Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (44 page)

 

All of the company’s cyborgs were housed in the same bay. There were eight Trooper IIs, a pair of quads, and one Trooper III, although O’Neal and her analogs occupied the same amount of space normally devoted to three T-2s, a fact that had attracted the not-so-desirable attention of a cyborg known as Cassidy. O‘Neal and her analogs were still getting organized when he swaggered over. All the gloss had been sandblasted off his armor, there was a patch where a high-velocity slug had torn through his pelvic area, and he boasted four hand-lettered tattoos. One was located in the middle of hi
s chest at what would be eye level for most bio bods. It read Machines Rule. Looking at the words, and realizing how much smaller her latest body was, O’Neal felt more than a little intimidated. His words didn’t help.

“Well, look what we have here, a brand-new kind of freak, complete with assistant freaks. Animal warriors, I wonder what’s next? Cybernetic fleas?”

Except for the quad on the perimeter, and a pair of Trooper IIs that were out on patrol, the rest of the cyborgs were present. They laughed, not out loud the way bio bods would, but on channel 3, the frequency where most off-duty conversations took place. O’Neal sighed. It was funny the way human nature worked, the way bullies still acted like bullies, no matter what happened to their physical bodies. The fact that Cassidy was something of a freak himself made the whole thing even more absurd. She looked up into the other cyborg’s vid cams. “Save the histrionics for newbies, Cassidy, I
’ve been around too long to take shit off the likes of you.”

Cassidy turned to his left, and O’Neal thought he was about to walk away, when he whipped right again. The spin kick came with mind-numbing suddenness. It was much faster than specs called for, suggesting that Cassidy had paid for some of the highly non-regulation battle mods she’d heard about. It gave him an unexpected edge, the kind that might work fine for a while, but could fail as well, leaving the cyborg disabled and vulnerable to attack. Not that she was likely to experience that sort of luck.

One minute O’Neal was standing and next she was on the concrete, looking up into the other legionnaire’s expression-free face. She had allowed him to close with her and paid the price. Satisfaction was apparent in his voice. “Oh, my goodness . . . it appears the sergeant was wrong. Maybe she
does
have to take shit off the likes of me. Isn’t that right, Sarge?”

O‘Neal was still in the process of getting to her feet when the analogs attacked. Weasel had already wrapped himself around Cassidy’s legs when the weapons platforms hit the Trooper II from both sides, and the leather wings attacked his head. Fortunately their weapons had been safed or they might have
killed their leader’s attacker outright. As it was, he required major repairs and was placed on report for assaulting a noncom, an outcome that caused the rest of the cyborgs to resent O’Neal and ostracize her.

So, rather than slide into the company the way she had hoped to do, the legionnaire found herself isolated and alone. Well, not quite alone, since her symbiotic co-warriors needed her more than ever. Having little or no choice, O’Neal turned inwards, worked to hold the analogs together, and focused on her job. It seemed as if some things would never change.

 

Rior Tollo-Sa was one of three surviving members of Dagger Commando Six, an elite unit equipped and trained to penetrate enemy defenses prior to a spaceborne attack. But Tollo-Sa might as well have been the
only
surviving member, since the others were not only spread out over five hundred square land units of Algeron’s surface, but had strict orders to ignore each other.

The insertion pod had functioned perfectly, the ceramic skin had burned away as it was supposed to, and carefully placed explosives had blown the device apart inside the atmosphere. Free-fall came next, followed by a long drop, and the spine-jarring thump of the number one chute.

He had felt good at first, swinging over the hills, falling towards the surface. But something, he’d never know what, had gone terribly wrong. The fabric over his head had collapsed, causing him to plummet towards the ground. It had taken every bit of the trooper’s courage, every bit of the discipline that had been hammered into his head during months of training, to release the main chute, and wait for it to clear,
before
pulling the reserve. He screamed as the ground rushed up to kill him, screamed as chemicals flooded his brain, and screamed as the wind sucked the sound out of his mouth.

