When Duty Calls

When Duty Calls

William C. Dietz

ISBN: 1-4362-9054-6

For Allison Elizabeth Dietz,

in recognition of her courage, and determination.

1

The general who is skilled in defense hides in the most secret recesses of the Earth; he who is skilled in attack fl?ashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven.

—Sun Tzu

The Art of War

Standard year circa 500 B.C.

PLANET ORON IV, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

Captain Antonio Santana, Commanding Offi?cer of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC, felt a noticeable jerk as the CF-10 Assault Boat fell free of the Troop Transport Cynthia Harmon and began a gradual descent toward the nearly airless planet below. The lightly armed landing craft was accompanied by four Dagger 184 aerospace fi?ghters. That knowledge brought the cavalry offi?cer scant comfort, however, because he knew that once his largely untried company hit the surface of Oron IV, the navy wouldn’t be able to do much more than cheer them on. Or mourn their deaths. Santana felt his body fl?oat up off the surface of the jump seat, or try to, but a six-point harness held him in place. Behind the offi?cer, back in the CF-10’s crowded cargo bay, sixteen space-armored bio bods and nineteen cyborgs shared the heady combination of fear and excitement that precedes any combat insertion. And this one was worse than most. Because not only was half the company fresh from basic training, and had never been in combat before, but the raid was the type of mission normally reserved for the Marine Corps. Except there was a shortage of jarheads at the moment—which was why the Legion had been ordered to stand in for them. Making a bad situation worse was the fact that Major Liam Quinlan had assumed command of the 2nd Battalion while Santana was on leave. And for some reason the new CO was determined to fi?nd fault with everything the offi?cer did, a fact that had become obvious to the entire company and made the veterans resentful.

But Santana had dealt with diffi?cult commanding offi?cers before and been able to win most of them over by doing a good job. With that in mind, the cavalry offi?cer put all of his other concerns aside to focus on the task at hand. The pale orange planet seemed to swell as the CF-10 entered an atmosphere thick with methane, carbon dioxide, and nitrous oxide. Which was why the world was considered worthless, or had been until recently, when the war between the Ramanthian Empire and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings had begun. Suddenly everything was in fl?ux as old enemies became new friends, a new faster-than-ship communications technology began to reshape the way future wars would be fought, and planets like Oron IV were suddenly signifi?cant. Not as places for people to live, but as strategic jump points, where supplies could be pre-positioned for battles yet to come. Because, as Military Chief of Staff General Bill Booly liked to point out, supplies are the lifeblood of any army. Which, assuming the intelligence people were correct, was why the insectoid Ramanthians had chosen to establish a presence on Oron IV, a planet that lay well within the Confederacy’s gradually shrinking borders, was generally inhospitable to life, and rarely received visitors. All of which made it the perfect place for the bugs to hide a whole shitload of supplies while they got ready for the next big push. “Are you sure the chits are down there?” the copilot inquired dubiously. “There are no signs of electronic activity so far. . . . Maybe they went home.”

“That would be nice,” Santana replied over his suit radio.

“But odds are the bastards are lying low. That’s what I would do if I were them.”

All radio communications were being routed through the company-level Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system, which meant that Major Quinlan could monitor the company’s progress from the well-padded comfort of the Harmon’s Command & Control Center (C&C) and participate in any conversation he chose to. “I don’t think any of us care what you would do if you were a Ramanthian,” Quinlan commented caustically. “So, stow the bullshit, and stick to your job.”

The copilot looked back over her shoulder as if to apologize, and Santana shrugged, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.”

Meanwhile, back in the cargo bay, Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich frowned. The hollow-cheeked noncom had served with Santana before. First on LaNor, where a consortium of off-world governments had been forced to battle the Claw, and then on Savas, where elements of the 1st REC took part in a raid that required them to traverse hundreds of miles of hostile territory. So Dietrich not only knew what the cavalry offi?cer was capable of, but was familiar with Santana’s combat record, which included two Medals for Valor and a Distinguished Service Cross. Complete with a newly added star. And, being a decorated veteran himself, Dietrich knew how divisive an offi?cer like Quinlan could be. Divisive, and if they weren’t careful, dead. Because it was the noncom’s opinion that every garden requires an occasional weeding. Both of the company’s quads were back by the loading ramp, where they could hit the ground fi?rst, backed by seventeen ten-foot-tall Trooper IIs, all of whom were clamped to the bulkheads, and fi?fteen bio bods, many of whom were looking at the “Top,” trying to gauge his reaction to Quinlan’s comment. Mindful of the fact that the major could hear anything he said, Dietrich grinned menacingly from behind his faceplate and aimed a one-fi?ngered salute up toward space. The legionnaires seated around the noncom laughed, and even though both of Santana’s platoon leaders witnessed the gesture, they were careful to ignore it. Partly because they had no love for Quinlan themselves, but mostly because they were afraid to get crosswise of the hard-eyed sergeant, and the veterans who were loyal to him. The net effect was to break the tension and simultaneously restore the company’s confi?dence in Santana. Because if Dietrich had faith in the captain, then it was obvious that they should, too.

The assault boat and its sleek escorts bucked their way down through multiple layers of turbulent gas until they could skim the planet’s arid surface. There wasn’t much to see other than frequent outcroppings of gray rock, dry riverbeds, and occasional forests of what looked like petrifi?ed trees. Then, after ten minutes or so, the landing craft’s boxy shadow rippled over the only man-made structures on the planet’s surface. The complex consisted of a rusty dome, a clutch of globular tanks, and a sand-drifted landing pad. The words “Madsen Mining” were still legible on the cracked duracrete if one looked hard enough. The entire facility was nestled within the open arms of three interlocking hills, which the map provided by Madsen Mining referred to as the Three Amigos.

“Bingo!” the copilot said excitedly, as she stared at the readouts arrayed in front of her. “That sucker is radiating way too much heat. . . . It looks like the chits took over the mine! Maybe we should tell the Dags to bomb ’em.”

“They’re too deep,” Santana replied wearily. “In fact, based on the schematic that Madsen Mining gave us, it looks like some of the major galleries are more than a thousand feet below the surface. Besides, there’s a war on, and some of those supplies could come in handy. . . . Put us down one mile to the west. Who knows what kind of weapons systems and booby traps the bugs have in place around the landing pad.”

Quinlan’s response came so quickly it was as if he’d been waiting to make it. “That’s a negative Alpha Six. Why give the enemy time to prepare? You will land on the pad—and do so immediately. Over.”

The pilot looked back over his shoulder as if to say,

“What now?”

Santana swore under his breath. He’d been hoping to avoid confl?ict, but if that was what it was going to take to protect his legionnaires, then that’s the way it would have to be. “Alpha Six to Zulu Six. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a lot of interference down here, and you’re breaking up. Over.”

The pilot grinned as Quinlan began to rant and rave.

“You’re lying, Santana. . . . And disobeying a direct order!

I’m going to—”

But whatever the major was going to do was forever lost as the copilot fl?icked a switch, and the relay went dead.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, knowing that the fl?ight recorder would capture her words. “It looks like we have some sort of com problem.”

“See what you can do with it,” the pilot replied calmly, as he brought the boat’s nose up and fi?red the repellers. “I have a ship to land. Thirty to dirt . . .”

Santana was already up out of his seat and making his way back into the cargo bay when the assault boat’s skids thumped down, the rear hatch whirred open, and the entire ship shook as Private Ivan Lupo lumbered down the ramp onto Oron IV’s reddish soil. The cyborg stood twenty-fi?ve feet tall, weighed fi?fty tons, and was supported by four massive legs. It was no accident that the so-called quad was the fi?rst legionnaire to hit dirt, because not only were Lupo’s sensors superior to those carried by the bipedal Trooper IIs (T-2s), but his gang-mounted energy cannons were more than a match for anything up to and including a Ramanthian battle tank. Not that Alpha Company was likely to encounter enemy armor on a backwater crud ball like Oron IV. Of course Lupo knew that “. . . assumptions can get you killed.” That’s what he and his buddies had been taught back in basic, and having already been executed for murder, the ex-con had no desire to die again. Not so soon at any rate.

Lupo assumed a defensive position about a hundred yards west of the landing craft, as Private Simy Xiong exited the ship and took up a similar position off to the east. As the second quad settled over her legs, Santana sent First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo’s platoon out to secure the rest of the perimeter. For many of the legionnaires it was the fi?rst time they had set foot on a potentially hostile planet, so even though there weren’t any visible signs of life, the entire outfi?t was amped. Amoyo, one of the few members of Alpha Company who had seen combat, was no exception as she rode her ten-foottall T-2 out onto Oron’s arid surface. From where the offi?cer stood, high on the cyborg’s back, she had an excellent fi?eld of vision. More than that, she was free to focus most of her attention on the fi?rst platoon rather than negotiate the raw terrain. That chore fell to Sergeant Amy Matos, formerly Corporal Amy Matos, who had been killed in action two years previously, and given a chance to re-up as a cyborg. Which was really no choice at all since Matos couldn’t afford even the cheapest cybernetic civbod, a vehicle that would allow her to look human even if certain biological functions were forever lost to her.

So Matos brought her weapons systems to condition-fi?ve readiness and cranked her sensors to high gain, as she circled the newly created perimeter. The cyborg could run at speeds up to fi?fty miles per hour, operate in Class I through Class IX

gas atmospheres, and fi?ght in a complete vacuum if necessary. And, thanks to her fast-recovery laser cannon, air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, and optional missile launchers, the T-2’s fi?repower equaled that of eight fully armed bio bods. Having completed a full circuit of the perimeter, and being satisfi?ed with the way her troops were positioned, Amoyo ordered Matos to pull up. “Alpha One-Six to Alpha Six. Over.”

Had Santana felt free to do so, he would have been the fi?rst bio bod off the ship. But the entire company was watching, and the offi?cer knew he couldn’t disembark with the fi?rst platoon lest the action be interpreted as a lack of faith in Lieutenant Amoyo’s judgment. And, given the fact that she was his executive offi?cer (XO) as well as the senior platoon leader, it was important to build her rep. So, Santana was standing in the cargo bay, monitoring the heads-up display (HUD) on the inside surface of his visor, when the call came in. “This is Six,” Santana replied calmly. “Go. Over.”

“The landing zone is secure, sir,” the platoon leader reported fl?atly. “Over.”

“Roger, that, One-Six,” Santana replied. “Keep your eyes peeled. Out.”

Based on previous experience, Santana knew that his other platoon commander, a young second lieutenant named Gregory Zolkin, had a tendency to be excessively wordy where his reports were concerned. He hoped the untried offi?cer had been paying attention to Amoyo’s succinct style as the two of them made eye contact. Both were sealed inside full body armor, so what might have otherwise been a casual interchange was made more formal by the need to use radio procedure, which was required whenever a conversation took place on the company-level push.

“Alpha Six to Bravo One-Six,” Santana said. “Based on the amount of heat that’s escaping from the mine shaft, there’s a very real possibility that the bugs are hiding out below, waiting to see if we’ll go away. You and I will take the fi?rst squad and knock on the front door. Meanwhile, Alpha Six-Two will take the second squad and circle around behind the hills. His job will be to locate the back door. And believe me—there is one. Do you have any questions? Over.”

Zolkin had lots of questions. Not the least of which was would he make an ass of himself, shit his suit, or get killed?

But, being unable to actually ask those questions, the lieutenant gave the only answer he could. “Sir, no, sir. Bravo One-Six out.”

Santana hadn’t discussed the plan with Dietrich in advance, but such was the relationship between the two men that the noncom had anticipated such an assignment, and was ready for it. Because if a substantial number of chits were allowed to surface in the wrong place, the results could be disastrous. And rather than download the task to Zolkin, Santana had given the job to his company sergeant, knowing Dietrich had more than enough experience to handle it. “Okay,” Santana said evenly. “Let’s hit the dirt. Six out.”

More than a thousand feet below Oron IV’s harsh surface, Subcommander Sig Byap sat within a pressurized chamber and watched the Confederacy ship lift. It was just what he’d been hoping for, except that rather than take the alien soldiers along with it, the reentry-scarred vessel had deposited them on the surface, where the ugly-looking creatures were pumping air into a fi?eld hab.

The Ramanthian swore as the assault boat hovered for a moment and stirred up a vortex of dust before crossing the defensive perimeter and accelerating away. Then, as a large knot continued to form in his belly, the offi?cer watched a four-legged cyborg turn and “look” his way. Missile racks appeared along both sides of the quad’s hull—and there was a momentary fl?ash of light as one of them fi?red. Camera 36 went dark a fraction of a second later. Having missed the carefully concealed surcams during initial sweeps of the area, it appeared that subsequent efforts had been more successful, as 92 percent of Byap’s surveillance devices were taken offline. That meant the eggless scum knew about the subsurface storage facility and intended to capture or destroy it, which the degenerates would very likely be able to accomplish thanks to the amount of fi?repower they had. However, given that Byap was a sworn member of the Nira, a fanatical group of offi?cers for whom surrender was unthinkable, there was only one choice: fi?ght to the death. Not something Byap lusted after the way some Ramanthians did, but a perfectly acceptable outcome given the needs of his people. Because with fi?ve billion newly hatched citizens to care for, the empire was in need of everything. Especially real estate. Which was how the war had begun—and why he and his troops were about to die.

The Ramanthians preferred to live underground, so while somewhat monotonous, life inside the mine had been acceptable up until that point. Video screens, most of which had been rendered dark, covered a rocky wall. They were fronted by a curved control console, fi?ve saddle chairs, and the same number of technicians.

Byap was seated behind them, and swiveled around to face a heavily armed fi?le leader named Beeb Nohar. Having responded to the general alarm, the offi?cer was dressed in powerassisted space armor that would not only protect the soldier from a complete vacuum, but enable him to rip a legionnaire’s head off should that be necessary. The helmet that Nohar held clutched in the crook of his right arm incorporated side-mounted black portals through which his compound eyes would be able to see, and a hook-shaped protuberance designed to accommodate his parrotlike beak. The fi?le leader listened impassively as Byap spoke. “The automatic defenses located in the vicinity of the main lock won’t be suffi?cient to stop them,” the subcommander predicted. “Confront the animals in the main corridor and show no mercy. I will take File Two, exit through the escape shaft, and attack the troops on the surface.”

The plan made sense, given the circumstances, even though it couldn’t possibly succeed. But both of Nohar’s mates had been killed on Infama VI, and he was eager to join them in paradise. “It shall be as you say,” the fi?le leader agreed stoically, and came to the Ramanthian equivalent of attention. Byap stood. “You are a fi?ne offi?cer,” the subcommander said feelingly. “The Queen would be proud. Dismissed.”

Once Nohar was gone, and the technicians had been released to rejoin their units, Byap shuffl?ed over to the control console, where he removed the wafer-shaped device that dangled from his neck and slipped the object into a waiting slot. A gentle whir could be heard as a remote appeared, and the offi?cer took possession of it. There wasn’t a single member of his command who wasn’t aware of the strategically located demolition charges that had been pre-positioned throughout the mine. But being aware of a potential calamity, and knowing it’s about to occur, are two different things. So the offi?cer thought it best to pocket the device when none of his subordinates were present to see him do so. Especially given the fact that once the charges went off, the entire mine would collapse, killing everyone inside.

From all appearances it looked as if someone or something had bypassed the dome’s heavy-duty lock by hacking a huge hole in the habitat’s metal skin. The Ramanthians? Possibly, although Santana had his doubts, as Sergeant Omi Dekar carried him through the ragged opening. There wasn’t much to see as the T-2’s headlight swept back and forth across the nearly empty interior. In fact, it looked as if the place had been gutted years before. By humans most likely, looking to strip the mothballed facility of electronics, or anything else that could be sold on the black market.

Having found nothing of interest inside the dome, the legionnaires made their way toward the small blocky building that served as the entry point to the mine below. The terrain, not to mention piles of rusty pipe and pieces of old mining equipment, conspired to funnel the squad through a narrow passageway. Was that a matter of chance, Santana wondered? Or the result of careful planning? “Take it slow,” the cavalry offi?cer cautioned. “And keep your eyes peeled for booby traps.”

