Legionnaire

by Jason Anspach

  Captain Ford must feel the same way, because he takes this opportunity to address the living in this place of the dead. “This is the last time something like this happens. Does everyone understand that?”

  The gathered legionnaires nod. Exo is calm, sitting on the ground with Twenties kneeling by his side.

  “Let me give everything I know to you straight. Camp Forge is a total team kill. I don’t know exactly what or how, but you can see the evidence in front of you. That’s not the worst of it. During our ambush, Lieutenant Chhun witnessed the Chiasm explode in orbit. Now, I asked him to keep that under wraps until I could confirm it, and this,” Wraith waves his hand at the ruins of Camp Forge, “coupled with our complete inability to get any comm traffic to or from them, is confirmation enough. Lieutenant Chhun is no liar.

  “That leaves us stranded on a hostile world with no friends. And I mean none. Senator Greggorak was at Camp Forge when we left, and I’m willing to bet we’ll find his corpse under all this impervisteel if it wasn’t incinerated in the blast. Our priority is to salvage what we can, speed off to a hidden and defensible location, and hunker down until another destroyer arrives in orbit. Questions?”

  Wraith is answered with silence. What he’s laid out is the only move we have left.

  But then a voice sounds in the distance. It’s familiar. Like… a newscaster.

  18

  “Anybody else hear that?” I strain my ears, but they’ve been plagued by a low ringing. No matter what I stuff into them, nothing has been as effective as my helmet.

  “Yeah,” Wraith answers. “I hear it too.”

  The voice carries over the dead, like a ghost talking in a graveyard. “… hours since the surprise attack. However, the contingent of legionnaires has returned to the devastation. The sight of the carnage has resulted in tense exchanges and, in some instances, even open hostility. We’ll continue to update our audience as further developments arise. Back to you…”

  I look up and see a TT-10 bot hovering overhead, its red light flashing as it records me and my leejes. At once it dawns on me what we’re all hearing. The journalist bot must have made it through the battle intact.

  “It’s Pully,” I announce, moving toward the bot’s voice.

  “I’m coming with you.” Wraith motions for Sergeant Powell and points at Exo. “I want that leej kept away from Captain Devers at all times.”

  Exo stands up. He holds out his N-4 for the sergeant.

  “No,” Wraith says. “I need shooters. You give me your word you won’t turn your weapons on Captain Devers or any other person here, and you’ve got my trust. Can I trust you?”

  After clenching his jaw tightly, Exo relaxes his face and nods. “You can trust me, Captain Ford.”

  “He can keep his weapon,” Wraith tells Powell. “I need two leejes to come with Lieutenant Chhun and me. The rest of you, reset and be ready to speed out if I give the order.”

  Twenties and Masters run up and join us. We climb over a twisted mound of impervisteel that used to be the mess hall, if I’ve got my bearings correct. As we reach the crest of the debris pile, we see Pully just ahead, surrounded by more dead legionnaires. There are a few dead koobs as well, but I can tell by the way they’ve been chopped up and dismembered that these weren’t friends of the tribes that attacked us.

  The hover bot whizzes by us. It returns to its compartment on Pully’s back as we scamper down to the bot.

  Pully looks up, his blue visual receptors glowing. “Lieutenant Ford, Sergeant Chhun, Specialists Masters and Denino. I am…” He pauses in what seems to be a feigned consideration. “… relieved that you have returned safely.”

  “Thanks,” Wraith says. “Pappy made Chhun brevet lieutenant and me brevet captain. Now, I need for you to—”

  “Congratulations.”

  Wraith pauses. “Thanks. I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

  The bot nods. “Yes, this story is of galaxy-wide importance, I agree. I have amassed over twenty standard hours of footage, including three hours of unedited combat holos. I also have footage from the period before your contingent left for negotiations at Moona Village, though sub-cipher cross-checks do not reveal anything of note. A more thorough check will need to be made upon returning to the Chiasm. I will require authorization to plug into the supercomputer’s mainframe and ask the native intelligence for access to—”

  “Pully,” Wraith interrupts, “we don’t have time for full analysis. We have to get moving. There’s a hostile force that knows we were headed in this direction, and we’ve got no idea how close the attackers of Camp Forge are right now.”

