As the platoon consolidated and checked equipment, he stared off into the distance in a moment snatched from eternity, infinite and finite. Unnoticed, one of the engineers connected new auto-grenade launchers and filled his magazines. Finally Sergeant Green broke into his reverie.

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Sergeant Green."

  "We're ready to move out."

  "Thank you." Duncan handed him a rifle. Mike checked the magazine then checked that his store was still in place. He noticed he was still staring off into the distance. He was loath to move.

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Sergeant Duncan."

  "We need to move out."

  "Yes, I suppose we do." He still hesitated. Something vital was missing, the drive that usually carried him through the tough times. If they hit a tough spot without it, it might mean all their lives down the toilet. He hunted around for it, but the house in his soul where it lived seemed to be empty. That particular mask was in hiding.

  "Michelle," he said wearily, "download coordinates of all destruction points.

  "Platoon, mission order." O'Neal's voice was an emotionless monotone. The team might have been taking their commands from a non-AID computer. "Consolidated platoon, second battalion three twenty-fifth infantry battalion will perform a covert insertion of the megascrapers Daltren, Arten, and Artal. The platoon will separate into designated two- and three-man teams. Each team has a series of points that they either will directly destroy or lay charges upon.

  "Once all the charges are laid and all the primary points are destroyed, the unit will pull out of the buildings then destroy them." As he spoke the troopers drew in around him. The action was tactically unsound: one lucky burst by a God King laser could have gotten them all. But the platoon was reacting to the deaths of their fellows much as Mike was and each of the soldiers felt a need to feel part of a group, a need for touch and feeling. The suits created a strong emotion of alienation through their control of every sense. Moments like this were a slice of humanity bitten on the run.

  "Subject megascrapers should drop in an L shape leading from the ocean and curving around the trapped units. That will leave those units free to concentrate on pushing out of the encirclement towards the friendly lines. This is the good part, people: the major mass of Posleen on this whole damn continent is in the group trying to pry the Deuxième and the Lancers out of those buildings, so when we drop those buildings on them the war is half done." He paused and there was a tired but heartfelt "Hoo-wah" to that. The clustering of the platoon was sounding a warning to him, but he was beyond caring. The flip side was that the same clustering was beginning to act upon him, beginning to bring him out of his fugue. Even with all his time in suits, he was as susceptible as the troopers to the sense of alienation.

  "We are going to be operating in two-man teams. If you run into any Posleen you can't handle, break contact and call for support. Headquarters will support third squad and the engineers in the `L' building. The engineers will work on that building 'cause it needs a lighter touch. One team from each squad will stay in support and as the other teams get finished they will go into a support role and be tasked as needed." He looked over at the gathered scouts and felt a stab of grief at the lack of a tall lanky suit in their midst.

  "Scouts, your job is to emplace some charges, but mainly I want you to launch flicker-eyes across the unmined buildings. You should be above the line of fire but if the Posleen notice you you'll be in for a hot time tonight. After the charges are all laid, head towards the ocean-side processing plants through the water lines."

  He paused in his flat monotone delivery and looked around, the slight twitches of his neck muscles swinging the viewpoint from side to side. The suits were featureless as always; the platoon might have been a set of poorly cast plasteel statues. A sudden question intruded upon his narrowed reality as he wondered how many would be alive on the morrow.

  "Because of all the damage the lines are mostly empty; if yours isn't, blow out the walls and drain it; according to my data, none of the water plants are functional in this area.

  "We're about to start moving over to our respective buildings. We don't have time to dick around so we're going down the outside on compensators. Your AIDs have the drop programs loaded. Fall fast then punch up the compensators and hit hard. It'll be just like a jump except we'll fall faster and won't disperse. When we hit the ground, split up and do the mission." He looked around the rooftop then back at the gathered platoon.

  He was not sure what to say. It seemed a moment for a motivational speech but he was damned if there was one in him. "A quick prayer," he said finally and bowed his head. He paused for a moment longer, running through the short list of prayers he could remember. None of them seemed appropriate. Then, suddenly, a fragment of verse from an unknown poem came to mind. He thought about it and found it highly appropriate. He took a deep breath.

  * * *

  "Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,

  Remember, reach and save,

  The soul that comes to-morrow

  Before the God that gave!

  Since each was born of woman,

  For each at utter need—

  True comrade and true foeman—

  Madonna, intercede!"

  "Sergeant Green!"

  "Sir?"

  "Move 'em out."

  "Yes, sir. Scouts, Second, First, Fourth, Third, Headquarters, Fifth. Move it!"

  When they reached the first building to be mined, the squads broke up and moved to their buildings. Third squad, tasked to this building, waited lined along the roof with headquarters for the other squads to get into position. When the other squads were in position, the platoon stepped over the edge. The suits dropped under an artificially induced two positive gravities to within one hundred meters of the ground then began to slow. They hit the bottom still traveling at nearly six meters per second, but the suits absorbed this with bent knees. There were a few Posleen milling aimlessly on the boulevards.

