Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell

by William C. Dietz

  The cavalry officer glanced at the map Conte had prepared, set off down a heavily trafficked street, and was about halfway to his destination when he saw a neatly printed sign that read, “Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC,” and knew that the camo netting and the dusty tent that crouched beneath it were the property of his new company commander. It was tempting to stop in, but it seemed as though Kobbi was expecting him, which meant that it was best to continue on his way.

  Santana had passed the company HQ by, and had just drawn level with a field hospital, when a huge Hudathan stepped out of the shade produced by a land crawler. Like most members of his race he was about seven feet tall, weighed something like three hundred pounds, and had a humanoid head. His white kepi hid the half-inch dorsal fin that ran front to back along the top of the legionnaire’s skull, but not his funnel-shaped ears, and froglike mouth. His skin was white at the moment but would turn black if exposed to cold temperatures. In spite of the heat the Hudathan boasted a uniform so crisp that it looked as if it had just been removed from a hanger. The big legionnaire wore the chevrons and rocker that denoted a gunnery sergeant. He pointed a sausage-sized finger at Santana, and said, “You! Hold it right there.”

  That was when the cavalry officer realized that he had left his blue kepi back at battalion HQ—and that the overalls served to conceal the bars on his collar. He could have set the matter straight by revealing his identity, but there was something about the sergeant that bothered him. The feeling was reinforced when a human and a Naa drifted out of the shadows to stand behind the NCO. He paused. “Yes, gunny?”

  Gunnery Sergeant Hreemo Kuga-Ka was a natural-born predator, a vicious fighter, and a sadist. That was why he had been discharged from the Hudathan army, and, having nowhere else to go, had joined the Legion. Then, relying on his skill as a warrior, native guile, and crude political skills, Kuga-Ka had risen to the rank of company sergeant—a lofty position from which he ruled with an iron hand. Now, having spotted what he assumed was a private, who had not only forgotten to put on his cover, but was dressed in sloppy overalls, the NCO was looking forward to exercising his power. The human was tall, but the Hudathan was taller, and that gave him the advantage. Kuga-Ka tried to place the soldier as he moved closer but drew a blank. “What outfit are you with?”

  “Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC,” Santana answered truthfully. “And you?”

  The bland, clearly fearless reply served to infuriate the Hudathan, who clenched both of his ham-sized fists. His toadies grinned and waited for the show to begin. “I’ll tell you who I am, slimeball,” Kuga-Ka growled, “I’m your company sergeant, your new best friend, and your worst nightmare. I’m the one who’s going take you out of the box in the morning, run your ass all day, and put it back at night! Does that answer your fucking question?”

  “Yeah,” Santana replied calmly, “it does. I look forward to hearing more about your motivational techniques in the future, but I’m kind of busy at the moment. If you see Captain Gaphy, please inform him that First Lieutenant Santana is dirtside, and on his way to meet with Colonel Kobbi.”

  The blow fell with such speed that it took Kuga-Ka a moment to absorb what had taken place. The Hudathan experienced a moment of genuine fear, since officers, especially strong ones, were a threat to his invisible empire. Still, lieutenants were a dime a dozen, and could usually be dealt with. The Hudathan came to attention. “Sorry, sir. The sergeant couldn’t see your rank, sir. It might be a good idea to wear a kepi, sir. What with the sun and all.”

  Santana nodded gravely. “I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant. Dismissed.”

  Kuga-Ka wanted to say something more, wanted to find a way to gain the upper hand, but the dismissal made that impossible. The Hudathan offered his best salute, received one in return, and did a smart about-face. His toadies knew they were in for a rough afternoon but followed anyway.

  Santana made a mental note to pull the gunny’s P-1, took another look at the map, and continued on his way.

