The Last Legion: Book One of the Last Legion Series (44 page)

“Careful, Monique,” Senior
Tweg
Gonzales warned. “Thinking like that gets you killed.”

“I’m not getting sloppy.”

“Better not,” he said. “How do you think I’ve made it through as many wars as I have?”

Lir was about to answer when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something flying toward them. “Grenade!” She went flat. The grenade hit, bounced, landed next to Gonzales and three other I&R men.

Through the din, Lir heard the tiny whine of its fuse, then Gonzales said, in a mildly angry voice, “Oh shit,” and rolled on top of the grenade. It went off with a muffled thud, and his body bounced with the shock.

“Goddammit to hell,” Lir said, and the soldier next to her swore she had tears in her eyes for a minute.

“Come on, you assholes,” she shouted. “Kill me some goblins for Gonzales!” Her voice was very sure, very certain.

• • •

There were ’Raum who died well. One was the young woman Limnea. Her group was hit by a roving patrol from Second Regiment, her Task leader killed almost immediately. The ’Raum hesitated, almost broke, but Limnea shouted them into cover, made them shoot back.

The Forcemen attacked, and she ordered the group to retreat to a central intersection. They occupied the waist-high concrete traffic warden’s post, and let the soldiers attack them. The Force came in three times, was driven back three times. Each time, though, the volume of fire from the ’Raum was less and less.

A Forceman clambered to the third story of an overlooking building and sent a handheld rocket smashing into the warden’s circle. The dirty smoke cleared, and there was silence.

Three Forcemen zigged forward, chanced peering over the edge. One threw up, seeing the butcher’s bill inside. The other two, more hardened, checked to make sure all the ’Raum were dead.

“Look at this one,” one soldier said. “Prettier’n hell, if she wasn’t missing most of her guts. Wonder what made her get into this nonsense?”

Limnea’s eyes opened.

“Shit, she’s alive!”

The soldier bent over her, and Limnea spat a stream of blood in his face, twisted, and was dead.

• • •

“What are your suggestions,
Cent
Radcliffe?” the officer asked.

“Why, no suggestions ‘tall,” Penwyth drawled, trying to sound like one of the elite leaders he’d seen in holos. “There’s simply nothin’ else to do but attack.”

“Attack. Yes, that’s it. Of course. Brilliant,” the
haut
said, turning to give his staff orders.

• • •

The seafront central avenue was a brawling mass of ’Raum and poor people from other quarters. The MP lifters had gone overhead twice, warning them to clear the streets, and had been hooted at. One Cooke had been shot down by a team of ’Raum, and the military policemen aboard torn apart.

One woman smashed a storefront, pulled a liter of wine out, snapped the top, and drank heartily, then spat. “Sour, dammit! Goddamned rich don’t drink right,” and reached for another, more promising bottle, then stopped, hearing a strange high whine. She saw heavy lifters, flattened cylinders, bristling with turrets and missile launchers swoop in from the sea, and glide slowly in pairs up the avenue, about ten meters above the ground. Zhukovs, led by Griersons.

The woman screamed, ran up an alley, escaped. Others weren’t as lucky. The first salvos were irritant gas, then live rounds sprayed carefully high. But there were still people in the streets, some shooting back.

“Open fire,” the
cent
in charge of the flight ordered, and cannon roared and echoed in the heart of the city.

• • •

“Your Task has been changed,” Brooks told the grimy ’Raum cell leader. “Instead of attacking the University, I have a far better goal for you. The Force has set its field headquarters up just beyond our walls. That is the last vestige of government the Rentiers have. Wipe that out, and the enemy will fall apart, because they’ve never learned to think for themselves.”

Poynton said nothing. The cell leader nodded jerkily. “Good,” he said. “But we have taken casualties.”

“I can see that,” Brooks said. “I shall accompany you on the attack, and any ’Raum we encounter will join us. Come. We must hurry, for victory is just within our grasp. We must not falter.”

As the column re-formed, Brooks waved his com operators away and dropped back beside Poynton. “If we fail, and I do not believe we shall, your orders are to break contact, gather any senior operatives you find, and reassemble in the forest to continue the struggle.”

Poynton covered her reaction. “If those are your orders, sir … but if we are failing, I’d rather stand with my sisters and brothers.”

“No!” Brooks snapped. “The Movement
must
live.”

“Very well,” Poynton said rebelliously. “But where in the jungle do we meet?”

