One of the Jithi servants, a large specimen with bright yellow eyes, lowered a tray loaded with desserts onto a folding stand. “Yes, siba (sir), that is correct. The jungle belongs to us.”
Something about the way the Jithi put the emphasis on the word “us” caused Santana to wonder if the indig was sending the off-worlders a message, but no one else seemed to take it that way, so the platoon leader assumed he was wrong.
“I understand how you feel, and wish things were different,” Kobbi assured them, “but rather than offer you help, I’m afraid that I must request it instead. Half the battalion landed in the desert—and I need your help in order to reach them.”
That produced a cacophony of commentary, and finally, after repeated attempts to quell the uproar, Cam Qwan used a dinner knife to tap his water goblet. “One at a time please!”
The ensuing conversation was more confusing than useful, as all manner of views, plans, and proposals were put forward only to be knocked down by one or more of the guests. Finally, after the dishes had been cleared, Kobbi pushed his chair back and stood. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day, so the time has come for my officers and me to excuse ourselves. I would like to thank the Qwan family for their hospitality—and the rest of you for the warmth of your welcome.”
Santana rose, said good-bye to the mine manager, and turned toward Qwis. Her eyes were waiting for him. “Is the Colonel a good officer?”
Santana nodded. “The best.”
Qwis was silent for a moment. When she spoke her voice was serious. “Good. Savas is a hard planet. You will need his leadership.”
Lin Qwan arrived at that point, took her daughter’s arm, and followed their guests out into the reception area where the legionnaires retrieved their sidearms and exchanged their slippers for boots.
The air was cool outside, and the night creatures were in full cry. They trilled, grunted, and hooted as the legionnaires piled into a beat-up ground car. It rattled as a Jithi driver took them down toward the scattering of lights below. There were no streetlights to compete with—and the stars glittered like shards of broken glass.
The transport crouched on the tarmac like gigantic toad. The area immediately below its open belly was flooded with light as legionnaires, Jithi laborers, and two dozen robots worked through the night. The goal was to not only unload the ship by morning if at all possible, but move the battalion’s gear away from the spaceport, and into a safer location.
Engines growled as a succession of brutish mining trucks hauled tons of food, ammo, and equipment up through a series of switchbacks to an inactive mine. Then, once the ore haulers were unloaded, a second crew had to hump everything back into the hillside, where it was sorted, indexed, and stored. Exhausting work, but necessary, if the battalion wanted to protect the materials that enabled it to fight.
Meanwhile, at the edge of the spaceport, only three hundred feet from the transport itself, two legionnaires stood guard over an old storage shed. The roof consisted of a single sheet of corrugated metal, the walls were made of thick duracrete blocks, and the hatchlike door had been salvaged from a wreck years before.
Now, emptied of the maintenance equipment previously stored there, the shack housed Gunnery Sergeant Hreemo Kuga-Ka, the battalion’s only prisoner. There was power to the structure, but the Hudathan had extinguished the single light fifteen minutes earlier, so that his eyes could adjust to the dark. The noncom’s skin, which had been nearly white during the late-afternoon heat, had turned dark gray. There was a ventilation slit over the door, and if the Hudathan strained, he could hear the mutter of truck engines, the scrape of a combat boot, and the sound of desultory conversation. Having little else to do, the guards were passing the time by speculating on the battalion’s mission, and what would happen next. One of them believed that the outfit would remain in Savas Prime—while the other figured a transport would arrive to pull them out.
Kuga-Ka, who had the honor of being the only enlisted person who actually knew what the battalion was supposed to accomplish on Savas, grinned as the legionnaires gave voice to their contending theories.
Not far away, in the darkness that defined the edge of the spaceport, camo-clad legionnaires slipped through the shadows. Corporal Surehand Knifethrow had black-brown fur and shifty eyes. His loyalty to Kuga-Ka was based on the privileges that the senior NCO had granted him, an appetite for loot, and a healthy dash of fear. He paused to sample the air with his supersensitive nostrils before waving his companion forward.
