Calvo had just finished the last of her tea and turned the mug upside down to let the last few drops of liquid darken the sand when she heard a crack! as something passed through the planet’s atmosphere. That was followed by a bang! as whatever it was hit the ground—and a rumble as the sound rolled out across the desert. Then, even as the startled officer was still trying to figure out what was happening, a column of sand shot twenty feet up into the air before collapsing into a blackened crater.
Amdo, who had been sitting in the Natu’s control room when the bolt struck, saw the impact via the main screen and switched his belt com to broadcast. “This is Delta Six! The bugs are shelling us from orbit! All personnel into the ship! Over.”
“This is Alpha Six,” Calvo said over the same frequency. “Both patrol forms will take cover where they are . . . We need to disperse our forces, not concentrate them. Can you activate the ship’s shields?”
Another series of crack! bang! boom! sounds were heard and Amdo saw that the second column of sand was not only closer, but in line with what remained of his ship. The bastards were sitting in orbit, nibbling whatever bugs nibble, while one of their computers walked energy bolts across the coordinates where the downed transport was located. The naval officer’s first inclination was to tell the legionnaire “No,” that the ship’s energy fields weren’t designed to operate within a planetary atmosphere, which was true. But then there was another crack! bang! boom! only louder this time, and the naval officer wondered if the shields would offer at least some protection.
There was no time to explain, no time to discuss the idea, so Amdo took action instead. He stood, lurched across the uneven deck, and plopped down in front of the vacant engineering control station.
“Delta Six?” Calvo inquired. “Do you read me? Over.”
“I read you,” Amdo answered grimly, “and I’m working on it.”
Individual lights changed color, power flowed to the shield projectors mounted on the top surface of the hull, and the naval officer stabbed a button a full second before the next bolt hit. The transport’s force field flashed incandescent as it neutralized the incoming energy and shorted out.
Calvo was lying prone in the sand by then. She saw the fireworks as the energy bolt struck, knew something had gone wrong, and waited for the final blow to fall. It came with the usual crack! bang! boom! but hit twenty feet aft of the ship’s stern and sent a geyser of sand up into the air. The MO came to her feet and cheered as the next shot fell a hundred yards out, and the succeeding bolts marched off to the west.
Meanwhile, in the transport’s control room, Captain Amdo shook his head in wonderment. The Spirit of Natu might be down . . . but she refused to die.
NORTH OF SAVAS PRIME, PLANET SAVAS
Because very little sun found its way down to the jungle floor even when the sun was at its apex, evening came early down below the canopy, and even though sunset was still a couple of hours away, the legionnaires wore small, stylus-sized lights clipped to both sides of their headsets. Circles of pale white light wobbled across the thick vegetation and slipped between tree trunks, as the soldiers made their way up the trail. The RAV’s headlights speared the treetops as it climbed a hill, dipped as the robot started down the other side, and threw long shadows up the trail.
The omnipresent drums had been beating for hours by then, as steady as a heartbeat. It was a psychological ploy, and an effective one, because even though Santana knew that the wild Jithi were trying to scare him, the device worked. “How much farther?” he demanded, and one of his headlamps played across Qwis Qwan’s mud-smeared face as she looked back over her shoulder.
“We’re close, very close.”
“Good. I’d like to set up a defensive perimeter before we lose the rest of the light.”
Qwis started to reply but was cut off when Dietrich came in via the platoon frequency. “This is Bravo Three Six . . . I have a man down. He took some sort of dart in the neck. Over.”
“They’re trying to slow us down!” Qwis said. “They don’t want us to reach the ruins!”
“I read you, Three Six,” Santana replied. “Throw him on the RAV or carry him . . . Come on, people . . . There’s a clearing up ahead complete with cover. Let’s pick up the pace. Over.”
Santana heard the phut! of a dart as it whizzed past his head, felt something nudge his pack, and splashed through a stream. There was a series of disconnected bangs as the Jithi fired their trade rifles from high in the trees and the rattle of automatic fire as one of the legionnaires replied.
