When Duty Calls

17

To illustrate this part somewhat, I shall say that the privileged class may be one of two sorts; either they conduct themselves in such a way as to be under your obligation or not. Those who are, and are not rapacious, must be honored and cherished. Those who are not so bound to you may be of two sorts; either they act as they do out of pusillanimity or natural lack of spirit and in such cases you must use them, especially such as are of good counsel, since in prosperity they do you honor and in adversity you have naught to fear from them; but when they are of the second kind and deliberately refuse to be dependent on you, for their own scheming and ambitious reasons then you may be sure they are thinking more of themselves than you, and a prince should be very wary of such and regard them as open enemies. . . .

—Niccolò Machiavelli

The Prince

Standard year 1513

PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

Hive was perfect. Or so it seemed to Chancellor Ubatha as a government transport carried him over beautifully sunlit fi?elds toward a meeting approximately two hundred miles south of the capital city. Thanks to hundreds of years of hard work, and the fact that all of the Ramanthian power plants, factories, and cities were located underground, the planet’s surface was equivalent to an enormous work of art. Rivers had the more-disciplined look of canals, thousands of fruit trees stood in carefully pruned ranks, and well-watered crop circles were thick with green vegetables. All of which stood in marked contrast to what Ubatha had seen on worlds like Earth, where citizens were allowed to rip the surface asunder, pollute the air, and export their garbage into space. It was just one more example of why Ramanthian culture was superior to all the rest.

But as the transport’s shadow caressed the well-manicured terrain below, the bureaucrat knew there were other things to focus on, not the least of which was the meeting in which he was about to participate. Given the offi?cial’s rank, second only to the Queen, most of his days were spent in meetings—

some of which were productive while many weren’t. The trick was to maximize the former and minimize the latter. A fairly straightforward process for the most part. There was a third category of meetings, however: those that could be dangerous regardless of how productive they might or might not be. While participating in such gatherings might be perilous, it was equally dangerous to ignore them, which was why Ubatha had profound misgivings about the get-together that ex-Governor Oma Parth was hosting. Though billed as nothing more than “a gathering of old friends,” it was clearly more than that, because every person on the guest list other than Ubatha had one thing in common: Prior to the Hive Mother’s regrettable death, the invitees had been high-ranking government offi?cials or senior military offi?cers who had been pushed out of their jobs within weeks of the current Queen’s elaborate coronation. Even though it was an entirely normal part of the succession process, the displacements could still generate resentment. That was where the danger came in. Odds were that the gathering was nothing more than an opportunity for disgruntled retirees to get together and talk about the extent to which they had been abused. If so, Ubatha would have to sit and sympathize.

Or, the gathering could represent something a good deal darker. In the aftermath of the wound suffered on Earth, the Queen was still unable to move her body from the neck down. The condition in no way weakened the strength of her intellect, but put very real limits on what she could accomplish, and made her vulnerable in ways she hadn’t been before. That was why Ubatha had agreed to participate in the meeting. He needed to fi?nd out what the other attendees were up to—and take action against them should any be necessary.

As the transport circled Parth’s immaculately kept country estate, and came in for a landing, Ubatha had plenty to think about—starting with the fact that half a dozen other aircraft were already on the ground in spite of the fact he was early! Being a seasoned politician Ubatha knew the presence of so many transports could imply that a premeeting was already under way. If so, it meant that there were matters the other attendees didn’t want to discuss in front of him. Still, given that Ubatha was there by invitation, there was no reason to believe that the group saw him as an enemy. Suddenly, as the skids made contact with the heatfused soil, Ubatha felt lonely and a little bit scared. But the Chancellor kept such doubts well hidden as he shuffl?ed down a ramp onto the sun-parched ground.

Parth’s majordomo was waiting to greet Ubatha, and escort the high-ranking offi?cial to a broad ramp that slanted down into a series of beautifully appointed underground chambers. Though by no means poor, Ubatha and his mates had nothing like the wealth the Parth clan had accumulated over the last hundred years, and Ubatha was impressed by what he saw.

Ramanthian entry alcoves were generally a good indicator of what lay beyond, and this one was huge. And spotlessly clean. Like all members of his species, Ubatha was equipped with two antenna-shaped olfactory organs that protruded from his forehead. Thanks to the input they provided, he knew the air was heavy with expensive incense. From that point a path led under one of the many shafts, which brought sunlight down from the surface, past the obligatory rock garden, and down a long corridor. Earthen walls were covered with layerings of expensive fabrics and beautiful pieces of fractal art, all evenly spaced between carefully lit sculptures.

The corridor split three ways after that, and Ubatha followed the majordomo across a glistening water walk, and into the reception chamber beyond. Six males were waiting to greet the Chancellor—and Ubatha knew all of them. First there was Governor Parth, who immediately came forward to greet Ubatha, his eyes alight with avarice. The Chancellor remembered Parth as a serviceable administrator who, though primarily interested in establishing conditions favorable to his clan’s business interests, still found time to represent the rest of his constituents as well. Also in attendance at the oval-shaped table was Cam Taas, the onetime chief of the Department of Transportation, who was famously hidebound, and completely averse to anything new. That stance, given the Empire’s population explosion, was one of the reasons the Queen had been forced to let him go.

Su Ixba, the ex-head of the Department of Criminal Prosecution, and a skillful bureaucratic infi?ghter, was seated next to Taas. Though effective, he had been known for a willingness to use his considerable police powers on anyone who was opposed to his conservative politics. Tu Stik, Zo Nelo, and Ma Amm were military leaders, and if rumors were true, members of the fanatical Nira cult. The group that had been useful in some regards, but was potentially dangerous, since adherents saw themselves as accountable to a spiritual force more powerful than the Queen—a belief system that, while legal, was somewhat unsettling. All of those factors contributed to the steadily growing sense of apprehension Ubatha felt.

Once the traditional greetings were over, and a tray of light snacks had been passed around, Parth made what amounted to an opening statement. All of the other participants sought to look disinterested, but Ubatha could feel the tension in the room, and knew something important was in the offi?ng. “Again, welcome to our little gathering,” Parth said modestly. “We hoped you would join us both because we enjoy your company—and because you are still in government. Tell me, offi?cial pronouncements aside, how is our valiant Queen?”

The Chancellor thought there might be something slightly sarcastic about the emphasis Parth put on the word

“valiant,” but it was a seemingly innocent question, and one Ubatha would expect any host to ask given the present circumstances. Still, the royal’s health was a sensitive matter, so Ubatha chose his words with care. “I’m sorry to say that her majesty remains paralyzed. And, while our very best physicians continue to study the problem, there is no immediate relief in sight. The Queen remains alert, however, and has been able to carry out the vast majority of her duties, which is a great comfort to us all.”

“Yes, of course,” Ixba said politely. “But, with all due respect, we could learn that much from the evening newscasts. We are patriots, and as such, worried about the empire’s future well-being. We are at war, and as you probably know, there are some who fear the Queen’s paralysis could slow the governmental process. And do so at a time when quick decisions will be critical to victory.”

The comment wasn’t treasonous, but it came close, and Ubatha had no further doubts regarding the meeting’s true purpose. Having been displaced, and in their view slighted, Parth and his cronies hoped to use the Queen’s paralysis as a pretext for replacing her with a new monarch. A female of their choosing, who after taking the throne, would immediately restore them to positions of power. All of that would be a good deal easier to accomplish if the Chancellor was not only in on the plot but actively supporting it. Something Ubatha would never do.

Two courses of action were available. Ubatha could pretend to cooperate, then take the actions necessary to deal with the illicit plot, or he could declare his opposition to it. But would the group allow him to leave if he did so?

Suddenly Ubatha regretted the fact that rather than travel with bodyguards, as he was entitled to do, he had chosen to attend the meeting unaccompanied, as a sign of humility and goodwill. It would be very easy for the group to kill him and his pilots, stage a plane crash, and make their move. And, as he looked around the table, Ubatha could sense an increased level of tension. “I see your point,” Ubatha said carefully. “Speed is important. . . . What, if anything, would you suggest?”

Ixba signaled his approval with a single clack of his right pincer. “You’re a pragmatist, Ubatha! And that’s what we need. . . . A Chancellor capable of looking to the greater good. But, rather than answer your question myself, I would prefer to let someone else speak for our cause. An offi?cer who, having distinguished himself in a number of actions, has been selected to coordinate the military aspect of the transition.”

At that point Ubatha realized that the plot was so far advanced that the coconspirators had already chosen a warrior to either suborn the Queen’s guards or physically overcome them! This meant there wasn’t much time. . . . But, when he looked over at Stik, Nebo, and Amm, the retired offi?cers were silent. So when their heads swiveled toward the doorway, Ubatha turned to see what they were looking at. What the offi?cial saw there was so shocking, so terrible, that it felt as if his heart would stop beating. The offi?cer who had been chosen to lead the assault on the monarch’s bodyguards, and thereby betray everything that Chancellor believed in, was none other than the War Ubatha! One of his own mates who, judging from the presence of Stik, Nebo, and Amm, was not only a member of the Nira cult but an enthusiastic one as well! “Greetings,” the soldier said levelly, as his eyes made contact with Ubatha’s. “I’m glad it won’t be necessary to kill you.”

The so-called Summer Palace was located underground, the way any Ramanthian domicile should be, but adjacent to a deep twenty-mile-long river canyon. All of the most important rooms were open to the abyss—allowing whatever breezes there were to fl?ow through unimpeded. Because even though the Ramanthians preferred a warm environment, the equatorial region could be sweltering hot during the summer months, and the palace dated all the way back to preindustrial times. Of course, all of the monarch’s many residences had airconditioning, so her desire to stay at the Summer Palace had more to do with her affection for the place, than a need for cool breezes. But they were soothing, and as the Queen lay in her specially designed bed, she could see the fl?oor-length curtains sway, and feel the fl?ow of air around her antennae. And that was comforting. Up until the moment the human bullet hit her, the royal had never feared anything other than failure.

But now, in the wake of the latest visit from her doctors, she was terrifi?ed. Assuming they were correct, the prognosis wasn’t good. Surgery to repair the damage to her posterior nerve bundle might work, according to the so-called experts, but could result in death as well. That was why none of the cowards were willing to operate on her.

They didn’t say that, of course, but the possibility of being blamed for such a debacle was foremost in their minds. So the answer, or nonanswer, was to leave the Queen as she was. A mind trapped in an unresponsive body. And that, to the monarch’s way of thinking, was completely unacceptable. But what to do? She didn’t know. And not knowing gave rise to a feeling of helplessness—which was a strange sensation indeed.

The Queen’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime— and the swish of fabric as one of her administrative assistants appeared at the regent’s side. “Chancellor Ubatha is here to see you, Majesty,” the functionary said. “Shall I show him in?”

“Yes,” the monarch replied. “Who knows? Maybe he has some good news.”

The assistant withdrew, and no more than a minute passed before Ubatha entered the chamber and crossed the room to stand at the Queen’s bedside. Having left Parth’s estate, the offi?cial had executed a long sequence of carefully thought-out com calls, while fl?ying to the Summer Palace. Then, having made the necessary arrangements, the rest of the fl?ight was spent mourning the loss of his mate. From the Chancellor’s perspective, the being he and the Egg Ubatha loved had been replaced by a hard, ruthless creature who was willing to trade honor for power. Now the functionary was tired, worried, and, above all, frightened. “So, how do I look?” the monarch wanted to know.

“Like dinner on a spit?”

The reference to the metal cage that supported her body was an attempt to put her visitor at ease, but Ubatha had seen the contraption before, and was in no mood for levity. “No, Majesty,” the offi?cial replied, as the usual cloud of pheromones wafted around him. “But there are those who would take advantage of your disability if they could.”

So saying, Ubatha launched into a forthright account of the trip to Parth’s estate, the ensuing dialogue, and the shocking discovery that one of his own mates was part of the plot to depose her. It was a lot to take in, but the Queen was no stranger to political plots, and, having rid herself of the individuals in question, could understand their motives. Or their alleged motives. But what if Ubatha was lying? That was unlikely, of course, given that the offi?cial was accusing one of his own mates of treason, and remained subject to her pheromones. But every possibility had to be considered. Especially given her condition. “No offense, Chancellor,” she said. “But why should I believe you?”

“Because the coup is already under way,” Ubatha replied grimly. “Go ahead, request that a shuttle be sent to pick you up, and see what happens.”

The royal had access to a voice-operated com system, so she made the call herself. Less than thirty seconds passed before the Queen was piped through to an admiral and a well-known member of the Nira cult. He listened to the request, apologized for the fact that all of the Queen’s shuttles were currently undergoing maintenance, and promised to contact the royal the moment one of them became available.

