Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (40 page)

There was one exception however, a cyborg named Haaby, who though embedded in the line, and moving just as quickly as the zurnas were, stuck out like a sore thumb. She was bigger for one thing, ran on two legs, and carried a 350- pound Hudathan strapped to her back. She had a lock on the fly-form, knew exactly what it was, and what Kuga-Ka wanted her to do. It would have been hard not to since the renegade was shouting at her over the intercom. “It's coming back! Blow the fly-freak out of the sky!
Now,
damn you!”

Haaby didn't want to fire, but knew what the penalty would be if she didn't, and skidded to a stop. Then, having turned to face the target, the cyborg opened fire. She intended to come close, but not
too
close, lest she harm one of her friends. The T-2's laser cannon burped coherent light, and a hundred rounds of .50 caliber armor-piercing slugs stuttered up toward the target, before Kuga-Ka shut the machine gun down to conserve ammo. The fact that the fly-form continued on apparently undamaged sent Kuga-Ka into paroxysms of rage. He beat Haaby's shoulders with his ham-sized fis
ts and screamed abuse at her as the aircraft moved out of range.

Meanwhile, the fly-form shook but remained undamaged as the aircraft took unexpectedly heavily ground fire. “Holy shit!” the pilot said. “What have they got down there? A frigging antiaircraft battery?”

“Nope,” Santana said calmly, “but they do have a Trooper II with a Hudathan riding on its back.”

“A Hudathan?”

“And not just
any
Hudathan,” the officer replied grimly, “but a psychotic sonofabitch who hates cyborgs.”

“Then let's grease him,” the pilot said enthusiastically, “
and
the T-2 he rode in on.”

“I wish we could,” Santana replied, “but where did the scumbag get the T-2? Whose brain box did the bastard load into it? And is the borg shooting at us because he or she wants to, or because they have to?”

“Beats me,” the pilot replied, “so I think I'll dump you and your team in the desert before you drive me crazy.”

“Sounds fair,” Santana agreed. “But make sure that you include the T-2 and ex–Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka in your report. Maybe the old man can make sense of it.”

“That's a roger,” the cyborg replied, and turned toward the southwest. Fifteen minutes later the pilot spotted another cloud of dust and made an announcement over the intercom. “Five to dirt. I'm putting you down about three miles in front of the digs.”

There was a solid thump as the fly-form put down. Santana exited first, followed by Dietrich, Fareye, and the rest of the squad. The legionnaires removed their hats and hung on to them as Santana thanked the pilot via his com set and the cyborg took off. With no slipstream to cool the legionnaires, and no shade to protect them, the heat fell like a hammer. Kepis went back on, the soldiers deployed flaps to protect their necks, and everyone started to sweat.

Once the aircraft was gone, and the dust had started to settle, Santana looked to the east, where three black dots could be seen. Unlike the northerners, who had been arrayed in a long line abreast, the southerners rode in three parallel columns. A sensible formation that allowed the noncombatants to travel at the center while warriors protected both flanks.

The fly-form had been visible from miles away and it wasn't long before a group of scouts galloped forward to meet the off-worlders and provide them with the worst mounts available. After all, the Paguum reasoned, if the aliens lacked the organs necessary to establish
thu
(oneness) with a zurna, what difference did it make?

As a result, so much time was spent loading the intractable animals that the legionnaires had barely finished by the time that lead elements of the formation arrived. Each member of the squad was equipped with a translator, and Santana made use of his to ask where the newly created dragoons were. Since none of the southerners knew how to employ the new unit, and the fact that there was no one to speak on behalf of it at leadership councils, Santana's students had been relegated to the ignominious job of riding drag in the outer right-hand column.

That meant the legionnaires had to sit and eat dust while the entire tribe rode by before the dragoons finally drew abreast of them. The Paguumi warriors made a splendid sight, to Santana's eyes at any rate, and were clearly identifiable by the red pennants their leaders carried, the identical tathas that sheltered them from the sun, and the uniform manner in which their weapons were slung across their backs.

Santana was both surprised and secretly pleased by the high-pitched undulating wail that broke out when the dragoons spotted their instructors, and the lead warrior turned to deliver a Legion-style salute. His name was Pobo, and he grinned as the off-world officer jerked on his mount's reins and was forced to kick its flanks before the beast finally took its place in the formation. “Greetings, Lieutenant Santana! It's good to see you! Your riding has improved.”

“It's good to see you, too,” the legionnaire replied over the loud rumble of his zurna's digestive system. “But, if you think my riding has improved, then you're going blind.”

Pobo laughed and gestured toward the riders in front of them. “I apologize for the position that we find ourselves in, but lacking any battle honors, the unit was automatically assigned to the rear.”

“No problem,” Santana assured him. “We
like
dust.”

However, as the day progressed, and the formation left the whitish hardpan for the softer desert sand, there wasn't all
that much dust for the officer to cope with. And, for reasons known only to it, Santana's zurna was unusually placid. All of which contributed to a sense of lurching peace. A semiconscious state in which the off-worlders were vaguely aware of their surroundings—but pleasantly detached from the physical discomfort to which their bodies were being subjected.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime within the strange, heat-induced stupor, the formation came to a halt. Then, rather than the flurry of orders and confusion that Santana expected from so large a group, the dawn people seemed to simply drift apart as everyone did what they had already done hundreds of times before. The left and right columns circled back to meet themselves, and once that evolution was complete, the noncombatants found themselves surrounded by not one but
two
concentric rings of warriors. At that point every other fighter was excused to help set up camp.

When Santana inquired about the tribe's katha, Pobo informed him that they were well to the south, guarded by a contingent of cavalry. And, unl
ess the enemy drove some sort of change, it sounded as if the noncombatants would remain right where they were when the warriors rode out in the morning.

