Legionnaire

by Jason Anspach

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant takes off at a jog, moving in my direction as he navigates through the bustling crowd.

  I stop him before he runs by. “Hey, Masters is at a stand back there by the sled. Vendor was a koob that spoke passable Standard.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant,” my L-comm squawks.

  “Go ahead, Rook.”

  “Yeah, uh, the number of koobs over here damn well doubled.”

  Great.

  I turn and look down the road to see if there’s anything out of place, like a mob marching down toward Exo and Rook’s sled. There’s nothing beyond the already bustling marketplace. “Are they armed?”

  There’s a pause. Rook is double-checking what I know he already determined.

  “Nah. Not that I see. But if looks could kill… we’d be dead like Deluvia.”

  Deluvia was a Republic capital ship that spent two cycles deep beyond galaxy’s edge. When it returned, the entire ship was empty and all the airlocks were open. Not even bots remained. Holocam footage was wiped clean except for one three-second loop that showed the bridge littered with the dead bodies of the crew.

  Not the sort of image I want to conjure up when I think of Victory Company.

  “Roger,” I say. “I’ll see about getting Twenties and Masters to your position. You tell that gunner to keep his kelhorn eyes on those koobs.”

  “Copy,” Rook says.

  I realize that I’ve been standing in place during Rook’s report. Busy koobs are passing around me like a river around a boulder. Devers, of course, has noticed as well.

  “Chhun! I need you to get your butt—” The chewing-out is cut off by something else apparently more infuriating than my existence. “Oh, what is this crap?”

  I look through the crowd and see a koob in black robes carrying a tray with cups full of a steaming liquid. He begins serving the cups, first to the chieftain, then to all the others of his kind. When each koob has a cup in his hand, he offers the tray to Devers and Wraith.

  “No, we’re not drinking that,” Devers says.

  The koob implores him, moving the tray up and down and urging them to take a cup.

  I hustle over, and I’m close enough to hear the wizened croak of the chieftain. “Kika ke kakay ka.” He pantomimes taking a drink.

  Devers shakes his head and holds up his hand. “Sorry, no. Taking that would be against orders. We’re not to accept any gifts from the planetary population.”

  Wraith is clearly put off. He refers to Devers by his first name. “Silas, what’s the point of coming out here if it’s just to insult them? Take the drink.”

  “Damn it, Ford!” The rebuke hisses from Devers’s external speaker. I can hear it clearly from my position, meaning everyone else can, too. Devers should have used a private comm channel. But I guess since the koobs don’t speak Standard…

  “Explain this to me,” Wraith continues, unfazed by Devers’s outburst. “We both know that there aren’t any orders against participating in planetary customs.”

  Devers throws out his arms, and I wince at the clear disharmony being shown to the people whose loyalty we’re trying to secure. “Explain this! The agreement was that you would take command of the combat ops and I would handle negotiations. It’s not about the gifts, it’s about maintaining unity. The helmets stay on. Hurricane, remember?”

  With precision timing, helmet-less me, a single raindrop in the hurricane known as Victory Company, shows up. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Buckets don’t usually convey emotion, but I’m pretty certain Devers is glaring at me from behind his.

  “Kika ke kakay. Ka kaky.” The drink is now offered to me. Koobs are persistent in their hospitality, if nothing else.

  “May as well take it, Chhun,” Wraith says wryly. “You’ve spoiled the hurricane.”

  When Devers doesn’t say anything, I take a wooden cup of rust-colored liquid. Yellow granules, maybe some sort of spice, float on the surface and cling to the sides. “Thank you,” I say, dipping my head in a fractional bow.

  Hopefully a bow isn’t an insult.

  The chieftain holds his drink high in the air, straight above his head with his arm extended as far as it will reach. The other koobs do the same, so I imitate the pose as well. It’s evident that we’re waiting on the chieftain—who keeps his arm up for a long while. Long enough that I can feel a twinge in my shoulder muscles. But no arms waver. They all stick straight up like a grove of trees, unmoved by the wind. I become aware of the fact that the bustling koobs all around us have stopped.

  They’re watching.

