The target was a killer pod, all right, except that it had a lot of what looked like sensor housings rather than weapons turrets, and had a flat-black finish.
That suggested a spy-eye, or the geek equivalent, and meant the device was capable of blowing the whole plan out of the water. One look at the information it would bring back would be enough to let the Hudathan commander know what the humans were up to.
“You were right. Seeg. It’s a robo-spy sure enough.”
“We need to grease that thing ... and do it quick.”
“How ’bout Lieutenant Umai?”
“Get serious. It’d take the loot a full hour just to pull his thumb out of his ass. Let’s nail the little sonofabitch while the nailin’s good.”
“That’s a roger,” Marie agreed. “But we can’t shoot at it from down here without hitting the railgun or a bio bod. Let’s climb.”
Seeger nodded. “You take the right ... I’ll take the left.”
“Roger that.”
Both of the cyborgs began to climb. Seeger made good time. The combination of handholds, light gravity, and his, own strength made the task relatively easy. Light flared from above as the welders continued their work. The cyborg felt his body temp start to soar as sunlight hit his back.
It was a trade-off—one of many the tech types had made while designing the Trooper IIs—cooling capacity for weight. The result was a cybernetic body that had the capacity to move a little faster than it otherwise would have, but a marked tendency to overheat during prolonged combat or exposure to direct sunlight. Cooling systems had been developed to deal with the conditions found on hell worlds, but Seeger didn’t have one.
A readout began to blink in the corner of his video-generated, computer-enhanced vision, and then, to make sure that he got the point, pain was fed directly into his brain. Pain that was little more than a throb to begin with, but would soon grow and transform itself into a red-hot poker that seared its way to the center of his mind and forced him to respond.
It was a safety system, a built-in way to make sure that cyborgs took care of their expensive bodies and conserved the empire’s valuable resources. The only trouble was that it might keep him from reaching the robo-spy, from killing it, and that would cost a great deal more.
But those that had designed the system were elsewhere, working in the safety of their laboratories or eating lunch in their subsidized dining rooms, unaware and uninterested in the impact that their decisions had on people millions of light-years away.
Seeger grabbed the I-beam above his head, pulled himself up, climbed to his feet, and looked around. Marie was at the same height about seventy feet away. She pointed upwards and between them.
The robo-spy slipped into a shadow and rose along a vertical beam—a beam that supported the recently built structure that would feed star divers down onto the rails, where they would be launched like missiles towards the enemy fleet. The situation had just gone from bad to worse.
The cyborgs climbed with renewed energy. They had to get a clear shot at the robo-spy, had to destroy the device before it could escape and report to its masters.
A pair of bio bods were welding a joint directly above him. They turned, sunlight gleaming off their visors, as Seeger swung a leg over the crossbeam and pulled himself up. He nodded, jumped for the next crosspiece, and did a chin-up.
Pain lanced through Seeger’s brain as the temp reading on the rear portion of his armor hit 150° F. The techies were trying to defend the body they’d given him, trying to control him from their nice safe laboratories, trying to kill Marie and all the rest. That was the price of failure, the price that thousands of legionnaires had paid before him, the price known as death.
Seeger gritted his nonexistent teeth and pulled. Pain did its best to roll him under, servos did what they were told, and he gained the topmost piece of steel. Light bounced off metal and tried to spear his vid cams as the massive shape of a star diver moved his way. A pair of yellow strobe lights marked the positions of the small one-person tugs that had attached themselves to the spaceship like so many leeches and were pushing it into place.
“Seeger! Look!”
The voice belonged to Marie. She too had made it to the top of the structure and was pointing to her left. The robo-eye had seen the star diver and was lurking in the shadow cast by a vertical I-beam while it watched the proceedings. It was roughly halfway between them, and neither one needed any prompting to move towards it.
There was no response at first, as if the robo-spy was so engaged in gathering intelligence that it had ignored everything else. But that was not the case.
The mini-missile caught Marie in the abdomen, exploded, and blew her in half. Though lightly armed compared to the float pods the cyborgs had encountered before, the robo-spy still had teeth.
Seeger responded with missiles of his own and a blast from his energy cannon. The resulting explosion lit the entire railgun for a fraction of a second and was extremely satisfying. Marie’s voice jerked him back to reality. Although her body had been blown in two, her braincase was intact, slowly falling towards the asteroid’s surface.
“Look! The robo-spy launched something!”
Seeger swore. The other borg was right. A small container, the size and shape of a standard tennis ball, had been flung free of the explosion and was accelerating away. There was little doubt that the globe contained the robo-spy’s memory, headed for home.
Seeger brought his laser cannon up, switched his sensors to full mag, and tried to see what they showed him. His temperature reading had soared to 163° F by now. At about 170°, major systems would start to fail. The pain was so intense that it felt as if his head would explode.
Lieutenant Umai was yammering in his ears. “Seeger? What the hell are you doing up there? No one authorized you to fire. Get your ass down here so the old man can boil it in oil.”
The ball soared, sunlight glinted off its polished skin, and the cyborg adjusted his aim. Lead it ... lead it ... lead it ... fire!
