For More Than Glory

by William C. Dietz

  But Santana couldn’t forget the night when the Ramanthian named Poth Dusso had deserted his post on the south wall, and Corporal Wu had been murdered. That’s why he stopped by to have a few words with Platoon Sergeant Quickfoot Hillrun prior to continuing on his rounds.

  With no instructions to the contrary, the various NCOs had automatically left their various commands intact, with each group assuming responsibility for one segment of the perimeter. As Santana circled the hill he discovered that while the Clones had positioned command-detonated mines in front of their position, and placed two crew-served automatic weapons behind what remained of a stone wall, the Thrakies were a good deal less prepared.

  That didn’t come as a total surprise since Santana had fought against the Thrakies on Beta-018 and knew their recent history. Every Thraki on LaNor had been born on a spaceship and spent most of their youth there. So, with the exception of those who had seen combat on the Clone worlds, the Thrakies knew more about the theory of ground combat than they did the reality of it.

  Thus, the diminutive aliens had placed their positions so close together that a single grenade could kill half their number, neglected to put any backup ammo next to their firing positions, and seemed oblivious to the way in which their bodies would soon be silhouetted against the bonfire they had built.

  They were well intentioned however, and a few words with L-8 Fortho, their senior NCO, were sufficient to put matters right.

  Rather than inspect the part of the perimeter for which the Ramanthians had responsibility, and potentially wind up in some sort of confrontation with Batth, Santana instructed Snyder to orient herself in that direction but sweep the entire area with her powerful sensors.

  Then, confident that he’d done the best he could, Santana went in search of something to eat. This being the first night out, his legionnaires had prepared the usual “first feast,” which consisted of a large kettle of stew into which all manner of things had been tossed. The result was questionable, but still better than the field rations they would subsist on from that point forward.

  Vanderveen was invited to join in the meal and nodded to Santana as she took her place on the opposite side of the fire. There were all of the usual stories, toned down out of respect for the diplomat, followed by a heartfelt rendition of “Le Boudin” just as others had sung for hundreds of years before them.

  Then, having checked most of the perimeter one last time, Santana brushed his teeth and slipped into his sleeping bag. The officer made one last check to ensure that his radio was not only on, but tuned to the command channel, and almost instantly fell asleep. It felt like little more than two minutes later when a voice whispered next to his ear. “Lieutenant, it’s me, Hillrun.”

  Santana opened his eyes, saw Hillrun silhouetted against one of the planet’s two moons, and nodded. “What’s up?”

  “It’s the bugs, sir. We’ve been keeping an eye on them just like you said.”

  “And one of our friends went out to meet someone?”

  “No sir. A dig belly-crawled up the hill, made contact with the Ramanthians, and passed through the perimeter. He’s with Batth right now.”

  “And our Imperial guide?”

  “Sound asleep.”

  “Interesting,” Santana said softly, “very interesting. Record what you observed in the patrol diary . . . Add a statement from Snyder. I want this documented.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “And Hillrun . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “Good work.”

  The Naa grinned, faded into the darkness, and disappeared.

  Outside of the weather, which worsened overnight, the second day was a copy of the first. It began with a cold miserable breakfast, followed by four hours of off-again on-again rain, field rations for lunch, and a long, muddy afternoon.

  The terrain had changed by then, becoming a little more rugged as the road followed a river west, and cliffs rose to either side.

  Santana was again struck by his commanding officer’s failure to send scouts ahead, a role that the razbul-mounted Ramanthians were well equipped to play, and by the general air of sloppiness which had been allowed to pervade the column.

  Staff Sergeant Jonathan Alan Seebo-21,112, better known to his troops as “Sergeant Twelve,” kept his clone brothers sharp, but, thanks in part to the fact that they were riding in carts, the Thrakies were anything but combat ready as they dozed under tarps, staged mock battles between the small robots that some of them carried, and generally screwed off.

