Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (34 page)

The words demanded a speech, or a comment of some kind, and Chien-Chu had nothing prepared. That Leonid was really dead, blown to atoms while defending what amounted to expensive glitter, had changed his outlook on life. Money seemed less important now, as did the things that it could buy and the possessions that he had accumulated.

Chien-Chu had already been committed to a meeting with the Cabal when the news of his son’s death had spurred him on. He felt a desperate need to give the tragedy some sort of meaning, to transmute the loss into a gain, if not for him then for others.

Chien-Chu found his grief and used it to empower his words. He stood to tell them what he felt, and more than that, what he hoped.

“Thank you, Madam Dasser. I will convey your condolences to my wife and daughter-in-law. My son’s untimely death makes me all the more determined to fight the Hudatha
before
they reach the center of our empire. I salute each and every one of you for having the vision to see ... and the courage to act. The Hudathans represent a very real danger.

“But as I look around this room I see an even greater danger. The danger that we will create still another government by the few, for the few. The danger is inherent in our wealth, positions, power, and yes, the nature of our race. We are a selfish lot, much given to our own interests, and careless of others. The only thing that can overcome this danger is a unanimous commitment to something higher.

“I speak of a government that represents the people, that protects them from harm, that opposes rather than fosters evil. It is
that
goal to which I am drawn,
that
ideal to which I pledge my fortune, and
that
possibility for which I would sacrifice my life.”

There was a brief moment of silence followed by enthusiastic applause. Madam Dasser beamed her happiness, stood, and held up a hand.

“I think you can see why I wanted Sergi to join our group. Now, recognizing that each group needs a leader, I would like to nominate Sergi Chien-Chu. Is there a second?”

There was, and the proposal was approved by a unanimous vote. The merchant knew he’d been set up, knew that Madam Dasser had lined up most of the votes ahead of time, but didn’t mind. He wanted to take action against the Hudatha and was willing to do whatever it took to get the job done.

So when the voting was over, and all eyes rested on him, Chien-Chu took control of the meeting. He knew it was a significant moment in his life, this transformation from merchant to politician, but it felt no different from the hundreds of business meetings that he’d chaired as head of Chien-Chu Enterprises.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence ... although you may decide to rescind it before this meeting is over.”

There were the proper number of “nevers,” “oh nos,” and amused chuckles, but the merchant was quite serious. He knew talk was cheap, and that some of them would balk, or actually rebel, when it came time to make a personal sacrifice.

But that problem lay ahead. The first task was to devise a strategy, build support for it, and identify tactics by which he could make it happen.

The next four hours were spent in sometimes heated discussion from which a strategy eventually emerged. The approach they agreed on was almost identical to the one that Chien-Chu had visualized from the very beginning, but served to take everyone through the logic involved, and resulted in a much higher level of buy-in.

“So,” Chien-Chu summarized, “we’re agreed that the Hudathans must be stopped, and that to accomplish that, it will first be necessary to remove the Emperor.”

His words brought nods of agreement and long solemn looks, for this was the stuff of treason, and one traitor in their midst, or one undiscovered bug, could result in imprisonment or even death for all of them. Chien-Chu continued.

“Given the fact that we are not an especially bloodthirsty group, and lack the means to get an assassin past the Emperor’s security apparatus, it seems better to overthrow rather than assassinate him.”

“That’s just great,” Zikos replied, her artificially tight skin furrowed with uncharacteristic wrinkles, “but how?”

Chien-Chu smiled. “How indeed? Remember what I said? That you might want to replace me with someone else? Well, now you lear
n why. Unlike revolutionaries of the past, we already have a highly disciplined, well-equipped army at our disposal.”

“The Legion,” Madam Dasser said thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” Chien-Chu replied.

“But they’re in prison,” Goss objected, crossing and recrossing his long hairy legs.

