Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (35 page)

 

Mosby frowned as the Emperor, two Emperors, caressed her body. It felt good, but it was wrong, terribly wrong, and she couldn’t remember why. There was something she should say, something she should do, but the exact nature of it escaped her.

The door clanged open, a light stabbed her eyes, and a baton poked at her leg.

“Rise ‘n’ shine, General, there’s someone ta see ya.”

Mosby swung her legs over the side of the bunk, felt cold concrete under her feet, and blinked as light flooded the cell. It was night outside and the cold air raised goose bumps on the surface of her skin.

The guard was a big man, with a big man’s gut and a twenty-four-inch shock baton that dangled from a wrist strap. The sun had taken a toll on his skin and it shattered into an endless maze of wrinkles as he spoke.

“Don’t know why ya bother, Doc. Who cares if these yardbirds get a blister or two? They’re traitors, that’s what they are, and lower than snake shit.”

Chien-Chu nodded agreeably and did his best to avoid the guard’s alcohol-laden breath. “You’re right about that, Sarge, but rules are rules, and we’re supposed to check ’em once a month.”

The merchant put his medical bag on the bunk, withdrew the diagnostic scanner, and fumbled for the switch. It made a humming noise, and a row of indicator lights came on. One had nothing to do with things medical. It glowed amber and assured Chien-Chu that the area was clean, a somewhat surprising but welcome piece of news. He turned to the guard.

“Take a break, Sarge, I’ll be fine.”

The guard didn’t move. “Is she gonna strip? I’d love ta see her tits. The regular doc don’t mind.”

Chien-Chu frowned. “Oh really? Well, I do. So please step into the hall.”

The guard started to bluster, but remembered that doctors hobnob with the likes of lieutenants, captains, and even loftier brass, making it dangerous to piss them off. Besides, the regular doc would be back the next time around, and things would be different.

“Well, hurry it up, Doc. We ain’t got all night.”

Mosby was furious. To be discussed as if she wasn’t there, to be treated like a chunk of meat, was the most humiliating experience she’d ever had. The door clanged shut and she looked up at the doctor. The words “Dasser Medical” had been stitched over the breast pocket of his white lab coat. He looked familiar somehow.

“Thank you.”

Chien-Chu smiled. “It was my pleasure. You’ve lost quite a bit of weight. Are you all right?” The voice triggered her memory.

“Sergi! It’s you!”

Chien-Chu chuckled and held a finger to his lips. “Shsssh. Quiet now ... Yes, it’s me ... and we have minutes at most. Listen carefully. The prison will be attacked. I can’t say when ... so be ready at all times. I may or may not be present. Once you are free, take your troops to the palace, find the Emperor, and lock him up. Do not—I repeat, do not—kill him. We have no wish to build the new government on piles of bodies.”

“ ‘We’? ‘New government’? There are others?”

“Yes, but there’s no need to know their names. Only that they exist and believe that the Hudathans should be stopped
before
they reach the center of the empire.”

A baton clanged against the door.

“Come on, Doc! You’ve got one thousand two hundred and forty-seven more prisoners to go!”

Chien-Chu sighed, turned the scanner off, and placed it back in his bag. Mosby kissed him on the cheek.

“God bless you, Sergi ... and the others too. We’ll be ready, I promise you that, and follow any orders that you give.”

The merchant nodded. “Kick some butt for me.”

 

The throne room was empty except for the Emperor. He’d been there for an hour now, or was it two? Watching the sunlight move across the floor while trying to think. It was difficult with the copies jabbering away, arguing about everything from the Hudathan crisis to the latest fashion trends, but he tried nonetheless.

The thoughts didn’t come, however—not the ones he needed anyway—because a memory got in the way. He was down on the sun-splashed floor, playing with a toy truck, when someone said his name. A pair of boots walked by, brown boots gleaming with polish, and he felt a sense of joy. It was his father, he knew it was, the only memory he had of that elusive figure.

What would life have been like if his father had lived? Would he be alive even now? Providing the advice that he so desperately needed? A balance against the entities that battled each other in his head?

