Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell

by William C. Dietz

  Kuga-Ka wanted to kill Santana, was determined to kill Santana, not to mention Haaby. The freak had been warned, the freak had spilled her guts, and the freak was going to suffer. But not here, not now, and not while Santana held all the cards. The squat could be bugged, and there was no guarantee that he would be able to find such a device in the aftermath of the murder. Not only that, but other people were aware of the meeting and could testify to it. He kept his eyes focused on a point over the officer’s head. “Sir! No sir!”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Santana said easily. “Now, one last thing, is the company full up? Or do we have some open slots?”

  “We have three open slots, sir.”

  “Good. I have excellent candidates for two of them. I will provide their names to Captain Gaphy—and you will endorse them. Gaphy owns the company, but I run one-third of it, and I can find ways to make your life a living hell. Do we understand each other?”

  “Sir! Yes sir!”

  “Excellent. Now, get out of here before the very sight of you causes me to throw up.”

  The Hudathan executed a perfect about-face, marched out of the tent, and soon disappeared from sight.

  Santana let out a long slow breath, removed the pistol from his lap, and placed it on the desk. It had taken the better part of two hours to coax the truth out of Haaby—and only after a promise that he wouldn’t take the matter upstairs. Not only was the cyborg afraid of Kuga-Ka, but had the Hudathan’s toadies to consider, along with one of the Legion’s most venerable laws. Members of the enlisted ranks solved their own problems, never took interpersonal issues up the chain of command, and were sanctioned if they did.

  Was it right? No. Was it real? Yes. That was why Santana had decided to bait the Hudathan and lure the noncom out into the open, where official action could be taken. Would Kuga-Ka move against his enemies before the battalion lifted off? The cavalry officer believed that he would because once the techs jerked Haaby’s brain box the zapper wouldn’t work, and the noncom’s leverage would be lost. Not only that, but the T-2’s brain box would be racked along with all the others, and kept under lock and key until just prior to landing.

  All of which meant that, in addition to preparing his platoon for deployment and trying to snatch a few hours of sleep every now and then, Santana had to protect both the cyborg and himself. No small task with a potentially homicidal Hudathan on the loose.

  The officer rose, slipped the pistol into the shoulder holster that most members of the 1st REC preferred, and left the squat. There was a whole lot of work to do—and less than three standard days in which to get it done.

  The sun had gone down, the air had started to cool, and it was as if the entire planet had heaved a sigh of relief as the evening breezes started to stir. There were no Ramanthians in-system, not yet anyway, which meant the streetlights were on. They created pools of green luminescence linked by areas of darkness. Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka paused in one such refuge and froze. There was noise, plenty of it, including the sound of a fly-form passing over head, the growl of a truck engine, and the distant blare of Earth music. None of which held any interest for the NCO. He was listening for more subtle sounds. The scrape of a boot on gravel, the clink of metal, or the distinctive click that a safety made as it was released. But there were no suspicious sounds, which meant Kuga-Ka was free to focus his attention on the four-person squat and the dim glow within. The officer was present—but was he alone?

  The Hudathan could move with considerable speed given the size of his body. He dashed through the intervening pool of light, entered the shadow that bordered the tent, and crept up to a window. It was open to let the cool evening air flood in. A single glance was sufficient to establish that the human was all by himself.

  Thus reassured, Kuga-Ka withdrew the specially engineered tube from the cargo pocket on the side of his pant leg and approached the door. The duralon whispered as he slipped inside. The officer sat in semidarkness, shoulders slumped, eyes focused on the desk in front of him. He heard the slither of fabric and looked up. Something big blocked the streetlight beyond. “Kuga-Ka? Is that you?”

  “Yes sir,” the Hudathan replied gently. “It’s me.”

  “Did you bring it?”

  The cylinder felt cool in Kuga-Ka’s hand. “Yes, I brought it.”

  “Then give it to me.”

