necessary, but followed game trails whenever possible, to save time. But the legionnaire knew there was something even more important than speed, and that was the need to maintain the element of surprise. Because the moment the Ramanthians became aware of the team, they would bring an overwhelming amount of fi?repower to bear, and the mission would be over. Worse yet, the bugs might fi?gure out what the legionnaires had been planning to do and identify Nankool.
So when the fi?re team at the front of the column announced a clearing ahead, plus some sort of structure, the platoon leader was quick to order both squads off the trail. Once all of them were hidden, Santana directed Snyder to keep an eye on the back door while he followed Private Noaim Shootstraight forward. The brindled Naa was a crack shot, a skilled scout, and had been court-martialed for desertion. Not once but twice. However, in spite of the fact that there weren’t any jungles on Algeron, and the way his sweat-matted fur caused him to pant, the Naa seemed to slide between the leaves and branches as if raised on Jericho. Santana, by contrast, made twice as much noise, and was hard-pressed to keep up.
Ten minutes later the twosome arrived at the edge of a blackened clearing that had obviously been created with energy weapons or something very similar. And there, sitting at the very center of the open space, was a cylindrical structure. The construct was about twenty feet tall, shaped like a grain silo, and had evenly spaced holes all around its circumference. Ramanthian script had been spray-painted onto whatever the object was along with a six-digit number. None of it made any sense to Santana—but was seemingly obvious to Shootstraight. “It looks like a feeder, sir,”
the private whispered. “Like the ones we have for dooths back home.”
What the Naa said made sense. But the Ramanthians didn’t have any dooths. Then the offi?cer had it. . . . The food was for their tricentennial nymphs! The same ones who were out hunting. He was about to say as much when DeCosta spoke in his ear. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . What are you waiting for? Get a move on. Over.”
There were no Ramanthians in sight, young or old, which meant that the way was clear. Or that’s how it seemed. But the area around the silo was littered with the remains of dead animals. Bones mostly, since it looked as though scavengers had been at them, but some half-eaten corpses as well. Had foraging nymphs killed them? Or had the slaughter resulted from something else?
“Answer me, damn it!” DeCosta demanded shrilly. “I know you can hear me!”
DeCosta was distracting, so Santana killed the input, as he brought his binos up and inched them from left to right. There was nothing to see at fi?rst, other than corrugated metal, but then he spotted them. Half-hidden within the shadow cast by the feeder’s conical roof was an array of spotlights, vid cams, and some sort of weapons!
Which made sense if the bugs wanted to observe what the nymphs were up to and keep indigenous animals from getting their food. The platoon leader reactivated his radio to discover that DeCosta was in mid-rant. “. . . or I will know the reason why! Over.”
“This is Alpha Six,” Santana said softly. “We ran into a Ramanthian feeding station—complete with cameras and a computer-controlled weapons system. That means we’ve got to backtrack and go around it. Out.”
Even DeCosta could understand that, so there was no reply, which the platoon leader chose to interpret as a win. But Hargo wasn’t so easily satisfi?ed. He took each of DeCosta’s diatribes personally—and continued to fume. Having backtracked more than a mile and successfully circled around the Ramanthian feeding station, the fi?rst platoon continued toward the north and a reunion with the rest of Team Zebra. The much-awaited linkup took place at about 1500 hours, which left them about fi?ve hours of daylight.
DeCosta, who was clearly eager to get going, chose to position himself near the head of the column just behind the team on point. The decision spoke to his personal courage since both he and his T-2 would almost certainly be in the thick of things were the company to be ambushed. In the meantime Santana found himself in the drag position, which made tactical sense, but might be by way of a punishment as well. But whatever the reason for the assignment, the platoon leader took his duties seriously, which meant Snyder had to as well, even if that required extra effort. Because rather than simply walk backwards every once in a while, and scan the back trail with her sensors, the offi?cer ordered the T-2 to leave the trail periodically, hunker down, and wait to see if anyone was following. And not just following, but lagging so far back, as to initially fall outside of sensor range. Which seemed unlikely at best—and forced Snyder to jog in order to catch up with column.
Consistent with Snyder’s expectations the fi?rst fi?ve attempts produced negative results. But then, just as the legionnaire was beginning to resent the process, something registered on the cyborg’s sensors. And not just one something, but a parade of heat signatures, all coming up the trail. The targets weren’t large enough to qualify as Ramanthian troopers, plus they had a tendency to advance in a series of fi?ts and starts, but the presence of so many unidentifi?ed life-forms was unsettling, nevertheless. Especially if the targets were Ramanthian nymphs. So Snyder told Santana, who ordered her back onto the trail, and relayed the information to DeCosta. And rather than pooh-pooh the report the way the platoon leader half expected him to, the major even went so far as to offer up a grudging, “Well done.” Followed by a brusque, “Keep an eye on the buggers.” Which Santana did.
Darkness fell earlier on the forest fl?oor than up above the canopy. So, when the column came across some vinecovered ruins, DeCosta called a halt while there was still enough light to work by. Lieutenant Farnsworth’s platoon was ordered to establish a defensive perimeter around the stone structure. That left the fi?rst platoon to set up camp, which required them to clear obstructing vegetation, establish fi?ring positions, and seal off the steep stairwell that led underground.
Santana monitored the work by walking around. He paused every now and then to offer words of encouragement, but generally let his noncoms make decisions, knowing it was important to build confi?dence in their leadership. Eventually the work was done. And just in time, too, as the sun sank in the west, and six small fi? res were lit inside the embrace of the ancient walls. They threw shadows onto the carefully fi?tted stones, but none were positioned to silhouette the legionnaires or reveal too much to prying eyes. DeCosta was sitting in a corner, reading a holy book by means of the lights built into his helmet, and Farnsworth had the fi?rst watch. That meant Santana had the small fi?re all to himself as he consumed his rations. “So,” a voice said, as servos whined. “We meet again.”
The offi?cer turned to fi?nd that Watkins was standing next to him. Having been ejected from the ship immediately after DeCosta, the civilian and his T-2 landed within half a mile of the major, and had been with the offi?cer ever since. Santana gestured to the space next to him. “Pull up a chair. . . .”
“I’m sorry about all of DeCosta’s bullshit,” the media specialist said, as he lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs. “You’ve been very patient.”
Santana was surprised by both the tone of the comment and its source. “Really? No offense, sir. . . . But it was my impression that the two of you were pretty tight.”
Even though his plastifl?esh face was less responsive to emotion than skin-covered muscle would have been —
there was no denying the look of disgust on the cyborg’s face. “I can certainly understand how you came to
