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

by Jason Anspach

  “Pick up your weapon,” Sulla ordered.

  The rifle was much lighter than what he’d been carrying through courses and runs. It felt like it was barely in his arms. Perhaps three pounds at most.

  “Right now you’re wondering why your N-1 is so light,” Sulla observed. “The rifles you’ve been issued have been specially prepared and weighted at the general’s orders. I’m guessing you like the feel of an actual N-1 more?”

  Fast smiled and joined the other NCOs in answering, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. This is an object lesson for you to teach your squads. When you’re stretched to your thinnest, your N-1 will feel as heavy as what you’ve been marching with. As light as these are, they will feel akin to hoisting a Savage hulk to your shoulder when the fighting won’t stop. You remind your candidates that they’ve carried worse.”

  The men nodded, the lesson not lost on any of them.

  “Good,” Sulla said. “Charge!”

  Fast shoved a charge pack into the magazine well.

  “Prime.”

  He pulled the priming handle and heard a high-pitched whine issue from the weapon.

  “Eject.”

  The charge pack released from the weapon. Fast set the rifle and the charge pack down on the table in front of him, barrel facing the silhouette of a Savage marine a hundred yards downrange.

  “Good. That’s all you need with the N-1. It’s streamlined, and as you’ll see, it delivers quite the punch.”

  Legionnaires: Chapter Nine

  The badge glinted in the moonlight as Wild Man held it in his hands, turning it over. N-1 marksman qualifications. Expert.

  Only a handful of candidates achieved the expert qualification. Sergeant Fast had done it, and Wild Man wasn’t surprised by that in the least. But only he, the Wild Man, had achieved a perfect score. Forty targets ranging from five to three hundred meters away. Iron sights. And god help him if he didn’t drill each target right in the middle the moment it popped up.

  He felt like he’d turned a corner. The other candidates would shake their heads at him. But not in the way they did before. Now it was with a smile as if to say, “I can hardly believe it.”

  Even the general seemed impressed that day on the range. He nodded at Wild Man. Said, “That’ll do, LC-08.”

  Which still bothered the Wild Man, because he felt like he ought to be more than a number to Tyrus Rechs. But he wasn’t. No one was.

  And in a way that didn’t matter. Because just getting a hint that the old man approved when every other thing in life seemed to make the general go apeshit… that gave Wild Man a sense of pride. One he would never admit to feeling, though he expected that others who earned what passed as a compliment from the general felt it, too.

  Echo Squad didn’t hold back their congratulations. Even the brothers Johnson piped up.

  “Nice shooting, Wild Man,” James said.

  “Yeah, nice shooting,” echoed Randolph.

  Davis told him repeatedly that he had done something special. That he belonged.

  Kimbo wanted lessons. He had qualified as a marksman on the N-1, but was five points shy of reaching sharpshooter. Let alone expert. Wild Man could tell it ate at him.

  And Sergeant Fast… he called it the finest shooting he’d ever seen in his life. And something about the man made Wild Man think that he’d seen a lot of shooting. Though he professed to have never joined a standing army until the Legion.

  “I wanted to live free,” Sergeant Fast had said. “And I did. Until it became clear that the galaxy was poised to take that option away from me. So… nothing left but to fight.”

  Wild Man figured he meant the Savages. And he understood that. He wanted to fight, too. But freedom never really came into the Wild Man’s mind until Sergeant Fast mentioned it.

  Revenge, yes.

  And hate. Pure, unvarnished loathing.

  There was a lot of that in his heart for the Savages. Figured it was there for everyone who ever really saw them. Except Sergeant Fast seemed too calm and cool to be hateful. Sometimes when they ran, and the time came to push themselves, Wild Man could see something like anger in Sergeant’s face. But it disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

  But everyone hated the Savages. After what they did. What they would do.

  The hate felt distant tonight. Under the moon out in the woods. Part of a week-long march that was supposed to take them to the base of that mountain that they all hoped they’d never have to visit. Someone called it Mount Doom and the name stuck.

