Chapter Fourteen

Not by blood inherited, but spilled.

—Legionnaire Pascal Bonette,
French Foreign Legion, 1914

“I insist that you order this man Watanabe to return control of the Cyclops to Captain MacLean!”

Fraser frowned at Edward Barnett. “Citizen, I’m getting tired of these arguments,” he said quietly. “Before you took charge, the question was settled. It was your reversal of policy that started this nonsense, and frankly I’m more than satisfied with what Mr. Watanabe has done.”

“Then he’s acting under your orders?” Barnett challenged.

Leaning back in his chair, Fraser looked around the conference room before he answered. It was a lean staff meeting, with Fraser, DuValier, Gage, and Kelly, plus Garcia in one corner recording the minutes.

And Barnett. Since his rescue from Ourgh, Barnett had stepped into the role of Seafarms Project Director as if he had been born to the job. In a matter of hours, he’d undone most of what Jens had agreed to do.

Fraser had blocked his hopes of returning to Ourgh, though. That had mostly been Gunny Trent’s doing; it was the NCO’s suggestion that Fraser agree to allow the Seafarms people to leave any time they wanted, provided they realized that there would be no Legion help on the return trip. Impounding all the vehicles inside the Sandcastle, even that ramshackle magrep barge, had driven the point home even further.

So Barnett and his people remained in the Sandcastle … but they weren’t even pretending to cooperate now, here or aboard the Cyclops. If it hadn’t been for Watanabe’s bloodless mutiny, the ship would still be on course for the open sea—or more likely, drifting helpless in the wake of fresh nomad attacks.

Kelly met his gaze with a warning look. She had a knack for reading him. He ignored the cautionary note in her eyes and answered Barnett.

“The fact is, I didn’t issue any such orders,” Fraser admitted. He paused. “But I wish I had, and my own report is going to indicate my full support for the subaltern’s action.”

That much was certainly true. He should have forced the issue long since, but instead he’d avoided confrontation with Barnett. The legalities of the situation on Polypheme were cloudy, and he’d told himself that caution was best, but the choice had nearly cost Watanabe and his platoon—and the crew of the Cyclops—their lives.

He’d almost allowed concern for his career to override his plain duty. Luckily Watanabe had taken the initiative.

Barnett leaned forward, scowling. “I’ll make sure you and he both get what you deserve,” he said, standing abruptly. “Your career’s going to make your precious Captain Hawley’s look impressive by comparison.”

Fraser laughed. “If any of us live through the next couple of weeks, Barnett, you’re welcome to whatever revenge you want.” He hardened his tone. “Meanwhile, starting now, this base is under military authority. Seafarms has no further say in any decisions that get made here.”

“You can’t make that kind of decision!” DuValier exploded. “You’re not even the ranking officer!”

“Captain Hawley will back me up, I think, Lieutenant,” Fraser said mildly. “I discussed my views with him before the meeting, and he agrees that we can’t keep letting Seafarms wreck everything we try to accomplish.”

“That doddering old fool agrees with whoever’s talking with him,” Barnett said angrily. “You won’t hide behind him when it comes to taking the blame for this—not like you did over Fenris!”

Captain David Hawley’s voice cut through the room like a knife. “The ‘doddering old fool’ doesn’t agree with you, Citizen. And whether you try to spread the blame or not, I’m ultimately responsible for everything that happens in this command.”

Heads swiveled. Hawley’s entrance had gone unnoticed, but his words brought instant attention. He was wearing issue battledress, and he seemed straighter and firmer than any of them had seen him before.

Fraser stood up. “Ten-hut!” he barked, and the other legionnaires followed suit.

“As you were,” Hawley said with a vague gesture. He took his seat at the head of the table. “Arguments about who’s in charge or who should be blamed aren’t going to keep us alive. Citizen Barnett, I support Captain Fraser’s position regarding military authority inside the Sandcastle. Inform your people, and then stay the hell out of our way.”

Barnett seemed about to reply, but instead he stormed out of the room. There was a long silence.

“Thank you, Captain,” Fraser said quietly. “I’m afraid that as long as there was any doubt about where the orders were coming from, he’d find more ways to obstruct us.”

Hawley smiled. “I’m not good for a whole lot anymore, son,” he said. “I’ve had too many light-years and too little practice to be much of a CO. But I’m damned if some puffed-up civilian is going to shove the Legion around!”

“Well, whatever the reason, it’s good to have you in charge,” Fraser said. He was surprised at the change in the man. It was like the spark that had started in the first battle had finally ignited a flame.