The Queen felt a rising sense of rage, but managed to control it, as she broke the connection. The eyes that sought Ubatha’s were black as space. “You were right. . . . I won’t forget—and I’m sorry about your mate. You have a plan?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Chancellor Ubatha answered. “There are some individuals that we can trust. . . . And insofar as I can tell, the Thrakies are completely unaware of the plot. One of their shuttles will pick us up in roughly thirty minutes. Once we’re on board, the conspirators won’t be able to strike without attacking a very important ally.”

The Queen tried to move her body. Any part of her body—

but there was no response. “And then?”

“And then we’ll be taken aboard a Thraki ship,” Ubatha replied.

“But won’t that make it easy for them?” the Queen wanted to know. “Once I leave Hive, they’ll be free to put their own Queen on the throne.”

“No, they won’t,” Ubatha answered fi?rmly. “Not so long as you are off-planet running the government—and communicating with the population. But it’s going to take time to identify all of the conspirators and weed them out. There’s reason to believe that the rot runs a lot deeper than the individuals I met with.”

What Ubatha said made sense, so the Queen accepted it.

“So, where will we go?” the royal wanted to know.

“To a place where you can rest, and no one will think to look,” Ubatha said secretively. “Not at fi?rst anyway.” And the two of them were gone thirty minutes later. PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

The slaves had been taken prisoner in places like Petaluma, Fairfi?eld, and Concord before being marched through an urban wasteland to that part of the sprawling metroplex still referred to as San Jose, and what had once been the local convention center. But the huge building had another purpose now, and as Commander Leo Foley watched from a distant rooftop, he knew the long column of raggedly dressed people were about to enter a slave market where men, women, and children were sold to work in underground factories, toil on remote farms, and staff the brothels that had begun to pop up all over the area.

All of which was part of the criminal subculture that had grown up to replace the government structures the Ramanthians had systematically destroyed. It was a feudal system in which gang bosses lived like lords, competing armies fought for turf, and the rest of the population were slaves. The situation was not only barbaric, but helpful to the Ramanthians, who could simply sit back and watch the animals destroy each other.

And that was why Foley and the government-sponsored Earth Liberation Brigade was about to disrupt the illicit economy by taking the slave market down. Assuming the resistance fi?ghters could overcome the mercenary army that Otto Tovar had assembled to protect his business interests. That was very much in doubt, because Tovar was a retired general, who theoretically knew more about ground combat than Foley did. It was important to study the complex before attacking it, because unless the guerrillas were extremely careful, their fi?rst major battle would be their last. Strangely, as she and the rest of the slaves were led into the convention center, Margaret Vanderveen was glad to be there. Even if the fl?oor of the main auditorium was covered with fi?lth, a woman continued to utter a series of yelps as a guard whipped her, and the Mozart Requiem’s Dies Irae was playing full blast over the PA system. Because Margaret was tired. Very tired, and looking forward to a rest, even if that was within the confi?nes of a slave market. The whole thing had begun shortly after a badly damaged Ramanthian scout ship passed over the old mine where she and her companions had been staying and crashed off to the west. Once a badly injured aviator wandered into Deer Valley and collapsed, Margaret and her friends tried to save the Ramanthian, but were unable to do so. Shortly after the warrior’s death, Margaret realized that the alien’s chitin was abnormally thin. At her insistence, samples were taken and preserved in vials fi?lled with alcohol, drinkable alcohol that Benson had been reluctant to part with.

The whole thing could have ended there, should have ended there, given the way things turned out. But that was water under the bridge. Having convinced herself that the dead Ramanthian’s medical condition might be of interest to the Confederacy’s intelligence people, Margaret left Benson in charge of the mine, and set out to fi?nd someone who could convey the tissue samples to the right people. There were six tiny containers, all of which had been sewn into a specially modifi?ed bra, where they would be safe from all but the most intrusive searches. That meant she could travel light, carrying nothing more than a small pack, pistol, and knife.

And things went well at fi?rst. Because Margaret was pretty savvy by then—and knew how to move cross-country without attracting attention. Unfortunately, the only way to fi?nd some sort of resistance group, and what she hoped would be a link with the authorities on Algeron, was to interact with people. And that was her downfall. Margaret had covered a lot of ground, and was just outside Dixon, when she stumbled across one of the open-air, country-style markets that were springing up across the land—places where foodstuffs could be purchased, one item could be traded for another, and the latest bits of news could be had. Unreliable information for the most part, but all Margaret needed was a name, and an approximate location. Then, assuming that all went well, she would hand over the samples and return to Deer Valley. So that’s where she was, talking to a voluble salt merchant, when the slavers attacked. It wasn’t clear what was happening at fi?rst because, even though the pop, pop, pop of gunfi?re could be heard, most of the market goers assumed someone had purchased a gun and was shooting at a target. But then as a woman screamed, and people fl?ed toward the north, Margaret realized something more was taking place. A Ramanthian raid perhaps, which wouldn’t have been all that surprising, given the circumstances. Stalls went over, livestock escaped, and people ran away from the gunfi?re.

So Margaret ran, too, her pack bouncing on her back, only to discover that she and all the rest of the market goers were being driven into a carefully laid trap! Because two converging lines of heavily armed men and women were waiting up ahead and, as the fugitives surged into the open end of the V, they were soon forced to stop. Margaret was no exception. The society matron was armed with a pistol, and tempted to use it, but knew what the outcome would be. Not only would she be killed by return fi?re, but so would many of the people crammed in around her. That was a decision she had no right to make for them. Seconds later, slavers armed with clubs were in among their victims, beating anyone who tried to resist and taking their possessions. Margaret’s pack was ripped off her back, her pistol was confi?scated, and a man with bad breath ran greedy hands up and down her body. Even going so far as to grab her crotch and squeeze her breasts. But the little vials escaped his notice, and with younger victims to abuse, the man made no attempt to follow up.

What ensued was like a scene from hell as women were thrown to the ground to be raped, children were hauled away, and the more contentious males were shot. But dead bodies weren’t worth anything, except to the crows, so it wasn’t long before a man dressed in camos appeared and shouted orders. That was when Margaret caught her second look at General Otto Tovar. Because the two of them had met once before.

Rather than tolerate the fringe of hair that would otherwise circle half his skull, Tovar had chosen to shave his head instead. That, plus the fact that he had no neck to speak of, made him look like a fi?replug. Because even though the slave master had a big frame, he was overly fond of food, and eternally hovered at the edge of obesity. And that was why the carefully starched militia uniform looked so tight on him. It had been Veteran’s Day, fi?ve or six years earlier, when they had met. Charles had been home on leave, but the diplomat could never escape work entirely, and having been invited to a government-sponsored Veteran’s Day party, felt he had to go. Margaret had agreed to accompany him. Tovar had been at the affair as well, resplendent in a fancy uniform, and pontifi?cating on the second Hudathan war. It was a confl?ict which, according to Charles, the militia general hadn’t fought in other than to help with recruiting. Quite a bit of time had passed since then, but Margaret remembered being introduced to Tovar, and wondered if the bloated general would remember her as he sat in judgment of his newly acquired merchandise. The slaver’s expedition-quality folding chair had been set up on a small rise where a domestic robot stood ready to meet its master’s needs as classical music played over a portable sound system. The general had a deeply creased forehead, and deepset eyes, that were nearly hidden by prominent brows. A heavily veined nose, a pair of thick, sensual lips, and at least three chins completed the picture.

All of the captives had been pushed, prodded, and shoved into the line by that time, and it jerked forward in a series of fi?ts and starts, as human beings were sorted into various cat- egories. Men who were strong enough to perform heavy physical labor went into one group. Women judged pretty enough for the brothels went into another. And there were nonstop wailing sounds as children were taken away. Some to be sold and some to be used for even darker purposes. That was shocking enough, but there were even less fortunate people as well, who were shunted off into a group Tovar didn’t want to feed. Less robust people for the most part, who couldn’t be harnessed to a plow, and would be of no interest to the brothels. They were shot, and male slaves were forced to drag the bodies away.

Each gunshot sent a ripple of fear down the line. Older people, Margaret included, had reason to be especially fearful since they clearly had less value to potential customers than younger people did. So Margaret had mentally reconciled herself to being executed, and was trying to deal with that, as the woman directly in front of her was sent to join the work group. Having accepted her fate, the society matron took two steps forward, and looked into Tovar’s piggy eyes.

But there was no glimmer of recognition there, and that made sense. Because the woman the militia general had met years before had been wearing expensive jewelry and fashionable clothes, unlike the sunburned, travel-worn specimen who presently stood in front of him. So Margaret was nothing more than a piece of meat insofar as Tovar was concerned. However, thanks to some skillful plastic surgery, and the fact that Margaret kept herself fi?t, the society matron looked ten years younger than she actually was. That saved her life.

“Put her in with the workers,” the slave master ordered harshly. “She won’t fetch much—but something is better than nothing.”

So Margaret survived. But it was a long walk from Dixon to San Jose, and by the time the column entered the convention center, she was bone tired. And that was why she went in search of a reasonably clean patch of duracrete and lay down. The surface was hard, but she was used to that, and soon fell asleep. There were dreams, good dreams, and a smile found her lips.

An entire day had passed since Margaret and the others had arrived in San Jose, and many of Tovar’s slaves had been sold. Now it was her turn to enter the center arena, along with fi?ve other women who were about to be bid on. Like the others, Margaret had been ordered to strip, but unlike the rest the society matron managed to keep her eyes up as she followed the others out into the artifi?cial glare. Her body wasn’t what it had once been, but there was nothing to be ashamed of, and she wasn’t. Her clothes, including the all important bra, were clutched in her arms. Meanwhile, just as the auction was about to start, shouts were heard when a tough-looking slaver led a column of ragged-looking men and women into the holding area adjacent to the arena. It was diffi?cult to tell what was happening, but Margaret got the impression that because the newcomer wasn’t a member of the slaver’s guild, he wasn’t eligible to use the market. Loud altercations weren’t unusual, and the socialite didn’t think much of it, until the interloper pulled a gun and shot a guard in the face. Foley saw the man’s head jerk backward, as a blue-edged hole appeared at the center of his forehead, and the “slaves”

produced weapons of their own. There were lots of people around, most of whom were slaves, but the bad guys were easy to spot. They were the ones who had the guns and, given the element of surprise, Foley’s guerrilla fi?ghters had an excellent opportunity to kill them—which is what they proceeded to do.

Margaret hit the fl?oor as the bullets began to fl?y, heard someone yell something about the Earth Liberation Brigade, and realized the people she’d been looking for were all around her! But in order to deliver the tissue samples, she was going to have to survive, and that was why she decided to roll across the cold slimy fl?oor. Not to get away, but to get her hands on a loose pistol, that lay only inches from a dead man’s outstretched hand.

Being no expert with small arms, Margaret had something of an aversion to semiautomatics, which always came equipped with levers and buttons, but this was an easy-tofi?re energy pistol. She scooped the weapon up, rolled to her feet, and was looking for a target when a wounded Otto Tovar came lumbering straight at her. The slave master had taken a bullet in the left arm and was clearly in pain as he sought to escape.

Margaret saw the fear on the slaver’s face as she brought the weapon up. There was no recoil as the socialite pressed the fi?ring stud and sent an energy bolt straight through Tovar’s body. Even though the slave master was effectively dead, he took three additional steps before falling facedown on the fi?lthy fl?oor. Margaret felt pleased with herself, pointed the pistol at Tovar’s back, and fi?red again. She knew Benson would approve.

Most of the slavers were down, and there was a very real danger of killing the people they had come to rescue, so Foley yelled, “Cease fi?re!” over and over again until the fi?ring fi?nally stopped. That was when specially trained teams of civilian volunteers entered to care for the wounded, take charge of orphaned children, and spray-paint carefully phrased warnings onto the walls. “The Confederacy lives. Its laws will be enforced. The Earth Liberation Brigade.”

And it was during that phase of the operation that Admiral Chien-Chu arrived to inspect his protégé’s work. Which, from the billionaire’s perspective, had gone very well indeed. Not only had innocent people been rescued, but a line had been drawn, and word of what had happened to the slavers would soon begin to spread.

That’s where the industrialist was, giving Foley some orders, when a muck-smeared woman approached them. ChienChu was well acquainted with Charles Vanderveen, a man he regarded as a friend, and knew Margaret Vanderveen, too. But not so well that he’d seen her without any clothes on. “Hello, Sergi,” the socialite said calmly. “I’m Margaret Vanderveen, even if I don’t look the way I usually do, and I’ll bet you’re the man I’ve been looking for! I have reason to believe that at least some of the Ramanthians are dying from a contagious disease. Something they were exposed to here on Earth. And here are some tissue samples taken from a dead pilot.”

