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Julie Verne, dog and increasingly trepidatious space marine, drops with 3rd Platoon, B Company on a mission that goes south quickly. In the ensuing battle she finds herself pushed to the limits of her ability, and the band of brothers proves itself in trial by fire.

This is the fifth part of Cry Havoc_, my "serial" novel. This is almost entirely an action chapter, and resolves the tension established in the previous chapter. It's darker than the last, and rated R for scenes of violence. If you like it, the rest of the novel will follow in installments as I write them. Beyond that, read and enjoy -- and as always, please chime in with criticism and feedback. Per ardua ad astra, and all that!_

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Cry Havoc!, by Rob Baird -- Ch. 5, "At some disputed barricade"

---

_I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air -- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath-- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill. When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear._

• Alan Seeger, "I Have a Rendezvous with Death"

Before the Colonial Defense Authority had settled on the Strix as the most efficient means of shuttling men between the Landing Carrier Ships and their death, they had dropped alone, in their suits. The suits were heavier, then -- more armored, less maneuverable -- but through the visor, at least, one could see the yawning earth rising up to meet that meteoric descent.

Locked in place inside the dropship, Julie wondered if that might have been preferable. The dropships were certainly cheaper, and the armor was probably easier to use than its predecessors had been -- but being trapped, hurtling towards an uncertain future in near complete sensory deprivation, brought out claustrophobia the dog had never really been aware she even possessed.

Their descent was not particularly hurried, which made the ride more comfortable but drew out the waiting even further. She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in thought. Running through the mission checklists helped to pass the time -- and, more helpfully, it allowed her to decide that she was engaged in something productive, rather than that she was simply avoiding the other nagging feelings that plucked at the edges of her consciousness.

Apprehension over the deployment was certainly one. The lieutenant had been more quiet than usual, when they strapped into the ship for its descent, and didn't even seem enthused by the section leaders' reports on the new gear the open spending limit had allowed the platoon to pick up.

Thus far, Verne had managed to avoid admitting to herself what she believed this very likely meant. Being his typical contemplative self Forster had told her that hunters owed a debt to the animals they killed; similarly Verne, who was also of herding stock, had been raised to believe that a shepherd owed a certain responsibility to their flock, as well.

Grim reflection on the mission briefing had suggested a certain air to Captain Freeman's words, when he tried to address the concerns of his charges, an air that seemed to ask: these people trust me -- and what am I doing to them, with their trust? The answer was unpleasant, and Verne did not want to think that she saw the same thoughts darkening the edges of Usher's face, even if in any reasonable sense she knew that it was true.

Not, of course, that she was particularly trustworthy herself. Chris, the first person to have shown her any affection at all, had trusted her, and she had let her neediness get the better of her in seeking out Forster's company rather than simply dealing with her emotions. Wasn't that also a betrayal? It was, of sorts; if she told him, she knew that he would feign complete acceptance, rather than admitting the wound.

Worse still, he really might not mind -- perhaps, to him, it was merely more of how dogs behaved, and what they could not be faulted for. Julie's ears and whiskers drooped; this was the sorriest of all possible outcomes. Anger, if he chose to be angry, she felt she could deal with.

The ship lurched; they were starting to hit the atmosphere, now, and the marines were jostled about as the ungainly dropship fought through the errant shocks of disturbed air. The platoon had stayed mostly quiet; after one such jolt, though, Mayer Bourne spoke up:

"You know, I just thought of something, boss."

"Don't worry," McArdle said. "One of these days you'll get used to it. What's up, Mayer?"

"Well, your brief to us said we're going after a convoy - and an illegal checkpoint the separatists have set up, I guess. It's an urgent mission, so we probably want to have the element of surprise, I reckon. But if that's true, then why are we on a class one drop? Why not anything faster? And why do we come in forty kilometers south of the LZ?"

Usher turned his head a little, his voice dull. "Class one's just because it's cheaper, sergeant. Less wear on the ships, less fuel burn -- less chance for something bad to happen, too, I hasten to point out."

"Right," McArdle continued. "As for the IP... I don't know. We're coming up that canyon, remember? We want to avoid getting picked up by anything active. It'd be a real mess if somebody popped the Strix when we were deploying, you know?"

Bourne nodded. "Sure," he agreed. "But if there's really anybody there, they're going to hear the sonic booms from our entry five or ten minutes before we even land, let alone engage 'em. Plenty of time to at least get partly set up, right? Just seems dangerous, that's all."

"Well, yeah. We're going to have to be careful. Verne, if you see something, you tell me immediately. Even if you can't confirm it at first -- I don't want to take chances."

"Yes, sir."

She could see Usher sigh, but he had switched off the mic and nobody else seemed to notice. When he clicked it on again his voice was clearer. "I know that, uh, we've been pretty cagey, McArdle and me. That's because nobody really knows what to expect. I want everybody on full alert down there. You guys need to be paranoid. You see two rabbits fucking; I want you to tell me what goddamn position they're in. Everybody needs to be on the lookout, okay? These guys are just mopes. Just prospectors with a beef and a few old guns. We could take on the whole damn union if we wanted to."

"If we saw 'em," McArdle picked up where the lieutenant had left off. "But we're not going to, probably. Firstly, 'cause they're a bunch of fucking cowards who can't stomach a stand-up fight. Secondly, 'cause they're too stupid to figure out how to use a rifle in real-time. All they've got are their little traps -- their little booby traps, and IEDs, and punji sticks, and bullshit like that. You know those cheap laser detectors you used to play with as kids? The kits you could put together to tell when your mom was coming up the stairs? That's their vaunted sensor network, just a bunch of those things. That's what we're up against."

"All the same..." Usher had settled back again, staring out at the closed door of the dropship. "Twenty kilojoules of kinetic energy won't care how smart, or tactical, or brave the person firing them is. You'll be just as dead. So don't get cocky."

They had a minute or so to reflect on his words, before Szepesi Keleman's voice crackled over the ship's intercom. "One minute to commit. Say state."

"Platoon, terminal check." They checked the self-testers; reported in. There were no faults. Usher clicked his teeth, and left his jaw set in that fatalistic grin. "This is Usher: check sweet."

A few seconds later they were straining against the straps as the ship fired its rockets to decelerate, quickly. "Five, four, three, two, one: go." The doors opened to the Jefferson dawn, and Keleman fired the charges that kicked them unceremoniously out into the slipstream.

The approach pattern had left them only a hundred meters above the ground; she started falling quickly, and a few seconds later hit the earth, feeling branches crack under the weight of her armored boots. She sprinted up to Usher, who was already busy giving orders to the platoon.

"Threat picture?"

"Nominal, sir."

"Well, small favors," Usher said. "Alright, let's go."

She kept a close eye on the readouts from her computer as they moved towards their objective. To their left, the Tubman River was a cold torrent, frothed into white water. Somewhere off to their right, a more languid fork trickled aimlessly down a shallower valley.

They were on a raised plateau between the two, but even still the mountains to either side seemed to hem them in, and the same claustrophobia Verne had felt in the dropship took on a more sinister edge. They had to win every single game of cat and mouse to survive; the separatists only had to get lucky once.

"Argus, this is Badger Four-Six actual, message, over." Jacqueline Mackey's voice sounded urgent, and when Argus acknowledged her, Verne could hear the crackle of gunfire in the background of her reply. She called up her tactical map: the Fourth Platoon had landed a full kilometer further away than they had planned, and the slowness of their advance suggested that they had not been able to make up any lost time. "Badger Four is heavily engaged at Objective Charlie. We are blind to enemy forces -- assume they are to our west south-west, at the ridgeline in grid mike kilo eight six three four. Over."

"Argus. Badger Four-Six, are you still advancing southward? Over."

There was the question that had been asked, and the question that had been implied; Hui Hsiung's assault on the checkpoint itself notionally depended on the support of Mackey's platoon. Jacey answered both. "Badger Four-Six, negative. We are pinned down and I already have wounded. I do not see a way for us to achieve our objective at present, sir."

Usher had been listening as well; now he swallowed, took a deep breath, and ordered her to bounce for a better angle on the environment ahead. Verne swallowed her fear and cast herself upwards, counting every long second as her sensors swept over the valley. The sensation of flight now, as the cold green of the treetops stretched before her, made her feel more vulnerable than liberated; the relief she felt at the ground beneath her feet was palpable.

But the sweep turned up nothing. Neither did the sensors on the other marines -- they were weaker than her own, but spread out over a greater distance. She had been so worried, so terrified of a deadly ambush, that when the world remained quiet she found herself wondering if she might have gone blind. Her head was on a constant swivel; her keen ears pricked, and every snapping twig had her alert and watching.

For all their caution, they made relatively good time, at Usher's urging; presently the trees thinned out, into a plain of medium-length grass and scraggly brushes. Verne cocked her head, trying to puzzle it out -- a quick sensor sweep revealed a hidden grid of stone structures that had once been fences. They were looking at an old farm, long since disused and given back to nature.

Something about the thermal signature seemed off -- the ground seemed strangely mottled, as though the soil had been disturbed and certain parts had absorbed different quantities of heat. The second section was a few hundred meters ahead; she called up their readouts, staring at the wavering numbers.

There seemed to be a pulse to them, a regular heartbeat on some of the radio bands. It was like... well, she thought, rather like a detector grid a child might play with. It used the same frequencies as the platoon's military radios did, and she wondered if the separatists might be spying on them -- but the signals were too weak. Too short-range, almost as though --

"Sir!" She raced up to Usher, who turned to meet her, eyes narrowing questioningly. "I think we're walking into a minefield. The detectors are watching our radio signals, I'm pretty sure."

