First one, then another Gerin ship flashed incandescent, and disappeared from Hebe’s screens.

  Then two Gerin plasma torpedoes hit within seconds of each other. The resulting explosion pushed the Hebe’s defensive screens in so far that they almost touched the hull. Everything more than six inches high was suddenly exposed.

  That’s when the Gerin fighters moved in for the kill. They came in overwhelming numbers, energy weapons spitting lethal light, torpedoes accelerating inward at awesome speeds.

  Unprotected by defensive screens, a section of Hebe’s weapons blisters vanished in the twinkling of an eye, while a row of cooling fins sagged into molten slag.

  Down in the drive room Gil swore as red lights began to flash and klaxons began to hoot. The Gerin had destroyed 30 percent of the ship’s cooling capacity! He and Molly were already stripped to the waist, but sweat was pouring off their bodies. In a little while they’d start losing people to heat prostration.

  Molly touched the tiny receiver to her ear. It was hard to hear over the klaxons. “The Admiral wants more power to the screens! The slimeballs are breaking through!”

  Gil’s stubby fingers tapped a quick tattoo on his keyboard. Power which had been going to Hebe’s drives and energy weapons went to the ship’s defensive screens. The screens flared outward and a cheer went up over the intercom.

  The cheer was little more than distant static to Kyro. His mind was full of interception vectors, tac ratios, ship readouts, and enemy intelligence. One of 132 different weapons counters began to flash on and off in a corner of his mind. The Hebe was running out of torpedoes.

  “It’s time to withdraw,” La’seek said sadly. “The battle is over. Even if we beat this museum piece we don’t have enough ships left to destroy the ground defenses. ‘Ripe for the plucking’ I think you said, Wa’neck? The fruit is somewhat stubborn, is it not?”

  Wa’neck didn’t answer. His spirit was heavy with shame and his mind full of death.

  La’seek turned violet in resignation. He turned to the pilot. “Warn the others. We upwarp in fifteen breathings.”

  Gunny Norvus died when an overloaded junction box exploded and hurled hot shrapnel all over the fire control center. A large piece of metal casing took his head off and splattered the room with blood.”

  Weapons Tech Sonny Baktu wiped the blood off his face, murmured a short prayer, and took control of the automated weapons systems. It was a complicated version of the computer games he’d played as a kid.

  Choose an unmanned weapon, take it off auto, and pick a target. Wait for a delta-shaped fighter to enter the screen like so, line up the cross grid, and pulse the weapon. Presto! Cooked slimeball! Baktu grinned. “Hang around for a while, Gunny, and I’ll send you some more!”

  “Now!” On Kyro’s command the last of the torpedoes and a host of smaller missiles left their tubes and accelerated toward the command ship.

  Many exploded harmlessly as they were intercepted by fighters or antimissile missiles, but three, a plasma torpedo and two missiles, got through and exploded against the other ship’s forcefield.

  By chance all three went off at the same time. The combined explosion drove that section of the globeship’s forcefield into overload and created a small hole.

  The hole existed for only a fraction of a second, but that was long enough for an energy beam to slip through and punch a hole in the vessel’s hull. As luck would have it, the hole was centered over the command and control compartment. There was a moment of intense heat followed by explosive decompression. La’seek and Wa’neck never knew what hit them.

  Seconds later the last globeship disappeared into hyperspace, and in spite of the fact that fully a third of the dreadnought’s crew were dead or wounded, there was cheering on the Hebe’s intercom.

  Kyro sounded tired as he said, “The Gerin left a lot of their fighters behind. Watch ’em, and check for casualties. Well done, everyone.”

  Twenty-six hours later the ship was empty—empty, that is, except for Admiral Kyro. By then Heath had returned with enough ships to protect the planet, the last of the Gerin fighters had been rounded up, and the casualties had been taken dirtside.

  At his own request Kyro had stayed behind. He was still plugged in, still aware of the ship, still in command. If the Gerin returned he would know and give the alarm. In the meantime he snuggled deeper into the warmth of his metal flesh and gave a sigh of satisfaction. He was whole again.

