“Okay…let’s give it a try.” He fumbled to get his com unit out from under him. “Wedge, Plinth…you’re gonna grab the explosives and go with Tomas and the other techs. Do whatever he says, no bullshit. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes, Sarge.” The responses came back almost immediately. They didn’t sound enthusiastic about being placed under the command of a civilian, but Hargraves knew they would follow his orders no matter how they felt about them. They knew what would happen if they didn’t.

“We’ll hold here as long as we can, Tomas.”

“Don’t throw your lives away, Sergeant. Give us a ten-minute head start. Then bug the hell out of here. You won’t be doing us any good after that.”

“Ten minutes. You got it.” The Marine paused for an instant. “Good luck, Tomas.”

“And to you, Sergeant.” The civilian hesitated for a few seconds. Then he turned and crawled back toward the cliff.

*   *   *

“Decurio, move your troopers forward now. I will send the rest of the century after.” Millius’s voice was a barely-controlled roar. He’d already been frustrated with the unexpected resistance on Santis, and now he’d been humiliated in front of Commander Rigellus. The matriarch of the Regulli was a stunningly successful officer, exactly the kind of commander who had coattails. But beyond that, Millius just respected her. She was the Alliance ideal, the Palatian Patrician born to duty. And he looked like a damned fool who couldn’t round up a handful of Alliance Marines and civilians.

“Sir!” The junior officer snapped off a sharp, chest-thumping salute, and he turned and jogged toward his still-assembling unit.

Millius spun around. “First century, assemble. Anyone not in position in one minute will be digging latrines…if they’re lucky.” The troops were already lining up, rushing out of their makeshift shelters, pulling on bits of body armor and cold weather gear. His troopers had been grumbling about the weather, rushing into the semi-heated portable structures the instant they got off duty. He shook his head as he watched them hesitating for an instant as they opened the tent flaps and felt the frigid breeze.

Are we past our prime already? Is the heart of the Alliance rotten so quickly, even as our ancestors who made us are still warm in their graves…or, indeed, still alive?

He’d been brought up on tales of the idealized Alliance warrior, the iron man capable of enduring anything…pain, wounds, weather. Alliance warriors didn’t stop, no matter what they faced. At least that was the mantra. Now he wondered if that had ever been true. Was it all propaganda, the heroic stories that had shaped who he’d become? Certainly, Alliance forces had conquered. But perhaps they weren’t invincible after all. Maybe there were warriors out there who could match them.

Like these Marines…