  Once, back when he was eighteen years old, before he had been executed for murder, snatched from the brink of death, and dropped into cybernetic boot camp, Lance Corporal Bud Wilker had been six feet tall, and weighed 173 pounds. Now, only four years later, his new body stood twenty-five feet tall, weighed fifty tons, and could carry two squads of legionnaires into battle. Assuming it was fully operational that is—which it currently wasn’t. The “up” actuator on his right foreleg had sheared in two, transforming him into what his fellow quads jokingly referred to as “a tripod.” Efforts were under way to correct the problem however—with none other than Colonel Kobbi in the role of lead tech.

  The battalion commander would have been bald if he hadn’t chosen to shave his head, possessed a face like a bulldog, and sported a full day’s stubble. He was five-eight, had a barrel-like chest, and slightly bowed legs. He wore filthy overalls, and the only thing that served to distinguish him from the rest of the maintenance crew was the eagle pinned to one of his epaulettes and the fact that he swore a lot more than they did. Most tech types would have been embarrassed, not to mention resentful, had their battalion CO found it necessary to involve him- or herself in a routine maintenance procedure. But Kobbi’s people knew that the old man was there because he genuinely loved to get his hands dirty, liked to hang out with “real soldiers,” and was passionately interested in every aspect of his command.

  That wasn’t to say that the cavalry officer was unaware of the credibility that such activities earned him, the example it set for junior officers, or manner in which it shaped the battalion’s personality. Because although he was a jacker, Kobbi was extremely intelligent and happy to exploit any advantage that came his way.

  That was why a small crowd watched with interest as Kobbi directed a sergeant to, “put the frigging support stand under the frigging support plate, so we can work on the frigging actuator.”

  Wilker could have stood on three legs while the repair was made, and would have had the battalion been out in the field, but the regs called on them to, “Implement Class Three safety procedures, while in areas not categorized as hostile imminent zones as defined in section twelve, part two, of standing LEGCOM orders.”

  Metal squealed as a group of soldiers pushed the stand in under Wilker’s armored belly. “Colonel Kobbi? First Lieutenant Antonio Santana, reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Kobbi turned toward the voice and saw that an officer with dark hair and even features was standing at rigid attention. “You can skip the parade ground crap, son. We’re working on a quad—not kissing some general’s ass.”

  Santana allowed himself to relax. Kobbi was different, that was for sure, and there was something about the colonel that he liked. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “So,” Kobbi said, looking the newcomer up and down. “I understand that a bug named Hakk Batth ordered you to fire on some unarmed Thrakies during the Sheen conflict, you told him to shove it up his ass, and the brass brought you up on charges. Then, after face-fucking each other for a while, they broke you to second louie while the bug took a walk. How did you feel about that?”

  The unexpected question, combined with the unusual setting, hit Santana like a bucket of cold water—especially with so many other people around. That was when Santana realized that the nearest legionnaire was fifteen feet away, that Kobbi’s voice was pitched low enough that only he could hear it, and that the assault was by way of a test. The battalion commander wanted to see whether his newest officer would stand and stutter, try to deflect the question, or tackle the subject head-on. The cavalry officer looked Kobbi in the eye. “It really pissed me off, sir. It still does.”

  Kobbi laughed and punched the younger officer in the shoulder. It hurt, but Santana did his best to pretend that it didn’t. “Good! So, think about that the next time you order some poor sonofabitch to go die for you. Officers, even good officers, make mistakes. Besides, even though that passel of idiots broke you, somebody else promoted you back to first lieute
nant again. The Legion isn’t perfect, but it’s been my experience that things level out over the long run, assuming that you live long enough to enjoy it. See that quad?”

  Wilker was so huge that he blotted out most of the sky. It would have been impossible not to see him. Santana nodded. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “We’re getting ready to replace his right front ‘up’ actuator. The only problem is that the shafts for the forward frigging ‘up’ actuators are two inches longer than the shafts for the rear frigging ‘up’ actuators, and while we don’t have any forward frigging actuator shafts, we have plenty of rear frigging actuator shafts. All because some supply bozo screwed up. Do you follow me?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Good. So, if you were in charge here, what would you do?”

