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  She looked up to the magnification screen. The bugs had stopped fighting. Some were waving their heads, as though attempting to look up, to make out the source of the terrible rumbling in the sky with their primitive photosensors.

  “I hope the bastards don’t have the sense to run,” she said under her breath.

  “Unfortunately, the instinct for survival is paramount in the creatures,” said Begalli, above the roar. “They’re disoriented, but as soon as they sense the presence of the ship, they’ll start to scatter. Fortunately, there are enough of them clustered that they can’t scatter fast.”

  “Can we go down quicker?” said Kozlowski, excited.

  “Not and get the effect you want!” screamed Fitzwilliam.

  “Besides, we want ‘em good and crisp! We don’t want any of that blood eating away at the hull or support struts,” said Tanarez.

  True. Very true. C’mon, Koz. Use your head… not your hate and bloodlust.

  She looked up again at the screen.

  The shadow of the craft showed now, spread like a blot on the land and the mass of aliens.

  Who began to scurry.

  The shadow narrowed, darkened.

  “Shit!” cried Tanarez. “That outcropping over there!”

  “Yeah. I see it,” said the other pilot. “I’ll take her another twenty-five meters away. Tight fit, but I can land this baby on a dime.”

  The confidence in Fitzwilliam’s voice encouraged her.

  She could feel the shift of the ship. It slewed sideways, and started down again.

  Catching a bunch of the bugs by surprise.

  The tongues of intense puce and orange and ochre shot down to the ground, licking across the arid ground.

  Lapping at the creatures.

  Unable to take her eyes off the scene, she watched as the rocket flames covered and consumed hundreds of the beasts. Hundreds more not directly in the fires nonetheless burst into incandescence at the horrible heat.

  Fried.

  “Incredible,” she whispered.

  She watched as long as she was able as the aliens were immolated. A black swath of alien ash… lovely. The Anteater, in just a minute, had wiped out enough to fill a couple of nests back home.

  Unfortunately, it looked like there were plenty left to take their place.

  “Hold a moment. Scorch the ground a little more before we land,” said Fitzwilllam. “We’ve got about all we can. I just want to make sure these below are properly cooked.”

  “Sure.”

  The craft jerked, and hung for just a few seconds.

  Smoke was curling up now past the viewports, obscuring the scene. Kozlowski closed her eyes. Afterimages of the skeletal demons torching up flickered across her vision.

  Then the ship descended again, this time landing on its struts with a wobbling jolt. It swayed, then stilled.

  A red light shifted on.

  “All right, grunts!” snapped Kozlowski. “We’ve got ourselves an emergency combat landing on our hands. It’s showtime!”

  Now everything was in the hands of an Irishman named Seamus O’Connor—and the marvelous new technology at his fingertips. O’Connor was a guy she didn’t know that well. He was a technician who’d helped develop the procedure he was about to use, a sandy-haired gentleman with a soft voice and a twinkle to his eyes in social situations, but a rock-solid attitude of concentration during briefings and exercise. He looked like the kind of person who got a job done, and then went off to the pub to play pipes and whistles and have a few pints.

  She looked out at the heaving mass of aliens, outlines in the soot. And if that didn’t work, they might as well just take off again out of here!

  * * *

  “All right, O’Connor,” Fitzwilliam’s voice crackled through the ’lobephone. “I’ve cut the engines. The smoke is pretty much dissipated. Do your duty before any of the things put on their boots and stomp back in.”

  “Roger, Skipper.”

  Corporal Seamus O’Connor scratched his beard. He adjusted his grav-chair for a better view of the control panel. He’d been training for this moment for months in virtual reality sims. Unfortunately, somehow it wasn’t quite the same here. He’d never had xenos crawling all over the place before. He’d never had a field of dismembered and burnt bugs to negotiate before.

