Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle

by William C. Dietz

  None of which mattered to Corporal Sanford, who yawned and wished her semipermanent hangover would go away. Of course that was unlikely, what with the loot spending most of his time at HQ, the top kick dogging it as much as she could, and Sergeant Yang running his jury-rigged still around the clock. Nope, Sanford decided, there was very little chance of sobriety in her future. She grinned and scanned the monitors racked in front of her.

  Two people were supposed to be on duty inside the control center, but supposed to didn’t mean much at Checkpoint X Ray, so Sanford was alone. That being the case, she was glad that all seventy-three of the checkpoint’s surveillance cameras were up and running. The shots they provided clicked on and off with monotonous regularity and painted an ever-changing mosaic across the monitors in front of her.

  Sanford looked up E Street towards the north . . . down West Twenty-fifth at the never-ending traffic . . . up at a section of uniform roof line . . . and out at a row of sterile facades. Her eyelids grew heavy and started to fall. Sleep tugged, trying to pull her down into its warm embrace, but a proximity alarm jerked her back. Within seconds other alarms had joined the first and the legionnaire was blasted with an annoying chorus of beeps, squeals, and tones. Eager to silence them, she scanned the screens. The children were familiar figures that hopped, skipped, and jumped through the outermost threat zone, and tripped her sensors as they had many times before.

  Sanford was just about to activate the PA system, and order the little beggars to leave, when one of them threw something into the air, and another caught it. The object in question looked like a grenade but that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

  A sudden rush of adrenaline cleared Sanford’s head and served to heighten her senses. She selected the appropriate camera, ordered it to zoom in, and found that her worst fears had been realized. Some idiot had allowed the children to get their hands on a Legion-issue grenade!

  To her credit, Sanford thought of the children’s welfare first, but rather than call for backup as she should have, she left the control center without her TO weapon and rushed to intervene. Which was a violation of general orders and a serious breach of security procedures.

  It was a relatively simple matter for Booly and Parker to cross the street, identify themselves, take Sanford “prisoner,” retrieve the disarmed grenade, and pay the children with some local currency. Booly laughed when all six of them flashed identical smiles, giggled, and skipped away.

  Sanford, white faced, and clearly shaken up, was marched through the unlocked gate and into the pillbox-control center where she was secured to a chair. It took Booly only seconds to locate the controls for the perimeter security system and turn them off. He knew that doing so would trigger alarm units worn by the platoon commander and by his or her first sergeant. They would be pissed, real pissed, but helpless to do anything about it. Or so he hoped.

  Seconds passed, followed by minutes, and no reaction at all. Had the two men been enemy commandos the entire platoon would have been dead by now. Booly shook his head in disgust. He turned to Sanford. There were sweat-stained half-moons under her armpits. “So, where is your CO?”

  Sanford devoted the better part of a second to deciding whether to cover for the loot or let his ass swing in the breeze. The second alternative seemed a lot more appealing. “He’s not here, sir.”

  Booly frowned. “Where the hell is he? On patrol?”

  Sanford had never seen a half-human officer before and found the sight fascinating. “No, sir. Lieutenant Fedderman prefers to sleep at HQ. We see him once or twice a week.”

  “And the borgs? There should be at least one Trooper II on duty at all times.”

  “The borgs are with the lieutenant.”

  Booly and Parker looked at each other. The legionnaire’s replies spoke volumes. Rather than bunk with his troops Fedderman preferred to kiss REMF (rear echelon motherfucker) ass and have steak for dinner. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had taken the platoon’s borgs along to function as his personal bodyguard. Parker lifted an eyebrow. “And the first sergeant?”

  Sanford didn’t care anymore. Her ass was grass and everyone could damned well fend for themselves. She shrugged. “He’s passed out somewhere.”

  Booly nodded. There was no doubt about it. Discipline was seriously screwed up. He motioned to Parker. “Turn the corporal loose.” He squinted at the name tag sewn over the legionnaire’s left pocket. “Sanford, is it? All right, Sanford, I want you to call company HQ. Tell ’em were gonna run a drill out here, and not to worry if they hear about some sort of disturbance. Got it?”

  Sanford had decided that the new loot was a lot more attractive than the old loot and wished she looked better. “Yes, sir.”

  Booly smiled. “Good. Restore the security system and hold the fort while Sergeant Parker and I play reveille.”

  It took them less than five minutes to weave their way through a series of sandbagged walkways and down into a labyrinth of underground bunkers. Mud squished beneath their combat boots as they walked the length of a hand-dug tunnel and entered a large chamber.

  At least twenty-five legionnaires occupied what looked like twenty bunks. Some wore clothes, some didn’t. Layers of thick gray smoke hung in the air along with the almost nauseating odor of sweat, booze, and vomit. A wild assortment of scavenged beams held the spray-plas reinforced ceiling in place. Jury-rigged lamps threw light down onto a floor strewn with dirty uniforms, poorly maintained field gear, mud-caked boots. A beeper beeped and Parker picked up a pair of olive drab pants. The beeper was attached and he turned off. “Don’t know which one is the first sergeant, sir, but here’s his pants.”

