Chapter Eleven

But I’ve a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town.

—Legionnaire Alan Seeger,
French Foreign Legion, 1916

Legionnaire Second Class Lin Wu-Sen raised his faceplate and nudged his lancemate in the ribs. “Hey, Reese, got a ’stick?”

“Come on, Lin.” Legionnaire Third-Class George Reese sounded annoyed. “You know we’re not allowed to smoke, man. We’re on duty.”

“Quit talking like a nube, Reese,” Lin sneered. “Who’s going to report me? You?”

“Convoy’ll be coming out soon.…”

“Yeah, so this is my last chance. Come on, kid, hand ’em over.”

With seeming reluctance, Reese slung his FEK and dug in his belt pouch for a packet of narcosticks. Lin took one and put it in his mouth.

“How about a light, kid?” he mumbled around the ’stick.

Reese produced a lighter, punched the recessed button, and waited a moment for the coil to heat up. As it started to glow red he held it up to the narcostick. Lin took a few trial puffs, savoring the heady taste of the smoke. They were against regs, of course, but narcosticks were popular with soldiers on boring garrison duty. They gave a man a lift without dulling his reactions.…

A bright streak cut through the night with a soft whoosh, and Reese flung the lighter away. But it was too late. The rocket projectile hit him squarely in the stomach and exploded. Reese staggered back, doubled over, and fell.

Lin flung himself to the ground, groping for the FE-MEK lance-support weapon he’d left leaning on the gatehouse wall. Another explosive bullet hit just behind where his head had been a moment before.

He spat out the narcostick and flipped his faceplate down, trying to assess the situation on IR. As he scanned the night, he hit the general comm channel. “First Platoon Alpha! East gate is under attack. Repeat, east gate under attack, probable nomad force!”

He thought he caught movement, and swung the MEK to cover it. He squeezed the trigger, hearing the deep-throated hum of the heavy kinetic-energy rifle as it spat needle rounds into the darkness.

Legionnaire Lin never saw the rocket that killed him.

O O O

“Nomad attack on the eastern perimeter, Lieutenant,” the C3 technician reported coolly. “No details. Sergeant Hooks is deploying First Platoon to check it out.”

Susan Gage frowned. Subaltern Reynolds, First Platoon’s CO, had been one of the first casualties in the Sandcastle fighting, and his platoon had taken the worst of Alpha Company’s casualties. She hoped Hooks could handle the unexpected fighting without further support. There weren’t enough legionnaires to go around.

“Tell Franz to leave by the south gate,” she ordered. “And order Hooks not to get too heavily engaged. When we pull out, we’re pulling out fast.”

As the C3 tech turned back to his console, she swung the aerial recon drone around to the eastern side of the port to get a better look at the threat. The nomads had struck a little bit early, she thought with a grim smile. If they’d just waited a few minutes longer, they would have caught the convoy. But this way the Terrans had some warning, and the south gate was still open … at least, so far. And it would only be a few more minutes before they had the civilians ready to move.

Massire broke her train of thought. “Sergeant Valko says everything’s ready, Lieutenant. He says, uh … he says, ‘Let’s mag the Topheth out of here.’”

She smiled at that. Valko was never hesitant about letting his superiors know what he thought. “Okay. General order, all units. Legionnaires to disengage and fall back. We’ll keep the APCs back to pull them out. All other vehicles to move through the south gate. Once they’re clear, top speed back to the Sandcastle.”

She smiled again. Maybe, just maybe, she could pull off this operation after all.

O O O

“All units. All units. Convoy departing via south gate immediately. Legionnaires disengage and fall back on assembly point three. Roundup Two, Roundup Three, hold at assembly point to embark rear guard.”

Bashar cursed as the voice crackled in his headphones. The nomads were thoroughly dug in down here, with traps and forces that would carve up the convoy with barely a pause. They couldn’t withdraw this way.

He stabbed the comm button. “Roundup Leader, this is Escort. South gate exit is blocked, repeat blocked. Estimate three hundred nomad warriors with extensive fieldworks and traps in place. Do not use south exit.”

Cutting the comm channel without waiting for a reply, Bashar spun the bulky Sabertooth in just over its own length and gunned the turbofans. “This is going to be bumpy, Spear,” he said on the intercom. “Keep a watch for bad guys.”

The fans roared, a sound that filled the cramped driver’s compartment and threatened to drown out the attention signals from his control console. The light of the flare had faded, and Bashar shifted back to infrared.

“Targets ahead. Sixty-five meters.” Karatsolis might have been a computer for all the emotion in his voice.

“Let ’em know we’re not here to play around.”

“Yeah.” Barely a second passed before the Sabertooth’s plasma cannon spoke. Superheated metal traced a blur across his forward monitor and hit the far edge of the wog pit. The natives still moving after the explosion were scattering. Karatsolis fired again.

