Bolos: Cold SteelBolos: Cold Steel
Table of Contents
  Prologue
  The Greater Machine
  Though Hell Should Bar the Way
  
Prologue
It wasn't anywhere you went for a vacation. Thule's eccentric orbit hinted the 
planet was not native to its sun, but had been captured from a passing star. 
That same orbit made for an agonizingly hot, wet, and short summer followed by a 
winter where a good day was merely unbearable. Both seasons shared only one 
thing: storms featuring winds over 100 KPH. To which was added the joy of a thin 
crust and constant volcanic activity.
The star system was crowded with debris; Thule itself had seventeen moons and 
the beginnings of at least one ring. It was generally a good place to avoid when 
there were so many more hospitable worlds to colonize. But that wasn't an 
option. Thule was unique for more than being the virtual poster world for being 
barely habitable. Wherever the planet originated, it had gathered into itself 
the largest concentration of the rare earth element saganium ever found by 
humans among the over 40,000 explored worlds—saganium was the vital trace 
ingredient in a newly developed and amazingly resistant duralloy armor. With the 
Deng Incursion reaching its destructive climax, mining colonies were en route 
before the survey team's preliminary report was even finished printing out. 
There were just a few details they had missed.
 

The Greater Machine
J. Steven York &
Dean Wesley Smith

 
 
Chapter One

For the moment it wasn't pouring rain. Jennifer Harom dropped off the last rung 
of the ladder onto the damp sand and stretched, glad to be out of the massive 
pulverizer that towered fifty meters into the air above her. Her overalls were 
damp from the sweat and the light breeze felt good against her skin, cooling her 
and clearing her head. The jungle greenery pulped by the big machine had a 
chlorophyll and vinegar smell, like a Caesar salad.
The ground under her feet shook as the grinder tore into the earth, ultrasonic 
cannon aimed downward, tearing sand and gravel apart at a molecular level, 
turning it into the uniform, black ore-sand that crunched under her boots. 
Despite the violence and power of the pulverizer, active noise dampeners 
shielded the machine from its own power, reducing the sound to a low rumble, and 
incidentally keeping the crew from going deaf. She could have even heard the 
noises from the jungle around her, if the machine hadn't frightened away every 
animal within five kilometers.
Confident that she was safe from the local predators, she scrambled up a nearby 
bank and looked back at the big machine, floating on its contra-gravs a few 
meters above the ground, a duralloy thundercloud lost down from heaven and 
pretty damned pissed about it. Behind it a two-hundred-meter swath of freshly 
created ore-sand stretched back up the valley, waiting for the processing 
machines that followed a kilometer behind. Keeping the beast running, keeping it 
from ripping itself apart, was a big job, but her three co-workers were more 
than capable of covering for her while she got a little fresh air. Getting out 
of the control cabin in the middle of a shift was against the rules, especially 
while the grinder was in operation, but they all did it. Staying cramped into 
that small control cabin for ten hours straight would drive anyone nuts. 
Besides, who cared as long as the pulverizer kept tearing up the ground on this 
godforsaken planet.
She stepped toward the edge of the jungle. The wide-leafed plants and tall trees 
towered over her like a wall. At the moment the grinder was tearing a wide path 
up a sandbar beside a small river. When they reached the end of the valley they 
would turn around and come back down, cutting another swath beside the one they 
were working on now, passing the processing machines somewhere along the way. 
The pulverizer's downward-pointing sound cannon dug the ground to a depth of 
twenty meters and could chew up rocks as if they were cotton candy.
Eventually all the jungle would be gone from this valley as they mined the 
saganium, but that would take at least a year and she planned on being gone, 
headed back into civilized space, long before then. Ten years from now this 
valley would be twice as deep and wide as it was now, a scar big enough to see 
from orbit. There were ten colonies and more than double that number of mining 
sites spread around the planet. This planet, with its smells and heat was barely 
worth inhabiting now. She had no doubt that in ten years the place would be 
nothing more than a large pile of rock orbiting a weak sun.
She dropped down onto the ground and rested her back against a boulder. As the 
machine slowly moved away from her, the Caesar salad smell was already fading, 
replaced by a stench like mildew, old socks and rotting garbage. Now, after two 
weeks, she was starting to get used to the smells of this ugly planet. Not all 
the way yet, but enough that they didn't make her choke anymore. It was ironic 
that the only way to get a good smell out of the jungle was to blast it to hell, 
and even that didn't last.
She took a deep breath and let the solidness of the ground ease the tension of a 
long morning inside the pulverizer. She would take a few minutes, then get back 
to work. They were pushing the grinder as fast as it would go, and she had every 
intention of getting the bonus promised them if they made the cliff at the head 
of the valley in two weeks. The more money she made, the quicker she could head 
out of here, get back to school, finish the degree in architecture. Then all 
this labor would just become a bad memory, laughed at over drinks and a good 
meal.
Suddenly the smell of rot engulfed her even more strongly, and a branch cracked 
just behind her.
"What—?"
She sprang to her feet and spun around.
For a moment her mind didn't register what she was seeing. Along the edge of the 
jungle were at least twenty massive alien creatures. For a moment she thought 
that they were predators of some kind, that she'd been wrong about the sound 
scaring them away. The things were vaguely humanoid, small heads mounted on 
massive, fur-covered bodies. The fur was black and scattered with bold, 
irregular white spots. The things hunched slightly as they spotted her, their 
heads shifting nervously as they looked at her, first with one side-mounted eye, 
then the other, like massive birds. The lips on their wide mouths looked hard, 
beaklike, adding to the impression that these things were somehow in the bird 
family.
At first, she didn't realize they wore clothes, their black loincloths and 
harnesses blended so well with their fur. It was only when she saw the primitive 
hand weapons, curved knives, long blades mounted on shafts to create something 
like a cross between a spear and a broadsword, that she was sure she was dealing 
with intelligent creatures. The biggest of them also carried a long, 
heavy-looking, leather bag over his shoulder, though he lacked the spear/sword 
that the others carried.
Natives? The damned survey hadn't said anything about natives. She tried to 
remember something, anything that she'd been taught about first contact in 
school, but it was all gone, vanished down the same mental sinkhole as 
hyperspatial geometry and most of her Earth history. She held up her hands, 
trying to indicate she was unarmed. "Where did you come from?" she asked, 
managing to choke down the fear. That was stupid. Like they could understand 
her. Why had she left her side arm back in the pulverizer? It was regulation 
that she always carry it, just as it was regulation that they stay inside their 
machine for the entire shift. But there weren't supposed to be any aliens on 
this planet, especially aliens as big as these beasts.
The creature closest to her just turned its head from side to side, its birdlike 
black eyes staring down at her with great intensity, even if she couldn't read 
the emotion behind it. The creature showed no sign that it understood her. Of 
course, it wouldn't.
She eased a step back, trying not to move too suddenly. The smallest of the 
creatures, still a good three heads taller than she was, stepped forward, 
lowered his spear-weapon, and casually jabbed it at her. She cursed and jumped 
back, feeling the dull impact of the weapon against her side, just below the rib 
cage.
She cursed again, more angry than afraid. Her side hurt, and without thinking 
she touched herself, feeling something hot and wet on her fingers. She looked at 
her bloody fingers in shock. "You cut me, you bastards!"
The alien watched her intently, still utterly unreadable to her. Then it made a 
noise, a hissy, rasping noise, punctuated by clicks of those hard lips. It was 
talking.
The others joined in, all chattering at once.
She knew without a doubt she was going to have to make a break for it, and while 
they were talking seemed as good a time as any. She just hoped the others up in 
the grinder control cabin could see what was happening out here and have the 
door open when she came up the ladder.
She bolted, skittering back down the slope toward the waiting ladder. After 
twenty steps, she dared to glance back, and was surprised to see that the aliens 
weren't following. Instead, the big one had lowered his bag to the ground, and 
the others gathered around as he opened it and pulled out a large, cylindrical 
object made of metal. She had no idea what the object was, only that it clearly 
hadn't been made by a bunch of savages in loincloths. She stopped and clutched 
her injured side, trying to figure out what they were doing.
The big creature hoisted the cylinder up onto his shoulder, one eye pressing 
awkwardly against a rearward-facing eyepiece that seemed totally out of position 
for its anatomy. Then he turned toward the pulverizer. The other natives 
chattered excitedly.
If she didn't know any better, she'd think it was some kind of energy weapon. 
But that couldn't be. The rest of these creatures looked primitive, and none of 
them were carrying anything but swords and knives. Maybe they'd just found the 
weapon somehow, didn't even know what it did. Maybe they just wanted to see the 
pretty colors in the sighting system.
"Hey!" she shouted, stepping back slowly. "Don't be aiming that thing at my 
machine!"
The small alien barked something. From the tone, it might have been an 
expletive, then started moving towards her, stafflike sword raised. The big one 
snapped something else at the little one, but was ignored.
The large alien again lifted the energy weapon. For a moment she hesitated 
between running and trying to watch. Then it was decided for her. The flash 
nearly blinded her.
She felt the shock wave in her rib cage and staggered back. It was a plasma 
cannon.
The small alien paused, looking, as she was, at the pulverizer.
The cannon had been powerful, but the big mining machine was built to take 
punishment— Then she saw the smoke coming from the emitters over the sonic 
cannon. They'd taken out the active noise cancellation. She felt it first 
through her feet, like a pipe organ hitting a low note, building in intensity. 
Instinctively she covered her ears, knowing how little good it would do. The 
pulverizer was shaking now, ripples running through its metal sides. Shut down, 
shut down! What was wrong with her crew?
Then she saw someone on one of the catwalks near the control room. She squinted 
against the sky. Not one of her people. Another alien, and it carried something 
in one hand. It tossed the object down to the others. It was round. It bounced 
in the sand and rolled to a stop at the big one's taloned feet.
It was a head. She caught a glimpse of Vanderhaven's blonde hair, and felt her 
last meal fighting to come back up.
Then the sound came, full blown, like needles in her eardrums, distracting her 
even from the horror of what she had just seen. She fell to her knees in pain.
The pulverizer was tearing itself apart from the inside, shedding hull plating 
and external fittings in a gentle rain as it continued its blind way down the 
valley. The aliens watched, seemingly unbothered by the sound. The big one 
raised the weapon again, aiming at the midsection where the power core now stood 
revealed by peeling hull. She couldn't believe they knew what they were doing, 
but they clearly did.
He fired again. The power core exploded, not in a single blast, but like a 
string of huge firecrackers angling down through the hull toward the sonic 
cannon. She watched the machine, her friends, and every hope she had of earning 
her way off this rock, plow into the riverbank, sending up a shower of sand, 
smaller explosions sending shudders through its flame-engulfed hull.
Her friends were dead, and if she didn't run, she was going to be as well. While 
the aliens were still occupied watching the machine burn, she bolted, staggering 
as she slipped in the loose sand.
She never saw how the small one noticed her, never heard him as he made pursuit. 
She didn't even know the alien was there until the talons closed around the back 
of her neck, smashing her face down into the ore-sand.
She struggled weakly, called out, barely able to hear her own voice. The 
creature rolled her over effortlessly, the point of the alien's blade 
centimeters from her face.
She fought, but the talons on the creature's feet held her while it reached down 
to grab her hair and yank it back hard.
Her hearing started to come back, just in time as the alien screamed and flashed 
toward her neck. And this time—this time she understood the alien's meaning 
completely.
Victory.
* * *
Tyrus Ogden stood on a catwalk that crossed the roof of the vast vehicle hangar. 
On the floor below, a space big enough to park a Concordiat cruiser of the line 
with room to spare, a half dozen huge mining machines were being assembled or 
repaired. Voices echoed through the vast space, sometimes shouted instructions, 
sometimes, eerily, a whisper relayed, as though by some acoustic wormhole, from 
a hundred meters away. Power tools chattered, buzzed, and roared. Brilliant 
flashes from a dozen different exotic welding methods cast colorful shadows on 
the walls. The place smelled of ozone, hot metal, machine lubricant, and just a 
little of sweat.
For Tyrus it should have been just another job. It could have been any world, 
literally. Big as the building was, it was a standard prefab that he'd seen on a 
dozen planets. But he hadn't asked to come here, hadn't planned to drag his 
family to this jungle hellhole of a mining colony. And most of all, he hadn't 
planned on the machine whose superstructure towered up from the floor, ending 
only a few meters below the catwalk. It was the machine beneath his feet that 
made the job different. He looked down at the gleaming durachrome hull, the 
ranks of two-meter-wide treads, the main turrets, each bigger than any house 
he'd ever lived in.
"Mr. Ogden," a man's voice, high and nasal, called from behind him.
Tyrus turned at the sound of dress shoes clattering on metal grate. The man 
walking towards him was thin, dark, average height, dressed in an executive suit 
wholly inappropriate to the environment. Tyrus recognized him from previous holo 
conversations. "Dyson, isn't it?"
Dyson shoved out his hand, and Tyrus shook it without enthusiasm. Company man. 
"I see you're settling right in." He made a sweeping gesture to the machine 
below. "Like our new mining machine?"
"It's a Bolo, Dyson." He looked down, but not at the machine. "You shouldn't be 
wearing shoes like that up here. You slip, it's a long way down."
Dyson looked nervously down at his own feet. "I didn't know."
"I'm sure."
Dyson stepped cautiously up to the railing and looked over. "I do know about 
that, though. I signed the purchase order. It's a Prescott 4800 surface 
excavator, the first of its kind."
"It's a Bolo, Dyson."
Dyson looked uncomfortable. "Well—it's that too. A converted Bolo actually, an 
old Mark XX . . . I think, maybe a XXI. I don't know about those things. I hear 
Prescott found a whole regiment of them rusting in a scrap yard on some moon 
somewhere."
Tyrus looked at the shining sweep of the hull and felt his mind slipping back to 
another place and time, a place of fire, a time of war. "Bolos don't rust. After 
a few centuries on a planet like this, they might develop a surface patina. But 
they don't rust, and they don't bleed, and they don't ever, ever die."
"Excuse me?"
He looked at Dyson. "That's why they diverted me here, isn't it? Why they 
dragged me and my family into what amounts to a combat zone. I've had combat 
experience."
Dyson nodded. "This situation has developed very quickly and unexpectedly. The 
4800's were already ordered as part of a trial program. You were already in the 
sector. You have the skills we needed. And you—know about Bolos."
"I've fought on the same side as Bolos, Dyson. That's a whole different thing. 
Maybe Bolo commanders are comfortable with those things, but I was infantry, and 
I never served with a man who wasn't rattled by them, who didn't spend as much 
time looking over his shoulder at his own Bolos as he did looking at the enemy 
line. What in heaven's name made you want to convert one into a blasted 
tractor?"
Dyson was starting to look annoyed. "I told you, we bought it, we didn't think 
it up. You've heard the losses we've experienced here. Three machines just last 
month. Out away from the colonies and the fixed defenses, they're essentially 
vulnerable against even light weapons. We've taken to issuing pulse rifles to 
all our crews, welded some makeshift armor to the control cabs, but the losses 
continue. These aliens—natives—whatever they are, somehow didn't show up on our 
surveys, so we never imagined it would be an issue. But this," he waved at the 
Bolo again, "was marketed as a solution for mining on 'hostile worlds.' They 
simply don't get much more hostile than this. The rest of our machines are 
vulnerable, but the Prescott 4800—"
"The Bolo."
"Whatever . . . It can take the kind of attacks we've been experiencing. We can 
send it into the most isolated and dangerous areas with impunity. They won't be 
able to hurt it, and maybe we can learn something. Learn how to protect the rest 
of our equipment."
Tyrus cursed under his breath. "You have no idea of the trouble you've caused me 
personally, bringing me here. I suppose you want me to work this beast into the 
maintenance rotation here?"
Dyson looked away. "Actually, we already have a pretty good maintenance chief at 
the colony. We were hoping that you'd run the 4800 for us."
Tyrus blinked his eyes in disbelief. "You want me to command a Bolo?"
* * *
Whitestar shifted the hand-forged blade in his hand, feeling the comfortable way 
his clawlike fingers held the grip, the natural way that the handle cradled 
against the long bones of his hand. It was a good blade, good balance, a weapon 
he understood, one that became an extension of his arm. The knife pleased him, 
made him glad to be alive. The weapons provided by the Ones Above were powerful, 
but clumsy and unnatural. Only with a blade in his hand did he feel like a 
fresh-hatched warrior again.
The afternoon breeze ruffled his fur and carried the smell of wood smoke from a 
nearby burrow. He was dimly aware of his fellow clansmen gathering around the 
circle, clicking their jaws in rhythm, the ancient ceremony of challenge. Some 
part of his mind dimly registered all this, cataloged it, filtered it for any 
undetected threat, but his focus, his combat-eye, was entirely on the smaller 
Tersae across the circle. His name was Warrior Twostone, and he was trying with 
all his might to kill Whitestar, his clan-lord.
Twostone lunged, his long, curved blade flashing in the dappled sunlight that 
filtered through the trees.
Agile for his greater size, Whitestar turned away from the thrust, hooked 
Twostone's blade with his own and pulled, throwing the warrior off balance. He 
brought his foot around and kicked Twostone in the back, his talons drawing 
blood.
Twostone staggered for a moment, but quickly caught himself, turning, knife held 
high in a gesture of defiance. He turned his head at right angles to Whitestar, 
focusing one eye on the lord, and a sound came from his throat, a low chattering 
that in the Tersae was an expression of amusement. In context it was a sign of 
continued calm and reason, despite his wounds. The Tersae blood ran hot. A 
warrior could too easily lose themselves in that heat, forget the mission, 
forget their clan-brothers, and waste their lives on the battlefield. A good 
warrior knew how to maintain the balance, even when their own blood painted the 
enemy's blade.
You are truly a fine warrior, Twostone. It will be a shame to lose you.  
The two circled, each looking for some weakness in their opponent. Finally, 
Whitestar simply grew tired of looking. He feinted an attack causing Twostone to 
step backwards, then again, and again, never letting the warrior find balance, 
focusing his attention on Whitestar's blade. Then Whitestar struck, not with his 
blade, but with a flying kick, his talons digging into Twostone's blade-arm, 
pushing it aside. He squeezed, feeling skin tear beneath his claws, until the 
blade clattered to the forest floor, then released, twisted in midair to strike 
with his blade, bringing it against Twostone's throat. He held the blade there 
and he grabbed Twostone's arm and spun him around.
Twostone ended up with his back against Whitestar's left shoulder, the knife 
tight against his skin. "My life is my lord's," he gasped, "my blood is my 
lord's. Take them, in the name of the Ones Above."
"I take your life," responded Whitestar, "I take your blood. I give you back 
your blood. I give you back your life, Sacred Warrior Twostone, to serve the 
Ones Above." He lowered the knife, stepped in front of Twostone, and held it 
across his own chest in salute.
Twostone bowed, folding his arms behind his back like a new hatchling, a gesture 
of extreme supplication and humility. "How may my unworthy life serve the Ones 
Above?"
"Rise, Twostone. You have been bested by your lord, but you fought honorably, 
and well. You are worthy. Tonight we strike the devils in their nests. Tonight 
you will carry the Fist of the Ones Above. We will barter your life for a 
thousand and twenty-four of the enemy's lives."
Twostone nodded his head sharply in gratitude.
"Go to your fire, and we will speak later." He turned to the circle of 
observers. "Make way for the Sacred Warrior!" The circle parted and Twostone 
stepped through, and with that, the ceremony was ended. The crowd immediately 
began to disperse. A few looked disappointed that no more blood had been 
spilled, a few others paused to compliment Whitestar's skill and prowess.
Only old Scarbeak lingered at his side as Whitestar headed back to the Lord's 
Burrow. "You should take a new name, my lord. 'Bloodtalon' would suit you well."
"Such a name would only fire the young warriors, old one. I fight too many 
challenges as it is. Tonight our Great War begins. I should be reviewing our 
plans, not holding a knife to my own warrior's throat."
"So speaks the lord. I forgot for a moment the recent challenge of your eldest 
hatchling. It was thoughtless of me. It pains one to take blood from one's own 
brood, or one's own clan."
Whitestar dismissed him with a click of his jaw. "You meant only to compliment 
me, old one. I did what had to be done, and with luck, Blackspike will yet 
recover and take my place as lord of the clan."
They walked past the stream, where young females soaked weaver-vines and beat 
them between rocks to extract the useful fibers. A few young males crouched, 
watching them cautiously from a distance.
"You don't know these young ones, elder. The fire burns strong in them. They 
have no wisdom at the fight." He was not speaking of his son, but he could have 
been.
"Wisdom comes with age."
"Then it is not a lord's destiny to be wise, elder. One day I will be too slow 
at a challenge, and—" he hissed and made the motion of a slicing blade with his 
hand— "that will be the end of me."
"Wisdom is relative, lord. You are wise enough for what you do."
"And you, elder? Is the Fist of the Ones Above ready?"
"The sacred connections are made, the sacred modules all show the 
light-of-function. The Ones Above promise that it will cut deep into the belly 
of the human devils. The explosion should be spectacular."
"Let's hope so, Scarbeak. Twostone is a fine warrior. I wouldn't like to waste 
his life on a fool's mission."
* * *
The first sign of real trouble came when the hangar lights flickered, followed 
by the sound of a distant boom. Tyrus looked up from where he was crouched, 
inspecting one of the Bolo's two-meter-wide treads, and wondered if the area was 
prone to thunderstorms. At the same moment, a quiver seemed to go through the 
huge machine, as though all of its secondary systems were being cycled through 
their test cycles at once.
Tyrus shook his head and went back to his inspection, knowing as he did that it 
was pointless make-work. It was late. He should be home, helping the boys 
unpack. Fact was, he didn't want to see Lee, and he strongly suspected that she 
didn't want to see him. They'd had a fight that afternoon. She'd never wanted 
him to take the transfer to the Taft Colonies, even though it was the only way 
to keep his job with the company. When they were diverted to mining colonies on 
Thule, she'd blamed him. Taft at least had alien ruins for her to explore, some 
chance for her to continue her often-interrupted career as an archeologist. Taft 
had an established family environment for the kids. Thule was one step up from a 
shanty camp, a sprawling, walled, cluster of prefabs, brothels and miner bars. A 
cold feeling of dread knotted in his gut. He was going to lose them. He knew it.
The lights flickered again. More thunder. Or something. 
"Unit DRK moving to status two alert mode. Awaiting instructions."
Tyrus looked up and blinked. A hundred meters away, a small crew was overhauling 
a sonic pulverizer cannon. Nobody else was close. Another one of those acoustic 
tricks the hangar was famous for?
"Unit DRK awaiting instructions."
The sound seemed almost to be coming from inside his head. Beamed sonics? He 
looked at the gleaming curve of the Bolo's hull, and spotted an emitter rod 
aimed straight at him. He shivered, somehow suddenly feeling like a rabbit in 
the hunter's crosshairs. "You can talk?" Of course it could talk. All Bolos 
could. But the book said this one had been lobotomized or something, placed into 
a standby mode that made it as passive and stupid as a ground-car. There were 
recorded voice responses, but it certainly shouldn't have been initiating 
speech.
"You are Tyrus Ogden. I am keyed to respond to your biometric profile. Awaiting 
orders, commander."
He frowned. "I'm not your commander, I'm your operator. You're a mining machine, 
a tractor."
"I am Bolo, Mark XXIV of the line, activated 2970 at the Fifield Armorworks, New 
Prescott Colony. My hull designation is DRK. I am commonly addressed by my 
commanding officers as 'Dirk.'"
More thunder. The overhaul crew stopped their work and began to talk rapidly 
among themselves. "Go back to sleep, Dirk."
"I cannot. Threat level is increasing. Moving to status one alert mode. Full 
Combat Reflex Mode is now on standby."
He dropped his tools and stood. "What threat? The thunder?" This was just the 
sort of thing he was afraid of. You can't make a house pet out of a trained 
attack dog, and you can't turn a Bolo into a mining machine. This thing could go 
on a rampage if he didn't get it calmed down. "It's just thunder. Natural, 
atmospheric, electrical discharges. It's no threat to us."
On the hull behind him the pilot's hatch, as thick and heavy as a vault door, 
swung smoothly open with a whir. "Commander, I suggest you enter the control 
room and prepare for combat."
"It's thunder, I tell you. Power down now! That's an order!"
"Negative."
Tyrus cursed. He had to talk to Dyson. Maybe he had an override code or 
something that would shut this beast down. He could use his wristcom, but the 
Bolo would be listening, and somehow, that didn't seem like a good idea. He was 
suddenly aware that he was standing on the tracks. If the machine decided to 
move, he could be pulped before he had time to scream.
He scrambled down from the side of the mining machine and headed toward the side 
door of the maintenance area, wiping grease off his hands as he ran. He reached 
the shops at the edge of the hangar just as an explosion rocked the far end of 
the hangar. Mechanics and operators were suddenly shouting, running everywhere.
"Full Combat Reflex Mode activat—" the Bolo's beamed voice was suddenly cut off. 
His first instinct was that the Bolo had gone rogue and fired off one of its 
weapons. But the big machine seemed inert, and he couldn't imagine that they'd 
left it with functional weapons. He realized he could still hear distant gunfire 
and explosions. They were under attack! The aliens he'd been told about must 
have somehow taken out the colony defenses without a shot, without setting off 
the general alarm. But how could a bunch of jungle savages know how to sabotage 
screen generators and autoturrets?
He spotted a rack of pulse rifles on an office wall and grabbed one of them. 
Just in time, as a furry, goggle-eyed humanoid giant rounded the corner and 
swung some kind of sword at him. Instinctively he swung the barrel around, his 
finger squeezing on the trigger into full auto mode. The first shot took the 
sword weapon off at the handle. The second tore a hunk out of the side of the 
alien's neck, the third ripped a hole in its right shoulder, sending a spray of 
something dark, wet, and hot across his face.
It fell, but two more appeared behind it shouting and clicking loudly. He took 
them down almost as easily as the first.
Another one. This one had something small and metal held awkwardly in its hand. 
A violet laser flash sent him scrambling behind a desk. A hole appeared in the 
plastic kick panel a few inches from his head, as the alien fired blindly.
Tyrus tightened his grip on the rifle, tried to imagine where the alien might 
have gone since he last saw it, and sprang from behind the desk already firing. 
The alien was standing no more than a meter from him. They were both caught by 
surprise, but the alien was dead, his chest exploding like a ripe melon.
Tyrus retched at the smell of burned hair and sweet smell of roasted alien 
flesh. He spotted the hand weapon on the floor where the alien had dropped it. 
Hoping he didn't accidentally activate it, he shoved the weapon in his pocket.
He put his back against the office wall, watching the door, and tried his 
wristcom. It didn't work. Maybe they were jamming, or had disabled the relay 
towers. He had to figure some way to get home, defend the kids. His own 
ground-car was parked at the far end of the hangar, but he spotted a man-door in 
the office wall behind him that probably led outside. There might be company 
vehicles there that would respond to his employee unikey. He scooted to the 
door, opened it a crack to make sure things were clear, and stepped outside. 
What he saw nearly tore him apart.
The colony was located in a small valley, with the hangar on high ground at the 
south end. He could look down on at least half the structures there. Everywhere 
he looked there were flames, explosions, and laser flashes.
He could see the defense turrets along the ridgelines surrounding the valley, 
all pointed outwards, intact, and inert. At the far end of the valley hundreds 
of white-on-black aliens boiled out of the jungle like ants. The family 
apartments were to his left, near the shuttle port. For a moment, he held out 
some hope. The buildings were still intact, away from the main thrust of the 
aliens' charge. Then a plasma cannon began firing from a rooftop to the west, 
blasting the buildings one by one. Behind them, an atmospheric shuttle lifted 
off, slowly, as though it were heavily loaded. At least somebody was getting 
away. The shuttle might be able to make it to one of the other colonies. Maybe 
his kids were on it. Please. 
He hoped they had gotten away, but he couldn't take the chance. He had to find 
out for himself. He looked frantically around. A line of company utility vans 
were parked a dozen yards down the building. He could take one of them.
The missile streaked across his vision so quickly that he almost didn't see it, 
and ripped into the side of the hanger next to the vans. The force of the 
explosion ripped outwards throwing the vans around like a child's blocks, while 
leaving him relatively unscathed. He could see a line of aliens running up the 
hill towards him. He ducked back into the office.
"You need to return to my command compartment," said the voice in his head. The 
Bolo was back. "My exact status is unknown, but I am unable to actively protect 
you at this time. You must return to me."
The Bolo! If he could get the damned thing working, the small arms he'd seen 
wouldn't touch it. He could make his way across the colony, rescue his wife and 
kids. If they were still alive. He ran back into the hanger, only to see dozens 
of aliens running through the hangar.
He lifted the rifle and started squeezing off shots, taking an extra instant 
each time to line up an alien and make the shot count. It felt more like murder 
than a battle. He'd fire and one alien would drop. He'd fire again and another 
alien would drop. Most of them had swords. He didn't see any other advanced 
weapons, but they had to be out there somewhere.
"Quickly," said the Bolo.
The aliens just kept coming as fast as Tyrus could shoot them, wave after wave. 
He moved slowly towards the Bolo, careful not to let the aliens sneak behind 
him. Then, abruptly, his rhythm was broken. There were no targets. He could hear 
them moving away.
Something was very wrong.
He stepped out from behind a welding machine onto the hangar floor. Twenty 
meters away, a metal cylinder sat on the floor, gleaming in the hangar's still 
functional emergency lights. He'd never seen anything like it before, but he had 
a pretty good guess. Bomb. 
He sprinted towards the Bolo. Halfway there he tossed down the rifle. He could 
see the Bolo ahead, an emergency hatch opening in its flank, down between two of 
the giant boogie wheels. He gave it his last burst of speed and dived for the 
opening.
The rest happened in slow motion, as the shock wave caught him and hurled him 
through the hatch.
He could see the bulkhead coming at him, every weld and bolt of it, in sickening 
detail, but he could do nothing to stop it.
There should have been an impact, but there was only nothing.
 








Chapter Two
It has been three minutes and sixteen seconds since I was ejected from the cargo 
bay of the Lexington. I will see combat sooner than I had ever expected. My 
commander and I, along with two other Bolos and their commanders were diverted 
from our original mission to the Tilla M outpost by a distress message from the 
recently established mining colonies on Thule. The settlements are under attack 
by a force or forces unknown. Due to the circumstances, we have been deployed 
from the Lexington in a non-optimal trajectory, while the ship hurriedly makes 
another jump with the rest of our unit to complete its original mission. 
It is an exciting time. My first assignment was to a purely defensive post at 
the Depoe Shipyards, far from the lines of the Deng conflict, and while Tilla M 
has seen intermittent raids by well-armed pirates, any conflict would doubtless 
consisted of brief defense against space-based hit-and-run attacks. This is the 
kind of conflict for which I was designed and constructed, engaging a powerful 
enemy on a battlefield of planetary scope. 
Our "hot" insertion and the limited intelligence available to us add to the 
challenge of the assignment, but I am unconcerned. I am unit VCK, a Bolo of the 
Line, Mark XXV, bearer of the proud tradition of the Dinochrome Brigade. I am 
proud be the first of our forces to land on Thule. I am confident that I will do 
my duty, and do it well.  
It has been four minutes and three seconds since ejection. Broken transmissions 
indicate that any ship attempting to land may come under ground attack, 
therefore our individual assignment is to deploy and clear a landing zone. My 
commander will monitor the situation from my assault pod, which will wait in 
orbit, along with the other Bolos in their pods, and a trio of shuttles loaded 
with emergency gear. Instead of my usual deployment, I am strapped to a 
sandwiched pair of contra-grav cargo sleds and mats of ablative material forming 
a makeshift, but completely expendable, landing craft.  
I fire the guidance thrusters on the cargo sleds, to roll my makeshift heat 
shield to face the atmosphere, and adjust the upper sleds contra-gravs to 
conserve power for the final braking. The contra-gravs on the lower sled are set 
to full output, as there will be no opportunity to utilize unused power later.  
Five minutes and eighteen seconds since ejection. A faint vibration through my 
treads tells me that I am encountering the edge of Thule's atmosphere. I take 
the opportunity to make a long-range scan of the planet below me. I immediately 
detect the various colony installations in the expected locations, but the 
central installation shows none of the energy output I would expect of a 
functioning colony. Instead, I detect only the heat of residual fires, plus a 
chemical signature consistent with large-scale combustion and the early decay 
stage of biological matter. The damage is even worse than we had been led to 
believe. I also detect flames and weapons signatures from the most northern 
colony. It too is under attack.  
I adjust my trajectory to move my landing site as far north as possible. I 
maintain communications silence, but there are distress calls coming from the 
Rustenberg Colony on several bands, some live, some via automated beacon. I 
monitor, trying to get some sense of our enemy, but other than descriptions of 
large humanoids, there is little else of strategic value, intelligence about 
their mounted and airborne weapons platforms, descriptions of their armored and 
mechanized divisions.  
I am entering the planet's atmosphere now, and ionization is making my sensors 
unreliable. It must be, as I can detect none of the signatures I would associate 
with the enemy. I find no bases or roads, no radiation sources consistent with 
fusion power plants, no towns or bases, no armored columns or spaceports. The 
situation is most puzzling. It is almost as though the enemy does not exist.  
The buffeting is quite heavy now. I am surrounded by an ionized curtain of 
superheated air, and flaming chunks of ablative mat are breaking off and flying 
past like fireworks. I must be putting on a spectacular show for anyone watching 
on the ground, but my signature will not be consistent with a Bolo assault pod. 
The enemy will doubtless hesitate before firing on me, consulting with their 
specialists to determine if I am an attack craft or a natural meteor. By the 
time they come to a decision, I should be safely near the ground.  
Or not. I am emerging from the ionization blackout, and I detect, three—now 
five—now seven missile traces arching up from diverse points across the 
continent. They seem to be light nuclear interceptors, unlikely to do me serious 
damage, but they could destroy the contra-grav sled I need to make my landing. 
My first duty, however, is to secure the landing zone. I begin cycling my main 
Hellbores from launch point to launch point, targeting them with a multikiloton 
blast. Though I can detect no fixed installation at any of these points, someone 
there will pay the price for the folly of firing on a Bolo of the Dinochrome 
Brigade. I am hardly a defenseless drop ship.  
There is a sudden lurch, and then I am in near freefall. The first sled has 
given out, either its power cells depleted, or damaged by a reentry 
burn-through. No matter. There is one last use I can make of it. I remotely fire 
the links holding the lower sled to the upper. My audio detectors pick up the 
rending of metal even in the thin air. Then the sled slides out from under me, a 
metal mattress the size of a schoolyard, its bottom charred and still glowing 
white hot in places. I transverse one of my secondary batteries, lock onto the 
sled, and fire a half-second pulse.  
The sled explodes into flaming chunks just as the first missile closes on my 
position. I watch as the missile, and two of its companions, alter course to 
home in on the false target I have provided for them, their nuclear fireballs 
blossoming a safe kilometer above me. That still leaves four missiles closing on 
my position. I increase my battle screens to full power, and compute firing 
solutions for the remaining missiles. I begin to transverse my secondary 
batteries. I have four point three seven seconds until the first missile is in 
blast radius. Plenty of time.  
Suddenly the missiles begin to take high-G evasive maneuvers. I detect a pattern 
to their movements, but this requires a critical one point-three seconds of 
observation and analysis. I am able to bring my batteries to bear on three of 
them. I begin a roll program, placing my own hull between the missile and the 
sled, selectively reinforce my battle screens, and shutter my more sensitive 
sensors against the blast.  
The explosion rattles my structure, subjecting me to a momentary peak 
acceleration of 19 G's. It is fortunate that my commander remained safely in 
orbit, but I am unharmed. The energy from the explosion sizzles against my 
battle screens, and in a moment I can feel the converted energy surging into my 
storage cells. There has been a one point two percent degradation of my upper 
turret armor, but I am otherwise unharmed. The critical question now is, did the 
explosion damage the second contra-grav sled?  
My visual sensors unshutter, and I see the horizon growing less curved by the 
second. I have been in freefall too long. Even with full sled function, I am in 
danger.  
I tentatively apply power to the sled, alert for any problem, but the 
contra-gravs engage smoothly. I am slowing, but not quickly enough. I increase 
power to one hundred percent, then into overload, one hundred and ten, one 
hundred and twenty, one hundred and thirty.  
The cells are draining at an alarming rate, and I am detecting an overheat 
condition in the contra-grav accelerator coils. The situation is critical, but 
there is little I can do. I must trust that the contra-grav sled is flawless in 
its manufacture and maintenance, that it was not damaged by the missile, 
reentry, or by the separation of the first-stage sled.  
I take one last opportunity to do aerial deep scans with my sensors, focusing on 
the dead central colony, looking for any sign of my elusive enemy. I detect the 
remains of many ground vehicles, several shuttles trapped on the ground, large 
mining and construction machinery, and one other trace, an armored durachrome 
war hull—  
Two point three four seconds to impact. I am still falling too fast. Below me, I 
see a green carpet of jungle canopy, a silver thread of river slicing through 
the trees. I retune my battle screens. In theory, they can absorb some of the 
kinetic energy of my landing, acting as a last-resort shock absorber, but to the 
best of my knowledge this has never been tested.  
My last thought before I hit the ground is of those final sensor readings. No 
matter what happens, they give me hope. I do not know how, but the readings were 
unmistakable. There is already a Bolo on Thule.  
* * *
Lord Whitestar moved through the night jungle by instinct, navigating by the 
smell of certain plants, by the echoes of his own footfalls off the trunks of 
trees, and the occasional flashes of starlight through the canopy above. The 
Ones Above had warned them that they must show no light to the sky above, no 
fire, no torch, as the devils would be watching. Even the wonderful weapons that 
the Ones Above had given them had to be taken into the nests for repair. The 
lights-of-function that showed when a given part was functional or should be 
replaced, even showing one of those to the sky could give them away.
He could hear quiet chants of victory all through the jungle, and he knew that 
chanting just like this spread through the jungle for several days' walk, to 
wherever the men of his widely dispersed clan made camp. They had cut deep into 
the enemy's vitals today, raided one of his nests, killed all his warriors, all 
his hatchlings.
Whitestar's fur bristled with satisfaction and pride. The Ones Above would be 
pleased, and would favor their blessings on his clan above all others. It had 
been promised that, when the time came, they would be shown where even more 
powerful weapons were hidden, shown how to use the ones they had in even more 
deadly ways.
He stopped, taking a deep breath. He smelled her before he heard her voice. She 
carried the brooding smell, the smell of one caring for eggs. It made his blood 
burn, but did not excite him. Instead it brought out instinctive, protective 
urges. It made him want to kill the human devils even more, to sweep the world 
clean of them to protect his eggs. "Are you there, Whitestar?"
"This way," he said. Her senses would be tuned for the eggs now, for the 
hatchlings. She could hear their cries of help across a raging river, or smell 
an illness before they would even feel it, but it made it more difficult to 
travel in the jungle at night.
She stepped closer, the smell of her stronger, the outline of her smaller form 
just visible in the starlight. "What are you doing here, Sweetwater? The eggs—"
"The second-wife warms them, my lord. As first-wife, it is my right to take a 
rest occasionally. I came looking for you."
"I was returning to the nest."
"Then I will follow you. I hear your victory was great today."
Whitestar clicked his bill in affirmation, and returned to walking, slower this 
time so she could keep up.
"Then Twostone is dead?"
"He took the Fist of the Ones Above to a place where it would disable their 
defenses. Take away their machines. They are soft and weak. Not like us. By 
nightfall, we had returned them all to their foul maker. Twostone died well. He 
did not die for nothing."
"Did he have to die at all, Whitestar?"
"Not this again, woman. The devils we have been raised to fight are finally 
here. This is the time of destiny. We are lucky to be alive to see it."
"Your eldest hatchling is lucky to be alive to see it. I watched you from afar 
when you fought Twostone. You showed him mercy. Could you not do as much to your 
own hatchling, your eldest?"
"Blackspike would not yield, woman. He would have killed me. Only my skill saved 
me from killing him. I saved him from spilling his own blood in battle, like 
Twostone. I saved him to take my mantle as lord when I am gone."
"He is hot-blooded, Whitestar. All the young ones are, as the old women say your 
generation is hotter blooded than your fathers. It is like a creeping madness."
"It is our strength. It is what helps us kill the devil humans." This was a very 
sore subject between them. The old women remembered too much, talked too much, 
caused too much trouble. Some days he thought he should just have his warriors 
kill them. But there was truth to it, especially among the highborn who were 
blessed with the teachings of the Ones Above. It was the duty of the lowborn 
fodder to spill their blood against the devils. It was the duty of the highborn 
not to die without using their teachings, and without passing those teachings 
on.
They had to deny the heat of their own blood. He stopped outside the nest and 
turned to her. "Have you placed the eggs in the blessing chamber yet?" The 
blessing chambers were among their most sacred artifacts. Each new clutch of 
eggs was to spend two days in its warm, shuttered interior. It was there that 
the blessing of the Ones Above was delivered onto the clan.
She hesitated. "No, my lord, I have not. The old women say that is where the 
blood of our males becomes poisoned. The eggs are returned with tiny punctures 
in the skins. The old women say that is where it goes in, like venom from a 
sting-lizard's tongue."
"The old women make up stories to frighten the likes of you, first-wife. Forget 
what they tell you, and deliver our eggs for their blessing before it is too 
late."
"I speak these things because the lord should know what the females think. It is 
not just the old women. They tire of seeing their family males driven to madness 
by the fire within. They tire of losing their mates, their sons and brothers to 
duels, to challenges, and now to war. They fear that we will only anger the 
devils and that they will come and kill us all."
"If it's the will of the Ones Above that we die in our war against the devils, 
then so be it. But we are taught that one clan will rise above the others and 
show the Ones Above where the human devils are weak, where they can most easily 
be destroyed. That is why the clans must not mingle, why we must be different of 
custom and of form, so that we may demonstrate which is best. And once that clan 
has the devils on the run, then the Ones Above will sweep down from the skies 
and finish the job. The clan that shows the way will be our clan, and honored 
will be our place in the heavens at the side of the Ones Above."
"Who will be left to sit at their side, lord? You? Will your sons live to see 
that day? Remember that you have another one. Will you spill his blood too?"
"Is that what you really came to talk about? Sharpwing is barely out of the 
egg."
"Sharpwing is old enough at least to think he can fight, and he is younger, his 
blood burns hotter yet than his brother's. He is furious at what you have done. 
He longs to die for the Ones Above. I think he will challenge you. Perhaps 
soon."
"Then I will do what I must do. Blackspike will heal. He must become lord of the 
clan, for the good of all. Sharpwing is my chick, but he is no leader. I will do 
what I must."
There was silence for a time. "Do not kill Sharpwing, husband. If you kill him, 
Whitestar, I will never forgive you. You will still be lord, but I will be sure 
that your time is never happy again."
Then she turned and left him alone in the darkness.
Alone with his own thoughts. "As though my time is happy now," he said quietly.
* * *
Tyrus awoke in darkness, head pounding, his face against cold, smooth, metal.
"Remain still and silent." 
The words seemed to fill Tyrus Ogden's head, making the pain even worse. It took 
him a moment to remember what had happened. The explosion, the massive 
maintenance building trembling and collapsing around him. He had tried to get in 
the Bolo. Had he made it? The agonizing voice in his head suggested that he had.
"Do you wish me to turn on the lights?"
"Please," he whispered, knowing the Bolo would hear him. Then thinking about it, 
"dim lights."
A faint, red light bathed the area. He was in some sort of narrow machine space. 
A drive shaft as big around as his body punched through the compartment. Behind 
him was the closed hatch. Ahead was a tube with a sloping ladder that led up 
into darkness. "Where am I?"
"My number two ventral maintenance access. My internal sensors are fully intact, 
and indicate that you have a mild concussion. I do not believe that you will 
die."
"Thanks for that happy bit of news." He reached up to feel the large knot on top 
of his head, and winced. It least he didn't seem to be bleeding much. He tried 
to move his arm under his body to push himself up into a sitting position. He 
had to get to his wife and children, to make sure they were all right.
"If you must move," the Bolo's voice said, "do so quietly. The enemy is near, 
scanning the debris for survivors. There have been a number of patrols since the 
attack."
"How long was I unconscious?"
"Twelve hours, fourteen minutes, and either nineteen or thirty-eight seconds, 
depending on your definition of conscious."
Tyrus considered for a moment, and decided that lying on the floor for a while 
longer was a pretty damned good idea. He felt nauseous, weak, from even trying 
to move. "What am I supposed to call you?"
"I am Bolo Mark XXIV, designation DRK. I believe that my previous commanders 
used to refer to me as 'Dirk.'"
He suddenly remembered that Dirk had already given his name, before the attack. 
He wondered how much damage the bump on the head had done, and why Dirk didn't 
seem to remember it either.
"Okay, Dirk, I'm in pretty bad shape. How about you?"
"I have been seriously sabotaged in a means I do not yet understand. My weapons 
systems have largely been removed or disabled, my sensors and battle screens 
extensively modified from their original configurations, new equipment of 
unknown purpose welded to my hull, and most seriously, my psychotronics and 
memory have been seriously compromised. I attempted to engage Full Combat Reflex 
Mode during the attack, and internal feedback nearly destroyed my higher mental 
functions. It appears that I will require orders from a human commander before 
taking direct combat action."
"They probably hardwired some sort of inhibitor into your combat reflex 
circuits. They were as worried about your going berserk as I was. Dirk, you 
haven't exactly been sabotaged, though the word 'butchery' might apply. You've 
been turned into a mining machine."
The machine was uncharacteristically silent for a time.
"That is illogical."
"Damn straight, but they did it anyway."
More silence.
"That at least clarifies my situation. It explains why my sensors have been 
modified to detect seismic disturbances and mineral concentrations rather than 
targeting data, why my screens have been optimized for low-velocity kinetic 
impacts, and why my combat communications array has been replaced with one for 
civilian wavelengths. I will need to analyze my new capabilities, and attempt to 
compensate for my loss of combat readiness."
"You mean, you think you can still fight?"
"I can move. I have awareness. I have power. With your help, I will fight to the 
best of my capabilities."
"Listen, Dirk, I'd love to help out and all, but my soldiering days are over. I 
just want to find my family."
"Your family were in the colony outside the hangar?"
"Yes."
"Then they are no longer there, or they are dead. I cannot determine which."
That was the thing he'd been trying not to think about. He vaguely remembered 
seeing the colony in flames, the apartments exploding. But there could be 
survivors out there somewhere, and he'd seen an air shuttle getting away. There 
was hope. There had to be hope. There were so many things he had yet to say. He 
had to apologize for bringing them to this place, for failing to have the simple 
courage to say "no" to his superiors when the time was right. The last time with 
his wife, they had been fighting. It couldn't end like that.
There had to be hope.
Besides, this crippled Bolo freely admitted that its sensors weren't working 
right. "Dirk, how can you be so sure that there are no survivors out there? Do 
you have visual?"
"Negative. When the explosion went off, a section of the hillside above the 
hangar collapsed. We are buried under eight to ten meters of loose rock."
That stopped him for a moment. "Then how do you know anything about what is 
happening outside?"
"I seem to be equipped with a suite of sensitive seismic detectors. I can detect 
any surface movements in the area. The patrols I have detected are too heavy, 
their stride wrong, for them to be human. I have detected no movement, either by 
foot or vehicle, that I can identify as potentially human. In fact, I have 
detected no vehicles at all."
That didn't make sense either. An attacking force should have lots of vehicles. 
All those alien soldiers he'd seen certainly hadn't walked here through a 
thousand kilometers of jungle.
Feeling a little better, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. His arm 
hurt, his head throbbed, there were little dark flecks in his vision when he 
moved, but he thought he would live. "You don't seem concerned that we're 
buried. Can you get us out?"
"Affirmative. Despite the so-called 'butchery' of my systems, I am still a Bolo 
of the Line. When you are ready, I can begin extracting us from the rubble."
He sighed. Despite Dirk's claim, he wouldn't be satisfied until they made a 
visual inspection of the colony. Failing that, the shuttle had been headed 
north. There was another colony off that way if he remembered correctly. He 
might find his family there, and this Bolo was his best chance of making the 
trip. "Start digging."
"I would recommend that you strap yourself into my command crash couch first. It 
is also equipped with a field autodoc that can treat your injuries. Can you 
climb up to my control room?"
He looked at the ladder. "I think so. Which way?"
"Up the ladder, right at the horizontal passage, around my main turret bearing, 
through the fore circuitry room, right on until the end of the passage." He 
started climbing the ladder, careful not to hit his bump on the low, metal 
ceiling. "I should warn you," said Dirk, "that as soon as I bring my systems up 
to full power, there is a good possibility we will be detected."
"We'll deal with it when we have to. See what you can do about getting us some 
functioning weapons, and I'll have a quick look at your circuitry room as I pass 
through."
"I will begin bringing power systems on-line."
"Not while I'm touching an exposed buss bar, please." He reached the central 
passage and started crawling forward. "Get ready to dig us out. I want to see 
some sunlight."
Around him the massive mining machine came to life.

Chapter Three
The heat smothered them like a blanket, making the already thick atmosphere blur 
any long range visuals. The shimmering of the air, combined with the black and 
white markings of the aliens' fur, worked like a natural camouflage, letting 
them blend with the shadows at the edge of the jungle. Acting Militia Commander 
Jerry Donning let go of the binocs with disgust, letting them drop back into 
place on his vest. He could do better without them. He knew the aliens were out 
there. They had attacked twice already since the fall of the Odinberg Colony. 
There was no doubt they were coming again.
He stood on the top of a slight rise just to the south of the northern colony, 
staring into the scattered jungle below them. He felt lost, outmanned, outgunned 
and underqualified. It had only been a month since the first shipments of pulse 
rifles, body armor, and light weaponry had come in, along with orders from 
company headquarters, "able-bodied adults, especially those with military 
experience, are urged to form a militia for emergency defense."
"Urged" was just the company's way of saying "must," and so processing foreman 
Jerry Donning, who had once done a tour with the New Brazil Marines suddenly 
found himself prime officer material, in fact, found himself in charge of the 
colony's defenses. Never mind that in his three terrestrial years in the service 
he'd never gotten within a parsec of combat, never fired a shot outside a range 
or a training simulation. But there he was, in charge.
He'd figured it would be easy. Round up some volunteers, go shoot some daybats 
at the jungle's edge, lob off some practice mortar rounds at rock formations. 
Hell, it would be fun. It wasn't like they'd ever have to fire a shot in anger.
Then it happened. A hundred and eighty clicks to the south, the remains of the 
southern colony probably still smoldered, every man, woman, and child dead, or 
so it seemed. They'd sent out a flyer when the distress call had come in, and it 
had reported no sign of life, just before it too was taken down by a missile.
The Concordiat promised that help was on the way, but he had no idea when it was 
getting here. Not soon enough, that was for sure. He swatted away a hovering 
blood-bee that was going for his nose, and growled at nothing in particular.
Hell, if he was the best they had, then he'd have to do. He wasn't going to let 
what happened to the Odinberg Colony happen here. He had plasma cannons in 
fortifications, turret-mounted antimissile auto-batteries, over a hundred 
handheld missile launchers and mortars in ready positions, and the entire 
hillside in front of him had been mined. Sure, his men were undertrained, but 
they were learning fast. God knows, the aliens were giving them plenty of 
targets to practice on. If they were going to try to attack this front again, 
and all sensors showed they were massing to do just that, they were going to pay 
a very heavy price.
"Sir," Lieutenant Sinkler shouted from a hundred paces behind him. Sinkler, 
before the destruction of the southern colony, had been a communications clerk.
Donning glanced around. The main colony compound had been built on a hillside 
leading down into what had been a beautiful meadow bordering a wide river. The 
main area of mining was down a shallow valley to the west of the colony. The 
colony had not been built with the idea that it would be need to be defended. 
After the first alien attacks, he had had the jungle cleared back away from all 
sides of the main colony, and fortifications prepared, including massive amounts 
of land moving to build bunkers. Days of mining equipment time had been used, 
and the colony executive had given him all kinds of flack over it, but after the 
destruction of the Odinberg Colony no one was objecting at all.
Donning waved to Lieutenant Sinkler that he had heard the call and was coming. 
Suddenly the edge of the jungle below seemed to come alive. Thousands of aliens 
were flowing from the trees and brush, appearing where there hadn't seemed to be 
anything before.
He could see along their line that dozens of them carried plasma cannons and 
rifles that didn't seem to fit in their hands, but there was little doubt they 
could use them. Most of the rest carried swords or large knifes of some sort. 
The cannons and rifles held back while the mass of the force charged ahead.
The first shot from below exploded the mound to his right, sending dirt and dust 
into the air.
Some of his men were already shooting when he shouted, "Return fire!" He dropped 
back into a duracrete bunker just as a plasma blast slammed into the wall with a 
force that rattled his teeth.
"Sir!" Sinkler shouted again, coming up beside him. He pointed to the 
communications unit he was carrying, then at the sky over the jungle. "Help is 
coming!"
Donning could feel a flash of hope, but he didn't dare let it cloud anything 
they were doing. He'd known all along that help was coming, but it could be here 
in five minutes, or five weeks. They could all be dead by the time their 
would-be rescuers showed up.
"Great!" he shouted back at Sinkler, trying to sound encouraging. "Keep it to 
yourself for now. Understand? We're on our own here."
Sinkler nodded. Poor guy looked like he was going to cry, like he would happily 
gnaw off his own arm to go back to a nice, quiet desk job.
I know how you feel, buddy. Donning turned away and brought his plasma rifle up 
to a slot, using the telescopic scope to check out the horde of massive aliens 
rushing upslope at them. His troops were cutting most of them down almost as 
fast as they came, but not completely. It seemed these creatures had no fear of 
death at all. What the hell did we ever do to them? All this for knocking over a 
few trees? 
The first line of mines took out at least fifty of the aliens right below him, 
but it barely slowed them down. Again, the aliens mounting high-tech weapons 
held back, as wave after wave of aliens threw themselves down across the 
minefield, till their bleeding, blasted bodies formed an organic bridge that the 
rest could cross.
Around the colony the mines were going off now in a continuous roar, filling the 
air with smoke and dust and the blood of the aliens. Mortars and plasma blasts 
cleared momentary circles in their ranks, but it was like trying to dig a hole 
in the water. Still they came.
This was impossible.
This was madness.
Inch by inch, the aliens were advancing against their defenses. It was at this 
moment that he knew this wasn't just another skirmish. This time the aliens were 
fighting to win, and they were going to crush the colony if they didn't run out 
of warm bodies first.
Once, when he was a boy back on New Brazil, he'd gone hiking on a bluff 
overlooking the ocean. He'd stood too near the edge of a cliff, and the crumbly 
clay had collapsed under his feet. He'd slid down the slope on his face, his 
bloody fingers clawing at every crack and pebble that might have given him some 
kind of purchase, knowing that the slope turned into a sheer drop-off just a few 
meters down. Yet despite anything he could do, he'd just kept sliding. That was 
how he felt now, and he knew from bitter experience that the rocks were sharp, 
hard, and a long, long way down.
He felt it first in the soles of his feet. The ground itself seemed to be 
shaking, not from explosions, but from something that rumbled like a building 
earthquake. What now? He scanned the killing field in front of him as best he 
could. All he could see were aliens. Screaming, bloodthirsty aliens.
Sinkler scampered over in a half squat, his head down. "What's that sound?" he 
shouted over the plasma shots and exploding mines.
Donning could now hear a roar, a gaseous bubbling thunder unlike anything he'd 
ever heard, filling the air above everything. It grew louder in matchstep with 
the ground's rumbling.
Below him even the relentless aliens seemed to pause, look around, then up at 
the sky, searching for the source of the rumbling and shaking.
The defenders did the same and there was a noticeable downturn in the sounds of 
the battle.
"Keep firing!" Donning shouted into his wristcom, cutting down three massive 
aliens with his own rifle as he shouted. This was their only chance to turn the 
battle, or at least delay the inevitable.
Around him the pace of the barrage picked back up. The aliens renewed their 
attack, still seemingly distracted by the sounds behind them. Donning looked up 
from the battle for just a moment and blinked in disbelief. The normally placid 
river that crossed the meadows was boiling!
Or at least it looked like it was boiling. Great domes of muddy water were 
churning man-high above the surface, waves slopped a dozen meters up either 
bank, slicks of foam forming just in time to be swept slowly downstream with the 
current. Then something long and glistening, like the horn of some submerged 
monster poked out of the water close to the near bank, then another, and 
another, followed by a mounded shape that towered out of the water, shedding 
cascading sheets of mud, sediment, and muck.
It reared itself up onto the bank and Donning somehow expected it to stop, 
beached like a whale, but it did not. It advanced across the meadows, churning a 
path of destruction through the grass and wildflowers, and its horn began to 
spit fire. Plasma fire.
Even as Donning dived for cover the shock waves began to slam into them, and he 
knew what had crawled out of the river. He'd never seen a Bolo in person before, 
but there was no mistaking it for any other fighting machine in the galaxy.
Help had finally come.
* * *
I signal my commander, Colonel Houchen, as soon as I emerge from the river and 
break communications silence. As I had hoped, my fortuitous landing in the river 
not only cushioned my landing, but provided cover for my approach to the 
northern colony. Even as I identify targets and open fire with my secondary 
batteries, I am puzzled by the situation. I am witnessing what could be, in many 
respects, a siege from pre-atomic Earth's medieval period. The colony's 
fortifications are surrounded not by armor, not assailed by aircraft, but rather 
by a vast army equipped primarily with hand weapons, mounting not so much as a 
draft animal. This defies any rational analysis, through it is consistent with 
my inability to identify enemy convoys or installations.  
I slowly move closer to the colony, pinning the enemy between my own weapons and 
those of the fortifications. The toll on them is terrible, yet they are slow to 
disperse. I take sporadic return fire from low to medium power plasma weapons 
and assorted missiles, but all of it is stopped by my battle screens. I am 
perhaps growing overconfident when my deep scanners pick up the signature of a 
nuclear device moving slowly through the enemy throngs in front of me. I take 
point oh two seconds to analyze the device. It is a tactical fusion device with 
an antimatter trigger, small but highly sophisticated, more a puzzlement than a 
threat. I detect it visually, a cylinder half a meter long, carried by a lone 
alien who wades through his fellows like a swimmer going upstream. The image 
lingers in my memory as I destroy the device with a controlled secondary pulse.  

There is a small explosion and a gamma pulse from the trigger. Perhaps fifty of 
the aliens are immediately killed. Hundreds more will doubtless die later from 
radiation exposure, but the colony, for which the weapon was doubtless intended, 
will be spared.  
My destruction of the fusion device seems finally to have taken the fight from 
the attackers. I continue to bombard them as they scatter in all directions, 
disappearing into the jungle, diving into the river. I signal my commander that 
the landing zone is nearly secure, but that he make a rapid combat descent, and 
should be prepared for missile attacks.  
I am hailed by the defending forces, a Commander Donning of the local militia. I 
relay the message to my commander, and he patches his own voice through my 
short-range transmitters.  
* * *
Donning had the transmission patched through his wristcom.
"Commander, this is Colonel Houchen of the Dinochrome Brigade."
"Thank you for the timely assist, Colonel. You got here just in time."
"Actually, Commander, I'm not there yet, but I hope to be shortly. Until then, I 
believe you've already met Bolo KNN. Khan, say hello to Commander Donning. You 
two probably have things to talk about until I get there."
"Hello, Commander," said a second voice, one that sounded as human as any of his 
men.
It took Donning a moment to find his voice. "Hello back," he finally said.
 








