Given his supposed background, and unaware of his true identity, Calvo had given the man named Horn the run of the ship. The renegade made use of the freedom to visit the C&C, look in on the compartment that served as an armory, and visit the holds, where he chatted with a couple of techs.
And that’s where Poltero was, running a maintenance check on a quad, when he heard Sawicki laugh. It sounded like a donkey braying and ended with a series of loud snorts. The sound jerked him back to the moment of impact, hours of torture, and days spent laying in the dump. Though unable to see through the makeshift hood that had been thrown over his sensors, Poltero had been able to hear, and the laugh was unmistakable. Impossible though it seemed, one of his tormentors was not only present, but standing just a few feet away!
Servos whined as the tech ducked out from under the quad’s belly to see who was responsible for the laugh. A group of three stood a few feet away. It consisted of a spider form named Woomer, a bio bod named Gulas, and the newly arrived civilian. A self-adhesive bandage covered the cut on the side of his head, his face was sunburned, and his eyes darted from place to place. The ragged civvies had been exchanged for baggy camos and a new pair of combat boots. None of which meant jack shit since Poltero had never seen the people who tortured him.
That was when Gulas said something, Horn brayed, and Poltero felt the same sense of terror he had back on Adobe. It didn’t make sense, the tech knew that, but he couldn’t shake the conviction that one of his tormentors was present on the ship. None of the threesome turned to look as the cyborg spidered away.
Calvo was in the ship’s wardroom, sitting at the end of a long narrow table that she used as a desk, when she heard metal click on metal. The officer looked up from her comp, saw Poltero, and nodded. Because all the spider forms were identical in appearance, they were required to wear name tags. But there were other ways to tell them apart as well, like the tool drive that Poltero habitually wore on his left tool arm, in keeping with the fact that the cyborg had once been left-handed. The officer prided herself on knowing such things and motioned for the tech to enter. “Hey, Pol, how’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” the cyborg answered. “Not too bad at all. I’d say we’ll be ready when the old man gets here.”
Calvo grinned. “I’m glad to hear it—’cause that’s what I told him! So, what can I do for you?”
“It’s about Horn,” the tech said hesitantly. “I think he’s lying.”
Calvo’s eyebrows rose. “Lying? About what?”
“About who he is,” Poltero replied darkly.
The MO listened as the tech reminded her of what had occurred on Adobe and described the distinctive laugh. Calvo frowned. “No offense, Pol, but a laugh isn’t very much to go on. Not only that, but this guy is a civilian, and was here on Savas when you were attacked.”
“I can’t explain it, but he’s lying,” the cyborg maintained stubbornly. “I know it sounds crazy, ma’am, but I would recognize that laugh anywhere, and Horn was on Adobe.”
“Okay,” the officer said sympathetically. “I can’t put him in the brig for his laugh, but I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“That’s all I ask,” Poltero said gratefully. “Sure, I’d like to see those bastards punished, but there’s more to it than that . . . Assuming I’m right, how did this guy get to Savas from Adobe, and what’s he up to?”
They were good questions and continued to haunt Calvo long after the cyborg was gone.
Night had fallen once more, and with it came the slight turbulence that resulted from the change in temperatures. The Ramanthian transport shuddered as it hit some rough air, Kuga-Ka pressed his back against the durasteel bulkhead, and wondered how many hours of night flying the bug pilot had logged.
But there was nothing he could do about the pilot, so the Hudathan tried to make himself comfortable in the makeshift seat and turned his attention to the task at hand. The raid had two objectives. The first was to damage, if not destroy, the fortified wreck. The second, which was more important to him, was to impress Dontha with the value of his new employees. With that in mind Kuga-Ka had been careful to manage expectations down, even going so far as to characterize Sawicki’s activities as “a diversion.”
Not only that, but a success, even a limited one, would still be better than what the bugs had accomplished thus far. And with a win to his credit, the Hudathan could proceed to real task, which was working with the indigs. Who knew? Maybe he would use the indigs against Kobbi, or maybe he’d use them against both sides, and build a nice kingdom of his own. Time would tell.
