Chapter Eight

I can refuse nothing to men like you!

—Colonel Combas, Mexican Army,
to the survivors of Camerone,
French Foreign Legion, 30 April 1863

“They’ll be back,” Fraser said flatly. “Count on it.”

They were back in the conference room, now that the fighting was over, but it was far more subdued than the wrangling of their previous meeting. Even Barnett seemed a little less inclined to pick unnecessary fights. The man looked jumpy now, as if he were afraid that nomads might burst through the door any time.

He spared a glance for Captain Hawley. The older officer had lapsed back into apathy now that the immediate danger was over. The comparison between Hawley bending over the fallen legionnaire with pistol in hand and this more familiar figure slumped carelessly in his chair aroused strong emotions in Fraser, but he wasn’t sure which was more powerful, pity or disgust.

Fraser closed his eyes, remembering the captain leading the armed civilians back onto the roof. They had come just in time, as Garcia and Fraser had been running out of ammo. By the time the defense was weakening again, Gunnery Sergeant Trent and two lances of recon troops had reached the building. Not long afterward, the natives had retreated.

But they’d left their mark on the Sandcastle. Medical teams were still counting the casualties and treating the injured, while the rest of the Legion checked damage to the walls and strengthened the defenses. He’d ordered Kelly to take charge of the work instead of returning to the meeting, but now he regretted not being able to bounce ideas off her. She was one of the few people in the Sandcastle he could use as a sounding board.

“The measures we are taking now should prevent a recurrence,” DuValier was saying. He alone of all the officers in the room seemed unaffected by the native attack.

“Here, perhaps,” Fraser said, looking at the cold, self-contained lieutenant. The contrast with Hawley’s Exec, Susan Gage, was startling. She had come back from the fighting with a haunted look in her eyes, and she had contributed nothing to the discussion. “Deploying heavy-weapons lances with the troops on watch and rigging up some strong-points on the walls should keep the wogs at arm’s length. But we have two other problems to address.” He turned to study Sigrid Jens.

She shifted uncomfortably. “We had no idea the nomads could field that kind of a force,” she said. “Obviously this puts a whole new complexion on the Project. I will issue orders for the recall of the Cyclops.”

“You can’t!” Barnett said sharply. “It’ll finish the Project.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. And us with it, as far as Seafarms is concerned. But the safety of the Terran personnel on Polypheme is my responsibility, Edward, and I’m not putting those people at risk. We may still be able to salvage the Project, but only after we’ve figured out a way to deal with the nomad threat.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Citizen,” Fraser said, cutting off whatever reply Barnett had been about to come back with. “But at this point Cyclops is only part of the problem.”

“How do you mean?” she asked, lifting one eyebrow in surprise.

“I think you should pull out of the Seafarms facilities in Ourgh as well,” he said. “Everything should be centered here at the Sandcastle. The danger in the city is probably far worse than aboard the ship.”

“This is ludicrous!” Barnett exploded. “We can’t possibly relocate our entire operation. And there’s no reason for it! The nomads won’t attack Ourgh, even with rocket guns. Damn it, there’s enough militia in town to handle any nomad clan without even calling up the off-duty reserves!”

Fraser leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “First of all, Citizen Barnett, those nomads could go through the Ourgh militia faster than a nova takes out planets. They damn near beat us, and the Legion isn’t some useless loke mob. Second, don’t assume the nomads are operating with the same clan structure as they used to have.”

“Now, wait a moment, Captain Fraser,” Jens said. “I understand your concern, but our studies have shown that the nomad clans cannot work together. They are simply incapable of accepting leadership from outside the Clan grouping, and the concepts of a committee or ruling council are completely foreign to them.”

“The city-dwellers understand them well enough,” Trent commented.

“Yes, Sergeant, they do,” Jens said. “But land and sea-dwelling cultures on Polypheme are totally different, almost like they were separate species.”

“The point is,” Fraser said, “That they aren’t completely different. The city-dwellers were an offshoot of the nomads, and they evolved new cultural standards to respond to different needs. Mr. Koenig, my Native Affairs specialist, has been studying the wogs for a long time, and his feeling is that the nomad cultures could learn to work together if they found it necessary, particularly if a charismatic warlord were to unite them against an outside threat.”

