Then, once the invaders had left, the temple fell silent. The Lords, as if considering what they had heard, stared into the darkness.
6
* * *
Nine-tenths of tactics are certain, and taught in books: but the irrational tenth is like the kingfisher flashing across the pool and that is the test of generals. It can only be ensured by instinct, sharpened by thought practising the stroke so often that at the crisis it is as natural as a reflex.
T. E. Lawrence
The Science of Guerrilla Warfare
Standard year circa 1925
* * *
EAST OF KA SUU, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
As the Trooper II passed between the two grinning skulls and the poles that supported them, Santana felt the swamp wrap him in a dank embrace.
Mist rose wraithlike from the soft mushy ground as the first rays of the sun found their way down through holes in canopy of leaves that served as the swamp’s living roof.
It had been months since Santana had ridden a T-2, but he was a cavalry officer, and the requisite skills soon came back. The key was to relax, lean against the harness, and use his knees as shock absorbers. Then, with his hands free to hold the assault weapon, and his headset jacked into the patch panel located just behind the cyborg’s neck, he could shoot, move, and communicate. The three tasks that ground pounders, even mounted ones, are paid to do.
The platoon leader flicked a switch that took him off the allied radio net and allowed him to communicate with the T-2 via intercom. A necessity if he didn’t want Hakk Batth to hear. “Snyder?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Run your sensors up to max, sort for anything with a heat signature larger than a LaNorian child, and electromechanical activity of any sort. If somebody so much as sets their watch, I want to know about it.”
The cyborg was already on it but knew the officer was just doing his job. “Sir, yes sir.”
“And monitor Force Leader Hakk Batth’s radio transmissions as well. If our leader sends or receives a message to or from someone outside of the column, I want to be the second person to hear about it. Watch the volume of radio traffic between Batth and his troops as well . . . If they start to get chatty, let me know.”
Snyder felt a chill run down her nonexistent spine. Not only did the loot expect some sort of ambush—he clearly believed that the Ramanthians might be in on it!
Disastrous if true, but what if it wasn’t? Santana had taken a fall from first loot to second. Everyone knew that—and everyone knew why. The platoon leader had gone head-to-head with Batth back on Beta-018 and come in second. That being the case one had to wonder . . . Were Santana’s concerns justified? Or the result of a heavy-duty grudge?
They were tough questions, but the cyborg’s duty was clear. Listen up, pay attention, and follow orders. That’s how the system worked, and that’s what she would do. The reply was the only one that a corporal could give. “Sir, yes sir.”
The trail disappeared under six inches of brown liquid. Water splashed as Snyder’s enormous podlike feet rose and fell. There was a sudden flurry of activity as something long and sinuous hurried out of the way.
Snyder felt the mud give under her considerable weight, then suck at the bottom of her steel “boots” when she tried to pick them up. The cyborg figured the razbuls would do fine—but wasn’t so sure about the carts. The swamp was a strange place for a person who still thought of herself as a city girl to end up. But, like most of the Legion’s borgs, Snyder had been given very little choice.
The jury had taken less than fifteen minutes to find her guilty of vehicular homicide while under the influence of alcohol, and the artificial intelligence known as JMS 12.2 had sentenced her to death. The better part of a year passed while her case was appealed, confirmed, and referred back to JMS 12.2. That’s when the offer was made.
Snyder was going to die the same way that her twelve-year-old victim had. Nobody could prevent that. She would be tied in place, struck by a ground car traveling at 72 mph, and thrown approximately fifty feet through the air. Just like the little girl she had hit. That was her sentence—and that’s what would happen.
What followed was up to her. Once Snyder was pronounced dead the authorities could leave her there, wherever “there” was, or bring her back. Not as a human, since her physical body would be little more than a jumble of flesh and bone by then, but as a brain-in-a-box. An onboard control system for one of the Legion’s most potent weapons.