But then the main was gone, a computer-generated tone sounded within his helmet, and Tolla-Sa was free to pull the reserve D-ring. What followed came so quickly he had trouble remembering it. There was a hard jerk as the number two chute popped open, followed by a briefly glimpsed military installation, and the impact of the rock-hard ground.

Everything had gone black for a moment until he awoke screaming in pain, realized what he was doing, and bit down on his tongue. The enemy could hear, he knew that, but never, ever, had he felt pain like he did now. It seemed as if someone had rammed red-hot pokers into his right leg. Tollo-Sa looked down, saw the bone white splinters, knew he was bleeding, and fumbled for his belt-mounted first-aid kit.

It took only moments to find the injector’s distinctive shape, drag it out of the belt pack, and slap it against his left thigh. He winced as the device squirted a painkillerstimulant combo in through the pores in his skin, concluded that this particular pain was absolutely nothing when compared to pain it was supposed to counter, and waited for the drugs to kick in. They didn’t take long.

The absence of pain felt wonderful, as did the sudden euphoria that accompanied it, but the bleeding continued. Tolla-Sa slapped a self-sealing compress over the wound, waited for it to harden, and tried to stand. He found it was impossible, lowered himself to the ground, and cut his way out of the parachute harness. Once free, he took a look around.

With the exception of an airborne creature that made its way through the air in a series of awkward-looking spurts, and a tiny, nearly invisible animal that chittered from the top of a nearby rock, there was no one in sight. Which would have seemed strange if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been well under the enemy’s sensors by the time the reserve chute finally opened. It was ironic to think that the same chute that had threatened his life might have saved it as well.

So, what to do? There was no point in trying to contact his comrades since chances were that they were too far away to pick up his signal and wouldn’t answer if they did. No, the only thing he could do was complete his mission.

Tolla-Sa rolled over and dragged himself upwards. Like most Hudathans, the commando had excellent upper body strength, and used it to pull himself up the slope. Rocks tugged at his webbing, thorns raked his arms, and gravel shredded the palms of his hands. It was stupid in a way, this self-imposed torture, because the find-me beacon in his pack would have been just as effective in the gully, but he wanted to
see
the base the landing force would destroy, and know that his efforts had been worthwhile.

The sun had risen and set twice before the Hudathan reached the place where boulders blocked his way. Gritting his teeth against the pain that came when he stood, Tolla-Sa hopped around the barrier, eased his way through a gap in the rocks, and edged his way out onto a windswept ledge. The sun had just peeked over the ridge to the east and sent long slanting rays down towards the surface-to-air missile installation. Tolla-Sa felt a grim sense of satisfaction, leaned back against the still-cool rock, and allowed himself to slide downwards.

It took a moment for the pain to subside enough for him to find another injector, slap it against his flesh, and settle into place. Then, having squirmed out of his backpack, and opened it next to his lap, the Hudathan reached inside. The beacon was round and warm to the touch. He pulled it out, flipped a cover up
and out of the way, and pressed the button within. Nothing happened. Nor would it until such time as the Hudathan fleet arrived and demanded a response. Then the signal would go out, then the avengers would fall out of the sky, then his sacrifice would be justified.

Rior Tolla-Sa peeled a ration bar, took a bite, and watched the alien sky. It was just a matter of time.

 

The command center was empty except for the brooding figure of Sector Marshal Niman Poseen-Ka. The wall niche was comforting but offered little protection against the dangers ahead. His mind was absorbed by the never-ending need to balance objectives with risk. And there were plenty of risks, not the least of which was the possibility that two or more of his ships would exit hyperspace at the same time and destroy each other.

Common sense argued that if vessels entered hyperspace separately they should emerge the same way, but this was not always the case, as one commander had learned eighty years earlier, when he ordered 106 vessels to make a simultaneous jump, and lost three to collisions, an outcome that put an end to more than 400 lives and an otherwise promising career.

