. . and one of the zombies was a woman. I didn't know her; UAC worker. Thank God it wasn't Arlene. I didn't even want to think about Arlene with gray flesh and a sour-lemon smell, sneering and pumping bullets at me without any recognition. I felt a rage I'd never felt before; my blood was on fire and my skin couldn't contain the boiling, liquid anger. I shook from hate so deep that military training could never reach it. I didn't want to shoot these travesties of human life. I wanted to rip them apart with my bare hands! They shuffled toward me, fumbling their weapons and pump- ing shots like their rifles would never run dry. What did I do? I staggered directly toward them, raising my own M-211 and taking one of the walking dead in its shoulder ... a useless shot. It was the girl that broke the spell. Some little piece of who she once was must have been left in her brain, a faint echo or resonance of human thought. She didn't charge blindly like the other three; she turned and fell behind cover to plink at me. My higher brain functions kicked in. I shook my head, then strafed while sidestepping to a pillar; once behind cover, I aimed a shot into Zombie One's head. It roared, then danced like a headless chicken and collapsed. I got the message: only head shots got me any points. Just like in the movies. The citrus stench almost overwhelmed me. I snuck a quick glance at the zombie I'd just smoked . . . some- thing squirmed inside its brain. Swallowing nausea, I took a bead on Zombie Two. The zombie-girl chittered, and the other two headed jerkily toward the console behind which she crouched. I caught Zombie Two before it made it halfway; but the other one took a position behind cover, and both it and Zombie Girl returned fire. A standoff. I was trapped behind the pillar, two zombies behind an instrument console marked UAC and covered with sticky-pad notes, the three of us separated by no more than twenty meters. Swiveling my head, I stared wildly around, trying to spot something useful. Five minutes deep into the Phobos facility, and I was pinned down inside a mortuary in hell. A dozen bodies sprawled on the floor from the open control room in which I stood all the way to a curve in the corridor beyond which I could see no farther. Recognizing a few of them didn't do my stomach any good. The others were probably UAC workers. I thought I'd seen war in Kefiristan. The undead and I played a game of tag around the pillar; I popped out to fire off a shot, and they sprayed my position a moment after I abandoned it. There wasn't much time to appreciate the fine details; the third time I popped around for a shot, I slipped on fresh blood. Even as a kid, I was good at turning mishaps into advantages; special training merely augmented my natural instinct for survival. I hit the floor on my knees, then dropped to my belly to aim a shot while braced against the floor. The third male zombie rose to fire down on me, and I caught it in the throat, knocking it backward; before it could reacquire its target, Yours Truly, my next shot took Zombie Three in the right eye. The female wasn't wearing a uniform or armor; I realized she must have once been a UAC worker, not a soldier . . . which might account for her bad aim. She fired off a couple of rounds that missed by a wide margin. I can fight this war forever, I thought, rage starting to creep back. Then it struck me: I could fight this war forever, at least until I was finally blown away, and never even come close to figuring out what had happened here at Phobos Base. I had to take one of bastards "alive," if that was the right word. The plan flickered through my head between one shot and the next; and now that I finally had a plan, I was Light Drop Infantry again! Quickly, before she could adjust and acquire me, I bolted around the pillar, head-faked to the left, then cut right and hopped over the console. Zombie Girl swiveled the wrong direction, and before she could turn back, I swung the butt of my Sig-Cow into her temple. She dropped like bricks on Jupiter. The rifle sailed from her hands across the floor. I slung my own M-211 across my back, flipped her over and shoved my pistol in her mouth. "What the hell's going on?" I demanded. "Mmph hmmpb rmmph," she said. I pulled the gun out of her mouth, but she kept talking as if she had not even noticed it. "--is the key. Gate is the key. Key is the gate. Coming. Kill you all." Zombie Girl's eyes shifted left and right; she was preternaturally strong . . . but not as strong as big Fly Taggart. My hand drooped as I stared at her, and she snapped at it like a rabid dog, trying to bite me. Abruptly, I realized why the zombies' eyes were so dry and their vision so bad: they never blinked. I pushed the pistol against her forehead. "If there's any piece alive inside of you, you know what this