Chapter Fourteen
We fight best by knocking off the kilometers.
—General Francois de Negrier,
French Foreign Legion, 1881
“I’m sorry, Fraser, but there’s nothing new to report on this end. The resident-general still won’t release any transport.”
Fraser nodded wearily. He hadn’t really expected any change in policy. He talked to Battalion daily, and the word was always the same. “I understand, Commandant. But I have to tell you that things here aren’t going very smoothly.”
That was understatement. Just over a week had passed since the demi-battalion had reunited after the rescue of the Charlie Company survivors, and in that time they’d reduced the distance to Fwynzei by less than five hundred kilometers. The actual distance the legionnaires had covered was much greater, of course, but the twists and turns forced on them by terrain and enemy pursuit had caused them to make wide, time-consuming detours.
Supplies were becoming a problem, too. The extra mouths they had to feed now, and the unexpectedly slow pace of the march, had thrown off all their careful planning.
“If we keep on going as we’ve been,” Fraser continued aloud, “I’m not sure how well our supplies will hold out. Yesterday we raided a primmie village, but I’m not sure if that’s going to be wise in the long run.”
“How so?” Commandant Isayev demanded.
“The farther north we get, the fewer villages we’ll find, sir,” Fraser replied carefully. “Up near the frontier is where the Dryiens have been building all those model settlements, and they’ll be a hell of a lot better defended than anything the savages have. Every foraging expedition costs us time and could cost me men as well. If we go up against a strong defense, we could lose everything.”
Fraser looked away from the communications terminal for a moment. There was another reason he didn’t like foraging, but it wasn’t something he could talk about. The memory of the hannie village in flames, the stench of fire and death, was still fresh. The jungle savages just wanted to be left alone, but now the legionnaires were carrying the fight to them. It was necessary to keep the unit going, but Fraser hated the one-sided killing of primitives who couldn’t defend themselves.
“Do what you can, Lieutenant,” Isayev said gruffly. “I’ll keep trying to get some kind of relief mission organized on this end, but I can’t say it looks too likely now. Not the way things have been going.”
“Sir?”
“The carriership Seneca is a week overdue at the systerm, Fraser. It’s probably nothing—some politician or bureaucrat probably ordered him to wait for a VIP or something—but it’s enough to throw a murphy into our works here. The resident-general’s hoping to divert some troops slated for the garrison on Enkidu. That’s why Ankh’Qwar isn’t home yet; she’s still waiting at the systerm.”
“More troops, sir? To retaliate on the Dryiens?”
“Partly,” Isayev admitted. “But in the past few days we’ve had indications of trouble in Vyujiid, too. There was a riot in the Imperial City yesterday. Our intel people think there could be a rebellion brewing up here. If so, we’re going to need every man we can get just to protect Commonwealth interests north of the frontier. Even if we get more men, Fraser, I’m not sure how much help we’ll be able to spare. Even the transports are likely to stay busy ferrying garrison troops back and forth to trouble spots. The Navy’s not going to want to risk a repeat of Ganymede when every ship’s going to be essential.”
“Yes, sir,” Fraser said. “I see their point of view. It’s just not a very comfortable one personally.”
“At this point, I’d say you’ve made the best possible choice. If you can get the demi-battalion out of Dryienjaiyeel on your own, you’ll have done everyone a good turn. You were smart to pull out of Fort Monkey when you did.”
“Thank you, sir. But I still wish we didn’t have to get past Zhairhee.”
Isayev nodded. “I’ve seen the satellite photos. I don’t know if that buildup’s there just for your benefit, or to forestall any retaliation from here, but there’s a lot of activity between you and the frontier. You’ll just have to dodge it as best you can … unless I can organize some kind of help in the meantime.”
“Yes, sir,” he said again.
“Stay in touch, Fraser,” Isayev told him. “I know it feels like we’ve abandoned you … hell, the resident-general and his flunkies would like to. But you’re part of the Legion, and the Legion takes care of its own. Good luck, Lieutenant. Lancelot clear.”
“Alice, ending transmission.” Fraser leaned back in his seat and stared at the blank screen for a long time. If the Commandant was right about trouble elsewhere on Hanuman, the chance of assistance was smaller than ever. The Legion really was on its own.
All they could do now was press on, knock off as many kilometers as they could … and pray they didn’t run into something they couldn’t handle.
