Free A Fighting Chance by William C. Dietz

and heavy.
    A few moments later, Santana and Dietrich arrived at the foot of the stairs, where a squad of bio bods was gathered. “What’s this?” Dietrich demanded harshly. “A circle jerk? The enemy is up there—not down here. Follow me and keep your heads on a swivel.”
    Dietrich was carrying a drum-fed shotgun, which was ideal for close-in work. So Santana took the two slot and chinned the mike switch as they began to climb. “Zulu Nine to Zulu Seven. We’re on the stairs. Clear the way if you can. Over.”
    There was no response as a grenade fell from above, hit a railing, and bounced into the gloom. That was followed by a flash of light, a loud explosion, and a series of woody thuds as pieces of shrapnel struck the tree trunk. Then came the rattle of an automatic weapon, which Dietrich answered with three blasts from his shotgun.
    The firing stopped, and two bodies were sprawled on the blood-slicked platform when Santana arrived. He followed Dietrich as the noncom led him upwards. It was a steep climb, and the officer was struggling to catch his breath when Ponco’s voice sounded in his helmet. “Zulu Seven to Zulu Nine. I think I have the target located. Mark my position. Over.”
    Santana took a moment to scan the ITC. The recon ball was about fifteen feet above and south of the main trunk. “Roger that . . . We’re on the way. Over.”
    Dietrich heard, continued to lead the way upwards, and arrived on a generously proportioned observation deck moments later. A tribarreled minigun had been set up there. But, judging from the dead bodies scattered about, either Ponco or one of the snipers had been able to silence the weapon.
    The darkened lodge was on their left as they followed the deck to a suspended walkway. The bridge was supported by cables fastened to the branches above and started to sway as the legionnaires crossed it. Santana was forced to let his weapon dangle from its sling so that he could get a firm grip on the side ropes. The ITC system was still displayed on his HUD, and he could see Ponco’s Z-7 marker pulsing on and off about fifty feet in front of him. Major Temo was within his grasp. Or so it seemed until Ponco shouted a warning, a powerful light flooded the area, and a windstorm descended on them.
    “It’s a transport!” Dietrich shouted. “They’re coming for Temo.” And as Santana looked up into the dazzling spotlight, he realized that the noncom was correct. A ship was about to rescue Temo. But how could that be? The local militia had one cargo vessel, and it was called The Hangar Queen for a reason. But what if . . .
    “Watch out . . . I think the ship is Ramanthian,” Ponco said over the radio. Suddenly, fire lashed down from above, the rope bridge parted, and Santana began to fall.

4
No good deed goes unpunished.
—Human folk saying Standard year circa 1800
    ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY TRANSPORT GALAXSIS IN HYPERSPACE
    The Galaxsis was more than three miles long and had once been a very posh passenger liner. But with the coming of the war, she’d been taken over by the navy for use as a transport. That meant most of the fancy cutlery, dishes, art, furniture, and expensive carpets had been replaced with less expensive equivalents. But even without all of the finery, there was no doubt as to the ship’s pedigree. The Galaxsis was all about class, which was apparent in her glossy wood trim, solid brass fittings, and marble decks.
    The ship’s official capacity was fifty-four hundred passengers. But by assigning three people to cabins intended for two, and converting the space formerly occupied by an onboard shopping arcade into stacked berths, the navy had been able to cram another five hundred passengers aboard. And Foreign Service Officer-2 (FSO-2) Christine Vanderveen was among them.
    But thanks to her status as a high-ranking civil servant, plus some good luck, she had been slotted into a cabin with only one other occupant. Captain Marcie Jones was a doctor and a member of