Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned

by William C. Dietz

  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.

  The GE was a brutal uncompromising test designed to separate the weak from the strong and the dull from the bright. It stemmed from simple economics. It cost very little to train and equip a bio bod. But the technologically sophisticated bodies provided to cyborgs were expensive, a fact that made it worth the Legion’s while to identify the most durable and agile minds. The rest were destroyed, as they would have been anyway, had they been executed or allowed to die of natural causes. No one knew how or when that death would come, only that it would, and that no exceptions were made. Perez pushed the thought away.

  He’d come a long way since first awakening. He’d endured the insults, the zappers, and the endless mind-numbing drill. He’d learned new skills, overcome bad habits, and survived where Morales, Sibley, Lisano, Ho, and Contas had died. Yes, the very thing that had destroyed some of his fellow recruits had strengthened Perez and made him better.

  The critical moment had arrived during a field exercise. The squad had done well for once and earned a ten-minute break. It takes effort to keep a trainer on its feet, so the recruits had lowered themselves to the ground, and discussed the relative merits of bestiality.

  Most of the stories were lies, but the conversation caused the recruit to look around and realize what jerks his companions were. It was a moment of Epiphany, of sudden realization, when Perez accepted the fact that he was no better than they were, and probably worse. The decision to change that, to make himself a better person, had seemed like the logical thing to do.

  During the days that followed he dealt with the loss of his body, accepted the fact that it was his own fault, and decided to make amends. Assuming such a thing was possible, that is.

  “Red Dog One to Pointer Six. Heads up. We’re on your tail. Over.”

  Perez checked his forward-looking sensors again and came up empty. He triggered his radio. “Roger that, Red Dog One. Over.”

  Then they were all around him, quads, the earth shaking under their pod-shaped feet, Trooper IIs like himself, trees swaying where massive shoulders had brushed them, and bio bods, slipping from one shadow to the next like evil spirits.

  The quads would cross the open space first, followed by a mix of Trooper IIs and bio bods, with the lightly armored support vehicles and native troops bringing up the rear.

  The enemy armor would get in some licks, but the vacuum jockeys would keep the bastards pinned until the quads could finish them off. Some of the legionnaires, members of the 2nd REP, would go straight up the scree-covered slope, but most of the force had been divided into two groups and ordered to sweep around opposite ends of the hill.

  Perez was impatient and eager to get the whole thing over with. He welcomed the order when it came.

  “Red Dog One to Red Dog Force. Let’s kick some ass. Over.”

  The quads stepped out into the open and a trio of heavily armored ground support aircraft screamed out of the sky. Fingers of white appeared along their wings and pointed towards the enemy. The missiles made dull thumping sounds as they hit, and smoke boiled up from the other side of the ridge.

  A barrage of SAMs rose to greet the planes. They rolled, split formation, and dumped chaff. Some of the missiles went for it and some didn’t. Of those that didn’t, most were destroyed by antimissile missiles, but at least two made it through. Both hit the same aircraft. It exploded in midair and rained debris on the enemy. Perez waited for a chute but didn’t see one.

  The recruit followed the quads out onto the field, checked to make sure there was plenty of space between himself and the others, and brought his sensors on-line. The battle had started and there was no point in stealth.

  The enemy armor opened fire, lobbing shells up and over the ridge line, while remaining hidden from view. The barrage was computer-controlled and designed to fall in a neat checkerboard pattern. It turned the meadow into a hell of exploding shells and flying metal.

  Perez moved forward, waiting for the range to close, waiting to kill. What? Why? He didn’t know. The simulations never said. It was as if it didn’t matter, as if Perez had no need to know why he fought, so long as he did. And, remembering all that they’d taught him about the Legion’s traditions and history, the cyborg knew it was true. The Legion always went where it was ordered to go, did what it was ordered to do, and, with the exception of Algeria in the 1960s, had never objected.

  The CO was brisk and matter-of-fact.

  “Red Dog One to Red Dog Force. Remember the plan. Break left and break right. Get a move on. The longer we stay in the middle of this meadow, the longer they shoot at us. Over.”

  Perez turned left, saw movement, and zoomed in. Armor! The enemy had guessed the Legion’s plan and were coming out to fight! He activated his radio.

  “Pointer Six to Red Dog One. We have enemy armor preparing to engage our left flank. Over.”

  “Red Dog One to Pointer Six. Roger that. Hold as long as you can. Red Dog Seven and Eight are on the way. Over.”

  “That’s a roger, Red Dog One.”

  Perez saw that two of the light tanks were heading straight for him. He glanced left then right. He was all alone! The incoming shells had destroyed the nearest quad and three Trooper IIs. The quads designated as Red Dog Seven and Eight were nowhere in sight.

  An energy beam sizzled by his head. Another scorched the earth in front of him. A line of explosions marched across the field behind him. Shrapnel rattled off his armor. Perez took two quick steps, felt his right foot sink into a hole, and fell face-downwards on the ground. Damn, damn, damn!

  Would the instructors pull the plug on him right now? Send him plunging into the blackness of death? Or give him another chance?

