Rebellion

by Edward M. Grant

  At the time, the details hadn’t really sunk in. Now he could see every bruise on the aristo’s body, every broken bone, all the details of his smashed face.

  All the things he’d done.

  The old man looked up. “I am Colonel Rousseau, of the French Foreign Legion. The man you chose to murder was my nephew, Alphonse.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it.”

  “You beat him to death with your bare hands. Pummelled him so hard that they found some of his nose bones inside his brain. Does knowing you’re capable of doing that to a man worry you? Upset you?”

  “He was hurting a girl...”

  Rousseau slid the tablet aside.

  “I wasn’t reprimanding you. He was never my favourite nephew, and I can see the flics have already done enough of that. I want to understand what happened, and why. The flics say you told them he was beating up a whore?”

  Logan nodded, and said nothing.

  But Rousseau referred to the cops in street slang, as though he had little more respect for them than Logan did. Would a toff really think of them that way? Back home, the cops served mostly to protect the toffs from the workers and the chavs.

  Rousseau should be on their side.

  “I’m afraid that part doesn’t surprise me at all. I gather poor Alphonse had some rather peculiar tastes, and liked to indulge them whenever he could. But what would possibly make you kill another man to protect a cheap ZUS whore?”

  “She’s my friend.”

  “So you would risk your own life, and kill another man, to save a friend?”

  How much longer was the old man going to keep asking these questions?

  Logan’s stomach twisted as he thought back to the beating he’d given the aristo. The groans, whimpers and pleading in the last few seconds of the aristo’s life. The feel of bones breaking under his fists. This chat was beginning to feel worse than the beatings the cops had given him. They beat him for things he’d never done, to extract information he’d never had. But he’d done real harm to this man. Killed his relative.

  “I did it, didn’t I?”

  “And they claim you stole a boat in England, then you sailed it out into the Channel minefields, just to see what was on the other side?”

  “I was running away from home.”

  “You are a brave young man, Monsieur McCoy. Reckless, certainly. But brave, nonetheless. And I so hate to see a brave young man die for no good reason.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  Rousseau shrugged. “Sooner or later, the flics will kill you, yes. If you tell them what they want to hear, they will call you a spy and kill you. If you don’t tell them what they want to hear, eventually they’ll call you a murderer and kill you. It might be days, or it might be years, or it might be as soon as you leave this room, but they’ll never let you leave this place alive.”

  Logan’s body shook again. This really was it. He’d never walk free under the open sky another time. His future was a world of stone cells and beatings, until they decided they’d had enough. Then the guillotine in the courtyard, while the other prisoners watched from their cells.

  “I’m sorry for what I did...”

  “You did what you thought was right at the time. It’s easy to question your decisions in hindsight, believe me. Particularly decisions where men die as a result. I didn’t come here so you could tell me you were sorry. I wanted to find out whether you were the right kind of man.”

  “The right kind of man for what?”

  “The right kind of man for my Legion. A man who would sail over the sea to a foreign land in search of adventure, despite knowing he would probably die that day. A man who could live on his wits for three years in a country where he didn’t even speak the language. A man who would kill another to protect those he loves.

  “I came here to give you a choice. You can walk out that door and spend what remains of your life in a prison cell for saving some poor girl from one of my damn crazy nephews. Or you can volunteer for the Legion, pay your debt to France, and die doing some good for your new homeland.”

  CHAPTER 9

  New Strasbourg

  Bairamov stood there between the concrete pipe and the rock as Logan scanned the hillside for any sign of more insurgents. But nothing moved on the hill, except a rat scuttling between two rocks.

  The dark liquid pouring into the river from the pipe splashed as it hit the water, and glittered in the bright blue sun. Bairamov reached out his right foot, and flicked the shooter’s body over. His suit’s claws tore through what was left of the man’s shirt as they rolled the body onto its back.

  The chest was a mass of blood and torn bone, where the shockwave of the hypersonic round from Logan’s rifle had ripped it apart as it exited the body. The entrails steamed on the ground beside the body in a blood-soaked, yellow mess, where they’d slid from his abdomen as the body rolled over.

  “Like I said, kid. You’re a stone-cold killer.”

  Logan stared down at the mess in front of him. It had been a man a few minutes before, until Logan ended its life, No, not even a man. He hadn’t seen the shooter’s face before, but, now that he could, he could see it was just a boy. Maybe fourteen? Fifteen? No wonder the shooter had only taken a few shots and run for his life.

  He must have been scared out of his wits back there, after he’d shot at them. And desperate, to have risked taking the shots at all. What kind of parents would send their kids out to do something like that? Did they even know he was doing it?

  Probably not. When Logan was that age, he wouldn't have asked his parents' permission to do anything.

  This wasn’t like the first time Logan killed, back in Paris. He’d killed the aristo by mistake, in the heat of the moment. This time, he’d been quite deliberate and calculating. Taken his time to aim, then shot the boy in the back as he ran away.

  Never even gave him a chance.

  But, no matter he much he told himself he should feel bad about it, he couldn’t. If he or Desoto had been half a metre closer when the boy opened fire, they might be the ones lying on the ground with half their body missing, instead of the boy.

