Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned

by William C. Dietz

  Norwood swore silently. So much for the bluff.

  Baldwin hissed at the guards. One said something into a hand-held communicator. The other turned Norwood around and pointed her in the opposite direction.

  Baldwin and Imbala-Sa led the way. That was the ironic part, Norwood thought to herself. Baldwin was as much a prisoner as she was. What was wrong with him anyway? What about the court-martial? Had Baldwin been railroaded like some people said?

  Norwood pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. Nothing could justify what he’d done. Nothing.

  The journey to the command center was a blur. It seemed as if seconds had passed when the hatch slid upwards and she was ushered inside. The holo tank that had dominated the center of the room during her previous visit had disappeared. In its place was an oval-shaped riser. She was told to stand on it ... as was a surprised Baldwin.

  “Uh-oh,” Norwood said conversationally. “You’re in trouble again. I wonder how long they’ll fry you this time.”

  Baldwin did his best to look unconcerned, but little beads of sweat had popped out all over his forehead.

  Poseen-Ka watched the humans enter the compartment. He felt mixed emotions. A part of him was furious about Keem-So’s death, while another part was almost serenely detached, thinking about Norwood’s escape and the fact that it was symbolic of his dilemma.

  The humans were dangerous, all right, that much was clear, but what to do? Attack the center of the alien empire as his superiors had ordered him to do, or stall, waiting to see how his adversaries would react?

  Both courses of action were fraught with hidden dangers. To attack inwards, towards the center of the Human Empire, was to risk his entire fleet.

  What if the humans undertook a massive response? Based on the intelligence supplied by Baldwin, the aliens possessed military forces nearly equal to his. The human claimed that they were divided, poorly led, and subject to Imperial whim. But what if he was wrong? Or worse yet, intentionally misleading those with whom he had supposedly aligned himself?

  The other course was equally dangerous, if not more dangerous still. To stall, after the attack on Worber’s World, was to sacrifice the value of the surprise attack. The humans could, and probably would, use the time to prepare ... leading to higher casualties later on. That, plus the political risk involved, suggested that he ignore his fears and follow orders. The problem was that his fears were so strong, so deep-seated, that they were impossible to ignore. That was the unstated purpose of the meeting. To face those fears and make a decision.

  Norwood looked around. Poseen-Ka was a brooding presence off to her right, looking straight through her, towards the bulkhead beyond. There were two equally inscrutable aliens to his left, and three to the right, hissing among themselves, speaking into hand-held communicators and, in at least one case, toying with a long, wicked-looking knife. The remaining positions were empty, suggesting that some of Poseen-Ka’s staff were on duty elsewhere.

  There was the crackle of static, and a long curvilinear screen popped into existence on the bulkhead to Norwood’s left. It was filled with thousands of colored squares. They rippled, rearranged themselves, and formed five distinct images. The Hudathans looked different, yet similar, variations on a theme. All wore cross-straps and a single red gem. The backgrounds varied, suggesting they were on different ships. They announced themselves in a ritualized manner.

  “Hisep Rula-Ka, Commander Spear One.”

  “Ruwat Ifana-So, Commander Spear Two.”

  “Ikor Niber-Ba, Commander Spear Three.”

  “Niman Qual-Do, Commander Spear Four.”

  “Suko Pula-Ka, Commander Spear Five.”

  Poseen-Ka sat up straight. Side conversations ended, communicators disappeared, and the long, wicked-looking knife was returned to its sheath. The war commander spoke Hudathan, but his words were translated into standard and projected to the humans.

  “Welcome. We have much to discuss. Before we begin, however, I would like to hear from Colonel Natalie Norwood and Colonel Alex Baldwin. While our cultures are different, there are similarities as well, including a belief that warriors should know their enemies. With that in mind the first question goes to Colonel Norwood.

  “You killed one of my crew and escaped from your cell. Why?”

  Norwood felt her heart beat faster and did her best to stand tall. “We are at war.”

