I am already preparing key elements of my plan as I explain.

"We must create a diversion. I can't do that myself without coming out of hiding; but I can use these pipes and ore slugs to create one while remaining concealed. A diversion may give them a chance to get off those ridgelines and back inside."

"Do it. DeVries, belay that! Strap in! Banjo, help him. Red, advise me when you receive FleetCom signal."

I set up ranks of pipes, pushing them into the ground with my external manipulator arms. I drain petrochemicals from the nearby storage tanks and pour dark liquid into the pipes. I retrieve ore slugs and drop one slug into each pipe. I am nearly done when I receive FleetCom's signal. They have dropped out of FTL twenty-three seconds ahead of schedule.

"FleetCom signal received, Doug. Transmitting."

I transmit my Dismount Teams' surveillance reports, so critical to the success of this campaign, in burst encryption mode. My transmission may give away my position to the listening Enemy. We must take evasive action. I move even as FleetCom signals receipt of encrypted surveillance reports. My duty is discharged. We have successfully completed this mission.

"FleetCom has acknowledged receipt of the encrypted data, Doug."

"Let's do it, then."

I move west, far enough to locate DT-1 with the tip of my extended whip array, and prepare to rescue my boys.

The world under the grid screen was hot.

Hotter outside, of course, in a figurative sense, but literally hot as h.e.l.l inside and getting hotter by the minute. Every time another energy bolt blasted that grid, the temperature went up another five degrees. Their suits protected them from the worst of it; but when the air temperature under the grid screens. .h.i.t 93 degrees centigrade, even the suits began to malfunction. Gunny didn't need a palm reader to know their future was very, very short.

"s.h.i.t--ahh, s.h.i.t . . ." Eagle Talon s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand off the controls of the lightweight infinite repeater. The fire-control mechanism had burned through the suit glove.

The gauge in Gunny's suit climbed past 98. To the south, Milwaukee Petra's screens took another direct hit.

"Milwaukee! Can you read?"

Static . . .

Then, patchy: ". . . over?"

"Can't stay here much longer! Deng are bringing up ma.s.sed infantry against us from the north!"

He didn't know how much--if any--of that made it through. Another bolt slammed into the screens. Eagle Talon had found a loose chip of rock to depress the control stud on his weapon. He resumed firing at the Yavac Scout directly north of their position. Trouble was, the d.a.m.ned thing was too big for their little weapons. They'd been armed to deal with unarmored personnel and light ground transports, not something as big and tough as a Yavac Scout.

h.e.l.l, they weren't supposed to get caught in the first place. That didn't matter now, of course. What mattered was surviving. His hindbrain kept whispering, "run!" He ignored it. The Yavac Scouts had them nicely trapped, anyway; there literally wasn't anywhere to run.

One Yavac had walked down the access road between the tongue-shaped ridgeline and the wedge-shaped "island," cutting off retreat toward Red. Another sat between Gunny and Milwaukee's respective positions, just off the tip-ends of the double ridgeline. From there it could fire at both Dismount Teams--which it did with murderous accuracy. The third sat to the north, in the shallow valley, pinning them down while the ma.s.s of the Deng battle force moved into position. At their back was that d.a.m.ned sheer rock wall.

They were surrounded.

And a ma.s.s of Deng infantry boiled up from the valley, bolstered by heavy covering fire from the Yavac armored scout. The Enemy infantry moved like a black, s.h.a.ggy growth of bread mold, spreading out westward along the tongue-shaped ridgeline and moving forward in a primal wave that Gunny knew nothing short of a Mark XXI Combat Unit's firepower could possibly stop.

They didn't have a Mark XXI Combat Unit.

All they had was Red. And she was no match for even one armored scout-cla.s.s Yavac. That ma.s.s of infantry would roll right over them unless they ran; but the Yavac Scouts covered every possible line of retreat with withering fire.

"Gunny!" Icicle Goryn called from his belly-down position. "How come those d.a.m.n Yavacs aren't using anti-personnel sh.e.l.ls? We'd 'a been dead by now if they had."

The implications chilled him. "Little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds want prisoners to interrogate, that's why!" He grabbed the com-link to DT-2. "Milwaukee, they're after prisoners! Do you copy? They want prisoners to interrogate. Over."

Through the static came a faint reply. ". . . copy."