  As for the Ramanthians, the only communication Santana had with them was an occasional order to “March faster,” and the never-ending mounds of manure their mounts left behind. Manure which the carts mixed into the mud and attempted to spray onto anyone who followed too closely.

  Finally, as darkness began to close around the column, Batth called a halt. Santana didn’t like the site which though close to the river featured high ground on two sides. The legionnaire offered to place flankers on top of the riverbanks but was refused.

  Orders were given, a perimeter was established, and the relief force prepared to bed down for the night. Everyone was tired, especially those who had been forced to walk, and eager to get some shut-eye.

  Then, just as Santana was about to eat his lukewarm meal, Batth spoke over his headset. “Lieutenant Santana, please join me in my tent.”

  The “please” sounded conciliatory but the legionnaire knew better than to take it seriously. He acknowledged the message, swore, and put the meal on a rock. Hillrun, who was crouched on the far side of the small fire, looked up from his food. The rain had matted the surface of his fur but his skin was warm and dry. “Some sort of problem, sir?”

  Santana had come to rely on the platoon sergeant and was fairly sure that the feeling was reciprocal. He grinned. “Just the usual one . . . back in twenty. Tell Seavy to check everyone’s feet. We walked in and we’re sure as hell gonna have to walk out.”

  Private Ben Seavy was the squad’s medic, and the truth was that Hillrun had already told him to check on the team’s feet. But the loot was thinking, and thinking the way a good loot should, which meant it was best to go along. Check and double-check. That’s how the system worked best. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Santana rose, considered his muddy uniform, and decided it didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do that would make the Ramanthian think better of him.

  It was dark by then, but the Thraks had another bonfire going, and the Ramanthians weren’t much better. Battery-powered lights hung from branches like ornaments on a tree. If any of the warriors were on guard duty, Santana couldn’t see them. Mud sucked at the soles of the officer’s boots as he rounded a boulder, cut across a clearing, and arrived in front of Hakk Batth’s six-warrior tent.

  Judging from footgear lined up outside the rain flap door visitors were expected to remove their boots prior to entering. Santana sat on an ammo box, removed his boots, and tucked them in next to a smaller pair. The human frowned. Sergeant Twelve’s? No, they were too small. Then, stepping through the flap, he came to attention. A portable heater hummed in a corner, something burbled on a stove, and a light hung at the tent’s center. “Lieutenant Antonio Santana reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Batth stood next to a table. Vanderveen sat on a crate. The Imperial stood at her side. All of them turned. It was the Ramanthian who spoke. The tone was sarcastic. “Nice of you to drop in . . . At ease.”

  It was bait, but Santana refused to take it. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Having reasserted his authority, Batth gestured toward the comp. “Take a look at this.”

  Santana could feel Vanderveen’s eyes on him as he took three paces forward and looked down at the screen. The image had been consolidated which meant that the Ramanthian had to be wearing special contact lenses in order to view it. All of the tags had been translated to standard. The legionnaire was careful to keep his face blank but noticed a number of things right away. This particular map was a l
ot more detailed than the one downloaded to him just prior to departure. And, judging from the tiny date down in the lower right hand corner, it had been updated earlier that day. A flagrant violation of the many restrictions that stemmed from LaNor’s Class III status. That suggested that the Ramanthians were hoarding data, making use of illegal satellites to refresh it, and didn’t care if he knew. Why?

  A cursor blinked over what Santana knew to be their position. It was many miles short of the red delta that marked way point two (WP2). Still another delta, this one marking a location well beyond WP2, designated the crossroads where the off-worlders were scheduled to rendezvous with a detachment of Imperial troops prior to the attack on the village occupied hill bandits. Assuming they were there. . . which seemed doubtful. Batth used a pincer to tap on screen’s surface. “Thanks to you, and the rest of your laggards, we’re half a day behind schedule.”

