Fortunately, from Wilmot’s point of view, Triad Hiween Doma-Sa was off-planet. Because the Hudathan was not only a close ally of Nankool’s, but a head of state as well, he couldn’t be neutralized in the same fashion as the others could.
So it was a special moment. One that Jakov had been looking forward to and was determined to enjoy. That was why the group had been brought before him. Not because there was any real need to do so—but to revel in his newly acquired power. “Good morning,” the vice president said, as the last of the prisoners was revealed. The greeting elicited snickers and even outright laughter from the sycophants, toadies, and other self-serving individuals who supported Jakov. All of them fell silent as the executive raised his hand. His eyes glittered as they roamed the room. “The Confederacy is at war, the president has been missing for months, and our citizens deserve strong leadership. With those factors in mind, and consistent with my responsibilities under the constitution, I will take over as interim Chief Executive as of 1300 hours this afternoon. The Senate has been notifi?ed to expect an announcement, as have the press, and I have every reason to expect a quick confi?rmation. Once that process has been completed my administration will take immediate steps to resolve the unfortunate confl?ict with the Ramanthians.”
“The president is alive,” Booly said grimly, as his eyes roamed the faces in front of him. “And all of you know it. . . . You’re traitors, nothing more, and you’ll never get away with it.”
“Really?” Jakov inquired sarcastically. “Rather than attack the legally constituted government, I suggest that you, your wife, and the cadre of scum you’ve been plotting with begin to think about how to defend yourselves against charges of criminal conspiracy and treason. Who knows?”
the politician asked rhetorically. “Perhaps some of the criminals in the pit can offer you some advice. Especially the ones you sent there!”
That elicited another round of jeers and laughter as the hoods were replaced for the long roundabout journey down to the pit. But as Booly waited for the cloth to come down over his eyes, he made a mental photograph of each face in front of him and sealed the images away. Because somehow, someday, they were going to pay.
*
*
*
The normally raucous prison, also known as “the pit,” was extremely quiet. And for good reason. Because while the prisoners weren’t in the political loop, they were hypersensitive to even the smallest change in prison routine. So when all their normal guards were suddenly “reassigned,”
and replaced by marines brought in from off-planet, they knew something important was afoot—something very important indeed. So when orders were shouted, gates clanged open, and a new contingent of hooded prisoners shuffl?ed into the space between the cliffl?ike cellblocks they paid attention. The females were separated out and led away as the men were freed from their restraints.
Chains rattled as shackles were removed, and cuffs clanged as they were tossed into a cleaning bucket before the heavily armed guards backed out of the pit. That was when the newly inducted prison rats were free to remove their hoods and look around. There was a long moment of silence while both groups regarded the other followed by a loud comment from one of the lowest tiers. “Well, I’ll be damned,” a grizzled legionnaire commented loudly. “If it isn’t General Bill Booly. . . . Come to lead us on the march into hell!”
What happened next left the newly appointed warden dumbfounded. Because rather than turn on the general, as she had been led to believe they would, the prisoners shouted a greeting instead. It consisted of a single word. A word so loud it made the windows in her offi?ce rattle as she looked down into the concrete canyon.
“CAMERONE!”
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Stars glittered above, but down on the jungle fl?oor it was as black as the inside of a combat boot, and the cyborgs were the only ones who could truly “see” the growing host of nymphs as they generated an almost deafening chittering noise, caused the foliage to rustle as if in response to a windstorm, and fi?lled the air with the acrid scent of their urine. The resulting tension was suffi?cient to make even the most-combat-hardened veteran sweat.
Like all the rest of the bio bods, Santana was wearing his helmet, which not only served to protect his head, but provided access to the ITC and served to amplify the ambient light. But there wasn’t much light to amplify, which meant the legionnaire saw little more than green streaks as the adolescent Ramanthians dashed back and forth outside the stone walls. The team had fl?ares, of course, but their effectiveness was limited by the forest canopy, which meant the company would have to use jury-rigged spotlights once the fi?ghting began.
Which was why every single legionnaire was at his or her post as Major DeCosta made his rounds. And, except for the senior offi?cer’s tendency to reinforce his orders with scriptural references, Santana had to admit that DeCosta had done a good job of preparing the company for combat. Each corner of the roughly rectangular space was protected by a well-entrenched RAV and a T-2. The rest of the cyborgs were evenly spaced along the perimeter, and interspersed with bio bods, who stood on improvised fi?ring steps so they could fi?re over the walls. All of which should make for an impenetrable curtain of fi?re once the nymphs attacked.
That was DeCosta’s plan, anyway, and it would have worked if the nymphs hadn’t found their way into the labyrinth of passageways below Team Zebra and boiled up out of the ground inside the defensive perimeter. The stairway had been blocked, but not well enough, as the madly chittering mob managed to force its way through the opening. Watkins, who hadn’t been given a place on the fi?ring line, was the fi?rst to notice the incursion. “Watch out!” the civilian shouted, as the fi?rst bugs appeared. “They’re inside the wall!”
But the warning generated a smaller response than the media specialist expected, because the aliens located outside of the enclosure chose that moment to attack as well, thereby forcing the defenders to respond to them at the same time. Flares shot upwards, collided with the canopy, and went off. Some of them remained there, trapped in the foliage, and others drifted down under tiny parachutes. Battle lights came on, and the fi?fties began to thump as what looked like a tidal wave of sharp beaks, chitinous bodies, and fl?uttering wings surged toward the walls. Each slug killed at least half a dozen Ramanthians as bolts of coherent energy plowed bloody furrows through the oncoming horde. The chatter of assault weapons and submachine guns was interspersed with the occasional crack of a grenade as hundreds of attackers fell.
A legionnaire yelled, “Take that, you bastards!” as he emptied a clip into the mob and fumbled for another. But even as the oncoming wave faltered, the defenders were attacked from within. Sergeant Jan Obama screamed as two nymphs landed on her back. Body armor protected her from the fi?rst few bites, but a third found her throat and ripped it out. Blood sprayed the surrounding area as Private Dimitri Bozakov turned to spray both the dead legionnaire and the Ramanthians with steel-jacketed bullets. But before the troopers on the wall had time to fully
