The scene faded, and Winslade’s angular face appeared again. He was smiling for reals this time.

  “Is he shitting us?” Harris muttered. “A few minutes is a long time for a hundred men to fight a thousand. We’ll be dead before the second wave even hits.”

  “He knows,” I said, and Leeson and Harris both studied me.

  “Primus on the deck!” roared a noncom.

  That’s when Graves made his glorious entrance on Gray Deck. He walked in like a king, and we all turned to salute him.

  Eerily, Winslade’s face turned as if he could see Graves—maybe he could.

  “Ah, here we are. Please, Primus, take over if you would. I have other matters to attend to. I’m sure your men will make me proud today.”

  “Thank you… Tribune,” Graves said.

  I got the feeling that using that last word hurt Graves somehow. It wounded him more deeply than any bullet or gouging alien claw could ever do. But that’s how it was, Winslade was in charge, and we all knew Graves would follow his orders.

  He always did.

  -35-

  The impossible task before us was daunting, but we lined up next to our launchers anyway. Every man put on his teleport harness and rigged it up, plugging into a prong-like connector on stations that were about a meter apart.

  I’d been on several Gray Deck launch-staging areas, but Berlin’s version of the facility was tighter than most. We were bumping butts and elbows all over, especially the weaponeers with their bulky armor and missile-launchers.

  That had been Sargon’s call. He’d rather use the launchers to fire a thundering level of firepower all at once, rather than use belchers which would have to be manually adjusted.

  “Belchers have their advantages,” he told me, “including more destructive power over time for the weight carried—but sometimes you just want to blow things up as fast as you can. This is one of those times.”

  We exchanged glances, and I approved his edit to our load-out. Neither one of us expected to live long. In fact, our life expectancy would probably best be measured in seconds rather than minutes once we arrived at the LZ.

  “Listen-up, team,” Graves said, standing in front of us. He was wearing a harness for teleportation, just like the rest of us—but I noticed he wasn’t standing next to one of the stations. His connector was loose and dangling. “We’re about to embark on a glorious mission. We’re being given the chance to strike a hammer-blow against Rigel. They’ve always enjoyed superior personal protection. We can’t allow them to hold that advantage another day.”

  A ragged cheer went up from the group. We were kind of edgy, but the pep-talk was a good one. A best-in-class for Graves, actually, who usually managed to depress those who listened rather than inspire them.

  “Unfortunately,” Graves continued, “in a last second change of plan, I won’t be going with the first wave. McGill is in command of this spearhead effort. You’ll all make me proud regardless. Good hunting.”

  My mouth sagged open a bit. I’d been kind of counting on the idea that Graves would come down with us and die. How else was I going to make sure Graves died the way Winslade wanted, if he wasn’t with the first wave and I was? I’d be dead for sure in minutes myself.

  “Uh… sir?” I called out.

  “Yes, Centurion?””

  “Who made this last second change of plan?”

  He and I eyed each other for a moment. I knew Winslade hadn’t told Graves to shuffle up the roster. What did Graves know?

  Graves glanced at his tapper. “Time to fly. We’ll discuss the issue when we meet again. Do me proud, 3rd Unit.”

  That was it. He stepped back, even farther from the launching stations. In fact, as the countdown began and the blue light began to rise in intensity and color, I saw him shed the harness entirely.

  Was Graves busting a move? Was he going to march upstairs and blow Winslade’s brains out? I wasn’t sure, but I was sure his actions were out of character for him.

  Just before the throbbing light reached its climax, I smiled. If Graves was going to go first-strike on Winslade, well, I wished him all the best.

  The distance was so short there was no detectable travel time. For a moment, we were in two places. It seemed to me that I was both aboard Berlin and on Glass World. Then Gray Deck faded away a moment later and there was only the surface of the target planet to contend with.

  Overhead, I saw a starry night. I’d lost count of the hours on Glass World, which rotated faster than Earth did and thus had a shorter day than the fiction we maintained aboard Berlin.

