Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell

by William C. Dietz

  That much was good—but what about the Ramanthian clamped to the outside surface of the hull? Would he be able to survive within the protective force field that surrounded the lifeboat? Or would the strange environment of hyperspace scramble his organs like a breakfast omelet? There was no way to know. But one thing was for sure, no matter which way it went, the entire effort was riding on the alien’s fate. Because if they lost their prisoner and came out of hyperspace empty-handed, there would be no way to prove an alliance between the Thrakies and Ramanthians. The weight of that knowledge rode Vanderveen’s shoulders like a mantle of lead.

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Six inches of well-churned brown muck covered the road that led between the snow-encrusted domes of Naa Town, up through the strictly maintained free-fire zone, and through the gates of Fort Camerone. The slushy material geysered up around the dooth’s plate-sized hooves as the animal plodded up the incline and grunted to communicate how it felt. Conscious of the fact that alien eyes were upon him, Nodoubt Truespeak sat tall in the saddle, eyed the ramparts above, and saw pockmarks where Naa bullets had struck them.

  Thousands of Naa had lost their lives trying to conquer the fortress that rose above him, even while thousands more had become part of the very organization that built it and gone off to fight on distant worlds. Only to be treated as second-class citizens by those they fought for. But not anymore, the chieftain thought to himself as a sentry uttered a challenge. Not if I can help it.

  But there was a problem, a big problem, because even though the humans seemed willing to accept their former “protectorate” as an equal, other races feared that were the Naa allowed to have their own seat in the Senate, they would vote in concert with their sponsors, even though the entire notion was patently absurd.

  Strangely, from his perspective at least, Truespeak had other opponents to worry about as well, including the self-styled true bloods who opposed any sort of congress with the off-worlders and wanted a return to the isolation of the past.

  Truespeak dismounted, allowed a human legionnaire to scan him for weapons, and wondered if full-fledged senators were subject to the same indignity. Then, once his companions were back in their saddles, the chieftain led them up to a pair of much-abused durasteel gates. They parted to allow a pair of Trooper IIs to exit, remained open long enough for the Naa to enter, and clanged as they closed.

  Lieutenant Thinklong had been detailed to meet the dignitaries and was waiting when Truespeak and his advisors entered the main courtyard. He caught hold of the first dooth’s bridle and waited for the chieftain to jump to the ground. “Welcome to Fort Camerone, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Truespeak replied darkly. “I’m happy to report that we didn’t have to shoot anyone in order to gain entry.”

  Thinklong was from another tribe, but was familiar with the other Naa’s reputation for straight talk and grinned sympathetically. “I’m sure the Legion is happy about that as well, sir. Private Oki will take care of your mounts. If you and your advisors would be so kind as to follow me, I’ll escort you to the Senate’s chambers. They’re running a bit late, but that’s typical, I’m afraid, so it may be necessary to wait for a few minutes.”

  The Naa allowed themselves to be led into the inner part of the fortress and through a labyrinth of bustling corridors. The walls were confining, like the depths of a cave, or the stomach of some enormous beast. There were strange smells, many of which made Truespeak feel nauseous, and low ceilings that caused him to yearn for the open sky. The only pleasure the Naa felt stemmed from the fact that his leg had healed so well that he could walk without the aid of a cane and thereby avoid any appearance of weakness. Not that passersby turned to look at him because there were so many of his kind in the legion that the presence of a small group of civilians wasn’t considered to be noteworthy.

  Finally, after numerous twists and turns, Thinklong led his guests into what had become the Senate’s chambers and invited them to seat themselves toward the rear, while the senators continued to debate the merits of two competing tax proposals. Wars cost money, lots of it, and it had to come from somewhere.

  Truespeak listened intently, trying to understand the nature of the discussion, but was soon lost in a blizzard of highly specialized terminology. He wondered how long it would take to absorb the knowledge necessary to understand what the senators were talking about and feared that the complexity of the whole thing might be beyond him. But younger more flexible minds were available, and if given a chance, could surely master the intricacies of interstellar economics. Individuals like Lieutenant Thinklong were evidence of that—and the knowledge gave him comfort.

  Meanwhile, not far away, a civilian named Rockfeel Wallstack wheeled a cart of refreshments into the back of the room and removed the sheet that covered the food. Like all true bloods, he believed that the Naa should push the aliens off-world rather than join them in oppressing others and was willing to sacrifice his life to the cause.

  It was nearly impossible for a day worker to smuggle a firearm into Fort Camerone, or to steal one from a legionnaire, but there was plenty of cutlery in the huge kitchen. He had chosen a knife with a long narrow blade for the task at hand, believing that it would penetrate Truespeak’s leather body armor and find a path between the bones in his back. The aliens would kill him after that, but not his name, which would live forever in the hearts of his people. The thought of it caused Wallstack’s chest to tighten with emotion. He checked to make sure the weapon was where it was supposed to be, took comfort from the sight of it, and set to work clearing the ravaged buffet table.

