Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (42 page)

Finally, having been unable to break the square, and with most of their officers dead, the surviving cavalry were forced to retreat. By the time they thundered past the pavilion that had been established to protect Srebo Riff and his general staff from the blistering sun, it had already been abandoned. What remained of his once-powerful army followed, streaming back toward the Well of Zugat, leaving thousands of dead warriors for the dawn people to bury.

Twenty minutes later Nartha Omoni and Nis Noia allowed their zurnas to choose a zigzagging path through the horrible litter of battle before finally taking shelter under one of the awnings that had been rigged for Riff 's comfort. “So,” Noia said, leaning forward in the saddle, “victory is yours.”

Omoni looked out across the plain. The noncombatants were arriving by then, rushing out onto the battlefield to find sons, brothers, uncles, fathers, and even grandfathers. Some wailed over their horribly mangled finds, while others shouted excitedly and gestured for still others to come help when a wounded relative was located.

Closer in, only a hundred yards from the pavilion itself, the dragoons stood at ease, still trying to absorb what they had been through. Of the thousand warriors assigned to the experimental unit, fully half were wounded or dead.

Santana, his voice little more than a croak, could be seen instructing small groups of troops to go in search of their casualties. “You are dragoons,” he told them, “and dragoons take care of their own.”

Omoni shook her head. “If this is victory,” she said sadly, “then God protect me from defeat.”

Everything which the enemy least expects will succeed the best.

—Frederick The Great

“Instructions for His Generals”

Standard year 1747

When the Hudathan lifeboat dropped out of the nowhere land of hyperspace the little vessel had something strange clutched to its side. Not one object but three. A cylindrical space sled, a suit of space armor, and the bug sealed inside of it. One of more than a dozen technical experts sent to the Erini system, where the Thrakies were hard at work modifying Sheen warships for use by the Ramanthian navy. It was a highly secret endeavor, or had been, until FSO-4 Christine Vanderveen and Triad Hiween Doma-Sa had dropped in unannounced.

Now, as the pilot hurried to identify his vessel to the Confederacy naval units in orbit around Algeron, Doma-Sa was already exiting the tiny ship to bring the Ramanthian inside. Although Vanderveen wanted to go with him, the fact that the Hudathan lifeboat wasn't equipped with human space armor made it impossible for her to help. Four standard days had elapsed while the little vessel was in hyperspace. Had the Ramanthian survived? And if so, was he still sane after
such a traumatic experience? And if he was sane, could he be convinced to talk?

The questions were extremely important because although the lifeboat's sensors had been able to pick up and store a significant amount of data where the inside of the Thraki repair facility was concerned, testimony from a Ramanthian would serve to buttress that evidence.

Meanwhile, as Vanderveen sat and worried, Doma-Sa had worked his way down along the port side of the ship. He was big, so his space armor was even bigger, and a good deal more complex than the triad would have liked. In spite of the fact that the Hudathan leader had spent a significant amount of time in space, he had never been trained as a naval officer, which meant that he
hadn't logged all that many hours in a suit. Something he had neglected to mention to either the pilot or the human.

Now, as Doma-Sa fought to control the armor, he was beginning to question that decision. Especially since the controls were so sensitive that his first attempt to use the built-in propulsion system sent him jetting out into the blackness of space and it required a concerted effort to make his way back.

Once in contact with the hull, the Hudathan followed recessed handholds to the point where a tractor beam held the Ramanthian space armor firmly in place. Having prepared a line, Doma-Sa called on the lifeboat's pilot “to release the bug.”

The naval officer complied, and the sled had just started to drift away when Doma-Sa clipped the line to the fitting located just behind the Ramanthian's helmet. There were no signs of life from the entity in the suit, a fact that didn't bode well. When the short length of monofilament ran out, it jerked the alien space armor off the cylindrical vehicle, which drifted away.

Now, with the alien in tow, the Hudathan made his way back to the relative safety of the lifeboat's lock and pulled
himself inside. After that it was a relatively simple matter to reel the Ramanthian in, close the hatch, and repressurize the compartment. It was a pleasure to shuck the suit and hang it on a rack.

