An uncomfortably long period of time passed before Kuzo gave the necessary order, a horn sounded, and the drums began their deliberate beat. Santana waited for the cavalry to begin their charges. Something they did with much waving of weapons, extravagant screaming, and unreserved bravado. Then, sure that the horns had gone in, the legionnaire turned to bugler riding behind him. “Sound the advance.”
Crystal-clear notes rent the morning air, and the dragoons moved forward. Gradually the zurnas transitioned from a walk, to a trot, to a canter. Then, as the entire line swept forward, the first sounds of battle were heard. Santana gritted his teeth as he heard the cloth-ripping sound of automatic weapons, the characteristic thump, thump, thump of a .50 caliber machine gun, and the firecracker fast pop, pop, pop of trade rifles going off. He couldn’t see the T-2 yet, but knew the cyborg was up ahead somewhere, with Kuga-Ka on its back. Could the southerners continue to advance against such intense fire? Only time would tell.
The horns consisted of six columns of seasoned warriors each. The moment they penetrated the northern line four ranks turned outward, pushing the night people away, while the other two lines of cavalry turned in as they tried to hold those riders caught within the U where they were.
Meanwhile, having waited in vain for the Ramanthian war machines to arrive, and thereby ceded the initiative to the southerners, Srebo Riff had no choice but to tackle the enemy alone. He sent cavalry to counter the horns and hoped that the Hudathan could hold the center.
Haaby, Kuga-Ka, and what the renegade liked to refer to as his personal guard were out in front of the dragoons and determined to make a stand. They were all armed with Ramanthian assault rifles and, thanks to the Hudathan’s training, knew how to use them. They went to the prone position, waited for the enemy to come within extreme range, and opened fire.
The warrior on the zurna to Santana’s right was snatched out of the saddle, as were a dozen more. The officer forced himself to ignore the mayhem around him and ordered the bugler to sound the six-note call for “Charge!” The dragoons hadn’t fired a shot as yet, so the sooner they could dismount, the sooner they’d be able to shoot back.
The legionnaire kicked his mount’s flanks and felt the animal stretch into a clumsy gallop. The zurna took three long strides, stumbled as a bullet struck its chest, but recovered and kept on going. Suddenly, for the first time since he had been thrown into contact with the ornery quadrupeds, Santana felt a moment of genuine admiration for the lung-shot beast as it forged ahead in spite of its wound, air wheezing through distended nostrils, sand flying from immense hooves.
But valiant though the animal was, the zurna couldn’t last forever, and when the legionnaire saw a cluster of brightly colored pennants ahead, he knew the time had come to bring the charge to a halt and begin the second phase of the attack.
A series of rising and falling notes sounded, hundreds of animals skidded to a halt, and the slaughter continued. Two ranks forward of him Dietrich saw three warriors literally come apart as the .50 caliber slugs struck them, and felt a warm mist touch his face as he hauled on the reins. The zurna slowed, finally came to a stop, and stood patiently while bullets whipped around it.
The .50 caliber slugs had to be coming from the T-2, and the noncom felt anger clog the back of his throat as he freed the launcher from the ties that held the weapon in place, turned toward the northern line, and swore as a riderless zurna came out of nowhere to block his shot.
Santana screamed to make himself heard over the constant yammering of the enemy guns and ordered his troops to form up even as the deadly autofire cut them down. As the officer strode back and forth in front of them, he noticed a sword lying on the ground and felt a bullet tug at his sleeve when he bent to pick it up. He waved the weapon over his head, shouted “Advance!” and felt a moment of pride as the Paguum swept past him.
In the meantime the zurna that had been blocking Dietrich’s shot had gone down when a .50 caliber slug ripped through its neck, and was still gushing blood as the dragoons lurched forward. The noncom forced himself to ignore everything around him, peered into the sight, and thumbed the zoom control. The target leaped forward. The T-2 towered over the northern troops—and the Hudathan seemed to be staring straight at him as Dietrich pulled the trigger.
