Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Julius Caesar
Standard year 1599
PLANET ALGERON
The stingwings were large enough to deliver a painful blow even if they failed to penetrate unprotected flesh with their stingers. So as long as McKee remained where she was, which was trapped in her harness, she would take a beating.
Like the other T-1s, Sykes was largely impervious to the attack and was firing his fifty into the cloud of swirling insects, as McKee dropped free. She hit the freezing-cold water feetfirst, lost her balance, and fell. As the swamp water closed in over her face, she had a revelation. The stingwings couldn’t attack underwater. But that knowledge had to be shared, which was why she stuck her head up out of the water. “This is Eight. All bio bods into the water! Stay down and retreat to island six.”
The responses were largely incoherent, and understandably so, as Hasbro, Larkin, and the rest of them jumped, fell, or dived into the slushy water. But as the bio bods crawled and swam toward island 006, Jaggi took it upon himself to rally the cyborgs. “Come on!” he shouted. “They’re trying to protect the next island. Fire some grenades at it.”
There was a flurry of bright orange explosions on island 007 as the T-1s fired their weapons. And with dramatic results. The swarm turned, and thousands of wings beat the air as the creatures rushed to protect their young. That allowed McKee and the rest of the bio bods to stand up and wade to island 006. One after another they left the water to stand shivering on solid ground. After a quick head count, McKee was relieved to discover that all of the team were accounted for, and that included Major Hasbro, who had a bloody stinger protruding from his right thigh.
Hasbro swore steadily as Larkin and Hagen helped the officer climb into the crawler, where most of the engineers had been during the attack. One of them doubled as a medic. She produced a hemostat, locked it onto the foreign object, and pulled. The bloody stinger came out smoothly. “No barbs,” she observed. “That’s a good thing. You’re next, Sarge . . . Sit on that crate.”
McKee did the best she could to remain impassive as the stinger was removed from her arm. Would it leave a scar? Of course it would. Not that she’d be wearing an evening gown anytime soon. There was a moment of pain followed by a dribble of blood. “There,” the medic said as she dropped the object into a kidney basin. “You feel okay? Do you feel a pins-and-needles sensation? Drowsiness?”
“My arm is sore . . . But that’s all.”
“Tell me right away if you develop any additional symptoms. Odds are that a neurotoxin would have made itself known by now, but who knows? You could drop dead later.”
McKee made a face. “Thanks, Corporal. I love your bedside manner.”
“Anytime, Sarge,” the medic said cheerfully as she applied some antiseptic and a self-sealing bandage. “You’ve got some swelling there. Slap some ice on it. Lord knows there’s plenty floating around.”
“The Naa was right,” Hasbro said bitterly, as the medic turned her attentions back to him. “The map is a piece of shit. Lieutenant Royce . . . Turn the column around. We’re going back.”
The engineer was perched on a fold-down seat. She said, “Yes, sir,” and ducked out into the night. Hasbro glanced at McKee. “You look like hell.”
McKee’s teeth were starting to chatter as someone draped a blanket over her shoulders. “Look who’s talking,” she replied. “Sir.”
Hasbro laughed, engines roared, and the crawler began to turn. The retreat was under way. There were no further attacks on the column as it made its way back to dry land. McKee’s gear was stored on the crawler, so she was able to don a dry uniform but didn’t like riding in the “can,” as the engineers referred to it. That was partially due to the ride, which was pretty bumpy, but mostly because she didn’t want to be separated from her squad. Larkin would keep them on the straight and narrow. But what if something unexpected arose? Larkin’s response to obstacles was to take them head-on. That was often a virtue but not always.
So she fussed and fumed as the crawler ground its way back to the point where the column had first entered the swamp. And then, unable to take it anymore, she insisted on climbing the short ladder that led up to an access hatch and the deck above.
Cold air flooded in around McKee as she pushed herself up to the point where she could see. The first thing she noticed was a large fire. It was bright enough to serve as a beacon. Every now and then, something would give way deep within the conflagration, and the flames would shoot skyward, sending sparks up to join the stars. The fire was Quickstep’s way of helping the legionnaires find their way back.
