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commanded on all channels, overruling howls of outrage from the troops. “The cymeks are trying to lure us away.”
    The warrior-forms set fire to a resonant bell tower erected by Chusuk to commemorate a successful defense against the thinking machines, four centuries ago. The ornate bells clanged and gonged as the tower collapsed onto the paving stones of an open gathering square.
    By now most of Zimia’s populace had rushed to armored shelters. Fleets of medical and fire-suppression craft dodged enemy blasts to fight the increasing disaster. Many rescue attempts became suicide missions.
    In the midst of the Militia crowded around the transmitting towers, Xavier felt a flash of doubt, wondering if he had made the right decision but not daring to change his mind now. His eyes stung from smoke, and his shredded lungs sent shocks of agony through his body each time he drew a breath. He knew he was right. He was fighting for the lives of everyone on the planet. Including Serena Butler’s.
    “Now what, Tercero?” said Cuarto Jaymes Powder, coming up behind him. Though the subcommander’s angular face was partially covered in a mask, his eyes still revealed his outrage. “Do we just sit back and watch these bastards level Zimia? What good is it to protect the shield transmitters if there’s nothing left of the city?”
    “We can’t save the city if we lose our shields and open up the whole planet to machine attack,” Xavier rasped.
    The Salusan troops mounted a defense around the parabolic lattice-work of transmitting towers. Ground forces and armored equipment were arrayed on the surrounding ramparts and streets. Kindjals circled the skies and fired their weapons, keeping the cymeks away.
    Gripping their weapons, the nearest Militia members seethed. The frustrated men wanted to rush forward and engage the attackers . . . or perhaps tear Xavier limb from limb. With each explosion or leveled building, the angry troops edged one step closer to outright mutiny.
    “Until reinforcements arrive, we’ll need to concentrate our forces,” Xavier said, coughing.
    Powder stared at the tercero’s plaz faceplate, noticed blood on the inside. “Sir, are you all right?”
    “It’s nothing.” But Xavier heard the liquid wheezing of his mangled lungs with every breath he took.
    Feeling unsteady as the poison continued to burn his soft tissues, he gripped a plascrete bulwark for support. He studied the last stand he had assembled on short notice and hoped it would hold. Finally, Xavier said, “Now that these towers are held and protected, we can go out and hunt down some of our attackers. Are you ready, Cuarto Powder?”
    Powder brightened, and soldiers cheered. Several men fired their weapons into the air, ready to charge pell-mell into the destruction. Like a rider at the reins of a willful horse, Xavier held them back.
    “Wait! Pay close attention. There is no clever trick we can use, no inherent weakness that will allow us to outsmart the cymeks. But we have the will to succeed and the need to succeed . . . or we will lose everything.” Ignoring the blood in his mask, he didn’t know how he was able to summon unwavering confidence in his voice. “ This is how we will beat them.”
    During the initial frantic skirmishes, Xavier had seen at least one of the gargantuan invaders destroyed by multiple, concentrated explosions. Its articulated body was now nothing more than a smoking hulk. However, the scattered bombers and armored ground units had spread their attacks across too many targets, diluting their efforts.
    “This will be a coordinated strike. We will select a single target and crush it, one cymek at a time. We’ll hit it and hit it again until there’s nothing left. Then we’ll go on to the next one.”
    Though he could barely breathe, Xavier chose to lead the squadrons himself. As a tercero, he was accustomed to being in the thick of the action during training exercises and simulations.
    “Sir?” Powder