  Mount Doom.

  Wild Man couldn’t see it through the darkness of the trees. But he could feel its cold blowing down, chilling the night air in a way that didn’t seem natural given the summer weather they endured while running the gauntlet. Like ghosts were bringing their deadly cold down with them to haunt the living that lay in the forest beneath.

  A campfire would be nice. The crackle of branches flowing sticky with tar and sap. Making you feel dry and warm. The smoke clinging to your hair and clothes.

  But orders were lights out at all times. Pretend there are Savages. No light. No heat. No noise.

  The moon didn’t obey the orders of men. And Wild Man watched its light twinkle on the badge. It was something they had on the ships, he knew. Something for some U-Dub soldier that happened to be in supply on one of the ships that accompanied Chang. It was cheap, made with a material meant to look like silvene. He knew that, too.

  But it was his. And it was beautiful for what it represented. Respect. Belonging. Purpose.

  “Told you,” he whispered to his wife, who sat somewhere behind him in the darkness. He could feel her there. She wouldn’t come sit next to him. But she was there. “Told you this was important.”

  She wouldn’t answer. She was mad at him.

  He missed her.

  “Who you talking to, Wild Man?”

  Ivy Davis sat down to join him. He could hear her hips click and pop. The pain on her face didn’t escape his notice, either. And while the general kept the candidates well-fed—they were all growing bigger and stronger—Davis seemed hollow and thin. Ever since they moved from PT gear to full kit. The toll it had taken on her body was evident.

  Her spirit was still strong, though. And it shone through the night, making itself known through the question she asked. Davis didn’t make small talk. If she asked a question it was because she wanted to know the answer. Because she cared to know.

  “Uh,” Wild Man said. Because he didn’t know what else to say. He knew the answer and knew what people would think if he told them the truth.

  That he was crazy.

  But he wasn’t crazy. She was here. She was real. Had been with him all the time as he waged a one-man war against the Savages. Came to Hardrock while he trained to be a legionnaire even though she didn’t want to.

  She was real.

  “Myself, I guess.”

  And then she was gone. Wild Man could sense her getting up and walking away. Wounded by the slight. He turned to look over his shoulder at her, but she had disappeared into the darkness.

  He ought to get up. Go after her.

  But he stayed with Davis. His wife just needed some time to cool off. She never did like being wrong about things. And she was wrong. Even if she didn’t want to admit it. The Legion… all this training… it was the right thing.

  “Too much of that will make you crazy,” Davis said, before letting loose an involuntary groan. “Oh, sket. I don’t think there’s a square inch of my body that isn’t sore. How are you feeling?”

  “Feelin’ good,” he said. And even though it was true, he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have been so up-front about it.

  “I’m glad one of us does.”

  “Hang in there.”

  Davis leaned her head back on the tree she rested against. “Yep.”


  “No. Really. Made it this far.”

  Just then Kimbo arrived, collapsing into a heap and lying against the heavy ruck he’d been humping. Wild Man knew it was the marching with that pack that was causing the strain for Davis. But Kimbo didn’t seem any more pleased with it.

  “Why we gotta haul this crap around, Shooter?”

  Wild Man shrugged because he didn’t know. He did like being called Shooter, though. Even if Kimbo was the only one who called him that.

  “Beats me,” Davis said. Which was odd. She usually seemed to have answers. Like she had a window into the mind of General Rechs. “Most modern armies are able to haul everything they need in ten-kilo bundles. These are what, thirty? Plus the armor? I feel like I’m literally breaking apart.”

  “Hang in there,” Kimbo said, and Wild Man could tell the fellow candidate meant it.

  “Hang in where?” asked James as he joined the circle and sat down.

  “Yeah, hang in where?” added his brother, Randolph.

  “Davis is feelin’ it, man,” Kimbo said.

  “Oh,” said James. “Hang in there.”

