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  "Sounds pretty straightforward." The lieutenant—Conorado didn't know his name—sounded nervously excited. Conorado assumed that the man hadn't seen action in a while.

  "One more thing." The captain examined his latest sitmap. "They're still massed so densely it's hard to believe the artillery had any effect on them. You've never seen so many live bodies on a battlefield at one time before."

  He'd barely finished speaking when the Dragons lurched to a halt and their rear ramps dropped. The Marines flooded out. Squad and fire team leaders shouted their men into line ahead of the Dragons. Conorado gave the order, and more than two hundred Marines ran on line up the slope. They clearly heard the din raised by the Skinks, even through the continuing explosions of artillery rounds.

  The artillery, after firing a brief concentration over the southern end of the ridge, shifted its fire to the northern end before the infantry reached the top.

  This time they didn't smash into the Skinks. The nearest were seventy meters away when the Marines came in sight of them. There were so many, it seemed all the Skinks in the universe were swarming over the defenses of Heaven's Heights.

  "Volley fire, seventy meters!" Conorado shouted over the all-hands circuit. "Advance . . . Fire! . . . Advance . . . Fire . . . Advance . . ."

  The fire from the right side of the Marine line was smooth. The Marines of Company L fired in unison, took two steps forward and fired again on command. Their volleys went true, a wall of fire slamming into the Skinks, vaporizing them by the score. The line's left side, the "cooks and bakers," was more ragged. Except for the security section, they weren't on a good line and their fire was uneven, with many bolts flying high. Still, by the time the Marines cut the distance to the first Skinks in half, they'd obliterated nearly all of the closest enemy soldiers.

  The Skinks on Heaven's Heights, though, weren't as disorganized as they had been on Hymnal Hill. Even though the vastly outnumbered Marines in the bunkers fought valiantly, the twelve guns of the two FISTs' artillery batteries couldn't pound the ridge as intensely as they had the smaller hilltop, and the Skinks had suffered a much lower casualty rate. It didn't take long for the Skink commanders of the nearest units to organize a defense against this new threat. Commands were barked out and hundreds of Skinks charged the Marines.

  In response, Conorado stopped the Marine advance and had his men fire volley after volley into the charging Skinks. The flashes from flaring Skinks were dazzling, but the foe kept coming until, just under fifty meters from the Marines, they dropped to the ground and began firing acid. Hundreds of streamers of the greenish fluid arced out over the ground between the opposing forces and splashed to the ground around and on the Marines; almost all of them were hit. The retardant that impregnated their chameleons worked, but some of the Marines in the cooks and bakers company screamed when the acid found its way inside improperly closed uniforms. With the Marines flat on the ground, the Dragons that had carried them up the ridge moved forward and added the fire of their big guns to the fray.

  "Fire in front of them," Conorado shouted over the all-hands circuit. "Hit the dirt in front of them, go for ricochets! FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!"

  The ridge top strobed with flashes as the devastating fire put out by the Marines hit Skinks. Again, the fire from Company L on the right side of the Marine line was more effective than fire from the left. But there were thousands of Skinks, and only two hundred Marines. Every Skink in range of the Marines who was killed was almost immediately replaced by Skinks from the mass behind the line. The greenish fluid continued to stream unabated.

  The Skink Senior Masters had space, and space gave them time to maneuver. The Marine artillery couldn't fire too closely to the southern end of the ridge top for fear of hitting the counterattacking Marines. The Senior Master in command of the forces at the northern part of the ridge ordered his Fighters south, out from under the artillery bombardment. The Senior Master in command of the central portion was caught in a squeeze and decided to aid the southern unit in dealing with the counterattack. Horrendous as their casualties had been, there were still thousands of Skinks left to move toward the ferocious fighting at the ridge's southern end.

  More than two hundred blasters crack-sizzled at the nearby Skinks. Conorado ordered the ten Dragons to pour their fire into the mass of Skinks behind the line. Still, the streamers of acid floated at the Marines. The mass of Skinks behind the line drew rapidly closer. They reached the line of shooters and charged through it. The infantrymen and the Dragons shifted their aim to meet this new threat, and so many charging Skinks flared that the shooters were hidden behind a wall of strobing light. But there were too many Skinks, and some survived to close with the Marines.

