Chapter Three
Don’t trust any legionnaire who tells you he has no fear.
—Colonel Fernand Maire,
French Foreign Legion, 1918
Legionnaire Third Class John Grant paused three meters from the top of the ladder and took a deep, careful breath—“tasting the air,” his brother might have called it, back in the days when they ran together in the back streets of Old London.
“John Grant” wasn’t his real name, of course. He no longer answered to his real name, and Old London was no longer his home. The memories of the good times, before Billy was killed, seemed distant now, but as he clung to the ladder and steeled himself for his next move he could almost see himself back on Terra. The long climb, the need for absolute silence and perfect timing, all brought back that last caper where Billy had died. For a moment, it was as if the trial, the sentence condemning him to lose his citizenship and serve five years in the Legion to get it back, the long hours of tortuous training on Devereaux, all were part of some dream. He almost expected to look down and see Billy’s cheerful grin gleaming in the darkness below his feet.
But below him was Vrurrth, the hulking Second Class Legionnaire from Gwyrr. What’s that stupid SOB Strauss doing sending the Gwyrran up here? Silence, finesse … that’s what we need. Not brute strength.
Carefully, he drew his combat dagger from its leg sheath and tested its weight in his hand. In the old days, he’d knocked over some fancy rezplexes, but though he might have been a criminal he had never been a killer. Now he had to use his old skills for a new, grisly purpose. Well, Slick, he told himself, using the nickname Billy had given him so long ago. This is it!
Keeping the knife firmly gripped in his left hand, Slick started climbing again, every move smooth, silent. The ladder came up to an open trap door on the bottom of the tower floor, and there was no one in sight above it. Cautiously, Slick raised his head above the level of the floor and scanned his surroundings. One ale soldier … two … three. All of them were at the parapet, firing down into the compound below. Slick allowed himself a smile. A kid could pull this one off.
There was a metal-on-metal clatter just below, and the nearest hannie soldier cocked kys head and started to turn. Damn Gwyrran monster! Slick thought angrily. He gathered his strength and sprang through the opening, his knife blade flashing in the dark. The hannie gurgled and slumped, lifeless. The clang of kys rifle on the floor made the other two natives swing around. One of them loosed a shot that skimmed above Slick’s helmet.
He rolled to one side, fumbling with the sling of his FEK. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. At this range, those native rifles could penetrate duraweave, and Slick wasn’t wearing any plasteel armor over his fatigues. Speed over protection, that’s what you wanted … The hannie fired again, and Slick reeled backward. Blood flowed freely from a ragged gash in his shoulder, and raw pain throbbed down his left arm.
The other hannie thumbed the selector switch on kys weapon, brought it up … and reeled, a dozen dark blossoms of blood opening in kys chest and stomach. The second soldier collapsed over the body of the first. The high-pitched whir of Vrurrth’s FEK died away.
“Nube fights, does not ready.” The Gwyrran’s grin revealed his sharp-pointed carnivore teeth. “The haste is danger. Death.” He clambered slowly through the trap door, eyes roving warily around the platform.
“Dammit, I could’ve taken ’em all if you hadn’t made a noise!” Slick exploded. “You almost got me killed!”
Legionnaire Dmitri Rostov, the lance’s demo expert, was next up the ladder. “Save the fighting for the bad guys, nube,” he advised. “We’re supposed to be a team.”
Slick turned away, unslinging his FEK and surveying the compound. Yeah, a team, he thought bitterly. I can take care of myself, as long as my so-called team leaves me alone. He fought back anger. I can take care of myself!
O O O
Trent scrambled to his feet, eyes darting left and right. The self-propelled gun was lumbering toward him now. The main gun remained silent, but the heavy machine guns mounted on each side of the sloping hull chattered as the vehicle slowly advanced. The sergeant dived for the cover of a man-sized chunk of rubble as the 15mm bullets tracked across the ground.
Corporal Pascali dropped into a crouch beside him, raising her FEK and triggering the grenade launcher. The rocket grenade exploded just above the right-hand tread but did not penetrate. Pascali fired again, with the same result.
Damn! We need something heavier.…
Hannie soldiers swarmed through the opening the tank had made, and more natives were rising from cover where they had been pinned down by fire from the main perimeter. Trent scanned the improvised barricade where the company had dug in. Their firing was slacking off now. What was the lieutenant doing over there?
“Fall back, Pascali!” he ordered sharply. “I’ll cover you!”