And with that, Margaret Vanderveen handed Sergi Chien-Chu her bra. It was, and would forever be, one of the few occasions when the Father of the Confederacy was rendered entirely speechless.

18.

So long as there is even one brave soul willing to confront tyranny then hope will live.

—Hoda Ibin Ragnatha

Turr truth sayer

Standard year 2202

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC

Santana couldn’t fl?y, but felt as if he could, as he looked at the video that was playing on the inside surface of his visor. What he was seeing, and to some extent vicariously experiencing, was what it was like to be Lieutenant Mitch Millar. The cyborg was skimming the surface of the small kidney-shaped lake that separated Alpha Company from the clones on the far side. It was almost dark, which meant there was some light to see by, but not enough to make the recon ball stand out as Millar crossed the opposite shoreline and entered a grove of bristly trees.

Conscious of the fact that Santana could see everything he saw, the cyborg paused to “eye” the area to the south, before fi?ring his repellers, and rising straight up. Though similar to evergreens on Earth in that they had needles—the snow-clad trees surrounding the cyborg were signifi?cantly different as well. Because the grove that surrounded Millar was actually a single organism. While each vertical trunk had its own root system, it could share nutrients with neighboring structures via a complex system of interconnecting branches. So as the legionnaire leveled off about fi?fty feet above the ground, it was necessary to negotiate a maze of crisscrossing branches in order to work his way into the area where the renegades were camped. That made navigation diffi?cult but provided good cover as well. Finally, having arrived at the southernmost edge of that particular grove’s territory, Millar came to rest on some sturdy branches. As darkness crept in over the wintry landscape, both the cyborg and his commanding offi?cer had a bird’s-eye view of the enemy encampment below. Having located Colonel Six and his hostages days earlier, Millar had given a tracking device to Kira Kelly. Which, for reasons unknown, had gone off-line hours later. But Millar was no fool and, having planted a second device on one of the half-tracks, he had been able to lead his comrades to the frozen lake where the renegades were camped. Having chosen an open area, with good fi?elds of fi?re, Colonel Six had positioned his vehicles to reinforce all four sides of the perimeter. Gaps had been fi?lled with lengths of timber cut earlier in the day, backed by hand-dug fi?ring pits. The defenses weren’t fancy, but the offi?cer fi?gured they would be effective against anything up to, and including, a company-strength attack by the Ramanthians. Four fi?res had been lit and, as Millar and Santana looked down through a curtain of gently falling snow, they could see dark shapes moving back and forth between the domeshaped tents as the clones carried out maintenance on their equipment and cooked their dinners. It was a peaceful scene familiar to any soldier.

The problem, from Santana’s perspective was how to attack the encampment, especially given the presence of hostages. He could try and take all or part of Alpha Company around the edge of the lake. But groves of interlocking trees barred the way and would prevent his cyborgs from reaching the campsite until well after dawn. Then, if the clones were still in residence, they would be able to see the enemy coming.

Santana knew that a force of bio bods might be able to arrive quickly enough to carry out a night attack, but Santana lacked a suffi?cient number of troops to go up against the Seebos and their vehicle-mounted weapons. Not even with the marines and CVAs thrown in.

So, where does that leave us? the cavalry offi?cer wondered. The lake was frozen, but the ice wasn’t thick enough to support the weight of a T-2, much less a quad. So the direct route was out. Or was it? It was dark by then, and with his visor down, no one could see the offi?cer smile. Even though it was fairly warm inside the sleeping blanket, it was too cold to take off all her clothes, so Kelly was naked from the waist down, as she pulled Six deep inside her. The clone hadn’t been much of a lover initially, but practice makes perfect, and he had improved. It felt good to make love, to participate in an ancient act of renewal, especially given all the killing that was taking place around them. But even as the long, steady strokes continued, and the pleasure began to build, Kelly felt the now-familiar pangs of guilt, knowing that by destroying the tracking device, Hospital Corpsman Sumi had been sentenced to further captivity. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, Kelly had been unable to fi?nd the strength to tell Six about the recon ball’s visit. So she had been unfaithful to him as well.

Her lover’s movements became more urgent, causing the doctor to wrap her legs around his muscular body, and dig her fi?ngers into his back. There were no thoughts beyond that point, just a desperate need for release, which came as an explosion of pleasure. But the moment was soon over, the afterglow began to fade, and reality seeped in to replace it. It was then, with Six still inside her, that Kelly began to cry. Except for the circles of constantly shifting light that surrounded the fi?res, it was pitch-black outside the perimeter. So there was nothing for One-O to look at as he sat on top of the half-track, and waited for the rest of his two-hour watch to pass. Thanks to the night-vision goggles he was wearing, the clone knew that there weren’t any bugs advancing across the surface of the lake, so all he had to do was work the charging lever on the .50-caliber machine gun every fi?ve minutes or so, and try to stay warm. That wasn’t easy since he couldn’t leave the gun. Such were the soldier’s thoughts when the ice directly in front of him exploded—and a fi?ftyton quad burst up out of lake!

Shards of shattered ice were still raining down on the camp as Private Ivan Lupo took three gigantic steps forward. The fi?rst and second carried him up onto the land, and the third came down on top of One-O, as the Seebo battled to bring the fi?fty into play. Both the clone and his half-track were crushed under the weight of the quad’s enormous foot pod.

Then, before anyone had time to react, servos whined as Lupo lurched forward. Sparks exploded into the air as his left forefoot landed in a fi?re, and the rattle of automatic fi?re was heard when a sentry opened up on the monster. Water continued to sheet off the cyborg’s hull, and steam rose off his back as he fi?red in return. Both the sentry and the Seebo standing next to him were vaporized as a quick fl?urry of energy bolts slagged their position. The ramp was down by that time, which allowed three T-2s, their riders, and six additional bio bods to enter the fray. Santana and Deker were the fi?rst to exit the quad and, because all of Colonel Six’s heavy weapons were aimed outwards, they could enter the encampment without taking fi?re. Millar had identifi?ed where Colonel Six was sleeping hours before, and put a spotlight on the tent from above, as Deker carried Santana over to it. Thanks to the Integrated Tactical Command system the legionnaire could make himself heard via all four cyborgs at the same time. “Hold your fi?re! Put down your weapons! You are under arrest!”

And with the huge quad crouched at the very center of the encampment, there was absolutely no doubt as to who the attackers were, or who would win if the clones chose to resist. Slowly, so as not to draw fi?re, the Seebos laid their weapons on the ground. A force of T-2s and bio bods quickly took charge of the clones and hurried to secure them. Santana was on the ground with his CA-10 leveled at the entrance of the fl?oodlit tent by the time Six emerged. He was still in the process of fastening his parka. The spotlight forced him to squint, but there was no mistaking the offi?cer’s defi?ant expression. The legionnaire’s voice was hard.

“Are you Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666?”

The clone nodded as he looked around. “I am.”

“Pat him down and check his bar code,” Santana said grimly. “Let’s make sure he isn’t playing games again.”

It was Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich who came forward to do the honors. A search came up clean, and after scanning the bar code on the offi?cer’s forehead, the noncom was able to confi?rm the Seebo’s identity. “It’s him all right,” Dietrich declared, his breath fogging the air.

“Good,” Santana replied. “Stash the colonel inside Lupo, search him again, and chain him to a bulkhead. Put two guards on him—and don’t use any marines or CVAs. The jarheads might kill him—and CVAs might listen to his bullshit.”

“Roger that,” Dietrich said, and led the offi?cer away. That was when the tent fabric shook and Kelly emerged. Her hair was mussed, her face was pale, and it was her turn to squint into the light. “Don’t tell me,” Santana said. “Let me guess. . . . You’re Dr. Kira Kelly.”

Kelly looked into the offi?cer’s hard eyes and nodded.

“And Hospital Corpsman Sumi?” the legionnaire inquired. “Where is he?”

“I’m right here,” a voice said, and Santana turned to see that a navy medic was standing next to Staff Sergeant Briggs.

“The rotten bitch slept with Colonel Six,” the corpsman said accusingly. “And did everything she could to help him.”

Millar had descended to shoulder height by that time, and the cavalry offi?cer turned to look at him. “Get a statement from this man,” Santana instructed. “Record it and make copies. Give one of them to me.”

Millar bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir.”

Santana turned back to Briggs. “Have one of our females search her. Chain her to a track—and have a legionnaire guard her. Under no circumstances should she be allowed to speak to a marine, Seebo, or CVA without my permission. . . . Understood?”

Briggs nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Santana looked at Kelly. She stood with her head hanging, unwilling to make eye contact with those around her, obviously miserable. The legionnaire almost felt sorry for the doctor. Almost but not quite.

ABOARD THE YACHT PLAY PRETTY, OFF NAV POINT CSM-9703

The Play Pretty was a big yacht. Large enough to carry two shuttles that doubled as lifeboats, fi?fteen guests in addition to the two owners, and a crew of fi?ve. All of which made her special. But now, fl?oating off Nav Point CSM-9703, she was just one of more than six thousand vessels awaiting the order to enter hyperspace. And beauty, or lack of it, wasn’t going to play a role in who lived or died. In fact, the only things that were going to matter were speed, agility, and luck. As befi?tted a yacht of her status the Play Pretty’s control room was not only state-of-the-art but luxurious as well. Frank Simmons was seated in the chair normally occupied by the ship’s professional captain, and as the retired businessman looked up at the nav screen, he was amazed by the scene that continued to unfold in front of him. “Look at ’em, hon. . . . Thousands of ships. There’s freighters, tugs, liners, yachts, luggers, hell, I heard a goddamned garbage scow report in! And that ain’t all. . . . During the last half hour I’ve heard transmissions from clones, Hudathans, Prithians, Dwellers, and a frigging Turr!”

“There’s no need to swear,” Marsha Simmons replied for what might have been the millionth time. Frank was a rough, tough, self-made man, a miner, who had struck it rich out on the rim, and rarely uttered a paragraph that didn’t include at least one swearword. She came from old money, a family that looked down on Frank until the day when his net worth exceeded theirs, and the negative attitudes began to change. The society matron had carefully coiffed gray hair, big brown eyes, and a sweet face. And when Maylo Chien-Chu had gone looking for volunteers, Marsha was among the fi?rst people she called. For when it came to beings with big yachts, Marsha knew everyone worth knowing, and wasn’t afraid to call upon them. Which had everything to do with the fact that hundreds of ships like the Play Pretty were about to go into harm’s way as part of a last-ditch attempt to take as many civilians and troops off Gamma-014 as possible.

Thus, as Frank Simmons stared at the screen, he knew that a lot of the little ships wouldn’t be coming back. The strategy was to fl?ood Gamma-014’s system with more targets than the Ramanthians could handle and rescue as many people as possible. But even though the bugs wouldn’t destroy all of them, they would certainly nail some of them, and the Play Pretty was going in. Partly because Captain Carly Simmons was down on the planet’s surface—but mostly because it was the right thing to do.

“Here comes the feed,” Marsha said, as the snow on com channel 3 coalesced into a shot of Maylo Chien-Chu and locked up. “That’s a very nice jacket,” the society matron observed. “But she looks tired.”

And Maylo was tired. Her jet-black hair was perfect, as always, but there were dark circles under her large, almondshaped eyes, and she hadn’t been eating much of late. The resulting weight loss, plus her high cheekbones, made the businesswoman look gaunt. “First,” Maylo said as she looked into the camera, “I would like to thank each and every one of you on behalf of myself, my husband, General Bill Booly, President Marcott Nankool, the Senate, and the Confederacy’s citizens. Because the rescue attempt that you’re about to participate in will go down as one of the bravest, most selfl?ess acts of this very important war.

“Now, with that said, let’s run through the plan one last time. . . . Be sure to enter the exact sequence of numbers you were given into your NAVCOMP, because if you don’t, you may exit hyperspace right on top of another ship! And I don’t have to tell you how unpleasant that would be.

“Once in-system you’re on your own. There won’t be any traffi?c-control system, so watch out for other vessels! The key is to follow a beacon down to the surface as quickly as possible, load as many soldiers as you can, and lift. Once clear of Gamma-014, enter hyperspace as quickly as you can. . . . The bugs won’t know where you’re going, so they won’t be able to follow.”

Maylo paused at that point. Her gaze was level, and her voice was calm. “A lot of us won’t be coming back. Those who do will fi?nd liners and hospital ships waiting to take your passengers. May all of our various gods bless this fl?eet, for in this valiant effort, our hearts beat as one.” And with that the video snapped to black.

