by George Olney
A scanner tech settled the question. "Command, tentative ID. Probable Imperial troop carrier. Identification correspondence 78%. Combat damage showing."
Imin concentrated intently as visual details began to flow onto the main screen in the PCC. It did look a little like one of the old Impy ships. About 780,000 tonnes. With damage, too. A trained eye told him the ship was running on temporary patches, evidence of being a target sometime in the not-too-distant past.
Signals were coming in on an Imperial standard com band, and he nodded to the com tech, "Open communications."
The man that appeared on the communications screen was wearing a blue Imperial Fleet uniform with a pilot's badge. What caught Imin’s eye was the heavy bandage that covered part of his head. "Imperial Troop Carrier ITC 901 requesting permission to land and coordinates of your port."
Imin moved into the pickup field for the communicator. "I am Commander Imin Webster, commander of the Planetary Guard. We will clear you for the port, once you state your mission and landing is approved by the Guidance Council. You are the first Imperial military ship in this area in many years, so what are you doing here?"
"We are-" the pilot began then he stopped, glanced over his shoulder at someone out of pickup range and turned back to the screen. "Commander, please wait while I shift you to another com."
Before Imin could say anything, the communications screen momentarily blanked. The figure that suddenly appeared was older than the pilot by a good number of years, but vigorous and powerful. His lined and scarred face was partially hidden by a full, heavy beard, shot through with strands of gray. He wore a tapering khaki cylindrical cap tilted forward above steel gray eyes that were burning with the pure power of the smoldering will behind them. The chest of his khaki uniform was crossed by leather belts that obviously supported equipment, or sidearms, outside the range of the screen pickup. Imin wasn't sure, but he thought the insignia on the man's collar designated him as a legionary Legate in the Corps of Imperial Gladius.
"We are here, Commander," the man rumbled in a bass voice as rough as the scars on his face, "simply because we have nowhere else to go."
Imin gaped for a moment then touched the scramble sensor that launched his backup fighter squadron. With the alert over the unknown ship, one squadron was already up and the backup squadron was on five minute standby. Both squadrons would be taking positions before this conversation, wherever it went, was over. His composure back in place, Imin looked the soldier in the eye and said, "I will require a little more information - Legate - before allowing a shipload of Imperial troops to land here."
The Gladius solemnly nodded his head. "Caution is a commendable trait in a young officer. I like to see that, Commander. Very well, I'll be more than happy to provide you with some answers.
"Simply put, I am Legate Abedu Corona, combat commander of the IX Legion, the Victrix. You are exactly right in your fears about the Empire, because the Empire you once knew is now collapsing, some of it sundered in civil wars and revolts, the rest changed. Very changed.
"Our base was destroyed. I led a fighting retreat that salvaged three full cohorts and attachments, the bulk of the legion's combat strength. We took this troop carrier in an attempt to find a world on the frontier that would allow us free settlement and a return to our original purpose, the protection of humanity. We found Cauldwell by following an old route chip and I now ask the privilege of speaking with your government about a peaceful landing."
His eyes blazed briefly with the fire that was forever banked behind them. "Commander, I believe negotiations are the best thing we can do for the moment. It will prevent my crew from having to carry out the distasteful chore of firing on those fighters we are now tracking."
Imin thought hard for a few frantic seconds. "Legate, I understand your situation," he said, more to buy time than anything else.
There was no need to fight as yet. The Legate appeared to be telling the truth and the pilot's wounds, not to mention those of the ship, backed up his story. They were Imperial troops and Cauldwell was still, however slightly, an Imperial planet. Still… "Answer me one thing, Legate, if you will. I know the history of the Corps and you have never run from a fight. Why didn't you fall back on the Empire’s center? Get reinforcements?"
The grim face glared at him. "The Victrix didn't run from a fight, as you put it. We fought to the end and came out with our wounded when the result became inevitable."
The legate turned even grimmer. "Our base - and everything that made it - was destroyed, even though the enemy paid heavily for that destruction.