  In spite of the fact that such matters were normally handled by the battalion maintenance officer and the techs who worked for him or her, Santana took pride in knowing everything he could about the cyborgs under his command and answered without hesitation. “I would mount a second actuator bracket two inches down from the first, thereby allowing us to use a rear actuator shaft up front. In fact, based on the supply situation that you describe, I would have additional brackets welded to all of my quads, thereby facilitating maintenance under combat conditions.”

  Kobbi pretended to look amazed. “Well, I’ll be damned! A ring knocker who not only knows a thing or two about maintenance but understands the relationship between maintenance and combat. Sergeant Bolas! Meet Lieutenant Santana. The loot offered to weld that bracket for you, and even though I know you love welding brackets, I thought you might enjoy seeing an officer perform some useful work for once.”

  The comment was loud enough so everyone could hear it, and the crowd laughed. It was another test, and a rather public one, although Kobbi had seen the advance copy of Santana’s P-1 and had seen the welding endorsement that was listed under the subhead “Technical Skills.”

  It took the better part of twenty minutes for Santana to carry out a weld that any competent tech would have completed in half the time, and the result was somewhat crude, but it didn’t matter. The metal had just started to cool when the word started to spread: “The new loot knows his shit—so don’t try to push anything past him.”

  Kobbi had sources, lots of them, and by the time night fell, and he retreated to the privacy of his tent, the buzz regarding Santana had already circled back to him. The officer poured three fingers of amber liquid into a dirty glass and paused to remember the crusty NCO who had believed in him before he had come to believe in himself. A really obnoxious old bastard who had bullied him into submitting an application for officer training school, then made use of twenty years’ worth of contacts to make sure that it went through. Kobbi raised his drink. “To Top Santana, the best first sergeant the Legion ever had, and my first real friend. He’s a fine young man, Top—and you have every reason to be proud.”

  A sudden breeze came up, stirred the tent flap, and sent a breath of cool air into the tent. Kobbi downed the whiskey, killed the light, and went to bed.

  The sun was up, and the streets were damp from the early-morning spray-down, but would soon be forced to surrender their moisture to the sun. Regimental headquarters occupied four interconnected inflatable buildings, which made sense, since it took a lot of people to support three battalions of cavalry. Like most organizations of its type it was top-heavy. All manner of captains, majors, and colonels prowled the busy, air-conditioned halls. Each had responsibility for some aspect of the regiment’s administrative, logistical, technical, medical, intelligence, and air support functions. And while all of them were supposedly on the same side, they typically spent part of each day competing with each other for more budget, clout, or recognition.

  But regimental headquarters wasn’t a democracy, and at the end of the day there was only one officer who really mattered, and that was General Lani Ibo, sometimes referred to as the Iron Lady. Ibo had a tight cap of close-cropped gray hair, black skin, and high cheekbones. Her uniform was as spotless as her record and the metal table that served in lieu of a desk. She wasn’t one for knickknacks and never had been. The surface in front of her supported nothing other than a hand comp, coffee cup, and two sheets of badly mutilated hard copy. Not because she couldn’t read the orders off the screen, but because she liked to sleep with her problems, and computers make poor bedfellows.

  But the strategy was successful, the general awoke with the decision made, and was in the process of reviewing it one last time. Ibo scanned the printout again. LEGCOM was located on Algeron, which meant that the NOVA class orders had been approved by Bill Booly himself, and maybe the president as well. The directive called on her to dispatch a battalion of heavy cavalry to a planet called Savas, “. . . where the commanding officer will carry out his or her orders by whatever means possible.”

  Orders which she, as the battalion’s commanding officer, wasn’t privy to. That was unusual, but not without precedent, given the need for security.

  But the next part of the cover letter, the part intended to guide her decision, was entirely unique. “Because of the particulars of this mission LEGCOM recommends that the officer tasked with this mission be extremely experienced, utterly reliable, and suited for independent command.”

  And then, as if Booly had seen fit to add a postscript himself, it said, “If the entire war hung on one battle—who would you choose to fight it?”

  That was the line that captured Ibo’s attention, caused her to delay a final decision until morning, and served to pique her curiosity. Ah well, the general thought, I’ll find out what was so goddamned important eventually.