thing will do to your shriveled, little brains. What the hell is coming through the gate?" "Great. Ones. Gate ones." She focused her eyes on me, seeming to see me for the first time. She didn't answer, but for a moment her face was filled with such torment that I could no longer stand the interrogation. I cocked the hammer; her eyes rolled up, looking over my head. "You want this?" I asked. Zombie Girl closed her eyes. It was the only kind of prayer left to her by the reworking that made her what she was. I closed my own eyes when I squeezed the trigger. The gunshot snapped me awake again; I jumped up, slid the Sig-Cow into ready position, and backed away from the undead dead. What the hell was going on? I started to think I had an answer . . . part of an answer. "Who built the Gates?" The question endlessly on everyone's lips might be about to be answered. Maybe. But were the "Great Ones" coming through the Gates the ones who had built them? Or had the builders already been overrun by some even more powerful, horrific critter, who was now joyfully following Gate after Gate, finding and overpowering all the colonies of the builders' "empire"? Neither thought was pleasant: humans were either trespassers who were about to be run off the property or dessert after a main course of Gate builders. I got the shakes, real bad. I backed into a dark corner, M-211 pointed toward the corridor, the unknown, the way I hadn't been yet. I had not seen a particular body I'd half dreaded, half hoped to find. Christ. Arlene was still Somewhere Out There, one way or the other. I prayed she was lying dead on the deck, not stumbling toward me with dry, unblinking eyes and a sour-lemon smell. I might soon be the only living human on Phobos, I realized. I had little faith in the guards I'd left back in the mess hall. First contact with zombies, and they'd role over and, to coin a phrase, play dead. I could imagine a rotting corpse that used to be Lieutenant Weems telling them to get with the zombie program; the Rons would salute and "Yes sir!" themselves straight to hell. The old survival mechanism was definitely starting to kick in for Yours Truly. I'd never been completely comfortable as a team player. I could see myself doing the job of zombie exterminator until I was the only biped left standing on Phobos. These living dead characters weren't very good soldiers. Yeah, I could dust them all. Except for one little detail. I couldn't bear coming up against what used to be Arlene Sanders. No, that wasn't very appealing at all. It's not like she was my girl; she had her Dodd, and it seemed to satisfy her. Dodd and I didn't really like each other, but we tolerated for Arlene's sake. Not love, I swear. It's just that Arlene lived in the same world I did, and I mean a lot more than just wearing the same uniform. She wasn't like any other girl I'd been ... I mean, any other girl I'd known. Arlene remembered being awakened by a D.I. heaving a trash can down the hall, same as me. She remembered the jarhead getting all over her; "on your face, down-up- down-up-down-up--you keep pumpin' 'em out until I get tired!" She knew about reveille at 0500, PT (Physical Training), or a dainty, eight-mile run at 0505. Arlene knew the smell of disinfectant. She knew all about scraping two years of accumulated crud off a wall with a chisel so the next guy could slap on a quarter-inch- thick splash of anti-corrosion paint. She'd spent just as many months as I wrestling a goddamned floor buffer up and down a corridor, while already dog-sacked from hours of PT, obstacle course, combat training, small-arms, endless, mindless instruc- tion on how to break down and reassemble a Sig-Cow while blindfolded, and lectures on the exotic venereal diseases of Kefiristan, Mars, Phobos Base, and Ohio .. . hours that always seemed to add up to twenty-six or twenty-eight per day. Arlene figured out a lot about me in record time. She was bright, and just as committed to a military career as any other man in the outfit. She'd become my best buddy in the platoon. As I sat there, wiping blood and crud from my face in the eye of an impossible hurricane, it helped to think about Arlene. Recalling her features drove the monsters from my mind. I played a little game with myself, not letting the horror rise up and engulf the picture I was drawing. I don't think I've ever seen a better-looking woman than Arlene, objectively considered. She wasn't drop- dead gorgeous in the conventional sense. To use an older phrase from a braver age, she was "right handsome." Five-ten and compactly built, she worked out more than anyone else in the platoon. She had beautiful, well-cut muscles. (Once, when for a few days she thought she might be "with child"--not mine--Gates had said, "She's such a man, I bet she got herself pregnant." He didn't say it