Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (37 page)

The lock whirred open and a shaft of light hit the ground. A figure appeared, far too slight to be that of a man, and drew a cape around her shoulders. A hood hid her face, but there was something about the gra
ce with which she descended the stairs that grabbed the legionnaire’s attention and held it. Then as the woman stepped off the stairs and the light hit her face, the interest turned to fascination.

The woman had a slender body, a long oval face, and enormous eyes. They looked haunted somehow, as if some horrible tragedy had befallen her, and was never far from her thoughts. Her voice was soft and gentle.

“My name is Natasha Chien-Chu. My father-in-law will be along in a moment.”

St. James was surprised by the strength of his own disappointment. If Sergi Chien-Chu was her father-in-law, then she was married, and as unapproachable as the Emperor himself.

“Welcome to Algeron, Madam Chien-Chu. My name is Ian St. James. I command the Legion’s free forces.”

Natasha frowned. Snow swirled around her face. “Thank you. It saddens me to know that General Mosby and her people are in prison.”

St. James raised an eyebrow. “You know the general?”

“No, but my father-in-law does.”

A short, rather chubby man appeared from behind her. His eyes were brown and filled with intelligence. “Who do I know?”

Natasha smiled. “General St. James, my father-in-law, Sergi Chien-Chu. We were discussing General Mosby and the fact that she’s in prison.”

“But not for long,” Chien-Chu said cheerfully. “We hope to break her out.”

Charmed by the merchant’s unassuming ways and startled by his directness, St. James found himself smiling. “Welcome to Algeron, sir. I have a feeling that the Hudathans are in deep trouble.”

 

Nothing remained of the snowstorm except for a few errant flakes that spiraled down from a lead-gray sky. The sun was little more than a dimly seen presence, so heavily shrouded by clouds that only a small portion of its light found its way to the surface. The Towers of Algeron, which would normally draw the eye towards the south, were completely invisible.

Roller knelt beside a pile of still-warm dooth dung and pushed the goggles up onto his forehead. His breath fogged the air around him. He’d known very little about tracking when he’d arrived on Algeron but learned a good deal since.

There had been six animals. The first or second dooth had defecated and the rest of the pack train had ground the feces into the otherwise pristine snow. The depth of their tracks indicated that the animals had been heavily loaded, and judging from the way that the imprints overlaid each other, the caravan had traveled single file.

The absence of Naa tracks reinforced his impression that the dooths had been ridden rather than led. While that made it more difficult to tell how many warriors there were, he could make a fairly accurate guess
. There had to be at least six Naa, one per animal, and could be as many as twelve individuals, if they rode doubled up.

As to identity, well, the hoofprints left little doubt as to that. The tribes liked to brand their livestock in two ways: with a symbol burned into their hides, and with marks filed into the circumference of their hooves. The first approach allowed them to pick their animals out of a large herd, and the second permitted them to track their property even when accompanied by dooth belonging to someone else. But these hooves bore no tribal markings, which suggested they had been burned away with acid or filed down. A bandit trick, designed to save them if caught with stolen merchandis
e, or at least lighten their punishment. Not that the tribes were inclined towards mercy where bandits were concerned. Most of them died head-down in a campfire. Roller stood and looked around.

His unit was substantially understrength, as were all the patrols from Fort Camerone these days. There was Gunner, crazy as ever, hull-down in a gully, scanning the wastelands with his sensors; the Trooper II named Villain, who, in spite of her last performance, showed every sign of developing into a fairly decent soldier; her understudy, a newbie named Salazar, who was so green that it hurt; and a pair of bio bods, both of whom rode in the quad. It was a relatively small force, entirely inadequate for any sort of tribal action, but more than a match for some raggedy-assed bandits.
Or so Roller hoped.

The fact was that the Old Man had stripped Algeron in order to reinforce the rim world outposts. Roller understood the theory but wondered if it would work. Could the Legion stop the Hudathans all by themselves? And what about the Navy? What if the Emperor sent them against Algeron? The noncom shook his head in wonderment. Oh well, his job was clear, and that being the case, he’d get on with it.