  “Yeah. Hang in there.”

  Davis chuckled. An ironic, almost spiteful laugh. “Rechs won’t break me. He’s not gonna break any of Echo Squad.”

  “Damn right,” said James, who Wild Man figured was the older brother.

  “Damn right,” repeated Randolph.

  “I heard from Sergeant Greenhill,” Kimbo said, leaning forward and keeping his voice low, “that we’re coming close to the end of it all. A little more time on the range getting requalified on ‘slug throwers’ and some sweeps through the kill house. Then probably the last big march and we’re in. It’s all mental at this point.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Davis shot back.

  “Well, mental is what you can control, I mean.”

  Wild Man grunted. That was true. He’d come to realize it during all those pounding runs where his large, muscular frame screamed to his mind that it wasn’t built to be used that way. But his mind never gave in, and wonder of wonders, his body didn’t fail on him. No matter how often it swore it would.

  He thought about adding to the conversation. Almost said, “That’s true.”

  But then one of the brothers switched subjects and the moment was lost. That was all right, though. Just… just having his brain fire like it did, giving him something to say—that was nice. Things hadn’t been that way for a long time. Wild Man hadn’t felt this good in a long time.

  He looked over his shoulder. Maybe because he thought he heard a rustle, but most likely because he wanted to see if she’d come back yet. She hadn’t. He hoped she wouldn’t get herself lost or into trouble. He gently bit his tongue.

  How could she?

  Still… he wanted her to be all right.

  “Echo Squad.”

  The whisper came out of the darkness, and made all five of the candidates jump. Kimbo searched frantically for his N-1 while Davis held her hand against her chest.

  “Holy hell, Sergeant Fast! I almost died.”

  “Sergeant Fast,” said James. “Stop sneaking up on us like that.”

  “Yeah, stop sneaking up on us like that.”

  The sergeant moved right on without slowing to acknowledge anyone’s fright or complaints. “Quiet. Something’s up.”

  Everyone looked around, taking in the darkness. Wild Man focused on his sergeant’s face, watching it under the moonlight. It was slightly damp with perspiration. And it was dirty.

  “What is it, Sarge?” asked Kimbo.

  “Every officer along with two squads from First Platoon are gone.”

  “Is that bad?” asked Davis.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. CSM told us lights out and act like there are Savages nearby.”

  “We didn’t start no fires, Sarge,” James said. “Honest.”

  “Yeah, honest.”

  Sergeant Fast shook his head. “I know. But if Savages were here… this is a terrible defensive position.”

  Wild Man rocked back against his ruck, looking around. He could see the trees standing like moonlit sentinels all around him until their trunks disappeared behind leafy swaths of bramble and other ground cover. It gave off the impression that they were hidden, but that was all it did. Anyone with a mind to move through the forest would remain screened by those same bushes that gave this false sense of protection. And they would find Echo Squad and the rest of the platoon in the open with no defensive cover.

  This time the big man, the man of sorrow who drifted from planet to planet, punishing Savages with his sniper rifle, found his way into the conversation. “You got a better place for us, Sergeant Fast?”

  Fast nodded, his face expressionless. All business. “Just finished digging it.”

  “By yourself?” asked Kimbo. “Damn.”

  “These trees have been here dropping needles so long, you can dig down six feet before hitting rocks.”

  “So the platoon’s moving into foxholes?”

  Fast shook his head. “Echo Squad. Not the platoon. The other squads are as tired as we are and didn’t want to get up.”

  Davis rested her head back against her tree. “I think they’ve got the right idea. I need a horizontal night of sleep right now. Not an evening on my feet.”

  “Well that’s too bad,” Fast said, standing before her and holding out his hand. “Because Echo Squad works as a team. On your feet, candidate.”

  Davis took the hand and Sergeant Fast hauled her up, causing more pops and snaps to issue from her hips and knees. “Let’s move, Echo.”