loudly.) I liked how she looked at everyone through slitted eyes, giving her a hooded serpent look. She was not to be trifled with, as one skank found out when he thought it was funny to sneak up behind her and pull down her pants. The rest of us were certainly interested in seeing all we could of her well-shaped posterior; but we weren't idiots. Without turning around, she backhanded him perfectly and broke his nose. At the time all I could think of was how much I enjoyed seeing her move. We're talking ballet here. Of course, there was a lot more to Arlene; she had a brain. Those are in short supply in the service, even in Light Drop, and I hated to see one go to waste. I took her to Corps music concerts, and she dragged me to old sci-fi movies. We got drunk together sometimes. We played poker, too; but my only chance against her was when I was stone-cold sober. One night we got so drunk that we fumbled our way into a kiss. It just didn't feel right. We were buddies, not lovers. Arlene and I reached an unspoken agreement where we didn't talk about that night. As if to prove what a pal she could be, she started setting me up with dates. She had girlfriends who were always first-rate in one way or another, and they liked to oblige her by hanging with her pal. I didn't kick. I just didn't seem able to return a commensurate favor. Arlene told me once how she wanted to save up some money and go to college someday. I didn't hold that against her. I wished the best for her. The best. That thought shot down my reverie in flames. What could the best be for her now, in this place? Death, I guessed; anything would be better than gray flesh, dry, unblinking eyes, and jerking limbs. "No," I heard myself talking to no one, "she'd never allow herself to be turned into one of those." But what if this reworking took place after death? Swallowing hard, I stood up and decided to get back to business. I needed ammo; a wild shot had destroyed the magazine and receiver of one of the Sig-Cows; the only thing a zombie could use it for now would be as a war club, so I left it on the floor. Nobody had a select fire weapon, which was too bad; I sure missed the luxury of launching three or four rounds at a time toward a zombie head . . . much better chance of a bull's-eye. On the other hand, if they had had one of the two select-fire M-220 Dogchoppers that a squad carried, I might not be alive to pick through the weaponry. I shoved some magazines into my ammo pockets and loaded up both weapons. No sense carrying another Sig-Cow. I really wanted to get my hands on the riot gun that Dardier usually carried, though--except it would probably mean ripping it out of her twitching fingers after blowing a hole in her pretty, blond head. I followed the trail of corpses another two bends of the corridor, taking as much ammo as I could carry without rattling like a medieval knight. We were all supposed to carry head-talks, so we could communicate ... but I didn't find any, which was pretty suspicious. No ELFs or MilDataBuses, either: nothing whatsoever that might be used to communicate what the hell was going on. And I always made time to check the faces. So long as one, particular face wasn't there ... I knew I could stand it. 4 I almost felt relief when I ran into two more zombies. Now that I knew what to do, it was just some sickening sort of exercise. I only "killed" one of them; the other, I just popped its rifle, then shot out its knees and hips; I wanted it alive, maybe to answer some questions before I smashed in the curling mouth with the yellow teeth. I didn't recognize this one; it was a former UAC worker, used to be a man. It didn't have even as much mind left as had Zombie Girl; but this time, I let it babble for some time: "Big, coming through, big, Gate is the key, killing, killing, all the killing, coming through, coming to kill you all, the Gate is the key, the key, hell and damns is the key, coming through the Gate . . . "Phobos! Fear, fear, fear, fear, fear! "Coming to Phobos, coming from Phobos, crossing the Styx, pickup Styx, Styx is the key." I waited until it started repeating itself; after a mo- ment, a chill crept down my neck: the thing was repeat- ing itself exactly, like a tape loop. Suddenly more scared than I had been in hours, I put it out of its misery (and mine). I backed up into a dark alcove, praying nobody had a light-amp glasses or an infrared sensor. I needed to think this through. A single strip of hellishly bright luminescence flickered off and on high in the center of the ceiling; a bare sun bulb was all that was left of the lighting system. The strobe effect made shadows look like monsters, creeping toward me. But I didn't smell any rotten citrus, and heard none of the characteristic zombie gibbering . .. just a strange clicking sound ahead, like a dolphin with