When Duty Calls

12.

Every mile is two in the winter.

—George Herbert

Jacula Prudentum

Standard year 1651

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

The snow had stopped, the clouds had blown away, and the sun was out. So as the fl?y-form circled Marine Firebase (MF-356), Captain Antonio Santana and Lieutenant Mitch Millar had an excellent view of the hilltop fortifi?cation below. However, because Millar was a cyborg, and therefore capable of plugging in to the fl?y-form’s circuitry, the recon ball could enjoy what amounted to a 360-degree sensaround, while the bio bod was left to peer out the window next to him.

Still, Santana could see that MF-356 was well positioned to put fi?re on the highway, and serve as a staging point for local area patrols. And, should the bugs attempt to take it, the hill would be a tough nut to crack. Although the fi?rebase’s considerable weaponry had been useless in the face of Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666’s act of cold-blooded treachery. An armed invasion that cost the lives of twentythree marines and resulted in the loss of two ton’s worth of supplies. And now, having narrowly escaped arrest some fi?fty hours earlier, the renegade would be even more wary than before. And that would make him diffi?cult to catch. Especially since the clone was an expert at cold-weather survival techniques and familiar with the local terrain. But, as the fl?y-form came in to hover above the hilltop landing platform, Santana thought he had a fi?x on the renegade’s critical weakness. Or strength, depending on how one chose to look at it. And that was Colonel Six’s determination to close with the enemy and kill as many of them as he could. That desire, that determination, would make the fugitive somewhat predictable. Or so Santana hoped. There was a palpable thud as the fl?y-form put down. Servos whined softly as Millar extruded two skeletal tool aims, which the cyborg used to release the tie-downs that secured his sphere-shaped body to the seat. The cyborg’s war form incorporated four high-res vid cams, a variety of weaponry, and the capacity to fl?y long distances at low altitudes—which was one of the primary reasons why Santana had requested one of the much-sought-after scouts. While no one could beat Fareye on the ground, and recon drones had their uses, nothing could surpass a fl?ying brain when it came to collecting and distributing real-time battlefi?eld intelligence. Having freed himself from the tie-downs, Millar hovered in midair, as Santana got up and made his way forward. In spite of whatever special capabilities the cyborg might have, he was a lieutenant and the bio bod was a captain.

Even though the sun was out, it lacked any real punch, and the air outside the aircraft’s cabin was bitterly cold. So cold that the legionnaire could feel the moisture freeze inside his nose as he descended the fold-down stairs and snapped to attention. He held the salute until a short, stern-looking lieutenant colonel saw fi?t to return it. “I’m Captain Antonio Santana, sir . . . And this is Lieutenant Mitch Millar. We’re both with the 2nd Battalion, 1st REC.” The cyborg had exited the fl?y-form by that time—and was hovering four feet above the landing platform.

“Welcome to Firebase 356,” the marine offi?cer said gruffl?y.

“My name’s Suki, Lieutenant Colonel Suki, and we were told to expect you. Tell me something, Captain. . . . Why would a Legion offi?cer show up wearing navy cold-weather gear?”

“Because we had the foresight to steal all the cold-weather gear we could lay our hands on, sir,” Santana answered truthfully. “And it belonged to the navy.”

When Suki laughed, the sound came out as a loud guffaw.

“You report to General Kobbi. . . . Is that right?”

Santana nodded. “Through Colonel Quinlan . . . Yes, sir.”

“Kobbi’s a good man,” Suki said. “So good he could have been a marine! So you’re the offi?cer they selected to go after Colonel Six.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Santana said evenly.

“Well, do me a favor,” Suki growled. “Once you fi?nd the bastard, shoot him! Because if you bring him back, there will be a court-martial, and who knows what would come out of that. Especially once the politicians get wind of it.”

“You’re not the fi?rst person to make that suggestion,”

Santana answered noncommittally.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Suki replied. “Come on. . . . Let’s get in out of the cold.”

Five minutes later, the legionnaires were in the fi?rebase’s heavily sandbagged command bunker, which though warmer than the air outside, was still too cold for comfort, despite the combined efforts of chemical stoves that sat crouched in opposite corners. One plastic-draped wall was taken up with com equipment, while a second was obscured by a bank of video screens, on which helmet-cam video from foot patrol

“Joker-Four” was currently displayed. There was also a rack of assault weapons, a two-burner fi?eld stove with two pots sitting on top of it, and a long, narrow worktable, which consisted of two cargo mods, topped by a sheet of locally manufactured plywood. Positioned on that were four milspec computers—two of which were currently being used by marine noncoms. “Okay,” Suki said, as the two bio bods took their places on upended ammo crates. “I’m going to assume you did your homework—and read the reports we sent in. So, since you know what we know, why the visit?”

It was a somewhat contentious question. But because the legionnaire knew how frustrating it was to play patty-cake with fact fi?nders, touring politicians, and other forms of lowlife REMF scum, he wasn’t offended. “Don’t worry, sir. . . . The lieutenant and I didn’t come all this way to participate in a cold-weather circle jerk. We need information that wasn’t available at the regimental level.”

That was news to Millar, who knew that junior offi?cers were meant to be seen and not heard. That was why the cyborg continued to hover off to one side, half-hidden in the shadows. “Okay,” Suki responded. “What are you after?

We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“Colonel Six came here to steal supplies,” Santana began.

“That much seems clear. Based on the reports that Captain Arvo Smith fi?led, the decision to take hostages was clearly made on the fl?y. Plus, the Seebos had about fi?fty civilians on call, which further substantiates that premise. But,” Santana continued, “according to what I read, Colonel Six and his men were rather choosy about what they took. A list of the stolen items was included in the report submitted by Captain Smith. What wasn’t available at the regimental level, was a list of what Colonel Six could have taken, but didn’t. If we compare the two lists, we should be able to get a pretty good idea of what the clone bastard plans to do next.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Suki said admiringly. “You’re smarter than you look! Sergeant Diker! You’ve been listening in—and don’t pretend you weren’t. Pull up a list of the supplies that were on hand the day the clones arrived—and put that side by side with what they actually took.”

A corporal brought the offi?cers mugs of hot caf while Diker summoned the data Santana had requested, formatted the results, and sent the product to a printer. Millar plucked his copy right out of midair by tapping into the low-power wireless network.

With hard copy in hand, Santana began a systematic review of both lists. Most of the stolen items were what any guerrilla fi?ghter would want, including food, ammo, and com gear. One piece of which included the locator beacon that had been used to track him down a couple of days earlier. Of course, other things had been stolen as well—including a signifi?cant quantity of medical supplies.

But of more interest were ten Shoulder-Launched Multipurpose Assault Weapons (SMAW), and sixty 83mm HighExplosive Dual-Purpose (HEDP) Rockets, which was twice, if not three times, the number of SMAWs a company of Seebos would normally carry. The question was why? Because the weapons were available? Or to equip the guerrilla fi?ghters for a specifi?c mission?

Now that he had it in front of him, Santana could see that the other list, the one that laid out what Six could have absconded with, included six 60mm mortars, which would be perfect for guerrilla fi?ghting, a generous quantity of high explosives that would be just right for blowing bridges, and four surface-to-air missile launchers with heat-seeking rockets. Weapons that would have given the Seebos the theoretical capacity to knock fi?ghters out of the sky. But rather than select any of those items, Six chose ten SMAWs. It soon became apparent that having reviewed both lists, and having given the matter some thought, Suki was thinking along similar lines. “I never thought about it before,” the senior offi?cer admitted reluctantly, “but why steal so many shoulder tubes? Unless the bastard plans to go tank hunting.”

“I think that’s exactly what he has in mind,” Santana responded grimly. “Though not in the way you mean. Sergeant Diker . . . Please pull up all of the holding areas or similar facilities where Colonel Six could potentially lay his hands on allied armor. That includes tanks, APCs (armored personnel carriers), and anything else you can think of.”

“How far, sir?” the noncom wanted to know, his fi?ngers already tapping away.

“One hundred miles around this fi?rebase,” the legionnaire answered. “Prioritize those facilities located to the east of us—and those that have the smallest footprint. After all,”

Santana observed thoughtfully. “Why attack a big base, if you can get what you need from a small one?”

There was barely enough time to take another sip of coffee before the answer came back. The light from the computer screen gave Diker’s face a bluish tint. “Using those parameters the most likely location would be Refueling Station 32, which belongs to the 3rd Force Support Group. It’s located about sixty-four miles east of here—at the point where the road starts up toward Tow-Tok Pass. There aren’t any armored units based at RS-32, but plenty of tanks and APCs stop for fuel there, before heading up over the hump. Both the second and third hits are relatively large battalionstrength repair and maintenance outfi?ts.”

There was a loud thump as Santana’s fi?st hit the surface of the table. “Yes! That’s exactly the kind of place Six would choose! Especially now that everyone is on the lookout for him. Assuming RS-32 is the same one that I’m thinking of, we passed it a few days ago, and a squad of half-drunk store clerks could take it!

“All Six would have to do is sneak up on RS-32 with his SMAWs at the ready, wait until the depot was empty, and put the fi?rst rocket into the com mast. The second, third, and fourth rounds would be used to neutralize weapons emplacements if necessary. Otherwise, he would simply walk in!

What would a refueling depot have?” the legionnaire wondered. “Six bio bods and an equal number of robots? They wouldn’t stand a chance. The next vehicles to arrive might, or might not, be to his liking. If not, he would let them go. But if they met his requirement, Colonel Six would commandeer them, top off their tanks, and drive them up over the pass. Because that would not only get his Seebos into combat sooner—but give his troops an edge once they arrive!”

Suki was clearly impressed. “Not bad, Captain, not bad at all. . . . Of course there are some big ifs in your plan, but assuming the bastard wants to kill bugs, then that’s where he would go.”

“Let’s get Station 32 on the horn,” Santana suggested.

“So we can warn them.”

Five long minutes passed while a com tech repeatedly sought to make contact with the tiny base. But there was no response. “I think you’d better get ahold of Regimental Command,” Santana said as he came to his feet. “Tell them to send a rapid-response force to RS-32. . . . And tell them to be very careful once they arrive.”

Then, having tossed a salute toward Colonel Suki, Santana made for the surface. Millar was right behind him. And, because the cyborg had already been in radio communication with the fl?y-form, the other legionnaire’s engines were beginning to spool up as Santana entered the passenger compartment. The boxy transport was airborne four minutes later and headed southeast. Millar was strapped in by that time. “You nailed that one, sir,” the recon ball said. “But I have a question. . . .”

Santana’s thoughts were miles away, and he had forgotten all about Millar. “Yes? What’s that?”

“Well, sir,” Millar said hesitantly. “What if we arrive before the rapid-response team? And Colonel Six is still there?”

It was something Santana should have considered but hadn’t. He smiled. “Then we’ll land and order the sonofabitch to surrender!”

Millar laughed, but when Santana didn’t, the junior offi?cer wondered if the cavalry offi?cer was serious! And that was scary, because the special ops offi?cer had been killed in action once, and had no desire to repeat the experience. But Millar needn’t have worried, because by the time the fl?y-form arrived over Refueling Station 32, an armed shuttle and rapid-response team were on the ground. And, judging from all of the troops that were milling around, and the smoke still pouring out of what remained of the depot’s com hut, some sort of action had already taken place. “Put us down,” Santana ordered grimly, and the fl?y-form hurried to obey. The station wasn’t much to look at. Just a mound inside a defensive berm, two opposing gates so that vehicles could pull through without backing, and what was left of the smoking hab. Half of the com mast was missing, which was why the com tech at MF-356 had been unable to get through. A lieutenant from the 13th DBLE’s recon squadron was there to greet the cavalry offi?cer as his boots hit the frozen ground. She had brown skin, wide-set eyes, and a scar that ran diagonally down across her face. “Lieutenant Bamik, sir,” the woman said, as she tossed Santana a salute. “I have orders to provide you with whatever assistance I can. But we arrived too late to stop him.”

Santana swore. “How many people did the bastard kill?”

“One, sir, when the HEDP round hit the com shack. A company of Seebos stormed the place immediately after that.”

“What about the hostages?” Santana wanted to know.

“Colonel Six has them,” Bamik answered glumly. “A navy doctor and a navy medic. Both appeared to be in good condition. The doctor dropped this on the ground.”

Santana accepted the small piece of paper. Judging from how wrinkled it was, the note had been wadded up into a ball. “To whom it may concern,” the message began. “I have reason to believe that Colonel Six plans to take us over TowTok Pass.” It was signed, “Lt. Kira Kelly, Medical Offi?cer, CSB Navy.” That was promising. Not only did it serve to confi?rm the cavalry offi?cer’s hypothesis, it meant the doctor had her wits about her.

Santana looked out toward the highway as two heavily loaded trucks growled past. Both were loaded with glumlooking CVA conscripts. The offi?cer was struck by how empty the two-lane road was compared to the bumper-to-bumper traffi?c that he and his company had been forced to deal with as they entered the mountains. That seemed to imply a breakthrough of some sort, a victory that had allowed allied forces to cross Tow-Tok Pass and head for the town of Yal-Am beyond. So maybe General-453 had been right all along. Maybe the bugs were on the run.

Not that it made much difference to Santana. What mattered to him was that the highway was open. Which meant that the renegade and his Seebos would be able to make good time. “So what kind of vehicles did they steal?” Santana wanted to know as he turned back toward Bamik. The junior offi?cer consulted a scrap of paper. “Two Hegemony hover tanks, fi?ve half-tracks, a six-by-six, and a fueler. All taken from a company of Seebos. All the colonel had to do was order them to exit the vehicles, and they obeyed,” the legionnaire said disgustedly. “That’s the clones for you!”

“So he’s got plenty of go-juice,” Santana commented.

“Okay, let’s see if we can cut the bastard off. I need a com link.”

“I can take care of that,” Millar said, thereby reminding Santana of his presence. “Right,” Santana replied. “Thank you. See if you can raise First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo for me. . . . Call sign, Alpha One-Six. My company is on hold at Waypoint 27. Maybe, just maybe, they can block the road and cut Six off. Assuming you can raise Amoyo, tell her what to look for, and tell her I’m on my way.”

Millar bobbed up and down by way of an acknowledgment, attempted to make contact, and failed. That wasn’t unusual in and around the mountains, so the recon ball shot straight up, and leveled off at one hundred fi?fty feet. And from that altitude the cyborg had better luck. He was able to make contact with Alpha Company within a matter of minutes, introduce himself to Lieutenant Amoyo, and relay Santana’s message.

Having accomplished his mission, the scout dropped to a point only four feet off the surface, where it was necessary to hurry over to the fl?y-form, which was preparing for takeoff. The transport fl?ew only one hundred feet off the highway as it followed the ribbon of concrete up into the mountains. The cyborg kept a sharp “eye” out for the fugitive vehicles but saw no sign of them. Even though it had taken Alpha Company days to make their way up to Waypoint 27—it took the cybernetically controlled aircraft less than fi?fteen minutes to make the same trip.

Back before the invasion, Waypoint 27 had been little more than a wide spot in the highway. A place where civilian truckers could pull out to let faster vehicles pass, take a bio break, or make some minor repairs. But during the long, hard-fought push up toward Tow-Tok Pass, the fl?at area had been used as the site for everything from a fi?eld hospital to a forward repair-and-maintenance company. Of course, those units were gone, leaving the piece of godforsaken real estate to some forlorn wrecks, and the legionnaires of Alpha Company. The fl?y-form’s repellers generated a cloud of steam and blew a layer of powdery snow sideways as the cyborg came in for a perfect landing on the big red X that Master Sergeant Dietrich had spray-painted onto the ice-encrusted ground. By the time the engines began to spool down, and the fl?yform’s steps had been deployed, Santana’s T-2 was there to meet him. Ten minutes later, the two of them were out on the surface of the much-abused road, where the company’s quads were half-blocking the highway. Which should be enough force to stop Six given that he wouldn’t be able to deploy more than two hover tanks side by side or run any fl?anking maneuvers. Millar followed ten feet behind them. The moment Santana saw Amoyo’s force he knew something was wrong. The platoon leader’s face shield was up, her cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and the set of her mouth was grim. Both legionnaires were mounted and therefore eye to eye. “Welcome back, sir. . . . I wish I had better news to report.”

Santana felt his spirits fall but was careful to keep his expression neutral. “They got by?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Amoyo said miserably. “It was my fault, sir. . . . I gave orders to watch for two tanks, fi?ve tracks, a truck, and a tanker.”

There was a brief pause while Santana considered the way the report had been phrased. Then he understood. “But you didn’t give orders to be on the lookout for a tank, two halftracks, and a six-by, or some other combination of vehicles.”

“Eventually, I did,” Amoyo added apologetically. “But it was too late by then. They had already passed in three seemingly discrete groups. And the unit designators on the vehicles had been changed.”

“That’s too bad,” Santana allowed sympathetically. “But don’t let it get you down. . . . Colonel Six is one smart bastard! That’s why they chose us to catch him! Come on, let’s pull the company together, and give chase. Maybe one of his vehicles will break down or something. We’ll catch up with him eventually.”

