Legion of the Damned

by William C. Dietz

  Memories came flooding back. Memories of what it felt like to be human, to move her limbs, to suck air into lungs, to taste, hear, feel, and see without electronic assistance. She laughed, and Salazar joined her, taking a flesh-and-blood hand in his and whirling her through an impromptu dance.

  Villain felt wonderfully light, but tired with surprising suddenness, and remembered how weak a bio bod really is. Nothing like a cyber-form that could dance for days and never tire. She came to a stop. Salazar kept the grip on her hand. It felt good.

  “What’s beyond the fog?”

  “Whatever you like. The more completely we visualize our surroundings, the more real they become.”

  Villain considered that. A place both of them were familiar with would be best. She thought about Earth and the Pacific Ocean.

  “The beach, with surf and no people.”

  Salazar nodded. The fog swirled, grew transparent, and vanished. Miles of pristine beach appeared, backed by whitewashed condos, hotels, and mansions, empty of people. Sun beat down on her back, surf broke twenty yards out, and foam surged towards her feet. The leather pumps were silly and she wished them away. The sand felt warm and damp beneath her feet.

  “Hello, baby.”

  Salazar had changed. He wore a loose-fitting blue shirt, white shorts, and slip-on tennis shoes. He looked handsome and she loved him. A flood of emotion rolled over her and was transformed into tears. Salazar took her in his arms. For the first time since her death Villain felt warm and secure.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “We can have sex if you want.”

  “Next time, or the time after that. There’s no hurry.”

  For the first time since her induction into the Legion Villain felt truly happy. They were still together, sill walking on the beach, when death fell from the sky.

  Colonel Alex Baldwin sat sideways, wedged between two Hudathan soldiers, pondering his fate. The landing craft shuddered as it hit the outer layer of Algeron’s atmosphere, slowed as friction warmed the surface of its hull, and jerked as a pair of short stubby wings were extended from the fuselage.

  He remembered the military history classes that he’d been forced to take, and the soldiers who had volunteered for the Forlorn Hope at the siege of Badajoz, hacking their way through flesh and bone for a laurel-wreath badge or the chance of promotion. He imagined that he felt as they had. Dread, mixed with a terrible sense of elation, knowing that his decisions were behind him and nothing but the present remained.

  Poseen-Ka wanted him dead, but had given him one last chance. Yes, he was a member of the almost suicidal first wave, yes, he would lead troops against a heavily defended target, but some chance is better than none. And a victory, snatched from the jaws of almost certain defeat, would entitle him to the same forgiveness granted Hudathans under similar circumstances. It wasn’t much but would have to suffice.

  Baldwin smiled grimly. There was something else as well. Everyone agreed that the Emperor was dead, and assuming that was true, he had already accomplished the first part of what he’d set out to do. He had proved his competency, made them sorry, and evened the score. The only thing missing was absolute power over those who had betrayed him, but the possibility remained, and he might have it yet.

  The landing craft lurched as a SAM exploded nearby, but the human didn’t even notice. His mind was far, far away.

  Natasha had made herself a seat behind St. James. Everyone agreed that the Hudathans had the odds on their side, and that being the case, she preferred to die with someone she cared about. Besides, where better to track the battle than by looking over the general’s shoulder?

  St. James knew she was there, but his attention lay elsewhere. Information poured in through his headset and the visual displays that surrounded him. The voices were male, female, and computer-generated.

  “Wave one has entered the atmosphere, sir. Existing glide paths suggest at least three hundred landing zones, most in the northern hemisphere. Waves two, three, and four are only minutes behind.”

  St. James felt his jaw tighten. It was a massive attack calculated to overwhelm his weakened defenses. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the Hudathans had found a way to multiply the variables he’d have to track, thus spreading his forces over more territory. Divide and conquer. The axiom was as old as war itself. They key was to ignore the small stuff and keep his eye on the ball. He fought to keep his voice calm.

