Legionnaire

by Jason Anspach

  “That seems beyond the koob’s tech reach,” agrees Wraith.

  I search for something that will explain how a capital-class destroyer simply blew apart. “Maybe the koobs did it with the help of Mid-Core Rebels. Like the ones we saw smoking inside the tank.”

  Wraith considers this for a moment. “We’ve had a lousy time reaching Camp Forge, let alone the Chiasm, since we moved out. Devers is the only person who’s been able to bring either of them up. Could be his bucket. It’s got newer tech. Prototype stuff. Or, it could be…”

  The magnitude of what Lieutenant Ford is hinting at hits me in the chest like a round from an N-18. “What are you saying, sir?”

  “I’m saying I trust the report of a legionnaire more than the report of a point. As far as I’m concerned, the Chiasm is no longer a tactical consideration.”

  I see over Wraith’s shoulder that Captain Devers is walking toward us. Wraith follows my eyes and turns to look for himself. He lowers the volume of his helmet’s external speaker. “Keep the Chiasm’s fate quiet. I need Victory Company to stay focused. We’ll deal with the ramifications of the situation after we’re done with Moona Village.”

  I clench my jaw and nod my approval. There’s nothing to be gained from telling the men that not only will help not soon be coming—it can’t come. Legionnaires can fight their way through a tough situation, but we’re still human. For now, we can only complete the mission and return to the safety of Camp Forge. Then we can share the lousy news and figure out how to hold tight until a relief ship is sent.

  Not for the first time, I think about how it would be nice to have a few MBTs along for this op.

  “Sergeant Chhun,” Devers calls as he joins us. “I specifically instructed you to keep your helmet on.”

  Before I can reply, Lieutenant Ford steps in. “I asked him to remove it. He’s inaudible with it on.”

  Devers tugs at a fingertip of his synthprene gloves. He takes on a professorial tone. “Lieutenant, legionnaires are a collective. A force of nature, like a hurricane. The enemy, when caught in such a storm, feels overwhelmed and helpless by it. But a legionnaire without his helmet is no longer part of a raging storm. He becomes an individual drop of rain. The enemy will rally at the realization that the storm is only so many drops of rain, and brush it aside.”

  All I can do is stare blankly at the captain. I finally blink. Reincarnation must be real, because no one could get that stupid in one lifetime.

  “Captain Devers,” Wraith says, letting me know that he’s got this with a slight wave of his palm, “Sergeant Chhun’s helmet is non-functional. It serves no purpose beyond making him less efficient in battle.”

  “It’s clear to me, Lieutenant Ford, that you don’t fully understand the role of psychology in warfare. Thankfully, the House of Reason does. And so do I. These MK-100 suits will be phased out in favor of a new type of reflective armor that costs a tenth as much to produce.” Devers moves his arm as if showing off an invisible soldier in the new gear. “It will dazzle the enemy and excite the Republic, and I’m quite sure you’ll find you’ve won your battles before the fighting even begins.”

  “Captain Devers,” I interject, “all due respect. But I don’t think the koobs would’ve skipped the ambush just because a bunch of leejes showed up wearing shinies.”

  “You’re not paid for your thinking, Sergeant. You’re paid to follow orders. Now put your helmet back on.”

  Lieutenant Ford holds out his hand. “I’d like to inspect your helmet before you do, Sergeant.”

  I hand the bucket to him. He turns it over in his hands, looking at it thoroughly.

  “I’ll join you,” Devers says. He has the smug tone of a man who believes himself to have the upper hand.

  The captain taps on the helmet’s black-screened visor. “Sergeant Chhun can see through the visor, and the plasteen will still serve as protection against projectiles, blunt force, and galactic-legal blaster fire.” He clasps his hands behind his back and assumes a triumphant parade rest. “That’s all in addition to the advantages gained by maintaining a solid, uniform appearance. We legionnaires are an incomprehensible, indecipherable storm.”

  Without uttering so much as a word in reply, Wraith tucks the helmet under his arm and pulls his vibroblade from the sheath in his chest-webbing. The sudden appearance of the humming weapon causes Devers to take a step backward. Wraith drives the blade into the top of the helmet and proceeds to cut straight through, nearly severing it in two.