She seemed about to argue, then nodded grimly. As Trent fired, the corporal sprinted back toward the base of the tower, shouting orders to the rest of her lance.
The SPG roared, and a fireball erupted near the west wall. Still firing, Trent lurched to his feet and followed Pascali. Machine-gun fire probed toward him. Something slammed into his leg, knocking him off balance. He fell and rolled, then crawled desperately for cover. The enemy cannon roared again. The explosion burst barely ten meters away from Trent, and dirt showered over him from the blast. Someone—a legionnaire, from the sound of the voice—was screaming now.
If the lieutenant doesn’t get it together, we’ve all had it!
Trent slid into a drainage ditch and checked his throbbing leg. No blood, no signs of a serious wound. His duraweave fatigues had stopped the hannie bullet, but he’d have a bruise and a limp for a while … assuming he lived through the battle.
He pulled himself up against the side of the ditch and braced his FEK against his shoulder. Death rumbled toward him on broad, clattering tracks.
O O O
Colin Fraser slapped a fresh clip into his FEK as he listened to the tinny voice in his earphones. “Repeat that last, Sergeant,” he ordered sharply.
Platoon Sergeant Persson was breathing hard. “Don’t know how many there are, Lieutenant, but they’ve got us pinned!” he answered. “And there’re booby traps everywhere! I lost ten men in the motor pool alone, and Dmowski says he lost a couple when the armory door blew up in their faces!”
“God damn!” Fraser ground his teeth in helpless rage. “Can’t you do anything, Sarge?”
“Lieutenant, half my people aren’t even armed!” Persson said. He sounded angry. “We can’t get past those booby traps while we’re dodging snipers, and I can’t clear the snipers with a handful of pistols and a couple of FEKs!”
Fraser looked up, over the barricade. There was another self-propelled gun starting through the hole in the north wall. Without heavy weapons or the fire support vehicles in the motor pool building, Bravo Company didn’t stand a chance against those hannie tanks. If Persson couldn’t handle it alone.…
“All right, Sergeant. Hang tight. I’m sending help.” He cut the comm channel and looked around him. “Bartlow!”
“Here, sir.” Subaltern Vincent Bartlow looked terrified. He was the youngest of Bravo Company’s platoon leaders, Fraser remembered, and this was his first time in action. Welcome to the club, kid, he thought.
Fraser jerked his head at the line of soldiers manning the barricade. “Round up your platoon, Sub,” he ordered. “There are hannies around the armory and the motor pool! Get over there and shred ’em. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Bartlow bit his lip uncertainly.
Fraser ignored the man’s hesitation. “And get your weapons lances armed, for God’s sake. We need something better than popguns if we’re going to take on tanks!” The subaltern nodded.
“Move it!” Fraser snapped. The subaltern flinched and backed away, shouting for his platoon sergeant. Fraser turned back to contemplate the breach in the north wall. The self-propelled gun had turned and was moving toward the northwest tower. Trent and his recon troops had stirred up trouble there, relieving the pressure on the main perimeter and knocking out the snipers in the tower. They couldn’t hold out long, though; sixteen legionnaires wouldn’t stand off a tank and the rocket-armed hannie troops who were pouring into the compound behind the vehicle.
Without heavy weapons on the firing line all they could do was pick off the hannies who were too stupid to take cover. The legionnaires from the company’s six weapons lances were supposed to be drawing their gear from the armory. Until they came, Bravo Company’s chances looked grim.…
O O O
Gunnery Sergeant Trent grunted and slid deeper into the ditch as his second clip ran dry. What does it take to discourage these bloody monkeys? he wondered as he slapped his last 100-round clip into place in the receiver of the FEK. The hannie regulars were taking heavy casualties, but it didn’t seem to be hurting their morale. They just kept on coming, pouring through the hole in the wall. With rubble and the tank for cover, they were getting enough troops into the compound to pose a serious threat to the legionnaires defending the perimeter.
A rocket like the one that had killed Cole streaked over the trench, then another. The self-propelled gun spoke again. Trent crouched low in the ditch, playing a waiting game.
Trent’s lances didn’t stand a chance on their own. At this point there was only one way to turn the tide.…
A hannie soldier jumped and landed barely two meters away, holding one of the short, stocky, native autorifles with a determined grip. Trent triggered a short FEK burst that sent the soldier spinning sideways to collapse in the trickle of water at the bottom of the ditch. Two more hannies appeared at the top, firing wildly. A round pinged off the plasteel legpiece just below his left kneecap. His finger tightened on the trigger three times as he pumped needles into the natives.
