Dietrich threw a grenade at the opposite wall. The angle was such that it bounced out of sight and blew up. Santana followed the noncom’s example, heard a second explosion, and entered the corridor ready to fire. But there was no need. The Ramanthians were not only dead, but doubly so, as Dietrich put an extra bullet into each one of them. Meanwhile, having jerked some furniture loose, Santana made a hole in the barricade.
Then it was onwards and upwards toward the roof and the sound of fighting outside. “This is Alpha One to Alpha Two-One,” Santana said. “We’re inside the plant and about to exit onto the roof. Alpha Three is setting charges in the control room. Use fire from the T-2s to plow a path through the minefield and enter the building. Over.”
“This is Alpha Two-One,” Ryley replied. “Roger that. We’ll join you as soon as we can. Over.”
Santana heard a roaring sound punctuated by the sound of gunfire as Ponco led them onto a flat roof. A Ramanthian transport was parked at the far end of the space. Its engines were running, and a side door was open. And there, with their backs to Santana, three humans could be seen. They were crouched behind a pile of cargo modules, firing at a group of Ramanthians who had taken cover behind a waist-high blast wall. “The bug pilots are waiting for someone,” Santana shouted. “A VIP of some sort, and Temo is trying to hijack his ride. Dietrich, watch our six. Ponco, circle around. See if you can enter the transport from the other side. Take control of it if you can.”
Dietrich turned back toward the ramp, and Ponco flew away as Santana raised his weapon. The CA-10 wasn’t a sniper rifle. Far from it. But the range wasn’t too bad, and he was a good shot. The key was to leave Temo alive.
He looked through the scope, selected the man on the left, and fired. The target toppled forward and collapsed. Temo was in the process of turning in that direction when the man to her right fell. Having realized where the fire was coming from, the renegade turned. Santana was waiting. The bullet flew straight and true. Temo’s left knee exploded in a spray of blood. She made a grab for it and fell over backwards.
Santana heard a couple of explosions as he ran forward, knew that Dietrich was taking care of business, and figured that the VIP was dead. Bullets whipped past his head as the Ramanthians fired at him. The projectiles sounded like angry bees.
Temo had managed to sit up by that time. She was trying to bring her weapon to bear on him when Santana arrived to knock it away. “Oh, no, you don’t!” he said, as the rifle clattered onto concrete. “Stay where you are.”
Then he was down behind the cargo modules as Ramanthian bullets hammered them. Temo pulled her belt loose and began to wrap it around her leg just above the knee. “I suppose you’re Alpha One,” she said through gritted teeth. “Congratulations. I don’t think Antov could have accomplished what you have.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Santana said, as he raised his visor. “Now tell me about the STS installation.”
“What do you want to know?” Temo said as she pulled the tourniquet tight.
“I want to know what kind of backup power supply they have.”
“Smart,” she said. “Very smart. What’s it worth to you?”
“Nothing,” Santana said coldly, as Dietrich arrived and ducked down beside him. “But you could save the other knee.”
Pain was etched into Temo’s face. Her eyes were locked with Santana’s. “You wouldn’t.”
“He would,” Dietrich put in, as a series of loud reports were heard from the direction of the transport. “If not, I’d be happy to do it for him.”
Temo closed her eyes and opened them again. “The head bug is a fanatical bastard named Commander Dammo. He has a fusion reactor on Headstone. Chances are that he could fire two or three shots without using power from the geo tap.”
Santana felt his spirits fall. He’d been hoping that if the power plant went off-line, the STS cannon would be rendered useless. “This is Alpha One-Three,” Ponco said over the radio. “The transport is ours. Over.”
“Roger that,” Santana replied. “Keep the engines running.”
“It won’t work,” Temo said tightly. “Headstone is crawling with bugs.”
“Well, you’d better hope that it does,” Santana replied grimly. “Because you’re going with us.”
Dietrich grinned wolfishly. “Welcome to the Legion, Major Temo. The pay sucks, but there’s plenty to do.”
