Chapter Five

We are nothing now but Legionnaires, and Legionnaires die better than any men in the world.

—Captain Jean Danjou, at Camerone,
French Foreign Legion, 30 April, 1863

Legionnaire First-Class Angela Garcia hated the Sandcastle. She hated the big horseshoe-shaped computer and communications desk in the base command center that was her standard duty station, and she hated Polypheme and Seafarms Interstellar and even, she was beginning to think, the Legion itself.

Le cafarde … the symptoms were easy enough to recognize, but harder to ignore. A lot of soldiers would have given anything for this kind of duty—a quiet backwater garrison, comfortable quarters, no threat of combat—but Garcia couldn’t see beyond the routine. The boredom.

Somehow she hadn’t really pictured boredom as going together with her posting as chief C3 technician under Colin Fraser. Garcia had handled the command, control, and communications position for Fraser throughout the fighting on Hanuman, and by the time the long march was over she had learned to respect him. But he was different since the company had shipped out to Polypheme—more aloof, more concerned with administrative detail than the needs of the company.

It felt like a betrayal.

She shuddered at the thought, remembering how her husband had deserted her years ago. She’d only been eighteen at the time, a poor colonial without any living relatives, no skills, no hopes, her life shattered by the way Juan had treated her. Angela Garcia had joined the Legion to find a home, people who would always stand beside her.

Now the bug was inside her head, whispering hate. She tried to put those thoughts aside.

A buzzer brought her out of her reverie. She tapped the intercom button.

“C-cubed. Garcia.”

“This is the main gate,” a bored-sounding voice said. “We have a Company floatcar approaching.”

“So? Let them in.”

“Funny, Garcia,” the legionnaire replied. “They say they’ve got a wog bigshot on board to see Citizen Jens. You want to lay on a formal reception, or what?”

Garcia muttered a curse in Spanish. “All the brass is in conference,” she told him. “Call out the officer of the watch. Better get Mr. Koenig down there as well. I’ll let the captain know we’ve got visitors.”

She cut the intercom and patched in another line, a private channel that hooked up to the earpiece receiver Sergeant Trent was wearing. “Gunny? Main gate reports a Company floatcar coming in with a native VIP on board. I’m having Reynolds and Koenig do the honors. You’d better find out if the captain wants to see the wog now, or keep him on ice for a while.”

Her message delivered, Garcia turned her thoughts back to Polypheme. Trouble aboard the Cyclops … the riot in town … now a native leader coming to see the Project Director.

Legionnaire Garcia had a feeling that her boredom wasn’t going to last long. The favored treatment for the cafarde was said to be a loaded rifle and plenty of targets. From where she was sitting it looked like the prescription was about to be filled.

O O O

“If this project fails, the corporation will hold you personally responsible. I don’t think either of you wants that.”

Fraser glanced at Captain Hawley, but the older man just shrugged at Barnett’s comment.

At this point in his career, Hawley had little to fear. No matter how much influence Seafarms or Reynier Industries wielded, it wouldn’t make much difference one way or the other to David Hawley.

But it could be the final deathblow to Fraser’s future.

He glanced down at the recessed monitor screen in the desk in front of him. Gunny Trent’s memo stared back at him “COMPANY FLOATCAR WITH NATIVE COUNCIL REP HAS CLEARED MAIN GATE.” That was the last complication he needed in the situation right now. The riot in Ourgh was still fresh in his mind.

“If I might suggest,” Kelly was saying reasonably, “I think it would be better to concentrate on ways to keep the project from failing, instead of trying to hand out the blame in advance.”

“Which is precisely why we have to send more troops to the Cyclops,” Barnett shot back. “The ship was attacked, and we have to take steps to protect her.”

“Not at the cost of weakening us everywhere else,” Trent said. “Unless you’re ready to give us the native auxiliaries we need, we just don’t have the strength to waste.”

Fraser cleared his throat. “I think we’d better wait. A native VIP from Ourgh is on his way up. He may have something to say that will have a bearing on all this.”

Jens and Barnett reacted as he expected. “From Ourgh?” the woman said, plainly surprised. “What’s he doing out here?”

“Perhaps lodging a protest over the way the Legion acted in the disturbance this morning,” Barnett responded smoothly.

“Your own people sent him out in a floatcar,” Fraser told Jens. “Presumably he came from your office in town.”

She frowned. “Then it must be important. Damn.” She seemed about to go on, but a chime from the intercom cut her off.

“Elder Houghan!! of the Governing Council of Ourgh, to see Citizen Jens,” Legionnaire Garcia’s voice announced.

Fraser glanced at Jens, who nodded. “Send him in,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and trying to look more relaxed than he was.

