Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (39 page)

Her body had always been slim, but after weeks of hardship, her ribs were visible. Qwis looked up into the cool water, ran her fingers through her hair, and gave a tiny moan of pleasure as the liquid trickled down across her chest. Brown nipples hardened in reaction to the water. Santana stepped in and held up a bar of soap. “May I?”

“Yes,” Qwis said huskily, “you may.” Santana applied the soap to cool skin, starting with her shoulders and gradually working his way down to pert, upturned breasts, a flat stomach, and the dark cleft between her legs.

Qwis uttered a tiny gasp as his hand lingered there before finding its way around to her buttocks, where the other
hand joined it. Then she was up off the floor with her legs wrapped around his waist as Santana nudged his way inside. Their lips met, and the couple remained like that, their bodies locked together, until the steadily rising tide of passion caused both of them to move.

Qwis broke the kiss, held on to the legionnaire's shoulders, and looked up into his face. She wanted to memorize it, so it would always be there, stored against the time when they would part. It was a reality he hadn't considered as yet, but she had, and was already trying to deal with. Qwis took pride in the pleasure that she was giving, the little sounds that he made, and way their bodies fit together.

Then, as their lovemaking intensified, and the tension started to build, Qwis pulled herself up to renew the kiss as the final moment of pleasure came. And it was good, better than what she had expected, which led to a desire for more.

Finally, reluctant to release Qwis and thereby bring the interlude to an end, Santana continued to hold her, reveling in the trickle of cool water, the contrasting warmth of her body, and the smell of soap.

Later, as the legionnaire lay asleep on their makeshift bed, Qwis said a silent farewell.
If
they survived,
if
they found a way off the planet, Santana would be sent on another mission while she went to Earth. Her father had some money there, which meant that he could heal, she could further her education and find whatever life still had in store for her. The soldier turned, an arm fell across her stomach, and Qwis felt a tear roll down her cheek.

The day after the storm had dawned bright and clear, bringing with it the opportunity to dig out from under sand drifts and put the battalion back together. The wreck was a
scene of frantic activity as Kobbi stood atop a neighboring dune and watched still another quad clank down the ramp to join its mates. Bit by bit, as more war forms were activated, the perimeter had been pushed farther out.

The officer turned as engines screamed and a skeletal-looking fly-form rose on its repellors, turned on its axis, and fought for altitude. It had orders to fly south, land in the desert, and bring the crash survivors out. Something a lot of very worried parents were looking forward to.

The fact that Santana and his party had survived repeated attacks by the outcasts was good news but did nothing to resolve the central problem. The officer felt sure that the hypercom was still on Savas because the Ramanthians hadn't left, as evidenced by the attack on
Old Faithful
and the high-altitude flyovers they conducted at least twice a day. The hands-off exercise suggested that what aircraft they still had were considered too precious to risk by attacking the wreck.

But the question, the one that kept the jacker awake at night, had to do with time. How much of it remained before some sort of Ramanthian task force dropped into orbit, loaded the hypercom in their holds, and carried it away? Days? Weeks? Certainly no more, given the amount of time that had elapsed since the battalion's arrival. Whatever the answer, Kobbi knew that he and his battalion would have to reach Hagala Nor in a very short period of time, take on a substantial force of Ramanthian regulars, and defeat them
before
their reinforcements could arrive.

The next problem was how to get the captured equipment off planet, but there was no way to know if Captain Posson and the smuggler had been able to get through, so all the officer could do was seize control of Hagala Nor and hope for the best.

“Good morning, sir,” Calvo said cheerfully as she topped
the dune and handed Kobbi a sealed container. “I hope you like your coffee black because that's how it is.”

“I like my coffee any way that I can get it,” the senior officer replied appreciatively. “We ran out a full week before we got here.”

The MO nodded and took a sip of tea before gesturing to the scene below. A squad of T-2s, each with a bio bod strapped to its back, were jogging toward the east side of the perimeter. “Things are going well. We'll be able to pull out by 0600 tomorrow.”

“You did a helluva job, Captain. And so did Rono-Ra and Amdo. I'll put every damned one of you in for a decoration if we make it off this pus ball alive.”

Calvo was about to credit her troops when a fly-form screamed in from the southeast and circled the fire base like a bird checking its nest before settling onto pad three. “That will be Nis Noia,” Kobbi predicted. “Come on, let's see what the frigging spook has to say.”

 

Although Nis Noia had seen the wreck from the air, it wasn't until he stepped out of the fly-form onto what looked like black glass that he could appreciate the size of it. The ship, or what remained of it, had the bulk of a high-rise office tower laid on its side. A legionnaire arrived to take him inside. The operative was struck by the fact that once inside the hull, and with no ports to look out of, he could have been in space. Thanks to all the miracles performed by Amdo and his crew, the lights remained on, deliciously cool air whispered through the ducts, and only the sli
ght tilt of the deck hinted at where the ship truly was.

Kobbi, Matala, Calvo, and Amdo arrived in the wardroom at the same time Noia did. There was a quick flurry of introductions followed by a readiness report from the XO and a tray of refreshments. Once the rating who had brought them left the compartment, Kobbi wasted little time getting down
to business. His eyes locked with Noia's. “I know you understand the urgency of our situation. Hell, you were the guy who found the Ramanthian air car out in the desert and sent for help. What, if anything, can you tell us about what the bugs are doing right now?”

Noia brought his fingers together into a steeple. “My scouts tell me that the Ramanthian machines, by which they mean armor, are positioned to defend Hagala Nor.”