A line of blue light reached for the memory module, touched it, and caused it to explode.
Seeger saw the hit, gave thanks, and allowed the pain to roll him under.
12
The wheels of war turn slowly and grind many lives beneath their weight.
Mylo Nurlon-Da
The Life of a Warrior
Standard year 1703
Planet Algeron, the Human Empire
Another one-hour-and-twenty-one-minute period of darkness had begun. Two warriors, one of whom was Windsweet’s brother, marched in front of Booly, while two more brought up the rear. The guards were there to make sure that Booly showed up for the council meeting. It would be embarrassing if he didn’t and Hardman was in no mood to take chances.
The warriors held torches aloft. They made a circle of light and produced a pungent smoke. The legionnaire inhaled some of it and was forced to cough.
An opening loomed ahead. Booly saw that the rock around the tunnel’s entrance had been carved to resemble the mouth of a mythical beast. What looked like razor-sharp teeth ran across the top, fangs curved down along both sides, and a tongue bulged out into the ravine. It looked real in the flickering light produced by the torches.
The legionnaire had never come across this spot during his wanderings and wondered how that was possible. Did the Naa cover the tunnel with some sort of camouflage netting during the day? There was no way to tell.
Shootstraight and his companion mounted a series of stone steps, stood on the beast’s tongue, and waited for Booly to join them. A warrior shoved him from behind and he stumbled forward.
The tunnel was oval in shape and the floor was smooth from use. Vertical grooves had been cut into the walls to simulate the inside of the beast’s throat. The temperature dropped as they moved inwards and water slid down along the stone walls.
Booly saw that the reddish-brown liquid was captured by the grooves, channeled into gutters, and drained through holes drilled for
that purpose. Holes made with primitive hand tools and a lot of sweat. The system was careful, logical, and, like most plumbing, completely nonthreatening.
So why did fear come bubbling up from some primordial source? Why was his throat so dry? And why did he have an almost overwhelming desire to look over his shoulder?
The answer was simple. The beings who had enlarged and perfected the tunnel so long ago had imbued the stone with a part of themselves. Booly felt as if they were all around him, their eyes peering from dark crevices, their work-thickened fingers ready to close around his throat.
Shootstraight turned. The torchlight reflected in his eyes.
“Watch your step.”
The warning came just in time. Booly shifted his weight and stepped downwards. The stairs were broad, cut from solid rock, and worn towards the center.
The legionnaire wondered how long the steps had been there and how many feet had trod them. The tunnel felt old, very old, and might have been there for a thousand years.
A current of warmer air touched Booly’s face. There was a deep booming sound reminiscent of the Legion’s kettledrums. It came at evenly spaced intervals, like the beating of an enormous heart, and added an even more ominous note to his surroundings.
Booly pushed the fear away, assured himself that it was only one more element in an elaborately staged play, but felt his heart beat a little faster nonetheless. A layer of sweat had formed on the legionnaire’s forehead. He wiped it away.
The staircase turned to the right, light filtered up from below, and the booming sound grew louder. The smell of incense filled his nostrils, and an oval-shaped doorway appeared ahead. The first pair of guards passed through and Booly followed. Shootstraight stopped just beyond the entryway, motioned for the human to do likewise, and signaled for silence.
The cavern was huge. The roof arched upwards and disappeared into darkness. It was supported by thick pillars of ornately carved rock. Torches had been set into slots cut for that purpose and served to illuminate the artwork.
Booly saw packs of wild pooks, snowcapped mountains, herds of woolly dooth beasts, clouds, intertwined serpents, rushing rivers, and much, much more, each image joined with the rest, all interconnected to support the ceiling or sky.
The carvings seemed to suggest an understanding of how ecosystems are structured, of the underlying unity that makes life possible, but that was Booly’s human interpretation. The artists had been Naa, and given that fact, might have imbued the carvings with other meanings. Or none at all.
The floor of the cave sloped down and away from the point of entry towards a stage more than a hundred yards away. The surface under the legionnaire’s boots was too even, too smooth, to be natural, and had taken an enormous amount of work to excavate and finish.
Hundreds and hundreds of sleek-headed Naa sat cross-legged on the floor. Most came from beyond the confines of the village, were leaders in their own right, and had come together in order to set policy and make decisions. Their attention was focused on the platform and Booly could see why.
First there were the council seats. They had been chipped from solid stone and looked very uncomfortable. There were three to a side, with another, slightly raised chair located at the center. It was occupied by Wayfar Hardman. He, like the council members around him, wore colorful robes. A ceremony was under way, some sort of blessing perhaps, in which an ancient crone dribbled powder into a brazier and chanted incantations.
But the chairs, the council members, and the ceremony were nothing compared to the massive and now antiquated Trooper I that stood to the left side of the stage, and the equally impressive Trooper II that stood on the right. Both were at rigid attention. Their vid-cam eyes glowed like rubies and stared out at the audience.
For one brief moment, Booly thought the Naa had captured the cyborgs and found a way to hold them against their will. Then he realized that the bodies were little more than empty suits of armor, placed there as evidence of Naa valor, similar to the trophies that filled the regimental museums at Fort Camerone. Their joints had been welded in place and their eyes had been lit from within.
