On the plus side, Defender Seven was brand new, and relatively undamaged from previous Hothri raids. Since the platform had been unarmed and offered no resistance, the Hothri left it pretty much alone.

  According to the portacomp strapped to Kilgor’s thigh, the platform had taken two missiles, one of which caused damage to six percent of Defender Seven’s hull, while the other failed to go off at all. The damage had been repaired more than a week before.

  That was the good news. Most of the rest was bad. Due to wartime shortages, the fortress was fifty-one percent short on long range energy weapons, eighty-seven percent short on missiles for what launchers it had, and well, the list went on and on.

  The shuttle banked, turned, and skimmed “under” the platform’s hull. Of course “up” and “down” don’t mean much in space, but because Arista filled the viewscreens with her blue-white beauty, Kilgor thought of that direction as “down.”

  Up ahead, Kilgor saw hundreds of reflectorized balls hanging down from Defender Seven’s hull, each connected by a temporary tether. He grinned. Here at least was something he had too many of.

  Through some gigantic screw-up, the idiots in supply had sent him 423 remote energy projectors instead of the 125 he actually rated.

  Once freed from their tethers, the REP’s could propel themselves up to twenty miles out, where they would keep station on Defender Seven and provide defensive fire. Needless to say, Kilgor had no intention of giving the REP’s away. He turned to the pilot.

  “Home, James. I’ve seen enough.”

  The pilot, whose name really was “James,” grinned. He goosed the shuttle’s drives and scooted for the main lock. He’d be glad to dump the brass and grab some rack time.

  Kilgor watched main entry port grow larger and felt a rock grow in his gut. As of yesterday there were 1467 convicted murderers, thieves, arsonists, and worse aboard Defender Seven.

  Al of them, including the swabbies, were armed with full marine kit, including Zitter blast rifles, Smith 10mm slug guns, combat knives, and battle axes.

  In addition there were crew-served weapons, rocket Iaunchers, a wide array of explosives, and just about every other weapon you could think of.

  On the recommendation of his staff, Wires, Red, Freese, Bugs, and Susan, Kilgor had neglected to issue his troops any ammunition until now. As a matter of fact, live ammo was being issued right about now, and there was the possibility that he might step out of the main entry lock and into a full blown mutiny.

  Would the Brig Rats stand by Arista? Would they follow his orders? Would they fight? His company commanders thought so . . . but nobody knew for sure.

  The way things stood, Kilgor had 520 navy personnel to operate the platform’s life support systems, heavy weapons, and twelve aerospace fighters. In fact, the pilots were the only people aboard not convicted of some crime.

  Wires was in charge of communications, a one time CPO named Dolby was in charge of the platform’s heavy weapons, and a cashiered Commander by the name of Stein was head of engineering.

  They also had a manic-depressive medical officer named Potter, who, along with Susan, headed up the medical department.

  There were 947 marines which Kilgor had divided up into three companies, each comprised of three one-hundred person platoons, plus a headquarters group consisting of forty-five technicians.

  Red, Freese, and Bugs commanded a company each. Kilgor had noticed that their choices of lieutenants, sergeants, and corporals were not always the same ones he’d make, but there was no time to second guess them. They were either right or wrong. Time, and contact with the Hothri would tell.

  The pilot came in too fast, fired his retros a hair too late, and hit hard. Kilgor gave him a dirty look and James blushed.

  Damn it. The story would make the rounds and he’d catch hell from the other pilots.

  The lock irised open, Kilgor stepped through, and heard the unfamiliar twittering of bosun’s pipes. There was Wires, standing at attention, along with a side party of spotless marines. He knew many of them from prison.

  Though no expert on naval tradition, Kilgor recognized this as the traditional ceremony welcoming a commanding officer aboard his or her vessel, and something more as well. His staff was letting him know that they had things under control.

  Not only that, but the bulkhead just opposite the entry port bore a colorful, and completely unauthorized emblem. It was a large gray rat. The rat had ruby red eyes, a long pointy tail, and a lightning bolt clutched between long sharp teeth. Above the rat were the words, “First Battalion, Third Marines,” and below it was the motto, “Touch Me If You Dare.”

