I remembered some TV shows where this had happened to the hero, so I kind of understood what had happened. It seemed to me that the best thing was to go with this and get her done.

  To that end, I found a maintenance panel in the floor. Malik knew about it, had hidden contraband here before. There were extra rations, mostly, and a few stims that weren’t standard issue. The space beneath was cramped but dry, lined with some kind of polymer that kept moisture out.

  I dragged the T-suit from where I’d put it and stuffed it inside the panel, making sure the black globe was protected. Then I memorized exactly how to find this spot again. It was Storage Room C-7, third row of lockers from the door, fourth panel from the wall, between the water reclamation unit, and the emergency atmosphere processor.

  I’d barely gotten the panel closed when the door burst open. A short, stocky soldier in similar brown armor stood there, breathing hard. His helmet was off, revealing a face that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts: a nose broken reset wrong, one eye lower than the other, and burn scars creating a patchwork across his skin.

  “Colonel Malik!” he saluted, fist to chest. “Commissar Horvath demands your presence immediately. There is a full unit briefing in five minutes.”

  I stood, Malik’s bearing taking over: straight spine, economical movements and the body language of a man who’d learned to show neither weakness nor defiance. Both could get you killed down here.

  “Status report, Signalman Petric,” I said.

  The name came from Malik’s memories, along with a hundred other details. Petric had been with the unit for two years. He’d lost three fingers to a Chirr larvae that had hidden in his ration pack. He was good with communications equipment but terrible at cards.

  “Second Recon found something big, sir. It’s an old tech chamber, deep in the Chirr territory. The Commissar wants us to punch through and secure it before the hive mobilizes.”

  The old tech chamber, exactly what I needed, delivered like a gift from hell. Chak-Tal must have brought me back to exactly the right moment in time, or sideways to here, anyway.

  “How deep is this chamber?” I asked, following Petric through corridors that Malik knew like his own heartbeat. The walls were the particular shade of gray that came from mixing industrial sealant with despair, and every few meters there were brown stains that no amount of cleaning could remove. Blood, mostly, but sometimes other things, too.

  “Twelve levels down, sir; past the acid lakes, and nursery warrens.” Petric’s voice dropped. “And past the Bone Gardens.”

  The Bone Gardens. Malik’s memories supplied the image before I could stop them: corridors lined with human skeletons that the Chirr had arranged for insect-alien reasons. The xeno-biologists didn’t know if it was some kind of religious or artistic expression. The soldiers who’d seen them just called them warnings.

  I did remember a Bone Gardens from the Polarion game system in the Dreadstar. That had been in an asteroid belt. Had that been an old memory from this time?

  We entered a briefing room. Twenty-three Vomag soldiers stood at attention, their armor showing the wear of constant combat. A few were Malik’s men, my men for now, and I knew each of them through his memories. The rest were Vomag officers of different units for the assault.

  My group was to the side. There was Master Sergeant Tec, who’d saved Malik’s life six times and counting. Private Lavern, the youngest in the unit, was barely eighteen, gene-modded for enhanced reflexes but still jumping at shadows. And Corporal Strang, who hummed songs under his breath during firefights. They were Vomags—gene-modified humans bred for war—but also people, part of my command unit.

  Commissar Horvath stood at the front of the room.

  He was tall for an unmodified human, maybe six-three, wearing the black and red uniform of the Bo Taw Police: the collaborators who enforced High Polarion rule. His face was pale and sharp, like a knife made of bone, and his eyes were the flat gray of a corpse. He had a liquidation device strapped to his left wrist. One touch, and the micro-bomb in any of our skulls would detonate.

  “Vomags,” he began. “The High Polarions have honored us with a critical mission.”

  Nobody responded. We’d learned long ago that commissars didn’t actually want responses: they wanted listeners for their speeches.

  “Deep beneath us, past the current Chirr infestation, lies a chamber of ancient technology. The xeno-archaeologists believe it predates both Human and the High Polarion presence on this world. Our glorious masters want it secured.”

  He activated a holographic display. The 3D map showed our current position in the tunnel complex, a sprawling maze that descended into the planet’s crust like the root system of some impossible tree. Green lines marked explored tunnels; red lines marked Chirr territory, and deep, deep down, almost at the edge of the display, was a pulsing blue dot.

  “This is an old but newly discovered tech chamber from the dim past,” Horvath said. “The preliminary scans suggest functional equipment, possibly ancient weapons, possibly worse. From what the recon team found, it seems clear that the Chirr have built their primary hive around it. That is going to mean bitter fighting to reach it.”

  No one spoke.

  Bitter fighting—it would be the worst kind of hell.

  “The 44th and 67th Regiments will attack from the north tubes to draw Chirr response. The 23rd, 1004th, and 1011th Regiments will strike secondary positions while the 51st and 9th will stage a mass assault from the west. The key to this will be the 2051st and 293rd Regiments punching through from here. This assault will use speed and violence, accepting unlimited casualties in order to reach the old tech chamber.”

  That sounded awful. Someone really wanted us to reach the tech chamber all right.

  “What’s the estimated Chirr resistance?” Colonel Veke of the 293rd asked.

