Free Glory Main by Henry V. O'Neil

low voice. Cranther was prone on a narrow rock that jutted out over the stream, the pole down in the water. They’d lost the bucket in the first attack, but the current was strong enough to fill the water tubes if they were dangled in just the right way. Filling, they swished back and forth and took on an eerie resemblance to the serpents that had tried to kill them.
    And that was what they were: Serpents. The riverine monsters varied in size, the largest ones twenty feet long and as big around as a man’s waist. After composing themselves from their earlier flight, the group had traveled upstream in search of a safer spot to try and get more water. They’d been left alone briefly, but disturbing the current with the hoses had alerted the serpents to their presence no matter how many times they’d moved. Although these predators weren’t amphibian, they hadn’t hesitated to launch themselves up onto the bank a short distance once they’d noticed that a possible meal was near.
    Perhaps the worst part was seeing just how many of them had gathered over time. The presence of food and the thrashing of the earliest arrivals had drawn quite a crowd. The humans had been driven from two different spots before finding the overhanging rock, and even though they knew it wasn’t out of range for the leaping predators, it at least provided some protection.
    The dark water began to ripple unnaturally, lines crossing the current and revealing the approach of the underwater hunters. Mortas was holding Cranther’s boots in both hands, primed to pull him back, and Trent stood ready with more rocks. She’d proved a dead shot with the projectiles and seemed to derive great pleasure from striking the monsters even after Cranther had moved to safety.
    The scout pulled the pole back up, water draining off the teardrop-­shaped water tube at its end. He was just about to start sliding backward when he stopped as if stuck. Mortas shifted his hands to the man’s ankles, getting ready to pull, when Cranther spoke.
    â€œI don’t believe this.”
    He quickly crawled backward, dragging the pipe and the tube with him while Mortas moved out of the way. As if on cue, the approaching runnels in the water either veered off or disappeared entirely as the serpents dispersed. Mortas watched with revulsion, eager to be away from the stream now that most of the water carriers were filled. Even so, he remembered Cranther’s odd statement and turned to where the scout sat in the grass. The Spartacan wore an expression mixing chagrin, exhaustion, and wonder.
    â€œWhat is it? What did you see?”
    Cranther pointed with his thumb toward a spot upstream, blocked by the tall weeds.
    â€œThere’s a bridge not five hundred yards that way.”
    â€œA bridge?” Mortas’s voice cracked, but he hardly noticed. He stood up eagerly, trying to see over the brush. “You mean, a man-­made bridge?”
    â€œSort of.” Cranther looked up, a critical expression appearing on his face. “And get down, sir. I’ve seen this kind before. It’s temporary. New colony stuff, until the permanent bridge can get built.” He blew out a long exhalation, his eyes on the ground.
    â€œAnd it belongs to the Sims.”
    T hey circled around, using the brush for cover as they worked their way up to the bridge. A knob of high ground overlooked the structure from a hundred yards away, and they crawled forward on their stomachs to view it.
    It didn’t look temporary. Concrete supports had been built into the bank on either side, squared-­off rock over which the metal span was laid. Honeycombed plates made up the bridge floor, and a railing stood up on either side at what was probably waist height. It wasn’t long, and looked only wide enough for one-­way traffic, but it was impossible to know about that because it was absolutely empty.
    They were losing the light by then, but