laryngitis. I figured I was safe for the moment. Phobos was pretty obvious; they were here, at Phobos Base. They came to Phobos . . . but what did the thing mean saying they were coming from Phobos? I started feeling nauseated. My skin began to creep up and down my bones . . . If the zombie didn't distinguish between yesterday, today, and tomorrow, then maybe it was telling me that Phobos was not the final target of the invasion; they were going to cross the River Styx, the river of the dead in Greek mythology. And what was on the other side? Well, hell, I supposed. Hades. But wait--if you were starting from hell, then "crossing the Styx" took you to ... I swallowed the nausea back down. Sweat dripped down my forehead, stinging my eyes. The target was Earth. Terra mostly firma. Home sweet hovel. I accepted the fact that I was a dead man. After four years of Catholic school, run by Father Bartolomeo, Society of Jesus, I had always thought I was pretty much "prayed out." Certainly, even after four years in the Corps, the last three in Light Drop Infantry, I hadn't had a word to say to the Big Guy, if He were even listening. But now, for the first time, after a cumulative seven- teen weeks of actual combat intercut into four years of military life, I finally understood that stupid line about there being "no atheists in foxholes." I didn't use the words that the Jesuits taught me, but I know who I was talking to, begging for the guts and skill not to hose up. "Suicide mission" was a weak term for what I was doing. I'm as afraid to die as the next jarhead; but goddamn it, I didn't want to be damned as a walking dead! I told the Big Guy what I'd done wrong in the last, ah, seven years and promised him a lifetime of penance if He'd just forgive me and send me into battle shriven. It was a hollow offer, I knew; that "lifetime" was probably measured in hours. Thank God it's the thought that counts. Taking a breath, I swung my rifle around, finger outside the trigger guard, and stepped out of the alcove. I continued around a corner toward the clicking noise. Suddenly I saw what looked like a working radio! Hurrying over--too quickly for caution's sake--I saw that only the front part of the mechanism remained. The back was ripped out in a way that showed clear sabotage. Up to that moment, it had seemed possible that the radios were destroyed accidentally, casualties of battle; but this was clear evidence of at least human-level tactics, far beyond what I'd imagine the zombies could do. There was somebody else wandering around here. If I hunted long enough, I figured I'd find it... if it or they didn't find me first. Turning a corner in the corridor, I saw more evidence of some kind of strategy: on the wall, a map to the installation had been burned beyond recognition, while the space around it was only slightly singed. Whoever that other something or somebody was, it knew that more of us would be coming after it; it didn't want us to be able to find our way. Ahead was a hatchway, the door open. The light directly over it was broken; but a steady, green glow emanated from beyond the narrow opening; the glow did not come from any electrical source I could think of. Even as I moved toward the entrance, I knew I wanted to be anywhere else but here. A new odor assailed me, far worse than the sour lemons. This was the loving, sweet aroma of something that should have been buried, or better yet, flushed. It literally burned my nostrils. I fumbled for the mask that accompanied the combat armor. Jesus, I thought, what I wouldn't give for a working environment suit! My hands shook as pulled it over my mouth and nose, wondering what horrible, toxic fumes I was breathing. The surge of air from the suit augmented the bad air; but it did little good. The molecules of the toxin were evidently smaller than oxygen molecules and didn't react to any of the filters; I could still smell them right through the mask. Every warning klaxon in my body was screaming; my skin tingled, and the proverbial hair on the back of my proverbial neck jumped up and did some PT. I took a few tentative steps farther in, then I came up short; I'd found the light source. Pools of thick, green liquid bubbled on both sides of me. The stuff was luminescent, probably radioactive. It looked like boiling lava on Saint Patrick's day. I wasn't going to stop and run any experiments; but I had no doubt the gunk would eat right through my combat suit, given enough time. The prudent decision was to stay as far away from the green slime as humanly possible. