“Yes, if this is how you live, I would love to be like you.”
A feeling similar to gentle laughter eddied around her.
“Dr. Valerie felt that way too. She wanted to know if we could take her in, make her part of ourselves, and leave her other body behind.”
“And could you?”
Norwood felt a deep sadness sweep over her.
“No, unfortunately not. Not even when the Hudathans came to kill her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, the Hudathans have brought us much sorrow, an emotion we’ve only rarely felt before. Still, each experience brings a lesson, and this one is no exception. Teach us that we might learn.”
Norwood remembered Baldwin and wondered if he was having the same dream. She started to speak, started to ask that very question, but the voice interrupted before she could do so.
“No, the other soldier has different dreams. Here, we will show you.”
Before Norwood could object, she became part of a nightmare.
Baldwin had been asleep for about thirty minutes when the hand shook his shoulder. It belonged to his aide, Lieutenant List, a darkly seen form that stood next to his cot.
Baldwin swung his still-booted feet over the side and felt them sink into the mud under his bunk. A steaming cup of hot coffee was thrust his way and he took it.
“Yeah? What the hell does he want now?”
The “he” referred to General Nathan Kopek, the Emperor’s twenty-five-year-old nephew, a major pain in the ass. List understood and responded accordingly.
“The general has a plan and would like your opinion.”
Baldwin chuckled softly. “That’ll be the day. Still, your tact is appreciated and will come in handy someday. Assuming you survive, that is.”
List smiled, nodded, and slipped out through an opening in the curtain.
Baldwin stood, sipped the cup dry, and relished the warmth that spread through his stomach. He thought about a shave, rejected the idea as a waste of time, and pushed the curtain to one side.
Mud squished under his boots as he circled some ammo cases and entered the ops center. A computer beeped softly, the radios murmured, and Staff Sergeant Maria Gomez swore as she dropped a stylus and was forced to fish it out of the goo. They had tried to keep the mud out, but found it was damned near impossible and had finally given up.
“Damn this pus ball anyway!”
Baldwin removed his combat harness from the back of a chair and buckled it on. “I’ll second that motion.”
“Oh, sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were there.”
“That’s quite all right, Sergeant. You can swear at this planet all you want. And give it a few licks for me.”
Gomez smiled. The colonel was all right, more than all right, damned good-looking. Too bad she wasn’t an officer. She’d screw his brains out.
“Would you like something to eat, sir? I’ve got some heavily modified X-rats on the stove.”
Baldwin sniffed. Gomez could make anything taste good—everyone knew that—and the smell was tempting. But Kopek would throw a fit if he took more than five or ten minutes to reach the command bunker.
“Thanks, but no thanks. The general awaits.”
Gomez wanted to say something comforting but knew that she couldn’t. That would mean lifting the veil of pretense that hung over the brigade, violating the charade in which they pretended that the general deserved his comets and was a rational being. No, that would never do, so she held her tongue.
Baldwin selected a poncho from the three or four that hung near the entrance to the bunker and pulled it over his head. He opened the door to the alcove, waited for the bunker’s computer to clear him through, and made his way up the ramp to ground level.
It was night and miserable as hell. The rain tapped against Baldwin’s head, his breath fogged the air, and his boots sank into the mire. It took a conscious effort to pull them free, step forward, and let them sink again.
A sentry started to salute, remembered that he shouldn’t, and tried to hide what he’d done.
Baldwin smiled. “Thanks, Private. The geeks have enough advantages. No point in picking targets for them.”
“Yes, sir, I mean no, sir, sorry, sir.”
“That’s all right. I hope your relief comes soon.”
The sentry was silent but felt a little warmer as the officer trudged away.
The command bunker was on the far side of the compound, intentionally separated from his in case of an attack, which meant that he had a long ways to go.
A flare soared into the air, went off with a loud pop, and bathed the fire base in a hard white glare. It was followed by the thump-thump-thump of a heavy machine gun and the cloth-ripping sound of lighter weapons, as the geeks probed the outer wire. Energy beams flashed, robot spots hummed into position, and a section of radio-controlled mines was detonated.
