reluctant to fi?re. Vanderveen had left the gazebo by then and noticed something that should have been obvious before. The top of the electrifi?ed fence angled outwards, meaning the Ramanthians were more concerned about external attacks than prisoner escapes! Which meant they knew the nymphs could be hostile.
No sooner had the thought occurred to the POW than a spear fell from the quickly darkening sky, struck a sergeant in the upper thorax, and shattered his chitin. The soldier fell without making a sound, and the chittering increased. That was enough for Commandant Mutuu, who screamed, “Fire!”
But even as the machine guns began to chug, and the rattle of automatic rifl?e fi?re was added to mix, a loud cracking sound was heard. The tree that the nymphs had chosen to fall was well back in the jungle. But it soon became evident that the very top of the forest giant was within range of the fence as the mass of foliage descended on the camp. There was a crash, accompanied by an explosion of sparks, as the tree trunk fl?attened a section of fence. Within a matter of seconds the nymphs had swarmed up onto the newly created bridge and were following it in toward the center of the compound. Grenades went off, and body parts were hurled high into the air, as the guns continued to cut the invaders down. But there were plenty more—
and all of them were hungry for protein.
The prisoners had evacuated their barracks by then and were beginning to congregate at the center of the camp, when a fl?ight of fi?fty well-thrown spears rained down on them. A sailor screamed as one of the incoming missiles drove her to the ground. Vanderveen went to the rating’s aid but found there was nothing she or anyone else could do.
Within a matter of seconds more trees were falling, at least half of which missed the mark, but the result was to divide the Ramanthian machine-gun fi?re, which allowed dozens of nymphs to successfully enter the compound. Tragg and his Sheen robots were there to meet the chittering invaders. There was no way to know if the overseer was trying to defend himself or his Ramanthian employers, not that it made any difference.
But the nymphs could fl?y. And it wasn’t long before dozens of airborne attackers landed on the towers, which forced the Ramanthians on the ground to fi?re up at them or risk having their machines guns turned on themselves. Though not a military man, Nankool believed he knew what would happen next as he appeared at Vanderveen’s side. The president’s heavily bearded face was gaunt, and his voice was urgent. “Mutuu is going to call in an airstrike on the camp! Tell everyone to take cover! Do it now!”
So Vanderveen, along with other members of the LG, did the best they could to urge those prisoners still out in the open to roll under buildings, take shelter in latrines, or hide in any other place that might provide protection from both the fl?ying nymphs and the planes that were most likely on the way.
As the POWs scattered, each searching for his or her personal hole, the War Mutuu had taken to the fi?eld. Backed by two troopers armed with rifl?es, the warrior was standing in front of the main building, seemingly oblivious to the spears that fell around him. Light glinted off steel as his razor-sharp blade rose and fell. There was an audible ka-ching each time a head rolled, interspersed by rifl?e shots, as the soldiers kept fl?ying nymphs at a distance. But there was no further opportunity to observe the War Mutuu or anything else as a brace of ground- based aerospace fi?ghters roared overhead and began their bloody work. Not with bombs, which would have destroyed everything, but with rockets and guns. Not just around the perimeter of Camp Enterprise alone, but along the edges of the airfi?eld, where dozens of nymphs threatened to overrun the space elevator’s anchor point.
Vanderveen went facedown in the dirt as one of the fi?ghters made a gun run parallel to the south fence, and felt someone grab hold of her ankles. It wasn’t until after the diplomat had been pulled in under the dubious protection of the admin building that she turned to discover that her rescuer was none other than Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco. He grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! You gotta give the bugs credit. . . . They certainly know how to keep the kids in line.” The comment was punctuated by a series of explosions as one of the low-fl?ying planes made a rocket run to the north, and the ground trembled in response.
The fi?ght continued for another ten minutes, but came to its inevitable conclusion soon after that, as the surviving nymphs were driven back into the surrounding jungle. The fi?ghters made one last pass, and upon getting the all clear, turned back toward the north. A heavy silence hung over the camp as the smoke started to clear. Then, as the POWs began to emerge from their various hiding places, the Ramanthians went out to gather their dead. And not just the adult soldiers but the juveniles as well. A huge task, given that the casualties lay in drifts, but one they carried out themselves, in spite of the fact that slave labor was available. Adding to the horror of the situation was the fact that while some of the nymphs were wounded, none showed any inclination to surrender, and snapped at anyone who attempted to aid them. Shots rang out as they were put down.
The Ramanthians didn’t have tear ducts, so they couldn’t cry, but there was no mistaking the feeling of intense sorrow that hung over the camp as the sun dipped below the western horizon, and huge funeral pyres began to take shape. Because nameless though the attackers were, each nymph was born of the Queen, and a citizen of the empire. So when morning came the fi?res would be lit, the half-grown bodies would be purifi?ed, and the smoke would carry more than a thousand spirits away. But no matter how moving the process might be, Vanderveen knew she could never forgive the atrocities that the bugs had committed and watched clear-eyed as the Ramanthians harvested their dead. You think that’s bad?
the POW thought to herself. Well, just wait. . . . I may not live to see it. . . . But there’s more to come. Having completed the hike from the shallow lake to a point only two miles shy of Camp Enterprise, Santana and his company had gone into hiding. No easy thing to do where the ten-foot-tall cyborgs were concerned—and a task made even more diffi?cult by the heat that radiated from their bodies.
But unlike his dead predecessor, Santana was a cavalry offi?cer and therefore more knowledgeable regarding what the borgs could and couldn’t do. He knew the T-2s could not only operate underwater, where their heat signatures would be concealed, but do so for days if necessary. So rather than hide them in the jungle, Santana followed a river down to a series of stair-stepped pools, where the cyborgs were ordered to submerge themselves. The offi?cer knew that would be boring, but it would also be safe, and that had priority.
Having hidden the most formidable part of the team where aerial patrols were very unlikely to fi?nd it, Santana was free to turn his attention to Camp Enterprise. Thanks to what Oliver Batkin had accomplished earlier, the cavalry offi?cer already had an excellent idea of how the compound was laid out. But time had passed since the cyborg’s escape from the POW camp, which meant things could have changed. Not to mention the fact that Santana was hungry for the sort of tactical minutiae the government spy had no reason to collect. Like the location of drainage ditches, the exact disposition of the POWs, how many could walk, the precise number of Ramanthian troops inside the wire, the size of the quick-reaction force stationed at the airstrip, how many shuttles were parked on the tarmac, where the power core was located, the status of the space elevator project, and much, much, more. All of which would have a bearing on the plan of attack. In order to gather the necessary intelligence, Santana planned to send Batkin forward during the cover of darkness in the hope that the cyborg would be able to penetrate the camp’s perimeter and collect useful information. Meanwhile, Noaim Shootstraight, Dimitri Bozakov, and Santana himself were to infi?ltrate the area with an eye to fi?nding the best avenues of attack.
Farnsworth took exception to that part of the plan, suggesting it was foolish for the commanding offi?cer to take such risks, but his objections fell on deaf ears. Santana wanted to see the lay of the land with his own eyes, not just hear about it, so Farnsworth was left in command as the offi?cer and his scouts disappeared into the jungle. All three were lightly dressed, carried a minimum amount of equipment, and wore green-and-black face
