Legion of the Damned

by William C. Dietz

  “I’m only going to say this once ... so listen carefully. You have been charged with dereliction of duty, refusal to obey lawful orders, incitement to mutiny, and high treason. On behalf of the Emperor, and in accordance with the relevant military codes, I hereby relieve you of command, and order that you step down. You will surrender yourself to the military police and be confined to quarters until I arrive. Lieutenant Colonel Andre Vial has been appointed to take your place.”

  Only those who knew St. James extremely well would have noticed the slight tic in his right eyelid and understood what it meant. His expression was otherwise unchanged.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Vial is somewhat incapacitated at the moment. It seems that my intelligence people caught him trying to load and launch an unauthorized message torp. As for stepping down and surrendering myself to traitors, the answer is no. The Legion will stand against tyranny even if it comes from within.”

  Scolari’s jaw worked and her fists were clenched into balls of bony flesh. “Then say your prayers.” The Admiral made a cutting motion with her right hand and the video snapped to black.

  Bio bods, cyborgs, and vehicles of all sorts had poured out of Fort Camerone for hours now. Radios crackled, orders snapped, engines revved, servos whined, boots stamped, and gears ground as they headed out into the wastelands. The lights that normally lit the parade ground had been extinguished, but the sun was in the process of rising, so it was possible to see.

  Long dark shadows slanted down from the walls, rippled across the jam-packed grinder, and gave Booly a place to hide. Escaping from the base hospital had been as easy as walking away. Now came the hard part: breaking his word of honor, betraying those that trusted him, and discarding his way of life. But if desertion was horrible, then the other possibility was even worse.

  Windsweet had filled a space that he hadn’t even known existed, and having done so, had left an emptiness that only she could fill.

  Booly had been thinking of her as General St. James pinned a medal to the front of his hospital robe, had dreamed about her that night and every night that followed, until it seemed as though he thought of nothing else and would explode if he didn’t see her, hear her voice, smell her perfume, or touch the fur that covered her body.

  Booly’s breath came in short shallow gasps and his heart beat like a trip-hammer. His shoulder ached, nausea filled his stomach, and fear weakened his knees. To desert now, on the very eve of battle, was to sever all ties with the Legion and become an outcast. He would be hunted by aliens and humans alike, forced to scavenge a living from the surface of a harsh planet, all because of someone he should never have even known, much less loved.

  But no matter what he told himself, no matter how much he tried to suppress the feelings, they wouldn’t go away. So he would trade what he had for what he couldn’t live without, and willingly pay the price.

  A platform surfaced and a company of Trooper IIs clanked off. Some bio bods were right behind them. Elements of the 1st RE under the command of Colonel “Crazy Alice” Goodwin. She marched at the head of the troops, her badly scarred face a symbol of the sacrifice that she was willing to make, and expected others to make as well.

  Booly waited for the legionnaires to climb into the waiting APCs, drifted out of the shadows, and marched briskly towards a heavily loaded hover truck. He carried a field pack stuffed with E-rations, twice the normal amount of ammo, and a brand-new assault rifle. He opened the passenger-side door, threw his gear inside, and climbed into the cab. It smelled like stale cigarette smoke. The driver was surprised but cordial.

  “Hi, Sergeant Major ... need a ride?”

  “Yeah, the brass had me on an administrative shit detail. Just busted loose. Have you seen Legaux? Or any of his staff?”

  The driver wore a kepi tilted towards the back of his head. A cigarette rode the top of his left ear, and thick red eyebrows wiggled as he talked.

  “I didn’t see him, but the 1st REC pulled out about three hours ago, or so I heard. A good thing too. Wouldn’t want the swabbies to catch the borgs in a trap. Don’t know where they headed, though ... so I might take you in the wrong direction.”

  Booly nodded. “Well, the way I figure it, somewhere’s better than nowhere, so let’s go.”

  Radios crackled and the column started to move. The truck in front of them rose on its fans. Grit sprayed sideways and rattled on the windshield. Turbines whined, the truck wobbled, and the cab tilted forward. The main gate came and went. The fortress and everything it stood for disappeared behind them.

