“You will effect entry with Squad One, I will cover the back with Squad Two, Sergeant Parker will seal the secondary streets with Squad Three, and Sergeant Hafney will position Squad Four as a ready reserve. We will fire if fired upon but every effort should be made to capture the subjects alive.”
Warwick-Olson nodded approvingly. “Excellent. It would seem I picked the right officer after all. Load ’em up.”
The compliment felt good in spite of the fact that it didn’t mean much after screwing up the day before. Which meant that Warwick-Olson was a good leader, he was one helluva pathetic s.o.b., or both.
The troops piled into their vehicles, the security gate slid clear, and the APCs growled out onto empty streets. Consistent with standard security procedures, and true to her word, Warwick-Olson took the point while Booly rode drag. If either were killed, or the convoy was cut in half, one officer would probably survive.
Trooper IIs, backed by the massive quad, loped along behind. The time of day, combined with the bad weather, reminded Booly of his childhood on Algeron.
He would always remember the sound of his uncle’s voice as it woke him from a deep sleep; the soup’s creamy texture as he spooned it into his mouth; the hard, almost unbearable pressure on his bladder; the trip to the freezing cold underground privy; wonderfully warm clothes snatched from beside the eternally burning fire; the ascent to the world above, where snowflakes flew, wooly dooths awaited their owners, and mountain trails led towards adventure.
Yes, his father had come along occasionally, but his duties as chief and ambassador left little time for hunting. It was one of the few things Booly regretted about his early childhood—that his father was missing from so many of his favorite memories. A radio transmission interrupted his thoughts. The voice belonged to Warwick-Olson. “Green One to green Two.”
“Green Two. Go.”
“Checkpoint One coming up. Execute. Over.”
“Roger that. Out.”
The plan called for the APCs and cyborgs to part company at the intersection designated as Checkpoint One and follow different routes to the objective. It was common knowledge that the clones kept a close eye on the Legion’s movements so it was important to make the whole thing look as innocuous as possible.
Seated next to the APC’s driver, Booly watched the appropriate intersection appear on the control screen, gave the necessary order, and felt the vehicle swivel to the right. A quick check of a smaller screen confirmed that a Trooper II named Omanski had peeled off and was following behind.
True to the regimented way in which the clones chose to live, the streets were empty, and would remain so until 0700 when everyone would pour out of their nearly identical apartment buildings and head for whatever work their genetic inheritance dictated. It made life in the Legion seem free by comparison.
Terrified of missing one of the turns necessary to reach their objective, Booly monitored street signs with extra care, and tracked the APC’s position via a Confederacy-controlled global positioning satellite. This backup procedure took into account the possibility that the clone underground might have changed the street signs in an effort to confuse Legion forces. Just one of the many variables Warwick-Olson had planned for and he hadn’t thought of. Her voice sounded in his ears. “Green One to Green Two.”
“Green Two. Go.”
“Position check, over.”
“Position confirmed, over.”
“Roger that, Green Two. Green One out.”
Booly felt his stomach muscles tighten as the APC turned the last comer and headed for their final destination. A robo-cleaner, its lights flashing yellow, scurried to get out of the way. Booly ignored the warnings that bleated over the public com channel and sent a message to his squad. “All right, folks . . . we’re almost there. Prepare to de-ass the vehicle. Don’t fire unless fired upon. Lock and load.”
Warwick-Olson’s voice was crisp. “Green One to Green units . . . objective in sight. Two?”
Booly checked the picture supplied by the rearwards-facing vid cam. The Trooper II named Omanski had taken up his position at the last intersection and was quickly dwindling in size. “Check, over.”
“Three?”
“Check, over.”
“Four?”
“Check, over.”
“All units are in position. Execute Option A, I repeat, execute Option A. Over.”
The APC swung into an alley and stopped so as to block the ramp that led up and out of the apartment building’s underground parking facility. The rear hatch made a clanging sound as it hit the concrete and the squad de-assed the vehicle. Booly opened the side door, looked to make sure he wasn’t jumping into a hole of some sort, and bailed out. He checked, saw his legionnaires were headed for their preassigned positions, and turned towards the elephant gray building. In spite of all the preparation, all the prior thought, what happened next came as a surprise.