That was good advice, as soon became apparent, when Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty spotted two pieces of pipe that stuck up out of the ground like gateposts and motioned for those behind her to stop. What caught her attention was the fact that anyone who wanted to approach the main lock would have to pass between the head-high pylons. The NCO

dropped to the ground, made her way over to a pile of scrap, and selected a small piece of sheet metal. Harsh sunlight glinted off the object as it sailed between the pipes. Lieutenant Zolkin, who had been somewhat skeptical until then, watched in slack-jawed astonishment as a bolt of bright blue electricity jumped from one pole to the other and punched a hole through the scrap of sheet metal as it did so. Then, having completed its task, the system returned to standby. The platoon leader couldn’t hear the sizzle from inside his suit, but there was nothing wrong with his imagination, so he could easily visualize what would have occurred had he been allowed to lead the rest of the squad through the narrow passageway. Would his armor have been suffi?cient to protect him from such a device? Maybe, Zolkin concluded, and maybe not.

The electrifi?ed posts were quickly slagged by the T-2s, thus allowing the entire team to pass unharmed. “Okay,”

Santana said over the squad-level com channel. “That confi?rms what we already knew. . . . The bugs are in residence, so stay sharp.”

And they were sharp, or as sharp as they could be, but some traps are diffi?cult to detect. As the legionnaires learned when Private Mak Matal put his full weight on a sand-swept pressure plate and triggered a carefully shaped charge. The explosion blew both the T-2 and his rider into a thousand fragments. They soared upwards until gravity took over and began to pull them back down. The bloody confetti had a tendency to bond with anything that it came in contact with. Including the legionnaires themselves. The disaster was so unexpected that even Santana was shocked, especially since he, Zolkin, Yanty, and their T-2s had safely crossed the very same spot only moments before. Killing the fourth person, or in this case persons to pass over the mine was a tactic intended to infl?ict casualties, sow the seeds of doubt, and terrorize those who survived. That was bad enough, but having lost one-third of Yanty’s squad, Santana was even more concerned about the unit’s ability to defend itself as the survivors came together in front of the main lock. “Check the hatch for booby traps,” Santana ordered tersely. “And, if it comes up clean, blow it.”

Zolkin felt as if he should be giving orders, or helping somehow, but found that it was diffi?cult to see. So he reached up to wipe the muck off his face shield, realized what the bloody sludge was, and threw up in his helmet. The vomit ran down the offi?cer’s chin, found its way past his neck seal, and dribbled into his suit. The stench was sickening, and Zolkin felt an intense sense of shame, as his stomach heaved yet again.

“Get away from the hatch,” Santana ordered, as Yanty slapped a charge against the metal door and stepped to one side. All of the soldiers took cover as Yanty fl?ipped a safety switch and thumbed the remote. There was a fl?ash of light as the charge went off, followed by a cloud of dust, as air was expelled and an equivalent amount of Oron IV’s atmosphere rushed in to replace it. That was Private Oneeye Knifeplay’s cue to fi?re six grenades into the black hole in an effort to kill any chits that were waiting within. Santana couldn’t hear the explosions, but he could see flashes as the grenades went off, and sent pieces of razor-sharp shrapnel fl?ying in every direction. And even though the wait was only a few seconds long, there was still enough time to feel the fear seep into his belly. Matal and Bisby died the fi?rst time they went into combat, the soldier told himself. But even though you’ve been in combat dozens of times, you’re still alive. Why is that? And how many more doors can you walk through before your luck runs out?

There was no answer, just as Santana knew there wouldn’t be, and for some reason it was an image of Christine Vanderveen’s face that the cavalry offi?cer saw as he entered the swirling smoke. It might have been Camerone, in 1863, or Dien Bien Phu in 1953, or any of a thousand actions since, as the company commander waved his legionnaires forward.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Sergeant Yanty wanted to know, as the remainder of her squad stood frozen in place. “A frigging invitation? Let’s kill some bugs!”

Four bio bods and four T-2s entered the mine, and followed the gradually sloping shaft downwards, as their lights played across the rough-hewn rock walls. And that, according to File Leader Beeb Nohar’s way of thinking, was just fi?ne. It was a long way from the control cavern to the escape hatch located on the other side of the hills above, so Byap and the twelve troopers who accompanied him still had a ways to go, when they received word that the aliens had entered the mine. A price had been paid, however, a bloody price, and that gave the Ramanthian pleasure as he urged his soldiers forward. Blobs of light swung back and forth across rocky walls, and badly faded alien hieroglyphics could be seen here and there, as the Ramanthians shuffl?ed past a side gallery crammed fl?oor to ceiling with army rations. Finally, after fi?ve minutes of additional travel, the fi?le was forced to a stop in front of the emergency exit. Having checked to ensure that the lock’s surcam was operational, Byap took the time necessary to scan the external environment before proceeding any farther. Because once out in the open, the subcommander knew that his tiny force would be vulnerable to enemy cyborgs and the Confederacy’s aerospace fi?ghters. But the surcam revealed nothing other than a cloudless sky and the steep scree-covered slope that led to the iron-oxide-stained plain below.

Confi?dent that the immediate area was safe, Byap led his troopers into the lock and tapped a series of numbers into the human-style keypad. Sunlight splashed the lock’s interior and threw shadows against the back wall as the hatch cycled open. As Byap led the fi?le out onto the treacherous hillside, he knew speed was of the essence if he and his troops were to circle around and take the enemy by surprise. The Ramanthian knew that the ensuing battle would constitute little more than a gesture, but he wanted to die with honor. Such were Subcommander Byap’s thoughts as a .50-caliber bullet left the barrel of Private Mary Volin’s sniper rifl?e, sped through the air, and snatched a trooper off his feet. “That was a good one,” Dietrich commented, as he stood. The noncom’s face shield made the binos more diffi?cult to use, but the dappled body armor that the chits wore was easy to spot against the light gray scree.

Byap saw the trooper spin away, knew the bullet had originated from somewhere below, and spotted movement as a tiny fi?gure rose to look up at him. “There!” the offi?cer said, as he pointed at the alien below. “Kill him!”

And the Ramanthian troopers tried, but the second squad was more than a thousand yards away, which put the legionnaires well beyond the effective range of the Ramanthian Negar assault weapons. That left Volin free to peer into the 10X scope, pick her next target, and send a second armorpiercing slug spinning upslope. Byap swore as another trooper went down. Then, knowing that he had no choice but retreat, the subcommander turned and began to scramble uphill. The movement brought the offi?cer to Dietrich’s attention. “See the bug who’s leading the rest of them uphill?” the noncom inquired conversationally.

“Kill him.”

And Volin tried. But a sudden breeze came in from the west and gave the speeding bullet a tiny nudge. Not much, but enough to knock the slug off course, and momentarily save Byap’s life. But the 706.7-grain projectile still took the subcommander’s left arm off, turned him around, and dumped him onto the scree. And it was then, while staring up into an alien sky, that Byap remembered the remote. Time seemed to slow as the Ramanthian fumbled for the object and fi?nally found it.

The suit had sealed itself by that time, cauterized the terrible wound that he had suffered, and was busy pumping drugs into the offi?cer’s circulatory system. That made it hard to think, but the offi?cer forced himself to focus, as he struggled to break the remote’s safety tab. A simple task given two pincers, but diffi?cult with only one, especially when the enemy was shooting at you. Finally, having made use of a neighboring rock to break the tab off, Byap gave the device a squeeze.

There was no response at fi?rst, or that was the way it seemed to the Ramanthian, as troopers continued to fall all around him. But then the earth shook, the entire air lock was blown out of the hillside, and the scree began to move. That was when Byap knew his efforts had been successful—

and that the gates of paradise would open before him. Having forced his way into the mine, Santana expected to encounter stiff resistance from the Ramanthians and was surprised when nothing of that sort occurred. There was something oppressive about the rock walls that closed in around the legionnaires as the throatlike passageway took them deeper underground. What little bit of comfort there was stemmed from the fact that while small, his force packed plenty of fi?repower. Occasional lights cast an ominous greenish glow over tool-ripped walls as the fl?oor sloped steadily downwards.

As the squad pushed deeper into the mine, and his T-2’s powerful headlamp pushed its way into various nooks and crannies, Santana was careful to record everything his suitcam “saw.” That included the Ramanthian-made vehicles that were parked in turnouts, “bug” script that had been spray-painted onto the walls, and occasional sorties into side caverns stuffed with supplies. All of which would be of interest to Intel. But all the while the company commander couldn’t escape the feeling that he and his companions were under surveillance as the T-2s monitored their sensors and their lights probed the murk ahead. But there was nothing to see until the trap closed around them. The mine was a maze of cross tunnels and vertical access shafts. So by hiding two levels above the main tunnel, and dropping spiderlike into the main passageway, the Ramanthians were able to land behind the legionnaires and thereby block their escape route. That was the plan anyway, and it would have been successful, had it not been for Lieutenant Zolkin. Having been assigned the drag position, and given strict orders to “. . . Watch our six,” the offi?cer’s T-2 had been forced to walk backwards much of the time.

Even so, if the offi?cer hadn’t been so clumsy as to drop a bag of grenades, which he was then forced to jump down and retrieve, Nohar might have been able to land his fi?le undetected. But such was not the case as Zolkin lifted the sack, saw a space-armored Ramanthian appear out of nowhere, and threw a grenade up corridor. All without pausing to think about it. The enemy trooper was blown to smithereens, and Zolkin was back on Tebo before the rest of the squad could respond. The sequence of actions earned the platoon leader a precious “well done” from Santana.

Thanks to the early warning, the legionnaires were able to fi?ght their way back toward the main lock even as a dozen heavily armed troopers fell on them, and the interior of the mine shaft was transformed into a hellish nightmare of strobing muzzle fl?ashes, exploding grenades, and wildly swinging lights. “Form on me!” Santana ordered. “Pull back toward the lock!”

Having only a small force of T-2s, and facing an unknown number of enemy troops, Santana knew he was in trouble. The decision to enter the mine had been a gamble, one he regretted, so it was time to salvage what he could. Once the ambush site was behind them, the offi?cer ordered the T-2s to turn and fi?re as a group, before making a run for the lock. And it was then, as the cyborgs began to pick up speed, that the ground started to shake. Clouds of dust and smoke were injected into the main tunnel even as slabs of rock fell from above and holes opened in the fl?oor. And that’s where Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty and her T-2 went, as a fi?ssure appeared in front of them, and Private Su Hopson stepped into the hole.

Santana, who had intentionally stationed himself at the tail end of the fl?eeing column, swore as the twosome disappeared and daylight appeared up ahead. “Run!” the offi?cer shouted, as a wall of smoke, dust, and fl?ying debris began to overtake the legionnaires from behind. “Run like hell!”

But the T-2s needed no urging, and were already moving as quickly as they could when the fi?nal charges went off, and a plug of poisonous air helped expel them from the mine. It was dark inside the dust cloud, but the cyborgs could “see”

with their sensors and were able to keep going until the smoke fi?nally cleared and it was possible to stop. Dekar turned to look back, which meant Santana did as well, not that there was much to see. A pile of rubble marked the spot where the entry lock had been. The dust cloud was starting to disperse and the hill off to the right had been scarred by a new landslide.

The essence of the mission, which was to confi?rm that the Ramanthians were present, and dislodge or kill them, had been achieved. But at what cost? Half the squad had been killed, and thousands of tons of potentially useful supplies were buried in the mine. All of which left Santana feeling more than a little depressed as he led his troops back toward the company’s temporary base. Stars started to twinkle as the sun set, darkness claimed the land, and the long bloody day came to an end.

ABOARD THE TROOP TRANSPORT CYNTHIA HARMON

More than one standard day had passed since the battle inside the mine, the loss of four legionnaires and thousands of tons of supplies. All of which weighed heavily on Santana as he made his way down the ship’s main corridor to the cabin assigned to Battalion Commander Liam Quinlan. Where he expected to get his ass royally chewed. Or, worse yet, face formal charges. Private Kay Kaimo had been assigned to stand guard outside Quinlan’s door. The legionnaire came to attention as her company commander approached and rendered a rifl?e salute with her CA-10. Santana responded with a salute of his own, rapped his knuckles on the knock block next to the hatch, and waited for a response. It came quickly.

“Enter!”

Santana took three paces forward, executed a smart right face, and took one additional step. That put him directly in front of the Battalion Commander as he came to attention. It was widely known that Quinlan was fi?fty-six years old, had been passed over for lieutenant colonel on two different occasions, and would have been forced into retirement had it not been for the war. As the Confederacy’s armed forces began to ramp up in order to deal with the Ramanthians, there was a desperate shortage of experienced offi?cers. That meant Quinlan, and others like him, were likely to be promoted. Santana’s eyes were focused on a point about six inches above the other man’s head, but he could still see quite a bit. The man in front of him had small, piggy eyes, prissy lips, and pendent jowls. His uniform was at least half a size too small for him and tight where a potbelly pushed against it. Quinlan nodded politely. “At ease, Captain. Have a seat.”

The invitation came as something of a surprise to Santana, who fully expected to receive his tongue-lashing in the vertical position, consistent with long-standing tradition. The navy had provided two guest chairs, both of which were bolted to the deck, and Santana chose the one on the right. The cabin was three times larger than the box assigned to him and was intended to serve Quinlan as offi?ce, conference room, and sleeping quarters all rolled into one. However, unlike most of the Legion’s senior offi?cers, who saw no reason to personalize a space soon to be left behind, Quinlan was known to travel with a trunkful of personal items calculated to make his tent, hab, or stateroom more comfortable. For that reason all manner of photos, plaques, and memorabilia were on display, items that would quickly be transformed into a galaxy of fl?oating trash were the Harmon’s argrav generators to drop off-line. But that wasn’t Santana’s problem, so the company commander kept his mouth shut as Quinlan selected an oldfashioned swagger stick from the items on the top of his desk and began to twirl it about. “So,” the major began. “I read your after-action report, and while it was essentially correct, it was my opinion that you were excessively hard on yourself.”

Santana, who was still in the process of recovering from what he considered to be a fl?awed performance, was astounded. “If you say so, sir,” the cavalry offi?cer replied cautiously. “But I continue to feel that our casualties were too high—and I regret the loss of those supplies.”

“Nonsense,” Quinlan said dismissively. “The Navy will dig the supplies out in a matter of weeks. You did all anyone reasonably could. . . . That’s why I took the liberty of rewriting certain sections of your report, which I would like you to read and sign. Go ahead,” the senior offi?cer said invitingly, as he made use of the swagger stick to push the hard copy in Santana’s direction. “Take a look.”

Quinlan tapped his right cheek with the leather-clad stick as Santana skimmed the words in front of him. The essence of the situation quickly became clear. While ostensibly changing the report so as to benefi?t one of his subordinates, Quinlan was actually taking care of himself! Because he would remain as acting battalion commander until such time as his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through. And even though that was pretty much a done deal, it wouldn’t hurt to pump some positive fi?eld reports into BUPERS while he was waiting. Especially if the incoming data addressed the area where the major’s résumé was the thinnest. Which was actual combat.

While Santana knew Quinlan had never gone down to the planet’s surface, those who read the report would assume he had, and would give the portly offi?cer at least partial credit for what would appear to be a successful mission after Santana’s self-critical comments had been removed. When the cavalry offi?cer’s eyes came up off the last page, Quinlan’s were waiting for him. “So,” the major said mildly. “Unless you spotted a factual error of some sort, I would appreciate your signature.”

Santana wanted to object—but had no grounds to do so other than his suspicions. Which, were he to voice them, would sound churlish and ungrateful. So, there was nothing he could say or do, other than to sign the report and return the stylus to Quinlan’s obsessively neat desk. “Excellent,”

the other man said, as he took the hard copy and put it aside. “Now that we have that out of the way we can talk off the record. Man-to-man if you will. Beginning with your proclivity for insubordination.”