It was a harassment raid, intended to keep the humans awake and scared shitless. It was working, because morale had already started to slide and was taking efficiency along with it.
A balloon-tired APV, all rigged out for desert warfare and shipped to Agua IV by mistake, rounded the side of a sandbagged tent and lost traction. The engine raced and the tires whined. Semi-liquid crud flew in every direction.
Mud spattered across the front of Baldwin’s poncho and dripped onto his boots. He turned away, chose an alternate path, and kept on going.
The APV was a good example of how hosed things were. The indigs, a stubborn group of sentient quadrupeds, had taken exception to annexation and were fighting an effective guerrilla action against the “Imperial warmongers.”
Incensed by this obvious act of treason, the head warmonger himself had dispatched a brigade of army troops to Agua IV under the command of his favorite nephew, all the better to season the lad and prepare him for mayhem on a truly massive scale.
Never mind that the boy was fresh out of the Imperial Military Academy, arrogant as hell and addicted to Gar weed. And never mind that the supply idiots had continued to send them Class III desert gear or that the geeks outnumbered them thousands to one or that the terrain was damned near impassable. The brigade had to win or forever tarnish the empire’s nonexistent honor.
Still, as screwed up as things were, Baldwin felt sure they could win if he were allowed to lead his own troops. But that was impossible, since General Nathan Kopek had refused the role of figurehead and insisted on making the decisions himself, no matter how stupid, irrational, or suicidal those decisions might be.
There was a roar of sound as a black-on-black troop carrier passed overhead and dropped toward the well-defended LZ. Another followed it, and another, in a steady stream of heavily armored aircraft.
The rain forced Baldwin to blink. It ran back along his face and trickled down his neck. Something, the rain or something else, sent a shiver down his spine.
What the ... ? There was no exercise, no mission, slated for tonight. Then it came to him. Kopek! The miserable bastard was up to something!
Baldwin ran towards the command tent. The mud sucked at his boots as if trying to hold him back. He was conscious of movement around him, of heavily armed troops emerging from their underground bunkers and moving towards the LZ.
Damn! Damn! Damn! What was the silly sonofabitch up to now?
A momentary flash of light came from the direction of the command bunker and Baldwin hurried towards it. A sentry moved to block his way, saw who it was, and stepped aside.
The ramp was slick with rain, but free of mud, thanks to the efforts of the poor slobs assigned to that day’s shit detail. Baldwin palmed the door lock, was recognized by the bunker’s computer, and stepped inside.
The alcove was full of neatly arranged boots and carefully hung ponchos. Kopek might be a dope addict, but he was a tidy one, and lord help the poor slob who tracked mud into the general’s personal domain.
But Baldwin was in a hurry and seething with anger. He palmed the second door, waited for
it to hiss aside, and stepped through. His boots left big muddy prints on the spotless red carpet. He took ten paces forward, put hands on hips, and looked around.
There were ten or fifteen people present. Some were toadies, some were members of the general’s personal bodyguard, and the rest were duty grunts, stuck with operating the com gear or providing administrative support. All of them looked his way.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
General Nathan Kopek was a slim young man with hooded eyes and pouty lips. He was in the process of donning an ornate set of battle armor with the help of his batman.
“I believe it is customary to address superior officers as ‘sir’ or ‘madam.’ Please do so.”
“Yes, sir. So what the hell’s going on here, sir?”
Kopek saw the muddy bootprints and frowned disapprovingly.
“We are in the process of preparing a surprise attack. Something you would be well aware of if you spent more time attending to your duties and less time in the sack.”
Baldwin searched the other man’s eyes, looked for the dilated pupils typical of Gar weed users, and found them. They looked like lakes of darkness. Kopek was using, and subject therefore to all the drug’s effects, including delusions of grandeur, a false sense of omnipotence, and occasional hallucinations. Baldwin fought the desire to yell and scream. It was extremely important to remain rational and in control.
