Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (26 page)

The patrol was still two miles from base when O’Neal called in. “Red Leader to Victor Six. We’re coming in.”

The voice belonged to a bio bod nicknamed “Zits,” after the condition of his skin. “Roger that, Red Leader. Camerone is . . .”

“The place where Danjou fought and died,” O’Neal replied automatically. The pass phrase had always seemed a bit silly, especially in light of the fact that no one had ever heard the frogs speak a single word of standard without benefit of an electronic translator, but the major was a stickler for procedure, and based on experiences earlier in the day, rightly so.

The patrol climbed up and out of the river, swept the surrounding jungle for signs of an ambush, and trudged around the boulder-strewn outflow. The lake was large and calm. The never-ending rain made thousands of overlapping circles for as far as the eye could see. Firebase Victor was a dimly seen gray smudge a mile and a half out. Beacons flashed on and off, signaling its location to the shuttles that came and went. Some of the legionnaires were critical of the location, sitting as it did over a large body of frog-occupied water, but O’Neal disagreed. The lake provided and main
tained a natural free-fire zone that would have been impossible deep in the jungle. They waded in and soon disappeared.

The lake bottom was muddy, which was why the Legion had laid down miles of elevated matting that radiated out from the platform like the arms of a starfish. The indigs destroyed pieces of the walkways every now and then, but the maintenance bots had always managed to repair them, so the game went on.

O’Neal fought the temptation to focus her underwater floodlights straight ahead and swept them left and right. The water was thick with silt, free-floating plant life, and other, less identifiable debris. The spots reached twenty feet out where they were lost in the surrounding gloom.

The problem with the walkways was that the indigs could lay ambushes to either side of them with the almost certain knowledge that a patrol would come along eventually. Of course that advantage was lessened to some extent by the fact that the Legion’s tireless aqua drones identified 96.2 percent of such ambushes before they could be sprung.

Still, O’Neal had no desire to fall into one of the 3.8 percent of the ambushes that
weren’t
detected, and kept her sensors cranked to the max, a policy that resulted in any number of scares as dimly seen fish glided by, but was necessary nonetheless. Nothing happened and the march was uneventful.

The cyborg sent a burst of code to the automatic defenses designed to protect the firebases’s enormous support columns, received a tone, and led her patrol into the floodlit area directly beneath the platform.

The lock located in the base of Support Column Six opened, allowed the squad to enter, and closed behind them. The water level dropped as air was pumped in. O’Neal felt the elevator move upwards and was ready when the chemical spray came on. It was green and had been formulated to kill all of the spores and bacteria that clung to their armor.

The only problem was that it couldn’t reach all of the nooks and crannies of a Trooper II’s anatomy without some help. Which was why the squad raised their arms above their heads and shuffled in a circle like primitives worshiping the sun. Khyla needed help with her wounded arm, which would have made the whole thing look even stranger had there been someone there to witness the event.

Dripping, and as clean as technology could make them, the squad left the elevator and entered Firebase Victor. Gratings clanged underfoot, a maintenance bot slid along the ceiling, and a holo-projected likeness of the 3rd REI’s flaming grenade insignia, with the words: Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country) filled the opposite wall.

The next two hours were spent being debriefed by a fuzzy-cheeked second lieutenant. He asked every question on his list, and freaked when the ambush came up, since it didn’t fit any of the patterns he’d been told to expect. The result was a long series of tedious questions. The cyborgs had answered every one of them three times before the lieutenant called it quits.

Finally free, and looking forward to some well-deserved down-time, O’Neal was stopped in the hall. Clubacek was short and skinny but a whole lot tougher than he looked. “Hey, Sarge, the major wants to see you, on the double.”

O’Neal nodded her massive head. “Thanks, Corp . . . I’m on the way.”

