Behind the dooths, and running with a lot more grace, came a single T-2. Throatcut was determined to escape by following the main road south into the badlands, where he and what remained of his gang could hide in a maze of ravines and canyons while they regrouped. But as Lindo topped a rise, and Throatcut looked out over the T-2’s left missile launcher, the Naa could see that the off-worlders had anticipated his move. Because there, half-hidden behind the crude stone wall the villagers had been forced to build across the road, stood seven T-2s. All ready to fi?re the moment the oncoming horde came within range. Throatcut considered calling his warriors back, especially since they were carrying most of the loot, but concluded it was best to let them go. “Turn back,” Throatcut ordered via the T-2’s intercom. “The force behind has been weakened. Make both of your missiles count. Maybe we can break through.”
Lindo had identifi?ed the Legion cyborgs before the bio bod had and knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against them. Not even with twenty-fi?ve dooths and as many as sixty bio bods running interference for him. So the T-2
skidded to a halt, turned back toward the north, and began to run.
*
*
*
Neither Santana nor what remained of the fi?rst platoon was expecting a counterattack as the renegade Trooper II topped a rise and paused long enough to fi?re a pair of heatseeking SLMs. The range was short, very short, which meant that outside of the electronic countermeasures triggered by the incoming weapons, there wasn’t much that the Legion cyborgs could do except fi?re their energy weapons in a last-ditch attempt to intercept the missiles. There was a loud explosion as one of the weapons detonated ten feet in front of Ichiyama, blew the cyborg’s left leg off, and sent him spinning to the ground. A Naa deserter named Noaim Shootstraight had little choice but to ride the T-2 down and was fortunate to escape the fall without serious injury.
Meanwhile the second missile hit a second cyborg dead center, blew the T-2 in half, and killed his bio bod. Santana swore and shouted into the intercom. “Close with him, Sergeant! I want that one-armed bastard!”
With both cyborgs running at something like half speed they came together quickly. Too quickly to fi?re their weapons for more than a couple of seconds. There was a crash as their torsos collided, followed by the urgent whine of overworked servos, as both cyborgs battled to position their podlike feet.
Then, as the T-2s continued to grapple with each other, Santana and Throatcut were left to fi?ght it out from atop their respective mounts. Both had pulled pistols by that time and fi?red at each other from point-blank range. But the movement of the battling cyborgs made it diffi?cult to aim. And, although Gomez and the rest of the platoon had arrived on the scene by then, they couldn’t fi?re without running the risk of hitting Santana or his cyborg. But the stalemate couldn’t last forever, and didn’t, as the legionnaire shouted into his headset. “Snyder! When I say ‘break,’
back away as fast you can. Understood?”
“I copy,” the cyborg replied, and repositioned her feet. Throatcut saw the legionnaire duck out from under a strap and wondered what the alien was up to as he dropped the newly freed loop over Lindo’s head. Then the bandit leader spotted the bulging satchel and saw the human grin as he dropped a grenade into it. Throatcut shouted, “No!”
But it was too late by then, as all of the grenades in the bag went off, and blew both the Naa and the cyborg to bits.
Even though she was backpedaling by then, Snyder was still blown off her feet. Fortunately, Santana was able to leap free as the T-2 went down. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, but Sergeant Ibo-Da was there to help the human to his feet. The offi?cer noticed that the Hudathan wasn’t out of breath in spite of the fact that he’d been forced to run all the way from the village. “Congratulations, sir,” the big noncom rumbled happily. “We slaughtered the bastards!”
“But we lost most of the fi?rst platoon,” Santana countered, as he turned to look around.
“Not true, sir,” Gomez put in from her position high atop Vantha. “We lost Kappa, Himby, and Imbo. But Nacky’s going to be fi?ne—and so is Ichiyama. Assuming you can requisition some new war forms, that is.”
“And the second platoon is intact,” Farnsworth added, as he and his cyborg arrived on the scene. The engagement didn’t feel successful, not from Santana’s vantage point, but as the offi?cer stood on the blastblackened rise and looked around him, he decided that there were some things to feel pleased about. With the exception of Kappa, none of the criminals had mutinied, deserted, or turned on each other. And there was something new in the air. Something about the way both the bio bods and the cyborgs held themselves. Something called pride. 10
Pity us, for we live beyond the realm of horror, at the very edge of hell.
—Graffi?ti scratched into a Ramanthian cargo moduleby a human POW
Standard year 2846
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
There were thousands of pieces of debris in orbit around Jericho, plus a number of spaceships, the most impressive of which was the Ramanthian dreadnaught Imperator. The warship was 262 standard years old, more than six standard miles long, and completely outmoded. All of which made her perfect for use as an orbital counterweight, which, once the space elevator was completed, would function to keep the long, thin cable aloft.
But that was in the future. When construction was complete. In the meantime the Imperator was slated to function as both the platform on which the crystalline graphite cable would be manufactured—and the habitat in which the slaves would live during the fi?rst phase of construction. That was why a team comprised of Vanderveen and fi?ve other prisoners were deep inside the onceproud dreadnaught making use of vacuum hoses to remove tons of graphite from a hold. And, because large sections of the ship’s interior weren’t pressurized, the POWs had to wear space armor as they worked.
The Imperator’s argrav generators were up and running, however, which made the process easier and contributed to productivity—the very thing Tragg and his Ramanthian employers were primarily interested in. Unfortunately, the graphite was so light that the artifi?cial gravity wasn’t suffi?cient to hold it down. The powdery material rose to swirl around Vanderveen and the others like a black blizzard. The space suits were equipped with beacons, so the diplomat caught occasional glimpses of her coworkers through the gloom, but such sightings were rare. Most of the two-hour shift was spent in virtual darkness, feeding graphite to hungry machines that would mix the mineral with other substances to create long, thin fi?bers that were twenty times stronger than steel and four times less dense. Once a suffi?cient number of fi?ber strands had been produced, they would be braided into a cable long enough to reach the planet’s surface and strong enough to carry heavy loads. Then the work would become even more dangerous as the POWs were sent out to connect the sections of cable.
In the meantime, all Vanderveen wanted to do was to make it through her shift and arrive at the blissful moment when the vacuum hoses were shut off and the graphite mist began to clear. That was when the replacement crew would arrive to begin their shift. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, that moment came. From the hold it was a long two-mile slog through dark, gloomy passageways to a lock that was soon pressurized, and powerful jets of water blasted the space suits clean. Once that process was complete, the prisoners were permitted to enter a large compartment where specially trained navy techs waited to help the POWs exit their armor. A moment Vanderveen looked forward to and dreaded. Because while it meant she could rest for a few hours, there were dues to be paid, which made the process unpleasant.