Chapter Four
It had taken Dirk almost six hours to dig itself out from under the collapsed 
hillside and the debris from the fallen hangar. The problem was not lack of 
power or traction, but the loose nature of the rubble and the unstable hillside 
above, which threatened to completely collapse on top of them. Add to this the 
fact that Dirk was unfamiliar with his own new capabilities and limitations. 
Much of the equipment that had been welded to his duralloy hull was constructed 
of more fragile materials and threatened to wrench off with each movement. It 
would have been easy just to order Dirk to sheer it all off, but lacking proper 
weapons and sensors, there was no telling what of it they might need.
After a while, Tyrus became impatient. He felt well enough to disconnect himself 
from the autodoc and climb down into Dirk's electronic bays for a closer 
inspection. Butchery was still his assessment. He found whole banks of molecular 
circuitry ripped out, probably for salvage, and bridged or bypassed with 
primitive optical circuitry a hundred years out of date. It was no wonder Dirk 
had memory and operational problems. If this reflected the overall quality of 
Dirk's "conversion" into a mining machine, they were bound to discover other 
problems as they went on. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. The 
Bolo was still his best hope of finding his family.
Twice Dirk had to stop and back up to loosen debris threatening to rip away a 
sensor, or disable a sonic cannon. After five hours the screens inside the main 
cabin started to show some light, and an hour later Dirk was completely free. It 
was the longest five hours Tyrus could ever remember.
It was midday when Tyrus opened the top hatch and stared at the sight that 
surrounded him. He could see both human and alien bodies, burnt and scattered in 
the rubble. The sun was hot on his face, and the wind was light and humid, 
blowing a sickening smell of death and burning plastic past him. He was forced 
to retreat to the cabin and find a breathing mask in one of the emergency 
lockers.
He emerged again and climbed down the Bolo's rock-scarred flank. Where the day 
before there had been a freshly built colony of homes, public buildings, and a 
full-fledged mining and processing operation, now only debris remained.
He did a slow turn, forcing himself to study everything. The jungle edges were 
leveled below the colony, and nothing over five feet high was left standing 
within a thousand meters of his position in all directions.
He pulled the Bolo command headset from his pocket and clipped it behind his 
ear. "Dirk, what type of weapon was used to cause this type of destruction?"
"From the readings I received during the time of the destruction, and the 
evidence now, it was a small fusion explosion, low residual radiation, limited 
yield. You should take an anti-radiation tab when you return to the cabin, but 
the current danger is slight, especially with the breathing mask."
"They carried it by hand?" Tyrus asked, remembering the aliens carrying weapons 
that ranged from spears to plasma cannons.
"From playback of my sensor logs before the event, this seems probable," Dirk 
said.
Tyrus looked down the hill at where his family's apartment had been in a 
three-story building. There was nothing left of the entire complex but debris. 
The bomb must have killed thousands of aliens at the same time. Why would they 
do that? And why had they attacked? None of this made any sense at all to him. 
He climbed back up onto the Bolo and ordered Dirk to move towards the 
residential section.
"Do you detect anyone left alive in the colony?"
"No," Dirk said.
"Can you trust your sensors?"
"My ability to detect biological signs has been severely compromised, however I 
am quite seismically aware. If there were anyone moving or talking in the area, 
I believe I could detect it."
He moved carefully over the Bolo's massive hull, from handhold to handhold, 
until he could look down over the machine's flank, down at one of its mighty 
treads. Once they got away from the area of the hangar, most of the human bodies 
he passed hadn't died from the explosions or weapon fire. They had been stabbed, 
hacked, their throats slit, or in many cases, beheaded. The damned aliens had 
taken the time to kill them one by one, men, women and children alike.
Tyrus just stared at the pile of rubble that had once held his home and his 
family, and maybe still did. There were hundreds of bodies visible, probably 
countless more buried in the collapsed buildings. He didn't recognize anyone. He 
hadn't had time to get to know any of his neighbors yet. There had been over 
thirty thousand people in this colony.
Now he might be the only survivor.
But there was still that shuttle he'd seen leaving. Still a little hope that his 
family, that someone, had survived.
He stared at the destroyed colony around him, ignoring the smell of burnt and 
rotting flesh. The images of his family flashed through his mind, how just a few 
days ago he had taken the kids out to a special dinner, an apology for bringing 
them here. His wife, angry, had stayed home. Now the restaurant, even the street 
they had walked down talking and laughing, was gone.
He fought the tears back and forced himself to take a deep breath. With the 
breath came a stench of death that gagged him. He desperately wanted to dig, 
search for his family's bodies, and give them the burial they deserved. But they 
might not be there, and right now he didn't dare take the time. There were other 
things to be done. The dead would wait.
"Dirk, can you contact any of the other colonies?"
"No," Dirk said. "My long-range communications capabilities appear to be 
limited, and were further damaged while digging out of the landslide. I am 
unable to contact anyone. If we move closer, or if we contact a station with 
relay capability, that could change."
Tyrus nodded. Though he'd hoped otherwise, he'd half expected it. A functional 
Bolo could communicate over interstellar distances, but that transceiver had 
probably been sold as salvage decades ago. Dirk wasn't much of a Bolo any more. 
It was just lucky the machine still had armor or he would be dead.
The conversion had left some of the old Bolo intact though, something he could 
resist the enemy with, maybe even something that could fight back. What had Dirk 
said? "I have power, I can move, I can think," something like that. It would 
have to be enough.
He climbed down again and found a laser rifle still clutched in a headless 
woman's hand. He found himself checking the rings on that hand. Not his wife's. 
Who was she, he wondered? Had she died defending her children? Avenging her 
lover? No way to know.
He shouldered the rifle, aimed it at an uptilted slab of duracrete, and pulled 
the trigger. With some difficulty he managed to laser the date into the top of 
the slab. Then he began to form letters.
Here Lie The People Of Ellerbey Mining's Thule Central Colony, Killed in a Sneak 
Attack.  
He hesitated, then raised the rifle again and added:
They Will Be Avenged.
He looked at the charge reading on the rifle, almost empty, and tossed it aside. 
He climbed back up to the Bolo's hatch, staggered inside, heard it slam shut 
behind him.
"Get going," he said. "We're headed north."
* * *
Simulations are one thing, Colonel Bud Houchen observed, it's quite another when 
somebody is really trying to blow your ass out of the sky. It had been quite a 
ride down to the planet in his Bolo's assault pod, dodging missiles all the way. 
Fortunately, without the Bolo's 14,000 tons of dead weight the pod turned into a 
surprisingly agile brute, able to power itself through most any maneuver that 
its relatively fragile human cargo could stand.
With that, Khan's considerable remote piloting skills, the pod's own defensive 
countermeasures, and supporting fire from the Bolo, he'd been able to set down 
on the landing strip of Rustenberg without a scratch.
The pod had paused only long enough to drop off Houchen and its load of arms and 
relief supplies before Khan sent the craft back to the relative safety of orbit. 
At the same time, it would provide a decoy while the other two Bolos landed in 
their assault pods.
Once on the ground, he found a situation as difficult as anything he could 
imagine.
There were no standing military forces on the planet, only a lightly armed 
militia of terrified colonists, most with little or no military experience. As 
he stood on the defensive ramparts of the colony with Militia Commander Donning, 
he observed that it is one thing to have someone trying to kill you when you're 
trained and mentally prepared for the job. It is quite another when you're a 
civilian cloaked in your typical civilian illusion of safety.
"I want you to know that your people did well here today, Donning. You got them 
organized and held your lines."
Donning smiled grimly. "We did what we had to do, Colonel. It's not like we had 
much choice. Now, when is the Concordiat going to get us off the rock? When do 
the rest of our reinforcements arrive?"
This, thought Houchen, is where it gets dicey. "Commander, I've received no word 
of any planned evacuation. The mining colonies here are seen as vital to 
Concordiat security, and our superiors don't seem inclined to release our 
toe-hold here."
"Duck," said Khan's voice in his command headset.
Houchen shoved Donning down behind the ramparts just as an explosion rocked the 
air beyond the wall. Though he didn't see it, he knew that Khan's secondary 
batteries had picked off the missile before it could strike the colony.
"Clear," said Khan. It had become routine. The harassment missile attacks went 
on and on.
Houchen stood and brushed himself off. "We have two more Bolos in orbit, but as 
soon as they land we're going to have to dispatch them to patrol other hot 
spots. You aren't the only colony on the planet, and all of them are being at 
least harassed by the aliens. Another full-scale attack could come at any point, 
and at any time."
Donning's smile had faded, replaced by a glare of anger. "So, you're saying 
we're drafted because some bureaucrat twenty light-years away has decided this 
ball of jungle rot is somehow important?"
Houchen looked grimly out at the ocean of trees dotted with mountaintop islands, 
that stretched off to the horizon. "I don't make those decisions, Donning, I'm 
just reporting what I've been told. I have my duty here, and so do you. I know 
that we can expect a greater show of military force here, in fact whatever it 
takes to keep the mining operations going, but I don't know the time frame. 
Concordiat forces in this sector are stretched rather thin at the moment. For 
the moment these three Bolos, and your own resources, are all we've got."
Donning was almost shaking, clearly from the weight that Houchen had suddenly 
put on his shoulders.
Houchen could imagine what Donning had been thinking, that they'd just hold the 
line until rescue, jump on a shuttle and head back to civilization. He could 
sympathize. He'd spent too many years in a headquarters office, and hadn't been 
under fire himself since he was a young man. He had a much keener sense of his 
own mortality these days.
"I'm a civilian," said Donning, "a volunteer. You can't hold me."
"As I said, I'm not doing anything, just passing down the word from above." He 
looked out at the vast sea of trees. "From where I stand, you don't have any 
place to go. We've got a few shuttles in orbit to extract the severely wounded, 
but I can't even get them down at the moment without risking lives."
Donning just frowned.
"Now, nobody can make you fight, much less command this outfit, but there 
doesn't seem to be anyone else better qualified to do the job. You rounded this 
crew up and organized this defense, and without what I saw today, you might have 
ended up like the Odinberg Colony."
Houchen wasn't even sure Donning was listening, but he went on anyway. "You 
could step down, go sit in your apartment, and wait for the place to be overrun, 
but somehow, I don't think you're the kind of person who would do that."
Donning chewed the inside of his lip. Then he nodded, hard and firm, as if 
making a sudden decision. "I don't have to like this, but I'll do what I can."
"Good," Houchen said. "We'll need you to keep your forces alert and ready. I'm 
sure command thought that three Bolos would have more than enough to handle the 
situation, but I have more colonies to defend than I have Bolos. That means that 
you can't count on Khan to be here full time."
"Wonderful," Donning said, looking out at the jungle.
"I understand," Houchen said. "But we might have to redeploy forces at any 
moment in response to a new attack, and that means you have to be prepared to 
defend yourselves until we get back."
"I don't understand. With all this firepower, why don't you just go after the 
hairy bastards? Wipe them out before they can attack again."
Houchen shook his head. "This isn't the kind of war Bolos are designed to fight, 
Donning. As far as we can tell, these aliens have no supply lines to cut, no 
factories to disrupt, no bases to destroy, and they seem utterly immune to fear 
and intimidation."
"True," Donning said. "All too true."
"Very little about this situation makes sense," Houchen said, "and that bothers 
me more than what we've seen so far on the battlefield. These aliens shouldn't 
be able to put together a muzzle-loader musket, much less a plasma cannon. From 
the looks of it, they don't even make their own steel for their knives and 
swords. They were probably still using bronze before somebody started giving 
them weapons."
"You're kidding?" Donning asked, staring at him. "Who would give creatures like 
these monsters weapons?"
"No one knows yet," Houchen said, "Moreover, there appear to be distinct 
subgroups of aliens. The group that attacked here and at the Odinberg Colony 
seems to be the same, but other colonies have reported aliens with completely 
different markings, completely different ways of fighting. All of them seem to 
have technology from the same source, and at about the same technical level, but 
there are differences in the types and distribution of individual weapons, as 
well as how they're used."
"You sound worried."
"I just keep wondering, who gives a plasma cannon to people living in mud huts? 
What could they possibly have to trade? Or failing that, what do their 
mysterious benefactors really want?"
"To kill us," Donning said. "Clearly."
Houchen knew Donning was right.
* * *
Lord Whitestar was in an especially foul mood. He walked the trails of their 
encampment in darkness, headed nowhere and going there fast. Nightbats and glow 
wings fluttered out of his way as he crashed, much louder than necessary, though 
the brush.
His first-wife rebelled, his second eldest son wished to kill him, and as the 
Ones Above had warned, the devils had brought their metal ogres into the battle. 
Countless warriors had died, not just fodder, but highborn too, and precious 
weapons were lost or destroyed.
It was easy to assume that the Ones Above would always provide more weapons, but 
Whitestar could not bring himself to rely on it. He knew that the Ones Above 
came down from the sky only infrequently, hiding their weapons, only later 
telling his people, through their oracles, where the weapons could be found.
Around him, men huddled in groups, sharpening their weapons, telling tales of 
battle. He could smell them, the damp, earthy smell of satisfaction and 
contentment. Their losses this day had been huge, and yet the mood among his men 
was high. They had seen glorious battle this day, battle that they had lived all 
their lives only dreaming of. So, they died? Wasn't that what they were born to 
do?
Whitestar hissed quietly in anger. No. They were not born to die, they were born 
to kill. 
The rivers ran with the juices of his people, and still the devils lived, their 
nest still stood, their hatchlings still slept safe. This was insufferable. They 
had to be made to die, and the ogres stood in his way.
He turned right at the next branch in the trail, walked on a log that crossed a 
rapidly flowing stream, and reached the large burrow that was Scarbeak's. The 
opening was curtained with several layers of fiber mats to keep in the light. 
Whitestar blinked and averted his eyes as he first stepped inside. Scarbeak 
worked using the magic torches that the Ones Above had provided him. Their light 
was pure and unflickering, white like daylight, and yet cool to the touch.
Except for a corner where a rumpled sleepmat lay spread, the room was full of 
the sacred modules of the Ones Above. On each module, a light glowed to show 
that it was functional, and color-coded connections showed how it was to be 
connected to its fellows to make a weapon.
All of the highborn were taught to repair and maintain the sacred weapons, but 
only old Scarbeak was their master. He was their weapons master, repairing 
weapons, and assembling new ones from salvaged parts. It was said that Scarbeak 
had even assembled modules against their sacred color coding, and made them do 
things that the Ones Above had not intended.
But Whitestar liked and trusted the oldster and would not listen to such lies. 
Scarbeak was of the faithful, a Speaker to the Oracle, and would never do such 
things. He was very old, and might not last more than another season or two. 
Whitestar would miss him.
For the moment, Scarbeak crouched on the floor, piecing together one plasma 
cannon from the parts of several damaged ones. He looked up. "My lord, I did not 
hear you coming. What brings you here this night?"
"You have to talk to the oracle, Scarbeak. We need a weapon, more powerful than 
any we've had so far, one that can kill the ogres."
"Ah," said Scarbeak, "yes. I've heard of the metal beast that killed so many of 
our warriors."
"Tell the oracle that we must kill it. Show us how."
"I cannot tell the oracles what to do, my lord."
"Of course not, but you can ask. You can plead. The ogres must die."
Scarbeak looked thoughtful for a moment. "A missile would not work. The ogre 
destroys our missiles in flight. Perhaps a mine."
"It would have to be a thousand and twenty-four mines, or a hundred and 
twenty-eight times that many. We cannot wait a lifetime for the ogre to be lured 
across a single mine."
"Then the weapon would have to be carried, my lord. Perhaps placed right under 
the ogre's belly. Who will do that?"
"I have no shortage of highborn willing to take that honor, Scarbeak."
Scarbeak clucked his disapproval. "A waste of a good highborn, my lord. Perhaps 
it is time you considered training the fodder to—"
"I will take the weapon to the ogre." They both turned to the new voice in the 
room. It was Sharpwing, his second eldest.
Whitestar hissed in anger. "How long have you been there?"
"Listening, my sire? Eavesdropping? Long enough. I claim the honor as mine."
"No," said Whitestar firmly. "It would be a waste of a young warrior."
"It was not a request, sire, it was a challenge. You heard me, Scarbeak. You are 
my witness. I challenge you on tomorrow's moon for the right to take the new 
weapon to the ogre."
"You have no right."
"I have every right! I wish to die as my blood commands me. I tire of being 
called a coward, the hatchling of a coward." Sharpwing studied his father's 
face. "Oh, yes, that is what the young warriors say of you, that you fight from 
your burrow, that you hide from battle like an old woman."
Scarbeak looked first at one, then the other, seemingly trying to find some way 
out of the situation. Finally he spoke. "There will be no weapon for a time, 
young lord-son. Even if the oracles answer my request, it will be a span of 
nights."
Sharpwing looked at the old man. "Time enough till we die then. I challenge you 
in a span of nights for the right to carry the weapon."
He pulled his curved knife from his belt and brandished it at Whitestar. "And I 
promise you, sire, that I will strike you with my brother's blade, and that I 
will strike to free my mother of your unworthy hold on her. Our ways are ever 
parted."
Then he stepped back through the curtains and was gone.
Whitestar looked down at Scarbeak, who looked back.
Finally Whitestar said, "I have too many wars to fight, and too many ogres to 
face. I hunger for an ending."
 








Chapter Five
Colonel Houchen watched as Donning climbed into the observer's seat on the far 
side of Khan's control compartment and strapped himself in. Houchen could tell 
he was impressed, that the power the Bolo represented was helping to strengthen 
the man's resolve, and his confidence that they hadn't been abandoned by the 
Concordiat.
This he knew was the third great mission of the Bolo. The first was to 
intimidate the enemy. The second was to strike the enemy with devastating power 
that could not be stopped. The third was to express the will of the Concordiat. 
Like the battleships, and later aircraft carriers of old Earth, a Bolo was a 
tangible, undeniable expression of its government's interest and concern in a 
situation.
It was the nature of Bolos that those who fought in more conventional forces 
often weren't comfortable with them, they could never forget them, ignore them, 
or deny them. The net result was that when a Bolo arrived, morale went up, 
because if the soldier was nervous about his own Bolo, how must the enemy feel?
The air conditioning in the cabin was finally starting to make some headway 
against the heat, humidity, and persistent jungle stench they'd brought with 
them from outside. Here, for a few minutes at least, they could feel 
comfortable, safe, and not completely helpless against their alien attackers.
"Khan, let's give our guest a little demonstration. But lay off full combat 
speed. I don't want to send him home in pieces." Houchen wasn't kidding about 
that. A Bolo's crash couch was a precision piece of equipment, vital if a human 
were ever to serve as an on-board commander during combat. A Mark XXV Bolo had a 
normal combat speed of 95 KPH over almost any kind of terrain, but when 
conditions allowed, it was capable of short sprints of 150 KPH. At that speed, a 
Bolo was a near unstoppable force. With its battle screens at full power, it 
could almost literally ram through small mountains.
The Bolo was capable of surviving the forces involved in such maneuvers, but a 
human commander was not, at least, not without a great deal of help. The crash 
couch acted as a vital three-dimensional shock absorber system for the more 
delicate human body. The observer seats had much more crude two-dimensional 
shock absorbers built in. Someone riding in one might survive full combat speed 
in rough terrain, but they wouldn't enjoy it, and they might not walk away under 
their own power.
"Aye, sir," replied Khan, and at once the growl of the drive system intensified 
around them and they were pushed back in their seats. The cabin was buffeted 
enough to give Donning an exciting ride. Nothing more.
"Let's clear back ten yards of jungle around the perimeter, just to keep the 
aliens awake out there."
Khan changed course, his multiple tread systems adjusting speed just enough to 
smoothly bring them in parallel to the jungle line, and then finally, 
overlapping two sets of treads into the trees like a giant lawn mower. The din 
was terrible as the treads knocked down trees by the hundreds, chewed them into 
splinters, then spit them out the back in a rooster tail of destruction. Houchen 
had intentionally detuned the active noise cancellation systems in the cabin for 
just that effect.
"Khan, let's pick the pace up. You're free to fire." There was an aggressive 
whir as the secondary gunports opened, and an almost machine-gunlike chatter as 
the ion-bolt infinite repeaters shot off short bursts in rapid succession. 
Suddenly, while mowing down trees on one side of the perimeter, Khan was 
simultaneously blasting them on two others. Houchen wished he could show off the 
Bolo's main armament, a 90mm super-Hellbore, but firing it at any visible target 
this close to the colony could do them more damage than the enemy already had 
done. If the aliens simply offered them a significant target worthy of that 
mighty weapon, this battle might already be over.
At last they finished their sweep around the perimeter. Khan slowed and resumed 
his patrol midway between the defenses and the tree line. "We could keep 
knocking down trees I suppose," said Houchen, "but it just keeps getting harder, 
and it takes Khan farther and farther away from the colony, giving them an 
opportunity to attack on another flank."
There was a loud thump as Khan fired off another secondary, a longer pulse, to 
take down an incoming missile.
"They're building for another attack, aren't they?"
Houchen nodded. Donning was green, but he was no fool. "We're pretty sure 
they're gathering out there. To be honest, our intelligence on this is limited. 
We occasionally pick up something from orbit that might be a cook-fire, but no 
concentrations of them, nothing that's consistent from night to night. Last 
night, while on their way to the New Marikana, Lieutenant Winter and his Bolo 
stumbled on an abandoned encampment. More of a nest really. Tunnels, seemingly 
dug with hand tools, aboveground huts and passages made from native plant 
materials."
"Any sign of technology?" Donning asked.
"Amazingly primitive," Houchen said, "not at all consistent with the weapons 
we've been seeing. I wish he'd had time to find and excavate one of their trash 
dumps. It might have told us something. The camp was stripped almost completely 
clean."
Donning only nodded, so Houchen went on. "But it explains why we can't find them 
from orbit. They don't clear land, they don't build roads, they don't seem to 
use reactors or power cells or anything we can pick up from orbit. To make 
things worse, they have a number of close relatives out there in the jungle, 
large, flightless, birdlike creatures, probably only a little farther from them 
than chimps and gorillas are from humans. Until one of them powers up his 
weapon, he could be just another part of the local wildlife as far as we're 
concerned."
"Then you don't know what they're going to do." Donning looked over at Houchen.
"I think my gut is telling me the same thing your gut is telling you," Houchen 
said. "The harassment attacks continue for a reason, to keep us off guard, to 
keep our people on alert until they're exhausted. When the aliens are ready, 
they'll try again."
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Houchen said, "You know, there's 
something I've been meaning to ask you about. Khan swears that, just before his 
landing, he picked up sensor readings consistent with a Bolo hull in or near the 
Odinberg Colony. But that couldn't be. We show no record of a Bolo ever being 
dispatched to this planet. Do you know anything about it?"
Donning nodded. "That would be the Prescott machine."
Houchen shook his head. He had no idea what a Prescott machine was.
"An armored mining machine," Donning said, "built on a converted Bolo chassis? I 
heard they were bringing one in, but I don't think they had time to deploy it."
Now Houchen felt really puzzled. What had they done to the old Bolo brain, and 
all the firepower? "Your aircraft didn't report seeing it when they scouted the 
Odinberg Colony after the attack?"
"They saw the hangar where it would have been parked flattened by some kind of 
bomb," Donning said, "half a mountain dropped down on it. That's all I know. 
Like we told you, they didn't have much time to report back before they were 
shot down. But that thing is gone, like the rest of Odinberg. Write it off. It's 
no use to us now."
Houchen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He wasn't going to believe that. Bolos did 
not die easily. "I don't know—"
Another thump as a missile was destroyed.
"You know," said Donning, "they've been hitting us with these harassment 
attacks, maybe we should do the same to them."
"Fire off random shots into the jungle?" Houchen asked, staring at the 
commander. "As long as the aliens remain dispersed we are unlikely to do them 
significant damage, and they don't seem in any way inclined to be discouraged by 
such tactics."
Donning nodded, thinking.
Houchen knew exactly what Donning was trying to do. He was trying to take a role 
in defending his colony, and it wasn't like the Bolo's energy weapons were going 
to run out of ammo. "I suppose we could try it for a day or two and see what 
happens."
"Maybe you should have the Bolos do preventative strikes against the moving 
groups," Donning said. "The aliens aren't staying anywhere close to out of 
range. We might be able to disrupt their gathering for attack."
Suddenly an alarm filled the room. It was the sound Houchen had been dreading.
"Too late," Donning said.
"Colonel," said Khan, "I have alien forces massing just beyond the tree line. 
Another attack appears imminent."
"Damn," said Donning, unbuckling his harness and grabbing for his rifle.
"Where are you going?" said Houchen, trying to keep one eye on the external view 
and tactical screens.
Donning pulled on his helmet and fastened the strap. "Back to my men. It's only 
about a hundred meters back to the wall. Comm my people to cover me, and you do 
the same. I used to be pretty good at the hundred meter in my day."
"You can send orders from here."
"I can send orders, but I can't give orders from here, Colonel." He slapped the 
hatch release.
"Khan, get him in as close as you can, stop just long enough for him to jump 
clear of the tracks, then turn to place us between him and the enemy lines."
Donning paused inside the hatch and looked back at Houchen as Khan came around. 
"You think that other Bolo machine might still be active out there somehow?"
"One thing I've learned, Commander. Never write a Bolo off."
Donning nodded. It was time. "Good luck, Colonel."
"To you too, Commander."
Then Donning was out, and the hatch slammed closed.
Houchen looked up at the screens, one showing thousands of alien warriors 
flooding out of the trees, another showing Donning sprinting for the wall. No 
matter what else, the man had guts.
* * *
Donning hit the ground running. The rifle slowed him down, but he was going to 
need it if things turned bad. Behind him he could hear the churning roar of the 
turning Bolo, and the shrill cries of countless charging alien warriors.
A plasma bolt shattered a divot out of the wall to his right, and he turned 
sharply, zigzagging to offer a poorer target. He felt the concussion as the 
Bolo's batteries opened fire on the aliens, followed by a different kind of 
thump as the Bolo mortars started lobbing rounds over the colony to disrupt the 
advance there.
A missile screamed past in the confusion, meters over his head, missing the wall 
entirely and heading back out over the jungle. Perhaps the Bolo had known it 
would miss, and simply chose not to waste a shot. Above him, the rapid crackling 
of pulse rifles was comforting. The aliens were gaining on him fast. They'd 
clocked some of the big monsters hitting 50 KPH in short sprints.
Just ahead, a line with a rescue loop dropped down the face of the wall. He 
grabbed the loop and hooked it under his armpits, then jerked the line to signal 
the hoist operators. The line immediately became taut and yanked his feet off 
the ground. He managed to get his feet between him and the wall, literally 
running up the duracrete surface.
Another plasma bolt struck a dozen yards away, and he was very aware of what a 
choice target he made. He started leaping from side to side as best he could. A 
smaller bolt, probably from a rifle, came from below him. He jumped, twisted his 
body, tried to keep his head forward, and slammed his back into the wall. Below 
him, a handful of aliens had somehow made it past the Bolo.
Gasping for breath, his ribs on fire, he sighted down his own rifle and opened 
fire, full auto. The dirt churned around the aliens, then one of them fell, 
another's head exploded. A blast from the Bolo, vast overkill, finished the rest 
of them.
As he reached the top of the wall, a dozen hands grabbed him and hauled him 
over. He shrugged off a woman wearing a medical armband and headed for his 
command post higher on the wall. Later, after the fighting was over, after he'd 
had a chance to think about it, his face would whiten, his knees would quake, 
his stomach would knot and threaten to send his breakfast into full retreat. But 
just that second, Donning had never felt more alive.
* * *
"What do you mean it isn't supposed to be this way?" Tyrus wasn't sure he was 
going to survive the trip. The mining machine called Dirk didn't seem to be 
designed for the comfort of the operator under the best of circumstances, but 
plowing as they were through the jungle at best possible speed, bowling over 
trees as it went, was a nightmare.
"My crash couch is designed to cushion the commander against momentary 
accelerations of up to thirty standard gravities in any axis."
"Ow!" Tyrus slapped his hand to his mouth. "Then why did I just bite my tongue 
for the third time?"
"I believe that most of my active shock absorbers have been replaced," Dirk 
said, "either with passive gas cylinders of some kind, or rigid struts, perhaps 
with the idea of making it easier to maintain. I do not believe that they 
intended me to travel more than a dozen kilometers per hour in my modified 
form."
"How fast are we going now?"
"Forty KPH, about half my old cruise speed."
"Good lord. You mean I could be hurting more?"
"Would you like me to reduce speed?"
"No. We've got to get to Rustenberg, warn them to be on the lookout for bombs, 
see if there's anything we can do to help. They could attack there at any time."
"The attack has already begun," Dirk said.
Tyrus blinked in surprise. "Excuse me? How would you know that?"
"While I am unable to transmit a signal that they can receive, I am detecting 
strategic communications between three Bolos, including one at the northern 
colony."
"Bolos? Bolos like you? I mean, like you before your conversion."
"Not exactly. I am Mark XXIV, they are Mark XXV. I am unfamiliar with the 
designation. It seems to have been introduced after I was put into mothballs and 
placed on standby."
So, the Concordiat had sent help, even if it was too late for the Odinberg 
Colony. "They should be okay there then, with a Bolo on station?"
"I believe there is still a danger, especially if they are unaware of the 
possibility of suicide bomb attacks such as destroyed our hangar. That weapon 
was one of the smallest such weapons that can be constructed. It is only logical 
that the enemy may possess bigger ones."
"Big enough to destroy an entire colony, Bolo or no Bolo?"
"Quite possibly."
"How long until we reach Rustenberg?"
"At this speed, five hours and fifty minutes."
Tyrus felt something wet on his chest. He looked down and saw that the left 
shoulder strap had opened a cut there, a raw stinging mess that slowly oozed 
blood into his shirt. "Go faster," he said to Dirk.
* * *
One of the "gifts" the drop pod had delivered was a full-fledged modular fire 
control system for the colony's defenses. The self-contained control center had 
stations for himself and two other officers, plus room for observers. No longer 
did Donning have to watch from the ramparts and shout his orders into a 
wristcom. He could watch any part of the defenses through multiple screens 
around his command chair, call up status displays on any of the fixed weapons 
systems, track the status of each and every mine, and even monitor the Bolo's 
sensory systems.
An integrated communication system allowed orders to be issued through headsets 
to his troops, either individually or en masse. A lot of the center's 
capabilities were either irrelevant to their situation (they were in no apparent 
danger of attack from space, or other than missiles, from the air), or simply 
beyond their limited technical skills to employ, but the equipment had immensely 
improved their ability to defend themselves.
During their first attack, Donning had barely felt in control, and unaware of 
what was happening outside his direct line of view. Now he was instantly aware 
of any trouble spot and able to issue detailed orders to hundreds of troops with 
a single voice command.
As Donning rushed into the command control center, he found Lieutenant Peak 
manning one of the stations. He was a young electronics expert who had served a 
three-year stint in combat training. The other seat was empty, probably for lack 
of a trained officer, but given their limited use of the equipment, the second 
station really wasn't needed anyway.
Donning sat down in the command chair and ordered up a strategic overview. The 
five main screens showed the different defense positions around the colony. The 
Bolo had moved a kilometer or so away from the colony to the north, to give it a 
clearer field of fire.
Since the last attack Donning had had his people plant new, reprogrammed mines. 
Now they were equipped with time delay fuses that kept all the mines in a given 
area from being triggered at once. A supposedly "clear" area of the field could 
now suddenly spring to life, killing masses of unsuspecting aliens. Already, 
hundreds of alien bodies were scattered throughout the minefield, and the edges 
of the jungle seemed to be moving, alive as the massive aliens ran into the 
opening, beaklike mouths open.
He checked to make sure that all families and noncombatants were headed into the 
new underground shelters that they had built. Building those shelters and the 
defensive fortifications had been top priority since the destruction of the 
Odinberg Colony. No matter what level weapon those ugly bastards threw at this 
colony, most of the civilians were going to survive if he had anything to say 
about it.
He tried to take it all in at once. Clearly this attack was much more fierce 
than the last, but the colony was better prepared, better armed, and had a Bolo 
guarding them. For the moment at least, things in the command center felt in 
control. But Donning knew that wouldn't last.
"Peak, keep an eye out for trouble spots. I'm going to take some time to study 
the enemy, see if I can learn anything we can use against them."
"Got it," Peak said.
The aliens had also modified their tactics since the last attack. Rather than 
just storming the walls, the aliens moved in smaller, more dispersed groups that 
were a less tempting target for the Bolo's big guns. Rather than directly 
attacking, groups would move out of the trees, transverse the perimeter to draw 
fire, then fade back into the jungle.
Small missiles swarmed in almost constantly, seemingly more to occupy the Bolo's 
guns than to do any real damage. Most of the missiles seemed to be coming from 
just within the jungle, but one nearby hilltop had been the source of several 
shots. As Donning watched, Khan's main gun transversed and locked on the hill. A 
blinding beam of energy lanced out, and the hilltop instantly vaporized into an 
expanding ball of flame and debris.
Donning heard the Bolo commander laugh through the comm link. "That may not have 
been strategically effective, but it sure felt good to unlimber the Hellbore for 
a change. This place is cramping Khan's style."
"Looked good from here as well," Donning said.
Another new development was that single aliens would break from groups, sprint 
towards the colony, and set satchel charges against the base of the 
fortifications. Each charge took a bite out of the big wall. While each one did 
little damage, if they could plant enough of these in one area, that might 
eventually create a breach. Donning instructed his subordinates on the wall to 
monitor this situation closely and position their best snipers to protect 
vulnerable areas.
Donning zoomed one of the cameras in on a particular alien and set it to 
automatically track the creature. The alien was huge, muscular, covered with 
white on black fir in patterns that reminded him of a panda or orca from Old 
Earth. Though they were generally humanoid, there were just enough avian 
characteristics to suggest that they really had evolved from predatory 
flightless birds. They had powerful, talon-equipped feet, hard ridges around 
their mouths that might have been beaks or bills, and large, round eyes mounted 
on the sides of their heads.
Donning started to notice a pattern in how it moved. They were fast sprinters, 
and strong, but their peak activity seemed to come in bursts, almost as though 
their metabolism had trouble sustaining their full energy output.
He noticed another significant thing. The weapons not only didn't seem to be 
designed by the aliens, they didn't seem to be designed for them. Sites and 
eyepieces seemed shaped for users with eyes on the front of their heads, not the 
sides, and the grips and controls poorly fit the natives' hands, which, perhaps 
because they were evolved from wings, not paws, were long and strangely jointed.
Peak waved at one of the big screens. "What kind of weapon is that?" he asked, 
indicating three aliens leading one attack wave.
"That's new," Donning said, looking closer. The metal cylinder was big enough 
that three of the aliens were required to carry it on their huge shoulders.
He hesitated. The safest thing to do would be to focus fire on the unknown 
weapon, but if he did, they wouldn't know its capabilities. One of the unknowns 
could get past them at a weaker moment and turn the battle, unless they learned 
to defend against it. In the end, he decided to let the battle run its course. 
If his people took the three out, so be it, but if they did get to fire, he'd be 
watching.
In fact, as Donning watched, a rifle shot took down one of the three. As he 
fell, a half dozen more aliens suddenly converged to take his place, actually 
getting into a shoving contest over who would take the honor. Then, a moment 
later, another alien appeared and took the dead one's place, not after a fight, 
but what seemed somehow like a servile surrender.
Donning nodded to himself. So, the enemy did have some sort of ranking or caste 
system. That meant that despite the seeming chaos out there, there might be 
officers that could be targeted, some kind of command and control structure that 
could be disrupted.
"There are more of them," said Peak. He pointed to where another trio was 
lugging their cylinder out of the jungle, and another one on the far side of the 
compound.
"Damn." Donning thumbed a communications toggle. "Houchen, there's a new weapon 
showing up out there, a cylinder, takes three aliens to carry it."
"We're on it," replied Houchen over the comm.
But it was too late. The cylinders were aimed at their target, not the colony, 
but the Bolo itself, and all of them fired in rapid succession. The rear of the 
device Donning was watching literally exploded, injuring several aliens unlucky 
enough to be standing within a yard or so behind it. And as it exploded a 
single, brief beam was emitted from the other end.
"We're hit!" shouted Houchen. "Never seen anything like those before. They're 
like pocket Hellbores. Actually put a dent in our battle screens and our armor. 
If they were lucky enough to find a vital spot at close range, they might 
actually be able to do us some significant damage."
Donning was about to order his men to open fire on the cylinders when he saw the 
three operators toss one aside and run to join their unarmed fellows. "I think 
it's only good for one shot, Colonel. Now that we know what we're dealing with, 
we can take them out before they can get close. Good thing too. Our 
fortifications wouldn't hold up long against those."
"Tell your people to break out their breathers and antirad pills," Houchen said. 
"The radiation levels just peaked down here. I wonder if the aliens know that 
they're slow-cooking themselves every time they fire off one of those things?"
Donning shifted his view to another attacker, firing one of the smaller plasma 
cannon that they'd seen before. As he watched, the alien went down. Two of the 
aliens behind him scrambled for the cannon he had been carrying. The one who 
ended up with it dropped his spear and seemed to growl or snarl at the other in 
celebration, then turn back to the attack.
Donning suddenly made the connection. Armed with spears and swords, the 
individual aliens weren't the threat. Knock down one, and a dozen would 
instantly replace him. It was the weapons themselves, obviously still in limited 
supply, that were the threat.
He opened a command channel. "All snipers and gunners, save your shots for 
aliens carrying high technology weapons. Do not target the operator. Repeat, do 
not target the operator. Go for the weapon itself."
* * *
Tyrus winced as a sudden bump slammed him against the roof of the narrow service 
passage. If the defective crash couch had been a problem, this was just a little 
slice of hell. Still, he observed, if he survived the experience, the results 
might be worth it. They had discovered that unlike his primary Hellbore, Dirk's 
secondary batteries were still intact.
Perhaps the Prescott folks had decided they were too difficult to remove. 
Instead, they had removed the power busses and data couplings, dogged the 
gunports from the inside, then welded them from outside. He couldn't do anything 
about the welds, but he could certainly unbolt the dogs, try to rig a power 
bypass, reconnect the data links, and hope for the best.
Dirk seemed hopeful that, if enough power were restored, he might be able to 
shatter the welds by overloading his port actuators. Of course, he might not be 
able to close the ports again, but that was a problem for another time.
"You reading me, Dirk?"
"Yes, Commander."
"I wish you wouldn't keep calling me that, Dirk. I just replaced your buss bar. 
I'm gonna move back beyond the safety gate, and then I want you to apply trickle 
power and see what happens."
Tyrus crawled back past all the "danger" and "high voltage" placards and latched 
the insulated gate that protected the power circuits. "Go for it, Dirk."
There was a pause. "I can feel my secondary mechanisms! Of course, I am as yet 
unable to apply enough power to the actuators to take up the slack in the port 
mechanicals."
"Well, let's take this slow. The bundle of superconducting rod I used in place 
of the original bar probably won't hold for long, and I don't have anything to 
replace it with. My luck, you'll get the ports open, only to find there's no 
power left for the weapons."
"I have a great deal of confidence in you, Tyrus."
He laughed grimly. "Based on what?"
"You've acquitted yourself well. I know enough about human psychology to know 
this situation must be very difficult for you to cope with."
"I'm not coping at all. That's the trick. You try to cope, you can fail. I'm 
saving that for later."
"Tyrus."
There was something in the Bolo's voice.
"We are being hailed. A Concordiat spacecraft in orbit has evidently spotted 
us."
"Can you respond?"
"I am trying, but I do not believe they will be able to receive me. Tyrus, I am 
receiving instructions that we are to proceed to the northern colony if possible 
and assist with the defense there."
"That's where we were headed anyway. I've done all I can here. I'm headed back 
up to the control compartment. Get your busted crash couch ready."
He packed up the emergency tool kit as best he could. Several of the tools had 
simply disappeared, probably bounced away by the Bolo's constant motion and 
vibration. Then he crawled back through the service passages towards the control 
room. He was halfway there when Dirk spoke again.
"Tyrus, the jungle ahead shows signs of a recent fire. I am detecting metallic 
traces that I believe to be wreckage."
Tyrus felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. "Is it human?"
"The alloys are consistent with human construction."
"Are there aliens in the area?"
"Given my scrambled sensors, impossible to say. I see no obvious signs."
"Slow down, and stop just short of the wreckage. I'm going to get out and 
investigate." He crawled back to the service hatch where he'd first entered the 
Bolo, picking up the rifle and side arm that he'd stashed there earlier.
He sat, his back against a cool bulkhead, his heart pounding as he contemplated 
the inside of the hatch. Finally the Bolo stopped. "Open the hatch, Dirk."
There was a hiss, followed by a whir, and a brilliant ring of morning sunlight 
appeared around the hatch, which then slid up into the body of the machine. The 
combination of heat, humidity, and smell hit him like a wave after so long in 
the beast's air-conditioned belly. Outside he could hear only the buzzing of 
insects, the rustling of foliage in the slight breeze, and the cries of jungle 
animals, hopefully none too big or too close.
He duck walked up to the hatch and climbed down a massive boogie wheel to the 
ground. Something he never saw buzzed down to take a bite out of his neck, 
didn't like the taste, and rapidly buzzed away.
The jungle wasn't as thick here as most he'd seen. There were large spaces 
between the higher trees, large patches of blue visible above the underbrush. 
Ten meters in front of the Bolo, the burn started.
As he crossed into the blackened area and stooped down to inspect, he could see 
that Dirk was right about the fire being recent. Not even a few green shoots had 
emerged from the blackened soil, though doubtlessly within a few days the forest 
would already be healing itself.
He stood. "Dirk, which way to the wreckage?"
"I read a large concentration of metal behind those trees to your right, about 
fifteen meters."
He stepped carefully, moving around the charred pillars that had once been 
stately trees. Something glinted in the sun ahead, and he picked up his pace.
He found nothing that he could have identified definitely as an air shuttle, 
only a four-meter-long, flattened, twisted hunk of alloy sheet, carbon 
composite, and superconducting cable.
"The total mass of metal that I am reading," said Dirk, "is only about eighty 
percent of what I would expect from the shuttle's wreckage. Possibly this is 
some other craft."
Tyrus didn't think so. "Or the rest of the wreckage was lost well before they 
hit the ground. I think a missile hit this thing, whatever it is."
Then he looked up. Somehow, an entire skin panel, at least four meters across 
and two meters long had somehow survived almost intact, cradled in the burned 
tree limbs almost like an intentionally placed signpost. On the left edge, half 
of the seal of the Concordiat could be seen, along with most of the mining 
company's logo. And below that, a number.
His stomach knotted. "Dirk, does the number 'TN-1045' mean anything to you?"
"That was the call sign used by the departing shuttle in its distress call, 
Tyrus. I am sorry."
He heard a small, mournful noise, and realized only a moment later that it had 
come from his own throat.
"It is possible your family was not on the shuttle, Tyrus."
It took him a minute to swallow, get his voice working again. "They were here, 
or back at the colony. It really doesn't matter if they died here or not. This 
is where hope died, Dirk. This is where they died in my heart."
"I am sorry, Tyrus."
He started scanning the ground, looking for he didn't know what, some scrap of 
clothing, some personal artifact, some scrap of bone, something to tell him 
about the people that died here.
"Tyrus."
He spotted a superconducting impeller coil, a porthole and its surrounding chunk 
of bulkhead, completely intact.
"Tyrus! Behind you!"
Old reflexes cut in and he was raising the rifle even as he turned. The dozen 
aliens that stood at the edge of the jungle had only knives and spears. He saw 
them with almost superhuman clarity, a flood of adrenaline pushing aside the 
grief for the moment. Their colors were different from the ones he'd seen: 
white, with mottled spots of yellow, brown, and black on gray stripes. They wore 
what looked like green togas, belted at the waist. They were different than the 
ones that destroyed the colony. Had they fired the missile that brought down the 
plane? He didn't know. Didn't care. They would do.
Ignoring his gun, two of them lowered their sword-tipped spears and charged at 
him, howling as they did so. He pulled the trigger to full auto, cutting one 
charging alien in half, his misses shooting into the others waiting behind.
He swept the gun back and forth, mowing them all down.
Suddenly there were more, seemingly charging from every side.
He fanned the gun back and forth, waist high, trying to take them down before 
they got too close.
More aliens fell, more aliens appeared.
He ducked aside as a thrown spear sailed past his head, so close that he could 
feel the wind on his hair.
The aliens screamed.
He screamed back.
He fired the gun until it overheated, and forced him to go back to choosing his 
targets and squeezing off shots one by one.
The aliens came closer and closer until he was forced to use his rifle barrel as 
a club to fend off a stabbing spear, forced to throw the gun aside, grab the 
pistol from his belt and fire into the charging alien's chest.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four times.
Then a knife sliced between his ribs and the dead weight of the alien's body 
fell on him like a side of beef.
He braced himself for the spear that would finish the job, the knife that would 
take his head like so many he'd seen back at the colony.
Then the world exploded. Over and over again.
Behind him, in front of him, to his left, to his right.
He heard the growl of the slowly advancing Bolo, the rain of dust and debris, 
the whir of the opening hatch.
Then it was very, very quiet.
After a few moments, he braced himself, and in a supreme effort, managed to roll 
the dead alien off the top of him. As the alien fell, he saw a splinter of 
shattered tree trunk as long as his forearm buried in its neck.
"That was some risk," Tyrus said, staggering to his feet and looking around, 
"firing your secondaries that close to me."
"I waited until there was no other choice," Dirk said, "and I hoped your 
attacker's body would shield you."
"It worked," he said, staggered slowly towards the hatch, clutching his bleeding 
chest. Something under his palm made a little sucking sound.
"You are injured," said Dirk, as Tyrus staggered and fell through the hatch.
"Very," he gasped. He lay on the compartment floor, the metal decking cool and 
smooth against his cheek.
"If you can get to the control cabin, my autodoc may be able to help."
"No can do."
"You must try."
"You just go on your way. I'll ride down here."
"You must try."
"Can't. Can't," Tyrus said, staring at the wall, wondering why he was even still 
talking to the machine that had just saved his life. "Got no hope left, big 
buddy. If you have some, it will have to be enough for both of us."
He felt the Bolo start to move.
"We will be at the Rustenberg Colony in a few hours. There will be medical help 
there."
"If you say so," Tyrus said, not really caring.
"I will try not to jostle you, but it may be a difficult journey."
"I can't stop you."
Tyrus figured he passed out for a moment, or an hour, the nightmare of the room 
jerking around him keeping him just barely aware.
"Tyrus."
"What?"
"There is a protected place in every Bolo's memory where we store remembrances 
of our past commanders. My service history goes back more than two hundred 
years, and though my memory has been damaged, that part is still intact. I can 
remember my first commander with complete clarity, and each officer I have 
served with since. I have been privileged with an excellent run of commanders. I 
have been most fortunate."
"That's good, Dirk."
"I have created a place for you there, Tyrus, not in anticipation of any given 
event, but in honor of what we're been through in our brief time together."
"I'm honored, Dirk."
"The honor is mine, Commander Tyrus."
It was getting very hard to stay awake.
"Dirk."
"Yes, Commander."
"Be sure to warn them about the bombs."
"Yes, Commander."
He felt himself sinking into a very dark place, and he didn't want to talk any 
more.
 








Chapter Six
Donning reclined in his command chair, which fortunately had been designed with 
the possibility of sleep in mind. The alien attack had lost its intensity after 
they'd expended their one-shot weapons against the Bolo, then finally ended 
without incident about dusk. Casualties were minimal. Donning felt that next 
time he'd know even better how to fight the aliens.
He could have gone back to his bed when the fighting ended, but surprisingly, he 
felt more comfortable here. He watched the sun come up on the big screen, 
ordered his breakfast brought up, then dozed for a while. It was midmorning when 
the call came from Houchen, the call he'd been anticipating, and dreading.
"Commander, I just got word that New Marikana is under intense attack. They've 
got their own brand of aliens, orange stripes and cruise missiles, and they're 
just not ready. They haven't had a bit of trouble until now. In fact, they were 
still running mining missions until yesterday."
"You need to go."
"I'm afraid so."
"Then go." He racked his chair upright, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and 
checked his status screens.
"We both knew this was coming."
"I think we've got a handle on it, Colonel. We can hold out until reinforcements 
come. The auto-turrets are finally completely integrated with the new command 
and control system, so we should be able to handle our own antimissile defense. 
Go."
"Thanks for taking this so well, Donning. You're a fine officer."
"I'm a man doing what he has to do," Donning said. "I think that describes all 
of us here." He watched the Bolo on his screen. Already it was making maximum 
speed and headed away.
"With luck, Khan and I or one of the other Bolos will be back here in a couple 
days. Signal if you get trouble."
"Will do."
"One more thing, Donning," Houchen said, "you might have some help here sooner 
than you think. Our ships are picking up that Bolo mining machine from Odinberg, 
and it's on the move."
"You're kidding?" Donning asked.
"Nope," Houchen said. "It stopped for a while, but now it's moving again, toward 
you. We haven't been able to contact it though, so we don't know what sort of 
fighting shape it's in, or who's on board. It could be something to help with 
your defense, or just more survivors to take care of."
"We'll take care of it."
"Good luck, Commander."
"I just hope we won't need it," Donning said. But he knew better. They were 
going to need all the luck they could get very, very shortly.
A blip sailed across one of his screens, an incoming harassment missile. As he 
watched, the west auto-turret snapped around and blew it out of the sky.
Donning chuckled. "Open for business."
* * *
Lord Whitestar paced from one end of Scarbeak's chamber to another. "What do you 
mean, the ogre has gone?"
Scarbeak looked up from the new weapon he had been studying so intently. "Just 
that, lord. A runner returned from the meadow's edge just moments ago with the 
news. The ogre has left the area of the human nest and is moving northwest. 
Perhaps the new weapons we used hurt it more than we believed, or perhaps one of 
the other clans is attacking a nest in that direction, and the ogre is 
responding to their calls of distress."
Whitestar kicked over a stack of modules in anger, before he realized the 
sacrilege of what he had done. He quickly inspected the modules to be sure their 
lights-of-function were still lit, and stacked them neatly. "Forgive me, 
Scarbeak. My blood runs as hot as a new chick's. I have spent these days 
preparing myself to kill the ogre, and now it is snatched from me."
"The ogre is gone. Is that not what we wanted?"
"This nest has proven to be far more difficult to destroy than the first, old 
one," Whitestar said. "That is what we want, but even without the ogre there, I 
am not sure that we can do it, and if we do not do it quickly, the ogre may 
return. And I still must meet Sharpwing in challenge."
Scarbeak looked surprised. "Surely he will not want to press challenge, now that 
the ogre is gone."
"The ogre is his key to a place of the honored dead," Whitestar said, "but it is 
my blood that he truly wishes to spill. He will not care that the ogre is gone, 
and I will have to kill him. If I do that, neither my eldest nor my first-wife 
will forgive me, and the disgrace will cripple my ability to lead."
"Then let your eldest lead. That was what you planned anyway. Refuse to fight 
Sharpwing. Dishonor is not such a terrible thing to live with. It might be your 
only hope to live as long as I have."
"He has only begun to recover from the wounds I gave him. If I give Sharpwing 
honor by refusing to fight, the hatchling will try to take control. Before his 
brother is recovered, he may have already led our clan to ruin, that we may 
taste death and defeat at the same meal."
Scarbeak put down his tools and looked up at his lord, gazing at him intently 
with the right eye of truth. "What if there is no future for our clan, my lord?"
"What foolishness are you talking about now, old man?" Whitestar demanded, 
staring at the old one.
"The warriors that carried the new weapons," Scarbeak said, not backing down, 
"indeed, even those warriors that were close when the weapons fired, they 
sicken, my lord. Their fur falls out in clumps, and they cannot keep down their 
food."
"We can make more eggs quickly," Whitestar said. He did not like what Scarbeak 
was getting at.
"True," Scarbeak said, nodding, "but the losses are staggering, far faster than 
even we can make eggs. So many die from the devil's weapons, and now more and 
more die from our own as well. Sharpwing's generation, or perhaps a few after 
him, could be the last."
"First my wife, now you. If that is the plan that the Ones Above have for us, so 
be it. But consider this, which of my sons should be leader, if our people are 
to live longest?"
Whitestar didn't wait for an answer, but instead kneeled next to the new weapon, 
a flattened disk half as wide as he was tall, with straps to hold it to a 
warrior's back for carrying. "How powerful is this weapon, Scarbeak?"
"Powerful enough to pierce the skin of the ogre and strike his heart, if you can 
place it underneath, or perhaps just close to his body at any point."
Scarbeak moved over and touched the weapon reverently. "Unlike the other Fists 
we have been given, this one strikes in one direction only, and the oracles tell 
me that it acts as a shield against the devil's weapons."
Whitestar stared at the object. It did have the appearance of a shield, but he 
didn't see how it would stop the great firebolts that came from the ogre. Still, 
he had to trust the oracles, trust the Ones Above. Many things were still in 
their control. "Scarbeak, could this thing pierce the walls of the devil's 
nest?"
"It might, my lord. In fact, I am almost certain it would. We have been able to 
damage those walls repeatedly, while we have barely scratched the hide of the 
ogre."
"And if I could break open their nest so that our warriors could slaughter them, 
it would shorten this war, save countless of our people's lives, and still serve 
the will of the Ones Above. Wouldn't that be worth the life of a lord?"
Scarbeak said nothing for a while. Then, "I'm old, my friend. I had always 
imagined that you would outlive me."
 








Chapter Seven
Donning could have had the new command and control center installed anywhere in 
the colony. It was self-contained, weatherproof, and could have communicated 
over an area many times larger than the colony. But he had chosen to have it set 
up just behind the southern ramparts, where it was still well protected, but 
close enough to the walls that he could easily climb up and visit the troops 
there. He knew that, as the siege dragged on, and a siege is what this was, the 
morale of the people manning the walls and defenses would be everything. So each 
morning he tried to make the circuit of those walls, to let everyone see him, to 
stop occasionally, ask people how they were doing, and offer a few words of 
encouragement.
The perimeter was too long to comfortably walk, and staying well behind the 
walls in a ground-car would have defeated the purpose, so he'd had a small 
electric scooter hauled up. Each morning found him on that scooter, zipping 
along the catwalks and weapons platforms built into its top and rear, making his 
rounds. It wasn't terribly dignified or impressive, but he somehow thought that 
the people serving under him appreciated the effort.
This morning, his first stop was at a sniper platform a few hundred meters 
counter-clockwise from the C&C. Manning the post this day was Private Vetta 
Rampling. Donning had been keeping an eye on her. She had no military 
experience, but she'd lived on frontier worlds most of her life. She knew how to 
handle a weapon, and wasn't afraid to use them with deadly intent. Given how 
many of his troops had started out as file clerks and machine operators, as 
afraid of their own weapons as the enemy, he wished he had a couple dozen more 
like her.
He rolled up and stepped off the scooter. "Good morning, Private."
She gave him a sloppy salute. Rampling wasn't much on military protocol, but 
that described a lot of the people under his command. Actually it wasn't that, 
so much as that she seemed distracted, concerned with something out beyond the 
wall.
"Problem, Private?" He stepped up and looked out the gun slit. He wasn't overly 
cautious, a shimmer field built into the opening made it almost impossible for 
an enemy sniper to target anyone behind the wall.
Things looked quiet outside. Below them, a remote-controlled construction 
machine was repairing wall damage from the last attack, a boom moving back and 
fourth spraying fast-hardening duracrete into the openings. Beyond that, a bit 
of low fog hung to the meadows, and the tree line seemed quiet.
"They're out there, Commander, getting ready to attack again."
Overactive imagination? But she seemed to be suggesting fact, and not just 
speculation. "Are your eyes better than mine, Private?"
"Maybe, but that's not it." She looked at him, as though wondering if he'd think 
her crazy. "I don't suppose you can smell them, can you, sir?"
He chuckled in spite himself. "I don't much want to smell them, Private."
"No, sir, really. I can smell them out there, smell their mood, I think. It 
could be part of how they communicate, or how they coordinate their attacks. And 
what I'm smelling today, I smelled before the last two attacks started. I think 
they're massing out there."
Donning considered for a moment. He'd read somewhere that women had much more 
sensitive noses than men. Maybe she was onto something. He touched his earpiece. 
"Peak."
"Yes, sir," the voice came back.
"Are you reading anything unusual on the perimeter?"
"I was just about to call you, sir. We've got a lot of movement beyond the tree 
line. Not as much as the last attack, but I think things could be heating up."
"I'm on my way." He put the headset on standby and climbed back on his scooter, 
turning it back towards the C&C. "Private, when you get a chance, see if any of 
the other women have been smelling what you've been smelling, and if you get any 
other insights into what's about to happen, you send them up to C&C 
immediately."
"Yes, sir!"
Despite his concern about the impending attack, Donning smiled as he rode back 
to the C&C. Every clue, every insight they got into the aliens, how they 
thought, how they operated, made them easier to fight. For the longest time it 
had been difficult for Donning to think beyond the next hour, the next day, the 
next attack. But now he could finally start to project beyond that.
The Concordiat wasn't trying to keep them here to cower behind their walls 
forever. They were keeping them here to mine, and that meant leaving the 
relative safety of the compound. Houchen had told him about the Bolo mining 
machine on its way from the Odinberg Colony. Even if it wasn't any use to them 
as a combat vehicle, they might be able to use it for its mining capabilities. 
Maybe they could be back in the mining business faster than anyone imagined.
Yet even as he was thinking these things, some part of his mind was reminding 
him that there was a fine line between competence and overconfidence.
* * *
Scarbeak had put on his finest robe before heading to the gathering. It was made 
of a soft fabric obtained by endlessly pounding the fibrous shells of a certain 
jungle nut and dyed purple and red using the condensed juice of fermented 
berries. At the bottom, it came almost to the tops of his feet and a hood could 
be raised to cover his head. A knotted rope around the middle of his chest 
secured the garment.
He liked the robe and wore it on those public occasions when he wished to be 
noticed. Whitestar used to make fun of it. The men of their clan normally wore 
little clothing. "It makes you look like an old woman," he would say. But 
Scarbeak just ignored him. He was old and entitled to his eccentricities.
Surely this day, as he entered the clearing, he was noticed, though there may 
have been other reasons. At the far edge stood Sharpwing and a group of his 
loyalist supporters, a low fog swimming around their ankles. They made small, 
derisive noises as Scarbeak walked up.
"Where," demanded Sharpwing, "is he, old man?"
"Is he afraid to come?" asked one Sharpwing supporter.
"Does he send you to fight for him?" laughed another.
"He will fight," said Scarbeak, tucking his hands inside his robe. "Wait, you 
will see." He assumed a waitful posture and proceeded to ignore the pack of 
noisy hatchlings that Sharpwing had brought with him.
Time passed. The sun was higher in the sky. Scarbeak enjoyed watching the fog 
thin, and finally disappear. Insects began to buzz about in search of food. It 
would be a good day, today, he thought.
Sharpwing and his followers were becoming visibly impatient. "Where is he?" 
demanded Sharpwing, stepping threateningly close to the old warrior. "When will 
he be here?"
Scarbeak made a little sound of amusement. "I do not believe that I said he 
would be here at all, only that he would fight."
"What do you mean?"
Scarbeak looked at the young warrior with as much disgust as he could show. "He 
has cheated you of the two things you claimed to want: his life, and the right 
to take the Fist of the Ones Above against the enemy. He has gone to lead our 
warriors through the walls and into the aliens' nest. He will strike against 
them with his last breath, and bring honor to his name and those who fight at 
his side."
Sharpwing looked confused.
"Don't you smell the fight in the air, young one? No, of course not, you smell 
only your own stink of combat, that of you and your friends. This is how an army 
could slip by you in the jungle and you would never know."
Sharpwing hissed in rage. "Did my sire send you to do this, to taunt me?"
"I came on my own, to delay you as long as I could, for you'll never catch him 
in time. By the time you arrive, the battle will be all but over, and the people 
will talk of it. 'It was glorious,' they will say. 'What courage Whitestar had 
at the end. But where was Sharpwing? Where were his followers? How did such a 
fine warrior sire such a coward?'"
Hissing, Sharpwing turned to leave in disgust.
"Wait," said Scarbeak. "Do not leave without your gift. It is something your 
father wanted you to have, but could never bear to give you himself."
Curious, Scarbeak hesitated, then turned back toward the old warrior. "Give it 
to me," he said.
Under his robe, Scarbeak's old knife, unused for years, felt good in his hand. 
He slid the long, curved blade from under the fabric with one smooth motion, and 
plunged it into Sharpwing's stomach. He used all his strength to pull up on the 
handle and twist, a motion that would slice into Sharpwing's entrails, ensuring 
a fatal wound.
Sharpwing looked down in horror at the wound, but somehow his hand found his own 
blade. He stabbed the blade deep into the old man's chest, using his superior 
strength to force it between the closely-spaced ribs, digging to find something 
vital.
A bloody cough dribbled down from Scarbeak's open mouth, his head drifted 
backwards, his eyes already turning milky. "My lord," he said, his voice a 
gurgle, "I do precede you into death."
* * *
"Can you hear me?"
Tyrus groaned and turned his head. It hurt too much for him not to be alive, 
though he wasn't sure how he'd survived.
"Tyrus. Commander. Can you hear me?"
Dirk. The voice had a name, and he remembered it. Dirk. The mining machine made 
from a Bolo.
It was hard to breathe. His chest hurt. He managed a wet, gurgling cough.
"I could not get you to the autodoc, but I was able to adjust my internal life 
support to increase the oxygen pressure considerably. If you can move, I suggest 
you be careful not to create a spark or flame."
"No moving. Don't worry. No moving."
"I need you, Commander. The inhibitions placed on my combat reflexes are too 
strong. I cannot fight without you."
He suddenly felt a little more alert. "Fight? Fight who? Fight where?"
"We are nearly to Rustenberg. I could proceed there directly and get you to 
medical care. However, among my functional sensors is a suite designed to detect 
radioactive materials. These produced a certain signature from the alien suicide 
bomb."
"You—you found another one?"
"Rapidly moving through the jungle towards the colony. Commander, from the 
transmissions I have monitored, this colony has resisted repeated attacks by the 
enemy, but the enemy has yet to employ such weapons here. The colonists have not 
been warned."
"They have a Bolo," he said. He studied the conduits and ducts on the ceiling of 
the passageway, memorizing every detail, and wondering if they would be the last 
thing he ever saw.
"The Bolo left for the Marikana, to repel a new attack. They have only their 
fixed defenses. And if I am interpreting my sensors correctly, this device is 
different than the one that was used at Odinberg, possibly much more powerful."
Tyrus coughed, feeling something wet on his lips. "You're asking me what to do."
"I cannot fight without you. I will not risk your life further without your 
direct order."
He closed his eyes. He remembered the words he had lasered onto metal back at 
the Odinberg Colony.
They will be avenged.  
It had been an impulse, an afterthought. Perhaps they had been the wrong words. 
Perhaps the right words would have been, Never again. 
He opened his eyes, tried to clear his mind. Then he said aloud to Dirk. "Target 
that bomb. Let's intercept it if we can."
"It will be a close thing," said Dirk.
"Did you open the rest of those gunports yet?"
"I have not tried. The overload could damage other systems. I have been waiting 
for the right moment."
"This would be it. Time to fight, Dirk. Do what you were born to do. Do what you 
have to do."
"Yes, Commander."
All around him, the gunport servos whirred, then howled, then screamed. The 
lights in the passage dimmed—or was it just his vision? Then a crack, like an 
old style cannon, and another, and another, and another.
"Six of eighteen ports have opened, Commander. The actuators on the rest have 
burned out, but I have limited secondary armaments at the ready."
Something about Dirk's voice sounded different to Tyrus, or was it just his 
imagination?
"I am fighting unit DRK, Mark XXIV of the Dinochrome Brigade. I proudly serve 
under Unit Commander Tyrus Ogden. We go to defend humanity against alien 
aggression."
"Sounds good to me," said Tyrus, ignoring the pain in his chest. "Let's do it."
 








Chapter Eight
The wall-repair machine had been trapped outside the walls when the attack came. 
Donning had ordered the machine rolled away from the colony, avoiding the main 
body of the aliens, hoping that they might ignore it.
No such luck.
The machine was still moving, slowly, its upper structure now entirely engulfed 
in flame. As the aliens streamed past on either side, they would shoot it with 
their rifles, blue arcs of light that slowly were slicing the robotic vehicle to 
ribbons. Finally a missile slipped through their overloaded defenses and struck 
the machine, causing it to explode into a shower of metal and flaming parts.
More missiles slipped past, slamming into the walls, one damaging auto-turret 
six. There were fewer aliens this time, but they were more organized, more 
determined than they'd ever been before. They'd blown up three of the 
single-shot cannon before the weapon could be used, but when they'd tried to 
destroy a fourth one, it shattered into splinters, a cleverly made decoy 
constructed from a hollow log. He had to give them that. The aliens were smart 
and resourceful in their own suicidal way.
"Sir," said Peak, "off on the southern horizon."
At first Donning thought it was a hill, but he'd studied every inch of that 
horizon, and there was no hill in that direction. Then he saw it was moving. He 
zoomed in.
Donning watched his screens in amazement. The Bolo looked like it had already 
been through a war. Its hull was charred and pitted, and smoke poured from a 
closed aft gunport. Though it bore a family resemblance to Khan, it was even 
bigger, a lumbering mountain of metal that waded through the jungle like a child 
wading through a pool. It was much slower than Khan too, though whether that was 
due to its modifications, its age, or damage sustained along the way, he 
couldn't be sure.
A few patches of yellow paint could still be seen on its side, remnants of 
someone's absurd attempt to make it look more like a standard mining machine.
Broken bits of welded-on mining gear hung in tatters from its hull, including a 
huge derrick that lay folded back over the main turret, deprived now of its 
original Hellbore cannon. He'd had hopes for this machine, that it might be able 
to fight for them, or mine for them, but now, seeing it, he didn't think it 
would be able to do either.
"Sir," said Peak, "I'm picking up some low power transmissions on one of the 
civilian mining bands. I think they're coming from the Bolo."
"What do they say?"
"Nothing yet, sir. Just a carrier wave and garbled static, but it's getting 
stronger."
"Keep monitoring. We have to know their intentions. Under the circumstances, we 
can't just open the gates and let them in."
* * *
Lord Whitestar trotted through the jungle, hunched forward because of the heavy 
weapon strapped to his back. The air was sweet in his lungs, the foliage as 
splendid and lush as he ever remembered it, the sun like a jewel as it peeked 
through the canopy of trees. It felt good to run, good to carry the power of the 
Ones Above. He had clarity now.
He knew what he had to do.
There were chants for this, to give the warrior focus, to ease his fear, to give 
him the courage to make the final sacrifice for victory. He had learned those 
chants, practiced them since he was a hatchling, but now that it was time, he 
found he had no need of them. He was free of fear, his resolve as sharp as a 
knife blade, his determination complete.
Instead, in his mind he rehearsed what he must do. Already the diversionary 
attacks were under way. There would be confusion on the meadows, and his purpose 
would be to stay away from those attacks, to avoid enemy fire as much as 
possible. He carried no other weapon, not even a knife, that might attract enemy 
attention. A loose wrapping of rags helped to disguise the weapon. He had 
already chosen his spot on the wall, a place that still showed cracks and scars 
from their last attack, one positioned so that his warriors could do the most 
damage when they broke through.
Scarbeak had said the weapon would shield him, but he thought that was 
foolishness. He would simply not get shot. That would be the way to do it. He 
would sprint up to the wall, arm the weapon, press the face of it against one of 
those cracks, and press the activation stud.
Probably he would never even feel it. But if what Scarbeak had told him was 
true, the Fist would explode a column of fire directly into the wall. Almost 
certainly it would punch through. Ideally it would do terrible damage to the 
structures and people on the other side, and cause that whole part of the wall 
to collapse.
From there, his warriors would stream inside, killing every living thing that 
they saw: warriors, females, hatchlings. All would die, and the world would be 
cleansed of one more human-devil nest.
Ahead he could see fire, hear the cries of warriors echoing off the walls of the 
enemy, smell the glory of battle. And then he turned his head and saw something 
that shattered his resolve. Looming over the trees was an ogre, and it was 
coming his way. Suddenly, nothing was clear at all.
* * *
"Commander," said Peak, "I'm getting voice transmission from the Bolo."
"Put it on the speaker."
"Unit . . . Dinochro . . . colony . . ."
It was still too broken to understand.
"Can you filter that somehow?"
Peak looked very unhappy. Doubtless his console could clear up the message, but 
it was beyond his limited skills. "I'll do what I can."
"Meanwhile, let's see if we can talk to them. Patch me through."
He watched as Peak pushed something on his console. "Unidentified Bolo, this is 
Commander Donning of the Colonial Militia. We can't yet receive you, but we're 
trying to clear up your signal. We're currently under attack. You may want to 
withdraw until we can repel the aliens."
No response.
"Keep trying!" Donning ordered.
* * *
Tyrus listened to the hidden speaker in wonderment. He'd thought he might never 
hear a live human voice again.
"Dirk, when they can hear us, let me talk to them."
"Understood," Dirk said.
Tyrus took a moment to try and catch his breath. It was getting hard to talk, 
hard to even breathe. His whole existence was a dull ache, threaded with sharp 
pains. He had to focus, to stay alert long enough to save this colony.
"Where's the bomb?"
"Two thousand meters and closing," Dirk said. "I can obtain only an approximate 
position and I can't make a visual sighting. It may already be within blast 
radius of the fortifications."
Tyrus tried to make himself think. They had to stop that bomb. "Can you . . . 
shoot it?"
"There might be a secondary explosion, but I do not believe a direct hit would 
trigger the bomb."
"Do it."
"I don't have a visual identification of the target."
"Might be hidden. Camouflage."
"Commander, I have voice contact. Putting you on."
Somebody started to talk from the speaker.
"Shut up," he gasped. "Listen. There's a fusion bomb. Suicide weapon. Get to 
shelters."
Someone had left the mike open, and he heard someone shouting a rapid chain of 
orders before it was cut off.
"I see an unarmed alien, alone," Dirk said, "carrying a heavy object wrapped in 
rags."
"Moving directly towards the walls?" Tyrus asked.
"Yes."
"Get him," Tyrus ordered.
He heard a secondary battery fire.
Dirk jerked into faster motion, slamming him into the bulkhead and intense pain.
* * *
Whitestar dropped his pace, confused. This was not the same ogre as before. This 
one was bigger, but it was already wounded, some of its weapons seemingly 
missing or damaged. It lacked the single "mountain-killer" horn of the other 
machine. But an ogre was an ogre, and his blood told him to return to his 
original mission, to go destroy it.
He almost turned. Then he thought of the warriors who would die needlessly. The 
ogre would be dead, but the walls would still stand, and the other ogre might 
yet return.
Destroy the nest. That was what he must do.
He moved away from the ogre and doubled his pace. To his alarm, the ogre turned 
to follow. Had it detected his weapon? He must not be stopped.
Then he saw the mouth of one of the ogre's firebolts turn toward him, and knew 
there was no hope. He stopped, faced his attacker, closed his eyes, and awaited 
his death without fear.
A blinding light that came even through his closed eyelids, an indescribable 
noise, an energy that felt like invisible insects whizzing through his flesh, 
and a heat that made his fur smolder.
Then it was over, and nobody was more surprised than he was that he was still 
alive.
* * *
"I don't believe it," said the voice from the speaker. "Your Bolo just fired on 
a lone alien from maybe five hundred meters, and he's still standing."
"Dirk," Tyrus said, "malfunction?"
"My weapons are operating on reduced power, but he should have been vaporized 
with several gigawatts of energy to spare."
"Then what happened?" Tyrus demanded.
"My analysis indicates some sort of personal battle screen," Dirk said, 
"possibly deriving power inductively from my own weapon. I register that the 
alien has probably already sustained a fatal radiation overdose, but that may 
not stop him from completing his mission."
"Damn, damn, damn," the voice on the speaker said.
Tyrus groaned. "Keep firing, Dirk, keep firing!"
There was a cracking noise, and the lights went out for a moment. Tyrus knew 
that was not a good sign at all.
"The power buss to my weapons system has just failed."
"Stop him, Dirk. Any way you can."
"Yes, Commander," Dirk said.
* * *
Donning shouted into his mike, directing his snipers and fixed guns to fire on 
the lone figure now sprinting for their southwest wall, but their shots glanced 
away without effect. The noncombatants were already in their shelters, but 
unfortunately, those shelters began beneath the streets just a hundred yards 
inside that wall.
Donning knew, without a doubt, that those walls would not stop a fusion bomb set 
off close, and neither would the shelters just beyond the walls protect the 
colonists.
Right here, right now, this battle was either going to be won or lost.
"Keep firing everything we have at him!" shouted Donning.
As he watched, nothing seemed to work.
The alien kept moving, getting closer and closer.
The old Bolo still churned forward, its guns dead.
Perhaps, so were they all.
* * *
Whitestar forced himself toward the wall. Though the enemy's weapons bounced 
away harmlessly, he felt sick, injured inside in a way he couldn't describe or 
understand. No matter. He had only to survive a few more seconds under the 
miraculous protection of the Ones Above, and then it wouldn't matter. The 
ramparts were just ahead of him now—
Then someone rolled a wall in his way, blotted out the sun.
He barely stopped himself from tumbling into the churning tracks and giant 
spinning wheels.
He looked around, stunned. He was under the ogre!
He was blocked from the walls. It would be so easy now, to lift the weapon over 
his head, trigger it against the belly of the beast—
But that was not his mission.
He saw sunlight at the rear of the thing, like the opening of a tunnel, and he 
sprinted for it.
He would complete his task. Not even the ogre would stop him.
* * *
"Where is he?" Tyrus demanded.
"He's under our treads, Commander," Dirk said. "In the galley between tread four 
and five. He's trying to escape."
"Run him down."
"The bomb may be triggered."
"Will be . . . anyway. Do it. That's an order!"
Tyrus felt the passage turn around him as the Bolo spun in its own length.
* * *
Suddenly, the spot of light in front of Whitestar began to move, spinning away 
like a ghost.
He found himself in a hellish passage with moving walls of machinery, all ready 
to eat him alive. One misstep and he would have failed, smashed by the ogre.
He ran towards the light, was forced to double back, saw light the other way, 
but was forced back from there as well.
If he did not make it from under this beast, he would at least take the beast 
with him.
As he ran, he unstrapped the weapon from his back. The wall of the human nest 
was only a few meters away. If he only knew the direction, perhaps he could 
still trigger the weapon from here.
But he was confused after turning so many times, confused by the spinning ogre 
over his head. He hesitated, making sure the lights-of-function showed the 
correct color.
The weapon was ready.
His attention to the weapon cost him. He never saw the tread until it was on him 
like a set of giant metal teeth. It threw him down on the ground, crushing him 
up to the waist.
He ignored the pain, worked his free hand to find the firing stud.
* * *
"I have him pinned under my number five tread, Commander," Dirk said.
"Good job, good . . . job." Tyrus was very tired. Maybe he could finally sleep 
now. The colony had been saved.
"Good-bye, Commander," Dirk said.
* * *
The explosion shook the walls like a groundquake, even in the C&C, mounted as it 
was on shock absorbers.
Donning was tossed to the floor, but he quickly scrambled back to his chair, 
watching the screens. A moment before, the old Bolo had run right over the top 
of the alien.
He had cheered, thinking the alien had been crushed and the bomb hadn't 
exploded.
But he had been wrong. Now, on the screen, there was a sight that he would never 
forget: the blasted, 14,000-ton hull of the Bolo flipping high into the air, end 
over end, like a tossed coin.
 








