Blood World (Undying Mercenaries Series Book 8)

by B. V. Larson

  “Such madness!” Armel exclaimed. “Why would he do such a thing? Take such early risks?”

  After thinking for a moment, I nodded to myself.

  “He doesn’t know we know he’s Claver. He must have figured we’d expect timid action—something Winslade would do.”

  “Ah… Therefore, he moved boldly right from the start. You might be right. The essence of strategy is deception.”

  “What are you going to do in return, sir?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “I’m going to fight it out. Let Varus come. We’re digging in every minute. If they persist in an all-out attack, I will suffer their abuse while delivering my own. In time, the enemy will run out of steam, as you like to say in your part of the world.”

  Tapping at his graphics and figures, I kept frowning. Varus was losing troops, but they were gaining ground. The crater wasn’t really big enough for twenty thousand troops to fight in the first place.

  “It’s getting crowded,” I said. “Don’t you think we should make a stand where we are? Your units are still falling back on both flanks.”

  Armel eyed the scene. “It is our way to defend by giving ground. Varus is paying for each step with blood.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but what if he pushes some of your troops right off the field?”

  “My troops aren’t an undisciplined mob, McGill. They know what will happen to them if they try to exit this crater.”

  I fell silent for a time, watching the battle unfold. Varus was very aggressive—unusually so. After a time, I found an option that allowed me to place cohort and unit IDs on both sides. Scanning Varus, I quickly found the 3rd Unit of the 3rd Cohort—my unit.

  “They’re on the front lines… the southern flank.”

  “What’s that? Did I hear you say you wanted another drink, McGill?”

  “Uh… might as well, Tribune.”

  He chuckled and whirled around with a sloshing tumbler of liquid in each hand. He had ice tinkling in there. How had he managed to bring ice down from Actium?

  Taking a glass, I toasted him.

  “To victory!” he shouted, tossing back the entire glass in a gulp.

  It was my chance, so I took it.

  I wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do—but I was certain Armel’s plan had a fifty-fifty shot of winning at best.

  I thought I could do better.

  Before the tribune could lower his beverage, I swept his legs out from under him. He slammed his skull onto the puff-crete floor of the bunker.

  Checking his carotid with two fingers, I was pleased to feel a thready pulse. At least I hadn’t killed him.

  Refilling my glass and pasting a goofy smile on my face, I walked calmly up the crude puff-crete steps and out into the night air again.

  Centurion Leeza was still up there, unfortunately. She frowned at me immediately.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Just catching a little night air.”

  She caught my bicep and tugged, seeking to pull me down the stairs again. “You’re supposed to stay put in this bunker.”

  I ignored her tugs and lifted my drink to my lips. “It smells a bit off down there,” I said. “The tribune—he might have had too much.”

  Leeza looked me in the eye.

  Fortunately, my eyes can lie almost as well as my mouth can.

  She made a wild sound of frustration. “Again? Now?” she demanded.

  Letting go of me, she trotted down the steps into the dim interior of the bunker.

  Walking away, I turned off my tapper and sipped my beverage. The troops gave me odd stares, but no one tried to stop me. Centurion Leeza seemed to be too busy trying to awaken Armel to sound the alarm.

  Taking a few extra turns in the dark trenches, I was soon lost from view.

  -55-

  Making my way to the front lines wasn’t all that easy. I had to crawl on my belly sometimes, and at others I had to run from gunfire.

  But I made it.

  Lying low, I ripped off my Germanica jacket and the patches on my armor. My gear had friend-or-foe id systems, so I had to shed my belcher, too.

  For a full ten minutes I was in the middle of the battlefield, lying face down like a corpse.

  The Varus troops soon crept near. That’s when I dared to speak to the nearest of them.

  “Hey!” I said in a harsh whisper.

  A light-trooper whirled around and threw herself on her face. She let loose a full-auto burst in my direction. Fortunately, I was in a depression of ground under a torn-up spine-bush. The bush shivered, but no accelerated slivers of metal found me.

