the offi?cer shouted. “Hayashi! To me!”
Both T-2s responded, bringing their considerable fi?repower to bear on a point fi?fty feet out from the newly created hole, and that’s where the oncoming Ramanthians seemed to collide with an invisible wall. They staggered, and fell in heaps, which made it diffi?cult for those behind them to advance. But still the enemy came, wave after wave of them, as if willing to absorb every bullet the defenders had if that was the price of victory. Sergeant Pimm went down when a bullet smashed through his throat, and Hoyt11,791 stepped in to take his place on the fi?ring line. Death owned the valley—and the day had barely begun. Millar’s assignment was simple. He could remember Santana’s exact words: “Find the Ramanthian sonofabitch and kill him!” By which the cavalry offi?cer meant the bug who was directing the attack on the allied encampment. But that was easier said than done. Even though the recon ball had been able to exit the encampment under cover of Dietrich’s smoke screen, his presence had not gone unnoticed. Although the chits didn’t believe in cyborgs, they had robotic remotes, which could be used for reconnaissance missions. And the scout hadn’t traveled more than a thousand yards before one of the pesky machines locked on to his heat signature and began to follow him. That forced Millar to waste valuable time turning around and going after the machine, which—though lightly armed—was highly maneuverable and quite speedy. But, after a three-minute chase, Millar had been able to catch up with the robot and destroy it with a single bolt from his energy cannon. Having resumed his original mission, the cyborg was concealed within a grove of trees peering out into an open meadow located about a mile north of the allied encampment. And what he saw shocked him. Even more Ramanthians were streaming into the open area, where they were formed into the equivalent of platoons before being sent south into the fray! That made the task of killing their commanding offi?cer all the more important. But, while the grouping of what the scout assumed to be offi?cers was within range of his .50-caliber gun, the stubby barrel was way too short to produce suffi?cient accuracy over the distance required. The obvious answer was to get closer before taking his shot. But with no trees for cover, that wouldn’t be possible.
The reality of that sent a trickle of liquid lead into Millar’s nonexistent belly as whistles blew, another wave of troopers were sent forward, and machines guns chattered to the south. The legionnaire had already been killed once, and didn’t want to die again, but couldn’t see any other option. So the recon ball shot out of the trees, skimmed the snow, and began the long, hazardous run. There weren’t any trees, but there were outcroppings of rock, which would provide at least some cover so long as he stayed low. None of the Ramanthian offi?cers noticed the threat at fi?rst, partly because they were preoccupied with what they were doing, and partly because the terrain-following cyborg was hard to see as he weaved his way between boulders and occasional clusters of ground-hugging shrubs. But right about the time that Millar was halfway to his goal one of the Ramanthians spotted him, clacked an alert, and the entire group turned to fi?re at him. That was bad, but not as bad as it might have been, since the offi?cers were armed with pistols rather than assault weapons. Still, the legionnaire had no armor to speak of, and felt a sudden stab of “pain” as a well-aimed bullet penetrated his casing and appropriate electronic impulses arrived at his forebrain. The damage triggered electronic warnings as well, which his onboard computer projected in front of Millar’s “vision,” making it harder to concentrate. The problem was that he didn’t know which bug was in overall command. So the logical solution was to kill all the bastards and let whatever god the Ramanthians believed in sort them out. Having closed the distance between himself and his targets, the recon ball opened fi?re.
Having stood their ground against the unconventional attack, the Ramanthian offi?cers were easy meat for the cyborg’s fi?fty and were literally torn to bloody rags as the huge slugs hit them. Body parts cartwheeled through the air, severed wings spiraled down, and a blood mist soaked the snow. But the noise and motion drew the attention of some incoming troops, one of whom was toting a rocket launcher that he was quick-witted enough to fi?re. Millar “heard” a warning tone, knew there wouldn’t be any reprieve this time, and felt an explosion of warmth as the heat-seeking missile weapon caught up with him. Suddenly he was free. Sending Corporal Thain plus three precious T-2s out of the encampment during the fi?rst few minutes of the attack had been a risky thing to do. But now, as the hard-pressed allies struggled to hold on, Santana hoped his gamble would pay off. And it did. Insofar as the chits knew, all the animals were directly in front of them. So when four highly lethal T-2s hit their left fl?ank, the Ramanthians were caught entirely by surprise. Dozens of enemy troopers were swept off their feet as the vengeful legionnaires opened fi?re on them. The cyborgs were always fast, but never more so than when unencumbered by a bio bod, which meant they were diffi?cult to hit. So as the latest wave of Ramanthians turned toward the new threat, it was only to encounter four whirling dervishes, each operating in perfect synchronization with all the rest. Guns chugged, energy cannons whined, and it seemed as if nothing could stop them until a rocket-propelled grenade hit Private Imbi Yat in the chest.
