Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (7 page)

A window sealed them away from the driver’s compartment. Booly had caught a glimpse of a Naa warrior called Knifecut Easykill at the controls and was reminded of his father’s unusual position as chief of chiefs, and ambassador to the Confederacy.

Partly hereditary, and partly based on a sort of democratic consensus, the interrelated positions had been granted to the elder Booly when Wayfar Hardman, Windsweet’s father, had been killed in battle—a battle in which the Naa had joined forces with the Legion to fight the alien Hudatha. The senior Booly had then used that alliance to leverage a number of agreements, including formal recognition of the Naa race and the right of Naa nationals to enlist in the Legion if they so desired.

But politics were no less rife than they had been during the emperor’s reign, which meant an appalling number of political assassinations and the precautions necessary to prevent them. Which was why Easykill was a highly qualified bodyguard as well as a driver and a loyal member of Windsweet’s tribe. The car tilted slightly and pulled away from the curb. The senior Booly smiled. “You’re awfully quiet, son.”

Booly shrugged. “Thinking, that’s all. Where are we headed?”

“Lunch at the beach . . . followed by whatever you want.”

His mother was wearing one of the high-collared oriental sheath dresses currently popular with human females. It was jet black and looked wonderful against her light gray fur. Her voice was hopeful. “There’s a reception tonight . . . your father and I have been asked to go. . . . Would you like to come?”

Booly had been dreading the moment and was just about to launch into a carefully prepared speech when his father rode to the rescue. “We’d love to have you, son, but it’s only fair to warn you that it’ll be pretty boring, so you might want to consider other invitations.”

The younger man smiled gratefully. “Thanks for the offer, but Riley invited me to dinner, and it could be a long time before I see him again. Who knows where they’ll send us.”

Windsweet knew what was happening and was powerless to stop it. Her son was a warrior now and beyond her reach. She allowed herself the smallest of frowns. “You’ll be careful? Celebrations get out of hand sometimes.”

Bill Booly, Jr., took her hand in his. “Don’t worry, Mother. Tom and I are straight-arrow types. We’ll have some dinner, drink a couple of beers, and go to bed early.”

Windsweet nodded agreeably, but doubt tickled the back of her mind and refused to go away.

The Kepi Blanc was located in the seedy area south of San Diego’s main spaceport. It had been in business for more than a hundred years and catered entirely to legionnaires. Made from what looked like tan adobe, and topped with a crenelated roof line, it had the look of a nineteenth-century Algerian fort. A grove of bottom-lit palm trees surrounded the structure and added to the desertlike ambience.

Booly was halfway up the walk when the front door opened and a trio of legionnaires stumbled out. They staggered, saw Booly, and managed some sloppy salutes. Booly grinned, returned their salutes, and entered the restaurant. Smoke swirled, music pounded, and a scuffle broke out. Bouncers converged on the offending parties and order was restored.

The Kepi Blanc was packed, and Booly was busy working his way through the crowd when a waiter decked out in the red hat, blue cutaway coat, red pantaloons, and soft boots worn by legionnaires back in 1835 intercepted him. “Welcome to the Kepi Blanc, sir. Please follow me.”

Booly obeyed and was soon steered out of the great room down a hall and into a series of interconnected lounges and dining rooms. The noise level dropped considerably. He saw plenty of senior officers, many of whom regarded his half-human, half-Naa features with open curiosity, but no enlisted personnel. A new waiter took over, this one attired in the khaki duster and cartridge belts worn in 1954 Algeria. He had just steered Booly towards a long wooden bar when a voice yelled, “Hey, Bill! Over here!”

Booly turned to find Riley seated about ten feet away. Two of the more cerebral members of their class—numbers ten and fourteen, to be exact—shared his table. Number ten was a rapier-thin woman named Kathy Harris, and number fourteen was a rather genial young man named Tony Lopez. They waved him over. Booly thanked the waiter, circumnavigated a portly colonel, and claim
ed a still-vacant chair. Harris offered her hand and he took it. She smelled like soap. “Nice going on the pennant, Booly . . . the entire class is proud of you.”

