Legion of the Damned

by William C. Dietz

  The ship jerked as a flight of missiles raced away. Each missile had its own guidance system, so the Hudathan was free to activate his secondary weapons. They consisted of two energy cannons mounted under each of the assault boat’s stubby wings.

  Energy stuttered out, drew red-hot lines across the planetoid’s rocky surface, and intersected at an antenna array. Pieces of metal spun free, supports collapsed, and what was left glowed cherry red. The Hudathan pulled up and looped around.

  Mylook-Ra felt a sense of satisfaction. It turned to concern when he realized that his missiles were unaccounted for. They should have hit the target by now, or failing that, destroyed themselves. And there was another anomaly as well. He had encountered almost no defensive fire. Why was that? Previous flights had experienced stiff resistance.

  The Hudathan triggered the com link and was just about to ask the flagship for more information when an entire array of alarms went off. Mylook-Ra was still thinking his way through the problem when the missiles he had fired moments before hit his ship and blew up.

  Leonid weighed less than three earth pounds and held onto an air duct for additional stability. A series of monitors carried the action. The Hudathan assault craft exploded, Red whooped, and Narbakov nodded approvingly.

  “Nice going, Red, but it won’t work next time.”

  Leonid knew what the officer meant. Stardust, the almost magical stuff that had brought them there in the first place, was gathered by remotely controlled spacecraft called star divers.

  It takes a lot of sophisticated equipment to guide a spaceship through a sun’s corona and bring it home again. Equipment that Red had used to subvert and redirect the Hudathan missiles. A total of four ships had been destroyed.

  It was a neat trick but it would only work once. There were any number of things the Hudathans could do to protect against similar attempts in the future.

  Narbakov eyed the screens and activated his mike. “Another flight is on its way. Let’s show them what it means to attack the Legion.”

  I’ll tell you what it means, a cyborg named Seeger thought to himself. It means that some poor bastard will get his ass blown off. Never mind that it’s made of plastic and metal ... it hurts just the same.

  An entire platoon of Trooper IIs was assigned to Narbakov’s company. Some had been killed by now, but the remainder were located on Spindle’s rocky surface, hiding behind low-lying ridges or in the craters that dotted the planetoid’s surface. Hiding, and waiting for the next flight of fighters, at which point they would become sentient antiaircraft batteries.

  Seeger had taken the name of the Legion’s best known poet, considered himself to be something of an intellectual, and felt sure that Narbakov’s novel use of cyborgs would wind up in the textbooks. Assuming anyone survived to tell the story.

  Seeger stood, scanned the input relayed to him from Spinhead, and counted the incoming ships. There were thirteen ... fourteen ... fifteen of the no-good homicidal sonsofbitches. The cyborg tracked the fighters with the intensity of a person whose life depended on the outcome. Which it did.

  Around Seeger, and behind him, the other members of the platoon did likewise. There were thirty-two in all, down from thirty-seven when the attacks had begun, and spread thin to minimize casualties.

  The best target on Spindle consisted of the huge ramp-shaped railgun. It was used to launch the star divers and had been constructed within a V-shaped valley, a fact that had forced the aliens to fly a predictable path during low-level attacks and had enabled Narbakov to prepare a novel strategy.

  Though not on a par with the heavily armored surface installations the aliens had destroyed during previous attacks, the cyborgs were highly mobile and could fire twelve mini-missiles without reloading. By lining both sides of the valley with Trooper Ils, Narbakov had created a veritable gauntlet of defensive fire.

  Thirty-two cyborgs, launching two missiles a second, could fire 384 independently targeted weapons in roughly twelve seconds.

  So, lulled into a false sense of security caused by the lack of ground fire during their first pass, and angered by the casualties inflicted by their own missiles, the Hudathans came in fast and low. Command swore that their missiles would track properly this time, but the pilots didn’t believe it and stuck to their secondaries. Lines of blue energy plowed red-hot furrows across the asteroid’s rocky surface.