  Brig Rats

  ON MOST DAYS the military hall was an empty place, home to beams of dusty sunlight, and the occasional maintenance bot. But this day was different. Today it was overflowing with officers, all shuffling toward a large pair of double doors, filling the hall with the rumble of their conversation.

  The officers nodded at ramrod straight marine guards as they passed through the doors, and did their best to avoid eye contact with Colonel Ras Kilgor. It was as if Kilgor had some sort of infectious disease. In military terms, he did.

  Kilgor was seated just down from the double doors in a straight-backed, wooden chair. It was hard, overly ornate, and a size too small for his large frame.

  Kilgor was a big man at six-foot-four and 220 pounds. He had even features, green eyes, and a nose which nature and a long succession of opponents had beaten fiat.

  He watched the officers with a crooked smile. Some hated him, but most were simply confused. What was he anyway? A cold blooded monster? Or someone who’d done the best he could with an impossible situation. In a few minutes the court martial would resume and they’d learn the answer.

  The floating spy eye was swept sideways by an errant breeze and buzzed back into position. The device was supposed to eliminate the need for guards and protect Kilgor’s dignity. It didn’t. His butt was planted at the center of ground zero and everyone knew it.

  The buzz of conversation was cut off as the double doors hissed closed and the marine guards went to parade rest. Kilgor was sure that any two of his troopers would have executed the drill with more snap.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the click of boots on polished stone. The major was short and stocky. His uniform was perfect, so crisp that it crackled as he moved, causing Kilgor to take him for a pencil pusher.

  Then Kilgor saw the golden star burst on the man’s chest and revised his estimate upwards. Way upwards. A Medal of Valor! They didn’t give those to pencil pushers or hardly anyone else for that matter. Kilgor knew. He had one himself.

  “Colonel Kilgor?”

  Kilgor stood. It felt good. “Yes?”

  “The court stands ready, sir.”

  What was that in the major’s eyes? Compassion? Pity?

  Kilgor forced a smile. “Thank you, Major. Let’s move out. We wouldn’t want to keep ’em waiting.”

  The major smiled. The colonel was okay. Too bad about the court martial.

  The major gestured towards the massive doors. “Sir?”

  Kilgor nodded and headed for the doors. The major was two steps behind him with the spy eye bringing up the rear.

  The marines crashed to attention. They wore light duty ceramic body armor and carried Zitter IV blast rifles. Years in the Corps had scrubbed all expression from their faces.

  Kilgor nodded to each of them as the doors hissed open. Now for the verdict. Guilty or innocent? The odds said “guilty,” but Kilgor had allowed himself to hope. After all, General Kelly, better known to her troops as “Killer Kelly,” sat on the tribunal and was sympathetic to line officers.

  In fact, Kelly was widely known for stomping through rear echelon areas, grabbing staff officers, demanding to know how many bugs they’d killed during that particular campaign. God help the poor slobs who said, “none.”

  On the other hand there was Admiral Wanto, more politician than officer, and a swabby to boot. Kilgor could expect damned little sympathy from him.

  And at last, but not least, there was General Hurd. A “do it by the book” martinet, presently in command of Arista’s military academy, and widely known as “Hard-Ass Hurd.”

  Still, there was hope, and Kilgor tried to believe in it.

  A pair of boxy news cams swooped down to capture the moment. The public wanted to know: was Kilgor a man or a monster?

  Not only that, but the trial was a political event as well, with implications for Arista’s non-human allies. Would the “Monster of Maldura” pay for his crimes? Or will he be released after a show of concern?

  All eyes were on Kilgor as he began the long walk down the center aisle. The auditorium was so large that the members of the tribunal were tiny figures in the distance, and Kilgor couldn’t tell them apart.

  High windows admitted shafts of yellow-orange sunlight which splashed the audience below. The walls were paneled with richly polished wood and covered with hundreds of war banners. Many were torn and stained with blood.

