Order of the Centurion

by Jason Anspach

  “You know I can’t do that, Sergeant Major. I would if I could. But I can’t leave my command, and I can’t take my soldiers back out into a fight. Not on foot.”

  Subs nodded. “Just giving you a hard time, Captain.”

  Alistair was looking more alarmed by the second. “Wait, Dark Ops—this is crazy. Think about this for a minute. You’ve told me—complained to me—a hundred times that you have orders from Legion command not to leave this base. And now you’re talking about running out into the jungle—at night, I might remind you, in case you forgot—to go get into a blaster fight at the bleeding edge of where the Republic has managed to push. That’s insane, man.”

  Subs unholstered his pistol and checked the charge pack. It was full, like he knew it would be. But that doesn’t mean you don’t check. “Yeah. But that’s what I gotta do.”

  “Okay, but why? They’re points. You said yourself that they’ll be the ruin of the Legion. So if they got themselves into trouble… I mean, oh well, let them get themselves out of it. And if they don’t, well, then maybe the stupid House of Reason will leave well enough alone when it comes to the Legion. They’ve already messed up the army, Oba knows.”

  Subs shook his head. “Can’t do that either. First, because whether I agree with them or not, they’re still legionnaires, and my duty to the Legion requires me to protect my fellow legionnaires to the last. And more importantly, it’s not just them. They’ve got a team of marines with them. And now those marines are looking death in the face because of two men wearing my Legion crest. I owe it to them.”

  What Subs left unsaid was that, if those marines were his sons—his precious boys—if they were the young men out in the jungle on some godforsaken planet that only mattered because the government said it should… if their lives were on the line, and the Reaper was coming close and there was someone, even one person, who was in a position to do something about it… Subs would want that person to act.

  You don’t leave someone to die like that.

  You don’t stand down.

  “Captain Garcia,” Subs said, taking up his helmet in both hands and placing it over his head. “Once those comms are up, do everything you can to get help up there. Lie. Threaten. Call my old Dark Ops unit and ruin my career by reporting my AWOL. But get it done.” He paused, then added, “Sir.”

  Alistair rose to his feet. He looked pale and unsteady. His hands were shaking. “Then, if that’s the way it is… I’m coming with you.”

  At that moment, Subs’s heart broke. For the naivety. For the gesture. For the love just shown. “Absolutely not.”

  “You’re my friend, Dark Ops. I can’t let you go out there alone. And you said it over and over again in all your endless Legion stories that every rifle matters. Well, I know how to use a rifle. I spent that week in Basic on the range. I’m coming.”

  “No.” Subs moved for the door.

  But Alistair was persistent. “You can tell me no, but you can’t stop me. I’ll follow you if I have to.”

  “I could break your legs right now.”

  “I’d crawl.”

  “I could kill you.”

  “That seems a little extreme.”

  This was wasting time. Subs needed to get on the move. He had hopes of reaching the listening bugs just before sunrise. With any luck he could track down the marines, or what remained of them, before the first SLIC arrived in Firebase Hitchcock.

  “Captain Garcia, I hate to ask this, but put my friend in the brig. Make sure he doesn’t follow me.”

  Alistair walked aggressively toward Subs. “No. No, no. That won’t work either, because next to you the bots on this base are my best friends, and I happen to know how to get them to let me out.”

  Subs noticed that Specialist Bucholz had slipped out of the tension-filled room. He could hardly blame her.

  He looked to Captain Garcia as if to ask such a thing were possible.

  Garcia only shrugged.

  Subs didn’t have the time to argue this, and he wasn’t going to shoot his friend in the leg to keep him on base. He shook his head. “Fine.”

  “You know,” Garcia said, “you’re a popular guy around the base. I’m willing to bet a lot of other soldiers beyond Alistair would want to come with you. If they’re up to it, I won’t stop them. Every rifle counts.”

  Alistair nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Totally. I’ll go get them.” He ran out the door like a kid ready to go to the zoo.

