Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle

by William C. Dietz

  Freed from the unpleasant necessity of dodging antiaircraft fire, the Hudathan shuttles made long approaches and zigzagged in towards landing zones located along the city’s western perimeter.

  The plan called for each dagger to move inwards, secure designated objectives, and rendezvous on the main plaza, where the shuttles would pick them up. Still linked with the ship’s external sensors, Raksala-Ba felt his heart beat a little bit faster as the trees reached up for the shuttle’s landing skids, and gunfire winked at him from below. Something rattled against the heavily armored hull and he knew it was ground fire.

  The shuttle landed with a heavy thump, Commander Naga-Ka gave the appropriate command, and led his fellow cyborgs into a full-fledged ambush. Realizing the Hudathans would have to land somewhere, and knowing the jungle would force them to put down in one of a limited number of clearings, the Muldag had laid thirty or forty ambushes in hopes of killing the Hudathans as they de-assed their transports. And, if Raksala-Ba and his companions had been run-of-the-mill troopers, the plan might have worked.

  But Raksala-Ba and his comrades werenʼt run-of-the-mill troopers, they were cyborgs, and that made all the difference. Most of Dagger Two’s borgs were hit within seconds of their arrival. Some of what the Muldag threw at the Hudathans was of questionable quality but the rest consisted of human-manufactured armor-piercing rounds and should have cut the landing force to shreds. But it took the cyborgs only seconds to realize that what they’d been taught was true—their armor was proof against anything short of an antitank weapon, or one of the Legion’s quads. That reduced fear to little more than pleasant tension. The cyborg Hudathans went to work.

  Thanks to their sophisticated sensors, the cyborgs had little difficulty finding pockets of heat and electro-mechanical activity in the surrounding forest. Raksala-Ba established a rhythm: Target, aim, select, fire . . . Target, aim, select, fire . . . Target, aim, select, fire.

  The ground heaved as salvos of grenades searched for and found Muldag automatic-weapon pits. Leaves rippled and disappeared as bullets tore through them and found Muldag snipers. A tree swayed, then toppled as a flight of missiles locked onto a makeshift antenna and exploded on impact.

  But the battle was not entirely one-sided, as Raksala-Ba learned when the cyborg to his right took a shoulder-launched heat-seeking missile directly in the center of his chest and disappeared in a ball of flame.

  Raksala-Ba moved more carefully after that, and took better advantage of available cover, but there would be no more than four such deaths during the exercise, which was well within the number of missile-inflicted casualties the observers were willing to sustain. They wanted the newly blooded cyborgs to know they were powerful, but mortal as well, so they would protect the bodies they had been given.

  But Raksala-Ba was oblivious to that, and much more interested in the fact that each time a furry brown body fell in front of his weapons, he was rewarded with a mild orgasm. Killing the Muldag became a game, an effort to string the kills together in a long, uninterrupted sequence, so the pleasure never stopped. Others did likewise and it was hard to find enough indigs to make everyone happy.

  It took the Hudathans little more than six hours to reach the ancient limestone city and sweep through the already devastated streets. The observers noted that by the time the shuttles landed and the cyborgs climbed aboard, only a handful of Muldag had survived.

  And so it was that congratulations were exchanged, toasts were drunk, and the Regiment of the Living Dead won its first battle.

  10

  An intelligent enemy is betterthan a stupid friend.

  African proverb

  Author and date unknown

  Clone World Alpha-001, the Clone Hegemony

  The light from the holo table lit Parker’s face from below and made him appear even more cadaverous than usual. Booly had summoned the noncom to one of the ship’s many conference rooms to review the plan by which their personnel would be moved from the spaceport to the fortified control point that was their particular responsibility.

  The map occupied the entire eight-by-four-foot holo surface. Everything from hills to fire hydrants appeared to be three dimensional and threw shadows that were synchronized with the time of day. There was a great deal of surface detail since all of the necessary vid scans had been conducted from low orbit. Sewer lines and fiber-optic cables were represented by nearly invisible pastel lines or were missing altogether.

