite of that advantage, the bio bods still had blisters caused by the continuous upand-down movement natural to riding a T-2. And most of them had a fungus known as J-rot (Jericho rot), which was resistant to every medication Darby could bring to bear—

except for the strange goo that Sergeant Ibo-Da conjured up from his Hudathan-style med kit.

It was different for the cyborgs however, who had no need for sleep sacks, improvised meals, or Darby’s roughand-ready medical care. They did require maintenance, however, and lots of it, which meant that once cybertechs Toolman and Bozakov had been checked by Darby, they went to work making whatever adjustments and repairs they could. The process normally consumed at least a couple of hours. Then, once that task was done, it was time for the weary technicians to work on the RAVs. Which was why neither legionnaire had to stand guard duty. Meanwhile, as the troops took care of routine matters, DeCosta was holding an impromptu strategy session in one of the boxlike rooms. The ostensible purpose of the get-together was to formulate a plan that would carry them from their present location to Camp Enterprise. But the truth was that DeCosta already knew how he wanted to proceed, and was primarily interested in getting the other offi?cers to concur, a pro forma agreement that would help cover his ass if anything went wrong. “The crux of the matter is this,” the little offi?cer said earnestly, as the light from a small fi?re lit his dark jowls from below. “The T-2s have been valuable up to this point, I concede that, but the tactical situation is about to change. The cyborgs generate heat, which in spite of their shielding, can be detected by Class III scanners like the ones we can expect to encounter at Camp Enterprise.”

Meanwhile, what none of the offi?cers knew was that legionnaire Jas Hargo was standing on the other side of the wall, listening to every word through a small crack. Listening, and becoming increasingly angry, as the strategy session continued.

“It’s a possibility,” Santana allowed politely. “But if Class III scanners were present, you would think the bugs would have nailed Batkin before he crossed the fence. Or later when he was inside the camp. Maybe we should ask him to join us.”

“You can’t be serious,” DeCosta replied incredulously.

“I mean think about what you’re saying man. . . . He’s one of them.”

“By which you mean cyborgs,” Farnsworth put in.

“Yes, or course I do!” the major replied irritably. “Don’t be thick, Lieutenant. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the fi?nal approach. . . . Stealth will be everything, surely you can see that, which means that ten-foot-tall electromechanical freaks will be a liability.”

Upon hearing himself described as a “freak,” it was all Hargo could do to prevent himself from putting an enormous shoulder to the wall and knocking it down on top of DeCosta. But that would be stupid because the serial killer had no desire to return to the pit.

“Stealth will be important,” Santana allowed, as he met the other offi?cer’s eyes. “But so will fi?repower. And that’s where the T-2s come in. Once we close with the camp, we’ll be up against a well-dug-in, numerically superior force. You’ve seen the pictures Batkin took. Without the cyborgs, we’ll never penetrate the fence.”

DeCosta was angry by then, and it showed. “You have a negative attitude, Captain. A very negative attitude. Something I will make clear in my after-action report.”

“You do that,” Santana replied grimly. “And be sure to include the following. . . . I formally protest your plan as being both unprofessional and contrary to the traditions of the Legion, since it’s clear that you intend to abandon part of your command on an enemy-held planet.”

“That’s absurd!” DeCosta responded hotly. “Once we enter the camp, and I assure you we will, the cyborgs will come forward to join us.”

“Maybe,” Farnsworth allowed cautiously. “But what if there isn’t enough time for that to occur? Or the bugs pin them down? The pickup ships aren’t likely to wait.”

“All of us are expendable,” DeCosta replied darkly.

“Even your precious freaks. And that brings this meeting to a close. Good evening, gentlemen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Servos whined, and a gigantic fi?st opened and closed in the room next door, as Santana and Farnsworth got up to leave. The ancient building was quiet after that, until morning came, and it was time for muster. The plan was to cross the rest of the lake before sunrise. That would take a while, especially since the bio bods were not only going to travel on foot but carry heavy packs as well.

There was a sizable entry hall on the west side of the building, and that’s where Santana was, adjusting the straps on his pack, when Farnsworth entered from outside. What light there was came from their helmets. “Excuse me, sir,”

the veteran platoon leader said. “But we have a problem.”

Santana frowned. “A problem? What sort of problem?”

“It’s Major DeCosta, sir,” the other offi?cer answered deliberately. “We can’t fi?nd him.”

Santana stood. “You searched the island?”

“Twice, sir. The last person to see the major was Sergeant Gomez. That was about two in the morning when the major made his rounds.”

Santana was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was bleak. “Was Private Hargo on sentry duty at that time?”

Farnsworth nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. He reports to Gomez. So, you think Hargo had something to do with the major’s disappearance?”

