Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (9 page)

The Hudathan waited for a moment, rebuttoned the officer's shirt, and extinguished the single light. Loading would continue far into the night, but Kuga-Ka would cover for the officer and wake him just before dawn.

The NCO exited the tent, paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark, and slipped into the night. Suresee Fareye followed.

The popular conception of a court-martial is half a dozen bloodthirsty old Colonel Blimps, who take it for granted that anyone brought before them is guilty . . . In reality courts-martial are . . . so anxious to avoid a miscarriage of justice that they are, at times, ready to allow the accused any loophole of escape . . .

—Sir William Slim

Unofficial history

Standard year 1959

In spite of the fact that there were three additional people in the room, General Ibo's office was almost entirely silent as she sat and stared out through the single window. Maintenance bots had washed the entire headquarters building down during the night, but a thin layer of dust had already accumulated on the plastic and distorted the view. It was kind of like trying to look into the future, where one could make out the general outline of what would probably take place, while the all important details remained vague and undefined. Not that the dust mattered, since the
real
purpose of sitting with her back to the room was to signal the full extent of her displeasure, and provide her subordinates with time in which to stew.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to those who
stood waiting, Ibo swiveled her chair back toward them. Colonel Kobbi, along with Captains Calvo and Rono-Ra, kept their eyes focused on a point over the general's head. They stood at rigid attention. “Well, Colonel,” Ibo began ominously, “let's begin with
you.
You command the 2nd Battalion. That's what it says on the TO (Table of Organization) although some people wonder who's in charge. Especially your peers, who point to the pirates in your maintenance and supply sections, as being responsible for the recent crime wave.

“That brings us to
you,
Captain Calvo, and
you,
Captain Rono-Ra, who, if the rumors can be believed, organized what your subordinates refer to as ‘snatch teams' to prey on the other battalions.”

Kobbi cleared his throat, but Ibo shook her head. “When I want to hear from you, Colonel, I'll pull your chain. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the snatch teams. Now, while I realize that scrounging for parts and supplies is a time-honored tradition within the Legion, what you two unleashed is well beyond the boundaries of anything that could be called normal. I'm talking about forged requisitions, looted warehouses, and midnight burglaries. This sort of activity will
not
be tolerated. I realize that the 2nd may receive a mission with little to no possibility of resupply, but the rest of the reg
iment could receive similar orders any day now, and they will need spares as well.” Ibo transferred her gaze from Calvo to Rono-Ra. “Do I make myself clear?”

The officers answered in unison. “Ma'am! Yes ma'am!”

“Good. Now, one more theft, and I will bring all three of you up on charges. Dismissed.”

Rono-Ra did a smart about-face and marched out of the office, closely followed by Calvo and Kobbi. Once outside the threesome paused. “Sorry, sir,” Calvo said, her face reflecting the misery she felt.

“For what?” Kobbi answered cheerfully.

“For getting you in trouble, sir,” Rono-Ra responded. “The general was pissed.”

“No she wasn't,” Kobbi countered confidently. “She knows what we're up against. It wasn't so long ago that she led a battalion herself.”

Calvo looked doubtful. “Yes sir. But . . .”

“ ‘But' nothing,” Kobbi insisted. “Answer me this . . . Did she order you to return the supplies and parts?”

Calvo's eyebrows rose. “No, I guess she didn't, but I assumed . . .”

“Good officers never assume,” Kobbi replied tartly. “Now, don't you two have some work to do?”

“Sir! Yes sir.”

“That's what I thought . . . We lift tonight, so this is not the time to let up. One thing however . . . If these so-called snatch teams exist, and I'm not saying that they do, someone should order them to stop. That was the
real
message that you heard from General Ibo. Dismissed.”

Kobbi, who rarely took advantage of the T-2 at his disposal, walked away. He was whistling. Ibo watched through her dirty window, wished that she could trade places with the jacker, and went back to work. It seemed that a staff officer on Algeron thought it would be a good idea if the 1st REC started a choir—and challenged other regiments to do likewise. She was about to realign his priorities.