“Don’t expect miracles, Captain,” Hawley said, as if he were reading Fraser’s mind. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re in command of the defense here. Like I said, I’m not much of a CO anymore, but I’ll do everything I can to keep up my end.”

Fraser started to protest, but the older man held up his hand. “I said it before—arguing isn’t going to help us now. If you want to take orders from me, take these. You’re in tactical command, son. I know you’ve already got some pretty good ideas, so let’s get them in place.”

“Yes, sir,” He swallowed and punched in a combination on the keyboard in front of him. “We’ve started installing heavy-weapons positions on the wall. My first idea is to build on these with several additional emplacements.…”

As he started to lay out the plans he and Trent had been working on since the first attack, Colin Fraser was conscious of a glow of pride within. Hawley was no longer simply dodging his responsibilities, but he still respected Fraser’s opinions. Hawley, the hero of Aten.

And Fraser realized just how much Hawley’s good opinion meant to him.

O O O

Lieutenant Antoine DuValier left the conference room and started toward his own office. He was confused and uncertain, and he needed some time alone to reexamine his feelings.

What Barnett had said in there about Fraser hiding behind Hawley had hit close to home. It was easy to see the similarities between this situation and what must have happened between Fraser and Major St. John after the Fenris situation. Of course Fraser would use the excuse that the senior officer carried responsibility for the decisions.…

Yet Fraser hadn’t really acted like he was trying to use Hawley as a scapegoat. On the contrary, it had been Barnett who had suggested the idea—and Hawley, for that matter. But Fraser had fought his own battle until the older captain’s appearance.

Had he misjudged Fraser? Or was Hawley even more of a puppet than anyone had thought, trotting out whatever help Fraser needed on command?

DuValier would have a lot to think about.

O O O

The meeting had broken up, but Fraser remained in the conference room, hunched over one of the computer monitors, studying one of the enclosures in Watanabe’s report. He paused and rested his head in his hands, frustrated, tired. Every lead, every new scrap of information, seemed to complicate things.

“Don’t let it get to you, Col,” Kelly’s soft voice made him look up.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” he said. “Sorry.”

She smiled and sat down next to him. “I just wanted you to know you’ve got people on your side.”

“Thanks. Between Barnett and Antoine DuValier I’m starting to think I’ve got more enemies inside the walls than outside. Lieutenant Gage won’t say anything unless you prod her. Thank God for Hawley … and for your moral support, too.”

Kelly frowned. “Are you sure you can count on Captain Hawley, Col? I mean, as long as he’s in command, Barnett could still get to him. He’s not the most strong-willed man I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s like saying Hanuman was a trifle unpleasant,” Fraser chuckled. Then he turned serious. “The Captain’s had it tough, Kelly. Too damned tough.”

“It doesn’t answer the question, though, does it? Barnett could force him to back down.”

“What do you want me to do, Kelly? Relieve him on grounds of mental incapacity?”

“You could, you know. Ramirez would back you up.”

He shook his head, angry. “I’m not going to do it! Damn it, he deserves better than that!” Fraser looked away. When he went on he had control of his temper. “Sorry … that came out pretty strong. But it’s the way I feel. David Hawley got the short end of the stick. A good career turned sour … the kind of thing I keep picturing for my own future. He could have retired, probably should have, years ago. But the army’s all he’s ever had. Hell, when he goes off to Dreamland it’s usually a military fantasy, a battle story or a wargame. Well, I’m not going to be the one who takes it away from him, Kelly. He deserves a chance to keep whatever dignity he can.”

She nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. So if Barnett goes over your head…?”

“I’ll take it as it comes. Anyway, I don’t think Barnett will play around with politics much more. I’m a hell of a lot more concerned with figuring out what the next move from our fishy friends will be.”

“What were you working on there?” she asked, gesturing toward the terminal.

“Watanabe pulled a prisoner out of the fighting around the Cyclops, but the wog suicided.”

“Damn,” Kelly said softly.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what Trent and I said, though the Gunny put it a lot more eloquently and carried on for a few minutes longer. All we got out of the nomad was the slogan ‘Long live the warriors of Choor!’ and a couple of nasty epithets. Then he grabbed a knife from one of the guards and killed himself.”

“Choor! … A Clan chief?”

“Unlikely,” Fraser answered. “Personality cults aren’t very common in nomad society. Their loyalty is to the Clan. The individual is not as important as his role within the clan hierarchy.”

“What have our native scouts come up with?”

“It’s that kind of question that makes me wish you were my Exec instead of friend Antoine,” he said with a smile. “The Gunny’s down having a chat with them now. If we get a handle on just who or what Choor! is, maybe we’ll have a shot at figuring out what to do about the nomads.”