  “What the heck…! I’m Varus, girl! Check your HUD!”

  “There’s no contact. Nothing. You’re not—”

  “My tapper must be damaged,” I said. “I’m Centurion McGill, 3rd Unit, 3rd Cohort, under Graves.”

  She paused. “McGill? I heard you weren’t going on this drop. You were arrested.”

  I laughed. “Does it look like I’m back on Nostrum to you, girl?”

  She was just a recruit, and she wasn’t sure. She called for back-up—which was what I’d hoped she would do.

  Sargon showed up with a platoon of heavies. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d seen my own dead-and-gone grandma.

  “Sargon! Tell her who I am, man!”

  “McGill? Is that really you?”

  “It damn well better be, or I’m out a bundle on size fourteen boots.”

  Sargon laughed and came forward, grabbing my wrist. He heaved me to my feet and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “How do you pull stuff like this, sir?” he asked. “I don’t think I could get away with it for one second.”

  “You couldn’t,” I agreed. “Take my advice and never try.”

  We walked back toward the Varus lines. We were challenged several times, but each time Sargon vouched for me, and they let me pass with suspicious stares.

  “What shit did Winslade spread about me this time?” I asked Sargon.

  “Some crap about you being dead and having gone over to the other side to help them beat us. Called you a traitor and all.”

  “Figures,” I said. “You want to know the real truth—?”

  I broke off, because someone had shoved a carbine barrel into the crack between my helmet and my breastplate.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it instead, McGill?” Graves asked.

  “Uh… hello sir. Good to see you on the field of battle again. I thought old Claver would have left you for dead in the revival queue.”

  “Claver? What are you talking about?”

  I told him the whole story then—or most of it. I left out what I’d done to Armel. Graves was squeamish when it came to mutinous behavior, even if it had been done for a good cause to a rival legion.

  “So…” he said. “You’re claiming Winslade isn’t Winslade? He’s Claver in disguise, trying to win this battle when he shouldn’t?”

  “That’s about the size of it, sir.”

  “Why’s he doing this?”

  “You believe me, sir?” I asked, startled. “Just like that?”

  “Yes. I know Winslade. He’s not behaving the way I’d expect. His moves are strategically sound and bold.”

  “You’re right, that’s not Winslade at all. As to why he’s doing it—he wants the Rigellians to win the contract. He must have made some kind of deal with them to give them Blood World. When I fought my unit against an equal number of saurians, he told me he’d help me win. Why would he do that? Why did he want Varus to win so badly, right from the start?”

  “Because he’s betting on Varus,” Graves said thoughtfully. “Now, he’s playing Winslade’s part because he didn’t trust him to win on his own.”

  “I could hardly fault him there.”

  “Me either,” Graves sighed, “but I still don’t see what we can do about it.”

  “What? Really? I thought that was plain as day, sir.”

  He looked at me, narrowi
ng his eyes. “You aren’t suggesting…?”

  “I sure am. Put him down like the dog he is. Frag his ass like yesterday’s creamed beef, sir!”

  Graves had his stubby carbine up again. He pushed it into my face.

  “I don’t like when you talk like that, McGill.”

  “I know, Primus. It’s distasteful and rude. I must apologize sincerely. But you see… the thing is… he’s not our legit commander. He’s an imposter.”

  “I’ll take it to the rest of the staff. I’ll file a formal charge.”

  Snorting, I fought back a laugh. When Graves was in this kind of a mood, you didn’t want to laugh in his face.

  “We’re on the battlefield, sir. Fighting hard. No one is going to listen to that. By the time they even acknowledge your complaint, this will all be over.”

  “Sirs?” Sargon said. “If I might offer something?”

  “Why not, Veteran?” Graves said.

  “The Varus officers will never listen, even if they think you’re right. They hate Winslade. Right now, they’re kicking ass, and they like it. They won’t want to give Claver up—not until this shit-storm is over.”

