Santana looked ahead, spotted the fifty-foot-tall antenna that towered over the maintenance sheds, and knew the Hudathan was somewhere in that vicinity. He ran even harder. Then a second voice was heard. This one belonged to Sergeant Dietrich. It was cold as ice. “I have him, sir. Maintenance Shed Six.”
Santana gave silent thanks. “Good . . . Does he have a brain box with him?”
There was a pause. “He has something with him. It’s wrapped in fabric.”
“Okay, hold the bastard. Fareye—call the MPs. Tell them we have a thief in Maintenance Shed Six.”
A would-be murderer was more like it, but the exact charge didn’t matter, so long as they got some help soon. The officer slowed to a jog, rounded a structure labeled “Maintenance Shed Five,” and heard Fareye’s voice in his ear. “The MPs are on the way, sir.”
A small crowd had gathered just outside Maintenance Shed Six. It consisted of human techs, a couple of Prithians, and three utility bots. As Santana pushed his way through he could hear Kuga-Ka shouting. “What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you see that this man is crazy? Take his weapon!”
But Dietrich was armed with a CA-10 carbine that was capable of firing eight hundred rounds per minute. It was shaped like a wedge with a peg-style grip mounted behind the muzzle, a combination pistol grip and trigger assembly to the rear of that, and a thirty-round magazine that protruded from the receiver. With the exception of the robots, the rest of those present had qualified with the weapon and were familiar with its capabilities. So, given the fact that none of them were armed, it made sense to wait and let someone else straighten the situation out.
The maintenance shed’s service door was open, and just as Santana arrived in front of it, a wheeled vehicle screeched to a stop. Captain Gaphy swung a pair of highly polished boots out onto the tarmac. In spite of months spent on Adobe, his skin still looked like white parchment. He pointed a long thin finger at Santana. “Lieutenant! What’s going on here? Why is that man pointing a weapon at Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka?”
There was another screech as a scout car full of MPs arrived. Santana sighed. If he was wrong, if the object clutched under Kuga-Ka’s massive arm was anything other than Haaby’s brain box, his career was over. “I have reason to believe that the Gunnery Sergeant removed Corporal Haaby’s brain box from her war form and brought her to this location to kill her.”
Gaphy looked incredulous. “Are you out of your mind? Why would Kuga-Ka do something like that? I can only imagine that you have taken leave of your senses.
“Sergeant! Place that weapon on the ground! That’s an order.”
Dietrich glanced at Santana, saw the officer nod, and put the CA-10 on the oil-stained duracrete floor.
“All right,” Gaphy said as he strode toward Kuga-Ka, “let’s settle this nonsense right now . . .”
Kuga-Ka stood at attention and made no attempt to resist as the cavalry officer removed the package from his grasp, turned toward the crowd, and removed the wrapping.
Santana held his breath as the duralon fell away, saw Gaphy frown, and heard someone gasp. “It’s a brain box!”
Kuga-Ka made no attempt to run. There was no place to go. The Hudathan knew that his best chance, his only chance, was to pretend innocence and hope for some sort of break. “Sir! The gunnery sergeant thought it was an ammo box, sir.”
Gaphy knew it was a lie, but didn’t want Kuga-Ka to reveal his addiction, which meant he had to be careful. “Really? Well, if so, the gunnery sergeant needs to have his eyes examined. It says ‘Corporal Mora Haaby’ right here on the box. Still, I suppose some sort of mix-up is possible.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Santana put in, as he felt a tremendous sense of relief flood his body. “Someone gave a fake brain box to the life-support techs. That makes some sort of mix-up very unlikely.”
Gaphy swore silently. The Hudathan had been stupid, extremely stupid, but it was critical to maintain some sort of front lest the idiot spill his guts regarding the joy-leeches. “Yes, well that’s what investigations are for, aren’t they? It will all come out in due time.
“Corporal!” Gaphy said, motioning to one of the MPs. “Take the gunnery sergeant into custody. I want full reports on everything you saw here. That goes for you, too, Lieutenant . . . I’ll be interested to hear how you came to be so knowledgeable about this situation, why you decided to keep such knowledge to yourself, and when you planned to let your superiors in on it.”