And they tried. But there was no sign of the renegade or the stolen vehicles as the company topped Tow-Tok Pass four hours later and started down the other side. It became increasingly diffi?cult to see because a winter storm had blown in from the west and was about to dump a foot of fresh snow onto eastern slopes of the Hebron mountain range. So it wasn’t long before visibility was reduced to fi?fty or sixty feet. That was when Santana sent Lieutenant Millar forward to scout the road ahead and provide advance warning if something was blocking the highway. But it wasn’t long before the recon ball came across something a lot more serious than a stalled APC blocking the road. The ground was fairly level at that point, forming a broad shelf in the mountainside, where the ice-encrusted concrete disappeared into a nightmarish landscape of wrecked vehicles. There were hundreds of them, both Ramanthian and allied, all mixed up with each other in a way that suggested a close-quarters battle between two armored units. It would be easy to lose one’s way inside the steel maze, especially given the gathering gloom, and Millar was about to call that in when a fl?are lit the sky ahead. A lacy curtain of gently falling snow caused the light to fl?icker, as it threw ghostly shadows toward the west, and the steady pop, pop, pop of rifl?e fi?re was heard intermixed with the cloth-ripping sound of automatic weapons. “Alpha Six, this is Alpha SixSix,” the cyborg said, as he hovered next to an overturned truck. “There’s a huge junkyard directly in your path—and the snow is making it very diffi?cult to follow the road. Based on that, plus the fi?refi?ght under way up ahead, I recommend that the company stop short of the battlefi?eld and wait for morning. Over.”

“Roger that,” Santana replied. “Can you give me any additional intel on the fi?refi?ght? Over.”

“Negative,” Millar answered. “Not without going forward. Over.”

“Hold your position,” the company commander ordered. “I’ll bring the second platoon up to join you in a few minutes. Out.”

“Roger,” Millar confi?rmed. “Alpha Six-Six out.”

Santana ordered the company to halt, told Deker to fi?nd Amoyo, and was soon close enough to open his visor and talk to her off-line. Cold snow fl?akes began to kiss his face.

“Let’s circle the wagons, Lieutenant. . . . You can use both of the quads in the perimeter—but keep all your people combat-ready until the fi?refi?ght is over. I’ll take the second platoon forward to see what’s going on.”

Having allowed Colonel Six to get past her, Amoyo was feeling down, and would have welcomed an opportunity to redeem herself. More than that, she wondered whether Santana had lost faith in her—or was simply exercising his right to carry out the mission himself. Not that it made much difference, because all she could say was, “Yes, sir.”

Confi?dent that Amoyo would do a good job, and worried lest Second Lieutenant Zolkin blunder into a situation he wasn’t prepared to handle, Santana went looking for the other platoon leader and found the young man raring to go. Even if his tired legionnaires would have preferred to stay back. “We’re ready, sir,” Zolkin said enthusiastically. “Just say the word.”

Santana grinned behind his visor. “Thank you, Lieutenant. . . . I’m glad to hear it. Please put Staff Sergeant Pool and Corporal Torrez on drag. . . . And tell them to stay sharp. It would be easy for someone to get in behind us on a night like this.”

Because the orders had been delivered face-to-face rather than by radio, the instructions would seem to originate from the platoon leader thereby strengthening Zolkin’s position with the troops. Santana knew squad leader Pool wouldn’t like walking drag, but it was a very important slot, and would become even more so if both offi?cers were killed. In that situation, it would be her responsibility to assume command. With the second platoon strung out behind them, Santana and Deker followed Fareye and Ka Nahn into the maze of wrecked vehicles. Another fl?are went off, and cast an eerie glow across the battlefi?eld, as the muted thump, thump, thump of a heavy machine gun was heard. “Try all of the allied frequencies,” Santana ordered. “We need to warn those people that we’re coming in. It would be a shame to get shot by someone on our side.”

Deker was well aware of the dangers involved. He said,

“Yes, sir. I already have. Twice. But I’ll keep trying.”

It would have been nice to turn on their helmet lights in order to see where they were going, but that would be suicidal. So Santana was thankful for the steady succession of fl?ares that kept the area at least half-lit as Fareye led the column forward. They passed between a half-slagged hover tank and a burned-out truck, made their way down into a trash-strewn gully, and up the other side. A frozen human, his weapon still aimed at an invisible enemy, marked the edge of the fl?at area beyond. There was no way to know if he had been killed by a bullet or frozen to death.

“Alpha Six-Four to Alpha Six,” Fareye said, as he and his T-2 paused. “I see heat signatures up ahead. Lots of heat signatures. All of which appear to be Ramanthian. They seem completely unaware of our presence. Probably because they’re busy assaulting a big pile of wreckage. Over.”

“Roger that,” Santana answered, as Deker carried him down into the gully. “Hold your position. Bravo One-Six. Position your platoon in a line abreast. Use Alpha Six-Four as your center marker. Prepare for a sweep of the area ahead—

but caution your troops to keep their fi?re off the pile of wreckage where the friendlies are holed up. Over.”

“This is Bravo One-Six,” Zolkin replied. His voice was tight with either excitement or fear. “I read you. . . . Out.”

Santana eyed the display on his HUD, waited for the second platoon to swing into position, and was pleased to see the speed with which the evolution was executed. Zolkin had come a long way since the landing on Oron IV and was shaping up to be a good offi?cer. “Still no response on any of the allied frequencies, sir,” Deker put in over the intercom.

“Either they don’t have a com set, or they aren’t listening.”

“Thanks,” Santana said, as he eyed the constantly shifting blobs of heat in front of them. “Alpha Six to Alpha Six-Six. We’ve been unable to make radio contact with the allied unit up ahead. . . . Once we engage the enemy, I want you to go forward, and get in touch with the people in that pile of wreckage. Tell them who we are, take command if they will allow you to do so, and serve as liaison offi?cer if they won’t. Your fi?rst responsibility is keep them from fi?ring on us. Do you read me? Over.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Millar answered affi?rmatively. “Alpha SixSix out.”

“Alpha Six-Five will prepare to fi?re two fl?ares, and the second platoon will prepare to charge,” Santana continued.

“Readddy, fi?re! Readddy, charge!”

Deker was up and out of the gully before the additional fl?ares went off. Real cavalry charges were a rarity given the way most high-tech battles were fought, but the sudden attack out of the surrounding darkness could have taken place on the plains of Mongolia, in the Crimea, or at Gettysburg. Except that these steeds were sentient, could see in the dark, and were armed with weapons that would have been unimaginable two thousand years earlier. Someone yelled, “Camerone!” over the company push, and all hell broke loose. Having been caught by surprise, the bugs were forced to turn their backs on the pile of wreckage as the cyborgs swept toward them. Now, as Deker opened fi?re with both his fi?fty and his energy cannon, Santana realized there were more Ramanthians than he had bargained for. In addition to the enemy soldiers that had been visible before, more of the aliens came swarming up out of shell holes, emerged from hiding places in the surrounding wreckage, and returned fi?re. All of which caused the offi?cer to wonder if he should call upon Amoyo for reinforcements. But the quads would take a long time to arrive—and were too big to operate effectively within the confi?nes of the metal maze. Plus, were he to strip the big walkers of the protection offered by the fi?rst platoon’s T-2s, it would make the cyborgs vulnerable to an infantry attack. So, having considered the alternatives, the offi?cer decided to leave the fi?rst platoon where it was. Even though it was the offi?cer’s job to lead the legionnaires, that became impossible as the cyborgs passed through the enemy’s ranks, and the members of the second platoon found themselves inside a nightmarish world of speeding bodies, stuttering weapons, and shrill command whistles. Because of the chaos, and the speed with which the battle was being fought, all of the tactical decisions had to be made by the T-2s regardless of whatever rank the bio bod they were carrying might hold. There simply wasn’t enough time for the process to work any other way.

That meant that as Deker circled a burned-out APC in an attempt to get the drop on a Ramanthian rocket team—it was Santana’s responsibility to provide the cyborg with security. So when a Ramanthian fi?red at Deker from the right, the offi?cer was there to gun the bug down, even as the borg ran over an alien soldier. Chitin crackled as it shattered, and the alien uttered a nearly human scream, as Deker kept going. Though busy trying to protect Deker’s six, Santana noticed that the volume of fi?re coming out of the pile of wreckage had fallen off, suggesting that Millar had made contact with the people within. But if that was good, other things weren’t so good, as a shoulder-launched missile struck Private Mary Volin between the shoulder blades and blew up. Her body must have shielded Private Shalo Shaley to some extent, because the T-2 survived the hit, even if the cyborg didn’t want to. Because Shaley had been in love with Volin, and the bio bod’s death spurred the Trooper II into a frenzy of killing.

With the bio bod’s grisly remains still fl?apping around on her blood-spattered back, Shaley went looking for any Ramanthian she could fi?nd, killing each with the ruthless effi?ciency of an avenging angel. Most of the alien soldiers were already dead by that time. In fact, so many of them had been killed that their bodies lay in drifts, like the snow that was already beginning to cover them, as the raging T-2

ran out of ammo and stomped a wounded Ramanthian to death.

Sergeant Ramos had a zapper in hand as he went to intervene. None of the other legionnaires knew what he said to the cyborg, since it was off the push, but whatever it was worked because the noncom was able to lead Shaley away without having to zap her. Which was the only way a bio bod could bring an intransigent cyborg under control. Meanwhile, as bio bods dismounted to search the dead for anything that might be of interest to the intelligence people, they also collected anything that might be of use to the company in the future. Not the Ramanthian assault rifles, because they were awkward to fi?re, but energy grenades, which were better than CSB issue in certain situations, plus the highly prized grain bars that many of the bugs carried in their packs, and which tasted like honey. Their helmet lights bobbed and swayed as they probed the battlefi?eld for loot, adding yet another otherworldly element to an alreadysurreal scene. And that was the situation that Santana was presiding over as an additional light appeared and Millar emerged from the surrounding murk with a woman in tow. A knit cap covered her hair. She had a softly rounded face, a snub nose, and generous lips. The clothing the woman wore con- sisted of a mishmash of Hegemony-issue items that had been altered as necessary and layered to create the semblance of a winter uniform. That was overlaid by a combat vest at least one size too big for her, and the whole outfi?t was dusted with snow. But there was nothing amateurish about the Marine-Corps-issue carbine cradled in her arms or the look in her brown eyes. It was hard and calculating.

“This is Hoyt-11,791,” Millar announced. “She’s in command of the CVA company that the bugs were working so hard to eradicate.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Santana said as he jumped to the ground. “My name is Santana. I’m in command of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC.”

“Thank you for coming to our rescue,” Seven-ninety-one said soberly. “We wouldn’t have been able to hold out much longer.” Her voice had a husky quality that Santana found attractive.

“At some point our forces tried to clear the area of wreckage by making a big pile,” Millar explained. “Having been ambushed as they passed through the battlefi?eld, the Hoyts crawled inside and fought back. It made a pretty good fort.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t arrive earlier,” Santana said. “How many of you are there?”

“Fifty-seven when the battle began,” the clone answered succinctly, “and thirty-one now.”

“I’m sorry,” Santana said sympathetically. “But you were right to put up a fi?ght. They would have slaughtered you otherwise. Where were you headed? And what were you supposed to do?”

“We have orders to join the 181st Labor Battalion,” Sevenninety-one answered. “As for what we’re supposed to do, well, no one told us that. We’re offi?ce administrators from Alpha-002. So it’s hard to imagine what they had in mind for us.”

Santana swore, then caught himself. “Sorry, ma’am, but sending offi?ce workers into a combat zone has got to be one of the stupidest things I ever heard of. Have you got any transportation?”

“No,” the woman replied. “Our truck was destroyed in the ambush.”

That was a problem because Santana knew the bio bods wouldn’t be able to keep up with the cyborgs and would be extremely vulnerable if left on their own.

“Some of them could ride in the quads,” Millar put in helpfully.

“I suppose,” the cavalry offi?cer allowed. “But what about the rest?”

“They could ride on top of the quads, and jump off if we take fi?re,” Millar answered.

The legionnaire eyed the Hoyt. Snowfl?akes caught in her eyelashes and forced her to blink. “You and your people would be exposed to both the weather and enemy fi?re up there,” Santana cautioned.

Seven-ninety-one shrugged. “We were exposed in the truck,” she said fatalistically. “And riding beats walking.”

“Okay,” Santana agreed. “Do you have any objections to taking orders from Lieutenant Millar here for the duration of your stay with us?”

The Hoyt looked at the hovering recon ball and back again. If the prospect of reporting to a cyborg bothered the woman, she gave no sign of it. “No, sir,” she said formally.

“That’s fi?ne with me.”

The cavalry offi?cer nodded. “All right, Lieutenant, take care of your people. Make sure they scrounge all the good stuff they can fi?nd. I have a feeling everything is going to be in short supply up ahead. Perhaps Seven-ninety-one would be good enough to help identify the dead. And let’s lay them out where the graves registration people will be able to fi?nd them. Dismissed.”

By the time the second platoon, and the newly designated third platoon pulled back into the relative security of the encampment that Amoyo and her people had prepared, a full-fl?edged blizzard was under way. Weather so cold it was necessary for sentries to work the actions on their weapons every two to three minutes or risk having them freeze up. But there was one good thing about the storm however. . . . And that was the fact it would be just as hard on the enemy. Because no matter how many battles the two sides fought— winter would always win.

13.

Tragedy is by no means the exclusive province of the lowly.

—Paguumi proverb

Author unknown

Standard year circa 120 B.C.

PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

It was raining as the Ramanthian task force swept in over Seattle. What had once been a discrete city was now part of the sprawling metroplex that began in the old nation-state of Canada, and ran all the way down to Baja, California. For reasons not entirely clear, the Seattle area had been especially hard to pacify. This meant it had been necessary to repeatedly punish the animals who lived there. A process that eventually turned what had been gleaming high-rises, fl?oating sea habs, and carefully manicured streetscapes into a cratered wasteland. The destruction was plain to see as the Queen watched the vid screen on the bulkhead before her. Though capable of in-system spacefl?ight, the Reaper was classifi?ed as a combat assault platform, and intended for use inside planetary atmospheres. As such the fl?ying fortress was heavily armed and, thanks to a spacious fl?ight deck, could launch and retrieve smaller vessels at the same time. As the airborne fortress approached the city from the south it was traveling at a scant twenty miles per hour, a fact that somehow made its presence over the city that much more ominous.

As the monarch looked down onto the surface, she saw an arrow-straight line of craters, each measuring exactly one hundred feet across, which had been etched into the planet’s surface by OTS (orbit-to-surface) cannons fi?ring from outside the exosphere. Thousand-foot-high skyscrapers had been cut down like trees. So what remained looked like a thicket of fi?re-blackened stumps, many of which were still smoking, because of fi?res that continued to burn below street level.

What resembled old lava fl?ows were actually rivers of previously molten metal and glass, which followed streets down to a large bay, where cold water transformed them into something resembling stone. Everything else was a sea of fi?re-blackened wreckage occasionally interrupted by islands of miraculously untouched buildings. As the Reaper began to slow, the royal spotted tiny pinpricks of light down below, followed by an occasional spurt of light-colored smoke. “What,” the monarch wanted to know, “are the animals doing?”

Captain Ji-Jua was standing at the royal’s side. He was a serious-looking offi?cer with a reputation for probity. “The humans are fi?ring at us, Majesty,” the naval offi?cer replied gravely. “They have a quantity of shoulder-launched missiles looted from human military bases—and it may have been a lucky shot from such a weapon that brought the transport down.”

“I fi?nd it strange that when we manage to destroy an enemy ship it’s always ascribed to skill—but when they do it we refer to it as ‘luck,’ ” the Queen observed tartly. “And where is the transport? I expected to see it by now.”

“It’s diffi?cult to see because of the rain,” Ji-Jua replied tactfully. “The stern is half-submerged in that lake—but the bow is resting on dry land.”

The Reaper shuddered gently as a surface-to-air missile exploded against her screens. The ship’s combat computer ran a lightning-fast series of calculations and fi?red an energy cannon in response. The blue bolt slagged everything within twenty feet of the point from which the rocket had been launched.

But the royal was oblivious to such details as the crash site came into full view. There were hills to the left and right as the task force slowed and hovered above the wreck. The Queen knew, as did everyone else, that roughly half of the three hundred troops traveling on board the transport had been killed on impact. The survivors were not only alive, but still fi?ghting, as wave after wave of murderous humans attacked them. And, as smaller ships spread out to suppress enemy fi?re, a task force led by the Queen herself was about to rescue the beleaguered troopers. Video of that was sure to raise morale throughout the empire. Pictures that would look even better if taken on the ground rather than inside a warship. The Queen stood. “I will lead the rescue party myself,” she announced. “I’ll need my armor and a rifl?e.”

Captain Ji-Jua reacted to the statement with undisguised alarm. “Majesty!” the offi?cer said. “Please reconsider! The situation on the ground is extremely unstable. . . . I could never allow you to risk your life in such a manner!”

“You not only can, you will,” the royal responded sternly.

“Or I can replace you here and now. . . . Which will it be?”

Ji-Jua wanted to resist what he believed to be an extremely poor decision, but the force of the monarch’s personality combined with a sudden fl?ood of pheromones, was more than the offi?cer could overcome. “I’m sorry, Majesty,” he said contritely. “It shall be as you say.”

