Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle (8 page)

Booly knew instantly whom the cat part referred to and turned in the direction of the threat. There were six marines, all junior officers like them, all very, very drunk. One was standing, his face red from too much drink, pointing at Booly. “What the hell is that thing anyway? A legionnaire or a laboratory experiment?”

Anger surged and Booly had already taken two steps forward by the time Riley grabbed him and a bouncer sidled up to the marine. Words were exchanged, the marine shrugged, and fell into his seat. The lights began to dim and Booly allowed Riley to guide him into a chair. He looked at Kadien, caught the tail end of a smirk, and knew he’d been had. The other officer wasn’t in cahoots with the marines, but had invited Booly to the nightclub knowing something similar could happen, and hoping that it would.

Booly had no more than settled into his chair, and the knowledge of what was going on, when the bubbles stopped and the oily stuff started to quiver. An ominous hum came over the speakers, soft at first, then grew in intensity until it became a growl. A round black something forced its way up and out of the inky black depths. Eight blobs stood on the platform and became people as hundreds of gallons of thick oily fluid drained away. There were two women and six men. They were naked except for a coating of whatever the stuff was, and in the case of the men, ready for sex.

The hum died to be replaced by the complex sound of drums, their individual beats echoing and overlaying each other to form a rich tapestry of inte
rwoven sound, something the human part of Booly had learned to appreciate and enjoy. But not here, not tonight, not with people like Kadien. The people on the platform started a slow, sensual dance as Booly nudged Riley with an elbow. “Come on, Tom . . . let’s get the hell out of here.”

Riley’s eyes were locked on the now-writhing forms that occupied the oil-wet stage. “Sure, Bill, lead the way.”

Booly rose, considered some sort of excuse for Kadien, and decided to hell with it. Let the racist bastard think whatever he wanted. Pausing only for a much-needed stop in the men’s room, the legionnaires made their way out of the club, and into the parking lot. The grim reaper was on the door but the executioner was nowhere to be seen. They were halfway to the cab stand when the marines stepped out of the shadows. The same marine did all the talking.

“Look, fellas, the wuss patrol, headed for home. Whacha gonna do, pussy? Tell the big bad CO that some jarheads called you a pussy? Cause if that’s whach your gonna do I’d be happy to write it all over your furry ass and sign my name.”

Booly knew the marine wanted to fight and knew there was no way around it. He removed his hat and jacket. Riley wasn’t so sure and tried to dissuade him. “Come on, Bill, let’s get out of here. We’re right smack in the middle of the DMZ. What if someone calls the MPs? We’re screwed, that’s what.”

Booly kept his eyes on the marine. “Can’t be helped, Tom . . . Watch my back.”

Booly had retained his dress shirt but the marine had stripped to waist. He had the chest, abs, and biceps of a body builder. That meant he was strong, but strength wasn’t everything. How much did he know about hand-to-hand combat? Not just the crap the DIs had taught him at OCS, but the down-and-dirty stuff older cubs beat into your head, until it became part and parcel of who you were. The answer would soon become apparent.

The marine wore his hair high and tight. His forehead, nose, and cheeks were sunburned from a field exercise the day before. He grimaced and growled the way his high school football coach had trained him to do, brought his fists up, and danced from one foot to the other. A boxer, Booly decided, or a kick boxer, either one of which he could handle.

A cheer went up from the marines as their champion moved in. Riley started the Legion’s chant: “Camerone! Camerone! Camerone!” and Booly waited the way his uncle Movefast Shootstraight had instructed him to do. He could see the big warrior in his mind’s eye, orange fur rippling in the mountain breeze, the huge .50-caliber recoiless in the cross-draw holster, hands on narrow hips.