Santana, who had a better idea of how close the tribes were to each other than Pobo did, agreed with that theory and spent the evening traipsing from one fire to the next meeting with his dragoons. Cooking pots bubbled, and the hard-looking warriors listened, as the off-worlder reminded each group of what he expected of them. “We will do it the same way we did it at the Finger of God,” Santana assured the warriors, “only better, because we know how to work together now.

“Some of the northerners may have off-world weapons, and you might see a big fighting machine that walks like you do, but hold formation unless you hear the bugle sound the retreat. Barring the unexpected, and assuming that we'll
be dealing with cavalry, the best-disciplined troops will carry the day.”

Finally, nearly hoarse from talking, Santana returned to where his legionnaires were camped to discover that a messenger was waiting for him. The youth had never seen aliens before, and his voice quavered as he delivered the carefully memorized words. “Chief Omoni is meeting with her generals. You are to accompany me to her hoga.”

Santana nodded and turned to Dietrich. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Make sure that everyone gets as much rest as possible—and warn the tube team that we may have a renegade Trooper II to deal with tomorrow. I want them to ride with the dragoons but operate independently. If Kuga-Ka shows up on that T-2, it's going to take a missile to stop him, and we only have two of them.”

The sergeant said, “Yes sir, I'll get on it,” and watched the officer disappear into the night. While it was true that a shoulder-launched missile could theoretically destroy a T-2, the odds were against a clean kill. That meant that the cyborg could, and probably would, track the weapon back to its source and blow the launch team into bloody confetti. Santana knew that, of course, but had no other choice.

Dietrich circled the fire, located the two-person tube team, and gestured toward their launcher. “I'm going to carry that thing tomorrow . . . Who's going to give me a refresher course?”

 

After a long, winding journey past dozens of fires, and hundreds of hogas, Santana followed his diminutive guide to a larger-than-average structure surrounded by heavily armed guards. Meanwhile, way off in the
distance, there was the
pop, pop, pop
of gunfire as scouts from both tribes probed each other's lines. A sure sign that a battle would be forthcoming in the morning.

The legionnaire was searched and forced to divest himself
of both his knife and handgun prior to being admitted to Omoni's compound. When Santana inquired as to the reason for such precautions the warrior in charge pointed into the shadows. That was when Santana saw that two bodies had been laid out side by side. Assassins most likely—sent to end the battle before it could begin.

At least twenty Paguum had gathered inside the hoga, which meant that it was warm.
Too
warm by Santana's standards so he stood next to the open door where an occasional breeze found its way through. Opposite him, on the far side of the circle, Omoni sat with Nis Noia at her side. Firelight reflected off the chieftain's silver eye patch, and the scar that bisected her cheek made her look even more fearsome than usual.

The rest of the participants were senior officers equivalent to majors, colonels, and generals. The legionnaire's translator was on and fed audio to the plug in his left ear. “So,” General Kuzo continued, “rather than fight them at the Well of Zugat as originally planned, we will meet them here, on the plains that lead to Hagala Nor.”

“But why?” a sturdy-looking officer inquired.

“Because we must fight them somewhere,” Omoni replied patiently. “It hardly matters where so long as the terrain is flat and open. Our wells are drying up, while the night people wallow in water and spill it into the desert. They must learn to share.”

The assertion that the northerners had intentionally wasted water was false, as everyone in the hoga knew, but a certain amount of exaggeration was not only expected but appreciated by those looking for words that they could adopt and pass on to their troops.

But some of the generals hoped to succeed Omoni one day, and even though they stood ready to take her orders, weren't above a bit of posturing. One such individual took the opportunity to speak up. He had an especially predatory
nose and had lost an arm in battle. “Is this about water? Or has the alien seated at your side turned your head? Why should we die for
him
?”

It was a tough question, but Omoni was ready for it. Her voice was level and calm. “The Ramanthians are at war with a group of tribes called the Confederacy. Both sides possess weapons that could destroy Savas. The northerners formed a relationship with the hard skins—and that left us with no choice but to form an alliance with their enemies. All they asked us to do was t
o fight the night people
here
rather than at the Well of Zugat. And, to help us win the upcoming battle, they sent Lieutenant Santana to lead our dragoons. So, to answer your question, we should die for them because they are willing to die for
us
.” That, too, was something of a misrepresentation, since even if Santana and his tiny command were completely obliterated, it wouldn't begin to compare with the slaughter likely to be visited upon the dawn people the following day.

But the symbology was there, the answer was sufficient to silence Omoni's critics, and the conversation turned to more tactical concerns. Santana listened carefully as General Kuzo outlined the overall battle plan. It wasn't very sophisticated, which wasn't too surprising because while the tribes raided each other's katha herds from time to time, their counterrotational migratory paths rarely brought them into contact, and the two groups hadn't fought a pitched battle in many years.

Finally, after Kuzo had reviewed what amounted to a half dozen sequential cavalry charges, and no mention had been made of Santana's highly mobile infantry, Noia cleared his throat. “And how do you plan to employ the dragoons?”

Kuzo hemmed and hawed, but it soon became apparent that the nontraditional troops were destined to be part of a reserve that could be called upon if needed. Santana took the opportunity to intervene. “While the concept of a reserve
makes sense, sir, I wonder if you would be willing to consider using the dragoons in a slightly different manner?”

Omoni nodded, which meant that Kuzo had little choice but to agree as well. The ensuing discussion lasted for the better part of two hours as Santana used a stick to draw diagrams in the sand around the fire, explained how the dragoons could potentially be used, and dealt with all manner of questions.