Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (19 page)

“I'll get them,” Knifethrow said, and was just about to follow when Kuga-Ka grabbed his arm. “Let them go, Private . . . Once Kobbi hears what happened to the first patrol—the second will proceed more carefully. That will take time.”

The Naa grinned. “Right you are, gunny. Come on, Sawicki, let's collect the loose ordnance. Something tells me that we're going to need it!”

The human nodded cheerfully as he followed the Naa out onto the gore-drenched trail. “Did you see the way the loot's head flew off? Damn! That was cool.”

Meanwhile, high above, a pair of bright yellow eyes peered down through the foliage. The Jithi smiled. The off-worlders were killing each other . . . And that was fine with him.

The wind was warm and made a gentle rumbling sound as it swept across the brown grasslands to the north, caressed the flanks of the small, cone-shaped mountain, and continued on its way. Though not the one who had decided to establish a military base inside the extinct volcano, Force Commander Ignatho Dontha was grateful to the predecessor who had since it made an excellent fortress. Especially given the new weapons emplacements linked together by a series of internal tunnels and passageways.

And that was why the officer had journeyed out into the desolate land that surrounded the fortress, to look back at it, and make sure that the work had been done correctly. And that was when Dontha noticed that a fan-shaped layer of recently excavated soil pointed up at each weapon. He turned to Subcommander Ootha Pamee, who stood at his side. “Do
you see the soil below each gun? It's darker than the surrounding earth. Why stop there? You could place a red flag on each weapon to make it that much more visible.”

The possibility had never occurred to Pamee—and he felt a deep sense of embarrassment. “Yes, Force Commander, I will take care of it.”

“Good,” Dontha replied. “Although our aerospace fighters destroyed a human ship earlier this morning, the hypercom is extremely important, so we must take every possible precaution.”

“Yes,” Pamee agreed. “A hypercom! Think of it! You could speak with the Egg Dontha.”

“True,” the more senior officer allowed, “but that would mean that she could speak with
me
.”

The joke went a long way toward easing the embarrassment that Pamee felt regarding the all-too-visible dirt, and he laughed.

Dontha smiled, marveled at how malleable Pamee was, and felt grateful for it. “I have a job for you, Pamee . . . an
important
job.”

The subcommander brightened. “Of course . . . Tell me how I might serve.”

Dontha turned to his right, and Pamee did likewise. The arid landscape rolled away toward the desert to the south. The force commander raised a tool arm in order to point. “We have allies, Pamee . . . Thousands of them. And they live out there.”

Like the rest of the Ramanthians on Savas—Pamee was well aware of the indigenous Paguum. At some point in the past a single race of protosentients had split into two groups. The Paguum chose to roam the steppes and deserts on co-evolved quadrupeds, while the Jithi took up residence in the rain forests, and gradually adapted to that environment. The subcommander looked confused. “We have an alliance with the Paguum? I didn't know that.”

“No,” Dontha answered patiently, “we don't. But we
will,
just as soon as you go out there and help create it.”

Pamee looked at his superior to make sure that Dontha was serious and saw that he was. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but how would I do that?”

“Simple,” Dontha replied. “There are
two
tribes of Paguum. The northern tribe and the southern tribe. Both depend on herd animals called katha. Hundreds of thousands of them. They feed on the grass that borders the desert to the north and south. But no one area can support that many animals for long. That's why the tribes travel around the circumference of the planet in opposite directions. They pass each other once every four and a half years. As luck would have it, the ‘passing' as they call it will take place a few weeks from now at a spot southeast of here.”

Pamee looked uncertain. He knew the Paguum were nomads—but that was all. Like most of the Ramanthians on Savas, he considered them to be irrelevant. Or had until now. “How do you know these things?”

“Because,” Dontha answered, “one of our operatives has been traveling with them for more than six months. I'll provide you with a copy of his reports. They're quite instructive.”

“So, what can I do?” the subcommander inquired.

“Our operative believes that it would be in our best interest to start a war between the northern Paguum and the southern Paguum. That should be relatively easy since the two groups have fought each other on and off for thousands of years. Neither group has military supremacy at the moment, but once you present the northern tribe with five hundred Negar III assault rifles and the benefit of your leadership, hostilities should begin within a matter of days.”

Pamee was malleable, but he wasn't stupid, and his head bobbed approvingly. “If the humans were to march on us from Savas Prime, they would be forced to pass between a pair of warring tribes!”

“Exactly,” Dontha said smugly. “And, even if they did manage to break through, our armor will be here waiting for them.”

“Truly the gods are great,” Pamee said reverently. “We are blessed.”

“Yes,” Dontha agreed thoughtfully, “we certainly are.”

The saloon was located at the edge of the Savas Prime city limits, where what remained of the badly devastated town made contact with the verdant jungle. It was a place where mostly men went to have a little fun, where Jithi tribes
men could slip in to buy things they weren't supposed to have, and where Hol Owens could make a comfortable living.

It was a three-story wood frame building with a saloon on the first floor, a brothel on the second, and living quarters on the third. Covered porches circled all three stories, and the windows were covered with louvered shutters that remained closed during the heat of the day. A mangy Earth hound lounged out front, a colorful jungle bird squawked from its cage, and a wind chime tinkled gently on those rare occasions when the a breeze found its way down from the hills.

Owen's Place never opened until about three in the afternoon, not even on days when the town was attacked by Ramanthians, which was why it was just sitting there, dozing in the heat, when a beefy legionnaire tried the front door, discovered that it was locked, and applied a combat boot to the much-abused wood.

