Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle

by William C. Dietz

  “I ran into a little trouble, that’s all. Is that the truck? Let’s go.”

  Riley frowned and stood his ground. “Not till you give me a sitrep. Did you raise the pennant?”

  Booly glanced at the doors. The kitchen plebe would have reported the collision by now and a noncom could arrive at any moment. “Yes, sir, General, sir, I raised the pennant, sir. Man, I feel sorry for any poor sonovabitch that ends up reporting to you!”

  Riley grinned and punched Booly on the shoulder. “So do I! Come on . . . what are you waiting for? Let’s haul ass!”

  The truck was a glorified garbage wagon with separate sections for organic waste, metal, plastic, and paper. Booly figured the paper bin would be the most comfortable and least disgusting place to hide. He climbed in, pulled armfuls of paper over his head, and heard the lid slam shut. The truck jerked into motion a few moments later.

  Riley had used his charm, his position as an upperclassman, and a hefty bribe to “borrow” the truck from a plebe on garbage duty. The plebe was now waiting at the campus transfer station hoping nothing went wrong.

  Booly felt his heart skip a beat as the truck slowed and came to a halt. It was way too soon for the residence hall so that meant a check of some sort. Seconds became minutes. The cadet heard muffled voices. Metal squealed as a bin was opened, then clanged as someone let go.

  Then it was his turn. A voice said “Let’s take a look in here.” Hinges squeaked and a flashlight played across the trash over Booly’s head. Light leaked through layers of paper and he was ready to surrender when the lid crashed down.

  Another bin was checked, followed by a period of silence and a distinct jerk, as Riley applied too much power and the truck lunged into motion. Fifteen minutes later he was in Danjou Hall, in his room, snuggled under the covers. Riley got rid of the truck and returned twenty minutes later. Booly described his journey over the roofs, Riley marveled over the encounter with General St. James, and they wondered how graduation would go. Riley dropped off after a while but Booly lay awake until reveille sounded. There was a lot to think about, including the upcoming visit with his parents, and the question of orders. He had put in for the 2d REP, the elite airborne regiment, but so had half of his peers.

  A distant part of Booly’s mind, the part that had learned to march while half-asleep, heard the preparatory command and came to a halt with the others. The sun warmed the left side of his face, the sweet scent of newly cut grass filled his nostrils, and birds chirped in the surrounding trees. This was the moment he had looked forward to for six long years. He looked up at the speaker’s platform. It was white and draped with regimental flags.

  General Ian St. James gazed out over a sea of gleaming white kepis and felt his chest swell with pride. There had been a time hundreds of years ago when the Legion had been led by French officers, some of whom sought such an assignment as the means to promotion, while others served because they had to. A few were outstanding officers, but many were not, and the Legion had suffered at their hands. Which was why the academy was so important. By training its own leaders, by instilling them with pride, the Legion insured its future. He smiled. His voice boomed through the public-address system.

  “You arrived as children. You survived six years of hard work to emerge as men and women. You are the best, and we will need the best to meet the challenges ahead, for freedom is never entirely won. Never forget that there are those who want what we have, who would enslave us, or kill us because of what we might do. You have the will, the strength, and the training to stop them. Your presence on this field is proof of that. Therefore it is my honor, no, my privilege, to grant you commissions in Confederacy’s Armed Forces. Vive la Legion!”

  The answering shout was so loud that it scared birds from the trees. “Vive la Legion!”

  There were more speeches after that, including one from Anguar’s secretary of defense, but they were more the benefit of the spectators and news media than the cadets themselves. Like his peers, Booly felt a sense of relief and anticipation when General St. James returned to the podium.

  St. James took one last look at the cadets, the field, and the campus beyond. A robotic news cam floated in for a better shot. No one else knew it yet, but this was his final year in the Legion and his last appearance before a graduating class. He had given the Legion thirty-nine years of his life and that was enough. His wife would be pleased. He smiled and hundreds of upturned faces smiled back. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, all good things must come to an end, and that includes congratulatory speeches.”