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than a ton of bricks slammed into me from the right, knocking the 10mm pistol out of my holster and into the green toxin. Something had decided to run the experiment after all. The 10mm made a hissing sound as it disappeared from view. I didn't care. I had problems of my own. Flipping over, I struggled to get to my feet and bring my big Sig-Cow into play, if I could figure out what the hell hit me. The impact had blurred my vision. I stood up, dizzy, shaking my head. The figure that had hit me so hard stood just out of sight, in the shadows. I assumed it was another zombie, but a stronger one than I had encountered before. Then it cut loose with a hiss, and more of that clicking sound I had been hearing. Well, one little mystery solved. The strength in this--zombie?--inspired greater cau- tion. I rolled my M-211 around and skated to the side, waiting for the creature to come to me. He did. As the large body moved into sight, I saw brown, leathery skin, rough like alligator hide, with ivory-white horns sticking out from chest, arms, and legs. The head was inhumanly huge, with maddened slits of red for eyes. It was a monster! It was a demon. 5 My first reaction was to laugh. This was a childhood nightmare, a bogeyman. The part of me that had worked so hard to grow up just couldn't believe in something that looked like this. Only trouble was, the damned thing didn't appreciate its own absurdity. It took a few steps toward me where the light was better. Movement made the figure less ridiculous. Shadows played across its rough hide, and I saw that the wrinkled flesh under the eyes were wet. I hated to admit that it really was flesh. The eyes flickered with an angry red light. The worst features were the lips curling back to reveal ugly, yellow canines. This was no Halloween mask with a rigid grimace. Inhuman as this monster was, I couldn't confuse it with an animal. Just an alien bastard, I told myself over and over; I was a lot more comfortable with the idea of an alien, even an alien soldier--a cosmic-grunt. Not a ... a demon. The extraterrestrial stopped advancing. It turned its head at an angle no human could copy, but kept its eyes fixed on me. Mexican standoff. Despite it having attacked me first, I couldn't shake the thought that it was my responsibility to try to make contact. No communication seemed possible with the hollow shells who used to be my buddies or UAC workers; the most I could drag out of them was simple parroting of what they had heard, before or after death. But this one was different . . . this one was--how could I fire up a conversation with an alien "demon" whose interest in humans seemed purely nutritional? "Who are you?" I asked. I figured it wouldn't know English, but might at least guess from the tone what I had asked. But it threw me a curve by smiling wide and silently mouthing the same question, Who are you, seeming to mock me. I tried again: "Human being," I said, tapping my armored chest. "Understand? Do you talk?" Nothing. Nada. I took a calculated risk: I wasn't about to put down my weapon; but I slowly extended one hand, palm forward, in what I hoped was a universal symbol of nonaggression. There was a response but I didn't quite know what to make of it. The grotesque humanoid slowly lifted its right hand up to its shoulder and stroked the white protrusion of bone, allowing its thumb to linger on the sharp point. The sight was very strange and it did not suggest peaceful intentions. Definitely a Mexican stand- off. I suddenly got nervous about leaving my hand ex- posed. The sharp teeth suggested a healthy appetite. I became acutely aware of my environment. The bubbling, green sludge behind me burbled louder, and for the first time, I thought I heard the monster breathing. The breathing stopped. Pure instinct took over. Soldiers sometimes take a sharp breath just before attacking . . . some hold their breath as the floodgates open, releasing enough adrena- line to turn coward into hero. The monster attacked so quickly I couldn't have gotten a shot off even if my Sig-Cow hadn't jammed. Whatever the thing was, it was not stupid. It charged me, clawing for ray throat with one set of nails while the other hand fended off my bayonet. That was the only good news; if it was afraid of my blade, then surely the alien would bleed if I stuck it. If... I stopped pushing and suddenly pulled with the mon- ster, instead of against it. I fell backward, and four hundred pounds of leathery skin and iron muscle dropped on top of me--and right onto my bayonet. With an inhuman scream that nearly ruptured my eardrums, the demon died, convulsing a few last times before instantly stiffening into what felt like a stone statue. I was mighty damned glad to learn that demons did bleed, at least on Phobos. I was relieved for some reason that the blood was red. I was less pleased to feel the stone weight of the monster crushing me into the floor. Jesus and Mary, did I wish I could turn off the Phobos gravity generator, just for a moment! Years spent in Catholic school came back to me; I remembered