Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (34 page)

The chieftain raised her mug by way of a salute. “So, you survived the climb.”

Nis Noia was used to Omoni's gruff humor by then and smiled. “Yes, and I see that you did as well. Not bad for a couple of old geezers.”

The Paguum laughed. “Watch your mouth human . . . or I'll have you thrown off the cliff. Is the demonstration ready?”

“Yes,” Noia replied. “Both groups are in position.”

“Excellent,” Omoni said. “Let the attack begin.”

 

Rather than the neat orderly ranks that Santana had originally envisioned, the officer found himself at the edge of a maelstrom of snorting, nipping, and farting zurnas. They
surged back and forth as their riders jockeyed for better positions. It seemed that all of them wanted the honor of leading the charge, even though the whole point was to fight as infantry rather than cavalry, something that the officer and his troops had spent the better part of three days trying to communicate.

But the off-worlders had learned a few things during that time, including the methods that the indig leaders used to maintain discipline, like pushing their way into the center of the mob while yelling orders and wielding a whip. Something made more difficult by the fact that each legionnaire was seated behind a Paguumi warrior who had to relay his instructions to his zurna before anything could happen.

Finally, after what felt like a full-scale melee, the attacking force had been herded into color-coded groups and stood facing the dark pillar of rock. Though of no value in and of itself, the spire was intended to represent the towers that guarded the Well of Zugat, which lay to the north. Omoni needed to take control of the well since Riff was unwilling to share the water that had traditionally been his. Meanwhile, eager to reassemble his battalion and go after the hypercom before the bugs could bring in reinforcements, Kobbi and the rest of the unit were marching toward Fire Bas
e Alpha. And, boring though that was, Santana suddenly found himself wishing that he was back with the main column.

Noia was good at any number of things, but radio procedure wasn't one of them, and he forgot to use his call sign. His voice boomed in the legionnaire's ear. “Okay, Lieutenant, let 'em rip.”

Not having com sets to distribute to the Paguumi leaders, Santana had been forced to fall back on the equivalent of a bugle as a means of communications. The officer tapped the warrior seated in front of him on the shoulder. He had to
yell in order to make himself heard. “All right! Sound the charge!”

The young male had been practicing for days and looked forward to his role. He raised the long Jithi-made horn, blew a series of crystal-clear notes, and sent the necessary order to his impatient steed. The zurna took off like a shot. Santana, who had no saddle other than some makeshift padding held in place by a strap, managed to grab hold of the warrior's weapons harness. By that time hundreds of other animals were thundering along behind and a fall meant certain death.

Fortunately, Santana managed to hang on. Then, by standing in a pair of improvised stirrups, the officer was able to peer ahead. The make-believe defenders, all of whom were mounted, milled about the base of God's Finger. Unlike the warriors under his command, they had not received any special training and could be expected to react like Paguumi cavalry always had. They would charge, try to flank the attackers, and crush them with the weight of their numbers. And, given the fact that they outnumbered the invading force two to one, that looked like a foregone conclusion.

However, once the defenders came to face-to-face with a
new
type of mounted warrior, one they had never encountered before, Colonel Kobbi believed that the indigs would be forced to give way in spite of their superior numbers. The whole notion of mounted infantrymen who rode into battle but fought on foot was very similar to the concept of mechanized infantry. Something the Legion made good use of.

Like all cadets, Santana had been taught about dragoons during his time at the academy but forgotten them soon thereafter. Not Kobbi, however, who though never having set foot in the academy, was a student of military history and
saw mounted infantry as a way for the dawn people to gain a momentary advantage over their cousins to the north. Momentary, because the tactic could, and would, be imitated.

But the notion of putting
two
riders on each zurna, thereby doubling the number of warriors each animal delivered into battle, that was Santana's idea and one that he hoped would work. The key was to dismount and form up
before
the cavalry could hit them, which was why the legionnaire leaned forward to shout into the warrior's ear slits. “Sound the second signal!”

The Paguum raised his horn, blew a quick series of notes, and ordered his zurna to halt. The animal had been bred to run and wanted to keep on going, but reluctantly agreed. Both riders were thrown forward as the beast skidded to a halt.

The defenders were just starting to move, just starting to trot, when the attackers seemed to slow. A cloud of dust rose to obscure their movements, and unsure of what was going on, the defenders paused. Then, as the dust blew clea
r, they saw that the oncoming horde had not only dismounted but were advancing on foot! A seemingly suicidal tactic that made no sense whatsoever.

Firearms were forbidden to both groups, as were edged weapons, but the defenders had long Jithi-supplied lances minus their metal points. The defending general was named Kuzo. He marveled at how stupid the off-worlders were, raised his weapon into the air, and shouted “Charge!”

The order was relayed down the long, undisciplined line, and since it was expected, resulted in an almost immediate response. The earth shook as thousands of hooves hit the ground and a thunderous wall of blood, flesh, and bone hurtled forward.