  The mobile command post (MCP) consisted of three linked units, each with its own set of tracks and individual power plant. The vehicle, custom-designed for use on Algeron, looked like a segmented beetle as it crawled up and over gently rounded hills or waddled through low-lying gullies. A squad of six Trooper Ils accompanied the huge vehicle, scouting ahead and protecting its flanks.

  Boulders popped under the MCP’s considerable weight and peppered the undercarriage with rock shrapnel. One of these, larger than the rest, caused module 2 to lurch sideways. Natasha lost her balance, slid toward the edge of the jump seat, and grabbed for a handhold. It made her conscious of where she was. The sights, sounds, and even the smells were foreign to her.

  Module 2 functioned as a defensive nerve center and used encrypted radio transmissions to stay in touch with sensor stations all over the planet. A single aisle ran down the vehicle’s axis. Rows of computer-controlled equipment and camo-clad technicians sat to either side. It was their job to take raw intelligence, put it through sophisticated computer programs, and feed the resulting summaries to module 1, where St. James and his staff used the information to plot strategy.

  Tactical problems, like those handled in module 3, relied on the sensor stations for data, but were dealt with by an artificial intelligence known as “Bob.” It was Bob’s job to counter incoming missiles, attack ships, and energy weapons that could reach down from space itself. Since the Legion had no air or space force of its own, Bob’s role was especially important, with most of his processing ability being dedicated to antiaircraft activity.

  Natasha knew that a second MCP, identical to the first, and under the command of St. James’s XO, Colonel Edwina “Ed” Jefferson, was also on the loose, maintaining complete radio silence, but ready to take over should the first unit be destroyed.

  They were new facts, new realities, completely unlike anything Natasha had dealt with before, as strange as the heavily starched camos she wore.

  “Would you care for some coffee?”

  The question came from a master sergeant. She had large expressive eyes, creamy brown skin, and flashing white teeth. The module rocked slightly but her hand stayed steady as a rock, The cup had a lid to prevent spills. A tendril of steam twisted its way up from a small slit.

  Natasha accepted the cup. “Yes, thank you.”

  The legionnaire nodded and leaned against an equipment locker. She had a mug of her own.

  Natasha sipped the piping hot liquid and held the cup between her palms. Warmth seeped into her hands. The module lurched sideways and a few drops of coffee escaped the lid.

  The master sergeant smiled sympathetically. “Not to worry, ma’am. The terrain will become smoother soon and stay that way till we reach the foothills.”

  Natasha took another sip of her coffee. “What then?”

  The legionnaire smiled. “Then we slip into one of many prebored tunnels, connect the MCP to a batch of prelaid cables, and slam the back door.”

  “Slam the back door? What does that mean?”

  “Simple,” the other woman replied cheerfully. “We blow the hillside and use a few hundred tons of rock to seal ourselves in.”

  Although Natasha had no military training to speak of, she had no trouble understanding the logic involved. The enemy might or might not know about the mobile command posts and the prebored tunnels, but even if they did, they wouldn’t know which hidey-hole the Legion had used, and, with tons of rock
sealing them in, the command staff would be safe from anything short of a direct hit by a baby nuke. Not only that, but specially protected radio and cable facilities would ensure their ability to communicate. She thought of one potential problem, however.

  “But how do we get out?”

  The legionnaire shrugged. “The Pioneers will dig us out, or failing that, we’ll abandon the command post and use escape tunnels already in place.”

  Someone called her name, so the master sergeant nodded in Natasha’s direction and headed towards a well-padded chair. A mike swiveled in front of her mouth as if folded around her. The tech sitting to the woman’s right said something and she laughed in response.

  Natasha envied their companionship and found herself thinking of Leonid. Guilt rolled over her like a wave. Her husband had been dead how long? Weeks? Months? She tried to calculate all the variables involved and quickly gave up. A month seemed about right. Not much time really, and she had already betrayed him, if not physically then emotionally, for she had every intention of pursuing the relationship with St. James wherever it might go.