“In the one place they would never look for us,” Brooks said. “The cave we used before. Then we’ll relocate to an even safer place I was told about, on Mullion Island, and rebuild there.”

• • •

“Still nothing?” Garvin asked.

“Lots of fighting,” Ben Dill said. “Nothing that looks that impressive.”

Njangu looked back over his shoulder into the troop compartment, at Petr Kipchak, the rest of Gamma Team, and other I&R troops who’d wanted in on the blood. “Not good, m’boy,” Kipchak said. “Maybe you better set us down near some goblins and let us get some action, even if it’s not what you want.”

“Trying one,” Kang said into the intercom. “This Brooks you want … is he a proper commander, or does he use runners and carrier birds like barbarians did?”

“Of course not,” Garvin said.

“Well, I just happen to be monitoring some ‘casts, coming on three and four frequencies, not on any Force lengths. They’re not coded, but they’re real cryptic. I put a locator on them. They’re coming from just inside the Eckmuhl’s walls down there, moving toward one of the exits. Damn near blanketed by the ‘casts from Force HQ, which is right over there.”

Njangu hesitated, looked at Petr. He had a bit of a smile, and nodded once. “Garvin,” Yoshitaro said, “I think maybe we’ve found our fight.”

“Or anyway one worth worrying about,” Petr added.

“Put us right in the middle of that, Ben.”

“Sure,” Dill said. “I’m easy. Take her down, Stanislaus.”

The Grierson dived toward the Eckmuhl.

• • •

There were about fifty men and women in Brooks’ group, most of them experienced fighters, moving quickly along the inner curve of the Eckmuhl’s caverned wall. They’d seen no sign of Force soldiers, although the sounds of fighting were all around.

Poynton allowed herself a bit of hope — the gate was no more than three hundred meters distant, very close, if Brooks was right, to the Force’s command post. Maybe there
was
a chance, if they killed enough of the officers, maybe the Rentiers
would
panic, and surrender. Certainly they wouldn’t have the guts to fight for themselves, and with their mercenaries dead —

Her thoughts broke as someone screamed, and she saw the fat pencil of a Grierson. She went to her knee, unslung her blaster, and the ACV’s guns opened up, and a missile exploded nearby, sending her spinning into a wall, cannon bursts exploding nearby. The Grierson slammed down, and its rear ramp dropped, and soldiers spewed out.

The ’Raum found cover, started shooting, and fire ravened back from the Grierson’s guns and the SSWs of the I&R soldiers. A grenade launcher thunked, and the grenade landed next to one of Brooks’ commo men. He panicked, kicked it away, and the grenade exploded, and killed all three com men.

Brooks was kneeling, shooting at the Forcemen, saw his brothers and sisters dying, fired again, saw a soldier drop, realized they were almost overwhelmed and ran, crouching, through a doorway into the wall’s tunnels.

Garvin went after him.

“You idiot,” Petr shouted, and followed.

A burst of fire came from nowhere, sending Petr spinning, against the wall. He slid slowly down it, looking at the smear beside him, realized it was his own blood. A tiny knife came into his hand from nowhere, then his fingers opened, it dropped onto the cobbles, and he died.

Njangu leapt over his corpse, shot sideways at whoever had killed Kipchak, was in the doorway and in sudden silence. Explosions came dimly from outside, but they weren’t part of his world.

There was a winding corridor, and steps led upward. He saw legs, almost shot, recognized them as uniformed. Garvin.

Brooks wouldn’t have gone up, Njangu decided — Garvin was full of hooey — and started along the corridor. A shot seared past, and Brooks came from nowhere, blaster raised to club him down. Yoshitaro twisted sideways, took the blow on his right shoulder, yelped, and his fingers opened, dropping his pistol.

Brooks was hard on him, trying to push him back so he could get room to level his blaster, and Njangu snapped a knee up. Brooks screamed, staggered back, and Njangu kicked the gun out of his hands. Before he could recover, Brooks was on him, strong miner’s muscles knocking him back, and a fist thudded into his gut. Njangu fought for air. Brooks’ fingers were trying for a stranglehold, but Njangu had his chin buried in his chest. Brooks’ hands clawed up his face for his eyes.

Njangu’s free hand moved smoothly along his belt, found the snap of the sheath he’d worn on that faraway parade field. The blade was in his hand, and he drove it into Brooks’ side. Brooks screamed, pulled away, the knife still hanging from him, stumbled to his feet, and Garvin shot him three times, very fast, in the chest.

