A Fighting Chance (8 page)

Ponco’s initial shots were fired from long range as she swept into the clearing that fronted the lodge. A gunner was snatched off his platform and thrown into the darkness, quickly followed by his loader, who crashed through a succession of branches before thumping into the ground.

Then the attack became increasingly personal as Ponco passed within feet of a second crew-served weapon. The gunner shouted something incoherent as Ponco dropped a grenade at his feet and accelerated away. There was a flash of light as the resulting explosion lit up the forest, and the assault team entered the clearing. The chatter of machine guns blended with the staccato bark of assault rifles to create a hellish symphony.

Ponco couldn’t deal with all of the aerial gun platforms, however. Not and take care of her primary mission, which was to prevent Temo from escaping in the family’s private air car. The orange-red blob was sitting on a circular landing pad, adjacent to the lodge, ready for takeoff.

The defenders had Ponco in their sights by then, and two streams of tracers rose to greet the recon ball as she prepared to release a thermite bomb from her small drop bay. She only had one of the weapons, so accuracy was important. A bullet slammed into Ponco’s casing, glanced off, and whined away. But the impact was sufficient to knock the recon ball off course and send her spinning.

The tracers sought to follow her as Ponco fired her steering jets. Then, once the cyborg had regained control, she went in for the kill. The bomb fell, landed right in the middle of the open air car, and detonated. The result was a column of fire that shot straight upwards as a mixture of powdered red iron and aluminum was ignited. The air car was destroyed in a matter of seconds as Ponco entered a spiraling climb, paused a hundred feet off the ground, and looked back. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. Objective destroyed. Over.”

Santana experienced a momentary sense of satisfaction as Ponco’s report came in. But the emotion was short-lived as someone fired from above. Geysers of loam shot up all around Santana, Dietrich, and their T-2s. Thanks to his onboard computer, Joshi could pinpoint the exact spot the fire was coming from. His arm-mounted energy cannon came up and sent blips of coherent energy into the treetops. Dietrich’s T-2 joined the effort, and Santana watched as the blue blobs converged on each other.

He heard a scream, followed by a sequence of crashing noises as a severed branch fell. The limb was at least twenty-five feet long and two feet thick at the butt end. That made it large enough to crush Private Morton
and
his T-2. Both of whom vanished from the Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system on Santana’s HUD.

That was bad, but things were about to become worse, as the surviving cyborgs charged across the clearing and grenades fell around them. Though random, the bombardment was effective. A headless bio bod continued to ride the T-2 off to Santana’s left as an explosion blew a cyborg’s foot off. He fell, taking his rider down with him, while geysers of dirt rose all around.

Then, as Joshi began to close with the enormous tree trunk, the number of explosions started to dwindle. Santana thought he knew why. Ponco was still at work high above, as were his Naa snipers, both of whom had orders to stay back and fire on targets of opportunity.

The tree trunk that supported the lodge was at least fifty feet in diameter, and the lowest branches were twenty feet overhead. “Okay,” Santana said, as Joshi came to a halt. “This is where I get off. Watch your six.”

“Roger that,” Joshi replied. “Give me a holler when you’re ready to leave.”

Dietrich was next to him as Santana followed the trunk around to the right with his CA-10 carbine at the ready. There were two ways to reach the lodge according to Yorty. An elevator, which was sure to be off-line, and a spiral staircase that circled the tree. It would have been nice to send a T-2 up to clear the way. But the cyborgs were too big and heavy.

A few moments later, Santana and Dietrich arrived at the foot of the stairs, where a squad of bio bods was gathered. “What’s this?” Dietrich demanded harshly. “A circle jerk? The enemy is up there—not down here. Follow me and keep your heads on a swivel.”

Dietrich was carrying a drum-fed shotgun, which was ideal for close-in work. So Santana took the two slot and chinned the mike switch as they began to climb. “Zulu Nine to Zulu Seven. We’re on the stairs. Clear the way if you can. Over.”

