Legionnaire

by Jason Anspach

  It’s all fluid.

  “Sir?”

  I’ve been sitting here lost in my thoughts, not replying to Masters’s remark.

  “I was saying Exo wasn’t wrong.”

  I nod. He’s not challenging me, just pulling me into a discussion among brothers.

  “He wasn’t wrong, Masters. I agree. But sometimes you can be right and do the wrong thing.”

  The kid thinks on this pearl of wisdom for a moment before straightening in his sled seat and snapping his fingers. “Yeah, I get it, LT. It’s like this time a couple months back, when Chiasm was in port at Pendrex. I was at a pub having a few drinks when this girl takes a liking to me…”

  This elicits laughs from the other legionnaires. A guy near the holoscreen up at the front, LS-130, leans forward with a big smile on his face. “Don’t listen to him, Lieutenant. I know this is a lie. Any girl would sooner get in bed with a hool than talk to Masters’s ugly ass.”

  Masters is actually a good-looking kid. That doesn’t stop the sled from erupting with laughter, though. I laugh, too, and then instantly wonder if that’s appropriate. As a sergeant, I would have…

  I pore over memories, trying to recall the various lieutenants I’ve served under and what they did in similar situations. Problem is, most of the time I served under Wraith. He never laughs.

  If my laughter bothered Masters, he doesn’t show it. Instead he holds up his middle finger to LS-130 and continues his story. “Like I was saying, this girl, she was torrid, you know? Half human, half sataar, and you know how good they look. So she wants me to come back to her place, and there’s no way I’m gonna turn her down. Only while we’re getting up to leave, her comm goes off and her datascreen lights up. Her lock screen is a photo of her and some guy, and a kid.”

  He holds out both hands. “I’m all like, whoa! Who’s that? She shoves it back in her bag and says, ‘He’s not home and I don’t love him.’ Like, she’s trying to close the deal. But, I dunno, it’s like you said, right thing but the wrong way. She was really something to see… so that was right. But she had a family, so… I went home alone.”

  “Tell the truth,” LS-130 calls out. “She was gettin’ paid by the hour and you ran outta money.”

  The sled breaks into laughter again. I lean toward Masters and say, “You made the right call.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. “You did, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  There’s a chime from the joint-force comm channel just before Wraith comes onscreen. It’s strange seeing his image just the same way Pappy’s was. I don’t think I’m the only one who sort of puckered up wondering if an explosion was about to engulf Wraith, too.

  “Victory Squad. This is Captain Ford. I’ll be assuming Pappy’s designation of Vic-1 for the remainder of the op. Advance sleds have arrived and safely disembarked. The village appears to be friendly as Repub-Intel advised. That said, I want each sled’s twins manned, and I want two legionnaires anchored outside.

  “Vigilance, men. We’re not letting any koob get close enough to cause the sleds any harm. Now, Doomsday Squad is to set up a perimeter watching the road down the mountain. Nobody gets to come visiting until we’ve left town. Farmer Koob complains about his lizards needing to cross and graze? I don’t care. Give anything that tries to pass our perimeter a warning shot, then dust ’em if they keep coming. Specter Squad will provide a security detail for the meeting with the koob chieftain. Lieutenant Chhun, you’re in on that meeting. Make your way to the front of the column once your sled arrives. Vic-1, out.”

  I feel the CS slow and then come to a stop. The comm light switches to blue, indicating an internal communication. The driver’s voice fills the sled’s cabin. “All right, leejes, this is your stop. Exterior cams show all clear. You’re free to disembark. Welcome to Moona Village.”

  With the driver advising no imminent threat, we’re in a stand down situation. That means I can lower the doors and the leejes can just hop out of the sled, like a heavily armed family arriving at a shopplex.

  But I call out from my point at the end of the line, “You heard from Jeeves that it’s all clear outside, but we’re not taking any chances. When the door drops, roll out hot until you get the okay from me.”

  “Ooah!”

  The men call out their numbers, and I drop the door. The sled empties in seconds. I follow, the last out, moving low in a mobile shooting stance. The stock of my N-4 is pressed into my shoulder as I peer down its holographic open sight.

