Excited now, Watkins slid down off the RAV and began to run. And, thanks to the capabilities of his electromechanical body, the cyborg was fast. The media specialist had a rocket launcher slung across his back along with a reload. The weapons bounced painfully as he ran. A Ramanthian machine gunner had noticed the interloper by then and turned his weapon in that direction. Geysers of dirt fl?ew up all around Watkins as he zigzagged across what had been the camp’s assembly area and made for the fence beyond. “Don’t worry, Marci,” the cyborg said. “I’ll get the bastard this time. . . . And he’s going to pay!”
Vanderveen could see giants striding through the lazy ground mist, hear the sporadic rattle of automatic fi?re, and smell the acrid smoke. And there, standing right in front of her, was Antonio Santana! That was impossible, of course, so it must be a dream. A wonderful dream in which he had come to rescue her. The legionnaire’s visor was up, and his face was fi?lled with concern. “Christine? Can you hear me?
Don’t worry. . . . We’ll have you down in a minute.”
It seemed so real that Vanderveen tried to respond. But try as she might nothing came out of her mouth until she saw the War Mutuu appear out of the billowing smoke.
That was when the words fi?nally took form. “Tony! Behind you!”
Santana whirled to fi?nd that a Ramanthian was ready to strike. And because the warrior’s sword was already up in the air, poised to split the offi?cer in two, there was no time in which to do anything other than push the assault weapon up with both hands. But the War Mutuu’s monomolecular blade sliced through the CA-10’s steel receiver as if it were warm butter and would have gone on to bury itself in the legionnaire’s skull had the soldier been even a fraction of a second slower to react.
The Ramanthian jerked his weapon loose, raised it over his head, and brought it back down again. Fortunately, Santana was in the process of throwing himself backwards by then. He landed on his back as the superthin blade sliced through empty air.
That was the War Mutuu’s cue to raise his sword for what should have been an easy kill, and what would have been an easy kill, had it not been for Maria Gomez. Because as a horrifi?ed Vanderveen looked on, a much-bloodied legionnaire lurched out of the smoke and threw herself forward.
Santana felt Gomez land on top of him, and as he looked up into a pair of pain-fi?lled eyes, the offi?cer saw something he would never forget. A look of longing the likes of which he’d never seen before. Then it was gone as the War Mutuu’s blade sliced through the noncom’s body armor and into her spine.
The Ramanthian withdrew his sword, and was about to take another cut, when he heard the telltale whine of servos. Though delayed, Snyder arrived in time to see Gomez die, and that made the T-2 angry. So when the War Mutuu turned to confront the cyborg she chose to fi?re her fl?amethrower rather than the .50-caliber machine gun. There was a whoosh, as the liquid fuel hit the Ramanthian, followed by a solid whump as the warrior was enveloped by a cocoon of orange-yellow fl?ames. That was followed by a series of bloodcurdling screams as the aristocrat began a horrible dance of death.
The end came when Santana managed to roll out from under Gomez, scrambled to his feet, and drew his pistol. It took three shots to put the War Mutuu down. But even as the Ramanthian’s chitin crackled, and his internal organs began to sizzle, the sword clutched in his charred pincer continued to shine.
Meanwhile, Santana forced himself to concentrate on his command. It wasn’t easy, not with Vanderveen still standing on the cross above him, but the legionnaire knew the entire team was counting on him to provide direction. Fortunately, the data on his HUD, plus what the offi?cer could see with his own eyes, suggested that Team Zebra was well on its way to controlling the camp. But they hadn’t found Nankool yet, more Ramanthian reinforcements were probably on the way, and there was no sign of the goddamned navy. “This is Alpha Six,” the company commander said. “We’re going to need some tools and a couple of medics to get the people down off those crosses. And has anyone seen Batkin? We need to grab the target and get the hell out of here.”
Vanderveen’s throat was bone dry—and her voice was hoarse. “Look in the administration building. The commandant has him.”
Santana was going to thank her when what sounded like a runaway train rumbled overhead. That was followed by an earsplitting crack as a large crater materialized at the center of the compound. A windmilling T-2 fell out of the air, landed with a sickening crunch, and was half-buried by falling dirt. Even though they ran the risk of hitting their own troops, the Ramanthians had decided to fi?re energy cannons from orbit rather than allow the compound to be overrun. “Damn it,” Santana said, as what sounded like another freight train rattled through the atmosphere. “Where are those ships?” There was no reply other than a loud explosion, the continued clatter of a machine gun, and the sound of another scream.
The administration building shook as something struck the ground outside. A blizzard of dust particles came loose from the rafters to drift down through a momentary shaft of sunlight even as a burst of machine-gun bullets passed within a foot of Marcott Nankool and ripped holes in the wall beyond.
But if those things bothered Commandant Mutuu, the impeccably dressed Ramanthian showed no sign of it as he poured hot water through a strainer fi?lled with goldcolored leaves. “There,” the aristocrat said contentedly, as he reached over to remove a cup of amber liquid from under the fi?lter. “Please be so good as to tell me what you think. Is the Oburo Gold superior to the Zecco Red? Or is it the other way around?”
The bizarre tête-à-tête between Nankool and the effete commandant had been triggered by the human’s obvious knowledge of Ramanthian etiquette. A capacity which, to Mutuu’s mind at least, signaled the presence of someone who, if not an equal, had a profound understanding of Ramanthian culture. And that, combined with the prisoner’s rank, made the human worth interacting with. Having accepted the tumbler of hot liquid, Nankool sucked some of the tea into his mouth and swirled it around. It was a noisy process, and intentionally so, because that signaled enjoyment. The brew tasted like battery acid, or what Nankool imagined battery acid might taste like, and it was all he could do to get the bitter stuff down. And no sooner had the chief executive swallowed than an errant rocket-propelled grenade smashed through a window and lodged itself in the opposite wall. The human gritted his teeth and waited for the weapon to explode. It didn’t.
“Come now, don’t be reticent,” the Ramanthian insisted. “What do you think?”
“The Zecco Red was superior,” Nankool said decisively.
“But just barely.”
“Exactly!” Mutuu agreed eagerly. “The difference between the two is slight, almost indistinguishable to all but the most discerning of palates, yet suffi?cient to set one above the other. It’s so pleasant to have a visitor who appreciates the fi?ner things in life.”
“Thank you, Excellency,” Nankool replied humbly.
“You’re too kind. Now, having refreshed ourselves, I wonder if we should seek cover? The battle seems to be heating up.”
“There’s no need to worry about that,” the commandant said dismissively. “The War Mutuu will soon put things right.”
“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” Oliver Batkin said, as he coasted into the throne room. “Not unless your mate has the capacity to return from the dead.”