The bow of the Sabertooth dipped suddenly as the leading edge of the magrep field hit the pit, but Bashar was ready for it. He increased the magrep field and stabilized the vehicle with a deft sweep of fingers over the control console. A moment later he made another adjustment as the vehicle climbed out of the other side.

It was easy enough for a driver ready for the problem. For the hodgepodge of vehicles and drivers in the convoy all trying to flee the port compound at high speed, though, it would have been a sure recipe for disaster.

For that matter, it could still be disastrous for the Angel of Death II if Bashar didn’t stay alert. Or if Karatsolis didn’t keep the wogs off-balance.

Something struck the side of the vehicle’s hull and exploded, but the hull sensors reported minimal damage. Bashar fought the urge to relax and swerved to avoid another pit ahead.

He hoped his warning about the trap had come in time for the rest of the convoy.

O O O

Gage stared at the monitor in horror, seeing the pits, the small groups of nomads, and the trail of devastation left in the Sabertooth’s wake. If it hadn’t been for Bashar and Karatsolis the whole unit would have blundered into that trap, and damned few of them would have escaped it.

She’d committed one of the cardinal sins of command by not scouting out the escape route in advance.

Now what? she asked herself.

“Lieutenant?” Valko was back aboard the command van and looking at her quizzically. It took her a long moment to realize that she must have voiced her thoughts out loud.

“We have to get the hell out of here,” she said. “But it looks like they’ve got us blocked. Any recommendations?”

Valko looked thoughtfully at the monitor. “The mess on the south side’s too strakking thick to break through. I say we go for the east gate, like we originally planned.”

“Even though it’s under fire already?”

He stroked his thick mustache with hooded, thoughtful eyes. “It’s all been too pat,” he said slowly. “They stirred up the riots on the north side. Then we have an attack from the east, but I haven’t seen much more than a few periodic rockets and a lot of noise. It looks to me like they’re trying to herd us, Lieutenant. They want to encourage us to go out the south side.”

Gage looked down at her console. “If they’re really mounting an attack on the east gate, though …”

“They wouldn’t waste all that strength to the south if their main thrust was coming from another direction,” he argued. “Not even if they had extra troops to burn. If they had that kind of strength they’d launch simultaneous attacks, not play coy with the trap.”

“We could knock down the fence and go out an unexpected direction.…”

“Some of the terrain out there is pretty rugged. Especially the west side, and that’s the only place we haven’t seen much activity. We’d lose that damned barge for sure.” He paused. “At least that would be better than trying the southern route.”

“But you’re in favor of an east-side breakout.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, suddenly formal. “Perhaps on a broad front, like you suggested, instead of just pushing through the gate. Hit ’em hard enough and we’ll punch right out.”

She wrestled with the choices, all too aware of how bad her judgment had been so far. Valko seemed convinced, and she trusted his instincts.…

“All right. That’s what we’ll do. But hold up the convoy until we can mount up most of our troops. We’ll need them for firepower, since the Sabertooth’s already busy.”

“That’ll throw a lot of responsibility on whoever gets picked for rear guard,” he pointed out.

“I know,” she admitted. “Do you think Narmonov’s up to it?”

He nodded.

“Then let’s get on it. And pray we don’t run into anything else we didn’t expect.”

O O O

“Fall back! Fall back!” Narmonov was shouting, even though his commlink carried his words clearly to everyone in the platoon. He ducked as a crossbow bolt skimmed just over his head and scrambled toward the last line of defense.

“Hold as long as you can,” his orders had said. In the face of the native mob, though, those orders were easier given than carried out.

The electrified fence had held them for a while, of course, and if the withdrawal had gone according to the original instructions the platoon could have disengaged easily. But with the delays and the sudden changes in plan, the platoon had been left hanging in air as the lokes smashed through the fence. Many natives had died, but the rest were just more inflamed than ever. And this wasn’t just an unarmed crowd, either. There were a fair number of city militiamen mixed in, armed with crossbow, spears, and an assortment of melee weapons. Not much against Legion technology, but sheer weight of numbers and the absolute fearlessness of the wogs made the results inevitable.

What the hell was Lieutenant Gage doing, anyway? These sudden reversals of orders were screwing up everything.

He dove over a cargomod and rolled. The last line of resistance had been improvised from the equipment and supplies abandoned when the pressure had started to mount. Now fifteen legionnaires waited, crouched behind the barricade with a wall of alien flesh closing in on them. Narmonov didn’t even have any heavy weapons left. Gunnery Sergeant Valko had pulled the two heavy lances out of the fighting line to give the breakout an extra punch. But that left the remaining defenders with precious little firepower … and their ammo stocks were starting to run low.

“Command reports the convoy’s making its move on the east fence,” Mattea reported. An MEK purred nearby, joined by the higher-pitched whine of an FEK.

