Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (28 page)

“Green Two to Big Dog Four . . . condition red! I repeat, condition red!”

Slozo was far too professional to question or ignore the report. The machine-gun bullets were still ricocheting off the cement and screaming through the park when the presidential motorcade pulled a U-turn and headed for the airport. Assault craft, each loaded with a platoon of legionnaires, took off from checkpoints located throughout the city, and converged over the convoy. A thousand fingers rested on a thousand triggers. One threat, one hostile move, and everything within a half-mile of the main boulevard would be destroyed.

Mosby’s combat-trained reflexes were quicker and more appropriate than the Alpha clone’s. She pushed him down and crouched over his body with side arm drawn. The functionaries, all members of three basic administrative genotypes, acted in concert. Two groups dived for cover, many screaming in fear, while the third stood as a bulwark between their leader and the crazed Trooper II.

Servos whined in protest as Booly pulled down on the exoskeleton’s gun arm. But the exoskeleton’s laser arm was unencumbered and there was no way to stop it. He yelled into his helmet-mounted boom mike. “Platoon! I am your target! Fire!”

Fisk-Three felt something warm flood down his right leg as he shook the officer free and aligned both weapons on the review stand. Splinters flew, bunting sagged, and bodies were tossed into the air under the i
mpact of his bullets. Had he hit the targets? The anarchist was trying to see when two shoulder-launched missiles, hundreds of rounds of armor-piercing ammunition, and six laser beams all converged on his position. The resulting explosion left nothing larger than an I.D. card for the investigators to find and piece together. Booly, momentarily deafened, but otherwise unhurt, lay on his back and watched contrails stretch themselves across the sky. It felt good to be alive.

Many miles away, in a café full of stunned and amazed people, all watching the ceiling-mounted monitors, a man named Fisk-Eight shook his head sadly, wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, and got to his feet. It had been a good plan, a fine plan, but Three had fired too early. What could he have been thinking of anyway? Ah well, such is the lot of the revolutionary. Here today and gone tomorrow. Eight smiled, left a tip, and walked out the door. Sirens screamed in the distance.

Explosions are funny things, and unless carefully planned, produce unpredictable results. So, in spite of the fact that Booly was spared when the exoskeleton blew up, a woman standing a hundred yards away had been killed by a piece of flying shrapnel. He had been very, very lucky, as had Alpha Clone Marcus, General Mosby, and President Anguar, all of whom had emerged from the assassination attempt not only alive, but in some ways better off, unlikely though that might have seemed.

Which explained why Booly was dressed in his number one uniform, and waiting nervously in one of
Friendship’
s well-appointed corridors, while his superiors finished a meeting in Anguar’s office. The waiting was even worse than combat, and the young officer had sweated through the inner layers of his uniform by the time one of the president’s many assistants, a chubby young man named Halworthy Burton, appeared and led him inside.

The artifacts, paintings, and sculptures were little more than a blur as the legionnaire followed Burton through a scanning frame, past some heavily armed bodyguards, and into the president’s inner sanctum. Anguar, Marcus, Mosby, and some other sentients that Booly had never seen before stood as he entered, and looked at him with open curiosity. But it was the president himself who stepped forward to greet Booly. The smile had a forced quality but was
reassuring nonetheless. “Lieutenant Booly . . . welcome aboard. My staff treated you well, I trust?”

What Booly had hoped would emerge as a confident baritone came out as a broken croak. “Yes, sir. Everyone has been most kind.”

“Excellent,” Anguar replied jovially. “Please allow me to introduce Alpha Clone Marcus, General Mosby, who tells me that in addition to being both resourceful and brave, you are an excellent dinner companion. Ambassador Undula represents the Sovereign Worlds of Tull . . .”

The names and titles started to blend together after a while, and Booly found himself nodding and mumbling “glad to meet you, gentle being,” over and over again. Finally, when the introductions were over, the young officer was invited to sit, which he did, with his back ramrod straight and his hands folded in his lap. The compartment was warm and he felt a little light-headed.

“So,” Anguar began, “I imagine that you’re impatient to get this over and return to your unit. That being the case, we will be as efficient as possible. We brought you here to let you know how much we appreciate your attention to duty, quick thinking, and personal bravery. Thanks to you and your platoon, we are not only alive, but better off than before. In spite of the fact that the people of Alpha-001 have no great love for the Confederacy, they
do
have feelings for our friend Marcus, and were quite disturbed about the attempt to assassinate him. And while we have reason to believe that his b
rothers may still open a second front, their efforts will be substantially weakened. On behalf of the entire Confederacy I would like to thank you. General Mosby?”

Mosby nodded, stood, and walked over to where Booly sat. He stood without being asked. The general smiled and undid his shoulder boards. “Lieutenant to captain in less than a year . . . Not bad for someone who got drunk, lost a knife fight, and received one last chance.”

Booly was still blushing from the general’s blunt, rather negative appraisal of his career, when he was ushered out and into the hall. Still, he should have been happy, the legionnaire knew that, but Starke’s death, combined with those of twelve bystanders, made that impossible.

He fingered the hard copy Burton had handed him on the way out, removed the protective tab, and pressed his right index finger against the print-sensitive dot. Words appeared out of nowhere. Algeron! He had orders for Algeron! Booly was going home.

 

Dr. Cynthia Harmon was angry, an emotion that showed in the way she slammed the auto cab’s door, and stepped into traffic. She was a small woman, with a pinched face, and the body of a natural gymnast. Her clothes were casual and nearly identical to the ones back at the hotel. She squinted at a building on the far side of the street. It looked more like the warehouse it had been than headquarters for the Department of Interspecies Cooperation. Whatever that might be.

