By Force of Arms

Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan, who, as the senior officer on the ground, had the dubious honor of commanding all Thraki forces stationed on Clone World BETA-018, secured the fasteners on his standard-issue parka, waited for the form to climb onto his shoulder, and left the relative comfort of his office. Metal clanged under his boots as he crossed the catwalk that bisected the cavern and eyed the fighters arrayed below. They were Owana III Interceptors and, like the admiral himself, had seen long, hard service.

The aerospace fighters were parked in two opposing rows. Wraithlike wisps of vapor leaked from the umbilicals that connected the ships to the ground-support systems. Some twenty transports, easily identified by their larger hulls, lurked deep within the shadows.

The interceptors would be busy soon, Rawan reflected as he returned a technical’s salute, stepped onto a freight platform, and stabbed the “Down” button. His breath fogged the air as a motor whined, the lift jerked in protest, and sank toward the flight deck below. Ships had dropped in system, Confederate ships, with not a word of protest from the normally contentious Hegemony.

The same clones who had welcomed his people with open arms only months before, had turned decidedly less hospitable of late, even going so far as to cut off communications. It didn’t require diplomatic credentials to understand why. The Hegemony feared that if the Sheen attacked their guests they would suffer as well.

The officer could have felt bitter, could have felt betrayed, but didn’t. It seemed as if his people were destined to go friendless, to roam the stars forever, bereft of peace. The clones were nothing more than the latest manifestation of a hostile universe.

The platform clanged to a stop, Rawan stepped off, and turned toward the cold gray light. It flooded through the cavern’s entrance and glazed the deck in front of him. Walking into the alien glow, then peering out over the semifrozen landscape, was part of his daily routine. Officers saluted from a distance, technicals went about their chores, and the robots ignored him. The admiral’s breath came in gasps as his lungs struggled to extract oxygen from the cold thin air. The medical officer claimed they would get used to it after a while, but Rawan had his doubts.

A wrench clattered as the officer neared the opening. A cold, clammy wind caressed Rawan’s face and sent his hands into his pockets. The gloves he had intended to bring remained on his desk.

Warning lights chased each other around the opening, deck icons warned of danger, and snowflakes swirled beyond. The sun struggled to push its pale yellow light through a corona of white mist and failed. Rawan stepped over the knee-high safety chain and paused to eye the twin energy cannons positioned to either side of the passageway. Stripped from a decommissioned cruiser and protected by localized energy shields, they could defend against both aircraft and a ground assault. Even the Sheen would be forced to take such weapons seriously. It was a comforting thought. The admiral leaned into the wind and forced himself onto the outer platform. Moisture formed at the comers of his eyes and he blinked it away.

Though technically classified as “Earth normal,” the Hegemony planet designated as BETA-018 was actually quite marginal, which had everything to do with why the clones allowed the Thraki to establish a colony there.

The entrance, and the base to which it led, were located at the head of a U-shaped canyon, and, more than that, were roughly one hundred units off the ground. That meant that any pilot so foolish as to attack would have to fly between the computer-operated weapons positions that lined both walls of the valley and into the combined fire of the energy cannons that flanked the entrance. Not a pleasant prospect.

The same thing would apply to ground forces, since Rawan and his staff had gone to considerable lengths to ensure that all of the defensive weaponry could depress their barrels and launch tubes far enough to reach the canyon floor.

In addition to those precautions, Rawan had laid a minefield across the canyon’s mouth, ordered his robots to construct a variety of obstacles, and even gone so far as to prepare trenches for the six hundred ground troops assigned to protect his air squadron.

The wind renewed its assault on the officer’s face and only the fact that the Thraki had short, bristly fur prevented him from getting frostbite. He stared down into the valley below but was unable to see his marines. Because their camouflage was so good? Or because he was getting old?

Whatever the reason Rawan feared that the ground forces represented the chink in his armor. The navy was strong, very strong, thanks to hundreds of years spent fighting duels with the Sheen, but the ground arm was weak and relatively inexperienced. Just one of the things that explained his Runner sympathies.

A klaxon sounded somewhere behind him. Fighters probably—back from a sortie. He could clear the deck or risk being blown off the ledge. Rawan took. one last look at the valley and turned away. The cavern yawned and he stepped inside.

The holo, shot during a rare break in BETA-018’s cloud cover and augmented by footage supplied by recon drones, ran its course and faded to black. The Gladiator’s hangar deck had been pressurized and, with the addition of folding chairs, transformed into a serviceable auditorium. The lights came up as Booly stood and made his way to the portable podium. The ship’s motto, “For glory and honor,” faced the audience. He looked out at the crowd. It was the most unlikely gathering the officer could have imagined.

The Jonathan Alan Seebos claimed the first couple of rows and, if it hadn’t been for differences in age, would have been as identical as the hard-eyed stares fastened on his face. Immediately behind the clones sat the men, women, and Naa warriors still at the Legion’s core. Further to the rear, like mountains rising from a human plain, the Hudathans loomed. Their skins were gray, their backs uncomfortably exposed, and their expressions were grim.

And behind them, like a race unto itself, the cyborgs stood. Some human, some Hudathan, they were big, but dwarfed by the aerospace fighters beyond and by the scale of the Gladiator herself.

Here, Booly thought to himself, are the real aliens, beings who no longer resemble the species from which they came, and no longer perceive life in the same way.

None of the Ramanthian ground forces had been assigned to the assault on 18, both because of their lack of experience in fighting on ice worlds and their participation in other initiatives. These were the minds that would take Booly’s ideas, translate strategy to tactics, and lead their troops into battle—not in segregated units, as certain politicians had suggested, but in integrated groups in which Hudathans, Naa, and humans would fight side by side. It was a risk, a big risk, but so was the alternative.

Assuming the Confederacy managed to win most of the upcoming battles, assuming that it managed to survive the Sheen onslaught, the heat of the conflict would bake the military into its final form—a form that would be difficult to break without causing considerable damage. The kind of damage that might lead to another rebellion or civil war.

Still, it was with a sense of deep-seated concern that the officer started to speak. His words were translated as necessary. “You’ve read the reports, heard the analysis, and seen the footage. So you know what we’re up against. Given the threat posed by the Sheen, the Gladiator is the only ship the Confederacy could put against BETA-018. One ship—one planet. Why use more?”

Booly waited for the laughter to die away. “The Thraki are extremely experienced warriors. They have their backs to the wall and are well dug in, not only dug in, but dug into an allied planet, with civilians in residence. The settlement called ‘Frost’ lies only six miles away from the Thraki base. An orbital attack would destroy both.

