was slung across his back The officer groped for the combat knife, thumbed the release, and saw a narrow snakelike head emerge from me surrounding murk. Something gleamed, and the legionnaire managed to catch the warrior’s arm as a blade flashed for his throat. He brought his own knife around in a long loop, felt the steel hesitate as it sliced through flesh, and saw the face convulse. The body fell away. Something jumped him from behind. An arm slithered around his neck and began to tighten. He needed air! The frog pulled him down. Hebo had a secret. Like most members of his race he could swim when forced to do so but hated the water. Land was what his body had evolved to deal with—and where his psyche was at ease. Fear rose like a wall as the logs drifted apart. Frogs! He saw them floating below the surface ! The Ramanthian squeezed the triggerlike firing sleeve that activated his weapon. The water acted to slow most of the bullets but an individual named Ralk had the misfortune to be only inches beneath the surface when the alien fired. The hard ball ammo cut him nearly in two, flooded the already murky water with his blood, and cut the opposition by one. The logs parted, Hebo floundered, and thrashed toward shore. Mondulo felt the harpoon slide up under his arm, where the armor couldn’t protect him, and enter his chest cavity. There was time, not much, but time to press the 9 mm handgun against the phib’s gut, feel the recoil, and harvest the look of surprise.
Then, before the pain could make itself felt. there was another increment of time in which to wonder why it was he, the fraxing expert, who was going to frigging die, while Booly and his team of XT weirdoes would probably emerge unscathed. But that’s how it was with officers . .. they ... A knife sliced through Mondulo’s throat, and the thinking was over.
MorlaKa felt the logs part beneath his massive boots, heard Hebo open fire, and drew the machete. Had Drik and his companions known to look and been trained to interpret the Hudathan’s expression, they would have been frightened. MorlaKa smiled as he launched himself over the side, landed on something solid, and carried it down. Drik felt the crushing weight, managed to flip himself face up, and wished that he hadn’t. The alien looked monstrous, like something from a nightmare, like the last thing he would ever see.
Seebo fired into the water, wished he could see what he was shooting at, and felt something grab his ankle. The clone looked, saw the long sinewy arm, and corrected his aim. The 5.56 mm rounds chewed the limb off at the elbow, the logs rolled under his boots, and he hit the water sideways. Booty backed-bowed his assailant, felt the arm loosen, and ducked through the loop. He wanted to surface, wanted to breathe, but knew he shouldn’t. The frog would follow, nail him from below, and that would be the end of it.
The human turned, saw the warrior raise some sort of spear gun, and felt the shaft race past the side of his face. A single shot weapon? The officer hoped so as he lunged forward, grabbed the launcher with his left hand, and pulled it toward him.
The frog could have let go, should have let go, but was reluctant to part with his most prized possession. He paid with his life.
Booly rammed the knife up into the warrior’s unprotected abdomen, felt the gun come free, and kicked for the surface. His gear plus the weapon across his back weighed him down. His body urged him to breathe anything, water if that’s what was available, but his mind refused to do so. The legionnaire pulled with his arms, kicked with his feet, and willed himself upwards. The murk seemed to clear after a bit, his head broke the surface, and he opened his mouth. Air entered his lungs, a log bumped his shoulder, and he managed to capture it with an arm. Nothing had ever felt so solid and reassuring.
Hebo flailed right and left, felt one of his pincers encounter something soft, and a frog fell away. A ribbon of blood trailed behind. The bottom! Where was the bottom? The Ramanthian aimed himself toward shore and started to paddle. Then, just when it seemed as if he would swim forever, the alien felt mud under his feet. He paused, tested to see if the bottom would take his weight, and discovered that it would. That’s when the War Hebo uttered a long cluttering challenge, turned his back to the jungle, and invited attack.
MorlaKa broke the surface like a breaching whale. He spouted a mouthful of foul-tasting water and turned his attention to the warriors who hung from various parts of his mighty frame. Drik, who had the signal misfortune to be clutched to the alien’s chest, felt the hug start to tighten. What seemed to last for an eternity took less than three seconds. The warrior felt his spine snap, lost contact with his extremities, and wondered where the pain was. Darkness came instead. In spite of the fact that the Hudathan had successfully dealt with one attacker, three remained. Hebo saw that and knew he should go to the other officer’s assistance but was reluctant to leave the security of solid ground.
MorlaKa bellowed his anger as a knife entered his shoulder, threw one of his assailants into the air, and struggled with the others.
Hebo saw the splash, cursed his luck, and threw himself forward. The Ramanthian hadn’t traveled more than three feet when warriors rose to either side of him, threw a fish net high into the air, and used ropes to pull it down over his head. Pincers trapped, legs thrashing, Hebo waited to die. Seebo kicked a frog in the stomach, felt the top of his head hit the underside of a log, and swallowed a mouthful of water. It went down the wrong way. The soldier kicked, broke the surface, and fought to clear his airway. He did so just in time to see MoriaKa break the surface, covered with frogs. A phib went flying. A knife flashed downward. The Hudathan bellowed in pain. There was no room for error, not given the tolerances involved, but Seebo knew the extent of his skill. Where it started, how far to trust it, and when to stop. By some miracle, the assault weapon was still there—clutched in the clone’s hands. He brought the rifle up, fired a burst of three shots, and saw a frog take the bullets. It screeched, fell back into the swamp, and quickly disappeared.
Steel flashed. MorlaKa roared with rage, broke the grip that encircled his neck, took hold of an arm, and jerked the warrior up over his shoulder. The long sinuous neck was an obvious point of vulnerability. The Hudathan got a grip on it, twisted, and heard something pop. The body went limp. He let the warrior go.
Though filled with the rage of battle, his body pumping chemicals into his blood, MoriaKa’s mind had stayed in control. He saw the net fall over Hebo’s torso and considered his options. He could let the bug die, a rather reasonable course of action given the manner in which the Ramanthian government hoped to annex Hudathan- controlled worlds, or—and this possibility went against all of the officer’s instincts—MorlaKa could wade out, pull his sidearm, and shoot the frogs in the head. The sound of his own gunfire served to alert the War Commander that thought had been translated to action. The bodies fell away, splashed into the water, and floated with arms extended. Silence descended over the lagoon. Those frogs that were still alive had escaped.