The Trooper I was old and stained, as if dug out of the ground somewhere, but the Trooper II looked relatively new. New, but slightly disjointed, as though it had been ripped apart and pieced back together again. Booly took a closer look. The newness of the paint, the absence of the supplementary cooling fins that veteran borgs mounted along the outer surface of their upper arms, suggested the same thing. The body was Trooper Villain’s, or had been, depending on whether or not she’d been rescued.
The legionnaire felt a lump form in his throat. Damn it anyway! If only he’d been more careful, more cautious about leaving the ravine, more of his people might have lived. He’d been unconscious during most of the battle, but the Naa had given him their version of what had happened, and Booly knew that casualties had been heavy. It seemed clear that a pair of bio bods, and at least one borg, had tried to pull Villain’s braincase. But there was no way to know if they’d succeeded, and if they had, whether the newbie had survived.
The drumbeats died away. Hardman stood and looked about him. An expectant hush fell over the room. Booly turned to Shootstraight and whispered in the warrior’s ear. “What now?”
The Naa grinned. “My father will open the meeting by reminding the audience that the harvest was successful, and then, having taken credit for their full stomachs, he’ll give them a detailed account of the trade agreement that he negotiated with the southern tribe. Most will be bored. Knowing that, Father will call for you and describe the battle. Don’t be surprised if the number of legionnaires has doubled during the intervening period of time.”
Booly smiled. “So this is a political speech ... designed to keep everyone happy.”
“Exactly. You have them as well?”
“Yes, we do, although there are a great many things that most politicians are afraid to say.”
The warrior made a face. “I understand. Look over there ... towards the far pillar. Do you see my sister?”
Booly looked and had little difficulty picking Windsweet out of the crowd. She had a beautiful profile. The sight of her made his pulse pound. A frown came to his face when he saw that Ridelong Surekill sat next to her.
“I see her.”
“And the warrior who sits next to her?”
“Ridelong Surekill.”
“Exactly. He’s a chief in his own right and would like to succeed my father as chief of chiefs.”
“How likely is that?”
Shootstraight looked out across the cave as if considering his answer. “Today? Not very. Tomorrow? Who knows? The people are fickle. All it takes is one poor harvest, one loss to the Legion, and they will turn on him like a diseased pook.”
“And you? Will you follow in your father’s footsteps?”
Shootstraight chuckled. “Not on your life, human. I would rather throw myself from the Towers of Algeron than do what my father does.”
The crone completed her ritual, made gestures towards the audience, and left the stage.
Hardman thanked the woman and started his speech. The next thirty minutes passed slowly. Booly had very little interest in the amount of wild grain harvested that year, the condition of the dooth herds, or the rate of exchange that Hardman had negotiated with the south. But the topic changed after that and so did Booly’s pulse. The legionnaire heard his name mentioned, felt someone push him forward, and stumbled down the corridor towards the stage. Hundreds of heads turned to watch, and seeing that, the human started to march. He was a legionnaire, by god, and no matter what came next, he’d look like what he was.
Windsweet watched Booly make his way towards the stage, saw the change in his step, and recognized his courage. To be alone in enemy hands, to be paraded in front of them, yet maintain your poise. That was bravery, that was strength, and that was a man to admire.
Admire and what? Love? Did she dare think it? Or worse yet, feel it? For to do so w
as to take the first step of a long and difficult journey, one that would cost her dearly, that would bring her untold pain, that would take her places that she’d never dreamed.
Was there a choice? Did love really work that way? Could you choose to fall in love? Or, if it didn’t seem practical, decide against it?
Windsweet looked at Surekill and saw that the warrior’s eyes were on Booly. She saw hatred there, a feeling that she’d never seen on the human’s face, or smelled in his emotions, in spite of what the humans had taught him about her people, in spite of the ambush, and in spite of his captivity.
No, Windsweet decided. Love had a mind of its own, and once that mind was made up, went where it liked.
Wayfar Hardman watched the human approach. He made a striking figure in his uniform and battle armor. A trophy came to life. Hardman could tell that the chiefs were impressed. As well as they should be, given the extent of his victory. Still, it had been his daughter who had suggested that he use the human in this fashion, so some of the credit was hers.
Yes, he suspected that Windsweet’s desire to spare a life had entered into the calculation, but the advice had been sound nonetheless.
Hardman’s eyes found her sitting next to Surekill, watching the human walk towards the stage. They made a handsome couple, everyone said so-except Windsweet. She never stopped her prattle about love, respect, and all that other silliness.
The chieftain thought about his own mate, how beautiful she’d been on the day of their marriage, and of the life they’d lived together. Though driven by politics, the marriage had grown to be something more, something neither had reason to regret.
That was how it would be for Windsweet. Yes, Surekill was impatient for power, yes, he was headstrong, but such is the strength of youth. A strength that would stand his daughter in good stead during the coming years. And by giving Surekill his daughter, Hardman could buy one, maybe two years of additional power. The younger warrior could use the additional time to mature. He would learn the arts of peace, as he had learned the arts of war, and build a home for his wife.
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