Houghan!! was old for a wog, his skin dark and wrinkled, especially around the eyestalks, which looked stiff, even brittle. He was fat, and wheezed as he sank uncomfortably into an empty chair near Hawley’s seat at the conference table. The Elder was dressed in brightly colored robes and carried a satchel slung over one shoulder.

There was nothing old about the native elder’s voice, though. “The Council has sent me to discuss the issue of defense against the nomads,” he said bluntly, the sound coming from the lower gill slits exposed by gaps in his robes just above his hips. “In the past three moon-cycles we have suffered five raids, and you Terrans have given us no aid whatsoever.”

Jens held up a hand, a very human gesture. Houghan!! swiveled his eyestalks slowly to look at her. “Elder,” she said carefully. “Elder, we have been over this before. Terra is here to trade, not to fight. We still feel that it would not benefit anyone if the Commonwealth took on so much responsibility … not if you wish your government to remain sovereign.”

Houghan!!’s feeding tendrils twitched in disgust. “Words!” he said. “You hide behind words! When the Toels traded here, they enforced the peace.”

“And had most of their dealings with the nomads,” Jens pointed out. “Your town, all the cities ashore, depended on nomad traders for everything.”

“But the nomads who traded with the Toels had no need for raids. Since the Sky Lords and the Toels left, the nomads have become impossible to tame. And your people do nothing to discourage them.”

“You know the size of our garrison here,” Jens said quietly. “Do you really think we could patrol hundreds of kilometers of seacoast effectively? Your own troops cannot cover the waters-of-raising. How do you expect the Terran garrison to do it?”

The Elder blinked. “But … your achievements are so far beyond ours. All know that you have instruments to see in the dark and through the waters, and artificial voices to carry over great distances. Weapons that can kill a foe you cannot even see. Your garrison could guard our shores so easily.…”

Fraser spoke up for the first time since the Elder’s arrival. “Our soldiers can do many things, Reverend Ancient,” he said smoothly, using the most respectful mode of the local dialect. “But we cannot be in many places at once. There are too few of us to do everything we would like to do on your world, or we would surely provide the protection you desire.”

The words earned him an angry look from Barnett. Seafarms Interstellar and Reynier Industries, like most corporations developing the Commonwealth’s new frontier worlds, were forced to balance carefully between enough protection to ensure their own safety and the kind of full-scale Colonial Army presence that would turn Polypheme into a Terran Client, with a Resident-General appointed by the government and safeguards built in to ensure that the locals were protected from exploitation.

Inevitably Terra’s corporate interests tried to hold the government at arm’s length, and keeping garrisons weak was one way to keep the Colonial Office from getting too involved on planets like this one. But it was those selfsame corporations that screamed loudest when their holdings were threatened and the Commonwealth couldn’t instantly field enough troops to deal with the danger.

Houghan!! regarded Fraser with interest. “You are the commander of the soldiers?” he asked.

Fraser shook his head, then remembered that to the natives the gesture connoted agreement. “No … sorry, no, Reverend Ancient. I am only the deputy here.” He indicated Hawley with a gesture. “But I believe I speak for the Reverend Ancient Captain Hawley in this.”

The other captain looked up. “Ah, yes … yes, Captain Fraser is my deputy here. Yes.”

The native made a gesture Fraser wasn’t familiar with. “Then if you cannot aid us directly, you could certainly supply us with these weapons and devices for our own soldiers to use. We would pay well, very well. In food, or labor, or whatever else you need.”

Before Fraser could reply, Jens took charge of the conversation again. “That, too, is something we cannot do,” she said. Unlike Fraser, she was using the mode of speech reserved for equals. “At least not until I have time to refer back to my superiors on Terra. We must see how this would influence our agreements with your Council.”

“Agreements!” The Elder’s feeding tendrils writhed. “There will be no agreements unless we receive aid! Or is this a part of your plot against us?”

“Plot? What are you talking about?” Jens asked sharply.

The Elder set his shoulder bag on the table ponderously and drew something out of its depths. “This was found after the nomad attack yesterday. It killed six of our soldiers before they were even aware there were nomads in our waters.” Houghan!! tossed it on top of the satchel with a contemptuous flourish.

Trent picked it up carefully, and Fraser watched him turn the weapon over in his hands. It was a larger, heavier version of the rocket launcher in Watanabe’s report, plainly designed for conditions on Polypheme but far beyond local technology.

More proof of outside meddling.

“Deny that this is an offworlder device,” Houghan!! said with a sneer. “Deny it!”

Fraser replied. “Yes, Reverend Ancient, this must have come from offworld. But my people and I have nothing to do with it.”