  Finally, the chieftain says, “Kalkowah!” He gulps down his beverage, his purple air sac quivering as he drains the cup. The other koobs are moving in unison, drinking at the same time. When I see that they’re not sipping, I tilt my head back and let the liquid pour down my throat. It’s warm, and clearly alcoholic. The best way I could describe it is a mix of Pintaari brandy, cinnamon, and fish.

  That’s actually a surprisingly good combination.

  With precision timing, each koob tosses his cup over his shoulder. I follow suit a second later, and my cup clatters just a few moments longer on the cobblestone, like the last person still clapping in an auditorium.

  The chieftain smacks his lips and swivels his frog-like eyes to look at me intently. He taps my chest armor, then delicately traces the webbing that holds my vibroknife. “You-ah come for war.”

  “I, uh…” My stammering is due in equal measure to uncertainty about how to answer and surprise that the chieftain does indeed speak Standard. “No,” I manage. “The Republic doesn’t come for war. But we’re prepared for war. Always.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Devers shoulders past me, eclipsing my view of the chieftain. “You speak Standard.”

  The chieftain peers around Devers and looks at me. “Maybe you-ah find what you prepare for, hmm?” His air sac quivers as he releases a series of clicks. Some of the koobs in his entourage click and croak—in agreement, I suppose.

  I step beside Devers. The koob isn’t paying any attention to him, just looking to me as if waiting for an answer. Something about his gaze compels me to give a reply. “The Republic isn’t here to start a war. But once, in the Savage Wars, a lack of preparation nearly destroyed us. We,” I pat the emblem on my chest, “legionnaires, we won’t stand idly by when attacked.”

  “Chhun, shut up.” Devers grabs my webbing and pulls me back a step. He addresses the chieftain. “Chieftain, I’m Major Silas Devers. I’m the duly appointed representative of the Republic. In answer to your question, the Republic very much wishes for a mutual sphere of prosperity between the Kublaren and—”

  “Kik-kik-k’etakir.” The chieftain waves his hand dismissively, silencing Devers. He swivels his eyes toward me again. “Many deaths of Kublakaren come from you. Not my tribe have big die. Not my people who attack you. But many deaths, yes. They who live shelter here now, under the protection of tikrit. Maybe you come now for Kreggak,” he thumps his chest as he speaks his name, “and my kin-tribe?”

  “Chhun, don’t answer him.” Devers speaks loudly to the chieftain, as if that will help this koob, who is clearly fluent in Standard, to better understand him. “You need to speak with me. I’m in charge here.”

  The chieftain blinks impassively.

  “Chhun, tell him!”

  I look down for a moment and say, “Uh, you, uh, need to speak with Captain Devers. I’m not really authorized to—”

  “Kreggak only say to this-ah one.” Kreggak, the chieftain, raps his knuckles against my armor. He’s talking to me, acting as if Devers isn’t there. Acting like Devers can’t hear him. “You one not hide behind mask. You one drink the reekau. To you one, my tribe will speak.”

  I turn to face Devers. “Captain?”

  Devers hisses into his bucket’s microphone. “Fine, Chhun. Fine. Have it your way. You can relay my messages to the chieftain.” He sighs, as if the circumstances of the situation
are simply too much for him to deal with. “Tell Chieftain Kreggak that the Republic is here to affirm his support for the lawfully elected Senator Greggorak of the tribe Innik.”

  I nod and say to Kreggak, “Chieftain, the Republic wishes to know if your tribe still supports Senator Greggorak of the tribe Innik.”

  “Lawfully elected senator,” Devers insists.

  “The lawfully elected senator of the tribe Innik.”

  Kreggak lets out a low, throaty mix of a rumble and a croak. “You one… Chh-ahn. This is what you want to ask?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “Tribe Innik is at peace with my tribe by marriage. My sister-kin, though not my hatch-kin, is coupled with Greggorak. This,” the chieftain licks his eye, “is a bond that cannot break but by death. We support the Republic senator by the bond of driddak.”

  Wraith rocks from one foot to the next, his N-4 pointing down. “Sounds like you got your answer, Devers.”

