He'd moved under branches sturdy enough to stop or at least slow the falling tree's impact. The bark of his shelter oozed sap that vaporized and made his bare skin tingle, but he didn't intend to stay long in its range.
Around the trunk was an open circle three or four feet in diameter; beyond that grew a stand of wire-trunked seedlings that would bind a human. When the attackers came through the screen at him like water through a sieve, Blohm wouldn't be able to drop more than one of them before the rest got him the way they had Gabrilovitch.
He took the last grenade from his belt and cocked his arm for a throw high enough to clear the screen. The fuel would spray down and envelope everything in the thicket when it went off. Do them before they do you.
Just like Active Cloak.
And because he hadn't thrown the grenade at the last possible moment by which it would have saved his life from attacking humanoids, Caius Blohm heard Mirica scream his name as the seedlings grabbed her. He wasted the grenade in the forest behind him as he entered the reeds with his powerknife.
The trunks were rubbery and hard to grip, but the blade sliced through their softness like cobwebs. Blohm could have cut them with the shaft of a spoon if he'd had to at this moment.
He took Mirica in his left arm and hugged her to him as he strode on slashing. He didn't have a plan for how he was going to free Mrs. Suares while holding the child, but in the event he didn't have to. A striker in an ash-smeared hard suit was already pulling the old woman clear.
They were on the other side of the trap. Beyond was a steam-swathed tree trunk and a bulldozer at the edge of the clearing.
The child called, "Caius!" as she clutched his chest and they all four staggered to safety.
Farrell sat cross-legged with his visor down, clicking through alternative arrangements for deploying his strikers on the march. The helmet AI shifted purple dots and the orange masses of civilians with equanimity, but it couldn't tell Art Farrell what the next threat was going to be.
It could have told him that he didn't have enough strikers for the job, but that wouldn't have been news.
"Striker Blohm is here, sir," Kristal said, loud enough to cut through Farrell's concentration.
He raised his visor instead of clearing it. Caius Blohm stood straight, more like a prisoner tied to a stake than as a soldier at attention.
The problem with Blohm wasn't the sort of thing you expected in the Strike Force. Kristal didn't know what facial expression would be appropriate. She was a little too eager for the extra rate than Farrell liked, but no question she was doing a good job filling in as First Sergeant under the worst conditions you could imagine.
Farrell had set a minilight on the sheeting in front of him. He didn't need the illumination, but it showed the civilians that he was present and accessible. Now he turned the light off, then removed his helmet.
"Sit down, Blohm," he said. "Thanks, Sergeant. Tell God that I'll be unavailable for the next few minutes, all right?"
The present clearing was good-sized, now that there wasn't a battle going on in it. You couldn't call where Farrell sat private, exactly—certainly not from strikers' helmets—but there was a respectful amount of space open around him.
The scout seated himself with cautious grace. He took off his helmet also. Light from the fire crackling twenty yards away accentuated the hollows of Blohm's cheeks and eye sockets, and they were deep enough already.
"I waited till Sergeant Abbado got back to have this conversation, Blohm," Farrell said. "You went out and brought them the last of the way in, I gather?"
"Yessir," Blohm said. "Sir . . ."
He let the word trail off.
"What the fuck did you think you were playing at, Blohm?" Farrell said in a voice that never rose above the minimum necessary for the other man to hear him. "You knew it was your responsibility to guide the patrol back. I wouldn't have given even odds of ever seeing Abbado and his people again."
"Yes sir," said Blohm. His body was still, but his palms were flat together and pressing so hard that they trembled. "Sir, I knew it was wrong."
"Do you think we're so short-handed that I can't have you shot for desertion right now, Blohm?" Farrell said. "Is that what you think?"
"No sir," Blohm said. Tears glittered in his eyes; the shiver in his hands had spread to his voice. "I know you can have me shot. I know you can."
"Well, if you know that, you're an even bigger damned fool than I thought you were," Farrell said, relaxing. "Christ, man, you're a lot of what chance we have of surviving this ratfuck. Thing is, I need Three-three just as bad. You lot nailed one set of our problems today, but I've seen enough of this jungle to expect something new in the morning. Were you figuring to guard a thousand civilians all by your lonesome?"