Chapter Thirteen
What are you complaining about? I’m creating glory for you.
—Colonel Pierre Jeanpierre,
French Foreign Legion, March 1958
“A glorious tactic, Lieutenant Fraser! Glorious!”
Fraser tried to conceal his unease as he regarded the Ubrenfar sergeant. The saurian’s scaled, heavily-muscled body was marked by dozens of gashes, cuts and patches of missing scales but Ghirghik had spurned any offer of first aid. When Fraser’s men had finally cut their way through to the survivors from Charlie Company, the big alien had been standing in the center of a ring of hannie dead, FEK dry of grenades and needle rounds alike, wielding a blade like an oversized kukri and singing a discordant Ubrenfar battle song.
Ghirghik had seemed disappointed that he hadn’t died gloriously at the height of the battle, but his praise for Fraser’s attack on the hannie rear had been unstinting.
Not that everyone agreed with the sergeant. Not even Fraser.
The hannies were gone, dispersed by the sudden onslaught of the legionnaires. But the butcher’s bill at Shelton’s Head made the triumph seem hollow. Seventy legionnaires had withdrawn to the plantation after the initial hannie attacks. Of the forty-six still alive when Fraser’s men reached Ghirghik, over half were wounded—ten of them seriously. Subalterns Jacquinot and Lawton had died, and the two vehicles the legionnaires had brought out were both useless hulks now. Fraser’s force had lost five dead and three wounded as well.
It didn’t sound that bad … except that every casualty suffered in these remote jungles was irreplaceable. And when primitive hannie soldiers could kill so many high-tech Commonwealth troops, even at the cost of hundreds of their own kind, the Terran victory was a Pyrrhic one at best.
“Goddamn it, Lieutenant, why didn’t you let us know?” That was Sergeant Baker. He’d lost his helmet, and a hannie rifle butt had cut a deep gash across his forehead in hand-to-hand fighting around the plantation buildings. The heavy bandage over it gave the man a distinctly piratical appearance. “We could have held out long enough if we’d known you were coming! Instead of charging the monkeys.…”
The Ubrenfar snorted derisively. “It was brilliant,” he said. The afternoon sun lancing through the windows glinted off his scales as his tail twitched. “Using us to focus their attention, then hitting them from behind before they could react…!”
Fraser looked away. He had used Charlie Company, used them as a diversion for his attack. At the time it had seemed clever.
Now, though, he was ashamed. The Ubrenfar’s praise was salt in the wound. Everyone knew their callous disregard for life, their ruthlessness in battle.
So much for clever tactics, he told himself bitterly. More lives wasted. Another mistake.…
Watanabe cleared his throat. “Lieutenant, last report from Garcia says we’ve got bad guys gathering down the road. Shouldn’t I be getting the men ready to saddle up?”
Fraser nodded slowly. “Do it, Sub. Wounded get first call on the APCs.”
The subaltern saluted. “Yes, sir. I’ll have Legionnaire Russo take over Tran’s C3 duties, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah. Fine.” Tran’s death was still fresh in his mind. Russo had been Captain Rayburn’s C3 specialist in Charlie Company and had come through the fighting unscathed. He’d make a good replacement for Tran.
Watanabe hurried out of the plantation office, shouting for Sergeant Fontaine. Fraser stared after him, ignoring the others in the room. The subaltern was right. They had to get moving, before the hannie army could reform and launch a fresh attack.
Right now, all he could do here was bury his mistakes, together with the dead, and keep moving. It was the only chance of survival the legionnaires had left.
* * *
Shavvataaars, Third Talon of the Everlasting Race, squinted in the harsh light slanting through the window of the Excellent’s private audience chamber and drew his hood lower over his eyes. An eternity’s curse on this place, he thought. Hot, humid, painfully bright under the glare of its F-class star, this world the Terrans called Hanuman wasn’t far removed from the ancient Semti religious concept of hell.
Not that any rational being would believe such ideas. The Semti had too long manipulated the religious beliefs of others to set any stock in the mythologies of their own ancestors. But the teachings were a part of the Ancient Lore, treasured, tended, preserved. There were times when Shavvataaars looked around this inhospitable world and recoiled in horror from a scene from Journey’s End.
But Hanuman represented a chance to reverse the temporary ascendance of the chaotic Terran barbarians and their Commonwealth. Somehow, unthinkable as it had been, their juvenile vigor had won them a victory over the Conclave. The destruction of Kiassaa, the Conclave’s artificial capital, had thrown Semti administration into chaos and opened the way for the barbarian takeover. Yet the moment would pass, and in time the Eternal Race would resume its rightful place as guardian and arbiter of the immature species—the Terrans among them. The proper pressure applied now, here, would create the conditions that would bring the ephemerals tumbling down as quickly as they had first risen.
