Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (11 page)

His body gave an involuntary jerk as his ears picked up the dull
thump-thump-thump
of heavy machine-gun fire. Had they been discovered? No, the sound was muffled, indicating that the legionnaires were at least a half kak away.

So what was going on? Had the humans stumbled across some
real outlaws
? No, that was impossible. His scouts would have found and dealt with them hours ago. It was an error, then, a mistake of the sort that youngsters make, and nothing to do with him or his warriors.

Thus reassured, Hardman closed his eyes, tried to ignore the insect that had taken up residence behind his right ear, and settled down to wait. Judging from the sound of machine-gun fire, it wouldn’t be long.

Villain felt her spirits soar as she rounded the last bend and saw the desert beyond. It, unlike the dark confines of the canyon, was beautiful to look at. The rising sun had glazed the top of things with a pinkish-gold light and infused the air with a magical softness. The distant foothills seemed to float on an ocean of nearly transparent ground fog and the air hummed with the sound of newly aroused insects.

Villain gloried in the moment and left fear behind as she entered the desert. She was still enjoying it when Wutu emerged from the canyon, took one last look to the rear, and backed into the kill zone.

A warrior named Joketeller Nosmell peered through his periscope, waited for the cyborg to arrive at exactly the right spot, and flicked a switch.

The twenty-five pounds of carefully hoarded cyplex explosives went off with a tremendous roar. The force of the explosion removed Wutu’s right leg and arm. What remained of his body tumbled high in the air, fell straight down, and hit the ground with a distinct thump.

Nosmell pushed himself up and out of the depression. He had won a great victory and sought to enjoy it. He was smiling happily when Wutu rolled onto his damaged side, activated his machine gun, and pumped a five-round burst through the warrior’s chest. Then, hosing the area with suppressive fire, Wutu used his remaining leg to inch himself forward. Chemical inhibitors had blocked the pain, but that wouldn’t last forever.

A lot of things went through Booly’s mind. The realization that he’d been suckered, the fact that this was a full-scale tribal attack, and the knowledge that he was about to die. The plan was obvious: kill the last cyborg, kill the first cyborg, and trap the rest of the patrol in between.

Booly had leaped away from Villain, and was falling towards the ground, when the shoulder-launched missile struck her chest and exploded.

The noncom never saw the tiny piece of metal that spun away from the explosion, glanced off the side of his skull, and buried itself in the sand. Darkness pulled him under.

Villain felt herself fall. Pain filled her chest. Something hard hit between her shoulder blades. She sent orders to her legs. They twitched in res
ponse. Damn. Something moved to the left. She brought an arm up. Light burped. A Naa ceased to exist. Villain felt it again. The power, the joy, the satisfaction. And why not? She was damned near immortal, wasn’t she? Villain saw another figure emerge from the ground, made the necessary computations, and killed it.

Gunner understood the situation immediately and lowered his body to the sand. By doing so he protected his vulnerable legs and allowed the bio bods to low-crawl out of his cargo bay, a rather wise decision since the air was full of flying lead and sizzling energy beams.

Gunner felt someone slap a ready button inside his cargo bay, released the hatch, and fired his main armament. The results were spectacular.

Like all quads, Gunner was equipped with four gang-mounted energy cannons. These fired in alternating sequence, but so rapidly that they appeared to be one. Sand melted, rocks exploded, vegetation burst into flame. Naa warriors stood, fired their shoulder-launched missiles, and vanished as blue death cut them down.

There was return fire as well. Explosions rippled across the surface of Gunner’s armor. Many hit the bull’s-eyes painted on both of his flanks, but none did any real damage. Once down, with weapons activated, an assault quadruped was like a combination tank and pillbox. Absolutely indestructible to anything less than heavy artillery, another quad, or attack aircraft.

Gunner sent a mental command. A hatch opened just aft of his weapons turret. An electronically driven gatling gun emerged, shot upwards on its heavily armored arm, and opened fire. Dirt fountained fifty yards away as a group of four Naa tried to position an antitank gun and failed. The gatling gun fired more than six thousand rounds a minute and simply erased them from the surface of the planet.

Roller edged his way around Gunner’s bow and took a look. Booly was down and probably out, Wutu was about 20 percent effective, and the newbie wasn’t much better. Both continued to fire but couldn’t move. Rossif had tripped on a cable but had escaped without damage and was kicking some serious ass. Jones had taken three missile hits, all within the space of about three seconds, and exploded. Sheltered by Gunner’s metal bulk and dug in around his sides, the bio bods were okay.

Roller sighed. Air support would have been nice, but the Navy was supposed to supply that, and they weren’t around. It seemed that the brass refused to provide them with security on the ground. It was all part of the eternal pissing match between the Navy, the Marine Corps, and the Legion. He had damned little choice but to save what he could and haul ass.

“This is Roamer Seven. I have assumed command. Roamers Eight and Ten ... work your way over to Five and pull his module. Roamers Nine and Eleven ditto the newbie.”

Kato swore. silently and eyed the distance between Gunner and Wutu. If was fifty yards or so and looked twice that. She looked at Imai, he nodded, and they ran.

Wutu continued to fire, covering them as best he could, but the Naa were determined to bring him down.

O‘Brian and Yankolovich had worked their way around to the opposite side of the quad. Villain lay on her back, firing when the Naa made a run at her, but otherwise inactive. Successive missiles had destroyed both of her legs, and a small electrical fire was burning in the vicinity of what had been her right knee. O’Brian could see the sparks. Yankolovich looked his way, nodded, and they ran.

Villain looked up. She had damned little choice. The sun had cleared the horizon and was directing all of its strength into the vid cams that served as her eyes. She ordered them to iris down but nothing happened.