“It’s a possibility,” Santana said thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t want to put the theory forward without proof. Jericho is a dangerous place. All sorts of things could have happened. Let’s search the island one more time—and send Batkin up for a look-see. Even though it’s dark, the major’s heat signature should be visible assuming he’s alive.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Farnsworth replied hesitantly. “And if he isn’t? Or we can’t fi?nd him? Are the cyborgs going to remain here or come with us?”

“They’re coming with us,” Santana said grimly. “We’re going to need them. And there’s no way I’m leaving anybody behind.”

“Yes, sir!” Farnsworth replied cheerfully, and did a neat about-face.

Santana heard the whine of servos and turned to fi?nd Snyder looming over him. His helmet light wobbled up to her immobile face. “Is what they say true, sir? Does the major plan to leave us here?”

“I believe that was the major’s intent,” the platoon leader replied honestly. “But he’s missing. So, unless he turns up soon, I will be in command.”

“And you wouldn’t leave us, would you, sir?” the cyborg asked uncertainly.

“Are you kidding?” Santana demanded. “I’d have to walk! And you know how I feel about infantry regiments.”

Snyder made a deep rumbling sound that Santana knew to be laughter. And, because all of the T-2s could communicate with each other by radio, the rest of the cyborgs were aware of the XO’s comments within a matter of minutes.

Jas Hargo couldn’t smile. The cyborg simply wasn’t capable of doing so. But he felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction when the fi?nal word came down ten minutes later. DeCosta was missing, Santana had assumed command, and the bio bods were going to mount up.

The entire outfi?t was under way ten minutes later, minus Major Hal DeCosta that is, who lay about fi?fteen feet offshore with a 150-pound block of stone on his chest. His head, which had been torn off, rested fi?fty feet farther out. There were witnesses, of course, but none of them were sentient, or could ever be called upon to testify. They were hungry however—and eager to eat their fi?ll. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Winter was almost over, so half of the underground storeroom was empty and would remain so until more bags of fl?our arrived in the fall. That meant there was plenty of space in which to have a meeting one level below the fl?oor where the bakery’s ancient ovens continued to produce bread for the citizens of Naa town.

With a single exception, all of those present in the room were Naa, and therefore uniformly suspicious of the blond man who sat below a dangling glow rod, his hands on his knees. His name was Sergi Chien-Chu, and while decidedly male, didn’t really think of himself as human anymore. Not since his brain had been removed from his dying body and installed in the fi?rst of what would eventually become a succession of cybernetic vehicles. The latest of which had been fashioned to resemble that of a twenty-fi?ve-year-old human male. “So, human,” the baker growled. “The entire council is here. Just as you requested.

Now tell me why we shouldn’t remove your head—and turn it in for the one-million-credit reward that the government is offering?”

“Because doing so would be messy,” Chien-Chu replied calmly. “Not to mention the fact that I’m still using it.”

Though town dwellers now, most of the council had been warriors once, and chuckled appreciatively. Although he was alone, and unarmed, the human wasn’t afraid. Or, if he was, had the ability to hide it. A truly Naa-like quality and one they admired. “But, more to the point,” the businessman continued, “I’m here because the Confederacy needs your help. President Nankool is alive, but being held by the Ramanthians, who don’t know they have him. By announcing that fact, Jakov may cause the president’s death, or provide the bugs with leverage they wouldn’t otherwise have, thereby threatening the Confederacy. And I believe that you have the power to stop it.”

“Surely you jest,” the local undertaker put in cynically. He had craggy features and black fur interspersed with streaks of white. His clothes were dark—and his boots were caked with mud. “President Nankool . . . President Jakov . . . It hardly matters to us. Back before the Confederacy came into existence, we were oppressed by the human empire. Now that the Confederacy exists, we are still oppressed. Nothing has changed.”

“That isn’t true,” Chien-Chu responded simply, and pointed up toward the glow rod that dangled above him.

“Where does the power for that light come from? What about the medical care the townspeople receive? And the money in your pockets? All of them fl?ow from the Confederacy. Is it perfect? Hell no, and I should know, because I helped create it.”

There was a buzz of conversation as the dozen or so council members consulted with each other before a candlemaker named Nightwork Waxman stood. He had tan fur with white tips, and a pair of bifocals were perched on the end of his nose. “You are President Chien-Chu?”

“I was president,” the businessman admitted. “But that was a long time ago.”

“I met you once,” the candlemaker said. “We shook hands. But you look different now.”

“My brain is the same,” Chien-Chu responded. “But the body is new. You could think of it as the civilian equivalent of a T-2.”

“All of which amounts to nothing,” the undertaker grumbled. “Who cares what was? It’s what is that counts.”

“And I couldn’t agree more,” Chien-Chu said as he eyed the faces around him. “So let’s talk about what is. The Naa people have their own government now, with Senator Nodoubt Truespeak to speak for them, and a future that looks bright. But only if people like Jakov can be prevented from hijacking the duly elected government. And that’s what he’s trying to do.”

