Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (35 page)

 

Isaba-Ra waited until the grand marshal was aboard and the humans had committed themselves before making his move. Though not an actual Hudathan, the spy executed the plan in much the same manner as a
real
Hudathan would have, straight ahead, and balls to the wall. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but felt that it had to be done, and was determined to be successful. He gave the only order his troops needed to hear. “Kill the humans.”

The Hudathan shuttle launched a pair of torpedos at the very same moment as Isaba-Ra’s commandos opened fire from their carefully concealed positions. Their fire, plus that of the heavily armed Hudathan negotiating team, was
nearly irresistible. Suits were already imploding all around her when Salgado felt a weight drop into the pit of her stomach, said, “Aw shit,” and detonated the well-hidden mine. The ensuing explosion ripped 25 percent of the wreck apart, killed most of those present, and propelled the rest into space.

Isaba-Ra was among the fortunate few who managed to survive. His first reaction was one of surprise, followed in quick succession by suspicion and fear. Who had planted the bomb? The humans or Hudathans? And if the Hudathans were responsible, had they been
trying
to kill him? Or was he simply viewed as expendable? Lord knew Poseen-Ka was capable of a move like that, and due to the fact that the human had been raised in a culture where societal needs came first, he could understand the underlying mind set.

But why? There would have been no need had the original plan been given enough time to succeed. That left the humans, and the strong possibility that their advance team had planted a command-detonated mine, and done so right under his nose. How would Poseen-Ka react to that? Would the war commander see it as a regrettable but understandable artifact of war? Or as an act of massive incompetence punishable by death? Both were within the realm of possibility.

Isaba-Ra fired his jets in quick succession, stabilized his suit, and scanned the heavens. He found the still-battling shuttles, zoomed in, and watched the human vessel explode. Part of him felt a terrible sense of sadness while another reacted with almost clinical detachment. The decision was made. For better or for worse, for life or for death, he would contact the only ship likely to pick him up. Isaba-Ra activated his emergency beacon, announced his situation via radio, and waited to see what the five fates had in store for him.

 

Poseen-Ka stared into the holo tank. The analog was twenty feet across, and looked exactly like Prospect II, all the way down to the scientifically precise pattern of fires that crisscrossed its surface, the clouds of thick black smoke, the still-glowing lakes of molten slag, and the strange lightning storms that played across the once-fertile farmland. The globe rotated before him and the Hudathan knew that this part of his job was nearly done.

The war commander looked up and found eleven sets of eyes waiting to meet his. All the members of his staff who were still alive and able to attend in person. Two more, their images projected onto a long curvilinear screen, hung in what seemed like midair. Their eyes met his as well. All wore cross-straps and a single red gem. They waited for him to speak. He allowed the silence to stretch long and thin before he broke it.

“The humans have paid for their treachery, for the cowardly way in which they murdered Grand Marshal Rula-Ka, and our unsuspecting negotiating team. Should any of you wish to hear the details of what happened, Arrow Commander Nagwa Isaba-Ra was there, and will be glad to describe what took place.”

Isaba-Ra, who stood at parade rest off to one side of Poseen-Ka, felt their stone-cold eyes turn his way. He had been exonerated of all responsibility, praised for his valor in the face of the enemy, and submitted for another medal. What should he feel? Relief at being alive? Pride in having murdered a party of unsuspecting humans? And what was he anyway? A clone? A human? A Hudathan? He wasn’t sure anymore. Poseen-Ka spoke and the spy gave a sigh of relief as the eyes shifted away.

“The war has entered a new phase. In spite of our many victories, and the success of our valiant cyborgs, the humans fight on. Their strategy has been to slow the force of our attack while they ready themselves for the climactic battle. This stems from their essential weakness, from the fact that the Confederacy consists of many races, all of whom put their interests first. Discussion, negotiation, and compromise. Those are the flaws that will bring them down. For while our enemies dither, we shall strike, and strike hard, aiming our blow for the very place where defeat claim
ed our honor, and so many of us died. The planet called Algeron.”