"But," he smiled ironically, "as to falling back on the Empire's center? The attackers that destroyed Victrix Base, Commander, were Imperial forces."
Imin looked at the fiery Gladius officer for a few more moments, digesting the way the galaxy was turning upside down so suddenly then replied, "I'll get the Narsima Matic Ettranty to speak with you. He's the head of the Guidance Council."
ITC 901
On board the Troop Carrier, Legion Sergeant Major Vladmir Olmeg leaned over to speak quietly to Legate Corona. "Does OCS teach centurions to be so much better than a decurion at spouting official bullshit, Legate?"
Legate Corona twitched a smile. "You have to admit most of what I told that young man was true, Sergeant Major."
"True enough, if limited," Sergeant Major Olmeg replied with his own slight smile. Then he made a small change of subject. "I wonder if the Commander of the Planetary Guard knows what we suspect."
"I doubt it," Legate Corona replied. "I doubt if anyone but this Matic Ettranty and whoever is the Emperor's direct liaison actually knows what Cauldwell really is. If it really is a refuge, that is.
"Here's one thing that's not bullshit, Sergeant Major," he continued with a grim expression. "If Intelligence isn't right about Cauldwell, everything we're planning will be worthless. I don't know where we'll go if they're wrong."
A grim fire flared behind his constantly smoldering eyes. "What I do know is that we're going to do something, whatever Cauldwell turns out to be. Emperor Shangnaman will pay for what he's done!"
CAULDWELL PCC
Imin cut the connection and turned to a nearby junior officer. "Find the Narsima Ettranty. Tell him I'll meet him in his office as soon as possible. I'm on the way right now."
Watching the Guard's commander leave, the com tech commented to the woman running the station on his left, "Looks like things are about to get interesting with the raiders, Marta."
She wasn't a history buff. "What do you mean?"
He grinned at her. "You may not know it, but that old boy was an Imperial Gladius. The Empire's best soldiers."
The grin turned wolfish. "Say you were rampaging across the galaxy devastating Imperial worlds and killing people. One day you turn around and there's a bunch of those guys standing there giving you a dead cold look. That's the Lord Above's way of letting you know you are about to have a shitty day."
CITY PORT
BEAUREGARD,
CAULDWELL
After a period of further negotiation between the Legate and the Narsima, the troopship was allowed to land. Although the negotiations were off the record, the landing was not. Given Cauldwell's highly active press, the Narsima simply resigned himself to their participation. He had control to a degree, but that control had its limits. Besides, they already knew about the troopship - leaks had occurred immediately - and he had no idea what his daughter would do if he didn't publicize the landing. Throw the press - and her - a bone to keep them docile. Soon enough, he'd need their silence on something else much easier to hide.
Cauldwell World News Network's star reporter, Shana Ettranty, was the Narsima's daughter and only child. Shana's appealing - if not quite tridio star beautiful - face, shoulder length brown hair, and athletic figure were perfect for a tridio personality that inspired trust and showed earnest dedication to her profession while being very easy on the male eye. Her beauty, as much as her connection to the Narsima
, were what got her started in her tridio news career. Her intelligence, initiative, and a practical nature that overlaid a well-hidden inner core of steel took her to the top of a highly competitive profession. She always studied her subject in depth, something too many of her colleagues and competitors didn't do, a major reason she was usually first with a scoop.
She was also discreet. Along with a very few others, she knew the actual story behind the legion's damage and arrival here on Cauldwell but held it to herself. The Narsima had suggested - and Legate Corona had agreed - that a cover story was necessary. The idea the Empire was collapsing might unsettle the populace. The ship's damage and the legion's casualties were attributed to the actions of an unspecified "rebellious warlord". The rest of the story could be safely left to the contradictory speculation of talking heads to confuse and cloud.
