The legionnaire was dressed in nondescript civvies, but the denizens of the MEZ knew Santana for what he was, and it wasn’t long before hustlers, whores, and con men began to call out from doorways, sidle up to tug at his sleeve, and pitch him via holos that exploded into a million motes of light as he passed through them.
Most were little more than human sediment who, lacking the initiative to do something better with their lives, lived at the bottom of the MEZ cesspool. But there were some, like the one-armed wretch who sat with her back to a wall and had a brain box clutched between her bony knees, who fell into a different category. Men, women, and borgs who had been used by society only to be tossed away when their bodies refused to accept a transplant, or they became addicted to painkillers, or their minds crumbled under the strain of what they had seen and done.
Santana paused in front of the emaciated woman, saw the 2nd REP’s triangular insignia that had been tattooed onto her stump, and nodded politely. “When were you discharged?”
The ex-legionnaire knew an officer when she saw one, even if he was in civvies, and sat up straighter. “They put me dirtside three years ago, sir. . . . As for Quimby here,” the vet said, as she tapped the brain box with a broken fingernail. “Well, he’s been out for the better part of five years. Ever since his quad took a direct hit, his life support went down, and he suffered some brain damage. A civvie was using him as a shoeshine stand when I came along. So I saved the money to buy him. He’s overdue for a tune-up though—so a credit or two would help.”
Santana knew she could be lying but gave her a fifty-credit debit card anyway. “Take Quimby in now. Before you buy any booze.”
The woman grinned toothlessly as she accepted the piece of plastic. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Santana nodded, and was just about to leave, when a raspy voice issued forth from the beat-up brain box. Though not normally equipped with any sort of speaking apparatus, Quimby’s brain box had been modified for that purpose. And while far from functional, the creature within could still think and feel. “I’m sorry, sir,” Quimby said apologetically. “But there were just too many of them—and we lost Norley.”
Santana felt a lump form in the back of his throat. “That’s okay, soldier,” he said kindly. “You did what you could. That’s all any of us can do.”
The crowd swallowed the officer after that, the woman stood, and lifted Quimby off the sidewalk. “Come on, old buddy,” she said. “Once we get those toxins flushed out of your system, we’ll charge your power supply and go out for a beer.”
“There were just too many of them,” Quimby insisted plaintively. “I ran out of ammunition.”
“Yeah,” the woman said soothingly, as she carried the cyborg down the hall. “But it’s like the man said. . . . You did everything you could.”
It was hunger, rather than a desire to see a fight, that drew Santana to the Blue Moon Bar and Fight Club. A well-known dive in which the patrons were free to eat, drink, and beat each other senseless. The interior of the club was about a third full when Santana entered. That meant there were plenty of seats to choose from. Especially among the outer ring of tables that circled the blood-splattered platform at the center of the room. It squatted below a crescent-shaped neon moon that threw a bluish glare down onto a pair of medics as they tugged an unconscious body out from under the lowest side-rope. That left the twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot square temporarily empty as those fortunate enough to survive the previous round took a much-deserved break.
Santana chose a table well back from the platform, eyed the menu on the tabletop screen, and ordered a steak by placing an index finger on top of the cut he wanted. A waitress appeared a few moments later. She was naked with the exception of a thong and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Most of her income came from tips generated by allowing patrons to paw her body. And even though the waitress did the best she could to produce a pouty come-hither smile, there was no hiding the weariness that she felt. “So, soldier,” the woman said for what might have been the millionth time. “What will it be? A beer? A drink? Or me?” Her saline-filled breasts rose slightly as her hands came up to cup them.
“Those look nice,” Santana allowed, as he eyed the giant orbs. “But I’ll take the beer.”
The waitress looked relieved as she wound her way between the tables and headed for the bar. She had a nice and presumably natural rear end, which Santana was in the process of ogling, when a commotion at the center of the room diverted his attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!” the short man in the loud shirt said importantly. “The battle began with six brave sailors, and five legionnaires, who gave a good account of themselves until the last round, when all but one was eliminated. So, with a total of three sailors left to contend with, our remaining legionnaire is badly outnumbered. Of course you know the rules. . . . New recruits can join the combatants up to a maximum of six people per team, one Hudathan being equivalent to two humans.”
The short man raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare. “So who is going to join this brave legionnaire? Or would three additional sailors like to come up and help their comrades beat the crap out of her? She could surrender, of course. . . . Which might be a very good idea!”
The sailors, all male, had climbed up onto the platform by that time and were in the process of slipping between the ropes. The legionnaire, who was quite obviously female, was already there. She wore her hair short flattop style, and a black eye marred an otherwise attractive face. The woman stood about five-eight, and judging from the look of her arms and legs, was a part-time bodybuilder. Her olive drab singlet was dark with sweat, and a pair of black trunks completed the outfit. Her hands and feet were wrapped with tape, but the only other protective gear the legionnaire had was a mouthpiece that made her cheeks bulge. If the soldier was worried, there was certainly no sign of it as she threw punches at an imaginary opponent.
