Rogan stood and watched as his Marines moved out, forming into something resembling a combat formation. Then he turned and walked back toward one of the landers, stopping in front of an officer wearing a flight suit. “Alright, Ensign, I think we’re clear of your engines. You can lift off whenever you’re ready…but I’d move it. I expect we’re going to have company here soon.

“Yes, Captain. We’ll launch at once.”

“And, Ensign…do me a favor. Try to get a good scan in after you lift off. We could use a better idea of what’s coming.”

“Yes, sir…if they’re deployed and on the way, we’ll fly right over them. We might even manage a strafing run, maybe soften them up a little.”

Rogan nodded. “Anything you can do would be a help, Ensign. And the Marines would owe you one.”

*   *   *

“We’ve got twenty-six down, sir. At least half of those are dead.”

Millius’s face was twisted with rage. Alliance landers weren’t armed. Invasion forces went in supported with special ground assault ships that pounded enemy positions. But these Confed landing craft had their own weapons, and the quad-autocannons had taken his people by surprise. One of his centuries had been caught in the open, moving toward the enemy positions. And they’d been hit hard.

“We’ve got to keep moving, Centurion. We can’t afford any delays.”

That’s a diplomatic way of saying, leave the wounded behind to die…

“Yes, Praefectus.” The officer nodded abruptly. Alliance forces were trained not to salute on the battlefield. There was no advantage in giving a gift to enemy snipers.

Millius watched the officer run back up toward his forward line. There hadn’t been a hint of disapproval, nor even surprise at the command to leave his wounded behind. The way was the way.

No one ever said life as an Alliance warrior was easy…

Millius felt a pang of regret for those he was abandoning, but he understood the math of war, in a way few of the Alliance’s enemies seemed to. He could pause, stop his advance, detach vital troops to tend to the wounded…but he’d just be trading one group of dying soldiers for another.

Besides, a wound is damned near a death sentence in this forsaken wasteland…

He moved forward, his legs pushing through the hip deep snow. It was exhausting, and the cold cut through him like a knife, despite his winter kit. But he wasn’t about to stop. He’d spent a month chasing down Confederation troops who’d had the time to disperse, to hide in the hills. He wasn’t going to let this new force do the same thing…and that meant bringing them to battle. Now.