Dire Steps by Henry V. O'Neil

now formed in a defensive ring on both sides of the cart path, which swung north only a few hundred yards from the spot where they had first detected it. Both Second and Third Platoons had snugged up on them to the east, in preparation for First Platoon’s sidestep to the west of the trail. Leery of the path, Dassa had decided to skirt the newfound supply lane on both sides. Extra targets had been plotted across the company’s front, and the fire-­control personnel on the Dauntless had been warned that the infantrymen might make contact with the enemy shortly.
    Mortas slid the goggles lenses up so that he could look around with unaided eyes. Lush greenery pressed in from all sides, and he fought off a shiver at not being able to see more than a few yards. Every man in B Company stood out as a tiny dot on the imagery provided by the Dauntless and the satellites, despite the jungle canopy and the heat of the day. They were astride a main Sim supply line, and yet there were no heat signatures for their enemy anywhere.
    â€œOkay, keep looking.” Dassa ended the communication with the commanders of the two Force detachments guarding Broadleaf and Cordvine to the north. “They’re reviewing the satellite feed for this spot from the last few weeks, but so far nothing shows up except animals passing through. There is no way that a bunch of Sammies, pushing carts up and down this trail, could have gone unnoticed by the scanners.”
    Dassa looked at Pappas. “I pulled this mission once before, over a year ago, but the only signs we found were footprints. Look at this thing. They had to do some major clearing, just to be able to move the carts. A lot of work.”
    â€œExactly.” Pappas nodded, a green-­faced owl wearing body armor. “Whatever they’re doing with this stuff, it’s important. And it’s somewhere up this path.”

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    A yliss was warm. Too warm, lying there in Selkirk’s embrace. Naked, sated, exhausted from the work of the previous days, but still too warm.
    She fought to make herself wake up, feeling a tiny furnace inside her, bucking like an engine running out of fuel. Even asleep, Ayliss knew her body and knew something was wrong. She was sick, in a way she’d never experienced before.
    Her eyes wouldn’t open, and her mind raced as she slowly ascended from the depths. She couldn’t be sick. Not here. Not now .
    Voices. Male and female. Close in the darkness. Selkirk’s arm sliding out from under her, roughly, alarmed, then he was gone. Remarkably, a chill ran straight up her back where he had been, and her eyes finally opened.
    Unsure of where she was, but then recognizing her room in the house that she thought she’d given away. Confusion and anger mixing together when she remembered Hemsley refusing her request for modest lodgings inside the old Sim tunnels. Shuffling up the slope with her small retinue, feeling Blocker’s unstated reproach for having sent their shuttle away prematurely. Setting up in the building she’d given to the veterans as a hospital, sited between the Zone Quest managers she’d intentionally alienated and the veterans she’d courted.
    Her eyes came into focus in the dark room and she saw Blocker at the door, in whispered conversation with a robed Selkirk and a shorter figure in the hallway. Ayliss pushed herself up into a sitting position, her face flushed and her muscles weak. The small figure looked in at her, and spoke.
    â€œMinister, you have to come right away. Trust me.”
    The voice belonged to Tin, the irreverent Banshee. Ayliss impatiently tugged the sheet loose from the bedclothes and walked to the group, trying to appear sleepy and not ill. Blocker was wearing Force torso armor and holding one of the short-­barreled assault weapons, and Selkirk was wrapped in a skimpy robe that actually belonged to Ayliss, but it was Tin who held her attention.
    The