  Nothing. There’s nothing that sets off the “danger” ping in my legionnaire brain. A few koobs are milling about, watching us with indifference. A little off-world amusement on this slow and backward planet. “Okay,” I call, standing up and relaxing my muscles. “All clear.”

  The squad follows suit, but only slightly. Their guard is still up. N-4s are at the ready as each man continually scans his surroundings.

  Moona Village is carved right out of the mountainside. The predominant color is tan from some sort of sandstone. Steps, walls, plazas… everything is carved from the rock. While most of the dwellings are little more than koob-made caves with a door and a window, there’s some impressive masonry work. Hewn rocks form massive squares and arches that seem to grow in size and detail the higher up the mountain they’re carved. The sleds are hovering on a winding road that began way down below at the site of the ambush. I can’t see the front of the column, and I wonder how much farther up it goes.

  A small group of male koobs are gathered at the top of a staircase built into the mountainside. They’re in conversation, gesturing at us. Even though I don’t speak koob, it’s clear they’re talking about us, and it sounds a little heated.

  “I don’t like this, man,” Masters says from behind me.

  That makes two of us.

  “Lieutenant,” calls down a basic gunner from his place behind the twins. “Major Devers just called on the Rep-Army comms. He wants you up front so he can start the parlay with the chieftain.”

  “Captain Devers,” I correct. “Doomsday, listen up. Maldorn and Guffer, stick with the sled. The rest of you make your way down to the rear of the column. Masters, you’re with me. Let’s go meet the head koob.”

  “Ooah!”

  Masters and I push up the road. The clicking and croaking of the koobs fills the air, along with an odd, primitive music played on some sort of stringed instrument with plenty of tinny percussions. Cymbals, probably. A group of legionnaires hail us as they move down the opposite lane of the road.

  “Hey, Lieutenant. Enjoy the climb!”

  “Masters? You get made brevet sherpa?”

  I smile as they walk by. I see that Twenties is mixed in with the group. “How’re the eyes?” I ask.

  Twenties stops and rubs the back of his wrist across his face. Like me, he’s without a helmet. At least we’re plugged into the L-comms, as each of us was able to fit a bone conduction comm unit. Mine is original, and Twenties salvaged his from a dead brother’s helmet.

  “I figure my eyes are good enough to pick off any koobs who think about sneaking up behind us,” he says.

  “Who’s sticking with your sled?”

  “Exo and Rook.”

  I nod. “Check in on Quigs when you pass the med-sleds and see if he needs anything.” I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe the head koob’ll have some medicine for us.”

  Someone from the group calls out, “Koobs probably just piss in the dirt and rub the mud on it.”

  “Hey, a little mud-pee cured that rash I told you about,” says another soldier, a sardonic grin on his face. “Don’t knock the ancient healing, man.”

  The group chuckles as they pass us by. It’s funny how easily you can go from being in the thick of it to cracking jokes. Keeps you from going crazy, I guess.

  We arrive at the next sled in the column. Rook and Exo are watching a cluster of male koobs while the sled’s gunner leans lazily against the twins.

  “Gunner!” I call. The basic snaps out of what
ever daydream occupied his thoughts. “When you feel safe, you get dusted. Stay focused.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  I cross my arms and look at Exo. “Hey, we good?”

  Staring at the ground, Exo nods his head. “Yeah, we’re cool. I know you were looking out for me. Just got caught up in the moment thinking about that point sonofa—”

  “What’s the story with those koobs?” I say, pointing my head at the group of aliens looking us over.

  “Yeah…” Rook stretches the word out. “Pretty sure these guys are waiting to shoot us as soon as our backs are turned. Bet all their koob cousins were the ones who sprang the ambush.”

  “Hey, koob!” Exo calls, amplifying his voice through his helmet. “You speak Standard? What’s the story, just want to get a look at some real soldiers out saving the galaxy?”

  A koob wearing tan and crimson robes steps forward. Arrogantly, almost. He still has a few faded spots on his frog-like face, signifying that he’s only recently reached adulthood. The older koobs’ skin turns a solid color somewhere in the brown spectrum. His throat sac inflates and lets out a series of clicks.