“How much reliance can you place on our wogs?” she asked.

He grinned. “You’re starting to sound like Barnett. No offense intended.” Fraser paused. “You know, I haven’t been in the Legion much longer than you, but I’m finally starting to understand some of the mystique. Shared dangers, shared adventures … hell, the shared miseries of eating rapacks … It’s the cement that binds these people together, Kelly. None of them are Citizens by birth, but they earn it by shedding blood together. You’ve seen it cross species lines—your little friend Myaighee, for instance—and it’s just as powerful. The nomads who volunteered as auxiliaries had a lot of the same motives that drive our regulars. I think they’re trustworthy, and I think they’re going to do everything they can to help us. If only because they’re in the same fix we are once the nomads hit us again.”

“And if they don’t know anything useful?”

“Then we’ll just have to keep on fighting in the dark. Sooner or later something’s got to give.”

She looked grim. “Just hope it isn’t us.”

O O O

Gunnery Sergeant John Trent exchanged looks with the unit’s Native Affairs specialist and shook his head. “You take this one, Hermann. I’m getting a sore throat from all this damned gargling.”

“Ja,” agreed Warrant Officer Fourth-Class Koenig. He was a tall, gangling man who looked too young to hold a specialist’s commission, but Trent knew the kid had two degrees in xenostudies and another in linguistics. Like a lot of the specialists who served as Warrant Officers in the Colonial Army, he had agreed to serve a five-year hitch with line troops, giving advice and analysis to pay off his tuition. It helped combat units to have experts on hand in areas like medicine, sciences, or engineering.

Right now Koenig was helping him question the native auxiliaries. If any of them could throw more light on the nature of the opposition.…

Unfortunately, all of these nomads had been recruited out of Ourgh. They were mostly failed merchants from distant clans who had taken service with the Legion as an alternative to a long journey home and the disgrace of failure at the end of it. That meant they knew little about the local situation—or at least they were claiming ignorance.

Trent wished they had the facilities at the Sandcastle for a proper Intelligence setup. With a little patience, and access to a computer implant, an Intel officer could conduct direct, mind-to-mind examinations that were far more reliable than any of the old drug or conditioning techniques. Of course it was physically and mentally tough on both the subject and the interrogator, but the results were worth it.

Well, it wouldn’t have mattered much. The only implant in the Sandcastle belonged to Captain Hawley, and Trent doubted the old man had the willpower or mental agility to handle the stress of that kind of questioning. If Captain Fraser had remained in Intelligence longer, or had been born on Terra, he might have had an implant. Fraser knew how to set up the whole procedure—he’d explained it to Trent once during the last stages of the Hanuman mop-up campaign—but the captain wasn’t capable of handling it himself.

Which left verbal questioning of the nomads to try to ferret out useful information. He just hoped the auxiliaries would have something worthwhile to offer.

Trent leaned back as Koenig beckoned the next auxiliary to the chair in front of the desk they’d set up in the Alpha Company ready room. He checked the fit of the language chip behind his ear. He wasn’t going to trust himself to translate; the computer could give it to him a hell of a lot faster, and that would help him concentrate on trying to sift useful information out of the session. A one-task chip was nowhere near as useful as an implant, but it was still a handy tool to have.

“Your name and clan?” Koenig asked the new nomad in his native tongue. Trent felt a twinge of jealousy as he realized that the warrant officer had no chip and hadn’t even seen the need to take a refresher course before the session. The man’s skill with alien languages was uncanny.

Then again, Trent thought Koenig knew next to nothing about laying an ambush or setting up a defensive perimeter.

“Oomour am I, of the clan of the Seacliffs,” the native replied, the Terranglic words a soft whisper in Trent’s ear.

“Where does your clan swim, Oomour-of-the-Seacliffs?” Koenig asked formally.

The native’s feeding tendrils writhed. “Few of the Seacliffs swimming are,” he replied. “Those that do … scattered to the far waves.”

“His clan was destroyed?” Trent asked Koenig in Terranglic.

The specialist nodded thoughtfully. “Doesn’t happen much. Usually their interclan conflicts are like their fights with the city-dwellers—raids, skirmishes, that sort of thing. The Free-Swimmers don’t have much concept of territorial possession or property rights, and it’s a big ocean. Usually if a dispute arises, one side or the other just moves on.”

Trent tugged thoughtfully at the corner of his sandy mustache. “The nomads have been doing a lot of funny things lately. Follow it up.”

