Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (32 page)

The grass, which the locals assured him should have been tall that time of year, was short and brown. It crackled under Kobbi's boots, insects made
popping noises as they jumped out of the way, and the ever-present sun warmed the officer's shoulders.

Though still considerably south of Fire Base Alpha and the fortified wreck, Kobbi took pleasure in the fact that his half of the battalion was clear of the jungle and well into the savanna.
Although water was going to be a problem once they hit the desert, it felt good to be out in the open, where they could see for miles around. That, plus the RPVs that Calvo sent south to circle above the column during most of the day, added to the sense of security. Not only did the remotely piloted devices reduce the risk of ambush, they allowed the column to move much more quickly than it could
have had it been necessary to send out scouts and advance behind them.

Unfortunately, in spite of the fact that the column was unlikely to be ambushed by ground forces, it was open to attack from above. Although it was damaged, the Ramanthians had a ship in orbit plus smaller vessels that could operate in the atmosphere. Kobbi's worst nightmare was that one or more such aircraft would catch the column out in the open and pound it into mush. With that in mind the cavalry officer had positioned crews armed with man-portable surface-to-air missiles along the entire length of the column and worked continuously to prevent his flock from bunching up. The officer's t
rain of thought was broken as a com tech spoke in his ear. “Nomad Three Four to Nomad Six. Over.”

Kobbi touched the unit on his belt and spoke into the wire-thin boom mike. “This is Six. Go. Over.”

“Alpha Base reports six, repeat
six,
mounted nomads closing with the column from the northeast. Over.”

“Okay . . . Tell 'em we appreciate the heads up. Nomad Six to Bravo Six. Over.”

Santana had been monitoring the transmission, and given the fact that he and one of his platoons were walking point, wasn't surprised to hear his call sign. “This is Bravo Six. Over.”

“Take a squad and go out to meet our visitors, Bravo Six. Let's see who they are and what they want before we invite them home for dinner. Over and out.”

Santana clicked his transmit button twice, signaled Dietrich to round up his squad, and waited for the troops to
dump their packs in a pile that another legionnaire would guard. Then, lightened by sixty-plus pounds each, the reaction force jogged out to meet the incoming riders. They were in good shape, and the ground was relatively flat, so the legionnaires made
good time. Once a sufficient buffer had been established, the officer brought the squad to a halt just short of a low rise and nodded to Dietrich. “Deploy your men, Sergeant. The indigs are mounted—so keep that in mind.”

Like any good cavalryman, the noncom knew what mounted troops could do to unwary foot soldiers and had no desire to die in a meaningless skirmish on a third-rate planet like Savas. With that in mind he placed his best marksmen to either end of the line, where they could deal with any attempt to turn the corners, and sited the squad's light machine gun right at the center to counter the possibility of a head-on charge. Then, with those preparations in place, the noncom sent Fareye to keep an eye on the back door, confident that the Naa would spot anyone trying to sneak up on them from behind.

The fact that Santana watched his preparations, but made no comment, was both a compliment and one of the reasons Dietrich respected him. Many officers always found something to comment on, not because they had identified a genuine problem, but as a way to continually reaffirm their authority. It was a practice that not only served to undermine their NCOs but limit their effectiveness. His peers felt the same way and, being rid of Gaphy, were pleased to report to the new loot.

Santana stood on top of the rise and eyed the oncoming riders through his electrobinoculars. Now, as the indigs spotted him, the zurnas started to slow. It was the human's first look at the big animals and the bipeds who rode them. Most had their hoods thrown back, and it didn't take a degree in xenobiology to see the similarities between the Jithi and the Paguum. But their skin color was different, as were
the pronounced hooklike noses, and the front to back skull crests. The Paguum had larger frames, too, all except for one individual, who had undeniably human features. A rather interesting
if unexpected development. The riders came to a stop at the bottom of the rise, milled around for a moment, and disgorged a single rider. It was the human who rode up the slope, which given the circumstances, made good sense.