  “The attackers left in a southerly direction at approximately 15:08, local time, on the day of the attack.”

  Wraith shakes his head. “Unless you can tell me how long they drove after leaving your field of vision…”

  “I cannot. Are you available for an interview, Captain Ford?”

  The bot wants to be helpful, but he also wants to follow his directive of recording as much information on the story as possible. I step in to try and streamline the process.

  “Pully, we aren’t staying long, and you can have full access to everyone you need once we speed out. But we need to know what happened. Have you already recorded a summary news brief that you could play for us?”

  “Of course. It was among my first transmissions.”

  “Play it,” Wraith orders.

  “Right away. Would you prefer the report rendered by a human male or female?”

  “Girl,” Masters interjects before anyone else has a chance to answer. “Play the girl. If we’re all gonna die out here I’d like to see one more pretty face before I’m dusted. Should’ve held on to those Mendella holochits after all.”

  The glow of Pully’s eyes intensifies, and dual beams of holographic light shoot downward, creating the image of a youthful, attractive female news anchor—the type you’d see behind the desk on the top network of any planet or space station in the galaxy. Of course, she isn’t real, just an advanced rendering pulled from the bot’s processing and imaging caches. The anchorwoman sits with a static smile across her face as a countdown appears next to her chest. When it reaches zero, she puts a hand up to her ear and looks down at her desk, studious and concerned.

  “We are just receiving breaking news here at…” There’s a pause where the local station identifier would be supplied; Pully’s told me all about how this works during our time on tour together. “A Republic outpost on the planet Kublar has been attacked by a joint force of native Kublarens in opposition to the peacefully elected Senator Gregorrak, along with human and kimbrin terrorists identifying themselves as part of the Mid-Core Rebellion. We understand the battle ended mere hours ago and that our embedded journalist”—there’s another pause to fill in whatever local computer model has been reporting—“survived the attack and is reporting from the scene. The images that follow are graphic, and holoviewer discretion is strongly advised.”

  The holo cuts to a man in his mid-fifties, still handsome and fit. “Thank you…”

  “Ah, why can’t he be a woman, too?” Masters says.

  “Stow it, leej.”

  The reporter continues. “I’m at Camp Forge, the scene of a violent and brutal conflict. It started this afternoon just after one p.m. local time, when a massive explosion took place in the garage where the Republic forces stored their main battle tanks. This blast killed a number of troops and was followed by an invasion of vehicles that arrived from the flat expanse behind me that leads into Kublar’s Lendrah province. The attackers were Kublarens, kimbrins, and humans arriving by truckload. Republic legionnaires immediately rallied to launch a counter-assault.”

  The footage switches to a group of ragged leejes rushing to form a perimeter, creating a firing line. The dead and dying lay strewn around them.

  “A fierce firefight raged, but the sheer volume of enemy combatants allowed them to overrun the base. While the legionnaires kept the terrori
sts from breaching the west end of the base, the insurgents quickly took control of the northeast section, where Senator Gregorrak was visiting the company commander, Colonel Delt LaDonna. There are no signs of the senator or LaDonna this time.”

  Scenes of the battle, the dead, and Gregorrak from the weeks prior, are interspersed throughout the narrative, deftly edited together by the journalist bot.

  “The fight continued until the weight of the MCR and Kublaren force converged on the legionnaire holdouts. The battle played out for nearly two more hours before the legionnaires were finally overrun. No survivors remain on site, and the insurgents took no prisoners. There remains on Kublar one joint force of legionnaires and Republic Army on a diplomatic mission. They have not yet returned. Hails to the Chiasm, a Capital-class destroyer overseeing this sector of galaxy’s edge, have not been able to penetrate the Kublaren atmosphere. More details as they become available.”

