“Oh, they’ll come,” Margaret predicted darkly. “And looters, too . . . So let’s get this over with. We need to cover a lot of ground before dawn. The Ramanthians will be hunting by then. . . . And a lot of people are going to die.”
So Benson lit the old-fashioned lantern that had been sitting in the barn for generations. The buttery light served to illuminated his craggy, weather-beaten face from below—
and made his normally benign features look stern. Having walked up to the front door he threw the lantern inside. There was an audible whump as glass shattered and the open fl?ame made contact with the fuel-soaked carpet. The smoke alarm began to bleat as fi?ngers of fi?re explored the interior of the house. Soon the entire house was engulfed in fl?ames as a lifetime of memories went up in smoke.
But the truck was on the road by then, and Margaret refused to look back, as the headlights bored twin holes into the night. “Look!” Lisa exclaimed, as she peered through a window. “Shooting stars!”
Margaret knew that the bright streaks weren’t shooting stars. They were pieces of wreckage that, having hit the upper atmosphere, were starting to burn. The battle for Earth had been lost.
ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS, NEAR PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
Everyone aboard the battleship Regulus had something to do. Everyone except the Queen, that is, who stood with her back to the ship’s wardroom, looking out over the planet below. Based on reports received by hypercom, the Mars colony had been destroyed, efforts were under way to hunt the Jovian prospectors down, and not a single Confederacy ship had been sent to help Earth. And, as far as Earth orbit was concerned, the former moon base was little more than a radioactive crater, two of the battle stations had been bypassed, and two had been destroyed, thereby opening a path along which her aerospace fi?ghters and troop transports could safely reach the surface. Thousands of these ships were already entering the atmosphere. During the next few hours, they would begin a systemized attack on the planet’s surface installations. Military bases fi?rst, followed by civilian power plants, and targets of opportunity. Because without electricity, the humans would quickly turn on each other, thereby saving her troops a lot of casualties, and hastening victory. Which, based on preliminary reports, would come within a matter of days.
There had been grievous losses, of course, well in excess of the more optimistic estimates. Not the least of these were the troopships that had been destroyed along with the human battle station, the loss of two destroyers during ship-toship combat, and the almost incomprehensible destruction of the carrier Swarm. It had been rammed by a Class III container ship nearly twice her size. Not a military ship, but a civilian vessel, named the Maylo Chien-Chu. The freighter had been destroyed, but more than a thousand Ramanthians had also been killed.
Even with those losses in mind, the attack was still a success given that Earth was not only exposed for the taking, but the Queen’s larger goal had been realized. Which, when complete, would eventually turn human beings into an endangered species. With little more than a few million of the disgusting creatures eking out a marginal existence along the rim, and constantly on the run from the Ramanthian navy, as they were pushed farther into the unknown. The thought brought the monarch a moment of pleasure as a bright light blinked down on the surface and half the city of Chicago disappeared.
8
My business is stanching blood and feeding fainting men; my post the open fi?eld between the bullet and the hospital.
—Clara Barton
Nurse and founder of the American Red CrossStandard year 1863
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
Marine Firebase 356 (MF-356) was situated on top of a softly rounded hill that had been denuded of all vegetation and crowned with a multiplicity of improvised bunkers. MF-356’s purpose was to keep an eye on the highway that twisted snakelike through the valley below and, if necessary, bring it under fi?re from a pair of 105mm howitzers and a surface-to-surface missile launcher. There were mortars, too—which would raise hell with anyone stupid enough to attack the hill. But MF-356 was more than a tube farm. It was also home to the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Regiment, of the Marine Expeditionary Group. Which meant the base had its own landing pad, a supply dump, and a small fi?eld hospital. All of which made 356 interesting to Colonel Six and his Seebos. Because as far as Six was concerned Confederacy free breeders were only one rung above the Ramanthian free breeders, and the Alpha Clones had been wrong to enter into an alliance with them. Which meant if it became necessary to kill some marines to obtain supplies for his men, then so be it.
Having watched the fi?rebase for the better part of three days, Six knew that the time to strike was at hand. Two of battalion’s rifl?e companies, along with roughly half the weapons company, had been airlifted off the hill that morning. Judging from the full load-outs that the off-world troops were packing as they boarded the assault boats, the marines were going to be gone for a good two or three days. That left one rifl?e company, half a weapons company, and a variety of rear-echelon types to hold what the jarheads sometimes referred to as “Motherfucker-356,” which, if subjected to a conventional infantry assault, they would probably be able to do. Especially if air support was available. But Six and his company of seventy-six men had no intention of launching a conventional attack. Having seen everything he needed to see and confi?dent that his plan would work, Six lowered his glasses and pushed himself back into thick brush. The Seebos were waiting. A raw, two-lane dirt road led down from the top of the hill that the fi?rebase sat on to the paved highway below. But, with the exception of the foot patrols that the marines sent out to keep an eye on the surrounding neighborhood, the path was rarely used because just about everything came and went by air. That was a quicker, and for the most part safer, way to move equipment and personnel around, now that the allies owned the sky. All those conspired to make sentry duty especially boring for Lance Corporal Danny Tovo and his best buddy, Private Harley Haskins, as they stood guard at the main gate. Both were dressed in summerweight camos, even though it was almost freezing, and the weather wizards were predicting snow fl?urries for later in the day. The long johns that the CO had purchased for them helped some, but what the leathernecks really needed was the parkas General-453 had promised, but never delivered. Still, the CO had authorized a makeshift heater, which consisted of a fi?fty-gallon drum fi?lled with fuel-soaked dirt and whatever wood scraps happened to be available. It was positioned next to the largely symbolic pole gate, about a hundred yards outside the ring of razor wire and the constantly shifting crab mines that were supposed to keep the bugs out.
Primitive though the device was, the additional heat was welcome, and both marines were standing right next to the barrel when Haskins frowned. “Hey, Tovo,” the private said.
“What the hell is that?”
Tovo followed the other jarhead’s pointing fi?nger, looked downhill, and spotted a column of troops marching up the dirt road. Clones from the look of them—all dressed in coldweather gear. That impression was confi?rmed when Tovo raised his glasses to take a second look. “Call the captain,”
Tovo instructed. “And tell him that we’ve got company.”
Fifteen minutes later Marine Captain Arvo Smith was standing next to the burn barrel, warming his hands, when the fi?rst of the clones arrived. Jets of lung-warmed air drifted away from nearly identical faces, and their gear made gentle creaking sounds, as the Seebos came to a halt. Colonel Six was at the head of the column and waited as the marine offi?cer came out to meet him. “Good afternoon, sir,” Smith said politely, as he delivered a crisp salute. “I’m Captain Smith. . . . And this is Marine Firebase 356.”