Hudson awoke feeling rested, his sore-throat much improved; the local viruses had played havoc with his sinuses, but he seemed over the worse. He threw back his sleeping bag and rolled from his tent. A thin layer of snow covered the ground, and a gusty breeze brushed the powdery layers in short bursts. Hudson was chilly, but he was also naked. Turning his back on the transparent wall, he returned to his tent and grabbed his konish jumpsuit. Tailored to his human body, the rubbery material was thick and warm—too warm. Hudson would have preferred a pair of trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, but living in a hothouse was better than living out in the snow.
Dowornobb arrived with breakfast. Whatever it was, at least it was not fish. Hudson had finally demanded a respite from the monotonous diet, and it was humorous to the kones, because the kones thought he liked fish.
Dowornobb sat silently, a somber expression on his normally animated features.
"You worry, Master Dowornobb?" Hudson asked in functional konish, paying serious attention to his food. It was quite good.
"I wait for Mistress Kateos before telling you, Master Hudsawn," Dowornobb replied. "Ah, she arrives now." Kateos carried food for herself and Dowornobb. She sat. Neither kone touched their meal.
"What is wrong?" Hudson asked.
"A rocket from Kon reached orbit last night," Dowornobb replied. "A military rocket."
Hudson looked up, fork suspended in midflight. "They not friendly to my people? They wish us harm?" Hudson asked.
"We do not know," Dowornobb continued. "You should stay hidden until we understand their—"
"No," said Kateos in sibilant, gravelly Legion. "They know you here. They know." Kateos pointed into the sky, her expression somber. "They asked-ah to see you."
Hudson's appetite faded. His attention was captured by an escalating rumble. The ground vibrated.
"They come," Kateos said. "Their landing happens now."
Hudson looked through the dome to see a white-hot column of flame—a tongue of energy evaporating the clouds, cleaving a wide tunnel through which could be seen blue morning skies. Ground vibration increased as the black cylinder smoothly slowed its descent. It hovered over the rocket pads and settled onto its gantry dock. Firmly planted, the powerful engines shut down, leaving sudden and disconcerting silence.
"We must-ah leave you now," Kateos said.
Dowornobb and Kateos hastened through the maze of passageways linking the domes, joining Et Silmarn at the airlock. Indicator lights revealed the airlock to be in the final stages of pressurization.
"Any news?" asked Dowornobb. "Have they brought supplies?"
"It is not a freighter," Et Silmarn snapped. "It is a warship—a heavy lift interceptor. I doubt they bring anything but trouble."
The airlock hissed open. The arrivals lumbered forward. All wore military uniforms, and many were armed. One individual grew disconcertingly familiar.
"Longo!" Dowornobb blurted, much too loudly.
"Colonel Longo, if you please," the leader of the detachment said flatly. "Realize with whom you are dealing." Longo wore the dark burgundy of the security apparatus.
"You are a spy!" Kateos blurted.
Longo fixed her with a glance of steel, his diplomatic veneer all too transparent. He turned rudely away.
"I am aware of what has happened on Genellan," Longo said, addressing himself to Et Silmarn. "I am here to continue the investigation." He peered around as if looking for something in particular. "It has been reported that you are holding one of the…aliens. I wish to see it."
"They call themselves humans," Et Silmarn replied, "and one is here as our guest, most excellent Colonel." The noblekone' s distaste was thinly suppressed. "The humans have demonstrated their peaceful intent."
Longo stared sternly and smiled. "Of course—Your Excellency. But as official representative of our government I must verify that…peaceful intent. A formality, of course. Where is this pacific creature? Why is it not here?"
"It only suffers our environment, most excellent Colonel," Et Silmarn responded. "Elevated pressures cause gases to be dissolved in its bloodstream, and it takes many hours and a slow decompression to relieve. Also, the human considers the temperature in our domes unbearably warm. It possesses a strange, er…a fragile physiology—except for its tolerance to cold."
"Are you telling me that I must go outside—in the winter—to meet with this creature?" replied the astounded Longo.
"No. It is cold outside, even for the human," Et Silmarn said. "The human—he is named Huhsawn—lives in our agricultural dome."
Dowornobb detected a faint whiff of fear emanating from the colonel.
"Of course," the noblekone continued impassively. "We have extensive video and photographs documenting the aliens. If you would avoid confrontation, you could review our research materials instead, most excellent Colonel."
Longo did not react to the insult. "Your suggestions have merit, Your Excellency."
In the final analysis General Gorruk's greatest military achievement was his retreat. It was masterfully executed, but then he had no alternative. His supply lines were severed. It was but a matter of time before his armies were isolated and destroyed.
His plan centered on demonstrating a massive offensive, preparations for which enabled him to position thousands of airfreighters and rail cars. Retreat was not imagined as an option, and so the combatants prepared for the ultimate confrontation of the war—an apocalyptic battle. Millions of konish soldiers moved across the blackened battlefields, girding themselves for death. The northern soldiers had no choice; running or fighting had the same result—death. Resigned to the more merciful death of combat, the northern armies marched with desperate resolve.
Gorruk goaded his legions to frontally engage in another attack frenzy. While the southern defenders hunkered down and decimated the oncoming northerners, Gorruk began loading men and arms onto freighters and rail cars, using expendable infantry to defend terminals and landing strips—mostly against his own forces as they panicked and broke. Ultimately only a third of his expeditionary forces were killed or captured—less than two million kones. That he escaped at all, much less with his army intact, serves as great testimony and tribute to his military genius.
Testimony to his character was less flattering. Thwarted from victory against the southern armies, Gorruk turned to new targets— his own government. Twenty-six main attack missiles hit the Imperial Palace and the ministry buildings within seconds of each other. The structures and their vicinities were vaporized, along with Emperor-General Jook the First and the Imperial Body Guard. Gorruk arrived in the sundered capital, at the head of a column of crack troops carefully held in reserve from the ravages of war.
Not a single member of the nobility was caught in Gorruk' s blitz; all had conveniently departed the city. When informed of this, Gorruk became infuriated, ordering intelligence officers put to death. Yet despite obvious danger, noblekones returned to their duties—the exception being the militia high command and the ministry functionaries. Gorruk did not understand this happenstance, nor did he endeavor to disrupt it, for he realized no government could function without the economic underpinnings that were largely managed by the nobility. Reluctantly accepting their critical value to his short term success, Emperor-General Gorruk the First went about establishing a new government on the northern outskirts of the capital, safely behind the ramparts of his main military headquarters. Construction crews began work on a palace to rival all palaces, a bunker to rival all bunkers.
He would deal with the nobility at a more convenient time. The government was his and now he would govern.
Hudson watched Longo and his soldiers leave the agricultural dome.
"Colonel Longo was polite," Hudson said, relieved to have the confrontation behind him. The meeting had been short, the temperature in the dome uncomfortably cool for the kones. And anticlimactic—Hudson had agonized through the long hours prior. Et Silmarn, Kateos, and Dowornobb said nothing until Longo and his subalterns had departed the dome.
"Be not-ah deceived, Hudsawn," Kateos said in Legion. "Colonel Longo is a senior security officer, a trained liar. You must-ah be careful."
"But Mistress Kateos, my people must deal with your government some time," Hudson replied. "There are so few of us. Why would your government not let us settle on Genellan? We could not exist on Kon. What other option is there?"
"There is at-ah least-ah one other option, Huhsawn," Et Silmarn said, speaking the human's tongue. "It-ah is not-ah a good one."
Longo dismissed his soldiers. He cantered into the austere quarters reserved for visiting dignitaries and looked out the window. Blue shadows raced over snow-covered ground, the overcast shattered by the sun and wind. Longo shivered and turned his back. His distaste at being on the forsaken planet was deep.
"A miserable place," he said aloud, but he was not really in an ill mood. The meeting with the alien—the human—had gone well. Longo was impressed with the alien's ability to speak the konish tongue. The buzzer on his entry sounded.
"Enter," Longo said. A messenger stood at attention on all fours.
"Colonel Longo! We have received word General Gorruk has taken control of the government. Emperor Jook is dead."
Longo' s mouth dropped open, and then his gape turned into a opportunistic grin. General Gorruk was a formidable kone yet a known entity. Longo's smile broadened—Emperor-General Gorruk would, of course, be interested in his mission. The security officer drafted a message reaffirming his loyalties and summarizing his activities.
"Send this through your most secure means. And retransmit the latest summaries of our interrogations—and the videos. Include the videos," Longo commanded.
Gorruk' s response arrived four hours later:
TO: SECURITY COL. LONGO FM: EMPEROR-GENERAL
CLASS ONE SECURITY/COL. LONGO'S EYES ONLY
AM AWARE OF YOUR ACTIVITIES. ALIENS REPRESENT THREAT. LOCATE AND ELIMINATE USING ALL MEANS AT YOUR DISPOSAL. REPORT STATUS DAILY. IF ADDITIONAL RESOURCES REQUIRED, SO STATE.
Longo stared at the short message. An idea sifted into his consciousness. It was risky, but he would dare to send a counter suggestion. The intelligence officer sat down and drafted a reply:
TO: EMPEROR-GENERAL GORRUK, SUPREME LEADER FM: SECURITY COL. LONGO
CLASS ONE SECURITY/GENERAL GORRUK'S EYES ONLY NO ADDITIONAL RESOURCES ARE REQUIRED.
UNLESS YOU DIRECT OTHERWISE, MY PLAN AS FOLLOWS. WILL PRESERVE LIFE OF THE ONE ALIEN IN MY CONTROL. WILL USE TO ASSIST IN GETTING CLOSE TO REMAINING ALIENS. IT IS WINTER AND TOO COLD FOR OPERATIONS WHERE ALIENS ARE LOCATED. IN LOCAL SPRING (KON DATE: 13M26) AN EXPEDITION TO THE ALIEN ENCAMPMENT WILL BE MOUNTED. ALIENS WILL BE LIQUIDATED OR CAPTURED AS YOU DIRECT.
Longo coded the message into the burst transmitters and, with burgeoning trepidation, punched the transmit button. Gorruk's response arrived two hours later:
TO: SECURITY COL. LONGO FM: EMPEROR-GENERAL
CLASS ONE SECURITY/COL. LONGO'S EYES ONLY
KILL THE ALIENS. HOW YOU ACCOMPLISH THAT TASK IS UP TO YOU. DO NOT FAIL.
"Is winter never going to end?" Buccari sniffed. She stood shivering in front of the lodge fireplace. Her feet were wet and her toes were near frostbitten—again.
"It's almost over," MacArthur whispered, teeth chattering. They had bravely attempted a patrol of the perimeter. The biting cold had turned them back before reaching the palisade wall. "I don't give it another month. It was balmy outside."
Buccari looked at his windburned features and laughed softly. As Buccari and MacArthur talked, Tookmanian made a rare appearance outside the labor room to add wood to the galley fire. To no one's surprise, the tall saturnine man had taken charge of the birthing. A tarpaulin hung across the entrance to the water room, isolating it and converting it into a labor room for Lee. The dried wood crackled and popped as it ignited. A gust of wind rattled across the roof. Tookmanian disappeared behind the curtain.
"How's Les doing, Nance?" Buccari inquired.
Dawson lay drowsing next to the fire. She and Goldberg had alternated waking hours through the night. The pregnant female's water had broken in the early morning hours, and Lee had been in painful labor ever since.
"Don't know, Lieutenant," Dawson yawned. "She's asleep, but I don't know if that's a good sign or not. At least it keeps Winnie quiet."
Fenstermacher lay bundled in a corner, sound asleep. Sleep had been hard to come by, and most of the men were upstairs in the loft trying to recover from the long night. Mendoza and Schmidt sat at the table helping Tatum and Shannon take care of the babies. Miraculously, both infants napped. During the previous night and day they had efficiently taken shifts whining and screaming. The confined space of the lodge had never seemed smaller or more crowded.
The silence ended. Everyone's attention was collected by a gulping, gasping groan followed by loud grunts. Fenstermacher leapt awake and dove through the slitted opening. Dawson, moving more slowly, followed. Agonizing minutes crawled by.
"Okay! Okay!" came Tookmanian' s deep voice. Lee yelled and gagged.
"Don't hold back, Les," Dawson encouraged. "Go ahead and scream."
"Okay, momma. Push!" Tookmanian growled. "Okay! Okay! Okay! Okay!"
"Come on, Les," Goldberg gasped. "You can do it!"
Lee screamed—a deep, throaty roar never expected from the shy medic. Outside the curtain everyone stared with grieved wonder, unable to shut out reality by simply closing their eyes. It was a prison. Deathly cold beyond the stone walls of the lodge, it was too cold to leave; they were trapped! They shared! If not the pain, all hands shared the uncertainty and the stark terror of the suffering mother's plight. They were joined in tribulation, and they prayed—prayed with all their might to whatever greater power they could invoke.
"Oka-a-a-y-y-y!" Tookmanian announced, a statement of triumph.
Courage and hope welled. The inmates bravely made eye contact with their fellows. The newborn baby's lusty cry was a clarion call for life, and collectively held breaths were expelled, forced out by joyous cheers. The older infants added to the bedlam with frightened cries.
Dawson appeared, finger to her lips. "Shhhh! It's a girl! Shhh!" she admonished, but she was smiling as she disappeared into the water room.
Buccari looked about. The realization that she was the only woman not involved in the birthing caused discomfiture, and she did not know why. She did not have time to ponder. Dawson, leather apron bloodied, burst from the curtain with two pots. "Fill up the water pot with snow and get it boiling. Quick! We need more hot water!" she brusquely ordered, to no one and to everyone. Mendoza and Schmidt hurried to obey.
"Is everything all right?" Tatum asked.
"She's hemorrhaging," Dawson muttered as she went behind the curtain.
In her hurry Dawson left the curtain partially open, exposing a forceful firelit tableau. Tookmanian, an expression of stoic resolve set firmly on his craggy features, bent over the exposed body of the mother, tense arms bloody to the elbow. A frightened Goldberg stood at the head of the bed, the raw newborn in her arms, displayed for the mother to see. Dawson, wild red hair tangled and bedraggled, stood erect, holding clean rags at the ready, bravely awaiting her next assignment. Fenstermacher, his back to the opening, knelt on the wooden floor.
"Oh, Leslie. We have a baby, Leslie. We have a baby," Fenstermacher sobbed. The little man put his cheek next to Lee's and held her hands. "I love you, Leslie. Oh Les, I love you so much. Don't leave me."
Admiral Runacres deployed his motherships in staggered columns, line ahead, with Tasmania in the van at two tactical spans, and Eire, carrying his flag, next in line. All active signal emissions, except for directional laser communicators, were suppressed. All passive detection systems indicated that their hyperlight arrival was undetected.
R-K Two, the home planet of the belligerent aliens, spun in its orbit on the far side of the system, and Rex-Kaliph, the blazing yellow sun-star, masked the fleet's approach to R-K Three. Runacres ordered a flight of three corvettes to probe the system's defenses and to explore the suspected alpha-zed planet.
After a three-day transit Peregrine One descended into a survey orbit. Two more corvettes stood off from the planet, acting as pickets and communication links for directed laser transmissions. Crowded in the corvette's science laboratory, Cassy Quinn's survey team intently scanned the planet with every passive means available. After ten orbits they had detected no radar or communication signals, alien or friendly.
"It looks cold down there," Jake Carmichael, the corvette's pilot, said over the science circuit.
"It sure is, Commander," said Nestor Godonov, Quinn's geological assistant. "The planet has an eccentric orbit. Practically the entire planet is experiencing winter conditions right now. It's very cold. The good news is that spring should be breaking soon."
"Tell Commander Quinn to find something soon," Carmichael replied. "We're a sitting duck."
"You'll be the first to know, Jake," Quinn replied.
"I better be," Carmichael said. "Good luck, Cassy."
"Thanks," Quinn signed off and pushed over to the master console, rechecking the emission scans. She cursed softly. "Something wrong, sir?" Godonov asked.
"No, Nes. It's just I wish something—anything—would show up. There's nothing here!" Exasperation was manifest in Quinn's voice. Her frustration generated a contagious despair.
"Come on, sir," Godonov replied. "It's the most encouraging planet the Legion has ever seen—alpha-zed beyond doubt." Quinn said nothing.
"We'll find them, Commander," Godonov said. "We've only overflown thirty percent of the planet. The IR target backlog is still building."
"Nothing but volcanoes and lots of those," Quinn sighed.
An alarm sounded. The officers jerked, gyrating in null gravity.
"We're being lit up!" Carmichael's tense voice came over the command circuit. "I have solid radar tones and repeatable signals. We're being localized!"
Quinn moved to the master console and verified the emissions.
"Roger, contact," she said over the science circuit. "Our systems are picking up pulses. We're definitely being painted. It appears to be standard search radar and not target acquisition. Source position is coming out now."
"Huhsawn, we think-ah your ship-ahs come back-ah," Dowornobb said.
Hudson had to concentrate on what Dowornobb was saying before he allowed the meaning to sink in. He had reconciled himself to never being rescued.
"What are you saying, Master Dowornobb?" Hudson replied, in konish.
"Your people are back, Master Huhsawn," Dowornobb said, grateful to speak his own language. "We have detected an object in orbit. Not a konish ship."
"Not a konish ship?" Hudson gasped. "Does Colonel Longo know?"
"I know not, though it can only be a matter of time. He has soldiers stationed in the control areas. Mistress Kateos is checking."
"I could try talking to them on the radio," Hudson said excitedly. The realization drove home. His scalp crawled. The fleet was back!
Hudson noticed Dowornobb flinch and subtly adjust his posture.
"Yes, you could," came a powerful voice—Longo's. Bareheaded, but wearing a burgundy Genellan suit, the officer cantered into Hudson's camp. Four soldiers armed with blasters and wearing full combat suits trailed behind. "But I would rather you did not."
Hudson tried to think. Why not? he wondered. It was the nightmare he had been warned of. He swallowed and stared Longo in the eyes.
"Good afternoon, most excellent Colonel," he said. "Of course, as your guest I would be at your pleasure to communicate with the, eh…" He could not come up with the correct konish word. "With the, eh. not known… spaceship."
"Your cooperation is appreciated, Master Huhsawn," replied Longo, inadequately civil. "The, eh…unidentified spaceship will be contacted at the appropriate time. We will certainly call you to assist us. For now I request that you remain in our dome. I leave soldiers to keep you company. I am sure you understand my meaning." He turned and departed without waiting for a reply. The soldiers deployed to the entrances.
Kateos and Et Silmarn had quietly followed Longo into the agricultural dome. Kateos bowed her head and lowered her eyes, as was expected. When Longo was comfortably by their position, she cast an overtly obscene gesture at his receding form, much to the surprise and poorly concealed delight of Et Silmarn.
"My mate!" Dowornobb begged, looking nervously at the sentries. "Do not antagonize authority. Your disrespect will be reported."
"I apologize, my mate," Kateos said. "Of course you are correct. I will harness my feelings." She checked that Longo's sentries were out of hearing.
"I am happy for you, Hudsawn," she said. "They will rescue you."
"I wish I were as confident." Hudson walked over to the dome and stared out at the wintry view. "Colonel Longo may have other ideas."
"Wha' do-ah weee do-ah nex'?" Et Silmarn asked. "One of us needs to get to a transmitter," Hudson said.
COMINT alarms sounded. Something had been intercepted, something that qualified as intelligent communication. Quinn jerked awake at her station and watched Godonov move to the monitoring system and disable the alarm. He cleared the system and began interrogation. Quinn's intuition screamed. She floated over to watch. She was frightened.
Godonov turned so quickly they collided.
"Contact!" he yelled. He returned to the console. "What tha—? It's just a series of pulses. I wonder what the computer thinks it is? I need to pull the logic analysis." Godonov paused for several seconds, staring at the output. "Would you look…It's Morse code!"
"What does it say?" Quinn asked, her stomach fluttering.
"I'm running it through a conversion. I can't read ditty code." He punched his keyboard, and the screen changed format. Quinn was afraid to look. She closed her eyes and prayed. An eternity passed.
