Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell

by William C. Dietz

  What looked like a brown smudge obscured the horizon. It reminded the officer of smog, the kind he’d seen on heavily industrialized worlds, but when Santana raised his glasses he found himself looking into what he knew to be a sandstorm. The same sandstorm Kobbi had referred to. In fact, the legionnaire could already feel the insistent push of the wind and the sting of windblown sand, as the disturbance came his way.

  Santana turned toward the enemy, saw the bandits wheel, and knew they were determined to carry out one more attack before the sandstorm hit. Once they managed to overwhelm the legionnaires, the outcasts would drop through the opening and slaughter the civilians. The officer activated his com set. “Okay people, a storm is coming. That means this is their last shot at us. Get those goggles on . . . and hit ’em hard.”

  There was no time to say more before the Paguum attacked. It was clear that the outlaws had something different in mind this time as they came straight in, ordered their mounts to jump, and flew over the low barricade. Not all of them, because the inner circle was too small for that, but five or six.

  Dietrich came to his feet firing, brass arcing away from his weapon as his bullets knocked a warrior out of the saddle, and his mount jumped the opposite barrier.

  Santana shot a zurna in the head, managed to dodge the falling body, and yelled, “Watch the bastards on the outside!”

  A Paguum chose that moment to jump the lieutenant from behind, and the assault weapon went flying as he fell facedown in the sand. It was difficult to move with so much weight on his back but Santana managed to buck the warrior off. Then, having rolled over onto his back, the officer used one hand to intercept the assailant’s knife arm and the other to reach for his sidearm. The moment the weapon came free of its holster, Santana jammed it into the body above and pulled the trigger. There were two muffled thuds, and the Paguum jerked in response and suddenly went limp.

  Desperate to see what was happening, Santana threw the body off, scrambled to his feet, and found that the wind-driven haze was all around him. The sun was little more than a dimly seen glow by then, it was impossible to see what was going on more than ten or fifteen feet away, and the officer realized that he had forgotten to wear his goggles. Zurnas circled half-seen in the flying sand, autofire stabbed the murk, and a legionnaire screamed as a lance went into her thigh.

  Eyes slitted against the storm, Santana shot the Paguum who held the blood-reddened lance, saw Fareye jump up to pull a rider off the saddle, then haul the outlaw down to the ground. Steel flashed, the bandit’s head flopped, and blood sprayed the air as the Naa-forged steel did its work.

  Then there was a strange almost surreal moment as a Paguum bellowed orders, and the surviving outcasts withdrew, and were immediately swallowed by the storm. “Lower the wounded into the hole!” Santana shouted over the wind. “Collect all the gear you can! We’re going to need it!”

  It took the better part of ten minutes to get everyone down the hole, tug the stone lid back into place, and descend into the dimly lit chambers below. The moment his feet touched solid ground Santana posted guards at the bottom of the shaft and ordered Dietrich to establish a quick-reaction force.

  Then, satisfied that the single entry was secure, the officer set off on a tour of the surrounding rooms. All manner of candles, glow sticks, and cell-powered lights had been used to illuminate the maze of ancient corridors, dusty galleries, and cavelike chambers.

  Now that the battle was over, a dormitory was being established to house the children, and a first-aid station was open for business. Santana ducked under an archway and entered to find that “Doc” Obi and a civilian volunteer were hard at work doing what they could for the wounded. The officer made the rounds, spoke to each patient, and emerged to find that Qwis was outside waiting for him. She took his hand. “Come with me. There’s something I want you to see.”

  Santana followed the young woman through a series of passageways, past a row of bricked-up windows, and into a circular chamber. A pool of crystal-clear water occupied the very center of the space and reflected light from the candles that occupied niches all around the room.

  Saddo, the Paguum who had led the off-worlders to the ancient well, crouched beside it. A bloodstained bandage had been tied around his head, but he was otherwise untouched. “You were correct,” Santana said simply. “Thank you.”

