Glasebrook walked over to the fellow and hugged him one-armed against a torso lumpy with crossed bandoliers and a waist belt whose every slot held munitions. Four-pound rockets waggled like tassels, rattling against other gear.
"Don't you worry, Mr. Bledsoe," the Flea said. "We're not going to let them kill you. We're going to kill them first."
"Bedsoe," said the civilian. "My name is Bedsoe." He straightened. "I'm so very sorry," he said with a dip of his head to Abbado.
Abbado cleared his throat again. "The dozer's going to cut us a twenty-foot trail through the woods there," he said in a deliberately cheerful voice to the watching civilians. "That sounds like a lot and it is, but I don't want anybody getting careless. God and his pretty blonde—"
He grinned and thumbed toward the mass of people with Manager al-Ibrahimi at the heart of it.
"—assistant say six feet is as close as you're to get to the sides of the cut. Does everybody hear me?"
There were nods and murmurs, mostly nods. The civilians looked scared, clutching their baggage or family members to them. They watched Abbado with wide eyes.
"Right," said Abbado. "Now, it's important that you stay closed up. Help your neighbors if they aren't keeping up. People are more important than any of the other shit we're carrying. If the column straggles, it'll take us twice as long to get out of these fucking trees and I tell you, people, I don't even a little bit like their company. Understood?"
This time at least a dozen civilians spoke in agreement. Ace Matushek said, "Too fucking right!" from the back of the assembly. He faced outward, bouncing a grenade on his palm, just in case the Spooks or the forest wanted to start something early.
"Now folks, listen," Abbado said. "There's over a hundred of you. I'll have two or three people in front, backing up the dozer, and there'll be two or three on each side of the column. Because we're at the front, that's better protection than most of the other folks are going to get; but it's pretty damn little even so."
He took off his helmet and looked at the outer surface of his visor because it was an excuse to avoid all those frightened, trusting eyes for a moment. He raised his eyes again.
"Folks," he concluded, "you got to be careful, you got to help each other as much as you can. My strikers and me, we'll do our best. But that's all I can promise. That we'll do our best."
The civilians gave a collective sigh. They seemed to be trying to stand straight.
Abbado smiled with wry affection. He eyed the regrown forest beyond the assembly. Some of the young trees looked like misshapen men carrying torches.
And Bedsoe was probably right. They did hate people.
The bulldozer squealed ahead ten feet, just enough to take the strain off the right track. The left track, turning at three times the speed of the other, broke up the thin soil and the harder substrate as it rotated the vehicle in the direction where it was to attack the forest.
Esther Meyer wore a hard suit with her visor locked down. She walked stiffly toward the bulldozer. The cab, a tightish fit for a driver in full armor, had heavy frames and an armored roof. Meyer's position was on the non-skid deck around the cab's sides and open rear.
"Hey Meyer," somebody called. She ignored the voice. The bulldozer was making enough noise that she could pretend not to hear a bomb going off if she wanted to.
Besides the weight of the hard suit, Meyer carried her stinger, a grenade launcher, and a dispenser pouch of hand-thrown grenades of both styles. All that was fine, but Top had insisted she have a flame gun as well. Meyer hated flame guns. She'd never used one except in training, seven years before.
The choice was carry the flame gun or give somebody else the station on the tailboard. Since the strikers on guard with the tractors were the only ones who'd be wearing armor, she'd agreed. The tank of pressurized fuel on her back still gave her the willies.
"Meyer, this is Top," the command channel snapped. "I'm at the plasma cannon. Come here for a moment, I've got a job for you. Over."
"Top, you gave me a job," Meyer protested. "I'm with the dozer, remember? Over."
"Meyer, first I want you to burn off the ammo, all right?" Daye said. She could see him waving from the log where the gun still rested. "We can't afford the weight, but I don't want to leave the gun and ammo both. The Spooks may not be so tight for transport. Over."
"Top, I'm coming," Meyer said wearily. "Out."
She raised her visor and clumped to the first sergeant, feeling like a rock trying to roll uphill. Her load was one thing if the tractor was carrying it, another when she had to.