“But how?” the butcher wanted to know. He was a burly male still clad in the bloodstained apron he’d been wearing when summoned. “We were told that there were checks and balances to prevent anyone from taking over.”

“And there are,” the cyborg agreed patiently. “And the system would have worked, except that Jakov had all of the people who might oppose him arrested and placed in the pit. General Bill Booly among them.”

That announcement caused quite a stir, because every one of them knew that General Booly’s grandmother had been Naa, and that he had always been sympathetic to their people. Furthermore, the locals knew Booly was married to Chien-Chu’s niece, the female credited with saving Senator Truespeak’s life not long before. All of which played into the complicated system of clan ties, blood debts, and deed-bonds that held Naa society together. So, now that Booly was in the mix, the already lively discussion grew even more heated, which forced Chien-Chu to sit and wait.

But the billionaire was a patient man and, because of the many capabilities built into his electromechanical body, could pursue other activities while the debate raged. One of which was to monitor the squad-level radio traffi?c generated by the off-planet marines assigned to track him down. The jarheads weren’t familiar with Algeron, or the Naa people, which was why no one other than a few juveniles would agree to speak with them. Not that Jakov and Wilmot had much choice where troops were concerned, since Booly was popular with his legionnaires, who were already starting to grow restive.

Chien-Chu’s thoughts were interrupted as the baker spoke. “The council agrees that there is truth in what you say. But what would you have us do? The fort has withstood countless attacks.”

“I agree,” the cyborg answered. “An attack on Fort Camerone would be pointless. “No, the real opportunity is to recruit some ex-legionnaires and smuggle them inside. Once within the walls, they will go down to the pit and free General Booly. It’s my opinion that both the prisoners and the Legion will support him. Jakov will be forced to plead his case in the Senate, and once all of the facts are made known to them, I believe the senators will make the right decision.”

“But how?” the baker asked for the second time. “How will we get the ex-legionnaires inside the fort?”

“That’s a good question,” Chien-Chu answered, as he transferred his gaze from the baker to the undertaker. “Tell me, Citizen Deepdig, how many bodies do you remove from the fort each day?”

The Naa frowned. “Three or four on average . . . Mostly from the hospital.”

“And once the bodies have been buried, what happens next?”

“My number two son takes replacement coffi?ns back inside,” Deepdig answered. “They are custom-made to Legion specifi?cations and . . .”

The undertaker paused at that point, his face lit up with understanding, and the council member smiled.

“You are clever human—I’ll say that for you.”

The rest of the council chuckled, food was summoned, and the real work began.

15.

A single look at the enemy’s defenses is more valuable than a thousand additional warriors.

—Naa folk saying of indeterminate originDate unknown

THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The Thrakies were an industrious people, and during the relatively short period of time they had been in control of Starfall, entire cities had been constructed. Cities in which most Thrakies chose to live after spending generations on tightly packed ark ships. But some of the more adventurous citizens had begun to construct vacation homes in the surrounding countryside. A trend Ex-ambassador Alway Orno had taken advantage of by renting a small house, which subsequent to his death, the Egg Orno was forced to live in.

Though pleasant by Thraki standards, it was terribly isolated, located mostly above ground, and uncomfortable. Everywhere the Egg Orno looked she saw angles instead of curves, stairs where ramps should have been, and ceilings that were far too low. In fact it was only in the basement, where Alway’s presence could still be felt, that the female felt halfway comfortable.

It was a large room, which the ex-ambassador had apparently prepared with her comfort in mind and clearly preferred himself. As the Ramanthian prepared to sort through her mate’s belongings, she was still in the process of recovering from the gunshot wound and ensuing surgery. The fact that she had survived the process was something of a miracle given the fact that the Thraki surgeons weren’t all that familiar with Ramanthian physiology. But, thanks to self-programming nano injected into the wound, she continued to recover.

Of course, Alway deserved most of the credit for saving her life. By placing his body in front of hers, the functionary had absorbed most of the bullet’s force. The female remembered the shock of the impact, a moment of free fall, and a profound darkness that rose to wrap her in its arms. All of which led the assassins to believe that she was dead.

But the Egg Orno wasn’t dead, even though at fi?rst she wished she was and contemplated suicide immediately after the operation. But as time passed, her mood changed. It had been stupid to believe that she could escape Hive undetected. The aristocrat knew that now. Both Chancellor Ubatha and the Queen had been determined to fi?nd Alway and kill him. With that realization came a deep and abiding anger. And a desire for revenge.

But how? The Egg Orno was not only ill, but without friends and vulnerable to a second assassination attempt. Because even though Alway was dead, there was no way to know how vindictive the Queen would be. That didn’t matter, though, not anymore, which was why the female was determined to go through her mate’s belongings no matter how painful the process might be. Because if the ex-diplomat had left anything useful behind, it was likely to be there among his personal effects.