Bullets hit her torso, spanged off, and screamed away. They were annoying but no more harmful than insects. No, it was the missiles she feared, and one more should do the job. She wondered where it was. Did the Naa want her to suffer? Or were they running short of ordnance?

There was movement to the left. She raised a listless arm and fired. A Naa threw up his arms and fell backwards out of sight. Asshole. How much longer could this go on?

Suddenly O‘Brian was there and Yankolovich too. It was O’Brian who spoke.

“We’re jerking your module number two ... have a nice rest.”

Villain tried to nod but found that her head didn’t work. Blue fire burped overhead as Gunner provided covering fire. Villain’s surroundings jerked, swayed, and moved as they pushed her over. The last thing she saw was stones. Each had its own shadow. A bug ran from one to the next.

Yankolovich flipped a protective cover out of the way, grabbed the red T-shaped handle, and gave it one full turn to the right. Then, using the same handle, he pulled Villain’s biological support module out the back of her massive head. Injectors pumped sedatives into her brain and the world faded to black.

A massive form materialized next to the bio bods. O’Brian gave mental thanks. Having Rossif there to provide additional cover would make the trip to the quad a lot safer.

Roller was waiting when O’Brian and Yankolovich returned. They ran full speed, dived, and slid the last few feet. Dirt geysered around them as bullets hit.

Gunner redirected the gatling gun towards the source of the fire, triggered a long burst, and watched a boulder disintegrate. Once revealed, the Naa lasted a quarter of a second. Fur, flesh, and blood sprayed outwards as the bullets hit.

Rossif and Jones stalked forward, fired missiles into the rocks, and followed up with machine-gun fire.

O’Brian pushed the biological support module in Roller’s direction. Except for the T-shaped handle and the six-pronged connector located on one side, the olive-drab case looked like a .50-ammo box. Roller grabbed it and motioned towards the hatch.

“Get the hell inside! We’re pulling out.”

O’Brian and Yankolovich dropped into their padded seats and strapped themselves in. Roller entered and the hatch slid closed. Bullets clanged against the quad’s armor.

Roller dropped into a seat. His helmet was cracked where a piece of shrapnel had hit it. Blood streamed down the side of his face.

O’Brian’s voice was strained. “Where’s Wismer, Kato, and Imai?”

Roller wiped his forehead with an arm. “Dead. Along with Wutu.”

“And the sergeant major?”

“Dead.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Roller activated his radio. “All right, Gunner ... get us the hell out of here.”

Gunner had anticipated the order and rose in one smooth motion. Explosive shells and shoulder-launched missiles sparkled across the surface of his armor. He staggered under the impact, damned the luck that had kept him alive, and followed Rossif out of the kill zone. This was the moment to unleash his massive firepower and the cyborg did so.

All four of his energy cannons spit coherent light, the gatling gun roared defiance, missiles lashed out in every direction, grenades popped skywards, and smoke poured from heavy-duty generators.

Hardman recognized what was happening and gave the necessary orders. “The humans are attempting to withdraw. Allow them to leave. It’s impossible to defeat the four-legged cyborg. Enough blood has stained the sand.”

A few die-hard warriors unleashed their remaining missiles anyway, but they missed, or exploded harmlessly on Gunner’s armor. Minutes later and the humans were gone, with only the wreckage of their cyborgs and a handful of bodies to mark their passage.

Hardman forced himself up out of his hiding place and out into the open. He searched his emotions for elation, for happiness, and found nothing but pain.

Dead warriors littered the ground around him. Blood dripped down the side of a rock. A hand lay palm-up as if asking for friendship. A piece of metal skittered away from his foot. The air smelled of smoke, explosives, perspiration, urine, and feces. Healers moved among the wounded, aiding those that they could, granting eternal rest to those that they couldn’t.

It was a victory, a great victory, but Hardman found no pleasure in the pain and death. A hand touched his arm. The chieftain
turned to find Deathtricker Healtouch by his side. He was a small male with gray fur and streaks of black.

“Yes?”

“A human lives.”

Hardman made a gesture of surprise. “Where?”

“Over there.”

Hardman followed the healer back to the point where the battle had begun. A human lay crumpled on the ground, blood running down to pool around his head, his eyes empty of awareness.

“Will he live?”

Healtouch looked doubtful. “It is difficult to say. Would you like me to give aid ... or release him to the next world?”

The chieftain gave the Naa equivalent of a shrug. “Treat our wounded first. Then, if the human continues to live, see what you can do.”

Healtouch made a sign of respect, stepped over Booly’s unconscious body, and headed for the makeshift aid station. Hardman watched him go, then transferred his attention back to the body. Like most humans, this one looked soft and as helpless as a newborn infant. If only that were true.

For on men in general this observation may be made: they are ungrateful, fickle, and deceitful, eager to avoid dangers, and avid for gain, and while you are useful to them they are all with you, offering you their blood, their property, their lives, and their sons so long as danger is remote ... but when it approaches they turn on you. Any prince, trusting only in their words and having no other preparations made, will fall to his ruin....

Niccolo Machiavelli
The Prince
Standard year 1573

 

 

 

 

 

Angel Perez stepped out of the troop carrier and fell towards the planet below. Others were all around him. Some were cyborgs, some were bio bods, all were soldiers.

It was night, but that made little difference, because the objective was radiating enough heat to cook breakfast for a brigade. Heat that his electronics could detect, sort, and integrate with surveillance photos taken days and weeks before. The result was an image similar to what he’d see during the day, except that a blue grid overlaid everything, and a bright red X floated across the landscape. Altitude, rate of fall, and a variety of threat factors appeared in the lower right-hand corner of his vision.