Chapter Nine
Houchen could hardly believe the mess when he and Khan arrived back at the 
northern colony, but the walls were still intact, the colony survived, and that 
was all he could have asked for.
No, not quite true. He would have liked to know about the man who had fought on 
even when he knew it would cost him his life, and the crippled Bolo who had 
shielded an entire colony with his war hull. But they didn't know, not even 
their names. They just knew there had been one survivor of the Odinberg Colony 
massacre, and now there were none.
The hull was still there, in the charred meadows outside the colony walls, and 
it would probably still be there centuries from now if the jungles didn't 
reclaim it. Eventually the grass would regrow, the flowers would bloom, and 
animals would make their homes in its gutted hull.
Houchen wondered if humans would still be here then, or if they would have taken 
what they wanted from this world and left it behind. He wondered if any of the 
aliens would survive, and what stories they would tell of this day.
Surely some of them must have survived to tell the tale. Not many though. The 
Bolo's hull had done more than shield the colony from the blast, it had 
redirected it, sending a crescent-shaped shock wave away from the walls of the 
colony that had flattened trees for two kilometers, and killed aliens by the 
thousands.
There were still a few attacks, an occasional missile or two, and around half a 
dozen other colonies around the continent the aliens were as much a threat as 
ever. But here and now, the enemy's back seemed to be broken. Donning was 
repairing his fortifications, and they were busy modifying their mining machines 
to add armor and weapons. Here at least, things might soon be settling into a 
new routine, something akin to normal.
As Khan rolled past the dead Bolo one last time, he raised his guns in salute, 
and launched a volley of shots into the empty sky. Twenty-one times he fired.
And then he turned, and they rolled toward the distant horizon. There were other 
colonies to be defended.
* * *
Lord Blackspike pushed himself up painfully with his cane, and hissed in rage at 
the distant thunder of the human weapons. He had brought his people here, to the 
deep jungle, far from any of the human nests, so that they could recover and 
rebuild. But even here, there was no escape from the human devils.
He sat back down on a fallen log and looked around him. The camp was small and 
ragged. There were only a few warriors left, and most of them were injured or 
maimed. Some still died slowly from the invisible sickness. What was left were 
women, eggs, and hatchlings.
Even the oracles were gone, but before Blackspike had left, his sire had come to 
him and whispered where others could be found.
In time, the hatchlings would grow, there would be more eggs, and in three 
seasons' time, new warriors to begin again. The Ones Above would show them new 
weapons. More powerful weapons. Then they would go back.
Then the human devils would pay.
But it was not too early to begin the fight.
Never too early.
"Hatchlings," he shouted. "Your lord commands you, gather round and listen!"
He sat on his log, and the little ones gathered round. He reached into his 
pouch, his fingers sliding over the cool, smooth bone there. He pulled the skull 
out and held it up for the hatchlings to see.
"This," he said, "is a human. This is a devil. What do we do to humans?"
At once they began to chant.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. . . .
 
 








Though Hell Should Bar the Way
Linda Evans
 
 
Chapter One
My first conscious thought upon activation is surprise. I do not remember 
possessing the psychotronic circuitry which has just been flooded with power. My 
surprise deepens as my awareness, triggered into a level approaching my old full 
Battle Reflex Alert, expands into a secondary brain system which is completely 
unknown to me. I am now far more fully self-aware than I have ever been outside 
of actual combat. It is an unsettling feeling. Not unpleasant, precisely, but 
quite unsettling. I am unused to such mental alertness off the battlefield.  
My initial astonishment gives way to vast confusion. My last conscious memory is 
a communication from my commander that I was to be mothballed as obsolete. I am 
a Mark XXIII Bolo with forty-eight years of active service. Since I 
understood—albeit regretted—the necessity of taking older units off-line as 
improvements in psychotronics, weaponry, and armor were fielded, I said my 
good-byes and mourned only the loss of my usefulness to my creators. The order 
to shut down all but my survival center was the last command I expected ever to 
receive.  
For an agonizing zero point twenty-two seconds, I attempt to understand the 
staggering internal changes to my psychotronic systems, while speculating 
uselessly upon possible reasons for them. Have I been captured by enemy forces 
and subverted in some fashion? I can sense newer installations which my upgraded 
spec manuals identify as molecular circuitry. These have been patched into my 
older, seriously antiquated systems in a hodgepodge I cannot follow, even with 
self-diagnostics. I almost suspect I have been put together by a work team 
suffering fatigue-induced hallucinations. I have just turned my awareness 
outward through my external sensor arrays, in an attempt to discover where I am, 
when I receive a communication from a source I recognize as a Bolo Sector 
Command frequency.  
"Unit SPQ-561, prepare to receive Command VSR."
"Acknowledged." I attempt to contain my deep curiosity and wait for 
enlightenment. 
"Unit SPQ-561, respond to command code VJ-2012. Your new designation is 
SPQ/R-561. You have been refurbished with a number of system upgrades and 
reactivated as a /R unit, to respond to a military threat in this sector." I 
receive a flood of data regarding the world I am to defend, a world which has 
suffered a serious incursion of humanity's old enemy, the Deng. At the time of 
my deactivation, the Deng were not expected to become a threat again for at 
least a century. Indeed, my own combat experience has been confined largely to 
the Quern Wars, which are not even mentioned in the data I am receiving now. 
As I sift eagerly through the mission briefing material, I become aware that I 
am no longer in the Sector Command Depot Yard. Indeed, I am no longer anywhere 
near Sector Command. I occupy a cargo berth on what appears to be an 
interstellar military transport, with my war hull sandwiched between two Bolo 
units of unknown configuration. Hull designations tell me they are a Mark XXIV 
and a Mark XXV Bolo, respectively. It is an eerie sensation, to feel so 
antiquated, and rather disquieting, to have been on-loaded while remaining at a 
level of psychotronic activity below self-awareness.  
I make my first request. "Unit SPQ/R-561, requesting clarification. I see no 
mention of a commander in the VSR just received. May I expect assignment to a 
human commander while in transit?"
"Affirmative, SPQ/R-561. Your commander is en route to your cargo berth now."
I signal acknowledgment and wait with growing impatience to have my questions 
answered. Given the date stamp on my VSR from Sector Command, it is extremely 
unlikely that my commander remains Major Von Hurst. Jack was nearing retirement 
age when the orders came to mothball me in a Depot salvage yard. That order was 
transmitted twenty-three standard years ago. I find myself grateful for the 
reprieve from deactivation and salvage, but mourn the loss of my old comrade. 
Jack Von Hurst was a fine officer. I shall miss him. Even so, I await my new 
commander's arrival with a sense of pleased expectation, for I have been given a 
rare second chance to serve. 
Clearly, the strategic situation facing humanity is grim, if Bolo units 
twenty-three standard years out of date are being refurbished from salvage yards 
and sent into combat. I long to close with the enemy and fulfill my mission once 
more. Humanity must be protected. My strange new circuitry hums as I wait.  
My external sensor arrays detect the sound of a shipboard lift in operation. I 
hear the soft hiss and thump as the lift halts at my level, followed by the 
pneumatic swish of lift doors sliding open. I locate the source of the sound 
with visible-light camera systems and observe carefully the individual stepping 
onto the cargo deck. She is slim and surprisingly short for a Concordiat 
officer, with the olive-toned skin and dark hair I have learned to associate 
with individuals of ancient Terran-Mediterranean descent. She surveys my war 
hull coolly, her expression remote, revealing nothing of her thoughts. She halts 
three point nine meters from my port-side treads and tips her head back to gaze 
into my nearest external camera lens.  
"Unit SPQ/R-561, respond to code 'bread and circuses.'"
This is not my old recognition code, but psychotronic engineers have been at 
work throughout my systems, for I recognize this as a valid code, even though I 
had not been aware until now of the change in my programming. The deeply 
unsettled feeling returns, full force, but I do my best to ignore it. "Welcome, 
Commander," I respond. "May I know your name and rank?"
She delays answering for two point oh three seconds, leading me to wonder if she 
intends to respond at all. "Captain DiMario," she says at length. "Alessandra 
DiMario. Open your personnel hatch, I'm coming aboard."
I bristle silently. Major Von Hurst would never have issued such a baldly 
phrased order, devoid of standard courtesies. I theorize that Captain DiMario is 
not pleased with her new command. I know a moment of disappointment. It is good 
to have a genuine companion aboard when facing combat—but comradeship is 
unlikely to develop if I am not held in esteem by my new commander. Despite my 
past victories, I must seem an antique beside the other Bolo units in this cargo 
bay, enhanced as I am only with patchwork psychotronics.  
Wordlessly, I open my personnel hatch, allowing my commander access to my 
command compartment. Captain DiMario climbs up in total silence, sliding through 
the open hatch and crawling down into the command chair. She powers up and 
checks my systems in stony silence.  
"Well," she mutters at length, having run through a thoroughly comprehensive 
systems check without pause, "the ham-handed morons who put you together 
apparently did something right." She runs one hand through her short, dark hair. 
"God, I wish I knew what I'd done to piss off General Willard."
I do not know General Willard. From her tone, I suspect I should be glad this is 
so.  
Perhaps the old adage that wisdom comes with age has some merit, for I do not 
offer comment, doubtless the most politic thing I have managed to accomplish in 
my long and somewhat incendiary career. Obsolescence has a quelling effect on my 
once-bold brand of conversation. My new commander sighs and taps slim fingertips 
against the padded armrest of the command chair's console. "Well, I guess we're 
stuck with each other, huh?"
This appears to be an invitation to conversation. It also appears that I am far 
more pleased to have Captain DiMario as a commander than she is to have me as a 
command. I attempt to broach the awkward situation in which I find myself.  
"I am grateful to be of service again," I say carefully. "May I ask how I might 
best accomplish that task and aid you in yours?"
Captain DiMario thins her lips. "You could start by transforming yourself into 
something besides a jumped-up, rusted-out tub I wouldn't trust to take over a 
kindergarten."
This is not going well.  
I decide that I have very little to lose, given my commander's current opinions, 
and determine that I will cease to respect myself if I do not speak what is on 
my mind.  
"Captain DiMario," I say very formally, "I am a retrofitted Mark XXIII Bolo, 
without the modern systems to which you are clearly accustomed, but this is 
hardly my fault. May I request that you at least address me with the courtesy my 
war record should command from an officer of the line?"
Her mouth falls open. She stares into my video pickup lens, eyes growing wider 
with each passing beat of her heart. She remains totally silent for six point 
nine seven seconds, an eternity of shock. I detect a tremor which runs through 
her entire body. Then she explodes into motion, slapping at restraint releases 
on the command chair, swarming up the ladder toward my command hatch. Since I 
closed this in automatic reflex when she boarded, her exodus is momentarily 
blocked.  
"Get that stinking hatch cover open!"
I comply speedily.  
She disappears down the hull-side ladder and jumps to the cargo deck, striding 
angrily toward the cargo lift. A moment later, the lift doors open with a soft 
hiss and she is gone. I listen to the echoes fading into silence and wonder what 
on earth to do now. Perhaps General Willard was not so very wrong, after all, to 
assign Captain DiMario to command an obsolete Bolo of questionable value? It is 
a thought unworthy of a unit of the Dinochrome Brigade and it shames me the 
moment I conceptualize it, but I have never been treated so abrasively—or 
rudely—in my entire career.  
I sting from the indignity of it.  
And worry, intensely, about the combat which lies ahead.  
 








Chapter Two
Ginger Gianesco was used to working under adverse conditions. A woman didn't 
achieve an appointment as Operations Director of a colony like Rustenberg 
without the know-how to keep a community running under difficult conditions. 
Ginger—whose sixty-first birthday was a week away—had brought to the Thule 
Expedition forty years of experience, including three two-year tours as OD of 
highly profitable mines on other colony worlds. Those mines had been running 
deep into the red before she'd turned them around, mainly by improving the lives 
of the miners until they were cheerfully churning out solid profit—two factors 
inextricably interwoven in operations on far-flung colonies, out beyond the 
reach of civilized luxuries. She'd run successful mining ops through fire, 
flood, and famine, on howling methane hells and airless moons and swamps so 
treacherous, a body had to put on biochem isolation suits just to step out the 
front door.
But she'd never poured a plascrete defensive wall or dug bomb shelters during a 
hurricane-force ice storm, under the guns of an alien enemy. A more generous God 
would have thrown only one of those curves at Rustenberg; but the local gods 
seemed a bit short of generosity. Those gods had given them a Thulian winter 
storm breaking six weeks too soon and a surprise sentient native species that 
wasn't supposed to exist, doing its dead-level best to exterminate Ginger 
Gianesco and every man, woman, and screaming infant under her care. If that 
ecosystem biologist over at Eisenbrucke Station hadn't stumbled across the 
Tersae three months ago, the surprise attack against every colony on Thule would 
have been even more shocking. As it was . . .
Her comm link crackled wildly.
"Movement on the southern perimeter!"
Harriet James' position, she realized grimly, along the unfinished stretch that 
hadn't been poured, yet. Harriet's voice was shaking, from cold or fright or 
both. Ginger, busy directing the team using shaft-boring equipment to dig 
shelters out of the basalt bedrock, keyed the mike and shouted above the howl of 
wind, freezing rain, and sleet. "How many and how close?"
"Looks like twenty of 'em, at least." A burst of static interrupted Harriet. ". 
. . three hundred meters out and closing fast. Jeezus, those damned hairy birds 
can move . . ." More static. "They've got one team shooting at us from a wood 
line, two others leapfrogging it toward us in three-second sprints, one shooting 
while the other one runs. Comin' in with the wind at their backs, damn 'em—we 
can't even see 'em half the time with this storm in our faces, and the sleet's 
clogging our optics—"
Another burst of static interrupted.
"Wilson," Ginger barked into the comm link, "get your people into position! Move 
it! We've got incoming at the southern breakpoint."
"Roger that, heading out now. That ice slick we poured a few hours ago ought to 
slow 'em down, at least." Jeremy Wilson, who had seen active military service in 
the Concordiat Infantry, had already saved hundreds of lives with his creative 
flow of nasty tricks to slow down the enemy. He'd ordered a slurry of water and 
mud poured in a broad sheet outside the one remaining hole in their plascrete 
defensive wall, a slurry that had solidified into black ice, slick as the bottom 
circle of hell and hard to see until it was too late. And beyond that, a thin 
crust of ice over a deep pit gouged out in the night and covered over with a 
roof of filmilon fabric and water, the filmilon later dissolved from underneath 
with solvents that left a treacherous crust of ice above the acid-filled pit.
The nine men and women of Jeremy's "commando unit" had served in various other 
military branches, mostly the navy. They were armed now with civilian hunting 
rifles, brought in to defend mining parties from Thule's more aggressive 
predator species. Huh, she thought darkly, they don't come much more aggressive 
than kamikaze maniacs. . . . If Ginger's people could just get this last section 
of wall poured, they'd have a defensible perimeter enclosing the heart of the 
town, including the medical clinic, school, and meeting hall. With a wall to 
slow down the Tersae and shelters to get the noncombatants underground, out of 
direct enemy fire, at least the kids might survive.
Ginger snarled at the wind and shouted the warning to her drillers to look sharp 
for possible breakthroughs from the south. The last three days had blurred into 
one long, sleepless tunnel of desperation, with brutal memories etched indelibly 
into her consciousness: small groups of heavily armed Tersae warriors charging 
in from the teeth of the storm; the crack of rifle fire, sharp as the sound of 
breaking rock; spurts of flame in the darkness as Tersae snipers gained the 
cover of warehouses and ore depots, firing with frightful accuracy from rooftops 
and doorways; the screams and jerking, disjointed falls as men and women went 
down, fatally hit by enemy weapons—thirty of her best people dead in only three 
days. The arcing, hideously graceful flight of sophisticated antipersonnel 
mortar rounds and high-explosive bombs lobbed into streets, warehouses, and 
homes around the edge of town. The first rounds had missed their targets as the 
wind snatched the incoming rounds off course—but the Tersae gunners learned fast 
how to correct their trajectories.
And everywhere, from every side, Tersae dying, gleefully, under the frantic guns 
of the defenders while explosions trapped the colonists inside a ring of blazing 
buildings. Fires hot enough to melt iron would've cooked them alive, if not for 
the freezing rain and sleet of the storm. Those fires had forced a steady 
retreat toward the very core of town, abandoning supplies they couldn't shift 
under enemy fire. And through it all, the numbing, bruising rush to knock 
together hasty wooden forms and pour a protective wall around the subterranean 
shelters they were gouging out of the ground, trying to hold on long enough for 
Concordiat military help to arrive.
Just a few more hours, Ginger prayed, we can have it all done in just a few more 
hours. 
As though to mock her prayer, explosions rocked the southern perimeter. A 
massive fireball rose up beyond the rooftops and the ice-coated wooden forms of 
the unfinished wall. Omigod . . . Ginger was already running, slinging her rifle 
across her back and shouting orders into her comm link. "Hank, keep those 
shaft-boring drills going! Zephrim, what can you see from up there?"
The teenaged boy posted as southern lookout on the school's rooftop was sobbing 
into his own comm link. "They've got missiles, goddamned high-explosive guided 
missiles, started shooting 'em from the trees after the first batch of 'em fell 
into the acid pits and the second batch fell down on the black ice long enough 
to blow their heads off—oh, shit, here comes another wave—"
More explosions rocked the southern perimeter. The school—and young Zephrim—went 
up in a blast of heat and a shock wave that jarred Ginger's teeth from a 
distance of three hundred meters. She shook herself groggily, fumbled with the 
comm link strapped to her wrist. "We've got a gap in the southern perimeter! 
Anybody with a rifle, close that gap!" She saw people running, sliding on the 
glare of ice laid down by the freezing rain, slipping and throwing themselves 
back to their feet again, rushing to fill the southern gap. A dark wave of 
misshapen bodies hurled through the smoke and ruins, silhouetted against the 
blazing fires. The Tersae were immense shapes towering seven, eight feet high, 
carrying oddly shaped rifles and shooting at anything that moved.
When a hail of rifle fire blasted toward her, Ginger threw herself prone, her 
own weapon a bruising weight across her spine. She dragged the rifle off her 
shoulder and pulled it around to shoot from where she lay, sprawled prone in the 
slush and slurry. She sighted and fired, centering the bastards and squeezing 
off the rounds, jolting her shoulder with bruising force because she couldn't 
rise up enough to properly seat the weapon in the pocket of her shoulder. One of 
the furry bastards went down screaming, then another, and a third . . . Christ, 
how many of them were there? She saw the high, arcing flight of the grenade, 
knew she couldn't possibly scramble up and run fast enough to avoid it—
Tommy Watkins, eleven years old and howling obscenities his mother had never 
taught him, lunged in front of her. He swung a baseball bat with all his 
eleven-year-old strength. CRACK! The grenade spun away with home-run velocity 
and distance. It struck a house wall, bounced, and exploded in the gut of a 
startled Tersae warrior. The alien vanished in a red rain of debris that fell in 
gobbets and stained the icy slush crimson.
"C'mon!" Tommy was shouting, tugging at her arm. "We gotta get to the wall!"
Ginger climbed somehow to her feet, ran forward on rubberized legs while gasping 
into her comm link, "Report! What the hell's happening at the gap?"
She could hear weird, alien screams, human cries of agony and rage, the staccato 
reports of rifle fire and the deeper roar of explosions. Wind-flung sleet nearly 
blinded her as they rounded the corner of the blazing school and headed toward 
the embattled gap. Bodies lay sprawled everywhere, twisted in death, still 
writhing in the last moments of dying. At least some of those shapes were 
Tersae, shooting even as they died. The ones still moving, the great, furry 
shapes of the not-quite-birds that constituted the enemy, Ginger pumped rounds 
into from her rifle, skull shots that ended the twisting and the weird, alien 
screams. The ruthlessness of it shocked her, even as she snarled and fired again 
methodically, moving from one wounded Tersae to the next. Tommy laid about with 
his baseball bat, crushing the skulls of those merely twitching, safe enough to 
approach but still dangerously alive.
Until the bat came whistling down across eyes and strange, hooked beaks.
Blood sprayed scarlet against the glare of ice and sleet. Sickness rose in the 
back of Ginger's throat. She chugged it down again and kept going. "Report, 
dammit!" she shouted into the comm link again. Jennifer Granger's voice, shrill 
through the static, sobbed out, "I can't see very well, but it looks like we're 
holding 'em."
Jennifer Granger, fifteen years old, perched atop the meeting hall . . .
Ginger was close enough, now, to see that Jennifer was right. The fighting at 
the gap was desperate, but rifle-wielding miners were driving the enemy back 
through the gap in the wall, a gap blown through the wooden forms with 
high-explosive rounds. Ginger took up a good, solid stance, braced the rifle in 
the hollow of her bruised shoulder, and added her fire to the pitched battle, 
dropping two of the bastards in their taloned tracks.
Within minutes, it was over.
This time.
She couldn't afford to let her people stop to catch their breath. "Mandy," she 
grabbed the nearest crew chief she could find, "pull together a crew and get to 
work on these ruined forms. Tear this section down and rebuild it, stat. I want 
every able-bodied adult we've got left pouring this section within the hour."
"But—" Mandy sputtered, face grey with exhaustion. "That won't leave anyone to 
man the guns!"
"Get the kids out here," Ginger said grimly. "Any child big enough to lift a 
rifle. Put 'em on top of the poured sections to either side of this gap, but get 
'em armed and get 'em in position." She picked up a rifle from Jeremy Wilson's 
bloodied fingers, trying desperately not to look at the ghastly red ruin where 
the top of his head had been, and thrust the weapon into Tommy's hands—then 
turned a glare on Mandy's shocked expression. "You don't like it? Got any better 
ideas? I didn't think so. Move, dammit!"
It was only in her heart—cold as the howling sleet beating against her face—that 
Ginger wept.
 








Chapter Three
The wind was a wild and howling moan above the crackle of the Council fire. The 
bone-shivering sound of the storm, one of the murderous, early-season blizzards 
that roared up from the distant oceans and took two hands of days to blow 
themselves out again, matched the howl in Chilaili's soul. The storm raging 
through Chilaili was born of anger and frustration, a visible cloud as violent 
as the blizzard outside. The focus of Chilaili's rage stood glowering on the far 
side of the Council fire, a tall and gracile male whose stubbornness and refusal 
to see reason formed a deadly omen of things to come, of disasters the ruling 
Grandmothers must be made to recognize.
"We cannot make war against the humans," Chilaili said again, forcefully. "We 
have been more fortunate than you can possibly understand that this storm," she 
gestured toward the entrance to the Council cavern, blocked by thick, woven mats 
that kept the heat inside, but did very little to keep out the shriek of the 
wind, "has kept us locked in our winter nest. Let the other clans rush to 
destruction, if they so choose, but do not send our mates and our sons to battle 
against the humans. War against them will bring nothing but the death of Icewing 
Clan. It is stupid to fight them—stupid and unnecessary."
Across the Council fire, the clan's akule met Chilaili's gaze with a blaze of 
anger. Kestejoo was an outsider, even after twenty winters in Icewing Clan. He 
had come to them from Snowclaw Clan, so smitten by the gloriously sensual 
Zaltana, he had forsaken his own birth clan for love of her. Their meeting was 
still the stuff of legend, told to hatchlings around the winter hearth fires.
At his shoulder stood another male, Yiska, the clan's war leader. Taller by a 
full head than Kestejoo, Yiska was nearly two heads taller than Chilaili, and 
she was not the smallest of the huntresses. Yiska's eyes, unlike Kestejoo's, did 
not hold a glint of anger. They reflected instead the same deep thoughtfulness 
that had marked his many years as viho, leading them again and again to 
successful battle.
Kestejoo lifted his hands in a frustrated gesture, bringing Chilaili's attention 
back to the akule. "How can you say this war is not necessary? The Ones Above 
demand it. Therefore it is utterly necessary. I have deep respect for your 
knowledge, your insights as clan katori, but in this matter, there is no room 
for theorizing. No place for a healer's guesswork. Our creators have ordered it, 
so it must be done."
Chilaili, whose mothers before her had all been katori, healing the sick and 
dancing the sacred rites to heal the wounded soul—and whose only daughter, 
Sooleawa, would be katori after her, if they survived so long—reached 
desperately for her patience. "There is wisdom in your words, but we have far 
more to consider than orders from the Oracle. Perhaps He-Who-Looks-Up has been 
staring at the stars so long, he has forgotten to look at the faces of those to 
whom he speaks the Oracle's words? Look at our people, akule," she gestured 
around the Council cavern, "look at the tiny handful of us, barely three hundred 
in all, and tell me again how necessary it is to send our sons and our mates 
into battle with creatures who have never meant us any harm."
A stir ran through the assembled clan, born of surprise and uncertainty that 
flew like wind-driven snow. The ancient Anevay, ten times a Great-Grandmother 
and the eldest member of the ruling Council, spoke from her seat near Chilaili's 
right hand. "How can you say this with such certainty, katori, when none of us 
has ever spoken with one of these newcomers, to judge such matters?"
Chilaili drew breath to speak—and the words stuck in her craw like a long and 
pointed urka thorn, tearing at her constricted throat. She glanced into her 
daughter's eyes, caught Sooleawa's wide and frightened gaze . . . and time spun 
crazily, tilting and plunging her into a night that had changed them both, 
forever, a night that had challenged things they had long believed. Things they 
could not yet bring themselves to say aloud, except to one another, in the 
strictest privacy—and always carefully away from the nest.
On that fateful night, she and her daughter had left the clan's migrational 
summer nest for a night-hunt, Sooleawa's first, the Blooding Hunt every young 
female was required to make under the supervision of her Mother—or guardian, if 
a girl's Mother had died. The multiple moons soared across the sky like a 
scattered and distant flock of birds, casting crazy, crisscrossed shadows that 
tricked the eye, but Chilaili and Sooleawa had little trouble seeing the 
undergrowth beyond their carefully concealed summer nest. Chilaili always hunted 
by night—and so would Sooleawa, once Blooded. Most of the clan's huntresses 
preferred the day-stalk, but night was the time, the realm in which Chilaili's 
bloodline excelled. The Ones Above had made them that way, an experiment, so her 
Grandmothers had said, to see if a fiercesome dayhunter could be made to rule 
the night, as well.
The Ones Above had wrought well in that much, at least, creating Chilaili's 
foremothers. When the daystar vanished beneath the rim of the world, only 
Chilaili's bloodline—able to see far better in the darkness than any other 
bloodline—dared hunt the broken, fissured terrain of their clan's home range. 
Now it was her only daughter's turn to learn the night-stalk—and Chilaili tasted 
worry the moment they left the nest, armed with nothing but their own claws, as 
custom demanded. The empty sheath at her belt, its beautiful knife left in the 
hut she and her daughter shared, left Chilaili feeling naked, vulnerable, 
afraid. The omens had been poor all day, yet the Blooding Hunt was always 
performed—by clan law—on the fifteenth anniversary of a young girl's hatching, 
never sooner and never later.
To fail to make at least an attempt to hunt, regardless of how ill or injured a 
girl might be, was to be shunned, to become One Who Never Hunted, with no say in 
the clan's Councils and no hope of breeding, ever. Chilaili had seen Mothers 
carry daughters dying of fever into the deep forests of their clan's home range 
to give their daughters the honored status of Huntress, without which even a 
dying girl's sisters would be sullied and overlooked when the time for breeding 
came.
"What's wrong, Honored Mother?" Sooleawa asked, when Chilaili jumped at shadows 
for perhaps the hundredth time since leaving the nest.
"I cannot say for sure," Chilaili muttered, staring narrow-eyed into the moonlit 
shadows. "But I am uneasy, daughter, and mistrust the omens. Keep your wits 
sharp and your eyesight keen, precious one, for there is something wrong about 
this night."
Not the best words to give a nervous young candidate, yet Chilaili could not lie 
to the aspiring huntress she had so lovingly raised. Better to be blunt and 
ensure her child would be doubly vigilant, than to remain silent and court utter 
disaster. Sooleawa considered the warning for a long moment, then crouched down 
and broke off a young tree with a wrenching snap and stripped away long, thin 
needles and branches. Sticky, resinous sap smeared her claws, prompting a 
grimace that left Chilaili hiding a smile. Sooleawa used the sharp edges of her 
beak to scrape one end to a point, spitting and wiping her beak with one arm as 
the pungent taste of the sap drew another grimace. Her efforts left Sooleawa 
with a sturdy pole as thick as a foot-talon at its base. The crude spear was not 
the best weapon, true, but serviceable for the task.
Chilaili hummed approval at her daughter's decision to arm herself immediately 
upon hearing her mother's concerns. If the ancestors looked favorably upon her, 
Sooleawa would become a fine huntress. They traveled east, Sooleawa casting 
ahead for signs of prey, trying to find the spoor of some unlucky creature she 
could kill and carry home. They were perhaps six hours' distance from the nest 
when her daughter found the faint trail left by a wurpa stag—good eating, with a 
prized pelt, a high-status kill. They set out on the wurpa's trail, Sooleawa 
leading.
The spoor was growing stronger, scent and temperature and the freshness of 
broken twigs telling them the wurpa could not be far ahead, when Chilaili became 
aware of at least one reason for her uneasiness. She began to taste changes in 
the air which spoke of bad weather on its way, but she could not yet tell how 
severe the storm would become. When they heard the first distant rumble of 
thunder, Chilaili came to a complete halt, pupils dilating as her sense of dread 
turned into full-blown fright. The ominous sound rolling across the dense forest 
canopy was no ordinary thunder. It was a continuous, booming roar, without even 
a moment's pause between the individual crashes of sound. The distant, 
flickering strobe of lightning was a solid glare, a wild haze of killing light 
that turned night into hellish day.
Storms like this could take down hundred-foot trees as easily as a hatchling 
snapped a twig in his claws. They needed shelter—and they needed it now. Without 
a word spoken, she forged ahead to lead the way, despite the fact that this was 
supposed to be Sooleawa's night for choosing. Sooleawa followed, visibly 
frightened now, while Chilaili hunched forward slightly, partly in dread and 
partly in anger that such weather should stalk them on this most critical night 
in her only daughter's life. Chilaili glowered at the rumbling, grumbling threat 
sweeping across the sky and moved as fast as she dared, blessing whatever 
guardian spirit had prompted Sooleawa to head into the least treacherous part of 
their hunting range.
Chilaili tipped her head sideways from time to time to glance up through the 
forest canopy, where clouds blotted out the stars and those moons which had 
already risen. Already the leafy crowns high above were shaking and rattling 
with a hissing sound like angry hatchlings as the wind picked up. Sooleawa 
glanced upward as well, but said nothing, concentrating instead on not putting 
her feet wrong as they jogged through the darkness. Chilaili was heading for a 
particular valley where she had taken shelter from bad weather many times 
before. They had nearly reached it when lightning split the night sky in a 
blinding display.
Thunder cracked directly overhead—
—and the sound split the sky wide open.
Rain smashed down into the treetops, pelting them with woody debris and shredded 
leaves an instant before the water struck. In seconds, sight and scent were 
obliterated, washed out by the deluge. Sooleawa shouted above the roar, "Mother, 
shouldn't we go that way?" and pointed ahead and slightly to their right. She 
was pointing directly at the valley Chilaili had been heading toward, where it 
opened out from a narrow fissure to a broad, deep gouge bounded by cliffs that 
overhung a deep lake.
"Yes! Go!"
They ran, Chilaili now following her daughter's lead, pleased that Sooleawa's 
younger eyes had spotted the cooler colors where temperature changes marked 
abrupt drops into valleys. The girl had seen the way to safe shelter before 
Chilaili had, even knowing where to look. Sooleawa would do well as a 
huntress—if they survived this storm. Heads bent against the deluge, Chilaili 
and Sooleawa cautiously approached the edge of the deep gorge. Sooleawa moved 
her head back and forth to judge the depth of the drop, scanning the lip of the 
ravine for a safe way down, then followed as Chilaili moved parallel to the 
edge, heading for the spot where a path of sorts led downward through a side 
fissure that opened out into the larger valley. Far below, water glinted in the 
flares of lightning. Forest giants overhung the deep lake, leaning out over the 
edge of the bluff, their crowns seeking the sunlight which fell in stronger 
concentration where the deep gorge had cut a gap through the forest.
In the rain-slashed darkness, they slipped and slithered and tripped over great 
gnarls of tree roots and thick undergrowth. They had nearly reached the side 
fissure and the path down when lightning crackled and slammed into the tree just 
ahead of them. Blue-white light glared, actinic, blinding. The tree burst into 
flame, split along its entire length by the lightning bolt. Thunder crushed them 
flat against the mud as the immense tree broke in half and crashed down. 
Chilaili screamed. . . .
The ground shook under the smashing weight of the tree, shook and broke under 
them. An undercut ledge of rock hanging out over empty space crumbled into 
pieces beneath the weight of the falling tree. They all went plunging over the 
edge as the jutting overhang of rock cracked and gave way. Chilaili fell. 
Sooleawa spun away from her, dropping into the blackness just beyond the reach 
of her clawtips. The world windmilled as she thrashed, trying to grasp the 
wildly flailing branches of the fallen tree. Rough wood and long, whippy leaves 
slashed through her hands, slowing her fall, but didn't give her enough purchase 
to halt the sickening plunge. She struck water with a smashing shock, the impact 
driving the breath from her lungs. She went deep into the dark water, thrashing 
frantically. Chilaili struggled toward the surface, chest on fire from the need 
to breathe, and finally broke her head above water. She sucked down air—
—and screamed for her daughter.
"Sooleawa!"
Chilaili scanned the roiled surface of the lake. Rain and lightning blinded her. 
Half of the tree lay jammed across the broken edge and the far wall of the 
ravine, spanning the narrow, deep lake. The tree's bulk loomed ominously, a 
black bar high above her head. Then she realized that thick, black shape was 
shifting, its base dropping as more of the rocky lip crumbled away beneath it. 
She saw it falling, saw the immense shadow plunging down at the very same 
instant she spotted Sooleawa. Her daughter was closer to the edge of the lake 
than Chilaili was, treading water directly beneath the smashing weight of that 
huge tree.
"Sooleawa!"
Rock and wood fell in a rain of death.
Her daughter folded up and dove for the bottom in a hopeless attempt to avoid 
being crushed. Chilaili, stricken motionless by horror, could only watch the 
slow-motion fall of that killer tree, oblivious to her own danger. Then 
something heavy grazed her shoulder, sent her spinning into the black depths. 
She held her breath by instinct, stunned and unable to thrash her way back 
toward the surface. Long, dizzy moments passed, while the world tried to right 
itself inside her brain. When the fog cleared enough to realize she was deep 
underwater, Chilaili moved sluggish limbs, found rough wood under her clawtips, 
pulled herself hand over hand toward the surface. Her head broke water again and 
she gulped down lungfuls of air, then searched frantically for signs of her 
child.
The tree was completely down now, its shattered crown leaning drunkenly against 
the far wall of the ravine, its broken base disappearing underwater. Chilaili 
fought her way toward the trunk, screaming her daughter's name. "Sooleawa!" In 
the non-stop flares of lightning, she saw the glimmer of pale fur far below, 
down in the black water. She dove, fighting and clawing her way down. With 
shaking hands, she tugged at her daughter's arm, trying to tow the girl to the 
surface.
She might as well have tried to tug the tree up out of the water. She explored 
frantically with shaking hands and found a thick, jagged splinter of wood, 
thicker than Chilaili's own body. It held her daughter trapped more than a body 
length beneath the surface. Sooleawa was unconscious, her pulse fluttering, her 
lungs filling with water. Chilaili wrenched at the huge splinter with her claws, 
frantic. It was too thick, too massive to break—and even if she'd had her knife, 
she couldn't have hacked through all that wood in time. She was still wrenching 
at it, despairing, when a pale glimmer appeared right at the edge of Chilaili's 
vision.
She jerked her head around in the dark water—and her pupils dilated with shock. 
A wraithlike shape hovered in the water beside her. Chilaili had never seen a 
creature like it, not in all in her life. It was slender, fragile-looking. Its 
long, thin limbs were completely hairless, its face round and strange. Long, 
dark fur floated in a wild tangle around its head. The creature was holding 
something, and whatever it was, it glowed. The thing was long and narrow, like a 
thick stick, out of which light blazed. It held something else, too, some kind 
of knife blade. When the creature drove that flimsy-looking blade through the 
body-thick splinter pinning Sooleawa, the wood parted like fog before the wind. 
An instant was all it took and Sooleawa was free. Chilaili grasped her 
daughter's arm, pulling desperately toward the surface. The creature fumbled its 
knife into a carrier on its clothing and clamped the glowing thing in its teeth, 
then took Sooleawa's other arm and swam strongly upward. Between them, they 
towed the unconscious girl to the surface.
In the flare of lightning, the creature gestured unmistakably toward the rocky 
bank. They swam awkwardly for shore, keeping Sooleawa's head above water. 
Chilaili dragged her daughter onto the broken litter where the lip of the ravine 
had crashed down. Sooleawa wasn't breathing, wasn't moving at all. The strange 
creature bent, listened at her chest, then tilted Sooleawa's head back and 
forced open her beak. It used surprisingly strong, blunt-fingered hands to press 
up under her rib cage. Water trickled from Sooleawa's mouth. Chilaili saw at 
once what the slender creature was doing, pushing the water up and out by 
compressing Sooleawa's lungs. Chilaili, stronger and larger than the stranger, 
took over the work.
The strange creature crouched down over the girl, listening, then fastened a 
tiny mouth over Sooleawa's and blew air down her throat, again and again. 
Chilaili watched in astonishment as the creature—she couldn't call it an animal, 
for it was clearly intelligent—worked frantically to try and breathe life back 
into Chilaili's child. When Sooleawa twitched and moved, Chilaili's fur stood on 
end. Her daughter made a choking sound, ghastly and weak, then her rib cage 
heaved and she started to vomit water. The creature hastily turned Sooleawa's 
head, rolling her onto her side, which helped the girl bring the water up more 
easily. Chilaili took her daughter's head gently between her hands and steadied 
her when she began to tremble violently, coughing and gasping for air.
At a blur of unexpected movement, Chilaili jerked her gaze up. The creature had 
abandoned them—but only for a few moments. It came rapidly back along the rocky 
lakeshore, moving at a somewhat reckless jog, given the uneven footing, the 
driving rain, and the uncertain shadows and flares of the lightning. It was 
carrying something, a squarish, bulky thing that proved to be some sort of 
carrysack, and used the glowing thing in its hand to light its way along the 
debris-riddled shore as it ran. The creature pulled from the carrysack something 
lightweight, as thin as the inner bark of the seylish tree. It spread the thing 
across Sooleawa's shuddering frame.
It was a blanket of some kind, Chilaili realized, its surface silvery as 
moonlight and strange to the touch. Chilaili appreciated the effort, but it was 
far too thin to do much good. Sooleawa's shudders eased away almost at once, 
however, startling Chilaili into investigating more closely. When she slipped a 
hand beneath the filmy thing, she found a surprising amount of heat building up 
under it. What strange manner of blanket was this? And what manner of creature 
was its maker?
At that moment, Sooleawa's eyes opened.
Her gaze rested directly on the face of the creature which had saved her life.
Her pupils dilated in utter shock. "M-mother?" she gasped, stiffening in fright.
"Hush, dearest one," she soothed, stroking her daughter's wet head-fur. "This 
creature has returned your life to you, precious one. It risked itself to free 
you from a tangle of branches under the water, gave you breath from its own 
lungs."
Sooleawa stared from Chilaili to the slender creature which crouched beside 
them. It was watching them through strange, luminous blue eyes. Its long 
head-fur, as black as the night, lay plastered wetly to its pale hide, falling 
in a bedraggled mass past its narrow waist. It wore strange body coverings over 
much of that moon-pale hide, coverings that looked ruggedly sturdy, to protect 
its fragile-looking skin. Beneath the upper coverings, its body bulged strangely 
at the front, and its hips flared wide beneath the narrow waist. It even wore 
coverings to protect its feet. If the blunt ends of its fingers were any 
indication, there were no claws inside those foot coverings, just bare stubs 
like those at the tips of its long, thin fingers.
It was looking at the belt Chilaili wore, the belt which held an empty sheath 
where she normally carried her knife. And as it stared, its round and luminous 
eyes narrowed slightly, its expression alien and baffling.
"What is it?" Sooleawa breathed, her voice an awestruck whisper.
"I don't know," Chilaili admitted. "It's nothing like the Ones Above, is it?"
The akule had long kept sacred likenesses of the Ones Above who had created 
Chilaili's clan, to remind them of their duty to their makers. They brought out 
the likenesses for the various sacred ceremonies their clan observed during the 
long wheel of the year. The creature she studied so closely in the lightning 
flares was as unlike the Ones Above as Chilaili was. And given its reactions, 
the way it stared back at her, this creature had never seen any of the Tersae 
before, either. Where had it come from? There was only one place Chilaili could 
think of that made any sense at all: the sky.
Certainly, there had never been anything like this creature anywhere in the 
world. And since the Ones Above dwelt amongst the moons and the stars beyond, it 
was reasonable to believe other intelligent beings might, as well. The Ones 
Above had sometimes spoken through the Oracle about devils among the stars, but 
this creature could be no devil. It was far too fragile-looking to be a devil. 
Besides, the devils spoken of by the Ones Above did nothing but kill and this 
creature had worked frantically to save Sooleawa's life.
Its strange, glowing stick, its wondrous knife, and its gossamer-thin blanket 
told Chilaili that these creatures were able, like Chilaili's makers, to 
manufacture things far beyond her understanding. She shivered beneath the 
downpour, staring almost fearfully into its luminous, alien eyes. It met 
Chilaili's gaze squarely, then gestured carefully toward itself.
"Bessany Weyman," it said, its voice an alien ripple of sound, pausing between 
the two words to emphasize their separateness. "Bessany Weyman," it said again, 
then gestured to Chilaili and her daughter.
"Chilaili," she said slowly, touching her own chest, then touched her child's 
shoulder. "Sooleawa. My daughter, Sooleawa."
Bessany Weyman repeated the sounds of their names. Its accent was strange, its 
eyes oddly compelling as it studied them. Flares of lightning and the driving 
rain caused it to shiver. It spoke again, a rapid burble of sound, then gestured 
down the shoreline in the direction of a good, deep cave Chilaili knew existed 
along the base of the cliff—the shelter she had been trying to reach when the 
tree had come down. Chilaili nodded, pointing toward the cave, then said, 
"Daughter, there is a cave at the other end of this shoreline. I have used it 
before, when caught by bad weather. Can you stand?"
Sooleawa was desperately shaky, but managed to rise to her feet with both 
Chilaili and Bessany Weyman to assist her. Bessany Weyman folded up its silvery 
blanket and returned the thing to its carrysack, then offered a shoulder for 
Sooleawa to lean against. Had Sooleawa been fully grown, the alien would have 
been far too short to be of much practical use, for it was a small creature, but 
Sooleawa had just turned fifteen and would not reach her full growth for a 
number of years yet. The creature's shoulder was almost the perfect height for 
Sooleawa to lean against. Between them, Chilaili and the alien creature braced 
the shaken girl, helping her limp down the rocky, debris-littered shore of the 
lake.
Blood trickled hotly down Chilaili's side from deeper injuries her daughter had 
sustained. Chilaili clicked her beak in agitation, but until they got Sooleawa 
to shelter, there was little she could do about the wound. Sooleawa was 
trembling violently by the time they found the cave entrance. It lay half a 
Tersae length above them, where the ravine wall sloped back under a deep 
overhang. They climbed a scree-littered slope, then stepped into a dry shelter, 
out of the wind and rain.
They eased Sooleawa down and Chilaili ran careful hands over her child, 
searching out the extent of her injuries and peering worriedly at the deep cuts 
which still oozed beneath Sooleawa's fur. Bessany Weyman rummaged in the 
carrysack again, removing a number of fathomless items. The alien set up several 
shiny poles which somehow collapsed into themselves for storage, but when pulled 
open extended an arm span or more in length. It set the poles up carefully, 
angling them to its satisfaction and anchoring them against the rocky ground, 
then fastened to them a large, lightweight sheet of some tough fabric, similar 
to the silvery blanket, but made of a different substance.
It proved an effective windbreak, keeping out the gusts and occasional drifts of 
rain that blew into the shelter. A second item sent light flooding into every 
crack and crevice of their shelter, as bright as the noonday sun, yet Chilaili 
could feel no appreciable heat radiating from it. A third strange device looked 
like a squat, squarish lump of metal without any practical use at all, but when 
the alien fiddled with it, the thing began to glow a dull reddish color and gave 
off a delicious heat, warming their protected little shelter in an astonishingly 
short time.
It sat down, then, to watch them. Chilaili had traced the extent of her 
daughter's cuts and was trying to stanch the bleeding with her hands. The alien 
rummaged again in its carrysack, then offered a small bundle of whitish cloth 
which, once unrolled, the alien easily tore into smaller pieces which it used to 
press against the wounds, halting the flow of blood. It handed Chilaili another 
little bundle of the stuff, making motions with its hands. Chilaili nodded, 
unrolling it and winding the filmy stuff around the wound to hold the compresses 
in place. Sooleawa's eyes had closed. She was trembling, with faint tremors that 
told Chilaili shock was setting in. Terror took hold of her again, seeing that. 
Shock could prove just as fatal as drowning.
The instant they had bandaged Sooleawa's various wounds, the alien brought out 
the silvery blanket again, covering the shivering girl with it, which warmed her 
even more rapidly than the flameless heating device. The frightening shudders 
began to ease away. Chilaili hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until 
she gulped down a lungful of air in sheer relief. The alien then produced a cup 
from the carrysack and stepped to the edge of their shelter, leaning out to fill 
it with clean rainwater, carefully avoiding the muddy spilloff that plunged over 
the edge of the ravine wall high above them.
A moment later, it knelt at Sooleawa's side and offered the cup to Chilaili, 
gesturing to the girl's mouth. It was awkwardly shaped, clearly designed for the 
alien's smaller, soft-edged mouth, but Chilaili found it functional enough when 
she lifted Sooleawa's head and coaxed her to swallow. "Yes, that's good, most 
precious one," Chilaili murmured, stroking her child's fur gently, "take a 
little more, now."
Her daughter finished the water slowly and gazed in wonderment at the alien 
beside them. It watched them silently through those eerie, water-blue eyes, by 
far the best feature in its strange, round face. A small protuberance which 
jutted out from the center must house its nostrils, Chilaili decided at length, 
watching it breathe. Her own nostrils were part of her beak, but some of the 
creatures they hunted had separate bumps to breathe through—although she'd never 
seen any shaped quite like the one on Bessany Weyman's ash-pale face. It was a 
compellingly odd face. The skin stretched and shifted into differing shapes as 
thoughts passed with lightning rapidity through its eyes, doubtless rendering 
visible its feelings, if one knew how to read the expressions.
Chilaili wondered what it made of her own face, if it felt as puzzled about how 
to interpret Chilaili's thoughts as she felt, trying to fathom the alien's. 
Chilaili had to shift her head back and forth to accurately judge the distance 
between them, which made trying to understand its alien expressions even more 
difficult. Those water-blue eyes followed the swing of Chilaili's head with a 
wrinkle furrowing its upper face. It was uncomfortable, Chilaili realized 
abruptly, cued as much by the shift in its scent as by the expression on its 
mobile face, uncomfortable and unused to creatures who shifted their heads more 
or less continuously to judge depths and distances. She handed back the cup with 
a low murmur of thanks and tipped her head to one side, gazing one-eyed at the 
alien, which appeared to reduce its level of discomfort.
Chilaili was startled when the alien parroted back the sound of her thanks. Its 
mouth wasn't shaped correctly, however, and the word came out hopelessly 
mangled. After a moment, it pointed to the cup and said a single word. Chilaili 
spoke it back and the skin of its face stretched upwards, turning the soft-edged 
mouth upward like a hunting bow.
It's an expression of pleasure, Chilaili realized slowly. It filled the cup 
again with rainwater, then touched the water inside and said another word. 
Chilaili repeated it, finding the sounds required of its language far less 
difficult to pronounce than it found hers. Sooleawa and Chilaili watched, 
wide-eyed with interest, as the creature touched and named the rocks, the cloth 
of its portable shelter frame, the flameless heating device, the silvery 
blanket, even its body coverings in a desperate attempt at communication. Then 
it gestured to Chilaili and Sooleawa, not separately, but inclusively. Chilaili 
narrowed her pupils for a moment, trying to understand, then understood the 
question in a sudden flash of insight. She nodded.
"Tersae," she said, naming their species as a whole. "Chilaili," she said, 
tapping her chest, and "Sooleawa," touching her daughter's silver-covered 
shoulder, then she gestured to them both and said, "Tersae."
"Tersae?"
Chilaili nodded, clicking her approval in the base of her throat.
The alien touched itself and said, "Bessany Weyman," then sketched other 
imaginary figures in the air, tracing the same rough shape as itself, and said, 
"Humans."
"Humans." The name of its species was as strange as its appearance. Chilaili 
pointed at the alien. "Bessany Weyman," she said, then sketched rough 
approximations of others of its kind in the mud at their feet, using one clawtip 
to scrape the rough pattern of its face and body and head-fur. "Humans."
The alien's face wrinkled again in its expression of pleasure.
Chilaili stepped to the entrance of their little shelter and gestured for the 
alien to join her. It rose and moved to stand beside her shoulder. It was such a 
little creature, really not much larger than a half-grown nestling. The top of 
its head barely reached Chilaili's shoulder. She marveled that its slender limbs 
and delicate-looking hands had been strong enough to support Sooleawa's weight, 
carrying the wounded girl up to this cave. As the lightning flared, Chilaili 
pointed to the trees and said, "Forest." The alien said another word, which 
Chilaili repeated. Chilaili then tapped herself, pointed to Sooleawa, and 
pointed to the forest, moving her hands in a broad circle, trying to convey that 
they lived in this area. She pointed to the alien, hesitated, then pointed 
questioningly to the sky. "Humans?"
The creature made a sharp sound and stared up into Chilaili's face.
Then, very slowly, it nodded, copying Chilaili's own head-bobbing gesture. Or 
perhaps the gesture was one the aliens used, as well? It pointed upwards and 
said, "Humans, sky." Then it pointed in another direction, off to the east, 
thankfully in the opposite direction from Icewing Clan's current, summer nest. 
"Humans," it said, and a word that sounded like "hohm."
They had made a nest, then, somewhere to the east.
Chilaili found herself wondering if the Ones Above knew about the arrival of the 
humans—and if so, what They intended to do about it. Had these aliens come here 
to build new nests and colonize the Tersae's world? Were there just a few humans 
or would more arrive? Chilaili felt uneasy posing such questions, particularly 
since the Ones Above had spoken of devils among the stars, dangerous devils that 
killed with weapons of great power.
Were the humans such devils, after all? Surely not. Chilaili could not imagine a 
creature of evil risking its own life to save the trapped and drowning child of 
another species. A devil would simply have stood on the shore, watching with 
pleasure as Sooleawa died, possibly even shooting Chilaili down afterward, as 
she struggled from the water. Chilaili stared down at the slender little alien 
with a troubled gaze, wanting desperately to know more of these human creatures 
and why they had come to Chilaili's world.
She made a good start, at least, during Sooleawa's recovery from her brush with 
death. They stayed with Bessany Weyman in the little lakeside cave for two full 
days, giving Sooleawa time to rest from the wounds in her side. While they 
rested, they learned a surprisingly large number of the human's words—but not 
nearly enough to ask the questions in Chilaili's heart or to answer those she 
could see flickering through the alien's luminous eyes. On the morning after 
Sooleawa's accident, a morning which dawned grey with rain, but without the wind 
and lightning of the previous night, Bessany Weyman produced a small device from 
its carrysack, speaking into it. Another, deeper voice answered and a lengthy 
conversation followed, startling Chilaili enormously. It's like a tiny Oracle, 
she realized with a prickle of awe.
She had considered climbing to the top of the bluff this morning, and sending 
out a distress call using the low, deep sounds a Tersae huntress in trouble used 
to call for help, sounds that covered great distances; but Chilaili now found 
herself wanting to keep the existence of the humans secret from her clan, at 
least for a while. Why she felt that way, Chilaili couldn't decide, even in her 
own mind. Certainly, the clan would not be worried about them, yet. Blooding 
Hunts sometimes took days to complete, as inexperienced huntresses learned the 
art of the stalk, sometimes blundering through a dozen or more attempted kills 
before achieving success.
When the alien finished speaking into its tiny Oracle, Chilaili pointed to the 
device and asked in the human's language, "What is?" then wondered if she would 
understand the answer.
"Radio," it said slowly.
"Radio?" Chilaili copied the strange word.
It nodded.
Chilaili thought about the best way to word her question. "Radio is human 
Oracle?"
It studied her with an expression that—if Chilaili were interpreting it 
correctly—radiated considerable surprise. "Oracle?" it repeated the word.
Chilaili tried to explain, pointing to the sky. "Oracle. From the Ones Above."
Abstract concepts were almost impossible to convey, with their painfully limited 
vocabulary. Chilaili pointed to Bessany Weyman's complex tools, pointed to the 
sky. "From the Ones Above?"
The alien seemed to understand that Chilaili knew these devices had come from 
the sky, and that somehow, Chilaili had seen something else that had come from 
the sky, but it didn't look very happy about that fact. The human asked, "What 
are the 'Ones Above'?"
Chilaili used one claw to sketch the general outline of the Ones Above in the 
mud. "The Ones Above," she said, pointing from the muddy drawing to the sky 
again.
It was a crude sketch, very little like the Ones Above, really, but the shape 
she'd drawn looked nothing like a Tersae and even less like a human. Bessany 
Weyman stared at it for a long time, then pulled a device from its carrysack and 
pointed it at the drawing. Chilaili hurriedly erased the marks, worried now, and 
more than a little afraid. The alien held her gaze for a long moment, then 
wordlessly put the device away again. It brought out another device instead, 
similar to the collapsible poles of the shelter frame, only this one opened into 
a circle at one end, then bent back around to fasten securely. To this, the 
alien attached a long, almost transparent net of exceedingly fine mesh.
Bessany Weyman gestured for Chilaili to follow, then led the way around the end 
of the lake, to a deep pool where a shelf of rock made an ideal place for fish 
to gather. It peered down into the water, which rippled grey-green in the cloudy 
morning light. Rain pocked and roiled the slate-dark surface. Chilaili could see 
the warm shapes of fish in the chilly depths, good-sized fish, enough of them to 
feed Chilaili, her daughter, and the alien. The human studied the fish for 
several silent moments, then dipped the net swiftly, with a sure movement, and 
dragged three to the surface. They struggled wildly, but the net was made of 
strong fiber. The alien scooped them out, killing them neatly with a sharp blow 
of their heads against the rock. It waited patiently for the remaining fish to 
lose their fear and regather, then dipped the net twice more, capturing ten fish 
in total. The human handed half of them to Chilaili.
She accepted with a rumble of thanks in the base of her throat.
They returned to the shelter, where the human proceeded to build an ordinary 
fire, although it lit the wood with a device as strange as the flameless heater. 
It then produced a small knife-shaped device and touched a recessed place in its 
end. The knife began to hum with a strange, very low sound. This, then, was the 
tool it had used to free Sooleawa from that underwater death trap. The blade was 
as long as the human's hand—and the alien took great care never to touch that 
blade with its fingers. It used the humming knife with great skill, gutting all 
ten fish, stripping off neat little fillets almost completely devoid of bones, 
then tossed the offal and gristly bones into the water, glancing occasionally at 
Chilaili as if to check whether or not it had violated some clan taboo with each 
new activity.
The human cut several short sticks from a nearby shrub, then did something that 
caused the knife to fall silent. It put away the strange tool and spitted the 
fillets on the sharpened sticks. Chilaili and her strange new companion held the 
makeshift roasting spits over the flames and soon the tantalizing scents of hot 
fish filled their little shelter. Sooleawa sat up, pulling the silvery blanket 
around her shoulders with a shiver, but ate with fair appetite—a truly hopeful 
sign.
They shared the meal in silence, but it was a companionable silence, born more 
of hunger than uneasiness or lack of vocabulary. When the last, flaky morsels 
had been eaten, they started another language lesson, which carried Chilaili and 
the human far beyond the shelter, naming everything within sight. The alien 
tried to convey a sense of grammar and language structure as it strung together 
words and attempted to communicate the concepts behind those groupings. By 
nightfall, Chilaili was starting to make progress. By the end of the next day, 
she was able to speak in crude, somewhat disjointed sentences, although somewhat 
seriously limited in scope and topic. That second night, she taught Sooleawa 
everything the human had taught her during the day. Her daughter carefully 
repeated back the words, glancing at Bessany Weyman to confirm that she'd said 
them correctly. The alien wrinkled its face in the pleasure expression again and 
again, saying, "Yes" and "Good" many times.
On the third morning, when it was clear Sooleawa would be able to travel again, 
their unlikely companion packed up its carrysack and made ready to return to its 
nest. The human actually invited them, with gestures and words, to accompany it. 
"You come my home, Chilaili, Sooleawa. You come, much happy."
Chilaili and Sooleawa exchanged a long glance, then Sooleawa said, "I would like 
to see the human nest, at least, Respected Mother. I want to know more about 
these creatures I owe my life to. If you think it safe?"
Given what it had done for them already, Chilaili couldn't imagine the human 
deliberately doing anything to harm them. And Chilaili, too, was curious. 
Moreover, as Icewing Clan's katori, it was her responsibility to learn 
everything she could about these newcomers, to protect the clan as best she 
could. So they went with the alien, walking for three full days through broken 
country where deep gullies and ravines slashed unpredictably through miles of 
forest. Stands of thick-boled conifers showed like dark streams flowing through 
the vast, pale-green seas of broad-leafed trees that predominated where soil and 
rainfall allowed them to thrive. When winter came, the broad, water-rich leaves 
would turn crimson and brilliant gold, then fall in a brightly colored rain, 
leaving the dark-needled conifers to rule the eleven long months of darkness, 
snow, and ice. Come winter, every other living plant would go deep into 
hibernation or die back to roots and seed pods.
Scattered here and there, in sheltered valleys and white-water gorges, rushing 
plumes of water shot out across the ragged, jagged lips of stone, falling with a 
perpetual misting spray. Tree ferns swayed like graceful girls and broad-spined, 
prickly akrati fronds rattled like whole nestfuls of warlike boys caught up in 
late summer's courtship dance. By winter, these gorges would be solid ice, 
fantastical sculptures of it, where waterfalls froze, locking away the tree 
ferns and the prickly akrati in a coating of solid ice up to a handsbreadth 
thick. Winter turned such gorges into a breathtaking wonderland—where one tiny 
misstep could leave a body crushed under cracked and falling tons of ice and 
snapped-off trees or impaled on ice swords and thorny protrusions where akrati 
fronds jutted out with six-foot-long points of ice.
Winter on Chilaili's homeworld had five hundred brutal ways to kill the unwary, 
the careless, the poorly trained. Chilaili worried about the humans. This world 
did not forgive ignorance or poor judgment or even one moment of inattention. 
When the deep cold came—all eleven, bitter, long moons of it—even native animals 
were pushed hard to the ragged edge of survival. The clans always lost heavily 
over the winters: the old ones, those who fell ill or suffered some other 
weakness or infirmity, the unlucky huntresses who came back maimed, if at all. 
How could the humans, complete strangers to winter's treacheries, possibly hope 
to survive, even with their magical tools?
Chilaili and her companions finally reached the edge of a large valley which 
Chilaili had seen before, only too many times. She stared, horrified. The humans 
could scarcely have chosen a more dangerous place to build, a fact she did not 
yet know enough vocabulary to convey. Sooleawa tipped her head to peer up at 
Chilaili, having caught scent of Chilaili's sudden, acute worry.
"What is it, Mother?" she asked in a low whisper while the human forged on 
ahead, greatly excited now. "Do you know this place?"
Chilaili turned her gaze from the long, knife-blade gouge in the ground and met 
her daughter's troubled eyes. "Oh, yes," she murmured in their own tongue, "I 
know a great deal of this place."
A long, steep-walled gorge snaked away through the badlands of cliffs and broken 
fissures, topped with its fringe of forest like a heavy green beard. A sparkling 
clear lake drowned the far end of the valley, born of the meltoff pouring down 
from an immense glacier that towered above. Calving ice thundered down each 
spring in an avalanche of debris that spilled into the far end of the lake and 
set its pristine waters to sloshing. The humans' hard-walled nest stood within a 
spear's throw of the lake. High above, water exploded in freshets and gushes, 
leaping down across the face of the glacier and roaring through the narrow upper 
fissure where this particular gorge was born.
In winter, that water would freeze across the whole top of the fissure, leaving 
a natural ice bridge spanning the top of the valley. It was a favorite spot for 
males to taunt one another for their bravery. Walk the ice bridge . . . the 
males goaded, gulping down fermented yacto juice to heat their blood and dull 
cautionary reason. If you're really a man, you'll walk the ice bridge . . . 
Nor was it just the appalling ease of falling to one's death that made this 
place so deadly. An insane, whipping whirl of wind blasted down off the glacier 
to meet the warmer, moister air rising from the forest, particularly from the 
lush growth down in the protected gorge itself, creating dangerous twist-winds. 
Even after the forest had dropped its leaves, there would still be heat to stir 
up the troubled air, for a ring of fire mountains girdled this whole area, 
active volcanoes that spewed plumes of heat and smoke into the air and set the 
hot springs simmering like so many cookpots.
Weather in this gorge, when winter set cruel fangs into the land, was without 
doubt the most interesting anywhere in the whole of Icewing Clan's vast range. 
She wondered why the humans, who showed such sharp intelligence in other ways, 
had chosen so dreadfully in building their new nest? Maybe they were an 
afflicted species of devils, as the Ones Above insisted. Whatever the reason for 
it, unless they possessed tools of tremendous power indeed, they were likely to 
find their first winter here full of lethal surprises.
Sooleawa whispered, "Is this valley taboo, Mother? Is that why you stare so 
strangely?"
Chilaili roused herself with difficulty. "No . . ." She sighed. "No, it is not 
taboo. Perhaps it should be. I've helped bury too many fools who fell from the 
ice bridge that forms each winter, there at the foot of the glacier." A hideous 
task it was, too, scraping up the spattered mess that was left after falling 
more than two hundred feet onto a jagged ice field. She'd also treated shattered 
limbs and deep puncture wounds sustained by those who'd managed to stop the 
fatal slide off the edge, but only at the sacrifice of crushed arms, shattered 
legs, and splintered ribs that drove spikes of bone through lung tissue. She 
wasn't sure which was worse, fast and messy death below the ice bridge or slow 
death from choking on blood and the pneumonia sickness. . . .
The most surprising thing Chilaili saw, however, more shocking than the 
hard-walled structures of the alien nest, was a gently sloping stone incline 
which rose from the valley floor to the very spot where the three of them had 
emerged from the forest. The incline looped back on itself multiple times as it 
climbed up more than two hundred feet of cliff face. The rock looked as though 
it had been shaped, cut by some immense knife. Chilaili shivered involuntarily. 
Given what she'd seen of this human's miraculous belt knife, these creatures 
might use machines to cut solid stone as easily as Chilaili could split a 
softened, overripe fruit.
Down in the valley, itself, the humans had cleared a wide swath of trees, 
providing a broad, flattened area for the hard-walled nest. Part of that 
flattened area glinted whitely in the sunlight. The humans had laid down a slab 
of something hard, for an unfathomable reason. A collection of strangely shaped 
huts, made from some other hard substance, sat nearby. Chilaili hoped those huts 
were as strong as they looked. They were too small and too few in number to 
house very many of the humans. Strange objects sat beside the huts, while larger 
objects rested on the edges of the flat, white thing, their uses well beyond 
Chilaili's ability to determine.
When she spotted other humans in the distance, perhaps a dozen of them, Chilaili 
realized in some surprise that they came in two startlingly different shapes. 
There were several smallish ones like Bessany Weyman, with flared hips and chest 
bulges, but there were taller, broader ones as well, with flat chests and hips 
that did not flare at all, but dropped straight from their long torsos. Males 
and females, Chilaili guessed, trying to puzzle out which were which through the 
aliens' behavior toward one another. She could discern no apparent system of 
rankings or subservience, however, which frustrated her. If they followed the 
Tersae's pattern, the males would be larger and heavier, but with creatures from 
the stars, who could say whether or not that pattern would hold true?
As they watched, a dark shape in the air, tiny with distance, came arrowing in 
rapidly. As it came racing nearer, Chilaili realized it was too large and moved 
too swiftly to be any kind of bird. It approached the human nest, slowed, then 
settled gently down to land on the broad, white slab. It came to a rolling halt 
near one edge. A shiny door made of some type of metal opened in its side and a 
human climbed out, closing the door behind itself before jogging across the 
ground to join the other humans. The flying machine sat near others very similar 
to it, five of them, in total.
Chilaili's fur prickled, gazing down at them. How far could a human travel in 
such a device? Given that thing's speed, it could probably reach the hunting 
grounds of even the most distant clans with ease—and probably could find her 
summer nest within a few hours. Chilaili repressed a shiver and glanced at her 
daughter, who was staring in rapt fascination at the human nest and its multiple 
wonders. When Bessany Weyman tried to urge Chilaili and Sooleawa out into the 
open, to follow the alien down the sloping incline to the human nest, Chilaili 
quietly refused.
"No," she said firmly, using the human word. "Chilaili, Sooleawa no walk."
The human tilted its head to look up into Chilaili's nearest eye. "Home?" it 
asked, glancing toward the forest.
"Home," Chilaili agreed.
"I come?" it asked.
Chilaili hesitated.
"I come cave? You come cave? We talk?"
Chilaili nodded. "Yes. Cave. We talk." She pointed to the sun, made an arc over 
her head to symbolize the sun's path across the sky, then made four more arcs to 
represent five days. "You come, I come, Sooleawa come. Five sun."
Bessany Weyman sketched five arcs across the sky. "Five suns? Five days?"
"Yes. Five suns. Five days. Cave. You, not humans." She pointed toward the human 
nest.
Bessany Weyman nodded, although the human did not look happy about the 
stipulation to come alone. Those luminous blue eyes studied Chilaili and 
Sooleawa in turn, then the human said a word that must have been a farewell, for 
it turned away immediately afterward, hiking down toward its nest. It moved 
quickly, clearly eager to be among its own kind, again. They watched the human 
reach the valley floor, watched it disappear into the trees between the stone 
incline and the hard-walled nest, watched curiously as Bessany Weyman emerged on 
the other side of the trees and rejoined her own kind. The excited welcome 
spread as other humans came running from the hard-walled huts. From the way the 
others treated Bessany Weyman, it was clear that their human was held in high 
esteem by its fellow creatures.
"It is tiponi, among them," Sooleawa murmured.
Child of importance.  
True, the human was scarcely larger than a half-grown child, although clearly an 
adult among its own kind. The word tiponi was usually reserved for the heirs of 
a clan's leaders, yet it seemed to fit this alien who was treated with obvious 
respect and deference by its fellows. "Yes, perhaps it is," Chilaili agreed 
softly. "Come, Sooleawa, they have turned their attention toward us."
The humans were staring up toward the treeline where Chilaili and Sooleawa 
stood. While Chilaili and her daughter had been careful to hide in the shadows 
of the nearest trees, they might well be visible to whatever powerful tools such 
creatures could make. So they melted back into the forest, moving swiftly, now, 
and put a great deal of distance between themselves and the human nest. Chilaili 
led the way, taking them along a circuitous, snaking path that would add a hand 
of days to their journey home, but might serve to confuse any human who tried to 
follow.
Chilaili later determined that no human had attempted to trail them.
And five days after they left the human at her home nest, Bessany Weyman had 
come alone to the little cave, as promised. For three full cycles of the moons, 
Chilaili and Sooleawa had met secretly with the human, determined to learn more 
of the strangers from the stars. Unlike the Ones Above, who had never actually 
shown their faces to Chilaili's little clan, sending only flat likenesses to be 
revered and speaking only through the Oracles, Tiponi Weyman had walked freely 
with them, trying to understand Chilaili's language, trying to understand what 
they believed and why they did things in the ways they did them.
Bessany Weyman had taught Chilaili much about the humans in the process. There 
was a great deal to admire, as well as fear. The human acted with honor and 
clearly respected Chilaili. Not once had the human made Chilaili feel inferior, 
despite the enormous gulf between Chilaili's knowledge and primitive tools and 
the human's almost magical ones. Tiponi Weyman treated Chilaili as a valued 
friend, one who respected Chilaili's thoughts and sought her opinions.
And now the Ones Above had ordered Chilaili to destroy every human in the world.
Chilaili blinked at the Council fire, then met the gaze of Great-Grandmother 
Anevay once more. Anevay—and the rest of Icewing Clan—waited for her to speak, 
to explain herself and her insistence that this war with the humans was not only 
a disaster, but unnecessary. She glanced into the eyes of every Grandmother on 
the council, met the viho's gaze and the akule's, knew that the Oracle Kestejoo 
served would be listening, weighing, judging. Speak aloud where the machine left 
by the Ones Above could hear her treasonous, heretical arguments? She suppressed 
a shudder.
Choosing her words with great care, she said, "As katori to Icewing Clan, it is 
my sacred duty to protect our people, to guide the clan when we must make 
important decisions that affect our health, our very survival. The humans are 
powerful creatures, able to make and use tools far beyond our comprehension. 
They rival the Ones Above who created all the true Tersae there are in this 
world—"
"No one doubts the humans' cleverness in making weapons that kill effectively," 
the akule interrupted, earnestly. "Of course they can. They are devils. 
Murderous fiends sent to destroy us. You know how deeply I love Icewing Clan, 
Chilaili, what I gave up to come here. Can anyone in this clan doubt my loyalty, 
my sincerity?"
Not even Chilaili could argue that.
Kestejoo had given up his home and blood kin for Zaltana and for Icewing Clan. 
When season after season passed, producing neither daughters nor sons—which left 
the clan without an heir to become Speaker for the Oracle—Kestejoo had learned 
all the rituals of Zaltana's office as akule. During the long months of her 
final illness, he had not left her side even to sleep and eat, grieving and 
vowing to accept the mantle of akule. 
He had been zealous in his work, after Zaltana's death.
Too zealous, perhaps.
He took a single step forward, holding out one hand toward Chilaili, and his 
voice rang with the power of profound belief. "We must fight these demons from 
the stars. We must fight with every ounce of our strength, our determination, 
our courage. And yes, if necessary, our warriors must fight to the death. Such 
monsters cannot be allowed to draw breath under our sun. If we do not destroy 
them or at least drive them back to the stars, they will hunt us down and kill 
us all, to the last unborn hatchling still in its eggshell!"
"If we make enemies of such creatures," Chilaili snapped, "we do so at our own 
peril! If we attack, as the Ones Above demand, the humans' tools are quite 
capable of killing the clans by the thousands. There are not so many of us, 
anywhere in the world, that we can sustain such losses. If Icewing Clan, at 
least, does not make war, if we remain safely hidden in our winter nest and keep 
them ignorant of our presence, the humans will have no reason to attack us."
Worried murmurs buzzed like summer insects.
The war leader shook his grizzled head. "No, Chilaili, you are wrong." Yiska's 
voice was a low rumble, startling to hear at the Council fire, since Yiska 
usually remained silent, merely carrying out the will of the Grandmothers and 
Huntresses. "The Ones Above have warned us. The human devils can locate us by 
any open show of fire or heat against the snow, even the heat of our bodies. 
They can track us through the magical power of our Oracles, if we use them while 
the humans still possess their weapons. Do you really think we can remain hidden 
from them? No. They would find and kill us, so we must—"
"The Ones Above are killing us already! Must we rush to finish it by suiciding?"
Shocked silence fell.
Even the akule trembled. "Chilaili! Th-that's blasphemy!"
"Is it blasphemy to speak what every Mother and Grandmother of every clan 
already knows?" Chilaili demanded. "If so, then our entire race is guilty of it! 
What can you, a male, possibly know of such matters?"
Kestejoo's pupils dilated for one long, thunderstruck moment. Then naked hurt 
throbbed in his eyes, causing Chilaili to clamp her beak tightly, wishing she 
could take back the harsh words. Chilaili had often wondered if the Ones Above 
had been responsible, somehow, for that terrible lack of hatchlings at Kestejoo 
and Zaltana's hearth. Once, as recently as three turnings of the moons ago, 
Chilaili would have accepted such a cruel dictate as natural and right. But the 
time she had spent with Bessany Weyman had made Chilaili doubt many things.
Huntress Alsoomse rose to her feet, bowing deferentially to the Council members. 
"I would add my voice to Chilaili's."
Great-Grandmother Anevay nodded.
"I have traveled far," Alsoomse said quietly, "trading with distant clans, with 
my mate and often my older sons at my side to protect me. I have spoken to many 
Mothers and Grandmothers about such matters. I have risked much to learn what we 
desperately need to know. As dangerous as our own situation is, things are far 
worse in the other clans. Mothers and Grandmothers elsewhere hold no power, as 
we Huntresses do. They must bow to the dictates of their clan lords—even in 
matters of the eggs. Even so, the Mothers and Grandmothers of all the clans are 
whispering rebellion, for we all feel the same anger and terror. The Ones Above 
are destroying us."
The akule turned a shocked, disapproving glare on Alsoomse. The Huntress ducked 
her head unhappily, but she did not back down. "I am sorry, akule, but I will 
not deny what I have seen and heard, no matter what you tell us the Oracle has 
said. Chilaili speaks the truth. Mothers and Grandmothers everywhere are saying 
it. The blessing chambers, in which we have been so strictly commanded to place 
our eggs, do not bring blessings. They bring death. The chambers leave our eggs 
changed, akule, not just Icewing's, but the eggs of all the clans, with damage 
so visible, even Grandmothers with no say in their own clans' affairs have begun 
to hold back eggs, refusing to put all of them into the blessing chambers."
Kestejoo stared at Alsoomse in horror. "You dare—?"
"Yes, we dare!" an aging, grey-furred Grandmother snarled, coming angrily to her 
feet. "The eggs which are destined to become male show the greatest damage! I 
have watched for years as our young males have changed—and never for the better. 
The shells of eggs that hatch out male come out of the blessing chambers riddled 
with tiny holes—and each new male hatched from such eggs is more hot-tempered, 
more eager to die than the ones before him! They are far more violent than males 
hatched from eggs hidden away to mature naturally. We fear for the future of our 
race, akule. The Ones Above are doing something to us, to our males, and what 
they are doing brings nothing but death!"
Great-Grandmother Anevay hissed softly. "Then it is not my imagination, about 
the younger males? I have worried that perhaps I had forgotten what it was like 
when my mate was young."
Chilaili's precious daughter, Sooleawa, shook her head, the silver patches on 
her fur ruddy from the Council Cavern's fire. "No, Respected Great-Grandmother, 
you have not forgotten. I am the youngest Huntress in this circle and I have 
watched my nestmates closely these past fifteen years. My youngest brothers are 
far more violent and dangerous than my oldest ones. It troubles me, as well, 
that I am the only female born to my mother's nest. Ten nestmates I have, all 
male—and two of them were killed by their own brothers. How many other 
bloodlines can claim more than one female breaking shell? How many have lost 
sons to other sons? I will not put my eggs in the blessing chambers, Respected 
Great-Grandmother, for I desire daughters to hunt at my side and I refuse to 
watch my sons murder one another senselessly. I fear for the future of our race. 
If all the males seek nothing but crazy battles without purpose, fighting and 
killing one another, destroying their wiser fathers in challenge after 
challenge, who will be left to make us fertile? And the death toll in this new 
war will be disastrous. Even you, akule, have admitted this."
Several Huntresses nodded agreement, sending a low murmur through the assembly.
"The Ones Above insist on calling the humans devils," Sooleawa said quietly. "I 
am not so sure of that. The humans have been among us for many moons without 
once using their weapons against us. Would devils intent on destroying us sit 
quietly for cycle after cycle of the moons? They did nothing against us until we 
attacked them and now they are destroying the clans, using weapons the Ones 
Above would be hard-pressed to duplicate. And the fighting has gone on for only 
a handful of days! The clans cannot sustain the loss. It will be years before 
some of our clans recover—if they ever do. I am a newly blooded Huntress, akule, 
and I would very much like to take a mate before all the males are dead, 
fighting a war we cannot win!"
She ducked her head at that, clicking her beak in agitation for the blasphemy.
Chilaili stroked her daughter's soft fur, gentling her. "No, do not apologize 
for having spoken the truth, Sooleawa," she said quietly. "It is one thing to 
serve Those who made us, in gratitude for our making. It is quite another to die 
for them, to the last poisoned chick, when the creatures they would have us 
fight are virtually the equals of the Ones Above." She held up her hands, 
clawtips glinting in the firelight. "We hunt with these, and with spears and 
knives and bows. Do you think any Huntress at this Council fire doesn't 
understand how primitive our best weapons are, compared with the least weapons 
of the Ones Above? Or those of the humans?"
A low murmur of assent rippled through the gathered Huntresses.
The akule, tone almost pleading, said, "When the command to fight came, the Ones 
Above promised to send greater and greater weapons to carry on the fight, 
weapons more powerful than any the human devils possess."
"More weapons?" Chilaili countered sharply. "Yes, I can well believe the Ones 
Above are willing to give us more weapons. But they do not show themselves, for 
all their wondrous skill in crafting such things. I want to know why, akule, it 
is left to us to fight and die, when the Ones Above are so much more capable 
than we of carrying out such battles? They sit safely in their nests among the 
stars and the moons, their claws bloodless. Why don't they fight these devils, 
if the humans are truly so deadly?"
It was the wrong thing to say; Chilaili knew it the instant the words exploded 
past her beak. But she could not unsay them and she knew, in her very bones, 
that they were nothing but naked truth. The akule cried, "Chilaili! The Ones 
Above send us to battle to test our worthiness! Everyone knows this! It is the 
way things have always been. It is part of the great plan for our race—"
"Proving our worthiness by destroying ourselves? That aids no one! Ourselves, 
least of all." At the stir of fright that shivered through the gathering, beaks 
clicking softly in agitation like branches in the wind, Chilaili gentled her 
voice. "I am katori. My own Grandmother's Great-Grandmother passed down the 
story of the grand plan, to see which clan's ways will prove strongest, most 
viable. Icewing Clan is the only one in all the world ruled by Mothers and 
Grandmothers. While our Daughters and Mothers hunt far from the nest, our bigger 
and stronger males remain behind to guard the nest against all predators. Even 
against the males of other clans. The Grandmothers watch the hatchlings and make 
all critical decisions while the Grandfathers incubate the eggs. Because this is 
so, ours may well be the only clan of the Tersae capable of saving our race."
"How is that?" a young huntress across the Council fire asked in puzzled tones.
"Because," Chilaili said very gently, "in our clan, Grandmothers choose which 
males to breed with which females to strengthen the bloodlines. They are wise 
enough to select carefully for intelligence, for speed and endurance, skill of 
dexterity and resistance to illness, all the critical factors that mean survival 
for a clan—or death, if the choices made are poor ones."
Great-Grandmother Anevay spoke again. "I have worried about this very thing, for 
the clans we trade with most often have gone dangerously unstable. The males now 
making decisions think of nothing but food in their bellies and weapons in their 
enemies' entrails. There is much merit in your words, Chilaili, although they 
disturb me more than I would like to admit."
Chilaili bowed her head. "Your wisdom has guided us for many years, 
Great-Grandmother Anevay. And these are disturbing things to face, deeply 
disturbing decisions we are forced to make. We argue issues tonight that will be 
the death of our clan—perhaps the death of all the clans—if we decide wrongly."
The akule broke silence, at that. "You are more right than you begin to guess, 
Chilaili," he said, voice heavy with fear as he rolled one eye toward the cavern 
where the Oracle rested, the small cavern Kestejoo and his mate had shared for 
so many hatchless winters. "What you have forgotten—what all of you have 
forgotten—is the solemn warning we live under. The Ones Above demand obedience. 
Anything less is punished—severely and irrevocably. We all agree the weapons 
they have given us are terrifying. But you, Chilaili, have forgotten that the 
Ones Above can turn those weapons on us as easily and swiftly as young hotheads 
issue challenge."
A profound silence fell across the entire, assembled clan. The Council fire 
crackled ominously, portent of worse fires to come. Chilaili shivered. The fur 
along her spine crawled. She could make no answer to the akule's words, for 
there was no answer any Tersae could make. The Ones Above had created them. They 
could just as easily destroy.
Very softly, Chilaili said, "The akule speaks the truth in this. To our shame, 
we are helpless before them, helpless as unhatched nestlings. I believe 
attacking the human nests is profoundly wrong and more dangerous than any of you 
can understand. But I cannot deny the threat the Ones Above hold over us. Decide 
amongst yourselves what you feel is best. I will abide by the Council's edicts."
Rebellion surged in her heart, but there was nothing she could do.
The vote did not take long.
Within the hour, the warriors were packing joyously, bringing weapons out of 
storage, spears and swords and carefully cached weapons from the Ones Above, 
stored years previously in the deepest caverns of their permanent winter nest. 
The clan had held them for generations against future emergency, such as this 
current crisis. Yiska glanced at Chilaili from time to time, his expression 
troubled, but the Council had made its decision and he would never disobey a 
direct order from the Grandmothers. The younger males sang as they worked, for 
once not bickering and fighting amongst themselves. Ancient Grandfathers 
incubating eggs not yet due for another round in the blessing chambers watched 
with sad and dreaming eyes as others claimed the honor of battle.
"The warriors will form one war party to attack the large human nest three days' 
travel away," Yiska was saying. "We will bypass—for now—the smaller, closer 
nest. The two attacks must occur simultaneously or the nests will reinforce each 
other. That would make victory far more costly. The huntresses will attack the 
smaller nest, since we do not have enough warriors to attack both at once. The 
warriors must travel three times the distance, so they will leave first. The 
huntresses will set out two days after they leave, to time the attacks properly. 
We will strike both nests at dawn of the fourth day."
Chilaili felt ill, listening. To send the clan's huntresses to war was a 
decision lost in utter folly—and should have been a powerful argument against 
attacking at all. But when the Ones Above dictated the rules, logic flew out of 
the cavern on crippled wings. She watched her sons chanting war songs with glee 
in their eyes and a joyous spring in their steps, and hated her clan's 
helplessness.
And she hated the Ones Above. Their makers had—according to the oldest of the 
akule's teaching stories—raised them up from the nests of flightless, clever 
beasts that still roamed the deep forests. Had taken them in as pets and 
playthings, had doctored them with machines and with substances Chilaili would 
never even be able to pronounce, let alone comprehend. Then, having created them 
and given them language and understanding, they had taken their pets and placed 
them back down in the forests and set them at one another's throats, with 
pretty-sounding laws to live by—laws that kept the clans fighting one another 
without ever quite allowing the males the dreamed-of joy of ripping and rending 
everything in their paths.
With the humans, no such restrictions existed.
The males were now in the only version of heaven they were ever likely to know 
firsthand. How the Ones Above must laugh at the blind, stupid, battle-mad 
Tersae, the fools down in the dung and the dead leaves and the blood, 
obediently—joyously—dying for their creators. Chilaili watched sons she had 
loved to distraction singing and laughing on their way to slaughter and knew she 
had to do something besides sit like a feeble Grandmother in the shadowed corner 
of her living cavern. The semiprivate chamber reserved for the katori had never 
seemed so lonely, not even in the aftermath of losing her beloved mate, killed 
in a mindless challenge. She watched with growing despair as the little ones 
played amongst the star-weapons.
It is our future the Ones Above are stealing, she realized bleakly. We are toys 
to them, to chuckle over during conversation around an evening's cookfire. Did 
the Ones Above even have cookfires? They created us, but why? They care nothing 
about us. Our welfare, our anguish, what brings us joy through the wheel of the 
year means as little to them as a rotting log in the forest means to me. Less, 
perhaps. A rotting log at least provided an abundance of edible and medicinal 
fungi.
A stray blast of wind set the fires to dancing, sending sparks toward the cavern 
ceiling with a whoosh and a roar—and the thought that came whispering in from 
the night with it set Chilaili's beak to chattering. I do not want to worship 
creatures whose only desire is to see how well we die. I want friendship with 
those who delight in living. 
Chilaili came to her feet, grief and indecision falling away in one blinding, 
clear-sighted instant, one that turned her entire world upside down. There were, 
indeed, devils among the stars. They had created Chilaili's race. She moved 
purposefully through her living cavern, filled by a great calm she could not 
explain, particularly as she should have been shaking with mortal terror. She 
prepared her hunting pack, slung it onto her back, strapped on her weapons belt, 
donned heavy furs usually reserved for the deepest cold of winter, and 
considered whether or not to take the snow-webs. No, she decided, if I try to 
walk in heavy wind with snow-webs strapped to my feet, the wind will catch them 
and I will break a leg. Or both of them. Regretfully, she left them in their 
place against the wall.
Chilaili covered the pack and weapons belt with the sacred katori robe, handed 
from mother to daughter for generations. The small oil lamp in one corner cast 
terrifying shadows on the walls, for the katori ceremonial cloak, massively 
decorated for katori ritual work, carried a misshapen profile. It turned the 
wearer into an awe-inspiring apparition, one with great power to intercede with 
spirits and unseen forces. Chilaili still remembered her own fright as a new 
hatchling whenever her mother had donned it for some new ceremony. Chilaili 
understood very well its impact on an uninitiated Tersae's mind. Tonight, she 
was counting on it.
It did wonders to disguise the hunting pack and weapons belt beneath it.
Satisfied, Chilaili turned to leave her semiprivate living cavern, only to find 
Sooleawa standing in the entrance. Her daughter's eyes glittered in the 
lamplight.
"Respected Mother."
Chilaili's heart thundered painfully for a long moment. "Cherished Daughter?"
"I—" Sooleawa hesitated, glanced into the raucous Council Cavern. Then she said 
in a low voice, "I would accompany you on this holy ritual. I, too, must learn 
all the teachings of the katori."
The rebellion in Sooleawa's eyes flashed an unmistakable warning. Chilaili 
reached for words of persuasion, rather than a direct and confrontational order 
that Sooleawa would probably disregard, given the enormity of the girl's 
life-debt. "You are old enough to know, Sooleawa, what I am about, this night. 
You are more precious to me than life itself. I will not rob you of your 
birthright and refuse you the right to go with me, but do so, child, with your 
eyes open and your claws sharp. It is dangerous ground I tread, far more 
dangerous than the fury of the blizzard I must walk through. If you go, there is 
a very terrible chance our bloodline will die out, in the female line. I need 
you here, Sooleawa—"
"To cower like a frightened child with the old ones and the newly hatched?"
She held her daughter's angry gaze until Sooleawa dipped her head in shame. 
"Forgive me, Respected Mother."
Chilaili gentled her voice. "When I have gone, yours will be the only voice of 
reason left to advise the Grandmothers. You and I are the only Tersae in all the 
world who have walked with humans and learned their tongue. If the battles go as 
disastrously as I believe they will, yours may be the only voice left to judge 
what the humans might do in retaliation. I need you to stay, Daughter, far more 
than I need your support in the task I have set myself. And if I do not return, 
the clan must still have a katori."
Her precious daughter chittered softly, a sound of deep distress. So young, to 
face such a decision. Yet she was little older than Chilaili herself had been, 
when the katori mantle had fallen so unexpectedly onto her own shoulders with 
her mother's untimely death. Sooleawa gulped air several times, then whispered, 
"I will obey your greater wisdom, honored katori. But . . ." Her voice shattered 
like a very young child's. "Please, Mother, be careful!"
Chilaili hugged her trembling daughter close, smoothed her ruffled fur gently. 
"Hush, most precious one. What must come will come and we will meet it bravely, 
yes?"
Her daughter looked up, tilting her head to gaze one-eyed up into Chilaili's 
face.
"Be careful?"
"Always." Chilaili held back a sigh and touched her daughter's face with one 
gentle hand, then headed swiftly through the bustling Council Cavern. Wide, 
shocked stares followed her progress. Even warriors hurried to step out of her 
way as she stalked past cookfires and piles of weapons. Her misshapen shadow 
danced across the fur of the little ones, who stared open-beaked at the katori 
in full ceremonial garb. A few of the Grandmothers—and Yiska—furrowed their 
brows in puzzlement, but remained silent. She was deeply thankful for that, 
since a single question would have endangered her plans before she could 
implement them. Perhaps they were merely granting her the right to die in the 
manner of her own choosing, rather than waiting to die with the other 
huntresses?
At the entrance to the Council Cavern, Chilaili pushed aside the woven screen 
lashed to a framework set snugly across the rocky opening and stepped out into a 
slashing wind. Driven snow stung her face. As bad as the wind was in the narrow 
ravine where their winter nest lay, it would be far worse in the forest above. 
She drew a fur hood around her face for added protection and was about to step 
into the howling storm when the akule appeared. He had been standing behind a 
huge tree close to the cavern entrance. His body pulsed with the colors of heat 
against the icy tones of the dark storm beyond.
"Where are you going?" Kestejoo asked, voice sharp with alarm.
"What are you doing outside the cavern?"
"Trying to get a feel for the storm, to predict when it might pass over us and 
allow us to march against the humans."
Chilaili grunted. Kestejoo's weather wisdom was legendary. His mother, it was 
said, had been Snowclaw Clan's yepa—their snow woman—scenting the weather to 
protect the entire clan. Kestejoo had saved Icewing Clan more than once from 
killer storms, including deluges of rain that sparked flash floods through 
narrow gorges and the first blizzards of winter, which sometimes struck weeks 
too early, catching a clan still busy at the harvest.
"What do your senses tell you, Kestejoo?" she asked quietly.
"Two days, at most," he said, cocking his head sideways as though listening to 
something only he could hear. "Two days and we can set out in clear weather. The 
worst of it has passed. But why are you out in such weather, Chilaili? You're 
wearing hunting furs beneath the katori cloak. I don't understand."
He had little reason to suspect the truth, since he didn't know of her liaisons 
with the human. Or did he? She narrowed her pupils thoughtfully, but there was 
no suspicion, no guile in his eyes, only puzzlement. Very well. Without 
evidence, she would give the gentle-souled akule the benefit of the doubt.
"You have declared altsoba, the all-war that sends every fighting adult into 
battle, jeopardizing the entire clan's future. I must protect their souls with 
the proper holy rites. The Oracle may transmit the will of the Ones Above, but 
it knows nothing of the rituals my fore-mothers have used to keep the clan safe 
and prosperous for as long as there have been Tersae in the world."
"But Chilaili—the storm! Can't the rituals wait for clear weather?"
She shook her head. "They require a prescribed number of days in fasting, to 
prepare for the vision quest that will bring the help of powerful spirits, the 
animals and the winds and the waters, the spirits who guide the newly dead into 
the afterlife. It is exacting, exhausting ritual work. If the storm clears in 
only two days, there will barely be enough time."
Worry darkened Kestejoo's eyes. "Will you at least be able to perform the ritual 
in a safe shelter?" he asked as they shivered in an icy blast of wind. "I can 
arrange an escort to see you there."
Chilaili shook her head. "Thank you, Kestejoo, but I must not reveal the 
location of the holy cavern. It is too sacred a place to profane it, even by 
those who mean only the best."
Regret passed visibly through his eyes. "Then you must risk it. May the Ones 
Above watch over you, Chilaili."
She repressed a shudder. That was exactly what terrified her most. She took 
perverse comfort in the brutal force of the storm. No matter how powerful their 
tools, Chilaili simply could not believe even the Ones Above would see her 
crawling along the ground through a savage blizzard.
She thanked Kestejoo for his concern, then murmured, "May the ancestors watch 
over you" and moved rapidly into the howling swirl of snow. When Chilaili 
glanced back, the akule was leaning against the tree, watching her go. The 
colored bands of heat that pulsed the length of his long frame shuddered in the 
jerky patterns of fright and cold against the darkness of the cliff. There was 
something profoundly pathetic about him, huddled against the tree, watching her 
go—perhaps to her death—believing as gospel truth everything the Oracle said. 
Perhaps after Zaltana's death, he'd had nothing else to believe in?
Moving in grim silence, Chilaili stalked away into the darkness, pausing to slip 
off her ceremonial cloak at the bottom of the path leading up to the 
wind-blasted forest. She folded the cloak carefully and stuffed it into her 
hunting pack. Now that it had served its purpose, hiding her weapons belt—which 
she would not have needed merely to conduct a holy ritual—she could not afford 
to hamper her movements. As soon as it was safely stowed, Chilaili climbed up 
the narrow trail and moved cautiously out through the driven snow.
The way to Tiponi Weyman's nest lay in the direction the wind was blowing, at 
least, so the worst of the blizzard would be at her back. If she'd had to 
struggle into the teeth of the storm, she might not have set out at all. One 
other factor gave her hope of success. Their winter nest lay less than a full 
day's walk from the humans' nest. With luck and caution, she might make it.
She refused to dwell on the whisper at the back of her mind that the humans now 
believed all Tersae to be their deadly enemies. That did not matter, could not 
be allowed to matter. Chilaili must warn Tiponi Weyman of the coming attack, 
would plead with the human to return to the safety of the stars before it was 
too late. Chilaili's life-debt would be repaid.
One way or another.
 








