I knelt down and removed the rifle from its plastic wrap. Notwithstanding everything Ruiz described about the rifle, the MP-35 did not appear especially impressive. It had heft but was not unwieldy, was well balanced and well sized for maneuverability. On the side of the rifle stock was a sticker. "TO ACTIVATE WITH BRAINPAL: Initialize BrainPal and say Activate MP-35, serial number ASD-324-DDD-4E3C1 Activate MP-35, serial number ASD-324-DDD-4E3C1."

"Hey, a.s.shole," I said. "Activate MP-35, serial number ASD-324-DDD-4E3C1."

MP-35 ASD-324-DDD-4E3C1 is now activated for CDF Recruit John Perry, a.s.shole responded. Please load ammunition now. A small graphic display hovered in the corner of my field of vision, showing me how to load my rifle. I reached back down and picked up the rectangular block that was my ammunition-and nearly lost my balance trying to pick it up. It was impressively heavy; they weren't kidding about the "high density" part. I jammed it into my rifle where instructed. As I did so, the graphic showing me how to load my rifle disappeared and a counter sprang up in its place, which read: Firing Options Available Note: Using One Type of Round Decreases Availability of Other Types Rifle Rounds: 200 Shot Rounds: 80 Grenade Rounds: 40 Missile Rounds: 35 Fire Rounds: 10 Minutes Microwave: 10 Minutes Rifle Rounds Currently Selected.

"Select shot rounds," I said.

Shot rounds selected, a.s.shole replied.

"Select missile rounds," I said.

Missile rounds selected, a.s.shole replied. Please select target. Suddenly every member of the platoon had a tight green targeting outline; glancing directly at one would cause an overlay to flash. What the h.e.l.l, I thought, and selected one, a recruit in Martin's squad named Toshima.

Target selected. a.s.shole confirmed. You may fire, cancel, or select a second target.

"Whoa," I said, canceled the target, and stared down at my MP-35. I turned to Alan, who was holding his weapon next to me. "I'm scared of my weapon," I said.

"No s.h.i.t," Alan said. "I just nearly blew you up two seconds ago with a grenade."

My response to this shocking admission was cut short when, on the other side of the platoon, Ruiz suddenly wheeled into a recruit's face. "What did you just say, recruit?" Ruiz demanded. Everybody fell silent as we turned to see who had incurred Ruiz's wrath.

The recruit was Sam McCain; in one of our lunch sessions I recalled Sarah O'Connell describing him as more mouth than brain. Unsurprisingly, he'd been in sales most of his life. Even with Ruiz hovering a millimeter from his nose, McCain projected smarminess; a mildly surprised smarminess, but smarminess all the same. He clearly didn't know what got Ruiz so worked up, but whatever it was, he expected to walk away from this encounter unscathed.

"I was just admiring my weapon, Master Sergeant," McCain said, holding up his rifle. "And I was telling recruit Flores here how it almost made me feel sorry for the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds we're going up against out-"

The rest of McCain's comment was lost to time when Ruiz grabbed McCain's rifle from the surprised recruit and with one supremely relaxed spin clocked McCain in the temple with the flat side of the rifle b.u.t.t. McCain crumpled like laundry; Ruiz calmly extended a leg and jammed a boot into McCain's throat. Then he flipped the rifle around; McCain stared up, horrified, into the barrel of his own rifle.

"Not so smug now, are you, you little s.h.i.t?" Ruiz said. "Imagine I'm your enemy. Do you almost feel sorry for me now? I just disarmed you in less time than it takes to f.u.c.king breathe breathe. Out there, those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds move faster than you would ever believe. They are going to spread your f.u.c.king liver on crackers and eat it up while you're still trying to get them in your sights. So don't you ever feel move faster than you would ever believe. They are going to spread your f.u.c.king liver on crackers and eat it up while you're still trying to get them in your sights. So don't you ever feel almost sorry almost sorry for the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They don't need your pity. Are you going to remember this, recruit?" for the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They don't need your pity. Are you going to remember this, recruit?"