  Kilgor made a production of inspecting the emblem. He could feel the tension build. What would the old man do? Would he freak out? Put the whole outfit on report? Most, if not all of the side party had served under officers who would do just that.

  Kilgor turned to Captain Wires. He returned her salute. By common agreement the original Brig Rats still used their nicknames. They claimed it helped morale, and Kilgor had bowed to their judgement.

  “An outstanding emblem Captain. Quite fitting, and well executed. My compliments to the artist. Please complete the forms required to make it official. Carry on.” And with that Kilgor strode down the corridor.

  Behind him Wires dismissed the side party, and they hurried off to tell all their friends. “The old man liked the emblem! He told Wires to file papers on it! I told you the sonovabitch was okay!”

  And with that action, approved or not, the battalion forever known as the “Brig Rats” came into being.

  The Hothri arrived thirty-seven hours later. There was nothing clever or subtle about their approach. Somewhere in their complicated social structure a decision had been made to take Arista, and take it they would, or die trying.

  This time there would be no feints, no tricky maneuvers, just an all-out assault. Hundreds of ships would throw themselves at the less numerous human navy until the planet lay bare and ready for invasion.

  Then wave after wave of troop ships would drop into orbit. Quickly their bellies would open to scatter thousands of egg-shaped landers across Arista’s surface, each a durasteel seed, packed with alien life.

  After that, the cleansing would begin. Where the Hothri lay their eggs no threat could be allowed. Each and every human must die. So it had been, and so it must always be.

  Kilgor forced himself to sip a cup of coffee. Outwardly he was calm and relaxed, but inside he churned with doubt. The bugs were coming, the detectors’ screens were filled with them, but Defender Seven was far from ready. List after list of things undone crowded Kilgor’s mind and fought for his attention.

  The com tech’s voice was calm. “Initial contact, five and counting.”

  Right. Deal with things as they are. Five and counting. Kilgor looked around. He would fight the first part of the battle from here, Command Center One, buried deep in Defender Seven’s armored core.

  Later, unless things went very well indeed, he would fight in the corridors themselves. Like every other man and woman aboard, Kilgor wore full space armor, and a full complement of personal weapons.

  Command Center One was a circular room with six major exits. Each exit corresponded to one of the six major corridors which radiated out to the platform’s perimeter.

  Kilgor’s command chair was equipped with four small repeater screens, powered so he could rotate a full 360 degrees, and capable of self-sustained operation for a full eight hours after fusion reaction shut-down.

  From his position on a raised dais at the center of the room, Kilgor could see each of Defender Seven’s forty-eight positions, and call up their screens at the touch of a button.

  “Initial contact, four and counting.”

  Kilgor touched a button. A graphic representation of the bug attack force appeared on screen one. There were hundreds of red Hothri squares and only a scattering of green dots.

  Kilgor winced as an entire clutch of green dots disappeared along with hundreds of human lives. The navy was suffering horribly. But they’d bought some time, a few priceless hours during which those on the ground could prepare and thousands of lives might be saved. And that was his mission as well, to buy Arista some time, and make the bugs pay.

  “Initial contact, three and counting.”

  Kilgor put the coffee down and hoped no one saw his hand shake. He touched a button and sick bay appeared on screen four. Susan was there, working shoulder to shoulder with the other medical personnel, barely recognizable in her bulky armor.

  Unaware of Kilgor’s scrutiny she said something to the woman next to her and turned away. Kilgor bit his lip and wondered if they’d see each other again.

  “Initial contact, two and counting.”

  Kilgor touched another button. Lieutenant James appeared on screen two. He was strapped into his aerospace fighter and awaiting launch. He looked very young. Aware of Kilgor’s presence he gave a thumbs up.

  “Take care of this tub, Colonel. We’Il need something to land on.”

  Kilgor smiled. “We’ll be here Lieutenant. Burn some bugs for me.”