A series of bolts. .h.i.t the screen in rapid succession. Icicle yelled and jumped backwards. His suit sleeve had brushed the screen. The fabric melted around his skin. Icicle kept screaming until Gunny managed to inject a pain killer. Icicle still whimpered; but the pain dropped to bearable levels. Eagle Talon had switched tactics, overriding automatic controls to turn the infinite repeaters on the ma.s.s of infantry boiling up toward them.

Gotta get us outta this deathtrap before those hairy little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds swarm all over us. . . .

Another series of energy bolts slammed into the screen. Gunny saw the screen buckle and begin to go- "EAGLE! JUMP! CLEAR THE SCREEN!".

The AmerInd made it. Icicle was slower to respond. Gunny dragged him. The buckling screen settled like melting wax, collapsing from the center toward the edges. Icicle's shoulders and head were still under it- A corner of the mesh dropped across his faceplate. Icicle screamed in reflex and clawed at the glowing strands. Most of them came clear, burning his hands to the bone. One strand got through. Icicle screamed again, a sound infinitely more terrible than his earlier cry. Gunny jerked his helmet completely off, but the damage was done. Icicle was blind, burned terribly across the face. He was still screaming. This time, Gunny dumped enough painkiller into him to put a horse under.

It was barely enough to deaden the pain.

Icicle curled onto his side, whimpering like a child, unable to see the Enemy's guns trained on them. Gunny s.n.a.t.c.hed his rifle off his shoulder and fired at the Yavac Scout in a red rage. The Yavac returned fire: energy bolts that hit in a precise arc, driving them back toward the ruins of their grid screen, denying them an escape route.

Down in that broad northern valley, the infantry was closer, moving at a dead run across broken ground. Gunny turned his fire on them, bringing down dozens of multilegged, hairy horrors. Eagle Talon fired into the ma.s.sed infantry with good result.

The nearest Yavac Scout began to climb the ridge.

I have placed my makeshift weapons in three banks of six along the backside of the ridge, facing them in slightly different directions. I extend my main sensor array into the clear above the shoulder of the ridge for a tactical update.

"Doug, our boys are in trouble. Their grid screens are overheating. They won't take much more before reaching meltdown point. We must a.s.sist them now."

"Can't expose you, Red, you're not built to handle a Deng armored scout."

"I will take precautionary measures, Doug. I will expose only my gun, long enough to fire. I see three Yavac Scouts, one barely visible around the edge of that farthest ridge. It sits at the head of the valley Gunny has been reconnoitering. If I move west, all three Yavac Scouts would be in range. When I touch off the diversion, distracting them, I could land crippling blows very quickly by popping my infinite repeater up over the shoulder of the ridge."

Before my Commander can answer, DT-1's grid screen takes multiple direct hits in rapid succession. The grid melts and collapses. One of our boys is partially trapped under it. My video input magnifies the sight as the grid melts through Icicle's faceplate. My audio sensors pick up the screams. The Yavac nearest my position begins to climb the lower slope of the ridge.

"Do it!" My Commander's voice is ragged with stress.

I move 300 meters farther west and turn my guns on the ranked pipes, igniting the petrochemicals in sequence with short blasts from my infinite repeater. A quarter of the makeshift mortars detonate without launching their projectiles. Three-quarters fire as planned. It is enough. I move rapidly away from my position as all three Enemy Yavac units turn toward the arcing ore slugs and open fire on my former position and the airborne slugs.

Gunny hugged the stony ground, putting himself between Icicle and the climbing Deng scout. All he could do was lie there, panting in horror while firing at it with no result. The monstrous, misshapen thing just kept coming. m.u.f.fled explosions beyond the ridge where Red had concealed herself startled him. The rumbling BOOMs startled the d.a.m.ned Yavacs, too; all three turned and fired at some sort of incoming projectiles.

"GET 'EM RED!" he yelled.

As though on cue, Red's turret-mounted articulated arm popped up over the shoulder of the ridge, exposing her infinite repeater. She fired in rapid sequence. The nearest Yavac's main gun exploded; milliseconds after that she nailed the main guns on both other Yavacs, putting them out of commission. Gunny heard the ragged cheer from DT-2. The Yavacs returned fire from their smaller weapons systems. Gunny saw Red's main sensor array go in a burst of light and debris.

Oh, G.o.d . . .

Without that array, her main control system for her own guns--not to mention her reconnaissance equipment--was blown. She could shoot; but she couldn't aim or see nearly as well. The lightweight infinite repeater sank out of sight. Then, in a nightmarish moment that brought Gunny's breath to a shuddering halt in his dust-filled lungs, Red backed out from behind that ridge, Chameleon screens engaged to imitate the configuration of a Yavac Scout. She fired wildly at her former position.