  Silhouetted against the flashes of their dying comrades, six Skinks emerged directly in front of first squad's third fire team. Corporal Joe Dean swung the muzzle of his blaster at one and pressed the firing lever. The Skink flared. Then Dean had to roll out of the way as another clubbed at him with the nozzle of his acid weapon.

  "On your feet!" Dean shouted into his fire team's circuit—his first command in combat. He used the momentum of his roll to gain his feet. Another Skink was on him before he could shift aim. He swung the butt end of his blaster at the Skink and knocked him thudding to the ground. He shot it, and the flare when it vaporized sent him reeling back, which caused the strike from a Skink armed with a long knife to miss him. He recovered his balance in time to block a second knife chop, and followed through with the motion to slam the Skink across the chest. While the thing was staggering, Dean stepped back and blasted it. This time he was ready, and the flare didn't take him by surprise.

  To Dean's left a Skink managed to knock Lance Corporal Izzy Godenov's blaster from his hands, then it leaped at him and tried to wrap the hose of its weapon around the Marine's neck. Godenov slugged the Skink in the chest—he'd meant to hit him in the stomach, but the thing was shorter than he realized. The Skink's body armor was hard enough that the blow stung Godenov's hand. Still, the Skink staggered back. Godenov pounced and bore him to the ground, straddled him and wrenched the Skink's helmet off. The Skink tried to bite Godenov's hands, but the Marine clamped one hand under the Skink's jaw to hold it in place, then gouged out his eyes with the other. The Skink shrilled in agony and clamped hands over its damaged face. Godenov jumped away, found his blaster, and vaporized his wounded opponent.

  A few meters away, on Dean's other side, PFC Quick lived up to his name against two Skinks. He slammed the butt of his blaster into the juncture where one Skink's helmet met his body armor. He spun to his other attacker before the first one hit the ground and jabbed hard with the muzzle of his blaster. The Skink jumped backward to avoid the jab, and Quick pressed the firing lever. Instantly, he turned back to finish off the first Skink, who was still writhing on the ground.

  "Buddha's balls!" Corporal Claypoole shouted as a group of Skinks appeared just meters in front of him and Lance Corporal Wolfman MacIlargie. He skittered backward and leaped to his feet before three converging Skinks managed to swarm him. He blasted one of them before the other two bowled him over. But Claypoole, a man of average height and strength—for a Marine—was much bigger and stronger than the Skinks. He let go of his blaster and used his size and strength to fling one Skink away from him, then twisted around on top of the other. Shoving down hard on the creature's head and chest, he pushed himself to his feet and stomped on it, but before he could do any real damage, the first Skink grappled with him. The Skink had lost its helmet when Claypoole threw him off, and now it tried to bite with sharp, triangular teeth. Claypoole grabbed its head and jerked as hard as he could. The Skink's grip broke. He flailed with his fists, trying to beat Claypoole's arms. The Marine ignored the blows and swung the Skink like a sledgehammer at the other one, which was just rising. The Skink's scream stopped abruptly when its neck broke. The other collapsed heavily from the collision, and Claypoole leaped on him. He tore the Skink's helmet off and slammed the palms of his hands against t
he creature's ears. The Skink screamed and his eyes bulged as he went into convulsions. Claypoole dove for his blaster and rolled back to his feet, looking for more Skinks.

  MacIlargie jerked back when he saw the rushing Skinks and rose to a kneeling position to fire at them. He got three, but a fourth closed and swung the nozzle of its weapon at his head. The nozzle hit hard enough to stun him and he fell over. The Skink leaped on him and dropped the nozzle to draw a long knife. MacIlargie recovered enough to bat the stab away, but he didn't have enough control of his body to wriggle out from under his smaller attacker. The Skink shrilled and thrust again with his knife. MacIlargie grabbed the Skink's arm and managed to deflect the thrust so the point of the blade jammed into the ground. The Skink struggled to pull the knife back, but MacIlargie held on hard enough to stop it. He struck at the Skink with his free hand, but was still dazed enough that he couldn't put enough force into the blow to knock the Skink away. The Skink fended off a second blow, then used both hands to yank his knife free. Reversing his grip on the knife's hilt, the Skink grasped it with both hands to bring it down into MacIlargie's chest. The Marine drew on all the strength he could muster, slammed upward with both fists and propelled the Skink backward. Instead of embedding itself in his chest, the downthrust blade sliced along MacIlargie's arm, the sharp pain and gushing blood startling him. Sitting up, he grabbed the Skink's knife arm with both hands and twisted. The Skink screamed and dropped the knife, but MacIlargie kept twisting. There was a sudden snap, and the arm in MacIlargie's hands flopped. He pushed the Skink off and picked up the knife, then slid it under the apron of the Skink's armor and into his belly. Momentarily free from attack, he looked around for his blaster.