* * *
Kelly Winters lowered herself wearily onto a log and sighed gratefully. After two hours of marching, any chance to sit down, even for just a few minutes, was a welcome relief to aching feet. Everyone in the column took a turn marching, except for the seriously wounded casualties aboard the ambulance vans. She’d spent an entire shift a few days back beside Father Fitzpatrick, and yesterday she’d spotted Lieutenant Fraser and his electronics tech at the head of the column.
Somehow it seemed right. The legionnaires, for all their mismatched backgrounds and ill-mannered behavior, seemed to respond to that sort of sacrifice. Kelly was even beginning to detect some signs of thawing towards her.
Once she would have put that down to being one of a handful of women among a preponderance of men. The Legion ran about ten-to-one in favor of males, and the proportion was about that in the demi-battalion now.
But she doubted sex had much to do with anyone’s attitude by this time. Dirty, smelly, her uniform unwashed and caked in jungle mud, her hair cut short after she’d tangled it in a thorny clump of kiizaij vines, Kelly had never felt so totally asexual in her life. And she was exhausted, completely exhausted. For all their superior airs, the legionnaires were feeling the fatigue almost as much as she was. Lust wasn’t nearly as high on anyone’s list as a good night’s sleep.
Or a shower. Kelly wanted a shower even more than sleep.
She looked up as roaring turbofans drowned out the sounds of the jungle. An engineering van glided past, raising whitecaps on the sluggish, muddy water of the river that had stalled the column’s progress. Without the obstacle they wouldn’t have called a halt this early in the day, so in a way it was a welcome sight. But it also represented more lost time, more chances for the pursuit to catch up again.
Myaighee had told her it was the upper reach of the Jyikeezh River, main artery of a drainage basin the computers said was larger than the Amazon on Terra. Even this far from the sea, the Jyikeezh was broad and slow-moving, deep enough to be a serious obstacle to troops on foot. There were supposed to be some easier crossing points a few dozen kilometers upstream, but rumor had it Gunny Trent had persuaded Lieutenant Fraser to cross here to throw the enemy off the scent.
That sounded like Trent. Calculating, competent, but a manipulator. Why Lieutenant Fraser let him dominate the unit was beyond her.
Clever though this maneuver might be, it was still causing trouble. With too many legionnaires for the available vehicles already, and two Sandrays and a Sabertooth detached on a combination scouting run and foraging expedition, getting troops and supplies across was taking time. A long time.
The engineering vehicle grounded thirty meters away and dropped its rear ramp. Some legionnaires nearby started gathering stacks of supplies and manhandling them toward the vehicle. Despite her feelings about the Legion, Kelly had to admit the men seemed ready enough to work. It felt wrong to be sitting back when others were busy, but Sergeant Trent had already made it clear that the best thing she could do to help was stay out of the way.
That went for Myaighee, too. The little alien had finally been released from regen treatment. Like everyone else, ky alternated between marching and riding. With no one of kys own race for company, Myaighee spent a lot of time with Kelly.
It seemed strange, but she frequently felt she had more in common with the alien than with the legionnaires.
One of the legionnaires staggered and dropped his load before he could reach the APC. Someone laughed loudly.
Then the man was screaming, writhing on the ground and clutching at his leg. Kelly was up and running at once, reacting without conscious thought. She dropped to one knee beside the man.
His lower leg from boot-top to knee was covered by some kind of soft, pulsing tissue. “Medic! Someone get a medic!” she yelled, groping for the first aid kit on the man’s web gear. He was still screaming, and his face was a mask of anguish.
She prodded the creature wrapped around his calf with a stick. It seemed to tighten its grip, and the soldier screamed again.
“Don’t touch it, ma’am,” someone said behind her.
Kelly looked up in surprise at the fresh-faced legionnaire. He seemed vaguely familiar.… Her eyes focused on the caduceus insignia on his shoulder, and memory clicked into place. Legionnaire Donovan was a medic in First Platoon, and had tended her back in Fort Monkey. He didn’t look much like a medic, with his grimy fatigues and the battle rifle slung over his shoulder. Like all specialists in the Legion, Donovan was a soldier first and a medic second.
“Spineleech,” Donovan added grimly. Kelly backed away and let him take her place.
“Poisonous?” Kelly asked.