  The Paguum shrugged. “It was God’s will, not mine. My uncle showed me the well, and I passed the knowledge to you. Such was your destiny.”

  Santana descended a flight of shallow steps, knelt next to the pool, and scooped water up into his face. It felt wonderful. The legionnaire drank some and used the rest to wash his face. “Take as much as you want, but don’t let any fall back into the well,” Saddo admonished. “It is our sacred duty to keep it clean.”

  Santana felt embarrassed and was quick to apologize. “Please forgive me, Saddo. That was stupid.”

  “Not stupid,” the warrior corrected him. “Only those who live with wells understand what they need.”

  Santana nodded, came to his feet, and allowed Qwis to lead him away. A few steps down the corridor brought them to a doorway and an alcove beyond. The officer saw his pack, what he knew to be her pack, and one of the water bladders that had been salvaged from Old Faithful. It was wet on the outside and newly fat with water.

  “Do you see that corner over there?” Qwis inquired. “There’s a hole in it. And if you were to hang the water bladder up there,” she said, pointing at an overhead beam, “we could take a shower.”

  Santana raised an eyebrow. “We?”

  “Of course,” the young woman replied innocently. “We have to conserve water.” The legionnaire nodded soberly. “Quite right . . . Thanks for reminding me. But before I can clean up, I have to . . .”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Qwis interrupted. “Sergeant Dietrich knows where you are—and expects you to relieve him in four hours.”

  It was a setup, one that granted Dietrich more information about Santana’s private life than the officer wanted the noncom to have, but the temptation was too strong. He grinned. “You thought of everything.”

  “Yes,” Qwis agreed smugly, “I did.”

  Because of the sudden need to kiss each other while removing all sorts of military paraphernalia, it took an unusually long period of time for both of them to get undressed. But, with some enthusiastic help from Santana, Qwis was eventually able to shed her underwear and step under the dribble of liquid that flowed from the water bag.

  Her body had always been slim, but after weeks of hardship, her ribs were visible. Qwis looked up into the cool water, ran her fingers through her hair, and gave a tiny moan of pleasure as the liquid trickled down across her chest. Brown nipples hardened in reaction to the water. Santana stepped in and held up a bar of soap. “May I?”

  “Yes,” Qwis said huskily, “you may.” Santana applied the soap to cool skin, starting with her shoulders and gradually working his way down to pert, upturned breasts, a flat stomach, and the dark cleft between her legs.

  Qwis uttered a tiny gasp as his hand lingered there before finding its way around to her buttocks, where the other hand joined it. Then she was up off the floor with her legs wrapped around his waist as Santana nudged his way inside. Their lips met, and the couple remained like that, their bodies locked together, until the steadily rising tide of passion caused both of them to move.

  Qwis broke the kiss, held on to the legionnaire’s shoulders, and looked up into his face. She wanted to memorize it, so it would always be there, stored against the time when they would part. It was a reality he hadn’t considered as yet, but she had, and was already trying to deal with. Qwis took pride in the pleasure that she was giving, the little sounds that he made, and way their bodies fit together.

  Then, as their lovemaking intensified, and the tension started to build, Qwis pulled herself up to renew the kiss as the final moment of pleasure came. And it was good, better than what she had expected, which l
ed to a desire for more.

  Finally, reluctant to release Qwis and thereby bring the interlude to an end, Santana continued to hold her, reveling in the trickle of cool water, the contrasting warmth of her body, and the smell of soap.

  Later, as the legionnaire lay asleep on their makeshift bed, Qwis said a silent farewell. If they survived, if they found a way off the planet, Santana would be sent on another mission while she went to Earth. Her father had some money there, which meant that he could heal, she could further her education and find whatever life still had in store for her. The soldier turned, an arm fell across her stomach, and Qwis felt a tear roll down her cheek.