  Nothing happened, so Perez assumed the best, rolled onto his right side, and fired a smoke grenade from the launcher located on the inside surface of his left arm. It hit the ground about ten feet away. Gray-black smoke boiled up around him just as the tanks arrived.

  The tankers must have lost track of him, or assumed that he’d been hit, because both had redirected their fire to the soft-skinned vehicles toward the tree line.

  The tanks were huge things, their tracks reaching as high as the cyborg’s head, crushing everything they encountered. Not thinking of the consequences, not sure of what he was doing, Perez stood and jogged along between them.

  Each vehicle was equipped with a tri-barrel energy cannon. The air crackled, hissed, and popped as they fired. A canvas-covered truck exploded; bodies flew through the air and fell into the resulting fire. The screams were horrible.

  Perez considered his missiles, rejected them because of the short range, and chose his laser cannon instead. It would never penetrate the tank’s armor-plated sides, but the tracks were more vulnerable and offered an acceptable target.

  Still jogging, Perez aimed his cannon at the tank on the right and fired. Blue light flared, hit a drive wheel, and held. Nothing happened at first, and it was difficult to run and stay on target at the same time, but he kept on.

  The laser had never been intended for sustained fire and started to overheat. Specially designed feedback circuits fed pain to the cyborg’s brain. He fought the pain, saw the drive wheel turn cherry red and fuse with the track. The result was both sudden and completely unexpected. The track seized up, the tank turned left, and its energy cannon burped blue light. The resulting beam struck the other tank’s turret, bored its way inside, and hit an ammo bin. The resulting explosion destroyed b
oth of the tanks and Perez as well.

  The blackness faded along with the neural interface. The support rack whirred, delivered Perez to a standing position, and went silent. The sergeant known as “Sir” stepped out of the control room, grinned, and delivered a mock salute.

  “Congratulations, Perez. You were stupid but brave. Just the sort of borg the Emperor wants most! Welcome to the Legion.”

  His internal advisors were especially strident that morning and the Emperor found it difficult to concentrate. Some were telling him how to deal with the Hudathans, others were urging him to have sex with the specially designed android that Governor Amira had shipped him, and at least two were arguing the merits of Bach versus an alien composer named Uranthu.

  The Emperor frowned, pressed fingers to his temples, and willed them to be quiet. Some obeyed and some didn’t.

  The Emperor nodded to his herald, waited through the usual announcement, and slipped through the curtains.

  The palace boasted two throne rooms, one for ceremonial occasions and a smaller, more intimate version reserved for the day-to-day business of running the empire. This was the smaller chamber, painted white and finished with gold trim. Heavy red curtains hung along one wall, made a fitting backdrop for the throne, and hid the passageway from which the Emperor emerged.

  The throne was simple rather than ornate and was quite comfortable. It sat on a well-carpeted riser and faced a semicircle of now empty chairs. All of his most trusted advisors were there, bowing, curtseying, and in some cases, sending him what they hoped were significant looks. The Emperor had no idea what the looks meant, but nodded anyway, and was rewarded with a number of self-satisfied smiles.

  The Emperor sat on his throne and looked around. This was the third such meeting since the Hudathan incursion had begun, and his advisors had arrayed themselves along both sides of the issue.

  Admiral Scolari was still intent on a withdrawal. By gathering all of their forces in one place, she planned to create a shield on which the Hudathan spear would almost certainly break. Or so she claimed. The fact that she was on friendly terms with the corporations that referred to themselves as “The Consortium of Inner Planets” had not escaped the Emperor’s attention.

  Governor Zahn was a clever politician whose system was located well within the boundaries that Scolari was willing to defend, and he sided with her.

  General Worthington was pretending to be neutral but would almost certainly cave in to Scolari when neutrality was no longer possible.

  Like Chien-Chu, the formidable Madam Dasser had financial interests in the rim worlds and was determined to sway the council towards a vigorous defense.

  Professor Singh was mostly brain and very little emotion. He alone had pointed out that due to the tremendous distances involved, the conflict would take place over months, and possibly years. He saw the whole thing as a game, not unlike chess, and believed in preserving all of the empire’s options until the very last moment. It was Singh’s advice that the Emperor had used to delay a final decision. Not because he necessarily agreed with the academic, but because he found it difficult to decide, and didn’t want to offend the ever-so-delicious General Marianne Mosby.

  She was resplendent in her general’s uniform and confident that he’d see things her way. They’d been seeing each other for about three weeks now, and her attempts to influence him had been just as vigorous as her lovemaking, and a lot more predictable. A bit boring actually, which meant that he’d have to do something about it soon, but not quite yet. No, he’d enjoy the general for another week or so, after which he’d be forced to make a decision about the Hudatha, a decision that might or might not be to Mosby’s liking. He smiled.

  “Please be seated.”

  Expensive fabrics rustled and swished as his advisors took their seats.

  “Bach was a great composer, but Uranthu is a great composer, and we have yet to understand the full scope of his work.”

  All of them had heard such non sequiturs before and had become quite adept at hiding their reactions. Scolari frowned, and Madam Dasser shifted her weight from one side of the chair to the other, but the rest of them showed no reaction.

