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  The multiple canopies of the Samlan didn’t only block satellite observation and surveillance of the ground, they also blocked secure low-power communications from the ground to orbit—it was something in their chemical makeup. And they blocked reception of string-of-pearls downlink GPS data; the Marines had to rely on their helmets’ inertial guidance system to keep track of where they were. Every Marine who’d served long enough to have had to rely on his helmet’s integral inertial guidance system knew how unreliable it could be over long distances with many turns and no obvious reference points. First squad had gone a long distance with very many turns. An hour after Wazzen startled the dreer and after avoiding another SLA patrol, Daly called a rest at dead tree with a hollow bole that wasn’t being used by a denning animal. The first thing he did after calling the halt was to send Corporal Nomonon up one of the trees to get a GPS reading. The GPS said they were more than half a kilometer off where their inertial guidance systems showed. They made the necessary adjustments to the systems. After they ate a cold meal, Daly took his men into the hollow bole and put them on a 25 percent alert; one man awake while the others slept, one-and-a-half hour shifts. Six hours after entering the bole, they ate another quick meal and moved out again. It wasn’t long before they found another trail made by human feet. This one also showed vehicle tracks. Daly was sure they were getting close to their objective. He moved the patrol to the side of the trail, as far off as they could get and still see it, then parallelled it. Three hours and five patrol evasions later, they found the Silvasian Liberation Army’s headquarters. Near the Headquarters of the Silvasian Liberation Army, Samlan Forest, Silvasia General Leigh, the SLA commander, had picked a location under five levels of canopy, where the infrared signals of his people were shielded from orbital detection. It was a large camp. Judging from the number of sleeping and mess tents, there were probably more than two thousand soldiers, support personnel, and others—they saw more children than could be expected in a purely combat unit in a guerrilla army, so some of the women must be wives. Which didn’t mean the wives didn’t also have official functions in the headquarters—and all the women they saw who weren’t watching children seemed to be moving about on business of one sort or another. Daly drew his men in close where they sat in a circle back-to-back so they could watch in all directions. They tipped their heads back so their helmets touched and they could talk via conduction without emitting radio waves.

  “Where are we?” Daly asked. “Give me your inertial readings.”

  They all transmitted their inertial location readings to him. He compared theirs with his own, there wasn’t more than a twenty-five-meter difference among them. It was close enough, he wasn’t going to call in air or naval gunfire strikes. He thought for a moment to decide their next course of action. They had to report the location of the headquarters, that was a given. But communications were blocked by the multiple canopy. Obviously, just as every army recon patrol had done, someone had to climb a tree to call in the report. But climbing left marks on the trees, which might have been what caused some of the army patrols to be found.

  SLA patrols had become more frequent as the Marines neared the headquarters—Daly had one in sight right now. There could be more; the SLA didn’t have chameleons, but their uniforms were well camouflaged, making them very difficult to see visually in the permanent dusk under the multiple canopy, and their uniforms had enough infra-damping capability that their signals weren’t easy to spot at a distance through trees.

  Still, Daly was confident of his squad’s ability to evade the SLA patrols, even if the security patrols discovered signs that told them that someone had located their camp. He was also confident that his squad could follow the headquarters with ease if it moved. But he’d rather not be discovered in the first place. So, how to climb a tree without leaving marks that one of the many patrols would spot?

  “I have one patrol in sight, two hundred meters, moving from near right to upper left,” he said. “Any others in sight?”

  “I have one at two fifty, near left to upper right,” Sergeant Kindy, directly to his rear, reported. The distances were approximate, they didn’t risk using range finders, which could be detected.

  “Nomonon? Wazzen?”

  “Clear,” Corporal Nomonon answered; he was facing deeper into the forest.

  “Nobody coming out,” said Lance Corporal Wazzen; he was facing the headquarters camp.

  “Let’s watch, see if there’s a pattern.”

  Unmoving except for their eyes, they sat for more than four hours; they didn’t move even when a patrol came within fifteen meters of their location. One of the six guerrillas in the patrol held what looked like a motion detector; another had an infra detector. Neither spotted the Marines. The patrols did have a pattern. In the segment of the camp’s perimeter that they could observe, patrols went out at approximate half-hour intervals, two at a time, from spots three hundred meters apart; the departure spots rotated counterclockwise, a hundred meters at a time. The Marines couldn’t tell how far out the patrols went, but they came back on different routes from those on which they’d gone out. Neither could they tell if the patrols they saw coming back were the same as those they saw go out, only that two hours after a patrol departed another returned about seventy-five meters counterclockwise from where a patrol had departed two hours earlier.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Daly said when he had seen enough. Half a Kilometer Farther from the SLA Headquarters They were good, the Force Recon Marines. They stepped softly and kept to the hardest ground they could find; their boots made almost no imprint on the ground. Even if the SLA had trackers good enough to spot their traces, it was unlikely the one or few good enough would come across their trail, less likely they’d be looking for such slight traces. Willing just one time to make footprints, Daly faced an appropriate tree and planted his feet firmly less than a meter in front of the trunk and leaned into the tree, bracing himself against it with his hands. He was the biggest man in the squad; the heaviest and strongest, though not the tallest. Corporal Nomonon was the tallest. He climbed up Daly’s back and stood on his shoulders. Lance Corporal Wazzen scrambled up to stand on Nomonon’s shoulders. Sergeant Kindy, the smallest man in the squad, clambered to the top of the human spire and sank two anchor spikes into the tree trunk above his head. Securing himself to the anchor spikes with a short length of rope, he lifted his feet from Wazzen’s shoulders; the Marines below him collapsed their spire while Kindy affixed climbing spikes to his boots and gloves. Then he began climbing. As soon as everybody was off him, Daly squatted down and brushed away the worst marks of his footprints. Then, while Nomonon and Wazzen kept watch, he methodically picked up the chips of bark that dribbled down from Kindy’s climbing. It was a tall tree, and Kindy had to climb high to get above enough of the canopies to establish communications with a satellite. When he was finally high enough, he dropped two weighted lines, camouflaged to conceal themselves against the tree. Daly grabbed one line, removed the weight, and plugged the line into a jack in his helmet. A moment later, he was talking to the duty communications officer of the 104th Mobile Infantry Division.