  “Yew… klik-klik… lejundayeres…” He hops down a few stairs, his entourage of fellow koobs croaking and twisting their faces to express what passes for a smile.

  “Speaks Standard,” Masters says to himself. “Holy strokes, I didn’t know koobs did that.”

  “Some of ’em learned from the Savage Wars,” I say. “Must’ve passed it down. Poorly.”

  The koob stops in the middle of the winding stairway, looking down on us like we’re his subjects. “Yew lejundayeres… klik… you see some… klik-klik… big die, ya? Real soljahr big die?”

  Exo steps forward. “What’d you say, koob? You wanna see something big, let me take off my armor.” I hold him back, pushing him toward the sled in an attempt to diffuse the situation, but he keeps yelling. “You stinking koob! You shoulda seen what we did to your koob buddies back there. Big die! Big die!”

  “Exo, that’s enough. He’s trying to goad you, and you’re just giving him what he wants. Keep it professional.”

  Sure enough, the koobs are rattling off their peculiar laughs as their air sacs rapidly quiver and deflate. The koob who did the talking swaggers up the stairs back to his compatriots, a smug look of satisfaction on his face. “Go home, lejundayere. Klik-klik-klik. Or mebbe home big die too, ya?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” asks Masters.

  “Ignore it,” I say. But I know exactly what it means. We can’t finish this op and get back to CF fast enough. “Rook, Exo, you two cool here?”

  “Yeah,” Rook says, hoisting up his SAB. “Words against blaster bolts. It ain’t no thing.”

  It’s a short hike to the front of the column. The air is crisp, with a slight chill. Typical subalpine conditions. The thinness of the air has me breathing heavier than I’m used to. Usually our buckets compensate for this by cycling in a reserve from a tiny oxygen tank that refills when needed. I make a mental note to increase my phys-con intensity.

  We reach a clearing just past the final sled in the column. It’s a sort of market or town square, lined with stalls like a bazaar. Kublarens croak and click for the attention of passing shoppers, selling bundles of grasses and cuts of yellow-hued meats. One Kublaren is twirling gleaming curved swords in front of a makeshift table. She shouts to us as we approach.

  “Leejuh! Leejuh! Cloo-kikkik kik cachi!” She waves, entreating us to examine her wares. “Cloo-kik cachi!”

  “Lieutenant,” Masters says, staring longingly at a wicked-looking ebony dagger, “you think I can check some of those out?”

  I see Captains Ford and Devers ahead in the distance, consulting with Sergeant Powell. The koob chieftain and a gathered band of Kublarens elders are standing opposite them, leaning on their staffs.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” I tell Masters. “But stick around the command sled when you’re done. That’s where we’ll link up once this little chat comes to an end.”

  Captain Devers notices me from the other side of the square. “Lieutenant Chhun,” he calls over the comm, “where’s the translator bot I ordered you to bring?”

  I press my comm receiver into my ear to better hear over the buzzing crowd. “Sir?”

  Devers clears his throat. “I ordered you to bring a translator bot up from one of the sleds, Chhun. Remember?”

  No he didn’t. And even if he had, there’s no translator bot out here.

  “Captain Devers,” Wraith says coolly, “the translator bot was destroyed when Pappy’s sled was hit during the ambush.”

  “Well that’s great,” Devers says, holding his arms out and dropping them to his sides like a breakball player upset with a referee’s ruling. “A little hard to finish the mission with a chieftain who doesn’t speak Standard. So what now? I can’t just stand here and wave my hands around.”

  “Maybe they have a koob who speaks Standard well enough to convey the message,” Sergeant Powell offers.

  Devers shakes his head. There’s no way he'd follow the advice of an NCO.

  The koobs hold a discussion in their language, and one of them calls for a young hatchling. The elder croaks in the kid’s ear and watches it bound off into the crowds.

  “There,” Devers says, holding out his hand plaintively. “They’re on it. Probably have a villager who speaks Standard before us by the end of next week. Wonderful.”

  “Has there been any luck communicating with CF at this higher elevation?” I say into my comm. I’m still a good walk from the meeting. “They could probably shot-drop a translator bot if we reach them.”