Hasbro’s head and shoulders popped out of the hatch opposite from hers. He looked at the blaze and over to her. The officer had to shout in order to be heard over the engine noise. “He’s a cheeky bastard, isn’t he? Well, I was wrong. Simple as that. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” And with that, Hasbro disappeared.
A wave of water surged away from the front end of the crawler as it nosed into a subsurface hole. Tracks churned, and the vehicle lurched up. McKee was forced to grab the ring mount that circled the hatch. She could understand Hasbro’s change of attitude. Quickstep had proven himself to be a reliable guide. Then why didn’t she trust him? Was she becoming one of those? Meaning the sort of legionnaire who was eternally suspicious of all indigs. She hoped not.
The surviving RAV arrived first. Quickly followed by the crawler, the construction droids, and the rest of her squad. Once the track came to a halt, McKee jumped to the ground. And that was when she smelled the mouthwatering odor of roasting meat. Quickstep had gone hunting while they were gone and killed two of the so-called hoppers that the Naa relied on for protein. So with the hoppers roasting on sticks, the humans not only knew where to go—but had a hot meal waiting for them when they arrived. A surefire strategy to convert even a xenophobe like Larkin into a trusting ally.
The aroma caused McKee’s stomach to rumble. But, before she or anyone else could tuck into some Naa barbecue, there was a need to establish a defensive perimeter. Something which, thanks to the crawler and the construction droids, was accomplished in thirty minutes.
The T-1s weren’t interested in food, so McKee was able to put them on guard duty while the bio bods ate. Then, once they were finished, it would be time to give the cyborgs a break. The sun was up by then, what looked like steam was rising off the surface of the swamp, and as McKee tucked into a plate of roasted hopper, she marveled at where she was. It felt good to be alive.
• • •
Sykes was standing sentry duty at the northwest corner of the newly established compound with his sensors on max. He could “see” small heat signatures as animals scurried about. But there were no signs of electromechanical activity in the area. That meant he could let his onboard computer do the actual work while he turned his thoughts to more important things.
Sykes had a plan. Not much of a plan—but a plan nevertheless. And that was to search McKee’s personal belongings. Not because he thought she was guilty of participating in the Mason assassination or the Travers killing. By that time he had convinced himself that Andromeda McKee was exactly what she appeared to be. A by-the-book, hard-assed noncom who could eat bullets and shit fire. But he had to convince a man named Max of that—and a search would help to buttress his case. Then, with Max off his back, he could turn his attention to having fun and evading work.
But a big problem stood in the way, and that was his war form. There was no F-ing way that he would be able to sneak into McKee’s shelter and go through her things. Because even if he could fit inside, he wouldn’t be able to manipulate small objects with his huge graspers.
So, what to do? Recruit some help, that’s what. A bio bod who could be bribed, tricked, or blackmailed into doing his bidding. Not Larkin because the idiot was in McKee’s pocket. No, a weaker reed would be better. Hagen, perhaps, or Quinn. Yes, Quinn! A female could get closer to McKee than a male could. But how? Some research was in order. Sykes smiled, or would have, had such a thing been possible.
• • •
A ten-hour break gave all of them an opportunity to eat, get some rest, and tend to their wounds. McKee discovered that the ice was effective in reducing the swelling on her upper arm. That, plus two pain tabs, allowed her to get seven hours of sleep. Then it was up and at it. And once the legionnaires were ready to go, it was Quickstep who led the way, with Hasbro and McKee positioned to either side of him.
Quickstep began by taking the column west for a couple of miles before turning south. And McKee noticed the difference right away. The water was relatively shallow, just as it had been during the first attempt, but the bottom was solid! With very few holes for Sykes to step in. And Hasbro was conscious of the change as well. He spoke loudly so Quickstep could hear him over the intermittent sound of servos. “When will this route turn soft?”
“It won’t,” Quickstep said confidently. “This is the path of pain. It was built 672 years ago using forced labor—and according to legend, the slaves cried enough tears to fill the swamp.”
“My God,” Hasbro said, as he eyed the seemingly endless maze of channels and islands ahead. “How was it done? What’s the road made of?”