  Kilgor had entered the auditorium only twice before: Once when graduating from Arista’s Military Academy; and once when receiving the Medal of Valor. Now, on his third visit, both honors were in doubt.

  Kilgor remembered throwing his cap in the air with all the rest and wondered who got it. Were they in the audience today? Dead on some alien battlefield? Or just drifting through another day?

  Kilgor’s eyesight was extremely good, but the tribunal and the table before them was still a long way off. Kilgor could see the glitter of metal but nothing more.

  Which way was the dagger pointed? Towards him or away? He couldn’t tell, but by long standing tradition, the hilt signaled innocence, and the point guilt.

  The audience already knew his fate. Those seated toward the front of the auditorium could see the dagger and were passing the word. It sounded like the long drawn out hiss of a snake. Then the process was over, and they waited for Kilgor’s reaction.

  Outside of the clacking sound made by Kilgor’s boots, and the major behind him, there was almost total silence inside the auditorium. Time seemed to slow and almost stop as the distant blur resolved itself into three people and a table. And there it was, polished steel on dark wood, the harbinger of his future.

  Kilgor felt something heavy fall in his stomach, and the blood rush into his face. The point was toward him. The verdict was “guilty.”

  The news cams whirred in close, the audience rustled, and Kilgor stopped before the tribunal. General Kelly looked grim, but Kilgor saw sympathy in her eyes. He knew without asking that she’d supported him and lost.

  As for Wanto and Hurd, they wore satisfied expressions, and seemed almost smug about the verdict.

  As the most senior officer present, it was Wanto’s duty to read the verdict. The naval officer had a long thin face and hooded eyes. He checked to make sure the news cams had a good shot, cleared his throat, and picked up the fax.

  “Having heard testimony, and having examined relevant evidence, we have reached a verdict. We find Colonel Ras Kilgor guilty of wrongfully destroying the village of Maldura on the planet Ulona II, guilty of murdering all two thousand four hundred and two of its sentient inhabitants, and guilty of disobeying lawful orders.”

  There was more, much more, detailing his lesser offenses and citing relevant portions of military regulation, but Kilgor didn’t listen. He was light years away on UIona II.

  He remembered the reinforcements which never came, the supplies that never arrived, the air support which never materialized.

  He remembered the stench of UIona’s swamps, the smell of his own unwashed body, and the stink of death.

  He remembered endless days and nights of combat, of stumbling out of the command bunker just as tired as he’d gone in, of popping stims to stay awake.

  He remembered bugs dropping out of the sky, tunneling up from below, and charging the perimeter.

  He remembered the thump of mortars, the chatter of automatic slug throwers, and the whine of energy weapons.

  And above all, he remembered the chittering sound the bugs made as they broke through the wire and swarmed into the bunkers.

  Yes, he was accountable for his actions, and yes the league had the right to judge.

  But only those who’d been there. Only those who’d seen men and women overrun by charging bugs, who’d heard their screams, and felt the waves of hate.

  Then they could judge. Then they could place blame. Then they could assess guilt.

  Wanto’s voice came flooding back.

  “And so it is the finding of this tribunal that Colonel Ras Kilgor, formerly commanding officer of the Fourth Battalion, League Guards, shall be stripped of all rank and honors, to serve the rest of his natural life at hard labor. This sentence to be formally imposed at evening parade.”

  The audience remained seated as Kilgor was escorted from the auditorium by a squad of armed marines and marched to his quarters. Now that he was officially “guilty,” his dignity, or lack of it, no longer mattered.

  It took him a full half hour to work up the courage to call his father. Chances were that he’d never get another opportunity. Military prisons aren’t known for their amenities.

  The call went through but was refused at the other end. Lt. General Alex Kilgor Ret. wasn’t taking calls. Especially from his dishonored son.

  It hurt, but less than expected. It seemed there was some sort of limit to the amount of pain he could feel. Good. More was on the way.

  The afternoon passed slowly with nothing to do but stare at the walls of his small apartment and think how things might have been.

  Finally, at sixteen-hundred hours, there was a knock at his door.