  The words echoed off distant buildings, laughter rippled through the ranks, and St. James nodded sympathetically. “Yes, the time has come to leave the Academy and apply the knowledge gained here.” His face grew serious. The laughter died away. “Cadet battalion, atten-hut!”

  Six hundred forty-three men and women crashed to attention. A hush settled over the field. St. James paused, took a deep breath, and released it with two words: “Battalion . . . dismissed!”

  A cheer went up, along with a blizzard of snowy white hats. Booly caught one, clapped it on his head, and exchanged high-fives with Riley. “Congratulations, Tom!”

  “You too, Bill!”

  “See you tonight?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Twenty hundred hours at the Képi Blanc.”

  Booly nodded, waved, and allowed the crowd to carry him toward the stands. He saw his mother first, partly because she was beautiful, and partly because she the only full-blooded Naa among the spectators. Booly found himself checking to see if his classmates were staring at her, felt ashamed of himself, and kept his eyes straight ahead. He loved his mother, and if the other cadets had a problem with that, then tough shit. He waved and forced his way through the crowd.

  Windsweet waved back and swallowed the lump that filled her throat. Memories flooded back. She remembered how her father had ambushed a Legion patrol, how she had nursed a legionnaire back to health, how she had slowly but surely fallen in love with him, how he had fought a duel for the right to court her, how he had deserted to be with her, and how they had fled into the snow-capped mountains. And it was there, in the ruins of a long-abandoned Naa settlement, that her son had been conceived. A conception that some claimed was scientifically impossible, unless humans and Naa were related somehow, or a miracle had occurred.

  But Windsweet cared about none of that, for the young man with the big grin owned every bit of her heart not already given to his father, and nothing else mattered. She opened her arms and was swept away as Bill Booly, Jr., grabbed his mother and whirled her around. She laughed. “Stop that! Put me down!”

  The cadet did as he was told. He held his mother at arm’s length. Her short, downy fur might have darkened a little, but the delicately shaped face, charcoal gray eyes, and the full, sensitive lips were just as he remembered them. She smelled like her name. Windsweet. Her voice was gentle and the words were Naa. Although the language seemed simple, different pitches could be employed to embellish or change meanings, making it quite complex. “Greetings, my son. I see you are a warrior now.”

  Booly felt his heart swell with pride, for in the Naa culture the words “warrior” and “man” were synonymous. His father stepped forward. He spoke Naa like a native but his words were in Standard. “Your mother is correct, son, you look like a recruiting poster. Congratulations.”

  Bill Booly, Jr., accepted the hand-to-forearm grip common to adult males and looked at his father. He had aged during the three years since they had last met. The hair, close cropped as always, was thinner now and shot with gray. And the eyes, while no less blue, looked tired, and a bit distracted. He smiled. “Thanks, Dad. That means a lot coming from you.”

  The elder Booly shrugged and smiled wryly. “I hope your career in the Legion goes better than mine did. Here . . . your mother has something for you.”

  Windsweet smiled and offered her husband a box. He removed the lid. A second lieutenant’s blue kepi and shoulder boards were nestle
d inside. The gift was expected, and identical to ones being received all around him, but it felt special nonetheless. As his mother buttoned the shoulder boards into place, and his father placed the hat on his head, Booly was transformed from cadet to officer.

  The moment felt good, so good he couldn’t stop grinning, and still had a grin on his face when they left the stands and headed for the long black limo that hovered at the curb. It was then that a corporal in the famed 1st REC crossed their path and snapped a salute in Booly’s direction. The young officer returned it just as smartly, asked the NCO to wait for a moment, and gave him the fifty-credit note he had pocketed for that very purpose. It was an old tradition that had originated in another army and been adopted by the first senior class. The corporal smiled, rendered a second salute, and did a neat about-face.

  There was no way of knowing whether the corporal had simply happened along, or timed his passage to coincide with the flood of new lieutenants, but Booly saw what seemed like an unusual number of enlisted people lurking in the area, all saluting like mad. He laughed, waved to a distant Tom Riley, waited while his parents entered the car, and slid into the rear-facing seat. It was dark and smelled of leather.

