“But… that’s not so bad? You’re right-handed.”
“My left hand is what I use to hold my book. Leastways, I did until now.”
Using Lucerne, Vetch levered himself up to standing and hobbled over to Sybutu. One of the other legionaries had a med-kit open and was crouching over his comrade who’d fallen from the bike. The remaining legionary patrolled nearby on his own bike, using its sensors to sweep for more trouble.
“How’s your man?” Vetch asked Sybutu.
The Legion sergeant didn’t immediately reply.
Vetch felt a creeping horror. He recognized that awkward pause; he’d used it himself.
“Stryker,” Sybutu replied at last. His comrade with the med kit rolled closed the fallen legionary’s eyes. “Off duty, we called him Old Guard. One day I’d like to tell you the story of why. His real name was Sapper of the Legion Tavarius Stryker.”
Vetch’s arm stretched out toward Sybutu. If the other sergeant had been a friend or comrade, then an arm over the man’s shoulder would have been the most natural thing in the universe.
But Sybutu was neither. The Legion saw the universe differently and Vetch didn’t understand their ways yet.
He lowered his arm to his side.
“Stryker serves us still,” Sybutu announced in a loud voice, “through our memories and the steadfast example he set us. Farewell, brother.”
“Farewell,” echoed the two other surviving legionaries.
“Go in peace,” said Vetch, not knowing where his words were coming from. He meant them sincerely, but he was thinking of his own death.
Would anyone care enough to say fine words for him?
“Not if you carry on like this,” said Stryker’s ghost.
Through bulging eyes, Vetch saw the man’s shimmering spirit sit up from his fallen body and stare at him.
“At this rate, you’ll get them all killed,” the ghost accused.
“That’s not fair,” Vetch protested. “I mean, so far...”
Instead of justifying himself to the apparition, Vetch snapped his jaw shut and tapped his commset for transmission.
“Lily. I’ve got concussion. Take us away now and keep us safe.”
“It’s the truth,” said Stryker. “Fix it.”
The ghost flared with light and was gone.
Vetch had never felt so alone.
VETCH ARUNSEN
Vetch didn’t pass out on the journey east, away from Raemy-Ela, away from the battle scene and those who would seek revenge for the mauling of the Cora’s World troops.
He didn’t.
But he wanted to.
Sick. Dizzy. Confused. And with a headache of the sort he hadn’t experienced since his youth before the first time he was arrested, Vetch kept a loose grip on consciousness and a tighter one on Sybutu. He rode pillion with arms around the legionary’s waist, praying that either the universe would end or his head would clear. Either way was fine with him.
Alongside, Meatbolt rode Stryker’s bike, his spot on one of the Saruswine taken by the dead legionary wrapped in rebel coats.
By the time they set down in a slight depression in the ice about two hours later at dusk, the skies had cleared of rain and his head of the pounding. Knowing Lily, she’d kept them going until she thought he was ready to take charge again.
While the others secured the hollow, cared for the Saruswine, or rested while checking both equipment and wounds, Vetch followed Sybutu to the lip of the depression and looked west toward the town of Raemy-Ela, which by now was just shy of twenty klicks away.
A light snow fluttered gently down.
Vetch had his binocs ready, but he didn’t need them to see the rebel aircraft circling low around the scene of battle. They stabbed probing channels of light through the snow-filled sky, seeking the Chimera Company fugitives.
“What worries me most,” he told the legionary sergeant alongside him, “is how the rebels are able to deploy surveillance aircraft unopposed. Where are our orbital defenses? Where are the Legion aircraft?”
“We have to conclude that…” Sybutu took a deep breath and tried again. “As far as we are aware, my team is the only Legion force remaining in the system. I’m not stupid, Arunsen. With Stryker lost and Urdizine keeping his head down in Raemy-Ela, we’re unlikely to prevail alone. We need you.”
Vetch had dropped the binocs in shock. “The only remaining…? What about the legionaries at Faxian?”
“All dead.”
