Order of the Centurion

by Jason Anspach

  “Well,” said Alistair, “suddenly I don’t feel so bad about hanging out in a climate-controlled room behind the wire. Okay, actually, I never felt bad about hanging out safely behind the wire. But I’m sure that you could wrestle one of these things to the ground and snap its neck if you had to, Dark Ops.”

  “Probably.”

  Alistair smiled as he went back to manipulating his screens. “So cool,” he muttered in genuine admiration. For all the kid’s sarcasm, it was obvious he looked up to Subs.

  It was true… everyone wanted to be a legionnaire at some point in their life.

  “How about the other stations?” Garcia asked.

  “Let’s see…” The comm tech moved through a myriad of submenus. “Nothing from bugs two and three. Four has something. So does five.”

  He opened bug four. “Play current file and skip the introduction.”

  The computer began to play the track. It started off much the same as the other, capturing the sounds of the jungle, but distantly. It went on like that for nearly a minute, ending without any other noise of interest.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” Garcia said.

  Alistair shrugged. “I don’t know. The algorithm picked up something it identified as an anomaly. Maybe the general noise of the jungle didn’t line up with the rest of the data. That happens sometimes when the sample size is too small. Did you notice anything, Subs?”

  The Dark Ops leej shook his head no. But not because he’d heard nothing—rather because he needed more. Something was gnawing at him. Something about the way the recording ended. “Let’s hear five.”

  The comm tech brought the last file on-screen. “Let’s hear bug five, computer. And skip the intro unless it has analysis marked critical.”

  “There is no significant recommendation or observation attached to this recording.”

  The clip played, sounding much the same as four. It was a bit louder, but nothing stood out.

  “Another nonsense track,” Garcia said.

  Subs wasn’t so sure. “How far apart did you place four and five?” he asked the captain.

  “Not far. Maybe a kilometer? Less than that. Three quarters of a click. One and two were replacements for malfunctioning units—the stumps—closer to Hitchcock. We dropped them first, then planted three through five to form a sort of isosceles triangle. Intel designed it to be a surveillance zone capable of pickup up anything happening inside.”

  Alistair chimed in. “Word among the comm techs’ gossip circle is if these work, we’re going to be setting up zones like this through the whole jungle in preparation for a massive push to find those artillery platforms.”

  Subs nodded, trying to get an image of the setup in his mind. “So three and four—I’m guessing you set those up in straight line at the farthest edge of your patrol? With the triangle’s point somewhere below?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Garcia confirmed.

  “You said you went far. How far? Did you get close to Cuchin Valley?”

  “Actually, yeah. Pretty close. We didn’t cross it, but we snuck right up next to it.”

  Subs ground his feet. A terrible realization was beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. “Play me four again.”

  Alistair did as he was asked. They sat in rapt silence as the track played out.

  “Still sounds like a lot of nothing to me,” said Garcia.

  Alistair rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, me too.”

  But something didn’t sit right with Subs. The way the track ended… He thought he’d heard the same thing at the end of track five. Like he was hearing the same thing from two different angles. A stereo recording, but only one isolated and decayed channel at a time.

  “The tracks the computer selected from bugs four and five,” Subs said. “Were they recorded at the same time?”

  Alistair entered a few commands. “Huh. Yeah, actually, both tracks are from the exact same time. Just minutes ago.”

  “Can you play those two tracks together? Have the computer sync them up?”

  The comm tech looked up. “Yeah. What did you hear, Subs?”

  Subs pinched the bottom of his lip, thinking. “I’m not sure. But I want to hear them both together.”

  Alistair gave the computer its instructions. “Here we go,” he said.

  The screen played the synthesized file. All was still quiet and faint in the recording, and the three men strained to hear.

  “Turn that up loud as you can,” Subs said.

  White noise hissed, filling the digital void. The recording played to the very end, where a tiny timp, timp, timp could be heard.