“Rock,” Quickstep replied. “They say Chief Farreach ordered his people to supply ten thousand dooths and an equal number of carts to carry it in.”
“But why?” McKee asked. “Sorry, sir . . . I’ll shut up.”
Hasbro grinned. “That’ll be the day. It’s a good question. Why indeed?”
“Farreach wanted to unite the north and the south. He planned to rule the planet,” Quickstep said simply. “It was his warriors who dug the first tunnel under the towers. The only pathway that can be used year-round. But it’s too narrow to move armies through.”
“So, what happened?” Hasbro inquired.
“Farreach was murdered,” Quickstep answered. “Or so the story goes. Some say that his mate did it. Others claim he was assassinated. Not that it makes much difference.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Hasbro said thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll see. Perhaps something good will come of his road. Because based on what I’ve seen so far, the main column will be able to roll through unimpeded. And, thanks to the fact that Lieutenant Royce is dropping electronic markers at regular intervals, they won’t get lost.”
McKee noticed that while Quickstep didn’t object to anything Hasbro said, he didn’t affirm it either, which meant what? All she could do was wait and see.
Even with the underwater road to speed them along, and Quickstep’s ability to guide them around breeding islands, it still took one and a half standard days to cross the Big Misery from north to south. And, like all the rest of them, McKee was exhausted by the time they arrived.
There was to be something of a respite however because Forward Operating Base Oscar had been established just ten miles south of the swamp on a rise that provided a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. A defensive ditch had been dug all around, with an eight-foot-tall palisade behind that, backed by a maze of trenches and bunkers. All built by engineers and construction droids who had been flown in. And once the column entered the FOB and made the climb up to the plateau, McKee saw that four well-equipped landing pads were in place. Colonel Bodry had been busy. He even had a headquarters hab with two flags flying over it.
As Hasbro and Quickstep were led off to meet with the colonel, the rest of them were assigned to the habs that had been set aside to house transients. Quarters which, miraculously enough, were equipped with showers! Not hot showers, to be sure, but showers nonetheless, and McKee couldn’t wait to wash the grime off her skin.
But first there were all sorts of things to attend to. There was a RAV to replace, not to mention the supplies that had gone down with it, and lots of other stuff, too. Including the food and ammo consumed during the trip from Fort Camerone. So, knowing that it might be necessary for the supply people to fly some of it in, McKee wanted to submit her reqs ASAP.
Then, once everyone had been given an opportunity to shower, eat, and sleep, it would be time to clean weapons, perform maintenance on the cyborgs, and deal with personnel matters. Some sort of commendation for Jaggi for example. His leadership during the stingwing attack had been critical to saving lives. So with all of that in mind, McKee went to work.
• • •
It was early “afternoon,” and Mary Quinn had the spartan eight-person hab to herself. Hopefully, it would remain that way until the mission that Roy Sykes had given her was completed. Bio bods had a tendency to hang with bio bods, and borgs with borgs, but bio/borg friendships weren’t unknown. Of course the word “friendship” wasn’t entirely accurate since Sykes was going to pay her for searching McKee’s belongings. Why? That was a mystery. Not that Quinn cared. She had gambling debts to pay off, and the money would help her do so.
It had been easy to go through the gear McKee had left next to her cot. Easy but not especially revealing. There was a mesh bag that contained some Band-Aids, pain tabs, a small flashlight, a music player, earbuds, a pair of sunglasses, half a roll of TP, some stray pistol rounds, a flick knife, a bottle of nail polish, and a pair of panties. All of which was very similar to what she carried around.
But where were the photos of McKee’s family? Or the good-luck charms that legionnaires typically carried? It was as if McKee had been issued rather than born. But maybe the personal stuff was in the noncom’s comp. That would make sense. The problem was that McKee had the device with her.
And that was why Quinn was still there, sitting on her cot and cleaning her AXE. McKee would return once she finished her errands. And then the noncom would take a shower. The perfect opportunity to access McKee’s comp. That was the plan—but would it work?
Quinn had been working on the assault rifle for half an hour by the time McKee entered the hab, said “Hi,” and put her comp on the cot. Then she turned her back and started to strip. That was when Quinn saw the crisscrossed scars. The Steel Bitch had been flogged! Now, that was interesting. Maybe Miss High-and-Mighty wasn’t so high-and-mighty after all.