“Your Highness?”

The voice was hesitant and belonged to his herald.

“Yes?”

“Admiral Scolari to see you.”

The copies clamored for attention. They wanted to talk with Scolari, a desire made dangerous by the different things they wanted to say and results they sought to achieve.

The Emperor forced himself to remain outwardly calm. He reached inside himself, found a reservoir of strength, and used it to demand silence.

Reluctantly, and with no small amount of grumbling, the copies faded into the background. The herald was still waiting, his face expressionless, his eyes focused on a spot over the Emperor’s head.

“Thank you. Send the admiral in.”

Scolari swept into the room on a wave of self-confidence. Her uniform was immaculate and a long cape swirled around her. Every aspect of her plan had succeeded so far and there was no reason to think that anything would go wrong now. She bowed.

“Greetings, Highness.”

The Emperor shifted his weight from one side of the throne to the other. “Greetings, Admiral. You look happy. I could use some good news.”

Scolari realized that she’d been smiling and summoned a more serious expression. “I wish that I had some for you, Highness ... but such is not the case.”

The Emperor allowed himself a sigh. “What now?”

“The Legion will refuse to board the transports I sent to bring them back.”

“Will? Or has?”

Scolari shrugged. “My source, an officer in a position to know, said ‘will.’ But a good deal of time has passed since the message torp was launched, so we must assume that they refused.”

The copies tried to speak but the Emperor forced them down. He felt angry. Angry at Mosby for putting the Legion first, angry at the Legion for their traitorous ways, and angry at Scolari for bringing the whole thing to his attention. He struggled to appear impassive.

“And?”

“They must be punished,” Scolari said vehemently. “I request permission to attack Algeron.”

The Emperor felt inclined to agree, and was about to grant his permission, when a copy managed to assert itself. This particular advisor had been a famous general and her words rang true.

“The Legion seeks to protect itself from the admiral’s ambitions. Their motto says it all. ‘The Legion is our country.’ Let the matter go until
after
the Hudatha have been dealt with. To do otherwise is to risk defeat.”

Had that voice been the only one that he’d heard, the Emperor might well have refused Scolari’s request. But still another copy, a political strategist this time, weighed in with another opinion.

“The Legion is a highly respected force. Word of their rebellion will spread, infect the colonies, and spark a revolution. You must punish them quickly,
before
the Hudatha arrive, and the war is fought.”

Because this argument seemed just as cogent as the first one, and was more emotionally satisfying, the Emperor agreed. He looked Scolari in the eye, wondered how much time had passed during his deliberations, and told her what she wanted to hear.

“You have my permission to attack Algeron.”

Scolari beamed. “Thank you, Highness!”

The Emperor bowed an inch. “You’re welcome. I’m disappointed in the Legion and will eventually disband them. But proceed with care. The Hudatha are coming and we must be ready.”

Scolari nodded eagerly. “The fleet is assembling even now.”

“Excellent. Bring me victory and the rewards will be well worth having.”

Scolari bowed at the waist, backed away from the throne, and smiled.

“They certainly will,” she thought to herself, “they certainly will.”

 

Like the man who owned it, the space yacht was strong rather than sleek, and comfortable rather than fancy. Though well upholstered and nicely equipped, the lounge fell short of opulent. It was circular in shape and boasted six acceleration couches, only two of which were occupied.

Natasha Chien-Chu felt herself pushed down into her couch as the yacht lifted off, blasted its way up through Earth’s gravity well, and accelerated away. She looked to the left, saw that her father-in-law’s eyes were closed, and realized that he was asleep. The first real sleep he’
d had in days. And why not? The merchant was safe now, secure in the knowledge that his crew would handle the ship, and he could relax.

Natasha reached for a dimmer switch, brought the lights down, and thought of her husband. His death seemed unreal, like a story she’d heard but couldn’t quite believe. But it
was
real, as were the aliens who had caused it and the ship that carried her towards Algeron.