“I look forward to that as well,” Colonel Kobbi said grimly, having arrived in time to hear the last few paragraphs. “All right, let’s break it up. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but those transports will lift off in four hours and twenty-three frigging minutes. We don’t have time for distractions, so get your asses back to work.”
Santana watched the MPs take control of Kuga-Ka, saw the noncom turn to look into his eyes, and felt the full impact of the Hudathan’s hatred. That was when he realized it wasn’t over, and wouldn’t be, not so long as both of them were alive.
ABOARD THE MOTHRI SUN
In spite of the fact that the freighter was relatively small as transports go, the number two cargo hold looked huge as Calvo stepped down onto a catwalk, and peered into the dimly lit durasteel cavern below. The liftoff had gone without a hitch from the maintenance officer’s perspective, since all the war forms, munitions, and spares had been loaded aboard the Mothri Sun on time and stored in a manner that would allow her technicians to access them during the trip. Something they needed to do since the days prior to departure had been spent rounding up spares rather than performing precombat maintenance checks.
Lights appeared in the murk below as the MO’s crew of twenty-four maintenance techs entered the hold. Though normally embedded in the four companies that went together to comprise the battalion, the “gear heads” as they were sometimes known, had been stripped out of their units and put aboard the Sun. Sixteen members of her crew were bio bods and eight were borgs. They “wore” specially equipped six-legged spider forms.
Owing to a shortage of space on the Spirit of Natu, a lieutenant and two squads of infantry had boarded the Mothri Sun as well. Though normally charged with providing security for battalion HQ, the ground pounders had been put to work humping tools and diagnostic equipment.
Metal clanged on metal as the first transit container was breached and the technicians entered. Each war form in that particular module would be checked, serviced, and rechecked. Once that was accomplished the durasteel box would be resealed and the four-person team would move on. Meanwhile, other teams, each working under the supervision of a noncom, were following the same process. It represented a great deal of work, but that didn’t trouble Calvo, who relished such activity.
A power wrench chattered as a spider form made use of one of a tool arm to remove the bolts on an inspection plate. Calvo grinned, made her way to the far side of the hold, and descended a ladder. There, down in the gloom, was the world that she loved best.
ABOARD THE SPIRIT OF NATU
The Spirit of Natu was and always had been a military vessel, which meant that as Santana made his way down the ship’s main passageways there was nothing to see beyond overhead cable trays, regularly spaced lights, bare bulkheads, directional signs, side corridors, and the gray nonslip matting that covered the decks. The cavalry officer was furious, and at least some of that must have been apparent, because those coming from the opposite direction were careful to stay out of his way.
Once Santana arrived in the section of the ship where Alpha Company personnel were quartered, he followed a narrow passageway inward and stopped in front of an open hatch. The compartment was tiny, but private, a fact for which Captain Gaphy was grateful. The officer heard a couple of dull thumps and looked up to find Santana framed by the hatchway. He had been expecting the visit but saw no reason to signal the fact. “Yes? What is it?”
The platoon leader stood at attention, but rather than staring at a point over Gaphy�
�s head, he looked the officer in the eye. “Lieutenant Antonio Santana, requesting permission to speak with the captain, sir.”
“Enter.”
Santana took two steps forward. Gaphy was seated on the opposite side of a fold-down worktable. He sat very straight so as to maintain at least three inches of space between his body and the metal bulkhead. An important precaution lest the officer lean backward, apply pressure to the leech that had taken up residence in the cleft between his shoulder blades, and suffer the painful consequences. “Yes?” the company commander demanded. “What do you want?”
Santana felt his hands start to tremble and balled his fingers into fists. “I was told that Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka was released from the ship’s brig. Is that true, sir?”
