Chapter Sixteen
Their graves mark the sites of each night’s halt.
—Captain Roulet writing of the Madagascar campaign, French Foreign Legion, 1895
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
Lieutenant Colin Fraser shifted uncomfortably as the Padre read the psalm. The assembled legionnaires filled the clearing, but the silence was broken only by Fitzpatrick’s soft, lilting voice as they paid their last respects to the comrades who had lost their lives in the hannie bomb strike.
Fraser stole a glance at the shrouded forms lined up at the edge of the mass grave the company had prepared. Fifteen men had died in the attack. He had hardly known any of them, and the realization made him feel guilty.
Donald Hamilton, for instance … the young warrant officer had probably saved Fraser himself from the metal shard that killed him. It was only afterwards that Fraser had heard Hamilton’s friend, Vandergraff, telling Fitzpatrick about the man’s hopes and dreams. Hamilton had volunteered for duty with the Legion right out of college, planning to get a tour on the frontiers under his belt before trading in his Specialist’s Warrant for a regular officer’s commission. Apparently the man had been regarded as a prime candidate for rapid promotion within the Commonwealth Army intelligence staff, the same department Fraser himself had once been assigned to.
Or Platoon Sergeant Persson, who had been in the command van’s forward compartment alongside the driver, Hengist, when the explosion tore through the front of the vehicle. “Swede” Persson’s confidential records showed that he had volunteered for the Legion as an alternative to being sent to a penal battalion after killing three civilians in a drunken brawl in a Triton Systerm dive. Persson had been disagreeable, unpopular … but a good soldier. A good legionnaire.
One man looking to the future, the other fleeing from the past. The Legion had been a home to both. And the rest of the dead were just as much of a mixed bag: the sentry who had been stabbed half a dozen times in the throat and chest during the first native attack on Fort Monkey … the legionnaire from Charlie Company who lost an arm in the fighting around Shelton’s Head … the Navy man injured in the Ganymede crash. Death had claimed them all here on this remote world.
Fitzpatrick had closed his Bible now, but the burial service was still going on. Fraser wondered how many more times he would have to witness funerals like this one before Demi-Battalion Alice reached safety at last. Ten percent casualties from this one bomb attack.…
And close to a thousand kilometers to go before they reached the frontier.
He felt the weight of his burden as the unit’s commander like a tangible thing pressing on his shoulders. Those men had died, and as their leader he bore the responsibility for their deaths.
What could I have done differently? he asked himself bitterly. What can I do differently the next time, to keep these men alive?
They had a long march ahead of them, and Fraser knew there was sure to be a next time.
What he didn’t know was whether he would be able to see this journey through to the end.
* * *
Slick felt the tension in the crowd as the Padre sketched out the Cross and signed for the assembly to bow their heads in prayer. He went through the motions of the ceremony, but inside he was wishing they would finish the funeral quickly.
The sight of those bodies in the pit brought back too many memories of battle and fear.
Unlike the weapons lances, Slick’s unit had not been ordered to dismount during the attack. The lance had been rotated aboard the FSV crewed by Ignaczak and Sergeant Mason for a rest shift just an hour before the attack. They had ridden out the entire action in the cramped confines, deafened by the screeching plasma gun. For Slick, it had been the most terrifying combat of all, trapped in a metallic coffin and unable to take any active role in his own defense.
Somehow, somehow he had come through it all without breaking down. But the memory haunted him now as he thought of all those men killed when their vehicles had taken direct hits.
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen,” the Padre intoned at last with another quick sketching of the Cross.
Gunnery Sergeant Trent was stepping forward almost immediately. “Listen up! Pay your respects however you have to, but then get back to your details! I want you apes ready to mag out by 1800 hours.” There was a rumble from the ranks. Trent scanned them with weary eyes. “That’s 1800 hours standard, for those of you who were planning to make any excuses. Dismissed!”
The sergeant turned away to talk with the lieutenant and his staff as legionnaires began to disperse. Slick started to turn away, then checked the motion as Dmitri Rostov pushed past him toward the pit. The older legionnaire joined a queue, bending to pick up a handful of dirt. Curious, Slick followed him.
The line was a long one, filing slowly past the mass grave. As each man passed, he threw some dirt on the bodies. But they were mostly keeping some, too, tucking it in pockets or pouches. Near the head of the column, Corporal Strauss was opening a small vial already half full of varicolored soil and adding a little more from his hand.
“What’re they doing, Rostov?” Slick asked softly. “What’s with the dirt?”