“This I cannot believe,” the Elder said. “You Terrans have control of the trade. Even the Toels who still visit must do all of their business through your company port. These would not be here unless you wanted them here.”

Jens looked worried now. “Believe me, Reverend Ancient,” she said, now adopting the supplicant’s mode. “Believe me, these are not here with our approval. Smugglers … enemies … someone is bringing these in without our knowledge.”

Biting off a comment, Fraser made a quick note on his computer terminal to check security on incoming cargoes. In theory everything was carefully checked and crosschecked, but there was ample room for corruption at a port as poorly staffed as the Polypheme facility. Were these weapons coming through the terminal, or was someone conveniently failing to notice incoming ships that landed away from Ourgh and contacted the natives directly?

Another note appeared below his own: LEGION STAFF ON APPROACH MONITORS? Fraser glanced up, his eyes meeting Trent’s. The sergeant had put the weapon down, and his fingers rested on the keys of his own terminal. Fraser nodded slightly, and Trent responded with a quick nod of his own. It was always gratifying to find Trent’s thoughts running so close with his own.

He focused his attention on Houghan!! again. “If your enemies are doing this,” he was saying, “I cannot see why you will not protect us. Give us some proof of your good intentions, or we will follow our own currents henceforth.”

“Your Council signed the agreements.…” Barnett began.

“They will not be honored,” the Elder broke in. “Not until we see some proof of your good intentions.” He rose slowly, his massive bulk suddenly very alien, hostile. “When you are ready to deal fairly, contact the Council and—” His words were cut off by the wail of warning sirens.

O O O

Karatsolis threw down his cards in disgust as the siren sounded. The other legionnaires clustered around the improvised table looked startled, not quite grasping what the ululating warning meant. Not surprising, Karatsolis thought wryly. They haven’t even grasped the basics of poker yet.

“Look alive, you apes!” he said, reaching for his rifle. “That’s the perimeter security alarm!”

“Jesus!” one of the legionnaires muttered. He was a nube, part of a draft of replacements for the demi-battalion’s transport section who had arrived straight from the Legion depot on Devereaux only a week ago. His name was O’Donnell. “Jesus Christ, Spear, what the hell’s going on?”

“When I know I’ll tell you, nube,” Karatsolis snapped. “Grab a rifle and get moving!”

The legionnaire looked confused until a more savvy comrade thrust an FEK battle rifle into his hands. Karatsolis waved toward the parade ground. “Let’s mag it!”

The five legionnaires followed him as he ran down the motor pool ramp and across the parade ground. Shouts and the whine of FEK fire were coming from the western side of the compound near one of the gates, and in the absence of higher direction Karatsolis led them in that direction. Off to the left he spotted Narmonov’s platoon turning out. More legionnaires were racing into the compound from other parts of the perimeter wall.

“Come on!” he shouted as he reached a stairway that led up to the scene of the fighting. There was a scream up above, and a body came tumbling past him to lie in the mud. He recognized the man as Subaltern Reynolds, one of Alpha Company’s platoon leaders. The body was clad in a Legion dress uniform, but much of the officer’s chest had been blown away.

Feet pounded up the fusand steps behind him. Karatsolis raised his rifle, his thumb groping for the selector switch to go to full auto before he remembered that he was still carrying the riot gun from the encounter in Ourgh. He cursed, and kept cursing as he noticed that there were less than twenty rounds left in the magazine.

A native, bare-skinned but marked with the elaborate tattooing of the nomad tribes, heaved himself over the wall, brandishing a pike and shouting a hoarse battle cry. Karatsolis fired twice at close range, and the wog toppled backward. Nearby a second nomad was waving a pistol. O’Donnell let loose with a full-auto salvo. Dozens of needle-thin slivers tore through the native’s torso.

Karatsolis ran to the wall and looked over the edge. “God in Heaven …” he muttered, reeling back.

A half a hundred or more natives were climbing the smooth fusand wall, and more shapes were visible in the water around the base of the fortress.

O’Donnell pushed past him. “What is it, Spear?” he asked, leaning over the edge with his battle rifle at the ready.

Suddenly he jerked back, dropping the rifle. It clattered on the rampart next to Karatsolis’s boot.

O’Donnell’s hands clutched feebly at the native crossbow bolt that protruded from his neck. The legionnaire staggered and fell, Karatsolis dropped to one knee beside him, but it was too late for first aid, too late for anything. Legionnaire Third-Class O’Donnell was dead.

Karatsolis had never even known the kid’s first name.

He grabbed O’Donnell’s FEK and snatched the magazine pouch from his belt.

As he rose, the natives swarmed over the wall all around him.