Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (5 page)

The symbol for Savas expanded into an actual shot of the planet taken from space, which dissolved into a montage of desolate plains, searing desert, and thick jungle. “Savas is a Class III planet,” Xanith continued, “although I'm sorry to say that the restrictions normally imposed on such worlds have been largely ignored.

“It's an Earth-like, Hive-like planet, which is why both races would like to settle it. When the war started Savas was classified as a joint protectorate under the control of both humans
and
Ramanthians. Those of you who want more detail regarding this world will find that a background document has been downloaded to your comps. The focus of my report is the Ramanthian fortress called Hagala Nor, which as you can see on this map is located toward the northern part of the planet's single world-spanning continent. It is, or was, a volcano, which the bugs converted into a military base.

“Now, as we look at an aerial reconnaissance vid shot sixty-two standard days ago, please take note of the equipment located along the rim of the crater.”

The audience followed the red dot as it touched some blocky structures and a rectangular piece of metal mesh. “This is an antenna,” Xanith said, “and not just
any
antenna, but a brand-new configuration our experts have never seen before.

“The purpose of this antenna is to pick up electronic messages sent from distant star systems and to send messages in return. The Ramanthians refer to the prototype as a ‘hypercom,' and the truly amazing thing is that it actually works!”

There was a moment of silence, followed by an explosion of conversation, as everyone attempted to speak at once. Booly stood up. “Quiet! Let's handle this one person at a time. Mr. President?”

Nankool was nonplussed. “What are you saying,
Margaret? That after decades of trying to come up with a means of faster-than-ship communications the bugs beat us to it? And they cobbled together some sort of super-radio that allows them to communicate from one end of the galaxy to the other?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” the intelligence chief responded. “Remember that the equipment on Savas is experimental in nature and that the Ramanthian military hasn't had a chance to assimilate the new technology yet. It won't take them long to do so, however, and, once the bugs distribute workable units to their fleets, they'll be able to fight a lot more effectively.
So
effectively that they will win the war.”

There was another explosion of conversation, but Admiral Yato had a voice all out of proportion to his relatively small body and managed to cut through the chatter. “No offense, Margaret, but how reliable is your information?”

“
Very
reliable,” Xanith replied. “I can't go into detail for security reasons, but suffice it to say that a Ramanthian air car crashed in the desert, two of their scientists were killed, and one of my operatives had the good fortune to reach the wreckage before the bugs did. Among the items recovered
from the crash site was a comp loaded with technical data. Not design information, but detailed notes and initial test results.”

“But what if that material is fake?” one of the staffers wanted to know. “We could waste a whole lot of energy chasing a technology that doesn't exist.”

“But what if they're
real?
” Leeger countered. “A device like that would change everything. If they have it, and we don't, the war is over.”

Nankool looked at Xanith. “Margaret? What do you think?”

The intelligence chief took a deep breath. “I trust the operative on Savas, and, while I can't guarantee that the information isn't part of some elaborate scam, that seems highly
unlikely. The scenario put forward asks us to believe that the Ramanthians knew exactly where my operative was, were willing to kill two valuable scientists to make the crash look real, all in an attempt to burn some of our bandwidth. I don't buy it.”

“So,” Nankool said, “what would you recommend?”

“Assemble a naval strike force, take control of Savas, and seize the research facility intact,” Xanith said levelly. “It's too late to put a lid on the technology—but we need to have it.”

Nankool nodded and turned to Yato. “How come I know you won't agree?”

The naval officer made a face. “We're stretched tight, sir. Lord knows my people would love to get their hands on some sort of hypercom, but we don't have any reserves. A battle group of that size is out of the question.”

“All right,” Nankool replied patiently, “what
can
you do?”

One of Yato's aides whispered something in the admiral's ear, and the naval chief nodded. “We could scrape up a couple of troop transports, give them a destroyer escort to keep them company, drop the group in-system. That's about it unless you want us to detach a strike force from one of the fleets.

Nankool winced. He knew that all of the fleets were understrength and overcommitted. The president swiveled toward Booly. “How 'bout it, General? Could you spare some troops?”