The marine closed in. “Here kitty, kitty. Come to daddy, you goddamned freak. Daddy has something for you.” Booly saw the thought pass through greenish brown eyes and flicked his head to the right. A fist brushed his ear. Another came right behind it. Booly ducked, landed two blows to the man’s rock-hard abdomen, and did a backwards flip. The use of gymnastics as part of hand-to-hand combat was something of a Naa specialty and more than a little disconcerting where the marine was concerned. His spin kick traveled through empty air and left him momentarily open. Booly stepped in, deliv
ered three quick blows to the man’s face, and danced out again. Blood trickled from the marine’s left nostril and he bellowed with rage. “You goddamned freak! I’ll kill you!”

Booly didn’t know where the knife came from, only that it appeared in the other man’s right hand, and gleamed with reflected light. It was double edged and shaped like a dagger. The other marines roared their approval and one of them yelled “Skin the damned thing . . . we’ll use it for a throw rug!”

Booly wished for his uniform jacket but knew he wouldn’t be able to grab and wrap it around his arm quickly enough to do any good. But his uncle was there and served to calm him.

Knives are dangerous, boy. In order to use them you have to
get up close and personal. That’s why most sentients invented guns. So the first thing to remember is this: If your opponent has a knife, and you don’t, accept the fact that you’re going to take a cut
.
You have no choice. But choose the cut the way you would choose a best friend, taking the one that will damage you the least, and help you when times are hard.

Booly circled left, his eyes on the marine’s face, rather than the knife in his hand. He could almost feel his uncle’s large, callused hands close around his boyish arm.
Look,
son, the warrior had said,
look at the inner surface of your arm. The blood flows here and muscles run here. . . . Never, ever, take a cut on the inside of your arm
.

But here, his uncle said, rotating the boy’s arm so that the outer surface was uppermost,
we have a thin layer of skin followed by good, hard bone. Take your cut there, block the knife, and blind your opponent. A knife means nothing when you cannot see.

So Booly waited, heard Riley yell words he couldn’t understand, and allowed the marine to move in. He heard something wail in the distance and was trying to figure out what it was when the attack came. The marine held the kni
fe in an overhand cutting rather than stabbing grip. He pulled his arm back and slashed down towards Booly’s throat. The Legionnaire threw his left arm up, felt the sudden jolt as the knife sliced to the bone, and stabbed the other man’s eyes with two stiffened fingers. The results were spectacular. The other officer dropped the knife, grabbed his eyes, and started to scream.

Booly had less than two seconds to take the scene in before both he and Riley were buried under an avalanche of marine green. The attack was painful, but short lived, since the faint wail had transformed itself into the full-fledged scream of sirens.

The marines, who were well aware of the penalties for entering the DMZ, delivered a flurry of kicks and disappeared, leaving their buddy behind. Booly felt strangely light, but not light enough to stand, and remained where he was. His left arm hurt, and he was just about to cradle it against his chest, when a boot pinned it in place. A face appeared over him. It was fuzzy at first but blinked into focus. Kadien smiled. “Ooops! Did the freak fall down and go boom? Too bad, old weasel . . . but that’s life. See you around.”

Booly heard laughter and the face disappeared. He tried to move but found that he couldn’t. “Riley?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Well, hang on, the MPs will be here in a minute.”

The sirens grew louder, died abruptly, and gave way to the sound of turbines. They howled loudly and then died as a pair of ground-effect vehicles settled onto their skirts. Booly heard doors slam, the sound of voices, and the thump, thump, thump of combat boots. Riley sounded tired. “Booly?”

“Yeah?”

“The MPs are marines.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

And there was nothing else to say, because the MPs took one look at their fallen comrade, still rolling around clutching his eyes, and went to work with their batons. Booly saw the first couple of blows. The third took him under.

 

The being once known as Sergi Chien-Chu, president of Chien-Chu Enterprises, liberator of enslaved sentients, and father of the Confederacy, awoke. Chemicals flowed and electrons stirred as the machine that cradled his brain moved to a higher state of readiness.

He thought the word
vision
and “saw” through the vid cams that replaced his long-dead eyes. It was nearly pitch black inside the bedroom so he switched to infrared. The com console, the warm air duct, and his wife’s electric blanket glowed luminescent green. He thought the word
time
and a digital readout appeared in lower right quadrant of his vision: 0544. Sixteen minutes before he had to get up and go to work. Except that he was “up” and standing in a corner. Though not much larger than his original body, the cybernetic version was a good deal heavier and not much fun to snuggl
e with. Which was why he had taken to sleeping standing up.

