Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (44 page)

Truespeak listened to the slow monotonous tally, felt his spirits soar with each “aye,” then plummet whenever he heard someone say “nay.”

But finally, when all the votes had been tallied, the “ayes” had it, and SR-5706 passed. Algeron was free. The reality of that was so astounding, so wonderful, that Truespeak sat speechless while all of those who supported the measure broke into spontaneous applause.

Then, as the noise died down, President Nankool stepped up onto the platform. “Please allow me to be the first to congratulate the Naa people and welcome them as full members of the Confederacy. I imagine they will want the Legion to pay rent . . . but that's okay so long as they pay their taxes!”

There was an explosion of laughter, Nankool declared a thirty-minute recess, and Truespeak found himself besieged by admirers, not to mention those eager to enlist his newly acquired vote in any number of causes.

Meanwhile, as senators and staff poured out of chambers, Senator Obduro felt a group of bodies close in around him. Admiral Chien-Chu was present, as was Triad Doma-Sa and General Bill Booly. “Excuse me, Senator,” the legionnaire said genially, “but we wondered if we could have a moment of your time.”

Obduro glanced back and forth. It was a distinguished group, and while he liked to be part of important gatherings, there was something ominous about the manner in which the aliens hemmed him in. “Yes, well, that would be nice, but this is a short break and . . .”

“Don't worry,” Doma-Sa assured him, taking a firm grip on the Thraki's right arm. “The meeting won't take very long, and I'm sure you'll find
it to be most interesting.” Then, with the others crowded so closely around him that passersby couldn't see what was taking place, the roly-poly politician was hustled away. Obduro tried to object, but no one was listening, and by the time it occurred to the Thraki
to shout, his abductors had left the main corridor for the labyrinth of passageways beyond. “This is an outrage!” Obduro spluttered, as Doma-Sa and Booly lifted the politician off the ground and carried him forward.

“No,” Chien-Chu corrected him, “it's a medical facility. There's someone here we'd like you to meet.”

“Well, not exactly meet, because the poor bastard is asleep,” Booly put in. “But you can look at him.”

A few moments later Obduro found himself in a two-bed room looking at a Ramanthian. All of the medical equipment previously connected to the unconscious alien had been either removed or concealed, which made it appear as if the technical expert was asleep rather than in the grip of a coma. “He's had a rough time of it,” Chien-Chu whispered, “so we don't want to disturb him. He was captured in the Erini system, where a whole bunch of your people are busy converting Sheen warships for use by the Ramanthians.”

“Yes,” Booly added sotto voce. “That was very naughty of you.”

“Especially since you broke any number of treaties in order to do it,” Doma-Sa growled.

“You must be joking,” Obduro said. “I don't . . .”

“Quiet!” Chien-Chu insisted, holding a finger to his lips. “You'll wake him up. Come on, let's continue our discussion in a conference room.”

Seconds later, the befuddled politician found himself being carried down a corridor into a conference room normally reserved for use by medical staff. Everything had been set up in advance, and Obduro soon found himself sitting in a vastly oversized chair, looking up at a screen. “This is the Erini system,” Doma-Sa informed the Thraki, as the video began. “And
that
is an orbital repair facility, which we can only assume is owned and operated by your government.”

The senator had never heard of Erini system or seen the enormous dock before, but felt a sudden emptiness at the
pit of his stomach. Knowledgeable though he was regarding governmental affairs, the politician knew there were activities that he and his staff were ignorant of. And a good thing, too. Because while Obduro's superiors thought it best to side with the Confederacy at the moment, he knew some of them feared the possible consequences of a Ramanthian victory, and were uneasy regarding the way the
war was going. Had they taken steps to insure the Thraki people against such a possibility? Yes, Obduro feared that they had, and here was the consequence of their double-dealing.

“Oh my,” Chien-Chu said mockingly, as the camera invaded the dock's vast interior. “What have we here? Some of the very Sheen warships that were hijacked by the Ramanthians shortly after they destroyed the
Friendship
. Oh, and look at the personnel zipping all about . . . They look a lot like Ramanthians, don't they? Or did your government get a special deal on surplus Ramanthian space armor?”

Obduro swallowed, tried to think of something cogent to say, and swallowed again. The aliens scared him. Especially the huge Hudathan. The politician felt his bowels start to loosen. “I didn't know anything about this . . . I swear.”

“And we believe you,” Booly said soothingly. “Every government has a few lawbreakers to contend with. Unfortunate individuals who seek to turn a profit regardless of whom they harm. Who knows? Perhaps the individuals who set up the secret base in the Erini system and proceeded to cut a deal with the Ramanthians are common criminals.”