  A window sealed them away from the driver’s compartment. Booly had caught a glimpse of a Naa warrior called Knifecut Easykill at the controls and was reminded of his father’s unusual position as chief of chiefs, and ambassador to the Confederacy.

  Partly hereditary, and partly based on a sort of democratic consensus, the interrelated positions had been granted to the elder Booly when Wayfar Hardman, Windsweet’s father, had been killed in battle—a battle in which the Naa had joined forces with the Legion to fight the alien Hudatha. The senior Booly had then used that alliance to leverage a number of agreements, including formal recognition of the Naa race and the right of Naa nationals to enlist in the Legion if they so desired.

  But politics were no less rife than they had been during the emperor’s reign, which meant an appalling number of political assassinations and the precautions necessary to prevent them. Which was why Easykill was a highly qualified bodyguard as well as a driver and a loyal member of Windsweet’s tribe. The car tilted slightly and pulled away from the curb. The senior Booly smiled. “You’re awfully quiet, son.”

  Booly shrugged. “Thinking, that’s all. Where are we headed?”

  “Lunch at the beach . . . followed by whatever you want.”

  His mother was wearing one of the high-collared oriental sheath dresses currently popular with human females. It was jet black and looked wonderful against her light gray fur. Her voice was hopeful. “There’s a reception tonight . . . your father and I have been asked to go. . . . Would you like to come?”

  Booly had been dreading the moment and was just about to launch into a carefully prepared speech when his father rode to the rescue. “We’d love to have you, son, but it’s only fair to warn you that it’ll be pretty boring, so you might want to consider other invitations.”

  The younger man smiled gratefully. “Thanks for the offer, but Riley invited me to dinner, and it could be a long time before I see him again. Who knows where they’ll send us.”

  Windsweet knew what was happening and was powerless to stop it. Her son was a warrior now and beyond her reach. She allowed herself the smallest of frowns. “You’ll be careful? Celebrations get out of hand sometimes.”

  Bill Booly, Jr., took her hand in his. “Don’t worry, Mother. Tom and I are straight-arrow types. We’ll have some dinner, drink a couple of beers, and go to bed early.”

  Windsweet nodded agreeably, but doubt tickled the back of her mind and refused to go away.

  The Kepi Blanc was located in the seedy area south of San Diego’s main spaceport. It had been in business for more than a hundred years and catered entirely to legionnaires. Made from what looked like tan adobe, and topped with a crenelated roof line, it had the look of a nineteenth-century Algerian fort. A grove of bottom-lit palm trees surrounded the structure and added to the desertlike ambience.

  Booly was halfway up the walk when the front door opened and a trio of legionnaires stumbled out. They staggered, saw Booly, and managed some sloppy salutes. Booly grinned, returned their salutes, and entered the restaurant. Smoke swirled, music pounded, and a scuffle broke out. Bouncers converged on the offending parties and order was restored.

  The Kepi Blanc was packed, and Booly was busy working his way through the crowd when a waiter decked out in the red hat, blue cutaway coat, red pantaloons, and soft boots worn by legionnaires back in 1835 intercepted him. “Welcome to the Kepi Blanc, sir. Please follow me.”

  Booly obeyed and was soon steered out of the great room down a hall and into a series of interconnected lounges and dining rooms. The noise level dropped considerably. He saw plenty of senior officers, many of whom regarded his half-human, half-Naa features with open curiosity, but no enlisted personnel. A new waiter took over, this one attired in the khaki duster and cartridge belts worn in 1954 Algeria. He had just steered Booly towards a long wooden bar when a voice yelled, “Hey, Bill! Over here!”

  Booly turned to find Riley seated about ten feet away. Two of the more cerebral members of their class—numbers ten and fourteen, to be exact—shared his table. Number ten was a rapier-thin woman named Kathy Harris, and number fourteen was a rather genial young man named Tony Lopez. They waved him over. Booly thanked the waiter, circumnavigated a portly colonel, and claimed a still-vacant chair. Harris offered her hand and he took it. She smelled like soap. “Nice going on the pennant, Booly . . . the entire class is proud of you.”

  Booly raised an eyebrow. “The entire class?”

