Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (14 page)

“Count me in,” Amdo responded, “and my crew as well. So, what's first?”

“Defense,” the MO answered grimly. “Are the ship's laser cannons functional?”

“Yes,” Amdo replied, “with the exception of those that are buried under the sand.”

“Excellent. Place them on standby—and keep them there. It won't be long before the bugs spot us from orbit and send some fighters. Let's prepare a warm reception.”

“No problem,” the naval officer assured her, “I'll get on it,”

“How about the cannons that are buried?” Rono-Ra inquired. “Could we dig them out? And if we did, could we place them three or four hundred yards out?”

Calvo brightened. “That's a great idea! Will it work?”

Amdo rubbed the stubble that covered his chin. It made a rasping noise. “We'd have to build some sort of cofferdams to keep the sand out, and it would involve a lot of hard work, but yes, it might be feasible. One question though . . . Assuming we succeed, how will you get power to them?”

“We'll strip conduit out of the ship,” the Hudathan replied, “run it out to the gun positions, and bury it under the sand.”

Amdo winced at the thought of doing further damage to his precious ship, but knew she would never lift again. He nodded. “I'll put a team on it.”

“Good,” Calvo put in, “and we'll help by activating eight of the battalion's war forms. Most will take up defensive positions, but we can equip a couple of them for construction work, and that will speed things along.”

Rono-Ra looked as surprised as a Hudathan can. “Really? No offense, ma'am, but outside of some VR time during basic, the techs weren't trained for combat.”

The supply officer towered above her, and the MO looked up at him. “First, cut the ‘ma'am' crap. I may be in command, but I'm still a captain. Second, look who's talking! Maybe you've seen combat—but I haven't. We're REMFs remember? None of us are combat vets. But if we're going to hang on to this piece of real estate we're going to have to learn. So, the faster we load some war forms and get our techs some on-the-job training, the better off we'll be.”

The Hudathan nodded ponderously. “What you say makes sense. How about some fly-forms? It would be nice to carry out a little reconnaissance.”

“Not yet,” Calvo answered. “The techs need to walk before they try to fly.”

Amdo narrowed his eyes. “I might be able to help with that one . . . The port bay is buried—but the starboard bay is exposed. Given some prep work, and a bit of good luck, we might be able to launch the number two lifeboat. Though never intended for prolonged atmospheric use, we might be able to get two or three hops out of her.”

“That would allow Lieutenant Farner and his people to scope the surrounding area,” Calvo said enthusiastically. “Maybe they could place some remote sensors. I don't know much about the locals, but the briefing materials describe them as ‘warlike,' so we may have to contend with them as well.

“Okay, I know there will be more issues to resolve, but let's put our people to work. It will be dark in a few hours, and I'll sleep a helluva lot better if we have some sort of defense in place by then.”

It was dark outside, and rectangles of buttery yellow light revealed the presence of nearby homes as Colonel Jon Kobbi, Dil Gaphy, and Lieutenant Antonio Santana left the
embrace of a broad porch, passed through a doorway, and clumped into a richly paneled reception area. A flood of Jithi servants rushed to offer the off-world guests hot towels, cups of fragrant tea, and the soft slippers that the locals wore inside their houses.

The Jithi were a humanoid race that had split away from the nomadic Paguum hundreds of local years before to make permanent homes in the verdant rain forests that girdled most of the planet. Over many successive generations Jithi physiology had evolved to better meet the demands of their tropical environment. They had light green skin, their hair took the form of thick dreadlocklike fronds, and they boasted tail tentacles that functioned as highly specialized hands. All wore crisp white jackets, matching trousers and black slippers.

Colonel Kobbi took a seat on one of the benches that lined the walls of the reception area and allowed one of the Jithi to remove his combat boots and fit him with a pair of slippers. Once that was accomplished, the jacker removed his sidearm from its holster, ejected the magazine, and slipped the clip into his pocket.