That was how Snyder wound up as a quad on Beta-018, and later as a T-2, once her commanding officer approved a transfer. Not because she didn’t like the larger bodies—but because of the responsibility involved. Quads are required to carry troops into battle, troops that die if their borg makes a mistake, a risk Snyder wasn’t willing to take. She had already taken one innocent life and would never do so again.
The cyborg’s thoughts were interrupted as one of her onboard receivers registered a brief transmission. It lasted only one second, but came in over a seldom-used frequency and was heavily encrypted. Snyder knew that a whole lot of information can be packed into a very short burst and hurried to make her report. “I intercepted a radio transmission, sir. A one-second burst.”
Santana felt his heart beat just a little bit faster. “Encoded?”
“Yes sir.”
“Keep monitoring. Let me know if someone replies.”
The second burst came so quickly it was as if Santana knew what would happen. “Outgoing, sir. One second long.”
“Roger that,” the officer replied grimly. “Sign and countersign. Now listen carefully . . . The ambush is up ahead. We have no choice but to trip it. Once we do I want you to lay down suppressive fire, retreat along our line of march, and stop when I give the order.
“Between our people and the Clones we should be able to put up a pretty good fight. If the Thraks join in, then so much the better. But remember this . . . We may take fire from the rear. If we do I want you to take the bastards out.”
Snyder didn’t have to ask who the “bastards” were—the answer was obvious: the Ramanthians. It seemed hard to believe, very hard to believe, but the loot had been correct where the radio transmissions were concerned. That meant anything was possible. “Sir, yes sir.”
Now, as the swamp closed in around them, Santana began to sweat. He was afraid, a rather natural reaction given the circumstances, but not just for himself. He feared for the soldiers, all of the soldiers, and for Vanderveen, who had an amazing capacity to make him feel protective, defensive, and angry all at the same time.
All of them were counting on him to one extent or another and the knowledge was heavy on his shoulders. The waiting was agony but there was very little that Santana could do except endure it.
The trail came up out of the water, passed over a relatively dry hillock, and descended again. The cavalry officer scanned the soft ground for any sign of prints, saw some animal tracks, but nothing large enough to represent a threat.
Enormous stalks of what looked a lot like celery, each topped with frothy green foliage, rose to both sides. Smaller plants, many of which of were equipped with large light-gathering leaves, grew in symbiotic clusters. Vines, some of which could sense movement, writhed like snakes.
As the air warmed more and more insects appeared. Some seemed respectful of the bug repellent that Santana wore, but others were less impressed, and quickly developed an appetite for human flesh.
The officer slapped them at first, each contact leaving a small smear of blood, but was soon forced to give up. Every bit of attention directed at the insects was that much less for the rest of his environment—a rather dangerous place that could harbor something a lot more threatening than some hungry bugs. Santana forced himself to ignore the pinpricklike bites to his face, neck, and arms and focus on his surroundings.
Snyder, who was oblivious to such mundane concerns, paused on a low rise. The cyborg switched from video to infrared and back again.
The path, such as it was, vanished from time to time only to resurface, and zigzag its way across a sizable pond. Then, having completed that particular part of its journey, the trail mounted a hillock and disappeared from sight.
An unseen animal made a V-shaped ripple as it swam just below the surface off to the right. That suggested the water was a good deal deeper than anything encountered so far. Clusters of large lily-pad-like plants floated here and there, each leaf being two or three feet across and serving as landing platforms for at least one species of insect. The waterborne vegetation contributed to a rather peaceful-looking picture.
The only problem was that while the leaves acted to shield them, at least fifteen sources of heat lurked beneath the pads, as if hoping to evade detection.
The cyborg whispered into the intercom. “I’ve got them, Lieutenant—or at least I think I do. They’re hiding under those lily-pad things.”
Not wishing to give anything away the officer looked right then left. Santana hadn’t noticed anything before, but now, in the wake of the cyborg’s comments, some of the leaves did look suspicious. The only problem was the fact that the heat signatures could be indicative of a Claw ambush—or members of a native life-form that liked to lurk just below the surface. The officer muttered into his boom mike. “How are they arranged? Randomly? Or in some sort of formation?”