The next couple of hours were spent going through Alway’s computer fi?les plus piles of printed documents. It seemed like a meaningless mishmash of material at fi?rst, until the Egg Orno came across a handwritten note that referred to “. . . the fi?rst payment from the Confederacy,”

plus a Thraki bank statement dated the next day, and a variety of other documents related to a rim world occupied by Ramanthian expatriates. Was that where Alway planned to take her? Yes, it seemed likely.

But the discoveries raised as many questions as they answered. Why would the Confederacy give money to her mate, the same individual who had caused them such grief? There had to be a reason. A good reason. And, if

“the fi?rst payment” had been received, then where was the second? Or the third? Those questions and more plagued the Ramanthian as she worked to knit all of the available facts into a coherent pattern. Unfortunately, she had very little to show for it once the process was over. So the Egg Orno went back and reviewed all the fi?les for a second time just in case something important had escaped her. But to no avail.

That left the aristocrat with nothing to do but rummage through her mate’s clothes in case something of value had been left in one of his voluminous pockets. But that search came up empty as well. So the female was busy refolding the garments when one of them caught her interest. The robe consisted of a rich shimmery cloth, which if she remembered correctly, was actually a photosensitive fabric. The ex-ambassador was not only proud of the device—but had demonstrated it for her on more than one occasion. The Egg Orno felt a tingle of anticipation as she searched for the ribbonlike connector. What images, if any, were stored in the robe she wondered? A boring meeting most likely. But even if she couldn’t see Alway, she’d be able to hear him.

Once the Egg Orno located the lead, she plugged it into the computer and pinched a series of budlike keys. Dozens of images appeared, but that was normal for anyone with compound eyes, and the Ramanthian found herself looking at a human being. A female, if she wasn’t mistaken—and an ugly one at that. Though not as fl?uent as her mate had been, the Egg Orno spoke serviceable standard, which enabled her to follow the conversation without diffi?culty. “My name is Kay Wilmot,” the alien said. “I am the assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”

The Ramanthian felt a sudden surge of excitement. Alway had met with a high-ranking Confederacy offi?cial!

Could this be it? What she’d been looking for? The aristocrat watched intently as the alien revealed that President Nankool had been captured and was being held on Jericho. It was valuable information. Or so it seemed to the Egg Orno. But what to do with it? Alway would have known what to do. She felt sure of that. But he was gone. However, rather than sit and worry at the problem, there was something more pressing the female had to take care of. And that was her mate’s funeral, a sad affair scheduled for the following morning. Where, if the Queen’s assassins wanted to fi?nish her, they would have the perfect opportunity.

But when the next day dawned clear and bright, and two of Alway’s Thraki friends joined the Egg Orno in front of the funeral pyre she had commissioned, she was the only Ramanthian present. So as the fl?ames rose to enfold the carefully wrapped body, there was no one other than her to extol the dead diplomat’s virtues or list his many accomplishments. A sudden wind took hold of the smoke along with her words and carried them east. A good omen according to Ramanthian traditions—but of no comfort to the bereaved widow.

Once the ceremony was over, and the fi?re had burned itself out, the Egg Orno shuffl?ed down the gentle slope toward the car she had hired. A Thraki was present to see her off. He had light brown fur, beady eyes, and prominent ears. “The ambassador didn’t receive much mail,” the offi?cial explained, as he offered her an envelope. “But what there was came through me. That’s an invitation to a reception at the Drac embassy. I know because I received one, too. Rumor has it that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa will attend.”

The Egg Orno felt something clutch at her stomach.

“The Hudathan?”

“Why, yes,” the Thraki replied mildly. “Do you know him?”

“We never met,” the Ramanthian replied bleakly. “But I know of him. . . . He fought a duel with my other mate and killed him.”

The offi?cial looked crestfallen. “I’m terribly sorry,” he mumbled contritely. “I was unaware of the connection, and I—”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the Egg Orno interrupted. “I would like to meet Triad Hiween Doma-Sa. Can I attend in Alway’s place?”

The Thraki swallowed uncomfortably. “Er, yes, I guess so. . . .”

“Good,” the Ramanthian replied. “I’ll see you there.”

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Thousands of eyes peered up into the azure blue sky as the specially equipped air car towed the free end of the space elevator south, toward the point where it would be captured by the ground crew and reeled into the forerunner ruins. Then, if all went well, the superstrong cable would be secured to the huge shackle-style fi?tting that had been installed there. And if things didn’t go well, then there would be hell to pay since both Commandant Mutuu and the War Mutuu had turned out to witness the historic moment from the comfort of a shaded pavilion and were unlikely to be very forgiving.

That added to the pressure Tragg felt as he and his slaves waited for the tubby air car to tow the 23,560-mile-long cable into position. From where the renegade stood, the whole thing looked like some sort of magic trick because of the way the space elevator hung seemingly unsupported under the vast canopy of blue sky.

But it was supported by the dreadnaught Imperator, which orbited high above. So the only problem was a variable wind, which presently sought to push the cable to the east, even as the air car fought to pull the shiny thread south.

