Genellan: Planetfall

"Franklin, have Tasmania go active. Link to fleet tactical," Runacres ordered.

"Aye, aye, Admiral," Wells replied. "Tasmania to go active immediately! Patch data to central operations. Tasmania go active, now!"

Tasmania's search radars exploded into search mode. Electromagnetic pulses radiated omnidirectionally, reaching out for solid surfaces from which to rebound. The main situation plot glowed subtly, shifting through muted tones of magenta and blue as it tuned to the datalink.

Suddenly, returning signals were processed; pinpricks of light appeared—radar contacts. Many contacts! Battle computers assessed and designated targets, immediately locating and classifying motherships and corvettes. A planet symbol illuminated, revealing the relative position of R-K Three, and two of the three picket corvettes stood out from the mass of bogies, registering friendly identification codes. The third corvette, Peregrine One, rounded the planet on its orbital track as Runacres watched.

But the computer also generated multiple threat warnings, and target acquisition radars automatically powered up into standby— precomputing firing solutions. There were many, many targets, the nearest only three to four days away from engagement range, given present vectors.

"Good God!" an unidentified voice gasped on the main battle net. Hundreds—thousands—of targets presented themselves on the large status screen—whole constellations of attacking interceptors and rockets, and no doubt decoys.

"Enough praying. Defensive Condition One. Set modified General Quarters," Runacres ordered calmly. "Signal Battle Formation One One Delta. Clear all ships to go active. Let's start dividing these bogeys up, shall we?"

"All ships going active," the tactical officer echoed. Alarm klaxons erupted into a discordant, nerve-grating wail.

"Abort the landing. Order Peregrine One to recover EPL," Runacres commanded. "Group Leader, recall all corvettes. Launch the corvette screen to the attack axis."

A raw sun climbed above the river bluffs. Longo looked out the open hatch of his landing vehicle. There was no sign of the humans. He was furious! Everything was going wrong. And the orbiting alien vessels had suddenly departed—escaped. He had waited too long. Gorruk would be furious. Longo's primary objective—capturing and killing the aliens on Genellan—had become that much more important. The intelligence officer shivered in the damp morning air; he increased the temperature on his suit controls.

"Colonel Longo!" a sentry shouted. "Aliens approach."

Longo exhaled with relief. He returned to the opened hatch and stepped through it, recoiling at the cloying smell of wet ash, pervasive even through helmet filters. In the distance, across the wide expanse of dew-dampened cinders, two humans approached. Halfway across the clearing one stopped and waited, while the other kept coming. Both aliens were tall, and human. The female, Sharl, had not come back, nor had Et Silmarn. The absence of Et Silmarn did not bother the colonel; the requirement to replenish fuel in his breathing unit was the equivalent of a death sentence. Longo recognized Hudson.

"Respects, Master Huhsawn!" Longo shouted, masking his distaste for the frail alien.

"Greetings, most excellent Colonel," Hudson replied. "What news? Lieutenant Sharl is not with you."

"Lieutenant Sharl apologizes, but she is injured," Hudson said. "She sprained her ankle trying to find our people. It is not serious and will take but a few days to mend."

"A few days! Unfortunate. Can we help to convey her back to the modules?"

"That is the least of our problems," the human said. "It has not gone well, most excellent Colonel. Half our number remains unaccounted for."

"What are you saying, Huhsawn?"

"We are anxious to obey your recommendations. It is cold here. Lieutenant Buccar—er…Lieutenant Sharl suggests you return to the orbiting ship instead of waiting in the cold. In two or three days we will be ready. If you equip us with a transmitter, we could give you status updates. Et Silmarn has experience with your radios and has volunteered to remain with us for that purpose. Of course he would need another breather canister."

They stall, thought Longo. He stared silently at the puny alien.

"Unfortunate," he growled finally, barely containing his fury. "It is not a trivial matter to return to orbit—fuel considerations, and other things. Why not bring those that have been recovered to the landers?" Perhaps Gol 'berg would be in that group.

"But we need every available person to help search," Hudson rejoined.

"We wait one more day, Huhsawn. Inform Et Silmarn that I wish him to return," Longo snarled. "Immediately." All pretense at diplomacy evaporated.

Hudson bowed slightly, turned, and walked away.

The next morning arrived clear and cold. Behind the walls of the settlement MacArthur inhaled the crisp air. It was going to be a beautiful day, and warm. He grimaced at the thought. It was going to get damned warm, but not from the sun! He had been surprised and impressed by Buccari's orders to set up the ambush. He never dreamed she would fire the first shots, but their survival hinged on taking the initiative away from the better-armed aliens. There was no turning back.

The Marine, standing alone in front of the lodge, kept an intent eye on Tonto. The cliff dweller was perched in the highest tree on the peninsula, with a clear view of all approaches to the settlement. Suddenly he screeched—it was the signal; Kones were on the beach and headed toward the settlement. MacArthur whistled an acknowledgment. He jogged to the guard tower closest to the kones' point of approach. Petit and Chastain peeked down at him.

"One more time. When I start shooting, you guys take two shots each! To kill!" he said emphatically. "Two well-aimed single shots. No bursts. Shoot quick and get the hell out of here! Go straight for the back gate. No heroes! You got me?" Both men nodded and MacArthur turned away.

"Mac!" Chastain shouted. MacArthur stopped abruptly and looked back.

"No heroes, Mac," Chastain pleaded.

MacArthur tightened his lips but said nothing. He sprinted toward the guard tower farther up the hill. O'Toole and Gordon watched him approach. MacArthur gave them the same instructions and then dashed back to the lodge. He stomped up the tall wooden stairs, crossed the porch, and went through the doors.

It was cold and dark inside; no fires had burned in its fireplaces for three nights. He scaled the ladder to the loft. It was brighter there; three rifle ports penetrated the logs, and the sun's rays angled sharply through the freshly hewn openings. Buccari, Hudson, and Sha

"Bugs are on the way, Lieutenant," MacArthur reported. He looked through one of the ports. The tops of the alien landersreflected dully in the distance. The air was sharp and clear, and a fresh breeze was rising—a beautiful day. Tonto screamed and flapped from the tree, catching a thermal and soaring upward.

"They're in the woods," MacArthur said. "Time to go to work."

"Sharl! I'm going down to the gate with MacArthur," Hudson said.

"Yeah, the best pistol shot in the world couldn't hit anything from here," Sha

"Okay. Be careful," Buccari said, keeping her face to the rifle port.

"You be careful, too, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "Once they start hitting this tinderbox with lasers you'll wish you had changed places with us. Don't wait around."

Buccari turned her head and smiled bravely, without joy but with obvious emotion. MacArthur took a deep breath and headed for the ladder with Hudson following. The men descended, dashed outside, and sprinted across the common toward the main gate, each carrying their heavy-caliber pistol in front of them. They positioned themselves behind the partially open gate doors and sighted through the hinge openings—and waited. With short-ranged pistols, it was up to them to take the first shots.