"What does it say, Nes? What does it say?" she cried. Godonov hit keys. The decoded message raced across his console:
EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION—REMAIN PASSIVE—YOU ARE STANDING INTO DANGER—SEVENTEEN SOULS HARRIER ONE CREW ALIVE—CHECK LATITUDE FOUR THREE DASH FIVE FOUR NORTH AND INTERSECTION OF BIG NORTH SOUTH RIVER—HUDSON TLSF
"Nash!" Quinn whispered.
"Commander?" Godonov asked.
"Nashua Hudson. My husband's second officer. Anything else?" she asked briskly. She moved to her console; her fingers trembled.
"That's all. It was repeated a dozen times and then nothing."
"Patch the message to Commander Carmichael. Have him maneuver to optimize coverage of the reported latitude, and tell him to drop to low orbit. Get the rest of the survey team up here." Quinn felt bitter panic welling within.
Dowornobb finished running the program that generated the peculiar sequence of dots and dashes. He had expected Longo' s soldiers to be guarding all radio access, but it had been ridiculously easy to transmit the radio message. He strolled nonchalantly from the planet's surveillance center. Colonel Longo and a squad of soldiers loped down the corridor toward him. Dowornobb swallowed and kept walking. It made no sense to run; there was no escape. He made an effort to pass in the wide hall, but one of Longo' s flunkies stepped in front of him, pushing him against the windowed wall. The thick glass vibrated with the force of impact.
"Scientist!" Longo said, his voice venomous. "What were you doing?"
"Huh… I was, eh… I was—," Dowornobb struggled to invent an alibi.
"He was reestablishing a datalink to our photo satellites—on my orders," Et Silmarn shouted from behind the soldiers. "I am updating our research. We have many scientific projects underway, as I am sure you know. most excellent Colonel." The noblekone elbowed his way through the crowded corridor. Kateos meekly followed him through the soldiers.
Longo gestured impatiently. A soldier stood to attention.
"Sir, the transmissions are not satellite commands," the soldier barked.
"Ah… because the link was malfunctioning," Dowornobb stammered, trying desperately to support the noblekone' s thin excuse. "I ran a narrow portion of a subroutine used to reset parameters within our internal program. The program is not related to actual satellite mechanics, so it is unlikely your technicians would be familiar with the program calls." Dowornobb continued with a tirade of technical jargon until Longo held up his hand. Longo stared at his technician.
"Well?" Longo demanded.
"Sir, I am only a communications technician. The scientist speaks of matters that I cannot comment upon. What I understand seems reasonable."
Longo dismissed the technician. He turned to Et Silmarn.
"I will not dispute this thin rationalization, Your Excellency, but it was specifically ordered that no one was to use the radios. I am annoyed that you have seen fit to avoid cooperation. To illustrate my irritation, I am placing Scientist Dowornobb under official arrest. He will be confined until I decide what to do about this."
Kateos burst forth, "But you have no right. He has done noth—"
"Arrest the female, also. I have had enough of her bad manners." Longo turned his back on the unfortunate kones. "Take them away."
"Excellent Colonel," Et Silmarn said, his emotions held in check with obvious effort. "I remind you that those two scientists have the most experience in dealing with the aliens. You have need of their services."
"You are too modest, Et Silmarn," Longo replied. "I have her translation computer. I have you. You are obviously intelligent enough to understand the consequences, whereas your impetuous comrades do not. And you forget—the alien! The alien speaks our tongue extremely well. So you see, I have absolutely no need for those ill-mannered intellectuals. I may suggest…Your Excellency, if you wish them to remain—shall we say—in good health, it would be prudent for you to cooperate with official policies. Do you understand, Your Excellency? Now take them away."
The soldiers moved. Dowornobb was shoved to the floor and kicked.
"Thugs! Unspeakable savages!" Kateos screamed, and she rushed toward her mate. A soldier pushed her roughly to the ground.
"No, Kateos! Nooo!" Dowornobb bellowed, twisting to help his mate, but the appalling crunch of a thudding truncheon obliterated his consciousness.
"Exalted One, Colonel Longo reports the presence of unidentified spacecraft in orbit around Genellan," announced one of Gorruk' s subalterns.
"What?" Emperor-General Gorruk snapped, looking up from his meal.
"Colonel Longo reports with certainty that the aliens have returned." The underling kneeled and dropped his forehead to the floor.
Gorruk jumped erect. "The alien fleet has returned! How many ships?"
"Colonel Longo confirms three ships in the vicinity of Genellan, Exalted One. He categorizes the ships as escort vehicles and not interstellars. He has not located the enemy fleet yet, but he has provided us with likely sector information. Colonel Longo has launched two probes and expects to provide final vectors for planetary defense interceptors within the next moon cycle. He recommends the first interceptor wave be launched towards Genellan immediately."
The alien invasion fleet had returned! Gorruk had no choice but to convene the global defense organization. The defense of the planet was governed by treaty, although, as leader of the largest konish military power and as a general officer in the Planetary Defense Command, he could initiate defensive activity. Sustaining the attacks would require the authorization of the Planetary Defense Senior Command—a neutral staff appointed and approved by all governments of the planet. The thought of having to deal with the international body gave him indigestion, but they were unlikely to obstruct his efforts. The racial memories of the first invasion weighed heavily on all kones.
"Alert Planetary Defense!" Gorruk ordered. "Longo's recommendations are sound. Launch the first wave, on my authority. Direct Longo to attack the orbiting ships."
"Colonel Longo has a recommendation, Exalted One."
"Now what?" asked Gorruk, displaying impatient fury. "What?"
"Colonel Longo states that it will take two moon cycles before our interceptors close within combat range. He proposes a coordinated attack on the orbiting ships at that time. To attack sooner would alert their fleet to our intentions."
Gorruk pondered the suggestion and acknowledged its merits. "Send my concurrence to Colonel Longo."
"Peregrine has located the likely site of Harrier's crew," the corvette group leader reported. "Commander Quinn has good photo on what appears to be a man-made site, although clouds and snow cover make it difficult to resolve. We're queuing up radar-imaging now."
As the group leader spoke, the image on the screen changed to reveal an optical close-up of the planet's surface. The wide expanse of a snow-covered lake was stitched by linear trails, apparently footprints. The trails converged at the gate of a stockade. The stockade presented itself as an attention magnet, straight lines forming an irregular pentagon. The dark rectangles of structures, with IR chimney signatures, testified that it was an inhabited encampment.
"What makes us positive those are our people?" Runacres asked.
"We're not, Admiral," a staff intelligence officer answered. "Maximum magnification reveals bipedal creatures, but they're wearing bulky clothes—furs. Our assessment is based primarily on the settlement's proximity to the position given in Ensign Hudson's message. And, uh…we have found no other candidates, Admiral."
"How close to the domed station is it?" Commodore Wells asked.
"Not even the same continent, sir, although there is a preliminary report of a smaller, fixed-base facility on the same continent as our people," the group leader answered. "Let me put the situation plot back up."
The projected image changed to an abstract holographic depiction of the planet. The image was rotated, revealing the sites under discussion.
"The newly discovered site is located here, near the ocean outlet of the same large river that flows next to the suspected Harrier site. We're bringing up photos, although they are quite oblique." The images changed, revealing a long-distance and coarse-grained depiction. "Strangely, IR gives us no imaging. We think the facility may be cold iron. Peregrine has scheduled an overflight within the hour."
"Go back to the Harrier site," Runacres ordered.
The reconnaissance image reappeared, and the group leader clicked in to maximum magnification. He positioned the laser pointer on the screen.
"Horses," he said. "Or something that looks like a horse."
"Horses!" Runacres exclaimed. "Domesticated animals would indicate an indigenous species, don't you think? Has there been time to domesticate wild animals?"
"I can't answer that, Admiral," the intelligence officer replied. "No one around here knows much about horses, although if there were an indigenous, village-building population on the planet, statistically, we should have discovered them much sooner. There would likely be many more sites, and those would likely be nearer the equator."
"Any more news on the satellites?" Sarah Merriwether asked.
"Sensors have detected seven satellites, Captain," the intelligence officer said. "Five appear to be downward-looking birds. The other two have intermittently tracked our units with surveillance radars, and one of them has been actively communicating. We estimate it to be a manned, er…so to speak—an alien ship with a crew onboard."
"It would appear our arrival is no longer a secret," Merriwether said. A funereal silence settled over the briefing room.
"Commander Quinn has requested permission to drop in," the group leader broke the spell. "She wants to put a lander on site. The area across the river has been terrain-mapped and qualified. The weather isn't cooperating, however. A heavy cloud layer has moved in, and surface winds are gale force and higher."
"Denied," Runacres replied. "I want more information and better conditions."
Commodore Well's communicator sounded an override alert. "Admiral, we have detected multiple up-Doppler radars in search mode," he announced. "Something's headed our way, and fast."
Runacres snapped to his feet. "Set General Quarters, battle-stations. Direct Tasmania to go active," Runacres ordered. "Group leader, intercept and destroy all contacts."
"Standard warning messages, Admiral?" the corvette commander asked.
"Intercept and destroy, Captain."
"Colonel Longo," the technician reported. "Telemetry has terminated. Analysis suggests our probes were destroyed. Enemy radar emissions have also terminated."
Longo cared not. He had located the enemy fleet. At least six and as many as eight large interstellars had been imaged. The position fix was firm, and PDF interceptors were already accelerating toward datum, without the need to employ search radars.
He looked at the scientists kneeling before him.
"We must terminate our interview," Longo ordered. "Your loyalty will be rewarded, and your services will be requested in the future."
Scientists Mirrtis and H'Aare bowed obsequiously and departed. Longo watched them crawl away, realizing that, despite Emperor-General Gorruk' s instructions, he would not kill all of the aliens. An avenue to power was opening.
Lee's infant was named Hope, and Hope grew fat and healthy. Lee did not die. She clung to life, but a profound weakness hung over her, just as winter held sway over the valley—deep and cold. Fenstermacher doted on her, staying at her side to the exclusion of his other duties, and Buccari overlooked his dereliction in favor of his dedication, for the shy and unassuming Lee was everyone's friend; all hands anguished for her recovery. Lee's invalid condition punctuated the universal feeling of helplessness that grew with every continuing day of endless winter. Spring—would it ever return?
A tired mantle of snow layered the ground in crusty, porous drifts, and yet the harsh absolutes of winter had softened; inquisitive rodents, energetic birds, and darting insects made tentative appearances. Nothing green yet, but the nude tree limbs swelled imperceptibly, and hints of bud color shaded the extremities of branches. The warm breath of spring descended lightly upon the dirty mirror of winter.
Late on a bleak morning, the new season arrived with a discordant symphony; on the great river, great chunks of ice shattered and twisted. The irrepressible liquid force of the river crushed its own brittle armor, causing the ground to tremble and the air to vibrate. The awestruck humans assumed another that quake was rattling the land; there had been many since their arrival, but these sounds were peculiar—drawn out, animate. The earthlings stared in wonder as the moaning and crunching continued unabated.
"The river!" MacArthur shouted, a distant memory of Canadian springs returning. "The river! The ice is breaking up. Winter's over!"
And then it started raining.
Hudson wondered what was going on. The guards were restive. Operational activity had increased; landing modules had made numerous trips to the army transport in orbit. Something was happening.
His guards shifted nervously. Hudson turned to see Et Silmarn in the company of soldiers coming down the rows of vegetables. The noblekone carried a familiar-looking bundle. Hudson bowed. The noblekone held out Hudson's konish full-pressure suit, the suit used for the sub-orbital flight to Goldmine.
"Master Huhsawn. It-ah time to return to your people! Put-ah on your space suit-ah," Et Silmarn ordered.
Hudson could hear the kone's helmet radio transmitting. Longo must be monitoring the conversations, using Kateos's translation programs. His anxiety swelled. Were they going to let him go? Or were they using him as bait?
"It will take a few moments," he said, using the konish language.
"Colonel Longo has-ah order you to get quick ready," Et Silmarn replied, curiously sticking to Legion. "You have-ah time to dress with your warmest clothing. We leave now."
"Your command of my tongue is excellent," Hudson said in konish, talking as he put his things in order, buying time. "I am proud of your progress. Is there any reason why you are speaking my tongue? Are you testing Kateos' s translation program?"
Et Silmarn smiled uncomfortably. "Thank-ah you for compliment. You are most kind-ah, and logic is correct-ah. No more questions. Please to hurry."
"Cassy," Carmichael announced over Peregrine One's command circuit. "Fleet acknowledges your recommendations, and flag operations has cleared us for a landing. Commencing return to low orbit. We'll launch a survey team as soon as we are in position to de-orbit the lander."
"Roger, Jake," she replied. "Finally!" she added under her breath.
"Holy torpedo, look at the size of that thing!" Godonov stammered. He stared through the high-powered optics, his hands deftly working the controls.
"What is it, Nes?" Quinn asked.
"That manned alien platform we've been tracking—the big one. It must be an interplanetary ship," Godonov said. "It's maneuvering in low orbit. We'd better tell Commander Carmichael. Here—take a look! You won't believe it."
Quinn stared into the eyepiece, adjusting the instrumented reticle. Godonov' s assessment was correct; she double-checked the magnification settings. The satellite—the spaceship—was a thousand meters in length! The telescope's motion-detection indicator started flashing. Quinn increased the magnification to maximum in time to see objects separate from the larger craft. Engines bloomed in retroburn, and the two craft dropped from sight.
"Tell Commander Carmichael the alien ship just deployed and retrofired two objects, probably landing modules. Something tells me they're looking for the same thing we are."
After days of rain only a few dirty pockets of snow remained. Rivulets of silty water poured from the mountains; streams swelled with impatient force, and the great river, usually not loud enough to be heard from the settlement, thundered and crashed. Sunlight weaved through scattered clouds, highlighting the proliferating buds and blossoms. Grasses poked fine needles through the humus, metamorphosing the dull and dirty ground into glorious shades of emerald. Fragrant wildflowers bravely spread their petals in random abundance.
Lee, wrapped in furs, reclined in the intermittent sunlight, enviously watching the bustling settlement. Baby Hope slept soundly at her mother's breast. Fenstermacher stood on the threshold of the stone hut, leaning against the open door frame.
"You sure you're comfortable?" he asked. "I can get more furs—"
"I'm fine, Winnie," Lee replied, her voice regaining much of its strength. "I need to get back on my feet. There's work to be done. It's time to start planting."
"Buccari gave me orders to take care of you and to keep you on your back," Fenstermacher announced. "And I intend to follow those orders—for the rest of my life."
"What? To take care of me or keep me on my back? I don't think that's what the lieutenant had in mind."
Fenstermacher looked at his feet with a silly grin on his face.
"Oh, go fishing!" Lee suggested. "Here comes Nancy to keep me company. Get out of here. Beat it." Dawson, carrying her baby, dodged across the muddy ground.
"I can take a hint," Fenstermacher said, grabbing his fishing gear off the wall. Fenstermacher was pleased to be at liberty. Leslie was finally well and growing stronger. He never wanted to worry that much again. He was a proud father, a happy man, and he was particularly delighted to be going fishing. Shouts grabbed his attention. A hundred paces downhill, moving away from the cove, was a huge bear, its hide moldy and ragged. It trundled along, still logy from hibernation, looking over its mane-covered shoulder. Chastain and O'Toole chased after it, jumping up and down and shouting, while Shannon stood, an assault rifle poised at his shoulder.
The bear became irritated at its human hounds. Deciding the two-legged creatures had become too brazen, the truculent ursine wheeled on its pursuers and feigned a charge. O'Toole and Chastain turned to run, collided, and fell in a tumbling heap. They struggled to regain footing on the muddy ground, their feet slipping and sliding in a panicky flurry. Shannon sprinted forward, shouting. He fired a precious round into the air and then took deadly aim. The cranky bear recoiled at the explosive report and galloped for the woods.
Fenstermacher broke the silence, hooting at the bear chasers, while Chastain and O'Toole knocked mud from their clothes. Hearing his laughter, they looked up, chagrined.
"You should've seen the looks on your faces!" Fenstermacher shouted. "You guys need new skivvies. That's why the ground got slippery. What a story for the campfire."
"Ah, come on, Winnie," Chastain pleaded.
"I don't see you chasing bears, Fenstermacher," O'Toole challenged.
"I ain't that horny," Fenstermacher retorted, "or that stupid!"
"Easy there, friend," Shannon counseled, ambling in Fenstermacher' s direction, a disarming smile on his face. "These gentlemen were only following my orders. You wouldn't want to embarrass them for that, would you?"
"Hell, yes, I would! Damn straight! What a legend this will be! You guys'll be famous by the time I'm—gerk!" Fenstermacher was throttled by Shannon's thick forearm. He felt his feet lifting off the ground. He dropped his fishing equipment, using both hands to combat the iron grip.
"Now run that by me again, Winnie, old friend," Shannon said calmly. "Tell me how brave you think these upstanding men are." Shannon eased the pressure.
"Brave—my ass!" gagged the incorrigible Fenstermacher. "A couple of—clowns!"
Shaking his head, Shannon handed Fenstermacher bodily to Chastain. Chastain grabbed him with meaty hands as if he were a sack of flour.
"He's yours, men," Shannon said. "Use your worst judgment."
Chastain, smiling, turned toward the lake but stopped suddenly. His grin evaporated. He glanced upward. "What's that?" His grip loosened, easing Fenstermacher to the ground.
"What's what, Jocko?" Shannon asked, slinging the assault rifle.
"That noise…" But everyone was hearing it now—feeling it. The low-pitched ambient rumbling had graduated to full-throated thunder.
"There! Over there!" Fenstermacher shouted, pointing up. Everyone turned to where he was pointing, staring into the overcast. A glowing, white-hot blade of flame stabbed through the ragged layer of clouds. The screaming exhaust smoothly descended until its source was visible—the black cylinder of an alien landing module. And then a second one! Two black cylinders on hot plumes of fire broke through the clouds. Clear of the overcast, the alien vessels slid slowly across the northern sky, descending smoothly into the valley. A bedlam of rocket exhaust, already at crescendo, increased to an exploding hell. The humans clapped hands to ears and ducked, all rational thought eclipsed by the single reflex of fright.
The alien engines of hellfire terminated lateral movement and hovered over the shore of the wooded lake. With startling abruptness they settled into the trees. Humans daring to look into hell watched the columns of flaming exhaust explode into the forest and shoot sideways, their obscene power supporting the landing modules ever lower, lower, until they were obscured by billowing smoke. The explosive chaos ceased.
The silence was worse. Nerve endings deadened by sensory onslaught triggered into paroxysmic action. Ringing ears and glare-shocked eyes sent belated pulses of energy to the brain. Muscles reacted randomly, and stomachs, bladders, and bowels rejected the tenuous control of the nervous system. Human thought groped for references, but all logic dictated panic; men and women screamed.
The first recognizable sensation was the blast of heat rolling over the settlement, followed by the fragrance of burning wood. Sensations! Links to sanity; the hypnosis of terror was broken. Fenstermacher staggered to his feet and looked about. Shannon, eyes slit with ferocious intensity, had unslung his rifle and was poised to shoot. Chastain, great brown eyes surrounded with white, was crouched low, ready to spring. Shannon was shouting, but Fenstermacher was unable to distinguish any words, only an infernal buzzing. O'Toole stumbled in circles, wide-eyed and witless. Shannon grabbed the Marine by the elbow and slapped him. Confusion reigned. Fenstermacher realized that Shannon was shouting at him. Concentrating with all his might, he could hear Shannon's voice, a tinny whisper under a waterfall of ambient noise. It increased in volume and fullness.
"— get back to the stockade!" Shannon shouted.
Fenstermacher dumbly nodded, grateful to hear again. He turned toward the stockade and stumbled uphill. He halted as Buccari sprinted toward them.
"W-What are we going to do?" Shannon asked.
"Let me think!" she shouted. She held her hand over an ear, trying to hear.
An acrid stench, like kerosene burning, assaulted Fenstermacher' s senses. Vivid tongues of flame danced above the treetops, and black billows tumbled into the sky. Wilson and MacArthur came running along the shore and joined the collection of haggard humans on the cove beach.
