Leej.
The marines—the sergeant at least—thought of him not as a point, but as a legionnaire.
But a real legionnaire wouldn’t have let those prisoners get done like that, would they, Wash?
Wash stepped over corpses, making sure to put a blaster bolt into the head of any doros lying around—whether they looked dead already or not. Just to be sure. Then he shouldered his rifle and surveyed through the deceased prisoners. The effect of heavy blaster rifles at close range wasn’t pretty. The bolts made a scorching entry wound, but the close-proximity fire allowed the kinetic energy of the bolt to punch right through so fast that little was cauterized, making the whole area looked like some sort of gory barbecue pit, with pieces of cooked and raw flesh intermingled with hair, bone, and unit patches.
Wash examined each prisoner for vital signs, his hands growing progressively slicker from blood as he went from one neck to the next. His mind told him that there was no chance of someone surviving, and to give this up and find some dog-men and make them pay real bad for what they’d done. But in his heart Wash felt that this was what he owed these soldiers for failing to save them. He had to at least try to find one alive and get them to hang on until the team’s medic could be brought down.
Is this what you wanted, Wash? Would you have still gotten your feet wet if you knew it was in the blood of all these soldiers? Dead because you weren’t leej enough to get the job done?
And yet, in spite of all the death all around him, Wash had never felt more alive in his life. Each blade of dead grass was revealed in a hundred different colors. The air tasted of burnt ozone, and sounds were sharp and clear. He felt a sense of shame over this. The Legion Academy had covered a litany of useful subjects, but dealing with these dueling feelings of elation and sorrow… that wasn’t one of them.
Finally, he reached the still face of the woman he’d locked eyes with before everything went down. She was practically buried under her fellow soldiers, her head resting in the guts of some poor guy who’d been nearly shot in two, like some macabre pillow.
Why had she warned him off? Was it because she knew this would happen? Had the guards told her what would become of them if they tried anything, and had Wash forced their hands?
Or maybe it was a fait accompli. The guards had acted as though they already had orders. Perhaps the truck wasn’t waiting to transfer them to another holding area—perhaps it was just waiting to carry their dead bodies to some mass grave deep in the jungle.
Wash picked his way through more dead. He saw other unit patches but nothing combat. No frontline soldiers. No marines or legionnaires. Just unlucky Republic Army soldiers who’d been captured trying to move food, water, and other supplies in the repulsor convoys needed to keep the various firebases equipped. Places too hot for a slow-moving shuttle entry and swarming with doro forces that would likely get to, and booby-trap, any orbital drops in the nearby jungle before the intended recipients ever could.
The sudden report of Sergeant Shotton’s blaster grabbed Wash by the collar and shook him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the marine drop a pair of doros running past the POW netting, cutting them down with a three-shot burst.
“Lieutenant, they’re fleeing from this end of camp and making for the truck,” Shotton growled, scanning for more targets and sounding just as angry as Wash felt. “All due respect, but the dead ain’t goin’ nowhere and we need to snuff these doros out before they get the chance to tell someone about it.”
Wash felt another flush of shame, this time because he’d let his situational awareness be virtually eclipsed by the task of going through the dead. Something that could have waited, like the sergeant said. He looked around. The marines had poured down into the camp, pursuing the remaining doros, seeking to trap them against the truck like a hammer coming down hard on an anvil. The truck’s driver didn’t seem keen on waiting for his comrades to arrive. He was already moving down the road, picking up what speed his massive rig could muster.
“Make sure that truck doesn’t get away!” Wash shouted.
“Parker’ll stop ’em,” said Shotton with smug relish.
A sharp, intense blaster bolt backed up the sergeant’s claim, slamming into the truck’s engine compartment and sending a shower of sparks and smoke heavenward. The truck seized, stuttered, and stopped. The driver jumped out of the cab and was promptly turned into cooked meat by a follow-up shot that tore out the dog’s long throat in a vapor puff of red mist. Then the sniper began picking off the other fleeing doros, causing them to stop and turn around in the chaos. Causing them to be dead a second later.