  “Hmm…” Graves said.

  He pulled the muzzle of his gun out of my face. It was an absent-minded gesture. I could tell he was thinking hard.

  “Old Silver…” I said to him. “He goes way back, doesn’t he?”

  Graves looked at me suddenly. In the dark, his eyes reflected the starlight.

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Armel told me things. Freaky things about errors in duplication.”

  “Forget whatever he told you. That’s all unproven allegations from the past.”

  “Forget what, sir?”

  Graves nodded. “That’s better. All right. I’ll go kill Old Silver. The rest of you try to slow down the advance—at least for now.”

  Graves walked away into the darkness.

  “What a cold fish,” Sargon said. “Even for Graves, that was some cold shit.”

  “He’s not like us, that’s for sure.”

  Sargon craned his head around to look at me. “What was all that about errors in duplication?”

  “Funny, I don’t remember.”

  Sargon stared at me for a second then he shook his head. “That’s right. I don’t remember either.”

  About an hour later, our tappers lit up with an announcement.

  “Primus Winslade,” Graves voice said, “the acting Tribune of Legion Varus, has unfortunately fallen in battle. As our most senior remaining Primus, I’m taking over command.”

  Seniority was more flexible in our legions than it had been in the past. Due to multi-year deployments on distant worlds, and the very long careers of some officers, it wasn’t a simple matter of deciding who had first been promoted to Primus and selecting that officer.

  Other factors applied, such as the original commissioning date of the officer in question. Years in service at the rank of Centurion, for example, weighed in an officer’s seniority when he moved up.

  To the surprise of many of the other primus-ranked officers in Varus, Graves was the most senior officer. The acting officer could bypass that system by announcing a second in command of the appropriate rank—but Winslade had neglected to do so.

  “That sly dog,” Sargon laughed. “I didn’t think Graves had it in him.”

  I shook my head. “I doubt there was anything sly about it. He probably walked into the command post, shot him, then turned off the disguise box when the staffers freaked out.”

  “And you think they just went along with it?”

  Shrugging, I threw my hands in the air. “What other choice did they have?”

  “Yeah…” Sargon said. “He probably didn’t even change his expression when he did it. That does sound like Graves’ style.”

  Privately, I disagreed with Sargon.

  Graves didn’t like a lot of people, but Old Silver was pretty high on his private shit-list.

  I therefore suspected Graves had grinned—just a little—as he gunned him down by surprise.

  -56-

  Graves ordered the front lines to stop attacking and fall back. Legion Varus lost the initiative.

  Tired, injured and limping, our legion pulled back to our side of the line where they’d dug trench-works. Except for the extensive command bunker Claver had put down, we had little in the way of a defensive line.

  Seizing the opportunity, Germanica surged after us. They didn’t let us rest. They pushed and pushed.

  Somewhere along the half-way point, in the middle of the huge crater, Graves ordered Varus troops to stop retreating and make a stand. The trouble was our trench-works had been dug farther back. Graves had ordered them to fight over open ground.

  It was a mistake, of course. It was meant to be a mistake. I wondered if it hurt him to give that order.

  I took a moment in the confusion to walk to the crater’s edge, and I surrendered to a patrol of Germanica light troopers.

  It was a close shave, I don’t might telling you. They almost gunned me down on sight, even though I’d removed all my legion patches.

  After identifying myself and asking for Centurion Leeza, I was arrested and hustled to the rear lines again.

  Centurion Leeza was pissed—but Armel was furious.

  “You had the temerity to strike your superior?!” he asked in a tone that bordered on disbelief. “In Germanica, such an act is punishable by immediate execution. Afterward, we hold a trial to decide if the miscreant will be revived or left dead forever.”

  “Permed for a punch?” I asked. “That seems kind of prissy to me.”

  He blinked in response to my words, and Centurion Leeza squinched her eyes closed as if she was experiencing a private pain.