Snyder switched back to infrared. “In a line, sir, all on the left.”
Santana took the cyborg’s meaning. It seemed unlikely that naturally occurring heat sources would arrange themselves in a line—and even more unlikely that all of them would choose to dwell in the water off to the left. The legionnaire swallowed. “Good work, Snyder. Is your recorder running?”
The question was unexpected. Which answer did Santana want? Yes? Or no? Snyder settled for the truth. “Yes sir. Standing orders, sir.”
“Good,” Santana replied. “Stand by . . .”
The rest of the legionnaires had arrived by then and Santana used hand signals to deploy them to the right and left. Then, switching to the command frequency, the legionnaire made his report. “One Five to One Six . . . Over.”
The reply came so quickly it seemed as though Batth had been waiting for the transmission. “This is Six . . . go.”
“We have fifteen, repeat one-five, potentially hostile heat signatures on our left flank. Request permission to conduct a reconnaissance by fire. Over.”
“ ‘Potentially hostile?’ ” Batth demanded scathingly. “Let me know when you encounter actual resistance. Unnecessary gunfire will only serve to let the hostiles know that we’re coming. Permission denied. Over.”
Santana discovered that he’d been holding his breath. Here it was—the decision he’d been dreading. If he followed orders the ambushers, assuming that’s what they were, would wait until the column was stretched out in front of them, rise up out of the water, and open fire. Then, assuming that the digs closed the trap the way he would, additional attackers would appear at the top of the next rise and fire down at them. Casualties would be heavy—extremely heavy. Even given the somewhat primitive firearms the Claw were said to have.
If, on the other hand, he ordered Snyder to fire on what appeared to be a row of ambushers, and turned out to be wrong, his career would be over. He would be court-martialled for disobeying a direct order, and, given his history with Batth, the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
All of that passed through Santana’s mind in a flash—but it was something his father had said that helped make up his mind. He could even see Top’s weather-beaten face as he spoke. “Do what’s right, son. Take care of your troops, and let the rest sort itself out. That’s all any leader can do.”
Santana brought his assault weapon up, allowed it to rest on Snyder’s shoulder, and peered through the open sight. One pad in particular seemed a lot higher than it should be. The officer took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.
The weapon made a flat cracking sound as the slug slammed into its target, a geyser of blood shot up into the air, and all hell broke loose.
Batth had already started to scream at the platoon leader as fourteen members of the Claw stood up and opened fire. However, rather than being equipped with the primitive single-shot weapons that Santana had been told to expect, these individuals were armed with fully automatic Ramanthian-made Negar III assault rifles. The weapons roared as the LaNorian rebels opened up and the legionnaires returned fire.
Santana heard slugs spang off the T-2’s armor as Snyder swung into action. Her arm-mounted .50 caliber machine gun started to chug, and casings arced through the air as the ambushers started to die. Hillrun and other members of the squad had already accounted for three, and Snyder nailed two more as an even worse threat emerged.
Santana spotted the movement over the cyborg’s right shoulder and yelled into his radio. “Snyder! Two o’clock!”
Snyder detected both the motion and the heat even as Santana spoke. The cyborg turned, raised her right arm, and fired the energy cannon. A fountain of mud flew up into the air, but the dig with the rocket launcher remained unharmed. The spirits had protected him just as the Tro Wa said they would. He screamed in exultation.
Snyder knew it would take 2.5 seconds for the energy cannon to recycle and brought the .50 up to cover the target. The dig fired at the same moment Santana did.
The LaNorian was already dead by the time the rocket detected a second source of heat, chose the hotter of the two, and roared over the T-2’s head.
The Thrakies sitting in cart one never knew what hit them. One moment they huddled around the portable stove, trying to stay warm, and the next they were dead. There was a primary explosion as the rocket hit, quickly followed by a secondary, as some ammo went up. Four bodies soared into the air, seemed to pause there, and fell one after another.
