Legion of the Damned

Motto of the French Foreign Legion Standard year (approximate) 1835 This motto was established after the Legion was “ceded” to the Spanish government as an act of political convenience. Forced to take part in a Spanish civil war, the Legion fought bravely, often without pay, rations, or uniforms. Of the 4,000 Legionnaires who took part, roughly 500 survived. Almost totally decimated, the Legion was reinvented on December 16, 1835.

General Ian St. James knew what the orders were long before they appeared on the screen. It was a moment he had dreaded, and put off as long as he dared, knowing he’d be forced to make a terrible decision. He touched a key. Words flooded the screen.

IMPNAVCOM/EARTH

Date: 6/26/2846 Standard
From: Admiral Paula Scolari IMPNAV
Authorization Code: IMPERSEC/6786-HK-8648
To: General Ian St. James IMPLEG

The Navy, Marine Corps, and Legion have been placed under a single command subject to my orders. (Ref. Imperial Decree HM-6791 dated 6/25/2846 Standard.)

You are hereby directed to withdraw all forces from Algeron, and having done so, to redeploy them according to subsequent orders.

All military weapons, supplies, equipment, fortifications, and emplacements are to be destroyed prior to withdrawal.

Transports sufficient to your needs will arrive on 6/30/2846 Standard.

Any deviation from these orders will be dealt with in the most severe possible way.

St. James read the last paragraph again. He’d never seen anything like it. Rather than assume the blind obedience that human military tradition called for, Scolari had threatened him. A fact that could mean nothing or a great deal.

Where was Marianne in all this? Why did the orders originate from Scolari rather than her? There were a lot of potential answers and none of them pleasant.

Then, with the frown firmly in place, and his eyes on the floor, he left his quarters for the situation room. It was located a hundred feet down the main corridor and was guarded by a Trooper II. The cyborg crashed to attention as St. James entered.

The situation room was huge, large enough to house a hundred people if necessary, and very spartan. The walls were opaque at the moment, but had the capacity to transform themselves into a multiplicity of screens, all of which were linked to a powerful battle computer located twelve stories underground.

His staff rose as the door hissed closed. They stood around a circular table made of native hardwood, cut from the forests that bordered the Towers of Algeron and handcrafted by members of the Legion’s Pioneers. The wood came in a variety of hues, including red, brown, and a light, almost blond color, that had been worked into the table mosaic style to form a star.

There was Colonel Alice Goodwin, commanding officer of the 1st Foreign Infantry Regiment, or 1st RE. Forty-five or so, she had a badly scarred face and a determined mouth. She, and the legionnaires under her command, had responsibility for the Legion’s administrative affairs.

Goodwin had been a line officer once, and a damned good one, having earned the sobriquet “Crazy Alice” when she attacked an enemy machine-gun nest single-handed. The resulting wounds had taken her out of the field but not out of the Legion. St. James could count on her anytime and anyplace.

There was the dark and volatile Colonel Pierre Legaux. He commanded the 1st Foreign Cavalry Regiment, or 1st REC, 90 percent of which were cyborgs. Light gleamed off the officer’s metal parts and caused St. James to wonder if the rumors were true.

The Legion had a long-standing rule that bodies more than 51 percent artificial were classified as cyborgs ... and cyborgs were not qualified for command. So how did Legaux, who looked like he was at least 70 percent artificial, manage to retain bio-bod status? There were plenty of theories, most of which centered around corrupt medical personnel, but no one knew for sure. Except Legaux, that is, and he wasn’t talking. But one thing was for sure: the cyborgs had a profound trust for their commanding officer and would follow him through the gates of hell. Yes, Legaux was an asset.

If Legaux was an asset, then the next officer, Lieutenant Colonel Andre Vial, was a question mark. Though possessed of a good record, and competent enough, there was something about the man that St. James didn’t trust. Was it the slick ingratiating personality? The preening good looks? The innuendos aimed at his peers? Whatever it was annoyed St. James and caused him to wonder about the officer’s loyalty. But as luck would have it, Vial commanded Algeron’s contingent of the 5th Foreign Infantry Regiment, or 5th REI, most of which was spread out across a dozen rim worlds. He’d have a role in what came next but a small one.