It was at that point that Santana understood how skillfully he had been manipulated. Though unwilling to cast the outcome of the mission in a negative light where offi?cial records were concerned, lest that spoil his long-awaited promotion, Quinlan was free to say whatever he chose. The hatch was open too, which meant Private Kaimo was intended to hear, so she could share the high-level drama with her peers.

“Yes,” the major continued, as if in response to an unvoiced objection from Santana. “Gross insubordination. Which, if it weren’t for the pressures of combat, I would feel compelled to put into writing.”

My God, Santana thought to himself. He’s speaking for the record! On the chance that I’m recording him!

“But it’s my hope that a verbal warning will suffi?ce,”

Quinlan said reasonably. “When I give orders, I expect them to be obeyed, regardless of the circumstances. Understood?”

There was only one answer that the cavalry offi?cer could give. “Sir, yes sir.”

“Good,” Quinlan said contentedly. “It’s my hope that you will prove to be a more reliable leader than your father was.”

The surprise that Santana felt must have been visible on his face because the other offi?cer reacted to it. “Yes,” Quinlan confi?rmed. “Back when I was a newly hatched lieutenant, and your father was a staff sergeant, we served together. Unfortunately, I found Sergeant Santana to be a somewhat hardheaded young man who was frequently disrespectful and occasionally insubordinate. Which is, I suppose, how you came by it.”

“Top” Santana had been killed fi?ghting the Thraks inside the Clone Hegemony. During the years prior to being admitted to the academy, Santana had spent very little time with his father. No more than twelve months spread over eighteen years. Just one of the many disadvantages of being born into a military family. But Santana remembered the man with the hard eyes, knew what he expected from the offi?cers he reported to, and could imagine the extent to which Second Lieutenant Quinlan had fallen short. “Yes,” the cavalry offi?cer replied gravely. “My father made a strong impression on me.”

“Enough said,” the major replied, as if conferring a favor.

“We’ll be back on Adobe six days from now—where we can build on this experience to make the battalion even more effective. Dismissed.”

Most of us are going back, Santana thought to himself. But four of our legionnaires will remain here. The dark-haired offi?cer rose and saluted.

Quinlan made use of his swagger stick to acknowledge the gesture, let the back of the chair absorb his considerable weight, and watched Santana leave. I own you, the offi?cer thought to himself. And, when the need arises, I will spend you as I see fi?t.

2.

And a great pestilence will be upon the stars, as billions are born, and billions must die.

—Author unknown

The Pooonara Book of Prophecies

Standard year 1010 B.C.

ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN CARRIER SWARM

The carrier was in hyperspace, so the enormous hangar bay was pressurized as General Oro Akoto looked out over the two thousand eight hundred members of the Death Hammer Regiment. The Hammer, as it was popularly known, consisted of three battalions of crack troopers who were all standing at attention as they waited for the new Queen to appear. They were dressed in ceremonial attire, rather than combat armor, and stood with their wings respectfully vertical. The air was thick with the combined odors of chitin wax, cold metal, and ozone.

Akoto’s division included two other regiments as well, each on its own ship, as a Ramanthian Battle Group that consisted of more than fi?fty vessels prepared to strike deep into the Clone Hegemony. A powerful force, or that’s how it appeared, but the general knew better. The truth was that only one-third of the division, the regiment now before him, was truly battle-ready. The other regiments had been cobbled together from support battalions, reserve units, and so-called veteran volunteers. Meaning middle-aged warriors who were fi?t for garrison duty but not much else. However, the choice to use such a force was not motivated by desperation, but the Queen’s belief that it would be adequate for the job, even if Akoto wasn’t so sure. Would the previous sovereign have overridden his judgment? No, the old warrior didn’t believe so, but the new Queen was very different from the “great mother,” the much-loved monarch who had sacrifi?ced herself in order to bring more than fi?ve billion new citizens into the galaxy.

Akoto’s thoughts were interrupted by a ceremonial blare of foot-powered battle horns as the Queen shuffl?ed up a ramp to join him on the speaker’s platform. In marked contrast to the great mother, who had been incapacitated by her egg-swollen body during the fi?nal years of her life, the new monarch was not only extremely fi?t but dressed in spotless combat armor, signifying her intention to take the same risks her subjects did. It was a decision that horrifi?ed her advisors and thrilled the Ramanthian populace. As the so-called warrior queen arrived on the platform, and Akoto bent a knee, the offi?cer felt his body respond to the cloud of pheromones that surrounded the royal. The chemicals caused him and every other Ramanthian who came into contact with them to feel protective, receptive, and willingly subservient. The royal’s space black eyes glittered with intelligence as she motioned for the offi?cer to rise. “Good morning, General. . . . Or is it afternoon? It’s hard to tell sealed inside this ship.”

It was a simple joke. But one that made her seem more accessible. The banter was captured by the hovering fl?y cams that were present to record the moment for both historical and propaganda purposes. It was just one of the many tasks for which Chancellor Itnor Ubatha had responsibility. The civilian followed the monarch out onto the platform, took his place behind her, and felt a sense of satisfaction as he looked out over the warriors arrayed in front of the royal. Ramanthian citizens everywhere would feel a sense of pride as they watched their Queen address her troops prior to battle.

“Greetings,” the Queen said, as she stepped up to the mike. And that was the moment when the members of the Hammer realized that the royal was wearing armor identical to theirs. The high honor elicited a loud clack of approval as 5,600 pincers opened and closed at the same time.

“Seek approval, and enjoy its warmth, but under no circumstances come to rely on it.” That was one of the many teachings that the Queen had learned from her predecessor, which was why she made a conscious effort to discount the applause, and went straight to the point. Her much-amplifi?ed voice was piped into every nook and cranny of the ship. “By this time tomorrow, you will be on the surface of Gamma014 doing battle with the Clone Hegemony,” the royal said.

“There are two reasons for this. First, because the clones are human and will inevitably be drawn to their own kind. And second, because Gamma-014 is rich in a mineral called iridium, which we need for a multiplicity of applications.”

Ubatha had heard both arguments before but remained unconvinced. Yes, the clones came from human stock, but they believed themselves to be both morally and physically superior to the rest of the “free-breeding” species. That meant there was an opportunity to drive a wedge between the two groups, or would have been, had the royal been willing to pursue diplomacy rather than war. And there were plenty of other planets with signifi?cant deposits of corrosion-resistant iridium, so why go after Gamma-014?

Unless there was a third reason for the unprovoked attack, something the Queen wasn’t ready to share with even her most senior advisors—but would prove compelling once it was understood. Ubatha hoped so. Because the alternative was to conclude that the new sovereign wasn’t all that bright. A depressing thought indeed.

“You will have the element of surprise,” the Queen assured her troops. “And you will outnumber clone military forces two to one. But most importantly, you will be armed with the inherent superiority of the Ramanthian race, which is destined to rule the galaxy.” That was the line the regiment’s political offi?cers had been waiting for, and they took the lead as a resounding clack echoed between durasteel bulkheads.

“Finally,” the monarch concluded. “Know this. When you land on Gamma-014, I will land with you.”

That statement resulted in a storm of frenzied clacking, which continued even after the royal had left the platform and made her way down to the deck below. The people of Gamma-014 didn’t know it yet, but death was on the way.

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

The Ramanthian attack came without warning as dozens of warships emerged from hyperspace, quickly destroyed the tiny contingent of navy vessels that were in orbit around the planet, and spewed hundreds of aerospace fi?ghters into the atmosphere. There were no pronouncements from space and no requests for surrender, as the sleek aircraft began a carefully planned series of surgical strikes. Precision-guided bombs hit government buildings, leveled power plants, and fl?attened the main military base. The targeting data had been gathered by Ramanthian, Thraki, and Drac merchants during the preceding year. But, thanks to careful planning on the part of General Akoto, certain airfi?elds, roads, and bridges were spared. The reason for that strategy soon became apparent as a swarm of assault boats dropped out of space, bucked their way down through the planet’s frigid atmosphere, and sought their preassigned landing zones. There were only twenty-three major cities on the sparsely settled planet, so it wasn’t long before they were in enemy pincers, as the Queen landed and symbolically entered the rubble-strewn capital. The fact that she was carrying an assault rifl?e wasn’t lost on the population of the Ramanthian home planet when they saw the video less than an hour later. The propaganda coup would have been impossible back when messages were carried aboard ships or faster-than-light (FTL) message torpedoes. But now, thanks to the new hypercom technology that had been developed by Ramanthian scientists, real-time communication over interstellar distances was an everyday reality.

Decisive though the alien victory was, there were holdouts. One was a clone offi?cer named Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666, who, like all of the soldiers both above and below him, was a genetic replica of a dead hero who was said to have embodied all of the military virtues. Which was why the original Seebo had been chosen by founder Carolyn Hosokowa to “father” an entire army.

This approach, when replicated across all professions, was intended to produce ideal citizens, each playing his or her part in a nearly perfect society. But even though their genes were identical, each clone had different experiences, which made them individuals. Some of whom, like the increasing number of people who favored “free breeding,” threatened to bring the carefully designed social structure crashing down around them. For there was no place for so-called accidental people in a strictly hereditary society. Or that’s the way Colonel Six and other social conservatives saw it. Of course all such concerns were placed on the back burner when the Ramanthians attacked. Once it became clear that the planet’s orbital defenses had been crushed, and the Ramanthians were landing in force, “Colonel Six,” as most people called him, took immediate action. The offi?cer was in charge of the army’s Cold Weather Survival school located at the foot of a rugged mountain range. It was a military facility that had been used to train thousands of troops over the years but was currently on hiatus until the really cold weather set in. That meant only forty-six instructors and support personnel were present. That was the bad news. The good news was that all the Seebos under the colonel’s command were battle-hardened veterans who knew how to survive in a wintry environment and fi?ght a guerrilla-style war, which was what the clone offi?cer fully intended to do.

And, thanks to the fact that Six was in charge of a facility that was both remote and intentionally primitive, the bugs left the Spartan base alone as the Seebos took all of the supplies they could carry, loaded them onto genetically engineered pack animals, and disappeared into the mountains. It was a seemingly meaningless event in the grand scheme of things, but one that would cost the Ramanthians dearly over the days and weeks to come. For there was only one thing more dangerous than winter on Gamma-014, and that was Colonel Six.

PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

A signifi?cant portion of the spaceport had been sealed off from regular traffi?c, fl?ags snapped in a stiff breeze, and rows of Jonathan Alan Seebos stood at attention as the spotless shuttle settled onto its skids. As the main hatch began to cycle open, a band comprised of nearly identical musicians struck up “All Hail to the Confederacy,” which seemed pretty unlikely as the Ramanthians won battle after battle, and the government was forced to go looking for new allies. The once-hostile Hudathans were on board, but the Clone Hegemony considered itself to be nonaligned, something President Marcott Nankool was determined to change as he stepped out into bright sunlight.

A receiving line that consisted of senior government offi?cials was waiting to greet Nankool and his staff as they stepped onto the blast-scarred tarmac. The clones who had met the president on previous occasions took note of the fact that he was at least forty pounds lighter since his stint in a Ramanthian POW camp.

Precedence is important where diplomatic matters are concerned, so Christine Vanderveen found herself toward the tail end of the Confederacy’s delegation, in spite of her recent promotion from Foreign Service Offi?cer (FSO)-3 to FSO-2. It involved a signifi?cant increase in authority and responsibility that was partly the result of the manner in which she had distinguished herself while on Jericho. An experience shared with Nankool, who had been on his way to visit the Hegemony, when captured by the enemy. But rather than resent her relatively low status in the delegation, Vanderveen relished it, knowing that very little would be expected of her until actual negotiations got under way. That meant she had more time to look around and absorb the atmosphere as her superiors shook hands with peers, told lies about how wonderful the Hegemony was, and began what was sure to be a high-stakes round of negotiations. Because without help from the Hegemony, which was to say hundreds of thousands of Seebos, there was a very real possibility that the Confederacy would dissolve into its component parts, all of whom would vie with each other to cut a deal with the Ramanthians.

As Vanderveen made her way down the receiving line, one of the fi?rst people she ran into was Ewen Ishimoto-Nine, the Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy. He was normally stationed on Algeron, where the Confederacy’s government had taken up temporary residence, but was home because of the visit. Rather than kiss her on the cheek, as the diplomat normally would, Vanderveen’s counterpart was careful to shake her hand instead. Because kissing, like all other aspects of free-breeder sex, was offi?cially frowned upon. “Christine,”

Ishimoto-Nine said warmly. “I was so very happy to hear of your safe return.”

Vanderveen said, “Thank you,” and wanted to talk more but was forced to move on. That was when she was introduced to Henry Hyde-Fifteen, the deputy secretary of state, as well as his boss, Carly Chambers-Ten, the secretary of state, both of whom were friendly if somewhat distant. Normally at least one of the Hegemony’s three Alpha Clones would have been present to receive a head of state, but none were. Was that an intentional snub? Or a manifestation of how busy they were? There was no way to know. The bar codes that all of the clones wore on their foreheads took some getting used to, as did the fact that when Vanderveen looked over at the band, the only factor that distinguished one musician from the next was their relative ages. But there wasn’t all that much time for refl?ection as the receiving line spit her out and the offi?cer in charge of Nankool’s security detail herded the VIPs toward a convoy of six-wheeled limos, each of which fl?ew a small Confederacy fl?ag from whip-style antennae. The legionnaire didn’t look the least bit like Santana but had a similar manner and served to remind the diplomat of the leave the two of them had shared on Earth. Where was he, she wondered? Back on Adobe? Or on his way to some other hellhole? It wasn’t easy maintaining a relationship when both of them were on the move and a war was under way.

Orders were given, doors slammed, and the convoy departed. Having found herself in a car with three administrative assistants, Vanderveen took advantage of her new rank and maintained a lordly silence. Bio bods mounted on Trooper IIs jogged alongside the vehicles, weapons at the ready, as the motorcade left the spaceport and entered the city beyond. The metroplex was a study in symmetry. Grid-style streets met each other at right angles, box-shaped buildings stood in orderly rows, and a cookie-cutter park occupied every sixth block.

But, having read the fi?fty-page intelligence summary that Madam Xanith’s people had prepared for Nankool and his staff, Vanderveen knew that the city was actually less orderly than it appeared. Tensions were seething just below the surface—including the discontent being voiced by a nascent opposition party. Young people, for the most part, some of whom were rumored to be “naturals,” and hoped to overthrow the hereditary dictatorship in favor of a democracy. The opposition consisted of social conservatives and secret death squads that might or might not include members of the police.

As if summoned by her thoughts, two clone policemen, both riding gyro-stabilized unicycles, pulled even with Vanderveen’s limo. Both wore white helmets equipped with face shields, black body armor, and combat boots. One of the clones looked straight at the diplomat, and she felt a chill run down her spine, as he nodded and accelerated away. The motorcade turned onto a tree-lined boulevard shortly after that. Ranks of citizens lined both sides of the street. They had been ordered to come out and welcome Nankool to Alpha-001 whether they wanted to or not. And because the Hegemony’s citizens had been prevented from intermarrying, and reproducing in what Vanderveen considered to be the normal manner, they stood in the racial groupings that coincided with their professions. Computer technicians here, dental assistants there, and so forth all according to a plan handed down from on high. What are they thinking? the diplomat wondered, as the black, brown, and white faces slid by. Do they favor an alliance with us? Would they prefer to go it alone? There was no way to tell because, in keeping with the orderly nature of clone society, citizens weren’t allowed to cheer, hurl insults, or pepper the motorcade with rotten fruit. All the clones could do was wait for the foreign dignitaries to roll past, then return to their jobs. By peering past the driver, Vanderveen could see the low, boxlike structure that lay ahead. It was topped with a dome and soon proved to be the motorcade’s destination as the lead vehicle swept around a circular driveway and paused under a formal portico, where a clutch of ominous T-2s stood waiting. Many of the cyborgs wore the machine equivalent of tattoos—some of which were quite fanciful. It took a while for the more senior offi?cials to exit their cars, but Vanderveen’s opportunity eventually came, and the diplomat followed a gaggle of talkative undersecretaries into the capitol building. A formal reception area led to a short fl?ight of stairs and the corridor beyond. Heels clicked on stone, and voices echoed between barren walls, as a guide led the presidential party past a checkpoint and into the Chamber of Governmental Process.