“Some are,” Chien-Chu agreed, “but some aren’t. What about the legionnaires on Algeron? Will they board Admiral Scolari’s transports? Knowing that they’ll be sacrificed, or worse from their point of view, absorbed into the Marine Corps? I think not. As for those on Earth, the answer’s simple: we’ll free them.”

“But how?” Senator Chang Yu asked.

“By force of arms,” Chien-Chu replied. “Except for you, and one or two others in the room, the rest of us control companies with highly trained paramilitary security forces. Properly armed, coordinated, and led, they will free General Mosby’s forces from prison.”

“What about the possibility that some of them might inform on us?” Susan Rothenberg, of A-roid Mining, inquired.

Chien-Chu shrugged. “We’ll invent a cover story to explain the need for special training and coordination between our companies. In the meantime I suggest that all of you sift your personnel for government agents. That process has already begun within Chien-Chu Enterprises.”

“Excellent,” Madam Dasser said approvingly. “Just excellent.”

“And then?” Zikos asked.

“And then we strike at the palace, seize control, and replace Admiral Scolari with a more aggressive officer. The navy will head for the rim, find the enemy, and engage them.”

Goss flicked an imaginary piece of lint off the sleeve of his burgundy-striped robe.

“But what happens in the meantime? It will take time to accomplish what you propose ... and millions could die. To say nothing of our holdings along the rim.”

“That’s very true,” Chien-Chu said calmly. “Which is why we must mobilize our ships, load them with supplies, and reinforce those worlds that still have a chance.”

“That would cost billions!” Rothenberg exploded. “We’d be bankrupt long before it was over!”

“Possibly,” Chien-Chu replied calmly. “But what happens if we don’t reinforce them? What of A-roid’s holdings along the rim? What of your employees? What of your family should the Hudathans make it this far? What are they worth?”

There was silence for a moment. Madam Dasser was the next to speak.

“Sergi’s right. Dasser Industries makes roughly twenty percent of the munitions used by both the Marine Corps and the Legion. Every ship we have will load and lift as soon as possible.”

Chien-Chu nodded his agreement. “My company will do the same.” He turned towards Susan Rothenberg. The robe made her look like a frumpy housewife. “But you raise a good point, Susan. Someone should track the expense involved, and assuming that we win, petition the next government for compensation. Would you be willing to take charge of that effort?”

It was apparent from the emphatic nodding of the industrialist’s head that she would.

Chien-Chu looked around the room. They were with him and the time had come to deal with tactics.

“Good. Now that we have a strategy in place, let’s get down to brass tacks.”

The succeeding eight hours were some of the most difficult in the merchant’s long and varied life.

 

The commandant didn’t like the Legion and never had. Maybe it was their snobby nose-in-the-air-my-shit-don’t-stink ways, or maybe it was the fact that he’d spent twenty-three years in the Marine Corps, or maybe he was just a mean old bastard like his wife claimed.

Whatever the reason, Commandant Wendell T.-for-“tough-shit” Gavin loved to see legionnaires sweat. And, since it was their day to “walk the wall,” there’d be enough sweat to plant crops on the parade ground, or “grinder” as the prisoners called it.

Grinning with anticipation, Gavin stepped out of his air-conditioned office into the noonday heat. The thermometer by the door read 115°F and would climb at least five degrees in the next hour. That was the beauty of locating the military prison in the middle of Death Valley. The name fit, and the temperature was part of the punishment.

The balcony was a small affair, similar to the one that the Pope used in the Vatican, except that the pontiff tried to comfort her flock, and Gavin liked to torture his.

The commandant took two steps forward, made sure that his brass belt buckle was centered over the railing, and clasped his hands behind his back. The grinder was exactly one mile long and one mile wide. A cube of what looked like solid rock stood at the west end of the space. It was located almost directly under Gavin’s boots. Nearly six thousand khaki-clad men and women were arrayed in front of it. They stood at parade rest, eyes forward, kepis gleaming in the sun.

Guards were visible here and there, towering over the legionnaires on their bright orange exoskeletons, watching for signs of rebellion.