Then came Lieutenant Colonel Jennifer Jozan, a tiny little thing with black hair, snub nose, and a perpetual twinkle in her eye. She loved practical jokes, and was forever playing them on her superiors and subordinates alike, a habit that did nothing to lessen everyone’s affection for her. But she was tough, and commanded the 13th Demi-Brigade de Legion Étrangère, or 13th DBLE, with an iron hand, which accounted for the nickname “Iron Jenny.”

Next was Lieutenant Colonel Tam Tran, a diminutive man with an extremely keen mind and a whipcord body. He commanded the famed 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment, or 2nd REP, and his green beret lay on the table in front of him. Known for leading from the front, Tran was an asset indeed, and would play a key role in the difficult days ahead.

Last, but certainly not least, was his XO and personal friend, Colonel Edwina Augusta Jefferson, better known to her friends as just plain “Ed,” the real power behind his throne. She had an excellent mind, a robust sense of humor, coal-black skin, and a body that weighed more than 250 pounds. Most of the weight came in the form of muscle, and god help anyone who got in her way. She commanded the 2nd Foreign Infantry Regiment, or 2nd REI, and had just returned from the rim. Her report would help lay the groundwork for a decision.

There was silence for a moment as the officers glanced at each other across the table. Forthright as always, Legaux went first. Light reflected off the metal plate that had replaced the left side of his face. A servo whined as he held the hard copy aloft. His vocal cords had been replaced by a synthesizer and his voice sounded hoarse.

“Scolari is anything but an idiot,” Jozan said softly. “She cares more about the Navy, and about her own career, than the good of her empire.”

“Yes,” Tran agreed. “This is the first step of many. Scolari intends to sacrifice the rim worlds and gain control of the Legion in the process.”

Vial had been dreading this moment, dreading the necessity to take sides, knowing the others would settle for nothing less. It was the worst situation he could think of, one in which his commanding officer had allowed subordinates to tread the thin ice of insubordination, and was inviting him to do likewise. Whatever he said, whatever he did, could come back to haunt him. Vial summoned his most serious expression and chose his words with extreme care.

It was a good answer, an answer acceptable to the others, and perfect for use during a mass court-martial. Many of those around the table nodded, acknowledging the truth of Vial’s words and reevaluating their opinions.

“Except for Algeria,” Tran said evenly, and everyone nodded to this as well, because Algeria was as much a part of the Legion’s history as Camerone.

It had occurred in the late 1950s, when the Legion had allowed itself to become embroiled in French politics and had wound up holding the short end of the stick. A significant portion of the Legion had mutinied, been defeated, and subsequently punished. Some of the mutineers had been executed.

“Which brings us to the last paragraph of these orders,” Jefferson said, pointing a huge finger at her printout. “It seems as if Scolari doubts our loyalty.”

“Maybe,” St. James said carefully, “and maybe not. Let’s hear what Ed has to say. She just returned from the rim ... and may shed some light on the strategic situation.”

Jefferson shrugged massive shoulders. “The situation can be summarized with a single word: ‘chaos.’ I hit dirt on seven different planets, visited four of our outposts, made courtesy calls at two naval stations, and talked to a variety of diplomatic types.

“Everyone I spoke with agreed. The Hudathans are sweeping inwards, destroying everything in their path, driving waves of refugees towards the center of the empire. They arrive in yachts, clapped-out freighters, tugboats, speedsters, garbage scows, anything that could make it into hyperspace and out again. There were thousands of them in orbit around the planets I visited, begging for food, fuel, and medical care. All screaming their heads off, looking for handouts, and spreading panic. ‘The Hudathans are coming,’ ‘The Hudathans are unstoppable.’ ‘The Hudathans are merciless.’ There were so many of them that orbital collisions had become commonplace and hundreds of people died every day.”

Jefferson grimaced. “No, just the opposite. They had orders to pull out. They were in the process of destroying the Imperial naval base on the day I left Frio II.”

“Holding firm,” Jefferson said grimly, “and doing what they can to prepare for the Hudathans. But they’re alone, vulnerable to space, and will soon be cut off.”