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" McCain rasped, over the boot. He was very nearly sobbing.

"Let's make sure," Ruiz said, pressed the barrel into the s.p.a.ce between McCain's eyes, and pulled the trigger with a dry click click. Every member of the platoon flinched; McCain wet himself.

"Dumb," Ruiz said after McCain realized he wasn't, in fact, dead. "You weren't listening earlier. The MP-35 can only be fired by its owner while it's on base. That's you, you, a.s.shole." He straightened up and contemptuously flung the rifle at McCain, then turned to face the platoon at large. a.s.shole." He straightened up and contemptuously flung the rifle at McCain, then turned to face the platoon at large.

"You recruits are even stupider than I have imagined," Ruiz declared. "Listen to me now: There has never never been a military in the entire history of the human race that has gone to war equipped with more than the been a military in the entire history of the human race that has gone to war equipped with more than the least least that it needs to fight its enemy. War is expensive. It costs money and it costs lives and no civilization has an infinite amount of either. So when you fight, you conserve. You use and equip only as much as you have to, never more. that it needs to fight its enemy. War is expensive. It costs money and it costs lives and no civilization has an infinite amount of either. So when you fight, you conserve. You use and equip only as much as you have to, never more.

He stared at us grimly. "Is any any of this getting through? Do any of you of this getting through? Do any of you understand understand what I'm trying to tell you? You don't have these shiny new bodies and pretty new weapons because we want to give you an unfair advantage. You have these bodies and weapons because they are the what I'm trying to tell you? You don't have these shiny new bodies and pretty new weapons because we want to give you an unfair advantage. You have these bodies and weapons because they are the absolute minimum absolute minimum that will allow you to fight and survive out there. We didn't that will allow you to fight and survive out there. We didn't want want to give you these bodies, you dips.h.i.ts. It's just that if we didn't, the human race would already be to give you these bodies, you dips.h.i.ts. It's just that if we didn't, the human race would already be extinct extinct.

"Do you understand now? Do you finally finally have an idea of what you're up against? Do you?" have an idea of what you're up against? Do you?"

But it wasn't all fresh air, exercise, and learning to kill for humanity. Sometimes, we took cla.s.ses.

"During your physical training, you've been learning to overcome your a.s.sumptions and inhibitions regarding your new body's abilities," Lieutenant Oglethorpe said to a lecture hall filled with training battalions 60th through 63rd. "Now we need to do this with your mind. It's time to flush out some deeply held preconceptions and prejudices, some of which you probably aren't even aware you have."

Lieutenant Oglethorpe pressed a b.u.t.ton on the podium where he stood. Behind him, two display boards shimmered to life. In the one to the audience's left a nightmare popped up-something black and gnarled, with serrated lobster claws that nestled p.o.r.nographically inside an orifice so dank you could very nearly smell the stench. Above the shapeless pile of a body, three eyestalks or antennae or whatever perched. Ochre dripped from them. H. P. Lovecraft would have run screaming.

To the right was a vaguely deerlike creature with cunning, almost human hands, and a quizzical face that seemed to speak of peace and wisdom. If you couldn't pet this guy, you could at least learn something about the nature of the universe from him.

Lieutenant Oglethorpe took a pointer and waved it in the direction of the nightmare. "This guy is a member of the Bathunga race. The Bathunga are a deeply pacifistic people; they have a culture that reaches back hundreds of thousands of years, and features an understanding of mathematics that makes our own look like simple addition. They live in the oceans, filtering plankton, and enthusiastically coexist with humans on several worlds. These are good guys, and this guy"-he tapped the board-"is unusually handsome for his species."