“Like the city-dwellers,” Gunnery Sergeant Valko said. “Or us.”

“This is all pure speculation,” Barnett protested. “Theory. The tribal tattoos on those natives were all the same. I don’t know which Clan—”

“Reef-Swimmers,” Susan Gage said softly. It was the first time she’d spoken, and the comment was offered diffidently.

“All right, the Reef-Swimmers Clan,” Barnett said. “One group. No sign of some kind of coalition.”

“No direct proof, yet,” Fraser agreed. “But consider this. Just a few hours ago the Seafarms Cyclops was attacked by nomads. Watanabe’s report didn’t include the name of the Clan—it isn’t one of the ones we’ve studied like the Reef-Swimmers—but the follow-up should have more information. Point is, it’s a different tribe, but using the same weaponry.”

Trent looked up. “And even more important, the same tactics,” he added.

“Exactly,” Fraser said with an approving nod. “The same tactics. Up until today no nomad Clan would break off an attack while there was still a perceived threat to other Clan members. Today two different groups, hundreds of kilometers apart, suddenly demonstrated this new idea. No way it was independently developed, Citizen … no way at all.”

“So you suspect an overall leadership,” Jens summed up.

“Right. One that has made contact with an off-planet source of armaments. I don’t know if the tactics are a local innovation or something these helpful suppliers suggested, but I’ll bet damned near any stakes you want that there’s a central authority, probably a group of lokes, behind these attacks. And several native Clans working in harness together could wipe out Ourgh without even bothering to stop for a breather afterwards.”

“Not all of them carry the high-tech stuff,” Barnett pointed out.

“That’s about all that saved us today. They attacked before they were fully equipped. Probably the nomads are over-eager. Even if the Semti were controlling them, I doubt the nomads would be very easy to control. They’ve got new toys.”

“So they want to use them,” Jens said.

Fraser nodded. At least she was getting it. Her assistant still looked stubborn.

“How can you be sure the nomads would attack us in the city? Aside from the slaving raids, the nomads haven’t tried to take on the city culture openly before. Their interests don’t coincide.”

“Right now nomad interests seem to involve us,” Trent pointed out. “And if we’ve got people in Ourgh …”

“That’s not the only factor,” Fraser said quietly. “You all heard what Houghan!! had to say before the battle. The city-dwellers think we’re dealing with both sides, and cutting them out of the weapons deals.”

“But that’s nonsense,” Barnett protested.

“Sure. But look at it from their point of view. The emissary they sent to protest about the weapons isn’t coming back. And they only have our word that he was killed by a nomad while trying to help Captain Hawley.” Fraser paused; steepled his fingers, and rested his forehead on them wearily. “We lost a lot of good men today, but Houghan!!’s death really turns what should have been a victory into a major defeat. The Council in Ourgh won’t trust us again, and the mood in the city is already swinging against us because we won’t provide protection.”

“Meaning?” Hawley asked, finally seeming to be aware of the discussion.

“Meaning, Captain, that in one stroke we’ve lost our last chance to recruit ourselves some sepoys to build up our troop strength, and also lost Ourgh as a safe haven. That riot I was in will look like a picnic when the lokes really start getting organized.” He turned to Jens. “Once again, there just aren’t enough legionnaires to cover your facilities and people in town. We have to concentrate out here, where we won’t be overextended.”

“You make a convincing case, Captain Fraser,” Jens said with a trace of a smile. She glanced at Barnett. “Perhaps if I’d been given advice like this from the start we wouldn’t be in this mess now.”

“You’re not going to buy this?” Barnett was out of his chair, his face flushed. “We’ve got to keep the port and the warehouses open!”

“That’s enough, Edward,” Jens said flatly. Her tone made it clear she wasn’t listening to any more arguments. She turned back to Fraser. “If you’ll assign an officer as liaison, we’ll try to work out an evacuation plan that will meet all our needs. Military as well as corporate.”

Fraser leaned back in his chair, relief draining the tension from his shoulders. He hadn’t been sure anyone connected with Seafarms would listen to reason. “Thank you, Citizen Jens. Your cooperation will make this a lot easier.”