He listened to their voices echo his and knew it was the right thing to say. But was it the right thing to do? What if the Legion lost? What if Scolari emerged triumphant? Only a fool cuts himself off from all possibility of retreat. No, Vial would consider the facts, make a plan, and put it to work.

General Ian St. James smiled wolfishly and looked around the table. “I suggest that we take the transports and use them to reinforce as many outposts as we can.”

There was a brief moment of silence followed by delighted applause. St. James heard it and knew that the thousands who had gone before him had heard it too. The battle had begun.

Villain did as instructed. She sat up, swung her feet over the side of the rack, and stood. The Trooper II was brand-new. The interface felt crisp and responsive. All of the primary, secondary, and tertiary power systems worked, along with the feedback circuits and weapons systems.

Villain felt the power surge into and around her, gloried in the knowledge that she could destroy anything less than another cyborg, and gave the tech a massive thumbs-up. “It feels good. Very good.”

Villain grinned inside, knowing she could kill the bio bod with one swipe of her hand, and chuckled. “Don’t worry, corp. I’ll treat this body as if my life depends on it.”

The tech laughed, waved her off, and turned towards the long row of cyborgs that awaited his attention. Priority one, Priority one, Priority one, hell, the whole fraxin’ bunch of them were classified priority one. Damn the brass anyway. Always playin’ games, screwin’ things up, and passin’ the blame. Bullshit, that’s what it was, bullshit pure ‘n’ simple.

The hallways seemed busier than usual, and Villain thought that she detected some sort of underlying tension, as if trouble was on the way. An inspection? A Naa uprising? The Hudathans everyone talked about? There was no way to tell.

Well, it didn’t matter a helluva lot, since soldiers do what they’re told, and she’d been ordered to rejoin her unit. To do so, however, it would be necessary to kiss Dister’s bio-bod ass and obtain his thumbprint. Assuming he could pull it out of his ass long enough to get the job done. Still, it would feel good to get clear of admin and back to the line, especially since that meant getting rid of Salazar, who, for reasons Villain couldn’t quite put a finger on, never ceased to piss her off.

Maybe it was the straight-arrow way that he did things, the way he deferred to her over the smallest issues, or just his puppy-dog personality. But whatever it was would be left behind and that made her happy. Villain was humming by the time she reached the admin section.

Villain wound her way through the computer section back to Dister’s office. The diminutive noncom was on his way out the door. He had a printout clutched in his hand.

“Villain! Nice-looking bod. Congratulations.” He waved the printout. “The loot wants this stuff and wants it now. Park your butt in my office. I’ll be right back.”

Villain stepped into Dister’s office, ignored the bio-bod-sized furniture, and looked for something to do. The corporal’s computer terminal had been activated. The words “Personnel Files” blinked on and off. Villain glanced around. Dister liked his privacy and kept the walls slightly opaque. She would look like little more than a smear to those outside.

The Trooper Il’s enormous digits made it difficult to type, but the cyborg corrected her mistakes as she made them and managed to enter her name. Information flooded the screen. Her real name, the way she had died, and her performance rating. All of it was there. The “highly competent” rating both surprised and pleased her.

She looked around. There was no sign of Dister and the people outside were little more than shadows. Working quickly, Villain pecked the name “Sal Salazar” into the computer. This time she was both shocked and amazed.

Sal Salazar had originally been known as Angel Perez, and it was he who had walked into the convenience store that day and pumped three bullets into her body. A host of conflicting emotions fought each other for dominance. Grief, rage, and an almost consuming need for revenge collided with each other, bounced away, and collided again.

A com line started to buzz. Dister! He would return any moment now. The thought jerked Villain back to reality, cleared the conflicting emotions from her head, and caused her to focus.

The com set continued to buzz as the Trooper II’s sausage-like fingers moved from key to key. Salazar would be reassigned as well ... but to which outfit? It was slow, agonizing work, but she found his next assignment. His body had arrived, and yes, he was slated to join the 1st REC, but as part of another company. That, Villain decided, would never do.