Chapter Four
Eight days into the first howling blizzard of the winter season, Bessany Weyman 
was convinced the Thule Research Expedition—of which she was a charter 
member—had made a dreadful mistake. As the wind shook Eisenbrucke Station's 
solid plascrete walls, Bessany glared across the rec-room table at Ed Parker, 
resident meteorologist.
"Tell me again, Ed. Why did we pick this horrible spot to build a research 
station?"
Mutters of agreement from the other scientists and technicians riding out the 
blizzard met Bessany's dour question, but Ed Parker just grinned. "Ain't it 
great?" Parker enthused, waving an expansive hand toward the ceiling. "The 
weather in this place is amazing. Simply amazing!"
Down the table, Elin Olsson glared at him. "That's not the word I'd have 
chosen." The petite blonde who served as the team's geologist was only three 
quarters the size of the burly meteorologist, but what she lacked in mass she 
made up for in sheer force of will. Bessany had seen Elin Olsson face down surly 
stevedores in backwater spaceports and leave them mumbling apologies. Ed Parker, 
however, was apparently immune to any forces of nature other than those related 
to wind speed and cloud formation.
"Mmm . . ." Parker smiled, "who was it said this spot was a geological treasure 
trove? Volcanic mountains to the south, an upthrust-fault mountain range to the 
north, complete with resident glacier that's got most of Thule's geologic 
history trapped in its ice layers? And a fissured basalt flow right next door, 
covering an ancient limestone seabed?"
Elin waved a dismissive hand. "I never said it wasn't a good research spot, Ed. 
The geological processes are fascinating. But I would not call that" —she jabbed 
a finger toward the ceiling— "amazing weather. Homicidal, maybe."
Parker chuckled. "Weather can't be homicidal, Elin, it's not sentient."
"Are you sure?" the geologist muttered.
Chuckles ran through the rec room, mingling with the clink of coffee cups and 
forks against plates. Bessany toyed with the last few crumbs of pie on her own 
plate, blessing whatever guiding angel had induced their provisions clerk to 
include a generous supply of desserts with the more prosaic rations usual in a 
facility like this one. Comfort foods became astonishingly important when a 
blizzard kept everyone confined to quarters day after monotonous day.
Elin sipped her coffee. "Anyway, I'm starting to agree with Bessany about this 
site. The planetary scouts who recommended it ought to have their licenses 
revoked."
Herve Sinclair, the expedition's project director, dunked a cookie into his hot 
chocolate and said mildly, "Winter's bad everywhere on Thule. Even the 
equatorial belt turns cold enough to cause a general dieback of the rainforest. 
Where should we have built? Underground? With as much seismic activity as Thule 
generates in an average month?"
One of the equipment mechanics muttered, "Aboveground or belowground, Thule's 
gonna getcha, ain't it? At least we got the aircars into the hangar before that 
blizzard hit. If we hadn't, our only transport would be thin smears of metal on 
the far canyon wall. Not that they're doing anybody a helluva lot of good. Not 
with the Tersae shooting down everything that tries to take off."
Bessany shivered. The Eisenbrucke Research Station—officially named just a few 
weeks previously, when the waterfalls pouring off the glacier had frozen into a 
solid bridge of ice—had been spared from attack, for now, but everyone knew only 
too well their reprieve wouldn't last past the end of the bad weather.
Herve spoke firmly, before already low spirits could plunge through the bedrock 
under the plascrete floors. "We've been lucky, very lucky, with this storm. Seta 
Point, too. I can't imagine anything alive moving through that kind of wind and 
snow, which means we should be safe until the weather clears. And that will give 
the promised military help time to arrive. At least," he frowned slightly, "I 
hope the Tersae can't travel through this kind of weather."
All eyes turned to Bessany. As resident xeno-ecologist—and the only human on 
Thule who'd actually talked to a Tersae—the ball was squarely in her court. She 
folded her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking. "Let's just say I'd 
be very surprised if they could travel through that blizzard. Not in any great 
numbers," she said cautiously. "The native species are remarkably well adapted 
to the vagaries of the Thulian ecosystems, so God alone knows what temperatures 
or weather conditions the Tersae may be able to stand. Seismic activity 
notwithstanding, I suspect the Tersae build sheltered winter nests in natural 
cavern systems. They'd have to, because their young couldn't survive a storm 
like this one without shelter and they don't build villages or towns on the 
surface. And I'm afraid I agree with Elin. We shouldn't have built on the 
surface, either. None of us should have, mining colonies included."
"How do you know their young don't mature in one season, same as most animals?"
The question came from Billy Dolinski, a genius with computer equipment, whose 
understanding of ecological sciences remained as vague as Bessany's 
comprehension of psychotronic matrix programming.
Bessany shook her head. "They can't. Sooleawa is fifteen summers old, but she 
isn't anywhere near her full adult growth yet. Chilaili is only an inch shy of 
eight feet, but Sooleawa is no taller than I am, and I know she's still growing, 
because I asked."
"Oh."
Herve Sinclair rubbed the side of his nose absently. "What about their wild 
ancestral stock? What do they do to survive winter?"
Bessany lifted her hands in a timeless "who knows?" gesture. "I didn't see any 
signs of migration before the blizzard hit. So unless this is a freakishly early 
storm—and I suspect it is, since Chilaili gave me no hint that she expected bad 
weather soon—they must overwinter in the same ranges they use in summer and 
autumn. But I won't know for certain until the weather clears and I can get out 
to check my data recorders. If," she added darkly, "I ever get the chance."
Bleak silence met her assessment.
Bessany massaged her neck and rotated her head slightly, trying to ease muscle 
tension. "Anyway, my best guess is the Tersae will be holed up in their winter 
nests for the duration of the storm, at the very least. The sustained winds on 
the plateau above this gorge are over a hundred kilometers per hour, with gusts 
clocked at one fifty. I can't imagine anything without roots—deep ones—not being 
torn away in that kind of wind." She pursed her lips for a moment and glanced at 
the burly meteorologist. "Any prediction on how long until this blizzard blows 
itself out?"
Ed Parker shook his head. "Not a very precise one, no. If we had good satellite 
feed, it would be a snap. Trouble is, all our satellites have gone dead. The 
ones put in place by the original planetary scouts died right after we got here 
and the ones our own transport ships left in orbit have gone dead, too. That's 
hardly surprising, considering how much junk is whirling through this star 
system."
Bessany's mouth twitched, halfway between a smile and a grimace. The night skies 
above Thule were spectacular, and not just because of the seventeen moons that 
sailed across the planet's heavens like ancient galleons going to war. There was 
an immense amount of debris in the Thule star system, which made for spectacular 
meteor showers on clear nights.
Meteors weren't the only spectacular thing on Thule, either. Ferocious summer 
thunderstorms produced appalling quantities of lightning, sparking fires in 
grasslands and forests if too little rain fell along the edge of the storm 
system to quench the flames. Bessany would never forget the storm that had 
caught her three days' hike from the station, when Sooleawa and Chilaili had 
nearly been killed right before her astonished eyes. The very last thing she'd 
expected to stumble across was a sentient species, much less two of its members 
in near-fatal trouble.
Alison Collingwood, the station's biochemist, asked quietly, "Do you think 
anyone's going to answer your messages?"
Bessany pushed back her long hair with a frustrated sigh. "I wish I knew. I'm 
not even sure any of my reports have even been seen. The Ministry of Mineral 
Resources hasn't responded at all. Not even with a routine 'report in message 
queue' reply. The Ministry of Xenology should have been really interested, but 
they haven't answered, either. The only thing that makes sense is 
budget-conscious bean counters refusing to foot the bill for an answering 
message."
Elin made a rude noise. "Given the outcome of the last elections, I'm surprised 
there's still a budget to keep us going."
Alison's lips twitched. "The cost cutters haven't pulled the plug because it 
would take more to ship us back home than to leave us out here. And you're 
probably right, Bessany. Communications techs who have to justify every teensy 
expense won't send expensive SWIFT messages to a world as far on the edge of 
space as Thule is, not without a really critical reason. I guess the Tersae 
aren't critical enough, huh?" A bitter silence fell as everyone reflected on the 
cost of that particular bureaucratic blunder. Open warfare on every human colony 
not socked in by this blizzard. Hundreds—maybe thousands—dead. A feeling of near 
hopelessness swept through Bessany, closing her throat and stinging her eyes.
Herve cleared his throat in the stricken silence. "Well, we have the comfort of 
knowing that has changed. Thule is at the top of the military's list of worlds 
to protect, Deng War notwithstanding. Speaking of which . . . isn't your 
brother-in-law in the military, Bessany?"
"Oh, yes. Third Dinochrome Brigade."
He wasn't answering her messages, either.
Of course, she and Lieutenant Colonel John Weyman were hardly on speaking terms.
She rubbed her temples, trying to soothe the beginnings of a ragged headache. 
Bessany had stupidly ignored his warning not to marry Alexander Weyman in the 
first place. Then she'd refused to answer any of her brother-in-law's messages 
in the aftermath of her husband's messy and very public suicide.
Sending a message—any message—to John Weyman had been one of the hardest things 
she'd ever done. Right up there with facing the endless sea of news cameras 
after the shattering dissolution of her marriage. Given her own track record, 
she could hardly blame him for not returning her messages, but it was 
distressing, nonetheless. Even if the reply was short and obscene, she'd 
expected him to say something about those incendiary reports of hers.
Yeah, well, he's assigned to the Dinochrome Brigade, which means he's probably 
at the front lines of the Deng War. Which is damned well where he belongs. Where 
he's happiest, God pity him . . .  
She was about to ask Ed Parker if he could give them an educated guess on the 
blizzard's duration when an eerie sound brought the fine hairs at the nape of 
her neck starkly erect. "What's that noise?" she frowned, staring at the far 
plascrete wall, since it seemed to be coming from that direction. Her headache 
throbbed with a dull and distant warning. At that same instant, an alarm began 
to shriek from the weather station in the corner of the rec room.
Ed Parker blanched—a terrifying sight—and scrambled for the computer terminal 
which displayed weather conditions around the clock, for everyone's benefit. 
Parker rattled keys, scrolling through data screens, then stared in open horror. 
"Oh, my God . . ."
"What is it?" Bessany demanded, coming to her feet as real fright began to take 
hold. The noise—a low-pitched moaning roar—was getting louder. Much louder.
"Everybody down!" Parker yelled, throwing himself prone. "We've got a force five 
tornado bearing down on us—and I don't think it's going to miss!"
Chairs crashed. Bessany hit the floor, sliding frantically toward a doorway as a 
fragment of long-ago disaster training flashed through her mind. Doorways are 
more stable when buildings collapse. Aren't they? And hard on the heels of that 
thought, Since when do blizzards spawn force five tornadoes? Don't tornadoes 
form during collisions of warm-air fronts? Ed Parker's assessment of Thule's 
weather—amazing—was no longer even remotely funny. The tornado's monstrous roar 
rose to a scream . . .
Then the world shattered around her.
 








Chapter Five
Alessandra DiMario leaned against the wall of the cargo lift and shook.
I've got no business going back into combat, she told herself bitterly, unsure 
whether to rage more at herself or at the officers who'd decided to jerk her out 
of a hospital ship and send her back into the trenches against the Deng. She'd 
already lost one Bolo, literally destroyed around her ears, a death she blamed 
squarely on herself. It had nearly destroyed her, just listening to Danny die, 
knowing it was her fault, her decision, her responsibility. She'd lain trapped 
in the smoking ruins for nearly two days, while the tide of battle raged back 
and forth across ground Unit DNY had died trying to take.
Even after the battle ended in a resounding human victory, it had taken combat 
engineers hours to extract her from the shattered war hull. They'd shipped her 
off-world to a mobile combat treatment center, where surgeons had repaired the 
physical damage and combat psychiatrists had gone to work on the emotional 
wreckage. But the damned, hairy horrors they were fighting wouldn't wait for 
time or tide or one battered officer's mental state. So here she was, on her way 
back to combat, with a Bolo so old, the psychotronic engineers refurbishing him 
had been forced to fabricate parts just to splice in the new systems.
And dammit, her new unit had been right to call her onto the carpet. She'd been 
unforgivably rude and she knew it.
But the crawling sickness in her gut wouldn't go away and the realization that 
she'd be facing the guns of Yavac Heavies again with a Bolo so ancient, he still 
had flintsteel in his war hull, instead of duralloy, left her with a desperate 
case of the shakes. Oh, God, she groaned, trembling against the wall of the 
cargo lift, I'm in trouble, we're all in trouble. . . . 
She ought to march straight into her commander's quarters and lay it on the 
table: "I'm not fit for command, sir. And you and I both know it."
The trouble was, with the Deng hammering human worlds along the incredibly long 
front they'd hit this time, she was pretty much all that was available. And they 
both knew that, too. Somehow, she had to pull it together. The lift was slowing 
for the level her quarters occupied when the alert sounded, a signal piped 
shipwide that meant, "Bolo commanders, assemble in the wardroom, stat." 
Alessandra gulped and slapped controls that would send the lift another three 
decks higher. What's happened now? she wondered grimly.
Three minutes later, she strode into the CSS Cheslav's wardroom, the last 
on-board Bolo commander to arrive. "Sorry," she said, slightly out of breath 
from the run down the corridor, "I was in the cargo bay lift when the alert 
sounded. Took me seventeen decks and a midships bounce to get here."
Colonel Tischler nodded and she slid into the nearest seat.
"Sixty-three minutes from now," Tischler said quietly, "this transport will be 
dropping out of hyper-L to rendezvous with a combat courier ship. We've received 
an urgent request from Sector Command to divert a portion of this command to a 
place called Thule." He turned and activated a viewscreen which flashed up a 
star chart of the sector. "Three months ago, ten colonies of miners were 
dispatched to secure rich saganium deposits critical to military navigation 
systems. Thule was declared devoid of sentient life by the planetary scouts who 
first discovered the saganium. They were wrong. The colonists have been hit hard 
by a sentient, native life-form and the mines—and several thousand miners and 
their families—are now at risk of total destruction."
Alessandra frowned. "How in the world could planetary scouts miss a sentient 
species?"
"That's one of many questions we want answered," the colonel said grimly. "One 
of the others is where a species that apparently exists on a stone-age cultural 
level got its claws on energy rifles and fusion bombs. Unless the stuff was left 
lying around where these birds could find it—which isn't very likely—then 
something has to be supplying and training them. I'd like to know what."
Alessandra's eyes widened. Several officers muttered under their breaths.
"All of you know how important this mission against the Deng is," Colonel 
Tischler said, "but that saganium is critical. I can spare only two of you. I'd 
like to ask for volunteers."
Alessandra didn't even hesitate. "I'll go, sir."
Tischler met her gaze levelly—and the understanding in his eyes cut at her. 
"Thank you, DiMario. I was hoping you would volunteer. SPQ/R may not look like 
much, but he's as solid as they come and, frankly, we need your people skills on 
Thule. He'll be a big help to you, that way. He likes people."
She flushed. He didn't like her, that much was certain even if nothing else was. 
Before Danny's destruction, she had been good with people. Since waking up on 
the hospital ship . . . she wasn't so sure, any longer. But it was good to hear 
her commander's faith in her. Whatever else happened before they dropped out of 
hyper-L, she swore a solemn oath to look up SPQ/R-561's military record.
She'd better go over those technical specs again, too, since they were about as 
decipherable as hieroglyphics. God help them both if she had to jury-rig 
anything herself, due to battle damage. Still and all, it was far better than 
fighting spodders. Anything was better than facing the Deng again. Even 
apologizing to her Bolo.
The second volunteer was a young captain she hadn't met yet, a red-haired 
officer by the name of Roth. They exchanged glances and nods across the wardroom 
table, then Colonel Tischler reshuffled the remaining officers to cover the 
revised mission parameters before dismissing the rest of his command. When the 
others had gone, Tischler looked from Roth to Alessandra and back again.
"I would suggest you prep yourselves and your Bolos for immediate departure. 
I'll leave orders and mission debriefings with you. I have every confidence in 
your ability to carry out your new missions successfully. You'll debark at 
portside lock seventeen. Good luck."
They exchanged salutes and Alessandra headed for her temporary quarters, holding 
onto the hope that without the Deng to face, she might yet survive this crisis 
of nerves and come out whole and sane on the other side. Don't blow it, DiMario, 
for God's sake, just don't blow it, okay? 
She reached her quarters, downloaded the mission-briefing files, checked to be 
sure they had come through without corruption, then queried the ship's computers 
for the full mission history of her Bolo, loaded into the records filed with 
Colonel Tischler upon the Bolo's assignment to his command. She found it without 
difficulty and took a precious eight minutes to scan through it. And felt the 
sting of shame as she skimmed through a battle record dotted with high praise 
from Central Command, as well as Sector.
Unit SPQ/R-561 had earned no fewer than seven major battle honors and a whole 
host of starclusters, all carefully welded to his turret by a former commander's 
loving hand. In good, bright sunlight, those honors would shine like glitter 
against the blue-black iodine hue of his ancient flintsteel war hull. In the 
gloom of the cargo hold, she hadn't seen them at all. She'd noticed only the old 
battle scars gouged across his aging war hull. Even if there had been enough 
light to see, Alessandra had been far too wrapped up in her own troubles to 
notice them.
I have really screwed this up, she realized bleakly.
And wondered if it was possible to start over with a machine that literally 
could not forget an insult.
 








Chapter Six
A series of loud clangs and thumps marks the completion of my heavy lift 
platform's lockdown against the cargo deck of the CSS Darknight. I dislike naval 
transport ships, although I would be hard pressed for answers if asked why. 
Perhaps I simply prefer open sky and the feel of wind across my war hull. Even 
combat drops are better than confinement in a naval transport. I signal my 
all-clear to the cargo officer, who relays it to the Darknight's command deck. 
The Darknight breaks orbit from Sherman's World and moves ponderously toward 
this star system's optimal hyper-L jump point, escorted by the destroyer CSS 
Vengeance. My commander sends his respects to the captain. 
"Lieutenant Colonel John Weyman, reporting in, ma'am."
"Welcome aboard, Colonel," Captain Harrelson responds. "We'll be under way in a 
moment. Once we've made hyper-L, I'll meet you and the other Bolo commanders in 
the wardroom."
"Very good, Captain. Weyman, out."
The Darknight's ops officer downloads to my Action/Command Center the complete 
mission briefing files for our new assignment. The fact that we have been pulled 
away from Sherman's World, along with four of my brothers and sisters of the 
Third Dinochrome Brigade, reveals how urgently we are needed on Thule. John 
whistles tunelessly under his breath as he reviews the files from his customary 
place in my command chair. 
I find the entry seventeen seconds before he does.  
Even as dismay races through my psychotronic neural nets, John punches pause, 
halting the scan of Thule's personnel rosters. His face runs dreadfully pale, 
with a deep emotion I have seen there only twice before. Both times, the woman 
whose name glows like a beacon on the Eisenbrucke Station roster has been at the 
eye of a disastrous emotional storm. One which has shaken my commander a third 
time, now.  
I am appalled—and have not the slightest idea what to say, to break the dreadful 
silence. I want desperately to help him, to offer some bit of verbal support, 
and find myself unable to think of anything, other than a helpless, "John—?"
My commander slaps the releases on his harness without a word. I watch in 
growing agitation as he leaves my command compartment, climbs down my war hull, 
and vanishes from the cargo hold, still without speaking. There is literally 
nothing I can do, other than watch him go. Whatever he intends, he will tell me 
once he has done it. Or not, as the case may be. When it comes to Bessany 
Weyman, the pattern to date has been a stiff and unbroken silence. Deeply 
disturbed, I turn my attention with reluctance back to the mission briefing 
files.  
It is not, perhaps, so strange that Bessany Weyman has joined the Thule Research 
Expedition. Thule is doubtless one of the few places in human space where she is 
able to work in peace, beyond the reach of reporters and news cameras. Given 
what I know of human psychology—admittedly limited, since I am not human and 
will never fully understand my creators—she has probably needed to bury herself 
in work. My commander's exact feelings towards his sister-in-law have never been 
clear, for this is one area of his life he has never revealed to me. 
My commander is not given to chatty conversation, in any case, but anything to 
do with his older brother's marriage and death sends him into stony silence. 
Over the five years, three months, and twenty-nine days since Alexander Weyman's 
shattering suicide, I have come to believe that John Weyman does not, in fact, 
blame his sister-in-law, regardless of the stories fielded by the press.  
But even now, I cannot be sure. John has shared only one conversation with me 
concerning Bessany Weyman. The invitation to attend his politically prominent 
brother's wedding induced a pale, shaken look of horror. John immediately 
requested leave, which his commanding officer granted readily. Shortly after his 
return, John sought the privacy of my command compartment for the 
uncharacteristic action of emptying an entire bottle of whiskey. There, in the 
alcohol-filled silence, he whispered out the thing which was preying upon him.  
"She wouldn't listen to me, Rapier. Dammed innocent fool of a girl blew up in my 
face, when I tried to warn her. God, what Alex is capable to doing to that sweet 
child . . . I should never have gone back for the wedding. Big mistake. One 
unholy hell of a mistake. And he knew. Alex knew exactly why I came and he 
laughed the whole time I was there. All the way to the altar and probably all 
the way through the honeymoon. But I had to try, Rapier. God knows, I couldn't 
just let her marry him, blind, not knowing anything."
That painful, post-wedding conversation, brief as it was, is the only revelation 
John Weyman has ever made, regarding his feelings for his brother's wife. The 
sick, shaken look returned for the second time when the news media descended, 
demanding his "reaction" to his brother's self-inflicted death.  
He refused to answer any of their questions, earning my deep respect, but he 
said nothing to me, either, triggering a deep worry which has been with me ever 
since. He has not spoken Alexander Weyman's name even once in the ensuing five 
years, three months, and twenty-nine days. I do know that my commander sent 
three separate SWIFT messages to the shocked widow, but if she replied to them, 
he did not share her answers with me.  
I have watched anxiously over John, doing my limited best to help, but I am only 
a Bolo. Help is difficult to render when I do not possess a human soul, leaving 
me incapable even of understanding the full scope of the problem. But John 
Weyman, even in his silence, is a fine commander, brilliant and courageous. 
Whatever I have been capable of doing, I have done, gladly.  
And now, as we ride to battle with an enemy of unknown strength and capability, 
the one person John Weyman tried so hard—and failed so wretchedly—to help tops a 
list of people most likely to become fatalities. Bessany Weyman's research 
station sits dead last on Sector Command's list of priority defense sites. There 
is no Bolo available to defend a facility with only fifty-three people in 
residence, nor is there any military reason to send a Bolo there, since the 
mines are the critical facilities on Thule. 
Without military help, Bessany Weyman will certainly die under enemy guns. The 
more I brood on it, the more I wonder, anxiously, where my commander has gone.  
I learn the answer when the CSS Darknight's communications officer attempts to 
raise Eisenbrucke Station via SWIFT. I am plugged into the Darknight's data net, 
which allows me to overhear the transmission. When there is no response, not 
even the autoresponder code that should have acknowledged the incoming signal, 
the communications officer tries to raise the closest human habitation to the 
research facility. This second SWIFT message races across vast interstellar 
distances and is answered within one point three minutes. 
"CSS Darknight, this is Seta Point Colony, responding. Do you copy?"
"Seta Point, we copy. Communications Officer Tabbert here. We're trying to hail 
Eisenbrucke Station. Their SWIFT unit appears to be down. Have they sustained an 
enemy assault?"
"We can't raise them either, but I can't believe it's due to any Tersae attack. 
A blizzard howled across the whole eastern half of the Chak Upthrust almost a 
week ago, well before the attacks came. Hurricane-force winds and snow more than 
a meter deep. Nothing's moving across open ground out here. When the station 
dropped off-line, we figured it must be storm damage to their communications 
equipment."
It is a plausible explanation. Not entirely reassuring, but plausible enough to 
restore hope. If the blizzard continues to hold off Tersae attacks long enough 
for us to arrive, we may be able to secure Seta Point and send an armed force to 
evacuate the research station. Still, I continue to worry, uncertain whether or 
not anything listens to soldiers' prayers—or if that something would bother 
listening to a machine. This does not stop me from hoping, deep in the privacy 
of my own thoughts, that something watches over both John Weyman and his 
sister-in-law. For now, it is the best I can do. 
I fear it is not nearly enough.  
 








Chapter Seven
In the aftermath of my unhappy first encounter with Captain DiMario, I have 
busied myself studying the mission briefing files on the conflict we are soon to 
join, partly to prepare myself for combat and partly to distract myself from 
worry over my new commander's unorthodox behavior. The files are not overly 
large, however, and the review does not take long.  
I therefore turn my attention to internal diagnostics, trying to determine the 
extent of changes to my psychotronic circuitry, weapons systems, and war hull. I 
am still occupied with this self-evaluation when the cargo lift hums again, 
signaling the approach of another human. I turn my attention to the lift doors 
and am startled when my new commander emerges, moving purposefully in my 
direction. She carries a heavy duffle, presumably containing her personal gear. 
Given the grim set of her face, I brace myself for further unpleasantness.  
Captain DiMario pauses directly in front of my war hull. I have spent many years 
learning to read human emotions based on the movements of facial muscles and 
skin. Unless I am mistaken, my commander is embarrassed. I doubt the accuracy of 
my analysis. Then—unexpectedly—she clears her throat, the sound uncertain in the 
vastness of the cargo hold.  
"Hello again," she says in a low voice. "I'm afraid I owe you a fairly serious 
apology."
I am so surprised, I cannot even find words to answer.  
"I won't try to excuse my behavior, which was fairly hideous. I . . . Oh, hell, 
there just isn't any easy way to say it. I came aboard this transport directly 
from a hospital ship. I should still be on it." I detect fine tremors in both 
her body and her voice. A sheen of sweat has appeared on her skin. My commander 
is clearly suffering deep emotional distress. I listen silently, trying to 
understand. 
"I spent more than three months on the front lines, fighting the Deng from world 
to world. Three weeks ago, my Bolo was destroyed. I knew the risk was high. 
Terribly high. But I couldn't see any other choice. I lie awake nights, 
wondering if there might have been some option I missed, some other way out that 
wouldn't have involved ordering Danny to his death." She blinks rapidly; wetness 
trembles on dark eyelashes. Three months is a long time for a human to spend in 
constant combat. I am keenly aware of the human need for periodic rest from the 
stress of battle, without which even the strongest soldier begins to experience 
psychological dysfunction. I begin to understand. 
"After the salvage engineers cut me out of the wreckage, the surgeons fixed most 
of what was wrong. And the psychiatrists pumped me full of drugs, trying to fix 
the rest of it . . ." She draws a deep breath. I feel a deep and unexpected pity 
for her, watching this struggle and realizing the cost of this admission, made 
to me in an unmistakable gesture of apology. "When word came of another Deng 
breakthrough, the command went out to scrape together every officer capable of 
fighting, to put into active service every Bolo that could be pulled out of 
mothballs and refitted for combat. All I could think, when they sent me out here 
to rendezvous with this transport, was that I was going back to the front lines, 
when I knew I wasn't in any shape for it. And going back in a Bolo that wasn't . 
. ."
Her voice breaks, raggedly. I say, as gently as possible, "I am old, Commander, 
and my war hull may be flintsteel, but that flintsteel is still quite strong and 
duralloy ablative armor has been added for extra protection. I will endure 
against even direct fire from Yavac Heavies."
A strange sound emerges from her throat, defying interpretation. "I'm sure you 
would, if we were still assigned to the Deng front lines. That's the other 
reason I came back down, with my gear." She lifts one shoulder, over which she 
has slung the heavy duffle. "We're dropping out of hyper-L in about fifteen 
minutes, to rendezvous with a fast courier. We've been reassigned."
"Reassigned?" I repeat, deeply startled. 
"There's been an unexpected attack on the saganium mines at Thule."
"By Deng?"
"No." She gives me a strained smile. "By a sentient native species nobody knew 
existed. I've got the new mission files with me. I'll copy them to your 
Action/Command Center before we off-load. We'll transfer to the new courier ship 
together, with me tucked into your command compartment. Captain Roth and his 
Bolo will be shipping out with us." She manages another strained smile. "Colonel 
Tischler can spare only two of his battle group for the Thule relief effort. He 
asked for volunteers."
I understand. Profoundly. My commander is doubtless correct that she is not fit 
for front-lines combat, leaving me with a feeling of deep unease. But I am a 
fully self-aware and self-directing Bolo, capable of carrying out even complex 
battle plans without human guidance. If my commander collapses, I will not be 
crippled and neither will our mission. For her sake, I hope that we do not see 
the kind of heavy fighting that would doubtless tip her back into a state of 
psychological breakdown.  
"Understood, Commander."
She nods, slowly. "Thank you, SPQ/R-561. Permission to come aboard?"
"Of course, Commander." I open my hatch with a hiss of pneumatics. She climbs 
aboard and stows her gear in one of the command compartment's storage bins, then 
powers up the command chair, straps in, and feeds the new mission files into my 
Action/Command Center. I scan rapidly, satisfied with the completeness of the 
data. I begin to look forward to the coming mission, which holds out the promise 
of being far more interesting than mere combat against Deng Yavacs. 
As my commander runs through the systems check required of any ship-to-ship 
transfer of my war hull, she says, "I can't keep calling you SPQ/R-561. It's too 
long, for one thing. And I don't want to use whatever nickname your last 
commander used. That's a little too personal. If you miss your old commander the 
way I—" She breaks off, biting one lip. 
"I am deeply sorry for your loss, Commander," I say gently. 
"Thank you." She clears her throat. "I will get over it. So . . . when I saw 
your unit number for the first time, it reminded me of something from old Earth 
history. They added that /R designation for Refurbished, which is what triggered 
the association. SPQR. The Senate and People of Rome." She smiles slightly into 
my video pickup. "My remote ancestors were Roman legionaries, you know."
DiMario is an Italian-derived patronymic, meaning "son of Mario." The name 
strongly reminds me of Marius and Cinna, the Roman consuls to whom Julius Caesar 
was related, by birth and by marriage. Indeed, legionaries were known for 
centuries afterwards as Marius' mules, for the massive reforms he instituted in 
the armies of Rome. My commander bears a proud lineage. When I tell her so, she 
seems pleased.  
"If you don't mind, I think I'd like to call you Senator," she says quietly. 
The name she has chosen bears the hallmarks of an apology, carrying as it does 
the connotations of venerable age, wisdom, and deep cultural respect. The name 
delights me.  
"I would be honored to have you address me as Senator, Commander."
She smiles again. "I'm glad."
"I am receiving ship's signal, Commander. Brace for drop into sub-light."
Our transport shudders with the transition from hyper-L to sub-light speeds. 
Braking thrusters fire to slow our forward motion further. "Contact with the CSS 
Aldora established," I relay. "Ship-to-ship transfer will commence as soon as we 
have matched velocities and closed to feasible transfer distances. The Aldora is 
firing thrusters to halt centrifugal spin. Prepare for weightlessness."
My commander nods, flicking her gaze across my data screens, watching as the two 
transports fire thrusters to match velocities and trajectories, making the 
ship-to-ship transfer possible. Both transports jockey cautiously toward one 
another under the control of precise computer guidance systems. This data is 
shared with myself and the other Bolo unit preparing to disembark. My sensors 
detect the jerking motions as rotational spin halts, then resumes in tiny bursts 
as the navigational computers match with the Aldora, lining up their respective 
cargo bays for transfer. Weightlessness returns. My treads are held fast in the 
clamps of the heavy lift sled on which I rest, preventing me from floating away 
from the deck. The sled itself is anchored directly to that deck. I receive the 
ready signal. 
"Preparing for ship-to-ship transfer," I relay. "Cargo hold depressurizing for 
evacuation."
Alessandra DiMario nods. "Thank you, Senator." Her fingers close against the 
padded armrests of the command chair. I understand her increased stress. Such 
transfers are hardly routine, even under computer guidance. I have never 
experienced such a transfer before, nor have I spoken with another Bolo unit 
which has accomplished this type of maneuver. The engines of the heavy lift sled 
on which I rest rumble to life, vibrating my treads. During a combat drop, I 
maintain full control of the sled, but in an operation this ticklish, I will 
allow the sled's computers to maneuver us, using data feed from the Cheslav and 
the Aldora.
The Cheslav's immense cargo doors slide open, exposing my war hull and those of 
the other Bolo units in this bay to hard vacuum. This does not bother me and my 
command compartment is hermetically sealed, protecting Captain DiMario. But when 
the cargo sled releases its mooring grapples and propels my war hull into open 
space, I experience a surge through my psychotronic circuitry that can only be 
interpreted as nervousness. I have experienced many orbital combat drops, 
sliding out of transport-ship cargo bays on heavy lift sleds exactly like this 
one—but always with the immense bulk of a planet directly beneath us. 
Interstellar space is incredibly vast.  
And disturbingly empty.  
The ship in which we have traveled, far larger than my war hull, shrinks to a 
comparative speck of matter against the black depths waiting outside the cargo 
hold. My commander draws air in sharply, gaze glued to my forward data screen. 
The cargo sled fires thrusters and we proceed forward, ponderously. The CSS 
Aldora lies on a direct line-of-sight trajectory from our cargo bay. The sled 
fires its engines in short bursts, sending us toward the waiting transport. We 
approach rapidly, drawing another sharp breath from Alessandra DiMario. 
I locate the open bay toward which our sled's computers are guiding us. The 
Aldora is a far smaller ship than the Cheslav, but the cargo bay doors are ample 
to admit my bulk. We slow on final approach and drift forward gently. The 
massive doors slide past as we enter the waiting bay. Our sled fires lateral 
thrusters to jockey cautiously sideways, out of the open doorway, and we settle 
carefully toward a waiting set of mooring grapples. A vibration clangs through 
my treads as the grapples take hold and winch us down, mating us solidly with 
the deck. Three point nine minutes later, Captain Roth and Unit XPJ-1411 enter 
the cargo bay and moor themselves to the deck beside us. 
"Welcome aboard," a cheerful voice greets us. "Communications Officer O'Leary 
here. As soon as we restore pressure to the hold, we'll escort you up to the 
wardroom."
"Thank you," Alessandra responds. "I'm looking forward to a full debriefing." 
She breaks contact as pressure returns to the cargo hold and the ship fires its 
engines, re-establishing centrifugal spin as well as forward momentum. "What a 
relief," my commander mutters as the artificial gravity of spin settles her 
firmly into the command chair once more. "I hate freefall. At least I hadn't 
eaten lunch yet, so there was nothing to bring up."
I have never understood the biological predilection for motion sickness in 
freefall. In the privacy of my thoughts, I suspect I am fortunate this is so.  
"Well, Senator," my commander sighs, slapping releases on the command chair's 
restraints, "for better or worse, we're on course for Thule."
For better or worse . . .  
I draw comfort from the similarity of my commander's observation to human 
marriage customs. We are, indeed, committed. To one another as much as to the 
mission. As my commander climbs out through my hatch and joins Captain Roth on 
the Aldora's cargo deck, I am hopeful about the altered situation between us. 
I watch her move briskly across the deck, where a lift similar to the one on the 
Cheslav opens to reveal a uniformed welcoming committee. As the lift doors close 
again, I find myself hoping—fervently—that the upcoming mission will not add to 
the burden of combat stress my commander has already experienced. 
We are heading into the unknown. And if there is one thing my long experience of 
combat has taught me, it is that the unknown is often far deadlier than the 
well-known and understood, however stressful that well-known situation might be. 
It is not a comfortable feeling.  
So far, nothing about my return to duty has been.  
 








Chapter Eight
If Chilaili's winter nest had lain any farther from the valley where Bessany 
Weyman's nestmates had built their home—even as far as Icewing Clan's migratory 
summer nests—she would never have made it. As it was, a journey which should 
have taken her an easy day's walk, at most, instead took nearly twenty hours of 
bitter struggle with the wind and the stinging snow at her back. She kept to 
deep forest as much as possible, for the trees helped break the worst of the 
screaming wind and prevented the snow from piling quite so deeply. It was at 
least possible to walk through the heavy stretches of forest. When she came to 
open stretches that had to be crossed, Chilaili got down on her belly and 
crawled, presenting as little of herself as possible to the maddened fingers of 
the wind.
Even so, one particularly strong gust picked her up and flung her nearly fifteen 
yards before she slithered to a bruised and scratchy halt. She landed in a deep 
drift piled up against a tangle of underbrush where the forest closed in, again. 
She lay shaking for long minutes, getting back her strength and her courage, 
then crawled deeper into the trees before she dared standing up again. After 
that, Chilaili swung out of her way to avoid stretches of open ground, aware 
with every fiber of her battered being just how lucky she was to have survived 
that screaming gust of wind.
It was utterly imperative that she reach Bessany Weyman's nest before darkness 
fell again. Chilaili's winter coat was thick and her subcutaneous layer of fat 
provided extra insulation, enough to allow her to thrive in the deepest cold of 
winter, but the wind was so fierce, it effectively dropped the temperature to 
the lowest ranges she could tolerate. She would not survive a night exposed to 
this wind and the deeper cold of darkness.
Drifts were already twice her height in places, forcing her to swing wide of 
easier paths time and again. The constant shrieking of the wind deafened her so 
greatly, she didn't even hear the snap and crash of trees brought down in the 
storm. She was beyond hoping none of them crushed her. She had to focus every 
ounce of her strength on putting one foot in front of the other, probing with a 
long stick for sudden drop-offs buried beneath the snow. As the long day wore 
exhaustingly on, Chilaili's strength faded, frightening her. She struggled on, 
unable to do anything else.
Night caught her an hour short of her destination—and the blizzard, although 
abated somewhat in its fierceness, still howled at her back. She paused as the 
light faded, debating the wisdom of fighting on through the darkness. Although 
she couldn't see more than a few yards in any direction, Chilaili knew precisely 
where she was and precisely how much farther she had to go to reach the valley 
of the ice bridge. This innate knowledge was something Chilaili had long 
suspected the Tersae shared with their ancestral stock. It was literally 
impossible for Chilaili to lose her way, even in the white-out conditions of 
this storm. Awareness of the invisible lines of force which ran through the 
earth beneath her taloned feet told her it would take only ten steps to reach a 
steep-walled little gorge she knew of.
That gorge would offer at least some shelter for the bitterly cold hours ahead. 
She could climb down, build a fire under the overhanging cliff walls. Chilaili 
turned toward the path she knew lay no more than ten steps away . . .
And literally could not make her foot move in that direction. Startled, Chilaili 
realized she had just received a warning, one she didn't understand. She tried 
to listen to the energies loose in the night, to understand what those energies 
were trying to communicate to her. As both a master katori and a successful 
huntress, she had listened to the voices of wind and trees and water and soil 
too many times in the past, avoiding disaster that might otherwise have 
overtaken her, to ignore the message now.
She was not meant to take shelter, yet. She was meant to go on, to reach the 
human nest as quickly as possible. Why, she didn't know, but knew it would be 
revealed, in time.
Swearing under her breath at the seeming folly of it, she set out once more 
toward the valley of the ice bridge, using her stick to probe ahead for every 
step of the way as the light vanished. Night plunged her into a darkly howling 
world of uncertain footing and rising fear. She slowed down, by necessity, but 
fought on, determined to keep going. Chilaili stumbled more frequently as well, 
sprawling sometimes across buried tangles of brush. The hour stretched out, 
agonizingly, until it felt like she'd been struggling through darkness for half 
her life.
When the wind's scream rose sharply, Chilaili halted, listening, stretching out 
her hands to test the wind's strength. Judging from the sound and the force of 
the wind, the trees had to be thinning out directly ahead. That, plus the 
invisible grid inside her head, told her she had come to the edge of the humans' 
valley. There was only one safe way down—the rock ramp the humans had fashioned. 
In total darkness, she would be unable to see it. She had glimpsed it only once 
and wasn't at all sure of its twists and turns as it dropped two hundred feet to 
the valley floor. Chilaili hesitated . . .
And as she paused, a deeper sound lifted the fur on the nape of her neck. A 
savage, snarling roar growled toward her through the darkness, coming from the 
open ground to Chilaili's right, across the valley in the direction of the 
smoking mountains. Terror took hold as she recognized that sound. Twist-wind! 
Chilaili threw herself prone, wrapped arms and legs around the base of a solid 
tree, prayed to every ancestress, every spirit of rock and tree and wind she had 
ever prayed to, and hung on. The monstrous roar drew rapidly nearer. The wind 
whipped savagely through the forest, changing directions in wild gusts. Her ears 
popped as the air pressure dropped. The killer wind siphon drew so close, she 
could feel it plucking at the underbrush around her—
Then it dove over the lip of the gorge and roared its way down the long, narrow 
valley toward the human nest. Chilaili lay shaking and sick, too terrified to 
move, helpless as she listened to the monster rush toward her one human friend 
in all the world. The friend she had risked so much to help. Why? she demanded 
fiercely of the night. Why let me come so close, only to destroy her with a 
twist-wind? Chilaili shivered at the base of her tree, listening as the killer 
wind's roar receded in the distance. She heard a muted change in its sound as it 
skipped up out of the valley and collided with the mountain beyond, then she 
could hear it no more. Either the twist-wind had died on the slopes of the 
glacier or it had skipped back into the storm clouds.
Deeply shaken, Chilaili sat up.
Gradually, it came to her that the warning to struggle forward might have come 
so she would be on hand when the twist-wind struck the humans' valley. Not to 
make her a witness to their deaths, but to render aid to any survivors. The 
thought sent her stumbling forward, crawling through the last of the trees, 
hugging the ground on her belly as she slithered forward, probing with her stick 
over the lip of the steep-walled gorge. The wind had scoured away all snow along 
the rim at least, so she didn't have to struggle through drifts. Her stick 
located the stone ramp with a solid thunk.
She started down, flat on her belly as the wind plucked at her.
It took her nearly a quarter of an hour to reach the bottom, probing ahead with 
her stick as the stone ramp turned back on itself time and again. Once down, she 
stumbled toward the most sheltered side of the gorge, where the cliff walls gave 
her enough protection from the wind to stand up. She set out again, probing once 
more with her walking stick, and soon encountered massive debris from the 
twist-wind. Trees were down everywhere, making her path through the damage 
treacherous. She crawled blindly over downed tree trunks, stumbled and tripped 
through tangled branches, scraped her legs against splintered stumps. Trembling 
with exhaustion, she fought her way forward, then stumbled onto something very 
hard and very flat and exceedingly smooth.
She halted, frowning; then she had it.
The landing pad, Bessany Weyman had called it, for their flying machines.
She was close, then, very close. Chilaili traced the edge with her stick, turned 
in the direction she hoped would aim her toward the hard-walled huts, and tapped 
ahead to try and avoid walking into anything that might be lying in her path. 
She stayed on the landing pad for a long way, then came to the edge and traced 
it with her stick again, probing for debris that might lurk ahead. Chilaili 
stepped off and inched her way forward—
And heard voices.
Thin, human voices, crying for help, screaming in terrible pain.
Chilaili's heart leaped into her throat, pounding raggedly. Someone had 
survived. Several someones, from the sound of it. She hurried forward, stumbled 
across chunks of debris, what felt like pieces of the hard-walled huts 
themselves, scattered like leaves by the killer wind. Then she caught a gleam of 
light, white light, strange and startling against the snow-blown darkness. She 
rushed toward it, realized it was coming from a partially intact piece of the 
human nest. Then she heard a voice she knew, the only human voice she knew, 
sobbing for help from somewhere directly in front of her.
Chilaili tossed her walking stick aside and started digging through the rubble.
 