  Santana frowned. “Begging your pardon sir, but the ‘laggards’ as you call them, have traveled 42 standard miles in 2 days. Not bad for troops on foot.”

  “Really?” Batth asked, the word practically dripping with venom. “Well, it happens that my standards are a good deal higher than yours. It’s my opinion that we should have traversed a good 60 miles by now . . .”

  “Still,” Batth continued, “what’s done is done.” That being the case we have little choice but to take a short cut which will make up the difference. As you can see the road turns away from the river a few miles west of our present location, loops toward the south, and eventually swings back to resume a westerly path. By driving straight ahead, through this area, we can lop an entire day off our journey! A strategy that should appeal to you and your footsore slackers.”

  Santana stared down at the screen, noted the manner in which the river pooled into a small lake just prior to splitting into dozens of tributaries as it passed through the area marked in green, and knew he was looking at a swamp. That’s why the road turned away from the river and looped south prior to turning north and west. The human chose his words with care. “Sir, no sir. Judging from the look of this map there’s a swamp up ahead. Not only will it be difficult to push our troops through there, the carts are likely to bog down, and it would be a perfect place to stage an ambush. Besides, the hill bandits must know we’re coming by now, so what difference does another day make? Any chance of surprising them was lost the moment we left Mys. If they want to engage us they will. If they don’t, they’re back in the hills by now. I recommend that we stick to the road.”

  “Spoken like the coward you are,” Batth said caustically. “I hoped you had learned something while serving on Beta-018. Sadly, such is not the case. Your recommendation has been noted, overruled, and will eventually be forwarded to Major Miraby for possible disciplinary action. In the meantime you will prepare your troops for tomorrow’s march. Having spent days in relative safety at the end of the column while my warriors led the way the time has come for you and your legionnaires to take the point. One word of disobedience, one sign of cowardice, and I will have you shot. Dismissed.”

  The Ramanthian’s words were so twisted, so unfair, that they rendered Santana speechless. Emotions started to churn, but he forced them back . . . This was battle, a battle of wits, and the key was to remain cool. The whole situation felt like some sort of a setup. Why had Batth chosen to cast everything in such personal terms when there was no apparent reason to do so? How could Batth be so stupid as to take the column into the swamp? And why would he put the legionnaires in the point position after two days of forcing them to walk through piles of shit? Because he expected an ambush, that’s why . . . and wanted the Legion to take the brunt of it.

  Santana opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what, when Vanderveen’s eyes locked with his. She raised her right hand. The lamplight reflected off a small vocoder. “If it’s any comfort to the lieutenant, I took the liberty of recording this conversation, including his objections to the route.”

  This was news to the Ramanthian, who turned to stare in her direction. She smiled sweetly. “Should the lieutenant disobey one of your orders, perform an act of blatant cowardice, or kill you in your sleep the recording will support whatever charges are filed against him.”

  Even though Batth was far from pleased, there was nothing he could do about the diplomat’s recording, except take pleasure in the knowledge that she would soon be dead. He nodded, started to speak, but was cut off.

  “And one more thing,” Vanderveen said, coming to her feet, “I’d like to hear what Dob Zee has to say about this situation. Tell us, Dob Zee . . . which way do you think we should go?”

  Though equipped with a translator, the LaNorian had found it difficult to track the nuances of the conversation, especially given the fact that the off-worlders seemed to be angry with each other. Though not eager to traipse through a swamp, he did want to end the journey quickly and return to Polwa. “The troops will be waiting for us . . . It is important to be on time.”

  Batth nodded as if he had known what the LaNorian would say from the very beginning. “You see? Now, I gave you an order, Lieutenant . . . You are dismissed.”

  Santana came to attention, delivered a salute, and received one in return. It was cold outside, not to mention wet, but he welcomed the night. It was morning that he had reason to fear—and all that could possibly follow.