It was a war game, which meant that with the exception of a few accidents there shouldn't be any casualties. Santana
knew that, but couldn't help feeling an emptiness at the pit of his stomach as the Paguumi charge began, and the infantry square marched to meet it. Their mounts, true to the last orders given by their riders, formed groups and trotted toward the rear.

The officer wasn't alone. The newly created Paguumi dragoons were as scared as he was, and if it hadn't been for Sergeant Dietrich and the legionnaires under his command, the hollow square would have come apart. But the acting noncoms were everywhere, pushing confused warriors back into line, shouting words of encouragement, and leading the troops by example.

There were very few historical instances where cavalry had been able to break formed infantry, that's what Kobbi maintained at any rate, but Santana continued to have his doubts as the front rank plowed forward. It was the wrong place for a commanding officer to be, but his presence in the line was equivalent to a statement of faith, and so long as an off-worlder was there no Paguum could break formation and run. Not without losing face, family, and membership in the tribe.

The legionnaire could
feel
them to either side, their shoulders brushing his, their feet stamping the ground. He could see their taut faces, smell their sweat, and hear the clatter of their equipment. And suddenly, as if strapped into a time machine, the soldier was transported back to a time when all warfare was up close and personal.

Then the time for thinking was over as Santana shouted an order, the square crashed to a halt, and a thousand staves were jammed down into the sand. Some pointed straight up at the sky, or toward the rear, but most were slanted toward the enemy.

The oncoming cavalry saw the wall of wood and automatically started to slow. Then, forced to break left or right, the defenders flowed out around the front of the
square only to discover that the sides were equally dense. Wood clattered, zurnas squalled, and warriors swore as the assault stalled.

That was the cue for the off-world advisors to order the front ranks to fall back, and move the second ranks to step forward, forcing the cavalry to deal with fresh troops. The evolution was anything but smooth, but the change was made, and the newly created dragoons started to gain confidence.

Frustrated, and unsure of what to do next, Kuzo ordered his cavalry to withdraw toward the spire. It took the better part of five minutes for his instructions to reach all of the defenders but eventually they did. Santana had been waiting for such a move and ordered an advance. The result looked sloppy, and staves waved like grass in the wind, but the square managed to lurch forward. The formation had traveled a hundred paces before Kuzo realized what was taking place and ordered his forces to attack once more. They obeyed, but the dragoons refused to stop this time and continued t
o march forward undeterred. The cavalry wheeled, but to no great effect, and the attackers entered the shadow cast by the spire.

Meanwhile, up on top of the rock formation, Noia turned to Omoni. “So, what do you think?”

“I'm surprised,” the chieftain admitted. “While it's true that that the cavalry would be more effective if armed, the reverse would be true as well. Especially if the front rank of dragoons fired in unison while sharpshooters had at them from the center of the square. We must perfect this tactic and use it against Riff.”

Noia thought about the effects that off-world meddling would inevitably have on the local balance of power and felt a sense of regret. But if the bugs had the hypercom technology all to themselves, and were allowed to use it in battle, billions of sentients might die as a result. “Yes,” the operative agreed soberly, “I'm afraid that we must.”

Neither person saw the distant wink of light that originated from the top of a rise more than a mile away. It lasted for only a fraction of a second and could have been caused by sunlight reflecting off a piece of quartz, a gun barrel, or a telescope. The desert knew—but kept its secrets well.

Those who choose to walk toward the rising sun can scarcely deny its light, complain of its heat, or fail to embrace the darkness that it leaves in its wake.

—Paguumi proverb

Author unknown

Standard year circa 120 B
.
C
.

In contrast to the vast well-kept underground cities of Hive, the maze of tunnels and passageways that had been bored into the ancient volcano were rough and very often narrow.
Still,
Force Commander Ignatho Dontha thought to himself as he stepped over a drainage channel, and followed the corridor's gently curving earthen wall toward the science section,
Why invest more?
Especially since the entire complex might be empty within a matter of weeks.

A noncom approached from the opposite direction, closely followed by a file of elite techno warriors, all dressed in their special helmets and fire-retardant uniforms. They belonged to the famous Pincer of Steel Battalion, the unit that
he
had the honor to command and which had never lost a battle.
And never will,
the officer assured himself as the noncom clacked his right pincer respectfully and continued down the tunnel.

The first indications that Dontha was nearing the science section were the crates, stripped-out consoles, and unidentifiable components that littered both sides of the corridor. An offense to Dontha's eye, his military sensibilities,
and
common sense. The “junk,” as he thought of it, was an impediment to the normal flow of traffic, and might prove disastrous should an emergency vehicle need to pass through. Given how messy and the disorganized they were, the officer was amazed by the fact that previous generations of scientists had somehow managed to invent the wheel, plumb the my
steries of the atom, and create a workable hyperspace drive.