Assuming, of course, that the other ephemerals, the primitives of these hellish swamps and jungles, could be guided to do their part.
At the moment, that assumption was questionable.
“Another demon trick!” Asjyai Zyzyiig smashed kys fist on the table. The native officer was using the ceremonial hall as a personal office, having relegated the new yzyeel to virtual captivity in a well-guarded wing of the Fortress of Heaven. “Another slaughter! You told me the demons would lose heart, would be easy to destroy, and look where it led! They escaped their fortress, and now they have rescued the other survivors. And hundreds of kyendyp killed in each fight!”
Shavvataaars regarded the other patiently. Zyzyiig’s own interference had been responsible for most of the mishaps so far, but of course it would be impolitic to say as much. The Great Journey, the plan his superiors had dubbed “Twilight Prowler” required the native’s continued cooperation, at least until the embers of anti-Terran sentiment had been fanned into an all-consuming blaze. Dryienjaiyeel was a primitive country, barbaric even by Terran standards, but it had a place in Twilight Prowler that could not be ignored.
“The demons have indeed proved more resourceful than we might have hoped for,” the Semti replied in even, thoughtful tones. “But remember, my Companion, that they have already suffered a grave setback at your hands. Otherwise, they would not be fleeing overland.”
“Fleeing!” Zyzyiig bared kys teeth. “They attack as they please, go where they want to go. Is this flight?”
“Yet they are plainly travelling northward, toward the border. A long and difficult journey to undertake save in desperation, when a single transport could carry their entire band to safety in minutes. Our calculations have proven correct in that much, at least. These legionnaires have been abandoned. Time will wear them down, time and the deep jungles. When next your soldiers encounter them, you will surely triumph. You must exercise patience in this.”
“I am tired of hearing your speeches on patience!” Zyzyiig flared. “Your ‘advice’ and your ‘assistance’ have been nothing but speeches!”
Shavvataaars did not answer. This was always the danger in trying to work too closely with barbarian allies. It was easy to guide a species on a desired path through subtle manipulation over a span of centuries, very hard indeed to apply direct control for some fleeting, short-term goal. Ephemerals lost patience so easily, and their haste created situations where a slow and measured response was impossible. But the success of the Cleansing depended on Zyzyiig and kys followers. Without ephemerals as tools, the Eternal Race was no match for the barbarians. Not yet.
“Well?” The Asjyai was growing less self-assured as Shavvataaars remained silent. Zyzyiig’s grandparents had worshipped the Semti as gods. For all kys bluster, the native’s superstitions weren’t far below the surface. “Don’t you have anything to say … Honored?”
Shavvataaars studied Zyzyiig from under the recesses of the dark hood. The native was growing harder to control with each defeat inflicted by the Terrans. Perhaps it would be best to let matters in Dryienjaiyeel play themselves out and devote his own attentions to the wider aspects of Twilight Prowler. The events set in motion here could not be turned aside even if the legionnaires continued to elude Zyzyiig … but it would be wise to develop other aspects of the plan in case the Asjyai’s growing unreliability became a threat.
Yes … that was the road to follow now.
“It is clear to me, my Companion, that you have no further need of my advice,” Shavvataaars told ky smoothly. “My job here is done. You can complete the Cleansing without further guidance.”
Zyzyiig looked stricken. “But—”
“I have other tasks I must attend to, Asjyai,” he continued. “Focus your efforts on blocking the escape of the demon refugees … until I send you word. When we are ready to complete this Journey, you and your army will have a vital part to play. Be ready.”
The Semti turned away before Zyzyiig could reply. Shavvataaars felt a cold thrill of satisfaction as he left the audience chamber. Twilight Prowler moves forward. Soon enough I will be able to leave this hellworld.…
* * *
Colin Fraser climbed the ramp into the command van with a feeling of relief. Two long days of maneuvering, dodging hannie patrols through the dense lowland jungles, was over at last. Demi-Battalion Alice—or at least the hundred and seventy-odd survivors of the two Legion companies—had reunited, ready to make the final push for the frontier.
It sounded simple put this way. But the “final push” still had to cover over a thousand kilometers before the legionnaires could cross the mountains and leave Dryienjaiyeel … and a lot could happen in the meantime.
Legionnaire Garcia looked up as Fraser ducked his head to enter the C3 compartment. “Good to have you back, sir,” she said.
He nodded curtly. “Thanks. Didn’t think we’d make it for a while there.”
It had been a near-run thing. They’d been a little too successful in rescuing the Charlie Company survivors: there just hadn’t been enough room on the three Legion vehicles to transport them all. The retreat from Shelton’s Head had been limited to a speed not faster than the slowest marching soldier. And with so many walking wounded, that had been a snail’s pace indeed.
