Rebellion

by Edward M. Grant

  CHAPTER 3

  New Strasbourg, 2123 A.D.

  1st Company shuffled into the improvised command bunker, two hundred and fifty Legionnaires moving in single file through the narrow doorway from the bright sunlight to the dim, windowless interior.

  Like the Legion’s sleeping quarters at the spaceport, the command bunker had previously been used as a hangar, with a fifty-metre-square concrete floor beneath a curved concrete roof that supported dirt piled on top of it to block the radiation. The hard surface of the roof reflected back the echoes of the Legionnaires’ murmured conversation, and the constant thumps of their boots on the floor.

  A dozen rows of roughly-made wooden chairs faced a knee-high stage of ragged wooden boards near the doors on the far side of the hangar, doors that looked big enough to roll a shuttle through if they were open.

  Logan crept across the floor, slowing any time he began to feel the world wobbling around him from lack of oxygen. His lungs were a little more used to the thin air of New Strasbourg after three hours of waiting for the radiation storm to subside, then an hour of exercise carrying the bags and cargo from the shuttles to stores and the sleeping quarters.

  But not enough yet to rush around the spaceport without feeling light-headed. He shuffled across the uneven floor until he reached a chair near the end of the middle row, far enough from the stage to be inconspicuous, but not far enough to look like he was trying to hide.

  Volkov was already sitting in the far corner of the room, studying everyone who entered. Logan had learned not to draw the platoon sergeant’s attention to himself without a very good reason. It usually hurt.

  Wood creaked as Corporal Bairamov slumped down in the chair beside Logan. As his fireteam leader, Bairamov was easy enough to get along with, so long as you didn't cause trouble, but could be hell if you did. Logan's body had bulked up in training, but three years of combat in the Legion had stretched Bairamov’s arms until they were as thick as Logan’s thighs. No wonder the wood and nails of Bairamov’s chair were struggling to support the weight of his muscles.

  As the other Legionnaires jostled for the best seats around them, Bairamov nudged Logan’s side, and flashed a wad of banknotes from his pocket.

  “I made a thousand francs on the way down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dead pool. I'd bet Johnson would go first. And he did.”

  Betting on death wasn’t the worst thing Logan had seen or heard in his months in the Legion. But it was close. They’d asked if he wanted to join the pool, but he’d refused. He wasn’t going to profit from a fellow Legionnaire’s death, even if the man was a newbie. When he joined up, the instructors had warned them that half of the newbies wouldn't even survive the first year, let alone the full length of their contract.

  “You people are sick, you know that?”

  “Gotta pay for my entertainment somehow.”

  “What about McClain and Hoffman, when they fell?”

  “They were alive until they hit the ground. Medics said so. Johnson didn’t last ten seconds after the shrapnel cut his head off.” Bairamov ran his fingers across his neck. “Why do you think they use the guillotine back in France?”

  Logan shivered. He knew what they used the guillotine for. Maybe if he survived as many years in the Legion as Bairamov had, he’d be as blase about death.

  But, damn, please say he’d never sink that low.

  “They just got unlucky. It could have been you or me, if we’d been sitting where they were.”

  “But we weren’t, were we? Someone’s looking out for us.”

  “Shame they're looking out for Poulin. How’s Adamski?”

  Bairamov shrugged. “He’ll live. But he won't be walking again for a few weeks. Hurt his spine pretty bad when he smashed into those crates. Medics will have to fix it before he comes back.”

  “So the team has no grenadier?”

  Bairamov chuckled as he slapped Logan’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you decided to volunteer. I thought I might have to carry that thing myself.”

  Crap. That was another fifty kilos to haul around. And the Legion weren’t heavy infantry. Their combat suits were built for manoeuvrability and stealth, not to carry the kind of heavy loads the regular infantry might drag into combat. They didn’t even have grenade launchers built into their suits like the army, which was why someone had to carry one.

  “So, what are the odds on me?”

  “Better than most of the other newbies.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re a stone-cold killer, kid.”

  Bairamov might be right. Logan might be the only killer among the new recruits in the company. Probably was. But stone-cold?

  He hadn’t meant to kill. It just happened. If he could go back... no, he’d do it again. The cops might have called it murder, but that asshole deserved a good beating, and just got unlucky that he picked the wrong guy to get beaten by.

  Was that why Bairamov had taken to Logan since he joined the platoon? He figured Logan was a reliable killer? He shivered at the thought. That wasn’t how he wanted to be known. Not even in the Legion, which was full of them

  Poulin strolled across the front of the crowd.

  Ah, crap.

  Having to listen to Poulin for half an hour was the last thing they needed after being shot at and irradiated that day. But she'd obviously cleaned up, and no longer had Johnson’s blood splattered across her face.

  And had stopped screaming.

  “What about our beloved politico?”

  “Poulin? Who cares? Maybe she'll go running back home to Papa, and leave us in peace.”

  “They’ll just send another one to replace her.”

  “But the new one could hardly be worse, could they?”

  He had a point. The political officers in the training camps had done their best to indoctrinate the new recruits to worship the aristos, but those officers had spent years in combat units out on the frontiers, and knew what a pile of bullshit most of their propaganda was.