When McKee left for the walled-off shower space at the east end of the hab, Quinn was ready. The walls were thin. So when the shower started, Quinn could hear it. That was her cue to pick up her own comp and cross the room to McKee’s rack. The next part was easy. Legion-issue computers were designed to communicate with each other using a variety of technologies, including infrared links. So all Quinn had to do was activate both machines and synch them up. She wouldn’t be able to open encrypted files, but who knew? Maybe Sykes would be interested in the straight-ahead stuff.
Having completed the transfer, Quinn put McKee’s comp back to sleep and heard the water stop. That meant she had only a few seconds left to work with. On an impulse, she lifted the cot’s flat, blow-up pillow, and bingo! There it was. A chain with a cat figurine on it. Finally, something personal.
Having taken the piece of jewelry, Quinn held it up for a closer inspection. The cat didn’t look expensive. Far from it. And she was just about to return the object to its hiding place when she noticed the metal contact on the back side of it. A storage device!
Quinn’s heart was racing as she inserted the cat into the input port on her comp and ordered it to “Download.” An icon appeared, the pendant went back under the pillow, and Quinn was busy reassembling her AXE when McKee reappeared. “So,” Quinn said. “Do you feel better?”
“Much better,” McKee replied, as she toweled her hair.
Quinn nodded. “Yeah, me, too.”
• • •
Heacox was lying in bed staring up at the ceiling. Engines roared, and the hab shook as a fly-form crossed over it. He was thinking about his career, and how to further it, when there was a knock on the door. “Enter.”
There was a squeal as the door opened. The narrow four-by-eight room was dark and the voice was hesitant. “Captain Heacox?”
“Yes?”
“They want you at headquarters, sir. Right away.”
Heacox’s feet were on the deck by then. “Who wants me?”
“Colonel Bodry, sir.”
Heacox swore. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll tell him,” the private promised, and closed the door.
Heacox didn’t like Bodry or his plan to burrow through the Towers of Algeron. Why bother? Things were fine the way they were. But like most senior officers, Bodry was hell-bent on being promoted to general and figured that his scheme would get him there. Not Heacox, though. He had his sights set on lieutenant colonel. A respectable rank, which, when combined with the money that he had embezzled, misappropriated, and just plain stolen, would provide him with a comfortable retirement. Unless an idiot like Bodry got him killed first.
Such were Heacox’s thoughts as he dressed and did what he could to make himself look presentable prior to opening the door. Hopefully, if all went well, he would be able to take the colonel’s request and pass it along to one of his lieutenants. Then he could return to his room and get some sleep.
It was dark outside, and to the extent it could be, FOB Oscar was blacked out. But Heacox could see the occasional glow of a cigarette, the blip of a flashlight, and the sudden spill of light as the door to the headquarters hab swung open. He waited for a corporal to leave and stepped inside. A sergeant led him past some cubicles to the space reserved for Colonel Bodry. He and a couple of staff officers were facing a large wall map. A Naa warrior was present as well. All of them turned as Heacox was shown into the room. Bodry smiled. “There you are . . . Sorry to roust you out of bed—but I have a job for you.”
Heacox felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of his stomach. Bodry’s comment suggested something other than a routine administrative task. Heacox felt himself start to blink and battled to control it. “No problem, sir. What’s up?”
“Here’s the situation,” Bodry said, and turned back to the map. “A raiding party crossed over one of the low passes about a week ago—and have been traveling north ever since. At this moment, they’re right about here.”
A stiff finger stabbed the map, and it morphed into an aerial view of tiny dots that were snaking their way between a cluster of snowcapped hills. “Their goal, or what we assume to be their goal, is to attack the village of Doothdown. Here.”
The map changed again. This time Heacox found himself looking down through a haze of smoke on a group of overlapping palisades, what might have been fifty domes, and a patchwork quilt of gardens and corrals. “So,” Bodry continued, “in keeping with the agreement we have with Chief Lifetaker and the northern tribes, it’s our duty to protect the citizens of Doothdown.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Therefore I want you to interdict the raiders twenty miles south of the village. You’ll have a platoon of legionnaires plus a force of fifty Naa warriors led by Quickstep here.”
