Legionnaire

by Jason Anspach

  “Yes, sir.”

  I turn and look out over the edge of Kr’kik Ridge, stepping over the tank’s cannon to get the view the gunner must’ve had. Smoke from the blown-out combat sleds drifts heavenward like some ancient animal sacrifice burnt on the altar. Pappy’s wreck of a repulsor still blocks the front of the road, but the vehicles at the back of the column have been pulled out of the way. I see a pair of sleds moving easily over the rocky plain toward our position on the ridge, their repulsor engines delicately lifting the vehicle just high enough to avoid scraping its belly.

  The legionnaires who didn’t rally for the charge are moving along the roads, checking the dead. I pull out my field mags and zoom in. Twenties hasn’t moved from his overwatch position, and leejes from a mix of squads are traveling in pairs, making sure the dead koobs really are deceased. Koob women and children are peering out of windows, afraid to come outside.

  I scan to the head of the column, the point where the ambush first broke out. Quigs looks to have made a temporary hospital in one of the koob houses. He’s ordering basics around, converting them from Repub-Army soldiers to Rep-Med orderlies. There are enough medical supplies in the caravan to do all right for most combat wounds, though the skinpacks won’t last forever. With no med-drop shuttles (because no Chiasm), we’re not in a position to fight a protracted battle unless it’s to the last legionnaire.

  I chew the inside of my mouth. If we’re going to survive, our best bet is to scrub the visit to Moona Village and head back to Camp Forge. Some point somewhere probably won’t be fond of that decision, especially with us already on Moona’s doorstep in the foothills.

  They’ll live.

  The sleds have stopped beneath the ridge, and a cadre of basics in their black and tan fatigues hop out. Legionnaires are positioned to show them the easy way up. The regular Repub-Army troops are carrying up repulsor gurneys to remove the dead and wounded. Thankfully, they’ll only need one for Kravetz, the leej who got caught by a bullet with a bad bounce.

  I hop down from the tank. The crunch of Exo’s heavy boots hitting the ground behind me reminds me that he’s still there. He stood in silent vigil on that tank. It’s not like Exo not to talk.

  “Grab Rook and let’s catch a ride back to Twenties. I want to know how his eyes are holding up.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Exo bounds away to find Rook, who lopes over to us carrying some sort of koob slug thrower with a carbon-fiber stock and iron sights.

  “You ever see one of these, Sarge?” Rook asks.

  “In museums, maybe. That’s the kind of stuff the colonists used during the Savage Wars.”

  “I know, right? Badass. You think the duty officer onboard the Chiasm will let me stow it in the barracks?”

  I see a glimmer in Exo’s eyes. “I can tell you where the duty officer will tell you to stow it,” he says.

  How do I break it to the boys that the Chiasm is a wrecked hulk burning itself out somewhere on Kublar right now? I decide to keep quiet until I’ve had a chance to speak in private with Lieutenant Ford, who’s probably the highest-ranking officer we have left.

  We file past a row of basics on our way down. Mixed among them is the gunner from our combat sled. Most Repub-Army use the less compact NS-2 blaster rifles, but the kid’s carrying an N-4. If you ask me, the NS-2’s additional blaster charge capacity and range don’t make up for its loss of power relative to the N-4. But then, Repub-Army troops don’t get in close like us legionnaires.

  The kid and I lock eyes, and I can tell he’s worried I’m going to call him out for carrying a legionnaire’s rifle. His appearance is different now. Gone is the youthful, fresh-out-of-the-academy look. There’s dirt commingled with sweat on his face, and his eyes are distant, devoid of any sort of a twinkle. He’s just survived the nastiest ambush I’ve ever had the displeasure of fighting in. He should be a walking ball of gratitude. But all this kid can think about is being called out. We both know where he got the rifle.

  But the legionnaire who dropped it isn’t going to pick it up again. His fight is over.

  I nod, and the kid looks down. He walks past me, his flush face showing relief. I turn around, watching him go. “Hey.”

  The gunner pauses as the other basics with him continue onward. “Sergeant?”

  “KTF—it means Kill Them First.”

  He stammers a moment, unable to get his mouth to work. “Oh.”