  Closer to hand, I next spotted a bustling community of armed soldiers from Rigel. They were spread out, working with digging equipment and haulers that carried vast amounts of sparkling earth.

  As I got my bearings, I realized these haulers were carrying the ore between the gateway posts. They seemed to be in a hurry. Could they be pulling out?

  “Weaponeers! Advance and take out that portal!”

  The bears around us were just beginning to wake up to the fact they were no longer alone. There had to be several hundred of them on the bottom floor of the pit, with the tunnel in the back wall of the whole thing looking like the exposed maw of a massive beast. It’s yawning wide jaws encompassed the gateway posts, the haulers—everything.

  Sargon didn’t have to be given an order twice. A shower of what looked like jets of flame shot up high into the night sky, washing out the stars. These smart missiles, perhaps two seconds into their deadly flight, made a sharp, angular ninety degree turn. They were now aiming down from above into the tight knot of bears and work-vehicles. Accelerating for the kill, they selected their own targets independently and roared downward toward the enemy.

  All hell broke loose as the bears realized they were under close assault. They snarled, snatched out their slung weapons and began peppering us with pellets.

  The missiles, however, were already on their way down. They slammed into the haulers full of ore. The bears driving them scrambled for cover, but they were caught and blown to fragments. The gateway posts themselves were likewise destroyed. The shock of the strike, so up-close and quick, was such that the enemy was overwhelmed.

  “Ha!” I called out over tactical chat. “Nice shooting! The gateway is down and on fire! Well done—”

  My congratulations were cut short as the bears picked themselves up and charged us from every direction. They had blood in their eyes. They were rushing us, and only death would stop them.

  A vicious close-range firefight broke out. We were carrying shotguns like theirs, and at this range, we could penetrate their armor. The enemy fired the same kind of guns at us, but our gear was like tissue paper in comparison. Men were torn apart, screaming, with a dozen pellets tearing through their bodies at once.

  About a minute later I was laying on my back dying in the mud. A bear with a feral snarl on his face stood on my chest, growling and holding up something, something that flapped and dripped and fluttered.

  It was my arm, I realized. He’d torn it off somehow and was busy displaying the red crest of my centurion’s insignia to his buddies.

  It wasn’t the arm with my tapper, so I could pick up some of the translation.

  “I’ve got their commander! I demand a boon! I demand—”

  That’s when I drove my combat knife into his crotch. It was a left-handed move, and a dirty one at that. He’d been too distracted with all the excitement of having torn off my arm.

  I don’t want anyone to think I’d chosen the bear’s gonads as my target out of some misguided sense of spite. It was just the only area I could easily reach. Just try having a meter-tall bear stand on your chest sometime—it wasn’t an enviable position to fight from.

  My move did, however, end his little speech. He hopped off me, bleeding and grabbing himself. A human would have probably been down and out, but not this bear. He came back and beat me with my own arm. Each thump and shudder hurt—but not too badly, as I was armored.

  I was disappointed by his response. I’d partly made a dirty attack in order to gain a quick death. This bear was angry—really angry—but he wasn’t cooperating by killing me yet.

  Deciding I had to up the ante, I flipped open my visor with my single good hand. I was gratified to see him dance away in concern.

  “Dumbass bear-cub!” I shouted, coughed, then grinned.

  Snarling, a circle of bears came closer. They snatched away my knife, the last weapon I had. Due to cracked ribs, a broken pelvis and other damage, I wasn’t able to get up or really defend myself further.

  “You speak. You live. You are my prisoner!”

  “Nope,” I said with certainty. “I’m Squanto’s creature. He owns me. He has for years.”

  They circled like a pack of humping aborigines, confused and disquieted by my words. “You lie! We own you! You are my—”

  I kicked the bear with the bleeding crotch. It was the only play I had left.

  His jaws snapped, and I heard fabric tear. It was a nasty bite to the ankle, but I grinned. “Is that all you’ve got, cub?” I asked. “A human child could kick your ass. Give me a minute to get my wind back, and I’ll stand and fight you one-on-one.”