"Sarge!" Buccari shouted. "Collect the women and children and get out of here. Take the horses, and get moving into the woods."
"Mac," she continued, louder than necessary. "I want you to round up everyone else and report back here—with weapons! When Shannon's clear I want you and Chastain to come down the shore until you can see me or Chief Wilson. Wait for signals. Stay spread out and don't get closer than three hundred meters, unless I call you in. If you can't see us, don't do anything stupid. Fall back and try to stay alive."
"Aye, aye, Lieutenant," MacArthur replied, but his eyes showed concern—concern for Buccari. She waved him away and turned to Wilson.
"Gunner, you and I are the reception committee! Let's go." "Yeah, that's exactly what I was hoping we were going to do,"
Wilson muttered, jaw tight. "Must be my friggin' lucky day."
The clutch of frightened humans broke apart. Fenstermacher sprinted for the palisade gate, his fishing gear lying in the mud.
The spring thermals were weak. It had taken Brappa and Kibba two days to make the downwind trip. Full-fledged warriors, the proud young hunters had been selected to make the first contact of the year with the long-legs—a great honor. They were still far away when the engines of terror broke through the clouds. Brappa screamed warning signals and accelerated his glide. With a freshening wind carrying them southward, the cliff dwellers lifted high on firming updrafts. The scar gouged out of the forest by the alien vehicles was a carbonized gash on the shores of the lake. Everything within bowshot of the sinister black cylinders was cauterized into ash.
Two long-legs stood on the verge of the destruction; Brappa recognized Short-one-who-leads and One-who-cooks. Two more long-legs, Brave-crazy-one and Giant-one, ran along the lake shore toward the landing site. All carried weapons. Brappa returned his scrutiny to the alien ships. An open entrance was visible in each vessel, and uniformed aliens—immense beings carrying weapons— were descending to the ground.
"Bear people! The long-legs are in peril," Braan whistled. "Stalwart Kibba, return and inform Braan-our-leader of what we have seen. We will have war!"
Kibba screamed and climbed for altitude, weariness in his wings eclipsed by his mission. Brappa soared over the troubled valley.
Buccari and Wilson rounded the charred trees. A thick smell of ash and smoldering wood permeated the smoky air; the ground was fused into crusty blackness. The alien vessels loomed high, easily the height of a lunar yard booster. Their massive engines had excavated prodigious craters over which the heavy craft were suspended, supported by articulating buttresses. Buccari looked back along the beach and saw MacArthur and Chastain in the distance. She turned to the konish landers. Three aliens dressed in burgundy suits approached, crawling on all fours.
"Stay here, Gunner," Buccari ordered. "Keep MacArthur in sight. Take this." She handed Wilson her pistol and left the lakeshore. Heat from the hot cinders crept around the soles of her sandals. Forty paces from the approaching aliens she halted and held her ground; other kones were visible at the lander hatches. She searched for Hudson, to no avail, but she saw Et Silmarn in his distinctive gray suit; he stood erect in a hunched cluster of black-uniformed kones. She counted twenty.
The three burgundy-uniformed kones crawled up and stopped ten paces from her. The leader lifted gauntleted hands from the ground and stood erect, towering disconcertingly. It removed its helmet and nodded, looking beyond her as if searching. Buccari nodded curtly. The other kones kept their helmets on. One of them, carrying a blaster, removed a black box from a commodious uniform pouch and placed it on the ground.
The leader spoke loudly in his own language. After a short delay the disembodied translation came from the electronics box: "I greet you."
Disgusted, Buccari looked down at the box as if it were dog offal. She did not need a talking box. Where was Kateos? Where was Hudson?
"Et Silmarn!" Buccari yelled past the kones. "Where is Hudson?" The soldiers guarding the noblekone rose on their hind legs and adjusted their positions, blocking the noblekone from her sight.
"Talk to me," said the uniformed kone, the monotonous, mechanical translation giving no hint of emotion or inflection. "Speak slowly."
Buccari squared her shoulders and stared up at the hulking monster. "You have one of my people," she said. "Where is Hudson?"
The kone listened as the box translated. Buccari was frustrated and angry, her fears completely forgotten. The shock of the tumultuous landing had passed, and her fury boiled at the thought of what had happened. There was no reason for them to land this close. Just a few meters closer and her people would have been crippled or killed.
"Yes, we have Huhsawn," the box replied. "He—"
"Where is he?" Buccari shouted, shouting over the kone's words. "If you have him with you, then bring him here! Now!" The translator emitted garbled noises.
The kone spoke again, slowly and with more volume: "Please wait for me to finish speak—" Buccari's jaw jutted out. She gave the alien an iron glance, stomped over to the electronics box, and kicked it tumbling backwards. Her sandaled toes hurt like hell.
"Hudson!" she shouted with bald rage. "Huhsawn!"
The giant retreated a half step. A subaltern apprehensively sidled to the box and picked it up, checking for damage. It was apparently inoperative. The aliens talked among themselves. One departed, dogtrotting across the cinders. The alien in charge peered down at Buccari with a curious look on his face. She could smell his fear.
The incongruity of size was comical. Buccari felt like a rabid mouse. There was no reason for the huge alien to fear her, and there was every reason for her to be standing in stark terror, but her anger was controlling the confrontation. Could she control her anger? She observed Et Silmarn and a smaller figure—Hudson! — coming her way, escorted by four black-uniforms.
She watched them approach, feeling her intensity dampen. The compact formation stopped short of her position, and the subaltern moved briskly forward with another voice translator identical to the first one. He connected a coiled lead from the leader's helmet to the box and stood at his side, holding the box and watching Buccari carefully. The leader of the aliens put on his helmet.
Hudson's mouth was twisted into a worried smile. Buccari waved, and Hudson hesitantly waved back or, more accurately, pointed skyward with a jabbing finger. Hudson's appearance mollified her anger. She was cooler, more objective, and surprised at her audacity. Boldness was working to her advantage.
"Why did you land so close?" Buccari asked, retaining the initiative. "We have had injuries." She heard the metallic voice of the translation box remanufacture her words. The alien leader listened carefully and spoke several sentences.
"We apologize," the box announced. The alien spoke in short phrases. "We wanted to come down…on this side of the river. Once our landers were committed to land…we could not alter their trajectories…I am told that you and Huhsawn…are both ship pilots, so you must understand our plight. I am sorry…It must have been loud."
The excuse was plausible. An orbital descent on a planet this dense would be a fuel-critical maneuver, particularly for the nonaerodynamic, vertical-thrust machines flown by the aliens. She was not happy about it, but she would concede the issue. She reminded herself that it was futile to fight the kones; that cooperation would be their best chance for survival. She struggled against mutinous instincts.
"Why are Hudson and Et Silmarn being guarded?" she asked, speaking slowly. "Is Hudson not free to rejoin his kind? Where is Kateos?"
"You are the one called Sharl," the box answered. "The research files…say good things about you…Is it true you are…a female of your species?"
"I am the senior officer," she replied, anger welling. With effort she contained herself. "Yes! I am Sharl. Allow me to speak with Hudson."
"Huhsawn will be brought forward," the box said. "Forgive the delay… but we desire to test this…translation computer without prejudice of knowledgeable assistance… It works well, yes?"
"Given a chance," she responded sheepishly, her foot still smarting.
The kone stared impassively. She could no longer smell its fear.
"I am Colonel Longo. As official representative…of the governments of Kon and of the Northern Hegemony… I have beenordered to establish contact with your race… and to define the preliminary conditions for relationships."
Relationships! That sounded encouraging.
"I am Lieutenant Sharl Buccari," she responded formally, "of the Tellurian Legion Space Force. It is our wish to cooperate fully with your government."
"Very well, Lieutenant Sharl." The kone turned away and talked to his subordinates; the sound was not processed by the translator. One subordinate loped over to Hudson's guards and returned with Hudson in tow. Her cooperation was being rewarded.
"Hello, Nash!" she shouted, as soon as he was in easy voice range.
"The fleet's back, Sharl—" Hudson responded, but the kone held up his hand and said something loud and curt. Hudson obviously understood.
The fleet was back!
Thunderstruck, she barely heard Longo' s admonition.
"Again," Longo said. "I must ask that you speak one at a time and slowly… so the translator can operate effectively.. for my benefit." He looked at both of them. "Allow me to continue…Master Huhsawn, Lieutenant Sharl has expressed her desire…to fully cooperate with my government. That is also your desire. Yes?"
Hudson shot back an answer in the alien tongue even as the box was asking the question."…Excellent Colonel," the box partially translated Hudson's words. "What is it that you wish us to do?"
Colonel Longo stared angrily at Hudson. He turned to Buccari.
"This location is not conducive to establishing relationship… that my government wishes to have with your race. Cold and remote.. I have been ordered to relocate all humans to Goldmine Station… where it will be much easier to communicate… Your race is hardy, but you will be more comfortable in a southern climate… and we have a domed facility that you may use… Huhsawn will attest to the comforts of our base."
Buccari tried to think. The fleet was back! The fleet was back! That thought pounded through her consciousness. She forced herself back to the moment. She had to deal with the present— dreams would come later. She listened as Longo repeated himself. She knew the kones would ask them to relocate. It made sense—from the kones' point of view. She looked at Hudson, trying to gauge his expression. There was much unsaid.
"When and how do we accomplish this relocation?" Buccari asked, trepidation growing strong within her breast. The fleet was back. Everything was different.
"There are nineteen humans, is that not correct?"
"Yes, nineteen, er—no! Twenty," answered Buccari. She looked at Hudson. "Lee had a baby girl." Longo tilted his head curiously.
"Now! This day. We act on this day," Longo continued. "I have the means to lift your group… I have but to bring down another module… Of course, that will mean another very loud arrival… All can avoid danger by moving into the landers already on the ground… They are soundproof."
The translator cranked out Longo' s words like assembly-line cookies, with no inflection or accent, no tone, no emotion, but the words were sinister—the spider talking to the fly. Buccari looked down at her ash-blackened feet and contemplated a simpler life. She desperately missed flying spaceships. Cheating death on a day-to-day basis as the pilot of a complex and powerful spacecraft was so much simpler than facing death even once with your feet planted firmly on the ground. Pain and death came slowly on the ground. She shook herself from her confused trance.
"Colonel Longo," she said, her voice firm. "We will comply with your recommendation."
Longo put his hands together and turned away, a look of satisfaction on his face. Buccari continued talking before he could give orders.
"However," she said, a corner of her brain frantically formulating a plan, "your landing was of such violence.. that most of my people have fled. It will take several hours, if not days…to retrieve them. Is it possible to schedule another meeting at first light tomorrow morning? I will have everyone assembled at that time…or at least be able to give you a better estimate of exactly when we will be ready."
Longo deliberated Buccari's request.
Hudson spoke up quickly, in konish.
"Most excellent Colonel," the box translated his words into Legion. "Et Silmarn will be of assistance in providing assurance to our people. He is well known and trusted. Would you not allow him to come with us?"
Buccari nodded at Hudson's words. They had reseized the initiative.
Quinn felt the lander slip its moorings and accelerate laterally. She clutched her data pad, tightened her restraints, and suppressed her fears. The EPL was floating free in orbit, drifting alongside the greater bulk of the corvette. She shared the passenger compartment with Godonov and two Marines. It would not be long now.
"Lander's clear," the EPL pilot reported.
"Roger," Carmichael answered. "Reentry window in ten minutes. Let's look sharp. We may not have too many chances to get on the ground. You're cleared for retroburn."
"Aye, Skipper," the pilot replied. "Checking good."
"Commander Quinn," Carmichael transmitted, "Your pilot's got orders to return to the ship within five orbits. If you need more time, give me some warning. We're on a short leash. Good luck with your search."
"I understand, Commander," she replied. "And thanks."
"I urge-ah caution," Et Silmarn said as they marched over the cinders. "Colonel Longo wishes your people to walk-ah onto his lander. Letting Huhsawn and me go is…gamble. Longo think it-ah make him look-ah honest. Is good gamble. Where I go without-ah compressor fuel?"
Buccari glanced over her shoulder. Longo stood watching them.
"Where's the fleet, Nash?" she asked. "In orbit? How many ships?"
"Can't be sure, Sharl," Hudson replied. "Kateos says at least one corvette is in orbit. I tried to get a message out, but there's no way of knowing if it was received."
They marched over the devastated ground. Her exultation at the fleet's return had dampened; the realities of their predicament were overwhelming.
"Can't trust Longo," Buccari said. She set her jaw and stared straight ahead; but he fleet's return had changed the equation. Rescue was now a possibility.
"Longo is up to something, Sharl," Hudson said. "He threw Dowornobb and Kateos in the brig and tried to prevent me from communicating. His sincerity needs a lot of work."
"Colonel Longo speak-ah for my government-ah," Et Silmarn said. "To my government-ah you are threat-ah. You will be attacked."
"We didn't attack your planet!" Hudson almost shouted. "But-ah can you prove it-ah?" Et Silmarn asked.
"No, of course not," Buccari said. "Not without time and the ability to communicate with our ships."
"Not-ah matter," Et Silmarn said. "The governments of my planet-ah will not-ah wait-ah. They have taken vows to destroy all attackers."
As they crossed the blackened land, Buccari juggled the implications of the noblekone' s warning. They rendezvoused with Wilson on the blasted and littered beach and moved faster, their withdrawal obscured by forest. MacArthur and Chastain were farther down the beach. Buccari started jogging, collecting the Marines on the run. Passing MacArthur, she was startled by the cracking wings of a cliff dweller taking flight from a nearby tree.
"Tonto," MacArthur said, shaking Hudson's hand. "He's worried too."
"The fleet's back, Mac," Buccari said, and her eyes welled with tears. No one noticed.
Runacres stared at the quiescent status panels. Fleet radars were suppressed, and passive detectors revealed no alien signals— no radars, no lasers, no electromagnetic transmissions on any wavelength. Nothing, for weeks now. Runacres was anxious to get Quinn's lander down on the planet. Once he had his people back, then he could think about other options, like how hard to fight for the chance of winning a planet. How badly did the people of Earth need a new home? How desperately?
"Admiral, Peregrine has activity on visual sensors," the tactical officer reported. They have confirmed objects eclipsing stars."
"Identification? Any trajectory estimate?" Runacres asked. "No, sir. Attempting to develop parallax triangulation." "Has Peregrine launched her EPL?" Runacres asked.
"Apple's out of the bay. Approaching envelope. Retroburn imminent."
"Keep me informed," Runacres ordered.
"Aye, aye, Admiral."
Runacres stared at the blank situation plots. He could ill afford to wait. His best strategy was to engage early, picking off attackers at long range.
"Franklin, have Tasmania go active. Link to fleet tactical," Runacres ordered.
"Aye, aye, Admiral," Wells replied. "Tasmania to go active immediately! Patch data to central operations. Tasmania go active, now!"
Tasmania's search radars exploded into search mode. Electromagnetic pulses radiated omnidirectionally, reaching out for solid surfaces from which to rebound. The main situation plot glowed subtly, shifting through muted tones of magenta and blue as it tuned to the datalink.
Suddenly, returning signals were processed; pinpricks of light appeared—radar contacts. Many contacts! Battle computers assessed and designated targets, immediately locating and classifying motherships and corvettes. A planet symbol illuminated, revealing the relative position of R-K Three, and two of the three picket corvettes stood out from the mass of bogies, registering friendly identification codes. The third corvette, Peregrine One, rounded the planet on its orbital track as Runacres watched.
But the computer also generated multiple threat warnings, and target acquisition radars automatically powered up into standby— precomputing firing solutions. There were many, many targets, the nearest only three to four days away from engagement range, given present vectors.
"Good God!" an unidentified voice gasped on the main battle net. Hundreds—thousands—of targets presented themselves on the large status screen—whole constellations of attacking interceptors and rockets, and no doubt decoys.
"Enough praying. Defensive Condition One. Set modified General Quarters," Runacres ordered calmly. "Signal Battle Formation One One Delta. Clear all ships to go active. Let's start dividing these bogeys up, shall we?"
"All ships going active," the tactical officer echoed. Alarm klaxons erupted into a discordant, nerve-grating wail.
"Abort the landing. Order Peregrine One to recover EPL," Runacres commanded. "Group Leader, recall all corvettes. Launch the corvette screen to the attack axis."
A raw sun climbed above the river bluffs. Longo looked out the open hatch of his landing vehicle. There was no sign of the humans. He was furious! Everything was going wrong. And the orbiting alien vessels had suddenly departed—escaped. He had waited too long. Gorruk would be furious. Longo's primary objective—capturing and killing the aliens on Genellan—had become that much more important. The intelligence officer shivered in the damp morning air; he increased the temperature on his suit controls.
"Colonel Longo!" a sentry shouted. "Aliens approach."
Longo exhaled with relief. He returned to the opened hatch and stepped through it, recoiling at the cloying smell of wet ash, pervasive even through helmet filters. In the distance, across the wide expanse of dew-dampened cinders, two humans approached. Halfway across the clearing one stopped and waited, while the other kept coming. Both aliens were tall, and human. The female, Sharl, had not come back, nor had Et Silmarn. The absence of Et Silmarn did not bother the colonel; the requirement to replenish fuel in his breathing unit was the equivalent of a death sentence. Longo recognized Hudson.
"Respects, Master Huhsawn!" Longo shouted, masking his distaste for the frail alien.
"Greetings, most excellent Colonel," Hudson replied. "What news? Lieutenant Sharl is not with you."
"Lieutenant Sharl apologizes, but she is injured," Hudson said. "She sprained her ankle trying to find our people. It is not serious and will take but a few days to mend."
"A few days! Unfortunate. Can we help to convey her back to the modules?"
"That is the least of our problems," the human said. "It has not gone well, most excellent Colonel. Half our number remains unaccounted for."
"What are you saying, Huhsawn?"
"We are anxious to obey your recommendations. It is cold here. Lieutenant Buccar—er…Lieutenant Sharl suggests you return to the orbiting ship instead of waiting in the cold. In two or three days we will be ready. If you equip us with a transmitter, we could give you status updates. Et Silmarn has experience with your radios and has volunteered to remain with us for that purpose. Of course he would need another breather canister."
They stall, thought Longo. He stared silently at the puny alien.
"Unfortunate," he growled finally, barely containing his fury. "It is not a trivial matter to return to orbit—fuel considerations, and other things. Why not bring those that have been recovered to the landers?" Perhaps Gol 'berg would be in that group.
"But we need every available person to help search," Hudson rejoined.
"We wait one more day, Huhsawn. Inform Et Silmarn that I wish him to return," Longo snarled. "Immediately." All pretense at diplomacy evaporated.
Hudson bowed slightly, turned, and walked away.
The next morning arrived clear and cold. Behind the walls of the settlement MacArthur inhaled the crisp air. It was going to be a beautiful day, and warm. He grimaced at the thought. It was going to get damned warm, but not from the sun! He had been surprised and impressed by Buccari's orders to set up the ambush. He never dreamed she would fire the first shots, but their survival hinged on taking the initiative away from the better-armed aliens. There was no turning back.
The Marine, standing alone in front of the lodge, kept an intent eye on Tonto. The cliff dweller was perched in the highest tree on the peninsula, with a clear view of all approaches to the settlement. Suddenly he screeched—it was the signal; Kones were on the beach and headed toward the settlement. MacArthur whistled an acknowledgment. He jogged to the guard tower closest to the kones' point of approach. Petit and Chastain peeked down at him.
"One more time. When I start shooting, you guys take two shots each! To kill!" he said emphatically. "Two well-aimed single shots. No bursts. Shoot quick and get the hell out of here! Go straight for the back gate. No heroes! You got me?" Both men nodded and MacArthur turned away.
"Mac!" Chastain shouted. MacArthur stopped abruptly and looked back.
"No heroes, Mac," Chastain pleaded.
MacArthur tightened his lips but said nothing. He sprinted toward the guard tower farther up the hill. O'Toole and Gordon watched him approach. MacArthur gave them the same instructions and then dashed back to the lodge. He stomped up the tall wooden stairs, crossed the porch, and went through the doors.