Booly nodded soberly. “Sir, yes sir. A battalion should do it. Assuming the navy can put our people on the ground near the objective, they'll take Hagala Nor,
and
the hypercom. They're going to need a ride home though—a battalion isn't strong enough to hold an entire planet.”

“The same transports that take the troops in can take them out,” Yato replied confidently. “Barring the unexpected, of course.”

The reply was glib, a little too glib for Booly's taste, especially given what the unexpected could do to even the best-laid battle plan. “Yes,” the legionnaire said gently. “And that's the problem, isn't it? Nothing ever goes quite the way we expect it to. Let's hope that this operation is the exception.”

An officer's first duty is to the well-being of his troops.

—Grand Marshal Nimu Worla-Ka (ret.)

Instructor, Hudathan War College

Standard year 1956

According to the orientation materials that First Lieutenant Antonio Santana had reviewed on the trip to Adobe, 10 percent of the planet's surface was covered with water. But the cavalry officer hadn't seen any patches of blue on his way down through the atmosphere, and, now that the shuttle was on the ground, the legionnaire figured the brief had been written by some REMF (rear echelon motherfucker) who had reviewed some survey data but never set foot on the place. Heat flooded the shuttle's interior as the ramp hit the ground and sent a puff of bone-dry dust up into the air. “We
lcome to Adobe,” the pilot said over the intercom, “and don't forget your sunscreen.”

Some of the other passengers seemed especially eager to rush out into the noonday sun, so Santana let them go before picking up his T-1 bags and starting down the ramp.

Meanwhile, toward the rear of the crowd that had assembled outside, Mora Haaby peered over the kepi-clad heads
gathered in front of her. The ten-foot-tall Trooper II had a vaguely humanoid appearance, although there was nothing human about the air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun built into her right arm, or the fast-recovery laser cannon that was an integral part of her left. Even minus the missile launchers that could be mounted on her shoulders, Haaby was still one of the most effective killing machines ever devised. She could run at speeds up to fifty miles per hour, operate in a va
cuum, and walk across the bottom of a lake. Assuming that Adobe had one.

The atmosphere-scarred shuttle shimmered as heat rose off its angular hull, and a khaki-clad officer made his way down the ramp and paused to look around. Haaby superimposed the picture she had been given to th
at of the man in front of her and came up with a match. The T-2 said, “Excuse me,” stepped through the hole the bio bods made for her, and took six giant strides forward.

Santana felt a shadow fall across him, heard the whir of servos, and turned toward the sound. Now that she was closer Haaby could see that in addition to the collar badge that denoted membership in the 1st Foreign Cavalry Regiment (1st REC), and a row of campaign ribbons, the newly arrived officer also wore bars that stood for an MFV (Medal For Valor) and a DSC (Distinguished Service Cross). All of which could signify that he was one hell of an officer or a glory boy who would be happy to trade her life for another decoration. Only time would tell.

“Lieutenant Santana? My name is Haaby, Corporal Haaby. Welcome to Adobe. Captain Gaphy sent me to pick you up.”

Santana nodded. “Glad to meet you, Corporal. Especially since I don't have the vaguest notion of where I am.”

Haaby decided that she liked the officer's open, unassuming manner and used her graspers to pick up the bags. “Here, let me take those, sir. I can give you some of the scoop on the way back. The base was built after the first Hudathan
war. It's laid out in concentric circles. The center, the area where the larger ships land, is designated A-1. This is A-5. The maintenance shops are located along B-1, and so forth, all the way out to F-3, which is where the regiment set up shop. Just watch for the signs.”

Santana said, “Thanks,” circled behind the cyborg, and made use of the steps built into the back of her thick legs to climb up level with the top of her head. Once in position he strapped himself into the recess provided for that purpose, removed his kepi long enough to don the headset stored in a recess next to the small control panel, and automatically requested a com check.

“I have you loud and clear,” Haaby replied. “Hang on.”

Santana hadn't ridden a T-2 since the rebellion on LaNor—and the long dangerous trip through the Claw-held countryside. But he was a cavalry officer, and the old skills came flooding back. The key was to relax, allow the harness to accept his weight, and use his knees as shock absorbers. The rhythmic motion, plus the odor of hot metal, were like old friends.

