Order of the Centurion

by Jason Anspach

  “Parker,” Wash whispered.

  The sniper swung his rifle toward the disturbance in the split-second where reflex is faster than thought.

  A voice from behind the sniper asked, “What is it?”

  “Nothing. This is the place.” Parker ushered everyone toward the temple.

  Sergeant Shotton emerged from the column to take the lead and move up the temple stairs first. In a low voice, he directed his warfighters to different points throughout the temple. They took off so fast, clearing each corner and making their way up the steps to the parapets, that Wash didn’t have time to tell the sergeant he’d already cleared most of the area. The men moved busily, expending those final bursts of energy before a promised rest.

  Shotton looked up at Wash from the temple floor. “You coming down here, LT? Or do these old knees have to come up to you?”

  “It feels cooler up here than down there,” Wash answered.

  There was something stifling about the temple floor that Wash had only realized when he reached the parapets. As if all the jungle’s heat and humidity got trapped inside the structure, conspiring with the vines to better decay the stone.

  “My knees can handle it if that’s the case.” Shotton moved up the steps, not quite hobbling, but also not showing a full fluidity of motion. The hard marching, hard fighting, and jungle conditions were obviously taking a toll on the older man.

  “How long you been in, Sergeant?” Wash asked when the marine reached the top.

  Shotton shrugged. “Could’ve retired last year. ’Cept we keep finding wars to fight in, and the marines know the value of a good NCO. They’re sort of like the Legion that way.”

  Wash nodded. “You ever think about hanging up your helmet and blaster?”

  “Lately that’s all I think about. These knees won’t stop remindin’ me. But I don’t want to leave my boys, not yet. Not until Psydon is all over and put to bed.” The sergeant leaned against the parapet, resting his elbows on the top. “See, if I get pulled out of the lines for a few weeks to get my knees fixed, well, I can all but guarantee you they won’t put me back in. Nah. The next shuttle I’d take after that surgery would be straight back home. They’d make sure I retired.”

  “So you play through the pain.”

  “Comes with the job.”

  “Marines are lucky to have you, Sergeant.”

  Shotton looked Wash directly in the eyes. In the moonlight, he looked grave, concerned, and sincere. “I sure hope that’s true, Lieutenant.”

  Denturo bounded up the steps, his gear jingling as he skipped two at a time. “Hey, Sarge, Corpsman Hellix wants permission to bring the girl up. Says it’s too stuffy for her down below. You ask me, that’s why you should only bring men into combat. You don’t hear any of us whining about the heat.”

  “She didn’t choose to go into combat, she was dragged into it,” Wash said. “She and the rest of those basics got ambushed and captured, remember?”

  Denturo spat on the stones. “Same thing.”

  “Have Hellix bring her up,” said Shotton. “And I want you and Haulman up here with them. This is your overwatch.”

  Denturo nodded and left to pass on the orders.

  “All right,” Shotton said to Wash. “I’m gonna find a corner up top to lie down.”

  “I’ll stay up for the first watch, Sergeant.” Wash was still amped up from the hike. It was as if the distance he’d covered in the hard march from the ambush site had woken up all the muscles in his body. He felt as though he had enough energy to go on for days nonstop. Like he was just floating above the surface. He looked across to an opposite parapet and saw Berlin already lying down. Probably asleep.

  Wash wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. He knew it.

  “Well…” grumbled Shotton. “Get yourself some rest. You’re a legionnaire, not a war bot. And even they have to recharge their systems from time to time.”

  Wash nodded and moved to the far end of the parapet, not wanting any further conversation. Particularly if it came from Denturo.

  ***

  Twenty minutes passed with nothing to remember them by.

  Wash kept vigil on the jungle ahead of him, overlooking the terrain he and the marines had traversed. If the doros were out there and tracking, that’s the direction they would likely come from. Of course, some entirely different element of dog-men could show up, in which case there was no telling where they might appear.