  I think of the two koob kids who waltzed right up to our line and destroyed Pappy’s sled. “You saw why today.”

  06

  It takes the repulsor engines of two sleds plus the pushing power of eight legionnaires to cajole Pappy’s wreck of a command vehicle out of the lane. I hop out of my transport, back from Kr’kik Ridge. I’m just in time to see the destroyed sled tip on its side and tumble over a partially demolished section of wall. The combat sleds release their magnetic cables and swing back around to take up predetermined perimeter positions.

  My ride raises its ramp and shoots off back toward the ridge. Rook says something about showing his slug thrower to Twenties, then he leaves Exo and me on the road.

  The only koobs I see now are dead, and most of those have been lined up in a neat row by the basics. The fish-left-out-in-the-summer-sun scent of their blood has me wrinkling my nose. For his part, Exo is handling the smell in stride, with his helmet pushed up so it’s resting on the top of his head like a hat cocked back. But I’m tempted to put my helmet back on. Only, with the HUD inoperable, it really is a bucket with a viewport at this point.

  I take out the comm assembly. It’s shorted out, but I should be able to fix it or find a replacement. These, at least, are a helmet component that can be reused on the outside.

  A Repub-Army basic jogs over to us. From the patch on her uniform’s left arm, I identify her as a sled co-pilot. She stops in front of me and reads the decal on the chest plate of my armor: LS-55, Chhun.

  “Sergeant Chhun?” she asks, as if she’s not sure she read the name correctly.

  “That’s him,” Exo answers on my behalf, propping his N-4 on his shoulder. “The sarge you want in charge.”

  “What is it, soldier?” I ask.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Sergeant. The OIC wants to see you.”

  I look back toward the ridge. “Lieutenant Ford? I just spoke with him, he’s back on the ridge.”

  The driver shakes her head. “No, not Lieutenant Ford. Captain Devers sent me to find you when he couldn’t reach you over L-comm.”

  Exo stiffens. “What in the actual kelhorn? Did more of Gold Squad make it out of that sled?”

  The face of the driver falls slightly. “No… no, just the captain.”

  Of course. The stinking space rat must have pushed himself to the front of the queue once he realized the sled was in the tank’s sights. I feel a tightness in my chest and become aware that other legionnaires are watching for my reaction. My helmet is off, so I force my face to relax and quell the urge to let loose a salvo of expletives. My jaw tight, I ask, “Where is Captain Devers right now?”

  “He’s set up inside the third Kublaren hut to your left.”

  “Thank you.” I read the name on her uniform. “Thank you, Specialist Grant.”

  Grant jogs to a nearby sled and jumps up on its sideboard to talk with the driver inside.

  As I begin to make my way to the appointed building, I notice Exo matching my stride, placing the barrel of his N-4 from one hand into the other. “What’s eating you, Exo?”

  “I’m gonna go ask point how he got out of the CS first from his position as sled master.”

  I stop walking, forcing Exo to stop as well. “No, you’re not, because we both know how that will turn out.”

  “Damn right we do, with a blaster bolt through the ‘House of Reason’ he calls a brain.”

  I shake my head fractionally. “That’s not going to help things. What will help is if you round up Twenties and Rook. Quigs is busy, so let him be. Then get Wraith on the comm and h
ave him come down here.”

  “Yeah,” Exo says, the acceptance coming reluctantly. “All right. What do you think Point wants to talk to you about?”

  “Probably chew my ass for not sitting in the sled and waiting my turn to get barbecued. But let me worry about that, ooah?”

  “Ooah.”

  Exo pushes his bucket down over the top of his head and takes off for Twenties’s overwatch position. I look up to the heavens at the last place I saw the Chiasm. There are just a few white clouds against Kublar’s pale blue sky. As my boots crunch along the road, past combat sleds undergoing hurry-up maintenance checks, I wonder whether the whole of Victory Company wouldn’t be better off if I walked into Devers’s office, pistol in hand, and sent him to join the rest of Gold Squadron. The outside chance that Pappy might have survived, that I might have to see the disappointment in his eyes, keeps my sidearm in its holster.