And it should have worked, would have worked, except for one thing: The air car was not designed to function as a tug. So as the wind blew, and the operator began to use more power, the engine started to overheat, something the pilot became aware of as an audible alarm went off and a wisp of black smoke issued from the vehicle. Given all of the countervailing stresses involved, the Ramanthian knew that he had a minute, maybe less, in which to complete his mission.

“Drop the dragline!” the operator ordered, and felt a sense of relief as the troopers directly behind him wrestled a huge coil of rope up and over the side. The car bobbed in response, but because it was connected to the space elevator, couldn’t go far.

Tragg shaded his eyes as he looked upwards. A steady stream of smoke was pouring out of the air car by then, and the overseer felt a sudden stab of fear as the dragline fell toward the ground. Because the POWs were supposed to grab on to the line, and gain control of it before the space tether was released, but none of them were close enough to do so.

Meanwhile, as the engine began to cut in and out, the wind disappeared. That caused the air car to veer toward the west and the air strip. The pilot tried to compensate, but couldn’t overcome the tug’s inertia and gave the only order he could. “Release the cable!”

One of the crew members had been waiting for that very order and jerked a lever. The effect was to let the long, thin cable fall free of the air car. Because the dragline was connected to the free-swinging space elevator, it fl?ew across the surface of the airstrip like a three-hundredfoot-long whip.

Tragg screamed, “Catch it!” But the words came too late, as the dragline cut two Ramanthian troopers in half and went straight for the pavilion where Mutuu and his mate were up on their feet. The regally attired commandant hurled an invective at the pilot as the War Mutuu threw him down. And just in time, too, as the whiplike rope severed the pavilion’s roof supports and brought the entire structure crashing down around them. Thanks to the fact that most of the dragline’s kinetic energy had been expended, it was transformed from a whip into an elusive snake that slithered back and forth across the tarmac as if determined to escape into the jungle. The POWs, led by an infuriated Tragg, were in hot pursuit by then. But most of the prisoners were in such poor condition that they couldn’t run fast enough to catch up. Christine Vanderveen was one of the few exceptions. Not because the FSO was inherently stronger than the rest—but because of the extra food Tragg had forced her to eat. But none of that was on Vanderveen’s mind as she led the chase across the airstrip in an effort to capture the rope as quickly as possible and prevent reprisals. However, some of the other prisoners saw the situation differently, like the sailor who intentionally tripped the diplomat in hopes that the runaway space elevator would destroy itself. Nankool and the rest of the LG knew better, however, because in spite of the fact that the drag-rope was elusive, it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthians brought it under control with or without help from the prisoners. So as a bruised Vanderveen picked herself up, Commander Schell yelled at the POWs to “secure that goddamned line!”

And, when the wind in the upper atmosphere shifted slightly, they were fi?nally able to do so as a couple of POWs pounced on it. Then, as more bodies piled on, the rope gradually came under control.

But the task wouldn’t be over until the errant cable was safely shackled deep inside the forerunner ruins. Vanderveen was among those who began to pull the dragline across the tarmac toward a similar length of rope that led down into the ruins where it was attached to a winch. So once the two lengths of rope were joined, it was possible for the POWs to let go, while Tragg issued orders via a handheld radio.

Vanderveen saw the dragline jerk as the winch came on, and Tragg gave the POWs new orders. “It will take some time to remove all the slack,” the overseer informed them.

“That’s when the cable eye will come down—and the winch crew will need your help to secure it. So haul your asses over there and get to work. And that includes you, sweet cheeks.”

The last was directed at Vanderveen, and when combined with a conspiratorial wink, was suffi?cient to reinforce the notion that the two of them had a special relationship. The tactic had proven to be wickedly effective at driving a wedge between the diplomat and her peers in spite of efforts by people like Calisco to counter Tragg’s manipulations.

The result was a series of supposedly accidental bumps, guttural insults, and thinly veiled threats as the group of six raggedy POWs jogged toward the ruins. There was nothing Vanderveen could do but ignore the comments and keep her distance from the other prisoners as they entered the passageway that led back into what had originally been a steep pyramid. The top had been removed so that the space elevator could be anchored deep within—a laborious process that required weeks of hard labor and cost more than a dozen lives.

The cable eye was already in sight by the time Vanderveen and her companions entered the anchor chamber. There was a loud whining noise as the last fi?fty feet of dragline wound itself onto the drum, accompanied by a nearly deafening clatter, as a dozen metal pawls passed over the huge ratchet wheel positioned to secure the space cable once the correct amount of tension was applied. A decision that would be made by the Ramanthian engineer assigned to supervise the process. And, lest the prisoners attempt to interfere, fi?ve heavily armed troopers were present as well.

“You!” the Ramanthian said, as he pointed at Vanderveen and her companions. “Lift the pin and prepare to push it home.”