  Governor Zahn sought to get the conversation on track. He was a wiry little man with a dome-shaped head and big hands. The shoulders of his cape were covered with stardust, a medallion in the shape of his planetary crest hung around his shoulders, and his pants were fashionably baggy.

  “An interesting observation, Your Highness. I’m sure that all of us look forward to hearing more of citizen Uranthu’s s music. In the meantime, however, there are some other items of business that demand our attention, and, in light of your busy schedule, I suggest that we discuss them now.”

  Part of the Emperor was annoyed to have his comment dismissed so lightly, but another aspect of his personality was pleased with the way that Zahn had saved him from the possibility of embarrassment, and played along.

  “You’re quite right, Governor Zahn. We must keep our noses to the grindstone. How about it, then? What are the Hudathans up to now? Admiral Scolari? General Worthington? General Mosby? A report, please.”

  Scolari was jealous of such opportunities and had made it quite clear to both Worthington and Mosby that she was senior and would therefore speak for all three of them when that was appropriate. She made a production of checking her notes.

  “The Hudatha have continued to advance since the attack on Worber’s World. They have taken possession of at least seven of our outlying systems, destroyed hundreds of ships, and either captured or neutralized a long list of other assets as well.”

  Chien-Chu grimaced at the admiral’s choice of words. His son, and the others unfortunate enough to be on Spindle, were fighting for their very lives. To refer to them as “assets” was to relegate them to the status of things rather than people. He struggled to control his frustration and found his eyes drawn to Madam Dasser’s. She smiled grimly and gave a little shrug, as if to say she was sorry.

  The Emperor made a steeple with his fingers. It reminded him of the pyramid that he’d erected over his mother’s grave. It was huge, and completely transparent, so that sunlight could dance across the surface of her tomb. The words came of their own accord.

  “Mommy liked a lot of sunlight. That’s why the palace has so many windows.”

  “Yes,” Admiral Scolari agreed smoothly, “your mother was a wonderful woman. We all miss her. I wonder how she would have dealt with the current crisis.”

  “Crisis?” The Emperor fought for control. The last comment had been his and couldn’t be blamed on the copies. Scolari was smooth.

  “Seven systems have been lost to Hudathan aggression. We must formulate some sort of response. I recommend that we withdraw all of our forces from the outlying sectors, use them to reinforce the inner planets, and meet the aliens with our full strength.”

  “And I respectfully disagree,” Mosby said calmly. “I recommend that we use the home fleets to reinforce the rim worlds, fight for every square mile of vacuum, and wear the bastards down. Failure to do so will result in a casualty rate that is higher than necessary and lend encouragement to our other enemies as well.”

  “Well said,” Madam Dasser said pointedly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Sergi?”

  Chien-Chu smiled and nodded dutifully. “Yes, I would. I find the general’s arguments to be most persuasive.”

  “Persuasive, but not necessarily convincing,” Governor Zahn said smoothly. “I believe that there’s a good deal to be said for Admiral Scolari’s point of view.”

  The Emperor let his hand stray down to the side of his throne. It shook slightly. He pressed what looked like an upholstery tack but was actually a button. His herald appeared as if by magic, hurried to his side, and whispered gobbledegook into his ear. The Emperor nodded wisely, dismissed the man with a wave of his hand, and stood. His advisors hurried to do likewise.

  “My apologies. Pressing though the matter under discussion is, the empire is a com
plicated organism, and other matters vie for my attention as well. I shall consider all that’s been said and render a decision soon. Thank you.”

  The advisors were silent for a moment after the curtains closed. Silent, and with the possible exception of Professor Singh, frustrated, since no decisions had been made.

  But all of them were aware that the throne room could be bugged, and probably was, so they reserved their comments until out in the hall. There they paused, said their goodbyes, and went their separate ways.

  Chien-Chu found himself walking by Madam Dasser. She was at least seventy years old, but looked a good deal younger and walked with the ebullience of a teenage girl. She had short, carefully kept gray hair, pretty features, and almost flawless skin. Her clothes were expensive but simple. She spoke first.

  “There’s a precedent, you know.”

  “Really? And what’s that?”

  “Nero. They say he fiddled while Rome burned.”

  “They also say he set the fire himself, in order to clear ground for his new palace.”

  “And you think the Emperor is capable of such manipulations?”

  Chien-Chu smiled and shrugged. “Who’s to say?”

  Madam Dasser looked at him critically. Her bright blue eyes gleamed with intelligence. “You’re an interesting man, Sergi. Your words lead in interesting directions but never arrive anywhere.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Anything, for god’s sake. We must react before the Hudathans destroy all that we’ve built.”

  “You think it’s that serious?”

  Madam Dasser stopped and caused Chien-Chu to do likewise. They were at the center of an inner plaza, a place where the noise generated by the central fountain would make eavesdropping difficult. They were of the same height and her eyes looked directly into his.

  “Of course I think it’s that serious. And you do too. The difference is that I’m ready to act and you’re waiting for a miracle to happen. Well, it isn’t going to happen. The Emperor is only semi-rational at best, and even during his better moments, heavily influenced by his personal desires. You know it, I know it, and the others know it too.”