Meanwhile, the sun inched higher in the sky, the mist disappeared, and the jungle sounds resumed. Finally, after a good fifteen minutes, Qwis returned alone. The cavalry officer was waiting. “They want weapons,” the colonist reported. “Rifles like yours plus ammunition.”
Providing indigs on a Class III world with firearms was illegal, not to mention potentially dangerous, but Santana was in a jam. “How many?”
“A thousand,” Qwis replied, and held up her hand before the officer could object. “I know . . . that’s impossible. They agreed to five.”
Santana’s eyebrows shot up. “Five? You got them down to five?”
“No,” Qwis answered, “Yamba got them down to five, plus three hundred rounds for each weapon, and a mortar with fifty illumination rounds.”
“A mortar? Plus illumination rounds?” Santana demanded. “Whatever for?”
“The locals were very impressed with your ability to turn night into day,” the colonist replied smugly. “I got the impression that the next tribe to attack them during the hours of darkness will be in for quite a surprise.”
“And Kuga-Ka?”
“It took some talking, but Yamba told them about the legionnaires that the deserters ambushed, and that squared with information the chieftain had received from his spies.”
“He has spies in Savas Prime?”
“Of course,” Qwis said matter-of-factly. “We try to vet all the Jithi workers, but it’s a difficult process at best, and a few ringers always manage to get through.”
“Okay,” the cavalry officer agreed reluctantly. “It’s a deal.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Qwis replied serenely, “because that’s what I told them.”
SOUTH OF THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS
It was late afternoon as the boxy transport flew north. The sun threw its slightly distorted shadow out to the east, where it skimmed the treetops like a dark bird, undulating in sympathy with the terrain. The jungle looked like a thick green carpet, impenetrable from above except for the occasional clearing or flash of water.
Wind whipped in through an open side door and Colonel Kobbi was grateful for the helmet and visor, as the slipstream tugged at his camos, and sought to push him off-balance. The aircraft hadn’t been serviced in a long time, which was why one of its twin engines cut out from time to time, the air frame rattled like a bucket of loose bolts, and the cockpit alarms buzzed like a swarm of angry insects.
Even though he had already put in a long day, Cam Qwan had volunteered for the mission and stood at the legionnaire’s side. He had to shout in order to make himself heard over the roar of the wind and noise generated by the engines. “There’s a lot of jungle down there, Colonel . . . Are you sure we can find them?”
Kobbi grinned, and the slipstream pushed the expression into a grimace. “I’m sure . . . For obvious reasons, each RAV is equipped with a trackable transmitter. The corporal has the bastards, and he’s guiding the pilot in,” the officer shouted, gesturing toward the fold-down bench-style seat where a legionnaire sat with an olive drab console on his lap.
“They failed to disable the transmitter?” Qwan demanded skeptically. “That was stupid.”
“Ah, but they did!” Kobbi replied triumphantly. “Or thought that they had. . . But none of the deserters are techs! They blew it . . . and now they’re going to pay.”
Qwan nodded and offered a thumbs-up. His daughter was somewhere below, and even though she and the advance party had successfully cut a deal with the local Jithi, the deserters posed an additional threat. They had staged one successful ambush already . . . Why not a second? Yes, the transport was an important asset, and the fuel supply was limited, but if Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka and his cronies could be eliminated, it would be well worth the price. That was why Kobbi had risked bringing the transports forward early, off-loaded the children at the ruins the advance party had secured earlier, and taken off again. Now, in a matter of minutes, the transport was covering ground it took the deserters days to put behind them. A flock of large gray birds rose from the treetops below, flapped their gigantic wings, and joined the chase.
