Chapter Seven
People grow old quickly here. Yesterday, they were baptizing us—today they’re giving us the last rites.
—Legionnaire Forster’s dying words,
French Foreign Legion, April 1908
“My God, Fraser, we’ve been hit!”
The words brought Fraser out of his seat. “Ganymede! What’s your condition?”
Over the open comm channel he could hear Captain Garret shouting orders while other voices babbled in the background. He caught the phrase “drives failing … crash …” but little else. Fraser rushed to the rear of the APC, calling for the driver to drop the ramp.
Outside, he gaped at the scene. Ganymede hung suspended over the east side of the camp, less than a hundred meters off the ground. Smoke and flame billowed from her stern section, where the hull was twisted and crumpled around a wide gash. As Fraser watched, the stern sank visibly. The ship stirred, lifting slightly, turning; for a long moment, it looked as if the crew was regaining control over the damaged giant.
Then she faltered again as the main repulsion fields failed. The ship dropped.
The ground shook at the impact, and a sound like a hundred thunderclaps washed over the fort. Dust and smoke obscured the scene, but as it thinned Fraser could see the transport’s broken hull lying astride the remains of the east wall. Flames were rising from the wreck. Something exploded, sending a fireball mushrooming back into the sky. Mingled with the roar of flames, the screams of the wounded—human and native alike—were a nightmare sound.
Fraser realized that he wasn’t alone. A cluster of onlookers had gathered nearby, at the door to the medical hut. Like him, they all seemed stunned by the crash, shocked into immobility.
He forced himself to tear his mind away from the horror. “Don’t just gawk!” he yelled. “Get over there. Help those poor bastards! Come on, Doc! Move!”
Ramirez snapped out of his paralysis and pushed the others to work—the Padre to round up medical supplies, the other two warrant officers to round up vehicles. A bulky Sandray rigged for engineering work stirred from the ground, its bulldozer blade dropping down into the ready position in front of the driver’s cab.
Fraser turned, glancing into the command van’s darkened interior. “Garcia! I’ll be at the crash site!”
The C3 tech shook her head. “You can’t, Lieutenant!”
“Damn it, don’t argue with me!” He stopped himself. Garcia was right. Whatever he wanted, he still had an obligation to the unit. Reluctantly, he turned his back on the chaos outside. “All right. Tell Ramirez … tell him to save as many as he can.…”
He sank into his seat, drained. The transport crew … Third Platoon … Sergeant Trent … He shuddered, picturing the butcher’s bill.
And the battle wasn’t over.
* * *
“Sarge! Come on, Sarge, wake up!”
Gunnery Sergeant Trent groaned and opened his eyes. He was lying in the dirt behind a tumble of cargomods, half buried by dirt and debris. Somewhere nearby, close enough for him to feel the heat and hear the crackle, a fire was burning. His leg hurt, the same leg he’d twisted before. Blood trickled down his forehead and dripped in the dirt.
Legionnaire Krueger was kneeling beside him, his face grimy but determined. “Come on, Sarge!”
“Enough, Krueger,” Trent growled. He raised himself to his hands and knees and looked around. “What the bloody hell happened?”
“The transport, Sarge. It crashed.” Krueger looked away. “It just crashed.…”
The lighter lay like a broken toy across the ruined east wall. The ship’s tail rested on a flattened, twisted pile of wreckage that had been one of the hannie tanks. Hull plates had fallen away over much of the length of the vessel, exposing the ship’s interior in a dozen or more places. Smoke boiled suddenly out of one of the holes as explosions rippled inside the wreck.
Trent started to rise. Something in front of him caught his attention … Legionnaire Fiorello, his body cut nearly in two by a jagged piece of hull plating. It had sliced clean through the soldier’s plasteel bodysuit.
Two meters to the left and it would have caught Trent instead.
“What are our casualties, Krueger?” he asked, shaking his head to clear it.
Krueger shrugged. “Sergeant Qazi and Mr. Bartlow are okay, Sarge. And I saw a couple of the other guys moving around a minute ago. The two seven-eighty-sixes were right under that thing when it hit.…”
The medical APC was racing towards them, followed by a gaggle of other vehicles. Trent picked up his FEK and started to meet them, favoring his sore leg.
Someone was moaning softly, the sound almost drowned out by the roar of the fires. Another one alive.…
How many had survived? How many? The question was a searing pain deep within him, a knife in his gut.
Every legionnaire’s death would twist that knife deeper.
* * *
“Retreating! What do you mean, retreating?” Zyzyiig smashed a tight-clenched fist against the table. “They will continue the attack, by the Ancients!”
“Asjyai, Regiment Godshammer has lost all but two tanks,” the radio operator protested. “The demon sky vessel crushed them when it fell. More than a hundred soldiers were lost … and that does not include the ones killed in the fighting!”
Zyzyiig whirled, neck ruff puffed out full. “Say the wrong word and you will be the next casualty, Zydryie!”