Nis Noia eyed the tall, dark-haired legionnaire as he used his knees to guide the specially trained animal up over the burned-looking grass. The agent considered himself to be a professional, an operative so seasoned he could work by himself for years without becoming homesick, but much to his surprise the sight of a human face produced what he felt to be an unseemly degree of eagerness. Noia struggled to keep his emotions under control as he reined the zurna in and felt the animal's head drop to crop at what little bit of forage there was. The operative delivered a perfunctory nod. “Good m
orning, Lieutenant. Nis Noia at your service. I'm the Confederacy's trade representative on Savas. Nartha Omoni is among the people at the bottom of the slope. She leads the southern tribe, and they control this swath of land. We'd like an audience with your commanding officer. Is he or she available?”

Santana didn't believe that the man with the hard features, the deep tan, and the native robes was a trade representative. Not for a moment. But kept his opinion to himself. “My name is Santana. It's a pleasure to meet you. Colonel Kobbi is back with the column. I'll let him know that you're here.”

Rather than provide Noia and the digs with a close-up look at his troops and their armament, Kobbi chose to join them on the rise. And, since it would have been unseemly to run, a good twenty minutes passed before he arrived. The meeting that followed lasted even longer. So long that the column was ordered to stop and make camp two miles to the north, where a hill and a jumble of rocks offered some cover.

Eventually afternoon faded into evening. A breeze came up, found the cook fires, and sent gouts of sparks up into the sky. Qwis Qwan was sitting on a rock, her fingers wrapped around a mug of hot soup, when Santana passed between her and the nearest blaze. She watched the officer pause to speak to one of his legionnaires, wondered if he was what she truly wanted, and looked up into the sky. Stars powdered the sky, but all of them were silent.

The house-sized combine that her parents had sacrificed so much to buy had broken down again, and being the best “wrench” on the family farm, Calvo had been summoned to repair it. She could see the huge machine sitting atop a distant rise, drive wheel deep in the golden tuf-wheat, but no matter how hard she pushed the little four-wheel utility vehicle, it never seemed to get any closer. It was frustrating,
very
frustrating, and . . .

“Captain Calvo? Sorry, ma'am, but a man-sized biological just passed through the outermost ring of detectors.”

Calvo groaned, sat up in her bunk, and rubbed her eyes. Finally able to see, the officer swung her feet over the side of the rack as Private Nishi handed her a cup of tea. A servo whirred as the MO accepted the mug and took a tentative sip. The hot liquid felt wonderful as it trickled down the back of her throat. “Do we have a profile on him?”

“No, ma'am,” Nishi replied matter-of-factly. “But given the fact that he's walking upright and packs the right amount of heat mass, Lomo's betting on a dig. A scout probably—come to take a look at us.”

The theory made sense so Calvo nodded. “Notify Lieutenant Farner. Tell him I want this one alive. Who knows? Maybe we can squeeze some intel out of him.”

The legionnaire nodded, said, “Yes ma'am,” and disappeared. Calvo took another sip of tea, wondered how her parents were doing, and hoped they had the latest crop in.

 

The sand gave under his boots, a pinnacle of rock obscured some of the stars, and the only thing the intruder could hear was the sound of his own breathing. It was dark,
very
dark, and Sawicki felt very much alone. A Ramanthian transport had dropped him off about five miles to the north and he'd been walking for what? Two or three hours now? Following the course Knifethrow had drummed into his head. And that was a problem because Sawicki didn't like being alone. He enjoyed being with people,
lots
of people, which was one of the reasons he joined up. Only now he wasn't part of the Legion anymor
e, and rather than the sense of freedom that Kuga-Ka and Knifethrow seemed to glory in, all he felt was a sense of loss. The renegade hadn't told
them
that, but that's how he felt.

