Whence it is to be noted that a prince occupying a new state should see to it that he commit all his acts of cruelty at once so as not to be obliged to return to them every day, and thus, by abstaining from repeating them, he will be able to make men feel secure . . .
NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI
The Prince
Standard year 1513
PLANET EARTH
The room was large enough to accommodate a hundred people if necessary. Harsh lights threw short shadows from above, the walls were bulletproof, and a large drain marked the exact center of the concrete floor.
The televised executions took place every Monday at exactly 3:00 P.M. And although Chico Martinez didn’t want to watch, he always had, even though the sight of fifty or sixty people being murdered made him ill. It wasn’t unusual to see women holding their babies, children playing on the floor, or old people strapped into their hover chairs. Some stone-faced, some crying, some praying. All guilty of what? Making a critical remark to a government informer? Spray-painting an antigovernment slogan onto a wall? Or spitting on an image of the empress? Yes. All such offenses were punishable by death.
The images were intended to frighten the population into doing whatever Empress Ophelia wanted them to do—and, for the most part, the strategy had been successful. But there were those, Martinez among them, who were sickened by the executions and determined to stop them. So he joined the underground, took part in two flash-mob protests, and had been caught in spite of the hoodie he wore.
How? That was the sad part. His sister had sold him out. For money? For suck points? Martinez didn’t know. And with only seconds of life left it didn’t matter. He was the one standing in the execution chamber this time. And as the synths entered the room, there was nothing he could do other than control the way he died.
The thought caused Martinez to elbow his way up to the front rank. Millions were watching, he knew that, so he waited until the robots had raised their weapons before ripping his shirt open. Blood had been used to paint the words onto his chest. His blood. And during the last few seconds of his life, Martinez had the satisfaction of knowing that people all around the world would see them. The robots fired, and Martinez fell.
• • •
Bright sunlight slanted in through tall windows to splash the floor of the beautifully decorated room. Both Ophelia’s father and brother Alfred had been in love with the summer residence in the Rockies. But the so-called sky castle had very little appeal for Ophelia—who preferred to live in the ancient city of Los Angeles. And that’s where she was, sitting cross-legged on the floor, spending some quality time with her five-year-old son, Nicolai.
He was a bright boy, with tousled hair and inquisitive eyes. The wall screen was on, and as the synths prepared to execute fifty-seven of Ophelia’s citizens, one of them ripped his shirt open. Ragged-looking letters were visible on his bare chest. “FF,” Nicolai said. “What does that mean?”
Ophelia felt a surge of anger as the synths opened fire. Someone should have checked. Someone was going to pay. “It means he was a traitor,” she said. “A bad man who would kill us if he could.”
Nicolai stared at the screen as the last person fell. He wasn’t shocked. Why would he be? At his mother’s insistence, he’d been watching the Friday afternoon executions for months. Because, as she put it, “A future emperor must be strong.”
“Why?” Nicolai wanted to know. “Why do they want to kill us?”
“Because they want what we have,” Ophelia answered simply. “They want our money, our possessions, and our power.”
Ophelia watched as one of her functionaries appeared on the screen—and began to talk about the need to support the government, especially during a time of war. “The Hudathans attacked Orlo II,” he said sternly. “And they would have won had it not been for Empress Ophelia and her leadership.”
That wasn’t strictly true since Ophelia hadn’t been there, but it was fair. She had sent the Legion to Orlo II to put down a revolt—and they’d been able to stop the Hudathans. Nicolai turned to look at her. She could see something of his father in the boy’s eyes. Not her secretary, as many people assumed, but a man selected based on a lengthy list of qualifications. A man who had been killed three months into her pregnancy lest he try to influence the boy later on. “Mother?”
“Yes?”
“The copies make my head hurt.”
