But there were no threats in the area. None the T-2s could detect anyway—as the huge cyborgs made their way north. There was something about the rhythmic motion of Snyder’s body, the comforting click, whine, thud of her gigantic footsteps, and the now-familiar scenery that made Santana sleepy. But it wasn’t until Darby’s voice came over the radio that the offi?cer realized he’d been dozing. “This is Alpha Three-Four. . . . There’s a clearing up ahead—
with a large corpse at the center of it. Six or seven dogsized things were gnawing on the body but took off once we arrived. Over.”
“This is Alpha Six. . . . Hold your position,” Santana instructed. “We’re coming up behind you. How ’bout it Alpha Three-Three? Have you got video for me? Over.”
Santana eyed his HUD, saw a box appear, and watched video roll inside of it. The fi?rst thing he saw was foliage, an opening, and the clearing beyond. The badly ravaged carcass was clear to see. But the predators, or scavengers as the case might be, were little more than a blur as they took off in a half dozen directions.
Santana chose one of the images by focusing on it and blinking twice. The fugitive froze, grew larger, and began to rotate as the ITC system took the visual data and made an educated guess as to what the rest of the creature would look like. And the result looked very familiar indeed. Because like their human counterparts juvenile Ramanthians were known to follow what the xenobiologists called, “. . . a simple development pattern.” Meaning that nymphs looked like adults, except that they were smaller, and, judging from the video, a helluva lot faster. All of which served to confi?rm Santana’s hypothesis that the tricentennials were not only hatching out, but well into the equivalent of early adolescence, a stage of development the Confederacy’s scientists knew very little about. Especially in the wild since what little information they had pertained to nymphs hatched in civilized settings.
Snyder paused next to Nacky, which allowed Santana to nod at Darby before directing his T-2 out into the clearing. The carcass was surrounded by a cloud of voracious insects, and big gaping wounds made it diffi?cult to tell what the creature looked like before the nymphs tore into it, other than to say that it had a relatively small head, a highly specialized claw-tipped tentacle that extended from what would otherwise have been described as its nose, and four short legs. Judging from appearances, the Ramanthians had swarmed the beast, opened its belly with their parrotlike nose hooks, and ripped its guts out. Not a pleasant way to die, but interesting, because it implied some sort of group cohesion.
“Alpha Six to all units,” Santana said as he looked down at what remained of the jungle animal. “Be advised that a large number of Ramanthian nymphs have hatched out and are on the loose. They could be dangerous, especially if encountered in large numbers, so keep your eyes peeled. Over and out.”
What followed came so quickly it was as if DeCosta had been waiting to punch the “transmit” button. And rather than utilize the command push, so his comments would be heard by Santana alone, he chose to broadcast them to the entire company. “I will be the judge of what does and does not constitute a threat to this team,” DeCosta grated. “Which means your role is to submit what you consider to be relevant data to me. At which time I will analyze it and notify the team if that’s appropriate. Understood? Over.”
Ibo-Da and the rest of his squad didn’t approve of the rebuke and directed disbelieving looks at each other, but there was nothing they could do but glower and look uncomfortable as Santana gave the only response he could.
“Yes, sir. Over.”
“Good,” DeCosta concluded stiffl?y. “Zebra Six, out.”
Had the bio bods been on foot, the next three hours of travel would have been exhausting, as Santana and half his platoon fought their way through vegetation so thick that whichever T-2 was in the lead had to use his or her energy cannon to clear a path. And on one occasion, the cyborgs were forced to ford a river so deep that the bio bods had to stand up straight in order to keep their heads above water. So thanks to the cyborgs, the bio bods were able to not only conserve their energy, but enjoy moments like the one when the legionnaires marched through a cathedral-like open space where shafts of dusty sunlight fed pools of gold, and jewel-like insects fl?itted through the air. But such moments were all too rare as the temperature increased, the bio bods’ hot, sweaty uniforms began to chafe, and time seemed to slow.
Finally, as darkness began to fall, the second squad found itself within fi?ve miles of Sergeant Gomez. Santana was tempted to proceed, confi?dent that the T-2s could fi?nd their way through the dead of night if necessary, but DeCosta refused, insisting that each group camp and create its own defensive perimeter. That was stupid to Santana’s way of thinking, since a unifi?ed platoon could mount a better defense than two isolated squads, but it was not for him to decide.
So the platoon leader chose a rise, where attackers if any would be forced to advance uphill, and ordered the cyborgs to clear a 360-degree free-fi?re zone. Though far from happy about it, the bio bods dug defensive positions before they sat down to eat. Then, once the T-2s were fi?nished constructing a barrier made out of fallen logs and sharpened stakes, it was time to settle in for the night. A scary business for any bio bod not accompanied by four battleready war forms. Especially given the strange sounds and continual rustlings that issued from the jungle. The hours of darkness were divided into four two-hour watches, and Santana had just completed his shift when DeCosta spoke over the command push. “This is Zebra Six. . . . Do you read me? Over.”
The major sounded strange, or so it seemed to Santana, although the offi?cer knew he might be mistaken. “This is Alpha Six. . . . I read you. Over.”
“How are things at your location? Over?”
Santana frowned. The answer was obvious, or should have been, given the fact that DeCosta could access the ITC. It was as if the other offi?cer was simply nervous and wanted to chat. “No problems so far, sir,” the platoon leader answered. “What’s the situation there?”
“We lost Frayley,” DeCosta replied harshly. “She went outside the perimeter to take a leak, fi?red three shots, and was gone by the time her T-2 arrived on the scene. Smith saw more than a dozen heat signatures but withheld fi?re out of fear of hitting her. Over.”
Santana wasn’t wearing his helmet at that point, so he hadn’t seen Frayley’s name and status pop up on the ITC, but he remembered the legionnaire well. A fresh-faced young woman with reddish hair and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. One of the few team members with a clean record, who, if rumors were correct, had volunteered in order to be with Sergeant Jan Obama.
“Damn,” Santana said sadly. “How is Bravo Two-Six taking the news? Over.”
“Obama went nuts, if that’s what you mean,” DeCosta answered clinically. “We had to restrain her. Over.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, as if DeCosta was hoping that Santana would make sense of the incident somehow and thereby make him feel better. But the cavalry offi?cer didn’t have anything to say, other than it was stupid to pee outside the perimeter. A lesson Frayley learned the hard way. Eventually, when it was clear that the conversation was over, DeCosta broke the contact.