  And, if Logan had waited a moment longer in cover beside the IED hidden in the dirt pile at the side of the house, he might be the one lying in the town square while Heinrichs tried to keep him alive, not Gallo.

  No, he really didn’t feel bad about shooting the boy at all. He didn’t feel much of anything as he stared down at the body.

  If the boy had wanted to stay alive, taking potshots at the Legion was a bad way to go about it.

  “Any idea who it is?”

  Bairamov backed away, into the cover of the rock. It wasn’t much, but it would stop small arms fire from further out in the fields, if anyone else was hiding there.

  “My suit scanned their ID chip, and sent it back to Intel. They’ll let us know, if we need to know.”

  Logan knelt beside the body and placed the butt of his rifle on the ground, using it to support himself as he leaned forward. At least the suit was filtering the air before feeding it into his helmet. His stomach churned just imagining what the body must smell like out there in the hot sun. He much preferred the rubber, plastic, and faint electrical smells of his suit.

  His metal fingers grabbed the boy’s jacket, and pulled the front open. He reached for the pocket sewn into the lining.

  The suit’s fingers were more than twice the size of a normal human, and the cloth tore as he reached inside. He pulled the pocket away, but it was empty. The pockets on the boy’s pants looked empty, too.

  Whoever the boy had been, he’d left behind anything that might provide useful information, before he’d decided to start shooting at the legion.

  He might be dead, but he wasn’t entirely stupid.

  “On me,” Bairamov said. “Now, let’s get back to the square to regroup.”

  “What about him, sir?”

  “That asshole? Let him rot out here. No-one in the village shoul
d complain. And it’ll be good for the soil.”

  Logan stood and shouldered his rifle, before he followed Bairamov back toward the village.

  His eyes scanned the fields to the right. The corn was as tall as his head would have been if he was walking on his own feet, but, in the suit, his head was a metre above it. The stalks twisted slowly and gingerly in the wind, as Logan tried to peer into the shadows between them for any sign of more insurgents in wait.

  But Alice would already have warned him if she’d spotted anything on her sensors.

  “Good job, kid.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But a damn stupid one. That boy could have had a dozen friends waiting in that field, while he drew you out into the ambush. And then you’d be dead right now. You should have kept eyes on him, and let the drones do the work. That’s what they’re there for.”

  “I thought I might be able to capture him, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about it, kid. You’ll learn. Or you’ll get killed. It’s really only a question of which happens first. Just remember, no matter what the officers might say, a live Legionnaire is more useful to me than a prisoner for Intel. Half the team is out of action thanks to that little asshole back there. I’ve seen this shit before, and don’t want it happening again.”

  “Where?”

  “I spent six months fighting the insurgents on Chantemesle. We stopped them there, but we lost half the platoon to IEDs and stupid ambushes like that one. I only got promoted to team leader because everyone else in the team was dead, or lying in a regeneration tank for months to rebuild their bodies.”

  They entered a gap between two houses at the edge of the village. Logan studied the thick dirt piles on both sides of him for any sign that someone had dug into the dirt recently,

  “You think there might be more IEDs here, sir?”

  “If they’ve figured out its a way to hide them from us in plain sight, they’ll keep using it. We can’t dig into every house around here looking for them. I’m surprised they only had one this time.”

  Logan hadn’t noticed anything when he was right alongside the other IED. Life was going to be hell for the Legion in these villages, if the insurgents could hide their bombs so easily.

  “We should pick up the rifle, sir.”

  “Desoto already grabbed it before he went back to the square for Joffer to check out his suit. We’ll take it back to Intel. Doubt it will tell us much, though. Looked like standard cheap Islamic State crap to me.”

  Speaking of intel, where was the girl?

  Logan crouched by the corner of the house as they entered the village, and looked both ways along the street. It was empty now. No sign of the girl in either direction. A faint cloud of brown dust still hovered in the air, raised by the explosion, and slowly dissipating in the faint wind. But the girl had vanished, as though she’d never been there.

  “Has anyone seen a girl?” he said over the net. “Thin, brown hair down past her shoulders, long grey dress?”

  “The Legion's not here to help with your love life, McCoy,” Volkov drawled.

  Logan pointed toward the house the girl had indicated. “She said she lived over there, sir.”

  Bairamov looked that way for a moment, as though he was wondering whether it was worth walking into another ambush to keep Poulin happy. “Check it out,” he said, at last.

  Bairamov covered the empty street with his rifle as Logan jogged over to the house. He stayed low and zigzagged as he moved, in case there was another shooter hidden behind the dark windows. Then crouched beside the door, and banged on it. The metal door shook and clunked as his suit fist hammered against it.

  “Anyone inside?” he yelled.

  No answer. He banged again, but there was still nothing. He raised his rifle to point into the window, and looked through the sight on his HUD. Nothing moved in the shadows inside. If the girl was there, she was hiding where he couldn’t see her.

  “Found her?” Bairamov said. He must be getting worried, crouched over there by another house that could explode at any moment. For that matter, so could this one. Logan backed away, down the steps, into the street.