The force of the resulting explosion blew the cyborg in half, which gave the bugs reason to hope—until Thain and the rest of the T-2s took their revenge. The ensuing slaughter lasted less than three minutes but took nearly a hundred lives. And when it was done, an eerie silence settled over the battlefi?eld as bleary-eyed defenders took a moment to reload, and Santana had time to view the video Lieutenant Millar had sent him. The pictures were truly worth a thousand words—and would be submitted to Kobbi along with a request for a posthumous medal if Santana survived. A battle had been won, but the price had been very, very high. And, as Santana looked out over piles of gently steaming bodies, he knew the worst was yet to come.
18.
Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say “This was their fi?nest hour.”
—Sir Winston Churchill
To the House of Commons
Standard year 1940
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC
As Santana entered the quad, he quickly discovered that the interior of Lupo’s cargo bay was splattered with blood. Lots of blood. And there, at the very center of the bay, stood Dr. Kira Kelly. A makeshift operating table had been set up—
with her on one side and Hospital Corpsman Sumi on the other. A third person stood with his back to the hatch. The cavalry offi?cer hadn’t had time to think about the prisoners during the battle, but as he looked at Kelly, Santana felt a sudden surge of anger. “The doctor is supposed to be under guard. . . . Who released her?”
“That would be me,” Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin said, as he turned to look at his commanding offi?cer. The word “sir”
was noticeably missing from the sentence, and Santana saw no sign of an apology in the other offi?cer’s dark eyes. Santana realized that the platoon leader had been pressed into service as Kelly’s anesthesiologist. More than that, the company commander was struck by the extent to which Zolkin had changed since the raid on Oron IV. Somewhere along the line the young, frequently insecure youth Santana had known back then, had been transformed into a battlehardened lieutenant. Who, in the wake of Amoyo’s recent death, was not only a platoon leader but the company’s XO. And a man willing to employ the services of the devil herself if that was required to save one of his legionnaires. It was impossible to tell who the patient was from Santana’s vantage point, but the legionnaire’s purplish intestines were piled high atop his or her chest. Kelly was sorting through the coils looking for holes. Santana’s expression softened. “Who is it?”
Zolkin looked down and back up again. “Private Oneeye Knifeplay, sir. He was standing on a track, fi?ring a fi?fty, when an incoming slug hit metal and bounced up under his armor. He was going to die, sir. And Dr. Kelly offered t
o help.”
Kelly turned her head toward Santana at that point. Most of her face was invisible behind a blood-splattered surgical mask, but he could still see her eyes. “What I did was wrong,” the naval offi?cer admitted bleakly. “But I’m a pretty good doctor. And the only one you have.”
Santana saw the determination in her eyes and nodded.
“Point taken. Carry on.” And with that, the offi?cer turned and exited the quad. It was cold outside, and getting steadily colder, as day gradually surrendered to night. Snow crunched under his boots, the moisture in his nasal passages froze, and his cheeks felt numb. But people were working in spite of the cold. Having failed earlier in the day, the Ramanthians were sure to take another shot at their enemies during the hours of darkness, which was why the battleweary legionnaires, marines, and clones were busy trying to improve the encampment’s defenses. Especially the log barricades, which had never been intended for a major battle, and were in need of reinforcement.
But Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich had a solution for that and was busy supervising repairs. Having decided that there wasn’t enough time to fell more trees and drag them into po- sition, the noncom was making use of dead Ramanthians instead. There were hundreds of them, most of whom were rockhard, and made excellent building blocks. The trick was to alternate the way the corpses were stacked to add stability. Of course every now and then the master sergeant’s work detail would come across a bug who was badly wounded, and unconscious, or not so badly wounded and hoping to escape notice. The solution was the same in either case. Such individuals were shot before being added to the steadily growing defensive wall, where some of them seemed to stare out at the world through frosty cataracts. Dietrich was helping one of the CVAs hoist a Ramanthian noncom onto the north section of the barricade when Santana arrived. “There,” Dietrich said, as he stepped back to admire his work. “The wall is a lot thicker—and I like a tidy battlefi?eld.”
