Storm Force: Book Three of the Last Legion Series (30 page)

“We’re going to need you over here to finish things off.”

“Is this the one who called himself Ab Yohns?”

Njangu keyed the mike.

“It is.”

“A test,” and Njangu could hear the cold amusement in Celidon’s voice. “What do I prefer at my meals?”

“Barely cooked beef, and raw vegetables,” Njangu answered.

“And what do I drink?”

“Ice water.”

“You may be who you claim to be. What is your real name?”

“Uh-uh,” Njangu said. “Not over a com. And for you, come to think about it, probably not ever.”

A chill laugh came.

“You are definitely the double agent who fooled us. I shall continue, then, to use the name I knew you as.

“This must be brief, Yohns. I believe Protector Redruth has gone mad. He intends to destroy us all in his downfall. I am a mercenary, and have no particular desire to be devoured by his
suttee
.”

“So you want to surrender?”

“Yes,” Celidon said. “I’m arrogant enough to believe that, without me, your task will be far easier.”

Njangu nodded agreement. Celidon was the closest thing Larix and Kura had for a practical tactician, even if he obviously wasn’t as good as he thought at grand strategy.

“Tentatively, I’ll agree with your call,” Njangu said.

“If I come across, and I give you and your superiors the fullest cooperation, including the disposition of all our remaining units as well as access means to Protector Redruth’s headquarters, I want an assurance there’ll be no unpleasantries for me to face when the war is over.”

“You mean, like a war-crimes trial?”

“Just so. Further, after a decent interval, I expect to have some sort of reward for my services. Perhaps some of the properties and valuables I’ve amassed here on Larix or on Kura, which might be better, being out of the limelight. I do not propose to starve in a garret.”

Njangu looked at Angara. The
Dant
gnawed at his a lip, reluctantly nodded.

“Agreed,” Njangu said, keeping the disgust out of his voice.

“Very good. The details can be worked out after I’ve reached safety. After all, we’ve all fought on the same side at one time or another,” Celidon said. “As time passes, you might even want to avail yourselves of my services.

“But that shall be for the future. Listen closely. I propose to cross the fighting lines at coordinates five-six-eight-eight-slash-nine-eight-one-one at sixteen-thirty, this day. I shall be in a single Ayesha, and once I cross over Larissan positions will be flashing my landing lights yellow/blue/yellow at intervals.”

“Hold,” Njangu said, turned to his CO.

“We’ll have him met,” Angara said, “with two
velv
and two
aksai
. All of them will be repeating his signal. All of our ships will be armed and prepared to launch. If there are any problems from his side, any trickery, there’ll be an instant response.

“God
damn
, but I hate some things about this frigging job.”

Njangu repeated Angara’s instructions, added, “you will not be fired at. I’ll be in the lead ship and meet you when you ground.”

“Good,” Celidon said. “I anticipate a very successful partnership. Out.”

The com went dead.

“I don’t suppose,” Njangu said, a little wistfully, “that you’d go back on your word, after the shooting stops, would you? There’s a lot of accidents out here waiting to happen. Plus that son of a bitch thinks he’s got better fighting moves than I do, which I wouldn’t mind testing in a nice, quiet dojo with the doors locked.

“Sir?”

“You tempt me, Yoshitaro,” Angara said heavily. “You tempt me greatly. But no. We’ll play this as it lies. But get a squadron of destroyers to back you. Changing sides, I understand, gets easier the more you do it.”

• • •

Celidon left his command bunker through a private tunnel that opened into a hidden garage, hurried toward his personal Ayesha.

He felt the blood racing, felt very alive. He’d not been one to stick around for the last part of a disaster, saw no reason to change his ways now. He’d never been on the losing side of a war, at least not for long.

His pilot, G’langer, who’d served him well, without questions, for five years, was waiting inside the ACV.

“Sir!” He saluted. Celidon returned the salute.

“This is a very special mission you and I are about to embark on,” Celidon explained. “I’ve been ordered by the Protector to cross the lines and begin negotiations. The invaders wish a truce, and I’m to arrange the best possible terms. To make sure there’s no problem with morale, you and I, and of course the Protector, are the only ones to know of these talks.”

G’langer’s eyes flickered, then he smiled.

“Great honors for you, sir.”

“I hope so,” Celidon said piously. “Then this terrible time will be over, and we’ll be able to start rebuilding.”