  Miraculously, no Skinks came through on the far right side of the thin Marine line. Corporal Kerr saw peripheral movement and looked to his left. His throat went dry when he saw Skinks closing on the Marines there. For an instant he flashed back to the Siad horsemen who had swarmed into Tulak Yar, the village on Elneal where he was almost killed. He shook himself angrily. This isn't Tulak Yar, he thought. Those aren't the Siad. "Fire left," he ordered, and put action to words.

  Lance Corporal Schultz looked and his skin crawled. He'd fought the Skinks several times, but never in such numbers. The sight of so many so close for the second time in fifteen minutes made him feel like maggots and other tiny beasties were crawling over him, burrowing into his flesh. He rose to a kneel and started picking them off.

  Corporal Doyle held the extreme right side of the line. Ever since the Marine advance stopped, he'd been terrified that the Skinks would flank them, that all the Skinks on Kingdom would attack the Marines through his position. His first reaction to seeing a frontal assault that didn't come directly at him was profound relief. The relief didn't last. As soon as he tried to aim his blaster, he realized that in order to have a field of fire clear of Marines, he'd have to move forward, closer to the larger mass of Skinks he'd been shooting at. In that instant every fiber in his body screamed Run away! Run away! But he knew he couldn't. He was a Marine corporal in the middle of a firefight. No one would ever talk to him again if he ran away. Everybody else might die if he ran away. He'd live in disgrace for the rest of his life if he ran away. He crawled forward, closer, so he could blast at the Skinks charging the Marine line. He didn't notice the wet and foulness that abruptly filled the crotch of his trousers.

  All along the line, Skinks closed for hand-to-hand combat. With the infantrymen grappling with their attackers, only the Dragons still fired at the oncoming Skinks. Marines began to fall before the overwhelming numbers.

  The crew of one of the Dragons had been killed when Skinks converged on it, sprayed enough acid onto the vehicle's ramp to eat through the thin armor, and broke in. The other Dragons were maneuvering to prevent the Skinks from doing the same to them; the effectiveness of their fire was reduced. The flashing of dying Skinks no longer dazzled the killing ground. Skinks were making it across the killing zone in larger numbers.

  Claypoole and MacIlargie stood back-to-back. Each had his combat knife in one hand and a long-bladed knife wrested from a Skink in the other. Skink body armor was designed to stop projectiles but was less effective against bladed weapons. Half a dozen Skinks lay around them, bleeding from wounds—a couple of them were no longer moving. But others, too many others, were circling the two, wielding knives of their own, tightening their circle. And more were rushing toward them. The scene was repeated all up and down the line.

  Then several of the circling Skinks flared up from plasma hits. An instant later, Marines bowled into the Skinks.

  "Kilo Company to the rescue!" shouted one of the newly arrived Marines. He lifted his blaster and flamed another Skink.

  The loud crack-sizzle of Dragon guns behind the line increased, and Skinks in the killing zone flared into vapor. More cracks of blasters and the louder sizzles of Dragons came from the left front.

  When Brigadier Sturgeon asked who else was able to move and said he wanted more Marines in the attack against the high ground, each FIST in his command ordered an infantry company out of its defensive positions. When the new, stronger counterattack struck, the Skinks broke and ran. Once more the Kingdomite artillery regiments fired on the flat below the heights.