"So don't use them?" She nodded, and he shouted instead, his voice carrying across the field until the valleys to either side deadened it. "Hiroshi! Pull your men back!"

The dark, armored figure that was Hiroshi Haruki stopped, and a moment later it, and the rest of his section, started to filter back towards Usher and Verne. They were a hundred meters out when her earpiece clicked. "Sir, what's going --"

The earth behind them kicked up, in a geyser of dirt and stone. The sudden sound, like standing next to a lighting strike, was deafening -- Verne ducked instinctively, and the rattle of the pebbles striking her helmet seemed like distant gunfire.

Her earpieces, which were designed to dampen distracting sounds by generating interference of identical frequency and volume, had kept the worst of it at bay, but they were designed for humans and her sensitive ears still rang for a few seconds. A few of the soldiers had been flung, looking nothing so much like a child's playthings; she looked at them anxiously until they picked themselves up and jogged the rest of the distance to join them.

"Everybody alright? Wangari?"

"The warranty on my armor's probably voided." Wangari Kimunya, the leader of the third squad, brushed at the deep scratch-marks on the arm of her suit left by the debris. She looked around. "Chris's long-range transmitter is snapped, but I think that's it."

"We're okay here," Sergeant Kazimierz Wozniak said, shaking his head. "What the hell happened?"

"Mines," Usher growled. "Mines happened. What kind? How? Beats me."

"PPCs, I think, sir," Chris Neumann said.

"Corporal?"

"Pressure and Proximity, Command-triggered," he explained. "Uh, it's illegal to have completely automatic mines, so PPCs are what corps and rich people use to protect their property on some of the, uh, more rowdy worlds. When something triggers them -- pressure or a proximity sensor, thermal or sound or radio -- they send a signal back to a command center, and that's the guy who presses the button."

McArdle snorted. "Great. So if they didn't know we were here before, they do now."

"Right."

"So what do we do?" Usher asked. "Bounce?"

"If they know we're coming?" McArdle looked towards the sky, giving a low whistle. "Skeet shooting is a lot less fun when you're the skeet, LT."

"Verne, can you map that clearing? How did you know they were there in the first place?"

Julie shook her head. "I saw the interference signal they were generating. I've tried to narrow that down, but they're using frequency-hopping to mask it -- naturally, we don't have the right modulation. And none of my sensors can tell me exactly where the mines are. I saw some disturbance in the thermal cover that goes all the way across the clearing, which makes some sense -- but it's just my best guess..."

"Yeah. 'Best guess' doesn't work so good in a minefield." Usher bit his lip, and then reached for his radio. "Argus, this is Badger Three; message, over." His voice was clear, but he looked slightly haunted -- she could almost hear him saying, the day before: I suspect they'll get pinned down, and we'll get pinned down, and Hsiung will get rolled up...

Somewhere, far above, the command and control ship responded. "This is Argus, send, over."

Usher glanced irritatedly at the clearing, and the ugly red-brown scar left by the mine's explosion. "Badger Three. We're stuck at the edge of a minefield in grid mike kilo eight two four four. No clear idea as to the extent. It's going to be slow going moving north until we can figure that out. Over."

"Argus, ah, understood. What about Mike Juliet? Over."

Usher looked to McArdle, and then to Verne. "Mjolnir. It's a ground-penetrating sonar system. Would that help, private?"

"It depends on the resolution, sir. But it can't hurt."

The lieutenant nodded, and from the way he looked at the clearing Verne suspected he was willing to take whatever option he could find. "Badger Three. Affirmative, if you have Mike Juliet active in this area, I have reason to believe the minefield extends from where we are in mike kilo eight two six, two four two all the way north to the clearing that ends just south of point Oscar Tango Seven. If you can hit that in high resolution, it would help a lot. Over."

There was a lengthy pause. "Argus. Mike Juliet is inbound, five minutes. Out."

Sighing, Usher put away the radio. "Threat picture?"

"Nominal, sir." They had fallen back to where the encroaching forest ended, and most of the platoon had taken cover behind what remained of the stone fences. There was no indication of activity save for the quiet radio murmur that had given away the minefield in the first place. Usher nodded, and turned away to consult with Sergeant McArdle.

Chris joined her, fiddling idly with the broken antenna of his radio. "Don't think it's field-repairable," he admitted to her. "No user-serviceable parts inside, and all that."

"Probably not. Won't matter too much, though, as long as nobody gets lost."

"Right," he said, and gave a short laugh, nodding up to the mountain walls to their west. "Hell of a place to get lost in. At least it's a nice day."

Verne blinked, and looked again. So it was -- early morning, ship's time, corresponded roughly to dawn on the western part of the continent. The rising sun, off to their east, cast a pinkish glow on the stone face of the mountains, and the sky above was a deep, welcoming blue. She hadn't noticed -- so focused on the details of the individual parts of the environment that the overall picture hadn't properly resolved. "It's quite pretty," she said. "The parts that aren't exploded, anyway."

"Just be grateful you caught that early. Could've been ugly if the whole platoon had been there. PPCs are pretty rough. Some of the rich dude compounds had 'em, where I was growing up... one of my classmates, back in junior high, got popped for trespassing, takin' a shortcut home. Took his right leg clean off -- they said it was a miracle he even survived."

The thought of being deprived of her ability to get around made the dog shudder -- freedom over the movement of her own body had been one of the few things that she retained, back in the corporate barracks. Nobody could tell her not to stand up, if she so desired.

She caught an unsettling sound -- almost a vibration, a strange feeling as though the air itself was shaking. She had no idea where the Mjolnir sensor was mounted -- probably another dropship, well removed from the situation on the ground. Soon enough the data started to download to her computer; she paged through it, and slunk carefully from her wall over to where the lieutenant crouched.

"Good news and bad news, sir." She waited for McArdle to huddle with them, and then continued. "Mjolnir does have high-enough resolution to pick up what are either mines or suspiciously placed stones. Unfortunately..." She overlaid the results on their tactical map, and expanded the hologram to make the situation clear. "It pretty well covers this entire thing."

"There's a clear path from about a hundred meters north of here all the way through," Usher pointed out, tracing his finger through the map. "It wanders a bit, but it's there."

The dog nodded; with a change in perspective, she could see what he was talking about. "I think the boundaries might be marked by these larches. Kind of like landmarks."

"Yeah. But if they've got any sense at all, they'll have that path ranged and pre-sighted for anybody wanting to make an ambush out of it," Usher mused. "I don't think we can take that. Even if we put up smoke, there's only so many places we have to be, and I'm sure they have rockets or something that would do the trick."

"What do you want to do then, LT?"

"Well, Jim. Right now, we have exactly two paths. I mean, I guess we could swim, but... I don't really think we have the time."

"It would interfere with their sensors."

"Ours too, and we need them more."

The sergeant nodded. "That's true."

"So there's the path through the field, and going the way we came from. Right now."

"Right now?" McArdle echoed.

"Sanders!"

Petty Officer Joseph Sanders, the forward air controller that had been attached to the platoon for the mission, joined them a few seconds later, practically throwing himself against the cover of the wall. "Sir?"

"We're stuck, and if I'm not mistaken you have friends in high places. You see this minefield our lovely C&S specialist has found for us?" He indicated the holographic map, tracing the boundaries of the minefield with his finger.

"Yes, sir."

"I want a clear path blown through that fucking thing, from where we are to the far side of the clearing at the treeline. Big enough for us to get out. The shorter the better -- can you do that?"

"Sure thing, sir." Sanders raised his hand in a brief salute, and then unhooked his radio microphone. "This is Devil Two-One to Argus, message, over." Verne watched him unpack his fire-control computer, which looked something like her C&S map, placing lines and markers on it, trying different combinations. "Devil Two-One. I have a request for close air support, grid mike kilo eight two. What do you have with high explosives? Over." He showed Usher his hologram, with a glowing rectangle highlighting a proposed fire mission.

Usher nodded. "That'll do, if you can manage it."

The forward air controller grinned, and then turned back to his radio. "Devil Two-One. Understood, Argus, thank you. Out." He paused, resetting his radio. "Ah, good morning Tachi One-One. This is Devil Two-One; we need a path cleared through a minefield. Type one in effect; advise when you're ready for a nine-line."

"Listen up, guys!" Usher beckoned the platoon closer, leaving Sanders to fade into the background. "We're going to have the Fleet's flyboys punch a hole in this minefield for us to get out. As soon as they hit, we're going to move before anybody has a chance to figure out what's going on. Hopefully there'll be some smoke and confusion -- it's about a kilometer to the far side. We need to book it -- don't stop until we're in the trees. Skip as much as you can, stably."

"Two minutes," Sanders said quietly.

Usher stretched theatrically, wiggling his armor-gloved fingers. Then they waited; Verne searched the sky above them, framed as it was by the dark fractals of the trees overhead. It didn't matter -- the first of the explosions roared and the clearing disappeared in a wall of flung earth well before the Intruders became visible. The only sign of their passing was the fierce thunder of the sonic boom.

That was the cue. The dirt had yet to settle -- great clods of it were raining down about them as they sprinted across the clearing. Verne felt the churned earth sink beneath her; she was trying to skip -- using the rockets of the armor to glide forward over the earth -- but the broken ground made it hard, and it was not more than twice as fast as merely running.

A third of the way across they began to hear the gunfire, but it was too late -- sporadic and unfocused, like a sleeping man swatting drowsily at a buzzing fly. Still, by the time they were past, and in the woods once more, Verne was panting, her veins full of adrenaline.

"I think we were being shot at," McArdle grumbled.

"We were," Verne said. "Light, from the acoustic signatures."

"That doesn't matter so much," Usher pointed out. "Not the type. What matters is they are up in those hills. We've got about another five klicks of forest until this thins out, from the map. Savor it while you can, folks."