More hannies were reaching the ditch now. Many were oblivious to the legionnaire, their rifles chattering and barking as the soldiers plunged straight ahead. Trent killed two more natives before they could take a more deadly interest in him. Then he saw the target he’d been waiting for.
Popping to his feet, the sergeant sprayed FEK fire on full-auto into a clump of locals. Ignoring their ululating screams, Trent sprang forward before any others could react. He kicked a dead hannie aside and scooped up the blood-soaked blunderbuss that had been pinned underneath the body.
As he raised the tube awkwardly to one shoulder, Trent struggled to recall the adchip briefings on native weaponry. That switch was the safety … and that one controlled the primitive electronic sight. Ignoring the sighting system, Trent lined up on the slow-moving vehicle and yanked back on the trigger. The rocket ignited and whooshed away, trailing flame.
Without waiting to watch the shot, Trent ducked and rolled for the cover of the ditch. As he landed at the bottom, the roar of the explosion drowned out the jabbering cries of the natives. His light intensifiers blanked out for an instant, then adjusted.
Raising himself cautiously to the lip of the ditch, Trent peered over the top. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he surveyed his handiwork. Smoke trailed upward from the hole near the bottom of the vehicle’s forward chassis, just over the left-hand tread. The tank was turning again, trying to line up on the company perimeter, but the left tread was flopping loose. The vehicle was still dangerous, but it wasn’t going anywhere. The hannies were wavering now as they realized their most potent weapon was damaged.
“Come on, Sarge!” someone yelled behind him. Two FEKs on full-auto hosed across the hannies. From above, on the tower platform, more Legion rifles joined in. A hatch on the tank opened, and a squat local started to climb out, only to be knocked down by a shot from the legionnaires on the tower.
Trent realized his own FEK was gone, lost in the scramble for the alien rocket launcher. Drawing his 10mm PLF rocket pistol, he ran toward Pascali and Legionnaire Reinhardt.
We shook ’em, he told himself as he dived behind the corner of the tower next to Corporal Pascali. We shook ’em … but they haven’t broke yet.
O O O
Legionnaire Spiro Karatsolis crouched low, sheltering behind the corner of the fort’s tiny chapel, and peered cautiously around the neoplast wall toward the much larger structure that housed the Fort Monkey motor pool.
The dead body of Legionnaire Vance sprawled between the two buildings was a grim reminder of the effectiveness of the unseen native snipers who had the unit pinned. Half the man’s head was gone, thanks to a high-caliber hannie bullet.
Karatsolis hefted the FEK in his hands. Compared to the turret-mounted plasma cannon of his beloved Sabertooth fire-support vehicle, the infantry weapon was a popgun. But it would have to do.
“Last chance to back out, man,” Corporal Selim Bashar said behind him.
“Yeah, sure.” Karatsolis took another look at Vance. “Let’s do it.”
They had worked their way this far forward of the rest of the legionnaires of the transport platoon without drawing fire. If they could just make it the rest of the way.…
Even one FSV would make the difference, both here and up on the north end of the fort. He’d heard Sergeant Persson calling for assistance from the lieutenant, but even if help was on the way those hannie snipers were too well hidden for infantry to root out quickly. But a Sabertooth wasn’t vulnerable to sniper fire.
Bashar slapped him on the back. “Ready,” he said tersely. The swarthy Sabertooth driver wasn’t armed, but he carried a satchel of tools slung over one shoulder. If Karatsolis could cover him long enough for the Turk to reach the motor pool, Bashar would deal with the booby traps they’d discovered before. Or at least that was the plan.
Karatsolis rolled out from behind the corner, his finger tightening on the trigger of the FEK. The weapon whined, spraying needles at the south wall. He paused a moment, and a native rifle raised a gout of dust at his feet. Throwing himself sideways, he fired at what he estimated was the source of the shot. He shouted as he fired. “Move! Move, Bashar!”
The Turk bounded across the compound at a dead run, zigzagging to avoid the sniper bullets. He dove, rolled, and came up next to the motor pool door, flashing Karatsolis a quick thumbs up. Another bullet missed his head by inches. The Greek gunner swung his FEK and squeezed off another long burst, and was rewarded by a scream. A hannie body tumbled from behind the cover of a ventilator housing on top of the armory across the road from the motor pool, landing heavily on the ground below.