  Sergi knew how she felt and approved. Natasha was sure of that. If her ex-father-in-law approved, there was nothing to worry about, was there? And what did it matter with death all around?

  The module lurched, the deck slanted down, and Natasha hung on. What would be, would be.

  Booly waited until a rock slide brought the convoy to a jerking halt, thanked the driver for the lift, and jumped to the ground. He didn’t know what the younger legionnaire thought about his sudden departure, nor did he care. No, it was not for corporals to ask such questions or for sergeant majors to answer them. Too bad his rank wouldn’t mean much out in the wastelands.

  Three day-cycles and two night-cycles had passed since their departure from Fort Camerone. The sun had started to set, the air tasted clean after the stuffiness of the cab, and gravel crunched beneath his boots.

  Vehicles were lined up bumper-to-bumper for more than a mile, sitting ducks for low-flying aircraft. Officers and noncoms swore, burning the airwaves with their invective, trying to clear the jam by force of will. It was too late. The rearmost vehicles were backing up, but by the time they got far enough back to do some good, the obstacle would have been removed.

  Cyborgs were dispatched to cover both flanks, prayers were said, and electronic eyes swept the heavens. The swabbies hadn’t dropped into orbit yet, or so intelligence claimed, but nobody trusted them.

  Engines growled as heavy equipment moved up to clear the slide and hundreds of troops left their vehicles. Some stretched, and told each other lies about their sexual prowess, while the rest moved out into the surrounding ravines in search of some privacy. Booly joined them.

  Weapons were SOP for such excursions, but packs were the exception. Booly received more than a few quizzical looks. Still, if the sergeant major wanted to lug fifty or sixty pounds of extra weight around, who were they to object?

  Booly found that it was relatively easy to slip into a side ravine, check his back trail, and disappear into the quickly gathering darkness. After that it was a simple matter to find a crevice, sit down, and wait for the Legion to go away. It took the better part of an hour, but the shouts, bursts of radio traffic, and engine rumble finally died away.

  A Trooper II, on the lookout for bandits and stragglers, crunched its way down a dry riverbed but neglected to scan Booly’s crevice. The pod steps died away and allowed complete and utter silence to fall over the land. Booly discovered that he had never felt so all alone.

  The ridge made a perfect vantage point. The Naa chieftain wriggled forward, brought the binoculars to his eyes, and zoomed in. It was nearly dark, but the Legion-issue glasses did an excellent job of gathering what light there was and amplifying it.

  Wayfar Hardman watched the earthmovers scrape out shallow trenches and saw the quads settle into them like ground-nesting brellas. The “Rulu,” or attack from beneath the ground, was one of the Naa’s favorite tactics, and the chieftain gave a grunt of approval. Dug in, and covered over with loose soil, the cyborgs formed a nearly impregnable cluster of mutually supporting fire bases.

  No, Hardman corrected himself, not impregnable, since the Legion had never used such tactics against the Naa. Nor had they needed to, since no tribe or combination of tribes could stand against such massed strength.

  Of equal interest was the fact that similar things were taking place at a variety of locations, none of which had any special bearing on his people, but had been frequented by humans in the past. Places where holes had been dug, mysterious boxes had been buried, and humans visited once or twice a year.

  Hardman had issued orders to excavate one such box in hopes of finding a weapons cache but had lost three of his best warriors in the ensuing explosion.

  So what was happening? And whom did the humans fear? Whoever it was had to be as strong or stronger than they were to justify such extreme precautions. Anyone who was that strong would represent a threat to his people as well, since they could be killed in the cross fire.

  The aliens who called themselves “Hudathans” seemed like the likeliest possibility, but who knew for sure? A race such as the humans were likely to have multiple enemies, must have multiple enemies, or why have so many warriors?

  For the first time, and much to his own surprise, Hardman wished that Booly had stayed. Though somewhat strange, and a bad influence on Windsweet, the human was a competent warrior. The fight with Surekill proved that. Booly would know what these activities meant and be able to provide advice. But the legionnaire was gone and that was that.