There were loud catcalls from the naval contingent, plus laughter from a sizable group of marines, but no one appeared ready to join the woman in the ring. That struck Santana as surprising, because in keeping with their motto Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country), legionnaires were notoriously loyal to each other. But by some stroke of bad luck it appeared the young woman and he were the only members of their branch present. And the last thing the officer wanted to do was be part of a stupid brawl.
“Uh-oh,” the short man said, as his voice boomed over the bar’s PA system. “It looks like the odds are about to change!”
Santana saw that two additional sailors were climbing into the ring, both confident of an easy victory. Suddenly the odds against the lone legionnaire had changed from three to one to five to one. But rather than leave the ring as she logically should have—the woman continued to jab the air in front of her.
Santana sensed movement and turned to find that the waitress with the large breasts had arrived with his steak. The huge slab of meat was still sizzling, and the smell made his stomach growl. “That looks good,” the officer said as he got up from the table. “Keep it hot for me.”
The waitress glanced toward the ring and back again. “Okay, hon, but you’ll have to pay now. Because if those sailors send you to the hospital, then the boss will take your dinner out of my pay.”
Santana sighed, paid for the steak, and threw in a substantial tip. “Like I said, keep my food warm.”
The waitress wondered why such a good-looking man would want to get his face messed up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, honey,” she said kindly. “Your steak will be waiting in the kitchen.”
“Wait a minute!” the short man proclaimed, as Santana began to make his way down the aisle. “What have we here? A legionnaire perhaps? A knight in shining armor? Let’s hear it for our latest contestant!”
Everyone, the sailors included, wanted a real contest, so a cheer went up as the officer removed his shirt and shucked his shoes. The MC gave Santana a mouthpiece and pointed to the lengths of tape that hung from one of the side-ropes. “Hel
p yourself, bud, and good luck to ya. . . .”
As Santana began to wrap his hands, his brain kicked into high gear. The latest sailors to enter the ring were clearly inebriated. Would it make more sense to take them out first? Assuming that such a thing was possible. Or leave the drunks in, hoping they would get in the way? And what plans if any did his new ally have in mind?
As Santana climbed into the ring the naval contingent handed a bottle of booze up to their team, who continued to trash-talk the Legion, while passing the bottle around. That gave the legionnaire a chance to get acquainted with his teammate. “My name’s Santana. . . . And you are?”
Before the young woman could answer, it was first necessary to remove the protective device from her mouth. Her left eye was swollen shut by that time—and Santana could see that her upper lip was puffy as well. “Gomez,” the woman said thickly. “Corporal Maria Gomez.”
“Glad to meet you, Corporal,” the officer said. “Although I wish the circumstances were different.”
The eye that Santana could see was brown and filled with hostile intelligence. “You’re an officer,” she said accusingly. The statement was tinged with disappointment.
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I am. Is that a problem?”
“It could be,” the noncom said flatly. “No offense, sir, but when was the last time you were in a barroom brawl?”
Santana had been fighting for his life only two months before, but he knew what the soldier meant, and he answered in kind. “Ten, maybe twelve years ago.”
“Then I’d say you’re a bit rusty,” Gomez replied. “Sir.”
The honorific had been added as an obvious afterthought, and Santana couldn’t help but grin. “You don’t like officers much, do you?”
“I wouldn’t go to a meeting without one,” Gomez replied disrespectfully. “But when it comes to a fistfight, then no sir, I don’t have much use for ’em.”
“Fair enough,” Santana replied gravely. “So, given your obvious expertise, how should we proceed?”
“We’ll take a corner and defend it,” the noncom replied confidently. “And, since at least two of the swabbies are drunk, they’ll get in the way as their buddies try to rush us.”
“I like it,” Santana said agreeably. “What sort of intel can you provide?”
“None of them use their feet well,” Gomez answered clinically. “But the big bastard has plenty of power— which is why I was standing here all by myself until you showed up.”
“No,” Santana objected. “That’s why you were alone, not why you were standing here. Maybe you would be kind enough to explain that to me.”
Something flickered deep within the noncom’s good eye. “I’m here because I like a good fight, no fucking asshole has been able to put me down so far, and the Legion don’t run.”
Santana might have answered, but the gong sounded, a cheer went up, and the battle was on. There wasn’t any ceremony. Just a loud bong, followed by a reedy cheer, as Gomez and Santana bit their mouthpieces. They stood side by side, with their backs to a corner, a strategy that made it difficult if not impossible to attack them from behind.
Like Gomez, Santana had been taught the fine art of kickboxing by the Legion, which considered the sport to be the martial art of choice for everyone other than special ops. They were expected to master other disciplines as well. But, as both of them assumed the correct stance, Santana could see that his teammate’s form was superior to his. So the legionnaire brought his eyes up, tucked his elbows in against his ribs, and reduced the distance between his legs. The officer knew the key was to put about 50-percent of his weight on each leg, with his right foot slightly forward and fists held shoulder high. Gomez saw the adjustments, nodded approvingly, and made a minute adjustment where her attitude toward officers was concerned.