“Might as well be,” Donovan said as he began fumbling in his pouch. “Alien proteins. Causes massive anaphylaxis. Damn. He’s going into shock already.…”
The soldier was shaking spasmodically as the medic slipped a plastic airway down his throat. Kelly could see the swelling in the man’s face, the mottled discoloration, could hear the thick rasp of his breath. Working quickly, Donovan produced a laser cutter and began to work on the pulsing tissue mass enveloping the injured man’s leg. There was sizzle of burning flesh, the stink of charred meat. Then the thing relaxed its grip and dropped off in two pieces.
Kelly saw the gripping surface of the creature, a mass of sucker disks and needle-slim quills still dripping blood. The legionnaire was convulsing now, bucking under the grip of two other soldiers who tried to hold him down as the medic pressed a hypospray against his neck. He tried to scream and made a strangled sound against the airway.
“Call Doc,” Donovan told one of the legionnaires. “Gates’ll need a litter. And someone check around the bank to see if there are any more of those ugly bastards. Look for holes right near the edge of the water. Watch yourselves! They’re damned fast!”
“Will he be all right?” Kelly asked.
Donovan turned bleak eyes on her, then shook his head. “He’s suffering from a massive allergic reaction. When they get hit this bad, regen just isn’t fast enough. Best we can do is keep him under until …”
Kelly shuddered and turned away, remembering her own brush with anaphylactic shock. It was horrifying being unable to do anything but watch the boy die. What was his name? Gates.
She walked away in a daze. Just another day in the jungle. Another young kid dead.
It always seemed to be the kids who bought it, the nubes. The old vets seemed indestructible, like they could take any hardship and keep right on going. They were too smart to let their guard down and too cunning to be outmatched by anything … or anyone.
She sat down on the same log and stared wearily at the slow-moving water. These legionnaires were something outside her experience, and they were making her take a long, hard look at everything she’d believed in. She still resented many of them—Sergeant Trent, for instance, with his patronizing “leave it to someone who can do the job” attitude. For most of these soldiers, if you weren’t a legionnaire you just didn’t count, and that was galling.
And yet these same men and women weren’t just braggarts. They really were capable of incredible efforts. It was hard to picture a Commonwealth Marine doing any more than these troops, and the Marines were supposed to be the best of the Commonwealth Regulars. On the march, the legionnaires were tough. And in battle … in battle, they seemed unstoppable.
Kelly Winters was surprised to realize just how much she admired them.
* * *
The Angel of Death floated motionless in the center of a hannie village, a high-tech dragon in the midst of primitive mud huts. Flames crackled from the nearest of the ruined structures, testament to the determination of the savage natives who had defended it. A grizzled hannie missing most of the quills of ky’s ruff had set fire to the hut while one of the legionnaires had been inside.
Now the hannie was dead, the legionnaire was smeared with burngel, and the pitiful building burned.
Spiro Karatsolis snapped the MEK support weapon into place on a pintle mount next to the turret hatch and scanned the village with a practiced eye. Using the onager cannon against primitives would have been akin to using a SAM against a bothersome fly, but the MEK would serve to cover the troops on the ground in case any of the natives mustered up the courage to attack again.
Around the floating FSV, legionnaires moved quickly, purposefully, rounding up supplies to load on the engineering van hovering near the edge of the river.
Three raids in four days … Karatsolis was beginning to hate these foraging runs. These hannie villagers weren’t the real enemy, but they were hostile to just about anything that moved through the jungle, so raiding them was the only way to secure supplies short of hunting and gathering on the march.
But it didn’t make the job any more palatable.
Karatsolis had seen it all. He was working on his second hitch in the Colonial Army, with a tidy little nest egg in the Battalion Bank and every prospect of making corporal when this tour was up. He’d have made it long since if it hadn’t been for that time he’d tried to desert back on Tanais. When he retired, he’d go back to New Cyprus and buy himself a farm. Or perhaps he’d settle on Thoth. That had been a nice world, not spoiled by developers. Maybe that girl—what was her name? Elena?—was still looking for someone to marry.
Meanwhile, he was a legionnaire, and a good one at that. Shooting savages wasn’t his idea of a good fight, but if that was what had to be done, he’d do it.
“Hey, Spear, don’t doze off on us, man!” Bashar called. The Turk had his own hatch unbuttoned. “Remember that time you fell asleep and the Gwyrran rebel made a break for it?”