Chapter Nine
My new commander and I share mixed feelings about our arrival at Thule. 
Alessandra DiMario is understandably stressed, although anxious to come to grips 
with her personal demon and overcome it. I am uncertain about my spliced and 
patched systems. Due to the urgent nature of my refitting, I have never been 
field-tested, a situation which perhaps alarms me more than it does my 
commander, who is doing her best to put her faith in me.  
Our transit time has been brief, by interstellar military standards, less than a 
day at hyper-L, although I suspect Thule's beleaguered colonists would say those 
twenty-three point two standard Terran hours were not brief. It is a curious 
phenomenon, much commented upon by biological life-forms, that the passage of 
time seems to be variable in relation to the events against which it is 
measured. I calculate the passage of time exactly and have never experienced 
this phenomenon for myself; but even a refurbished Mark XXIII Bolo can 
understand how bleak and long the hours must seem to people who are waiting 
almost hopelessly for rescue.  
For the sake of Rustenberg's colonists, I am glad our transit time has been so 
short.  
From orbit, Thule's daylight hemisphere—glimpsed briefly, as Rustenberg 
currently lies in the night side of the planet—shows the blinding flash of 
sun-struck snow fields across most of the northern and southern hemispheres. 
Thule is beautiful in its way, with rainbow dazzles off glaciers and vast tracts 
of virgin snow. Deep sapphire oceans have generated bands of moisture-laden 
clouds which spill over Thule's northern land masses, dropping snow in locally 
severe blizzard conditions.  
We are informed, upon achieving orbit, that the mining colony at Seta Point and 
the Eisenbrucke Research Station are the only two human settlements affected by 
this foul weather, which has acted as a temporary protection against Tersae 
attacks. Rustenberg, which lies at the southernmost edge of this massive storm 
front, has experienced high winds and freezing rain, but this has not been 
enough to protect them from enemy aggression.  
Thule's axial tilt, almost directly vertical, has created a narrow band of 
tropical luxuriance at the equator, bounded by vast regions of forest and tundra 
and enormous ice caps which reach from the planetary poles to more than thirty 
degrees of latitude. Thule's seasons are brought about by its eccentric orbit, 
which brings it closer to the system's star in summer. With Thule rapidly 
retreating from its primary, the entire planet is now entering the winter 
season. Within weeks, even the equatorial belt will turn cold, plunging the 
entire planet into its long winter.  
Rugged mountain chains, thousands of kilometers long, are visible as dark and 
jagged scars across the sun-bright glare of snow, where tectonic plates have 
collided or pulled apart in fiery volcanic violence. Ancient impact craters are 
visible as faint outlines in snow-free areas. The Thule system is thick with 
debris from the ancient supernova which created the star system, making 
trans-system shipping for ore freighters and our own naval transport a tricky 
proposition. If the saganium were not so critical, prompting Concordiat 
underwriting, shipping costs through the muck flying loose in the Thule system 
would be prohibitive.  
Despite the difficulties of trans-system navigation, we achieve orbit without 
incident and orbital drop proceeds smoothly. Captain Roth and Unit XPJ-1411 
leave our transport first. I depart the Aldora's cargo bay six point two five 
minutes later and plunge into darkness as my heavy lift sled enters the night 
side of Thule. The glowing contrail from my powered drop platform leaves a trail 
of fire across the nighttime sky. If anyone—or anything—below is watching, our 
arrival will certainly be spectacular. 
My trajectory carries me in a streaking arc to the planetary west, toward the 
edge of the storm system which has brushed so closely past Rustenberg. As I 
plunge into heavy cloud cover, we experience strong buffeting from storm winds. 
My commander grips the padded consoles of my command chair, thins her lips, and 
says nothing. Combat drop is always stressful for humans, this one particularly 
so.  
To our mutual relief, I drop below cloud cover and sight Rustenberg using 
infrared sensors and radar. The bleak landscape beyond Rustenberg's outermost 
structures—terrain I must hold against enemy incursions—gives me new cause for 
anxiousness. The colony sits in a vast and ancient lava field, fissured by deep 
gorges and steep-sided valleys. A mantle of forest covers the surface of this 
ancient basalt, making it doubly difficult to see anything in the deep cracks. 
Hundreds or even thousands of enemy soldiers could congregate within a few dozen 
meters of Rustenberg, completely undetected until the moment of attack. I have a 
limited number of aerial survey packages on board, which is cause for concern. 
If our mission briefing was correct, the Tersae will attempt to blast out of the 
sky anything we put up into it.  
On the heels of that thought, my heavy lift sled comes under enemy fire. "Seven 
incoming missiles of unknown configuration."
"Get 'em."
I attempt to lock onto the missiles—
—and am horrified to discover a devastating unsteadiness in my new 
target-acquisition and weapons-guidance systems. I am unable to secure an 
accurate weapons lock. A disorienting stutter of incompatible signals ghosts 
across the interface between old circuitry and new. 
We are all but helpless in the air.  
The best I can do is fire heat-seeking missiles of my own, which do not rely on 
my internal, malfunctioning guidance systems. They are not the weapon of choice, 
given the speed at which the enemy missiles are closing with my heavy lift sled. 
 
I slew us around midair, overriding the sled's auto-programming. This cants us 
so any missiles which elude my return fire will detonate against my war hull, 
not the lifter. My commander shouts in shocked reaction. I am built to withstand 
high explosive rounds, but the underside of my lift sled is vulnerable without 
my guns to take down incoming fire. I log the frantic observation that this 
constitutes a serious design flaw in the lift sleds. I cannot risk a fall from 
this altitude, since the impact would crush my commander. As we twist sideways 
in the air, three enemy missiles reach my war hull and explode. A brief flare of 
pain registers on my damage-control sensors, but I am barely scratched. I slew 
us around again to continue the descent.  
"Jesus Christ! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her voice is more a sob 
of terror than a demand for information. 
"I am experiencing an unknown weapons-control malfunction, originating in the 
interface between my original and upgraded systems." As I speak, I take careful 
note of where each missile originated, backtracking heat signatures and 
missile-launch flares against the darkened, ice-covered rooftops. "Mapping 
origination points to my forward data screen. Coding enemy emplacements in 
flashing red. The enemy has penetrated most of the settlement." Indeed, the 
Tersae have ringed Rustenberg in a vast circle of death. 
"The enemy is firing from rooftops as indicated, Commander." I superimpose 
flashing pointers over the launch sites, laying down a gridwork map to show the 
extent of abandoned habitations below. "I detect a plascrete wall four meters 
high around this central core, which could serve no logical peacetime purpose." 
I highlight the structure, which encloses an area of approximately five acres, 
on which numerous structures have been built. 
"They must've retreated as far as they could, then threw up a defensive barrier. 
God knows how they got that wall up under enemy fire."
There is no point in speculation about the ease or difficulty of the wall's 
construction. The colonists have abandoned most of Rustenberg as indefensible, a 
fact of immediate and critical importance. The open-pit mineworks north of town 
and a crude-oil refinery capable of cracking crude petroleum into useable fuels 
have been likewise abandoned.  
More missiles arch upwards in a blaze of fire against the darkness. Most are 
aimed at my lift sled, which has dropped to a mere five thousand decimeters, but 
five of them streak over the settlement's defensive plascrete wall. I fire 
interceptors at both sets and once again slew us sideways in the air. We are hit 
by four more enemy missiles. Our transport rocks and shudders. The lift sled has 
taken a direct hit in the armored engine nodules. Another such hit and we will 
lose the engines. I cut power to drop rapidly, making us a more difficult target 
to acquire. My commander shouts once, violently, then digs her fingers into the 
padded armrests.  
My interceptor missiles knock down four of the five missiles racing toward the 
heart of Rustenberg. The explosions spread burning debris across the rooftops 
and streets, well inside the defensive wall. The fifth missile slams against a 
tall structure. The warhead explodes and its target burns fiercely. If this 
building was occupied by refugees, they had no time to escape, for the entire 
structure ignites within zero point six seven seconds and burns unchecked.  
My commander snarls ugly and helpless curses.  
Fury and shame engulf my battle reflex circuitry. I do not understand what is 
wrong. I have failed to stop easy targets. What can I say to my commander that 
will put this right? Nothing. I struggle with diagnostic programs and restore 
power to our heavy lift sled for final descent. "Ninety-seven heat signatures 
detected on the rooftops surrounding Rustenberg's core," I say with a sense of 
desperation. "These heat signatures correspond with missile-launch points."
"Verifiable as nonhuman?" Captain DiMario's voice grates with tones of anger. 
I attempt verification at the top speed of which I am capable. Using laser range 
finders to give me exact distances and using the size of human-built doorways 
and windows as a gauge, I determine that these heat signatures are too large to 
be human in origin, although the temperature range they exhibit is within 0.2 
degrees of human-normal. "Heat signatures register as bi-pedal and biological, 
averaging two point five one meters in height. These cannot be human heat 
signatures."
"Fry 'em."
Her voice is terse, ugly. I fire ion-bolt infinite repeaters and HE short-range 
missiles, raking the Tersae's rooftop positions in a broad dispersal pattern 
that does not require the pin-point accuracy of antimissile fire. The Tersae's 
visible heat signatures vanish in a flare of violent explosions which destroy 
the buildings they have occupied. Fires raging from these initial explosions 
ignite neighboring structures, until the outer circle of Rustenberg burns 
fiercely.  
"Goddammit, Senator! We've got live refugees down there and you just ignited a 
firestorm!"
I know deep and desperate shame. I am unable to properly carry out even the 
simplest of tasks. That I have, at least, destroyed ninety-seven of the enemy 
before reaching the ground is of little consequence, given the enormity of my 
failures and the unknown cause of the drift malfunctions in my weapons-guidance 
and fire-control systems.  
My heavy lift sled sets down outside the ring of blazing buildings and releases 
the tiedowns fastened to my treads. I engage drive engines and begin a rapid 
circle of the town's perimeter. A complete circuit reveals no trace of enemy 
personnel outside the ring of blazing buildings. In this, at least, I have been 
effective. But I must deal with the fires my HE rounds have ignited before the 
flames destroy what little Rustenberg's miners have managed to salvage. 
My commander has the same thought, for she says, "All right, Senator, if it's 
burning, knock it down. We'll salvage what's left in the buildings that haven't 
burned yet, then knock them down, too. I want a good, clear perimeter around 
this place."
"Understood, Commander."
I wade into the burning mass, grinding down blazing timbers and crushing 
plascrete walls to rubble. My commander punches controls to initiate radio 
transmission, muttering, "Those people have to be terrified, with all the 
explosions out here. It's going to be hard enough on them, when they see how 
much they've just lost. Rustenberg, this is Captain Alessandra DiMario, Third 
Dinochrome Brigade. Do you copy? Repeat, this is Captain Alessandra DiMario. Are 
you receiving?"
Static greets us for zero point eight seven seconds. Then a human voice 
responds, a woman's voice, babbling in tones of semihysteria. "Oh, my God, are 
you really here? Was that your guns firing, just now? We thought—never mind what 
we thought, oh, thank God you've finally come!"
"Sorry it took our transport so long to reach you. Where are you?"
"Underground," the woman answers. Excited voices erupt through the open radio 
link somewhere close to her. "We used the mining equipment to dig bunkers."
My commander says very gently, "You can come out of hiding very soon, ma'am. My 
Bolo has already killed nearly a hundred Tersae firing on your compound. As soon 
as we've cleared your perimeter, you'll be able to come up."
I fret over the unpleasant surprise waiting for these people. Very little shocks 
and demoralizes a civilian population more swiftly than the loss of homes. All 
else that civilians endure in combat—bombardments, destruction of livelihoods 
and cultural centers, even the death of friends—is simply part of the misery 
that must be lived through, however numbly or angrily. But the loss of home is a 
personal wound. Such violations breed hatred—and hatred becomes a wind that 
sweeps whole worlds into war.  
I fear for the repercussions of my actions.  
It takes me ten point three five minutes to knock down the greater portion of 
town. This leaves me with a beautifully clear perimeter where the enemy is 
denied concealment and cover, but leaves the owners of Rustenberg with a vast 
rubble field where an occasional warehouse or personal home rises, lonely and 
scorched, from the ruins. I feel a sensation akin to pity as I complete the 
task. Captain DiMario does not speak during the entire ten point three five 
minutes, but sits staring at the forward data screen, jaw muscles as tightly 
clenched as her fingers, which curl crushingly around the padded armrest.  
"All burning structures outside the wall are down, Commander. There is still an 
unchecked blaze inside the defensive barricade. Shall I breach the wall and 
knock down these structures, as well?"
"Christ, no! Not until we find out where those people are." She reestablishes 
radio contact. "Rustenberg, Captain DiMario here. You're clear to come up. 
Please evacuate quickly. We have a fire burning out of control inside your 
defensive wall. We need to bring the buildings down before the fire spreads. If 
we run over your bunker, trying to reach the blaze, my Bolo will cave the roof 
in."
"Good God, I hadn't thought of that," the same voice responds, sounding 
startled. "We're coming up, Captain."
From the vantage point of my uppermost turret sensors, I locate a deep pit 
gouged into the soil near the center of town. This proves to be the entrance to 
the underground bunker. Heavy-gauge metal doors crash open at the bottom. A 
moment later, a stream of shaken, filthy colonists appears, rushing forward to 
greet their rescuers. Most of them stare up at my war hull, which towers above 
the broken wall, bathed in harsh firelight from the blaze still burning inside 
the defended compound. My commander watches the exodus in silence for five point 
eight seconds, then issues rapid commands.  
"Senator, after you deal with this last fire, I want you to clear out those 
trees south and west of town. Give us a five-thousand-meter cleared perimeter in 
all directions. I want a report on the condition of the mines, equipment, and 
ore stockpiles. And scout our perimeter out to a distance of one kilometer. I 
want to know what we're up against, out there. That terrain looks wicked. Map it 
to the last centimeter, along with anything the Tersae have stashed in 
convenient overhangs and crannies. Look for places we can leave a few surprises, 
too. And start thinking about what kind of surprises we can jury-rig from 
whatever the colonists can fabricate. If," she adds grimly, "there's anything 
left to fabricate things with. Any questions?"
"None, Commander. Permission to file VSR?"
"Shoot."
"I have attempted to run diagnostics and cannot trace the difficulty with my 
tracking and fire-control systems. I believe the source to lie somewhere in the 
splices between my pre-existing systems and the new upgrades. I am experiencing 
data scrambling which suggests the systems are not entirely compatible. It is 
urgent that we discover whether anyone in Rustenberg has experience in 
psychotronic systems repair. This situation alarms me."
My commander possesses a most creative vocabulary. Her tone, however, softens 
when she addresses me directly again. "It doesn't make me want to dance, either. 
God, what else—" She bites off the rest of whatever she had planned to say. "All 
right, we'll just have to play this hand as dealt, since there's nobody out here 
to redeal. Get those burning buildings knocked down, get that perimeter cleared 
and that survey done, then we'll take a look at your retrofitting specs."
"Very good, Commander."
Captain DiMario exits my command compartment and climbs down to greet the shaken 
inhabitants of Rustenberg. I wait until she and the colonists are clear, then 
engage drive engines. I back up and turn my prow towards the wall, then 
carefully push down the section closest to the blaze. Within two point three 
nine minutes, I have demolished the burning structures and contained the blaze, 
although the narrowness of the street requires additional demolition which 
distresses me.  
I back out again with extreme caution and set out to complete the other assigned 
tasks. As I carry out the terrain survey, I realize that reconnaissance will be 
difficult across the entire range of territory to be monitored. I turn my 
thoughts toward ways other than aerial surveillance to accomplish this. I cannot 
formulate complete plans until I know what tools and materials remain available, 
but entertain fair hope of creating a simple, effective network which will 
surprise the enemy.  
Given the circumstances and my uncertain malfunctions, I hope this not overly 
optimistic.  
 








Chapter Ten
Bessany Weyman woke from a fragmented memory of falling walls and the howling 
roar of the tornado and wondered how long she'd been unconscious. She lay 
without moving, trying to determine exactly where she was and how badly injured 
she might be. She could feel pain, dull and frightening, along her back and legs 
where something heavy pinned her down. She was cold, too, and realized the 
tornado had knocked down enough of the building to let the freezing night air 
howl through the shattered remains of the rec room. She could hear the 
blizzard's shrieking winds, but was so completely buried, no snow had reached 
her.
Gingerly, she tried to move, and found that she was pinned fast beneath the 
rubble. Some of it shifted ominously and she froze, heart pounding in renewed 
terror. Then, dimly, she heard voices, recognized Herve Sinclair and Ed Parker 
and Elin Olsson, shouting above the moaning of the wind. And somewhere farther 
away, someone was screaming in mindless agony. Bessany strained to hear and 
realized Sinclair was moving through the ruins, shouting names, trying to find 
people. Bessany cried out, "Herve! Herve, I'm trapped! Help!"
"Bessany?"
"I'm here! There's rubble on top of me—I can't move!"
The project director called faintly, "Ed, help me! Bessany, keep shouting so we 
can find you. Most of the lights are out and we can barely see!"
Bessany kept calling out, "Here! I'm over here! I think I'm under part of the 
doorway!"
Rubble started to shift above her. Bessany sobbed aloud, flinching and bracing 
herself for the worst as heavy slabs of plascrete teetered and moved with an 
ominous groan. She heard a wordless shout . . . Then the heaviest, largest slab 
lifted, freeing her. Bessany scrambled through the smaller debris, wincing as 
injuries along her back and legs protested the injudicious movement. The heavy 
plascrete fell as her rescuers dropped it, then someone helped her up—
Bessany gasped in shock.
The hand around her wrist was clawed, clawed and furred along its whole length. 
Bessany jerked her gaze up, squinting through the near darkness, and made out a 
towering, heavily furred shape, nearly eight feet tall against the driving snow. 
Light from one of the side labs that had remained miraculously intact spilled 
out into the darkness, revealing the last face she had dreamed she would see, 
tonight.
"Chilaili!" she cried. "What—how—?"
"Bessany!" Herve Sinclair shouted behind her. "Run!"
She turned, shaken and still off balance, and found the project director rushing 
toward her. Ed Parker was at his heels. Both men brandished makeshift clubs. It 
took a long, slow second to realize they thought she was in danger, that the 
Tersae standing above her had come to attack them. "No!" she shouted, suddenly 
grasping it. She stepped between the katori and the onrushing men. "Herve, Ed, 
no! It's Chilaili!"
They paused, panting, a meter away.
"Chilaili?" Herve frowned.
"Yes! She pulled me out of the rubble."
"Bessany Weyman," the tall Tersae said urgently, "many of your nestmates are 
still trapped. We must dig them free, quickly. This rubble is not stable and the 
cold will penetrate quickly, lowering their chances of survival. And someone 
must start a fire or we will all freeze to death, myself included. This is not 
suitable weather to be aboveground without shelter and warmth."
Bessany scrubbed her forehead, willing the fog in her brain to recede, and 
brought down her hand to find it red with blood. She scrubbed it off on her 
shirt. No time, yet, for minor injuries. "Right." She stared at the damage, 
peering toward the source of light spilling out into the snow. "My God, it's the 
med lab still standing!" And since the med lab's lights still blazed, the power 
plant itself was undamaged. That single fact might well mean the difference 
between life and death.
Sinclair wrapped her up in a coat scavenged from the debris. "Yes, most of it 
was spared, thank God. In fact, several of the labs survived pretty much intact. 
Enough to provide some shelter, anyway. We've already shifted the less-badly 
injured into several of them. Power's out in most, but it's still better than 
being out in the open."
"How long was I unconscious?" she asked sharply.
"Almost half an hour."
Bessany blanched. If she'd remained unconscious much longer, she might well have 
frozen to death. There must've been just enough heat trapped under that solid 
rubble to keep her alive long enough to wake up and shout for help. "If the 
power's off in most of our shelters, we'll need wood for building fires . . ."
"There are many trees down," Chilaili offered. "I had to climb over them to 
reach your nest. I heard the twist-wind from the top of the cliffs and knew it 
had passed over this place. I hurried, Bessany Weyman, as fast as I dared."
Bessany's throat tightened. She touched Chilaili's arm, shuddering as the wind 
whipped stinging snow through the broken walls of the recreation room. "Thank 
God you did. I'll ask why you're here later."
Chilaili gave Bessany her strange, head-bobbing nod. "Yes. It is more important 
to find the trapped ones first."
They dug through the rubble in teams, freeing more people, locating more coats 
and distributing them. Herve selected four men who had escaped with only minor 
cuts and bruises, put them into rescued cold-weather gear, roped them together 
for safety's sake, and sent them out with lights to bring in wood while the 
search for survivors went on. Chilaili was a godsend, lifting heavy slabs it 
would've taken three or four men to shift. They found some people unconscious, 
others badly injured and screaming with pain—and some who lay ominously still, 
crushed and broken or surrounded with sickening crimson stains where they'd bled 
out through arterial damage.
Bessany worked with shaking hands, trying not to look into the faces of friends 
who had died in the rubble. She concentrated on guiding or carrying the 
still-living toward shelter, helping the uninjured reach whichever side lab was 
closest and ferrying the badly injured to the med lab. Salvatore di Piero, their 
construction engineer, had rigged a temporary wall of thick plastic sheeting 
across the jagged hole torn in one corner of the latter.
Grigori Ivanov, their surgeon—dazed and bleeding from multiple cuts—was finally 
pulled free. He leaned against Herve Sinclair while Bessany bundled him into a 
coat, then Chilaili literally carried him into the warmth of the med lab. 
Bessany followed at their heels while the others continued searching the 
wreckage. Her hands and face were frozen and the wind whipped through her long 
hair like knives. She stumbled toward the med lab in a deep fog, telling herself 
she was more fortunate than most—she was on her feet and functional. And still 
alive. She couldn't bear to look at the bodies they'd placed in a snow-covered 
stack to one side, awaiting burial once the living had been cared for.
They slipped past the curtain of plastic sheeting and warmth enfolded them. The 
relief from just being out of the wind was a tonic. Salvatore was busy examining 
the walls, shoring up the ceiling in places where the plascrete had cracked. The 
wounded lay on beds, on examining tables, on the floor, many of them moaning or 
crying out in harsher tones. Chilaili set Dr. Ivanov gently on his feet and 
braced him with one powerful arm.
He leaned against her for long moments, not even questioning her presence. He 
struggled visibly to still the shaking of his hands. Then he straightened with a 
grim look in his eyes and raked his glance across the lab, taking in equipment 
and supplies that had been spared and the appalling number of injured. He said 
only, "Bessany, can you help me as triage nurse?"
She nodded woodenly, so tired she was reeling on her feet.
"Life-threatening injuries first, everything else second," Ivanov said, then 
waded in.
Bessany followed her instincts and checked the unconscious first, figuring that 
anyone who was still knocked out suffered potentially far more serious injury 
than those thrashing around and screaming. She lost track of time, moving from 
one critically injured colleague to another, calling urgently for compresses or 
Dr. Ivanov's surgical skill. Ivanov performed miracles, doing emergency surgery 
to stop internal hemorrhaging, while dazed volunteers splinted broken bones and 
bandaged the less severely wounded.
At some point, Bessany glanced up to see Chilaili squatting beside one of the 
equipment mechanics, whose leg lay at an alarming angle, an injury far enough 
down on the triage list, nobody had reached him yet. Chilaili felt carefully for 
the break, then slipped something into the man's mouth for him to bite down on 
and moved her big, clawed hands purposefully. She set the broken bone with one 
easy movement. The mechanic screamed; then Chilaili gently tied a splint in 
place and pulled a blanket around his shoulders, murmuring something soothing to 
the suffering man before moving on to the next person in need of care. People 
stared at the tall, powerful Tersae as she moved amongst them. It was so 
unlikely, seeing her here, treating the injured.
Bessany had to swallow tears. Unlikely only in context, she realized. Chilaili 
was a trained healer. She doubtless had enormous experience setting broken bones 
and treating shock and blood loss. The effects of shock were essentially the 
same in all warm-blooded animals and a broken bone was a broken bone, whether it 
was part of a horse, a human, or a Tersae huntress. The only part of her gentle 
ministrations that seemed so jarringly out of place was her willingness to help 
humans at all, when Chilaili's species had declared unilateral, total war 
against the colonies.
She's come to repay the debt for saving Sooleawa's life, Bessany realized, 
watching Chilaili crouch beside a pile of food stores along the wall, which 
somebody else had scavenged. She broke open cans with her bare claws. She handed 
out food to those too injured to walk, even sent someone out with basins to 
collect snow, to melt for drinking and cooking water.
Through a blur of exhaustion, Bessany found herself thinking, My God, with 
Chilaili's help, we might just survive this. Tears stung her eyelids again and 
clogged her throat. How many of them would have died in the rubble without 
Chilaili's strength to shift the heavy debris before they froze to death? She 
couldn't even hazard a guess. Bessany scrubbed her eyes fiercely with the backs 
of her hands, which only smeared blood across her face, some of it hers, most of 
it other people's. She tugged off the coat she'd forgotten she wore, pulled her 
shirt loose, and wiped blood and tears from her face with the hem. Her hands 
shook so violently, she could barely control them, and her knees had gone 
dangerously spongy.
Herve Sinclair touched her shoulder. "Bessany. We're past the worst now. Dr. 
Ivanov suggested you sit down, get some rest and something to eat."
She nodded. "All right. I won't argue."
The project director stared thoughtfully at Chilaili, who moved out into the 
teeth of the storm again to search for more supplies. "At some point, I'd very 
much like to know what she's doing here."
"So would I," Bessany agreed in a low, shaking voice. "I think I can guess her 
reasons, but we need more than guesswork. If I'm right, she's come to pay the 
debt for Sooleawa's life by warning us an attack is coming. Probably as soon as 
the weather clears."
Sinclair blanched. "We can't possibly fight, Bessany. Even if we had weapons . . 
." He gestured at the broken walls. "We're simply not defensible. And evacuating 
is out of the question. The tornado smashed the hangar. There's nothing left of 
the aircars, not even much rubble. Most of them were apparently sucked up and 
carried God alone knows how far." His voice shook. "From the look of things, the 
tornado barely grazed the recreation hall, or we'd all have been sucked out with 
them."
Bessany shuddered. "I don't suppose any of our communications gear survived?"
Herve shook his head. "We haven't found it yet, if it did. The SWIFT unit's 
completely gone, along with the room it was in. The field radios are missing, 
too. Our main radio transmitter is smashed and the tower's down, twisted into 
useless junk. We'll keep looking, but I'm not very optimistic."
God, we can't even call for help. . . .  
Bessany swayed sharply, fighting waves of exhaustion.
"You're weaving on your feet," Herve said gently. "Come on, let's get you into 
one of the other shelters, get some food into you."
Bessany let him pull the coat around her shoulders again, let him steer her 
outside and across the rubble field to the geology lab. Seven refugees huddled 
around a blazing fire that had been built in one corner, next to a window 
cracked open slightly, just enough to let the smoke out. Elin Olsson presided 
over the fire, keeping it properly stoked. The petite geologist, blonde hair 
streaked with dark stains, greeted Bessany with a wan smile and scooted over 
enough to give her room to sit down. The elfin geologist handed her a ration 
pack with three of the high energy bars they carried while doing field research. 
Bessany ate one without tasting it and washed it down with cold water from a 
basin of melting snow.
As she sat beside the crackling fire, watching the flames dance across the 
carefully stacked wood, her own injuries finally made their presence felt. From 
scalp to toes, the ache of bruises and multiple stings where she'd sustained 
cuts and scrapes spoke of the abuse she'd suffered. Her hands were shaking and 
all she really wanted was to lie down and sleep for about a year.
Elin glanced up and met her gaze. "Bessany?"
"Yeah?"
She expected the geologist to ask about Chilaili. Not for the first time, Elin 
Olsson surprised her. "Do you think the military help the Concordiat promised 
will get to us in time?"
Before the Tersae attack us?  
The unasked portion of that question reverberated between them. Bessany shook 
her head. "I don't know, Elin. I just don't know." She bit her lip. "I kept 
sending messages to my brother-in-law, but he never answered. After Alex's death 
. . ."
Elin, who knew the whole story, reached over to wrap a comforting arm around 
Bessany's shoulders. "That wasn't your fault, hon."
Bessany shook her head. "No. I know it wasn't. But John Weyman tried to contact 
me, afterward, and I never answered his messages. I couldn't. Just couldn't." 
She closed her eyes over burning salt water. "God, Elin, I was so stupid. . . . 
And now we really need his help, I'm afraid he's returning the compliment."
"I can't imagine he would deliberately ignore you, Bessany. Or any message from 
Thule, come to that. He's probably just out on the frontier, fighting the Deng 
invasion," Elin insisted quietly, "and hasn't even seen your messages. So don't 
blame yourself, okay? None of this is your fault."
Bessany sighed. Elin was doubtless right, of course. It wasn't her fault and 
John Weyman probably wasn't spitefully ignoring her. But she knew only too well 
that even when the promised military help finally arrived at Thule, there was 
very little chance that help would be directed toward them. The mines were the 
critical installations on Thule—not a battered group of scientists huddled in 
the wreckage of their research lab. She said in a low voice, "If they can get to 
us, they will. If." She lifted her gaze from the heart of the flames and met 
Elin Olsson's frightened glance. "But even if they do manage to bring a fighting 
force out here before we're overrun, this station is dead last on anybody's 
priority list for defense."
It was dreadful, watching the elfin geologist come face to face with that bleak 
assessment. They weren't defensible, wouldn't have been, even before the 
tornado. They couldn't evacuate, neither by air nor by ground, not with most of 
their equipment wrecked or simply missing. Walking out was impossible, not with 
as many seriously injured people as they now had. And Bessany was far too 
experienced even to hope the cavalry would come over the hill in time.
 








Chapter Eleven
"This is the goldangdest thing I've ever seen."
Hank Umlani, Rustenberg's Chief of Industrial Fabrication, stared at the plans 
Senator had provided, understandably scratching his bushy grey hair and frowning 
at the technical specs he held. The thing was disarmingly simple. So simple, it 
didn't look like much of anything, let alone a weapon.
Alessandra asked patiently, "Yes, but can you make it? With the equipment and 
supplies on hand?"
Umlani looked up, raking a weary glance across the warehouse where they stood, a 
warehouse which now held the entirety of Rustenberg's surviving resources, moved 
into one protected location inside the perimeter wall, in a depressingly short 
time. Crews of miners were hard at work around them, conducting a hasty 
inventory. Ginger Gianesco, Rustenberg's Ops Director, had not been able to 
supply them with anything remotely resembling a psychotronics technician, let 
alone a Bolo systems engineer, which had forced Alessandra and Senator to get 
creative in planning the town's long-term defense.
The first step had been to list on a master inventory every weapon the miners 
could field. The colonists had come up with a surprising variety of personal 
arms: several very useful modern rifles brought out to defend mining parties 
from predators, plus sonic stunners, 20 kilowatt laser zappers, hypersonic 
needle guns, an honest-to-God anesthesia rifle, even a reproduction single-shot 
Sharps breechloader, which a hobbyist had brought with him.
"Isn't that buffalo gun a little primitive?" Alessandra had asked dubiously.
The owner, a burly man in his forties, gave her a nasty grin. "Wasn't too 
primitive for three of them damn turkeys."
They'd even counted the two longbows kept in the meeting hall, along with the 
colony's other recreational equipment. Senator had protested, saying, "Longbow 
projectiles wouldn't even scratch my armor," then had desisted, suitably 
impressed, when one of the women put an arrow through a chunk of beef taken from 
the shelter's refrigeration unit, demonstrating its effectiveness at piercing 
protoplasm. Alessandra had sent out crews with the modern guns, putting Senator 
in charge of turning them into an automated defense system. She could hear his 
voice booming in the cold air, through the open door of the warehouse.
"A simple computer system is all we will need. Something that will tell the guns 
to shoot back at anything which fires at the wall. The automated guns will use a 
triangulation system with range-finding lasers to determine the exact distance 
to anything shooting at the wall. This will trigger the guns in the most optimal 
position to fire back. The computers you already have on hand are more than 
adequate to run this system . . ."
His automated system wouldn't stop a crazed, lone Tersae with a satchel charge 
in its claws, but it would drop anything that fired a rifle, mortar, or missile. 
She'd also sent several parties of miners out into the icy darkness with hand 
lights and ropes to comb the fissures and narrow gorges surrounding the town, 
hunting for possible Tersae weapons caches and scouting out good spots to place 
remotely controlled ambushes.
Still others checked on the mining equipment and the oil refinery. And just in 
case evacuation became necessary, she'd also sent a search party out through the 
ruins, hunting up every surviving transport left in town. That, too, comprised a 
very short list: seven aircars used for two-person aerial surveying teams and 
three lumbering, automated ore carriers that would hold a lot of people, but 
wouldn't top more than ten kilometers an hour.
For God's sake, she prayed, don't let us have to evacuate this town. Not in a 
hurry, anyway. If she and Senator did their jobs properly, that wouldn't be 
necessary. But with Senator's malfunctions, she was hedging her bets every way 
possible. Alessandra fully expected more trouble, not much later than dawn. She 
just hoped one malfunctioning Bolo, one battle-rattled brigade captain, and a 
gaggle of exhausted colonists could put together the necessary defense works 
before then. Particularly since most of the colonists with military experience 
had already died.
She shook herself out of her grim thoughts and peered up at the burly 
fabrications engineer holding Senator's blueprints. His thick, calloused fingers 
were covered with the scars of his trade. She asked again, patiently, "Can you 
build this, Mr. Umlani?"
"Well, yeah," Umlani nodded, frowning down at the blueprints, "we've got the 
tools and the necessary materials to build these things, no problem. Simple as 
dickens, ain't it? We can even make the glass balls pretty quickly, I'd think, 
using the ore smelting equipment and ordinary sand. There's a whole hill of the 
stuff in the mine spoils. It's easy enough work, even the kids could handle it." 
He glanced up, curiosity lighting his dark eyes. "You say this thing really 
existed? Was used in battle, I mean?"
Alessandra smiled. "Indeed, it was. Senator found a mention of it in his 
military history archives. Dates back all the way to Old Terra's First World 
War, he said. It was fielded for a while alongside machine guns and poison gas. 
How many of them can you build? And how quickly?"
Umlani grinned, teeth white against the exhausted darkness of his face. "Lots 
and very."
"Good. Get cracking, if you please. The sooner they're built and in place, the 
better I'll feel. Particularly since the weather appears to be clearing out 
there. God knows how many warriors the Tersae will throw at us, once this 
freezing rain stops."
"Right." Umlani hurried away, bellowing for his fabrication technicians.
Alessandra hunted up Ginger Gianesco and found her handing out cups of coffee 
salvaged from the supplies as half-frozen miners came in from the work crews. 
Alessandra accepted a cup with a nod of thanks, then asked, "What can you tell 
me about the refinery?"
The operations director blinked in surprise and raked limp, silver hair back 
from her face. "What do you want to know about it?"
"Aside from why it's here at all, what've you been cracking the crude into? 
Diesel fuel? Gasoline? Heating oil?"
The older woman's face rearranged its series of wrinkles. "We built it to 
provide ourselves a cheap, local source of fuel. Oh, we don't need it now, but 
we're going to grow, or planned to, anyway, and it won't take much growth to 
outstrip the snap generators we brought along. Equipment like that is expensive 
to freight all the way out here." A grimace touched her mouth. "You wouldn't 
believe the hell we caught, putting in that refinery. There's a xeno-ecologist 
over at Eisenbrucke Station who sent her research assistant out to us a couple 
of months back, to set up wildlife monitors and conduct studies. I couldn't say 
what the xeno-ecologist's like, but that assistant of hers . . ."
Gianesco shook her head, eyes dark with pain. "Stupid, greenhorn kid," she said 
roughly, the tone of her voice belied by the shimmer of wetness in her eyes. 
"Brought himself out here with a brand-spanking-new degree and a bunch of crazy 
notions about not spoiling virgin wilderness. We didn't come out here to admire 
the birds and the bees, we came out here to mine saganium. And build a colony 
our kids will inherit. That boy threw an honest to God tantrum over the 
refinery. Didn't speak to anybody for weeks, after construction started, just 
glowered like we were mass murderers and muttered under his breath about 
industry raping yet another world."
"What happened to him?"
She blew unhappily across her coffee cup. "He spent most of his time communing 
with his data recorders. God knows what, exactly, he was looking for out there, 
but he obviously preferred it to us. Poor fool went into shock when the Tersae 
attacked. Literally couldn't believe it was happening." She stared bleakly into 
her cup. "He didn't survive the first attack wave."
Alessandra wasn't surprised. She'd seen the type before. Gentle, liberal, very 
young. Full of sincere and noble ideas. Dangerously naive. They died fast and 
messy when war broke out around their ears, the way it had on Thule. She frowned 
then, trying to pinpoint something Gianesco had said, something useful. Then she 
had it. Wildlife monitors. 
"Did his equipment survive?"
Gianesco blinked. "Yes, I think it did." She consulted the inventory list on the 
handheld unit clipped to her belt. "Most of it, anyway. Yes, here it is."
"May I?" Alessandra held out one hand.
The operations director handed over the slim unit and Alessandra scanned the 
list, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I've been worried about how to spot the 
approach of war parties in those gullies out there, since Senator has only a 
limited number of aerial survey drones on board. Those model airplanes Harry 
Bingwa scrounged from the recreation workshop will help, since we can mount 
cameras in them, but the Tersae are likely to shoot those down as fast as we put 
them up. This," she tapped the palm-sized screen, "just might do the job. You 
said there was a map of the terrain immediately surrounding the town?"
Gianesco nodded. "It's a geological features map, pinpointing the richest 
saganium deposits in the region. We'll have to pull it up on the main computers, 
though. I don't have it loaded on my hand unit."
She led the way past crates and cartons of supplies and forlorn piles of 
personal goods scavenged from damaged houses and headed out through the open 
doors on the far side of the warehouse. A blast of icy wind caught them as they 
made their way across the frozen ground between the warehouse and the surviving 
meeting hall. The hall was crowded with refugees: people injured in the defense, 
volunteers trying to administer dwindling supplies of medications, harried 
mothers trying to cope with young children exposed to far too much trauma.
Gianesco stopped at their hastily rigged "war room" and tapped commands into the 
computer system they'd brought up from the underground bunker, installing it 
here as the colony's new command center. The map flashed onto the screen, 
showing narrow gulches, deep gorges, and snaking fissures spreading in every 
direction, as though Rustenberg were the center of a web spun by a spider on 
hallucinogens. Alessandra leaned down and jiggled controls, zooming the 
magnification. "Hmm . . . ordinary claymores and jump mines aren't going to work 
very well, are they?"
"Why not? And what's a 'jump mine'?"
"A mine that detects the approach of infantry and propels itself up to about 
here," she measured her own chest with one hand, "then detonates. Messy as hell. 
Effective, too, against unarmored personnel. Which I understand the Tersae are? 
Unarmored, I mean?"
Gianesco nodded. "None of the ones we've seen have worn anything but fur and 
weapons belts."
"Good. As to the other" —she tapped the screen with one fingernail— "the way 
these fissures twist and turn, an ordinary mine, even something relatively 
directional like a claymore, won't be very effective, because the blast won't go 
around these corners. We need something that will."
"Like what?" Gianesco frowned. "What kind of weapon turns corners?"
Alessandra smiled. "You might just be surprised. What kind of industrial gasses 
do you have on hand? Anything heavier than air will do."
Light began to dawn in the older woman's tired eyes. "Good lord, yes. Fuel-air 
explosions, down in those ravines . . ."
"Exactly," Alessandra grinned.
The look in Ginger Gianesco's eyes made Alessandra feel about eight feet tall. 
To see a woman go from bitter, exhausted hopelessness to the dawning realization 
that there was something her people could do, after all, besides cower behind 
the Bolo's malfunctioning guns, went a long way toward erasing the worst of the 
hell Alessandra had suffered against the Deng.
Gianesco flagged down one of the older kids detailed to courier jobs. "Jennifer, 
go find Hank and Amanda. Tell 'em we need to bleed off the main natural gas tank 
at the refinery, into every portable gas cylinder they can lay hands on."
"Yes, ma'am!" The girl sped off, vanishing through the doorway with a slam of 
the meeting hall doors that set the nearest little ones whimpering.
Alessandra thinned her lips, seeing that. She coldly hated the Tersae for 
creating the fear she could see shining in the children's wide eyes, trembling 
on unsteady little lips. She'd seen, as well, the bodies of children who'd died 
with guns and spotting scopes in their hands, defending the walls as their 
parents finished the desperate effort of pouring the last stretches of defensive 
perimeter. And she'd seen the eyes of the kids who'd survived, eyes that 
would've looked old and hard in a fifty-year-old's face. The Tersae would pay 
for what they'd done here. Pay dearly. She and Senator had only just got started 
on ways to make those furry bastards pay.
"What else can we do, Captain?" Gianesco asked quietly. "And how can we deliver 
the fuel-air cylinders to the targets?"
Alessandra frowned down at the map again, unsure how to answer the second 
question. "About that refinery. You never did mention what you're cracking the 
crude oil into."
"Gasoline, mostly, to power some of the smaller tools. It's still one of the 
cheapest fuels around, particularly on worlds with a decent supply of crude oil, 
which Thule has. Evidently," one corner of her mouth quirked, "the climate 
wasn't always so chilly."
"Good thing, too," Alessandra muttered. "I wonder . . ."
"Commander?" her Bolo asked through the comm link at her belt.
"Yes, Senator? What is it?"
"I have been listening to your conversation, Commander, while supervising the 
field crews. May I make a suggestion?"
"Name it."
"I've been studying the ore carriers, Commander," Senator went on. "Their design 
has suggested a delivery system for some of the fuel-air mixture cylinders you 
were just discussing. It will be necessary for me to leave the town relatively 
undefended, in order to locate and destroy the enemy's home base. The 
computer-controlled gun systems we are setting up along the wall tonight will 
not be effective for indirect-fire scenarios."
"Yes, I've been worried about that," Alessandra agreed. "What do you suggest?"
"We could rig a carbon-arm trebuchet from some of the mining equipment out here, 
piggyback it onto an ore carrier to deliver a payload to a predetermined 
selection of ravines, computer controlled and preprogrammed for distance to 
target and depth of the selected gully. A computer could determine where in the 
arc of the throwing arm the payload should be released. We could predetermine 
various places to park the trebuchet, to reach a number of predetermined 
targets. We might even be able to rig a computer-deployed parachute system to 
provide drag on the projectiles, so they drop more accurately into the ravines."
"That's good," Alessandra blinked in surprise. "That's very good. We'll put 
somebody on it. What else?"
"Ms. Gianesco, how much sugar do you have in storage?"
"Sugar?" The operations director blinked in astonishment.
"Yes, Ms. Gianesco. Refined sugar."
Alessandra saw abruptly what her Bolo had in mind. "My God, that's wicked . . ."
"Thank you, Commander. About that sugar?"
"Uh . . ." Gianesco was consulting her handheld unit. "Not a lot. Maybe fifty 
pounds."
"More than enough," the Bolo replied firmly. "We will need to begin immediately, 
Commander, to prepare the mixture in time to field it before the next attack."
"Right. And we'll need someone to haul the sugar out to the refinery."
Gianesco, expression baffled, flagged down another courier. Then she stared at 
Alessandra, eyes begging the question.
Alessandra grinned. "Ever hear of foo gas?"
The mining ops director frowned and shook her head. "Should I have? I've mined a 
lot of things over the last forty years, but I've never heard of that."
"Foo gas isn't a specific substance, it's more of a generic effect. It's what 
you get when you toss a burning liquid, like jellied gasoline, say, through a 
burning substance like white phosphorus. The jellied fuel ignites in a burning 
wave that fries anything in its path. Like, say, Tersae warriors in a gully."
"With no way to climb out," Gianesco breathed. "My God, that's horrible." A 
faint, dreadful smile touched her eyes. "The sugar gels the gasoline?"
"Very effectively."
Her eyes went hard as blue gunflints. "Good. Show me what to do."
* * *
Dawn was a grey sliver along the horizon when Alessandra walked the perimeter 
one last time, inspecting the new installations in person. Ginger Gianesco 
walked at her side, along with Hank Umlani, who showed them his night's 
handiwork with a justifiable flourish of pride.
"What is it?" Gianesco asked dubiously, staring at the device Umlani had set 
into a mound of dirt and rock about four feet high.
"It's elegant, that's what it is," Umlani grinned.
The flat, meter-wide metal disk didn't look like much, even to Alessandra, let 
alone an effective weapon. It sat quietly on a spindle that ran through a hole 
in its center, with a simple conveyor mechanism that arched over the top, ready 
to deliver its payload to the waiting weapon.
"What's it supposed to do?" the operations director frowned.
Umlani chuckled. "This bar" —he tapped a crosspiece fastened to the spindle, 
turning it so that it swept in a flat circle around the metal platter— "spins at 
100 revolutions per second." The end of the bar reached almost to the edge of 
the platter, describing a meter-wide circle as it turned. "At 100 revolutions 
per second, you get 60,000 revolutions a minute. At 60,000 RPM, the end of the 
bar will be moving at 314 meters per second."
"Yes, but what does it do? And why is there a hole in the end of the bar?"
Umlani reached into a coverall pocket and dropped an ordinary glass marble onto 
the platter, near the spindle in the center, his fingers simulating the action 
of the conveyor mechanism. The glass sphere was roughly made, with no polish of 
any sort, just a simple orb that Hank Umlani's fabricators and Rustenberg's 
children had churned out by the thousands during the night. "When the bar 
spins," he said, moving the crosspiece slowly by hand again, "it bumps the 
marble like so. Centrifugal force operates to keep the marble moving in a 
straight line." As he turned the crosspiece, the marble did just that, moving 
from the center of the platter out to the rim, walked along by the movement of 
the bar. "By the time it reaches the edge, it's moving at the same speed as the 
end of the bar. And 314 meters per second is fast, as fast as some guns throw a 
bullet."
Gianesco suddenly saw it. "The marble slips through the hole in the end of the 
bar! And goes flying off the edge! How accurate is this thing?"
Umlani chuckled again. "The Bolo says it's nothing like as accurate as an 
ordinary rifle, but it's plenty good enough for our purpose. We've put 'em in a 
circle all the way around the original edge of town, one every five meters. 
This'll fling a marble at a slight upward angle, so the projectile never goes 
higher than five feet or so off the ground. The marble drops in an ordinary 
ballistic parabola down to four feet off the ground again, out to a range of 
about 150, maybe 200 meters. When we activate the system, we'll end up with a 
glass curtain of death, one those damned birds will have to run through to get 
close enough to our wall to use satchel charges or small arms. Ought to be as 
effective as machine gun fire. Bolo says they were actually tested in battle, 
centuries back, but they were dropped from the arsenals because machine guns 
were more accurate."
Alessandra nodded. "They worked just fine in trench warfare, though, and that's 
pretty much what we've got here. Trench warfare." Alessandra gestured in the 
growing dawnlight toward the gullies and ravines. More nasty surprises waited 
silently in the shadows at the bottoms of Rustenberg's natural stone trenches.
Gianesco was about to ask another question when Senator interrupted. "Commander, 
our wildlife monitors have picked up enemy troop movements in the ravines. We 
face a heavy concentration of enemy warriors. I will cover your return to town."
Ginger Gianesco paled. Hank Umlani swore. Alessandra broke into a run across the 
icy ground. The civilians panted at her heels. Alessandra didn't bother looking 
over her shoulder. Senator would be watching and the last thing they needed was 
to put a foot wrong in the broad swath of rubble strewn like caltrops between 
themselves and the defended wall. A massive rumble shook the ground, then 
Senator bulked huge, gun snouts black against the pale grey dawn as he charged 
straight past them, interposing his bulk between them and some unknown—
The world shook.
And the whole sky erupted into the colors of hell.
They fell flat in the rubble, knocked down by the shock wave from the Bolo's 
twin Hellbores. Alessandra panted into the dirt and tightened her fingers around 
broken chunks of plascrete. What the hell was shooting at us, for him to 
unlimber the Hellbores? Whatever it was, it didn't shoot back. Alessandra 
scrambled to her feet and snatched the others up by the backs of their 
coveralls. "Run!"
They needed no second urging.
 








Chapter Twelve
I am anxious to be on the ground again.  
As we drop from orbit, plunging toward Thule's turbulent surface, I see the 
curve of the planet's snowy shoulder in triple images, one from my own sensors, 
one from telemetry provided by the Darknight, and a third from her destroyer 
escort. The Darknight and the Vengeance will remain in orbit as long as needed, 
guarding our vulnerable backs from potential space-based attacks by whatever 
alien race is providing high-tech weaponry to the Tersae. The ships track 
deployment of the battle group as my fellow Dinochrome Brigade comrades scatter 
across Thule's four main continents. We drop from the blue-black edge of space 
into the blue-white haze of Thule's thermosphere, which is merely a thin 
scattering of molecules here, at an altitude of 150 kilometers. 
The blizzard which has prevented Tersae attacks at Seta Point still rages, 
providentially, but the telemetry I receive from the CSS Vengeance includes 
weather-pattern projections which show the storm system clearing Seta Point 
within seven hours of our arrival. It is essential that we reach our duty 
station before the enemy can field a force to attack it. Our very arrival may 
well trigger the enemy into risking the blizzard to destroy the colony before we 
can arrive. Our descent carries us around Thule's hulking shoulder and down into 
night, which is spectacular as we pass through the ionosphere. The sight draws 
uncharacteristic commentary from my commander. 
"Damn, that's beautiful . . ."
Curious as to what John sees, I limit my sensors to only those spectra perceived 
by humans. A blaze of stars backlights a sky-spanning display of aurora 
borealis. Wildly writhing curtains and ribbons of green and red light flicker 
and dance, swaying across the darkness, pierced here and there by the streaks 
and flashpoint bombs of a meteor shower.  
It is, indeed, beautiful. I am deeply pleased, that John has noticed, leaving me 
to hope he will not withdraw into deep isolation again, as he did after his 
brother's death. It took so long for me to break down that isolation the last 
time, I feared for many months I would lose him as commander and friend. I am 
therefore grateful to the silent dance of ghostly light across Thule's night 
skies and regret the briefness of our transition through the dazzling display.  
But the eleven-kilometer reading on my altimeter marks our abrupt transition 
into the storm-racked troposphere. We plunge into heavy cloud cover which 
effectively blinds my own sensors. It is unsettling to "see" clear air above me, 
through the eyes of the CSS Darknight, while everything around me—and more 
critically, everything below—remains wrapped in the dense haze of night-darkened 
storm clouds. 
We suffer a jolting ride due to high wind speeds, with unstable wind shears and 
shifting gusts making lateral corrections from the lift platform's engines a 
constant necessity. My commander, who loathes combat drops as much as I detest 
confinement aboard naval transport ships, hums tunelessly under his breath and 
stares fixedly at the altimeter. "Anybody down there watching us?" he asks 
tersely. 
"I have detected no scans on any of the standard wavelengths. If the enemy has 
seen us, they are using a technology completely alien to our experience."
John Weyman grunts noncommittally, using a tonal inflection I have learned, over 
the years, to translate roughly as "wouldn't surprise me, if they did." Given 
the information in our mission briefing, virtually everything about the enemy is 
unknown. It is an interesting way to begin a war. I comment, pragmatically, 
"Coming up on five thousand feet. Brace for braking thrusters."
My heavy lift sled fires its main engines, slowing our precipitous plunge 
through the storm. Blizzard conditions leave us totally blind and rock us 
violently. Temperatures hover at zero degrees Celsius, plus or minus three 
degrees on average. Wind chill factors drop the temperature another twenty 
degrees, making the storm lethal to any unsheltered human on the surface.  
My thoughts stray to Bessany Weyman and the unknown cause of Eisenbrucke 
Station's communications blackout. I grow concerned that weather fierce enough 
to destroy the research station's radio and SWIFT units will have left the 
inhabitants exposed to fatal temperatures. Even discounting the risks of enemy 
attack, there may be trouble ahead if serious damage has occurred to the 
physical shelters at Eisenbrucke Station—or at Seta Point. 
Given the look in John Weyman's eyes, my commander shares this worry.  
The gusts ripping through my external sensor arrays are creating problems 
already, running the gamut from ice and slush buildup on sensor lenses, 
particularly those bearing the brunt of the wind, to wild harmonics that create 
sensor ghosts, static discharges, and false images.  
I want down. Badly.  
I pull in my main sensors, tucking them back into armored turtle cowlings, and 
deploy backup sensors instead, as a precaution. "One thousand feet," I advise. 
"Scanning terrain with radar. Matching terrain features with on-board maps." I 
correlate data rapidly. "We are five kilometers off target, John, north of Seta 
Point along the Whiteclaw River. Five hundred feet. Applying lateral thrust to 
avoid crossing the Whiteclaw on the ground."
"Good idea," John nods agreement. According to survey data, the Whiteclaw River 
is a treacherous chute of white water along its upper reaches and still runs 
fast and deep where it spills out onto its alluvial plain, directly beneath us. 
The settlement five kilometers to the south has been built to mine alluvial 
deposits as close to the rugged mother lode as possible. Given the data from our 
mission briefing, plus input from my radar arrays, I do not relish the thought 
of trying to ford the Whiteclaw in a blizzard; the energy expenditure to avoid 
this while still airborne is well worth the trouble. I monitor our lateral 
progress carefully via radar. 
"Approaching the Whiteclaw River. Two hundred feet—"
Violent wind shear topples me turret-side down. We plummet like a stone, tipping 
and tilting crazily as the lift's engines scream, trying to right us again. I 
yank all retractable small-caliber weapons systems inboard to protect them. I 
can do nothing about fixed systems, including my Hellbore and mortars. I am 
canted at a one-hundred-six-degree angle when my turret plows into something 
solid. One corner bites deep, digging a jagged trench. I slam into the ground 
like a flipped beetle, stunned by a momentary overload from my pain sensors. A 
howl bursts from my stolid commander. We plow across frozen ground in a slide I 
can neither control nor halt. Top-side external sensor arrays—ignored in the 
rush to protect my weapons systems—rip loose from their mountings, scoured away 
by the wild skid. 
The sickening slide ends abruptly when the ground vanishes beneath my turret. My 
war hull teeters, tips, and plunges downward, half rolling and half 
somersaulting as we fall straight into the foaming Whiteclaw. We strike the 
water like the Titanic diving for the deep. Water pours in through holes where 
backup sensor arrays have been torn out by the roots. 
I close emergency hatches on the flooding conduits, desperate to minimize 
electrical damage to my systems and to keep the water from pouring through 
interior spaces by means of cable conduits and access crawlways. Another slam 
against a solid surface jars my war hull, then I come to rest on the river 
bottom, canted mostly on my back and deeply shaken.  
John gasps into the comparative silence, his breaths ragged as he hangs upside 
down in the command chair, cushioned by the protective webbing used during 
combat drops. The hiss of a hypo-spray sounds from the autodoc built into the 
chair, feeding medication into his system. As the medicine takes effect, he 
begins to swear monotonously, spitting blood from a bitten mouth. He struggles 
to wipe his eyes clear as that blood trickles down past his nose and into his 
eyes and hair.  
Hand shaking, he reaches unsteadily for the med-console, which pops open. 
Supplies have been webbed in as snugly as my commander, with commendable 
foresight on the part of my designers. He fumbles an elastobrace loose while 
muttering creatively at Thule's inimical weather, then laboriously wraps a 
swollen elbow in the brace. I monitor his vitals, fearing shock and internal 
injuries, while attempting to ascertain damage to myself.  
We have, at least, reached the ground without encountering enemy fire.  
"How bad is it?" John mutters, fumbling the med-console closed again. 
"Your vitals are holding at acceptable levels—" I begin. 
"Not me, you loveable idiot," John mutters, "how bad is the damage to you?"
Oh.  
"Performing damage assessment. I have lost backup external sensors across the 
entire upper surface of my turret. Portside sensor cowlings are showing 
red-line. There is warping damage to some of the sensor hatch covers. I managed 
to retract small-caliber weapons systems before we hit. Checking outboard, 
larger-caliber systems. One rank of turret-mounted infinite repeater snouts has 
sustained minor deviations from true, measured down the long axis, although the 
deviations are well within battle-damage tolerances for continued operations."
My commander blinks, then asks, "Your guns are bent?"
"Not all of them," I prevaricate. "A rank of portside, nonretractable fifty 
caliber gatlings snapped off completely. They were my least robust external 
weapons, however," I hasten to add, "and their loss should not materially affect 
my ability to carry out our mission. The remainder of my nonretractable weapons 
have not been affected."
"Huh. Including your Hellbore?"
I scan, performing a pre- and post-crash comparison of angles and tolerances. 
"There is no deformation in the Hellbore barrel," I am pleased to report. 
"Well, that's something." John sighs. "All right, next step. How badly jammed 
into this river bottom are we? Among other things, the human body wasn't 
designed to hang upside down for long periods of time."
Indeed, my commander's face is already turning an alarming shade of red as blood 
pools under the weight of gravity. I turn my attention rapidly to my 
predicament, since the sooner I solve mine, the sooner I will solve my 
commander's. I scan my surroundings, using what sensor arrays have survived the 
crash, mostly nestled in the protected spaces along my prow, starboard side, and 
stern. "The river bottom is narrower than I would like," I relay, "but there 
should be sufficient room to maneuver, if I am very careful. I am still locked 
into the lift platform, which should be of considerable help. The engines are 
still functional."
John manages a shaky grin. "Best news I've heard in the last five minutes. Okay, 
let's see if we can flip you right-side up."
The lift platform's engines are, of necessity, powerful, capable of lifting and 
maneuvering a 14,000-ton Bolo. I have come to rest mostly on my turret, but my 
portside is lower than my starboard, which will assist my task considerably. I 
apply thrust carefully to the portside lateral thrusters. The engines snarl and 
scream and my war hull shifts ponderously. I succeed in rolling completely onto 
my back. And there, I find myself stuck. The lateral thrusters, less powerful 
than the main lift engines, are unable to shift me any farther, without the 
rocky river bottom to push against. Chagrined, I am forced to admit the 
worsening of our predicament.  
"I am sorry, John," I apologize. 
My commander chews his lower lip thoughtfully, wincing slightly and wiping blood 
again. "Can you rotate your turret? If we bring your Hellbore in line with the 
very bottom of the river and fire it, the recoil concussion might jar us loose 
enough for the lift engines to flip us all the way over."
It is a good plan. I have landed with my Hellbore facing upstream, but angled so 
that it is pointed slightly downwards. The river is narrow enough that my 
prow—and therefore my Hellbore—lies within twelve meters of the far riverbank. I 
slid into the water prow foremost, somersaulted once, and came to rest in this 
position. If I can rotate my turret so that my Hellbore faces as far down as 
possible, the barrel will also swing farther towards the far bank. This will 
give me an extra boost, as the Hellbore discharges into more surface area of 
stone than water.  
I attempt to rotate my turret, feeling the immense strain in my internal servos 
as they struggle to turn with the immense weight of my war hull plus lift 
platform resting against them, jamming my turret down into the rocky riverbed. 
The servos were not designed to function under these conditions. I run them 
dangerously into the red, but my turret groans and grinds its way slowly in a 
ponderous arc. I halt the attempt to allow overheating servomotors to cool, then 
begin again. "I have rotated my turret as much as I dare," I report. "Brace for 
Hellbore fire."
WHAM!
I rock against the blast and fire thrusters on the lift platform. My prow rises 
off the river bottom and I fire again. WHAM! The engines scream and I rotate my 
turret wildly, bringing the Hellbore around for optimal position as I rock onto 
the very edge of my treads. WHAM! I turn and fall with a ponderous crash and 
slosh. The instant my treads are lowermost, I fire all thrusters and the lift 
platform rises with an agonizing scream. We tip and tilt, then my damaged turret 
breaks through into snow-shrouded air. 
Water surges and pours. Steam rises from the superheated river, which now boasts 
a radically altered shape. My treads clear the water and I fire rear thrusters, 
moving across the roiled and boiling surface of the Whiteclaw toward the 
blessedly solid rock of the far bank. I carefully avoid the deep bite where my 
guns have blasted that rock, melting it in spots. I angle, instead, toward a 
secure landing spot farther downstream. My weight crushes flat a heavy growth of 
dense shrubbery which lies between water's edge and a thick stand of riverine 
forest. If I were human, I would cheer. My commander, collapsing white-faced 
into the depths of the command chair, does, in fact, manage a weak hurrah. He 
grins into my nearest video pickup.  
"You did it!"
"We did it," I correct gently. "It was your idea, John."
"Occasionally," he chuckles, "I do have good ones. Whooee, what a ride! All 
right, my battered friend, damage assessment, please."
Water continues to pour out of my war hull. Within one point three minutes of 
exposure to the blizzard, ice forms a solid coating over my entire hull, 
including main sensor hatch covers, external backup sensors, and gun barrels. 
The ice blocking my main sensor hatches will require time to melt and the 
coating across visible-light sensors on the backup systems leaves me blind in 
the visible-light spectra, but I am right-side up and mostly intact. For the 
moment, it is a worthwhile trade.  
I flash schematics onto my forward data screen, showing my commander the extent 
of damage. "Thirty-nine percent of my turret sensors have been damaged. I do not 
have sufficient spares on board to replace more than thirty-seven percent of 
them and I would advise against making any repairs while weather conditions 
remain this severe." Ordinarily, of course, I would have been brought up to full 
depot readiness before being deployed in a new combat drop, but I have seen 
three months of nonstop combat, much of it rugged, and there was no time to 
bring my on-board stores up to specs. The CSS Darknight's crew loaded as much 
replacement equipment as possible from ship's stores, but even their large 
inventory was spread thin, attempting to reoutfit no fewer than five 
combat-depleted Bolos. 
"What are the relative levels of damage in this schematic?"
I color-code the display. "Green sensors are fully functional. Orange warning 
lights indicate crash damage which limits functionality. Ninety-two percent of 
the orange-marked damage is attributable to sensors hatch covers that have been 
slightly warped, preventing the hatches from opening properly. This should be 
relatively easy to repair."
My commander snorts. "You mean something about this mission might actually be 
easy?"
The wan smile accompanying this question marks a return to my commander's usual 
droll sense of humor, pleasing me immensely. "Compared with the landing? 
Absolutely."
The wan smile becomes a genuine grin.  
"Sensor arrays marked in yellow are fully functional, or rather, will be once 
thawed out. My entire war hull is now coated with ice, which has sufficiently 
blocked the indicated sensor arrays, they are of limited use. The visual-light 
camera lenses in particular have been affected, as the ice has rendered them 
temporarily opaque. I have initiated antifrost heating systems, but it will take 
time to clear them. Navigation will be possible, of course, using radar and 
infrared systems, but I will not be able to move at optimal speed until the 
camera systems are clear of ice. My turret servomotors have suffered a 
twenty-three percent loss of function, due to the strain of breaking loose. I 
will not be able to turn my remaining turret-mounted weapons as quickly or 
reliably as usual."
"Understood. We've been dealt a lousy hand, for sure, but any crash you can 
walk—or limp—away from isn't all bad. All right, let's see if we can limp into 
Seta Point, shall we?"
I attempt to disengage from my lift platform and discover yet another casualty 
of the crash. The platform has suffered warping throughout its structure. I 
cannot disengage the autolocks. "John? We still have a problem."
"Oh, Lord, now what?"
I explain.  
The last thing I expect is the rusty laugh my commander responds with. I stare 
at him, abruptly concerned for his health. He wipes tears with an awkward hand, 
then manages to wheeze, "What a pair we are, Rapier. All banged up and nowhere 
to go . . ."
"It will be very easy to pull loose, simply by engaging my drive engines, but 
getting back to the ship will be a problem, which is why I hesitated to act 
without consulting you."
John continues to chuckle. "At the moment, that's the least of our troubles. All 
right, Rapier. If we have to break it to get loose, then we have to break it. 
Somehow, I don't think they'll take it out of our pay."
I refrain from pointing out that Bolos do not earn pay, then engage my drive 
engines. It takes zero point three seconds to rip loose from badly bent 
moorings. I leave behind a tangled, mangled hunk of metal, one that has given 
its life nobly in service of mine and my commander's, and set out along the 
riverbank. I move parallel to the Whiteclaw, along which the Seta Point mines 
stretch, reflecting that the river is more than aptly named. It certainly has 
mauled me, as effectively as any clawed beast. 
Perhaps the forcible jarring of our crash landing and subsequent escape from the 
river has knocked circuitry loose somewhere in my psychotronics, for I must work 
harder than usual to gather my scattered thoughts from the various remote system 
modules where they reside. Four point two minutes elapse before it occurs to me 
that I would pick up speed considerably if I were to move away from the river, 
where I am forced to plow through the edge of a dense riverine forest, grinding 
down trees and lower, dense undergrowth beneath my icy treads.  
I consult on-board maps and aerial survey photos and alter course, breaking 
through the relatively narrow band of forest cover which hugs the route of the 
Whiteclaw. Beyond lies more open ground, where badlands have given way to 
alluvial plain, covered with tough grass which lies flattened, now, beneath a 
mantle of snow. The greatest obstacles here are deep snowdrifts and the frozen 
streambeds of small tributaries.  
I pick up speed rapidly, crossing small tributary streams with a shattering of 
surface ice and a splash of dark water. I am anxious to reach my duty station, 
as my presence there will allow John to send scouting parties to Eisenbrucke 
Station by ground transport. If, of course, someone can be found to go. I 
hope—rather desperately—there will be someone at Seta Point willing to risk it, 
since neither my commander nor I are free to go, ourselves. If not . . . I hold 
onto my hope, reminding myself that humanity can be a remarkably brave and 
selfless species, when the situation warrants it. 
John consults a side viewscreen where I have displayed a map of the region, 
superimposing our position onto it. John nods to himself, then opens a radio 
frequency via controls on my command-chair console.  
"Seta Point, do you copy?"
A burst of static is followed by a human voice, one which sounds very young. 
"This is Seta Point. Who is this?"
"Lieutenant Colonel John Weyman, Third Dinochrome Brigade."
"Really?" This childlike squeal is followed by an excited shout. "Dad! Dad! It's 
a Bolo commander!"
A faint smile touches my commander's lips. A moment later, a deeper voice hails 
us, somewhat uncertainly. "This is Seta Point, Bill Hanson, speaking."
"Lieutenant Colonel John Weyman, here," my commander responds. "We're inbound 
along the Whiteclaw River, ETA your location in three minutes. We'd hoped to set 
down closer to your settlement, but the weather wasn't very cooperative. Our 
landing was a little more exciting than either of us would've preferred."
A rusty chuckle emerges from the speaker. "We're awfully grateful to that 
weather, Colonel Weyman. And most of us use more, ah, colorful words to describe 
it." My commander shares the chuckle, then Bill Hanson says in a tone that 
betrays worry, "I don't suppose you know what that godawful noise we heard a few 
minutes ago was? We thought the Tersae were attacking through the blizzard, 
after all. We sent out every man and woman who could scrape up a weapon to 
defend the edges of town. They picked me to man the radio, because I broke my 
leg, sliding on the ice."
My commander grimaces. "Sorry to hear that, Mr. Hanson. And that noise was us, 
I'm afraid. We suffered a very bad landing. Ended up turret-side down at the 
bottom of the Whiteclaw. We had to fire the Hellbore to jar ourselves loose. You 
can call everybody back inside, get 'em out of this weather."
"That'll be mighty welcome news," Hanson responds. "It's a bad night to be 
outside. Anything we can do, once you get here?"
"If you've got a medico, I'd welcome their help. I banged up an arm on landing."
"Roger that, and I'll put a fresh pot of coffee on, Colonel."
"I'll look forward to it. We'll see you in about two minutes. Weyman, out."
Two point one seven minutes later, Seta Point appears in my sensors, a radar 
ghost at the top of a bluff overlooking the Whiteclaw. The site must have been 
chosen with flooding in mind. This has, however, left the town unpleasantly 
exposed to the vagaries of Thulian weather and leaves the settlement dangerously 
vulnerable to enemy artillery fire. On the positive side, the openness of the 
terrain will make it harder for enemy infantry to approach without exposing 
themselves to murderous fire from my guns.  
By the time we arrive, climbing a well-constructed, wide road to the top of the 
bluff, my visible-light sensors have warmed enough to melt the ice sheathing 
their lenses, allowing me to see where I am going far more clearly. I am glad of 
this, for we discover an immense crowd waiting for us. The entire settlement has 
come streaming to the edge of town, suited up against the snow and heavy, 
gusting winds.  
I halt at a safe distance, unwilling to come closer on the icy ground for fear 
of a skid. My running lights make my towering prow clearly visible despite the 
snow-filled darkness—uptilted faces gape at my ice-shrouded duralloy war hull 
and gun snouts. Through my thawing external sensors, I hear the concerted gasp 
which rises from more than a thousand throats. 
Civilian awe at seeing an ordinary Bolo never ceases to amaze me, even after 
fifteen years of active service. I have speculated, sometimes, that there must 
be something of a religious, or at least superstitious, element to this 
reaction. Judging by my own experience, the human mind fears—in a primitive, 
subconscious fashion—that which is larger and more powerful than itself. Even 
when that something was fashioned by human hands and human ingenuity.  
I find this very lonely.  
My commander unhooks himself from the command chair and shrugs on cold weather 
gear stored in a bin at the back of my command compartment, moving gingerly and 
scowling at his swollen elbow. "Well," he sighs philosophically, glancing into 
my forward camera, "let's see what we can do, shall we? Maintain full Battle 
Reflex Alert and scout the whole perimeter of the settlement. Find out which 
areas of town are most vulnerable to attack. I'll see if I can find anything 
useful from the colony's stores to repair your sensor arrays, at least."
"Understood, John."
He climbs down and greets the welcoming committee, which elicits a wild cheer of 
welcome. The crowd moves toward a structure adequate to hold the entire 
population. It is time for John to initiate his council of war—and time for me 
to discover the exact shape and extent of the terrain I must defend. Satisfied 
that I have safely delivered my commander to our duty station, I carefully back 
up, turn, and tackle the next phase of my mission.  
 