It was cold and dark inside; no fires had burned in its fireplaces for three nights. He scaled the ladder to the loft. It was brighter there; three rifle ports penetrated the logs, and the sun's rays angled sharply through the freshly hewn openings. Buccari, Hudson, and Shannon waited for him, their somber features bottom-lit by the brilliant patches of sunlight. Their attic perch afforded a clear field of fire over the palisade. Buccari poked a carbine through a port.
"Bugs are on the way, Lieutenant," MacArthur reported. He looked through one of the ports. The tops of the alien landersreflected dully in the distance. The air was sharp and clear, and a fresh breeze was rising—a beautiful day. Tonto screamed and flapped from the tree, catching a thermal and soaring upward.
"They're in the woods," MacArthur said. "Time to go to work."
"Sharl! I'm going down to the gate with MacArthur," Hudson said.
"Yeah, the best pistol shot in the world couldn't hit anything from here," Shannon agreed.
"Okay. Be careful," Buccari said, keeping her face to the rifle port.
"You be careful, too, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "Once they start hitting this tinderbox with lasers you'll wish you had changed places with us. Don't wait around."
Buccari turned her head and smiled bravely, without joy but with obvious emotion. MacArthur took a deep breath and headed for the ladder with Hudson following. The men descended, dashed outside, and sprinted across the common toward the main gate, each carrying their heavy-caliber pistol in front of them. They positioned themselves behind the partially open gate doors and sighted through the hinge openings—and waited. With short-ranged pistols, it was up to them to take the first shots.
They would also start the retreat, leading everyone through the rear sally gate, to a rendezvous in the thick woods, a kilometer in the hills, where Et Silmarn and the heavily burdened horses were waiting. Tatum and Wilson had taken everyone else into the mountains, to one of Tatum' s hunting camps, a cave at the top of the valley. Buccari's objective was to delay the kones long enough to get the slower moving women and children clear of danger.
An eternity passed. Suddenly Tonto screamed. MacArthur peeked through the hinge opening and observed movement in the underbrush. He froze. Konish soldiers, giants deployed at wide intervals, appeared at the edge of the clearing—a mountain range of aliens. Broad, hulking forms broke from the spring foliage and advanced before the stockade, laser-blasters and short-barreled cannon at the ready, burgundy-uniformed officers following in their wake.
Once clear of the trees, the line of behemoths halted; three scouts crawled cautiously across the expanse of open ground toward the main gate, sweeping the area with IR detectors. Their commander moved forward until he was even with the front rank. He pointed uphill and three giant soldiers trotted out to the flank, while the rest of the titans slowly converged on the gate. MacArthur worried the kones would outflank the ambush. Fifty paces short of the stockade a scout shouted an alarm and halted, pointing his heat detector at the gate. The others brought weapons to bear. The phalanx of kones, already down on all fours, dropped their ponderous bodies to the ground.
"On three," MacArthur whispered. "One.. two. three!"
Hudson fired through the narrow crack of the gate hinge while MacArthur stepped into the gate opening, crouching low and firing three times. They were so close. A konish scout twitched in his sights as his bullets impacted.
Laser-blasters belched singing pulses through the gate, spewing like incandescent water hoses toward MacArthur's crouching form. Blue lightning beams reverberated across the short distance and exploded against the wooden structure. Konish infantry cannon, firing in machine-gun bursts, joined the barrage, their explosive shells thumping into the wood and reducing the stockade to flying splinters; but MacArthur was already clear, rolling away from the exposed door. The blasts from the lasers and cannons did not hit Hudson, but the explosive force of their discharge against the doors caused both gates to burst into flame and swing violently. The ponderous gate became a flaming fly-swatter, crushing Hudson against the wall of the fort and enveloping him in a blossoming conflagration.
Sprinting across the open field, MacArthur realized there was no hope for the officer. Over the bedlam of konish fire, he heard humans firing—the loud, cracking explosions of assault rifles and the higher pitched snaps from Lieutenant Buccari's carbine. He counted at least five carbine reports alone—too many shots! They were still firing from the lodge as answering laser pulses and cannon rounds sang overhead. MacArthur could see the effect of the konish barrage, raking and exploding against wood and stone. He glanced over his shoulder. The guard towers were gone! The stockade walls that had supported them were engulfed in a licking yellow inferno, but four Marines were on the ground sprinting his way. As he passed the main lodge, the roof exploded in flames with laser beams and artillery shell explosions fueling the fire like so many bellows gusts. Burning chunks of wood sailed through the air, sizzling and clattering to the ground. He stopped, frozen with grief.
Chastain dashed up and yanked MacArthur's arm, forcibly pulling him into a run. MacArthur ran dumbly for twenty more strides and then stopped to look back at the lodge, his stomach knotted and his head spinning. A shutter in the rock wall burst open. Ugly black smoke billowed forth as two fast-moving figures clambered through the opening and hit the ground running. Adrenaline flushed MacArthur' s body. His entire being soared with exhilaration. He turned and sprinted along with the others until they made the rear gate. All made it, except for Ensign Hudson.
Longo gained the stockade in time to see humans running out the rear gate. His soldiers fired at their backs, but their power packs had been drained by the assault barrage. None of the infantry cannon hit the mark. He cantered through tumbling smoke, past the burning gates and into the compound. He surveyed the gutted lodge, noting with satisfaction that nothing could have survived the roaring flames consuming its structure. A subaltern trotted up to him.
"Four of our soldiers are dead or dying, Colonel. Six are wounded—two seriously," the subaltern reported. "All blaster units need to be recharged. We are vulnerable."
"At least it is warm for a change," Longo muttered. All around him the settlement roared with the flames of destruction. These aliens were turning out to be considerable adversaries. He had badly underestimated them. "Did we do any damage?" he asked.
"Yes, Colonel," the subaltern reported. "One is gravely injured at the gate. It will probably die. The one called Huhsawn."
Longo smiled. "Ah! A small victory," said Longo, "but a victory, nevertheless. Have the blaster soldiers form up and return to the landers. Recharge the blaster packs and bring them back as soon as you can. Order reinforcements down, armed with cannon and small bore. We have enough blasters. Take the alien back to the lander and see what can be done to keep it alive. A hostage may prove useful."
Brappa sailed overhead, lifted by hot updrafts. He slipped against the press of the thermals and surveyed the activity. The battle had been brief, but every settlement building was in flames. A column of loping bear people hurried along the beach in the direction of their ships. A clutch of wounded soldiers straggled more slowly. Bear people still in the settlement were taking positions along the palisade's remaining back wall. Two huge soldiers slipped through the sally gate and were tentatively crossing the stretch of cleared land.
Brappa lifted his gaze uphill. The long-legs had arrived at their rendezvous point and were retreating in good order. Brappa could see the heavily laden horses and the broad figure of a bear-person. Brappa wondered at the wisdom of accepting the bear-person into their ranks, and of taking the horses. All would be easy to track.
Long-leg death-sticks cracked. Brappa observed puffs of smoke at the edge of the forest. One of the bear people went down, and a blend of thunderous explosions sounded as the bear people unleashed a volley of return fire. Trees disintegrated in crackling flames and explosions, but Brappa caught sight of two long-legs sprinting and dodging through the incinerated boughs. He was not surprised to recognize Brave-crazy-one and Short-one-who-leads.
Tatum helplessly observed the black pall of smoke above the settlement. Intervening ridges blocked his view, and he could only guess at the magnitude of destruction. Tatum slid from the steep ridge of the glacial moraine and returned to the cave. A single large entrance and two narrow clefts provided access to its multiple chambers. He climbed over the boulders obscuring the main entrance. A rivulet of glacier melt ran nearby. The nearest arm of the imposing blue-green glacier was only three hundred meters away—an icy chill testifying to its proximity. The glacier's physical splendor was reflected on the surface of the moraine lake, whose silty emerald waters meandered beneath and past the boulder-shrouded cave entrance, narrowing and draining into the lake valley below. The cascades of the upper falls were just below the hunting camp, and the noise of the falling water thundered in the background.
"What did you see, Sandy?" Dawson asked. Worry pinched her features. "Is it still burning?" She moved back from the cave entrance.
"Still burning," Tatum fretted. "It's been over four hours." After a few paces the ceiling lifted high enough to where even Tatum could stand, but he sat down heavily next to Goldberg and took Honey into his lap. Everyone stayed close for warmth. Tatum would not let them start a fire until darkness could obscure the smoke.
"What should we do?" Fenstermacher asked. Lee and her infant lay next to him, both covered in furs and fast asleep.
"Sit and wait," Tatum replied. "We're on our own."
"What happens if the bugs win?" Fenstermacher asked.
"No way!" Tatum shot back. "We'll tear them to pieces."
"How can you say that?" Fenstermacher asked. "The big uglies have the firepower. Wonder why Buccari decided to fight?"
"Because the fleet's back, and judging from what happened, it's a good thing she did," Wilson said. "As long as we're not captured, we can still be rescued."
"How long?" Dawson said. "How much longer can we hold out?"
"This is our planet," the taciturn Tookmanian suddenly interjected. "The kones don't know it, but it's ours. It's—it's our moral right."
"Moral right, Tooks?" Fenstermacher huffed. "Stick to your sewing!"
"Morality has nothing to do with it," Wilson said. "It's called survival."
"In the long run they are the same," Tookmanian replied, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Silence fell over the haggard survivors.
Buccari worked the soreness from her back and the burning ache from her old injury; it felt as if she had sand in her shoulder socket. Her hair was singed and brittle from laser strikes, her cheek blistered. But most of all, she mourned Hudson.
"Tonto says we took out maybe six or seven of them," MacArthur said. "That leaves only fifteen or sixteen. That's a pretty good day."
"So much for the element of surprise," Buccari said. "The rest will be a lot harder to hit." She looked around at the cold, tired faces. The silvery moon was three-quarters full, giving everyone a sinister and shadowy visage. She puzzled over their next step. "Ammo status?" Shannon demanded.
"Two hundred eight rounds standard—thirty pistol," O'Toole answered.
"Phew!" MacArthur replied. "Get ready to fix bayonets." "Can't we steal some of their weapons?" O'Toole asked.
"We need another breather canister for Et Silmarn," Buccari said. She looked at the big kone. Et Silmarn stirred, pushing off the furs.
"It-ah… makes sense… for me-e-e to go back-ah," Et Silmarn said. "It too cold, Sharl. My fuel is gone in five days or less. I am burden to-ah you." He stood on his four limbs and stared at the humans, the moon's reflection on his helmet visor making it brightly opaque. "Even if could-ah get-ah more fuel tanks, it-ah would-ah only be matter of time. I am dead-ah either way." He turned and ambled slowly downhill.
"Et Silmarn," Buccari said firmly. The scientist turned. "We will be rescued. When my people come, we will take you with us. We can make fuel for your breathing unit."
"But-ah will they come in time?" the kone asked.
"More fuel," Buccari said grimly. "We'll get more fuel." She turned to Shannon. "Sarge! The night's ours. It's too cold for the kones, but they'll have posted sentries. We're going back to the lake and liberate as many fuel tanks and weapons from those sentries as we can."
The Marines rumbled their approval.
"Yes, sir," Shannon replied, squinting up at the gibbous moon.
"Yes, sir," MacArthur said. He had been sitting quietly. "But with all due respect, Lieutenant…" He looked at Buccari, his eyes shrouded in the blackness of moon shadows. "With all due respect, I think, er… I recommend you hand off that carbine to one of the men, er… one of the Marines, and that you lead our konish friend, here, and the horses, up to the hunting camp. Someone has to get that stuff where it can do some good, and it makes more sense to have the Marines—not the generals—doing the fighting." He said the last sentence rapidly, as if afraid she would interrupt.
Buccari stifled a rush of anger. That certainly had not been her plan—but it made sense. There were not enough weapons to go around, and the supplies needed to reach the rest of the crew. MacArthur had a point. And, besides, he had promoted her to general.
"Okay, Sarge, I hate to admit it, but Mac's right. You're in charge," she said. "Good luck, good hunting, and bring everyone back with you." She turned to the kone. "Et Silmarn, you do not have a good choice. Sergeant Shannon will try to get more fuel. If he is not successful, then you must decide where you wish to die."
The noblekone looked up and said, "You are right-ah. I am dead-ah either way-ah. I die free. Lead-ah and-ah I will follow, Sharl."
Buccari glanced at the Marines one last time, stopping at MacArthur. "We owe them for Nash Hudson and for Bosun Jones," she said grimly. "And for Commander Quinn and Virgil Rhodes. We owe them."
She collected the horses and started walking. Et Silmarn followed. They hiked all night. Gunfire broke the distant stillness on two occasions, yet Buccari was encouraged because each instance was short-lived. The noblekone and the earthwoman kept walking. And kept climbing.
The unlikely duo and their horses hiked throughout the next morning, their view of the ruined settlement eventually hidden by trees and intervening terrain. The sun slipped from its zenith as they reached a tree-dotted ridge near the far end of the valley, the lip of an exposed, talus-strewn bowl. Past a last stand of yellow-barked firs, the bowl rose steeply to the final wall of the valley from which plummeted two separate billowing cascades. These crashing waters joined in a crystalline tarn nestled deeply within the sun-drenched bowl. The confluence of waters smoothly overflowed the granite-cradled pool and continued through a riven channel, journeying onward and downward to the lake in the distant valley, and beyond. Buccari' s and Et Silmarn's path lay across the bowl, opposite the water, where a rock-tumbled cleft angled across the bowl and breached the barren face of the escarpment—a challenge for the horses.
"We'll wait until dusk," Buccari said, wiping her brow. It would require two hours of hard hiking to cross the open stretch of mountainside. Taking the golden horses across the traverse in daylight could expose them to the searching eyes of the aliens.
"You are capable of great-ah effort," Et Silmarn said. The noblekone had kept up, but the increasing elevation was taking its toll.
"Fear pushes hard," she replied. "It's easier to work than to worry."
"Ah, yes… fear. Slow death. It-ah is difficult to face death slowly," the noblekone wheezed. He sat down on a slab of sunlit granite. "Too much time to… consider the, ah… meaning of living. I am afraid, and also very tired."
"You are brave," Buccari said. "Do not talk. Rest now."
"And you, too, are brave," the noblekone replied. "I am not-ah so brave. I am afraid to sleep-ah, for I may never open my eyes. Itah is so cold."
"We'll get more fuel," Buccari answered. "Sleep. Go to sleep. It will be better when you wake up." She pulled supplies from the horses's backs and grabbed several fur hides. She covered the reclining kone with animal skins, wondering how he could be comfortable laying in the sun under layers of fur. The mountain air was brisk, but the exertions of the climb had caused her to perspire freely.
"Ah!" he groaned. "At last-ah warmth. Thang you, Sharl. Thang you."
"Go to sleep." Within seconds she could tell from the kone' s breathing that he had given in to his fatigue. It had been many stressful hours since either one of them had slept. After hobbling the horses she threw down another thick fur, but in the shade. She rolled herself in it and instantly submerged into the deepest of slumbers.
Direct sunlight assaulted her eyes. Wet with perspiration, she blinked awake, wondering how long she had been asleep. The sun had traveled across a wide arc—she estimated three hours. It seemed like three minutes. She wobbled to her legs and looked at the slumbering kone. Her head ached, and her mouth tasted foul. She struggled to focus her eyes and was startled by a cliff dweller— Tonto—sitting alertly on a rock next to Et Silmarn's head. The hunter, bow in hand, an arrow nocked, was focused on the sleeping kone. Tonto turned and, seeing Buccari awake, hopped away from the kone, stowing his bow and returning the short arrow to its quiver.
Buccari checked the horses grazing across a patch of wildflowers and grasses growing in the shelter of the spindly grove. She moved her trail-battered body close to Tonto. Alert and unafraid, the hunter looked at her. She noticed the scars on his forearms, the vestiges of his broken arm. The day of the earthquake on the plateau lake seemed so long ago. They owed so much to the strange little creatures.
She signed: "Greetings, warrior." Tonto returned the salutation. Buccari pointed to his bow and to the kone and signed: "Why guard?"
Tonto looked at the alien and signed back: "Danger. They kill."
Buccari nodded. She pointed to the cliff dweller and then to herself. "We also kill," she signed. "We friends," and "Bear-person is friend."
The cliff dweller looked over at the kone. The kone slept soundly. "Not friend. Bear people kill your people," Tonto signed.
"What?" Buccari gasped aloud. "What happened?" she shouted. Et Silmarn stirred. Buccari signed frantically, trying to find out what had happened to the Marines. The cliff dweller recoiled at her hysteria, his sign language confused.
"Take it easy on the little guy," MacArthur said.
Buccari whirled at the sound of his voice. She turned to see all six Marines hiking over the tree-lined ridge, carrying strange weapons and two large breathing-unit tanks. Et Silmarn was immediately on his hinds, his sleep-swollen eyes wide and unblinking, fixated on the metal tanks full of precious fuel. His death would come more slowly.
"Are—is everyone all right?" Buccari asked. Shannon lagged far behind, and Chastain was helping Gordon.
"Sarge hurt his back, and Gordon got burned pretty good on one shoulder," MacArthur reported. His voice was energetic, but he was clearly exhausted. "We iced two bugs, and it only cost us eight rounds. That's a good ratio."
"And we got these bazookas and eighty rounds in trade," Petit shouted. "Helluva deal!"
"Shoot!" O'Toole joined in. "We've taken out almost half of them in one day. This is going to be a piece of cake. A friggin' piece of cake!"
Tonto whistled sharply. He hopped across the campsite and climbed the low rise overlooking the valley. They heard a noise, a sickeningly familiar rumble. The rumble turned into raging thunder, dragging their gazes high into the dark blue skies. Two brilliant white-hot sparks fell from above, growing ever larger and emitting ever louder and more violent noises. The arc-light flames appeared to descend directly upon their heads, but as the infernos neared the surface of the planet, gradually slowing their descent, it became obvious the two newly arrived landers were settling on the lakeshore, within kilometers of the first two. The awestruck onlookers covered their ears and watched as more trees exploded into flames and shock-induced ripples fanned across the distant waters of the valley lake.
The corrosive sounds of the lander retros died suddenly, and the anguished refugees removed hands from ears as if they were one being. The silence was deafening. Oily black smoke poured upwards from the expanded ring of destruction and was lifted and rapidly dispersed by a steady breeze from the northwest. Pebbles and small rocks, shaken loose from their precarious resting places, tumbled from the mountain behind them.
"A frigging piece of cake," O'Toole moaned.
"Hell! They got reinforcements!" Petit cried.
"What're we going to do?" Gordon whined, holding his shoulder. The surface of his leather poncho was blackened and shot with ragged holes. He was lucky to be alive.
MacArthur turned abruptly. "So what? So frigging what? What's a few more? There'll never be enough of them," He swept his arm across the verdant valley. "This is only one small valley. We'll hide. We'll fight! We'll use bows and arrows! Spears!" He looked at Buccari, his pewter-gray eyes shining like headlights from deep within a drawn, soot-blackened face.
Buccari looked back at the determined Marine, and her own spirits surged. "Mac's right," she said. "And don't forget—the fleet's up there. If nothing else, these clowns will draw attention our way. I'm counting on getting rescued, but if we can't be rescued, then by God, we'll fight!"
"Lieutenant," Shannon said quietly, as he limped from the group, his back contorted. "I'm with you all the way, but if you don't mind, I'm going to lay this old body down. I recommend everyone rest up as much as possible, 'cause we'll be needing it."
Runacres, in full battle armor, scanned a simulation of the fleet defenses, gaming his alternatives. He glanced at the main situation plot as the last corvette to reach station glided into position. A signal illuminated on his panel.
"Yes, group leader?" Runacres responded, clearing his screen.
"Screen commander reports all corvettes on station, Admiral," the corvette commander announced. "Countermeasures plan Beta Two implemented. Enemy engagements imminent."
"Very well," Runacres said stonily, cinching his harness. "All units cleared to fire, Franklin."