  “He won’t be first sergeant for long,” Booly said grimly. “Lock and load.”

  Both men released their safeties, put a round in the chamber, and aimed their weapons at floor. Booly grinned. “Time to wake the troops, Sergeant . . . let ’em have it.”

  The assault rifles made more noise than usual within such an enclosed space. Every single one of the legionnaires was awake within the first two seconds. Some tried to get up, to leave their racks, but retreated as a hail of bullets tore through the jumble of uniforms, gear, and boots that littered the floor. Eventually, after both men had fired full thirty-round magazines, the noise died away. Dust motes drifted through the light and fell towards the floor.

  Booly looked around. Some of the faces were black, some were white, but most were brown. Some of the legionnaires met his eyes, daring him to think whatever he chose, but most slid away. He had them by the short hairs and they knew it. The future looked dark. Booly nodded as if in agreement. “That’s right, assholes. Life sucks. Now roll out of those racks. We have work to do.”

  Marcus-Six heaved a sigh of relief as the door slid shut on General Sinkler’s rather corpulent posterior. Both he and General Mosby had spent the last two hours maneuvering towards some time alone. He, because he wanted to build a working alliance as quickly as possible, and she, because the Alpha clone was the most fascinating man she had encountered in some time, made all the more interesting by the fact that he was supposed to be celibate.

  In fact, the degree of polarity between them had been so strong that the average person would have detected and responded to it in a matter of minutes instead of hours.

  But Sinkler loved to talk, and worse than that loved to sing, having a pleasant though not spectacular baritone. This gift he generously shared with all and sundry, especially those who reported to him, and had heard his rendition of “Sky Legion” more times than they cared to remember.

  So, by the time Sinkler had finished the first part of his repertoire, and the dinner dishes had been cleared, the other two had built the beginnings of a relationship via sidelong glances and repressed laughter.

  Having seen Sinkler off, Marcus-Six returned to find that Mosby had left the table and made herself at home in the sitting area of his private quarters. Although the occasion had forced Mosby to wear her dress uniform, it did feature a skirt, w
hich Mosby wore slightly shorter than regulations allowed. It had ridden up to reveal a few inches of thigh. Marcus found the combination of the uniform and creamy-colored flesh to be more than a little intriguing and accepted the general’s invitation to sit next to her. He moved even closer when she pouted and patted the leather at her side. “Don’t be shy, Marcus . . . I won’t bite.”

  Though not experienced at the social-sex rituals practiced by free breeders, Marcus did his best to come up with a lighthearted response. “Really? Remind me to fire the head of our intelligence service. She claims you are one of the toughest officers the confederacy has.”

  Mosby looked pleased. “How nice of her. But that’s on the battlefield. This is closer to the boudoir.”

  Marcus-Six felt beads of sweat break out across his forehead. He had heard the rumors but assumed they were exaggerated. The fact that free-breeder women really were aggressive came as a shock. “Yes, well not too close, since our society made a conscious decision to control evolution rather than simply experience it.”

  “Yes,” Mosby said agreeably, her perfume lapping around his head, “I’m so glad we can discuss that. It seems that sexual reproduction is central to the differences between our governments. Tell me, have you ever had physical sex?”

  Marcus-Six had lost control of the situation and knew it. He felt flushed, and found it difficult to breathe. “Why, no . . . I . . .”

  “You can have sex, can’t you?” Mosby interrupted. “I mean, they didn’t cut anything off, did they?”

  The question, followed by the warmth of the hand that she placed on his thigh, gave Marcus-Six an erection. Not a new sensation but one he had tried to minimize. He babbled nervously. “Approximately two percent of the population is left intact to protect against the possibility that some unforeseen catastrophe might destroy the sperm and egg repositories.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Are sterilized to prevent unplanned births and given chemicals to inhibit their sex drives.”

  Mosby nodded thoughtfully and allowed her hand to drift upwards along the Alpha clone’s leg. His erection was a long, hard bulge under the tight cloth of the pants he wore. She smiled. “Don’t tell me . . . let me guess. Two percent?”

  Marcus-Six nodded wordlessly, removed the general’s hand from where it had come to rest, and prayed for strength. He needed this woman to help find and put a stop to the world-destroying insanity his brothers had launched. But at what cost? He looked into her eyes and realized that an already difficult life had just become more complex.

  11

  . . . The way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death.

  Miyamoto Musashi

  A Book of Five Rings

  Standard year 1643

  Worber’s World, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

  General Natalie Norwood felt the usual sense of anticipation as she strode into her quarters, discarded her clothes, and settled into the big black chair. Only this session was different, because knowing she would be down among the Hudathans made it different, though she wasn’t sure why. The quarterly inspections were a source of joy and despair. Joy, at seeing the extent to which the Hudathans suffered, and despair at walking through the charred ruins of cities she had loved.

  Still, it had to be done, just as so many other things had to be done, most of them unpleasant. She scanned through a variety of shots, found one that looked promising, and locked on. Twelve Hudathans, part of a work party, were building a rock wall. They looked woefully thin and ragged. Just one of many such efforts she had noticed of late. But why?

