The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series (28 page)

“Now we wait until we make sure we’re out of range and beyond challenge,” Garvin said. “Are we going back toward Lanbay Island?”

“More or less,” Jasith said.

“I don’t see any missile flashes,” Garvin reported, looking back. “So I guess we showed ‘em clean skirts … well, not that. Bottoms, maybe. Whyn’t you drop the speed down?”

“And then?”

“And then come back here where you belong.”

“All right,” Jasith said. “And then?”

“Is there some way to open this roof?”

“Surely.” The canopy opened, and a light, warm, tropical rain misted down.

“Now what?” Jasith said.

“You just stay on your knees like that,” Garvin said, getting carefully to his feet, “and let me surprise you.”

A moment later Jasith squealed. “Oh God, God, God,” she moaned. “Oh yes. All the way in me now. Oh, Garvin, Garvin …”

• • •

At dawn, the men and women of the Force were stumbling out of their barracks for reveille as a black luxury lifter floated down the enormous parade field. It grounded, a door lifted, and a disheveled Garvin Jaansma got out, went to the driver’s side.

“Wasn’t Daddy right?” Jasith said softly. “Wasn’t I perfectly safe?”

He kissed her.

“Give me a call, soldier, when you’re of a mind to.” The lim window slid closed, and the craft lifted, spun on its own length and accelerated away, toward Leggett across the bay.

Garvin Jaansma took a deep breath, started across the parade ground as the whistles and catcalls built from the Force.

“Again … you know
nothing
about the murder of Mister Scryfa and his family?” the interrogator asked, slipping, letting a bit of incredulity into her voice.

“Nothing,” the ’Raum said calmly.

“But you were their housemaster,” Technician Warbeck insisted.

“I was.”

“You were in the house when the murderers came in.”

“Evidently I was.”

“But you heard nothing? Nothing woke you?”

“I am a very sound sleeper,” the man insisted.

“Warder!”

The door opened, and the guard entered.

“He’s cleared for release,” Warbeck said. “But you’re to stay in close touch with us, in case we need to question you again.”

The man stood, a trace of a smile on his lips, and walked out. The warder lingered. “Why didn’t you nail him? The bastard was there … we know that … we even found a blood trail from the Scryfas’ bedroom to his quarters.”

“Look at this trace,” the woman said, and lifted the hood away from the machine she sat behind. “Zero flickers on the readouts, zero wiggles, zero anything, which means the frigging scan insists he’s innocent, innocent, innocent, and that’s all a judge will listen to.”

“That’s not possible,” the guard said.

“Sure it is,” Warbeck said tiredly. “If somebody doesn’t believe lying to us is really lying … they’ll fly every time.”

“That’s what it’s come down to?” the warder asked. “Somebody can slaughter a Rentier … and his whole family … and hike?”

“That’s what it’s come down to.”

• • •

A Cooke hovered up the jungle trail, hovering at intervals, and a small white spike spat into the ground from a cylinder bolted to its hill. Within an hour, three women and two men went the length of the trail. The leader carried a small homemade case. Every now and again, the case buzzed, and the five looked carefully through the undergrowth, dug in the ground until they found one of the spikes. Every time they did, a woman covered it with a dark metallic cone. They did this to all of the people-sniffers except one. That one they put a very filthy pair of pants next to, and one man urinated in a circle around it. Then they ran, back toward their camp.

Three hours after that, three Zhukovs dived toward the spike. Three salvos of the semiguided Fury rockets shot toward the ground, and the jungle rocked under explosions. A single Grierson sailed through the whirling smoke, and an I&R team dropped off its ramp. “Kursk Leader, this is Sibyl Beta,” the team reported. “Negative contact.”

The
alt
commanding the Zhukov flight forgot his communications discipline. “Whaat? We had positive indicators!”

“This is Sibyl Beta,” the com told him. “I say again … negative contact. No casualties found, no traces found. Your trickshit machinery’s wonky. Out.”

• • •

Two Cookes swirled about the village. “No sign of life,” one reported.

“Keep checking,” the battalion commander, overhead in his Grierson, ordered. “We have positive intelligence about this village.”

One Cooke dived low, the second close behind.

“Maybe there’ll be something up that draw?” the commander of the first Cooke suggested on the between-ship channel.

