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  Holly Goodall was the other Locust pilot. She was the dangerous one within the lance, even though hers was a light 'Mech that posed no threat to Vost's control. She was such a directed wench. She kept her 'Mech in perfect trim and was always trying to upgrade the various systems. That would have been fine if she were a man, but it was strange in a woman. Vost was a little sensitive about women MechWarriors in general, and Goodall only reinforced that feeling. He had let her join the lance purely to fill out the ranks with the 'Mechs required by the contract. She was so tough. Most of the time she dressed in her Mech Warrior's vest and shorts, skimpy attire that always created a tumultuous stirring in him. It was a good thing he had Michelle Guardine as one of his techs. He needed something to relieve the tension.

  By and large Sagiri Johnson had chosen a competent body of technical people, Johnson had been with Vost for two years, the only other survivor of Vost's first lance. Underos Yaputi and Iliomoso Panda, despite a tendency to gripe at times, would do as they were told. The other techs, Tami Wilson and Fiona Sabine, were too smart to be good stooges. Not only that, but they were showing a tendency to listen to Goodall. Vost flexed his shoulders under his combat vest and ran his hand through his thick sandy-colored hair. He'd be able to deal with those two when the time came; he always had been.

  Vost waved nonchalantly toward Collis Brank, who jumped to his feet and sidled over to where Vost was standing. The Locust pilot always sidled, then always hovered close enough to talk in whispers, even when it wasn't required. "What's the skinny?" he asked in a hoarse whisper as he sidled up to Vost.

  Vost stepped back to put a little space between him and the hunched figure. "Just wanted to talk," replied Vost. "Just wanted to see how you were getting along. You generally know the skinny before I do."

  "I don't like the attitude of those DEST guys. They want to run the whole show."

  "Of course. Combine troops always think they're supposed to be in charge. But I'd be a little careful about saying bad things about DEST. They have a reputation, and even if its overblown, it's close enough to the truth."

  "They're not superhumans," whined the little man.

  "They may not be superhuman," Vost said, "but they're still damn good. Be careful what you say. Be careful what you think when you're around them."

  There were a few moments of silence between the two men. Vost let Brank do his own thinking for a while, waiting for the little man to come up with the right answer. "They've got all the weapons right now," Brank said finally. "We have our sidearms, but all the heavy fire power is theirs. That's too bad."

  "Too bad we don't have the 'Mechs out," Vost said after the briefest pause. "That would change things. Then we'd be in charge, and they'd have to dance to our tune."

  "We ought to be in charge anyway," interjected Brank. "They don't really have anything to do now. There's no one around to fight."

  "That's not what they'd say. Who knows if this bit about human-like aliens and giant birds in the forest isn't designed to scare us and make them important. Except for worrying about that, what do they really have to do? Takuda sits there like some dictator, telling us we have to prepare to defend ourselves. Defend ourselves from what? What we really need is to get our lives organized. We've got to figure out how we're going to survive. And you know what survival means."

  Brank had no idea what survival meant, except for more food and a place to live. He knew that Vost was expecting an answer, and that the answer should be profound, but he just couldn't think of anything. All he could do was hum in acquiescence and hope that Vost would give him a clue. Luckily for his stalled thinking process. Holly Goodall took this opportunity to stroll across his field of vision. That triggered a response. "The women." It was almost a question.

  "You got that right." Vost was quick to take the lead. "We've got to deal out the women. If we're going to survive, there has to be someone to carry on. We've got to divide up the women."

  "But there are only four of them." It was almost a whine. Brank was making a quick survey to see if he would get one, and if he did, which one it would be.

  "You're forgetting the two with DEST."

  "The major wouldn't like that. He would have something to say about it."

  "Not if the 'Mechs were out, he wouldn't. We'd get the women over his dead body, and that could be arranged." Vost gave Brank a meaningful glance and was rewarded with a sly grin. "Those two over there are in top physical condition. They'd also probably snap the neck of any man who looks cross-eyed at them, but it could be fun trying to tame them. I bet you could have quite a time with one of them, don't you?"