  “Sorry, sir. Must be the wrong place.”

  The remainder of the village was just as empty between the house and the square. The tables outside the store were bare, with just a few rocks piled on top to keep the tablecloths from blowing away in the wind. Eyes watched from dark windows as the two of them jogged from house to house, stopping to cover each other as they moved. Only the pigs, goats, and dogs remained out in the open. Logan would be hiding, too, if he’d just seen someone attack the Legion.

  Particularly if he’d been helping them.

  Volkov was leaning over the mayor as they entered the square, his metal body towering over the sweaty bureaucrat. Poulin sat on the steps beside him at the entrance to the village hall. Desoto lay in the shadows to the side of the building, and Joffer hunched over his leg, pushing tools into inspection hatches on the side. Heinrichs worked on Gallo on the far side of the building, stabilizing him while two riflemen stood guard over them. The rest of the section had taken cover wherever they could around the buildings, and crouched there, scanning the square, buildings, and the alleys between them. Their visors were down, and weapons ready.

  No-one seemed to care very much about presenting a friendly face any more.

  And Volkov's face was grim behind his visor as he turned toward Logan.

  “You were asking about a girl?”

  “She called us into the street, sir. Right past the house where they shot at us, and where the IED was that hit Gallo.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “She disappeared, sir.”

  “Why did you let her get away?”

  “I was chasing the asshole who’d shot at us, sir. I didn’t have time to watch where she went. And I don't even know whether she's involved.”

  Volkov stomped across the square toward Logan, then leaned toward him until their visors almost touched. Logan could just see Volkov’s eyes through the two darkened visors, and they were bulging with anger.

  “So far as I'm concerned, everyone here is involved, until they can prove they're not. If we don’t find her, you’ll be lucky if you’re just cleaning the latrines for the next month. With your tongue.”

  If they weren’t wearing suits, Logan would be rolling on the ground in pain by now after Volkov punched and beat him. But the suit was too tough for a punch or kick to hurt.

  Besides, it was government property, and far more valuable than a new recruit.

  Volkov wasn’t going to dent it.

  “Sergeant...” Poulin began.

  Volkov swung his metal hand through the air, toward the buildings around them. “I want every house in the village searched until we find the girl. No-one leaves until we do.”

  “No,” Poulin said. “I cannot allow that. We are here to help these people, not hurt them.”

  “In that case, they shouldn’t be shooting at us.”

  “There will be more of them shooting at us if we treat them all like criminals.”

  For once, she was right.

  If the Legion dragged the villagers out of their houses to look for the girl, or anyone else who might be working with the insurgents, they’d only encourage these people to help the insurgents more in revenge. And the insurgents knew that.

  So long as they could scare or cajole the villagers into hiding them, they were safe. If the Legion went all-out to find them, the insurgents would win.

  The government would end up having to nuke the planet from orbit, because no-one would be on their side any more.

  Even Volkov grasped that quickly enough after his initial anger faded. He stomped around the square in silence, then slowed and stopped.

  The Mayor’s face dropped as Volkov crept back toward him. The claws on Volkov’s suit’s feet tore up the dirt as he moved with slow, measured steps.

  “Where are the bastards? Where are they hidi
ng?”

  The mayor swung his hands wildly. His face glowed red, and sweat poured from him. “I don’t know. I never heard of any insurgents here before. They must have seen you coming, and decided to take a shot at you.”

  “You don’t just sneak into a village and set up an ambush without anyone noticing. Someone here knows who they are, and someone here is hiding the girl who led my men into it.”

  “No-one would have helped them. We are loyal citizens. We support our government and the government of France in every possible way. I’ll ask around, see what people know...”

  Volkov raised his arm, and clenched his metal fist in front of the Mayor's face.

  “I’ll be glad to help convince them to talk.”

  Poulin stood, and stepped up beside the mayor. “Stop this. No-one is going to be tortured here. Any prisoners we capture will be returned for proper interrogation.”

  A faint roaring filled the air around them, and grew steadily louder. The boxy brown shape of a VTOL transport rose above the hillside at the edge of the valley, then raced down it toward the village, staying low where a SAM wouldn't have time to lock on before they were below the horizon.

  It roared over the houses furthest from the village square, before the nose tilted up and the thrusters on the transport's sides rotated until they were pointed forward and down. It slammed to a near-stop in the air right above the square, then lowered the nose and descended.

  A cloud of dirt filled the air as the thrusters blasted the ground and blew the dirt aside, then the transport settled on the short legs beneath it, and the motors whined as they slowed. The ramp at the rear opened with a faint hiss, and clunked as it hit the ground.

  “Looks like Gallo’s ride is here,” Bairamov said. “Let’s get him on board.”

  Logan, Bairamov, and Heinrichs grabbed Gallo’s arms and legs, then hauled on them. The motors of their suits groaned under the extra weight of Gallo’s, but they lifted him far enough to take his weight off the ground.

  Logan dug his foot claws deep into the dirt surface of the square, and pushed against it as Bairamov led the way to the transport. The back of Gallo's suit scraped gouges in the dirt as it bumped across the ground whenever they relaxed their grip too much.