Chien-Chu watched the words sink in. Obduro was no fool and was quick to recognize a lifeline when one was thrown his way. His eyes brightened, and his ears rotated toward the front of his head. “Yes! That would account for it! I will notify my government immediately.”

“Good,” Doma-Sa growled ominously. “Because we'll be watching. It's our expectation that the Sheen vessels will be seized and turned over to the Confederacy, the
dock will be destroyed, and every effort will be made to bring the criminals to justice.”

“Yes,” Chien-Chu agreed. “Otherwise, it will become necessary to raise the matter with the Senate, listen to hours of testimony from our Ramanthian witness, and request sanctions against the Thraki government. All of which would be exceedingly tedious.”

“Have no fear,” Obduro said determinedly. “I will take care of everything.”

“That's what we hoped you'd say,” Booly acknowledged, “and we're grateful. Lieutenant Thinklong will escort you back to the Senate chambers.”

There was a short but heartfelt celebration once the Thraki was gone. “I feel pretty sure that it's going to work,” Chien-Chu said, as the threesome prepared to leave. “We'll have to keep an eye on them, however.”

Booly nodded. “What about Christine Vanderveen? What happens to her?”

“I'll speak to Nankool,” the industrialist replied. “I don't know that she'll get the promotion she so richly deserves, but the Confederacy can't afford to lose talent such as hers. The president knows that, and he'll come around.”

“I'll put in a word as well,” Doma-Sa put in. “If the Confederacy doesn't want her,
my
government would be happy to hire her. She's rather competent for a squat.”

The humans grinned, and all of them went their separate ways. Booly was concerned about Maylo—and had been for days. While he felt a deep sense of loss where his unborn daughter was concerned, the emotion was muted to some extent by the fact that he had never seen or held her. But Maylo's grief had been deeper than that. So deep that he was beginning to wonder if she would ever emerge from it.

The guards stationed outside the general's quarters came to attention and rendered a rifle salute as Booly approached. The legionnaire returned the courtesy, palmed the door, and
stepped inside. The lights had been dimmed, soft music could be heard, and the mouthwatering smell of an oriental stir-fry wafted through the air.

Booly followed the wonderful odor back past a nicely set table to the small and rarely used kitchenette, where his wife was busy cooking. She turned and offered her lips for a kiss. The legionnaire complied, put his arms around her waist, and pulled her close. “How did you know I was coming?”

Maylo smiled for the first time in days. “I have spies.”

“Lieutenant Thinklong?”

“You'll never get it out of me.”

“Never?” Booly inquired lightly. “Perhaps I should interrogate you.”

“I think that would be an excellent idea,” his wife whispered softly. “Do your worst.”

“It could take a while,” Booly said, reaching over to turn off the stove.

“I have all the time in the world,” Maylo responded.

“And so do I,” Booly replied, and swept his wife off her feet.

The Ramanthian admiral experienced a moment of unrestrained joy as the blip that represented the Confederacy ship disappeared from the screens, and his subordinates clacked their pincers by way of applause.

But the brief moment of jubilation was quickly followed by a sense of consternation when there was no explosion. That was when one of his officers gave voice to the suspicion that had already taken root in the back of the admiral's mind. “It looks as though the enemy ship entered hyperspace, Excellency.”

The admiral felt his spirits soar. Entering or exiting hyperspace in the vicinity of a planet or a sun was extremely
dangerous. Although they couldn't see into hyperspace, odds were that Lieutenant Commander Frenko had been killed while attempting to escape her pursuers. A perfectly acceptable outcome unless . . . And that was the moment when another possibility occurred to the Ramanthian, and a terrible fear gripped his mind. It was difficult to speak, but he managed to squeeze the necessary words out. “Contact the admiralty. Tell them . . .”

But there wasn't enough time to tell anyone anything as Frenko gathered her memories around her, the NAVCOMP brought the
Flaming Bitch
out of hyperspace three miles
under
Hive's carefully manicured surface, and the bomb she had brought so far exploded. Frenko saw a flash of white light, felt a wave of warmth hit her, and let it carry her away. The results of the attack were far more spectacular than anything that General Booly and his staff had imagined. The underground explosion triggered a quake that destroyed the city of First Birth, including the underground cavern where tr
adition held that the first mother had produced the first egg, and took 1.7 million lives.