  “Okay, I heard that,” said Garcia. “Any idea what it is, Sergeant Boyd?”

  Subs leaned in to examine the display, looking at the minuscule jumps in wavelength that marked the almost imperceptible sounds. It seemed obvious now—a noise he’d recognize from anywhere.

  “Yep,” he said. “That’s a firefight.”

  14

  Near the Cuchin Valley, Psydon

  Wash had set a blistering pace through the jungle after leaving the ambush site. He had been told to do everything as though his life depended on it. And right now, that meant marching like that was the case. Because something told him that it was.

  But the marines—not to mention Berlin and Tierney—were lagging behind. Only Parker, the sniper, seemed capable of keeping up.

  “Let’s hold up,” Wash said to Parker.

  He could hardly fault the others. They were doing their best, even Berlin. It was a matter of just how much you were capable of with your life on the line. That wasn’t a universal.

  Eventually Sergeant Shotton hobbled up, his grimace visible in the moonlight. “Not all of us are as conditioned as you, Leej. Especially my old butt.”

  “Sorry,” Wash said. “I just wanted to put some distance between us and those dead doros. We can take a breather now.”

  “Well, a breather might not be enough. What we need is a rest. Let me set up a perimeter to watch for any dog-men, and then let’s take some time. I’m thinking we’ve got, what? Six hours until dawn? We can still get a move on before the sun rises and brings the heat.”

  Wash comprehended everything the sergeant was saying. And it was the right call for the marines. Still, he felt like he was making a mistake by not pressing on. Alone, he was confident he could reach the base of the peak before the sun came up, which would give him the cover of night to scale it and call in his all-hail. But with the rest of the team—especially Berlin and Tierney—they wouldn’t make it by then.

  So what do you do? Stay with your team, or leave and let Shotton and Berlin handle things? And if you left… would you be able to find them again after separating? Both choices carried risks.

  He decided to stay with the group. It wasn’t because they couldn’t get on without him; Shotton, if not Berlin, was a capable leader. But staying together had the best odds. They’d press toward Poro-Poro after a rest. They’d send word about the guns and their location… and everything might turn out all right.

  “We haven’t seen any signs of the doros out this way,” Parker said conversationally as three men began backtracking to rejoin the main element. “I think we’re the only thing that can use a blaster out in this neck of the woods. At least in a long while.”

  “How about you, Sergeant?” Wash asked. “Have you gotten any sense that there are any of ’em on our trail?”

  “If I did, I’d still be runnin’ to keep pace with you. Nah. I think if any of ’em were after us, other than the ambushed suckers, they must have zigged instead of zagged.”

  “Why do you think that is, Sarn’t?” asked Parker.

  “Because of where we’re headed,” grunted Shotton. “You gotta be a fool to go out of the jungle and right down into that valley, with no cover, clear as day for all those deep-brown puppy-dog doro eyes to see. Not where I’d go. Unless I absolutely had to.”

  “And we do,” Washam insisted.

  “Yes
, sir,” said Shotton. “Just worried that the doros are gonna find them dead scouts and put two and two together and come up with us out here wanderin’ around. They don’t gotta chase us down if all that needs doing is an artillery strike once we’re caught out in the valley.”

  This was the first time Sergeant Shotton had articulated any misgivings about the plan.

  “It’s a definite risk,” Wash said, feeling that engaging with the sergeant’s comments would be a better leadership move than ignoring or berating the man, though part of him wanted to ask why he was bringing this up now so long after they’d committed to the march. “But Poro-Poro remains our most direct opportunity for extraction and the best chance to get those guns before they disappear. The audacity of going straight for it is to our advantage. We could take the long route and snake through the jungle, but something tells me the doros will find us and catch us before we ever get there. Increasing time out here favors the odds of that scenario.”

  The three men carried on in silence for a time before Wash added, “Although, I’m open to suggestions. If you have any, now is the time to voice them.”

