All of which was readily apparent to General Mortimer Kobbi, who was seated in the command quad fi?ve miles to the rear, watching to see how the battalion would deal with the unexpected onslaught. It was disappointing to lose Santana early on, but that was often the way of things, and having served with the cavalry offi?cer on Savas, the general was already acquainted with the young man’s capabilities. So it was with considerable interest that Kobbi watched Amoyo rally the badly mauled company as the fi?rst wave of androids boiled up over the escarpment, a development Kobbi could monitor by listening to the company push and switching between the various video feeds that continued to pour in from bio bods and cyborgs alike.
Meanwhile Santana, who was no longer allowed to interact with his subordinates, went in search of a place to sit and watch the action without getting in the way. Having found a fl?at rock, and placed his back against a boulder, Santana alternated between scanning the highly codifi?ed data available on his helmet’s HUD and the fi?reworks going off all around him. A line of simulated explosions rippled along the face of the escarpment as Dietrich triggered the mines placed there the evening before, and static rattled through the cavalry offi?cer’s helmet speakers as electronic counter measures (ECM) took roughly 10 percent of the aggressor bots off-line.
Dozens of robots had been neutralized by that time and would remain right where they were until reactivated at the end of the exercise. But there were more of them, and Alpha Company was soon forced to fall back, as a tidal wave of androids and rollers came up over the ten-foot-high embankment. The battle was very realistic. So much so that Santana felt a moment of fear as a squad of robots stalked past him, their heads swiveling back and forth, their weapons at port arms. His heat signature was clear to see, but so was his indicator light, so the hostiles left Santana alone as a fl?are went off high above them. The eerie light threw harsh shadows toward the west, as the survivors of Alpha Company were forced to fall back on the rest of the battalion, and the fake power plant beyond.
Which raised a rather interesting question. . . . Where was the normally assertive Major Quinlan? Because so far, in spite of repeated calls from Amoyo, there had been no contact with Bat HQ other than with the CO’s radio tech (RT), who was busy routing everything to Captain Mitch Mays of Bravo Company because the XO had theoretically been
“killed” by an infi?ltrator.
It was a question that was of interest to General Kobbi as well, since Quinlan was still “alive” according to the ITC, but literally missing in action. There was a pause in the fi?ghting as Mays allowed the surviving members of Alpha Company to pass through his lines, followed by eerie screams as a fl?ight of unseen fl?y-forms swept in to provide close air support. Thunder rolled across the arid landscape as electronic “bombs” fell on the horde, fl?ashed as they went off, and left dozens of machines motionless on the battlefi?eld. That was when Quinlan’s voice was fi?nally heard. It sounded thick, as if the offi?cer had just awoken, and was a bit disoriented. “This is Zulu Six. . . . Alpha, no Bravo Company, will pull back to the defensive wall and hold. Over.”
“No!” Santana said out loud. “There’s no way through the wall! The robots will crush Bravo Company against it!”
Of course Captain Mays was no fool, and could see the same thing, since the very real steel wall that protected the fake power plant was twelve feet high, and the only entrance to the enclosure was on the southern rather than the northern perimeter. So the offi?cer objected, was immediately put down, and forced to obey Quinlan’s orders. With predictable results. Half an hour later, just as the sun started to peek up over the eastern horizon, the last member of the 2nd Battalion, 1st REC was offi?cially killed. His name was Liam Quinlan—and his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through later that same day.
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
As the imperial battleship Merciless and her escorts dropped into orbit around the Planet Jericho, the Queen was in the control room to witness the event. Not because the regent hadn’t seen a ship make planet fall before, but because the world below was of particular interest to her. Viewed from space, it was a beautiful planet, one of a number of such worlds granted to the empire in partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars. It was a Hive-normal planet, which meant it was Earth-normal, too, and had been home to an advanced civilization long before her race had risen to sentience. Evidence of that could still be seen in the ruins scattered about the world’s emerald green surface. But that was ancient and therefore boring history as far as the royal was concerned. Because her purpose in visiting Jericho was to assess the condition of the Ramanthian nymphs that had been hatched there over the last few months, thousands of whom had been left to fend for themselves in the wake of a commando-style raid by Confederacy forces. It was a calamity that she, as their moral, if not actual, parent, was obliged to mitigate.
Five hours later the Queen shuffl?ed down a ramp and onto the surface of Jericho. The airstrip, which had only recently been carved out of the forest some twenty miles west of what had been Jericho Prime, was protected by guard towers and an electrifi?ed fence. The air immediately around the royal yacht was heavy with the acrid stench of ozone, and a series of loud pings was heard, as hot metal started to cool. Moments later an entire fi?le of heavily armed Ramanthian troopers moved in to protect the royal, not from alien soldiers, but an equally potent threat.
The offi?cer in charge of the so-called reorientation center had been a largely unknown military functionary prior to being put in charge of the experimental facility. And, not having met a member of the royal family before, never mind the Queen herself, was understandably nervous as he bent a leg. “Welcome to Jericho, Majesty. Commander Sool Fobor, at your service.”
“What are the fences for?” the royal inquired bluntly.
“Do animals attack the airstrip?”
Fobor looked from the Queen to Chancellor Ubatha as if beseeching him for help. One of the problems traditionally associated with the tercentennial birthing was that after millions of nymphs were born, the youngsters went through a wilding state during which they hunted in packs, killing and eating anything they came across before gradually becoming more biddable. It was a process that had been extremely hard on both Hive and Ramanthian society over the past 200,000plus years. Which was why the great mother ordered her subordinates to acquire planets like Jericho and seed them with eggs. And with predictable results. Because once hatched, the voracious predators began to roam Jericho like blood-crazed beasts, killing everything they encountered—members of their own species included. So, never having dealt with a royal before, Fobor didn’t know how to respond. Ubatha came to his rescue. “The fences are positioned to keep the nymphs out, Your Excellency,” the Chancellor put in carefully. “They can be quite violent as you know.”
“Not anymore,” the Queen objected staunchly, as she eyed the tree line. “The wilding should have been over weeks ago.”
“True,” Ubatha replied patiently. “Except that once the aliens destroyed the processing centers, the nymphs were left on their own. And, in the absence of proper socialization, some of them turned feral.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Fobor said defensively.
“But having missed the point in their neurological development where the nymphs are most biddable, it’s been very diffi?cult to work with them. Perhaps her majesty would allow me to show her one of the holding pens?”
The Queen thought the term “holding pen” was objectionable, but rather than strike out at the offi?cer the way she wanted to, she managed to keep her temper in check. “Show me,” she grated.