Major Harlan’s office was located one level up, and like everything else on Firebase Victor, was intentionally large to accommodate Trooper IIs. O’Neal rapped on the door three times, and announced her name, rank, and serial number. The single word “Come” was sufficient to bring her inside. She snapped to attention. Armored shutters had been opened to let in the soft gray light. The furnishings were as plain and austere as the man they served. He had a receding hairline, a hooked nose, and a pencil-thin moustache. “At ease, Sergeant . . . welcome home.”

O’Neal knew, as did all the other legionnaires stationed on Firebase Victor, that rather than allow his company to be overrun during the Battle of Algeron, Harlan had called on orbiting battleships to attack his own position, decimating both the Hudathans and what was left of his command. No one could say with certainty
why
the major had volunteered for a long series of commands such a
s the one on Drang, but some said it was a self-imposed penance for what he had done, while others swore he was crazy. Whatever the reason, he was a good officer and they were lucky to have him. He smiled. “I’d invite you to take a seat but there are regulations concerning the destruction of government property.”

O’Neal had heard the joke before but laughed anyway. “Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand.”

Harlan nodded. “I hear you ran into some trouble out there.” The fact that the CO knew about the ambush didn’t surprise O’Neal in the least. He knew
everything,
or that was the impression she had, as did everyone else.

“Yes, sir. The frogs dropped from overhanging trees into the river. I was asleep at the switch and Khyla took a harpoon.”

Harlan noted the factual response, the acceptance of responsibility, and the resulting consequence. He also knew that part of the blame was his, for failing to anticipate such an attack, and taking steps to prevent it. But that was for later. The noncom’s response confirmed a decision made earlier. He sat on the edge of his desk. “These things happen. We learned something today. Everybody’s alive. That’s what counts.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harlan looked at her, as if trying to penetrate the armor, to get at the person within. “I have news for you, Sergeant.”

O’Neal felt the bottom drop out of her nonexistent stomach. Mom? Dad? Were they okay? “Sir?”

“You have orders for a new unit being formed on a planet called Adobe. A very special unit that could play an important role in the war.”

In spite of the fact that O’Neal wasn’t especially happy about life as a cyborg, she hated what the Hudathans had done, and was ready to do her part. “Thank you, sir. May I ask what sort of unit? And what makes it special?”

Harlan smiled. “Beats the heck out of me, Sergeant. Drop me a line when you find out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck, Sergeant. You did a fine job here on Drang. We’ll miss you.”

“Thank you, sir.” O’Neal clanked to attention, delivered a crisp salute, waited for the acknowledgement, and turned towards the door. Sixteen short hours later her brain-box had been pulled, lifted into orbit along with five others, and plugged into a special life-support system that allowed them to remain conscious. The cyborgs could sleep, play games, listen to music, live alternate lives, or sharpen their military skills via the ship’s virtual-reality matrix.

O’Neal tried to enjoy herself, tried to see the journey as a much-needed vacation, but couldn’t escape the feeling that something nasty waited at the other end of the trip.

 

President Moolu Rasha Anguar lay suspended in the gossamer-light silk-thread hammock and stared at the ceiling over his head. Some idiot or collection of idiots had painted a Confederacy seal up there so he could never forget who or what he was. The last thing the Dweller wanted to do was to strap himself into the exoskeleton and spend the day on the surface of Alpha-001. But that’s what he had to do. Now that the Hudathans had declared war, the Hegemony was even more important than before.

The fact that he had fifty thousand troops plus the infrastructure needed to support them tied up on the Clone Worlds was bad enough, but the possibility that the Hegemony would actually side with the Hudathans was truly terrifying. Not because the Clones were a serious military threat, but because they could open a second front, and thereby siphon off resources that would otherwise have been directed towards the Hudathans.

That was why Anguar had agreed to visit Alpha-001 and take one last crack at diplomacy. The planet’s ranking officer, one Marianne Mosby, thought it was worth a try, and had made some progress on her own. Of course she was sleeping with an Alpha clone, or so his intelligence network claimed, but that could b
e an advantage, depending on whether the general used the leverage to help the Confederacy or herself.