But, just as the weapon left the tube one of Kuga-Ka’s warriors accidentally fired a flare. It hit the ground, spun in circles, and burned white-hot. The missile’s guidance system took note of the fact that the new source of heat was hotter than the first target it had been offered, made the necessary correction, and struck home. The resulting explosion killed more than a third of Kuga-Ka’s guard and threw the rest into a state of confusion.
The renegade eyed the carnage, knew that a second missile would be along soon, and ordered Haaby to withdraw. The cyborg was backing away when the next rocket struck the ground ten feet in front of her. The explosion knocked half a dozen warriors off their feet and shrapnel rattled against the Trooper II’s armor as she continued to pull back.
That was when the renegade sent word for the group he liked to refer to as the “hammer” to administer the Intaka, or “blow of death.” Eager to join the fray, the members of the six-warrior-wide one-thousand-warrior column came forward on the double as the sound of their huge kettledrums beat a deep, booming counterpoint to the steady thump, thump, thump generated by the smaller instruments the dragoons carried. The airborne remotes that Kuga-Ka had introduced for training purposes accompanied them, thereby ensuring that his orders would be heard.
Though unaware of the way in which Dietrich had attempted to kill the T-2, Santana knew the rate of incoming fire had slackened and was extremely grateful. Somehow, in spite of the horror all around them, the dragoons had maintained their formation and were marching north with the precision of a machine.
When the six-warrior-wide column appeared, and the legionnaire saw the remotes flying above them, he knew it was Kuga-Ka’s doing and swore through gritted teeth. Both groups were in range by then, so Santana shouted a series of orders that were repeated by unit commanders to both the left and right. “Dragoons, halt! Front rank kneel . . . Fire!”
Rifles crashed and muzzle flashes rippled all along the line as the infantry fired their weapons into the flying column. The first rank of warriors in the advancing column went down; they were plowed under by those behind and left half-buried in the bloody sand. One of the remotes, a tendril of smoke trailing behind it, spiraled into the ground and exploded.
The second rank of northerners raised their Negar III assault rifles and fired back, but because the column was only six warriors across only a tiny fraction of the entire force could use their weapons, while every dragoon still able to take his place in the line could reply. They were in a rhythm by then and moved forward like a machine as Santana bellowed orders. “Second rank advance! Kneel! Fire!”
Then, as the third rank came forward, the legionnaire ordered the dragoons to halt. That allowed the unit to deliver alternating volleys as one rank fired while another reloaded, and still another prepared to fire.
Kuga-Ka held the electrobinoculars to his eyes and swore as the hammer faltered, wavered, and broke under the withering fire. The Paguum were brave, but their training had been all too brief, and this was their first engagement. The column disintegrated, the warriors came streaming back and swirled around him. The renegade shouted orders over the T-2’s PA system, and even went so far as to shoot a few of the fleeing troops, but all to no avail. The Intaka had failed. Only the remotes remained, hovering over the carnage like high-tech harbingers of doom.
The northern counterattack had failed, but there was still plenty of incoming fire. Santana turned to his bugler, saw the youth’s head snap back as he took a bullet between the eyes, and was forced to rely on his voice instead. “Dragoons! Advance!”
Those Paguum who still could stepped over and around their fallen comrades, held their rifles at port arms, and marched grimly forward. Even though the d
ragoons were still some distance away, they had Srebo Riff ’s attention by that time, and the chieftain found himself in something of a quandary. Not only had the strange foot soldiers defeated Kuga-Ka’s hammer, but they were headed straight for him. Orders were issued, a messenger was dispatched, and another troop of cavalry was thrown into the fray.
Santana got the word over the team freq from Dietrich. “Bravo Three Six to Bravo Six. Over.”
“Go Three Six.”
“It looks like we have cavalry attacking from the left flank. Over.”
“Form a square. Pass the word. Over.”