“Yessir.” G’lander stepped aside, letting Celidon take his customary seat below the cupola.

“Sir?” he said.

Celidon noticed a change in his pilot’s voice, turned, saw the man aiming a pistol.

“Protector’s Own,” G’langer said, voice gloating.

He shot Celidon four times in the chest as the
Leiter
scrabbled for his own pistol.

“Traitor’s dues,” the man Celidon had known as G’langer said, and went to the com to notify his superiors.

• • •

Njangu waited in the orbiting
velv
for an hour after the time Celidon had specified, then reported to Angara, and the operation was canceled.

Wonder what happened
, he thought as his
velv
flew back toward its forward base.
Did the son of a bitch change his mind, or did he maybe fall downstairs, I hope, I hope?

Darod Montagna heard Lir’s shouts of anger from the next hospital room, wondered what fools had dared to offend the dignity of the Lord of I&R. Monique’s voice grew quieter, then there was silence.

There was a knock on her door.

“C’mon in,” Darod said, eager for company, any company, even a goddamned nurse with the next shot.

Garvin Jaansma entered. He wore fighting uniform and combat harness, and had a thin black-leather case under his arm.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Darod said.

“Darod. How come you’re still laid up?” Garvin said. “I thought all you had was a face and chest full of shrapnel.”

“That’s it,” Darod said. “But they said they wanted to do a reconstruct here and there.”

“Why? You look like you.”

“I am. Mostly. But here … here … and here are transplants.” She made a face. “It feels weird, having part of you that’s not part of you. They say, in a month or so, even I won’t be able to tell the difference. I’d be happier believing them, if it didn’t feel like plas stuck here and there in my face.” She made a face. “And isn’t that a lovely concept?”

“No,” Garvin said. “So when’s your discharge date? I&R needs a CO, and Monique’s leg’ll take another month to mend, plus she’ll need another month of phystherapy.”

“I’ll probably be able to sneak out of here in another three or four days,” Darod said. “Speaking of which, what was all that hollering about?”

Garvin made a face. “I’ve been put in charge of visiting the lame, halt, and malingering this week, not to mention passing out medals. Monique got a Silver Cross and another wound stripe. She started calling me all kinds of sons of bitches, saying she didn’t deserve a frigging medal, all she did was get her ears leveled, and people dumb enough to get in the line of fire deserve to get busted, not awarded.

“She also told me that there was some shot-up Larissan in this hospital, who was lying there, and some officer from Second Brigade came by, doing the same medal parade I am, and gave this guy the Order of Merit. I don’t believe her.”

“I don’t either,” Darod said. “But that sounds like something Monique would pass along.”

“Yeh,” Garvin agreed. “You know Lir.”

“I know Lir,” Darod said. “And thanks for taking the time to come in and say hello, boss.”

“It was Garvin, the last time, wasn’t it?”

“Yeh,” Montagna said. “But maybe I was getting a little too … brash, maybe?”

“You can leave it at Garvin.”

“Oh. ‘Kay. Sit down,” Darod said, indicating a chair. “And what do you think of this hospital?”

“A little sterile,” Garvin said. “Pun not intended.”

“It used to be the Officers’ Academy for this Protector’s Own, somebody told me. I’m sure not sorry we grabbed it,” Montagna said. “I&R butted heads with them twice before I got hit. Murderous bastards. But at least they’re too damned dumb to do anything other than just keep charging the guns.”

“So I understand,” Garvin said. “We figure we’ve wiped out about half of them.”

“I think I’ll stay right here ‘til you get the other half,” Darod said. “A woman can get killed messing with those idiots. And why aren’t you sitting down, like I asked?”

“Well,” Garvin said, opening the case. “Like I said, I’m on the medal patrol. And you shouldn’t do things like that sitting on your butt. There’ll be more formal presentations when we’re back at Camp Mahan.”

He took out a small box, then a sheet of paper, and started reading.

“
Alt
Darod Montagna, Executive Officer of Infantry and Reconnaissance Company, First Brigade, Angara Force, is hereby awarded the Star of Gallantry — ”

Montagna made a small noise.

“Don’t interrupt,” Garvin said, “for actions well above and beyond the call of duty, on whatever date it was, for a series of gallant actions against the Larissan enemy, including destroying two crew-served weapons single-handedly, killing thirteen and capturing twenty-seven of the enemy, and, later in the day, after being wounded, continuing to offer moral leadership to her men as they attacked an entrenched position, after her commanding officer had also been wounded. She further provided suppressing fire during their attack, single-handedly killing an enemy artillery observer who had her company pinned down.