That meant Heacox would have fourteen T-1s, an equal number of bio bods, and a quad. The warriors were a threat to security and would be worthless in any sort of serious fight, but he couldn’t say that. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” Heacox replied. “How many raiders are there?”
“The weather has been bad south of here,” Bodry replied. “So satellite surveillance has been spotty. But according to the Intel people, you can expect to deal with a force of 100 to 150 warriors. Is there anything else?”
Heacox thought about that. His platoon would be able to defeat 150 savages without any difficulty whatsoever. And that would serve to bolster his nearly nonexistent combat record. Another step toward the rank of major. “No, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. You have two hours in which to prepare your people.”
Having received his orders, Heacox delivered a crisp salute, got a wave in return, and did a neat about-face. As Heacox left the hab, all sorts of thoughts were swirling through his mind. Which platoon should he take? Not Dero’s. The woman was frequently insubordinate, which was why he had taken her platoon apart and allowed other officers to “borrow” most of her people. The squad led by Sergeant McKee was an excellent example of that.
No, Lieutenant Simms was much more biddable. Plus, the first platoon was not only available, but at something approaching full strength, which made it the logical choice. So the first step was to turn the rascals out and get them ready. It would be daylight when they left, and Heacox was determined to provide Bodry with a good show as the platoon left.
Two hours was a very short time in which to get ready—and there was a good deal of grumbling from the troops. But Simms wasn’t one to countenance any sort of slackness. He seemed to be everywhere as he directed, threatened, and in one case administered a shock to a laggardly T-1. Just the thing to show the borgs who was in charge.
Then, as the sun rose, came the moment Heacox had been waiting for. A drone and a pair of RAVS left the FOB first. They were followed by Heacox, Simms, their cyborgs, and eight additional T-1s. The quad came next, with the rest of the borgs following along behind. All of them were marching in perfect step separated by forty-inch intervals. It made for a stirring sight, or so Heacox assumed, as the platoon plodded south.
The raiders were going to emerge from the hills twenty miles south of the village called Doothdown. But the legionnaires would have to travel more than sixty miles to reach that point and the rendezvous with Quickstep’s warriors. The Naa had offered to take the point, but Heacox wasn’t about to allow that. Maybe Bodry’s pet savage was loyal, and maybe he wasn’t. If not, the bastard could lead the platoon into a trap. So rather than riding out front, Quickstep had been relegated to the drag position.
An hour later, once they were clear of the FOB and its outermost defenses, Heacox called for a brief bio break and took advantage of the interlude to enter the quad. Most of the cyborg’s hold was filled with supplies but there was still enough room for an improvised resting place. Ten minutes later, the column was under way again. And it wasn’t long before the quad’s monotonous back-and-forth motion, combined with the whine of servos, put Heacox to sleep.
It was dark again by the time Heacox climbed up onto a T-1 named Provak and secured his harness. He felt better thanks to the nap and was pleased to see that the platoon had covered twenty-three miles of rolling hill country while he’d been asleep. Another couple of hours, and they would arrive at the interdiction point. The thought made him feel nervous and caused him to shift his weight from one foot to the other. Why was that the case? Officers like Dero appeared to be fearless. Surely, that was a front. They managed to maintain the appearance of bravery while being shot at, however, and it was all he could do to avoid soiling himself.
So the key was to avoid combat to the extent possible but, when forced to fight, to do so with every possible advantage. And that was the case now. His cyborgs would slaughter the Naa, and who knows? Perhaps Bodry would put him in for a commendation of some sort. Nothing fancy. Just another rung in the ladder to a majority.
Such thoughts went a long way toward making Heacox feel better—and he was still in a good mood when a beautiful pink light appeared beyond the hills to the east, and the mighty Towers of Algeron loomed ahead. A lenticular cloud was hovering over the peak directly in front of him, but the rest of the sky was clear. Good weather for fighting.