Rostov looked at him with a surprised expression. “You never—?” Then he nodded. “Oh, yeah, you’re still a nube. Look, kid, don’t ask dumb questions if you don’t like people thinking you’re dumb, right?”
The line moved forward a meter or so in silence before Rostov spoke again. “It’s tradition, kid. You help to bury the guys you can’t take back, and you keep some of the dirt. It’s how we help our buddies on their way to the Last March, y’know? Brings good luck.”
“Ah, come on, Rostov,” Slick said. “Don’t tell me you believe in good luck charms! What kind of jerkwater planet do you come from, anyhow?”
Rostov flared. “Watch your mouth, nube!” He paused, visibly calming down. “Look, like I said, it’s tradition. Legion tradition, not something from Novy Krimski. Call it what you want, but a lot of people believe in it. And it’s not for some damned nube to say whether or not it’s right. You get my signal, kid?”
“Yeah, sure, Rostov … sure.” Slick looked away. “It just seems kind of funny, that’s all. It’s not like any of those guys were part of our platoon. Or was one of them some kinda buddy of yours?”
“They’re all my ‘buddies,’ nube. And yours, except you don’t seem to understand it.” He spat. “The Legion looks after its own. Doesn’t matter if a guy’s a total stranger or your tentmate for the last ten years. He’s your buddy … your comrade. And a part of the only family you’ve got!”
Slick had a sudden image of Billy’s face as he’d seen it last, but pushed it out of his mind. How could Rostov compare some dead legionnaire with his own flesh and blood?
But he’d already angered Rostov enough. He wouldn’t argue it further.
Behind them a guttural voice rumbled. “You should listen, nube.”
It was Ghirghik, the Ubrenfar sergeant from Charlie Company. The huge, scaled saurian still made Slick nervous. How could you trust an Ubrenfar to be a Terran soldier?
Rostov didn’t seem to share his feelings. “He’s just a nube, Sarge,” he said with a grin. “You should know by now that nubes don’t listen.”
“If they did, you Terrans would be better Warriors,” Ghirghik replied. “Your Legion almost understands … but fools like this one weaken your spirit.” The Ubrenfar rounded on Slick again. “Honor your comrades, young one. The Warrior who fights without the respect of his own fights a lost battle from the beginning.”
“Is that something your people teach?” Rostov asked.
The Ubrenfar showed a menacing number of teeth and gave a rumbling chuckle. “Actually, one of your lancemates shared it with me, though not in quite those words. Vrurrth. But it is very close to what our Warriors would say, if they were given to philosophy.”
Rostov laughed. “I guess Warriors are a lot alike everywhere, Sarge.”
“It is not something for laughter, Rostov.” The Ubrenfar bent down to pick up a clod of dirt. “My people do not believe in this ‘luck’ you Terrans hold so dear, Rostov. But I hope none here will mind if I honor these men as you do.” He shot an angry glare at Slick. “Even if some of their own kind will not.”
Slick turned away before Rostov could reply.
* * *
Kelly Winters touched the center of the small disk clinging just behind Myaighee’s ear. It came away on her finger, and the alien blinked several times.
“The … magic is so strange,” Myaighee said slowly in Terranglic. “Like a dream.…”
She smiled. “It isn’t magic, Myaighee. Just technology. Do you feel all right?”
The native gave a tentative nod, Terran-style. Ky was progressing well with the adchip lessons, learning Terranglic and some of the more basic Terran customs. Kelly had borrowed the chips from Father Fitzpatrick soon after Myaighee’s release from the medical unit. If the native was going to travel with the Legion, it only made sense to teach ky the language. Even the rare legionnaire who bothered to study the language didn’t always remember—or particularly care—that the locals wouldn’t automatically understand Terranglic.
Besides, it gave Myaighee a purpose, something to keep the native from brooding about the things ky had lost.
The hannie looked longingly at the chip in Kelly’s hand. She frowned and returned it to its carrying case. “That’s it for today,” she told ky. “I think you’ve had enough.”
Most sentient lifeforms encountered by the Commonwealth could use adchips with remarkably little adaptation; only a radically alien intelligence was incapable of taking the direct subconscious feed and translating it into symbols the brain could comprehend. But adchip addiction was a problem in many species, and from what she had seen so far Kelly was fairly sure the kyendyp were particularly susceptible. An adchip could be a useful learning tool, or it could be programmed to deliver many kinds of entertainment, from role-playing games to sports to the kind of pornographic experiences most people on Terra thought of when they talked about “the adchip problem.” But in any form the chip’s induced dreams were a powerful lure, offering an escape from reality. Back on Earth, adchip addiction was a major social problem, exacerbated by the essentially idle welfare society that high technology and virtually unlimited resources had spawned among Terra’s billions.
