Gods & Legionnaires (Galaxy's Edge: Savage Wars Book 2)

by Jason Anspach

  Perhaps there were other candidates running nearby, but Wild Man didn’t notice them. Didn’t hear the thud of their feet planting and pushing. Not until a steady, easy gait—almost a jog—filled his senses.

  Wild Man looked to his left and saw the general, soaking wet with sweat and from the swim, jogging past him. He wasn’t running hard, though he must have, to have caught up already.

  Rechs settled into an empty space about twenty meters in front of them and then just coasted, maintaining a steady speed.

  “He’s pacing,” panted Davis. “We… gotta… get ahead.”

  She kicked her legs and lurched out in front of Wild Man. He dug down and found whatever it was that he had in his guts that let him catch up to her, feeling as though he was taking exaggerated strides in an attempt to close the distance. They reached the general, and he gave them no acknowledgment. Nor did he attempt to pass them again once they passed.

  But now the pace was higher and harder, and Wild Man could taste blood coming up from his lungs. He wanted to breathe through his nose but found he could only suck in great raspy gulps of air that never seemed enough.

  He didn’t know why he turned around, but he did. And he saw Rechs facing the opposite direction—looking at where they’d just come from, his arms held out wide to slow those runners who trailed behind Davis, Wild Man, and the other pack leaders.

  Those trailing runners, now separated from the rest by a notorious war criminal, slowed and halted. They grabbed their knees and doubled over. A few rested their arms atop their heads and attempted to walk out side stitches.

  “You’re out!” Rechs barked.

  Then he turned and continued on after those who had made the cut. Those who were still Legion candidates.

  There were no trucks waiting by the side of the road. Those deemed unfit for the Legion by Tyrus Rechs would walk back to the ships.

  Legionnaires: Chapter Five

  It was dark by the time Casper finished out-processing the washed-out Legion candidates. Most of them would stay on and provide shipboard support, serving as marines in the event of a Savage boarding party. Some showed aptitude in other areas—one of them had so much flight experience that Casper didn’t know why he wasn’t a pilot in the first place—so he set them up for additional training that could maximize their potential.

  That was perhaps the starkest different between Tyrus and himself, Casper had decided. His old friend was so focused on creating a fighting force capable of backing down the Savages that he was losing sight of the fact that it took more than front-line shock troopers to win a war.

  Casper would make sure that when the fighting began, Rechs’s Legion would not be without the necessary support.

  Rubbing his eyes from too much time behind a battle board or other screen, Casper made his way to the Chang’s galley, knowing that it would be full of candidates cramming themselves full of the calories necessary to even try to cope with the brutal training regimen they had found themselves swept up in.

  But the ship was quiet and subdued, and for a moment Casper thought the candidates might not have returned yet from their training. As he walked through the ship’s corridors and reached the main passageway that branched to the galley, he saw the telltale muddy prints, dirt, and sand. With custodial bots working tirelessly to clean it up.

  Particulates like those were a liability on board a ship. Yes, artificial gravity kept them in place well enough, but find yourself in a slug-fest with a Savage hulk and gravity could wind up being one of many systems to fail. And all that sand and dust floating its way into some of the most sophisticated space-faring technology the galaxy has seen to date wouldn’t exactly help in such a fight. Ships needed to be squared away for a number of reasons, and Casper had to suppress an urge as strong as instinct to get the corridors cleaned up posthaste.

  But he had to be pragmatic. For now, the Chang was a training vessel meant to quarter Legion candidates—not a ship ready to respond to a threat at a moment’s notice. There was a give-and-take with what was happening outside of the ship.

  He followed the dirt trail to the galley, each crunch of sand beneath his boots an affront he was forced to let slide.

  The galley doors hissed open, and to his surprise, Casper saw the candidates eating hurriedly but quietly. Many of them had intravenous drips in their arms, attended to by Chang’s limited medical staff. But that was to be expected after the grueling obstacle course, runs, and swim. Something else was the matter.

  Casper saw Captain Milker picking over a side dish of gelatinous proteins, halfheartedly spreading it over calorie-packed slices of dense, nine-grain bread. The captain looked exhausted. He, too, was hooked to an IV, but no nurse was actively attending him.

  “Rough outing?” Casper asked, keeping his voice low. It seemed not the place to do anything but speak softly.

  Milker let out a sigh. “As much as you’d expect, and then a little worse. One of the candidates drowned in the quicksand.”

  Casper craned his head back as though trying to get away from the news. “I’m surprised none of the washouts mentioned it. This was a straggler before your run?”

  “No. It was after the run. The general felt he’d been able to catch up to the element too quickly, so he ordered everyone to take the course one more time in reverse before falling in for chow.”

  Casper clenched his jaw. That was excessive. Even for Tyrus. These men weren’t Savage-born like them. They hadn’t spent all that time on the Moirai. They were just men. And what they’d accomplished already was remarkable. This was a flagrant disregard for safety. Tyrus was pushing things too far, as only he could.

  The admiral wanted to tell his friend this, but he could see that Captain Milker was struggling to comprehend what had just taken place.

  “I know you did your best, Captain.”