  “Homeboy, this is Rover One,” he reported. “We have them.” He gave the coordinates he got from Kindy’s GPS. “They have not detected us. When can we expect you? Over.”

  “Rover One, are you positive you’ve located the quarry and that you haven’t been detected?” The comm officer sounded doubtful.

  “That’s a double affirmative, Homeboy,” Daly replied flatly.

  “How secure is your position, Rover? I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “They aren’t going to find us, but we have to go potty, so don’t take too long.” The very expressionlessness of his voice made it sound sarcastic.

  “I’ll be back, Rover. Homeboy out.”

  Daly unplugged the line to the satellite link and plugged in the other, which was connected to Kindy’s helmet jack.

  “Bad news,” he to
ld the assistant squad leader. “We have to wait in place until the army pulls its thumb out of its ass and decides to do something.”

  “You mean I got to stay up here?”

  “With the birdies for the duration.”

  “There aren’t any birdies here.”

  “Count your blessings. No birdies means they can’t join the army in shitting on you.”

  Kindy snorted. “With my luck, the birdies would be the size of cows.”

  “So it’s a good thing there aren’t any birdies.”

  It was almost two hours before Homeboy got back to them. He sounded almost surprised that they were still in position and nothing had changed. Homeboy said a squad from the division’s recon battalion was on its way to confirm their report.

  “Recall that squad, Homeboy,” Daly snapped. “If that’s all that comes, we’ll have to save their asses, and then follow the target to tell you where your recon scared them off to. And that’ll piss me off, because I really have to go potty. You won’t like it when a pissed off Marine who has to go potty shows up in your face.”

  Homeboy didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “Rover, say again target strength.”

  “About two thousand, Homeboy. At least half of them are security or combat. I recommend a brigade to encircle the target.”

  “Rover, are you positive?”

  “Have I ever lied to you, Homeboy?”

  Homeboy wisely didn’t reply to that, instead he said, “Rover, wait one.”

  “Wait one” in radio parlance normally means a short time, anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes. In this instance, it meant an hour, during which Daly and his two men on the ground had to move away from the tree to let an outbound SLA patrol pass by. When Homeboy finally came back he said three battalions were on their way and for the Force Recon patrol to go to ground.

  Kindy gratefully came down from the tree and the squad returned to where it could keep an eye on the SLA headquarters.

  Three hours later they saw patrols running back into the camp, and soldiers and others bustling about breaking camp.

  The three battalions of the 104th Mobile Infantry Division arrived from as many directions before more than a few elements of the SLA headquarters left. General Leigh was one of the many who were caught in the trap. There was a short, fierce fight before the defenders surrendered—the general didn’t want the children to get killed in the fight.

  “Mission accomplished,” Daly said to his squad. “Let’s go take a dump and head for home.”

  “Well done, Marines,” General Fitzter said when the Force Recon squad, bathed, purged, and dressed in clean—and visible—dress reds reported to him in his office. “I don’t know how you did it, but if you ever decide to change services, I guarantee you a job with me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Daly said politely. “That’s very generous of the general.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Kevelys looked at them with a mix of resentment and awed respect. He looked at the array of ribbons on Daly’s chest, indicating the numerous campaigns and operations he’d participated in, and couldn’t help noticing the first two ribbons represented Marine Corps medals for personal heroism. He unclenched his jaws and said, “I believe the term you Marines use for a job well done is ‘outstanding.’ Now I think I have an idea of why.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Daly said with a nod. “It’s all in a day’s work for Force Recon.”

  Fitzter’s eyebrow twitched, Kevelys’s jaw reclenched.

  “I will write a letter of commendation to your commanding general,” Fitzter said, then added wryly, “But he probably expected you to perform as well as you did.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sure he did.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Daly said smartly. “Good hunting on the rest of your campaign, sir.” He and his men about-faced and marched from the general’s office. Kevelys opened his mouth to admonish them for not saluting, but Fitzter held up a hand to stop him. When the door closed behind the Marines he said, “The sea services don’t salute indoors.”