The rest of the officers did likewise. A servant accepted the weapons, put tags on them, and locked the guns inside a beautifully carved cabinet.

Then, as if summoned by a signal, their host appeared. He was human, of average height and rather handsome. What hair he had was black, his eyes had an Asian cast, and he had a round, open-looking face. He wore a dark blue shirt that hung down past his waist, white pantaloons, and blue slippers with red embroidery. A few quick steps carried him forward to greet Kobbi. “Colonel! What an unexpected pleasure! My name is Qwan, Cam Qwan, welcome to our home.”

After each officer had been introduced the legionnaires were led through a formal sitting area into a softly lit dining room. A long, linen-covered table ran down the center
of it and nearly a dozen people rose to greet the soldiers as they entered. Large mirrors threw their images back and forth, candles flickered as a breeze found its way in through louvered windows, and a round of introductions began.

Santana exchanged greetings with each of his fellow guests but quickly lost track of their names, and was left with the impression that Qwan's guests were movers and shakers within the local community. It was the sort of situation in which Christine excelled—but made him feel uncomfortable.

The platoon leader had no idea why he had been selected to accompany Kobbi, nor did Captain Gaphy, who clearly would have preferred someone else. The fact that he was attired in camos, rather than a dress uniform, added to Santana's discomfort. But formal kit, like the other items not required for combat, were back on Adobe.

Lin Qwan, Cam Qwan's extremely attractive wife, moved to the far end of the table and stood behind her chair. She had shoulder-length hair, a slender face, and a trim figure.

Cam announced dinner, and the officers were shown to their seats. Santana found himself halfway down the table between the local representative of an off-planet mining company and an empty chair.

The guests were seated, and Cam Qwan was just about to propose a toast, when a door slid open and a beautiful young woman entered the room. She had long black hair that was tied back with a simple ribbon. Jewels sparkled at her ears, and the ankle-length red sheath dress was slit up the side, which allowed the occasional glimpse of her shapely legs. “Most of you know my daughter Qwis,” Cam Qwan said, “but for those of you who don't, I suggest that you steer clear of the planet's legal status unless you want to hear a two-hour seminar on the subject.”

Such was the young woman's reputation within the small community that most of those present laughed, while all of the males stood. Santana found himself enveloped by a cloud
of extremely intoxicating perfume as the younger Qwan arrived at his side. Qwis had serious brown eyes, even features, and a beautiful smile. The officer held her chair, waited for the young woman to sit, and took his seat. She offered her hand. Her skin felt cool but slightly rough, a sure sign that she did more than sit around and look pretty. Her voice was soft and melodic. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Welcome to
Savas. I wish the circumstances were different.”

“You're welcome. This must be a very difficult time for you and your family.”

A look of amusement entered her eyes. “Yes, it is. And you are?”

“Santana, ma'am, Lieutenant Antonio Santana.”

It appeared as if she were going to say something further, but her father chose that moment to propose a toast. “To the Confederacy! To the Legion! To the 1st REC!”

There was hearty agreement, followed by more toasts, and the first of what proved to be a delicious seven-course meal. Santana wasn't entirely sure what occupied his plate most of the time, but was accustomed to all manner of exotic food, and happy to consume whatever was placed in front of him so long as it tasted good.

The mine manager seated to Santana's left proved to be a demanding conversationalist, which meant that there wasn't much opportunity speak with Qwis, but there were some enjoyable moments, including one exchange when her leg made prolonged contact with his.

But such intervals were rare since the main topic of dinner conversation was the war, the Legion, and the battalion's presence on Savas. A subject of considerable interest to the colonists but one Kobbi couldn't address without revealing the nature of their mission. That made one guest more than a little testy. “So let me see if I understand,” the store owner said. “You weren't sent here to protect us, but you won't tell us what the purpose of your mission is.”

“
Can't
is more like it,” Kobbi said matter-of-factly. “I'm sorry, but that's how it is.”