“On your tail,” the other responded.

The first entered the ravine, hovered around a bend and thick, hand-woven nets rose up before, behind. The gunner on the first ship pulled the triggers on his autocannon, and shells slammed uselessly through the holes in the net. Another net came up, trapping the second Cooke. The commander of the ACV shouted a warning, just as six ’Raum, each with a captured Squad Support Weapon, rose from spider holes and bullets yammered into the scout vehicles.

• • •

“Relax,” Comstock Brien said quietly. “Does it not always come this route?”

“It does,” the young man said. “But it’d just be my luck — ”

“Don’t talk of luck,” Brien ordered. “The greater your decision, the harder you work, the better your luck shall always be.”

The young man sniffed in skepticism. The third man leaning against a crude frame said nothing. A few minutes later, the first man stiffened. “I hear it.”

Moments later, the drive-whine was audible to Brien’s older ears, and, a hundred meters below, a Zhukov nosed into view, following the overgrown road as it curved below the cliffs. The young man and his partner tore away the concealing foliage, pushed the wooden frame with a Shrike lashed to it to the edge of the bluff. The missile had misfired during an air-support operation two weeks ago, been recovered by the ’Raum, fuel only half-expended. Its firing mechanism was replaced with a simple contact detonator, and the missile carried far down island.

The second man moved away from the launcher and watched the Zhukov close on a peculiarly shaped bush the three men atop the hill had designated as a firing marker, while the third ran back a few meters and picked up a small switch that was wired to the missile’s rear.

“Wait … wait … wait … wait … NOW!” the second man ordered, and the third closed the switch. The Shrike hissed, then heat waves flared from its exhaust. The rack bucked, and the missile launched, almost straight down toward the Zhukov. It struck the attack ship just behind the main turret. The Shrike’s primary charge exploded, and a jet of incandescent gas seared through the armor. The main charge, a gaseous explosive, sprayed into the Zhukov’s crew space and detonated. The Zhukov exploded, pin wheeling into the jungle, thrashing like a dying beast.

The three men allowed themselves a moment of exultation, then trotted away.

• • •

“How the hell did those bastards manage to kill a Zhukov!”
Caud
Williams raved.

“As I said, sir, from above,”
Mil
Rao said. “Armor’s a few centimeters thinner there. And nobody expects to be hit from topside unless they’re in space.”

“What was that goddamned vehicle commander doing that low, anyway?”

“Doing as he’d been ordered, sir. Closely patrolling the old highway toward the Highlands, looking for enemy sign.”

“Very well,” Williams said. “Very well. We’ll have to …” His voice trailed off.

Rao waited. “Yes, sir?” he said after a time.

“Give me a moment,” Williams said. “I’m trying to figure what we’ll do next.”

• • •

There were five Cookes, flying west, fast, about a hundred meters above the jungle. The bluffs leading to the Highlands were to their left. Three times one or another of the combat lifters dipped into a clearing, hovered for an instant, then climbed back to the formation. The fourth time was almost like the others, except that the diving Cooke hovered long enough for eleven men to drop off the sides, and double into the thick brush around the clearing, crouching in a perimeter.

The eleven were Gamma Team, First Troop, I&R Company plus
Alt
Jon Hedley. They wore dark green-and-black camouflage matching the jungle, their faces and hands were blackened, and they carried heavy packs. They waited, weapons ready, for five minutes. The jungle was silent, except for the drip of rain. A wind stirred. A howler called from a distance. Then a gunshot blasted from somewhere, dull, dead, muffled by the undergrowth. A moment later, another shot came, from some distance, then a third and a fourth, each blast fainter than the last.

“Shit!” Petr said, standing. “They made us.”

The team stayed in a crouch, except for Hedley, who slid to the team leader. “Now what happens?”

“We evac,” Petr said, “or else there’ll be thirty or more of ‘em coming in on us. A man could get hurt sticking around an insertion zone these days.”

“Every time?”

“Just about,” Petr said. “They seem to be able to tell whether it’s a phony insert or for real. Looks like the bastards have every clearing either bugged … although we can’t find any telltales … or under visual. This is my fourth patrol this week that’s been blown.” He motioned to the team’s com man, took the microphone: “Sibyl One Control, this is Sibyl One Gamma. Outski. Eyeballed. Clear.”