“There it is!” Qwis shouted triumphantly, as she pointed into the gloom. “Head for the structure at the center of the clearing! Their blow guns won’t be able to reach it!”
Santana looked ahead, saw what looked like a flat-topped pyramid, and stepped to one side. “This is Bravo Six . . . Follow Ms. Qwan! We’ll hole up in the ruins!”
The officer forced himself to stand there, waiting for the sting of a dart, as he motioned his troops forward. But there was no pain, no moment of ensuing dizziness, as the rest of the first squad brushed past, followed by the RAV. Servos whined as it lumbered forward, slugs whipped through the foliage as someone fired into the treetops, and Dietrich appeared. His teeth looked extremely white in the steadily growing darkness. “No offense, sir, but that’s the last time I’m going for a walk in the woods with you!”
Santana grinned and waved the second squad forward. “Come on! The last one to the ruins has to dig the latrine!”
The trade rifles continued to bang away as the cavalry officer followed the last legionnaire across open ground and into the relative safety of the ruins. A bullet spanged off ancient rock as Santana ducked through a doorway just as someone fired from within. There was a flash, followed by the crack! of a high-velocity rifle round, and the sound of a distant scream.
Santana turned to see who the marksman was and saw that Qwis Qwan was standing just inside the doorway with the hunting rifle still at her shoulder. That was when he caught a whiff of her perfume—and realized that there was a distinct possibility that the colonist had saved his life. Light washed across the soldier’s face as she turned in his direction. Santana turned his lamps off and reached out to extinguish hers as well. They were safe behind a stone wall—but it was important to be careful.
The action brought the two of them together, and as the lights went out, the legionnaire found himself cupping her face in his hands. The kiss was soft at first, then increasingly urgent, as Qwis reached up to pull him down.
That was when a flare went off high in the air, bathed the clearing in an eerie glow, and swayed from side to side as it fell. Somebody shouted an order, and there was a steady thumping sound as the RAV opened up with one of its nose guns. Santana broke the contact, smiled, and kissed her on the nose. “That was extremely enjoyable—but duty calls.” Then he was gone.
Qwis stood there for a moment, watched a second flare go off, and laughed. Life on Savas was boring, or had been until then.
NEAR PASSING ROCK, THE SOUTHERN EDGE OF THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS
Hooves thundered as Nartha Omoni and one hundred of her best warriors swept up onto a low-lying pass, where the chieftain ordered her mount to stop and eyed the valley below. For thousands of years the northern and southern Paguum had pursued opposite paths around the planet, and since each group took roughly the same amount of time to make the journey, they met once every 4.5 years in a shallow depression under a plateau known as Passing Rock.
There had been wars, territorial disputes related to water rights mostly, but long periods of peace as well. Wonderful times when passings lasted a month or more, as hundreds of arranged marriages took place, entire herds of katha changed hands, and zurna races thundered far into the night. But that was then, and this was now.
That was before the summers grew even warmer, some of the best water holes dried up, and the southern tribe had been forced to cross into the northern savanna searching for grass and water. I
t was a bad thing to do, Omoni knew that, and understood why Srebo Riff was upset with her. The incursions had gone unnoticed at first, thanks to the fact that the two tribes were moving in opposite directions, but what had begun more than six years earlier was now apparent as the two tribes neared each other once again.
That was why the leader of the southern tribe was surprised to see a cluster of northern tents next to the ribbon-thin river, the peace pennant that flew above them, and a pen stocked with six katha. The number that were traditionally slaughtered at “first meet,” when the advance parties from both tribes came together.
But, unexpected though the encampment was, Omoni was eager to believe in it. Perhaps Riff had matured over the last few years, had come to understand the complexities of life, and was ready to resolve problems in a peaceful manner. If so, the southern chieftain was more than ready to meet her counterpart halfway, even going so far as to pay the northerners up to twenty thousand katha for the water already consumed.