  Poseen-Ka made a gesture with his hand. “This is so. Tell me, human ... what will your race do now?”

  The room was quiet. The question seemed to hang in the air.

  The answer seemed so obvious that Norwood saw no harm in giving it. “They will assemble a fleet, defend the empire, and strike at your homeworld.”

  Poseen-Ka made a gesture of understanding. He looked around the room and up at his spear commanders. The human seemed truthful. He could see the thoughts start to chum. The Hudathan military had enjoyed a long string of victories, so many that the officer corps had become somewhat arrogant. Few took the humans seriously, and of those who did, many felt that the victory over Worber’s World had put the matter to rest.

  But the possibility, no matter how remote, of an attack on their homeworld served to trigger the deep-seated anxieties that lay near every Hudathan’s heart.

  Well, most Hudathans anyway, because Poseen-Ka’s chief of staff, Lance Commander Moder-Ta, looked singularly unconcerned, an attitude that Poseen-Ka would have to take into account, or risk conflict with Moder-Ta’s mentor, Grand Marshal Pem-Da, who not only designed the strategy that Poseen-Ka questioned but functioned as his direct superior too. He turned his attention to Baldwin.

  “What about you, Colonel? Norwood says we are at war. I agree. Yet you make no attempts to escape. Why?”

  Baldwin felt the desire to produce an ingratiating smile and managed to repress it. A smile meant nothing to the Hudathans and would serve to distract them.

  “I consider myself a friend to the Hudathan race and have no desire to escape from their hospitality.”

  Poseen-Ka fingered the gem that symbolized his rank. “Colonel Norwood believes that the humans will launch an immediate counterattack. What is your opinion?”

  Baldwin cleared his throat. He felt the sweat on his forehead and left it alone. What the hell was Poseen-Ka up to? The Hudathan knew damned well what Baldwin thought. So it was a put-up job. A way of getting both views in front of his staff without taking a position himself. But why?

  Wait a minute ... Norwood had expressed an opinion directly opposite to his own. That was it, then! Poseen-Ka, or someone on his staff, had doubts. Who? Moder-Ta? Not very damned likely. Moder-Ta was a fanatic. No, it must be Poseen-Ka himself, and that represented a real threat to Baldwin’s plans. He must eliminate such doubts and convince the alien leader to press the attack. Baldwin chose his words carefully.

  “Our military forces spend most of their time bickering with each other. As a result of that, poor leadership, and an insane Emperor, my fellow humans will react by pulling their forces in towards the center of the empire. By doing so they will cede most, if not all, of the rim worlds to you, and concentrate their forces for what they hope will be a climactic battle.”

  Baldwin liked the sound of what he’d said and paused to look around. He was still in the process of learning the nuances of Hudathan body language and facial expression but saw signs of approval. Thus encouraged, he resumed his speech.

  “Unweakened by more than token resistance, and having had more time to prepare, the Hudathan fleet will crush the human fleet and reduce them to servitude.”

  The last part was more hopeful than certain, since it was the Hudathan tendency to annihilate other races rather than subjugate them. But Baldwin could hope. It would be rather enjoyable to sit on the dead Emperor’s throne while the same officers who had court-martialed him groveled at his feet.

  Norwood had listened to Baldwin’s words with an increasing sense of dread. His arguments fit the facts and made a great deal more sense th
an hers did. Her comments had been more along the lines of wishful thinking than reasoned analysis. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more Norwood believed Baldwin was correct. The empire would retreat and cede all but the inner worlds to the Hudatha. That’s why they had allowed the torpedoes through—to precipitate a retreat Baldwin felt sure would happen. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach.

  “So,” Poseen-Ka said, “we have two humans, and two views of how their race will react. I think you’ll agree that their comments were interesting if not especially instructive.” He turned to a guard. “Take them away. You know what to do.”

  The guard made a gesture of assent, motioned for Baldwin and Norwood to leave the riser, and herded them towards the hatch. Poseen-Ka waited until the humans were gone, accepted operational reports from the spear commanders, then opened the meeting to discussion.