Milwaukee and his men tried running for it during the confusion. Yavac small-weapons fire drove them back mercilessly. Gunny's heart sank. "Good try," he whispered. "But ain't no way you're gonna pull this one off, Red. Three against one and you with your main array blasted to h.e.l.l and gone . . . Been nice knowing you, little lady. . . ."

He wished he'd told her, after all, how he felt.

I reconfigure Chameleon screens to match the visual and electronic signature of a Deng Cla.s.s C Yavac Scout. I have little armor on my hull. What I require is a shield. I use external armatures to pick up large stones, which I place in front of my hull, maximizing the rocky surface area. They will not withstand more than one direct hit; but it is the best I can do. The rocks--like my true appearance--are hidden behind the Chameleon screen.

I move into the open, transmitting on enemy frequencies and firing at my previous position. The Enemy swings toward me and hesitates. I hear an Enemy demand for identification. DT-2 attempts to break out and is driven back. I fire at the Enemy climbing the ridge toward DT-1, striking the same point multiple times in 0.92 seconds. The Enemy's hull is breached. It explodes and burns. I have killed one Enemy.

The Enemy nearest me launches five mortar grenades. These do not arc toward me. They arc toward DT-2. I fire at the grenades midflight. I am unable to aim precisely enough to pinpoint each one so I fire sweeping bursts. Four grenades explode midair. The fifth detonates just above DT-2's grid screen. The grid screen explodes.

"Milwaukee! Milwaukee, respond!" There is no answer. I am frantic.

Gunny calls on his line-of-sight suit-link. "Red! Red, tell Hart to get the h.e.l.l out of here! We're done for! There's a mess of-"

His transmission is interrupted by another explosion between his position and mine. The nearest Yavac fires at me. I attempt to withdraw behind the shoulder of the ridge again. The Yavac follows. I move the stones I carry in an attempt to block projectile weapons fired at my hull. I fire back at the Enemy, aiming for vulnerable legs rather than the armored hull. Concentrated fire destroys four jointed legs on its near side. The Yavac topples, crippled. Its remaining gun systems discharge as it falls. I am hit directly in my turret. Internal diagnostics scream that I am crippled. My turret-mounted articulated extension-arm is unusable. My gun is severely damaged. I am defenseless.

The Yavac fires again from the ground before I can move out of range. One blast hits the rock in my starboard armature, obliterating my shield. The other hits my port armature. Internal sensors report extreme damage to the port armature. It is bent and useless. The starboard armature remains operational. I retreat from the limited sweep available to the Enemy's guns. This places me between the crippled Enemy and my Dismount Teams. As I retreat between the two forks of the double ridgelines, it attempts to circle with me, but with its port-side legs gone, it only scrambles in place, unable to turn and fire on me.

"Red!" my Commander says, "we have to-"

The third Yavac Scout has emerged from behind the forked tip of the ridge where DT-1 is trapped. It is firing on me. I take direct hits to my hull. I am not designed to withstand this. I rock on my treads. Internal systems overload and spark. I cannot think properly for 23 nanoseconds. I am hit again. Hull breach! Radiation floods my Command Compartment from the power plant of the destroyed Yavac Scout nearby.

"Doug!"

Internal vid monitors reveal a terrifying sight. My Commander has been hit. His command chair is in pieces on the floor. My Commander is in pieces on the floor. I grieve. I keen in anguish. Banjo is screaming in pain. Burns and lacerations cover the upper half of his torso. My Commander and a.s.sistant Commander are unable to advise me.

The only remaining officer aboard is Warrant Officer Willum DeVries. He is screaming in pain from his own injuries and has not issued an order. Unlike a Mark XXI Combat Unit, I am designed to take direction from a human commander. For an agonizing 0.007 seconds, I do not know what to do. I must decide something. My responsibility circuitry howls, demands action. I am driven to a decision by my responsibility programming.

"Willum! Help Banjo onto the emergency Medi-Unit table."

I lower the door to the head, forming an emergency operating surface. My engineer has also been wounded, but is capable of unharnessing himself. He tries to carry Banjo. I take evasive action, attempting to elude another direct hit. My responsibility programming overrides all other factors. I must rescue my trapped boys. I climb frantically toward DT-2. The remaining Yavac circles and vanishes around the northernmost fork of this ridge. I emerge near DT-2. Willum has almost gained the waiting Medi-Unit emergency surgery table. My internal armatures reach for straps to hold Banjo to the operating table while I maneuver.