The “pin” was about six feet long and a half foot in diameter. And, thanks to the fact that the cylinder was made out of solid metal, it was heavy. So four prisoners were required to hoist the pin up off the fl?oor and position one end next to the enormous shackle.

“Here it comes!” someone shouted, as the winch pulled the cable eye down through the hole above. That was the signal for a second team of POWs to rush forward and grab the fi?tting. But there was still plenty of slack in the space cable, so when a strong gust of wind hit the line two thousand feet above them, the eye jerked upwards and took two marines with it.

There was a horrible scream, followed by a bloody rain, as one of the men was crushed against the edge of the overhead opening. “Hold!” the Ramanthian ordered sternly, as the winch pulled the cable eye down into the anchor chamber for the second time. Vanderveen held her breath as the loop entered the open shackle and waited for the Ramanthian to say, “Now!” The diplomat helped her fellow POWs lift the heavy pin and push it through the holes. The metal cylinder slid smoothly through the holes on both sides of the shackle, thereby locking the space tether in place. Metal rattled as the cable tested the strength of its mooring, the POWs fell back, and the most important part of the space elevator was complete.

What the Ramanthian engineer didn’t know was that the structure holding the shackle in place had been systematically weakened during the construction process, and while strong enough to do the job under normal circumstances, would come apart if subjected to excessive stress. Or that’s what the POWs hoped would happen. But there was a lot of guesswork involved, so no one could be sure.

It was late afternoon by that time, so the prisoners were marched along the edge of the airstrip past the Ramanthian who had been in charge of the overheated air car. He was dead by then, having been hanged from a light standard as an example to the rest of the troops. One of Tragg’s robotic monitors was waiting for Vanderveen as she entered the camp. The machine spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Your dinner will be served in ten minutes, Lieutenant Trevane. . . . Master Tragg is waiting.”

That was suffi?cient to earn the diplomat another barrage of verbal abuse from the rest of the prisoners. But to refuse would have been to sentence one of them to death. That left Vanderveen with no choice but to trudge across the compound to the gazebo, where the renegade sat waiting. “You’re covered with blood,” Tragg observed, as the young woman took her seat.

“Yes,” Vanderveen said matter-of-factly, as she examined the brown blotches on her upper chest and her arms.

“And so are you.”

Tragg didn’t like that, and his right hand strayed to a pistol. Vanderveen smiled thinly. “Go ahead,” she suggested. “Pull that gun and shoot me.”

The blond had said similar things before, and Tragg knew she meant it. The problem was that the naval offi?cer had been pushed so far, and for so long, that she no longer feared death. In fact, judging from the look in Trevane’s eyes, the young woman wanted to die. She still cared about those around her, however, and that provided the mercenary with the leverage he required. “Eat your food,” the overseer said coldly. “Or would you like to see someone else die?”

So Vanderveen ate her food. And it tasted good, and her body wanted it, and that made her feel guilty. Tears had begun to fl?ow, and were carving tracks through the grime on her cheeks, when a strange chittering sound was heard. The noise wasn’t that noticeable at fi?rst, but soon grew louder, as the foliage beyond the electrifi?ed fence began to rustle.

Tragg was on his feet by then and reaching for his rifl?e, as the fi?rst nymphs emerged from the jungle. They were fairly large by that time, about the size of the average tenyear-old boy, and very hungry. Their cognitive functions had increased, too—as evidenced by the way some of them probed the fence with long sticks. That produced a shower of sparks, which sent most of the juveniles scurrying back into the jungle. But they returned a couple of minutes later—and more appeared with each passing second. The chittering sound was much louder by then, loud enough to bring both Mutuus out of the headquarters building, as the acrid scent of nymph urine fi?lled the air. The Ramanthians up in the towers aimed their machine guns down at the juveniles but were clearly reluctant to fi?re. Vanderveen had left the gazebo by then and noticed something that should have been obvious before. The top of the electrifi?ed fence angled outwards, meaning the Ramanthians were more concerned about external attacks than prisoner escapes! Which meant they knew the nymphs could be hostile.

No sooner had the thought occurred to the POW than a spear fell from the quickly darkening sky, struck a sergeant in the upper thorax, and shattered his chitin. The soldier fell without making a sound, and the chittering increased. That was enough for Commandant Mutuu, who screamed, “Fire!”

But even as the machine guns began to chug, and the rattle of automatic rifl?e fi?re was added to mix, a loud cracking sound was heard. The tree that the nymphs had chosen to fall was well back in the jungle. But it soon became evident that the very top of the forest giant was within range of the fence as the mass of foliage descended on the camp. There was a crash, accompanied by an explosion of sparks, as the tree trunk fl?attened a section of fence. Within a matter of seconds the nymphs had swarmed up onto the newly created bridge and were following it in toward the center of the compound. Grenades went off, and body parts were hurled high into the air, as the guns continued to cut the invaders down. But there were plenty more—

and all of them were hungry for protein.

