Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (24 page)

Pietro found the blunt, almost insulting language hard to bear, but managed a smile. “You get right to the point, Grand Marshal Rula-Ka . . . and I admire that. Please allow me to be equally frank. . . . While there is little doubt as to the strength of the forces under your command, the ultimate outcome of the war is still very much in question, as your presence aboard this ship proves. That means our choices are a good deal more complex than you indicated. We can side with the Confederacy, which could lead to your defeat, we could side with you, increasing the likelihood o
f victory, or we could sit on the sidelines and see what happens.”

Poseen-Ka saw Rula-Ka’s eyes flash as they had a few hours earlier. “Neutrality means nothing! Your are either for or against us! There is no middle ground.”

Antonio saw tiny beads of sweat pop out on his brother’s forehead and knew his looked the same. His stomach churned and his hands began to shake. He lowered them to his lap.

Pietro struggled to sound casual and to fight the rising panic. “Yes, of course. But under what terms? Suppose we side with you, and emerge victorious, what then?”

It was a key question and Poseen-Ka was curious to see how his new superior would answer. Rula-Ka leaned back and seemed to relax. “The Hegemony would be free to live life as it does now but would not be allowed to expand.”

It was a rather obvious lie, since the entire point of the Hudathan offensive was to exterminate
all
sentient races, with an emphasis on humans. The female called Norwood would have laughed at such words and Poseen-Ka expected Pietro to do the same. He didn’t. Much to the Hudathan’s amazement, and subsequent contempt, the clone nodded, smiled, and accepted Rula-Ka’s offer at face value. Documents were signed within the hour. A single lie, convincingly told, had reduced the enemy by 25 percent. Victory was possible.

 

Booly awoke to the smell of a perfume so delicate it reminded him of the scent his mother wore. But there was nothing motherly about the hand that slid down across the flat plane of his stomach to touch the quickly growing member between his legs. He opened his eyes, tried to sit, and winced at the pain, which was not just in his chest where the bullet had slammed the body armor against his sternum, but in his head as well, which had bounced off the concrete. Marine Major Stephanie Warwick-Olson nuzzled his shoulder and made soothing noises. “Shame on you, Lieutenant . . . th
e doctor ordered bed rest.”

“But what . . .”

“Am I doing here?” Warwick-Olson finished for him. “Visiting a sick comrade. That’s what visiting hours are for, aren’t they? And you were so sound asleep it seemed cruel to wake you . . . although that’s what I decided to do. Oh my, something’s standing at attention, and a nice one it is, too. I like your fur . . . it’s soft and kind of bristly at the same time.”

Booly felt blood rush to his face and wondered if it was all part of some erotic dream. The major began to move her hand up and down and he knew it wasn’t. “But you and I . . .”

“Shouldn’t be in bed together?” Warwick-Olson asked softly. “Oh, but we should, especially since we want each other, and are no longer part of the same chain of command. You
do
want me . . . don’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am, I mean yes, Major.”

“Stephanie . . . please. Now, fortunately for you I am about to dispense a remedy that will improve your circulation, enhance your respiration, and ease the pain. Conventional practitioners might suggest that I wait until you are more fully recovered . . . but I subscribe to a more aggressive approach. Are you ready?”

“No, I mean yes, I think so,” Booly said, glancing around the room. “What if someone comes in?”

“With Sergeant Parker standing guard? Not likely.”

Booly started to wonder what Parker would think of the closed door but all such thoughts were washed away as Stephanie sat up and allowed the covers to drop away from her body. She was extremely slender, with breasts just as he had imagined, and delicately defined ribs. She watched his reaction, smiled at the response, and moved to her hands and knees. No sooner had the sheet-and-blanket combination been pulled away from his body than she swung a leg over Booly and straddled his torso. The glimpse of the dark triangle between her legs combined with her firm yet gentle touch sent ev
en more blood to his already engorged penis and threatened a premature ejaculation. Booly bit the inside of his lip as Stephanie bent forward and electricity jumped between their lips.

