The Last Legion

by Chris Bunch

  "Agreed," the woman said. "You wiped 'em out clean." She opened her com.

  "Maneuver control, I have Swift Lance casualties to report."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The Griersons came across the Landing Zone in open vees, Zhukovs giving simulated fire in support. Rear ramps dropped, and infantrymen doubled out, went into assault formation, charged the Blue lines. On schedule, the "enemy" was forced out of his prepared positions, falling back into the foothills toward Mount Najim.

  "You know," one finf advised a new striker, "if you just holler 'bang,' and don't fire your blanks, your piece'll be easier to clean when the bullshit's over."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The mess line clanked forward in the rain toward the line of cooks.

  "Whaddawe got?" a private asked.

  "Good stuff," a finf said enthusiastically. "Real scrambled eggs: some kind of sausage, least I think that's what it is; toasted seed bread; fruit; tea."

  "Any of it hot?"

  "Most," the finf said. "Well, some of it. Tepid, anyway, which is better'n basic rats, isn't it?"

  "Yum, yum, frigging yum. Just what I need," the striker said, "to turn me into a Stupor Soldier, ready to beat the antlers off that nasty ol' Blue Army."

  "You suckin' for promotion or something?" another striker asked suspiciously.

  "Not me. I'm just wild with enthusiasm."

  "Would you rather be back in barracks polishing shit?"

  "Hmm," the first striker said. "Can't say as I ever polished that . . . about the only thing I haven't. But you're right, it's nice to be out in the open air, breathing pure water and smelling dirty feet and drive exhausts. I'm a-ready to kill!"

  "Who?"

  "Dunno," the striker said, "and it don't matter much. You just point this here trained killin' machine in the right direction and stand back from the spatter!"

  Anonymous with the hood of his anorak over his helmet, Erik Penwyth shifted his full mess kit into his left hand and dipped his mug into the kettle of bubbling tea.

  The half-awake cook nearby didn't notice that Penwyth's mug was already nearly full of small purple crystals. He dumped them into the kettle, pretended to scoop up tea, wandered away, looking for an unoccupied tree limb or vehicle hood to use for a table. Out of sight, he looked at the glop in his mess kit, grimaced, dumped it and trotted away toward Gamma Team's camouflaged position.

  The effects of the potassium permanganate crystals would be interesting.

  In a few hours, depending on bladder capacity, everyone who'd had tea with his breakfast would be urinating a nice, passionate red, which would work real wonders for morale.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  Caud Williams cleverly disengaged his right flank, pulled it back to a hidden LZ with waiting Griersons, then sent it and his reserve regiment in on the left, closing off any possibility for the Blue Force to retreat west, into the rolling hills behind Leggett's Heights. Now their only retreat was Mount Najim.

  "Flipping clever," Hedley said cynically. "Now, if I were Strike Force Commander and running this flipping mess, and it was a real flipping war, I'd want to punt my enemy back into those nice open foothills, where he's wide open for arty and air, and I could obliterate his flipping ass in detail. But what do I know about war? I'm only a flipping alt, and I didn't write the script, either. But let's see if we can't use this hooraw's nest to have a little fun."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  Four I&R Teams rode Cookes south-southwest, in the dying light, between the Swift Lance main line and the oncoming Swift Lance left wing. One Cooke's drive blew, but the other three successfully arrived deep behind "enemy" lines, setting down in scrub jungle about two hundred meters in from the road from the coast to the Strike Force lines.

  "'Kay," Petr Kipchak ordered. "I'm gonna take Gamma first, then Alpha, then Delta. Monique, you want to cover my flanks with Beta?"

  "Why do you get to go first?" Lir asked. "I outrank you."

  "Same reason I'm running the patrol. This was my idea."

  "Things are liable to get interesting," Alpha Team Leader's dec, Nectan, muttered. "You realize there isn't one of us who's operated with any other team? Nice on-the-job training."

  "So what?" Petr asked reasonably. "We're just beating up crunchies. It isn't like they're 'Raum, knowing the turf and lugging a real gun or two, now is it?"

  "Strong point."