A side tunnel led back toward the science section. Piles of cast-off equipment nearly touched the ceiling and looked poised to collapse into the passageway. Dontha frowned as he followed a clutch of unauthorized power feeds back in
to the warm, dimly lit labyrinth beyond. Never one to spend much time on administrative matters, Nudu Tepho's hopelessly littered office was predictably empty. That forced the military officer to hunt for him, a task that wasn't all that difficult because while the outer part of the chamber was filled with junk, all of the passageways that cut through it led to a raised dais at the center of the cavern. That's where a group of scientists stood like worshipers gathered around an altar.

The object of their attentions was big and ugly, to Dontha's eyes at least, though it was doubtful that the hypercom's acolytes would have agreed with him. When they looked at the steel frame, the jury-rigged holo tank, and the mishmash of components stacked all around it, what
they
saw was a sleek unit no larger than a standard com set. Not the hypercom the way it was, but the hypercom the way it
would
be, once their efforts were complete. There was a high-pitched whine, followed by a flood of static, and feedback from a pair of mismatched speakers. It stopped as one of the functionaries
pinched a squeeze switch. Another spotted Dontha and spoke to the older scientist who was standing at his side.

Chief Scientific Investigator Tepho had never been one to worry about appearances, and now, toward the tail end of one of the legendary sixty-hour workathons, he looked especially shabby. He was in the process of molting, but rather than remove pieces of dead chitin the way most Ramanthians did, the scientist simply ignored them. That gave him a strange, mottled appearance, which, when combined with his filthy clothing, conveyed the impression of an aging lunatic rather than one of the empire's premier scientists. “So,” the chief functionary said with his usual lack of tact, “ho
w much of our time do you intend to waste today?”

“That depends on whether that unlikely-looking pile of junk actually works,” Dontha, replied caustically. “Assuming it does, I hope to be out of here within fifteen units or so. By the way, tell your subordinates to clear the equipment out of the adjacent corridors, or my troops will do it for them.”

“We have an insufficient amount of space in which to pursue our research,” Tepho replied tartly. “Lay one pincer on our equipment, and I will lodge a complaint with your superiors.”

“Who should be waiting to speak with me right about now,” the officer replied impatiently. “So, let's get on with it.”

The scientist issued a series of orders. His assistants turned to their makeshift control boards, ran through a series of carefully documented protocols, and threw the final switches. The results seemed rather mundane as something whirred and what looked like a blizzard of light motes appeared
within the confines of the metal framework. A functionary appeared. Something tore his face apart, something else put it back together again, and when he spoke his voice was distorted. “You're breaking up . . . increase the power.”

A technician made an adjustment, and the scientist on Hive nodded. “That's better . . . Is Force Commander Dontha present?”

A rectangle had been taped onto the duracrete floor. Dontha shuffled forward. “I'm here.”

“Excellent . . . General Partho is present at this end. Please begin.”

Dontha knew the War Partho, and didn't like him, which no doubt accounted for why the fates had seen fit to place him under the older officer's command. A pleasantly distant relationship until Tepho and his team of misfits had discovered a way to hook the two officers together. The general had an unusually large head, a tendency to preen too often, and a slightly superior manner. “Nice to see you, Dontha . . . I have good news.”

“That would be most welcome,” Dontha replied carefully, “especially if it is connected with the task force.”

“Which it is,” Partho replied heartily. “One cruiser, two destroyers, and two transports are en route to Savas. They should drop into orbit approximately two standard weeks from now.”

“I'm gratified to hear it,” the force commander said. “We'll shut the hypercom down, pack the equipment, and wait for extraction.”

“What?” the general demanded, obviously alarmed. “I assume you're joking. What about the Confederacy troops? What if they attack you? No, it's imperative that you keep Project Echo up and running until the incoming ships arrive. You may need my advice.” Partho nodded, as if agreeing with himself, and preened the area to the right of his beak.

Dontha took a deep breath as part of a concerted attempt to control a steadily rising sense of frustration. “Your advice is always welcome, Excellency, but if we delay packing until the ships arrive, the process will consume extra time. At least a week and possibly more.”

“Nonsense!” the general said emphatically. “The scientists at this end assure me that it will take half that amount of time. Besides, what are you afraid of? A few soft
skins traipsing around the desert? You have a battalion of armor . . . Use it!”

The last comment came dangerously close to suggesting that Dontha lacked courage. An outrageous assertion given his record and one that left the officer nearly speechless. “But, Excellency, I . . .”

“No, no,” Partho said apologetically, “I don't mean to be harsh, but it's imperative that we remain in contact for as long as possible. Besides, it will give the tech types that much more time to perfect their toy. Trust me. I'm rarely wrong.”