It was a good theory, a wonderful theory, and Omoni raised the silver-inlaid trade rifle high over her head. The undulating cry was part exultation, part announcement, as the chief and her zurna galloped down the rocky hillside.
The warriors followed, all but one of them, that is, who remained where he was. Unlike the rest of the warriors, this particular individual had no skull crest, a nose that was exceedingly small by Paguumi standards, and shoulder-length hair. His name was Nis Noia, he was human, and the only Confederacy intelligence officer on Savas. His zurna was equipped with reins, resented the fact, and lurched forward as the other animals departed.
But Noia was ready, jerked savagely on the reins, and held his mount in place. He wasn’t a big man, only six feet or so, although it was hard to tell given the tan-colored robes that he wore. Most of his head was obscured by a turbanlike arrangement that featured a slit for his piercing blue eyes but couldn’t conceal the fall of gray hair that hit the tops of his shoulders.
Once the agent had steadied his mount, he brought a pair of electrobinoculars up to his eyes, and examined the tents below. They looked normal at first glance—but something about the scene bothered him. Noia couldn’t get a fix on the problem at first—but then it came to him. People! There weren’t any people! Not even tracks—because the wind had scrubbed them clean.
The human started to shout a warning, knew it was too late, and jerked the viewing device upward. It took a full ten seconds to find the northerners, hidden along the top edge of Passing Rock, but they were there with rifles angled downward. A single glance was sufficient to confirm that Omoni and her warriors were still hell-bent for leather down into the valley.
Noia said, “Goddamn it to hell,” reached down, and pulled the .50 caliber rifle out of the long, narrow scabbard. It was a long shot, an absurdly long shot, but the only one he had. The agent held the zurna’s reins with one hand, held the rifle with the other, and jumped to the ground. Then, with the barrel resting across the animal’s sculptured back, Noia took careful aim. The telescopic sight caused the other side of the valley to leap forward. There wasn’t enough time to choose targets, only to select a warrior who had the misfortune to be visible from that particular angle and squeeze the trigger.
The rifle went off with a loud bang! the zurna jumped, and the agent was hard-pressed to prevent the beast from running away. That’s why the human didn’t witness what happened when the heavy slug hit Tithin’s head, or see the way the Paguum’s brains splattered the Ramanthian officer crouched at his side, or watch as Omoni and her warriors skidded to a gravel-spewing stop just short of the valley’s floor.
But the agent heard the ripped-cloth sound of automatic weapons fire as the northern tribe’s newly acquired Negar III assault rifles came into play, yells as Omoni’s bodyguards started to fall, and screams as some of the zurnas went down as well.
Then, having regained the saddle, Noia was able to watch as Omoni led the surviving warriors back out of range, then up the slope to the point where the human waited. The chieftain was furious, and judging from the animal’s expression, so was her zurna. It snorted angrily and skidded to a stop. “You saw them,” Omoni said accusingly.
“Yes,” the human replied. “But only after you rode down into the valley.”
Omoni had been a beauty once, or that’s what the elders claimed, though her once-pleasing features had forever been altered by the silver patch that concealed her left eye, the scar that bisected her right cheek, and the lines that divided her skin into a thousand leathery islands. She was proud, very proud, but bowed her head. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Noia replied gravely.
“The weapons that fire quickly,” Omoni said, “where did the northern scum get them?”
“From the hard skins,” the agent replied. “In return for their loyalty.”
“Then the hard skins must die,” the chieftain said thoughtfully.
“Yes,” Noia agreed solemnly. “On that we can agree.”
8
* * *
And the jungle was given to the Jithi, just as the Jithi were given to the jungle, for they are one.