  Hardman pushed himself backwards, felt gravel slide under his chest, and got to his feet. Rocks littered the plateau. It was necessary to jump from one to the next. All were warmed by the sun every other hour. Heat-sensitive ganglia located in the soles of his feet helped identify the largest and, in most cases, the most stable rocks.

  Hardman’s dooth caught his scent and snorted a greeting. The chieftain snorted in reply, vaulted into the saddle, and urged the beast forward. Three of his most trusted warriors moved with him.

  A storm was gathering, and even a fool knows that the best place to seek shelter during a storm is deep, deep underground.

  The atmosphere reminded St. James of a primitive church, with screens where the altars would be, each tended by its own priest or priestess, all of whom were in communication with the gods.

  Except that these gods were flesh-and-blood human beings, located hundreds or even thousands of miles away, and none were immortal or armed with supernatural weapons.

  St. James sat at the front end of module 1 with his back to the airplane style control compartment. The command chair hugged the officer in its black embrace, whining softly, as it cushioned him from the effects of the explosion.

  An empty coffee cup clattered to the deck and someone swore. A voice whispered in his ear.

  “The back door is closed, sir. All stations are in the green.”

  “Roger. Crank her up. Give me a sitrep, please.”

  Information flooded the legionnaire’s mind. Scolari’s forces were in orbit. Energy beams had started to probe the surface, assault craft had been launched, and drop ships were falling through the atmosphere. Facts, figures, reports, and commentary were processed and fed through St. James’s headset. The Second Battle of Camerone had begun.

  Scolari basted in her own sweat. The pressure suit kept everything in, including the smell of her own body. The officer blinked her eyes. It felt as if they were lined with sandpaper. How long had she been in the ops center anyway? A long time. Sleep beckoned but she pushed it away. Her subordinates were fools and would ruin everything if left on their own. The plans were the key. She reviewed them one last time.

  All Imperial forces were required to file primary, secondary, and tertiary battle plans on any installation classified as “Triple A” or better, and the Legion was no exception.

  Ironically enough, all three plans had been draw
n up by the traitor Mosby prior to her assignment on Earth. All had one thing in common. Consistent with their absurd traditions and notions of honor, the Legion planned to defend Fort Camerone to the death.

  According to the schematics, drawings, and other materials on file at NAVCOM Earth, the fort would be a hard nut to crack. It was a hardened, mostly subterranean complex, equipped with thickets of missile batteries and energy cannons that could reach the upper atmosphere. Having no air arm to speak of, and rightfully fearing those who did, the Legion had invested a great deal of money in antiaircraft technology.

  So it was this commonality, this insistence on defending Camerone, that Scolari planned to exploit. By concentrating her attack on the fortress, and reducing it to rubble, she would kill the monster’s brain and destroy the majority of its strength at the same time. Casualties would be high, but the price would be worth it.

  The very thought of it refreshed Scolari’s mind and sent adrenaline pumping through her veins.

  Death reached down from the sky, found Fort Camerone, and caressed it with fire. Computer-guided missiles came first, blowing holes in the steel-reinforced concrete, preparing the way for the smart bombs that followed.

  Any one of the bombs would have leveled the complex had Scolari’s forces been authorized to use nuclear weapons, but the Emperor had expressly forbidden them, pointing out that Algeron belonged to him and might come in handy someday.

  So the fortress died the death of a thousand cuts, crumbling a bit at a time, until both it and what had formerly been Naa town ceased to exist. But the destruction was far from one-way, as salvos of self-directed missiles rammed their way up through the atmosphere to hit the troop-packed drop ships as they plummeted downwards.

  It was only later, when it was too late to make much use of the information, that a computer would notice that the fortress had made little or no attempt to intercept the missiles directed towards itself, and had used every weapon it had to destroy the incoming troopships. The fort’s ability to attack such vessels was eventually neutralized, but not before 26 percent of the marines in the first wave were killed. Scolari was furious.