Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (16 page)

He hadn’t known about the erection until she touched the blanket that it supported. The offending member wilted and disappeared.

“Windsweet?”

The voice was deep, distinctly male, and came from somewhere nearby.

The female placed two fingers over her lips in the Naa sign for silence. Her voice was a whisper. “It’s my father. Close your eyes and pretend to be asleep.”

Booly started to ask why, but something about the way that she spoke changed his mind. The legionnaire closed his eyes.

There was a scraping sound, followed by the jingle of metal on metal and a rustling next to the.legionnaire’s bed. The same voice spoke again, only louder this time.

“How is he?”

“Better, or at least I think he is, but still asleep.”

“Asleep or unconscious?”

“Asleep. He was awake for a minute or two,” Windsweet said calmly.

Booly opened his eyes the tiniest bit. He saw a male, about six feet tall, with white chest fur and a mostly black body.

Wayfar Hardman gave a satisfied grunt. “Excellent. Let me know the moment that he awakes. We’ll kill him and send his head to General St. James.”

Windsweet did something to the covers. “It’s up to you, Father, but it has been a long time since we had a prisoner, and the council meeting is only a week away.”

Hardman thought it over. The legionnaire would make an excellent display during the upcoming council meeting. A little something to remind everyone of the successful ambush. Not a bad idea with young subchiefs like Ridelong Surekill nipping at his heels. Besides, he had little stomach for cold-blooded murder, and only said such things because they were expected of him. Hardman gave his daughter a respectful look.

“You inherited your mother’s brains as well as her beauty. It shall be as you suggest. One thing, though . . .”

“Yes?” Windsweet said patiently.

“The human would look a lot more impressive if he were on his feet and dressed in full battle gear.”

Windsweet nodded agreeably. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Hardman touched his daughter’s cheek and left. Windsweet sat on the edge of Booly’s bed.

“You can open your eyes now.”

The legionnaire did as he was told.

“You heard?”

“Yes.” His voice came out as a croak. “You saved my life. But why?”

Windsweet looked at him. He saw a variety of emotions flicker through her cool gray eyes but couldn’t identify any of them.

“Tell me, human ... why does the wind blow?”

The question took him by surprise. He considered a pseudo-scientific answer but rejected it as inappropriate. “Because it does?”

Windsweet smiled. “Exactly. Now go to sleep. You need your rest.”

 

General Ian St. James raised his right arm, pointed the remote towards the ceiling, and pressed a button. The white plaster disappeared and was replaced by a large holo screen. The picture showed the same bed that he lay on now, except that the electronic version of himself was naked, as was Marianne Mosby.

It had been her idea, of course, since St. James was far too self-conscious to do something of that sort on his own, but she’d insisted, and, as with everything else, Marianne got her way.

But St. James was glad, because the holo was one of the few remembrances he had of her, and the only one in which she was naked.

There was a price to be paid, however, including the sight of his own naked posterior and the realization that she had maintained eye contact with the camera throughout the entire thing. The officer watched sadly as Mosby smiled at him over his own shoulder, repositioned her body for a more intimate shot, and came to a rather loud climax.

It was somewhat disturbing to realize that her pleasure stemmed more from the fact that their passion had been taped than from the act itself.

St. James touched a button and the image disappeared. Darkness filled the room. The holo should have angered him, should have caused him to reject her, but it didn’t. For the thousandth time he wondered where she was and what she was doing. It would have something to do with the attack on Worber’s World, that was for sure. But what? A message torp had arrived two cycles before, but instead of answering questions, it had raised even more.

The empire had been attacked. Worber’s World had fallen. Millions of citizens and a thousand legionnaires had been killed. Some had been classmates, friends, or enemies. All would be missed, remembered, an
d added to rolls of those who had died in battle. It was, St. James reflected, a kind of immortality, since the Legion honored its dead above all else.

But he was alive and faced with the problems that went with living. His orders were clear: intensify training, maintain a high state of alert, and prepare to evacuate his troops. Not “deploy,” which would make sense given the Hudathan attack, but “evacuate,” as in run. Not too surprising, since the orders had been signed by Admiral Scolari, the gutless wonder herself, but worrisome nonetheless.

