Garroway, somewhat to his own surprise, was not as upset

by the change in orders as Lord Rame appeared to be. His

briefing on the Tavros- Endymion situation had convinced him

that something fundamentally was wrong with the Galactic

Associative, that the Galaxy- spanning or ganiza tion was suf-

fering from a kind of disease or psychological breakdown—

not a literal disease, perhaps, but a shift in world view that

was both serious and accelerating.

The Galaxy, after a thousand shining years of relative

peace, was descending into insanity once again.

Did that mean that peace itself was an aberration, that there

would always be war, conquest, and violence as an outgrowth

of civilization? Or did it mean that someone was interfering

with what Humankind and so many other civilizations had

created?

Garroway wanted to know. The answer might determine

well the future of the Marine Corps, of Humankind itself,

and of every other intelligent species in the Galaxy.

He heard a clatter, and a bellowed shout. Turning, he saw a

group of people coming up the stairway out of the Tranquility

Promenade—six of them, three men, three women. Two were

in civilian clothing, the other four nude save for their feet,

but there was something about them—age, mannerisms—

short- cropped hair— something that suggested that all six were

military.

They also appeared to be drunk.

“Yah . . . right up here,” one of the women said, her voice

pitched louder than was necessary or appropriate, especially

in this sacred place. “Been here b’fore, long time.”

“Geeze, this is the place, huh?” one of the men said, looking

around as he reached the observation deck. He saw Garroway

140

IAN DOUGLAS

and his eyes widened slightly. “Oh, ’scuze us, sir. We came

to see . . . to see . . .”

“The first spaceship!” another of the men said loudly.

“Very fi rst spaceship!”

“First time humans reached the Moon!” a woman said.

She scratched absently under one bare breast. “First time

ever!”

“Non . . . nonsense,” a man replied. “People were on the

Moon with the An, right? Slaves from their colony in Meso . . .

Mesopo . . . from Earth.”

“They were the first humans to reach the Moon in modern

times,” Garroway told them, keeping his voice low. “At the

very end of the pre-Space Era.”

As he spoke, he was querying the local Net for implant

bios. If these yahoos were military, their personnel rec ords

ought to be readily available— there!

All six were lieutenants in the Anchor Marines, the Ma-

rines anchored behind in the world while the Globe Marines

slept through the centuries. The first woman who’d spoken

was named Amendes, the other was Palin. The man who’d

had trouble with the word “Mesopotamia” was Mortin. Na-

mura and Wahrst hadn’t yet spoken.

The man who’d excused himself when he’d seen Garro-

way was Marek Garwe.

The similarity in names tugged at Garroway’s curiosity.

He’d noticed already that Anglic pronunciation had shifted a

bit in the eight hundred fifty years since he’d gone into hiber-

nation, and numerous family names had contracted. He’d

been wondering if he had any descendents in this new, distant

world. Garwe? Garroway? It was possible.

Garroway was also out of uniform, wearing a one- piece

gray jumper from the Nicholas’ ship’s store. He saw Garwe’s

eyes widen, however, as the lieutenant did some Net-bio

checking of his own.

“Attention on deck! ” Garwe shouted, drawing himself up

to a ragged approximation of attention.

SEMPER

141

HUMAN

“What the hell are you talking about?” Namura asked.

“This is Major General Garroway, ” Garwe said in a loud

and urgent whisper heard by all. “Damn it, straighten up!”

“You people are not in uniform,” Garroway said with mild

distaste. “And neither am I. No saluting. And no coming to

attention.”

“Yes, sir!”

Mortin looked like he was about to fall over. Palin was

clinging to his arm, bracing him upright. “Jesus Moham-

med! A fuckin’ general! . . .”

“You people are also falling-down drunk,” Garroway ob-

served. He was scanning through the bio data. “I see you’re

all with the 340th Strike Squadron.”

“Yes, sir!” Garwe snapped. “The fightin’ War Dogs, sir!”

“Thash right!” Namura said. “Fightin’ War Dogs! Never

been defeated, sir!

“Well . . . not until fucking Dac IV,” Palin added. “Sir!”

“Can the kay-det crap,” Garroway said. “You’re too drunk

to do it right. If you’re with the 340th, you’re under my com-

mand now. I want you back on board the Sam Nicholas.

Now.”

“S’okay,” Amendes said. She leaned possessively against

Garwe, her elbow on his shoulder. “Got into a fight th’ last

place. Kinda busted it up, some. Sir.”

“I think the Shore Patrol’s after us, sir,” Garwe said.

“Shuddup, Gar!” Mortin said, his voice low and intense.

“Don’t tell him that!”

Garroway noticed a couple of spy-floaters high up off the

deck. The things had probably followed the six here, and were

probably bringing the SPs in already.

It was okay. He’d already opened an implant link to the

Nicholas’ Security Office. “Send me an escort to get some

Marines back to their quarters,” he said in his mind, adding

the link to his own coordinates. “Double quick!”

The local Shore Patrol would answer to the Navy Yard Fa-

cility up in the Ring, or, possibly, to a naval base here on the

142

IAN DOUGLAS

surface. Either way, they weren’t part of the Nicholas’ chain

of command, and getting these six Marines out of the brig

and out of legal trouble would be a problem. If he could get

them back to the Nicholas, though, he could have Adri Carter,

his Exec, deal with the civil authorities directly, and take care

of any damages these idiots had inflicted on the local infra-

structure.

He’d briefly, only briefly, considered leaving them to the

locals, but dismissed the thought immediately. These six

were his. He would take care of them.

And that included disciplining them as well.

“Just how badly did you bust that place up?” he asked.

“What was the place, anyway?”

“Th’ Lunatic,” Wahrst said. Her nude body showed an

impressive array of skin art, much of it animated. Garroway

tried not to stare at the display, which included various ex-

traterrestrial animals, a streaming Associative flag, and sev-

eral scenes of couples having sex. “Th’ place was called th’

Lunatic. Sir.”

“Bunch of Navy shits in there,” Mortin said. “They started

it!”

“Really? And how did they do that?”

“We were quietly discussing the . . . the relative merits of

our respective services, sir!” Garwe said. The kid seemed to

be making a real effort to focus his mind.

“Oh? That sounds harmless enough.” He had a feeling,

though, that he knew what was coming. The rivalry be-

tween the Navy and the Marines went way back, back to

pre- spacefl ight days.

“Sure!” Wahrst said brightly. “They . . . they said they had

Midway and Sirius Gate, greatest naval victories ever! And,

of course, we said, well, we had Iwo Jima an’ Cydonia! Great-

est Marine victories ever! An’ they said they had John Paul

Jones! An’ we said we were born at Tun Tavern!”

“Thash in Philadelphia,” Namura put in.

“I know.”

SEMPER

143

HUMAN

“An’ then . . . an’ then one of these Navy pukes, he said,

well, we’re great ’cause we invented sex!”

“Okay . . .”

“An’ Gar, here, he tells ’em, yeah, but the Marines taught

’em how to have sex with two people, ’stead of just one. Af-

ter that, things got a little, well, noisy.”

The joke had been old when Garroway had first joined the

Marines, over a thousand years ago. It, or its variants, had

been around just about forever. He suspected that the actual

discussion in that bar had been quite different from Wahrst’s

version.

Two men and a woman clattered up the steps to the obser-

vation gallery. All three wore black Navy uniforms, with SP

holo displays at their chests. “Halt, you people!” one of them

called. “Shore Patrol! You’re under arrest!”

“They’re not moving at the moment,” Garroway observed,

“so they can’t ‘halt.’ In fact, they’re all with me.”

He waited as the SPs interrogated his bio, and watched as

they all straightened a bit, and became more deferential.

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir. But these people caused a lot of dam-

age in town. They’re under arrest. Sir.”

“And just how do you know these are the ones you

want?”

“Huh! Socon Guardians tracked ’em through the Prome-

nade, of course! Followed their brain waves and implant pat-

terns.” He pointed to a hovering sphere. “And we have those

spy- floaters following them. You wanna see the vid record-

ings, sir?”

Garroway shook his head. These Marines had really put

their collective foot in it. The wonder was that they’d gotten

this far before being picked up.

He decided to try a different tack. He locked gazes with

the se nior SP. “Chief Hambelen. Do you recognize my au-

thority?”

“Sir! Yes, sir. You’re the commanding officer of the Third

Marine Division.”

144

IAN DOUGLAS

“I’m their commanding officer. I will take full responsibil-

ity for them.”

“Sir, we have our orders. We have to take them with us,

sober them up, take them before the local magistrate. . . .”

“Negative,” Garroway snapped. “My personnel. My re-

sponsibility.”

“Sir—” the female SP began.

“That’s enough! These people are shipping out in two

more days and I will not risk having them so entangled in

red tape I have to leave them behind. I order you to stand

down!”

The three looked uncertain. One of the men, a young

second-class, actually dropped his hand to his holstered

weapon. Garroway glared at him. “Don’t!”

“Sir, I—”

“Just . . . don’t!”

The six Marines had been standing in a semicircle, look-

ing uncertain. As Garroway told the SPs off, they started

regaining some of their confidence, some swagger. They

began closing in, some looking dark and threatening, others

grinning.

The se nior SP seemed to realize that he was seriously out-

numbered. “Sir,” he said, “I’m going to need to check back

with headquarters for orders. Will you be available to make a

statement? Sir.”

“You go ahead and check with your CO,” Garroway told

him, ignoring the man’s question. “Now stand aside! I’m

taking these Marines back to their ship!”

The SPs hesitated, and then Hambelen nodded and the

other two stepped back. Garroway led his Marines past them,

down the steps, and back into the Promenade.

“Thanksh, General,” Namura said.