It was a large circular room with a highly polished white fl?oor. Triangles of shiny black marble pointed in toward the center of the space, where a beautiful green-and-blue double helix served as both pillar and sculpture. Vanderveen knew the column was intended to represent a single molecule of a chemical substance called deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA, which is the basic building block of all living organisms. The symbol had religious as well as scientifi?c signifi?cance for the clones.

The sculpture shimmered as bars of light representing the four chemical compounds called bases fl?oated upwards and disappeared into the ceiling. A circular table fronted the column, and a man rose to greet them. The Alpha Clone went by the name Antonio Seven. His hair had once been black, and shiny with pomade, but that was long ago. Now it was white, and what remained of once-thick curls circled the ruler’s head like a silver crown. What hadn’t changed were the almost military manner in which he held his body, the Spartan black tunic that he favored, and the matching pantaloon-style pants. His bare feet made a slapping sound as he came forward to embrace Nankool. “Greetings old friend!” the Alpha Clone said warmly. “I’m afraid that Marcus is too sick to join us, and Pietro sends his apologies. The demands of government require his presence elsewhere.”

That was a lie, since Pietro rarely did much of anything anymore, preferring to sit on his veranda and paint. But Antonio saw no reason to disclose that, both because it would have been disloyal to do so, and because it suited his purposes to conceal the extent to which he ran the government. The next forty-fi?ve minutes or so were spent making introductions, and consuming a seemingly endless procession of appetizers, as both sides began to jockey for position. This was a rather chaotic process in which Vanderveen found herself going one-on-one with a clone general. The topic of conversation was the pros and cons of Ramanthian assault rifl?es, a subject about which the military man was surprised to learn the young woman was quite knowledgeable.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to all but those gathered around Nankool and Antonio, a messenger arrived. After scanning the piece of paper that had been handed to him the Alpha Clone frowned. Nankool could sense that something important was in the offi?ng and was paying close attention when the other man opened his mouth to speak. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” Antonio said gravely. “But I just received word that Gamma-014 has been attacked by the Ramanthian Empire. And, based on preliminary reports, it appears the planet has fallen.”

Gasps of surprise were heard, along with expressions of incredulity, as everyone sought to absorb the terrible news. Except that Nankool, who should have been sad, felt wildly jubilant instead. Because here it was! A heaven-sent opportunity to secure the alliance he so desperately needed!

But none of that was visible on the politician’s face as he offered his condolences. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” the head of state said soberly. “And I’m sure I speak for the entire Confederacy when I say that we stand ready to fi?ght side by side with people of the Hegemony to stop Ramanthian aggression.”

Vanderveen, who was close enough to hear, was impressed by the way the chief executive had been able not only to seize upon the unexpected opportunity but to do so in such a graceful manner. Meanwhile Antonio, who was increasingly burdened by his age, felt an impending sense of doom. Because not only was there the fate of Gamma014 to consider but it was likely that troublemakers within the Hegemony would use the Ramanthian attack to advance their demands for change. But it would have been a mistake to say any of those things out loud, or to accept Nankool’s offer of assistance without giving such an alliance careful thought, so Antonio sought to push the matter off. “Thank you for your condolences,” the Alpha Clone said feelingly. “We appreciate your kind thoughts. Now, if you will excuse us, my staff and I have work to do. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Nankool replied kindly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Antonio departed a few minutes later—with most of his senior offi?cials in tow. Given all the time they had spent together on Jericho, there was a special bond between Nankool and Vanderveen. A relationship the diplomat sought to downplay for the most part—but allowed her to address the president directly when she chose to do so. “So what do you think?” the foreign service offi?cer inquired, as she appeared at Nankool’s elbow.

“I think the bugs are going to be sorry,” the president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings said grimly, as he popped a ripe olive into his mouth. “Very sorry indeed.”

PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The robot army attacked at night, when their sensors would give them a signifi?cant advantage over the Legion’s bio bods, at least half of whom would probably be asleep. And, because Major Liam Quinlan had placed Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC along the front edge of the desert escarpment, they were the ones who took the brunt of the assault as the oncoming horde sought to break through the defenders and reach the power plant beyond. There were three types of robots, starting with skeletal androids, who stood six feet tall and carried assault weapons. Then came so-called rollers, which traveled on four fat tires but were equipped with six, and built in such a manner that they could perform somersaults and keep on going. Behind them were the aptly named slabs, which were low, heavily armed tanklike vehicles, specifi?cally designed to engage the Legion’s quads, who were armed with machine guns, energy cannons, and missiles. They unleashed a barrage of fi?re that swept across the top of the escarpment as hundreds of robots rushed forward to close with the enemy.

Santana heard the explosions, rolled off his air mattress, and was exiting the command bunker when a simulated rocket landed not ten feet away. There was a fl?ash of light, followed by a loud bang, and something analogous to a mild electric shock as the indicator light attached to his body armor went from green to red. As that took place Santana’s name vanished off the ITC, and First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo was put in command.

All of which was readily apparent to General Mortimer Kobbi, who was seated in the command quad fi?ve miles to the rear, watching to see how the battalion would deal with the unexpected onslaught. It was disappointing to lose Santana early on, but that was often the way of things, and having served with the cavalry offi?cer on Savas, the general was already acquainted with the young man’s capabilities. So it was with considerable interest that Kobbi watched Amoyo rally the badly mauled company as the fi?rst wave of androids boiled up over the escarpment, a development Kobbi could monitor by listening to the company push and switching between the various video feeds that continued to pour in from bio bods and cyborgs alike.

Meanwhile Santana, who was no longer allowed to interact with his subordinates, went in search of a place to sit and watch the action without getting in the way. Having found a fl?at rock, and placed his back against a boulder, Santana alternated between scanning the highly codifi?ed data available on his helmet’s HUD and the fi?reworks going off all around him. A line of simulated explosions rippled along the face of the escarpment as Dietrich triggered the mines placed there the evening before, and static rattled through the cavalry offi?cer’s helmet speakers as electronic counter measures (ECM) took roughly 10 percent of the aggressor bots off-line.

Dozens of robots had been neutralized by that time and would remain right where they were until reactivated at the end of the exercise. But there were more of them, and Alpha Company was soon forced to fall back, as a tidal wave of androids and rollers came up over the ten-foot-high embankment. The battle was very realistic. So much so that Santana felt a moment of fear as a squad of robots stalked past him, their heads swiveling back and forth, their weapons at port arms. His heat signature was clear to see, but so was his indicator light, so the hostiles left Santana alone as a fl?are went off high above them. The eerie light threw harsh shadows toward the west, as the survivors of Alpha Company were forced to fall back on the rest of the battalion, and the fake power plant beyond.

Which raised a rather interesting question. . . . Where was the normally assertive Major Quinlan? Because so far, in spite of repeated calls from Amoyo, there had been no contact with Bat HQ other than with the CO’s radio tech (RT), who was busy routing everything to Captain Mitch Mays of Bravo Company because the XO had theoretically been

“killed” by an infi?ltrator.

It was a question that was of interest to General Kobbi as well, since Quinlan was still “alive” according to the ITC, but literally missing in action. There was a pause in the fi?ghting as Mays allowed the surviving members of Alpha Company to pass through his lines, followed by eerie screams as a fl?ight of unseen fl?y-forms swept in to provide close air support. Thunder rolled across the arid landscape as electronic “bombs” fell on the horde, fl?ashed as they went off, and left dozens of machines motionless on the battlefi?eld. That was when Quinlan’s voice was fi?nally heard. It sounded thick, as if the offi?cer had just awoken, and was a bit disoriented. “This is Zulu Six. . . . Alpha, no Bravo Company, will pull back to the defensive wall and hold. Over.”

“No!” Santana said out loud. “There’s no way through the wall! The robots will crush Bravo Company against it!”

Of course Captain Mays was no fool, and could see the same thing, since the very real steel wall that protected the fake power plant was twelve feet high, and the only entrance to the enclosure was on the southern rather than the northern perimeter. So the offi?cer objected, was immediately put down, and forced to obey Quinlan’s orders. With predictable results. Half an hour later, just as the sun started to peek up over the eastern horizon, the last member of the 2nd Battalion, 1st REC was offi?cially killed. His name was Liam Quinlan—and his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through later that same day.

PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

As the imperial battleship Merciless and her escorts dropped into orbit around the Planet Jericho, the Queen was in the control room to witness the event. Not because the regent hadn’t seen a ship make planet fall before, but because the world below was of particular interest to her. Viewed from space, it was a beautiful planet, one of a number of such worlds granted to the empire in partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars. It was a Hive-normal planet, which meant it was Earth-normal, too, and had been home to an advanced civilization long before her race had risen to sentience. Evidence of that could still be seen in the ruins scattered about the world’s emerald green surface. But that was ancient and therefore boring history as far as the royal was concerned. Because her purpose in visiting Jericho was to assess the condition of the Ramanthian nymphs that had been hatched there over the last few months, thousands of whom had been left to fend for themselves in the wake of a commando-style raid by Confederacy forces. It was a calamity that she, as their moral, if not actual, parent, was obliged to mitigate.

Five hours later the Queen shuffl?ed down a ramp and onto the surface of Jericho. The airstrip, which had only recently been carved out of the forest some twenty miles west of what had been Jericho Prime, was protected by guard towers and an electrifi?ed fence. The air immediately around the royal yacht was heavy with the acrid stench of ozone, and a series of loud pings was heard, as hot metal started to cool. Moments later an entire fi?le of heavily armed Ramanthian troopers moved in to protect the royal, not from alien soldiers, but an equally potent threat.

The offi?cer in charge of the so-called reorientation center had been a largely unknown military functionary prior to being put in charge of the experimental facility. And, not having met a member of the royal family before, never mind the Queen herself, was understandably nervous as he bent a leg. “Welcome to Jericho, Majesty. Commander Sool Fobor, at your service.”

“What are the fences for?” the royal inquired bluntly.

“Do animals attack the airstrip?”

Fobor looked from the Queen to Chancellor Ubatha as if beseeching him for help. One of the problems traditionally associated with the tercentennial birthing was that after millions of nymphs were born, the youngsters went through a wilding state during which they hunted in packs, killing and eating anything they came across before gradually becoming more biddable. It was a process that had been extremely hard on both Hive and Ramanthian society over the past 200,000plus years. Which was why the great mother ordered her subordinates to acquire planets like Jericho and seed them with eggs. And with predictable results. Because once hatched, the voracious predators began to roam Jericho like blood-crazed beasts, killing everything they encountered—members of their own species included. So, never having dealt with a royal before, Fobor didn’t know how to respond. Ubatha came to his rescue. “The fences are positioned to keep the nymphs out, Your Excellency,” the Chancellor put in carefully. “They can be quite violent as you know.”

“Not anymore,” the Queen objected staunchly, as she eyed the tree line. “The wilding should have been over weeks ago.”

“True,” Ubatha replied patiently. “Except that once the aliens destroyed the processing centers, the nymphs were left on their own. And, in the absence of proper socialization, some of them turned feral.”

“We’re doing the best we can,” Fobor said defensively.

“But having missed the point in their neurological development where the nymphs are most biddable, it’s been very diffi?cult to work with them. Perhaps her majesty would allow me to show her one of the holding pens?”

The Queen thought the term “holding pen” was objectionable, but rather than strike out at the offi?cer the way she wanted to, she managed to keep her temper in check. “Show me,” she grated.

So the royal entourage was invited to board armored cars, which passed through a gate and followed a dirt road into the jungle. Though unable to look up through the metal roof, the royal ordered the driver to open the vehicle’s windows. That allowed the Queen to peer out into the sun-dappled depths of the triple-canopy forest that surrounded them. It was an environment very similar to the equatorial zone on Hive, where the Ramanthian race had risen to sentience. The process had been heavily infl?uenced by the fact that the species had been gifted with two types of females. Most females could lay a maximum of three eggs, thereby replacing one three-person family unit, while a small number, like the Queen herself, were physiologically capable of producing billions of new citizens. Just as her predecessor had. Not frequently, but every three hundred years or so, as the overall population began to level off or decline.

The general effect of that phenomenon was to push the race forward, but at the expense of social turmoil, and terrible famines. But not anymore, the royal thought to herself. Now we can hatch our eggs on planets like this one and protect the citizens of Hive from harm. That was the plan anyway, but owing to a series of unforeseen events, the local maturation process had been compromised.

There was a commotion as the convoy came to a halt, and troopers were deployed to form a protective ring around the Queen and her entourage as the visitors exited their vehicles. It was hot and humid, so the royal removed her green cloak, and threw it into the back of the armored car. That left her wearing light body armor over a sleek bodysuit. Not the sort of outfi?t the great mother would have approved of. By that time Ubatha, as well as the rest of the royal party, had become aware of the acrid scent of urine and a lowpitched gibbering sound that emanated from someplace nearby. “Please follow me,” Commander Fobor instructed, and led the Queen’s entourage along a path that wound through the trees. Moments later the group emerged into a clearing in which heavy equipment had been used to dig three enormous pits. Each was about two hundred feet across, roughly fi?fty feet deep, and covered with wire mesh so the inmates couldn’t escape by using their wings. The ever-present fl?y cams darted out to capture shots of the facility, but were soon recalled, since it wasn’t the sort of video deemed appropriate for the empire’s citizens to see. An observation platform had been constructed next to Pit One, and the rest of the party followed as Fobor shuffl?ed up onto the fl?at surface. Meanwhile, down in the muddy cavity below, a pair of sharp-beaked nymphs were fi?ghting to see which one of them would get to consume a chunk of raw meat. The rest of the prisoners, some twenty in all, made growling sounds and appeared ready to rush in if there was an opportunity to advantage themselves. “We capture them out in the jungle,” Fobor explained helpfully. “Then we bring them here, where our sociologists begin to work with them. Once a particular individual begins to demonstrate the right sort of behaviors, he or she is transferred to Pit Two, where further socialization takes place. Then it’s on to Pit Three, graduation into a crèche, and formal schooling.”

Fobor was obviously very proud of the system, and perhaps rightfully so, but when one of the combatants tore the other’s throat out, that was more than the Queen could take. There was a soft thump as the royal jumped down onto the ground, shuffl?ed over to the gate, and ordered the guard to open it. And, being a foot soldier, the trooper did as he was told. That enabled the monarch to pass through the fi?rst checkpoint unimpeded and begin the circular journey down to the second and last gate before anyone could stop her. Fobor was horrifi?ed and began to shout orders to his troops.

“Don’t let her through! Prepare to fi?re on the prisoners! If you hit the Queen, I’ll kill you myself!”

But Ubatha, who knew the Queen as well as anyone did, had noticed a change down in the pit. Not only were the juveniles staring at her majesty—they were strangely silent.

“Keep your troops on standby,” the Chancellor instructed.

“But allow the Queen to enter.”

“But the nymphs will tear her apart!” the soldier objected.

“Do what I say, or you’ll regret it,” Ubatha grated. And suddenly Fobor became conscious of the fact that while some of the royal’s bodyguards were aiming their weapons at the nymphs—others were pointing their assault rifl?es at him!

Meanwhile, as the sovereign arrived in front of gate two, she was not only unaware of the drama playing itself out up on the surface but completely focused on the young Ramanthians in the pit. She could smell the acrid odor of their urine, see the intelligence in their shiny black eyes, and feel the blood-bond she shared with them.

Fobor gave the only orders he could, the gate swung open, and the Queen entered the pit. The nymphs were motionless at fi?rst, and seemingly unaware of the targeting lasers that roamed their bodies as the regent plowed her way through six inches of urine, feces, and mud to reach the very center of the pit. Then, as the juveniles absorbed the rich amalgam of pheromones that surrounded the royal, a seemingly miraculous change came over them. A soft humming sound was heard as heads dropped, wings seemed to sag, and they shuffl?ed inwards. It soon became clear that rather than attack the monarch, as Fobor feared, each juvenile hoped to make physical contact with her. And as the Queen reached out to touch her adopted children, she sang to them in a language as old as the fi?rst nest, and fi?lled the air with the chemicals that they needed and wanted.