  “Initial contact, one and counting.”

  Kilgor switched away knowing James would launch thirty seconds later. The fighters were cutting it close but doing what they could to conserve on fuel.

  A voice came over his headset. It belonged to Stein. “Engineering, sir. Screens at max. All systems green.”

  The next voice was unfamiliar. It belonged to Dr. Potter. He’d only heard it once or twice before. “Medical. We’re here.”

  Then came Wires. “Communications, sir. All systems go.”

  Bugs followed. “Companies one, two, and three, in position and ready, sir.”

  Dolby was close behind. “Weapons, sir. Permission to fire.”

  Kilgor swallowed. “Thank you guns. Permission granted. Good luck everyone.”

  “We have enemy contact,” the com tech droned, and the battle for Defender Seven began.

  Lieutenant James fought heavy G’s as his fighter flashed out and away from Defender Seven. The other fighters were behind him, eleven delta-shaped dealers of death, outnumbered and out-gunned.

  Long thin fingers of blue light reached out to kill James, but he rolled right and slid in between them.

  Missiles slithered from alien launch tubes, accelerated away, and sought the heat of his drives.

  James laughed hysterically, launched missiles of his own, and watched them blossom left and right.

  There, up ahead, a Hothri battleship, light stuttering from a hundred projectors, blotting out the stars beyond.

  James centered his cross hairs in the middle of the Hothri hull, sent the picture to both of his torpedos, and fired.

  Both hit the ship’s defensive screen at the same time and went off in perfect unison. The energy released by the explosion drove the force field inward until it touched the alien hull. The battleship disappeared a fraction of a second later, quickly followed by James and his tiny fighter.

  Kilgor saw but had no time to grieve. Dozens of Hothri fighters were swarming in towards the platform. Knowing their energy cannon wouldn’t even scratch the platform’s reflectorized hull, the bugs used torpedos instead, firing them in waves.

  The force field held, but grew brighter and brighter, as it neared overload.

  In the meantime Defender Seven fought back. Energy projectors reached out to destroy Hothri fighters with computerized efficiency. Missile after missile reached out, some intercepted, some intercepting.

  Then, just as Kilgor had feared, the bugs located the wedge-shaped dead spot in the platform’s defensive armament and vectored in.

  Kilgor eyed his screens and touched a button. “Guns . . . Kilgor here. It’s time to give the bugs our little surprise.”

  A hundred yards away in the fire control center, Dolby’s ferret like face broke into a big grin, and his fist slammed down on a square of plastic. Dolby liked to kill things, aliens included.

  Miles away, spread out along imaginary lines extending outwards from the unfinished section of hull, hundreds of remote energy projectors came to sudden life. Thanks to Wires and the jury rigged computer network she’d designed, each one of the REP’s was slaved to Defender Seven’s main battle computer.

  Operating in synchronization, the projectors burped coherent light. Suddenly, the previously safe approach vector was transformed into a trap and the Hothri fighters exploded one after the other until none were left.

  As soon as the last one was destroyed the REP’s were repositioned to defend the platform’s entire perimeter.

  Kilgor took a quick electronic look around. The other defense platforms along with Arista’s two surviving moon bases, were still in the fight. Much to his surprise twelve hours had elapsed since initial contact, twelve hours of preparation on the ground, twelve hours of additional life.

  Kilgor took a tour of Defender Seven. He walked the corridors, inspected damage, and sympathized with his troops. He made sure a meal was served, sorted out logistical problems, and sent a report to Arista HQ. Kilgor doubted anyone would have time to read it, but what the hell, maybe a computer would absorb and make use of it.

  Finally Kilgor returned to his quarters, took a quick shower, and collapsed on his bed. Two seconds later he was asleep.

  It seemed like moments later when the intercom bonged over Kilgor’s head. “Good morning, boss,” Wires said cheerfully. “Time to rise and shine. The heavy stuff is on the way.”

  Kilgor rolled out of bed, slid into a fresh uniform, and donned his space armor. A few minutes later he entered the command center, accepted a cup of coffee from one of the technicians, and scanned the screens.

