Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (24 page)

But Noia was ready, jerked savagely on the reins, and held his mount in place. He wasn't a big man, only six feet or so, although it was hard to tell given the tan-colored robes that he wore. Most of his head was obscured by
a turbanlike arrangement that featured a slit for his piercing blue eyes but couldn't conceal the fall of gray hair that hit the tops of his shoulders.

Once the agent had steadied his mount, he brought a pair of electrobinoculars up to his eyes, and examined the tents below. They looked normal at first glance—but something about the scene bothered him. Noia couldn't get a fix on the problem at first—but then it came to him. People! There weren't any people! Not even tracks—because the wind had scrubbed them clean.

The human started to shout a warning, knew it was too late, and jerked the viewing device upward. It took a full ten seconds to find the northerners, hidden along the top edge of Passing Rock, but they were there with rifles angled
downward. A single glance was sufficient to confirm that Omoni and her warriors were still hell-bent for leather down into the valley.

Noia said, “Goddamn it to hell,” reached down, and pulled the .50 caliber rifle out of the long, narrow scabbard. It was a long shot, an absurdly long shot, but the only one he had. The agent held the zurna's reins with one hand, held the rifle with the other, and jumped to the ground. Then, with the barrel resting across the animal's sculptured back, Noia took careful aim. The telescopic sight caused the other side of the valley to leap forward. There wasn't enough time to choose targets, only to select a warrior who had the misfortune to be visible from that particular ang
le and squeeze the trigger.

The rifle went off with a loud
bang!
the zurna jumped, and the agent was hard-pressed to prevent the beast from running away. That's why the human didn't witness what happened when the heavy slug hit Tithin's head, or see the way the Paguum's brains splattered the Ramanthian officer crouched at his side, or watch as Omoni and her warriors skidded to a gravel-spewing stop just short of the valley's floor.

But the agent heard the ripped-cloth sound of automatic weapons fire as the northern tribe's newly acquired Negar III assault rifles came into play, yells as Omoni's bodyguards started to fall, and screams as some of the zurnas went down as well.

Then, having regained the saddle, Noia was able to watch as Omoni led the surviving warriors back out of range, then up the slope to the point where the human waited. The chieftain was furious, and judging from the animal's expression, so was her zurna. It snorted angrily and skidded to a stop. “You saw them,” Omoni said accusingly.

“Yes,” the human replied. “But only after you rode down into the valley.”

Omoni had been a beauty once, or that's what the elders
claimed, though her once-pleasing features had forever been altered by the silver patch that concealed her left eye, the scar that bisected her right cheek, and the lines that divided her skin into a thousand leathery islands. She was proud,
very
proud, but bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Noia replied gravely.

“The weapons that fire quickly,” Omoni said, “where did the northern scum get them?”

“From the hard skins,” the agent replied. “In return for their loyalty.”

“Then the hard skins must die,” the chieftain said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Noia agreed solemnly. “On that we can agree.”

And the jungle was given to the Jithi, just as the Jithi were given to the jungle, for they are one.

—
Jithi Book of Chants

Author and date unknown

Dawn came slowly, as if the sun was reluctant to raise its reddish orange head and stare down into the jungle clearing. The ruins had been there long before intelligent life had evolved on Savas, and the mist clung to them like ectoplasm rising from a grave. It shivered slightly as the morning temperature differential generated a slight breeze and nudged it from the west. Now, after a long night of monotonous drumming punctuated by sporadic sniper fire, the jungle was nearly silent.

The structure that the legionnaires had taken refuge in had four sides, each of which slanted up to a flat top, where four enigmatic statues sat back-to-back, each facing a different point of the compass. All were different in appearance, and none resembled any species that Santana had seen before. Perhaps they were mythological beings, or part of the mysterious forerunner civilization that had left its mark on Jericho, as well as other planets. It hardly mattered, not to
the cavalry officer, who was primarily interested in how to escape from the place.

The creature who faced south was at least fifty feet tall, had a doglike aspect, a humanoid body, and sat with folded legs. Santana stood on the ancient's mossy lap and scanned the mist-shrouded tree line. The human was within rifle range of the jungle but shielded by a pair of folded hands, both of which were stained by bird droppings.

The Jithi wouldn't be able to take the pyramid, not for a long time at any rate, but they
could
keep the advance party bottled up. That would force Kobbi and the rest of the battalion to pause, which would take time off the clock and make it that much less likely that the legionnaires would be able to reach Hagala Nor and the hypercom, which the bandy-legged jacker wasn't willing to countenance. The two of them had spoken just after midnight, and Santana's orders were clear: Find a way to deal with the Jithi—and accomplish it quickly.

That's why Yamba had been sent out into the jungle to see if he could convince the local chieftain that a group of renegade soldiers had been responsible for the murders and that a friendly relationship could be mutually beneficial. But that had been hours earlier, during the hours of darkness, and Santana was afraid that the dig was dead.

The legionnaire heard a boot scrape against rock and turned to find that Qwis had climbed the inner staircase to join him. No one had been able to sleep, and she was no exception. Her eyes were red, her face was drawn, and her clothes were filthy. Santana could smell her perfume, though, which meant that it had been renewed recently, in spite of her circumstances. “So,” Qwis said, “what's going on?”

Santana shrugged. “Nothing so far.”

“That could be a good sign,” the colonist said hopefully. “The Jithi love to barter, and if the local chieftain believes he can profit, negotiations could go on for quite a while.”

“Time is what we don't have,” Santana replied grimly. “A safe passage would be preferable, but if that isn't possible, then we'll try to suck them into a full-scale assault.”