Thirty minutes later the Queen was aboard an assault boat headed for the surface. The plan was to secure a landing zone, hold it long enough to load the beleaguered soldiers, and take off as soon as possible. Which, given total command of the air, should be relatively easy to do. Thanks to the monarch’s reassuring presence, plus their natural feelings of superiority, morale was high as the boat put down three hundred feet west of the wreck. The stern ramp made a loud thud as it hit the ground. A trio of fl?ying vid cams went off fi?rst, followed by the Queen and four members of the Imperial Guard. As the Ramanthians shuffl?ed out into a cold rain, the lake was only twenty-fi?ve feet to their left, which should have been a good thing. Except that sixteen SCUBA-equipped freedom fi?ghters chose that moment to surface and open fi?re! Half of the humans had never fi?red a weapon in anger, and their bullets kicked up spurts of dirt and rainwater, as they held their triggers down. The original plan had been to attack the downed transport from the water side, but with a group of Ramanthian soldiers directly in front of them, the humans had no choice but to attack or be attacked. The Queen was wearing body armor, but one of the fi?rst bullets the animals fi?red found the seam between the stiff collar that protected her neck, and the material that cloaked the rest of her elongated body. The projectile punched a hole through the royal’s chitin and nicked her posterior nerve bundle before exiting through the other side of her body, where it slammed into her armor. The whole thing came as a complete surprise to the Queen, who being all-powerful in every other respect, believed herself to be invulnerable on the battlefi?eld as well. There was no pain, just a sense of disbelief, as she collapsed and lay helpless in a large puddle of muddy water. There was a great deal of shouting, pincer clacking, and confusion as the royal’s bodyguards grabbed what they feared was a dead body, and attempted to carry the limp burden toward the assault boat. But they were under fi?re the entire time, and two of them fell, thereby dumping the alreadywounded monarch onto hard ground. So two of the rank-andfi?le soldiers stepped in to help, got hold of the inert body, and helped drag it up the ramp.

Once the royal was on board, the pilot lifted, thereby leaving the rest of the fi?le to be slaughtered, as those on the Reaper subjected the aviator to a nonstop fl?ow of frantic orders. Ten minutes later the assault boat and its special cargo were safe inside the warship’s launch bay, where a team of medical personnel was waiting. They rushed on board and, having made an initial assessment, delivered the good news:

“The Queen lives!”

That was true, but it quickly became apparent that while conscious, the royal was paralyzed from the neck down. The effort to rescue those trapped on the surface continued as a despondent Captain Ji-Jua took the actions necessary to transfer the royal to the battleship Regulus, where a team of medical specialists would be waiting to receive her. Chancellor Ubatha was present as the Queen was brought aboard the battleship some three hours after the injury. He shuffl?ed alongside the high-tech gurney as the monarch was wheeled into a waiting operating room. A consensus had emerged by then. All of the doctors agreed that initial efforts should focus on stabilizing the monarch, so they could evacuate her to Hive, where the empire’s foremost surgeons would be brought in to evaluate her condition. For that reason, the initial operation was mostly exploratory in nature and didn’t last long. It took the Queen half an hour to recover from the effects of the general anesthetic, but once she did, Ubatha was summoned to her side. Although the royal lacked the ability to move her body, she could talk, albeit with some diffi?culty.

Ubatha felt a genuine sense of affection for the warrior queen, and that, plus the chemical cocktail that permeated the air around her, caused a genuine upwelling of sympathetic emotions as the offi?cial looked down on her. “I’m sorry,” the Queen croaked. “But it looks like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But even that can serve our purposes. . . . Make sure video of what took place is seen throughout the empire. Along with assurances that I’m still alive. I think I can assure you that the Ramanthian people will fi?ght even harder after what happened to their Queen!”

“Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha said gently. “The people love you. . . . And your sacrifi?ce will show them the way.”

“And that brings us to you,” the monarch put in.

“Me, Majesty? How so?”

“Until such time as I regain the full use of my body, you will serve as my surrogate. That will be diffi?cult for both of us—but we have no other choice.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha said obediently.

“We can discuss all of the procedural diffi?culties during the trip to Hive,” the Queen added. “But, fi?rst I want you to fi?nd Captain Ji-Jua, and check on his mental state. He attempted to dissuade me from participating in the rescue, but I overrode him, and I’m afraid he will blame himself.”

“Yes, Majesty. Right away, Majesty,” Ubatha said, as he backed away. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I knew you would,” the Queen said, as she allowed her eyes to close. “Thank you.”

Ubatha was as good as his word, and immediately went in search of Ji-Jua, who had been thoroughly chastised by then, and summarily relieved of his command. So the Chancellor located the cabin assigned to the visiting offi?cer, announced his presence via the intercom, and waited for a response. When none was forthcoming he pushed a pincer into the access slot and heard servos whir, as the hatch opened. It was dark inside, but there was no mistaking the body that lay on the deck, or the pistol that lay inches from the dead offi?cer’s outstretched pincer. Having failed in his duty to protect the Queen, Ji-Jua had taken his own life. A terrible waste—but useful nevertheless. Because once the news of the Queen’s injury became public, there would be an overwhelming desire to place blame. Knowingly, or unknowingly, Captain Orto Ji-Jua had volunteered to go down in history as the offi?cer responsible for the monarch’s disabling wound. And for that, Chancellor Ubatha was grateful.

METROPLEX, SAN FRANCISCO

The old warehouse stood because no one had gotten around to knocking it down. Shafts of sunlight slanted in from windows high above and threw pools of light onto the muchabused duracrete fl?oor below. And there, seated behind a beat-up metal desk, was a very troubled man. Because one of the many problems associated with heading the Earth Liberation Brigade was the amount of work that the newly created position entailed. It was work that Lieutenant JG Foley found to be especially onerous since much of his life had been dedicated to evading responsibility rather than trying to embrace it. And now, having been transformed from would-be thief to resistance leader, the offi?cer was faced with all the issues natural to any large organization. Which was to say recruiting, stroking, and retaining good people, while simultaneously trying to obtain scarce resources like food, medical supplies, and weapons.

Such problems weighed heavily on Foley, as the woman in front of him rose to leave, and one of his underlings brought a man forward to replace her. There were at least twenty-fi?ve people waiting for an audience, which meant that his socalled offi?ce hours were sure to extend well into the evening, at which point brigade headquarters would be moved to another location.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” the man with the blond hair said, as he sat down opposite Foley. He had a medium build, a woodenly handsome face, and appeared to be about twenty-fi?ve years old. Unlike Foley, whose face was covered with a two-day growth of beard, the visitor was clean-shaven. His clothing was nondescript but sturdy—

perfect for urban warfare. “You’re welcome,” the resistance leader said automatically. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more like what I can do for you,” the blond man answered with a sardonic grin.

“I really don’t have time for word games,” the offi?cer said dourly, as he examined the list in front of him. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. . . . Would you mind giving me your name?”

“Chien-Chu,” the blond man said. “Sergi Chien-Chu. But given that you’re a lieutenant, and I’m an admiral, feel free to call me sir. I don’t pull rank very often—but there are times when it makes sense. And this is one of them.”

Like most humans, Foley was familiar with the name. It was hard not to be, since the real Chien-Chu was not only the billionaire owner of Chien-Chu Enterprises, but the man many called “The Father of the Confederacy,” and was rumored to be well over one hundred years old. Or his brain tissue was anyway, since his original bio body had worn out decades before, and been replaced by a succession of cybernetic vehicles, which were said to come in a variety of shapes and sizes.

But was Foley looking at one of them? That seemed very doubtful. . . . Because rich people had space yachts, and thousands of them had escaped Earth orbit during the early days of the invasion. So rather than feeling awestruck, as he otherwise might have, Foley was angry. “Right, you’re Sergi Chien-Chu, and I’m President Nankool. . . . You can leave now. . . . Or should I have some of my men throw you out?”

Sergi Chien-Chu thought of the fi?le he wanted and watched the electronic document appear in front of his

“eyes.” “Before you do that, Lieutenant, consider this. . . . Who, but an admiral, or someone similar, would know that your military ID number is CFN 204-632-141? Or, that you have a heart-shaped birthmark on the upper surface of your left arm? Or, that you were in Battle Station III’s brig, accused of grand larceny when the Ramanthians attacked?

Which is when you found your way to the surface—and wound up in command of the Earth Liberation Brigade. And you’ve been riding the tiger ever since.”

Foley realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. Even though it was theoretically possible that someone other than a genuine admiral could assemble the information the stranger had at his disposal, it was unlikely, given the circumstances, and deep down the offi?cer knew that the blond man’s claim was true. Somehow, impossible though it might seem, one of the most remarkable people in the history of the Confederacy was seated there in front of him! “Sorry, sir,”

the offi?cer said apologetically. “But this is something of a surprise. . . . A welcome one, however—since you’re far more qualifi?ed to run this organization than I am!”

“Nice try, son,” Chien-Chu said dryly. “But you accepted your commission—and by God you’re going to earn it! In fact, given that it would be unseemly to have such a junior offi?cer in charge of a soon-to-be-powerful army, I’m jumping you up to commander! It’s a temporary rank, of course, but who knows? If you can control your larcenous instincts, and if you show up for work every day, we might make the promotion permanent when this is all over. And drop the charges against you . . . Sound good?”

Foley looked around, saw that his underlings were staring at him with open curiosity, and knew why. He had already spent more time with Chien-Chu than the people who had preceded him. “Sir, yes sir. Would you be willing to drop the charges pending against my men as well?”

“Yes,” Chien-Chu answered. “We’ll drop any charge short of murder, assuming that they take your orders, and remain loyal until Earth has been liberated.”

“Okay,” Foley said. “It’s a deal.”

“Good,” the entrepreneur replied. “Now here’s the problem. . . . We, which is to say the Confederacy’s military forces, are spread very thin at the moment. The truth is that we won’t be able to send a fl?eet here for months to come. And that’s if things go well! If they don’t, it could be as much as a year before help arrives. Meanwhile, as is typical in such situations, all sorts of criminals are busy feeding off the chaos.”

Foley remembered his plan to rob the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building and felt a sense of shame. Chien-Chu saw the expression on the other man’s face and grinned knowingly. “Shocking isn’t it? And, making a bad situation worse, is the fact that some of these criminal organizations are pretending to be freedom fi?ghters as a way to solicit popular support. At least one of which is being led by a retired general. It will be necessary to deal with him eventually, but given the fact that his people would kick your ass right now, that will have to wait. In the meantime we’re going to strengthen your group until the Earth Liberation Brigade is the big boy on the block. . . . And that’s when you’ll be ready to throw your weight around. But only for the benefi?t of the Confederacy. Do you read me?”

The truth was that Foley wasn’t sure he could live up to all of the admiral’s expectations. But Chien-Chu knew about his personal history and hadn’t been deterred. So perhaps he was capable of leading the Earth Liberation Brigade and just didn’t know it. “Yes, sir,” Foley said. “I read you.”

“Good,” the other man said. “Tell me something, son. . . . Are you an angler?”

Foley thought it was strange to have someone who appeared to be the same age he was call him “son.” “No, sir,” the offi?cer replied. “I grew up the city, so I never went fi?shing.”

“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” the businessman observed. “Go ahead and fi?nish what you were doing. The concept of meeting with citizens on a regular basis is a good thing to do by the way. . . . And it makes you different from the pretenders who would like to set up shop out there. So once you’re fi?nished, we’re going to take a run down to the bay. You know the huge hab that Homby Industries built just off Angel Island? Well, the condos took a beating from the bugs, but there’s nothing wrong with the marina located underneath the complex. And that’s where our fi?shing boat is hidden.”

Foley thought that the whole notion of a fi?shing trip was strange, very strange, but nodded anyway. “Yes, sir. Will I need some sort of pole?”

Admiral Chien-Chu smiled indulgently. “No, son, you won’t.”

It was nearly pitch-black off Point Bonita, but there was some light from the moon, as large swells passed under the yacht. The ride out had been relatively smooth, thanks to the winglike hydrofoils that lifted the hundred-foot-long boat out of the water and enabled speeds of up to forty-eight knots. But now that the vessel was hull down, it was subject to the motion of the waves like any other boat, and Foley felt increasingly nauseous. Not Chien-Chu, though, who had just fi?nished explaining how the yacht had been “borrowed” from a wealthy acquaintance of his, who was among those who had fl?ed the planet. The crew consisted of ChienChu Enterprises employees, who wore black hoods and were heavily armed. A group which, Foley suspected, would be assigned to keep an eye on him.

“We’re getting close,” the admiral promised, as another wave broke over the plunging bow. “Earth is two-thirds water you know. . . . That makes for a lot of surface area to keep track of. And even though they have to drink the stuff, the bugs aren’t all that partial to H O. That’s because they 2

evolved on a planet that doesn’t have any oceans.”

All of that might have been more interesting to Foley had his stomach felt better. As it was, the naval offi?cer was battling the urge to vomit, which for reasons he wasn’t altogether sure of, he didn’t want to do while Chien-Chu was looking on. “Okay,” the cyborg said, as a stream of data continued to scroll down the right side of his “vision.” “Here it comes!”

There was a clap of thunder as whatever “it” was broke the sound barrier, followed by a tremendous explosion of water as something big smacked into the surface of the ocean a thousand yards off the port bow. “There’s our fi?sh!”

the businessman proclaimed enthusiastically. “Now to reel it in!”

It took the better part of twenty minutes to bring the yacht alongside the heaving object, hook on to a submerged tow-point, and begin the process of hauling the object ashore. The boxy container would have been very diffi?cult to tow had it not been for extendable hydrofoils that provided the same amount of lift the yacht enjoyed.

“You can sink it, too!” Chien-Chu said proudly, as he looked astern. “And program it to surface whenever you want!

That feature will become increasingly important once the bugs realize what’s going on. There’s a whole lot of ocean out there—and even with orbital surveillance they can’t track everything that goes on. Plus, we’re going to throw empties at them, just to keep the bastards busy!”

Now that the yacht’s foils were deployed, the ride was a good deal steadier, which allowed Foley to focus on something more than his stomach. “That’s amazing, sir. May I ask what’s in the container?”

“Yes, you may,” Chien-Chu replied cheerfully. “This one contains automatic weapons plus lots of ammo. . . . Just the sort of thing that an up-and-coming resistance leader like yourself would ask for if he could! Future loads will include heavy weapons, medical supplies, and food.”

Foley felt a steadily rising sense of hope. “That’s terrifi?c, sir. . . . Can I make a suggestion?”

“Of course,” the cyborg said indulgently, as the boat passed under the partially slagged Golden Gate Bridge.

“Suggest away.”

“Some or all of those dummy containers could contain bombs,” Foley said. “That would not only infl?ict casualties—

but slow the chits down.”

“And discourage any criminals that might get a hold of one!” Chien-Chu added gleefully. “I can see that we chose well! I will forward your idea to the proper people. They’ll love it.”

Foley nodded. “Thank you, sir. But one more question . . . The last time I was up in orbit, the bugs were in control. Won’t they intercept and destroy our ships before they can drop more containers into the atmosphere? Frankly, I’m surprised this one got through.”

“No, they won’t be intercepted,” the admiral answered confi?dently. “Because there aren’t any ships! Not in the conventional sense anyway. . . . We’re using specially designed drones, each of which has its own hyperdrive and onboard NAVCOMP. Rather than exit hyperspace six planetary diameters out, the way all incoming traffi?c is normally required to do, the drones are programmed to drop hyper inside the moon’s orbit! That means the chits have very little time in which to respond before the vehicle enters the atmosphere, opens up, and dumps up to four individually targetable cargo modules into any body of water we choose.

“Oh, sure,” the entrepreneur continued matter-of-factly.

“The Ramanthians will nail some of them. And others will go astray for one reason or another. . . . But we calculate that about sixty-three percent will reach the designated target area even after the chits have come to expect them. That means your organization will have more supplies than all the rest of the gangs and armies forming up out there. So make good use of your advantage. . . . Because it’s your job to keep the bugs from settling in and to prevent the criminals from becoming too powerful while the government regroups. Got it, Commander?”

Foley looked back along the bar-taut tow cable to where the matte black cargo module was skimming the surface of the moonlit sea. Admiral Chien-Chu made it all seem so obvious, so simple, but he knew better. Even though the yacht’s power plant was shielded, there was the possibility of a heat leak that would attract attention from above. Or that a passing aircraft would spot them—or that one of a hundred other calamities could occur. Which meant that every time someone went out to retrieve a cargo module it would be a crapshoot. But there was only one thing the offi?cer could say: “Yes, sir, we’ll do our best.”

DEER VALLEY, EAST OF SAN FRANCISCO

As the sun rose and Margaret Vanderveen emerged from the old mine shaft to look down on the valley below, she marveled at how beautiful it was, in spite of the charred ruins of what had once been her second home. Some of the buildings had been torched by looters. And, after stripping them of everything that might be useful during the coming weeks, months, or, God forbid, years ahead, Benson had set fi?re to all the rest. Because any signs of habitation, or prosperity, would serve as an open invitation to both the Ramanthians and the human looters—a breed the society matron had come to fear more than the insectoid aliens. A doe and a fawn were grazing on what had once been Margaret’s front lawn as she took a sip of tea and considered the day ahead. Having taken in the teenager named Christine, and the orphans in her care, the three adults had their hands full trying to feed all the hungry mouths, keep the youngsters halfway clean, and prevent them from attracting the wrong sort of attention. The latter was the most diffi?cult task because the children had lots of energy and hated being cooped up inside the mine.

The answer was to take small groups of them on expeditions like the one planned for that morning, where they could get some exercise while foraging for edibles, and checking Benson’s artfully concealed snares. There were lots of rabbits in the area, and they were a welcome source of protein.

Such forays were dangerous, not only because the group might be spotted from the air but because it took constant vigilance to avoid etching trails into the hillsides. Visible paths that, if allowed to develop, could lead the inquiring eye straight to the mine shaft.