There was no response as a grenade fell from above, hit a railing, and bounced into the gloom. That was followed by a flash of light, a loud explosion, and a series of woody thuds as pieces of shrapnel struck the tree trunk. Then came the rattle of an automatic weapon, which Dietrich answered with three blasts from his shotgun.

The firing stopped, and two bodies were sprawled on the blood-slicked platform when Santana arrived. He followed Dietrich as the noncom led him upwards. It was a steep climb, and the officer was struggling to catch his breath when Ponco’s voice sounded in his helmet. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. I think I have the target located. Mark my position. Over.”

Santana took a moment to scan the ITC. The recon ball was about fifteen feet above and south of the main trunk. “Roger that . . . We’re on the way. Over.”

Dietrich heard, continued to lead the way upwards, and arrived on a generously proportioned observation deck moments later. A tribarreled minigun had been set up there. But, judging from the dead bodies scattered about, either Ponco or one of the snipers had been able to silence the weapon.

The darkened lodge was on their left as they followed the deck to a suspended walkway. The bridge was supported by cables fastened to the branches above and started to sway as the legionnaires crossed it. Santana was forced to let his weapon dangle from its sling so that he could get a firm grip on the side ropes. The ITC system was still displayed on his HUD, and he could see Ponco’s Z-7 marker pulsing on and off about fifty feet in front of him. Major Temo was within his grasp. Or so it seemed until Ponco shouted a warning, a powerful light flooded the area, and a windstorm descended on them.

“It’s a transport!” Dietrich shouted. “They’re coming for Temo.” And as Santana looked up into the dazzling spotlight, he realized that the noncom was correct. A ship was about to rescue Temo. But how could that be? The local militia had one cargo vessel, and it was called
The Hangar Queen
for a reason. But what if . . .

“Watch out . . . I think the ship is Ramanthian,” Ponco said over the radio. Suddenly, fire lashed down from above, the rope bridge parted, and Santana began to fall.

4

No good deed goes unpunished.

—Human folk saying Standard year circa 1800

ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY TRANSPORT
GALAXSIS
IN HYPERSPACE

The
Galaxsis
was more than three miles long and had once been a very posh passenger liner. But with the coming of the war, she’d been taken over by the navy for use as a transport. That meant most of the fancy cutlery, dishes, art, furniture, and expensive carpets had been replaced with less expensive equivalents. But even without all of the finery, there was no doubt as to the ship’s pedigree. The
Galaxsis
was all about class, which was apparent in her glossy wood trim, solid brass fittings, and marble decks.

The ship’s official capacity was fifty-four hundred passengers. But by assigning three people to cabins intended for two, and converting the space formerly occupied by an onboard shopping arcade into stacked berths, the navy had been able to cram another five hundred passengers aboard. And Foreign Service Officer-2 (FSO-2) Christine Vanderveen was among them.

But thanks to her status as a high-ranking civil servant, plus some good luck, she had been slotted into a cabin with only one other occupant. Captain Marcie Jones was a doctor and a member of the Legion’s 2
^nd
REI (2
^nd
Foreign Infantry Regiment) currently conducting training exercises on Algeron. The planet that had long served as the Legion’s home—and was the current seat of the Confederacy’s government.

Both women were getting ready for their final dinner aboard the
Galaxsis
. No one expected the sort of lavish meal that had been typical before the war. But the food promised to be a welcome change from the monotonous cafeteria-style meals of the last week. And, as Jones had put it moments earlier, the dinner was likely to be “. . . a very good hunting ground.” By which she meant an opportunity to meet men.

But as Vanderveen put on her red lipstick, she was only interested in
one
man. And he wasn’t on the ship. The woman who looked back at her from the mirror had shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes. They were bracketed by the beginnings of tiny wrinkles. It was the price paid for her service on planets like LaNor and Jericho, not to mention the shortage of good skin creams. She sighed. “So what are you after? A colonel perhaps?”

“Don’t be silly,” Marcie replied from inside their tiny bathroom. “Colonels are too old! A major perhaps . . . Or a handsome lieutenant.”

“But you’re a captain,” Vanderveen objected. “Captains can’t date lieutenants.”