  Few recruits had joined the Legion because they wanted to be hired killers for the aristos, to make them wealthier and more powerful. He certainly hadn’t. He’d kill to protect the innocent and his own comrades, but screw the politics.

  Poulin climbed onto the stage and sat on a chair near the back wall, beside the company's other political officers. She faced the assembled crowd as she sat, crossed her arms, and tapped her feet on the floor, staring at the Legionnaires as she did so. The men ignored her. She wasn’t going to live down her behaviour in the shuttle any time soon.

  A man walked through the open door. Short, moustached, with a suntanned face below tightly-combed brown hair that was turning grey at the fringes. He adjusted his suit jacket as he strode toward the stage. The hubbub of conversation slowed as he climbed the low steps onto the stage, nodded toward the political officers, then turned toward the crowd, and smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Legionnaires,” he yelled.

  He waited for the conversations in the crowd to die away, then turned his head from side to side, scanning the assembled mass. Then spoke again.

  “As mayor of Estérel I would like to welcome you to our lovely town, and to New Strasbourg. And apologize for what happened earlier today. The Compagnie d’Etoile has done its best to keep the insurgents away, but with these budget cuts...”

  He raised his hands, and shrugged.

  “Here here,” one of the politicos said, and clapped, slowly.

  Whatever budget cuts the Mayor was talking about, any savings they’d made had to have been wiped out by the cost of sending a regiment of Legionnaires to the planet to deal with the problems those cuts had created.

  And, wherever the other companies of the Legion regiment might have landed on the planet, they were probably listening to the mayor of whatever town they were now stationed in make the same excuses.

  “Some of our lovely local girls wish to welcome you in their own way.”

 
The Mayor held out his right hand toward the open door, and a hundred male heads turned that way. The rest joined them as they heard the wolf-whistles and admiring comments from around the room.

  A dozen girls marched through the door. Most looked around Logan’s age, with long, bare, tanned legs running from high heels to short skirts.

  Thin white blouses bulged out around their chests below long hair, red, pouting lips, and faces glowing with makeup. The girls sauntered toward the stage, waving tricolour French flags above their heads, then formed a line behind the mayor, and smiled at the men.

  The mayor opened his mouth, and took a deep breath. The girls began to sing the first words of La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, as they waved the flags high. The Mayor’s rattly voice followed along.

  Two hundred and fifty men rose to their feet, scraping their chairs on the floor, and slowly joined the song with their deep, out-of tune, voices. They shuffled back and forward and side to side as they peered past the rows of men in front, trying to keep their eyes on the girls.

  Logan did his best to ignore the Legionnaires’ singing as he joined in. The booming voices of the men drowned out the high-pitched singing of the girls, and the sound echoed back from the concrete walls and roof, rising and falling in volume, until he could barely even make out the words any more.

  But he could hardly ignore the girls. Aside from Poulin, who’d spent most of the time since he met her trying to be a man and failing at it, he'd barely seen a girl in the last year.

  The girls’ eyes roamed the crowd as they sang, stopping for a second to meet each man’s gaze, then moving on.

  They sang the final words of the anthem, then put their free hands on their hips and flicked their hair as the the last echoes of the song faded away.

  They pouted behind the mayor as he clapped.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” the mayor said.

  The scraping of two hundred and fifty moving chairs, and the thudding of two hundred and fifty pairs of boots on the concrete floor echoed around the room as the men sat.

  The Mayor waited quietly for them to settle down before speaking again.

  “Estérel has cafes, bars, and many, many lovely girls who would like to make the acquaintance of fine young men such as yourselves. Please, while you’re here with us, feel free to visit our town, and entertain yourselves. You are risking your lives to protect ours, and are sure to receive a very warm welcome.”

  The girls posed behind him as he spoke, and smiled at the men with bright red lips.

  Bairamov leaned toward Logan, and nudged him.

  “Now I know what kind of entertainment I’ll be spending my winnings on.”

  Boots clicked on the floor.

  Captain Beaufort, the company commander, strode through the doorway, then across the hangar, toward the stage. Another man followed him, tall with freshly-trimmed hair, above a suit that would probably cost a year of Logan’s wages. A shorter man trailed behind them, with his shirt bulging out over the waistband of his pants.

  “Thank you Mr Mayor,” Beaufort said, “and thank you to your lovely choir for their beautiful rendition of the national anthem. The Legion very much appreciates your efforts to make us feel at home, and we will do everything in our power to protect you all.”

  The Mayor smiled and nodded, then motioned for the girls to leave. They pouted and swung their hips as they sauntered from the stage, still swinging their flags behind them.

  Five hundred eyes followed them toward the door. Beaufort and the other men waited for the girls to pass, then climbed onto the stage themselves. Beaufort waited a moment longer before he turned back to the Legionnaires.

  “My apologies, gentlemen. Though it looks the mayor kept you entertained during the delay.”

  The men laughed as their attention returned to the stage. It had certainly been more entertaining than the beginning of their day. Especially for those who’d survived it.