The Dweller made the purring sound that signaled amusement. Did the Confederacy have a decoration for heroic screwing? If so, he would make sure that Mosby received one. Unless she supported the other side, that is, which would make him angry, and result in her almost certain death.

A tone signaled the start of a long miserable day. Anguar swung his feet out of the hammock, found the floor, and shuffled towards the bathroom. He might be president but he still had to pee.

It could have been any time of day or night, thanks to the blacked-out windows and the artificial light. Previously busy androids stood here and there, frozen in place, their work complete.

Fisk-Eight felt a sense of anticipation as he watched Fisk-Three climb into the Trooper II’s cramped control space and strap himself in. Unlike a lot of the things his cell had attempted, this plan could actually work, and assuming it did, the Alpha Clones known as Antonio and Pietro would be grateful. Yes, the morning would be an interesting one, and he looked forward to it.

“You look happy,” Three said as he connected the last of the sensor pads to his legs.

Eight gave himself a mental kick in the pants for allowing his semipermanent scowl to slip. “I’m pleased with the quality of our work, that’s all,” he replied gravely. “And for the cell.
Your
victory will be
our
victory.”

Servos whined as Three tested his controls. “I’m glad you feel that way, my brother. I was afraid that you envied my role in the assassination.”

Eight shrugged. “I know it isn’t seemly, but the truth is that I
do
envy your role, although I’m doing my best to fight it.”

Three looked sympathetic. “And you’re doing a wonderful job. I said so in the report I submitted last night. Is the truck ready?”

Eight nodded. “Ready and waiting.”

Three attempted to look at his wristwatch and a huge arm moved in response. He laughed. “Good. Close the hatch and secure the seals. It’s time to go.”

 

Starke was tired, which was the way he usually felt after he dreamed about the crash that had destroyed his body along with those belonging to 152 other men, women, and children. He hadn’t seen it, of course, or even been awake at the moment of impact, but he’d watched the computer-generated court-holos hundreds of times.

But reveille is reveille, and when Parker said “Jump,” it was time to move. Starke released his joint locks, ran a systems check, and followed the other cyborgs out of the maintenance bay. The platoon had been stationed at Checkpoint X Ray for so long that the small parking lot seemed like home.

The unit formed by squads and came to attention as Booly appeared. Like the bio bods and cyborgs that fronted him, the young officer had paid special attention to his uniform. His fatigues crackled, light winked off his highly polished belt buckle, and his kepi sat just so. He stopped in front of Parker, returned the noncom’s salute, and the inspection began.

The platoon had been chosen to be part of the presidential guard, a high honor indeed, and one that General Mosby took seriously. Which meant that the colonel, the major, and the captain took it seriously, too, as did Booty, who had no choice in the matter. He made a show of pausing in front of each cyborg, of flipping one of their multiple inspection plates open, and peering at the readouts within. But given the fact the platoon’s maintenance techs had fussed over the Trooper IIs well into the night, there was very little chance he’d find something to complain about.

The same was true of the bio bods, all of whom had been preinspected by Parker and the other noncoms. That left Booly with little more to do than nod and mumble a litany of compliments. “Nice turnout, Paxton . . . good job, Starke . . . keep it up, Minh . . .” and so on, until the entire platoon had been inspected and found fit for duty.

Then it was time to form up and move out. The president and his entourage were supposed to arrive in front of the hat-box-shaped governmental complex at 1100 hours sharp. That meant the honor guard must arrive at 0800 so they could secure the area and still have time to complain about the rotten duty they had pulled. There were the usual orders, last-minute screw-ups, and unforeseen changes. Starke “heard” his name come over the radio and gave the mental equivalent of a groan. “Hey, Starke! Shake a leg. D’Costa has a warning light and the techs need time to scope it out. She pull
ed drag and I want you to replace her.”