They had landed well south of the checkpoint that was their target under the assumption that the woods would be safer -- the land to the north and south of the checkpoint was full of boulders but otherwise clear, and the visibility had made Usher suspect that a landing there would come under fire. The downside was that it meant racing through the trees, which was fast enough -- though Usher insisted she check constantly for traps -- but not nearly so fast as the Strix could've managed.

Hui Hsiung checked in briefly to say that she had secured the mission objective; the convoy was nowhere in sight, but they'd found a few rebels manning the outpost, and captured a handful of machine guns far too heavy to have been for personal use. Captain Freeman, speaking through the command and control Strix, ordered her to hold position -- when Usher's platoon arrived, he said, they would make a concerted effort to relieve Mackey, who continued to make no progress against unseen enemies to her west.

Usher called a halt for a few minutes to plan their approach; once they left the woods the valleys to either side that Verne had warned were nearly impenetrable to their sensors suddenly had the potential to become deathtraps. Their rate of advance would have to slow precipitously while they checked each one out. "Up to the task?" he grinned darkly at her.

"Hope so, sir."

Five minutes later, as the trees started to thin out, Lieutenant Hui called in again. "Argus -- this is Badger One-Six actual, message, over." She was speaking quickly, her words clipped.

"This is Argus; send, over."

"Badger One-Six actual, we're in heavy contact with unsp -- " the sound of a nearby detonation oversaturated the microphone. "Unspecified numbers of enemy forces to our west and east. I need immediate support, Argus -- we're taking incoming heavy machine gun fire and intermittent mortar activity. I think they've found a couple rockets so far, too. I've deployed anti-artillery lasers, but if those go out we are in serious trouble. Over."

The forward air controller assigned to the northern approach was, of course, not with Hui Hsiung's platoon; Argus promised to find an armed Strix or two to provide fire cover, but the terse response from the ground left little to the imagination as to how much she trusted that.

"Are we close enough for you to patch into their sensor network, Verne?"

Julie toyed with her computer for a few seconds, and shrugged noncommittally. "Sort of, sir. I can roughly tell what's going on, but the picture's not good enough to know where they're being shot at from."

"-- by, we are vectoring support assets to your position," Argus was saying over the company net. "ETA fifteen minutes. Badger Three, this is Argus, message, over."

Usher snatched his radio up anxiously. "Argus, this is Badger Three-Six actual, send, over."

"Argus. Badger Three, I need you to break Badger One out ASAP. What's your ETA to the checkpoint, Badger Three? Over."

Verne held up the holographic map for him to read. "Badger Three Six. We are currently two point six kilometers out, but the space between here and there is open. Last time we did that, we ran into a minefield. I suspect we're going to be taking fire most of the way from where the forest ends to where we can start to approach the checkpoint from the south. Over."

"Argus. Badger Three, move with all possible speed to the north. I have two elements of armed Strixes with high-explosive rockets and flechettes, call signs Wicked One and Wicked Two. I'm patching them into your net -- they will be in range to support you in five minutes. All ammunition expenditures are comped: do whatever you need to do, but get up there RFN. Over."

The lieutenant sighed heavily, lips pursed. "Badger Three-Six. Ah, understood. We'll hold at the old water tower at, uh, mike kilo eight five seven, two niner five. As soon as we have visual on the air support I'll move out. Over." A strange symbol was flashing over the indicator for Hui Hsiung's platoon; Verne cocked her head, and tried to remember what it meant. It seemed familiar; her mind raced.

"Argus. Wicked One and Wicked Two are departing Orbital Point Magellan. They'll be in from the east, and you --"

She cut the radio in a panic. "Sir! Radiological contact! Bearing three-zero at twenty-four hundred meters!"

*

Usher's eyes went wide. "Platoon!" The shout in the quiet forest was so loud that his voice seemed distorted and alien. "NARA-Four, now-now-now!"

Verne flipped open the computer panel on her suit and stabbed the button marked "EMER-NARA." The Nuclear (Atomic and Radiological) Amelioration settings were designed to protect them, in some fashion, from the threat of a nuclear blast. Her visor dropped to the bridge of her muzzle, and darkened; she clamped the respirator tight, feeling it sealing around her.

Her ears were unprotected, as were parts of her muzzle, and in any case if they were anywhere close to a blast of any power whatsoever it wouldn't really matter. She felt locked away: the visor had gone completely black, and the world before her was a simulacrum, projected from the camera on her helmet. It was very nearly as visually faithful, and the slight processing delay was almost -- but not quite -- unnoticeable.

"Argus, we have indications of nuclear activity close to the checkpoint area. We're going to --" Usher's voice, coming through the radio in her ears, cut off in a short cry. Her vision went white, and she felt a burning heat on her ears and exposed fur. The radio buzzed angrily; she heard the lieutenant shout to "take cover" over the noise of the interference, but she was already throwing herself to the ground.

The shockwave was unexpectedly mild; it roared over them, ruffling her fur, but the sound of crackling, distant thunder was not nearly so deafening as she had expected, and a moment later, when it had all past, they stood again, staring blankly at one another behind the faceless plates of their masks.

"Is everyone okay?" The radio hadn't cleared up; Usher's voice came through in the real world. "Everyone, do a system check."

When it was her turn, she looked bleakly at the diagnostics. "Verne, sixteen." Her C&S computer, with its sensitive electronics, was flashing a panel full of red lights. Most of the rest of the platoon had gotten off easier; Usher directed the platoon mechanic, Isidora Pisano, to do her best with the dog's suit, and then set about trying to raise the command and control center again.

"Can you fix it?"

Pisano grunted. "I can fix anything. Just a matter of time." She bent one of Verne's ears to look at the radio transceiver clipped there, and when the dog winced Pisano waved the platoon medic over. "Sorry about that. It looks like everything's still functional, but you're going to have to recalibrate."

"That'll take half an hour," Verne protested.

She shrugged. "Well, it's that or you don't have a set. Pick your battles, right? You want me to start the calibration process?"

Julie sighed, her cheeks puffing out with the exhalation. "Well, sure, I guess."

Enzo Eklund had joined them; he leaned in close, taking the dog's right ear and examining it gently. The touch smarted badly, but she kept herself still until he let her go again. "You're sunburned pretty good. When we get back to the ship, put some aloe on it -- if that doesn't help, just come to me, alright?"

"Thanks, doc."

"Aren't dogs supposed to put their ears back when they're scared?"

"Well, yes," Julie nodded. "But I was trying to figure out what was going on, and I... I guess I forgot."

"You heard there might be a nuclear bomb going off, and you perked your ears up?"

"What's going on?" James McArdle, seeing both the medic and the platoon mechanic gathered around Verne, had come over to investigate.

"Our dog," Eklund said, and dipped his helmeted head in her direction. "She's fucking hardcore, boss." Then he laughed, helplessly -- the nervous, giddy sound of tension being released like a taut rubber band. The only humor to be found was in the notion that they were all alive to appreciate the situation. Presently he gave a wavering choke, almost a tortured sob, and held up his hand. "I think I'm going to go throw up, actually. Be right back."

The masks kept them all appearing profoundly stoic, but even the sound of McArdle's breathing seemed to be uneven and tense, as though he was fighting for it against the pounding rush of nerves. For his part, Lieutenant Usher's stress was taking a more physical form.

"--Six actual to Argus." He had his radio in his hand, striking it hard against the arm of his suit and shaking the contraption firmly. "Message, over."

"Amateurs," Pisano muttered. "Hey, LT! Reset your suit, and hold down the diagnostic button to enter safe mode. You should see an option to clear all your warnings? Yeah? Okay, tap that, and then tap 'yes' when it asks you to confirm."

"My suit's rebooting again."

"It's supposed to do that. At least you're not like Krypto over here. She's got more than a dozen faults in the C&S set. Don't worry; it'll come back up."

Usher shook his head. "Let's hope." He sighed, audibly through the platoon radio -- that at least was working again, Verne noted with some relief -- and then switched his long-range transmitter back on. "This is Badger Three-Six actual to anyone on the command net, please respond."

A high-pitched whine came through Verne's ear, fading away as the radios shook hands and the frequencies aligned. "This is Argus. Thank God you're still alive. What the hell's going on down there, Ray? Uh -- over."

"Badger Three-Six. I was kind of hoping you'd be able to tell us that, myself. Over."

"Argus. Um... We... ah, we have indications of a nuclear detonation in the four to twenty terajoule range, somewhere around the checkpoint area we identified earlier. Mackey says they saw a bright flash and heard a big boom, but I don't know more than that. Over."

Usher turned, and Verne followed his gaze northward, where a towering cloud of smoke and debris filtered through the trees. It was slowly, slowly starting to drift, its deadly lines becoming fuzzy. "Badger Three-Six. That's our guess, too. We're all okay down here -- equipment casualties, is all, and we'll get those fixed as soon as possible. Have our mission objectives changed now? Over."

"Argus. Ah, wait one, Badger Three." They did. Verne cycled through the modes on her viewfinder, trying to find one that could see through the trees to the menacing cloud that loomed behind them.

The voice on the radio, when it clicked on again, was different. "Badger Three-Six, this is Badger Six actual; listen up." Freeman sounded, at least, a little more sure of himself. "I need you to get up to Hui's last location and see if there's anybody alive up there. I'm trying to round up some reinforcements, but with the company scattered we've got too much ground to cover and nobody will commit. So here's the plan: we're going to secure that checkpoint, and then you and Hui will move north to relieve Mackey's platoon. They're in heavy contact -- their situation is stable now, but I don't want to leave them hanging, Usher. Over."