Private Kras Sawicki was a lazy sort, who hated the Legion’s spit-and-polish ways, and was happy to let Knifethrow do his thinking for him. If the Naa wanted to break the gunny out, and the two of them were going over the hill, then he wanted to go along. He saw Knifethrow’s wave, crept forward, and turned his attention outward. The Naa would take care of the guards. It was his job to provide security and make sure that no one interfered.
While under strict orders to keep the prisoner secured, neither guard had any reason to expect an external attack, especially from a fellow legionnaire. So, when Private Knifethrow emerged from the darkness and sauntered up to them, there was no reason to be alarmed. The Naa’s teeth gleamed in the murk. “Hey, guys, how are they hanging?”
Lance Corporal Sootha grinned, and was just about to answer in kind, when something blurred past his chin. It was only when he felt the pain and saw the jet of inky black blood, that he realized it was his. He tried to speak, tried to shout, but couldn’t summon the necessary air. That was when he felt dizzy, lost consciousness, and collapsed.
Private Fortu had enough time to say, “What the hell?” and reach toward the weapon slung over his shoulder, but that was all. The already-bloodied knife flashed again, the legionnaire staggered, and went down in a welter of his own blood.
Never one to settle for half measures Knifethrow checked both bodies to ensure that they were truly dead and waved Sawicki forward. Kuga-Ka had heard the sounds of muffled combat and was ready when the door squealed open, allowing humid air to flood the shed. “Well done,” he said approvingly, as the Naa stood framed in the doorway. “Drag them inside.”
The legionnaires obeyed, and the NCO took the opportunity to arm himself with Lance Corporal Sootha’s weapons, including a holstered zapper. “All right,” the renegade said as he loosened the dead soldier’s pistol belt so it would fit around his enormous waist. “Are the supplies ready?”
Knifethrow nodded. “Each of us will carry a thirty-pound pack that includes emergency rations, med kits, and reserve ammo.”
“And my personal stuff?”
“It’s in your pack. So that, plus the stuff Sawicki loaded into the RAV, should take care of our needs for quite some time.”
Kuga-Ka nodded. A single RAV could carry up to four thousand pounds’ worth of food, ammo, and other gear. Just the thing for a stroll on a primitive planet. “Good work. So, where are they?”
There was no need to ask who “they” were since both the Naa and the human knew who the Hudathan was referring to. “Santana went to dinner with Kobbi,” Knifethrow answered, “and the brain boxes are stored in the terminal building. Or were at any rate—since they could have been moved by now.”
Kuga-Ka swore. He had hoped to kill both Santana and Haaby before slipping out of the settlement, but that was impossible now. Still, it sounded as though Haaby was vulnerable, and something was a helluva lot better than nothing. “All right,” the renegade replied, “let’s pay the terminal a visit. If the freak’s there, we’ll kill her. As a matter of fact, we’ll kill all of them if we have time.”
There were times when Knifethrow wished that Kuga-Ka was a bit more rational, and this was one of them. Rather than waste time killing cyborgs, the Naa would have preferred to hit the trail and put as much distance between himself and the rest of the battalion as possible. But there was no reasoning with the ridge head on such matters so he didn’t try. “Sure, gunny, whatever you say.”
Lights glowed within the ter
minal building as a team of four life-support techs finalized preparations to move the brain boxes to a safer location. Special backpacks had been prepared, each having a cradle for one box, a small power source, and the systems necessary to ensure that the cyborgs received oxygenated blood substitute, nutrition, and electronic communications. The plan, which had come down from the colonel himself, was to rig the box heads for a long march.
None of the techs were armed, so when the double doors flew open, and three heavily armed legionnaires rushed in, there was nothing they could do but look surprised and raise their hands. The assault weapon looked like a toy in Kuga-Ka’s hands, and he used it like a pointer. “Herd them into the office. Push a desk in front of the door. If they give you any trouble, shoot them.”
Sawicki nodded cheerfully. “You heard the gunny—get in there.”
One of the techs, a woman who knew the noncom, looked back over her shoulder as she entered the office. “What the hell are you doing, Sawicki? They’ll find you and hang your ass.”