“I’m... sorry.”
“Not as much as I am. And not nearly as much as the traitors will be when I get hold of them. Interesting that Major Yazzie never saw fit to share that intel with you, because I did brief her.” Another deep breath. “Talking of sharing, it’s time to bring our teams up to speed. We need to tell them we’re all recruits to Chimera Company now. My people have heard it, but it wouldn’t hurt to repeat it. Together.”
“Vetch!” called Lily from the hollow.
“You worry too much,” Vetch told the jack. “It’ll be fine.”
They slid down the slope, fat snowflakes sticking to their goggles. Vetch wiped the snow away with his upper arm, which revealed his Militia troopers mobbing the two remaining legionaries. The jostling was getting angrier by the second. The sentries he’d posted had more than half their attention on the brewing fight.
Vetch leaned his weight on Sybutu’s shoulder and hobbled over to the budding fracas, interposing himself between Legion and Militia.
The arguments fell silent.
“It is something of a perverse notion, I know,” he told them, “but our respective officers – the ones we respect, that is – have ordered us to work together. We have a shared objective, a shared destination. Major Yazzie has even seen fit to issue us with a new name.”
“What’s that?” asked Meatbolt, excited.
“As naught but a humble and ignorant graduate of the Federation penal system, I shall leave the explanation to my far better qualified Legion colleague. Some of you have heard some of this, but everyone needs to understand it all. Sergeant?”
“We’ve been given a task,” Sybutu told them. “It’s simple in nature. Deliver a message to a contact in Bresca-Brevae. The contact poses as a smuggler called Captain Fitzwilliam. If you’ve any sense, you’ll be asking who has given us this task and why should we trust them? This world has been betrayed, opened up to forces hostile to Legion and Militia alike. I suspect this is not an isolated incident, either. The Federation is being turned upside down and our message is the signal for those who remain true to their oaths to right it.”
“Go on, then,” said Green Fish. “Who are these heroes of the galaxy we’re supposed to follow mindlessly?”
“I only know a few names. For the Legion, Colonels Lantosh and Malix. For the Militia, Major Yazzie. It’s a risk telling you even those names, a confidence you must never betray. In a galaxy where your friends turn out to be your foe, you can go mad trying to figure out whom to trust and who not to. So let’s start by trusting ourselves. And that’s why I’ve shared those names. They aren’t alone. Our message will activate those hidden forces. Let them know what’s happened here, that it is time to act. Time to reclaim the Federation from the cesspit of corruption, division, and self-interest it’s sunk into, and shake it until it’s fit for purpose. Until we – Militia and Legion alike – learn to work together to defend the Federation, because time is running out.”
“Why now?” Lily challenged. “I’d throw away Legion and Militia and start again if it were up to me. But you’re talking as if there isn’t time. What’s happening?”
Lily’s question prompted the other human legionary – Bronze, if Vetch remembered rightly – to snap his attention onto his sergeant. Immediately, the man eased his focus away, but Vetch had seen it. Enthree had too. The Muryani had tensed and was looking Bronze’s way with her head tilted low. If you didn’t know her race, you’d think she was bowing, but Vetch recognized the unconscious gesture that deploye
d the olfactory organs dotted along her swept-back head. She was sniffing him.
Now he thought of it, Enthree had been acting weird around Bronze for a while now.
Oblivious to the reaction he was getting, Sybutu answered Lily’s question. “A few centuries before the Amilxi Exiles arrived in this region of space and formed the Far Reach Federation, there was a war across the Tej Sector. We’ve known this for centuries thanks to the archaeological record, but those dusty old theories suddenly became real important to the Legion. At Area of Special Interest 39, they found a ship left over from that war, and I think it’s nearly ready to fly again. I think they’ve found relics on other worlds, too. Maybe they’re getting intel on who fought that war because they fear they will come back. And we all know the state of the Federation military. We wouldn’t stand a chance against a real enemy.”
“That’s like thousands of years ago,” said Green Fish. “Reckon they’re long gone.”