What followed felt better than anything he had ever experienced before, including the experimental sex with his cousin and a subsequent encounter with another plebe. And if the sounds Stephanie made were any indication, she was enjoying it, too. The whole thing left him both figuratively and literally drained. They collapsed and lay in a tangle of arms and legs. “So,” Stephanie asked, “how was I?”

Booly let his hand glide across the velvety smooth skin of her back and down along the bumps made by her vertebrae. “You were fantastic! The best senior officer I ever had sex with.”

Stephanie laughed. “What? There were others?”

Booly kissed her lips. “A colonel and two generals. No majors.”

“Good,” Stephanie replied contentedly. “I’d hate to think there were any majors.”

“Never,” Booly said, his hand sliding down between her silky-smooth legs. What happened next took longer, and involved a more detailed exploration of each other’s bodies, but was equally satisfying. When it was over Stephanie kissed him, made a trip to the bathroom, and started to get dressed. Her voice was businesslike. “Thanks, Lieutenant . . . do us both a favor and keep it to yourself. Hard though that may be.”

“Of course,” Booly said, wincing as his headache returned. “When can I see you again?”

Stephanie pulled uniform trousers up over long, slim legs and turned in his direction. “Whenever duty brings us together.”

“So this is it? Slam, bang, thank you, Lieutenant?”

“Yup, that’s about the size of it.”

Booly felt hurt. “But why?”

Stephanie paused, sat down on the bed, and took his hand. Her eyes were serious. “Because there’s a war on, Lieutenant. The news arrived this morning. The Hudathans attacked Worber’s World, freed their POWs, and destroyed the orbital battle station. The president is headed this way, but once he’s gone, I’ll get orders and so will you. One or both of us is likely to get killed. Besides, I’m too old for you.”

Booly searched her face. The war was news but secondary to the thought of losing what he’d just managed to find. “There’s no way I can change your mind?”

Stephanie released his hand. “None.”

Booly felt helpless. He remembered the way she had treated him. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

Stephanie smiled and tugged at her bra. “I
always
liked you. That was the problem.”

Booly didn’t know what to say so he remained silent as she finished dressing and headed for the door. She stopped just short of it and turned around. What followed was the first and only time she ever used his first name. “Good luck, Bill. You did a helluva job the other morning. You’ll make a fine officer. Take care of yourself.”

Booly mustered some words but the door opened and closed before he could say them. Life had given him something good and taken it away just as quickly. He swore at his luck, activated the holo set, and found some news. There was no mention of a war. The clones were sitting on it. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Booly looked for and found a uniform. It was clean and crackled as he pulled it on.

Fifteen minutes later, with his side arm riding his hip, Booly opened the door. Sergeant Parker, the latest in the nonstop round of volunteer guards supplied by his platoon, snapped to attention. If the noncom suspected that something had taken place between Booly and Major Warwick-Olson, there was no sign of it on his cadaverous face. “Good morning, sir. It’s good to see you up and around.”

Booly nodded. “Likewise, Sergeant. I hear there’s a war on. Let’s see if the rumors are true.”

 

Marcus saw Mosby long before she reached his office. She knew about the war, her uniform attested to that, and strode down the hall like the warrior she was. The security cameras tracked her one after the other while a computer spliced the shots together.

The clone watched the Confederacy officer approach with the usual mix of anticipation and alarm. General Marianne Mosby managed to be dangerous and alluring at the same time, qualities reminiscent of the founder, or the stories he’d heard about her, and wanted to believe. He stood as Mosby approached the door to his office. Her pace was just slow enough that the automated security system had time to scan her retinas and open the door before she ran into it. He was halfway there when she entered. “Marianne! You heard the news?”

Mosby nodded and accepted a brotherly embrace. “Yes, I’m sorry to say that I did. There was more than enough slaughter last time.” She backed away to scan his face. “Why the news blackout? You can’t keep an interstellar war secret for very long.”