"Aye, Admiral. Weapons free," Wells replied. The operations officer punched an interlock release and warning lights flashed.
"All 'vettes report maximum readiness," the group leader said. "No exceptions."
"Very well," Runacres snapped, switching circuits to screen tactical. Transmission density was high, but radio discipline was sound; terse position and target commands flashed from ship to ship. Runacres watched and listened with grim pride as the disposition of picket units changed dynamically, flowing subtly to counteract the movement of the approaching foe.
The spearhead of the attack dove directly for the heart of the corvette screen. The initial engagement was like the first drop of rain hitting a metal roof. Eagle One, the flagship's lead corvette, called "weapons away," and the tactical status board depicted a spread of kinetic energy weapons being fired at the leading alien units. A kill was indicated. Runacres heard dim cheers echoing beyond the Legion transmitters, but exultation was brief; the onslaught—the downpour—pounded on their metal roof. Fierce engagements cluttered the radio as confusion and anxiety replaced order and control.
Directed energy weapons sparkled in the immensity of space; laser pulses arced at the speed of light to collide with oncoming warheads; missiles exploded in tremendous fireballs; yet the explosions and laser blasts were but faint blooms and razor-thin coruscations in the overwhelming vastness of the lightless vacuum. The widely dispersed corvettes, arrayed in a three-dimensional stack, slashed and parried, striving desperately to keep the flood of targets from passing, but the stream of enemy rockets approached too rapidly and across too wide a front. Runacres watched with approval as the screen commander initiated a large sag vector, but the defenses could not handle the rate of engagement or the enemy's speed advantage. It was over quickly; the incoming attack swept through the screen at time-distorting speeds.
"Attack has penetrated. Thirty enemy destroyed," the tactical officer reported. "Screen units in pursuit. Now thirty-three enemy destroyed. Now thirty-four."
Electronic icons representing more than sixty surviving enemy attackers streaked across the main situation display. Targeting computers designated each blip with codes: symbols for range and arrival times, velocity and size, probable destination target, and defensive responsibilities. Tasmania, lead ship in the column, was being tagged heavily as a primary target. Eire, second ship in the column, the flagship, was also lighting up.
"Tasmania's on the bull's-eye," Runacres said. "Order her back to half interval. Direct Baffin and Novaya to hammerhead the column. Close up the gaps."
"Aye, aye, Admiral," Wells replied, keying his console.
"Forty-two enemy destroyed, Admiral," the tactical officer reported. "Screen units have closed to main battery range and are disengaging."
"Tasmania's opening fire, Admiral," Wells said.
Motherships having clear fields of fire engaged the enemy interceptors with main batteries, their ordnance employment indicators flashing cheerfully on the status panels, but radio transmissions on the tactical circuits were deadly serious. Fifty-eight alien interceptors made it through the corvette screen. All but one were destroyed before reaching lethal weapons range.
Tasmania, in the van of the formation, was engaged by the highest density of incoming missiles. Her defensive systems saturated. One last enemy drone, mindless, yet with a singularity of purpose, breached the gauntlet of fusion beams and kinetic needles—a meteor streaking malevolently close aboard Tasmania, where it finally dropped from radar. Tactical plot signaled enemy ordnance detonation.
Runacres stared belligerently at the status panels. With the explosive destruction of the last drone, all enemy missiles and decoys had been accounted for. The first wave of attacks was over.
"Sir, Tasmania has taken a hit," the tactical officer said. "Damage control reports are coming in. Radiation levels have been contained within radtox critical, but she's been hurt. Overpressure shields were penetrated, and hyperlight generators are seriously damaged. She's drifting."
"Captain Wells, bring Tasmania down the line," Runacres ordered. "Keep her in the grid and maintain HLA links. Order Eire to take the guide."
Planetary Defense Council convened, decreeing all global disputes suspended.
"Our first wave has engaged the enemy fleet," reported the Planetary Defense Force briefer, a senior officer with a pronounced southern hemisphere accent.
A rumble of excitement arose from the audience representing the thirty-three nations of Kon. Emperor-General Gorruk and the ten northern hemispheric governors, all under Gorruk' s imperial hegemony, reclined in prominent front row lounges to the left of the center aisle, their staffs and retinues filling in behind. Chief Scientist Samamkook, silent and brooding, sat behind Gorruk. On the right side of the briefing center sat the southern hemispheric leaders. The southerners had squabbled over seniority and protocol, causing Gorruk to grind his teeth in frustration. How could his armies have been defeated by such rabble? The presence of Marshall Et Barbluis, his battlefield nemesis, as a member of the southern delegation particularly rankled.
The Planetary Defense Force command staff, including Gorruk' s appointed legation, occupied seats around a semicircular table beneath the briefer's podium. Heavily armed PDF troopers guarded the entrances to the auditorium. Gorruk chaffed at the necessity to submit to the decisions of the Defense Council, yet he took solace in having controlled the meeting site selection. The Planetary Defense Council was convened in Gorruk's new command bunker, a magnificent edifice. Gorruk's reign was still young, but he had thrown every resource into completing his seat of government, and befitting its military character, the buildings were heavily fortified and secure. Gorruk laughed at the presence of Planetary Defense troopers. Ten thousand of his battle-hardened soldiers were mere seconds away. There could have been ten times that number, but Gorruk had been forced to deploy the bulk of his remaining forces to maintain control over the dispersed militia troops.
Of course, the members of the southern delegations and the Defense Council had objected to the venue, but Gorruk exercised his prerogative as leader of the largest populations, and as a general officer in the PDF. The Council had no legal alternative. The need for common defense outweighed the fear and distrust all of Kon held for the leader of the northern hemisphere.
Gorruk returned his attention to the briefing. Displayed on the immense luminous wall screen behind the briefer was a planform depiction of the planetary system. The scale was set to optimize the orbits of Kon and Genellan, both planets represented by points of white light. The planets, orbitally opposed, were separated by the full width of the display. The sun-star in the display's center was a three-dimensional orange globe.
"One missile penetrated the enemy defenses," continued the briefer. "We have no damage reports yet, but it appears that, at a minimum, we have disrupted their picket screen." The briefer pushed buttons on the lectern; the display zoomed rapidly into the region of conflict, giving the viewer a sensation of tremendous acceleration. Planets and stars disappeared, and a schematic representation of the alien fleet filled the screen.
"Composite radar returns received from our attacking missiles reveal the disposition of the alien fleet at the time of attack. Eight interstellars are confirmed, and at least thirty smaller ships— pickets, or scouts. Updates from the second and third waves are beginning to arrive. As you can see, their picket array has lost its organization. It will cost them fuel and time to regain position. Each subsequent attack will further degrade these defenses."
The wall presentation zoomed away from the alien fleet to reveal multiple brilliant red arrows. Relative to the great distances of the planetary system, the arrows were already near the battle zone.
"Our second wave—twenty piloted interceptors and eighty drone missiles—will engage by this time tomorrow. Third and fourth waves, the same mix, will arrive simultaneously less than four hours later. Preparations for additional attacks, if necessary, are underway." The audience stirred as the briefer paused to review his notes.
Unbidden, Emperor-General Gorruk stood and turned to face the assembly. "We will saturate their defenses and overwhelm the alien fleet," he bellowed. "The invaders will be destroyed or repelled, and once again we will have satisfied our vows." The audience turned to stare, and a low shoveling of impudent hissing could be heard emitting from the southerners.
"Thank you, most excellent Emperor-General," said Defense Commanding General Talsali, quelling the disturbance with his gavel. "Perhaps it would be prudent to advise caution until the outcome of the battle is better defined." General Talsali, a nonaligned northerner, was the officer in command of the Planetary Defense Force. He was quite advanced in years, having survived several regimes, but his voice was clear, his tone giving no indication of emotion or judgment. General Talsali was renowned for his diplomacy, a necessary survival skill.
Gorruk glowered at the Planetary Defense Commander, searching for a hint of sarcasm or disrespect, any excuse to initiate a rebuke, but none was apparent. Gorruk reclined in his lounge, and Talsali recognized a member of a southern delegation. The delegate rose to his hinds and turned in Gorruk' s direction.
"Emperor-General Gorruk," said the southern official, a wizened noblekone. "We find it disturbing that aliens have been in our system all this time and only your government has been aware of that fact."
Gorruk had been forced to confirm the presence of aliens on Genellan in the face of persistent and pointed inquiries by the Planetary Defense Command—no doubt the work of the elusive Et Avian and Et Kalass. Exasperated, Gorruk bolted back to his hinds and faced his accuser.
"You speak from ignorance!" he responded. "I answer not for what transpired under my predecessor. The presence of aliens was only recently made known to me, and I assure you, had I known sooner, I would have done everything in my power to eliminate them—sooner."
"That is not my point, most excellent General," the southern official replied, ignoring the insult. "Should we not make an effort to communicate with the aliens?"
"As I have reported," Gorruk snapped, "it has been attempted, and the aliens reacted aggressively. One of our most capable scientists was killed while in their hands. They are hostile." The delegates looked at each other, some skeptically, but most shook their heads in fearful condolence. Xenophobia ran deep.
"The fact remains," Gorruk continued, "another fleet of alien interstellar ships has penetrated deep within our system. What other explanation for their persistence than aggression? Remember our vows. We have sworn to repel invaders from space." The vast majority of delegates nodded and rumbled their acknowledgment. The vows were sacred rituals of their history. Gorruk sensed the groundswell of support. "The mission is clear. We must destroy the perfidious enemy! You will appreciate my vigilance and decisiveness before this is over!"
The crowd rumbled in support of Gorruk' s position. The inquisitor sat down and turned to discuss the issue with his neighbors.
"Your vigilance and decisiveness are beyond reproach, Emperor-General," Talsali interjected, turning to the audience. "The obligations of the vows are compelling. We must not let our planet be attacked again. Aliens have arrived in our system, and their intentions must be assumed hostile. We press the attack."
The second wave of interceptors bore down on the ragged screen. Two divisions of corvettes had been assigned new coordinates to compensate for the weakening of defenses caused by Tasmania's engineering casualty. Carmichael piloted Peregrine One in a mad, fuel-consuming dash to its new assignment.
"On station, Commander," his copilot announced. "Retro checklist complete. Weapons are up, and all stations are ready. Fuel state twenty-two point three!"
"Roger, report in to screen commander." Carmichael set the tactical display at maximum range and noted the advancing progress of the first few enemy missiles. Fuel was now his biggest concern. Fortunately, the first wave of enemy missiles had all been target-locked—the missiles had not maneuvered—and fire control solutions required little expenditure of fuel. Peregrine One had taken out two attackers. Regardless, Carmichael would have to conserve fuel. He hit the maneuvering alarm and punched the ignition control button for retrograde burn. The «backward» flying corvette accelerated to zero velocity relative to the screen's reference datum.
"Eire has taken the point. Coordinates are updating," the second officer announced. "Tasmania's still drifting to sector two, and her drift rate has increased. They've been unable to get her to link."
"Can she return fire?" Carmichael asked.
"Only partially," the second officer replied. "Two of her primary batteries are disabled, and she can't maneuver. She has coverage gaps, and she's masking defensive fire from motherships in that sector."
"Bad news—" the copilot started to say.
"Osprey's engaging!" the second officer interrupted, his voice pitching higher. "She's reporting maneuvering targets!" "Picnic's over, kids," Carmichael said quietly.
Sarah Merriwether stared at the flagship's tactical display. Her stomach churned bitterly. She watched Tasmania drift inexorably out of the grid.
"We are at station limits, Captain," advised the Officer-of-thedeck, his voice hinting of anxiety.
"Maintain station on Tasmania," Merriwether said calmly. "Establish and hold grid link. We are the guide. Admiral Runacres will keep everyone together. Order all nonoperational crew to their lifeboat stations and notify weapons they are cleared to fire."
"Aye, sir," said the Officer-of-the-deck, turning to his console.
"What is Merriwether doing?" Runacres demanded, peering down at the flagship's command bridge. "She's taking Eire off the guide bearing!"
"Captain Merriwether is keeping Tasmania in grid contact," Wells reported. "Eire still shows a partial link."
"She can't do it alone. Direct Baffin and Novaya to support Eire's movements," Runacres ordered angrily. "Swing TDF a half span to sector two."
Merriwether was going to have some explaining to do. She was causing the fleet defensive positions to collapse to one side. The enemy could exploit the maneuver and concentrate its attack. Runacres scanned the situation plot and noted with grim satisfaction his motherships moving smartly along the new defensive axis defined by Tasmania's excursion. It would take two hours to complete the realignment. Too late to make a difference in the fleet defenses, but it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do.
"Engaging alien screens, flight leader," the konish copilot said.
"Very well," the interceptor pilot replied. The noblekone scanned his tactical display, checking the disposition of his squadron. The other interceptors were in position. His mission was to trail two flights of drones through the picket screen. While the first flight disrupted the screen defenses, his flight was to follow the subsequent brace of drones through the gap.
Everything was proceeding to plan. His tactical display depicted engagements in progress. The alien energy beams were powerful; two of the leading drone warheads had already been destroyed. He wiggled his broad shoulders and stretched his neck, trying to loosen the tightness. He scanned the limitless blackness of space before him, the enemy ships invisible in the distance.
Brilliant light ahead! A flowering incandescence provided a reference point in the infinite distances, and his rocket streaked past white and pink wisps of brightness as if they had never been there. A missile ahead of them had exploded, probably hit by an alien picket's beam of destruction. His flight was in the battle zone.
"Enemy ship closing from sector three," the copilot reported.
The pilot checked the tactical display and saw the symbol for an alien approaching. Another enemy symbol popped onto the screen—this one directly «overhead» — also closing on his track. But neither of the enemy ships carried enough speed; their vectorswere inadequate to intercept. His ships were through the screen! The konish flight leader shifted his attention to the radar returns of the distant starships.
"We can't catch them!" Carmichael cursed. He watched in vain as the enemy flight eluded them, moving too fast for an intercept from his position. Another flight of enemy missiles appeared on screen, and Carmichael horsed Peregrine One to a new vector, accelerating abruptly, using precious fuel. He would not allow another flight to penetrate his sector. "Uplink the enemy positions back to fleet ops, and pass the alert. That first group looks like trouble."
"Aye, aye, Commander," the second officer shouted.
"Our fuel situation stinks, Commander," the copilot reported. "I know! I know!" Carmichael replied in exasperation. "We'll make a pass at these targets, and then we have no choice but to bingo. Set up a lead pursuit. You got the ship."
Carmichael pushed back from the controls, flexing his hands. They had knocked out two more enemy missiles, one of which had been piloted, but how much longer could they keep it up? The screen ships were scattered over a wide area, most in pursuit, some destroyed or disabled by action, and some—like Peregrine One— too low on fuel to pursue at high power. How much longer would they be able to keep up their end of the defensive load? The motherships could not handle everything.
Tasmania drifted helplessly, spewing lifeboats into the darkness. Only skeleton crews manned battle stations. The lifeboats, infinitesimal motes, each with a cargo of frightened human beings, floated away on assigned vectors, their tiny strobes flickering nervously against the never-ending blackness of deep space.
Belligerent konish spaceships maneuvered to attack; Tasmania was their focus. Tasmania's skipper noted with helpless resignation the flagship maneuvering from the battle axis to support his ship's precarious situation. He could ill afford to dwell on those thoughts; a flight of two alien interceptors approached his weapons perimeter, another flight of four followed closely behind, and four more were behind those. They were coming to destroy his ship.
"Main batteries are recharged. Weapons has good lock, Captain," his officer-of-the-deck reported. "All targets are acquired."
"Very well," the captain replied. "Commence firing at range limit."
The first two aliens disintegrated just after entering Tasmania's firing range, the mothership's lethal directed energy batteries lashing out with massive power and accuracy. The next flight of four missiles poured through the same gap. The aliens had deduced the Legion lasers needed charging time, and the safest place to attack was through the «craters» made by previous discharges.
A second pair of Tasmania's energy batteries deflected hard over to cover the vulnerable sector, locking on the approaching flight. The battery director confirmed acquisition and target lock. She depressed the trigger button, and the great engine of power embedded in the operations core of the mothership hummed its deadly tune. The firing aperture flicked open and the glassy eyeball of destruction flared for a full tenth of second, darting a pulse of pure energy instantaneously across the great gulf of space. Nearly instantaneously!
In that fraction of time three of the interceptors jinked outwards leaving the lead ship to be vaporized as the huge, hot beam raced through its molecules. The surviving ships weaved and darted, but their tracks were unerringly defined by their common objective—the Tasmania.
That Legion mothership unleashed another laser blast of energy and only two interceptors remained.
"Tasmania's fire control has been overwhelmed, Captain!" reported Eire's weapons control officer. "She's receiving fire!"
Sarah Merriwether' s flagship was also fully engaged; the big ship's energy batteries, located twenty-eight levels below the bridge, were firing beyond rated capacity. Seven enemy missiles had been annihilated. More were inbound. Merriwether switched her helmet circuit to pick up bridge-to-bridge communications. She monitored the excited intership gabble. Tasmania reported two more hits to her operations core.
"Can you help her?" Merriwether demanded over the command circuit.
"It'll be a tough shot, Captain. The enemy's between us and Tasmania. We may hit our own ships or the lifeboats."
"If you get a shot, take it!" Merriwether ordered.
"Aye, Captain."
Within seconds the weapons control officer came back up. "Sir, Tasmania's clean, but she'll need a new coat of paint. We picked the last two bogies right off her back."
Merriwether acknowledged and switched her attention to her own ship. Three interceptors were closing on widely separated tracks. One of them disappeared from the screen—a kill. Moments later a second one was destroyed. The third enemy ship pressed closer and closer through the most active quadrant, taking advantage of the recharging batteries. Merriwether wondered if her weapons people had spent too much time worrying about Tasmania. The bogey streaked within lethal firing range. The collision alarm sounded, and Merriwether felt the hollow crunch of explosive impact somewhere deep within her ship. The enemy interceptor had thrust its knife.
The konish pilot swept past the looming shape of the alien ship, maneuvering desperately to avoid the sure death of energy beams. With grim satisfaction, he watched his laser ripple across the thin metal skin of the starship. His missiles had already struck home. Every second of survival this close to the enemy was a victory, his radar images flashing back to Kon, sending vital intelligence data to Defense Command. The information would increase the success of subsequent intercepts, and his death would not be in vain, for he knew he would surely die.
The energy beam struck with merciful instantaneity, and the pilot's atoms joined those of his ship and became one with the universe.
"Damage control, I need reports, now!" Merriwether demanded. The second wave had been destroyed.
"All operations stations are functioning," the officer-of-thedeck reported. "We took missile hits in the core, Level 30, frame 123, above the 'vette bays. Overpressure shield is intact, but battle armor in bay one is penetrated. Damage control reports numerous residual fires. Habitability ring was holed by laser blasts in two places. Preliminary casualty report is four dead, ten injured and eight missing—probably overboard."
Merriwether second-guessed herself—she should have launched lifeboats.
"The fleet? How's the fleet?" she asked her operations officer. "Three corvettes lost, Captain," the operations officer responded. "Including Eagle One."
"How's Tasmania?" Merriwether asked, shaking her head— Eagle One was one of Eire's corvettes—one of hers.
"She's in bad shape, but she's asking us if we need any help." Merriwether smiled grimly.
"Peregrine One is requesting a tug assist for a no-fuel approach, Captain," reported the officer-of-the-deck. "She's completely out of fuel and Tasmania can't take her aboard."
"Bring her in. Can she make it on her own?"
"Negative," said the officer-of-the-deck. "She's bone dry and coasting. We have tugs collecting lifeboats in position to intercept." "Have a tug bring her in," Merriwether ordered.