  “Prissy?” Armel demanded. “I know in my heart I should not ask this, but I feel compelled to do so anyway. Calling the punishment extreme, yes, I could understand that. But this word you use is wrong. In what manner can a harsh penalty seem prissy?”

  “Well,” I said, “it must be a difference in legion culture. You see, in Legion Varus, we don’t take injuries—or even death—all that seriously. It happens all the time. So, if one man hits another they might get fined or thrown into the stockade for a night. But nobody whines about it. In fact, it’s kind of embarrassing to make a big deal out of it. We find it… unmanly.”

  He scowled at me, but he removed his hand from his forehead. There, I saw I’d split open the skin both above and below his right eye. They’d sprayed it with a flesh-printer, but you could still tell.

  “Unmanly…” he echoed. “Such a culture you must have. Undisciplined. Barbaric. It would be best if your legion was disbanded. I’ve said as much for years.”

  “May I point out that I’ve pretty much handed a victory to Germanica? That’s why I did it. You’ll win this pit-fight now. Graves is doing his best to throw in the towel without seeming to.”

  “We’ve lost thousands of troops,” Leeza said. “It hardly feels like he’s giving up.”

  I threw my hands high and laughed at them.

  “There you go again! More sour grapes. Varus had Germanica on the ropes, but they pulled back, letting you grab the initiative. You now outnumber them and you’re pushing them off the field. What more do you people want?”

  “A good perming would be nice,” Armel said, eyeing me with distaste.

  I got the feeling that he wasn’t used to injuries, much less death.

  “To a Varus man,” I told him, “there’s something faintly disgusting about a soldier who’s touchy about a little bump on the head.”

  “Get out!” Armel shouted, thrusting his finger toward the bunker exit. “Leeza, stay with him. He must survive until this is over. After that…”

  He made a throat-cutting gesture.

  I was led out into the open air, where I breathed easier. “Damn,” I said, “I could smell his breath all the way across the room.”

  “That was the mess on
the floor. You smashed a bottle of fine gin when you tripped him.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I think it came out of his gut.”

  Centurion Leeza wasn’t sweet on me anymore. I could just tell. She led me to a trench, sat me down in it and posted half a dozen guards around me.

  “Don’t let him leave,” she said. “If he needs to take a piss, he can do it in the trench.” Then she stalked away.

  One of the noncoms stared at me. He was a black guy who chain-smoked stims when the officers weren’t looking. I watched his latest stim glow red in the middle of his face.

  He offered me one, but I refused. In the distance, the battle still raged on. It seemed farther away every minute. They were still driving Varus back.

  “Did you really knock Armel flat?” the smoking veteran asked me at last.

  “Sure did.”

  “After he invited you into his HQ? After he gave you a drink, and shared all his intel? That’s some rude behavior, McGill.”

  “I needed to run some errands. Armel didn’t see things my way.”

  “So you cold-cocked him?”

  I shrugged. “He got in the way.”

  The veteran’s eyes narrowed. He flashed into anger.

  “Don’t you try any of that shit with me, McGill. I’ll put you face down in this trench and piss on your back!”

  “Sheesh,” I said, looking around at the group. “Did you guys get your feelings hurt? What a bunch of babies! You Germanica friggers whine more about minor injuries than hogs do.”

  These statements didn’t seem to please anyone, but at least they stopped complaining all the time. They gave me the stink-eye instead.

  Overhead, the camera drones were thick. I wondered what the home audience was thinking.

  About twenty minutes later, I got my answer to that question.

  “McGill?” whispered a female voice.

  I looked around in confusion. The Germania gang guarding me had stepped away and stood in a lazy circle. I sat in the trench bored and ready to go back to my ship.

  “Who’s that?” I asked in a harsh whisper.

  “Gytha.”

  I looked around slowly, and I thought I could tell where the voice was coming from. She was next to me in the trench. I could feel her body heat in the cool night air.