A look of disbelief came over Admiral Kagan’s face, and he practically fell into his chair. His voice was thick with emotion. This was a joke. It had to be. “Surely, you jest.”
“No,” the cyborg assured him calmly. “Nothing could be more serious.”
The snow, which had been falling throughout the night, stopped, the sun came out, and the temperature soared to eighty. All before noon. Just another day on Hudatha. Legion Captain Augustus North warned the sentries that he was coming out, palmed the hatch, and waited for it to whir up and out of the way. They still had power, something of a miracle after months on the surface, but for how much longer? A week? A month? Maybe, if the tech heads could keep the fusion generator running, and the ridge heads allowed them to live.
The officer squinted into the glare, stepped out into the slush, and returned the cyborg’s salute. What remained of the battalion included four quads, plus thirty-six Trooper II’s, down from twelve quads and seventy-two Trooper II’s the day of the crash.
North turned, eyed the mountain of half-slagged metal, and started to climb. There were plenty of sharp edges where a wide variety of munitions had struck so it paid to be careful. Medical supplies were running low—and the doc was hard-pressed to patch people up.
The insanity had originated on the Triumph more than three months before. A cadre of mutineers, led by Major Pinchett, North’s commanding officer, received confirmation that the mutiny was under way, and took control of the ship’s bridge. Then, more than a little full of themselves, they had called on the rest of the battle stations to surrender.
The Victory, under the command of Admiral Kagan, along with the Celebration and the Jubilant had attacked their sister ship with a vengeance. The mutineers put up stiff resistance, and did pretty well for a while, but never stood a chance. Pinchett offered to surrender, but Kagan refused to listen, and the pounding went on.
North would never forget missile after missile slamming into the monitor’s hull, the steady bleat of battle klaxons, the smell of his space armor, people running down corridors, and Hudatha hanging above.
The weird thing was that North had never been asked to join the mutiny ... and wasn’t sure how he would have reacted. Lord knew there was reason, starting with the cut-backs, the way ex-soldiers were left to beg in the streets, and what could only be described as a pathetic state of readiness. But mutiny? No, it didn’t seem right. There was no way to justify what Kagan did, though, pounding the T to scrap, and destroying each life pod within seconds after launch. The admiral saw the capsules as bacteria, as the manifestation of a horrible disease, to which no mercy could be shown.
That’s when North, with help from a loyalist naval officer, loaded the freighter with troops and tried to escape. They didn’t get far.
Kagan caught the ship shortly after it left the Triumph’s launch bay, scored dozens of direct hits on the lightly armored vessel, and ignored their pleas for help.
Damaged, and with no possibility of escape, the freighter had fallen toward Hudatha’s surface. It was a miracle that anyone had survived, but a naval officer, a woman named Borkna, knew her stuff and managed to pancake in.
The transport skidded for the better part of two miles before running into a small hill. Not just any hill, but a hill with what remained of a castle on top, and walls on which many lives had been spent. The kind the Hudathans had spent hundreds if not thousands of years fighting each other for.
Now, with the hull snuggled up against old stone walls, and both covered with patches of green-black mold, not to mention islands of quickly melting slush, it was hard to tell one construct from the other. Given enough time, say a year or so, and the wreck would be invisible from the air.
North was sweating by the time he made it to the top of the wreck and stood on a barely legible “C,” which, along with a “T” and a six-digit number was part of the ship’s official ID number. Listed as missing? As unrecoverable? There was no way to know.
Corporal Gorwin was there waiting for him. She lifted one of her energy-cannon-equipped arms by way of a greeting. “Morning, sir.”
The words were cheerful enough, especially in light of the fact that the lower part of her body was missing, and, with no chance of repairs, she had volunteered to stay on the top of the ship as a semipermanent sentry.
North nodded and worked to catch his breath. He was short and stocky. His uniform was filthy but so was everyone else’s. “So, Gorwin, any sign of the geeks?”
The cyborg nodded. “Yes, sir. I notified the control room by radio. Right after you left. Take a look toward the west.” Her voice was dull—empty of hope.