  The ostensible subject of conversation was strategy, but there were undercurrents as well, most of which centered around the possibility that Norwood was correct.

  But each time those sentiments were voiced, Moder-Ta or one of the more conservative spear commanders would ridicule the officer who had put the opinion forth, gradually freezing all such commentary.

  Seeing that, and knowing that Moder-Ta, along with those that agreed with him, had the weight of Hudathan authority, tradition, and psychology on their side, Poseen-Ka brought the discussion to a close and issued orders to attack.

  It was the right decision. He knew that. But he still couldn’t allay the fear that gnawed from within.

  Their clothes were stripped off and they were strapped to side-by-side tables. The logic was irrefutable. Norwood had misbehaved and must be punished, while Baldwin had brought her aboard and must share in the blame.

  Norwood had expected to die, had wanted to die, and was disappointed. There was no way to know why Poseen-Ka had spared her life, only that he had, and that the price would be high.

  Baldwin struggled to look brave, to be nonchalant, but started to shake the moment that they entered the room. Norwood felt goose bumps pop out as bare flesh came into contact with cold metal.

  Baldwin had a Hudathan-supplied implant, but Norwood didn’t, so wires were connected to her head, arms, breasts, legs, and feet. She wanted to cry, and would have if she’d been alone, but bit her lip instead.

  Neither said anything until the pain started and both were forced to scream. It went on for a long, long time, until Norwood knew nothing but pain, and could no longer tell her screams from his.

  5

  Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

  Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Standard year circa 500 B.C.

  Planet Algeron, the Human Empire

  Wayfar Hardman low-crawled to the edge of the cliff, found a gap between two pieces of shale, and looked down onto the plain below. The humans were little more than dots, spread out to lessen the impact of an ambush, moving forward at a good clip. The wind came from behind the aliens and brought their scent to his super-sensitive nostrils.

  First came the plastic-metal-lubricant odor of the cyborgs. It was as strong and brutal as they were. Hardman made a face and wrinkled his nose. But there were more subtle flavorings as well. The tart, rather pleasant scent of the bio bods, the slightly corrupt odor of the corpse they were about to discover, and the clean-crisp flavor of the air itself.

  Hardman gave a satisfied grunt. The humans would find the body, jump to the proper conclusion, and follow the carefully prepared trail. All the planning, all the work, would soon pay off.

  He watched an airborne scavenger circle the corpse and land. The body was that of Quickhands Metalworker, his first cousin’s oldest son. The unfortunate youngster had died in a climbing accident, and with permission from his family, had been mutilated to resemble a murder victim.

  “If,” as his father had put it, “our son can fight from the grave, then let it be so.”

  And so it was that Metalworker had been left in the middle of a carefully prepared stage. A stage that begged the audience to become part of the play and in so doing, led them towards their own destruction.

  Hardman realized that his thoughts had become somewhat pompous and smiled. Perhaps his daughter was right. Perhaps his sense of drama did get in the way at times. Still, the idea was new and therefore likely to succeed.

  Hardman made a note to bury whatever was left of the body with high honors. He scooted backwards and stood. The Naa chieftain was about six feet tall. Hard muscle rippled under his white chest fur as he made his way through the rocks that littered the top of the low, flat-topped hill. The rest of his body was black with gold highlights and occasional flecks of white.

  He wore a breechcloth, a weapons harness, and a headset copied from those used by the Legion. Thanks to it, and others like it, he had known when the patrol left Fort Camerone, and been informed of every move that it had made since then.

  Hardman grinned. The humans might have machines that looked down from the sky, but he had eyes in the desert, and they missed very little.

  Hardman was able to smell his warriors long before he saw them. The rich amalgam of dooth dung, self-scents, and gun oil hung over the ravine like a cloud. He made a note to thank the mother-father creator for the fact that humans had such a piss-poor sense of smell.