Chien-Chu scanned Nola’s still-sleeping form and thought how strange his existence was. When a massive heart attack had claimed his life, Madam Chien-Chu had used a small portion of their vast wealth to bring him back. The technology had been around for a long time and had originally been used to snatch criminals and terminally ill citizens from the brink of death so they could serve the former empire as cybernetic legionnaires. But nothing beyond the high cost of buying and maintaining a cybernetic body prevented others from prolonging their lives in similar fashion.

This fact made Chien-Chu distinctly uncomfortable and explained why the company that still bore his name had invested millions of credits in cybernetic research. The day was coming when anyone, not just the wealthy, would be able to extend his or her life by ten, twenty, or even thirty years, depending on the condition and viability of his or her brain tissue. Then all these people would learn what the industrialist already knew, that physical pleasures such as eating, drinking, and sex are nothing when compared to the simple but now unattainable comfort of snuggling with a loved one.

Not that life wasn’t better in some respects, since Nola had raised him from the dead with a veil of carefully maintained secrecy, and freed him from the life that he had learned to hate. She knew that he detested politics and would never have gotten involved if it hadn’t been for the death of their son at the hands of the Hudathans, and the possibility that millions if not billions more would die before the then-emperor finally took action.

So with a fine being like Anguar ready to take over, Nola had made the right decision. Besides, the industrialist had enjoyed watching his own incredibly overproduced funeral on the television, and been moved by the number of beings that actually seemed to care.

The readout snapped to 0600 and Chien-Chu initiated the diagnostic programs that had taken the place of his morning shower. It took 1.5 seconds for his on-board computer to check his electro-mechanical systems and deliver five green lights to the lower left quadrant of his vision. Chien-Chu sent a mental acknowledgment and the lights disappeared.

Servos whined softly as he padded his way over to the bed, checked his wife’s soft breathing, and headed for the door. Her voice stopped him. She sounded sleepy. “Sergi?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Be careful.”

Chien-Chu had the feelings that went with a smile and felt plasti-flesh lips curve upwards in response. “Yes, dear. I’ll be careful.”

There was little to no point to stopping for a breakfast he didn’t need to eat, and he had changed clothes the night before, so the industrialist headed for the front door. The condominium was generously proportioned, but far from pretentious, and located in a building favored by a hundred or so upper-middle-class professionals, all of whom believed that he was Madam Chien-Chu’s driver and butler. A nice fiction and one that served to protect their hard-won privacy.

The door saw him coming, checked his identity, and slid out of the way. The hallway was rich with deep pile carpeting, gilded mirrors, and an ornate table that served no purpose at all. Having been summoned by the condominium’s household computer, the elevator was waiting and opened to admit him. He stepped inside and discovered that another of the building’s residents, a judge named Margaret Bretnor, was already aboard. She nodded in the manner reserved for servants and lesser beings. “Good morning, James.”

Chien-Chu remembered how the same woman had fawned over the previous and more powerful him at a party two years before and nodded in return. “Good morning, Judge Bretnor. You look especially radiant this morning.”

Bretnor’s aging face brightened considerably. “Why, thank you, James, I’m using some new skin cream. Perhaps that would account for it.”

The elevator came to a gentle stop. Chien-Chu smiled. “Of course, ma’am. Have a nice day.” Judge Bretnor sailed off the elevator feeling better than she had for weeks, sped off to work, and handed out some of the most lenient sentences defense attorneys had ever seen.

Chien-Chu paused in the entrance hall and checked his appearance. His new self looked absurdly young, perhaps twenty-five or so, and was slim in a way that his previously portly body had never been. Close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a woodenly handsome face completed the somewhat unlikely picture. Quite a change from the body that had failed him. His Chinese-Russian ancestors would have been shocked.