Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle

by William C. Dietz

  The cyborg sent a burst of code to the automatic defenses designed to protect the firebases’s enormous support columns, received a tone, and led her patrol into the floodlit area directly beneath the platform.

  The lock located in the base of Support Column Six opened, allowed the squad to enter, and closed behind them. The water level dropped as air was pumped in. O’Neal felt the elevator move upwards and was ready when the chemical spray came on. It was green and had been formulated to kill all of the spores and bacteria that clung to their armor.

  The only problem was that it couldn’t reach all of the nooks and crannies of a Trooper II’s anatomy without some help. Which was why the squad raised their arms above their heads and shuffled in a circle like primitives worshiping the sun. Khyla needed help with her wounded arm, which would have made the whole thing look even stranger had there been someone there to witness the event.

  Dripping, and as clean as technology could make them, the squad left the elevator and entered Firebase Victor. Gratings clanged underfoot, a maintenance bot slid along the ceiling, and a holo-projected likeness of the 3rd REI’s flaming grenade insignia, with the words: Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country) filled the opposite wall.

  The next two hours were spent being debriefed by a fuzzy-cheeked second lieutenant. He asked every question on his list, and freaked when the ambush came up, since it didn’t fit any of the patterns he’d been told to expect. The result was a long series of tedious questions. The cyborgs had answered every one of them three times before the lieutenant called it quits.

  Finally free, and looking forward to some well-deserved down-time, O’Neal was stopped in the hall. Clubacek was short and skinny but a whole lot tougher than he looked. “Hey, Sarge, the major wants to see you, on the double.”

  O’Neal nodded her massive head. “Thanks, Corp . . . I’m on the way.”

  Major Harlan’s office was located one level up, and like everything else on Firebase Victor, was intentionally large to accommodate Trooper IIs. O’Neal rapped on the door three times, and announced her name, rank, and serial number. The single word “Come” was sufficient to bring her inside. She snapped to attention. Armored shutters had been opened to let in the soft gray light. The furnishings were as plain and austere as the man they served. He had a receding hairline, a hooked nose, and a pencil-thin moustache. “At ease, Sergeant . . . welcome home.”

  O’Neal knew, as did all the other legionnaires stationed on Firebase Victor, that rather than allow his company to be overrun during the Battle of Algeron, Harlan had called on orbiting battleships to attack his own position, decimating both the Hudathans and what was left of his command. No one could say with certainty why the major had volunteered for a long series of commands such as the one on Drang, but some said it was a self-imposed penance for what he had done, while others swore he was crazy. Whatever the reason, he was a good officer and they were lucky to have him. He smiled. “I’d invite you to take a seat but there are regulations concerning the destruction of government property.”

  O’Neal had heard the joke before but laughed anyway. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand.”

  Harlan nodded. “I hear you ran into some trouble out there.” The fact that the CO knew about the ambush didn’t surprise O’Neal in the least. He knew everything, or that was the impression she had, as did everyone else.

  “Yes, sir. The frogs dropped from overhanging trees into the river. I was asleep at the switch and Khyla took a harpoon.”

  Harlan noted the factual response, the acceptance of responsibility, and the resulting consequence. He also knew that part of the blame was his, for failing to anticipate such an attack, and taking steps to prevent it. But that was for later. The noncom’s response confirmed a decision made earlier. He sat on the edge of his desk. “These things happen. We learned something today. Everybody’s alive. That’s what counts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harlan looked at her, as if trying to penetrate the armor, to get at the person within. “I have news for you, Sergeant.”

  O’Neal felt the bottom drop out of her nonexistent stomach. Mom? Dad? Were they okay? “Sir?”

  “You have orders for a new unit being formed on a planet called Adobe. A very special unit that could play an important role in the war.”

  In spite of the fact that O’Neal wasn’t especially happy about life as a cyborg, she hated what the Hudathans had done, and was ready to do her part. “Thank you, sir. May I ask what sort of unit? And what makes it special?”