Booly raised an eyebrow. “The
entire
class?”

Harris shrugged.
“Most
of the class. The ones who count. Hey, waiter! Yeah, you in the pith helmet, meet the man who hoisted our pennant! He needs a drink.”

A waiter, fully rigged for combat in Tonkin circa 1885, took Booly’s order and disappeared. He returned two minutes later. Booly tried to pay but the waiter shook his head. “Not tonight, sir. Congratulations on your accomplishment.”

Surprised, and somewhat embarrassed by the praise, Booly thanked the waiter, pointed out that Riley deserved a lot of the credit, and changed the subject. “So, Tom . . . how did the afternoon go?”

Riley winced. “Mom and Dad got into a fight, the food was lousy, and I left as soon as I could. How ’bout you?”

Booly sipped his gin and tonic. The truth was that he had enjoyed the time with his parents but it didn’t seem polite to say so. “It was fine. Say, have you people ordered yet? I’m starving.”

It turned out that they hadn’t ordered, so the next hour and a half was spent ordering food, eating it, and downing rounds of free drinks, so that by the time the desert tray finally arrived, Booly was light-headed. It was then that a hand fell on his shoulder and a voice he both feared and hated filled his ears. “Well, if it isn’t the brain trust of Booly, Riley, Harris, and Lopez. . . . Hey, Booly, good going on the pennant thing,
vive la légion,
and that sort of rubbish. May we join you?”

None of the foursome wanted to play host to Kadien and his toadies, also known as numbers 503, 608, and 621, but good manners dictated that they do so. Kadien had worked especially hard at making Booly’s life miserable over the last six years, so alarm bells went off in a distant and still-sober portion of the officer’s mind, but were muted by excessive amounts of alcohol and a naive desire for acceptance.

More drinks arrived and were consumed. In spite of the fact that they had less than twelve hours of seniority and, with the single exception of Booly, had never heard a shot fired in anger, the newly made lieutenants had opinions on everything from their superior officers’ sexual proclivities to the use of robo artillery as a means of night harassment.

Though he was often less knowledgeable than those around him, Kadien made up for average intelligence with the same sort of tenacity that had allowed him to outlast other more capable cadets, and might or might not win a battle som
eday. He liked to keep score and declared himself the winner in no less than three hotly contested arguments.

An hour had passed by the time Kadien looked at his watch, turned to the toady on his right, and said, “Well, old weasel, the night is young, and other, more sophisticated pleasures await. Anyone care to join us?”

Booly was surprised to discover that the question was directed to him. He searched Kadien’s face for the usual signs of contempt and came up empty. Was this a peace offering? An attempt to make up for the racial slurs, the badgering, and the harassment of the last six years? He smiled and had the uncomfortable feeling that it looked like a silly grin. “Sure . . . what did you have in mind?”

Riley signaled “no” with subtle shakes of his head, Harris looked doubtful, and Lopez kept his face intentionally blank.

Kadien made a production of looking around, as if checking to make sure no one could hear. “Ever heard of a nightclub called the Cess Pool? No? Well, friends tell me they have a floor show that will put hair on your chest. Ooops! Sorry, Booly, no pun intended.”

Not entirely sure whether Kadien had made fun of him or uttered an unintentional faux pas, Booly smiled and waved the comment away. Kadien surveyed the table. “So how ’bout it? You want to see some real honest-to-God action? Or sit around the Blanc pounding your puds? Except for Harris, that is, who doesn’t have a pud, but would if she could. Isn’t that right, Harris?”

Harris and Lopez wasted little time begging off, but Riley was concerned for Booly’s safety, and agreed to go. It seemed like little more than moments later when the five of them piled into an auto cab. Someone had barfed on the floor, and even though a robot had removed the mess two hours before, the smell remained. Kadien issued the instructions. “Take us to the Cess Pool . . . and step on it.”