  Harris shrugged. “Most of the class. The ones who count. Hey, waiter! Yeah, you in the pith helmet, meet the man who hoisted our pennant! He needs a drink.”

  A waiter, fully rigged for combat in Tonkin circa 1885, took Booly’s order and disappeared. He returned two minutes later. Booly tried to pay but the waiter shook his head. “Not tonight, sir. Congratulations on your accomplishment.”

  Surprised, and somewhat embarrassed by the praise, Booly thanked the waiter, pointed out that Riley deserved a lot of the credit, and changed the subject. “So, Tom . . . how did the afternoon go?”

  Riley winced. “Mom and Dad got into a fight, the food was lousy, and I left as soon as I could. How ’bout you?”

  Booly sipped his gin and tonic. The truth was that he had enjoyed the time with his parents but it didn’t seem polite to say so. “It was fine. Say, have you people ordered yet? I’m starving.”

  It turned out that they hadn’t ordered, so the next hour and a half was spent ordering food, eating it, and downing rounds of free drinks, so that by the time the desert tray finally arrived, Booly was light-headed. It was then that a hand fell on his shoulder and a voice he both feared and hated filled his ears. “Well, if it isn’t the brain trust of Booly, Riley, Harris, and Lopez. . . . Hey, Booly, good going on the pennant thing, vive la légion, and that sort of rubbish. May we join you?”

  None of the foursome wanted to play host to Kadien and his toadies, also known as numbers 503, 608, and 621, but good manners dictated that they do so. Kadien had worked especially hard at making Booly’s life miserable over the last six years, so alarm bells went off in a distant and still-sober portion of the officer’s mind, but were muted by excessive amounts of alcohol and a naive desire for acceptance.

  More drinks arrived and were consumed. In spite of the fact that they had less than twelve hours of seniority and, with the single exception of Booly, had never heard a shot fired in anger, the newly made lieutenants had opinions on everything from their superior officers’ sexual proclivities to the use of robo artillery as a means of night harassment.

  Though he was often less knowledgeable than those around him, Kadien made up for average intelligence with the same sort of tenacity that had allowed him to outlast other more capable cadets, and might or might not win a battle someday. He liked to keep score and declared hims
elf the winner in no less than three hotly contested arguments.

  An hour had passed by the time Kadien looked at his watch, turned to the toady on his right, and said, “Well, old weasel, the night is young, and other, more sophisticated pleasures await. Anyone care to join us?”

  Booly was surprised to discover that the question was directed to him. He searched Kadien’s face for the usual signs of contempt and came up empty. Was this a peace offering? An attempt to make up for the racial slurs, the badgering, and the harassment of the last six years? He smiled and had the uncomfortable feeling that it looked like a silly grin. “Sure . . . what did you have in mind?”

  Riley signaled “no” with subtle shakes of his head, Harris looked doubtful, and Lopez kept his face intentionally blank.

  Kadien made a production of looking around, as if checking to make sure no one could hear. “Ever heard of a nightclub called the Cess Pool? No? Well, friends tell me they have a floor show that will put hair on your chest. Ooops! Sorry, Booly, no pun intended.”

  Not entirely sure whether Kadien had made fun of him or uttered an unintentional faux pas, Booly smiled and waved the comment away. Kadien surveyed the table. “So how ’bout it? You want to see some real honest-to-God action? Or sit around the Blanc pounding your puds? Except for Harris, that is, who doesn’t have a pud, but would if she could. Isn’t that right, Harris?”

  Harris and Lopez wasted little time begging off, but Riley was concerned for Booly’s safety, and agreed to go. It seemed like little more than moments later when the five of them piled into an auto cab. Someone had barfed on the floor, and even though a robot had removed the mess two hours before, the smell remained. Kadien issued the instructions. “Take us to the Cess Pool . . . and step on it.”

  The on-board computer analyzed the words, acted on those that were consistent with its programming, and discarded the rest. Booly stared out a window as the vehicle jerked into motion, attained maximum economical speed, and headed south towards old Mexico, the very country in which Danjou and his men had fought their much-celebrated battle in the tiny village of Camerone.