  Harlan smiled. “Beats the heck out of me, Sergeant. Drop me a line when you find out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good luck, Sergeant. You did a fine job here on Drang. We’ll miss you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” O’Neal clanked to attention, delivered a crisp salute, waited for the acknowledgement, and turned towards the door. Sixteen short hours later her brain-box had been pulled, lifted into orbit along with five others, and plugged into a special life-support system that allowed them to remain conscious. The cyborgs could sleep, play games, listen to music, live alternate lives, or sharpen their military skills via the ship’s virtual-reality matrix.

  O’Neal tried to enjoy herself, tried to see the journey as a much-needed vacation, but couldn’t escape the feeling that something nasty waited at the other end of the trip.

  17

  The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and do good service for his sovereign, is the jewel of the kingdom.

  Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Standard year circa 500 B.C.

  Clone World Alpha-001, the Clone Hegemony

  President Moolu Rasha Anguar lay suspended in the gossamer-light silk-thread hammock and stared at the ceiling over his head. Some idiot or collection of idiots had painted a Confederacy seal up there so he could never forget who or what he was. The last thing the Dweller wanted to do was to strap himself into the exoskeleton and spend the day on the surface of Alpha-001. But that’s what he had to do. Now that the Hudathans had declared war, the Hegemony was even more important than before.

  The fact that he had fifty thousand troops plus the infrastructure needed to support them tied up on the Clone Worlds was bad enough, but the possibility that the Hegemony would actually side with the Hudathans was truly terrifying. Not because the Clones were a serious military threat, but because they could open a second front, and thereby siphon off resources that would otherwise have been directed towards the Hudathans.

  That was why Anguar had agreed to visit Alpha-001 and take one last crack at diplomacy. The planet’s ranking officer, one Marianne Mosby, thought it was worth a try, and had made some progress on her own. Of course she was sleeping with an Alpha clone, or so his intelligence network claimed, but that could be an advantage, depending on whether the general used the leverage to help the Confederacy or herself.

  The Dweller made the purring sound that signaled amusement. Did the Confederacy have a decoration for heroic screwing? If so, he would make sure that Mosby received one. Unless she supported the other side, that is, which would make him angry, and result in her almost certain death.

  A tone signaled the start of a long miserable day. Anguar swung his feet out of the hammock, found the floor, and shuffled towards the bathroom. He might be president but he still had to pee.

  It could have been any time of day or night, thanks to the blacked-out windows and the artificial light. Previously busy androids stood here and there, frozen in place, their work complete.

  Fisk-Eight felt a sense of anticipation as he watched Fisk-Three climb into the Trooper II’s cramped control space and strap himself in. Unlike a lot of the things his cell had attempted, this plan could actually work, and assuming it did, the Alpha Clones known as Antonio and Pietro would be grateful. Yes, the morning would be an interesting one, and he looked forward to it.

  “You look ha
ppy,” Three said as he connected the last of the sensor pads to his legs.

  Eight gave himself a mental kick in the pants for allowing his semipermanent scowl to slip. “I’m pleased with the quality of our work, that’s all,” he replied gravely. “And for the cell. Your victory will be our victory.”

  Servos whined as Three tested his controls. “I’m glad you feel that way, my brother. I was afraid that you envied my role in the assassination.”

  Eight shrugged. “I know it isn’t seemly, but the truth is that I do envy your role, although I’m doing my best to fight it.”

  Three looked sympathetic. “And you’re doing a wonderful job. I said so in the report I submitted last night. Is the truck ready?”

  Eight nodded. “Ready and waiting.”

  Three attempted to look at his wristwatch and a huge arm moved in response. He laughed. “Good. Close the hatch and secure the seals. It’s time to go.”

  Starke was tired, which was the way he usually felt after he dreamed about the crash that had destroyed his body along with those belonging to 152 other men, women, and children. He hadn’t seen it, of course, or even been awake at the moment of impact, but he’d watched the computer-generated court-holos hundreds of times.