  “Five minutes, and then I’m leaving!” Subs called after him.

  What had he ever done to end up in a situation like this?

  Oh yeah. He served the Republic.

  16

  Subs was surprised at the number of basics who mustered to go into the Psydon jungle with him.

  Alistair was beaming, the weak light of the camp’s illum-poles casting shadows across his face. Clearly, he was proud of the half dozen soldiers who had gathered with rifles in hand. A couple of them Subs recognized as having already been on patrol earlier in the day. They were tired, but committed. To him. Ready to undertake an all-night hike through the dangerous jungles and deep into enemy territory.

  Or at least they thought they were ready. Subs would make sure.

  “Sorry,” panted Alistair. “This was all I could get in the time you gave me.” He swung his blaster from his shoulder to the ready position.

  Subs nodded. “I’m gonna say one thing and then I’m going to leave. Because I don’t want to be misunderstood.”

  The waiting soldiers eyed the imposing legionnaire, kitted out fully in his armor, practically blending in with the shadows. A ghost among mortals.

  “Your basic buddies who opted to stay behind: they’re the smart ones. This trip isn’t going to be safe, and it damn sure won’t be easy. You want to come along and join the fight, I won’t stop you. But I also won’t wait for you. Which means you’ve gotta keep up. Fall behind, and you’re finding your own way out of the jungle. Sorry if that sounds harsh, but I can’t play hide-and-seek.”

  Subs crossed his arms and stood with his feet spread wide apart. “So if there’s any doubt in your mind about whether or not you can do this”—he looked directly at Alistair, who only shook his head defiantly—“then you should head to your bunks, rest up, and see if you can get a spot on tomorrow morning’s SLICs to join the fight then.”

  For a second, everyone stood in place. Nobody wavering. Nobody wanting to move first.

  But then a fresh-faced private who’d only arrived at Hitchcock five days earlier—one had grown paler the more Subs had spoken—took a step backward.

  Another followed his lead. With heads down, the two basics turned and walked back to the barracks.

  And with that, the rest of the line melted away. Each soldier turning and leaving. Some with apologies, some with a shame that Subs knew they would feel for the rest of their lives, unless tomorrow really did bring a way for them to get in the fight. But it was the smart thing to do. And Subs didn’t blame them. He’d hardly given a pep talk.

  “Hey!” called Alistair after them, watching in dismay as his hastily gathered support team evaporated. “C’mon, guys!”

  “Let ’em go,” Subs said. “You should join them, but we’re not going to get into this. You jocked up to KTF?”

  Alistair nodded, swallowing hard. Maybe the reality of what he’d gotten himself into was catching up to him.

  Subs looked over the comm tech’s gear, tightening down ties and checking his ruck for sufficient charge packs and water. There were drinks to be had in the jungle, but that would slow them down. Best to pack in your own.

  “Okay,” Subs said. “Now jump.”

  Alistair looked quizzically at Subs for a moment, then left his feet, jingling as he came back down.

  Subs produced a roll of tape. “Everything that made noise needs to be taped down. We’re not going to let the doros hear us coming.”

  Moments later, Alistair repeated the exercise. Subs’s handiwork had done t
he trick—only the sound of the comm tech’s boots landing could be heard.

  “I… brought grenades,” Alistair offered.

  Subs nodded. “Good.”

  A mechanical voice spoke to them from the opposite direction. “Sir, if it’s not too late, I’ve been instructed by Captain Garcia to accompany you on the mission.”

  Subs turned to face the voice. One of Hitchcock’s medical bots was walking toward them on spindly legs augmented with shock absorbers and stabilization gyros—special modifications to help the bot navigate the tricky jungle terrain. The machine stood around six feet tall and was painted a dull green. The only indications that this was a medical bot were the portable stretcher attached to its back and the red-stenciled cross on its arm—a symbol of medicine since a time no longer remembered, and for reasons long-since forgotten.