He whacked the second board, which held the friendly deer man. "Now, this little f.u.c.ker is a Salong. Our first official encounter with the Salong happened after we tracked down a rogue colony of humans. People aren't supposed to freelance colonize, and the reason why becomes pretty obvious here. The colonists landed on a planet that was also a colonization target for the Salong; somewhere along the way the Salong decided that humans were good eatin', so they attacked the humans and set up a human meat farm. All the adult human males but a handful were killed, and those that were kept were 'milked' for their sperm. The women were artificially inseminated and their newborns taken, penned and fattened like veal.

"It was years before we found the place. When we did so, the CDF troops razed the Salong colony to the ground and barbecued the Salong colony leader in a cookout. Needless to say we've been fighting the baby-eating sons of b.i.t.c.hes ever since.

"You can see where I'm going with this," Oglethorpe said. "a.s.suming you know the good guys from the bad guys will get you killed. You can't afford anthropomorphic biases when some of the aliens most like us would rather make human hamburgers than peace."

Another time Oglethorpe asked us to guess what the one advantage was that Earth-based soldiers had over CDF soldiers. "It's certainly not physical conditioning or weaponry," he said, "since we're clearly ahead on both those counts. No, the advantage soldiers have on Earth is that they know who their opponents are going to be, and also, within a certain range, how the battle will be conducted-with what sort of troops, types of weapons, and range of goals. Because of this, battle experience in one war or engagement can be directly applicable to another, even if the causes for the war or the goals for the battle are entirely different.

"The CDF has no such advantage. For example, take a recent battle with the Efg." Oglethorpe tapped on one of the displays to reveal a whalelike creature with ma.s.sive side tentacles that branched into rudimentary hands. "The guys are up to forty meters long and have a technology that allows them to polymerize water. We'd lose water ships when the water around them turned into a quicksand-like sludge that pulled them down, taking their crews with them. How does the experience of fighting one of these guys translate into experience that can be applied to, say, the Finwe,"-the other screen flipped on, revealing a reptilian charmer-"who are small desert dwellers who prefer long-distance biological attacks?

"The answer is that it really can't. And yet CDF soldiers go from one sort of battle to the other all the time. This is one reason why the mortality rate in the CDF is so high-every battle is new, and every combat situation, in the experience of the individual soldier at least, is unique. If there's one thing you bring out of these little chats of ours, it's this: Any ideas you have about how war is waged had better be thrown out the window. Your training here will open your eyes to some of what you'll encounter out there, but remember that as infantry, you'll often be the first point of contact with new hostile races, whose methods and motives are unknown and sometimes unknowable. You have to think fast, and not a.s.sume what's worked before will work now. That's a quick way to be dead."

One time, a recruit asked Oglethorpe why CDF soldiers should even care about the colonists or the colonies. "We're having it drilled into our heads that we're not even really human anymore," she said. "And if that's the case, why should we feel any attachment to the colonists? They're only human, after all. Why not breed CDF soldiers as the next step in human evolution and give ourselves a leg up?"

"Don't think you're the first one to ask that question," Oglethorpe said, and this got a general chuckle. "The short answer is that we can't. All the genetic and mechanical fiddling that gets done to CDF soldiers renders them genetically sterile. Because of common genetic material used in the template of each of you, there are far too many lethal recessives to allow any fertilization process to get very far. And there's too much nonhuman material to allow successful crossbreeding with normal humans. CDF soldiers are an amazing bit of engineering, but as an evolutionary path, they're a dead end. This is one reason why none of you should be too smug. You can run a mile in three minutes, but you can't make a baby.

"In a larger sense, however, there's no need. The next step of evolution is already happening. Just like the Earth, most of the colonies are isolated from each other. Nearly all people born on a colony stay there their entire lives. Humans also adapt to their new homes; it's already beginning culturally. Some of the oldest of the colony planets are beginning to show linguistic and cultural drift from their cultures and languages back on Earth. In ten thousand years there will be genetic drift as well. Given enough time, there will be as many different human species as there are colony planets. Diversity is the key to survival.