The prisoners had evacuated their barracks by then and were beginning to congregate at the center of the camp, when a fl?ight of fi?fty well-thrown spears rained down on them. A sailor screamed as one of the incoming missiles drove her to the ground. Vanderveen went to the rating’s aid but found there was nothing she or anyone else could do.

Within a matter of seconds more trees were falling, at least half of which missed the mark, but the result was to divide the Ramanthian machine-gun fi?re, which allowed dozens of nymphs to successfully enter the compound. Tragg and his Sheen robots were there to meet the chittering invaders. There was no way to know if the overseer was trying to defend himself or his Ramanthian employers, not that it made any difference.

But the nymphs could fl?y. And it wasn’t long before dozens of airborne attackers landed on the towers, which forced the Ramanthians on the ground to fi?re up at them or risk having their machines guns turned on themselves. Though not a military man, Nankool believed he knew what would happen next as he appeared at Vanderveen’s side. The president’s heavily bearded face was gaunt, and his voice was urgent. “Mutuu is going to call in an airstrike on the camp! Tell everyone to take cover! Do it now!”

So Vanderveen, along with other members of the LG, did the best they could to urge those prisoners still out in the open to roll under buildings, take shelter in latrines, or hide in any other place that might provide protection from both the fl?ying nymphs and the planes that were most likely on the way.

As the POWs scattered, each searching for his or her personal hole, the War Mutuu had taken to the fi?eld. Backed by two troopers armed with rifl?es, the warrior was standing in front of the main building, seemingly oblivious to the spears that fell around him. Light glinted off steel as his razor-sharp blade rose and fell. There was an audible ka-ching each time a head rolled, interspersed by rifl?e shots, as the soldiers kept fl?ying nymphs at a distance. But there was no further opportunity to observe the War Mutuu or anything else as a brace of ground-based aerospace fi?ghters roared overhead and began their bloody work. Not with bombs, which would have destroyed everything, but with rockets and guns. Not just around the perimeter of Camp Enterprise alone, but along the edges of the airfi?eld, where dozens of nymphs threatened to overrun the space elevator’s anchor point.

Vanderveen went facedown in the dirt as one of the fi?ghters made a gun run parallel to the south fence, and felt someone grab hold of her ankles. It wasn’t until after the diplomat had been pulled in under the dubious protection of the admin building that she turned to discover that her rescuer was none other than Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco. He grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! You gotta give the bugs credit. . . . They certainly know how to keep the kids in line.” The comment was punctuated by a series of explosions as one of the low-fl?ying planes made a rocket run to the north, and the ground trembled in response.

The fi?ght continued for another ten minutes, but came to its inevitable conclusion soon after that, as the surviving nymphs were driven back into the surrounding jungle. The fi?ghters made one last pass, and upon getting the all clear, turned back toward the north. A heavy silence hung over the camp as the smoke started to clear. Then, as the POWs began to emerge from their various hiding places, the Ramanthians went out to gather their dead. And not just the adult soldiers but the juveniles as well. A huge task, given that the casualties lay in drifts, but one they carried out themselves, in spite of the fact that slave labor was available. Adding to the horror of the situation was the fact that while some of the nymphs were wounded, none showed any inclination to surrender, and snapped at anyone who attempted to aid them. Shots rang out as they were put down.

The Ramanthians didn’t have tear ducts, so they couldn’t cry, but there was no mistaking the feeling of intense sorrow that hung over the camp as the sun dipped below the western horizon, and huge funeral pyres began to take shape. Because nameless though the attackers were, each nymph was born of the Queen, and a citizen of the empire. So when morning came the fi?res would be lit, the half-grown bodies would be purifi?ed, and the smoke would carry more than a thousand spirits away. But no matter how moving the process might be, Vanderveen knew she could never forgive the atrocities that the bugs had committed and watched clear-eyed as the Ramanthians harvested their dead. You think that’s bad?

the POW thought to herself. Well, just wait. . . . I may not live to see it. . . . But there’s more to come. Having completed the hike from the shallow lake to a point only two miles shy of Camp Enterprise, Santana and his company had gone into hiding. No easy thing to do where the ten-foot-tall cyborgs were concerned—and a task made even more diffi?cult by the heat that radiated from their bodies.

But unlike his dead predecessor, Santana was a cavalry offi?cer and therefore more knowledgeable regarding what the borgs could and couldn’t do. He knew the T-2s could not only operate underwater, where their heat signatures would be concealed, but do so for days if necessary. So rather than hide them in the jungle, Santana followed a river down to a series of stair-stepped pools, where the cyborgs were ordered to submerge themselves. The offi?cer knew that would be boring, but it would also be safe, and that had priority.