  “You have three already, sir. Another could kill you.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” the officer replied loftily. “I know how much I can handle. Besides, the battalion is about to lift, and I won’t be able to get any more. Now stop wasting my time and hand it over. Or, would you like a transfer to another company? One where your rather exotic notions of entertainment wouldn’t be tolerated?”

  It was a potent threat and one that would rob the Hudathan of that which he valued most. Kuga-Ka sighed, and the tube changed hands. “I hope you’re right, sir.”

  Gaphy welcomed the coolness of the metal, the moment of anticipation as he unscrewed the lid, and the gentle hissing sound as air pressures were equalized.

  Then, unable to wait a moment longer, Gaphy used his left hand to unbutton his shirt, tapped the cylinder with his right index finger, and whispered to the creature within. “Time to come out my sweet . . . That’s right . . . You’ll like what you find.”

  There was a wet popping sound as the six-inch-long joy-leech sensed the presence of food, propelled itself out of the canister, and landed on Gaphy’s skin.

  Kuga-Ka heard the human whimper as the alien life-form pushed a needle-sharp penetrator through the surface of his skin. That noise was followed by a long, drawn-out groan of pleasure as the wormlike creature injected powerful endorphins into the company commander’s bloodstream, and a wave of ecstasy carried him away. Gaphy’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out.

  The Hudathan waited for a moment, rebuttoned the officer’s shirt, and extinguished the single light. Loading would continue far into the night, but Kuga-Ka would cover for the officer and wake him just before dawn.

  The NCO exited the tent, paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark, and slipped into the night. Suresee Fareye followed.

  3

  * * *

  The popular conception of a court-martial is half a dozen bloodthirsty old Colonel Blimps, who take it for granted that anyone brought before them is guilty . . . In reality courts-martial are . . . so anxious to avoid a miscarriage of justice that they are, at times, ready to allow the accused any loophole of escape . . .

  —Sir William Slim

  Unofficial history

  Standard year 1959

  * * *

  PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  In spite of the fact that there were three additional people in the room, General Ibo’s office was almost entirely silent as she sat and stared out through the single window. Maintenance bots had washed the entire headquarters building down during the night, but a thin layer of dust had already accumulated on the plastic and distorted the view. It was kind of like trying to look into the future, where one could make out the general outline of what would probably take place, while the all important details remained vague and undefined. Not that the dust mattered, since the real purpose of sitting with her back to the room was to signal the full extent of her displeasure, and provide her subordinates with time in which to stew.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to those who stood waiting, Ibo swiveled her chair back toward them. Colonel Kobbi, along with Captains Calvo and Rono-Ra, kept their eyes focused on a point over the general’s head. They stood at rigid attention. “Well, Colonel,” Ibo began ominously, “let’s begin with you. You command the 2nd Battalion. That’s what it says on the TO (Table of Organization) although some people wonder who’s in charge. Especially your peers, who point to the pirates in your maintenance and supply sections, as being responsible for the recent crime wave.

  “That brings us to you, Captain Calvo, and you, Captain Rono-R
a, who, if the rumors can be believed, organized what your subordinates refer to as ‘snatch teams’ to prey on the other battalions.”

  Kobbi cleared his throat, but Ibo shook her head. “When I want to hear from you, Colonel, I’ll pull your chain. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the snatch teams. Now, while I realize that scrounging for parts and supplies is a time-honored tradition within the Legion, what you two unleashed is well beyond the boundaries of anything that could be called normal. I’m talking about forged requisitions, looted warehouses, and midnight burglaries. This sort of activity will not be tolerated. I realize that the 2nd may receive a mission with little to no possibility of resupply, but the rest of the regiment could receive similar orders any day now, and they will need spares as well.” Ibo transferred her gaze from Calvo to Rono-Ra. “Do I make myself clear?”

  The officers answered in unison. “Ma’am! Yes ma’am!”

  “Good. Now, one more theft, and I will bring all three of you up on charges. Dismissed.”

  Rono-Ra did a smart about-face and marched out of the office, closely followed by Calvo and Kobbi. Once outside the threesome paused. “Sorry, sir,” Calvo said, her face reflecting the misery she felt.