  * * *

  Casper moved through the still of the forest, feeling the invigoration that comes from a rush of endorphins following a march. Tyrus had led the officers of First and Second Platoons, along with CSM Andres and the best-performing squad from First Platoon—Sergeant Greenhill’s Alpha Squad.

  Greenhill was one of the men Rechs had fought with during the chaotic escape from New Vega. The same was true of the expedition’s point man, Lucas Martin, who Rechs insisted on calling LC-05. In spite of knowing the man. In spite of having fought alongside him, having put his life in the man’s hands during the fight with the Savages when he was Colonel Marks. Before Casper’s hope for a galactic coalition fell apart in that doomed bombing run.

  That might as well have been a lifetime ago from the way Rechs behaved. Might as well have never even happened.

  But then, perhaps there was something Casper’s old friend saw that transcended words. The general had specifically requested Greenhill’s squad for this operation. Alpha Squad consistently outperformed the other squads in both platoons. Individual candidates might be better shooters, might achieve higher PT scorings, but as a whole… Alpha reflected its name.

  The squad was quiet and professional. They hiked to the mountain with Rechs taking the lead, turning back only when Tyrus reached some unseen marker that told him they’d climbed enough. Then it was up to Martin to lead them back down.

  But not before Rechs explained their objective on the windswept crags of what the candidates called Mount Doom.

  “Tonight, we are the Savage marines. And there are two platoons probing the woods to our west. We will creep up on those legionnaires and we will murder them.” Rechs paused a beat and then said, “Move.”

  Martin, used to following the orders of the man called Tyrus Rechs, began to descend the mountain. Rechs followed, as did the rest of the officers and Alpha Squad.

  But Greenhill lingered, standing next to Casper. The admiral knew that the officer corps and the candidates themselves saw him as something of a lifeline, a voice of reason that could sometimes make sense of the enigma that was Tyrus Rechs. Someone who could even change the course Rechs set himself on, though Casper saw his ability to do that dwindle more and more.

  “Admir
al?” Greenhill said. The naval rank had stuck. Rechs still hadn’t supplied him with a formal rank in the Legion.

  “Go ahead, Sergeant Greenhill.”

  Greenhill, used to officers referring to him by his LC number, hesitated. “Ah… that’s not the clearest of plans.”

  “You’re thinking General Rechs should have asked if there were any questions?”

  The pair moved together down the mountain, Greenhill’s N-1 carried at the ready. Casper was armed only with his pistol, which he kept holstered.

  “Suppose that’s it, yes.”

  “The Savages don’t ask questions, Sergeant. They do what they’re told. The general wishes for you to attack like Savages. You’ll find that, militarily, a Savage fighting force is often devoid of complex tactics. They are given a directive… and they execute.”

  Greenhill seemed to be thinking back to his time on New Vega. What the admiral said must have made sense because he nodded.

  “Thanks, Admiral. Just… sometimes the general don’t make sense to me no more is all.”

  And then the candidate picked up his pace, leaving Casper alone to bring up the rear. Perhaps aware that he had made what could be considered a colossal error in judgment in sharing his thoughts so freely.

  And it was that. An error in judgment. Part of Casper felt that it required an immediate dressing-down. A reminder of the need for proper adherence to rank and its protocols.

  Except the comment struck him because he had been thinking the same thing about his friend. It was Rechs’s job to train this Legion. That there would be differences of approach was obvious, but Casper had moved into a realm of having to put blind faith in his friend’s actions. Tyrus had moved far away from what Casper thought of as reasonable. And while Rechs may have been the finest soldier Casper ever knew, Casper was no neophyte. He was a better strategist than Rechs, had a better mind for organization and administration.

  And this… this training. Casper had faith that it would produce a soldier of a higher standard and caliber. But there was a simple formula of diminishing returns. Rechs, in his opinion, was depriving his Legion of capable fighters. In his zealous purification rituals, his attempts to remove any and all dross, he was beginning to lose some of what was valuable in the process.