A human audience might have applauded or given some other external sign of approval. The Hudathans did no such thing, but Isaba-Ra could tell that they were impressed nonetheless, and ready to follow Poseen-Ka’s lead. It showed in barely seen hand gestures, in the way they looked at each other, and the hardening of their expressions. If Poseen-Ka wanted to attack Algeron they were ready.

It was, Isaba-Ra knew, the kind of information he had been sent to get, and worth thousands, maybe millions of human lives, because a warning, given in time, could enable the Confederacy to prepare. Assuming he gave the information to the Hegemony, and assuming they saw fit to pass it along to the Confederacy. So what would he do? Confirm his external identity and remain silent? Or act in concert with the inner voice that was so distinctly human? The choice was his and his alone. The voices droned on while the man called Isaba-Ra searched for his soul.

 

Easytalk Nightkiller elbowed his way out onto the sun-warmed rock, brought a pair of Confederacy-issue binofinders up to his eyes and scanned the flatlands below. He saw piles of rain-rounded boulders, lots of low-lying scrub, and water-cut ravines. Due to the fact that the planet had an extremely short rotation, he could actually
see
the long, dark shadows crawl towards the east. Dust spiraled up and away from whatever had disturbed it. The Naa moved the binoculars to the right, racked focus, and found what he’d been looking for. Nightkiller felt honored. The Legion had seen
fit to send a full platoon after him. Scouts forward, bio bods behind, Trooper Ils on the flanks, and a quad to bring up the rear. Just like they had taught him at NCO school, never for a moment suspecting that he’d take the knowledge over the hill and use it against them.

The Naa thumbed the zoom control, watched a Trooper II leap towards him, and focused on the half-visored face visible just beyond an armor-clad shoulder. Nightkiller didn’t like officers
or
half-breeds, so greasing the captain wouldn’t bother him in the least. The fact that he’d get paid for it was icing on the cake.

It seemed that the breed’s father, an ex-officer, had gained more influence than certain chieftains thought a human should have, and was marked for death. But his followers, the tribe once led by the famous Wayfar Hardman, were skilled warriors and continued to protect him. Until now, that is, since his effo
rts to unite the tribes against the alien Hudatha had forced the human to travel more than usual, and left him vulnerable to attack. But that was an opportunity for someone else. His job was to limit the human’s effectiveness by terminating his son.

The deserter understood why that was important, because should the off-worlder manage to unite the tribes against the Hudathans, he might also convince them to remain together when the war was over, which would have the effect of reducing the chieftains’ autonomy and power. A definite no-no.

A relatively harmless raid had been sufficient to pull the unsuspecting breed away from his company HQ and into the foothills. The bandit grinned and back-wiggled into the safety of some randomly piled rocks. Muscle rippled under his gray-striped fur as he stood. He wore a weapons harness, pistol belt, leather pants, and Legion-issue combat boots. His dooth smelled him, grunted in recognition, and pawed the ground. The Naa scrambled down out of the rocks, put a foot into a stirrup, grabbed onto the side-mounted saddle handle, and pulled himself up and onto the beast’s shaggy
back. The raiding party consisted of six Naa and two humans. All of them were deserters who hated the Legion. He gave a hand signal, gestured towards the trail, and led them upwards.

 

The flat scrub-covered plain had given way to steeply slanted slopes and a jumble of rocks. Booly scanned the area, saw what he recognized as the mouth of an arroyo, and used hand signals to send his scouts in that direction. Both were full-blooded Naa,
and
members of the 13e Demi-Brigade de la Legion Étrangère, better known as the 13th DBLE.

As presently constituted, the brigade consisted of a command and services company, a works company, a reconnaissance squadron, and a combat company, presently commanded by none other than Captain William Booly, Jr. An officer who had not only been raised on Algeron but was personally familiar with large sections of it.

The scouts signaled their understanding, and moved out up the ravine with the easygoing confidence of the veterans they were, for in keeping with Naa tradition, and the nature of the world on which they’d been raised, both had been blooded long before they joined the Legion.

