Legion of the Damned Read online

  There will be formed a Legion

  composed of Foreigners.

  This Legion will take the name of

  Foreign Legion.

  Planet Algeron, the Human Empire

  It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, the air was crystal-clear, and the mountains seemed so close that St. James could reach out and touch them. The Towers of Algeron. That’s what the Naa called them and they deserved a majestic name. Some of the higher peaks soared 80,000 feet into the sky, higher than Everest on Earth, or Olympic Mons on Mars. So huge, and so heavy, that they would sink right through Terra’s planetary crust.

  But Algeron was different from Earth. Very different. Almost all of the differences stemmed from the fact that Algeron completed a full rotation every two hours and forty-two minutes. A rotation so fast that centrifugal force had caused a larger-than-normal bulge at the equator.

  In fact, while Algeron’s mass was virtually identical to Earth’s, it equatorial diameter of 16,220 kilometers was 27 percent larger than Earth’s. That, plus the fact that its polar diameter of only 8,720 kilometers was 32 percent smaller than Earth’s, meant that Algeron’s equatorial diameter was almost twice that of its polar diameter.

  And that’s where the Towers of Algeron came in. They were the topmost part of the world-spanning bulge, and thanks to the gravity differential that existed between the poles and the equator, weighed only half what they would on Terra.

  All of which had nothing to do with Camerone Day, or the legionnaires waiting for St. James to speak, except that it pleased him to think about it. That was one of the privileges that went with rank: long silences, and the assumption that they were in some way profound.

  Legion General Ian St. James smiled and ran his eyes over the assembled ranks. There were thousands of them, white kepis gleaming in the sun, weapons at parade rest. They were a treat to the military eye.

  There were ranks of cyborgs, “trooper Ils,” in front, each one standing eight feet tall, carrying enough armament to take on a platoon of marines. They had no need of uniforms, but many had received medals for valor, and wore them on ceremonial harnesses designed for such occasions.

  Behind them St. James could see the assault quadrupeds, or “quads,” four-legged walkers that could function as artillery, tanks, or antiaircraft batteries. They towered over the troops and provided what little shade there was.

  Then there were the “bio bods,” men and women with their hair cut so short that they were almost bald, their kepis gleaming white in the sun. Their uniforms were khaki, as they had been for thousands of years, and would be for thousands more.

  Each wore the epaulets, green shoulder strap, and red fringe that had been standard since 1930, the green ties that had been adopted in 1945, the scarlet waist sashes authorized in 2090, the collar comets added after the Battle of Four Moons in 2417, and the hash marks that indicated their length of service.

  He saw divisions of the 2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment, the 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment, the 4th Foreign Infantry Regiment, the 13th Demi-Brigade de Légion Étrangère, and the 1st Foreign Regiment, which supplied administrative services to the entire Legion.

  This was the day, April 30 on Earth, when the entire Legion came together as they were doing now. Not physically, because their duties didn’t allow for that, but spiritually, as man, woman, and cyborg joined in a union that bound together the past and present. The mystical something that made the Legion more than a group of soldiers.

  Nothing was more symbolic of that union than Camerone Day. It was a remembrance, a celebration, and a reaffirmation all rolled into one.

  St. James lifted the old-fashioned paper from which he was about to read. It was hundreds of years old and sealed in plastic. The story of the battle was read once each year, and this year it was his duty—no, his privilege—to perform that function.

  St. James cleared his throat. The sun had already rolled halfway across the sky in the relatively short time since the ceremony had begun. He would have to hurry to finish the story before another one hour and twenty-one minute night fell. Amplified by the PA system, his voice startled a pair of roosting brellas, and they squirted themselves up and into the air.

  “In the spring of 1863, on the planet Earth, in a country then known as ‘Mexico,’ a war was fought. Now, thousands of years later, it doesn’t matter why the war was fought, or who won the war, except that the Legion was there.

  “About 150 miles inland from the Gulf of Mexico, and 5,000 feet above sea level, the Mexicans decided to hold the town of Puebla. The French surrounded the city and a siege ensued.