  “For what?” Kobbi answered cheerfully.

  “For getting you in trouble, sir,” Rono-Ra responded. “The general was pissed.”

  “No she wasn’t,” Kobbi countered confidently. “She knows what we’re up against. It wasn’t so long ago that she led a battalion herself.”

  Calvo looked doubtful. “Yes sir. But . . .”

  “ ‘But’ nothing,” Kobbi insisted. “Answer me this . . . Did she order you to return the supplies and parts?”

  Calvo’s eyebrows rose. “No, I guess she didn’t, but I assumed . . .”

  “Good officers never assume,” Kobbi replied tartly. “Now, don’t you two have some work to do?”

  “Sir! Yes sir.”

  “That’s what I thought . . . We lift tonight, so this is not the time to let up. One thing however . . . If these so-called snatch teams exist, and I’m not saying that they do, someone should order them to stop. That was the real message that you heard from General Ibo. Dismissed.”

  Kobbi, who rarely took advantage of the T-2 at his disposal, walked away. He was whistling. Ibo watched through her dirty window, wished that she could trade places with the jacker, and went back to work. It seemed that a staff officer on Algeron thought it would be a good idea if the 1st REC started a choir—and challenged other regiments to do likewise. She was about to realign his priorities.

  The scene in and around the spaceport’s center was one of barely controlled chaos. A tall minaret-like control tower marked the epicenter of the action. Air cars and fly-forms crisscrossed the sky, repellors screamed as a bright orange traffic control monitor led a destroyer escort to its assigned pad, a never-ending stream of announcements poured out of omnipresent loudspeakers, a crane swung a heavily shielded drive into position over a deep-space tug, and robots hurried to service an admiral’s gig as the 2nd Battalion’s war forms filed into the long, narrow decontamination stations.

  Santana watched Haaby follow another T-2 into one of the chambers, where she soon disappeared into a welter of chemical sprays, pressurized rinse water, and billowing steam. The idea was to kill as many of Adobe’s microscopic life-forms as possible so none of them would be transferred to Savas, where they could potentially play hell with the local ecosystems. Later, after the war forms had been loaded into their transit containers, each cargo module would be irradiated just to make sure.

  As Santana paralleled the decontamination chamber and waited for Haaby to emerge from the far end, he saw Kuga-Ka in the distance. The Hudathan offered a completely unnecessary salute that Santana was then obliged to return. The NCO was mocking him, and had been ever since their meeting, as if to say, “See? I am in control of what I do.”

  And Santana was starting to believe it. Though not part of his platoon, both Dietrich and Fareye had successfully transferred into Gaphy’s company and somehow managed to pick up on the threat that Kuga-Ka posed. But, outside of the single seemingly surreptitious visit that the Hudathan had made to Gaphy’s squat, their efforts to catch the gunnery sergeant doing something wrong had been futile. Now, contrary to Santana’s earlier predictions, it seemed as if the Hudathan was determined to ignore the bait and leave both the cyborg and her protector alone.

  The officer yawned, watched Haaby emerge from a cloud of steam and enter the next station, where she would be blown dry. Other cyborgs were present, not to mention more than a dozen bio bods, which made any attack on the T-2 highly unlikely. The perfect time to go in search of some much-needed food.

  The cooks had established stands here and there throughout the loading area so hardworking legionnaires could grab snacks on the fly. Santana commandeered a sandwich, poured himself a cold drink, and looked for a place to sit down. The officer spotted a likely-looking cooler, sat on it, and took his first sip of the refreshing liquid as he keyed his platoon’s frequency. “Red Six to Red Five . . . Over.”

  There was a burst of static followed by sound of Haaby’s synthesized voice. “This is Red Five. Over.”

  “Have you completed the decontamination sequence yet? Over.”

  “We’re entering the shipping container now,” the cyborg said, as a tech motioned for her to enter the durasteel transit box. Though grateful for the fact that the loot was keeping an eye on her, she hoped Santana would come up with a less direct way to check on her safety, since it was unusual for a platoon commander to track the activities of a single legionnaire, and her squad mates would soon take notice.