"Metaphysically, maybe you should feel attached to the colonies because, having been changed yourself, you appreciate the human potential to become something that will survive in the universe. More directly, you should care because the colonies represent the future of the human race, and changed or not, you're still far closer to human than any other intelligent species out there.

"But ultimately, you should care because you're old enough to know that you should. That's one of the reasons the CDF selects old people to become soldiers, you know-it's not just because you're all retired and a drag on the economy. It's also because you've lived long enough to know that there's more to life than your own life. Most of you have raised families and have children and grandchildren and understand the value of doing something beyond your own selfish goals. Even if you never become colonists yourselves, you still recognize that human colonies are good for the human race, and worth fighting for. It's hard to drill that concept into the brain of a nineteen-year-old. But you know from experience. In this universe, experience counts."

We drilled. We shot. We learned. We kept going. We didn't sleep much.

In week six, I replaced Sarah O'Connell as squad leader. E squad consistently fell behind in team exercises and that was costing the 63rd Platoon in intra-platoon compet.i.tions. Every time a trophy went to another platoon, Ruiz would grind his teeth and take it out on me. Sarah accepted it with good grace. "It's not exactly like herding kindergarteners, unfortunately," is what she had to say. Alan took her place and whipped the squad into shape. Week seven found the 63rd shooting a trophy right out from under the 58th; ironically, it was Sarah, who turned out to be a h.e.l.l of a shot, who took us over the top.

In week eight, I stopped talking to my BrainPal. a.s.shole had studied me long enough to understand my brain patterns and began seemingly antic.i.p.ating my needs. I first noticed it during a simulated live-fire exercise, when my MP-35 switched from rifle rounds to guided missile rounds, tracked, fired and hit two long-range targets, and then switched again to a flamethrower just in time to fry a nasty six-foot bug that popped out of some nearby rocks. When I realized I hadn't vocalized any of the commands, I felt a creepy vibe wash over me. After another few days, I noticed I became annoyed whenever I would actually have to ask a.s.shole for something. How quickly the creepy becomes commonplace.

In week nine, I, Alan and Martin Garabedian had to provide a little administrative discipline to one of Martin's recruits, who had decided that he wanted Martin's squad leader job and was not above attempting a little sabotage to get it. The recruit had been a moderately famous pop star in his past life and was used to getting his way through whatever means necessary. He was crafty enough to enlist some squadmates into the conspiracy, but unfortunately for him, was not smart enough to realize that as his squad leader, Martin had access to the notes he was pa.s.sing. Martin came to me; I suggested that there was no reason to involve Ruiz or the other instructors in what could easily be resolved by ourselves.

If anyone noticed a base hovercraft briefly going AWOL later that night, they didn't say anything. Likewise if anyone saw a recruit dangling from it upside down as it pa.s.sed dangerously close to some trees, the recruit held to the hovercraft only by a pair of hands on each ankle. Certainly no one claimed to hear either the recruit's desperate screaming, or Martin's critical and none-too-favorable examination of the former pop star's most famous alb.u.m. Master Sergeant Ruiz did note to me at breakfast the next morning that I was looking a little windblown; I replied that it may have been the brisk thirty-klick jog he had us run prior to the meal.

In week eleven, the 63rd and several other platoons dropped into the mountains north of the base. The objective was simple; find and wipe out every other platoon and then have the survivors make it back to base, all within four days. To make things interesting, each recruit was fitted with a device that registered shots taken at them; if one connected, the recruit would feel paralyzing pain and then collapse (and then be retrieved, eventually, by drill instructors watching nearby). I knew this because I had been the test case back on base, when Ruiz wanted to show an example. I stressed to my platoon that they did not not want to feel what I felt. want to feel what I felt.

The first attack came almost as soon as we hit the ground. Four of my recruits went down before I spotted the shooters and called them to the attention of the platoon. We got two; two got away. Sporadic attacks over the next few hours made it clear that most of the other platoons had broken into squads of three or four and were hunting for other squads.

