The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series (29 page)

Hedley saluted, he returned the salute, then, surprisingly, sat cross-legged on the concrete as if he were no more than a striker.

“A team,” Hedley began. “That’s as good an image as any other. From now on, I want all of you to lose any idea about who’s better, scouts, armor, commo or whatever. We all have the same job: Kill or capture ’Raum dissidents.

“That’s what we’re going out to do. Not take territory, not make friends with villagers, not look good in holos. We’re also not going to kill anybody who isn’t flipping trying to kill us. Nobody’s going to call in a target they ‘think’ might be goblins, nor are we going to launch because we ‘think’ a village might have ’Raum. There’s been enough of that nonsense.

“We want the goblins and only the goblins, either dead or in our hands, singing like little dicky birds about their friends. Once we’ve nailed them, good and hard, two things’ll happen: First is the little guys in the jungle will start wondering if they’re on the right side; and the bigger guys will think about going back to the mines or whatever they were doing before they started messing with the wrong people. And there’ll be no rest for us until we’re done.”

• • •

It was a bit like basic training, Njangu thought, but not much. Their instructor was Petr, and the entire team was trainees. “The first order of business is Contact Reaction,” Petr said. “We’ll go through it until it’s pure muscle response, and your brain is still playing diddly-do-wah and it’s all over.”

Reaction — when hit, everyone jumped to the side, first man left, second man right, and so forth. Turn in the direction of the fire, first man sprayed a burst of ten rounds, runs back, second man did the same, and so on until the patrol was back far enough to break contact and retreat or find a better fighting position. Again and again they went through it, marching up and down through the comparatively safe jungles of Chance Island, always with live ammunition. There wasn’t any punishment for error, just Petr’s sad eyes and a slow shake of the head; but somehow, probably because things would get very real in the next few days, that was a worse penalty than anything Lir could’ve devised.

Monique was doing the same with her team, over and over again. Slow-walking, step by step, utter silence, toe coming down first, then heel, then rest, then another step forward. Knowing where everyone carried everything — spare ammo in the lower pouches of the vest, any personal medication in upper-left shirt pocket, snacks in upper-right pocket, med-pouch on right hip, and so on and so forth. Any team member could find anything she … or the possible casualty … needed on anyone else by day or night, whether the other was conscious or bleeding.

“Well,” Petr announced one day, “we’re not ready, but I don’t think there’s anything more to be gained by farting around out here. I think it’s time to go play in the forest.”

• • •

“Got a min?”

“Sure,” Njangu said. He eyed Erik Penwyth carefully, wondering what was coming — his tentativeness suggested Penwyth was about to confess to some great sin, and Yoshitaro wasn’t in the mood to play confessor.

“Uh … did you hear about Angie?”

“Nope. Been too busy trying to figure out what I’m gonna carry to the field.”

“She’s gone.”

“What?”

“Yeh. Bought herself out two days ago.”

“Where’d she get the credits?” Njangu wondered. “She would’ve had, what, two years, maybe three left on her hitch? Going rate for a bare-bones crunchy is a thousand credits per year, plus I’d guess I&R adds more to that. Say another five hundred? That’s a pot of money for a striker.”

“Her family’s got money,” Erik said.

“I thought she wasn’t on speaking terms with them.”

“You saw some of their stores got burned out?”

“Saw it on the holos. I was going to ask,” Njangu said. “But we’re not exactly on speaking terms these days.”

Erik didn’t go back to his bunk. Njangu put on a bland, waiting expression. “Uh … there’s something else. She and I … well, we had a thing a couple of weeks ago. The last time they gave us a pass.”

“So? She told me to pack my ass with salt and piddle up a rope two months or more ago,” Njangu said. “And even so, we weren’t in love. I’m not crying up my sleeve over her … at least, not as far as I know.”

“We weren’t talking love, either,” Erik said. “But something weird happened … maybe you can tell me what it means.”

“I don’t think, knowing what I don’t know about Angie, I can tell you squat.”

“We ended up at my folks’ place,” Erik said. “And, well, sort of vanished for the weekend. I’ve got my own apartments with my own entrance and so forth. I asked her if she wanted to meet my parents, maybe go out to a party or something. Since she’s kind of wild, I thought she’d get along ’kay with some of my rowdier friends. She said she wanted to go out … then changed her mind. She sounded a little angry when she said that. So all we did was, well, be together.”