With no harm in using the comms, now that surprise was achieved, Wash called out a warning to his friend. “Berlin, they’re coming your way!”
“I see ’em,” Berlin answered, sounding positively ecstatic.
But the legionnaire’s blaster fire didn’t come. The doros were running on all fours, clawing their way up the hill and getting closer and closer to Berlin and Parker.
Something was wrong.
Berlin came back on the comm, his voice heavy with concern. “Blaster rifle isn’t firing! They’re gonna be right on top of us!”
The sniper fired again, but there was no way he could pick off the mob of rapidly approaching dog-men. And then Wash heard Parker’s voice shouting over the comm. He was screaming at Berlin. “Is your damn selector on safe?”
Whether Berlin’s gun truly was just in safe mode, or whether it was a bad pack jamming the weapon, Wash didn’t know. But soon Berlin was sending down a stream of blaster fire into the advancing doros. The dog-men were struck on their heads and shoulders as they ran up on all fours, taking the hits at point blank. Searing blaster bolts from Berlin’s weapon pounded into them. The doros couldn’t move up, couldn’t move to the side—they could only fall back or die right there.
And that’s what they did. They just… died. It was like some galactic hit man lining up rival gangsters in a dirty back alley and cutting them down in cold blood. The doros fell down the hill, and what survivors there were now ran frantically in the direction of Wash and Sergeant Shotton.
“Fantastic!” Berlin shouted in triumph. “You see that, Wash? They’re coming your way now!”
Wash raised his blaster rifle and added his blaster bolts to those of the marines, cutting down the remaining panicked doros in a final one-sided showdown that left the camp totally in control of the Republic.
07
“Status reports!” shouted Sergeant Shotton into the comm. “Everybody all right?”
“Haulman got hit, but nothing bad. Doc’s patching him up now.”
Shotton looked to Wash. “Not bad, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah,” Wash agreed. “Your men did fantastic work.”
“They did their jobs.”
Wash turned back to the executed prisoners, thinking to check again for any life, or information. “I don’t think we’ll want to stick around long enough to bury these guys.”
Shotton grunted. “Shoulda kept a couple of doros to dig a grave for all these… plus one for themselves. I’ll set up a perimeter, but, yeah, let’s boogie when we can, sir.”
What the sergeant suggested was technically a war crime according to the Republic, but Wash kept to himself. He understood where the man was coming from, and if he was honest with himself, the doros responsible for what had happened deserved what Shotton described.
As he began to pick over the dead again, he became aware of just how much blood was on his hands. He tried to shake the blood free before finally wiping his hands off on the uniforms of the deceased. And then, when he couldn’t find uniforms of the dead not soaked, he wiped them off on his own uniform. So much so that it began to feel like a wet towel that would no longer hold any moisture. He must look a mess.
For all his efforts, there were no survivors. They were stone dead, every last one of them.
Wash stood up just as Denturo arrived with some other marines. “I don’t know about
the rest of you homos,” Denturo spat, “but that was better than sex.”
No one answered the gregarious hulk of a man, but that didn’t seem to bother him. He spit fresh stim juice into the dried leaves and then looked around the ruined camp. “That can’t be all of ’em. I got a whole lot more dobies to kill before I leave this jungle today.”
Wash resisted the urge to shake his head. The marine sounded like something straight out of a cheesy action movie. “We’ll find out from Major Berlin if this is it or if we’re moving on to another target.”
“Yeah, well, tell the major to set up more doros, and I’ll knock ’em down straightaways. Thank Oba the marines taught me how to squeeze a trigger. I damn well could kill every dog-man, woman, and child on Psydon if they’d turn me loose.”
“You just talking through your ass for fun, Denturo?” Sergeant Shotton asked, eyeing the big marine with a mix of hardness and approval. It was clear to see that the marine recon team enjoyed Denturo’s antics. “Or is this one of those situations where you won’t shut up until one of us admits that you could’ve killed everybody on your own?”