  I reach the squat stone building commandeered for use as a temporary command center. The door is missing, blasted off its hinges. Black scorches outline pockmarks of blaster fire in the rocks. I strap my N-4 over my shoulder and step inside the darkened space. As my eyes adjust, I see Captain Devers sitting at a makeshift table—the missing door—going over a datapad. I walk crisply and stop in front of his desk. My salute is precise as a scalpel, textbook and flawless, the legionnaire way.

  “LS-55, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Devers pretends not to have heard me and continues to swipe and tap at his datapad while I hold my salute. Finally, and without looking away from the screen, he speaks. “Why aren’t you wearing your helmet, Sergeant Chhun?”

  “Sir, my helmet was damaged in the assault.”

  “It looks fine to me.”

  “Sir, overlay optics and HUD are nonfunctioning, cooling and filtration systems are nonfunctioning, comm systems are nonfunctioning.”

  Curling his lip, Devers brushes his temple with the paltriest of salutes. I let my arm down in a controlled motion, my muscles—not gravity—returning it to its place at my side.

  “Sergeant, explain to me why you assaulted the ambush position instead of continuing on with the exfiltration as ordered.”

  Called it.

  I look straight ahead, staring at the opposite wall. “Sir, when I saw the tank score a direct hit on your command—”

  “You know what? Never mind.” Devers waves away the discussion. “I already know what you’re going to say. You thought I was dead, so you followed through on your own course of action. But as you can see, I’m not dead.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Had you waited only a few moments, I would have been in a position to coordinate your assault.”

  I don’t know what to say about that, so I keep my mouth shut.

  “You lost legionnaires in the attack.”

  “Yes, sir. Four KIA during the assault.”

  Devers makes his hands into a steeple and taps his chin in a practiced contemplative look. “That will need to be logged for review upon our return to Camp Forge.”

  Somehow I’m sure the three Repub-Army soldiers and four legionnaires incinerated under his orders will escape the same level of scrutiny. Having friends in high places seems to do that for you. “Shall I have Doomsday Squad prepare for our return to CF?”

  “No.” Devers gestures to his datapad. “We’re not going to Camp Forge.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’re continuing on to Moona Village.”

  Before I have a chance to register my surprise at this, Lieutenant Ford enters the hut. He salutes. “Captain Devers.”

  The captain returns the salute. “Lieutenant.”

  “What’s this about going on to Moona Village, sir?” Ford asks as he leans his N-4 against the legs of the makeshift desk.

  Devers seems eager to explain. “The mission to secure support for the newly appointed Kublaren senator is too important to the Republic to fail. Our success here will yield significant gains. A type-VII planet at this stage of development hasn’t been seen since the Savage Wars. Blue skies, abundant natural resources, optimum gravity and temperature, and all of it untouched. With Republic guidance, the galaxy’s edge could have an R-1 world in less than ten standard solars.”

  Translation: The koobs were not only sitting on a gold mine of natural resources, they also sat along a premier hyperspace lane as the Republic expanded ever further to the edge. And the Republic fully intended to use that to its advantage.

  Wraith waited patiently for Devers to complete his speech. His every move exuded calm and coolness. “Understanding that, sir. Our effective fighting force has been reduced by thirty percent, and our commanding officer is incapacitated. We are in hostile surroundings and unable to raise Camp Forge on any comm channel. Legion doctrine demands we scrub the mission.”

  Devers looked to me with drawn lips. “I’m aware of protocol, Lieutenant Ford.”

  I doubt that.

  “However, I was able to reach Camp Forge.” Devers raises his eyebrows. “These orders are direct from Colonel LaDonna. The mission will continue as planned.”

  “Sir,” I say reluctantly. “Sir, I have to question, respectfully, the decision of Colonel LaDonna to continue on with the loss of the Chiasm. We’re in Indian country,” I say, surprised that the ancient term was the first to come to mind. “With no capital ship support, we should consolidate forces at Camp Forge. It’s our best hope for survival on a hostile planet.”

  The look of confusion on Devers’s face is almost comical. “What do you mean, ‘loss of the Chiasm’?”

  Wraith folds his arms. “What are you talking about, Sergeant?”

  Was I the only one who saw it?

  “At the start of the battle, I could see the Chiasm in orbit. It… erupted. I saw it explode and begin a descent into the planetary atmosphere.”