Ophelia felt a surge of guilt but pushed it away. Her brother had been weak. Too weak for an emperor. Nicolai would be strong and, thanks to the digitized personalities that had been downloaded into his brain, he would be wise beyond his years. Unfortunately, the eight minds with whom the boy was forced to coexist could be quite contentious at times. And their arguments gave him headaches. “I’m sorry,” Ophelia said sympathetically. “But your advisors were great men and women. Later, when you’re all grown up, you’ll be grateful for them. But right now you have something important to do.”
Nicolai looked hopeful. “Can I ride my pony?”
Ophelia stood and offered her hand. “Yes, you can.”
Nicolai took her hand, and, together, they walked through a pair of French doors and out into the bright sunshine.
• • •
Rex Carletto lived in the Deeps, the name given to the levels of habitat below the city of Los Angeles, and the streets that were controlled by the government. There had been two attempts to “sanitize” the labyrinth of underground nightclubs, casinos, and brothels during the last few months, but neither one had been successful. The invaders had been no match for the denizens of the Deeps, who had consistently outmaneuvered them. The result was an uneasy standoff in which the authorities controlled what went on aboveground, and what the government called the “criminal element” continued to hold sway down below.
That made the Deeps the perfect place for rebels like Rex, a man who was number 2998 on the government’s death list and had been forced into hiding. The Deeps weren’t safe however. Far from it. The warren of dives, weapons dealers, and sweatshops was lousy with lice, meaning men and women willing to sell a reb for some suck points or a handful of credits.
So as Rex exited the flophouse where he had spent the previous night, he paused to look around. There were no municipal authorities or taxes in the Deeps, so there were very few services. Just those that the owners of various businesses saw fit to provide because doing so benefited them. So the streets were littered with trash, and rats were a common sight.
But Rex was worried about a different kind of vermin. That’s why his hand strayed to the cross-draw holster as he eyed the people in the immediate vicinity. Two drunks were staggering toward a bar, a prostitute in a Day-Glo dress was lighting a dope stick, and the beggar two doors down was looking his way.
Rex stuck a hand into his pocket, gathered all of the coins there, and dumped them into the beggar’s cup as he passed by. She was little more than a head, a torso, and one mechanical arm. An ex-soldier perhaps, or an accident victim, left to rot. All because she couldn’t afford one of the civ forms that wealthy people wore like suits of clothes. Forms designed and manufactured by his brother before the purge.
Rex made his way down the street, crossed over to a pedestrian ramp, and joined the flow of foot traffic up to L-2. It was more commercial than L-3 and, therefore, better lit. Multicolored signs strobed, crawled, and oozed over every surface, including the pavement beneath his feet. Ironically enough, the power required to keep the underworld running was obtained by tapping into LA’s grid. And if Ophelia wanted to stop the practice, she’d have to send another army down into the Deeps.
There were a lot more people on the street compared to the level below. And that represented both a comfort and a threat as Rex passed a garish tattoo parlor and sidestepped a black-robed Sayer. The robot damned him to hell as he walked away. I’m already in hell, Rex thought as he entered what had once been the Hollywood and Vine subway station.
Rex’s bodyguards seemed to materialize out of thin air. An emaciated-looking young woman with big eyes, biosculpted ears, and a love of cold steel appeared first. She was known as Elf and claimed that she could communicate with the dead.
Hiram Hoke emerged from the crowd a few moments later. He was six-three, weighed 225, and was armed with a truncheon in addition to the pump-style shotgun slung across his back. Hoke’s skin was brown and covered with an intricate tracery of white tattoos. His eyes were filled with good humor, and his voice was a deep basso. “Morning, boss.”
“Hey, Hoke, where’s Percy?”
“I’m right here,” a voice said from above, and when Rex looked up, he saw that the spherical cyborg was hovering over his head. Like Rex, Percy had been a member of the Legion and left during Alfred’s rule. Now, with Ophelia on the throne, he had returned to duty. Even if the Legion hadn’t been informed of it.
Rex grinned. “Okay, I’m glad you got the ARGRAV unit fixed. We were going to scrap you.”