  My original opponent loomed close. He still had my arm, ripped free from my body and flapping oddly in his grip. His crotch still dripped blood from where I’d gouged him.

  I’m not certain, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen a bear who was more pissed off than this fellow. Maybe Squanto had been, back when I’d pinned him down and made a fool of him as I rode him in front of the Scupper Queen on Storm World. But… maybe not even then.

  “There he is!” I called out. “That one is the chicken-shit who—”

  They surged closer, growling, and I kind of figured I’d pulled it off. I’d gotten them into a state of murderous rage. They’d forgotten all about taking me prisoner.

  Then, before they consummated my date with destiny, a taller, larger shadow loomed behind them.

  It was a man. A tall man with an agile way of carrying himself. His every step was a swagger, and I knew him in an instant.

  “Maurice?” I called out, and I laughed until my lungs bubbled around my broken ribs.

  “James…?”

  It was the one and only Maurice Armel. He had been the tribune of Germanica, then the renegade commander of a legion in Claver’s employ.

  “What are you doing out here?” I asked him. “Cleaning up bear-scat?”

  “Nothing so mundane,” he said. He had a French accent and a moustache to match. “I’m here for the same reason you are, my demented friend. I need impenetrable armor for my new army. Therefore, I made a deal with Squanto to supply it.”

  “Ah,” I rasped out. The world was getting kind of hazy now, but I didn’t want him to notice. He might try to save me if he knew I was bleeding out. “Help me up, would you? I’ve gotten banged up a bit.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, and he put a boot on my chest, pressing me back down easily. I was as weak as a kitten now, if the truth were to be told.

  From somewhere, he produced a long shaft of steel. I knew it well. He had a thing for skinny swords. This one was called a rapier, I think.

  He put the tip of it under my chin, right in through my open faceplate. I made no effort to stop him. He leaned down close, and the bears surrounding us shuffled, muttering dark things among themselves. Their words sounded like clicks and growls to me.

  Then, he thrust his sword through my throat, my neck, and I think a few vertebrae in the back before it poked out the other side.

  “The coup de grace,” he told me quietly. “A debt repaid. I do this thing because you helped Leeza breathe again.”

  I tried to thank him as I died, but I couldn’t do it.

  -36-

  When I came staggering out of the revival chamber in Blue Bunker on Glass World, Winslade was right there waiting for me.

  “So there you are,” he said in a prissy tone—come to think of it, his tone was almost always prissy.

  “Reporting for duty, Tribune!” I told him, throwing a sloppy salute. My muscles were only a few minutes old, and they still felt kind of rubbery.

  “I should have left you dead for all the good you did me. Now, there’s no excuse to send Graves into that hellhole. We’ve broken their supply route and—”

  “Uh… excuse me, sir. Are you annoyed that we managed to complete our mission with bravado and unexpected speed?”

  “Yes I am, McGill. You see, sometimes there’s more to a mission than meets the eye. Sometimes, the real purpose of a mission is unknown—to all but those who are supposed to be bright enough not to overdo.”

  My frown deepened. I’m not a man who cries and whines about getting killed, but when I do, I at least expect to be treated in a respectful manner. Winslade was failing on this account, and he was beginning to piss me off.

  “But I blew up the gateway,” I protested. “Just like we planned.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he said, walking ahead of my new, recovering body. “That’s my point. Graves was supposed to teleport down first.”

  “You’d better take that up with him. He decided not to do that on his own, after you left.”

  “I’m not going to say anything to him. Otherwise, he might divine my plans.”

  “He might have already.”

  He blew out a disgusted puff of air. “Trickery. You and Graves are both using deception against me now, McGill. I’d expected you to employ such tactics against Graves!”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what I could have done differently. How was I supposed to—?”