Kelly wasn’t about to let Myaighee fall into the adchip trap. Ky had problems enough without getting lost in Dreamland.
The native was recovering from kys wounds well enough, but there were psychological scars ky might never get over. Myaighee had given up everything—home, family, kys very culture—to help Kelly escape. The native had fastened on her as kys only real friend, and she could not ignore kys need. She owed the alien her life.
But it couldn’t go on like this much longer. Even though she didn’t have any real job she could perform on the march, it wasn’t a good idea for her to spend every waking moment helping Myaighee cope. It wasn’t fair to the native to make ky so dependent upon her and her alone.
The alien had to be given something more, something to hold on to.
She had taken the matter up with Lieutenant Fraser a few days back. If he could find useful work for Myaighee to do …
“Lieutenant Winters? I hope we’re not interrupting anything?”
She looked up to find Fraser behind her, with Sergeant Trent and Legionnaire Garcia. Kelly smiled. “Not at all, Lieutenant. I was just wrapping up with Myaighee here.”
Fraser nodded vaguely at the native. “Zhyinin as-wai nyijyiik?”
Myaighee replied in Terranglic. “Yes, Honored … sir. The doctor says … full recovery.” Ky looked at Kelly. “Is that right?”
She nodded, hiding a smile at Fraser’s ill-concealed surprise. “Something wrong, Lieutenant?”
“No. The other way around, in fact. I’ve been thinking about the suggestion you made the other day about finding our … guest here something to do. Sergeant Trent had some suggestions I thought we should talk over.”
She glanced at Trent. He met her gaze with shuttered eyes. He probably had talked Fraser out of it, and the lieutenant was just looking for an easy way to let her down.
“I was skeptical when you first brought it up,” Fraser went on. “But the sergeant here thinks now that Myaighee here can help us more than I thought.”
It took several seconds for the words to sink in. Trent actually agreed with the suggestion?
Before she could react, Myaighee was already speaking. “Help, Honored?” ky asked.
“That’s right,” Fraser said. “You see, one of the men we lost in the attack this morning was an expert advisor on your people. He gave me advice about the technical abilities of your army, about the people and politics we have to deal with. I’d like you to do the same.”
“Honored … sir, I know little about … military. Only what I know from militia training. Very little. And technology …” The alien crossed kys arms, the hannie no.
“Maybe not,” Trent said. “But you must know something about politics. Even if all you have is gossip, what you know could help us.”
“And we need every edge we can get,” Fraser said. He glanced at Kelly. “Maybe we’re asking too much, though. If you’d feel like you were betraying your people …”
The alien crossed arms again. “It was the Asjyai who betrayed us,” ky said bitterly. “Ky killed the yzyeel. Attacked the Terrans who had come in friendship.”
“Then you’ll help us?” Kelly asked.
Myaighee looked at her with grim, determined eyes. “Yes. Yes … I will help.” Ky hesitated, studying Fraser with the same bleak expression. “And I thank you, Honored. Lieutenant Fraser. I do not know if my help will be of value, but at least it will let me fight back. Thank you.”
“Legionnaire Garcia will take you in hand,” Fraser said. “I will want to talk with you some more later.”
Garcia gestured to the native. With a single glance back at Kelly, Myaighee followed.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Kelly said, interrupting his reverie. “And you, Sergeant. Myaighee needs this.”
Fraser nodded absently. “We’ve got to use all our resources, Lieutenant.” He gave Trent an odd glance and paused, apparently thinking about something completely unrelated. Finally he looked back up at her and continued. “How are you getting along, Lieutenant?”
She shrugged and gave a rueful grin. “Bored to tears, Lieutenant. And now I guess I don’t even have social work to keep me busy.”
“Well, I’m not sure what I can give you to do. Not much call for combat engineers out here … not unless we can get some building supplies.”
“I understand that, Lieutenant,” she said. Inwardly, though, she felt empty, useless. Even Myaighee had more to contribute then she did. It surprised her to find out just how much she wanted to be able to help the legionnaires.
“I’m sure Miss Winters could be very useful helping Doc and the Padre with the wounded,” Trent said blandly.
Fraser nodded vaguely. “Anything you can do is appreciated, Lieutenant. Meanwhile, just stick with it. We’ll get clear yet.”