“Nor will I try,” Marcus replied, glancing at a wall clock. “We are more disciplined in the way we distribute information, that’s all. The four o’clock news will carry a full account.”

“And which side will the Hegemony take?” Mosby demanded, passing through his office area and into the private quarters beyond. “The Confederacy’s? Or the Hudathans’?”

“Who’s to say?” Marcus replied evasively. “And why take sides at all?”

“Because there will be no room for neutrality,” Mosby said sternly. “The Hudathans don’t operate that way and neither do we.”

They sat down at opposite ends of a white couch. Marcus knew the Confederacy was a good deal less unified than Mosby’s statement suggested but made no attempt to counter her argument. Especially in light of the fact that Hudathan part was true and accounted for the considerable misgivings he had about the secret alliance that his siblings had established with the aliens.

Well, not exactly
secret
, since one of his spies had been present at their meeting. Which left Marcus in a terrible dilemma. Should he remain loyal to his brothers in spite of what they had done? Or side with the Confederacy, thereby splitting the Hegemony’s forces and reducing the impact of the secret alliance? Mosby interrupted his thoughts. “I have some news for you.”

“Yes?”

“The president’s ship will drop hyper tomorrow morning. He will shorten his stay because of the war but still plans to come.”

Marcus spoke automatically. “Most of the arrangements have been made. We will welcome President Anguar as we have in the past.”

Mosby scanned the clone’s face in an effort to discern what lay beneath the surface. She saw concern but couldn’t see further. “We both know why he’s coming. He’ll ask where you stand.”

Marcus forced a smile. “And I’ll tell him, or at least I hope I will.”

Mosby nodded deliberately. “Good . . . but there’s more.”

“More?”

“Yes, more. I want to know where you stand as far as
I’m
concerned.”

Marcus felt his palms grow sweaty and his heart beat faster. “I don’t understand.”

Mosby got up and sat down beside him. She wore the slightest hint of perfume. The uniform wasn’t sexy, or shouldn’t have been, but seemed strangely attractive. Marcus fought the desire to reach for the big metal buttons, to undo the high-collared jacket, to hold the soft warmth of her breasts.

“Oh, yes you do,” Mosby replied confidently. “It has to do with the way free breeders reproduce. No labs, no test tubes, and no syringes. We just say what we feel, strip off our clothes, and have honest-to-goodness sex. Sometimes we do it for fun and sometimes we do it to make babies.
Surprise
babies that don’t necessarily have a gift for any one thing. And that’s the fun of it, Marcus,
not
knowing and waiting to see. So what do you think? What would our baby be like? Would she be a politician like you? A soldier like me? Or something else altogether?”

Marcus knew that free-breeder sex led to chaos, knew that what Marianne suggested was wrong, but couldn’t help himself. He reached for the topmost metal button, pushed it through the buttonhole, and started down a path from which he could never return.

 

Fisk-Eight turned the corner, stopped to look into a shop-front window, and used the reflection to check his back trail. He’d always been careful
but never more so since the narrow escape from the apartment building. The off worlders had come very close to neutralizing his entire cell and his escape aboard the unicycle had been more a matter of luck than skill. There was no doubt of the fact that they had been betrayed, and betrayed at the highest levels, since the location of the safe house had been a closely guarded secret, known only to those who lived there, and a tiny handful of high-level cadre.

Fisk checked the reflection one more time, assured himself that it was clear, and headed down the street. He was an average-looking man who had gone to great lengths to look even more so, a task made easier by his even features, light brown skin, and nondescript clothes.

But in a society made up of millions of look-alike soldiers, technicians, laborers, teachers, and cops, and less than a hundred anarchists, Fisk stood out as much as any free breeder would have, and had to fight for his anonymity. A check? Put in place by the Founder to make sure that her homegrown revolutionaries never got out of hand? There was no way to be sure.