  Although some of the work was focused on strengthening their dwellings, a substantial part of it appeared to be random in nature. An effort to keep the troops busy? Norwood could understand the need to do that since she did the same thing herself. Troops have a tendency to get into trouble when they have too much free time.

  But the temptation to ascribe human motivations to the aliens was a dangerous one and Norwood struggled to resist it. After all, that’s what the landings were for, to perform on-site assessments of prisoner conditions and activities. Once she was there, once on the ground, the purpose of the walls would become apparent.

  The shots changed, Norwood found some images that gave her pleasure, and slowly but surely pushed each of the psychological-physical buttons that normally led to release, and from there to oblivion. Nothing. She tried again. Still nothing. Something, she wasn’t sure what, was getting in the way. Finally, feeling tired, worried, and frustrated, she went to sleep. Her dreams were dark and troubled.

  War Commander Poseen-Ka had never been more frightened. Not of death, which would come as a welcome relief after years of imprisonment, but of failure. Failure to take advantage of the opportunity he had been given, failure to revenge himself on the humans, and failure to escape from his planetary prison.

  There had never been a question as to if they would come, only when they would come, and his intelligence officers had predicted that with almost perfect accuracy. And why not? The humans adhered to consistent schedules and always inserted additional surveillance cameras just prior to an inspection. Cameras that could be tallied and tracked. Yes, Norwood had grown careless over the years, and would soon pay the price.

  Poseen-Ka, his factory-new weapons bundled at his feet, stood on the hill above the graveyard and gazed skywards. Human troop carriers had left white claw marks across the unusually blue sky as if proclaiming their ownership of it and all that lay below.

  But not anymore. Not after they landed and he took possession of both their ships and their battle station. Then, depending on what the high command had ordained for him, he would be rescued or killed during a human counterattack. But that was then and this was now. There was work to do. Soldier’s work, the kind he’d done his entire adult life, and would continue to do until the day he died.

  The war commander gathered his weapons and started down the slope. His skin started to turn black in the sun, his sandals slid on a scattering of pebbles, and a half-buried skull stared up at him from a rain-eroded grave.

  Something was amiss but Norwood couldn’t decide what it was. And because generals are supposed to base their decisions on more than just gut instinct, there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. Besides, the landing force consisted of more than a thousand heavily armed marines and legionnaires. More than a match for the bows and arrows the Hudathans could theoretically come up with. The thought should have alleviated the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach but didn’t.

  Master Sergeant Max Meyers more than occupied the jump seat across from her. The light machine gun, often served by a two-person crew, looked like a toy in his massive hands. Linked ammo crisscrossed his chest, the butt of a handgun protruded from his left armpit, and a commando knife hung hilt-down from his harness. He smiled and Norwood responded in kind. It was impossible not to. “Nothin’ like a little stroll to keep a soldier in shape, General.”

  Norwood eyed the small paunch that pressed against his shirt. “Really? Well, maybe we oughtta come dirtside a little more often, then.”

  Meyers laughed, as did those seated around them, and the shuttle leveled out. There weren’t any windows, so Norwood couldn’t see the surface, but she had little difficulty imagining the ocean of rubble that passed beneath the shuttle’s stubby wings.

  Cities, towns, homes, businesses, schools, churches, and millions of people all murdered by the Hudathans. Yes, the aliens had their virtues, but what good is bravery without compassion? Intelligence without empathy? Strength without kindness? And so it fell to her, and the men and women under her command, to keep chaos at bay, at least on Worber’s World. She couldn’t do much about the Confederacy as a whole.

  Due to the fact that the snoop-and-poop inspections had taken place for about twenty years now, and that the Hudathans were unarmed, airstrips had been cleared near their centers of population and were reused as needed. That’s why marine recon dropped first, checked the runw
ays for booby traps, and reestablished a defensive perimeter prior to each landing.

  So when Norwood’s shuttle thumped down, dumped forward momentum, and taxied towards a berm-protected parking area, she knew the immediate area was secure. Ramps were lowered, dust spurted upwards, and metal clanked as she made her way down and onto the surface of her home planet.

  Colonel Maria Chow, the highly capable commander of the 16th Battalion, 3rd Marines, was waiting, as was the irrepressible Major Ricardo Hussein, commanding officer of the Legion contingent, which had been temporarily detached from the 5th Foreign Infantry Regiment to reinforce the marines.

  Both popped to attention and held their salutes. Norwood returned them in kind and shook their hands. “Maria . . . Ricky . . . it’s good to see you. Is everything secure?”

  Hussein had brown skin and a lot of extremely white teeth. His uniform was heavily starched and he looked like a recruiting holo. “The grunts needed lots of help, General, but we showed ’em what to do.”

  It was a running joke and Chow played along. She was short and squat, like the mortars she had commanded as a lieutenant. “Shit. If it wasn’t for us, Ricky and the rest of his cyber-weenies would be up in orbit drinking hot chocolate and reading each other bedtime stories.”

  Norwood shook her head in mock disgust. “I have a whole planet to run and this is what they send me. So how ’bout it? Did either one of you slackers get a sitrep on zones one and three?”