  * * *

  Sho-sa Yubari Takuda watched the two 'Mech pilots deep in conversation. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could guess. The whole situation was uncomfortable for him. Trying to be the ultimate leader was something Takuda had never had to deal with. He didn't want to be the ultimate, but he saw no alternative. Vost certainly wanted to be top dog, but Takuda didn't believe the man could represent the best interests of the whole group. As for Reston Bannin, he was a dead loss; the man hadn't done a thing since they'd left the JumpShip. That left Parker Davud, but Takuda suspected that the DropShip pilot would resist any attempt to make him the leader.

  That left the job to Takuda. As long as the DEST members remained cohesive, he would remain in charge. But this situation was as new to them as to the others, so he couldn't be sure what they would do. DEST members were chosen because they were intelligent, not because they followed orders blindly. Sooner or later each one would make up his own mind about the situation. Takuda didn't want to be a dictator. He believed that a benevolent autocracy was the best form of government. Wasn't that why it was the form of government in the Draconis Combine?

  Johan Miranda, the junior member of the weapons team, rose from the grass nearby and approached Takuda. He stopped at a respectful distance and waited for his commander to acknowledge his presence. Takuda wondered mildly how long that deference would last. He nodded to the joto hei to approach.

  "Most honorable Sho-sa," said Miranda, bowing ever so slightly at the waist. The sergeant was carrying his sniper rifle. Equipped with a low-light scope and aural sensors, it was said the weapon could see a gnat at a hundred meters. Miranda was a very good shot with the rifle; he couldn't have become a member of DEST otherwise. And Takuda knew that Miranda was good even by DEST standards.

  "Speak, Joto hei Miranda."

  "Perhaps I could be of some assistance." The young sergeant glanced toward the pair of 'Mech pilots still standing near their camp.

  For a moment Takuda feared that the sergeant was going to suggest some target practice. That might temporarily solve some of their problems, but if they resorted to solving problems by assassination, the whole camp could become crisscrossed with gunfire. "Speak."

  "I have been scanning the camp for sound, and there are some interesting events." Miranda paused to see if he could continue. When Takuda made no comment, he went on. "Someone has mentioned deploying the 'Mechs from the DropShip."

  Takuda noticed that the joto hei did not reveal who had said it or where he had heard the information. The major nodded. "Thank you for the information, Joto hei. I will ponder it. You are dismissed." The sergeant made another, shallow bow and returned to his position in the grass.

  "So-cho," said Takuda. The call was not a shout, but Takuda had trained his voice to carry when necessary. The young sergeant-major rose from his position some fifty meters away and hurried to his commander.

  "So-cho," said Takuda when the sergeant came to attention before him, "there is some possibility that the DropShip may be in danger. See to it that a guard is placed on the ship."

  The sergeant-major saluted, did a smart about-face, and went off to talk to the members of the nearest DEST section.

  7

  The lush, dripping, pungent growth hung silent and threatening in the still air. Each step by the members of the patrol sank deeply into the ground, leaving inde
ntations that slowly filled with dark water. It was like moving in a soundproof room. Beyond their limited field of vision came soft plopping noises like the sound of fat, gray-green slugs dropping onto a wet sponge. Joto hei Andi Holland, the point of the patrol, made herself stop thinking about what might be making the sounds so she could deal with what she could see. Behind her she felt rather than saw the other members of the patrol.

  Directly behind was Gun-so Emmerdean Knyte, the section and patrol leader; behind him was Go-cho Swalen Horg. Holland was the lowest-ranking member of the patrol, but that was not what had made her the point. All three rotated through the position, each one taking the duty for no more than twenty minutes at a time. Being lead was an exhausting business, and no one could stand the strain for too long. As fatigue began to take over, Holland began to hear and see things that weren't there. More important, she began to not see and not hear things that were.