He looked down the table for a moment. “Captain Hawley, if you can spare your Exec for a while I think she’d be a good choice for this.”

Hawley shrugged. “If you think she can do the job, by all means, Captain.”

“All right, then. Citizen, if you and Lieutenant Gage can get on this right away, we’ll start the evacuation as soon as I’m sure the Sandcastle is secured. And I’ll also need you to give the orders for the Cyclops….”

“I know you have a low opinion of us, Captain,” she said with another smile. “But please don’t worry. We really are on your side, and when I say we’ll cooperate, I mean to follow through.”

As the meeting broke up Fraser remained in the chair, frowning, his eyes focused somewhere past the far wall. For now, Seafarms would go along with what he said, but there was no guarantee that Jens would keep cooperating once the immediate threat had passed.

If this turned into a long siege, the civilians were likely to be the weak link in the chain. He wondered if their enemies, whoever they were, realized that time was as valuable to their cause as all the rocket guns on Polypheme?

If the Legion was forced entirely on the defensive they were all as good as dead.

O O O

The blackness was like a lake, deep and cold, and Mike Johnson was at the bottom of it. He struggled against unseen forces, fighting his way to the surface, back to light and warmth and air.

His eyes snapped open suddenly, relieved to see the harsh artificial glare of floodlights against the darkening sky.

He was on a stretcher, his arms and legs strapped down firmly. A large, bulky regen unit was attached to his left leg, humming faintly and making the skin tingle. He couldn’t feel anything else, and when he tried to move the foot nothing happened.

Panic welled up inside. A regen unit accelerated the natural healing process, but its effectiveness in cases of major nerve damage was limited, and no one had found a way yet to regrow a lost limb.

A rich Terran who lost a leg could have a cyberlimb fitted, but a poor legionnaire on a backwater like Polypheme would be lucky to get an old-fashioned prosthetic job. Johnson knew ex-legionnaires missing arms and legs who had never received the therapy and retraining it took to use an artificial limb. They ended up as penniless beggars hanging around colonial street corners or systerm bars.

He tried to sit up, but the straps held him down. “Hey! Help me, dammit!” he shouted. “For God’s sake …”

“Calm down, my son,” a soothing voice answered. It was Father Fitzpatrick, known throughout Bravo Company simply as “the Padre,” the unit’s chaplain. More than half of the legionnaires stationed on Polypheme were Catholics, and although Fitzpatrick’s branch of the Church—based on Freehold, a world which had been cut off from all contact with Terra during the Shadow Centuries—did not recognize the primacy of the Pope in Rome, he took care of their spiritual needs quite well.

Johnson was technically a Protestant and paid little enough attention to religion anyway, but the Padre’s easy smile and gentle voice were reassuring nonetheless.

“Father … my leg. I can’t move my leg. Is it … Will it be…?”

Fitzpatrick knelt beside him and examined the diagnostic readout on the front panel of the regen unit. He necessarily spent a lot of time helping the company’s medical specialist, Dr. Ramirez, and he knew his way around Legion medical gear and facilities. “It’s all right, my son,” he said in his quiet voice. “The unit has administered a local nerve block for the pain. You can feel a tingle, can’t you?”

Johnson nodded.

“Then you’re fine, my son. You’ll be off your feet for a while, but you’ll still have both of them when you recover.” A smile creased the round, open features. “I’ve seen soldiers who did more damage tripping over each other after a rough night on the town.”

Forcing himself to relax, Johnson sighed gratefully. “Thanks, Father. I … I was afraid.…”

“No need to tell me, my son. Fear is not on any of the lists of sins I’ve seen.”

“Have you … have you seen Legionnaire Elise Delandry, Father? She’s a medic. She was helping me after … after I was hit.”

Fitzpatrick nodded gravely. “She has been helping Dr. Ramirez with triage. I’ll tell her you asked for her.” He was gone before Johnson could thank him again, moving among the other wounded men who surrounded him. He tried to count the litters, but by the time he reached twenty he felt himself slipping back into oblivion.

O O O

Lieutenant Antoine Duvalier spotted the Padre kneeling by one of the wounded and crossed the open ground to join him. Fitzpatrick bowed his head in prayer, sketched the Cross, and straightened up slowly.

