He started running.
His spider pumped and throbbed with his movements, giving him better speed than he could have managed on Earth, to say nothing of the Harisian high-grav environment. He stumbled, but he kept running, his boots splashing through shallow ponds and mudflats and the sea of soft-bodies, orange vegetation that weaved and twisted in front of him; and the shadow-creatures followed, hundreds of them now.
He was screaming as he ran.
MEF HQ
Mike-Red Perimeter
Eta Boötis System
1445 hours, TFT
“General?” Major Bradley said. “They’re ready to come through the screen.”
“Do it,” General Gorman said. “Watch for leakers and pop-ups.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The gravfighters of VF-44 had completed three wide sweeps all the way around the Marine perimeter, smashing Turusch slugs and ground positions and even small groups of enemy soldiers wherever they could find them. Up in space, three hundred kilometers overhead, more fighters were slamming missiles against the defensive screens of a large Tush cruiser. For the first time in weeks, the Marine perimeter was not under direct fire, and the terrain surrounding the base was free of enemy forces.
He watched the main tactical display with its glowing icons marking the defensive dome and five incoming fighters. At a prearranged instant, one segment of the defensive screen wavered and vanished.
Energy screens and shields were three-dimensional projections of spacial distortion, an effect based on the projection of gravitational distortion used in space drives. Shields reflected incoming traffic, while screens absorbed and stored the released energy.
While screens were useful in relatively low-energy combat zones, they could be overloaded by nukes, and they weren’t good at stopping solid projectiles like missiles or high-energy KK rounds. With shields, incoming beams, missiles, and radiation were twisted through 180 degrees by the sharp and extremely tight curvature of space. Warheads and incoming projectiles were vaporized when they folded back into themselves, beams redirected outward in a spray of defocused energy. Warheads detonating just outside the area of warped space had both radiation and shock wave redirected outward.
As the ground around the outside of the perimeter became molten, however, some heat began leaking through at the shield’s base faster than heat-sink dissipaters could cool the ground. When the projectors laid out on the ground along the perimeter began sinking into patches of liquid rock, they failed. The enemy’s strategy in a bombardment like the one hammering Mike-Red was to overload the dissipaters and destroy the projectors.
The Marines were using shields and screens in an attempt to stay ahead of the bombardment, with banks of portable dissipater units running nonstop in the ongoing fight to keep the ground solid.
It was a fight they were losing.
“Perhaps it would be best to have these spacecraft remain outside the energy barriers,” Jamel Hamid said. “The Turusch could use this opportunity to—”
“I know what the enemy is capable of,” Gorman snapped. “Get the hell out of my way.”
He brushed past the civilian for a closer look at the 3-D display. One of the energy-shield facets—number three—winked off just ahead of the oncoming formation of fliers. The Starhawks glided across the perimeter, and the shield came up again behind them, flickered uncertainly, then stabilized. An instant later, a particle beam stabbed down from space. The Romeo had spotted the momentary breach and tried to take advantage of it with a snap shot, but the beam struck the shield and scattered harmlessly outward.
“Shit, that was close,” a Marine shield tech at one of the boards said.
“Cut the chatter,” Gorman said. “Watch those projectors.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Sorry, sir.”
One reason the beachhead had been set up on a rocky ridgetop was that molten rock tended to flow downhill, not up into the perimeter and the shield projectors. Repeated shocks against the lower slopes of the ridge, however, were threatening to undermine the perimeter. Gorman had already given orders to set out two replacement projectors, for number five and number six, placing them back a hundred meters as the ground sagged and crumbled beneath the originals.
Eventually, enemy fire would eat away the entire hill.
“Number four is failing,” the shield tech reported. “I recommend a reset.”
“How long do we have?” Gorman asked.
“Hard to estimate, General. An hour. Maybe two. Depends on how soon they resume the bombardment.”
Of course. Everything depended on the enemy. That was the hell of it. Gorman hated being trapped like this, stuck in a hole, forced to react to the enemy’s initiative, unable even to shoot back, since to do so the Marines had to drop one of the shields, which would mean a torrent of Turusch fire and warheads pouring through the gap.
The respite the Navy zorchies had brought the defenders was the first breather they’d had in weeks, but it wouldn’t be long before more Tushie ground units moved into the area and took the perimeter under fire … or until more capital ships moved overhead and started pounding the beachhead again with nukes and HE-beams.
“I still don’t see why you’re letting those fighters come inside the shields,” Hamid said. “They can’t do any good in here.”
“In case you weren’t paying attention, Mister Hamid,” Gorman said, choosing his words carefully, “those pilots have been giving the Turusch one hell of a fight. They’re out of missiles, and either out of or running damned thin on other expendables. They need to touch down and get their craft serviced. I imagine the pilots need servicing as well.”
“Perhaps they should land in shifts, then. …”
“Mr. Hamid, I’ve had just about enough of your second-guessing and carping. Get off my quarterdeck!”
“I remind you, General, that I am in command of this colony!”
“And I am in command of the Marine Expeditionary Force. Bradley!”
“Sir!”
“Please escort this civilian off of Marine property. If he shows his face around here again, he is to be placed under guard and confined to his quarters.”
“Aye, aye, General!”
“General Gorman!” Hamid said, his face reddening. “I must protest!
“Protest all you damned well please,” Gorman replied, shrugging, “just as soon as we get back to Earth!”
“Your anti-Islamic stance has been noted, General! Sheer antitheophilia! This will all go onto my report to my government!”
“Get him out of here, Major Bradley.”
“With pleasure, General! C’mon, you.”
Hamid started to say something more, seemed to think better of it, then turned and strode toward the CIC command center door. Bradley grinned at Gorman, then followed the man out. Hamid, clearly, was furiously angry, and there would be repercussions later. If there was a later. Gorman was willing to face the political fallout if they could just hang on long enough to get his people off this toxic hell-hole.
Gorman watched the civilian go, scowling. That crack about his being antitheophilic had been just plain nasty.
But, of course, the colonists on Haris were Refusers—the descendants of Muslims who’d refused to sign the Covenant of the Dignity of Humankind or accept the enforced rewrite of their Holy Qu’ran. Gorman, too, was a Refuser—at