  “To reinforce their forces and break the siege, the French sent a supply convoy up towards the highlands. The convoy consisted of sixty horse-drawn wagons loaded with guns, ammunition, food, and gold.”

  St. James paused and let his eyes drift across the parade ground.

  “Elements of the Legion were available to march with that convoy ... but they were relegated to guard duty along the Gulf of Mexico.”

  St. James looked down at the paper.

  “General Élie-Frédéric Forey put it this way: ‘I preferred to leave foreigners rather than Frenchmen to guard the most unhealthy area, the tropical zone from Vera Cruz to Cordoba, where ... malaria reigns.’ ”

  St. James grinned. “Sound familiar?”

  The roar of laughter confirmed that it did. The Legion had always been handed the short end of the stick and, so far at least, had always been willing to take it. He waited for silence.

  “And so it was that the Legion’s commanding officer, a colonel named Pierre Jeanningros, sent two companies, their strength diminished by illness, to meet the convoy and escort it to his base on Chiquihuite Mountain.

  “Two days later a spy brought some disturbing news. The convoy would be ambushed by several battalions of infantry, cavalry, and local guerrillas. Hoping to avert disaster, Jeanningros sent another company down the road to warn the convoy or make contact with the enemy. He chose the 3rd Company of the 1st Battalion which had no officers fit for duty.

  “That’s why Captain Jean Danjou, a member of the headquarters staff, volunteered to lead the patrol. Two subalterns agreed to join him. Out of a normal complement of 120 men only 62 were fit for duty.”

  St. James looked out at his audience and knew that even though most of them had heard the story many times before, they were still enthralled. Similar battles had taken place since Camerone and would take place again. And the next story could center on them. He drew a deep breath.

  “The company left before first light on April 30 and marched towards the coast. They made good time during the darkness and reached a post manned by the battalion’s grenadiers before dawn. After coffee and some black bread the march resumed.

  “Danjou led his men out just before dawn, which was just as well, since it was going to be an extremely hot day.

  “They passed through a number of settlements during the next few hours. One such settlement was a run-down collection of shacks called Camerone.

  “Danjou, a veteran of the Crimean War, led the column. Had someone been watching, they would have noticed that his left hand had been lost in an accident and replaced with a handcarved wooden replica. It did nothing to slow him down.

  “The legionnaires entered Palo Verde about 7 A.M. There was no one about. They brewed some coffee and were drinking it when Danjou spotted an approaching dust cloud. The cloud could mean only one thing—horsemen, and lots of them.

  “‘Aux armes!’ Danjou shouted.

  “The company was terribly exposed, so they fell back towards Camerone and looked for a place to make a stand.”

  St. James looked up and continued from memory. “A shot rang out and a legionnaire fell. They rushed a tumbledown hacienda but the sniper had escaped. Danjou gathered his men and started them towards a nearby village. But the firing had alerted a contingent of Mexican cavalry. They came at a gallop.

  “Danjou waved his sword in the air. ‘For
m a square! Prepare to fire!’

  “The Mexicans split their force in half and approached at a walk. And then, when they were sixty meters away, they spurred their mounts and charged.

  “Danjou ordered his men to fire, and thirty rounds hit the tightly packed horsemen. He gave the same order again and a second volley rang out. No sooner had the charge broken against the legionnaires’ square than the Mexicans prepared for another charge. Danjou instructed his men to fire at will.

  “The Mexicans took time to regroup. That allowed Danjou and his men time to break through their lines and reach the walls of the deserted hacienda.

  “During the subsequent confusion the pack animals were lost along with most of the legionnaire’s food, water, and ammunition. Sixteen legionnaires were killed. Danjou had two officers and forty-six men left.

  “In the meantime the Mexican cavalry had been reinforced by local guerrilla fighters who had infiltrated themselves into the farm. They fired on Danjou and his men as they ran for a stable or took cover along a half-ruined wall. A sergeant named Morzycki climbed to the stable’s roof and reported that ‘hundreds of Mexicans’ surrounded them.