Orders were shouted, warriors wheeled, and the dragoons created the box-shaped formation that Santana had taught them during the days leading up to the exercise at the Finger of God. And not a minute too soon because all of the distances had closed by then, and the northern cavalry thundered straight in. They rode full out, lances extended, expecting the impertinent foot soldiers to scatter like dust in the wind. But the dragoons not only held, but fired their weapons in concert, sweeping dozens of warriors from their saddles. Paguum screamed, zurna squalled, and the killing continued as Santana shouted words of encouragement to his troops. “That’s it! You’ve got them now lads . . . Reload! Aim! Fire! Steady there . . . Fill that gap. Good job! Somebody shoot that officer . . . Yes, the one with the pennant!”
But roughly 25 percent of the cavalry were armed with Negar III assault rifles, and even though most of them weren’t very good at using them, some enjoyed remarkable success. One of them went down when his zurna was hit, took shelter behind the animal’s bullet-riddled carcass, and hosed the dragoons with autofire. The front rank on the western side of the square fell like grass to a scythe.
But Dietrich, who considered himself to be something of an artist with a grenade launcher, lobbed a round high into the air. Such was the noncom’s timing that the round exploded over the warrior, blowing him to bloody bits. That, plus well-coordinated return fire from Santana and the four legionnaires still standing, eliminated the riders who had proven themselves most effective with the off-world auto rifles.
Finally, having been unable to break the square, and with most of their officers dead, the surviving cavalry were forced to retreat. By the time they thundered past the pavilion that had been established to protect Srebo Riff and his general staff from the blistering sun, it had already been abandoned. What remained of his once-powerful army followed, streaming back toward the Well of Zugat, leaving thousands of dead warriors for the dawn people to bury.
Twenty minutes later Nartha Omoni and Nis Noia allowed their zurnas to choose a zigzagging path through the horrible litter of battle before finally taking shelter under one of the awnings that had been rigged for Riff ’s comfort. “So,” Noia said, leaning forward in the saddle, “victory is yours.”
Omoni looked out across the plain. The noncombatants were arriving by then, rushing out onto the battlefield to find sons, brothers, uncles, fathers, and even grandfathers. Some wailed over their horribly mangled finds, while others shouted excitedly and gestured for still others to come help when a wounded relative was located.
Closer in, only a hundred yards from the pavilion itself, the dragoons stood at ease, still trying to absorb what they had been through. Of the thousand warriors assigned to the experimental unit, fully half were wounded or dead.
Santana, his voice little more than a croak, could be seen instructing small groups of troops to go in search of their casualties. “You are dragoons,” he told them, “and dragoons take care of their own.”
Omoni shook her head. “If this is victory,” she said sadly, “then God protect me from defeat.”
13
* * *
Everything which the enemy least expects will succeed the best.
—Frederick The Great
“Instructions for His Generals”
Standard year 1747
* * *
PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
When the Hudathan lifeboat dropped out of the nowhere land of hyperspace the little vessel had something strange clutched to its side. Not one object but three. A cylindrical space sled, a suit of space armor, and the bug sealed inside of it. One of more than a dozen technical experts sent to the Erini system, where the Thrakies were hard at work modifying Sheen warships for use by the Ramanthian navy. It was a highly secret endeavor, or had been, until FSO-4 Christine Vanderveen and Triad Hiween Doma-Sa had dropped in unannounced.
Now, as the pilot hurried to identify his vessel to the Confederacy naval units in orbit around Algeron, Doma-Sa was already exiting the tiny ship to bring the Ramanthian inside. Although Vanderveen wanted to go with him, the fact that the Hudathan lifeboat wasn’t equipped with human space armor made it impossible for her to help. Four standard days had elapsed while the little vessel was in hyperspace. Had the Ramanthian survived? And if so, was he still sane after such a traumatic experience? And if he was sane, could he be convinced to talk?
The questions were extremely important because although the lifeboat’s sensors had been able to pick up and store a significant amount of data where the inside of the Thraki repair facility was concerned, testimony from a Ramanthian would serve to buttress that evidence.