The transport hit an air pocket, dropped twenty units, and stabilized. The Ramanthian subleader seated across the aisle from the renegade stared at him, and the Hudathan stared back. The tension between the two was almost palpable, and Knifethrow smiled knowingly.
Calvo was dreaming. It was the same dream that had troubled her before. The little four-by-four wobbled as it bumped through a gully, then roared as she twisted the throttle and sent it skittering up the opposite slope. The combine was still there, sitting on top of the hill, silhouetted against the sky.
But then the image seemed to morph as the previously inert piece of equipment suddenly came back to life and turned in her direction. Then it was charging her, rolling downhill at an increasing rate of speed, clearly intent on crushing the farm girl beneath its awesome weight. That was when Calvo screamed, fought her way up out of the dream, and lay panting on a sweat-soaked sheet. Had the scream been real? Or part of the dream? The officer listened and was glad when no one arrived to see if she was okay.
Convinced that she wouldn’t be able to return to sleep, the MO rose, donned her camos, and made her way down the main corridor. Her wrist term said that it was 0147. The galley was empty, but her favorite mug was upside down on a shelf, and there was plenty of hot water.
Two minutes later, tea in hand, the legionnaire made her way to the C&C and peered through the hatch. It looked normal enough, except for the fact that Horn was present, shooting the breeze with one of the naval techs. Calvo remembered Poltero’s accusation and frowned. Partly because she found the civilian’s presence strange—but partly because he was a distraction. Rather than monitoring her readouts, the tech was engrossed in conversation. Had the chief in charge of the watch been present, he would have set her straight, but it appeared he was out making his rounds. Calvo opened her mouth to say something but was preempted by a com tech, who spotted her out of the corner of his eye. “Attention on deck!”
Everyone came to attention, including Horn. And that was the moment when the MO realized that Poltero was correct. A civilian wouldn’t come to attention unless . . .
But Calvo’s thoughts were interrupted as Sawicki realized his mistake, whipped the stolen handgun out from under his baggy shirt, and shot the navy tech in the face.
Blood was still spraying the deck when Sawicki turned toward the hatch and took a mugful of scalding-hot tea in the face. He screamed, but still managed to squeeze the weapon’s trigger and send a round whizzing past Calvo’s head. The officer yelled, “Battle Stations!” and saw the com tech slap a large red button, just as the renegade shot her between the shoulder blades. The raid was under way by that time, and all manner of reports had started to filter in even as the battle klaxon went off and off-duty personnel rolled out of their racks.
Sawicki was hurt, but still on his feet, and determined to clear the C&C so he could lock himself inside it. That was his only hope now, and the renegade knew it.
Calvo saw the deserter’s weapon swing her way, put her head down, and charged. The renegade brought the handgun down in an attempt to pistol-whip the officer, but missed her skull by a sixteenth of an inch and hit her shoulder instead. Calvo felt the impact followed by a sharp pain, heard the imposter say “Oomph!” as her head hit his gut, and she collapsed on top of him.
Help had arrived by then, and the MO felt strong hands grab the back of her shirt, pluck her off the deserter, and heard
the man swear as Captain Amdo kicked the weapon out of his hand. There was a metallic clatter as the pistol skittered away followed by a muffled explosion.
The MO’s left shoulder was numb by then, and the officer put her good hand on it, as she switched her attention to defending the ship. Other techs had dropped into the vacant chairs by then and were busy relaying data. “Gun emplacement one has been destroyed, ma’am,” a petty officer said. “It sounds like they got close enough to throw a satchel charge in under the mount.”
Calvo remembered the tech who had been talking to the imposter instead of monitoring her sensors and swore. “Who the hell are we fighting? The digs? Or the bugs?”
The ship shook as an explosion strobed the night and gun emplacement three ceased to exist. “They’re bugs, ma’am. Special ops types from the looks of it. I had one report of a Hudathan fighting with them.”
