Chapter Four
An officer knows inside a week if he clicks or doesn’t click in the Legion.
—Major Fernand Maire,
French Foreign Legion, 1918
Kelly Winters cringed at the sound of gunfire from the top of the slope, the crack and chatter of native weapons mingled with the high-pitched whines of old-style FEK gauss rifles. The fighting up there sounded fierce … and it sounded like the legionnaires in the garrison were badly outnumbered.
Crouching low behind a clump of twisted, thorny bushes, she lowered the injured native to the ground and checked kys pulse. You should have known there’d be no safety up in the fort, she told herself bitterly. Damned legionnaires.
Why had the Commonwealth sent legionnaires to garrison the Enclave, anyway? Everybody knew they were nothing but malcontents and troublemakers—everybody who wasn’t dazzled by the “romance” of the Foreign Legion, that is. She’d been forced to use them as her primary construction crew in putting together the Enclave, the landing strip, and the fort itself, and the road net that connected the Enclave with the capital and the inland zyglyn plantations. Slovenly, disrespectful, equipped with outdated gear and attitudes to match, the legionnaires weren’t much good for peacetime work. From the sound of it they weren’t doing much better at fighting, either.
But she didn’t have much choice. The locals were in complete control in the rezplex, and she’d seen a patrol heading for the landing field an hour earlier. The legionnaires at the fort were still putting up a struggle, at least.
And both she and the native needed medical attention. Her injured native ally had passed out soon after she’d administered first aid and had been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since. She bit her lip as she examined the blood-soaked bandages on the native’s leg. Infections were easy to come by in Hanuman’s mid-latitude regions. Without competent medical aid and a dose of regen therapy, the little alien would probably lose the limb. If either of us live that long, she thought grimly.
Underneath makeshift bandages, her arm still throbbed where the hannie soldier’s neck quills had opened half a dozen deep, painful stab wounds. Now that she was reasonably safe, the adrenaline wasn’t pumping any more, and she felt sick and exhausted. She wanted to close her eyes, to sleep.
But she knew that sleep would just bring back the memories. The massacre … the hannie soldier dying under the smashing blows of kys own rifle, killed by her own hand. Her own hand.…
No. She couldn’t let herself remember. Not yet.
It took a major effort to focus on her surroundings again. A glow from downslope relieved the darkness … Monkeyville was burning. At least it gave her enough light to examine the hillside.
Were the shots above coming closer?
She froze in place as several small, dark shapes scrambled down the hill, heedless of their surroundings. They were hannies, soldiers by the look of them, but only one was armed. As she watched ky threw away the weapon, then suddenly toppled, kys torso erupting in a spray of blood and flesh and metal slivers. The native twitched a few times as ky hit the ground, then lay still.
“Come on, lads!” a human voice cried out in Terranglic. “We’ve got the little bastards on the run! Let’s get ’em!”
A legionnaire ran past her position, still shooting at the fleeing natives. In the glow of the burning rezplex, Kelly could see him clearly. His uniform matched the darkened hillside but seemed to shimmer a little where the firelight hit it. Plasteel body armor covered his arms, legs, and chest over his duraweave coverall, and his bulky helmet was made of the same material. Armor, equipment, even his FEK had the scarred, battered look of gear that had either been badly maintained or seen long, harsh duty.
Another man appeared and fired at the fugitives, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were unarmed now.
“I’m glad to see you can fight someone, soldier,” she said harshly. “Next time try for some of the dangerous ones. You know, the ones who can shoot back.”
The soldiers reacted instantly to the noise, pivoting toward her with weapons held ready. “Hold your fire!” she called. “I’m a Terran … a Navy officer.”
A corporal appeared out of the shadow, studying her closely. His watchful expression didn’t waver. “Lieutenant Winters, isn’t it?”
Kelly nodded.
“I’m Corporal LeMay,” he said. “How many with you?”
“Just a native,” she said, trying to match his brisk, professional manner. “I don’t know if anyone else managed to get out.…”
He cut her off with a curt gesture. “Never mind the details, Lieutenant,” he told her crisply. “No telling how much time we have before they re-form.”
“What about the hannie, Corp?” one of the legionnaires asked, pointing to her injured ally.
“Leave it. Don’t have no orders about lokes.”
“Belay that, mister,” Kelly snapped. She wasn’t going to abandon the native to the mercies of the Dryien army. “Ky helped me escape. Bring ky with us.”
The corporal looked stubborn, then shrugged. “If you say so, Lieutenant,” he said resignedly. “Kraisri, get the hannie. Ma’am, we’d better get back to the fort.”