  Wraith tosses the helmet at Devers’s feet. “This helmet is inoperable. I won’t tolerate anything that might jeopardize the mission… sir.” The lieutenant turns on his heel and continues on toward the field hospital.

  I’ve never heard a term of respect like “sir” spoken in such a cutting way. It was as if the word’s meaning had transmogrified so as to mean “you privileged bureaucratic Kelhorm scum-sucker who plays with the lives of legionnaires for your own career.”

  And Devers knows it. He stands in stunned silence.

  I’m just as surprised. But not so surprised that I forget to catch up to Wraith. The area near an upstaged point is a dangerous place to be.

  07

  Pappy is propped up, sitting against a wall, his legs splayed out and his feet forming the peaks of two sharp mountains beneath a koob blanket. I’ve seen the meter-high lizards that provide the wool, and judging by the smell in the room, the beast’s stink doesn’t go away after shearing and looming. But then, most koobs smell like their livestock, so maybe it’s not just the blanket. Pappy is still in his armor, with the exception of the entire right sleeve. Every protective piece from his shoulder on down has been removed, and the synthprene bodysuit cut away.

  Skinpacks cover his neck, chest, arm, and half of his face. Whatever flesh isn’t hidden behind the white membrane-like healing wrap is raw and red like a sunburn. His lone uncovered eye, blue-gray, is on high alert.

  Tough SOB hasn’t taken any pain meds.

  “Ford. Chhun. I’m glad you’re here. Come visit an old man in the infirmary.” Pappy’s voice is even hoarser than usual. He seems aware of the fact. “I breathed in the better half of a fireball, and this is about as loud as my volume will go.”

  “It’s a wonder you can speak at all,” Doc Quigs says from his place across the room. He doesn’t look over at us, keeping his attention on a sedated basic with a nasty-looking hole in his shoulder. The medic is using carbon-steel forceps to dig something out—a bullet, or maybe shrapnel from an MBT shell. “You sucked in more smoke than a fleet yard carbon scrubber.”

  Pappy grunts at the joke as Wraith and I squat down beside him.

  “How you feeling, sir?” Wraith asks, the electronic resonance of his voice bouncing around the stone interior.

  “Like a still-smoldering pile of twarg crap.” Pappy manages a smile, but it instantly transforms into a wince. I can actually see the skin around his mouth and lips crack and split open. “Ah! Kel, that hurt.”

  “Sir, Captain Devers just informed Sergeant Chhun and me that he made contact with Camp Forge. Orders are to press on and meet with the chieftain at Moona Village.”

  “News to me, but I’m confident you can do it. We took the best shot the koobs had in them and gave it back a hundredfold. They likely won’t do much more than harass the caravan, and that only until we hit the plains and put some distance between us and them on the way back to CF.”

  Wraith and I exchange a look. “Sir,” Wraith says, “I’m not entirely sure that’s correct. We ID’d two non-Kublaren species fighting with them in the ambush. A kimbrin and a human. Unconfirmed, but we suspect they were Mid-Core Rebels.”

  Pappy closes his eyes for a long while. It’s the first I’ve seen him show any signs of fatigue since I walked into the medical quarters.

  “I had Doc Quigs pump me with stims until I could get a clear picture of our situation.” Pappy sighs. “Maybe I’m just coming down. I hurt a lot more. Listen, I’m not surprised that Colonel LaD
onna wants the mission to continue on. Even at half strength. He’s got the sector admiral breathing down his neck to get this warlord’s support for the koob’s new senator. Supposed to make all the difference. But if the MCR has augmented the hostile koob locals, or stirred up some tribes against the Republic, that presents a major complication.” He lets out a dry cough and grimaces from the effort. “Once we clear these foothills and reach Moona Village, hailing the Chiasm will be easier. Tri-bombers will be able to provide the support necessary to spring us from anything too hot.”

  Only there are no tri-bombers. I decide to tell Pappy what I saw. “Sir, I—”

  Wraith shoots out his hand and cuts me off. “We’ll continue on in the mission, and we’ll do it successfully.”