  But all four sides of the temple were guarded by vigilant marines that night while their comrades slept, or attempted to. Despite their exhaustion, the men trying to sleep constantly stirred, rolling over and readjusting themselves in an effort to find that magic position that would let their discomforted bodies find rest. Some of them gave up trying and whispered soft conversations instead, their backs pressed against the ziggurat.

  Tierney was one of the ones who couldn’t sleep—even though Wash imagined she must be the most exhausted of all of them, given the condition they’d found her in. Corpsman Hellix had wanted to give her a sedative, but she’d turned it down, explaining, “I don’t want to have to rely on someone to carry me if it comes down to it.”

  That invited a comment from Denturo. Without taking his eyes off the jungle, he spoke out of the side of his mouth. “We saved your ass from the doros once. No guarantees we do it again.”

  That jab effectively killed the small talk on Wash’s parapet, leaving Wash, Haulman, and Denturo to watch the jungle while Corpsman Hellix slept on the stone.

  Tierney leaned against the parapet wall, her back to the jungle, arms crossed, head down, seemingly lost in daydreams. Maybe that was why she wouldn’t go to sleep. You can at least control the dreams that happen while you’re awake. After what she’d been through… Wash figured she was due for some nightmares.

  The jungle had grown relatively still, as though it sensed the hour required a certain quiet and peace. The pulsing hum of background noise that you stopped hearing once you were in it long enough was still there, but the loud, distinct calls of the bigger animals or birds… insects—whatever—had died down.

  That was the case until a sudden fluttering, like the buzzing of a large winged insect, sounded from out in the jungle. The buzzing came closer, and the bug zipped right over all their heads.

  “Must be one hell of a big bug,” said Haulman, breaking the silence.

  Wash couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard some strange new animal sound during his time on Psydon. This one sounded like an odd mix of a buzz and a whirl. And evidently there were more creatures where that one came from. Another buzz zipped toward them.

  Without warning, Tierney collapsed, falling in a heap on the parapet stone.

  Denturo was the only one who might have done something about it. Wash and Haulman were too far away, and Corpsman Hellix lay sleeping in between where Tierney and the big marine had stood. Denturo looked down at the passed-out basic, spat a stream against the stone wall, and called out, “Hellix, wake up. Heat was too much for your patient and she passed out.”

  The corpsman roused himself and moved over to Tierney. “She’s not my patient, she’s a soldier. And honestly, Denturo, you should be a little more concerned when someone faints. Maybe—I don’t know—try and help her?”

  Denturo spat over the side of the high temple wall. “I ain’t in the habit of concerning myself with dead weight.”

  “Oh no,” the corpsman said, rubbing his hands on his uniform and holding them up to the moonlight.

  “What is it?” asked Wash. “What’s wrong?”

  “She must’ve hit her head. Her hair’s all bloody, and I—” The corpsman cut himself off.

  Denturo snorted a single chuckle. “Be some tough luck to get rescued from the doros only to kill yourself by banging your head on the ground.”

  Corpsman Hellix shook his head. “Something’s wrong. There’s a hole in the back of her head.”

  He sounded concerned. Highly concerned.

  �
��What?” asked Wash, feeling dumb for not thinking of anything else to say.

  Another of the buzzing, fluttering insects came in from the jungle.

  Haulman pitched backwards with a grunt, tumbling off the parapet and down to the stone temple floor below.

  “Sket!” shouted Denturo. “Gotta be dog-men!”

  Not waiting for orders, he began to fire his weapon into the jungle shadows.

  “Doros!” someone else shouted.

  Wash didn’t know if it was a guess or if someone actually saw advancing dog-men. But it didn’t matter. The marines were sending blaster bolts into every nook and cranny in the jungle.

  The jungle started to fire back.

  Denturo’s intuition had been spot on.

  Shotton, Berlin, and the rest of the sleeping warriors rose up and joined their comrades in firing their weapons in response to every muzzle flash and incoming blaster bolt they could see. The old temple was peppered with blaster fire from all directions.