  Seeger had little more than a fraction of a second in which to see an incoming fighter, run a solution, and fire. By slaving his computer to Spinhead, and by working as part of a cybernetic network, his accuracy was greatly enhanced. Death lashed out from both his launchers and sped towards the assault boats.

  Unlike their mother ships, the fighters were too small to mount defensive energy fields, so a hit was a hit.

  A ship filled Seeger’s targeting grid, floated under the red X, and came apart as five or six missiles struck it. The resulting wreckage hit the ground about five miles away and, unrestrained by gravity, cartwheeled his way. The fighter was no more than a mile off when it exploded and sent chunks of metal flying in every direction.

  “Move! Move! Move!”

  The order came from Seeger’s platoon leader, a bio bod named Umai, and didn’t need repeating. The second wave of Hudathans had plotted their positions by now and were on their way.

  Seeger turned and ran-shuffled towards his next position. It was important to move quickly but to do so without breaking surface contact. Sure, the asteroid’s anemic gravity would pull him back down five or ten minutes later, but he’d be dead by then.

  A pair of fighters swooped overhead, and a line of explosions rippled along the ground behind him. Seeger dived into a crater, rolled, and bounced to his feet. It was a mistake and he knew it. His boots had already broken contact with the ground, and he was soaring upwards when someone wrapped their arms around his knees.

  “Whoa, big fella ... keep that up and you’ll be in orbit.”

  Seeger mumbled words of appreciation as the man pulled him down.

  The civilians wore brightly decorated space armor. One featured a jungle motif and the other was covered with self-referential sayings that Seeger managed to ignore. They had learned their duties less than twelve hours before but carried them out with efficiency and a certain amount of panache.

  One took his right side and the other his left. Missile magazines floated away and new ones were snapped into place. A hand slapped Seeger’s arm. The voice was female this time and originated from the suit with the jungle motif.

  “Good luck, soldier. We’ll meet you at position number three.”

  Seeger nodded his gratitude and turned his attention to Spinhead’s feed. A dozen globe-shaped things had appeared over the foreshortened horizon and were gliding towards him.

  Sunlight hit one side of the objects and left the other dark. They looked a lot like the airborne float pods that drifted across the surface of his native Elexor each spring. Except that the float pods were harmless.

  Death stuttered down, caught a pair of civilians shuffling towards cover, and popped them like organic balloons. Were they the ones who had rearmed him? He couldn’t tell.

  Seeger swore, launched two missiles, and fired his gas-jacketed machine gun. The recoil pushed him backwards and threatened to dump him on his can, but the results were worth it. The pod was well within range and the lack of an atmosphere allowed the bullets to gain even more inertia. They drew a beautiful red line between his arm and the globe.

  Seeger had no way of knowing what had destroyed the thing—the missiles or the bullets—but it blew up and showered him with slow-motion debris.

  Umai came on-line.

  “L-One to L-Troop. Here’s some scoop from Spinhead. The pods are unmanned. Repeat, unmanned.”

  Seeger gave a grunt of disgust as he left the crater for position number three. The pods were unmanned. So fraxing what? They could kill you just as dead, couldn’t they? Officers. Dumb shits one and all.

  The civilians were wa
iting behind an outcropping of rock. They were uninjured, which made Seeger glad. The man spoke first.

  “Good shooting, soldier ... you nailed that pod but good.”

  “Damned straight,” the woman added. “How’s your ammo?”

  Seeger ran a reflexive check. He still had ten missiles, 82 percent of his machine-gun ammo, and enough power to run his energy cannon full bore for five minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

  “I’m in good shape. Haul butt and I’ll meet you at position four.”

  The civilians signaled their agreement and were about to depart when Narbakov came on-line. Seeger held up a restraining hand. The civilians waited.

  “N-One to L-Troop. You did a nice job. Go to condition three, repeat, condition three.”

  Condition three translated to “standby.” Seeger motioned for the civilians to return and scanned the horizon. Nothing. For the moment anyway.