  “Continue to track. Provide me with grid coordinates on anything battalion strength or better.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Another voice whispered in his ear.

  “‘A’ Company, 2nd REP, has located and engaged a force of Hudathan scouts. They were southbound on feeder road RJ2.”

  “Likely target?”

  “Three possibles, sir. A Naa village in sector four, the underground ammo dump on the edge of five, or the missile battery at B-18.”

  “Anything from Jenny?”

  “Yes, sir. She says not to worry, sir.”

  “Good. I won’t. Next?”

  “The orbital bombardment has begun, sir. The enemy is using both energy cannons and missiles to probe the hills in sector four. It appears as if they know about MCP Two and are trying to smoke it out.”

  “Use a land line. Tell MCP Two to button up and stay off the air until further notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The next voice sounded female but belonged to a computer.

  “The first wave has landed. We have three battalion-strength-or-better landing sites, sir. One in the south and two in the north. All three can be viewed on screen three.”

  St. James looked. He didn’t like the landing in the south, but the northern sites concerned him more, since both were close to strategic targets.

  The larger and more vulnerable of those was the fusion plant that had supplied Fort Camerone with most of its power, and while buried deep, was still vulnerable to attack. Though fairly well camouflaged, the heat generated by the plant and electromechanical activity around it would be visible from orbit. He had anticipated a move against the power planet, however, and had positioned a goodly portion of the 1st RE, along with elements of the 1st REC, to defend it.

  Of yet more concern was the vast underground facility known as “Logistical Supply 2” (LS-2), which housed the only remaining cybernetic repair facility. The first, and primary, maintenance center had been destroyed along with Fort Camerone. Making the situation even more difficult was that he had counted on LS-2 escaping initial detection. But the Hudathan spy-eyes had proven themselves to be damnably efficient and it looked as though they’d found it. There were troops nearby, including some borgs, but not nearly enough. No, it looked as if the Naa would have to plug the gap, and he hoped they were up to the task.

  “Get Sergeant ... I mean Major Booly on the com.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Seconds passed before Booly spoke. He was on radio rather than land line. “Banditkiller One. Go.”

  The deserter’s code name stuck in the general’s craw but he chose to ignore it. St. James cleared his throat and knew that the sound would be encrypted, routed hundreds of miles away, and broadcast via a relay station.

  “Heads up, BK-One. The geeks have part of one wave on the ground with at least three more in-bound. Preliminary computer projections suggest more than three hundred drop zones—repeat, three hundred—with most in the northern hemisphere. Over.”

  There was a pause as if Booly were absorbing the news.

  “Roger that, L-One. One wave on the ground plus three on the way. I recommend independent-command small-unit tactics against everything company strength and below. Over.”

  Booly was sticking to the game plan and St. James approved. There had been insufficient time to integrate the Naa into the Legion’s forces and train them to fight as the humans did. Besides, their tribal structure, knowledge of the terrain, and experience as guerrilla fighters made them perfe
ct for the task at hand.

  “Roger that, BK-One. Remind your company commanders to activate their beacons. I’d hate to see an entire tribe wiped out because a quad thought they were geeks. Over.”

  The beacons, identical to those carried by the Legion’s bio bods, were Booly’s idea. Given the fluidity of the coming battle, and the independence of his subordinates, the potential for mistaken identities was enormous.

  “Beacons. Yes, sir. Over.”

  “And another thing, BK-One ... We have a battalion-strength landing party just east of LS-2. A mixed force of bio bods and borgs are in the area ... but won’t be able to hold it. Move your troops into position, make contact with Force Apple, and hold until further orders. Questions? Over.”

  “No, sir. Over.”

  “Good. Kick some ass. Over.”

  St. James broke the connection, prayed that Booly would hold, and moved on to the next set of problems.