So, given the fact that Poseen-Ka planned to emerge from hyperspace with
thousands
of warships, the chances that something would go wrong were fairly high. Still, the Hudathan was convinced that the loss of a dozen ships, or even twice that number, would be outweighed by the advantages gained. Experience had shown that the best way to defeat the mostly human enemy was to ta
ke them by surprise, carpet-bomb their civilian population centers, and engage their military after the most important part of the battle had already been won.

But Algeron was a special case. The enemy knew he was coming, there were no civilian targets to speak of, and the Confederacy had assembled a fleet only slightly smaller than his own. Which explained why he had decided to gamble on the vagaries of hyperspace. It was critical to emerge from hyperspace with overwhelming force, to subject the Confederate navy to an attack so violent that they would be forced onto the defensive, and to seize the psychological advantage.

The potential impact on his career didn’t matter to Poseen-Ka, and the possibility that his ship might be destroyed hadn’t even occurred to him. After all, he had survived twenty years on a prison planet, and had every right to die in bed. He checked the harness that held him in place, watched time tick away on the readout over his head, and gritted his teeth. Five . . . four. . . three . . . two . . .

The ship jerked as it made the transition from hyper to normal space, the holo display blossomed like a high-tech flower, and a steady stream of reports came in. The voices were anonymous and nearly empty of emotion.

“There are one thousand seven hundred and sixty-four Confederate ships in-system. Unit actions have begun.”

“Seven ships were lost exiting hyperspace; they include
the Highland Spear
, the
Arm of Hudatha, the Spirit of War,
the
One True Race, the Glorious Purpose, the Enemy Finder,
and the
Defender of Truth.”

Poseen-Ka winced as the list was read, glad that no one could see his weakness, sickened by the waste. Thousands of Hudathans had died and the battle was barely under way. Still, he had more than two thousand ships left, and they deserved every bit of his attention. The voices droned on. “Consistent with command directive three-four-two intelligence has identified the enemy vessel most likely to carry the Confederate command. Execute attack plan 342, or hold?”

“Execute,” Poseen-Ka said grimly, his eyes playing over the holo display in front of him. After all, the best way to kill a monster is to chop off its head, and even more so with this particular beast. The human military included some excellent leaders, General Norwood being a prime example, and he wanted them eliminated as quickly as possible. Orders went out, were acknowledged, and acted upon. A force of 243 ships separated from the main formation and went after the battlewagon
Invictor.
The voices continued and so did the dying.

 

The bridge crew looked strange in their unsealed battle suits, ready in case the hull was breached, but clumsy in the meantime. Chien-Chu was impressed by their obvious professionalism but concerned by what he heard via his com set. “Fire control to bridge. There are two hundred plus bogies coming this way . . . contact twenty-three from now.”

Naval Captain “Bloody” Mary McGuire frowned, looked down into the holo tank, and spotted the vessels in question. “Confirm target.”

“Target confirmed. There are no other high-priority targets in our vicinity.”

McGuire nodded. “Make sure the escorts have them, too. Standard checks on all systems. Delegate secondary armament to local control. Stand by to engage.”

The naval officer turned to Chien-Chu. “Well, Admiral, it looks like the Hudathans want you and anyone else that might be aboard this ship. Can’t say as I blame ’em . . . we have a task force working on the same objective.”

Chien-Chu tried to appear unconcerned. His plasti-flesh face made it easier. “I’m honored. Let’s provide them with a warm reception.”

McGuire smiled grimly and went about the business she’d been trained for. Her words were terse. “Launch fighters.” The Hudathans were closer now, and she had waited as long as she dared. The trick was to launch the fighters early enough to intercept the enemy, but late enough so they had plenty of fuel. The fighters left the
Invictor’s
flight deck five at a time, accelerated away, and joined similar craft launched by the battleship’s escorts. Chien-Chu felt a sense of pride as he watched them go. The Viper-class Interceptors had not only been manufactured by Chien-Chu Enterpri
ses, the chances were good that he’d worked on some of them himself, a more significant contribution than any he was likely to make as a play-pretend admiral.