The snow creaked as he walked towards Villain, circled, and stepped up behind her shoulders. He pulled the goggles down, strapped himself in, and activated his radio.

“Roller One to Roller Patrol. There’s bandits up ahead. Let’s move it.”

 

The sleeping cubicle was one of many that had been carved from the earthen walls. A generous supply of dooth-wool blankets provided sufficient warmth, and a curtain made from trade fabric supplied the illusion of privacy.

Booly heard movement nearby. His hand slid down to grip the piece of conduit that lay by his side. It was of Terran manufacture and had originally been part of a shuttle that had crashed fifty miles to the north.

Day was fading to night aboveground, which made it just right for one of the one-hour naps that the Naa took every six hours or so, or an attempt on his life.

Not that anyone had made any threats or actually moved against him. No, it was a feeling, that’s all, a sort of simmering resentment that made the human nervous. He’d be glad when they left Surekill’s village for Hardman’s, or better yet, when he could escape altogether. But what about Windsweet? The thought of leaving her behind, of losing her for all time, made his heart ache.

There was another sound, closer now, and Booly sat up. The pipe wasn’t much as weapons go but would be better than nothing. He pushed his back into a corner and prepared to defend himself. The curtain slid aside and a cloud of perfume enveloped him. Windsweet!

The curtain closed as she slipped in beside him. No words were said or required. Lips found lips, bodies came together, and hands slipped along unfamiliar flanks. The attraction was so strong, so powerful, that Booly found himself gasping for breath. The combination of her sleek sensual fur, the hard muscle just under the surface of her skin, and the tongue that explored his mouth brought the human to a state of instant arousal. Even the pain caused by his wound did nothing to lessen his excitement.

Feeling Booly grow hard, and taking pleasure in it, Windsweet wrapped her fingers around his erection and moved her hand up and down. The legionnaire shuddered, made her stop, and started his own gentle exploration.

Time passed, and the intensity of their lovemaking increased, until Windsweet could stand no more. She sought his penis and pulled it inside.

Booly bit his lip against the pleasure of it, forced himself to hold back, and matched the rhythm with which she moved. He didn’t know which was better, the physical pleasure or the wonderful intimacy of being with the woman he loved. For that was the way he thought of her, as a woman, rather than an alien.

Slowly, but with the surety of any natural force, the pace quickened until both reached climax together, biting each other’s shoulders in an attempt to remain silent, and riding a tidal wave of pleasure. A wave that turned back on itself, became a whirlpool, and sucked Booly down into an ocean of sensation.

There was a long silence when it was over. It felt wonderful to lie there, with Windsweet by his side, kissing his neck and whispering endearments in his ear. He kissed her in return, told her that he loved her, and knew that he meant it. It was that knowledge that made the words so hard to say.

“Windsweet . . .”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“You said that.”

“And I meant it.”

“Good.”

Booly did a push-up and looked down into her eyes. “But there’s a problem.”

“You have to leave.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I knew from the beginning. The way all females know.”

“And yet you came?”

A tear rolled down Windsweet’s cheek. She made no attempt to wipe it away. “I came to say goodbye.”

“I’ll be back.”

“It would be better if you stayed away.”

“I don’t think I could.”

“Then what is, shall be.”

Booly nodded. “Exactly.”

“Then leave now, while we’re in a village other than my own, where my father would be duty bound to follow.”

“He’ll let me go?”

“I think he’d show you the way if he could. Nothing would please him more.”

“What about food? Weapons?”

“Father left both for me to find,” Windsweet replied. “I left them right outside.”

“So I should leave.”

“Yes,” Windsweet replied softly, “but only after we make love for a second time.”

Her hands pulled his head to her breasts, a nipple found its way into his mouth, and the legionnaire found it easy to oblige.