  Being the president of a major corporation, Maylo was interested in the tax debate and was seated toward the back of the room. She turned to look as Lieutenant Thinklong led the Naa delegation into the room. The human recognized Truespeak from the visit to her husband’s ancestral village. Though officially neutral on the subject, she knew that Booly favored direct representation for his grandmother’s people and hoped Truespeak’s efforts would succeed. That was why the military officer had used his influence, not to mention her uncle’s, to push for a hearing. The timing was right, that’s what he believed at any rate, and she agreed. If Truespeak did well, if the naysayers could be countered, the Naa would take their rightful place within a government of equals. Something Maylo wanted for her husband, and for her as-yet-unborn baby, who would share some of his father’s genetic heritage.

  The executive turned back toward the stage as the allotted time for debate regarding the controversial value-added tax expired, and a final vote was scheduled for later that day. “Now,” President Nankool said, as he eyed that day’s agenda, “we have one more item to take up prior to lunch. Specifically I’m referring to SR-5706 which proposes that the Naa be given direct representation in the Senate, that the planet Algeron revert to Naa control, and that their status as a protectorate be lifted. Senator Pama? You wanted to say a few words, I believe?”

  The senator from Earth stood and made his way up onto the stage. He was tall, slender, and wore a formal, ankle-length robe. He had dark skin, serious eyes, and high cheekbones. “Thank you, Mr. President. In a moment you will have an opportunity to hear from Nodoubt Truespeak regarding the merits of this proposal. In the meantime I would like to remind you that more than 30,000 Naa have given their lives for the Confederacy—and more than 250,000 Naa presently serve in the Legion. A large number given their relatively small population—and a strong testament to their support for a government that has thus far denied them direct representation. We, the people of Earth, have been partially responsible for that injustice and hope to address it.

  “Nodoubt Truespeak holds the title Chief of Chiefs, and as such, has been authorized to speak on behalf of his people. Please join me and SR-5706’s four cosponsors in making him feel welcome.”

  There was scattered applause as Truespeak rose, stepped out into the aisle, and started toward the stage. Booly, who was seated toward the
front of the room turned to look, and saw that his wife was clapping loudly enough for both of them. He grinned, saw a white-jacketed waiter start down the aisle behind the Naa chieftain, and wondered what he was up to. That was when Wallstack produced the long, glittering blade, raised it high into the air, and charged.

  Maylo saw the knife, understood the Naa’s intent, and came up out of her chair. She wasn’t as fast as she might have been, not given the weight of her pregnancy, but all she had to do was get in the way.

  Wallstack saw a human female lurch out in front of him, slashed at her with the knife, and heard a cry of pain as the blade sliced through flesh. The Naa tripped over the alien as she fell, but was able to recover and stagger down the aisle.

  Truespeak was turning, preparing to defend himself, when Lieutenant Thinklong fired. It was a tricky shot, since a bullet meant for the assassin could easily strike the chieftain or one of the senators beyond, but the officer was extremely good. The slug hit Wallstack between the shoulder blades and threw him forward, where Truespeak struck the already-dead body a mighty blow. The corpse was still in the process of falling when Booly yelled, “Maylo!” sprang out of his chair, and charged down the aisle.

  Maylo lay on the floor, blood running down her arm to stain the carpet, her body curled up into the fetal position. Booly shouted for a medic and knelt at her side. She saw his face and attempted a smile. “I’m sorry, honey. The baby . . . something hurts.”

  Booly said something, but words sounded distorted, and she couldn’t make them out. Maylo felt darkness gather around her, tried to push it back, but felt it roll back in. A shaft seemed to open beneath her, she fell into the blackness, and heard herself scream.

  10

  * * *

  Many people think it is impossible for guerrillas to exist for long in the enemy’s rear. Such a belief reveals lack of comprehension of the relationship that should exist between the people and the troops. The former may be likened to water and the latter to the fish who inhabit it.

  —Mao Tse-tung

  Strategic problems in the anti-Japanese guerrilla war

  Standard year 1939

  * * *

  NEAR HAGALA NOR, PLANET SAVAS

  The boxy Ramanthian troop transport lost altitude as it approached Hagala Nor from the south, Sawicki’s ears popped, and the deserter made a face. That was about all he could do since restraints had been attached to the human’s wrists and ankles, his body was strapped to a bulkhead, and a battle dressing had been shoved into his mouth. The gag was dry, very dry, but a piece of tape kept him from spitting it out.

  Knifethrow had been treated in a similar fashion, as had Kuga-Ka, who was beginning to question his decision to surrender. Rather than the warm welcome he had envisioned, the officer in charge of the Ramanthian scouts had refused to listen to the Hudathan’s story, placed three pairs of restraints on his massive wrists, and chained him to D-rings that were welded to the deck.

  Now, as the transport touched down at the bottom of the volcano’s crater, Kuga-Ka wondered if he and his companions would be interrogated or simply taken out and shot. He hoped for the first, but feared that the second was more likely.

  Not surprisingly, the prisoners were separated shortly after they were removed from the transport and locked in separate cells, where they wouldn’t be able to communicate with each other.