Hoping that Dister wouldn’t choose that particular moment to appear, the cyborg changed the newbie’s assignment to match her own. The error would be discovered, Villain knew, but not before Salazar had spent a week or two in the wrong outfit. By then, with the pragmatism of noncoms everywhere, Roller would arrange to keep him, since doing so would be easier all the way around.

“Goddamned officers ... sorry, Villain ... you know the loot. Crazy Alice gave him some orders and the silly sonofabitch is running around like we’re going to war or something. Now, let’s put your transfer through and get your miserable butt outta here.”

Villain heard the noncom ask her a series of questions and heard herself give the appropriate answers, but her attention was elsewhere. She imagined what it would feel like to get Salazar where she wanted him, to put a hole through his braincase. The thought pleased the cyborg and she smiled deep inside.

Ryber Hysook-Da stumbled as a Naa warrior jerked on the rope that had been tied around his neck. He caught himself, struggled to break the cord that bound his wrists behind his back, and was rewarded with a kick. The physical pain was negligible, but the psychological discomfort was so intense that the Hudathan feared he would pass out, and barely avoided doing so.

To be ambushed by barbarians and lose his entire command, that was bad enough. But to be dragged along the mountain path like a mind-wiped zook, that was an indignity beyond all imagining, and something he’d never forgive. No matter how hard the Naa begged, no matter what they offered to do, he’d never forgive them. Oh, they’d be sorry, all right, extremely sorry, when the Hudathan attack ships came down out of the sky.

The path passed between two pinnacles of rock, each topped by a heavily armed sentry, then widened out as it entered the village. Hysook-Da saw the dark circular shafts and remembered that the Naa lived underground, like ibble grubs, a fact that served to reinforce his contempt for them.

The furry bipeds were everywhere, boiling up out of the ground and appearing from between the rocks. They were pointing and gabbling in their native tongue. He knew the language rather well, thanks to the spy-eyes that had been insinuated into their villages months before, but he couldn’t keep up with their speed. One thing was clear, however, and that was the fact that at least some of the barbarians said that he smelled bad, so bad that he shouldn’t be admitted to the village. Those comments came mostly from juveniles, who were shushed by their parents and admonished to be more polite.

Then one of their leaders appeared, or Hysook-Da assumed the barbarian was a leader, because of the manner in which other adults hurried to get out of his way. He was large for his kind, had orange fur streaked with white, and wore a breechcloth. A weapons harness crisscrossed the chieftain’s chest and seemed barely capable of containing the muscles that rippled just under the surface of his skin. He approached the Hudathan without the slightest sign of fear and stood an arm’s length away. His nose wrinkled slightly and twitched as his nostrils sealed themselves shut.

Hysook-Da felt his spirits lift. Finally! A leader with whom he could negotiate. He chose his words with care. Diplomacy must rule the moment. Revenge would come later.

So saying, the Naa turned his back and walked away. A shove encouraged Hysook-Da to follow. The chieftain’s words should have reassured him, should have put his fears to rest, but suddenly, for no reason that he could be sure of, the Hudathan was very much afraid.

Though curious about his destination, Booly was enjoying himself. It was dark and the next one-hour-and-twenty-one-minute day was more than an hour away.

But the sky was full of stars, Hardman led the way with a torch, and Windsweet walked by his side. The sight of her, the smell of her perfume, and the occasional touch of her arm were intoxicating.

The fact that her brother, Movefast Shootstraight, followed along behind did nothing to lessen the legionnaire’s pleasure. No, the presence of a guard served to take him off the hook, to make escape impossible. That possibility had grown in importance as he had regained most of his strength and learned the lay of the land. Booly felt certain he could escape, had chosen to stay, and felt guilty about it. It was a problem that he’d have to face in the very near future. But that was tomorrow, or the day after, or given the multiplicity of days on Algeron, next week. This was now and the legionnaire was determined to enjoy every moment of it.

The words came in standard and carried very little accent. Windsweet had acquired a command of his language in a surprisingly short period of time. Booly appreciated both the effort she’d gone to and the privacy that his language afforded them.

Booly felt his heart soar towards the stars that twinkled above and come crashing to the ground. She loved him and he could not stay. Both things were true and in conflict with each other. He wanted to talk to her about it, wanted to explain, but just then the path opened into a small valley.