Kelly took a step, suddenly conscious of the weakness in her knees, of the sweat dripping down her face and neck, of the pounding throb in her wounded arm. Her arm … it felt swollen under the bandages.
“LeMay…?” She tried to speak, but her tongue felt swollen. Breathing was difficult, as though unseen hands were closing about her throat. “LeMay …”
The ground swept up and collided with her face. From a very great distance, she could hear LeMay calling her name.
Then there was only darkness.
O O O
The noise of the turbofans was music, a triumphant fanfare that put fresh life into the beleaguered legionnaires at the barricade. Colin Fraser found himself grinning from sheer relief as he opened fire once again. The scarred hull of a Sabertooth shot past, the flare of light from its plasma cannon illuminating the name painted on the side of the turret: Angel of Death. The FSV was living up to the name as the plasma gun and the hull-mounted CEK chaingun swept the north wall. A second native tank that had squeezed through the hole created by the first took a plasma round square in the front, leaving a wide hole surrounded by half-melted armor right over the driver’s compartment.
Nearby, an M-786 Sandray APC grounded with a roar of braking fans, the rear troop ramp dropping as it set down. Grim looking legionnaires filed out at a trot. First came Corporal Dmowski, carrying a Fafnir rocket launcher, while the next two, armored head to toe in plasteel, cradled onager plasma rifles in their arms. Other soldiers followed. Bartlow’s platoon was still on the south side of the compound, mopping up the hannie commandoes, but at last Fraser had the heavy weapons units who could turn the tide. And the vehicles, two Sabertooth FSVs and four Sandrays armed with CEKs.
Now maybe we can teach those monkeys a lesson about fighting the Legion. Fraser allowed himself another grim smile. He clicked to his command channel. “First and Second Platoons, attack on my signal!”
“First Platoon confirms,” Subaltern Fairfax said over the commlink.
“Second Platoon, acknowledged.” That was Subaltern Watanabe, the soft-spoken native of the Japanese colony on Pacifica.
Fraser peered over the top of the barricade one more time, then clicked to another comm channel. “Sergeant Trent! Are you there, Trent?”
“I’m here, L-T,” the sergeant’s voice responded promptly. Trent sounded out of breath, preoccupied.
“Time to show the lokes some firepower, Gunny. How’re your people doing?”
“Three down from First Platoon Recon.” There was a pause. “With all due respect, L-T, I wonder if you could stop talking and start shooting? Those little bastards are still trying to get at us.”
Fraser smiled in spite of himself. Would anything shake Trent’s unflappable style? “Acknowledged, Gunny.” He keyed in the command channel again. “Now!”
The explosion and the impossibly bright flare of plasma rounds blanked out Fraser’s LI display for a second, until his helmet electronics could compensate for the glare. All six of the company’s armored onager gunners were sweeping the north side of the compound with their plasma rifles, and the effects were devastating. As Fraser’s vision returned, he could see hannie soldiers throwing down their weapons and fleeing for safety. Onager and FEK fire pursued them.
The whine of FEKs mingled with the deeper-throated hum of the MEK lance-support weapons as the rest of the legionnaires surged forward across the barricade, firing as they charged. A few shots rang out in answer but quickly fell silent.
And then, suddenly, it was over. The compound was quiet, the night peaceful again, as if the battle had never been.
Lieutenant Colin Fraser listened to the silence. The attack was over … or was it? Something had caused the Dryien army to turn on the Legion. Until that something was dealt with, the legionnaires would still be in danger.
The silence seemed somehow more threatening than the fury of the battle.
O O O
Slick winced as Dmitri Rostov probed at his shoulder. “Careful, for God’s sake!”
Rostov grinned. “You deserve it, nube,” he said. He came from the Russian-settled frontier world of Novy Krimski, but he spoke flawless Terranglic. “That was a damn fool stunt you pulled, trying to take those ales with a knife.”
He didn’t answer. He was tired, his arm hurt, and the last thing he needed was another lecture on teamwork.
When the judge had passed sentence on him for trying to break into the freighter and stow away on the London/Orbit shuttle, Slick had been almost relieved. The Fifth Foreign Legion—what youngster didn’t spin romantic dreams of serving in the company of those tough outcasts in their distant off-planet outposts? He’d talked Billy into the caper to get away from Terra’s swarming beehive cities, out into the Colonies where life was exciting. The Legion shouldn’t have been punishment at all! The idea of serving with the misfits, the adventurers … The chance to be part of something, and not always on the outside … it should have been a dream come true.
But he was quick to discover the bitter truth behind the romance.