  The captain turns around. “Not that simple, Ford. I need him to understand that his support should come from a desire to cooperate with the Republic and not from a devotion to local planetary customs. The Republic has so much to offer Kublar…”

  I relay the message before Devers has the chance to give me an order. “Chieftain Kreggak, the Republic wants your support. That means backing the senator for the Republic instead of the, uh… driddak.”

  The chieftain’s eyes bulge, and he lets out a regurgitating sort of bellow. “You, Chh-ahn, want my tribe’s loyalty above even the driddak?”

  I get the distinct feeling I may have just insulted the old koob.

  “Dammit, Chhun, this is why you shouldn’t be within a thousand meters of this meeting.”

  Never mind that Devers ordered me here. I bite my tongue.

  “Sorry,” I say, more to the chieftain than to Devers. “I didn’t mean to suggest…”

  “This can be done,” one of the koobs from the entourage says, in Standard, because suddenly, they all speak Standard.

  The chieftain lazily turns to face the yellow-robed koob with speckled brown and gray skin. The party begins clicking and croaking at one another. Their air sacs fill and empty rapidly, a sign of excitement.

  “Looks like Kublarens speak Standard more than we might suspect,” observes Wraith.

  “No,” Devers says, dismissing the comment with a shake of his head. “Anomaly. Repub-Intel says almost zero percent fluency in Standard, planet-wide.”

  “Well, if that’s case…” Wraith raises his palms. “I’ll just ignore that all these Kublarens pretend they can’t speak it until it’s convenient. Usually I’d say that means they’re hiding something, but if Rep-Int says zero percent fluency…”

  It takes every last bit of my reserve not to laugh. I never knew Captain Ford to make jokes. I guess becoming an officer grants me some sort of special access.

  The koob deliberation comes to an abrupt end. Kreggak steps forward and addresses me directly. “This one can happen. If you leejon-ayers are to fight for this Moona.”

  “Absolutely.” Devers practically interrupts the chieftain in his eagerness to comply. “If it means garnering your tribe’s support for the Republic and the senator, absolutely.”

  I try to mask the bewilderment on my face as I turn to face Devers. “Uh, Captain, don’t you think we should find out what he’s talking about first?”

  “No, Chhun, I don’t. There’s literally no force on this planet that can stand up to the concentrated firepower at Camp Forge.”

  I let out a long exhalation. There is nothing I like about where this is going. We were just chewed up in a koob ambush—whether Chieftain Kreggak was involved or not, who knows—and now we’re committing to fight for the koobs, no questions asked.

  Well, as long as the chieftain is talking to me, I’m going to take some liberties.

  “Chieftain, we were ambushed on the way here. Our priority right now is taking care of our wounded and returning to Camp Forge for further orders.”

  Kreggak lets out a long string of clicks. “This was not my tribe, not Moona tribe. This was rival tribe, Annek. You leejon-ayers do much damage. Now fight with us, help destroy Annek tribe in their village. Not under tikrit in village. Kill tribe that ambushed you and make much trouble on Kublar to Republic.”

  I chew on the inside of my lip. “While I appreciate information on who is responsible for the attack on our column, I can’t commit to—”

  Kreggak bobs his head. “Not hard fight. Annek too hurt. Big die.”

  “Maybe we can start by having you turn in the Annek who are in Moona Village,” I suggest.

  “No, nope.” Kreggak stoops and squats with each word. “Some of Annek warriors come to Moona Village to seek shelter. Much sacred protection this is. Cannot be broken. But tribal seat is weak. Less than half of two hundreds. If my tribe fight with leejon-ayers, my tribe control Annek. Warriors then fight for me and support Republic senator. Would show Republic friendly for Moona Kublarens killed in fight. Much anger still among youth in my tribe for this.”

  Devers shoves me to the side, forcing me to take a sidestep to maintain my balance. He speaks in an animated, eager tone. “Chieftain Kreggak, this is definitely something our unit is capable of, even with reduced numbers. If it means strengthening and solidifying our relationship with your tribe—which was our primary purpose for visiting Moona Village—we’ll do it. I already have the full support of Camp Forge if such a situation was presented to me in discussions.”