Such were Margaret’s thoughts as an ominous thrumming noise was heard—and she automatically backed into the jumble of boulders that helped conceal the entrance to the mine. There was a cord there, which the matron pulled three times to alert her companions to the possibility of trouble. Both of the deer bolted as the thrumming sound stopped, then started again. And that was when the small two-seat Ramanthian scout ship passed over the valley headed west. It was trailing a stream of black smoke, and as the engine continued to cut in and out, the aircraft lost altitude and disappeared from sight as it passed over the opposite ridge. “It looks like the bastards are going to crash,” Benson said heartlessly, as he appeared next to Margaret with a rifl?e clutched in his hands. “Here’s hoping they die a painful death.”

Margaret understood how Benson felt, but couldn’t bring herself to wish anyone a painful death, even a Ramanthian.

“We’d better keep everyone inside,” she said. “It seems safe to assume that they radioed for help. That means a rescue party is on the way.”

Benson nodded. “Thank God we don’t have anyone out there at the moment,” he said. “It looks like we caught a break.”

Margaret was inclined to agree, but as the day wore on, and the adults took turns on sentry duty, there were no signs of a Ramanthian rescue party. Or anyone else for that matter. Although there was always the possibility that ground troops had been ordered to respond from the west—something the humans wouldn’t be able to see because of the intervening hill. That was Benson’s theory—and it made sense. When darkness fell, and the evening meal was over, the adults took turns telling stories until it was time for the children to go to bed. Since John could stand sentry duty all night without fatigue, and could see in the dark, the rest of them could get a good night’s rest knowing that the android was on duty. That’s why Margaret was sound asleep when the robot came to wake her. A beam of light washed the walls around the socialite, and she held up a hand to protect her eyes. John spoke with the same calm tones he might have used to announce the arrival of a guest at the Napa Valley estate.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” the android said formally. “But it’s my duty to inform you that a life-form bearing a strong resemblance to a Ramanthian entered the valley from the west and is presently taking a nap where the house used to be.”

Margaret was up by then and pulling her clothes on. “A Ramanthian. You’re sure?”

“Yes, ma’am,” John responded gravely. “I’m sure.”

“And there’s only one of them?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the robot replied patiently. “There’s only one of them.”

“Did you tell Benson?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did,” the android confi?rmed.

“Good,” Margaret said, as she strapped a gun belt around her waist. “Go back and tell Lisa to stay with the children. I’ll be with Benson.”

The group had a pair of night-vision binoculars they had appropriated from the men who attempted to kill them immediately after they left the highway. And Benson was already using them when Margaret emerged from the mine to stand next to him. “So,” she wanted to know, “was John correct?”

“He sure as heck was,” the maintenance man answered.

“It’s weird. . . . But here, take a look for yourself.”

Margaret accepted the binos, brought them up to her eyes, and swept the area below until a greenish blob appeared. Then, after she fi?ddled with the controls, the picture came clear. There, lying on his side as if sound asleep, was a Ramanthian soldier, or aviator, if this particular bug had been aboard the ship they’d seen the previous day. “It looks like he’s asleep or dead,” the socialite commented. “Maybe they weren’t able to get a message out. Maybe he was injured, left the crash site looking for help, and couldn’t walk any farther.”

“Maybe,” Benson allowed grimly. “But regardless of what happened he’s a problem. If the chits see him, they’ll land right in our front yard. Maybe they’ll spot the mine, and maybe they won’t. But why take the chance? I say we go down and deal with him before the sun comes up.”

The plan made sense. So Margaret went to tell the others, ordered John to come along, and followed Benson down into the valley below. They were careful to step on rocks wherever possible in order to avoid creating a trail. Once in the valley, the humans circled the body, before approaching it with weapons at the ready. Margaret noticed that a faint odor of formic acid hung in the air around the Ramanthian as Benson prodded the body with his rifl?e. There was no response so Margaret decided that it was safe to move in and examine the corpse more closely. Margaret had seen Ramanthians before, and even spoke with some during prewar diplomatic functions, but never under circumstances such as these. The fi?rst thing she wanted to do was search the body for any objects or bits of information that might prove useful. Then, just to satisfy her own curiosity, Margaret was hoping to establish the cause of death. With those objectives in mind, she forced herself to grab hold of the aviator’s harness in an attempt to roll the alien over. And that was when the trooper uttered a groan. Margaret jerked her hand away as Benson raised the rifl?e. “Holy shit! The bastard is alive!”

“You know I don’t like that kind of language,” Margaret said primly. “Come on. . . . Let’s prepare the sling you were talking about.”

“But it’s alive!” Benson objected. “I should shoot it fi?rst.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Margaret replied fi?rmly.

“Is that the way you would like them to treat us? Now, hurry up. Or would you like to have a Ramanthian patrol fi?nd us out here?”

It was that argument as much as anything that convinced Benson to take the coil of rope off his shoulder and work with John to prepare a sling. Then, once the carefully knotted rope was laid out next to the aviator, it was a simple matter to roll the alien onto it. That produced another groan, but the bug was still unconscious insofar as Margaret could tell, and that was good. Because she had nothing to offer the Ramanthian for his pain.

Margaret led the way as Benson and the android carried the aviator up the hill to the mine, where Lisa was waiting.

“We’ll take him back to one of the side galleries,” Margaret instructed, and turned to lead the way. The main shaft ran straight back into the hillside. The gradient slanted upwards, so the miners could move their fully loaded carts more easily, but the iron rails were long gone. Lights, all powered by carefully camoufl?aged solar panels, lit the way. Side tunnels, some of which had been enlarged over the years, provided rough-hewn rooms for sleeping, eating, and storage. And it was in one of the latter where a table had been placed so that the Ramanthian could be laid on his side. The same position he had been found in and the only one that would accommodate the alien’s wings. The fi?rst task, to Margaret’s mind at least, was to assess the extent of the alien’s injuries in case there was something that she or her companions could do to help. Benson wanted no part of the activity, but Lisa was willing, and having rigged some lights, the two women conducted an inch-by-inch examination of the alien’s body. And that was when they discovered that a section of the Ramanthian’s exoskeleton was not only broken, but pressing in on the aviator’s internal organs, which had most likely been damaged as a result. Margaret knew that the question of why the scout ship had crashed, and why there hadn’t been any signs of a search, would probably go unanswered. But one thing she did know was that the alien in front of her had gone down in what he no doubt saw as enemy territory, had suffered a terrible injury, and still found the courage to try and walk out. So while she hated the Ramanthians as a group, the matron couldn’t help but admire the being in front of her, as she pressed her fi?ngers against the alien’s reddish brown chitin. And that was when Margaret noticed something she thought was strange. Although she could have been wrong—

since she knew so little about bug physiology. But based on her efforts to move the Ramanthian, it seemed as though his chitin, and therefore his exoskeleton, was very thin. If true, that might have had something to do with the extent of his injuries. The problem was that Margaret had no way to know how thick normal chitin was. Still, if the aviator’s shell-like covering was especially fragile, the question was why?

The issue was academic, of course, but continued to linger in the back of Margaret’s mind, until the Ramanthian died six hours later. Benson was there, as was Lisa, when the socialite made her announcement. “We have some work to do before we can bury him,” Margaret said. “I want to take samples of his exoskeleton and major organs.”

Both of her companions were amazed. “Whatever for?”

Lisa wanted to know.

“I think the aviator was sick before the crash,” Margaret answered fi?rmly. “That’s why his exoskeleton was so fragile.”

“So what?” Benson inquired cynically. “Humans get sick; Ramanthians get sick. That’s how it is.”

“You’re probably right,” Margaret admitted. “But what if other Ramanthians are suffering from the same disease?

And what if a lot of Ramanthians were suffering from the disease? Wouldn’t our intelligence people want to know that?”

“They might,” Lisa conceded. “But how would you get in touch with them? Algeron is a long ways off.”

“I don’t know,” Margaret replied. “But we’ve got to try.”

“I think the whole discussion is a waste of time,” Benson said dismissively. “We don’t have the means to preserve tissue samples once you take them.”

“Oh, but we do!” Margaret proclaimed, with a wicked smile. “You went to some lengths to bring liquor along, as I recall—claiming that we might need it for ‘medicinal purposes.’ Well, it looks like you were correct!”

“No,” Benson said, as he looked at her aghast. “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, but I would,” Margaret assured him. “Lisa, please fi?nd some containers. Plastic would be best. Thomas, please fetch a saw. We have work to do.”

14

Swift, blazing fl?ag of the regiment,

Eagle with crest of red and gold,

These men were born to drill and die.

Point for them the virtue of slaughter,

Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a fi?eld where a thousand corpses lie.

—Stephen Crane

War Is Kind

Standard year 1899

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

Having successfully led his troops and their stolen vehicles up over Tow-Tok Pass, and down onto the plain beyond, Colonel Six stood on top of a three-tiered main battle tank, and surveyed the battlefi?eld ahead. Various types of data scrolled down the right side of the viewfi?nder, including the range of each object that fell under the crosshairs, the prevalent wind direction, and the temperature—a skin-numbing twenty-six degrees.

But Six barely noticed the discomfort. His mind was on carnage spread out in front of him. Knowing that the allies would have to come down out of Tow-Tok Pass, General Oro Akoto had chosen to dig hundreds of north–south trenches intended to block access to the city of Yal-Am beyond. And, thanks to the canyon that bordered the battlefi?eld to the north, and a densely packed minefi?eld to the south, the Ramanthian had been able to keep his enemies right where he wanted them, which was bogged down a good ten miles short of their goal.

Deep ditches were connected by communication trenches that ran east and west. Carefully sited bunkers, pillboxes, and machine-gun nests were positioned to put the allies in a lethal cross fi?re whenever they attempted to advance. All of that would have been worthless in the spring, summer, or fall, when allied aircraft would have pulverized the Ramanthian army. But thanks to very bad weather, and thickets of surface-to-air missile launchers, Akoto had been able to neutralize what should have been an overwhelming advantage. Rather than wait for better weather—it appeared that General-453 was pushing ahead, relying on superior numbers to overwhelm the bugs and force entry into Yal-Am. And, judging from what Six could make out, the results had been nothing short of disastrous. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but fi?re-blackened craters, wrecked hover tanks, and thousands of unrecovered allied and Ramanthian bodies.

As the offi?cer continued to scan the war-torn landscape ahead, another chapter in the bloody confl?ict began to unfold. Thunder rolled as the artillery pieces that had been dug in along the west side of the city began to speak. That sound was followed by a freight-train rumble as the big shells passed through the atmosphere. Then came a series of concussive booms as the high-explosive rounds landed among the allied troops and threw columns of earth, snow, and raw meat high into the air.

Even as the bloody confetti fell, Six saw thousands of white-clad Ramanthians boil up out of distant trenches and surge forward. Not to be outdone, the allies fi?red their howitzers and multiple-rocket launchers. And with devastating effects, too. . . . Dozens of red-orange explosions rippled along the Ramanthian trenches, and hundreds of bugs fell, as they battled to retake the north–south trench they had been forced to vacate the previous day.

Then the allied artillery barrage stopped as thousands of Seebos, marines, and legionnaires swarmed up out of their hiding places and rushed forward. Most of the clones wore winter white and gray, but all too many of the free breeders were dressed in layered summer uniforms, or ponchos made from blankets. The darker uniforms made excellent targets, and the people who wore them began to die as boots slipped on ice, robots struggled to cut paths through a maze of razor wire, and offi?cers waved them forward. The soldiers fell in waves, their lives harvested like wheat, as the yammering machine guns cut them down. Mortar fi?re added to the madness, as men and women scrabbled through clods of falling earth to capture another few inches of bloody ground. And for what? Nothing that the Seebo could see and understand. It was a battle conceived by a conceited fool who, brother or not, was a mass murderer.

Having seen all he could stomach—Colonel Six lowered his binos. He had to stop the madness. . . . But how? Suddenly a mad, crazy idea occurred to him. A plan that shouldn’t work, but could work, given the unusual circumstances. But would Dr. Kira Kelly be willing to cooperate?

Maybe, the clone concluded, if she saw what he’d seen. The clone spoke into his lip mike. “This is Six. . . . Fetch the doctor. There’s something I want her to see.”

As the sun sank in the west, and powerful fl?ares drifted down out of a lead gray sky, both sides settled in for a night of bitterly cold weather. The darkness was punctuated by occasional cross-trench raids as the adversaries sought to claim or reclaim precious inches of frozen ground they had been denied during daylight hours. A brutal, frequently close-quarters, business that rarely produced the sort of results that General-453 and his offi?cers were looking for.

But that didn’t keep them from trying, so any number of fanciful plots were hatched as General-453 and his mostly clone staff took their usual dinner within the cozy warmth of the command bunker located underneath his infl?atable hab. The soft-sided structure was located fi?fteen miles west of Yal-Am, which put it safely beyond the reach of the biggest tubes General Akoto was willing to waste on a planet he expected to lose to the enemy.

Having consumed a hearty meal in the company of his cronies, the clone went up to his offi?ce, where it was his intention to respond to General Kobbi’s latest memo. A missive the Seebo wanted to ignore, but couldn’t, because of the way the free breeder consistently copied General Bill Booly. Still, the legionnaires were dying at a prodigious rate, and there was an excellent chance that Kobbi would take a bullet during one of his frequent trips to the front lines. I’ll give the asshole a posthumous medal, the offi?cer thought to himself, and send my condolences to General Booly!

The thought brought a thin smile to General-453’s face as he entered his offi?ce only to discover that another Seebo was waiting for him. Even though the clone soldiers looked identical except for differences in age, they could frequently tell each other apart thanks to nuances of dress, posture, and infl?ection. Not this time however, because even though they were roughly the same age, Four-fi?fty-three couldn’t remember meeting this offi?cer before. “Is there some sort of emergency, Colonel?” the general wanted to know. “Because if there isn’t, I would prefer that you see my adjutant, and make an appointment to see me.”

Colonel Six stood. Thanks to his obvious status as a Seebo, and his relatively high rank, it had been absurdly easy to fi?nd out where the general was and await his return. The renegade put the time to good use by studying the schematics on the walls, reviewing a thick stack of intelligence reports, and skimming through the correspondence stacked on one corner of the collapsible desk. “I’m afraid it is an emergency, sir,” Six assured the senior offi?cer. “But we’ll have everything under control in a moment. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant-44?”

General-453 opened his mouth to say something, but never got a chance, as Lieutenant-44 took him from behind. The senior offi?cer struggled, but couldn’t counter the combination of a full nelson, and the younger man’s strength.

“Okay,” Colonel Six said. “You can come out now.”

That was Dr. Kira Kelly’s cue to step out of General453’s washroom. “How dare you!” General-453 spluttered, and the medic crossed the room. “I’ll have you arrested! I’ll have you court-martialed! I’ll have—”

“Make him shut up,” Colonel Six said disgustedly, as Kelly knelt next to Four-fi?fty-three.

“This should do it,” the doctor said calmly, pressing the injector against one of the general’s meaty thighs. There was an audible pop as a gas cartridge forced a powerful sedative through the weave of Four-fi?fty-three’s trousers and into his bloodstream. Lieutenant-44 was there to support the older Seebo as the strength left his legs.

“Let’s put the general to bed,” Six said, moving in to help. With Four-Four supporting Four-fi?fty-three’s torso, and the others lifting his legs, the Seebo was carried into his sleeping compartment and strapped to his cot. With that accomplished, Six turned to Kelly. “Thank you, Doctor. You know what this means, don’t you?”

“No,” Kelly answered. “What does it mean? Outside of the fact that I must be crazy?”

“It means you’re one of us,” Six said meaningfully. “Because now you’re part of what amounts to a mutiny.”

Kelly remembered the view from the top of the tank, as thousands of brave men and women were sent forward into what constituted a meat grinder, and knew Six was correct. By giving the sedative, she had knowingly crossed the line from victim, to criminal, and aligned herself with a man who, if not a murderer on the scale that General-453 was, still qualifi?ed as such. Not that it mattered much, because Kelly had already lost her way, and knew it. Her resolve had weakened since leaving the note at the refueling station. Serious mistakes had been made, and there was no going back. “Yes,” Kelly agreed fatalistically. “We’re on the same side.”

“Good,” Six replied evenly. “The next part is going to be tricky. Very tricky indeed. And I need your help.”

General Mortimer Kobbi had his combat gear on, and was about to go out into the fl?are-lit trenches, when the summons arrived. “You’re sure?” the tough little legionnaire demanded, as the com tech faced him under the glare produced by the overhead strip lights. Their breaths fogged the air, a series of distant explosions sent tremors through the frozen ground, and a nearly spent bullet pinged as it fl?attened itself against one of the metal shutters.

“Yes, sir,” the corporal said steadfastly. “Generalwants to see you right away.”

“It was probably that last memo you sent,” a major named Perko said sardonically. “The fi?ring squad is ready.”

The com tech thought that was funny—but knew better than to smile. “All of the regimental commanders were invited,” the corporal put in. “The meeting is scheduled for 2100 hours.”

Kobbi waited until the enlisted man had left before turning to Perko. The major was a big man, with broad shoulders, and a long, lugubrious face. “Who knows?” the general said rhetorically. “Maybe the bastard will listen to someone other than his clone suck-ups for a change.”

Perko shrugged. “Here’s hoping. I’ll take care of the tour for you.”

“Keep your head down,” Kobbi cautioned. “You’d look damned silly without it.”