It was the most amazing thing Fobor had ever seen, and he said as much. “Yes,” Ubatha agreed thoughtfully, as the royal worked her magic. “We are truly blessed.”

The few active rebels must have the qualities of speed and endurance, ubiquity and independence of arteries of supply. They must have the technical equipment to destroy or paralyze the enemy’s organized communications.

3

—T. E. Lawrence

“The Science of Guerrilla Warfare”

Standard year 1929

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

The town of Strat’s Deep was located at the foot of the Hebron mountain range, right on top of a large deposit of nickel, about forty miles north of Tow-Tok Pass. There were a number of ways to reach the settlement, but given the fact that the Ramanthians were patrolling both the sky and the roads, Colonel Six and his men chose to approach the mining community via an old foot trail. Having arrived on a broad machine-carved ledge high above the town, the offi?cer ordered his troops to take cover in an abandoned mine shaft, and scanned Strat’s Deep through his binoculars. The town consisted of forty identical homes, all of which were bunched together on the west side of the railroad track that had been built to haul iridium away. Though no expert on the subject, Six knew iridium was a by-product of nickel and that there were two ways to extract the element from the planet’s crust. The fi?rst approach was called open-cut mining, which wasn’t practical given the steep terrain, and the fact that the ore was deep underground. For that reason a series of side-by-side shafts had been driven deep into the mountainside where the newly mined material was loaded onto the low-profi?le tunnel trucks that were used to bring the ore down to the processing plant. And, judging from what Six could see through his binoculars, the mine was still in operation. Was that because Ramanthians had occupied the town and were forcing the humans to work? Or because the locals hadn’t received instructions to shut the operation down? The latter was certainly possible given all the confusion.

The answer soon became apparent as the offi?cer heard a loud thrumming sound and ducked as a Ramanthian shuttle passed overhead. The transport completed one circuit of the settlement before putting down at the center of the shabby town square. Six was still recovering from the shock associated with the aircraft’s sudden appearance when a squad of Ramanthians emerged from the administration building and herded a group of humans toward the shuttle. Meanwhile, what might have been boxes of rations or ammo were being unloaded and placed on the ground. Once that task was completed, the prisoners were forced to board the alien ship, which lifted off a few moments later. Six was hidden in a cluster of boulders by the time the shuttle passed overhead and departed for the south.

The offi?cer waited for a full fi?ve minutes to make sure that the aircraft wouldn’t circle back before leaving his hiding place and crossing the ledge. Two heavily armed Seebos were on guard just inside the entrance to the mine and nodded to their CO as he entered. The rest of the company was camped about a hundred feet back and well out of sight. Lieutenant Seebo-790,444, better known to the troops as Four-Four, looked up from the pot he was tending. The junior offi?cer looked much as Six had twenty years earlier. “Pull up a rock, sir. Your tea will be ready in a minute.”

It felt good to sit down, and as Six held his hands out to collect some of the fuel tab’s excess heat, he knew the chill in the air was nothing compared to what winter would bring.

“So,” the younger offi?cer ventured. “How does it look?”

“The town is crawling with bugs,” Six answered gloomily.

“It’s my guess that they were dropped in during the early hours of the invasion.”

“So you were right,” Lieutenant-44 mused, as he poured steaming-hot water into a metal mug. “They’re after the iridium.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Colonel Six observed as he accepted his share of the tea. “I can’t think of any other reason to attack this slush ball.”

Four-Four took a tentative sip from his mug, found the brew to his liking, and cupped the container with both hands. His breath fogged the air. “So what’s the plan?”

“We’ll wait for nightfall, go down into the valley, and kill every chit we fi?nd,” Six replied coldly. The junior offi?cer raised an eyebrow. “And then?”

“And then we’ll cut the tracks, blow the processing plant, and seal the mine. Winter’s coming, so it will be a good six months before the Ramanthians can reopen the facility. Assuming we don’t kick their assess off the planet before then.”

Lieutenant-44 was silent for a moment as if considering what his superior had said. “What about the workers?” he inquired seriously. “There could be reprisals.”

Colonel Six remembered the townspeople who had been loaded onto the Ramanthian shuttle for transportation to who knows where. “Yes,” he answered soberly. “Based on reports from inside the Confederacy, reprisals are extremely likely. Those who can fi?ght will be asked to join us. Those who can’t will create places to hide in old mine shafts like this one. And the locals know where they are.”

Four-Four wasn’t sure how people would survive something like that but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. The clones spent the afternoon catching up on sleep, cooking a communal meal, and maintaining their gear. Once the sun had set, the guerrilla fi?ghters followed their commanding offi?cer out of the mine shaft and down a weather-eroded access road toward the dimly lit town below. Thanks to the night-vision goggles they wore, everything had a greenish glow, but the soldiers were used to that, and quickly split into platoons. The fi?rst platoon, under Colonel Six, made its way toward the administration building. Meanwhile the second platoon, under Lieutenant-44, was headed for the processing plant.

Having had the town under observation all afternoon, the Seebos had a pretty good idea where most of the Ramanthians were, but there were other problems to cope with. Not the least of which was the necessity to eliminate all resistance without giving the bugs a chance to call in reinforcements. Fortunately, the clones had the element of surprise working in their favor. But they had something else going for them as well—and that was the strange, almost supernatural, relationship that existed between them. Because having been created from the same DNA, and raised with replicas of themselves, the Seebos were like fi?ngers on the same hand as they ghosted between the town’s mostly darkened buildings.

There was little more than a series of soft pops as the sentries stationed outside the administration building fell, and the clones rushed to surround the structure. The clones knew that the facility had two entrances, and once both of them were covered, Six led a squad up onto the front porch. The door seemed to open on its own as one of the bugs sought to exit. So the offi?cer shot him in the face and pushed his way into the vestibule beyond.

A second door opened onto a reception area, and three Ramanthians were already headed his way as Colonel Six entered. The offi?cer took them down with short bursts from his submachine gun (SMG) and shouted, “Kill the radio!” as the rest of the squad came in behind him.

“Got it, sir!” a corporal replied as he fi?red three rounds into the rugged com set that occupied one of the desks. The alien RT took exception to that, produced a pistol, and was trying to bring the weapon to bear when the corporal fi?red again. The bug jerked spastically, fell over sideways, and began to leak green digestive goo onto the fl?oor.

“Good work,” Six said grimly. “Find the rest of them.”

“You came!” a female voice said gratefully, as the rest of the squad went looking for additional chits. “Thanks be to the founder!”

That was when Colonel Six turned to see that half a dozen townspeople had been tied to chairs that lined one of the walls. The individual who had spoken was a member of the Mogundo line and therefore an administrator. The rest were Ortovs. A hardy line commonly used for industrial applications. “How many of you are there?” the offi?cer demanded brusquely.

“Twenty-six,” the woman replied crisply. She had brown skin, fl?ashing black eyes, and a full fi?gure. The offi?cer imagined what she would look like without any clothes on, felt the usual response, and pushed the image away. Such thoughts were less frequent than they had been twenty years earlier but still plagued him.

The sound of muted gunfi?re interrupted the offi?cer’s thoughts as the second platoon dealt with the Ramanthians in the processing plant. “Please! Stop the fi?ghting!” one of the Ortovs pleaded. “They have our children!”

“She’s right,” the administrator put in, as a soldier cut her loose. “The Ramanthians took hostages earlier today.”

Six nodded. “Yes, I know. And I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Gather your people together. . . . Tell them to pack cold-weather gear, plus food that won’t spoil, and bring it here. But only what they can carry on their backs. Because the bugs will return, and when they do, they’ll kill everyone they fi?nd.”

“But what about our children?” the Ortov sobbed. “The ones they took?”

Under normal circumstances, on planets like Alpha-001, clone children were raised in crèchelike institutions where they could be properly socialized. But that wasn’t always possible on less-developed planets like Gamma-014, where children were occasionally assigned to an appropriate community at the age of two, to be raised within the embrace of the profession to which they would one day belong. But that practice could lead to unacceptably strong bonds between individual adults and children, as was clearly the case where the distraught Ortov was concerned. Because even though she hadn’t given birth to a child, she clearly felt as if she had, and that was wrong.

“Maybe the children will survive,” Colonel Six allowed, as the Ortov was freed. “But I doubt it. The Ramanthians regard mercy as a weakness, and if we’re going to beat them, we’ll have to be just as hard as they are. Now stop crying, get your things, and hurry back. I plan to pull out thirty minutes from now.”

The woman began to sob, and might have remained right where she was, had two of her companions not taken the miner between them and half carried her away.

“We have some explosives,” the administrator said helpfully. She was determined, and Six liked that.

“Good,” the Seebo replied. “That means we can save what we have. Perhaps one of your people would show us where to place them?”

The process of placing the charges, and pulling the civilians out of Strat’s Deep, took the better part of an hour, rather than the thirty minutes that Six had been hoping for. But it went smoothly, and once both the townspeople and the Seebos were assembled on the ledge above town, it was safe to trigger the charges. A series of muffl?ed thuds was heard, and the onlookers felt the explosions through the soles of their boots, as a rockslide clattered down a neighboring slope. “All right,” Colonel Six said grimly. “The bugs will come looking for us tomorrow. Let’s fi?nd a place to hide.” And with that, 150 people vanished into the night. Seven hours later, when the Ramanthians assigned to hold Strat’s Deep failed to check in as they were supposed to, and attempts to contact them failed, a quick-reaction force was dispatched. It wasn’t possible to assess the amount of damage infl?icted on the mine shafts from the air. But there was no mistaking the fact that the railroad tracks had been severed—and the processing plant had been reduced to a pile of smoking rubble.

And when members of the elite Hammer regiment hit the ground, the town was empty except for the row of twentysix Ramanthian bodies laid out in front of the admin building, and the large numbers scrawled across the facade. The paint was red, the numerals were “666,” and none of the troopers knew what they meant.

A report was written, approved, and passed up through the chain of command. And, when it appeared on Okoto’s computer screen, the general actually read it, a fact that would have amazed the lowly fi?le leader who authored it. The numbers “666” held no particular meaning for Okoto, but the offi?cer was a student of human warfare, and widely read. Which is why he went looking for a certain fi?le, brought it on-screen, and scanned for the passage he had in mind. It read:

“Many people think it is impossible for guerrillas to exist for long in the enemy’s rear. Such a belief reveals lack of comprehension of the relationship that should exist between the people and the troops. The farmer may be likened to water and the latter to the fi?sh who inhabit it.”

The text had been authored by a man named Mao TseTung. And he had been dead for a long, long time. But Okoto could tell that someone else was familiar with the revolutionary’s writings as well. Someone who was very, very dangerous. PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

President Marcott Nankool and his staff were quartered in the equivalent of a large if not especially posh hotel, which the Hegemony’s State Department ran for both the convenience of visiting dignitaries and its own intelligence service. The entire building was bugged, including conference rooms like the one that the visitors had been forced to meet in, which was why all of them were shooting the breeze, catching up on administrative tasks via their data pads, or simply staring into space as a team of four military technicians worked to sanitize the room. No doubt the clones would disapprove of the cleansing, but they couldn’t very well complain about it without admitting that they had been spying on their guests.

The conference room was a long, rectangular space that had no architectural interest whatsoever, except for the gigantic fl?oor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the south wall and allowed Christine Vanderveen to look out over an angular cityscape. Thanks to a very effective weather-management system, it rarely rained during the day. That meant the founder’s architects had been able to count on generous amounts of natural light and calculate the way that shadows would caress their buildings before constructing them—all of which was unique to clone society insofar as Vanderveen knew. Having located all the audio pickups, neutralized the photosensitive wall paint, and eradicated the tiny pinhead-sized robo cams that had been roaming the room, a harried-looking naval tech approached Legion General and Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly III. Although Vanderveen didn’t know the offi?cer well, she had seen him on many occasions over the years, and was surprised to see how much older he looked. He still had his mother’s gray eyes and his father’s athletic body. But his hair was shot with streaks of white, lines were etched into his face, and his skin was very pale, like someone who rarely gets any sun. “The room is clean, General,” the tech told him.

“But we can’t guarantee that it will stay that way for more than an hour or so. The clones are sure to launch some sort of counterattack through the ventilation system.”

Booly nodded. “That should be suffi?cient. Thanks for all the hard work.”

The tech didn’t receive many “thank-yous,” especially from senior offi?cers, and was clearly pleased as he returned to the back of the room. Vanderveen watched the general walk over and say a few words to Nankool. Here we go, the diplomat thought to herself, as the president nodded. All of the small talk quickly came to an end as Nankool stood.

“Okay, everybody,” the chief executive said, as he eyed the people assembled before him. “We have a counter from the Hegemony—so let’s get to it. There’s some good news and some bad news.”

The announcement produced a chorus of groans, which Nankool acknowledged with a good-natured grin. “I’ll give you the good news fi?rst. Alpha Clone Antonio-Seven has agreed to a military alliance with the Confederacy. Beginning with a joint task force to liberate Gamma-014.”

Vanderveen joined the rest of the staff in a loud cheer. But Booly, who harbored serious misgivings about the new alliance, was noticeably silent. “And the bad news?” the offi?cer inquired cynically, as the noise died away. “How bad is bad?”

It was the moment that Nankool had been dreading. There was nothing he could do but tell the truth. “Given that Gamma-014 is one of their planets, and that roughly sixty percent of the joint task force will consist of clone troops, the Hegemony wants to put one of their generals in overall command.”

Booly looked down at the fl?oor as if to momentarily hide his expression before bringing his eyes back up. Everyone in the room knew that the joint chiefs opposed such an arrangement, and for some very good reasons. Although the Hegemony’s soldiers were good, the Seebos had little if any experience where joint operations were concerned. That, combined with a general air of superiority, and the very real possibility that clone offi?cers would show favoritism toward their own kind, meant things could and probably would go wrong—the kinds of things that could cause a whole lot of casualties for the Confederacy. So, even though Booly’s voice was neutral, there was no question as to how the general felt. “And your position, Mr. President?”

Booly had been loyal to Nankool, very loyal, and was a bona fi?de war hero to boot. Not to mention the fact that his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, was the billionaire president of the star-spanning company that her uncle Sergi Chien-Chu had founded, and was therefore quite infl?uential. So the politician wanted to make the general happy. But the alliance was important, critically important, even if the price was high. So there was nothing Nankool could do but look Booly in the eye and say what he believed. “I wish it were otherwise, General, but we need this alliance, and I believe we should agree to it. I promise you that after we take Gamma-014, the joint chiefs will be in control of the campaigns that follow.”

A lump had formed in the back of Booly’s throat, but he managed to swallow it. The president’s mind was made up, that was clear, and given the extent of his wartime powers, Nankool had the authority to create such alliances when necessary. The Senate would have to ratify the agreement, but that would take months, and chances were that the battle for Gamma-014 would be over by the time they got around to it. For better or for worse. “Sir, yes sir,” Booly said dutifully. “Has a general been chosen?”

Vanderveen saw Nankool’s expression brighten as it became clear that Booly wasn’t going to challenge his authority.

“Why, yes,” the politician answered cheerfully. “The offi?cer the Hegemony put forward is General Seebo-785,453. Do you know him?”

Booly winced, and the staff offi?cers seated around him were heard to groan. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Nankool responded grimly. “And I’m sorry you don’t approve. But that’s how it is—so we’ll have to make do. Besides, once you and your staff put your minds to it, I’m sure you’ll fi?nd ways to manage him the same way that you manage me!”

That got a laugh from the civilian staff, but Vanderveen could tell that the offi?cers were disappointed, and felt sorry for them. Because now that she knew a soldier the way she knew Santana, the diplomat had a much deeper appreciation of the way in which the military was often squeezed between the vagaries of political necessity, and the realities of war.