Though more than a thousand miles away, the Queen felt a slight tremor and was demanding information even before it began to flow in. Soon, based on a report from the home fleet as well as officials located in the vicinity of First Birth, the truth became known. The planet that had felt so impregnable an hour before wasn't, a terrible new weapon had been introduced into the war, and victory was a lot less certain.

Such were the realities as the Minister of Civilian Affairs Suu Norr stood on the very spot where one of his mates had been executed less than one rotation before and looked up into the royal's face. The odor produced by the eggs stored in the vault below her seemed especially strong at that moment, and the functionary felt an almost overpowering need to please the monarch in spite of what she had done to the War Norr.

“So,” the Queen continued sternly, “the navy will pull
two fleets back to reinforce security in our home system. Meanwhile, you and your department will treat the explosion as a terrible but nonetheless natural seismic event. We must avoid panic. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Norr replied. “Very clear.”

“Good. Now, what progress has been made where the hypercom is concerned? It's absolutely imperative that you recover that equipment lest it somehow fall into enemy hands.”

Norr had been home when the royal guards delivered the War Norr's head to his single surviving mate. He heard the Egg Norr's anguished cries from another room, rushed to her side, and tried to console her. Could she withstand another such loss? He wasn't sure.

Conscious of the fact that his life was on the line, the functionary chose his words with extreme care. “I have good news, Highness. The task force assigned to bring the equipment to Hive arrived off Savas. Loading will commence soon.”

The Queen's eyes were as black as space. “And the enemy? What of them?”

“They have a battalion of troops on the surface of Savas and are marching toward our base, but the local commander remains confident that he can stop them.”

“He'd better,” the monarch said darkly. “Keep me informed. In the meantime, do everything in your power to help the communities around First Birth. And remember, the destruction resulted from a quake, nothing more. You may withdraw.”

“Yes, Highness,” Norr responded as he bent a knee. “It shall be as you say.”

The Queen watched the functionary depart, felt the now-familiar pressure in her abdomen, and allowed a clutch of five hundred eggs to join those already stored below. More than a million lives have been lost—but millions were on the way.

Finally, when all the diplomatic dra is over, someone has to go in and kill the bastards.

—Triad Hiween Doma-Sa

Standard year 2840

One of the many things that made the extinct volcano an ideal fortress was not only the deep crater located at its center, but the landing pad that had been constructed at the bottom of the cavity. It was circular in shape and bordered by stacks of cargo modules that were waiting to be loaded. Each container held part of the hypercom or a piece of auxiliary equipment associated with it.

A space black shuttle squatted at the center of the pad as Force Commander Ignatho Dontha slip-slid onto the blast-scarred durasteel and surveyed the area. Rather than the carefully orchestrated process that he had imagined, chaos was the rule as civilians yelled orders at his troops, and they yelled back.

Dontha produced the Ramanthian equivalent of a frown and snapped an order at the nearest noncom, who blew a shrill blast on his whistle. The gabble stopped, heads turned, and the officer spoke. “Who can tell me what is going on here?”

After a moment of hesitation, a junior officer raised a pincer. “I guess I can, sir. We were given a list of which modules to load first, but the civilians say we should ignore it.”

“I see,” Dontha replied gravely. “And which civilian were you speaking with?”

“
That
one,” the officer said, pointing to the ragged figure who had just exited the shuttle's cargo compartment.

Dontha wasn't particularly surprised to see that the individual in question was none other than Chief Scientific Investigator Tepho. “I'll speak with him,” the force commander said reassuringly. “Tell your troops to stand by.”

The officer clacked a pincer respectfully before scurrying off to have a word with his subordinates. As Dontha stepped out of the shadow cast by the crater's east wall he felt the full warmth of the sun and took pleasure in it. The scientist turned at his approach. “There you are! We've been looking all over for you . . . These laggards refused to obey my orders! Please set them straight.”

Dontha fought to control his temper. “The lists that they're using were written by
you
and your staff. All they're trying to do is to make sure that the most important components are loaded first.”

“We changed our minds,” Tepho replied imperiously. “Some of the most important items are still being packed. Besides, what difference does it make? First, second, third. It's all the same.”

“No,” Dontha replied patiently, “it isn't all the same. The Legion went around the native troops put in place to block them. We estimate that they will arrive here within the next twelve hours. What if the barbarians force their way into Hagala Nor? And capture whatever happens to be sitting on the pad? Important components could be lost.”

“And whose fault would that be?” Tepho demanded caustically. “
You're
in charge of security. Stop them.”