The next step, which was to open the bug's armor, proved more difficult. But form follows function, and the bugs were no different than other races where the issue of emergency access was concerned. There had to be a way to open the suit from the outside. Doma-Sa was still exploring the suit with big clumsy fingers when the interior hatch opened, and Vanderveen appeared. The human took one look at what the triad was attempting to do, and said, “Here, let me give you a hand.”

Within a matter of seconds the diplomat located a small plate and flipped it open to reveal a typical Ramanthian squeeze switch. It took all of her strength to generate the amount of pressure that a pincer would, but she felt the device give and heard the hiss of equalizing air pressures. An almost indescribable stench escaped, along with the pent-up atmosphere. Vanderveen gagged, and even the normally stone-faced Hudathan turned away. “He's dead,” Doma-Sa proclaimed. “Let's blow him out through the lock.”

“You're probably right,” Vanderveen agreed, “but we'd better check to make sure.”

The clamshell-style space armor had opened along the Ramanthian's back by then. Vanderveen made a face as she used both hands to reach inside, grabbed the alien under his chitin-slick armpits, and dragged him out onto the deck. There was no response, but Doma-Sa thought he heard a slight exhalation, and frowned. “Hold on . . . let me try something.”

There were all manner of things stored in the lockers that lined both bulkheads, and the Hudathan rummaged through them until he came up with a reflective sun visor. The triad held the brightly chromed surface in front of the Ramanthian's parrotlike beak and Vanderveen saw the surface
fog over as the prisoner exhaled. “My God, he's alive!”

“But just barely,” Doma-Sa said, as he mashed the wall-mounted intercom button. “Boka-Ka! Tell the squats that I'm aboard and demand a high-priority landing vector. Tell them we have an injured bug on board and to have a medical team waiting for us when we land.”

Vanderveen took note of all the ethnic slurs inherent in the triad's orders and hoped that Boka-Ka would have the good sense to edit them out. Not that it mattered much, because by the time the full extent of their activities became known, both of them would be in trouble. Except that only the Hudathan people could dismiss Doma-Sa from
his
job—while just about anyone could fire her. The FSO remembered Wilmot, winced, and went to work on securing the Ramanthian prisoner for landing. Her career might be over, but if the information gathered in the Erini system was sufficient to dest
roy the Ramanthian-Thraki alliance, then the loss would be worth it.

The military cemetery was located six miles south of Fort Camerone. The graves were arranged in concentric rings. And there were hundreds of rings and thousands of graves. Each marker wore an icy cap, and each mound was covered by a shroud of freshly fallen snow. A stainless-steel obelisk stood at the center of the graveyard, and the same inscription had been etched into all four sides:

A
ND HERE THEY LIE,
T
HEIR BLOOD FOREVER MINGLED,
T
HE
L
EGION OF THE
D
AMNED.

And not far from the outermost ring, in a section reserved for civilians, a large crowd had gathered around a
freshly dug grave. President Nankool was there, as was Chien-Chu, as was most of the Senate, two dozen military officers, and an equal number of civilian officials. Some Naa were present as
well, more than a hundred in all, singing the death chant. Nodoubt Truespeak's voice could be heard above all the rest. The deep baritone made the perfect instrument with which to express the tremendous sorrow that he felt. Sorrow mixed with a measure of guilt, because the assassin had been sent to kill him and would have almost certainly succeeded had it not been for Maylo Chien-Chu.

Now she and her husband stood at the edge of the small rectangular hole that had been hacked out of the planet's frozen surface, only partially visible through the driving snow, as the tiny casket was lowered into the cold, stony ground. Similar burials took place in Naa villages every day, but Truespeak found this one to be especially poignant not only because of the issues that lay behind the tragedy, but the fact the little girl was part Naa.

Booly pulled Maylo close as their daughter's casket came to rest at the bottom of the grave, and the ropes were withdrawn. He felt her shoulders shake as tremendous sobs racked his wife's body and bit his lip as the first shovelful of crusty soil went into the hole. The assassination attempt, the miscarriage, and the funeral all seemed like part of a surreal nightmare.

Finally, it was over. The bereaved couple leaned on each other for support as they made their way to the convoy of vehicles waiting to carry the mourners back. So many tears had been wept, and so many words had been spoken, that the couple had nothing left to say to each other as the driver guided the staff car back toward Naa Town and the fort beyond. If it hadn't been for the spirals of smoke that rose to merge with a lead gray sky, and buttery yellow light that glowed from behind dozens of thick panes, the low, snow-covered domes would have been nearly invisible.