“Don’t thank me, Marine,” Garroway replied. “I promise

you that you people are going to wish to high holy heaven

that those SPs had taken you into custody after I get through

with you!”

They met the security force from the Nicholas at the base

SEMPER

145

HUMAN

of the Lunar Ring elevator, and made the trip up to the Nicho-

las in silence.

On the way, Garroway did some more checking on the

possible family connection of Garroway with Garwe.

He was surprised and intrigued by the result.

10

0902.2229

Recon Zephyr

The Great Annihilator

Galactic Core

0540 hours, GMT

The Marine OM-27 Eavesdropper Captain Ana McMillan,

code-name Zephyr, forced its way yet closer to the eye of the

howling storm. On board were two human Marines, Lieu-

tenant Karr and Captain Valledy, plus Luther, the ship’s AI.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Valledy whispered. “Just look at

that thing!”

Karr ignored Valledy’s religion-laden emotional leakage.

She was nominally Reformed Wiccan, but had little use for

religion personally, or for hyperemotional displays in general.

She remained focused on her mental link with Luther, the AI,

and listened to the sand- blasting shriek of particles against

the little recon pod’s EM shielding. “Five minutes to optimal

release point,” she said.

The Marine carrier Cydonia had managed to slip closer to

the enigmatic swirl of gas and plasma just ahead than ever

before, rail-launching the ugly little Eavesdropper from the

electronic cover of a particularly thick mass of infalling dust

and star- stuff. They’d abstained from using the gravitics drive

entirely, relying on Newtonian physics alone to drop silently

SEMPER

147

HUMAN

through the sleet of high-energy particles and radiation un-

observed. The ship was fully powered; it had to be to main-

tain its shields, but the energy fl ux outside the little vessel at

the moment was so strong that the McMillan’s shields would

be all but invisible, a candle’s flame against the output of a

sun. Her gravitics, however, actually bent space/time, and

that would be detectable.

Four more minutes.

She felt . . . naked. Vulnerable and exposed. From Karr’s

point of view, she was adrift in open space, falling toward an

immense pinwheel of radiant light just ahead. The light, emit-

ted by white-hot plasma and superheated gas and dust, shaded

toward blue and violet at the middle of the swirl; at the pin-

wheel’s exact center, at the eye, was a black emptiness, the

ergosphere of the Annihilator itself.

Above and below the pinwheel, streaming out at ninety

degrees from the pinwheel’s plane, were narrow- beamed

searchlights of impossibly brilliant energy. Those beams

were blindingly hot with the characteristic 511 keV gamma

radiation loosed by the annihilation of positrons, antimatter

electrons, as they plowed into the normal matter of dust,

gas, and plasma surrounding the black hole.

That object ahead had long been known to Humankind,

even before the advent of starships and physical journeys

into the Galactic Core. In 1977 of the old calendar, an early

satellite named Einstein had first detected X-rays from this

source, which had been designated 1E1740.7–2942. For a

time, astronomers had assumed that the object was a super-

massive singularity, a titanic black hole at the center of the

Galaxy, but closer observations by a Rus sian spacecraft a

few years later had proven that it was slightly offset from

the Galaxy’s gravitational center by some 340 light years.

Studies of the Dopplered radio signals from the object gave

clues to the object’s mass—about fifteen times the mass of

Earth’s sun.

Those observations had proven that the object was indeed

a black hole, but fifteen solar masses was too small by far to

148

IAN DOUGLAS

be the expected supermassive singularity at the Galactic cen-

ter. Several more decades had passed before the real central

black hole had been identified, strangely and anomalously

silent. Not until late in the Third Millennium had that partic-

ular mystery been solved; the Xul had constructed a kind of

shell around the Core singularity, masking it from view.

Close observation of nearby stars orbiting the center had

demonstrated that this larger black hole was the equivalent of

some two million solar masses, relegating its smaller but

much more flamboyant neighbor to simply one of a long list

of strange objects within the Core’s galactic neighborhood.

Because of the high levels of gamma radiation streaming

from the object, the fingerprint of matter- antimatter annihila-

tion, the object had come to be called the Great Annihilator.

The OM-27 was now a scant few thousand kilometers from

the Annihilator’s hungry maw, skimming in just above the

radiant fury of the accretion disk. The Eavesdropper’s in-

bound course had been carefully plotted, not only to avoid

being spotted by the Xul, but to miss the hot accretion disk or

the far hotter searchlight-beam jets of deadly energy fl aring

from the Annihilator’s poles.

Of course, the outbound course would be something else.

Orbital mechanics demanded that the tiny vessel pass through

the black hole’s equatorial plane at some point, and that meant

entering the plasma of the accretion disk, a maneuver that

would most certainly end a split second later with the ship’s

complete destruction.

The black hole lay a few thousand kilometers ahead, just

visible at the center of a maelstrom of violet plasma fi re.

Half of the universe was blotted out by the white-hot glare

of the accretion disk circling the black hole, a fi restorm of

plasma funneling down the singularity’s bottomless drain.

The searchlight beams of the jets shrieked on radio wave-

lengths, and bathed circumambient space in a harsh blast of

X-rays and hard gamma radiation.

Beyond and behind the jets and the disk, the sky burned, a

SEMPER

149

HUMAN

background of white fire within which plasma clouds twisted

and knotted and turned in the bizarre magnetic flux of the in-

ner Core. The outer hull temperature was currently reading

nearly three thousand degrees Kelvin.

It was, Karr thought, like flying through a sun. Soon,

though, it would be hotter by far than the mild warmth of a

star’s core.

One more minute.

The imagery flooding through her awareness included the

entire gamut of electromagnetic frequencies, from radio to

gamma radiation. There was an odd effect ahead, engulfi ng

the central speck of the black hole itself, as though radio,

microwaves, infrared, and visible light all were being sharply

bent. Valledy and Karr had been briefed on the effect before

launching from the Cydonia; the mass of the Annihilator was

causing a gravitational lensing effect, bending and focusing

longer-wavelength radiations as space itself was distorted in

the immediate vicinity of the singularity’s ergosphere.

She could hear the sing- song chant of the Xul, focused

through the gravitational lens. How was it passing up and out

of the Annihilator’s gravity well? That wasn’t supposed to be

possible.

No sign yet that the OM-27 had been spotted.

But, then, there’d been no warning that Vrellit and Talen-

diaminh had been spotted, either.

“Are you ready for this, Lieutenant?” Captain Valledy

asked.

“What difference does it make?” she asked. “We’re dead,

no matter what.”

“The real us will survive.” But he sounded uncertain.

“And that doesn’t help us one bit. As far as I’m concerned,

I’m the real me. Thirty seconds.”

An OM-27 was small, far too small to carry a fl esh- and-

blood crew. Karr and Valledy both were electronic uploads,

exact electronic u/l copies of the minds of the corporeal

Karr and Valledy, both still safely on board the Cydonia.

150

IAN DOUGLAS

Karr knew she was an uploaded copy, but that didn’t help.

She still had the memories of the original person, and of her

emotional make- up. So far as she could tell, she was Amanda

Karr in every detail—a dark-haired girl from Minot, North

Dakota, on Earth, in what once had been the United States;

raised in Ring Three and, later, on Mars; joining the Corps

when she was nineteen standard. It was all there. The sharp

disappointment she’d felt upon awakening from the mental

patterning and finding out that she was the copy, not the

original, had been overwhelming. She’d heard that some pat-

terned minds went mad at the news that they were copies, not

originals. Prototype envy, it was called, that aching, heart-

sick yearning to somehow reshuffle the fall of the dice and

awaken once more, this time as the real mind, not the copy.

Somehow, though, she’d hung on.

There’d been talk about editing the copies’ memories so

that the emotional pain wouldn’t be this bad. There’d even

been talk about editing the overall mind patterns in order to

create an acceptance, even a willingness to die on this mis-

sion.

Karr herself had vetoed the idea. The last attempt to pen-

etrate the Great Annihilator had been with an Eavesdropper

identical in every respect to the McMillan. That crew’s fail-

ure almost certainly had been the result of the Xul spotting

them as they neared their objective, not because they’d not

been up for a suicide mission. A human mind at the controls

was the best guarantee this op had for success. A fully hu-

man mind, and that meant no last-minute editing to save the

copy’s feelings.

Besides, the thought of editing her memories and feelings

to make her feel good about her imminent death was just a

bit creepy, more uncomfortable by far than the thought of

the death itself.

Then she found herself thinking of her mother, and won-

dered if just a little last-minute editing wouldn’t have been a

good idea after all.

“Ten seconds,” she announced. “Launch package armed.”

SEMPER

151

HUMAN

“We’re picking up broad-spectrum transmissions from

within the singularity,” Luther announced. “No indication

yet that they’ve noticed us.”

She wondered how Luther felt about his impending im-

molation. He seemed to have no feelings at all one way or the

other, none that she could read, at any rate.

Stop thinking about it, she told herself. What’s done is

done!

“Five seconds!” she announced. Within her mind, she

reached for the virtual firing key. “And four . . . and three . . .

and two . . . and one . . .”

“Launch! ” Valledy ordered.

She triggered the launch package, sending it spearing

down toward the black emptiness of the singularity instants

before the Eavesdropper skimmed above the ergosphere, that

blurred and eldritch zone of no-return. Half a second after

clearing the OM-27’s launch bay, the package fragmented,

releasing hundreds of pencil-sized probes, each pursuing its

own sharply curving path into the black hole.

“All probes are transmitting,” Luther announced. “De-

ployment successful. Termination of mission in one—”

. . . and the OM-27 Eavesdropper, following the sharply

bent geometry of spacetime close to the singularity, curved

around the burning blackness of the black hole and passed

into the violet-white flame of the accretion disk on the far

side a tenth of a second later. The end came so swiftly that

Amanda Karr wouldn’t have had time to feel it, even if she’d

been programmed to do so.