“You’re thinking like a human,” Vetch answered. “Our race is still running around the galaxy like an overstimulated toddler hyped on combat meds and armed to the teeth. We’re new. Races who’ve been around longer are used to thinking on projects with a far longer time frame. Such as the Muryani Expansion. Isn’t that right, Enthree?”
The Muryani trooper froze, caught in the act of edging toward Bronze, who was himself taking innocent half-steps that brought him closer to Meatbolt. What in Orion’s name was going on?
“A few thousand years,” Enthree echoed. “Yes, it is not a long duration. The Muryani Expansion began over a million years ago.”
“Then it’s not expanding very fast, eh?” Meatbolt drawled.
No one laughed with him. The Expansion was still restricted to sub-light travel and yet over in the Orion Spur of the galaxy its border was not far from Earth. A Muryani vessel would take at least twenty thousand years to fly from Rho-Torkis to the frontier near the human homeworld. By comparison with the vast ancient civilization, the Federation was like a barnacle clinging to an enormous oceangoing vessel. It was not a comforting thought.
“Sergeant Arunsen is right,” said Sybutu angrily. “If you’re human, never forget that our outlook is notoriously short-term in the minds of other races. Perhaps the Exiles arrived at a time of ceasefire. It used to be said that our destination in the Perseus Arm was not randomly selected. Perhaps we have been planted here for a purpose.”
“Let’s ask your Muryani,” suggested the Kurlei legionary. “From the perspective of a civilization that’s lasted a million years, the old war here has only just finished. What can you tell us about it, Enthree?”
The Muryani tilted her head left and then right. Then left again. Small movements only, but Vetch noticed. She was conflicted.
“I know nothing of this ancient war.”
Liar!
“I’ll tell you what I do know,” said Sybutu, obviously used to squad members keeping quiet like good little jacks. “You troopers encountered what you called phony legionaries. We met them a few days later and lost a good man fighting our way out. They were headed for that ancient ship. I don’t know who they are, but they knew that ship was there, and they wanted it for themselves.”
“Perhaps the phony jacks think the buried ship belongs to them,” suggested Meatbolt.
“It’s possible,” Sybutu admitted, but Vetch was far more interested in Enthree’s reaction to Meatbolt’s suggestion. Her limbs trembled, starting at her flexible hooves and running up to her torso and hips before reflecting back down to her hooves.
She finally noticed his attention and shut down her shaking.
Busted!
“You have not answered Meatbolt’s original question,” said Enthree. “What is this name the major has given our joint endeavor?”
“Chimera Company,” the two sergeants said together.
“Remember, troopers,” said Vetch, “this comes from the same Major Yazzie who will determine whether we live or die when we return to Fort Iceni. So let’s take her wishes seriously, eh?”
“I like it,” said Lily. “Chimera Company. Pristine. But I’d also like to put another ten klicks between us and the aerial search before we shelter for the night. Before then, we have an important task to perform. Burial duty. Volunteers?”
The legionaries looked at her strangely, but Sybutu didn’t protest that she was usurping his duty. Not after his we’re-all-together speech. All three raised their hands.
The Militia troopers didn’t. They just looked on awkwardly.
“Former Ravens!” Vetch bellowed. “Did you not hear? Trooper Hjon asked for volunteers.”
Vetch stretched his hand high.
Tentatively... they all did, even the two sentries who were supposed to have their attention on what was happening outside of the perimeter.
Maybe it was the mental and physical fatigue, but Vetch shook and not with the cold.
This felt like an important moment.
A start.
It isn’t much. It probably won’t last. But all journeys start somewhere. How far will Chimera Company’s journey take us?
He made a quick mental calculation. They were five days’ travel from Bresca-Brevae, four if the Saruswine could pick up pace. Would Chimera Company hold until then? He would soon find out.
NEXT ISSUE: He’s no longer human!
ISSUE 6
OSU SYBUTU
All night long, a hurricane of freezing wind and driving snow had blown from the west, picking up the barren essence of the Great Ice Plain and hurling it spitefully at the Chimera Company party.