  Ibo touched a button. A staff sergeant responded immediately. “Ma’am?”

  “Get hold of Colonel Kobbi. . . . Tell him I’d like to see him at 0930.”

  “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

  “And sergeant . . .”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Find Captain what’s-his-name, you know, the naval liaison officer. Tell him to join the colonel and me at 1000 hours.”

  “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

  Ibo touched the button for the second time and took a moment to lean back in her chair. The decision felt good. Had she been selecting an individual to serve as an aide, a diplomatic attaché, or a liaison officer, Kobbi would have ranked at the bottom of her list. But when it came to the most important battle of the war? The general felt confident that she had the right man.

  As the sun inched higher in the sky, and cool morning air began to warm, B Company stood at parade rest. The company consisted of a headquarters platoon, a scout platoon, and two quad platoons.

  Santana, who had been assigned to the 2nd, or scout platoon, had been introduced to the various beings under his command the afternoon before, but the process of getting to know them had barely begun. What were their strengths? Where could they improve? And what could he do to help? It was too early to know.

  The platoon’s mission was to serve as eyes and ears for both the company and the battalion. Consistent with that mission Santana had two squads of fast moving Trooper IIs. There were three cyborgs and three observers on each squad. That made a total of eleven sentients not counting himself. A lot less people than an infantry platoon would include, but more lethal, given the amount of firepower that six T-2s could put out.

  Now, as he and the other bio bods stood at parade rest in front of their assigned T-2s, the platoon leader spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. Captain Dil Gaphy appeared a few seconds later, with Gunnery Sergeant Hreemo Kuga-Ka walking a respectful three paces behind, like the tail on a dog.

  The two of them marched out to the point where the company’s scarlet guidon hung limply from its metal pole and executed a perfectly synchronized left face. That was formal, very formal for a training day, and Santana wondered why. Was the emphasis on ceremony a reflection of Kobbi’s personality? Or did it say something about Gaphy’s? Having met the colonel the previous day
, and seen him in his grease-stained overalls, the platoon leader would have put his money on option two.

  Lieutenant Lis Awanda served as both a platoon leader and the company’s executive officer (XO). She shouted, “Company . . . Atten-hut!” and waited a beat before the follow-up. “B Company is ready for roll call and inspection, sir!”

  The cyborgs were already at what amounted to attention, but the bio bods snapped to, and roll call began. The NCOs handled most of it, which meant that Santana had an additional opportunity to examine his new CO. Gaphy was around six feet tall and rail-thin. What flesh he had clung to his bones as if most of his substance had been sucked out of him. The company commander’s face was little more than skin stretched over a skull, his eyes were nearly lost in deep-set sockets, and his ears looked as if they had been pinned to his head. Gaphy’s uniform was immaculate, but the shirt he wore appeared to be a full size too large, while his trousers fit to perfection.

  As the roll call came to an end, and the morning inspection began, Haaby felt a growing sense of anxiety. She was designated as Santana’s mount, stood directly behind the lieutenant, and could see over the platoon leader’s head.

  Kuga-Ka was pissed about something, she could tell from subtle clues learned over the last few months, and that was a bad sign. Because whenever the gunny was unhappy, he had a tendency to take it out on the troops, and cyborgs in particular.

  Things had been especially difficult during the weeks since Lieutenant Quito had transferred out. As senior NCO, Kuga-Ka had been assigned to lead the 2nd platoon until a new officer arrived. Except that rather than lead the 2nd, he bullied it, riding the T-2s like they were horses, forcing them to carry him around when they were supposed to be off duty, and making liberal use of a bootlegged neural input device. Drill instructors were allowed to use “zappers” during basic training, and military police carried them as a matter of course, but no one else was supposed to have or use one of the controllers. But Kuga-Ka not only had one, he loved to use it, and Haaby had been zapped two times. Once when she refused to wrestle another T-2 out behind the NCO club—and once when the Hudathan forgot to strap himself in and fell off her back.