courtesy for the Hudathan. It creaked when MorlaKa made his way upward, but it held and was easy to hoist up onto the platform.
Once everyone was in place and the humans had smeared their bodies with Drang-specific insect repellent, it was time to eat. Mondulo stood guard as the officers grumbled over their rations, the day creatures went into hiding, and the night hunters started to emerge. The first hint of their presence was heard rather than seen. There were the clicks, pops, and buzzing noises associated with the local insect population, quickly followed by the grunts, howls, and occasional screeches made by higher lifeforms. All of which made Booly glad that they were up off the jungle floor. He finished his meal, used some water from a canteen to speed the last lump on its way, and let his weight rest on a tree trunk. The moon was up, and that, combined with a hole in the canopy, provided some light to see by.
Seebo and Hebo were reliving their battle with the snake, while Mondulo sat with eyes closed, and MorlaKa cleaned his assault weapon. It was strange how the trip into the jungle had served to transform these officers into regular troops. Nowhere was that more visible than in the way they talked. The conversation was about the day’s adventures, about the food, and presumably, when he stepped out of earshot, about what an asshole he was. Because if there’s anything grunts like to do, it’s bitch about the command structure, which in their case came down to one single individual. Booly felt an insect land on his cheek, swatted, and knew it had escaped. A tree dweller screeched and was answered from a long way off. Seebo said something to the Ramanthian, who made the popping noises that equated to laughter.
So, Booly asked himself, which one of them should I designate as second in command? Which one can the Confederacy count on? Seebo? Because he’s human? MorlaKa because he isn’t? Hebo as a compromise? No, those were political considerations. The one I choose should be the best leader available—and to hell with the way they’re packaged.
The thought served to remind him of his own mixed ancestry, of the fact that some people would regard his command structure as something of a freak show, a thought that struck him as funny. Booly laughed. Seebo looked at Hebo, MorlaKa looked up from his weapon, and Mondulo opened a single eye. The old man was a nutcase but what else was new? Officers were weird, and sergeants, who served as the Legion’s backbone, would never be able to understand them.
Something made a gibbering sound. A cloud cloaked the moon. The noncom smiled and drifted off to sleep.
Drik floated just beneath the surface of the dark, murky water. It was thick with algae, sediment, and hundreds of tiny lifeforms all vying for their share of the swamp-born soup. Air bladders located beneath his armpits allowed the warrior to control the extent of his buoyancy. That being the case, he could hang suspended in the water for hours or even days should that become necessary. But it wouldn’t be necessary—not unless his senses had suddenly decided to betray him. A flock of flyers had fluttered into the air moments before. A school of swamp darters had propelled themselves toward deeper water, and he could feel an alien presence. None of the clan members had ever asked him about such impressions, since they had them too, but a xenoanthropologist would have been interested in the fact that while some portion of the data required to generate them flowed from “normal”
sensory input, the rest stemmed from something else, which if not telepathy, was somehow related. In any case, Drik “felt” the aliens approach, could distinguish between different personas, and, had he been allowed to observe them for a longer period of time, might have been able to describe their various emotions.
His emotions were clear. The offworlders had murdered members of his clan, poisoned the planet’s water, and interfered with the Great Mother’s plan. The crimes were clear—and so was the punishment: death.
Booly smelled the swamp long before he actually saw it. The damp, slightly malodorous scent of decayed plant life, combined with the stink of stagnant water, sent invisible tendrils into the jungle as if to warn of the terrain ahead.
That being the case, the legionnaire was far from surprised when his machete slashed through the final screen of vegetation to reveal a broadly shelving mud bank and an expanse of coppery brown water backed by a stand of what Booly remembered as sponge trees, tall woody tubes that contained membranes through which swamp water was continually filtered. Nutrients were removed, waste products were added, and what remained oozed into the estuary.
Booly scanned the area for danger, failed to identify any, and moved to one side. MoriaKa stepped forward, followed by Mondulo, Seebo, and Hebo. The latter shuffled backward, his world divided into hundreds of images.
The noncom squinted into the brighter light, directed a stream of spit into the toffee-colored water, and removed a grenade from one of his cargo pockets. The pin had been pulled, and the object was high in the air before Booly managed to spit the words out. “Sergeant, what the hell are you ... ?”
An explosion, followed by a geyser of momentarily white water, served to punctuate the sentence. “Just some reconnaissance by fire, sir. Stir things up, see what’s what, if ya know what I mean.”
Booly swallowed his anger. “So much for keeping our presence secret.”
Mondulo looked surprised. “Secret? Beggin’ the general’s pardon, but we ain’t got no fraxin’ secrets. The frogs know where we are and what we’ve been doin’. Well, not what we’re doin’, since that wouldn’t make any sense to a frog, but what they think we’re doin’, which is stompin’ all over the Great Mother’s sacred body and pissin’ on her face. The slimy bastards are out there all right—the only question is where.”
Booty swallowed his pride, nodded, and said, “Carry on.”
Mondulo did—and more grenades flew through the air.