  The three members of the section had been on many patrols before, but this one was different. Most patrols operated in relation to a known enemy. Even if they didn't know where the enemy was, they usually knew what they might have to face and it was real. This time, however, they didn't know what was out there. The whole team had been trained for possible alien contact especially for this mission, but the specter of having to face the real thing raised the tension level to the point where no one could take the lead for very long. Holland had been on point for almost her full term; she knew she was getting tired. She raised her hand to halt the patrol while she sank into a kneeling position. She used the muzzle of her Nakajama laser rifle to part the foliage at the level of her face.

  With a range of visibility a mere two meters or less, Holland wondered why she was armed with a weapon that was effective against human targets at three hundred meters. Here in the thick woods she would have preferred a slug-throwing cone rifle or even one of the pistols carried by the mercenary patrol.

  That there was a mercenary patrol in the woods was both surprising and obvious. It was surprising because Holland had heard the argument between Sho-sa Takuda and Garber Vost over whether to send out a mercenary patrol at all. When the sho-sa had suggested that the mercenaries go out, Vost simply ignored him. When the DEST commander ordered the mercenaries to go on patrol, Vost had immediately responded with a heated protest. From what Holland had heard, it was not so much that Vost didn't want his people to go, it was just that he didn't want to be told they had to go. That, to Holland, seemed like an infantile attitude. She understood the necessity for order and respect. People did what they were told to do, especially when they had a leader of the sho-sa's rank and stature.

  Trying to turn a group of 'Mech pilots and technicians into a reconnaissance patrol was another matter. Even though they were filling out a necessary slot in the patrol scheme, Holland thought their chances of finding anything that didn't want to be found was virtually zero. They couldn't keep their mouths shut, constantly snouting to each other as they thrashed through the foliage. Two days ago Takuda had had to send Knyte's section back into the forest to extricate three mercenary technicians from a deep pit. The trio had stood at the bottom of the pit, howling like banshees and firing their slug pistols into the air to attract attention. That they could have used half that energy to climb out of the pit was not worth pointing out. If nothing else, the mercenaries provided the DEST members with endless stories and amusement.

  Holland could hear them now, howling in pain, or surprise, or just to keep themselves amused. The muzzle of her rifle parted the foliage.

  Two glowing red circles stared back at her from the opaque greenness beyond. She froze. The unblinking red circles stared back. They were a full twenty centimeters apart, and the face they were attached to must have been huge. Holland had a great imagination, quite possibly more than she needed, and the thought of the beast beyond filled her with both curiosity and dread, but mostly curiosity.

  The red eyes moved, quite possibly closer. Curiosity ended. Holland pulled the trigger, and the power pack over the breech vibrated slightly as power poured through the crystals. There was a brilliant flash of light and steam as the unseen shaft of laser light struck something wet and solid. The red eyes fled in opposite directions like frantic rockets. Holland leaped back on her heels and sat down heavily in the soft ground. She was up in an instant, thrusting the barrel into the foliage.

  Inside the dark cave beyond her position she could see the dissipating steam and the soft glow of burning leaves. There was nothing else. Whatever had been there was gone now. Holland felt slightly foolish and a little frustrated. She hadn't meant to shoot at it, had done so purely out of reflex. She sank to a crouch.

  There in front of her, almost beneath her own foot, was a print, the print of a giant bird. It was like so many she had seen, like so many seen by other members of her patrol and the rest, that she hardly paid more than passing interest. But then she looked again. The print was absolutely fresh. There was hardly a drop of water in the bottom, and the sides of the depression were crisp and clean. Whatever had made the print had been there just moments ago. Holland motioned Knyte to her side and silently pointed to the track. Knyte waved his hand, and the patrol crept cautiously forward. Horg, the trailing member of the group, remained hunkered down facing the rear.

  Every muscle tense, her eyes straining to pierce the foliated darkness, her ears discriminating among all the sounds in the forest, Holland moved with glacial slowness. Everything seemed strange and forbidding. Not knowing whether it was menace or hospitality to the front of her, it paid to be careful. Another track, and another, and another, each as fresh or fresher than the last. She rose to move, her eyes searching far ahead, but she got no further.