  “The ensuing battle was an on-again, off-again affair in which periods of relative quiet were suddenly shattered by sniper fire and sneak attacks.

  “Meanwhile, about an hour’s march away, three battalions of Mexican infantry received word of the fight, and headed for Camerone. At about nine-thirty, a Mexican lieutenant approached under a flag of truce and offered the legionnaires an honorable surrender. ‘There are,’ he said, ‘two thousand of us.’

  ‘“We have enough ammunition,’ Danjou responded. ‘No surrender.’

  “It was then that Danjou visited his troops, asked them to fight to the death, and received their promises to do so.

  “Danjou was shot and killed two hours later. Second Lieutenant Napoleon Villain, a medal for gallantry shining brightly on his chest, assumed command. By noon, the two youngest members of the company, Jean Timmermans and Johan Reuss, were dead.

  “A bugle sounded and Morzycki announced that approximately one thousand additional soldiers had arrived, each and every one of whom were armed with American carbines. The Mexicans called for the legionnaires to surrender and were refused once again.

  “At about 2 P.M. a bullet hit Villain between the eyes and killed him instantly.

  “The legionnaires died one by one. Among them were the Sergeant Major, Henri Tonel, Sergeant Jean Germays, Corporal Adolfi Delcaretto, Legionnaire Dubois, and the Englishman Peter Dicken. The survivors searched their clothes for ammunition, food, and water.

  “By five o’clock there were nine legionnaires left alive. The Mexicans had suffered hundreds of casualties.

  “When evening came, the Mexicans piled dry straw against the outside wall and tried to bum them out. Smoke billowed, and unable to see, the legionnaires fired at shadows. Another surrender was called for and summarily refused, after which fresh troops assaulted the hacienda and fired hundreds of rounds at the legionnaires. Sergeant Morzycki fell, as did three others.

  “There were five men left: Second Lieutenant Maudet, Corporal Maine, plus Legionnaires Catteau, Constantin, and Wenzel. Each soldier had one bullet left.

  “Maudet led the charge. Catteau tried to protect his officer and fell with nineteen bullets in his body. Maudet was hit and gravely wounded, but Maine, Constantin, and Wenzel were untouched.

  “They stood perfectly still.

  “A colonel named Cambas stepped forward. ‘You will surrender now.’

  “‘Only if you allow us to keep our weapons and treat Lieutenant Maudet,’ Maine said.

  “ ‘One refuses nothing to men such as you,’ Cambas replied.

  “They were presented to Colonel Milan shortly thereafter. He looked at an aide. ‘Are you telling me that these are the only survivors?’

  “ ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

  St. James looked down, careful to get the Spanish right.

  “ ‘Pero, non son hombres, son demonios!’ (‘Truly, these are not men, but devils!’)

  “Days passed before the bodies were buried, and during that time a rancher named Langlais found Danjou’s wooden hand and eventually sold it to General Bazaine for fifty piasters.”

  The walls of Fort Camerone were high, high enough to contain the sound of General St. James’s voice, and it took a moment for the echoes to die away.

  The sun had begun to set and was little more than a reddish-orange smear.

  Gas-fed torches, one located at each of the fort’s three comers, popped as they were ignited, and the central band, a traditional part of the 1 st RE, struck up a solemn dirge.

  Lights came on, illuminating the gigantic globe that stood at the exact center of the parade ground, its base guarded by four bronze figures, each representing a different period in the Legion’s history. The most recent was a cyborg.

  It was at that point that an honor guard, comprised of one person from each of the regiments stationed on Algeron, carried the box containing Captain Danjou’s wooden hand to the Monument to the Dead, and lowered it into an armaplast case. It would remain there for the duration of the festivities.

  Then, one by one, the regiments were formed up, marched onto the large platforms that would carry them below, and released to take part in the celebration. It would, if past experience was any guide, last for the next six to eight hours.