In the meantime, the sailors were closing in. Given their recent successes against the legionnaires, plus the advantage that went with numerical superiority, the navy team expected an easy victory. Because of that, plus the scrutiny of those in the audience, the entire group wanted in on the kill. So the sailors charged in, but given the way the space narrowed, only three were able to make direct contact. That improved the odds as the first blows were struck.
The main reason that Gomez was still on her feet was the legionnaire’s ability to kick. Because most men had more upper-body strength than she did, the noncom knew the battle would be over if they got their hands on her. So now, as a drunk shuffled forward, Gomez brought her right leg up in the bent position and struck with the ball of her foot. The sailor saw the kick coming, made a clumsy attempt to block it, but was way too slow. The blow struck his sternum, forced the air out of his lungs, and sent him reeling backwards.
That was when the rating collided with one of the two men who had been forced to wait and knocked the unfortunate sailor off his feet. Both went down in a flurry of uncoordinated arms and legs. The marines in the audience thought that was funny and laughed uproariously.
Meanwhile, Santana was fighting to hold his own against the man Gomez had warned him about. The sailor wasn’t a kickboxer, and didn’t need to be, given powerful shoulders and a quick pair of hands. Worse yet was the fact that the big noncom was taller and heavier than the legionnaire was.
The officer managed to deflect another blow with raised hands, flicked his head to one side, and felt a searing pain as a bony fist grazed the left side of his head. His ear was on fire, and Santana resisted the temptation to reach back and touch it. The gunner’s mate grinned happily and shuffled his size-fourteen feet.
The legionnaire could smell the other man’s foul breath as he took a step backwards and readied a front-leg round-kick. With his leg cocked, the officer turned sideways and put everything he had into the kick. Santana heard a satisfying grunt as his shin made contact with the other man’s groin. But the noncom was wearing a protective cup, so other than being forced to take a couple of involuntary steps backwards, the sailor was largely unaffected.
The momentary respite gave Santana the opportunity to pummel the second drunk with a series of quick jabs, the last of which brought a torrent of blood gushing out of his nose. Then, as the unfortunate rating sought to stem the flow with his fingers, a blow from Gomez put the drunk down for good. But four opponents were still on their feet—and they were pissed.
Having been bested once, and chided for it by the audience, the first drunk was determined to teach the Legion bitch a lesson. And, foggy though his thinking was, he knew her feet were the key. In an act that was part inspiration and part desperation, the rating made a diving grab for the woman’s legs.
Gomez saw the move coming, tried to leap up out of the way, but was a hair too slow. A pair of powerful arms wrapped themselves around her calves, the noncom came crashing down, and a loud cheer went up. “Stomp her!” someone shouted, and two of the sailors were quick to seize upon the opportunity.
Unable to rise, and therefore unable to protect herself, all Gomez could do was curl up in the fetal position and try to protect her head as dozens of blows connected with her body. The sailors weren’t wearing boots, thank God. . . . But each kick hurt like hell.
Santana wanted to help, and would have, had it not been for the big sailor with the ham-sized fists. The two of them had traded at least a dozen blows by that time, but in spite of the new cut over the noncom’s right eye, the swabbie showed no signs of tiring. If anything, the gunner’s mate appeared to be enjoying himself.
Finally, Santana locked both hands together, brought them down over the other man’s head, and jerked him in close. Then, having shifted his weight to his front leg, the legionnaire brought the other leg up in a classic side-knee strike. He felt the blow connect with the petty officer’s solar plexus, knew he had scored, and heard a shrill whistle. Somebody shouted, “Freeze! Military Police!”
Santana would have been happy to obey the order, except one of the men who had formerly been stomping Gomez, chose that particular moment to take a
round-house swing at his head. The blow connected, the lights went out, and it felt as if someone had snatched the platform out from under the legionnaire’s feet. There was a long fall into darkness followed by a wonderful feeling of peace. The fight was over.
5
There can be no greater battle than that fought within the heart and mind of a prisoner of war.
—Grand Marshal Nimu Worla-Ka (ret.)
Instructor, Hudathan War College
Standard year 1957
PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Had it not been for the way in which Overseer Tragg murdered Lieutenant Moya, and left her body to rot on the spaceport’s tarmac, the first few hours of the 146-mile hike might have been somewhat enjoyable. Especially since it was a sunny day, the terrain was relatively flat, and they were no longer aboard Captain Vomin’s claustrophobic freighter.
However, most of the prisoners could still feel the fear, hear the gunshot, and see the young woman’s dead body as it lay on the pavement. And that, Vanderveen knew, was no accident. Tragg had a powerful ally, and it was fear. So there was very little conversation as the long column of Confederacy prisoners followed a crude trail though the triple-canopy forest. There wasn’t much ground vegetation because very little sunlight could reach the ground. What there was fell in patches and bathed each prisoner in liquid gold as he or she passed through it.
A cacophony of bird sounds rang through the jungle, and Vanderveen heard mysterious rustlings as small animals hurried to escape the alien invaders, and brightly colored insects darted back and forth. There was a brief rainstorm about an hour into the journey, and the raindrops made a gentle rattling sound as they exploded against thousands of waxy leaves. The diplomat felt refreshed once the rain stopped, but not for long, as both the temperature and humidity continued to increase.
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