One by one, the ergosphere probes fell through the math-

ematically defined surface within which the escape velocity

from the gravitational singularity was greater than the speed

of light, a literal point of no return. The outside universe—

the flaming light of the accretion disk, the tortured backdrop

of nebulae and plasma streamers within the Galactic Core,

the fierce storm of X-ray and gamma radiation and the sear-

ingly hot searchlight beams reaching out into the void—all

winked out.

152

IAN DOUGLAS

And the probes free-fell through a turbulent and violet-

tinged night.

Marine Transport Major Samuel Nicholas

Major General Garroway’s office

Waypoint Tun Tavern

0905 hours, GMT

The door announcer chimed.

“Come!” Garroway glanced up as the young lieutenant

stepped through the privacy field into his office and came to

attention.

“Sir! Lieutenant Marek Garwe reporting as ordered, sir!”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Garroway said. He nodded at one

of the chairs in the room’s viewing alcove. “Grab a seat. I’ll

be with you in a moment.”

Garroway continued to go through the last of the ops plan

pre sentations, making mental notes in the virtual margins of

things he wanted to discuss with his command constellation

at their next meeting, which was scheduled for 1300 hours

later that ship’s day. He was concerned about the reliance on

teleport technology for tactical maneuvers in the upcoming

assault on Tavros-Endymion Space. That sort of thing might

be old hat for Anchor Marines who’d grown up with it, but it

was brand-new to the newly revived Globe Marines of the

Third Division. Without adequate training and familiariza-

tion, it was a disaster waiting to happen.

He finished the final annotation, placed a marker on the

work so he could find the place later, then pulled out of his

inner workspace.

His office was positively luxurious by the standards of the

late Third Millennium. Art by Roene, Buchwald, and Rem-

brandt adorned the bulkheads, indistinguishable from the

originals. Comfortable furniture grew from the deck on sev-

eral levels, and could be banished and regrown in any con-

figuration with a thought. His desk was a high- tech recliner

SEMPER

153

HUMAN

that allowed anything from superficial comlinks to complete

virtual- world immersion.

The early Fifth Millennium, Garroway had decided, was

quite a comfortable place and time in which to live. He was

going to like it here, assuming he and his people survived

the next few months.

Lieutenant Garwe was perched on one of the seats in the

viewing alcove, a space offering the illusion of being located

inside a transparent blister extending out from the Nicholas’

outer hull. Beyond the apparent transparency, the Galactic

Spiral hung in silent magnificence, a vast and motionless

pinwheel of faint stars massed into luminous clots, streams,

and fi laments, interwoven and entangled with the soft glow

of nebulae.

The Galactic Spiral from this vantage point, some 40,000

light years beyond the Rim, was seen in three-quarter profi le.

The Core was clearly visible as a radiant glow behind mas-

sively banked and opaque clouds of dust and gas. There was

no sign of the Core Detonation, of course; the light of that

cataclysm hadn’t even yet made it beyond the boundaries of

the Core itself, and it would be another 90,000 years before

the Detonation’s light made it this far. The Core was still a

spectacular sight, however. From here, the Galaxy’s central

bar—the Milky Way was that type of galaxy classified as a

barred spiral—was clearly delineated in bright stars bearing a

slightly more red-golden cast than the bluer, fainter stars of

the outer spiral arms.

Briefly, Garroway mentally traced out the main spiral arms,

a game he always played when confronted with this vision.

Perseus Arm . . . Scutum-Crux . . . the Three Kiloparesec Arm

blending into the sweep of the Norma Arm . . . Sagittarius . . .

and right there was the faint and patchwork glow of the Local

Arm, and the offshoot known as the Orion Spur. Sol was there,

somewhere among those star clouds.

In fact, Earth’s sun was so intrinsically faint as to be invis-

ible to the naked eye at a distance of only thirty or forty light

years, and he was looking for it across a gulf two thousand

154

IAN DOUGLAS

times greater than that. Each and every one of the stars he

could see was brighter by far than Sol, and for every star

he could see there were tens of thousands that he could not.

Earth’s sun, and its worlds, was lost within that unimagi-

nable immensity.

“General?” Garwe said. He looked concerned.

“Excuse me,” Garroway replied. He waved toward the

glowing spiral frozen beyond the transparency. “That sight

always gets to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Relax . . . Marek, is it?”

“Yes, sir. My friends call me ‘Gar.’ ”

“Mine did, too, before I became a general.”

“Yes, sir.” Garwe’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah! Right!”

“Have you wondered at all at the similarity in our names,

Gar?”

“No, sir. Not really. Wait . . . are you saying . . .”

Garwe, Garroway was pleased to note, was sharp and he

was quick. “I did some checking on your personnel rec ords.

It appears that you and I are related.”

“No shit? Uh . . . I mean . . .”

“ ‘No shit’ indeed. My son, Jerret, was born in 2939, Old

Calendar.” He did a quick translation through his implant

processor. “That would be 1164 Corps Era. How long a gen-

eration is depends a lot on current medical science, of course,

but forty years was the old Biblical standard, and it’s still

pop ular as the rule-of- thumb average nowadays. That’s about

thirty generations. Closer to forty-five, forty-six generations

if you go by the more realistic span of twenty-fi ve years.”

“You’re saying you’re my great-great-great—”

Garroway held up his hand. “Don’t bother with all of those

‘greats,’ son. You’ll wear out your vocal cords.”

“—great-grandfather?” Garwe finished. He sounded as

though he didn’t quite believe it.

“Actually, you’re a great-nephew, some number of times

removed. But, yes. That’s the gist of it.”

“I’m . . . honored. Sir.”

SEMPER

155

HUMAN

“Bullshit. You don’t know me and have no reason whatso-

ever to feel honored by the relationship. In any case, after

that many generations, you’re going to have bits of DNA from

a reasonable percentage of the entire Third-Millennium pop-

ulation of Humankind, not just me. But I do find the relation-

ship intriguing.”

“Yes, sir! I . . . I never cared all that much for history, but

it’s kind of neat finding out I have a connection to it like

this.”

Garroway made a face. “We all do, son. We’re all prod-

ucts of history, and we all have generals in our family tree.

And peasants. And scoundrels. And sometimes all three in

one twig. That’s the fun of it.”

“I’m surprised the name carried down like that, though,

sir.”

“Not too surprising, actually. A couple of thousand years

ago, women gave up their family names when they married.”

“ ‘Married?’ ”

“Ancient social custom where men technically owned

women in order to ensure a stable family grouping for raising

kids.” He shrugged. “It was pretty much on the way out when

I was born and, in any case, women stopped giving up their

names, oh, mid- thirty-hundreds? Maybe a bit before that,

when they stopped being property. And when that happened,

kids began choosing their own names—you still have Nam-

ing Day ceremonies these days?”

“Yes, sir. Usually when a kid gets to be about thirteen

standard.”

“Yeah. Typical coming-of- age ritual. So even though half

of the family members between your generation and mine

were women, and lots of other names are being woven into

the family line along the way, when kids decide to take an-

other name than ‘Garroway,’ in one thread of the family line

the name was likely to remain fairly constant. It just seems

to have mutated a bit along the way. After over a thousand

years, that’s scarcely surprising.”

“No, sir.”

156

IAN DOUGLAS

“So, many- times-great-grand-nephew, do you know what

that means for you?”

“Uh . . . no, sir.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I certainly wasn’t expecting special treatment, sir. Espe-

cially after the extra duty I’ve been pulling.”

Garroway chuckled. He’d not handled the actual punish-

ment mast for Garwe and his friends. That had been the re-

sponsibility of his immediate commanding offi cer, Captain

Corolin Xander. He had linked with Xander, however, and

made some suggestions.

“How’s the extra duty coming along?”

It was Garwe’s turn to make a sour face. “Twenty-one hours

to go, sir. Three hours extra duty a night in the com stacks.

Another week.”

“Your CO threw the proverbial book at you.”

“It could have been worse, sir.”

“It will be worse if you ever go drunk and disorderly

again while you’re on liberty. I promise you that, Marine.”

“Yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”

“Actually, I called you in this morning because of your

extra duty assignment, not for a family reunion . . . and not to

chew you a new one for your D and D. They have you sorting

QCC feeds? Rating their priorities?”

“Yes, sir. Millions of them, sir.”

Garroway chuckled. One consequence of instantaneous

communications across interstellar, even intergalactic dis-

tances, was the sheer, impossible volume of information traf-

fic, especially that concerned with military, government, and

exploratory organizations and services. Originally, Quantum-

Coupled Communications networks, or QCCs, had allowed

communications only between paired QCC units. Each pair

consisted of large arrays of quantum particles—typically

phase encapsulated photons—that had been initially created

together, so that they were quantum- entangled.

Entanglement, and the technology required for reading

coupled photons, permitted instant communications across

SEMPER

157

HUMAN

any conceivable distance thanks to the quantum property of

nonlocality—what Einstein had referred to as “spooky ac-

tion at a distance.” A change in spin of one photon generated

an instantaneous and opposite change in the other, even when

the two had subsequently been separated by many light years.

Eventually, second-level entanglement had been achieved,

allowing any number of receivers to tap in to a given QCC

signal anywhere in the universe, provided they had the ap-

propriate encryption key for that signal.

And assuming someone had sorted through the jungle of

incoming messages. The six errant members of the 340th

Strike Squadron had been assigned thirty hours of extra duty

wading through the message buffers, or “stacks,” of incoming

QCC traffic, sorting them by priority and filing them for later

reference.