“All right,” Calvo said grimly, “tell everyone to fall back on the ship, take up defensive positions, and hose them down. We have enough firepower to level a small city. Let’s use it.”
There was near chaos down in the hold as bio bods worked feverishly to transfer cyborg brain boxes from their spider forms to standby war forms. In the meantime, there were only two T-2s outside, but they were putting out a lot of fire, and the Ramanthians were forced to take cover.
Kuga-Ka said “Follow me!” and elbowed his way forward as a stream of tracers whipped over his head. He had carried the neural input device or zapper all the way from Savas Prime. Protecting it from the rain, keeping it even when other items had been discarded, certain he would have a use for it one day.
Now, as he came within range, and the nearest T-2 swung his fifty toward the big heat blob, the renegade pointed the device at the cyborg and pressed the red button. The results were dramatic. The machine stopped firing, spasmed, and fell forward onto its face. “Now!” Kuga-Ka yelled. “Grab the bastard and pull him back!”
The Ramanthians rushed forward to obey. The cyborg was heavy, but the sand was smooth, and they were strong. They grabbed the trooper’s arms and were well clear of the wreck when two additional T-2s exited the ship and immediately opened fire. The newcomers were beyond the range of the zapper, so Kuga-Ka restored the device to his pocket and marked one of the two remaining gun positions with a clumsy laser pointer. “Put some fire on that gun!”
The words were automatically translated into Ramanthian click speech, but that didn’t mean Subleader Ruu Hogo had to agree with or follow the Hudathan’s orders. His instructions were clear. Follow the renegade’s lead to the extent that it made sense—but remember it was he who would be held responsible if anything went wrong.
So as additional cyborgs joined the fray and the counter-fire increased, Hogo ordered his troops to pull back. Kuga-Ka was outraged. “What the hell are you doing? Fire your shoulder-launched missiles! Take the scum out!” But the Ramanthian troops weren’t listening, not to him at any rate, and systematically fell back.
Kuga-Ka was still fuming when the raiding party arrived at the dust-off point. Not about Sawicki, who he assumed was dead, but about Hogo’s decision to break the engagement off. Still, the raiding party had been able to destroy two gun positions and capture a war form. Not bad, not bad at all, and the renegade felt sure that Dontha would be pleased.
The T-2 had been dragged up into the transport’s dimly lit interior and secured to the deck with steel cables. Servos whirred and massive limbs flexed as the trooper started to come around. The Hudathan reached into his pocket, found the zapper, and pushed the button. The cyborg arched his back, screamed, and lost consciousness again.
Hogo, who didn’t understand what was going on, looked on in amazement.
Kuga-Ka checked to ensure that Knifethrow was awake, saw the Naa nod by way of a response, and allowed his back to make contact with cold metal. He was asleep three units later.
THE GREAT PANDU DESERT, PLANET SAVAS
A trail wound its way up around the spire of basaltic rock known as God’s Finger. But it was only two handbreadths wide, and very steep, which meant that Nartha Omoni had to cling to such handholds as were available, her face so close to the rock face that she could see the tiny crystals that were embedded in it as she sidestepped her way toward the top.
The strain of it served to remind Omoni of the toll that the years had taken on her body, of the fact that she wouldn’t be able to make the same climb by the time the dawn people completed their next circuit of the planet, and the fact that other things were changing as well. Climatic changes were pushing her people toward the north, the political environment was growing increasingly complex, and new ideas and technologies were sweeping the surface of the planet. All of which had to be evaluated, accommodated, and otherwise dealt with if her tribe was to survive.
Omoni felt a piece of heavily weathered rock break away under the weight of her body, grabbed a likely-looking knob, and was able to reestablish her footing. Then, hopeful that rockfall hadn’t injured any of those below, the chieftain sidestepped her way to the top, where a callused hand reached out to grab her wrist.
Omoni thanked the warrior who pulled her up onto the surface above and promptly forgot how tired she was as the sun announced its imminent arrival by painting the eastern horizon with streaks of pink light. Dawn held special meaning for her people, just as sunsets had symbolic value for Riff ’s tribe, and the chieftain took the moment necessary to kneel where her younger self had knelt, and gave thanks for the gift of another day.
