Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (15 page)

Kuga-Ka, who had the honor of being the only enlisted person who actually knew what the battalion was supposed to accomplish on Savas, grinned as the legionnaires gave voice to their contending theories.

Not far away, in the darkness that defined the edge of the spaceport, camo-clad legionnaires slipped through the shadows. Corporal Surehand Knifethrow had black-brown fur and shifty eyes. His loyalty to Kuga-Ka was based on the privileges that the senior NCO had granted him, an appetite for loot, and a healthy dash of fear. He paused to sample the air with his supersensitive nostrils before waving his companion forward.

Private Kras Sawicki was a lazy sort, who hated the Legion's spit-and-polish ways, and was happy to let Knifethrow do his thinking for him. If the Naa wanted to break the gunny out, and the two of them were going over
the hill, then he wanted to go along. He saw Knifethrow's wave, crept forward, and turned his attention outward. The Naa would take care of the guards. It was his job to provide security and make sure that no one interfered.

While under strict orders to keep the prisoner secured, neither guard had any reason to expect an external attack, especially from a fellow legionnaire. So, when Private Knifethrow emerged from the darkness and sauntered up to them, there was no reason to be alarmed. The Naa's teeth gleamed in the murk. “Hey, guys, how are they hanging?”

Lance Corporal Sootha grinned, and was just about to answer in kind, when something blurred past his chin. It was only when he felt the pain and saw the jet of inky black blood, that he realized it was his. He tried to speak, tried to shout, but couldn't summon the necessary air. That was when he felt dizzy, lost consciousness, and collapsed.

Private Fortu had enough time to say, “What the hell?” and reach toward the weapon slung over his shoulder, but that was all. The already-bloodied knife flashed again, the legionnaire staggered, and went down in a welter of his own blood.

Never one to settle for half measures Knifethrow checked both bodies to ensure that they were truly dead and waved Sawicki forward. Kuga-Ka had heard the sounds of muffled combat and was ready when the door squealed open, allowing humid air to flood the shed. “Well done,” he said approvingly, as the Naa stood framed in the doorway. “Drag them inside.”

The legionnaires obeyed, and the NCO took the opportunity to arm himself with Lance Corporal Sootha's weapons, including a holstered zapper. “All right,” the renegade said as he loosened the dead soldier's pistol belt so it would fit around his enormous waist. “Are the supplies ready?”

Knifethrow nodded. “Each of us will carry a thirty-pound pack that includes emergency rations, med kits, and reserve ammo.”

“And my personal stuff?”

“It's in your pack. So that, plus the stuff Sawicki loaded into the RAV, should take care of our needs for quite some time.”

Kuga-Ka nodded. A single RAV could carry up to four thousand pounds' worth of food, ammo, and other gear. Just the thing for a stroll on a primitive planet. “Good work. So, where are they?”

There was no need to ask who “they” were since both the Naa and the human knew who the Hudathan was referring to. “Santana went to dinner with Kobbi,” Knifethrow answered, “and the brain boxes are stored in the terminal building. Or
were
at any rate—since they could have been moved by now.”

Kuga-Ka swore. He had hoped to kill both Santana
and
Haaby before slipping out of the settlement, but that was impossible now. Still, it sounded as though Haaby was vulnerable, and something was a helluva lot better than nothing. “All right,” the renegade replied, “let's pay the terminal a visit. If the freak's there, we'll kill her. As a matter of fact, we'll kill
all
of them if we have time.”

There were times when Knifethrow wished that Kuga-Ka was a bit more rational, and this was one of them. Rather than waste time killing cyborgs, the Naa would have preferred to hit the trail and put as much distance between himself and the rest of the battalion as possible. But there was no reasoning with the ridge head on such matters so he didn't try. “Sure, gunny, whatever you say.”

Lights glowed within the terminal building as a team of four life-support techs finalized preparations to move the brain boxes to a safer location. Special backpacks had been prepared, each having a cradle for one box, a small power source, and the systems necessary to ensure that the cyborgs received oxygenated blood substitute, nutrition, and electronic communications. The plan, which had come down
from the colonel himself, was to rig the box heads for a long march.

None of the techs were armed, so when the double doors flew open, and three heavily armed legionnaires rushed in, there was nothing they could do but look surprised and raise their hands. The assault weapon looked like a toy in Kuga-Ka's hands, and he used it like a pointer. “Herd them into the office. Push a desk in front of the door. If they give you any trouble, shoot them.”