“I intend to,” Dontha grated, “but it makes sense to take
every precaution we can. That includes sticking to the original load-out. By the way, since the pad can't accommodate more than one shuttle at a time, speed is of the essence. I suggest that you and your staff clear the immediate area.”

“All right, all right,” the scientist responded grumpily. “Do it your way.”

“Thank you,” the soldier replied. “I will.”

The tip of the Confederacy force consisted of twelve twenty-five-foot-tall quads, each carrying a full load-out of munitions and traveling at a stately twenty miles per hour. Dust boiled up around them, was caught by the wind, and blown back over the column. Farther to the rear, and protected on by both flanks by platoons of Trooper IIs, came the command quad, the medical quad, maintenance quads, air support quads, and half a dozen transport quads carrying civilians and supplies. The rear guard consisted of another company of quads plus B Company's T-2s.

Kobbi referred to the formation as a “two-headed snake,” meaning an entity that could travel forward or backward with equal facility, although there was only one direction in which the crusty officer wanted to go, and that was forward. And so far the advance had been easy,
too
easy, or so it seemed to Santana.

The cavalry officer knew that the decision to drop B Company into the drag position was Kobbi's way of giving him and his troops a break after the fight at the water hole and the battle in the desert. Still, the legionnaire would have preferred to see where the battalion was headed instead of where it had been. But orders are orders, and his were to make sure that the bugs didn't attack the battalion from behind, or stop them if they did.

As the battalion cleared some extensive ruins, B Company
entered them and followed electronic markers north. Hundreds of years of heat, cold, and occasional rain had reduced the earthen city to a labyrinth of twisting streets, slowly melting walls, and shattered domes. Everything was beige, tan, or brown, with only the occasional tinge of reddish iron oxide to provide some color.

Fresh damage could be seen where dozens of quads had marched through the ancient city, sideswiped heavily weathered buildings, crushed dwellings, and blasted anything that struck them as suspicious. Many walls remained, however, and Santana found himself tempted by the shade that they provided. The bio bods needed to take a leak every now and then even if the cyborgs didn't, and the ruins looked like a good place to take a rest.

With that in mind Santana ordered the 1st and 3rd platoons to take a five-minute break while the second stood guard. After the first two-thirds of the company drained their tanks, the rest of the legionnaires would get their turn.

Santana notified the command quad as members of the 1st and 3rd platoons hurried to dismount. Most ducked into the shadows to take care of personal business, and the rest availed themselves of the opportunity to scratch what itched or tweak their support gear.

Sergeant Dietrich was no different. The legionnaire had just wet the sand in front of him and was in the process of zipping his pants when a set of tracks caught his eye. Not T-2 tracks, or quad tracks, but parallel crawler tracks that incorporated the distinctive chevron pattern that the bugs preferred. And not little tracks, but
big
tracks, each being about four feet wide. No big deal in and of themselves, especially since the Ramanthians had occupied that particular piece of real estate only hours before, but this particular set of tracks ended right in front of a blank wall!

Dietrich took a second look to ensure that he wasn't mistaken, opened his com, and meandered toward his T-2.
“Bravo Three Six to all Bravo units . . . I have reason to believe that the bugs left some armor hidden within the ruins. Members of the 1st and 2nd will return to their mounts.
Slowly,
so they don't know we're onto them, and prepare to engage. Over.”

Santana heard the noncom's orders along with the rest of the company, felt a chill run up his spine, and turned toward Okuma. The previously innocent ruins had an ominous feel now—and the officer resisted an impulse to look back over his shoulder. Assuming Dietrich was correct, the Ramanthians had intentionally allowed the battalion to pass through the ancient city without firing on them. That suggested that the bugs intended to attack the formation from the rear. But would they make their move
before
the rear guard departed the area? Or after? There was no way to know, and the caval
ry officer fought the temptation to dash across the street and leap onto the T-2's back.

Meanwhile, about two hundred feet away, and fifteen feet below street level, Knifethrow sat within the cramped confines of the Ramanthian command tank. It was hot,
extremely
hot, and his fur was matted with sweat. The deserter eyed the video supplied by tiny sensors that his crew had left above ground. He knew the legionnaires above him, and when every single one of them turned toward their borgs, he knew they were responding to an order. “The bastards are onto us! Hit 'em!”

The Ramanthians were ready, had been for hours, and seemed to explode up out of the ground. Each beetlelike tank weighed about forty tons and was powered by two tandem engines. That meant the big black beasts had power to spare, and they used it to push up through the seemingly undisturbed streets and crash through the walls that had been constructed to conceal them. Santana broke into a run as the enemy tanks burst out of concealment, and a .50 caliber machine gun started to chug in the distance.

