Giordino was pouring rocket fire into the Sirians, laying round after round right at their feet; Oliver and Pedersen were mowing down those nearest the trench, but it was buying them only minutes. The second skirmish line had caught up with the first, and in spite of the heaped bodies on the slope, was closing on the trench in a relentless wave.

“Giordino!” Oliver swayed and caught himself against the firing post.

“Here, Sergeant!” Giordino appeared at his side, his eyes wide and white in his grimy face.

“Get Pedersen out of here! I’ll cover you!”

“Which way, Sergeant?”

Oliver pointed to the left, past the bunker, where at least one heavy laser still poured condensed light down the slope.

“That way. Try to get her to Lake Francesca. This part of the line is finished. Get going.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you. As soon as you’re clear.”

“You’ll never make it, Sarge. You’re barely on your feet. You’ve lost too much blood.”

Oliver grabbed him by the collar, tried weakly to shake him.

“Goddammit! Get going!“

Giordino turned, grabbed Pedersen by the arm, and dragged her away from the firing post. She shook him off, squeezed off another burst at the enemy, then turned to Oliver.

“I’m not going to leave you,” she said. “You come with us or we all stay!”

Oliver shoved her roughly away.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he rasped. “I’m finished! The two of you might have a chance. But you got to go right fucking now!“

Giordino tugged at her again. “For Sophia’s sake, Olga! Let’s go!”

Pedersen grabbed Oliver by the head with both hands, kissing him hard.

“I’ll never forget you!” she cried.

Oliver nodded, and pushed her away again.

Giordino spun and fired, killing a Sirian who’d just crested the trench. He grabbed Pedersen’s arm again.

“Olga! Let’s go!”

Pedersen turned, then looked beyond him and screamed.

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