  As Wash gritted his teeth and sent torrents of hot bolts into the doros, he let out a primal scream to warn the dog-men that only death waited for them inside the forgotten ruin.

  15

  Republic Army Firebase Hitchcock

  Middle-of-Nowhere, Psydon

  “A firefight?” asked Captain Garcia. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Subs answered, feeling annoyed that the officer would question him. “I know the sound. It’s a blaster fight. A hot one at that. How recent did you say these timestamps are?”

  Alistair looked up with concern. “This is happening right now. Well, as of two minutes ago.”

  Subs felt a knot of concern grow in the pit of his stomach. “So right now, someone is in a fight within the listening radius of those two bots.”

  “If that’s what you say those sounds are, then yeah,” confirmed the comm tech. “They have an effective listening radius of twenty kilometers for something as loud as blaster fire, taking into consideration the baffling caused by the jungle. So if you’re hearing blasters…”

  Captain Garcia held up a cautionary hand. “Let’s hold on a bit here. We don’t know it’s a fight. I’m not disputing your expertise, Sergeant Major, but if it’s blasters, how do we know it’s not some doros taking late-night target practice? Just because blasters are being fired doesn’t mean there’s a firefight.”

  “I know what target practice sounds like, too.” Subs was rapidly tapping his foot on the floor. There was combat happening within his area of operation, and he felt the overwhelming urge to do something about it… not that he could leave the base. “Listen: I’ve got a good idea that this fight involves a small recon team made up of legionnaires and marines.”

  “How do you know that?” Garcia asked.

  “I got word from a SLIC crew that came into Hitch to get refueled earlier. They said they took two legionnaires—points—out on a recon patrol way deep, past the Cuchin Valley. If they’ve been moving back toward friendly lines, they could be within range of your bugs.”

  “So they’re in trouble?” Alistair said, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Well, there’s a whole lot more doros out there than Republic.”

  Alistair swiveled around in his seat, working his datapad. “I’ll see if I can’t get Specialist Bucholz in to work on long-range comms.”

  Captain Garcia crossed his arms, nodding approvingly. “Good. We need them up ASAP.”

  “If she can’t fix them,” Subs said, turning for the door, “make sure she explains very clearly how long it’ll be until they’re back up.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Alistair.

  Subs paused long enough to say, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

  ***

  Subs returned to the comm station looking a far cry different than he had before. He’d swapped the silk diapers for Dark Ops armor. He’d actually psyched himself out prior to putting it on, thinking that during his time on the base he’d gotten too soft. Too puffy. That the armor wouldn’t fit.

  It fit just fine. Just like he remembered.

  He felt alive in a way he couldn’t describe. It was a feeling that all legionnaires knew, one that was communicated with a simple nod: I’m one jocked-up, lethal, ready-to-KTF son of a kelhorn. And I didn’t forget nothin’.

  And God forbid you’re the one standing in the way.

  Specialist Bucholz sat with a frown on her face on the same desk Subs had… occupied earlier. Only Alistair didn’t seem nearly as bothered by her presence. Of course, she was dressed a good deal more modestly—though Subs couldn’t help but think that Alistair wouldn’t complain if the specialist were wearing a pair of her own silk diapers.

  “What’s the word?” Subs’s voice carried with it a confidence and command forged in the intense fires of combat. He had fought, killed, and seen men die. But never him. He was untouchable. Dark Ops. Legion.

  And he sounded like it.

  “Word isn’t good,” answered Captain Garcia. “We aren’t seeing comms anytime soon.”

  Alistair was staring at Subs in his armor, his eyes wide. The kid had always idolized Subs a bit—a fact the legionnaire kept in the back of his mind. Things like that brought with them a sort of… responsibility.

  “You look dangerous,” Alistair said. “But if you’re thinking about doing your KTF thing to the comm relay, I’m sorry, but electronics repair doesn’t work that way.”