Someone had to visit Algeron and negotiate an agreement with the Legion. Natasha understood that but had no desire to be part of the process. She knew she should care, knew Leo would want her to fight, but found it hard to do. No, her link with Sergi, with Nola, with the universe itself, had died, and left her drifting like a planet without a star.

Her ostensible purpose, to function as her father-in-law’s aide, was little more than Nola’s idea of good therapy. “Get her out, get her moving, the activity will do her good.”

Natasha could almost hear her mother-in-law’s voice. She smiled and felt the tears trickle down her cheeks.

... And unto fathers certain rights are granted, and unto mothers likewise, for they are the source of life....

Unknown author
Naa Book of Chants
Standard year circa 1000
B.C.

 

 

 

 

 

The cavern was half the size of the one that had served Wayfar Hardman’s village for countless generations, but whatever it lacked in space was more than made up for by a feeling of snug warmth, a sensation made all the more enjoyable by the knowledge that it was snowing outside. The central fire, fueled by a generous supply of dried dooth dung, burned with a steady violet-blue flame. Heat radiated outwards like ripples from the center of a pond. It warmed Hardman’s bones and added to the sense of well-being that went with six mugs of Surekill’s ale. It was powerful stuff of which the
younger male was justifiably proud. Hardman belched softly and looked around.

The cavern was packed almost to capacity. Family units sat in clumps, bachelors, perfumed to the hilt, watched maidens from the corners of their eyes, and oldsters, so close to the fire that it threatened to singe their fur, swapped lies that everyone had heard before.

There, lit by the fire’s cheery glow, sat Windsweet. So lovely, so perfect, so like her mother. The human sat next to her, arms clasped around his knees, staring into the fire, while Surekill sat on the other side, nodding in agreement with something she’d said and poking the fire with a long stick.

The two of them looked so happy, so perfect together, that Hardman was filled with benevolence. He took a sip from his most recent mug of ale, thought about how lucky they were to be in love, and rose to his feet. The cavern swam out of focus and came back again.

“Brothers! Sisters! I ask the right of speech!”

Conversations stopped, heads turned, and a multiplicity of voices responded.

“Granted!”

Hardman smiled and gestured expansively to the crowd.

“Thank you.” His eyes made contact with Windsweet’s but failed to see the concern reflected there.

“First I would like to thank my host, Ridelong Surekill, for the warmth of his hospitality.”

A series of short undulating whistles signaled the villagers’ agreement.

Hardman smiled. “And then, responding to Surekill’s love for my daughter, and her affection for him, I would like to announce their impending marriage.”

There was a moment of shocked silence followed by absolute pandemonium. The cavern was filled with whistles, shouted congratulations, and a host of questions. When would the marriage take place? Where would the ceremony be held? How did the couple feel?

Windsweet looked shocked, Booly looked angry, and Ridelong looked triumphant. But Hardman saw none of it. He held his mug aloft and waved for silence. The noise died away. Hardman smiled benignly.

“Quiet now ... there are formalities to be observed ... and none shall go unsaid. So, in the words used by my father before me, and his father before him, I do formally give my daughter to Ridelong Surekill, admonishing him to protect her from harm and reminding him of the responsibilities attendant to such a gift. For a warrior must put the needs of his mate before all others, must share his bed with none but her, and must provide for his cubs. So, there being no challengers for my daughter’s affections, and . . .”

“Wait!”

Surprised, and groggy with ale, Hardman stopped. He looked, and looked again. No! It couldn’t be true! It was the human who had spoken!

Booty stood and looked at Hardman. He was almost as surprised as the chieftain. He felt Windsweet tug at his pants leg and chose to ignore it. His voice was calm and cut through the silence like a well-sharpened blade.

“I, William Booly, challenge Ridelong Surekill for the affection of this maiden.”

The form was wrong, but the meaning was clear, and the villagers made a loud hissing noise as they inhaled all at once.

Slowly, surely, like a snake uncoiling from its rest, Surekill stood. His eyes blazed with anger and his hands were clenched at his sides.