“There’s one that should be coming through today,” Gar-

roway told the younger man. “Might even already be in the

stacks. I want you to flag it and route it through to me. Here’s

the locator code.” He passed an alphanumeric to Garwe,

implant- to- implant.

Garwe looked uncertain, and seemed about to say some-

thing.

“What?” Garroway asked.

“Well, sir . . . if you have the locator code, you could

check and see if it’s in there for yourself.”

“True. But what I don’t have is the encryption code, so I

can’t do anything with it. When you put a priority on it, I want

you to forward a copy to me, with the encryption key.”

“Isn’t that . . . illegal? Sir.”

“Let’s call it a gray area. The information I’m looking for is

a transmission from an OM-27 Eavesdropper entering the

Great Annihilator at the Galactic Core. As such, it will in-

clude data vitally necessary to the planning of our next op, the

big one, after this little side show in the Large Magellanic.”

“I . . . see. . . .”

“Associative Supreme Command will relay the message

to us eventually— they’d damned well better— but I want to

158

IAN DOUGLAS

see the raw data, the intel coming through before the chair

jockeys back home have a chance to clean it up.”

The ASC was the military council in overall command of

Marine-Naval operations, and seemed to be pretty much in

the collective pocket of the Council of Lords.

“You think the ASC would . . . would lie to us, sir?”

“Not lie. General Levingaller seems to be a good sort,

and he wouldn’t intentionally harm anyone in the Corps. But

it’s a highly politicized department, and the politicians are

running everything back there. And the data is all going

through electronic systems, being reviewed by AIs and digi-

tal t-humans . . . and one of the things we’re watching out

for is the possibility that the Xul have somehow compro-

mised our electronic networks. I just don’t want to take any

chances, you understand?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll get you what you need, sir.”

“Thanks. I know I can count on you.” Garroway stood up.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Garwe hurried out, and Garroway turned back to contem-

plate the Galaxy of Man.

The first op was on- track and on schedule, with the fi rst

assault scheduled for some twenty hours later. Most of the

assault force was here at the first waypoint, a well-mapped

and empty stretch of space roughly a quarter of the way be-

tween the Milky Way and the Large Magellanic Cloud. Tun

Tavern, someone down in Ops had called it, after the place

where the original Captain—later Major—Samuel Nicholas

had first begun recruiting Continental Marines, and the name

had stuck. The recon element, by now, was approaching the

objective under Alcubierre Drive. Within the next few hours,

data should be streaming back from the fi rst-in gravmappers.

When the final gravitometric plot was complete, the Sam

Nicholas would rotate through the Quantum Sea and emerge

within a few thousand kilometers of the Tavros-Endymion

Cluster Stargate.

Then the fun would begin.

SEMPER

159

HUMAN

The trouble was the demand by HQ that the Globe Marines

use teleportation for their tactical deployment. By now, all

Marines in 3MarDiv had received downloads on how telepor-

tation worked and how it could most effectively be used, but

Garroway knew well that having data in your head was a hell

of a long way from knowing something.

He was afraid that he was going to lose some good Ma-

rines tomorrow because of their lack of familiarity with the

technology, and he didn’t like that, not one bit.

And he was going to do his best to prevent it from hap-

pening.

11

1002.2229

Company H, 2/9

Marine Transport Major Samuel Nicholas

Objective Samar

Tavros- Endymion Stargate

0510 hours, GMT

Master Sergeant Nal il- En Shru-dech completed a fi nal run-

through, checking the weapon read-outs and health stats of

each Marine in the company. Company H of the 3MarDiv’s

2/9 was ready.

This was the part, however, that always made his mouth a

bit dry and his palms slick with sweat, the long agony of min-

utes before the actual assault, waiting for the go-command.

And it didn’t help that he and his Marines were about to

use a device all but undreamed of eight and a half centuries

before, when they’d last entered cybe-hibe.

He’d downloaded all the training material, of course, and

knew the theories and the established techniques. Hell, a di-

rect data download could make a man an expert on anything

in seconds; what it didn’t do was confer muscle memory or

the confidence of solid experience.

“You think this thing’s gonna work, Master Sergeant?”

Captain Corcoran, the company commander, asked over the

private channel.

SEMPER

161

HUMAN

“Damfino, sir,” Nal replied.

“Scares the shit out of me.”

“Of course it does, sir. Scares me, too. Teleportation is

not a natural act.”

“Works okay for Stargates,” Corcoran said. It sounded as

though he was trying to convince himself.

“Absolutely, sir. And phase- shifters, too. I figure some very

smart people have been working on this stuff for a long time,

for centuries while we were snoozing, y’know? And they’ve

had plenty of time to get the bugs out.”

“You think it’s safe, then?”

Hell, no! he thought, but he knew that wasn’t what the

skipper wanted to hear. “Sure it is, sir. Just stick to the pro-

cedures we downloaded, and watch where you step. Don’t

do anything stupid. We’ll come through just fi ne.”

Company H was formed up within one of the Nicholas’

debarkation bays, 118 Marines in full HFR-7 Hellfi re combat

boarding armor facing the stark, elliptical gateway at the end

of a gray steel ramp. These CBA units were a lot lighter and

closer to form- fitting than the combat armor Nal had fi rst

trained with almost 900 years before. At the moment, it was

actually difficult to see the individual Marines. The combat

armor with which Nal had trained all those centuries ago had

used a surface film of nanofl age particles which refl ected the

light levels, colors, and patterns of their surroundings. Hell-

fires, though, actually bent incoming light to create the illu-

sion of partial invisibility.

It wasn’t perfect, of course. Nal could still see his fellow

Marines standing in their quietly expectant ranks, but each

suit had a fuzzy, translucent look to it, at least around the

edges, and pieces of each suit—arms, legs, weapons—kept

shifting in odd ways, or vanishing outright. A Marine in a

Hellfire suit wouldn’t disappear completely, but if he or she

held motionless in the shadows, they could become damned

near invisible. And when they were moving, those suits pro-

vided a shifting, blurred, and very diffi cult target.

Not only that, but that light-bending facility also served

162

IAN DOUGLAS

to shed or deflect a lot of the energy from incoming beams

and projectiles.

Hotel Company had been practicing with these suits on the

voyage out from Earth, learning how best to take advantage

of the cover they offered. Their actual operation was simplic-

ity itself, with the AI resident within the helmet circuitry

handling all of the real work.

The technology, Nal thought, was nothing short of as-

tounding. And it worked.

So why was he feeling such deep misgivings over telepor-

tation? The technology was almost as old as that of the Hell-

fire suits. And at least as reliable.

Technically, he knew, there were five ways to achieve tele-

portation, jumping from one place to another instantaneously

without crossing the space in between.

With a big enough power plant, you could reach all the

way down into the Quantum Sea and bypass the local topol-

ogy of spacetime, allowing you to move a ship from point A

to point B. That was how the big phase- shifters like the Ma-

jor Samuel Nicholas did it. That was called q-teleportation,

q for “quantum,” and it didn’t work on anything much

smaller than a monster ship like the Sam Nick.

Another means was designated g-teleportation, g for “grav-

itational.” That was how the Stargates managed to link one bit

of space with another, using as portals twenty-kilometer rings

within which Jupiter-mass black holes orbited at near-light

velocities. The gravitational tides created by paired counter-

rotating singularities rippled out through normal space at the

speed of light, but also crossed through higher dimensions as

well, bypassing normal space and interacting with other rip-

ples from other gates. Those gravitational waves could be

tuned with the tides at other, far-distant Stargates, opening a

hyper-dimensional gateway between the two.

Again, though, that type of teleportation worked only on a

very large scale. Originally constructed by a long-vanished

galactic intelligence, using technologies still far beyond those

SEMPER

163

HUMAN

of Humankind, Stargates formed a web of long-distance tran-

sit routes across the Galaxy and beyond. They were superb for

strategic movement, and, indeed, made Galaxywide travel a

reality, but they were not at all mobile, which meant they

weren’t exactly useful on a tactical level.

P- or psychic-teleportation had been demonstrated in the

laboratory, but never made reliable enough for practical use. It

had long been known that the human mind could open path-

ways through higher dimensions, and mental disciplines such

as the weiji-do martial arts form practiced by Marines could

help some individuals achieve it, at least for relatively small

masses. Some day, a company of Marines might be able to

use the mind alone to step through a doorway and cross thou-

sands of kilometers in an eye blink, but it wasn’t possible yet.

Theoretically, it was possible to break down the atoms

and molecules of a man or a starship, convert them to energy,

and beam them somewhere else at the speed of light for

reassembly. That brute-strength method was called beam- or

b-teleportation, but it had never been successfully demon-

strated on anything larger and more complex than a very

small diamond—pure carbon with a well-understood crystal-

line matrix. The computational power necessary for a b-tele-

port of organic matter—to say nothing of a living being—was

far beyond even the most powerful Fifth Millennium AIs.

Besides, what was built back into corporeal solidity at the

far end of a b-teleport transmission was essentially a copy, not

the original, and that put a serious stumbling block in the way

of using such a system to move humans. There were remark-

ably few people around who were willing to die so that their

exact twin could materialize a thousand kilometers away.

Finally there was d-teleportation, d for “dimensional.” It

used the space-bending technologies of the Alcubierre FTL

drive, though on a much smaller and shorter-ranged scale, to

grab two pieces of the spacetime matrix and fold them to-

gether, overlapping two distant points through one or more

higher dimensions. Once an overlap was achieved, men or

164

IAN DOUGLAS

small vehicles could move directly from one to the other,

again without traversing intervening space.

The gateway opened was only a few meters across, and the

range was limited to about one hundred thousand kilometers,

but it did provide military forces with an unstoppable and

unpredictable means of delivering assault troops to a precise

tactical location. The equipment necessary for a d-teleport

massed a few thousand tons, and required a fairly large quan-

tum power tap to generate the flood of energy necessary for

the folding process, but it could be carried easily enough on

a carrier-sized warship . . . or on board a Marine transport.