The officers of the Planetary Defense Senior Command filed into the amphitheater and took their usual seats at the semicircular table beneath the briefing stage. Gorruk was irritated by the briefing delay. He was too busy to be sitting idle, waiting for others to be on time; the responsibilities of running half the world were pressing. And rumors of strange militia movements were filtering in. Gorruk sat and fumed, his gaze wandering about the auditorium. His scan stopped suddenly. Chief Scientist Samamkook was fraternizing with newly arrived noblekones, immersed in deep discussions, on the other side of the center aisle—the enemy side. Gorruk's anger flowered explosively. General Talsali addressed the room, but Gorruk was not listening. Why would Samamkook be consorting with southerners? Gorruk studied the noblekones in Samamkook' s company. They were familiar but Gorruk could not place them. The cluster of noblekones and Samamkook turned to stare directly at him, their eyes unwavering.
"— General Gorruk!" Talsali said loudly, summoning Gorruk' s attention.
Gorruk levered his steely glance from Samamkook and turned to face the podium. "Excuse me, General. Were you addressing me?"
"Yes, most excellent General," Talsali replied sternly, in a decidedly undiplomatic tone. "We have received a petition to suspend the intercepts. It has been presented to and approved by all legal authorities of the southern hemisphere. I have been asked to seek concurrence of the northern governments."
"Suspend the intercepts? Absurd! We are under attack!" An angry murmur swelled.
"What are the results of our second wave?" he demanded.
"The intercepts go well, most excellent Emperor-General," Talsali replied, polite in form only. "Our preliminary assessment is that two alien starships have been disabled, one of them severely. Their defensive array has broken down and the screening ships have suffered losses. Our next two waves are in position to severely damage the enemy fleet. Perhaps to destroy it."
"And you want to stop?" Gorruk was dumbfounded.
"It is not solely my decision, most excellent General," responded the defense commander. "New information has become available indicating the aliens have come in peace. I seek permission to suspend our attacks while this evidence is presented and corroborated."
Gorruk shot Samamkook a glance. The old kone crawled toward the podium.
"Who presents this evidence?" Gorruk demanded.
"It is your own science advisor, most excellent General, the renowned astronomer, Chief Scientist Samamkook," Talsali said, his voice seeded with sweet irony.
Gorruk stood erect. "Madness! Scientist Samamkook! Return to your seat! The governments of the northern hemisphere do not support this insanity. I demand the interception of the alien fleet continue with full fury and commitment."
Samamkook labored up the ramp to the briefer's stage. Gorruk' s face blackened with rage; the tendons in his monstrous neck pulled the skin tight. Talsali prudently took several retreating steps, falling back on all fours. Two of Gorruk' s generals galloped toward the exits. Planetary Defense troopers hesitated but let them through.
"You have forgotten where you are!" Gorruk screamed, spittle flying from his gaping mouth. "This is my realm! You are here at my pleasure!"
"Not your realm, General," Samamkook said, his brittle old voice amplified by the sound system. He stood erect at the briefer's lectern, stretching his twisted and withered form into a regal posture. "You stole it from a thief. We recover it in the name of the ancient rightful rulers." The audience gasped.
Gorruk could not believe his senses.
"What authority—by what power do you make this pronouncement, Scientist?" Gorruk inquired with a wolfish snarl. A commotion could be heard in the hallway—no doubt his soldiers. He would soon put an end to this ancient upstart.
"As steward for the Regent of Ollant!" the tottering scientist announced. "As steward for the Regent of House Ollant, I command that our attacking forces be recalled immediately. I speak for all northern kones, noble and common. The aliens are not our enemy. Our enemy is here, in our midst! Gorruk be damned!"
Gorruk looked up, astounded. The old kone had gone insane.
"You old fool!" Gorruk growled, regaining his composure. Imperial army soldiers and their officers appeared at the entryway. The PDF troopers fell back. Gorruk turned to face Talsali. "This is a joke. Order your troopers to eject the senile old fool from the briefing room. The attacks will continue! The aliens must be destroyed! If you cannot do your duty, I will have it done for you, General Talsali."
"I am afraid it is not that simple, General," came a familiar voice. Gorruk turned to confront the intruder. It was Et Kalass, throwing back the hood of his white robe as he made his way to the front of the room. General Et Barbluis and other noblekones followed in his wake.
"General Gorruk," Et Kalass announced with nervous gravity. "You have been deposed. In the name of the—"
"Deposed?" Gorruk snarled. "You are all dead!" He turned to his generals and barked orders, but a low, thunderous rumbling far in the distance—artillery fire—captured his attention. Gorruk stood straighter and sniffed the air.
"General Gorruk!" Et Kalass shouted, his voice shaking. "It is useless to resist! Your army cannot help you. For once in your life, resist combat! Do not cause more death."
Gorruk' s generals, roaring orders, rushed for the exits.
"I will see you die at my own hands," Gorruk menaced, advancing on the noblekones. Et Kalass bravely held his ground, but his fear smell added strongly to the growing symphony of odors.
Detonations shook the structure's foundation. Armored windows high overhead vibrated like timpani; air pressure in the bunker fluctuated violently with the passing shock waves. Gorruk stared upwards. Another explosion, massive and perilously close aboard, reverberated through the building, shattering windows and knocking kones to the ground. Gorruk recovered his balance, shot a glare at the noblekone, and trotted toward the exit. Revenge could wait.
A loud commotion stirred at the main entrance, and the assembled kones turned as one to see what was upon them. Smaller explosions sounded, and the singing of laser blasters resounded in the near distance. The odor of burnt air wafted into the auditorium, and council members started flowing to the exits; a tight panic ensued. On one side of the building, a dozen imperial soldiers, their faces blackened and bloodied, retreated inwards, blocking the side exits. Gorruk pushed his way through the shouting crowd, but as he reached the main entryway the thick inner doors burst open, and militia soldiers poured onto the floor, laser blasters ready to fire. A squad of Gorruk's soldiers rushed bravely forward and was annihilated. Other soldiers threw down their weapons and lay prone, arms empty and extended.
Gorruk did not flinch. He rose upon his hinds and faced the enemy, his face flushed with anger and contempt. Et Avian, dressed in combat uniform and surrounded by elite militia guards waving their weapons, stepped through the press of soldiers and halted before Gorruk. At least twenty laser blasters focused on the ruler's hulking form.
"General Gorruk! Do you submit?" Et Avian demanded, his voice strained with emotion. Endless explosions continued in the distance. The very ground heaved.
Hundreds of angry red barbs, symbols for enemy ships, hurtled toward the blue and white icons representing his fleet. The pilots of the alien vessels were heedless of their own safety—totally committed to destroying his ships. His corvette screen was nonexistent; eight of the valiant craft had been destroyed, and the others were low on fuel and scattered across the vastness of space. Eire was operational, but Tasmania was reduced to space garbage and was jettisoning the balance of its crew. Lifeboat beacons dotted the tactical plot. The next engagement was less than an hour away.
"Commodore Wells, bring the fleet to grid stations!" Runacres commanded, wrenching his eyes from the tactical display. "Prepare for emergency hyperlight entry. On my command!"
"But, Admiral, Tasmania's link is down. Her lifeboats!" Wells. Remonstrated "Admiral, the corvettes!" exclaimed the group leader. "Obey the order, Franklin," Runacres said sternly.
"Aye, aye, Admiral," Wells said. The fleet commander officer initiated a command sequence on his control console. Warning Klaxons resounded throughout the fleet. Runacres pushed off from his command chair and floated to the end of his station tethers. He pounded gloved hands together in frustration. More deaths on his hands. Meaningless deaths.
He looked up to see Cassy Quinn standing quietly at the back of the flag bridge and vaguely remembered that Peregrine One had diverted to Eire. She was staring at him. Runacres signaled for her to approach. Quinn pushed off from the bulkhead and glided to his command station.
"We're leaving, Commander. I'm sorry."
"You did everything possible, Admiral," Quinn replied. "You have nothing to be sorry—" The brave officer choked in her welling grief.
"Admiral! Admiral!" the tactical officer shouted. "We have established radio contact with the aliens! They are speaking Legion, Admiral! Very good Legion."
"Wha-a—?"Runacres turned from Quinn.
"We have radio contact! From a broadcast source on R-K Three. Transmission delay is five seconds," the tactical officer shouted. "They want to talk to our leader—to you, sir! Linking to command frequency."
"Notify ship captains to monitor," Runacres ordered. He tried to analyze the confusing inputd=s. Why would they be trying to talk now? Their attacking forces had routed his fleet. It had to be a trick!
"Patch in Commander Quinn," he ordered, turning to face the planet survey officer. "I may need your help, Cassy.""I'm ready, sir," she replied, her eyes welling with tears.
"Keep everyone alert and ready to jump, Franklin," Runacres commanded. "Order out all tugs and recover the lifeboats still in the grid. How much time until the next engagement?"
"Five minutes before the corvettes are engaged, Admiral," the group leader reported. "All are low on fuel and ordnance. They're hung out to dry—"
"All motherships except Tasmania can jump on command," Wells interjected.
"Very well," Runacres answered thickly. "Let's hear what our.. hosts have to say." He looked over to Quinn. She nodded back, her jaw firm. He selected the command frequency, and a deep, rumbling accent could be heard speaking.
"…urgent that-ah I talk-ah your leader. Please connect-ah me with your commanding general." Silence cut with static.
Runacres looked around the flag bridge and inhaled deeply.
"Fleet Admiral Runacres of the Tellurian Legion Space Force," Runacres broadcast. "Identify yourself and by whose authority you speak." The circuit was silent for long seconds as the radio signals flew across the wide distances.
"Fleee Ad-ah…miral Run…aakerrs," the voice returned, hesitantly. "I am Mistress Kateos, speaking for Et Avian, Prince of House Ollant, and-ah the konish people." More silence, as if the speaker was intimidated by her own responsibility.
"We have come in peace," Runacres said, initiating the conversation. "Why have you made unprovoked attacks upon us? Over." Seconds dragged by.
"The answer to your question is not-ah simple. It-ah take time to explain, and-ah the explanation can be saved for a more better time," replied Kateos, her voice firmer. "We have stopped our attack. Do not-ah continue your attack on us. Please respond-ah."
"We have not attacked you. We are defending ourselves. Over."
"Over? Ah, yes. That means it-ah is my turn to speak. It-ah is sometime difficult to tell the difference between attacking and defending, Ad-ah…miral. I ask that-ah you demonstrate your peaceful intent-ah by halting forward progress. Not-ah all of my people are convinced you come in peace. Cooperation will serve to illustrate your peaceful intent. Please respond-ah, ah… over."
Everyone on the bridge looked about with amazement.
"We will cooperate, but you must have your ships turn back immediately, or we will be forced to open fire. Over," Runacres replied.
"The recall command has been sent-ah to the interceptors. You will see them terminating attack momentarily," Kateos replied."…over."
Runacres looked at Wells, certain that it was a trick—a trick to hold the fleet in subspace long enough for their interceptors to close.
"Tracks show a slight deflection, Admiral," responded the harried tactical officer.
Runacres stared bullets at the situation plot.
"Course changes are increasing, Admiral. They are reducing forward speed and swinging away!" the tactical officer reported.
Runacres watched hypnotically. He could detect the course changes, evident even on the larger-scale situation plot. Runacres forced out a lungful of metallic-tasting air.
"How do we know this is not a trick, and how did you learn our language?" he asked. "Over." More time than usual passed.
"We do not-ah deserve your trust-ah, Ad-ah.. miral," Kateos finally replied. "I hope that-ah we will demonstrate a more peaceful behavior in the future… so that-ah you will grow to trust-ah us. You are wise to be cautious. The leadership of my planet is experiencing grave challenge. It-ah is our intention to conduct-ah diplomatic communications with you as soon as we stabilize our governmentah. It-ah will take many days. I have been told to inform you that-ah you should not-ah perceive our apparent confusion as a weakness. More interceptors are being prepared. That-ah is what I was told to tell you.
"As far as learning your language," the alien's voice became enthusiastic, "I have had-ah excellent teachers, Nashooa Hudsawn and Sharl B-Bru…B-Buu…shar…B-Bruusharry. It is difficult for us to say. Lieutenant Sharl is the leader of humans on this planet.. Over."
Runacres recognized the names of the corvette officers and looked worriedly at Cassy Quinn. Buccari in command meant in all likelihood that Jack Quinn was dead. The distraught officer stared at her feet, a constellation of tears floating about her face. She straightened and dispersed the water globules with the back of her hand. She looked at Runacres and smiled bravely.
"Those names are important to us," Runacres continued. "We are anxious to recover our missing crew. What can you tell us of their condition? Are they safe? Over."
"Their condition is unknown, although we have reason to be concerned-ah." The alien's voice became serious. "A military party is attempting to capture them. That party is led by an officer swearing allegiance to the same leaders that-ah conducted the attacks against-ah your fleet. It-ah is likely they are in danger. Over."
"What can be done to help them? Over."
"Very little," Kateos responded. "We are sending numerous messages to the soldiers, but they refuse to acknowledge receipt of orders."
Runacres stared at the situation plot. The enemy tracks were clearly reversing.
"Scientist Kateos, please notify your government of our gratitude for halting hostilities. I look forward to establishing peaceful relations with your race. But I would also ask your government to permit us to send ships to the third planet, so that I may provide assistance to our people. You have indicated they may be in danger. I cannot sit here and not help them. Over."
Static-filled seconds crept by.
"I will relay these concerns to my government-ah," Kateos finally replied. "However, I cannot authorize the request. Please wait. Over."
"We wait for your next transmission. Please hurry. And thank you." Runacres turned to look at his bridge crew.
"Group leader, get all corvettes back on board! Let's get this fleet in shape. We have time to get everyone in the grid. And I want three corvettes ready to go back to that planet. Commander Quinn, you're in charge of the landing party."
MacArthur leaned against a tree trunk, seeking relief from the chill wind. It had been an arduous hike back down to the valley floor. Clouds scudded overhead, and desultory rain drops, heavy and frigid, plopped on the ground as gray-shrouded dusk descended on the valley. Most of the humans lay on the ground, wrapped in their ponchos, trying to sleep. Their number had been augmented by Tatum, Mendoza, and Schmidt, offsetting the absence of the injured Gordon, who had been left behind at High Camp. Fenstermacher had wanted to join the fighters, but Buccari ordered him to stay behind with Wilson and Tookmanian, to take care of the women and children. Buccari had also ordered Et Silmarn to remain behind. The konish scientist was their last best hope of establishing friendly relations; he could explain to konish authorities why earthlings were attacking and killing kones.
"Why can't we just hole up?" Petit whined. "They'll never find us."
MacArthur wanted to shout, but Shannon, still in pain, beat him to it. "Shut up, Petit!"
"Easy, Sarge!" Buccari sighed. She walked over to Petit. "Petit, if you want to go back, go. I won't ask you to join us if you're afraid."
The powerfully built man looked at the ground and shuffled his feet.
"We're committed," she continued, eyes flashing in the dim light. "We're almost out of ammo. Now's the time to capture weapons—to take charge of the situation. Now's the time to do what Tatum and Sergeant Shannon wanted to do all along. Et Silmarn says these are the only soldiers on the planet. It will take them months to get reinforcements. You've seen these guys in action. We can take them down, and if we capture the landers, we get our hands on more weapons, and on a radio. Do you understand? We can defend ourselves, and we can call in the fleet. We may never get another chance."
Petit nodded. "Yeah, Lieutenant. I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled.
Buccari slapped his shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile, her scarred face disturbingly powerful in the murky light.
MacArthur moved away from the somber cluster. He trudged up the heavily wooded rise shielding their campsite from the aliens. Tatum stood watch at the crest. MacArthur crawled on the wet ground until he lay by Tatum' s side. The two Marines peered through the damp dusk, looking down on the four evenly dispersed landers.
"How's it going, Sandy?" MacArthur asked.
"Just frigging wonderful, Mac," Tatum sniffed. Drops of rainwater fell from his cap brim. "Beats baby-sitting. I was beginning to think Lieutenant Buccari didn't trust me." He rolled onto an elbow and spat.
"She trusts you, Sandy. She wanted you here. She told me so herself."
Tatum looked at MacArthur. "No kidding? She said that?" "As sure as I am laying here in the mud," MacArthur replied. "She's something else, ain't she?"
MacArthur nodded.
Soft whistles floated into his awareness. MacArthur responded with two chirps, and Tonto hopped from the wet darkness. Tonto was not alone; six other hunters, including Captain and X.O., followed him up the valley slope. MacArthur' s spirits rose; they had reinforcements, too!
"Colonel, we have received orders from Planetary Defense Command to recover the landers and return to Kon. We are specifically directed to break contact with the aliens." The subordinate, on all four legs, stood at rigid attention Longo sat in his acceleration chair in the relative warmth of the landing module. Emperor-General Gorruk's removal from power was disturbing, but one objective continued to dominate his reasoning: the secret of the alien's interstellar power drives. If he could but gain that knowledge, his grasp on power would be secure. But how?
"We do not take orders from Planetary Defense," Longo snapped. "Status on security?"
"Colonel, overlapping security perimeters have been set up. Sensors have detected only indigenous animal life. Reconnaissance drones will launch as soon as the ceiling lifts, as you ordered."
"Very well," Longo replied. "No more games."
The winds slackened. A shiftless moon peeked through sodden clouds and then disappeared, leaving the night even darker, and from the blackness fell a miserable drizzle. Humans and hunters, cold and wet, huddled together.
"They got night vision cameras and IR detectors everywhere," MacArthur reported. "We saw ten bugs outside the modules, but they're too far inside the sensor perimeter. We might be able to pick them off in daylight, but it's a tough shot at night."
"We really scared them," Tatum added.
"Is there anyway we can take out the damn sensors?" Buccari asked.
"I've got some ideas—" MacArthur started to say.
Tonto, standing watch on the ridge, whistled softly. "Listen," Tatum whispered urgently.
In the distance, an angry high-pitched engine erupted into life.
"We've found them, Colonel," the subordinate reported. "They are near—within mortar range. Mortar crews are prepared."
Longo had not expected success so quickly. He turned up the temperature on his Genellan suit and moved quickly through the airlock hatch into the frigid darkness. The drones were controlled from the reconnaissance module housed in the last of the four landers in line. Walking across the soggy ash, Longo noted shadowy figures standing guard at the foot of each lander. Two separate groups of technicians, standing clear of the landers, huddled about their equipment, a silver-green luminescence from their electronics outlining their forms. Other soldiers remained inside the modules, out of the elements but on alert should any movement be detected within the perimeter. After hiking the full length of the secure area, Longo and his retinue boarded thereconnaissance module and moved into its cramped lab. Technicians came to attention.
"Carry on!" Longo ordered. "Where are they?"
Longo looked at the video with morbid satisfaction. The aliens showed as a cluster of fuzzy hot spots nestled within dark, cold, vertically-viewed vegetation. Occasionally, an extended arm or leg could be clearly perceived, as the hunted creatures milled about beneath the drone's camera.
"Do the mortar teams have telemetry?" Longo asked.
"Yes, most excellent Colonel!" the senior technician gushed. "Gravity, what are you waiting for?" Longo shouted. The images were dispersing.
"Y-y-your. your order to fire, most excel—"the subordinate said.
"Fire!" Longo screamed. "Fire! You idiot!"
The subordinate blurted commands into his radio, and a pair of hollow thumps sounded immediately. Mortar rounds sped into the night.
The angry engine hovered high over their heads, invisible in the night sky. Buccari squinted into the falling mists but to no avail.
"Move out, now!" Shannon ordered. He scrambled up the rise to see what was happening. Buccari followed, while MacArthur ran at the cliff dwellers, herding them, giving them panicky signals to move away from the area. They needed little inducement.
"Spread out and take cover uphill!" Shannon barked.
"What's the deal, Sarge?" Buccari said. "Can't we shoot it down?"
"Hell, can you see it?" Shannon asked, craning his neck to peer into the night. "Sounds like two of them. You better get moving, sir. Now!"
Burping gouts of flame erupted from the vicinity of the alien landers.
"Aw, shit!" Shannon exclaimed. "Everybody down! Incoming!" he bellowed into the night. The sergeant threw Buccari violently to the soggy ground, crushing her body with his own. Buccari's wind was knocked from her lungs, and her face was pushed into the muddy humus. She gasped for air. Suddenly the night was filled with shrill, screaming whistles. Explosions thundered into the ground, and Buccari felt Shannon's body jolt. The sergeant groaned softly and then was quiet.