  “Not too late,” Subs said, surprised and pleased that the captain would be willing to spare the bot. These things could be lifesavers in a firefight. Their medical programming, toolkits, and modest-but-effective armor were often enough to keep soldier in the fight. And instead of a basic having to stabilize a wounded buddy with the doros bearing down in an attack pack, a med bot doing the job allowed every gun to keep firing.

  “I am pleased to hear that, sir.” The bot looked around Subs to Alistair. “With your leave, sir, I will download your team’s most current medical files so as to be prepared for any casualties.”

  Alistair swallowed.

  “Be my guest,” said Subs.

  “Thank you, sir.” The bot’s optics twitched as its lenses changed focus, taking in Alistair from head to toe. “I have completed analysis.” The bot faced Subs. “I would like to have your medical records as well, sir. In the event that—”

  “Sorry to be a spoilsport,” Subs interrupted, “but I can’t access the Legion database until the base’s long-range comms are fixed, and that’s not going to be until tomorrow.”

  “I see, sir. In that case, it is my professional, medical recommendation that your operation be delayed until proper medical records can be downloaded. That is, if such a delay is possible.”

  “Afraid it’s not,” answered Subs, not at all annoyed by the machine. Bots, like soldiers, followed the programming they were given. Once you understood that, they became a whole lot easier to coexist with.

  “In that case, I shall do my best should any unfortunate incidents take place.”

  Subs nodded. “Thanks. I’ll do my part, too.”

  The bot inclined its head with a mechanical whir. “Your part, sir?”

  “I’ll make sure the doros don’t hit me.” Subs walked past the bot, trusting it and Alistair to follow.

  The bot’s receptors studied Subs as he moved by. Finally it straightened. “Oh, yes. I see, sir. Yes. Please do avoid being hit.”

  ***

  The darkness of the jungle wasn’t a problem for Subs. His helmet provided him night vision, and his audio sensors alerted him to potential threats thanks to an algorithm that had examined recordings of other legionnaires in ambushed in combat and had crunched the data to key in on telltale noises—or the lack thereof.

  But Alistair didn’t have anything like that. Nor did he have a starlight scope. All he had was a red-lensed headlamp just powerful enough for him to see what was directly in front of him.

  Subs would have told him to put it out, but with the way the med bot’s eyes were shining in the darkness, he didn’t see what good it would do. Maybe that was why the marines and Legion preferred human medics and corpsmen to these machines. Useful as the bots were, in low-light conditions, they might be just as likely to get you shot as save you from dying.

  But there was no turning back now, and they’d made respectable if not blazing time. They hadn’t been forced to stop, though Subs could tell from his friend’s breathing that he was nearly at the end of his wind. He slowed the pace, not particularly out of mercy, but because he didn’t want the basic’s exhalations to add yet another clue that they were out in the jungle.

  “Oh, good,” panted Alistair, who wasn’t fat by any stretch. Just… not in shape. “Are we close?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  The tech’s head drooped.

  At least the bot had been able to keep up. The engineers who’d designed the stabilizing exoskeleton around its legs deserved a pay raise. Nothing seemed to slow it down.

  “Sir,” the bot said, its voice modulating to a low volume befitting the mission. “I am noting a significant increase in heart rate from your assault team.”

  “Shut up, bot,” Alistair said, hands on his knees.

  “I thought you liked bots,” said Subs. “Thought you said they were your best friends other than me.”

  “Yeah. But not this one.”

  Subs squatted down to look Alistair in the eyes. “Listen. I can’t slow down any more after this. Lives are depending on it. Now, you gave it your all, and it wasn’t enough. There’s no shame in that. But you need to head back for Hitchcock and do what you can from there. Take the bot with you. You’ll both be all right. There aren’t any doros that I’ve detected.”

  Alistair shook his head. “No. I can keep up. I can go.” He straightened himself, making a show of being ready to hit the trail again. But it was clearly an act.

  “Sir,” said the bot, “I believe I have a solution. I am more than capable of carrying your assault team on my stretcher until we arrive at destination. And unlike a biologic, I will not fatigue from the rapid pace.”