The jungle held the deserters in its sweaty grip, wrapping them in fingers of green, gradually squeezing the life out of them. Somewhere, back at one of the many branchings, Kuga-Ka had chosen the wrong path. Now, many hard-fought miles later, the once-promising ribbon of dirt and mud had grown increasingly narrow until it disappeared. Perhaps it would have been wiser to go back, to retrace their steps, but that would involve an admission of failure. And that was something the Hudathan couldn’t bring himself to do. That’s why the threesome were bushwhacking their way north toward the point where the rain forest gave way to open steppe.
Because Kuga-Ka was twice as strong as the other two, he did twice the work. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to if he wanted to escape the jungle’s clutches. A dense wall of green tubers rose in front of him, many as thick as one of his meaty thumbs, each filled with whitish fluid. The machete made steady whack! whack! whack! sounds as the Hudathan attacked the vegetation. The problem was that the tubers grew so thickly that it was necessary to cut them head high, then ankle low, before they would finally fall. That, plus the fact that the Hudathan had to make a hole large enough for the RAV, created extra work. Then, as if to make a miserable process worse, was the fact that the whitish sap had a sticky consistency and covered the ex-noncom’s chest and arms.
But he was determined to beat his enemy and was so engrossed in the battle that Knifethrow had to tap Kuga-Ka on the shoulder in order to get his attention. “Hey, gunny, listen. I think I hear a fly-form.”
The deserters had heard aircraft before, seen glimpses of them high above the trees, and even tried to signal one of them with a flare. But the bugs hadn’t noticed, or chosen to ignore the flare, which meant the deserters would have to try again. But the buzz of engines that the Naa referred to didn’t sound like a Ramanthian aerospace fighter, or one of the Legion’s fly-forms, not to the Hudathan’s practiced ear. The renegade frowned as the pitch changed, then changed again, as one of two engines momentarily cut out.
Then the sound was suddenly transformed into a throaty roar, a boxy hull passed directly over the deserters’ heads, and Kuga-Ka knew the truth. “It’s the RAV!” he yelled. “We must have missed something!”
Then the transport was back. It circled the area where the transmitter said that the renegades were hiding and the seven-barreled minigun roared as it spewed six thousand rounds per minute into the jungle below. “Run!” Kuga-Ka ordered. “Get as far away from the RAV as you can!”
Knifethrow and Sawicki needed little urging as the .50 caliber rounds tore the canopy apart, cut tree trunks in two, and dug divots out of the ground around them.
But the thick vegetation made running impossible, which meant that the threesome were soon reduced to scuttling through the jungle on their hands and knees, swearing as what seemed like tons of plant material rained down on them. That was when a sustained burst from the minigun cut the RAV in two, found the ordnance it carried, and triggered a massive explosion. The jungle was flattened for a hundred feet in every direction, the whitish sap turned out to be flammable, and a fireball rose into the sky.
“Damn!” Qwan said as he leaned out into the slipstream. “Look at that!”
“You can stop firing,” Kobbi shouted to the gunner, and gave her a pat on the back. “Nice work.”
“Do you think you got them?” the civilian asked, as the aircraft circled the inferno below.
“Yeah,” Kobbi replied thoughtfully, “I do. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could have survived that. But, even if we didn’t, we nailed the RAV. If any of the bastards survived, they’ll be living on short rations from now on . . . and that suits me.”
Qwan nodded, the transport turned toward the south, and the jungle continued to burn.
THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS
The central encampment was huge, so huge that
it would have required at least half a day to gallop around it on a zurna, never mind the lesser clusters of hogas (domed tents) that circled the main camp similar to the way that planets orbit a sun.
Near the center of the encampment, a short distance from Srebo Riff’s oversized hoga, a smaller but no less heavily guarded shelter had been established adjacent to the open area where the elders gathered to gossip during the evenings.
As Subcommander Ootha Pamee wound his way through the maze of domed tents, tendrils of black smoke wove their way into the pale sky as hundreds of dung cooking fires were lit, and kettles of precious water were put on to boil. Many Paguum were still in the process of getting up, so there were very few sounds other than the rumble of the wind, the flap of loose fabric, and the low murmur of the katha.