  Beaufort raised his hands to quiet them down, and waited for the echoes to fade. He looked toward the tall man. “This is Governor Porcher, of New Strasbourg.” Then at the other. “And Governor Chaput, of the department of New Moselle, where we are now stationed.

  “We’ve just come from a VR conference with Commandant LePlage on the Marine LePen. Further landings are now on hold while we evaluate the safety of this site, and install the point-defence guns to protect it. The shuttles the insurgents hit will be out of action for several days for repairs, and we can’t afford to lose another.

  “Our mission for now is to clear out the remaining insurgents in this department. Capture prisoners for intel, if possible. Ensure the insurgents have no support from the other colonists, and locate and destroy any weapon caches. Sweep them out of the mining villages, so they'll surrender or starve.”

  “What are we facing?” Volkov said.

  “The insurgency began with weapons stolen from the Compagnie d’Etoile, and explosives stolen from the mines. But, according to the latest Compagnie reports, they've since found a source of their own. They have no heavy armour or weaponry, but they’re not lacking in man-portable weapons. Or talent. They've been able to hurt the Compagnie badly enough to call in the Legion. We believe at least a few of them are ex-military, and the rest seem to learn fast.”

  “Captain,” Chaput said, “The Compagnie was perfectly able to deal with the insurgency. They are trained, and better equipped than the insurgents. I did not ask...”

  “What about the SAMs?” Volkov said.

  “That's a new one for us today. The Compagnie have never seen them used here before. But they don't fly much. Most transport on New Strasbourg is by land, with trucks, or horses and carts. But, if the insurgents now have SAMs, it is surprising that they haven't tried to shoot down any inter-department flights before this.”

  Volkov stared at the man beside Beaufort. “Must be some aristos flying from city to city who'd make a good target.”

  “Could be they only just got the SAMs. Or maybe they were keeping their new toys a secret to surprise us. So far, we don't know.”

  “How many insurgents are there?”

  “Almost a hundred thousand colonists live here on New Strasbourg. Half of them are children, and nearly sixty percent of the remainder are women. So there are likely to be at most a few hundred active insurgents. But if they are able to operate so openly, many more here must support their cause.”

  A hand rose in the front row.

  “Why are there so many women here?”

  “The mines work regular twelve hour shifts with whatever machinery the government can afford to send, and use muscles for the rest. Most of the men die young.”

  Porcher put his fist to his mouth, and coughed. “To be fair, Captain, I have introduced strict safety standards to protect the men who work in the mines. Mining may once have been a dangerous activity, but today it is as safe as any other here.”

  “My apologies, Governor. I must have been misinformed about the current conditions.”

  A hand rose to Logan's right.

  “Who’s supplying the weapons?”

  “Most of the weapons the Compagnie have captured so far were of Islamic State manufacture.”

  “Do you think they’re trying to gain a foothold out here?”

  That would make some kind of sense. France and the other nations of Europe had been fighting the Islamic State and its predecessors on Earth for centuries, on and off.

  The Legion instructors had drilled its long history into the recruits during their training. Legionnaires had fought them many times through those centuries, and lost many men doing so. This could just be the next phase, fresh military history to be taught to new recruits in decades to come.

  Hopefully, without so many dead.

  “I don’t think the Islamic State is stupid enough to give its own weapons to insurgents, and hand us a very good incentive to attack them. If another power is active here, I doubt it’s them. Either way, the Navy are now protecting the wormhol
e. Whatever external support may have been sneaking weapons through it to the insurgents, no more will be coming to them any time soon.”

  “What tactics are they using?” Volkov said.

  “Mostly, ambush and run. Take a few shots, blow up an IED or two, then fade away into the local population where we can't find them. Hide their weapons until next time, then hide among their supporters. They don’t want stand-up fights unless they’re ready for one. They want to keep hitting and killing us one by one until the government give up and call us home.”

  Logan raised his arm. “Why?”

  “The usual reasons. They’re light years from Paris, and say they’re working and dying to make people rich back home. They don’t seem to realize their life would be a whole lot harder without the supplies France sends to them. They’d be lucky to survive a year without our support.”

  “New Strasbourg is a young world,” Porcher said. “There are no native animals living on the land, except a few bugs and worms. You could stuff yourself full of the native plants, and you’d still starve to death, because our bodies can extract so little nutrition from them. The government has invested substantial amounts of time and money in building this colony. It is our duty to repay the government and people of France for their investment. And we will.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” Beaufort said, “I have other duties I must attend to. I’ll leave Governor Porcher to answer your questions. Tomorrow, we begin our patrols. Be ready.”

  At least they’d get some time for sleep before the shooting began. And a few hours to prep their suits and weapons, and be ready to move out. Assuming the suits and weapons survived their trip down in the cargo shuttles, of course.

  Some time to fit in a good meal, with any luck. He might not get another one for days out in the field, just the usual gooey ration packs.

  “So how do the colonists repay France?” a voice asked from Logan's left.

  “A young world like New Strasbourg has mineral deposits near the surface from recent asteroid impacts. Most men work in the mines, sending back iridium, uranium, and many other valuable materials that are much easier to mine here than from the asteroids themselves. The women, children, and men unfit for mining work on the farms, to reduce the need for importing machinery to run them.