  “Think, man! You can’t be such a cretin. Since you went first, you should have failed to destroy the posts. At least then, Graves might have been forced to go down with the second wave and do the deed himself. With any luck, he’d be dead right now.”

  “After which he’d be mysteriously lingering in the revival queue?”

  Winslade shrugged his skinny, conniving shoulders. “Well… who knows the vagaries of these revival machines better than you do? Graves might come out a bad grow, or worse, his data could be misplaced.”

  “That one again, huh?”

  “Anything to keep him dead for the time being. As it is, he’s a threat to my position. At any moment, Turov’s order to put me in command might be rescinded.”

  “She could do that anyway.”

  “Ah yes… but if I’ve proven myself first, I don’t really care. Who wants to run a shit-outfit like Varus anyway? I have bigger goals in mind.”

  Winslade had always been a sneaky snake of a man. He had a scheme for every day of the week, and two for Sunday.

  “Listen Tribune,” I told him. “I’m rethinking my part in all this. I don’t see why I owe you anything.”

  He looked cagey. “I was wondering when the mule would refuse to pull the cart. Rather than threats and coercion, I’ll offer you something you really want.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A chance to talk to Abigail again.”

  My eyes blinked twice. I hadn’t expected that. I didn’t have any serious interest in the girl, mind you, but she did intrigue me.

  “The truth is,” he continued, “she wants to speak with you… rather badly. She says you have forgotten again to get her into contact with someone. That you failed to hold up your end of a critical bargain.”

  I gave my head a scratch at that point. Sure, she’d asked to be put in touch with Drusus. I’d made my pitch, and he’d agreed to port me out to her location. But after all that, and all the dying and confusion…

  “The thing of it is,” I said, “she led us to this spot, to Glass World, but we haven’t secured it yet. Drusus is only interested in gaining access to that body armor at the moment. He’ll probably meet with her afterward.”

  Winslade looked alarmed. “That’s how we got out here? Why doesn’t anyone tell me these things?”

  I could have told him he wasn’t in the loop because no one trusted him, but that wouldn’t have improved his mood any.

  He began walking around again and making sweeping gestures with his hands. “Drusus must be mad to follow one of Claver’s clones around, especially a female version. It’s positively bizarre.”

  “She led us right here. She helped us find Glass World. I guess to her way of thinking that’s good enough. She figures we should be meeting with her now.”

  Winslade formed an ugly smirk with his lips. “Well? Do you want to talk to her or not?”

  “Uh… have you got her aboard Berlin or something?”

  “Indeed I do. I ordered her revival shortly after taking command of this task force.”

  “So… she’s alive and everything?”

  Winslade’s nasty smile was back. He lifted a hand and patted my shoulder. I didn’t like that, but I managed not to hit him.

  “If you’d like to learn more,” he said, “you know what you have to do.”

  By the time I left him, I was in a sour mood. Was I really going to kill Graves?

  Something one must understand is that killing somebody else in Legion Varus wasn’t considered a heinous crime. Sure, it might get you flogged or demoted, but it wasn’t really murder—not exactly.

  Getting someone permed, though, that was big stuff. Permadeath was viewed as possibly worse than regular murder had been in the old days before revival machines. If someone was permed, it meant a deep and sincere effort had been made to keep them dead. We had backups everywhere these days, which made permadeath increasingly rare. Many of us had lived so long in the legions we no longer thought of death as lasting forever. It just didn’t seem natural to us. Therefore, perming someone was seen as beyond the pale, like burning people alive at the stake. It was an act of barbarism, deserving of the worst kind of scorn.

  Just killing someone, however, wasn’t all that bad. An inconvenience to the victim, sure. A criminal act deserving of punishment, definitely. But Varus regulars died all the time in training and in battle. Because of this overfamiliarity with the process, we dealt with day-to-day murders among fighting men the way they might have dealt with fist-fights in the old days. You got yelled at, you went to the stockades, and you might be shot or flogged yourself. Then it was over, everyone went back to fighting together—hopefully without holding a grudge.