“I see. And the target of this attack?”
The batman fumbled a closure and Kopek pushed him away. He buttoned the flap himself. His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “Geek central, the nursing complex at Alpha Three, Zebra Seven.”
Baldwin considered what Kopek had said. The humans had known about the nursing complex for some time. Almost all of the indig’s offspring were born there, entering the world in one of the many birthing caves, where they were warmed by natural hot springs and blessed by the priesthood. It was a holy place, and a poor one to attack, since doing so would earn the humans a level of hatred that no amount of diplomacy would ever erase.
But there were other reasons to avoid the place as well. Military reasons that the general had chosen to ignore. The nursing complex was located deep inside a mesa-shaped mountain. The mountain had sheer walls and was surrounded by an impenetrable rain forest on one side and a rushing river on the other. The only practical way to get into the place would be to land on top of the mountain and fight down through a veritable maze of tunnels and caves. Each foot of the way would be contested by fanatical warriors, defending not just their freedom but the very existence of their race. Such an attack would be more than suicidal, it would be unbelievably stupid and would lead to disastrous results.
Baldwin swallowed hard. “Sir, I beg you to reconsider. It will be extremely difficult to penetrate the tunnel complex. The indigs will defend every foot of tunnel to the death and hate us forever if we win.”
Kopek nodded as if he had expected those very arguments. “Just the sort of rationalizations one would expect from a slacker and a coward. Your request to reconsider is denied.”
Baldwin came to attention. “In that case I request the general’s permission to lead the assault.”
Kopek waved the words away and allowed his batman to hand him a gold-tipped swagger stick. “Don’t be silly. I have no intention of granting you a position from which you can sabotage my efforts. No, you’ll be where cowards should be, safe and sound. Guards! Place Colonel Baldwin under arrest and throw him in the stockade.”
Baldwin was still screaming his objections when the guards threw him into the muddy stockade, still pleading when the troop carriers lifted off, and still crying long after the sound of their engines had disappeared.
The subsequent massacre, in which Kopek was one of the first to die, had made headlines clear across the empire. It was dramatic stuff.
Never mind that the attack had been poorly conceived, never mind that more than two thousand soldiers had died, and never mind that the indigs had pushed the humans back onto their isolated fire bases. Kopek’s incompetence would reflect poorly on his uncle, so the truth was twisted into something new and delivered all over the empire.
Kopek was transformed from incompetent to hero. The Emperor himself had laid a wreath on the young warrior’s coffin. Statues had been erected on every world that wanted an Imperial favor, three different and wildly inaccurate holo vids had been shot, and Colonel Alexander Baldwin had been court-martialed.
He was completely excoriated, labeled as a coward, and stripped of his rank. Someone had to take the fall, someone had to pay the price, and he was the logical choice.
It was the bitterness generated by this injustice that had burned its way to the core of Baldwin’s soul, had cut the threads of his humanity and set him on the path towards revenge.
Norwood felt a momentary sense of confusion as she floated free of Baldwin’s memories and became herself once more. Raft One sent soothing thoughts.
“The one called Baldwin sleeps now. He will feel better when he awakes.”
“What about his mission? You wanted to speak with a soldier.”
“I am speaking with a soldier,” Raft One replied easily. “A sane soldier. We would value your advice.”
Norwood thought out loud. “My guess is that the Hudathans would like to recover their ship but are willing to sacrifice it if need be.”
“Yes,” Raft One agreed, “Baldwin’s thoughts confirm what you say. There’s something else as well. It’s his belief that the one called Poseen-Ka is, how do you say, ‘stalling for time.’ Deliberately avoiding combat while he waits for your race to react.”
“How very interesting,” Norwood mused. “I wonder what Poseen-Ka really thinks. Well, regardless of that, the fact remains that the Hudatha have the means to destroy your planet without coming in range of your mental powers.”