With the alliance in place and the question of command having been settled, it was time to address logistics. The Confederacy was already hard-pressed, and the need to dedicate scarce resources to Gamma-014 meant military assets would have to be withdrawn from some other location. But which one? Each possibility entailed risk. Eventually, all of the arguments and counterarguments began to blur, and Vanderveen’s attention began to wander. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the window at the far end of the conference room and the cityscape beyond. That was when the diplomat noticed the people on the roof across the street. And as she watched, they muscled a long cylindrical object up onto the waist-high wall in front of them. Then, having secured both sides of whatever the object was to the building, they pushed it over the side. As the roll of plastic fell free, a blue banner was revealed. The white letters were at least six feet high, and spelled out the words “FREEDOM

NOW!”

Given its location, there was no doubt about whom the protesters were trying to communicate with, and since no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the sign, Vanderveen raised a hand. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” the diplomat said. “But it appears as though someone is trying to send you a message.”

The entire group followed Vanderveen’s pointing fi?nger over to the opposite building and not a moment too soon. Clone security agents were already on the roof by that point. It took less than fi?ve minutes for the secret police to arrest the protesters, pull the banner back up, and disappear from sight. All of which was both interesting and disturbing. Because as the Confederacy sought to prop the Hegemony up— there was the very real possibility that it had already started to crumble.

PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

The Legion’s base on Adobe had been constructed after the fi?rst Hudathan war, and was laid out in concentric circles, with the spaceport, which was designated A-1, located at the very center of the sprawling facility. Santana was supposed to meet General Kobbi on C-2, Sector 3, which was dedicated to supply, a simple word that embraced everything from mess kits to the state-of-the-art NAVCOMPS

that naval vessels required to fi?nd their way through hyperspace. Rather than hike all the way in from F-3, where the 1st REC was quartered, or try to requisition a vehicle, Santana had chosen to ride Sergeant Omi Deker instead. It was a very good decision since the T-2 knew his way around the base.

So as the cyborg jogged along one of the main roads that radiated out from A-1, the helmeted offi?cer was free to look around. It was not only hellishly hot, but eternally dusty, despite the water the big tanker trucks laid down four times a day. Infl?atable habs lined the streets. They looked like half cylinders laid on their sides, and in spite of the fact that they weren’t intended for permanent use, some of them had been there for ten or even fi?fteen years.

And, if there were plenty of things to see, there were plenty of things to hear as well. As the two legionnaires passed through territory that belonged to a variety of different commands, they were exposed to a cacophony of sound as power wrenches chattered, servos whined, engines rumbled, and a series of sonic booms rolled across the land. Discordant and chaotic though the base seemed to be, Santana could feel the underlying sense of purpose that bound everything together. Because even the lowliest private knew that one of the Hegemony’s planets had been taken by the Ramanthians, and that the clones had agreed to an alliance, which meant many of them would wind up as part of the task force being assembled to take Gamma-014 back.

The announcement received mixed reviews in the O club, because, in spite of the fact that most offi?cers understood the importance of the alliance, many of them had doubts about the Hegemony’s military prowess. Except for Santana, that is, who had been sent to one of the clone worlds immediately after graduating from the academy, and fought side by side with the Seebos on LaNor years later. The cavalry offi?cer’s train of thought was interrupted as Deker took a right onto C-2. “We’re almost there,” the noncom announced over the intercom. “That’s the hab up ahead.”

The Supply Command structure wasn’t much to look at, and was far too small to house much more than a few desks, but a quick check confi?rmed that they were in the right place. Once the T-2 came to a halt, Santana removed his helmet, left it on a hook intended for that purpose, and jumped to the ground. A cloud of fi?ne red dust billowed up around his boots as he pulled a garrison-style cloth “piss cutter”

onto his head in lieu of the bulky blue kepi Legion offi?cers normally wore. “Take a break, Sergeant. I’ll contact you via my pocket com when it’s time to leave.”

“Roger that, sir,” the T-2 replied. Deker had friends everywhere—and Supply was no exception. And maybe, just maybe, the cyborg could beg, borrow, or steal a pair of knee couplers. Because even though it was against regs to hoard parts, some items were harder to get than others, and couplers were in short supply. And Deker had no intention of trying to fi?ght the Ramanthians with one or both of his knees locked in place.

Once inside the hab, Santana discovered that the interior was not only blessedly cool, but reasonably free of dust, which was something of a miracle. A corporal showed the cavalry offi?cer into an offi?ce where both General Kobbi and a middle-aged colonel were seated. The supply offi?cer had bushy eyebrows, fl?inty eyes, and a horizontal slash for a mouth. Kobbi made the introductions as the staff offi?cer stood. “Colonel Hamby, this is Captain Santana. He was one of my platoon leaders on Savas.”

Everyone knew about the raid on Savas, and Hamby’s respect for the tall, dark-haired offi?cer went up a notch at the mere mention of it. “Glad to meet you, Captain,” the supply offi?cer said gruffl?y as the two men shook hands. “Welcome to Regimental SupCom.”

Santana said, “Thank you, sir,” and waited to hear why he had been summoned.

But no explanation was forthcoming as Kobbi stood, and said, “Come on. There’s something we want to show you.”

So Santana had little choice but to follow the other offi?cers down a short hallway to a bank of elevators. Suddenly the cavalry offi?cer understood why the surface hab was so small. The supplies were underground, an arrangement that reminded the offi?cer of Oron IV, as the elevator lowered them down into the interconnected caverns that lay below the C-Ring. When the platform came to a stop, and the door slid open, they entered the subterranean equivalent of a gigantic warehouse. Or that portion of the ring-shaped underground storage facility assigned to the Legion—since both the navy and Marine Corps controlled portions of the facility as well. Lights marked off regular intervals above them, a small army of specially equipped androids whirred about, and the air temperature verged on frigid.

An electric-powered cart was waiting for them. Hamby slipped behind the controls, and Kobbi sat in the passenger seat, which left Santana to jump in the back. He braced himself and hung on as the supply offi?cer put his foot to the fl?oor. The vehicle whirred loudly as it carried them past twenty-foot-tall storage racks, into a maze of neatly stacked cargo modules, and past a battalion of shrink-wrapped T-2 war forms.

Finally, just as Santana was beginning to wonder when the journey would end, Hamby turned into a side corridor and came to an abrupt stop. The senior offi?cers got out, so Santana did likewise, and followed them over to a line of tables. What looked like a full kit had been laid out, starting with uniforms, boots, and body armor, followed by night-vision equipment, weapons, com gear, and much, much more. In short, everything that a bio bod would require for combat. But Santana was mystifi?ed. After all, why would a general and a colonel bring him all the way down into an underground storage facility, just to look at gear that he and every other legionnaire were already familiar with? Kobbi nodded as if able to read the younger offi?cer’s mind. “So, Captain,” he said. “Knowing full well that we are about to take a little trip to Gamma-014, and having done your homework, what’s wrong with this picture?”

Both of the senior offi?cers watched expectantly as Santana ran a critical eye over the kit. That was when the cavalry offi?cer remembered what he had read about the Hegemony planet and put one and one together. “It’s going to be winter when we land,” Santana said. “And the uniforms on the table were designed for desert use.”

“Bingo,” Hamby said grimly. “And, because LEGCOM

informs me that we won’t be able to get any winter gear until after the campaign begins, I’d say that the 1st REC is going to freeze its collective ass off.”

“As if we don’t have enough problems,” Kobbi put in gloomily.

“Now,” the supply offi?cer said, as he motioned for the other two to follow him. “Take a look at this!”

Santana arrived at the very last table to fi?nd that a complete set of cold-weather camos had been laid out on the table, including thermal underwear, heated socks, insulated vests, wind-and snow-resistant outerwear, and heavy-duty boots. All of which were identical to what the Legion would issue to its bio bods except for one important detail: Rather than the white-gray camo pattern that the Legion preferred, the uniforms spread out in front of the cavalry offi?cer were white and black, which was the iteration the navy issued to its personnel when they were forced to work on wintry planets like Algeron. Just one of the ways in which the various branches sought to preserve their precious identities. But what, if anything, did that have to do with Santana? He was mystifi?ed. “That’s some nice-looking gear, sir. Naval issue if I’m not mistaken.”

“No, you’re correct,” Hamby responded evenly. “Ironically, given our situation, the navy storage facility on the far side of the C-Ring has tons of that stuff. More than they will be able to use during the next fi?ve years.”

“But they don’t want to give it to us,” Kobbi said disgustedly. “Because an unforeseen emergency could arise—

and a certain admiral wants to cover his ass.”

By that time the true purpose of the meeting was starting to become apparent. Having attempted to obtain the cold-weather gear through offi?cial channels, and having been refused—Kobbi and the regimental supply offi?cer were contemplating a so-called midnight requisition. And, rather than order Santana to steal the supplies, which would be illegal, they were informing him of the need in hopes that he would take it upon himself to effect the necessary “transfer.”

The unoffi?cial assignment was a compliment of sorts, since it implied a great deal of trust on Kobbi’s part, but it was also unfair. Since the Legion could court-martial Santana if he was caught—while the more senior offi?cers would probably go free. He could say “no,” of course, by simply ignoring the entire conversation, which was clearly the smart thing to do. Even if that meant losing Kobbi’s sponsorship. But that would mean that the 1st REC’s bio bods would hit the dirt on Gamma-014 dressed for a summer stroll just as the temperature started to drop and snow fell out of the sky. The result would be unnecessary casualties. Which was why Santana was going to do the wrong thing for what he believed to be the right reasons. Kobbi detected the slight hardening of the cavalry offi?cer’s features and knew he had the right man. “That’s unfortunate, sir,” Santana said evenly.

“Thank you for the briefi?ng. Is there anything else?”

Hamby looked over to Kobbi, saw the general shake his head, and looked back again. “No, Captain. There isn’t.

Come on. I have a bottle of Scotch stashed in my desk—and there’s no reason to save it.”

The Legion had strict rules about who could legitimately have sex with whom, but there was always someone who chose to violate such regulations, even though the penalties could be quite severe. One such individual was Staff Sergeant Lin Schira who, having successfully seduced one of the clerks that reported to him, enjoyed having sex with her in the storage room adjacent to the offi?ce they shared with three other people. A rather mechanical process in which the lance corporal was required to drop her pants, bend over, and hang on to a storage rack while Schira took her from behind. And, because the sergeant liked to have sex just prior to lunch, everyone knew better than to enter the storage room at 1130 hours. Everyone except Company Sergeant Dice Dietrich that is, who had been aware of the daily assignation for some time, but had chosen to mind his own business. But that was then, and this was now, as the rangy noncom entered the BatSup offi?ce, ordered all of the enlisted people to

“take ten,” and made his way over to the door labeled “Storeroom.” Plastic buckled as Dietrich kicked the door in and a girlish scream was heard as the hard-eyed noncom entered with camera in hand. Schira swore as the fl?ash strobed, and there was a good deal of scuffl?ing as the lovers hurried to pull their pants up. “Yeah, yeah,” Dietrich said heartlessly. “Life sucks. But that’s how God wants it! Now, assuming you would like to own this camera, there are some things you’ll need to do for me. Or, I can send this puppy up to the general, who will pull your stripes and send you to a billet even worse than Adobe. So, what’ll it be? The choice is yours.”

Even though Navy Master Chief Yas Ruha could have spent the entire watch sitting on his can, while the twenty-one bio bods and robots under his command did all the work, he liked to pilot the bright yellow CH-60 loaders and took pride in his ability to do so. That was why the lifer was strapped into one of the fi?fteen-foot-tall exoskeletons, busy plucking cargo modules off the “three” shelf, when a “train” load of cargo modules arrived at the bottom of the four-lane access ramp. Which, in keeping with standing orders, his subordinates were quick to report.

Having placed the last module onto an outgoing power pallet, Ruha guided the huge walker over to the vast inprocessing area, where newly arrived supplies were routinely scanned into the tracking system, prior to being stored on the appropriate racks. Two neatly uniformed navy supply techs were waiting to greet the master chief as he put the CH-60 on standby and hit his harness release. Rather than use the builtin steps the way some newbie would, Ruha dropped onto an actuator, and wrapped his arms around a steel leg. Then, with a confi?dence that stemmed from years of practice, he slid to the fl?oor. “Good afternoon,” the diminutive master chief said as he crossed the pavement to where the other two men were waiting. “So what can you do for me?”

The joke was suffi?cient to elicit a chuckle from both the dark-haired chief petty offi?cer and the hollow-cheeked fi?rstclass who stood at his side. “A whole shitload of space armor just came off the Epsilon Indi,” Santana answered genially. And it’s supposed to go aboard the Cygnus pronto. Unfortunately the Cygy isn’t going to drop hyper until o-dark-thirty. So we need a place to stash the stuff until tomorrow, when we can boost it back up. All the tracking data should be insystem.”

“ ‘Should be,’ and ‘is,’ are two different things,” Ruha said cynically. “So it never hurts to check.” So saying, the master chief drew a pistol-shaped scanner from the holster on his right thigh and made his way past the tractor. As soon as he was level with the fi?rst cargo module, the noncom ran the scanner over the bar code plastered across the side of the box and eyeballed the tiny screen.

Santana held his breath. Sergeant Schira swore that while it was almost impossible to remove supplies from the system without triggering lots of alarms, it was relatively easy to add items, since thieves would have no motive to do so. That was the theory anyway—but would it work? Or would the little master chief realize something was wrong and call the shore patrol? Because if that occurred, it would soon become apparent that Dietrich and he were imposters. But, based on the way Ruha was acting, it looked like Schira’s theory was correct. Because the petty offi?cer was walking along next to the train, and each time he scanned a bar code, the noncom would nod as if satisfi?ed with what he saw. Had the master chief been paying attention to anything other than the numbers on his scanner, he might have noticed that all of the cargo modules had been freshly painted and equipped with the type of Legion-style grab bars that would enable T-2s to move them around.

Thankfully, Ruha wasn’t attuned to such matters, so once the cargo was checked in, all the imposters had to do was get a receipt, and turn some very small robots loose on their way out. Once on the surface it was a simple matter to abandon the stolen tractor, enter a waiting quad, and wait for the hatch to close before changing back into their Legion uniforms. Then, having sought fold-down seats in the otherwise empty cargo compartment, it was time to fi?sh a cold beer out of a cooler and start to worry. Phase one of the plan was complete—but what about phase two? The quad began to pitch and sway as it made its way through busy streets—and the day wore on.

There was no light within the cargo module, but that didn’t bother Sergeant Omi Deker, thanks to the fact that the cyborg could chat with Sergeant Amy Matos, Corporal Stacy Subee, and Private Ka Nhan on a low-power squad-level push that the swabbies weren’t likely to monitor. And, even if they did, all the mop swingers would hear was some legionnaires telling war stories.

Having been in the module for more than eight hours, it was time for Deker to activate his work light, open the specially rigged latches, and emerge from hiding, an activity that would go undetected assuming Captain Santana and Top Dietrich had successfully deployed the pinhead-sized robots. The robots were programmable machines that the Legion’s special ops people used to neutralize video surveillance during raids. A servo whined as Deker pushed the cargo module’s lid upwards and peered out through the resulting gap. The cavern was lit around the clock, but largely inactive between midnight and 0400, which was why 0130 had been chosen as the best time to strike.

Confi?dent that it was reasonably safe to exit the cargo module, Deker gave the rest of the team permission to go before pushing the lid up out of the way and crawling out of the box. It would have been impossible, not to mention impractical, to hide T-2s in the cargo module. That was why the cyborgs had chosen to wear the small, very agile “bodies”

known as spider forms instead. The electromechanical bodies were quick and strong, which made them ideal for the mission the cyborgs had volunteered for.

Meanwhile, as the legionnaires spidered out onto the fl?oor, the cameras mounted on the massive support columns went off-line. That produced a low-level technical alert that went into the maintenance queue and would be dealt with later that morning.