  Wraith is speaking in hushed tones through his helmet. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Positive.”

  “No,” Devers says, shaking his head. “You’re mistaken. A trick of the light or… or… battlefield hallucination. You did not witness the Chiasm, a battleship of the Republic, explode.”

  “Sir, I—”

  Devers holds up a hand. “Sergeant, I received a transmission from the Chiasm only minutes before you arrived.”

  Minutes? How is that even possible? I saw the ship blow apart. I’ve been in combat before—this wasn’t some hallucination brought on by stress.

  “Sir, I’m not sure how that would have happened.” I give the first plausible explanation that comes to mind. “Maybe a communication relay was bouncing on repeat until it could get through the atmospheric obstructions? But I assure you, the Chiasm is destroyed.”

  The captain stares at his lap. I can hear his feet kicking the legs of his chair. Wraith is examining me from behind the shrouded secrecy of his bucket, I can feel it.

  Finally, Devers stands up. “You’re under a lot of stress, Sergeant. The action started swiftly and overwhelmed your senses to the point where you imagined the destruction of a capital-class destroyer and subsequently led a reckless charge that resulted in an unacceptable four legionnaire deaths. I’m giving you two orders. The first is to no longer mention your delusion about the Chiasm. It will be bad for morale and may impact mission success. The second is to report to the medical staging point to see if the medic can help. He’s busy with severe casualties, Pappy chief among them, but your mental health is important to the legionnaires, too.”

  Devers puts his hands on my shoulders like a concerned father with that last part.

  My jaw clenches, and it’s everything I can do not to lash out. “Yes, sir.”

  The captain smiles. “Good. Dismissed.”

  I turn and begin to walk away, leaving Ford and Devers to discuss the next move. I stop short at the door and turn. “Sir, you’ve made contact with the Chiasm. When will the med-drop arrive?”

  “The… med-drop?” Devers looks as though he’d never heard of the term for an emerge
ncy medical dropship. When the wounded are hurt in the field too severely for the medic to treat with skinpacks, a dropship from the supporting destroyer is sent. These come in fast and take the injured soldier back up to the capital ship in orbit or to the nearest field hospital. We call them doc drops, informally.

  “Yes, sir. With the severe casualties we’ve suffered, especially Pappy, a doc drop needs to happen. We don’t have enough supplies in the sleds to give proper treatment. I have a legionnaire with facial wounds who may well need more than skinpacks.”

  “Oh. Right. The Chiasm is having some difficulties with their hangar shielding and aren’t able to launch or receive any craft. In fact, that’s probably what you saw. The malfunction.”

  “That’s unfortunate, sir,” I say as I leave the building. “Given what we’ve seen from this koob attack, I suspect more than just Pappy will need a doc drop before the mission is completed.”

  “That might be so,” Devers says, a mirthful grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “So you’d best wear your helmet. Hadn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” I put the bucket over my head, and the world goes a little duller.

  ***

  I walk toward the makeshift field hospital, a wide koob building with a corner of its roof partially collapsed. Broken and crumbled stones lay scattered outside. What caused the damage, I couldn’t tell you. Maybe an errant blast from the MBT. I lost track of all its shots.

  Combat sleds are revving their repulsor engines into a whine as basics do system checks. It should all sound a lot louder. With my dead helmet, every noise sounds as if I’m under a blanket. Like a scared kid hiding beneath the covers.

  A pull at my elbow arrests my progress. I turn and see Lieutenant Ford. He’s alone.

  “Sergeant Chhun,” he says, looking over his shoulder for a moment. “The Chiasm. You’re sure?”

  “I was until Devers—”

  Wraith taps the side of his helmet and cuts me off. “I can barely hear you, Sergeant.”

  I pull my helmet up until it rests on the back of my head, exposing my face. Now the lieutenant’s audio sensors can pick up my voice unimpeded. “I was sure until a few minutes ago, Lieutenant. I don’t know what to say except that it wasn’t a trick of the light. Lieutenant, you know this isn’t my first campaign for the Republic. I know what I saw. And if it was some sort of koob trick, it was better than even Rep-Psyops’s work. It wasn’t just what I saw. I heard it, too.”