  Parker ran a slender, almost delicate finger along a major arterial, paused at one of the many traffic circles, and speared the next intersection. “There it is, sir. Checkpoint X Ray.”

  Booly nodded his agreement. “So, Sergeant, given that company HQ will send hover trucks to carry the troops, how long will it take our personnel to join the rest of the platoon?”

  Parker frowned. “Assuming the transport is on time, assuming the drivers know their way around the city, and assuming our borgs are fully operational, about thirty minutes or so. A question, sir?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Does the lieutenant mean to say that the troops will travel without us?”

  Booly grinned. “Yup, that’s what the lieutenant means to say. You and I have special authorization to travel with General Mosby’s party. It departs approximately four hours before our people are scheduled to go and will pass within three city blocks of Checkpoint X Ray.”

  Parker looked thoughtful. “That would allow the lieutenant to arrive unannounced.”

  Boolyʼs grin grew wider. “The sergeant has an excellent grasp of tactics.”

  Parker nodded slowly. “It occurs to me that the lieutenant has the makings of one grade-A sonovabitch. No offense intended.”

  “And none taken,” Booly said cheerfully. “Grab your kit, Sergeant. The captain’s gig departs forty from now.”

  Legion general Marianne Mosby settled into one of the gig’s large leather-covered acceleration couches, assumed the “don’t bother me” frown that functioned to keep staffers at arm’s length, and concentrated on the palm top’s color screen. Shuttle trips had long ceased to fascinate her, and think time was hard to find. The trip from Earth had given her plenty of opportunity to study the strategic situation vis-à-vis the Clone Hegemony, but she hadn’t gotten around to the key personalities involved, and they were fascinating. Especially the men, who were identically handsome, and if the intelligence summaries could be believed, as different as flakes of snow.

  Mosby scrolled downwards, came to a 3-D color image of the Alpha clone Marcus-Six, and paused. Like his brothers, Marcus-Six was very, very good looking, even with a bar code printed across the middle of his forehead. Unlike his siblings, however, Marcus-Six had some ineffable quality that she found appealing. Sensitivity? Concern? Whatever it was triggered her rather active libido. Which was a waste of time, since like his subjects, Marcus-Six was not allowed to engage in sexual activity. Or, according to some of the rumors she’d heard, not able to.

  Which reminded Mosby of her own situation, and the fact that she’d be fifty soon, an age when the prospect of babies becomes less and less likely. Oh sure, there were plenty of options, including sperm donors, in vitro fertilization, surrogate mothers, auto wombs, and other less savory possibilities. But she wanted the real thing, including hot, steamy sex, a full-term pregnancy, and a traditional delivery. Never mind the fact that she was a general, or that she had turned down numerous offers of marriage, or that she was too blasted old. She wanted a baby, damn it . . . and was in the habit of getting her way.

  “General?”

  Mosby found the intrusion annoying and switched to her “you’d better have one helluva good reason for bothering me” expression. “Yes? What is it?”

  The petty officer quailed. “Thirty to touch-down, ma ’am. The pilot said you’d want to know.”

  Mosby did want to know and felt guilty about what she’d done. She mustered a smile and thanked the NCO for passing the message. He blushed and hurried away. Mosby sighed. Men
were such simple creatures. Boring and predictable. Then why were they such a problem?

  Alpha Clone Marcus-Six stood before a huge window and stared out over the city. It was a study in symmetry. Carefully spaced streets intersected each other at precise right angles; apartment buildings, office towers, and dispersal centers stood shoulder to shoulder like well-disciplined troops; and traffic moved with computer-controlled efficiency.

  But like his life, the city only appeared to be orderly. Because just beneath the neat, seemingly orderly surface, a witch’s brew of ideas, thoughts, beliefs, truths, perceptions, lies, theories, ambitions, fears, and hopes churned and bubbled like a cauldron on the boil.

  Less than two months had passed since President Anguar’s visit, and the only thing that had changed was the level of danger that Alpha-001 faced. While pretending to stall the confederacy, and seeming to humor their brother, Pietro and Antonio were secretly preparing for war. They had, among other things, seeded agents on Alpha-001, funded a low-key but effective anti-Confederacy propaganda campaign, and sponsored isolated “guerrilla” attacks on Legion outposts. All in the twin names of “freedom” and “autonomy.”