an old penguin, Sister Beatrice, who was obsessed with the biblical injunction to avoid unclean things. Unclean things! My stomach heaved; shaking the body off me with more strength than I'd ever experienced before, I almost vomited on the very spot where blood pulsed out of the alien's belly wound. Jumping too quickly to my feet, I slipped in the slick, red goo--right next to one of the bubbling pits of green sludge. Heat poured from the boiling, green liquid waste. I didn't want that stuff any closer to my face than it was already; I had a feeling the luminescence was not harm- less phosphorous, and this didn't seem the time to run any tests. I took a moment to catch my breath. It had been difficult enough to accept the fact of people--buddies!-- turned into zombies; but this thing at my feet meant anything could happen next. I didn't want to let my imagination run wild. Reality was bad enough at the moment. Not since childhood had I really felt a desire to pray. The first monsters of my life had been stern nuns refusing to answer the questions of an inquisitive mind. But now I felt a need for God, if only to have a power big enough to swear an oath on. "I'll stop you," I promised, "whatever you are, howev- er many you are." It helped to say the words out loud, even if one of the bastards heard me. Hell, they could hear my footsteps, anyway. "If there is a God, please let me live just long enough to stop these monsters from dropping ship to Earth!" The small voice of reason was growing smaller all the time; scientific knowledge! Physical law! Like the song says, biggest lie you ever saw. Survival came first; killing lots of monsters. Learning something useful about the enemy was just fine, so long as it came third. And there was the problem of how I would communicate any useful discovery; and to whom. Ahead were the remains of yet another smashed radio. A human hand still touched the controls. The hand was not attached to an arm. The best explanation was that the body probably lay dissolving at the bottom of the pool of green slime. Making my way out of this section seemed the most important move for all three goals, if only to get away from the hot, green liquid. The monster had thrown me off. I couldn't help imagining the creature from the black lagoon, or green lagoon, waiting at the bottom of every toxic pool. If I could meet one two-legged nightmare, I could meet more. And I don't just mean more like the ones I'd already fought; there could be worse things, anything! What were the laws for monsters? Thoughts of horrors crawling around on the bottom of radioactive sludge pools gave way to even more unlikely scenarios. How about creatures that could exist outside the domes, in airless space? And if they didn't need to breathe, maybe those aliens didn't bleed, either. I made myself stop. If I kept this up, I wouldn't need to be picked off by the enemy; I'd be saving them the trouble. I heaved a sigh of relief to leave the toxic-spill room, clearing the jammed brass from my Sig-Cow receiver; it made little difference--I only had two or three rounds left and nowhere to stock up. As if being rewarded for a bad attitude, there was another collection of inanimate dead just through the doorway, awaiting inspection. For the first time since this nightmare began I actually felt relief at the sight of human corpses. At least they were human. Not zombies, not monsters. If I'd been more careful--or paying more attention to my imagination--it might have occurred to me that one of the zombies could be pretending to be a corpse. But somewhere in the back of my brain I had already figured out that the zombies were no-brainers. They weren't about to pull tricks. There was something very reassuring about thinking about things that weren't possible (or at least not very probable). Sure beat the hell out of imagining super- monsters that could do anything! As I surveyed the dead men, the damaged weapons, the lack of ammo, and for dessert, a smashed radio, I finally understood what must have been going through the minds of these soldiers as their lives were ripped out of them. I understood why they hadn't done the intelligent thing and withdrawn, regrouped, reported: they'd been so overcome with revulsion, just like Yours Truly, that they'd simply charged into the mob (of zombies? mon- sters?) in a berserker fury, killing anything that got in the way. They stopped thinking and started reacting instead --and were cut down, one by one. A heavy rumble from behind grabbed my attention. Setting a new record for spinning around, I realized I had to go back into the blasted toxic-spill room to check this out. So I did. The latest surprise: when I killed the monster, it evidently fell across a lift lever I hadn't noticed. I arrived at this conclusion because of the large, metal platform