Hoke guffawed and stopped as Percy’s laser beam touched his arm. “Ow! That hurt.”
“Grow up,” Elf put in crossly. “I thought we had a meeting to attend.”
“Yup,” Rex said, “we do. We’re scheduled for a sit-down with the Sayers and the Combine. There’s no way in hell that the Freedom Front will be able to bring Ophelia down all by itself.”
“But the Sayers are growing more powerful every day,” Percy observed, “and the Combine is making money hand over fist. Why would they cooperate?”
“Because the present standoff won’t last forever,” Rex said. “And they know that. It’s only a matter of time before Ophelia finds a way to root them out.”
“Enough already,” Elf said impatiently. “Let’s get on with it.”
Percy led the way as the group passed a fountain that was spewing motes of multicolored light into the air and turned onto the Street of Dreams, where the most popular nightspots were located. There was the Coliseum, which was well-known for the gladiatorial battles staged there every night, and the predictably high body count. Next came the Roxy. It featured the quiet elegance of a bygone era, and cuisine so good that members of the glitterati often came down to sample it in spite of the dangers involved.
And, finally, there was the Blue Moon. Its sign consisted of a beautiful woman clad only in glitter reclining on a sliver of blue moon. The image seemed to wave at Percy as the cyborg flew past her. The nightclub’s facade had an art deco feel that was reinforced by the retro suits the doormen wore. Both were large, heavily armed, and edgy. Hoke approached them palms out. “Colonel Red is here for a meeting.”
The man on the right had slicked-back hair parted in the middle and a pair of beady eyes separated from each other by a large nose. “We’re expecting you,” he said. “The weapons stay here.”
“No, they don’t,” Hoke said flatly. “Not unless all of the other participants will be unarmed. And we would have to verify that before surrendering our weapons to you.”
Beady Eyes didn’t like that. But, after whispering into his wrist mike and listening to the reply, he opened the door. “You can go in.”
Hoke smiled beatifically as he entered the nightclub, closely followed by Percy and Rex. Elf brought up the rear, her eyes darting this way and that.
A formally attired maître d’ was waiting to receive the visitors and led them up a spiral staircase to the second floor. It was circular, and a large hole in the floor allowed guests to look down onto the stage, where a scantily clad grav dancer was performing a series of weightless pirouettes. A dozen robo spheres, each programmed to move in concert with the music, orbited the girl like planets around a sun.
Once on the second floor, the maître d’ led them between the tightly packed tables to a door marked PRIVATE. A small camera was located above it. Perhaps that was why the barrier slid to one side before the maître d’ could knock on it. Another nattily dressed guard was there to greet the party as they entered.
The room was circular, and the silvery walls were lit from above. The man Rex knew to be Vas and the nameless Sayer were seated at a round table with bodyguards arrayed behind them. Those who worked for Vas wore period attire—and the Sayers were dressed in their usual head-to-toe grim-reaper outfits.
Rex spent all of ten seconds wondering if the Freedom Front should have distinctive uniforms before dismissing the idea as ridiculous. The FF was all about everyday people and was going to remain that way. “Welcome,” Vas said. “Please have a seat.”
There was no telling what Vas had looked like originally—back before what might have been a million credits’ worth of biosculpting. Now he resembled something from a bad dream. His head was clean-shaven, his eyes were an impossible violet color, and his nose had been reduced to little more than a bump and two slits. That, combined with skin that appeared to be lit from within, made Vas look more alien than human.
Rex took the vacant chair, knowing that his bodyguards were stationed behind him. The meeting was important, and he felt nervous. It wouldn’t do to let that show, however, so he adopted the same blank-faced look he used when playing poker. “Thanks for hosting the meeting.”
As Vas spoke, Rex saw that his teeth were filed to points. His voice was soft and well modulated. “You’re welcome. As you know, we’re here to discuss the possibility of an alliance. I suggest that we begin with short statements about the organizations we represent. Reverend Sayer? Perhaps you would be willing to speak first.”
