By Force of Arms by William C. Dietz Page B

other side. Servos whined, heat radiated off her cowling, and the odor of ozone filled Neversmile’s nostrils. Just one of the things he hated about box heads.
    Still, they did have their advantages, not the least of which was the firepower they carried. Wilker was equipped with an arm-mounted air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun, an arm-mounted fast recovery laser cannon, and a pair of shoulder-mounted missile launchers. Yeah, Colonel Kirby knew what she was doing. Wilker had more than enough clout to deal with a handful of bandits—or some warriors on a tear. Alt of which was fine, or would have been, had the mission made more sense.
    It seemed that nobody was sure what the hell the general was up to. A gift had been delivered to his office. The rumor mill was clear about that, but the rest was weird. Shortly after receiving it the Legion’s most senior officer had announced that he was going on a trip, would need a dooth, and would dispense with the usual escort. A dooth for god’s sake’ Neversmile hadn’t been aboard one of the wooly beasts in more than fifteen years—and figured Booly was the only officer on Algeron that knew how to ride one.
    The noncom felt a momentary sense of pride in the nature of the general’s origins and remembered Kirby’s orders: “Don’t let the old man see you… and don’t come back without him.”
    Not that the last part was necessary, since Neversmile had served under the general during the mutiny and had a lot of respect for him. Good officers were hard to come by.
    A faint pink line marked the eastern horizon. Wilker followed the. trail, and the Naa continued to worry. The general was crazy, the colonel was pissy, and the problem was his.
    Dimwit Timewaster was standing there, pissing on a rock, when the rich pungent odor of dooth passed beneath his nostrils. Not his dooth, a mangy animal tethered to a withered bush, but a distinctly different beast. And there was something more, the tan, not altogether unpleasant smell which, along with plastic and ozone, he had learned to associate with humans. The clip clop of hooves combined with the clink of poorly secured equipment served to reinforce what the Naa already knew. A lone, presumably stupid human, was heading up into the hills. Not only that, but, judging from odors ranging from gun oil to aftershave he came bearing gifts! His mother had been right. The gods did smile on those in need.
    The Naa shook himself off, secured his trousers, and slipped through the rocks. The bedroll looked like a long lumpy tube. Nocount Quickknife jerked as a hand covered his mouth, went for his blade, and relaxed when he smelted who it was. Dimwit nodded toward the trail. His voice was little more than a whisper. “We got company. Easy pickin’s. Move your ass.”
    Nocount yawned. Dimwit winced at the smell of his companion’s breath and started to gather his gear. There was no particular hurry, something neither of them liked to do, since every stride carried their victim further from the fort. An advantage if the idiot called for help. Not that it mattered … since he’d soon be dead.
    Booly left the reins loose and allowed the doom to pick its own way up the rock-strewn trail. A good decision since the animal was native to Algeron and well equipped to survive there. It had been a long time since the officer had ridden anything more challenging than a command car, and his knees were starting to hurt. His butt would come next, followed by his lower back. The legionnaire had already started to regret the journey but was too stubborn to turn back.
    The dooth completed one long stretch of trail, tried to snatch a bite of greenery from a likely looking bush, and took a kick to its barrel-shaped ribs. Dooms were never ones to suffer silently and were famous for the variety of sounds they could make. This particular animal produced something that bordered between a belch and a grunt.
    Booly kicked the animal again and guided it up through still