 

The scene in and around the spaceport's center was one of barely controlled chaos. A tall minaret-like control tower marked the epicenter of the action. Air cars and fly-forms crisscrossed the sky, repellors screamed as a bright orange traffic control monitor led a destroyer escort to its assigned pad, a never-ending stream of announcements poured out of omnipresent loudspeakers, a crane swung a heavily shielded
drive into position over a deep-space tug, and robots hurried to service an admiral's gig as the 2nd Battalion's war forms filed into the long, narrow decontamination stations.

Santana watched Haaby follow another T-2 into one of the chambers, where she soon disappeared into a welter of chemical sprays, pressurized rinse water, and billowing steam. The idea was to kill as many of Adobe's microscopic life-forms as possible so none of them would be transferred to Savas, where they could potentially play hell with the local ecosystems. Later, after the war forms had been loaded into their transit containers, each cargo module would be irradiated just to make sure.

As Santana paralleled the decontamination chamber and waited for Haaby to emerge from the far end, he saw Kuga-Ka in the distance. The Hudathan offered a completely unnecessary salute that Santana was then obliged to return. The NCO was mocking him, and had been ever since their meeting, as if to say, “See? I
am
in control of what I do.”

And Santana was starting to believe it. Though not part of his platoon, both Dietrich and Fareye had successfully transferred into Gaphy's company and somehow managed to pick up on the threat that Kuga-Ka posed. But, outside of the single seemingly surreptitious visit that the Hudathan had made to Gaphy's squat, their efforts to catch the gunnery sergeant doing something wrong had been futile. Now, contrary to Santana's earlier predictions, it seemed as if the Hudathan was determined to ignore the bait and leave both the cyborg and her protector alone.

The officer yawned, watched Haaby emerge from a cloud of steam and enter the next station, where she would be blown dry. Other cyborgs were present, not to mention more than a dozen bio bods, which made any attack on the T-2 highly unlikely. The perfect time to go in search of some much-needed food.

The cooks had established stands here and there throughout the loading area so hardworking legionnaires could grab snacks on the fly. Santana commandeered a sandwich, poured himself a cold drink, and looked for a place to sit down. The officer spotted a likely-looking cooler, sat on it, and took his first sip of the refreshing liquid as he keyed his platoon's frequency. “Red Six to Red Five . . . Over.”

There was a burst of static followed by sound of Haaby's synthesized voice. “This is Red Five. Over.”

“Have you completed the decontamination sequence yet? Over.”

“We're entering the shipping container now,” the cyborg said, as a tech motioned for her to enter the durasteel transit box. Though grateful for the fact that the loot was keeping an eye on her, she hoped Santana would come up with a less direct way to check on her safety, since it was unusual for a platoon commander to track the activities of a single legionnaire, and her squad mates would soon take notice.

The cargo module's interior had been fitted with special clamps that would hold the bipedal war forms in place during transit. Each box was designed to hold six T-2s, which meant that Santana's entire platoon would make the trip in a single container.

A second tech directed Haaby into slot five, and just as the cyborg started to turn, she recognized the bio bod. “Wait a minute,” she said out loud. “What's the gunny doing in here? He's supposed to be . . .”

Someone threw a switch, a pair of hydraulically operated arms reached out to grab the T-2 and wrap her in an unbreakable hug. Fear caused Haaby to drop all pretences and make a direct appeal to her platoon leader. “Sir! I can't move! They . . .”

The sandwich fell as Santana came to his feet. “Haaby? What's happening? Over.”

But Haaby could no longer reply. Kuga-Ka was up on her back by then. He flipped the protective cover up out of the way, grabbed the red, T-shaped handle, and gave it one full turn to the right. That was sufficient to disconnect her brain from the war form and all of its capabilities. Then, by pulling on the same handle, the Hudathan removed the cyborg's bio support module from the back of her massive head. Sedatives flooded Haaby's brain, and the outside world snapped to black.

Santana swore and started to run. The loading area wasn't far, no more than a few hundred feet away, and the officer arrived in front of the transit box just as a tech placed the last of six brain boxes on a specially designed cart. “Corporal Haaby,” the platoon leader demanded. “Where is she?”