“That’s for damned sure,” Frank Simmons said approvingly, and his wife sighed. PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC

The allies had crossed Tow-Tok Pass, and were making their way down the other side, when charges that had been placed on slopes above them were detonated, sending an avalanche of snow down across the highway and into the gorge below. That brought the ten-mile-long column to an immediate halt, caused previously well-spaced vehicles to bunch up, and set the stage for the slaughter that General Akoto had in mind.

Upon hearing the initial explosion, followed by a groundshaking rumble, General Mortimer Kobbi swore bitterly. He was a third of the way back along the column at the time, giving one of a thousand pep talks, when the hammer fell. And it didn’t take a military genius to know what would happen next, as at least two dozen well-concealed snipers opened fi?re from the concealment of the snow-covered rocks high above, and Kobbi sent his T-2 racing toward the head of the column. Two crawlers, both equipped with dozer blades had been given the lead to deal with that sort of situation, but Major Perko was waiting with more bad news as the general arrived. “I’m sorry, sir,” Perko said, as Kobbi dismounted. “The blast was timed to hit the dozers. One survived—but the other was swept away.”

From where he was standing, just in front of the quad that had been positioned immediately behind the crawlers, Kobbi could see the shoulder-high pile of snow and debris that blocked the highway. Trees had been caught up in the avalanche, along with large boulders and a host of smaller rocks. A powerful engine rumbled as the surviving dozer attacked the blockage with a big shining blade. What originally had been isolated gunshots escalated into a full-scale fi?refi?ght as well-hidden Ramanthian soldiers fi?red down into the column, and legionnaires, marines, and Seebos fi?red up into the rocks. Slugs pinged off the dozer and made a mosquito-like whine as they angled away.

The avalanche was bad luck, terrible luck, given what was at stake. The rescue fl?eet wasn’t on the way yet, but they would be soon, and it was imperative to get the column down out of the mountains quickly. Civilians would be taken off fi?rst, followed by support forces, meaning those units that hadn’t been sent up into the mountains. That was just the nature of things. But Kobbi was determined to evacuate combat troops as well. “Okay,” the little general said grimly.

“We’ll work with what we have. . . . Keep the dozer going. I’ll round up a couple hundred CVAs and arm them with shovels. They can pitch in and help clear the slide.”

Perko nodded, opened his mouth to reply, and jerked spastically as a bullet smashed through the bridge of his nose. That was when a corporal threw Kobbi facedown on the highway and took the follow-up shot right between the shoulder blades. His body armor was suffi?cient to stop the slug, but it left a bruise the legionnaire would remember for days to come. Assuming he lived that long.

“Thanks,” Kobbi said, as he rolled out from under the corporal. “I owe you a beer. Let me jack into your radio. Those bastards need to die.”

Ten minutes later Second Lieutenant Eyeblink Thinkfast and a team of Naa warriors drawn from a dozen units started up the mountainside. It was a development the Ramanthian snipers should have been worried about but weren’t. Mainly because the rank-and-fi?le bugs were completely ignorant of the physiological and cultural attributes associated with their enemies.

So they were unaware of the fact that the fur-clad legionnaires considered anything above ten below to be balmy, preferred to fi?ght barefoot because they could sense heat differentials through the soles of their feet, and didn’t need to actually see their opponents because they could smell chitin polish, wing wax, and gun oil from a hundred feet away. Nor were the insectoid Ramanthians aware of the speed with which the lightly armed Naa could climb, the almost total silence with which they moved, or the mind-numbing ferocity that they brought with them.

Some of the legionnaires fell, plucked off the steep slope by well-aimed bullets, but not many. Because as Thinkfast and half a dozen others came upslope, they were also moving from side to side, utilizing every bit of cover that was available.

Then they were there, on the same level as the Ramanthian sharpshooters, and that was when the real bloodletting began. It was knife and pistol work for the most part, carried out by warriors who had not only been raised to kill, but had grudges to settle on behalf of all the legionnaires killed on Gamma-014. They were like ghosts as they slipped between the rocks, slitting throats, and fi?ring from point-blank range. No quarter was asked, and no quarter was given, as more than thirty Ramanthians were systematically put to death. Finally, with his uniform soaked in gore, it was Thinkfast who put in the call to Kobbi. “The heights are ours, sir. . . . We will hold them until relieved. Over.”

“Well done, Lieutenant,” Kobbi said, as he stared up at the tiny fi?gures above. “Once we get back to Algeron, I’m going to hang every medal I can think of on you and your warriors. Do you have prisoners? Over.”

“No, sir,” came the answer. “We forgot to take any. Over.”

“Well done,” the general replied. “Six-One out.”

ABOARD THE FREIGHTER XINGLONG, OFF PLANET GAMMA-014,THE CLONE REPUBLIC

Maylo Chien-Chu felt a brief moment of nausea as the sturdy Xinglong (Star Dragon) exited hyperspace and entered enemy-held space. Unlike most of the more than six thousand vessels that were systematically fl?ooding the local system, the boxy Xinglong was ideal for the rescue mission, because she had been built for the purpose of transporting cargo to and from Class III planets like Gamma-014. That was just one of the many lines of business Chien-Chu Enterprises was engaged in. Owing to the sometimes lawless conditions out along the rim, the freighter was armed. However, four medium-duty energy cannons and two missile launchers weren’t going to make much of an impression on anything larger than a military gunboat. Maylo had long been a pilot, and a good one, so rather than take up space that a civilian or soldier might otherwise use, she was conning the ship herself. The rest of the skeleton crew consisted of Angie Brisco, her somewhat cantankerous middle-aged copilot, Hal Nortero, the ship’s cigar-chomping engineer, and Koso Orlo-Ka, the Xinglong’s Hudathan loadmaster, all of whom had volunteered for the mission even if Brisco liked to complain a lot. “Damn,” the narrow-faced copilot exclaimed sarcastically, as the freighter emerged from hyperspace one planetary diameter off Gamma-014’s surface.

“Couldn’t you cut it any closer?”

Brisco’s lack of tact was the main reason why she had been let go by a dozen companies before fi?nally fi?nding a home within Chien-Chu Enterprises—a company where skill was valued over and above political acumen, not to mention the fact that her shipmates had plenty of quirks themselves. So even though Maylo was president of the company, she responded with a grin. “I would if I could, Angie. Now hang on, we’re going in.”

The Ramanthians were beginning to respond by then, but not fast enough to stop the steady stream of incoming vessels, most of which were clearly civilian. That didn’t make sense to them—and was the source of considerable confusion. That wouldn’t last, of course, but Maylo intended to take advantage of the situation while it was possible. The plan was to take clone civilians off Gamma-014 fi?rst, ferry them back to Nav Point CSM-9703, and off-load them to the big liners that were waiting there.

Those ships that could would return to Gamma-014 to take military personnel off. Many of whom were still fi?ghting their way down out of the mountains. The whole process was going to take days, and the bugs would be expecting the second, third, and fourth waves, so casualties would be high.

“So, what the hell are you waiting for?” Brisco demanded impatiently. “Let’s put this rust bucket down. We’ve got people to load.”

The Xinglong bucked madly as she entered the atmosphere. “Yes, ma’am,” Maylo said agreeably. “We do indeed.”

The refugee camp was a huge, sprawling affair, that had originally been a sports complex, before the Ramanthians took control of Gamma-014 and converted the facility into a prisoner of war internment camp. That was where Mama Dee and what remained of her scruffy “family” had been forced to go. Having been locked inside, the POWs were left to fi?nd a place for themselves in the muddy fi?eld, where thousands of displaced civilians were forced to eat, sleep, and shit within a few inches of each other. A miserable existence but one that most of the so-called accidental people had been able to survive largely because they were used to extreme privation.

Then came what seemed like a miracle at fi?rst, as allied forces landed on Gamma-014, and the POW camp was “liberated.” The only problem was that while some of the Ramanthians were forced back into space, the victorious Seebos had no use for the Children of Nature, and largely ignored them. Fortunately, the Confederacy’s troops, all of whom were free breeders, offered what assistance they could. So, with no home to return to, Mama Dee and her clan had been forced to remain in what was now a refugee camp. A less-crowded place to be sure—but still just as miserable. Then came the news that the Alpha Clones had been overthrown, which gave the accidental people something to celebrate, until the Ramanthians suddenly reappeared! The bugs hadn’t landed in force yet, but clearly had control of the skies, and were said to be winning the ground war over toward Yal-Am.

Now, as the big rawboned Ortov-Chan “mix” and seven members of her “family” stood outside the clan’s shabby longhouse, and stared upwards, still another shift was under way. Hundreds of contrails were crisscrossing the sky. And it wasn’t long before spaceships appeared over the city. These were not the military vessels that the refugees expected to see, but a wild menagerie of yachts, freighters, and other craft, some of which were very alien in appearance. There was a momentary fl?ash of light, followed by a clap of what sounded like thunder, as one of the ships ceased to exist. Pieces of smoking wreckage were still raining down on a spot two miles away when a man in a ten-foot-tall orange exoskeleton approached them. The machine made intermittent whining noises as the petty offi?cer who was at the controls weaved his way between makeshift hovels. The noncom’s voice boomed out over the speakers above his head. “Make a hole!” the sailor demanded. “A big hole! A ship is about to land. . . . I repeat, a ship is about to land. Gamma-014 is being evacuated. You will board in an orderly fashion. Leave all personal items behind. . . . I repeat, leave all personal items behind.”

And as the sailor continued to wade through the crowd, a massive shadow fell over the fi?eld, and repellers roared as Maylo Chien-Chu brought the Xinglong in for a landing.

“Be careful!” Brisco cautioned unnecessarily. “There are people down there.”

“Thanks,” Maylo said dryly, her fi?ngers dancing across the controls. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The downdraft from the freighter’s repellers destroyed two of the fl?imsy huts, which were empty by then. That was followed by a noticeable jolt as the skids found solid ground beneath a six-inch layer of semiliquid brown muck. Down in the hold, Orlo-Ka fl?ipped a safety cover out of the way and stabbed a button with a sausage-sized index fi?nger. Metal groaned and servos whined as the much-dented belly ramp deployed. The big Hudathan was armed with an energy rifl?e as he stomped down the incline and onto the surface below. That, plus his size, was suffi?cient to prevent what might otherwise have been a stampede. Of course, some civilians were suspicious, fearing some sort of trick, and were quick to back away. But the vast majority, the Children of Nature included, fi?gured they had nothing to lose. So as her family surged up the ramp, Mama Dee led the way, her staff thumping on metal. Fifteen minutes later, a Klaxon began to bleat, the fi?lthy ramp came up, and repellers fi?red. Maylo had to rock the freighter from side to side in order to break the skids out of the mud, but eventually succeeded and accelerated away. There were still lots of people on the ground, but a beat-up ore carrier was circling the camp by then, and was soon on the ground.

It took the Xinglong two seemingly endless hours to escape Gamma-014’s gravity well, dodge a Ramanthian de- stroyer, and go hyper. But she made it—and even Brisco was somewhat pleased. “Not bad for an amateur,” the crusty copilot allowed. “But the next trip will be harder.” And, even though Maylo wasn’t ready to think about that yet, she knew Brisco was correct.

It was just after dawn. Santana stood with his back to one of the campfi?res drinking a cup of hot caf and looking out at the open area to the south of him. At least four or fi?ve inches of snow had fallen during the night, and the offi?cer was cold, tired, and dirty. Roughly half of Alpha Company was on high alert, manning the perimeter, while the rest of the outfi?t was getting ready to pull out. The good news was that the hostages had been rescued, and Colonel Six was in custody. The bad news was that, based on the most recent scouting report from Lieutenant Millar, it appeared as though the previous evening’s fi?refi?ght had been heard or seen because a large force of Ramanthians had infi?ltrated the area between Alpha Company and the main highway. So what to do? Santana could marshal his forces, such as they were, and attempt to break out. Or, remain where he was, and let the chits come to him. But one thing was for sure. . . . Kobbi’s convoy was busy fi?ghting for its life—so there wouldn’t be any help from that quarter. And Santana knew the clock was ticking. Any group that failed to exit the mountains along with the main column ran the risk of being left on Gamma-014. That, given the way Ramanthians treated their prisoners, was tantamount to a death sentence.

Such were Santana’s thoughts as he noticed something strange, swallowed the last of his caf, and made his way out to the perimeter. Marine Sergeant Pimm saw the offi?cer coming. He had come to respect Santana over the last few days, which was nothing short of a frigging miracle, since everybody knew the Legion was nothing more than a collection of criminals, wackos, and freaks. Pimm nodded politely. “Good morning, sir.”

Santana’s eyes were fi?xed on a point beyond the log barricade. He said, “Good morning, Sergeant,” drew his sidearm, and vaulted over the logs. Then, as the mystifi?ed noncom looked on, the legionnaire took four paces forward and aimed his weapon at a spiral of wispy vapor. There was a loud blam, blam, blam as the offi?cer fi?red his pistol. Brass casings arced away from the weapon, something heaved under the snow, and blood colored it red.