“Yes,” Gaphy replied calmly, “but only after consultations with Colonel Kobbi. The gunnery sergeant has an impeccable record, there’s still a possibility that there was some sort of unfortunate mix-up where Haaby’s brain box is concerned, and the ship is in hyperspace. All of those factors were taken into account while making the decision to release Kuga-Ka. Does that answer your question?”
The whole thing had a rehearsed quality and made no sense to Santana, but there was only one reply that he could give. “Sir! Yes sir.”
“Good. I read your statement, and while I find the accusations you made against Kuga-Ka hard to believe, I know you were sincere in lodging them. There will be a court of inquiry, similar to the one mentioned in your P-1, which will provide you with an opportunity to testify. In the meantime I suggest that you focus on your responsibilities as a platoon leader—and leave matters of military justice to your superiors. Dismissed.”
The mention of his own court of inquiry, combined with the curt dismissal, had their intended effect. Santana clenched his jaw, delivered his best salute, and turned on his heel. It wasn’t right, not by a long shot, but Kuga-Ka was on the loose.
Though nicer than most, the cabin was still no larger than the average walk-in closet, and extremely spartan. Colonel Kobbi closed the door to his cabin, felt his heart beat just a little bit faster, and stood in front of the wall safe. The battalion commander felt both a sense of anticipation and dread as he prepared to read the orders locked within. The metal felt cool as he pressed his palm against the print-sensitive plate, there was a distinct click as the lock was released, and a whiff of stale air as the nearly indestructible door swung open. The O-4 package wasn’t much to look at, just a gray duraplast case, with “Command Eyes Only” embossed on its cover. But inside, nestled within a circular recess, was a data disk that detailed the battalion’s mission.
Kobbi checked his watch and noted the time so he could include it in the ops diary that he updated each day. Then the officer removed the case from the safe, took a seat behind his fold-down desk, and slipped a thumbnail under the removable sticker. It came off easily. With that out of the way the jacker applied his thumb to the print-sensitive oval, and the cover popped open. The battalion commander knew that had he, or someone else attempted to open the case with a tool, the resulting explosion would have destroyed both the disk and the person trying to access it.
The disk was shiny and about two inches across. Kobbi dropped the device into a slot on his hand comp and was rewarded with a nearly instantaneous response. Because the question had been drawn from his private life, the answer couldn’t be found in his P-1 file. “Who is your favorite author?”
Kobbi cleared his throat. “Sun Tzu.”
The computer checked the disk for a matching voiceprint, found it, and checked the answer. It was correct. Text flooded the screen. There was a preface, followed by the orders themselves and background information on Savas.
Kobbi read for the next five minutes, went back to the beginning, and reread the orders again. The essence of the mission was clear. The battalion would put down near a fortress called Hagala Nor, capture something called a hypercom, and haul ass.
The bugs had an armored unit in the area, plus the equivalent of half a battalion of ground troops, or so the briefing document claimed. But that information dated back to the point before the planet had been cut off, which meant that the force could have grown during the intervening time, or been withdrawn. There was no way to know.
Adding to the uncertainty was the fact that outside of some rather sketchy data gathered by an unmanned recon drone more than a standard month earlier, the three-ship task force was going to drop out of hyperspace blind, and hope that their single escort would be sufficient to protect them from any ships that the bugs had in-system.
But Kobbi was a realist—and knew that no amount of wishing would make the situation any better than it was. The only thing he could do was to brief his officers, insist that they plan for every possible contingency, and hope for the best. The jacker went to work.
In spite of the fact that Gunnery Sergeant Hreemo Kuga-Ka was free, he didn’t feel all that free, not with a full-fledged investigation under way. Rumors suggested that Haaby had been talking and that even more cyberfreaks were prepared to testify. That meant his freedom wasn’t likely to last very long, and if the noncom wanted to lay the groundwork for an escape, he needed to do it now.
That was why the Hudathan made his way up-ship to officer country. Maybe, if he was lucky, Kuga-Ka could gather some intel regarding the battalion’s mission, information that would help him create a realistic plan. In spite of the suspicion focused on the noncom, the combination of his size, “don’t fuck with me” attitude, and the clipboard tucked under his arm conveyed the impression that he was on an official errand.