“To root the Thraki out, Admiral Tyspin’s fighters are going to have to penetrate the valley and put weapons on hardened targets... the most important of which is the base itself.” Booly paused to scan their faces. Pilots stared up at him. “In order for the jet jockeys to hit their targets, the ground pounders will need to silence at least some of the batteries that line both sides of the canyon.”

Booly noticed that many of the Jonathan Alan Seebos remained silent, as did a substantial number of the Hudathans, but some joined in. That was progress. He grinned. “Thank you. I’m glad to see that someone’s awake out there.”

Laughter rippled through the audience. Booly picked up where he had left off. “You and your troops come from different worlds, pack different DNA, and have different cultures. Those differences could manifest themselves as a weakness, a fatal weakness, or, and tremendous progress has been made in this direction, they could become the source of our strength, and the reason we emerge victorious. Not just here, but elsewhere, when the Sheen drop hyper.

“Long hard days have been spent establishing a chain of command, integrating our varied systems, and selecting best practices. Every single one of you deserves credit for making that happen. Now comes the test, the moment when steel meets steel, when courage owns the day.”

Booly smiled, waited for the noise level to drop, and brought the meeting to a close. “You know what to do—so go and do it. Insertion teams Blue, Red, Yellow, and Green will drop about six hours from now. Kick some butt for me.”

The flight of six daggers shuddered as they forced their way down into the planet’s hard, thin atmosphere. Lieutenant Commander Rawlings bit her lower lip. She’d seen combat before, back during the mutiny, but not like this. She had been a watch officer then, standing shoulder to shoulder with the bridge crew, staring into a three-dimensional holo tank as brightly lit sparks fought duels in the dark.

This was different. There was the loneliness of her one person cockpit plus the knowledge that five pilots were counting on her for guidance and leadership. One Hudathan, two Seebos, and a couple of “greenies” right out of the navy’s Advanced Combat School. Rawlings didn’t know which scared her most, their lack of experience or hers. A group of red deltas wiped themselves onto her HUD and Lieutenant Hawa Morlo-Ba, who never tired of being first, made the call. “Blue Five to Blue One ... bandits at six o’clock!”

Clone intelligence claimed that Thraki interceptors were protected by cloaking technology obtained from a race called “The Simm,” and it appeared that they were correct. The enemy interceptors were a good deal closer than she would have preferred. The naval officer “thought” her aircraft to starboard, felt it side slip into a dive, and brought the ship’s weapons systems on-line.

The others watched her go, followed the officer down, and scanned their readouts. Power was critical, weapons were critical, everything was critical or would be soon.

Flight Warrior Hissa Hol Beko watched the Confederate aircraft descend, checked her wing mates, and confirmed their positions. The pilot’s weapons, like the rest of her ship, were controlled by the special gauntlets she wore. Each movement had meaning. Index to finger to thumb: “Safeties off—accumulators on.” First two fingers in parallel : “Ship-to-ship missiles—safeties off—guidance on—warheads active.” The pilot’s displays flickered with each carefully articulated movement. Then, as the enemy fighters came into range, a circuit closed, and her fingers began to tingle. Beko fired and the air war began.

Rawlings heard tone, fired chaff, and rolled. The enemy missile sped past and exploded. The fighter that had fired it pulled a high-gee turn and attempted to flee. The rest of the Thraki interceptors did likewise.

Rawlings wanted to stop them, wanted to call the pilots back, but wasn’t sure why. Good fighter pilots were aggressive, competitive, and little bit obnoxious. But this was too easy, too tempting, too ...

Beko checked her screens and grinned as the enemy ships took the bait. The Hegemony had been most accommodating during the early stages of the Clone-Thraki relationship and shared some of their knowledge regarding Confederate technology. That was how Beko knew the range at which her adversaries would be able to detect her fighters and was able to put that knowledge to work. By leaving two heavily cloaked interceptors behind, and leading the enemy towards them, she and her wing mates had closed the trap.

The Seebos saw deltas appear as if by magic, tried to react, but ran out of time. Rawlings winced as the orange-red flowers blossomed, gritted her teeth, and took the challenge.

The Thraki had reversed direction by then... which meant that she and her three surviving pilots were about to go head to head with six enemy aircraft. That’s when the naval officer noticed how precisely the enemy was grouped. Because they had a taste for discipline? Or because the pilots were trained to fight tightly controlled machines ? Computer controlled machines that behaved in predictable ways? Words followed thought: “Break! Break! Break! Take ’um one on one, over.”

Beko frowned, and the fur crawled away from her eyes as the oncoming formation seemed to explode. Confederate vessels went every which way as she struggled to understand. But there wasn’t enough time, not at combined speeds of more than a thousand units per hour, and the sky went mad.

The Confederate ships rolled, turned, dove, and climbed. Missiles left their racks, coherent light stuttered toward their targets, and 30 mm cannon shells tunneled through the air.

Beko yowled in frustration as the formation disintegrated around her, fired at one of the oncoming ships, and knew she had missed. And then, before she could recover, the interceptor took a hit. Alarms went off, systems failed, and a computer made a decision. The cockpit blew itself free of the ship, a cluster of chutes popped open, and the planet swayed below. Beko saw no less than three of her pilots die or bail out during the next two minutes. Shame filled her heart, and the weight of it pulled the warrior down.

The Command and Control Center, or CCC, was almost eerily quiet. Near disasters, disasters, and total disasters were announced in the same emotionless drone used to describe the most important of victories. It was a large compartment by shipboard standards, buried deep within the Gladiator’s armor-clad hull, and the place from which Booly, his staff, and a group of highly skilled technicians ran the assault on BETA-018.

Screens lined the bulkheads, video flashed, rolled, and stuttered; indicator lights signaled from the darkness, and “Big Momma,” the ship’s primary C&C computer murmured in the background. Booly cocked his head as the latest summaries came in over the speakers. “Preliminary totals indicate casualties more than 16 percent in excess of plan. Estimate that 86.2 percent of enemy force engaged. Approximately 72.1 percent of enemy aircraft destroyed.”

Something moved through the officer’s peripheral vision, and a coffee cup landed at his elbow. Admiral Tyspin lowered herself onto a chair. She looked tired. He smiled. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Tyspin eyed him through the steam, took a sip, and lowered the mug. “You heard Big Momma... We took causalities ... too many... but the sky belongs to us.”