“Maybe,” the human allowed, “and maybe not. But at least I won’t be here with you, polishing boots and taking shit from officers all day. Now move it.”
Wood rubbed on wood as the legionnaire pushed a desk in front of the door. “Watch out front,” Kuga-Ka instructed. “We don’t want any surprises.”
It was an important task, so Knifethrow assigned it to himself. Doors squeaked as he slipped outside.
“Now,” Kuga-Ka said eagerly, as he eyed the rows of specially made-up packs. “I wonder where my little friend Haaby is hiding.”
For her part the cyborg was awake, but completely unaware of what was going on around her, as she played a virtual card game with one of her peers. The sound of Kuga-Ka’s voice was like a bolt out of the blue. “Hey, freak, remember me?”
Haaby felt a sudden nearly paralyzing fear, ordered her war form to move, and felt an overwhelming sense of despair when nothing happened.
The Hudathan laughed. “If you had an ass, which you don’t, you’d be shitting your pants right about now.”
Kuga-Ka had more to say, lots more, but the doors banged open, and Knifethrow reentered the terminal. “I can see lights and hear a whole lot of voices! They’re coming this way!”
“Did you hear that?” the renegade inquired, speaking into the headset that went with the pack. “No, I suppose you didn’t. Well, you and I are going for a long walk in the jungle. Think about that . . . and we’ll talk a bit later.”
So saying, the ex-noncom pulled the plug on Haaby’s radio, swung the pack up onto his back, and pointed to the side door. “Well, lads, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this Hudathan’s army. Let’s find a new one.”
5
* * *
The truth is whatever I say it is.
—Ramanthian Hive Mother Nors Iblibio
Standard year 2841
* * *
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The road, which had been built atop an ancient trail, had been widened and improved by the Legion’s Pioneers many years before. But it was still subject to washouts and landslides, which made it treacherous at best. The scenery was beautiful, though, as the sun arced across a clear blue sky, and the Towers of Algeron dominated the southern horizon.
The scout car jerked as General Bill Booly shifted into a lower gear, and his wife held on to a grab bar, as the boxy vehicle negotiated a tight turn. Knobby tires spewed rocks out over the two-hundred-foot precipice even as they propelled the vehicle up through a seemingly endless series of switchbacks and deeper into what Legion briefers referred to as “a disputed zone (DZ).” Disputed, because the Earth government claimed that Algeron belonged to them, while most Naa believed otherwise. They wanted sovereignty and direct representation in the Senate like the spacefaring races had, but many wanted to maintain close ties with Earth as well.
Then, as if Maylo’s husband was reading her mind, he guided the scout car around a corner and came to a stop about fifteen feet short of a pile of carefully stacked rocks. He killed the engine. “See that? Two T-2s and four bio bods died there. My great-grandfather, Wayfar Hardman, led the war party that ambushed them. It was a hard-fought battle. The last time I stopped here you could still find empty shell casings in among the rocks.”
Maylo looked from her husband’s face to the cairn of rocks. The brief anecdote spoke volumes about the situation on Algeron, her husband, and his family. Truly divergent species weren’t supposed to be able to reproduce, yet there were thousands of so-called breeds, and just as many theories as to why. The favorite, for the moment at least, was the possibility of common ancestors. An ancient race archeologists called the Forerunners, who left enigmatic ruins on planets like Jericho, and some said Earth.
Maylo didn’t care, not so long as her husband existed and was at her side. The trip was her idea, a way of breaking her husband away from Fort Camerone and the never-ending stream of bad news. The war with the Ramanthians was not going well, morale was at an all-time low, and there was no relief in sight. A fact that weighed heavily on Booly. She had short black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a long oval face. “So, which side are you proud of?”
“Both,” Booly answered succinctly, “because both were right in their own way.”
The scout car started with a roar, and Booly guided it up through a series of blind curves and into a broad, U-shaped valley. There were signs that the land had been under cultivation in the past and would be again when spring came around.