“Damn right I could’ve killed them all on my own, Sarge. Didn’t even have to use my big gun. Give me a few extra charge packs and I’d have dusted every dobie in this camp. That ain’t bragging. That’s a fact and—holy sket!”
Denturo jumped in surprise, both feet almost leaving the ground. So did Wash. So did all the marines. They were all equally alarmed by the sudden, otherworldly gasp that came from what had been, to them, a corpse only moments before.
The woman Wash had locked eyes with had just loudly sucked in a lungful of air, as though resurfacing from a deep dive. As though her spirit had just returned to her body. She then fell instantly back into unconsciousness.
If Denturo was set to lose any macho points for jumping, Wash canceled it out. The surprise knocked him on his rear as he took an involuntary step back and tripped over a dead soldier. He grabbed frantically for his fallen blaster rifle, pointing it at the revitalized basic before realizing that it was only her.
“Looks like we got a breather after all,” Sergeant Shotton said. The fright had turned his dark skin pale. “Need a corpsman here!”
The sniper, Parker, arrived in their midst, leaving Major Berlin to struggle down the hillside on his own. “Pretty good day when it’s not just about the killing. Always fancied myself a hero. Shoulda been a fireman.”
Wash felt hope kindle in his innards. What had happened to all the others was terrible, but it was… good to see that at least someone had survived the rabid executioners. But would she be all right?
Wash moved toward the woman to take a closer look. Her eyes popped open, and she screamed.
“It’s okay!” Wash shouted back, immediately regretting the volume of his voice. He repeated himself, calmer now. “It’s okay.”
Taking care to keep his hands open and assume a nonthreatening posture, he continued toward the woman. Her chest was heaving, and Wash felt as if he could hear her heart thumping from inside her body. Her eyes looked around wildly as though her mind hadn’t caught up fully with what had just happened to her. And to everyone who had been alive and most likely known to her only a few minutes before.
“Hey. Hey. We’re on your side.” Wash spoke gently, dredging up the reserves of polite respectability that his civilian station had drilled into him as part of his planet’s elite class. Why else would he have been chosen for the appointment program, if not good breeding? “You’re safe. The doros are all dead now.”
The survivor shrank back from him, pushing herself against the corpse of a fellow soldier until she was literally sitting on top of that other dead body. “Legion and marines, sweetheart,” Denturo said, spitting after for good measure. “We look like dog-men to you, honey?”
Wash gave the marine a detestable look. That wasn’t going to help things. But when he turned back around, he found that the big marine’s words had gotten through. The survivor looked less fearful, her eyes no longer wide with panic.
“You got a name?” Wash asked.
The woman licked her dry lips with an equally dry tongue, which stuck to the skin for a second before retreating back into her mouth. “Tierney. Tierney Behrev.”
Wash put his hand on his chest. “First Lieutenant Scontan Washam, Fifth Legion.” He inclined his head toward the watching marines. “These are all hullbusters. Don’t worry about their names—none of ’em are worth getting to know.”
The joke drew approving snickers from the marines, even Sergeant Shotton. Only Denturo seemed to take offense. “Up yours, Leej.”
“Listen… Tierney,” Wash said, moving closer and feeling more at ease when she didn’t flinch or attempt to further retreat. “You’re safe here, but that doesn’t mean you’re okay. We need to check you out, and then we gotta go. We’re taking you with us.”
“Where the hell is Corpsman Hellix?” shouted Sergeant Shotton over the comm.
“Sorry,” replied the corpsman’s voice over the open comm channel. “Just finishing up with Haulman. These jungles breed infection, and he needs to be sealed up before we start walking again.”
“He’s all right, though?”
“Yes, sir. Just a glancing blaster bolt.”
“Well, finish up and then double-time it over here, Marine. I want the survivor cleared to move, and then I want us gone before the ants return to the picnic table.”
“On my way, Sergeant.”