Sawicki nodded cheerfully. “You heard the gunny—get in there.”

One of the techs, a woman who knew the noncom, looked back over her shoulder as she entered the office. “What the hell are you doing, Sawicki? They'll find you and hang your ass.”

“Maybe,” the human allowed, “and maybe not. But at least I won't be here with you, polishing boots and taking shit from officers all day. Now move it.”

Wood rubbed on wood as the legionnaire pushed a desk in front of the door. “Watch out front,” Kuga-Ka instructed. “We don't want any surprises.”

It was an important task, so Knifethrow assigned it to himself. Doors squeaked as he slipped outside.

“Now,” Kuga-Ka said eagerly, as he eyed the rows of specially made-up packs. “I wonder where my little friend Haaby is hiding.”

For her part the cyborg was awake, but completely unaware of what was going on around her, as she played a virtual card game with one of her peers. The sound of Kuga-Ka's voice was like a bolt out of the blue. “Hey, freak, remember
me?
”

Haaby felt a sudden nearly paralyzing fear, ordered her war form to move, and felt an overwhelming sense of despair when nothing happened.

The Hudathan laughed. “If you had an ass, which you don't, you'd be shitting your pants right about now.”

Kuga-Ka had more to say,
lots
more, but the doors banged open, and Knifethrow reentered the terminal. “I can see lights and hear a whole lot of voices! They're coming this way!”

“Did you hear that?” the renegade inquired, speaking into the headset that went with the pack. “No, I suppose you didn't. Well, you and I are going for a long walk in the jungle. Think about that . . . and we'll talk a bit later.”

So saying, the ex-noncom pulled the plug on Haaby's radio, swung the pack up onto his back, and pointed to the side door. “Well, lads, I don't know about you, but I'm tired of this Hudathan's army. Let's find a new one.”

The truth is whatever
I
say it is.

—Ramanthian Hive Mother Nors Iblibio

Standard year 2841

The road, which had been built atop an ancient trail, had been widened and improved by the Legion's Pioneers many years before. But it was still subject to washouts and landslides, which made it treacherous at best. The scenery was beautiful, though, as the sun arced across a clear blue sky, and the Towers of Algeron dominated the southern horizon.

The scout car jerked as General Bill Booly shifted into a lower gear, and his wife held on to a grab bar, as the boxy vehicle negotiated a tight turn. Knobby tires spewed rocks out over the two-hundred-foot precipice even as they propelled the vehicle up through a seemingly endless series of switchbacks and deeper into what Legion briefers referred to as “a disputed zone (DZ).” Disputed, because the Earth government claimed that Algeron belonged to them, while most Naa believed otherwise. They wanted sovereignty and direct representation in the Senate like the spacefaring races had, but man
y wanted to maintain close ties with Earth as well.

Then, as if Maylo's husband was reading her mind, he
guided the scout car around a corner and came to a stop about fifteen feet short of a pile of carefully stacked rocks. He killed the engine. “See that? Two T-2s and four bio bods died there. My great-grandfather, Wayfar Hardman, led the war party that ambushed them. It was a hard-fought battle. The last time I stopped here you could still find empty shell casings in among the rocks.”

Maylo looked from her husband's face to the cairn of rocks. The brief anecdote spoke volumes about the situation on Algeron, her husband, and his family. Truly divergent species weren't supposed to be able to reproduce, yet there were thousands of so-called breeds, and just as many theories as to why. The favorite, for the moment at least, was the possibility of c
ommon ancestors. An ancient race archeologists called the Forerunners, who left enigmatic ruins on planets like Jericho, and some said Earth.

Maylo didn't care, not so long as her husband existed and was at her side. The trip was
her
idea, a way of breaking her husband away from Fort Camerone and the never-ending stream of bad news. The war with the Ramanthians was not going well, morale was at an all-time low, and there was no relief in sight. A fact that weighed heavily on Booly. She had short black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a long oval face. “So, which side are you proud of?”

“Both,”
Booly answered succinctly, “because both were right in their own way.”

The scout car started with a roar, and Booly guided it up through a series of blind curves and into a broad, U-shaped valley. There were signs that the land had been under cultivation in the past and would be again when spring came around.

In the meantime a large herd of shaggy dooths could be seen, standing in small groups and pawing the ground to uncover the vegetation buried beneath the snow. Vehicles were not unknown in the area, which meant that the animals
remained unmoved by the sound of the scout car's engine and continued to chew slowly as it rolled past them.