She bit back an angry comment about nursing and women’s work. It was true. Her skills weren’t that useful out here. She was an outsider, not part of the Legion, and there wasn’t much she could contribute apart from menial work.
At least it was something. “Maybe I should see if they need any help getting ready now,” she said slowly. “The Padre said they lost a lot of medical supplies when the APC was hit.” She stood up. “Unless you need me for something else, Lieutenant?”
“Not right now, Lieutenant,” Fraser said.
She turned away, more unsure of her feelings than ever.
* * *
Fraser watched the Navy officer leave without really seeing her. The bomber attack had unsettled him, sapped what little confidence he had left, and it was hard to focus on anything beyond the certainty that the Legion’s luck was sure to run out sooner or later. At each turn they had escaped total disaster … but the costs were mounting, and so were the odds against them.
Hamilton’s death couldn’t have come at a worse time. As they drew closer to the hannie garrison town of Zhairhee, his insights on the capabilities of the enemy would have been invaluable. Now he was dead. What kind of replacement would Kelly’s alien make?
It was hard to see what good ky could really do. Certainly Myaighee lacked Hamilton’s training and experience, his day-to-day study of Hanuman’s cultures, technology, and politics. This palace servant … what could ky do?
But Trent seemed to think it was a good idea. “First rule of dealin’ with the natives, L-T,” he had said when he came to present the idea right after the funeral. “A local always understands local conditions best. Why else do you think Battalion keeps a dozen natives on their intel staff?”
Fraser still wasn’t sure … but if Trent liked the idea, it was probably a good one. More and more Fraser was coming to realize that he needed to lean on a veteran like Trent if he was going to pull off the rest of the long march out of Dryienjaiyeel. If Trent said a native would make a good advisor, that was good enough for Colin Fraser.
Alone with Trent now, Fraser sat on a log and gestured for the sergeant to join him. “Are you sure about pushing out of here so fast, Gunny?” he asked quietly.
“Aren’t you, L-T?” Trent looked surprised.
“Just … having some second thoughts, that’s all.” He leaned forward. “Shouldn’t we be salvaging what we can from the three wrecks? We did before.”
“L-T, those bombers hurt us bad. If the hannies have any more of those things, we’re in deep shit and no mistake.”
“You said they didn’t.”
“I said they probably didn’t,” Trent corrected him. “‘Probably’ doesn’t cut it in the field. The only thing you can be sure about is what you see and hear for yourself, L-T. If we have a chance to find out I’m wrong, it’ll be too damned late for all of us.”
Fraser nodded slowly. “I see your point. But if they’ve got more planes, they can still catch us on the march.”
“Right now, sir, the only thing we can do is to keep moving. No matter what, we’ve got to keep ahead of their troops. That means we don’t hold back for bombers, or patrols, or whole regiments. ’Cause if we let them catch us, we can kiss our chances of seeing home again goodbye.”
“There’s still Zhairhee,” Fraser pointed out. “Hamilton said they were building up their forces around there.”
Trent looked grim. “I know. We’re just going to have to count on speed and surprise to get us past them.”
“Look, Gunny … I don’t want to milk a dead sharv, but wouldn’t it be a good idea to strip what we can off the command van? Try to get it running again, even? The recon drones would sure help us later on. And if we leave the van, we leave the sat link. Last time I talked to Battalion, Commandant Isayev said they were trying to bring in some extra troops. If we could wait it out, they might get a ship in here to lift us out. But only if they know where we are, what we’re doing. I don’t like being out of touch with HQ.”
“It’s your decision, L-T,” Trent told him. “But do you really think the resident-general’s going to risk another ship for us? We’ve got to proceed as if we’re not getting any help. And I think every minute we’re not on the march increases our risk of being caught about ten times over.”
Fraser shrugged. “You’re the expert, Gunny,” he said at last. “Hell, you’re running this show anyway.”
Trent drew back. “Hang on, L-T! This is still your decision to make. If you want to strip the vehicles …”
“Calm down, Gunny.” Fraser spread his hands. “They told me in OCS to listen to what my top sergeant had to say. So … I’m listening. We keep to the schedule.”
Trent seemed to want to say more, so Fraser forestalled him. “Better make sure everybody else is sticking to it, too, Gunny. Report to me at 1700 hours.”
“Yessir,” Trent responded reluctantly.
As the sergeant left, Fraser leaned back, feeling better than he had since the bombing raid had started … was it only this morning? As long as Trent was by his side, the burden of running the unit wouldn’t push him under. Sergeant Trent was the man who could get them to safety.
If anyone could.