The tech was a tired-looking woman with a serpent tattooed onto her scalp. She eyed the boxes. “Right there, sir. Left side, bottom row.”

Santana followed the pointing finger, saw the green indicator light, and heaved a sigh of relief. The cyborg was okay.

That was when Fareye appeared at his elbow. “I was monitoring your freq, sir. Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka just left. He had what looked like an ammo box tucked under his arm.”

Santana felt a lead weight hit the bottom of his stomach. “An ammo box? Are you sure? Is there any chance it could have been a brain box instead?”

The Naa glanced at the cart. The possibility that the NCO might abscond with one of the brain boxes hadn't occurred to him. “Yes sir. They're about the same size.”

Santana grabbed the tech's arm. “Haaby's brain box . . . Who pulled it?”

The tech looked confused. “I'm not sure, sir. I was outside.”

“Damn! Which way did Kuga-Ka go? We've got to catch the bastard.”

“That way, sir,” Fareye said, and pointed back toward some long low maintenance buildings.

Santana nodded. “See if you can catch up . . . Stay in touch by radio, but remember Kuga-Ka can hear what you say, and he's a helluva lot bigger than you are.”

Even as Fareye took off, the officer turned to the tech and eyed her name tag. “Specialist Fahd . . . Secure this cart and everything on it. Nobody is to touch it without my permission. Understand?”

Fahd looked startled. “I guess so, sir, except that I'm supposed to . . .”

“Forget what you're supposed to do. I gave you an order. Follow it.”

The tech said, “Sir! Yes sir!” but Santana was already running by that time. He was in good shape, but it was hellishly hot, and it wasn't long before
his breath came in short gasps. The cavalry officer wanted to call for help, but feared the Hudathan would hear him and hide Haaby's brain box somewhere. The built-in life-support system would sustain the cyborg for a few hours but no more than that. Assuming the object Fareye had seen
was
a brain box. But what if Haaby's brain was sitting on the cart? And Kuga-Ka was carrying a box full of spares? Maybe the whole thing was a setup! A deliberate attempt to discredit the noncom's pursuers and escape punishment. But the alternative, which was to do nothing, was unacceptable.

Those concerns were still churning through the officer's mind when Fareye's voice came in via his earpiece. The Naa was intentionally cryptic and chose to omit his call sign so that only someone who was familiar with his voice would know who had sent it. “Target sighted. Look for the radio mast. Over.”

Santana looked ahead, spotted the fifty-foot-tall antenna that towered over the maintenance sheds, and knew the Hudathan was somewhere in that vicinity. He ran even harder.
Then a
second
voice was heard. This one belonged to Sergeant Dietrich. It was cold as ice. “I have him, sir. Maintenance Shed Six.”

Santana gave silent thanks. “Good . . . Does he have a brain box with him?”

There was a pause. “He has something with him. It's wrapped in fabric.”

“Okay, hold the bastard. Fareye—call the MPs. Tell them we have a thief in Maintenance Shed Six.”

A would-be murderer was more like it, but the exact charge didn't matter, so long as they got some help soon. The officer slowed to a jog, rounded a structure labeled “Maintenance Shed Five,” and heard Fareye's voice in his ear. “The MPs are on the way, sir.”

A small crowd had gathered just outside Maintenance Shed Six. It consisted of human techs, a couple of Prithians, and three utility bots. As Santana pushed his way through he could hear Kuga-Ka shouting. “What's wrong with you people? Can't you see that this man is crazy? Take his weapon!”

But Dietrich was armed with a CA-10 carbine that was capable of firing eight hundred rounds per minute. It was shaped like a wedge with a peg-style grip mounted behind the muzzle, a combination pistol grip and trigger assembly to the rear of that, and a thirty-round magazine that protruded from the receiver. With the exception of the robots, the rest of those present had qualified with the weapon and were familiar with its capabilities. So, given the fact that none of them were armed, it made sense to wait and let someone else straighten the situation out.