The geysers formed a tidy row.
Though moderated by the density of the surrounding water, the explosions wounded a warrior named Gril and delivered what felt like a series of blows to Drik’s abdomen. He felt the air rush out of his lungs, stuck his nose up through the surface, and drew some much-needed air. If the aliens saw, they gave no sign of it, and the warrior was gone before the water started to settle. Other warriors, too far from the bang thing to be affected by it, towed the half-conscious Gril away. The first blow had been struck—but far from the last.
The Hudathan’s machete made a solid thunking sound as it bit into the side of the TT tree, produced another wedge of flying wood, and squeaked free. The blade, harnessed to three hundred pounds of bone and muscle, had already made short work of fourteen carefully matched eightinch trunks. The trees, which bore only four branches apiece, were strong but buoyant, important qualities for a raft. Seebo had lobbied for a lunch break but been forced to give way under Mondulo’s insistence that the team construct their vessel prior to eating. Now, with hunger driving them on, the officers were hard at work. The first task was to assemble the materials in the proper manner. The noncom was a strict taskmaster. “This is called a ‘gripper bar raft’ ‘cause of the way we place two lengths of wood on the ground and place logs on top of them. “Now, if you would be so kind as to lay the logs at right angles to the crosspieces, we’ll be damned close to done.”
Booly assisted Seebo, and the majority of the logs had been rolled, dragged, and kicked into place by the time MorlaKa arrived with his latest arboreal victim.
Then, with the tree trunks lying side by side, the last two crosspieces were lowered into position and secured to the first pair, “gripping” the logs between them.
Once that was accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to construct an A-frame-style support structure, secure it in place with guylines, and add the pole-mounted paddlestyle rudder. Once the last knot had been tied, the entire team took a moment to admire their work. The finished raft was about twenty feet long and nine wide. Though flat, and not especially pretty, Seebo figured it would float. “I christen thee Pancake,” the clone said, sprinkling some canteen water on the craft’s bow. “Long may you sail.”
Other and in some case more colorful names were submitted for consideration, but Pancake stuck, and they broke for lunch. No one had given much thought to Hebo’s rations up till that point, but when he opened a container of grubs, squirted some sort of stimulant into the mix and brought the creatures to squirming life, that got their attention.
The entire group watched in horrified fascination as the Ramanthian speared one of the creatures, shoved it under his parrotlike beak, and bit down. A mixture of blood and intestinal contents sprayed outwards. Seebo shook his head in amazement. “Jeez, Hebo ... that was gross.”
The statement would have been a breach in etiquette within diplomatic circles but was well within the realm of what one legionnaire would say to another. Which way would the Ramanthian react? Booly waited to see.
There was a pause while the insectlike alien considered the human’s comment. When he spoke, the words had the hard, flat sound of his computer-driven translator. “Screw you, Seebo, and the test tube you were born in.”
It was exactly how the typical legionnaire would respond. The rest of the group laughed, and Booly smiled. The team was coming together. The officer closed his eyes, thought of Maylo ChienChu, and wondered what she was doing.
The Pancake was launched with more swearing than ceremony. By constructing the raft up on the mud bank, the team had kept their feet dry. Now, in order to launch their vessel, the officers had to lift it. MorlaKa made his part took easy, while the rest of the group strained, stumbled, and swore as they struggled to break the logs free from the mud, hoisted the Pancake into the air, and carried her down into the water. She landed with a splash. Everyone got wet, and waves rolled toward the opposite side of the estuary.
“All right,” Mondulo said, squinting into the sky. “We got ten miles of swamp to cross before nightfall. Time to get our asses in gear.”
Drik, along with fifteen of the clan’s most fearsome warriors floated just below the surface of the water and watched the aliens board their clumsy-looking craft. They knew the little bay was little more than a fingerlike extension of the great northern swamp. There was one way in and one way out. All they had to do was sit at the entry point and wait. The ambush was ready. Drik felt a rising sense of excitement, allowed more water to enter his auxiliary bladders, and sank further below the surface. His war party did likewise.
Mondulo stood with the long half-peeled steering oar clamped under one arm while he read the coordinates supplied by his Legion-issue wrist term and examined a map. Seebo, and his Ramanthian counterpart stood back to back, scanning for trouble. MorlaKa and Booly used poles to push the Pancake out and away from the shore.
The scenery seemed to glide past as if mounted on rollers. A weed-draped snag appeared off to the left, bobbed as a bird launched itself into the air, and fell behind. That’s when Booly noticed how quiet their environment had become, as if the entire swamp was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The legionnaire felt the fur rise along his spine, started to say something, but never got it out. Four warriors rose as one. Each held a well- sharpened blade, each cut through the bindings that held the gripper bars in place, and each flutter kicked out of the way. It took a moment for the raft to come apart. Seebo was the first to notice. “The raft! Something’s wrong!”
But there was no time to respond, no time to make repairs, no time to mount a response. One after another they felt into the water. It was blood warm. Booly assumed the raft had come apart of its own accord, and realized how wrong he was when a two-foot long harpoon bounced off his chest armor. Mondulo gave the alarm: “Frogs!”
Bubbles exploded around Booly’s face as he went under, thought about the assault rifle, and remembered that it