  “Between here and the objective, the conservative estimate is thirty thousand hive soldiers and an unknown number of larvae and eggs.”

  The room became deathly silent.

  Horvath scowled, clearly not liking that. “High Polarion Zorion will be observing our progress. He has high expectations for this assault.”

  It took a second, then the name hit me like a slap. I wondered if my pilot had put this into my memories. First, he had been known as Zorion. Later, he became the Burnt Polarion. That meant he was over two thousand years old, at least, the guy lying in the Dreadstar.

  That also meant he was here, in this time, younger but still a High Polarion. Through Malik’s memories, I could see him: skin like polished pearl, features perfectly symmetrical. He was beautiful the way a sword is beautiful, all function and killing purpose. He ran this section of the campaign, experimenting with different soldier variants, testing human limits in the tunnels, among other things.

  “What is the mission timeline?” I asked.

  “We move in an hour. Estimated time to reach the objective is fourteen hours, assuming minimal resistance.” Horvath laughed at his own sick joke. “The realistic timeline is thirty-six to forty-two hours. If we’re not at the objective in forty-two hours, the operation will be considered a failure and liquidation protocols will be enacted.”

  Liquidation protocols meant soldiers would start being eliminated as too weak to be considered Vomags.

  “Your load-out is standard tunnel configuration plus extra ammunition and demolition charges,” Horvath said. “Each soldier carries five days of rations, though if we need them all, we’ll already be dead. Stims will be distributed at the staging point. Are there any more questions?”

  Nobody else asked them. Too many questions got you killed or marked for combat reconditioning: drugs and neural adjustment, that turned you into a more compliant soldier.

  I realized that Malik had avoided reconditioning for five months. That was some kind of record down here. Most soldiers got dosed every few weeks.

  “Excellent,” Horvath said. “Prepare your equipment and report to Staging Area Seven in fifty minutes. You are dismissed. Colonel Malik, a word.”

  I realized something else as others began filing out. Horvath and Malik did not get along. That didn’t seem good at all.

  -56-

  When we were alone, Horvath moved closer, close enough that I could smell the synthetic cologne he used to cover the stench of stale sweat and stimulants.

  “Your record indicates you haven’t received combat conditioning in five months, Colonel.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Yet your combat efficiency remains within acceptable parameters. Curious.” His gray eyes studied me like I was a specimen. “The Medicae theorize that some Vomag variants develop resistance to the conditioning drugs. It makes them more effective soldiers but also more unpredictable.”

  “I follow orders, sir.”

  “Yes, you do. But you also think. I can see it in your eyes, Colonel. You’re always thinking, always planning.” He stepped back. “That’s why I requested that you lead the main drive team. The tunnels we’re entering are older than the usual Chirr warrens. They’re from the original colonization, maybe even before. Strange things happen in old places. I need someone who can adapt, who can think when the situation goes beyond standard parameters.”

  “I understand, sir.” The weaselly bastard wanted me to be his bodyguard.

  “Do you? Because what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.” He paused, seeming to weigh his words. “The old tech chamber isn’t just valuable for its technology. I’ve learned through covert channels that the High Polarions believe it contains something specific: a power amplifier from the First Expansion, when humanity tried to fight them as equals. It’s the kind of technology that could theoretically give even a normal human the strength to challenge a High Polarion.”

  My blood ran cold. That was exactly what I needed.

  “Obviously, such technology can’t be allowed to exist,” Horvath said. “Our orders are to secure it for study, but between you and me, Colonel, I suspect we’re really there to ensure its destruction.”

  That made sense. The High Polarions didn’t share power.

  “What do you need from me, sir?”

  He squinted at me. “I need you to get us there alive. The other units are not really diversions. They’re sacrifices. I’ve learned that High Command expects them to die.”

  He paused, maybe to let that sink in. This was going to be worse than the Bauxite Hive of the Mid-Equatorial Region. The airships had pulled out the remnants after half a million Vomags died in the deep tunnels.

  “When we get to that chamber,” Horvath said, “I need you to follow my orders exactly, no matter what we find. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and Colonel, after this mission, you will undergo combat conditioning. That’s not a request. Five months is far too long for independent thought.”

  I wanted to bash his face in. But as Malik, I kept a stoic countenance.

  He eyed me a little longer, nodded and left.

  I stood alone in the briefing room, Malik’s rage mixing with my own. The man I was wearing like a skin suit had been planning something: not escape, because there was no escape from Fenris III, but something else. Through his memories, I could feel the shape of it, like looking at an object through frosted glass.

  He’d been collecting information, patrol schedules, commissar habits and the locations of vital caches. He’d been planning to—

  The memory cut off, locked behind some kind of mental barrier. Malik had been conditioned before, and part of that conditioning included blocks on certain thought patterns. But I could feel the edges of his plan, and it had something to do with the deep tunnels.

  I made my way to the armory, where my regiment was preparing for the mission. The chamber stank of gun oil and fear, soldiers checking and rechecking equipment they’d already checked a dozen times. It was ritual, something to do with their hands while their minds tried not to think about what was coming.

  “Colonel,” Master Sergeant Tec said as he approached. “The men are nervous. We’ve never gone this deep before.”