  What O’Connor operated were the PEHs—the Perimeter Extension Harpoons. The marines had learned pretty damned quick that in dealing with hostile life forms—i.e., bugs—force fields were quite useful. They’d been in use to a certain extent in the routine humdrum of company galactic life, but as soon as the nasty things with a penchant for destruction were discovered, necessity became the mother of invention yet again. Power was increased, but in landings like this one it was rapidly discovered that the fields could only be beamed out a short circumference around the ship. In situations involving the need for expanded territory, their reach had to be expanded.

  Some kind of fence had to be constructed, utilizing force-field generating devices. However, in a theoretical hostile situation, neither men nor robots could be expected to trundle out and erect these posts.

  Hence the harpoons.

  They’d been tested before in the field, of course. Out in deserts and plains, among rocks and what have you. You just played Moby Dick, and shot them out to likely-looking spots. When they thunked in properly, you pressed a button for remote control and—ZAP. You had yourself a wide but snug little force-field cap within which to work.

  O’Connor’s job now was to get those harpoons out.

  He touched a button and the ports opened.

  He did a quick analysis, adjusted the aim, said a prayer…

  And fired.

  Four harpoons—each seven meters tall and two thick—burst from their ports, sailed out into the alien atmosphere, trailing their power cables like baited hooks tossed from fishing rods.

  They sailed majestically and gorgeously.

  C’mon you beauties, thought O’Connor.

  Hit your marks.

  The sharp points, capable of boring into rock, struck the surface of the alien planet and—marvel of marvels—stuck.

  “Bull’s-eye!” O’Connor cried.

  The radio crackled. “No time to rest on your laurels. Looks like those bugs haven’t been discouraged much. They’re coming back in!”

  “No problem!”

  O’Connor leaned over and pulled the switch.

  The posts sparked. A shimmer of power traveled down the lines, and then spread like electric coloring in water, connecting the posts, the cables, and swirling along the ground.

  “Outwall activation has been initiated,” O’Connor reported, a note of triumph in his voice.

  Dozens of aliens caught in the power grid were simply sheered in half. Others heading back in toward the lander simply bounced off the field, limbs and heads bent or smoking.

  O’Connor grinned to himself, and put the field on automatic. He’d done his job.

  Now the troops were going to have to do theirs.

  * * *

  This was why they had worn their suits:

  So they could go into action at a moment’s notice.

  “We’ve got some cleaning up to do, people,” said Kozlowski, motioning for the troops to hurry along into the hangar deck. “This is what we came to do.”

  The rest of the crew already had their helmets on, so she couldn’t see what their faces registered.

  “It’s why we’re drawing a salary.”

  She put her own helmet on, tongued on communications.

  “Gentlemen,” she said. “I do believe we’re ready.”

  “Roger, Colonel. Hatchway opening initiated.”

  The carbines, plasma rifles, and other automatic weapons of the assembled rattled upward, positioning themselves for firing.

  No depressurization was necessary. However the PSIs were not the same, so there was a distinct escape of air as the hatchway opened. A chiaroscuro of dark colors and smoke wave
red between them and distant jagged rotten-tooth mountains. Before her oxygen-rich mix started to whisper through her suit’s ducts, she fancied she smelled the land beyond.

  Burnt carbon.

  Burnt silicon.

  Alien acid.

  Never-ending death beneath an eldritch, evil sun.

  She had a regulation upper-pill in her hand, ready to take it. Looking out, though, she realized she didn’t really need it. She threw it away.

  A surge of victory ran through her.

  “C’mon, people,” she snapped through her microphone, staccato calling of a parade into a battle on shores not made for humans. “Let’s earn some money.”

  18

  The operation was basically a clean-up proposition.

  The landing had cindered hundreds of the bugs. The force-field perimeter had locked out the remainder. Only about twenty-five of the aliens had made it past the harpoons before the field crackled on.

  These were the current targets.

  These were the bugs that had to be crushed.

  Vague colorings or internal differences didn’t seem to matter. From the way these things acted, all were every centimeter the crazed berserkers their cousins were.

  The lip of the ramp had not been touched down, and one of them leapt on it, scuttling up toward them, slavering and tearing away at the air.