North pulled a small pair of binoculars out of his shirt pocket and brought them up to his eyes. What he saw made him suck air into his lungs. The Hudathans had attacked before, twenty-seven times to be exact, but never like this. An army was on the march. There were thousands of the bastards. More than he and his handful of troops could possibly deal with.
The situation was reminiscent of the Legion’s most famous battle, that day in the spring of 1863 when Legion Captain Jean Danjou and a force of sixty-four men took on more than two thousand Mexican troops and fought them to a standstill. That was the good news. The bad news was that only three legionnaires had survived. Danjou was not among them. The name of village where the fight took place was Camerone.
Gorwin, who had similar thoughts herself, read the officer’s face. “Yes, sir. It looks a lot like Camerone.”
In spite of the fact that Chien-Chu had been living in cybernetic bodies for many years now—he had never controlled anything like a Trooper II. Theoretically outmoded some fifty years before, T-2s continued to roll off the assembly lines because they were sturdy, effective, and, when compared with a Trooper III and its animal analogs, cheap to produce and maintain. Part of their value stemmed from the proven ability to operate in just about any environment that one could imagine, which was what awaited the industrialist below.
Doma-Sa, who had no need of technology in order to survive, watched the process with obvious amusement. The transfer took place in one of the onboard equipment bays. The cyber-techs injected some drugs into Chien-Chu’s artificial circulatory system, removed his brain box from his “normal” body, and “loaded” a Trooper II.
Chien-Chu endured the brief moment of sensory deprivation, felt the new body react to his presence, and experienced something akin to a drug-induced rush as system after system came on-line.
Though theoretically analogous to what he had experienced before, there was no real comparison. The war machine was faster, more powerful, and loaded with systems civilians had no need for.
The industrialist’s left arm was an air-cooled .50 caliber machine gun, his right arm was a fast-recovery laser cannon, and he could run at speeds up to fifty miles per hour. He spoke, realized how loud the PA system was, and turned it down. “I’m ready for anything—even Hudatha.”
Doma-Sa looked him over. “That may be true, my friend—but the switch did nothing for your appearance.”
“Look who’s talking,” Chien-Chu replied. “Come on, let’s see if I can walk.”
The thousands of Hudathan troopers marched as if on parade, which essentially they were, crossing the Plain of Skulls toward the castle Glid, where the great Kasa-Ka had ruled during feudal times, and the aliens now lived. An insult that must be expunged ... but not till Ikor Ifana-Ka was finished with them. Training was important, and, if properly husbanded, the humans could be stretched for another couple of weeks. Real combat, with real aliens, was hard to come by. That’s why they had been allowed to live for such a long time.
Besides, the Hudathan liked the look of his troopers, the banners that flew above their heads, the gleam of their weapons, the sound of the drums, the way the whistles shrilled the air, and the wind in his face. This was the way things had been, should be, would be if his people were free.
Ifana-Ka sat on what amounted to a half-enclosed sedan chair, winced as pain stab
bed his fully extended leg, and listened to his aide. The youngster had little difficulty keeping pace. The words were clear—but the message wasn’t. “Doma-Sa? Landing with a high-ranking human? Impossible! Shoot the translator.”
Mylo Norba-Ba was used to such excess. His words were both patient and respectful. “There was no translation. War Commander Doma-Sa spoke directly with me. He said the matter is urgent and of the highest importance. Their shuttle has entered the atmosphere.”
Ifana-Ka adjusted his leg. “All right then, if we must, we must. Pass the word ... the troops will stand down. We may as well feed them. Not for long mind you ... We march two hours from now.”
A sudden gust of high altitude wind hit the shuttle’s hull. It rocked from side to side. The cargo compartment was empty except for the Trooper II that stood at the center of it, the Hudathan who overflowed a fold-down seat, and the orange exoskeleton secured toward the stern. Admiral Kagan had elected to ride up front with his pilots.