Hotel Company was organized into three thirty- six-man

platoons plus a twelve-Marine headquarters constellation—

one hundred and twenty in all, though in fact they were mi-

nus the two they’d lost in cybe-hibe. Nal was the se nior NCO

in the HQ unit, and as such was the man the entire company

looked to, enlisted and officers alike, for solid, practical ex-

perience and guidance.

But he had no experience to offer here, and no guidance

beyond “remember the downloads” and “don’t do anything

stupid.”

He felt the faint inward shudder that meant the Nicholas

was translating through the Quantum Sea, making the in-

stantaneous passage from Waypoint Tun Tavern to Objec-

tive Samar.

And who in all the bloody hells of the Corps had chosen

Samar as an inspirational name for the mission objective?

The name was still remembered with reverence. Back in the

opening years of the twentieth century, during the Philip-

pine Insurrection, fighting on the island of Samar had been

so fierce that for years afterward, when a veteran of that

fight entered wardroom or mess deck, he would be toasted

by officers and enlisted men alike with the words, “Stand,

gentlemen! He served on Samar!” Both the campaign and

the toast were remembered still, parts of the ever-growing

legend of the Corps.

But Samar had been a literal hell of blood, jungle, malnu-

SEMPER

165

HUMAN

trition, and disease, a premonition of later wars against native

uprisings and pop ular revolutions in the tropics. The Marine

officer in charge, one Major Littleton Waller, had been ac-

cused of war crimes after ordering the execution of eleven

native porters who’d attacked his men. He’d been acquitted at

his trial . . . but the news media of the day had branded him

the “Butcher of Samar.”

“Objective Samar” did not inspire Nal with any particu-

larly heroic or gung- ho feelings. It felt, in fact, like some-

thing about to go horribly wrong.

The gate was still closed, with nothing visible within that

squat ellipse of metal and ceramic at the top of the ramp ex-

cept the gray bulkhead beyond. The transit opening, the inte-

rior of the ellipse, was some five meters wide and three high,

big enough for Marines to go through four abreast without

crowding. The thirty-five men and women of First Platoon,

who would be the first ones through, stood at the bottom of

the ramp in eight ranks of four, with the last three bringing up

the rear. Their CO was Lieutenant Grigor Haskins. Second

Platoon under Lieutenant Fellacci would be next, followed by

Captain Corcoran and the HQ constellation, and with Third

Platoon in reserve.

Their actual target was a rebel command and control center

in the orbital fortress guarding the Magellanic Stargate. Ac-

cording to Intelligence, the compartment was large, open, and

high, with at least two catwalk or promenade levels high up

on the bulkheads, and banks of communications equipment.

Once the alert was sounded through the Tavros- Endymion

Cluster with the arrival of the Associative naval task force,

the local warlord who’d styled himself Emperor Dahl would

come here to oversee operations.

Hotel Company had been tasked with capturing Dahl if at

all possible, with killing him if necessary, and with taking

out the command-control center at the earliest possible op-

portunity in the assault. Each Marine had downloaded a holo

of Dahl, as well as news media clips of the man taken at a

recent political rally, and knew exactly what he looked like.

166

IAN DOUGLAS

The strategy was simplicity. Take out the man at the top

and any people under him giving orders, and the enemy’s

defenses might collapse in short order.

Might. Nothing, Nal knew, was certain in combat.

Nal wondered why Dahl had declared war on the local

non- human culture, the Tarantulae. From all accounts, they

were peaceful enough, and offered Humankind a valuable

source of informational exchange—new art, new culture, new

technologies, a new worldview . . . all of the good reasons to

embrace a new sentient contact.

The Marine briefings hadn’t gone into the politics of the

situation, however. There was no need. The Marines would

take out Dahl, knock out the Imperial defenses, and open the

way for the Associative Fleet to move in and take over.

“Marines, stand ready!” the sharp-edged voice of Lofty

Henderson, the divisional AI, sounded in Nal’s head. “We

have successfully translated to our assault point. Objective

Samar is five thousand kilometers ahead, and has just gone

on full alert. We are making the final calibrations on the

d-teleport system now. We estimate gateway opening within

three minutes. . . .”

No merely human mind, Nal knew, could handle the calcu-

lations involved in a d-teleport. Not even the superintelligent

s-humans could handle that level of math. There were far too

many variables of mass, gravity, and magnetic moment, and

each one had to be addressed with better than ten-place deci-

mal accuracy. He wondered if Lofty had absorbed the skills

necessary to make the critical transition calculations, or if the

entire show was being run by AI minds native to this era. In a

way, Nal hoped that Lofty was in charge; he wasn’t sure he

trusted the AIs of the forty-first century, and Lofty was a fel-

low 3MarDiv Marine.

Briefly, he thought about the other Marines on board the

Sam Nick, waiting to begin the assault. They included a large

number of these so-called “Anchor Marines,” Marines re-

cruited and trained in this era. Like fellow Marines through-

out the recorded history of the Corps, Nal was imbued with

SEMPER

167

HUMAN

the sense that the Marines of his day had been tough, well

trained, superbly experienced . . . and that, frankly, they

just didn’t make them like that any more. The technology

was shiny, to be sure. But how good were the Marines of this

pacifistic and—it seemed to him—degenerate future epoch?

They would know soon enough. Globe Marines were be-

ing teleported in to the inner sanctums of Dahl’s imperium,

but Anchor Marines would be using RS/A-91 Starwraith

pods to secure Imperial gun emplacements and sensor em-

placements throughout Tavros- Endymion battlespace.

Don’t worry about them, he told himself savagely. Worry

about your objectives, about what you have to do!

With startling abruptness, the empty space within the fl at-

tened ellipse ahead changed. Instead of a gray metal bulk-

head, Nal could see into a large compartment with a high

overhead, banks of instrument consoles, and a large number

of people, most wearing distinctive black and gold uniforms.

The image appeared to be unsteady, shivering and jolting

even as the people on the other side began reacting to the ap-

pearance of the d-teleport gateway in their midst.

“Go!” Lieutenant Haskins screamed over the company

com channel. “Go! Go! ”

“Belay that!” The sharp command was Lofty’s, echoed

closely by Captain Corcoran, but it was too late. The First

Platoon was already going through.

And it was a bloody disaster from the very start.

Strike Squadron 340, Blue Flight

Objective Samar

Tavros- Endymion Stargate

0513 hours, GMT

Lieutenant Garwe felt the sharp acceleration as his Star-

wraith pod snapped off its accelerator rail and into empty

space. As always, he struggled to suppress the surge of fear

as space exploded around him.

168

IAN DOUGLAS

His body, he knew, was safely back on board the Sam Nick,

strapped into a link couch, but there was absolutely no way of

telling that from the sensations flooding his brain. The vast

bulk of the phase- shift transport dropped away astern, dwin-

dling into the distance in an instant. Ahead and in all direc-

tions, the sky was filled with a dazzling, jewel-like array of

tightly clustered stars enmeshed within the filaments and ten-

drils and twisted sheets of clotted, blue-white luminosity that

were the Tarantula Nebula.

“Stay tight, War Dogs,” Captain Xander warned. “They

can’t see us.”

Not yet, Garwe thought, but he adjusted his pod’s gravitic

drive slightly, edging into closer formation with the other fi f-

teen Starwraiths of Blue Flight. Myriad glowing specks drew

multicolored contrails across his fi eld of view, marking other

Starwraiths, as well as the ships of the task force translated in

on board the Nicholas, along with other remote-piloted com-

bat and reconnaissance craft. Ahead, bracketed in bright red,

a slender ring floated against the backdrop of stars and star-

stuff, growing swiftly as his pod dropped closer.

White globes of incandescence began appearing across

the starscape, flashing and expanding as the enemy batteries

began opening up.

And the War Dogs vectored in on the Tarantula Stargate.

Company H, 2/9

Marine Transport Major Samuel Nicholas

Objective Samar

0513 hours, GMT

“Belay that! First Platoon, pull back! Pull back! ”

But the assault had already tumbled into bloody chaos. One

of the Marines at the extreme left of the front rank bumped

against the Marine to his right, stumbled, and fell sideways

against the edge of the elliptical gateway. Nal heard the shrill

SEMPER

169

HUMAN

scream as the man’s left arm, legs, and lower torso vanished,

his body sliced through as cleanly as if by the touch of a

plasma torch. The room beyond the gateway gave another

lurch, and three more Marines tumbled off the ramp and

across the threshold.

From his vantage point far back in the assault formation, Nal

could see what was going wrong. The two volumes of space,

each a few meters across, which should have overlapped in

order to allow the Marines to step smoothly from one into the

other, were imperfectly aligned. The space within the objec-

tive control center appeared to be throbbing or pulsing, and

was drifting back and forth erratically.

The Marines of First Platoon were too close to the gate to

clearly see what was happening. Those in the front ranks were

trying to move back, away from the yawing gateway into the

enemy command center; those behind were still pushing for-

ward, jostling, shoving, and the resultant collision was spill-

ing Marines off the ramp.

A few fell to either side just in front of the open gateway,

and appeared to be all right. Others, though,

were being

shoved forward into the gate by the press from behind. Some

appeared to be landing intact on the other side, but several fell

partway through the invisible, three-dimensional interface of

hyperdimensional space with the space of the Sam Nick’s

debarkation bay, and were hideously mangled. With horror

and disbelief, Nal watched one Marine appear to step through

an instrument console on the enemy command deck, then

abruptly jerk and thrash as the atoms of his body became in-

extricably mingled with the atoms of the enemy console.

