He made a note on his tapper. “Smith seems to be a popular name among your incestuous herd of animals. We’ve already encountered three Smiths so far.”

  “Very popular, yessir.”

  The lieutenant let me walk out of the chamber ahead of the rest. A set of glowing yellow arrows appeared on the deck, and we followed them. This was typical of Mogwa directives. They rarely told you where you were going or why. They expected us to travel through their winding passages without asking any questions, like trained hamsters in a maze.

  Leading my team of hamsters, we eventually reached a much larger chamber. Upon our approach, this otherwise featureless cargo hold flickered, and it became something new.

  “Wow, this is nice!” I said.

  The others walked in behind me and made similar appreciative comments. We were in a lush tropical garden. There were fruits and trees and flowers—even rushing water and bare rocks.

  Harris moved next to me. He looked at every bush with great suspicion. He touched the fronds of a large fern plant and plucked a huge orchid. He walked over to me, frowning and tapping the bloom on my chest.

  “How’s this even possible? I thought it was all a projection—but everything seems solid. It even smells nice.”

  “I can only think of two ways they might have done this,” I said, kneeling and putting my hand into a rushing stream. Lifting my fingers, I watched as cool water ran down into my sleeves. “Either they imported it all by teleportation from a real planet, or they created it with some kind of matter manipulation.”

  “I’ll give you another idea,” Harris replied. “This is a mind-fuck. Some kind of psychotic projection. They’re in our heads, Centurion. We have to be on our guard.”

  “You’re right about that part no matter how they performed this miracle.”

  Right about then, a loud clap of thunder rang out. We all turned in place, looking upward. A tropical rain began to fall. A moment later, a disembodied voice spoke like the Almighty himself.

  “Attention, beasts,” the booming voice said. “You are in a Mogwa entertainment center. This chamber has been programmed to recreate a suitable environment for your species. There are countless places to hide and obscure yourselves, just as any prey animal might find in nature.”

  Harris and I exchanged glances. Neither one of us liked the way this sounded.

  “You will be allowed to roam and explore for a short time. Do not waste these precious moments of existence. The hunters are coming, and they will not be merciful to those who stand about aimlessly.”

  “What the fuck…?” Sargon said, coming up to me. “Sir? The doors we came through—they’re gone!”

  We rushed to the spot, seeking any seam or crevice. There wasn’t even a wall there at the limits of the cargo hold. It felt as if the rock growing up the sides of the chamber were as solid as granite back home.

  I stepped back, breathing hard and looking upward. The walls of the place had to be twenty meters high. The sky projected up on the ceiling—it looked so real. It might be a screen or something else, but whatever it was, it seemed flawless. The rain stopped just as suddenly as it had begun, and a yellow sun rolled out from behind silver clouds, making us blink and squint.

  “What if they teleported us to some alien planet?” Sargon asked. “Someplace with an Earth-like pit full of plants and shit. Maybe we could scale that wall and get out of here.”

  “Maybe,” I said, trying to think.

  “I’ve got another idea,” Harris said. “How about we make weapons as fast as we can, hide, and brain these Mogwa hunters when they come in here?”

  I pointed at him. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard yet.” I turned on my tactical broadcast channel. “Troops, everyone arm yourself with anything you can find.”

  “Like what?” Carlos demanded. “Sticks?”

  “Yes. Make clubs, grab rocks. Find a bush and squat behind it. Sargon, you take three men and lie in ambush right here where we walked in. It’s the only entrance we know about.”

  “Sir?” another man asked, trotting close. It was a big weaponeer I recalled from Edge World.

  “What is it, Washburn?”

  He pointed into the trees. “When we first walked in, I saw something close up over there. Another door, I think. On the far wall.”

  I nodded. “All right, it’s worth a shot. You come with me. The rest of you, spread out and arm yourselves. Hide deep in the forest. Kill anything that’s not human.”

  Washburn hustled to follow me through the jungle. After a few minutes, we reached another wall that looked like a natural rocky outcropping. It was covered in vines and leafy growths.