 

The situation room was nearly empty, containing as it did only three people. The lights were dimmed and one large section of wall had transformed itself into a video screen. An officer with a shaved head, black skin, and tired-looking eyes was talking.

“. . . so the star divers hit just the way Leonid figured they would, blew the battlewagons out of the sky, and saved the outpost. I’m sorry to report that he was killed when the geeks scored a direct hit on the linear accelerator. Leo was a civilian, and drove me crazy sometimes, but he was one helluva man.”

St. James touched a button on the armrest of his chair. The screen faded to black.

“I’m terribly sorry.”

The words sounded false even as St. James said them, for he knew that he
wasn’t
sorry, and was in fact rather happy. Not that a brave man had died, but that his wife existed and was technically free. But he must be careful, very careful, to respect her grief, and take whatever time was needed.

The strange part was that he’d seen Narbakov’s report long before the Chien-Chus had arrived, but had failed to connect the two.

Chien-Chu’s voice cracked when he spoke.

“Thank you, General. This was very thoughtful of you. I wish he were still alive, but it’s gratifying to hear that my son’s death meant something to those around him, and cost the enemy dearly.”

Tears trickled down Nathasha’s cheeks and she smiled apologetically. “Yes, General. Thank you. It helps to know the circumstances of my husband’s death.”

St. James resisted an impulse to take Nathasha in his arms and kiss the tears away. He gave an understanding nod, rose, and held her cloak.

 

Booly’s breath came in short angry puffs. He looked back over his shoulder. The trail was so evident, so clear, that a child could have followed it. It crested a rise, dipped out of sight, and reappeared a hundred yards behind him. A dooth appeared while he looked, followed by another, and still another. Not Surekill’s warriors, whom he’d managed to shake during the darkness two cycles before, but bandits who had cut his trail and decided to follow. The lead rider waved a weapon over his head, shouted something unintelligible to the others, and urged his mount down into the gully. The
rest followed.

Booly squinted upwards at the sun, adjusted his direction slightly, and started to jog. The map that Windsweet had given him, plus a substantial head start, had enabled him to escape from the mountains. Camerone was fifty, maybe sixty miles away, which meant that the bandits would catch him within the hour.

He had the handgun that Windsweet had given him, the same one they’d captured him with, and two spare magazines. That gave him forty-five rounds, forty-four to use on the Naa and one for himself. The legionnaire remembered the way the Hudathan had died, head-down over the fire pit, and ran a little faster.

What he needed was a natural fortress, a spot where he could make good use of the bullets he had, and hope that the bandits would go away.

Booly skidded down a slope, regained his balance, and braked with his heels. The riverbank was steep, so he took it in a series of long jumps and gave thanks when the ice didn’t break. After skate-walking across to the other side, he encountered another steep embankment, used some rocks to pull himself up, and climbed towards the top. The slope was noticeable, but not too tough, and he jogged upwards. The wound had opened and his undershirt felt wet. He heard a shout as he topped the rise. A bullet buzzed by his shoulder and the report followed a quarter second later.

The legionnaire zigzagged towards some freestanding boulders, heard two additional rifle shots, and turned the corner. It felt good to have something solid behind his back.

A flat area lay up ahead, dotted with loose rocks and interrupted by a steep-sided flat-topped hill. The legionnaire remembered that hills of that
type were called “kopje” back on Earth and had often served as ready-made forts. He headed for the nearest one, his breath coming in short gasps, his stomach on fire.

Snow crunched under his boots and he circled the kopje, reached the other side, and started to climb. A mixture of loose snow and rocks slid out from under him as he climbed. He swore, grabbed onto some rocks, and heaved himself upwards. More, just a little bit more, and he’d reach the top.

The legionnaire’s legs pumped, his arms pulled, and suddenly he was there, crawling over the edge and dropping into a slight depression. A wonderful place where bullets couldn’t reach him and air could enter his lungs.

Cold, almost numb fingers felt through his clothing, searched for the first-aid kit that Windsweet had included with his gear, fumbled with a zipper that got in the way.