But how long would the advantage last? The raiders could have been delayed for all sorts of reasons. And that, Heacox decided, would serve his purposes well. Because if given enough time, he could choose the battleground. Could he lay a trap for the savages? Yes, why not? The thought brought a smile to his lips, but it wasn’t there for very long as Simms spoke over the platoon push. “This is Alpha-One. The drone reports a large number of Naa coming our way. Over.”
Heacox felt a stab of fear. Here they were. There wouldn’t be time to lay a trap. All he could do was . . . “This is Quickstep,” another voice said. “Don’t fire. The warriors are mine.”
Heacox sought to steady himself. He had momentarily forgotten the rendezvous with the Naa. “This is Alpha-Nine. Do not fire. I repeat, do not fire. And I would appreciate it if our civilian advisor would use proper radio procedure. Over.”
The two groups made contact five minutes later as about fifty riders appeared over the rise ahead and charged the legionnaires. They were waving all manner of weapons over their heads, and shouting what sounded like war cries, as they thundered past the RAVs. In fact, the demonstration was so threatening that Heacox was beginning to wonder if the platoon was under attack, when the war party split into two groups, and swept the length of the column. Then, having skidded to a halt, they swirled around Quickstep.
That struck Heacox as disrespectful since he was in charge, but all he could do was wait until the greeting process was over, and Quickstep came forward to report. The Naa was mounted on a dooth, so both were at the same level. “My warriors bring news,” Quickstep said.
“Well, spit it out,” Heacox demanded irritably.
“The raiders will arrive in twelve hours.”
Heacox felt a surge of excitement. Twelve hours! Assuming the Intel was correct, that was plenty of time to set a trap. He took a moment to check the latest satellite imagery and the two-line summary that went with it. The battalion S-2 was predicting contact in ten hours, but the two estimates were close enough. “Good. What are we? Five miles from the point where the raiders will be forced to leave the hills?”
“There are many paths they could follow,” Quickstep said cautiously. “But yes, so long as they continue to follow Turntwist Trail, they will exit the hills just south of the Fastwater River. And that is five miles southeast of here.”
“Then let’s get moving,” Heacox said. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can lay a trap for them.”
That seemed to go over well because Quickstep gave a nod and pulled his dooth’s head around. Things went smoothly as the combined force passed between two hills and followed a path to the spot where they could look down on a fast-flowing river. It was about a hundred feet wide and dotted with large boulders. The water foamed where it was forced to go around them. At that point, Heacox called Quickstep forward for a council of war. “So,” the legionnaire began, “where’s the best crossing?”
Quickstep’s eyes narrowed. “Why cross when we can make them attack through the rushing water?”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Heacox said crossly. “I asked where the best crossing was. But here’s my reasoning. The idea is to cross over and position the quad closer to the hills. It is armed with rockets that can strike the enemy even if they retreat. But, like an arrow, such weapons have a limited range. That’s why we’re going to cross the river.”
“What you say makes sense,” Quickstep allowed. “But why send all of your machines? Surely five or six of them would be enough to protect the quad.”
“You’re afraid . . . That’s it, isn’t it?” Heacox demanded. “Well, I won’t stand for cowardice! We are going to cross, and that includes you. Now, for the last time, where is the best crossing?”
Quickstep pointed off to the right. And when Heacox looked in that direction he could see that the river was slightly wider there, nearly free of boulders, and, judging from the ripples, shallow as well. “That’s better. Send some of your people across and tell them to establish observation posts up in the hills. If you need radios, see Lieutenant Simms. When the raiders arrive, I want as much warning as possible.”
Quickstep grunted something in his own language before turning away. Heacox didn’t know what the word meant and didn’t care. It appeared the savage was a coward, and that meant he wasn’t. The realization filled Heacox with a sense of pride as four Naa galloped down to the river and splashed through it, throwing spray into the air. Drops of water sparkled in the sunlight as they exploded upwards.
Simms and his T-1 were only a few feet away. “You saw where they crossed,” Heacox said. “Take the platoon across.”
Simms had a narrow face, a thin-lipped mouth, and a nearly nonexistent chin. He said, “Yes, sir,” and began to issue orders. The column started to wind its way down toward the river a few minutes later. Once across, Heacox found himself at the foot of a long, sloping hillside. It was covered with knee-high scrub and loose rocks shed by the hillsides above. That observation produced a moment of doubt. The enemy would have the advantage of height.