Meanwhile, as Vanderveen sat and worried, Doma-Sa had worked his way down along the port side of the ship. He was big, so his space armor was even bigger, and a good deal more complex than the triad would have liked. In spite of the fact that the Hudathan leader had spent a significant amount of time in space, he had never been trained as a naval officer, which meant that he hadn’t logged all that many hours in a suit. Something he had neglected to mention to either the pilot or the human.
Now, as Doma-Sa fought to control the armor, he was beginning to question that decision. Especially since the controls were so sensitive that his first attempt to use the built-in propulsion system sent him jetting out into the blackness of space and it required a concerted effort to make his way back.
Once in contact with the hull, the Hudathan followed recessed handholds to the point where a tractor beam held the Ramanthian space armor firmly in place. Having prepared a line, Doma-Sa called on the lifeboat’s pilot “to release the bug.”
The naval officer complied, and the sled had just started to drift away when Doma-Sa clipped the line to the fitting located just behind the Ramanthian’s helmet. There were no signs of life from the entity in the suit, a fact that didn’t bode well. When the short length of monofilament ran out, it jerked the alien space armor off the cylindrical vehicle, which drifted away.
Now, with the alien in tow, the Hudathan made his way back to the relative safety of the lifeboat’s lock and pulled himself inside. After that it was a relatively simple matter to reel the Ramanthian in, close the hatch, and repressurize the compartment. It was a pleasure to shuck the suit and hang it on a rack.
The next step, which was to open the bug’s armor, proved more difficult. But form follows function, and the bugs were no different than other races where the issue of emergency access was concerned. There had to be a way to open the suit from the outside. Doma-Sa was still exploring the suit with big clumsy fingers when the interior hatch opened, and Vanderveen appeared. The human took one look at what the triad was attempting to do, and said, “Here, let me give you a hand.”
Within a matter of seconds the diplomat located a small plate and flipped it open to reveal a typical Ramanthian squeeze switch. It took all of her strength to generate the amount of pressure that a pincer would, but she felt the device give and heard the hiss of equalizing air pressures. An almost indescribable stench escaped, along with the pent-up atmosphere. Vanderveen gagged, and even the normally stone-faced Hudathan turned away. “He’s dead,” Doma-Sa proclaimed. “Let’s blow him out through the lock.”
“You’re probably right,” Vanderveen agreed, “but we’d better check to make sure.”
The clamshell-style space armor had opened along the Ramanthian’s back by
then. Vanderveen made a face as she used both hands to reach inside, grabbed the alien under his chitin-slick armpits, and dragged him out onto the deck. There was no response, but Doma-Sa thought he heard a slight exhalation, and frowned. “Hold on . . . let me try something.”
There were all manner of things stored in the lockers that lined both bulkheads, and the Hudathan rummaged through them until he came up with a reflective sun visor. The triad held the brightly chromed surface in front of the Ramanthian’s parrotlike beak and Vanderveen saw the surface fog over as the prisoner exhaled. “My God, he’s alive!”
“But just barely,” Doma-Sa said, as he mashed the wall-mounted intercom button. “Boka-Ka! Tell the squats that I’m aboard and demand a high-priority landing vector. Tell them we have an injured bug on board and to have a medical team waiting for us when we land.”
Vanderveen took note of all the ethnic slurs inherent in the triad’s orders and hoped that Boka-Ka would have the good sense to edit them out. Not that it mattered much, because by the time the full extent of their activities became known, both of them would be in trouble. Except that only the Hudathan people could dismiss Doma-Sa from his job—while just about anyone could fire her. The FSO remembered Wilmot, winced, and went to work on securing the Ramanthian prisoner for landing. Her career might be over, but if the information gathered in the Erini system was sufficient to destroy the Ramanthian-Thraki alliance, then the loss would be worth it.
NEAR FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The military cemetery was located six miles south of Fort Camerone. The graves were arranged in concentric rings. And there were hundreds of rings and thousands of graves. Each marker wore an icy cap, and each mound was covered by a shroud of freshly fallen snow. A stainless-steel obelisk stood at the center of the graveyard, and the same inscription had been etched into all four sides:
Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell Page 34