  But reveille is reveille, and when Parker said “Jump,” it was time to move. Starke released his joint locks, ran a systems check, and followed the other cyborgs out of the maintenance bay. The platoon had been stationed at Checkpoint X Ray for so long that the small parking lot seemed like home.

  The unit formed by squads and came to attention as Booly appeared. Like the bio bods and cyborgs that fronted him, the young officer had paid special attention to his uniform. His fatigues crackled, light winked off his highly polished belt buckle, and his kepi sat just so. He stopped in front of Parker, returned the noncom’s salute, and the inspection began.

  The platoon had been chosen to be part of the presidential guard, a high honor indeed, and one that General Mosby took seriously. Which meant that the colonel, the major, and the captain took it seriously, too, as did Booty, who had no choice in the matter. He made a show of pausing in front of each cyborg, of flipping one of their multiple inspection plates open, and peering at the readouts within. But given the fact the platoon’s maintenance techs had fussed over the Trooper IIs well into the night, there was very little chance he’d find something to complain about.

  The same was true of the bio bods, all of whom had been preinspected by Parker and the other noncoms. That left Booly with little more to do than nod and mumble a litany of compliments. “Nice turnout, Paxton . . . good job, Starke . . . keep it up, Minh . . .” and so on, until the entire platoon had been inspected and found fit for duty.

  Then it was time to form up and move out. The president and his entourage were supposed to arrive in front of the hat-box-shaped governmental complex at 1100 hours sharp. That meant the honor guard must arrive at 0800 so they could secure the area and still have time to complain about the rotten duty they had pulled. There were the usual orders, last-minute screw-ups, and unforeseen changes. Starke “heard” his name come over the radio and gave the mental equivalent of a groan. “Hey, Starke! Shake a leg. D’Costa has a warning light and the techs need time to scope it out. She pulled drag and I want you to replace her.”

  Drag sucked, but it wouldn’t pay to say so, which left Starke with no choice. “Got it, Sarge . . . I’m on the way.”

  Finally, Booty led his platoon out of the compound and into early-morning traffic. It was morning rush hour and the noncoms struggled to keep the column “right and tight.” But the Legion had been dirtside for a couple of years now and familiarity breeds contempt. Rather than avoid the off-worlders as they had during the early days of occupation, the clones used their three-wheeled cars to weave in and out of the convoy, pulled in front of the APCs, and peppered the legionnaires with rude gestures. The air turned blue with Parker’s invective. It made absolutely no difference. Within five minutes of hitting the street the column was stretched out over twelve city blocks.

  Starke tried to walk backwards, mindful of his responsibility to watch the platoon’s rear, but it was hard to do, especially as vehicles swerved in front of him, pedestrians jay-walked every which way, and children hurled the usual insults. “Hey, freak! Hey half-man! Death to free breeders!”

  Starke ignored the insults and the occasional rocks that bounced off his armor. It was tough, but the job was to keep a sensor out for real threats, the kind posed by people with shoulder-launched missiles, remotely piloted attack drones, and explosive-packed suicide droids. His surroundings were transformed into a blur of threat readings, trajectories, vectors, ranges, and heat sources, all flooding his senses, lighting up his displays, and vying for the cyborg’s attention. Which was why he missed the significance of a little boy named Fisk Twenty-seven trotting alongside him on the sidewalk, why he ignored the truck that cut him off from the rest of the platoon, and why he died.

  Fisk-Eight monitored the rear-facing camera. His truck was a large, boxy affair that smelled of freshly baked bread. By placing it where he had, the lead elements of the column would be unable to see what happened next. He spoke the word “now” into the voice-activated microphone and knew the right person would hear it.

  Trotski-Eleven was twelve blocks away in a beat-up sedan. It hadn’t been easy to stay in front of the military convoy but he had managed. The word now was all the stimulus he needed to side-swipe a triple-decker bus. The larger vehicle screeched to a halt, followed by Trotski and the entire column of legionnaires. The anarchist tilted his chin down towards his lapel mike, said “Done,” and triggered the timer on the thermite bomb that rode in the passenger’s seat. The car was completely engulfed in flames by the time he reached the sidewalk and vanished into the quickly growing crowd.