In the meantime a large herd of shaggy dooths could be seen, standing in small groups and pawing the ground to uncover the vegetation buried beneath the snow. Vehicles were not unknown in the area, which meant that the animals remained unmoved by the sound of the scout car’s engine and continued to chew slowly as it rolled past them.
Meanwhile, high above, what looked like an airborne scavenger circled the valley. But it wasn’t a flyer, not the flesh-and-blood variety at any rate, nor was it searching for carrion. The RPV-L467 (Remotely Piloted Vehicle–Legion type 467) was there for one reason, and one reason only: to protect General Bill Booly and his wife. It was a task that, like so many others, fell to Chief of Staff Colonel Tom Leeger.
The officer was in his office, plowing his way through the latest reports from dozens of far-flung outposts, when a natty-looking lieutenant knocked on his already-open door. Lister looked up from his comp. “Yeah, Thinklong, what’s up?”
The Naa was not only one of the brighter young officers assigned to Legion HQ. He was a graduate of the academy, something that had once been unheard of, but was now increasingly common. He had cream-colored fur with diagonal streaks of black. “It’s the general, sir. He and his wife are in the valley adjacent to his ancestral village.”
Leeger sighed. Much as he admired Maylo Chien-Chu and her many accomplishments, it seemed as if the woman had dropped out of space for the sole purpose of making his life more difficult. The trip into the DZ was not only a waste of time, but a dangerous waste of time, which was why he had recommended against it.
Unfortunately, Booly not only bought into the idea, but refused an armed escort, which not only put his life at risk but made Leeger’s that much more difficult. “So?” the staff officer inquired testily, “that’s where he was headed. So, what’s the problem?”
“Sir, yes sir,” Thinklong replied expressionlessly, “but the video transmitted back from the RPV shows a large number of armed warriors closing in on the village from the south.”
Leeger frowned. “Define ‘large.’ ”
“About two hundred, give or take, sir.”
“Shit! Notify the response team. I want them ready to lift at a moment’s notice.”
Thinklong already had but nodded obediently. “Sir, yes sir.”
Booly and Maylo had an escort by then. It consisted of half a dozen mounted warriors. They galloped along next to the scout car, shouted friendly insults, and waved rifles over their heads as the legi
onnaire guided the car between a series of defensive barriers. A voice spoke in his ear, and Booly triggered his radio. “This is Rover Six . . . Go. Over.”
Knowing her husband’s staff wouldn’t call him unless it was something important, and fearful that the war had taken a sudden turn for the worse, Maylo felt something heavy hit the bottom of her stomach. She watched him listen, utter a brief reply, and break the connection. “So?”
Booly glanced at his wife and back to the road. “A group of warriors are closing on the village from the south. Leeger wants to pull us out.”
“And?”
“And I said, ‘no.’ It’s my guess that they want to talk to me rather than slit my throat.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Booly felt a moment of doubt, wondered if he should have the response team come for his wife, and knew she would refuse to leave unless he left as well. He smiled. “Then we’ll be in deep trouble.”
Maylo had been in deep trouble before. First on Earth, where Booly had saved her life, and later off Arballa, where she had been badly wounded. That didn’t matter, not much at any rate, but something else did. Something her husband didn’t know about yet . . . but would soon become apparent. Her hand went to her abdomen. She forced a smile. “You’re supposed to be taking a couple of days off . . . Remember?”
“Absolutely,” Booly replied. “I’ll have a chat with their leaders and send the rest of them packing. A couple of hours should take care of it.”
Maylo didn’t believe a word of it but smiled and nodded. She had parallel jobs. The first involved running a large interstellar corporation. The second, the one she was focused on at the moment, was the more difficult of the two. The car slowed, a reception party appeared ahead, and Booly was home.
PLANET STARFALL, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
If human and Ramanthian fleets were clashing in the far reaches of space, and cities were being incinerated from orbit, there was no sign of that on Starfall, where business beings cut deals and diplomats like ambassador Kay Wilmot and Foreign Service Officer Christine Vanderveen were required to attend what seemed like a never-ending round of meetings, receptions, and parties.
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