The radio operator crossed arms. “I … I am sorry, Honored,” ky said, subdued. “But … the flank column is already in full retreat. How can we rally them now?”
“Call for my car,” Zyzyiig ordered. “I will go there and personally see to them.”
“Y-yes, Honored One.” The Zydryie turned back to kys radio gear.
“Do not allow your anger to deflect you from the path of success, my Companion,” Shavvataaars said softly, intercepting the Asjyai.
“Demons take you!” Zyzyiig spat. “Get out of my way!”
“The moment is not ripe to complete this journey,” the Semti insisted. “You cannot force your soldiers to act against their natures, and for the instant their nature demands retreat. Recovery.”
“You said yourself that we must not waste time in overrunning these demons,” Zyzyiig said. “Now you say we should wait?”
“The moment has changed. An attack in the night might have broken them. Before the fall of their vessel, they might still have been overcome. Now, though, your troops lack the will for victory.”
“What of the demons? Their skycraft crashed! They must be demoralized.…”
The Semti spread his thin, long-fingered hands. “Indeed they will be, my Companion. The difference is that time will help your soldiers to recover their courage. According to my sources, that transport was the only one the Terrans had available to remove these legionnaires. They are trapped here. And time will only serve to sap their strength, as their knowledge of these facts ripens.”
Zyzyiig stepped back. “You are sure of this?”
“Very sure, my Companion of the Journey. As always, time withers all opposition. Now they are trapped. Your army can destroy the demons at leisure.…”
Zyzyiig paused, pondering the alien’s words. “Cancel the order for my car,” ky said at last. “Pass the word to disengage. We will let the demons live … for now.”
* * *
The command APC grounded with a shudder as the magnetic fields collapsed, its rear ramp already opening. Fraser climbed out slowly, afraid of what he might find.
Most of the fires around the crashed transport had gone out, extinguished by fire-fighting foam or smothered under dirt piled high by the bulldozer blades of the Legion construction vehicles. One of those was still at work near the stern of the wreck, pushing crumpled hull plating aside so a party of legionnaires could reach wounded crewmen trapped inside.
Close by the command van, the medical APC was parked in the center of a circle of wounded men. There was no sign of Doctor Ramirez; presumably he was in the tiny field surgery inside the vehicle. Legion medics moved among the wounded, performing triage. Other soldiers carried stretchers to waiting APCs to take wounded men back to the fort’s medical hut.
Not far away, Father Fitzpatrick knelt beside one casualty, his hands sketching the cross in the air as his lips moved in prayer. Last rites … how many times had the Padre administered them today?
At least the hannies had pulled back long enough to give the legionnaires time to look after the wounded … and the dead.
Sergeant Trent was crouched over a piece of wreckage a few meters beyond. As Fraser came up beside him, Trent looked up.
Fraser cleared his throat. “What’s the situation, Gunny?”
Trent answered. “It isn’t good, L-T,” he said softly. “Best count so far is twenty dead out of Third Platoon … most of them in the crash. Six more seriously wounded.”
“God!” Fraser looked away. “Two thirds of the platoon.…”
“Yeah.” A shadow seemed to cross Trent’s face. “Six dead from First and Second Platoons in the fighting on the north perimeter. We lost two onagers and a Fafnir launcher … two Sandrays and their drivers, too.”
“What about Ganymede?”
“We’ve pulled fifteen wounded off,” the sergeant replied. “Most of them pretty bad. When she hit, she set off ammo and fossil fuel aboard the vehicles under her … and she was carrying ammo in her hold, too.” He shook his head. “I’m surprised anyone lived through it.”
“God … and all those refugees aboard …” Fraser remembered Captain Garrett saying there were two hundred Commonwealth citizens in the capital for Ganymede to pull out. Two hundred civilians crammed into the vessel’s troop bays … “Did any of the bridge crew make it?”
Trent shook his head. “No. No ship’s officers at all. A couple of corpsmen, the rest ordinary shiphands.”
“Well …” Fraser wasn’t sure what to say next. “Well, keep at it as long as you think it’s practical, Gunny. We … can’t afford to keep too many men tied up for too long, though. The hannies could still try again.”
“Yes, sir.” Trent paused. “What’s the word from Battalion, L-T?”
“Out of touch,” Fraser replied. “Next sat pass is seventy minutes.”
The sergeant frowned. “Let’s hope they move faster getting us out this time. All we’d need is for the monkeys to come up with another surprise or two.”
“I hear you, Gunny.” He hesitated, looking at him. Trent had been a tower of strength since the first hannie attack. Even though exhaustion was plainly written in every line of his face, the man was still going on. “Look, Gunny … thanks. Thanks for everything you’ve done today. We wouldn’t have made it … I wouldn’t have made it without your help.”
Trent shrugged. “It’s what we’re trained for, L-T,” he said simply.
“Yeah.” Fraser looked back at the smouldering wreckage again, feeling inadequate. Trent’s unflappable calm was something he’d never understand, much less live up to. How can I lead these people when I don’t even know what makes them tick? “Carry on, Gunny. I’ll be in HQ if you need me.”
