Legion Of The Damned - 06 - For Those Who Fell (2 page)

But the game had to be played, which was why Vanderveen took a moment to send the briefing paper to Wilmot, grabbed her hand comp, and stepped out into the hall. The rest of the staff had started to arrive by then. Most were human, but the FSO exchanged greetings with a spindly exoskeleton-clad Dweller, a colorful Prithian, and a stolid-looking Turr as well.

The last of the crowd, an FSO-5 named Mitsi Ang, stepped off the lift just as Vanderveen entered. She had short black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a wicked grin. She had
worked for Wilmot during a previous posting and had a pretty good idea what Vanderveen had to cope with. “Going upstairs are we?”

Vanderveen made a face. One had to be careful, especially since Wilmot had some well-placed sycophants, but the diplomat had already come to trust Ang. “I'm supposed to brief her on the local situation. Never mind the fact that I arrived on the same ship she did, there are at least twenty staff people who know the Thraks better than I do, and that most of the information she asked for is contained in the backgrounder that you handed her on day one.”

Ang laughed. It was early yet, but Vanderveen looked like she might be one of the good ones, and Ang had decided to help her. “Welcome to the life of an FSO-4! Just give her the summary—she has the attention span of a gork monkey.”

Vanderveen waved as the doors hissed closed. Three minutes later the diplomat approached the durasteel-lined wooden barricade that served Wilmot's secretary as a desk but could also function as a defensive barrier should that become necessary.

The secretary, an officious young man named Has Benz, prided himself on his pumped-up physique. He monitored Vanderveen's face to see if she would react to it, was disappointed when she didn't, and used a well-manicured finger to stab a button. “FSO Vanderveen is here to see you, Ambassador, shall I send her in?”

Wilmot glanced at the handcrafted clock that President Nankool had sent in recognition of her work on a diplomatic reception, registered the fact that Vanderveen was right on time, and frowned in disappointment. She had already come to the conclusion that the FSO-4 was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect assignment.

There were a number of things the diplomat didn't like about Vanderveen, starting with her blond hair, and slim
good looks, qualities that were almost certain to make the ambassador seem less attractive by comparison. Just one of the reasons why Wilmot had a male secretary. Then, as if Vanderveen's physical attributes weren't bad enough, there was the fact that the FSO was the recipient of the Citizen's Medal for Distinguished Service, a rather rare honor and one which the ambassador envied.

Of course even the most promising career can be destroyed by a superior who is determined to bring it down, but to do so would incur the wrath of Charles Winther Vanderveen, Christine's father, and an advisor to the president. All of which meant that it was best to tolerate the little bitch, look for an opportunity to transfer her to some hellhole, and bring in a more amenable staffer.

Wilmot grabbed a fistful of hard copy, fanned it out in front of her, and touched the appropriate button. “Send her in.”

One of two metal-core doors opened, and Vanderveen entered. Wilmot summoned her best, “I'm terribly busy but still pleased to see you” smiles, and said, “Good morning.” Vanderveen answered in kind and took one of two guest chairs. It faced the ambassador's rather imposing desk and the huge window beyond. A low-flying air car zipped past, slowed as it approached a building to the south, and entered via a sixth-floor parking bay.

Vanderveen noticed that all the objects on the surface of the ambassador's desk had been chosen with care. There was the clock that Nankool had given her, a chunk of rock crystal from Earth, and a photo of her standing next to Earth's governor.

As for the woman herself, Wilmot appeared to be in her late thirties, was attractive rather than beautiful, and slightly overweight. Not much, only ten pounds or so, but just enough to exaggerate the roundness of her face and the fullness of her breasts. Physical attributes that the ambassador
took advantage of at times yet sought to hide at others, as if her chest was something of an embarrassment. Wilmot cleared her throat. “So, is the briefing ready?”

Vanderveen nodded. “I sent a copy. If you would be so kind as to pull it up, we can review it.”

“Good,” Wilmot said as she turned in the direction of her desk comp, “I'm looking forward to . . .”