“That is correct,” Raft One confirmed. “We acted without consideration of the consequences.”
“Then you have very little choice,” Norwood thought. “You must negotiate the best terms you can.”
“What about the human soldiers?” Raft Three asked. “Will they come to our aid?”
Norwood gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. “A few weeks ago I would have said yes, but I’m no longer certain. I hope so, but Baldwin’s memories reveal how flawed our leadership can be, so there’s no guarantee. All you can do is make a deal and hope for the best.”
“They could destroy us the moment that we release their ship,” Raft Three said suspiciously.
“Maybe,” Norwood agreed, “but I doubt it. To destroy you would be to destroy your abilities, and it’s my guess that the Hudatha would like to study you, something they won’t have time to do until the war is over.”
“It’s risky,” Raft Two put in, “but we don’t have much choice.”
Norwood delighted in the sunlight, the gentle movement of the ocean, and the presence of the Say’lynt.
“No, my friends. The truth of the matter is that you have no choice at all.”
10
Again, in basic training, we had been forbidden to say please or thank you as such words implied the existence of gratitude, charity, and benevolence.
Ex-legionnaire Christian Jennings
Mouthful of Rocks
Standard year 1989
Planet Earth, the Human Empire
Angel Perez stopped just inside the tree line where the combination of the shadows and his camouflage would make him difficult to see. He swept the area for electronic activity, came up empty, and dumped his detectors. The principle was second nature by now. Instructors had screamed it while he was awake and machines had whispered it during his sleep.
“Detection equipment is a two-edged sword. It can find the enemy or reveal your presence. Use it sparingly.”
The meadow appeared to be empty, but appearances can be deceiving, so Perez knew better than to take the situation at face value. He boosted his vid cams to high mag and searched the area for
any of a hundred possible signs—dead grass that could indicate the roof of an underground installation, loose soil that could conceal a minefield, tire tracks, tread marks, old campfires—but the meadow gave no hint of those or any other threats. It was lush with green grass, dotted with yellow and blue wildflowers, and broken here and there by weathered boulders. They were large enough to conceal a few bio bods or a small vehicle, but it didn’t seem likely.
The rest of his company, a mixed force of cyborgs, bio bods, and native troops, was coming up fast. Perez had the point. The transmission was short and scrambled.
“Red Dog One to Pointer Six. Report. Over.”
“Pointer Six to Red Dog One. I have a visual all-clear tree line to ridge line. Over.”
“Roger that. Uplink authorized. Scope the reverse side of the ridge. Over.”
“Roger.”
Perez selected the appropriate frequency, made contact with one of three sky-eyes assigned to that particular area, and took a peek through its vid cam. Shit! There was armor on the other side of the ridge! Big stuff just waiting for his company to emerge from the tree line.
The cyborg activated the command channel just as the enemy identified the sky-eye and blew the device out of the sky.
“Pointer Six to Red Dog One. Over.”
“This is Red Dog One. Go, Pointer Six.”
“There are fifteen to twenty heavies dug in on the reverse side of the slope. I have a ninety-six percent match with indig armor. Over.”
“Roger, Red Dog One. Sit tight. Over.”
Perez allowed himself a brief moment of relaxation. The training exercise was just that, a virtual-reality scenario created to test recruits like Perez.
Which explained why he couldn’t remember what the company CO looked like, where the outfit had been the day before yesterday, or what planet he was on. Perez knew that the instructors could have filled those gaps had they chosen to but saw no need.
After all, why bother? The meadow looked real, the breeze felt real, and the situation was real for all practical purposes, since his life depended on the outcome. Unlike bio bods, cyborgs were subjected to something called the “graduation exercise,” or GE, which they either passed or failed. The GE was the culmination of basic training, the final test of all that the recruits had learned, and so close to actual combat that the two were virtually indistinguishable. If Perez passed, he’d be admitted to the ranks of the Legion, and if he failed, his life would be forfeit just as it would be in actual combat.
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