which finished lowering itself right in front of my nose. Beyond the lift was a brand new corridor I hadn't seen before. To enter or not to enter? That was as good a question as any I'd had all day. Staying behind meant facing inconceivable danger and unimaginable odds. Whereas going forward meant facing unimaginable danger and inconceivable odds. Or something. The corridor ahead had two appealing features: there were no slime pits and the light was brighter. The latter decided me. There had to have been some good reason to make the choice I made. I backed up and took a flying leap; fear lent my feet wings . . . but not jet engines, unfortunately. I landed short and teetered on the edge of the biggest pool of green crud in creation. I windmilled my arms ... if I hadn't stepped back, I would have fallen back. For a second all my foot felt was icy, icy cold, as if I'd stepped into liquid nitrogen. Then the pain struck. I tried to yank my foot free, but my muscles wouldn't respond! My leg was on fire from toe to thigh. I lurched forward, falling on my face; my foot was free of the toxin, but I shouted through clenched teeth. Fighting a suicidal impulse to grab my still-wet foot, I wrapped my arms around my gut instead. If a zombie or monster demon had stumbled across me then, it could have snuffed me with my blessing. It was minutes before the throbbing pain in my leg subsided. I scraped my foot against the floor, rubbing off as much of the toxin as I could; but my leg swelled tight and angry red inside my ruined boot. But at least, thank God, the pool was behind me. The new corridor seemed antiseptic and clean after what I'd just stepped in. If there were unpleasant odors, they didn't penetrate my visor. I followed the corridor until I came to a room on the right. Something made me hesitate about going in. It wasn't a sense of danger or anything like that. Maybe it was because the door was closed. Mostly they'd been open. I don't normally credit sixth sense stuff or mysti- cism; but I've learned in combat that you ignore your instincts at your peril. There are human "predator senses" that normal, civilized life pretty much breeds out of us. I had my weapon at the ready even though two shots from now the Sig-Cow would be nothing but a fancy spear. Kicking the door was easy; looking into the room was hard. There was one lone body on the floor, female, her back to me. 6 For a cold-gut second, I thought she might be Arlene. The impression lasted only a few seconds; then I saw it was Tij "Dude" Dardier. We'd fought together pretty closely in Kefiristan, and you get so you recognize a buddy from behind, especially females in a crack fighting unit. Her face was unmarked, still cute, still a little girl with red hair who had a big surprise for any man who thought she was easy pickings. I wondered if a monster or zombie had gotten her. The ugly wound was in her stomach. There was something funny about her posture; she lay as if she had a secret. I stared for a moment, coaxing her dead body to talk to me Then I figured it out: Dudette was lying on top of something, shielding it from dry zombie eyes. I touched her gently, then gingerly slipped over her corpse. Dude Dardier was lying on top of the pump- action riot gun I'd been wishing for earlier--her death- day present for Yours Truly. I felt like a ghoul, but feelings were a luxury. With a shotgun in my arsenal, my survival rating took a big leap up the charts. I checked the bore and found no obstructions. There were plenty of shells in the bandoleer around her body. I thanked Dudette for being a Marine to the end . . . semper fi, Mac. Back in the corridor, I found remains of a map on the wall. The Bad Guys evidently followed a plan, proven by destroyed radio gear and vandalized wall maps. But this time there was just enough left of the map to figure out the basic direction toward the lift, which I prayed was still working. Being properly armed did wonders for my psychology; I decided maybe I would do well to generate a tactical plan. There is no north or south on Phobos, but I oriented myself along the facility's major axis. Getting to the nuclear plant was the next logical move; it had the largest concentration of equipment. . . and perhaps even an untrained engineer like me could jerry-rig some gear into a working radio. I found the lift without further molestation; naturally, it was broken, shot to hell--the hydraulics leaked away from numerous gunshot holes. But the manual escape hatch still worked. Placing myself back into a narrow, confined space was about as appealing as it sounded, and my damned imagination started bugging me again at precisely the moment duty called. My imagination was not very patriotic; it needed six weeks of boot camp. There was a dim light in the shaft, very, very dim. Every square foot of the base