The landing was unspectacular. The troopship settled softly into position as Shana's tridio crew got some great shots of combat damage and she speculated into her mike about the how and why of it. Cargo came out and was loaded into carriers. The offloading of the troops was also routine, simply men in khaki kilts unloading gear, then assembling into units. Some carriers left as soon as they were loaded, headed for the location the Narsima had ceded to the legion in the undeveloped area near Beauregard.
Shana's father was present at the Port in his official capacity and he was a natural for her to interview. He became very warmly paternal as the tridio cams focused on him. "The Legate said he wanted his men to march to their new base," the Narsima told Shana and her audience as the legion completed forming.
"Humph," he snorted. "The base is thirty kilomeasures away. That's quite a bit of marching in my book, but that was their standard daily distance, when the Corps chose to march. Goes back to the ancient Romans, I understand. Tradition is important to a Gladius."
Shana gave her sound man a look that ensured he was editing the Narsima's remarks before broadcast. The man just grinned back. He was an old hand at making sure politicians didn't embarrass themselves on the air.
Shana turned back to the troop assembly when she heard the legion band strike up. The beginning was almost ghostly, ethereal. Then, as commands - audible at even this distance - were given, the music began to take on a slow rhythmic pulsing beat. The formation began to flow forward with a ponderous marching stride.
Shana couldn't understand what the unit commanders were saying. The words weren't in Unispek. The Narsima supplied the answer. "The Corps of Imperial Gladius has its own language, Copio."
"Each legion has its own band," the Narsima continued to explain. "Music like that hasn't been heard in Cauldwell for several centuries, and I've never even seen recordings of a marching legion."
As the legion slowly came abreast of the spot where Shana and her crew were interviewing the Narsima, she got a better look. Their slow marching pace wasn't awkwardly ponderous when seen close up. Instead, it spoke of massively irresistible grinding power, the force of Empire that controlled thousands of suns and glacially sintered any resistance to dust.
This was the ultimate power of the Emperor on the move. The formation was led by the legion's Sunburst, fixed on a staff carried by a Gladius wearing some kind of animal skin draped across his head and shoulders. Shana noted the grim, bearded commander behind the Sunburst, marching at the head of his troops.
The faces struck Shana next. They had no expression. They weren't quite immobile, but, in some way she couldn't define, projected the emotionless facade of a formidable machine, totally uncaring and always utterly dangerous. The troops seemed oblivious to the crowds, but Shana could sense that each Gladius was totally aware of his surroundings and assessing everything in it. They marched in immaculate formation, each legionary cohort led by a commander and a boy in his mid-teens bearing what looked like a ram's horn, followed by armored carryalls for crew served weapons and battlefield equipment.
The ram's horns sparked Shana's interest, but now wasn't the time to launch her father into a long winded explanation. The rows of khaki clad grim men in their blouses, kilts and carrying personal weapons were a powerful visual image and she wanted as much of it going out as possible. Elaboration would come in the studio. Help had come to Cauldwell, but it was a little frightening. Maybe it was what they needed, she thought.
"No women, no children," the Narsima muttered. "A full legion is the entirety of a very strange people and the women march in the Legion Support Group, but all I see is the fighting strength, and not all of that. Less than three thousand. I wonder what happened to them. Just how bad was that fight they escaped?"
Before Shana could ask the Narsima for an explanation, he said something chilling. Narsima Ettranty scowled at the passing men, marching at a pace that proclaimed their power. "Those men terrify me," he muttered softly.
That remark wasn't broadcast.
#####
Later Shana Ettranty was in her father's apartment as a member of a small select gathering featuring Imin Webster, her father, and the man she most wanted to get in front of a tridio lens, Legate Corona. Shana sipped her drink and stayed in the background. She wanted to avoid calling attention to herself while she studied the soldier. He was her objective, the subject for her next major story, and she was as careful as any hunter on a stalk. She was willing to admit the man fascinated her. That he also frightened her was something she was not prepared to admit, even to herself.