Okuma turned his back to the bio bod and willed the officer to hurry. Santana literally ran up the steps that were built into the back of the T-2's legs and was still in the process of buckling himself in when a tank crashed through a wall across the street.

Okuma fired his energy cannon. The bolt left a scorch mark on the Ramanthian-made armor but had no other effect as Santana plugged into the T-2's com system and made his report. “Bravo Six to Nomad Six. We are under attack! Repeat, under attack by an unknown number of Ramanthian heavies! They were hidden in the ruins. Request ground support. Over.”

It was Matala who replied. The XO sounded calm and didn't waste time asking how such a thing could be possible. Questions of that sort would be dealt with later. “Roger that, Bravo Six. Help is on the way. Over.”

Santana took comfort from the fact that Kobbi's two-headed snake could strike toward the rear as well as the front, but wondered if the reserve quads would arrive in time to save his company, or to bury it. A pair of fly-forms had arrived by then, but couldn't engage the enemy without running the risk of inflicting casualties on B Company and had little choice but to circle impotently while the battle continued.

Having failed to dent the tank, Okuma spun away just as a cannon shell sped through the space he had occupied a moment earlier. That was when a borg named Fillo fired one of her two missiles. It scored a direct hit, and thick though the Ramanthian armor was, it couldn't withstand the force of a shaped charge delivered a point-blank range. The primary explosion was followed by two secondary explosions that combined to tear the tank apart. Masonry shattered, razor-sharp shrapnel hummed through the air, and a deep, resonant
boom!
echoed between ancient walls.

Santana felt the resulting wave of heat wash across his face and allowed Okuma to handle the tactical situation
while he scanned the symbols projected on the inside surface of his helmet visor. The multicolored dots and deltas were so intermingled that the officer knew it would be impossible to maneuver his company as a unit. He could allow the free-for-all to continue or order his troops to disengage. Conventional doctrine argued in favor of option two, especially in the face of superior firepower, but the T-2s were extremely agile, and reinforcements were on the way. Santana opened his
mike. “Fire at will, but keep an eye out for friendlies, and don't let them suck you into the open.”

At that point the officer switched to a schematic that provided him with a graphic depiction of the enemy's communications patterns. A glance was sufficient to establish that 86 percent of all the Ramanthian communications were being initiated by a single tank. The company commander forwarded the screen to Okuma, ordered the T-2 to find that particular unit, and felt the borg respond.
After all,
Santana thought to himself,
the quickest way to slay any beast is to chop off its head
.

Okuma made his way down a side street, spotted a pile of rubble heaped against a wall, and turned the debris into a ramp. Once on top Okuma discovered that the flat surface was barely wide enough to accommodate his foot pods. The T-2 ran the length of the two-foot-wide divider even as chunks of adobe crumbled away from his feet.

Santana held on, felt his stomach lurch as the borg jumped a six-foot gap, and let his knees absorb the subsequent impact. Okuma's right foot went through the roof, but the Trooper II kept his balance, and jerked the pod free. Then, eager to reach his destination, the borg made for the far side of debris-strewn surface. Santana winced as a tank fired, and one of his T-2s vanished from the heads-up display.

Then Okuma was there, right where he wanted to be, four feet
above
the command tank. It was parked at the end of a dead-end street pointed the other way. The huge
beetle-shaped war machine belched smoke and rocked slightly as it fired a self-steering, antiarmor-seeking round at a target a thousand yards away. The noise was deafening, and Santana wished he had earplugs.

The range was too short for Okuma to use his remaining missile, so the cyborg jumped onto the vehicle's upper deck and directed his energy cannon at the top hatch. It was armored, but not against a blast of energy fired from two feet away, and it wasn't long before the metal started to liquefy. Meanwhile, down in the bowels of the machine, Knifethrow heard a double clang as something landed on the metal over his head, knew it was a T-2, and swore as the hatch started to melt and a drop of red-hot metal landed on the back of his neck. There was another way out, though, a belly hatch, if the ren
egade could reach it in time. The Naa pulled his sidearm, shot the tank commander in the back of the head, and dropped to the lowest level. The gunner absorbed two slugs in the back, closely followed by the loader, who took a round in the face.

Having eliminated the crew, the Naa dropped through the shaft located next to the main magazine, and tapped the foot switch. The hatch opened smoothly, allowing the ex-legionnaire to drop through the resulting hole. Dust spurted away from the renegade's boots and Knifethrow proceeded to duckwalk out from under the tank.