Now that he had one of their hiding places spotted, Karatsolis switched from needle rounds to 1cm grenades and fired a quick three-round burst at the housing. That should discourage anyone who’s still up there, he thought as the explosions lit up the compound with a brief false dawn.
He took advantage of the distraction to run, firing randomly again as he crossed to Bashar’s side. The Turk was hunkered down beside the door studying a tripwire that ran almost unseen in the dirt.
“Not bad shooting for a goatherd,” the corporal commented coolly as he located the mine the tripwire ran to and disarmed it by jamming a screwdriver into the firing mechanism.
“You do all right yourself, Bashar … for a rug merchant.” They both came from New Cyprus and kept up a long-standing feud over the merit of Karatsolis’s farm-boy origins versus the city background Bashar had grown up with.
Bashar grinned and gestured at the door. Karatsolis kicked it in, FEK at the ready, half-expecting an explosion or a fusillade of shots to meet him.
The lights came up automatically as the sensors detected the two legionnaires. Inside, the ranked Legion vehicles waited, neatly parked in their workbays, ready for action. His heart leapt at the sight of the old, battle-scarred Sabertooth in Bay Five. Though in theory, maggers—transport platoon crews—were interchangeable among vehicles, there was still a tendency for specific crewmen to become attached to individual vehicles. Bashar and Karatsolis regarded that FSV as their own. They’d christened it Angel of Death and lavished as much attention on the ancient veteran as some men did on a mistress.
Lying quiescent in the workbay, the Sabertooth didn’t look very threatening. The flat manta-ray shape with its sleek bubble turret was half-hidden by a clutter of tools, workbenches, and spare parts. But once it was powered up, with magrep modules for lift and four General Dynamics ground-effect turbofans for thrust, the Sabertooth would become a living thing, as deadly as the carnivore on Medea that had given the vehicle class its name.
Side by side, the two legionnaires ran to the FSV, eager to come to grips with the enemy.
O O O
Zydryie Wyzyeet steadied kys bolt-action sniper’s rifle and scanned the Demon Fort in search of targets. Ky was having trouble getting used to the new nightscope that registered differences in temperature rather than light. It was a new device, issued only to the most elite units of the Dryien army, and this was kys first chance to use it in the field. The fuzzy, greenish images it showed were mostly dead bodies or patches of vegetation; none of the offworld demons were showing themselves now. Since the two humans had reached the big building they used to shelter their vehicles, no others had ventured into the open.
Two humans surely couldn’t do much even if they penetrated the booby traps outside the building. Still, Wyzyeet cursed silently. Kys superior wasn’t known for tolerance, and kys failure to stop the two demons might result in Wyzyeet’s demotion from the ranks of the Soldiers of the Eternal Mists. Only the very best of Dryien’s soldiery could aspire to serve in the elite commando unit. Aided by agents among the native servants employed by the demons, the commandos had penetrated the fort in perfect silence, set their traps, and prepared their ambush. Cut off from their armory and their vehicles, the offworlders would be easy prey for the main assault.
Wyzyeet felt uneasy. Those two humans had made it past the snipers. Their vehicles were certainly powerful.…
Raw sound hammered at kys ears, and an explosion of blinding light made Wyzyeet duck down involuntarily. Kys night vision was gone, but when the zydryie looked back into the compound ky could see the demon vehicle clearly enough.
It was broad and flat, with a sleek bubble turret that mounted a menacing weapon some said was magical, plus missile launchers mounted on either side of the hull. And it floated, as if held up by an unseen force. Huge fans roared under the body of the machine, but Wyzyeet knew of no fan that could hold up so monstrous a weight.
The vehicle floated a few kwyin above the ground, scarcely higher than a full-grown kyen. It pivoted slowly in place like a beast questing for a scent.
Ky remembered the stories other soldiers told of the demonic devices that could see a kyen in total darkness … or through solid walls. Devices that made the night-scope like a child’s toy by comparison.
These were the demons who had cast down the Ancient Gods and shattered their great Sky Fortress.
Wyzyeet’s hands shook. Ky hesitated, torn between duty and fear.
Then the great cannon on the demon vehicle’s turret flared once, a searing pulse of light and heat. Wyzyeet never even felt the ball of superheated plasma that consumed kys body and a three-meter section of the south wall.