  The holofeed switches back to the anchorwoman, but the playback is stopped before she can deliver her reply. A heaviness sits in the air until Pully speaks.

  “That is the entirety of the summary briefing. I transmitted it as soon as it was complete, but all uploads to the Chiasm have failed.”

  I nod. “The Chiasm isn’t there anymore. It blew up about the same time the base did.”

  Pully inclines his head. “That is unfortunate, but does provide a plausible explanation.”

  “Any idea if LaDonna or the senator made it out alive? Maybe as hostages?” Wraith asks.

  “We could form a rescue mission,” Twenties suggests.

  “I believe Colonel LaDonna was killed in the blast, based on my examination of bodily remains.” The bot points at an exposed beam high overhead, bent over so that it resembles a massive fishing pole. “The head of Senator Gregorrak is mounted up there. I did a full news report on its discovery. Would you like to see it?”

  We all look up at the grim spectacle.

  “Who’s the koob swinging by a rope next to him?” I ask.

  Pully’s optics grind as he looks where I’m pointing. “I believe that was one of the senator’s wives, Ma’asog, of the tribe Moona.”

  I take one more look at the body dangling in the wind. What was it that Chieftain Kreggak said? Something about supporting the senator by some customary bond—driddak. I’m thinking whoever attacked the base severed that bond, and the moment the Moona chieftain was free to act without its restraints, he was setting himself up to kill some Republicans.

  Wraith picks up a tattered piece of fabric that was lying at our feet. It looks like a scrap of the Victory Company flag. Maybe all that remains. “Okay,” he says, “here’s what comes next. Pully, you’re coming with us.”

  “This is agreeable,” answers the bot. “The story of how the remaining legionnaires survive will ultimately prove of greater interest to the galaxy than my cataloging obituaries for the deceased. Now that the appointed officers are finished.”

  Pully doesn’t mean to cause offense, so I don’t take any. He’s right, though. Those appointed as officers by the House of Reason or Senate, sons of the rich and famous, are the ones the galaxy will care about. Not the nameless and faceless leejes who volunteered for academy training out of a desire to be the best the Republic had to offer. That’s just a fact.

  “Silver-3,” Wraith says, “divert a peeper from perimeter duty and have it circle the compound for anything living or salvageable. I don’t think we’ll find it, but I want to check before we speed out.” He keys the side of his helmet. “Sergeant Powell, I want you to get the sleds loaded up.”

  We walk back to the staging area, our pace slowed somewhat as the bot attempts to navigate through the debris. It does well enough, though. Better than most humanoids would, just not as good as a leej.

  I notice that Twenties is rubbing his face. “Something bothering your eye?”

  “Yeah,” Twenties answers, trying to blink away whatever’s bothering him. His eye is allergic red, maybe from all the touching. “I must’ve gotten something in it while we were chased back to the sleds. Can’t seem to get it out.”

  “Have Doc Quigs look at it when we get back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The staging area is free of most personnel. Only Quigs, a few leejes pulling sentry duty, and the Rep-Army basic point who defended Devers are still outside the sleds. Through the open doors of one of the sleds, I see Andien sitting across from the scientist who lost his wife. She’s trying to talk with him, but he appears catatonic, just staring into the void.

  “Lieutenant Selmer,” Wraith says to the point officer. “Are the sleds ready to move?”

  “Yes.” Selmer’s tone is icy.

  “Then get in your vic and await my orders to move out.”

  “All due respect, Captain Ford, but my fellow R-A drivers and crew are a little disturbed by the way you handled the unprovoked attack by one of your legionnaires on Major Devers.”

  “Captain Devers,” I correct. This guy sucks.

  “So you say,” Selmer replies with a fractional nod. “Protocol requires that—”

  Wraith cuts him off. “I know what protocol states. Arrest, investigations, statements accusing or defending the actions for conduct unbecoming an officer or foul play or intentions with the enemy. But guess what? We’re out and stranded. What you see behind you? That’s our fate if we stay here and play advocate general for a fight between two leejes. I’ll worry about whether the altercation was just once a rescue comes—if a rescue comes. Now get back to your vic and be ready to speed out.”