  Alistair looked at the machine and shook his head as if insisting he do it alone. But then he stopped. “You know what? Sure. I’m not too proud. The bot can carry me into battle. We’ll get there faster that way.”

  Subs wondered how he’d gotten himself into all of this.

  You’re too soft. Like your gut.

  He had let his time on Firebase Hitchcock dull his body and his judgment. He could have shut this down before they’d ever left the wire, but he’d been led by a sense of compassion and a desire to keep his friend happy—to let him know what it was like to be a war fighter. Maybe even to let him see Subs in action, a real Dark Ops legionnaire.

  Which meant it was his fault. Which meant he owed it to Alistair to keep him safe. Just like he owed it to the marines to get there in time to help them.

  When the bot had secured Alistair, Subs bounded down the trail with the machine right on his heels.

  They made good time.

  17

  Jungle Ruins

  Near the Cuchin Valley

  Psydon

  The firefight raged on for over an hour, its intensity never slacking. Marines were interspersed along the temple parapets, sending fire into the large pack of doros attacking from the cover of wafting, leafy palms and spiked tree trunks. The doros’ attacks were focused on the three big walls of the ruin; they were evidently unaware of the open stone steps leading inside.

  Wash had Berlin guard the entryway. The major knew how to shoot a bottled-up pack of doros. Experience had shown that much.

  It was difficult to say how many dog-men were out there. Wash guessed as many as fifty, judging by the amount of blaster fire that was scorching in from the jungle. The exact number didn’t matter too much at the moment. What mattered was that the marines were clearly outgunned and were barely holding their own, even with the blaster-impervious stone cover they enjoyed.

  The marines had other advantages. The darkness. Their starlight scopes. But Wash didn’t know how much damage they were doing—or how long they could keep it up.

  Occasionally the wounded yelp of a doro casualty rose above the din of fire. But it all felt tenuous. Wash was convinced that doro reinforcements and a strong doro push would result in the ruins being taken. Once the doros discovered the entrance, that was.

  And that was Wash’s big concern. It was a hard fight, but if there were enough dog-men out there—or if a larger element arrived, perhaps detached from the mobile artillery group they’d seen the day before�
� well, there would be no holding back such a wave.

  Wash feared that he’d led the marines into a defensive rock that could easily double as a death trap—and a part of him sought to lament the decision he’d made. But Legion training told him to kill that part and move forward, recalculating to determine the best course of action for complete mission victory.

  A doro blaster bolt struck the lip of the temple wall, sending up dusty stone fragments into the face of one of the marines. The man dropped below the parapet line, grabbing his face and swearing while a buddy called for Corpsman Hellix.

  This man wasn’t the first to be wounded in such a way, and attrition was taking its toll. The doros hadn’t managed to get any direct blaster shots on the marines, but collateral incidents like this one had been happening all along the wall, requiring Hellix to scurry along below the cover line like a space rat, going from one marine to the next. He would bandage the small cuts on their faces and use some of their water supply—precious and dwindling—to flush out the rest in order to get the marines back on their feet.

  To their credit, every marine stayed in the fight. There was no sitting this one out.

  “Sergeant!” Wash yelled to Shotton, hoping the marine could hear him above the noise.

  The sergeant ran low toward him. “Yes, sir?”

  “Get a man down by Berlin. I’m worried about the doros finding our back door.”

  Shotton nodded and slapped a marine on the shoulder, sending him down to support Berlin.

  Wash spotted a doro crouched in front of a fern pocked with globe-like flowers that seemed to glow in the night. He dropped the dog-man with a short burst. “Keep pouring it on!” he shouted to the marines. He wanted them to know that he was in the fight right next to them.

  Another dog-man ran across the jungle terrain. The area he was leaving was heavy with flashing blaster fire, and he was making for an isolated but equally hostile area. Probably a messenger. Wash tracked the alien and brought him down with a full-auto squeeze. The doro lay still among the leaves, and Wash searched for his next target.