12
Death follows life just as life follows birth.
—The Thraki Book of Yesterdays
Date unknown
PLANET EARTH, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The military spaceport at China Lake, California, had been attacked shortly after the Ramanthians destroyed Earth’s orbital-defense platforms. Now the base was little more than a sprawling junkyard. The once-proud control tower lay like a fallen tree across the remains of an in-system freighter and the moonscape beyond. And the multitiered terminal building hadn’t fared any better. It had taken a direct hit from a missile that plunged down through five stories and exploded in the parking garage. So while the periphery of the structure was intact, the center was a burned-out hole.
Ironically enough, it was the destruction that made for a perfect hiding place. Despite the fact that just about all of China Lake’s surface installations had been destroyed, part of the spaceport’s underground storage-and-maintenance facility remained intact. The subsurface maze had been occupied more than once. But never for very long because shortly after a group of humans moved in, the bugs would attack. Roughly 10 percent of the much-disputed complex was still inhabitable so long as one didn’t mind the constant threat of a raid.
Navy Commander and Earth Liberation Brigade Leader Leo Foley knew that. So guards were in place all around the hideout, and a fast-response team was ready to respond within a matter of minutes. All of that was nice but brought him very little comfort given the extent of the threat. Still, there were only so many places where the ELB could hide.
Such were Foley’s thoughts as he left the utility room that served as his quarters, paused to collect a mug of caf from the makeshift cafeteria a hundred feet down the corridor, and followed a series of duracrete hallways back to the onetime storeroom that served as his office. Much to his surprise, the door was open, and a man was seated behind his desk. He had blond hair, a rigidly handsome face, and appeared to be in his midtwenties. However, Foley knew that Sergi Chien-Chu’s brain was well over a hundred years old—even if his cybernetic vehicle was much younger. It was one of many such “forms” he could call on. “Good morning,” Chien-Chu said cheerfully. “Sorry about the lack of advance notice, but coming and going from Earth is a rather complicated process these days, and my security people won’t let me publish a schedule.”
Foley understood but wished he’d been given time to prepare a report or at least get his thoughts in order. Of course, there was a distinct possibility that Chien-Chu wanted to catch him off balance. He was a very savvy businessman and ex-politician after all. “Yes, sir,” Foley replied. “Welcome to China Lake. Can I get you a cup of caf?”
Chien-Chu smiled. “Coffee is hard to come by these days. Why waste it on someone who can’t enjoy it?”
Foley said, “Yes, sir,” and took what normally served as his guest chair.
“Congratulations on Operation Cockroach,” Chien-Chu said. “The Ramanthian propaganda machine claims that you and your people killed five thousand of their supposed ‘peacekeepers.’ And we know that when it comes to casualties, they always subtract about twenty percent from the real number. So it’s safe to say that you nailed at least six thousand of the bastards.”
“It was supposed to be nine or ten thousand,” Foley said bleakly. “And I lost 423 people.”
“That’s a lot,” Chien-Chu admitted. “But, cold as it may sound, that’s something like fourteen of them for every one of us. Had we always done so well, the war would have been over a month ago.”
“Maybe,” Foley allowed, as his eyes drifted away. “
But more than a hundred of the casualties were the direct result of my stupidity. I should have evacuated the mine before the attack. Or, failing that, left a significant force behind to protect it. I did neither. And lots of people died as a result.”
“That’s true,” Chien-Chu conceded. “You made a mistake. One born of hubris and overconfidence.”
“So you’re here to relieve me of my command,” Foley said dully, as his eyes swung back. “And you’re correct to do so.”
“Nice try,” Chien-Chu replied dryly. “But you aren’t getting off that easily. If we were to cashier every officer who made a mistake, sergeants would be in charge. Nope, your punishment is to stay right where you are and hatch more plans like Operation Cockroach. You really put the hurts on them with that one, son. Keep it up.”