The heavily armed guards eyed Pamee as he approached the hoga but made no attempt to stop the Ramanthian from entering since the condemned had every right to say good-bye to friends and relatives on the morning of his execution. “Ruu Sacc?” the soldier said, as he stuck his head in through the door, “It’s me. Ootha Pamee.”
“Really?” the agent inquired sarcastically from his place in the murk, “I thought it was the Queen, come to see me off.”
The military officer could have taken offense, but didn’t, knowing the other Ramanthian’s circumstances. The plan to ambush Nartha Omoni at Passing Rock, and thereby win the war with the southerners in one swift blow, had been Sacc’s idea. When things had gone wrong, and Tithin was killed, the agent’s fate was sealed. Paguumi justice was simple and strict. A promise had been made, a promise had been broken, and the sentence was death. “No, the Queen won’t be able to make it,” Pamee replied lightly. “She’s too fat to get into the tent.”
Sacc laughed, but it had a harsh quality, like grain in a grinder. “I should report you for that . . . but something tells me I won’t get the chance.”
The hoga was made out of neatly sewn katha hides. The lowest circling of leather had been left rough, with the insulating hair on, but the uppers had been painstakingly scraped, so that the inner layer of skin was exposed. It was translucent, which meant that as the sun continued to rise, Pamee could see the other Ramanthian with increasing clarity. He looked tired and miserable. His wings had been cut off, and bloodstained bandages covered the stubs. “Thank you for coming.”
Pamee felt embarrassed. He started to say that it was his pleasure, thought better of it, and said, “You’re welcome,” instead.
“Have you witnessed a Paguumi execution?” the operative inquired dully. “No, I don’t suppose you have. It makes for quite a spectacle. The condemned person is led out into the arena, where everyone can watch. Four zurnas are led in . . . one for each extremity. Ropes are attached, a signal is given, and the animals take off in different directions. Limbs are torn off, blood flies, and the crowd cheers. Riff once told me that it’s a good way to let off steam, keep grudges from simmering, and provide people with something to talk about.”
Pamee looked down at the sand-scattered floor and back up again. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do, but they confiscated my com set.”
Sacc forced the Ramanthian equivalent of a smile. “Thank you. Ironically enough it was I who taught them the value of electronic communications. There is something you can do for me however.”
“Anything,” Pamee said sincerely. “Just name it.”
“Well,” the agent said, his eyes sliding away, “like it or not you’ll be forced to witness my death. As I indicated earlier, it won’t be pleasant, and there’s the distinct possibility that I will embarrass myself. I intend to do my best, mind you, but there could be noises, or other signs of distress.” The functionary’s eyes came back to meet the soldier’s. “I have nothing to leave my mates except their memories of me. Your discretion would be appreciated.”
Pamee bowed his head to a position consistent with profound respect. “You need have no fear in that regard. Your strength is apparent to see. There is a point where our bodies seize control.”
The agent bowed in return. “You are most kind, Subcommander Pamee. I will carry your name to the gods.”
The conversation continued for a bit, but soon became awkward, and the soldier prepared to leave. Ruu Sacc stopped him just short of the doorway. “One last thing my friend . . . I got a look at the warrior who shot Tithin, and even though his head was covered, I think he was human. That means the southern tribe has off-world advice, too . . . Watch for the piece of excrement and kill him if you can.”
Pamee nodded, thanked the agent, and slipped outside. By that time the vast encampment was not only awake, but brimming with excitement as the Paguum looked forward to the impending dismemberment and hurried through their morning meals. Nearly all of the northerners had seen members of their own kind ripped apart, but the alien’s death promised to be something special, which was why seats surrounding the arena were at a premium. What color was hard skin blood anyway? Red? Green? Or blue? The betting was fierce.