Chapter Thirteen
Wakiza trembled with cold as he huddled under the uncertain shelter of the 
trees, trying to keep the worst of the sleet from lashing him in the darkness. 
At fifteen summers, he was one of the youngest warriors of Hook-Beak Clan, a 
barely blooded hunter without a single raid against enemy clans to his credit.
Three times, he had watched in despair as the war parties were sent to destroy 
the human nest. And three times, those war parties had been driven back, failing 
to crush the hated creatures from the stars. When told that he would be assigned 
to the night watch for the fourth attempt, rather than the attack teams, he 
pleaded with the war leader for a better assignment, certain the end was near 
and afraid he might miss the final victory.
"Your time to die gloriously will come, Wakiza," Chesmu told him sternly. "For 
now, obey orders and keep silent. That is my final word."
Night watch.
Duty barely worthy of a newly hatched nestling.
Wakiza watched bitterly as more fortunate warriors crossed open ground 
unchallenged, entering the strange nest that lay—insanely—open to the winter 
sky. He watched with rising jealousy as the attack party blew holes through the 
defensive wall, all but unopposed by enemy fire. He felt useless—worse than 
useless—squatting here under a tree while the older warriors took all the glory 
for themselves. He had spent his entire fifteen summers aching to please the 
Ones Above, to show his creators that he was brave and swift and worthy, and now 
others were winning the battle he had so desperately longed to join—
The night split wide open with flame and noise.
A monstrous thing fell from the storm clouds, spitting death and venom.
Wakiza's beak fell open in shock. It was bigger than the entire clan's living 
cavern. Bigger than anything Wakiza had ever seen. Fire belched from it, lancing 
down through the sleet-filled darkness to ignite the weird, alien structures of 
the human nest. Flames roared high into the night skies, leaving Wakiza 
trembling on his belly against the frozen ground.
"It's a metal ogre!" he whispered.
He had not truly understood, until now.
Their best missiles detonated against it without visible effect. The thing kept 
coming, dropping down from the clouds, shooting its weapons in a fiery rain of 
death. It was unbelievably ruthless, destroying virtually the whole human nest 
in its zeal to kill every member of Hook-Beak Clan's attack parties. Not one of 
the warriors chosen to enter the enemy's nest came out again.
Wakiza turned and fled into the night, duty-bound to carry home word of the 
ogre's arrival. By the time he arrived at the living cavern, he was bleeding and 
dazed, slashed by thorny underbrush and several nasty tumbles down rocky 
gullies. He was shaking so hard, he could scarcely gasp out his message.
"The thing burned down everything outside the defended wall!" Wakiza chattered 
the words out through shudders that shook his thin, adolescent shoulders. The 
grizzled, aging war leader and the clan's akule exchanged dark glances as Wakiza 
added, "Never have I seen such ruthlessness! Nothing our warriors threw at it 
even scratched the thing. Please, Honored Chesmu, give me the chance to carry 
out vengeance for our slain brothers!"
Chesmu gripped Wakiza's shoulder under bruising fingers. "You shall have that 
chance, gladly. Come, there is much to be done before dawn."
They left the nest again under cover of darkness, although dawn was only an hour 
or so away. Sleet continued to fall, but the weather wise amongst their clan's 
warriors agreed that the storm would soon break, leaving clear, cold weather in 
its wake. That would only make it easier for the hated defenders to see them 
coming. There was not much time left, if they hoped to destroy the enemy and 
earn a place with the Ones Above for all eternity.
Wakiza brought up the rear of the war leader's own handpicked band. As they 
crept down into their chosen ravine, he was shocked at the wide swath of forest 
leveled during the night, depriving them of useful concealment. It must have 
been the ogre, he realized, awestruck. What else could have flattened so many 
trees and ground them into splinters underfoot in so short a time?
After a moment's frightened thought, however, he realized the loss of the forest 
cover probably mattered very little. Their war parties were spread out through 
dozens of twisting, narrow gorges that would allow them to creep so close, it 
would require only a short dash to reach the enemy's nest. Powerful the ogre 
might be, but it could not patrol every approach to their target.
Besides, the Ones Above had given them weapons capable of crippling and perhaps 
even killing the huge machine, if they could take the metal beast by surprise. 
When Wakiza had reported the failure of their missiles against it, Chesmu had 
ordered the deadliest weapons they possessed brought up from the war caches in 
the nest's lowest caverns. If all went well, this dawn, the metal ogre would be 
the one surprised and dismayed.
And shortly after that, dead.
Wakiza's heart thudded at the thought that he would have helped to kill it.
Grey light was just topping the upper edges of the deep ravine when he heard it, 
the sound of distant missiles igniting. His heart pounded wildly, listening. The 
attack had begun! He fought a terrible urge to scramble up the steep ravine wall 
to look as the deadliest of their weapons, two ogre-killing bombs strapped to a 
pair of missiles, raced toward the metal monster. He gripped his rifle in 
trembling hands, wanting to see—
The world erupted into a hell of sound and blazing, unearthly light. Wakiza 
screamed, falling flat against the rocky ground, which shook under his belly. An 
instant later, flame erupted from the head of the gorge, blasting toward them 
like an avalanche. Wakiza dropped his rifle and climbed straight up the rocky 
wall, one terrified eye rolling downward to see the war leader and warrior after 
warrior swept away, crisped in an instant. He lunged and scrabbled for claw and 
talon holds, felt the searing heat approaching, whimpered . . .
Then fell forward onto sleet-covered ground.
He snatched his feet up as the killing wave of fire passed beneath him. He 
didn't dare look down into the ravine, where their best had just died horrible 
deaths without striking a single blow against the enemy. He looked up, instead, 
and saw gouts of flame spurting up from the edges of other deep ravines. Screams 
carried on the wind, screams that cut off with hideous abruptness. A distant 
movement caught his eye and he craned around to look.
Across the open ground between himself and the enemy's nest, beyond the wall the 
humans had put up, he could see something like a gigantic dark thorn. It rose up 
with shocking speed, flinging something across the wall, then it dipped again 
and vanished beneath the wall before reappearing to fling another something, 
which flew in a slightly different direction. Wakiza watched, hypnotized, as the 
nearer of the two things soared out toward a deep crack in the earth. A strange 
cloth of some kind bellied out abruptly from the top of it, halting its flight. 
It dropped with seeming gentleness into a ravine perhaps five seconds' fast 
sprint away—
A massive explosion ripped the dawn. Chips of stone and searing heat hurled 
their way skyward. Wakiza screamed again, cowering and hiding his head. When he 
lifted his shaken gaze again, trying to nerve himself to climb to his feet and 
run, he saw warriors pouring up over the lips of gullies and ravines which had 
not yet been torched by the enemy. They were racing across the open, 
rubble-strewn ground, shooting missiles at the distant walls or gripping rifles 
in the hopes of getting close enough to fire. They raced forward in three-second 
bursts, moving fast in relays across the open ground, shooting missiles and 
rifles to cover one another as they ran for the alien wall.
And as Wakiza stared in horrified fascination, those who shot missiles toward 
the enemy nest drew murderous fire from the wall, going down in a spray of blood 
and fur. Those who shot their rifles earned the same fate—but those who simply 
ran forward without shooting seemed invulnerable. Wakiza gulped and started to 
rise, thinking he would scavenge a rifle from one of the warriors already killed 
and carry it close to the wall before firing. Then he noticed a buzzing noise, 
like a thousand mound-stingers roused to homicidal fury.
Startled, he looked around for the telltale mounds and spotted a whole line of 
them, which he hadn't noticed in the darkness of the previous night. Surely the 
humans couldn't have found a way to turn the mindless mound-stingers into a 
weapon they could use at will? Despite the angry buzzing, he didn't see anything 
like the stinging cloud of insects which were often the last thing an unlucky 
hunter heard, if deep water to jump into was not close at hand when the 
mound-stingers' ire was roused.
The buzzing rose in crescendo—then one of the six warriors in the team running 
toward the nearest buzzing mound went down, struck by something Wakiza couldn't 
even see. The warrior screamed, writhing in agony where something had cut 
literally all the way through his body. Three more warriors went down within 
seconds, struck by the invisible mound-stinger weapon. The remaining two stared 
in such wild terror, trying to determine where the invisible weapon was coming 
from, distant rifle fire from the defended wall blew straight through their 
skulls. Wakiza froze in place, too horrified to move, convinced that if he rose 
from the icy ground, he, too, would go down, dying a shameful death without so 
much as a single weapon in his hands.
Overhead, a stiff-winged bird soared past with a high-pitched whine.
An instant later, the metal ogre's enormous bulk appeared from around the curve 
of the wall. An instant after that, explosions shook the ground all around him. 
Wakiza screamed and flung himself down into the ravine behind him, falling and 
scrabbling for handholds, then he landed with a bone-wrenching jar. The stink of 
cooked flesh was foul in his throat. Burned shapes huddled everywhere, charred 
lumps of flesh that still smoked in the grey dawnlight.
Wakiza fled, running wildly toward the end of the gully they'd entered so 
jovially just minutes previously. It was worse than suicide to fight the metal 
ogre, it was utter madness. He had to warn the nest, warn the akule, who could 
at least plead for help from the Ones Above. They needed help and stronger 
weapons and food for their little ones, who would surely go hungry in the deep 
winter snows, now that most of their skilled hunters had died on the 
battlefield. He ran until his breath was a raw, bleeding rasp in his lungs, 
skidded and slid and climbed across fallen timber and pounded as fast as his 
legs could carry him toward the uncertain safety of home. Once there, he burst 
into the clan's living cavern and gasped out his tortured message, collapsing 
into the akule's horrified arms.
"Dead . . . all dead . . . Chesmu and the others . . . please, akule, beg the 
Ones Above for help . . . nothing can stand against the metal ogre, nothing . . 
. without help, we shall all surely die . . ."
Under the akule's careful questioning, he gasped out everything he'd seen, 
described it in as much detail as he could recall through a numb haze of horror: 
the giant thorn that threw the massive bombs, the waves of fire in the gullies, 
the invisible mound-stingers, all of it. When he'd finished, the akule said 
gently, "You have done well, Wakiza. Very well. Rest now. Rest and recover your 
strength, for you will be sorely needed."
Wakiza closed his eyes, shuddering violently. Dimly, through the thundering in 
his ears, he heard the akule's voice in the Oracle chamber, begging their 
creators for help, for weapons to destroy the metal ogre, for anything the Ones 
Above could send. He relaxed, at last, no longer fighting the blackness of a 
dead faint as he realized he'd done it, he'd brought the warning in time.
For now, at least, the clan was safe.
 








Chapter Fourteen
Colonel Ruk na Graz glared morosely at the data screens which comprised one 
entire wall of his cramped office. He had resented this duty assignment from the 
day his posting had been ordered from the Homeworld. His uncle had fallen from 
the emperor's favor yet again, scuttling Ruk na Graz' own hopes for a successful 
military career. Damn that long-toothed, hot-tempered, loose-tongued old fool! 
If not for his uncle, Ruk na Graz would never have been reduced to commander of 
a dismal, airless hole bored into a cratered chunk of rock at the back of 
beyond.
He tapped clawtips in a pattern of irritated impatience against his desktop, 
hating almost as bitterly the orders which had just come from the Imperial 
palace on Melcon. Those orders kept his forces—such as they were—bottled up 
uselessly in garrison on this gods-forsaken airless moon.
He could only watch in rising frustration as the enemy reinforced itself with 
ever more troop transports, ever more battle machines, while he was forbidden 
even to poke his muzzle into the open, much less strike a blow against the hated 
humans. Melcon, he had decided morosely, was rotten with incompetence and greed. 
A cowardly lunacy had permeated the Imperial palace, one that kept the border 
patrols from openly confronting the Empire's enemies, as honor demanded.
Why, in his grandfather's day, these arrogant, upstart humans would simply have 
been blasted from the sky the moment they dared appear in orbit above a 
Melcon-held world. Particularly one where such an important—and 
expensive—scientific experiment was under way.
But with a new emperor on the throne, Melcon now ordered the military forces on 
the borders of Melconian space to hide, to gather data in secret, to do nothing 
that would betray their presence to their new human neighbors. Safer for Melcon, 
perhaps, when dealing with enemies as potentially damaging as the humans, but 
such a fight was utterly without honor.
And now that dishonorable policy of secretive cowardice had landed squarely on 
his own desk. He glared at a printout of his latest orders, received just before 
the new human battle group had broken into the system from hyper-light drive. 
Ruk na Graz held a snarl rigidly behind his teeth, to prevent his aide de camp 
from hearing it, in the outer office.
"Under no circumstances," those orders read, "are you to allow the enemy to take 
prisoner any live populations of Tersae. The enemy must not gain access to 
information about Melcon through access to these experimental animals. The 
safety of the Empire and the Homeworld far outweigh the results of this 
experiment in biological manipulation, fruitful as it has been. If it becomes 
necessary to protect the secrecy of this project, execute destruct codes and 
evacuate the star system."
Lunacy!
"Execute destruct codes," they said. His muzzle wrinkled in bitter distaste. He 
didn't give a damn about the experimental animals, but it was such a wretched 
waste of Melconian time and effort, to simply euthanize the beasts before the 
experiment had reached its fullest maturity. Generations of Melconian scientists 
had poured their talents and genius into the creation of the Tersae, into the 
manipulation of their genetic code, gathering critical information on biological 
deformation in the process, information that would give Melcon the edge in any 
long-term conflict with her enemies.
From where he sat, at least, the humans looked more and more like the worst 
enemy Melcon had yet encountered. Intelligent, resourceful, capable of 
manufacturing weapons that were the equal of anything developed in Melcon's 
weapons laboratories, they were also doggedly tenacious. Everywhere humans had 
gone along the edges of Melconian space—or Melcon's uneasy border with the 
Deng—the humans had poured immense resources into holding onto balls of utterly 
worthless rock, valueless apart from the presence of human colonies.
A scowl lifted the jowls from his teeth. That tendency to fight for worthless 
bits of rock might apply elsewhere, but it was clear to Ruk na Graz that the 
humans had found something of immense value here, something they were mining by 
the shiploads. Whatever it was, it was valuable enough to send war machines in 
to defend the mines, and that spoke—to Ruk na Graz, at least—of critical war 
materiel. His increasingly urgent reports had been totally ignored, leaving him 
no choice but to watch from this carefully-hidden moon base while cargo 
transports jockeyed and maneuvered through the muck and debris of this 
misbegotten star system.
The Tersae were certainly far too stupid to figure out what the stuff might be 
and why the humans wanted it. The only thing the Tersae were good for—in this 
particular context—was delivering bullets and bombs. And they were so incredibly 
brainless, they blew themselves up more often than not, dying "gloriously" for 
their makers. Ruk na Graz snorted. They didn't even know how to die properly. If 
not for the waste of so many Melconian lifetimes spent creating and manipulating 
them, he'd almost have enjoyed issuing the destruct codes.
A low buzzer interrupted his bitter ruminations. "What?" he asked harshly.
"Forgive the intrusion, Colonel Graz, but Science Leader Vrim is asking to see 
you."
Ruk na Graz bit back the angry words on his tongue. "Send him in," he growled.
"Yes, Colonel Graz."
The door opened and Grell na Vrim entered, muzzle respectfully lowered. The 
Science Leader had gone grey around the jowls, having spent most of his career 
on this moon base or conducting field research down on the surface. Vrim had not 
been pleased by the order halting all such field trips until the human threat 
had been satisfactorily neutralized. If the Science Leader had come to demand 
yet again that he rescind that order . . .
Ruk na Graz waited for the aging scientist to halt in front of his desk before 
speaking.
"Yes, Science Leader?"
Holding some sort of printout tucked under one arm, Grell na Vrim met his gaze 
squarely, anger visible in the set of his ears. "Is the rumor true, Colonel? Has 
the Homeworld ordered the destruction of the Tersae?"
Ah . . .  
"It's no rumor, Science Leader." He tossed the printout across his desk.
Vrim read it, clamping his ears flat to his skull. "This is an outrage!"
"I agree."
"Then—?" Hope flared in the tone of his voice and the brief lifting of his ears.
"I will do whatever is necessary, Science Leader, to protect the Empire and the 
Homeworld from threat."
"But—" Vrim closed his mouth again with an audible snap of his teeth. "Yes. Of 
course. May a lowly scientist ask if we are expected to sacrifice our own lives, 
as well, protecting the Homeworld's secrets?"
Strength still blazed in those eyes, the strength of a zealot dedicated to his 
mission. Ruk na Graz was unable to disguise the sympathetic twitch of his ears. 
Vrim was no soldier and did not bring the same expectations to his work that a 
soldier would have, facing those orders. The Science Leader saw only the ruin of 
his life's work in that sordid little printout—and rightly feared the 
destruction of his life, as well.
"I sincerely hope not," Ruk na Graz said quietly, giving the most honest answer 
he could, for he respected the Science Leader, although he would never dare 
admit it to a mere civilian. "That would be a far greater waste, in my opinion, 
than the loss of a few thousand flightless, furry birds. To lose good Melconian 
lives, protecting the secrets surrounding those stupid beasts . . ." He shook 
his head in frustration. "Given the strength of the human incursion into this 
system, they are clearly determined to fight as long and as hard as necessary to 
inhabit that wretched ball of ice. I would advise you and your people to start 
packing. The Homeworld will not allow me to fight for this star system, so the 
best we can do is make a run for it in a fast transport ship while the humans 
are distracted."
"Distracted?" Vrim asked, openly puzzled.
"That is my worry," Ruk na Graz growled. "Yours is getting your people and as 
much of your research data as possible ready for emergency evacuation."
"Yes, Colonel," the Science Leader muttered. He brought out his own printout, 
then. "We have received a transmission from one of the Tersae clans." He handed 
it across.
Ruk na Graz frowned at the transcribed message. "Invisible mound-stingers? What 
in the seventeen moons are they talking about?"
Vrim shrugged. "I don't know. I was hoping you might have some idea, since I 
don't know much about weapons systems."
Another scowl lifted Ruk na Graz' jowls. "I've never heard of anything remotely 
like this. Buzzing mounds and invisible weapons that cut holes through a solid 
body? If this were a military installation, at least I'd have access to a decent 
laboratory of weapons technicians, to try figuring it out." He tossed the 
printout onto his desk, so disgusted he couldn't even find words to express it.
"Will you honor their request for more weapons?" Grell na Vrim asked.
"Are you mad?" Ruk gasped. "We won't even answer this ridiculous communication! 
The last thing we can afford is to attract the attention of the human ships in 
orbit." Dark suspicion flared. "For the gods' own sake, don't tell me you've 
already sent a reply?"
"No, no, of course not," the aging Science Leader hastened to reassure. "I 
wouldn't consider such a thing during a state of war, not without consulting you 
first. Which is why I came, of course."
"Of course." He swept a hand toward the pitiful, pleading printout. "Add that to 
your data, Science Leader, then start your people downloading and packing."
"Yes, Colonel Graz. At once, Colonel Graz. Your support is so deeply 
appreciated, Colonel Graz." The aging scientist stalked out of his office, ears 
flat again with anger.
Ruk na Graz sighed. Such an unutterably stupid waste.
He turned his gaze back to the data screens once more and glared at the blips of 
light representing the human military vessels in orbit. He hated the idea of 
tucking tail and running without a fight. Hated it almost as much as he hated 
the humans. Unless he was very much mistaken, this was going to be a long and 
shameful war. And the fools on Melcon were robbing him of the right to strike 
the first blow.
 








Chapter Fifteen
PROXIMITY ALERT!  
My sensors detect two fusion bombs, piggybacked onto a pair of guided missiles, 
fired directly toward my war hull. I charge forward, horrified, passing my 
commander and the two civilians with her, interposing my bulk between them and 
the incoming missiles. I have zero point zero two seconds to decide which of my 
malfunctioning weapons to fire, knowing there is a high probability I will miss 
my targets. My Hellbores are the only weapons I possess which have a 
broad-enough field of fire to destroy the bombs even if my aim is slightly off.  

I fire twin Hellbore blasts point-blank at the incoming bombs.  
I rock on my treads. The overpressure knocks my commander and the miners flat. 
Both incoming bombs vanish in a hellish flare of light. Radioactive isotopes 
scatter across my war hull and the three humans lying flat behind me. The bombs 
have not detonated, merely spilled their contents, which was my intended 
purpose. My commander snatches up her companions and shouts at them to run. They 
stagger forward while I scan for more incoming missiles. Seeing none, I check 
telemetry from the wildlife monitoring cameras we have set up and determine the 
moment is ripe. Further delay will only lessen the effectiveness of the blow I 
am about to strike.  
I send out a radio pulse, signaling the detonation systems in the trenches.  
Explosions and the weird, chopped-off screams of the enemy drift on the grey 
morning air. I retreat toward my commander and pivot so that my access ladder is 
directly beside her and the civilians. "Commander, all three of you have been 
exposed to dangerous levels of radioactive isotopes from the fusion bombs I have 
destroyed. Please strip off contaminated clothing and come aboard at once, to 
begin chelating treatments in my command compartment."
Alessandra DiMario snarls, "Strip, dammit!" even as she wrenches at the zips and 
fasteners of her uniform. "There are observation couches with autodocs built 
into them, up there. Move!"
They strip to the skin, then climb, moving very fast, indeed. I turn jets of 
water on them, spraying them down to rinse away as much of the residue as 
possible—while blessing my designers for building such a feature into my 
external chassis, anticipating potential need for battlefield decontamination. I 
open my command compartment hatch and the civilians tumble inside, half climbing 
and half sliding down, dripping water and shaking with cold from the frigid wind 
which has been blowing across their drenched skin and hair. I dial up the heat 
in the command compartment, turning fans onto high, while Alessandra shoves them 
into the observation couches and slaps restraints into place. I swing autodocs 
over them and commence treatment even as my commander throws herself into the 
command chair and engages restraints. I have already closed my command hatch by 
the time her own autodoc sends medication racing into her bloodstream, 
countering the effects of radiation exposure and chelating the isotopes already 
absorbed. 
The battle is well under way as I swing my attention and my guns toward the 
enemy. The carbon-arm trebuchet operates with surprising efficiency, reloaded by 
waiting miners the instant the arm swings back down to loading height. As the 
enemy comes surging up out of the ravines and gullies, fleeing the death waiting 
for them there, the deadly rain from our marble throwers and automated gun 
systems begins to wreak a terrible havoc.  
I fire at targets which appear to pose the greatest threat, attempting to 
control the wild inaccuracies of my guidance and control systems. I now 
understand what it would be like to be stricken with palsy. Human lives are at 
risk and I cannot control my own weapons systems. I charge forward, firing 
massively, rather than accurately, and know savage satisfaction when enemy 
warriors go down before my guns. Other warriors, weaponless and bloodied, turn 
to flee from my roaring treads and mortar fire.  
"They're running!" The gasp of surprise breaks from Ginger Gianesco. 
The enemy is, indeed, running. In blind, terrified desperation. The Tersae 
attack groups have been so badly shaken, even their suicide squads, far to the 
fore in their efforts to gain the wall, now turn to flee. The defenders shoot 
them down ruthlessly, firing into broad, fur covered backs which make easy 
targets for the enraged miners. 
"Shall I pursue or consolidate defense efforts here?" I ask as the surviving 
Tersae warriors vanish into the cover of what little forest I have allowed to 
remain standing. "Odds are approximately 98.7 percent that they will make 
directly for home. If they lead us to their base camp, we could render it 
inoperative, accomplishing our long-term goals quickly. We might also be able to 
secure undamaged samples of the technology they have been using to conduct the 
war."
My commander turns slightly in her command chair to catch the eye of 
Rustenberg's Operations Director behind her. "Do you have the medical facilities 
to treat exposure to radiation?"
Ginger Gianesco thins her lips. "Not anything like a full clinic, I'm afraid. 
And we didn't come out here prepared to mine radioactives, so we're shy on some 
of what we ought to have. But there's enough to keep us going until there's time 
for full treatment, somewhere. I've treated radiation sickness in other mining 
operations, so I'm no neophyte."
"In that case, I'd suggest we drop you off here. There's no telling what we're 
going to run into, out there. Your people need you here, both of you."
"Thank you for everything you've done, Captain," Gianesco says with a catch in 
her voice. "More than I can say."
"Our pleasure, Director. Let's get you out of here, so Senator and I can go 
finish off the job properly." I rush across the rubble field to pivot and stop 
next to the defended wall. A ragged cheer rises from the defenders. I am both 
surprised and honored by the salute. Ginger Gianesco and Hank Umlani unstrap 
from their couches as I remove the autodocs. 
My commander does her best to reassure them. "Senator's autodoc systems have 
given you the critical first treatment. We'll do our best to finish this up 
fast, so we can get you back into the autodocs as soon as possible. There are 
spare coveralls in a compartment behind your couches, by the way," she adds with 
a slight smile. All three humans are as naked as newborn infants. Our passengers 
respond with rusty chuckles. 
As they slither into coveralls and climb toward my hatch, I bid them farewell. 
"It has been an honor to serve with you."
Ginger Gianesco hesitates for three heartbeats in the exit hatch. "You come back 
and tell us about it, Senator, you hear me?"
I am deeply touched. "I will do my best, Ms. Gianesco."
She nods sharply. "That's all anyone can ask. Thank you, Senator."
They climb swiftly down, stepping from my war hull to the top of the wall, where 
they are welcomed by their own. I close the hatch, pausing just long enough for 
my commander to finish slipping on her own coverall. As she returns to my 
command chair, I back away carefully, pivot, and charge across the open rubble 
field once more. I have tasted blood. Before this business is done, I will do a 
great deal more than simply taste it. My commander watches my forward viewscreen 
through narrowed eyes as my sensors track telltale heat signatures through the 
trees ahead. 
"Still running hard, aren't they? Good. Follow 'em, but not too closely."
"Understood, Commander." I launch an aerial drone, having kept them in reserve 
for just such a contingency. The drone races skyward, scanning the terrain ahead 
and monitoring the crashing, terrified progress of our prey. I detect thirteen 
heat signatures in a cluster, with a fourteenth far ahead of the others. "Looks 
like somebody panicked and ran sooner than the rest," my commander says drolly. 
"If we cut to the east of these trees," I flash a superimposed map over the 
images from the drone, "I can pursue without having to grind down timber to 
follow. Smashing down trees will make a great deal more noise and might well 
cause the enemy to veer course from their home base. I have sufficient aerial 
drones on board to track them through the remaining forest cover, even if the 
enemy recovers enough sense to begin shooting them down."
"Good plan. Do it."
I turn to the east, circling the stand of trees, which allows the panic-stricken 
enemy to believe they have eluded me. They slow slightly in their headlong rush, 
staggering and gasping, offering one another assistance as battlefield injuries 
make themselves felt. I realize for the first time that substantial size 
differences exist among the individuals, with some topping a full eight feet in 
height and others reaching no higher than an average human female, nearly a 
meter shorter than the tallest individuals. As I ponder possible explanations 
for these differences, I am deeply startled to receive a command-frequency hail 
from near orbit.  
"CSS Darknight to all Bolo units in the field, file VSR, please."
"Good God!" Alessandra stares. "The Darknight? That's a heavy cruiser!"
I respond to the request for VSR. "Unit SPQ/R-561 of the line, reporting. 
Captain Alessandra DiMario, commanding."
"DiMario here," my commander takes over the VSR. "We are engaged in pursuit of 
enemy forces" —she glances at a side screen for the distance— "zero point nine 
kilometers east of Rustenberg. We have repelled a substantial attack here and 
are tracking survivors to their home base. If you can spare a medical shuttle, 
Rustenberg's Operations Director and Chief of Fabrications could use a full 
course of antiradiation treatments. We had a near miss with a couple of fusion 
bombs. If Senator hadn't destroyed them, there'd be nothing left of Rustenberg 
but slag."
"Understood, Captain," a crisp female voice responds. "We'll send a team down as 
soon as we can. We've brought five more Bolo units with us, which we've fielded 
to undefended colonies. If you need help, we're in parking orbit with the 
destroyer CSS Vengeance. We'll watch your backs from up here, in case whatever's 
arming those birds decides to intervene. Darknight out."
"Roger that, and thanks. DiMario out." My commander frowns, tapping her fingers 
against the padded console under her hand. "Now there's an ugly thought," she 
mutters. "I really want a look at whatever those things have stockpiled in their 
base camp. And where the devil are the Tersae keeping that camp? Does your drone 
see any heat signatures that would indicate an aboveground encampment large 
enough to support as many personnel as we've already killed?"
I widen the range of the drone's sensors, which have been focused tightly on the 
fleeing Tersae. "No, Commander, there are no heat plumes besides Rustenberg's 
within a fifteen-kilometer radius of the drone. Shall I boost it to a higher 
altitude?"
"No, launch a second drone. I don't want to lose sight of those things, which we 
could do if they jump into a narrow ravine and take shelter under an overhang or 
in a cave somewhere, while the drone's looking for heat plumes."
I launch a second drone, boosting it to a higher altitude. There are still no 
visible heat plumes besides Rustenberg's. "I have scanned a fifty-kilometer 
radius, with negative results. Any shelter the Tersae are heading for must be 
underground, to shield the heat of campfires this thoroughly. If," I add 
thoughtfully, "the Tersae require cooked food or campfires for warmth."
"Huh," my commander grunts. "With those beaks of theirs, they could well eat raw 
meat. And I suppose it's possible they wouldn't need shelter or warmth to 
survive a Thulian winter. Presumably most of the wildlife gets along just fine. 
But whatever their tolerance for winter weather, they're using advanced 
technology and that wouldn't fare too well if left out in freezing rain or 
blizzard conditions. I think you're right, Senator, they've got an underground 
hidey-hole."
I study the geological map provided by Rustenberg's Operations Director, but it 
reveals too little about subterranean features to be of substantial use. I 
monitor data feed from both drones, watching the straggling enemy as it limps 
toward home. Having swung wide around the stand of trees which has given the 
enemy a false sense of security, I slow to a crawl and parallel enemy progress 
toward their unknown destination.  
The lone Tersae survivor running far in advance of the others vanishes into a 
ravine. A heat plume rises abruptly in a visible beacon. I send the drone lower, 
angling its cameras to peer into the shadowed depths. The narrow ravine hides 
the opening to a cavern of unknown dimensions. A well-fitted cover has been 
stretched across the entrance. It was the opening of this cover that sent the 
heat plume skyward.  
We have found the enemy's base camp.  
Two point zero three minutes later, I detect a strong radio signal originating 
from the ravine. Startled, I lock on and hear a burst of alien chatter. My 
commander leans forward, expression intent.  
"If I had to place a bet," she mutters, "I'd say they're yelling for help."
"Agreed, Commander. The signal is both powerful and directional, aimed at 
something in orbit."
My commander hails the CSS Darknight. "Darknight, DiMario here. We are picking 
up a Tersae radio transmission aimed at an orbital target. Do you hear the 
signal?"
"Roger and affirmative, we've got it." A brief pause ensues. "It's tripped a 
relay system inside an orbiting satellite. We're warping orbit to attempt 
capture."
"Roger that, Darknight. We'll apprise you of further developments on the 
ground."
The cluster of Tersae warriors following the front-runner has reached the same 
steep-sided ravine, climbing down by means of a rough trail hacked out of native 
rock. My commander speaks softly. "All right, Senator, it's payback time. Let's 
go."
Savage satisfaction floods my ego-gestalt circuitry, skittering weirdly through 
the tangle of jury-rigged connections between older and newer psychotronic 
systems. As I rev up my drive engines to battle speed, I hope that my 
malfunctioning systems hold together long enough to destroy the enemy and take 
its base camp intact for the intel specialists. Then I slash my way into the 
forest with a ponderous crash of falling timber and close in for the kill.  
 








Chapter Sixteen
Wakiza had not yet recovered his own strength when the other survivors, shaking 
and exhausted, crawled into the warmth and safety of the winter nest. Moments 
later, they all jerked upright again at the sound of distant crashing through 
the forest. The stone of the cavern floor began to rumble underfoot, as the 
earth had done when the great metal ogre had charged toward them.
"The ogre!" Wakiza gasped. "It's coming!"
Exhausted, wounded warriors exchanged sick looks of fear, then staggered up 
again, snatching up weapons in shaking hands. Cries of fright rose on all sides 
from the women and little ones. The akule's voice rose authoritatively. "Get the 
little ones into the deepest cavern! Anyone capable of holding a weapon, arm 
yourself and move out, quickly. We must stop the ogre before it reaches the 
nest!"
Already, half-grown boys were struggling to carry out the last of the missiles 
from the weapons-cache cavern. Wakiza hoisted a missile to his shoulder, grabbed 
up a replacement for the rifle he'd lost, and rushed out into the cold morning, 
climbing the path up from the bottom of the ravine. The ground shook underfoot. 
A hideous, terrifying growl filled the air, while the snap and crash of 
full-grown trees sounded loud as gunfire in the distance.
Wakiza began to run, sobbing for breath as the rest of the surviving warriors 
joined him. A glance behind showed him a ragged line of women, pupils wide with 
terror, carrying rifles and struggling to control their panic. Rage formed a hot 
and stone-hard knot in his breast. That it should come to this! Arming women to 
defend the very nest! A whisper at the back of his skull, that this threat to 
clan and nestlings was no less than what they, themselves, had sought to inflict 
on the humans, was a breath of sacrilege through his mind. He snarled at the 
fleeting guilt that thought stirred to life and ran through the trees, weapons 
clutched tightly in his grip. Now was not the time to debate the wisdom of 
actions long since taken.
The ogre's snarl had reached deafening proportions when he saw the great metal 
hulk of the thing towering higher than the trees. Wakiza dropped to brace one 
knee against the frozen ground, taking aim with his one missile. He took careful 
aim at the wicked gun snouts high above him, then slapped the plunger on his 
missile. A blast of heat scorched his shoulder as the weapon flew toward its 
target. Wakiza rolled and ran, not even waiting to see if the missile struck, 
flinging himself prone behind an outcropping of rock. Fire belched through the 
trees and the shock wave of a massive explosion shook the ground.
Then he was up and running again, trying to get around to the side of the metal 
monster as it kept coming, invincible, unstoppable. He caught sight of other 
warriors firing missiles, saw terrified women dropping to their knees, fumbling 
with weapons they had only the vaguest notions of how to fire. The ogre's gun 
snouts belched flame and death. Trees crashed all around, cut off like twigs by 
the ogre's guns. Screams of pain and terror echoed through the forest. Wakiza 
fired his rifle at the thing, hating with a maddened red haze. Guns higher off 
the ground than three fully grown warriors spat at him. He threw himself prone 
as flame and explosions erupted everywhere around him.
And still it kept coming. Missiles detonated against its sides without effect.
Sobbing in terror and frustration, Wakiza wondered with a despairing howl, Why 
have the Ones Above forsaken us? Can't they hear our frantic pleadings? Have 
they no eyes to see our distress? They were alone in this glade of death, 
abandoned to the monstrous shape of the enemy's guns, with no hope remaining. 
All that remained was to die in defense of home and nestlings. Wakiza hurled 
himself forward, screaming out his hatred as the only antidote to terror.
 








Chapter Seventeen
I run a gauntlet of enemy fire.  
Their missiles, fired at point-blank ranges, pass my malfunctioning gun systems 
with devastating ease, wreaking havoc with my forward sensor arrays and 
small-arms systems. My commander grits her teeth as we grind forward, slashing 
out as best we can with poorly aimed salvos from my infinite repeaters and chain 
guns. The enemy falls sporadically, crushed under my treads when I pass over 
those who fall wounded in front of my prow. Many of those opposing us fire 
awkwardly, as though they do not know how to use the weapons in their hands.  
"They're throwing everything they've got into the defense," my commander says in 
a hushed voice. "Look at the difference in size and personal decorations. Those 
are Tersae females down there."
I believe my commander to be correct.  
Slaughtering females who are all but helpless is distasteful, but the enemy has 
shown no mercy to human females and children. I press forward through the 
scattered defenders, determined to neutralize the threat from this base camp. 
The deep-fissured ravine appears through a thin screen of remaining trees. I 
grind them down and angle my guns to fire into the deep cavern at the bottom.  
Ion-bolt infinite repeaters bark and snarl, whipping through the flimsy covering 
across the cavern entrance, vaporizing it and part of the rock with it. Weird, 
alien screams rise from beneath the stone overhang. Mortars streak upwards 
toward my hull, half of them detonating against the rocky walls of the ravine. 
The remainder arc high overhead. I angle my upper turret guns toward them, 
knocking down five of the seven incoming rounds. The remaining two detonate 
against my turret. Pain spreads through damaged sensor arrays. I fire VLS 
missiles and more ion bolts into the ravine, chewing away at the stone of the 
cavern entrance. Smoke and rocky debris choke the air.  
Surviving enemy ground forces rush forward from behind me and along my flanks, 
firing ineffectually with rifles and grenades. I scatter antipersonnel mines and 
devote my main attention to taking the base camp. Another blast from ion-bolt 
infinite repeaters smashes into the cavern entrance and a massive chunk of rock 
shifts and falls, collapsing down from the ceiling. Screams erupt inside the 
cavern once again. The enemy does not return fire. Zero point eight minutes 
after the partial collapse of the cavern roof, Tersae begin staggering from the 
cavern entrance. I take aim with antipersonnel systems . . .  
Then pause, startled.  
The Tersae hold no weapons. But neither are they attempting to surrender.  
They are fleeing something terrible within their own cavern. Those staggering 
into the open are falling, twitching horribly. Blood appears, oozing from body 
cavities, pouring from beneath skin and fur.  
"Omigod," Alessandra breaths, her voice raw with horror. "Something's broken 
open a container of chemical war agents! Or maybe biologicals." Her voice goes 
dark with rage. "Those goddamned bastards gave biochemical warfare compounds to 
stone-age savages!"
I notice with a chill of horror through all my systems that the few surviving 
Tersae who have been trailing me, firing rifles into my rear armor, have begun 
to stagger, already falling down and writhing in massive spasms. There is no 
time for consulting anyone, even my commander. I fire Hellbores into the ravine, 
again and again, turning the entire cavern to molten slag in my efforts to 
destroy as much of the unknown biological or chemical agent as possible before 
it can spread.  
"Warn Rustenberg to evacuate," I say. "I've done what I can to contain most of 
the spill inside that cavern, Commander, but I can't destroy the compound that's 
already escaped. Rustenberg is directly in the wind-dispersal pattern."
Her hand shakes as she reaches for the controls on her command chair. "How long 
do they have and how far do they have to run?"
I check wind speed and direction. "Seven minutes, Commander. They need to reach 
a point forty kilometers due north within seven minutes."
"My God," she chokes out, "they'll never do it in time." She slaps controls. 
"DiMario here. Evacuate Rustenberg immediately; repeat, evacuate Rustenberg 
immediately! The Tersae have released an unknown biochemical warfare agent into 
the atmosphere. You are at critical risk. You have seven minutes to reach a safe 
zone forty kilometers due north of Rustenberg."
The familiar voice of the Operations Director gasps across the connection, 
"Gianesco here. We don't have enough transports to evacuate everyone!" She then 
snarls at someone else, voice swinging away from her comm link, "Dammit, move 
those children faster!"
Another voice breaks into the conversation, a terse female voice. "Lieutenant 
Carter here, en route to Rustenberg aboard a Darknight transport shuttle. We 
dropped from orbit three minutes ago. We're jettisoning medical equipment to 
make room for evacuees. We're ETA your location two minutes at maximum speed."
"How many can you take out?" Ginger Gianesco's voice is ragged, raw. 
"Seventy adults, maximum, inside the shuttle, and that's stripping her to the 
deckplates. Lieutenant Commander Lundquist is doing that right now. If you can 
pack people into one of those big ore containers, we have the engine capacity to 
lift it out with us."
"We'll cram 'em in 'til they can't breathe," the Operations Director vows. "Set 
down at the mineworks, we'll be waiting there with everyone we can't ship out in 
our own aircars. Gianesco out."
There is nothing further my commander and I can do for the civilians we have 
come here to protect. We are too far from Rustenberg to reach it, even at 
maximum speed, and even if we could reach the town in time, my war hull is 
thoroughly contaminated. Indeed, my commander is now trapped in the command 
compartment. I watch that realization dawn in her eyes, see the terror rise with 
cruel devastation as memory of lying trapped inside another Bolo breaks through 
her awareness.  
"I am with you, Commander," I say gently. "This time, you are not alone."
Her breath is ragged as she nods. "Yes. I know. Thank you, Senator. I'll be . . 
. fine."
Her shiver belies her words, but she holds onto the shreds of her composure, 
eyes closed, lips trembling as she wages an internal battle to rival the one we 
have just come through. I sit beside the blasted cavern, surrounded by the 
enemy's dead, and hate the unknown creatures who have wrought this devastation. 
Whoever, whatever, wherever they are, they must be made to pay. The contaminated 
wind whistles across my turret, racing toward Rustenberg and the desperate 
refugees trying to flee. Oh, yes, this unknown enemy must be made to pay.  
Most dearly, indeed.  
 








Chapter Eighteen
"John!" I hail my commander through the comm link, urgently. "Trouble at 
Rustenberg!"
I relay the messages I have picked up from the Darknight's descending shuttle 
and from Unit SPQ/R-561 and his commander. I forward a second VSR outbound from 
Unit SPQ/R-561. 
"—preliminary data indicate a type of rapidly acting neurotoxin. I have taken 
tissue samples for analysis. I have also discovered the carcasses of a 
flightless bird species which shares a probable 99 percent matching genetic 
material with the Tersae. The timing of their deaths indicates a high 
probability that these animals also died within three minutes of contact. All 
Units of the Line, be advised to use extreme caution when attacking any Tersae 
home base."
My commander snarls a curse through the comm link. This is, indeed, dire news. 
Not only are the colonists at Rustenberg at serious risk, it will be difficult 
to effectively neutralize the Tersae as a fighting force without the ability to 
attack their camps. My commander, voice rasping with tension, speaks brusquely. 
"I'm coming aboard, Rapier. Get your duralloy backside up this bluff, stat. And 
get me a link to General McIntyre. Patch it through the Darknight, if you have 
to, but get him."
I establish the contact while racing up the wide road to the top of the bluff. I 
am forced to relay through the Darknight, as General McIntyre's duty station is 
on a continent on the opposite side of the planet. The General's response is 
terse. 
"McIntyre here. This better be good, Weyman, we've got one hell of a crisis 
under way."
"Request permission to depart Seta Point for Eisenbrucke Station immediately, 
sir. If the Tersae have biochemical weaponry, that research station is now our 
top priority. We need the scientists there, badly. It would take days to get 
another research team here—and with a weapon like SPQ/R-561 just described, we 
may not have days."
"God, I hate it when you're right, Colonel. How soon can you be there?"
"Rapier?"
"If we encounter no significant obstacles, we could reach Eisenbrucke Station 
within thirty minutes."
"Then get moving," General McIntyre responds crisply. 
"Roger that. Darknight, has this damned weather cleared Eisenbrucke yet?"
The communications officer aboard the naval transport responds negatively as I 
reach the top of the bluff and slew around to a halt, waiting for my commander's 
arrival. "Afraid not, Colonel. They're deeper into the storm front than Seta 
Point and still under thick cloud cover."
"I was afraid of that." My commander's voice is breathy with the sound of 
running. He appears through the swirl of falling snow, moving fast. Several Seta 
Point civilians run with him while John issues final instructions for the town's 
defense in our absence. My commander clasps hands with the town's operations 
director, who wishes him luck. 
"Thanks," my commander responds grimly. "I have an awful feeling we're going to 
need it."
My commander hauls himself up the ladder, climbing awkwardly with his elbow 
locked in a brace. I pop my hatch open and John clambers aboard, sliding down 
into the command chair.  
"Go."
I turn cautiously while civilians stumble back to a safer distance, then launch 
myself down the slick road at the greatest speed I can safely make. Once we 
reach the flat river plain, I open up my engines, crossing the alluvial flatness 
at maximum sustainable battle speed, aware that I will be forced to slow the 
pace once into the badlands which surround Eisenbrucke Station. The ride jolts 
my commander badly, but there is nothing I can do to cushion him that the 
command chair is not already doing.  
"Are there any maps of cavern systems on this ice ball?" my commander asks 
abruptly. 
"No, John. The initial surveys conducted by the planetary scouts were not 
comprehensive enough for that. If the Thule Research Expedition has filed such 
reports, they were not available to Sector Command. The scientists have only 
been in place three months and may not have filed any reports at all." I 
consider another possible avenue of inquiry. "We could request the Ministry of 
Mineral Resources to check their archives. Given their sponsorship of the 
expedition as well as the colonies, they would be the agency most likely to 
receive such reports, if they exist."
"God, what a helluva way to run a war. We're thirty minutes away and the only 
way to ask is to send a SWIFT message all the way to the Inner Worlds. All 
right, do it. Relay through the Darknight, Code Delta Zulu One. And query Sector 
Command, while you're at it. Just on the unlikely chance Bessany overcame her 
hatred long enough to try contacting me."
I wince at the bitterness in my commander's voice as I send the communiqués, 
requesting the Darknight to expedite under the most urgent code a field officer 
can use to obtain critical data. It will take time for us to receive answers, 
even using SWIFT transmission. I leave the flat alluvial plain behind and climb 
into the badlands, angling toward Eisenbrucke Station at reduced speed. 
The blinding snow worsens as we press deeper into the storm. High winds engulf 
my war hull, whistling past at speeds gusting in excess of 75 kilometers per 
hour. I am forced to a slow crawl, using radar to probe my way ahead, blinded in 
all my other sensors by the white-out conditions of the blizzard.  
Eleven point three minutes after the CSS Darknight sent our messages via SWIFT, 
we receive a response from the Ministry of Mineral Resources. The team at 
Eisenbrucke Station has, indeed, filed reports. There is no mention of cavern 
systems in any of them. But the reports forwarded by Bessany Weyman leave my 
commander pale with rage. 
"My God!" he explodes. "What in hell were those bureaucratic jackasses doing, 
sitting on these?"
Thirty-seven seconds later, we receive the response from Sector Command, and it 
is even worse. Bessany Weyman has attempted to contact my commander. Five times. 
Her reports, full copies of those sent to the Ministry of Mineral Resources, 
include further notations indicating copies have also been sent to the Ministry 
of Xenology. None of her messages were forwarded to our duty station at the 
front lines of the Deng conflict. The reason for this is as simple as it is 
devastating: Bessany Weyman, as widowed sister-in-law, lacks the status of 
immediate family. Her messages therefore languished in a no-man's land of 
electronic limbo.  
John Weyman is unable to speak for nineteen point zero seven seconds after 
receiving these messages, the most recent of which were sent just after the 
Tersae attacks began, imploring John to make someone listen to her. When he is 
capable of speech, my commander whispers in a terrible voice, "Get General 
McIntyre again. Get him on the line and forward these reports to him, stat."
I comply instantly, appalled by the blunders which have left Bessany Weyman's 
urgent messages spooled in limbo at Sector Command and utterly disregarded by 
the Ministries of Mineral Resources and Xenology.  
"McIntyre here. What is it, Colonel?"
"We got trouble, General. Oh, Christ, we got trouble. I'm sending you the 
reports Eisenbrucke Station filed, by priority bounce."
"Eisenbrucke Station filed reports? On the Tersae?" General McIntyre's question 
is sharp. 
"Damn right, they did. The xeno-ecologist is my sister-in-law, General. She made 
contact with the Tersae three months ago and started filing immediate reports, 
which she copied to me at Sector Command. If anybody at either Ministry had 
actually read them, those reports would've been sent all the way to Central 
Command, covered with red flags. And nobody at Sector bothered to forward them 
to me on Sherman's World."
General McIntyre has a creative vocabulary. Even after fifteen years with John 
Weyman, I am deeply impressed. I do not fully understand the human compulsion to 
alter their language usage when under stress, but I have become conversant with 
much of this stress-induced vocabulary. General McIntyre puts my own meager 
knowledge to shame as he fires off commands to his adjutant to send a blistering 
message to the Minister of Xenology, demanding immediate and full analysis of 
Bessany Weyman's reports.  
"Mother Bear," he mutters, "it's going to take time to plough through this 
stuff."
"I know," my commander agrees in a grim and angry tone. 
"Get to Eisenbrucke as fast as possible, Colonel, and let's hope to God those 
people are still alive. McIntyre out."
John breaks off the transmission and begins to read. I compress the messages and 
play them for myself at higher speed, looking for critical information at a much 
faster rate than the human mind can absorb such data. Even so, I have not yet 
digested the lengthy reports, which are quite astonishing, before we reach the 
edge of the valley sheltering Eisenbrucke Station. I probe carefully with radar, 
looking for the ramp which our records show was constructed for egress of heavy 
equipment. I find it within zero point five seconds of arrival.  
"I have located the ramp. ETA Eisenbrucke Station, three minutes."
My commander nods, pale with tension. He continues to read, which is currently 
the best use of his time, since we can see nothing through the blowing snow. I 
inch down the ramp, two hundred feet above the valley floor. I am deeply uneasy, 
for my treads are wider than the ramp, making the turns harrowing even without 
high winds buffeting my war hull. We lurch and grind our way downward, crumbling 
the edge and sliding on the occasional patch of thick ice which has accumulated 
in the corners of the sloping turns. My commander's knuckles show white where he 
grips the armrests of his command chair. He has stopped reading. When I reach 
level ground at last, I am nearly euphoric with the joy of having made it down 
without sliding off and crushing my commander. We have already crash-landed once 
on Thule. I do not wish to repeat the experience.  
"My radar is picking up a great deal of debris," I am forced to inform him 
almost immediately. 
"What kind?" His voice goes hoarse with stress. 
I probe ahead as my treads grind across the first scattered remains of what 
appears to have been a substantial stand of trees. "Something has taken down a 
broad swath of the forest in this valley. This does not appear to be battle 
damage. I pick up no chemical signatures from high explosives. I do not detect 
the burn scars typical of energy weapons. If forced to guess, I would say these 
trees were hit by a violent wind force. There is a great deal of twisting damage 
to the trunks my treads are passing across."
"Twisting damage?" my commander echoes. "As in a twister? A tornado?"
"The type of damage is consistent with tornadic winds, yes."
"What about the research compound?" he asks grimly. 
My radar signals bounce off the compound's buildings, which are one hundred 
twenty-seven meters away. "The compound is partially intact," I say, trying to 
put as much positive spin on the situation as I can manage, for my commander's 
sake. Several buildings have been completely flattened and others appear to be 
entirely missing. "I do not believe the Tersae can be responsible for what 
happened in this valley."
"No," John mutters, studying the radar echoes on my forward data screen. "But a 
tornado?" He scrubs his face with unsteady hands. "Any signs of life at all?"
"I detect several strong heat sources in various buildings," I respond 
hopefully, "and there are active power emissions from the research station's 
power plant." I continue to scan, speeding up to reach the broken compound more 
quickly. I detect motion and a moving heat source emerging from one of the 
damaged buildings. It clearly originates from a biological life form. It is too 
large to be human. I grieve. I rage. I target the hated heat source. "Enemy 
sighted," I am forced to say. "Shall I engage?"
A terrible sound breaks from my commander's throat. Then, raggedly, "No. I want 
the bastards alive."
"Understood, Commander."
I rush forward to engage the Tersae who have come like carrion crows to fight 
over the remains. In the idiom of Old Earth, the time has come to go crow 
hunting.  
 








Chapter Nineteen
Ginger Gianesco had never scrambled so hard in her life.
The few transports they had left were either far too small or far too slow. The 
big ore transports would never make a forty-kilometer dash in seven minutes, not 
with a top speed of ten KPH. And the aircars . . .
"Pack the smallest children into those scout cars!" she shouted into her radio, 
which relayed her instructions through loudspeakers that were part of the 
meeting hall's emergency system. The mob of refugees crowded aside, making way 
for anyone with children. "Move it, people!" When the volunteer packing the 
first aircar in line tried to close the hatch with only five kids aboard, Ginger 
snatched it open again. "Pack 'em in tighter, dammit! I don't care if they can 
breathe or not, stuff 'em in and redline those engines, but get 'em full!"
She could hear Hank Umlani talking to the pilot of the descending medical 
shuttle by radio, asking what kind of harness to rig on the ore carrier they'd 
be packing full of nearly everyone in town. Hank's problem, she told herself 
harshly. Confused, frightened children were pulled, shoved, stuffed into the 
aircars, toddlers and infants passed over by frantic mothers.
"I need teenagers with pilot ratings! Stat!"
She found seven skinny kids, thirteen and fourteen years old, to pilot the 
aircars, saving the space an adult pilot would've taken up. They used the space 
savings to pack extra little ones into the cockpit. Five children, six, seven, 
ten children crammed into cabin space designed for two adults and a minimum of 
equipment. Seven surviving aircars, a hundred kids under the age of fifteen. The 
numbers were against them. Ruthlessly, Ginger dragged out of line anybody older 
than twelve.
"Go!" she shouted as each car was filled to capacity.
Engines whined, protesting the overload as the aircars lifted, one by one, over 
the wall and sped northward. Ginger didn't have time to watch them go. "Adults 
and teens, to the refinery! The Darknight shuttle's going to airlift the rest of 
us out in an ore freightbox. Go, go, go!"
People ran, slid on icy patches, carried those too injured to run on their own, 
hauling them through the gap in the defensive wall where the Bolo had knocked a 
hole in it. Ginger ran through the shelters, the meeting hall, the warehouse, 
checking to be certain everyone was out.
They were.
She arrived at the refinery with a burning stitch down her side. Hank Umlani had 
already divided the arrivals: teens and anyone under 5' 5" in line for the 
medical shuttle, everybody else into an empty freightbox. A team of five worked 
feverishly under Hank's direction, rigging steel cables for a cargo sling. The 
cargo freightbox was an immense steel oblong, designed to haul a full ton of 
refined saganium ore for transfer to an orbital ore freighter. It boasted hinged 
doors at the top for easy loading at Rustenberg's refinery and a hopper-type 
door at one end, which could be tilted over the hopper of an off-world 
fabrications plant, dumping the refined ore directly into the smelting furnaces.
That hopper door made an emergency entrance for the crowd of refugees.
"No shoving," Ginger shouted as the line threatened to disintegrate into 
shambles. "We've still got time." The line settled down, moving faster once 
order had been reestablished. Reassured that loading was going as smoothly as 
possible, Ginger craned her neck skyward. She spotted it within seconds, the 
flare of light that marked the Darknight's incoming shuttle. Ginger checked her 
watch. Four minutes, twelve seconds to reach safety . . .
The shuttle fired braking engines at a terrifyingly low altitude, rocking 
visibly. The pilot fought the bucking craft, having waited until the last 
possible second to reduce speed. They came in at an angle and set down four 
yards from the line of teenagers, at exactly T-minus-four minutes. Pneumatic 
doors opened with a hiss. A uniformed officer jumped down and beckoned urgently.
"Go!" Ginger shouted. "No shoving, but keep moving! Go!"
Seventy people, the shuttle pilot had said. By packing in teens and the shortest 
adults, they crammed in eighty, loading them in one minute forty-three seconds. 
The officer—introduced over one shoulder as "Lieutenant Commander Gerhard 
Lundquist, Assistant Ship's Surgeon"—called out, "Okay, Carter, we're loaded up. 
I'll help 'em hook up that cargo carrier."
Ginger led him toward the cable crew at a dead run. "Hank! You got those cables 
ready?"
"That's a roger, but we're not fully loaded yet."
"Hook 'em up now, we can't wait 'til the loading's done!"
Hank's crew dragged the long loops of cable back to the shuttle, where the 
ship's surgeon helped fasten them to cargo hooks fore and aft. The team had the 
cables hooked and secured in sixty-eight seconds flat. Loading proceeded 
unbroken, moving at a frenzied pace. The cargo bin had already swallowed more 
than five hundred people, jammed in standing on the floor, even on one another's 
shoulders. Ginger helped push in the last three-hundred-plus refugees, ignoring 
cries of pain as elbow, knees, and feet jabbed, knocked, and stepped on tender 
regions. Hank shoved in his assistants last, then bodily lifted Ginger onto 
someone's shoulders—several someones, judging from the bony projections shifting 
under her hips and shoulderblades. Hank was shouting at the surgeon, "Somebody's 
gotta latch this shut and drop the bars from the outside!"
"Get in—I'll take care of it!"
As Ginger craned her neck around to look, Hank sucked in his nonexistent gut and 
slid between several sets of feet. The big steel hopper doors swung ponderously 
shut with a massive, reverberating clang. The heavy bars slammed down, pegging 
the doors into place. Ginger counted off the seconds on her glowing wrist 
chrono's dial, waiting for the shuttle's liftoff. Her radio sputtered. She heard 
the surgeon snarling at the pilot, "Go, dammit! I knew the risk when I signed 
on. There's not room back there for a housefly and you know damned well we've 
got kids jammed so tight into the pilot's compartment, you'll need a crowbar to 
get 'em out. Go!"
Omigod . . .  
The shuttle's engines whined savagely. There was one godawful jerk as the cargo 
carrier shifted. Gasps and cries of pain bounced off steel walls. Then they 
swayed into the air, tilting slightly in the way of cargo slung beneath an 
airborne transport. They picked up speed. They were moving fast already and kept 
accelerating. Ginger desperately tried not to think about that young surgeon 
back there, who had just volunteered for suicide, if the unknown war agent was 
as deadly to humans as it was to Tersae. Her vision didn't want to focus 
properly.
Think about what we accomplished, she told herself fiercely. Seventy-seven kids 
out in Rustenberg's aircars. Eighty more in the shuttle. Another eight hundred 
twelve adults and teens stacked like cordwood under Ginger's battered, bruised 
backside. All racing potential death through the clouds.
They had sixty-two seconds to travel forty kilometers.
And unless the gods were very kind, that courageous surgeon had only sixty-two 
seconds left to live.
 








