Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (24 page)

Booly pushed the fear away, assured himself that it was only one more element in an elaborately staged play, but felt his heart beat a little faster nonetheless. A layer of sweat had formed on the legionnaire’s forehead. He wiped it away.

The staircase turned to the right, light filtered up from below, and the booming sound grew louder. The smell of incense filled his nostrils, and an oval-shaped doorway appeared ahead. The first pair of guards passed through and Booly followed. Shootstraight stopped just beyond the entryway, motioned for the human to do likewise, and signaled for silence.

The cavern was huge. The roof arched upwards and disappeared into darkness. It was supported by thick pillars of ornately carved rock. Torches had been set into slots cut for that purpose and served to illuminate the artwork.

Booly saw packs of wild pooks, snowcapped mountains, herds of woolly dooth beasts, clouds, intertwined serpents, rushing rivers, and much, much more, each image joined with the rest, all interconnected to support the ceiling or sky.

The carvings seemed to suggest an understanding of how ecosystems are structured, of the underlying unity that makes life possible, but that was Booly’s human interpretation. The artists had been Naa, and given that fact, might have imbued the carvings with other meanings. Or none at all.

The floor of the cave sloped down and away from the point of entry towards a stage more than a hundred yards away. The surface under the legionnaire’s boots was too even, too smooth, to be natural, and had taken an enormous amount of work to excavate and finish.

Hundreds and hundreds of sleek-headed Naa sat cross-legged on the floor. Most came from beyond the confines of the village, were leaders in their own right, and had come together in order to set policy and make decisions. Their attention was focused on the platform and Booly could see why.

First there were the council seats. They had been chipped from solid stone and looked very uncomfortable. There were three to a side, with another, slightly raised chair located at the center. It was occupied by Wayfar Hardman. He, like the council members around him, wore colorful robes. A ceremony was under way, some sort of blessing perhaps, in which an ancient crone dribbled powder into a brazier and chanted incantations.

But the chairs, the council members, and the ceremony were nothing compared to the massive and now antiquated Trooper I that stood to the left side of the stage, and the equally impressive Trooper II that stood on the right. Both were at rigid attention. Their vid-cam eyes glowed like rubies and stared out at the audience.

For one brief moment, Booly thought the Naa had captured the cyborgs and found a way to hold them against their will. Then he realized that the bodies were little more than empty suits of armor, placed there as evidence of Naa valor, similar to the trophies that filled the regimental museums at Fort Camerone. Their joints had been welded in place and their eyes had been lit from within.

The Trooper I was old and stained, as if dug out of the ground somewhere, but the Trooper II looked relatively new. New, but slightly disjointed, as though it had been ripped apart and pieced back together again. Booly took a closer look. The newness of the paint, the absence of the supplementary cooling fins that veteran borgs mounted along the outer surface of their upper arms, suggested the same thing. The body was Trooper Villain’s, or had been, depending on whether or not she’d been rescued.

The legionnaire felt a lump form in his throat. Damn it anyway! If only he’d been more careful, more cautious about leaving the ravine, more of his people might have lived. He’d been unconscious during most of the battle, but the Naa had given him their version of what had happened, and Booly knew that casualties had been heavy. It seemed clear that a pair of bio bods, and at least one borg, had tried to pull Villain’s braincase. But there was no way to know if they’d succeeded, and if they had, whether the newbie had survived.

The drumbeats died away. Hardman stood and looked about him. An expectant hush fell over the room. Booly turned to Shootstraight and whispered in the warrior’s ear. “What now?”

The Naa grinned. “My father will open the meeting by reminding the audience that the harvest was successful, and then, having taken credit for their full stomachs, he’ll give them a detailed account of the trade agreement that he negotiated with the southern tribe. Most will be bored.
Knowing that, Father will call for you and describe the battle. Don’t be surprised if the number of legionnaires has doubled during the intervening period of time.”

Booly smiled. “So this is a political speech ... designed to keep everyone happy.”

“Exactly. You have them as well?”