There was a barely heard thump as Warwick-Olson and the first squad blew the security door, effected entry, and raced up towards the sixth-floor apartment where the cell was headquartered. Glass shattered over Booly’s head and a gun barrel poked out. Armor-piercing rounds had already started to punch divots into the APC’s armor by the time he found cover behind a rusty red dumpster. The building housed hundreds of innocent people and a hail of bullets would almost certainly kill some of them. Booly gave his first combat order. “Hold your fire! Donk . . . be careful . . . but nail ’em if you can.”
Legionnaire LeRoy Donk, a graduate of the famed “one for one,” or “one round for each kill” sniper school on Algeron, was still taking aim when Warwick-Olson screamed into Booly’s ear. “We’ve got a runner, Green Two! He’s on a unicycle and coming your way!”
Booly had barely enough time to remember the gyrostabilized units used by the local police, and to visualize how one could be ridden inside the building, when the back door exploded, and a man on a unicycle surged out through an avalanche of safety glass. He had a mini-launcher in one hand and a machine pistol in the other. The one-wheeled vehicle was controlled by a combination of foot pedals and pressure-sensitive knee pads. It bumped its way down the short flight of stairs without the slightest hint of difficulty.
Time slowed as the launcher fired and a series of miniature explosions marched across the area and flashed around the APC. Booly was in motion by that time, sprinting towards the point where his path would intersect with the unicycle’s, firing low in hopes of disabling the machine. Rain spattered against his face and the smell of garbage filled his nostrils as the machine pistol winked red and brass casing arced through the air. He saw the man’s face, read the hatred written there, and fell as a bullet slammed into the center of his chest. He tried to scream, tried to call for help, but couldn’t get his lungs to work. Pain squeezed and darkness pulled him down.
The room was large, open, and tastefully decorated. A gas fire burned in the large tile-framed fireplace and carefully arranged lights added to the overall sense of warmth. It was midmorning and General Marianne Mosby was talking via a scrambled satellite link. She listened carefully, asked some questions, and nodded approvingly.
“Thanks, Major . . . I’m sorry the runner escaped, but outside of three casualties, that was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect operation. Congratulations. I’ll see you at oh six hundred tomorrow.”
Marcus-Six, his day robes swirling around his legs, entered with a tray. Steam rose from a pair of ceramic mugs and filled the air with the rich scent of chocolate. He put them down on a low-slung table as Mosby folded her communicator in half and dropped it into a civilian-style handbag. “The chocolate smells delicious, Marcus, thank you.”
Marcus smiled, reveled in the scent of her perfume, and sat down beside her. He knew he shouldn’t, knew she would test his resolve, but did so anyway. The truth was that he found her aggressive free-breeder ways strangely attractive and couldn’t help himself. “I’m glad you like it. How did the raid go?”
Mosby lifted
a cup, tested the liquid against her lips, and decided to let it cool. “Very well indeed. Thanks to the information you provided. One person got away. The rest were captured and will be interrogated.”
Marcus shrugged noncommittally. “The interrogators won’t learn much. All of the cell members trace their lineage back to five or six sets of political fanatics who were quite willing to die rather than to compromise their cause. Our founder thought such individuals might come in handy and my brothers have taken full advantage of their existence. They will be furious when they learn what the Legion has accomplished.”
“Which is one more reason why you should consider an alliance with us,” Mosby said smoothly, “before your brothers destroy all that the founder sought to build.”
It was the perfect argument, directed at his brothers rather than the system the three of them represented, and the Alpha-Clone knew that. Knew she was manipulating him. Then why did it work? How could he know what she was doing and be so powerless to stop it? And what did she want? An alliance with him, or with the Hegemony he represented?
Then he looked into her eyes, felt himself drawn slowly but surely to the eager softness of her lips, and knew the truth. General Marianne Mosby wanted both.
