fi?ve-story building complete with huge skylights, plant-fi?lled atria, and hundreds of retail sales outlets had been destroyed. Each and every shop had been broken into and looted, tons of shattered glass covered the fl?oors, and bits of worthless merchandise lay everywhere. There were even uglier things, too, including dead bodies, or what was left of them. Because thousands of previously privileged pets had been abandoned in the mad rush to escape the Bay Area and were quickly turning feral, with a tendency to spread bones far and wide. In spite of all the damage that had been done to the mall, and all the theft that had taken place since, one monument to capitalism remained untouched. And that was the low, squatty structure called the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building. Though part of the mall complex, it stood like an island in the middle of a vast wreck-strewn parking lot. The depository wasn’t a bank in the regular sense of the word, because there hadn’t been much need for brick-and- mortar fi?nancial institutions for a long time, but it was a descendant of such buildings. Because the one thing rich people couldn’t do via their personal computers was to store their gold bullion, expensive jewelry, and other valuables anywhere other than within their vulnerable homes. So chains of fortresslike buildings existed to meet that need, most of which contained at least a thousand safety-deposit boxes, which could normally be accessed twenty-four hours a day by anyone having the correct code, retinal pattern, and voiceprint. When the Ramanthians attacked, and looters swept through the community, the computer in charge of the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building had gone to the deep defensive mode. This resulted in a shutdown so complete that not even bona fi?de customers could get in. And that explained why either a looter or a frustrated customer had attempted to drive a beer truck through the front door. That attack, like dozens of others, had been unsuccessful. Even the Ramanthians had taken a crack at the depository without any success. None of that troubled Lieutenant JG Leo Foley, because he and his brig rats were armed with something no other looters had access to. And that was the Mark IV Cutting Torch, which the group had “liberated” from the wreckage of a Confederacy shuttle shortly after being dumped onto the planet’s surface. A truly awesome tool that they, as navy personnel, were very familiar with. Which was how they knew the torch could cut a hole through the depository’s front door and give them access to the riches within!
Getting inside was only half the battle. Because human society had been reduced to predators and prey, and even though they were armed, plenty of other people were carrying weapons as well. The last thing they wanted to do was attract attention and be forced to fi?ght for what they already regarded as theirs. And that was why the would-be thieves were hiding inside a stolen delivery van, waiting for darkness to fall, when one of the sentries called in. He was crouched on top of the depository’s fl?at roof and his voice had a nasal quality. “Uh-oh. A Ramanthian transport is coming in from the south. . . . It’s traveling low and slow. You’ll see it in a minute or so.”
Foley swore. There was no telling what the bugs were up to, but one thing was for sure: It would be stupid to leave the protection of the van and tackle the depository just as the chits arrived. “Get down off that roof,” Foley ordered.
“And take cover. Chances are they’ll keep on going so long as we don’t give them a reason to stop.”
But the bugs had other plans, which quickly became obvious. “There it is!” Tappas exclaimed, as the sailor peered up through the van’s windshield. “I think the bastards are going to land!” The comment proved prophetic as a loud thrumming noise was heard and a black shadow slid across the parking lot. Jets of bright blue energy stabbed the ground, and metal creaked as the transport settled onto huge skids. Foley was worried by that time. He and his companions couldn’t drive away, not without drawing attention to themselves, but it would be crazy to stay. “The main hatch is opening,” Tappas observed gloomily. “That can’t be good.”
Foley agreed, as two fi?les of Ramanthian troops shuffl?ed their way down a ramp and onto the debris-strewn asphalt. Rather than heading straight for the van, as Foley feared they would, the aliens came to an abrupt halt. Then, just as Foley was starting to feel hopeful, an offi?cer brandished his sword and ordered the soldiers to form two ranks. The fi?rst of which dropped to one knee. “What the hell are they doing?” Tappas inquired, as he continued to peer out through the windshield.
Foley was just about to say, “I don’t know,” when a fl?ood of humans poured out of the ship. Some glanced back over their shoulders as if fl?eeing someone. The crowd included men, women, and children. That was when the navy offi?cer felt something cold trickle into the pit of his stomach. Because judging from the way the troops were positioned, they were about to open fi?re!
“Check your weapons,” Foley said grimly, “and start the engine. Kill the offi?cer with the van. We’ll shoot the rest.”
“But what about the depository?” one of the men inquired plaintively. “Aren’t we going rob it?”
“Not today,” Foley said, as he turned to Tappas. “Hit it!”
There was a loud roar as the engine came to life, followed by a screech as the tires fought for traction, and the vehicle shot forward. The Ramanthian offi?cer was just turning toward the van when the vehicle struck him and threw his body high into the air. It was still falling when Tappas plowed into the troopers beyond and skidded to a stop. Foley hit the door release, and it slid out of the way. “Kill them!”
the navy offi?cer yelled as his boots hit the ground. “Kill all of them!”
There were six brig rats in the van, plus two slightly mystifi?ed sentries, all of whom opened fi?re on the Ramanthians. And, having been taken by surprise, a dozen aliens went down before their comrades could return fi? re. But there were at least thirty aliens, so it might have been over then, except that the seemingly helpless civilians weren’t all that helpless. A woman yelled an order, and the civilians charged. Five or six staggered and fell, but the Ramanthians were forced to divide their fi?re, and that made the crucial difference. Two brig rats had been killed by the time all the combatants collided. Sheets of blood fl?ew as one of the alien noncoms made use of his power-assisted armor to rip a man’s arm off. But the same Ramanthian was brought down a few moments later and dispatched with a captured rifl?e. That was when Tappas pointed at the transport. “Look! They’re getting ready to lift!”
Foley saw that the sailor was correct. Vapor outgassed as the transport’s engines began to spool up. Having seen the Ramanthian troops cut down by a group of animals, the ship’s pilot was pulling out. That was fi?ne with Foley, but one of the civilians took offense. “Oh, no you don’t,” the man said, and ran toward the van.
Tappas had left the engine running, so all the civilian had to do was put the vehicle in drive and take off. The van bucked wildly as it rolled over three or four dead bodies, swerved to avoid a derelict car, and began to pick up speed. Then it was on course, headed straight for the transport’s ramp, which was in the process of being withdrawn. The vehicle bounced as it hit, but still found enough traction to run up the ramp, and bury itself in the open hatch. It was too big to pass through the rectangular opening. And the driver was trapped inside. But the additional weight caused the ship to wobble, and while the pilot struggled to compensate, one of the civilians tossed a grenade in under the van. It was an act of bravery that cost the woman dearly as the resulting explosion triggered two more, the transport rolled over, and crashed on top of her. There was a loud whump as fl?ames enveloped the ship, and the battle was over. “Damn . . .” Foley said respectfully. “That woman had balls.”
“Not exactly,” a man with a beard said. “But Marcy is with her husband now. . . . My name’s Utley. Marvin Utley. And you are?”
A huge paw enveloped Foley’s hand as the civilians began to execute wounded Ramanthians. One of them had
