That was just as well. He had two more hours as sergeant of the guard, and then he could get some sleep. Tomorrow would be another long march through the jungle, and being stuck as sergeant of the guard meant damned little rest, but for the time being, he could chill out. All the posts were placed, and he’d done a walk-around a half hour ago. Everybody was staying awake and alert, per normal.
He leaned on the rucksack a little harder and sniffed. You could still smell the stew Kostas had cooked up, and Julian shook his head. Who would have thought that the fussy little valet could have become such a tower of strength? Or turn out to be such a good cook? The actual work was done by a couple of the scummy beast drivers, but Matsugae made sure it was done right and no one was about to complain about the result. The company definitely wasn’t starving, although what might happen when they ran out of barleyrice and dried fruits and vegetables was another story. Hopefully, their supply would hold out to the next city-state
He froze at the tiniest whisper of a scrape somewhere in front of him. The sound had been almost below the level of audibility, but the Marine had unusually sharp hearing. He considered turning on his helmet enhancers, but that scrape had sounded like it was right in front of him, and the helmet would take a second or to come fully online.
He reached up and flicked on the flash clipped to his combat harness.
The low-power red light blinked on instantly . . . and revealed five forms, crawling towards him. The creatures were shaped vaguely like moths, mostly black but with a spotted pattern that turned pale pink in the red light. A score of glittering red eyes gazed back at him, and ten poisoned fangs glistened. . . .
Roger was up, out of the tent, and halfway across the encampment before he realized he’d moved. He looked down, and discovered that he had his rifle in one hand, his bead pistol in the other, and nothing on but a singlet.
The discovery slowed him just long enough for Sergeant Angell to overtake and jerk him to a halt as his tent guards got in front of him.
“At least let us get there first, Sir,” the NCO said with a laugh, and handed the prince his combat harness. “And always remember to grab ammo, too. It makes it easier on us.”
Roger threw on the harness and resumed his progress more sedately, surrounded by his hovering bodyguards as he crossed to a cluster of troopers gathered in Third Platoon’s area. Julian sat on the ground at the center of the small group, cradling a jug of the local wine and shaking his head.
“ . . . low-crawling up on me,” he said. The normally upbeat NCO was obviously shaken. “No wonder we lost Wilbur.”
Roger looked at the shape on the ground while he pulled his hair up into a quick bun. It looked like a giant, six-winged moth, incongruously pinned down with a combat knife, and the area around it was torn up from its death throes.
Warrant Dobrescu ran a sensor over it and tapped the knife. The thing gave a few weak flaps of its wings, and the fangs quivered, but other than that it was quiescent. The warrant officer pulled the knife out and used it to expertly flip the thing over.
“Hmmm,” he murmured and raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating.”
“What happened, Julian?” Pahner asked. How long the big captain had been standing there nobody knew, but Julian shook his head again and capped the clay jug of wine.
“I was maintaining my post, Sir. I’d checked the posts a half-hour before, and I was just . . . sitting and listening. And I heard a scraping sound. So I turned on my flashlight, and—” He gulped and pointed the “moth” on the ground. “And five of those things were low-crawling up on me. Just like a fire team.”
“I’d say that this is the species that got Wilbur the first night,” Dobrescu confirmed. The warrant officer had a Marine shining a white-light flash over his shoulder and was examining the fangs of the still twitching moth with a field-scope. “These are clearly evolved for drawing liquids,” he said, and looked up with a black chuckle. “I don’t think these are nectar-drinkers, either.”
“Okay,” Pahner said. “We know the enemy now. Break it up and get back to sleep, people. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
He watched the gaggle break up, the Marines heading back to their shelters and zipping them tight, and then turned to Julian.
“You gonna be okay?”
“Sure, Captain. I’ll be fine. I was just shook. They’re so . . .”
“Horrible,” Dobrescu offered, and looked at Pahner. “What do you want me to do with the specimen?”
“Move it closer to the center of camp. We’ll burn it with our garbage in the morning.”
“Aye,” the warrant officer said. “I wonder if this is a foretaste of things to come?”
Roger rocked with the movement of the pack beast, his eyes half-closed in the dim morning light. It had taken a while for the camp to get back to sleep, and everyone seemed quiet and subdued.
He watched the point chopping away a large liana. A multitool’s monomolecular edge could cut through even the thickest vines like a laser through paper, but the company’s point Marines usually tried to move through the brush without cutting. The pack beast immediately behind them would clear the way through most obstructions, so additional clearance would only have been extra effort. Even pack beasts had problems with some of the jungle’s lianas, however, so the Marines generally cut a few heavy obstacles.
In this case, Roger’s mount lent its strength to the female private who had point today, lifting away the upper section of the liana as the Marine cut through it closer to the ground. While she worked, Roger and the point-guard maintained an overwatch. It was when they stopped like this that Roger always felt the most vulnerable, whether they actually were or not.
Dogzard sat up and stretched from where she’d been sleeping, leaning on Roger’s back. She sniffed the air, turned around, and lay back down. Nothing happening, no threats, time to sleep.
Patricia McCoy slung her bead rifle and stepped over the severed base of the liana. She could have cut it a little closer to the ground, but there was no need, since the
McCoy always felt vulnerable with only a mono-machete in her hand, but Pohm was right behind her, guarding her back. And, to give the devil his due, the Prince was pretty good backup, too.
She stepped through a circle of smaller vines and looked around. The ground was getting wetter, and the vegetation even lusher, if that was possible. It looked like they were moving into a marsh, but it was all light brush. The beasts could clear all of this without her assistance.
She took another step . . . and dropped in her tracks, choking on blood, as the javelin appeared in her neck.
Roger’s eyes widened as the flight of javelins erupted out of the jungle, but he reacted automatically. He kicked one leg over the back of the pack beast, rolled off and away from the javelins’ source, twisted in midair with a contortion fit to shame a cat, and landed on his feet. He didn’t stay there. Instead, he dropped to his stomach as two-tons of
The beast’s driver was dead, with a javelin through him, and her own sides had been abruptly and impolitely feathered with light, iron-headed spears. She was not, to put it mildly, pleased, and she turned on her tail, snapping at whatever was biting her. But there was no enemy in biting range, so she turned her attention in the direction from which the bites had come. The little creature which had been intermittently riding on her was already pounding in that direction, and she saw movement that shouldn’t have been there.
It looked like she’d found her enemy.
Roger scanned the brush for targets as the