  The cargo module’s interior had been fitted with special clamps that would hold the bipedal war forms in place during transit. Each box was designed to hold six T-2s, which meant that Santana’s entire platoon would make the trip in a single container.

  A second tech directed Haaby into slot five, and just as the cyborg started to turn, she recognized the bio bod. “Wait a minute,” she said out loud. “What’s the gunny doing in here? He’s supposed to be . . .”

  Someone threw a switch, a pair of hydraulically operated arms reached out to grab the T-2 and wrap her in an unbreakable hug. Fear caused Haaby to drop all pretences and make a direct appeal to her platoon leader. “Sir! I can’t move! They . . .”

  The sandwich fell as Santana came to his feet. “Haaby? What’s happening? Over.”

  But Haaby could no longer reply. Kuga-Ka was up on her back by then. He flipped the protective cover up out of the way, grabbed the red, T-shaped handle, and gave it one full turn to the right. That was sufficient to disconnect her brain from the war form and all of its capabilities. Then, by pulling on the same handle, the Hudathan removed the cyborg’s bio support module from the back of her massive head. Sedatives flooded Haaby’s brain, and the outside world snapped to black.

  Santana swore and started to run. The loading area wasn’t far, no more than a few hundred feet away, and the officer arrived in front of the transit box just as a tech placed the last of six brain boxes on a specially designed cart. “Corporal Haaby,” the platoon leader demanded. “Where is she?”

  The tech was a tired-looking woman with a serpent tattooed onto her scalp. She eyed the boxes. “Right there, sir. Left side, bottom row.”

  Santana followed the pointing finger, saw the green indicator light, and heaved a sigh of relief. The cyborg was okay.

  That was when Fareye appeared at his elbow. “I was monitoring your freq, sir. Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka just left. He had what looked like an ammo box tucked under his arm.”

  Santana felt a lead weight hit the bottom of his stomach. “An ammo box? Are you sure? Is there any chance it could have been a brain box instead?”

  The Naa glanced at the cart. The possibility that the NCO might abscond with one of the brain boxes hadn’t occurred to him. “Yes sir. They’re about the same size.”

  Santana grabbed the tech’s arm. “Haaby’s br
ain box . . . Who pulled it?”

  The tech looked confused. “I’m not sure, sir. I was outside.”

  “Damn! Which way did Kuga-Ka go? We’ve got to catch the bastard.”

  “That way, sir,” Fareye said, and pointed back toward some long low maintenance buildings.

  Santana nodded. “See if you can catch up . . . Stay in touch by radio, but remember Kuga-Ka can hear what you say, and he’s a helluva lot bigger than you are.”

  Even as Fareye took off, the officer turned to the tech and eyed her name tag. “Specialist Fahd . . . Secure this cart and everything on it. Nobody is to touch it without my permission. Understand?”

  Fahd looked startled. “I guess so, sir, except that I’m supposed to . . .”

  “Forget what you’re supposed to do. I gave you an order. Follow it.”

  The tech said, “Sir! Yes sir!” but Santana was already running by that time. He was in good shape, but it was hellishly hot, and it wasn’t long before his breath came in short gasps. The cavalry officer wanted to call for help, but feared the Hudathan would hear him and hide Haaby’s brain box somewhere. The built-in life-support system would sustain the cyborg for a few hours but no more than that. Assuming the object Fareye had seen was a brain box. But what if Haaby’s brain was sitting on the cart? And Kuga-Ka was carrying a box full of spares? Maybe the whole thing was a setup! A deliberate attempt to discredit the noncom’s pursuers and escape punishment. But the alternative, which was to do nothing, was unacceptable.

  Those concerns were still churning through the officer’s mind when Fareye’s voice came in via his earpiece. The Naa was intentionally cryptic and chose to omit his call sign so that only someone who was familiar with his voice would know who had sent it. “Target sighted. Look for the radio mast. Over.”