“For the moment,” Jones agreed as she stepped into the stateroom. “But not forever. Once the war is over, most of us will go back to whatever we were doing before it started. And some lieutenants were doing very well indeed! How do I look?”

Jones was petite, with military-short brown hair and a pretty face. Her uniform looked as if it had been sprayed on. “You’re the hottest captain in the Legion,” Vanderveen replied. “Bring your sidearm. You’ll need it.”

Jones laughed. “Look who’s talking! That’s a very nice black dress . . . And those diamond earrings. Someone likes you.”

“Yes, he does,” Vanderveen replied. “And I call him ‘Daddy.’ Are you ready? Let’s go.”

A side corridor led the women out onto what was still called the Galactic Promenade. Even if the majority of the beings strolling along it were wearing uniforms rather than fancy evening dress. Vanderveen wasn’t the only civilian, however. Far from it. The crowd included business types, a delegation of nearly identical clones, a group of Thrakies, and a pair of brightly plumed Prithian merchants.

Foot traffic slowed as those assigned to the second sitting jammed the approaches to the dining room. But not for long, as identical androids scanned ID bracelets and led the passengers to their tables. The dining room occupied a duraplast blister on the ship’s skin. While in orbit around a planet, passengers could look out upon the world below. And when in hyperspace, as they were at the moment, a sensaround was projected onto the curving viewport to give the impression of a starscape. That was why the spectacular Horsehead Nebula appeared to be all around them.

As Vanderveen followed the formally attired robot down one of the spokelike corridors toward the center of the wheel-shaped room, she saw that the ship’s social director was still doing her job. Those tables located on the outer rings were traditionally occupied by relatively-lower-status beings. In this case, enlisted personnel from all the various branches. Junior and midlevel officers came next. That included Jones, who waved gaily as a waiter led her over to a table occupied entirely by men.

Vanderveen envied the doctor in a way since military officers were a known quantity, and one could tell who outranked whom by looking at their uniforms. Her world was a good deal more complicated. Was the ambassador the one to court? Or was the title more honorary than real? Perhaps the less flashy Adjunct for Interspecies Communications had the
real
clout. One rarely knew when meeting foreign dignitaries for the first time.

So as Vanderveen was led to a six-person table only three rings from the center of the room, she felt a mild sense of apprehension. Though not on duty, she was never truly off duty either. And that made it difficult to relax. At her approach, three of those seated at the table rose to greet her. The nearest and therefore the first to introduce himself was a Legion general named George Tuchida. Judging from the chromed plate set into the right side of his skull, and the whirring noises that accompanied his movements, Tuchida was a “partial.” Meaning a cyborg who was still using significant parts of his original body. He turned to announce her name and title to the rest of those seated at the table.

And even though she hadn’t seen him in many years—it turned out that Vanderveen already knew the second man who came forward to greet her. His name was Rex Soro, the eventual heir to the Soro computer fortune and a classmate from her college days. He looked a bit older, but still handsome, and was impeccably dressed. She caught a whiff of expensive cologne as he leaned in to hug her. “Vanders! What a wonderful surprise. You look gorgeous. And no ring. Let’s mate.”

“I never mate prior to dinner,” Vanderveen said primly, “but thank you for the invitation. I see you haven’t changed.” Soros laughed.

“My name is Hambu Tras Gormo,” the frail-looking Dweller said. His sticklike body was supported by the high-tech exoskeleton that made it possible for him to leave his low-gravity home world and travel to other planets. The device emitted a soft whining sound as the Dweller offered a formal bow.

Vanderveen recognized the name. “
Senator
Tras Gormo? It’s an honor to meet you.”

Tras Gormo bowed again.

“And this,” Soro said, as he gestured to the only other female present, “is the famous Misty Melody.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Vanderveen said, as the woman in question looked up from a gold compact. She had shoulder-length silver hair and had been poured into a matching dress. Her breasts were not only unnaturally large but almost entirely exposed. “I have all of your albums,” Vanderveen said truthfully. “You have a beautiful voice.”