  But how much “freedom” and “autonomy” would the Clone Hegemony find under the heel of a Hudathan combat boot? Not very much. Yes, the free breeders were disgusting, but at least they were human, and might eventually see the error of their ways. Which was why Marcus continued to favor an accommodation with the Confederacy. His sibling’s delusions of grandeur aside, the Hegemony was too small to stand against the Hudathan Empire alone, and unlikely to survive once the Confederacy was defeated, an outcome that an alliance might forestall.

  But it would be difficult if not impossible to come out in favor of an alliance with the very government that viewed genetic planning as a violation of individual rights and had garrisoned troops on his planet. Especially when a large segment of the population approved of and supported the so-called freedom fighters.

  Now, with the departure of the wonderfully incompetent General Sinkler, and the arrival of equally competent General Mosby, a bad situation had suddenly turned worse. Or had it? Assuming that the new officer was as capable as the intelligence reports claimed she was, and assuming that he provided some carefully disguised assistance, it might be possible to slow or even stop the rot his siblings had started. Discrediting his brothers’ freedom fighters would be a good place to start. Yes, a promising thought indeed, which in conjunction with other plans, might turn things around.

  Marcus turned his back on the window, checked his watch, and saw that General Mosby was scheduled to pay him a courtesy call in an hour or so. There was a spring in the Alpha clone’s step as he passed the double helix that dominated the center of his office and headed for the door. Opportunity, as the old saying goes, waits for no man.

  In order to maintain an appropriately low profile, and to facilitate the dropoff, Booly had talked his way aboard the last unit in the convoy. Like all of its kind, the quad stood twenty-five feet tall, weighed about fifty tons, and was heavily armed. Each of the four-legged cyborgs mounted multiple energy cannons, an extendable gatling gun, missile racks, grenade launchers, and a variety of light machine guns. All of which would make it damned hard for someone to attack the convoy from the rear. The quad had no difficulty matching the lead vehicle’s forty-mile-per-hour pace and ran with surprising grace. Booly, Parker, and a squad of legionnaires rode in the cyborg’s belly compartment. The up-and-down motion took some getting used to but was no worse than riding an armored personnel carrier cross-country. The noncom tapped his wrist term. “We’re just about there, sir.”

  Booly nodded and slapped the ready button next to his helmet. “Hey, Grady, thanks for the ride. The next corner would be fine.”

  The cyborg “heard” the officer electronically and swept the area for any sign of an ambush. His sensors detected lots of everything but nothing unusual. “That’s a roger, Lieutenant . . . welcome to the neighborhood.”

  The enormous cyborg paused, lowered its belly to a point only six feet off the street, and opened the starboard-side personnel hatch. Knowing the quad would catch hell if he fell too far behind, the legionnaires hurried to bail out. A host of strange odors filled Boolyʼs supersensitive nostrils and the concrete felt good as it smacked the bottom of his boots.

  Servos whined as the hatch closed above them and the cyborg took off. A pair of identical unicycle cops followed along behind. All three accelerated smoothly, closed the gap between themselves and the convoy, and slowed accordingly. Traffic, which had been delayed so the convoy could pass, flooded the intersection.

  Booly looked around. Apartment buildings rose on all sides, windows staring down onto the street, walls hemming him in. Everything was spotlessly clean, boringly consistent, and broodingly hostile. The legionnaire sensed a presence behind him, and turned to find six identical children standing there, watching him with open curiosity. They were of African descent and had kinky black hair, dark brown skin, and large, expressive eyes. They all appeared to be seven or eight.

  Booly smiled and saw that their expressions remained unchanged. The children were afraid of him. Why? Because he was a stranger? A soldier? No, they had seen legionnaires before, so it was something else. Then it came to him.

  Moving slowly, so he wouldn’t scare them away, Booly lowered himself to one knee. The children looked at each other questioningly but stood their ground. The officer smiled reassuringly, reached for the nearest child’s hand, and pulled it towards his face. Large eyes grew even larger as Booly took the little boy’s hand and rubbed it against a furry cheek.