The makeup job was far from perfect, but by putting on three sets of General-453’s underwear in order to better fi?ll out one of his uniforms, and by inserting a couple of Kelly’s two-inchby-two-inch gauze pads in his cheeks to make his face look puffi?er, Colonel Six was able to approximate the other offi?cer’s appearance. Would any of Four-fi?fty-three’s subordinates notice discrepancies? Probably, especially where subtle mannerisms were concerned, but it wouldn’t make any difference unless they had the courage to challenge the supreme commander. And that was unlikely. So that was the man who entered the underground command bunker at 2100 hours. It was a long narrow space that had been scooped out of the ground with a tank-mounted dozer blade, tidied up by hand, and spray-sealed to keep moisture out. Self-adhesive strip lights had been attached to the ceiling, two folding worktables took up the center of the room, and folding chairs were slotted all around. The fl?oor consisted of locally produced wood planks that were painstakingly scrubbed each morning consistent with General-453’s standing orders.

About half of the offi?cers who came to attention were Seebos, and the rest were free breeders, including Mortimer Kobbi. The clone’s face looked more bloated than usual, but that was of little interest to the legionnaire, who was hoping for some sort of breakthrough. Anything other than another suicidal attack against an entrenched enemy. And, much to Kobbi’s amazement, that was what he got! “At ease,” the imposter said, as he eyed those around him. “Please take your seats. Our present strategy isn’t working—so get ready to take notes. We’re going to try something new.”

Though not identical to the way the legionnaire would have planned it, the strategy that Four-fi?fty-three presented was similar, especially where the use of armor was concerned. “As you know,” Six said, “the battlefi?eld is strewn with wrecked hover tanks. That’s because the Ramanthians knew we would use them—and knew they wouldn’t work very well over deep trenches.”

Kobbi was amazed. As were the other Confederacy offi?cers seated around him. It was like listening to a different man!

Or himself for that matter—because everything Four-fi?ftythree was saying could be found in the memos he’d sent in. “But, thanks to our brave allies, we have an answer!” Six proclaimed. “Because the Legion’s quads can walk, rather than fl?oat across the battlefi?eld, engaging multiple targets as they do so, thereby clearing the way for the Trooper IIs and bio bods who will follow.”

Now it was the Seebos’ turn to look at each other in amazement. Because on all previous occasions, when no free breeders were present to hear, the supreme commander had consistently referred to the Legion’s cyborgs as “freaks, weirdos, and criminal scum.” Military curiosities at best who weren’t fi?t for serious combat. Which was why none of the cavalry units had seen any action yet—in spite of the fact that the Legion’s infantry had taken part in assault after assault. But such was their fear of the general, and his notoriously short temper, that none of the clone offi?cers wanted to challenge the apparent about-face. Especially with so many free breeders present.

So the battle plan was fi?nalized, and all of the regimental commanders were sent out to prepare their troops, which were slated to attack the Ramanthian positions just before dawn. Not with the goal of taking a few trenches, but in an effort to wipe the bugs off the battlefi?eld, and capturing the town beyond! Kobbi was whistling by the time he made his way down the slippery ramp and entered his command bunker. And that, as all of his subordinates knew, was a very good sign.

Rather than the chance to rest, which Santana and his company had been hoping for, they came down out of Tow-Tok Pass to discover that they would be at the forefront of an allout attack scheduled for 0500 the next morning. The cavalry offi?cer got the news in person, as people bustled about the 1st REC’s command bunker, clearly preparing for something.

“I’m sorry,” General Kobbi said, once Santana had delivered his report. “But we’ve got to put the Colonel Six matter aside for the moment. I know you and your people deserve a break, but I can’t give you one. Finally, after all this time, General453 has come to his senses! We’re going to launch a major attack in the morning—I’m going to need every cyborg we’ve got. So rearm your people and get them ready. God willing, we’ll take Yal-Am in time for lunch!”

Santana had known the diminutive general for quite a while by then and couldn’t recall seeing him quite so enthusiastic before. “That sounds good, sir,” Santana replied. “I’d better get back to my company.”

“One thing before you go,” Kobbi said thoughtfully. “I was going to assign this task to someone else, but you have more combat experience, and you know what that means.”

Santana made a face. “Is this some sort of shit detail, sir?”

“Yes, it is!” Kobbi replied cheerfully. “Much to everyone’s surprise General-453 wants to lead this assault from the front. But given the speed with which we’re going to advance, the only way he can possibly keep up is to ride a T-2. Which he’s never done before.”

Santana groaned. “So you want me to babysit him.”

“No,” Kobbi countered. “I want you and your company to guard him. But I won’t insist. Colonel Quinlan misses you terribly—and will be quite happy to bring Alpha Company back into the fold.”

There was a moment of silence as the men stared at each other. It was Santana who spoke fi?rst. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“You are one rotten bastard. Sir.”

Kobbi grinned from ear to ear. “That’s what they tell me. So, we have a deal?”

“Yes, sir,” Santana agreed grimly. “We have a deal.”

“Good. I’ll send word to the general. Which cyborg will you partner him with?”

“Private Shalo Shaley, sir. We lost her bio bod up in TowTok Pass.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kobbi replied soberly. “Well, tell the private she’s about to become a corporal if she can get Four-fi?fty-three into Yal-Am with his clone ass intact.”

Santana came to attention. The salute was smart and crisp.

“Sir, yes sir.”

Kobbi returned the salute. “Dismissed.”

The senior offi?cer’s face was impassive, but as Santana turned, and made his way up the ramp Kobbi sent a thought after him. Take care of yourself, Captain. . . . Your father would be proud.

The entire front line seemed to hold its collective breath as the fi?nal seconds ticked away, and General-453 yelled

“Charge!” over the division-level push. Except that it wasn’t Four-fi?fty-three, because he was still being held under Dr. Kira Kelly’s supervision, as dozens of simultaneously launched fl?ares transformed night into day, artillery shells screamed downrange, and the huge quads lumbered out onto the battlefi?eld.

The fi?fty-ton cyborgs were big targets, and therefore almost impossible to miss, but they could take a lot of punishment, and did, as the Ramanthians opened up with everything they had. The legionnaires fought back as missiles raced off their rails, energy cannons sent pulses of blue death stuttering across no-man’s-land, and powerful legs tore through coils of barbed wire. And there were others besides Lupo and Xiong, sixteen quads altogether sweeping across the icy moonscape.

The big monsters weren’t alone. The smaller, more agile T-2s were all around them. Jumping over trenches, fl?aming machine-gun nests, and fi?ring shoulder-launched missiles. The rockets sleeted across the cratered landscape to strike at enemy artillery positions. Some were neutralized, while others continued to fi?re, their barrels nearly parallel to the ground.

That was when Colonel Six, AKA General-453, realized his mistake. Rather than lead allied forces, the way the renegade had imagined that he would, the clone had been re- duced to little more than a piece of living luggage strapped to a T-2’s back! And not very skilled baggage, because if it hadn’t been for the harness that held him in place, Six knew he would have been thrown clear by then. So all the imposter could do was hold on, fi?re his pistol at targets of opportunity, and hope things were going well. And things were going well, or so it seemed to Santana, who was advancing parallel to General-453, roughly fi?fteen feet away. Even though he understood the theoretical advantage that the big walkers had when fi?ghting on broken terrain, Santana had never been exposed to trench warfare before, and was proud to see how easily the quads could advance across a battlefi?eld littered with burned-out hover tanks. And not just advance, but destroy the enemy with overlapping fi?elds of fi?re, as the seemingly unstoppable behemoths continued to plod forward. Unfortunately, the big cyborgs could be stopped, and even though they hadn’t had any practice, the Ramanthian offi?cers understood the theory. Every weapon system involves a series of trade-offs. One of which is the ratio of weight to speed. And speed was very important. So rather than use the same thickness of armor underneath the quads, as they had everywhere else, the cybernetic engineers put less metal there. That meant the way to kill a quad was to send infantry in under it, fi?nd a way to attach a demolition pack to the cyborg’s belly, and run like hell! Or, if that wasn’t possible, then attack a spindly leg. Of course the Legion’s tacticians understood how vulnerable the big machines were, which was why a platoon of T-2s was typically assigned to guard each quad against infantry attacks.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and as Xiong moved forward her “torso” passed over a group of dead Ramanthians. Except one of them wasn’t dead. His name was Koga Noo, he was a member of the fanatical Nira cult, and eager to sacrifi?ce himself to the cause. Especially if he could take one of the big walkers with him!

War involves luck, both good and bad, and as luck would have it a demo pack lay four feet away. It had been brought onto the battlefi?eld for the purpose of blowing a hole in the allied wire, but the engineers assigned to place it had been killed. So it was a simple matter for Noo to grab hold of the container and leap into the air as the quad passed over him. The cyborg’s thinly armored belly was too high for the soldier to touch, but the Ramanthian had wings and was quick to deploy them. Seconds later, before the deadly T-2s could intervene, Noo was hovering just below Xiong’s closely packed cargo bay. That was when the enemy soldier pinched the switch.

There was a brilliant fl?ash of light, followed by a resounding boom, as the charge went off and Noo was vaporized. Less than half the force generated by the explosion was directed up and into the cyborg’s belly, but it was suffi?cient to burn a hole through the relatively thin armor, and send a jet of superheated gases into the compartment above. That triggered a series of secondary explosions, which not only killed the twelve Seebos seated in the cargo bay but ripped Xiong apart. Santana swore, and attempted to contact the cyborg via the company push, but there was no answer, as what remained of the legionnaire toppled onto one of Bravo Company’s T-2s, thereby raising the death toll to fi?fteen. However, there was no time to stop and grieve as the rest of the allied line continued to surge forward. Colonel Six had grown somewhat used to the violent rocking motion by that time, and could be seen at the very front of the allied army, shouting encouragement to every unit he passed. This came as something of a surprise from an offi?cer better known for his cutting criticisms than unreserved praise. The allied formation had cleared no-man’s-land by that time, and was well within Ramanthian lines, which had broken before the onslaught. Santana, who was busy guarding General-453’s right fl?ank, saw what was taking place and urged Alpha Company forward. “Run the bastards down!” he shouted. “Remember Xiong!”

There were shouts of “Camerone!” and “Blood!” as the Hu- dathan legionnaires uttered their traditional war cry. Then they were through to the Ramanthian rear lines, where the enemy tanks and artillery pieces were trapped in their own revetments, as the alien soldiers continued to pull back into the devastated city of Yal-Am.

Rather than remain where he was, and die an ignominious death at the hands of the animals, one of the tank commanders sent his beetle-shaped Gantha straight at Deker and Santana. The cavalry offi?cer saw a fl?ash of light as the big 120mm gun went off, followed by a potentially deafening boom, as the big shell roared past him. Then the T-2 was in the air! Metal clanged on metal as Deker landed on the Gantha’s lower deck. Santana looked up to see that the helmeted tank commander was trying to bring a heavy machine gun to bear on the threat below him. Santana brought his CA-10 up, pulled the trigger, and felt a sinking sensation when nothing happened! The goddamned piece of crap had frozen up!

The machine gun continued to swing around as Santana worked the action, brought the weapon up for a second time, and pulled the trigger again. The Ramanthian’s head jerked backwards as two of the slugs smashed through his face shield, pulped his brains, and blew what was left out through the back of his fi?ber-composite helmet.

“Good one, sir!” Deker said approvingly, as he began to climb higher. “Got any grenades?”

“Two,” Santana replied, fumbling for them.

“That should do it,” Deker said cheerfully, as he arrived next to the turret. “But mind the chit, sir. . . . He’s in the way!”

The two of them were so close that Santana was able to reach out, grab the dead Ramanthian’s harness, and pull him to one side. That opened a hole large enough to accept both grenades. They were still falling into the compartment below, when Deker took to the air, hoping to put as much distance between himself and the Gantha as he could. The ensuing explosion lifted the turret off the top of the tank, sent a gout of fl?ames into the air, and produced a wave of hot air that washed around both legionnaires. Deker made a perfect landing, absorbed most of the impact with his mechanical knees, and was about to reenter the fray when a frantic call was heard.

“Alpha Six! This is Bravo Three-Three! The general is missing! I can’t fi?nd him anywhere. Over.”

“What?” Santana demanded, incredulously. “What do you mean you can’t fi?nd him? He was strapped to your back!

Over.”

“I mean the bastard bailed out,” Shaley answered angrily.

“And I can’t fi?nd him. Over.”

“Alpha Six to Alpha Company,” Santana said. “Form on me! Alpha One-Four will provide security while we search for the general. Execute. Out.”

Meanwhile, as the surviving members of Alpha Company gathered to look for the allied commander, General Akoto was deep beneath the city of Yal-Am, preparing to deliver the Kiyo—the killing stroke. Because everything, including the retreat up over Tow-Tok Pass, and the way the ongoing battle was being fought had been leading up to this: the moment when the allies would enter the killing ground and give themselves over to the fi?nal slaughter. Thanks to massive incompetence on the part of their military leaders, the process had taken much longer than anticipated, thereby extending the amount of time available for the purpose of conquering Earth. Thus, the most important aspect of Akoto’s mission had already been accomplished.

The general was too old for active service in the minds of many, as was apparent from the age spots on his chitin, and the many maladies for which the doctors were treating him. But there was nothing wrong with his mind, which was sword bright, and as keen as a thrice-honed blade. This was why he knew that, even as a seemingly unstoppable juggernaut rolled toward the depopulated city of Yal-Am, a unique opportunity lay before him. Rather than simply stalling the allies, as the old warrior had originally been ordered to do, it was his intention to defeat them! More than that, to drive the degenerates back into space—where others could deal with them.

The navy would have to do its part, of course. But the hypercom call had been sent, and even as Akoto’s servant strapped his sword to the old warrior’s back, a battle group was emerging from hyperspace. Soon, within a matter of hours, all of the allied warships presently in orbit around Gamma-014 would be fi?ghting for their lives. While that battle took place, Akoto, plus ten thousand heavily armed Ramanthian regulars, were going to pour up out of the natural caverns located below the city of Yal-Am and consume the fi?ve thousand allied troops presently rushing to their deaths. Because exhausted from the battle just fought—the badly outnumbered humans would be easy meat. And Akoto was known for a hearty appetite. The warrior took pleasure in his joke—and that was the moment when the real battle began.

Because the Ramanthians had been swept from the fi?eld of battle, Alpha Company was pretty much on its own, as the legionnaires completed the third, and what would have to be fi?nal, search for General-453. Or, failing that, what remained of his body. But there was no sign of the offi?cer so far, and Santana was just about to wrap up the effort, when a voice came over the division push—a rarely used com channel that was reserved for extreme emergencies since it had the effect of smothering communications at the battalion, company, and platoon level. “This is General-453,” the voice proclaimed. “I was held prisoner until fi?fteen minutes ago. . . . The man who led the assault is a renegade who calls himself Colonel Six. Seize the imposter and place him under arrest! I will arrive in Yal-Am shortly. Out.”

The announcement was like a bolt out of the blue. It seemed that the Seebo who had reformulated allied strategy, and led the successful assault against the Ramanthians, had been none other than the clone Santana had been ordered to track down! Knowing that his impersonation would have to end, he had taken his leave just short of the fi?nal goal. That was shocking enough, but what took place over the next few minutes was even more so. It began with a sudden fl?urry of confused radio traffi?c, soon followed by frantic calls for help, and a storm of gunfi?re. Santana ordered his unit forward, but hadn’t traveled more than a hundred feet when Kobbi came over the regimental push. His voice was calm but urgent. “It was a trap! Thousands of Ramanthians were hiding underground. The 1st REC will fall back toward the west. Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, will escort the wounded. Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, will provide covering fi?re—”

Santana overrode the transmission to give orders at that point. By repositioning his remaining quad, and surrounding it with Trooper IIs, the cavalry offi?cer was able to create an island of steel in the middle of the horrifi?c battlefi?eld. And that was important, because as the badly mauled allied troops streamed back along both fl?anks, the company could keep the pursuing aliens from overrunning them. As other units fell in next to the legionnaires, what had been an island was transformed into a defensive wall—a barrier that fell back every ten minutes or so, giving more survivors an opportunity to escape, and denying the bugs the slaughter they had been looking forward to. But many of the cyborgs had run out of ammunition by then, as had the foot soldiers, which meant that orderly though the retreat was, it couldn’t hold. That reality became horribly clear as the allies were pushed back through what had been their rear lines, where unit cohesion began to break down, and everything came apart.

Offi?cial records would eventually show that General Kobbi attempted to call in an orbital bombardment on his own position, hoping to kill everyone in the area, but couldn’t fi?nd a navy ship that wasn’t already fi?ghting for its life. Total chaos ensued as more than three thousand allied troops and civilian volunteers began the long, cold march up over Tow-Tok Pass, toward the bases beyond. The battle of YalAm had been lost.

15

Allies are enemies who intend to attack you later.

—Triad Hiween Doma-Sa

In a speech to the Sa clan

Standard year 2841

PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

The last three days had been hellish. And as Alpha Clone Antonio-Seven entered the Emergency Operations Center normally reserved for natural disasters, he felt sick to his stomach. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a general uprising was taking place. Not just on Alpha-001, but if reports could be believed, on all of the Hegemony’s most important planets. Millions of formerly law-abiding citizens had gone on strike, and with no work to keep them occupied, had fl?ooded out onto the streets, where the treacherous Trotskis and Fisks were waiting to exhort them. That was when the mass demonstrations began, some of which had evolved into riots, as the Romos and Nerovs tried to disperse the crowds. The riots produced casualties on both sides. But when a worker was injured, or killed, rebel leaders referred to that individual as a “victim.” Whereas dead Nerovs were hung from lampposts and their dead bodies pelted with rocks.