“This is Sibyl Control,” the voice came. “Nice short visit. Stand by. Pickup inbound.”

“See what I mean, boss?” Petr said.

“I do,” Hedley said. “I know you’re good, and I know the other insert teams are good. The flipping problem seems to be flipping simple. The flipping villains are flipping winning.”

Caud
Williams was glooming over a glass of sherry — his last case from Centrum, which made his mood worse — in his quarters when someone tapped. “Enter.”

Jon Hedley opened the door. “A word, sir?”

“Come in,
Alt
”

Hedley obeyed.

“A drink?” Williams asked. “There’s almost anything you could want behind the false bookshelves.”

“Nossir,” Hedley said. “I’d like to ask a favor.”

• • •

“Petr, Monique,” Hedley said genially. “Grab a cup and drag up a chair. I’m looking for flipping volunteers.”

“Boss,” Kipchak said, “I’ll be honest. You’ve got me for anything that’s better than this dumbshit stumbling around like we’ve been doing.”

“I’m in, too,” Lir said.

“I’m not just looking for single volunteers,” Hedley said. “I want two flipping teams, one as the main operators, one as support.”

“You’ve got Gamma,” Kipchak said.

“And Beta,” Monique said.

“You’re not going to check?”

“Don’t need to,” Lir said. “I speak for everybody. If I don’t … they can go back to groundponding with the line-slime.” Kipchak nodded agreement.

“I had a little chat with God,” Hedley said. “
Caud
Williams listened, said it was worth a try. He sounded pretty beat-up by the course of flipping events.”

“No offense to ossifers and like that,” Kipchak said, “but he damned well ought to. This Operation Clean Sweep’s a goddamned joke.”

“With any luck, things’ll get serious now,” Hedley said. “Here’s the drill. We’re going to put one patrol out on a hot scent … I’ve figured out a way to get on the ground without being snooped, I hope … and they’re going to stay flipping out there until we bag the lot of ‘em.”

“How long?”

“If necessary,” Hedley said, “until everybody’s dead, retired or their enlistment’s up.”

“What about resupply?”

“You’ll lug ultraconcentrates, and won’t get anything more until you’re starving,” Hedley said. “Then we’ll do it with some kind of masked airdrops.”

“What about commo?” Lir said. “Nice to be runnin’ through the jungle, all sneaky-like, with half a dozen goddamned Command and Control dicks ten meters upstairs.”

“That’s part of the deal Williams bought,” Hedley said. “I run things from insert until it gets serious and you call for the big dogs. Nobody hangs over you.”

“Let’s go back to this bagging lot,” Petr said. “How’s that going to work?”

“The insert team stays after the villains,” Hedley explained, “and follows ‘em to where they’re going. If it’s a raid, the patrol either wipes ‘em out or gets them to surrender. If things get too big, I’ve got authorization to call in all kinds of flipping support.”

“How much is all kinds of flipping?”

“The whole flipping Force, if that’s what it takes,” Hedley said.

Lir whistled soundlessly. “What did you do? Catch Williams in bed with a dead woman or a live kid?”

“Oh ye of little faith. He merely listened to my wisdom, then began salaaming.”

“Yeh,” Lir said. “Right.”

“Go get your teams ready,” Hedley said. “I’ve got some corns to make … there’ll be a little augmentation made before you tromp the turf.”

• • •

“Asshole Ben is looking for volunteers again,” Dill said. “With I&R one more time … except this time it’s for real. Trying something new, new being classified.”

“Why not?” Kang said. Dill looked at the other two, got nods.

“I’m not sure how it’s different, but we’re going to be part of the immediate. And Garvin … we’re backing up your chingo Yoshitaro with Gamma Team.”

“This
might
be really real, then,” Garvin said.

“I surely hope so,” Kang said, a little wistfully. “I’d really like to kill somebody who’s not a computersim before I get too old to gloat.”

• • •

Caud
Williams watched the fifty soldiers file into the hangar and find seats on the floor. He waited until security specialists closed the doors. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’ll make this short. This operation is being directed by
Alt
Jon Hedley of Intelligence and Reconnaissance, and it’s all his show. All I have to say is the Force has always thought of itself as a team. You half hundred are going to prove we are. That’s it.”