Thanks to the fact that Haaby was taking care of the navigation, Santana was free to examine his surroundings. The military base wasn't just large, it was
huge,
and bustling with activity. Thanks to the fact that Adobe was just a few thousand lights away from Ramanthian-held space, the planet was the perfect jumping-off place for raids into the so-called contested zon
e. As the cyborg made her way down one of the ruler-straight streets that radiated out from A-1, the legionnaire spotted elements of the 1st Foreign Regiment, the 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment, the 13th Foreign Half-Brigade, a contingent of militia from Earth, a battalion of Hudathan regulars, a detachment of colorful Prithians, and an engineering outfit made up of personnel from half a dozen different species.

All the troops appeared to be in the process of building
things, moving things, or tearing things down. Dust rose in clouds as all manner of tracked, wheeled, and articulated vehicles crawled, rolled, or walked along the reddish-colored streets. A company of marines jogged past. They wore sweat-stained caps, T-shirts, and shorts. Each carried a camel-pack filled with a solution that would keep them hydrated.

But if the sights were something to behold, the sounds were no less varied, and came together to create a discordant symphony. Power wrenches shrieked, NCO's shouted, servos whined, radios crackled, music blared, chains rattled, and all manner of other noises battled each other for dominance. It was horrible, yet strangely wonderful, as all of them came together to create a sense of energy.

Haaby made comments from time to time, even pausing to point out the officer's club, the open-air showers, and the area where Santana's new platoon was quartered before taking the officer to battalion HQ. Like most of the more important structures Santana had seen thus far, the shelter was shaped like a half cylinder laid on its side, was olive drab in color, and covered with a thick patina of reddish dust.

The cavalry officer removed the headset, hit the harness release, and jumped to the ground. His Class B uniform was creased in all the wrong places, covered with dust, and stained with sweat. Not the way one wanted to look when reporting for duty but there wasn't much the officer could do about it. Santana thanked Haaby for the ride, picked up his bags, and went inside. The outer door opened into a lock that could be used as a decontamination chamber but also served to keep the worst of the dust out of the interior. The inner door opened into a large room that was so cool it
felt like the Arctic region on Earth. The forward section of the long narrow space was taken up with two dozen folding field desks, all occupied, with an aisle down the middle. Farther back Santana could see the com section, with equipment racked to both sides of the throughway, tended by three bio bods and a spider form.

The space along the back wall was split between a conference room with a zip-seal see-through plastic wall, and an office, which was dark and presumably empty. The overall feeling was one of quiet professionalism. An excellent sign.

A sergeant rose from one of the desks and came out to greet the officer as he lowered his bags to the floor. She had short rusty red hair, fair ski
n, and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Lieutenant Santana? I'm Sergeant Conte. Welcome to Adobe. Both the CO and the XO are away at the moment, but I can check you in, and the colonel left a package for you.”

Santana gave silent thanks for the momentary reprieve, removed his kepi, and followed the NCO to her desk. “A copy of your P-1 arrived a couple of weeks ago,” Conte said, “but I need your card to make sure everything is up-to-date.”

Santana took a seat, fished the wallet-sized nearly indestructible data card out of his right shirt pocket, and handed it over.

Conte pushed the card into a slot on her comp, watched as the officer's personnel file and medical history were downloaded to the battalion's field comp, and gave the plastic rectangle back to its owner. With that taken care of she asked Santana to press his thumb into a small device that sampled his DNA, so the bat comp could compare it with the profile that had arrived earlier, and verify his identity. They matched.

“That's it, sir,” Conte announced. “The XO assigned you to Bravo Company, 2nd Platoon, under Captain Gaphy. A supply bot will draw your gear for you and leave it in your shelter. In the meantime Colonel Kobbi asked me to give you
this
.”

Conte took something off the floor and handed it over. Santana opened the roll to find that it consisted of a set of overalls with a note inside. The message read: “Alpha Company, 1st Platoon. Kobbi.”

Santana looked up to see Conte grin. “Colonel Kobbi is a
jacker. He spent two years as a tech and likes to keep his hand in.”

