Farber sighed. His expression was that of a parent coping with a recalcitrant child. “You are no longer in command, Major Santana. I really must remind you of that.”
“Yes, sir. I know sir,” Santana replied doggedly. “But our reasoning still holds. Even if we cut power to the cannon by destroying the tap, the bugs might be able to get off a couple of shots using an alternative power source. A fusion generator, for example. And even one energy bolt could play hell with the ships gathered around the jump point. Should we take that chance?”
“He has a point,” Smith put in mildly.
But Farber was far from convinced. “That’s true,” he said contemptuously. “And the Ramanthians may have a plan to crash an asteroid into one of our ships. Or place a curse on us. But neither possibility is very likely. So I suggest that we apply some common sense.” The meeting came to an end ten minutes later.
Dietrich spoke to Santana as the company commanders departed. “I told Colby to record the meeting, sir.”
Santana knew what the noncom was thinking. Later, if Farber’s plan blew up, a record of what had been said could be valuable. Especially if Farber attempted to shift the blame. Though uncommon, such things weren’t unheard of. Santana nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant Major. Let’s hope everything goes as planned.”
Night-vision technology enabled the battalion to travel during the hours of darkness although doing so entailed more risk. Especially where the possibility of accidents was concerned. Farber had reduced the amount of rest the troops got, so they began to tire. That had a negative impact on situational awareness. And without any defenses to protect the battalion while it was at rest, Santana feared what would happen if they were attacked.
Yet as the hours passed, and the battalion continued to make steady progress toward its goal, none of Santana’s fears was realized. The troops performed well in spite of a lack of sleep, there weren’t any serious accidents, and nobody attacked them. So that by early morning of the third day, Santana was beginning to think that he’d been too cautious. The battalion had covered thirty-six miles since Farber had taken command, which was no small accomplishment given the difficult terrain.
In the meantime, as the potential pathways to Headstone and the geothermal tap began to diverge, Lieutenant Ponco reported that the bugs were searching along the first route. And had Santana been in command, that was where the battalion would have been. All of which took a toll on his self-confidence and raised the same question. He could lead a platoon, and he could lead a company, but what about a battalion? The jury was out.
Temo was tired and had every right to be. For the past five days, she and a tribe of O-Chi natives had been following a straight line from the Ramanthian geo tap back to Baynor’s Bay. And that was a complete waste of time because Antov had been planning to attack Headstone and there was no reason why his off-world successor would do otherwise. But Commander Dammo wanted to make sure. Especially after falling for an electronic decoy and toasting fifty square miles of forest. So while the bugs searched the line of march that led from their base to Baynor’s Bay, she had been sent out to beat the bushes south of that route.
Still, Temo thought to herself, it felt good to sit between the roots of a towering Ba-Na tree and relax for a moment. Birds sang their songs, shafts of sunlight splashed the forest floor, and insects hummed as they darted from place to place. All of which was better than hanging around Headstone waiting for the Ramanthians to win the war.
The daydream was shattered as foliage rustled overhead and an O-Chi named Fither dropped out of the tree to land on the ground in front of her. The warrior’s face was decorated with diagonal slashes of white bird dung, an antiquated Negar I assault rifle was slung across his back, and a knife was strapped to his right thigh. Fither was a member of the Otha tribe. And the Temo clan had been doing business with them for more than twenty years. “I see you,” Temo said respectfully.
“And I see you,” Fither responded. “The forest knows.”
“Yes,” Temo said gravely. “The forest knows.”
That was nonsense, of course, because if the forest knew, it would have destroyed all of the sentient creatures on O-Chi before they could cut down trees or sink geothermal taps down through the planet’s crust. But that was the sort of crap one had to tolerate in order to interact with the sticks.
“So, Fither,” she said patiently. “What have you got for me?”
“There are walking machines,” Fither answered. And then he pointed. “That way.”
“Walking machines, huh?” Temo inquired skeptically. “A few days ago you told me that an army of ghost warriors was about to attack.”
Fither shrugged. “Dream. So sorry. Have picture this time.”
“Excellent,” Temo said approvingly. “Let’s see it.”
Fither removed the small device from a belt pouch and gave it over. By providing each of her scouts with Ramanthian-manufactured cameras, Temo had been able to increase the accuracy of the information they provided to her. Temo pressed the bug-style dimple switch, and video blossomed. The image was fractal, in keeping with the way that the chits normally saw things, but came together when a second button was pushed.
The viewpoint was from up in a tree looking straight down. Temo felt her heart start to beat faster as she saw a column of soldiers pass beneath the lens, followed by a T-2, and a hulking quad. Had the cyborgs “seen” the blob of heat high above? Probably. But the assholes couldn’t shoot everything in the forest. Temo remembered the attacks on Signal Hill and the family’s hunting lodge. She smiled grimly. “Thank you, Fither. Good job.”
It had been a long, hard day, and Farber was riding near the head of the column. The troops were tired. He knew that. But if he could wring one more mile out of them before the evening rest break, then so much the better. Farber was used to riding a T-2 by that time. The main problem was low-hanging branches and the need to duck frequently. So it was a relief when the column entered a long corridor in which there was no undergrowth to speak of, and Ba-Na trees grew on both sides of the path. Farber noticed that the forest giants were spaced too evenly to have occurred naturally and turned toward the man on the T-2 next to him. “Look at those trees, Mr. Smith. I think they were planted.”
Smith opened his mouth to reply. But that was when a blue-feathered dart penetrated his left eye, and whatever he had been about to say was transformed into a scream. Farber watched in horror as Smith plucked the dart out of his eye and a dollop of viscous goo dribbled down his cheek. Then, having examined the tip with his good eye, Smith said, “Poison.” He might have said more but was prevented from doing so as his body jerked spasmodically and the neurotoxin spread through his circulatory system.
Farber wanted to shout a warning, but there wasn’t any point in doing so as hundreds of missiles sleeted down out of the foliage above. Bio bods screamed, some having been hit a dozen times, as they fell kicking to the ground.
That was bad enough. But the moment the dart storm stopped, the O-Chies opened fire with their Ramanthian-supplied Negar assault rifles. Many of the natives were piss-poor shots-and some of the rifles failed to work properly. But they had the element of surprise on their side, not to mention the high ground, and the range was relatively short. Farber hit his harness release, jumped to the ground, and ran for cover as his T-2 fired at targets above. The slaughter had started.
Santana was at the very end of the column when the ambush began. The idea was to make sure that both segments would have leadership if the battalion was cut in two. That was a good thing. But bit by bit, as the day progressed, the column had been allowed to stretch. So as the enemy fire lashed down from above, Santana was a good half mile from Farber, who, according to the information displayed on his HUD, was alive but strangely silent.