The Thraks were still in the process of falling as Vanderveen grabbed the case under her boots, opened the door, and bailed out. It wasn’t a moment too soon as a hail of bullets ripped through the cab and killed the LaNorian driver.
The diplomat turned, realized that the projectiles were coming from the rear, and caught a glimpse of a Ramanthian firing from the back of a razbul. He spotted the human and spurred his sluggish mount forward.
Vanderveen used a word that would have appalled her mother, turned, and ran toward the front of the column. The razbul that had been pulling her cart had been hit. It flailed about, screeched pitifully, and rolled its eyes. The diplomat passed the animal, spotted the second cartload of Thrakies, and hurried to join them.
The surviving Thrakies had exited their conveyance by then, but L-8 Fortho had been killed, and they weren’t sure what to do. Vanderveen skidded to a stop. Her radio was on, and her voice went out over the team’s freq. “We’re taking fire from the rear! Get down, load your weapons, and prepare to fire.”
With no one else to direct them, the Thrakies took the orders seriously. Unfortunately, they were still in the process of deciding whether it was absolutely necessary to lie down in the mud when the Ramanthian rounded Vanderveen’s bullet riddled cart and raised his assault rifle.
The empty fiberglass case lay at the diplomat’s feet. She raised the custom-made Sycor Scout, brought weapon’s butt up to her shoulder, and squinted through the sight. Vanderveen’s father had given the scope-mounted .300 magnum hunting rifle to his daughter on her twelfth birthday and subsequently taught her how to use it.
The Ramanthian was directly ahead by that time firing from the waist. The diplomat heard something whip past her right ear, parked the crosshairs on the center of the trooper’s chest, and applied a slow gentle pressure to the trigger. The butt kicked her shoulder as the slug hit the Ramanthian dead center, blew him back out of the saddle, and dumped his body into the well-churned mud.
Unaware of the fact that its rider was dead, and badly frightened, the razbul continued to charge. A Thraki fired, but the bullets went wide. Vanderveen knew that if she missed, if the animal got past them, it w
ould pile into what remained of the column with potentially disastrous results.
The diplomat worked the bolt on her weapon, tried to ignore the fact that a couple of tons’ worth of reptilian flesh was thundering her way, and aimed for the beast’s head. The first slug hit the oncoming behemoth right between the eyes. The second, which was by way of an insurance policy, struck its mottled chest.
The razbul stumbled, nosed into the mud, and started to skid. A small tidal wave of mud arrived before the reptilian snout stopped just short of Vanderveen’s size seven and a half boots.
Meanwhile, up toward the front of the column, Platoon Sergeant Hillrun saw the LaNorian with the launcher fall, heard a whoosh as the rocket passed over Snyder’s head, and felt the subsequent explosion. A couple of legionnaires turned to look thereby incurring the NCO’s wrath. “Where the hell do you think you are? At the company picnic? Kill the bastards in the water!”
But the order came too late for Private Kashtoon who staggered as a hail of hardball ammo hammered his body armor and worked its way up toward his face. A puree of blood and bits of spinal column sprayed the ground behind him as the Ramanthian bullets severed the legionnaire’s neck and his head hit the ground.
Revenge came quickly as the other legionnaires, backed by a full squad of Clones, opened fire on the remaining Claw. Bullets churned the water around the LaNorians, as the now-disciplined fire found them and tore their bodies apart.
Santana, Vanderveen’s voice still ringing in his ears, ordered Snyder to turn. “We’re taking fire from the rear!” That’s the message she had inadvertently sent and there was little doubt as to the source of the attack.
The T-2 lumbered by a dead razbul, the remains of the first cart, and four fire-blackened bodies. Moments later the cyborg passed the second cart, which was still intact, and arrived in front of the third, which had been riddled by bullets. There was the flat whip-crack sound of a rifle shot as Vanderveen put the wounded razbul out of its misery and lowered her rifle. Four Thrakies, still reluctant to go facedown in the mud, stood in a semicircle behind her.
For More Than Glory Page 16