“Where’s our APC?”

“On the way. Sergeant Valko had it making a demonstration down by the south gate.”

“Wonderful,” someone nearby muttered.

“Legionnaires, ready to fire!” Carstairs shouted. Narmonov and Mattea joined the rest of the defenders along the barricade, leveling their weapons as the natives rushed forward. “Fire!”

The entire line opened up simultaneously, their sustained fire tearing through the first ranks of the natives. The pressure from the rear caused confusion, as more wogs became entangled in the carnage.

“Grenades!” Narmonov called, switching from needle rounds to grenades on his FEK. The four MEKs lacked the integral grenade-launchers and kept up automatic fire, but the rest of the legionnaires opened fire with the lethal little explosive rounds, raining more death and confusion into the enemy.

With a roar of fans, a Sandray APC suddenly burst out of the darkness, setting down near the end of the barricade with a flourish. The kinetic-energy cannon in the vehicle’s remote turret mount chattered, keeping the mob busy while the ramp dropped in the rear of the Sandray. “Come on!” a legionnaire in the back of the APC shouted, waving urgently.

Legionnaires sprinted for the safety of the Sandray. Narmonov stayed where he was and kept firing, along with Haddad and the men of the recon lance. Nearby Kelso was firing with calm, cool deliberation, picking off one wog after another with precise laser fire.

But the wogs kept pushing forward. Any professional army Narmonov had ever heard of would have broken by now, but these disorganized rioters kept on coming.

“Hurry!” someone shouted. “Before they get to the ramp!”

“Recon lance, move!” Narmonov shouted, abandoning his position at last.

By the Sandray, Carstairs and a handful of legionnaires were laying down extra covering fire of their own, but still those wogs showed no sign of wavering. Narmonov ran, desperate to reach the APC.

“They’re gonna beat us to it!” Haddad shouted.

Carstairs must have come to the same conclusion at the same time. He waved his four companions forward and they ran straight at the rioters, firing from the hip as they went.

The humans plunged straight into the first rank, still firing, but now the mob was pressing in from all sides. Narmonov saw the exactor fall, as a wog clubbed him repeatedly from behind. Nor were the others faring any better.

But the threat they posed was causing the natives to concentrate on that handful of legionnaires. Narmonov and his men reached the ramp as the mob started to lurch forward again. By then it was too late to stop the platoon from escaping. The APC was stirring on magrep fields and turning away before the ramp had even started to rise.

Narmonov collapsed on a bench, hardly realizing that they were clear.

In his mind, all he could see was Carstairs playing out that last and most dramatic scene of his career.

O O O

Corporal Chandbahadur Rai smiled with satisfaction and patted the comfortable bulk of his onager plasma gun. He was a Gurkha from New Victoria, where a small settlement of his people kept alive the old ways and supplied troops for the Gurkha Regiment of the Commonwealth’s Colonial Army. He would have still been among them, if he hadn’t disgraced himself during the uprising against Terra on Tienkuo. In the fighting he had been separated from his unit, and lost all of his weapons while eluding the enemy. Although his superiors had seen nothing wrong with his actions, Chandbahadur had not been willing to remain among his fellow Gurkhas thereafter. Instead he had joined the Fifth Foreign Legion.

There wasn’t much chance of losing his weapons today. The onager was attached directly to his armor by the ConRig harness that assisted targeting and control.

Now, crouched on top of one of the two manta-shaped cargo vans towing the laden barge, Chandbahadur was ready for action.

The barge would have to go out over the relatively level ground around the east gate, where enemy activity had been reported. That was fine by Chandbahadur. There was nothing like a good fight—nothing.

He saw legionnaires from First Platoon climbing onto the nearest vehicles. They’d been holding this position since the first attack on this side of the port, but now they had to mount up fast or be left behind.

“Clear the fence,” Sergeant Valko’s voice said quietly in his helmet speakers.

Chandbahadur raised his onager and activated his ConRig system. The harness slaved the movements of the gun to a sighting reticle, which picked up motions of his eyes and translated them to power-assisted movement of the weapon’s barrel. He sighted carefully on the nearest portion of the fence, then opened fire. The onager moved smoothly along the line of the fence, sending round after high-energy round into the posts. Up and down the line other onagers, Fafnir rockets, and grenades were doing similar damage.

Seconds later the APC lurched forward, gathering speed. It rammed into what was left of the fence and plowed over the twisted metal wreckage.

Nomad rocket guns opened fire out of the night. With each telltale flash Chandbahadur sighted a nomad gunner and returned fire. In seconds their barrage fell silent.

The convoy sped through the darkness.

O O O

The FSV swerved to avoid another obstacle, and Spiro Karatsolis clung to the trigger mount of the plasma cannon.

“That’s the last of them, Spear!” Bashar’s voice rang loud and cocky in his headphones. “I think we’re through!”