Due to the hood she wore, only the lower part of the Sayer’s face was visible. Rex was struck by how well formed her nose and mouth were. “I walk the true path,” she said, “and others choose to follow. We believe that what has been built must fall—and when it does, spiritual balance will be restored. It is our duty to hasten that time.”
Vas nodded. “Thank you. Colonel Red?”
Rex was a wanted man. So rather than use his own name he had chosen to operate under the nom de guerre Colonel Red. A name that married his Legion rank with his favorite color on the roulette wheel. He took a deep breath. “The Freedom Front is an opposition group dedicated to overthrowing the monarchy and replacing it with a representative democracy. We believe in freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and equal rights for all sentients.”
Vas offered a toothy smile. “Including computers?”
“If they are truly sentient, yes.”
Vas nodded. “I represent the Combine, which is a group of for-profit organizations.”
“Which is to say a group comprised of criminals,” the Sayer put in.
“That’s how Ophelia sees it,” Vas said evenly. “Although her main complaint seems to be our failure to pay Imperial taxes.”
Rex chuckled. That was true. As far as he could tell, Ophelia’s motives had very little to do with traditional morality. And, to the extent that the Combine was fleecing what she considered to be her sheep, the empress was unhappy. “So,” he said, “we have a lot in common.”
There was a loud crash as the Sayer opened her mouth to respond. Then a huge drill bit came down through the ceiling, quickly followed by a cascade of debris, dirt, and a steady stream of water. As it struck, the table shattered, causing all three participants to stand and back away. Rex had seen the technology used on enemy bunkers. But never from that perspective. “It’s a penetrator,” he announced. “Once they jerk it up and out, troops will drop through the shaft.”
There was a loud whining noise, and more dirt fell as the penetrator went into reverse and was withdrawn. Somehow, some way, Ophelia’s security people knew about the meeting and where it was being held. Then, having positioned the necessary equipment directly over the Blue Moon, they’d struck. “I think it’s time to leave,” Vas said, as he drew a pair of energy pistols. Rex had to agree. The meeting was over.
• • •
PLANET ORLO II
The rain hit the top layer of the forest, ran off a multitude of leaves, and fell again. McKee heard it rattle on her helmet before streaming down onto her already wet poncho. Most of it anyway, although a trickle of water found its way under her collar and into her clothes. It was tempting to change position, or to try to tighten the seal around her neck, but McKee had been fighting in the Big Green for months by that time and knew the effort would be pointless. The jungle always won. Besides, the newly arrived jarheads were looking to her for an example, and if she began to thrash around, they would, too. And that could be fatal. The plan was to remain perfectly still, let the Hudathans walk into the trap, and take at least one of them alive. A waste of time in McKee’s opinion because the Hudathans were tough as nails and not about to dishonor themselves by spilling their guts to what they thought were lesser beings.
Her train of thought was interrupted by a rustling sound and the crackle of broken twigs as Second Lieutenant Wilbur Fox plopped down beside her. “Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
“See anything?”
It was a stupid question even for Fox. Had McKee seen something, she would have told him via the platoon push, opened fire on it, or both. But he was the platoon leader, she was a noncom, and that meant their relationship was defined by a thousand years of military tradition. “No, sir. Not yet.”
“But you think they’ll come?”
Admiral Poe’s ships had been forced to flee when a much larger Hudathan fleet dropped out of hyperspace—and there had been a hellacious battle during their absence. Now the swabbies were back, along with a battalion of mostly green marines, Fox being an excellent example. That’s why some of the Legion’s officers and noncoms had been seconded to the Marine Corps to serve as advisors. So in spite of the fact that McKee had been in the Legion for less than a year, she found herself giving advice to an officer. “I think the odds are good, sir,” she said patiently. “Once the ridgeheads realize that Harvey is overdue, they’ll send someone out to look for him.”