The car bounced over ridges of ice, waddled through some potholes, and passed a snow-dusted quad just back from patrol. Booly and Maylo were huddled together, lost in the mutual misery, when the vehicle came to an unexpected halt.

Booly looked up, saw that hundreds of leather-clad Naa had spilled out onto the road in front of them, and was reaching for his belt com when the mob started to dissipate. The townspeople didn't go far, just to both sides of the road, leaving the middle clear. Then, as the staff car started up again, Booly saw that more of the locals lined both sides of the road. So many that it appeared as if the entire population had turned out, not to attack the car as he had initially feared, but to demonstrate their sympathy for those inside it. There were no secrets on Algeron, not arou
nd Fort Camerone, and word of the assassination attempt had spread.

Maylo looked out through the half-fogged window, instinctively understood what the gesture meant, and felt the tears start to flow. She sobbed as t
he car wound its way through Naa Town, the snow-flecked citizens stood silently by, and another two-hour-and-forty-two-minute day came to an end.

It was nearly midnight when Admiral Enko Norr read the very latest intelligence report, ordered an entire assault group to attack the invading object, and surrendered to the inevitable. Like it or not, he had no choice but to inform the Queen. An already-cranky monarch who didn't like to be awoken in the middle of the night, and had a well-established tendency to abuse those who delivered bad news. Something that his mate, Suu Norr, the long-suffering Minister of Civilian Affairs, had already experienced firsthand.

The journey from the admiralty to the royal eggery passed all too quickly from the naval officer's perspective, and it
wasn't long before Norr found himself being escorted up the switchbacking ramps to the platform that encompassed the Queen's enormous body. Norr gave silent thanks for the fact that most of the royal's army of courtiers, toadies, and sycophants were home asleep. And, judging from the sound of the monarch's high-pitched voice, the rest were under attack. “If I am to be awoken at all hours, and tortured with all manner of problems, the least you could do is fetch me some tea . . 
. Now move, or I'll have the entire lot of you sent to an ice world, where you can huddle around a fire fueled by your own excrement!”

The servants were well aware of the fact that Norr was the real cause of their misery and eyed the military officer resentfully as he completed his journey and stopped to bend a knee. “A thousand apologies for interrupting your sleep, Majesty.”

“Don't be silly,” the monarch replied caustically. “I
love
to be awoken in the middle of the night and subjected to the rantings of a uniformed imbecile. I shall be fascinated to hear what manner of menace is so important that it couldn't wait for a more civilized hour.”

Norr withstood the barrage of words, nodded gamely, and swallowed. It didn't work. The hard, dry lump remained lodged at the back of his throat as he spoke. “An object that was first thought to be a comet, but was later determined to be an alien construct, is on a collision course with Hive. It is expected to touch down somewhere within the western hemisphere unless we're able to stop it.”

“What?”
the Queen demanded incredulously. “You're telling me that some sort of missile is going to hit Hive?”

“Yes ma'am, I mean
no
ma'am,” Norr corrected himself. “It isn't a missile so much as a custom-built spaceship designed to look like a comet. That's how the Confederacy brought it into the system—and that's why we weren't aware of it sooner.”

The Queen was fully awake by then and so concerned
about what the naval officer had to say that she forgot to sound aggrieved. “Tell me what you know . . .
Everything
.”

So Norr told the monarch how the object came to be classified as a comet, how the better part of two weeks passed before the Department of Astronomy took a closer look at the object and ran standard calculations on its orbit. That was when the bureaucratic alarms started to sound, a scout ship was dispatched to inspect the newcomer, and the truth became known. Rather than a comet, the incoming object was a ship designed to
look
like a comet, and had no doubt been sent for the express purpose of attacking Hive.

The Queen interrupted at that point. Her voice was filled with concern. “Are they after my eggs?”

“We aren't sure that the Confederacy even knows about your eggs,” Norr replied. “But it hardly matters. An assault group has been dispatched to destroy the enemy vessel, the odds are against a hit on this location, and the eggery is extremely well protected.”

“An assault group?” her royal highness demanded incredulously. I would have thought that two or three warships would have been sufficient to handle a single intruder. Or is there something you failed to tell me?”