That left the cyborgs free to work which, thanks to an elaborate run-through two days earlier, they were able to do with a minimum of communication. Even though the big CH-60 loaders were designed for the convenience of bio bods, the spider forms were very adaptable, and it wasn’t long before Deker and Matos were busy plucking cargo modules off shelves like shoppers in a supermarket. Then, once a suffi?cient amount of space had been cleared, it was time to reverse the process by replacing the stolen containers with the units Santana and Dietrich had brought down from the surface the day before. While all of that was going on, Subee and Nhan were kept busy replacing the bar codes on newly delivered units with copies of those on the containers that they planned to steal. That strategy should keep Master Chief Ruha happy until someone opened one of the modules only to discover it was half-fi?lled with sand—the one thing that everyone on Adobe already had lots of.

The whole process took about an hour, and once the switch was complete, it was time for the cyborgs to hide in the same modules they had arrived in. Time passed slowly after that, very slowly, but uneventfully as well. So that, when Santana and Dietrich arrived at 0730, they were allowed to pull the entire trainload of cargo modules up onto Adobe’s surface, where they were soon lost in traffi?c. Later that night, in the 1st REC’s maintenance facility, the cargo modules were painted olive drab, retagged, and stored with the rest of the equipment that would soon accompany the regiment into space. When Santana was fi?nally able to return to his quarters, it was to fi?nd a sealed envelope resting on his pillow. The handwritten note inside read: “To Captain Antonio Santana. Thank you for a job well-done. Warmest regards, General Mortimer Kobbi.”

4.

For how can tyrants safe govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?

—William Shakespeare

King Henry VI, Part III

Standard year 1591

ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS, OFF PLANET NOCTOR,THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Like Jericho, Noctor was a so-called nursery planet, except in this case the maturation process was proceeding according to plan, as millions of juveniles were removed from the wilds and the process of socializing them began. So while the Queen stood with her back to a huge viewport, the cloud-wrapped planet made a fi?tting background as the royal addressed the most senior members of her staff.

“The attack on Gamma-014 was an unqualifi?ed success, the Queen began matter-of-factly, as she surveyed the faces in front of her. “Our forces are in complete control of the planet. Meanwhile, based on intelligence provided by Thraki agents in the Clone Hegemony, it appears that an alliance has been struck. It will take the humans time to assemble a joint task force and launch a counterattack on Gamma-014. Once they do, our naval forces will fade away allowing the allies to land in force.”

“Now,” the monarch added meaningfully, as her compound eyes swept the compartment, “iridium is important, but let’s discuss the true purpose of the attack on Gamma014, and what we stand to gain.”

Ubatha felt a surge of satisfaction. His instincts had been correct! The attack on Gamma-014 had a greater purpose. But what was it? The answer came as a complete shock.

“The attack on Gamma-014 is a feint,” the monarch explained, as a holographic star map blossomed behind her. It showed a class-fi?ve star orbited by eight planets and some smaller planetoids. “In fact, the entire campaign is a diversion intended to draw military assets away from the real target, which is Earth. While a number of species belong to the Confederacy, it’s the humans who hold the organization together, and therefore represent the greatest threat to our people. So by attacking their home world, we attack the heart of the Confederacy.”

There was a long moment of silence as the compartment full of functionaries sought to absorb what they had just heard. That was followed by the staccato rattle of pincers as all but one of the government offi?cials communicated their approval. The single exception was Chancellor Ubatha, who, though ever eager to please the Queen, was unwilling to signal approval he didn’t actually feel. Her majesty noticed this immediately. “I’m glad so many of you approve,” the monarch said tactfully. “But I expect more from my advisors than applause. Chancellor Ubatha? I sense you have doubts.”

The invitation could constitute a trap, a way to draw Ubatha out into the open, then take his head off. The functionary knew that, but had risen to high offi?ce by offering honest counsel, and was constitutionally unable to do otherwise. “Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha replied solemnly, as he came to his feet. “While what Your Highness said regarding the humans is true—there are other factors to consider as well. Based on intelligence reports, as well as media analysis, we know only a third of Earth’s population truly supports the war. Primarily because the confl?ict is so distant and has yet to touch their daily lives. But I fear that an attack like the one you describe will shatter their sense of complacency and serve to rally both the animals who live on Earth and the hundreds of millions who dwell elsewhere. Thereby strengthening the opposition rather than weakening it.”

Ubatha paused to look around before taking his argument to its logical conclusion. “So I oppose an attack on Earth, the functionary concluded gravely. “But if overruled on this matter, I recommend that we glass the planet, rather than simply occupy it. Because by rendering the world uninhabitable, we will strike the sort of psychological blow that you visualize, but without being required to commit any troops. Soldiers we will need when the surviving humans seek revenge. Thank you for the opportunity to speak.”

Only one pair of pincers was heard to clack. But they belonged to the Queen, who understood how diffi?cult such a speech was, especially given the political risk involved.

“Thank you,” the monarch said sincerely, as the rest of her advisors watched the drama unfold. “You make some excellent points. But I am going to overrule you—for the following reasons. First, the same intelligence reports that you referred to make it clear that even as the more adventurous members of the human species left for the stars, there was a marked tendency for lazy, self-satisfi?ed, and privileged members of the race to remain on Earth. Which means the planet will be relatively easy to pacify.

“Secondly, were we to glass the planet as you suggest that we should, it could cause the surviving humans to launch another attack on Hive. The last one killed 1.7 million Ramanthian citizens—so how many would the next assault kill?” she demanded rhetorically.

“Thirdly, rather than render Earth uninhabitable, I want to use the planet as a bargaining chip. A tidbit that we can negotiate over for the next twenty years. Then, when all fi?ve billion of the great mother’s children reach adulthood, we will sweep through the Confederacy and eradicate the animals once and for all!”

The plan was so audacious, and so farsighted, that all of Ubatha’s doubts were swept away. “Thank you, Majesty,”

the Chancellor said humbly. “I have seen the future, and it is ours.”

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

The sky was lead gray, and the temperature hovered just above freezing, as Mama Dee led her ragged fl?ock of followers west along the two-lane highway. A bitterly cold wind pressed against their scarf-wrapped faces as a heavily loaded Ramanthian convoy passed them headed in the opposite direction. The humans could feel the wash of heat produced by the alien power plants and hear the rattle of click-speech as one of the troop transports passed them. The bugs might have stopped the band of humans had it not been for the “truce stick” clutched in their leader’s left hand. Dee was a big-boned woman who looked a lot like her broad-faced Ortov mother. Although some of her Chan-line father’s DNA could be seen in the shape of her eyes and the breadth of her nose, most of her body was concealed by an ankle-length gray cloak that was cinched around her waist with a length of rope. All manner of items dangled from the makeshift belt, and they appeared to dance as she turned to look over her shoulder. Then, having assured herself that the group was intact, Dee faced the wind.

Like most free breeders the “Children of Nature,” as they called themselves, had been forced to eke out a living high in the mountains or risk sanctions from the “true breeders who lived on arable land at lower elevations. Founder folk, which was to say bigots, who continued to believe in the nonsense Dr. Carolyn Anne Hosokawa put forward, in spite of how absurd the theory of rational design obviously was. Such hostility made life diffi?cult, very diffi?cult, but now Dee and her fl?ock were faced with another problem. Because only three days after seizing control of the planet, a squad of heavily armed Ramanthians had appeared in their village and ordered the Children of Nature to walk all the way to the city of Ship Down, where a civilian POW camp had been established. And, to make sure the humans did as they were told, the aliens destroyed the collection of stone huts that constituted the village even as the refugees left. Of course Dee and her two dozen followers had no desire to enter a camp, especially one populated by founder folk. But they hadn’t been able to come up with a realistic alternative. The truce stick was actually a tracking device shaped like a staff, which provided the Ramanthians with real-time data regarding the family, and where it was going. In fact it could actually “see” them, and their surroundings, or so the bugs claimed. They could dump the device of course, but that would cause the chits to send a shuttle. And Dee knew what would happen next. The Ramanthian aircraft would locate her family and put all of them to death. That left Mama Dee with no alternative but to trudge toward the dimly seen afternoon sun and hope for the best.

Having moved into position during the hours of darkness, and having found cover on a rocky ledge, there had been little for Colonel Six and two of his Seebos to do but hunker down in their sleeping bags, and take turns trying to sleep. But it was diffi?cult due to the pervasive cold, the muted roar of the river below them, and the occasional whine of turbines as Ramanthian convoys crossed the bridge nearby. The light arrived gradually, as if hesitant to replace the darkness, and was fi?ltered by a thick layer of clouds. A fi?re was out of the question, but Six gave permission for one of the Seebos to heat some water with a carefully shielded fuel tab. Having brushed his teeth, and taken a somewhat awkward piss, the offi?cer crawled forward to the point where he could place his back against a rock and peer through a screen of lacy vegetation. The target was an arched bridge. It was about half a mile away and still shrouded in mist. The vapor began to dissipate as the air warmed and vehicles loaded with troops, heavy weapons, and supplies continued to cross it.

All were viewed from an angle, since the clone’s vantage point was down canyon, looking toward the southeast. Meanwhile, directly below the bridge, river 78, 241.2 jumped and boiled as if eager to escape the mountains and travel to more hospitable climes below. Six heard a scraping sound and turned to fi?nd that Corporal One-O, as his comrades called him, had arrived with a mug of steaming tea. It had been necessary for the Seebo to duckwalk, and though a small amount of the precious liquid had been lost during the trip, most of it still remained.

“Here you are, sir,” One-O said cheerfully. “Are two sugars enough?”

“That’s plenty,” Six replied gratefully. “Thank you. Once you’ve had your tea, pack up the gear, and tell Niner to bring the launcher. We’ll wait for a heavily loaded convoy, dump the bridge into the canyon, and haul ass.”

“That’ll show the bastards,” One-O said approvingly.

“Don’t worry—we’ll be ready.”

“Good,” Colonel Six responded, and allowed the lichencovered rock to accept his full weight. The mug warmed his hands, the bridge drew his eyes, and the offi?cer wondered how many bugs he would kill on that particular day.

“Okay, squirt,” Mama Dee said, as she scooped the child up off the road. “How ’bout a ride?”

“I’m tired,” the little girl complained. Her nose was running, and she wiped it with a sleeve.

“I know you are,” Dee said sympathetically. “But look down there! See the bridge? Once we cross it, we’ll stop for lunch. How does that sound?”

“Can I have a cookie?” the child wanted to know.

“Yes, you can,” Mama Dee assured her, and started downhill. Treacherous though the truce stick might be, it made a good staff, and gave off a solid thump each time it made contact with the ground. There weren’t any vehicles on the road at the moment, which was just as well, as the civilians followed a series of steep switchbacks down to the steel bridge. That was the moment when Colonel Six spotted the group, made a minute adjustment to his binos, and swore as the faces rolled into focus. A couple of them looked familiar, but most were unique, and therefore suspect. Corporal One-O

and Private-469 had come forward by then and were ready to fi?re the rocket launcher. The pincer-operated controls were a bit strange, but Nine was confi?dent that he could fi?re the weapon, and was clearly eager to do so. Having heard Colonel Six swear, One-O was curious. “What have we got, sir? the noncom inquired. “A problem?”

“A group of mongrels,” Six replied disgustedly. “That’s what we’ve got. All headed for lower ground.”

A high-pitched whine was heard, and Six panned the binos to the right, just in time to see a vehicle appear at the west end of the bridge. The troop carrier paused, and the shrill sound of a whistle was heard as a squad of Ramanthian troopers shuffl?ed forward to inspect the structure, a precaution Six hadn’t seen before. Did that mean other convoys had been ambushed? Yes, the offi?cer thought to himself. If the possibility of guerrilla warfare occurred to me, it would occur to my brother offi?cers as well.

One of the Ramanthian troopers paused to dump his gear onto the bridge deck, before spreading his wings and slowly taking to the air. It was a rarely seen sight and an excellent reminder of what the bugs could do. The soldier soared out over the gorge, entered a downward spiral, and disappeared under the span—the place where demolition charges if any were most likely to be found.

“Get ready,” Six said, without turning toward the men crouched beside him. “I don’t know what’s lined up behind that troop carrier—but I have a feeling it’s the kind of target we want. We’ll wait until the bridge deck is full before fi?ring the fi?rst rocket. Load the second one as fast as you can.”

“Sir, yes sir,” One-O said obediently. “But what about the civilians?”

Six swung the binos left just in time to see the group of free breeders arrive at the bottom of the opposite slope and step onto the far end of the bridge. The truth was that he had forgotten all about the degenerates until One-O’s reminder. And now, as they started to cross the span, the fi?rst vehicle of the Ramanthian convoy rolled onto the structure from the west. Had the civilians been members of a recognized line, Six would have been compelled to cancel the attack. But this was different because the ragged-looking creatures were accidental people—random beings that had no recognized place within the founder’s plan. Whereas the Ramanthian troop truck, two tank carriers, and the support vehicle that were halfway across the span had tremendous value. Especially to the enemy. So as the two groups came into alignment, and the fi?nal seconds ticked away, Six made his decision. “Clear your safeties. Prepare to fi?re. Fire!”

Had one of the Legion’s offi?cers given the order to a legionnaire, it was quite possible that the man or woman operating the weapon would have refused to obey. Because legionnaires were supposed to disobey what they knew to be illegal orders. But such was the relationship between the Seebos that most of the clones couldn’t even conceive of refusing an order from one of their brothers. So Nine gave the fi?ring bulb a hearty squeeze, felt the tube resting on his shoulder jump, and heard a loud whoosh as the alien missile raced away. The warhead hit the center of the bridge, produced a fl?ash of light, and a boom that echoed through the canyon. Smoke swirled, and a single chunk of concrete fell free, but the overall structure remained intact. Mama Dee and her tiny charge had been thrown facedown by the force of the blast. But the clan leader was quick to regain her feet. The child was crying, as Dee plucked the tyke off the debris-strewn pavement, and yelled, “Run!”

The west end of the bridge was about a hundred feet away. It looked like a mile.

“Put the next missile on the last truck!” Six shouted, as the smoke cleared. The Ramanthians were fi?ring wildly by then, being unsure of where the fi?rst rocket had come from, but hoping to suppress the incoming fi?re.

Private-469 did as he was told, saw the rocket fl?y straight and true, and had the satisfaction of witnessing a direct hit. There was a tremendous roar as the boxy vehicle blew up, cut the bridge in half, and dumped both tank carriers into the raging waters below. Six noted that the fi?rst truck, the one loaded with troops, was on the far side of the gorge. That was unfortunate—but couldn’t be helped.

Meanwhile Mama Dee and roughly half her family stood at the west end of the broken span and stared down into the wreckage-choked canyon. All of the free breeders were sobbing except for Dee, who was too angry to cry. Slowly, and with a precision that sent a chill down Colonel Six’s spine, the deviant turned to look into his eyes. Because the woman on the bridge knew the rockets had been fi?red by one or more Seebos, knew her people had been sacrifi?ced, and knew someone was looking at her.

Finding it impossible to look the woman in the eye, Colonel Six lowered the binoculars, and scowled. “Throw the launcher into the gorge, and let’s get out of here,” he growled. Another blow had been struck—and another price had been paid.

PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

The Plaza of the Immortals was half a mile wide and a mile long. The arena was oriented to the planet’s north pole so that each point of the compass was represented by a formal entrance. Thousands upon thousands of tiered seats slanted up away from the plaza, and all of them were fi?lled. Not randomly, but according to genetic lines, which meant that offi?ce workers were seated with offi?ce workers, construction workers with construction workers, and so forth. And each section of seats was backed by a towering statue of the “immortal” from whom that particular line of DNA had been copied. So it appeared as if hundreds of gods were present to preside over what took place within the plaza, each stern-faced visage staring out over its progeny, as if able to see something that mere mortals couldn’t comprehend.

It made for a very impressive spectacle as Alpha Clones Antonio, Pietro, and even the ailing Marcus sat atop the three-story-high reviewing stand just below likenesses of their progenitors. And one level below them, in seats reserved for foreign dignitaries, President Nankool and his staff were present as well, something the millions of clones who had been ordered to watch video of the ceremony on their dormitory screens could plainly see. The carefully planned extravaganza began with a lowaltitude fl?yover by six wing-to-wing fi?ghters—and martial music so loud that Vanderveen was forced to cover her ears at times. That was followed by the ceremonial entrance of the famed Lightning Brigade, who ironically enough weren’t slated to lift for Gamma-014, but were present to lead the rest of the troops onto the plaza.