Trent saluted stiffly and limped away.
Walking back toward the command van, Fraser tried to shut out the sights and sounds around him. So many people killed.…
It’s what we’re trained for. The words haunted him. I wasn’t trained for this! I shouldn’t have tried to bring the ship into the fort. They’re dead … and I killed them.
I wasn’t trained for this!
* * *
Slick leaned on his shovel and mopped sweat from his forehead. Although his fatigues were climate-conditioned, the heat and humidity were enough to keep his bare head damp even when he wasn’t working. Shoveling dirt into sandbags to fill in the gaps remaining in the east wall after the engineering vans had finished clearing the debris was hard, sweaty work.
Less than an hour had passed since the end of the battle, but it was still vivid in his mind. In a way, the heavy labor was welcome; it kept him from thinking too much about the fighting. He knew the image of Childers, one leg gone below the knee, bleeding to death before his eyes, would haunt him for the rest of his life. Childers was dead despite Vrurrth’s first aid. Maybe if I hadn’t frozen.…
“Back to vork, nube!” Strauss shouted. Slick grunted and dug the shovel into the dirt again. It was almost good to have the corporal shouting at him. At least that was better than being ignored.
For a while, after last night, Slick had thought he was gaining a measure of acceptance. Now the rest of the lance, even Rostov, seemed barely willing to acknowledge that he existed.
They think I’m a coward, Slick thought bitterly. Maybe they’re right.…
That was something he didn’t like to admit to himself.
Growing up on the streets in Old London … there hadn’t been much room for cowards there. Slick and Billy had lived by their wits from the day their parents had died in that rezplex fire. Twelve years old, with a younger brother to look after, living on whatever they could beg or steal … Slick had always seen himself as a survivor, not a coward. He’d been scared a time or two, but he’d always kept on going.
Except the night Billy died, of course.…
If he had reacted faster, perhaps he could have kept Billy from falling. Or, today, he might have saved Childers. Maybe I am a coward.
A coward would never win acceptance among the legionnaires. Someone like DuPont could get scared under an artillery barrage and still fight. But being too paralyzed by fear to keep a man from dying … that was unforgivable.
Slick dropped the shovel and dragged the full sandbag into place, conscious of the way Rostov and DuPont turned away as he came close. All his life he’d been looking for some place where he could be a part of something larger, like the Red Brethren, or the Legion. Or a family. The Brethren had turned him out because he hadn’t been willing to kill a man.
Now the Legion was closing ranks against him because he hadn’t saved one.
At least the first time Billy had been there. This time there was no one to turn to.
He had never felt so totally alone.
* * *
“Lancelot, this is Alice One,” Fraser said. “Lancelot, do you copy, over?”
Fraser was alone in the communications shack. He had ordered Garcia to grab a few minutes of sack time, and Trent and the subalterns were still out supervising the repairs to the perimeter. With the orbital communication satellite overhead, he had transmitted a full report to Battalion HQ. Now all he needed was some kind of response, some word of what would come next.
“Alice One, Lancelot.” The voice was crusty with more than just static. Commandant Viktor Sergeivich Isayev, senior officer of Third Battalion, First Light Infantry Regiment of the Fifth Foreign Legion, sounded stiff and formal. “Copy your last transmission.”
Fraser waited expectantly, hoping Isayev would continue. But the comm channel gave him nothing but static. “Lancelot, request further instructions,” he said at last. “When can we expect another evac mission, over?”
There was another long pause before the commandant replied. “Alice One, there will be no evac. Repeat, no evac.” Isayev’s voice softened. “Lieutenant Fraser, Ganymede was the only ship we had available for you. Magenta’s in for repairs, and Ankh’Qwar left two days ago for the systerm to rendezvous with the carriership Seneca. I couldn’t get you a ship in less than a week, Fraser … even if the resident-general would allow it.”
“Sir?”
“The resident-general is concerned that the situation in Dryienjaiyeel might spread. He’s issued orders restricting Commonwealth forces to Fwynzei until further notice.” The commandant paused. “There’s no way he’ll risk more men, Fraser. I’m sorry.”
“Then what are our orders, Commandant?” Fraser fought to keep his tone level.
“It’s your discretion, Fraser,” Isayev replied. “If you think you can hold out until we can get you relief, do so … but I can’t tell you how long that will be. Otherwise … you know the score better than I do, son.”
“Yes, sir.” Fraser swallowed. “I understand.”
“Just remember that you’re in the Legion now, Fraser. Remember Camerone. And Devereaux.”
“Are you telling me to hold on here to the last man, Commandant?”
Isayev coughed. “What you do with those men is your decision, Fraser. Just make sure whatever they do brings credit to the Legion. If you stand, then stand with courage. If you die, do it with honor.”
“We’ll do our best, Commandant,” Fraser said slowly.
“I know you will, Fraser. Lancelot out.”
Fraser’s hand was shaking as he replaced the handset. Bravo Company had been abandoned.