  “Simultaneous!” she cried and lifted her own rifle and fired.

  The blast of weapons was so strong converging on the bug that the force lifted the thing up a good meter and slammed it back another ten. Damned good thing, too. It disintegrated into a splatter of parts and blood in midair.

  “Keep that shit off the hull!” Kozlowski cried. “Okay now, move it!”

  As practiced before, the troops moved out, plasma weapons first. A robo-wagon trundled out after them, bearing extra weapons, supplies, and automatic support keyed from the Anteater. As soon as the first four marines cleared the bottom of the ramp, they started blasting. A wave of fire, like a manic flamethrower on amphetamines, roared out, whacking into a group of five bugs scampering into the melee.

  They all fell apart in the hellish fire.

  Kozlowski and the others were out in a flash, bringing up the rear and selecting targets. Kozlowski felt as though she’d just downed a couple tabs of Xeno-Zip. Adrenaline? Yes, and bliss, too. It had been a long time since she’d fought real xenos, and there was nothing like the satisfaction of the prospect of one’s slugs putting out the lights on a bug to get a gal’s heart to thumpin’.

  “Fire at will!” she said.

  She jumped off the ramp and swiveled over to cover the underside of the lander. A space of about seven meters existed between the base of the lander and the ground. All in shadow. Unlikely that any had scuttled under here, but you never knew.

  She nudged the correct com switch. “Turn on the bottom lights, Control!”

  “Roger.”

  The lights started to blink on, but even before they were up, through the heightened “ears” of the suit, she heard the telltale hissing.

  “Damn!”

  One was coming toward her.

  * * *

  They had descended to Mission Control, to stand and watch beside Corporal Seamus O’Connor as the monitors flashed the frenetic details of the conflict.

  Daniel Grant felt giddy victory turn his skin to goosebumps.

  What a spectacle!

  Whatever doubts he’d ever felt about the competency of this batch of marines disappeared within seconds as the group fanned out in perfect formation, their weapons efficiently blasting away. Out in the open, the alien strategy seemed simple: charge and destroy. The Marine strategy seemed equally simple: blast the things to bits.

  The marines acted like precision-sensored robots. Their aims were deadly. Like a phalanx of destruction, they performed this grisly, pyrotechnic ballet. Grant suddenly wished for some appropriate music. Sturm und drang!

  O’Connor was clearly equally impressed. “Wow.” He turned to Dr. Begalli. “Those suits you produced are working great. Used to be, you couldn’t fight these things in such close quarters.”

  Indeed, Grant noted.

  As the radium bullets, the plasma blasts, and the tossed explosives struck the aliens, rupturing the chitinous material of their exoskeletons, they tended to burst apart like ripe tomatoes atop M-80s. Their “blood”—a viscous green ichor—hurled every which way, slapping across the white armor and helmets the marines wore.

  The skin of the suit ruptured, fluid leaked out, instantly neutralizing the horrible full-bore effects of the acid. Then the skin “healed.” And voila—no harm done to the marine. Nonetheless, the troops seemed to be trying for the knees and the heads, as Colonel Kozlowski had instructed them, waiting till the aliens were prone before they blasted the torso apart.

  Whatever they were doing, whatever the plan had been, it seemed to be working just fine. True, the alien blood was leaving pocks and craters in the ground, but the soldiers were trained to deal with them.

  Particularly impressive in his efforts was Corporal Henrikson. Like some military juggernaut he moved over the battlescape with fierce speed and agility, his plasma rifle snuffing out aliens and putting them to fiery deaths in what seemed like speeded-up film.

  “Man,” said Grant. “Look at Henrikson go!”

  “Quite something,” said Begalli. “He’s a regular one-man army.”

  “I’ve heard rumors. Some of the troops think he’s a synthetic,” said O’Connor.

  “What the hell does it matter?” said Grant. “He’s doing his job and damned well!”