From the sudden jerk of his head Verne thought he was glancing at McArdle, although of course with the visors down there was nothing to be seen of their expressions. "Badger Three-Six. Uh, say again your last, Badger Six -- did you just ask us to search for casualties at ground zero of a nuclear explosion? Over."

"Badger Six. The suits are hardened, Usher. If they knew what was coming and could take cover, they might still be okay. We've got a small window of opportunity here -- no doubt the separatists are hiding for at least a little bit. If you move fast, we could still get there before they have a chance to finish up what they started. Over."

Usher didn't respond at once; she watched him bring up the holographic map, spinning it around a few times. He punched his suit forcefully to dismiss it. "Badger Three-Six. What's the word on those Strixes you promised, sir? Over."

"Badger Six. They're on station and ready for orders. Use 'em as you need 'em. We clear on this? Over."

"Badger Three-Six. Yes, sir, we're clear. Out." He remained still for a second or two; Verne thought she saw his shoulders drop, although it was hard to tell through the suit. Then he flipped up his visor; his grey eyes were hard, and his forehead glistened with sweat. "Okay, platoon, it's time for an adventure."

"More than that, LT?" Hiroshi Haruki pointed behind him to the dark stain of the mushroom cloud on the morning sky.

"Sort of. We're going to go look at it close up -- see if it's as exciting as it seemed at the time. Now, we hit open ground in about three hundred meters. Not much cover -- mostly rocks. It's safe to assume that they're watching -- probably that they have at least passive sensors, and if we're really lucky some minefields. We're going to make for the eastern gully -- that should limit the firing opportunities from the western slope, and it'll make it harder for anybody on the eastern ridges to take a shot at us. But we're going to have to move fast. Sanders?"

"Sir?"

"There are two Strix hunting parties on our net, now, call signs... ah, fuck."

"Wicked," Verne said softly.

"Right. Wicked One and Wicked Two. Get hold of them, and keep the pressure on the ridgeline. We've only got two and a half kilometers to cover. We should be able to make this, no problem. Just keep an eye out. We'll move out in two. Any questions?"

Mayer Bourne lifted his arm up. "What if they hit us with another nuke, LT?"

"Well." Usher took a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh and a shake of his head. "With any luck, orbital's watching for that now and they'll take it out. If not, we should at least have advanced warning. If not that, then... ah, stay under NARA-Four. I know it's uncomfortable, but until we know better, it's better safe than sorry. At least keep the visors down -- pull the respirator if you really have to. Right, doc? If anybody inhales fallout, we can fix them up, right?"

"Yeah. Back on the ship, though, not here. So it depends on how long you think we'll be planetside. If it's --"

"As short as possible," Usher told him curtly. "Anything else? Alright. Let's get ready to move."

When she was doing her best to observe the surroundings, the trees that surrounded them had seemed ominous, dark and overbearing -- like being surrounded by a hostile crowd. Now, they were the only thing shielding them from the watchful eyes of the separatists Verne was now convinced were lurking behind every boulder along the valley walls, and when the tree cover began to thin out she felt her breathing picking up. Her eyes strained against the projection inside the visor, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

In the open, the cloud of disturbed earth and air from the nuclear bomb had grown misshapen and stretched, but it still dominated the sky and it was impossible to avoid looking at it. The amount of sheer destruction it implied was awe-inspiring, and like a vengeful god it watched the steady progress of the platoon as they made their way northward.

The window of opportunity that Captain Freeman had predicted lasted most of the way through their approach. Petty Officer Sanders, the forward air controller, called the Strixes down in high explosive airstrikes and laid down smoke to mask their advance, but even without this Verne could not have said that they would've faced danger -- her set, coming back online component by component, remained eerily quiet.

Intermittent, distant gunfire and explosions had rumbled for some time, but when they drew near to the checkpoint it built in intensity until Verne's head jerked constantly, trying to find the source. When Sergeant McArdle lifted his head up above the gully to peer westward, and was greeted with the snick! of passing bullets and a spray of dirt from their impact, they came to an abrupt halt, flattened against the wall of the little watercourse for cover.

Before them, only a couple hundred meters away, was the checkpoint, or at least its position on the map. It didn't look like much from the ground -- tall, craggy boulders and a wide path between them that had been blasted to make way for a road some years before. Verne couldn't see much else between the rocks.

"Gunships say they're taking fire from the tops of the valley walls to either side," Sanders told the lieutenant. "I'm getting close to fixing a firing solution, but both elements are almost winchester. I think this is the last run."

Usher nodded, and pulled out a small glass ball, flinging it upwards and into the brightening sky. It hung there, and he went quiet -- searching the camera feed of the little drone. Finally he called it back down, snatching the thing up and replacing it in his vest. "Alright. Direct them against the treeline to our west. There's a valley we're taking fire from, bearing, ah, two-niner-zero? It's about thirteen hundred meters out. Do you have that on topo?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell them to hit it with everything they've got. If they're dry, they can go home after that."

Verne had a similar drone to Usher's, although hers was slightly more complicated. She stretched up, watching the video projected against the inside of her visor, and found a rock to balance it on. The sparkling muzzle flash in the shadows of the valley opposite gave the impression of flashbulbs in an eager crowd; the sound bled together until it was a dull, constant, distant drumroll.

A few minutes later the scene vanished, replaced by a cloud of dust churned up by the flechette-firing cannons on the gunships. She saw them swoop by, in what passed for peripheral vision -- then Usher was shouting for them to move, and she scrambled up the gully walls to race for the safety of the checkpoint.

Even this proved illusory -- a sudden long burst of gunfire forced them all to the ground again as the rounds streaked past overhead. Usher cursed, and she saw him manipulating his tactical hologram frantically. The gun fired again, in a low, deadly hiss.

"Hey!" McArdle called over the radio. "Hold up -- LT, that's Cerberus fire."

Usher rolled over to look in McArdle's direction, and then glanced towards the tall rocks before them. Then he flipped up his mask, and cupped his hands to either side of his mouth. "Temujin!"

A lengthy pause, and then a muffled reply. "What?"

"Temujin, god damn it!" Usher shouted again.

"Yorktown!" And then, a moment later: "Hurry your ass up!"

They found Hui Hsiung slumped against a rock chipped white with flung shrapnel. Bandages stained an ominous red had been stuffed into a hole melted through her powered armor; her mask was up, and she grinned wanly at them. She had not been the one to give the challenge; her voice, when she spoke, was substantially weaker. "Took you long enough."

"Well, you looked like you were having fun all by yourself." Usher shook his head, growing more serious. "Honestly I wasn't sure you were even alive."

"It was a small nuke," she said. "And they only had one -- or if they had more, we took out the launcher, at least. After they'd already fired the rocket, naturally. But it wasn't meant to get us. Just the EMP. We've lost all our long range comms and most of the electronics on the weapons. The anti-artillery laser systems are hardened -- only damned thing that's saved us."

"What are you up against? Where's your C&S specialist?"

"Dead, along with our medic and our platoon mechanics. They sniped him. Where's yours?"

"Private Verne here is ours," Usher said. Hui nodded slowly; her face was pale. "Eklund!" Usher barked. "Do what you can over here."

Hui Hsiung waved the medic away, towards a group of men further down the road. "I'll be okay. Or close enough. We've been trying to move the wounded down there, where it's safer."

"How bad has it been?"

"Pretty bad, Ray. Eight dead, six wounded. They've kept us pretty well pinned -- they're massing for a big push. They've been moving down the walls on the western side. All they have to do is cross the river, and... I don't know. They're in company strength, at least." As if to accent her words, the gunfire that had largely abated began again; Verne heard someone swear sharply as a round clattered off the rocks nearby, and then the growling of a Cerberus in answer.

"Jim, get us set up to hold this place. Private Verne, put together as clear of a threat picture as you can." She nodded crisply; her suit was nearly completely functional again, and she took some comfort in the sights and sounds of the C&S gear.

What they said, of course, was not wholly intelligible. Her map was a mess of unruly signals, but she thought Hui's estimate of a company of separatists was supremely optimistic -- just on the western side alone the thermal and acoustic image suggested twice that, in Verne's opinion. She dimly recalled Freeman saying that they would be at platoon strength, with limited organization -- and then, with more clarity, Usher intoning: theirs not to reason why...

Next to her, the lieutenant had managed to get a connection back to the command and control Strix; she heard the conversation as white noise in her right ear. "... established contact with Hui's platoon. They're eight KIA, six WIA, including actual. We're facing an imminent assault by well-armed separatists in company-plus strength. We need either extraction or a lot of support here. Over."

The rocks scattered in the valley gave the checkpoint itself the appearance of a fortress, which Verne guessed was probably why the separatists had chosen it in the first place. Now the marines held a perimeter that defined a roughly rectangular shape, a hundred meters on its long side. They were scattered widely enough that she could triangulate a fair degree of individual signals from the irregulars facing them -- a solid mass to their west, slowly infiltrating down the slope until they disappeared in the river valley.

Argus promised that Alpha Company would be dropping to support them in short order. Without that help Verne thought they would almost certainly be overwhelmed; by her estimate the separatists were moving enough men into position that even with more fire support the situation was tenuous. They had perhaps thirty minutes until the enemy was in position. She turned back to Usher and Hui, expanding the signals hologram as wide as she could make it.

"I've got about two hundred and forty distinct signatures. Not all of them have fired weapons, so it's hard to say what thermal signatures are actual soldiers and which are background -- the nuclear blast set some things on fire, so it's a bit confusing. The group approaching us is about a hundred and fifty -- again, not all of them have fired weapons. Acoustics say we're facing a mix of mostly light rifles; there are a few machine guns on the high ground, but we're mostly keeping them suppressed so it's hard to know what exactly they are. Relatively high-caliber, I guess."