But Vanderveen never got to hear what the ambassador was looking forward to because that was the moment when the Prithian appeared outside the window, hit the hardened glass at full speed, and caused it to shatter. His body made a loud
thump
as it hit the floor. Wilmot screamed, and attempted to escape, only to have her chair fall over sideways.

Vanderveen felt a sudden stab of fear, but, thanks to the rebellion on LaNor, had become somewhat inured to sudden violence. There was no mistaking Sok Tok's yellow beak, white head feathers, and blue shoulder plumage. The translator issued a croaking sound as Vanderveen went to the Prithian's aid. Though not a diplomat, Sok Tok was a member of the embassy's staff, and Vanderveen liked him. One of the alien's wings fluttered weakly, and the other was clearly broken. There was blood, a lot of blood, and Vanderveen called to Wilmot, who was up on her feet by then. “Call Dr. Fortu! Tell her to hu
rry! Sok Tok is bleeding to death.”

“No,” Tok warbled, as the fingers of his right wrapped themselves around her left ankle. “It's too late. . .” The Prithian coughed and a half cup's worth of blood spilled out onto the hardwood floor. That was when Vanderveen noticed the dagger that protruded from the alien's back. He'd been stabbed, yet managed to fly to the embassy.

“Save your strength,” Vanderveen said, “the doctor will be here in a moment, and . . .”

“There is nothing she can do,” Tok croaked. “Now listen carefully, whatever you do, don't trust the Thrakies. They claim to be neutral, but . . .”

The Prithian's words were interrupted by another racking cough followed by a second rush of blood. But it just kept coming this time, flooding the area around his head, and drowning his words. Dr. Fortu burst into the office right about then and rushed to his side, but it was too late. Tok was gone, taking whatever he had hoped to warn his employers about with him, his fingers still locked around Vanderveen's ankle. Fortu pried them off, but a circle of blood remained and proved difficult to remove.

Corporal Nowake Longsleep stood on a rocky ledge not far from the village in which he had been born and looked toward the east. He'd been part of the Legion for seven years by then and fought on three planets, none of which were as beautiful as his native Algeron, a world that completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes. The phenomenon created a world-spanning mountain range called the Towers of Algeron. Longsleep knew that the highest peaks, some of which topped eighty thousand feet, would dwarf Earth's Mount Everest, and the knowledge made him proud.

All of which was intellectually interesting but didn't begin to describe the sheer beauty of the quickly rising sun, the soft pink light that glazed the snowcapped peaks to the south, or the feeling that rose to fill his chest. He'd been away too long—and it felt good to be home.

A light breeze ruffled the short gray fur on Longsleep's unprotected back and brought him the fresh clean scent of his sister's perfume. The legionnaire turned as a rock clattered, and she climbed to join him. “I thought I'd find you here,” Lighttouch Healsong said, reaching up to take his hand. “Nodoubt Truespeak wants to see you.”

Longsleep was on leave, Truespeak was the village chief
and would be eager for news. The soldier nodded. “Of course . . . I'll follow you back.”

Lighttouch had big eyes, full lips, and was dressed in an everyday outfit of blouse, jerkin, and black pantaloons. The fur that remained visible was gray, interrupted by streaks of black, just like her mother's. She was pretty, very pretty, and would take a mate soon. Not the old way, by an arranged marriage, but someone of
her
choosing.

The legionnaire followed his sibling back along the cliff-hugging trail, down a series of hand-cut steps, and onto the granite ledge where more than three dozen earthen domes steamed under the quickly rising sun. At least a third of the homes were abandoned now, slowly melting away as the wind
, rain, and snow conspired to wear them down. Eventually, after three or four years, they would be little more than mounds on which wild grasses would grow.

Longsleep knew that most, if not all, of the empty dwellings resulted from families leaving the village when one or more of their males joined the Legion. Odds were that they lived in the squalor adjacent to Fort Camerone. A vast labyrinth of mud huts that the humans referred to as Naa Town. Life was hard there, but very few of them ever came back, suggesting that conditions were even worse in Sunsee.