“I got him, didn’t I?” Karatsolis responded. “Anyway, I wasn’t asleep. I was just checking to see if you were on the ball. Which you weren’t.”
Bashar snorted. “Sure. That’s your story, and you stick to it.”
“This ain’t much like Gwyrr, though,” Karatsolis went on. “Too fucking hot.”
“Hot, cold, who cares? Just another planet full of ales.” Bashar spat over the side of the Sabertooth.
“Better watch it, Bashar,” Karatsolis warned. He pointed across the village at Sergeant Ghirghik. The big Ubrenfar was in command of the raiding party, which consisted of the Sabertooth, the engineering van, and a standard Sandray troop carrier, with three lances from the unit’s newly-formed Fourth Platoon. Ghirghik had been made platoon leader.
That was only right. The new platoon was mostly made up of survivors from Charlie Company and would respond better to Ghirghik than to any leader the lieutenant might have appointed from Bravo Company.
But the Ubrenfar made Karatsolis uneasy. It was hard to think of an Ubrenfar as an ally, even in the Legion where there were very few planets and races that weren’t represented one way or another.
“Ah, don’t sweat it, Spear,” Bashar said. “Hell, I heard old Ghirghik swearing about the damned ales himself last night! He’s—”
Bashar was cut off by the sudden whoosh of a missile swooping just meters away from the Sabertooth, followed by the thunder of an explosion as it hit a nearby hut. Someone screamed; another voice shouted for a medic.
“Goddamn!” Karatsolis swore, dropping into the turret and sealing the hatch behind him. “That wasn’t any hannie rocket!”
The whole Sabertooth seemed to quiver and come alive as Bashar powered up the turbofans. “Whatever the hell it was, it’s after us!” the Turk replied.
The FSV pivoted smoothly and shot toward the trees to the west. Bashar’s hull-mounted CEK sprayed round after round of kinetic energy fire into the jungle while Karatsolis activated his turret controls and chambered a round in the plasma cannon.
Neither man spoke, but Karatsolis knew Bashar was thinking the same thing he was. Another missile could lance out of those trees at any moment. If it did, the Angel might not be able to take it.
The FSV crashed between two squat, greyish-orange trees, still firing. A video pickup showed Karatsolis a handful of hannies in Dryien army uniforms running away from the oncoming vehicle. One of them threw away something bulky as ky fled.
He checked his sensor arrays. Nothing on the MAD … no sign of vehicles of any kind. He unbuttoned the turret and raised himself through the hatch again, taking a grip on the MEK’s trigger and swinging the weapon to track the fugitives. The weapon hummed, and needle slivers sliced through air, vegetation, and hannie flesh.
The whole battle had taken only seconds.
The Ubrenfar sergeant deployed a lance to scout the perimeter for further signs of the enemy, but they turned up no evidence of other troops in the area. Corporal Johnson, however, brought back one trophy from the search.
“What the hell is this thing?” Bashar asked as they examined it together back in the center of the village.
The Ubrenfar turned it over in his hands. It was a bulky tube, too big for most hannies to carry easily, with a simple control box near one end and a fold-out eyepiece for targeting.
“It’s about fifty years ahead of anything the monkeys have, that’s for sure,” Karatsolis said quietly. “The missile that bugger fired was a fire-and-forget job, and the hannies don’t have anything like that. We’re just lucky the little bastard rushed the shot.”
“Looks like Gwyrran manufacture to me,” Corporal Johnson added. “I saw a lot of their old military-issue stuff when I was on Gwyrr, and this is a lot like it.”
Ghirghik pointed to a line of angular markings below the controls. “I know this writing,” he said slowly. “We captured many weapons when we rose against the Semti. This is their language.”
“Semti?” Bashar frowned. “What do those ghouls have to do with this?”
“Makes sense,” Karatsolis said. “The Gwyrrans were their favorite combat troops before the Conclave fell. And they were worshipped by the hannies. Looks like some of them still have access to an armory somewhere.”
“There’s no proof the Semti are helping the monkeys.…” Bashar trailed off.
“Remember the way the hannies got past the remote sensors back at the fort? I think the Dryiens are getting some high-powered help.” Karatsolis looked at the Ubrenfar.
Ghirghik nodded slowly. “We must report this to the lieutenant. If it is true.…”
If it was true, Karatsolis thought, then the Legion might end up facing a hell of a lot more than it could handle.