In fact, the natives would probably have cut them off entirely if Trent hadn’t persuaded Subaltern Fairfax to turn the main body around and hold open an escape route for Fraser’s men. There hadn’t been much real fighting, but the action had cost them four Grendel missiles … and precious marching time.
Fraser still wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank Gunny Trent for saving them, or chew him out for making Fairfax put the main body at risk. The sergeant’s dedication to Legion tradition, to the idea that the Legion always looked out for its own, didn’t seem quite so admirable when it put so many lives on the line.
Then again, by that reasoning he should have passed Charlie Company by.…
That was exactly the kind of decision Fraser didn’t want to face again.
He settled into his seat at the computer console. “What’s the feed from the drones, Garcia?” he asked.
The map screen lit up. “It looks clear to the northeast, lieutenant,” the C3 tech said. “But Sergeant Trent figures there must be hannie units trying to close it off by now, probably moving up outside our scouting range. Do you want me to extend the perimeter any?”
Fraser shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll assume Gunny’s instincts are right. I don’t want to risk the drone. We only have two more left, and they have to last us all the way to the border.”
She nodded. “If the lokes are out there.…”
“We’ll find them as soon as they do come in range. Meantime, all we can do is get our asses in gear and get moving.”
He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. With one vehicle out of action and the men from Charlie Company added to the column, it really was going to be a matter of marching. The vehicles could carry supplies and wounded, and they could rotate fit men aboard some of the APCs so the march could continue virtually nonstop, but the pace would still be slow. Too slow, he thought bitterly. Terran troops were used to crossing continents in a matter of hours aboard transport ships. Now the hannies were probably going to be able to move faster than the legionnaires.
“We’ll move out in an hour, Garcia,” he said at last. “But we’ll have to get organized first. I want Trent and the subs in here right away. Sergeant Ghirghik, too.”
Survival would depend more on hard marching than on fighting, but the legionnaires had to be ready for both. That meant integrating Charlie Company into the rest of the unit before they moved out. One more delay to deal with.
He only hoped they could afford it.
* * *
Far from fair Terra, from family and home,
Far from embraces of those that we love,
Marches the Legion, the damned, all alone,
Under a strange sky with strange stars above.
The slow, mournful song was more dirge than marching music, and it seemed to emphasize Slick’s mood. His FEK was a heavy weight on his shoulder, and each step seemed harder than the last. There was still another hour before the next scheduled halt, after which the lance was supposed to have a four-hour shift aboard one of the APCs. He hoped he could hold out until then.
Even in training on Devereaux, the Legion hadn’t marched this much. For three days now, since the lieutenant’s return with the survivors from Charlie Company, their longest halt had been no more than an hour. The legionnaires marched in shifts, ate or slept aboard the carriers, and took turns on point, flank, or rearguard, watching out for hannie attacks. There’d been enough of those, too. Slick could still visualize the enemy ambush two days back, when Corporal LeMay fell into the concealed pit and the rest of the flank party, Slick included, had held off a swarm of screaming hannies who seemed to materialize out of the jungle from every direction at once.
They’d pulled LeMay out of the pit afterwards, but the sharpened stakes had gone right through his duraweave coverall. He was one of four men dead in that clash, left behind in the jungle as the column pressed on.
And still they marched. And sang. The Foreign Legion had a tradition that stretched all the way back to Old Earth of marching to a slow beat of 88 paces per minute. The somber beat was matched by the songs, depressing melodies about loneliness, nostalgia, and the whims of politicians.
Back on Devereaux, Slick had once been punished by an NCO for some minor infraction by being forced to parade all night in full battle kit, singing the entire time at the top of his lungs. He was beginning to recall the incident with fondness. At least then he’d known it would end when morning came.
A hand gave him a savage cuff from behind. “Come on, nube! Sing!” It was Strauss, seemingly unaffected by the hours of marching. “I haf my eye on you. Understand?”
“Yes, Corporal,” Slick answered meekly. Any other response was likely to get him another cuff.
Strauss gave him one anyway. “You are lucky ve are too busy for punishment, nube. But I vill remember.” The corporal moved down the line to talk with Vrurrth.
“Looks like trouble with the Corp, kid,” Rostov whispered. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and buy it before he comes up with something nasty, huh?”
“Maybe he’ll buy it,” Slick muttered.
Rostov laughed. “Fat chance, kid. Ain’t no bullet taking out the Corp. They’re too scared of him!”
Slick didn’t answer. He was sick of Rostov, sick of all his lancemates with their rough and ready humor and their air of superiority over the poor helpless nube. Sick of Strauss and his punishments … sick of the Legion.
He’d heard once that as many as a third of all legionnaires deserted before their term of enlistment was up. If they ever made it back to civilization, Slick was determined to try it as well. He didn’t belong in the Legion, and he wasn’t going to stay any longer than he had to.
The endless march went on.