It was strange to have what looked like a younger man call him “son.” “Yes, sir,” Foley replied, even though he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what to do next.
“Good,” Chien-Chu replied. “Nothing attracts resources like success. If you need something, let me know. You have a hypercom. Use it sparingly—but use it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Commander . . .”
“Sir?”
“Go get something to eat. You look like a skeleton.”
The so called Dead Bug Lab was a step up from the grubby room that Margaret and her scientists had been forced to share deep in the bowels of the Lucky Fool mine. According to signs neatly stenciled onto duracrete walls, the large, rectangular space had once been the home of the 321st Aerospace Fighter squadron’s in-service training facility. And, thanks to the fact that the team was already present when Foley and the rest of the survivors of Operation Cockroach arrived, they had been able to hang on to the precious square footage. Power was flowing from a portable reactor, running water had been restored, and there was little to no chance of a cave-in. The bugs could attack, of course—but that was true anywhere.
So Margaret was sitting in her tiny office when Dr. Howard Lothar stomped in and dropped a head onto the surface of her metal desk. “There it is,” he said triumphantly. “Just like I said.”
“There what is?” Margaret wanted to know, as the dead Ramanthian glared at her. “And how many times have I told you? Put something under body parts. They leak.”
Lothar continued as if Margaret hadn’t spoken. “See the growth on the back of this specimen’s head? That’s called a stroma—or a fruiting body.”
One of the problems associated with supervising scientists, but not being one herself, was that there were frequent occasions when Margaret didn’t have a clue as to what they were talking about. “I’m sorry, Howard,” she said. “Please go back and lay the necessary groundwork, so I’ll know what you’re talking about.”
Lothar sighed. Then, in the manner of an adult instructing a child, he gave a minilecture. “We know that some Ramanthians are dying from the equivalent of a human skin disease. For a host of reasons I won’t bore you with, it’s my hypothesis that after arriving on Earth in large numbers and spreading out across the globe, they came into contact with a fungus called Ophiocordyceps unilateris. Probably in the equatorial jungles where our friend Ophio finds its way into carpenter ants and forces them to leave the forest canopy for the vegetation lower down. Then, having taken control, it compels its victim to bite onto a leaf.
“The ant dies,” Lothar added, “but continues to hang there, as the fungus grows inside of it. Eventually, a stroma like this one breaks through the anterior surface of the ant’s head. A couple of weeks later, spores begin to fall—each one of which can infect a new host. And that’s what happened to Marvin,” Lothar added, as he patted the head. “Although it’s my guess that the Ramanthians unknowingly made Ophio’s task easier by flying their troops hither and yon all over the world. Who knows? Marvin could have been infected right here rather than down south somewhere.”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said doubtfully. “I’m not a scientist—but don’t parasites and their hosts coevolve? Plus, the Ramanthians just arrived.”
“You’ve been listening to Woo,” Lothar said accusingly. “She thinks the bugs brought the parasite with them. But that, like most of the stuff she says, is pure bullshit. I admit that the odds are stacked against an Earth parasite having the capacity to exploit an off-planet host, but it appears that Ophio is very resourceful. And I can prove it.”
“Really? How?”
“I took spores from a stroma produced by a specimen named Larry and used them to infect Marvin. He did everything a carpenter ant would do except clamp onto a leaf. He is, or was, a sentient with a very complex nervous system. So the course of the disease was different. Marvin experienced some pretty bad seizures before he died. I enjoyed that.”
Margaret was horrified. She knew her team had requested and been given control of Ramanthian POWs for study—along with the bodies of dead bugs found here and there. But the methods Lothar had been using were way over the moral/ ethical line. And she was responsible for allowing it to happen. “I hope you’re joking.”
“Hell no, I’m not joking,” the scientist replied defiantly. “What? You’re feeling all gooey about the scum who took our planet, killed my wife and millions of your fellow citizens? Have you forgotten what they did to your daughter on Jericho?”
