they were carrying. Both sides fired as they began to close with each other.
What ensued was a horrible melee in which both T-2s and Ramanthian troopers fired at point-blank range, powerful bodies grappled with each other, and any bio bod unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle was torn apart.
Having led his troops forward, Santana found himself at the very center of the fracas with no way out. So he fired his carbine at an advancing Ramanthian, saw dimples appear on the trooper’s armor, and waited to die.
The Ramanthian raised a bulky arm and was about to deal the human a crushing blow when Ponco entered the gap between them. The pincerlike fist struck, penetrated her globe-shaped body, and produced a shower of sparks. Ponco was killed instantly.
But as the Ramanthian attempted to free his pincer from the recon ball’s housing, Santana took advantage of the opportunity to step in close and press the muzzle of his weapon up against a bulbous eye guard. He pulled the trigger repeatedly. The second and third bullets blew holes through the clearplas bubble and went straight through the Ramanthian’s brain.
Santana was going to turn his attention to another trooper when a T-2 plucked him out of the mix and harm’s way. “Sorry, sir,” a voice rumbled over the speakers in Santana’s helmet. “But it isn’t nice to hog all of the fun. Leave some bugs for us.”
The tide began to turn as a phalanx of cyborgs shouted “CAMERONE” and pushed forward. It was hard to get traction on the bloody floor, but they were so tightly packed together that there was no room in which to fall. The cyborgs were angry, a bit stronger than the Ramanthians, and their armor was thicker. Taken together, these advantages made a critical difference as they shoved, kicked, and stomped their opponents into submission.
Even as the Ramanthians were forced to give ground, Santana saw the double doors start to close-and knew that if the lift rose without his troops on board, they would be trapped in the tunnel as the enemy flooded in behind them. “The elevator!” he shouted. “Stop the elevator.”
But the T-2s were still locked in combat, and the doors were only two feet apart when they came to a stop. Santana heard a girlish voice over the radio. “This is Alpha Six-One. I have control of the lift. Over.”
Santana knew the voice belonged to Leesha Stupin. By crawling on her hands and knees, the bio bod had been able to scuttle between the battling giants above and enter the elevator unopposed. And that was wonderful. But once the chits backed onto the platform, Stupin would be easy meat. “I need two T-2s on the lift now,” Santana said over the company push. “Execute.”
As it turned out, three cyborgs were able to break through the crush and attack the Ramanthians from behind. That was the turning point, as all of the remaining enemy soldiers went down. They lay in broken heaps, but a price had been paid. In addition to Ponco, the company had lost three bio bods and a T-2. Gradually, bit by bit, the already-small unit was being whittled down to nothing. “Board the elevator,” Santana ordered grimly. “There’s more work to do upstairs.”
“Reload if you need to,” Santana ordered, as the doors slid closed. The lift had been used during the construction process and was large enough to accommodate twice their number, had that been necessary. “They’ll be waiting for us,” he warned. “And they’ll pin us down inside the elevator if they can. So charge out and get in among them. Remember the ambush, remember the people we buried, and remember what we came here to do.”
Someone shouted, “Camerone!” And this time legionnaires and militia responded as one. “CAMERONE!”
“T-2s first,” Santana said, as the lift jerked to a halt. “And remember… If you’re a bio bod, get in there and protect your cyborg’s six.”
Then the doors opened, a vertical slice of sky appeared, and all hell broke loose. Some enterprising officer or noncom had ordered his troops to reposition an auto cannon so it could fire on the elevator. It roared as the T-2s charged into the open. Three of them fell in quick succession. But by that time the fourth cyborg, a private named Willy Haber, was on top of the gun crew hosing them with gunfire. He screamed epithets the Ramanthians couldn’t understand, stomped their dead bodies, and turned one of them into paste.