14
There is no better remedy against an enemy than another enemy.
Fredrich Nietzsche
Standard year circa 1875
With the Hudathan Fleet off Worber’s World
Poseen-Ka strode into the Death Dealer’s enormous wardroom and saw that the necessary preparations had been made. The court, comprised of his old protégé Grand Marshal Hisep Rula-Ka, a relatively young war commander named Mimbu Zender-Ka, and a grizzled old sector marshal named Hulu Hasa-Na were already seated.
In keeping with the nature of the occasion, their chairs were backed by solid steel. His seat had an open back that symbolized his complete vulnerability and was located in front of them. He strode towards the chair and sat down. This was the second occasion on which he had faced a court of inquiry during his career and would almost certainly be the last. Not only had he lost an entire fleet to the humans, but the war as well, and the penalty was obvious. Death. It was an ignominious but altogether appropriate end to a failed career.
Rula-Ka wasted no time in calling the court to order. He was splendid in his crossed battle harness and ruby red command stone. His voice filled the room. “By the authority of the ruling Triad, Section 3458 of military regulations, and the authority vested in me, this court of inquiry is now in session. War Commander Zender-Ka will read the charges.”
Zender-Ka’s skin was gray and tight across the plane of his face. He cleared his throat, glanced towards Poseen-Ka, and read from the printout in his hand. “Given that the fleet under War Commander Poseen-Ka’s command was committed to action more than twenty annual units ago, and was subsequently destroyed, with collateral loss of lives and material, the court calls on said officer to answer such questions as seem pertinent, and to justify his actions. Failure to answer these questions, or to cooperate with this court, is punishable by imprisonment or death. Are there questions?”
There were none so Zender-Ka continued. “When the court is satisfied that the relevant facts have been heard, evaluated, and understood, a decision shall be rendered. The decision will be binding, final, and implemented within a single cycle.” Zender-Ka’s eyes darted around the room. “Questions?”
There were no questions so Zender-Ka gestured assent. “The relevant regulations having been read, and there being no questions, the court may proceed.”
“Good,” Rula-Ka said cheerfully. “It’s my hope to have this nonsense completed in time for mid-meal. War Commander Poseen-Ka, you heard the charges, how do you respond?”
No one rises to the rank of war commander without developing political as well as military skills, so Poseen-Ka had taken note of the routine, almost lighthearted tone in Rula-Ka’s voice and knew it meant something. But what? That the officers in front of him were simply going through motions? That he’d be exonerated? Or that they didn’t care and were eager to rid themselves of a minor irritant. He had witnessed and heard stories about both situations. He worked to keep his voice level and calm.
“The charges are factually correct. I was in command of a fleet . . . and it was destroyed. The enemy proved a good deal stronger and more resourceful than previous encounters had led us to expect.”
“Previous encounters that led to the destruction of seven human-occupied systems, hundreds of ships, 1,237 research stations, fuel depots, habitats, as well as isolated colonies,” Rula-Ka put in sternly, “and were praised by the Triad.”
Poseen-Ka kept his face impassive but felt a keen sense of gratitude towards this onetime subordinate. What had started as little more than a flicker of hope burned more brightly now and warmed his body. The other officers nodded dutifully and did their best to look interested. All of which suggested that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Not to be acknowledged as such, but understood by the same mysterious process by which so many things were understood, and occasionally misunderstood, so that otherwise promising careers were sometimes terminated while less deserving records won praise and promotion.
It was what Poseen-Ka privately thought of as the dark side of a culture in which the deep-seated need for individual survival was so strong that larger social structures were tolerated only because they provided the means by which to dominate other sentient and therefore threatening races. But his desire to survive was equally strong so he listened for his cues. They weren’t long in coming.
“The court thanks Grand Marshal Rula-Ka for setting the record straight,” Zender-Ka said soberly. “Please continue.”
Poseen-Ka chose his words with care. “After the battle, my troops and I were confined on the surface of a planet the humans call Worber’s World. We remained there until freed by a fleet commanded by Grand Marshal Rula-Ka.”
