of plan. Estimate that 86.2 percent of enemy force engaged. Approximately 72.1 percent of enemy aircraft destroyed.”
Something moved through the officer’s peripheral vision, and a coffee cup landed at his elbow. Admiral Tyspin lowered herself onto a chair. She looked tired. He smiled. ‘Thanks for the coffee.”
She lifted her cup by way of an acknowledgement. “Denada.”
“So how’re we doing?”
Tyspin eyed him through the steam, took a sip, and lowered the mug. “You heard Big Momma ... We took causalities ... too many ... but the sky belongs to us.”
Booly nodded. “And the insertion teams?”
“Ready to drop.”
“Give ‘em my best.”
Tyspin smiled. “I already did.”
Once Dagger Commander, now Lieutenant Drik SeebaKa felt the landing craft fall free, checked the seal on his anus, and was relieved to find that it was intact. He hadn’t been so lucky the first time out—and spent the day wallowing in his own shit. No one had noticed though, not in the stink of the training swamp, and disgrace was avoided.
But what of today? the Hudathan asked himself, as he stared down the aisle. What of the twenty-five Hudathans, twenty-five legionnaires, four Naa and six cyborgs placed under his command? How would they regard him when the sun finally set? Assuming some survived? Would they honor his name? The officer was determined that they would. But what did barbarians know of honor? And could he trust them? War Commander DomaSa said “yes,” but who could be sure?
SeebaKa touched the Legion-issue wrist term and watched video blossom on the inside surface of his visor, He saw the ridge, two of the weapons emplacements that topped it, and the initial objective: a cluster of Thraki airshafts. The mission was simplicity itself. Neutralize the defenders, drop through the airshafts, and destroy everything in sight, If they made the LZ, if they could penetrate the complex, )I the enemy gave way. The purpose of the assault was to take some pressure off the forces detailed to drive the length of the valley floor. The landing craft shuddered as the hull hit the upper part of the atmosphere, but the Hudathan didn’t even notice. He ran the sequence again.
About four feet away, thumbs hooked into his battle harness. First Sergeant Antonio Top” Santana eyed his commanding officer through half-closed lids. What was the hatchet head thinking anyway? Jeez, the sonovabitch was ugly. He seemed to know his shit, though, which was good, because Santana was ready if he didn’t. Two slugs in the back of the head, and the matter would be settled. Not a pleasant thought but better than letting a geek waste his team. The noncom smiled.
A little further down the aisle, over on the starboard side, Quickfoot Hillrun started to snore. Oneshot Surekili took exception and kicked the other scout’s foot. The sound stopped for a moment but quickly resumed.
Lower in the hull, below Surekill’s feet, cyborgs hung within cylindrical drop tubes. The team consisted of four humans and two Hudathans. The tech types had gone to considerable lengths to ensure their corn equipment was compatible. That being the case, and borgs being borgs, the “machine augmented”
troopers chatted on a low power utility band. Corporal Lars Lastow, one of the 1,021 cyborgs that then Colonel Bill Booly had rescued from Fort Portal back during the mutiny, was interrogating one of his Hudathan colleagues. “So, Sergeant HorlaKa, how’s your sex life?”
‘The same as yours,” the noncom answered stolidly.
“Nonexistent.”
‘That’s not what I hear,” the human continued. “I hear they wired you guys to come every time you kill someone.”
“Come?” HorlaKa responded, “I don’t understand.”
“You know,” Lastow went on, “shoot your load, blow your rocks, have an orgasm.”
“Oh that,” HorlaKa answered evenly. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Damn,” the human responded. “You are one lucky bastard.”
The Hudathan eyed his readouts, saw the seconds ticking away, and knew the enemy was waiting. And not just waiting, but locked, loaded, and ready to fire. “Yes,” he replied dryly. “I am one lucky bastard.”