The legionnaire saw the entry shafts typical of a Naa village, but realized that this one was smaller than Hardman’s and a little more exposed. Flames leaped upwards from the ceremonial fire pit located at the village’s center and backlit the fifty or sixty Naa who had gathered around its warmth. Before the flames died down again, the legionnaire saw something that made his blood run cold. A tripod had been erected over the fire pit, and something hung from that tripod, something that jerked and twisted in an effort to avoid the flames below it. He spoke and the words were Naa.

Windsweet’s expression was wooden, as if she had strong feelings but was struggling to hold them back. “They call this village ‘Windswept,’ because of the way that the wind swoops down from the hills, and Ridelong Surekill rules here as chief.”

Windsweet looked away. “There are ways, ancient ways, mostly forgotten. Many think they should be left to the past but some would bring them back.”

Warriors appeared from the dark and shouted greetings to Hardman, Windsweet, and Shootstraight. Surekill appeared, striding out of the darkness, placing an arm around Windsweet’s shoulders. She frowned but allowed the arm to remain where it was.

The chieftain was in fine form, relishing his role as host and determined to make the most of it. “Wayfar! Movefast! Windsweet! Welcome to our village. Come, refreshments are waiting, and a dance performance like none you’ve seen before!”

Booly found himself swept along in the crowd, and while not treated to refreshments, occupied a place next to Surekill in front of the fire. Windsweet sat to the chieftain’s left. Doothskin rugs had been spread for their comfort, incense hung heavy in the air, and firelight flickered in a dozen sets of eyes.

“You see?” Surekill asked. “Just as I promised. A dance performance like none you’ve seen before!” The chieftain laughed, as did many of his warriors, but Hardman and Windsweet were silent.

The legionnaire had been allowed to keep some of the more harmless items of his gear. He felt for the flashlight, pulled it from a pocket, and turned it on. The thing was suspended in a wire net. It was doubled over, and therefore difficult to see, but Booly was able to make out leathery gray skin, a sauroid face, and a pair of fear-filled eyes. They blinked then closed as the smoke slid around them. Words hissed out of the thing’s frog-like mouth and Booly realized that it was sentient. He spoke without thinking and realized that the others had been waiting for him to do so.

“It calls itself a ‘Hudathan,’” Surekill answered pleasantly. “A warrior named Ryber Hysook-Da, to be exact. He claims the status of subchief and came seeking an alliance with the Naa.”

Booly looked up to where the Hudathan emissary swung over the fire. He’d met some aliens, and seen pictures of many more, but never one like this. “And you said no.”

The legionnaire looked Surekill in the eye and gestured towards the Hudathan. There was a void where his stomach should have been. “It wanted you to join an alliance against the human empire?”

Surekill spoke as to a cub. “Yes, human. That’s what I said. The Hudathan claims that his race attacked yours, destroyed one of your most important planets, and will consume your entire empire. You were unaware of this?”

Booly forgot where he was and shook his head. A planet destroyed? What the hell was going on? The Emperor would fight—that went without saying—and the Legion would lead the way. He had to escape, had to make it back, had to join his unit. Surekill was waiting, and anger had gathered behind his eyes.

“Yes,” Surekill said. “That agrees with what the smelly one told us. Now, seeing that the Hudathan is an enemy of your people, perhaps you would like the honor of lowering him into the pit?”

Hardman had been silent up until now. He cleared his throat, knowing that Surekill was likely to resent his words and take issue with them. He looked for and found encouragement in his daughter’s eyes.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? The question of an alliance should rightfully go before the council of chiefs, and if you take it upon yourself to kill the alien, they will resent it.”

Surekill wanted to hurl words at Hardman, wanted to say, “They? Or you? Which is it, old man? Which would resent my leadership more?” But he didn’t. Nor was there a need to do so. He had anticipated the situation and made a plan to deal with it. He smiled disarmingly and did his best to sound reasonable.

It was at that point that one of Surekill’s most trusted warriors, Nevermiss Rockthrow, cut the rope that held the net aloft. Ryber Hysook-Da screamed as he fell into the pit, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. His last thoughts were of how things should have been. This was not the way he had planned to die.