I had another idea. Our BrainPals made it possible for us to maintain constant, silent contact with each other regardless of whether we were standing close to one another or not. Other platoons seemed to be missing the implications of this fact, but that was too bad for them. I had every member of the platoon open a secure BrainPal communication line with every other member, and then I had each platoon member head off individually, charting terrain and noting the location of enemy squads they spotted. This way, we would all have an ever-widening map of the ground and the positions of the enemy. Even if one of our recruits got picked off, the information they provided would help another platoon member avenge his or her death (or at least keep from getting killed right away). One soldier could move quickly and silently and hara.s.s the other platoon's squads, and still work in tandem with other soldiers when the opportunity arose.

It worked. Our recruits took shots when they could, laid low and pa.s.sed on information when they couldn't, and worked together when opportunities presented themselves. On the second day, I and a recruit named Riley picked off two squads from opposing platoons; they were so busy shooting at each other that they didn't notice Riley and me sniping them from a distance. He got two, I got three and the other three apparently got each other. It was pretty sweet. After we were done, we didn't say anything to each other, just faded back into the forest and kept tracking and sharing terrain information.

Eventually the other platoons figured out what we were doing and tried to do the same, but by that time, there were too many of the 63rd, and not enough of them. We mopped them up, getting the last of them by noon, and then started our jog into base, some eighty klicks away. The last of us made it in by 1800. In the end, we lost nineteen members of the platoon, including the four at the beginning. But we were responsible for just over half of the total kills across seven other platoons, while losing less than a third of our own people. Even Master Sergeant Ruiz couldn't complain about that. When the base commander awarded him the War Games trophy, he even cracked a smile. I can't even imagine how much it hurt him to do that.

"Our luck will never cease," the newly minted Private Alan Rosenthal said as he came up to me at the shuttle boarding area. "You and I got a.s.signed to the same ship."

Indeed we had. A quick jaunt back to Phoenix on the troop ship Francis Drake, Francis Drake, and then leave until the CDFS and then leave until the CDFS Modesto Modesto came to call. Then we'd hook up with the 2nd Platoon, Company D, of the 233rd CDF Infantry Battalion. One battalion per ship-roughly a thousand soldiers. Easy to get lost. I'd be glad to have Alan with me once again. came to call. Then we'd hook up with the 2nd Platoon, Company D, of the 233rd CDF Infantry Battalion. One battalion per ship-roughly a thousand soldiers. Easy to get lost. I'd be glad to have Alan with me once again.

I glanced over to Alan and admired his clean, new Colonial blue dress uniform-in no small part because I was wearing one just like it. "d.a.m.n, Alan," I said. "We sure look good."

"I've always loved a man in uniform," Alan said to me. "And now that I'm the man in the uniform, I love him even more."

"Uh-oh," I said. "Here comes Master Sergeant Ruiz."

Ruiz had spotted me waiting to board my shuttle; as he approached I put down the duffel bag that contained my everyday uniform and few remaining personal belongings, and presented him with a smart salute.

"At ease, Private," Ruiz said, returning the salute. "Where are you headed?"

"The Modesto, Modesto, Master Sergeant," I said. "Private Rosenthal and I both." Master Sergeant," I said. "Private Rosenthal and I both."

"You're s.h.i.tting me," Ruiz declared. "The 233rd? Which company?"

"D, Master Sergeant. Second Platoon."

"Out-f.u.c.king-standing, Private," Ruiz said. "You will have the pleasure in serving in the platoon of Lieutenant Arthur Keyes, if that dumb son of a b.i.t.c.h hasn't managed to have his a.s.s chewed on by now by some alien or another. When you see him, extend to him my compliments, if you would. You may additionally tell him that Master Sergeant Antonio Ruiz has declared that you are not nearly the dips.h.i.t that most of your fellow recruits have turned out to be."

"Thank you, Master Sergeant."