But Heacox told himself that’s all they would have. The vegetation plus the scree would inhibit movement by members of both sides. And, given its superior weaponry, the Legion would have the upper hand.
Thus reassured, Heacox set about the all-important process of placing the troops. His first decision was to divide the Naa into two groups and send them out to guard both flanks. That would get them out of the way.
Quickstep opposed that, pointing out that the rocks and ground cover would force his warriors to fight dismounted. But Heacox waved the objections off. It was his opinion that the Naa might bolt if allowed to retain their dooths, and he was determined to make the buggers fight.
The second and even more critical decision had to do with placement of the quad. Heacox chose the spot himself. It was located about halfway up the slope, where the borg could hunker down behind a screen of rocks and fire his missiles into the hills above. And, in the case of a massed infantry charge, the quad could bring his Gatling gun into play. That plus the presence of four T-1s and their bio bods meant that the huge walker would be secure.
This left twelve T-1s, counting the ones that he and Simms were riding, to form a skirmish line across the slope. A line that was anchored at both ends by Naa warriors. Maybe they would fight, and maybe they wouldn’t. But if they did, it would make the arrangement even stronger. As the light started to fade, Heacox was pleased with himself and confident of victory. War, as it turned out, was a simple task indeed.
• • •
What little light there was came from a well-shielded dooth dung fire. Fastblade Oneeye was peeing on a rock when the scout’s dooth skidded to a halt and sent rock chips flying through the cold air. The youth’s feet hit the ground with a thump, and the dooth made a grunting sound.
Oneeye uttered a sigh of satisfaction as he emptied his bladder, buttoned his fly, and turned around. The firelight lit half his craggy face. “Well?” he demanded.
The younger warrior was scared of the subchief and for good reason. Oneeye had a quick temper and liked to fight duels. “The slick skins are there,” the scout said, “just as you said they would be. And they have fifty warriors with them as well.”
“That’s to be expected,” Oneeye replied. “Honor requires it. You can be sure that all of them were drawn from the village of Doothdown. If the slick skins can block us, Lifetaker will put it forward as proof that his alliance with the off-worlders is working. And that will encourage the holdouts to join his army. The army he plans to conquer us with.”
“And if we defeat them?” the scout inquired hopefully.
“Then they’ll be dead, we’ll loot Doothdown, and Lifetaker will look like a fool. Rather than join his alliance, some tribes will leave it. Did you spot the lookouts?”
“Yes, sir. There are four of them. All located where we would place them if the situation were reversed.”
Oneeye grinned, but his eye patch and yellow teeth made it look like a grimace. “You aren’t as stupid as you look. When we return home, Chief Truthsayer will hear your name.”
To be “named” or mentioned to the chief-of-chiefs was a signal honor, and the youngster’s chest swelled with pride. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now,” Oneeye said, “take three warriors and kill the lookouts. If you or one of the others makes noise, and alerts the slick skins, I will personally slit your throat. Understood?”
“Y-y-yes sir,” the scout stuttered.
“So, what are you waiting for? A divine revelation? Get to work.”
The youngster took his dooth and disappeared. Oneeye smiled. Ah, to be young again. What stories the youngster would tell when he returned to his village. But there was no time for sentimental imaginings. He had a battle to win. And, thanks to Truthsayer’s planning, victory was all but assured. There was work to do, however, important work, and it wouldn’t do itself.
The war party was hidden in a maze of huge boulders, where every warrior and every dooth had cover under a ledge or in a water-cut cave. And that was important because the slick skins could see everything from the sky. Even at night. So rather than gather everyone together, Oneeye was forced to go from group to group. He went over what they were expected to do, called them names, and threatened to rip their hearts out if they failed. And because of who he was, and what he had accomplished, they cheered him.
Then, when news arrived that all of the northern lookouts were dead, Oneeye sent the special fire teams scurrying forward. Once they were in position there was only one thing left to do. That was to climb the north side of the hill and light the master fuse, from which other fuses led off into the rocks. Something he insisted on doing personally.