  Chapter Five

  The blood-flecked thing that had once been a woman screamed horribly as an almost fatal surge of electrical current coursed through her broken body. He depressed the button for several seconds, causing the woman to writhe against the restraints in uncontrollable spasms. Dominic de Tomas, Dean of the Collegium, lifted his thumb, and the current abruptly ceased. The woman lay on the table semiconscious, struggling for breath. The interview, as de Tomas called such sessions, had been going on for over an hour, and he was beginning to lose interest since his victim was nearing the end of her endurance.

  "Primitive, but effective," de Tomas remarked to a black-uniformed guard standing nearby at rigid attention. It was not often the Dean of the Collegium himself participated in the sessions, and the guards and technicians were impressed. De Tomas smiled amiably at the woman panting and gasping on the bloodstained rack. She had been a minister of the Anabaptist Sect, in fact one of the last of the Anabaptist leaders on Kingdom, thanks to de Tomas's unflagging pursuit of dangerous thinkers. The few remaining Anabaptists had converted to more politically correct sects, but the dying woman on the rack stubbornly refused to recant. That was all the same to Dominic de Tomas because the minister would die no matter what she promised to do under his torture.

  De Tomas walked over and stood looking down at the minister, who was slowly recovering the power of speech. "We have modern and humane methods to make people do what we want," he said. "But in your case I decided to use electroshock because . . . well, it's more painful, and because I have no further use for you, and, to be perfectly honest, because you are impossibly ugly."

  The guards and technicians present chuckled at his banter. They were all loyal members of de Tomas's Special Group, an organization of highly trained and dedicated armed men, rivals in many ways of the Kingdomite Army of the Lord. He had built their strength to well over one thousand members, and had even given them military ranks and titles, as well as the latest weapons. It was they who enabled him to enforce his will as the Dean of the Collegium. They were handpicked men who had completed a rigorous course of indoctrination and training, after which they had sworn a blood oath of total loyalty to de Tomas.

  Unlike de Tomas himself, who believed in nothing, they had been indoctrinated into a military cult based on the twelfth-century Germanic Order of Teutonic Knights. Their icons of military virtue were the German prince of the Cherusci tribe known as Hermann Arminius, who destroyed Quintilius Varus's legions in 9 A.D. in the Teutoburger Wald; and Heinrich I, "the Fowler," who was elected king of the Germans in 919. In fact, the logo of the Collegium, which de Tomas had designed shortly after becoming dean, was a silver goshawk symbolic of Heinrich, wings spread, perched on two golden lightni
ng bolts—representing Arminius's victory over the Romans. De Tomas artfully, but not overtly, encouraged the belief among his followers that he was the reincarnation of Heinrich. Whether his men believed this or not, they did believe that Dominic de Tomas was their leader, for whom they would gladly sacrifice their own lives. They also believed that anyone who opposed the work of the Collegium, and especially those brought before it for heresy, were enemies of the state who deserved death, and were unfailingly rewarded with it.

  The fact that Dominic de Tomas himself was not of Teutonic origin had no bearing on his status as the leader of the Special Group, or what amounted to chief priest of the order.

  De Tomas beckoned to the technician in charge of the interrogation lab, a stormleader, the equivalent of a lieutenant in the Army of the Lord. "I've had my amusement for today," he said. "Into the furnace with her . . . slowly and feet first. Revive the bitch periodically. Put it all on a vid, so I can watch later. You know the procedure." He shrugged. "I have an important meeting to attend now." He gestured at a Shooter, one of four handpicked bodyguards who accompanied him everywhere, "Theodor, if you please."

  The jackbooted guard snapped to attention and handed him a cape, black, with a bright red lining, a silver goshawk and golden lightning flashes emblazoned on the back. De Tomas donned it with a practiced flourish. He saluted the stormleader smartly and swirled to the door.

  Behind him the Anabaptist began to scream as she was wheeled slowly into the maw of a raging blast furnace. Shrieks accompanied them all the way to the elevators.

  Dominic de Tomas had risen to the presidency of the Collegium, the disciplinary body of the ruling theocracy on Kingdom, through guile, ruthlessness, and considerable talent as an administrator. A failed poultry farmer, he had emigrated to Kingdom as a member of the now defunct Rochester branch of the Scientific Pantheist Sect.