  As we reached the edge of the forest, we saw the terrain waver. A large door appeared and opened.

  Behind that door was a column of Mogwa with bright metal tubes. The tubes had bulbs at one end, and triggers at the other.

  The group that led the column was made up of obvious Mogwa marines. They didn’t have their powered armor on, fortunately. Just more of those strange-looking rifles.

  Putting a hand to Washburn’s shoulder, I signaled we should go to ground. We both hugged the dirt, peering out from under the leaves of a large bush.

  After around fifteen marines had entered and spread out, another more regal figure entered. I knew him well.

  It was Sateekas himself.

  -16-

  “Release the canines!” Sateekas ordered.

  To our surprise, a rush of dark, furred figures came out from behind the Mogwa. I recognized their type in an instant: they were the dogmen that Clavers like to breed and sell.

  I hadn’t seen their type since Green World. They were an ape-dog hybrid, hairy guys with long dark snouts and bad attitudes. They didn’t talk much, but they were strong, mean and highly protective of their masters.

  Eight of the dogmen advanced toward the edge of the forest. Two approached our bush. Their snouts were already up and casting for a scent. I thought they must have caught our trail already.

  “Fools!” Sateekas shouted. “Don’t piss on every bush. I want four to run down the north wall, and four to run along the east. When you find the humans, don’t attack, instead fall back and report to the hunters.”

  Casting evil looks toward their Mogwa masters, the dogmen shifted their course to follow their orders. They lifted their dark lips to show wet fangs. I got the idea they weren’t entirely happy with their soft Mogwa masters, but they were obedient enough.

  The marine leader then turned toward the Grand Admiral. “Sir, what about the forest? Will the beasts be hiding in there?”

  “Possibly,” Sateekas admitted, “but they won’t do so until a few of them have been slaughtered. I’ve studied this species. I would expect them to first attempt to escape the walls. Only when they realize their fate is inescapable will they try to prolong their wretched lives by hiding in the trees.”

  I thought about that, and I was fairly impressed. Sateekas was right—our first instinct had been to escape.

  Now however, I knew the truth: there was no escape from this arena. We were to be hunted down and killed. That left us with only one option, to my mind.

  The Mogwa hunters didn’t spread apart and follow their dogs. Instead, Sateekas worked at his tapper and his headset. “I’ve got a location on the herd. Most are still near their entry point, chattering like monkeys to one another on their radios. It’s almost disappointing. I’d hoped for better sport.”

  I tapped Washburn’s shoulder, and we slipped away into the dark forest. Once we were clear, we moved at a dead run back to our men. Along the way, I ripped loose my microphone and signaled for Washburn to do the same. Once I was close to the main body of my troops, they were laughing and hefting rocks and sticks.

  “What’s so funny, Adjunct?” I asked Harris.

  “You should have seen it, sir. A pack of dogmen just came running at us from both directions. We threw a few rocks at them, and they ran off like curs!”

  I grabbed his shoulder and plucked the microphone off his helmet. “The enemy just reconned us, and now they’re listening to our radio transmissions. Shut that shit down!”

  “Yessir! Yessir!” he said, and he raced away. Smacking helmets and cursing, Harris soon got everyone who was chattering and wandering aimlessly back onto a war footing.

  “Where should we deploy, sir?” he asked.

  I pointed at the forest. “Into the trees. I think they’re going to come in two groups, one on each wall. We must mass up and destroy one of the two groups.”

  He nodded, and the troops were soon moving out. We spread into the forest and gripped our makeshift clubs and rocks with determination.

  We seemed to be closer to the group coming from the north, so we decided to ambush them first. We were only fifty meters or so from the wall—some were closer than that—when the hunting party came walking along the perimeter.

  “Where are the beasts?” the marine commander complained. “Are these canines defective? This is the spot where we pinpointed them.”

  None of the other Mogwa had an answer for him. The marine commander was the same one I’d seen before, talking to Sateekas. The wily grand admiral himself wasn’t in the group. Apparently, he’d gone the other way.