  “Enter!”

  The door opened and a Gunnery Sergeant stepped inside. He was a small man with lean, no-nonsense features and a garment bag draped over his left arm.

  “Good afternoon Colonel. My name’s Whippet. It’s time to get dressed. Parade’s about an hour away. Sorry things turned out as they did sir, but that’s the crotch for you.”

  As a member of the Guards, Kilgor was army, whereas Whippet was a marine, and therefore in the “crotch,” as jar-heads had referred to their organization for more than a thousand years. By tradition Kilgor could not be served by someone in the same uniform he had dishonored.

  “Thanks gunny. I’m sorry you caught the duty. You on the outs with your C. O. or something?”

  Whippet grinned. “Something like that sir. Now, if you’ll just shuck that uniform, I brought you a brand new one.”

  Half an hour later Kilgor examined himself in the mirror. The gray uniform fit like a glove, as it should, since it had been tailor made for him that very afternoon.

  Kilgor knew without checking that his comets and medals were only tacked on: That way Wanto could rip them off without spraining his wrist. Another exercise for the cameras. Kilgor sighed.

  “Okay, gunny. Let’s get on with it.”

  Whippet nodded, called for Kilgor’s marine escort, and held out his hand. Kilgor took it.

  “Good luck sir. For whatever it’s worth, there’s plenty who think you did the right thing.”

  Kilgor nodded soberly. “Thanks, gunny. Kill some bugs for me.”

  Whippet stepped back and snapped to attention. His arm came across his chest in a formal salute. “Sir!”

  Kilgor returned the salute and stepped out the door. He would never see the apartment or Whippet again.

  The escort’s boots crashed down in perfect cadence as they marched Kilgor down a series of gleaming halls, out through a permeable force field, and onto the grinder.

  The grinder was a vast expanse of gray duracrete also referred to by a number of more derogatory names. During his days in the academy, Kilgor had performed push-ups on just about every square foot of that hated surface.

  The staff sergeant shouted some orders, and they marched towards the headquarters building. Although the spy eye had disappeared, two news cams were very much in attendance. They darted here and there gathering shots while a bored newswoman provided a running commentary from a studio hundreds of miles away.

  The sun was low in the sky and warmed the right side of Kilgor’s face. The air was soft and sweet, a reminder of Arista’s beauty, and the many who’d died to protect her.

  The signs of war were everywhere. A flight of deltashaped aero-space fighters roamed overhead, and higher up, running along the very edge of space itself, a squadron of destroyer escorts streaked across the sky.

  But they were only signs—unblooded portents of the horror yet to come. Out there, on planets like Ulona II, Arista was losing the war. In months, a year at the most, Arista would fight for its life.

  Just ahead, a company of recruits wheeled and turned, marching across the gray surface of the grinder towards a line of distant barracks.

  A single glance told Kilgor they were green, farm kids mostly, learning to obey orders. Orders that would cause many of them to die.

  How many boys and girls would it take to stop the alien Hothri? How many were left in the peaceful farms and villages of Arista? Enough to save the planet?

  Kilgor didn’t know. Nobody knew.

  Fluffy white clouds scudded across an otherwise blue sky and songbirds chirped the arrival of evening. It was the worst day of Kilgor’s life, yet beautiful at the same time.

  How could that be? Was there someone beyond the perimeter of the base for whom this was the best day of their life? For reasons unknown, had the weather sided with them?

  “Battalion! Attenhut!”

  On those words the two-hundred and sixty-seven surviving members of Kilgor’s battalion came to attention.

  Kilgor’s escort wheeled him into place and took two steps backward. He was at right angles to the troops and senior officers.

  Even now Kilgor took pride in the way the battalion looked, in their strength, in what they’d accomplished . . . In what he’d accomplished. The fact that these men and women were still alive proved that he’d made the right decision, done the right thing.

  “Yes,” a small voice said, “you saved them . . . and paid with more than two-thousand innocent lives. Blood for blood. Are you proud of that?”