Once Dagger Commander, now Lieutenant Drik Seeba-Ka felt the landing craft fall free, checked the seal on his anus, and was relieved to find that it was intact. He hadn’t been so lucky the first time out—and spent the day wallowing in his own shit. No one had noticed though, not in the stink of the training swamp, and disgrace was avoided.

But what of today? the Hudathan asked himself, as he stared down the aisle. What of the twenty-five Hudathans, twenty-five legionnaires, four Naa and six cyborgs placed under his command? How would they regard him when the sun finally set? Assuming some survived? Would they honor his name? The officer was determined that they would. But what did barbarians know of honor? And could he trust them? War Commander Doma-Sa said “yes,” but who could be sure?

Seeba-Ka touched the Legion-issue wrist term and watched video blossom on the inside surface of his visor. He saw the ridge, two of the weapons emplacements that topped it, and the initial objective: a cluster of Thraki airshafts. The mission was simplicity itself. Neutralize the defenders, drop through the airshafts, and destroy everything in sight. If they made the LZ, if they could penetrate the complex, if the enemy gave way. The purpose of the assault was to take some pressure off the forces detailed to drive the length of the valley floor. The landing craft shuddered as the hull hit the upper part of the atmosphere, but the Hudathan didn’t even notice. He ran the sequence again.

About four feet away, thumbs hooked into his battle harness, First Sergeant Antonio “Top” Santana eyed his commanding officer through half-closed lids. What was the hatchet head thinking anyway? Jeez, the sonovabitch was ugly. He seemed to know his shit, though, which was good, because Santana was ready if he didn’t. Two slugs in the back of the head, and the matter would be settled. Not a pleasant thought but better than letting a geek waste his team. The noncom smiled.

A little further down the aisle, over on the starboard side, Quickfoot Hillrun started to snore. Oneshot Surekill took exception and kicked the other scout’s foot. The sound stopped for a moment but quickly resumed.

Lower in the hull, below Surekill’s feet, cyborgs hung within cylindrical drop tubes. The team consisted of four humans and two Hudathans. The tech types had gone to considerable lengths to ensure their com equipment was compatible. That being the case, and borgs being borgs, the “machine augmented” troopers chatted on a low-power utility band. Corporal Lars Lastow, one of the 1,021 cyborgs that then Colonel Bill Booty had rescued from Fort Portal back during the mutiny, was interrogating one of his Hudathan colleagues. “So, Sergeant Horla-Ka, how’s your sex life?”

The Hudathan eyed his readouts, saw the seconds ticking away, and knew the enemy was waiting. And not just waiting, but locked, loaded, and ready to fire. “Yes,” he replied dryly. “I am one lucky bastard.”

One level up, and all the way forward, Navy Lieutenant Mog Howsky “thought” the nose up, wished she had something to do with her hands, and kept her eyes on the HUD. The “backdoor” as she and her copilot called it consisted of a broad U-shaped valley that lay behind the Thraki stronghold and ran parallel to it.

The plan was to approach from the south and then, when the enemy base was due west, make a hard turn to port. Conditions permitting, Howsky would make two separate passes. The cyborgs would drop during the first, engage the weapons emplacements, and secure the LZ. With that accomplished, the assault boat would return, off-load the soft bodies, and haul ass. Assuming I have one to haul, Howsky thought to herself.

Mountains rose on both sides, sparks floated up to greet them, and the hard part began. “All right,” Horla-Ka growled, using his external speakers in spite of the fact that there was no need to, “we are two from dirt. Remove safeties—prepare to drop.”

Conscious of what awaited them and the importance of their role, the cyborgs were silent. They could “feel” the side-to-side motion as the ship jinked back and forth. Thanks to the fact that they could “see” via the landing craft’s external sensors, the team knew what to expect.

A missile raced over her head and a green tracer whipped past the cockpit as Howsky completed the run. Commands that originated in her brain burped through the computer-assisted interface to make things happen. Flaps fell, jets fired, and the ship started to stall. Repellors stabbed the darkness, the belly gun fired, and slugs hosed the ridgeline. There it was, just as the simulators said it would be, a flat area, a series of duracrete weapons emplacements, and the stacks beyond.

There was a cracking sound as a high velocity slug punched a hole in the canopy and took Second Lieutenant Gorky’s head off. Howsky felt her friend drop out of the control matrix, swore as blood splattered the side of her helmet, and forced herself to concentrate. The tubes opened on command, the borgs dropped free, and she turned to port. If anything happened, if the boat took a hit, the hard bodies would be safe. Well, not safe, but safer. She lined up the targeting reticule on the pillbox and thumbed the pickle. Slugs marched their way up to a pillbox and forced their way inside. Something exploded, and flames belched out through the side-mounted cooling vents.

Lastow “heard” the buzzer, “felt” the clamps release, and nothing happened. He should have been falling, should have cleared the ship, but hadn’t dropped more than an inch or two.

Okay, okay, the cyborg said to himself, it’s a jam. How many simulated jams have you cleared? A hundred? Yeah, easily. Test the circuits, look for shorts, reroute the signal. Electricity did as it was told, a relay closed, and the clamps opened.

It was only then, as the Trooper II body dropped clear of the ship, that the legionnaire remembered to check the target, discovered that the boat had cleared the ridge, and realized he was still in the process of falling. Not ten feet as he had planned, but a hundred feet, onto the rocks below. Those who monitored his scream, and that included Horla-Ka, would never forget the sound.

But there was no time for sympathy, for grief, or any of the other emotions that tried to push their way in. Thraki shells exploded all around. The Hudathan gave his orders. “Form a line abreast! Missiles first! Engage the weapons emplacements!”

Dor Duplo, with Lastow’s scream still echoing through his mind, launched two missiles at once. They sensed heat, accelerated away, and hit the closest pillbox. Light flashed, thunder cracked, and the bunker came apart.

The noncom obliged, “felt” something warm pass over his head, and “heard” the assault boat crash. Metal screeched, a turbine roared, and something exploded. Santana staggered, tried to pull the shard of hull metal out of his chest, and collapsed. Horla-Ka got to his feet. “The airshafts! Follow me!”

But there was no time to think, only to act. Thraki troops boiled up out of the ground and opened fire. That was a mistake. With no cyborgs of their own, the defenders were outgunned. Arm-mounted Gatling guns roared, energy cannons burped, and the soft bodies ceased to exist. Horla-Ka felt orgasm after orgasm ripple through a body he no longer possessed—and found the split-second necessary to hate the scientists for what they had done to him. To take the pleasure associated with the creation of life and use it as a reward for destroying it... What could be more twisted?