The legionaries joked that Rho-Torkis was finally rallying to their side, putting a wind at their backs to hurry them toward their destination. Bresca-Brevae lay just 100 klicks to the east.
The Militia troopers were unconvinced, wrapping themselves in heated snow masks and plastic sheeting to ward off the ice planet’s caress.
Even the one surviving Saruswine juvenile appeared cowed by the relentless wind, pushing into the middle of the line of adults, sheltering within their bulk and their confidence. Indeed, so surefooted were the adults that, after a while, the legionaries stopped scouting ahead to check the terrain was clear and settled at the rear of the column. With one legionary on watch at all times – to keep an eye on the Militia as well as other potential threats – the other two slept in the saddle.
With the Militia remounting the Saruswine, who had recovered with amazing speed from the pasting they’d received in the battle, an empty hoverbike took the rear of the column on auto-follow.
They pushed on relentlessly, telling themselves of the need to distance themselves from Raemy-Ela and the battle scene before the weather cleared. That need was true enough, but the prospect of resting in such a harsh environment filled them with horror. They had lived in the icy hell for many days since setting out from Faxian and Iceni, and by now they were stinking, soiled, and suffering from exposure. However exhausted they were, the survival instinct they had built up on their journey insisted that if they stopped, their flesh would become ice, merging into the landscape like a wintering Tallerman.
And so they drove onward, every call for a halt bringing howls of frightened protest.
But they had no choice. They had to stop for their mounts.
The beasts had won the admiration of first the troopers and then the legionaries. However, they could only endure when properly fueled, and the Saruswine needed to eat frequently, crunching away at the feed pellets stored in canisters piled high over the backs of the adults.
The Saruswine feeding halts were the pitstops from hell. The placid beasts would not tolerate riders when they fed, nor would they feed on the move. The feed pellets were scattered on the ice and the beasts left to their business. Meanwhile, the team crowded around the heated bikes in a mob that shuffled through the snow and wind, hunched over like undead polar creatures, never daring to halt but lacking the energy to do more than tramp the snow as they slowly circled the bikes.
Even the bikes needed their rest stops. In the extreme cold conditions, their batteries required frequent rebalancing and toxic waste gases needed venting. When the legionaries powered down their bikes, the Chimerans huddled around the dying embers of their residual heat, all the while turning their heads away to avoid choking on noxious fumes.
At Osu’s insistence, they improvised nose bags so the Saruswine could eat on the move. But like all the species who had survived nuclear winter on Rho-Torkis, the Saruswine had a ferociously stubborn streak. They considered the plastic sheets folded around their mouths to be intolerable burdens. They nipped at them with sharp front teeth and dipped their heads so they could rub at them with their forelimbs.
And when they finally succeeded in ripping the bags open, scattering the feed into the snow, they would halt until they’d eaten their fill.
It was inefficient. Infuriating. But the only way was to scatter the pellets into the snow and halt every three hours or so. The Saruswine foraged by battering the ground with their furry heads, throwing up great mounds of snow that scattered most of the pellets and wasted the precious food.
“They’re like bulldozers,” Zavage observed at one halt.
“That they are,” murmured Green Fish. She was a little taller than the Kurlei legionary, but nonetheless she had leaned in against his chest, using him for what little warmth and shelter she could extract from his place in the outer layer of the ring of half-alive bodies circling the warm bikes.
“Imagine the possibilities!” The heat of Zavage’s excitement awoke some of those nearby from their torpor. “Berms, ramparts, walls, and channels through drift snow – imagine what we could train them to do.”
“That’s… not bad thinking,” Green Fish admitted.
“No,” Zavage replied proudly, “I’m a sapper of the Legion. It’s thinking like an engineer.”
His excitement had been a brief spark of life in the grim struggle for survival, quickly swallowed by the cold and wind, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Chimera Company - Rho-Torkis Box Set Page 22