  The early-morning mist shivered as a momentary breeze slid between the tall celery-like trees, caused the carefully banked fire to glow a little redder, and slipped downstream. It was still dark as Platoon Sergeant Hillrun and Corporal Dietrich made their rounds. One by one Privates Taz, Kimura, Pesta, Seavy, Kashtoon, and Horo-Ba were rousted out of their sleeping bags and ordered to attend a team briefing.

  There was grumbling, especially given the hour, but that was to be expected. Twenty minutes later the legionnaires were dressed and crouched around the newly invigorated fire drinking hot coffee that Dietrich ladled out of a pot. Snyder, her sensors on max, scanned the surrounding area. She had orders to notify Santana if anyone approached.

  The officer was aware of the fact that anything he said might become fodder for court-martial proceedings and chose his words with extreme care. The key was to prepare his troops for what might take place without calling Batth’s orders into question.

  Santana crouched next to Hillrun and eyed the legionnaires around him. A couple of the troopers had been on guard duty only three hours before and they looked tired. The rest looked alert. All of them waited expectantly. “Here’s the scoop,” the officer said lightly. “I’ve got good news and bad news. . . Which do you want first?”

  There was a chorus of groans. Pesta, a long, tall legionnaire with a lantern-shaped jaw, answered for all of them. “Sir, we’ll take the good news first, if that’s all right with you.”

  Santana grinned. “The good news is that you won’t have to wade through half a ton of razbul shit today.”

  “Uh-oh,” Taz said pessimistically. “Why do I have a feeling that wading half a ton of shit is about to look real good?”

  “Because,” Santana answered, “we’re taking the point.”

  “So?” Kashtoon inquired innocently. “What’s so bad about that?”

  “It happens that we’re late,” Santana replied carefully, “which is why Force Leader Hakk Batth decided that we should take advantage of a potential shortcut. By following the river west, through a swamp, we should gain one full day.”

  Something about Santana’s posture, and the tone of his voice, combined to trigger Dietrich’s suspicions. “No offense, sir, but is that wise? Won’t the carts tend to bog down? And what about the possibility of an ambush?”

  Santana nodded. “Yes, I think we may have trouble with the carts. Don’t be surprised if we end up humping the critical stuff out of there. As for the ambush, well, who knows? But the possibility exists, so I want everyone on their toes. Snyder, you’re the key . . . If someone is lying in wait, your sensors should pick up on them. Howev
er, assuming they know that, odds are that they’ll take a crack at you first. That’s why I plan to ride your six.”

  Servos whined as Snyder shifted her considerable weight from one blocky foot to the other. Her voice had a hard, synthesized sound. “Begging the lieutenant’s pardon—but some people will do anything to keep their feet dry.”

  Everyone laughed and Hillrun took notice. He’d been with Top Santana on the day he died. The two humans had a lot in common, starting with a strong physical resemblance and extending to the way they led. Many officers, hell most officers, would have ordered the troops into the swamp without a word of explanation.

  Others, those who were unsure of themselves, might have babbled on forever. Santana, like his father before him, knew how to walk the thin line between the two. “So,” the officer finished, “listen up, keep your eyes peeled, and don’t assume anything. The enemy might turn up anywhere. All right, get some chow, pack your gear, and check your weapons. Don’t put anything critical on those supply carts. Everyone will carry a full combat load including three days’ worth of field rats. That will be all . . . Dismissed.”

  The legionnaires stood, Santana headed out to have a cautionary conversation with Sergeant Twelve, and Kimura turned to Dietrich. He had a broad forehead and bright wide-set eyes. “So help me out, Corp . . . Is it me? Or was the loot trying to lay something between the lines?”

  Dietrich spit into the fire. The saliva sizzled as it hit the flames. “Trying? Shit, what does the man have to do? Tattoo the message on your ass? Watch the bugs Kimura—watch the bugs.”

  Two hours later the column was under way. Dob Zee had the dubious honor of leading the way. Snyder came next, with Santana riding her back. The rest of legionnaires followed with Hillrun last.