  "However, you did bring up a valid issue. Brief your teams—if we step in the doggie-doo, pull back across this river we're gonna come to and hit 'em once, hard, move on out. We'll RV fifty meters back of this here vehicle park, giving them the Cookes, which should be a surprise; then pull back another three hundred meters, backtrailing and ambushing anybody who's still on our ass. Set up a defensive perimeter, and we'll move out for home at false dawn. But that's only if everything's blown. Let's go find somebody and ruin what's left of their day." He looked around. "Njangu . . . take point."

  Yoshitaro covered his surprise—he surely didn't feel ready. He started to protest, saw Petr's expression in the twilight. "Moving out, boss."

  He paced forward, remembering how he'd gone down city streets, every nerve, every tendril feeling for something strange, something hostile. A game, sure, he thought. Next time it'll likely be 'Raum. Good practice, like they say.

  He moved up to the river, peered across it from under a bush, saw no enemy waiting. He motioned for flankers, waited until a weapons team came up. Njangu motioned, as he'd learned. Me first . . . then you two . . . then the rest will cross in file. Flankers go wide on either side of the main column. He realized that, for a moment, the Force's greenest soldier, he was in command of thirty people's lives—and relished it, just as he'd reveled in leading his clique into villainy.

  The water was cold, about waist-deep. He went across the ten-meter-wide water, facing upstream, scuttled quickly up the far bank. Secure. Cross.

  The I&R patrol followed him. On the far side they re-formed, and went on to the road. Njangu crouched in brush beside it, weapon ready.

  Petr and Monique came up, motioned for him to keep watch to the south.

  They went to the center of the fragmenting pavement, knelt, and held some sort of conference, frequently examining the roadbed. Njangu had no idea what they were looking at or for. Monique made the motion of flipping coin, Petr tapped his butt. She shook her head in mock dismay, motioned him to go south.

  Kipchak came back. "Patrol south, staying on this side of the road," he whispered. "I'll have two SSWs right behind you. If you see them before they see you, pull off to the side, grenade 'em, and we'll attack. If they see you first"—he shrugged—"try to 'die' neatly."

  They moved about two kilometers, and it was very dark when they heard the whine of vehicles and saw the flicker of headlights, very much against maneuver regulations.

  "'Kay," Petr said in what Njangu thought was a shout, jolting him, then he realized Kipchak had spoken in a normal voice. "Alpha, Beta, right side of the road, one SSW right here, the rest of you flank on back. Beta, Gamma, filter on back with 'em. Dorwith, set your SSW up here, back of Njangu. Monique, move your Squad Weapon back of 'em after they stop, and when I holler run a burst out."

  "Got it, boss," Dorwith said.

  "'Kay, Finf Kipchak," Monique said. "I'll be running the blaster myself. RHIP." She disappeared down the winding road.

  "Njangu, take off your Aggressor armband."

  Njangu obeyed. Kipchak did the same, setting his blaster against a tree.

  He unfastened his combat vest, let it hang open, rolled one sleeve up, tossed his helmet on the ground.

  "If they win, they can shoot us as spies," Petr said. "Now, you lie down here, just to the side of the road, and I'm going to look desperate. You fell over with some kind of creeping crud, and we desperately need help. Here they come."

  The six Griersons were configured fo
r cargo, their rear deck a scalable single compartment from the TC's hatch back. Their only armament was a single heavy blaster in each turret, and the guns were pointed skyward, unmanned. They were traveling about ten feet above the ground, as maneuver doctrine prescribed this close to the lines, below the horizon of any TA radar.

  The Vehicle Commander in the lead Grierson saw a disheveled finf waving frantically, shouting for help, and a man sprawled at the side of the road.

  "Drop it, Sy," he ordered, and the driver obeyed. The VC, a warrant-two, clambered out of his hatch onto the Grierson's roof before the vehicle grounded.

  "What happened?" he called.

  "Sir . . . we lost it, tryin' t' lift over them trees," Kipchak panted. "Think my aspirant's dead . . . he's not moving . . ."

  The Vehicle Commander went quickly down the climbing indents to the ground and to the distraught soldier.

  "Easy, man . . . gleet!" The gleet was caused by a somewhat non-issue stubby blaster pressed against his face.