Conscious of the fact that someone on official business wouldn’t skulk about, Kuga-Ka marched straight into the intel officer’s tiny cubicle, only to discover that its owner was in residence. The noncom saluted. “Sorry to bother you, sir. I have something for Captain Gaphy . . . Have you seen him? No? Thank you.”
Having struck out where the intel officer’s cabin was concerned, Kuga-Ka was on his way to Kobbi’s quarters, when a group of officers appeared, and one of them said something about it being time to “. . . drain my tanks.”
A quick check was sufficient to verify that they had been meeting in the wardroom. The table that dominated the center of the room was strewn with all manner of hand comps, printouts, and half-empty coffee cups.
Well aware that it would be only a matter of minutes before the officers returned, the noncom completed a quick circuit of the table and paused when he saw the words “LEGCOM, Command Eyes Only,” on one of the glowing screens.
A quick scan of the first paragraph was sufficient to confirm that the file was what he had hoped for, and a few quick key strokes were sufficient to send a copy to himself. The message would show up if the computer’s owner were to check—but that was a chance that the Hudathan was willing to take.
Seconds later, his eyes on the clipboard, Kuga-Ka was walking down the corridor when Major Tik Matala, the battalion’s Executive Officer returned. He saw the noncom, but wasn’t aware that the Hudathan had been in the wardroom, and had no reason to be concerned. There weren’t any Ramanthians on the ship, and it was isolated in hyperspace, which meant that the battalion’s security was intact.
Clouds could be seen high in the searingly blue sky, the hillside in front of them was covered with loose rock, and what looked like a well-packed trail beckoned. But trails are the perfect place to lay mines, so even though it meant more work for Haaby, Santana ordered the T-2 to climb up through the loose scree. Even though the harness served to hold the platoon leader in place, the motion of the T-2’s body still threw the human back and forth, forcing him to hang on. There were moments when the loose rock threatened to send both of them tumbling down the slope, something that would not only be hard on Haaby, but worse for the bio bod should the cyborg roll over on top of him.
Then, after ten minutes of hard climbing, they neared the top of the rise. Santana ordered the T-2 to stop just short of the crest rather than expose herself on the skyli
ne. Anyone watching from the opposite direction would see nothing more than a tiny irregularity on the horizon.
A single glance at the heads-up display (HUD) projected on the inside surface of the platoon leader’s visor was sufficient to verify that the other members of the first squad were in position. Private Su Theek, and a T-2 named Private Hooly Lukk, were about a hundred yards off to the left, while Private Lynn Cho, and a borg named Fas Nulla were stationed an equal distance to the rear. Their job was to guard the back door in case the enemy attempted to sweep in behind the squad and cut it off.
Confident that his troops were properly positioned, Santana let his weight rest on the harness, raised his electrobinoculars, and scanned the valley ahead. Targeting information scrolled down the side of the viewfinder as he panned from left to right. With the exception of clumps of trees, all of which looked too similar to be real, the terrain was open and inviting. Too inviting.
The squad’s mission was to scout ahead, locate the enemy, and warn the quads that were theoretically following behind. That meant Santana had to keep going, keep covering new ground, lest the huge cyborgs overtake him and bring the assault to a stop.
But there were times when a platoon or squad leader had to ignore such pressures and make sure of the terrain in front of him or her. The key was to understand which situation was which. The sky shivered, turned an unlikely shade of green, and snapped back to blue. Santana keyed his mike. “Blue Six to Blue Five. Over.”
“This is Five,” Theek replied. “Over.”
“See anything suspicious? Over.”
“No sir. Over.”
Santana took another look, and was just about to order Haaby upslope, when a cluster of boulders slid sideways. Not far, but given the fact that boulders are supposed to be inert, they weren’t supposed to move at all. “Did you see that group of boulders shift left? Over.”
“Sir! Yes sir,” Theek replied excitedly. “I think those other rock formations are fake, too! Ground effect vehicles is my guess—waiting in ambush. Over.”
Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell Page 8