Dontha
didn't
trust the general, not by a long shot, but knew the discussion was over. “I'll do my best.”

“That's the spirit!” Partho said enthusiastically. “Now, be sure to . . .”

But Dontha never got to hear what the senior officer wanted him to do because the prototype chose that moment to drift out of phase with the hyperspace “tunnel” through which the signal had been routed. There was an explosion of static as the image flew apart. Tepho swore and issued a series of rapid-fire pops and clicks as his subordinates rushed to find the source of the problem and correct it.

In the meantime, Dontha, who had little to no interest in reestablishing contact with General Partho, followed the illicit power feeds back out to the main corridor. Though never defeated in an actual battle—the officer had a pretty good idea of what the experience would feel like.

The transport was hidden at the bottom of a nearly dry watercourse, not far from a stagnant pool and covered with camouflage netting. The worst of the heat had passed, the first stars had appeared in the blue-violet sky, and the camp was starting to stir. There were thirty-six people altogether, twenty-eight of whom were children, all under the age of
twelve. There had been more originally, but that was back before two of the three transports had been put out of commission, forcing the older youngsters to join the main column. One lifter had given up the ghost and been abandoned
, and the Ramanthians had destroyed the second on the ground, which left the aircraft that everyone now referred to as
Old Faithful
to carry on alone.

Now, having just awoken from their long logy naps, the children were cranky. But the adults were used to that and had developed routines to deal with it. Three of them fired up a mismatched collection of camp stoves and went to work preparing a hot meal, while Qwis Qwan, her mother Lin, and a
woman named Flo Anders led the youngsters down to the same pool that had been used to fill all of the water containers a few hours before.

The children charged into the pond, yelling and screaming, splashed water at each other, or paddled about. The women allowed the youngsters to play in the water for a good fifteen minutes before introducing bars of soap into the mix, thereby transforming the free-for-all into a bath. The key was to finish before darkness fell so there was enough light to dry the youngsters and get them into clean clothes. Qwis laughed as one of the boys splashed her, then waded in and splashed him back.

Meanwhile, just under the ship's blunt nose, Cam Qwan and a grizzled pilot stood under the cone of light thrown down by a landing light and peered at a map. The aviator smelled of alcohol, grease, and sweat. “We're here,” Has Norby said, tapping the printout with a grimy fingertip, “and assuming them soldiers have it right, they're about
here.
”

Qwan looked at the gap between the two locations and figured it would take
Old Faithful
about an hour and a half to catch up. Six rotations had elapsed since the children had leapfrogged forward, and they missed their parents.

“Okay, assuming there's no sign of Paguumi warriors in the vicinity, let's land one full day's march in front of them,” the colonist suggested. “Kobbi is traveling at night now . . . so the entire group can spend the following day together.”

Norby nodded agreeably. He'd been flirting with one of the women from Savas Prime, and it would be nice to see her again. “Sure, why not? When would you like to lift?”

The businessman consulted his wrist term. “How does 21:30 sound?”

“Works for me,” the pilot replied.

“Good,” Qwan said. “And no drinking . . . Not till we land. Understood?”

“I wouldn't think of it,” Norby lied easily, and faded into the shadows.

The lights were dim, and it was cool inside the control room,
too
cool for Naval Commander Jos Satto's comfort, but that's what the machines around him preferred. In spite of the damage sustained during the battle with the Confederacy ships, the
Ravager
could still function as a glorified space
station, even though the vessel should have been sent home for repairs. A fact that continued to frustrate Satto, who looked forward to the day when the task force would arrive, thereby allowing his ship to depart.

The Ramanthian officer still had three aerospace fighters at his disposal, however. And, based on a request from Dontha, continued to launch them at targets of opportunity. A human transport had been destroyed on the ground, a Paguumi encampment had been incinerated, and the column of legionnaires and civilians had been attacked three times during the last five days. The problem was that the alien ground forces had a plentiful supply of shoulder-launched missiles and were quite adept at using them. In fact, one of
his five aircraft had been destroyed, while another had been da
maged and forced to land at Hagala Nor.

But now, after days of careful observation, it appeared that a somewhat softer target was in the offing. If he couldn't stop the Confederacy column itself, perhaps, Satto could choke off its supplies by destroying the last of their civilian transports. The naval officer watched the three-dimensional map appear over the surface of the plot table and listened as his intelligence officer delivered a preflight briefing to the remaining fighter pilots.

“Rather than fly every day, the soft bodies often let four of five rotations pass before moving forward,” the younger officer explained. “That makes it more difficult to track them. But since six local days have passed since the last advance, we think they're due.”

“We almost nailed them last time,” Flight Leader Sagdo put in defensively. “But it usually takes at least a couple of standard hours to launch the ships, penetrate the planet's atmosphere, and arrive in the strike zone. By the time we arrived the soft bodies had gone to ground.”