Men and women were screaming. Blood, shockingly scar-

let, splashed across the deck and the vaguely outlined Hell-

fire armor of struggling Marines. On the far side of the gate,

black and gold-clad troopers were turning to face the threat,

raising their weapons.

Abruptly, the scene glimpsed through the open gate fl ipped

upside down, then reversed, right switching with left. Corporal

170

IAN DOUGLAS

Regin Devrochik—“Chickie” to his squadmates—was caught

partway into the gate interface when it shifted, and the front

half of his body, from weapon and Hellfire armor to internal

organs and blood vessels, all the way down to his individual

cells all turned suddenly and horribly inside-out. What was

left collapsed backward onto the ramp, still flailing as what

was left of Chickie’s brain tried to make sense of what had just

happened. Sergeant Cori Ryack fired a single bolt from her

plasma rifl e, incinerating the bloodily twitching horror on the

deck.

The Dahl troopers on the far side of the gate were fi ring,

now, their upside-down images moving closer to the opening,

but not stepping through. Plasma beams snapped through First

Platoon’s ranks; some didn’t pass through the shifting dimen-

sional interface, while others were absorbed or refracted by

Marine armor, but a few more Marines on the embarkation

deck went down.

“Return fire!” Lieutenant Haskins was screaming over

the command net. “Return fi re!”

But the Marines in the rear ranks were blocked by those in

the front, and no one could even be sure the plasma bolts were

getting through the strangely twisted geometries between the

two spaces, the Nick’s embarkation bay and the enemy com-

mand deck. Another man fell through, fell up as he dropped

through the dimensional interface and landed on the enemy’s

deck. Dahl Imperium troops were pouring into the compart-

ment on the other side, now, many of them in black and silver

armor similar to the Hellfire armor worn by the Marines.

There was a sudden new danger . . . that if the gateway

was stabilized, the enemy troops might actually storm through

onto the Sam Nick’s embarkation bay deck, and try to take

the ship from within. With the narrow field of view offered

by the elliptical gateway, it was impossible to tell how many

Dahl troops were over there, but there appeared to be sev-

eral hundred at least.

And then, after what had seemed like an eternity, the gate

shut down, the inverted image of the interior of the enemy

SEMPER

171

HUMAN

command center winking out, replaced by the cold gray

metal of the bulkhead. Nal checked his time implant and was

startled to see that only eight seconds had passed between

the opening and the closing of that dimensional gateway.

The gate might be closed, now, but the screams, shrieks,

and moans of the wounded continued as the surviving First

Platoon Marines tried to sort themselves out. Corpsmen be-

gan moving among the fallen Marines; someone else fi red a

plasma bolt into the brain of someone too horribly injured to

survive.

Smoked. Meaning that their brains had been vaporized

and that they were irretrievably dead. Even in Nal’s day nine

centuries before, if a wounded Marine’s brain could be re-

covered intact, they could usually be saved. Whole new bod-

ies could be force-grown for transplant, and Nal gathered

that the process was a lot slicker and more effi cient today

than it had been a millennium ago.

But when only part of the brain survived the initial

trauma, the personality was generally so changed that it was

no longer the same person, and there were other problems as

well. That kind of agony often meant insanity or, somehow

worse, the reduction of the mind to a vegetable state, alive,

even aware, but unable to communicate.

When what was left was no longer fully human, a mercy

shot to the head was often the final and best service one Ma-

rine could provide for a comrade.

The remaining Marines were milling about in stark con-

fusion. “Get those people in line, Master Sergeant,” Captain

Corcoran demanded.

“Attention on deck! ” Nal rasped out, and the movement

came to an immediate halt, the Marines standing in the

midst of drifting smoke and the sprayed swatches of gore.

“Now fall in! Ranks of four!”

In seconds, order was resumed. There’d been thirty-fi ve

men and women in First Platoon a moment ago; Third Pla-

toon, in reserve, was the short-handed one. Now, they formed

up as four ranks of four, with three left over—just nineteen

172

IAN DOUGLAS

Marines left. A quick check of the company’s medical net

showed seven wounded, all now being tended by hospital

corpsmen. Ten were dead or missing.

First Platoon, Nal knew, would be in shock, now. Suffer-

ing 47 percent casualties in the space of just eight seconds

was sufficient to ruin the most elite of combat units. “Cap-

tain Corcoran?”

“What is it, Master Sergeant?” He sounded distracted.

“I suggest we drop First Platoon into reserve, and move

Second and Third Platoons up to the main assault.”

“What? Are you crazy, man? We can’t go through that

gate now! Not after what just happened!”

“Sir? We have to go through. We have some MIAs on the

other side. ‘No man left behind,’ right?”

“They were probably killed as soon as they hit Samar’s

deck!”

“Maybe. But if there’s even one chance in hell . . .”

Nal could feel the captain thinking about this. “Okay,

Master Sergeant. Make the change, then stand ready. But

I’m going to need to bump this up the line.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Corcoran, Nal thought, was a good enough officer but an

unimaginative one, experienced and well trained, but not the

best when it came to taking the initiative or assuming re-

sponsibility for a potentially controversial decision. The man

wasn’t about to try a second attempt on the enemy base with-

out very explicit orders from higher up the chain of com-

mand.

At least he was checking to see if those orders would be

forthcoming, and not simply assuming that the fight was over.

Uppermost in Nal’s mind was the knowledge that, before the

teleport technicians had shut down the power and killed the

gate, he’d seen Marines safely over and on the other side.

They’d jumped or been pushed through, landed intact despite

the wildly shifting dimensional substrate, and been fi ghting

with the enemy troops over there when the closing gate had

cut them off.

SEMPER

173

HUMAN

Corcoran was right. They might well be dead by now . . .

but they might also have surrendered or been overpowered

by superior numbers, and if they were still alive, they would

know that the rest of H Company would be coming through

to get them.

Nal played back a portion of those eight seconds recorded

through his helmet scanners, checking IDs. Yeah . . . Sergeant

Ferris, PFC Brisard, and PFC Tollindy had been engaging the

enemy over there, and it looked like two more, at least, were

wounded but still alive, PFC Garcia and Lance Corporal

Zollinger. Five men and women.

The Corps did not leave its own behind. Ever.

12

1002.2229

Command Deck

Marine Transport Major Samuel Nicholas

Objective Samar

0516 hours, GMT

General Garroway watched the unfolding battle as a fast-

flashing series of images and informational updates stream-

ing through his consciousness from the artifi cial intelligence

commanding the Sam Nicholas and the rest of the Associa-

tive Marine-Navy task force.

Most of the op was moving well and as close to plan as

these things ever did. Bravo and Delta Companies had tele-

ported through to capture fire control centers, weapons em-

placements, and a command center on Objective Novaleta,

a huge armored orbital fortress some twenty thousand kilo-

meters from the Tarantula Stargate. Alpha and Charlie Com-

panies had successfully teleported onto the surface of a

cold, Mars- sized world at the very limit of teleport range,

nearly one hundred thousand kilometers distant, seizing a

small starport and several related ground stations and fa-

cilities. Echo and Fox Companies had teleported onto sev-

eral Dahl Imperium warships within the local battlespace

volume.

SEMPER

175

HUMAN

In each case, the fighting was reported as fierce, but head-

way was being made.

The single exception was Objective Samar, a huge

command-control center orbiting just a few kilometers out-

side the twenty-kilometer ring of the Stargate itself. Golf

Company was attacking weapons emplacements on the sta-

tion, while Hotel was targeting the main command center,

with orders to capture Emperor Dahl himself if they could

find him. Reports so far were very confused, but the upshot

appeared to be that there were technical problems in estab-

lishing a solid teleport link with the station. There’d been

heavy casualties in the opening seconds of the engagement.

Unfortunately, Objective Samar was the focal point of the

entire operation, the key to capturing the local Stargate. The

main Associative battlefleet was waiting now at Waypoint Tun

Tavern. All they needed was word from the assault group so

that they could swarm through and take over the rest of the

Dahlist facilities on the Tarantula side of the gate. But Sa-

mar’s heavy weapons controlled the exit space from the

Stargate.

The heavy weapons on Samar would pick the Associative

warships off one at a time as they came through, unless the

Marines could secure that fortress.

Garroway was now linked in with the command net-

work, focusing on the action at Objective Samar. He’d seen

the bungled assault, seen the eight-second nightmare of

confusion as orders and counterorders had shoved the lead

Marine company forward and back. And he’d overheard the

terse discussion between the H Company commander and

his se nior NCO.

“General Garroway,” Lofty whispered in his mind.

“There’s a request for orders coming up the chain from H

Company—”

“I know,” Garroway replied. He’d considered entering the

conversation at the time, but held off. Generals who eaves-

dropped and barged in on company-level discussions within

176

IAN DOUGLAS

their command only harmed morale and discipline. “Put him

through.”

The image of Captain Corcoran appeared in his mind . . .

a command AIvitar that was actually Corcoran’s personal

AI mimicking the captain’s appearance and voice. “General

Garroway!” the fi gure said. “Captain Corcoran, H Com-

pany, reporting, sir! We tried to go through—”

“I saw, Captain,” Garroway said, interrupting. “Re-set the

teleport field and try again. It is imperative that we capture

that command center!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Garroway checked the strategic map, looking for nearby

assets. Battlespace was a confused tangle of colored stars

and course-indicator lines curving in toward their objectives.

There was one. . . .

“I’m deploying a flight of Marine assault pods to support

you from outside. But get your people back on board that

station!”

“Yes, sir! Aye, aye, sir!” And the image winked out.

The 340th Assault Squadron, the War Dogs, had been

tasked with searching for hidden weapons emplacements on

the Stargate ring itself, but those orders were secondary in

importance to capturing Objective Samar.

