Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (8 page)

“That's affirmative,” Santana said. “Camerone!”

“Camerone!” the legionnaires answered, as they snapped to attention and saluted.

Santana responded in kind, watched them depart, and wondered what Kuga-Ka had been doing inside his tent. Searching it probably—looking for some sort of leverage.

“So,” Fareye said once he and his companion were out of earshot. “Did you see the loot's face when you told him about the Hudathan?”

“Yeah,” Dietrich replied, “I sure as hell did.”

“So, what do you think?”

“I think the loot has a big ugly three-hundred-pound problem.”

“So, what should we do?”

“We'll do what we always do,” the NCO answered calmly, “we'll cover the loot's six.”

 

The grapevine was usually faster than official channels of communication, though often less accurate, which was why battalion maintenance officer Captain Beverly “Bev” Calvo already knew the battalion was going to be deployed
before
she took the call from Colonel Kobbi. The destination was wrong, though, not that it mattered, since she'd never been to Worber's World
or
Savas.

All Calvo cared about was the fact that there were only three standard days in which to prepare, the brass was going to split the brain boxes and war forms between two different
ships, and the battalion would have to operate independently for an extended period of time.

That was why both she and the battalion supply officer, Captain Rono-Ra, had mustered their forces at the center of the 1st REC's cavernous maintenance center. It was chow time, which meant that members of the other battalions weren't likely to be around, and that was just as well. The prefab structure dated back to the inception of the now defunct Trooper III program and was forever imbued with the odors of hot metal, lubricants, and ozone.

The Maintenance Officer (MO) was only five feet five inches tall—which was why she stood on the second step of a three-step maintenance ladder. Rono-Ra needed no such assistance.

Calvo wore her usual combination of a blue kepi, stained overalls, and scuffed combat boots. She had a pretty face, but rarely gave the matter much thought or sought to emphasize the fact. What Calvo
was
known for was the specially equipped artificial right arm which she had been fitted with after losing the flesh-and-blood version to Thraki shrapnel. The MO had modified the artificial limb so that it could accept a full array of tools, including a cutting torch, impact hammer, and power wrench. Her fingers whirred as she motioned the audience forward. “Close it up, people . . . We do
n't have much time.

“Those of you assigned to snatch teams have been given lists of must-have high-priority parts. You were chosen for this assignment because of your contacts, your discretion, and your complete lack of scruples. Please don't disappoint us.”

Those assigned to the snatch teams knew the cap was telling them to steal the items on the list from the other battalions. They also knew that their peers would expect such a move and defend against it. But they laughed nonetheless and were in high spirits as they streamed out of the building through a quad-sized door.

“All right,” Calvo continued, “it's up to the rest of you to prep the war forms, load the transit containers with supplies, and put the boxes aboard the ships. Check your hand comps for lists of what goes where and the load sequence.

“Finally, hear this, and hear it good . . . Lieutenant Rono-Ra and I want every quad, RAV (Robotic All-terrain Vehicle), and tac box filled with food, ammo, and spare parts before they are loaded into the transit containers. Then, before the cargo modules are sealed, we want
more
stuff crammed into all the nooks and crannies. If you do it, and do it right, Lieutenant Rono-Ra calculates that we can increase the amount of supplies we take with us by a full 10 percent.

“That's right,” the Hudathan put in. “And when the troops board, feed them first, fill their pockets with loose rounds, and tuck a roll of toilet paper under each arm. Does everyone read me?”

There was a loud, “Sir! Yes sir!” followed by more laughter.

“Good,”
Calvo concluded soberly, “because where we're going there aren't any pre-positioned supplies, shopping malls, or packages from home. Consult your NCOs if you have questions. We'll be working sixteen hours on and eight hours off until the ships lift. That will be all.”

The crowd scattered as Calvo stepped down, thought about the task ahead, and looked at Rono-Ra. “So what do you think? Can we pull everything together?”

The supply officer produced the Hudathan equivalent of a smile. “Oh, we'll pull it together all right . . . But General Ibo would be well advised to keep one hand on her skivvies. There won't be much left around here when we're done.”

 

The Hudathan arrived on time, filled the entrance to the squat with his considerable bulk, and announced his presence. “Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka, reporting as ordered,
sir!
”

Santana was seated behind his folding field desk. Its surface was bare except for a zapper identical to the one that the
NCO had used on Haaby
and quite possibly others as well. The officer eyed the silhouette, wondered if the meeting was a mistake, and said, “Enter.”

Kuga-Ka took three Hudathan-sized paces forward, came to attention, and held it. Normally Santana would have said, “At ease,” and invited the NCO to sit down, but the present circumstances were anything but normal. His status as an officer gave him an important advantage—and he had every intention of using it.

The Hudathan spotted the zapper, knew it was there for a reason, and felt something cold trickle into his veins. How much did the officer know? And more importantly, did he have any proof?

“No, it isn't yours,” Santana said, taking the remote off the table. “But it's similar. I wanted to see how hard they were to come by and learned that half a dozen of them were stolen from the military police a few months back. Did you or one of your toadies steal them?”

“Sir! No sir!”

“That's good, very good,” Santana replied, “not that I'm inclined to believe it. Here's what I've learned so far . . . Ever since you arrived on Adobe you have used your authority to abuse, degrade, and torture the very beings you are sworn to protect. And, because you are so violent, people have been understandably reluctant to file charges against you.