The corpsman arrived not long after, cutting through the crowd of marines. He paused at the sight of all the bodies—all those prisoners shot down like vermin. Mouthing a silent prayer, Corpsman Hellix moved straight to Tierney, kneeling down at Wash’s side.
“Okay, soldier,” said the corpsman, “tell me your name.”
“It’s Tierney,” Wash answered.
The corpsman gave a look that clearly told Wash to shut it. He then looked back at Tierney. “Sorry, what was it again?”
Wash felt like an idiot. The marine didn’t care about her name. He was trying to get her talking to make sure she was all right. Hoping to see any signs of a concussion or any other problems that could be more easily identified through direct communication.
“Tierney,” said the survivor.
She sounded a bit loopy. Maybe there was a concussion after all. Maybe she was losing blood.
Maybe… she wouldn’t make it.
“Okay, Tierney,” the corpsman said, looking her over and gently exploring her with his hands for any obvious wounds. “You hurt anywhere in particular? Were you hit?”
Tierney shook her head as though she was struggling to find her thoughts. “Feel a little sore… but… I don’t think I got… don’t think I was hit. Just… all… everyone crashed on top of me all so fast.”
Hellix nodded. “I need to lift up your shirt, okay? These guys won’t watch. Turn around, guys.”
Such acts of modesty were generally considered misogynistic on the core worlds. Why would the corpsman ask this woman something he wouldn’t have asked a man? But Wash found himself appreciating the care Hellix was showing the injured survivor.
Wash turned his head just as the tank top was lifted up, revealing the lower half of her body right up to a sport bra. Her ribs were bright red and already showing signs of significant bruising.
“Does this hurt?” the corpsman asked. “Are you having difficulty breathing?”
Wash looked back, his curiosity getting the better of him. The corpsman had his hand pressed firmly against the woman’s ribs.
Tierney breathed in, clearly pained. “It doesn’t hurt except when you’re pushing on it,” she said through gritted teeth. “It feels fine when you’re not touching it.”
The corpsman removed his hands. “Okay, so let’s not touch it. How about your legs? Do you have feeling in them? Can you stand up?”
The woman nodded. “I can feel them. I can stand.”
Using the bodies around her, she pushed herself up into
a sitting position, using them further to rock forward into a squat. She stood with some effort, Wash and the corpsman holding their hands out to offer her help with balancing.
Tierney wobbled slightly before nodding that she was okay. “I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded.”
There was a story here. Some tragedy—beyond the POW massacre—that had brought this soldier so deep into the jungle. But finding it out now wasn’t a luxury Wash or the marines had. They needed to move.
Denturo spat a fresh stream of mouth juice. “Can the basic walk? ’Cause we don’t need to be slowed down out here.”
“Stow it, Denturo!” snapped Sergeant Shotton.
Wash was thankful for the rebuke, and not just because it meant he wouldn’t have to poke the tigrax again. They were all supposed to be in this together. Now was the time to think about how to get a fellow member of the Republic military machine safely out of this jungle hellhole and onto a medical SLIC. Her nightmare—and what else could it feel like but that?—needed to end.
“I can walk,” Tierney said, taking a few tentative steps as if to prove it. She shot a dirty look at Denturo. “But thanks for the concern.”
Wash and the corpsman walked out of the carnage by her side, each ready to catch her should she stumble.
“So what’s the plan, Sarge?” asked Parker. “I mean, other than her, the camp is empty… not sure we’ll find anything of value.”
The sergeant looked over to the major—who was still milling about by the hill he’d defended, counting the doros he’d killed—then sighed and looked at Wash. “Well, how about it, Lieutenant? Anything left for us to do here?”
Wash thought about the doro he’d killed working the comm relay. It was unlikely the alien was simply catching up on the Republic’s constant counter-propaganda feeds. Wash had to assume that a response of some sort was coming, and while the doros’ air and space forces were destroyed on day one, they knew their way through the jungle terrain and could move on foot almost as quickly as a truck or sled could arrive by snaking through hastily cleared jungle roads.
Order of the Centurion Page 6