“Lofty,” he said. In his mind, he highlighted the cluster

of green blips now closing with the Stargate in the three-

dimensional map spread out in his mind. “Convey new or-

ders to the 340th Marine Strike Squadron . . . here. Captain

Xander. They are to redeploy to Objective Samar and attempt

to enter the station from outside. Priority is to be given to

securing the command deck, along with Golf and Hotel ele-

ments of the 2/9.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Only after he’d given the order did he remember that

Xander’s group was an Anchor Marine squadron, distinct in

training and experience from his own Globe Marines. Gar-

roway hated the distinction. Marines should be Marines,

wherever, or when ever, they came from.

SEMPER

177

HUMAN

At the same time, he wasn’t entirely sure he trusted those

members of the Corps from the forty-first century, or the

doctrine of remote combat.

Training was the major issue. He’d looked in on the train-

ing sessions for Anchor Marines back in Earthring, and

been disappointed to find out that nearly all Marine training

nowadays was virtual training, with recruits put through AI-

linked simulations accompanied by massive downloads of

data on weapons, tactics, regulations, and history.

For Garroway, mental sims could never replace the real-

ity of actually having been there. Just the possibility of ac-

tually getting shot could, as one ancient philos o pher had

suggested in the context of being hanged, concentrate a man’s

mind wonderfully. He didn’t trust this new way of creating

Marines, didn’t trust the Marines who’d not gone through the

physical training—

the crucible, as ancient Marines had

called it.

It took him a moment more to remember that one of the

members of the 340th was Garwe, one of his own descen-

dents.

Was Marek Garwe a real Marine? Could Garroway—and

the Marines of H Company—really depend on him and the

other Anchors?

Garroway had to admit to himself that he just didn’t know.

But the next few minutes of battle ought to tell him a lot.

Company H, 2/9

Marine Transport Major Samuel Nicholas

Objective Samar

0519 hours, GMT

“Stand ready, Marines!” Nal called over the company

link. “We’re going through again. Do not move until you get

the go from Captain Corcoran or myself.”

Second Platoon had moved forward, now, taking up the

jump-off position on the ramp in front of the elliptical

178

IAN DOUGLAS

gateway under the command of Lieutenant Fellacci. Behind

them was Third Platoon, under Lieutenant Vriberg, moved

up from the ready reserve. Next was the HQ element, and

with the battered remains of First Platoon now behind them

in reserve. After what First Platoon had been subjected to a

few moments earlier, though, Nal desperately hoped he

wouldn’t need to call them in.

The last of the wounded had been evacuated to the rear

and were on their way up to the Sam Nicholas’ sick bay. The

smoke had been pulled from the compartment. Nothing could

be done, though, to mask the splotches of blood still steaming

at the top of the ramp and beneath the physical gateway. De-

spite that all too vivid reminder of the failed teleport assault,

the H Company Marines appeared to be tightly focused and

ready. They were shaken and they were stressed, but overall

they appeared steady.

Nal found himself praying to the ancient and powerful

Ahannu, gods that he’d long ago renounced, that the Ma-

rines’ strength remain steady.

“The teleport gate is opening,” Lofty announced. “Do

not, repeat, do not move until you have the go order.”

The gateway opening misted over, then clarifi ed, again

looking into the command-control compartment on the other

side. Again, the hyperdimensional link appeared to pulse and

tremble, as the image drifted unsteadily to one side. Enemy

troops were firing now, sending a storm of plasma rifl e fi re

into the embarkation bay. Several Marines took direct hits

and fell, but the rest held their position. Fellacci ordered Sec-

ond Platoon to return fire and they did so, with meticulous

precision. Black-and-gold Dahlist soldiers began collapsing

on the other side in twos, threes, and fours.

“Hit them with the am-fours!” Nal shouted. “Suppressive

fi re!”

A dozen contrails lanced through the air from the mass of

crouching Marines, into the elliptical gateway, and on into the

command center beyond. Half failed to negotiate the twisted,

SEMPER

179

HUMAN

distorted space within the ellipse and were automatically dis-

armed by their safeties. Six, however, went through dead-

center.

Once within the Dahlist battle station, they swung in dif-

ferent directions, each AM-4 smart grenade inde pen dently

controlled by its on- board micro-AI, seeking out concen-

trations of enemy troops. When it found one, it homed in

with deadly precision and a microscopic fleck of antimatter

came into contact with the normal matter of the grenade’s

shell.

Brilliant, high-yield energy blasts thundered within the

confined space of the Samar command center. In seconds,

the far side of the teleport gateway showed little but wrecked

instrument consoles and torn deck plating, the place a smok-

ing, ruined shambles.

But heavily armored Dahlist troops remained sheltered in

the wreckage, and more were coming through several door-

ways every moment.

“What the hell is going on with the image?” Corcoran

asked in Nal’s mind. The image continued to shake and drift,

as the spacial volume of the dimensional interface stretched

and twisted.

“Gravitational interference, sir,” he replied. “That’s what

I’m getting on the tech feed.” He had an open link to the Sam

Nick technicians attempting to anchor the teleport lock. The

dimensional interface—the overlap of two distinct volumes

of space a thousand kilometers apart—was unstable, shifting

as if in the ebb and flow of a gravitational tide.

When he glanced at a strategic map inset in the display

area of his mind, he felt a sudden flash of insight.

“Sir!” he said. “Samar is orbiting just a few thousand me-

ters from the outer surface of the Stargate ring! Those coun-

terrotating black holes inside the ring structure—”

“The outer surface of the ring is supposed to be grav-

shielded, Master Sergeant. Don’t you think we’d have looked

for something that obvious?”

180

IAN DOUGLAS

“Then maybe they fucking turned off the shielding! But

the space- time ripples from the Gate are sure as hell scram-

bling our attempts to lock in! Sir!”

Cocoran hesitated. “Pass that on to the teleport techs.”

“Already uploading, sir.”

Inside the ring of the Stargate were two Jupiter-masses com-

pressed to proton-sized singularities, whizzing about two in-

ternal tracks at close to the speed of light. The precisely tuned

gravity waves emerging from that vortex of warping space-

time was what opened the big Stargates in the fi rst place.

But those waves could be highly disruptive close to the

ring’s surface, disruptive enough to interfere with the attempt

to overlap two spacial volumes close by.

However, the technicians attempting to effect that overlap

could correct for the distortion if they could tune in on the

frequency of the pulses and cancel them out.

Nal felt one of the techs give him a mental thumbs- up. The

image beyond the elliptical gate steadied, expanded slightly,

then locked in solidly.

“We have lock!”

“Go! ” Corcoran ordered.

And Second Platoon surged forward, leaning ahead into

the volleyed fire from the other side as if pushing into a hur-

ricane’s blast. Lightning bolts sparked and flashed from Hell-

fire suits into the steel deck. Two Marines stumbled and fell,

but the rest kept going, Marines in the rear moving up to take

the place of those who’d been hit.

Strike Squadron 340, Blue Flight

Objective Samar

Tavros- Endymion Stargate

0520 hours, GMT

“This is it!” Xander yelled over the link. “Hit them, Ma-

rines! ”

Together with the others, Garwe accelerated toward the

SEMPER

181

HUMAN

fast-swelling globe below, as high-energy bursts fl ared and

blossomed throughout the sky. The War Dogs, their assault

pods shielded and all but invisible to enemy scanners,

dropped through a deadly storm of point-defense fi re toward

the surface of Objective Samar.

The Dahlist battle station was the size of a small asteroid,

eight kilometers across. At a range of a hundred kilometers

it was still tiny, a bright star, but under optical magnifi cation

fed through his implant, he saw it as an inmense, fl attened

sphere with a mottled black and white external shell bris-

tling with weapons systems.

Most of those weapons, squat, cumbersome monsters

set into massive turrets, were designed to engage enemy

warships emerging from the Stargate—the entire point of

positioning the battle station this close to the ring. Those

big guns could not even see, much less lock on to and

track something as small and as maneuverable as a Star-

wraith.

There were thousands of lesser weapons scattered across

the surface of that artificial worldlet, however, point-defense

batteries with AI-directed detection and response fi re-

control systems, designed to defeat just such an assault as

this one . . . or to take out clouds of incoming antimatter

missiles.

The War Dogs were lost within a vast and expanding

cloud of decoys, each created by a thumb-sized microbot.

Some were programmed to mimic the maneuvers and the

energy profiles of a Starwraith pod, while others, the major-

ity, appeared to Dahlist scanners to be incoming AI-directed

missiles. Once they were close enough to appear as solid

targets, the enemy defenses had to respond in order to pro-

tect the station . . . and the sixteen Marine pods could slip

through unnoticed.

That, at least, was tactical doctrine. No one knew how

good the Dahlist AI defenses actually were, or how quickly

they would be able to sweep through the decoys and fi nally

reach the Marines.

182

IAN DOUGLAS

A hundred kilometers to Garwe’s left, Javlotel’s pod fl ared

and vanished in a paroxysm of plasma energy. Garwe ac-

celerated faster. That might have been blind luck on the part

of the defenders . . . or their AIs might have better target

identification protocols than Marine Intelligence believed.

Either way, there was no backing out now. The War Dogs

were committed to the attack.

One of the big guns fired, loosing a bolt of fusion fi re, and

two more Marine pods vanished like gnats wafted into the

beam of a power cutter. Namura and Bakewin. The Dahlists

were firing the big weapons blindly now, not tracking the

incoming, but hoping to burn enough of them out of the sky

by sheer chance and fi repower.

Fifty kilometers, now . . . thirty . . . twenty. Garwe decel-

erated sharply, jogging hard to make it harder for the point

defenses to nail him.