But there was no time to think, to do more than run, as the airshafts rose, and the resistance started to fade. The first objective had been secured—but what of the second? The borgs were too big to fit inside the airshafts and too clumsy to lower themselves to the bottom. The mission was at risk.

Lieutenant Seeba-Ka felt the SLM hit the ship, heard the explosion, and knew they were in trouble. He yelled, “Hang on!” took his own advice, and saw the deck tilt. The pilot was fighting for control, the infantry officer could tell that, and struggled to suppress his fear. Fear he wasn’t supposed to feel, fear that signaled his weakness, fear that...

The ship side-slipped into the ground. Howsky died instantly as did a third of the troops seated with their backs to the port bulkhead. Toba, Ibens, Ngugen, Al Saiid, Ista-Sa, Porlo-Ba, Boro-Da, and Norno-Ka—all dead.

Seeba-Ka, who was seated just aft of the impact zone, released his harness and lurched to his feet. Though conceived in Hudathan the words were not all that different from what a human might have said. “What the hell are you waiting for? A full-blown holo presentation? Hit the dirt!”

Hudathan, human, and Naa alike released their harnesses, struggled to make their way the length of the steeply slanted deck, and headed towards the bright green lights. Due to the fact that the ship had fallen onto the port side that door was blocked. Thanks to the manner in which the hull had rotated, the opposite hatch was high, and very difficult to reach. A legionnaire boosted another legionnaire up, but he lost his balance. Both tumbled to the deck.

Private Lars Lasker solved the problem by triggering the belly-mounted escape hatch and jumping up and down on the door. It gave, and he fell through the hole. Sergeant Quickfoot Hillrun pointed and yelled. “Move! Move! Move!”

Legionnaires poured out onto the ground, took defensive positions around the wreckage, and waited for orders. Wounded were dragged outside, carried beyond the reach of the potential blast zone, and given first aid. Seeba-Ka called for an air evac and was assured that it was en route.

Once that was accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to check with Horla-Ka, confirm that the air shafts were secure, and send the report. Like so many of its kind the communication said nothing of the sacrifice required to make it possible. “Red Team is on the ground... The first objective is ours.”

The cabin had been designed for use by admirals and more than met Booly’s needs. He sat in an easy chair guarded by two stacks of printouts. One that he had read and one that he hadn’t. In spite of 18’s importance, the Confederacy covered a lot of space, and Booly, as Military Chief of Staff, had responsibility for the whole thing. That’s why he was busy scanning an intelligence summary on Zynig-47 when the message came in. Tyspin chose to bring it herself. She entered without knocking, dropped into a chair, and offered the slip of paper. “Here, add this to your reading.”

The assault team was located on a plain just beyond the canyon’s mouth. A thin layer of snow covered the rocks, low lying vegetation, and the ground itself.

Four widely spaced piles of burned wreckage marked sorties by low flying Thraki aircraft. The balance of Blue Team was hunkered down, weapons scanning the sky, waiting for the next assault. The fur balls knew where they were, and, if it hadn’t been for the swabbies patrolling the airspace above, would have greased the entire force by then.

Captain Bethany “Butch” McGowan had been dirtside for more than eight hours by then. She cursed the cold, blew on her hands, and prayed for a green light. Every hour that passed meant that her troops were a little more tired... and a little more likely to make mistakes. Her force consisted of six quads, sixteen Trooper II’s, twelve Hudathan “heavies,” and a mixed force of infantry under the questionable command of Lieutenant Jonathan Allan Seebo-872. The ground-pounders included more Jonathan Alan Seebos plus a platoon of legionnaires under Gunnery Sergeant Rolly True Bear.

Blue Team was supposed to negotiate a minefield, find its way through the tank traps, and, should Red Team fail, make their way up the length of the valley through a withering crossfire. Not a stroll in the park.

McGowan’s com tech, a woman named Bagano, stuck her head up through a hatch. She wore a com helmet, a non-reg nosering, and a shit-eating grin. “The big dog is on line one ... We’re good to go.”

McGowan sighed. Bagano had a problem where military courtesy was concerned, had been disciplined any number of times, and didn’t seem to give a shit. The officer could have brought the soldier up on charges, and probably would have, except for one little problem: Bagano, or “Bags” as her buddies referred to her, was the best damned com tech on that side of galaxy. McGowan had seen the woman take three mangled PR3s, fieldstrip them, and build a new unit in less than three minutes. When it came to a trade-off between formality and competency, McGowan would take competency every single time. Her voice was intentionally loud. “All right! That’s the kind of news we’ve been waiting for! How’s Red?”

McGowan considered what that meant. The cyborgs would hold the stacks while the balance of the team dropped through the shafts, located the enemy command and control center, and blew the computer. That should silence the remotely operated weapons emplacements that lined the canyon walls. Weapons emplacements that the jet jockeys had been unable to overcome. Not that the swabbies hadn’t tried. The remains of one dagger was scattered about halfway up—pointing at the ultimate goal—while a second was smeared across the face of a cliff.

Then, assuming that some of the Red Team managed to make it through—the poor bastards were supposed to throw themselves at the heavily shielded energy cannons mounted to either side of the main entrance—and attempt to shut them down.

Meanwhile, assuming McGowan made it past the many obstacles that lay in her path, she could expect to come into contact with some nasty-assed tanks the Thrakies had stashed at the base of the cliff. “Ah well, it was like they said: ‘Don’t join if you can’t take a joke.’ ”

McGowan triggered the command push. A wire-thin boom mike captured her words. “Blue One here... we are green to go. Repeat green to go. Return to your vehicles, saddle up, and strap in. The last sonofabitch to reach the wall buys the beer!”

McGowan grinned, circled a quad named Yen, and switched to another frequency. The ramp bounced under her boots. “I’m in—seal the hatch.” Servos whined as the armor-plated ramp rose to mate with the cyborg’s durasteel hull.

About a hundred feet away, sealed into the belly of a Hudathan heavy, Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo-872 eyed his clone brothers. They sat in double rows facing each other. In spite of the fact that each one wore battle armor and carried a full complement of weapons plus ammo for the crew-served machine guns and rocket launchers, they were still dwarfed by the Hudathan-sized seats.

That, plus the fact that he and his brothers were actually sealed inside an alien cyborg, added to the somewhat surreal atmosphere. In spite of the fact that the Legion had used cyborgs for a considerable length of time, even going so far as to station them on Hegemony-held worlds, the Alpha Clones had never seen fit to commission intelligent constructs of their own.