Harvey was the name the marines had given to the Hudathan who lay in the clearing directly in front of them. Harvey had been alive when the Droi found him in one of their pit traps, but not for long. The Droi hated the Hudathans and, judging from the number of bullet holes in his body, had used the off-worlder for target practice. “Excellent!” Fox said, as if hearing the news for the first time. “That’s when we’ll bag the bastards.”
Fox made the process sound like a turkey shoot—and maybe it was in his fantasies. But Fox hadn’t fought the aliens in front of Riversplit or up on top of the Howari Dam. If he had, McKee figured the marine wouldn’t be so lighthearted about the prospect of combat with soldiers who were six and a half feet tall and weighed more than three hundred pounds apiece. But there was no point in lecturing Fox, so she didn’t. Once the shovelheads appeared, he’d learn soon enough. “Yes, sir,” McKee said dryly. “That’s when we’ll bag the bastards.”
The next forty-five minutes passed with excruciating slowness. The rain continued to fall, scavengers continued to nibble on the corpse, and McKee felt an increasing need to pee. Should she call the ambush off? Fox would agree to nearly anything she proposed. But was it right to cancel an ambush so she could relieve herself?
McKee’s ruminations were interrupted by two clicks as a marine chinned his mike on and off. McKee blessed the leatherneck for holding his fire, placed a hand on Fox’s arm, and shook her head. That prevented the officer from issuing an unnecessary order as three Hudathans appeared on the opposite side of the clearing. They were heavily armed and paranoid as hell. Which made sense on an alien planet populated by beings who wanted to kill them.
For what felt like an hour, they just stood there, looking around. But the marines were well concealed—and the rain had the effect of blurring their heat signatures. McKee eased the rifle forward and found one of the Hudathans in her scope. He was HUGE. The vestige of a dorsal fin ran front to back along the top of his bare skull, a pronounced supraorbital ridge threw a shadow down onto his cheekbones, and the froglike mouth was set in a straight line. He was within range, but closer would be better, since the knockout dart would have to penetrate both clothing and the Hudathan’s skin. Would he cooperate?
He did. Having satisfied himself that it was safe to do so, the alien began to approach Harvey. His eyes were on the ground, looking for trip wires, pressure plates, or signs of disturbed soil. McKee placed the crosshairs on his neck, took up the slack on the trigger, and was about to squeeze it when Private Blonski fired his shotgun. The results were entirely predictable.
One of the aliens aimed a huge machine gun at the opposite tree line. It began to chug rhythmically as McKee fired. Her target turned, the dart missed, and Fox ordered his marines to open up. They obeyed. And because most of them had their weapons aimed at the lead Hudathan, he jerked spastically, battled to keep his feet, and finally went down.
Having witnessed that, the second ridgehead did a fade—quickly followed by the monster with the big gun. “We got him! We got him!” Fox shouted enthusiastically.
“What we have is a lot of trouble,” McKee said as she struggled to her feet. “The mission is to capture Hudathans—not kill them. Now we’ll have to track the bastards back to their hidey-hole. Put the idiot who fired that shotgun on point.”
There wasn’t a “sir” anywhere in McKee’s evaluation—nor were the orders framed as suggestions. But Fox didn’t notice or, if he did, chose to ignore the blatant breach of military protocol. The little sergeant with the diagonal scar across her face was right, and he knew it.
Orders were given, sixteen marines appeared out of the bush, and Blonski was put on point. It was a well-deserved punishment. But had Fox considered such subtleties, he would have noticed that McKee was right behind the private, telling him what to look for as they followed a trail of broken branches through the forest.
The Hudathans were moving quickly, which meant the humans had to do so as well or risk losing contact. But that was dangerous. Would the Hudathans stop at some point and lay an ambush of their own? McKee knew she would.