“Who is well aware of the valiant assistance rendered by War Commander Poseen-Ka and his troops,” Rula-Ka intoned, “saving thousands of Hudathan lives. Video of that battle has been forwarded to the Triad and will be seen by millions of Hudathan citizens.”
Poseen-Ka looked at his onetime subordinate and realized that his previous assumptions were wrong. This was more than a well-orchestrated attempt to save what was left of a mentor’s career, this was part of a carefully designed public relations campaign calculated to build civilian support for another war and the sacrifice it would entail. The microbots, the secret weapons factories, and the ensuing ambush were all part of an elaborate script. A script written by Grand Marshal Rula-Ka.
Rula-Ka inclined his head as if reading Poseen-Ka’s thoughts and confirming his conclusions. It was Zender-Ka who spoke. “The court is once again indebted to Grand Marshal Rula-Ka for his timely observation. Would War Commander Poseen-Ka care to add anything to the account?”
“No,” Poseen-Ka replied, “that covers it.”
“Thank you,” Zender-Ka said politely. “Are there any questions for the war commander? No? That being the case, I see no impediment to a vote. Grand Marshal Rula-Ka? How do you vote?”
“War Commander Poseen-Ka executed his duties to the best of his ability. Not guilty.”
“Sector Marshal Hasa-Na?”
Hasa-Na, only barely awake by now, motioned with his right hand. “Not guilty.”
Zender-Ka inclined his head to the subordinate open-neck position. “Thank you. I vote ‘not guilty’ as well. Let the record show that War Commander Poseen-Ka is found innocent of all charges real or potential and declared fit for command. The court is adjourned.”
Stunned by both the outcome and the unexpected speed with which it had been achieved, Poseen-Ka stood to accept the congratulations of the officers who had judged him. Moments later he was ushered out of the wardroom and into Rula-Ka’s private quarters, where a table had been set and a feast awaited.
Although the Hudathan had already enjoyed some excellent meals
since his release, he still felt the urge to gorge himself on all the foods he’d been denied for the last twenty years. But the military surgeons had warned him against the dangers of excess so he limited himself to small, carefully chosen portions.
Knowing Poseen-Ka would want to devote most of his attention to the food, Rula-Ka used the opportunity to brief the recently freed officer on the strategic situation. “Here . . . have some marinated tripe. A favorite. as I recall. At least that remains the same. Many things have changed. Take the Triad, for example . . . Ibaba-Sa finally died. Some say of natural causes. Others aren’t so sure. Kora-Ka had the good sense to retire and Taga-Ba grew so senile the clan had him institutionalized. Poor old fart. Here . . . try some sour bread. All of which means increased opportunity for those who were not closely aligned with the previous Triad and are on friendly terms with the new one.”
“And Grand Marshal Rula-Ka?” Poseen-Ka asked politely. “Would it be fair to say that he falls into the latter category?”
“Yes, it would,” Rula-Ka said smugly, helping himself to a second portion of his favorite pudding. “So much so that I will need some capable officers if I am to accomplish all that the new Triad expects of me.”
Well aware that the conversation was proceeding exactly as Rula-Ka wanted it to, Poseen-Ka had no choice but to go along. “I’m pleased to hear it. Is there any way in which I could be of assistance?”
The pudding rattled as it was drawn up through a large straw and into Rula-Ka’s slit-shaped mouth. He talked with his mouth full. “Yes, old comrade, there is. It isn’t fair, what with your imprisonment and all, but the race requires your skills. I want you to accept a jump to sector marshal and command the new fleet.”
Suddenly, Rula-Ka’s eyes burned with internal fire, and eating utensils jumped as his fist hit the table. “More than that, I want you to destroy the Confederacy with the same ruthless efficiency a doctor reserves for disease-bearing bacteria! Not a single life, race, or ecology will be spared. Your job is revenge. Give it to us . . . and the entire race will be grateful.”
Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle Page 17