“But what about
us?
” a matron demanded plaintively. “The bugs have already attacked the settlement on three different occasions. What if they land? We'll be slaughtered.”

“Not if the militia has anything to say about it,” another man said staunchly. “We'll fight them in the jungle.”

“They
evolved
in the jungle,” Cam Qwan said pointedly, “which means they would most likely win.”

“Perhaps,” the militia leader allowed expansively, “but the Jithi would cut them down to size . . . Isn't that right Yamba?”

One of the Jithi servants, a large specimen with bright yellow eyes, lowered a tray loaded with desserts onto a folding stand. “Yes, siba (sir), that is correct. The jungle belongs to
us
.”

Something about the way the Jithi put the emphasis on the word “us” caused Santana to wonder if the indig was sending the off-worlders a message, but no one else seemed to take it that way, so the platoon leader assumed he was wrong.

“I understand how you feel, and wish things were different,” Kobbi assured them, “but rather than offer you help, I'm afraid that I must request it instead. Half the battalion landed in the desert—and I need your help in order to reach them.”

That produced a cacophony of commentary, and finally, after repeated attempts to quell the uproar, Cam Qwan used a dinner knife to tap his water goblet. “One at a time please!”

The ensuing conversation was more confusing than useful, as all manner of views, plans, and proposals were put forward only to be knocked down by one or more of the guests. Finally, after the dishes had been cleared, Kobbi pushed his chair back and stood. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day, so the time has come for my officers and me to excuse ourselves. I would like to thank the Qwan family for
their hospitality—and the rest of you for the warmth of your welcome.”

Santana rose, said good-bye to the mine manager, and turned toward Qwis. Her eyes were waiting for him. “Is the Colonel a good officer?”

Santana nodded. “The best.”

Qwis was silent for a moment. When she spoke her voice was serious. “Good. Savas is a hard planet. You will need his leadership.”

Lin Qwan arrived at that point, took her daughter's arm, and followed their guests out into the reception area where the legionnaires retrieved their sidearms and exchanged their slippers for boots.

The air was cool outside, and the night creatures were in full cry. They trilled, grunted, and hooted as the legionnaires piled into a beat-up ground car. It rattled as a Jithi driver took them down toward the scattering of lights below. There were no streetlights to compete with—and the stars glittered like shards of broken glass.

 

The transport crouched on the tarmac like gigantic toad. The area immediately below its open belly was flooded with light as legionnaires, Jithi laborers, and two dozen robots worked through the night. The goal was to not only unload the ship by morning if at all possible, but move the battalion's gear away from the spaceport, and into a safer location.

Engines growled as a succession of brutish mining trucks hauled tons of food, ammo, and equipment up through a series of switchbacks to an inactive mine. Then, once the ore haulers were unloaded, a second crew had to hump everything back into the hillside, where it was sorted, indexed, and stored. Exhausting work, but necessary, if the battalion wanted to protect the materials that enabled it to fight.

Meanwhile, at the edge of the spaceport, only three hundred feet from the transport itself, two legionnaires stood
guard over an old storage shed. The roof consisted of a single sheet of corrugated metal, the walls were
made of thick duracrete blocks, and the hatchlike door had been salvaged from a wreck years before.

Now, emptied of the maintenance equipment previously stored there, the shack housed Gunnery Sergeant Hreemo Kuga-Ka, the battalion's only prisoner. There was power to the structure, but the Hudathan had extinguished the single light fifteen minutes earlier, so that his eyes could adjust to the dark. The noncom's skin, which had been nearly white during the late-afternoon heat, had turned dark gray. There was a ventilation slit over the door, and if the Hudathan strained, he could hear the mutter of truck engines, the scrape of a combat boot, and the sound of desultory conversation. Having l
ittle else to do, the guards were passing the time by speculating on the battalion's mission, and what would happen next. One of them believed that the outfit would remain in Savas Prime—while the other figured a transport would arrive to pull them out.