“Yes, we do, although there are a great many things that most politicians are afraid to say.”

The warrior made a face. “I understand. Look over there ... towards the far pillar. Do you see my sister?”

Booly looked and had little difficulty picking Windsweet out of the crowd. She had a beautiful profile. The sight of her made his pulse pound. A frown came to his face when he saw that Ridelong Surekill sat next to her.

“I see her.”

“And the warrior who sits next to her?”

“Ridelong Surekill.”

“Exactly. He’s a chief in his own right and would like to succeed my father as chief of chiefs.”

“How likely is that?”

Shootstraight looked out across the cave as if considering his answer. “Today? Not very. Tomorrow? Who knows? The people are fickle. All it takes is one poor harvest, one loss to the Legion, and they will turn on him like a diseased pook.”

“And you? Will you follow in your father’s footsteps?”

Shootstraight chuckled. “Not on your life, human. I would rather throw myself from the Towers of Algeron than do what my father does.”

The crone completed her ritual, made gestures towards the audience, and left the stage.

Hardman thanked the woman and started his speech. The next thirty minutes passed slowly. Booly had very little interest in the amount of wild grain harvested that year, the condition of the dooth herds, or the rate of exchange that Hardman had negotiated with the south. But the topic changed after that and so did Booly’s pulse. The legionnaire heard his name mentioned, felt someone push him forward, and stumbled down the corridor towards the stage. Hundreds of heads turned to watch, and seeing that, the human started to march. He was a legionnaire, by god, and no matter what came next, he’d
look like what he was.

Windsweet watched Booly make his way towards the stage, saw the change in his step, and recognized his courage. To be alone in enemy hands, to be paraded in front of them, yet maintain your poise. That was bravery, that was strength, and that was a man to admire.

Admire and what? Love? Did she dare think it? Or worse yet, feel it? For to do so was to take the first step of a long and difficult journey, one t
hat would cost her dearly, that would bring her untold pain, that would take her places that she’d never dreamed.

Was there a choice? Did love really work that way? Could you choose to fall in love? Or, if it didn’t seem practical, decide against it?

Windsweet looked at Surekill and saw that the warrior’s eyes were on Booly. She saw hatred there, a feeling that she’d never seen on the human’s face, or smelled in his emotions, in spite of what the humans had taught him about her people, in spite of the ambush, and in spite of his captivity.

No, Windsweet decided. Love had a mind of its own, and once that mind was made up, went where it liked.

Wayfar Hardman watched the human approach. He made a striking figure in his uniform and battle armor. A trophy came to life. Hardman could tell that the chiefs were impressed. As well as they should be, given the extent of his victory. Still, it had been his daughter who had suggested that he use the human in this fashion, so some of the credit was hers.

Yes, he suspected that Windsweet’s desire to spare a life had entered into the calculation, but the advice had been sound nonetheless.

Hardman’s eyes found her sitting next to Surekill, watching the human walk towards the stage. They made a handsome couple, everyone said so-except Windsweet. She never stopped her prattle about love, respect, and all that other silliness.

The chieftain thought about his own mate, how beautiful she’d been on the day of their marriage, and of the life they’d lived together. Though driven by politics, the marriage had grown to be something more, something neither had reason to regret.

That was how it would be for Windsweet. Yes, Surekill was impatient for power, yes, he was headstrong, but such is the strength of youth. A strength that would stand his daughter in good stead during the coming years. And by giving Surekill his daughter, Hardman could buy one, maybe two years of additional power. The younger warrior could use the additional time to mature. He would learn the arts of peace, as he had learned the arts of war, and build a home for his wife.

The plan made sense. He’d speak to Surekill in the morning. A feeling of peace and tranquillity flooded Hardman’s soul. It felt good to solve such a troubling problem. He stood, welcomed Booly to the stage, and swept the audience with his eyes.

“An enemy stands before us, but he fought bravely and deserves our respect. He, like the wind, the rain, and the snow, was sent to strengthen us, to make us hard. And we
are
hard. Hard enough to survive where other creatures die, hard enough to fight the Legion, hard enough to win our planet back!”