Now, trapped within the belly of such a being, 872 had reason to question their wisdom. Of even more concern, however, was the fact that his superiors had not only acquiesced to the Confederacy’s decision to place a free-breeder in overall command of the allied forces, they failed to intervene when the same officer placed McGowan in charge of Blue Team. A serious error, given not only her gender but the likelihood that she would sacrifice his brothers and him rather than risk her precious legionnaires.

All the infantry came under him, however—which would make it more difficult for McGowan to implement her plan. The officer grinned but knew it looked more like a snarl. If he died, if he wound up in hell, the legionnaires would arrive there first.

The sun had broken through. Sergeant Quickfoot stood in the hard black shadow cast by a spire of rock. He along with twelve legionnaires were gathered around one of the Thraki-constructed air shafts. Each was approximately ten-feet wide and lined with metal. The protective covers had been cut free and removed. The Naa peered down, but outside of the blue-green glow of the flare, there was nothing much to see.

The mechanism that pushed stale air up toward the surface remained operational, however, and there were plenty of odors. The noncom’s nose, which was at least ten times more sensitive than the nearly useless protuberance humans were equipped with, sent information to his brain. There was the harsh odor of the demo charge they had lobbed in first, followed by the tang that was characteristic of Legion-issue flares, and yes, the faint odor of cooking.

Satisfied that he knew everything about the shaft that his senses could tell him, the noncom looked up. His team-mates included Sureseek Fareye, Rockclimb Warmfeel, Oneshot Surekill, and Quickhand Knifemake. The words were in Naa: “The enemy will reach the bottom of the shaft soon. I think we should be there to greet them.”

Teeth gleamed in the half-lit murk. All of the Naa were equipped with rock-climbing gear, including sit harnesses, carabiners, descenders, and other equipment required for rappelling, but carried none of the hardware associated with climbing. The reason was simple: Once down, they would fight their way out through the complex itself.

Coils of half-inch kernmantle fell into the void, unwound, and pulled themselves straight. Hillrun grabbed a rope, stuck a loop through the hole in the figure-eight descender, and used a locking D-carabiner to secure it to his harness. Now, with his heels on the lip of the shaft, the noncom was ready to go.

That’s when he looked up to find that Lieutenant Drik Seba-Ka’s eyes were fixed on his. And that’s when Hillrun saw something he’d never expected to see. Though still close to expressionless, it seemed as if there was a little bit of warmth in the Hudathan’s expression and, more remarkable yet, a measure of respect. The officer’s voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Watch your step, Sergeant... I’m short of noncoms.”

The office, modest to begin with, seemed even smaller now. No less than three Thraki officers waited to report. None were happy. Flight Leader Pak Harpu was upset about the fact that the aliens had been allowed to seize the orbital highground without so much as a shot fired. Base Commander Mot Bara wanted to know what she should do about the invasion of her air shafts. And Armored Commander Stik Colep wanted permission for a counterattack, all of which was quite logical given who and what they were.

But Vice Admiral Ista Rawan had to consider the larger picture, focusing on that which was best for the race, that which was good for those under his command, and that which could actually be carried out.

And there was the difficulty. Yes, they could hold for a while, could make the invaders pay, but to what end? BETA-018 was a long way from Zynig-47 and of limited strategic value.

Yes, he could request assistance, but even if Andragna decided to send some, what would the relief force find? A Confederate ambush? And the smoking ruins of a devastated base?

No, it didn’t make sense. Unfortunately, and the thought pained him, it was time to retreat—to take what he could, run while he could, and head for home. The word surprised him. Like it or not, for better or worse, his people had a home. A place from which they would refuse to run. Something worth defending.

There was silence in the room, and, judging from the expressions of his subordinates, Rawan knew it had been that way for quite some time. He looked from face to face. “Here’s what I want each of you to do: Base Commander Bara will use part of her security troops to delay the invaders and the rest to prepare for evacuation. Flight Leader Harpu will ensure that the transports are loaded and ready to lift. Commander Colep will engage the enemy in an attempt to delay them for the maximum amount of time.”

Rawan eyed his subordinates. Their pain was clear to see. They wanted to fight. All of them. Even the Runners like Bara. “Timing will be critical. All three of you will share the responsibility of making sure that the maximum number of people escape.”

Rawan’s eyes shifted to the Armored officer. “And that includes you... I expect you and your troops will engage the enemy, fall back, and run as if the gods themselves were nipping at your heels. Understood?”

Colep stood gunbarrel-straight. The orders ran contrary to everything he believed in, everything he was, everything he had ever wanted to be. Here, served from on high, was eternal dishonor. Be that as it may there was only one answer that Rawan would accept. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

Gunnery Sergeant Rolly True Bear put a chunk of granite between himself and the enemy, brought his binoculars up to his eyes, and scanned the terrain ahead. The bottom of the canyon was relatively flat, increasingly narrow, and dotted with sizeable boulders. The walls were too steep for a quad to climb and were covered by loose scree. Everything wore a coat of crusty white snow, thinner where the seldom-seen sun occasionally struck, but thick where shadows fell thick and black. Data scrolled down the right side of the screen. It included the range of whatever fell under the crosshairs, the prevailing wind direction, the surface temperature and more. Lots of information, but not what the noncom needed most.

Blue Force was stalled. Crab mines, which roam from place to place, would disturb the snow, but there was no sign of that. So, assuming the mines existed, where were they? It was a job for robots... but none had been issued. The voice arrived over the company push, which meant that everybody could hear it. “Blue Two to Blue Four... over.”

True Bear grimaced. He didn’t care for Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo-872 and knew the feeling was mutual. Maybe that’s why he and his troops were out looking for mines while the clones napped in a heavy. “This is Blue Four... go. Over.”

Dietrich grinned, raised his drum-fed grenade launcher, and fired a six-round burst. A mixture of snow and soil fountained into the air as the grenades detonated. A loud boom followed the third explosion and echoed off the valley walls. Sand and gravel geysered upwards.

Laughter was heard. Lieutenant Seebo sputtered and was about to reply, when McGowan activated the command push. “That will be enough of that, gentlemen... You can compare the size of your dicks later on. Let’s clear those mines and put this team into high gear.”

Sheet metal boomed as Quickfoot Hillrun dropped five feet and his boots hit the side of the air shaft. There were similar sounds as the other scouts did likewise.

