Suzruzh nodded. “That is probably where they will have the bulk of their defense: right in front of me.”
“Yes, and I will need to know as soon as you have confirmed or disproved that conjecture. The clone Gamma Fourteen seems to be a particularly swift runner, for some reason. Use him to alert me when you contact the enemy defenses and have fixed them in place. That will be my cue to either turn their inland flank, or support you. Return to your—”
In the high distance they heard a roar of thrusters and then a rolling boom. They stared at the sky, then at each other.
“I thought it was determined that the cannonballs are unable to conduct operations inside the atmosphere.” Suzruzh’s tone was wry, rueful.
“You are correct,” Pehthrum countered, frowning. “That is something else.”
One of Suzruzh’s eyebrows elevated. “Such as?”
Jesel shook his head. “There is no way of knowing. But we may be sure of this: it is not a craft of ours. Therefore, it is an enemy.”
“An airborne counterforce?” Suzruzh grumbled. “How does this change our plans?”
“We press forward even faster than before.” Jesel pointed in the direction of the Aboriginals. “Move to contact and engage. Now.”
* * *
As the sound of the aircraft dwindled into the western horizon, Macmillan cut a worried glance at Riordan. Caine shook his head. “I don’t think that was an enemy craft. Those were dual-phase thrusters — not jets — which means whatever it was shot past this area too quickly to pull a fast turn and come back at us.”
Veriden’s voice was uncharacteristically tense. “So was that one of the Slaasriithis’ supersonic defense drones?”
Thnessfiirm retracted his neck sharply. “Those were not the engines of any of our craft.”
Veriden scowled. “Then what the hell—?”
“We’ll find out when we find out. Now get under cover.” Riordan waved the primary fire-team — Macmillan, Veriden, and Salunke — down into their forward positions, which were slightly inland from the narrowest point of the old streambed. Turning on his heel, he sprinted after Qwara, and Xue, who he’d sent ahead to the river, where Unsymaajh was waiting for them. After only ten strides, his lungs burned and his throat threatened to close. I can’t pop another pill, not yet. Just don’t pay attention to the pain. Which was easier said than done, particularly as he tried to keep pace with Thnessfiirm.
By the time he arrived at the concealed river-facing revetment the subtaxae had fashioned from downed trees, he was covered in sweat. Again. Xue frowned as Riordan jogged up, unable to disguise his ragged panting. “Captain—” the team’s medic began.
“Not now. No time. They’ll be. Coming soon.” Caine bent over forward, then quickly back to fend off the imminent stomach cramp. He threw himself down against the back of the revetment, which the subtaxae had packed with dirt, as he had hastily shown them.
Unsymaajh called from overhead, where he hung easily from one of the indigenous trees. “The captain is correct; the attackers are moving swiftly along the shore.”
“How many?”
“Nine. No, ten.”
“Are any equipped differently than the others?”
“There is only one whose equipment, or even appearance, is distinct.”
Caine waited, remembered that Unsymaajh might not intuit what information a human, or a warfighter, might be looking for. “How is he different?”
“He is taller, has slightly thicker clothing. He carries a longer weapon.”
“You say the others are all similar?”
“With the exception that some carry heavier weapons that almost look like boxes, they are not merely similar: they are identical.”
“Identical?” As in “clones?” Could they be from—? Riordan smothered curiosity in favor of immediate tactical response: “Thnessfiirm, instruct the AMP to drop the next set of weapon pods.”
“Caine Riordan, I do not wish to question your judgment, but nor do I wish you to place excessive confidence in the miniature heat-seekers—”
“Thnessfiirm, we can’t use any of the AMP’s main rockets here. We have to save them.”
Unsymaajh swung easily down from the tree, gestured at the tall ferns to the downstream side of the revetment. “You have other means to defeat your foes.”
Riordan frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Unsymaajh clicked two of his own control-rings together in an intricate pattern. A flight of what looked like newt-bats — Affined sloohavs—glided down from the trees, made what looked like a crop-dusting run just beyond the tree-high ferns. As they swept away, the brush shook.
A water-strider rose up. It was one of the younger ones, and it seemed eager to join Unsymaajh. Others moved restlessly in the brush behind it.
Riordan realized he was staring and they had maybe a minute left before the enemy charged up the shore and either turned to follow the old streambed — which would bring them face to face with the revetment — or they would not see it and continue on, which would put Caine’s forces on their left flank. “They will follow you into combat?”
“No; they will follow, or protect, you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because of your marking. You are of them.”
Caine looked up the long legs to the flanks of the creature, which turned to regard him with its four front eyes. Patiently. Even contentedly.
“How would they be able to help us?”
“Many ways. We shall see which option is best soon enough.”
Riordan swallowed, horrified at the thought that now, in addition to scores of Slaasriithi, he might give orders that would lead to the deaths of these usually gentle creatures. “Xue,” he croaked.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Go back. Help hold the center.”
“But then you will have no rifle here.”
“That’s okay. Qwara, stay with me. I may need someone to run back to Fallback Point One with a message.”
Qwara nodded. “We have strange allies,” she murmured.
Caine nodded. “Yes,” but thought: I think our identical enemies may prove to be even stranger…
* * *
Karam Tsaami had drilled and then reminded his so-called bridge crew to exhale as he threw the thrusters into sprint mode, but Morgan Lymbery had apparently forgotten: he gasped and gargled as Puller leaped forward, its shallow, declining arc suddenly straightening, then rising. At least they were flying right-side-up again. Which probably helped Lymbery keep his lunch in his stomach. “Tina,” Karam grunted into his collarcom, “I can see the engine and power plant readouts, but tell me what you see and feel back there in the drive room.”
Tina Melah, slightly senior to her fellow-engineer Phil Friel, sounded improbably chipper. “Nothing that worries me yet. But if these fixes don’t hold, we probably won’t have a lot of warning.”
“Roger that,” Karam agreed grimly. “Leave your circuit open. Melissa, what are you seeing on the aft scope?”
“Nothing, yet, but I — no, I see a chute! No, chutes. They’re—”
“Melissa: count the chutes.”
The pause was longer than it should have been: “Four. Only four chutes.” Her voice sounded like her throat was closing, choking off the words. “Is there any way to—?”
“No way to know who drew the short straw, Melissa.” And shit, they beat the odds: four out of five was the best success ratio Rulaine could validate. But now we’ve got to focus on beating our odds—