  The landing craft hit the ground with a distinct thump. Baldwin had been waiting by the hatch and was the first one out. His determination to lead from the front, and take the same kind of risks they did, amused the troops and impressed them as well. Courage, be it human or Hudathan, was something they revered.

  The ramp bounced under Baldwin’s combat boots. One of the planet’s weird one-hour-plus nights was under way and it was pitch-black outside. His Imperial-issue night-vision goggles made everything look green. The air was cold and smelled fresh. Gravel crunched as his troops spread out and took up defensive positions. Their skin had turned black in the cold and made them hard to see. There was no sign of opposition. Not too surprising, really, considering how many landing zones the Legion would have to deal with. Baldwin adjusted his helmet mike. The command frequency would override all other transmissions and leave no doubt as to who had spoken.

  “The landing zone is safe. Ships two, four, and five may land.”

  The third drop ship had been destroyed in the upper atmosphere and pieces of it were still landing over a large section of the northern hemisphere.

  There were no acknowledgments or any need for them. An order was an order.

  The other ships had been hovering a hundred feet overhead, waiting for the all-clear, ready to provide suppressive fire. Repellers roared as the landing craft dropped into position and formed a fighting square.

  Hatches hissed open, vapor out-gassed, ramps lowered, and troops poured forth. Vehicles followed, tracks clanking, engines growling. One stalled, sputtered, and died. A noncom swore. Orders were snapped and bodies moved. An armored personnel carrier backed up to the ramp and towed the supply truck out of the way. Thus freed, the rest of the vehicles rolled off and took their assigned positions.

  Baldwin took one last look around. The landing craft had a lot of firepower and he hated to part with it.

  “Arrow Commander Tula-Ba?”

  Tula-Ba was Baldwin’s second-in-command, a job he’d done his best to avoid, but wound up with anyway. Baldwin didn’t know it, but Tula-Ba had been issued a small remote and could activate his implant if that seemed appropriate. The Hudathan was thirty yards away checking the perimeter.

  “The spy-eyes and scanners are clear, sir.”

  “Good. Ships one, two, four, and five may lift. Thanks for the ride, and good luck.”

  The landing-craft pilots didn’t believe in luck and made no reply. Repellers roared, the ships lifted, and the main drives were engaged. One minute they were there and the next minute they were gone.

  Baldwin grinned. So far so good. The Legion had been kind enough to construct a road that passed within four miles of a cybernetic maintenance facility known as LS-2 and he wanted to thank them. He strode towards an armored command car.

  “All right, Tula-Ba . . . load ’em up.”

  The cavern’s interior was warm and cozy. Windsweet sat cross-legged before the fire. Aromatic incense burned in a bowl. Smoke wafted up around her head. Both Booly and her father had objected to her being alone, but Windsweet had insisted, pointing out that the villages would come under attack as soon as the Hudatha realized that the Naa were a threat.

  But that wasn’t the real reason she had stayed; no, the real reason had to do with the life in her womb and a desire to spend some time by herself. Like all females of her race, Windsweet had known her baby’s sex from the start. The cub would be male, courageous like his father, strong like his mother. But what of his physical appearance? Would she give birth to a monster? Something so ugly no one could bear to look at it? There had been rumors of half-breeds born to the prostitutes of Naa town, but she’d never seen one. That was why she’d stayed: to pray for her loved ones and cast the Wula sticks.

  The Wula sticks had been in Windsweet’s family for generations, wrapped in brightly decorated dooth hide, and handed down from mother to daughter. To one unschooled in the arts of divination they might have been taken for so many polished sticks, some longer than others, all of the same diameter.

  Windsweet inhaled the rich aroma of incense and reached for the package at her feet. She opened it carefully, reverently, as her mother had taught her to do, and spread the hide on the floor. It bore a design and would provide the sticks with a safe landing place.

  Then, holding the Wula sticks with both hands, she raised them above her head and started to chant. It was a soft sound, conceived by females and denied to males.