"We'll lose the ability to suppress them once they start hitting us," Hui said quietly. "Unless there's a way for us to take them out now, they're going to be a big pain in our side. What about heavier weapons? Rockets or artillery?"

"It sounds like there's some mortar fire, but it's inaccurate and slow -- that's what your laser has been taking out. I don't see anything that smells like guided rockets -- no search radar, no command pulses on the standard radio channels... if they had them, they're either spent or they're keeping them completely in reserve."

"You say they're moving towards us?" Usher was peering at the map intently, spinning it around with his fingers to look at it from different angles.

"Yes, sir. At their present rate of advance, they would be here in about forty minutes; they'll clear the river and we'll be able to see them about ten minutes before that. The soldiers on the eastern slope don't seem to be moving -- I guess there's maybe seventy or eighty of them, but the walls are so steep they can't really advance, I think."

"Alpha Company is supposed to put down just to our south. If we can keep the ridgeline suppressed, we can just have Captain Curci sweep the attackers up the river valley. Hit 'em right on the flanks, then push up the river to get the guys that have Mackey pinned. Right?"

Hui nodded. "When do they drop?"

"They already did. Should be here in ten minutes. Even if the separatists don't just retreat, that evens it up numerically -- should be glad for that, at least."

Relieved, Hui slumped back against the wall, closing her eyes. "Good. I am. Ten minutes? I guess I think we can hold out that long..."

The exchange of fire dwindled again as the main body of the enemy entered the cover afforded by the valley. Verne watched her maps like a hawk, waiting for any sign of their reemergence.

She heard first the sound of a Strix's engines -- then the sharp staccato of gunfire, accompanying a line of tracers that reached skyward. The rattle continued, like a sinister echo, long after the sound of the rockets had died away.

They searched, through the haze the explosions and gunfire had birthed, for any sign of the dropships; this time, they heard the machine guns open up first, before the two Strixes raced overhead -- subsonic, but fast enough that their passing left roiling trails in the dust.

Hui shook her head, when the sound of the engines had ebbed and showed no sign of returning. "They should've landed by now. Five or ten minutes ago, even."

"Maybe they missed the approach," Usher said, but Verne could tell that he, too, was on edge. "Have to come back for another one."

A minute or two later, the answer came in the form of an irate voice on the radio. "Ah, Badger Six, this is Archer One-Six actual, message, over."

"This is Badger Six actual," Freeman said over the net. "Send, over."

"Archer One-Six. The specified landing zone is way hot, Badger Six. If we try to put down there, we're going to take a lot of fire. Uh, me and Archer Two are setting down to the south, uh, I make it Objective Romeo-Four. It looks quieter there. Should only add, uh, let's say forty minutes to the approach. Over."

Hui and Usher exchanged horrified looks; the dog saw him grab for his radio, but Freeman responded first. "Badger Six. Archer One-Six, you have explicit directions to provide immediate assistance to operations on the ground. Say again, immediate assistance. The company is in heavy contact with a numerically superior enemy force. I need you there ten minutes ago, not an hour from now. Over."

"Archer One-Six. Forty minutes. Captain Curci says we need to support you. That don't mean we need to get massacred on your account, Badger Six. That LZ is an absolute no-go. We're touching down at the alternate now. Over."

They continued to argue, although in practice there was, of course, nothing that Freeman could really do. Usher pulled his helmet off, and ran his fingers nervously through sweat-soaked hair, taking a few deep breaths. "Alright. We knew that was going to happen," he murmured to nobody in particular. Hui's blank stare was directed at the rocks that faced her across the narrow road. "We're going to have to put together our own breakout now."

This caught Hui Hsiung's attention; she turned her head slightly in his direction. Her gaze was no more focused. "I've got too many wounded to move, Ray."

Usher nodded, knowingly, and spread out the holographic map. "We'll plan for that. I'll take my two sections and move northward -- hit the hostiles... here, I guess, from behind, so we can link up with Fourth Platoon. Then we'll circle back along the eastern ridge, roll up the separatists at these two points you've marked, and establish a base of fire to cover your evacuation. If we move fast, we'll be able to hit these mopes before they know what's even happened."

"As soon as you pull out, they'll..." Her voice was quiet; not even a protest. She shut her eyes, as if summoning up her willpower. Then she shook her head. "Alright. Sergeant Ozer!" Her voice had gained strength; when the sergeant joined them, a moment later, she had even managed to put on a weak smile. "We're going to get out of here. I'm attaching you to Lieutenant Usher's platoon. He'll brief you a little more fully -- get your section ready to move." Ozer saluted, and retreated again, pressed against the wall for cover.

"Sergeant McArdle?" The platoon sergeant turned; his helmet faced Usher expectantly. "Have Eklund set up a casualty station here, and find a place for Pisano and Tomcik. My mechanics," he explained to Hui. "They'll help keep the anti-artillery gear running until we can nail those mortars."

McArdle nodded, and started to give orders. Hui Hsiung's expression darkened; she bit her lip, and it seemed she was fighting for the words she spoke. "Ray," she finally told him. "Take your whole platoon. No, don't try to argue. You'll need them more than me," she smiled sadly. "When you're setting up that base of fire."

Usher's grey eyes searched her face; rather than answering her, he swallowed heavily and turned back to the platoon sergeant. "Jim, ignore that last order. Let's get everybody ready to go. Private Verne, find us a path north with decent cover and give me projections on hostile activity. A route without mines would be nice, if you're feeling particularly daring."

"Yes, sir. We may have to --"

"Contact!" someone shouted to her north, and then all at once every weapon in the platoon seemed to be firing. A moment later the sounds multiplied, as their attackers opened up -- a motley hodgepodge of hoarse growling like a chattering conversation in Hell.

Verne's paws worked nervously through her maps, trying to trace the acoustic signatures. "Signals!" She tagged them quickly, broadcasting them to the other soldiers in the platoon -- Hui's men, with their broken suits, would have to find targets on their own.

The checkpoint, seen from above, was centered around the large boulders through which the road had been blasted and where Verne was now taking cover. Beyond, an old stone fence crossed the road, marking the northern wall of an ersatz fortress whose eastern and western edges were defined by tall rocks that helped shield them from the incoming fire. The remains of other walls suggested that some farming had once taken place along the river banks; the cover was scantier, but they had better visibility, and from the way Usher ordered his men Verne suspected he believed that holding the larger perimeter was their only chance of survival.

It had the side effect of stringing out the platoon, and any movement between points of cover was met by a hail of incoming gunfire. The northwest corner of the wall ended in a flat, weathered boulder that stuck up like a lateen sail. One of Hui's automatic gunners was set up there, and Usher sent over Serhat Muhammet's squad to reinforce them -- but there they were stuck, and when Vlastimil Tomchik tried to join them the barrage of fire that met his advance made it clear that continuing would be suicidal.

Her ears caught the sound of frantic, shouted orders from their foe. The Jeffersonian, which was supposed to be a descendant of English, was incomprehensible -- but the agonized screams that periodically sliced through the mechanical bark of the guns and the din of the general chaos were cried out in a universal language.

They flared up as little points of light on her acoustical sensor; she noted the dots dispassionately, and tried not to think of what they meant.

The main body of the separatist attack was coming to the north; Tomas Sedlacek's Cerberus was firing almost continuously; the tracers shot out like a laser pointing straight into the fog of dust and smoke being raised by the battle.

Usher looked at Verne's map grimly. "If they punch through the western line, they'll be close enough for grenades or handheld explosives. They'll flush us right out of this cover."

"Then we need to hold that wall," McArdle grunted. "Sergeant Ajibola! Move your squad up to those rocks, right south of Muhammet there. See? Stay in cover for now -- try to keep the eastern ridge suppressed. If it looks like First Squad's in trouble, you get over there and support them at all costs."

"Right away, boss," Ajibola said; his voice sounded sure, but he had switched NARA-Four off on his visor -- they all had, to see things more clearly -- and his face was lined with tension and fear.

Verne's view of the battle remained mostly abstract -- signals moving on the map, which she tagged as accurately as she could. The tortured wail of the wounded and dying opposite them had become so constant it nearly seemed to fade into the background -- but the intensity of the fire had not diminished.

At least, not from the separatist side. "Running low on ammo!" Tomas Sedlacek warned; she looked up to see him leaning into the Cerberus as though this would help carry the rounds forward. The bursts of fire were growing more sporadic and cautious.

Pejman Ghorbani, the assistant gunner, was five meters away behind another rock. He leaned over, and as the tracers flew past him he whipped himself back into cover. "I'm pinned down, here, Tom! How much do you have left?"

The Cerberus cut out abruptly. "Fuck!" Next to him, Klaudia Scholz's carbine spat intermittently out into the smoke, but the comparison to the fire of the automatic gun just made their situation seem even more precipitous. Hui's gunner, too, had become more careful with his shots.

As Verne looked on, Tomas pulled out his sidearm, almost comically small in his big hands, and leveled it against the top of the boulder. He fired twice, and then his head snapped forward. The handgun fell from his grasp, skittering down the side of the stone; his hands went to his throat, and she watched, transfixed, as bright red blood bubbled between his gloved fingers. He staggered back, and in slow motion pivoted and collapsed to the ground, bucking and struggling fitfully.

She couldn't tell if she heard Serhat scream for a medic, or if she had merely become aware of it somehow. As objective knowledge, some cold fact, it was divorced from the figure writhing helplessly in the grass. She stared, unable to look away, and the next thing she felt was the sharp thump of something hitting her helmet. She jerked her head over to find Lieutenant Usher staring fiercely at her.

"Threat picture. Western slope. Now."

