The fi?ght continued for another ten minutes, but came to its inevitable conclusion soon after that, as the surviving nymphs were driven back into the surrounding jungle. The fi?ghters made one last pass, and upon getting the all clear, turned back toward the north. A heavy silence hung over the camp as the smoke started to clear. Then, as the POWs began to emerge from their various hiding places, the Ramanthians went out to gather their dead. And not just the adult soldiers but the juveniles as well. A huge task, given that the casualties lay in drifts, but one they carried out themselves, in spite of the fact that slave labor was available. Adding to the horror of the situation was the fact that while some of the nymphs were wounded, none showed any inclination to surrender, and snapped at anyone who attempted to aid them. Shots rang out as they were put down.
The Ramanthians didn’t have tear ducts, so they couldn’t cry, but there was no mistaking the feeling of intense sorrow that hung over the camp as the sun dipped below the western horizon, and huge funeral pyres began to take shape. Because nameless though the attackers were, each nymph was born of the Queen, and a citizen of the empire. So when morning came the fi?res would be lit, the half-grown bodies would be purifi?ed, and the smoke would carry more than a thousand spirits away. But no matter how moving the process might be, Vanderveen knew she could never forgive the atrocities that the bugs had committed and watched clear-eyed as the Ramanthians harvested their dead. You think that’s bad?
the POW thought to herself. Well, just wait. . . . I may not live to see it. . . . But there’s more to come. Having completed the hike from the shallow lake to a point only two miles shy of Camp Enterprise, Santana and his company had gone into hiding. No easy thing to do where the ten-foot-tall cyborgs were concerned—and a task made even more diffi?cult by the heat that radiated from their bodies.
But unlike his dead predecessor, Santana was a cavalry offi?cer and therefore more knowledgeable regarding what the borgs could and couldn’t do. He knew the T-2s could not only operate underwater, where their heat signatures would be concealed, but do so for days if necessary. So rather than hide them in the jungle, Santana followed a river down to a series of stair-stepped pools, where the cyborgs were ordered to submerge themselves. The offi?cer knew that would be boring, but it would also be safe, and that had priority.
Having hidden the most formidable part of the team where aerial patrols were very unlikely to fi?nd it, Santana was free to turn his attention to Camp Enterprise. Thanks to what Oliver Batkin had accomplished earlier, the cavalry offi?cer already had an excellent idea of how the compound was laid out. But time had passed since the cyborg’s escape from the POW camp, which meant things could have changed. Not to mention the fact that Santana was hungry for the sort of tactical minutiae the government spy had no reason to collect. Like the location of drainage ditches, the exact disposition of the POWs, how many could walk, the precise number of Ramanthian troops inside the wire, the size of the quick-reaction force stationed at the airstrip, how many shuttles were parked on the tarmac, where the power core was located, the status of the space elevator project, and much, much, more. All of which would have a bearing on the plan of attack. In order to gather the necessary intelligence, Santana planned to send Batkin forward during the cover of darkness in the hope that the cyborg would be able to penetrate the camp’s perimeter and collect useful information. Meanwhile, Noaim Shootstraight, Dimitri Bozakov, and Santana himself were to infi?ltrate the area with an eye to fi?nding the best avenues of attack.
Farnsworth took exception to that part of the plan, suggesting it was foolish for the commanding offi?cer to take such risks, but his objections fell on deaf ears. Santana wanted to see the lay of the land with his own eyes, not just hear about it, so Farnsworth was left in command as the offi?cer and his scouts disappeared into the jungle. All three were lightly dressed, carried a minimum amount of equipment, and wore green-and-black face paint. It was midafternoon when they left the riverbank and entered the sun-dappled world of the forest. The fi?rst thing Santana noticed was the almost complete absence of the raucous jungle sounds he had grown used to. In their place was the sound of his own breathing, the steady swishswish of his pant legs as they rubbed against each other, and the occasional snap of a dry twig. Was their presence responsible for the change? Or was something else at hand? Unfortunately, there was no way to tell as the scouting party continued to weave its way between spindly vine-wrapped tree trunks.
But as the threesome continued to advance, and paused every now and then to look and listen, Shootstraight became increasingly concerned. Because the legionnaire had an extremely acute sense of smell, and as a light breeze pushed its way in from the west, it brought something with it. A scent so faint the Naa wasn’t sure what it was, until the chittering sound began. “Nymphs!” Shootstraight said urgently. “Quick! Climb that tree. . . . It’s our only chance!”
In spite of the fact that nothing had registered on his senses Santana had a great deal of faith in the Naa and reacted accordingly. Though not an experienced tree-climber, the offi?cer was in good shape, and there were plenty of footholds. Not to mention vines to pull on, which made the ascent easier and helped the legionnaires make their way up to the point where fi?ve branches shot out like spokes in a wheel. That created a natural place to stop as the fi?rst wave of nymphs passed below.
The offi?cer half expected the juveniles to pause and look upwards. But judging from the way they moved, the juveniles had a specifi?c destination in mind. Which, given the way they were headed, was the camp itself. That hypothesis proved accurate fi?fteen minutes later, when gunfi?re was heard, aerospace fi?ghters roared over the treetops, and a series of ground attacks began. “Holy shit,”
Bozakov said feelingly. “The little buggers are attacking their own kind!”
“And being killed by them,” Santana observed.
“What about the POWs?” Shootstraight wanted to know. “How will they fare?”
“They’re inside the fence,” the offi?cer replied optimistically. “So that should offer some protection.”
The Naa wasn’t so sure, especially given the fact that the bugs could fl?y, but decided to keep his doubts to himself.
The sounds of battle died away eventually, the sun went down, and there was a loud rustling as hundreds of nymphs retreated through the forest below chittering as they went. That was very frightening, especially since the bio bods couldn’t see and were so lightly armed. But while the juveniles were aware that protein things lived in the branches high above them, they also knew how elusive such creatures could be and made no attempt to scale the tree. Once the rustling noise died away, and usual night sounds began to reassert themselves, the scouts returned to the ground. Then, with Shootstraight in the lead, they continued the journey north. It was impossible to get lost because the swath of destruction created by the nymph army was like a superhighway that led straight to Camp Enterprise. Which, understandably enough, was very well lit. The lights were their cue to climb another tree and scope the compound from above, which Santana did with assistance from a pair of powerful light-gathering binos. That was when the offi?cer saw the way the fence had been breached, the crews working feverishly to repair it, and the less obvious activity beyond. But even with the illumination provided by the pole-mounted fl?oodlights it was diffi?cult to make out the fi?ne details of what was going on, so there was very little Santana and the other scouts could do but get some rest before the sun rose.
It wasn’t easy, but having tied himself in place with some light cord, the offi?cer eventually fell asleep. There were dreams, lots of them, and one face haunted them all. But Vanderveen was dead, as were his hopes, and all of the futures that might have been.