  Now, as Force Commander Ignatho Dontha made his way down into the holding cells originally intended to house military prisoners, the Ramanthian knew that standard interrogation protocols called for him to ignore the Confederacy soldiers for at least a day. The problem was that he couldn’t muster the self-discipline required to carry the strategy out. According to the report that had been submitted by the officer in charge of the scouting party, the prisoners lit a grass fire in order to draw attention to themselves. And that was what stimulated Dontha’s curiosity. Why would Confederacy troops signal their presence, throw down their weapons, and allow themselves to be captured?

  There were no obvious answers, so rather than let the enemy soldiers sweat for a while, the Ramanthian officer decided to interrogate them right away. So, given the fact that the humans were known to dominate the Legion, Dontha figured that the individual named Kras Sawicki was most likely in command.

  Metal groaned as a Ramanthian trooper pulled the durasteel door open, and the human got to his feet. It was an extremely small space, so when Dontha entered, the two of them were nearly face-to-face. Though humans weren’t especially attractive even at the best of times, Dontha couldn’t help but notice that this particular specimen was especially scabrous. He had a filthy bandage wound around his head, and his clothes hung in tatters. Not only that, but he smelled, his face twitched uncontrollably, and words spewed out of his mouth like water from a hose.

  Not being bilingual like some of his peers were, Dontha had chosen to wear a translator, and wondered if it was functioning properly as Sawicki launched into a nearly incoherent list of complaints and demands.

  About thirty seconds into the human’s rant, Dontha grew tired of the prisoner’s rantings and closed his right pincer. Then, using the chitinous member like a club, the officer backhanded the deserter across the face. Sawicki’s head jerked around, he stumbled, and fell. Then, sitting on the floor, the human felt his jaw. “Hey! That hurt. What’s the problem?”

  Dontha made no answer—but turned and shuffled out of the cell instead. The door crashed shut a moment later. The guard heard a series of muffled thumps and incomprehensible shouts as the human beat his fists on steel and begged the officer to return.

  Dontha didn’t know much about the Naa, only that they served the humans and that some of them had enlisted in the Legion. That was why he chose to visit Knifethrow next. Once inside the legionnaire’s cell, the Ramanthian discovered that rather than being voluble like the human, the fur-covered prisoner was completely silent. Almost ominously so. Questions were met with terse replies. “Who are you?”

  The Naa’s catlike eyes blinked once. “My name is Knifethrow.”

  “And your rank?”

  “Ex-Private.”

  “Ex-Private?”

  “We’re deserters.”

  Dontha tried to hide his surprise, realized the Naa couldn’t possibly read his nonverbal expressions, and let the reaction show. He felt both disappointed and elated at the same time. Disappointed because he’d been hoping for a higher caliber of prisoner, yet elated because deserters could be useful, especially if one knew how to employ them. “So, you’re the leader?”

  “No sir. That would be the gunny.”

  “The ‘gunny?’ ”

  “Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka.”

  “The Hudathan.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Thank you, Private, you’ve been most helpful,” Dontha said, and backed out of the cell.

  Kuga-Ka heard a series of muffled pops and clicks as the Ramanthians spoke with each other, followed by a whir as someone passed a key card through the reader on the lock, and the squeal of unoiled metal as the door swung open. A new bug appeared, and this one wore the tabs of an officer. The Hudathan came to attention, his eyes focused on a point over Dontha’s head. “Sir! Gunnery Sergeant Kuga-Ka, at your service, sir!”

  Though their military traditions were different, there was no mistaking the gesture of respect or the message that it was intended to convey. The Hudathan was not only willing to cooperate, but eager to cooperate, which made perfect sense given his situation. Dontha didn’t know what form of punishment awaited the renegade if he were caught, but it seemed safe to assume that it would be far from pleasant. That meant the Ramanthian had the upper pincer already, and there was no need to be intimidating. “At ease, Sergeant. Follow me. Let’s find a more comfortable place to talk.”

  The Ramanthian turned and shuffled out of the cell. The guards watched in amazement as Dontha led the seemingly passive Hudathan down the corridor and into a vacant squad room. Once inside the Ramanthian slipped over a
saddle-style seat and pointed at another. “I don’t know how comfortable you’ll be, but you’re welcome to sit down.”

  Kuga-Ka had already positioned himself with his back to a wall. He eyed the chair and shook his head. “I think I’ll stand if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

  “It is,” Dontha, assured him. “Now, let’s talk about the unit that you were formerly part of and why it was sent to Savas.”

  This was the opportunity that Kuga-Ka had been waiting for, and he was ready. The Hudathan began with a detailed readout on the battalion’s capabilities and followed up with an almost word-for-word rendition of the orders he’d seen.

  Dontha was shocked. The situation was much worse than he had imagined. Rather than protect Savas Prime, or capture Hagala Nor as he had assumed, the Legion had been sent to take the hypercom! Still, it seemed likely that their capability to do so had been destroyed when the transports crashed, and he said as much. Kuga-Ka nodded. “Sir, yes sir. But it isn’t over yet. Colonel Kobbi is a stubborn man. The reason he’s marching up from the south is to link up with the legionnaires stranded out in the desert. They’re guarding most of the battalion’s hardware. Begging your excellency’s pardon, but if Kobbi manages to marry those brain boxes with the war forms stored in that transport, then it’s going to be damned hard to stop them.”