The Yavac emerges over the shoulder from the northern side of the ridge. It moves at high speed. It fires. I am hit again. I reel and lose ground. Willum and Banjo impact my interior hull. Low-level radiation warnings sound inside my Crew Compartment. Using my starboard external armature, I lift the remains of the grid screen from DT-2's position.

My boys are dead.

The single mortar grenade I could not stop has killed them.

I keen my anguish and turn to rescue DT-1. The third Yavac runs through DT-1's position on course for me. It crushes Icicle Goryn under one careless foot. My other boys run in opposite directions. The Yavac fires on them. I charge, drawing fire to myself. Eagle Talon goes down. The Enemy has blown away his legs. I rage. I hate. The Enemy is murdering my helpless children.

The Enemy must die.

I reel from multiple direct hits. I continue the charge on broken treads. My independent-drive wheels still function. I run directly under the Yavac Scout. I ram its legs. Using my starboard armature, I grab the nearest set of joints and pull. Metal bends. Metal screams. The joint breaks in my grip. I seize another joint and pull. My armature bends. The joint screams. The Yavac topples. It lands on my turret. It explodes. High-level radiation warnings go off my internal sensor scale.

I shift. The Yavac's debris slides off. My remaining Dismount Team member is alive at a distance of 12.095 meters to starboard. I move to pick him up. Despite critical injuries, I recognize Gunny. He is burned even through his protective suit, which the explosion has shredded. He is badly hurt. I cradle him in my starboard armature. I must get him and Willum DeVries clear of this deathtrap.

"Get--get to safety," Gunny whispers through his suit-link. "I'm done for--Gotta--save yourself-"

"Hush, Gunny . . ."

I cradle him close and prepare to run for pickup point at the best speed of which I am still capable. A ma.s.s of Enemy infantry bursts over the crest of the ridge. I pivot away from their weapons to place my bulk between them and Gunny. My treads are broken. The turn takes too long. Enemy fire catches Gunny in three places. I hear him scream. His life signs falter and fade.

I rage.

I turn.

I charge.

The Enemy dies under my broken treads.

"Red . . ."

A weak voice from inside the Crew Compartment.

"Help me, Red--I'm hurt . . ."

I halt.

I do not have the luxury of revenge. Willum DeVries still lives. One chick still needs me. It is enough. I retreat at top speed. I take additional fire from above. Yavac airborne ships have lifted from the Enemy base. I dodge and slide down the ridge toward the access road. I take another direct hit to the turret. I cannot withstand many more direct hits. I broadcast a broad-band distress call to any listening member of the invasion fleet.

A ship-cla.s.s infinite repeater opens up from orbit. My call is heard.

"Got here just in time to pick those d.a.m.ned airborne ships off your backside, LRH-1313. Can't do more. Report to pickup point and hold position. You may have to wait a while. It's hotter than h.e.l.l just north of you."

I respond with thanks. I run for pickup point. I scan Willum DeVries' injuries. Worry and dismay flood my entire psychotronic neural net. Willum is badly injured. Radiation poisoning has already critically weakened him. There is a chance I can keep him alive with chelation treatments until a real physician can tend his injuries. I cannot lose my last chick. I cannot. Willum is attempting to climb onto the emergency treatment bed. Using inboard armatures, I lift him into position. I strap him in with restraint webbing to prevent him from sliding off. I administer a heavy dose of pain killers for the serious injuries he has received and begin treating blood loss and shock.

His cries of pain begin to calm.

I am needed. I am frantic.

I run for pickup point.

Willum knew he was dying.

He'd suffered terrible burns and lacerations in the explosion that had killed Doug Hart. Then he'd broken something-several somethings-inside his chest when another explosion had flung him against Red's inner turret. Another explosion had flung him the length of the Crew Compartment, breaking bone in his left cheek and nose. His cheek had swollen until his left eye was useless.

He might've survived all that.

But not the radiation from that last, exploding Yavac . . .

Willum spent a long time lost in terror and the grip of pain medication that barely kept agony at bay. Everything had gone to h.e.l.l and he was dying alone . . .

No, not quite alone.

Red was talking to him. About chelation treatments and shipboard medical facilities. He wanted to believe her. But he'd taken a good, hard look at the dose he'd picked up, back when the pain was bright and new and he could still function while enduring it. No amount of effort by Red was going to keep him alive to see the inside of any ship's hospital.