Margaret hadn’t forgotten. And she wondered where her daughter was. “I understand, Howard. I really do. But if we aren’t careful, we’ll wind up just as bad as they are.”
“So, shoot me,” Lothar said tightly, as tears began to stream down his cheeks. “I would do it myself if I had the guts.”
Margaret got up, circled the desk, and put an arm around Lothar’s shoulders. “What you need is some rest. Come on . . . I’m giving you the day off.”
“What about the fungus?” Lothar demanded stubbornly as he wiped the tears away. “We can weaponize it. I know we can. All we need is a large supply of Ophio.”
“I’ll work on it,” Margaret promised.
“And Woo? Will you tell her to shut the hell up?”
Margaret remembered the way Woo occasionally sobbed in the middle of the night. “No, Howard. I won’t tell Woo to shut the hell up. Actually, I think you two have a lot in common. But I will instruct the entire staff to follow up on your research.”
That seemed to do the trick as the tension went out of the scientist’s shoulders, and he allowed himself to be led away. The head, which was leaking goo onto the surface of Margaret’s otherwise-clean desk, was understandably mute.
As usual, there was a line out of Foley’s door, down a hall, and around a corner as Margaret barged into his office. The officer in command of the brigade’s nonexistent air force was seated in the guest chair. Margaret nodded to him and smiled pleasantly before dropping Ralph’s head onto the desk with a muted thump. The increasingly smelly object was sealed inside a bag and stared out through foggy plastic. “Sorry to interrupt,” Margaret said, “but I need to speak with you before Ralph here begins to rot.”
The pilot looked appalled—and Foley was annoyed. Because even though it wasn’t perfect, the line outside his office was part of an effort to make himself accessible. Something that was very important in an organization that was quasi-military at best. So line jumpers were a problem. Yet the head, combined with the fact that it was Margaret who had been toting it around, was an irresistible draw. Foley made eye contact with the pilot. “Would you excuse us, Major? If you would be so kind as to wait outside, we’ll resume our conversation in a few minutes.”
The pilot left, Margaret took his seat, and Foley frowned at her. “This had better be good, Margaret . . . Especially after the way you lied to the guards as you and your team left the mine. I didn’t order you to set up shop at this location, and you know it.”
“No, you didn’t,” Margaret agreed unapologetically. “But what if we had remained there? Where would we be now?”
The challenge was obvious. As was her meaning. Margaret and her
scientists would have been dead had they remained in the mine. Foley winced. “That hurts.”
“Sorry,” Margaret replied. “It wasn’t my intention to be judgmental. But I felt compelled to defend my actions.”
“And you did,” Foley observed ruefully. “So what’s with the head?”
“The head is part of an experiment,” Margaret replied. “A morally questionable experiment. But important nevertheless.”
Having said that much, Margaret went on to repeat what Lothar had told her. She finished by saying, “So, here’s where the matter stands now. We have a weapon. One the planet gave us. All we have to do is use it. And if we do so quickly enough, it’s possible that the Ramanthians will be forced to withdraw. But odds are that they’re working on a defense. So we’ve got to hurry.”
Foley looked at the head and the space black eyes that seemed to bore into him. His thoughts were churning—and he felt a growing sense of excitement. What if Margaret was correct? What if they could force the bugs to withdraw from Earth? That would be a victory so important it could change the course of the war. “But how?” Foley wanted to know.
“We need a large supply of Ophiocordyceps unilateris,” Margaret answered matter-of-factly. “And since we don’t have the time or means to grow the fungus in a lab, we’ll have to get spores from donors like Marvin here.”
Foley frowned. “Okay . . . But how the heck would we do that?”
Margaret smiled sweetly. “That, Commander Foley, is your problem.”
Two days had passed since Margaret had entered Foley’s office and placed the Ramanthian head on his desk. Since that time, Foley had requested all of the information that his Intel people could provide on Ramanthian health problems, the status of their medical-support system, and an estimate of how many troopers were dying of natural causes versus combat-related trauma.
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