He glanced at his sensor screen. “Confirmed,” he said shortly. “Looks like everything’s behind us now.”

“Hey, man, what else did you expect?” the Turk shot back, his tone bantering again. “When you ride with the Bashar you don’t need a gunner!”

That should have been the signal for a typical comeback, something like “That’s because you run into all our targets and bash them flat.” But Karatsolis didn’t answer. He didn’t feel up to banter anymore.

It had started with the battle at the Sandcastle. First the nube, O’Donnell, had been cut down, and then Sandoval had saved Karatsolis and died from a shot that should have killed the Greek. Why were all these men dying?

He’d lost comrades before, even a few he’d called friends. You expected that in the army, especially in the Legion. Less than a quarter of all the soldiers who signed on with the Legion lived to complete a five-year enlistment. Hanuman had killed a lot of good legionnaires, but he’d come through it all without thinking about it much.

But this time was different. Part of it was the feeling of helplessness that came with any sort of garrison duty on a hostile planet. Karatsolis was a magger, a vehicle crewman, and though on the one hand he was used to sitting inside the cramped confines of the FSV, on the other he was used to a mobile war, where you didn’t just sit and wait for the next attack. When men died, at least it wasn’t just more attrition with nothing to show for the deaths.

It felt like O’Donnell and Sandoval had died such useless deaths. Who would be next? Bashar? Karatsolis himself? He’d joined the Legion because he felt that a soldier could make a real difference defending the Commonwealth, and not be just another statistic in the casualty reports.

He realized that Bashar had called his name again.

“Come on, Spear, look alive up there!” the corporal was saying. “Get me a range-and-bearing on that damned float-car.”

He checked the instruments and read off the figures.

“Right,” Bashar said. “Heading right for us. Get that oversized narcostick lighter of yours warmed up. We’ll punch through the wall up here and head ’em off before they try for one of the gates.”

Karatsolis acknowledged the order gruffly and ran a quick diagnostic on the plasma cannon. As he went through the routine motions, his mind was still wrestling with the overriding question. Why am I a legionnaire?

O O O

Edward Barnett fingered the small handgun in its hidden pocket and tried not to betray his fear.

Everything is going wrong.… The thought seemed to echo over and over again in his mind. From the moment the nomads had launched the attack on the Sandcastle, everything had gone wrong, and it would take desperate measures to regain control of the situation.

He darted a glance at Jens, sitting beside him in the back seat of the floatcar. If she’d just stayed tough with the thrice-damned legionnaires …

It might be too late even if he could take control now. Once they were cooped up inside the Sandcastle, would Fraser let any of the Terrans leave again?

He had to. Once the nomads started in on the Sandcastle there would be no stopping them, and Edward Barnett had no intention of being caught in the middle of that battle.

That supposed, of course, that they ever got out of this rabbit warren of a city. They had finally reached the walls of the Old Town, but getting to a gate and then making it through were starting to look like risky propositions at best. The damned legionnaires must have really stirred things up down by the port. Rioting had spread through a huge chunk of the city. Fires were burning only a few blocks away, and it was at least two kilometers to the port.

Help was supposed to be coming, but Barnett doubted the Legion could do much for them.

An explosion rocked the floatcar. A large section of the city wall erupted inward, showering the street with shattered masonry. The driver swerved to avoid rubble and skidded to a halt.

Framed in the gap opened up in the wall was a big armored vehicle, floating less than a meter off the ground on a magrep cushion. The Legion rescue party!

“Seafarms floatcar!” a PA announcer boomed. “Abandon your vehicle! We’re here to take you back to the Sandcastle!”

Jens was looking as relieved as Barnett felt. She turned away from him, reaching for the door release.

Barnett pulled the rocket pistol out of his pocket. It was similar in design to the ones the nomads were using, but smaller, concealable, with a four-round magazine. An ideal holdout weapon, or so he’d been told when he’d been given the pistol and the secure comm unit hidden in his briefcase.

He waited until she had the door open and was halfway out before he shot her in the back. Then he palmed the weapon and rolled out of his side of the vehicle. “Snipers! Nomad snipers!” he shouted. “Caldwell, help the boss! Quick!”

The driver tried to scramble to where Jens had sprawled on the street. With a glance to make sure no one aboard the Legion vehicle could see him, Barnett fired twice more. Caldwell collapsed over the body, unmoving.

Barnett tucked the weapon into a hidden pocket in his left sleeve, grabbed his briefcase, and ran toward the hole in the wall, still shouting warnings of nomad snipers. The vehicle turned, dropping a ramp.

He held his breath. If there were troops there, they might examine the bodies, even collect them, and that might reveal too much. But no one came out.

He ran up the ramp in feigned panic.

O O O

Now Sigrid Jens was out of the way. Now he could take charge of the Project, and put right everything that had gone wrong.