  The chant continued for a while, rising and falling in pitch, folding back on itself only to start anew. When Windsweet’s beingness seemed to float outside of herself, and the moment felt right, she opened her hands and allowed the Wula sticks to fall. The clatter of wood on wood served to bring her back from where she’d been.

  The sticks lay in a jumble, layered like the years in someone’s life, and crossed like the tracks of a wandering dooth. The reading of the sticks was part art, part science, and called for complete concentration. Windsweet frowned and allowed her eyes to follow the topmost sticks down into the maze.

  Many hours passed during which she learned that while her child would look different, he’d be beautiful as well, and destined for a life among the stars. But there would be trouble too, and terrible danger, with no surety that he’d survive. But if he did manage to survive, the sticks told Windsweet that her son would bring great honor to both his peoples and be celebrated for centuries to come.

  The Wula sticks told her nothing of Booly’s fate, or of her father’s, for she was afraid to ask. “There are,” her mother had said, “many things we shouldn’t know.”

  Rising from her place by the fire, Windsweet took a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Making her way up along the spiral staircase, she slipped out through the doorway and onto the plateau. A breeze blew in from the west, ruffled her fur, and probed the blanket for holes. The sun was rising and contrails made claw marks across the blue sky.

  The sun had just cleared the horizon and threw long black shadows across the ground. The scout, a Naa by the name of Farsee Softfoot, squatted. Booly, Roller, Hardman, and Shootstraight did likewise. Softfoot looked tired, which wasn’t too surprising, since he’d been up for more than twenty-six hours and run more than fifteen miles cross-country.

  “So,” Hardman said, “what are the smelly ones up to?”

  “They’re coming this way,” the scout answered matter-of-factly. He picked up a stick and drew an S-shape in the sand. “They’re coming down the road like so. Should be here in three, maybe four hours.”

  “Shit,” Roller said.

  “Yeah,” Booly agreed. “Three hours doesn’t give us much time to get ready.”

  “How many of them are there?” Shootstraight asked pragmatically.

  Softfoot squinted into the quickly rising sun. “About three hundred, give or take. A lot of them ride inside their vehicles so it’s hard to tell.”

  Booly felt his heart sink. Three hundred! Against 27 bio bods, 12 borgs, and 120 Naa irregulars. Only slightly better than two-to-one odds. Still, it couldn’t be helped.
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br />   “All right,” he said, trying to sound confident, “three hundred it is.”

  “Actually three hundred and one,” Softfoot said phlegmatically.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Hardman demanded impatiently.

  “The smelly ones have a human,” the scout replied, “and judging from the way they treat him, he’s in charge.”

  Booly’s eyebrows shot towards the top of his head. “A human? It can’t be!”

  “Why not?” Hardman asked. “You left the Legion. Others could do likewise.”

  The chieftain’s logic was impeccable and Booly was forced to agree. He avoided Roller’s eyes. Assuming Softfoot’s report was true, and he had no reason to doubt the scout, it meant the Hudathans had another advantage. A renegade would understand human tactics and be ready to counter them. More bad news. Booly did his best to ignore it and gestured for Softfoot’s stick. Taking it, he drew a picture in the sand.

  “Here’s the road. It crosses the mouth of the valley like so. Assuming the Hudatha are heading for LS-2, they’ll leave the road here and head down-valley. There isn’t any road, but the path is wide enough for a single column of vehicles.”

  “What?” Softfoot grumbled. “I don’t know the way to my own privy?”

  Booly grinned. A legionnaire would never have said such a thing. Not to his face anyway.

  “Sorry. I was thinking out loud. The objective is to stop them, well short of LS-2 if at all possible, and with a minimum of casualties.”

  “How ’bout an ambush?” Roller asked, pointing to Booly’s trail. “We could lie in wait, trigger some mines, and hose ’em down.”

  “Good,” Hardman said tactfully, “but not good enough. The trail is narrow, but the valley is wide, and the smelly ones could spread out.”