Then, while halfway through the next drop, Hillrun heard the sounds he’d been dreading: A shout followed by six shots. He suspected that they had been fired by an officer, who, having been alerted to the invasion, had opened an inspection hatch, thrust his or her torso inside, and turned to look upwards. Then, having spotted the enemy, it was natural for the Thraki to pull a sidearm and open fire. Natural but stupid, since the muzzle flashes provided Oneshot Surekill with a clear aiming point. His weapon, a highly modified service pistol made a soft popping sound, and reentered its holster.

The Thraki went limp and, in doing so, blocked access to the shaft. Security troops struggled to pull him free, swore when his pistol belt caught the edge of the hatch, and stumbled backward as the corpse came loose. That gave the Naa the seconds they needed to land on the steel mesh that protected the slow-moving fan, release their ropes, and prepare to fight.

The Thraki were still recovering, still struggling to stand, when a grenade landed amongst them. One saw the object, started to reach, and ceased to exist. The explosion tore bodies asunder and painted the bulkheads with blood.

The scouts wasted little time signaling for the group to come down and pushed their way out through the hatch. That’s when Hillrun realized that someone was missing. He looked upwards and saw the dangling body. Quickhand Knifemake—dead at twenty-five.

Someone yelled “Stand clear!” and cut the rope. Metal clanged as Knifemake’s body hit the mesh. A replacement rope tumbled the length of the shaft and swayed as a Hudathan started down.

Hillrun stooped to unclip the handmade combat knife from the scout’s harness, made a promise to return the weapon to the warrior’s family, and ducked out through the hatch. The carnage was sickening, even for a veteran like Hillrun, and he averted his eyes. He felt sorry for the Thraki and knew the same thing could happen to him. Would happen if he wasn’t careful. The first thing to do was to establish some sort of defense perimeter. The Thrakies would send reinforcements soon, and the majority of Red Team was still on the surface. The NCO eyed his surroundings. “Fareye, Warmfeel, take that end of the corridor. Block the point where it turns. Surekill... come with me. We’ll take the other end.”

Lieutenant Seeba-Ka followed the Naa down, was glad when his boots hit the mesh, and swore when he saw the hatch. Though sufficiently large for a Naa, or the average human, there was no way in hell he was going to fit his bulk through that hole. He got on the radio. Red One to Red Team... I want humans first... Hudathans last. We need a laser torch down here... and I mean now!”

Private Lars Lasker was among the first humans sent down. He landed on the mesh, freed himself from the rope, and turned toward the hatch. One glance at the Hudathan officer and the Thraki-sized rectangle of light told him everything he needed to know. The legionnaire laughed, gave thanks for the protective visor, and ducked through the hatch.

There were boot prints in the blood, and the legionnaire followed a set down the corridor to the point where the passageway took a sharp right-hand turn. Fareye and Warmfeel were waiting. They gestured. Lasker had no more than skidded to a stop when a bolt of energy hit the bulkhead to his left, made a black blotch, and left the odor of ozone floating on the air.

The scouts followed the human’s suggestion, felt the floor vibrate, and looked at each other in alarm. “It’s a robot,” Warmfeel exclaimed, “or robots plural.”

Another energy bolt hit the wall, heat washed over the legionnaires, and air thumped their eardrums. “Damn,” Fareye complained, dipping into the haversack. “This bastard is starting to piss me off! Let’s see how the sonofabitch likes these babies...”

Just as the name would suggest the rollerballs were spherical in shape. The Naa felt for the thumb-sized depression, pressed three times in quick succession, and tossed the weapon around the corner. It bounced off the opposite wall and caromed down the hallway. Three more followed. The explosions shook the walls.

The legionnaires waited for a full thirty seconds before risking a peek. The rollerballs had accomplished their purpose. The attack robot was down. That’s when the newly liberated Seeba-Ka arrived, eyed the mass of twisted metal, and frowned. “So what the hell are you waiting for? A thank you note from General Booly? Let’s move out.”

Ice crackled, snow crunched, treads clattered, engines roared, and explosions pushed fountains of soil high into the air as a pair of Hudathan cyborgs advanced toward the end of the canyon. They operated side by side, tracks pushing them forward, while arm-mounted rollers applied pressure to the half-frozen ground. Mines blew in response, a path was cleared, and the rest of Blue Team followed behind.

Captain McGowan stood atop the second quad back, braced herself against the side-to-side motion, and checked her wrist term. Blue Team was still on schedule, but just barely, and the hard part lay ahead.

Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov materialized at her side. He was a little man, no more than five-foot-five, but nobody thought about him that way. His face, sorrowful even during the best of times, looked positively funereal now. “No offense ma’am, but if you park your butt up here, the Thraki will blow it off.”

Kreshnekov shook his head. His expression remained the same. “No, ma’am. I’m saying that we’re coming up on those automated weapons positions, and the moment you die Lieutenant Seebo will assume command.”

The comment, which bordered on disrespectful, would have been cause for rebuke had it originated from another NCO. But McGowan had known Kreshnekov for a long time, and that made a difference. Neither put much trust in Seebo. She grimaced. “Point taken, Sergeant. Button it up.”

Weapons Emplacement 14 took its orders from the Command and Control computer located deep within the Thraki complex, but had its own localized intelligence as well, to lighten Central’s load and provide tactical redundancy. Sensors registered heat and movement. Scanners checked the atmosphere and detected no signs of incoming aircraft. Convinced that it was safe to engage surface targets, the computer brought 14’s weapons on line, and ordered the target lasers, energy cannon, and launch racks to tilt downward. The computer confirmed a lock, checked with Central, and opened fire. Emplacements 12, 13, and 15 did likewise.

Energy beams stuttered toward the ground, missiles raced to their targets, and the valley seemed to explode. Sheltered as his brain tissue was by layers of steel armor, the heavy known as Bak Borlo-Ba took note of the incoming ordinance but was more annoyed than frightened. That kind of fear, the type associated with the possibility of physical harm, had been left with his biological body. The sense of invulnerability was deceptive—he knew that—and had been warned to be on the lookout for it, but felt it anyway. Columns of snow-tinged dirt soared into the air. A quad exploded, killing all of those within. Steel fell like rain.

Borlo-Ba thought death toward those who sought to harm him. Servos whined as a pair of tubes rose and spun to the right. The Hudathan’s energy cannon burped coherent light, pulverized rock squirted away from the canyon wall, and pebbles clattered across the top of the hull.

The attack, which had been coordinated by Central, met with a well-orchestrated response. By using hardware and software developed for that very purpose, the borgs were able to construct a temporary or “flying” parallel processor that divided the overall problem into subtasks and worked them simultaneously.