Verne's voice didn't seem to be her own -- it was rapid and monotone, clipped. "Enemy in reinforced platoon strength. Two or three snipers -- light weaponry; low threat. Five machine guns -- possibly a sixth. Fixed position. Two are heavy caliber. The rest are man-portable but they haven't moved in ten minutes."

"Mortars?"

"Quiet. Acoustic shift suggests the crews have abandoned them to join the attack.'

"We're going to lose that position," McArdle said softly. Verne looked up; Hui's gunner was slumped motionless, his Ceberus pointed upwards. Behind him, a dark smear against the stone traced the path his falling body had taken.

"I know. I can't order Ajibola to take that -- it'd be murder, with those guns on the ridge. Son of a bitch, Jim. Sanders!"

The forward air controller was to their south, shooting at unseen targets along the river; he sprinted over, skidding to an ungraceful halt. "Sir?"

"How are we on air cover?"

"Two Intruders, skosh ammo. The other element's doing better, but they're refuelling."

Usher swore heavily, then shook his head to get his focus back. "We need to shut the ridge down long enough to reinforce the northern wall. Verne will show you the targets. Get it done now, Joe."

He saluted, and as Usher and McArdle went back to organizing their defense Verne tagged her map with as much as she knew about the guns. Sanders clicked his tongue and then gave a determined nod. "Thresher One-One, this is Devil Two-One. Type two in effect; call when ready for nine-line. Over." He leaned closer to Verne, looking into her map. "I can't hit all those guns, private. Where are the heavies?"

Noting the different acoustics was different from knowing where they came from; she stared at the map, desperately trying to piece together the fragmented information in her mind. The sound of the battle seemed to be building -- growing closer. "These two," she said sharply, stabbing the map twice.

Sanders nodded. "Good girl." He keyed his microphone again, keeping his eyes on the map. "Oscar. Two zero right; eight kilometers, niner zero zero meters. Four machine guns, fixed behind sandbags with limited camouflage. Position mike kilo eight five three, three one four -- marked with UDL Tango Seven Lima. Friendlies east-south-east..."

Verne let his voice fade into the background as she went back to working the map. A sudden cry showed up brightly on her display; she glanced up by reflex. Klaudia Scholz fell against the rock gracelessly, tumbling to the ground like an unstrung marionette. That left Serhat Muhammet as the only one firing -- stretching over the rock to get off a shot or two before he had to duck back down for cover.

Pejman Ghorbani was tensing himself up -- legs bent, ready to sprint. Knowing, no doubt, that even if nobody was aiming for him the sheer volume of fire was a hazard in itself. He sprung into the open, between the safety of his position and the cover of the far boulder. Verne saw the bullets catch him in midair -- bright sparks and puffs of smoke drawn like magic from his armor.

Ghorbani landed heavily. For a moment she thought he had escaped injury -- then he got up, staggering and leaning on the boulder for support, and she saw the holes the heavy machine gun rounds had punched through his suit. Serhat tried to approach, and Pejman shouted him back, fumbling for the ammunition box on the Cerberus. It took a few tries, and when he'd managed he grabbed the gun's handle and started firing with a maniacal urgency. Blood dripped like spent cartridges -- but she watched, on her display, as the approaching separatists drew back from the barrage.

Two black shapes swooped like hellish crows through the valley, and one of the ravines that faced them vanished behind a cloud of smoke. In the respite from the guns that followed, Ajibola and his men crossed over to reinforce what was left of Muhammet's squad; by the time Zemzem Selam had deployed her Cerberus Verne could tell Ghorbani's aim was starting to falter. Ajibola pulled the wounded man away from the gun and guided him to the ground before taking his place. Serhat crouched down over Pejman's form -- tending to him; praying for him. Julie couldn't be sure.

It was getting harder to concentrate; she had to force the scene from her mind, focusing again on her tactical display. She cocked her head -- something was shifting; going deeply wrong. When she understood it, she nearly swore aloud in shock, barely catching herself. "Oh, sh -- lieutenant? We're being flanked, sir."

He'd been talking to Hui Hsiung; now they both looked at her, alarmed. "What?"

"From the signals I'm picking up, I'm guessing between forty and fifty contacts are moving from the east towards us -- they'll hit along the southern perimeter, it looks like." She spun her map around to show him.

Hui sighed, shaking her head tiredly. "I can't believe it. I thought those walls were too steep for them to make it down..."

"Yeah." Usher zoomed the map out until he could see Alpha Company's icons, more than a horizon's length away. "Well. They're just full of surprises today." He gritted his teeth, switching his radio on. "Kaz, move your squad to the rockline thirty meters south of you and prepare for contact."

"Contact?"

"Indications are forty plus. No word on armament."

Verne heard Kazimierz Wozniak swear -- but just barely, and not over the radio. Usher gave no sign that he had noticed. "Understood, sir. We're moving now."

The lieutenant flipped his microphone up to turn it off. His teeth were gritted; his breathing quick and nervous. "Now what do we do?"

Hui's head lolled. She didn't seem to have heard his question. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice thin and weak.

"What?"

"I'm sorry they dragged you and your men into this. Mackey, too."

"Water under the bridge," Usher told her. "File a complaint when you're back shipside."

Her eyes closed; the mumbling reply was slurred and unintelligible. Usher looked to Verne, instead, who lifted her muzzle up from her map. Shipside was a meaningless concept -- it was too hard to think about the future. She focused on what she knew. "Fire from the eastern ridge is slowing."

"They're going to be worried about sorting targets, now that they're getting in closer. McArdle!"

The sergeant had his rifle braced and was firing off towards the south-east. He scooped it up and slunk over to them, half crouching. "Sir?"

"Options?"

"How far out is Captain Curci?"

Before Usher could answer the roar of an explosion silenced them as a rocket struck further up the road. McArdle didn't even bother to duck, just holding his arm up to deflect the debris that rained down on them.

"Incoming!" a voice cried out; Verne followed McArdle's lead, shielding her face with the armored gloves of the suit. A moment later a second rocket hit, and then a third. "Medic!" "Contact! Eight plus, right two!" "Kee's hit! Oh, fuck, they fucking took his head off!" "Fall back! Fall --" the shout cut off much too sharply.

"Verne! Where are being hit from?"

Bloody everywhere, she thought, and forced herself to tunnel vision on her map. "I can't triangulate the rocket fire, sir. Probably from the east."

Usher reached his arm out to wave at a cluster of rocks twenty meters from them. "What if we pulled back to that line there, Jim? You think we can hold them off to the east long enough for Curci to get here?"

"Maybe. But I'm not sure Bourne's going to be able to hold out on the northern wall. Muhammet and Ajibola both bought it. I had Isidora try to move one of the big machine guns here up into position, but even with that..."

"Fuck." Usher punched the rock in front of him, hard; with the force of the suit behind it, little pieces of stone chipped off, falling like rain down a grey window. "Sanders!" Nobody answered. "Where's the goddamned FAC?"

"Which part of him?" someone shouted back.

Usher clamped his hand over his mouth. His eyes were wild, but for a panicked few seconds he said nothing. "Okay. Alright. Fine. Verne, that's on you now. Call in an airstrike on the river towards the north -- see if you can buy us enough time to pull what's left of Bourne's section back."

"I have to inform you, sir, that I have no experience as a --"

"Learn fast."

Verne swallowed, nodding. Her paws shook as she switched the frequencies on one of her radios. "Ah -- Argus. This is Badger Three-Niner, message, over."

"Argus, send, o --"

She didn't even let him finish before keying the transmit button. "Badger Three-Niner. Our FAC, uh, uh, Devil Two-One is KIA. We need immediate close air support. Over."

"Argus. Understood, but our assets are limited right now. Thresher is RTB to rearm, and Tachi is still refueling, uh, eighty klicks out at Orbital Point Hudson. Over."

"Badger Three-Niner." She tried to keep her voice calm, aware that she was failing badly. "We're taking heavy incoming rocket and machine gun fire. Situation is critical here, Argus. Over."

"Argus. Ten minutes on Tachi. I'll get back to you with an ETA on Thresher ASAP, Badger Three-Niner. Out."

When she switched the radio back off she caught Usher looking at her expectantly. "Well?"

"Ten minutes, sir. The other element had to head back to rearm."

"Ten minutes? For two airplanes?" McArdle laughed incredulously. "Oh, fuck, LT."

"Private," Usher said -- she could see the strain on his face, but his voice had the stillness of Death itself. "We are badly outnumbered and in a tactically disadvantaged position. If we don't get help, there is no way we can hold this place." The intensity of his speech seemed to force the sound of the ongoing battle into background noise, dull pops and rattles like muffled arguments from unseen neighbors. "We're going to be overrun. Do you understand me?"

Her teeth chattered, but she managed to give him a nod. It wasn't like he had said anything surprising -- but hearing him admit it seemed to bring their situation into agonizing focus. She took two deep breaths, and squeezed the transmitter again. "Argus, this is Badger Three-Niner. Broken Arrow. I say again: Broken Arrow."

It was a predetermined code word -- a call for help, indicating the precariousness of their situation. In theory, every available ground-attack aircraft was being directed to assist them. "Argus. Stand by, Badger Three-Niner." While she waited, Julie called up the digital encyclopedia of operational manuals, trying to take in as much information as she could. Her paws shook badly; it was hard to manipulate the computer. "Badger Three-Niner, Stingray has checked in. Two Intruders with four zero zero high-explosive rockets, times eight Mark 20. Eighty minutes play time. You have direct control. Argus out."

The manuals had been designed to serve as a complete reference for anyone who needed them. They had not, Verne decided, been designed for people who needed a crash course, with shrapnel raining down on them. "Stingray One-One, this is Badger Three-Niner. Type, ah... Type two in effect. Call when ready for nine-line. Over." She was trying to read the manual like a script, flipping between it and her tactical map.