And that was when all hell broke loose as thirty or forty Ramanthian commandos threw off thermal blankets and rose from the ground. Having concealed their heat signatures with the blankets, the bugs had been able to sneak up on the encampment during the night. Then, once they were within grenade-throwing range of the encampment, the Ramanthians allowed the snow to cover them over. But they had to breathe, and that was what had given them away. Two commandos were within six feet of Santana. The cavalry offi?cer shot one of the Ramanthians in the face, whirled, and shot the other. Then, as he backed his way toward the barricade, Santana emptied his pistol at a fourth commando. That was when Sergeant Pimm grabbed onto the offi?cer’s battle harness from behind and jerked him over the barricade. There was a loud carump as the fi?rst mortar round hit, killed one of the CVAs, and sent a column of blood, mud, and snow up into the air.

The marines were fi?ring by then, as were the legionnaires, but the surviving commandos were only yards away. Grenades sailed though the air, landed, and went off one after another. A Seebo was decapitated by fl?ying shrapnel, a legionnaire went down with a shard of metal in his thigh, and fl?ying fragments clanged as they hit the half-tracks. Somewhere off in the distance, shrill whistles could be heard, along with an alien bugling sound, as Ramanthian regulars rushed to join the fray. Daylight attacks were rare, but with the commandos to lead the way, the bugs had been about to launch one. Santana was back on his feet by then— the decision having been made for him. There was no avenue of escape. Alpha Company would stay and fi?ght. So as Lupo’s onboard computer calculated trajectories for the incoming mortar shells, and the quad sent a volley of short-range missiles racing toward the enemy tubes, Santana offered words of encouragement as the company prepared to defend itself. The legionnaires and their allies had camped inside the perimeter that Colonel Six had established for his troops, and thanks to the fact that the cavalry offi?cer had been able to bring the rest of his command around the south end of the lake during the hours of darkness, all of them were in one place. Which was fortunate indeed. Since two separate groups would have been hard-pressed to defend themselves.

Having located Corporal Thain, the offi?cer gave the cyborg a concise set of orders, before turning back toward the center of camp. Millar was there, half-hidden by a track, fi?ring his energy cannon at the enemy. Another defender would have been useful, but Santana had something more important for the recon ball to do, and gave the cyborg new orders. Then, having called upon Dietrich to fi?re some smoke grenades toward the north, the scout vanished into the resulting fog.

Thanks to Lieutenant Zolkin’s earlier efforts, ordnance of all kinds had been unloaded from the vehicles and divided between three widely spaced bunkers to avoid the possibility that a single explosion would destroy all their ammo. So, when the outgoing fi?re fell off, Hoyt-11,791 and her CVAs rushed to resupply the troops. Especially the T-2s, who couldn’t reload their own magazines. As Santana continued to make the rounds, the cavalry offi?cer realized that insofar as combat troops were concerned, he was down to eight of Alpha Company’s bio bods, half a dozen marines, four loyal Seebos from the transportation platoon, and fi?ve T-2s. The rest had departed with Thain. Unfortunately, some of his legionnaires were tied up guarding Six, the treacherous Dr. Kelly, and the thirty-six Seebos who remained loyal to the renegade. All of them were seated hip to hip in two rows behind one of their own half-tracks. But there was nothing Santana could do about that as more whistles were heard and the real infantry assault began. “Don’t let them reach the perimeter!” Santana shouted, as he brought his CA-10 up to his shoulder and began to fi?re. “Lupo! Everything outside of a hundred yards belongs to you!”

The quad heard the command via the company push and went to work with all four of his gang-mounted energy cannons. They fi?red in alternating sequence, but so rapidly that the fi?re appeared to be continuous, as iridescent energy bolts sleeted across the free-fi?re zone and carved black swaths through the snow. Dozens of Ramanthians simply ceased to exist, as their bodies were vaporized, and steam fogged the atmosphere.

Meanwhile, closer in, the bio bods, backed by the highly mobile T-2s, were giving a good account of themselves. The vehicle-mounted fi?fties continued to chug methodically, the lighter weapons chattered, and exploding grenades threw columns of dirty snow up into the air as clusters of bugs went down. But like the waves of an incoming tide, Santana saw that each drift of bodies was closer to the perimeter than the last had been, and wondered how much longer they would be able to hold.

Suddenly an airborne Ramanthian was there, descending from above to land directly on top of the log barricade, then the trooper was gone in a brilliant fl?ash of light. The payoff for the trooper’s act of self-sacrifi?ce was a dead legionnaire and a four-foot-wide hole in the camp’s defenses. Both Santana and a force of Ramanthians rushed toward the gap. “Torrez!’

the offi?cer shouted. “Hayashi! To me!”

Both T-2s responded, bringing their considerable fi?repower to bear on a point fi?fty feet out from the newly created hole, and that’s where the oncoming Ramanthians seemed to collide with an invisible wall. They staggered, and fell in heaps, which made it diffi?cult for those behind them to advance. But still the enemy came, wave after wave of them, as if willing to absorb every bullet the defenders had if that was the price of victory. Sergeant Pimm went down when a bullet smashed through his throat, and Hoyt11,791 stepped in to take his place on the fi?ring line. Death owned the valley—and the day had barely begun. Millar’s assignment was simple. He could remember Santana’s exact words: “Find the Ramanthian sonofabitch and kill him!” By which the cavalry offi?cer meant the bug who was directing the attack on the allied encampment. But that was easier said than done. Even though the recon ball had been able to exit the encampment under cover of Dietrich’s smoke screen, his presence had not gone unnoticed. Although the chits didn’t believe in cyborgs, they had robotic remotes, which could be used for reconnaissance missions. And the scout hadn’t traveled more than a thousand yards before one of the pesky machines locked on to his heat signature and began to follow him. That forced Millar to waste valuable time turning around and going after the machine, which—though lightly armed—was highly maneuverable and quite speedy. But, after a three-minute chase, Millar had been able to catch up with the robot and destroy it with a single bolt from his energy cannon. Having resumed his original mission, the cyborg was concealed within a grove of trees peering out into an open meadow located about a mile north of the allied encampment. And what he saw shocked him. Even more Ramanthians were streaming into the open area, where they were formed into the equivalent of platoons before being sent south into the fray! That made the task of killing their commanding offi?cer all the more important. But, while the grouping of what the scout assumed to be offi?cers was within range of his .50-caliber gun, the stubby barrel was way too short to produce suffi?cient accuracy over the distance required. The obvious answer was to get closer before taking his shot. But with no trees for cover, that wouldn’t be possible.

The reality of that sent a trickle of liquid lead into Millar’s nonexistent belly as whistles blew, another wave of troopers were sent forward, and machines guns chattered to the south. The legionnaire had already been killed once, and didn’t want to die again, but couldn’t see any other option. So the recon ball shot out of the trees, skimmed the snow, and began the long, hazardous run. There weren’t any trees, but there were outcroppings of rock, which would provide at least some cover so long as he stayed low. None of the Ramanthian offi?cers noticed the threat at fi?rst, partly because they were preoccupied with what they were doing, and partly because the terrain-following cyborg was hard to see as he weaved his way between boulders and occasional clusters of ground-hugging shrubs. But right about the time that Millar was halfway to his goal one of the Ramanthians spotted him, clacked an alert, and the entire group turned to fi?re at him. That was bad, but not as bad as it might have been, since the offi?cers were armed with pistols rather than assault weapons. Still, the legionnaire had no armor to speak of, and felt a sudden stab of “pain” as a well-aimed bullet penetrated his casing and appropriate electronic impulses arrived at his forebrain. The damage triggered electronic warnings as well, which his onboard computer projected in front of Millar’s “vision,” making it harder to concentrate. The problem was that he didn’t know which bug was in overall command. So the logical solution was to kill all the bastards and let whatever god the Ramanthians believed in sort them out. Having closed the distance between himself and his targets, the recon ball opened fi?re.

Having stood their ground against the unconventional attack, the Ramanthian offi?cers were easy meat for the cyborg’s fi?fty and were literally torn to bloody rags as the huge slugs hit them. Body parts cartwheeled through the air, severed wings spiraled down, and a blood mist soaked the snow. But the noise and motion drew the attention of some incoming troops, one of whom was toting a rocket launcher that he was quick-witted enough to fi?re. Millar “heard” a warning tone, knew there wouldn’t be any reprieve this time, and felt an explosion of warmth as the heat-seeking missile weapon caught up with him. Suddenly he was free. Sending Corporal Thain plus three precious T-2s out of the encampment during the fi?rst few minutes of the attack had been a risky thing to do. But now, as the hard-pressed allies struggled to hold on, Santana hoped his gamble would pay off. And it did. Insofar as the chits knew, all the animals were directly in front of them. So when four highly lethal T-2s hit their left fl?ank, the Ramanthians were caught entirely by surprise. Dozens of enemy troopers were swept off their feet as the vengeful legionnaires opened fi?re on them. The cyborgs were always fast, but never more so than when unencumbered by a bio bod, which meant they were diffi?cult to hit. So as the latest wave of Ramanthians turned toward the new threat, it was only to encounter four whirling dervishes, each operating in perfect synchronization with all the rest. Guns chugged, energy cannons whined, and it seemed as if nothing could stop them until a rocket-propelled grenade hit Private Imbi Yat in the chest.

The force of the resulting explosion blew the cyborg in half, which gave the bugs reason to hope—until Thain and the rest of the T-2s took their revenge. The ensuing slaughter lasted less than three minutes but took nearly a hundred lives. And when it was done, an eerie silence settled over the battlefi?eld as bleary-eyed defenders took a moment to reload, and Santana had time to view the video Lieutenant Millar had sent him. The pictures were truly worth a thousand words—and would be submitted to Kobbi along with a request for a posthumous medal if Santana survived. A battle had been won, but the price had been very, very high. And, as Santana looked out over piles of gently steaming bodies, he knew the worst was yet to come.

18.

Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say “This was their fi?nest hour.”

—Sir Winston Churchill

To the House of Commons

Standard year 1940

PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC

As Santana entered the quad, he quickly discovered that the interior of Lupo’s cargo bay was splattered with blood. Lots of blood. And there, at the very center of the bay, stood Dr. Kira Kelly. A makeshift operating table had been set up—

with her on one side and Hospital Corpsman Sumi on the other. A third person stood with his back to the hatch. The cavalry offi?cer hadn’t had time to think about the prisoners during the battle, but as he looked at Kelly, Santana felt a sudden surge of anger. “The doctor is supposed to be under guard. . . . Who released her?”

“That would be me,” Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin said, as he turned to look at his commanding offi?cer. The word “sir”

was noticeably missing from the sentence, and Santana saw no sign of an apology in the other offi?cer’s dark eyes. Santana realized that the platoon leader had been pressed into service as Kelly’s anesthesiologist. More than that, the company commander was struck by the extent to which Zolkin had changed since the raid on Oron IV. Somewhere along the line the young, frequently insecure youth Santana had known back then, had been transformed into a battlehardened lieutenant. Who, in the wake of Amoyo’s recent death, was not only a platoon leader but the company’s XO. And a man willing to employ the services of the devil herself if that was required to save one of his legionnaires. It was impossible to tell who the patient was from Santana’s vantage point, but the legionnaire’s purplish intestines were piled high atop his or her chest. Kelly was sorting through the coils looking for holes. Santana’s expression softened. “Who is it?”

Zolkin looked down and back up again. “Private Oneeye Knifeplay, sir. He was standing on a track, fi?ring a fi?fty, when an incoming slug hit metal and bounced up under his armor. He was going to die, sir. And Dr. Kelly offered to help.”

Kelly turned her head toward Santana at that point. Most of her face was invisible behind a blood-splattered surgical mask, but he could still see her eyes. “What I did was wrong,” the naval offi?cer admitted bleakly. “But I’m a pretty good doctor. And the only one you have.”

Santana saw the determination in her eyes and nodded.

“Point taken. Carry on.” And with that, the offi?cer turned and exited the quad. It was cold outside, and getting steadily colder, as day gradually surrendered to night. Snow crunched under his boots, the moisture in his nasal passages froze, and his cheeks felt numb. But people were working in spite of the cold. Having failed earlier in the day, the Ramanthians were sure to take another shot at their enemies during the hours of darkness, which was why the battleweary legionnaires, marines, and clones were busy trying to improve the encampment’s defenses. Especially the log barricades, which had never been intended for a major battle, and were in need of reinforcement.

But Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich had a solution for that and was busy supervising repairs. Having decided that there wasn’t enough time to fell more trees and drag them into po- sition, the noncom was making use of dead Ramanthians instead. There were hundreds of them, most of whom were rockhard, and made excellent building blocks. The trick was to alternate the way the corpses were stacked to add stability. Of course every now and then the master sergeant’s work detail would come across a bug who was badly wounded, and unconscious, or not so badly wounded and hoping to escape notice. The solution was the same in either case. Such individuals were shot before being added to the steadily growing defensive wall, where some of them seemed to stare out at the world through frosty cataracts. Dietrich was helping one of the CVAs hoist a Ramanthian noncom onto the north section of the barricade when Santana arrived. “There,” Dietrich said, as he stepped back to admire his work. “The wall is a lot thicker—and I like a tidy battlefi?eld.”

Santana couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll make a note in your next performance review. ‘While often drunk, and frequently disrespectful, Master Sergeant Dietrich insists on a tidy battlefi?eld.’ ”

“That’s a fair assessment,” the legionnaire agreed cheerfully. “I’ll take it!”

Santana felt a snowfl?ake kiss his nose and shoved his hands farther into his pockets. “They’re going to hit us hard.”

The noncom nodded soberly. “I know.”

“If I fall, give Lieutenant Zolkin all the support you can. And if he falls, then save as many people as possible.”

The possibility that he could wind up in command hadn’t occurred to Dietrich until then. It was a depressing prospect.

“Don’t be silly, sir,” the noncom replied lightly. “You’re too mean to die! The lieutenant and I will have to get our promotions the hard way.”

The conversation was interrupted as Private Kay Kaimo arrived on the scene. She had been assigned to guard the Seebos and was coming off duty. “Excuse me, sir,” the legionnaire said politely. “But Colonel Six would like a word with you.”

Santana raised an eyebrow. “Really? About what?”

Kaimo shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. The colonel didn’t say.”

“Okay,” Santana replied. “Thanks.”

“Keep up the good work,” Santana said, as he turned back to Dietrich. “Although I would prefer to have the enemy bodies stacked according to regiment next time.”

“Screw you, sir,” the noncom replied. “And the cyborg you rode in on.”

Santana laughed and made his way over to one of four well-screened campfi?res. That’s where Colonel Six and his Seebos sat huddled around a crackling blaze. It was dark by then, which meant that more than thirty nearly identical faces were all lit by the same fl?ickering glow. Two legionnaires were present as well—their assault weapons at the ready. One of the clones stood expectantly—and Santana motioned him forward. Six was badly in need of a shave—

and snowfl?akes had started to accumulate on his shoulders. The offi?cer’s tone was humble. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

Santana shrugged. “You’re welcome. . . . What’s on your mind?”

Six stared into the legionnaire’s eyes. “The Ramanthians will attack tonight.”

“That possibility had occurred to me,” Santana replied dryly.

“And they’re going to win,” Six predicted. “Unless you get reinforcements—which both of us know you won’t. So turn us loose!” he said hurriedly. “We’ll fi?ght beside you. And I think you’ll agree that thirty-six additional soldiers could make a big difference.”

“Yes, they could,” Santana agreed soberly. “But what happens later on? When the battle is over?”

“We’ll lay down our arms,” Six promised. “Or keep them if need be—under your command.”

“It sounds good,” Santana admitted. “But no thanks. . . . I wouldn’t trust you farther than I could throw a half-track.”

“You don’t have to trust me,” the other man replied earnestly. His voice was pitched so low that the other Seebos couldn’t hear. “You have someone that means a lot to me and I wouldn’t leave here without.”

“Dr. Kelly?”

“Exactly,” the clone agreed defi?antly.

The offer was tempting. Very tempting. Because thirtysix additional defenders would make an important difference. Especially given the fact that the Seebos were crack troops. Literally bred to fi?ght—and tough as nails. But the colonel was accused of murder.

Still, the Legion had the means to keep potentially rebellious cyborgs under control, so why not use a similar technique on Six? Not too surprisingly the clone objected to the concept Santana put forward. But, if the Seebo wanted to live, he had very little choice. Sergeant Jose Ramos was something of a genius where explosives were concerned, and it was he who came up with the combination leg shackle and bomb. A tidy little device that Santana, Zolkin, or Dietrich could trigger remotely anytime one of them chose to do so. It wouldn’t kill Six, not immediately, but it would blow his right foot off. Suddenly, what had been a seemingly hopeless situation, was just a little bit better.

The animals had been weakened during the previous day. Subcommander Jaos Nubb knew that. So rather than take the more measured approach that his dead predecessor had—Nubb had chosen to send all his troops in at once. The majority of them were members of the much vaunted Death Hammer Regiment and therefore among the most valiant soldiers the empire had to offer. So it was with a sense of confi?dence that the offi?cer led his troops into battle. And simultaneously called upon his secret weapon, which was in orbit one thousand three hundred miles above the planet’s surface.

The Star Taker had been busy of late, chasing dozens of little ships and snuffi?ng them out of existence, so the ship’s crew welcomed the opportunity to settle into orbit and fi?re on some ground coordinates for a change—even if that meant allowing some civilian vessels to escape. The problem, to the extent that there was one, had to do with the question of accuracy. Because based on data provided by Subcommander Nubb, there was very little distance between his troops and enemy forces. Which meant even a small error could have tragic results. So great care was taken while calculating all of the many variables involved. But fi?nally, on an order from Nubb, one of the destroyer’s big guns spoke. An artifi?cial comet was born and slashed down through the atmosphere toward the surface below. Santana recognized the freight-train rumble the moment he heard it. But it was Dietrich who shouted, “Incoming!” and beat the offi?cer into one of the recently improved bunkers. The blue lightning bolt fell on a half-track, blew the vehicle apart, and killed the Seebos who had been stationed at the vehicle’s machine guns. The second bolt punched a hole in the ice-covered lake, brought the surrounding water to a momentary boil, and sent a geyser of steam fi?fty feet into the air. The third impact opened a gap in the southern portion of the defensive wall, erased a Hoyt, and opened a grave in which to bury her remains. Dirt and rocks fell like rain. Then while the allies were still taking shelter in their various holes, the Ramanthians attacked. Fortunately, Sergeant Suresee Fareye, who had been sent to scout the enemy, gave the warning.

“This is Alpha Six-Four. . . . Here they come! Over.”

That brought all the troops back up and most were in place by the time the tsunami of chitin and fl?esh struck. There was no opportunity to think about tactics or give orders because Santana was fi?ghting for his life. A hellish symphony of explosions, gunfi?re, and alien bugle calls were heard as fl?ares threw a ghastly glow over the scene and began their slow descent. The cavalry offi?cer could see hundreds of bugs, all shuffl?ing forward as quickly as they could, determined to roll over the encampment and kill everyone within.

But if the bugs were a wave, the allies were a rock, and the volume of outgoing fi?re was stupendous. Between the cyborgs, each of whom packed fi?repower equivalent to a squad of regular troops, and the newly reinforced bio bods, Alpha Company was an immovable object. And with no soldiers left in reserve, there was nothing Nubb could do, but throw himself at the wall of dead bodies. A valiant thing to do, but largely meaningless, because he was killed within seconds. The assault came to an end fi?ve minutes later, when the heretofore stationary Lupo lurched to his feet, stepped over the grisly barricade, and went on the offensive. With a pack of agile T-2s to protect his fl?anks, the cyborg went bug hunting. The surviving Ramanthians ran. And the results, as summarized by Master Sergeant Dietrich, were nothing less than: “Goddamned wonderful!” Which, all things considered, was pretty good. General Mortimer Kobbi had two recon balls left—and made good use of both as the nine-mile-long column snaked its way toward the west. By plugging into what the airborne cyborgs could see, Kobbi could monitor what was happening from his place near the front of the formation. The good news, if one could call it that, was that because the allied force was 10 percent smaller as it left Yal-Am, it was that much speedier. Or would have been, if it hadn’t been for a long series of Ramanthian-triggered avalanches, well-conceived ambushes, and cleverly hidden mines. As the allies waited for the latest rockslide to be cleared, Kobbi raised his binos. Hundreds of Ramanthian troops could be seen streaming along the tops of ridges to the north and south. The bugs were paralleling the allies, waiting for the chance to close in, and that opportunity was coming. Fifteen miles ahead, at a place called the Ordo gorge, the bugs would have the perfect opportunity to converge on the column as it was forced to cross a narrow two-lane bridge. That was bad enough. But even worse from Kobbi’s point of view was the fact that if the span were blown, the allies would be trapped in the mountains, and cut off from the lowlands to the west. That was where Maylo Chien-Chu and her ragtag fl?eet of yachts, freighters, and other civilian vessels were supposed to pick the soldiers up. But only if the bridge was still in place when the column arrived at the Ordo gorge.

And that was a problem because the little general lacked the fl?y-forms necessary to airlift troops to the span. All of his attempts to send infantry forward had been blocked by a sequence of well-executed ambushes. So the offi?cer felt a sudden sense of jubilation when a familiar voice was heard on the command push. “Alpha Six to Six-One. Over.”

“This is Six-One,” Kobbi replied. “Go. Over.”

“We have him,” Santana said meaningfully. “And the hostages. Over.”

“That’s wonderful,” Kobbi enthused, as he lowered his visor. A series of eye blinks summoned the map he was looking for, the blue “snake” that represented the column, and Alpha Company’s pulsing triangle. Kobbi was thrilled to see that Santana’s company was on the highway ahead, only six miles from the Ordo bridge!

It was impossible to conceal the excitement Kobbi felt as he gave his orders. “I’m sure you’ve been through a lot—but we could use Alpha Company’s help. Proceed six miles due west, take the bridge over the Ordo River, and secure it. We will get there as soon as we can. Over.”

There was a pause as Santana eyed the map projected on the inside surface of his visor, followed by a laconic, “Yes, sir. Alpha Six out.”

Kobbi, who could hardly believe his good luck, removed his helmet and looked up into the lead gray sky. “Thank you, God,” the general said humbly. “Thank you for one more chance.”

Sergeant Suresee Fareye was on point with Private Ka Nhan. Santana, Deker, and three additional T-2s were half a mile back, closely followed by the quad, two surviving half- tracks, and Lieutenant Zolkin’s platoon, a confi?guration that ensured both halves of the company would have leadership if the formation were cut in two.

Having won the battle at the lake and having covered the four miles back to the highway without encountering any Ramanthians, Santana had been hoping to rejoin the main column. But now, as Alpha Company followed the highway west, he understood the dilemma Kobbi faced. The bridge at Ordo gorge was both a choke point and the critical link to the section of the highway that would carry the allies down to the fl?atlands beyond.

The question, to the cavalry offi?cer’s mind at least, was whether the bridge was still in place. And if so, why? General Akoto was a smart old bug—and not the sort of offi?cer to forget a strategic choke point. So if the bridge had been left standing, there was a reason. Or reasons. One of those could be that having been able to defeat the allies, the Ramanthians might want to preserve the bridge, rather than being forced to construct a new one.

But whatever the truth, Santana knew he would fi?nd out soon enough. Meanwhile, of more immediate concern were the Ramanthian troops clearly visible to the north and south. They were traveling along the ridgetops, which, according to the topo map projected onto the cavalry offi?cer’s HUD, were going to converge a half mile east of the bridge!

Which meant the bugs were going where he was going. A very unpleasant prospect indeed. Especially if the chits got there fi?rst. Which, had more of them been able to fl?y, they almost certainly would have. “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said, over the company push. “Let’s pick up the pace. Out.”

There was snow and ice to contend with, plus burned-out wrecks that had to be pushed out of the way so the half-tracks could squeeze through, but the weary troops did their best. Most were operating on no more than three hours’ sleep, hadn’t had a proper meal in two days, and many had wounds sustained during the battle by the lake.

The legionnaire’s thoughts were interrupted by Fareye’s voice on the radio. “The bridge is intact, sir,” the Naa said as he examined the surrounding bluffs. “But I’m not sure why. Over.”

“Maybe the Ramanthians have plans for it,” Santana replied. “We’ll be there shortly. Cross over, push two miles down the highway, and settle in. If bugs come in from the west, I want as much warning as possible. Out.”

Fareye replied with the traditional double click and ordered Nhan forward. He felt exposed on the bridge, knew someone was watching him, and wondered if he would hear the shot that killed him.

As Deker rounded a corner, and began to make his way down a 10-percent grade, Santana saw the span up ahead. It was a well-maintained steel-arch bridge. According to the data fi?le that was associated with those coordinates, it was about 3,250 feet long. The structure was two lanes wide, had been constructed twenty-eight years earlier, and was 610 feet high. “Okay,” Santana said, as Deker arrived at the east end of the span. “I need a volunteer. . . . Someone with a head for heights. Over.”

