More than a thousand feet below Oron IV’s harsh surface, Subcommander Sig Byap sat within a pressurized chamber and watched the Confederacy ship lift. It was just what he’d been hoping for, except that rather than take the alien soldiers along with it, the reentry-scarred vessel had deposited them on the surface, where the ugly- looking creatures were pumping air into a fi?eld hab.
The Ramanthian swore as the assault boat hovered for a moment and stirred up a vortex of dust before crossing the defensive perimeter and accelerating away. Then, as a large knot continued to form in his belly, the offi?cer watched a four-legged cyborg turn and “look” his way. Missile racks appeared along both sides of the quad’s hull—and there was a momentary fl?ash of light as one of them fi?red. Camera 36 went dark a fraction of a second later. Having missed the carefully concealed surcams during initial sweeps of the area, it appeared that subsequent efforts had been more successful, as 92 percent of Byap’s surveillance devices were taken offline. That meant the eggless scum knew about the subsurface storage facility and intended to capture or destroy it, which the degenerates would very likely be able to accomplish thanks to the amount of fi?repower they had. However, given that Byap was a sworn member of the Nira, a fanatical group of offi?cers for whom surrender was unthinkable, there was only one choice: fi?ght to the death. Not something Byap lusted after the way some Ramanthians did, but a perfectly acceptable outcome given the needs of his people. Because with fi?ve billion newly hatched citizens to care for, the empire was in need of everything. Especially real estate. Which was how the war had begun—and why he and his troops were about to die.
The Ramanthians preferred to live underground, so while somewhat monotonous, life inside the mine had been acceptable up until that point. Video screens, most of which had been rendered dark, covered a rocky wall. They were fronted by a curved control console, fi?ve saddle chairs, and the same number of technicians.
Byap was seated behind them, and swiveled around to face a heavily armed fi?le leader named Beeb Nohar. Having responded to the general alarm, the offi?cer was dressed in powerassisted space armor that would not only protect the soldier from a complete vacuum, but enable him to rip a legionnaire’s head off should that be necessary. The helmet that Nohar held clutched in the crook of his right arm incorporated side-mounted black portals through which his compound eyes would be able to see, and a hook-shaped protuberance designed to accommodate his parrotlike beak. The fi?le leader listened impassively as Byap spoke. “The automatic defenses located in the vicinity of the main lock won’t be suffi?cient to stop them,” the subcommander predicted. “Confront the animals in the main corridor and show no mercy. I will take File Two, exit through the escape shaft, and attack the troops on the surface.”
The plan made sense, given the circumstances, even though it couldn’t possibly succeed. But both of Nohar’s mates had been killed on Infama VI, and he was eager to join them in paradise. “It shall be as you say,” the fi?le leader agreed stoically, and came to the Ramanthian equivalent of attention. Byap stood. “You are a fi?ne offi?cer,” the subcommander said feelingly. “The Queen would be proud. Dismissed.”
Once Nohar was gone, and the technicians had been released to rejoin their units, Byap shuffl?ed over to the control console, where he removed the wafer-shaped device that dangled from his neck and slipped the object into a waiting slot. A gentle whir could be heard as a remote appeared, and the offi?cer took possession of it. There wasn’t a single member of his command who wasn’t aware of the strategically located demolition charges that had been pre-positioned throughout the mine. But being aware of a potential calamity, and knowing it’s about to occur, are two different things. So the offi?cer thought it best to pocket the device when none of his subordinates were present to see him do so. Especially given the fact that once the charges went off, the entire mine would collapse, killing everyone inside.
From all appearances it looked as if someone or something had bypassed the dome’s heavy-duty lock by hacking a huge hole in the habitat’s metal skin. The Ramanthians? Possibly, although Santana had his doubts, as Sergeant Omi Dekar carried him through the ragged opening. There wasn’t much to see as the T-2’s headlight swept back and forth across the nearly empty interior. In fact, it looked as if the place had been gutted years before. By humans most likely, looking to strip the mothballed facility of electronics, or anything else that could be sold on the black market.
Having found nothing of interest inside the dome, the legionnaires made their way toward the small blocky building that served as the entry point to the mine below. The terrain, not to mention piles of rusty pipe and pieces of old mining equipment, conspired to funnel the squad through a narrow passageway. Was that a matter of chance, Santana wondered? Or the result of careful planning? “Take it slow,” the cavalry offi?cer cautioned. “And keep your eyes peeled for booby traps.”
That was good advice, as soon became apparent, when Staff Sergeant Carol Yanty spotted two pieces of pipe that stuck up out of the ground like gateposts and motioned for those behind her to stop. What caught her attention was the fact that anyone who wanted to approach the main lock would have to pass between the head-high pylons. The NCO
dropped to the ground, made her way over to a pile of scrap, and selected a small piece of sheet metal. Harsh sunlight glinted off the object as it sailed between the pipes. Lieutenant Zolkin, who had been somewhat skeptical until then, watched in slack-jawed astonishment as a bolt of bright blue electricity jumped from one pole to the other and punched a hole through the scrap of sheet metal as it did so. Then, having completed its task, the system returned to standby. The platoon leader couldn’t hear the sizzle from inside his suit, but there was nothing wrong with his imagination, so he could easily visualize what would have occurred had he been allowed to lead the rest of the squad through the narrow passageway. Would his armor have been suffi?cient to protect him from such a device? Maybe, Zolkin concluded, and maybe not.
The electrifi?ed posts were quickly slagged by the T-2s, thus allowing the entire team to pass unharmed. “Okay,”
Santana said over the squad-level com channel. “That confi?rms what we already knew. . . . The bugs are in residence, so stay sharp.”
And they were sharp, or as sharp as they could be, but some traps are diffi?cult to detect. As the legionnaires learned when Private Mak Matal put his full weight on a sand-swept pressure plate and triggered a carefully shaped charge. The explosion blew both the T-2 and his rider into a thousand fragments. They soared upwards until gravity took over and began to pull them back down. The bloody confetti had a tendency to bond with anything that it came in contact with. Including the legionnaires themselves. The disaster was so unexpected that even Santana was shocked, especially since he, Zolkin, Yanty, and their T-2s had safely crossed the very same spot only moments before. Killing the fourth person, or in this case persons to pass over the mine was a tactic intended to infl?ict casualties, sow the seeds of doubt, and terrorize those who survived. That was bad enough, but having lost one- third of Yanty’s squad, Santana was even more concerned about the unit’s ability to defend itself as the survivors came together in front of the main lock. “Check the hatch for booby traps,” Santana ordered tersely. “And, if it comes up clean, blow it.”
Zolkin felt as if he should be giving orders, or helping somehow, but found that it was diffi?cult to see. So he reached up to wipe the muck off his face shield, realized what the bloody sludge was, and threw up in his helmet. The vomit ran down the offi?cer’s chin, found its way past his neck seal, and dribbled into his suit. The stench was sickening, and Zolkin felt an intense sense of shame, as his stomach heaved yet again.
“Get away from the hatch,” Santana ordered, as Yanty slapped a charge against the metal door and stepped to