  “Nah,” Sergeant Shotton said. “I don’t have any better idea. I just don’t like what we’re caught up in as a whole. But if our options are a game of hide-’n’-seek with the doros in this jungle, or a flat run for the peak… then let’s run.”

  Wash nodded. The reality was, hide-and-seek wasn’t their only concern. The marines lacked the food and water necessary for prolonged exposure to the jungle. They could live off the land, but not without slowing down considerably.

  “My only request,” Shotton continued, “is that when it’s time to run, my men are rested enough to have a chance if we get into a firefight. Being dog-tired ain’t gonna increase our odds or improve our skills.”

  “Roger that,” said Wash.

  He was about to say more when something caught his foot, and he pitched forward. Parker and Shotton threw out their arms to catch him, but Wash felt himself slip through their grasp, and the ground came up to meet him.

  Hard.

  “Hey, you all right, man?” Parker asked.

  “Yeah,” Wash managed, the wind nearly knocked out of him.

  The impact with the ground was much greater than he would have expected from soft jungle floor. And as he shook his head and pushed himself up, the ground beneath his hands felt firm. Like… rock. And not a misshapen boulder either, but a smooth slab.

  He brushed away dried leaves and jungle debris. This was definitely some kind of large paving stone.

  “You just gonna lay there all day, Leej,” asked Sergeant Shotton, “or do you plan on getting up?”

  Despite his casual tone, they all spoke in hushed whispers, on heightened alert after the noise of Wash’s fall.

  “Yeah,” Wash said, pushing himself to his knees, then slowly standing. The jarring impact still hurt. “Something snagged my foot.”

  He stepped off the slab and once again felt the spring of the jungle floor. Turning back, he pressed his foot on the stone. “I think this is a… walkway or something. You guys know of the doros building any fortifications in the jungle?”

  Wash was worried he might have stumbled upon some kind of doro pillbox, or the outskirts of a reinforced bunker. And that the doros were nearby, if not watching them right now.

  “Not that I know of,” said Sergeant Shotton, testing the stone slab with the toe of his boot. “Once we pushed the doros out of the cities, their fixed defenses were pretty flimsy. The sort of thing we saw back at that camp. Tin and scrap wood.”

  Wash looked around through the single optic starlight scope attached to his helmet. During his rapid march with Parker at his side, the surrounding jungle had looked pretty much the same everywhere, a nondescript blur. In fact, if he hadn’t been orienteering with a compass attuned to Psydon’s magnetic poles, he wouldn’t have been able to tell whether he was making progress or only going in circles—things looked that similar. But now, as he stopped and looked around, he saw a distinctive shape a short distance to the west. It looked like a vine-covered hill rising up from among slim trees with broad, bowing leaves. A small structure stood at its crest.

  “What do you make of that?” Wash asked, pointing out his find.

  Parker let out an impressed whistle. “Surprised we didn’t see that before. We were moving pretty fast, though.”

  “I want to take a look,” Wash said, already feeling more at ease. Whatever was in front of him, it didn’t have the look of a bunker or a doro pillbox. He started toward the shadowy mound, and under his feet he felt the firmness of more covered paving stones.

  “Seems deliberate,” Shotton said as he followed Wash down the path. “Somebody laid these stones to lead where we’re headed.”

  Wash thought the same thing.

  Sure enough, the path led right up the hill to the structure. Up close, it looked like a ruined temple left forgotten in the jungle, fighting a last stand against the creeping foliage. Four stone walls protected a spire of some sort within, and stone stairs led up to a great entryway. If there had ever been a door, it had rotted away long before.

  The trio stopped at the bottom of the steps, staring up and into the darkened ruin. Though aged, the stones seemed sturdy and the foundation strong. There was some crumbling, some decay—most of which was caused by the relentless and intrusive vines pushing their way between the rocks. In a few spots, they’d succeeded in making a spire fall over or to pull down one of the uppermost cut stones at the top of the wall.

