gone deep into her body and damaged the elaborate life-support system that kept her brain alive. So unless she could end the fight quickly and receive some cybernetic first aid, her effort to reclaim the throne would be over. So she brought her tail all the way forward.
The trident-shaped energy weapon struck the pretender’s helmet and drove pieces of it down into her brain. Thanks to the armor she was wearing, the royal remained vertical for a moment. Then she fell. And, having lost consciousness, the Warrior Queen collapsed a few seconds later.
Chancellor Parth was watching from only feet away as the Queen’s body hit the Plain of Pain. An armored shoulder had been struck a glancing blow by a bullet, and he had chosen to go down rather than invite certain death by remaining vertical. Now, shocked by what he had witnessed, Parth rose and began to shuffle west. He fully expected to receive a bullet in the back and was grateful when he didn’t. Especially since General Amm’s armor had clearly been flanked, and the animals were sweeping in from both sides.
Had Parth taken a moment to lift his head and look around, he would have seen the battle-scarred quad that was approaching him from the right. But he didn’t. So when the enormous foot pod came down on him, the brief moment of pain came as a complete surprise. Hive had fallen.
It was dark. Or very nearly so. Occasional flashes of light lit up the western horizon, and the subdued mutter of artillery could be heard as Confederacy forces under the leadership of General Mortimer Kobbi continued to battle what remained of General Amm’s home-defense force. But all of the orbital battle platforms had fallen, more and more allied troops were landing with each passing hour, and the Warrior Queen was not only alive but safely resident in a less warlike form. So within days, weeks at most, she would be able to reclaim her throne. And hostilities would end.
None of which was of any interest to Santana. He had been plucked off the battlefield by a medical unit, treated for his shoulder wound, and sent off to join a group of walking wounded that was scheduled to be evacuated in the next couple of hours.
But the moment the medic in charge of the group turned his back, Santana slipped away. Now, along with the robots that had been assigned to “tag and bag” more than a thousand dead bodies, he was prowling the battlefield, looking for Vanderveen and Dietrich. According to what he’d been told, both were missing and presumed dead. And the likelihood was like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.
Hundreds of helmet lights bobbed and seemed to flicker as the robotic graves-registration teams went about their grisly business, and a few, like Santana, went in search of fallen comrades. Humans, Hudathans, and members of less numerous species lay everywhere. Some of their faces were empty. Others were no longer recognizable or still contorted in pain.
Bodies lay in heaps where terrible minibattles had been fought or, in some cases, lay all alone. And there were Ramanthians, too… Hundreds of them. Some had gaping wounds, but others looked so peaceful it seemed as though they might rise to fight again.
Finally, after a nightmare journey, Santana stepped over a dead Seebo, circled a burned-out quad, and entered the area where the battle royal had taken place. Both of the would-be monarchs had been removed from the battlefield, but the robots were just beginning to filter into the area, so the rest of the bodies lay where they had fallen.
As the blob of light projected from his helmet played across one of the Ramanthian “fliers” he had battled earlier, Santana knew he was very close to the place where the final confrontation had taken place. Using that as a center point, he began an ever-expanding-circle search.
Two minutes later, he saw the lance, recognized the body as being Dietrich’s, and felt a huge lump rise to block his throat as he looked down into Dietrich’s face. They had served together for years by that time, shared uncountable dangers, and been friends, even if that friendship had never been formally acknowledged and couldn’t be, given the nature of their professional relationship.
Servos whined as a pair of androids arrived. Santana stood. “Please treat this man with great care. He was my friend.”
The robots were programmed to treat all bodies with respect and to ignore redundant orders. So they made no reply as Santana turned away. That was when the light from his helmet speared a smaller body. Santana’s heart leapt as he knelt next to it, wrestled the badly damaged helmet free, and saw Vanderveen’s bloodied face. Then, hardly daring to hope, his fingers sought her jugular. There was nothing at first. Just her yielding flesh. But just as Santana was about to give up, he felt what he’d been hoping for. A single surge of blood. “Medic!” he shouted. “Over here! Hurry.”
PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Six months had passed since the cessation of hostilities, a massive recovery effort was under way, and even though things would never be the same, a sense of normalcy had returned. The wedding was held on an island in the Pacific Ocean. The bride wore a beautiful white gown, the groom was in uniform, and more than five hundred formally attired guests were in attendance. The celebrants included President Nankool; Admiral Chien-Chu; his niece, Maylo; Triad Doma-Sa; and many, many others. All of whom had come to wish Undersecretary Christine Vanderveen and Lt. Colonel Antonio Santana a long and happy marriage.
Once his part of the ceremony was over and the happy newlyweds were being mobbed by well-wishers, Charles Vanderveen was able to slip away for a barefoot walk on the beach. His wife, Margaret, wasn’t there. Couldn’t be there. But he could sense her presence. And the warmth of it went deep into his bones. Waves broke offshore and he was at peace.
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