Return fire was prioritized, coordinated, and adjusted. Emplacement 12 was the first to go off-line, quickly followed by 14, which took two missiles in quick succession. It opened like an orange-yellow flower. The sound of the explosion was still bouncing back and forth between the canyon walls when the surviving cyborgs entered the maze of obstacles.

Corporal Norly Snyder found the first tank trap the hard way by guiding her enormous body out onto what looked like solid ground, only to have it give way beneath her. The pit, which had been dug based on intelligence obtained from the Hegemony during the early days of the clone-Thraki alliance, was a perfect fit. Though only ten feet deep, it was sufficient to prevent Snyder from climbing out without assistance.

The mine, which exploded the moment she landed on it, settled the matter. Her armor held, protecting the troops riding in her belly, but the cyborg’s right rear leg was damaged beyond repair.

McGowan, who along with Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov, was among those riding in Snyder’s cargo compartment, felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, swore when the barrel of her assault rifle tagged her chin, and knew something was wrong. The explosion, which she experienced as a dull thump, served to confirm that impression. She activated the intercom. “Snyder? What the hell happened?”

“Then do so,” McGowan instructed. “Watch for friend-lies, mark your field of fire, and stand by. The traps are there for a reason. We can expect a counterattack any moment now.”

Section Leader Hak Brunara prepared himself to meet the gods. Like all the Thraki under his command, the marine had never fought an actual engagement before and knew that most, if not all, of the enemy troops had.

Now, with half of their cybernetic vehicles trapped in the maze, and the rest backed up behind them, battle-tested infantry were boiling up out of the pits, trenches, and channels that cut the snow-crusted ground.

Even as Brunara stood, even as he signaled the advance, the section leader knew the transports were being loaded. Many would escape, would live to see their loved ones, but not him. Everything seemed so bright, so very, very clear as the marine yelled “Advance!” and led his troops into battle. Snowflakes caressed his face, bullets ripped through his chest, and light flooded his mind. The gods ...

Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo-872 was pissed. Consistent with his worst suspicions, the Hudathan heavy had wandered into a labyrinth of concrete barriers where it had been ambushed by a Thraki antiarmor team. They were dead—but the problem lived on. How to take the objective with minimum casualties to his clone brothers? The answer presented itself in the form of Gunnery Sergeant Rolly True Bear’s leathery face. “The heavy is dead, sir—that’s the way it seems anyway—and we’re taking fire.”

Armor rang as bullets bounced off the Hudathan hull. “Thanks for the intelligence summary,” Seebo said sarcastically. “Genius, pure genius. Now that you have proved your worth as a strategist—it’s time to earn your spurs as a tactician. Take your people out there and secure our perimeter.”

True Bear looked the officer up and down. Seebo appeared small in the Hudathan-sized seat. The legionnaire’s voice dripped with contempt. “Sir! Yes, sir. Let us know when you boys are ready to come out. We’ll be waiting.”

True Bear turned and nodded to Dietrich. The grenadier hit a saucer-sized button. Servos whined, double doors opened outwards, and the noncom waved to his troops. “Vive le Legion!”

Dietrich hung back as the rest of his platoon double-timed out through the hatch, waited for the doors to swing inward, and nodded to the clones. “See ya later assholes ... sweet dreams.”

Lieutenant Seebo saw the legionnaire’s mouth move, saw something fly between the steadily closing doors, and heard the grenade clatter across the metal deck.

At least six of the clone brothers realized what had occurred and wore identical expressions of horror. They threw themselves forward, but harnesses held them in place.

Dietrich watched the doors seal, heard a muffled thud, and watch the borg’s body rock from side to side as some demo charges cooked off. Some people hated the Legion, and couldn’t wait to get out, but he wasn’t one of them. No, the Legion was family, the only family he had. And family comes first.

The heavy shuddered as metal sheared and a locker full of ammo exploded. A hatch cover sailed into the sky. Flames shot out of the cooling stacks. Heat blasted the legionnaire’s face. A voice crackled through his earplug. “Dietrich? Where the hell are you? Get up here and do your job.”

Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan stood high on the catwalk, hands clasped behind his back, contemplating the scene below. The interceptors were hot and ready to launch. They crouched in flights of three, sitting on their skids, waiting to lift. The transports, all of which were fully loaded, sat ready to follow. Assuming the fighters could punch a hole through the Confederate air cover and assuming the larger vessels could escape the orbiting warship, the majority of his people would make it to Zynig-47.

As for the rest, well, they had done their duty. First against the troops who had dropped through the air shafts—and then on the canyon floor. Even now, he could hear the dull thump, thump, thump of cannon fire interspersed with the crackle of assault weapons. His marines were dying. The officer’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice in his ear. “The transports are ready, Admiral ... and the launch parameters are optimum.”

The words were barely out of the admiral’s mouth when repellors flared. The first flight of fighters rose into the air and fired their main engines. They were gone within seconds. Flight after flight took off, until the cavern was as empty as Rawan’s heart.

Finally, after the last ship had departed, the Thraki made his way down to the flight deck and faced the wind. The light was hard and cold. He had time for one last walk.

Tyspin listened to the reports, eyed the forward-mounted screens, and confirmed what she’d been told. The Thrakies were pulling out. Well, some were, while others continued to fight. The naval officer could have delivered the news via the ship’s intercom system but chose to do it personally instead. She eased her way out of the command chair, made eye contact with the ship’s XO, and said, “You have the con.”

With little to do beyond the need to recover the ship’s fighters, the atmosphere aboard the Gladiator was relatively serene. Tyspin’s shoes made a clacking sound as she marched the length of the corridor. A somewhat bored voice announced that the mid-watch chow call was about to begin. A rating nodded as she passed, and a robot hurried to get out of the way.

Booly was where Tyspin had expected him to be—hard at work in his makeshift office. Message torps continued to arrive every few hours or so bringing an unending flow of intelligence, status reports, and a mind-boggling array of administrative work, which, if left undone, would soon bring the Confederacy’s armed forces to their knees.

A conference room table served as a desk. It was covered with printouts, half-consumed cups of coffee, the remains of a breakfast, and a computer-designed model of both the canyon and the Thraki complex. The legionnaire heard the knock, said “enter,” and looked up from his comp screen. “Thank god! A rescue mission!”

Tyspin grinned, spent a second wishing the other officer had never met Maylo Chien-Chu, and took a seat. “You were right, Bill. The Thrakies pulled up stakes. Do you still want to let them go?”