—Jithi Book of Chants
Author and date unknown
* * *
NORTH OF SAVAS PRIME, PLANET SAVAS
Dawn came slowly, as if the sun was reluctant to raise its reddish orange head and stare down into the jungle clearing. The ruins had been there long before intelligent life had evolved on Savas, and the mist clung to them like ectoplasm rising from a grave. It shivered slightly as the morning temperature differential generated a slight breeze and nudged it from the west. Now, after a long night of monotonous drumming punctuated by sporadic sniper fire, the jungle was nearly silent.
The structure that the legionnaires had taken refuge in had four sides, each of which slanted up to a flat top, where four enigmatic statues sat back-to-back, each facing a different point of the compass. All were different in appearance, and none resembled any species that Santana had seen before. Perhaps they were mythological beings, or part of the mysterious forerunner civilization that had left its mark on Jericho, as well as other planets. It hardly mattered, not to the cavalry officer, who was primarily interested in how to escape from the place.
The creature who faced south was at least fifty feet tall, had a doglike aspect, a humanoid body, and sat with folded legs. Santana stood on the ancient’s mossy lap and scanned the mist-shrouded tree line. The human was within rifle range of the jungle but shielded by a pair of folded hands, both of which were stained by bird droppings.
The Jithi wouldn’t be able to take the pyramid, not for a long time at any rate, but they could keep the advance party bottled up. That would force Kobbi and the rest of the battalion to pause, which would take time off the clock and make it that much less likely that the legionnaires would be able to reach Hagala Nor and the hypercom, which the bandy-legged jacker wasn’t willing to countenance. The two of them had spoken just after midnight, and Santana’s orders were clear: Find a way to deal with the Jithi—and accomplish it quickly.
That’s why Yamba had been sent out into the jungle to see if he could convince the local chieftain that a group of renegade soldiers had been responsible for the murders and that a friendly relationship could be mutually beneficial. But that had been hours earlier, during the hours of darkness, and Santana was afraid that the dig was dead.
The legionnaire heard a boot scrape against rock and turned to find that Qwis had climbed the inner staircase to join him. No one had been able to sleep, and she was no exception. Her eyes were red, her face was drawn, and her clothes were filthy. Santana could smell her perfume, though, which meant that it had been renewed recently, in spite of her circumstances. “So,” Qwis said, “what’s going on?”
Santana shrugged. “Nothing so far.”
“That could be a good sign,” the colonist said hopefully. “The Jithi love to barter, and if the local chieftain believes he can profit, negotiations could go on f
or quite a while.”
“Time is what we don’t have,” Santana replied grimly. “A safe passage would be preferable, but if that isn’t possible, then we’ll try to suck them into a full-scale assault.”
Qwis frowned. “So you can slaughter them with automatic weapons?”
“Yes,” the legionnaire answered honestly. “So we can slaughter them and save thousands, perhaps millions of other beings.”
“And how will you do that?” the colonist demanded. “Why did the government send you here anyway?”
“Sorry,” Santana replied. “I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“It doesn’t make much difference, does it?” the legionnaire replied.
Qwis was about to reply, about to tell the officer where he could shove his mysterious mission, when the cry of a koto bird cut through the silence. The colonist scrambled up to the point where she could see over the ancient’s beautifully sculpted hands. She pointed as a figure emerged from the tree line. “Look! It’s Yamba! He’s alive!”
Santana triggered his belt com. “This is Bravo Six . . . Hold your fire, repeat, hold your fire! Over.”
The officer brought his electrobinoculars up to his eyes and found the figures below. Yamba was there, apparently none the worse for wear. He advanced with his hands in the air as two Jithi warriors followed along behind. “I don’t know what Yamba agreed to,” Qwis said, “but you’d better be prepared to honor it. All hell will break loose if you don’t. I’ll go out to meet them.”
Santana followed the young woman down to ground level, issued orders for the legionnaires to keep an eye on the surrounding tree line, and watched Qwis cross open ground. The fact that nothing more than a scattering of weeds had been able to take root in the area around the building indicated that some sort of hard surface lay just below a layer of accumulated soil. The colonist looked small and vulnerable as she met the Jithi. An animated conversation followed.
Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell Page 19