Then, as if that weren’t bad enough, there was the old saw “Be careful what you ask for.” Assuming they found the Hudathan hideout, how many aliens would they have to face? The Hudathan fleet had been forced to withdraw when Admiral Poe and his ships arrived, leaving pockets of troops here and there all across the surface of Orlo II. Most of the groups consisted of no more than a dozen soldiers, but McKee knew some of them were larger. And if the marines ran into a company-strength force of Hudathans, they would be SOL. And so would she.
McKee’s train of thought was interrupted as the trees began to thin, and a river appeared up ahead. Bronski was still moving forward when she grabbed the back of his harness and jerked the marine to a halt. “Get down . . . We’ll low crawl forward.”
McKee turned and motioned for the rest of the patrol to take cover before falling in next to Blonski. The marine had been taught how to low crawl in boot camp and put on an excellent demonstration of how to do it as he placed his weapon across the top of his forearms and elbowed his way forward. It wasn’t long before they had a good view of the river. It was sluggish, pea-soup green, and, judging from the boot prints on the opposite bank, not very deep.
All things considered, the ford was an excellent place for an ambush. Once the marines were exposed, and knee deep in water, they would make excellent targets. McKee heard what sounded like a wild boar charging through the forest and knew Fox was coming forward. He landed heavily. “Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
“What have we got?”
“This would be a good place for the Hudathans to set an ambush, sir. I suggest that you send a fire team upstream. Once they’re around the bend and out of sight, they can cross, work their way back down, and let us know what they see.”
“We’ll flank ’em!” Fox said happily. “That’ll teach the bastards.”
“And one more thing,” McKee added. “If the shit hits the fan, tell them to pop some smoke. It would be a shame to shoot them.”
Fox’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, good point; I’ll take care of it.”
The next half hour passed slowly as a team of four marines crossed the river and felt their way east. What if she was wrong? What if there was no ambush, and the Hudathans managed to escape due to excessive caution on her part? All manner of doubts chased each other through McKee’s mind until a male voice sounded in her helmet. “Charlie-Three to Charlie-Six . . . It looks like the ridgeheads were waiting for us. But they’re gone now. Over.”
McKee felt a sense of satisfaction mixed with disappointment. She’d been correct—but the enemy had opened up a lead by now. There was one good thing, however, and that was the possibility that the Hudathans believed they were safe and would hightail it home without setting any more ambushes. Especially with night coming on.
It felt right to McKee, and she said as much to Fox, who had come to believe that the legionnaire was infallible. So the patrol crossed the river, located the game trail the Hudathans were using, and began to jog.
Blonski had been rotated to the rear by then, but McKee was still in the two slot, and grateful for the fact that she was in good shape. The rain had stopped, the air was humid, and she was carrying forty pounds of gear. That was a lot for a woman who weighed 125, but months of combat had strengthened her, and McKee knew she could run the jarheads into the ground. Branches whipped past her helmet, patches of blue flashed by overhead, and the rasp of her own breathing filled her ears.
They ran for fifteen minutes before McKee held up a hand and cut the pace to a walk. They had made up some of the time lost earlier. That’s what McKee figured, and she didn’t want to run pell-mell into an enemy encampment.
The concern was validated ten minutes later when the marine on point spotted a trip wire. McKee made a production out of stepping over it so that the men and women behind her would see and do likewise.
Moving with care, she led the patrol off the trail and into the bush. Once they were clear, McKee signaled for the platoon to turn south. It was a delicate business. One sensor missed, one careless move, and all hell would break loose. McKee thought about Blonski and hoped that his safety was on.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a clearing appeared up ahead, and McKee motioned for the marines to get down. As Fox came forward, he made hardly any noise at all. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
“What have we got?”
“Looks like an improvised fort, sir. They put it on stilts, so the larger predators couldn’t reach them.”
Fox peered through a screen of vegetation. The platform was made out of logs, was well constructed, and a good twenty feet off the ground. It was impossible to see the Hudathans unless they approached the waist-high wall that surrounded the platform. “That thing is quite a ways off the ground,” Fox observed. “Do the local predators get that big?”
