Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (26 page)

With assistance from the civilian, the officer fed the pilot line through the block and got a good grip on it. Then, by marching upstream, the twosome were able to pull the cord through the pulley, followed by the cable. Water sprang away from the monofilament as it came up out of the river and was secured at both ends.

Having checked to make sure that his knots would hold, Santana shouldered his pack and followed Qwis up the narrow path. Though not as savvy as Yamba, the colonist read trail signs better than any legionnaire save Fareye, and was good at interpreting what she saw. “Look,” she said, “a lot of the lighter tracks have been erased by subsequent rain storms, but you can still see where the RAV planted its pods.”

Santana looked at what he had assumed were mud puddles, realized they were far too symmetrical for that and the exact same distance apart.

“Well, this is interesting,” Qwis added, as they came to the point where the path split in two. “They went left . . . and they should have gone right.”

The legionnaire eyed the trail that led off to the left. It looked just as promising as the one that went to the right, and without the benefit of a guide, Kuga-Ka had chosen the wrong the path. “Well, based on what the Colonel told me, they certainly paid for their mistake,” Santana observed.

“Yes, and no one deserved it more,” Qwis said fiercely. “Come on, let's find a place to get out of the rain.”

Santana was about to ask, “What rain?” when he heard a breeze rustle the treetops, heard the rain drops hit the canopy, and felt the temperature drop a couple of degrees. The first drops of water found their way down through the foliage a few seconds later.

“Maybe we should head back,” the legionnaire offered, but felt her hand close on his and allowed himself to be led off the trail. Vegetation brushed the officer's shoulders, something screeched from high above, and leaves bobbed as the
rain drops hit. Some of the plants opened up, happy to let the life-giving liquid flow down their fibrous arms into reservoirs where it could be absorbed, while others, those that relied on root systems to obtain moisture, lowered their light-gathering extensions to create rooflike structures that enabled the sudden deluge to run off them. Qwis had taken
shelter beneath such plants as a child and led Santana in under a five-foot-high skirt of overlapping leaves. The officer experienced a cold shower as he ducked through the runoff followed by a sense of wonder as he entered what amounted to a ready-made hut.

“The Jithi call it a lap-lap tree because of the way the leaves come down on top of each other,” Qwis explained, “and use them for emergency shelter. Have a seat . . . lunch will be served in a moment.”

Santana checked to make sure that his com set was on, heard a reassuring burst of static, and turned the squelch down before taking a seat on the bone-dry ground.

Qwis had her pack off by then, had spread a shelter half on the ground, and was busy placing food items on it. Some dried fruit that her mother had given her for the journey, two cans of carefully hoarded self-heating beef Stroganoff that she had saved from her MREs, and a couple of candy bars for dessert. Thanks to her foresight it wasn't long before Santana was tucking into the best meal he'd had in weeks.

Neither one of them wanted to talk about the war, or the march to the north, so the legionnaire took the opportunity to learn more about the civilian. Qwis spoke of her desire to visit Earth and get an education there. Santana told stories about his years at the academy, a prank gone horribly wrong, and the month of extra duty he received by way of punishment.

Qwis laughed her wonderful melodious laugh, and it wasn't until his com set made a squawking noise that Santana looked at his watch, and realized that an hour and a half had passed. “This is Bravo Six . . . Go. Over.”

“This is Three Six,” Dietrich answered. “The old man called in. He wants to talk to you at 1800 hours this evening. Over.”

“Roger that,” Santana said. “We're on the way. Over and out.”

The officer checked to ensure that the transmit switch was in the “off” position before reaching out to take his companion's hand. It felt very small. “Thank you, Qwis. That was fabulous. I really enjoyed it.”

Qwis looked into Santana's eyes and saw that he meant it. “You're very welcome.”

The kiss seemed natural, like something that had been waiting to happen, and Santana reveled in the smell of her. There was the perfume that she never failed to dab behind her perfectly shaped ears, the cook smoke that was trapped in fibers of her clothing, and the jungle that surrounded them. Things might have gone further had there been time, but Santana was forced to break it off. “Come on . . . before you get me into trouble.”

Qwis pouted, but obeyed, and it was about an hour later when the wet twosome made use of the cable to pull themselves back across the river. Dietrich pulled Qwis up over the riverbank before extending a helping hand to the officer. The noncom wore a prominent smirk. “How did the reconnaissance go, sir? Did you find everything you were looking for?”

Santana frowned. “Screw you, Sergeant,” he said grumpily. “And I mean that from the very bottom of my heart.”

Dietrich smiled innocently. “Sir. Yes sir.”

The red-orange sun hung high in the sky, baked everything below in its unrelenting heat, and drove everything that could walk, crawl, or wiggle down under the surface of the
sand, into the crevices between the dark basaltic rocks, or the shade provided by the rolling dunes to the south. Anything to lower the temperature if only by a few degrees and thereby enhance their chances of survival.

However, thanks to the fact that the
Spirit of Natu
could still produce her own power, the legionnaires had air-conditioning. An almost unbelievable luxury given the group's otherwise dire circumstances. All of which explained why Captain Beverly Calvo tried to minimize the number of people who were out and about during the worst heat of the day and rely on remote sensors instead. Now, having been summoned to the bridge, the MO looked over a com tech's shoulder. “There it is,” the rating remarked as she tapped the screen with a much-bitten nail, “one helluva dust cloud. And it's com
ing this way.”

Calvo checked the bottom of the screen, saw that Sensor 14 had been placed on top of a rock outcropping a couple of miles east of the crash site, and shifted her gaze to the image above. With the other war forms up and ready for action, she'd been planning to break out one of the fly-forms but hadn't found the time. Now, looking at the enormous dust cloud, the legionnaire wished that she had. “Launch an RPV,” the MO ordered. “I'll notify the troops. Maybe some sort of animal migration is responsible for the cloud, but I doubt it.”