The strange undulating cry came from deep within a thousand throats, echoed back and forth off cavern walls, and sent a chill down Booly’s spine.

 

General Ian St. James raised his wineglass. The man on the other side of the snowy-white tablecloth did the same. His name was Alexander Dasser, eldest son to the famous Madam Dasser, and formerly a lieutenant in the 3rd REI. He still wore his hair high and tight, kept his body trim, and knew how to drink.

The men drained their glasses, put them down, and grinned at each over the dinner table. They had been friends since entering the Legion together many, many years before. Dasser had served his time and resigned his commission to run part of the family’s far-flung business empire.

St. James had stayed, risen steadily through the ranks, and become a general. He smiled.

“You look well, Alex.”

“And you, Ian.”

“And your family?”

The merchant shrugged. “We live in troubled times, my friend. We are extremely concerned about the Hudathan menace.”

St. James nodded soberly. “So are we. I have orders to prepare for a possible withdrawal.”

Dasser smiled grimly. “Yes, I know. General Mosby has fought against it, as has my mother. But Admiral Scolari keeps pounding away, and the Emperor is weak, if not entirely out of his mind.”

St. James felt his heart beat just a little bit faster at the mention of Mosby’s name. His eyes narrowed. He looked around the candlelit room. There were about thirty tables and half were occupied. No one seemed especially interested in the general or his guest, but it paid to be careful.

“Careful, Alex. The empire has many eyes and ears. Even here.”

Dasser nodded noncommittally and poured some more wine.

The officer struggled to keep his voice neutral. “How is General Mosby doing with her new assignment?”

The other man chuckled. “Well, that depends on how you measure success. The general is bright, and an extremely capable officer, but I’m afraid that it’s her body that the Emperor likes best.”

St. James felt himself drawn like a moth to the flame. Sensing the danger, feeling the heat, but unable to resist.

“General Mosby and the Emperor?”

Dasser nodded. “That’s what they say. My mother hopes that it’s true. The Emperor’s bed is one battlefield on which Mosby should be able to defeat Scolari hands down. Or bottoms up, as the case may be.”

St. James fought for control. Dasser didn’t know, couldn’t know, about his affair with Mosby, and hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. But the pain was just as intense as if he had.

“In any case,” Dasser said, “here’s a little something from the general herself.” He pushed a data cube across the table.

St. James was far from surprised. The Legion had long maintained channels of communication separate from those provided by government. Some of those channels were electronic in nature, some were robotic, but the most useful tended to be living, breathing human beings, ex-legionnaires mostly, but others as well, which taken together were part of a vast interlocking network, built on loyalty, trust, and a thousand years of tradition.

The officer reached out, took the cube, and slipped it into a pocket.

The rest of the meal was pure hell. St. James wanted to leave the table, wanted to rush to his quarters, wanted to see Mosby’s face on his ceiling. But that would be unseemly, and more than that, downright rude, so he forced himself to stay.

The conversation went on and on, the courses came and went with maddening slowness, and the cube seemed to press against his skin. Taunting him, teasing him, robbing him of all reason.

St. James knew it was stupid, knew that the contents would leave him disappointed, but couldn’t help himself. Fantasies flooded his mind. He had visions of an apologetic Mosby, contrite after her fling with the Emperor, begging his forgiveness. He saw the two of them coming together, getting married, and having children. Even if it meant their careers, meant leaving the Legion, meant living as civilians.

Dasser droned at him all the while, talking about the Hudatha, walking the thin edge of treason. He didn’t say so in as many words, but hinted at a secret cabal, a group with plans to overthrow the Emperor.

The message was clear. The Legion should align itself with the Cabal, should oppose Admiral Scolari, or plan on dying with the rest of the empire. The Hudatha were strong. The Hudatha were ruthless. And the Hudatha were coming. Any sign of weakness, any sign of retreat, would serve to bring them on that much faster.