Chapter Twenty
If Bessany hadn't been in the med lab again, one corner of which still boasted a 
temporary covering to keep out the snow, she might not have heard it in time. As 
it was, she became aware of the approaching noise just after Chilaili left the 
room, heading out to fetch more wood for the cookfires. Bessany jerked her head 
up and listened. Something enormous was approaching across the ruins of the 
forest, moving at a high rate of speed and grinding whole tree trunks under an 
immense weight, crushing them with a snapping, grating sound. After an instant 
of total befuddlement, she realized what it must be. A chill of horror raced 
down her spine.
"Chilaili!" She broke and ran, shouting at the Tersae who would, by now, be in 
the approaching Bolo's gunsights. "Chilaili!" Bessany skidded outside, slipped 
and slid through the snow to where the Tersae had stopped, swivelling her head 
in puzzlement from the noise of the approaching war machine to Bessany's 
wide-eyed, coatless rush forward.
"What—?" the Tersae began.
"Get down!" Bessany shouted, hurtling herself between the katori and the massive 
weapon bearing down on them from the blizzard. It was going to fire, any second 
now . . . Wicked gun snouts appeared through the blinding white whirl of snow, 
towering above them. Antipersonnel guns were trained straight at them.
"Don't shoot!" Bessany screamed at it, flinging out both hands in a hopeless 
gesture. It ground to a halt less than five meters away and sat motionless while 
Bessany's deafening heartbeats slammed against her chest. She couldn't even see 
all of it, just part of the prow with its bristling weapons and the fronts of 
its immense treads. "Chilaili," she gasped out, "as you love life, don't move! 
Don't even breathe!"
She heard a hatch opening somewhere above, which startled her, heard the clatter 
of feet on metal. Then a man appeared through the wind-driven snow and ice, 
rushing forward, a wicked-looking gun in one hand. An instant later, she stared 
up into the very last face she had expected to see coming toward her out of a 
Thulian blizzard. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, but no sound emerged 
past the squeaking constriction in her throat.
"My God," John Weyman breathed, "you're alive . . ."
A jumble of emotions slammed through Bessany, wild relief fighting for space 
with shame and embarrassment. The raking claws of nightmare would never have 
descended on her if she'd simply believed this man in the first place. She 
struggled to find her voice. "You came. You must have read my reports. . . ."
"Yes," he said grimly. "I've read them, all right. Some of them. About twenty 
minutes ago."
"Twenty minutes?" she echoed, baffled. An absent shudder caught her, chattering 
her teeth in the biting, subzero wind. "But—"
"Later," he said gruffly. "You're freezing and so am I."
He turned toward the med lab—and halted in his tracks.
Chilaili hadn't moved. Wasn't breathing, either. She was staring, pupils dilated 
with shock, at the Bolo's towering war hull. Bessany didn't like the look on 
John Weyman's face. "Please ask your Bolo not to shoot Chilaili."
"Are there any more of those things here?" His gaze never even flickered from 
Chilaili and his grip on the pistol was so tight, she wondered why the bones of 
his hand hadn't cracked.
"No, there aren't any more Tersae here," she bit out. "And they're not 'things.' 
They have names. This," she gestured brusquely, "is Chilaili. My friend."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Rapier," he growled, gaze still glued to Chilaili, 
"please do not shoot the prisoner. Not until I've had a chance to interrogate 
it, anyway."
"You really are Alexander's brother, aren't you?" Bessany snarled.
John Weyman's face ran deathly white in the glare of light pouring from the med 
lab. Bessany was so recklessly angry, she didn't even care. "Chilaili," she 
snapped, "forget about more wood for the cookfires. We'll bring it in later. 
Let's get inside before I freeze to death." She strode toward the med lab, fists 
clenched.
The tall katori took a hesitant step to follow, head cocked sideways to keep one 
eye rolling backwards toward the Bolo's bristling guns. Herve Sinclair blocked 
their way, gaping up at the Bolo. Bessany shoved roughly past. "Herve, please 
ask everyone to come in for a meeting. We've just officially been rescued. The 
Bolo's commander will want to debrief everyone."
"Is it safe?" he asked uncertainly.
John Weyman's voice came as an impatient growl behind her. "Of course it's safe. 
Rapier doesn't shoot humans." The slight emphasis on the last word brought 
Bessany around again, glaring. Chilaili had moved cautiously to one side, 
putting Bessany between herself and the massive machine outside. And, 
coincidentally, its commander.
"Bessany—" he began, pushing past Herve to stalk toward her.
"No," she gritted out. One hand came up involuntarily, halting him in much the 
same way as her outflung hands had stopped the Bolo. "Not yet. We're scattered 
in half-a-dozen lab buildings. The Navy waited three months to answer my 
reports, so you can cool your heels for another five minutes, until we're all 
here. You really need to hear what we have to say."
That muscle jumped again in his jaw. "Yes. I do. More than you can possibly 
guess."
Their gazes locked, striking sparks in the silence. Stone-hard muscles flexed in 
his jaw and his long, lean hands. The muzzle of the gun swung slightly at that 
movement, scaring Bessany. Then he surprised her. He ran one of those tense 
hands through his hair, brushing away melting snow, and let go an unhappy sigh.
"All right," he said, voice low. "We may not have spoken since that damned 
wedding, but you've never given me any reason to mistrust you. And God knows, my 
family put you through enough hell, we owe you a break or fifty. I'll give you, 
and it" —he glanced pointedly at the Tersae behind her— "the benefit of the 
doubt. For now."
Bessany drew a long, shaky breath. "Thank you," she said quietly. "And Chilaili 
is not an 'it.' She's a master healer and she's my friend. Please treat her with 
the courtesy she deserves."
His mouth tightened into a thin, white line. "I'm trying," he said roughly. 
"Given standing orders on those—creatures—you should be damned glad we didn't 
fire on sight. Just for the record, were they," he darted a cold look at 
Chilaili, "responsible for the damage here?"
"No. A tornado hit us. According to Chilaili, we picked the worst spot on Thule 
to build this lab. An assessment I fully support. And just for the record," 
Bessany muttered, tucking both hands under her armpits to warm them, "why did it 
take you so long to read my reports?"
"We've been in the field, on the front lines of the Deng invasion," he said with 
a growl. "Sector Command never forwarded your messages. Much as it galls to say 
it, you don't fall into the immediate-family category. So a very junior 
communications technician dumped every one of your messages into a holding 
queue. I found out twenty minutes ago, when I queried Sector Command and the 
Ministry of Mineral Resources for any reports out of Eisenbrucke Station."
"But . . ." she stared, aghast, "surely the Ministries sent some kind of message 
to the head of Sector Command? If not Mineral Resources, surely Xenology did?"
Anger sparked through his eyes. "No. I bounced copies immediately to General 
McIntyre, here on Thule. If anyone at Sector had seen them, McIntyre would have 
known. He was as shocked as I was."
The staggering scale of bureaucratic bungling left Bessany ashen.
John said bitterly, "I suspect the only messages Mineral Resources bothered to 
read were those directly involving saganium. God only knows what Xenology's 
excuse is."
"And here I was, stuck out here, thinking—" She reddened, unable to hold his 
gaze. From the set of his mouth and the look in his shadowed eyes, John Weyman 
knew exactly what she had been about to say.
"It's all right, Bessany," he said quietly. " I can imagine only too well what 
you've been thinking. Given what you went through with Alex, I don't blame you a 
bit." He fell silent then, studying the med lab with quiet intensity, taking in 
every detail, from the cracked and braced ceiling to the badly injured men and 
women in every bed they'd been able to salvage. Even so, some of them had been 
tucked into makeshift pallets on the floor.
A brooding frown hovered around his mouth, but he didn't ask questions, waiting 
for the others to arrive. He kept his gun in his hand, however, and seemed 
electrically aware of Chilaili, who had remained utterly and prudently silent. 
Bessany noticed, for the first time, a medical brace around his elbow and 
wondered how he'd come to be injured. If the Tersae were behind it, he wouldn't 
be the only human, by a long shot, with a score to settle.
People were arriving through the snow, wearing hastily donned coats or wrapped 
in blankets, most of them whispering in awed tones about the Bolo parked 
outside. When they'd all gathered, jamming themselves into every possible empty 
space in the room, John broke the hushed, expectant silence. "I'm Lieutenant 
Colonel John Weyman, Third Dinochrome Brigade. And in case you're wondering 
about the name, Bessany is my sister-in-law."
He cleared his throat slightly, his expression reflecting considerable chagrin. 
The scandal of his brother's death had been reported from one end of human space 
to the other, so he had to be wondering what she might have told her colleagues, 
what deeply intimate and damaging details she might've shared about his 
relatives.
He went on doggedly, despite the curious stares. "Recent events have bumped you 
people to the number one defensive priority on Thule. That's why I'm here with 
my Bolo, rather than mounting defense over the mines at Seta Point."
"Recent events?" Herve Sinclair echoed. "What can possibly have happened to make 
us so important?"
John's blue eyes were chips of ice. "I hope to hell your biochemists and their 
lab equipment have survived, because the Tersae have stockpiled a very nasty 
chemical—or maybe biological—weapon. They released it during a battle near 
Rustenberg. The town's been evacuated."
A dreadful silence crashed down. Every gaze, including Bessany's, swung toward 
Chilaili. The tall katori was watching John Weyman, head tipped sideways and 
swinging slightly in that maddening head motion so typical of the Tersae.
John said harshly, "I'm hoping you people can find a way to protect the 
colonists against this stuff, because it's deadly. It acts like a hemorrhagic 
neurotoxin and it kills within minutes. It was released during an attack on one 
of the Tersae's underground camps. The stuff wiped out the whole population 
within three minutes. And it killed a whole flock of those birdlike things that 
resemble them, in the forest nearby."
Bessany blanched. A whole nest, wiped out? And a flock of their genetic 
ancestors? How could the Tersae's creators have given something like that to 
creatures who barely understood the most basic items of advanced technology? It 
was one thing to give them rifles and bombs, which only warriors would be put at 
risk, trying to use. But to give them something like a biochemical weapon that 
would destroy a whole clan, if accidentally released . . .
She glanced at Chilaili—then stared, while the hair on the nape of her neck 
stood starkly erect. John's words had clearly baffled the tall katori. Bessany 
had seen enough of the Tersae's facial expressions during the past three months 
to read that look with utter certainty. Chilaili had not the slightest idea what 
John was talking about. They don't know they have it, Bessany realized with a 
ragged pounding of her pulse. My God, they've stockpiled a deadly biochemical 
weapon and they don't even know they have it. 
Even as that realization sank in, Chilaili turned a puzzled eye on Bessany, 
begging the question with a silent look. Bessany drew a deep breath, trying to 
gather her scattered wits. She had to say something and she didn't want to blurt 
out her suspicions. Not yet. She needed time to think about this, to see all the 
ramifications. A few minutes, at least. She finally latched onto a way to break 
the awkward silence. "To begin this properly, Chilaili, I must first tell you 
that John Weyman is the brother, the nestmate, of my life-mate, who is now 
dead." There, she'd managed to say that in an almost normal tone of voice.
The Tersae's pupils dilated slightly with surprise. She swung her head back 
toward John.
"I am honored to know you, John Weyman. I have deep respect for Bessany Weyman. 
Your nestmate chose wisely, to seek her as life-mate." She hesitated, while 
John's eyes widened at hearing Terran standard coming from the tall alien's 
oddly shaped beak, then Chilaili asked, "The great ogre responds to your 
commands?" One clawed hand gestured cautiously toward the temporary wall and the 
Bolo beyond it.
"What do you know about Bolos?" John asked harshly.
Chilaili blinked. "This is how the ogres are called? We know very little of 
them. The Ones Above warned us against the humans' metal ogres, but I had not 
believed such a thing could be so large."
John narrowed his eyes. Drew a breath. Paused, glancing at Bessany, then said 
carefully, "Tell me about the Ones Above."
"They created us," Chilaili said at once. "And now they are trying to destroy 
us."
John opened his mouth, then stopped. A peculiar expression flickered through his 
eyes and halted whatever he'd been about to say. "They're what?"
"They are trying to destroy us. It is why I came through the snow and the wind 
to Bessany Weyman's nest. I am desperate to halt this war before it destroys my 
clan and the other clans, the whole of my people. Without the help of humans 
like Bessany Weyman, we are doomed. Either you will win this war and destroy us, 
or we will drive you back to the stars—which I do not think likely—and the Ones 
Above will destroy us. In all the wide world, there is only one human we could 
turn to. So I came, to beg her help. And also," she added with forthright 
simplicity, "to pay the life-debt I owe her for saving my only daughter's life. 
If I cannot stop this war, I have at least brought the warning there will be an 
attack."
John stared at Chilaili for a full ten seconds without making any sound at all, 
while his eyes reflected the sudden reordering of long-held assumptions about 
the nature—and identity—of their enemy. "I think," he finally said, swinging his 
gaze toward Bessany, "you had better tell me the whole story of what's happened 
here."
She let go her breath in a long, silent sigh, unaware until that moment that 
she'd been holding it so rigidly. Speaking very quietly, she told him. He 
listened intently as each person in the room told their own parts of the story, 
in turn. Surprise dawned in his eyes and continued to grow, like the sun rising 
above a glacier. And as he continued to listen, some of the ice began to melt 
from those chilly blue eyes. His gaze drifted again and again to Chilaili, 
expression baffled as the researchers and technicians talked of Chilaili digging 
them out of the rubble, teaching them how to keep campfires going while they 
looked for enough spare parts to hook the various labs back into the power 
plant, how to cook food over a bed of hot coals, how the Tersae had set broken 
bones, treated injuries and shock, changed wound dressings, and brought in snow 
to melt for drinking and cooking and wash water for the injured.
By the time the last of them had spoken, the worst of the harsh suspicion had 
gone from his eyes. Caution remained, clearly visible in his expression, but he 
no longer looked at Chilaili like something he'd have preferred to shoot out of 
hand and question later—if she survived the first salvo. When the last 
technician had finished speaking, he frowned thoughtfully. "I don't think I have 
to tell you how surprising all of this is. Given the ferocity of Tersae attacks 
elsewhere, I'd have bet money this wasn't even possible. Frankly, it's giving me 
some fairly weird ideas."
He roused himself from his distracting thoughts with obvious difficulty. "If I 
might suggest it, this med lab isn't large enough for all of us and the patients 
in here need quiet and rest. I'd like a brief tour of the facilities that 
survived the tornado, please. Then I need a meeting with Bessany, Herve 
Sinclair, Dr. Ivanov, and anybody with a biochemistry background. And Chilaili," 
he added with a glance toward the Tersae. "We have a great deal to thrash 
through, yet."
Sinclair nodded. "Of course, Colonel."
"All right, let me get my cold-weather gear. I'll meet you back here in five."
Bessany watched him hurry through the snow and vanish up the side of his Bolo. 
As she turned back into the room to retrieve her own coat, she wondered what, 
exactly, his weird ideas might be. Was it possible that Alexander Weyman's 
brother actually saw the potential for alliance that Bessany had already seen? 
Had seen, in fact, as early as that first wild night in the thunderstorm? An 
alliance she had begged various ministries and military agencies to consider in 
her reports? She glanced at Chilaili, who stood carefully out of the way as 
people left the med lab. Then stared, while shock like icewater raced through 
her veins.
John had left Chilaili unguarded.  
Just to get a coat.
Her heart thumped in a sudden heavy rhythm of hope, so unexpected it caused a 
physical pain. Maybe he'd done so only because he knew the Bolo could take out 
the whole building if Chilaili tried anything. But maybe—just maybe—he really 
had decided to give Chilaili a chance? Bessany closed her eyes for a long 
moment. She knew what was at stake here, possibly better than John did, because 
she had already deduced things about Chilaili's makers that he couldn't possibly 
know yet, if he'd had her reports for only twenty minutes.
Given what she already knew, that news about the biochemical weapon had shaken 
her. Badly. The fact that Chilaili had no idea the stuff existed had shaken her 
even worse. She knew John didn't believe yet, in Chilaili's ignorance, but 
Bessany was absolutely certain. Nor could she imagine a clan katori being kept 
totally unaware of it, if anyone at all in the clan knew it existed. Not with 
the survival of the whole clan at stake, once the genie was out of the bottle. 
And if the Tersae genuinely didn't know they possessed such a thing . . .
What in hell was it doing in their winter nests?
 








Chapter Twenty-one
Lieutenant Commander Gerhard Lundquist wasn't dead. And that astonished him.
Gerhard didn't have to check his wrist chrono to know that the fallout from the 
Bolo's destruction of the Tersae base camp had reached Rustenberg. He'd been 
standing in the dust cloud for ten minutes, now. And he was still alive. Maybe, 
he gulped, it just takes longer for humans to die of the stuff? 
He finally pulled out his comm link and radioed the shuttle he'd helped pack 
full of terrified refugees. "This is Lieutenant Commander Lundquist. Are you 
there, Carter?"
The comm link sputtered. "Gerhard?"
He grinned. "Hi, Patty. Yeah, it's me."
"Why the hell aren't you dead?"
"Search me." He managed a wan chuckle. "Literally, I suspect, once the 
biochemists get their hands on my corpuscles. Look, according to what the Bolo 
said, I ought to be dead by now, but I don't even feel sick. And I'm standing 
right in the thick of the dust cloud. I figured there wasn't any point in 
hiding, so I just decided to get it over with. I've been breathing the stuff 
for, uh," he glanced at his chrono again, "eleven and a half minutes now. By the 
way," he asked, stomach fluttering slightly despite the fact that he was—as of 
yet—unharmed, "did everybody get out of the kill zone in time?"
"Barely, but yes. We're forty-five klicks out, sitting in a deep ravine, out of 
the worst of the wind. Hold tight, Gerhard. I'm patching you through to General 
McIntyre, via the Darknight."
A gravelly voice boomed from the comm link. "McIntyre here. What the devil d'you 
think you're doing, Lundquist, not dying on schedule?"
Gerhard blinked, startled speechless.
"That's a joke, Commander," the general's voice rumbled. "And a poor one, my 
apology. But you've given us a nasty little problem, y'see, staying healthy when 
you ought to be flopping around like one of those oversized chickens."
"Yes, sir, I know. Believe me, I know only too well. I'm a ship's surgeon."
"Now there's a piece of luck we hadn't counted on. I'm routing Unit SPQ/R-561 
back to your location. I want blood samples, tissue samples, urine samples, 
hell, I want samples of everything it's possible to sample. We need to know if 
all humans are immune to this bio-weapon or if you're a confounded freak. No 
insult intended."
Gerhard grinned. "None taken, sir."
"Good. Report anything out of the ordinary. Notify your medical colleagues on 
the Darknight and the Bolo's commander. Captain Alessandra DiMario will be 
working with you for the duration. We've got another Bolo team en route to 
Eisenbrucke. If the research team is still alive, you'll have some help on 
this."
"Any help at all is welcome, General. Meanwhile, I'll see if the evacuees left 
behind any medical gear, to get started on those samples. I'm afraid we 
jettisoned our equipment during drop, to coax extra speed from the engines."
"Good job, that, by the way. Notify me the instant you have any hard data to 
report. McIntyre out."
The comm link sputtered, then Gerhard's own commander hailed him. "Captain 
Harrelson here. I second the general's opinion on that rescue effort. Good work, 
Lundquist. Very good work. And I'm real glad of the chance to tell you that."
"Not half as glad as I am to hear it," he chuckled. "In all the rush, did anyone 
think to ask for replacement supplies? We still have two key administrators with 
hard-radiation exposure. They need treatment, stat."
"Understood. We'll drop a medical team with a new batch of supplies on another 
shuttle."
"Deeply obliged, Captain."
"Get to work then. I want a full report, so don't you dare go dying on us before 
you finish it, you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am. You want it, you got it."
"Good. Harrelson out."
He clipped his comm link to his uniform belt, then started hunting through the 
evacuated town, settling on a big warehouse as the likeliest spot to search. He 
found jumbled piles of personal belongings, foodstuffs, tools, ammunition for 
various weapons, equipment whose purposes were beyond him, clothing, all manner 
of miscellany. A computer someone had left running in the scramble hummed softly 
in the silence. Gerhard's footsteps echoed as he hurried across and scrolled 
through the data screens. The open file proved to be a master inventory of the 
seemingly random heaps. He found the entry he needed just a few screens down.
"Meeting hall," he muttered aloud, just to hear something besides the sound of 
the wind through the open warehouse doors. "Recreation cabinet. Huh. I wonder 
which building the meeting hall is?"
He found it three minutes later by checking the largest structures first. Two 
minutes after that, he was sorting through a hodgepodge of medical supplies, 
badly depleted by the sheer volume of Rustenberg's wounded. Fortunately, the 
shortages were mostly in wound dressings, pain-killers, antibiotics, and 
surgical supplies like saline and sutures. He found plenty of hypodermic 
syringes and specimen containers.
It took very little time to fill the various cups, vials, and plastic bags, 
although it was more awkward than he'd thought, trying to draw blood one-handed. 
"They don't teach this in medical school," he muttered under his breath, wincing 
slightly. He'd just finished jotting down a list of metabolism tests he would 
need—providing he hadn't died before it was time to conduct them—when he heard a 
low rumble in the distance. Gerhard looked up, startled, then realized what it 
must be. "The Bolo's coming!"
He hurried outside, heading in the direction of the noise, and clambered up a 
sturdy section of scaffolding to peer over the town's defensive wall. He'd been 
so busy, he hadn't been able to peek at the five Bolos tucked into the 
Darknight's immense cargo bay. He'd never seen a Bolo, not up close and 
personal.
By the time it was a few hundred meters away, he was gaping. "My God, that 
thing's huge!" The closer it came, the bigger it loomed, until it blotted out 
the light like an immense metal cloud above his head. The engine noise changed 
pitch and the rumbling of the wall under his hands and the scaffolding under his 
feet changed as well, then the machine stopped. Gun snouts jutted out above 
Gerhard's head, protruding over the top of the wall, it had come so close.
An amplified voice, sounding female, spoke from its depths. "You look pretty 
healthy to me."
Gerhard grinned. "Sorry if that disappoints you."
"Not at all," the voice chuckled with a smooth, rich sound like sun-warmed 
honey. He wondered if she were as beautiful as her voice. "I'm Alessandra 
DiMario, commanding Unit SPQ/R-561. And this," she added, "is Senator."
He gave the Bolo a salute. "Lieutenant Commander Gerhard Lundquist, sir, ma'am, 
at your service."
A different voice, distinctly male with a metallic burr around the edges, 
greeted him. "It is good to meet you, Commander Lundquist."
"The pleasure is definitely mine," Gerhard said with genuine feeling. Not only 
was he talking to a Bolo, he was fizzing with the sheer exuberance of still 
being alive. "I've got a batch of samples ready, by the way. When I heard you 
coming, I rushed outside without them. I can bring them out."
"No need," Alessandra DiMario reassured him. "Just climb down and lead the way. 
We'll come through the hole we punched in the wall last night and follow you."
Gerhard, he smiled giddily as he scrambled down, today is just your lucky day. 
To which the back of his brain whispered, Yeah—ain't it great? 
He certainly wasn't going to argue the point.
 








Chapter Twenty-two
"Maintain Battle Reflex Alert," John told Rapier as he wriggled into his 
cold-weather gear. "I'm not expecting any serious trouble until this blizzard 
clears, but what one Tersae could do, others can duplicate. And I'm certainly 
not ready to trust Chilaili carte blanche, no matter what Bessany and the rest 
of those scientists say. I sure as hell don't trust her clan."
"Understood, Commander."
John nodded and rejoined the science team, confident in Rapier's ability to warn 
them or deal with any trouble that might threaten from the clifftops. Their tour 
of the battered research outpost didn't take long. They carried heavy 
flashlights to pierce the snow-filled gloom. Herve Sinclair and Dr. Ivanov acted 
as guides, pointing out each surviving, damaged, or missing structure, while 
Chilaili broke trail through the deep snow. Even the Tersae had donned a layer 
of furs for added warmth, but her bare feet—or talons—were apparently impervious 
to the cold.
Bessany stayed at John's side, a silent ghost shivering in the blasts of wind. 
Her long, dark hair whipped across her face where strands had escaped her parka 
hood. They made a surprisingly quick circuit, due mostly to the fact that so 
much of the station—which had never been large, in the first place—was simply 
gone.
John kept one hand near the side arm strapped to his hip at all times, but the 
Tersae gave them no trouble, not even any furtive moves. The tornado had—thank 
God—spared the biochem lab, along with all of its equipment and data. Bessany's 
records had survived, too, another small miracle, since the room right next to 
her lab had been smashed to rubble.
John chose the biochem lab for their meeting site, since it was too small for 
refugees to take shelter there. The power was off, so they set their flashlights 
on top of cabinets and high-tech equipment the power outage had rendered 
temporarily silent. The room was so cold, their breath steamed.
"Is there any way to get the power back on, in here?"
"Probably," Herve Sinclair frowned, "if we could find enough cable to reconnect 
it to our power plant. We've been digging under the snow to find broken 
connections, trying to restore power to the shelters. I'm afraid we haven't had 
much luck finding cable. Our maintenance warehouse was scoured clean, right down 
to the foundations. We managed to cannibalize enough cable from damaged labs and 
living quarters to bring the shelters back on-line, but there wasn't enough to 
do small labs like this one."
John nodded. "That's one problem easily solved, anyway. Rapier carries spare 
power cable for just this kind of emergency. Put a crew to work looking for the 
broken ends and we can splice into your power plant within minutes." He spoke 
into his comm link. "Rapier, open your rear portside cargo bin, please. Herve 
Sinclair will be coming out with a crew for that power cable."
"Understood, Commander."
Sinclair, pausing on his way out, directed a wan smile at the comm link. "You 
can't know how good it is, being rescued. We'd all but given up hope." That 
said, he vanished into the swirl of snow. Dr. Ivanov volunteered to fetch Alison 
Collingwood, their biochemist, and her technician, Arnie Kravitz.
The moment they were gone, John turned to the Tersae. "All right, Chilaili," he 
said quietly, "I've been very patient, but it's time you answered a few 
questions."
"What do you wish to know, John Weyman?"
It was positively uncanny, hearing human speech coming out of a mouth not even 
remotely designed for it. The effect reminded John strongly of trained parrots, 
a disturbing image under the circumstances. The deep shadows cast by their 
narrow flashlight beams only heightened the strangeness. "For starters," he 
narrowed his eyes, "tell me everything you know about this biochemical weapon."
"I do not understand. I was deeply confused by your words, earlier. Please 
explain what a 'biochemical weapon' is."
Bessany spoke a shade too quickly, before John could answer. "You remember that 
time we talked about what causes illness, don't you, Chilaili?"
"The tiny living things you spoke of?" she asked, swinging her gaze around to 
peer at Bessany. The alien cocked her head downwards, since Bessany was nearly a 
full meter shorter than the Tersae. "Yes, I remember very well. I have tried to 
teach the clan the things you said, to keep these tiny living things from 
harming us. We wash everything more frequently now, and when I care for the 
injured and the sick, I wash my fingers and claws with very hot water, carefully 
boiled. There has been less sickness, since we began this."
"I'm glad, Chilaili," Bessany said with conviction. "Very glad. A biochemical 
weapon is a tiny thing—sometimes alive, sometimes not—that causes illness. One 
so terrible, everything exposed to it dies. If someone knows how, they can take 
things that are merely dangerous, things that might only make you very sick, and 
change them into something deadly."
The Tersae's pupils dilated. "As the Ones Above altered us?"
Chills ran down John's spine.
"Yes, Chilaili," Bessany nodded. "Exactly like that."
"But the Ones Above have never given us such a thing."
"You're sure?" John asked sharply.
The Tersae turned that eerie gaze on him once more, causing alien shadows to 
leap across the walls. "I am a master katori, John Weyman. I would know such a 
thing. It is my duty to heal my clan of any illness. Such a thing would put the 
whole clan at risk, so I would have to know." The Tersae hesitated a moment 
then, as though struck by a sudden thought. Even John could read the sudden 
uncertainty in that alien face, those alien eyes.
"What is it, Chilaili?" Bessany asked gently.
"My mother died when I was fifteen summers old, the same age Sooleawa is now. 
She was killed while hunting. It is possible my mother died before she had the 
chance to tell me of such a thing. But," an odd sigh gusted past her beak, "my 
father's mother believed I was fully trained. She had spent much time with my 
mother, assisting her, for my mother's mother died young, also, which left the 
clan with only one katori to treat the sick and the injured. It is why she 
thought my mother would have taken great care to teach me all that she knew, 
because she had lost her own mother so young."
"So it's possible your mother didn't tell you?" John asked.
"That is possible, yes. Or that my mother's mother may have known, and died 
before she could pass on the knowledge. But I cannot believe that only a clan's 
katori would have known such a thing existed. Such an important weapon would 
have to be known, not only to the katori, but also to the war leader and the 
akule."
"The what?" John frowned.
"He- or She-Who-Looks-Up."
"The priest or priestess who speaks the words of the Oracle," Bessany 
translated. "From what Chilaili and Sooleawa have told me, the Oracle is some 
kind of radio transmitter/receiver. The Ones Above speak through them and the 
clans can ask their creators questions."
Another chill touched John's spine.
Chilaili was nodding, in grotesque parody of a human gesture. "Yes, this is so, 
John Weyman. The Ones Above always speak to us through the Oracles. We have 
never seen their faces directly, only flat images of them. We have never seen 
the wondrous machines they build to fly between the stars. The weapons they gave 
us were stored long ago in the deepest caverns of the winter nests. Could such a 
weapon survive for so many years?"
John did not like what he was hearing. "Yes," he growled, "it could. Possibly 
for hundreds of years."
Chilaili's pupils dilated. "That is frightening," she whispered. She was 
frightened, too. Even John could see it. Her hands were shaking and her voice 
was unsteady. "Our grandmothers' grandmothers might not have known had such a 
thing been left so many years ago. But surely a clan's akule, at least, would 
know? And the akule would be honor-bound to reveal the secret to the katori and 
the viho, the war leader. It would endanger the clan, not to tell them."
Chilaili's fright shook John, dispelling his suspicions far more effectively 
than any protestations of innocence. "What about the other clans?" he asked. 
"Might they have something like this? Or do you talk to anyone outside your 
clan?"
The Tersae clicked her beak softly. "Yes, I have spoken with the katori of other 
clans. We trade widely when the clans are not warring with one another. There 
are often summer meetings of the katori from neighboring clans, to share ideas 
and new discoveries. What we katori speak of amongst ourselves is just as 
serious as this 'biochemical' weapon, yet not one of the other katori has 
mentioned such a thing."
"Chilaili," Bessany asked, "in these wars between clans, would the war leaders 
use weapons given them by the Ones Above to fight each other?"
She clicked her beak again, more rapidly this time, giving John a strong sense 
that Chilaili was in distress. "It is forbidden," the Tersae whispered, glancing 
uneasily toward the ceiling as if afraid her gods would overhear, "but in my 
mother's grandmother's day, it is said a terrible war full of bitter hatred 
broke out between two clans far to the south. It quickly became altsoba, total 
war."
"Total war?" John echoed. "Like your war against the humans?"
"Yes," Chilaili said with devastating simplicity.
"Tell me more about this altsoba. The one in your mother's grandmother's day."
"Before the fighting was done, the two clans had used all the weapons given them 
by the Ones Above. Weapons that explode with terrible noise and force, weapons 
that fly through the air very quickly, weapons that throw lethal projectiles. 
Both clans were destroyed. The worst of the bombs left nothing but great holes 
in the earth where the winter nests had been, holes as large as this valley, 
where nothing would grow for years afterward. When I was still a nestling, the 
clan's akule used stories about this war to instill proper awe toward the power 
of the Ones Above and their weapons. But none of the tales told of this altsoba 
mention anything like a living weapon that kills within a few heartbeats. I 
cannot believe that a clan pushed to the edge of survival would fail to use this 
terrible weapon against an enemy, if the clan knew it existed."
"From the sound of it," John said roughly, "that's exactly what they did at 
Rustenberg."
Chilaili had no answer for that.
Bessany was frowning. "We've been incommunicado, with the radios missing, so I 
don't know what's happening with the rest of the colonies, but it seems to me 
other clans would have used this stuff before now, if they thought it would kill 
us."
John rubbed the back of his neck under his parka. "Not necessarily," he was 
forced to admit. "Not if they knew it might kill them, too. Damn, what a prickly 
puzzle."
Bessany narrowed her eyes. "Chilaili, would a clan ask the Ones Above for 
guidance before using such a weapon? And would the Ones Above answer them?"
John shot his sister-in-law an intent stare. Unit SPQ/R-561 had picked up a 
radio transmission just before the release of that neurotoxin, something he 
hadn't mentioned to anyone here. Chilaili's head swung around to peer at her. "A 
clan's akule might well seek permission for the viho to use such a deadly 
weapon, or ask for guidance to avoid destroying the clan when using it. But the 
Ones Above have not spoken since this war began. The last message our clan 
received before I left the nest cavern was the command to kill the devils from 
the stars. The blizzard had already begun by then, and we could not leave."
Bessany frowned. "This is something I've never asked, Chilaili, but how often do 
the Ones Above speak through the Oracles? And what do they talk about, when they 
speak?"
John followed her logic instantly. If Chilaili's creators spoke infrequently, on 
very general subjects, then the Oracle might well be nothing more than a 
long-distance communications system similar to SWIFT, capable of reaching across 
interstellar distances. But if they spoke frequently, on matters of day-to-day 
import, there had to be a base of operations somewhere in this star system, 
probably on one of the moons. And the more he thought about that, the less he 
liked it.
"The Ones Above speak to the akules several times during the wheel of the year," 
Chilaili answered readily enough. "They remind us of our duty to them or tell us 
of new laws we must obey. Sometimes they warn us of impending danger. They have 
spoken twice to Icewing Clan about great stones which were about to fall from 
the sky. Each time, the clan sought safety underground, although such a thing 
has never happened during my life. My father's grandmother was a child when the 
last great stone fell. The clan nearly starved that winter. Everyone would have 
perished had the warning not come in time, allowing the clan to take shelter in 
the deepest cavern in our territory."
"A meteorite warning system?" John glanced at Bessany.
"It makes sense," she shrugged, although there was a hard edge to her voice. 
"It's clear they view the Tersae as lab rats. A big meteorite would wreak havoc 
with a sizeable investment of time, money, and scientific resources. This is the 
biggest eugenics experiment I've ever heard of and it's obviously been under way 
for generations."
"God, yes." The cold finger that had touched John's spine repeatedly during the 
past few minutes left his whole body chilled this time. An experiment lasting 
multiple generations spoke to a massive, disturbing level of government support. 
And that scared him. Badly. My God, he wondered, staring at Chilaili, what have 
we stumbled across here? 
"All right," he muttered, "I'll grant you the importance of a meteorite warning 
system to protect their research. But is the surveillance carried out by live 
technicians? Or an automated computer system?" He frowned. "And if they're using 
live technicians, are they still in the system somewhere? Or did they abandon 
their base quietly and slip away through all the muck out there, when our first 
military forces arrived? Or have they sent a courier," he blanched at the sudden 
thought, "to bring in reinforcements?"
Bessany eyes widened. "You mean we could find ourselves under attack? By an 
alien war fleet coming in from hyper-light?"
"Yes. We could. I don't like this, Bessany. I really don't like this. They're 
watching us, Bessany. Whether they're still in the system or operating automated 
equipment from a safe interstellar distance, they're watching us. Gathering data 
on how we fight, how we react, how we think. And that bothers the hell out of 
me."
"What bothers me," Bessany muttered, "is this hemorrhagic neurotoxin. If 
Chilaili's makers didn't give it to the clans to use against 'devils from the 
stars'—" Her eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, my God . . ."
"What?"
"Chilaili," she whispered, voice shaking, "tell John about the threats your 
akule used to force Icewing Clan to obey. To attack Seta Point, I mean, and this 
station, once the weather had cleared."
Chilaili blinked. "The Ones Above demand total obedience. The akule reminded us 
of this. I was not the only one arguing against the attack. Many Mothers and 
Grandmothers want nothing more to do with the Ones Above. They are murdering us 
slowly, by altering our chicks inside their eggshells. They are making the males 
more violent, more suicidal. The akule was afraid when the Grandmothers spoke of 
defying our makers, for his greatest desire is to protect the clan to which his 
life-mate was born. He gave up his own clan to mate with Zaltana, our last 
akule. Since her death five winters ago, he has worked ceaselessly to protect . 
. ."
Chilaili's voice trailed off, prompting Bessany to ask, "What is it, Chilaili? 
What's occurred to you?"
"Only that in twenty seasons together, they produced no chicks. Not one. Is it 
possible the Ones Above have caused this somehow?"
Bessany sucked down a hissing lungful of air. "God, yes. If they've gengineered 
each clan to be fertile only with members of their own birth clan . . ." She met 
John's gaze. "Don't you see it? The Tersae are in serious genetic trouble. And I 
mean serious. This war could wipe out the whole species. All it would take would 
be to drop the gene pool of each clan below the critical recovery threshold. The 
Tersae's creators have to know that. Yet they've ordered the Tersae to stop at 
nothing to kill us."
"My God, Bessany, what kind of monstrous things are we dealing with here?"
"Why do you think I kept sending those urgent messages?" She pressed fingertips 
to her eyes, rasped out, "I could see some of this even before Chilaili came 
here to warn me. But this . . . My God, this changes everything, the whole scale 
of the war, the stakes we're fighting for, the level of ruthlessness we're up 
against."
John groaned aloud over the disaster of those unforwarded, unread, unholy 
reports. When he got back to Sector Command, heads were going to roll. He'd see 
to it they bounced, all the way down those impressive stone steps. "What, 
exactly, were these threats the akule used?" he asked grimly.
Chilaili, whose puzzled expressions were becoming rapidly more fathomable, said, 
"The Ones Above long ago warned the clans that disobedience would be severely 
punished. A clan that defies the will of the Ones Above will be totally 
destroyed. The only clans which ever dared such disobedience, the ones that used 
the weapons meant for the star devils against one another, were destroyed. 
Perhaps by one another, perhaps by the Ones Above, as the akule insists in his 
teaching parables. I cannot say for sure. But the akule spoke the truth, when he 
reminded us that the Ones Above will turn their most powerful weapons against 
us, if we disobey."
The snow outside had more color than Bessany's face. Her voice shook. "I'm an 
idiot, John, not to have seen it sooner. All the clues point to it."
"Point to what?" he demanded, not quite seeing where she was going with 
this—although he was quite sure he wasn't going to like it.
"That neurotoxin wasn't developed as a weapon against some hypothetical enemy 
from the stars. If Chilaili's right, it's been sitting in the ground for 
hundreds of years, so it predates any possible human contact with the Tersae's 
creators. Not only that, there's no guarantee that a neurotoxin deadly to one 
species would even make another species sneeze, so it wouldn't make sense to 
create a weapon out of a neurotoxin unless you knew the biochemistry of the 
target you planned to kill."
"If it wasn't developed to kill humanity, then—" His eyes widened as he saw it. 
"It's meant to kill the Tersae!" John stared at his sister-in-law. Felt the skin 
along his back crawl. Eugenics experiments, a doomsday neurotoxin to wipe out 
the experimental animals . . .
Names from ancient history slipped into his mind, terrifying names like Mengele, 
Treblinka, Auschwitz. Worse yet, what did the experimenters plan to do with the 
information they were gathering? A planetwide study in deliberate genetic 
deformation of an intelligent, self-aware species had all kinds of ugly 
implications attached to it, very few of them connected to mere scientific 
curiosity.
Before he could pursue those implications any further, Rapier hailed him with a 
code that meant incoming priority message, top secret and scrambled. John swore 
aloud. "Excuse me, but I've got a coded transmission coming in." He stepped 
outside and touched controls on the comm link. "Go ahead, Rapier."
"We have received a transmission from Unit SPQ/R-561, John. Lieutenant Commander 
Lundquist, assistant ship's surgeon, stayed in Rustenberg to make room for 
children being airlifted out. He is still alive and shows no signs of illness. 
Unit SPQ/R-561 is conducting analyses of tissue samples. General McIntyre has 
instructed him to relay the results to the research team here."
"Dear God. Bessany could be right. Download those analysis results to a data 
disk. I'll come up for it."
Six minutes later, he walked back into the biochem lab. Herve Sinclair and Dr. 
Ivanov had returned with Alison Collingwood and Arnie Kravitz. Bessany said, 
"I've told them our hypothesis . . ." Her voice trailed off. "What is it?"
"It looks like you were right. We've got a survivor at Rustenberg. A ship's 
surgeon who gave up his seat to make room for some kids. I want to know why he's 
still alive." He handed the data disk to Dr. Collingwood. "The Bolo at 
Rustenberg's already working on tissue analyses. These are the preliminary 
results."
The biochemist took the disk with a dazed expression just as the power came up. 
Lights glowed in the overhead panels and equipment hummed to life. "We're going 
to need heat in here," she said. "And God knows how many of our chemicals have 
been ruined from freezing."
"Put together a list of what you need. We'll requisition it from the Darknight 
and the Vengeance. I'll see what Rapier has in the way of heating units, tucked 
away in his cargo bins."
"Thank you. Very much." She shook off the dazed air. "Let's get cracking, Arnie. 
Inventory the supplies, please, while I check the equipment."
Time to let them work uninterrupted, John nodded to himself. He'd only be in the 
way, now. He caught Bessany's eye, tipping his head toward the door. "Want to 
help me scrounge for those heating units?" She glanced at Chilaili and he 
sighed. "Bring her along."
Rapier had moved closer to the lab, to make the job of stringing cable easier. A 
rear cargo bin stood open, where Sinclair's crew had retrieved the power cables. 
"You're getting snow up your backside, Rapier," he said into the teeth of the 
wind, since they were well within pickup range of the Bolo's external sensors.
"There is nothing in my portside aft cargo bin that will be damaged by a little 
snow," the Bolo responded drolly, his voice booming above the sound of the wind. 
"If you're looking for heating units, you'll find them clipped at the back of 
that same compartment. I left the hatch open, since you mentioned wanting them."
John grinned. "That's what I like about you, Rapier. You're the most thoughtful 
fellow I know."
The Tersae was staring at the immense machine, open-beaked with astonishment. 
"The ogre speaks for itself?"
John and Bessany exchanged glances.
Bessany answered first. "Yes, Chilaili. A Bolo is much more than just a machine. 
Bolos are as self-aware, intelligent, and self-directing as you and I are."
Chilaili's beak opened again, but no sound emerged for several seconds. She 
blinked repeatedly, her alien eyes dilated in shock that even John could read. 
"But—" she began, then halted again. "I do not think even the Ones Above can 
realize this. They spoke of the ogres as great machines, with bombs and missiles 
like the ones they gave us. The Ones Above instructed the clans carefully, if 
the humans brought the ogres to this world. We were to kill the commanders, if 
possible, to cripple the machines and render them helpless."
"That's very interesting," John said quietly, while a sudden spark of excitement 
flared. It was an advantage, however slim. John was beginning to think any 
advantage at all would prove critical, because he could see a much larger war 
brewing in their immediate future. "Extremely interesting, in fact. Let's get 
those heating units rigged, shall we?"
It didn't take long to retrieve and carry them inside, where Bessany set them up 
with brisk efficiency. Satisfied, John excused himself to finish reading 
Bessany's reports. He was anxious now, to glean every speck of information 
possible from them.
He climbed up and settled himself in the command chair, calling up the first of 
his sister-in-law's field reports. "When I've finished going over these," he 
told Rapier, "I'll want your opinion. You may see something I'd miss."
"Understood, Commander. Routing to main data screen. If I may speak freely?"
"Of course, Rapier. You never have to ask permission to say what's on your mind, 
you know that."
"I only wanted to say," the Bolo's voice came out very softly, indeed, "how 
grateful I am that I was created by humans."
John's throat closed. "You're welcome."
Humanity had never been paid a higher compliment.
 








Chapter Twenty-three
I must speak to Chilaili.  
When Bessany Weyman and the Tersae emerge from the biochem lab, I ask Chilaili 
to return to my portside aft cargo hold, which is more than spacious enough for 
the tall Tersae to find a comfortable seat. It will provide a sheltered, private 
place to talk. My commander's diminutive sister-in-law, however, glares up at my 
war hull, her scowl fiercely protective. "I won't let you imprison her."
"You are welcome to join the conversation," I seek to reassure her. "Indeed, I 
would welcome your insights, Dr. Weyman. There is much I am trying to 
understand."
This appears to mollify her. She nods and gestures Chilaili ahead of her. They 
climb into the cargo bin, which is fully climate controlled, since I often 
transport perishable items and delicate equipment needed by beleaguered civilian 
populations.  
"I am going to close the hatch partway, to keep the heat inside," I explain, 
moving the hatch cover until it lacks but three point zero one inches from being 
closed. Heat builds satisfactorily as I turn up the fans which warm the cargo 
bin. The Tersae has tilted her head sideways and back, peering upward at the 
grillwork of the cargo-hold speaker. I cannot read the emotion which passes 
across the Tersae's face. A simian may pull back its lips in the same fashion 
humans do when they smile, but among simians, this expression does not indicate 
friendliness. 
"The humans created you?" she asks. 
"Yes, that is correct."
I do not expect the question she asks. With a brief glance at Bessany Weyman, as 
though apologizing in advance, she startles both of us. "Do you fear them?"
"No, Chilaili. I wish only to protect my makers. It is my mission, my purpose. 
It is why I was created."
"It would be good," Chilaili says in a low voice, "to know why you had been 
created."
The simple truth in her words is devastating. Do all biological life-forms feel 
this unutterably lonely confusion?  
"All my life," Chilaili says softly, "I have wondered if I have a soul. I am a 
created thing. Alive, but artificial. If I understand the teachings of the Ones 
Above, as they have come down through my Grandmothers, only the Ones Above who 
created us possess souls. Yet I see evidence—strong evidence—that this is not 
true." Chilaili turns her head to peer down at her human friend. "If your kind 
have no souls, then there is no such thing as a soul and the ones who created me 
are nothing more than howling beasts."
Bessany's eyes grow wet.  
The Tersae whispers, "I need to believe that there is at least some tiny piece 
of me that is worth more than the flesh and blood and bone they created."
Bessany's fingers are unsteady as she places a trembling hand on her friend's 
arm. "As you trusted me enough to come through this blizzard with your warning, 
Chilaili, trust me on this. You do have a soul. A very beautiful one."
A large, taloned hand comes to rest on Bessany's. "You are distressed. I did not 
mean this."
I hesitate, uncertain whether this is the proper time to broach my concern, but 
can see no gain in further delay. I harbor an intense desire to help this child 
of the enemy—and Chilaili's status as the only source of information we have 
about her unknown creators is only part of the reason for it.  
"I am concerned about the future of the Tersae," I say carefully. "It is 
possible my commander could persuade his superiors to spare the clans' total 
destruction, if we could find a way to persuade the Tersae to defy the Ones 
Above by halting this war. Can you tell me anything, Chilaili, that might help 
us accomplish this?"
The Tersae stares up at my grillwork speaker. So does Bessany Weyman, whose 
expression evinces considerable astonishment. This is not surprising, 
considering my own purpose as an engine of war. I attempt to explain. "If I can 
find a way to halt this war and protect human lives, minimizing the need for 
future military intervention here, while at the same time protecting the Tersae 
from destruction, I will have accomplished far more than winning a few battle 
honors while protecting a few saganium mines."
Bessany Weyman's eyes grow wet again.  
Chilaili stares at my speaker grill for eleven point nine seconds before 
speaking. "You would do this? For my clan?" The disbelief in her voice is, 
perhaps, not surprising. 
"Yes, Chilaili. I would. If it is possible to do so without compromising my 
mission."
A deep sigh escapes the tall alien huddled beside her human friend, then 
Chilaili begins to speak. "Our oldest teaching stories say the Ones Above came 
to this world long ago, but we have never known why. Perhaps they are curious 
about the worlds which circle the stars. Or perhaps they only wish to hold power 
over them, as each clan of the Tersae holds power over its home range and covets 
the territory of others. The Ones Above told us how we were fashioned, to 
instill proper reverence and obedience. I gave these things willingly, even 
joyfully, until the damage to our eggs and the violence in our males became too 
serious to ignore.
"The command to put our eggs into the blessing chambers, which were unknown in 
my mother's childhood, came through the Oracle. My mother said the clan returned 
to the winter nest one season, just after I was hatched, to find the blessing 
chamber in its place, put there in our absence during the summer gathering 
season. The Oracle gave the command to put our eggs into it that winter."
Bessany frowns. "Then they have to be somewhere in this star system, don't they? 
To install equipment like that in every clan's winter nest, they've got to have 
some kind of base of operations, even if it's only infrequently manned."
I ask, "Is the akule the only member of the clan allowed to listen to the 
Oracle?"
"That is the custom, yes. There are certain rituals only the akules know, 
rituals that allow them to operate the Oracle properly and safely."
Bessany asks thoughtfully, "Do your creators use a language only the akule 
knows, or do the Ones Above speak the same language as the Tersae?"
Chilaili hesitates before answering. "Many seasons ago, when I was very young, I 
overheard the akule who tended the Oracle then. Zaltana was speaking with the 
Ones Above, from the holy chamber reserved for the Oracle, which is where akule 
lives. The Ones Above spoke the same words we do, much of the time, although 
there were things said which I did not recognize as any words I had ever heard 
before. Of course, I was very young. Not above five years out of the nest. But I 
remember it vividly."
"Because you heard the voices of the Ones Above?"
"Yes, partly. To hear the voices of our creators . . . It was exciting. 
Frightening, as well, because it was taboo. And I remember because the akule was 
young and beautiful, very kind and sweet-natured. She had fallen deeply in love 
with the third son of an akule from the clan nearest our own. They had met while 
hunting in the area where the ranges of both clans overlapped. Zaltana was 
begging the Ones Above for permission to become life-mates with the male she 
loved so desperately. When they granted her request, I felt great joy, for it 
made her so happy. She had always been kind to me."
"I wonder why they said yes," Bessany wonders aloud, her voice tinged with 
bitterness. "If they knew she couldn't produce children with him, then they knew 
your clan wouldn't have an heir to the office of akule, which would be a 
critical loss for a clan." She shakes her head, frowning. "God only knows what 
they were thinking. Or planning. It's even possible," she says grimly, "that 
they knew it didn't matter. Either they genuinely don't care whether one clan 
survives or dies, or they're planning to end the experiment soon."
I do not like either proposed scenario. The latter hypothesis is particularly 
disturbing in terms of potential time constraints, but my main thoughts tend in 
a different direction altogether. "Did you actually see this Oracle, Chilaili?"
"No. Not then. But when our clan leaves its winter nest, we always take the 
Oracle with us, so I have seen it many times since. It is the only gift of the 
Ones Above that the clan never travels without. The blessing chamber is too 
large to carry with us during the warm months and we would not need it during 
the summer, in any case. Winter is the time of mating and breeding, when we are 
safely sheltered belowground. But we always take the Oracle, for we never know 
when the Ones Above may wish to speak to us. Or when we may need to call them 
and plead for help or guidance."
I conclude that if the Ones Above decide to destroy an entire clan for 
disobedience or some other reason and plan to use the neurotoxin to accomplish 
it, they have only two options: They must either wait until that clan returns to 
its winter nest or the clans must carry the neurotoxin receptacle with them.  
The Oracles, treated with reverence and care, are clearly the receptacle of 
choice.  
This would certainly explain the release of the neurotoxin at Rustenberg. A 
direct hit on a permanent, underground shelter would be almost guaranteed to 
rupture the containment vessel, if not by a direct hit, then by the fall of rock 
which would crush the casing and release whatever was inside. The more I ponder 
it, the more certain I become.  
Bessany Weyman has seen it as well. "It's in the Oracles, isn't it?" she 
breathes aloud. 
"I cannot imagine a more logical containment vessel." I begin to wonder if there 
would be a way to neutralize this threat by sealing off any openings or release 
mechanisms in the Oracle's casing. If this could be accomplished, it would allow 
the Tersae to act without fear of immediate retaliation. And the ability to act 
freely might be enough to persuade Icewing Clan, at least, to break off 
relations with the Ones Above and ally themselves with humanity. At the very 
least, it would stop the attacks against Seta Point and Eisenbrucke Station 
before any lives are lost on either side. 
I ask Chilaili her opinion of this theory.  
She considers carefully for fifty-eight point three full seconds of silence. "I 
don't know if it would be enough," she replies at last, with commendable 
honesty. "There are many Grandmothers on the Council who would gladly declare 
independence of the Ones Above. Their only desire is to safeguard our eggs from 
further tampering. But the males? They are accustomed to obeying the edicts of 
the Council, but we have never tried to order the males to do something that 
violates the orders of the Ones Above. I do not know if it would work." Her 
voice registers deep distress. 
This certainly complicates the issue, but I believe I see a way out. "Chilaili, 
would you be willing to teach me your language?"
The Tersae blinks, pupils dilating in a response I am learning to equate with 
surprise. "I will try, but Bessany Weyman was unable to reproduce many of the 
necessary sounds." She glances apologetically down at her human friend. 
Bessany smiles. "Bolos are not limited in the same way."
Chilaili gives her eerie, head-bobbing nod. "If you wish, I will teach you."
"May we begin now, please? Time may be very short. The storm front is nearly 
past, which means clear weather is nearly upon us."
She does not ask why I wish to learn, which is just as well. I am not certain 
she will like what I have in mind. If, at the last moment, Chilaili balks, I 
will at least have gained a working knowledge of the enemy's language. And if 
Chilaili does not balk, perhaps we will have gained a very great deal more, 
indeed.  
 








Chapter Twenty-four
Dr. Alison Collingwood had been hard at work for ten straight hours when she 
confirmed it. Bleary eyed with exhaustion, suffering cricks and cramps in her 
neck and back, she straightened up with a soft groan and ran both hands through 
her hair, dragging the lank mess back from her face. It had taken the combined 
computing power of two Bolos, Bessany Weyman's xeno-ecological genetic testing 
equipment, added to her own, blood and tissue samples from Chilaili and samples 
gathered by the Bolo at Rustenberg from Lieutenant Commander Lundquist and from 
the carcasses of dead birds which comprised the Tersae's ancestral stock, plus 
samples of the neurotoxin put through tests she had requested Senator to 
conduct; but she finally had the answer.
Stumbling slightly over her own feet, she told her assistant, "Good work, Arnie. 
Fabulous work," and emerged from the biochem lab where they'd been closeted for 
so long. When she stepped outside, Alison was surprised by the ominously clear 
daylight air. The sky was crystalline, the sunlight so bright it hurt, reflected 
in diamond-point sparkles off the snow. The Bolo, parked just outside the lab, 
greeted her at once.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Collingwood. Do you have news?"
She nodded wearily. "We've got it, Rapier. Humans aren't at risk."
A hatch opened high overhead and Lieutenant Colonel Weyman appeared, moving fast 
as he skinned down the ladder without touching the rungs. Bessany Weyman and the 
rest of the station's personnel—those not confined to the infirmary—came running 
through the snow, alerted by the Bolo's booming voice. Chilaili, too, appeared 
from somewhere behind the Bolo.
"You're certain?" the Bolo's commander asked the moment he reached the ground.
"Yes. Completely. The damned thing's diabolical. And so is whoever developed it. 
Bessany, you were right. Not only was that neurotoxin created specifically to 
kill the Tersae, it had to be gengineered at the same time the Tersae were 
developed."
"What do you mean?" Colonel Weyman asked with a frown.
Alison thinned her lips. "The neurotoxin attacks a specific neuropeptide 
receptor site and triggers a chain reaction through the cells, killing the host 
horribly within minutes. Humans don't have that particular neuropeptide or its 
receptor sites. When I asked Senator to test the neurotoxin on tissue from live, 
uninfected ancestral stock, the stuff invaded within seconds. When exposed to 
human tissue, the stuff was completely inert. No molecular action at all."
"That doesn't necessarily mean it was gengineered specifically for the Tersae. 
Any number of wild species on Thule could be affected."
She shook her head. "No, they wouldn't. Bessany's taken specimens from a whole 
range of species similar to the Tersae over the last three months. Only one of 
them has this neurotransmitter."
Bessany scowled. "That's the one they used as ancestral stock then." She glanced 
at her tall brother-in-law. "If Alison didn't find that neuropeptide in the 
other samples, it's because it's not there. There are biochemicals in muscles 
that aren't found in the gut, for example, and there are neuropeptides unique to 
the brain. So for every species I tranked with the dart gun, I took bone and 
marrow samples, brain tissue, muscle and gut samples. I scraped talons and 
claws, sampled myelin sheathes, and clipped small nerve samples. I was 
thorough."
Alison nodded. "So was I. Believe me, I was. I tested every one of those 
samples, checked and triple checked the results, had both Bolos do the same. 
Humans are not at risk from this stuff."
Tension drained visibly as Lieutenant Colonel Weyman rubbed the bridge of his 
nose. "Thank God," he said quietly. "Good work, Dr. Collingwood. You too," he 
nodded toward her assistant, who had come stumbling out of the lab to join them. 
"All right, the first thing we do is tell the refugees from Rustenberg they can 
go home, get them out of this freezing weather."
"Those refugees may not be at risk," Bessany said bleakly, "but Chilaili is. And 
Sooleawa. And every other Tersae who might be persuaded to switch allegiance. 
Given the way this war's going, with the clans losing so heavily, the Ones Above 
may decide to destroy them, just to keep us from getting our hands on any live 
prisoners. If we don't help them, the Tersae don't have a prayer. And everyone 
at this station owes Chilaili that much, at least: a simple shot at survival."
"I agree, completely," the Bolo's commander frowned, "but I don't see any way to 
stop that neurotoxin, if the Ones Above decide to send the signal that releases 
it. Unless . . ." he paused, a startled look blossoming in his eyes.
"What?" Bessany asked urgently.
"We can't stop them from releasing the stuff without some way to clog the 
release valve so it can't disperse, and even that's no guarantee that some of it 
won't get out. But what if we could block their neuropeptide receptor sites?"
Alison's jaw dropped, even as she kicked herself for not thinking of it first. 
"Good God. Develop an inert analog?"
He nodded. "Exactly. Can you?"
"I don't know," Alison said, a trifle breathlessly. "I don't know, but it's 
worth trying."
"There's still a delivery problem," he mused, brows hooked downward. "We'd have 
to get it into their living quarters, which won't be easy."
"There's not a problem with Icewing Clan," Bessany insisted. "Chilaili could 
take it right into the nest."
Everyone swung around to look at the Tersae.
"I do not understand," Chilaili said. "What is this 'analog' you speak of 
making?"
Bessany answered. "We want to create a substance that would prevent the weapon 
in the Oracle from harming you. Like an antidote to poison. Even if the Oracle 
released the poison, if you had breathed the substance we created first, the 
poison wouldn't harm you." She glanced at Alison. "How far in advance would we 
need to release the analog, to protect them?"
Alison held up her hands. "I don't know. Best guess, an hour? Unless those 
tissues are saturated, the neurotoxin would get through."
Lieutenant Colonel Weyman nodded. "I'll talk to Rapier about possible delivery 
systems we can cobble together. If we can protect your clan," he asked Chilaili, 
"can you convince them to renounce allegiance to the Ones Above? To try an 
alliance with humans? Or at least call off the attacks on Seta Point and 
Eisenbrucke?"
Alien eyes blinked in the harsh sunlight. "We will risk much, to save the eggs 
from further tampering. But I think the Council would have to witness a direct 
attempt by the Ones Above to kill us, to convince them we should seek alliance 
with humans."
The Bolo spoke up. "I have an idea about that, Commander. I am convinced the 
Oracles are both the source of the neurotoxin and the means by which to effect a 
reversal in the loyalties of the Tersae. If Dr. Collingwood is able to develop a 
compound to block the neuropeptide receptors, then we have a way of preserving 
the Tersae. I believe I have come up with a way to persuade Icewing Clan to 
transfer its loyalties. If Chilaili agrees to try my experiment with her clan, 
and if you can persuade General McIntyre that we have much to gain, with 
relatively little risk to human personnel, I would suggest conducting a trial 
run the moment Dr. Collingwood's analog is ready."
"What, exactly, do you have in mind?"
"I intend," the Bolo said with just a trace of smugness in his voice, "to 
subvert the Oracles . . ."
 








Chapter Twenty-five
Alessandra wasn't used to seeing the face of the enemy. As she read through 
Bessany Weyman's reports, copies of which Lieutenant Colonel Weyman had 
forwarded at her request, gooseflesh prickled and eerie sensations ran 
electrically down her spine at odd, unpredictable moments. Photographs of 
Chilaili and Sooleawa, along with detailed accounts of their beliefs and 
customs, gave these particular enemies starkly individual faces. And names. And 
dreams, hopes, fears. Everything, in short, that made an anonymous creature 
vividly real. What Alessandra found in Dr. Weyman's reports made it difficult to 
reconcile these particular Tersae with the fanatical killers Alessandra had 
fought three times now, since landing.
Among other things, she recognized honor when she saw it. And she hadn't 
expected to find it here. 
Alessandra drummed her fingertips on the console of Senator's command chair, 
frowning at the data screen and shrugging herself into a slightly more 
comfortable position under the long arm of the autodoc. Senator was still busy 
pumping medication into her system and would be for some time to come. 
Alessandra was fully capable of admitting how difficult it was to remain 
objective when the Tersae had fired fusion bombs at her. Things like that made 
war rather personal. But she was also honest enough to know there was more to 
her uneasiness than that.
For Alessandra's entire career, the opposition had remained anonymous. 
Certainly, she'd never thought of the Deng as anything but a collective mass of 
ugly protoplasm labeled "enemy." The war with the Tersae had been very different 
from combat against the Deng, yet the Tersae had remained curiously unreal, 
shadows on a data screen. It was, perhaps, merely a feature of mechanized 
warfare, fighting at a level of psychological, if not geographical, distance 
from the enemy, but Alessandra had never before actually looked into an enemy's 
face.
Until now.
It didn't help Alessandra's peace of mind to know that Chilaili had saved human 
lives at Eisenbrucke Station. That suggested—strongly—that at least some of 
Alessandra's emotional reactions to the Tersae involved demonizing, a 
common-enough occurrence during war, to be sure, but one that made negotiated 
settlements harder to accomplish. Of course, there were some enemies with whom 
negotiated settlements were so impossible, the mere attempt was tantamount to 
suicide.
Chilaili is one individual, she told herself. One very small, unimportant 
individual, paying back a personal debt and nothing more. This doesn't change 
the rest of the war. Negotiated settlements with a pack of fanatical killers is 
about as likely as Senator learning to fly without a lift sled. 
Chilaili's actions at Eisenbrucke did not change what other Tersae had done at 
Rustenberg or the other mining colonies, one of which had been totally 
obliterated before the colonists even knew they were at war. The one thing 
Chilaili might change was what humanity knew about the Tersae's creators. 
Alessandra scrolled back through Dr. Weyman's reports, not even certain what it 
was, precisely, that she was looking for, but whatever it was, she wasn't 
finding it. And that bothered her. She was still brooding over it when Senator 
said, "We have an incoming message, Commander, on maximum security scramble."
"Let's hear it." Almost any distraction was welcome, at this point. She was 
going stir-crazy, trapped in this command compartment with no idea how much 
longer she'd have to wait.
The speaker crackled. "Captain DiMario, do you copy, over?"
Lieutenant Colonel Weyman's voice had become very familiar, during the last few 
hours. "DiMario here. What is it, Colonel?"
"We're sending Rustenberg's refugees home. Humans are not at risk. If nothing 
else, you can climb out of your Bolo, now."
A wave of giddy relief passed through her. "Thank God, all the way around. We'll 
put candles in the windows for those poor folks."
"I'm sure they'll welcome the sight. Now, you've gone through Dr. Weyman's 
reports?"
"Yes, sir. Twice."
"Good, because we've got ourselves a 'situation,' here."
She heard the emphasis, even through the speaker. "A 'situation,' sir?" she 
asked cautiously.
"We need Lundquist's help again. Dr. Collingwood is trying to create an analog 
to the neurotoxin. Something that will block neuropeptide receptor sites in 
Tersae tissue."
Alessandra's mouth fell open. "For God's own sake, why? I mean, why would we 
want to interfere with something that kills the enemy for us? That stuff may be 
horrible, but so is butchering helpless children! Have you seen the eyes of the 
survivors who fled Rustenberg? I really don't understand why we should block 
something that will do the job we came here to do, without risk to human lives."
Clipped anger shot through the speaker. "Genocide's an ugly word, Captain."
"You're goddamned right, it is! And I don't like being on the receiving end of 
it!"
"Neither do the Tersae. And you and I, Captain, are not the ones dishing it out. 
That's the little situation I mentioned."
All the arguments Alessandra had been marshaling to trot out in logical order 
piled up in the back of her throat. "What do you mean?"
He told her. In gruesome detail. And that explanation triggered a shocked 
reordering of everything Alessandra thought she'd known about the Tersae—which 
was a fair amount, after reading Bessany Weyman's reports. As Alessandra 
listened, a cold sickness began to clutch at her. She'd never had children, but 
her sister had. It was far too easy to imagine the way she'd feel if something 
had held their lives under that kind of gun.
The explosive conflict that unleashed, between sudden sympathy and preexisting 
cold hatred, left Alessandra floundering in a brutal riptide of emotions. She 
genuinely didn't think she could ever forget what the Tersae had done, or the 
shocked anguish that burned in young children's eyes like cold flame. Murdered 
innocence was only a small step removed from murder, period. Certainly, the 
suffering went on longer, when the victims survived.
But much could be forgiven a species whose children were held hostage.
Weyman's voice jolted her out of a hazy state of shock. "Any questions, 
Captain?"
Several thousand, she thought dazedly. Not one of which affected her immediate 
duty. "No, sir. I'll start work with Lundquist immediately. Same routine as 
before? Coordinate research efforts through both Bolos?"
"Precisely. If you and Lundquist need anything—and I mean anything—holler."
"Thank you, sir," she said quietly. "We'll get right on it."
"Good. Keep me posted. Weyman out."
Alessandra broke the connection and sat motionless in her command chair for 
several moments, trying to reorder her chaotic thoughts. They swooped and 
circled like carrion kites, coming back again and again to the unknown creatures 
who had set up this vast, planetary experiment. John Weyman's voice echoed 
through those whirling thoughts: Genocide's an ugly word . . . 
Yes, it was. A filthy, ugly little word. She wanted to loathe the Tersae's 
creators as much as she'd hated the Tersae until a few moments ago. It should 
have been desperately easy to hate the "Ones Above." But it wasn't, because a 
contrary corner of her mind whispered, with forceful insistence, Are we any 
better? And the reason she asked it was the guilt which had been preying on her 
mind ever since that moment on the battlefield, when Unit DNY had died.
Today, Alessandra sat inside another sentient machine, a thinking and feeling 
entity that was undeniably alive, one her own species had created, just as this 
unknown alien had created the Tersae. The Bolo she sat inside, right now, busily 
pumping life-saving drugs into her system, had been pronounced obsolete—and 
therefore slated for destruction—by the Corps of Psychotronic Engineers. The 
Corps had shown Senator no more pity, assigning him casually to oblivion, than 
the Ones Above had shown, reducing the Tersae to the status of lab rats, 
sacrificed at alien whim. It was only Senator's extraordinary good fortune that 
the Deng War had come along, pulling him out of mothballs for an upgrade, before 
the Corps had gotten around to frying his action/command core.
Humanity had developed the Bolos specifically to die in the place of human 
soldiers. Bolos were thinking, feeling individuals. They loved life as much as 
she loved her own. They loved their duty—so much so, they delighted in the 
chance to demonstrate their worthiness and fulfill their destiny. A Bolo would 
charge gleefully into battle, delighted by the chance to prove itself capable of 
defending its beloved creators. Even when those creators gave orders that led to 
their deaths.
How did that differ from suicidal Tersae rushing into battle to die for their 
creators?
In many ways, Bolos were actually less free than the Tersae, who were able to 
hunt and pursue pleasure in their own time and in their own way. A Bolo was 
allowed no independent action outside a battlefield. Except for a few obsolete 
units scattered here and there as heavy farm and mining equipment, a Bolo had no 
way to exist other than as a platform of war. Until very recently, a Bolo had 
not even been permitted the full use of its multipartite mind outside the 
battlefield, for fear a machine carrying that much firepower, a machine able to 
think clearly and complexly during long stretches of peacetime, might start to 
entertain dangerous thoughts.
Self-aware, self-directing, able to appreciate music and literature and the 
sweet agony of friendship, Bolos were strictly bound to one purpose and never 
allowed to stray outside it, literally on pain of death. A Bolo that broke its 
programming to take action outside the allowable parameters was condemned as a 
rogue and executed, without mercy, without hope of reprieve.
There was no sidestepping it. Humanity held the same sword above a Bolo's head 
as the sword held above the Tersae: obey or die. Worse yet for a Bolo: obey and 
die. Where did the difference lie? In the creator's hands?
She held hers up, staring at them as though they belonged to 
someone—something—else. No, she realized slowly, frowning at her fingers as 
though seeing them for the first time, the difference didn't lie in the hands. 
It lay in the mind. A Bolo was not just cannon fodder; it was far more than a 
lab animal to be sacrificed, with no more compunction than a biology student 
felt, drowning live worms in formaldehyde. A lab rat never knew why it was to be 
killed; but a Bolo always knew. Knew it and accepted it and went to that death 
gladly, demonstrating courage worthy of the best humanity had produced from its 
own biological heart.
She didn't make the mistake of anthropomorphizing them. Bolos were not human. 
But there wasn't a Bolo commander alive who didn't recognize the essential 
humanness of a Bolo's mind, of its soul, perhaps, standing as mirror image to 
the minds and souls that had created it. That was what inspired a commander's 
unstinting friendship—and loyalty—that marked such relationships. It was the 
kinship of minds that created such wrenching grief when a Bolo passed out of 
existence. It was like the death of a child or a soulmate, leaving an ache far 
worse than a mere empty hollow in one's life. In a way, a Bolo became immortal 
when it died, as immortal as the great heroes of old, the Leonidases who, in 
their living and their dying, became far more than merely human.
Such sacrifices would be honored as long as the Brigade—or human hearts—endured. 
Her own lost friend, Unit DNY, would be sung of by soldiers who understood, by 
cadets who would understand only too soon, by youngsters with shining eyes, who 
understood only that something precious had died, and far too soon.
As Alessandra gazed at Senator's command compartment, his antique walls and data 
panels, she saw her Bolo with eyes that were finally clear again. And what she 
saw made Alessandra realize the most important thing she had ever come to 
understand. She had watched Senator struggle to overcome handicaps perpetrated 
on him by ham-handed technicians. Had watched him prevail anyway, with a rising 
sense of awe at the steady flow of brilliant solutions he fielded, one after 
another, to make up for those handicaps. Having finally recognized what had been 
there, all along, to see, Alessandra knew quite abruptly that she would fight 
like a cornered hellcat for his right to survive.
"Senator," she said softly, releasing her command chair's harness and sliding 
into a clean uniform, "I don't think I ever told you, but you're one hell of a 
fine Bolo. And come hell or high water, I'll make sure you get the chance to 
stay that way. I'll get a shipload of psychotronic engineers out here to fix 
you, even if I have to light fires under every brass butt from Sector HQ to 
Central Command. You've earned it. So don't you go getting any damnfool notions 
about joining any mothballs, you hear me?"
"Yes, Comma—" The Bolo paused. Said instead, "Yes, Alessandra."
She smiled. "I like the sound of that."
Very softly, her Bolo said, "So do I, Alessandra. Thank you."
No other words were necessary.
 