Of course, Antonio knew some of that treatment was due to the fact that so many Nerovs had participated in the death squads his “brother” Pietro had conceived of as a way to “keep the lid on.” The strategy had been successful to some extent. Except that now, in the wake of all that had taken place, Antonio had come to realize that it had been a mistake to push the discontent deeper underground, where it could fester and spread. It was a key lesson but one that had come too late. The mood within the heavily secured Emergency Operations Center was somber, which made sense given the nature of the data that continued to stream in, and what Antonio could see with his own eyes as he sat down between his brothers. Even though Marcus had recently been the recipient of new lab-grown lungs, he was having trouble with them for psychological reasons, and couldn’t stop coughing. And, in spite of all that was at risk, Pietro came across as bored. “Okay,” Antonio began. “What have we got?”

The briefer was a social engineer named Santo-212. “The situation remains critical,” the Santo said, “as you can see from the incoming video.”

The curvilinear walls were covered with a mosaic of video screens, hundreds of them, most of which bore bad news. Everywhere Antonio looked, he could see demonstrators on the move, bodies lying in the streets, and every kind of chaos. “That much is obvious,” the Alpha Clone said impatiently. “The question is what, if anything, can be done about it? Should we bring the Seebos in to restore order?”

Santo-212 was a handsome man with black hair, large, expressive eyes, and an unwrinkled countenance. Up until then his entire life had been dedicated to keeping everything the way it was, even though instability had been introduced into the system by the founder herself, as a way to prevent the perfect society from becoming overly complacent. “No, sir,”

the social engineer replied confi?dently. “Though excellent warriors, the Seebos feel an ingrained loyalty to Hegemony as a whole, rather than to its leadership as individuals. Which means any attempt to use them against the general population could have unpredictable results. In fact, depending on circumstances, they could turn against the government.”

“All right, then what would you suggest?” Pietro wanted to know.

“I have a plan, sir,” Santo answered eagerly. “And it starts here!”

The social engineer pushed a button on a remote, and the picture on the largest screen dissolved from a demonstration on the far side of Alpha-001 to a shot of Bio-Storage Building 516. Like his brothers, Antonio was well acquainted with both the structure, and its importance. The low onestory building had been attacked more than once over the last few days, and as an airborne surveillance camera circled 516, the Alpha Clones could see that hundreds of unrecovered bodies lay in the streets around the repository. Some wore uniforms, but most were dressed in civilian attire. The corpses had begun to decay and were covered with brown rot birds. Most of the scavengers had already eaten their fi?ll, and could barely lift off as the fl?ying camera interrupted their feast.

And there, at the very center of the grisly tableau, was the building itself. Because of its symbolic importance, occupied an open area, far enough away from other buildings so that the police had been unable to fi?re down onto it, or advance using surrounding structures for cover. The southwestern corner of the repository had been blackened by fi?re. Every exposed surface was riddled with bullet holes and a wrecked assault boat could be seen on top of the much-disputed roof. “The revolution started in Building 516, Santo added grimly. “And, based on what we’ve been able to learn, rebel leader Trotski-Four is still there, along with a force of two dozen other criminals. I propose that we launch a fi?nal attack on the building and either take this Trotski prisoner or kill him. The assault will be televised, and once the disaffected workers see their leader go down, the uprising will end.”

Marcus started to speak, paused to cough, and held up a hand. Finally, when the coughing fi?t was over, the Alpha Clone managed to get the words out. “And what about other leaders? Need I remind you that all of the Trotskis look alike?”

“There were only 1,112 at the beginning of the uprising,” Santo replied confi?dently, “and according to the statistics maintained by my department, 998 of them have been killed over the past few days. That leaves only 114 individuals to deal with. And, because 56 of them are in prison, that takes us down to a pool of only 58 people, 52 of whom are living on planets other than this one.”

“But what about further damage to the facility?” Pietro wanted to know. “As well as the DNA stored there?”

“That’s a possibility,” Santo admitted soberly. “Especially if the rebels carry out their threats to deactivate the freezers. But the backup facility on Alpha-002 is being guarded by Romos—so the lines are secure.”

There was a long moment of silence after that, as everyone looked toward Antonio and waited to see what he would say. The Alpha Clone stared at the image up on the screen as he wrestled with the variables. Would the proposal work? And even if it did, would the additional deaths be worth it? Because even though the original Antonio and he were different people, both had the same DNA and common tendencies. One of which was a genuine affection for the people they were supposed to lead.

But in the fi?nal analysis, order was superior to chaos, or so it seemed to Antonio. “I say, ‘yes,’ ” the Alpha Clone announced. “But I sense we’re at a tipping point, a moment when either side could win. So this had better work.”

“It will,” Santo said confi?dently. “Just leave everything to me.”

Having successfully negotiated the military alliance on Alpha-001, and been caught there when the Ramanthians invaded Earth, Nankool and his staff were preparing to depart for Algeron when the revolution began. A development that was none of their business in one way, but all-important in another, because the Hegemony wasn’t going to be much of an ally unless the government was stable. So, over the objections of his security people, Nankool insisted on staying a few more days in hopes that the situation would stabilize. But now, as the president and his staff sat among dozens of half-packed cargo modules, even more bad news was in the offi?ng.

And, like it or not, Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly was the person who was forced to deliver it. The legionnaire had returned from Gamma-014 only the day before, and looked the way he felt, which was exhausted. Those present included the undersecretary of defense, Zimmer, the assistant secretary of state, Tumbo, and the Confederacy’s ambassador to the Hegemony, Marcy Cowles. All of them listened intently as Booly spoke.

“A report from General Kobbi just arrived from Gamma014,” the military offi?cer said glumly. “General-453 successfully led allied forces up over a strategic mountain pass. But, while attacking a city called Yal-Am, they ran into a trap. Unbeknownst to General-453, General Akoto had a reserve of some ten thousand troops hidden in caverns under YalAm, and as our forces started to enter the city, the chits boiled up out of the ground. General-453 is missing in action, and assumed to be dead, while what remains of our army is retreating to the west with the Ramanthians in hot pursuit.”

“But how can that be?” Nankool demanded incredulously,

“We own the sky! Surely our ships can pound the bugs to paste!”

“I’m afraid things have changed,” Booly reported grimly.

“You’ll recall that once Gamma-014 had been secured, we withdrew most of our ships to protect the inner planets, and left only a handful in orbit around 014. So, when a Ramanthian battle group dropped hyper about twenty hours ago, our ships were outnumbered two to one. Although they were able to infl?ict signifi?cant casualties on the bugs, there was never any doubt as to the eventual outcome, and the surviving vessels were forced to withdraw into hyperspace or face certain annihilation.”

The news elicited a chorus of dismayed comments and some heartfelt sobs as the reality of the situation began to sink in. “So it was timed?” Zimmer inquired, her eyes bright with anger.

“Yes,” Booly confi?rmed. “As General Akoto’s troops came up out of the ground in Yal-Am, the Ramanthian ships were dropping hyper.”

“That kind of coordination would have been impossible prior to the advent of hypercom technology,” Nankool observed darkly. “It seems as if the bastards are always one step ahead of us.”

“So what’s going to happen to our troops?” Tumbo wanted to know. He was a burly man, with close-cropped gray hair, and a broad moonlike face. Everyone present knew that one of his sons was a major in the Marine Corps. Presently on Gamma-014—and right in the thick of it.

“They’re cut off,” Booly answered grimly. “And we lack the means to reinforce them quickly enough to prevent what will almost certainly be a slaughter if they are forced to surrender.”

Nankool nodded. He had fi?rsthand knowledge of what could happen to those who surrendered. “We can’t abandon them,” the politician said steadfastly. “I won’t allow it.”

“So, what’s the solution?” Cowles inquired hopefully.

“The Ramanthians made effective use of hypercom technology, and so can we,” Booly replied. “All of you are acquainted with my wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, and her company. If you approve, I’m going to ask Maylo to coordinate an effort in which civilian boats and ships will land on Gamma and evacuate our forces. Anything that has both a hyperdrive and a willing owner will be pressed into service.”

“But they’ll be slaughtered!” Cowles objected.

“Some will be,” Booly admitted sadly. “But, if there’s enough ships, and they drop hyper about the same time, the bugs won’t have enough resources to chase all of them.”

There was a long silence as the group contemplated the general’s words. It was Nankool who spoke fi?rst. “It’s a desperate strategy, but unless one of you has a better alternative, then we’ll have to go for it.” There was no response, which caused Nankool to nod. “That’s what I thought. . . . General, if you would be so kind as to contact your wife, the government would be most grateful.”

“I will,” Booly promised. “And we’ll work out the details as quickly possible.”

There might have been more discussion, except that the door to the conference room slammed open at that point, and Christine Vanderveen attempted to enter. Two members of the president’s security detail grabbed the diplomat, and were about to hustle the young woman back outside, when Nankool spotted the familiar face. “Christine? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is,” Vanderveen replied fi?rmly, as the security operatives were forced to let go of her arms. “I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting, sir, but it’s very important.”

“It had better be,” Nankool said grimly. “It turns out that you were correct about the possibility of a revolt, but that doesn’t make up for the fact you went AWOL, and entered into unauthorized negotiations with a group of people who are trying to overthrow a legally constituted government.”

Most of the offi?cials agreed and said as much. “That’s right,” one of them commented. “Who does she think she is?” another wanted to know. “The president should bring charges against her,” a third put in, as the wayward diplomat made her way to the front of the room. Vanderveen’s appearance was anything but professional. Her hair was matted, her face was covered with grime, and her clothes were caked with dried blood. Other people’s blood for the most part—acquired while working in the makeshift aid station inside Building-516. But some of the crusty matter belonged to her as evidenced by the battle dressing wrapped around the young woman’s right biceps as she turned to face the president and his staff. “I don’t blame you for being angry,” the FSO-2 said contritely. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. And, with all due respect, Mr. President, what many considered to be a legally constituted government was overthrown in order to make way for the Confederacy!”

“She has you there!” Zimmer put in lightly, and that elicited some appreciative chuckles.

“And I didn’t negotiate with the rebels,” Vanderveen put in carefully. “All I did was offer myself as a point of contact, a person who could carry a message to the Confederacy when and if the time was right. And that’s why I’m here.”

“All right,” Nankool said wearily. “Say your piece.”

Vanderveen glanced at her wrist term. “The rebels will announce a new government in one hour and forty-six minutes. The offer I brought earlier still stands. If you recognize the new government as legitimate, the provisional leadership will agree to full membership in the Confederacy, and place the Hegemony’s military under centralized command. Your command.”

“That could make a big difference,” Undersecretary of Defense Zimmer put in. “Our generals counseled against fi?ghting a winter campaign on Gamma-014, General-453 ignored them, and now look where we are! We need the Seebos. And the shipbuilding capacity that the Hegemony has.”

“That’s all very nice,” Ambassador Cowles put in cynically. “But what if the rebel leaders get killed in the next hour or so? Or, they make their announcement, and the population fails to respond? Some sort of alliance is better than none, and if you come out for the rebels only to see them go down, we’ll wind up with nothing. Or, worse yet, a new enemy! Because at that point the Alpha Clones could become so angry they would be tempted to cut a deal with the bugs.”

It was a danger, a very real danger, and everyone in the room knew it. Even FSO-2 Vanderveen. Nankool looked from face to face, made a fateful decision, and opened his mouth to speak.

The sky was clear, the air was still, and it was hot. Sirens could be heard in the distance, as the badly overtaxed Romos rushed to cope with still another demonstration. But the Bio-Security Building was surrounded by a cocoon of silence until a long string of airborne surveillance cams snaked out of the city beyond and began to circle 516 like a necklace of black pearls. Taken together, they generated a loud humming noise that caused a tremendous fl?utter of wings as hundreds of rot birds left the bodies they had been perched on and took to the air. Don’t go far, Alan thought to himself, as the scavengers lifted off. There will be more to eat soon.

“Okay,” Fisk-Five said, as he aimed a small handheld camera at the rebel’s face. “Say what you’ve got to say—and hurry up! We don’t have much time.”

The government had done everything possible to keep the rebels off the main com channels, but that was hard to do, so long as all the technicians continued to side with the rebels. “My fellow citizens,” the rebel began. “My clone name is Trotski-Four. But my new name is Alan Free-man. As I speak to you, the forces of oppression are preparing to attack Bio-Storage Building 516. If the Alpha Clones are successful in their efforts to kill, and thereby silence us, they will insist that they did so in an effort to protect you. But what they are really trying to protect is the status quo, which is to say their power, so they can pass it along to replicas of themselves. Not power conferred on them by the people, but power they are born to by virtue of a plan, handed down to them from a dead scientist, which no one is allowed to change.

“Well,” Alan said, as he stared into the camera. “If you’re happy with things as they are—then this is nothing more than a day off from work. But if you, like so many others, would like the freedom to choose another line of work, or to have a sexual relationship, or to produce natural children, then take to the streets and support the new Clone Republic! A provisional government, led by me, will prepare the way for a constitutional democracy, which will take over one year from today.

“But in order to accomplish that, it will be necessary to show the Alpha Clones that the new government has the support of the people,” Alan said urgently. “So take control of your lives! Be whatever you want to be! And demonstrate your power by continuing to strike until a member of the provisional government announces some sort of settlement. At which point I want you to remember that we are at war with the Ramanthians. Our citizens are fi?ghting on distant planets, and it’s important to support that effort by running our factories and other institutions as effi?ciently as possible. And that means it will be necessary for most of us to remain in our present functions during the ensuing transition period. Thank you for your support,” Alan fi?nished. “And let this be our fi?rst day of freedom!”

“Good job,” Fisk-Five said, as he lowered the camera.

“But I think we just ran out of time. Look at that!”

Alan turned to look in the direction of the other man’s pointing fi?nger. Though not an expert on military spacecraft, the clone didn’t have to be to know that the ship coming their way was big! At least twenty times larger than the police assault boats that were circling the building. And, given the weaponry the warship carried, it could destroy both Building 516 and half the city if those on board chose to do so. That suggested the Alpha Clones were prepared to sacrifi?ce the DNA repository in order to kill the rebel leaders. The ship was only two hundred feet off the ground, which made it all the more impressive, as repellers roared and the destroyer escort drifted in over the building. The downdraft blew debris every which way, and the air was thick with acrid stench of ozone, as a huge shadow fell over Alan. The rebel thought about running, knew it would be pointless, and saw Fisk-Five aim the camera at him. To record how brave he was? Or document the end of the Clone Republic? There was no way to know.

As Alan waited to die, one of the Crowleys pointed upwards. Her hair was fl?ying, and it was necessary to yell in order to make herself heard. “Look at those markings!” the woman said. “That ship belongs to the Confederacy!”

As an assault boat parted company with the larger vessel, the rebel realized the woman was correct! Did that mean what he thought it meant? Alan felt a sudden surge of hope as the assault boat circled the building and came in for a perfect landing. A hatch opened, stairs were deployed, and a familiar fi?gure appeared. But rather than rush forward and embrace him, Foreign Service Offi?cer-2 Christine Vanderveen took up a position next to the stairs, as a second woman appeared. And it was she who came forward to shake hands with Alan Freeman.

“Hello,” the woman in the tidy business suit said. “My name is Marcy Cowles. Ambassador Marcy Cowles. On behalf of President Nankool, and the Confederacy, please allow me to be the fi?rst to congratulate you and your fellow freedom fi?ghters on the creation of a new government. I know you’re busy, but considering the circumstances, this might be a good time to have lunch with the president.”

Alan turned to eye his surroundings. Once the warship arrived, the police boats had been forced to back off. He could imagine the frantic radio traffi?c between them and various government agencies as hundreds of bureaucrats were forced to confront a problem the founder hadn’t prepared them for. He and his fellow revolutionaries were safe for the moment, but that would end once the ship left, so the choice was really no choice at all. “Are my friends invited as well?” the rebel wanted to know.

“Of course,” Cowles responded blandly. “We look forward to meeting all of the brave freedom fi?ghters who will go down in the annals of history as having founded the Clone Republic.”

Alan looked over to where Vanderveen was standing. Her blond hair was whipping in the downdraft from the warship overhead, and despite the condition of her fi?lthy clothes, she looked regal somehow. He wanted to take her into his arms, but knew he couldn’t, and nodded instead. “Thank you,”

Alan said, as he turned back to Cowles. “It would be an honor to join the president for lunch.”

There was a sense of purpose within the conference room, as Booly made arrangements to evacuate the president under fi?re should that become necessary, and senior staff members took furious, and in some cases, frantic calls from individuals inside the Hegemony’s government. It quickly became apparent that while some of the clones were trying to hold things together, others had capitulated, and were seeking asylum within the Confederacy.

That left Nankool and a handful of others to watch video provided by both the rebels and the Confederacy’s destroyer escort, as Cowles, Vanderveen, and the rebel leaders entered the assault boat and were subsequently taken aboard the warship that was hovering above. That left the Romos and Nerovs to reoccupy an empty building. A victory of sorts, but not the one the Alpha Clones had been expecting, as their carefully organized society crumbled around them. The process continued to accelerate as a new video clip appeared on the rebel-dominated com channels.

“There it is!” an aide said excitedly, and Nankool turned to look at a screen off to his right. “Good afternoon,” the digitized version of himself said. “My name is Marcott Nankool and, as president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings, it is my pleasure to formally recognize the Clone Republic, and assure its citizens that not only will the existing military alliance remain in force so far as we’re concerned, but we look forward to having even closer ties with your democracy during the days ahead. I will meet with Provisional President Alan Freeman within the next few hours and provide him with whatever assistance he requires.” The last phrase was directed more at the Alpha Clones, than the citizenry, and amounted to a thinly veiled threat. Now that the Confederacy was committed, it couldn’t back off, even if that meant a clash with the police.