"Badger Three-Niner. Stingray One-One, ready to copy."

"Ah. Stingray One-One, this is Badger Three-Niner. Starting from IP Oscar, your heading to target is thirty-one degrees; distance... uh. Nine point... three kilometers. Target elevation is, ah, three hundred meters. The target is in grid mike kilo eight seven four, three one six, along the east side of a river valley. Wait..." She caught herself, cursing inwardly. "Wait, hold on, I missed -- uh. Target is a, uh... large body of irregular infantry, uh, no armor, uh, moving up that valley. Ah... Oh, hell. Where was I?"

"Hey." The voice on the radio was much calmer than she -- then again, at twenty thousand meters up they had reason to be. "Relax, Badger Three-Niner. We'll get you through this. Is the target marked? Over."

"Uh. Not yet, sir." She waited for the Uniform Data Link to start up, and tagged the map. "Now it is. Target's marked with UDL, spotlight, uh, Yankee Five Bravo. Location of friendlies... um. Friendlies are located, ah, three hundred meters southeast. Position marked by IFF." And it's where all the bullets are going, she didn't add.

"Three hundred meters, mike kilo eight seven four, three one six. Stingray flight is IP inbound; sixty seconds."

She had to zoom her map out to see the marker for the attack aircraft, moving swiftly from the orbital point where they had been waiting. The explosions around them seemed to be growing more frequent. "It'll take about a minute for them to get here, sir," she told Usher. He nodded grimly.

Her radio crackled. "Badger Three-Niner, Stingray One-One is in from the southwest. Tally spotlight." She turned, searching for the little black dot of the Intruder, growing larger as it rocketed up the valley. Bright explosions blossomed in a string along the riverbank; the sound of the detonations reverberated up along the road, and when they had passed she listened for the sound of incoming gunfire to resume, counting the tracks on her map.

"Stingray One-One, that attack seems to have neutralized the targets. Return to the IP and standby for the next target."

"Copy that, Badger Three-Niner." One of the departing Intruders rocked its wings as they began to circle off into the distance.

"Badger Three-Niner, this is Argus. Apollo has checked in at Orbital Point Magellan, moving west to IP Oscar. Times two Kestrels with two four zero high explosive rockets, one two zero rounds linear cannon. Turning control over to you. Argus out."

Usher was in the process of directing Bourne's retreat in the quiet occasioned by the airstrike. When he had given the orders to his satisfaction, pausing a moment, she leaned in to get his attention. "Sir. We have another element on station. What's the next --"

"LT," McArdle cut in. "They're moving up from the river towards the south now. So much cover in these damned rocks -- that cuts both ways. They can't shoot us, but we're blind 'til they pop up around the southern edge again."

Lieutenant Usher glanced between McArdle and Verne, nodding to the latter. "Sounds like you have your next target. McArdle, can we keep them pinned to the east?" The subsequent discussion ignored her; she turned back to her radio and map.

Deep breath. You can do this... "Apollo flight, this is Badger Three-Niner. Type two in effect; call when ready for nine-line."

"Badger Three-Niner, this is Apollo One-One, ready to copy."

She stared at the map, shut her eyes to gather her thoughts, and thumbed the microphone. "Initial Point is Oscar. Turn right three-two degrees for eight point seven kilometers. Elevation four hundred meters. Infantry in the open with machine guns and rockets. Mike kilo eight seven one, three zero niner; targets marked with UDL, Yankee Five Charlie. Friendlies north-east, two hundred meters marked with IFF. Make your attack southwest to northeast and egress to Magellan." She'd said it in a rush, in one breath with scant pauses; when she closed the mic she shut her eyes again, panting quietly.

"Four hundred meters, mike kilo eight seven one, three zero niner, attack heading southwest to northeast. Inbound Oscar, ninety seconds. Apollo One-One out."

The high-explosive rockets set the valley wall briefly aflame; she could smell the explosives, and the acrid smoke... and the unsettling odor of seared flesh. But the fire had dwindled, at least for a moment or two.

It was getting easier. Usher ordered her to call the attacking aircraft in again and again, and they were managing to hold the separatists at bay. The attack from the east had stalled -- though Usher seemed to be worried that it was only a matter of time and poor fortune until they amassed enough strength to ignore the chatter of the Cerberus machine guns trained on their approach.

It happened in a rush -- the rebels let out a yell and opened fire all at once. Julie heard a few pained cries from behind her, and someone shouting for a medic. In slow motion she saw McArdle swing his rifle up, taking careful shots at their attackers two hundred meters away until a round slammed into his shoulder, spinning him around and sending him to the ground.

Usher seized her, shaking the dog roughly. "This is it! Air support -- now, private!"

She looked at her map, trying to figure out what they had left. The Intruders that had been assigned to them were back on station; she planned the attack as best she could and thumbed the switch to her microphone. "Tachi, this is Badger Three-Niner. Type two -- no, strike my last." The attackers were too close for her to trust the Intruders to attack on their own. "Type one in effect. Call when ready for nine-line! Over!"

"Badger Three-Niner, this is Tachi One-One, ready to copy."

"Oscar. Right three-four. Nine kilometers. Five zero zero meters elevation. Infantry in the open, just west of the treeline. Mike kilo eight seven six, three one zero. Marked with UDL Yankee Five Delta. Friendlies..." She took a deep breath. "Friendlies west, fifty meters. Attack south to north with rockets and cannon. Danger close."

"Jesus," the pilot said. "Uh. Eight seven six, three one zero. Final attack heading south to north. IP inbound; Tachi out."

"We're calling it in close, sir," she told Usher. "We might need to take cover."

"Noted." He was staring down the length of his carbine; at that moment, Verne realized she had never actually seen him holding a weapon. His eyes burned as he squeezed the trigger -- completely different than the man she'd first met, or the conversation partner she'd had in his office.

The radio caught her attention again. "Badger Three-Niner, I have no joy on your spotlight."

The Uniform Data Link was notoriously fickle -- it was supposed to synchronize with the other platoons, and the command and control Strix, and the support aircraft, and the Joint Tactical Awareness Center all the way on the fleet flagship, and the CODA boardroom for all she knew. In practice, it failed regularly; nobody trusted it. She cleared the marker and set a new one. "Target marked with UDL, Yankee Five Echo."

"Still no joy."

The incoming fire was coming closer, the sound deafening. Her ears flattened back as she considered her options. If the UDL didn't work, they'd have to abort, or ask the Intruders to spot their own targets -- with friendly troops scant meters away. Alternatively... She gritted her teeth. "Lieutenant! I need your designator!"

Usher didn't even ask why she needed one, given her own -- just unclipped the little box from his right arm and tossed it over. She caught it deftly.

"Tachi One-One, target will be marked with lasers. Hit everything between laser coded one eight zero niner and laser coded, uh..." she turned Usher's designator over in her paw, scanning the code along the side. "Eight four eight two."

"Roger. Tachi One-One is in from the south."

She shut her eyes tight, steeling herself. Counting seconds. Panting.

"Badger Three-Niner, laser on."

Hearing the whine of approaching engines, all around her the platoon was taking cover. "Roger," she said into her microphone -- so nervously it was almost a whimper.

Then the dog tensed her legs and scrambled up onto the flat top of the rock she'd been using for cover. She switched her laser on first, lining it up on the southern edge of where she could see men scrambling towards them, ducking between trees and low stones. Then she turned on Usher's designator, pointing it to the north, past the last of the attackers.

"Tachi One-One, spot. Think it's a bit unsteady though."

Her paws were shaking badly, she forced them still with a colossal effort, gritting her teeth and nudging the microphone against her shoulder to trigger it. "Tachi One-One, cleared hot!" She could see the Intruders, hanging like pinned butterflies in the blue morning sky.

Then they dove.

She felt the snap of disturbed air as bullets flew past her. A round smashed into the rock a meter from her head; she jerked back, disturbing Usher's laser designator, and bit her lip to steady her nerves -- tasting coppery blood as she lined the marker back up. Another glanced off her helmet; she yelped with the shock, but the lasers stayed fixed.

The oncoming aircraft looked like crosses; as time drew to a halt Julie could see the twinkle of muzzle flashes and the rockets leaving their laden wings. A moment later the trees in front of her started to splinter and collapse. Gouts of dirt and flame kicked up. The attackers wavered; started to run, even in those short seconds. She saw someone leap up as the flechettes struck him, shredding his body until what landed was unrecognizable as a human being.

Then the aircraft were winging past, and her radio was squawking at her again. "Badger Three-Niner, terminate."

She couldn't; instead, panting raggedly and shaking like a leaf, she slumped back from the rock to land in a heap at its base, jamming the designators into the dirt until she could gain the presence of mind to turn them off. "T-T-Tachi One-One, one hundred percent weapons on target return to IP and s-s-standby further targets." Nothing she said made sense to her; the words ran together without punctuation or understanding.

"Roger that," the Intruder pilot said. "Ballsy move, Badger Three-Niner. Hit me up next time you're on Roddenberry and I'll buy you a drink for that one." She clicked the microphone twice in answer; her breathing was too unsteady for speech.

"Think that ruined their day," McArdle was telling Usher. The armor on his shoulder was cracked, and from the way he moved it seemed to be painful, but his face showed nothing but relief. "Pulling back all over."

"'Less they got another nuke and they just want to use that."

"Shut the fuck up, LT," McArdle said. She couldn't tell if he was serious; they looked at each other for a tense second. Then they both broke up -- nervous, sobbing laughter that lasted until, with choking cough, McArdle shook his head. "Good work, private."

She tried to speak, and managed only a wan smile. For his part, Usher gave her an understanding nod. "Threat picture?"