Booly nodded. “Yes, I do. Let ‘em run all the way to Zynig-47. A constant stream of refugees will sap morale. Besides, there’s been enough dying. How’s the Blue Team? Did the Thrakies disengage’?”

Booly rubbed his temples. “Why? It’s pointless! We can leave a detachment and starve them out. Get McGowan on the horn ... tell her to break contact. And pass the message to Seeba-Ka.”

Lieutenant Seeba-Ka turned his back to the heavily armored hatch, heard Lasker yell, “Fire in the hole!” and felt the air nudge him as the charge went off. The officer turned back, saw that the door hung askew, and waved what remained of his team forward. The Thraki had put up one helluva fight and forced the invaders to pay dearly for every foot of corridor, every intersection, and every hatch. Roughly half his force remained on their feet. The rest had been killed or wounded. The result was that the team was behind schedule, had failed to neutralize the enemy’s command and control computer, and hadn’t even seen the energy cannons much less attacked them. The Hudathan had failed, and the knowledge ate at the lining of his stomach.

There was the cloth-ripping sound of an assault rifle, a cry of “Blood!” and the team charged ahead. Seeba-Ka was third or fourth through the entry, wasted a fraction of a second thinking about the extent to which the Hudathans, humans, and Naa had learned to work together, and heard a tone through his earplugs. “High Horse to Red One ... Over.”

Seeba-Ka, who was still struggling to assimilate Confederate com procedures, saw something move, fired a three-round burst, and managed a reply. “This is Red One ... Go. Over.”

Seeba-Ka thought about the bodies left behind, the team he had come to be so proud of, and anger filled his chest. The swear words were part of his recently acquired vocabulary. “No frigging way, High Horse! We’ll break when the furry little bastards are dead! Over.”

Seeba-Ka roared his approval and charged the next set of doors. They were open, and he saw rock walls beyond. It was the chamber! His objective! Finally within reach.

What remained of the team charged, limped, and in one case was carried out into the gallery. The rail had been designed by Thraki for Thraki. It hit the Hudathan at mid-thigh. The voice was louder this time and more insistent. “High Horse to Red One ... That is negative ... Repeat negative. Break contact immediately.”

Seeba-Ka took a long hard look around. The flight deck was empty—but the battle continued down on the canyon floor. He could heard the dull thump, thump, thump of outgoing cannon fire interspersed with the rattle of automatic weapons and a loud “boom” as a missile struck its target. Blue Team was taking a beating—that much was clear. If he could make his way down onto the floor below, if he could neutralize even one of the energy cannons, lives would be saved. Hudathan lives, Naa lives, and yes, appalling as the notion was, human lives.

Booly was standing toward the rear of the makeshift Ops Center, talking to a naval intelligence officer, when the chief petty officer approached. She looked clean and almost unnaturally crisp. “Excuse me, sir, sorry to interrupt, but the lieutenant has something he wants you to see.”

Booly nodded, assured the intelligence officer that he would read the latest report ASAP, and followed the CPO to a bulkhead covered with flat panel displays. Some naval vessels had been designed to support ground actions, but the Gladiator wasn’t one of them. The wardroom had been converted to an Ops Center, and everything had a temporary makeshift feel.

The lieutenant was young and earnest. He had dark hair, a nose that was slightly too large for his face, and a wire-thin body. “Red One agreed to break contact ... but look at this.”

Booly looked at screen, realized it was a trooper’s-eye view of the Thraki military complex, and that his host was running. Not just running, but running toward a brightly lit entryway, flanked by a pair of alien energy cannons. Both batteries were depressed, to command the valley below, and both burped cold blue light. The name at the bottom of the frame read: “Corporal Sureseek Fareye.”

The naval officer saw the glance and pointed to an enormous body that lumbered along the right side of the frame. “That’s Red One, sir. Lieutenant Seeba-Ka. We don’t have compatible cameras for the Hudathans yet ... but that’s him all right ... What should we do?”

It was a good question. Seeba-Ka had chosen to disobey a direct order—but one that Booly now realized was wrong. “Is Blue One on-line? Show me her video.”

McGowan looked up into the slowly twirling snowflakes, saw the energy cannons burp, and watched geysers of mud-sullied snow march her way. “Put some more SLMs on those guns! Take the bastards out!”

Missiles, all of which had been fired prior to her order, hit only fractions of a second apart. The Thraki energy screens flared, shimmered like silver, and faded as the force of the explosions dissipated.

A quad exploded, an entire squad was cut down, and McGowan yelled through the link. “I want some air support damn it—and I want it now! Where’s the Red Team? We’re dying out here.”

Booly gripped the back of the chair with both hands and knew it was too late. Blue One was so far up the canyon, so close to the target, that an air strike would hit her, too.

Vice Admiral Haru Ista Rawan stepped away from energy cannon number two, raised the assault weapon, and thumbed the safety into the “off” position. The four remaining members of the security team did likewise.

The Thraki officer could see the oncoming soldiers, could feel the wind at his back, could smell the ozone that swirled around him. The force field caused his fur to stand on end, and his bladder felt unnaturally full. This was it, the last moment of his life, and the end of the journey. At least, the officer thought to himself, I will die with my face to the enemy. His weapon chattered, others did likewise, and the world ceased to be.

“Blow those emplacements!” Seeba-Ka ordered, waving his team forward. “There’s no point in saving ordinance—pack every charge you have around those hatches.”

The protective shields, which were effective against anything packing sufficient mass and velocity to damage the energy cannons, were useless when it came to a low-tech infantry assault. The legionnaires moved forward, felt a tingling sensation as they entered the force field’s footprint, and set about their tasks. The cannons continued fire, and the Blue Team continued to suffer as the explosives were put in place.

Then, having moved everyone back, the Hudathan gave the order. “Lasker, you know what to do, pull the plug.” The human nodded, flipped the safety cover off a remote, and pressed the big red button.

McGowan, looking up from below, saw two flashes of light, heard two overlapping explosions and fell as the shock wave knocked her off her feet. The first thing she noticed was how peaceful it was, lying on her back, watching chunks of debris somersault through the cold, frosty air. They would land—she knew that—but couldn’t quite muster the energy to deal with it. Most fell short of Blue Team, however—for which she was thankful. That’s when a strange sort of silence fell on the valley, when McGowan wondered if her eardrums were damaged, or if everyone else was dead.

The Blue Team rose like ghosts from so many graves, marveled at the fact that they were still alive, and knew the ultimate truth: This day was theirs. Not through good fortune—but by force of arms.