So far, everything had gone as Truthsayer said it would. Once the war party started north toward Doothdown, Lifetaker had prevailed on the slick skins to block the move. And by choosing the trail they had, the southerners had been able to predict where the battle would take place. The only surprise was the way in which the slick skins had decided to cross the river and fight with their backs to it. The original plan called for a quick foray across the water followed by an equally speedy retreat. Then, when the slick skins followed, they would be where they were now. Ready to be killed. Ah well, he thought to himself, some things are meant to be.
Oneeye opened his bronze fire box, blew on the coals until they glowed red, and dipped the fuse into the miniature inferno. It sputtered, caught, and gave birth to a blob of fire that raced to do his bidding. Thus began what would become known as the Battle at Bloodriver.
• • •
A wan sun was rising in the east, and, as luck would have it, Heacox was down at the river filling his canteen when the series of explosions marched across the hillside. They came in quick succession, like a string of firecrackers, and when he turned, Heacox saw the last couple of flashes. Not on the slope where his troops were positioned but much farther up.
Puffs of smoke appeared all across the hillside above. Then the ground shook as an avalanche of loose material thundered down. A cluster of large boulders acted to block the east end of the landslide, but the center of the wave rolled over the quad and buried the cyborg under ten feet of broken rock. Suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the platoon’s heavy weapons were gone.
Heacox thought, This can’t be happening. But it was. And the horror wasn’t over. By the time the last rocks clattered to a stop, fully half of the platoon’s T-1s were down along with their corresponding bio bods. But to Simms’s credit, he didn’t hesitate to attack uphill, determined to find and come to grips with the enemy. And on his command, the Naa attacked as well. Heacox could hear their war cries as they scrambled through a haze of rock dust, their weapons at the ready.
But the brave assault was over as quickly as it began. Two catapults had been brought to the site months earlier and concealed in carefully excavated caves. And now, as they were revealed, the attackers were exposed to lethal artillery fire. The first salvo consisted of carefully selected rocks. One of them struck a T-1 and knocked the cyborg off her feet. That attack was followed by two fireballs, both of which missed but splashed the slope with liquid fire and generated clouds of greasy smoke.
Heacox knew he should do something, should run up the slope with the rest of them, but he was frozen in place. “No,” he said. “No.” The second protest coming out as little more than a whimper. He felt a great sorrow, and tears ran down his cheeks.
Now, partially screened by the smoke, the raiders appeared. They came down the slope in skirmish order, running from rock to rock, firing as they came. That was when the surviving T-1s had their say. Grenades sailed into the rocks, and as they exploded, .50-caliber bullets cut the southerners down. There were a few seconds during which Heacox thought the battle might shift his way.
Then a bullet snatched Simms off his feet, the only surviving sergeant went down, and a fireball hit a T-1, drenching it in fire. The cyborg and her bio bod were only partially visible inside a cocoon of flames, and as they screamed, Heacox shit his pants.
Unable to take any more, the officer turned, sought the protection of some boulders, and crawled in between them. And that’s where he was, crying like a baby, when hands grabbed his ankles. His fingers clawed at the gravel on the ground as the Naa dragged him out into the open and jerked him up onto his feet. A warrior took the officer’s pistol and aimed it at his head.
Heacox stared into the face or a horrible one-eyed creature and saw no pity there. The Naa looked him up and down in much the same way that a dooth trader might inspect a perspective mount. His standard was rough but understandable. “You smell like a newborn cub. Much worse than most of your kind.”
Heacox blinked three times and struggled to organize his thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, he could talk his way out of the situation. “I’m an officer. An important officer. That means you can . . .”
“That means I can do whatever I want,” Oneeye interrupted. “Kill him.”
There was an explosion of pain followed by sudden darkness as the war club struck the side of Heacox’s unprotected head. “Toss him into the river,” Oneeye ordered. “And gather everyone together. Once the wounded have been cared for, we will ride.”
“Where to?” a grizzled veteran inquired.
“Why, to Doothdown,” Oneeye replied. “Where else?”
There was a splash as the body hit the water. An eddy turned it around, and the current carried it away. The killing had just begun.