  Wires was right. A wave of Hothri cruisers was in-bound for Arista. Their huge energy cannons reached out to pop the remote energy projectors like toy balloons. Minutes later they were through the cordon of REP’s and coming in. The bugs were hosers, relying more on brute strength than finesse, and it was an unequal battle. Little by little Defender Seven began to die.

  Explosions blossomed, artificial lightning flashed, and Kilgor floated on a sea of numbers, vectors and ratios. The entire hull shook under the massed impact of cruiser launched torpedos. A Klaxon started to bleat. A voice overrode all the rest.

  “Stein here. We lost the force field, sir. We’re taking missile hits. Sorry, sir.”

  “Understood,” Kilgor replied. “Shift all available power to our defensive armament. Guns . . . evacuate the projector emplacements. Dump the limiters. Give the bugs everything we’ve got.”

  Ensconced in the fire control center, Dolby grabbed his paunch and shifted it to a more comfortable position. He waved a lit and completely unauthorized cigar at a nearby gunner’s mate. “Well, you heard the man, son. As soon as the crews are clear, dump the limiters, and red-line the projectors.”

  Coherent light rippled out from Defender Seven and a Hothri cruiser died. Then another, and another. With almost all of the platform’s power to draw on, and operating way over spec, the projectors were punching holes through the Hothri fields.

  Minutes stretched into hours before the inevitable happened. Defender Seven shook and rumbled as an overheated projector blew up.

  Kilgor waited as long as he dared then pushed a button. “Nice shooting, guns . . . shut ’em down.”

  A quick check of Kilgor’s screens showed that they’d earned another respite. Surprised by the destruction of their cruisers, and heavily engaged elsewhere, the bugs had given them a momentary break.

  Kilgor took a video tour of his command. The flight deck was empty. By now all of the fighters would be low on fuel, but not one had returned. A quick check with fire control confirmed his suspicions. All of his fighters had been destroyed. Nevertheless the twelve pilots had taken eighteen Hothri ships with them.

  Sick bay was organized chaos. Dr. Potter, Susan, and their team of medics were sorting the wounded according to the severity of their injuries and treating them in that order.

  Zooming in, Kilgor saw Susan rip armor away from a woman’s chest, and grab a dressing. Blood spurted upwards with each breath she took. Rolling the woman onto her wounded side, Susan applied a self-sealing dressing and taped it down.

  Susan looked beautiful even with blood spattered across her armor and, he wanted to touch her. And then, just as Kilgor prepared to switch away she looked up, saw Kilgor’s image on a monitor and waved.

  Kilgor waved in return and forced himself to touch another button. Everywhere Kilgor looked he saw damage. Fires raged here and there, compartments were filled with smoke, burned out missile launchers hung useless in their bays, bodies lay in hallways, and some of the corridors were open to space.

  But to his surprise, and immense pride, Kilgor saw other things as well. Marines waiting for their turn in the fray, navy personnel struggling to keep damaged systems up and running, faces grinning through darkened visors, thumbs turned upwards, and individual acts of unbelievable heroism.

  Kilgor took another tour of his command. This time it took longer. Entire sections were depressurized, the dead and wounded were everywhere, and there were endless problems to solve. He was down in life-support listening to their problems when Wires came over his ear plug.

  “Here come the heavies boss . . . we’re gonna take another pounding.”

  Ten minutes later Kilgor was in his command chair. He looked at Wires on the far side of the control room. She looked unconcerned, every hair of her black pageboy precisely in place, more officer than most he’d graduated with. Wires waved, and Kilgor raised his just-filled coffee cup in mock salute.

  He checked the time. More than two days gained, each day packed with twenty-one wonderful hours, each hour red with blood.

  “Thank you, Captain Wires. Prepare phase two.”

  Kilgor closed his visor, checked the seal, and activated his suit. He knew that elsewhere, every single person on Defender Seven, wounded included, was doing likewise. Verbal orders were avoided in case the bugs could hear.