Chien-Chu felt his body tug against the cargo straps and questioned his own sanity. Was the trip to Hudatha’s surface truly necessary? So he could negotiate face to face? Or driven by curiosity? The desire to see the place that had given birth to such an implacable foe? He looked at Doma-Sa. “So, how would you rate our chances? Who sits on the Triad? And how will they react?”
The shuttle shuddered as the hull hit the bottom of an air pocket and continued to fall. Doma-Sa had known that the question would arise—and spent a considerable amount of time formulating a reply. A response calculated to conceal the infighting that years of planetary confinement had caused, the sense of hopelessness that commanded his people, and the fact that one member of the ruling body was more than a little eccentric. “I can’t speak for the rest of the Triad, but I favor your proposal, depending on what your race refers to as ‘the fine print.’ ”
Chien-Chu wondered if he had misunderstood. “You? You belong to the Triad?”
“Of course,” Doma-Sa replied easily. “What could be more important than our freedom? Besides, we have no diplomatic corps. Outside of myself that is.”
Chien-Chu wondered how he could have missed what now appeared to be obvious. The Hudathans favored a highly vertical almost dictatorial political system. They had never negotiated for anything, not until now, a fact that should have tipped him off. No one except one of the rulers could have been entrusted with something so critical. So, while many of those on board the Friendship treated Doma-Sa like a low level functionary, they had actually been dealing with a head of state.
Chien-Chu struggled to remember everything he had said or done. Doma-Sa, who had come to know the human pretty well by then, gave the Hudathan equivalent of a chuckle. It sounded a lot like a rock crusher in low gear. “No, you never said anything to offend me, not that it would make much difference, since the Victory could sterilize the surface of my planet. ”Ikor Ifana-Ka is another matter, however. He’s a lot more emotional than I am. It would pay to be careful in his presence.”
Chien-Chu frowned, or tried to, but discovered that the Trooper II wasn’t equipped for that sort of communication. “Grand Marshall Ifana-Ka? The officer that our intelligence people referred to as ‘the Annihilator?’ ”
Doma-Sa looked as surprised as he was capable of looking. “You have a remarkable memory. Yes, Ifana-Ka carried out his duties with what you would refer to as ‘ruthless efficiency.’ ”
“Meaning that he murdered hundreds of thousands of sentient beings,” Chien-Chu said coldly.
“Why, yes,” the Hudathan replied calmly. “And isn’t that why you came here? To recruit some killers?”
Chien-Chu sought some sort of comeback and was unable to think of one. Silence filled the cargo compartment.
Clouds rolled in to cover the sun, rain fell in sheets, and Captain North struggled to penetrate the gloom. He’d gone below to grab a ration bar, and now he was back. The Hudathans should have arrived by then ... and he wondered where they were. His troops, what were left of them, were dug in and waiting.
Gorwin was quick to provide an unsolicited opinion. “The infrared is clear enough, sir. It looks like the ridge heads broke for some R&R.”
North lowered the glasses. Rain peppered his face, ran down the back of his neck, and sent damp fingers into his clothing. “Okay, but why? They could take us anytime they want.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the shuttle,” the cyborg replied mysteriously.
North was annoyed. Gorwin was playing some kind of game with him—and the only thing that saved her from a good ass chewing was the fact that the enemy had already blown it off. “Shuttle? What frigging shuttle?”
Gorwin, who knew when to quit, underwent a sudden change of attitude. “The assault boat that passed over our position a few minutes ago, circled the Hudathans, and landed over there somewhere.” The cyborg used her arm-mounted energy cannon to point toward the northwest.
North felt his heart try to beat its way out of his chest. “A human assault boat? You’re sure?”
Gorwin nodded. “Sir, yes sir. Some of the other borgs saw it too. We told the loot. She said you were on the way.”
North peered into the rain, made his decision, and gave the necessary orders. “Wait ten, and tell the loot I went for a stroll. If I don’t return by 1800 hours she’s in command.”
“She ain’t gonna like that,” Gorwin replied sincerely, “and neither do I.”