Calvo nodded. “That's consistent with the latest images obtained by our RPVs. It looks like the bugs have a full battalion on the ground. It's hard to get an exact count, since the Ramanthians are trying to hide them, but the standard strength for that kind of an outfit is fifty-six armored vehicles. So far they don't show any signs of coming out to meet us.”

“So,” Kobbi said soberly, his eyes roaming the faces around him, “it looks like the bugs know what we're after and plan to make a stand. We need to get our hands on the hypercom
before
they receive reinforcements, so it looks like we'll have to tackle them head-on.”

Noia cleared his throat. “That may be hard to do, Colonel. My sources inform me that the northern tribe broke camp this morning and is riding west. I believe they will stop, turn south, and engage you. They won't be able to win, not against your cyborgs, but the fight could last for two or three days. Especially if the Ramanthians provide them with arms, which I predict that they will.”

Kobbi directed a look at Calvo, who knew what the colonel wanted, and left the room as the jacker turned back to Noia. “We can't afford to let the bugs stall us for
one
day, much less three. Captain Calvo will send an RPV to check on the northerners. Now, assuming that we can confirm your intelligence, here's what I want you to do . . . Use your influence with the southern tribe to bring them into
contact with northerners. While the Paguum are busy butting heads,
we'll go around the conflict and engage the bugs head-on. Do you follow me?”

Noia winced, and his eyes dropped to the surface of the wardroom table. Even though he wasn't supposed to get emotionally involved, he'd been on Savas so long that he had come to value Paguumi culture and love the planet as much as they did. No, the off-world part of him couldn't approve of Omoni's tendency to usurp northern wells, but the Paguumi part of him understood. Survival comes first.

Now the intelligence officer was being called upon to guide his adopted people toward a conflict that would almost certainly result in thousands of casualties. And he didn't
have
to follow Kobbi's orders. The organization that Madame X led fell well outside the military chain of command and had been created to gather intelligence, not act on it.

But there were other sentients to whom he was beholden.
Billions
of them, spread across hundreds of systems, all of whom would be vulnerable if the Ramanthians had sole possession of the hypercom.

The silence had grown distinctly uncomfortable, and Kobbi had just cleared his throat as a prelude to restating his request, when Noia looked up from the table. His voice cracked as he spoke. “I'll do what you ask under one condition.”

Kobbi wasn't used to having conditions imposed on him, not by civilians dressed in ratty-looking native garb, but managed to control his temper. “And the condition is?”

“The Ramanthians will supply Srebo Riff and his tribe with arms,” Noia answered. “I'm sure of it. You don't have weapons to give away, I know that, but you could supply the southerners with a group of advisors. They were practicing the tactics Santana taught them when the lieutenant and his troops were pulled away. Send him back, let him lead the dawn people into battle, and I'll do what you ask.”

Now it was Kobbi's turn to be silent as he considered all of his alternatives. It wasn't fair to Santana to throw him into the situation that Noia had described, not after what he'd been through, and he was short of competent company commanders. But it was clear that Noia felt strongly about helping the southerners, and judging from the fervor in his eyes might say “no” if he didn't get his way.

“All right,” Kobbi conceded, “I'll send Santana. But only for the first engagement. He has a scout company to lead . . . and I'm short of officers. Agreed?”

“Yes,” the intelligence operative agreed, expelling his breath with the word. “Thank you.”

“Just keep the northern tribe off our backs,” Kobbi replied curtly. “
That
will be thanks enough.”

The fly-form's slipstream whipped through the open hatch, blew Santana's hair straight back, and threatened to snatch anything that wasn't strapped down. It felt good to fly rather than walk, even if it meant that he and his troops were headed back into the desert again, where they were supposed to provide the southern tribe with “advice and leadership.” A euphemism for helping one group of digs kick the crap out of another.

What little comfort there was stemmed from the fact that the rest of the battalion was headed north to engage the Ramanthians. Not that Santana and his tiny command had been issued a free pass, since they were supposed to rejoin the battalion, “as early as possible after the successful execution of the unit's orders.”

In the meantime, out on his own once more, Santana wanted to take a look at the night people before joining their cousins to the south. And since the two tribes were only
about eighty standard miles apart, and moving toward each other at a speed of about five miles an hour, the detour wouldn't take all that long.

An RPV had been monitoring the northern tribe's movements, so it was easy to find them. The first thing the legionnaire saw from the fly-form's starboard hatch was the five-mile-long cloud of dust created by thousands of warriors all riding in a line abreast. Or trying to, since some of the terrain was easier to cross than other parts, which meant that what might have been a straight line looked like an elongated S instead. Since there was no clear reason for using that particular formation en route from one place to another, the legionnaire guessed that he was looking at some sort of train
ing exercise. Farther back, and raising their own cloud of dust, were the elders and children, all protected by a vanguard of well-armed females.

As the fly-form passed over the first rank Santana caught a glimpse of dust-cloaked warriors, the hulking animals on which they rode, and something completely unexpected. What looked like a Trooper II! There were isolated flashes of light as a few of the northerners fired their weapons, then the fly-form was past the first group of Paguum and headed for the second.

Santana opened the intercom and spoke to the pilot via the boom-style mike in front of his lips. “Can we make another pass over the warriors? I need to check on something.”

The pilot held the same rank Santana did, so the reply was casual. “Okay,” she replied, “but look fast. We took at least some of them by surprise on the first pass, but they're ready for us now.” The pilot's words proved prophetic as she put her electromechanical body into a tight turn and headed back toward the cloud of mistlike dust. The entire length of the line erupted into flame as virtually every Paguum who had a gun fired it. Fortunately, most were too far away to be very effective. And because those directly below the aircraft
had never fired at one before, most of the
m aimed at where the target had been rather than where it was about to be. An error that wasted thousands of rounds of ammunition.