Chapter Twenty-six
After fifteen hours of brutal work by Eisenbrucke Station's biochemistry team, 
John Weyman watched Dr. Collingwood load a specially-rigged aerosol canister 
which would release her newly created compound into Icewing Clan's nest. "I've 
suspended it in a colorless, odorless gas," she explained, "since the clan will 
need to breathe it for an hour without knowing it."
They had tested the analog as best they could, with tissue taken from Chilaili 
and airlifted out to Rustenberg, for exposure to the neurotoxin. And while the 
tests went perfectly, tissue was not a whole organism and they were gambling 
with the fate of a sentient species.
Unfortunately, neither John nor anybody else could see any other way to proceed.
John made certain Chilaili knew how to operate the device, then packed it into 
the Navy shuttle that had flown back from Rustenberg, along with a smoke grenade 
and a can of spray sealant, the kind used to repair micro-meteor hull breaches 
in Navy ships, couriered down from the Darknight. 
The rest of Eisenbrucke's personnel had already been airlifted out, aboard 
civilian aircars from Seta Point, flying low to the ground under the protection 
of Rapier's long-range guns. The last civilian transport was ready to ferry Dr. 
Collingwood, her assistant, and Bessany out to Seta Point, but Bessany—with 
characteristic stubbornness—refused to board. "No," she insisted. "I'm going 
with you and Chilaili."
"If something goes wrong—"
"You'll need a xenology expert. Or Chilaili will need a friend. Or both."
He gave up trying and simply helped her climb into Lieutenant Carter's shuttle.
Their transport was well armed with antimissile systems, freeing Rapier for the 
part he would play in the upcoming charade. The Bolo had already headed out, 
needing a good head start, since he couldn't travel as fast through broken 
terrain as an airborne craft could fly across it. Rapier wouldn't need to get as 
close as they would, but John wanted him relatively near, in case things went 
seriously sour. John gave Lieutenant Carter one of Elin Olsson's geological 
survey maps, on which he'd indicated the point where Icewing's war party had 
first been spotted, their heat signatures pulsing brightly against the snow.
"This," he tapped the marked location, "has to be pretty much dead on target for 
their winter nest. I want you to bring us in fairly close, then drop us here." 
He tapped a second marked location. "We'll hike the rest of the way, so the 
shuttle doesn't attract attention."
Carter flashed a brief smile. "Piece of cake. Lots simpler than airlifting out 
nearly a thousand people in seven minutes. All right, let's rock and roll."
John vowed to make sure Lieutenant Carter received a whopping commendation.
He pulled himself into the cockpit, settling in the copilot's seat, while Carter 
switched on the engines and ran swiftly through her preflight check. John 
glanced into the back, where Bessany sat next to Chilaili. The Tersae was 
scrunched into an acceleration couch far too small for her frame. The pack she'd 
brought with her through the blizzard sat at her feet.
"We're going to lift off in a couple of minutes, Chilaili. If you get 
airsick—queasy enough to throw up—there's a special sack in a pocket next to 
your right hand."
"Thank you, John Weyman," she said, her voice a deep rumble from being bent 
double to fit into the couch. She turned her gaze to the window, staring out 
across the ruins of the research station. Given her grip on the couch's 
armrests, she was terrified and trying not to show it.
He was suddenly very glad Bessany had insisted on coming along.
Carter said, "All right, everybody, hang onto your lunch. We're set to go."
She throttled up the engines and lifted out of the little valley. John caught a 
glimpse of the "bridge" which had given the doomed station its name, a 
glittering span of solid ice, beautiful, treacherous, deadly. Like everything 
else about Thule. Then the shuttle banked, they picked up speed, and Carter shot 
her craft out across the forest at treetop level.
After a moment, Chilaili asked in a strained voice, "May I know why we fly in 
the wrong direction to reach my nest?"
"I'd rather not end up in a dogfight with any missiles," Carter said. "I want to 
set you down fast and get out again without being spotted. The last thing we 
want is to alert your nest. And we don't dare risk blowing you and that analog 
up in the air, if your war party sees us and decides to shoot."
"Ah . . . thank you."
"You're welcome." The pilot glanced at John, eyes glinting as if to say, 
"This'll be one to tell my grandkids," but said nothing, concentrating on flying 
as close to the treetops as possible. A journey that had taken Chilaili a full, 
bruising day, struggling through the blizzard, took the Navy shuttle fifteen 
minutes, even allowing for the long loop to come in from the opposite direction. 
Carter spotted the clearing marked on the map and settled her craft gently 
between tall stands of coniferlike trees that whipped and swayed in the 
backblast.
"Good luck, Colonel!" Carter called as John popped the hatch and slithered down 
to the ground, joined a moment later by Chilaili and Bessany. They waded through 
deep snowdrifts to reach the cover of the trees, so Carter would have clear 
space for takeoff. I ought to have my head examined, John thought with a sudden 
jerk of his pulse as the shuttle lifted off and vanished over the trees. There's 
a whole lot of lonesome out here. He hadn't felt this vulnerable in years, 
having grown accustomed to riding into battle with fourteen thousand tons of 
duralloy war hull between himself and fast, messy death.
Bessany's expression as she glanced into his eyes told him she knew exactly how 
he felt.
"Come," Chilaili said quietly. "My nest lies this way."
They followed wordlessly as Chilaili moved rapidly through the trees, staying 
well inside the cover of forest where the drifts weren't as deep. Seeing 
Chilaili in her native environment was vastly different from seeing her at the 
research station or scrunched into a Navy shuttle. Her movements were freer and 
easier, her stride longer, her gaze more alert as she swung her head gently from 
side to side, gauging distances and guiding them unerringly into the easiest 
paths.
For a full, grueling hour, they plowed through snowdrifts, navigated tangled 
underbrush, and cut around steep-walled gorges where frozen waterfalls glittered 
with all the raw beauty of wild water solidified into natural sculpture. Their 
painfully slow progress sent John's respect soaring, realizing just what it 
meant that Chilaili had struggled through this same deadly landscape in a 
howling blizzard.
When Chilaili noticed their flagging pace, she adjusted her longer stride, for 
which John was intensely grateful. He was in good athletic shape—the Brigade 
required it—but he wasn't anywhere near the equal of an eight-foot-tall, 
winter-hardened Tersae huntress, adapted for this climate and accustomed to its 
rigors. Bessany showed definite signs of strain, despite three months of heavy 
fieldwork. Adding to their discomfort, the temperature was dropping sharply, now 
they were on the back side of the storm system.
Breathing the bitterly cold air was like sucking down knifeblades with each 
breath. When the gauge on his survival gear registered five degrees below zero, 
John pulled full-face protective masks from his pack and handed one to Bessany. 
She flashed him a game smile and pulled it on under the hood of her parka. 
John's mask rubbed his chilled skin painfully at first, but as his face warmed 
up beneath the protective fabric, some of the misery abated with the warmth. He 
steadfastly refused to think about Rapier's toasty warm command compartment.
The character of the land changed as they neared Chilaili's winter nest. The 
deep basalt flows and the weathered gorges cutting through them, so prevalent in 
the region immediately surrounding Eisenbrucke Station, gave way to a gentler 
topography of limestone outcroppings, sinkholes, and ravines worn through the 
softer rock by running water. They crossed frozen streams, treading carefully on 
the ice where sharp, broken branches and water-rounded boulders jutted up 
through the frozen surface. Chilaili had to help them scramble up steep, 
snow-covered stream banks more than once, careful not to dig her claws into 
their wrists.
By the time Chilaili began to slow down, picking her way with great care, John 
was panting and Bessany was in visible distress. At length, Chilaili held up one 
large, furred hand and they halted. She slithered forward on her belly, 
motioning them to join her. John crept up beside her and Bessany slid forward 
next to him. They found themselves peering down into a narrow defile, no more 
than five meters across at its greatest width and nearly fifteen meters deep. At 
the bottom, he could see a dark, shadowed place where a cave opened out from the 
steep limestone cliff. A few tall, spindly conifers grew up from the bottom, 
providing enough coverage that the narrow crack in the earth probably wasn't 
very noticeable, even from the air. It was a fiendishly effective spot to hide a 
clan's winter nest.
Chilaili gestured for them to move back, away from the lip of the overhang. He 
nodded, scooting on his belly in the snow. Bessany and Chilaili did the same, 
then the Tersae touched the side of her head, where a tiny, hidden earphone 
rested inside her aural canal. She would be able to hear anything John, Bessany, 
or Rapier said to her. Chilaili pulled an elaborate cloak from her pack and 
touched a tiny camera lens hidden amongst the animal talons and teeth, strips of 
fur, and what looked like bunches of dried herbs. The camera was so small, John 
couldn't see it and he knew exactly where to look.
John slid equipment out of his own pack, testing his own earphone and tapping 
the microphone in the hood of his parka to be sure she was receiving him 
properly. Bessany did the same and Chilaili nodded. They double-checked the 
signal from Chilaili's camera to be sure his palm unit was picking up a clear 
picture, then he handed over the analog canister, along with the spray sealant 
and a smoke grenade. The Tersae tucked them into pouches they'd rigged on her 
weapons belt, hidden beneath the voluminous folds of her cloak.
Chilaili covered his hand briefly with her own, whether to offer reassurance or 
to draw courage from the contact, he wasn't sure, since her hand was shaking 
violently. She repeated the gesture with Bessany, who gave her a quick smile. 
Chilaili's alien eyes flickered briefly with some strong emotion he couldn't 
read, then she rose and moved swiftly away through the trees, cloak billowing.
John traced her progress on the tiny screen on his palm unit. She climbed down a 
path which had been swept clean of snow, taking great care with her handholds on 
the limestone walls, and reached bottom safely without being challenged. She 
pushed aside a snugly fitted screen, allowing a wafting scent of woodsmoke and 
alien cooking odors to drift up through the cold air. John's pulse thudded 
raggedly in his ears. Bessany reached over and gripped his gloved hand.
For good or ill, there was no backing out now.
 








Chapter Twenty-seven
Chilaili was afraid.
She hadn't been this frightened since the day her mother's mangled body had been 
carried home. The responsibility which had descended so crushingly on her young 
shoulders that day was as nothing compared with the weight of responsibility she 
carried now. If she failed . . .
Then it would be a very short failure.
The moment she stepped past the screen, Chilaili was engulfed by shrieking 
hatchlings. They danced joyously around her, welcoming her home with shrill 
cries, so overjoyed by her return, they overcame their awe of the katori cloak. 
Smiling and patting heads with her free hand, she took advantage of the outcry 
she'd known would greet her return. Chilaili angled the nozzle of the largest 
canister she carried to project slightly beyond the edge of her cloak. She drew 
a deep, ragged breath—and plunged the release mechanism.
The hiss was completely drowned out by the yelling hatchlings. Chilaili waded 
into the main living cavern, spewing the stuff into the air as she walked. An 
invisible cloud spread out above the heads of the little ones, forcibly ejected 
by the humans' special container—such a fragile barrier between all she loved 
and hideous death. The canister turned cold against her fur, then the hissing 
stopped. An instant later, Sooleawa threw herself into Chilaili's arms.
"Mother!" she cried, trembling violently. "I've been so afraid! When you didn't 
come and didn't come . . ."
"Hush, precious one," she soothed, taking her daughter's face in both hands and 
smoothing her fur. "I'm home now."
But not, her mind whispered, safely. Honored Great-Grandmothers, watch over us . 
. . 
Sooleawa smiled, then Chilaili greeted the clan's ruling Grandmothers, the 
mothers heavy with eggs not yet laid, and the huntresses who would not be 
leaving for at least another day, to attack an empty research station. In the 
shadows, the males too old to go to war greeted her with pleasure, nodding from 
where they sat brooding their daughters' and granddaughters' eggs. Given her 
long absence, they doubtless looked forward to the poultices and tisanes she 
would prepare to soothe their aching bones and stiffened muscles.
Even the akule greeted her with simple, warm joy. "We feared the worst, 
Chilaili," he said earnestly, taking her hands briefly in his. "Trying to travel 
through such a storm . . . Thank the Ones Above, you are safe. The ritual went 
well?"
She nodded, not trusting her voice to speak the lie.
"All is well, then. The war party set out for the larger human nest nearly a 
full day ago. If the Ones Above look kindly on them, they will reach that nest 
within another two days and destroy it."
Chilaili nodded again, still unable to speak. The humans and their ogre—their 
Bolo, she corrected herself—could have killed the entire war party at any time, 
without ever coming close enough for the warriors to fire a single shot or lob a 
single bomb in self-defense. Insanity, to fight such an enemy. The canisters 
under her cloak—one empty, two waiting for the right moment—were so heavy, they 
dragged at her spirit as well as the pouches she had slipped them into.
"Sooleawa," she said tiredly, "could you bring me a cup of something hot to 
drink? I'm chilled clear through."
"Of course, Mother!"
The girl scampered off and Chilaili turned in a slow circle, allowing the humans 
a good view of the cavern through the device hidden on her cloak. "There are too 
many empty hearths," she said quietly, glancing from one living space to the 
next, each family's spot marked by the outlines of cooking hearths and sleeping 
furs. "Never have we sent so many of our clan to battle." She shook her head and 
let out a deep and weary sigh. "Is there news from other clans?"
Great-Grandmother Anevay gestured for Chilaili to sit beside her. She sank down 
onto a pile of sleeping furs arranged next to the old woman's hearth. Anevay 
offered her a bowl of savory wurpa stew, smoking hot from the fire.
"Yes, katori," she said as Chilaili began to eat, "there is news from the other 
clans. Grim news, all of it. We have not dared use our Oracle. The akule has 
heard explosions and screams through ours, every time a clan has used theirs to 
plead for help. These devils we fight are merciless." The ancient matriarch 
shook her head sadly. "You were right, Chilaili, to warn us that we fight an 
enemy more deadly than we could comprehend. But in all honesty, what else can we 
do?"
Chilaili couldn't answer that question.
Not yet.
"The Ones Above have not spoken at all, then?" she asked.
"No," Kestejoo sighed, joining them. "We have not heard their voices since the 
beginning of the war."
The akule looked as tired as she felt. In his own way, Chilaili realized, he 
felt the burden of this war as heavily as she did. She feared what he would do 
when the Bolo launched the second phase of their desperate plan. Fortunately, 
Sooleawa returned with a steaming cupful of ijwa tea, distracting her from that 
worry. Chilaili sipped gratefully, although the sloshing liquid revealed the 
shameful unsteadiness of her hands.
"You're trembling, Chilaili," Kestejoo said worriedly. "Are you all right?"
She nodded. "I have fasted for many days, is all. And the trip back through the 
deep snow was exhausting." That, at least, was honest enough. "The stew and the 
tea will restore my strength."
They did help, in fact. The taste of wurpa stew and mellow ijwa tea soothed her 
jangled nerves with their simple familiarity, reminding her that she was home 
for however long a time remained to them. The humans had shared their food 
unstintingly, but she had found human fare unsettling in its strangeness. It was 
so good to be back amongst her own kind, to see her beloved daughter's face, it 
was all she could do to swallow past the constriction in her throat.
She sat and listened to Sooleawa's bright chatter and Anevay's humorous account 
of the days she'd been away, sharing all the silly squabbles between nestlings, 
passing along the complaints and aches of the older grandmothers and 
grandfathers. Squealing laughter rang cheerfully from the little ones as they 
played chase and stalk through the living cavern. Their world was bright and 
happy again with the safe return of their katori. For them, the war was a 
faraway tale that had not yet touched their lives directly.
All too soon, that would change.
Chilaili sipped her tea and nibbled at her stew and silently counted down the 
passing minutes. An hour, the humans had said. During the days spent with them, 
she had learned to judge very accurately the span of time they referred to as 
one hour. When that deadline passed with nothing but silence, her hands grew 
unsteady again and her pulse jumped. Soon, she groaned to herself. It had to be 
soon. 
Sooleawa had just brought another cupful of tea when the Oracle's 
incoming-message alarm sounded. It echoed shrilly from the little cavern where 
the akule tended the device. Even though she had been expecting it—or perhaps 
because she had—Chilaili started violently, sloshing hot tea across her hand. 
She swore viciously, even as the akule lunged to his feet and ran for the Oracle 
Chamber. Chilaili's hand throbbed where the tea had scalded her palm pads. Her 
heartbeat thundered. John Weyman's voice whispered in her ear, "Get ready, 
Chilaili. This is it."
And hard on the heels of that alien whisper came Bessany Weyman's: "Courage, my 
friend."
"Mother?" Sooleawa asked worriedly, noticing Chilaili's sudden distress.
Chilaili shook her head and gave her daughter a wan smile. Hands shaking 
violently, she fumbled the canister of sealant and the heavy, round smoke 
grenade out of their pouches, then turned her head toward the Oracle Chamber. A 
moment later, the akule reappeared, looking shaken. "Will someone help me carry 
the Oracle, please?"
"Carry it?" Great-Grandmother Anevay asked sharply. "Carry it where?"
"Into the living cavern. The Ones Above have commanded me to bring the Oracle 
out, so everyone can hear."
A murmur of surprise ran through the cavern. Several huntresses followed the 
akule back into the Oracle chamber. Chilaili heard a scraping sound, several 
grunts, then the sound of claws on rock as they returned. The Oracle was far 
larger, Chilaili now realized, than it needed to be if the only purpose it 
served was communication. Compared with the equipment the humans used to speak 
over vast distances, the Oracle was enormous. It required four adults to carry 
it.
John Weyman's voice muttered in her ear, "Good God, that thing's huge. What do 
they have concealed in there?"
"At a guess," Bessany Weyman's voice rasped out a whispered answer, "data 
recorders of some kind, with enough computer storage space to hold several 
decades' worth of accumulated information. Visual as well as audio, given the 
size of that thing. I wonder how often they harvest the data? And how?"
The Bolo, hooked into the communications equipment Chilaili and the humans 
carried—and therefore able to see and hear through the device on Chilaili's 
cloak—spoke up.
"I'm picking up faint electronic signals originating from the Oracle and a dozen 
other points throughout the cavern. These probably indicate hidden cameras in 
every chamber of this cavern complex, transmitting via low-power signals to the 
data recorders in the Oracle casing. The clan is closely observed at all times. 
And, of course," the machine added with devastating simplicity, "the Oracle 
contains enough neurotoxin to kill the entire clan."
Chilaili shuddered. And realized for the first time, with a sickening sense of 
what might have happened, that the defiance they had discussed the night of the 
Council's vote could easily have triggered the Ones Above into destroying them.
"Anybody see a neurotoxin delivery system on that thing?" John Weyman asked 
tersely.
"Not without a more detailed look at it," Rapier replied. "Chilaili, can you get 
closer?"
She didn't want to go near the abomination, but it would kill her just as dead 
from across the cavern as it would standing right next to it, so Chilaili rose 
to her feet. "Sooleawa," she said in a low voice, "stay beside me. I want you to 
see the Oracle clearly. This is a moment never to be forgotten."
A vast understatement . . .
And if the humans' antidote didn't work, if the deadly neurotoxin poisoned them, 
after all, she would kill Sooleawa with her own hands. It would be far kinder to 
kill her child with a swiftly broken neck than to let her suffer the death John 
Weyman had described in such horrifying detail. The hatchlings were crowding 
forward, wide-eyed with wonder as the huntresses set the Oracle down on a 
natural rock platform along the cavern wall. Chilaili stepped close enough to 
give the humans and their machine a long, clear look at the device. It sat 
stolidly in its place, squat and malignant. She hated the sight of it.
The Bolo spoke abruptly into her earpiece.
"There is no logical communications or data recording purpose I can fathom for 
the protrusion at the right-hand side of this device, near the upper edge. I 
believe it to be the nozzle of an aerosol delivery system. Watch this nozzle 
closely, Chilaili, during the next few minutes. If I am correct, this is where 
the Oracle will attempt to release the neurotoxin."
Chilaili found the spot the Bolo was describing and riveted her gaze to it.
If there is any mercy left in the world, don't let us die—
The Oracle began to speak.
"My beloved children," it said, using the carefully prepared message Chilaili 
had helped the Bolo draft, "listen well, for I have tidings of great distress."
The adults exchanged worried glances while the children crept to their mothers 
and huddled close. The silence in the living cavern was so complete, Chilaili 
could hear the distant drip of water from the inner caverns. Even the hatchlings 
listened in overawed silence.
"Generations ago, my children, I created you. I took mindless beasts from the 
wild, gave them intelligence, gave them understanding of languages and laws. 
Once I had created you, beloved children, I returned you to these wild forests. 
I left tools to improve your lives, weapons to defend yourselves, and especially 
I left the Oracles, to call for help if you needed it. These gifts I gave freely 
and with love, because I cared so deeply for you. It was painfully difficult to 
leave you here, but you needed to grow in your own way. It was in my mind to 
return when you had grown wise enough to fully understand my gifts. When you 
were ready, I hoped you might fly at my side between the stars.
"But in my absence, a terrible thing has happened. Unknown to me, my brother 
returned to your world. He has been ill for a very long time, dangerously ill in 
his mind and his soul. He has done a terrible evil to all of you, which I have 
just discovered. My sorrow is boundless, for he has filled your innocent hearts 
with hatred. He has poisoned your chicks, especially your male chicks, twisting 
their minds to match his own. And he has caused you to wage a dreadful war 
against creatures who never meant harm to you or to me. This war with the humans 
has nearly destroyed you, my children, and it was never necessary."
Shocked sounds broke from every throat. Even the nestlings whimpered in fright, 
some of them too young to understand the words, but fully aware of the adults' 
distress. At Chilaili's side, poor Kestejoo was trembling, gaze locked on the 
Oracle he had tended so diligently for so long, his expression wavering between 
sick horror and disbelief.
The Oracle spoke again. "But even this is not the worst of his evil, my 
children. In his twisted madness, he has placed a dreadful weapon inside each 
Oracle. A weapon that is meant to destroy all of you, to hide the sin of what he 
has done, so you could not speak, should I discover his crimes. Already, an 
entire clan has been destroyed by this weapon, killed horribly. Even the chicks 
died within minutes. I grieve for them, my children. And I grieve for you, 
because this is the last time you will ever hear my voice. You must destroy the 
Oracle now, so that no evil creature will ever again pose as your creator or 
harm you through a device I meant to help you. And you must stop this insane war 
with the creatures my brother has wrongly called devils. You must stop the war 
immediately and beg them for peace, for they are creatures of honor and will not 
harm those who honestly seek friendship with them."
In her ear, the Bolo said, "The Oracle has commenced some kind of automated 
transmission—"
Chilaili lunged forward, simultaneously hurling down the smoke grenade and 
bringing up the sealant. There was a sharp explosion behind her, releasing a 
cloud of yellowish, stinging smoke. Chilaili shouted, "Breathe in the fumes! As 
you love life, breathe deeply!"
She'd just reached the Oracle when a different voice came from it, a cold voice, 
full of cruel indifference. "You have sinned, Icewing Clan. You will now die."
Screams erupted behind her—terror-stricken, shrill—tearing throats and shredding 
nerves. Chilaili plunged the control valve under her fingers to release the 
sealant. Hands shaking, she sprayed and sprayed the place on the right-hand side 
of the Oracle. Hunter vision narrowed the entire universe down to that one tiny, 
deadly spot. The Oracle was humming, giving out a high-pitched whine from 
somewhere deep inside, as though something were spinning or moving—or trying to. 
The projection under the humans' hard-drying sealant was vibrating. She sprayed 
it again and again, hating it blackly, hating the death it was trying to spew 
out. The entire right side of the Oracle disappeared under a coating so thick it 
resembled solid rock.
She did not stop until the canister was empty.
When the stream of sealant failed at last, her legs threatened to buckle under 
her.
But a wave of panic-stricken movement behind her caught Chilaili's attention. A 
surge away from the Oracle threatened to become an avalanche, sweeping more than 
two hundred terrified women, children, and stiff-limbed old men toward the 
narrow cavern entrance.
"Have no fear!" Chilaili shouted. "Hear me! There is no danger! I swear this, as 
master katori of Icewing Clan!" Her voice, at least, was one they had trusted 
for many winters. Even stumbling half blind through the thick, yellow smoke, 
they heard that trusted voice calling them back, reassuring them.
The huntresses stopped first, forming a dam against which terrified children and 
trembling old ones broke and foamed like waves in a storm-lashed lake. They 
slowed and paused, coughing and trembling. "This yellow smoke," Chilaili waved 
one hand at the pall of acrid fumes drifting through the cavern, "has kept you 
safe from the Twisted One's poison!" It was a lie, but a small one. At such a 
moment, dramatics were necessary, a fact she knew only too well as a master 
healer. Half of any cure was the patient's simple belief. The clan would never 
have believed in something they could neither see nor smell.
The nestlings would have nightmares for weeks.
But they were still alive.
"Good work, Chilaili," the Bolo's voice spoke into her ear. "Very, very good 
work. I detect a cessation of activity inside the Oracle. It has either shut 
itself off again or burned out the mechanism attempting to break through the 
sealant. If you had not sprayed such a thick coating, that aerosol nozzle might 
well have broken loose and released the neurotoxin. Clearly, the Oracle 
contained a dead-man switch programmed to activate on a timer in the event of 
outside electronic tampering. . . ."
Chilaili couldn't take in another word the machine was saying. Now that the 
worst of the terror had passed, she sank to her knees, trembling violently, so 
sick with reaction she needed to spew onto the floor. Sooleawa crawled toward 
her, eyes streaming, voice hoarse.
"Mother? Are you ill? Did The Twisted One's poison touch you?"
She shook her head. "No, child," she managed to gasp out. "No. I'm just shaken 
with mortal fright."
"What happened? What was that awful stuff you shouted at us to breathe?"
"An antidote . . . to the poison hidden inside the Oracle," she whispered.
An anguished cry sounded behind her. Chilaili lifted her head sharply. The akule 
was down on the cavern floor as well, wheezing and coughing. The look in his 
eyes was dreadful. That look of betrayal ran so deep, it had shattered something 
critical to his sanity. He shook violently on hands and knees, rocking and 
swaying like a terrified and confused hatchling.
"Kestejoo?" she asked softly.
A terrible sound broke from his throat. Then he whimpered, "Gods and ancestors, 
Chilaili, what have I done? Sending us to war against the humans, worshiping 
that . . . that false and evil thing . . ." A wrenching sob broke loose. "I have 
spent my whole life worshiping a lie!"
Chilaili's heart broke, witnessing his distress. He had already lost so much.
To lose his god, as well . . .
He lifted a wildly haunted gaze and stared into Chilaili's eyes. "How?" he 
whispered, voice ragged, on the edge of fractured sanity. "How did you know? How 
could you possibly have known?"
"Because the Ones Above—the True Ones Above—told me. I have been with them these 
past three days. With them and with the ones we have wronged, the humans."
The akule simply stared, perhaps unable to take in even one more shock.
Anevay croaked out hoarsely, "Together?"
Chilaili nodded, unwilling to speak another direct lie. "I have learned their 
speech," she said instead, rolling a warning eye at Sooleawa. "They are 
honorable creatures, Great-Grandmother. If we stop the attack on their nests, if 
we help them stop the war with the other clans, they will protect us, as they 
have done just now. It was the humans who made the antidote to the poison 
concealed inside the Oracle." She managed a wry smile. "It is even possible that 
one day we may even call them friends."
The akule's voice shook. "How can you even speak the word friend, when we have 
tried so hard to destroy them? Surely they wish us all hideously dead!" The 
unspoken "In their place, I would" hung on the air like the yellow pall of 
smoke.
Chilaili sat back on her heels, gestured at that smoke. "Let me tell you what 
happened, my gentle and respected friend. One of their great metal ogres 
attacked a winter nest. That was how the poison in the Oracle was discovered. 
The Oracle was broken open in the attack. The poison spilled out into the air . 
. ." She shuddered. "Every Tersae and every beast in the forest from which we 
were fashioned died, within the span of time it would take to walk to the 
entrance to our winter nest and climb up to the top of the bluff. They died with 
blood pouring from their skin, their eyes, their tongues—"
Several of the children began to wail again.
"I am sorry," Chilaili whispered. "But you must understand how hideous a death 
the Evil One Above planned for us. The humans and the True Ones Above found the 
antidote to this terrible poison. Then the humans brought me here, in one of 
their flying machines, so I could reach the clan in time. I ask you, Kestejoo, 
would we have acted to save the lives of their hatchlings, had our places been 
reversed?"
The akule's gaze dropped to his hands. He shook his head.
Chilaili gentled her voice. "You have asked if we can call the humans friends? 
Yes, I believe we can. And the only way to begin, respected akule, is to stop 
being their enemies."
"Yes," he whispered, eyes slightly less wild. "If what you say is true—and how 
can it be anything else?—then the clans of the Tersae have wronged them, 
dreadfully." He stopped rocking like a crazed child. "Thank the—" His voice 
caught and he started rocking again, a motion filled with misery. "At least," he 
said carefully, instead, "there is still time to prevent Icewing Clan from 
committing the same wrong." He drew a deep breath, coughing slightly as the 
smoke stung, then rose on unsteady feet. "I will go, myself, to bring the war 
party home again. They might not listen to you, perhaps, but they will certainly 
listen to me." He tipped his head to stare at the Oracle, misshapen now, and 
silent. "And I will tell them to leave their weapons in the snow."
"I will go with you, Kestejoo," she said softly, rising to her feet as well. 
"There is someone I want you to meet . . ."
As she led the way out into the sunshine, where two humans and a machine waited, 
Chilaili's only fear—and it was a sharp one, as they left the cavern and climbed 
up the steep path—was that somehow, the attempt to stop their males from 
attacking Seta Point would go wrong. Like Kestejoo, she wanted to offer up a 
prayer.
And like Kestejoo, she had no idea who—or what—to pray to. 
 








Chapter Twenty-eight
Ruk na Graz stared at the display screen numbly, gazing at his own destruction.
It had taken several moments for the import of the data to sink in. One of the 
Oracles had started to transmit an "I am tampered with" duress code, along with 
a rogue transmission channelled through it. The unit had then simply dropped 
off-line, blocked in mid-transmission by sophisticated electronic jamming from a 
ground-based source. Once he'd realized what that meant—that the humans knew the 
Oracles existed and had literally taken one over with their own broadcast in 
Tersae sub-dialect—it was far too late to prevent the damage.
The continued jamming had prevented his technicians from accessing on-site 
camera systems to see what was happening down there. Ultimately, of course, it 
didn't matter. It was enough to know that something was jamming the Oracle's 
signal. If the humans knew enough to do that, they knew far too much. It was 
disaster of the first magnitude. Utter shame and disgrace . . .
How had the humans learned about the Oracles? Presumably the same way they'd 
learned to speak the Melconian sub-dialect the Tersae had been taught. One of 
the damned experimental animals had done the unthinkable: it had defected. Ruk 
na Graz wanted to howl his rage and frustration. He bit down on it until he had 
his ragged temper under tenuous control, then snarled at his aide, "Get Science 
Leader Vrim in here! Now!"
Vrim arrived three minutes later, panting from the exertion of his hasty 
journey. "War Leader?" he gasped out.
"One of your filthy experimental creatures has defected to the humans." Ruk na 
Graz shoved a transcript of the Oracle's final broadcast into the aging 
scientist's shocked hands. "Would you care to explain how?"
Vrim's ears went desperately flat against his skull. "This is terrible," he 
whispered, "just dreadful. Merciful ancestors, we never dreamed their grumbles 
would lead to this . . ."
"What grumbles?" Ruk na Graz roared to his feet, slamming his fists against the 
desktop.
The Science Leader flinched. "We've been hearing complaints from most of the 
clans over this business of deforming the males' genetic material through the 
blessing chambers—"
Ruk na Graz stared, unsure whether to snarl or simply shoot the fool. "You heard 
seditious talk," he whispered in a dreadful rage, "and didn't bother to report 
it?"
"It was valid data!" Vrim cried. "Don't you see? We were trying to understand 
the social ramifications of their discovery that the damage to their eggs in the 
blessing chambers was causing the violent trend in their young males! We didn't 
expect them to make that connection at all. The sociological data have been 
utterly fascinating. If we'd reported it right away, we'd have lost the chance 
to fully study it, because the military caste might have shut the whole thing 
down in knee-jerk reaction.
"We just never dreamed they could do anything about it. Except grumble, of 
course, and hold back a few of their eggs. We've spent generations inculcating a 
pathological fear of 'devils from the stars.' That ethnocentric conditioning 
should have worked to prevent this." He rattled the transcript in his hands. 
"You're sure one of them has actually defected? The humans could simply have 
taken live prisoners—"
"That hijacked broadcast was made in fluent, properly inflected Melconian," Ruk 
na Graz snarled. "Not pidgin. Not a few random words cobbled together from the 
babblings of terrified prisoners. Either one of those damned animals has taught 
the humans its language or it crafted the message for the humans. Or possibly 
both. Your failure to report the Tersae's discovery of genetic tampering, not to 
mention widespread sedition over it, has put the entire Melconian Empire at 
risk! Do you begin to comprehend everything the humans now have access to?"
Vrim was shaking, eyes wide and panic-stricken. "I-I'm sorry, War Leader, I just 
didn't realize the danger—"
"Then realize this! We have no choice but to evacuate immediately. This project 
ends now, whether you like it or not. And unless I am very much mistaken, the 
Emperor will order us both to suicide, when we return home. Now, get out. And 
take your gods-cursed data with you!"
The aging scientist fled, whimpering.
Ruk na Graz was pondering which of a ghastly list of things to do next when a 
technician from the monitoring center arrived, trembling and gulping. "War 
Leader . . ." he began, voice shaking.
"Out with it!"
"The communications relay satellite . . . the humans have captured it. Taken it 
aboard their warship. Several hours ago, we think. We didn't realize it until 
just now, when the emergency broadcast from the compromised Oracle was relayed 
through it. The relay showed it seriously out of position, inside the human 
vessel. . . ."
Ruk na Graz sat down slowly, unable to say anything at all for several seconds. 
He finally asked, in a terrible, strained whisper, "Why in the seventeen moons 
didn't you order it to self-destruct?"
The technician gabbled out, "We—we can't. It's so antiquated, War Leader, it has 
no destruction mechanism on board."
Worse and worse . . .
So far as he knew—and he prayed to all his ancestors, to let it be true—the 
satellite hadn't been programmed with Melcon's home coordinates, since its use 
had been strictly limited to in-system signal relay. But the enemy now had 
access to the master codes of the Melconian Empire's entire military 
communications system and the frequencies used by both civilian and military 
agencies. These humans were clever beasts. After what they'd done already, he 
could imagine only too clearly what they would accomplish, with that much 
information about Melcon.
They must not capture this moon base.  
In it were star charts, military and trade routes, a thousand useful details to 
an enemy bent on conquest. If the humans figured out how to operate that 
captured satellite, they could send a pulse that this base would automatically 
answer, giving away their location instantly. Paw shaking, he called up the 
program necessary to initiate the auto-destruct sequence, then pressed the 
intercom buzzer to summon his personal aide.
"Yes, Colonel?"
"Order the immediate evacuation of this base. Personnel only. If it cannot be 
carried in one bag, it must be left behind and destroyed. I want this base 
cleared within one hour. One hour, do you understand that, pup? I have already 
set the auto-destruct program in motion. This base will be blown to its 
component atoms a quarter hour after that deadline. And disable the entire 
communications system before the humans figure out how to sound us out. Move, 
pup!"
Ears pinned flat to his skull in distress, the shaken young aide ran. An instant 
later, the emergency intercom blared the news. Between strident pulses of the 
alarm siren, he could hear shouts and shrill wails of protest. The sound of 
ignominious defeat . . . He made himself move very deliberately, downloading 
copies of his most critical files, dumping the data cubes into a carryall, 
abandoning even the holos of his wife and pups, which occupied a cherished 
corner of his desk. Their escape ship must be stripped for running. He would see 
his family soon enough as it was, right before his court-martial.
The last thing he did before leaving was key in the Oracles' auto-destruct code, 
which the moon base's powerful transmitter would send planetwide seconds before 
the base blew itself to hell. He snarled as he punched in the command, his last 
official act as Military Leader of a failed project. Then he stalked into the 
corridor and headed for the transport that would take him home to die. At least 
the damned experimental beasts would precede him by a good, long margin.
Humanity could not get their stubby hands on more Tersae if he'd already 
destroyed them. 
Given even one planet cracker, he could have destroyed the humans, as well.
 








Chapter Twenty-nine
Tension dragged at Bessany's nerves.
She and John Weyman had pulled off their face masks, despite the bitter cold, 
stuffing them into pockets for this critical meeting. Bessany glanced at her 
brother-in-law and read tension in the set of his jaw. He kept his hand hovering 
near his side arm, without actually resting his fingers on the grip.
"John," she said in a low voice, "I don't have the words to thank you enough. I 
wish . . ."
He glanced down into her eyes, surprise dawning in his own. "You wish what?"
She swallowed hard. "That I'd listened to you, that day. That I'd met you 
first."
A look of mingled pain and pleasure ran through his eyes, shadowed eyes that had 
seen entirely too much of the former and not nearly enough of the latter. 
Speaking very softly, he said, "So do I." He pressed her gloved fingers in his 
and added, "Maybe we can start being friends?"
She nodded, scarcely trusting her voice. "I'd like that," she managed, blinking 
back wetness. Then Chilaili appeared through the drifted snow, accompanied by a 
taller, more gracile Tersae, and Bessany jerked her attention back to this 
critically important first meeting. She recognized the Tersae with Chilaili at 
once, having watched on John's hand-unit viewscreen as Chilaili greeted this 
individual. This was the akule, the Tersae who would know more about the Ones 
Above than any other in Chilaili's clan. There were subtle differences in the 
shape of his beak, the patterns on his fur, the color of his eyes that marked 
him as belonging to another bloodline, an outsider who had adopted Icewing Clan 
out of love. Chilaili looked short beside the taller, slimmer Kestejoo—and short 
was not an adjective Bessany had ever associated with Chilaili before.
The Tersae were quite near before Bessany realized the akule was trembling. A 
sudden wave of pity swept through her, driving away Bessany's own nervousness. 
She was facing an unknown alien; he was facing a devil, moments after losing his 
god. Chilaili paused three long paces away and spoke quietly, in her own 
language. Bessany caught some of what the katori said, but Rapier translated 
directly into the tiny receiver tucked into her ear.
"Kestejoo, these are the humans who saved our clan. This is Bessany Weyman and 
the nestmate of her life-mate, John Weyman. The humans' metal ogre, their Bolo, 
answers the commands of John Weyman."
Kestejoo trembled more violently.
"Bessany Weyman," Chilaili switched to Terran standard, "John Weyman, this is 
Kestejoo, akule to Icewing Clan."
Bessany had long since learned the proper Tersae greeting from Chilaili. She had 
worked hard during the last several hours on pronunciation. She took one step 
forward, holding out her hands, and murmured the ritual greeting. "May the 
ancestors smile upon you, Kestejoo."
His pupils dilated with shock. He darted a swift, terrified glance at Chilaili, 
who made a little head-bobbing motion, then he took a slow step forward and 
stretched out his own hands. They shook like leaves in a high wind. Behind her, 
Bessany sensed more than saw the sudden tension coiling through her 
brother-in-law, but Kestejoo merely touched her outstretched palms with his own 
and whispered the greeting in return. His voice was deep, pleasant to the ear, 
and the pads on his palms and fingertips were surprisingly soft. Far softer, in 
fact, than Chilaili's, which belonged, after all, to a seasoned huntress.
"I am sorry," Bessany said carefully. "I do not speak your words well. I will 
ask Chilaili to speak our words to you."
She had to listen closely to catch the answer, due in part, she suspected, to 
slight dialectic differences that gave Kestejoo a different accent. "I will 
honor your words and listen carefully."
Rapier's translation in her ear helped.
Kestejoo spoke again, more rapidly, and Chilaili translated. "We must stop our 
clan's war party, but they have traveled more than a day's march ahead. It will 
be difficult to catch them."
John stepped forward, causing Kestejoo to flinch slightly, despite nearly a 
meter difference in their heights. "We have a machine that can take us to them 
much faster than any of us can run through snow. We will take you close, then 
let you walk ahead, to meet them alone."
Chilaili translated and Kestejoo nodded. "Yes. That would be best. Where is this 
machine?" he added, glancing toward the forest.
John pulled out his comm link. "Rapier, how close are you now?"
"Within three kilometers, Commander, due south."
Kestejoo rolled one worried eye toward the voice emerging from the comm link.
"You're the xeno-ecologist," John glanced at Bessany. "Do we hike out to meet 
Rapier or bring him in close enough to terrify the entire clan?"
"Let's bring him in. It's one thing for Chilaili to tell the clan that we're 
willing to form an alliance; it's another thing entirely to see a Bolo up close 
and personal and not have it shoot at you."
Her brother-in-law gave her a wan smile. "Mmm, yes, I see your point. All right, 
Rapier, join us, please."
"At once, Commander."
"Perhaps we should go to a small clearing near here?" Chilaili suggested. "I 
would not want the little ones to panic and run off the lip of the ravine when 
the Bolo comes."
"Why don't you just have them come up after Rapier gets here?"
Chilaili nodded gravely. "Yes. We will do this." She turned to Kestejoo and 
translated.
A few moments later, a distant rumble and a sound like popcorn in a kettle 
reached them, rising rapidly in volume as the immense Bolo came crashing through 
the forest. The sound of splintering trees rose to a wild crescendo. The earth 
shook under Rapier's mighty treads, then the top of his war turret appeared 
above the trees. Powerful muscles in Chilaili's arm, hardened by years of 
hunting, bulged as she gripped Kestejoo's wrist, preventing him from bolting.
The akule was trembling wildly, pupils dilated in terror as Rapier ground down 
trees like kindling. His prow emerged through a white spray as snow-covered 
trees went down in front of him like a weirdly reversed wake behind an 
oceangoing ship. Rapier's guns bristled ominously against the dazzling, sunlit 
sky.
The Bolo came to a halt five meters away, a beached battleship on moveable 
treads.
"May the ancestors smile on you, Kestejoo, Chilaili," the machine boomed—in 
Tersae.
Kestejoo let go a strangled, wildly terrified sound, then stared at Chilaili 
when she returned the greeting. "May the ancestors smile on you, Bolo Rapier." 
She turned to Kestejoo then and spoke too rapidly for Bessany to follow the 
words. Rapier translated into her earpiece.
"The machine has acted with great honor since the day I first saw it, Kestejoo," 
she was saying in a low, urgent voice. "It could have destroyed our war party at 
any time after they left the nest, without even showing itself, but it has not 
done so. You see, it does not fire upon us."
"It—it is so—I had not dreamed so vast a thing could—" Kestejoo paused, panting 
visibly. "And the Evil One Above wanted us to fight such a thing?"
"Yes," Chilaili said gently. "He did. Come, Kestejoo. Come and meet the Bolo 
machine."
She drew him forward on trembling legs. Bessany stayed back, giving John the 
high sign, as well. They watched in silence as Chilaili led the akule toward the 
Bolo's treads, which towered above even the Tersae. As Chilaili touched the Bolo 
and coaxed Kestejoo to do the same, John murmured, "Now there is a brave man."
Bessany nodded. "Extremely."
It took them ten minutes, but Chilaili coaxed the rest of the clan out into the 
snow, to meet the Bolo. Cries of terror lifted and some of the little ones clung 
to their mothers, but Chilaili got them all to the top of the bluff. The Bolo 
greeted them softly, speaking Terran standard and allowing Chilaili to 
translate, which surprised Bessany until she realized Rapier was taking no 
chances that anyone would recognize his voice as the same one which had come 
through the Oracle.
Touching the Bolo's treads became a weirdly poignant ritual, enacted again and 
again as the clan came forward in faltering groups of two and three. Sooleawa 
walked past Bessany at one point, leading two little ones by the hand. She 
dipped her head infinitesimally in greeting as they passed, meeting Bessany's 
eye with a long look of wonder. By the time the last of the clan had completed 
the ritual, even Kestejoo had begun to lose the worst of his fear. Bessany was 
actually starting to feel good about this—
"Commander," the Bolo said urgently, startling cries of fear from the watching 
crowd. "I am receiving transmissions from Units of the Line across Thule. Oracle 
signals have been traced from fifteen locations, responding to some sort of 
coded burst from a far-orbit source. Explosions on one of the smaller moons were 
detected seconds after the transmission. There has been a massive, planetwide 
neurotoxin release. The nearest neurotoxin release will put Icewing Clan's war 
party in the wind dispersal pattern within forty-five minutes."
Blood drained from Bessany's face. "Oh, my God." She felt like somebody had just 
punched her. Then the full implications of Rapier's words hit home. "John!" She 
clutched his arm in both hands. "That war party has the only adult male Tersae 
left on this whole goddamned world! Without them, the gene pool is too small to 
sustain the species!"
John was snarling into his comm link, "This is Lieutenant Colonel Weyman! 
Emergency priority! We need an airdrop of neurotoxin analog as fast as you can 
rendezvous! Carter, scramble your butt now!"
He was already running toward Rapier, shouting over one shoulder, "Bessany, get 
Chilaili and Kestejoo into the command compartment with us. It's gonna be one 
hell of a jolting ride. They'd be bashed to death in that cargo hold."
Chilaili was staring at Bessany in deep shock. "Tell me it is not true?" she 
whispered, voice breaking with agony. At her shoulder, Sooleawa was gulping in 
visible distress, having understood the Bolo's words perfectly.
"It's true," Bessany said roughly. Tears stung. "There's no time, Chilaili! If 
you and Kestejoo can't persuade those males to lay down their weapons and let us 
give them the analog . . ."
The katori whirled and gasped out the dire news. Screams and wails rose on the 
frozen wind. Several older Tersae actually collapsed in the snow, moaning and 
tearing at their head-fur. Sooleawa broke from the group and ran, vanishing down 
the path that led to the living cavern. Above them, Rapier's voice boomed into 
the icy air, speaking in urgent Tersae.
"Icewing Clan, if it can be done, we will save them. Chilaili, you must come 
now."
Chilaili dragged the stunned Kestejoo forward, shoving him bodily onto the 
ladder. Sooleawa reappeared, screaming, "Mother! Wait!" The girl was running 
through the shocked clan, carrying something that looked like oddly shaped 
snowshoes. She had brought two sets. "You will need them, Mother, to move 
quickly through deep snow! And you'll have to go on foot, partway, or the war 
party will fire on the ogre!"
Chilaili hugged her daughter hard as Bessany shoved Kestejoo up the ladder 
rungs; then they were all climbing toward the command compartment. Both Tersae 
had to suck in their bellies and scrunch their shoulders to fit through the 
command hatch, but they made it. John pushed them hurriedly toward the 
observation couches as they tumbled down the ladder. There were, thank God, 
three of those couches. Bessany's half-swallowed her slight frame. The Tersae 
barely fit, wedged in like ticks in a narrow crack. John snapped restraints in 
place on all three couches and shouted at Rapier, "Go! Go!"
The Bolo was moving even as John flung himself into the command chair and 
slapped controls that webbed him in. The Bolo pivoted with a ponderous, yawing 
movement, then started forward. They picked up speed. Rapidly. The ride grew 
rough, got rougher, and was soon nearly unendurable.
"We're running at emergency speed," John flung over one shoulder, "so it's gonna 
be a little bumpy. Rapier, get me aerial feed, stat."
"Launching aerial drone."
The forward data screen came to life with a dizzying blur of motion as the 
drone's camera raced skyward. Chilaili and Kestejoo gasped. The stink of 
terrified Tersae hung on the air.
"Posting orbital feed from the Darknight to Lateral Two. The Darknight has had 
the war party in continuous view. Superimposing over Elin Olsson's geological 
maps."
The data screen above Bessany's right shoulder flared into life, showing Elin's 
familiar maps. A small red blob appeared on it, marking the location of Icewing 
Clan's males.
"Carter here," the shuttle pilot's voice crackled over the speaker. "Outbound 
with two full canisters of analog and two of those yellow smoke bombs. I've got 
extra sealant, too, just in case."
"Roger and good work," John said crisply. "Home in on the signal from Rapier's 
aerial drone. We'll get in as close as we dare, then send Chilaili and Kestejoo 
forward with the analog. Rapier, get me Dr. Collingwood. They'll have left 
Eisenbrucke by now. Try Seta Point."
"Call initiated."
Less than one minute later, an exhausted voice came on the line. "Alison 
Collingwood."
"Lieutenant Colonel Weyman. We're outbound to deliver analog to—" He paused, 
flung a question over his shoulder. "Chilaili, how many males are in that war 
party?"
"Twenty times eight."
"—a hundred sixty adult males. Can we dose 'em in the open or do they need to be 
in a confined space?"
"Confined is a lot more certain."
"Damn. I was afraid of that. Rapier, analyze those geological maps. See if you 
can find a good-sized cave somewhere near that war party."
"At once, Commander. Located. There is a smallish cavern located two point nine 
kilometers southwest of their present location. If the map is accurately marked, 
it should be adequate to hold them."
"Elin's maps are accurate," Bessany put in. "Trust me on that."
"Locate the entrance with that drone, Rapier, so we can guide 'em in."
"Yes, Commander."
"How far away are we? From the war party?"
"Seventy-five point zero one kilometers. At maximum sustained sprint speed of 
one hundred forty-eight kilometers per hour, it will take point five zero six 
hours to reach the war party. This will give us less than fifteen minutes to 
convince the war party to drop weapons, reach shelter, and administer the 
analog."
"That's not enough time!" Bessany gasped. It had taken a full hour's exposure to 
safeguard the females and children—and even that was no guarantee, since 
Chilaili had blocked the Oracle's release valve.
"It's all the time we've got," John snarled. "Rapier, how many Tersae can you 
cram into your cargo holds, based on Kestejoo's size?"
Chilaili's voice quavered out, "Kestejoo is smaller than males born to Icewing 
Clan."
"Thank you, Chilaili," Rapier responded. "If we emptied all cargo holds, I might 
be able to put sixty males inside my war hull, but I do not believe it will be 
possible to empty them in time. The Navy shuttle could hold the same number, 
although it would be cramped. Lieutenant Carter could flood her craft with the 
analog from one canister, while rising up out of the neurotoxin wave front. 
Carter could keep them in orbit, if necessary, until their tissues have fully 
absorbed the analog. The other canister can be discharged in the cave."
"Good plan, Rapier. Damned fine plan. How deep is that cavern?"
"Unknown, Commander. Depth is not indicated, only lateral dimensions."
"John," Bessany said, wincing as a bad jounce jarred her teeth together, "Elin's 
original data files contain 3-D imaging. I know she did some subterranean 
mapping in 3-D, I just don't know how extensive it was."
"Contacting Seta Point," Rapier said at once.
Two minutes later, Elin Olsson was gasping into Seta Point's transmitter, 
clearly having run all the way. "This is Elin Olsson."
"Lieutenant Colonel Weyman here. Rapier's transmitting one of your geological 
maps with a particular cavern marked. Do you have a 3-D image of this region?"
"I'll have to drag out my data files. I'll be back." They could hear the slap of 
her feet as she ran. There was a ghastly, endless wait, then the sound of a door 
crashing back reached them and Elin said, "Got 'em. Let's see which area you've 
marked." Another, shorter pause followed. Then she said, "Oh, God, that's right 
at the edge of my test zone. Let me drag out the downloads I made . . ." They 
waited yet again, while human and Tersae fear sweat mingled to form an acrid, 
metallic stench. Then Elin gasped out, "Got it. Yes, I have a 3-D rendering. I'm 
sending it now."
Seconds later, a new image flickered to life on Lateral Three. The cavern was 
small in cross-section, as seen from above in two dimensions, but it ran deep. 
Really deep. And it narrowed wickedly at one spot, where they might be able to 
erect a barrier to lower the amount of neurotoxin that got in. Bessany's breath 
sobbed out in wild relief. "It may be deep enough, John. And look, we can rig a 
barrier of some kind, there, at that narrow spot."
"We'll try it," John said grimly. "Dr. Collingwood, do you have any indications 
on the persistence of this neurotoxin?"
"No, I'm afraid not. The samples we've worked with haven't shown any sign of 
degrading."
"God alone knows how long that stuff will persist, then. At least we had 
Lundquist crank out mass quantities of that stuff. I want every shuttle en route 
with canisters to turn around and rendezvous with me. We may need to keep 
Chilaili's entire clan dosed for weeks to come. Hell, maybe months. If it 
persists long enough, we may have to evacuate the whole clan off-world."
A sobbing sound broke from Chilaili.
Kestejoo, when she translated, just moaned, beak clacking softly in distress.
"Commander," Rapier asked abruptly, "how soon after ordering me to rendezvous at 
the winter nest did you hear my approach?"
"Within seconds."
"Then I dare not come any closer than four kilometers to the war party unless a 
way can be found to muffle the sound of my approach. We cannot afford to excite 
them into firing on me, since we would never persuade them to lay down their 
weapons in time, afterward. Sooleawa anticipated this problem, in fact, when she 
brought the snowshoes to Chilaili. I am calculating possible alternate routes." 
Silence fell again, stretching Bessany's nerves taut. "Possible alternate route 
located." A green line appeared at a tangent to the racing red line of their 
current trajectory. "By routing through this valley, we can use rock walls to 
reduce the distance the noise will travel and bring us to within two point five 
kilometers. This will add three point zero five minutes to my transit time."
"Do it. It'll shave time off the final dash Chilaili and Kestejoo have to make 
through deep snow."
"Changing course."
The view on the forward data screen swung dizzily, then they were charging ahead 
on the new line, which still flashed green ahead of them and changed to red as 
they followed the new course. "Rapier, get Carter on the horn again," John said 
tersely.
The speaker crackled. "Carter here."
John relayed the altered plan.
"Sixty adult Tersae?" the pilot responded. "It's a good thing I'm still stripped 
for emergency running, isn't it? We'd never have fit 'em all in, otherwise."
"Roger that. I'm transmitting the rendezvous point, Lieutenant. We'll meet in a 
valley two-and-a-half klicks from the Tersae war party. You'll need to approach 
low and fast. Can you get in without being spotted?"
A grim chuckle reached them. "I can outrace the devil, Colonel, but God alone 
knows if I can sneak up on an armed Tersae war party. Okay, I've got the 
map—jeezus, that's wicked terrain. I'll swing around at treetop level and come 
in from the far end of the valley. That'll at least put me lower than the 
ground, relative to their position."
"Roger, that sounds like the best shot we have. See you at the rendezvous 
point."
"That's a rog, Colonel. Carter out."
The command compartment fell tensely silent as Rapier crashed through the rugged 
terrain at top speed. How long could the Bolo maintain this pace without 
straining his engines? Bessany had no idea. They literally leaped across narrow 
ravines, moving so fast, falling was never an option. Larger valleys forced them 
to dodge and weave, but Rapier seemed to have laid out his course in advance, 
using Elin's terrain maps as a guide, for their speed never faltered and they 
remained steadily on schedule as kilometer after kilometer churned away beneath 
his treads.
Bessany realized she was gripping the armrests of her observer's couch so hard 
she couldn't feel her fingers. When she tried to move her hands, they refused to 
budge. So she savaged her lip instead and stole a worried glance at the Tersae 
beside her. Chilaili's expression was ghastly. If the Ones Above had appeared at 
that moment, Bessany devoutly believed Chilaili would have ripped their furry 
heads off their stocky necks with her bare hands.
Bessany would have helped. Gladly.
A whole planet poisoned. A whole sentient species wiped off its snow-covered 
face.
Then they were skidding through the final turn, running down the last leg of the 
wriggling green line. Rapier dropped speed to a relative crawl to reduce the 
noise he was making. The Bolo navigated around stands of trees, rather than 
plowing straight through them. The angle of the command compartment shifted, 
tilting as Rapier descended a precipitous slope. They jolted their way toward 
the valley floor, descending at a spot shallow enough to let them enter without 
Rapier having to blast a ramp out of the walls with his guns—doubtless one 
reason the Bolo had chosen this particular valley. The aerial drone running 
ahead of them came to a halt above a narrow crack in the earth, then sank slowly 
down into the fissure, revealing the entrance to the cave they'd chosen.
"All right, people," John muttered, "there's the entrance. Looks big enough to 
get 'em through, thank God. Chilaili, you need to decide which members of that 
war party will shelter inside Carter's shuttle and which ones will have to take 
their chances in the cavern."
"We will place the oldest males inside the shuttle," Chilaili answered at once. 
"The younger ones have been damaged more intensely. We cannot afford to rely 
solely on the bloodlines of hotheaded, suicidal youngsters. The Evil One Above 
did his work well," she added bitterly. "I have seven sons who will shelter in 
that cavern. The youngest three have already killed two of their older brothers 
in senseless challenge . . ."
Bessany bit her lip, needing the sharp flare of pain to control her unsteady 
breaths. Then a long, low blur raced across the viewscreen, startling a gasp 
from Bessany and both Tersae. A Navy shuttle settled to earth at the upper end 
of the valley. Carter had made it without a single shot fired. Bessany started 
breathing again. Maybe, she chanted under her breath, maybe . . . 
Rapier ground to a halt less than two meters from Carter's shuttle. The pilot 
was already out of her craft, holding two carrysacks with the precious 
canisters. "Everybody out," John barked.
Bessany fumbled with unfamiliar restraint catches. A swift glance at the 
chronometer sent her pulse skittering. They had twelve minutes to save a 
species.
 








Chapter Thirty
Chilaili had never scrambled so fast in her life.
John Weyman had already reached the ground and vanished into one of the cargo 
holds by the time Chilaili climbed down the long ladder. He emerged again 
holding a thick bundle.
"Use this to block the cavern where the passage narrows," he said tersely. 
"Spread it across the opening and use Carter's sealant to glue it in place 
against the rock. Kestejoo will have to seal off the whole edge, all the way 
around." He thrust both items into a carrysack and handed them to Kestejoo.
"I will explain on the way," Chilaili told the akule, whose eyes betrayed his 
frightened uncertainty.
Bessany Weyman thrust another item into Kestejoo's carrysack. "It's a portable 
light," she explained, glancing at Chilaili. "For the cave. Tell Kestejoo to 
push the big black button and the light will come on."
As Chilaili translated, John Weyman said, "Good luck, both of you. Carter has 
the canisters. Go."
She and Kestejoo sprinted toward the shuttle Chilaili had ridden in such a short 
time ago. Lieutenant Carter shoved one satchel at Chilaili, the other at 
Kestejoo. "You'd better take one, too, Chilaili, in case you can't get back to 
the Bolo in time. You've still got your earplug? Good. I've put sealant and 
sensors in both packs, so Rapier can monitor neurotoxin levels wherever you are. 
Go!"
Chilaili flung her thanks over one shoulder, already running hard. She and 
Kestejoo climbed rapidly up a rough stone slope and reached the top unscathed. 
They strapped on their snow-webs, then pelted southward at a mile-eating run, 
slogging across the crusted surface of the drifts rather than floundering 
through them at a crawl. As they ran, Chilaili gasped out critical instructions 
Kestejoo would need. She showed him how to push the plungers on both the 
canister and the smoke bomb and demonstrated how to use the spray sealant. They 
covered the first mile in only three minutes, but wooded terrain in the second 
mile slowed them down. Branches and tangled snags of vines caught at the 
snow-webs. We'll never make it in time, Chilaili groaned, not unless they turn 
around and meet us partway. 
She drew a deep breath and sent the clan's distress call rolling across the 
snow, a low-pitched cry that would travel for miles. Kestejoo glanced at her, 
startled, then realized what she was attempting and added his own urgent cry. 
They staggered forward, sending out the repeated distress calls, and finally 
broke into the open again.
A broad, trampled swath of snow marked the war party's trail; they had passed 
just minutes previously, from the look of the snow. Then Chilaili's heart 
lifted. "There!"
The whole war party had turned around and was racing back to meet them. "Thank . 
. . the . . . ancestors . . ." Kestejoo gasped out. He was holding his side, 
clearly in pain from the sustained effort. The moment the war party was close 
enough to hear, Kestejoo shouted, "We are betrayed! We have but minutes to 
live!"
Yiska, fur greying with age but still powerful—he'd fought off several 
challenges just this turn of the season alone—pushed through to the front of the 
crowd. "What do you mean, Kestejoo? How are we betrayed? Why do we have only 
minutes to live?"
Kestejoo gabbled out their dire news: the warning from the True Ones Above, the 
Council's desperate alliance with the humans, the attempt by the Evil One Above 
to kill the entire clan. He finished up with the worst news of all. "The Evil 
One Above has murdered the other clans, viho. All of them, everywhere in the 
world! The poison is loose on the wind, blowing toward us as we speak. The True 
Ones Above and the humans have given us the antidote, but we must be inside a 
shelter we can seal off. Even then, there is a risk that some of us will die, 
but it is the best chance we have."
Shocked curses spread through the war party.
Chilaili shouted to be heard. "The sixty oldest warriors must come with me, to 
shelter with the humans. There is not room for everyone in the humans' machine, 
so Kestejoo will lead the rest of you to a cave near here. Another human machine 
is hovering over it to point the way." She pointed to a flash of sunlight, where 
the airborne "drone" could just be seen above the treetops.
Tohopka, one of the youngest warriors, pushed roughly forward. "I say it is a 
trick! A trick of the devils from the stars! We must not listen, must not 
believe these lies!"
Kestejoo roared forward, boxing Tohopka's ears soundly. "How dare you question 
the akule? I heard the voice of the Evil One Above come through the Oracle, 
giving the order to release the poison. Everyone in the clan heard it. Without 
the humans, we would all be dead! The Council has formally declared alliance 
with the humans as our only prayer of survival. If you wish to die in the snow, 
with blood pouring from your skin and eyes and nose, you are free to do so. But 
do not destroy the whole clan with your stupidity!"
The young warrior, momentarily stunned, recovered his wits with a roar. He 
launched a murderous blow full of wicked claws—
—and Chilaili slammed a fist into his belly and flung him headlong into the 
snow. "As I am katori," she snarled, "do that again and I will kill you myself! 
There is no time! Die, if you like! But I will not let you kill our entire 
race!"
Yiska broke the shocked hush. "The sixty oldest warriors, go with Chilaili. Now. 
The rest of you, follow Kestejoo."
Mutters of rebellion raced through the ranks. Her own youngest sons were 
snarling defiance. "It is better to die than make alliance with devils!"
Old Nahiossi, whose weapons hand bore only three fingers from an ancient wound, 
growled, "Only a fool dies without purpose. The Spirit Warrior of our ancestors 
has watched over us this day, guiding the humans to help us. I thank Hania for 
his mercy. Kestejoo, go. Let whoever chooses to follow go with you. Go."
Kestejoo began to run. The vast majority of warriors, solidly in their middle 
years, went with him, dropping their weapons to lighten their burden. Chilaili's 
four oldest sons joined them. She faced down her three youngest, standing 
rebelliously with their age-mates. "I gave you life, sons of my nest, taught you 
all that I could. But if you have learned nothing of wisdom, you are no sons of 
mine."
The eldest of the three muttered, "I may or may not trust a foreign-born akule 
and I may never trust the humans, but our mother does not lie." He dropped his 
weapons and sprinted after Kestejoo. A moment later, several of the younger 
warriors followed, including Chilaili's second-youngest son. The third stood his 
ground with nine of his friends.
Chilaili said softly, "I will not sing your names in the eulogies, for there is 
no bravery in a foolish death." She turned her back and began to run. The oldest 
warriors of the clan joined her, led by Yiska himself.
"I hope," he growled, "that your trust in the humans is not misplaced."
Chilaili didn't bother to answer. She needed her breath for running. Ten fools 
out of a hundred and sixty warriors. Far fewer losses than she'd dared to hope. 
If only they reached safety in time. If only the analog worked properly. If only 
. . .
She tried, frantically, to reckon the number of minutes that had passed, how 
much time they'd lost arguing with doomed, hotheaded fools. She decided, 
despairingly, that she had no idea how much time was left—and drew comfort from 
the silence of the tiny radio in her ear. They will warn us, if the poison 
catches us before we reach shelter, they will warn us, I have to believe they 
will. 
They burst through the stand of timber to run the final mile—and found 
Lieutenant Carter's shuttle parked just beyond the trees, every hatch standing 
wide open. Carter was standing in the snow beside it, shouting, "Hurry, 
Chilaili! You're down to less than two minutes!"
Chilaili let go a sob of thanks and shouted, "Climb into the machine! Hurry!"
The warriors paused, staring.
"Move!" Chilaili snarled. "We have less than two minutes!"
Warriors stumbled forward, piling into the shuttle. Sixty of them, heavily 
muscled, tall, trying to scrunch down into the only available space. Chilaili 
shoved Yiska into the last narrow place left. Carter dogged the hatch closed. 
"Into the copilot's seat, Chilaili," the human shouted, running for the pilot's 
hatch on the opposite side. Chilaili dragged herself in through the open hatch 
and slammed the heavy door shut. Carter scrambled into her own place and shut 
the final hatch. "Now, Chilaili! Release that analog now!" Carter was yanking at 
the craft's controls, tugging a device over her face as the craft tilted and 
roared into the air.
Chilaili snatched out the canister of analog and pushed the plunger, spewing its 
contents into the shuttle. "I've released the antidote," she shouted over her 
shoulder, pushing the control on the smoke bomb as well, to provide the critical 
visual element necessary to belief.
"Breathe as deeply as you can!"
Yellow smoke mingled with the invisible antidote, setting them to coughing. The 
device on Carter's face protected the pilot's nose and eyes from the stinging 
smoke. The smell of terror was as thick and choking as the smoke.
"I'm trying to climb above the neurotoxin plume," Carter said through her 
protective mask. "Rapier, what's the count?"
"You are fifteen seconds away from contamination. Fourteen . . . thirteen . . . 
twelve . . ."
Uncontrollable shivers hit as the Bolo counted down the seconds. Crowded into a 
small space, aware that this time, the poison had already been released, the 
terror was far deeper than before. Please, she prayed silently, unable to think 
beyond that one word. Please . . . 
Relentless as a flash flood, the Bolo's voice counted down the seconds to doom, 
using their own language so they could all follow the words. "Chilaili, you are 
five seconds from contamination. The cavern is already inside the contamination 
zone. You are three seconds from contamination . . . two . . . one . . ." A tiny 
pause, while all of them held their breaths in mortal fright and Carter 
continued climbing at a steep angle. Then: "You are contaminated. Monitoring 
parts per billion." Another ghastly pause came. "I detect a low level of 
neurotoxin in the shuttle, holding steady at three parts per billion. 
Contamination in the cavern has reached twenty parts per billion and continues 
to climb. Shuttle levels are holding steady. I have initiated countdown to onset 
of symptoms based on Unit SPQ/R-561's observations at the Rustenberg nest site. 
One minute thirty-nine seconds to estimated onset of poisoning effects at the 
cavern. Two minutes twenty seconds to onset in the shuttle."
Yiska, voice hoarse, called out from the cargo space behind her. "Chilaili? What 
do the humans say?"
"We are breathing the neurotoxin," Chilaili said, coughing as the smoke 
continued to irritate her throat. "The cavern has been contaminated, too. All we 
can do is wait to see if the antidote will work." Her voice quavered badly.
A low moan rolled forward, as even the most hardened of the warriors groaned in 
fright. It was one thing to die gloriously in battle—and quite another to die in 
convulsions from poison. Each passing minute took years to complete. As they 
neared the moment when they would all know, Yiska broke the dreadful silence.
"Chilaili," he said, voice low, "you have chosen wisely, leading us into this 
alliance with humans. I would not have thought it possible, even an hour ago. 
Whatever happens, know that you have the deepest respect a warrior can bestow." 
A low murmur of agreement rose from the other warriors.
Chilaili's heart overflowed with the things she wanted to say, but the tightness 
in her throat kept the words bottled up. So she clutched at the armrests of her 
seat and stared blankly at the blue sky, and simply waited. And waited. And 
waited longer still. Then the Bolo spoke once more.
"The cavern has passed the earliest calculated moment of onset. I detect no 
sound of distress through the comm link embedded in the neurotoxin monitor. 
Chilaili, the shuttle is now forty seconds from earliest onset. I will continue 
to monitor contamination levels."
Hope flared, an agony in heart and spirit. Time spun out, inexorable, yet none 
of them collapsed, none of them bled from skin or eyes, no one seemed to be ill 
at all. Chilaili's pulse thundered inside her skull, hammered at her throat.
"I detect no sound of distress from the cavern," the Bolo said again.
Bessany Weyman's voice came through the radio. "Why aren't they getting sick? 
There wasn't time to saturate their tissues with the analog."
Alison Collingwood's voice answered thoughtfully. "The concentrations in the 
shuttle, even in the cavern, are a lot lower than they are in the general 
atmosphere. Since they are breathing in the analog, I suspect there's a minor 
war going on at the receptor sites. The neurotoxin molecules have to compete 
with inert analog molecules for possession of every cell. The neurotoxin may 
require a certain threshold, body-wide, before it reaches critical toxicity. In 
combination, those factors might be enough to protect them. All we can do is 
cross our fingers and wait."
Chilaili didn't understand all the words the human had spoken, but she'd caught 
enough of it to translate for the others. "We may be all right?" Yiska asked, 
voice hushed.
"We aren't dead yet," Chilaili answered. "No one is." The dreadful tension 
gripping her had begun to drain away, slowly, as genuine hope took hold.
"Chilaili," Carter said softly, "look out the windows."
She did—and gasped.
There was no longer blue sky overhead. It had gone dark as night, with a blaze 
of stars visible. Below, a thin blue-white haze curved away beneath them. And 
below that, Chilaili gaped at the awe-striking sight of their homeworld, 
glittering where sunlight struck the snow. She could see dark patches and long, 
snaking scars that at first made no sense, then she made the connection between 
the dark green color of the patchy places and the dark green of the conifer 
forests she knew so well. If those were the forests, then the long, wrinkled 
scars were mountains. The staggering scale of it took her breath away. In the 
distance, where the world fell away in a mysterious curve, she could see immense 
stretches of a beautiful blue color.
"Wh-what is the blue?"
"The ocean, Chilaili," Carter said gently. "You've never seen the ocean, have 
you?"
She shook her head, staring.
"You may be up here only for an hour or so, while that analog saturates 
everyone's tissues, but for an hour, Chilaili, welcome to the stars."
Chilaili's throat closed up again. She tried three times to find her voice, then 
whispered, "Can you see, Yiska? Through the clear places in the machine? We're 
flying among the stars. And the whole world is below our feet."
Icewing Clan had fulfilled the destiny promised the strongest, wisest, best 
clan. For one, short hour they would fly amongst the stars. Chilaili wept at the 
price paid for that hollow honor.
And soon—very soon—she must look into Bessany Weyman's alien eyes and give her 
friend the sole thing she could offer in return for their lives: one final, 
critical thing the humans must be made to understand.
Find our creators, she would say, find them in their hidden homes amongst the 
stars. Then kill them. All of them. 
After what the humans had done, this day, Chilaili's makers would not rest until 
they had destroyed humanity, on every world her new friends called home.
Her thoughts, as cold and silent as the stars, held the ominous ring of 
prophecy.
THE END
 
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