  Milker shook his head. “I didn’t have to do the course again. I was watching from the side. Tried to jump in and help get him out. A lot of us did. But… by the time we found him…”

  Casper nodded and gripped the man’s shoulder. “You did your best and your men saw it.” He looked around the galley. “Be there for them as they need it. They have their own affinities, but no NCOs to lean on yet.”

  Milker nodded.

  “Who was it?” Casper asked.

  “Cond—I mean, LC-196.”

  “I’m not the general. You can use the man’s real name around me.”

  “Steve Condrey. One of the Britannian commandos. Saw the guy kill at least five Savages single-handed. Drowns in a stinking mudhole.”

  Casper’s jaw clenched again. “Where’s the general?”

  “Outside, I guess. He told me to make sure everyone who finished got on board the Chang for chow.”

  * * *

  Command Sergeant Major Andres considered two things to be his proudest achievements. One was recent: being promoted, by the colonel, to the pinnacle of non-commissioned officers in the fledgling Legion. The other had been with him for decades: completing the training as a boot back on Spilursa. Throughout his time in the Spilursan army as a Ranger, he never forgot those basic training lessons. Because in his considerable experience—he was an old man in the eyes of most of the kids he watched out for—those basics were what kept you alive.

  So when the colonel handed him a shovel and said, “Help me dig,” Andres did just that. He was good at digging. His back might complain for being bent from the labor, but Andres could dig a hole well. Which was no small thing, because Andres had seen the consequences of doing it poorly. He’d seen men peppered with shrapnel because they couldn’t be bothered to burrow down in a foxhole deep enough when orders came to dig in.

  You had to get it done deep enough so that when you ducked down during the shelling, no part of you remained exposed. Make whoever’s on the other side of them guns work for it. Drop it right in the hole—
gimme that direct hit if you want me dead. But it can’t just be a place to curl into the fetal position. Because sometimes the shelling doesn’t stop. Being bombarded—whether artillery or from an orbital gunship—is a miserable experience. And it’s the little things like realizing you can’t climb out of your hole when the need arises that make it more so.

  Bowels and bladders don’t much care that you’re being rocked. In fact, the very act of it, the noise, overpressure, and rumbling of the ground all seem to conspire to evacuate your insides sooner rather than later. And as bad as digging in and hunkering down through a blitz is, doing it while lying in your own filth is that much worse.

  So you gotta dig deep and you gotta figure out where you and your buddy are gonna answer nature’s call. And you gotta do it fast.

  Andres worked fast. As fast as he could whenever the situation called for it.

  He knew exactly why he was digging. Earlier, when he came to stand next to the body of the candidate who drowned on the course—Condrey—he couldn’t help but look down. The dead man’s face looked swollen, like he’d tried to drink in all that mud and sand and when he finally filled up his stomach and every waterlogged pore in his body, there was no place left but the lungs. And the nose and mouth that seemed to ooze sand-encrusted trails down his face to gather behind his ears.

  Andres didn’t like it. The kid had been a fighter. Did damage against them Savages. One of them Britannian commandos who got out on the Chang but knew he had to come back.

  But he ain’t comin’ back now.

  His eyes were still open, so Andres knelt down and closed them. It wasn’t as easy as in the entertainments. Them eyelids seemed like they wanted to stay open. Like the kid wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet.

  He probably wasn’t.

  But they closed enough. Made the kid look like he was winking up at Andres. Like he knew something the command sergeant major didn’t.

  Andres didn’t like that either.

  Then the colonel came, carrying two shovels.

  “Help me dig,” he said, and right away Andres knew he meant a grave.

  He looked around. It seemed too close to the obstacle course. But the colonel was already at it, turning over fresh piles of patchy sod that filled the air with a musty, earthy aroma. Like a tilled garden. It covered a hanging scent of sweat and explosives that Andres hadn’t realized was there until a competing smell visited.

  Andres started digging the grave. And he dug fast because he was hungry and wanted to get inside the Chang for some chow and because it seemed like the kind of job you didn’t dawdle on. The pile of dirt was over his head and Andres was standing waist-deep in the hole when the admiral came by.

  The admiral called for a break, though he didn’t say it in so many words. “Tyrus, what is this?”

  Andres let his shovel bite into the loosened dirt he’d been working on. There weren’t many rocks, which was good. The sergeant looked at the two square corners he’d dug out, then rested an arm atop the handle of the shovel.

  The colonel kept digging.

  “Diggin’ this boy a grave, Admiral,” Andres said before returning to work. Because if the colonel wasn’t quittin’, he wasn’t neither.

  “I can see that, Sergeant,” Sulla said, looking at the body. “The Chang has the necessary incinerators to perform a proper disposal.”

  Rechs thrust his shovel into the ground and said to Andres, “This is deep enough. Go get some chow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Andres hopped out of the grave and strode toward the Chang, determined not to let his protesting back keep him from walking tall.

  “Tyrus…” Casper began.

  “Buryin’ him right here,” Rechs said, climbing out of the grave and then pulling the lifeless body to its edge.

  “Some of Specialist Condrey’s friends—”

  “His name is LC-196.” Rechs was cold and standoffish. Deadly serious. “Use it.”