What if the Emperor’s advisors agreed? What if Marianne caved in? But that was unthinkable. Marianne was an extremely aggressive leader. She would never shirk her duty ... or do anything to compromise the Legion’s base on Algeron.

No, she’d fight for what she believed in, as Scolari would soon learn. He looked forward to hearing from her. Although official communications were routed through Scolari’s office, the Legion had a long-standing system of its own, and Marianne would use it.

St. James clasped his hands behind his head. It was unfortunate that the Naa had picked this particular moment to launch an offensive ... but such was life.

A heavily armed force had been sent back to the ambush site. It had recovered all of the bodies except for that belonging to Sergeant Major Bill Booly. Patrols were looking for the noncom, but St. James had little hope of actually finding him.

That was a real loss, since legionnaires like Booly didn’t come along every day. He’d been a true volunteer, a man who had joined looking for adventure, and stayed because he was good at what he did.

St. James rolled over, sat up, and put his feet on the floor. Like it or not, the empire was at war. The dirtiest, riskiest, and stupidest chores would go to the Legion. It was his job to get them ready. He stood and headed for the shower.

 

Gunner stepped off one of the smaller personnel elevators, directed a vid pickup towards the sky, and saw that it was momentarily night. A meaningless distinction on Algeron, but comforting nonetheless, since darkness was traditionally associated with free time.

The spider-form body felt light and maneuverable after days spent as a quad. The light eight-legged construct was in many respects his
real
body, since it took care of his life support functions and would serve as his escape vehicle in the unlikely event that the larger quad body was severely damaged. Assuming that he
wanted
to escape, that is ... which was damned unlikely.

Gunner made his way towards the main gate, waved his electronic pass at a sensor, and waited for the personnel port to slide open. It made a humming sound as it did so.

A sentry waved, Gunner waved back, and picked his way through scattered debris towards the dubious delights of Naa town. The dome-like roofs were nearly invisible in the darkness, but light showed through rectangular windows and spilled from open doors. Laughter, both human and Naa, floated up towards higher ground.

Gunner moved away from the noise and the establishments that it came from. Almost without exception the bars, whorehouses, and restaurants that occupied the domes closest to the fort were the exclusive domain of the bio bods. After all, what self-respecting cyborg would waste his or her time on entertainments that could no longer be enjoyed? That would be stupid, especially when an enterprising human named Otis Foss had created a sanctuary that catered to cyborgs.

Foss was one of the small group of humans who had been on Algeron prior to the Imperial decree that ceded the planet to the Legion, and had taken advantage of that fact to create a thriving, albeit semi-illegal business.

Gravel crunched as Gunner’s disc-shaped pods made contact with the ground. A half-starved pook saw him, growled, and slinked away. Bio bods, both human and Naa alike, saw the spider-shaped body and pretended they didn’t. That’s how it was in Naa town. Get horribly wasted, screw your brains out, and mind your own business.

Foss had named his establishment “The Cyborg’s Rest” and hung out a sign to that effect. No one had ever actually called it that. The sign had been destroyed in a storm, people had taken to calling it “Fossy’s Place,” and the name had stuck.

Fossy’s Place was larger than those that served bio bods, and had to be, since his clientele took up a lot more space.

Like most of the habitats on Naa, most of Fossy’s Place was underground, safe from winter storms, insulated against both heat and cold. Gunner made his way down a well-used ramp and stopped in front of a durasteel door. There were outlaws to consider, and raids by the military police, so it paid to be careful.

A hidden scale weighed Gunner, scanners confirmed that he was a cyborg, and a computer opened the door.

The public room occupied a large circular area. It was dimly lit, interrupted here and there by supporting beams, and had a dirt floor. There was a wall-sized holo system, but most of the customers had little use for bio-bod dramas, porno, sports, or dance, so Foss ran outdated news cubes, documentaries on the Legion’s history, and scenics from a variety of Imperial planets. Quite a few of the cyborgs liked music, though, and the sound system was on, broadcasting to those who chose to receive it.