There was a loud
crash
as wood splintered, the door swung open, and the legionnaire stepped inside. A quick check confirmed that the room was empty. He stepped to one side and slammed to attention. “The saloon is now open for business,
sir!
”

Kobbi grinned as the sweet-sour stench of alcohol,
incense, and spicy food pushed out to greet him. “That's quite a key you have there, Corporal, thank you.”

The Earth hound had seen worse. He yawned, and his tail made a thumping noise as Kobbi entered. Owens had his own power plant, which meant air-conditioning, which kept the interior cool.
Too
cool for Kobbi's taste, and the officer shivered. A bar ran the length of one wall, a small stage occupied the far end of the room, and there were about a dozen tables scattered around the plank floor. Mismatched chairs were stacked on round tables. With the exception of the drunk who was passed out asleep in a corner, there was nobody present to greet them.

A flight of stairs ran up along the wall opposite the bar. Kobbi took the steps two at a time. He had just reached the top when Hol Owens appeared. The proprietor wore powder blue silk pajamas. He was armed with a lethal-looking pump gun. The legionnaires on the stairs raised their weapons and a half dozen red dots appeared on the saloon keeper's chest. He lowered the scattergun and scowled. “Who the hell are you? And what's going on here?”

“Sorry about the front door,” Kobbi replied cheerfully. “Submit a form CCF-967, along with proper identification and three indepe
ndent bids. The Legion will pay you in about ten standard years, assuming we win the war, and you're still alive. I'm looking for a man named Teeg Jackson . . . Where is he?”

Owens looked from the officer, to the legionnaires on the stairs, and back again. “Room four. Straight down the west side of the building on your left.”

Kobbi smiled, brought a blunt finger to his lips, and winked. Owens had little choice but to get out of the way as the officer and his legionnaires brushed past and made their way down along the porch.

The moment they were gone Owens turned, and was just about to descend the stairs, when he discovered that a Naa
blocked the way. The trooper grinned and shook his head. Owens swore, turned, and went upstairs instead. There were times when it simply didn't pay to get up.

Teeg Jackson wasn't asleep—but he wasn't quite awake either. Rather he was floating in the never-never land that lay between the two. A fan blew cold air out of a vent located right over his king-sized bed. His arms were cold, but the rest of his body was deliciously warm thanks to the naked women who slept to either side of him. A rather interesting contrast.

So, if it hadn't been for the fact that his bladder was uncomfortably full, a slight headache caused by the excessive amount of alcohol consumed the night before, and the fact that his mouth tasted like the floor of a Koog bear's cave everything would have been just fine. That was when he heard boards creak and reached for the handgun stashed under his pillow, only to discover that it had migrated during the lovemaking hours before. Jackson was still groping for the weapon when the door crashed open, bodies rushed into the room, and a noncom pointed an assault weapon at his head. “Hol
d it right there, bucko . . . The colonel wants a word with you.”

One of the prostitutes screamed and pulled the blanket up under her chin, while the other sat up and allowed the sheet to fall away. She had large breasts, and the male legionnaires leered approvingly. Jackson looked from the assault weapon to the officer who had appeared at his bedside. “So what's up? Did I spit on the sidewalk or something?”

Kobbi raised his eyebrows. “Citizen Jackson I presume? Or should I say,
Lieutenant Commander
Jackson? Back before the mutiny that is.”

Jackson sighed and sat up. He had thick black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin. Stubble covered his cheeks. “Give me a break, Colonel. Both the captain
and
the XO went over to the
mutineers. What was I supposed to do? Arrest all 211 members of the crew? That's yesterday's news. Nobody cares.”

“Oh, but they
do,
” Kobbi replied. “In fact, the local customs officer was not only kind enough to show me a facsimile of a CONFED arrest warrant that has your name on it, he told me where to find you. Now, just bail out of that bed, get some clothes on, and let's go for a ride. I hear you have an MDT-764 that's equipped with a Thraki stealth generator, and I'd like to see it.”

Only one of the legionnaires was female, and she watched with interest as the smuggler got out of bed, grabbed his clothes, and began to dress. He stood well over six feet tall, had a muscular build, and an unusual number of scars.

Twenty minutes later one of the mining company's trucks bounced into a jungle clearing north of town, jerked to a stop, and coughed as a legionnaire shut it down.

Kobbi jumped to the ground, rounded the front of the vehicle, and produced a long slow whistle. Camo netting had been stretched from one side of the clearing to the other in order to conceal the medium-duty transport from above. Despite the fact that her hull had been blackened by countless reentries, and the vessel was at least ten years old, she looked quite serviceable. Unfortunately, the MDT was far too small to handle half the battalion—never mind a whole bunch of Ramanthian hardware. Still, something beat the hell out of nothing. “So,” the legionnaire inquired, “is your sh
ip ready to lift?”

A soldier pushed the smuggler forward, and Jackson nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, she's ready.”

“Good. You're going to take a message to Algeron for me. A very important message. Then, within a couple of days, you're going to return here.”

Jackson felt a sudden surge of hope but was careful to keep any sign of the emotion off his face. The idiot was going
to turn him loose! All he had to do was play along, lift, and haul butt! He nodded soberly. “Sir, yes sir.”

Kobbi smiled thinly. “Good . . . I'm glad you feel so co-operative. Just to make sure that you continue to feel that way, I'm going to send a naval officer plus four ratings along to keep an eye on you. Maybe,
if
you cooperate, I'll see what I can do to get the charges against you reduced.”

Jackson scowled. “Or?”

“Or I'll pull my sidearm and shoot you in the frigging head. You're good at what you do, or so the customs officer claims, but my swabbies can handle this ship as well.
You
decide.”

“I'll take option one.”

Kobbi smiled angelically. “I thought you would.”