Having hidden the most formidable part of the team where aerial patrols were very unlikely to fi?nd it, Santana was free to turn his attention to Camp Enterprise. Thanks to what Oliver Batkin had accomplished earlier, the cavalry offi?cer already had an excellent idea of how the compound was laid out. But time had passed since the cyborg’s escape from the POW camp, which meant things could have changed. Not to mention the fact that Santana was hungry for the sort of tactical minutiae the government spy had no reason to collect. Like the location of drainage ditches, the exact disposition of the POWs, how many could walk, the precise number of Ramanthian troops inside the wire, the size of the quick-reaction force stationed at the airstrip, how many shuttles were parked on the tarmac, where the power core was located, the status of the space elevator project, and much, much, more. All of which would have a bearing on the plan of attack. In order to gather the necessary intelligence, Santana planned to send Batkin forward during the cover of darkness in the hope that the cyborg would be able to penetrate the camp’s perimeter and collect useful information. Meanwhile, Noaim Shootstraight, Dimitri Bozakov, and Santana himself were to infi?ltrate the area with an eye to fi?nding the best avenues of attack.

Farnsworth took exception to that part of the plan, suggesting it was foolish for the commanding offi?cer to take such risks, but his objections fell on deaf ears. Santana wanted to see the lay of the land with his own eyes, not just hear about it, so Farnsworth was left in command as the offi?cer and his scouts disappeared into the jungle. All three were lightly dressed, carried a minimum amount of equipment, and wore green-and-black face paint. It was midafternoon when they left the riverbank and entered the sun-dappled world of the forest. The fi?rst thing Santana noticed was the almost complete absence of the raucous jungle sounds he had grown used to. In their place was the sound of his own breathing, the steady swishswish of his pant legs as they rubbed against each other, and the occasional snap of a dry twig. Was their presence responsible for the change? Or was something else at hand? Unfortunately, there was no way to tell as the scouting party continued to weave its way between spindly vine-wrapped tree trunks.

But as the threesome continued to advance, and paused every now and then to look and listen, Shootstraight became increasingly concerned. Because the legionnaire had an extremely acute sense of smell, and as a light breeze pushed its way in from the west, it brought something with it. A scent so faint the Naa wasn’t sure what it was, until the chittering sound began. “Nymphs!” Shootstraight said urgently. “Quick! Climb that tree. . . . It’s our only chance!”

In spite of the fact that nothing had registered on his senses Santana had a great deal of faith in the Naa and reacted accordingly. Though not an experienced tree-climber, the offi?cer was in good shape, and there were plenty of footholds. Not to mention vines to pull on, which made the ascent easier and helped the legionnaires make their way up to the point where fi?ve branches shot out like spokes in a wheel. That created a natural place to stop as the fi?rst wave of nymphs passed below.

The offi?cer half expected the juveniles to pause and look upwards. But judging from the way they moved, the juveniles had a specifi?c destination in mind. Which, given the way they were headed, was the camp itself. That hypothesis proved accurate fi?fteen minutes later, when gunfi?re was heard, aerospace fi?ghters roared over the treetops, and a series of ground attacks began. “Holy shit,”

Bozakov said feelingly. “The little buggers are attacking their own kind!”

“And being killed by them,” Santana observed.

“What about the POWs?” Shootstraight wanted to know. “How will they fare?”

“They’re inside the fence,” the offi?cer replied optimistically. “So that should offer some protection.”

The Naa wasn’t so sure, especially given the fact that the bugs could fl?y, but decided to keep his doubts to himself.

The sounds of battle died away eventually, the sun went down, and there was a loud rustling as hundreds of nymphs retreated through the forest below chittering as they went. That was very frightening, especially since the bio bods couldn’t see and were so lightly armed. But while the juveniles were aware that protein things lived in the branches high above them, they also knew how elusive such creatures could be and made no attempt to scale the tree. Once the rustling noise died away, and usual night sounds began to reassert themselves, the scouts returned to the ground. Then, with Shootstraight in the lead, they continued the journey north. It was impossible to get lost because the swath of destruction created by the nymph army was like a superhighway that led straight to Camp Enterprise. Which, understandably enough, was very well lit. The lights were their cue to climb another tree and scope the compound from above, which Santana did with assistance from a pair of powerful light-gathering binos. That was when the offi?cer saw the way the fence had been breached, the crews working feverishly to repair it, and the less obvious activity beyond. But even with the illumination provided by the pole-mounted fl?oodlights it was diffi?cult to make out the fi?ne details of what was going on, so there was very little Santana and the other scouts could do but get some rest before the sun rose.

It wasn’t easy, but having tied himself in place with some light cord, the offi?cer eventually fell asleep. There were dreams, lots of them, and one face haunted them all. But Vanderveen was dead, as were his hopes, and all of the futures that might have been.

Bozakov heard the offi?cer mutter in his sleep and understood, because he had nightmares of his own, dreams so bad his squad mates had to wake him at times. But the bio bod knew it was important to let the offi?cer rest. Because the entire team agreed that if there was any one individual who could get them off Jericho, that man was Captain Antonio Santana.