  Dr. Begalli shook his head. “True. True. With soldiers like that, we’re going to get into the nest.”

  Grant looked up just in time to see an odd look pass over Begalli’s face. A squinting feral look, like a rat considering the implications of a maze—and looking forward as much to shitting in the passageways as to getting to the cheese at the other end.

  But then, Begalli had always struck him as one odd customer, and so he just set the observance aside and turned back to this marvelous bloody sport up there on the screen.

  All he needed now was a beer and some peanuts.

  * * *

  It was a big one.

  The alien under the lander scrabbled for Kozlowski like some frenetic dinosaur closing in for the kill on what it considered a soft-bellied mammal.

  “Just try, asshole,” said Kozlowski, whipping her gun up.

  The lights came on full bore, stopping the thing not one stride, but illuminating it thoroughly.

  She fired.

  The burst of bullets from her semiautomatic rifle fanned out perfectly. Textbook. The explosive slugs caught the thing in the kneecaps, exploding them. The beast went down, snarling and hissing, scrabbling for her without missing a beat.

  She drew a bead on its bananalike head and squeezed off another burst. The thrill of competency seized her as the head burst apart. The blast kicked back a dollop of blood onto her suit.

  Her reaction was knee-jerk terror. Experience had taught her that a burst of xeno blood on armor meant trouble.

  Then her brain kicked in, salving her trained reaction with reality: this was a special suit.

  Time to see if it worked. The guinea pig: herself.

  The junk immediately sizzled and bubbled through the plastic lining. Like oozing pus, the neutralizing agent flowed out, and swallowed the acid.

  Sizzle.

  Bubble.

  The plastic shell moved back over the hole and the suit was whole again.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot of time to feel good about it. Already three more aliens were running her way underneath the lander. She picked off the right one. Knees. Head. Torso. The weapons these days were so good. The shells just cut through that damned exoskeleton like it was the thinnest of tin. So satisfying just seeing them burst like that.

  Overripe gourds in a shooting gallery!

  Another soldier was beside her.


  The nametag read MAHONE.

  No discussion. Just quick efficient drawing of a bead, and then her gun coughed off, dealing amazing damage to the beast to their left.

  They swiveled as one, and their fire converged on the central alien, only five yards away now.

  The strength of their blasting shattered the thing, and its blood blew back as well, among the tumble and tatters of its wasted body.

  “He looked like my last boyfriend!” said Mahone over the radio, her voice sounding immensely satisfied.

  “No,” said Kozlowski. “Seems to me the others look more like boyfriends.”

  “Yeah. I think you’re right. Let’s waste ’em!”

  Mahone’s grin showed through her faceplate.

  However, before they could go and look for any more, a voice crackled over Kozlowski’s radio. “Colonel. We got one on the ship!”

  “Damn,” said Kozlowski. “Not good!” She turned to Mahone. “Stay here and cover me. I have to check this out.”

  “Roger.”

  She turned and started running for the other side of the ramp to gain a vantage point on the situation.

  Intellectually she’d been aware that the gravity here was only .9 of Earth Standard. However, she was shocked at how quickly she was able to move. True, these suits were a little lighter than she was used to…

  She didn’t complain at all. She just had to adjust herself accordingly.

  “Okay, hotshots,” she said to a soldier she immediately recognized as Jastrow. “What’s going on?”

  Things looked pretty well contained. The rest of the bunch were killing either the last standing alien, or raking their weapons across the remains of ones already shot down, making sure they were dead.

  Jastrow pointed. Sweat dripped down his temples and forehead despite his suit’s air-conditioning. Kozlowski followed the direction of his forefinger.

  The xeno had somehow leapt up to one of the gemlike pilot blisters. Its talons were scratching along the structural spokes and its tail whipped hard against the material, attempting to break through.

  Even as she stood, considering, Private Ellis puffed up, raising his rifle.

  “Hold on, soldier,” said Kozlowski, holding out a halting hand. “Shoot the thing with that, we’ll have bug blood all over the hull.”