  Pappy nods. “That’s what I expect to hear from a legionnaire. Now, up to this point, the rules of engagement have been joint force, and you know the limitations the Rep-Army puts on combat. After what you’ve told me, the political garbage ends now. I want the rest of this mission run like a full-leej op. KTF.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wraith and I answer in unison.

  Hell yeah. That’s what’s going to get us back alive to Camp Forge. Not worthless House of Reason rules of engagement designed to make local scumsack aliens happy, even if it gets basics and legionnaires shot.

  Quigs rinses blood from his hands in a wooden bowl. The basic he’d been working on is stitched up and numbed up, somewhere deep in happy land. “Sir, best to wrap things up. I’ve already waited longer than I’d like to inject that cycler in you. The bot’s got to get in there to take care of the internal damage from the blast. Before complications arise.”

  Pappy furrows his brow. “So shoot the damned thing in me, Legionnaire.”

  “Without sedation? I’d be guilty of a Republic war crime—torture. You don’t want to be awake while that thing does its work on the inside.”

  We stand waiting for Pappy’s reply. If anyone could handle the microscopic bot moving through their insides with a nanotorch and chem-scalpel without sedation, it would be the major.

  “Just a moment longer and you can do whatever you want, Doc.” Pappy locks eyes with me. “I had Doc Quigs show me the footage our TT-16 bot captured on his data screen. My screen was blown to hell. Victory Company owes its survival to your charge, men. I understand you were pivotal in formulating the plan, Sergeant Chhun.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Pappy nods. “We took a licking. Lost a lot of men. Most of the officers left are basics… or the point.”

  I catch myself shaking my head in disapproval, but stop before Pappy notices. Or, if he did notice, he isn’t letting on.

  “I need legionnaire leadership in the field if we’re going to finish the job and get to CF. Lieutenant Ford, I’m awarding you the brevet rank of captain. Sergeant Chhun, I’m awarding you the brevet rank of second lieutenant. And you can believe I’ll fight Colonel LaDonna through the six storms of the Andular Nebula to get those made permanent.”

  I wasn’t expecting this. Me. An officer. I don’t know what else to say, so I rise to my feet and salute. “Thank you, sir. I’ll make every endeavor to live up to your expectations.”

  And I mean every last word. Being a legionnaire is like that. You spend ninety percent of your rotation hating every last second of your life, and then it all washes away in an instant. Because we’re brothers. Because fighting for each other—not the Republic—is what it really boils down to.

  Pappy looks at me while I stand there saluting. He’s stock still. Just when it starts to get awkward, when I’m questioning whether I should still be holding my salute, he says, “At ease. I can’t raise my arms.”

  I drop into parade rest.

  “I know,” Pappy says, “that you and Ford both will do fine work.”

  Wraith nods. “Thank you, sir.” He turns to me. “Sergeant—Lieutenant Chhun, let’s have a brief word with Quigs and prep to move on to Moona Village. Rest well, sir.”

  Pappy breaths out a long exhalation in response and rests his head against the wall, looking up at the wooden timber ceiling. His eyes are closed by the time we walk away.

  The only man in the room with his bucket on, Wraith keeps his speaker output turned down to barely a whisper. “How’s he look?”

  Quigs looks at the reposing major, as if he needs to examine him again before being ready to answer. “He’d look a lot better to me if a med-drop were inbound.”

  “Count on zero support from the Chiasm,” Wraith says. “We’ve got no comm connectivity with anyone but Camp Forge, and that’s spotty at best.”

  “Can’t CF relay the request on our behalf?”

  I join the conversation. “If it can happen, we’ll make it happen.”

  “I guess that’s as good as it’ll get,” Quigs says, shaking his head and staring at the floor. “What’s the plan for the wounded?”

  “Can they be moved?” Wraith asks.

  Quigs looks back at the wounded basic he just operated on. “Can they? Yes. Should they? Probably not.”

  I scratch my chin. “If we pack in the sleds to standing room only, we can use two for transport of the wounded. Other than Kravetz, there were no casualties on the ridge. Sleds already recovered the bodies of the leejes KIA in the field.”

