It was carnage on the plain, no doubt of that. The clones in the Command Center affected extreme diligence at their duties, obviously fearful that they might be sent outside into the battle.

Legata hit replay. Something blurred across the big screen.

“What was that?” Oakes demanded.

Legata hit fix, but the sensors failed to resolve an image. Once more, she hit replay and zoomed in close to the blur. Nothing sensible. She touched replay again and slowed the projection, asking the Redoubt’s computer system for image enhancement. A slow shape writhed across the screen, vaguely humanoid. It moved between two rocks, struggled with some heavy object, then moved away.

A harsh blue beam snaked from somewhere within the blurred area, alarm signals were indicated by flashing blinkers at the corners of the screen. She ignored them—that was past, and Lewis had met the emergency. Something more important was indicated on the screen: a slow blossom of red-orange which had not revealed itself there before.

“What are you doing?” Oakes demanded. “What caused that?”

“I think they’re influencing our sensor system,” she said. And she heard the disbelief in her own voice.

Oakes stared at the screen for several blinks, then: “The ship! The damned ship’s interfering.”

Sweat droplets glistened on his upper lip and jowls. She could smell him beginning to crack.

“Why would the ship do that?” Lewis asked.

“Because of Thomas. You saw him out there.” Oakes’ voice was breaking.

Legata switched sensors, keyed for the broad view of the cliffside staging area where the attack had originated. The demons were gone, not visible anywhere. The poet no longer sat his perch atop the pinnacle. The arc of watching hylighters had diminished to a thin rim atop the cliffs. The whole scene stood out in the glare of double sunlight.

“Where are the hylighters?” she asked. “I didn’t see them go.”

“None in close,” Lewis said. “Maybe they’ve gone off somewhere to . . .” He broke off at a commotion near the open passage hatch.

Legata turned to see a dark-haired Natural, a crew supervisor, slip into the Command Center. Sweaty and nervous, he hurried across to Lewis. There was celltape covering a gory burn on the man’s bare left shoulder and his eyes showed the glazing of a pain-killer.

So there are Naturals outside, too, she thought.

“We’re getting lots of wounded clones, Jesus,” the man said. His voice was hoarse, tense. “What do we do with ’em?”

Lewis looked at Oakes, fielding the question.

“Set up an infirmary,” Oakes said. “Clones’ quarters. Let ’em treat their own.”

“Not many of them understand medical care,” Lewis said. “Some are pretty young, remember.”

“I know,” Oakes said.

Lewis nodded. “I see.” He glanced at the crew supervisor. “You heard it. Get busy.”

The man glared at Oakes, then at Lewis, but obeyed.