  A shot-drop is when Supply & Quarter delivers necessary items to units in the field. Sometimes it’s a pod shot down from a ship in orbit, sometimes it’s blasted like artillery from forward command. In this case we’re looking for the latter, a pod containing a translator bot. It can be here in as little as two minutes.

  “Haven’t had any luck,” Wraith says.

  “Try it again,” orders Devers.

  “Silver-3, Silver-3, this is Specter-2,” Sergeant Powell calls over the joint op comm. “Request from Captain Devers. Attempt contact with CF and request translator bot shot-drop.”

  “Acknowledged, Specter-2,” comes the reply from the sled’s driver.

  For a while, all I can hear are the sounds of the bazaar and my own breathing as I close in on the parlay. Then a burst of static issues from the comm.

  “This is Silver-3. You’d better hear this.”

  The comm is filled with the whining, thin sound of a strained transmission. Like a warbling voice physically stretched to the point of being too gaunt to hear.

  “Put it through,” Wraith says. “This is Specter-1, are we go for the translator bot?”

  The reply is broken, cutting out so that barely a completed word comes across.

  “Vic… …ny? Is tha… … …med all were …lled.”

  “You’re breaking up, CF. Repeat, this is Specter-1 requesting shot-drop of a translator bot.”

  “Thi… … post… …ulu … eed … … … eed immed… … …”

  The feed cuts out, leaving empty static.

  “Did anyone catch that?” Devers asks.

  I’m close enough to Devers, Ford, and the chieftain that they could hear me if I spoke loud enough. Instead, I talk quietly into my comm. “I think… I think that was Outpost Zulu. And I’m pretty sure they said they thought we were all dead.”

  10

  There’s a sudden surge of koobs passing by me, arresting my progress. They give me and my N-4 a respectable berth, but it’s still slowing me down, and I need to join up with the captains. I can see from Devers’s posture that he didn’t like my last comment about Outpost Zulu—Oz—figuring us for dead.

  Oz is a five-man comm station. It’s way up on some koob mountain, sitting on a mesa-like platform carved out by a series of precision orbital strikes. The only way to get there is by drop shuttle. The thou
ght was that the high altitude might help with Kublar’s atmospheric magnetic interference. Oz was supposed to be the hub that kept communication flowing between the Chiasm, CF, and the elements in the field.

  Naturally, it belly-flopped.

  Captain Devers confirms my suspicion over the comm. “They don’t think we’re dead, Lieutenant.” There’s a dismissive disdain in his voice that’s hard to miss. “Camp Forge wanted this mission finished, remember?”

  He’s talking to me like I’m an idiot. I hate this guy.

  “Let me remind you that I spoke to Colonel LaDonna directly.” Devers snorts a half-laugh into his comm. “Command is perfectly aware that Victory Company is still in the field.”

  “Of course, sir,” I say, stopping in my tracks as a gang of koob adolescents blaze past me at a run.

  Sergeant Powell chimes in. “It could be that CF hasn’t relayed our status to Oz. Kublar’s been hell on medium- and long-range transmissions.”

  Most of the time in the Legionnaire Corps, Sergeant Powell’s input would be appreciated. The Corps sees the value of drawing from the experience and wisdom of its NCOs. These career soldiers are the backbone of our fighting force.

  With Devers around, not so much.

  “Sergeant, I don’t give a space rat’s ass about your comm theories.”

  Devers turns from Sergeant Powell to the koob chieftain. He moves his hands like an interpretive dancer and loudly over-enunciates each word. “Chieftain Kreggak, how soon,” Devers points to an imaginary watch on his wrist, even though he’s dealing with a species that I expect has never seen them, “until that translator arrives?” He holds his arms out wide like he’s asking for a big hug. The universal symbol for arriving, apparently.

  The chieftain is the color of brackish pond water—a black that hints at green and brown. He gesticulates, and from my vantage point looks to be speaking.

  Evidently, his message is lost on Devers. “Oba,” Devers exclaims. “This is getting nowhere fast. Sergeant Powell, go find some pus-peddler who speaks Standard and bring it back here. Now.”