Blue Team was supposed to negotiate a minefield, find its way through the tank traps, and, should Red Team fail, make their way up the length of the valley through a withering crossfire. Not a stroll in the park.
McGowan’s corn tech, a woman named Bagano, stuck her head up through a hatch. She wore a corn helmet, a nonreg nosering, and a shiteating grin. ‘The big dog is on line one ... We’re good to go.”
McGowan sighed. Bagano had a problem where military courtesy was concerned, had been disciplined any number of times, and didn’t seem to give a shit. The officer could have brought the soldier up on charges, and probably would have, except for one little problem: Bagano, or “Bags” as her buddies referred to her, was the best damned corn tech on that side of galaxy. McGowan had seen the woman take three mangled PR3s, fieldstrip them, and build a new unit in less than three minutes. When it came to a tradeoff between formality and competency, McGowan would take competency every single time. Her voice was intentionally loud. “All right! That’s the kind of news we’ve been waiting for! How’s Red?”
“Red is down,” the corn tech confirmed “Objective One is secure—and they’re working on Two.”
McGowan considered what that meant. The cyborgs would hold the stacks while the balance of the team dropped through the shafts, located the enemy command and control center, and blew the computer. That should silence the remotely operated weapons emplacements that lined the canyon walls. Weapons emplacements that the jet jockeys had been unable to overcome. Not that the swabbies hadn’t tried. The remains of one dagger was scattered about halfway up—pointing at the ultimate goal—while a second was smeared across the face of a cliff.
Then, assuming that some of the Red Team managed to make it through—the poor bastards were supposed to throw themselves at the heavily shielded energy cannons mounted to either side of the main entrance—and attempt to shut them down.
Meanwhile, assuming McGowan made it past the many obstacles that lay in her path, she could expect to come into contact with some nasty-assed tanks the Thrakies had stashed at the base of the cliff. “Ah well, it was like they said: *Don’t join if you can’t take a joke.’ “
McGowan triggered the command push. A wire thin boom mike captured her words. “Blue One here ... we are green to go. Repeat green to go. Return to your vehicles, saddle up, and strap in. The last sonofabitch to reach the wall buys the beer!”
There were cheers, some of which were muffled, as steel clanged on steel. McGowan grinned, circled a quad named Yen, and switched to another frequency. The ramp bounced under her boots. “I’m in—seal the hatch.” Servos whined as the armor-plated ramp rose to mate with the cyborg’s durasteel hull.
About a hundred feet away, sealed into the belly of a Hudathan heavy, Lieutenant Jonathan Alan Seebo872 eyed his clone brothers. They sat in double rows facing each other. In spite of the fact that each one wore battle armor and carried a full complement of weapons plus ammo for the crew served machine guns and rocket launchers, they were still dwarfed by the Hudathan-sized seats. That, plus the fact that he and his brothers were actually sealed inside an alien cyborg, added to the somewhat surreal atmosphere. In spite of the fact that the Legion had used cyborgs for a considerable length of time, even going so far as to station them on Hegemony-held worlds, the Alpha Clones had never seen fit to commission intelligent constructs of their own.
Now, trapped within the belly of such a being, 872 had reason to question their wisdom. Of even more concern, however, was the fact that his superiors had not only acquiesced to the Confederacy’s decision to place a free breeder in overall command of the allied forces, they failed to intervene when the same officer placed McGowan in charge of Blue Team. A serious error, given not only her gender but the likelihood that she would sacrifice his brothers and him rather than risk her precious legionnaires. Ail the infantry came under him, however—which would make it more difficult for McGowan to implement her plan. The officer grinned but knew it looked more like a snarl. IFhe died, ifhe wound up in hell, the legionnaires would arrive there first.
Power went to the axles, tracks started to chum, and the cyborg moved forward. Blue Team was on the way
The sun had broken through. Sergeant Quickfoot stood in the hard black shadow cast by a spire of rock. He along with twelve legionnaires were gathered around one of the Thraki-constructed air shafts. Each was approximately ten feet wide and lined with metal. The protective covers had been cut free and removed. The Naa peered down, but outside of the blue-green glow of the flare, there was nothing much to see.
The mechanism that pushed stale air up toward the surface remained operational, however, and there were plenty of odors. The noncom’s nose, which was at least ten times more sensitive than the nearly useless protuberance humans were equipped with, sent information to his brain. There was the harsh odor of the demo charge they had lobbed in first, followed by the tang that was characteristic of Legion-issue flares, and yes, the faint odor of cooking.
Satisfied that he knew everything about the shaft that his senses could tell him, the noncom looked up. His teammates included Sureseek Fareye, Rockclimb Warmfeel, Oneshot Surekill, and Quickhand Knifemake. The words were in Naa: “The enemy will reach the bottom of the shaft soon. I think we should be there to greet them.”
Teeth gleamed in the half lit murk. All of the Naa were equipped with rock-climbing gear, including sit harnesses, carabiners, descenders, and other equipment required for rappelling, but carried none of the hardware associated with climbing. The reason was simple: Once down, they would fight their way out through the complex itself.
Coils of half inch kemmantle fell into the void, unwound, and pulled themselves straight. Hillrun grabbed a rope, stuck a loop through the hole in the figure eight descender, and used a locking Decarabiner to secure it to his harness. Now, with his heels on the lip of the shaft, the noncom was ready to go. That’s when he looked up to find that Lieutenant Drik SebaKa’s eyes were fixed on his. And that’s when Hillrun saw something he’d never expected to see. Though still close to expressionless, it seemed as if there was a little bit of warmth in the Hudathan’s expression and, more remarkable yet, a measure of respect. The officer’s voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “Watch your step, Sergeant... I’m short of noncoms.”