  Subs didn’t so much crack a smile. Which seemed to bother his friend. But the legionnaire didn’t have time for that either. Because the reality was that in spite of Captain Garcia’s conjecture that the blaster fire they heard might not have involved any Republic personnel, Subs knew better. Those two points had gotten themselves into a hornet’s nest. And it was going to take the iron fist of the Legion to get them safely out of it.

  “Have you been monitoring the bugs?” Subs asked Alistair. He had questions for Specialist Bucholz too, but first priority was to get a clear picture of what was happening in the jungle. As clear as possible. “Now that you know what to listen for, are you still hearing the blaster fire?”

  The comm tech seemed pleased to be asked. “Yeah, they’re still reporting in, and we’re still getting the same signature we saw before. Just from those two bugs. So I guess that means the fight’s still going on?”

  “Sounds like it.” Subs looked directly at Specialist Bucholz. “When Captain Garcia says ‘anytime soon,’ what does he mean?”

  The tech brushed a strand of oily hair away from her face. She looked tired, her eyes baggy. No doubt the result of the day’s march. “Simply put, a critical component has failed,” she said. “We don’t have a spare, and it’s not something I can jerry-rig out of something else. Long-range comms will be down until that replacement part arrives. Which, thankfully, is scheduled to be tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred.”

  “Appreciate your conciseness,” Subs said. He felt like he was running a mission planning meeting with his old kill team.

  But no long-range comms. That increased the suck by orders of magnitude.

  Sometimes these things couldn’t be helped in a theater of war. Machines and men alike broke down. Flanks and bases were occasionally left unprotected. It was the nature of war.

  Republic Army command should already know that Firebase Hitchcock’s long-range comms were down. Failure to check in would have tipped them off. They’d have an observation drone or orbiting ship watching the base for signs of combat—exchanges of blaster fire in the darkness, things like that. More importantly, this meant that the scheduled resupply tomorrow morning would absolutely happen. Normally, that was never a guarantee. Schedules changed. But under these circumstances, unless there was some kind of mass casualty event that required the use of every SLIC in the area, that part would come in. Even if it meant canceling the flight of some colonel looking to make his rounds.

  That much was good.

  What was bad was that the fighting was happening right now. Maybe the m
arines were holding up; maybe the doro force wasn’t very large. But out there, behind enemy lines… it could grow quickly.

  Subs shook his head at Bucholz’s report. “Let’s say you get the part at oh-nine-hundred hours tomorrow morning. How long to fix it?”

  “Maybe thirty minutes?” guessed the specialist.

  “So oh-nine-thirty we got long-range comms. Best case. Which means maybe within an hour of that a SLIC gun run or Legion QRF gets into the air.”

  It would all be easier if Subs could reach another legionnaire flying close enough for L-comm range like he had earlier. He’d been trying, but he kept coming up empty.

  Captain Garcia looked down, his face grim, shaking his head. “Thinking it might be too late by then?”

  “For a couple of points and a handful of marines? Yeah. How long did it take you to march to the location of bugs four and five?”

  “Maybe six hours.”

  Subs nodded, his face not betraying the momentous internal decision he’d just made. “All right. I’m heading for their location now. I’ll try to reconnoiter where the fight is happening. It’ll probably be over, it’ll probably be too late. But in the event that they hold on, I might be able to make a difference.”

  The captain’s mouth fell open. “You’re not actually thinking of going into the jungle by yourself to get mixed up in this firefight?”

  Subs gave a mischievous smile. “I don’t have to go by myself. You can come if you’re up to it, Captain.”

  A part of the Dark Ops legionnaire did want an extra hand. Every blaster rifle wielded in battle was a force multiplier in the hands of a legionnaire. Subs had been in enough fights where that one blaster rifle was all that made the difference.

  And it was part of the Legion code. Everybody fights. He’d stressed that to the basics on Hitchcock repeatedly.