“Angie was like that with me, too,” Njangu said.

“It was, well, I guess I’d call it a little exotic,” Erik said. “But don’t think I’m bragging or anything, just trying to explain. Then, the night we had to come back, she told me to whack off, and if I said anything to anybody about what happened, about the things we did, she’d dry-gulch me.”

“That’s just about exactly what happened to me,” Njangu said.

“What did I do wrong?” Erik said. “I mean, we weren’t in love, or anything. But she was ’kay, and I thought we were getting along. And then … whambo.”

Njangu shook his head. “Sorry, my friend. I haven’t a clue.”

“Weird,” Erik said. “Just plain weird.”

• • •

Four days later, yet another sweep went out, two companies from Second Regiment. Plus ten extra men, who, except for outsize packs for their Squad Support Weapons, looked no different from the others. There were other, less obvious differences — they’d bathed in chemical potions the Force’s IV Section — Logistics — said would mask their scent from sniffers, either animal or mechanical; and their uniforms were coated to mask heat radiation.

The two companies laboriously moved through the flatlands below the bluffs, then swept a village reported to be ’Raum-controlled. They checked identity cards, asked for cooperation with the government, promised great rewards for any ’Raum who turned himself or anyone else in, and left with negative contact, negative results. At dusk, Griersons lifted them back to Chance Island.

No one had noticed the ten men and women — Gamma Team, I&R Company — who’d dropped away into thick brush a kilometer outside the village. The recon team formed a defensive perimeter, took whisper coms from their packs, fitted them, and Kipchak made a commo check.

An hour after the companies crashed away into silence, three women, loudly and ostentatiously calling for an escaped
giptel
, came past. Kipchak glanced at Njangu, grinned tightly. No one spoke — the team’s coms were set on a frequency between the normal military channels, but there wasn’t any point in being sloppy. The ’Raum’s three scouts had missed them.

Half of the team ate, while the rest kept watch. Their rations were high-concentrate protein bars, four thousand calories per meal, and each soldier carried two dozen paks. They could travel long and far on these, with their only worry being the notorious side effect of the bars clamping their bowels shut for perpetuity. “At least,” Kipchak had said, “that keeps us from exposing our flanks.”

It rained at dusk. They were glad of it — the drizzle, the dwindle of the rainy season, would hide any noise they made when moving. An hour later, Kipchak signaled. They crept to the trail and went back to the village. There were lights on in the buildings, and the common building was occupied.

Petr held one hand out, an the team went into cover. He shed his pack, pointed toward Heckmyer, and the two slithered forward. Kipchak took night glasses from a pouch on his combat vest and swept the village and the crowd outside the common building.
Ho, ho, ho,
he thought.
Where did all those hale hearty yongkers come from? They sure weren’t around when the troopies were. And they’re all carrying guns. Tsk. Perhaps these kiddies don’t mean to bring happiness and health on honest soldiery.

There was a meeting going on, but Kipchak was too far away to make out any words. He thought of getting a shotgun pickup from one of the team, but decided not. Revolutionary cant was revolutionary cant. He keyed his whisper mike. “Go back for the others,” he told Heckmyer. The man slid away, came back with the team. Again, Petr touched his com. “ ’Raum in the village,” he said, waited for the team to survey the situation. “I count seventeen.”

“We could nail ‘em good right now,” Penwyth suggested.

“Negative,” Petr decided. “There’d be civ casualties. We’ll sweep wide of the village,” he said, “and lurk beyond the pathway on the south. I think they’ll take that route back to wherever they live sometime tonight or tomorrow. We’ll take a chance on losing them on the way. But I’d rather get a whole bunch of goblins than wipe ‘em up one at a time.”

“What about the reaction team?”
Finf
Newent asked.

“I don’t see any chance to put them on the ground without alarms blanging. Poor Monique.”

• • •

Just before false dawn, Striker Deb Irthing heard sounds from the village. She nudged Stef Bassas, her watchmate, and he crawled back, tapped heels of the sleeping Gamma Team, lying in starfish formation. Petr Kipchak crawled up beside her, listened, and keyed his com to the main frequency assigned to I&R. “Gamma. Moving.” He flipped the com back to the team frequency.