And as music played, and fl?ags snapped in the breeze, Vanderveen couldn’t help but be impressed as thousands of combat-ready Jonathan Alan Seebos marched into the long rectangular arena, split into company-sized groups, and turned the plaza into what looked like a gigantic chessboard. But then, as groups of clones who didn’t look a bit like the Jonathan Alan Seebos began to enter the arena, Vanderveen heard exclamations of dismay from the more senior offi?cials seated around her. “They’re conscripts!” the secretary of the navy was heard to say. “The bastards are sending civilians to fi?ght the Ramanthians!”

Vanderveen was far too junior to be seated next to the president, but she could see him, and knew the man well enough to recognize the anger on his face as General Booly leaned in to whisper something into his superior’s ear. Because rather than contribute crack troops, the way they were supposed to, it was clear that clones intended to pad their force with people drawn from nonmilitary genetic lines. But there was nothing that Nankool, Booly, and the rest of the staff could do but sit and watch as the last of the conscripts took their places, and everyone in the arena was subjected to a thunderous noise as a formation of aerospace shuttles swept in to hover just above the parade ground. Then, with a degree of precision that bespoke countless hours of practice, the transports settled into the squares not occupied by people. It was an extremely impressive maneuver that was calculated to impress the citizens of the Confederacy, many of whom were watching the live feed via the new hypercom technology.

No sooner were the shuttles on the ground, and their engines silenced, than the speeches began. Speeches by workers, minor offi?cials, major offi?cials, Alpha Clone Antonio, and fi?nally Marcott Nankool. Who, though furious at the Hegemony’s leaders, had no choice but to join them on the reviewing stand and praise the alliance.

As music played, and the audience cheered, thousands of troops entered their shuttles, took their seats, and strapped in. Once the loading process was complete, the transports took off the same way they had landed, in unison. Then, as part of a carefully choreographed aerial ballet, the shuttles peeled away from the formation one at a time, accelerated upwards, and were soon lost to sight as their contrails merged to form an arrow that pointed upwards. That was the cue for the members of the Lightning Brigade to come to attention, march out through the exits, and return whence they had come.

Vanderveen was happy to see them go. Finally, after more than four hours of sitting in a chair, it felt good to stand and follow her “betters” down to ground level, where a formal reception was about to begin. It was the sort of function that would normally be quite boring, but might become rather heated, given the way in which the Confederacy had been snookered. Vanderveen was understandably curious regarding how Nankool would handle the situation, so she began to shadow the chief executive as the party began. That strategy quickly paid off as the president and the Alpha Clones came together. Marcus had been forced to leave, due to his health, but Antonio and Pietro greeted Nankool like old friends. And Nankool responded in kind. But then, as soon as he reasonably could, the president spoke his mind. The words were measured, but his jaw was tight, and his eyes were bright with repressed anger. “That was a very impressive ceremony, gentlemen. But I was surprised to see a substantial number of civilians mustered on the plaza. It was my understanding that the Hegemony would contribute crack troops.”

Given the fact that Alpha Clone Antonio had consistently spoken for the Hegemony up until that point—Vanderveen found it interesting that it was Pietro who chose to respond. He had light brown skin, fl?ashing black eyes, and perfect teeth. The clone was wearing a well-draped toga with his trademark pin on the left shoulder. And, judging from Antonio’s expression, it seemed as though the fi?rst Alpha Clone was annoyed by his brother’s tardy participation. “Yes,”

Pietro said blandly, “that was our intention, until General453 entered into the discussions. It’s his opinion that the Legion, combined with our brave Seebos, and members of the newly formed Civilian Volunteer Army (CVA), will trounce the Ramanthians within a matter of weeks. . . . Isn’t that right, General?”

As if on cue, General Jonathan Alan Seebo-785,453 materialized out of the crowd. The offi?cer possessed his line’s manly good looks, but there was something slightly dissipated about the way his features sagged, and the puffi?ness of a body that hadn’t been required to march anywhere in a long time. But even if Four-fi?fty-three didn’t cut a soldierly fi?gure, he was a skilled bureaucrat, and could be quite charming.

“President Nankool!” the general said heartily. “And General Booly . . . This is an honor. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

“Yes,” the clone offi?cer continued, as he looked from face to face. “I took the liberty of making some rather timely changes based on intelligence received over the last few days. Given the size of the force at our disposal, and the relatively small number of Ramanthians on Gamma-014, we should be able to overwhelm the ugly beasts in no time at all. So rather than commit too many of my brethren to the task, thereby weakening the Hegemony’s defenses elsewhere, I chose to send a CVA regiment along instead. Not in direct combat roles, mind you, but to provide engineering, logistics, and medical support.”

“That plan assumes a conventional war,” Booly said pointedly. “What makes you so sure the bugs will fi?ght that way? The Ramanthians will be well entrenched and could come at us from all directions.”

General-453 wasn’t used to having his orders questioned, or so it appeared from the blood that rushed to his face, and the way his fi?sts were clenched. “First,” Four-fi?fty-three replied icily, “I believe it is customary to address a superior offi?cer as ‘sir.’ An honorifi?c to which I, as commanding general, am clearly entitled.

“Secondly, while the Legion is no doubt extremely knowledgeable where the Confederacy is concerned, Gammalies within the Hegemony, which means I am in the best position to judge what is and isn’t appropriate.”

“Except that Gamma-014 lies within the Ramanthian Empire at this point,” Booly observed pointedly. “Which is where it’s likely to remain unless we send enough troops to take it. Sir.”

“Please,” Alpha Clone Pietro said, as he held up his hands.

“Save your energy for the Ramanthians! We are allies, and I’m sure that command differences, if any, can be resolved over some good food! Come, let’s eat.”

Nankool wanted to continue the debate, as did Booly, but it would have seemed boorish to do so. Therefore, both the president and his top general were forced to follow Pietro as he led them to a table loaded with refreshments. And Vanderveen, who knew Santana might be among the legionnaires sent to Gamma-014, was left to worry. The knowledge brought scant comfort—but the fi?rst stage of the counter offensive was under way.

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY’S TROOP TRANSPORT ENCELADUS,JUST OFF PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

In spite of the fact that the Enceladus was a large ship, and specifi?cally designed for transporting troops, the vessel was so crammed with people that Captain Antonio Santana had to maneuver around marines who were camped in the main corridor, and squeeze past the boxes of rations that were stacked along the lesser passageways, before being able to enter the warren of compartments reserved for the 1st REC. A bio bod shouted, “Attention on deck!” as the offi?cer appeared, but Santana said, “As you were,” before most of the legionnaires could respond.

It was too warm for comfort as Santana entered a fuggy miasma made up of equal parts perspiration, gun oil, and ozone. Greetings came from all sides as he worked his way back through the maze of lockers and bunks toward the area set aside for noncoms. Because of the heat, most of the bio bods were walking around in T-shirts and shorts. Their war forms were stored below, adjacent to the hangar bay, so the cyborgs were equipped with spider forms. And thanks to their extraordinary mobility, the borgs had been able to colonize the overhead, where a maze of exposed girders, pipes, and ductwork provided a habitat no one else could take advantage of.

Meanwhile, down at deck level, the bio bods were listening to music, watching vids, playing cards, repairing their gear, cleaning weapons, doing push-ups, or just shooting the shit. “Whatcha got for us, sir?” Staff Sergeant Briggs wanted to know, as he looked up from his hand comp. “Are we headed dirtside?”

It had been noisy till then, but the sound level dropped by 50 percent as everyone waited to see what Santana would say. “We’ll hit the dirt soon,” the company commander predicted. “But not today. . . . The bugs had quite a welcoming party waiting for the navy—and the swabbies are still in the process of kicking their ugly butts. Then, once the heavy lifting is over, we’ll go down and tidy up.”

That produced a chorus of chuckles, and the legionnaires went back to whatever they had been doing as Santana weaved his way through the crowded compartment and made his way back to where Company Sergeant Dice Dietrich was seated on the deck. The noncom had his back to a corner, his eyes were closed, and it appeared that he was asleep. But when Santana entered the area, Dietrich’s eyes snapped open, and he was suddenly on his feet. “Good morning, sir,” the noncom said. “And welcome to the sauna.”

Santana grinned. “Thanks, Top. . . . I don’t know which is worse. This, or the two-person cabin I’m sharing with three of my fellow offi?cers. Here’s hoping we get dirtside before we all go crazy. In the meantime I have a job for you. . . . It seems Private Bora-Sa got into a game of Rockets and Stars with some jarheads, came to the conclusion that he was being cheated, and put fi?ve of them in the sick bay. There weren’t any fatalities, thank God,” the offi?cer added gratefully. “But the brig is overcrowded, so the jarheads are willing to release the idiot into our custody, so long as we promise to keep him here.”

Like all Hudathans Bora-Sa was huge, and Dietrich couldn’t help but smile, as he imagined marines fl?ying in every direction. “Yes, sir. I’ll go get him.”

“Thank you,” Santana replied. “And tell the private that he’s going to pull every shit detail that Sergeant Telveca can come up with for the next thirty days.”

“I’ll tell him,” Dietrich agreed grimly. Then, having eyeballed the offi?cer’s fl?awless Class B uniform, the noncom raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking pretty sharp today, sir. . . . If you don’t mind my saying so.”

Santana knew that was Dietrich’s roundabout way of asking where he was going, whom he was about to see, and ultimately why. “It seems that the commanding general is fl?ying from ship to ship in an effort to meet as many senior offi?cers as he can,” the legionnaire explained. “Colonel Quinlan was invited, and since the XO isn’t available, General Kobbi tapped me to sit in for him.”

Dietrich nodded. The XO had been injured in a vehicle accident back on Adobe—and had therefore been unable to lift with the rest of the regiment. Most of the enlisted people thought Santana should be named acting XO, but no announcement had been made, and now it looked as though Kobbi might be about to force the issue. All of which was well above Dietrich’s pay grade, so the noncom was careful to keep his face expressionless, as he made his reply. “Sounds like fun, sir. Have a good time.”

Santana had a deep and abiding hatred of meet-and-greet evolutions, a fact that Dietrich was well aware of. Which was why the offi?cer said, “Screw you, Top,” before executing a neat about-face, and exiting the compartment. Meanwhile, all of those who had been busy listening to the conversation witnessed the interchange, saw Dietrich smile, and chuckled appreciatively. Entertainment was in short supply aboard the Enceladus—so any diversion was welcome.

Crowded though conditions were on the troopship, battalion commanders had been given cabins of their own so they would have a place to meet with subordinates. When Santana arrived outside Quinlan’s quarters, the offi?cer saw that the hatch was closed and assumed another visitor was inside. Military courtesy required him to knock three times and wait for an invitation to enter. When nothing happened he knocked again and counted to thirty.

Still not having received a response, and expecting to fi?nd that Quinlan had departed without him, the offi?cer palmed the entry switch just in case. Much to his surprise the hatch cycled open. A few tentative steps carried Santana inside. And there, slumped over his fold-down desk, was Colonel Liam Quinlan.

The offi?cer was drunk, judging from the half-empty bottle of gin at his elbow, and completely motionless. “Colonel?” Santana said experimentally as he reached out to touch the battalion commander’s arm. “Can you hear me?” Quinlan attempted to lift his head, mumbled something incomprehensible, and began to snore. Conscious of how the scene would look should someone pass by, Santana hit the door switch, and waited for the hatch to close before returning to the desk. The colonel was in love with meetings, especially ones where he could clock some face time with his superiors, so why was the bastard drunk?

Having noted that the battalion commander was facedown on a sheet of offi?cial-looking hard copy, Santana placed a hand on top of the other offi?cer’s nearly bald skull, hooked his fi?ngers over Quinlan’s forehead, and pulled upwards. That freed the piece of paper, which the legionnaire removed prior to lowering the other man’s head onto the desk.

The BuPers printout, because that’s where it had originated, was a bit blurry where some of Quinlan’s gin had come into contact with the ink, but still readable. As with all such messages, it was brief, formal, and brutally direct: “Dear Colonel Liam Quinlan,” the message began. “It pains us to inform you that your daughter, Lieutenant Junior Grade Nancy Ann Quinlan, was killed in action off CR-0654 in the Rebor Cluster. Please accept our heartfelt condolences regarding this terrible loss. More details regarding Lieutenant Quinlan’s death, plus remains, if any, will be forwarded to your address of record. Sincerely, Major Hiram Fogles, Commanding Offi?cer ComSec, BuPers.”

Santana swore softly as he put the printout down and looked at a picture he hadn’t had any reason to pay attention to until then. The face that looked back at him was young, surprisingly pretty given her father’s porcine features, and locked in an eternal smile. The possibility that Quinlan might have a family, and have feelings toward them, had never occurred to Santana.

It wasn’t easy to drag the portly colonel over to his bunk, roll him onto it, and arrange his body so that he looked reasonably comfortable. Then, having thrown a blanket over the offi?cer and dimmed the lights, Santana slipped out into the corridor. There was a gentle hissing sound as the hatch closed, and the red “Do not enter,” sign appeared over the entry.

The meet and greet with General-453 was already under way by the time Santana entered the ship’s wardroom. Kobbi was seated at the far end of the compartment and shot the company commander a questioning look as he slipped into the room. But there was no chance to talk as a marine colonel rose to pose a question. “What about weather, sir?” the grizzled leatherneck wanted to know. “I understand winter’s on the way—and we don’t have the proper equipment.”

Santana was seated next to Kobbi by that time, and the two men exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing. The cold-weather gear that Santana and Dietrich had “requisitioned” from the navy was aboard, but wouldn’t be issued until the very last minute, lest the swabbies fi?nd out what was going on.

Meanwhile, General-453 was perched on the corner of the head table and seemed to enjoy the interaction with his subordinates. “I understand the nature of your concern, Colonel,” he said smoothly. “Gamma-014 is well-known for the severity of its winters. Fortunately, our forces will be able to land and eradicate the bugs before the really nasty weather sets in. It may be necessary to leave an occupying force behind of course—but the Hegemony will supply them with whatever they need. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Kobbi said, as he came to his feet. “I wonder if the general could provide us with more information regarding the capabilities of the Civilian Volunteer Army. . . . Specifi?cally, how much training they’ve had, what role they will play, and for which units?”

General-453 didn’t like the question, as was clear from the expression on his face and the contemptuous way in which his response was worded. “Kobbi is it? Well, General Kobbi. . . . Had you taken time to read the Plan of Battle, especially the subsection titled ‘The Role of Civilian Volunteers,’ you would already know the answer to your question. But, since you didn’t, I will reply by saying that each volunteer is genetically qualifi?ed to fulfi?ll his or her role, is already an expert in one of three clearly defi?ned support specialties, and has been through four weeks of rigorous military orientation. That training includes familiarization with the chain of command, roles and responsibilities for each rank, and the appropriate protocols.”

Everyone watched as Kobbi, who was still on his feet, nodded respectfully. “Sir, yes sir. . . . But can they fi?ght?”

That produced a nervous titter, followed by a series of coughs, and a rustling noise as some of the offi?cers repositioned themselves. The clone, who was visibly angry by that time, seemed to spit out his words one at a time. “Yes, General. The CVA can fi?ght if need be. But if you, and your troops, do the job properly, they won’t have to. Will they?”

The caustic interchange might have continued had it not been for one of Four-fi?fty-three’s aides, who took the opportunity to intervene. “I’m sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but the general is due aboard the Mimas two hours from now, and his shuttle is waiting.”

The meeting broke up shortly after that, and Santana was forced to wait as more than a dozen offi?cers stopped by to thank Kobbi for asking about the CVA, before fi?ling out into the corridor. Finally, once they were alone, Santana had the opportunity to tell Kobbi about Quinlan’s daughter. The senior offi?cer winced and shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things aren’t going well, Tony—not well at all.”

Was Kobbi referring to Quinlan’s daughter? General453’s arrogant leadership style? Or to the conduct of the entire war? There was no way to be sure—and Santana knew better than to ask.