  “This place looks like something the Ancients left behind,” Parker said.

  Wash’s mind was on more practical concerns. He quickly realized that with the height of the building’s stone walls, its defensible entryway, and its position on high ground… this ruin was probably the best defensive position in the entire jungle. It was a sure sight better for the weary marines than just lying among the leaves.

  “How much farther behind is everybody?” he asked.

  “Closer than they were,” Shotton growled. “I told ’em to keep movin’ until we were all reunited.”

  Wash nodded. “This looks like a good spot to get some rest. We can set up shifts with some men up on the walls to keep lookout. It’s a defensible position in case the doros are out there tracking us.”

  Shotton nodded. “Yeah. It’ll do. I’ll go get the men.”

  “You want me to stay here with you?” Parker asked Wash.

  Wash thought about that. He wouldn’t mind the company, but he’d rather the sergeant—tired as he seemed—have someone with him. “No. Go on with the sergeant, and I’ll stick around here to flag you down in case you have trouble seeing the place on the way back.”

  Shotton and Parker hustled off into the jungle without another word.

  Wash had no idea how long they’d be gone, but he felt it would be a good use of his time to poke around the temple a bit. As he climbed the steps, he felt a cessation of the light breeze that drifted through the jungle, carrying a scent of jasmine and fig.

  The inner courtyard was a perfect square, made of the same stone as the walls and ziggurat—and probably the same stone as the path leading here. The whole thing was likely carved out of some mountain ages ago. Which made Wash wonder how far it had been carried and who had cut it and put it into place. The architecture certainly didn’t match a style popular with the doros—at least in their cities—but what did he know about dog-man prehistory?

  Hidden inside the temple walls, Wash turned off his night scope, plunging himself momentarily into deep blackness, before switching on the flashlight attached to his rifle rail. The beam lit up the dried leaves, rubble, and other detritus gathered in the corners. Wash blinked several times, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden radiance.

  Slowly he crept along the walls, listening for any signs of the marines approaching and looking for imperfections that might be exploited if they did fall under attack. Everything looked to be in good shape. The wal
ls had a sort of parapet that could be reached by stone staircases that began in the middle of each wall and rose up to the corner.

  Whoever built this temple, they’d built it to be defended.

  Wash had inspected half the square, working his way around the ziggurat, which seemed to be purely ornamental—no stairs or doors were visible—when just beyond a blind corner, he heard a rustling sound. Wash’s heart rate spiked so suddenly he could feel his blood pumping in his throat. With his rifle up and at the ready, he quickly turned the corner.

  His light fell upon a small, fox-like creature with gray fur and a black tail.

  The animal froze in place, its eyes reflecting back a ghostly green. Then it opened its mouth, emitted a small shrill scream—revealing three rows of needle-sharp teeth—and quickly scurried away. It disappeared around the ziggurat and presumably out of the temple faster than Wash was able to follow with his light.

  Wash sighed, feeling the tension escape from his shoulders and detecting the arrival of a slight headache at the base of his skull.

  As he continued with his reconnaissance of the temple, he heard another sound-—and this sound was definitely not made by another of those fox creatures.

  Footsteps approached.

  Wash switched off his light and ran up the nearest set of stairs. He was amazed at how solid they felt given how many centuries, if not millennia, this temple had likely stood. As he reached the parapet, he drew down his night scope and looked out into the jungle to see who was coming to visit. It was probably the marines, but if it wasn’t, Wash wanted to be ready for them. Even a single-man ambush from this position could be devastating for whoever it was.

  It was just the marines. The column came into view led by Parker, who looked as though he would walk right by. It turned out to have been a good idea for Wash to stay behind; even with the benefit of night vision, the old ruin was too well hidden among the trees and vines to be easily spotted. That gave Wash some comfort. He realized that he’d spent every moment in the jungle sure that the doros were only a short distance away, waiting to discover them. But maybe the doros would miss the temple just as easily.