"Don't let it go to your head, Private. You are still a dips.h.i.t. Just not a very big one."

"Of course, Master Sergeant."

"Good. And now, if you will excuse me. Sometimes you just gotta hit the road." Master Sergeant Ruiz saluted. Alan and I saluted back. Ruiz glanced at us both, offered a tight, tight smile, and then walked away without looking back.

"That man scares the s.h.i.t out of me," Alan said.

"I don't know. I kind of like him."

"Of course you do. He thinks you're almost not a dips.h.i.t. That's a compliment in his world."

"Don't think I don't know it," I said. "Now all I have to do is live up to it."

"You'll manage," Alan said. "After all, you do do still get to be a dips.h.i.t." still get to be a dips.h.i.t."

"That's comforting," I said. "At least I'll have company."

Alan grinned. The shuttle doors opened. We grabbed our stuff and went inside.

NINE.

"I can take a shot," Watson said, sighting over his boulder. "Let me drill one of those things."

"No," said Viveros, our corporal. "Their shield is still up. You'd just be wasting ammo."

"This is bulls.h.i.t," Watson said. "We've been here for hours. We're sitting here. They're sitting there. When their shield goes down, we're supposed to do what, walk over and start blasting at them? This isn't the f.u.c.king fourteenth century. We shouldn't make an appointment appointment to start killing the other guy." to start killing the other guy."

Viveros looked irritated. "Watson, you're not paid to think. So shut the f.u.c.k up and get ready. It's not going to be long now, anyway. There's only one thing left in their ritual before we get at it."

"Yeah? What's that?" Watson said.

"They're going to sing," Viveros said.

Watson smirked. "What are they going to sing? Show tunes?"

"No," Viveros said. "They're going to sing our deaths."

As if on cue, the ma.s.sive, hemispherical shield enclosing the Consu encampment shimmered at the base. I adjusted my eyesight and focused down the several hundred meters across the field as a single Consu stepped through, the shield lightly sticking to its ma.s.sive carapace until it moved far enough away for the electrostatic filaments to collapse back into the shield.

He was the third and final Consu who would emerge out of the shield before the battle. The first had appeared nearly twelve hours ago; a low-ranking grunt whose bellowing challenge served to formally signal the Consu's intent to battle. The low rank of the messenger was meant to convey the minimal regard in which our troops were held by the Consu, the idea being that if we had been really important, they would have sent a higher-up. None of our troops took offense; the messenger was always of low rank, regardless of opponent, and anyway, unless you are extraordinarily sensitive to Consu pheromones, they pretty much all look alike.

The second Consu emerged from behind the shield several hours later, bellowed like a herd of cows caught in a thresher, and then promptly exploded, pinkish blood and bits of his organs and carapace momentarily splashing against the Consu shield and sizzling lightly as they drizzled down to the ground. Apparently the Consu believed that if a single soldier was ritually prepared beforehand, its soul can be persuaded to reconnoiter the enemy for a set amount of time before moving on to wherever it is Consu souls go. Or something along that line. This is a signal honor, not lightly given. This seemed to me to be a fine way to lose your best soldiers in a hurry, but given that I was one of the enemy, it was hard to see the downside for us in the practice.

This third Consu was a member of the highest caste, and his role was simply to tell us the reasons for our death and the manner by which we would all die. After which point, we could actually get to the killing and dying. Any attempt to hasten things along by preemptively taking a shot at the shield would be useless; short of dropping it into a stellar core, there was very little that could ding a Consu shield. Killing a messenger would accomplish nothing other than causing the opening rituals to be restarted, delaying the fighting and killing even more.