  Knyte's hand came down firmly on her shoulder, rendering her motionless. She pulled back gently, replacing her foot in its previous track. Knyte had been watching the ground rather than the foliage. Now he leaned forward and pointed with the muzzle of his rifle. There, just discernible in the forest duff, was a thin line of different ground cover. He prodded the surface just beyond the line, and the forest floor collapsed in a fountain of wood chips, decayed roots, and random leaves. The gaping hole stood revealed.

  Andi Holland waited until she had her heart under control and then looked into what could have been her new home. The pit was a meter square and better than two meters deep; deep enough to cause bodily harm, perhaps not grievous, but certainly some.

  Knyte motioned Horg up to his position. While Holland was examining.the pit and the way around it, Emmerdean had sensed something else. He pointed into the foliage on the left and indicated what he wanted Horg to do. The man nodded, then moved off into the darkness silent as a shadow. Knyte tapped Holland on the back and communicated that she should remain still. Without obviously pointing, he indicated where she should watch. Holland settled back on her heels and searched the green gloom ahead.

  Swalen Horg, squat and solid, drifted into the leaves. He waited while the motion caused by his departure from the patrol's trail became still. When he couldn't hear anything but the sounds of the forest, he moved on. Knyte had indicated a target some ten meters ahead. Horg was to flank the position and attempt to come in from the rear. He had done such a drill a hundred times, probably even more than that. Continuing to creep away from the patrol until he was clear, he then turned to parallel the route. After twenty meters he turned again. Unconsciously counting steps, he reached a position ahead of the patrol. He turned again and began to creep silently, slowly, toward the unseen target.

  He lifted each foot high in the air, balancing his weight on the grounded foot. With the toe pointed down, he slowly lowered the foot until it made contact with the soft soil. Ever so slowly he lowered the foot until it was down, feeling through the sole of his boot for any stick, leaf, or void that might reveal his position. Once the ground was confirmed as safe, he slowly shifted his weight to the new foot and repeated the process. It was an infinitely slow way to travel through the woods, but it was a noisele
ss one.

  Ahead Horg saw a darkening in the surrounding undergrowth. He froze, hardly daring to breathe. It was a giant, feathered figure. With the same infinite care he raised the laser rifle. Horg didn't want to shoot the thing in the back; that was against all the training they'd been given in preparation for the mission. He tapped the side of the rifle. Just enough to attract the attention of the figure. The reaction was spectacular.

  As Horg watched, the figure rose to its full one-and-a-half meter height. It was a ball on a pair of long, skinny legs. It spun to face him, revealing a long, ovoid body with two huge eyes centered over a short beak. The animal shrieked an almost human scream. It leaped backward in surprise almost as great as Horg's own. He, too, stumbled back, but recovered quickly and brought the laser rifle to his shoulder. The alien pressed back into the suddenly unyielding brush. The shriek continued. Horg depressed the trigger until all the slack was out and the detente of the trigger seer was fully engaged. If the thing moved, Horg would blow a hole through its hairy body; of that he was quite sure.

  The alien gave another shriek, but this one was more than a cry of terror. It was a warbled wail that rattled and clucked. Horg held his fire. The cry came again, more muted now, more intelligible. "Please shoot not," it seemed to say. "Please shoot not." Horg relaxed the tension on the trigger. Not all the way, but just enough to keep the weapon from going off by chance. He listened more carefully.

  "Please not shoot do. I your friend want to be." The figure whimpered softly and raised its hands to cover its eyes.

  8

  Horg lowered the laser rifle to waist-height and stared at the figure in front of him. He couldn't tell if the thing were a bird or a something else. Certainly the feet looked like a bird's. It was the body that made him stare.

  The ovoid body was slung between extremely long legs in such a way that its horizontal axis was the long one. The eyes were the most fascinating part of the alien. The creature had elongated eye slits that extended from the side of the skull to the front, almost joining over the short beak that extended from below the face. The eyes had double pupils, one facing directly out and away from the skull and the other facing generally forward. The ears, or what should have been ears, had been reduced to mere vestigial openings on the top of the skull behind and above the eyes.