The force of the resulting explosion blew the cyborg in half, which gave the bugs reason to hope—until Thain and the rest of the T-2s took their revenge. The ensuing slaughter lasted less than three minutes but took nearly a hundred lives. And when it was done, an eerie silence settled over the battlefi?eld as bleary-eyed defenders took a moment to reload, and Santana had time to view the video Lieutenant Millar had sent him. The pictures were truly worth a thousand words—and would be submitted to Kobbi along with a request for a posthumous medal if Santana survived. A battle had been won, but the price had been very, very high. And, as Santana looked out over piles of gently steaming bodies, he knew the worst was yet to come.
18.
Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say “This was their fi?nest hour.”
—Sir Winston Churchill
To the House of Commons
Standard year 1940
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC
As Santana entered the quad, he quickly discovered that the interior of Lupo’s cargo bay was splattered with blood. Lots of blood. And there, at the very center of the bay, stood Dr. Kira Kelly. A makeshift operating table had been set up—
with her on one side and Hospital Corpsman Sumi on the other. A third person stood with his back to the hatch. The cavalry offi?cer hadn’t had time to think about the prisoners during the battle, but as he looked at Kelly, Santana felt a sudden surge of anger. “The doctor is supposed to be under guard. . . . Who released her?”
“That would be me,” Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin said, as he turned to look at his commanding offi?cer. The word “sir”
was noticeably missing from the sentence, and Santana saw no sign of an apology in the other offi?cer’s dark eyes. Santana realized that the platoon leader had been pressed into service as Kelly’s anesthesiologist. More than that, the company commander was struck by the extent to which Zolkin had changed since the raid on Oron IV. Somewhere along the line the young, frequently insecure youth Santana had known back then, had been transformed into a battlehardened lieutenant. Who, in the wake of Amoyo’s recent death, was not only a platoon leader but the company’s XO. And a man willing to employ the services of the devil herself if that was required to save one of his legionnaires. It was impossible to tell who the patient was from Santana’s vantage point, but the legionnaire’s purplish intestines were piled high atop his or her chest. Kelly was sorting through the coils looking for holes. Santana’s expression softened. “Who is it?”
Zolkin looked down and back up again. “Private Oneeye Knifeplay, sir. He was standing on a track, fi?ring a fi?fty, when an incoming slug hit metal and bounced up under his armor. He was going to die, sir. And Dr. Kelly offered to help.”
Kelly turned her head toward Santana at that point. Most of her face was invisible behind a blood-splattered surgical mask, but he could still see her eyes. “What I did was wrong,” the naval offi?cer admitted bleakly. “But I’m a pretty good doctor. And the only one you have.”
Santana saw the determination in her eyes and nodded.
“Point taken. Carry on.” And with that, the offi?cer turned and exited the quad. It was cold outside, and getting steadily colder, as day gradually surrendered to night. Snow crunched under his boots, the moisture in his nasal passages froze, and his cheeks felt numb. But people were working in spite of the cold. Having failed earlier in the day, the Ramanthians were sure to take another shot at their enemies during the hours of darkness, which was why the battleweary legionnaires, marines, and clones were busy trying to improve the encampment’s defenses. Especially the log barricades, which had never been intended for a major battle, and were in need of reinforcement.
But Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich had a solution for that and was busy supervising repairs. Having decided that there wasn’t enough time to fell more trees and drag them into po- sition, the noncom was making use of dead Ramanthians instead. There were hundreds of them, most of whom were rockhard, and made excellent building blocks. The trick was to alternate the way the corpses were stacked to add stability. Of course every now and then the master sergeant’s work detail would come across a bug who was badly wounded, and unconscious, or not so badly wounded and hoping to escape notice. The solution was the same in either case. Such individuals were shot before being added to the steadily growing defensive wall, where some of them seemed to stare out at the world through frosty cataracts. Dietrich was helping one of the CVAs hoist a Ramanthian noncom onto the north section of the barricade when Santana arrived. “There,” Dietrich said, as he stepped back to admire his work. “The wall is a lot thicker—and I like a tidy battlefi?eld.”
Santana couldn’t help but grin. “I’ll make a note in your next performance review. ‘While often drunk, and frequently disrespectful, Master Sergeant Dietrich insists on a tidy battlefi?eld.’ ”
“That’s a fair assessment,” the legionnaire agreed cheerfully. “I’ll take it!”
Santana felt a snowfl?ake kiss his nose and shoved his hands farther into his pockets. “They’re going to hit us hard.”
The noncom nodded soberly. “I know.”
“If I fall, give Lieutenant Zolkin all the support you can. And if he falls, then save as many people as possible.”
The possibility that he could wind up in command hadn’t occurred to Dietrich until then. It was a depressing prospect.
“Don’t be silly, sir,” the noncom replied lightly. “You’re too mean to die! The lieutenant and I will have to get our promotions the hard way.”
The conversation was interrupted as Private Kay Kaimo arrived on the scene. She had been assigned to guard the Seebos and was coming off duty. “Excuse me, sir,” the legionnaire said politely. “But Colonel Six would like a word with you.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Really? About what?”
Kaimo shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. The colonel didn’t say.”
“Okay,” Santana replied. “Thanks.”
“Keep up the good work,” Santana said, as he turned back to Dietrich. “Although I would prefer to have the enemy bodies stacked according to regiment next time.”
“Screw you, sir,” the noncom replied. “And the cyborg you rode in on.”
Santana laughed and made his way over to one of four well-screened campfi?res. That’s where Colonel Six and his Seebos sat huddled around a crackling blaze. It was dark by then, which meant that more than thirty nearly identical faces were all lit by the same fl?ickering glow. Two legionnaires were present as well—their assault weapons at the ready. One of the clones stood expectantly—and Santana motioned him forward. Six was badly in need of a shave—