“Such outstanding bravery is hereby recognized by the undersigned. For the Confederation,
Dant
Grig Angara.

“Stop snuffling, woman.”

“I’ll … I’ll try,” Montagna said, dabbing at her eyes with a sheet.

Garvin handed her the box, and sat down.

“Now, I’m just a visitor. It’s nice to see you, Miss Montagna.”

“Nice to still be seen,” Darod said, looking at the medal in its case. “Thank you … Garvin. It’s a very nice medal.”

“Don’t thank me,” Jaansma said. “You were the one who was dumb enough to take on that artillery shell single-handed.”

“Dumb me,” Montagna agreed.

For some reason, Garvin reached out, took her free hand in his.

They sat in companionable silence for a long time, neither feeling the need to say anything.

• • •

The Larissan position had been designed to be untakable. Three gun turrets, heavy armor cast to look like boulders, had been positioned to be mutually supporting. Attack one, and the other two opened up on the attacker. Half a dozen bodies from two failed attacks still lay scattered nearby. The Legion hadn’t been able to recover them, even by night.

The gun positions connected underground to crew dormitories, a small command center, ammo dumps, and a kitchen. There was also a tunnel, leading back to the palace, but that had been sealed, and the gunners told they were forbidden to retreat or surrender.

Something moved toward the turrets from the Cumbrian lines, then three more somethings, each smaller than a man. They crept forward, Larissan sensors not picking them up, until they were no more than fifty meters from the guns.

“ ‘Kay,” Tanya Felder, now a
Tweg
, and in charge of ten of the fighting robots, said. “Keep on slithering, troops. Right up under their goddamned nose.” She, and the other three operators were in their coffinlike stations in a forward outpost a few hundred meters away. Half a dozen I&R troops stood guard, in case the Larissans got cute and attacked the helpless robot drivers.

Felder was now operating Rumbles IV. The war had been as rough on robots as humans. Delicately, she moved Rumbles forward, and the turret was only a few meters away.

Suddenly a signal bleeped.

“We’re blown,” came in her headset from another operator.

One of the turrets swiveled, and its cannon fired.

“Missed me,” an operator chortled.

The gun fired again.

“Aw crap,” the last operator said. “I’m dead.” She slid out of her coffin, blinking.

In the gouged terrain in front of the post, her robot lay, tracks up, smoking.

Felder paid no attention, easing Rumbles up to the turret that was her target, around it, finding cover in a small shellhole.

Someone must have seen the robot, because the turret swiveled back and forth, looking for a target. But Rumbles was well below the turret’s sensors.

One of the robot’s crab-claws reached out. Its claw had been modified with a high-speed drill. It touched the turret below the ring, and whined for a few seconds, then withdrew.

“I’m inside,” Felder said.

“I’m in range,” the operator of another robot said. “Whups. They spotted me. I’m hiding, pretty well pinned down.

“I’m at my target,” the third said, sounding a little smug. “Drilling my way in.”

Rumbles’s other claw extended, and delicately inserted a small hose into the drilled hole.

Felder touched sensors, and an odorless gas sprayed into the turret. She waited, shifting impatiently, as the tank aboard Rumbles emptied. She changed the drill claw for another claw, this one holding a small tube, a detonator.

“I’m through,” came in her headset, then, a few seconds later, “pumping.”

EMPTY
flashed on Felder’s screen.

“I’m dry,” the other operator reported.

“Now,” Felder whispered for no known reason, “to get the hell out.”

She keyed a mike.

“Assegai Arty Three, this is Sibyl Rossum Six. You can fire your diversion anytime.”

Grounded Zhukovs behind the lines opened up, lobbing twenty rounds per tube just behind the gun position.

Rumbles, claws prissily folded in front of it, scampered for a deep crater toward the Cumbrian lines, made it before the Larissan gun could shoot back.

“I’m clear,” the other operator reported.

“Fire in the hole,” Felder broadcast, touched another sensor, on a channel common to both detonators.

They exploded, setting off the extremely volatile gas. Flame swirled through the turrets, down into the sleeping, eating positions. Men screamed, danced, burning. Then the ammunition supply caught, and all three turrets blew, peeling back the land like giant trowels.