Like all legionnaires Santana knew that “jacker” was slang for an officer who had come up through the ranks rather than graduate from the academy as he had. There weren't that many of them, and most never rose beyond the rank of captain, which suggested that Kobbi was an unusual man indeed.

Conte's comment had been by way of a kindness, since she could have just as well kept her mouth shut, and Santana smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant. I'll keep that in mind. Can I leave my bags here?”

“I'll have them sent to your squat,” Conte replied, “and here's a map.”

Santana accepted a piece of paper that showed the battalion HQ, a number of landmarks, and a dotted line that led to a spot marked “Alpha Company, 1st Platoon.”

It was still another kindness, and the officer nodded appreciatively. “I owe you a cold one, Sergeant . . . They do have beer here, don't they?”

Conte managed to look shocked. “This is the Legion, sir. Of course we have beer!”

“I'm gratified to hear it,” Santana replied. “Buy your friends a round tonight and bill it to me.”

They couldn't drink together, the gulf between officer and NCO didn't allow for that, but by buying a round for Conte and her friends Santana could not only express his appreciation of the sergeant's help, he could indirectly score some points with some other noncoms as well. An investment that would be almost certain to pay off during the days, weeks, and months ahead.

Santana left the office, paused to don the overalls that Kobbi had left for him, and stepped out into what felt like a blast furnace. A large shadow passed over him as a heavily
burdened fly-form whined overhead. It had a fifty-ton quad clutched under its belly and carried it off to the west.

The cavalry officer glanced at the map Conte had prepared, set off down a heavily trafficked street, and was about halfway to his destination when he saw a neatly printed sign that read, “Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC,” and knew that the camo netting and the dusty tent that crouched beneath it were the property of his new company commander. It was tempting to stop in, but it seemed as though Kobbi was expecting him, which meant that it was best to continue on his way.

Santana had passed the company HQ by, and had just drawn level with a field hospital, when a huge Hudathan stepped out of the shade produced by a land crawler. Like most members of his race he was about seven feet tall, weighed something like three hundred pounds, and had a humanoid head. His white kepi hid the half-inch dorsal fin that ran front to back along the top of the legionnaire's skull, but not his funnel-shaped ears, and froglike mouth. His skin was white at the moment but would turn black if exposed to cold temperatures. In spite of the heat the Hudathan boasted a
uniform so crisp that it looked as if it had just been removed from a hanger. The big legionnaire wore the chevrons and rocker that denoted a gunnery sergeant. He pointed a sausage-sized finger at Santana, and said, “
You!
Hold it right there.”

That was when the cavalry officer realized that he had left his blue kepi back at battalion HQ—and that the overalls served to conceal the bars on his collar. He could have set the matter straight by revealing his identity, but there was something about the sergeant that bothered him. The feeling was reinfor
ced when a human and a Naa drifted out of the shadows to stand behind the NCO. He paused. “Yes, gunny?”

Gunnery Sergeant Hreemo Kuga-Ka was a natural-born predator, a vicious fighter, and a sadist. That was why he had
been discharged from the Hudathan army, and, having nowhere else to go, had joined the Legion. Then, relying on his skill as a warrior, native guile, and crude political skills, Kuga-Ka had risen to the rank of company sergeant—a lofty position from which he ruled with an iron hand. Now, having spotted what he assumed was a private, who had not only forgotten to put on his cover, but was dressed in sloppy overalls, the NCO was looking forward to exercising his power. The huma
n was tall, but the Hudathan was taller, and that gave him the advantage. Kuga-Ka tried to place the soldier as he moved closer but drew a blank. “What outfit are you with?”

“Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC,” Santana answered truthfully. “And you?”

The bland, clearly fearless reply served to infuriate the Hudathan, who clenched both of his ham-sized fists. His toadies grinned and waited for the show to begin. “I'll tell you who I am, slimeball,” Kuga-Ka growled, “I'm your company sergeant, your new best friend, and your worst nightmare. I'm the one who's going take you out of the box in the morning, run your ass all day, and put it back at night! Does that answer your fucking question?”