  FIRE BASE ALPHA, THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS

  The day after the storm had dawned bright and clear, bringing with it the opportunity to dig out from under sand drifts and put the battalion back together. The wreck was a scene of frantic activity as Kobbi stood atop a neighboring dune and watched still another quad clank down the ramp to join its mates. Bit by bit, as more war forms were activated, the perimeter had been pushed farther out.

  The officer turned as engines screamed and a skeletal-looking fly-form rose on its repellors, turned on its axis, and fought for altitude. It had orders to fly south, land in the desert, and bring the crash survivors out. Something a lot of very worried parents were looking forward to.

  The fact that Santana and his party had survived repeated attacks by the outcasts was good news but did nothing to resolve the central problem. The officer felt sure that the hypercom was still on Savas because the Ramanthians hadn’t left, as evidenced by the attack on Old Faithful and the high-altitude flyovers they conducted at least twice a day. The hands-off exercise suggested that what aircraft they still had were considered too precious to risk by attacking the wreck.

  But the question, the one that kept the jacker awake at night, had to do with time. How much of it remained before some sort of Ramanthian task force dropped into orbit, loaded the hypercom in their holds, and carried it away? Days? Weeks? Certainly no more, given the amount of time that had elapsed since the battalion’s arrival. Whatever the answer, Kobbi knew that he and his battalion would have to reach Hagala Nor in a very short period of time, take on a substantial force of Ramanthian regulars, and defeat them before their reinforcements could arrive.

  The next problem was how to get the captured equipment off planet, but there was no way to know if Captain Posson and the smuggler had been able to get through, so all the officer could do was seize control of Hagala Nor and hope for the best.

  “Good morning, sir,” Calvo said cheerfully as she topped the dune and handed Kobbi a sealed container. “I hope you like your coffee black because that’s how it is.”

  “I like my coffee any way that I can get it,” the senior officer replied appreciatively. “We ran out a full week before we got here.”

  The MO nodded and took a sip of tea before gesturing to the scene below. A squad of T-2s, each with a bio bod strapped to its back, were jogging toward the east side of the perimeter. “Things are going well. We’ll be able to pull out by 0600 tomorrow.”

  “You did a helluva job, Captain. And so did Rono-Ra and Amdo. I’ll put every damned one of you in for a decoration if we make it off this pus ball alive.”

  Calvo was about to credit her troops when a fly-form screamed in from the southeast and circled the fire base like a bird checking its nest before settling onto pad three. “That will be Nis Noia,” Kobbi predicted. “Come on, let’s see what the frigging spook has to say.”

  Although Nis Noia had seen the wreck from the air, it wasn’t until he stepped out of the fly-form onto what looked like black glass that he could appreciate the size of it. The ship, or what remained of it, had the bulk of a high-rise office tower laid on its side. A legionnaire arrived to take him inside. The operative was struck by the fact that once inside the hull, and with no ports to look out of, he could have been in space. Thanks to all the miracles performed by Amdo and his crew, the lights remained on, deliciously cool air whispered through the ducts, and only the slight tilt of the deck hinted at where the ship truly was.

  Kobbi, Matala, Calvo, and Amdo arrived in the wardroom at the same time Noia did. There was a quick flurry of introductions followed by a readiness report from the XO and a tray of refreshments. Once the rating who had brought them left the compartment, Kobbi wasted little time getting down to business. His eyes locked with Noia’s. “I know you understand the urgency of our situation. Hell, you were the guy who found the Ramanthian air car out in the desert and sent for help. What, if anything, can you tell us about what the bugs are doing right now?”

  Noia brought his fingers together into a steeple. “My scouts tell me that the Ramanthian machines, by which they mean armor, are positioned to defend Hagala Nor.”

  Calvo nodded. “That’s consistent with the latest images obtained by our RPVs. It looks like the bugs have a full battalion on the ground. It’s hard to get an exact count, since the Ramanthians are trying to hide them, but the standard strength for that kind of an outfit is fifty-six armored vehicles. So far they don’t show any signs of coming out to meet us.”