The tech doubted it, too, and her worst fears were realized twenty minutes later when the remotely piloted aircraft penetrated the cloud and circled over what could only be described as an army of what the rating assumed were indigs.

Calvo was summoned and brought 2nd Lieutenant Mik Farner to the control room with her. He was a burly man, with a baby face, who always looked as though he was going to explode out of his uniform. But there was strength there,
both mental and physical, and the MO felt lucky to have him. He examined the screen image from beneath a beetled brow. His voice rumbled. “They
look
primitive . . . but you never know. Did you scan this mob for any signs of electromechanical activity?”

The tech figured it would be a waste of time, judging from the way the riders looked, but obediently stabbed a series of buttons. The results were
nearly instantaneous as a blue dot superimposed itself over the wide shot quickly followed by half a dozen red dots.

“How very interesting,” Farner observed. “It looks like our supposedly primitive indigs own a com net. A relatively primitive net to be sure, but a net nonetheless. Go in on the blue target.”

The tech used a joystick to position a set of crosshairs over the blue dot and touched a button. The vid cam zoomed in, and Calvo looked on in surprise as the unmistakable image of a mounted Ramanthian appeared. The RPV lost the image for a moment, turned a tight circle, and found it again.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” Farner said soberly. “A bug on the hoof. And not just
any
bug, but based on the uniform he's wearing, a Subcommander in the Ramanthian equivalent of our cavalry. He has the command set . . . so let's see who he likes to talk to.”

The tech chose a red dot at random, zoomed in, and found herself looking at a heavily swathed indig. She was about to switch, and check another dot, when Farner placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hold on! Look at the weapon that bastard is holding! It's a Negar III!”

The maintenance officer turned her head. “Which means?”

Farner looked apologetic. “Sorry, ma'am. The Negar III is a Ramanthian assault rifle. They were standard issue up until five standard years ago, when the Negar IV was introduced.
It's a good weapon, though . . . and vastly superior to the trade rifles that gun smugglers sell.”

Calvo swore under her breath. First the Ramanthian, now this. “Check some more of those targets. Let's see what kind of armament they have.”

A quick series of checks confirmed that all of the warriors who carried com gear had Negar IIIs as well. A random sampling of those
not
identified by a dot revealed that while some carried Ramanthian assault rifles, the vast majority were armed with trade weapons.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Calvo said sincerely, “your analysis has been most helpful. I think it's clear that having failed to destroy Fire Base Alpha by other means, the Ramanthians are about to throw some native troops our way. We're in for a fight. The question is whether we should go out to meet them . . . or make our stand here. What's
your
view?”

The junior officer swallowed what felt like a rough-edged rock. Second lieutenants were rarely asked to contribute opinions on trivial matters, muc
h less situations like this one, so he was understandably surprised. However, while the infantry officer didn't have a lot of experience, he had been to the academy and fought thousands of simulated battles, some of which were relevant to the present situation. He cleared his throat. “While the war forms could go out and engage the enemy, that would leave the ship vulnerable and open to attack.

“For example,” Farner said, warming to his subject, “what if the natives are bait? Intended to suck our borgs into a fight so the bugs can drop a company of special ops troops in by air? For all we know they're already positioned ten miles out waiting for the signal to attack.”

Calvo had missed the second possibility, but considered the first, and nodded. “I concur, Lieutenant,” the MO said grimly. “We'll put the war forms in position, secure the ship, and bring the heavy stuff on-line. Let's get cracking.”

 

The dust rose in a thick cloud, and while much of the particulate matter was filtered out by the scarves that the Paguumi wore wrapped around their heads, the Ramanthian had no such protection. His eyes felt raw, his throat hurt, and his chitin was covered with a layer of grit.

The custom-made saddle, which had once been the property of Special Operations Officer Ruu Sacc, did a respectable job of holding Subcommander Pamee in place, but no amount of padding could ameliorate the pounding that resulted from the way the zurna's hooves hit the sand.

And, in addition to the physical discomfort that Pamee felt, there was a growing sense of fear. The Paguum had returned his com set shortly after Sacc's execution, allowing the officer to make contact with the base at Hagala Nor. But, rather than pull the infantry officer out as Pamee had hoped, Force Commander Ignatho Dontha ordered him to remain in place, and engineer an attack on a small group of Confederacy soldiers in the desert.

A simple task, really, or what should have been, but what if the assault failed? It seemed as if images of Ruu Sacc's death had been burned on to the Ramanthian's retinas because he couldn't get rid of them. But events had been set into motion, Srebo Riff was leading a wave of a thousand warriors toward the west, and Pamee was like a chip of wood riding the flood. All he could do was hang on and pray that the Paguum would win.

 

A protective berm had been established around the energy cannon, which sat just above the level of the sand and had a broad field of fire. “Here they come!”
someone shouted over the team freq, and Calvo, who was standing just behind the defensive rampart snarled into her mike, “This is Pandu Six . . . Take that person's name! Radio discipline
will
be maintained. Over.”

There was silence after that, on the radio at least, although war cries could be heard, followed by the
pop, pop, pop
of trade guns as the lead elements of the oncoming force fired their weapons. The digs looked like a solid mass at that point, shimmering in the heat and floating just above the surface of the desert.

The MO had never seen anything like it, or expected to, given the nature of her specialty, and was busy analyzing her reaction to the sight when Staff Sergeant Amel Haddad cleared his throat. Farner had put him in charge of the gun position, and like the officer, the noncom was standing in the open. He was a combat veteran, and his voice was calm. “Those bullets can carry quite a way, ma'am . . . I suggest that we take cover.”