Qwis frowned. “So you can slaughter them with automatic weapons?”

“Yes,” the legionnaire answered honestly. “So we can slaughter them and save thousands, perhaps millions of other beings.”

“And how will you do that?” the colonist demanded. “Why did the government send you here anyway?”

“Sorry,” Santana replied. “I can't answer that.”

“Can't? Or won't?”

“It doesn't make much difference, does it?” the legionnaire replied.

Qwis was about to reply, about to tell the officer where he could shove his mysterious mission, when the cry of a koto bird cut through the silence. The colonist scrambled up to the point where she could see over the ancient's beautifully sculpted hands. She pointed as a figure emerged from the tree line. “Look! It's Yamba! He's alive!”

Santana triggered his belt com. “This is Bravo Six . . . Hold your fire, repeat, hold your fire! Over.”

The officer brought his electrobinoculars up to his eyes and found the figures below. Yamba was there, apparently none the worse for wear. He advanced with his hands in the air as two Jithi warriors followed along behind. “I don't know what Yamba agreed to,” Qwis said, “but you'd better be prepared to honor it. All hell will break loose if you don't. I'll go out to meet them.”

Santana followed the young woman down to ground level, issued orders for the legionnaires to keep an eye on the surrounding tree line, and watched Qwis cross open ground. The fact that nothing more than a scattering of weeds had been able to take root in the area around the building indicated that some sort of hard surface lay just below a
layer of accumulated soil. The colonist looked small and vulnerable as she met the Jithi. An animated conversation followed.

Meanwhile, the sun inched higher in the sky, the mist disappeared, and the jungle sounds resumed. Finally, after a good fifteen minutes, Qwis returned alone. The cavalry officer was waiting. “They want weapons,” the colonist reported. “Rifles like yours plus ammunition.”

Providing indigs on a Class III world with firearms was illegal, not to mention potentially dangerous, but Santana was in a jam. “How many?”

“A thousand,” Qwis replied, and held up her hand before the officer could object. “I know . . . that's impossible. They agreed to five.”

Santana's eyebrows shot up. “
Five?
You got them down to
five?
”

“No,” Qwis answered, “
Yamba
got them down to five, plus three hundred rounds for each weapon, and a mortar with fifty illumination rounds.”

“A mortar? Plus illumination rounds?” Santana demanded. “Whatever for?”

“The locals were very impressed with your ability to turn night into day,” the colonist replied smugly. “I got the impression that the next tribe to attack them during the hours of darkness will be in for quite a surprise.”

“And Kuga-Ka?”

“It took some talking, but Yamba told them about the legionnaires that the deserters ambushed, and that squared with information the chieftain had received from his spies.”

“He has spies in Savas Prime?”

“Of course,” Qwis said matter-of-factly. “We try to vet all the Jithi workers, but it's a difficult process at best, and a few ringers always manage to get through.”

“Okay,” the cavalry officer agreed reluctantly. “It's a deal.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Qwis replied serenely, “because that's what I told them.”

It was late afternoon as the boxy transport flew north. The sun threw its slightly distorted shadow out to the east, where it skimmed the treetops like a dark bird, undulating in sympathy with the terrain. The jungle looked like a thick green carpet, impenetrable from above except for the occasional clearing or flash of water.

Wind whipped in through an open side door and Colonel Kobbi was grateful for the helmet and visor, as the slipstream tugged at his camos, and sought to push him off-balance. The aircraft hadn't been serviced in a long time, which was why one of its twin engines cut out from time to time, the air frame rattled like a bucket of loose bolts, and the cockpit alarms buzzed like a swarm of angry insects.

Even though he had already put in a long day, Cam Qwan had volunteered for the mission and stood at the legionnaire's side. He had to shout in order to make himself heard over the roar of the wind and noise generated by the engines. “There's a lot of jungle down there, Colonel . . . Are you sure we can find them?”

Kobbi grinned, and the slipstream pushed the expression into a grimace. “I'm sure . . . For obvious reasons, each RAV is equipped with a trackable transmitter. The corporal has the bastards, and he's guiding the pilot in,” the officer shouted, gesturing toward the fold-down bench-style seat where a legionnaire sat with an olive drab console on his lap.

“They failed to disable the transmitter?” Qwan demanded skeptically. “That was stupid.”

“Ah, but they did!” Kobbi replied triumphantly. “Or thought that they had. . . But none of the deserters are techs! They blew it . . . and now they're going to pay.”

Qwan nodded and offered a thumbs-up. His daughter was somewhere below, and even though she and the advance party had successfully cut a deal with the local Jithi, the deserters posed an additional threat. They had staged one successful ambush already . . . Why not a second? Yes, the transport was an important asset, and the fuel supply was limited, but if Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka and his cronies could be eliminated, it would be well worth the price. That was why Kobbi had risked bringing the transports forward early, off-loaded the children at the ruins the advance party had secured earlier,
and taken off again. Now, in a matter of minutes, the transport was covering ground it took the deserters days to put behind them. A flock of large gray birds rose from the treetops below, flapped their gigantic wings, and joined the chase.

 

The jungle held the deserters in its sweaty grip, wrapping them in fingers of green, gradually squeezing the life out of them. Somewhere, back at one of the many branchings, Kuga-Ka had chosen the wrong path. Now, many hard-fought miles later, the once-promising ribbon of dirt and mud had grown increasingly narrow until it disappeared. Perhaps it would have been wiser to go back, to retrace their steps, but that would involve an admission of failure. And that was something the Hudathan couldn't bring himself to do. That's why the threesome were bushwhacking their way north toward the point
where the rain forest gave way to open steppe.