The ravine made for relatively easy going but could also lead them into an ambush. To counter that threat Booly gave his scouts a good head start, pulled his four Trooper Ils down off the flanks, and replaced them with the more agile bio bods.

The young officer’s knees hurt from riding a Trooper II for the last six hours. He could have dismounted, but was reluctant to do so since it would cost him the additional range obtained by jacking into the cyborg’s com system. And communications were essential. Still, he felt guilty about riding while some of his troops walked, and took the point position by way of penance. A decision that his ride, a legionnaire named Helmo, reacted to with disgust.

It wasn’t fair! Not only did she have to haul the company commander’s butt all over hell’s half acre,
she
had to take the point as well, along with all the additional risks attendant on that position. Like taking an SLM between the vid cams, stepping on a mine, or triggering a full-scale ambush.

But orders were orders, so the cyborg brought her weapons systems up to condition-five readiness, and boosted her sensors to high gain. The light had started to fade and the darkness would bring added danger. Mom had been right. War sucks.

 

Thanks to the fact that she was the only ground pounder to make it off Jericho alive, and had dispatches for LEGCOM Algeron, Chrobuck was hustled down out of orbit, given high-priority ground transportation, escorted through what seemed like a hundred miles of Fort Camerone’s busiest underground corridors, and left to rot in the anteroom outside General Ian St. James’s office.

She was far from alone. The room held approximately twenty chairs and most were occupied. Chrobuck was the most junior officer present. She saw colonels, lieutenant colonels, a host of majors, and a civilian with a briefcase chained to her wrist. Some spoke to each other in low, confidential tones as others whispered instructions into their hand comps or scanned the month-old multimedia mags that lay scattered about.

The doors that provided access to the general’s office would open every fifteen minutes or so, an officer would emerge, and a name would be called. When this occurred, the fortunate man or woman would look up, receive a confirming nod, drop what he or she was doing, glance at a conveniently placed mirror, and disappear into the inner sanctum.

There was no discernible pattern to this activity, since a number of people who had arrived
after
Chrobuck had already been called, so she gave up trying to make sense of it. An hour had passed, and a snack had been served, when the young officer allowed her mind to drift.

The trip from Jericho had been relatively fast, only twelve days, but intensely miserable. Once Chrobuck came to, and realized where she was, a pro
found depression set in. The knowledge that her friends and comrades were dead, and that she had survived, triggered successive waves of guilt, sorrow, and anger.

Making a bad situation even worse was the lack of privacy, and the fact that her sole companion, Flight Lieutenant Bruce Jensen, didn’t care what happened on Jericho, as long as it didn’t happen to him, and spent all of his spare time trying to get into her pants. By the time the
LRS-236
dropped into orbit they were barely speaking and Jensen had a black eye.

“Lieutenant Chrobuck?”

The voice jolted the officer out of her reverie. The other officers looked up, ran appraising eyes over her badly creased uniform, noted the not-very-clean bandage that decorated the side of her head, frowned, gave thanks that the ratty-looking lieutenant was someone else’s problem, and returned to whatever they’d been doing.

Chrobuck stood, glanced in the mirror, and wrote her uniform off as hopeless. She had never seen St. James, much less met him, but he had a reputation as a fighting general, more concerned with deeds than declarations, and she hoped it was true.

A heavily decorated sergeant major held the door open. A quarter of his face had been blown away during the first battle of Algeron and the resulting scar tissue transformed a smile into a grimace. “Right this way, Lieutenant . . . the general is waiting for you.”

Chrobuck entered a spacious but somewhat spartan office and saw that St. James was taking a com call. He was a handsome man, quickly going gray, with the quick, lean body of a mountain climber. He smiled, continued to speak into a wireless handset, and gestured towards one of two chairs that faced his desk. Chrobuck sat, took note of the carefully framed regimental photos that hung on the walls, the climbing mementos that filled a plexiglass case, and the brass plaque that had been mounted on the desk in front of her. It read, “Be bright, be brief, and be gone.” A picture of a beautiful Eu
rasian woman and two teenage boys occupied a side table and softened the overall effect.