Then Dietrich and a bio bod named McTee arrived to slew the weapon around so that it was pointed at the Ramanthians. A corporal stepped in to fire it. Half a dozen enemy troopers were blown away as the rest took cover behind the STS cannon’s dome-shaped housing. “Chase the bastards down!” Santana roared. “Captain Ryley… Take some people, get inside that housing, and plant the demo charges. Let’s finish the job before the bugs can counterattack.”
Ryley tossed a casual salute. “Sir! Stupin, Rajuta, Praxo… Follow me.”
Certain that the lift had been put out of commission by the Ramanthians themselves, Santana knew that the bugs would have to climb upwards to try to retake their mountain aerie. But by which route?
Sporadic gunfire was heard as the last of the defenders were tracked down. Santana took a quick tour of the mountaintop. The need to do so reminded him of Ponco and how she had given her life to protect him. The thought of it made his throat tight and threatened to choke him. Later, he told himself. Focus.
There were two ways to approach the cannon. The first was to climb uphill from the landing pad, which was back under Ramanthian control. Enemy bullets pinged the ramparts around Santana whenever the officer showed himself.
The second way to reach the cannon was over a narrow path that zigzagged up the northeast side of the mountain to the antiaircraft batteries located there. Santana figured that if he was in command of Ramanthian forces, he would send a small force up the path, try to draw the defenders to that location, and send the majority of his troops up from the landing pad. Because even though the slope was steep, it was wide enough to accommodate fifteen or twenty soldiers marching abreast. And they would be harder to stop than a column of twos at the top of the mountain path. But would Dammo, or whatever bug was in charge, see things the way he did?
There was no way to be sure. But Santana had to do something. So he sent a single T-2 plus a couple of bio bods to seal off the trail while the rest of his soldiers took up positions west of the gun turret. Ryley’s voice flooded his helmet. “This is Alpha Two-One. We’re ready. Over.”
“Pull out and execute,” Santana replied. “Over.”
Ryley and his troops emerged a minute later. The officer thumbed a remote, and a series of muted thump s was heard. Smoke poured out of the dome and was snatched away by the wind. “That should do it, sir,” Ryley said, as he made his way over to join Santana. “We destroyed the controls, part of the track that the turntable rests on, and the cannon’s accumulators.”
“Good work,” Santana said gratefully. “It seems that you have a natural talent for blowing things up. Now, no matter what happens next, we can…”
Santana never got to finish his sentence. There was only one Ramanthian fighter. Perhaps that was all the enemy had left. Whatever the case, it came out of the sun, fired a missile, and immediately pulled up. The T-2s detected the threat but too late. The cyborgs were just starting to respond when the weapon struck the west side of the dome and exploded. The blast killed a T-2 and two bio bods.
Santana understood the nature of his error. By destroying the cannon, he had inadvertently freed the enemy to employ airpower. Now that the cannon was off-line, it was all about honor. Even if that meant doing damage to their own fortress.
There was no need to give an order as the T-2s equipped with missiles fired them. The sleek-looking weapons leapt into the sky, snaked away, and converged on the fleeing plane. There was a flash of light followed by a puff of smoke as bits of wreckage twirled toward the ground.
Meanwhile, in concert with the air attack, the Ramanthian counterassault began. And, as Santana had anticipated, they came from two directions at once. He was standing above the landing pad, shoulder to shoulder with his troops, when the Ramanthians marched upslope. Weapons rattled as the legionnaires fired down into the undulating mass of bodies. Many fell, but the bugs kept coming. They were led by a very brave officer. He was waving a sword and seemingly invulnerable to the bullets that kicked up puffs of dust around him. Dammo? Yes, quite possibly.
The officer was flanked by two noncoms. One of them held a Ramanthian battle flag aloft just as one of his ancestors might have a thousand years earlier. The other was carrying a pole with Temo’s head on it. Her eyes were staring sightlessly uphill, the wooden shaft was drenched in gore, and the message was clear: The chits wanted revenge. And they were willing to face a hail of bullets, climb over the bodies of their dead, and even take to the air if required. Those who chose to unfurl their seldom-used wings made excellent targets and were soon shot down.