  The legionnaire sat down, wished that he had lungs to smoke a cigarette with, and waited for Lieutenant Umai to say something stupid. It didn’t take long.

  Red stood and stretched. “That’s all, folks. Spinhead predicts another major attack in about four hours with assorted harassment missions in between.”

  Leonid forced himself to release the air duct and found that his fingers hurt. They’d survived another attack. He thought about the empire, about the Emperor, and about his father.

  What were they doing anyway? Where was the Navy? The Marine Corps? And all the other government types who were paid to handle this sort of thing? Surely the message torps had arrived by now.

  What about his wife, Natasha? She’d be worried—that much was certain—but what was she doing? Was she running a comb through her long black hair? Humming softly as she wrote a letter? Laughing at something his mother had said? She had a wonderful laugh that sounded like bells tinkling.

  Narbakov’s voice jerked him back to reality.

  “Come on, Leo ... it’s time for the daily damage assessment.”

  Leonid nodded and followed the officer out of the control center and into an emergency lock. A hatch slid closed behind them. A message had been printed on the wall. It was overlaid with graffiti but still readable. “We hope that you enjoyed your visit to Fatside Control. Please come again.”

  Spindle had a prolate shape, similar to that of an eggplant, or spindle, hence the name. The blunt end, commonly referred to as “Fatside,” was eternally pointed towards the sun, while the other end, “Thinside,” was pointed away.

  So the names made sense even if the sign didn’t.

  The forward hatch hissed open and Narbakov stepped out. Leonid followed.

  Fatside had been chosen to house the primary habitat, since it was larger, and thanks to its exposure to the sun, a good deal warmer. So warm, in fact, that air-conditioning was a must. An additional advantage was that Fatside’s considerable metallic content served to protect residents from radiation.

  The administrative and living spaces had been excavated rather than built, so the walls were of rough-hewn stone, still marked where the robotic mining machines had eaten their way through the rock.

  The corridor ended at what looked like an alcove but was actually a shaft. Narbakov stepped inside, flexed his knees, and jumped upwards. Leonid did likewise. The next landing was ten feet up, but thanks to his almost nonexistent body weight, the merchant had little difficulty making the jump. He waited for the hand bar, grabbed it, and was spared the indignity of crashing headfirst into the padded ceiling.

  A technician nodded, stepped into midair, and floated downwards.

  Leonid pushed himself out into the main corridor. There was another vertical shaft to his immediate right. The simplicity and efficiency of the system pleased him.

  The corridor was crowded with miners, technicians, and the occasional legionnaire, all of whom were forced to vie for space with robots, automated transporters, piles of supplies, broken-down mining equipment, and the mess caused by the never-ending construction. That plus the poor lighting made for a crowded and almost oppressive atmosphere.

  Passersby could have been gloomy and depressed, and probably should have been. After all, they were under constant attack and cut off from help. But Leonid was struck by, and somewhat proud of, the fact that they weren’t. The jokes, smiles, and routine greetings were much as they had been prior to the Hudathan attacks, with only tired eyes, and in some cases fresh bandages, to show the pressure they were under.

  It was as if Narbakov could read his mind. “Morale is surprisingly good.”

  Leonid nodded his agreement.

  Both men grinned, knowing they were likely to disagree about everything else.

  The staging area in front of the main lock was a madhouse. The smell of stale sweat hung over the crowd like a cloud, only slightly diluted by the sharp tang of ozone and the all-pervasive odor of chemical sealants.

  Thirty or forty men and women were in various stages of undress as they either donned or removed their space armor. Six of them were legionnaires and came to attention when Narbakov appeared. He returned their salutes and slapped a woman on the back.

  “Nice work, Sergeant. Your team did well.”

  Leonid had no idea what the officer was referring to, but smiled, and nodded his agreement. It was important to show civilian support.

  “Stand aside! Get away from the hatch!”