  "Shoot!" Kipchak shouted, and Lir let a burst out of her Squad Support Weapon. The I&R troops came out of concealment, weapons ready. "You're now the prisoner of the Blue Force," Petr shouted. "Hiccup and you're slotted."

  "You can't do this! You're not in enemy uniform," the warrant stuttered.

  "Yep," Kipchak agreed. "Illegal as all hell. Immoral too, probably. Two men to each vehicle. Anybody moves, secure 'em properly."

  Men and woman swarmed aboard the Griersons. Njangu heard a shout from one vehicle, then a squawk. Nectan's grinning head came out of the VC hatch. "Secured. One black eye."

  "This isn't part of the game," the warrant objected.

  "Nope," Kipchak said. "I'm ashamed of myself. What're you carrying?"

  The warrant pressed his lips together.

  "Look, friend," Petr said mildly. "All I have to do is look for myself. And you didn't bother blanking your bumper letters, so I know you're support for Fourth Regiment. Just tell me what's in the back of the putt-putts, or I'll behave like a real guerrilla and shoot your young ass. Which means throwing you in the river, then tying you to a tree somewhere up the hill and not telling anybody where you are for a day or two."

  The warrant stared at Petr, decided he was as big a madman as he'd heard I&R noncoms were, and would do exactly as promised. "The first two Griersons have portashelters and sleeping bags, the next hot rations for dinner, and the last has supplies for the Regimental Officers' Mess."

  The Swift Lance POWs had been prodded off their vehicles, and corralled to one side of the road. Monique came up in time to hear the last of the warrant's report.

  "Oh dear," she said, not meaning every syllable. "It's going to be wet, cold, and hungry tonight for some folks. Bet that'll make Fourth Regiment real nasty fighters by morning. I hear it's gonna monsoon like a bastard, too."

  "You can't do this," the warrant tried again.

  "But we just did," Kipchak said. "You got an umpire with you?"

  "No."

  "Hmm. Presents a problem. We could actually strip everything out of the Griersons and burn them for authenticity, but I think Daddy Williams would spank. Lir, you know how to disable a Grierson, not too permanent?"

  "Yeh."

  "Do it, then." Kipchak turned back to the warrant. "Raiders can't afford prisoners. I could let you go on parole, but you look like one of those sneaky types who'd deny anything happened. What we did to you enemy sorts was line you up against those trees over there, and commit a war crime. To prove it, we're going to take everybody's ID card. That ought to convince the umps we done you wrong, and you're officially dead. Plus we'll take your pants with us."

  "As far as actual damage, gracious freedom-loving thugs that we are, we're going to turn you loose. It's about six kilometers up the road to something resembling Swift Lance people, I'd guess about the same distance back to your friends. Have a simply wonderful evening stroll."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  The Swift Lance attack continued. Holo teams hovered over the front lines, recording the bravery of Our Fighting Men and Women for viewers throughout the Cumbre System. It was a very dull week for news.

  The Blue Force fell back and back to more prepared positions, left from the last time around, ringing the crest of Mount Najim. Overjoyed they wouldn't have to be doing much digging, they prepared for their last stand, which would be followed by the reception on the final "battleground" by Caud Williams and his staff for the Rentiers of D-Cumbre.

  The men and women on both sides hoped there'd be a few crumbs falling off the table for them.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "This won't make us well loved," Aspirant Vauxhall said, after considering Hedley's suggestion.

  "Probably not," Hedley said. "Big flipping deal."

  "But it surely will cause some hootin' and hollerin'," Senior Tweg Gonzales said thoughtfully.

  "Which is what I&R's supposed to do, isn't it?"

  "I guess." Gonzales eyed his superior. "Jon, let me guess why you came up with this idea. You figure that'll put us on the shit list, and the worst thing Williams could do to . . . or for . . . us is to make us get out there on the Highland walls and work for a living hunting real-life bandits."

  "Why, Brer Rabbit, you perspicacious son of a bitch," Hedley commented.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "Lower," Caud Williams ordered. "I want a closer look at that knoll."