Santana couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll make a note in your next performance review. ‘While often drunk, and frequently disrespectful, Master Sergeant Dietrich insists on a tidy battlefi?eld.’ ”
“That’s a fair assessment,” the legionnaire agreed cheerfully. “I’ll take it!”
Santana felt a snowfl?ake kiss his nose and shoved his hands farther into his pockets. “They’re going to hit us hard.”
The noncom nodded soberly. “I know.”
“If I fall, give Lieutenant Zolkin all the support you can. And if he falls, then save as many people as possible.”
The possibility that he could wind up in command hadn’t occurred to Dietrich until then. It was a depressing prospect.
“Don’t be silly, sir,” the noncom replied lightly. “You’re too mean to die! The lieutenant and I will have to get our promotions the hard way.”
The conversation was interrupted as Private Kay Kaimo arrived on the scene. She had been assigned to guard the Seebos and was coming off duty. “Excuse me, sir,” the legionnaire said politely. “But Colonel Six would like a word with you.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Really? About what?”
Kaimo shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. The colonel didn’t say.”
“Okay,” Santana replied. “Thanks.”
“Keep up the good work,” Santana said, as he turned back to Dietrich. “Although I would prefer to have the enemy bodies stacked according to regiment next time.”
“Screw you, sir,” the noncom replied. “And the cyborg you rode in on.”
Santana laughed and made his way over to one of four well-screened campfi?res. That’s where Colonel Six and his Seebos sat huddled around a crackling blaze. It was dark by then, which meant that more than thirty nearly identical faces were all lit by the same fl?ickering glow. Two legionnaires were present as well—their assault weapons at the ready. One of the clones stood expectantly—and Santana motioned him forward. Six was badly in need of a shave—
and snowfl?akes had started to accumulate on his shoulders. The offi?cer’s tone was humble. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
Santana shrugged. “You’re welcome. . . . What’s on your mind?”
Six stared into the legionnaire’s eyes. “The Ramanthians will attack tonight.”
“That possibility had occurred to me,” Santana replied dryly.
“And they’re going to win,” Six predicted. “Unless you get reinforcements—which both of us know you won’t. So turn us loose!” he said hurriedly. “We’ll fi?ght beside you. And I think you’ll agree that thirty-six additional soldiers could make a big difference.”
“Yes, they could,” Santana agreed soberly. “But what happens later on? When the battle is over?”
“We’ll lay down our arms,” Six promised. “Or keep them if need be—under your command.”
“It sounds good,” Santana admitted. “But no thanks. . . . I wouldn’t trust you farther than I could throw a half-track.”
“You don’t have to trust me,” the other man replied earnestly. His voice was pitched so low that the other Seebos couldn’t hear. “You have someone that means a lot to me and I wouldn’t leave here without.”
“Dr. Kelly?”
“Exactly,” the clone agreed defi?antly.
The offer was tempting. Very tempting. Because thirtysix additional defenders would make an important difference. Especially given the fact that the Seebos were crack troops. Literally bred to fi?ght—and tough as nails. But the colonel was accused of murder.
Still, the Legion had the means to keep potentially rebellious cyborgs under control, so why not use a similar technique on Six? Not too surprisingly the clone objected to the concept Santana put forward. But, if the Seebo wanted to live, he had very little choice. Sergeant Jose Ramos was something of a genius where explosives were concerned, and it was he who came up with the combination leg shackle and bomb. A tidy little device that Santana, Zolkin, or Dietrich could trigger remotely anytime one of them chose to do so. It wouldn’t kill Six, not immediately, but it would blow his right foot off. Suddenly, what had been a seemingly hopeless situation, was just a little bit better.