  “They’ve stopped transmitting as well…” the commander said in disgust. “I’m annoyed. This farce will probably end up wasting hours.”

  The dogmen prowled around their masters, and they proved to be our undoing. One of them caught our scent and plunged toward the nearest hidden recruit.

  Snarling and baying, the rest charged into the trees as well. They launched themselves onto a hidden soldier and began to tear him apart. He threw one dogman off himself, but his arms were already torn and bloody. The enemy had teeth and claws, along with superior strength. Rocks and training could only do so much.

  “This is it,” Harris said. “Can I give the order, sir?”

  “No. Let them come into the trees.”

  He showed me his teeth, snarling like one of the dogmen, but he waved down the troops that wanted to stand and charge.

  The Mogwa hunters approached cautiously. Their strange rifles were up and ready. When they saw the sorry heap of mangled meat my man had been transformed into, they laughed and shot him repeatedly.

  The guns were of a strange variety. They fired black pellets—tungsten, if I had to guess—that seemed to explode upon impact. Each round was powerful and deadly. The man was shredded before they were through.

  Turning back toward the wall, the hunters congratulated themselves on their first kill. Their dogmen had snouts high and sniffing, but the Mogwa weren’t paying any attention.

  “Now. While their backs are turned, take half the troops and charge in quietly!”

  Harris was up and slapping heads. Each man he touched launched himself in a head-long sprint toward the enemy.

  The dogmen spotted us first. They became alarmed and agitated.

  “What is that racket?” the marine commander demanded, turning around.

  What he saw was two dozen men charging at him. We weren’t shouting and carrying on, either. Varus men know the power of an ambush. We could be silent killers, when it suited us.

  The Mogwa leveled their strange weapons, and they cracked and boomed. Eight men were knocked flat in the initial volley—then we were in among them.

  The dogmen each tackled a single man. These contests weren’t even, so I ordered my second squad to rush in to support the first. I hadn’t wanted to commit every man I had until I saw if we could win, and I now knew that we could.

  Letting a war whoop escape my lips, I led that second charge. We reached the dogmen who were mauling my troops, and we beat them down. Rocks crashed into skulls. Sharpened sticks jabbed into bellies, and the dogmen all died.

  “Keep going, let’s help Harris!”

  We rushed closer. It was a grim thing, charging at aliens armed with deadly ranged weapons. We had to get into hand-to-hand fighting to win this.

  Most of Harris’ men were dead. The Mogwa were individually weak, but then so is any hunter when he’s fighting a bear in the woods. The advantage of the gun is huge.

  The strange rifles cracked and boomed. The forest around me popped and branches exploded. A spray of splinters—or maybe it was shards of tungsten, I couldn’t be sure which—struck my shoulder and left cheek. I ignored the blood, the pain and the danger and plunged on in a primitive fury.

  We closed with the Mogwa, and we tore them apart. In the end, every one of their weird skulls was cracked with a rock. Every one of their ugly legs and bulbous bodies were dented and lumpy from a thorough beating with stout clubs.

  Standing tall and breathing hard, I looked around. My grin faded quickly.

  “Harris?”

  “He’s gone, sir,” Sargon said.

  “Flores?”

  Sargon shook his head. “She didn’t make it. She caught one of those mini-rocket things straight in the chest when you charged in.”

  I rubbed at the blood on my cheek and shoulder. It wasn’t serious, but I was wounded too.

  “Sound off! How many do we have left?”

  The men reported in, and the news was grim. We had lost over half our number, and half the rest were injured.

  “Pick up these guns. Let’s figure them out.”

  We tried. We worked the rifles, pushing and tapping on everything. Nothing we could do made them fire.

  “Biometrics, sir,” Sargon concluded. “They must have them programmed to only operate for a Mogwa soldier.”

  I cast down the gun in my hands, disgusted. They didn’t even make effective clubs.

  It was at that moment that I heard a baying sound. More dogmen were coming—it had to be them. The other hunting party had discovered us.

