told him. “Automatic target tracking, with a choice between pulse lasers or short-range antipersonnel missiles. The pictures I’ve seen showed the things as being pretty bulky, which I gather was part of the point.”
“Like snipe dots,” de Portola said, nodding. “You’re obviously being targeted, so you behave yourself.”
“Right,” Lorne said. “Looks like the Dominion’s dropped blatant in favor of subtle this time around.”
“Could be,” De Portola agreed. “I wonder how you target-lock the things.”
“Maybe we’ll find out,” Lorne said, unfastening his restraints as the two Marines split formation, one heading down each side of the car. “Okay; nice and innocent.”
The Marines reached the two car doors simultaneously. There was a screech of a lockpop, and the man on Lorne’s side pulled the door open. “Lorne Broom?” he demanded.
“Morning, soldier,” Lorne greeted him genially. He nodded at the door. “It was unlocked.”
“Are you Lorne Broom?” the other repeated.
“Yes,” Lorne said. “And you?”
The Marine glanced over the top of the car at his companion, then looked down at Lorne again. “It’s Marine, not soldier,” he corrected stiffly. “Marine Sergeant Singal Khahar.”
“This is Cobra Dillon de Portola,” Lorne said, nodding at his companion. “You here to try your hand at killing some spine leopards?”
The Marine on de Portola’s side of the car snorted. “Hardly. We came to drag your—”
“Squelch it, Chimm,” Khahar cut him off. “Sure, why not? Where do you keep them?”
“Everywhere you want, and most places you don’t,” Lorne said, gesturing Khahar back. The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, but he obediently stepped back to make room for Lorne to get out of the car. “Down along Sutter’s Creek is usually a good place to start,” Lorne continued, pointing toward the wooded slope fifty meters away.
“We’re always clearing nests and way stations out of the groves bordering the creek,” de Portola added as he also got out of the car. “You two should probably hang back a little—they can come at you from unexpected directions. We’ll show you how it’s done.”
“You just worry about yourselves,” Khahar said. “We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll take point,” de Portola offered, and headed toward the cluster of trees and high grass. Keying in his infrareds and light-amps, Lorne followed.
They’d reached the tall grass on the edges of the grove, ten meters from the bank, when he caught the first hint of something warm in the middle branches of one of the trees. It was too diffuse to get a positive identification, but the positioning suggested that it was an adult, probably a male.
De Portola had spotted it, too. He snapped his fingers softly and pointed to the tree. Lorne snapped twice in acknowledgement, and as de Portola angled to the right of the tree Lorne shifted toward the left. A straightforward flanking maneuver would draw out the spine leopard and force it to choose between the two targets.
Lorne was still focused on the tree when, to his stunned disbelief, the two Marines strode between him and de Portola and headed at a brisk walk straight for the tree. “Wait!” Lorne whispered. “Don’t go that—”
Too late. With a crackle of displaced branches, the spine leopard leaped out of concealment. It hit the ground running, headed straight toward the Marines.
Lorne swore under his breath. The timing of that bonehead move had left him off-balance, his weight on his left leg, unable to bring the antiarmor laser running along that calf to bear on the attacker.
Fortunately, de Portola had been on his right leg when the spine leopard made its move. Even as the predator put on a burst of speed, he twisted to his right and swung up his left leg. The blue beam flashed from his heel to cut across the spine leopard’s head and flank. Its legs collapsed beneath it, and it plowed into the ground with a mournful screech.
As
“Like snipe dots,” de Portola said, nodding. “You’re obviously being targeted, so you behave yourself.”
“Right,” Lorne said. “Looks like the Dominion’s dropped blatant in favor of subtle this time around.”
“Could be,” De Portola agreed. “I wonder how you target-lock the things.”
“Maybe we’ll find out,” Lorne said, unfastening his restraints as the two Marines split formation, one heading down each side of the car. “Okay; nice and innocent.”
The Marines reached the two car doors simultaneously. There was a screech of a lockpop, and the man on Lorne’s side pulled the door open. “Lorne Broom?” he demanded.
“Morning, soldier,” Lorne greeted him genially. He nodded at the door. “It was unlocked.”
“Are you Lorne Broom?” the other repeated.
“Yes,” Lorne said. “And you?”
The Marine glanced over the top of the car at his companion, then looked down at Lorne again. “It’s Marine, not soldier,” he corrected stiffly. “Marine Sergeant Singal Khahar.”
“This is Cobra Dillon de Portola,” Lorne said, nodding at his companion. “You here to try your hand at killing some spine leopards?”
The Marine on de Portola’s side of the car snorted. “Hardly. We came to drag your—”
“Squelch it, Chimm,” Khahar cut him off. “Sure, why not? Where do you keep them?”
“Everywhere you want, and most places you don’t,” Lorne said, gesturing Khahar back. The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, but he obediently stepped back to make room for Lorne to get out of the car. “Down along Sutter’s Creek is usually a good place to start,” Lorne continued, pointing toward the wooded slope fifty meters away.
“We’re always clearing nests and way stations out of the groves bordering the creek,” de Portola added as he also got out of the car. “You two should probably hang back a little—they can come at you from unexpected directions. We’ll show you how it’s done.”
“You just worry about yourselves,” Khahar said. “We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll take point,” de Portola offered, and headed toward the cluster of trees and high grass. Keying in his infrareds and light-amps, Lorne followed.
They’d reached the tall grass on the edges of the grove, ten meters from the bank, when he caught the first hint of something warm in the middle branches of one of the trees. It was too diffuse to get a positive identification, but the positioning suggested that it was an adult, probably a male.
De Portola had spotted it, too. He snapped his fingers softly and pointed to the tree. Lorne snapped twice in acknowledgement, and as de Portola angled to the right of the tree Lorne shifted toward the left. A straightforward flanking maneuver would draw out the spine leopard and force it to choose between the two targets.
Lorne was still focused on the tree when, to his stunned disbelief, the two Marines strode between him and de Portola and headed at a brisk walk straight for the tree. “Wait!” Lorne whispered. “Don’t go that—”
Too late. With a crackle of displaced branches, the spine leopard leaped out of concealment. It hit the ground running, headed straight toward the Marines.
Lorne swore under his breath. The timing of that bonehead move had left him off-balance, his weight on his left leg, unable to bring the antiarmor laser running along that calf to bear on the attacker.
Fortunately, de Portola had been on his right leg when the spine leopard made its move. Even as the predator put on a burst of speed, he twisted to his right and swung up his left leg. The blue beam flashed from his heel to cut across the spine leopard’s head and flank. Its legs collapsed beneath it, and it plowed into the ground with a mournful screech.
As
Similar Books