  "Squads, put a covering team behind you and head to the demolition points. Third, Sergeant Green and I will cover. Do it, people." Mike hefted his grav-rifle and followed the red priority carets. Michelle could analyze all the Posleen in line of sight or range of sensors and determine the highest priorities of fire. Take out the ones with heavy weapons first, moving outward from nearest to farthest, unless ones farther out were targeting Mike and nearer ones were not. Mike followed the flashing carets listlessly; the moment of rage at Sergeant Wiznowski's death had destroyed something important for him and he could feel depression lingering around the corner.

  Posleen fell relentlessly, but Mike was becoming more distant. It felt as if he was watching the world through TV and the actions in the beyond were unreal shadows.

  He and Sergeant Green covered the entry of Third squad and moved into the building.

  "How are we gonna support from here?" asked Sergeant Green standing in one of the giant vehicle bays on the ground floor.

  "Poorly. We'll move toward the central shaft and down." Mike and Sergeant Green headed inward, mopping up the occasional Posleen along the way. When they did not notice the Posleen, the Posleen nonetheless attacked them. Mike finally determined that most of the Posleen in the building were ones that had been released by the death of a God King. Mike considered the briefings he had, a million years ago back in The World.

  Normal Posleen were barely sentient. Most of them were below moron level on a human scale. There were a few that were of slightly higher intelligence that the God Kings used as foremen or NCOs. But all of the normal Posleen "normals" and "superior normals" were bonded in a very real sense to an individual God King. They would not even flinch from death if the God King ordered them to die.

  But if the God King died, their bonds were released. If this occurred with another God King around, the other God King could try to rebond them. Rebond them "in the heat" as it was called. However, if they were not rebonded in the short period after the death of their lord and master, they were impossible to bond for some time thereafter, up to two weeks. Then they would begin looking for another God King. He mentioned that to Sergeant Green.

  "Must make things interesting for a couple of weeks after the battle, sir."

  "Why?" Mike asked in a disinterested tone.

  "Well, sir," said Sergeant Green, hoping to reawaken the lieutenant's interest in the proceedings, "these things have always attacked us on sight, and I've noticed a bunch of them that are recently dead."

  "Yeah, I noticed that too."

  "I think they attack their own kind, too, sir. So the area behind a battlefield has to be littered with these things, all looking for a fight, for a couple of weeks. Makes it hard to consolidate, yah know?"

  "No secure rear," said Mike, with the beginnings of interest. The lethargic depression from losing Wiznowski was still around the corner, but his basic instinct to continue the battle was beginning to fight it off.

  "Yes, sir. Not if there's been a battle, one where a bunch of God Kings got killed. Those God Kings that took off after the shuttles, what do you want to bet their group mutinied, or whatever, after they left?"

  "Except for the ones that got rebonded in the heat," Mike pointed out.

  "Yes, sir, but look at all the ones around here. They must miss a lot."

  "How do we use that?" Mike mused.

  "Beats me, sir, but it's got to work for us. They have to move supplies, `an army travels on its stomach' right? So, it's got to affect their logistics."

  "Not really, most of their logistics is pickup." About then they were called to help out a team that had run into a group under the leadership of a God King. After a hairy few minutes with no casualties to the humans they were back in their conversation.

  "What did you mean about their logistics, sir?"

  "You mean pickup?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, they survive much the same way an army has survived throughout history, by gleaning. Until fairly recently in history what we now call looting and punish people for was the accepted way that troops fed and paid themselves. Have you noticed anything about these Posleen?"

  "Besides the fact that they're shooting at us, sir?" joked the sergeant.

  "I meant the stuff on their harnesses," Mike answered with a slight smile.

  Sergeant Green studied the nearest Posleen corpse.

  "They've got bits stuck all over them, sir."

  "Yeah, shiny bits. If you dug through the ruck you'd find a few with silver or gold. More high-quality stuff on the God Kings. In their pouches are going to be bits of Indowy and other plant and animal matter. Some of the Indowy is moved back to the landers, ammunition presumably moves forward. The indigenous population and supplies are their food and they gather semivaluable and valuable materials for their bosses. In the consolidation period following conquest they build sort of temple palaces to the God Kings and fill them with the loot they gathered. I guess they're like a lot of soldiers. You know what Kipling says: `It's loot, loot, loot that makes the boys get up and shoot.' But that can't be their only motivation." Can it?

  35

  Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III

  0523 August 5th, 2002 AD

  "Whoooee!" said Stewart, as he entered the company headquarters. "What a fuckin' party!" Behind him the sky was just beginning to lighten, but it was still impossible to tell a black thread from a white. A very technical "before dawn."

  At the tableau at the CQ desk he stopped dead.

  The room was not particularly large, what would have been a living room in a single-wide house trailer. The floor was cheap linoleum, the overhead bulbs shielded with simple plastic covers. On the far wall was a desk made from unfinished plywood with a phone on it. Above the desk was a sign welcoming the entrant to Bravo Company 1st Battalion 555th Infantry, "The REAL Black Panthers." There was a door on the right with the sign "Day Room" over it and a corridor led off to the left.