Now, having been selected to talk his way into the fortified wreck, the human missed having someone to tell him what to do. Senior noncoms were a pain in the ass mostly, always coming up with work for him to do, but there was a certain comfort in the certainty of it all. A shadow fell out of the sky as Staff Sergeant Amel Haddad dropped off a ledge, threw an arm around the intruder's throat, and Corporal Baza rose like a ghost from the ground. Sawicki gave a grunt of expelled air as the second noncom buried a fist in his gut, then he doubled over and fell to his knees. He was
busy trying to barf when a light came on. “What the hell?” Haddad exclaimed. “This bastard is human!”

Baza checked, confirmed that the other noncom was correct, and helped the man in the tattered civvies get back to his feet. “Sorry, bud, we thought you was one of
them
.”

Sawicki wanted to punch the little corporal's lights out,
but knew it wasn't what the fictional him would do, and answered with a croak. “No problem . . . I understand. Would either one of you have some water?”

Other legionnaires had arrived by then, and the deserter held his breath as he chose one canteen from many and took a long pull. Sawicki had never been one to hang out with tech heads, and nobody had recognized him as yet, but the Legion was like a large family. All it would take was one person he'd swilled some beer with, and a “Hey, man, what are
you
doing here?” to put him in chains. But no one spoke, the deserter handed the water bottle back, an
d wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks! The name is Horn. Jason Horn. I live in Savas Prime. The bugs cooked my air car about two weeks back. I've been walking ever since. An old Paguum gave me some water a few days ago, but I ran out yesterday afternoon.”

All of which was true, except that the real Horn had been
killed
when the bugs attacked his air car, and was buried hundreds of miles to the east.

“Well, you're safe now,” Haddad said gruffly. “Can you walk okay?”

“Yeah,” Sawicki replied, “I believe I can.”

“Good,” the noncom said. “Follow Corporal Baza. He'll lead the way.”

Sawicki wasn't back in the Legion, not really, but it felt like home.

 

Twelve hours later, having told his story to Calvo and pretended to be devastated about the destruction of Savas Prime, Sawicki was feeling pretty good. The raggedy civilian clothes, the cover story that Kuga-Ka had drilled into him, and his natural ability to lie had all combined to put his hosts at ease. Not only that, but a quick check with the civilians in Kobbi's column confirmed that a man named Horn was missing, and added weight to the newcomer's story.

Now all the renegade had to do was accomplish the mission he'd been sent to carry out, namely to scope out the improvised security system that had been deployed around the wreck and come up with a way to neutralize it prior to the attack that would take place at 0200 the next morning. Or, as Kuga-Ka put it, “Don't dork around . . . and don't talk to anyone you don't have to. You aren't smart enough to fool anyone for very long.”

One problem had surfaced, however, and it was a lulu. Even though Sawicki hadn't hung out with the battalion's cyborgs, he and Knifethrow had been present when Kuga-Ka intentionally ran a truck over a tech named Poltero back on Adobe, before throwing the then badly damaged borg into the back to play with later. Then, having had their sadistic fun, the threesome disposed of the badly damaged spider form by dropping the mangled remains into the canyon that served as the base's garbage dump. Poltero had lain there for two days, unable to move, before somebody heard his cries for help.

Now, on a planet hundreds of lights away, Sawicki had the bad luck to run into the same box head! The good news, such as it was, lay in the fact that Poltero had never been allowed to see his tormentor's faces, which was why no alarm bells went off when the cyborg met the civilian named
Horn. Still, there was no point in pressing his luck, so the renegade resolved to give the tech a wide berth while he continued to familiarize himself with the wreck.

Given his supposed background, and unaware of his true identity, Calvo had given the man named Horn the run of the ship. The renegade made use of the freedom to visit the C&C, look in on the compartment that served as an armory, and visit the holds, where he chatted with a couple of techs.

And that's where Poltero was, running a maintenance check on a quad, when he heard Sawicki laugh. It sounded like a donkey braying and ended with a series of loud snorts.
The sound jerked him back to the moment of impact, hours of torture, and days spent laying in the dump. Though unable to see through the makeshift hood that had been thrown over his sensors, Poltero had been able to hear, and the laugh was unmistakable. Impossible though it seemed, one of his tormentors was not only present, but standing just a few feet away!