all day, it was time for each bio bod to return the favor. Some of the legionnaires were certifi?ed techs, but all of them had at least nominal skills, and were expected to inspect their cybernetic mounts looking for worn actuators, leaky hydraulics, and loose fi?ttings. Then, assuming that everything was in good working order, it was time to rearm their T-2s. That activity included replenishing each cyborg’s magazines, cleaning the Trooper II’s .50-caliber machine gun, and running diagnostics on any other hardware their particular unit was packing, including energy cannons, fl?amethrowers, and missile launchers if such were authorized. All of this sucked up at least an hour and a half each evening, and was carried out with very little light, and half-frozen fi?ngers. Meanwhile, the med techs were expected to keep an eye on all of the cybernetic life-support systems, tweak them if necessary, and give medical care to their fellow bio bods on top of that! This was why the techs were rarely if ever assigned to guard duty. Nor were the NCOs and offi?cers exempt from such duties. So Santana was kneeling in the snow, fi?tting a new coupler to Deker’s left foot pod, when Private Volin emerged from the surrounding gloom. “The colonel wants to speak with you, sir. He’s on channel two.”
“Roger that,” Santana said, as he came to his feet and stuck both hands under his armpits. He had gloves, but it was diffi?cult to perform fi?ne motor tasks while wearing them. Santana knew that the persistent needles-and-pins sensation in his fi?ngers was a warning of impending frostbite.
“I’ll fi?nish up,” Volin offered, and went to one knee in order to work on the coupler. Captain Antonio Santana might be tough, but he was fair, and everyone in the company felt the same way. “If we take care of him—he’ll take care of us.”
“Thank God,” Deker rumbled. “Some competent help for a change!”
Santana gave the T-2 a one-fi?ngered salute, and left both legionnaires laughing, as he crossed the narrow compound to the point where Xiong had settled in over his legs. The quad was off-line at the moment, grabbing some sleep, but that didn’t prevent the bio bods from using the cyborg’s cargo bay.
Santana slapped a pressure plate, which caused a side hatch to cycle open, and produced the usual chorus of groans as a blast of cold air invaded the otherwise-warm interior. The forward section of the cargo bay was taken up by cargo modules, but there were various nooks and crannies, all of which had been colonized by off-duty bio bods. Lines had been rigged so that hand-washed socks and underwear could dry, and the air was thick with the pungent odors of sweat, wet clothing, and gun oil. “Sorry, sir,” Staff Sergeant Pool said, as she looked up from peeling pieces of dead skin off her toes. “We didn’t know it was you.”
“Can’t say as I blame you,” the cavalry offi?cer said mildly, as he stepped over Private Gomyo’s supine body. “Although it would be a good idea to air this place out once in a while. I wish there was some way to capture the smell so we could use it on the bugs.”
That generated some laughter as Santana made his way back to the tiny cubicle that was supposed to function as a command desk but was far too cramped to be of much use. He pulled a swing-out seat into position, sat down, and put a pair of large can-style headphones over his head, not so much for enhanced audio quality as for privacy. There was no way to know what subject Quinlan wanted to talk about. Quinlan’s face fi?lled most of the screen, but judging from what Santana could see in the background, the other man was in an offi?ce environment somewhere. “There you are,”
Quinlan said waspishly. “It’s about time.”
“Sorry, sir,” Santana said neutrally. “I came as quickly as I could.”
Quinlan sniffed, as if to say that he had doubts about that, but left them unsaid as he made use of his leather-covered swagger stick to scratch his left temple. “General Kobbi put in a request for your services,” Quinlan said disapprovingly.
“I can’t say that I appreciate losing an entire company to a wild-goose chase, but there isn’t much I can do about it, so be ready at 0800 tomorrow morning. That’s when the weather wizards predict that we’ll see a break in the cloud cover. A fl?y-form will pick you up. Tell Amoyo to proceed to Waypoint 27 and wait for you there. And don’t be late.”
Santana was about to say, “Yes, sir,” when the transmission came to an abrupt end, and electronic snow fi?lled the screen. So Santana removed the headset, made his way over to the door, and pulled his gloves back on. Then, having warned those in the immediate area, he slipped out through the hatch as quickly as he could. Quinlan clearly had reservations about whatever mission Kobbi had up his sleeve, and Santana did, too. Even though Amoyo was a good offi?cer, the legionnaire didn’t like being separated from his company for more than a few hours at a time. But there wasn’t anything Santana could do about the situation except load his XO down with well-intended advice and reinspect the perimeter before grabbing some shut-eye.
Some company commanders made it a habit to sleep in one of their quads, seeing that as a privilege of rank, but Santana preferred to spend every other night out in the open the way his troops had to. That was one of many reasons why the legionnaires respected him and looked out for him. As evidenced by the fact that anonymous individuals had already prepared a place for their captain between a crackling fi?re, and a sheet of scorched metal that was angled to refl?ect some of the heat back at him.
Having spotted his gear, Santana made a face. “What?
No turn-down service?” This served to let his benefactors know that the company commander appreciated what had been done and generated a chorus of chuckles as well. The legionnaires who were gathered around that particular fi?re were already in their bags as Santana entered his. Each legionnaire had his or her own theory about the best way to set up a Legion issue “sleep system.” The innermost layer of Santana’s “sack” consisted of a slick liner, commonly referred to as a “trash bag,” that allowed a soldier to slide into the bag with his or her boots on. And, if necessary, could serve as a body bag, too.
The liners also served to keep the inside of the actual bag relatively clean. That was nice after it had been used for a couple of months. But, rather than insert a blanket or some other type of liner into his sack to provide extra warmth, the way some people did, Santana had chosen to shove his sack into a Hudathan-sized bivvy bag “borrowed” for that purpose. All of which provided enough warmth so the offi?cer could sleep—which was what he was doing when the Ramanthians attacked. Having made his way downslope earlier, and located a pile of boulders that could serve as a forward observation post, Fareye had volunteered to stay while a steady succession of other legionnaires came and went. That was why the Naa and a bio bod named Purdo were huddled behind the rocks, sipping lukewarm caf from a thermos, when the fi?rst sounds were heard. The disturbance began with a series of crunching noises as feet broke through crusty snow, soon followed by the occasional clink of unsecured gear, and muted bursts of click-speech.
That was more than enough to bring Fareye out of hiding. And one look through his night-vision goggles was suffi?cient to confi?rm the Naa’s worst fears. Dozens of heat blobs were visible downslope and there was no question about who they belonged to. Fareye ducked, felt for the fl?are pistol, and pulled the device out. Purdo, who had complete faith in the noncom’s judgment, waited for orders. “Get ready to throw your grenades,” the Naa said. “Then, once those are gone, run like hell. And don’t stop.”