“Now, based on what I'm telling you, a normal person would stop such activities so that he or she wouldn't get caught. But you believe you're smarter than your officers are—and take pleasure in carrying out your little games right under their noses. That, plus the fact that you are addicted to the pleasure you derive from abusing others, means that you'll continue even as some aspect of your tiny little brain tells you that it's dangerous to do so. And it
is
dangerous, because I'm going to catch you at it, and bring you up on charges.

“Or, and I suspect you're thinking about this one right
now, you can attempt to kill me. I say ‘attempt,' because a whole lot of people have tried to kill me in the past, and I'm still around. How 'bout it, gunny? Would you like to take a shot at me?”

Kuga-Ka wanted to kill Santana, was
determined
to kill Santana, not to mention Haaby. The freak had been warned, the freak had spilled her guts, and the freak was going to suffer. But not here, not now, and not while Santana held all the cards. The squat could be bugged, and there was no guarantee that he would be able to find such a device in the aftermath of the murder. Not onl
y that, but other people were aware of the meeting and could testify to it. He kept his eyes focused on a point over the officer's head. “Sir! No sir!”

“That's what I thought you'd say,” Santana said easily. “Now, one last thing, is the company full up? Or do we have some open slots?”

“We have three open slots, sir.”

“Good. I have excellent candidates for two of them. I will provide their names to Captain Gaphy—and you will endorse them. Gaphy owns the company, but I run one-third of it, and I can find ways to make your life a living hell. Do we understand each other?”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Excellent. Now, get out of here before the very sight of you causes me to throw up.”

The Hudathan executed a perfect about-face, marched out of the tent, and soon disappeared from sight.

Santana let out a long slow breath, removed the pistol from his lap, and placed it on the desk. It had taken the better part of two hours to coax the truth out of Haaby—and only after a promise that he wouldn't take the matter upstairs. Not only was the cyborg afraid of Kuga-Ka, but had the Hudathan's toadies to consider, along with one of the Legion's most venerable laws. Members of the enlisted ranks solved their own problems, never took interpersonal
issues up the chain of command, and were sanctioned if they did.

Was it right? No. Was it real? Yes. That was why Santana had decided to bait the Hudathan and lure the noncom out into the open, where official action could be taken. Would Kuga-Ka move against his enemies
before
the battalion lifted off? The cavalry officer believed that he would because once the techs jerked Haaby's brain box the zapper wouldn't work, and the noncom's leverage would be lost. Not only that, but the T-2's brain box would be racked along with all the others, and kept under lock and key until just prior to landing.

All of which meant that, in addition to preparing his platoon for deployment and trying to snatch a few hours of sleep every now and then, Santana had to protect both the cyborg and himself. No small task with a potentially homicidal Hudathan on the loose.

The officer rose, slipped the pistol into the shoulder holster that most members of the 1st REC preferred, and left the squat. There was a whole lot of work to do—and less than three standard days in which to get it done.

 

The sun had gone down, the air had started to cool, and it was as if the entire planet had heaved a sigh of relief as the evening breezes started to stir. There were no Ramanthians in-system, not yet anyway, which meant the streetlights were on. They created pools of green luminescence linked by areas of darkness. Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka paused in one such refuge and froze. There was noise, plenty of it, including the sound of a fly-form passing over head, the growl of a truck engine, and the distant blare of Earth music. None of which held any interest for the NCO. He was listeni
ng for more subtle sounds. The scrape of a boot on gravel, the clink of metal, or the distinctive
click
that a safety made as it was released. But there were no suspicious sounds, which meant Kuga-Ka was free to focus his attention on the four-person
squat and the dim glow within. The officer was present—but was he alone?

The Hudathan could move with considerable speed given the size of his body. He dashed through the intervening pool of light, entered the shadow that bordered the tent, and crept up to a window. It was open to let the cool evening air flood in. A single glance was sufficient to establish that the human was all by himself.

Thus reassured, Kuga-Ka withdrew the specially engineered tube from the cargo pocket on the side of his pant leg and approached the door. The duralon whispered as he slipped inside. The officer sat in semidarkness, shoulders slumped, eyes focused on the desk in front of him. He heard the slither of fabric and looked up. Something big blocked the streetlight beyond. “Kuga-Ka? Is that you?”

“Yes sir,” the Hudathan replied gently. “It's me.”

“Did you bring it?”

The cylinder felt cool in Kuga-Ka's hand. “Yes, I brought it.”

“Then give it to me.”

“You have three already, sir. Another could kill you.”

“Don't be absurd,” the officer replied loftily. “I know how much I can handle. Besides, the battalion is about to lift, and I won't be able to get any more. Now stop wasting my time and hand it over. Or, would you like a transfer to another company? One where your rather exotic notions of entertainment wouldn't be tolerated?”

It was a potent threat and one that would rob the Hudathan of that which he valued most. Kuga-Ka sighed, and the tube changed hands. “I hope you're right, sir.”

Gaphy welcomed the coolness of the metal, the moment of anticipation as he unscrewed the lid, and the gentle hissing sound as air pressures were equalized.

Then, unable to wait a moment longer, Gaphy used his left hand to unbutton his shirt, tapped the cylinder with his
right index finger, and whispered to the creature within. “Time to come out my sweet . . . That's right . . . You'll like what you find.”

There was a wet popping sound as the six-inch-long joy-leech sensed the presence of food, propelled itself out of the canister, and landed on Gaphy's skin.

Kuga-Ka heard the human whimper as the alien life-form pushed a needle-sharp penetrator through the surface of his skin. That noise was followed by a long, drawn-out groan of pleasure as the wormlike creature injected powerful endorphins into the company commander's bloodstream, and a wave of ecstasy carried him away. Gaphy's eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out.