  For the first time, Kreggak speaks directly to Captain Devers. “Good thing. Good thing. We leave now?”

  “If that’s what it will take, yes,” Devers says.

  “I call Moona war council. Annek not far, this day, night, tomorrow, and morning battle. Together. Moona and leejon-ayers.”

  “Together,” Devers says, sticking out his hand for the chieftain to shake.

  Kreggak wraps his three long and slender fingers around Devers’s gloved hand, and they’re shaking like old Academy friends. I guess we’ve got some more fighting to do before we get to roll back into CF.

  Joy.

  11

  “Easy with that thing, Masters. Only one of us has a bucket on his head.”

  The young legionnaire has been swinging his new koob sword—more of an over-sized dagger—in wide arcs as we walk back to our sled. He stops, holding it flat in his hand to examine it for the hundredth time.

  “Sorry, Sergeant—Lieutenant Chhun. It might be a while before I get the rank right.” Masters drops the curved blade to his side, but soon brings it back up, switching it from one hand to another. The weapon is made from some sort of black, volcanic stone, like obsidian but much harder. It’ll leave a slice in our armor before it chips.

  “Just don’t want an ear chopped off. And don’t worry. Chances are I’ll be a sergeant again once we’re off this rock.”

  Masters lets out a chuckle and wraps the dagger in its sheath before tying it to his belt with leather thongs. We walk in silence for a moment. Most the legionnaires have loaded into their sleds, and the turret gunners aren’t chatty. The few koobs making their way up the road toward the village square give us a wide berth.

  “How much did you have to pay for it?” I ask.

  “Not much, just a little tech.”

  I stop and turn to face the young legionnaire. “Masters, I don’t want any koobs getting their hands on leej tech.”

  “No, nothing like that—I would never—it was just a few holochits.”

  “Holochits? Why would they want cheap little holochits?”

  Masters shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t think the koob had ever seen ’em before. I had to give up four of ’em. They were all of Mendella doing this dance where she shakes her…” He pauses, apparently unsure whether he should continue to describe the gyrations of the nypian singing sensation.

  I decide to tease him a little. “Why does a legionnaire need a holochit of Mendella shaking her… talents?”

  “A so
ldier gets lonely at galaxy’s edge, Lieutenant.”

  I shake my head and chuckle. “Well, I guess the koobs get to enjoy Mendella now.”

  “You think koobs are attracted to nypians? I mean, Mendella is really torrid, but…”

  We start walking again.

  “My guess,” I say, “is that your shopkeeper is going to sell it for the same price as ten of those short swords, and the koob who buys it will turn it on and place it in the middle of his dining table whenever company comes over, completely unaware of just how suggestive their holochit is to humans.”

  “What have I done?” Masters asks in mock terror.

  “You’re defiling the minds of impressionable koobs, and they don’t even know it.”

  Masters’s laugh booms forth from his external speaker. “Oh, hey.” He reaches around his hip and pulls out a wicked-looking tomahawk. “I got this for you.”

  He places the weapon into my hand. It’s a good, compact size. A little over thirty centimeters, with a nice blade made from the same stone as his dagger.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  Masters looks down. “Earlier.” When he realizes I’m not picking up the pieces he adds, “At the ridge?”

  “What?”

  “Seriously? You dropped a koob that had me dead in its sights with a PK-9.”

  I don’t remember that at all. Everything was happening so fast, I acted on instinct and training. I know I dusted a few koobs during the charge; if one of them was fixing to blast Masters, all the better. But it’s not like I wouldn’t have shot the alien anyway. I don’t deserve any special credit.

  “Hey, Masters, just doing my part. You don’t have to—”

  “I know.” Masters nods. “We’d all do the same thing, I know. Well, except for Point, maybe. But this time it was me who didn’t get dusted and it was because of you. Besides, I was getting tired of those holochits, and these are way better than anything I could get on the Chiasm for them.”

  “Thanks, Masters.” I tuck the tomahawk into my belt and drag my hand along the side of a combat sled as we pass by it. Exo’s sled is next in the line, hidden just behind a bend in the mountain road before us.