The on-board computer analyzed the words, acted on those that were consistent with its programming, and discarded the rest. Booly stared out a window as the vehicle jerked into motion, attained maximum economical speed, and headed south towards old Mexico, the very country in which Danjou and his men had fought their much-celebrated battle in the tiny village of Camerone.

Persistent seediness quickly gave way to full-fledged urban blight as the taxi carried them deep into the famed DMZ, which was officially off limits to all military personnel, including newly commissioned lieutenants. Windows gaped like blinded eyes, doors swung in the breeze, and vandalized streetlights stood guard duty on every corner.

Rectangles of light showed here and there. Were they clues to the location of hardy souls who lived there? Or bait set by one predator for another? Booly shivered and felt his head start to clear. Riley sat across from him. Their knees touched. Riley looked worried. A tendril of doubt touched the back of Booly’s mind. Was the trip what it seemed? A peace offering by Kadien and his friends? Or something more sinister? Kadien seemed to sense Booly’s doubts and smiled reassuringly. “We’re almost there, old sport—hope you like naked women ’cause this place is supposed to be packed with them!”

Booly gave what he hoped was an enthusiastic nod, and was thrown against the door as the auto cab’s nav system misjudged the driveway and turned a hair too late. The taxi bumped its way over a wicked set of rotating spikes and entered a half-full parking lot. It contained an intriguing mix of gleaming limos, middle-of-the-road sedans, and do-it-yourself armored cars.

The cab eased to a stop, Kadien paid the fare, and a man dressed in an executioner’s hood and cape opened the door. The legionnaires slid out, milled around for a moment, and started towards a low-slung building. There were no lights and no signs announcing what it was. You either knew or you didn’t.

A grim reaper, dressed in long black robes, holding a razor-sharp scythe, opened the door. Kadien led the way and the rest of the officers followed. The hallway was shaped like a tunnel, or more likely a throat, since the walls looked and felt like human tissue.

Booly had expected bright lights and pounding music. There was none. What little bit of light there was came from sconce-mounted candles. Their flames burned yellow and were bent sideways when struck by a wall of mechanically propelled air. It had been scented to smell like a woman’s breath and was accompanied by a long, slow groan. The effect was unabashedly erotic and Kadien grinned. “Interesting, wouldn’t you say? Shall we proceed a little further down the old gastrointestinal tract?” Kadien led and the others followed.

Riley touched Booly’s arm. “If this is the
front
door, what does the back door look like?”

Booly laughed, and even though he had some very real concerns about what they were doing, felt a little better. The trip into the DMZ was an adventure, that was for sure, and would make for a great story. Assuming he survived to tell it.

Another blast of heavily scented air made its way down the hall, hit them, and kept on going. A groan, deeply sensual and full of unarticulated yearning, followed the air and died in the distance. What appeared as a fleshy constriction irised open and a woman greeted them. She was naked beyond a leather harness and some thigh-high boots. Booly was no prude, and far from virgi
nal, but had never seen anything like this before. He gulped and felt blood color his face. The woman had a deep, throaty voice. “Good evening, gentlemen, and welcome to the Cess Pool. Would you like to be shown to one of our private rooms? Or would seats on the main floor be more to your liking?”

Kadien reached out to fondle one of the woman’s breasts. She made no move to stop him but her voice was hard as steel. “Everything has a price, Lieutenant, and mine is far higher than you can afford to pay.”

Kadien made a show of snatching his hand away and mugged for his friends, but there was no doubt as to who had won. Booly was pleased but careful to hide it.

The woman turned and led them down a flight of curving stairs. It turned out that the “main floor” consisted of the circular area that surrounded a pool filled with some sort of dark, oily liquid. Bubbles rose to the surface, popped, and released a musky scent. The legionnaires were in the process of taking seats poolside when a loud, obnoxious voice came from the other side of the room. “Well, look what we have here, boys, some brand-new pimple-heads taking their pet cat for a stroll.”