It was something to focus on -- probably, she would think later, that had been his intent. She managed, after a try or two, to start up her map. "Still... still reading more than a hundred men on -- on acoustic and thermal. Moving away from us, back towards the river or north along the eastern treeline."

"Good news, for once."

They sat in relative silence. They could hear the groans of the wounded, distantly, and a few quiet oaths of their own injured. "I wish I had a drink," McArdle finally said.

"I wish I had a different job," Usher replied.

McArdle grunted in answer.

"Contact! Right two hundred!" The shout, which sounded like Hiroshi's voice, came from the line to the south; McArdle and Usher snapped back to alertness, grabbing for their weapons. Julie fumbled for her map, and tried not to break down crying. Then her ears caught another voice, from the direction of the new threat:

"Temujin!"

"Yorktown!" Hiroshi called back. A whoop of exultation went up from the marines left at the checkpoint -- at the sound of friendly voices; of salvation. From the corner of her eye she could see the soldiers -- armor unblemished -- come into view. One of them embraced Haruki; others shook hands.

Usher just looked at them, and then to the carnage all around. Then he reached for his headset, his voice weary. "Badger Three-Six actual to Talon Seven. C'mon, Fran. Let's go home."

*

They couldn't return to the Kirishima right away -- all that was left of them, in any case, as Usher's poem said. They landed at a small base on the coast first, for decontamination from the nuclear device that, according to Captain Freeman -- who met them on landing -- was probably a mining explosive. Their armor was scrubbed; they were given fresh underclothes, still smelling of detergent and the factory where they'd been made. That smell -- civilization -- Julie decided was the best of all possible scents.

On the shuttle ride back to the ship she leaned heavily on Christopher Neumann, and when she felt him put his arm around her she pressed herself close, clinging tightly to his lean body. Her breath hitched in sounds that tried and never quite managed to become sobs. Nobody commented; nobody mocked. They were all exhausted.

Chris said nothing, just gently stroked the fur of her arms, and when the dog's whiskers tickled his neck he didn't squirm or twitch. He only tilted his head closer, to let her nuzzle him, shielding her small body with his arms.

In the barracks they sat like discarded props, waiting for news. Usher and McArdle didn't join them -- but even without the official casualty report they could look around. Half the chairs were empty. When the lieutenant finally returned, he shook his head as soon as they started to stand to attention.

"No, don't bother."

Usher looked towards the podium, and then to the tables of the commons area. He sighed heavily, and dragged a chair over to sit with them. He was quiet for another minute, until Sergeant McArdle stepped through the hatch to join them. He, too, took a seat amongst the other soldiers.

"Five dead, eight wounded," Usher said softly. "But the doctor says Isidora won't make it, so... be ready for that. Vlastimil was badly injured trying to rescue her; he should make a full recovery. First Section took the brunt of it. Serhat, Tomas, Pejman and Kabiru are dead. Mayer and Klaudia were both wounded. Klaudia won't be coming back even if she lives. They... ah, Zem, Victor... you guys had it rough on that wall."

"Did you tell Dennis yet, sir?" Dennis Scott had returned to sickbay with a bad infection of his earlier wound; he hadn't dropped.

"No, Zem. Not yet. I'll leave that at your discretion. I know you and he are pretty good friends, Victor. Ah... Chidinma Odili is also dead. That won't be confirmed until we have DNA tests, but..." he shook his head. "From what was left I'm pretty convinced. Wangari, Oscar, Julian and Kaz are in sickbay right now. Fortunately, none of them were seriously hurt."

"What about Hui and Mackey?" Haruki asked, leaning forward slightly. "Any news on them?"

"Hui didn't make it. Her platoon ended up with seventeen KIA, and the rest wounded. Mackey took three dead. Seven wounded, including her. For completeness' sake, one of the Intruder pilots was injured badly in a botched recovery. Overall, this has not been a great day for us."

"What happened?"

"Someone decided we had a rendezvous with Death," Usher said bitterly. "And by god, they meant for us to keep it."

"We don't know yet," McArdle spoke up. "Separatists had a mining nuke they bolted to an old weather rocket and set off. It's not too much of a surprise; they're mostly miners anyway. I guess security noticed that a charge was missing, but the union boss told 'em to keep quiet. She's been arrested."

"The situation is more serious than the Jefferson government let on. We were told," Usher spat the word with ugly emphasis, "that they were mostly protesters and malcontents. Nobody said anything about an army, or that level of organization. They don't seem to have been well-armed, at the end of it -- a few heavy machine guns they probably stole from a Guard armory. No armor, no guided weapons, just a lot of people with suicidal dedication. Sometimes that's all it takes."

"What about their losses? We make 'em pay?"

"We made them pay, Zem," Usher confirmed. "Hundred and twenty nine is the latest count, plus another thirty wounded. The air support really did a number on them. That reminds me -- Joseph Sanders, our Fleet FAC, also bought it. You can thank Private Verne for keeping us in one piece."

"Air kills don't count," Zemzem grumbled. "Too damned easy."

"Look. I want you all to know that... this was a shitty situation, and everyone knows it, and nobody wants it to happen again so... maybe we'll get lucky. I know it's not what you signed up for, and I know we paid a heavy price for it, but... I don't think anyone could've done better."

"God looks out for us," McArdle added, "because we look out for each other."

Usher nodded, and then stood. "I need to get to the debrief. Ah... services will be tomorrow, at 1600. Until then, just... stick together. Get the gear checked in and cleaned... grab some food, and some dope or whatever, and try to get a good night's sleep."

He left, and McArdle followed, and the room lapsed back into silence.

Later that evening Julie returned from the equipment service point to find the barracks mostly empty. Makkai Egyed told her what was left of the platoon was up in the observation lounge; she nodded, and presently he left to join them. Alone, the dog settled into her bunk, drawing up her legs and hugging her knees gently, staring with unfocused eyes at the wall opposite.

The smell of something sweet caught her nose. She started, at first -- ready to sound the fire alarm, because it had the hot smell of combustion. She blinked, and got to her feet, padding quietly, using her nose to track the source of the scent.

She found Zemzem Selam in the disused locker Verne herself sometimes used for peace and quiet. Still stained with sweat-smeared grease, the automatic gunner was kneeling before a small stone box; at the center was a tiny candle, from which incense smoke curled upwards lazily. She was murmuring under her breath, in a language Julie didn't understand.

At the sound of the dog's curious sniffing, she whirled around. Her eyes narrowed, and her black hair whipped in an arc. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry," the dog said quietly. "I just thought I smelled something burning."

"You did," Zemzem snapped. "What of it?"

"I'm not complaining, or angry," Verne told her. "I was just curious."

Either satisfied or too tired to argue further, Selam shrugged. "It's just the voyager prayer." She said it dismissively -- as though she was acutely aware of the vulnerability she had exposed.

Verne nodded gently, and weighed the choice of stepping back to leave the woman be or remaining. She swallowed, letting her curiosity get the better of her. "Voyager?"

"Life is a voyage," Zemzem explained. "Death is, too. You don't know the destination. You don't have a map. It's the greatest adventure. And when a friend is starting that voyage, you want to wish them well -- fair winds and calm seas. Do you pray?"

"No."

"Your loss."

"Do you mind?" Verne asked, tilting her muzzle down to the floor next to Selam.

She shrugged again, and moved ten or twenty centimeters over. Julie knelt down next to her as the woman began to murmur again, her eyes closed and her head bowed. The stone box, she saw, was a small shrine, inscribed within in ornate script. A lip along the bottom created a deep box, in which the candle sat, along with a shallow dish of scented water. They were surrounded by two dozen small stones -- also inscribed. Names, Julie guessed, though she didn't know for certain.

Following Zemzem's lead she dipped her head and closed her eyes, clearing her mind and trying to meditate. She thought of the people she had known who had died on the planet below them -- and of those who had passed away in years before, human and Moreau alike. She tried to consider what journey they might have embarked on -- what strange adventures, what new lands.

The dog held the future to be blank and unknowable as a matter of course; it was no great leap to think that death might hold new possibilities. Her kind had never really espoused an afterlife, and Julie would not have started on her own. But where might Tomas Sedlacek be now? What stories might he be regaling his fellow voyagers with? Had Philip Spitzer found something close to peace? Would he have forgotten her in the face of something wondrous and new?

She wasn't sure. When she opened her eyes again Zemzem was leaning forward to dip her fingers in the pool of water and snuff the smoldering incense. For several long seconds afterwards she seemed lost in thought, staring into the shadows at the bottom of the shrine, and the ripples in the water.

"You have to pray for them," she whispered -- at first to nobody in particular, as though Verne was not even there. "You have to pray for them because if you don't, then who would?" She half-turned to Verne, tilting her head.

"I don't know. Do you pray for all the dead?"

"All of them. Even the guys I kill. Even though they were asking for it; even though I don't know their names. Every soul deserves at least that respect. Nothing they ever did to you, or you did to them, matters a damn -- just that endless horizon and their hand on the tiller. Yeah," she said, "I pray for everyone."

Julie didn't quite know what to say; she dipped her head in a light nod. "That makes sense."

"Don't it?"

Selam took the water dish in both hands, said a quiet prayer, and drank it in one long sip. Then she folded the shrine into itself; it collapsed neatly, and the stones rattled as she picked it up. She stood, and Verne stood with her, in the stillness of the quiet room in the empty barracks, so far away from the destruction and death of the distant morning. There was a moment of shared solitude before Zemzem started for the door. She took a step -- then paused, and turned to look at Julie. A mirthless smile turned the corner of her lips, and the fire in her eyes had dimmed to embers.

"Thing is, dog... who do you suppose is praying for us?"