was supposed to be constantly lit, bright as day, except for the barracks. Someone in charge must have been mugged by a flash- light when he was a kid and wanted nothing more to do with them. Maybe I shouldn't have complained; light was light. As I climbed down the long shaft, it occurred to me to think about something cheerful, a silver lining that must exist somewhere in these storm clouds. There had to be something. And there was. I hadn't found Arlene's body yet ... and so long as I didn't know what had happened to her, there was hope. I figured the nuclear plant must be at least six stories down. Just keep climbing, that was all I could do. Climb. Hope. Watch out for demons. Real simple. I preferred thinking about Arlene. I remembered the day she showed up from Parris Island and joined the real Corps, the fighting Corps. I looked up from monkeying with the sticky belt-advance on a .60 caliber auto-stabilized, and I saw a brutal babe in cammies, spats, webbing, and sporting a newly shaved high-and-tight. Catching her eye told me all I had to know. She knew what she was doing, all right. The Corps is protective of its haircut, flat on the top and shaved on the sides. We're talking a sign of distinction, a challenge thrown at every other service. God help the Navy, Army, or Space Force puke who shows up on one of our bases in a high-and-tight! What happens afterward is why God made Captain's Mast. But Arlene was no innocent. She wore her cut high and proud, and wore a single, red, private's stripe. Lieutenant Weems (pre-punch) took one look at Arlene Sanders, a long, hard look, and curled his lip. He watched her hand her packet to PFC Dodd, who stared at her like she had two heads. So far as I know, that was the first time they ever met, they who were destined for ... well, not love, exactly; extreme lustlike. (After about a year of ignoring him with all her might, then another six months of despising him, she shamefacedly confessed to me that she'd spent the night in his fiat.) All in all, not the best-foot-forward on this first day for the first woman in Fox Company. Of course, the opinion of Lieutenant Weems was already a debased currency by this time. But the opinion of the other men mattered. And no one could express that company opinion with more eloquence than Gun- nery Sergeant Goforth, the company's "grand old man." Hell, he was in his late thirties, an eighteen-year Marine, the last ten in Light Drop. Goforth looked like Aldo Ray in those old John Wayne movies. He was heavyset, muscular but not fat; he shaved his head but would probably be bald anyway. Goforth was a Franks tank with legs, a few freckles mixed in along with the Rolled Homogenous Armor. The gunny made a big deal of sauntering over to Arlene and let loose with his thick, Georgian drawl: "Hooo-eeee! Where'ud the lay-dee get thuh purty "do?" She looked him in the eye. That was all. Not a bad answer, really, but I thought that under the circum- stances a few words of reason might be in order. I volunteered myself for the task. Partly because I liked a woman with guts; partly because I respected the men in the Corps-and felt their position could be expressed in a more thoughtful manner than Gunny Goforth was likely to manage. But mainly I spoke up because at some deep level I hate all rules, symbols, rituals, fighting words, gang colors, routines, decorations, medals, trophies, badges . . . and anything else that suggests one human being is to be taken more seriously than another in a given situation simply on the basis of plumage. Besides, I was making no headway with the damned .60 cal. I was sitting on the mess hall table and felt very much above it all as I said, "Private, a high-and-tight is not a fashion statement. You gotta earn it." That seemed a nice ice breaker. She must have agreed because she spoke to me, not Goforth. "I'm as much a Marine as the next man," she said, glancing at me before returning her steady attention back to the gunny. The first retort that crossed my mind was to take a big bite of the red apple that happened to be in my hand. The longer it took to chew and swallow the piece of apple, the more profound would be my clever rejoinder, it seemed to me. So I did. And Goforth took a step closer to Arlene, deliberately breaking her space. Arlene stood her ground, not budging an inch. In between bites of the apple, I thought I would essay another arbitration. "You know," I essayed, "a high-and- tight is not mil-spec for ladies." "It's not regulation for men, either," she shot back. There was no arguing with that, but there was plenty of apple left to crunch. Gunny Goforth didn't have an apple. "Any Muh-reen who wears thet 'do," he said, "sure as hell is gonna earn it, missy." I thought the "missy" was a bit much. Arlene Sanders leaned forward into his space, close enough t