“Sorry,” North replied, “but rank hath its privileges. See you later.”
The officer disappeared over the side. The corporal tried to stand and cursed her missing legs.
The wind picked up, the rain came in sideways, driven by forty mile per hour gusts of wind. The clouds were so thick that it seemed night had fallen. Rocks that had been too hot to sit on steamed as the moisture hit them. Some, stressed by years of abuse, cracked in two. The sound resembled rifle shots—and came from all around.
The assault boat crouched like some sort of gray-black monster, water streaming off its heavily armored back, beacons strobing the murk.
A hatch whirred open, Admiral Kagan directed the exoskeleton out through the opening, and was glad he had agreed to use it. This was the first time he had set foot on the planet, and he felt vulnerable, very vulnerable, in spite of the steel cage that protected his rain-soaked body.
Still, if Chien-Chu could do it, then he could do it, never mind the fact that the industrialist was all snuggy inside a T-2. The ramp bounced under his weight, a gust of wind attempted to push him over, and the officer was forced to focus the majority of his attention on the normally simple task of walking. Once on the ground, the officer confronted six heavily armed Hudathans. They stood and stared. Kagan stared back.
Chien-Chu stepped into the hatch, scanned his surroundings, and walked down the ramp. The admiral’s servo-assisted exoskeleton was equipped with amber shoulder beacons. They flashed through the downpour.
Doma-Sa was the last to deass the shuttle, and Kagan saw a distinct change where the reception party was concerned. They came to rigid attention as the Hudathan diplomat cleared the ramp and stomped through the rain. Water ran over his shoulders, down his chest, and spurted away from his boots. A series of short sentences were exchanged, and the ambassador turned to explain. “We landed in the middle of a field exercise. Ikor Ifana-Ka has agreed to receive us ... but hopes to resume training in an hour or so.”
Having said his piece, Doma-Sa set off for a pole-supported shelter that had been erected a few hundred yards to the east. It was gray, like the world around it, and shivered in the wind. The Hudathan savored the warm damp air, the way the rain pelted his chest, and the feel of gravel under his boots. It was good to be home.
Chien-Chu drew abreast of the admiral, took note of how pale the officer looked, and spoke via a heavily encrypted com channel. It took less than a minute to brief Kagan regarding Doma-Sa’s actual rank—and urge him to use caution. The meeting would be critical.
Kagan took the i
nformation in, realized what it meant, and felt a deep sense of betrayal. After all the Hudathans had done, after all the murders they had committed, Chien-Chu, along with a bunch of suck-ass politicians were going to sell the Confederacy out. All to defend against a bunch of machines that might not exist. The whole thing made him sick.
That’s when Kagan came to an important realization: He could end the insanity, he could save the Confederacy, he could go down in history. If he got the opportunity—if he had the guts.
North jogged through the rain, availed himself of what cover there was, but knew it was just a matter of time before somebody intercepted him. Would they shoot him? Before he could reach the people in the shuttle? That was his second greatest fear.
His greatest fear was that he had unintentionally betrayed the Legion, his battalion, and himself. Danjou had had many opportunities to surrender but had refused to do so. Here was an opportunity for glorious death, the kind the Legion respected, but rather than embrace it, as so many others had, he was trying to cheat his fate. Why? For the sake of his troops? Or out of cowardice? The possibility gnawed at his belly.
The legionnaire angled toward some rocks. Water splashed his ankles and wandered into his boots. He swore, allowed himself to slow, and pushed in among the boulders. One of them had cracked right down the middle during some previous storm leaving a V for him to peer through. It looked like an old-fashioned rifle sight. The enemy could be seen just beyond, preparing a meal.
The legionnaire shoved both his assault weapon and his sidearm under a rock, used stones to wall them in, and returned to the viewpoint. North swallowed the lump in his throat, stepped out through the V-shaped crack, and raised his hands in the air. Nothing happened at first, and the officer was about to move, when a shout was heard. The words were in Hudathan, but there was no doubt as to what they meant. The officer stood fast.
By Force of Arms Page 7
