Whatever secondary effects the round might have had, its primary effect was even more spectacular. Simple kinetic impact would usually destroy a Lamprey or even a C-Dec—when the rounds did not explode they tended to punch all the way through the ships. But the designers of the SheVa guns weren't satisfied with "usually." So at the core of the SheVa round was a small charge of antimatter. Only the equivalent of a ten-kiloton nuclear weapon.

The effect of the round punching into the ship was obliterated by the rush of silver fire that gouted from every seam and port. For a moment the ship seemed like it would hang together, but then it just came apart in a blossom of fire that consumed the Posleen for a quarter of a mile around. Large pieces, the size of cars and trucks, flew out as far as the human battle lines and bits the size of a human head reached even to Duncan's location.

"Show-offs," Duncan muttered, dusting off some dirt. He picked up a piece of Lamprey that had impacted on the hilltop and tossed it in the air. "Sure, it's easy to do with the right equipment. Try doing it with just a suit sometime."

* * *

"Target," said Twenty-Three. "Your turn, Colonel."

"Right," Wagoner said. "Try to get some elevation next time; the secondaries on that one shook up the whole corps."

"Crunchies," Twenty-Three, called. "What can you say?"

"You can say 'Yes, sir,' " said Wagoner. "And get some cover."

"Yes, sir."

"Forty-Two out." He tapped a control and nodded as the line of travel dropped into place. The target line was plotted and potential secondary damage noted. They would be firing over the edge of the corps, but not near any of the hospital like that idiot in Twenty-Three. And they would be higher off the ground by at least a thousand feet. The damage should be minimal.

"Forty-Two, prepare to engage," he said over the intercom. "Target in three, two, one . . ."

* * *

Attenrenalslar cursed as the trailing command ship exploded and began moving his Lamprey from side to side, hoping to throw off the aim of those demon-cursed weapons.

The vehicle that had engaged the command ship had already disappeared behind one of the small mountains that dotted this plain and he was sure the instruments had detected another for a moment. But deciphering the cursed technology of the Alldenata was a task for those who had studied it; most of the icons were unfamiliar to him.

"Come out, though," he whispered, caressing a weapons control that was targeted on the distant hillock. "Come out little abat and see what Attenrenalslar has in store for you. . . ."

* * *

"Fucker's maneuvering, Colonel," Sergeant Pritchett called. The gunner turned the SheVa gun to full auto as the Lamprey came in sight and clamped down on the firing circuit. "Solution coming up."

Millimeter wave radar on the side of the gun "painted" the target, comparing it to the electronic pictures it stored of various Posleen equipment. The onboard computer determined that, yes, this was a lander and the lack of return from an "Identify, Friend or Foe" query indicated that, yes, this was a valid target. It then ran a laser down the barrel, determining that it was in good condition to fire and another on the outside determining that all the support structures that were supposed to be supporting were in fact functioning. Last it computed barrel distortion, number of rounds fired through the barrel, temperature of the air and a myriad of other variables to arrive at an adequate firing solution.

It also noted in passing that the target was slowly maneuvering. But when the distance to target is less than ten kilometers and the round is traveling at twenty-five hundred meters per second, that is less than four seconds of movement on the part of the target. And it was a biiiig target.

* * *

"Fuscirto uut," Attenrenalslar snarled. "There are two." It was unlikely that the secondary weapons would scratch that thing; it was the size of a oolt'pos. But he tried to slew the ship to get a plasma cannon to bear.

* * *

"On the way!" Pritchett called as the entire world went red.

The gun used more energy in one shot than a brigade of armor and although the gun was heavily reinforced and the platform was the size of an oil rig, it still shook the entire beast like a terrier shaking a rat.

But before the last rumble had faded away, Darden had thrown the monster in reverse and Pritchett was ensuring the automatic loading sequence was progressing properly.

"Target!" Colonel Wagoner said with a note of satisfaction. "Now that is what I call laying tube." Maybe he could get used to being a tank commander again after all.

* * *

Mike grinned inside his armor as a wash of over-pressure blasted Posleen off the ridgeline. "Cool. Now if we could just get a little of that over by Slight."

The battalion had covered the thousand meters to the heights in just under sixty seconds, long enough for the Posleen landers to react and be neutralized in turn by the SheVa guns Horner had called up. There had been several thousand Posleen in the pocket. Most of them were still dazed from the artillery fire, but quite a few had put up a struggle. None had survived.

Now the Posleen were just below the ridgeline, at the point called the "military crest." The wash of nuclear fire had probably opened up a fair sized hole in the Posleen on the height, so it was undoubtedly time for the ACS to earn their pay. Mike tapped a control and the entire battalion took one leap to the edge of the natural parapet. They probably weren't going any farther and with the way the ridge was shaped it wouldn't even be necessary to dig in. After ensuring that that was the case, he elevated his main gun and took a peek through the sensor system.

"Oh, shit," Mike whispered. At the first view of the conditions in the valley beyond, his readouts had gone blood red and he just had to clear the visor to see what was really there as the entire battalion opened fire.

* * *

From his perch Horner had been able to see some of the forces beyond the ridge, but the view from the ACS made his belly clench; as far as the eye could see the ground was a seething mass of Posleen. Earlier estimates had been something on the order of four million; assuming the density that they saw there and continuing only four miles out of sight Little Nag was calculating it at over for-ty million.

* * *

"We can't do this, we can't do this . . ." Mike heard. The circuit was open to the entire battalion and he was picking up bits and snatches of conversation. The suits were protected by the cover of the top of the hill, with only their guns elevated above the crest. But a plasma cannon or hypervelocity missile fired from the far side of the other valley could tear through the ground and take them out with just a couple of hits. For that matter, the number of Posleen meant that some of them were bound to make it through the fire, if for no other reason than that others were masking them. And once the Posleen got to hand-to-hand range, their boma blades could get through the armor. Not to mention point-blank cannon and railgun fire.

"Steady down," Mike said. He'd turned off the unpleasant view and had pulled up the schematics again. They were saying the same thing, but the view wasn't so visceral. "Steady down, keep your barrels low and maintain fire dispersion." He glanced at his readouts and chuckled. "The good news is that even we can't miss." Because of the automation of the systems and the fact that the ACS was designed to "spew" fire, it was an article of faith among the conventional forces that they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.

"Major," said Captain Holder. "We're getting heavily flanked to the north. It's not like they're meaning to do it, but that's where they're being pushed."