Besides, the Consu weren't hiding hiding behind the shield. They just had a lot of prebattle rituals to take care of, and they preferred that they were not interrupted by the inconvenient appearance of bullets, particle beams or explosives. Truth was, there was nothing the Consu liked better than a good fight. They thought nothing of the idea of tromping off to some planet, setting themselves down, and daring the natives to pry them off in battle. behind the shield. They just had a lot of prebattle rituals to take care of, and they preferred that they were not interrupted by the inconvenient appearance of bullets, particle beams or explosives. Truth was, there was nothing the Consu liked better than a good fight. They thought nothing of the idea of tromping off to some planet, setting themselves down, and daring the natives to pry them off in battle.

Which was the case here. The Consu were entirely disinterested in colonizing this planet. They had merely blasted a human colony here into bits as a way of letting the CDF know they were in the neighborhood and looking for some action. Ignoring the Consu wasn't a possibility, as they'd simply keep killing off colonists until someone came to fight them on a formal basis. You never knew what they'd consider enough for a formal challenge, either. You just kept adding troops until a Consu messenger came out and announced the battle.

Aside from their impressive, impenetrable shields, the Consu's battle technology was of a similar level as the CDF's. This was not as encouraging as you might think, as what reports filtered back from Consu battles with other species indicated that the Consu's weaponry and technology were always more or less matched with that of their opponent. This added to the idea that what the Consu were engaging in was not war but sports. Not unlike a football game, except with slaughtered colonists in the place of proper spectators.

Striking first against Consu was not an option. Their entire inner home system was shielded. The energy to generate the shield came from the white dwarf companion of the Consu sun. It had been completely encased with some sort of harvesting mechanism, so that all the energy coming off it would fuel the shield. Realistically speaking, you just don't f.u.c.k with people who can do that. But the Consu had a weird honor system; clean them off a planet in battle, and they didn't come back. It was like the battle was the vaccination, and we were the antiviral.

All of this information was provided by our mission database, which our commanding officer Lieutenant Keyes had directed us to access and read before the battle. The fact that Watson didn't seem to know any of this meant he hadn't accessed the report. This was not entirely surprising, since from the first moment I met Watson it was clear that he was the sort of c.o.c.ky, willfully ignorant son of a b.i.t.c.h who would get himself or his squadmates killed. My problem was I was his squadmate.

The Consu unfolded its slashing arms-specialized at some point in their evolution to deal with some unimaginably horrifying creature on their homeworld, most likely-and underneath, its more recognizably armlike forelimbs raised to the sky. "It's starting," Viveros said.

"I could pop him so easy," Watson said.

"Do it and I'll shoot you myself," Viveros said.

The sky cracked with a sound like G.o.d's own rifle shot, followed by what sounded like a chain saw ripping through a tin roof. The Consu was singing. I accessed a.s.shole and had it translate from the beginning.

Behold, honored adversaries,We are the instruments of your joyful death.In our ways we have blessed youThe spirit of the best among us has sanctified our battle.We will praise you as we move among youAnd sing your souls, saved, to their rewards.It is not your fortune to have been born among The PeopleSo we set you upon the path that leads to redemption.Be brave and fight with fiercenessThat you may come into our fold at your rebirth.This blessed battle hallows the groundAnd all who die and are born here henceforth are delivered.

"d.a.m.n, that's loud," Watson said, sticking a finger in his left ear and twisting. I doubted he had bothered to get a translation.

"This isn't a war or a football game, for Christ's sake," I said to Viveros. "This is a baptism."

Viveros shrugged. "CDF doesn't think so. This is how they start every battle. They think it's their equivalent of the National Anthem. It's just ritual. Look, the shield's coming down." She motioned toward the shield, which was now flickering and failing across its entire length.

"About f.u.c.king time," Watson said. "I was about to take a nap."

"Listen to me, both of you," Viveros said. "Stay calm, stay focused and keep your a.s.s down. We've got a good position here, and the lieutenant wants us to snipe these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds as they come down. Nothing flashy-just shoot them in the thorax. That's where their brains are. Every one we get means one less for the rest of them to worry about. Rifle shots only, anything else is just going to give us away faster. Cut the chatter, BrainPals only from here on out. You get me?"