Staff and prisoners alike looked up through the heat-induced haze, saw the commandant appear, and waited for the signal. A minute passed. Another followed. Heat rose from the pavement in waves. Gavin seemed to waver, disappear, and come back again.

Finally they saw it, the tiny nod that brought a corporal through the door and put an iced lemonade in Gavin’s right hand. He raised it like an ironic salute, held it there until their throats ached, and took a long, slow drink.

Gavin was a tall man, with a long skinny neck, and his Adam’s apple seemed to bob up and down for an eternity. Then, when about a third of the drink had been consumed, he held it up, let them imagine how good it would taste trickling down their parched throats, and dumped it over the railing. The liquid hissed as it hit the pavement below.

Gavin performed the ritual the same way every day, and Mosby didn’t know which was worse—the act itself or how predictable it had become.

The heat, short rations, and hard physical exercise had conspired to take fifteen pounds off her frame. She felt the difference and took a grim pleasure in it. Gavin was hardening her, preparing her for the conflict to come, sowing the seeds of his own destruction. Because Mosby was waiting, waiting for her troops to reach the very peak of physical fitness, and then, before they started the long slide down, she would strike.

Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of her troops would die, but the prison would fall. And then, using vehicles taken from the prison, they would head for the nearest spaceport, seize a ship, and lift for Algeron.

It was a desperate plan, an insane plan, but better than no plan at all. Better than dying a meaningless death, giving up, or giving in.

Mosby did an about-face. Sweat ran in rivulets down her face, neck, and arms. She ignored it. They stood before her, rank after rank of men and women with faces of stone. They knew what today was about. It was about survival, but more than that, it was about pride, because Gavin wanted them to break and they would refuse to do so.

“Attenhut!”

Six thousand men and women crashed to attention. Mosby let her eyes roam over their ranks. She saw no cyborgs. Since they were dangerous even when disarmed, their brain boxes had been pulled, stashed on racks, and plugged into computer-controlled life support systems. They had no music, no neuro-games, and no communication with each other. It was a punishment far worse than that about to be suffered by the bio bods. Mosby forced herself to the task on hand.

“You know the drill. It’s our turn to walk the wall. A combined force of swabbies, grunts, and other assorted riffraff moved it five miles yesterday. We’ll move it six.
Vive la Légion!
”

The answering cry shook Gavin’s windows. He looked up from his computer screen, frowned, and made a note to cut the legionnaires’ rations by another twenty-five calories a day.

From what had once been a sloppy, unorganized effort similar to what civilians might display under similar circumstances, Mosby’s officers and NCOs had evolved a highly efficient, well-ordered process, ca
pable of moving tons of rock from one end of the grinder to the other with a minimum amount of confusion and wasted effort.

Orders were given, bodies started to move, and the wall began to “walk.” The huge cube of what looked like solid rock that occupied the exact center of the parade ground was actually made from more than a thousand blocks of carefully cut stone. Each block weighed a deceptively light fifteen pounds, an amount easily lifted by men and women alike, until the heat began to sap their strength, and endless repetition dulled their minds.

Then what had once been easy grew difficult, terribly difficult, to the point that the legionnaires would stagger back and forth, drop blocks of stone on their feet, and collapse from heat prostration. But that would be later in the afternoon, much later, and this was now.

She could have exempted herself from the labor, could have given orders while the others worked, but Mosby refused to do so. And because she refused to do so, her officers and NCOs were forced to refuse as well, a fact that led to no small amount of grumbling.

So General Marianne Mosby seized a block of granite, hugged it to her chest, and marched towards the far end of the grinder. Once there she’d put it down, pass hundreds of legionnaires on her way back to the ever-dwindling pile, and grab another one. As the day progressed, the blocks would become slippery with sweat, would burn her blistered hands, would double, triple, and quadruple in weight, until each one felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds. And she’d do it over, and over, and over again until the wall of granite had been “walked” from one end of the grinder to the other.
Mosby ran her tongue over dry lips. It would be a long, long day.