And with the huge quad crouched at the very center of the encampment, there was absolutely no doubt as to who the attackers were, or who would win if the clones chose to resist. Slowly, so as not to draw fi?re, the Seebos laid their weapons on the ground. A force of T-2s and bio bods quickly took charge of the clones and hurried to secure them. Santana was on the ground with his CA-10 leveled at the entrance of the fl?oodlit tent by the time Six emerged. He was still in the process of fastening his parka. The spotlight forced him to squint, but there was no mistaking the offi?cer’s defi?ant expression. The legionnaire’s voice was hard.
“Are you Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666?”
The clone nodded as he looked around. “I am.”
“Pat him down and check his bar code,” Santana said grimly. “Let’s make sure he isn’t playing games again.”
It was Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich who came forward to do the honors. A search came up clean, and after scanning the bar code on the offi?cer’s forehead, the noncom was able to confi?rm the Seebo’s identity. “It’s him all right,” Dietrich declared, his breath fogging the air.
“Good,” Santana replied. “Stash the colonel inside Lupo, search him again, and chain him to a bulkhead. Put two guards on him—and don’t use any marines or CVAs. The jarheads might kill him—and CVAs might listen to his bullshit.”
“Roger that,” Dietrich said, and led the offi?cer away. That was when the tent fabric shook and Kelly emerged. Her hair was mussed, her face was pale, and it was her turn to squint into the light. “Don’t tell me,” Santana said. “Let me guess. . . . You’re Dr. Kira Kelly.”
Kelly looked into the offi?cer’s hard eyes and nodded.
“And Hospital Corpsman Sumi?” the legionnaire inquired. “Where is he?”
“I’m right here,” a voice said, and Santana turned to see that a navy medic was standing next to Staff Sergeant Briggs.
“The rotten bitch slept with Colonel Six,” the corpsman said accusingly. “And did everything she could to help him.”
Millar had descended to shoulder height by that time, and the cavalry offi?cer turned to look at him. “Get a statement from this man,” Santana instructed. “Record it and make copies. Give one of them to me.”
Millar bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir.”
Santana turned back to Briggs. “Have one of our females search her. Chain her to a track—and have a legionnaire guard her. Under no circumstances should she be allowed to speak to a marine, Seebo, or CVA without my permission. . . . Understood?”
Briggs nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Santana looked at Kelly. She stood with her head hanging, unwilling to make eye contact with those around her, obviously miserable. The legionnaire almost felt sorry for the doctor. Almost but not quite.
ABOARD THE YACHT PLAY PRETTY, OFF NAV POINT CSM-9703
The Play Pretty was a big yacht. Large enough to carry two shuttles that doubled as lifeboats, fi?fteen guests in addition to the two owners, and a crew of fi?ve. All of which made her special. But now, fl?oating off Nav Point CSM-9703, she was just one of more than six thousand vessels awaiting the order to enter hyperspace. And beauty, or lack of it, wasn’t going to play a role in who lived or died. In fact, the only things that were going to matter were speed, agility, and luck. As befi?tted a yacht of her status the Play Pretty’s control room was not only state-of-the-art but luxurious as well. Frank Simmons was seated in the chair normally occupied by the ship’s professional captain, and as the retired businessman looked up at the nav screen, he was amazed by the scene that continued to unfold in front of him. “Look at ’em, hon. . . . Thousands of ships. There’s freighters, tugs, liners, yachts, luggers, hell, I heard a goddamned garbage scow report in! And that ain’t all. . . . During the last half hour I’ve heard transmissions from clones, Hudathans, Prithians, Dwellers, and a frigging Turr!”
“There’s no need to swear,” Marsha Simmons replied for what might have been the millionth time. Frank was a rough, tough, self-made man, a miner, who had struck it rich out on the rim, and rarely uttered a paragraph that didn’t include at least one swearword. She came from old money, a family that looked down on Frank until the day when his net worth exceeded theirs, and the negative attitudes began to change. The society matron had carefully coiffed gray hair, big brown eyes, and a sweet face. And when Maylo Chien-Chu had gone looking for volunteers, Marsha was among the fi?rst people she called. For when it came to beings with big yachts, Marsha knew everyone worth knowing, and wasn’t afraid to call upon them. Which had everything to do with the fact that hundreds of ships like the Play Pretty were about to go into harm’s way as part of a last-ditch attempt to take as many civilians and troops off Gamma-014 as possible.
Thus, as Frank Simmons stared at the screen, he knew that a lot of the little ships wouldn’t be coming back. The strategy was to fl?ood Gamma-014’s system with more targets than the Ramanthians could handle and rescue as many people as possible. But even though the bugs wouldn’t destroy all of them, they would certainly nail some of them, and the Play Pretty was going in. Partly because Captain Carly Simmons was down on the planet’s surface—but mostly because it was the right thing to do.
“Here comes the feed,” Marsha said, as the snow on com channel 3 coalesced into a shot of Maylo Chien-Chu and locked up. “That’s a very nice jacket,” the society matron observed. “But she looks tired.”
And Maylo was tired. Her jet-black hair was perfect, as always, but there were dark circles under her large, almondshaped eyes, and she hadn’t been eating much of late. The resulting weight loss, plus her high cheekbones, made the businesswoman look gaunt. “First,” Maylo said as she looked into the camera, “I would like to thank each and every one of you on behalf of myself, my husband, General Bill Booly, President Marcott Nankool, the Senate, and the Confederacy’s citizens. Because the rescue attempt that you’re about to participate in will go down as one of the bravest, most selfl?ess acts of this very important war.
“Now, with that said, let’s run through the plan one last time. . . . Be sure to enter the exact sequence of numbers you were given into your NAVCOMP, because if you don’t, you may exit hyperspace right on top of another ship! And I don’t have to tell you how unpleasant that would be.
“Once in-system you’re on your own. There won’t be any traffi?c-control system, so watch out for other vessels! The key is to follow a beacon down to the surface as quickly as possible, load as many soldiers as you can, and lift. Once clear of Gamma-014, enter hyperspace as quickly as you can. . . . The bugs won’t know where you’re going, so they won’t be able to follow.”
Maylo paused at that point. Her gaze was level, and her voice was calm. “A lot of us won’t be coming back. Those who do will fi?nd liners and hospital ships waiting to take your passengers. May all of our various gods bless this fl?eet, for in this valiant effort, our hearts beat as one.” And with that the video snapped to black.
“That’s for damned sure,” Frank Simmons said approvingly, and his wife sighed. PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC
The allies had crossed Tow-Tok Pass, and were making their way down the other side, when charges that had been placed on slopes above them were detonated, sending an avalanche of snow down across the highway and into the gorge below. That brought the ten-mile-long column to an immediate halt, caused previously well-spaced vehicles to bunch up, and set the stage for the slaughter that General Akoto had in mind.