"Damn, you're heavy, Sarge," Buccari grunted, struggling to breathe. No answer. No movement. Buccari heard the drone buzzing overhead and then more demonic whistles. The ground heaved violently, and Shannon's body twitched spasmodically as the blasts rolled over them, and then she felt the man's blood, warm and wet. Frantic, she wriggled out from under the grotesquely limp body and staggered to her feet.
"Oh, Sarge! No, Sarge!" Buccari still on her knees, wept. Shannon was dead, his back ripped open by shards of hot metal. She looked around, dazed, her ears ringing with concussion. The irritating noise of the drone pushed its way into her consciousness. Anger welled within her. The drone seemed closer. She looked up, and there it was—a hard, black form, a darker hole in the dark skies, hovering off to the side. She grabbed Shannon's assault rifle and snapped it to her shoulder. Exhaling, she aimed and fired a burst, pulling the sights across the target.
"Save the ammo!" MacArthur shouted, appearing from the dark. "Wait until daylight." He ran up to her, tripping over Shannon's form. "Get out of here," he said, kneeling to check Shannon's throat for a pulse. "Move, Lieutenant!" he shouted, grabbing the dead man's ammo belt and field glasses.
Buccari ran. Two more white flashes illuminated the bottoms of the clouds. Buccari and MacArthur dove behind a litter of fallen trees as whistling mortar shells car-rumphed into the wet ground, vomiting trees and dirt into the air. Hot shrapnel whistled and pinged through the forest, clipping tree branches and leaves—an expanding buzzsaw laid on its side! Ear-shattering impacts walked up the valley slope and spread apart, chasing the retreating humans. Buccari and MacArthur jumped to their feet and dashed across the hillside, climbing ever higher as debris fell around them. Explosions lit up the night. Mortar rounds fell continuously. After a hundred meters MacArthur reversed their traverse and headed back toward the others, continuing to climb. An eternity passed. The mortar fire stopped, but the infernal buzzing of the reconnaissance drone hung in the darkness above.
"We're out of range," MacArthur gasped.
Buccari struggled to get her wind. She heard crashing and stumbling ahead. MacArthur whistled softly.
"That you, Mac?" Chastain' s voice shouted back from the shadows.
"Yeah, Jocko. And the lieutenant. Who's with you?" "Mendoza and Schmidt," Chastain replied. "Schmidt's injured."
They caught up. Chastain and Mendoza were assisting Schmidt, though the Marine was trying to shake them off. Blood trickled from Schmidt's ears, and Mendoza's cheek was ripped, a flap of skin dangling. Schmidt had lost his rifle.
"Who else've you seen, Jocko?" Buccari asked. "Anyone else get hurt?"
"Petit bought it," Mendoza replied. "Caught a round in his lap. Nothing left."
Buccari saw shadows tramping upwards through the thinning forest of pines and firs. MacArthur shouted names and the others answered, sometimes needing voice relays to communicate over the distances. Everyone but Petit and Shannon. Buccari passed orders to climb to the tree line. There they would rendezvous and decide their next move. They climbed silently, gradually walking into a foggy overcast, the snarling engines of the drones fell behind; the cloud ceiling too thick for its detection systems.
"What have I got us into?" Buccari sighed. "Shannon's dead…and Petit."
"So they earned their paychecks!" MacArthur shot back. "Can it, Lieutenant! Shannon knew what he was doing. Your plan was good. We didn't know about their air force."
"A big screwup," she spit.
"Nothing's changed," MacArthur said. Tonto and X.O. hopped out of the night. Captain followed, but signaled bad <news:> bear people were pursuing. "We have an air force, too."
"The cliff dwellers?" she asked.
MacArthur lifted his pistol. He pulled the slide back, chambering a round. "Air-to-air combat," he said. "Just have to find the right time and place."
The clouds departed with the night. Morning arrived calm and bright. Longo' s soldiers marched at a steady, four-legged lope up the slope of the valley, much faster than a human could walk. The mortar team followed more slowly. The overcast had made it impossible to keep the aliens in contact, and Longo had held position on the valley flank until daybreak. With clear skies, one of the drones immediately regained contact, marking the location of the aliens and eliminating the danger of another ambush.
"They move along the top of the ridge, Colonel," a subordinate reported. Longo grunted and kept hiking. And thinking. The drone had detected seventeen infrared signatures. Nine of the signatures were distinctly larger and much warmer than the other eight. His technicians indicated the larger signatures were the aliens, of which only seven were left; they had passed one insect-covered body and the remains of another. What were the eight smaller IR signatures?
"We have adequate light for video, Colonel," the drone technician reported. "The smaller IR signatures have been identified as two-legged animals."
"Pets?" Longo remarked. "I was not aware of two-legged animals on this planet."
"Mountain flyers, most excellent Colonel," offered the technician. "Five disappeared in the night. Only three remain."
"Mountain flyers, eh?" Longo mused. He pondered their presence, and discounted them. "Which of the aliens have you identified?"
"The female that leads them and seven of the soldiers."
The drones were tracking the warriors—the soldiers and their puny female leader. The other females, including Gol'berg, were somewhere else. Where? The reconnaissance drones with their cameras and heat detectors would find them, too, eventually—after the warriors were eliminated. Without soldiers to protect them, they would be that much easier to capture alive.
The sun stretched to its zenith. Buccari stared anxiously at the cloudless skies. The barrel-shaped drone throbbed and hummed its irritating tune far above their heads, out of rifle range. It was newly arrived with a fresh load of fuel and charged batteries after relieving the first drone that had been monitoring them. The humans lay scattered about the rocks, some sleeping, some chewing on their last rations of dried meat and fish. They had climbed high above the shoulders of the valley and were perched on the flank of a rocky tor, its peak topped by twin pinnacles.
Even in her fatigue and fear Buccari marveled at the immensity of the land. To the west the valley lake radiated a luminescent blue light of its own. Beyond the valley and ranging to the north and south were the snowcapped mountains, uprisings of granite that defied description and gravity, and to the north and east could be seen the great herds of musk-buffalo, largely returned from their winter pastures to the southeast. Directly behind her, to the east, the terrain plummeted sharply into a series of mountain defiles, steep-sided, barren, with sheer cliffs and knife-edge ridges.
"I'll be damned! Where are the thermals?" asked an exasperated MacArthur. "They'll find us before we can take out the drone."
"Shouldn't we head for the woods?" Tatum asked.
"We have to take out the drones, Sandy," Buccari replied. "As long as they can track us we don't have a chance." The last scraggly stands of yellow-barked firs were far down the ridge.
"How far behind us are they?" O'Toole asked.
Tonto lay on a grassy spot between boulders, his thin chest heaving. The hunter had returned from a scouting mission, his heart nearly bursting.
"Tonto says close," Buccari said. She watched MacArthur stride over to where Captain and X.O. perched on craggy rocks.
"I have been given great honor," Braan chirped, awed by his responsibility. He tugged on the holster, ensuring it rode snugly and did not interfere with the motion of his sinewy arms. The weapon's heft was worrisome, but Braan had carried far greater loads aloft.
"If any hunter is to have such honor 'tis thee, Braan-ourleader," Craag responded, basking in his leader's glory. The weapon was beautiful, giving the user great pride. The weapon was powerful, giving its wielder great strength. Deadly strength.
"Brave-crazy-one approaches," Craag reported. "He is most anxious."
Both hunters turned to formally acknowledge Brave-crazyone, their fellow warrior. At that moment a fresh breeze swirled between them. The hunters unfurled their membranes. Brave-crazyone turned at the wind gust and pumped his arms. He stepped up to Braan and grabbed the cliff dweller by the shoulders. Brave-crazyone pulled the pistol from the holster and made one last check of the chambering mechanism. Replacing the pistol, Brave-crazy-one took a step backward and bowed low. Braan returned the bow and turned to Craag. Screaming the death song, wings cracking in the freshening breeze, the hunters leapt from their perches and glided down the slope of the hill, their mission begun.
Braan screeched a turning signal, and the hunters banked to the east, seeking vertical movement in the air around them. Thermal activity was weak but increasing. A steady updraft climbed the flanks of the ridges, and Braan followed that path of least resistance, making vertical progress, but slowly. The hunter leader dug at the air with his wings and Craag followed. A strong thermal swept under them; the hunters held their wings rigid, riding invisible billows ever higher. Gradually they eased above the whining machine's altitude but remained separated laterally by many spans. Braan peeled away from the thermal and set his wings for optimum glide, making straight for the target. The weapon was heavy, and Braan could feel his descent increasing rapidly. The leader of the hunters screamed and wheeled away, searching for another boost.
"Crap! There they are!" Tatum shouted. The massive aliens galloped over a rolling, grassy hump far down the ridge, appearing huge even at great distance. "They can really move!"
"We're too late," Buccari said. "Head for the woods." "On your feet!" MacArthur shouted.
"Move out!" Buccari ordered. "Head for the tree line. Don't bunch up. If we get separated head for High Camp. Make sure you aren't followed."
"Move out! On the double!" MacArthur shouted.
"Let's go! Scatter and hide!" Buccari shouted. They sprinted from the rocks, Chastain and Mendoza leading the rush.
Chastain stopped abruptly, sliding in the loose rock.
"Oh, no!" Mendoza yelled. "More of them!" Coming from the most direct route to the tree line were six konish soldiers, spreading out at the base of the elevation, cutting them off! One of the aliens, forging ahead of the others, pointed his blaster at the clustered humans, and a flash of blue-green light streaked upward.
Mendoza screamed, holding his face. "Aarrrgghhh! I can't see!"
"Everybody back!" Buccari shouted. They retreated, scrambling for cover—except MacArthur. The corporal fell forward, his assault rifle pointed down the hill. A single shot exploded from his weapon, and the lead kone dropped like a sack of sand. The alien soldiers stopped and ducked behind scattered rocks.
"They are trapped, most excellent Colonel," gushed the subordinate. "We have them pinned down. There is a precipitous cliff beyond."
"They have the high ground," Longo said, surveying the terrain. "The lasers have insufficient range. How soon before the mortars arrive?"
"In less than an hour, most excellent Colonel."
"Bring the translation computer forward," Longo commanded. "Perhaps they will consider surrendering."
"How's Mendoza?" Buccari asked, tightly gripping her carbine.
"He can see out of his right eye, but his left eye is in bad shape," O'Toole responded. He squatted with Buccari and MacArthur. Large boulders protected them from sporadic alien rifle and cannon fire.
"What're they doing?" O'Toole asked. The firing had stopped. Buccari peeked around lichen-covered rocks. Two konish soldiers marched across the open ground and came to a stop. One wore the burgundy uniform of an officer.
"It's Longo. He wants to talk," she said. "They have the translator."
"You think its a trick?" MacArthur asked.
"Only one way to find out." She jumped up and started walking down the rock-studded slope, leaving her weapon behind.
"Coming with you, Sharl!" MacArthur shouted and ran after her."…sir."
Braan and Craag soared high above the offensive machine. Brave-crazy-one had cautioned him against approaching too closely, saying there was grave unseen danger. The hunters circled warily downward, their target directly beneath them. It was very loud.
"You have no escape," rumbled Longo through the translation computer. He towered over the humans. "Continued resistance is futile. Surrender and you will not be harmed."
"How can we be assured of that, Colonel Longo?" Buccari asked.
MacArthur scanned the disposition of soldiers. The drone whined overhead.
"You have no choice," said the box.
"Why must we surrender?" Buccari asked. "Can we not remain here in peace?"
"That has already been explained," said the box. Longo shifted impatiently. "If you do not lay down your weapons and come with us…then I will have to track you down and deal with you.. more forcefully."
"There must be some other option?" Buccari said.
Longo paused, carefully considering his words. "I am sure you would not want more harm to come to Master Huhsawn," the box finally said.
"Hudson!" Buccari blurted. "No! Is he alive?"
"He's dead, Sharl!" MacArthur shouted. "He's playing with your mind!"
"I assure you," said the box, "Master Huhsawn is alive…if just barely."
"Sharl—Lieutenant! He's dead," MacArthur said. "And even if he isn't, he might as well be. We got other people to worry about."
"I–I understand. Allow me to return to my people and discuss the matter," Buccari answered with obvious difficulty.
"Of course, but realize if you choose to run.. I will track you down—like an animal." Longo pointed at the drone, his expression universally sinister.
The muted bark of a pistol sounded directly over their heads, and the engine noises halted. MacArthur glanced skyward to see the drone plummeting from the sky, its counter-rotating blades whirling silently. A hunter fell alongside the drone, flailing his wings, struggling to regain control—it was Captain. The hunter leader recovered, his wings beating heavily but without altitude gain. The drone accelerated straight down, crashing into the ground with a hollow noise, and then the fuel exploded with a magnificent ball of yellow and red flames. The dweller glided swiftly out of sight behind an outcropping of rock.
"Excuse us, Colonel," Buccari said with exaggerated dignity. She turned and walked away. MacArthur followed at her heels, skipping backwards and watching for an attack.
Buccari ordered them to retreat high into the rocks until they were only a few meters below the twin pinnacles at the peak. Alien rifles and laser-blasters fired sporadically, providing cover for konish soldiers as they scurried to more advanced positions. The humans suffered burns, but the kones paid dearly. O'Toole and Tatum each picked off two soldiers, halting their forward movement.
Using Chastain's great strength, the humans positioned boulders, toppling them over onto other rocks to make impenetrable covered fortifications. Those bunkers commanded excellent fields of fire; the kones would pay dearly for a direct assault. The biggest question was ammunition. And after ammo was time.
"Why aren't they attacking?" Chastain grunted. The big man, with help from MacArthur and Schmidt, heaved a particularly large rock into place with a grinding crunch.
"Don't know," MacArthur huffed, jumping down and inspecting their handiwork. "Okay, Beppo, this one's yours."
Schmidt, his blonde beard dirty and caked with blood, moved into position, sticking the barrel of a captured weapon through the opening in the stacked rocks. Everyone was in position.
"They're setting up the mortar," Buccari said. She stood motionless on a prominent crag, staring down the slope through field glasses, an inviting target. The cliff dwellers stood close by, giving balance to Buccari's solitary form, statues on rocky pedestals set against a metallic blue sky. An occasional alien bullet pinged off the rocks.
"Uh-oh," O'Toole said. "That mortar will beat us to pieces." "Lieutenant!" MacArthur barked. "With all due respect, get your ass behind a rock."
Buccari pulled the glasses from her eyes and hopped down. "The other drone is coming!" she declared. "That's what they're waiting for."
MacArthur could hear the engine whining in the distance.
Captain whistled and looked at MacArthur. MacArthur nodded and pointed into the sky. All three cliff dwellers launched into the air, their wings cracking as one. As before, they glided downward and to the east, gaining speed and seeking currents to lift them. They quickly left the range of vision.
"Everybody down!" MacArthur shouted. "In your bunkers!" The corporal slid into his rock emplacement, assault rifle in hand. He watched Buccari as she did the same, only paces away.
"Some leader I turned out to be," Buccari snarled.
"Cut the crap…" MacArthur replied. His mouth snapped shut. The unmistakable sound of a double sonic boom rumbled across the valley. His eyes jerked up into the sky.
"A lander!" Buccari shouted. "That was ours!"
A thin cheer rose from the rocks. Joy was short-lived; the mortar harrumped into activity, a screaming whistle followed, and the first of many explosions showered rock and dirt over their heads. The mortar rounds landed with accuracy, exploding around the dug-in humans. Granite rocks shielded them from the direct effects of the blasts, but the rocks also provided a multitude of hard surfaces. Shrapnel careened from all directions; ricochets screamed and pinged crazily.
MacArthur heard Buccari cry out and was immediately at her side.
"Where're you hit, Sharl?" he asked, near panic. Buccari's head was back, mouth gaping, struggling to breathe.
"I'm… I'm okay, Mac," she gasped, sucking air. "Get back." "You're hit!"
"I'm fine, Mac," she wheezed. "I slipped and knocked my wind out." She flexed her left arm and wiggled her fingers.
MacArthur gently pulled her away from the rocks and saw blood trickling down the granite boulder. Frightened, he peeled the shredded, red-sodden jumpsuit from her shoulders. Another round exploded nearby, and another. He ducked low, clasping Buccari in his arms as killing shards buzzed about their shelter.
A brief lull ensued. A smattering of return fire from the humans filled the void. MacArthur shifted his position and carefully examined the lieutenant's injuries.
"You're lucky," he said, exhaling with relief. "The bleeding is already stopped, and I can see metal. The fragments were spent when they hit you. Bite on this!" He handed her his knife scabbard. "I'm going to dig them out."
MacArthur was quick. Warm splinters of shrapnel dropped to the ground, clinking wetly on the rocks. He wrapped hide and strips of bloody material tightly around her torso.
"That's all I can do," he said. He made her put on his coat.
"Thanks, Doc," Buccari breathed heavily as the pain receded. "Will… will I still be able to play the accordion?" She sat upright and leaned gingerly against the rocks. A mortar round thudded to ground close by, and more shrapnel screamed around them. She ducked into his arms, moaning in pain and fear. MacArthur hugged her passionately.
The mortar fire stopped, and he pushed her away, not looking at her face. He tried to hide his tears.
"What's wrong, Mac?" she asked. "We're going to get out of this, I know we are. The fleet's coming. You heard the lander."
He smiled sadly. "It's funny, Sharl. That's what's bothering me."
"What? Why?" she mumbled, wincing.
MacArthur moved to his knees.
"Sharl," he said, holding her hand. "We belong to different worlds. The fleet's back. You can—you'll have to return to your world. You're an officer. I'm a grunt."
"Bullshit, Mac!" she responded, green eyes flaring. "This is our world! Yours and mine. It's a new world, and we'll write our own rules—our own philosophies."
MacArthur looked at the bloodshot eyes staring out from her scarred and blackened face. He stroked her tangled, singed hair. "We better worry about one problem at a time. That shoulder's going to make it hard for you, if we have to climb down the back side."
"Don't worry about me. Corporal."
MacArthur smiled, but the smile evaporated with the realization the mortar fire had not just paused—it had ceased. He jumped to his feet and peeked above the rocks. "Sandy! Terry! Anything happening on your side?" he shouted.
"All clear here!" Tatum shouted. "The bugs are still butts up in the rocks."
"Look!" Buccari shouted, clambering up to join him. "The drone!"
"Colonel!" the subordinate shouted. "The drone! Birds are attacking."
"Not birds," Longo snarled. He scanned the skies with binoculars. "Birds do not carry weapons. Command the drone back to us and lower its altitude. Order the soldiers to blast those creatures!"
Longo watched anxiously as the mountain flyer closed inexorably on the descending machine. He could not afford to lose his last drone.
"Make it go faster!" Longo shouted. "Faster!"
"It is already at maximum speed, Colonel," said the subordinate. Both officers watched the drone technician anxiously, praying for the soldier to perform a miracle.
Ironically, if only the bear people had made the drone climb, the hunter would have been frustrated. As long as they continued to lower the machine's altitude it was possible for Braan to continue pursuit. The hunter dove at the noisy craft, closing on his objective, planning his tactics. Gaining speed by pulling in his wings, the hunter accelerated and swooped below the helicopter, passing it by. Braan curved his membranes and started an arcing movement, giving him an upward ballistic trajectory. Pulling in his wings, the creature carved a graceful, parabolic path, all the while spinning his body to face the approaching drone. With gravity killing his vertical momentum, Braan pulled the pistol from the holster and, holding it with both clawed hands at arms length, sighted down the barrel at the onrushing machine.
Braan, the-leader-of hunters, fired one shot at point blank range before the drone crashed into his body.
"It hit him!" MacArthur shouted, binoculars pressed to his eyes. The drone halted in midair, pieces of metal peeling away, theplane of its rotor blades tilting. Captain's limp form was dashed aside, tumbling from the skies. MacArthur focused on the falling creature, but he could still see the drone veering crazily. The drone wobbled, seeking to stabilize itself, but then it rolled in a jerking spiral over onto its back. MacArthur thought the spinning blades would strike the hunter, but Captain had fallen clear.