Five minutes later, dark figures came up the trail. Petr counted sixteen. He didn’t move, and the last ’Raum came past.
Not good enough or tricky enough
, he thought,
you’ll never trap Mrs. Kipchak’s favorite boy like that
, counted half a hundred, then said, “Go,” stepped out of concealment, and Gamma went after the ’Raum.

They moved very slowly, thinking of silence, breathing slowly, knowing the ’Raum were moving faster, confident on their own ground, certain they weren’t being tracked. Once an hour Petr touched a tiny transponder on his combat harness, and a red blip flashed back at Camp Mahan, in the I&R Company’s Plotting Room. It was about half-full of officers, mostly from II Section, plus
Mil
Rao, the Force’s executive officer. They spoke but little, and the occasional scrape of a coffee cup or suppressed cough was very loud.

The day was clear and hot, without clouds, the muddy trail starting to dry out. Kipchak changed point men every hour, but refused to let anyone else walk slack — just behind point. He regularly knelt and checked the tracks left by the seventeen. If the footprints were water-filled, he kept moving, but twice, when mud was seeping into the tack he stopped the team, letting the ’Raum get farther ahead.

Even with all the caution, he almost led the patrol into them, just at midday. The ’Raum had moved off the trail for a meal, and it was only by luck that Bassas, taking point, saw the dull gleam of a weapon ahead. He froze, motioned once, and very slowly, very carefully, Gamma backed up twenty-five meters. They waited, heard movement after a time, and went on.

It was late in the day when they heard the whine of a lifter. Gamma slipped off the trail, didn’t look up, even though their faces were camouflaged. The lifter passed overhead. Petr Kipchak felt blood pound at his temples.
Bastards, bastards, bastards, and they promised no goddamned overheads, probably frigging Williams not able to keep his goddamned hands out of the pie
… The lifter came back, and Kipchak chanced looking up, saw the aircraft, saw a flash of the logo on the lifter’s side;
Matin.
He swore again, in a new and different key.
So there’s a leak somewhere, somebody must’ve let the journohs know there was something going on in this sector, and they’re out looking.

Njangu, too, had seen the markings.
I’ll have to tell Garvin
, he thought.
Next time, stand on that pigfuttering Kouro’s neck and make sure he’s drownded dead, not just soggy.

The lifter made another pass over the featureless jungle, then its whine receded. The patrol went on.

• • •

An hour before dusk, Gamma smelled smoke, heard the yap of
giptels
, and knew there was another village ahead. It was a bit larger than the first, and had three paths leading in and out. Sounds of laughter, cheering, came, and Gamma smelled something barbecuing. Something very tasty. They avoided looking down at the hi-pro rations as they chewed mechanically.

“Two men,” Kipchak said into the whisper mike. “Take the team’s canteens and go back a quarter klick to the stream. Njangu,” he went on, “I think they’ll take the upper trail tomorrow. But bug the lower one, just in case. Take Irthing for backup.”

Njangu took two tiny devices that looked like nails with enlarged heads from a pack pocket, slid out of his pack straps, and moved toward the village, blaster ready, as dark closed in. He wished he had a pistol, but those weren’t issue, but private purchase. Only Petr Kipchak carried one. Once a
giptel
heard or smelled him, and yapped, but no one paid any mind, too busy with celebrating whatever. He found the trail, turned the sensors on, buried them on either side of the track.

He was only about three meters from the back of one hut, and heard the sound of a man panting, a woman moaning. The woman squealed, and the man grunted several times.
I am in the wrong end of this business
, he thought, then thought nothing as the man came out of the hut, a dim, naked form. Njangu slowly raised his SSW, wondering why his gut turned at the thought of killing someone who was naked.

The man peered into the gloom, and Njangu’s finger tightened on the trigger, then the man laughed hugely and began urinating. Njangu felt spray on his face, and acid burned at the back of his throat. The man finished, scratched, went back into the hut, and more laughter came. Yoshitaro swallowed hard, and started back toward the patrol. Irthing was squatting next to a tree, shoulders shaking.
So this is how to become a legend in the Force,
Njangu thought.