He cut out the optical magnification and the battle station

loomed before him, stark in its blocky patterns of black and

white, and every scanner, every weapon, so far as Garwe

could see, aimed directly at him. His pod’s electronics de-

tected and painted in the beams and pulses of radiation

stabbing up through the battle station’s sky, an unnerving

animation filling battlespace with deadly energies.

And then, somehow, he was through, the curve of the battle

station’s horizon flattening out at the last second and taking

on the aspect of a black and white world, with a stark land-

scape of clean-edged cliff sides, flat- bottomed trenches, pyra-

midal and truncated mountains, domes, and towers— most of

them bearing high-energy weapons.

He lashed out with three tentacles, anchoring his pod to

the station’s surface, and loosed a cloud of smart AM-

missiles programmed to seek out the energy signatures of

enemy weapons and blot them out. The lower half of his

egg-shaped pod flowed like water, extended, and bit into

the black surface of the station, pouring a stream of nano-

disassemblers into the outer armor of the Dahlist base.

SEMPER

183

HUMAN

And the pod seemed to melt into the surface, slowly sink-

ing into solid metal.

Company H, 2/9

Marine Transport Major Samuel Nicholas

Objective Samar

0521 hours, GMT

Instead of crowding forward in ranks of four, the two

Marines at the center of the front rank leaped through into

the Dahlist base while the outer two held back, stepped to-

gether, then leaped through after them. The same proce-

dure was repeated by the second rank, and the third. By

sticking to the center of the ramp as they moved through,

they avoided falling into the deadly fringes of the dimen-

sional interface and repeating the confusion of the initial

assault. Gunfire seared and snapped on the Dahlist com-

mand deck, followed by a thunderous boom as someone

tossed a grenade.

All of Second Platoon was through, now, and Third Pla-

toon was moving up the ramp.

Nal watched the fi refight with keen interest. This was a

first for the Marines of the 2/9, deploying through a teleport

field directly into the middle of the battle. They’d had time

to practice a few times in virtual reality simulations, but the

reality was nothing like the sims.

Worst were the interpenetrations, when Marines entered

the other space partially intersecting a console or, horribly

worse, another person. The old pop ular wisdom that two bod-

ies attempting to occupy the same space at the same time

would explode wasn’t true, it turned out, not when it hap-

pened through the agency of a dimensional overlap. There is

lots of room between the individual atoms of most solids, but

once a Marine had stepped into a console there was no way to

sort the two out again afterward.

184

IAN DOUGLAS

Few survived the experience for more than a few seconds,

however.

The screams during those seconds were the worst things

Nal had ever experienced.

There wasn’t much to see now through the open gateway,

so Nal tuned in on the camera feeds from several of the Ma-

rines already on the other side. The Marines had cleared the

immediate area around the gateway, but were coming under

fire now from heavy automatic weapons mounted on cat-

walks high up around the arching bulkheads of the com-

partment.

“Hot Fire, Green Five!” someone yelled. “We’ve got

three . . . no four heavy guns above us! VK-2s and RmD-

34s!”

Hot Fire was the call sign for the HQ element. Second

Platoon was Green, Third was Gold.

“Green, Gold One-seven! I’ve got the VK-2 on the left!”

“Green, Green Two-two! I’ve got the Rum-dum on the

right!”

VK-2s were light bipod-mounted machine guns fi ring ex-

plosive bullets at ten rounds per second. RmD-34s, “Rum-

dums,” for short, were fast-cycling tripod-mounted weapons

firing bolts of high-energy plasma. Both were obsolete by

Associative standards, but still deadly.

“I got him! Gold One-seven, target smoked!”

“Watch on your right, One-seven! Watch your right!”

“Green One, this is Hot Fire One,” Corcoran’s voice said.

“I suggest you get some people up on those catwalks!”

“Working on it, sir!” Fellacci replied.

“If I may suggest, Lieutenant,” Nal put in, “you might

want to use the smart grenades. We’re not worried about

collateral damage.”

“Understood!”

Smart grenades were pencil-sized projectiles fi red from

launchers built into the left arms of the Hellfire suits, a little

larger than AM-4s, but not as uncompromisingly destructive.

SEMPER

185

HUMAN

They could identify a target and determine the range down to

a centimeter or two. If the target ducked behind a barrier,

they would detonate when they were immediately above the

target’s hiding place.

The automatic weapons on the catwalks were mounted

atop improvised shields of metal or plasteel, the gunners out

of sight. Volleys of smart grenades began snapping up from

the main deck and exploding above and behind the shields,

in one case hurling a Dahlist gunner over the catwalk railing

and ten meters to the deck beneath, trailing smoke.

The blasts, though, savaged the bulkhead, opening fi st-

sized holes and starting several fi res in the electrical wiring

on the other side. There was always the chance of depressur-

ization . . . but, as Nal had pointed out, the Marines weren’t

trying to capture the base so much as they were attempting to

knock it out.

In fact, two of the Marines in the HQ section, Sergeants

Dayton and Palmer, were equipped with backpack antimat-

ter devices, just in case the decision was made to destroy the

base rather than to capture it. The only reason they hadn’t

simply teleported an AM device or a small nuke into Objec-

tive Samar was the hope of taking Emperor Dahl alive.

A double doorway slid open at the far end of the compart-

ment, admitting a swarm of black-armored Dahlist troopers.

Nal recognized the armor type from his briefings . . . Mark

XV heavy combat suits, a bit out of date but still murder-

ously effective. The Marines swung their aim to take this

new threat under fire, knocking down several of the advanc-

ing troopers, but they were taking heavy fire in return, and

several more Marines were down, two dead, four wounded.

Then a portion of the bulkhead ninety degrees around to

the left fl ared white, then dissolved in smoke and lightning.

As the bulkhead collapsed, a massive something was just

visible moving through the smoke, smashing its way through

the freshly cut opening and into the command deck com-

partment.

186

IAN DOUGLAS

A gunwalker, all silver and gleaming, with black trim,

squat and ugly as it lurched from side to side on two stubby,

broadly splayed feet. It looked something like an old RK-90,

but bigger, and with different weapons housings, and there

was a flat turret on top of the thing sending a lance of white-

hot plasma flame into the compartment’s interior. The walker

likely was something new, an upgrade of older walker mod-

els with a much bigger punch.

Immediately, the Marines shifted their aim again, concen-

trating on this new monster, trying to focus their fire on weap-

ons ports and possible weak points. The walker was shielded,

however, and shed plasma bolts in sheets of high-energy py-

rotechnics.

One Marine, Gunnery Sergeant Ernie Clahan, rose from

the wreckage of the command deck holding a rotary can-

non, however, and slammed a stream of high-yield antimat-

ter rounds into the gleaming shell of the approaching beast.

The beast returned fire, plasma bolts cracking and snap-

ping in the smoke-clotted air; Clahan’s Hellfire suit shrugged

off the energy flux in radiant, auroral sheets and jagged bolts

of lightning, though the Marine staggered under the impact.

He held his fire on the walker, however, pounding a ragged

hole in the front of the thing just beneath the turret housing,

then concentrating his fire on the fast-widening patch of

damage.

Internal explosions began ripping through the robotic

combat machine, just as a fusillade of plasma and explosive

rounds fi nally overpowered Clahan’s shields and drove him

backward onto the deck. The walker gave a final lurch and

exploded, huge, silvery fragments pinwheeling through the

compartment, trailing smoke.

“Corpsman front! Marine down!”

Sergeant Ferris stepped forward, dropped his plasma ri-

fle, and picked up Clahan’s pulse- slammer, turning its buzz-

saw destruction on the advancing ranks of Dahlist troops.

Behind him, Doc MacKinnon, the Third Platoon corpsman,

dropped to the deck and began working on Clahan’s shud-

SEMPER

187

HUMAN

dering, smoking form, inserting a suit catheter to fl ush the

Marine’s body with nanomedical microbots.

More Marines stepped up alongside Ferris, sending a sear-

ing fusillade of energy beams and high-yield explosive rounds

into the advancing enemy ranks. Dahlist soldiers stumbled and

fell, their Mark XV armor failing catastrophically in gouts of

flame and blossoming flares of energy. The rest scattered,

seeking cover behind junked and smoking instrument con-

soles, or fell back through the open doorway.

And the Marines followed. “Let’s go, Marines!” Ferris

yelled over the company net, and he led the others forward

as smart grenades slashed and blasted, rooting out Dahlist

soldiers hiding behind consoles with shotgun blasts of hot

shrapnel.

For perhaps thirty seconds, the issue remained in doubt.

Marines in Hellfire armor collided with Dahlist troops in

massive, old-fashioned Mark XVs, engaging in hand- to- hand

combat. Both armor types linked directly with the cere bral

implants of their wearers, and both armor types acted as exo-

skeletal enhancers, translating their wearers’ movements into

blocks, lunges, and blows of superhuman strength, agility,

and speed.

And at that point, the battle began to shift in favor of the

Globe Marines. Personal plasma rifles, man-portable fusion

projectors, and smart antimatter grenades remained deadly

no matter when the people wielding them had been born and

raised, in the forty-first century, or in the thirty-first, and in

the tight confines of Samar’s command control deck there

were few options for cover or concealment. It was a slug fest,

pure and simple, of personal weapon against massively lethal

personal weapon.

But when the incoming tide of Globe Marines actually

smashed their way into the defending ranks, personal weap-

ons became less important than the abilities and training of

individual men and women.

The Marines of Nal’s day had trained extensively in a mar-

tial arts form known as weiji-do, which translated roughly as

188

IAN DOUGLAS

the Way of Chaos. Developed in the mid-Third Millennium as

an outgrowth of Shaolinquan and Tai chi chuan, weiji-do

was a synthesis of the most prominent wai chia, or outward,