  The war party seemed to pop out of the background as he scrambled down a shale-covered slope. The battle mounts surged slightly as they caught his scent. The length of their shadows signaled the end of another one-hour-and-twenty-one minute day.

  The six-legged dooths were shaggy with winter hair and eager to leave. They were plains animals and disliked the ravine and the dangers that lurked there.

  Hardman waved to his second-in-command, Easymove Nightwalker, picked a path through some boulders, and followed it with a series of graceful leaps. He knew the younger warriors were watching, hoping for a misstep that would signal the onset of old age, but his broad toeless feet found firm purchase among the rocks and landed him in the saddle with a satisfying thump. Challengers, if any, would have to wait for a while.

  Wedgefoot, Hardman’s war mount, stirred uneasily and made the grunting sounds that were typical of its kind. Hardman patted the animal’s massive neck and activated his radio. The cyborgs would be scanning for traffic, so Hardman kept the transmission short.

  “The humans are coming. We will have one cycle of darkness in which to reach our positions. Let’s move.”

  The brief snatch of sound served to jerk Villain up out of the trance-like state induced by the monotony of patrol. It was encrypted, and therefore unintelligible, but important nonetheless. A low-power transmission on that particular band meant someone or something was within a fifty-mile radius of the patrol. She triggered her radio.

  “Roamer Two to Roamer Patrol. I heard traffic on freq four. Confirm.”

  “That’s a negative, Roamer Two,” Gunner replied.

  “Roamer Three didn’t hear it either,” Rossif added.

  “Ditto Roamer Four,” Jones put in.

  Roller’s voice was hard and sarcastic. “What’s the problem, Roamer Two? Getting nervous?”

  Villain was about to reply when Booly’s voice boomed through the interface.

  “Roamer One to Roamer Patrol. Cut the crap. We have some brellas feeding on something off to the right. Let’s take a look, Roamer Two.”

  Servos whirred as Villain moved her head to the right. She saw the cluster of carrion eaters and swore silently. She was the one with the electro-optics, she had the point, and she had missed it. Damn Roller anyway. The bastard had a way of getting under her armor.

  Villain started to jog, scanning the countryside as she did so, determined not to make the same mistake twice. With each step her metal feet broke through the crust of frozen sand and made a loud crunching sound. Booly clung to her back in the same way that her little brother had so long ago. The memory brought pain and s
he pushed it away.

  Focus, she had to focus, had to see what was around her. Little tufts of vegetation dotted the plain, then disappeared as the ground rose, and funneled itself into a canyon. The sky had grown dark and started the transition into night.

  Villain called up a satellite map, zoomed into the section she wanted, and saw that the canyon cut through the foothills to communicate with the desert beyond. The place was custom-made for an ambush. Exactly the sort of route to avoid if at all possible.

  The brellas saw the Trooper II coming but were so gorged with meat that they had difficulty taking off.

  “Slow down and stop fifty feet out.”

  The command came from Booly via intercom rather than radio. It was a kindness on Booly’s part. A recognition that she was green and still learning. Other noncoms, like Roller, for example, would’ve put the order on-air just to humiliate her.

  Villain slowed and came to a halt. The last brella drew air in, pushed it explosively outwards, and lumbered into the air. The body it had been feeding on was that of a Naa, only slightly decomposed, but badly disfigured by scavengers.

  “The body could be booby-trapped,” Booly said calmly, “or surrounded by mines. That’s why you stop to scope things out.”

  Villain knew this was a valuable lesson and was careful to file it away. The sergeant major switched to radio.

  “Roamer One to Roamer Seven ... I need a trooper on the double.”

  Booly climbed down from his perch on Villain’s back and circled the body. He felt stiff and sore but was careful to conceal it. There was no sign of booby traps, but he did see dooth dung, scuff marks, and some empty shell casings. All pointed to a fight of some kind, and based on the way they were spread around, the legionnaire suspected a one-sided battle.

  Wismer had been forced to run from the depression in which Gunner was crouched and arrived slightly out of breath.