Nankool watched his likeness smile—and knew what was coming. “For all too long the two major branches of humanity have been divided by a social system that could deliver peace and prosperity, but at a very steep price, that being the loss of personal liberties. Foremost among them was the right to vote, the right to choose a profession, and the right to procreate. Congratulations on the acquisition of your newfound freedom—and the responsibility it entails! Because, like us, you are at war. . . . And the future of all humanity is at stake, along with the well-being of other sentients as well. It will be up to you to chart the exact path that your new government will take, but the Confederacy will be there to help in any way it can, and to celebrate your accomplishments. Thank you.” And with that the screen faded to black. Meanwhile, even as Nankool’s message was delivered to the population, half a dozen protest groups converged on the building that housed the Chamber of Governmental Process and became a single mob. That was when Alpha Clones Antonio and Pietro boarded a shuttle, and were transported up into orbit, where the admiral in command of the Hegemony’s home fl?eet agreed to take them aboard his fl?agship, but only as prisoners. Not because he hated them, but out of fear of the political consequences, were the military to take sides.

As that was taking place, Marcus went out to confront the mob. It was common knowledge that an earlier version of himself had not only fallen in love with a free breeder, but produced a child by her, believing the birth would trigger systemic changes within the Hegemony. But that Marcus had been wrong. The other Alpha Clones had been able to keep things under control, eventually forcing the visionary and his family into exile, thereby leaving all the existing problems unresolved.

But the historical connection meant that would-be free breeders had come to see any Marcus as a potential ally even though the current replicant had been a faithful and unwavering enforcer of the founder’s plan. For that reason, Marcus believed that the workers would listen to his pleas to stop rioting and return to work. So even as his clone brothers fl?ed, he went out to greet the riotous mob. There were hundreds of them, representing dozens of lines, all mixed together. And it was an ugly sight to behold. The workers could hardly believe their eyes at fi?rst, as one of the normally reclusive Alpha Clones came out to speak with them, and did so without any Nerovs to guard him. That was why the crowd actually let him speak a few paragraphs of what they saw as government mumbo jumbo before surging forward.

In a bloody denouement that was televised for all to see, the workers tore the Alpha Clone apart. And that, in the judgment of the historians who would write about the revolution later, was the moment when the old government truly came to an end.

Christine Vanderveen was naked. More than four hours had passed since Antonio and Pietro had fl?ed, Marcus had been killed, and Alan fi?nished his lunch with Nankool. The Clone Republic was a wildly chaotic reality by then, and the new president knew there were thousands of things that he should do, and eventually would do, but only after what he wanted to do—which was to spend some quality time with Christine Vanderveen. A private meeting which, thanks to his new title, he’d been able to insist upon. And now, as the blond encircled him, Alan was lost in the smell of her freshly washed hair, the softness of her lips, and the urgent thrust of her hips. He wanted to please her, but knew very little about how to do so, and feared he would lose control.

But Vanderveen’s passion was a match for his, and it wasn’t long before the pace of their lovemaking quickened, and both were carried away by successive waves of pleasure that seemed to last forever. And left both lovers wonderfully exhausted.

Alan said things he had never said before, whispering them into her sweat-glazed skin, rubbing them into her pores. And Vanderveen answered, though not with words, because she knew things her lover didn’t. She knew the Clone Republic’s interim president would be required to travel to other planets, where he would meet hundreds if not thousands of attractive women. More than that, she knew that in spite of the chemistry between them, and the extent to which she admired Alan, there was another. The only man who could truly fi?ll the emptiness inside her, the man with whom so much had already been shared, and the man she had been thinking about when the pleasure had been at its very peak. Alan fell asleep, and had every right to, given all he’d been through during the previous week. That made leaving easier. Eventually, when the president of the Clone Republic awoke, he would fi?nd the note:

My dearest Alan,

Your newfound freedom will bring many challenges, including those posed by the human heart. Mine is fi?lled with gratitude for the time we spent together, as well as admiration for the man that you are, and will be in the future.

But there is another. . . . A man to whom promises were made—and for whom I must wait. But I will remember. . . . Not with shame, but with joy, and the sure knowledge that you will fi?nd your way to happiness.

Affectionately,

Christine

16

However skillful the maneuvers in retreat, it will always weaken the morale of an army. . . . Besides, retreats always cost more men and material than the most bloody engagements; with this difference, that in battle the enemy’s loss is nearly equal to your own—whereas in a retreat the loss is on your side only.

—Napoleon I

Maxims of War

Standard year 1831

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC

Snow was falling, the air was bitingly cold, and the steady rumble of mortar and artillery fi?re could be heard as elements of the Legion’s 1st REC, the 3rd Marine Division, and the Clone Republic’s 7th Infantry Brigade fought to hold the bugs back. The effort had been successful largely because the trenches intended to bar entry to Yal-Am also made it diffi?cult to leave, so long as they were occupied. But allied forces wouldn’t be able to hold the chits back for long, something Legion General Mortimer Kobbi was painfully aware of, as a ragtag collection of battle-weary offi?cers fi?led into the clone-built structure next to Yal-Am’s stone quarry. There was no heat and the big 155mm-sized hole in the roof allowed snow to fi?lter down into a space that was halffi?lled with slabs of frosty granite, some of which might very well become grave markers eventually. But the walls were mostly intact, blocking the wind. That, plus four blazing burn barrels, gave the impression, if not the reality, of warmth as the inside temperature hovered at twenty-six degrees. Rows of makeshift benches offered the attendees a place to sit, and many were so weary that they took advantage of the opportunity to rest even though they knew it was important to keep moving. The offi?cers were a motley group representing the Legion, Marine Corps, and the new Clone Republic, which many of them had only recently heard about. And, because of all the casualties suffered during the last few days, Kobbi noticed that captains, lieutenants, and even sergeants had been sent in place of the generals, colonels, and majors who would normally participate in a command briefi?ng. As the last of them entered, Kobbi was pleased to see that both Santana and Quinlan had survived, the fi?rst being a good deal more useful than the second. Although Quinlan had led his troops bravely, if not brilliantly, which was more than some allied offi?cers could claim. By virtue of a small miracle, one of the Legion’s supply sergeants had conjured up thermos bottles fi?lled with hot coffee and a “secret ingredient” that was immediately recognizable as rum. Most of the offi?cers carried fi?re-blackened cups that were critical to a quick “brew-up,” and hurried to produce them, as the muchabused aluminum bottles made the rounds. The rest were supplied with mugs, some of which were of Ramanthian manufacture, but still serviceable.

Santana took a tentative sip, and having found the concoction to his liking, took another. A sensation of warmth fl?ooded his belly and seemed to spread out from there. The company, minus a number of casualties, was waiting about a mile away. Zolkin had orders to get a hot meal into the bio bods, and carry out cold-weather maintenance on the cyborgs, while Dietrich went out to scrounge whatever supplies he could. Alpha Company had burned through lots of everything during the past few days and was going to need a lot of ammo, food, and medical supplies if they were going to make it back over the pass. Which, based on the cavalry offi?cer’s limited knowledge of the situation, was what everyone would have to do. Some fl?y-forms were still in service, but they were being used to air evac the wounded, and even that was iffy.

“All right,” General Kobbi began, as he stepped up onto a platform that consisted of two side-by-side cargo modules.

“I know you want to rejoin your outfi?ts, so I’ll keep this meeting brief. First, in case there’s someone who hasn’t heard, General-453 is missing in action, and presumed dead. And yes, the man who led the advance on Yal-Am was a person other than Four-fi?fty-three.”

That announcement produced a good deal of buzz—

since it served to confi?rm some of the rumors that had been fl?oating around. Santana felt the fi?rst stirrings of concern when he saw that Kobbi was looking directly at him. The general wouldn’t send him after Colonel Six right in the middle of a full-scale retreat. Would he?

The question went unanswered as the briefi?ng continued.

“So as the most senior offi?cer still on his feet, I assumed command,” Kobbi said grimly. “Unless there’s another offi?cer who wants the job—because they sure as hell can have it!”

That generated a chorus of chuckles from the offi?cers who, better than anyone else, knew how diffi?cult the retreat was going to be.

“Most of you know that we were suckered,” Kobbi said matter-of-factly. “And not once—but twice! Because even as the chits boiled up out of the ground in Yal-Am, a Ramanthian battle group dropped out of hyperspace, and tore into our ships. The swabbies bloodied the Ramanthian beaks pretty good, but took a lot of casualties, and were forced out of the system. That left the chits holding the high ground, which means our line of retreat has been severed, and we’re momentarily cut off. Worse yet, I’m told that thousands of Ramanthians have fi?ltered in behind us, which means they’re planning to infl?ict a lot of casualties as we withdraw.”

The report produced a symphony of groans, followed by a more upbeat assessment from a Hudathan major. “Good!”

the legionnaire rumbled. “Now we’ve got ’em where we want ’em!” Santana laughed along with the others, but knew the reality of it wouldn’t be funny, as thousands of soldiers and civilians started the long cold trek up over Tow-Tok Pass.

Kobbi marveled at the fact that the men and women in front of him could still laugh and waited for the noise to die down before picking up where he had left off. “But, thanks to some bug technology, we have real-time communications with General Booly, and he’s working on a plan to pull us out. I can’t go into the details yet, lest one of us be captured, but I want you to know there’s hope. And I want you to communicate that to your troops. But before we can take advantage of the general’s plan, we need to get our people over the mountains. So focus your efforts on that. Be sure to get your marching orders from Lieutenant Giles as you leave. And obey them. Because if we’re going to retreat—then it’s going to be the best damned retreat that anyone ever saw! Do you read me?”

The answer was a ragged, “Yes, sir!”

“Good,” Kobbi said. “Now, one more thing before you go out to play in the snow. . . . As many of you have heard, there has been a change of government on Alpha-001. Simply put the Alpha Clones are out—and something called the Clone Republic is in. The new government is going to be a democracy, or so I’m told, and the existing alliance remains in effect. Which, all things considered, is all we need to know!

“All right,” the general fi?nished. “Get your orders—and get in gear. I’ll be checking in with each one of you during the coming days. Captain Santana—a moment of your time please.”

Quinlan frowned. Kobbi’s habit of using Alpha Company to run errands for him was starting to grate. Especially now that more than a third of his battalion was either dead or wounded. But there wasn’t much Quinlan could do about it except shoot Santana an annoyed look before following the others toward the door.

Santana drank the last of his coffee and rum before fold- ing the handle into the center of the mug and tucking the implement away. Kobbi had stepped off the cargo modules by then, and had just completed a conversation with a major, when Santana made his way forward. Kobbi nodded as they came face-to-face. “So, have you ever seen a bigger screwup than this one?” he inquired lightly.

“No, sir,” Santana replied honestly, as his breath fogged the air. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Nor have I,” Kobbi said grimly. “Not even on Savas. But, as we haul our miserable asses back into space, I’d feel a whole lot better if we took Colonel Six along with us. Or, failing that, if we buried the treacherous piece of shit right here. Am I clear?”

The cavalry offi?cer found himself staring into a pair of very dark eyes. They looked like gun barrels. “Yes, sir. You are.”

“Good,” Kobbi said. “Six and his Seebos are long gone. I want you to pull out before the others, head up the road, and catch the bastard. He has a lot to account for, including dead marines, dead civilians, and a couple of hostages. Not to mention his impersonation of General-453. Although I must admit that I liked his version of the general a lot better than the real thing! If it hadn’t been for the reserves Akoto had tucked away, we would have kicked their pointy asses.

“Anyway, see what you can do, but don’t stray too far. . . . Because when I call for the evac to begin, time will be short—and there won’t be any second chances. See Giles on your way out. He’ll give you some written orders and a high-priority pass signed by me. Show it to any sonofabitch stupid enough to try and get in your way.”

Santana knew that the fi?rst troops to go back up the road were likely to run into some of the stiffest resistance, but there wasn’t anything he could do other than nod, and say,

“Yes, sir. We’ll do our best.”

Kobbi grinned. “See that you do. . . . Dismissed.”

Once again Santana felt grateful for the heat that Deker gave off—even if it did leave his ass out in the cold. The two of them were standing next to the road as Alpha Company began the long journey to the west. Lieutenant Amoyo, Sergeant Matos, Sergeant Telveca, Corporal Han, and Private Xiong had all been killed in action during the assault on Yal-Am. In the wake of the battle, Hoyt-11,791 and fi?fteen of her thirty-one CVA conscripts had attached themselves to Alpha Company, along with a squad of stray marines, and a Seebo transportation platoon that still had two half-tracks. The vehicles would be extremely useful if the company was going to catch up with Colonel Six. Lieutenant Mitch Millar passed fi?rst, began to pick up speed, and disappeared beyond the veil of softly falling snow. His orders were to scout many miles ahead, keep his sensors peeled for any sign of Ramanthian troops, and fi?nd Six. It was something the recon ball was uniquely qualifi?ed to do. Next came Sergeant Suresee Fareye, and his T-2, Private Ka Nhan, who were also acting as scouts and would try to give advance warning of potential ambush sites, road damage, and anything else Santana would want to know about. The scouts were followed by Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich on Corporal Stacy Subee, and the fi?rst squad of the fi?rst platoon which, due to casualties, was the only squad in the fi?rst platoon. It consisted of four bio bods and fi?ve Trooper IIs in addition to Dietrich and Subee.

Then came the reassuring whine-thud of heavy footsteps as Private Lupo, the company’s sole remaining quad, lumbered up the road. The marines were safely tucked inside his cargo compartment, where Santana imagined some were starting to feel the fi?rst symptoms of motion sickness. But it beat the hell out of walking—and the offi?cer knew he wouldn’t hear any complaints.

The huge cyborg was followed by the half-tracks, loaded not only with supplies, but with Hoyt and her CVA troops. Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin and Sergeant Mark Tebo were right behind them, followed by what remained of the second platoon. Sergeant Jose Ramos was in charge of the rearguard, which included two bio bods, and three reasonably intact T-2s. That force should be strong enough to counter anything that could catch up with the fast-moving company from behind.

It wasn’t perfect. Santana knew that. But it was the best he could do. As Ramos marched past, the company commander sent Deker forward on the fi?rst of what would eventually be dozens of trips up and down the length of the column. Because that was the only way to enforce the proper intervals, make sure that people were alert, and keep morale up. Even though the company had traveled the wintry road before, it looked entirely different now, partly because they were going the other way and partly because of the additional snow. And as more of the white stuff continued to fall, visibility was limited to a hundred feet or so, and the monotony of it caused Santana’s thoughts to drift. First to Vanderveen, who might be anywhere, then to her mother, who was trapped on Earth. If Margaret Vanderveen was still alive—which seemed doubtful.

A couple of hours passed like that, with Santana battling to maintain his focus, while the company covered fi?fty miles or so. They were up off the fl?atland and well into the foothills, when the attack came. It was a crude affair, conceived by a group of desperate CVAs, who, lacking any sort of heavy weaponry, managed to roll half a dozen boulders down a steep embankment. The plan was to disable one or more of the vehicles in order to obtain food and ammo. The low-tech ambush had gone undetected because the clones were well hidden. The boulder barrage was followed by the insistent pop, pop, pop of small-arms fi?re as a fusillade of poorly aimed bullets swept the surface of the snow-covered road. But, crude or not, the attack was successful in that one of the bouncing rocks killed Private Sig Gomyo, and disabled T-2 Private Rin Ibo, before it jumped into the air and continued downslope.

The response was swift and uncompromising. A force of enraged T-2s ran uphill, located the CVA bandits in among the rocks, and put them down. Dietrich, who was right behind them, was forced to yell, “Cease fi?ring!” over and over in order to conserve ammunition as some of the legionnaires continued to fi?re on dead bodies. One of the bio bods pulled Ibo’s brain box, and carried it into Lupo’s cargo bay, where the cyborg was hooked up to the quad’s life-support system. The entire incident was not only stupid and unnecessary, but a measure of how desperate some of the allied forces were. It was another danger for Santana to worry about. There was darned little chance that anyone would collect Gomyo’s body, not in the midst of a full-scale retreat, so like thousands of legionnaires before him, the bio bod was lowered into a shallow, unmarked grave. The burial was followed by a quick prayer and a fl?urry of orders as the company resumed its journey. The other corpses, those belonging to the clones who had been so thoughtlessly sent to Gamma014, would soon be covered with a shroud of white snow. Two hours later the column had covered another fi?fty miles and it was getting late. Since it wouldn’t be prudent to travel at night, Santana wanted to set up a defensive perimeter while there was light left to see by. So when Fareye alerted him to a short side road that led out along the top of a ridge to a spacious lookout spot, the cavalry offi?cer seized on the opportunity. While it might be necessary to camp on the surface of the road before the journey was over, Santana had no desire to do so any earlier than was absolutely necessary. Such spots were hard to defend, and there was no way to know what might come down the road in the middle of the night.

