The Thraki were still recovering, still struggling to stand, when a grenade landed amongst them. One saw the object, started to reach, and ceased to exist. The explosion tore bodies asunder and painted the bulkheads with blood.
The scouts wasted little time signaling for the group to come down and pushed their way out through the hatch. That’s when Hillrun realized that someone was missing.
He looked upwards and saw the dangling body. Quickhand
Knifemake—dead at twenty-five.
Someone yelled “Stand clear!” and cut the rope. Metal clanged as Knifemake’s body hit the mesh. A replacement rope tumbled me length of the shaft and swayed as a Hudathan started down. Hillrun stooped to unclip the handmade combat knife from the scout’s harness, made a promise to return the weapon to the warrior’s family, and ducked out through the hatch. The carnage was sickening, even for a veteran like Hillrun, and he averted his eyes. He felt sorry for me Thraki and knew the same thing could happen to him. Would happen if he wasn’t careful. The first thing to do was to establish some sort of defense perimeter. The Thrakies would send reinforcements soon, and the majority of Red Team was still on me surface. The NCO eyed his surroundings. “Fareye, Warmfeel, take that end of the corridor. Block the point where it turns. Surekill... come with me. We*U take the other end.”
Lieutenant SeebaKa followed the Naa down, was glad when his boots hit the mesh, and swore when he saw the hatch. Though sufficiently large, a Naa, or the average human, there was no way in hell he was going to fit his bulk through that hole. He got on the radio. Red One to Red Team ... I want humans first... Hudathans last. We need a laser torch down here ... and I mean now!”
Private Lars Lasker was among the first humans sent down. He landed on the mesh, freed himself from the rope, and turned toward the hatch. One glance at the Hudathan officer and the Thrakisized rectangle of light told him everything he needed to know. The legionnaire laughed, gave thanks for the protective visor, and ducked through the hatch.
There were boot prints in the blood, and the legionnaire followed a set down the corridor to the point where the passageway took a sharp righthand turn. Fareye and Warmfeel were waiting. They gestured. Lasker had no more than skidded to a stop when a bolt of energy hit the bulkhead to his left, made a black blotch, and left the odor of ozone floating on the air.
“Shit!” Fareye exclaimed, not wanting to stick his head around the comer. “What the hell was that?
Some sort of crew served energy cannon?”
“No such luck,” Lasker replied grimly. “Feel the deck.”
The scouts followed the human’s suggestion, felt the floor vibrate, and looked at each other in alarm.
“It’s a robot,” Warmfeel exclaimed, “or robots plural.”
“Damn the fur balls anyway,” Lasker said darkly. “I heard they were into robots.”
“Fur balls?” Fareye growled. “You got a problem with fur?
“Hell, no,” the human replied hurriedly. “You ever seen my back? I got more fur than you do.”
“Let’s try to stay focused,” Warmfeel put in. “Are either one of you idiots packing a rollerbaU?”
“That’s affirmative,” Lasker replied. “I’m toting a satchel of six.”
“Well?” Fareye inquired sarcastically. “You gonna use them? Or send ‘em to your momma?”
“Sorry,” the human replied contritely, “here you go.”
Another energy bolt hit the wall, heat washed over the legionnaires, and air thumped their eardrums.
“Damn,” Fareye complained, dipping into the haversack. “This bastard is starting to piss me off! Let’s see how the sonofabitch likes these babies .. .”
Just as the name would suggest the rollerballs were spherical in shape. The Naa felt for the thumb-sized depression, pressed three times in quick succession, and tossed the weapon around the comer. It bounced off the opposite wall and caromed down the hallway. Three more followed. The explosions shook the walls.
The legionnaires waited for a full thirty seconds before risking a peek. The rollerballs had accomplished their purpose. The attack robot was down. That’s when the newly liberated SeebaKa arrived, eyed the mass of twisted metal, and frowned. “So what the hell are you waiting for? A thank you note from General Booly? Let’s move out.”
Ice crackled, snow crunched, treads clattered, engines roared, and explosions pushed fountains of soil high into the air as a pair of Hudathan cyborgs advanced toward the end of the canyon. They operated side by side, tracks pushing them forward, white arm-mounted rollers applied pressure to the half frozen ground. Mines blew in response, a path was cleared, and the rest of Blue Team followed behind. Captain McGowan stood atop the second quad back, braced herself against the side-to-side motion, and checked her wrist term. Blue Team was still on schedule, but just barely, and the hard part lay ahead.
Staff Sergeant Kreshnekov materialized at her side. He was a little man, no more than five-foot-five, but nobody thought about him that way. His face, sorrowful even during the best of times, looked positively funereal now. “No offense ma’am, but if you park your butt up here, the Thraki will blow it off.”
McGowan laughed. “What are you trying to say, Sergeant? That the target’s so big they couldn’t miss?”
Kreshnekov shook his head. His expression remained the same. “No, ma’am. I’m saying that we’re coming up on those automated weapons positions, and the moment you die Lieutenant Seebo will assume command.”
The comment, which bordered on disrespectful, would have been cause for rebuke had it originated from another NCO. But McGowan had known Kreshnekov for a long time, and that made a difference. Neither put much trust in Seebo. She grimaced. “Point taken. Sergeant. Button it up.”
Weapons Emplacement 14 took its orders from the Command and Control computer located deep within the Thraki complex, but had its own localized intelligence as well, to lighten Central’s load and provide tactical redundancy. Sensors registered heat and movement. Scanners checked the atmosphere and detected no signs of incoming aircraft. Convinced that it was safe to engage surface targets, the computer brought 14’s weapons on line, and ordered the target lasers, energy cannon, and launch racks to tilt downward. The computer confirmed a lock, checked with Central, and opened fire. Emplacements 12, 13, and 15 did likewise.
Energy beams stuttered toward the ground, missiles raced to their targets, and the valley seemed to explode.
Sheltered as his brain tissue was by layers of steel armor, the heavy known as Bak BorioBa took note of the incoming ordinance but was more annoyed than frightened. That kind of fear, the type associated with the possibility of physical harm, had been left with his biological body. The sense of invulnerability was deceptive—he knew that—and had been warned to be on the lookout for it, but felt it anyway. Columns of snow-tinged dirt soared into the air. A quad exploded, killing all of those within. Steel fell like rain. BorloBa thought death toward those who sought to harm him. Servos whined as a pair of tubes rose and spun to the right. The Hudathan’s energy cannon burped coherent light, pulverized rock squirted away from the canyon wall, and pebbles clattered across the top of the hull. The attack, which had been coordinated by Central, met with a well-orchestrated response. By using hardware and software developed for that very purpose, the borgs were able to construct a temporary or “flying” parallel processor that divided the overall problem into subtasks and worked them simultaneously.