Cyborgs have little need of things to sit on, so, other than some unusually tall card tables, the room was bare of furniture. There were decorations, though, including a wall-sized rendering of the 1st REC’s insignia, an amazing array of captured weapons, and a stuffed Naa known as “Chiefy.” Though variously represented as a Naa chieftain, outlaw, and philosop
her, the unfortunate carcass actually belonged to a day laborer who’d been hit by a truck during the construction of Fort Camerone, and preserved by members of the Legion’s Pioneers. How Foss had obtained it, and why, were shrouded in mystery.

The place was packed. There were lots of Trooper IIs, a couple of Trooper Is, a scattering of spider-forms, and a pair of off-duty fly-forms. They had stork-like legs, sleek bodies, and extendable wings in case they were forced to punch out of whatever aircraft they happened to be flying at the moment.

Most of the clientele were interfaced with virtual-reality gambling scenarios, were playing old-fashioned card games, or just shooting the shit. The war with the Hudathans was the main topic of conversation. Everyone figured the Legion would see action; the question was when, and most of all, where.

Some of the conversation could be heard, but a good deal of it took place on channel 3. All of it stopped momentarily when the door opened, then started again as Gunner made his entrance. He was well known at Fossy’s Place, an accepted, if somewhat eccentric, member of the crowd.

There were the usual number of greetings, insults, and non sequiturs. Gunner made the appropriate responses, wove his way between the widely separated tables, and headed for the alcove where Foss traditionally sat.

Foss was a medium-sized man of indeterminate age. He was mostly bald and had an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He looked up from his comp. The initial interchange never varied.

“Hi, Gunner. How’re things goin’?”

“Shitty. How ’bout you?”

“Shitty, but that’s life. You want the usual?”

“Yeah.”

Foss looked down at the console and used his index fingers to peck at the keys. “I heard about the ambush ... sorry you survived.”

“Yeah,” Gunner responded, “it’s gettin’ so a guy can’t even get killed in this borg’s army.”

Foss grinned. “Well, it seems that we’re at war with some kinda geeks. Maybe they’ll cancel your ticket.”

“Here’s hoping,” Gunner said matter-of-factly. “Which room?”

“Number six ... and that’ll be fifty imperials.”

“Put it on my tab.”

Foss sighed. “You don’t have a tab. What you have is a massive debt.”

“I’m good for it.”

Foss sighed again. “Okay, but make a payment soon, promise?”

“You got it.”

“Good. Have a nice time.”

Foss watched the cyborg make his way down a darkened ramp. He shook his head in amazement. Gunner was strange, even by cyborg standards, and kind of sad.

Gunner paused in front of room 6, waited for the door to hiss open, and glided inside. The room was dimly lit and empty of all furniture.

“Hello,” the voice said, “and welcome to the Dream Master 4000. The Dream Master represents the culmination of a thousand years of scientific achievement. You are about to relive the happiest, saddest, most exciting, or most peaceful moments of your life. Now, listen carefully, and follow these easy ...”

The control panel glowed softly. Gunner extended a leg, bypassed the first few steps of the computerized sequence, and jacked a cable into the side of his triangular head. Light exploded inside his brain, color swirled, disintegrated, and coalesced into abstract shapes. They drifted on a field of black. The voice returned.

“... you are ready to choose a memory. You may do so by recalling those images or sensations that most typify that particular experience.”

Gunner knew that many, if not most, of his peers would have chosen a sex act, a drug-induced high, or the excitement of battle. But he chose the memory that he’d always chosen before and would always choose in the future.

Gunner remembered the zoo, packed with animals from a dozen earth-type worlds, and thick with their native foliages. He remembered the smell of animal dung, the warmth of the sun on his neck, and what it felt like to hold his wife’s hand. He remembered how the birds made strange belching sounds, how his children had screamed with laughter and his wife had told them to quiet down.