“That would be any one of us,” Colonel Six said, from the passenger seat in the fi?rst half-track. “Take your pick. Over.”

The clones had been allowed to keep their weapons, thanks to the fact that Dr. Kelly was locked up inside Lupo, and Santana had Six on a short leash. “Good enough,” the cavalry offi?cer replied. “If you would be so good as to select a couple of your men, and send them down to inspect the underbelly of this bridge, I would be most appreciative. Over.”

“So we’re looking for explosives? Over.”

“Exactly,” Santana said succinctly. “Alpha Six out.”

Having dispatched Dietrich to help lower the Seebos over the edge, and keep an eye on them, Santana turned his attention back to what he saw as the most pressing issue. And that was the defense of the bridge.

But what if that was where Akoto wanted the allies to focus their attention? What if the real attack came from the west?

Santana lacked suffi?cient resources to put a large force on the far side of the span, but Lupo couldn’t climb the surrounding slopes, so it made sense to send him across. The cavalry offi?cer gave the necessary orders and held his breath as the huge cyborg began the 3,250-foot-long journey. Lupo was at risk, as were all of those within his cargo compartment, including Kelly and her patients. Thankfully, the trip went off without a hitch, and it was only a matter of minutes before the big cyborg was on the far side of gorge, and marching down the highway.

Having secured the other end of the bridge to the extent he could, it was time for Santana to address the surrounding heights. Rather than wait for the bugs to occupy them, and come swarming down, the legionnaire was determined to cut the insectoid aliens off on the ridgetops, where the fl?ow of enemy soldiers would be severely restricted. It was a madeto-order situation for his T-2s, any one of whom could single-handedly stop such an advance, so long as he or she had adequate cover and plenty of ammo. To avoid any such calamity, Santana planned to place two cyborgs on each ridge. That would allow them to rotate in and out of combat while hardworking CVAs humped ammo to them from below. No sooner had the T-2s been sent on their way than Colonel Six appeared at his side. Santana was standing on the bridge deck by then—having sent Deker up onto the south ridge. So the men were eye to eye as the clone delivered his report. “You were correct,” the Seebo confi?rmed. “Explosives are hidden under both ends of the bridge. That’s why the bugs left the span in place. They can blow it anytime they want to.”

Santana felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. Somewhere, within direct line of sight, a Ramanthian was watching them through a pair of Y-shaped bug binos. Lupo was a high-priority target, but the bugs had allowed the quad to cross in spite of that fact, which seemed to suggest that the chits had an even bigger payoff in mind. So what were they trying to accomplish? Stall the allied column and destroy it just short of the span? And thereby preserve the bridge? Or wait until the allies were streaming across and blow the structure at that point to infl?ict the maximum number of casualties? There was no way to be sure. “Can we disarm the explosives?” the cavalry offi?cer inquired mildly.

“I don’t know,” Six said honestly. “They’re probably booby-trapped.”

“Yeah, that would make sense,” Santana agreed.

“But there might be another way to deal with the problem,” the Seebo put in.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“We could screen the explosives off, so the bugs can’t see what we’re up to,” Six replied. “Then, rather than disarm the explosives, we’ll remove the steel beams they’re attached to. There’s a cutting torch on each half-track.”

Santana frowned. “That’s a clever idea, but won’t it weaken the bridge? Each quad weighs fi?fty tons.”

“There’s a lot of structural redundancy in any well-built bridge,” Six insisted confi?dently. “And we won’t remove any more steel than we absolutely have to.”

Not being an engineer, the cavalry offi?cer wasn’t so sure, but couldn’t see any alternatives, and knew the main column would arrive soon. “Okay, Colonel,” Santana said. “Make it happen.”

Six took note of the “Colonel,” an honorifi?c that had been noticeably absent up until that point, and knew it was Santana’s way of communicating respect. Not approval, but respect, which was more important to the Seebo’s way of thinking. He nodded. “Can I ask a favor?”

“That depends on what it is,” Santana replied cautiously.

“Look after Dr. Kelly. Get her off Gamma-014 if you can.”

“I’ll do my best to get both of you off the planet,” Santana promised. “So they can put you on trial.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Six replied, and did a neat aboutface. And with that, he was gone. Lead elements of Kobbi’s column arrived fi?fteen minutes later, but were forced to stop, or risk crossing the boobytrapped bridge. Right about the same time the insistent rattle of machine-gun fi?re was heard, as the Ramanthians attempted to push their way off the ridgetops, only to be met by a hail of bullets when the waiting legionnaires fi?red on them. Then, as General Kobbi and his T-2 arrived on the scene, Fareye called in. “Alpha Six-Four to Alpha Six. Four Gantha tanks are coming my way—followed by what looks like a battalion of troops. Over.”

Now Santana understood. Rather than simply cut the column off, Akoto planned to eradicate it, and the Ordo gorge crossing had been chosen as the place to accomplish that task. If the column remained where it was, the Ramanthian general would catch it from behind, and if his troops were able to break through, they would attack the allies from above. Meanwhile, if the fugitives attempted to advance, they would collide with the Gantha tanks. Or go down with the bridge. The bugs had all the cards.

Kobbi had access to the company push, so he understood as well. “The bastard has us by the balls,” the little offi?cer said, as he dropped to the ground. His breath fogged the ozone-tinged air and ice crunched under his boots. Santana resisted the impulse to salute, knew that could identify the general to any snipers lurking about, and nodded instead as Fareye called in. “Yes, sir. Hold one. I read you, Six-Four. Maintain visual contact but pull back.” There was a double click by way of a reply.

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” Kobbi put in. The bugs have explosives on the bridge.”

“Yes, sir,” Santana agreed. “Except that—” The sentence was interrupted by a resounding boom, quickly followed by a second, equally loud explosion, and numerous echoes. Both men turned to look at the bridge, but it was still there and apparently undamaged. That was when a dirty, unshaven Seebo hoisted himself up over the rail, spotted the offi?cers, and made his way over. The clone had a big grin on his face. “It worked like a charm!” he said enthusiastically. “We cut both packages free at the same time, the bugs saw them fall, and blooey! The charges went off about halfway down.”

Both of Kobbi’s bushy eyebrows rose. “And you are?”

“This is Colonel Six,” Santana put in. “Colonel Six—this is General Kobbi.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Kobbi said, as he turned to Santana. “The last time we met he was a general! You let him run around loose?”

The last was directed at Santana, who smiled grimly. “So long as he behaves himself. And, truth be told, the colonel and his Seebos fought bravely over the last couple of days.”

“I’m gratifi?ed to hear it,” Kobbi said gravely. “And I’m sure that will be taken into consideration during the courtmartial. But this is now. Can we cross the bridge?”

“Yes, sir,” Six said defi?nitively. “It will hold.”

“It better,” the little general growled. “I’m sending another quad across. Plus two squads of T-2s. Together they should be able to make short work of the battalion that’s coming up from the west. Alpha Company will remain in place until everyone is across. At that point you can bring those T-2s down off the ridges and cross the bridge. Once you’re on the west side, my people will blow the span. Any questions? No? Well done, Captain. . . . Thank you, Colonel. Let’s get to work.”

Having been ordered to remain in place until the entire column passed over the bridge, most of Alpha Company played no part in the ensuing battle, as General Kobbi’s column went head-to-head with four Gantha tanks and a battalion of Ramanthian regulars. Their job was to keep the bugs from coming down off the ridges, which the T-2s managed to do, until Santana ordered them down onto the highway. Then, with Ramanthians right behind them, it was time for the legionnaires to withdraw to the far side of the span. A team of demolition experts from the 2nd REI had been left behind to drop the bridge into the river below, which the le- gionnaires did the moment some overeager chits attempted to cross.

With that accomplished Santana led his company down the twisting, turning highway, and it wasn’t long before they began to see evidence of what had been a bloody battle. As expected, the Gantha tanks had been no match for two quads and a pack of voracious T-2s. Santana smiled grimly as Deker carried him past the partially slagged wrecks, one of which was topped by a Ramanthian tank commander who had been cooked in place. A wisp of smoke issued from his hooked beak as the company commander rode past. What lay beyond was even more gruesome. Because without any armor to protect them from the oncoming cyborgs, and with no avenue of escape, the Ramanthian infantry had been slaughtered. Those warriors who had been killed along the edges of the road lay where they had fallen, their bodies piled in drifts, but all facing the enemy. A testimony to their courage. The rest of the bugs, those who went down toward the center of the highway, weren’t recognizable anymore. Not after being crushed by quads and chopped to bits by a succession of tracked vehicles. The result was a bloody porridge made of equal parts blood, chitin, and snow. It was dark red at fi?rst, and thick with body parts, but began to thin somewhat as Alpha Company followed the road through a curve. The muck was merely pink by that time, and remained so as they passed through what had been a roadblock but was little more than scattered rubble by then.

The highway turned white after that, as it entered a long series of switchbacks, leading down to the partially forested fl?atlands below. All of the allies were exhausted, most having fought for days with only hours of sleep, but Santana heard no complaints. The word was out by then. Ships were landing, and everyone who could walk, hop, or crawl to the LZ would be pulled out. And none of the soldiers wanted to be left behind.

So the main column traveled day and night, and Alpha Company did likewise, until fi?nally, after seventeen hours of nearly nonstop travel, Santana led his road-weary troops into what had already been dubbed “the doughnut,” by the mixed force of CVAs, legionnaires, and marines who were responsible for the facility.

The doughnut, or landing zone (LZ), was located on mostly level ground and was approximately one mile across. Heavy equipment had been used to dig a deep ditch around the outer perimeter, intended to keep Ganthas out, and slow the Ramanthian infantry. Consideration had been given to building a berm along the circular ditch, which would have been relatively easy to do, given all the dirt removed from what some of the allies called “the moat.”

But Kobbi nixed that idea, pointing out that once the allies were forced to fall back, the bugs would cross the ditch, and take cover behind the raised earthworks. So the dirt had been trucked into the landing zone’s interior, where a berm made sense, so the troops would have something to hide behind as the size of the overall force continued to shrink. And the evacuation process was already under way as a marine guide led Alpha Company across acres of heavily churned muck. “Look at that, sir!” Dietrich exclaimed, as repellers roared and a tramp freighter lowered itself into the so-called doughnut hole. “That ain’t no assault boat. . . . It’s an intersystem rust bucket!”

“Who cares?” Santana countered, raising his voice so others could hear. “So long as it can fl?y. And you’ve been on our troopships. . . . I’ll take the freighter!”

That got a laugh, and the comment soon made the rounds. But Santana was concerned. As the civilian ships continued to arrive, he saw that many of them were so old, or so small, that they made the fi?rst freighter look like a passenger liner. Still, something was better than nothing, or so the cavalry offi?cer told himself as he was forced to confront the latest challenge. Alpha Company had been ordered to plug a hole on the east side of the doughnut between elements of the 13th DBLE

and the 1st Marine Division, both of which had suffered heavy casualties in Yal-Am. In fact, most of their neighbors looked like hollow-cheeked scarecrows as they interrupted their work long enough to wave at the newcomers and shout friendly insults. There was plenty of work to do, because like the outfi?ts to either side of it, the company was responsible for its own defenses. So with only a few hours of daylight left to them, it was important to dig fi?ring pits, excavate communicating trenches, and fi?ll newly created bunkers with ammo. Fortunately, the legionnaires could speed the process by replacing the graspers that the T-2s normally wore with

“shovel hands” that enabled the cyborgs to dig trenches in a fraction of the time that a team of bio bods would require. So while Zolkin, Dietrich, and Six supervised work on company’s defenses, Santana took a moment to climb up onto one of the half-tracks and examine the area through his binos. To call the scene chaotic would have been an understatement. Ships of every possible description were circling the LZ, waiting for an opportunity to land. Then, when one of them fi?nally managed to do so, a navy beach master was sent to fi?nd out how many people that particular vessel could accommodate. An unfortunate necessity caused by the fact that most of the civilians weren’t equipped to communicate with the military. Once the ship’s capacity had been determined, the petty offi?cer would radio the information in, the correct number of stretcher parties were dispatched, and the loading process began.

According to the orders issued by Kobbi, the wounded were to be evacuated fi?rst. Then, once they were gone, enlisted bio bods would go next, followed by the Legion’s cyborgs, and the offi?cers. Immediately after each vessel lifted off, another yacht, lugger, or freighter would land, at which point the whole process began again. Or that was how everything was supposed to work.