  Somewhat tersely, Selmer says, “Yes, sir,” and moves to his combat sled.

  “Hey, Doc,” I call to Quigs. “Can you check out Twenties’s eye?”

  Quigs removes a light pen from his pouch and clicks it on with his thumb. He shines it into the legionnaire’s puffy and swollen eye. “Does it feel hot?”

  “A little,” Twenties answers. “Mostly itches. Kind of a painful itch, though.”

  Clicking the light pen off, Quigs says, “That’s because it’s infected. Probably got something in there from when we lanced the blisters during the ambush. You need a skinpack.” He turns to Captain Ford and me. “And I don’t have any more left. Every wound from here on out needs healing the old-fashioned way.”

  “I’ve got a TT-16 overhead looking for salvage,” Wraith says.

  “Here’s hoping.” Quigs lowers the volume on his bucket. “Because I’ve got nothing left. I mean nothing. Pappy is going to come out of his coma before the cycler finishes if I don’t get some additional pain numbers and narcos. I don’t need to tell you the kind of pain he’ll find himself in.”

  “We’ll find what we can and take what we can,” Wraith assures him. “What we need more than that is a way to notify the nearest Republic destroyer of our situation.”

  “Can’t you do a deep space transmission?” I ask Pully.

  “I have already done so.” The bot’s smooth voice fills the staging area. It’s surreal. “But with our placement in galaxy’s edge, it will be weeks before the signal reaches a network holo receiver.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  Andien jogs over to our discussion. A legionnaire calls for her to stay in the sleds, but I wave him off.

  “You know something about this?” I ask her.

  “Maybe,” Andien replies. “I’m familiar with the real space and subspace communication relays. I degreed in technical communications before going back to school to study edge-space geology.” She turns to Pully. “Your deep space transmission is sent in the direction of the nearest holo receiver owned by your network, right?”

  “That is correct.”

  Andien nods rapidly, as though the bot’s confirmation launched her thoughts. “That won’t do us any good unless you think we can survive for a month out here.”

  Wraith shakes his head.

  “The message has to reach the commercial station, go through processing, and then needs to be forwarded to an appropriate Republic
station.” Andien frowns and takes a few paces. “That could add more time before the right person gets it and a relief ship is sent. But, if the bot’s broadcast can be transmitted directly from a military comm burster, it’s sure to find a closer holo receiver. A deep space supply platform, if not a destroyer.”

  “Only problem with that,” Wraith says, “is that Camp Forge’s burster is destroyed, along with everything else.”

  “They wouldn’t have gotten Outpost Zulu,” I say. “No way the koobs can access it without air support, and we haven’t seen any evidence of that.”

  “Does O-Z have an array capable of reaching deep space?” Wraith asks. “I thought it was just a comm booster for the planet and any orbiting ships.”

  “It wouldn’t, no,” Andien answers, “but that’s okay. This bot has a very compact and powerful transmitter. If we can get it to the outpost, I’m sure I can wire it into the comm station and reach deep space using the proper military frequency.”

  Wraith nods. “That’s our plan, then.”

  “Captain Ford, this is Silver-3. Observation bot is showing something that looks like intact medical crates at the camp’s north end.”

  “More good news,” I say.

  Quigs practically jumps at the report. “Permission to assemble a salvage team.”

  “Granted,” Wraith says.

  A burst of static hits all of our comms at the same time. The L-comm open channel conveys Chieftain Kreggak’s dry and craggy voice. “Leejon-ayers. This… kk’k … Chieftain Kreggak of Moona tribe. New chieftain of Annek tribe. Chieftain of all tribe. My sister-kin is gone. My allies and I come now for you now. Big die. K’kk’k. Big die for you soon.”

  “Silver-3!” Wraith calls over the L-comm, I guess no longer caring if the koobs hear him. “Do any peepers show an incoming force?”

  “Uh, nothing close by. Wait. Yeah, I see a dust cloud.”