  Wraith agrees quickly. “That’s the plan, then. Quigs, have some basics do a full med-sled strip-down on two of the vics. Preferably ones with weapon malfunctions. I heard at least one sled can drive but got its guns blown to hell. I want as many twins as possible for Moona Village. Make it absolutely clear that we only strip out a sled with working twins if nothing else is available.”

  A med-sled strip-down involves removing all of a combat sled’s jump seats and taking out the swivel stand for the twins’ gunner. Repulsor litters are then magnetically anchored to the walls so the wounded can be loaded in like Republic marines on the subdeck barracks of a Republican corvette. I do the math in my head—there are enough sleds to pack in those fit for battle and transport the wounded. That’s about it, though.

  “What about the fatalities?” I ask.

  Quigs lets out a sigh. “What’s the last count?”

  “Too many,” Wraith answers. He looks over his shoulder to see if Pappy heard the comment, but the major remains in repose with his eyes shut. “Nordic funeral is about all we can do.”

  “I’ll gather up some thermites,” I say. “What about the koobs?”

  “Leave ’em.” Wraiths’ voice is cold as an ice moon. “Koobs started this, koobs can clean it up.”

  Quigs finds a basic visiting a wounded buddy and relays Captain Ford’s orders about converting two of the combat sleds. The basic jogs off, but I see him stop just outside the door to salute before hurrying away.

  The doorway darkens as Captain Devers steps inside. He doesn’t say anything, just sort of looks around, inspecting the room. He examines himself in a dirty and clouded mirror, then picks up a rag, dips it in a bowl of (mostly) clean water, and with short, swift strokes, cleans his armored shoulder protectors. You can tell a legionnaire’s rank in a couple of ways, but the easiest is the paint on the shoulder. Evidently Devers didn’t think his captain’s bars were quite visible enough, and he’s taken the opportunity to wash away the Kublaren dirt.

  “Lieutenant Chhun,” Wraith calls to me, emphasizing my new rank for Devers’s benefit. “I want everything ready to go in the next sixty. Find Sergeant Powell and reorganize squads as needed.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain Ford,” I say. I jog out the door, but not before looking over to Devers. He’s standing perfectly straight, as if someone just stuck the barrel of an N-4 up—

  Well, he doesn’t look happy.

  ***

  Deceased legionnaires and basics are stacked on rough pallets constructed from the peculiar green lumber the koobs use in their dwellings. All the leejes on the funeral pyre have their helmets on. That might sound strange, since Twenties and I are both without a bucket, but legionnaire helmets are cust
om-fitted to perfection. Tongue toggles, eye height and spacing, cranial circumference, everything is exact. It’s rare to find anyone whose helmet you can comfortably wear, and an imperfect helmet is just as likely to get you killed as it is to deflect a fatal blaster shot. So the buckets stay on the dead.

  Their kits don’t. We need ammo and supplies for what’s coming. Most of the guys have clipped on as much as their webbing and muscles will allow. The rest is crammed into the waiting sleds.

  What extra N-4s and N-18s we have were set aside for the basics to use. Every soldier of the Republic on this op needs to be armed with more than just a prissy driver’s sidearm. The Repub-Army standard blaster is woefully underpowered, with a nine-pound trigger pull. I guess to avoid accidental discharge? The point is, they suck. They’ll kill if the attacker is right outside the sled’s window, but if a swarm of koobs gets that close, we’ll have already lost.

  The pyre is a good eight feet high. I’ve got four thermite grenades stashed inside it at various levels to make sure everything burns completely. The fifth, the igniter, is in my hands.

  Word has already gotten out about Captain Ford’s field promotion. Mine, too. The feeling among the legionnaires is one of agreement. And relief. No one wanted to be under the sole command of a point. Both Ford and Devers are captains, and technically Devers has seniority by date of rank. But leejes have a tradition for when an op’s CO is taken out of action and there’s no way to get a formal order from Command (no one can reach Camp Forge since Devers got through): they take a vote on their acting CO. The squad sergeants have already surveyed their legionnaires and reported the results to me, since I’m the only leej lieutenant still alive.