Brooks pirouetted as if he were on a turntable, hands reaching toward the unseen sky, and he crumpled.

“Not that I needed any help,” Njangu said, through a throat that felt like it’d been sanded, as he used the wall to push himself up, “but thanks.”

“No help?” Garvin said indignantly. “He would’ve taken that knife out and shoved it right up your ass if it weren’t for me.”

“Shee-yit,” Njangu managed, and stumbled toward the door.

He came out into sunlight and the scattered dead of Brooks’ attack team, but it didn’t matter. Njangu looked down at Kipchak’s face, tried to find some last expression — hate, peace, anger — but there was nothing.

“Hey,” somebody shouted. “I got a live one.”

The soldier lifted her blaster.

“No!” Njangu shouted. “We need a prisoner.”

The soldier reluctantly lowered her weapon, and Njangu picked up a blaster from a corpse, limped over, looked at Poynton.

She stared up. “Kill me now,” she said.

“Are you wounded?”

She shook her head. “The blast.”

“Get up, then,” he said.

She obeyed, wincing as she moved.

“In front of me,” Njangu ordered. “Back to the Grierson.”

“Are you afraid to shoot me in front of your brothers and sisters?” she taunted.

“Lady, right now I’m too tired to be afraid of anything. Now move!”

He escorted her back of the ACV, then motioned her into an alley. Face pale, eyes fixed on his, she obeyed. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m ready.”

“Jo,” Njangu said. “Get the hell out of here.”

“Shot while attempting to escape? I’d rather die where I stand.”

“I said, get your pretty ass the hell out of here, dammit! And don’t you ever, ever, ever get involved in this kind of shit again.”

Jo Poynton stared, then backed away. When she was about ten meters from him, she spun and ran hard, disappearing around a corner.

Njangu turned, saw Garvin standing there, pistol dangling from his hand. “Now why’d you want to do something like that?”

Njangu shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Two weeks after Brooks’ death,
Caud
Prakash Rao was commed by Aesc of the Musth. Behind him was Wlencing. “We are departing your sssystem.”

“I’m listening.”

“We are returning to our own worldsss,” the Musth said. “You were warned once before asss to what might transsspire if any Musssth died. Now I mussst have consssultations with my leadersss. I do not plan to advissse them to continue this foolisssh courssse of peaccce.”

Wlencing stepped forward. “When next we meet,” he said, “it ssshall most likely be with unsssheathed talonsss. It ssshall not be with engineersss and minersss we return with, but warriorsss. Then ssshall come interesssting timesss.”

Alt
Garvin Jaansma, resplendent in dark blue dress uniform, a row of new medals on his breast, paid off the lifter.

“You want me to wait?”

“No,” Garvin said, and went up the steps of the mansion. The columns on either side of the entrance had wide black ribbon tied to them, and there was a black wreath on the door. Jaansma grimaced, touched the bell. He heard the hum, saw a spyeye turn. Nothing happened for a long time, and he was about to ring again, when the door opened, a big, well-dressed man, with a bit of a shoulder rig showing, stood there.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m Garvin Jaansma. I’m a friend of Jasith’s. Is she at home?”

“She is,” the bodyguard said, unfolding a bit of paper. “And she told me what to say, exactly.” He read from the paper: “ ‘Please go away, Garvin, and don’t try to see me anymore. I’m going to be busy, taking over my father’s company. If I see you, I’ll just be reminded of what happened, and how you, and the others in the Force, couldn’t keep my father from getting killed.’ ”

Garvin blinked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“A Mellusin doesn’t have to make sense,” the bodyguard said gently.

“I guess there’s no way … nothing I could say that’d let me actually see her? Maybe if I could talk to her, she wouldn’t …” Garvin’s voice trailed off.

The bodyguard shook his head. “Sorry,
Alt.
But that’s the way things are.”

Garvin started back down the steps. He heard the door close behind him.

He looked down the long, winding street toward Leggett.

“Guess dreams don’t usually work out,” he said quietly, and walked away.

“So it’s over?” Garvin tipped the bottle up, found it was empty, tossed it over the railing of the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. He scrabbled in the ice chest for another one, puzzled a bit drunkenly at its cap. He drew his combat knife out, reversed the blade, and snapped it against the neck of the bottle. The bottle’s neck broke off cleanly. He drank, passed the bottle to Njangu.