“ ‘Kay,” said the
Tweg
now commanding the waiting assault company, “those
giptel
-screwers are gone. Let’s g’wan over and see what else needs shooting.”

The Force attacked. One infantryman ran close by Rumbles, and took a moment to reach down and pat the robot.

• • •

Four rockets slammed in, bracketing Njangu Yoshitaro and his two com operators. They’d been returning on foot to First Brigade Headquarters after Njangu insisted on having an eyes-on look at the positions the Force would be attacking the next day.

The blast hurled him through a destroyed storefront, and he landed amid bolts of dust-covered cloth. Njangu’s ears rang unbearably, and he thought he was deaf.

He managed to get to his feet, saw his shattered blaster in the doorway, staggered out into the street, feeling as if he were on a ship in stormy seas.

Across the street was a woman soldier, staring at him in horror.

Yoshitaro was spattered with the brains, guts, and blood of one of his com operators, who must’ve been between the blast and Njangu. He looked around, very calmly, for the other, saw his head and trunk, sans arms, sans legs, impaled on a broken lamp standard nearby.

Njangu felt himself trembling uncontrollably. Something rose in his body, demanding that he scream, that he run, wildly, away from this insanity.

He took a few steps, slowly, then faster.

He felt as if a black pit yawned in front of him, wanted to throw himself in it, spin down and down, forgetting everything, forgetting blood, death, the wretched demands all these little men and women around him put on him, the smallest, most timid of them all.

A pit … no, not a pit. It was a monster, black, misshapen, trying to embrace him, and he must run, had to flee….

Njangu willed his legs to fold up under him rather than flee and he went down hard, feeling the rasp of the curbstone against his cheek, and again he heard the rather contemptuous dismissal of
Mil
Liskeard.

“He used to be a tiger on roller skates …”

Used to be, used to be, used to be
, his mind chanted.
Njangu Yoshitaro, used to be, used to be, used to be
.

Someone was turning him over, cradling him, and Njangu wanted to scream again, scream forever, life’s blood in that scream.

His mouth opened and, very suddenly, there was no pit, no monster, just a scared
Striker
, saying “Sir? Sir? Are you all right, sir?”

Njangu’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish drowning in air.

He put his hands down on the pavement, felt reassuring grit, and pushed himself up to a sitting position.

“Sir? Are you wounded? I can’t see any wounds, sir.”

Njangu took two very deep breaths, rolled until his legs were under him, came up. He almost fell, then the woman was holding him up, and they both almost went down again.

“I’m ‘kay,” he managed to mumble.

“That was really close, sir,” the
Striker
said. “You look like you’re in a little shock. Maybe you better lie back down? I’ll call for the medics.”

Njangu shook his head, knowing if he gave way, if he did lie down, that pit would open under him.

Luck
, he thought.
All it was, all that brought me back was luck. If somebody hadn’t been here, if I hadn’t heard about Liskeard …

He shuddered, knew he’d never feel anything but the deepest pity for anyone who broke in combat.

I can, you can, we all can. Maybe there’s just so much we can take, and then we break like frigging twigs. Maybe …

“I’m all right,” he said. “But maybe you could give me a hand back to Force Headquarters? I think I know somebody who has a bottle, and I’d like to buy you an extremely illegal drink.”

• • •

The Force elements linked up. Now the city center, the Larissan headquarters, and Redruth’s palace were surrounded.

But the Larissans showed no sign of giving up. Angara had PsyWar teams make ‘casts to the troops, but only a handful surrendered. As often as not, when they tried to come across the lines, they were shot from behind by the Protector’s Own, whom Redruth was using as a steel corset to keep his army together.

Other specialists tried to contact Redruth himself, wanting to talk about peace terms.

But no response came.

“The bastard,” Jon Hedley said, probably with accuracy, “figures anybody who wants to flipping talk’s a weakling, and about to fall apart.

“We’re just going to have to keep pushing ‘til our boot goes up his ass and comes out his flipping throat.”

• • •

Njangu never told Garvin about almost breaking, but for some reason he did tell Maev Stiofan, one time when they were given an hour off duty at the same time.

He watched her closely, looking for a flicker, a flash of disdain. But none came.

“You know,” she said when he was finished, “I think something like that happened to my father. His crew was loading chemicals, and there was an explosion in the ‘ponies plant.

“It was, I guess, really messy, and only three or four of the crew lived. My mother went to the hospital, and came back very quiet, but said Father wasn’t burned, didn’t have any broken bones.