 

Meanwhile, high above, what looked like an airborne scavenger circled the valley. But it wasn't a flyer, not the flesh-and-blood variety at any rate, nor was it searching for carrion. The RPV-L467 (Remotely Piloted Vehicle–Legion type 467) was there for one reason, and one reason only: to protect General Bill Booly and his wife. It was a task that, like so many others, fell to Chief of Staff Colonel Tom Leeger.

The officer was in his office, plowing his way through the latest reports from dozens of far-flung outposts, when a natty-looking lieutenant knocked on his already-open door. Lister looked up from his comp. “Yeah, Thinklong, what's up?”

The Naa was not only one of the brighter young officers assigned to Legion HQ. He was a graduate of the academy, something that had once been unheard of, but was now increasingly common. He had cream-colored fur with diagonal streaks of black. “It's the general, sir. He and his wife are in the valley adjacent to his ancestral village.”

Leeger sighed. Much as he admired Maylo Chien-Chu and her many accomplishments, it seemed as if the woman had dropped out of space for the sole purpose of making his life more difficult. The trip into the DZ was not only a waste of time, but a dangerous waste of time, which was why he had recommended against it.

Unfortunately, Booly not only bought into the idea, but refused an armed escort, which not only put
his
life at risk but made Leeger's that much more difficult. “So?” the staff officer inquired testily, “that's where he was headed. So, what's the problem?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Thinklong replied expressionlessly, “but the video transmitted back from the RPV shows a large number of armed warriors closing in on the village from the south.”

Leeger frowned. “Define ‘large.' ”

“About two hundred, give or take, sir.”

“Shit! Notify the response team. I want them ready to lift at a moment's notice.”

Thinklong already had but nodded obediently. “Sir, yes sir.”

 

Booly and Maylo had an escort by then. It consisted of half a dozen mounted warriors. They galloped along next to the scout car, shouted friendly insults, and waved rifles over their heads as the legionnaire guided the car between a series of defensive barriers. A voice spoke in his ear, and Booly triggered his radio. “This is Rover Six . . . Go. Over.”

Knowing her husband's staff wouldn't call him unless it was something important, and fearful that the war had taken a sudden turn for the worse, Maylo felt something heavy hit the bottom of her stomach. She watched him listen, utter a brief reply, and break the connection. “So?”

Booly glanced at his wife and back to the road. “A group of warriors are closing on the village from the south. Leeger wants to pull us out.”

“And?”

“And I said, ‘no.' It's my guess that they want to talk to me rather than slit my throat.”

“And if you're wrong?”

Booly felt a moment of doubt, wondered if he should have the response team come for his wife, and knew she would refuse to leave unless he left as well. He smiled. “Then we'll be in deep trouble.”

Maylo had been in deep trouble before. First on Earth, where Booly had saved her life, and later off Arballa, where she had been badly wounded. That didn't matter, not much at any rate, but something else did. Something her husband didn't know about yet . . . but would soon become apparent. Her hand went to her abdomen. She forced a smile.
“You're supposed to be taking a couple of days off . . . Remember?”

“Absolutely,” Booly replied. “I'll have a chat with their leaders and send the rest of them packing. A couple of hours should take care of it.”

Maylo didn't believe a word of it but smiled and nodded. She had parallel jobs. The first involved running a large interstellar corporation. The second, the one she was focused on at the moment, was the more difficult of the two. The car slowed, a reception party appeared ahead, and Booly was home.

If human and Ramanthian fleets were clashing in the far reaches of space, and cities were being incinerated from orbit, there was no sign of that on Starfall, where business beings cut deals and diplomats like ambassador Kay Wilmot and Foreign Service Officer Christine Vanderveen were required to attend what seemed like a never-ending round of meetings, receptions, and parties.

Vanderveen wasn't sure which she detested most, the parties that claimed two or three evenings a week, or her boss, who seemed to delight in them. Not to meet new contacts, strengthen relationships, and pick up odd bits of intelligence, but to hook up with the Clone Hegemony's military attaché, who had a taste for free breeder sex. Or so FSO-5 Mitsi Ang claimed.

It was dark, and the lights of the steadily growing city glittered as the embassy's long black limo paused to allow a similar vehicle to discharge its formally clad passengers at the foot of a covered walkway. Vanderveen looked forward to escaping both Wilmot's overwhelming perfume
and
her overbearing personality.

“That should do it,” the ambassador said, as she checked
her image in a small mirror and put her lipstick away. “Looks shouldn't matter . . . but they do.”