  "Yessir," Finf Running Bear said, and took the Cooke down to about thirty meters above the ground. "We're getting simulated fire, sir."

  "Ignore that," Williams said impatiently. "This has nothing to do with the war games." He studied the terrain, rechecked his projected map.

  "That'll do," he decided. "Easy access from the road. Our guests will be able to see the entire maneuver area, and there's more than enough room for the tents, in the event of rain tomorrow."

  His com buzzed. He keyed the mike. "Lance Six Actual . . . very well, Mil Rao, I'm scrambling." He listened, and his eyes widened. "Oh brother."

  Williams caught himself. "Message received, understood. Will arrive back in your area in . . . one-five. Have my staff ready to discuss this matter. Out." He replaced the com in its slot. "Back to field HQ."

  "Yessir."

  "This'll put a fine crimp in things," Williams said. Running Bear maintained an interested silence.

  "This is classified," Williams said. "But PlanGov has just had a deep-space com."

  "From the Confederation?" Running Bear blurted hopefully.

  "Negative," Williams said. "Don't interrupt, soldier. From Alena Redruth, the Protector of Larix and Kura. He'll arrive in-system within an E-week for a conference with Governor General Haemer."

  Running Bear waited the appropriate time, then asked, "About what?"

  "We don't know," Williams said. "But he wants the conference on C-Cumbre, not here. Governor General Haemer wants us to provide an appropriate escort." He thought for a moment. "I think we can still bring the games to a satisfactory conclusion . . . but some units'll have to be withdrawn to prepare for the ceremonies."

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  "You're what?" Hedley snarled.

  "Gone, sir," Ben Dill said. "I go bye-bye. All the Griersons you've got are out of the games and pulled back to Mahan."

  "Why?"

  "No word, sir. Not even a rumor. But we're supposed to prepare for offplanet service."

  "Nobody tells me flipping shit," Hedley said. "So I don't have any transport but those lousy flimsy flipping Cookes, which is gonna throw a crimp in my goddamned plans. Or are the goddamned games canceled?"

  Dill shook his head. "Dunno, sir."

  "Probably not," Hedley said. "Continue the mission and all that crap . . . without any support."

  "I don't understand," Vauxhall said. "Why'd they lift our air, instead of taking it from the general reserve?"

  "A simple reason
. Dill, stick fingers in your flipping ears so you don't get a big head or think ill of your superiors."

  "Yessir," the big man said, not moving.

  "Aggressors Always Lose, so they're making it easier for us to take it in the shorts. Remember which end of the stick we're holding?"

  "Oh," the aspirant said. "So what are we going to do?"

  "What we always do," Hedley said. "Improvise and come up with Plan B."

  Chapter 20

  The Blue Force held a semicircular line about a kilometer below the plateau-like summit of Mount Najim. Half a kilometer downslope was the knoll Caud Williams had chosen for his reception, promptly dubbed the Pimple by everyone below the rank of mil. Williams positioned his headquarters, in a collection of plasti-domes, behind the Pimple, masked from enemy fire. No sensible officer would have considered sending a missile into the area. Promotions were hard enough to come by in the Force. Covered bleachers were set up atop the Pimple and to one side was a large gaily striped tent rented for the banquet. Caud Williams was ready for final victory.

  ———«»———«»———«»———

  Governor General Wilth Haemer arrived with a flurry of aides and a harried expression. Caud Williams saluted him, and Haemer drew him out of earshot. "I'm amazed you aren't worried," he said.

  "I see nothing to worry about," Williams said. "The maneuvers are proceeding precisely as I'd anticipated."

  "I don't mean them," Haemer said in exasperation. "I mean"—he glanced about—"Redruth's visit."

  "I've learned," Williams said with more than a touch of pomposity, "to worry about one thing at a time. I'm sure Protector Redruth merely wishes to discuss the current problem with the Confederation. Perhaps he has good news for us, or has a plan for us to work together on. His last visit was most amiable, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, yes," Haemer said. "But still . . ."

  "Everything will be fine."

  "I certainly hope you're right."

  The two moved apart, each wishing the other fool would slip into a garbage pit in the near future.

  ———«»———«»———«»———