Pamee had hoped to avoid the execution and was sitting in his hoga when the warriors came for him. Strangely, from the Ramanthian’s perspective at least, it seemed that he was slated to witness Sacc’s death along with Srebo Riff and the chieftain’s family. Then, once the blood debt had been paid, the entire incident would be over. Not just over, but completely over, leaving relationships as they had been before. That meant the alliance would remain intact, the northern tribe would continue to function as an obstacle that the humans would have to overcome, and Force Commander Dontha would be pleased. And so it was that Subcommander Pamee was forced to sit side by side with Srebo Riff as the clearly terrified Ramanthian agent was dragged out into the center of the circular arena where four zurnas snorted, produced long ropes of drool, and tried to sink badly yellowed teeth into each other.
The crowd stood twelve to fifteen people deep, and everyone struggled to see as warriors attached ropes made of braided leather to Sacc’s extremities, and the agent lost control of his bladder. Pamee winced as the crowd laughed, and he saw the anguished look on the other Ramanthian’s face. The officer allowed himself to close his eyes momentarily as the warriors urged their mounts forward, and the slack came out of the ropes. Sacc made a pitiful clacking sound as one of his retrograde legs was broken and an arm was jerked out of its socket.
All eyes were on Riff by then, as the crowd held its collective breath, and waited for the moment when alien blood would fly. Pamee watched the chieftain come to his feet, give what amounted to a short eulogy for his son, and raise a heavily tattooed hand. There was a roar of approval as it came down, and the zurnas took off in four different directions. The soldier closed his eyes again, but there was no escaping the piteous scream, the crackle of shattered chitin, or Riff’s undulating war cry. Another life had been sacrificed . . . and the war went on.
JUST SOUTH OF THE GRASS PATH, PLANET SAVAS
They heard the roar of the river and felt the extra humidity in the air long before they actually saw the tributary itself. The riverbed was wide at that point. So much so that the water ran fast but shallow. It foamed around the upstream side of the larger rocks, sluiced between mossy boulders, and slid over the end of a fallen tree trunk. It made for a considerable barrier. But the advance party had been traveling for many days by that time and overcome all sorts of obstacles. So many that Santana wondered if he and his legionnaires were in danger of becoming engineers rather than cavalry.
So, having already dealt with numerous crossings, the officer was able to gauge the task in front of him with a practiced eye. The river was too wide to bridge, not with the resources at his disposal, but there wasn’t any need. A simple safety line would be sufficient. Once the main party arrived they would simply clip on and wade in. The last person to cross would unhitch the cable, secure it to his or her harness, and follow it over as the people on the other side pulled it in. If necessary, the monofilament line could be sent forward for Santana and his team to use a
gain, but the legionnaire hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
The officer turned to Dietrich. “All right, Sergeant . . . You know the drill. Establish some security, fell enough trees so the main party can camp next to the water, and we’ll secure a safety line to a tree on the other side. I’ll tow it across and scout the trail.”
“And I’ll go along to watch his six,” Qwis volunteered, coming up on the legionnaires from behind. Dietrich took note of the fact that while Santana looked surprised, he didn’t object. The soldier and the civilian were attracted to each other in a wary sort of way. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out—and the lady was willing to wade across the river in order to get some additional face time. So, rather than insist on a couple of legionnaires to provide security, Dietrich decided to let the matter pass. He nodded. “Sir, yes sir.”
The actual cable would have been too heavy for a single person to pull across, so a pilot line was prepared instead. Santana slung his assault rifle across his back, wrapped some cord around his left hand, and secured a grip on a freshly cut eight-foot-long walking stick with his right. Then, placing the end of the pole upstream to break the current, the officer started across.
Meanwhile, Qwis crossed the river downstream of Santana, thereby taking advantage of the eddy behind him, armed with a stick of her own should she need to use it.
The twosome allowed the current to push them slightly downstream as they crossed. That meant they hit the riverbank where most travelers did, which explained why the trail picked up there, rather than opposite the point where they entered the river.
Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell Page 20
