gun, the stubby barrel was way too short to produce suffi?cient accuracy over the distance required. The obvious answer was to get closer before taking his shot. But with no trees for cover, that wouldn’t be possible.
The reality of that sent a trickle of liquid lead into Millar’s nonexistent belly as whistles blew, another wave of troopers were sent forward, and machines guns chattered to the south. The legionnaire had already been killed once, and didn’t want to die again, but couldn’t see any other option. So the recon ball shot out of the trees, skimmed the snow, and began the long, hazardous run. There weren’t any trees, but there were outcroppings of rock, which would provide at least some cover so long as he stayed low. None of the Ramanthian offi?cers noticed the threat at fi?rst, partly because they were preoccupied with what they were doing, and partly because the terrain-following cyborg was hard to see as he weaved his way between boulders and occasional clusters of ground-hugging shrubs. But right about the time that Millar was halfway to his goal one of the Ramanthians spotted him, clacked an alert, and the entire group turned to fi?re at him. That was bad, but not as bad as it might have been, since the offi?cers were armed with pistols rather than assault weapons. Still, the legionnaire had no armor to speak of, and felt a sudden stab of “pain” as a well-aimed bullet penetrated his casing and appropriate electronic impulses arrived at his forebrain. The damage triggered electronic warnings as well, which his onboard computer projected in front of Millar’s “vision,” making it harder to concentrate. The problem was that he didn’t know which bug was in overall command. So the logical solution was to kill all the bastards and let whatever god the Ramanthians believed in sort them out. Having closed the distance between himself and his targets, the recon ball opened fi?re.
Having stood their ground against the unconventional attack, the Ramanthian offi?cers were easy meat for the cyborg’s fi?fty and were literally torn to bloody rags as the huge slugs hit them. Body parts cartwheeled through the air, severed wings spiraled down, and a blood mist soaked the snow. But the noise and motion drew the attention of some incoming troops, one of whom was toting a rocket launcher that he was quick-witted enough to fi?re. Millar “heard” a warning tone, knew there wouldn’t be any reprieve this time, and felt an explosion of warmth as the heat-seeking missile weapon caught up with him. Suddenly he was free. Sending Corporal Thain plus three precious T-2s out of the encampment during the fi?rst few minutes of the attack had been a risky thing to do. But now, as the hard-pressed allies struggled to hold on, Santana hoped his gamble would pay off. And it did. Insofar as the chits knew, all the animals were directly in front of them. So when four highly lethal T-2s hit their left fl?ank, the Ramanthians were caught entirely by surprise. Dozens of enemy troopers were swept off their feet as the vengeful legionnaires opened fi?re on them. The cyborgs were always fast, but never more so than when unencumbered by a bio bod, which meant they were diffi?cult to hit. So as the latest wave of Ramanthians turned toward the new threat, it was only to encounter four whirling dervishes, each operating in perfect synchronization with all the rest. Guns chugged, energy cannons whined, and it seemed as if nothing could stop them until a rocket-propelled grenade hit Private Imbi Yat in the chest.
The force of the resulting explosion blew the cyborg in half, which gave the bugs reason to hope—until Thain and the rest of the T-2s took their revenge. The ensuing slaughter lasted less than three minutes but took nearly a hundred lives. And when it was done, an eerie silence settled over the battlefi?eld as bleary-eyed defenders took a moment to reload, and Santana had time to view the video Lieutenant Millar had sent him. The pictures were truly worth a thousand words—and would be submitted to Kobbi along with a request for a posthumous medal if Santana survived. A battle had been won, but the price had been very, very high. And, as Santana looked out over piles of gently steaming bodies, he knew the worst was yet to come.
18.
Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say “This was their fi?nest hour.”
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC
As Santana entered the quad, he quickly discovered that the interior of Lupo’s cargo bay was splattered with blood. Lots of blood. And there, at the very center of the bay, stood Dr. Kira Kelly. A makeshift operating table had been set up—
with her on one side and Hospital Corpsman Sumi on the other. A third person stood with his back to the hatch. The cavalry offi?cer hadn’t had time to think about the prisoners during the battle, but as he looked at Kelly, Santana felt a sudden surge of anger. “The doctor is supposed to be under guard. . . . Who released her?”
“That would be me,” Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin said, as he turned to look at his commanding offi?cer. The word “sir”
was noticeably missing from the sentence, and Santana saw no sign of an apology in the other offi?cer’s dark eyes. Santana realized that the platoon leader had been pressed into service as Kelly’s anesthesiologist. More than that, the company commander was struck by the extent to which Zolkin had changed since the raid on Oron IV. Somewhere along the line the young, frequently insecure youth Santana had known back then, had been transformed into a battlehardened lieutenant. Who, in the wake of Amoyo’s recent death, was not only a platoon leader but the company’s XO. And a man willing to employ the services of the devil herself if that was required to save one of his legionnaires. It was impossible to tell who the patient was from Santana’s vantage point, but the legionnaire’s purplish intestines were piled high atop his or her chest. Kelly was sorting through the coils looking for holes. Santana’s expression softened. “Who is it?”
Zolkin looked down and back up again. “Private Oneeye Knifeplay, sir. He was standing on a track, fi?ring a fi? fty, when an incoming slug hit metal and bounced up under his armor. He was going to die, sir. And Dr. Kelly offered to help.”
Kelly turned her head toward Santana at that point. Most of her face was invisible behind a blood-splattered surgical mask, but he could still see her eyes. “What I did was wrong,” the naval offi?cer admitted bleakly. “But I’m a pretty good doctor. And the only one you have.”
Santana saw the determination in her eyes and nodded.
“Point taken. Carry on.” And with that, the offi?cer turned and exited the quad. It was cold outside, and getting steadily colder, as day gradually surrendered to night. Snow crunched under his boots, the moisture in his nasal passages froze, and his cheeks felt numb. But people were working in spite of the cold. Having failed earlier in the day, the Ramanthians were sure to take another shot at their enemies during the hours of darkness, which was why the battleweary legionnaires, marines, and clones were busy trying to improve the encampment’s defenses. Especially the log barricades, which had never been intended for a major battle, and were in need of reinforcement.