The soldier sidestepped a mound of steaming dooth droppings, kept to the relatively clean stepping-stones that the villagers employed to keep themselves up out of the muck, and said good-bye to his sister as she set off on an errand.

As befitted the owner's status, Truespeak's house was one of the largest and sat at the center of the village. Longsleep sat on a bench outside, removed his Legion-issue boots, and tapped a brass cylinder with a hammer made of bone. Many hours of painstaking craftsmanship had gone into cutting designs into the metal, but the howitzer casing still looked like what it was and bore Legion markings. There was a resonant
bong,
followed by a basso voice, and the word “Come!”

It was warm inside thanks to the nearly odorless dried-dooth dung fire and the blankets that served to seal the narrow door. Longsleep slid between them, made his way down a short flight of stairs, and found himself on the main level.

The interior was carpeted with colorful hand-loomed rugs, each overlapping the next, so they covered the earthen floor. An open fire pit and a funnel-shaped chimney dominated the center of the home. One section of the circular space that surrounded it was reserved for cooking, while others had been set aside for sitting or sleeping. “Welcome,” Truespeak said from his place by the fire. “Sit and tell me of other worlds.”

The invitation was that of one warrior to another. A tacit recognition of Longsleep's status as a legionnaire and a far cry from the almost dismissive attitude that Truespeak had shown toward the youngster before he left.

The chieftain was big, and his shaggy orange fur made him look even bigger. He didn't rise, which would have been normal, but waved the legionnaire over. “Excuse me for not getting up to greet you, but I took a fall and broke my leg.”

Now, as the soldier sat down on the semicircular bench-style seat, he realized that a homemade wooden brace had been applied to the chieftain's stiffly extended leg. It was a reminder of the crude medicine that most villages still relied upon. “I'm sorry, sir. Is there anything I can do?”

“Tell me what you've been up to for the last seven years,” Truespeak suggested gruffly. “It will take my mind off my leg, and give me a better picture of what's going on out there. We get more news than we did when you were a cub, but it still tends to be spotty.”

Longsleep chose to pick up the story at the point where he left the village, and spoke for the next two hours. Truespeak listened carefully, occasionally interrupted with a question, but generally remained silent while the legionnaire told his tale. But that changed when Longsleep spoke of the
Friendship,
the bomb that had been assembled deep inside
the hull, and the subsequent evacuation. The soldier had been there, among the legionnaires assigned to protect the president, and that seemed to pique the chieftain's interest. “You must tell me about him,” Truespeak said urgently, “
every detail no matter how small it may be.”

So Longsleep did, describing how Nankool handled the chaos that followed the destruction of the ship, what he had heard about initial skirmishes with the buglike Ramanthians, and the president's efforts to find a new capital. And it was then that the chieftain seized the younger warrior by the arm and stared into his eyes. “You speak truly? Nankool is
here?
With General Booly?”

Longsleep nodded. “Yes, I speak truly. Why? Is that important?”

“It could be,” Truespeak said, releasing his grip to stare into the fire. “The humans have used Algeron for a long time. Thousands of Naa have died in their battles. And for what? A few supply drops during the winter? Doctors who visit twice a year? The metal we salvage from their garbage pits?

“Now they plan to convene their government
here,
rather than on a planet like Earth, and their new enemy will follow them. Just as the Hudathans did in my father's time. They owe us more,
much
more, and debts must be paid.”

The words were said with such passion, such conviction, that Longsleep was taken aback. The humans were far from perfect, as was the Legion, but there were other evils, some of which were pretty nasty. “Much of what you say is true, sir, but not entirely fair. It's worth pointing out that the Council of Chiefs is represented on Earth.”

“Yes,” Truespeak agreed bitterly, “and what good has it done us? General Booly's grandfather served as our first representative, and things improved for a time. But the humans always look to their needs before ours. The Naa people deserve more, they deserve a seat on the Senate itself and a say in what the Confederacy does. Not as subjects of Earth—but
as an independent people. Now, as the government meets on Algeron, we must demand that which is rightfully ours. There will never be a better time.”