  General Ian St. James remained for a while. His eyes were on the Monument to the Dead but his thoughts were on a woman who was light-years away. General Marianne Mosby. Like him, she would be called upon to read the story to her troops and attend the ensuing festivities.

  Would she think of him when the ceremony was over? Of the nights they had spent together on Algeron? Or had someone else caught her eye? The stars twinkled but gave no reply.

  Slowly, deliberately, and with great respect St. James saluted those who had died, turned, and went below.

  Booly groaned as the alarm went off next to his head. It took three tries to hit the off button.

  He lay there for a moment, swung his feet over the side of the bed, and sat up. The duracrete floor was ice cold.

  “Shit.”

  His head hurt and Booly cradled it with both hands.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  Booly had promised himself that he would remain sober and had failed to do so.

  His bedside console included a clock. The readout said 0502, and the patrol would leave at 0700, hangover or no.

  He stood, saw that his roommate, Sergeant Major Chin, was still passed out, and headed for the can. His bare feet made a slapping sound as they hit the floor.

  Vomit had splattered across the toilet seat, dripped down the side, and pooled on the floor. It smelled and Booly wrinkled his nose. Damn Chin anyway. The bastard always missed.

  Booly opened the cabinet over his sink, grabbed a bottle of pain tabs, and shook two of them into the palm of his hand. A gulp of water washed them down.

  The face in the mirror had blue-bloodshot eyes, a flattened nose, and thin lips.

  Booly ran a hand over his head to assure himself that it was nearly bald, stepped back, and checked for fat. There was none. His chest was broad and thick with muscle. Each rib was clearly defined. His stomach was flat and hard. There were tattoos on both of his forearms.

  His right arm bore the winged-hand-and-dagger emblem of the 2nd REP, the Legion’s elite airborne regiment, Booly’s first love, and his left arm featured a grim reaper, with the caption “Death before dishonor.”

  Booly looked one more time, gave a grunt of satisfaction, and headed for the shower. The hot water felt good.

  He took the opportunity to empty his bladder as well, and if Chin didn’t like it, he could damned well barf into the toilet for a change.

  It took more than fifteen minutes to clear his head and feel halfway human again. He stepped out, dried himself off, and dressed for combat.

  First came thermal underwear, followed by
half-armor, starched utilities, and lace-up boots. Then came the combat harness, complete with radio, knife, first-aid kit, sidearm, and spare magazines. And then, to top the whole thing off, the képi blanc.

  Booly looked in the mirror, nodded approvingly, and turned. The room was a mess, but Chin would order some poor jerk to clean it up. That’s how it was, and would forever be, amen.

  Booly opened the door, stepped outside, and let it slam behind him. If the noise bothered Chin, then so much the better.

  A few steps carried him out of the side corridor, through one of the zigzag defensive points that interrupted the hallways every hundred feet or so, and out into the main passageway. It was busy as usual.

  A pictorial history of the Legion lined both walls. Booly had examined most of it and been struck by the fact that there were almost as many losses as victories, a reflection of the fact that the Legion had been poorly used down through the years. As far as he could see, that trend hadn’t changed much.

  Unlike the rest of the Imperial services, the Legion’s noncommissioned officers rated a salute, so Booly saluted his way down the corridor and into the mess hall.

  He grabbed a tray, ignored the bins full of scrambled eggs and greasy meat, choosing toast and coffee instead.

  To reach his table, Booly had to make his way around a series of life-sized Camerone Day displays. They stood like islands in an ocean of tables and chairs. There was one per regiment, and all had common themes, the most popular of which was glorious death.

  His regiment, the 1st Foreign Cavalry Regiment, or 1st REC, had constructed what looked like a jungle, and populated it with a badly damaged Trooper II and twelve fanciful aliens. It was clear from the way the figures were positioned that the cyborg would die, but only after killing most, if not all, of his attackers. The display had been quite popular the night before and had won second prize in the overall contest.

  Booly stopped, removed the pair of pink panties that had been draped over the Trooper’s left missile launcher, and tossed them toward a trash can.