  The voice was amplified and originated from within the lock. A klaxon sounded, a beacon flashed, and doors slid open. The first thing to emerge was a blast of cold air. That was followed by a transporter, which, like most equipment on Spindle, was extremely light and powered by a small electric motor. It lurched slightly as its balloon-style tires hit the uneven floor.

  The machine carried a heavy load, though, including a pair of wounded bio bods, a badly mangled Trooper II, and three medics. All, with the exception of the cyborg, wore space suits with the helmets off. One of them caught sight of a med tech and yelled instructions.

  “We’ve got a borg with a jammed life support module, a leaky pressure system, and more holes than a Swiss cheese! Tell surgery to prepare suite four, rig a number three laser, and stand by. We’re on the way.”

  Leonid stepped aside to make room for the transporter. Held aloft by the lack of gravity, and pulled by the vehicle’s suction, a cloud of vaporized blood followed behind. The wounded bio bods were conscious, but the Trooper II just lay there, like a giant among Lilliputians. The merchant wished him or her the best.

  Some miners were slow to move out of the transporter’s way and Narbakov gave one of them a shove.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you? Get the hell out of the way!”

  The miner turned, raised his fists, and paused.

  Narbakov was frustrated, worried about the cyborg, and ready to take it out on someone. It must have shown, because the miner made a face and waved the officer off.

  Narbakov pressed an angry thumb against the pressure plate on his locker. It opened with a pop.

  “Civilian asshole!”

  Leonid thought about the men and women on Spindle’s surface, risking their lives to rearm cyborgs like the one on the transporter, but decided to let it pass.

  They stepped into their suits, checked each other’s seals, and entered the lock. It was crammed to capacity with repair crews, legionnaires, and supplies. In spite of the fact that their helmets were on, most had open visors and were still talking to each other.

  “Good to see you doing some work.”

  “Work? What the hell would you know about work?”

  “Screw off, toolhead. I do more work in one shift than you do in two.”

  “... his head right off. Couldn’t find the damned thing afterwards. Must be in orbit.”

  “So where’s the navy? That’s what I wanta know ... where’s the fraxing navy?”

  “So she says, ‘Hey, dude, wanta get it on?’ And I say ...”

  “... an entry in my file. Can you believe that shit?”

 
; A klaxon went off. The voice belonged to a woman who had never been off planet Earth.

  “Seal your suits. Seal your suits. Seal your suits.”

  The chatter stopped instantly. Visors were sealed, checks were made, and silence prevailed. The regulations regarding radio discipline were strictly enforced. Unnecessary conversation could cost a civilian a week’s pay or put a legionnaire on report.

  No one resented the rules, or tried to flout them, because to do so was to risk lives. Their own and others as well. There were a lot of ways to die on Spindle, and good clear communications were critical to keeping the death rate as low as possible.

  The hatch opened and people spilled out onto the asteroid’s surface. This was the moment that Leonid always looked forward to, the time when he stepped out of the lock and was bathed in dull red sunlight.

  The sun was huge and filled a quarter of the merchant’s vision. His visor darkened slightly, but not much, since the dwarf produced only 0.4 percent as much energy as the same area of the sun seen from Earth’s surface. It was one of the things that he missed the most, the warmth of sunshine on his skin and the interplay of sun and clouds. Pleasures that disappeared when you lived inside an asteroid.

  This sun was different. It had a mass twenty-five times that of Jupiter, or about one-fortieth that of Earth’s sun. But despite its large mass, the dwarf had a radius of only 76,900 kilometers, giving it an average density of 26, a statistic that took on additional significance when compared to the density of lead ( 11 ), gold ( 19), and osmium (22).

  The dwarf had begun to contract from a gas cloud about 154 million years previously, and its deuterium-burning phase had been over for 79 million years. It was still cooling, with a surface temperature of 1,460 K, as compared to the sun’s 5,780 K, and was hotter inside than out. Material near the core would heat up, expand, and rise towards the surface. There it would cool, become more dense, and sink towards the interior.