From the moment he’d arrived for training at the main Legion depot on Devereaux, Slick had been miserable. The NCOs were either sadists or martinets, while most of the other legionnaires were concerned with proving how tough they were. Dreams of camaraderie were quickly overshadowed by the realities of being an easy target, a nube, someone to cuff or humiliate or ignore. But they still expected him to be part of the team.
I’ll show them I don’t need their team, Slick thought. A planet like Hanuman didn’t offer the disgruntled legionnaire any place to try desertion. His only alternative was to win some respect, to show that he could make it on his own.
“All right,” Rostov went on after a long silence. “Far as I can tell it’s a clean wound, and nothing’s broken. Strauss’ll probably hurt you worse next time he decides you need an obedience lesson.”
Slick nodded curtly. “Thanks, Rostov,” he said.
“Just doing my job, nube,” the other legionnaire replied cheerfully. He lowered his voice again. “And listen, kid … what you did was stupid, but it took guts. You’re all right … in a kind of a dim, thick-skulled sort of way. Know what I mean?”
Rostov packed up the first aid kit, whistling happily. Pulling on his fatigue jacket carefully, he looked over the tower parapet. The hannies were gone now, scattered by the furious Legion counterattack.
I’m still alive. The realization was only starting to sink in. I’m alive.…
And Rostov seemed friendlier, more willing to accept him. Maybe he really could fit in.
Maybe.
O O O
“So I guess we have our orders.” Lieutenant Colin Fraser leaned forward over the desk. It felt wrong to be sitting in Captain LaSalle’s chair, presiding over the company staff meeting. But the word from the capital was positive: LaSalle was dead. Right or wrong, Fraser was in command now.
It wasn’t fair. He’d been attached to the Legion less than two months, on Hanuman with Bravo Company barely a week. He still didn’t understand these outcasts, these misfits who seemed determined to close ranks and go their own way and tell the whole universe to be damned. They were strangers to him, more alien than the hannies. How was he supposed to make combat decisions that risked the lives of these men?
He glanced around the office. Gunnery Sergeant Trent and all three platoon leaders were present. So were the company’s four warrant officers, the specialists whose authority lay outside the regular chain of command. This one room held the entire surviving command staff of Demi-Battalion Alice, the Legion’s garrison in Dryienjaiyeel—for the next few hours, at least.
“Commandant Isayev has confirmed the evac order,” Fraser went on. “The transport lighter Ganymede will be here by dawn. Come noon, we’ll be back in Fwynzei, safe and sound. We have to be ready to pull out by then. Doctor Ramirez, what’s the medical situation?”
WO/4 Eduardo Ramirez raised his head tiredly. The doctor was best known in camp for his capacity for alcohol consumption, but he had been hard at work since the beginning of the Dryien attack three hours before and hadn’t taken a drink in the entire time. He looked, Fraser thought, more like one of the patients than the unit’s medical specialist. “Battle injuries all treated, sir,” he mumbled almost inaudibly. “Nothing very severe. Almost anything that got through armor killed the target.”
“God rest their souls,” WO/4 Fitzpatrick added softly. Father Michael Fitzpatrick—he was known to one and all within Bravo Company as “the Padre”—was the unit’s chaplain. He was a Catholic from Freehold, one of the colonies that had been cut off from contact with Terra during the Shadow Centuries. Although his brand of Catholicism didn’t recognize the primacy of Rome, it was a popular religion in the Colonies. At least half of Bravo Company was made up of Catholics of one kind or another, and the Padre served their spiritual needs as well as any conventional Vatican-backed priest.
“Good.” Fraser looked over at the platoon leaders. “Tighten perimeter security for the rest of the night, gentlemen. No repeats of tonight’s little performance. I want this evac to go smoothly.”
“We’ll do our best, sir,” Fairfax said. Bartlow nodded agreement.
“Are we giving up on the people in town, and on Charlie Company, sir?” Watanabe asked.
“There’s nobody left in the capital to give up on.” Donald Hamilton, the WO/4 responsible for native affairs and intelligence, tapped the arm of his chair nervously. “Ganymede rescued a couple of eyewitnesses to the massacre in the Fortress of Heaven. Everybody else is dead. Including Captain LaSalle. I gather Ganymede’s going to make a couple more search sweeps overnight, but it doesn’t look good.”
Fraser nodded slowly. “We have to mag out, Subaltern. There’s been no word from Charlie Company, and with more hannies moving in around the base of the plateau it won’t be easy to send anyone out.”
“The lieutenant’s right,” Trent said bluntly. “Hell, how long could a platoon-sized outpost last if they got hit the way we did?”