But as Santana and thousands of others looked on, what had once been a thirty-passenger lifeboat took off, and suddenly lost power. It was three hundred feet off the ground by then and fell like a rock. There was a loud boom as it hit. Followed by a ball of fl?ame—and a towering column of black smoke. Fortunately, the boat crashed well outside of the main landing area, allowing the next vessel to settle in two minutes later. Meanwhile, out along the doughnut’s perimeter, work continued. Some sections were well fortifi?ed as enterprising offi?cers, and in some cases senior noncoms, sought to strengthen their various positions. Other areas were not prepared either because the troops lacked good leadership or they were too exhausted to do more. Countless campfi?res pointed gray fi?ngers up at the overcast sky, where hardworking recon balls zipped back and forth across the LZ, and stoic robots carried stretchers loaded with ammo from one location to another. All this made Santana thankful for the fact that he wasn’t a major, colonel, or, God forbid, a general, and therefore responsible for a larger slice of the insanity taking place around him. Santana was just about to leave his vantage point when a pair of Ramanthian fi?ghters roared overhead. The cavalry offi?cer tracked the aircraft as they circled the allied position, vectored in on the incoming rescue boats, and attacked two of them. One of the allied vessels exploded in midair, and rained fl?aming debris onto the troops below, while the other spiraled into the ground half a mile outside the perimeter. There was a fl?ash of light followed by a muted boom. But victory typically comes at a price, as the bugs learned, when half a dozen quads and twice that number of T-2s hooked up with each other via the Legion’s ITC system to create an umbrella of computer-controlled antiaircraft fi?re. Both fi?ghters were destroyed within a matter of seconds, and the skies remained clear after that. Santana shook his head sadly and went back to work. There was a lot to do, beginning with the creation of an evacuation list, and the need to get a hot meal into the bio bods. That’s what Santana and Zolkin were working on when Kelly appeared. Lupo had been incorporated into the landing zone’s defenses a quarter of a mile away, and the doctor had been forced to walk from there, which was why her com- bat boots were caked with mud. There weren’t any guards with her, nor were any required, given the nature of the situation. The naval offi?cer came to attention and delivered a sloppy salute. Santana returned it. There was a continual roar as the ships came and went, forcing the cavalry offi?cer to raise his voice. “Dr. Kelly. This is a surprise.”

“I came to tell you that Private Knifeplay and the rest of your wounded soldiers are still alive,” Kelly said. “Or were when we loaded them onto one of the ships.”

Santana remembered the lifeboat that had crashed immediately after takeoff and wondered if any of his legionnaires had been aboard it. “Thank you, Doctor. That was very thoughtful of you.”

There was a moment of silence as the redhead looked down and back up again. Her eyes were very blue. “You’re welcome. Having spent time with Alpha Company, and not being assigned elsewhere, I was hoping you would let me stay.”

Colonel Six and his men had been ordered to prepare a position for one of the heavy machine guns. When Santana looked in that direction, he saw Six looking back at him. It didn’t take a genius to fi?gure out that the clone had seen Kelly arrive and was waiting to see what would happen. Santana’s fi?rst reaction was to say, “No,” but when he turned back, the expression on Kelly’s face was so hopeful he couldn’t bring himself to turn her down. “I’m afraid there will be one more battle to fi?ght,” the legionnaire said soberly.

“And we’ll need your skills.”

A look of profound gratitude appeared in Kelly’s eyes as she said, “Thank you, sir,” and immediately made her way out toward the point where Six stood waiting. The two of them made an odd couple, or so it seemed to Santana, who knew the founder would have agreed with him. A sleek-looking yacht rumbled in from the east, and was forced to pause a few hundred feet south of Alpha Company’s position, as another ship rose out of the doughnut hole. The name Play Pretty was painted on the side of the ship’s hull. The boat’s elderly pilots had completed three trips by then—and were back for their fourth. The afternoon wore on. Night was a long black thing, punctuated by the roar of repellers, as the nearly nonstop fl?ow of ships continued. Kobbi stopped by to visit Alpha Company around 0200. He was accompanied by an adjutant, and two bodyguards, all of whom joined Santana, Zolkin, and Dietrich around one of three fi?res. Colonel Six was off somewhere, with Kelly most likely, although Santana didn’t really care anymore. Not so long as they did their jobs.

“There’s one helluva battle going on up in space,” the little general commented grimly, as a fl?ask of whiskey made the rounds. He’d been talking for hours, and his voice was hoarse. “Our navy is back, and they’re doing everything they can to keep the bugs off our backs. So we owe the swabbies big-time.”

All of the faces were lit from below as a breeze blew through and caused the fuel-fed fi?re to waver uncertainly.

“But here’s the rub,” Kobbi continued gloomily. “Every time one of those ships lifts off, we get weaker, and the bugs get stronger! According to my scouts, the chits have us surrounded. I fi?gure they will attack at dawn. So be ready to pull back at 0400. By that time, all the enlisted bio bods will be gone. That means it will be up to the remaining borgs and offi?cers to beat the bugs back. Then, once we get some sort of respite, we’ll pull all of the brain boxes and fall back on the doughnut hole. The last ship will be large enough to accommodate everyone. It isn’t the way I was planning to leave—but I’m looking forward to a shower and a beer.” That got the predictable chuckle, and fi?ve minutes later, the general was gone. There were more people to brief, and the clock was ticking.

The pullback went fairly smoothly, all things considered. And by the time a seemingly reluctant sun rose in the east, the allies were hunkered down inside a circle only half a mile across, which, though thinly populated, could still be defended thanks to the Legion’s battle-weary cyborgs. The quads were dug in at regular intervals all around the new perimeter, where their war forms would be abandoned when it came time to run. The T-2s, which were sprinkled in between the big behemoths, remained mobile and could shift positions if necessary. Farther out, forming a circle around the ring, were hundreds of crab mines.

That was the scene as a sickly-looking daylight crept in across the land, and what looked like ectoplasm rose to hover spiritlike over the well-churned mud as Santana heard Dietrich say, “Holy shit. . . . Look at that!”

The master sergeant wasn’t an offi?cer, but had refused to leave, claiming that real offi?cers wouldn’t know what to do without him. Six was there as well, as was Four-Four, and Dr. Kelly. T-2s, both armed and ready, were crouched to the left and right, with quads beyond. The scene that Dietrich wanted Santana to look at was hard to miss. During the hours of darkness thousands of Ramanthians had closed in on the LZ and stood ready to attack. They stood shoulder to shoulder, fi?fty deep, in a formation that had lined the far edge of the ditch.

There was a sudden fl?urry of activity as more enemy soldiers came forward through lanes left for that purpose, pushed crudely made footbridges up until they stood on end, and allowed them to fall across the moat. That was the signal for fl?ares to soar high into the air, for bugles to sound, and for noncoms to blow their whistles. Santana expected the soldiers to pour across the bridges at that point, and was surprised when they didn’t. As the defenders watched in horror, hundreds of clone civilians were forced to cross the ditch instead—men, women, and free-breeder children who had been captured during the early stages of the Ramanthian invasion and held in remote POW camps until now. Some of them tripped, a few fell into the moat, but most made it across. And that was when the mines went off. Boom!

Boom! Boom! The overlapping explosions circled the LZ, sent columns of bloodied dirt up into the air, and cleared a path for the troops that poured in from behind. But some of the civilians were still on their feet, still stumbling forward, as Colonel Six gave the necessary order. “They’re going to die no matter what you do! Fire!”

Now it was the enemy’s turn to die, as the entire perimeter erupted in fl?ame, and both the civilians and the bugs went down like wheat before a thresher. The outer edge of the new, smaller LZ looked like a ring of fi?re, as both the quads and the T-2s sent blue death stuttering out to slag the half-frozen ground. The offi?cers were fi?ring as well, machine guns for the most part, which sent red tracers out to probe the places where enemy soldiers might hide. And as each rank of Ramanthians fell, their bodies were added to the steadily growing circle of death that was defi?ned by the ditch. That was the scene that Maylo Chien-Chu saw from the air, as the Xinglong circled the embattled landing zone, and fi?red on the Ramanthians. That support, when combined with the fi?re being put out by those on the ground, created the sort of respite that Kobbi had been counting on. “This is it!” the feisty little general shouted over the command channel. “Pull those brain boxes. . . . T-2s fi?rst. . . . And get them ready to load. The last ship is about to land.”

That triggered a mad scramble to jerk each T-2’s box, and carry them two at a time to the edge of the so-called doughnut hole, where the Xinglong settled into a vapor cloud of her own making. The belly ramp was already in the process of deploying when the big skids touched down. Santana had Deker’s box in one hand, and Valario’s in the other, as he pounded up the ramp to the point where a very pretty woman stood waiting. The legionnaire was amazed to see that it was General Booly’s wife who was waiting to receive the boxes, but there was no opportunity to do anything more than nod as he turned to make another trip.

Ten minutes later, all the T-2s were aboard, and it was time to bring the quad boxes in, as some of the offi?cers fi?red heavy machine guns and the Ramanthians fi?red back. Santana ran to where Lupo was dug in, ordered the quad to disengage, and fl?ipped a protective cover out of the way. With that accomplished, all he had to do was grab the T-shaped red handle and give it a full turn to the right. Then, still holding on to the same handle, the offi?cer was able to pull the cyborg’s biological support module out into the open. Lupo tried to say “Thanks,” but no longer had the means to speak, and felt the world fade as sedatives were pumped into his disembodied brain.

With the box clutched to his chest Santana began the long run back. A bullet plucked at his right sleeve, and others kicked up geysers of mud all around him, as he dodged back and forth. “They know what we’re up to!” Kobbi advised over the push. “Pull back! Pull back! It’s time to haul ass!”

Santana caught up with Zolkin, who along with Kelly, was supporting Four-Four. The Seebo had taken a bullet in the thigh and was bleeding badly. Other heavily laden offi?cers streamed toward the ship as well even as the Xinglong’s energy cannons sent bolts of iridescent blue energy fanning out over their heads. One of the offi?cers threw up her hands and fell facedown when a burst of bullets hit her from behind. The brain box she had been carrying fell, landed in the mud, and was quickly scooped up as one of the surviving bio bods grabbed it.

Metal clanged under combat boots, and the stench of ozone permeated the air, as the offi?cers charged up the ramp and into the freighter. Kobbi was there to count them off.

“Twenty-two, twenty-three, where the hell is Colonel Six?” the general demanded.

On hearing that, Kelly turned and made a run for the ramp, only to be tackled by Santana. Both of them crashed to the deck as servos began to whine, and Orlo-Ka brought the ramp up. Kelly fought her way clear of Santana and ran over to a bank of screens, where the loadmaster could monitor everything that took place outside his ship. That was when she saw the waves of Ramanthian troopers, and heard the distant chug, chug, chug of a .50-caliber machine gun as Six harvested a few more lives. Then he was gone, swarmed under by an angry mob, as thousands of Ramanthian bullets hammered against the ship’s hull.

There was a noticeable jerk as the Xinglong lifted off and wobbled into the air. One of the bugs was hanging on to a skid, but Brisco shook him loose, and continued to climb. The bug deployed his wings, and was planning to glide in, when hundreds of bullets fi?red by his comrades ripped his body apart.

Meanwhile, high above the body-strewn LZ, the freighter continued to gain altitude. Most of the passengers were seated by then, if not very comfortably, in fold-down seats. Kelly continued to sob, even as she knelt in a pool of Four-Four’s blood, and fought to save a man who looked like Six but was actually someone else. Zolkin was there, trying to help the doctor fi?nd the big bleeder, and eventually clamp it off. Santana sat slumped in a web-style seat. His eyes were open but unseeing. A battle had been lost, but the war would continue, and the Legion would be in the thick of it. And, all things considered, that was the only thing he needed to know.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Though not based on the Korean War, or World War II, some of the events in this novel were inspired by both. In particular, the nature of the wintry battles in which Santana and his company take part would be recognizable to any of the marines who fought in the Chosin Reservoir campaign in 1950, except that what they managed to accomplish was far more heroic than anything in this book. Because in Korea, some 12,000 leathernecks were surrounded by 60,000 Chinese soldiers north of the Yalu River, yet still managed to fi?ght their way out of the wintry mountains, taking their dead and wounded with them. For those who would like to read more about that campaign, I recommend Breakout by Martin Russ. By the same token, those familiar with the Battle of Dunkirk in World War II will recognize the evacuation of planet Gamma-014 as being very similar to the effort by roughly 700 privately owned fi?shing boats, yachts, and other vessels to remove some 338,000 Allied soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk in a period of just nine days. Sadly, more than 30,000 British troops were killed, more than 8,000 went missing, and 1,212,000 Dutch, Belgian, French, and British soldiers were taken prisoner by the Germans, who lost 10,000 soldiers during the battle. These were real battles, involving real men and women, to whom all Americans owe so much. Their courage astounds me.