  “I know.” I checked my own rifle, a heavy assault model designed for tunnel fighting: short barrel for close quarters, high-velocity rounds that could punch through Chirr chitin.

  I nodded for him to continue.

  “The new replacements don’t understand what they’re walking into. And the veterans…” Tec paused. “The veterans know exactly what awaits them. That’s worse.”

  Through Malik’s memories, I knew Tec was right. The deep tunnels were different.

  “Keep them focused on the immediate objectives,” I said. “We tackle one tunnel at a time and one chamber at a time. If we think too far ahead, we’ll go crazy before the Chirr even find us.”

  “And the Commissar?” Tec asked.

  I looked around first. Every regiment had moles and spies for the Bo Taw. “The Commissar is going to get people killed. We both know it. When he does, we adapt and survive. That’s all we can do.”

  Tec nodded, understanding the subtext. Don’t try to save everyone. Save who you can.

  “Sir,” Private Lavern approached, carrying extra ammunition. “Supply reports we’re authorized for nerve gas grenades. Should I—”

  “Forget that,” I said. Malik’s memories supplied the reason. “Nerve gas in old tunnels is suicide. You never know what kind of air circulation you’ll hit. It could blow back on us.”

  The hour passed quickly.

  Before I knew it, we assembled at Staging Area Seven, where a massive vault door marked the entrance to the deep tunnels. The metal was scored with claw marks and acid burns, and someone had painted: “ABANDON HOPE” above it in what looked like blood but was probably just rust-red paint.

  Other units were there too—support teams that would hold our retreat path, Medicae teams that would try to save whoever we dragged back, and a single High Polarion observer.

  It wasn’t Zorion, but one of his subordinates, a woman.

  Every human in the staging area kept their eyes down. You didn’t look directly at the High Polarions unless ordered to. They could kill you for it, or worse, decide you were interesting.

  “Commissar Horvath,” she said. “Your soldiers are prepared?”

  “Yes, Divine One.” Horvath actually bowed, the liquidation device on his wrist catching the light.

  “Excellent. Zorion has high expectations for this operation.” She turned those impossible eyes on me. “Colonel Malik, you have an impressive record: fourteen deep incursions, all successful.”

  “Thank you, Divine One,” I said, keeping my eyes on her feet. Even those were perfect, which was deeply disturbing.

  “Try to make this fifteen,” she said. “It would be inconvenient to train another tunnel specialist of your caliber.”

  I nodded stiffly.

  She glided away, and every human in the area started breathing again.

  “Take your final stim injection,” Horvath said. “Then line up.”

  The Medicae moved among us with auto-injectors, pumping us full of combat drugs. The cocktail hit my system like liquid fire, giving me heightened reflexes, suppressed fear response, and enhanced aggression. It also did something to time perception, making everything seem to move in sharp, distinct moments rather than smooth motion.

  The vault door opened with a grinding roar, revealing darkness beyond. The tunnel mouth was easily twenty feet across, big enough for heavy equipment, but I knew from Malik’s memories that it would narrow as we descended. By the time we reached Chirr territory, we’d be fighting in spaces barely wide enough for two men abreast.

  “Move out!” Horvath ordered.

  We entered the tunnel, our helmet lights cutting through the darkness. The walls were smooth metal for the first hundred meters, but I could already see where they ended and where the Chirr excavations began.

  We used standard formation, with two fire teams covering alternating arcs, heavy weapons in the middle, and Commissar Horvath safely in the rear.

  The sound of our boots echoed off the walls, a rhythmic thunder that announced our presence to anything listening.

  And in the deep tunnels, something was always listening.

  -57-

  The smooth metal walls gave way to Chirr acid-built surfaces melted and re-hardened with their epoxies. Helmet lights revealed a glossy sheen like the inside of a throat. Maybe worse, the ceiling dripped with condensation that wasn’t quite water, each drop hissing when it hit our armor.

  I might have started bellowing, hating these claustrophobic tunnels, but Malik’s personality and the drugs helped dampen that.

  “We’re switching to infrared,” I said over the unit comms, toggling my helmet display.

  The world became a landscape of blues and purples, with hot spots showing where the planet’s natural heat leaked through cracks in the tunnel walls.

  “Any contacts?” Horvath’s voice crackled through the comm.

  “Negative,” I said. The fact that he asked so soon showed his nervousness. It was ridiculous, really, but not utterly unwarranted, I suppose.

  “But the walls are 32°C and climbing,” I said, throwing him a bone.

  “The Chirr like it hot,” Master Sergeant Tec said from behind, maybe doing the same thing.

  All of us knew that the heat meant we were entering active territory.

  Soon, the tunnel began to angle down, and then even more so. At that point, we had to brace ourselves against the walls to keep from sliding. The surface under my gloves felt soft, like touching firm gelatin. Malik’s memories told me it was a biofilm the Chirr secreted, partly for navigation, partly to mark territory. It could also dissolve human flesh within several hours.

  Time passed as we negotiated Chirr territory.

  A solid forty minutes after entering the Chirr tunnels, Private Lavern whispered, “I detect movement at two o’clock, thirty meters.”