Everyone in the room knew the real story of the legion and the Empire, but they also knew it wasn't a topic of conversation for this meeting. Or anywhere else except in the most secure circumstances. The cover story was working, aided by plenty of smoke and mirrors in the public information nets. That didn't bother her. She'd hidden things before when politics required it. Her interest in the Gladii was from a human angle anyway.
She glanced at the Legate's aide, standing with all of the animation of a statue in the corner, and felt again a little thrill of fear. He was the one that answered the door on her arrival and she found herself in her first face to face meeting with a Gladius. Her immediate impression was of a clean-cut fair young man in a strange uniform, his dark bronze skin contrasting with his very pale blonde hair and eyebrows.
Then she saw the eyes. They were an indeterminate shade of light blue, but terribly emotionless, simply assessing her. Shana felt he would think less of killing her than she would of swatting a fly. If it was called for, her death would be ordained for objective reasons and carried out with a maximum of professional skill. From that moment, she fully understood the mystique - and the fear - of the Gladius.
The Legate was a different story. She thought he seemed to be smoldering with suppressed fanaticism. If his men were ice, he was fire. With his beard, he reminded her of one of the prophets from the Old Christian Bible. On the other hand, he seemed to have a speck of humanity in him. At least he could laugh. Maybe that was why he fascinated her.
Truthfully, the whole legion fascinated her. She felt the urge to dig deeper, learn all she could about them. Shana interpreted her feelings as the professional instincts of Cauldwell's premiere newswoman. She had high hopes of parlaying this little cocktail party into an in-depth study of the entire unit. Adam, her editor, was practically salivating at the idea.
The Narsima was carefully pouring quantities of Cauldwell brandy into everyone's glass, except for the aide, who would take nothing. Once finished he offered the toast, "To the future!"
The Legate responded, "May your harness never fail."
The Narsima explained with the air of a well-prepared student giving a favorite presentation. "Gladii ride into battle on six man antigrav sleds. When they reach their objective, they release themselves and drop to the ground using no-weight belts. The sled continues on, becoming an explosive missile to disrupt the enemy. If a man's harness fails him, he is condemned to ride the sled on to an explosive fate."
The Legate nodded. "Exactly right, Narsima."
Ettranty's beefy face beamed, betraying his
pride in his ability to show off in his hobby.
Shana decided to pounce on the opening. She asked interestedly, "That sounds like a horrible fate! Has it ever happened, Legate?"
He looked at her with what she guessed was the Gladius version of a mildly amiable expression. "Occasionally, Sim. In fact, it happened to me once."
Shana, for her part, was thinking about the formal way the Legate used Unispek like it was a foreign language he'd learned from a book. Did they all speak that way? Enough woolgathering. Get the story. She leaned further forward in her chair. "Please go on," she said. "Tell us how you got away."
The Legate took a sip of his drink, secure in the knowledge he had the full attention of his audience. Away from everyone's attention, a tiny smile played around the corners of his aide's mouth. "Well," he replied in deadpan tones, "I didn't. I was killed."
"But you’re here, now!" Shana dithered.
The rest were silent for a moment, then the fact that they were the butt of a rather strange joke registered. The Narsima snorted and Shana blushed a fiery red.
Legate Corona smiled as he took another sip of his drink. "I apologize, Sim Ettranty," he said. "Simply my little attempt at humor."
The Narsima took a look at the expression on Shana's embarrassed face and chuckled. "I credit you with a score on us, Legate, especially my daughter. You turned the tables as neatly as I've seen it done. You are to be congratulated, Corona.
"But," he waved a lordly finger at the room, "enough of this. Commander Webster has a small presentation to make."
He made a grand gesture at Imin, theatrically turning over center stage to him. Imin nodded in acknowledgment, "Yes, thank you, Narsima."
Imin leaned forward in his chair and fumbled with some hard copy in his hand before arranging it to his satisfaction on the small table in front of him. He placed a small tridio projector next to the papers then looked at the Legate. "Legate, have you ever heard of the Wareegan Raiders? I'm not sure if that's your name for them. We discovered it in some old records."