  “Tyrus, his name is—”

  “I know enough dead people, Casper. We both do. Not gonna add any names to that list until I’m confident they have what it takes to survive.”

  Casper sighed. “Well, the candidates have noticed. It’s not doing you any favors. Do you want them to hate you, Tyrus? Because that’s where this is headed.”

  Rechs pushed the body of LC-196 into the grave. And then proceeded to begin refilling it. “You gonna help?”

  “No. I’m not going to take part in this. You’re doing it again, Tyrus. You’re going at this like you go at everything: full speed with no thoughts as to the consequences.”

  Rechs only grunted as he shoveled a spadeful of dirt over the kid’s winking eyes.

  “These candidates, they think of Tyrus Rechs as someone larger than life. Something out of myth that’s spent a good portion of their young lives singlehandedly hunting Savages and destroying entire planets to earn a victory over them. Don’t turn yourself into a monster before their eyes, Tyrus. Just… just think about what you hope to achieve with all of this.”

  Rechs kept shoveling.

  Casper walked away.

  * * *

  Command Sergeant Major Andres had taken a sip of his coffee—that’s what the United Worlds crew called kaff—and was about to bite into a Frankenstein sandwich with protein jellies and some kind of fried egg when the colonel strode into the mess hall.

  “Legion candidates, listen up!” shouted Rechs.

  The room fell silent.

  “Outside is the grave of LC-196. He’s buried next to the pit he drowned in. When you swim that pit, you will look at his grave and you will be reminded that you are physically unable to breathe water and live. This will keep you alive. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, General!” came the shouted replies of the candidates.

  They weren’t dejected. Or at least they weren’t letting their feelings be known. They sounded committed to becoming legionnaires. But Andres knew that some of them, mentally, would call this the last straw. They would quit.

  The CSM took another sip, wondering how many the colonel was willing to lose to ensure that all who remained were as hard and as mean as him. How many legionnaires did he need to win this war? As it stood, they were barely a company, and only if they graduated all the candidates right now.

  And then Andres caught a glimpse of Rechs’s eyes and discovered the answer to his question. However many can do it. And only them.

  “Legion candidates!” bellowed Rechs. “On your feet! You will run this course again and continue running it until those of you left alive learn not to drown!”

  Legionnaires: Chapter Six

  Casper walked with his hands clasped behind his back, addressing the small group of Legion officers. When the training had first begun, he thought they would be desperately short of officers. Now, as grueling Legion selection wore on, he began to think they would have too many.

  “Most of you have seen the stark improvements in the candidates’ conditioning,” he said.

  A chorus of heads moved up and down in agreement.

  Rechs had made the grueling obstacle course a twice-daily ritual—at a minimum. Runs stretched for miles, weaving in and out of the forested paths so that it wasn’t just running, it was jumping, lateral movements, crawling over and under fallen logs… exhaustive, dirty toil. The men were never without abrasions and blisters. Flat, nail-sized bugs would get inside the candidates’ shirts on virtually every exercise that put them in contact with brush or the forest floor, and these bugs would dig themselves in beneath the skin, growing fat on blood until burned off or pulled out with tweezers.

  The candidates were miserable. But they were also in the best shape of their entire lives. Men who had been standouts in their units—whether Spilursan, United Worlds, or any of the other colonies and planets that had formed the Coalition that fought on New Vega—were now
transcending all of that. Becoming something more. And though they loathed the taskmaster who forced that transformation upon them, deep down they saw the effect on their bodies.

  The officers saw it as well. And, Casper hoped, so did the newly selected NCOs. Today was the first time they were being included in the start-of-week briefing. It was the dawn of a new day in the Legion training program that Rechs was constructing.

  Casper checked the clock in the meeting room they used for briefing aboard the Chang. It was always hit or miss as to whether Rechs would be present. That CSM Andres was absent as well told Casper that he himself would be running the entire show, doing his best with what limited information Tyrus had given him the night before over dinner in private quarters.

  “And now for some more good news,” Casper continued. “We are officially done with the current training routine and will be introducing weapons qualification with the new N-1 model developed from Savage tech.”

  The officers and NCOs clapped, smiles on their faces. The relentless conditioning had been not only physically brutal, but also mentally draining. Every day was the same slog, with little variation. They had become stronger and faster, but the mental fatigue of unvarying routine seemed to be turning some of the candidates into zombies.

  “In addition, I’ve reorganized the candidates into squad-sized teams. Each squad will have an NCO assigned to it, with a lieutenant overseeing things at the platoon level. As it stands, we have the men for seven platoons, which will form this Legion. We hope to expand that number as possible.”

  Captain Milker raised a hand. “I take it this is the First Legion, sir?”

  Casper shook his head. “Negative. This is the Seventy-Fifth Legion. General Rechs’s preference. A bit of personal history.”

  He handed each NCO a tablet containing their assigned squad and the officer they would report to. And though the rosters contained names, Casper stressed the point that Rechs’s wishes were for Legion Candidate—LC—numbers to be used. There were no questions about that. The candidates themselves had grown used to it.