Only to other humans,
Vanderveen thought to herself, as the car in front of them pulled away, and the limo crept forward.

“Don't forget to pitch Ambassador Sca Sor. He likes you for some reason . . . and we need the Prithians on our side. They don't have much military clout, but if they were to align themselves with the Confederacy, it would make for a very nice headline. And Lord knows the cits could do with some good news. All they see on the evening vids are transports loaded with vacuum-sealed body bags. It's depressing.”

“Yes ma'am,” Vanderveen replied evenly, “I'll do my best.”

Wilmot was well aware of the fact that the Prithian ambassador liked Vanderveen because both of them had been stationed on LaNor during the Claw rebellion. Although it was a connection that the older woman resented, she hoped to take advantage of it.

A uniformed robot opened the passenger-side door. Wilmot exited, and Vanderveen followed. Then, having plastered what she believed to be a winning smile on her face, the senior diplomat spotted a businessman she knew, waved to her subordinate, and was off.

Vanderveen heaved a sigh of relief, climbed the broad flight of stairs in company with the trade delegation from Earth, presented her invitation to a Thraki security guard, passed through a screening device, and was admitted to a large if somewhat sterile reception area.

Like so many Thraki structures, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was reminiscent of the space arks on which the race had lived for so long. And even though the diminutive aliens had intentionally raised the ceilings, made the doors larger, and widened the hallways for the benefit of other species, the building's interior still had a cramped feel.

The human diplomat allowed herself to be pulled along by the crowd, exchanged greetings with the various beings
she knew, and wound up in a large reception room. Tables lined the walls, each heavily laden with different types of cuisine and a wide variety of eating utensils. Robots, dozens of them, roamed the room carrying trays loaded with drinks. Thanks to his brightly colored plumage, and distinctive voice, Sca Sor would have been hard to miss. He was on the far side of the room, flanked by an exoskeleton-assisted Dweller and a black-clad Drac.

Vanderveen took a glass of wine off a tray, drifted through the crowd, and warbled a much-practiced greeting. Her efforts to learn Prithian had begun on LaNor and had continued under Sok Tok's tutelage, prior to the translato
r's recent death. Her command of the language was better now—but far from perfect. The Prithian diplomat replied in kind, then switched to standard. “Well done, my dear! It won't be long before we fit you with wings!”

It was an old joke, but the foreign service officer laughed anyway, and continued to sing rather than speak. That cut the other diplomats out—and gave Vanderveen the opportunity she was looking for. Her grammar was atrocious, and human vocal cords couldn't produce certain inflections, but Sca Sor was impressed nevertheless.

“Mr. Ambassador,” Vanderveen began, “when the Prithian race went to the stars, it was like a flight from the sacred mountain that soared over all below. With the passage of time Prithian shipowners prospered by serving planets that were too far off the main shipping routes for larger companies to bother with.

“Now, as the Ramanthians expand their empire, many of the paths between the stars have been closed. If profits haven't started to fall yet, they will soon, causing great hardship for your people.

“More than that great suffering has resulted from Ramanthian aggression, and will continue, unless they are stopped. According to the Book of Wings, it is the duty of each soul
to advance that which is good and to fight the forces of evil. That is the course to which we and our allies are committed. I urge you to urge your government to join the Confederacy, and by doing so, to join the battle against evil.”

Sca Sor had large, oval-shaped eyes. They blinked in unison. Not only was the prolonged use of his language unprecedented—but so was the reference to the Book of Wings. An ancient text comparable to the human Koran or Bible. Few off-worlders went to the trouble to read it. His crimson shoulder plumage rippled approvingly. “Your superiors chose wisely when they selected you to speak for them. Some accuse my people of benefiting from the Confederacy's work without providing support. I happen to agree with them . . . but lack the authority required to effect a change of policy.

“This matter has been reviewed before . . . but always within a commercial context. We are a minor power . . . and many of our leaders are loath to offend the Ramanthians. But the moral argument has weight—as does your capacity to put it forward. I will pass your message along . . . perhaps the council will reconsider.”

It was good feedback, no,
excellent
feedback, since intelligence indicated that a group of so-called pragmatists had consistently managed to frame the question as one of trade rather than moral imperative. The Confederacy's diplomatic corps had reinforced that approach by consistently steering clear of re
ligious matters, always framing their arguments as if everything could, and should, be driven by simple self-interest. Maybe, just maybe, Sca Sor, and beings like him, could transform the nature of the discussion into something higher. “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Vanderveen trilled. “I look forward to your response.”