Then, having been led to the three-sided tent where a chair awaited her, it was time to sip her morning tea and look out over the spectacle below. A contingent of mounted warriors could be seen out in the desert—and a larger group milled around the base of the spire. The human appeared as if conjured from the rock itself. “Good morning.”
The chieftain raised her mug by way of a salute. “So, you survived the climb.”
Nis Noia was used to Omoni’s gruff humor by then and smiled. “Yes, and I see that you did as well. Not bad for a couple of old geezers.”
The Paguum laughed. “Watch your mouth human . . . or I’ll have you thrown off the cliff. Is the demonstration ready?”
“Yes,” Noia replied. “Both groups are in position.”
“Excellent,” Omoni said. “Let the attack begin.”
Rather than the neat orderly ranks that Santana had originally envisioned, the officer found himself at the edge of a maelstrom of snorting, nipping, and farting zurnas. They surged back and forth as their riders jockeyed for better positions. It seemed that all of them wanted the honor of leading the charge, even though the whole point was to fight as infantry rather than cavalry, something that the officer and his troops had spent the better part of three days trying to communicate.
But the off-worlders had learned a few things during that time, including the methods that the indig leaders used to maintain discipline, like pushing their way into the center of the mob while yelling orders and wielding a whip. Something made more difficult by the fact that each legionnaire was seated behind a Paguumi warrior who had to relay his instructions to his zurna before anything could happen.
Finally, after what felt like a full-scale melee, the attacking force had been herded into color-coded groups and stood facing the dark pillar of rock. Though of no value in and of itself, the spire was intended to represent the towers that guarded the Well of Zugat, which lay to the north. Omoni needed to take control of the well since Riff was unwilling to share the water that had traditionally been his. Meanwhile, eager to reassemble his battalion and go after the hypercom before the bugs could bring in reinforcements, Kobbi and the rest of the unit were marching toward Fire Base Alpha. And, boring though that was, Santana suddenly found himself wishing that he was back with the main column.
Noia was good at any number of things, but radio procedure wasn’t one of them, and he forgot to use his call sign. His voice boomed in the legionnaire’s ear. “Okay, Lieutenant, let ’em rip.”
>
Not having com sets to distribute to the Paguumi leaders, Santana had been forced to fall back on the equivalent of a bugle as a means of communications. The officer tapped the warrior seated in front of him on the shoulder. He had to yell in order to make himself heard. “All right! Sound the charge!”
The young male had been practicing for days and looked forward to his role. He raised the long Jithi-made horn, blew a series of crystal-clear notes, and sent the necessary order to his impatient steed. The zurna took off like a shot. Santana, who had no saddle other than some makeshift padding held in place by a strap, managed to grab hold of the warrior’s weapons harness. By that time hundreds of other animals were thundering along behind and a fall meant certain death.
Fortunately, Santana managed to hang on. Then, by standing in a pair of improvised stirrups, the officer was able to peer ahead. The make-believe defenders, all of whom were mounted, milled about the base of God’s Finger. Unlike the warriors under his command, they had not received any special training and could be expected to react like Paguumi cavalry always had. They would charge, try to flank the attackers, and crush them with the weight of their numbers. And, given the fact that they outnumbered the invading force two to one, that looked like a foregone conclusion.
However, once the defenders came to face-to-face with a new type of mounted warrior, one they had never encountered before, Colonel Kobbi believed that the indigs would be forced to give way in spite of their superior numbers. The whole notion of mounted infantrymen who rode into battle but fought on foot was very similar to the concept of mechanized infantry. Something the Legion made good use of.
Like all cadets, Santana had been taught about dragoons during his time at the academy but forgotten them soon thereafter. Not Kobbi, however, who though never having set foot in the academy, was a student of military history and saw mounted infantry as a way for the dawn people to gain a momentary advantage over their cousins to the north. Momentary, because the tactic could, and would, be imitated.
Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell Page 27
