constantly shifting light that surrounded the fi?res, it was pitch-black outside the perimeter. So there was nothing for One-O to look at as he sat on top of the half-track, and waited for the rest of his two-hour watch to pass. Thanks to the night-vision goggles he was wearing, the clone knew that there weren’t any bugs advancing across the surface of the lake, so all he had to do was work the charging lever on the .50-caliber machine gun every fi?ve minutes or so, and try to stay warm. That wasn’t easy since he couldn’t leave the gun. Such were the soldier’s thoughts when the ice directly in front of him exploded—and a fi?ftyton quad burst up out of lake!
Shards of shattered ice were still raining down on the camp as Private Ivan Lupo took three gigantic steps forward. The fi?rst and second carried him up onto the land, and the third came down on top of One-O, as the Seebo battled to bring the fi?fty into play. Both the clone and his half-track were crushed under the weight of the quad’s enormous foot pod.
Then, before anyone had time to react, servos whined as Lupo lurched forward. Sparks exploded into the air as his left forefoot landed in a fi?re, and the rattle of automatic fi?re was heard when a sentry opened up on the monster. Water continued to sheet off the cyborg’s hull, and steam rose off his back as he fi?red in return. Both the sentry and the Seebo standing next to him were vaporized as a quick fl?urry of energy bolts slagged their position. The ramp was down by that time, which allowed three T-2s, their riders, and six additional bio bods to enter the fray. Santana and Deker were the fi?rst to exit the quad and, because all of Colonel Six’s heavy weapons were aimed outwards, they could enter the encampment without taking fi?re. Millar had identifi?ed where Colonel Six was sleeping hours before, and put a spotlight on the tent from above, as Deker carried Santana over to it. Thanks to the Integrated Tactical Command system the legionnaire could make himself heard via all four cyborgs at the same time. “Hold your fi?re! Put down your weapons! You are under arrest!”
And with the huge quad crouched at the very center of the encampment, there was absolutely no doubt as to who the attackers were, or who would win if the clones chose to resist. Slowly, so as not to draw fi?re, the Seebos laid their weapons on the ground. A force of T-2s and bio bods quickly took charge of the clones and hurried to secure them. Santana was on the ground with his CA-10 leveled at the entrance of the fl?oodlit tent by the time Six emerged. He was still in the process of fastening his parka. The spotlight forced him to squint, but there was no mistaking the offi?cer’s defi?ant expression. The legionnaire’s voice was hard.
“Are you Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666?”
The clone nodded as he looked around. “I am.”
“Pat him down and check his bar code,” Santana said grimly. “Let’s make sure he isn’t playing games again.”
It was Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich who came forward to do the honors. A search came up clean, and after scanning the bar code on the offi?cer’s forehead, the noncom was able to confi?rm the Seebo’s identity. “It’s him all right,” Dietrich declared, his breath fogging the air.
“Good,” Santana replied. “Stash the colonel inside Lupo, search him again, and chain him to a bulkhead. Put two guards on him—and don’t use any marines or CVAs. The jarheads might kill him—and CVAs might listen to his bullshit.”
“Roger that,” Dietrich said, and led the offi?cer away. That was when the tent fabric shook and Kelly emerged. Her hair was mussed, her face was pale, and it was her turn to squint into the light. “Don’t tell me,” Santana said. “Let me guess. . . . You’re Dr. Kira Kelly.”
Kelly looked into the offi?cer’s hard eyes and nodded.
“And Hospital Corpsman Sumi?” the legionnaire inquired. “Where is he?”
“I’m right here,” a voice said, and Santana turned to see that a navy medic was standing next to Staff Sergeant Briggs.
“The rotten bitch slept with Colonel Six,” the corpsman said accusingly. “And did everything she could to help him.”
Millar had descended to shoulder height by that time, and the cavalry offi?cer turned to look at him. “Get a statement from this man,” Santana instructed. “Record it and make copies. Give one of them to me.”
Millar bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir.”
Santana turned back to Briggs. “Have one of our females search her. Chain her to a track—and have a legionnaire guard her. Under no circumstances should she be allowed to speak to a marine, Seebo, or CVA without my permission. . . . Understood?”
Briggs nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Santana looked at Kelly. She stood with her head hanging, unwilling to make eye contact with those around her, obviously miserable. The legionnaire almost felt sorry for the doctor. Almost but not quite.
ABOARD THE YACHT
The Play Pretty was a big yacht. Large enough to carry two shuttles that doubled as lifeboats, fi?fteen guests in addition to the two owners, and a crew of fi?ve. All of which made her special. But now, fl?oating off Nav Point CSM-9703, she was just one of more than six thousand vessels awaiting the order to enter hyperspace. And beauty, or lack of it, wasn’t going to play a role in who lived or died. In fact, the only things that were going to matter were speed, agility, and luck. As befi?tted a yacht of her status the Play Pretty’s control room was not only state-of-the- art but luxurious as well. Frank Simmons was seated in the chair normally occupied by the ship’s professional captain, and as the retired businessman looked up at the nav screen, he was amazed by the scene that continued to unfold in front of him. “Look at ’em, hon. . . . Thousands of ships. There’s freighters, tugs, liners, yachts, luggers, hell, I heard a goddamned garbage scow report in! And that ain’t all. . . . During the last half hour I’ve heard transmissions from clones, Hudathans, Prithians, Dwellers, and a frigging Turr!”
“There’s no need to swear,” Marsha Simmons replied for what might have been the millionth time. Frank was a rough, tough, self-made man, a miner, who had struck it rich out on the rim, and rarely uttered a paragraph that didn’t include at least one swearword. She came from old money, a family that looked down on Frank until the day when his net worth exceeded theirs, and the negative attitudes began to change. The society matron had carefully coiffed gray hair, big brown eyes, and a sweet face. And when Maylo Chien-Chu had gone looking for volunteers, Marsha was among the fi?rst people she called. For when it came to beings with big yachts, Marsha knew everyone worth knowing, and wasn’t afraid to call upon them. Which had everything to do with the fact that hundreds of ships like the Play Pretty were about to go into harm’s way as part of a last-ditch attempt to take as many civilians and troops off Gamma-014 as possible.
Thus, as Frank Simmons stared at the screen, he knew that a lot of the little ships wouldn’t be coming back. The strategy was to fl?ood Gamma-014’s system with more targets than the Ramanthians could handle and rescue
