Nesseref said, “Come on, Orbit!” She dove under the bed. The new town had been attacked before; she knew how terrifying that could be.

Antiaircraft missiles roared out of launchers around the town. Antiaircraft guns-some made by the Race, others of Tosevite manufacture but pressed into service all the same-began to bark and crash.

And then, above those barking crashes, she heard the screams from the jet engines of several Deutsch killercraft. That the Deutsche should have killercraft with jet engines still struck her as wrong, unnatural, even though she’d been on Tosev 3 for several years now. That she should be a target for those killercraft stuck her as a great deal worse. If one of the bombs they dropped struck her building, if one of the shells they fired struck her…

She didn’t want to think about that. It was hard not to, though, when bombs burst in the town and when shells started slamming into the building. It shuddered, as if in an earthquake. Fortunately, it was harder to set on fire than a Tosevite structure. But fallout is getting in, Nesseref thought.

Even before the all-clear sounded, she left the shelter that probably wouldn’t have done her much good and stuffed plastic sheeting under the door. She didn’t know how much it would help; if polluted air was getting in through the ducts, it wouldn’t do much of anything. But it couldn’t hurt.

Orbit was intrigued. Nesseref had to speak sharply to keep the tsiongi from dragging away the plastic she’d used. The animal’s answering stare was reproachful. She’d had the fun of putting the plastic down. Why wouldn’t she let him have the fun of pulling it up again?

“Because it might not be healthy for either one of us if you did,” Nesseref told her pet. That made no sense at all to Orbit. She’d known it wouldn’t.

An ambulance hissed up in front of her building. Along with its flashing lights, she saw, it also had a red cross painted on top of it. That was no symbol the Race used; it belonged to the Big Uglies. It meant the vehicle was used only to aid the sick and injured, and so was not a proper military target.

Workers leaped out of the ambulance and ran skittering into the apartment building. When they came out again, they carried wounded males and females on stretchers or helped them get into the ambulance under their own power. The wounded left behind streaks and pools of blood Nesseref could see even from her upper-story flat. She turned away, more than a little sickened. She’d never imagined seeing so much blood, except perhaps at a rare traffic accident.

She swung an eye turret toward the monitor. This building’s filtration system is still functional, she read. Damaged windows are being resealed as rapidly as possible. Please remain calm.

“Damaged windows!” Nesseref’s mouth fell open in sardonic laughter. Did-could-anyone think the Deutsch cannon shells had penetrated only through window glass? They could have gone through the outer walls just as easily-and through several inner walls, too.

Anyone who thought would be able to see that in the flick of a nictitating membrane across an eyeball. But how many males and females feel like thinking right now? Nesseref wondered. How many will just want to seize any reassurance they can find?

Nesseref sighed. Colonists hadn’t come to Tosev 3 expecting the conquest to be continuing here. They’d come to reconstruct lives as much like those back on Home as they could make them. She wondered how they would react to being plunged into the chaos of war. By all she’d seen, Big Uglies took it for granted. That wasn’t so among her own kind-far from it.

The Deutsche will never have another chance to do this to us, she thought. But what of the other independent not-empires? If they didn’t walk soft, they would be sorry. She was sure of that.

20

Back in South Africa, Gorppet had more ginger than he knew what to do with. When the Race uprooted him from the comfortable post he’d won as a reward for capturing the fanatic named Khomeini, he’d brought barely enough to Poland to keep himself happy for a little while. And most of what he had, he couldn’t taste. He’d learned during the last round of fighting that a male who tasted too often thought he was braver and smarter and more nearly invulnerable than he really was. He usually found out his mistake by finding himself dead.

Gorppet had learned all sorts of things during the fighting. That, of course, was why the Race had summoned him back to combat. He could have done without the honor. He’d already given the Big Uglies too many chances to kill or maim him. That was his view of the matter, anyhow. As far as his superiors were concerned, he was just one more munition, to be expended as necessary.

At the moment, he waited in a barn that smelled powerfully of Tosevite animals. A regiment leader was briefing him and a good many other lower-ranking officers: “We can expect this latest Deutsch thrust to exhaust itself before long. The Big Uglies’ ability to resupply is almost entirely destroyed.”

“Superior sir!” Gorppet signaled for attention.

“Yes? What is it, Small-Unit Group Leader?” the officer asked.

“Superior sir, did you ever run up against the Deutsche during the last round of fighting?” Gorppet asked.

“No,” the regimental leader admitted. “I served on the lesser continental mass then.”

“Well, then, superior sir, all I can tell you is, don’t count them out of anything till you see them all dead. And be careful even then-they may be shamming,” Gorppet said. “They are much tougher, male for male, than the Russkis or than any other kind of Big Ugly I can think of.”

“I assure you, I have been thoroughly informed as to their proclivities,” the regiment leader said. “I can also assure you that I know whereof I speak. We shall deal with them here in short order.”

He spoke as if he knew everything there was to know. He probably thought he did. That meant he either hadn’t seen hard fighting over on the lesser continental mass or had forgotten what it was like. Knowing he was wasting his time, Gorppet tried again: “The Deutsche, superior sir-”

“Are broken,” the regiment leader said firmly. “Let us have no further doubts on that score. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, superior sir.” Gorppet knew he sounded resigned and imperfectly subordinate, but had trouble caring. The regiment leader outranked him, but that didn’t mean the fellow kept his brains anywhere but his cloaca.

And then, to Gorppet’s astonishment, another male spoke up: “Superior sir, the small-unit group leader is right. As long as the Deutsche are in the field, they are dangerous. Underestimating them will do nothing but get good males killed to no purpose. I mean no disrespect when I say this, for it is a manifest truth.”

In a deadly voice, the regiment leader said, “Give me your name, Mid-Group Leader. Your statement will go on the record.”

“Very well, superior sir: I am Shazzer,” the other male replied. The regiment leader spoke into a computer hookup. There, all too probably, went Shazzer’s reputation and hope for advancement. They would surely be gone if the regiment leader turned out to be right. They were also likely doomed even if the regiment leader turned out to be wrong. The Race did not like those who disagreed with duly constituted authority. The regiment leader’s eye turrets swung toward Gorppet. “Give me your name, too, Small-Unit Group Leader.”

“Superior sir, I am Gorppet,” he answered. He’d never expected to become an officer. If he stopped being one, the eggshell of his world wouldn’t shatter.

“Gorppet,” the regiment leader repeated, this time into the computer hookup. Having finished that, he continued, “Now let us turn to the business at hand: wiping out the surviving remnants of the Deutsche.”