  “Right,” Kevelys snarled. “Arrogant bastards—I mean what he said about ‘all in a day’s work.’ ”

  Fitzter nodded. “I agree. But when you’re as good as they are, you can get away with a bit of arrogance.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Unified World of Atlas

  Atlas was a flourishing world.

  When the first explorers arrived they were very pleasantly surprised to find a planet that seemed created for colonization, teeming with fauna and flora, none of which proved inimical to mankind. The life-forms native to Atlas sustained the original colonists for years, and a distinctive cuisine developed around native foodstuffs.

  The seas on Atlas abounded with marine life, much of which was highly delectable to the human palate, and crops of all kinds flourished in the hospitable soils. Those early settlers established a self-sustaining colony and eventually their descendants transformed Atlas into a member of the Confederation of Worlds known for its agricultural products. Grains that had become almost extinct on Earth thrived on Atlas, as did the industry that distilled alcohol from corn, mash, and rye—old-fashioned bourbon was one of Atlas’s leading exports.

  The Atleans sustained themselves by growing and raising things. Hunger was unknown, and despite several wars over the recent decades, the granaries of Atlas had never run out. Atlas was the breadbasket in its quadrant of Human Space, and its exports were highly prized. The Atleans were, of necessity, very careful to guard against the import of plant and animal species that could upset the balance of nature they’d achieved on their world. Thus all off-world arrivals and their baggage were subjected to thorough inspection and decontamination. Imports were likewise subjected to rigorous irradiation before being released to their markets. Ships and their crews transiting Atlas for whatever reason were simply quarantined at their ports of entry and the Atleans who worked there submitted to decontamination before going home at the end of their shifts. As is true anywhere, customs could be bypassed as officials looked the other way, but irradiation could not, and the penalty for trying to avoid it was death. These harsh rules were strictly enforced, but again and again they had successfully prevented alien infestations that might have ruined the crops and livestock so necessary to Atlas’s economic viability.

  Because Atlas was primarily an agricultural world with not much heavy industry, and what industry it had was stringently regulated, the natural environment remained largely undisturbed. The planet’s beaches, mountains, lakes, oceans, and national parks were renowned throughout Human Space for their pristine beauty. The cities on the planet were small, clean, and comfortable places to live, and people came to Atlas just to get away from the hubbub of their native worlds, to enjoy the good food the Atleans were so proud of, and the natural wonders of the planet. Tourism flourished on Atlas.

  Ramuncho’s Restaurant, New Granum, Union of Margelan, Atlas

  Ramuncho served the dalmans right out of their shells, piping hot just the way Jorge Lavager liked them, but they were also excellent cold and in salads, served as a main course with side dishes, or as appetizers.

  Dalmans ( Dalmanantes postii) were arthropoid creatures resembling the trilobites that once swam in Earth’s Paleozoic seas. Dalmans lived in the littorals in the Great Northern Sea a few hundred kilometers from New Granum. The Atleans raised them in huge seawater lakes and exported them to other worlds where they were highly prized delicacies. But Ramuncho bought his dalmans right off the docks from the fishing fleets and Lavager ate only those, freshly caught in the ocean. Ramuncho had a special arrangement with Lavager to inform him first when a new shipment of dalmans arrived in his kitchens. A mature dalman could provide up to two kilos of indescribably delicious meat while their larvae, harvested in vast quantities, added an ineffable flavor to salads and soups. The Union of Margelan had for many years enforced a policy of restocking the dalmans in their natural habitat, which insured a v
irtually inexhaustible supply of the creatures, much to the delight of gastronomes throughout Human Space. A half kilo of dalman meat on Earth could fetch up to a thousand credits, a bargain, and connoisseurs were delighted to pay it. Craaack! Lavager broke the carapace with a small hammer and then pried it open with a special set of tongs, essential tools for a dalman meal. The most delightful aroma filled the small back room as the steaming meat inside the shell was exposed. “Ahhhh,” Lavager said as he inhaled the sweet essence, “this is living, eh, Locker?” He sprinkled the meat with pepper and a special hot sauce created from Ramuncho’s own secret recipe.

  “You use too much of that stuff, Jorge, and you won’t be able to sit down for a week,” General Ollwelen laughed.

  “If you finish off that dalman, you won’t be able to stand up for a week,” Lavager countered. Locksley picked up his own hammer and deftly cracked his dalman open. The pair applied their forks in contented silence for a long while, occasionally drinking from iced schooners of ale.

  “Damn!” Lavager exclaimed at last, shoving the remnants of his meal toward the center of the table and producing his portable cigar humidor. “Now don’t tell me, old buddy, that we aren’t living high!”

  Chuckling, he offered General Ollwelen, who had also just finished his meal, one of his cigars.

  “My God, Jorge, when did you get these?” Locksley admired the cigar. “Davidoff Series Millennium DCLVIS! I can’t believe it!” Lovingly, he clipped the end and accepted a light. He sucked the smoke in, then let it out slowly, very slowly, to savor to the utmost the exquisite flavor of the tobacco. “A dalman and a Davidoff, tonight I can die a happy man!”