  “So,” Kobbi said soberly, his eyes roaming the faces around him, “it looks like the bugs know what we’re after and plan to make a stand. We need to get our hands on the hypercom before they receive reinforcements, so it looks like we’ll have to tackle them head-on.”

  Noia cleared his throat. “That may be hard to do, Colonel. My sources inform me that the northern tribe broke camp this morning and is riding west. I believe they will stop, turn south, and engage you. They won’t be able to win, not against your cyborgs, but the fight could last for two or three days. Especially if the Ramanthians provide them with arms, which I predict that they will.”

  Kobbi directed a look at Calvo, who knew what the colonel wanted, and left the room as the jacker turned back to Noia. “We can’t afford to let the bugs stall us for one day, much less three. Captain Calvo will send an RPV to check on the northerners. Now, assuming that we can confirm your intelligence, here’s what I want you to do . . . Use your influence with the southern tribe to bring them into contact with northerners. While the Paguum are busy butting heads, we’ll go around the conflict and engage the bugs head-on. Do you follow me?”

  Noia winced, and his eyes dropped to the surface of the wardroom table. Even though he wasn’t supposed to get emotionally involved, he’d been on Savas so long that he had come to value Paguumi culture and love the planet as much as they did. No, the off-world part of him couldn’t approve of Omoni’s tendency to usurp northern wells, but the Paguumi part of him understood. Survival comes first.

  Now the intelligence officer was being called upon to guide his adopted people toward a conflict that would almost certainly result in thousands of casualties. And he didn’t have to follow Kobbi’s orders. The organization that Madame X led fell well outside the military chain of command and had been created to gather intelligence, not act on it.

  But there were other sentients to whom he was beholden. Billions of them, spread across hundreds of systems, all of whom would be vulnerable if the Ramanthians had sole possession of the hypercom.

  The silence had grown distinctly uncomfortable, and Kobbi had just cleared his throat as a prelude to restating his request, when Noia looked up from the table. His voice cracked as he spoke. “I’ll do what you ask under one condition.”

  Kobbi wasn’t used to having conditions imposed on him, not by civilians dressed in ratty-looking native garb, but managed to control his temper. “And the condition is?”

  “The Ramanthians will supply Srebo Riff and his tribe with arms,” Noia answered. “I’m sure of it. You don’t have weapons to give away, I know that, but you could supply the southerners with a group of advisors. They were practicing the tactics Santana taught them when the lieutenant and his troops were pulled away. Send him back, let him lead the dawn people into battle, and I’ll do what you ask.”

&nbs
p; Now it was Kobbi’s turn to be silent as he considered all of his alternatives. It wasn’t fair to Santana to throw him into the situation that Noia had described, not after what he’d been through, and he was short of competent company commanders. But it was clear that Noia felt strongly about helping the southerners, and judging from the fervor in his eyes might say “no” if he didn’t get his way.

  “All right,” Kobbi conceded, “I’ll send Santana. But only for the first engagement. He has a scout company to lead . . . and I’m short of officers. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” the intelligence operative agreed, expelling his breath with the word. “Thank you.”

  “Just keep the northern tribe off our backs,” Kobbi replied curtly. “That will be thanks enough.”

  THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS

  The fly-form’s slipstream whipped through the open hatch, blew Santana’s hair straight back, and threatened to snatch anything that wasn’t strapped down. It felt good to fly rather than walk, even if it meant that he and his troops were headed back into the desert again, where they were supposed to provide the southern tribe with “advice and leadership.” A euphemism for helping one group of digs kick the crap out of another.

  What little comfort there was stemmed from the fact that the rest of the battalion was headed north to engage the Ramanthians. Not that Santana and his tiny command had been issued a free pass, since they were supposed to rejoin the battalion, “as early as possible after the successful execution of the unit’s orders.”

  In the meantime, out on his own once more, Santana wanted to take a look at the night people before joining their cousins to the south. And since the two tribes were only about eighty standard miles apart, and moving toward each other at a speed of about five miles an hour, the detour wouldn’t take all that long.