  Fisk-Eight smiled happily as thick black smoke poured upwards to stain the sky. Traffic ground to a halt and he glanced at the ceiling-mounted monitor just in time to see the boy named Fisk Twenty-seven dart out from between a pair of stalled vehicles and slap a disk against the lower part of the Trooper II’s back. Only the most careful observer would have noticed the manner in which the cyborg jerked as a half million volts of electricity were discharged into the legionnaire’s electro-mechanical body. The electricity fried Starke’s circuits, burned his subprocessors, and cooked his brain. A wisp of gray smoke drifted away from a heat vent on his port side.

  It took less than three minutes for Fisk-Eight to lower the truck’s ramp so that Fisk-Three, still encased in the Trooper II-like exoskeleton, could clank down and onto the finely grained pavement. Which was almost exactly the amount of time it took Booly’s APC to push the still-burning car out of the way, put a call in to the local fire department, and move forward again.

  Fisk-Three had walked around in front of the truck by that time, and was easy to spot when Booly checked the number of transponders in his heads-up helmet display, and found the correct number. The van, still manned by Fisk-Eight, stayed where it was just long enough for Twenty-seven to hook a cable around one of the Trooper II’s enormous ankles, activate the winch that had been bolted to the truck bed, and jerk the now-dead cyborg off its feet. There was a loud crash as it hit the street. With that accomplished, it was a relatively simple matter to winch the carcass into the truck and close the door. The sight of this activity elicited cheers from the clone-packed crowd, who, while unsure of what had taken place, sensed that the Legion had received the short end of the stick, and heartily approved.

  Eight smiled, nodded to the crowd, and pulled away from the place where Starke had died. Fifteen minutes later the truck was full of bread, Starke’s body was being stripped of its armament, and the anarchist was having breakfast in his favorite café. There would be plenty of time to read the morning newsfax, trade insults with the regulars, and watch the assassination live. Life was good.

  Marcus wore a formal toga secured with a double-helix-shaped silver pin. Mosby wore her full dress uni
form with medals. They had spent the night together in the Alpha Clone’s quarters and were waiting for Anguar to arrive from the spaceport. Marcus had suggested sex, and while Mosby would have agreed under normal circumstances, today was different. Duty came first, which was why she took the opportunity to slip a small disk into the Alpha clone’s holo player, and waited for the video to appear.

  Marcus frowned. “What’s this?”

  “Some propaganda,” Mosby said honestly. “Ignore the narration and watch the pictures. They were taken on the surface of Worber’s World, but it could have been Alpha-001, or 002, or 003, and will be if we lose the war.”

  Marcus watched Norwood and her troops walk into the Hudathan ambush, watched them fight, and watched them die. The narration had been created with the Confederacy’s citizens in mind, and was therefore open to question, but the video was undeniably real, not because it couldn’t be faked, but because he knew it hadn’t been faked, and the knowledge made him sick. He watched a Hudathan execute a female general and knew it could have been Marianne. Could still be Marianne. He thought about what she had come to mean to him, about the life that could be growing inside her belly, and knew he could never allow it.

  The Alpha clone touched the coffee table’s control comer and the holo tank snapped to black. “Marianne, there are some things that you and President Anguar need to know. My brothers entered a pact with the Hudathans. They agreed to open a second front that will split your forces between the aliens and the Hegemony.”

  Mosby nodded calmly. She was disappointed but not especially surprised. “They told you this?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No. I have a spy that they don’t know about. A clone taken from an officer named Arrow Commander Nagwa Isaba-Ra. The real Isaba-Ra was tracked and killed while taking long-range sensor scans of Alpha-001. Knowing the Hudathans would continue to be a threat, I gave my scientists permission to replicate the scout’s body, scrub the resulting brain, and download one of our most experienced agents into the newly vacated tissue. He returned home to the Hudathan fleet, received a hero’s welcome, and was assigned to War Commander Poseen-Ka. He was present when my brothers cut their treacherous deal.”