  Suddenly there was a giggle, followed by laughter, and a wholesale rush to run grubby hands through short, soft fur. Suddenly Booly was transported back to his childhood when he and the other cubs had followed groups of legionnaires as they made their way between the earthen domes collectively known as “Naa town.” The odor of incense had hung heavy on the air while smoke drifted upwards from dooth-dung fires and barely heard commands issued from inside the fort. The fort that had been constructed to keep the Naa out—until the Hudathans attacked, that is—and the tribes sided with the Legion. The right decision . . . but not one born of mutual respect.

  Though never hesitant to make use of Naa labor, or to avail themselves of Naa prostitutes, the troopers had treated the inhabitants of Naa town with undisguised contempt, as did most of their “wild” and therefore “pure” brethren, his mother’s tribe included.

  But Windsweet had been more understanding, and explained that the Naa who lived in Naa town did so for a reason, and could not be judged except by those with similar experiences. Which might or might not account for the fact that she occasionally left him with a cousin while she and his father took part in meetings within the fort.

  His cousin had been a beautiful little female, all laughter and smiles, who had not only been partner to his first kiss, but had subsequently led him through the rubble that lay heaped at one end of the high walls, and into an old storm drain, which led back through the original structure’s foundation and into the fort, where bars prevented access.

  The memory gave Booly an idea. He stood with exaggerated slowness. Parker watched, half-bored, half-annoyed. His assault rifle was slung across his chest and ready for use. The pre-drop briefings had been very specific regarding the danger of lingering too long in one place or of socializing with the locals. “We’d better get a move on, sir.”

  Booly nodded and held out his hand. “Give me a fragmentation grenade.”

  Parker had several. He released one from its pouch and handed it over. “Yes, sir. May I ask the lieutenant what he plans to do with the grenade?”

  “Yes,” Booly replied thoughtfully, “you may. Children should have toys. A grenade will do nicely.”

  The office was large and almost spartan in its white-walled simplicity. A painting, one of thousands produced by the same group of artistically gifted clones, hung over a glass-topped credenza. The
Alpha clone sat in a high-backed executive-style chair. His touch-sensitive desk had been tilted upwards to take the glare off the built-in screen and keyboard. A pair of intentionally uncomfortable chairs completed the decor.

  Marcus-Six timed his motions so that General Mosby would see that he’d been working rather than waiting for her, yet feel honored by the speed with which he abandoned that activity, and came to meet her. The Alpha clone could be quite charming when he wanted to be.

  “General Sinkler! How nice to see you again. And this must be General Mosby. Your courage in the face of the emperor’s tyranny is legendary. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Mosby had dealt with more than the emperor’s tyranny, including a rather erotic interlude involving the emperor, his clone, and a huge bed. But she saw no reason to mention that. Especially since Marcus-Six had been brain-washed to think that sex, any kind of sex, was a crime against science. Mosby accepted the Alpha clone’s outstretched hand and felt something pass between them. He sensed it too and a look of surprise registered on his face. “The honor is mine, Mr. President. I look forward to working with you.”

  “And I with you,” Marcus-Six replied smoothly. “Come . . . I took the liberty of arranging for an early dinner. I hope both of you will join me.”

  Checkpoint X Ray occupied what had been a small park, a park the Hegemony’s city planners had funded with an eye to recreational and military needs since it served a densely populated neighborhood and commanded an important intersection. Which was why the Legion had placed a platoon-sized reaction force there and why the locals resented it.

  In addition, the off-worlders had cut down fifty identical oak trees to create a free-fire zone, dug a network of interconnected underground bunkers, and built a five-foot-high berm around the park’s perimeter. Not to mention the eight-foot-tall electrified fence that topped the berm, the reinforced-concrete pillbox-control center that crouched behind the only gate, the floodlights that blazed around the clock, the ominous-looking cyborgs that patrolled the grounds, and the grotesque fly forms that dropped from the sky like dragonflies onto a steel-reinforced lily pad.