The company followed Fareye and Nhan out along a snow-covered two-lane road onto the hilltop beyond. As Zolkin and Dietrich began to organize the unit’s defenses, Santana took a stroll around the perimeter. The snow was unmarked by footprints. That was good. But the slopes that fanned out away from the lookout point weren’t very steep, and that was bad. The legionnaire knew from previous expe- rience that the bugs could advance over that sort of terrain at night and were brave enough to do so. Lacking crab mines, all Santana could do was position T-2s around the perimeter, park the quad and the tracks in the middle of the turnaround, and establish an outpost (OP) at the point where the side road intersected the highway. Because the last thing they wanted was to be cut off from the main thoroughfare and isolated on a vulnerable hilltop. As the temperature continued to drop, and darkness crept in all around them, the men and women of Alpha Company prepared to eat, sleep, and carry out some much-needed maintenance. Given their circumstances it was all they could hope for.

Meanwhile, a hundred miles to the west, Lieutenant Millar was stalking his prey. It was something the cyborg was uniquely qualifi?ed to do because he could fl?y, “see” in the dark, and mask himself electronically. The capabilities that had already enabled the scout to spot three groups of Ramanthians, all hidden within striking distance of the highway, waiting for an opportunity to attack. That was interesting, and well worth reporting, but secondary to his primary mission to fi?nd Colonel Six and his band of renegades.

But the clones had a tremendous head start—and Millar had orders to stay within a hundred miles of Alpha Company. So, once darkness descended, and the cyborg found himself a hundred and twenty miles out, he was about to turn and head back when there was a brief burst of static, followed by a low-power radio transmission. The exchange was brief, but suffi?cient to pique the cyborg’s curiosity, and trigger a full spectrum sweep of all the possible frequencies. That effort revealed more activity, which the recon ball traced to what had been a power transfer station, but was now little more than a pile of bombed-out rubble. A useful pile of rubble, however, because as Millar got closer, it soon became clear that he was onto something. Even though it was dark, and the scout had to rely on infrared imaging, it quickly became apparent that the ruins were being used by a company-sized force of humans.

But were they the humans he was looking for? That was by no means certain given the fact that dozens of military units were strung out along the highway. In fact it was quite possible that this one had been on its way to join allied forces in Yal-Am when the Ramanthian poop hit the proverbial fan. In order to fi?nd out who he was dealing with, Millar began to work himself into the dimly lit ruins, being careful to remain in the shadows whenever possible. There were sentries, but none of them saw the recon ball as Millar passed over their heads.

Having penetrated the inner part of the encampment, Millar caught glimpses of a heat source so intense it had to be a fi?re, and continued to work his way inwards until he found himself within three standing walls. There was no roof, but the walls served the soldiers as a windbreak, which had been put to good use. Viewed from the cyborg’s perspective, eight man-shaped heat blobs were seated around a much brighter heat blob, eating their dinners and talking. All Millar had to do was back his spherical body into a convenient hole and listen in on the conversation below. It quickly became obvious that the humans were clones, who by some means unknown knew about the revolution and were trying to deal with it.

“I don’t know,” the fi?rst soldier said doubtfully. “The founder’s plan worked for all these years. Why change it?”

“Because we don’t have any say,” the second man replied critically. “And if we’re going to do all the fi?ghting, we should have a say.”

“But what if no one wants to do the fi?ghting?” the fi?rst Seebo wanted to know. “What then?”

“Maybe the Santos will want to fi?ght,” the third clone put in.

That caused laughter all around. “That’ll be the day!” the second Seebo exclaimed. “All they do is go to meetings and boss everyone around.”

There was a moment of silence as one of the men put a piece of wood on the fi?re. A column of sparks shot up into the air and spiraled away. “I’ll tell you one thing,” the fi?fth soldier said. “The old man has the right idea. . . . He won’t be cold tonight.”

“That’s for sure!” number three said enthusiastically.

“How would you like some of that? Every single one of us will be free breeders once this is over.”

“Odds are that we’ll be dead once this is over,” the fi?fth man said darkly, as he blew on cold fi?ngers. “General-453 is an idiot.”

“Was an idiot,” the second Seebo said, as he took a sip of coffee. “He’s dead by now.”

“And a good thing, too,” the sixth soldier added. “I wonder what Six is doing?”

“Screwing the doctor’s brains out,” the fourth man answered cheerfully. “The lucky so and so.”

“That would be hypocritical,” the fi?rst Seebo observed.

“Him being a true believer and all.”

“Well, you know what they say about the true folk,” the seventh clone put in. “They’re truly horny!”

That produced gales of laugher and an opportunity for Millar to slip away unnoticed. But not uninformed. Because he not only knew who the clones were—he knew that the female hostage was sleeping with the man who had taken her prisoner! A man who, according to his profi?le, hated free breeders. Except for pretty free breeders. Or so it appeared. But hearing is one thing—and seeing is another. So as the snow continued to fall, the recon ball continued to ghost through the ruins, searching for Dr. Kira Kelly. Kelly was awake—but very uncomfortable. Her bladder was full, so she needed to pee, but was reluctant to leave the relative warmth of the makeshift sleeping bag that she shared with Six. He, in typical male fashion, was not only sound asleep but snoring gently. A quick check with a fl?ashlight revealed that while the tarp over their heads was drooping a bit under the weight of accumulated snow, it was in no danger of collapsing. So there was no need to get up and deal with that.

But the doctor knew she wouldn’t be able to get any more rest unless she got up, made her way out of the partially screened “room,” and down a short passageway to a freezing-cold closet reserved for her use. Careful to protect the integrity of the air pocket that surrounded Six, the navy offi?cer rolled out from under the blankets and fumbled for her boots. Once those were on, all she had to do was slip her arms into her parka in order to be fully clothed. Then, with a blob of light from the hand torch to guide her, Kelly made her way back to what had been designated as “the ladies’ room.” It was a euphemism for a storage closet with a bucket in it. It isn’t fair, Kelly thought to herself, as she lowered her pants. Men don’t have to do this. Three minutes later the offi?cer was busy fastening her parka when a voice came from the darkness three feet away from her. “Excuse me,” Millar said softly as he hovered four feet off the fl?oor. “Are you Lieutenant Kira Kelly?”

Kelly reacted with an involuntary jerk and took a full step backwards. “Who are you?” the doctor demanded, as her torch came on.

“Turn that thing off!” the recon ball whispered urgently.

“Or you’ll get me killed!”

Kelly, who had seen the cyborg’s markings by that time, did as she was told. The fi?rst question to cross her mind, which had to do with whether the recon ball had seen her go to the bathroom, was silly given the circumstances, so she put it aside. “I repeat,” Kelly whispered. “Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Mitch Millar,” came the reply. “I was sent to fi?nd you.”

Kelly felt her spirits soar only to have them crash again. Here was the rescue that she and Sumi had been hoping for!

But what would that mean for Six? Kelly was a doctor, so she was well aware of the fact that even though it isn’t logical, some hostages come to have feelings of loyalty toward their captors. Had that happened to her? Yes, the analytical part of her brain said that it had. Did knowing that make her any less concerned for her lover’s well being? No, not really. “That’s wonderful!” Kelly exclaimed, in what she hoped was a convincing fashion.

“Yes, it is,” Millar responded carefully. “Although it’s only fair to tell you that the unit I belong to is more than a hundred miles away. It may be a while before we can actually free you.”

Kelly felt a sense of relief, knew that was stupid, and silently rebuked herself. “Of course,” she said out loud. “I understand.”

“Good,” the recon ball replied. “How about the second hostage? Is he okay?”

Sumi was angry with Kelly for sleeping with Six, the doctor knew that, but saw no reason to discuss it. Not unless she absolutely had to. “Yes,” Kelly answered succinctly.

“Hospital Corpsman Sumi is fi?ne.”

“Excellent,” Millar said sincerely. “My CO will be happy to hear it. Here. . . . Take this.”

Kelly heard a whirring sound as the scout’s spherical body extruded a skeletal tool arm. The disk that was held in his grasper was about a quarter of an inch thick and two inches across. “It’s a tracker,” the cyborg explained, as the woman took the device. “Keep it on your body at all times.”

“I will,” Kelly promised, as she tucked the disk away.

“Thank you.”

“Keep my visit to yourself,” the scout instructed. “We’ll catch up as quickly as we can.” Then, having generated no more than a gentle humming sound, the recon ball disappeared. It was pitch-black inside the tiny observation post (OP), the temperature was a face-numbing ten degrees below zero, and more than a thousand Ramanthians were marching along the highway headed east, toward the fl?eeing allies and Yal-Am beyond. The nearest aliens were no more than fi?fteen feet away, so close Santana could hear the ominous scrape-thump of their perfectly synchronized footsteps, the rattle of unsecured equipment, and occasional bursts of click-speech as the evervigilant noncoms worked to keep the weary soldiers on the move.

More than that, the legionnaire could smell the unmistakable mixture of wing wax, chitin polish, and gun oil that was the olfactory hallmark of Ramanthian soldiers everywhere. And by peering out through a hole in the makeshift barricade his company had erected the evening before, the offi?cer could see the enemy formation on his HUD—thanks to the night-vision capability that was built into his helmet. The column was four troopers across and very tight. Tighter than a human formation would be under similar circumstances. But could the bugs see him? Apparently not, given the way they continued to stream past the OP, on their way to a certain confrontation with the lead elements of Kobbi’s column. That could be attributed to Santana’s having chosen to staff the OP with bio bods, while keeping a quick-reaction force comprised of relatively “hot” cyborgs out on the hilltop, where they could be called upon if necessary. The legionnaire had been summoned by Sergeant Pimm, and the tough no-nonsense marine sergeant had the good sense to keep his jarheads hidden as lead elements of the enemy force trudged past his position.

The question, to Santana’s mind at least, was why the bugs had been ordered to attack the allied column? Because even though General-453’s army had been badly mauled at YalAm, they were still capable of defeating a force such as the one in front of him, and rather decisively, too. Unless the real purpose of the impending confrontation was to stall the retreating column—which would make sense if Akoto’s forces had been unable to overtake the fugitives from the east. Yes, that was logical, and as the last of the bugs shuffl?ed past, Santana gave Pimm a pat on the back. “Well done, Sergeant. I’ll send a squad forward to relieve you in about thirty minutes or so. Unless we get new orders. Which wouldn’t surprise me.”

“We’ll be here,” the heavily swathed noncom said bleakly, wondering if he would ever be warm again. Private Ivan Lupo’s cargo bay was crammed with sleeping legionnaires, and the hot, muggy air was thick with the stench of unwashed socks, as Santana closed the hatch behind him. There was a communal groan as a blast of frigid air forced its way inside. That was followed by an apology when someone saw who it was, and the offi?cer said, “As you were.” It was diffi?cult for the legionnaire to fi?nd places to plant his feet without stepping on someone’s body as he made his way to the tiny cubicle that was supposed to function as the platoon leader’s offi?ce in the fi?eld. Except that Lieutenant Amoyo was dead and wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

The purpose of the unannounced visit was to get on the quad’s long-range com set and warn Kobbi. It took the better part of fi?fteen minutes to talk a succession of protective offi?cers into putting the call through. During that time, Santana was forced to remove layers of clothes in order to deal with what felt like a tropical environment but was actually chilly by normal standards. Finally, a clearly sleepy Kobbi was heard. “This is Six-One. . . . What have you got?”

So Santana told him, and as he did so, the company commander could imagine the look on the little general’s face. Because when Kobbi was working a problem, it was like a dog attacking a bone. And, by the time the cavalry offi?cer’s report was complete, the general knew what he wanted to do. Dawn was in the offi?ng as Force Commander Ofay led his troops up a long incline toward the certain glory that lay ahead. Yes, there was danger, and some would fall. But somehow, deep inside, Ofay knew he would be among those who would eventually go home to describe the battle to their admiring mates. Because, from his perspective, that was how life should be.

Such thoughts helped warm the soldier, who, being a member of a jungle-evolved species, was not as well equipped to deal with cold weather as a Naa, Hudathan, Thraki, or human would have been. And, Ofay knew that if it hadn’t been for the powered warm-suits his troopers wore, they would have been incapacitated within a matter of minutes. Just as so many of the largely improvident animals had been. Gradually, as daylight fi?ltered down through the clouds, Ofay began to have a better appreciation of the terrain around him. The highway had been engineered to follow the contour of the mountainsides, and having just emerged from a U-shaped curve, was headed higher on a ledge carved from solid rock. That put a cliff to the offi?cer’s right, and a drop-off on his left. From his vantage point, Ofay could see that the next right-pincer turn would take his unit around the end of a rocky promontory. The Ramanthian wished he knew what was on the other side of the point, but the cloud cover was blocking orbital surveillance, and his surviving spy-eye was on the blink.

Ofay had scouts, though, both of whom were young enough to fl?y, so long as they didn’t have to carry much gear. So the order went out, and two troopers took to the sky and fought to gain altitude. Lung-warmed air jetted away from their beaks, and their wings made a soft whuffi?ng sound as the soldiers spiraled steadily upwards. But Ofay, who was still caught up in visions of coming glory, was in too much of a hurry to wait for their reports. Soon, sometime later that day, the War Ofay would collide with animals and hold them. General Akoto would take care of the rest. The allied column was ten miles long and snaked back through a series of mountain curves, to the point where the rear guard was about to set off some explosives in an effort to block the road and slow their pursuers. The Ramanthians would clear the obstruction of course, but it would take them hours to do so, and hours were precious. Which made the fact that they were standing that much more frustrating. But General Kobbi was tired of getting his ass kicked. Even though the offi?cer knew the allies were losing the war, he was determined to win a battle. That was why both he and senior members of his staff were at the head of the column staring at two black dots as they topped the promontory ahead. “They sent scouts,” Colonel Quinlan commented, as he eyed the airborne Ramanthians. “They know we’re here.”

The two men were mounted on battle-scarred T-2s. The force around them consisted of thirty-six cyborgs in all, each carrying a heavily armed bio bod, all of whom were combatready. Steam rose around them as snowfl?akes hit warm metal. Half the group had been stripped out of the rear guard, which meant the column would be vulnerable if Akoto came up quickly, but Kobbi was betting on the Legion’s ability to engage the force ahead and defeat it quickly. “They know we’re here,” Kobbi admitted grimly. “But the ugly bastards are still going to die!”

So saying, Kobbi gave a preparatory order, followed by a single word: “Charge!” And, because the legionnaires had been ready for some time by then, they were quick to respond. The width of the highway would allow only fi?ve cyborgs to advance in a line abreast. Still, fi?ve T-2s supported by an equal number of bio bods represented a lot of fi?repower, especially when pitted against unsupported infantry. Ofay knew that, too, and was still in the process of trying to fi?gure out what to do, when a group of murderous cyborgs rounded the promontory ahead and opened fi?re. They were traveling at about thirty miles per hour by then, and fi?ring every weapon they had. The effect was devastating. Especially since only the fi?rst rank of Ofay’s troops could fi?re without hitting the ranks in front of them. Dozens of Ramanthians fell, cut down by the withering fi?re, and much to Ofay’s horror, the rest began to turn back!

They collided with troops to the rear, confusion ensued, and dozens went down. The force commander not only ordered his soldiers to face the enemy, but even went so far as to wade into the mob and shoot two of the retreating troopers. But, rather than restore order as he hoped the punitive measure would, the summary executions caused one of the fear-crazed troopers to shoot Ofay in the face. The projectile blew the back of the force commander’s skull out, sprayed blood and brains all over those behind him, and brought Ofay’s dreams of glory to an abrupt end.

All constraints having been removed, the badly panicked Ramanthians attempted to fl?ee west. But that was a mistake, because while Ofay’s attention was focused on the enemy ahead, Alpha Company had closed in behind them. That, ironically enough, was the fate that General Akoto wanted to impose on the allies.

While Santana didn’t have thirty-six T-2s to work with, there was no need to charge, not so long as the bugs were coming toward him. And he had a quad, which having already settled over its vulnerable legs, was positioned in the middle of the road with walls of T-2s and bio bods to either side. All of whom opened fi?re simultaneously. Even as the chits sought to fl?ee Kobbi and his cyborgs, they were cut to pieces by the force behind them and died in waves. Some staggered like marionettes with palsy as bullets tugged at their bodies. Others were ripped apart by the grenades that Hoyt and her CVAs fi?red from behind the legionnaires and marines. And dozens appeared to melt as bolts of iridescent blue energy plowed bloody holes through the Ramanthian ranks. The only problem was the need to keep their fi?re down, and on target, lest Alpha Company kill members of Kobbi’s force farther up the road. The slaughter forced the bugs to turn again and run the other way, only to suffer the same fate all over again. That’s where Quinlan was, right in the thick of it, killing yet another bug for his daughter, when one of the winged scouts landed on his back and went in for the kill. The bug knew he was going to die as he reached forward to jerk the animal’s helmet back, but that was fi?ne, so long as he could take a human with him. Quinlan was reaching back over his shoulders, trying to get a grip on whatever had attached itself to his back, when he saw the sudden fl?ash of steel. That was followed by a burning sensation, an explosion of blood, and a moment of dizziness. Then he was gone.

Kobbi, who was only a dozen feet away, saw the whole thing. He fi?red a long burst from his CA-10 into the Ramanthian and had the satisfaction of seeing the soldier fall away. But it was too late to save Quinlan, who hung lifeless in his harness, as his blood-drenched cyborg continued to fi?ght.

It wasn’t until fi?fteen minutes later, when all of the killing was over, that the general could dismount and walk over to the place where Quinlan’s body had been laid next to the road. Some sort of epitaph was required, or so it seemed to Kobbi, as he knelt next to the dead legionnaire. “You weren’t the smartest offi?cer I ever served with,” the general said gruffl?y. “Or even the most dedicated. But you died like a man. Like a legionnaire—of whom all can be proud.” And that, coming from General Mortimer Kobbi, was high praise indeed.