  Beside the desk, taped to a folding chair with wrap upon wrap of duct tape, was a chubby sergeant unknown to Stewart, his eyes wide over the gag. Behind the desk, butt firmly planted in a swivel chair and feet propped up, was Drill Corporal Adams, eyes closed. A massive gray machine gun of some sort was lying on the desk, the oversized barrel covering the door. His hand rested lightly on the pistol grip. By the door to the day room were three of his squad, similarly armed, machine guns slung on shoulder straps. All three had evil grins on their faces.

  "What the fuck?" asked Stewart and stepped forward for his squad to enter behind him. At the first glimpse of the tableau the squad began to spread out, some of them taking up positions to look out windows while others fanned out through the room. Wilson simply spun around to cover Stewart's back.

  Adams rolled his head up and cracked one eyelid.

  "Top wants to see you in his office," rasped the drill corporal. "Now." He jerked his head towards the corridor and closed his eyes again.

  Stewart took one more look then headed down the corridor. The corridor followed the far wall of the barracks to another open area. In the open area was another desk that had Ampele sprawled across it, mouth open wide and snoring. An MP private was sitting in the chair of the desk, cleaning a 9mm on the oblivious private's broad chest.

  Along the left-hand wall of the corridor were three doorways. The first door had a hand-carved plaque that read "The Swamp." The second had a piece of cardboard with the word "Latrine" scrawled on it in black magic marker. The last doorway was open. Its door was leaning against the wall a few feet to the side.

  The door had a brass plaque on it engraved with the words "First Sergeant Morales." The brass plaque was set in an expensive mahogany frame. On the hinge side of the door was a large bootprint. Stewart contemplated it for a moment by the light drifting from either end of the corridor. He picked up his own boot and compared the tread pattern. Then he held his boot up next to the mark. He shook his head and looked down the corridor. Ampele's boots were in view. He peered at them, looked at the door, Ampele, door. He shook his head again and gingerly knocked on the shattered doorframe. The noise evoked a snort from Ampele. Then the snores started again.

  "Come in!" said Pappas' rumbling voice from within.

  Stewart stepped through the doorway into opulence. The room was very small but almost overwhelmed with expensive objects. The desk was mahogany, hand finished and recently buffed. On it was a top-line twenty-two-inch flat-screen monitor. The carpets were Persian, turned in the lofty wool style of Isfahan. Prints of various quality were on all the walls and the light shone from reworked nineteenth-century oil lamps. They gave the room a warm yellow glow that complimented the deep garnet wood.

  The first sergeant was bent over in front of a large antique safe turning the knob. He glanced over his shoulder then stood up, fury in his eyes.

  "Stewart!" Pappas growled. "Where the hell have you been!"

  Stewart knew better than to give the flippant reply he had rehearsed on the way from the parade ground to the barracks. If nothing else the bootprint made him very circumspect.

  He assumed a position of parade rest. "Sorry, First Sergeant. If we thought you were having problems we would have been here sooner. I admit I pushed the `by sun-up' thing. No excuse."

  Pappas shook his head. "Forget it. I knew you'd push it, but I didn't feel like I could send a runner for you in there," he admitted, gesturing with his chin towards the parade ground. "But we do have problems. I need this safe opened," he continued, "and this computer cracked." He gestured at the workstation on the desk.

  Stewart didn't even bother to protest. "Wilson," he said in a raised voice, "get Minnet." He walked over to the safe. Taking a small black device with an LED readout from his blouse pocket, he placed it on the face of the safe. Pappas took one look, shook his head and stepped out of the way.

  "Yeah, boss?" asked Minnet, slipping through the door. Even smaller than Stewart, the elfin private was rapier quick in his movements. He stopped and looked around. "Jesus!" He picked up a small figurine of a ballerina and checked the bottom. "Damn, this is real Dresden! It's worth a mint!"

  "Put it back," rumbled Pappas, without even looking to see if it disappeared. "It's evidence."

  Stewart nodded his head and the figurine made its way back onto the shelf.

  "And put back the lighter," said Pappas, flipping through files in an unlocked cabinet.

  Minnet looked surprised but slipped the solid-gold lighter out of his sleeve and set it back on the desk.

  Stewart shook his head. "Minnet, take this thing apart," he said, gesturing at the workstation.

  The private nodded his head and got to work.

  Stewart spun the wheel of the safe several times foward then back. After a few moments he nodded his head and began spinning the dial back and forth. In a moment the safe was unlocked.

  "Don't open it," snapped Pappas. "We need the old man here." He headed for the door then stopped. "And don't."

  "We won't," said Stewart.

  "Okay," he said and headed out the door.

  "Don't what?" asked Minnet, contemplating the readout on the black-box he had produced out of his breast pocket. He frowned at the readings and touched a control. Apparently satisfied he smiled again.

  "Don't take nothin'," said Stewart, "don't move nothin', don't touch nothin' you don't have to."

  "Oh." The private punched a button and shook his head. "People think they're so fuckin' smart," he murmured. He inserted a floppy disk into the computer and started it up. When the password screen came up he punched the button on the black-box. The computer looked over the entry, decided that it liked it and let him in. "That's what happens when you change the password for the CMOS.

  "What are we looking for?" he asked a moment later.