The animals had been weakened during the previous day. Subcommander Jaos Nubb knew that. So rather than take the more measured approach that his dead predecessor had—Nubb had chosen to send all his troops in at once. The majority of them were members of the much vaunted Death Hammer Regiment and therefore among the most valiant soldiers the empire had to offer. So it was with a sense of confi?dence that the offi?cer led his troops into battle. And simultaneously called upon his secret weapon, which was in orbit one thousand three hundred miles above the planet’s surface.
The Star Taker had been busy of late, chasing dozens of little ships and snuffi?ng them out of existence, so the ship’s crew welcomed the opportunity to settle into orbit and fi?re on some ground coordinates for a change—even if that meant allowing some civilian vessels to escape. The problem, to the extent that there was one, had to do with the question of accuracy. Because based on data provided by Subcommander Nubb, there was very little distance between his troops and enemy forces. Which meant even a small error could have tragic results. So great care was taken while calculating all of the many variables involved. But fi?nally, on an order from Nubb, one of the destroyer’s big guns spoke. An artifi?cial comet was born and slashed down through the atmosphere toward the surface below. Santana recognized the freight-train rumble the moment he heard it. But it was Dietrich who shouted, “Incoming!” and beat the offi?cer into one of the recently improved bunkers. The blue lightning bolt fell on a half-track, blew the vehicle apart, and killed the Seebos who had been stationed at the vehicle’s machine guns. The second bolt punched a hole in the ice-covered lake, brought the surrounding water to a momentary boil, and sent a geyser of steam fi?fty feet into the air. The third impact opened a gap in the southern portion of the defensive wall, erased a Hoyt, and opened a grave in which to bury her remains. Dirt and rocks fell like rain. Then while the allies were s
till taking shelter in their various holes, the Ramanthians attacked. Fortunately, Sergeant Suresee Fareye, who had been sent to scout the enemy, gave the warning.
“This is Alpha Six-Four. . . . Here they come! Over.”
That brought all the troops back up and most were in place by the time the tsunami of chitin and fl?esh struck. There was no opportunity to think about tactics or give orders because Santana was fi?ghting for his life. A hellish symphony of explosions, gunfi?re, and alien bugle calls were heard as fl?ares threw a ghastly glow over the scene and began their slow descent. The cavalry offi?cer could see hundreds of bugs, all shuffl?ing forward as quickly as they could, determined to roll over the encampment and kill everyone within.
But if the bugs were a wave, the allies were a rock, and the volume of outgoing fi?re was stupendous. Between the cyborgs, each of whom packed fi?repower equivalent to a squad of regular troops, and the newly reinforced bio bods, Alpha Company was an immovable object. And with no soldiers left in reserve, there was nothing Nubb could do, but throw himself at the wall of dead bodies. A valiant thing to do, but largely meaningless, because he was killed within seconds. The assault came to an end fi?ve minutes later, when the heretofore stationary Lupo lurched to his feet, stepped over the grisly barricade, and went on the offensive. With a pack of agile T-2s to protect his fl?anks, the cyborg went bug hunting. The surviving Ramanthians ran. And the results, as summarized by Master Sergeant Dietrich, were nothing less than: “Goddamned wonderful!” Which, all things considered, was pretty good. General Mortimer Kobbi had two recon balls left—and made good use of both as the nine-mile-long column snaked its way toward the west. By plugging into what the airborne cyborgs could see, Kobbi could monitor what was happening from his place near the front of the formation. The good news, if one could call it that, was that because the allied force was 10 percent smaller as it left Yal-Am, it was that much speedier. Or would have been, if it hadn’t been for a long series of Ramanthian-triggered avalanches, well-conceived ambushes, and cleverly hidden mines. As the allies waited for the latest rockslide to be cleared, Kobbi raised his binos. Hundreds of Ramanthian troops could be seen streaming along the tops of ridges to the north and south. The bugs were paralleling the allies, waiting for the chance to close in, and that opportunity was coming. Fifteen miles ahead, at a place called the Ordo gorge, the bugs would have the perfect opportunity to converge on the column as it was forced to cross a narrow two-lane bridge. That was bad enough. But even worse from Kobbi’s point of view was the fact that if the span were blown, the allies would be trapped in the mountains, and cut off from the lowlands to the west. That was where Maylo Chien-Chu and her ragtag fl?eet of yachts, freighters, and other civilian vessels were supposed to pick the soldiers up. But only if the bridge was still in place when the column arrived at the Ordo gorge.
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