“We could probably run a search from the lighter,” WO/4 Hendrik Vandergraff, the unit’s science and technology analyst, suggested. “They can’t do much to us once we’re aboard, and we could scout around for radio sources.”
“Maybe,” Trent said. “Don’t think I’d like to tangle with the whole Dryien air force, though. Those cargo-mods they drive might not be much, but they could damage a transport. Now if we had an assault boat—”
“We don’t,” Fraser said. “If there’s a chance to locate other survivors, we will, but the commandant wants us to pull out of here and back to Fwynzei intact. We don’t risk Bravo Company on the off chance there’s a couple of other Terrans still blundering around out in the jungle. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Vandergraff said. Fraser thought he heard Trent say something like “The Legion takes care of its own” under his breath, but he ignored the sergeant.
“Last thing,” Fraser went on. “Hamilton, you’re supposed to be an expert on our hannie friends. Any special recommendations?”
“Don’t underestimate them,” he said curtly. After a moment, he added, “Sir. They’re a potent threat even if they don’t have our weapons and armor.” He paused again. “Specific things to consider … hmmm. First, maintain a tight watch tonight, and have the off-duty platoons sleep with weapons ready so we don’t get caught with the heavy stuff in the armory again. Keep all the armed vehicles deployed around the compound. And for God’s sake make sure there aren’t any locals inside the fort!”
Fraser nodded thoughtfully. “All right, let’s get things rolling. One platoon on watch, the others packing up or getting some rest. See Gunny for a schedule. I want to be ready for the lighter when it gets here.”
“And ready for the hannies, too. I bet we’ll see them first.” Trent added, rising. He made it sound like a casual social call, not another bloody assault.
“That’s a bet I won’t touch, Gunny,” Fraser said quietly. He looked away. I don’t understand these people. I don’t belong with the Legion. Not as Exec … certainly not in command.
He thought of Trent, so self-assured, so dedicated to his soldier’s life. A warrior born and bred. A legionnaire.
I just don’t belong.
O O O
“Idiots! Fools!” Zyzyiig slammed a fist down on the table. “How could two regiments be driven back by a handful?”
Shavvataaars, the Semti Chief Advisor to the Throne of the Eternal Mists, spoke with a whispering, sibilant hiss, pausing frequently as he struggled with kyendyp vowel-sounds. “That journey is done now; it cannot be retraced. The demons are trapped in their jungle lair, where your troops may still destroy them all. But you cannot afford delay, my dear Asjyai. Their transport ship may fly them all to safety, and you cannot afford to allow the Terrans to regroup and mount a counterthrust against you here. They must learn that Dryienjaiyeel is not safe for their kind.”
It was galling to have success so near, yet still hanging undecided, a ripe jungle fruit just out of reach on a high tree limb. The youthful usurper, Jiraiy, was dead, and with the child the offworlder demons who had led ky from the ways of the Ancients. The army was in total control here in the Fortress of Heaven, and the process of rooting out the false yzyeel’s supporters in the capital was going smoothly. By morning, the new yzyeel, Zyzyiig’s chosen candidate, would be secure on the Throne of the Eternal Mists.
But the offworlder skyship floating in the harbor remained intact, until artillery or armor could be summoned to the capital from the outlying provinces. And the demon soldiers, the offworlder Foreign Legion, were still holding out. But two full regiments were already in place below the offworlder fortress, and two more crack armored units were on the way. The three smaller camps where the interlopers had settled in the deep jungle were gone now, two of them overrun, the third evacuated. That would free up another regiment, but it surely would not be needed.
“You are sure the demons will withdraw?” Zyzyiig asked. “Might they send help to their garrison instead?”
“They cannot,” Shavvataaars replied. “Their strength is not that great, and their attention will soon be elsewhere. Nothing shall stand in the path of the Great Journey. But the Time of Cleansing cannot begin until the demons have been cast out.”
Dryienjaiyeel would be free of the offworlders, of the northern merchants, of everyone who exploited the zyglyn trade and interfered with the savages of the deep jungles. And the People of the Mists could return to their own ways again under the protection of the Ancients, Shavvataaars and his sibs.
Yes … yes, the Cleansing will soon be complete.
“Best if I go to command the assault in person,” Zyzyiig said. “Then there will be no mistakes.”
The Semti’s rasping voice sounded worried now. “That is not wise, my Companion of the Journey. Such will only delay the moment of decision, perhaps aiding the demons to evade their fate.”
Zyzyiig crossed arms firmly. “My decision is made, Honored One. I will lead the troops into battle and see these legionnaires crushed as the mists melt away in the morning sun.”