"Come on, Captain! Fly!" MacArthur exhorted. "Come on!"
One of the creature's wings slipped open, and Captain rolled in mid-air. The hunter's line of fall deflected, but it remained precipitous.
"You can do it!" MacArthur was yelling. "Fly, you little bastard! Fly!"
The hunter's wings stiffened. The plummet turned into a swoop, and Captain sailed unsteadily over the ground, wobbling through the ranks of the konish soldiers. The drone exploded beautifully in the background. The humans cheered. MacArthur screamed in joy.
But not for long. The scattering soldiers, recovering from the drone's crash, shifted their attention to the flying creature. Soldiers scurried to position, raising blasters and rifles. Captain struggled to the east, following the rolling terrain leading to the cliffs beyond. As he cleared the last konish soldier, the blasters opened fire. The hunter dipped and climbed, swerved and turned, covering more than half the open ground to the cliffs, but he was losing speed, the evasive maneuvers eroding his velocity. When he was almost to the cliff's edge, a blaster beam spun him around! Captain collapsed into a curled ball and fell with a sickening slide onto the rocky ground beyond the grassy swell of the ridge. He had almost made it.
High overhead, the orbiting hunters screamed fiercely.
"He's still moving!" MacArthur shouted, standing and staring through the field glasses. "Cover me!" Dropping binoculars and rifle, he sprinted down the rocky terrain. Captain had crashed short of the cliff's edge, but the cliff dweller had made it over the rise of the ridge; the konish soldiers could not see the fallen hunter. If MacArthur could reach the boulders at the foot of the high ground, he could make it out to the downed animal; the curve of the ridge would protect him. He bounded down the hill.
MacArthur heard a laser beam sing by his head and realized his beard was on fire. He dove behind rocks, slapping at his burning hair, feeling layers of skin slip from his cheek. The smell was nauseating. He heard loud noises and looked back. Chastain and Buccari were following him down the slope, jumping from rock to rock and providing furious covering fire. The lasers stopped, but konish infantry cannon erupted, and explosions rippled all around him.
MacArthur rolled across an opening in the rocks and hit the flat grassy crown of the ridge on his feet, running downhill, trying to put the rolling hump of the ridge between him and the aliens. Another laser beam sang past his neck, and then he was below their line of sight. A hundred meters distant, Captain staggered toward him, limping severely, wings dragging. The cliff's edge fell away to MacArthur' s right—a vertical drop. MacArthur closed the distance to the hunter in sprinter's time, ignoring the dizzy precipice.
Captain still held the pistol in his hands. MacArthur grabbed the weapon, stuck it in his belt, and picked the cliff dweller up in his arms like a child. The battered creature's eyes were tightly shut. He chirped softly, plaintively, and was silent. MacArthur turned to start his way back to the rocks and saw konish soldiers charging over the ridge, pouring laser and cannon fire into the rocks where Buccari and Chastain were hiding. MacArthur, hugging the hunter to his chest, fell to his knees behind a low wall of boulders and watched two of the kones fall to return fire. Their ammo's gotta' be about gone, thought MacArthur, panic setting in.
Soldiers detached from the main body and made for MacArthur' s position. Still hugging the dweller, MacArthur pulled the pistol, raised to his knees, and fired two shots at the lead kone. The alien's helmet shattered as the giant fell backwards, and his mates moved to take cover. MacArthur took aim at another soldier and pulled the trigger; one round exploded from the pistol barrel and then—click, click, click! The Marine looked around in desperation. He had no choice. He put his head down and jumped to his feet, not feeling the weight of his burden. Protective cover was only a stone's throw away.
Four strides into his sprint, he was hit! And hit again! An electric, numbing jolt ran up his spine. Agony! He pushed his legs to move, but they refused to obey. Explosions! Explosions lasted forever, and he drifted into merciful unconsciousness.
Buccari felt searing pain deep in her shoulder. Every time she fired the assault rifle, it pounded her torn muscles. She wiped perspiration from her eyes and fumbled with her ammo belt. There was only one clip left. Chastain, from his position below her, jumped around a boulder and fired his rifle. A salvo of answering laser beams rang through the air. Bullets splattered the rocks, exploding their surfaces into shards and chips of granite. Chastain slumped behind the boulders and looked up at her, his face red and blistered, his beard smoking. He was crying.
So was she. Buccari felt the grip of panic. Her own hair was singed short and blisters were rising on her cheeks. In the open, on the ridge beyond the rocks, MacArthur lay sprawled on his back— not moving. Captain lay next to him, wings draped over the human's still form.
"He's down, Jocko!" Buccari shouted. "We can't save him! We can't!"
Chastain said nothing, his shoulders shaking. Cannon shells exploded in rolling waves around them, showering them with rock splinters. Laser beams cooked the air. Chastain leapt to the side and fired his assault rife, the quick burst emptying his magazine—the metal clip rang on the ground. He jerked behind cover and resolutely shoved in another ammo clip. Buccari knew it was his last. More cannon shells thudded among the rocks, and shrapnel tap-danced over the mountain granite.
"I don't want to leave him either, Jocko!" she shouted in despair. "He wouldn't want us to die, Jocko. Not when we can get away."
Gunfire erupted from higher up. She broke her stare from the attackers and looked up to see Tatum making his way through the boulders along the back side of the ridge. She figured he was starting the escape. With one arm he needed a head start. If Tatum could make it, then she could, too. She turned back to the aliens and steeled herself to take another shot. She heard her name being called. Tatum was yelling at her! She turned back to him. He was cupping his one hand and bellowing, but the noise of the battle was too loud. A lull struck, and she could hear some of his words.
"Hang on… cliff dwellers…" he shouted.
Cliff dwellers? Tonto and X.O.? What could they do? She looked down at Chastain. His rifle pointed at the ground. He was staring into the sky. She followed his gaze. Cliff dwellers! Hunters! Hundreds of them—thousands! Like a thin layer of smoke from the west, still far away. A shrill whistling drifted on the wind. The konish soldiers stopped firing, all staring at the oncoming horde.
"Keep firing!" Buccari screamed. She stepped around the rock and took aim at a konish soldier. The assault rifle kicked her shoulder and the soldier collapsed. The others followed her lead, and the confused kones tried to direct their attention in both directions. Laser blasters, their power diminishing, raked the rocky mountain while cannon shells exploded without interruption.
"Colonel Longo!" the subordinate shouted, nervously looking at the black cloud spreading across the sky. "Power cells are running down. Should we not consider withdrawing?"
Longo stared at the leading elements of the mountain flyers. The first arrows struck, and Longo realized the situation had swung badly out of control. A torrent of short, metal-barbed shafts rippled across the grassy ridge—a thin, swift downpour of pain. Longo looked at his thigh; a black-fletched arrow protruded from his haunch. Pain coursed through his leg.
"Blasters!" Longo screamed. "Shoot the flyers! Shoot them!"
Kones swung their weapons to the new enemy. None of the soldiers had been killed, but most had received painful wounds; several had been incapacitated by multiple wounds. With the fear of death expanding in their souls, the konish soldiers swept their fading beams through the massed flying creatures, raking dozens of them from the sky, praying their power cells would last. Another wave of arrows splattered across the konish lines. Four kones went to their knees, still trying to fire their weapons, knowing they were dying.
And another wave. Longo counted six arrows in his own body; the one in his neck prevented him from issuing orders. He, too, was dying. More hunters fell from the sky, small bodies burned and broken, many with arrows still nocked in their bows. More kones succumbed. More arrows, more arrows—more arrows.
The kones lay dead, mountainous carcasses bristling with black shafts. Sprinkled around the bulky bodies of the kones were dozens of small wasted forms, the twisted and charred bodies of dead hunters. A horde of living hunters—sorrowful victors— descended from the skies and formed orderly groups.
Buccari ran down the hill toward MacArthur's limp form. Chastain beat her there, along with X.O. and Tonto. Chastain threw his jacket over MacArthur's torso. The hulking Marine looked up and moved to stop her.
"No, Lieutenant. It's real bad," Chastain sobbed, tears rolling down his blistered and blackened face. "Mac's not going to make it."
"He's alive?" Buccari asked.
Chastain nodded, holding her tightly by the shoulders.
She shook loose and staggered the short distance to where MacArthur sprawled, his legs angled grotesquely. The body of the dead hunter embraced the Marine, both forms covered by Chastain's jacket. Captain's black eyes stared vacantly into the blue sky. As Buccari stumbled up to the fallen warriors, X.O. moved to close the fallen hunter's eyes, all the while whistling a shrill, mournful wail. Tonto stood near, visibly trembling, but also whistling mournfully.
MacArthur' s chest heaved in shallow, pained breaths. She knelt down, putting his face in shadow. He blinked, his eyes focused, and he turned his head to her. His hand lifted from the ground.
"Hold…" he gasped. "Sharl…hold my hand." Tears rolled across his tortured face. Buccari took the strong, callused hand in hers and held it to her cheek.
"Let me…touch you…" he whispered. She relaxed her grip and felt his fingers glide over her face, lingering on the line of her scar. "Mac," she sobbed. "Mac, I…"
"In truth, you're beautiful, Shar—" His hand tightened around her wrist, and the light in his gray eyes faded out.
Cassy Quinn stood on the new planet, more resolved than bereaved. She had work to do—hard work—on a new planet, a planet with limitless potential, something she had dreamed of, something she had trained for. But she had forgotten about gravity. Her heart struggled to force blood to her extremities; her legs felt leaden, her head ached, and she was cold. Patience, she told herself, it had only been two weeks since they had landed.
"You okay, Commander?" Godonov asked. They had finished checking the lake station survey instruments. "You're pale." "I'm okay, Nes," she replied. "Just tired."
"You should take some time off and relax," he said. "You've been working too hard. Enjoy the scenery." He waved his hand at the hanging glaciers and snowcapped mountains. Bronze-tufted ducks, alarmed at their presence, ran along the water's surface and glided across the smooth surface of the lake. A large fish rolled its belly at them.
"I'm too excited to relax," Quinn answered.
The Legion scientists walked along the lakeshore and rounded the forested point of the protected cove, receiving welcome shelter from the cool lake breeze. The settlement clearing spread before them. Kateos and Dowornobb, helmets off, reclined on sun-washed grass above the sandy beach. Dowornobb waved.
"Good-ah news!" Dowornobb shouted. "Master Huhsawn has regained-ah consciousness. We just-ah receive radio transmission from your fleet-ah. The doctors say that-ah he will-ah live."
An oppressive weight lifted from Quinn's shoulders. Nashua Hudson's survival had defied logic and reason. His flesh cooked and his bones crushed, the ensign had been evacuated on the first EPL off the planet and immediately taken at full military thrust tothe medical facility aboard Tierra del Fuego. The accelerations and stresses of planetary escape worked against success; Hudson died enroute and was revived—twice. Fleet doctors and equipment could perform near miracles on a living being, but could do little for a dead one. Hudson's infirm body and nearly orphaned soul made it back to the fleet and were welded together. Healing would take much longer.
"Wonderful," Quinn said, a catch in her throat. "That means so much."
"To us, too, Commander," Kateos said, standing. "Hud-sawn is our good friend. We go with you." Dowornobb stashed the remains of their picnic in his suit pouches. They walked in silence past the circle of ash and charcoal that marked the perimeter of the settlement ruins. The palisade gate frame still stood, as did the blackened stone foundations of most the buildings. Guilders working on the new construction moved nervously from the paths of the kones. At least they no longer ran and hid.
"Ah, there are Dawson and Gol'berg with their babies," Kateos announced, brown eyes widening. "Come, my mate, and let us say hello. I want to hold a baby."
"Again!" Dowornobb smiled at his mate's tender enthusiasm.
"Excuse me, Commander," Godonov said, as the kones trotted away. "I should get started across the river if I'm going to catch the next apple. Fenstermacher has a ferry leaving in a half hour."
"All right, Nes," she answered. "I'll be back on Eire in three days."
She found herself standing alone. Reconstruction banged and clattered about her; rock walls were being cleaned and reassembled. The lodge roof had already been framed with new timbers. Winter was near; the survivors of Harrier One worked feverishly to restore the settlement.
Quinn self-consciously forced herself not to stare at the bare-chested men working the timber and rock. She was no prude, but she still was uncomfortable with their hairy, burnished bodies. Laser Corporal Tatum smiled at her as he hurried by with a tree trunk held firmly by one Herculean arm over his sinewy shoulder. The man's head was covered with reddish-blond hair pulled into a ponytail that approached his waist; his wide mustaches flowed into a thick beard, and his chest and back were pelted with a wiry, rust-colored gauze. His face was florid, the skin peeling and peppered with freckles. Quinn had to remind herself that the kones and the cliff dwellers were the aliens.
In the midst of the ruins, next to a large campfire, stood three konish tents. Et Silmarn, without his helmet, stood close to the fire, watching the activity. She walked up to the noblekone, anxious to share the fire's warmth.
"Governor," Quinn said in halting konish. "I use your fire."
"Good-ah day, Commander Quinn," Et Silmarn replied in Legion. "You speak-ah my language better with-ah each day. We soon not-ah need Mistress Kateos's translator. Please join me. It is cold-ah. How do they work-ah with bare skin?"
"Work keeps them warm," Quinn said, although she wondered the same thing.
"It-ah goes well," Et Silmarn said. "Perhaps Sharl is correctah to rebuild-ah. I should not-ah have demand—is «demand» right word?" Quinn nodded. "Should not-ah have demand-ah Sharl move all humans to Ocean Station for winter."
"You are not still angry with Sharl?" Quinn asked.
"No," the noblekone said. "Only, uh…hurt-ah feeling. Sharl said-ah Longo wanted humans to move south. It was insult-ah. I am not-ah Longo."
"She meant no insult, Et Silmarn."
"This I know. Sharl has pain in heart-ah."
Quinn nodded sympathetically and then remembered her duties.
"Admiral Runacres is scheduled to arrive tomorrow," Quinn said, switching to Legion and reaching into her haversack. "After the services are over he would like to have a meeting with you, and he proposes the following agend—"
"Commander," Et Silmarn said. "When Et Avian—Uh, King Ollant appoint me governor he make-ah it-ah clear that-ah all discussions with humans must-ah involve Citizen Sharl. We should-ah find-ah her, yes?"
Buccari spent hours hiking in solitude. Often she climbed to the top of the valley and walked in the fields of wildflowers mottling the grassy, humpbacked ridges. Hunters were always with her, sometimes soaring far above, sometimes hopping along behind. Always with her, always armed and vigilant, and she was glad for their silent company.
A familiar double sonic boom sounded far overhead. Buccari searched the deep, cloudless blue skies and presently saw the EPL gliding across the landscape, on final for a landing beyond the river. Her forearms tightened involuntarily; her fingers curled as if grasping heavy flight controls and power quadrant. She watched the EPL, so small in the distance, enter its landing transition, flames belching in vivid colors. Smoke and debris momentarily hid the craft from view. Her stomach sagged with the sensation of deceleration, and she vicariously sought the comforting contact of touchdown. Engine noises racing across the wide river valley and the intervening distances finally reached her ears. She looked down at her feet and the solid ground beneath them.
She exhaled and turned back toward the path. She had official responsibilities now, but she laughed as she realized Runacres— Fleet Admiral Runacres—would have to ask her permission to step foot upon the planet. Her new status had become a private joke between them, but the admiral had also offered her command of a corvette squadron. That she took seriously. She walked faster.
The chaplain finished the memorial service, and Admiral Runacres looked up from his prayer. Honeybees buzzed in the warm stillness, and a gentle breeze, cool and welcome, came off the lake, stirring the waters of the cove and refreshing the gathered mourners. They were assembled beneath the spreading tree that stood alone in the clearing before the blackened walls of the stockade. Runacres signaled the honor guard and seven Legion Marines sweating in full battle rig fired volleys over the graves of the fallen. The ceremony was over. There was no bugler, but the crying babies, frightened by the rifle reports, made their own accommodation.
Deep in somber conversation, Buccari and the towering Et Silmarn marched away from the rock cairns. The momuments were grave markers for Scientist Lollee, Lander Boatswain First Class Jones, Sergeant-Major Shannon, and Private Petit. The surviving crew, except for Nash Hudson, who was in a hospital bed aboard Tierra del Fuego, broke from their loose formation: Gunner Wilson, Terry O'Toole, Nancy Dawson, Jocko Chastain, Sandy Tatum, Billy Gordon, Winfried Fenstermacher, Pepper Goldberg, Tooks Tookmanian, Toby Mendoza, and Beppo Schmidt. The survivors wore new uniforms, but beards and ponytails more than offset the martial ambiance. Leslie Lee, the only crew member not in ranks, sat on a tree-shaded blanket, taking care of the complaining infants. The formalities over, she let the toddlers move off the blanket and stood to follow their movements, gently rocking her own sleeping baby. Dawson and Goldberg walked to the blanket. Dawson, disconsolate, sobbed on Goldberg's shoulder.
The other dead were not forgotten, their resting places just farther away. Commander Quinn, Warrant Officer Rhodes, and Private Rennault lay in peace, buried on Hudson's Plateau, so long ago and far away; Corporal MacArthur and the cliff dweller known as Captain, along with sixty-three hunters and thirty-eight konish soldiers, were buried under the wildflowers below the pinnacles high on the valley shoulder—the fallen heroes of battle. Certainly not forgotten.
"Touching," Sarah Merriwether said. "They have gone through a great deal."
"Yes, they have," Runacres replied, walking down the gentle slope toward the lakeshore. "And no doubt they have much more to face."
"How soon is your meeting with Et Avian?" Wells asked.
"Buccari tells me we're scheduled for two months from today. It's actually with the Planetary Defense Council," Runacres answered. "That's what Buccari and Et Silmarn are discussing right now, whether or not that's too soon."
Runacres told himself to wait patiently. He sat down on the grassy slope and looked over to where Buccari and Et Silmarn were conspiring. Merriwether and Wells followed his lead, with Commodore Wells displaying exaggerated chivalry to the flagship's commanding officer. Merriwether giggled adolescently causing both men to grin stupidly. It was a beautiful day.
"How many people will be allowed to settle on the planet?" Merriwether asked.
"I can't get a straight answer," Runacres said. He had petitioned to immediately transport more humans to the surface of Genellan and to establish a schedule for future immigration and a base for fleet operations. There was no shortage of volunteers within the fleet, and he knew what the response would be when he returned to Earth; there would be riots. Graft and corruption would reach new heights for the rich and powerful that desired to emigrate, for surely only the rich and powerful would have access. But that was not his concern. He discovered planets; he did not govern them. In that respect, he felt sorry for Buccari.
"Rumor says that Et Silmarn doesn't like your schedule," Wells said.
"Actually, I think it's Buccari that's objecting," Runacres laughed. "And I'm proud of her for that. I look forward to getting her back in harness."
"Has she really agreed to return to duty?" Wells asked.
"She'll be back," Runacres said. "She's too good a pilot to grow roots."
"Admiral, have you thought about it?" Merriwether asked. "Growing roots?"
"Thought about it, Sarah? Yes," Runacres said. "But no, not yet. I'm too old to be a Boy Scout. I'll give this paradise a few more years. Besides, humanity's biggest problems may still be ahead."
"How so, sir?" asked Wells.
"You haven't forgotten Shaula, have you?" Runacres asked. "There's an old and belligerent race out there. It attacked us twenty-five years ago, and it probably attacked this system over five hundred years ago."
"You think it's the same race?" Merriwether asked.
"Who knows?" Runacres replied. "Regardless, there's a great danger out there. I have a feeling we'll face it again in our lifetimes." He listened to the happy noises of the children and envied their bliss. He ran their names over in his mind. They would be famous: the oldest, Honey, ran along the beach cove, splashing the lake waters; little Adam followed, waddling in her footsteps; the youngest baby—Hope—still in her mother's arms, was just awakening.