Koenig nodded. “How was your clan lost, Oomour?”

The native’s gills vibrated, an expression of anger or great emotional stress. “By Choor! was the Clan attacked. Because join his tribe-of-tribes we would not.”

“Orbit,” Trent said softly. They had a lead.

O O O

“All right, let’s run through what we know.” Captain David Hawley leaned forward across the desk as he focused on Fraser’s report. “This Choor! is a nomad leader who is trying to band together a coalition of clans—sort of a tribal empire. I thought that sort of cooperation was impossible. Something about sublimated territorial instincts, or some such.”

From the corner of Hawley’s office WO/4 Koenig spoke up. “Strictly speaking, you’re right, sir,” he said, a touch of pedantry in his tone. “The nomads have very little sense of physical territory, but a highly developed sense of the proprieties of their tribal hierarchies and allegiances. No Clan leader is likely to take orders from another Clan leader.”

The warrant officer paused to consult a compboard note. “Apparently what we have here is a special exception. This Choor! seems to have been virtually orphaned when his Clan was ambushed by raiders—it had already fallen on hard times, and when bigger neighbors pounced on them they couldn’t escape. A few survivors, including Choor!, but no more.”

“So?” Hawley was getting impatient with the man’s slow, deliberate presentation. “Where is this going?”

Fraser took over. “From what we’ve learned, sir, Choor! hooked up with another tribe. They do that, sometimes, but they’re always regarded as outsiders. It’s rare for a nomad tribe to fully adopt a stranger. Unfortunately for us, this Choor! is some kind of military genius. Literally, even discounting a lot of what our natives fed us as the beginnings of a cult-legend, this guy revolutionized the way his new friends fought. They started coordinating their actions and using real tactics—the stuff we’ve seen in action—and that meant they could score big on their rivals.”

Hawley suddenly understood. “Genghis Khan,” he said aloud. “A goddamned Genghis Khan!”

Fraser nodded, clearly appreciating the comparison. “Yes, sir. Choor! seems to have discovered the same scheme Genghis Khan used with the Mongols. When he beats a tribe, they have the choice between joining up or getting squeezed out entirely.”

“And they’ll take his orders?”

“His advice, more like it,” Fraser said. “In theory, he’s still just a poor orphan boy without a tribe … but the chiefs and warlords in the coalition all regard him as a trusted advisor. As long as he keeps on winning, they keep getting all the benefits of their new empire. Fewer disputes, less competition, a genuine chance to challenge the city-dwellers …”

“And apparently, some big-time friends running guns and other high-tech gear in,” Hawley added. “How much of this comes from Choor!, and how much from our unknown troublemakers?”

“Hard to say,” Fraser said. “What we’ve learned comes from three nomads out of our auxiliaries, two of them refugees from tribes that ran away instead of knuckling under to the coalition, and the other one an ex-merchant repeating market-place gossip. There’s no hint of any outsiders involved, but it’s possible that this Choor! has been fed all of his ‘innovations’ from the word go.” He shrugged. “If the Semti are involved, I’d say that’s what happened. You know how they like to guide things from the shadows. But until we have more proof, I wouldn’t make any definite judgments.”

“Doesn’t matter much in any case,” Hawley said. “Either way, we’ve got a warlord running a coalition of tribes and getting technical help from the outside.” He paused, thinking hard. “But it does give us an angle. Choor! has to keep winning to keep his hold over the Clans. Once they start figuring he’s lost his touch, his advice means nothing and he loses his whole power base.”

“Right,” Fraser nodded. “They’ve already had a couple of failures … which means that Choor! is further out on a limb than ever.”

“So if we can just hold out.…”

“Easier said than done, sir,” Fraser said. “When he hits us again, he won’t be fooling around. This guy is good, Captain, and you can bet he’ll take stock of previous failures and apply what we’ve taught him.”

“You’ve got a knack for turning good news inside out, son,” Hawley said with a dry, humorless chuckle.

“There’s something else to consider, sir. Risky, but worth aiming for.”

“And that is?”

“Friend Choor! really is the indispensable man where the nomads are concerned. All we need is a crack at him, and we’ve got a shot at breaking the coalition for good.”

Hawley allowed himself a frown. “How do we spot him? Is he even going to hazard himself?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Fraser admitted. “But at least we’ve got a couple of angles to work on now. That puts us a couple of moves further ahead than we were this morning.”

“Yeah.” Hawley looked across the office at the painting that depicted the Fourth Foreign Legion’s last stand on Devereaux. “All we have to do is avoid pulling a Devereaux until we can exploit them.”