Ground cars screeched to a halt and drivers swore as Harmon stepped out into the middle of the street, pulled a much-folded piece of official-looking stationery out of her purse, and checked the address in the upper right-hand corner. This was the place, all right, the place to which she had been ordered to come, or risk losing her grant, which was the only thing that kept the undersea research facility going. All because of some bureaucratic whim. How dare they interfere with her work! Someone would pay.

Oblivious to the horns and insults that sounded all around her, Harmon crossed the street, took the stairs two at a time, and was surprised when a uniformed guard smiled, opened the armor-plated door, and said, “Good morning, Dr. Harmon. The director is expecting you.”

Harmon nodded brusquely, resolved to keep her attitude firmly in place, and realized that she didn’t have the foggiest idea of where to go ne
xt. The hallway was large enough to accommodate an auto-loader. Sun streamed down through highly placed windows and threw rectangles of light across the concrete floor. A hand touched her elbow. “Dr. Harmon? This way, please. The director is expecting you.”

The director’s assistant, if that’s what the machine was, had been painted olive drab and had a military-style bar code stenciled on its chest. Did that imply a connection with the military? The whole thing seemed stranger all the time.

Harmon followed the android down the hall and was struck by the feeling of quiet efficiency that permeated the building. It reminded her of an ancient library, or a monastery, except there were no books, and damned few humans. In fact, judging from those she saw in the hall, and in the offices to either side, most of the staff consisted of androids, cyborgs, and aliens. Some of whom wore elaborate life-support systems or sat, hung, or wallowed in specially designed environments. Just another way to waste taxpayer money, Harmon thought bitterly, while the suits strangled her researc
h and jerked her around. Her black high-tops, standard wear on Marianna Three, squeaked against the highly polished floor.

The hall ended in front of massive double doors. They opened on their own and Harmon followed the android into a spacious waiting area. The machine indicated some mismatched but comfortable-looking chairs. “Please take a seat—”

Harmon held up a hand in protest. “I know . . . the director is expecting me.” The android nodded expressionlessly and withdrew.

The doctor considered her alternatives, chose the chair with the least padding, and planned her strategy. She would husband her anger at first, allowing it to build while the no-doubt-idiotic director prattled on, and then, just when he or she was least expecting it, Harmon would jump in, rip the worthless bureaucrat to shreds, reduce the shreds to a quivering mass of jelly, and return to her habitat, grant intact. It had worked before and would work again. “Dr. Harmon? The director will see you now.”

Harmon stood and followed the robot into a small antechamber, and from there into a large, rather spartan office, dominated by the same wooden desk that had served the warehouse manager eons before. Her host was younger than she had expected, good looking if you liked that sort of thing, and somewhat wooden. He rose to greet her. “Dr. Harmon! How good of you to come! You had a pleasant journey, I trust?”

Harmon shook the man’s hand. It was firm and dry. “The plane didn’t crash, if that’s what you mean.”

The man laughed. “You’re everything they said you’d be. Please have a seat.”

Harmon eyed the director suspiciously. “And you are?”

The man shook his head as if disappointed in himself.

“I’m sorry . . . where are my manners? My name is Sergi Chien-Chu. I’m the director of the Department of Interspecies Cooperation.”

Harmon felt her mouth drop open. “
The
Sergi Chien-Chu? The one everyone thought was dead?”

“One and the same,” Chien-Chu agreed cheerfully. “And I’d still be dead if wasn’t for the blasted Hudathans.” His plastiskin face turned grim. “We must stop them. And soon.”

Harmon searched for the anger that she had brought into the room and couldn’t find it. Chien-Chu! Industrialist, patriot, savior, the list went on and on. She didn’t watch a lot of news, but even
she
had been aware of the enormous media hoopla that had surrounded his return from the dead, and his promise to help President Anguar against the Hudathans. Public confidence had soared after that in spite of the defeat off Worber’s World. Harmon was impressed in spite of herself. But why was Chien-Chu in charge of some low-rent government agency? And what did he want with her?

Chien-Chu smiled as if able to read her thoughts. He perched on the corner of the desk. “Which brings us to you. The Confederacy needs your help.”

Harmon frowned. “
My
help? What could I do?”

Chien-Chu looked her straight in the eye. “We want you to travel to a planet designated IH-4762-ASX41, contact the sentients known as the Say’lynt, and recruit them into our armed forces.”

Harmon looked at the industrialist as if he were certifiably insane. “Have you lost your mind? I’m a scientist, not a recruiter. Surely you have other, more qualified candidates.”

“No,” Chien-Chu answered evenly, “we don’t. Did you know a woman named Dr. Valerie Reeman?”

Harmon felt cold liquid run through her veins. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think about Valerie. Dead these many years, killed when the Hudathans overran her research station, and buried in alien soil. They had gone to college together, majored in marine biology together, and formed the only relationship that Harmon had ever cared about. Yes, she had known Valerie Reeman, and dreamed of her every night. “Yes, I knew Valerie. What about her?”

“She was working with the Say’lynt at the time of her death. They thought very highly of her.”

Harmon
knew
she was being manipulated,
knew
she was being used, but couldn’t help herself. “The Say’lynt . . . what are they like?”

“Their bodies are similar to Terran phytoplankton,” Chien-Chu replied, “linked together via hundreds of miles’ worth of translucent fiber, into what amounts to a group consciousness. Each mind, and there are only three or four. incorporates billions of individual plankton, and occupies up to a thousand square miles of ocean.”