McKee remembered firing down into a triangular skull as a monster jumped up at her. “Yes, sir. They’re only about ten feet tall, but they can jump at least five feet into the air. And they absorb bullets like a sponge.”
“Sorry I asked,” Fox replied. “So, what do you recommend?”
McKee eyed the structure through her binoculars. “We’re in a tough position, sir. They have the high ground. If we fire on them from here, they could respond with heavy weapons. What if they have a mortar or a crew-served machine gun? And if we charge out into the open, they will cut us down in no time. An air strike might be in order. Of course, we aren’t likely to capture any prisoners that way.”
Fox was silent for a moment, then he spoke. “Those are good points, Sergeant. But what if we use rockets to blow two of those supports away? That would dump the platform and the Hudathans onto the ground.”
McKee was not only pleasantly surprised but a bit embarrassed. She should have thought of using rockets and hadn’t. “That’s a good idea, sir.”
Fox looked surprised. “It is? Yes, well, of course it is.”
It took the better part of fifteen minutes to prepare. Then, with everyone in position, Fox gave the order. “Fire!”
The team only had one launcher, but Corporal Yada had the moniker “Rocket Man” for a reason, and the first missile was dead-on. There was a flash of light followed by a resonant BOOM, and a series of sharp, cracking sounds. As the smoke cleared, McKee saw that the platform’s remaining legs were keeping it aloft. The Hudathans were firing by then, but wildly, since they weren’t sure which direction the rocket had come from.
But Yada wasn’t done. He loosed another missile, it struck its mark, and the explosion threw splinters of wood in every direction. One of them whirred past McKee’s head. Then came a series of creaking-cracking sounds as the west end of the platform collapsed, hit the ground hard, and sent all manner of things spilling out into the clearing. Some of them were Hudathans, and McKee knew that the time had come.
The rifle was ready, and as soon as McKee had one of the troopers in her crosshairs, she fired. The dart hit just below the Hudathan’s massive neck but missed bare flesh, and there was no way to know if the knockout juice was entering his circulatory system. So McKee fired again, saw the alien slap his neck, and knew the needle had gone deep.
But what if the Hudathan had been injected with two doses? Would it kill him? The question remained unanswered as the soldier staggered, took two uncertain steps, and collapsed.
Meanwhile, a very lively firefight was under way. So McKee pulled her Axer Arms L-40 assault rifle around, brought the weapon up, and added her fire to all the rest.
Explosions marched through the brush as one of the aliens opened fire with an automatic grenade launcher. Someone screamed, and someone else yelled, “Kill that bastard!” as dozens of rounds peppered the Hudathan’s body. He flinched but refused to fall.
That was when Yada settled the matter with a rocket. It hit the trooper dead center, blew him in half, and sent chunks of bloody meat flying through the air.
McKee heard Fox yell, “Charge!” realized that the crazy jarhead was on his feet, and had no choice but to join him. Together with half a dozen marines they marched into the smoke, firing as they went. A Hudathan appeared in front of McKee, took a burst of 4.7mm rounds in the face, and fell over backwards. She had to step on the monster’s chest in order to advance.
Meanwhile, having been flanked by the rest of the patrol, the Hudathans were taking heavy casualties. They rallied, or tried to, but it wasn’t enough. Blonski killed the last Hudathan with three blasts from his shotgun.
As the last of the smoke drifted away, an eerie silence settled over the clearing. Fox scanned the area as if seeing it for the first time. His voice was little more than a croak. “Casualties?”
“Two dead, three wounded,” a sergeant answered.
“And the enemy?”
“Seven dead and one alive,” McKee replied, as she knelt next to the unconscious Hudathan. “Let’s get some restraints on him. He’ll be pissed when he wakes up.”
“You heard the sergeant,” Fox said. “And secure the perimeter. Who knows? Half of the bastards could be out on patrol. What if they return?”
McKee grinned. An officer had been born.