After a long moment the chaplain signaled to a medic. “Private Conneau is dead,” he told the man. The soldier nodded, but didn’t show much emotion. In the middle of all this suffering, one more death didn’t cause much of a stir.

But DuValier felt the pain. Quietly, from behind the Padre, he said, “Conneau was a good man. He told me once that his parents were from Toulon before they emigrated to Devereaux.”

Fitzpatrick gave a start, surprised by his silent approach. Then he recovered. “Toulon was where you were born, was it not?”

He nodded. “How bad is it?” he asked, his gesture taking in the casualties.

“Not good. A lot of men will be taking the dirt today.” Many legionnaires took the soil from the graves of comrades, carrying a few grains of dirt from each planet on which they’d left brothers-in-arms. “I haven’t heard a full count yet.”

“This should never have happened,” DuValier said harshly. He paused to rein in his emotions, further irritated that he had allowed his control to slip in the sight of the Padre. But Fitzpatrick just nodded solemnly and moved toward the next casualty in the line, leaving DuValier alone with his bitter thoughts.

For two years he’d been locked in a downward spiral, his career ruined. No one but the Legion would accept an officer with his record, so it was to the Legion he had come for his last chance to change his luck. DuValier had vowed that this time, this time he would not let himself give in to weakness. He would do what he had to do, no matter what stood in his way. But it wasn’t easy.

And his superior, the man who commanded Bravo Company, just made the struggle that much harder. Colin Fraser.…

The fighting in the compound had brought DuValier face to face with all the old memories again, and he knew the nightmares would start again tonight. The horrors of Fenris were never far below the surface in any case, but being under fire again had brought back every terrible moment.

Two years now since the rebellion on Fenris, two years since the orders to the 33rd Mobile Response Regiment to search out the suspected nest of rebels in Loki Province. They’d been issued detailed intelligence reports describing specifics on rebel strengths and probable deployments, and the Colonel had worked out the sweep in detail. It should have been routine.

But the reports were based on faulty data and sloppy interpretation, and the rebel strength had been nearly twice what they’d been led to expect. And they had far more anti-air and anti-armor capability than the 33rd planned on.

DuValier could still remember that day. He had been a freshly promoted lieutenant then, in charge of the rear guard. That was what had saved him—along with less than eighty soldiers out of a regiment of over eight hundred men. All because of the intelligence screw-up.

All because of one Colin Fraser, then also a lieutenant in the regulars but now, ironically, a hero, a captain, and Antoine DuValier’s new CO.

He viewed the accounts of the court-martial in a vidmagazine, both the initial stories where Fraser put the blame on his superior, Major St. John, and the later interviews with Senator Warwick, that uncovered the plot to hurt the senator through St. John, all hinging on Fraser’s testimony. Warwick’s opponents had protected Fraser from the blame; men swept him under the table afterward. Why else would he be in the Legion now? If he was blameless, he’d still be in some comfortable staff job.

DuValier had suffered for two years, messed up too many assignments because of his personal problems. He had transferred to the Legion in hopes of making a fresh start, but somehow he’d been tapped to fill the vacant Exec’s position in Fraser’s company after the Hanuman campaign. He was sure Fraser knew nothing of his record, and so far he’d kept a tight lid on his feelings.

For a few minutes it had looked like Fraser had died, and it had been a shock to find out that he was alive after all. Thoughts of killing Fraser had crossed his mind once or twice, but he couldn’t give in. He’d never accomplish his goal if he murdered a superior officer.

But if the man died in battle …

He pushed the thought away. A time or two he’d come close to sharing his doubts with Fitzpatrick, but it was something he couldn’t bring himself to talk about. He was probably closer to the chaplain than he was to any other man in Bravo Company, but his past wasn’t something he wanted to share … and neither was his hatred of Colin Fraser. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t understand that, anyway. He’d been on Hanuman, regarded Fraser as a hero. Just like the others who’d served with the man before.

DuValier looked at the bodies littering the compound. If the Padre knew how he felt about Fraser he’d be shocked, and DuValier would lose a friend. That was one casualty he wasn’t going to give up to the murderer who’d destroyed the 33rd on Fenris.