  -17-

  “Into the trees!” I shouted. “Sargon, take six men and setup an ambush. I’ll get them to chase us.”

  “Yessir!”

  We set off into the trees, the majority of my troops on my heels, with Sargon setting up a smaller group in the thickest brush. My group made no effort to hide ourselves, we ran through the trees and hooted like apes. The Mogwa veered and ran right after us.

  Their strange rifles cracked. All around, the trees splintered and popped. Some of my men fell. A few got up, but most didn’t. When these bullets hit an unarmored man, they tore him up inside.

  Excited, the dogmen charged after us in a wild rush. The Mogwa hunters found their slaughtered comrades, and they chattered and clicked in a rage. They set after us in a blind fury.

  This was exactly what I’d hoped for. I wasn’t disappointed by their charge—I’d counted on it. Sateekas was just like all the other Mogwa, they were an arrogant, haughty people. They often overestimated their relative strength.

  Still, the situation was desperate. We’d taken too many losses in our first encounter. We were still basically unarmed and outmatched by the enemy firepower. Only if we managed to get close, into hand-to-hand, could we hope to kill the hunters.

  Sargon’s group performed beautifully. I was almost sad I wasn’t there to participate. They waited until the Mogwa overran them, then sprang up, chasing after the Mogwa hunters like charging gorillas.

  The Mogwa’s growls of fury—or glee when they shot one of my men down—quickly changed to bleats of dismay. Sargon himself grabbed a stray foot-hand appendage and lifted a marine high into the air, beating him senseless with his other bare hand. The rest of his team did the same, engaging the Mogwa in close-quarters. Rocks crushed their thin skulls, and improvised clubs broke their stick-like bones.

  The rifles stopped shooting at the rest of us, so we turned toward our dogmen pursuers.

  “Let’s finish this,” I told my panting troops.

  There were only nine left in my squad, but we weren’t interested in body counts. We were down for the fight. The dogmen, to their credit, rushed in and struck powerful blows with their leathery hands. They soon had muzzles that dripped with blood—some their own and some ours.

  I rushed one, throwing a punch at his snout. It landed, but it didn’t put him out. He slammed into me, and he bowled me over. We rolled in the grass and the leaves, with me tearing at his black, wet nose and him trying to bite my neck.

  Reversing the positions with a wrestling move, I got my arm around his throat. He growled and gurgled and heaved under my weight, but he couldn’t break free. I lost most of a finger and had tears in my uniform and my skin, but he lost consciousness eventually. I let him slump to the forest floor.

  After delivering a final kick in the ribs, I staggered away, panting.

  “Report in,” I said. “Sound off.”

  “Wilson.”

  “Washburn.”

  “Torres.”

  I waited a few seconds, but that was it. Four of us were left standing. We’d beaten all the aliens, but I’d lost most of my troops.

  Limping back toward Sargon’s group, I found them hiding in the brush and took stock of the situation. It was grim for both sides. Sargon was dead, and only two of his men had survived. All of the Mogwa were either dead or squirming in a twisted pile of limbs.

  “McGill…?” a weak alien voice spoke.

  That voice! I stood up and looked around. Under a massive, leafy fern I found one more injured Mogwa. He was the only one of his kind I’d ever liked.

  “Grand Admiral?” I said. “Is that you, sir?”

  “McGill…? What have you done?”

  “Well sir, what we did was have a great time today. I truly hope we gave you Mogwa boys a run for your money. We died, sure, but we took a few down with us. I surely hope you aren’t disappointed in our performance.”

  The old Mogwa breathed for a few seconds, chewing this over. If he had a single weakness that stood out from all the others, it was his sense of pride and honor.

  “I gather from your statements,” he wheezed, “that you believed this exercise to be one of comradery and challenge?”

  “Absolutely, sir! And I must say, you guys really impressed us. Mogwa marines are nothing to sneeze at. Your boys showed great guts coming in here without their power armor. All my men remarked upon it. You made it so fair and all, what with using primitive weapons and giving us lots of room to run around. Why, I’d go so far as to—”